then returned and joined the family party, as if nothing had happened. One day, however, a nickname applied to him by Mrs Moodie's eldest girl put him in a furious passion, and he took himself off for ever, as his entertainers hoped. They were mistaken. "Two months after, we were taking tea with a neighbour, who lived a mile below us on the small lake. Who should walk in but Mr Malcolm? He greeted us with great warmth, for him ; and when we rose to take leave, he rose and walked home by our side. Surely the little stumpy man (the name Katie had given him) is not returning to his old quarters?' I am still a babe in the affairs of men. Human nature has more strange varieties than any one menagerie can contain, and Malcolm was one of the oddest of her odd species. That night he slept in his old bed below the parlour window, and for three months afterwards he stuck to us like a beaver." The manner of this strange being's final departure was as eccentric as that of his first coming. On Christmas eve he started after breakfast to walk into Peterborough to fetch raisins for next day's pudding. He never came back, but left Peterborough the same day with a stranger in a waggon. It was afterwards said that he had gone to Texas, and been killed at San Antonio de Bexar. Whatever became of him, he never again was seen in that part of Canada. Mrs Moodie's account of his residence in her house is full of character, and admirable for its quietness and truth to nature. "Firing the Fallow," and "Our Logging Bee," are also, apart from their connection with the emigrant's fortunes, striking and interesting sketches of Canadian forest life. We are unable to dwell upon or extract from them, and must hasten to conclude our notice of this really fascinating book. Rebellion broke out in Canada. Captain Moodie, although suffering from a severe accident he had met with whilst ploughing, felt his loyalty and soldiership irresistibly appealed to by the Queen's proclamation, calling upon all loyal gentlemen to join in suppressing the insurrection. Toronto was threatened by the insurgents, and armed bands were gathering on all sides for its relief. So Captain Moodie marched to the front. Regiments of militia were formed, and in one of them he received command of a company. He left in January, and Mrs Moodie remained alone with her children and Jenny-a faithful old Irish servant-to take care of the house. It was a dull and cheerless time. And yet her husband's appointment was a great boon and relief. His full pay as captain enabled him to remit money home, and to liquidate debts. His wife, on her side, was not inactive. "Just at this period," she says, "I received a letter from a gentleman, requesting me to write for a magazine (the Literary Garland) just started in Montreal, with promise to remunerate me for my labours. Such an application was like a gleam of light springing up in the darkness." When the day's toils-which were not trifling-were over, she robbed herself of sleep-which she greatly needed-to labour with her pen; writing by the light of what Irish Jenny called "sluts "-twisted rags, dipped in lard, and stuck in a bottle. Jenny viewed these literary pursuits with huge discontent. "You were thin enough before you took to the pen," grumbled the affectionate old creature-" what good will it be to the childhren, dear heart! if you die afore your time by wasting your strength afther that fashion?" But Mrs Moodie was not to be dissuaded from her new pursuit. She persevered, and with satisfactory results. "I actually," she says, "shed tears of joy over the first twenty-dollar note I received from Montreal." Emulous of her mistress's activity, Jenny undertook to make "a good lump" of maple-sugar, with the aid of little Sol, a hired boy, whom she grievously cuffed and ill-treated, when he upset the kettle, or committed other blunders. Every evening during the sugar-making Mrs Moodie ran up to see Jenny in the bush, singing and boiling down the sap in front of her little shanty. "The old woman was in her element, and afraid of nothing under the stars; she slept beside her kettles at night, and snapped her fingers at the idea of the least danger." 364 Forest Life in Canada West. The sugar-making was a hot and wearisome occupation, but the result was a good store of sugar, molasses, and vinegar. "Besides gaining a little money with my pen," writes Mrs Moodie at about this time, I practised a method of painting birds and butterflies upon the white velvety surface of the large fungi that grow plentifully upon the bark of the sugar maple. These had an attractive appearance; and my brother, who was a captain in one of the provisional regiments, sold a great many of them the officers, without saying by whom among they were painted. One rich lady in Peterborough, long since dead, ordered two dozen to send as curiosities to England. These, at one shilling each, enabled me to buy shoes for the children, who, during our bad times, had been forced to dispense with these necessary coverings. How often, during the winter season, have I wept over their little chapped feet, literally washing them with my tears. But these days were to end. Providence was doing great things for us; and Hope raised at last her drooping head, to regard, with a brighter glance, the far-off future. Slowly the winter rolled away; but he to whom every thought was turned, was still distant from his humble home. The receipt of an occasional letter from him was my only solace during his long absence, and we were still too poor to indulge often in the luxury." The spring brought work. Corn and potatoes must be planted, and the garden dug and manured. By lending her oxen to a neighbour who had none, Mrs Moodie obtained a little assistance; but most of the labour was performed by her and Jenny, the greatest jewel of an old woman the Emerald Isle ever sent forth to toil in American wildernesses. A short visit from the captain cheered the family. In the autumn, he expected, the regiment to which he belonged would be reduced. This was a melancholy anticipation, and his wife again beheld cruel poverty seated on their threshold. After her husband's departure, the thought struck her that she would write to the Governor of Canada, plainly stating her circumstances, and asking him to retain Captain Moodie in the militia service. She knew nothing of Sir George Arthur, and received no reply to her application. But the Governor acted, [March, though he did not write, and acted kindly and generously. "The 16th of October my third son was born; and a few days after, my husband was regiments in the V———— district, with appointed paymaster to the militia The appointment was not likely to be the rank and full pay of captain." permanent, and Mrs Moodie and the children remained at their log-cabin in the woods during the ensuing winthe whole family; a doctor was sent ter. Malignant scarlet fever attacked for, but did not come; Mrs Moodie, herself ill, had to tend her five children; and when these recovered, she was stretched for many weeks upon a bed of sickness. Jenny, the most attached of humble friends, and a whom poets have sung and historians greater heroine in her way than many lauded, alone kept her suffering mistress company in the depths of the dark forest. thinly-settled spot for love nor money; "Men could not be procured in that and I now fully realised the extent of Jenny's usefulness. Daily she yoked the oxen, and brought down from the bush fuel to maintain our fires, which she felled and chopped up with her own hands. She fed the cattle, and kept all things snug about the doors; not forgetting to load her master's two guns, in case,' as she said, the ribels should attack us in our retrate.' What says the quaint old song? that "The poor man alone, when he hears the Of his morsel a morsel will give, Well-a-day! It were a libel to adopt the sentiment to its full extent, when we witness the more prosperous classes in this the large measure of charity which country are ever ready to dispense to less the sympathy with distress is apt the poor and suffering. But doubtpart of those who themselves have to be heartiest and warmest on the experienced the woes they witness. It is very touching to contemplate Mrs Moodie walking twenty miles through a bleak forest-the ground covered with snow, and the thermometer far below zero-to minister to ings were greater even than her own. the necessities of one whose suffer Still more touching is the exquisite delicacy with which she and her friend Emilia imparted the relief they brought, and strove to bestow their charity without imposing an obligation. "The Walk to Dummer" is a chapter of Mrs Moodie's book that alone would secure her the esteem and admiration of her readers. Captain N. was an Irish settler in Canada, who had encountered similar mishaps to those Captain Moodie had experienced but in a very different spirit. He had taken to drinking, had deserted his family, and was supposed to have joined Mackenzie's band of ruffians on Navy Island. For nine weeks his wife and children had tasted no food but potatoes; for eighteen months they had eaten no meat. Before going to Mrs Moodie, Jenny had been their servant for five years, and, although repeatedly beaten by her master with the iron ramrod of his gun, would still have remained with them, would he have permitted her. She sobbed bitterly on learning their sufferings, and that Miss Mary, "the tinder thing," and her brother, a boy of twelve, had to fetch fuel from the bush in that "oncommon weather." Mrs Moodie was deeply affected at the recital of so much misery. She had bread for herself and children, and that was all. It was more than had Mrs N. But for the willing there is ever a way, and Mrs Moodie found means of doing good, where means there seemed to be none. Some ladies in the neighbourhood were desirous to do what they could for Mrs N.; but they wished first to be assured that her condition really was as represented. They would be guided by the report of Mrs Moodie and Emilia, if those two ladies would go to Dummer, the most western clearing of Canada's Far West, and ascertain the facts of the case. If they would! There was not an instant's hesitation. Joyfully they started on their Samaritan pilgrimage. Ladies, lounging on damask cushions in your well-hung carriages, read this account of a walk through the wilderness; read the twelfth chapter of Mrs Moodie's second volume, and having read it you will assuredly read the whole of her book, and rise from its perusal with full hearts, and with savare the resolution to imitate, as far as your opportunities allow-and to none of us, who seek them with a fervent and sincere spirit, shall opportunities be wanting-her energetic and truly Christian charity. Le diable ne sera pas toujours derrière la porte, says the French proverb. The gentleman in question had long obstinately kept his station behind Mrs Moodie's shanty door; but at last, despairing, doubtless, of a triumph over her courage and resignation, he fled, discomfited. The militia disbanded, Captain Moodie's services were no longer needed. But his hard-saved pay had cleared off many debts, and prospects were brighter. "The potato crop was gathered in, and I had collected my store of dandelion roots for our winter supply of coffee, when one day brought a letter to my husband from the Governor's secretary, offering him the situation of Sheriff of the V- district. Once more he bade us farewell; but it was to go and make ready a home for us, that we should no more be separated from each other. Heartily did I return thanks to God that night for all his mercies to us." Short time sufficed for preparation to quit the dreary log-house. Crops, furniture, farm-stock, and implements, were sold, and as soon as snow fell and sleighing was practicable, the family left the forest for their snug dwelling in the distant town of V Strange as it may seem, when the time came, Mrs Moodie clung to her solitude. "I did not like," she says, "to be dragged from it to mingle in gay scenes, in a busy town, and with gaily-dressed people. I was no longer fit for the world; I had lost all relish for the pursuits and pleasures which are so essential to its votaries; I was contented to live and die in obscurity. For seven years I had lived out of the world altogether; my person had been rendered coarse by hard work and exposure to the weather. I looked double the age I really was, and my hair was already thickly sprinkled with grey." Honour to such grey hairs, blanched in patient and courageous suffering. More lovely they than raven tresses, to all who prefer to the body's perishable beauty the imperishable qualities of the immortal soul ! FAREWELL TO THE RHINE. LINES WRITTEN AT BONN. FARE thee well, thou regal river, proudly-rolling German Rhine, Yet receive my stranger lispings, strange, but more than half thine own. Fare thee well! but not in sorrow; while the sun thy vineyards cheers, Call the friends who love me dearly, call the men of sense and soul, Lo! where speeds the gallant steamer, prankt with flags of coloured pride, And strong heart of iron, panting stoutly up the swirling tide; While from fife, and flute, and drum, the merry music bravely floats, And as thick as flowers in June, or armies of the ruddy pine, Crown the deck the festive sailors of the broad and German Rhine. "Der Rhein! Der Rhein !" I know the song, the jovial singers too I know, 'Tis a troop of roving Burschen, and to Heisterbach they go; There beneath the seven hills' shadow, and the cloister'd ruin grey, There will bind their glittering caps with oaken wreaths fresh from the trees, Hand in hand will sit and laugh, and drain the glass with social speed, Oft at eve, when we were sated with the various feast of sight, Looking through our leafy trellis on the hues of loveliest light, Poured on the empurpled mountains by the gently westering sun; When at length the blazing god, his feats of brilliant duty done, Veiled his head, and Güdinghofen's gilded woods again were grey; When the various hum was hushed that stirred the busy-striving day, And the air was still and breezeless, and the moon with fresh-horned beam Threw aslant a shimmering brightness o'er the scarcely-sounding stream; We with ear not idly pleased would rise to catch the mellow note Softly o'er the waters wandering from the home-returning boat; And we saw the festive brothers, sobered by the evening hour, Shoreward drifted by the river's deep and gently-rolling power; And our ear imbibed sweet concord, and our hearts grew young again, Fare thee well, thou people-bearing, joy-resounding, ample flood, By thy banks, thou Christian river, still, from week to week, are spread. Strewn with flowers thy streets, and marching in the gay sun's noonday sheen Lines of linen-vested maidens, lines of sober matrons grey, Lines of feeble-footed fathers, priests in motley grim array; I have seen the bright cross glitter in the summer's cloudless air, While the old brown beads were counted to the drowsy-mutter'd prayer; Fare ye well, ye broad-browed thinkers! pride of Bonn upon the Rhine, Each fair shape that graceful floateth through the merry Grecian clime, 11 |