CLOSING SCENES.
After the stubborn and sanguinary battles of Chippewa, Lundy's
Lane, and Fort Erie, the Niagara frontier had exemption from
invasion, and a sort of armed truce prevailed to the end of the
war. It was long, however, before the exasperation of feeling
excited on either side by the unhappy conflict had died away. Now,
thank God, the ameliorating influence of time, of commercial
intercourse, and, let us hope, of Christian amity, has almost
entirely obliterated the bitter memories of that unnatural strife.
A continual exchange of international courtesies and friendly
amenities, marks the intercourse of the kindred peoples who dwell
upon opposite sides of the Niagara River. At the narrowest part of
that river, two miles below the Falls, it is now spanned by the
fairy-like railway Suspension Bridge--a life-artery along which
throbs a ceaseless pulse of commerce between the Dominion of
Canada and the United States of America, the two fairest and
noblest daughters of brave Old England, the great mother of
nations. As the deep and gloomy gorge beneath that bridge, with
its wrathful and tumultuous torrent, seemed to forbid all
intercourse between its opposite banks, so, unhappily, a deep and
gloomy chasm has too long yawned between these neighbouring
peoples, through which has raged a brawling torrent of
estrangement, bitterness, and even of fratricidal strife. But as
wire by wire that wondrous bridge was woven between the two
countries, so social, religious, and commercial intercourse has
been weaving subtile cords of fellowship between the adjacent
communities; and now, let us hope, by the late Treaty of
Washington, a golden bridge of amity and peace has spanned the
gulf, and made them one in brotherhood for ever. As treason
against humanity is that spirit to be deprecated that would sever
one strand of those ties of friendship, or stir up strife between
two great nations of one blood, one faith, one tongue. May this
peaceful arbitration be the inauguration of the happy era told by
the poet and seer,
"When the war-drum throbs no longer, and the battle-flags
are furled
In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world!"
While musing on this theme, the following fancies wove themselves
into verse, in whose aspiration all true patriots of either land
will devoutly join:
As the great bridge which spans Niagara'a flood
Was deftly woven, subtile strand by strand
Into a strong and stable iron band,
Which heaviest stress and strain has long withstood;
So the bright golden strands of friendship strong,
Knitting the Mother and the Daughter land
In bonds of love--as grasp of kindly hand
May bind together hearts estranged long--
Is deftly woven now, in that firm gage
Of mutual plight and troth, which, let us pray,
May still endure unshamed from age to age--
The pledge of peace and concord true alway:
Perish the hand and palsied be the arm
That would one fibre of that fabric harm!
Neville Trueman held on the even tenor of his way, through the
period during which the tide of war was ebbing away on the
Atlantic coast and on the lower Mississippi. Notwithstanding the
tried and true character of his loyalty, he was not free from
ungenerous and unjust aspersions by those prejudiced and bigoted
against his American birth. He had, however, one friend who never
swerved from her generous admiration of his character and respect
for his conduct. Katharine Drayton never failed to defend both the
one and the other when unkindly criticised in her presence. Yet to
himself she was, while uniformly kind and courteous, yet unusually
reserved in the expression of her personal feelings. The words of
high appreciation which were spoken, in his defence to others, and
which would to him have been a guerdon compensating a hundredfold
all his trials and troubles, were to him unuttered. A sense of
maiden modesty, if not a deeper and tenderer feeling, sealed her
lips and made her, on this subject, dumb in his presence.
If the enthusiastic friendship of her brother could have made
amends for this reserve Neville had, indeed, ample compensation.
Nevertheless a sense of loneliness and isolation were at times
oppressively felt by the young man. Almost unconsciously to
himself the character and person of Katharine Drayton had become
to him very dear. They occupied much of his thought, and mingled
even with his morning and evening orisons. Yet he sedulously
avoided giving expression, even to himself, to his desires and
aspirations. The sad uncertainties of the times forbade the
thought of marrying or giving in marriage. His own anomalous
position as having, apparently, an allegiance divided between the
two countries unhappily at war, was also felt to be a great
embarrassment in all his personal relations. Above all he was not
without the apprehension that the heart of Katharine Drayton might
have been won by the brave soldier whose untimely death she
deplored with a sorrow deep and unfeigned. Her lacerated
affections he felt to be too tender and too sacred a subject to be
lightly approached. Moreover, what had he, a poor Methodist
itinerant, without a home, without a country, dependent for his
daily food and nightly shelter upon the Providence of God and the
generosity of an alien people, themselves impoverished by a long
and cruel conflict with his own countrymen, to offer in exchange
for her love! For himself he had no fears, no forebodings for the
future, no feeling of humiliation in accepting the generous
hospitality of his kind congregations. But, he questioned, how
could he ask the delicately-nurtured Katharine Drayton, the
heiress of many acres, whose lightest wish had been gladly
gratified by loving hands,--how could he ask her to leave the
sheltering roof and cheerful hearth, where she reigned a queen, to
share the privations, discomforts, and it might be poverty, of his
migratory existence? The question smote with appalling emphasis
upon his heart. So he continued to nourish in his soul a vague
hope, menaced by a vague fear that sorely tried his courage and
his faith.
Meanwhile the fratricidal strife between the kindred nations came
to an end--never, let us hope, while the world stands, to be
renewed. The Treaty of Paris brought repose to the two war-wearied
people. The Angel of Peace waved her branch of olive over the
ravaged fields and desolated homes, and the kindly hand of Nature
veiled with her gentle ministries the devastations of war. One
evening, in the leafy month of June, shortly after the tidings of
the peace had arrived, Neville Trueman was walking with Miss
Drayton on the banks of the noble river where, three years before,
he had gazed upon the summer sunset and sung the song of Jerusalem
the Golden. They had been on a visit of charity to a sick member
of Neville's flock, and were now returning through the after-glow
of a golden sunset. The breath of the peach and apple blossoms
filled the air with fragrance, and their pink and white bloom
clothed the orchard trees with beauty. Swift swallows clove with
their scythe-like wings the sky, and skimmed the surface of the
dimpling wave, and the whip-poor-will's plaint of tender
melancholy was borne faintly on the breeze. At a point of vantage
commanding a broad view of the river, which, wimpling and
dimpling in its beauty, flowed, a sapphire set in emerald,
between its verdurous banks, Kate stood to gaze upon the lovely
scene--fair as the storied Bay of Naples or the far-famed Riviera
of Genoa.
"It was here," she said, as she gazed wistfully at the setting
sun, "that I had my last conversation with Captain Villiers, and
an eventful conversation it was," and a tear glistened in her eyes
as she remembered his parting words.
Neville listened in an embarrassed manner.
He thought that she referred to a declaration of his passion, so
knowing not what reply to make he kept silent.
"I believe," continued Kate, "that that conversation had a very
important influence, under God, on his destiny."
"His life," said Neville, "was unfortunately too short for him to
enjoy his happiness."
"True," replied Kate; "but all the sooner he reached its
consummation."
"How do you mean? I do not understand," said Neville, in a
bewildered manner. "You would have been married had he lived."
"Married! Who spoke of marriage?" exclaimed Kate, flushing rosy
red over brow and cheek, as she turned with an air and tone of
surprise to her companion.
"Pardon me, I thought you were engaged," said Neville. "I have
grounds to know that he cherished a deep devotion for you."
"He never declared it, then," replied Kate; "and I am glad he did
not. I had a great esteem and respect for Captain Villiers, but I
could not have given him my hand."
"Could not!" exclaimed Neville, in a dazed sort of manner. "Then
I have been under a great mistake," and he walked on for a few
minutes in silence.
"Miss Drayton," he said, after a pause, impelled
by a sudden impulse and determined to know his fate, "I have long
honoured and revered your character and person. This feeling has
grown into a deep and ardent affection. Dare I hope that it is
reciprocated? May I ask you to share the trials and, thank God,
the triumphs of a Methodist preacher's life?" and he clasped her
hand earnestly.
"Mr. Trueman," she faltered--but she withdrew not her hand--then,
in a tenderer tone, "Neville, let me say, my heart has long been
yours. Did you not know it? I fear not the trials if I may share
the joys of service for the Master by your side," and she frankly
placed her other hand in his.
Soft as fall the dews at even fell the holy kiss that sealed the
plighted vows of these two young and loving hearts. Long they sat
there on a mossy trunk beside the river's brink, in the golden
twilight, beguiling the flying moments with sacred lovers' talk--
to which it were sacrilege to listen and a crime to coldly report.
At length, in the soft light of the crescent moon, they sauntered,
she leaning confidingly upon his arm, slowly up the garden alley
between the sweet June roses, breathing forth their souls in
fragrance on the summer air.
Plucking a rich red rose, Neville placed it in her hair, saying,
"So may the immortal roses that the angel brought to St.
Cecilia--the virtues and the graces of the bride of Christ--bloom
forever in your garland of beauty and crown of rejoicing."
Then she, glowing with fairer loveliness beneath his fond caress,
plucked a white rose from its stem and fastened it upon his breast
with the words, "So, O beloved, wear thou the white flower of
blameless life, breathing the fragrance of purity and holiness
throughout the world."
Arm in arm the lovers passed on to the house and into the presence
of the squire, who sat beneath the grape vine of the broad piazza
enjoying his evening pipe.
"Squire Drayton," said Neville, in a tone of manly confidence, "I
have come to ask your daughter's hand in marriage," and he put his
arm protectingly around her, as she stood blushing at his side.
"Well, young man," said the old gentleman, taking his long
"churchwarden" pipe from his mouth, "you ask that as coolly as
though girls like Kate grew as plentifully as the grape clusters
on this vine. There's not a man living good enough for my Kate--
I'd have you know."
"I quite agree with you in that, squire," said the young man. "So
much the greater my prize in winning her affection."
"I believe you have, my lad," said the old man, relenting, and
then went on with a good deal of natural pathos, "An old thorn
like me can't expect to keep such a sweet rose ungathered on its
stem. Take her, Neville. Love and cherish her as you would have
God be good to you. Kiss me, Kate. You must still keep room in
your heart for your poor old father. Ton have been my greatest
solace since your mother died. Be as good a wife as you have been
a daughter, and God's blessing on you both."
Kate flung her arms around her father's neck and covered his brow
and cheek with kisses. And Neville, taking his hand, said
solemnly, "God do so to me and more also, if I cherish not your
daughter as my life; if I cherish her not as Christ loved His
Bride the Church, and gave Himself for it."
"I have one regret," said Neville, sometime afterward, when Kate
had gone out of the room, "and that is, that I have not brighter
worldly prospects and more assured support to offer Kate."
"The time has been, my son," said the squire, adopting him at once
into the family, "when I would have thought so too; when I would
have sought, as conditions for her future,--position, wealth, and
ease. But I have lived to see that these are not the great
essentials of life, that these alone cannot give happiness. With
true love and God's blessing you can never be poor. Without these,
though you roll in riches, you are poor indeed. Not but that it
would grieve me to see Kate want, as many a preacher's wife whom I
have known has wanted. But by God's goodness I am able to secure
her against that, and to do so shall be the greatest pleasure of
my life."
"I accept on her behalf your generous offer," replied Neville,
"but with this condition, that your bounty shall be settled
exclusively on her. No man shall say that I married your daughter
for anything but herself."
"I dare say you are right," said the squire. "Better get a fortune
in a wife than with a wife. Often when a wife brings a fortune she
spends a fortune."
"I would never submit," remarked Neville, "to the humiliation of
being a pensioner upon a wife's bounty. My self-respect demands
that, as the head of the house, I be able to depend on myself
alone."
"You must not push your principles too far," interrupted the
squire, "A husband and wife should have one purse, one purpose,
common interests, perfect mutual confidence, and, above all, no
secrets from each other."
In such sage counsels and confidences the evening, fraught with
such eventful consequences to the household of The Holms and to
the hero of our little story, passed away.
A few weeks later, shortly after the Conference by which Neville
was appointed to the superintendence of a circuit in the western
part of Canada, his marriage took place. The Holms for days before
was a ferment of excitement with the baking of cakes and pastry
and confections of every kind and degree, including the
construction of a three-story iced wedding-cake, on which the
skill of Kate herself, as mistress of ceremonies, was exhausted.
The best parlour too was a scene of unwonted anarchy under the
distracting reign of the village dressmaker constructing the
bridal trousseau. Billows of tulle, illusion, lace, and other
feminine finery, which the male mind cannot be expected to
understand, far less to describe foamed over tables, chairs, and
floor. The result of all this confusion was apparent on the
morning of the happy day, in the sumptuous wedding-breakfast that
covered the ample board, set out with the best plate and china,
and, above all, in as fair a vision of bridal beauty as ever
gladdened the heart of youthful bridegroom.
Good Elder Ryan travelled many miles to perform the wedding
service. Merry were his laugh and jest and wit and playful
badinage, for the early Methodist preachers were no stern ascetics
or grim anchorites. Like their Master, who graced the marriage
feast of Cana of Galilee with His presence, they could rejoice
with those that did rejoice, as well as weep with those that wept.
Long was the prayer he uttered, but to the youthful happy pair it
seemed not so, for in their hearts they prayed with him,
[Footnote: See Longfellow's "River Charles".] and solemnly
dedicated themselves to the new life of consecrated usefulness
that invited them forward to sweet ministries of mercy and of
grace in the service of the Master.
The squire looked rubicund and patriarchal, with his broad
physique and snow-white hair. He wore, in honour of the occasion,
his coat of brightest blue, with large gilt buttons, a buff
waistcoat and an ample ruffled shirt-bosom and frilled sleeves.
His manner was a singular blending of paternal joy and pride in
the beauty and happiness of the fair Katharine, and of wistful
tenderness and regret at the loss of her gladsome presence from
his home.
Zenas was jubilant and boisterous, full of quips and pranks,
overflowing with fun, like a boy let loose from school. He
evidently felt, not that he was losing a sister, but that he was
gaining a brother who was already knit to his soul by bonds of
friendship strong as those between Jonathan and David--between
Damon and Pythias.
Our old friends, Tom Loker and Sandy McKay, also, in accordance
with early colonial etiquette, graced the occasion with their
presence, and added their honest and heartfelt congratulations to
those which greeted the happy pair. And never was there happier
pair than that which rode away in the wedding-coach to their new
home on the forest mission of the western wilds of Canada. Not
much of this world's goods had they, but they were rich in love,
and hope, and faith, compared with which all earthly riches are
but dross.
The old house at The Holms seemed very lone and desolate, now that
its fair mistress had departed. The squire missed her much, and,
in his loneliness and isolation, turned more and more toward those
religious consolations which had been the inspiration of the life
of his wife and daughter, and, there is ground to hope, found that
solace which can be found nowhere else.
He sought a diversion from his solitude in frequent visits to the
village parsonage, where Katharine reigned in her small home-
kingdom with blooming matron dignity. Nor were these visits
unprofitable to the larder, if we might judge from the stout
hampers which went full and returned empty. But a still greater
joy was the visit of Katharine to the old homestead at Christmas-
time; and at midsummer, when Neville was absent at Conference.
The old man never enjoyed his pipe so much as when it was filled
and lighted by the deft fingers of his fair matron daughter. In
after years these visits were made not unattended. Children's
happy laughter filled the old house with glee, and strange riot
ruled in the long-quiet parlour and great wide hall and echoing
stairs. Another sturdy Neville, and little Kate, and baby Zenas
began to play their parts in the momentous and often tragic drama
of life. The old man seemed to renew his youth in sharing the
gleeful gambols of his grandchildren, and in telling to little
Neville, on his knee, the story of the terrible years of the war,
and of the heroism of his father and his uncle Zenas, and the
brave Captain Villiers, whose memorial tablet they had seen in the
village church at Niagara, with the strange quartering--on a field
azure a cross enguled and a wyvern volant.
Our brief story now is done. The bitter memories of the war have
passed away. The long reign of peace has effaced its scars alike
from the face of nature and from the hearts of the kindred peoples
who dwell side by side in kindly intercourse and friendship. The
broad Niagara sweeps on as ever in its might and majesty to mingle
its flood with the blue waters of Ontario. The banks, in steep
escarpments, crowned with oak and elm and giant walnuts, or in
gentle turfclad slopes, sweep in graceful curves around the
windings of the stream. The weeping birch trails its tresses in
the waters like a wood nymph admiring her own loveliness. The
comfortable farmsteads nestle amid their embowering peach and
apple orchards, the very types of peace and plenty. The mighty
river, after its dizzy plunge at the great cataract, and mad
tumultuous rush and eddy at the rapids and whirlpool, smoothes its
rugged front and restrains its impetuous stream to the semblance
of a placid old age after a wild and stormy life.
The slumberous old town of Niagara has also an air of calm repose.
No vulgar din of trade disturbs its quiet grass-grown streets. The
dismantled fort, the broken stockade, the empty fosse, and the
crumbling ramparts, where wandering sheep crop the herbage and the
swallows build their nests in the months of the overturned and
rusty cannon, are all the evidence of the long reign of an
unbroken peace. _Esto perpetua_--so may it ever be.
A few words in conclusion as to the construction of this story of
the War. The historical statements here given have been carefully
verified by the consultation of the best published authorities,
and by personal researches on the scene of the conflict, and
frequent conversations with surviving actors in the stirring
events which then took place. In portraying the minor characters,
filling up details and reported conversations, some licence had to
be given the imagination. In this connection I may adopt the
language of the distinguished philosopher, Isaac Taylor, author of
"Aids to Faith," with reference to a somewhat similar work of
imagination of his own: "Let me say, and I say it in candour--that
if, in a dramatic sense, I report conversations uttered longer ago
than the Battle of Waterloo, it is the dramatic import only of
such conversations I vouch for, not the _ipsissima verba_;
and likewise as to the descriptions I give, I must be understood
to describe things in an artistic sense, not as if I were giving
evidence in a court of justice."
And now my task is ended. Much of this simple story has been
written hastily, amid the pressing occupations of a busy life, and
a considerable portion of it was written at sea, when the
steamship was reeling and rolling with the motion of the waves, so
that I had to hold on by the table at which I sat. These
circumstances must be pleaded in extenuation of its shortcomings
and demerits. If this retrospect of one of the most stirring
episodes in our country's history shall kindle warmer fires of
patriotism in the hearts of any of its readers; if the records of
the trials and triumphs, the moral heroism and brave achievements
of our Canadian forefathers shall inspire a stronger sympathy
with their sufferings, and admiration of their character; and,
above all, if the religious teachings of this story shall lead any
to seek the same solace and succour which sustained our fathers in
tribulation, and enbraved their souls for conflict with the evils
of the time--it shall not have been written in vain.
[Illustration]