Part 1 (2/2)

For a moment longer he gazed upon the broad, flowing river which divided two neighbouring peoples, one in language, in blood, in heroic early traditions, and the common heirs of the grandest literature the world has ever seen, yet severed by a deep, wide, angry-flowing stream of strife, which, dammed up for a time, was about to burst forth in a desolating flood that should overwhelm and destroy some of the fairest fruits of civilization in both countries. As he gazed northward, he beheld, on the eastern bank of the river, the snowy walls and gra.s.s-grown ramparts of Fort Niagara, above which floated proudly the stars and stripes.

As he gazed on the ancient fort, the memories of its strange eventful history came thronging on his mind from the time that La Salle thawed the frozen ground in midwinter to plant his palisades, to the time that the gallant Prideaux lay mangled in its trenches by the bursting of a cohorn--on the very eve of victory. These memories have been well expressed in graphic verse by a living Canadian poet--a denizen of the old borough of Niagara. [Footnote: William Kirby, Esq., in CANADIAN METHODIST MAGAZINE for May, 1878.]

Two gra.s.sy points--not promontories--front The calm blue lake--the river flows between, Bearing in its full bosom every drop Of the wild flood that leaped the cataract.

And swept the rock-walled gorge from end to end.

'Mid flanking eddies, ripples, and returns, It rushes past the ancient fort that once Like islet in a lonely ocean stood, A mark for half a world of savage woods; With war and siege and deeds of daring wrought Into its rugged walls--a history Of heroes, half forgotten, writ in dust.

Two centuries deep lie the foundation stones, La Salle placed there, on his adventurous quest Of the wild regions of the boundless west; Where still the sun sets on his unknown grave.

Three generations pa.s.sed of war and peace; The Bourbon lilies grew; brave men stood guard; And braver still went forth to preach and teach Th' evangel, in the forest wilderness, To men fierce as the wolves whose spoils they wore.

Then came a day of change. The summer woods Were white with English tents, and sap and trench Crept like a serpent to the battered walls.

Prideaux lay dead 'mid carnage, smoke, and fire Before the Gallic drums beat parley--then Niagara fell, and all the East and West Did follow: and our Canada was won.

As the sun sank beneath the horizon, the flag slid down the halyards, and the sullen roar of the sunset gun boomed over the wave, and was echoed back by the dense forest wall around and by the still low-hanging clouds overhead. A moment later the British gun of Fort George, on the opposite side of the river, but concealed from the spectator by a curve in the sh.o.r.e, loudly responded, as if in haughty defiance to the challenge of a foe.

Turning his horse's head, the young man rode rapidly down the road, beneath a row of n.o.ble chestnuts, and drew rein opposite a substantial-looking, brick farmhouse, but with such small windows as almost to look like a casematad fortress. Dismounting, he threw his horse's bridle over the hitching-post at the gate, and pa.s.sed through a neat garden, now blooming with roses and sweet peas, to the open door of the house. He knocked with his riding-whip on the door jamb, to which summons a young lady, dressed in a neat calico gown and swinging in her hand a broad-leafed sunhat, replied.

Seeing a stranger, she dropped a graceful ”courtesy,”--which is one of the lost arts now-a-days,--and put up her hand to brush back from her face her wealth of cl.u.s.tering curls, somewhat dishevelled by the exercise of raking in the hayfield.

”Is this the house of Squire Drayton?” asked Neville, politely raising his hat.

The young lady, for such she evidently was, though so humbly dressed--_simplex munditiis_--replied that it was, and invited the stranger into the large and comfortable sitting-room, which bore evidence of refinement, although the carpet was of woven rags and much of the furniture was home-made.

”I have a letter to him from Elder Ryan,” said Neville, presenting a doc.u.ment elaborately folded, after the manner of epistolary missives of the period.

”Oh, you're the new presiding elder, are you?” asked the lady. ”We heard you were coming.”

”No, not the presiding elder,” said Neville, smiling at the unwonted dignity attributed to him, ”and not even an elder at all; but simply a Methodist preacher on trial--a junior, who may be an elder some day.”

”Excuse me,” said the young lady, blus.h.i.+ng at her mistake. ”Father has just gone to the village for his paper, but will be back shortly. Zenas, take the preacher's horse,” she continued to a stout lad who had just come in from the hayfield.

”I will help him,” said Neville, proceeding with the boy. It was the almost invariable custom of the pioneer preachers to see that their faithful steeds were groomed and fed, before they attended to their own wants.

Miss Katherine Drayton--this was the young lady's name--was the eldest daughter of Squire Drayton, of The Holms, as the farm was called, from the evergreen oaks that grew upon the riverbank. Her mother having been dead for some years, Katherine had the princ.i.p.al domestic management of the household. This duty, with its accompanying cares, had given her a self-reliance and maturity of character beyond her years. She deftly prepared a tasteful supper for the new guest, set out with snowy napery and with the seldom-used, best china.

”h.e.l.lo! what's up now?” asked her father, cheerily, as he entered the door. He is worth looking at as he stands on the threshold, almost filling the doorway with his large and muscular frame. He had a hearty, ruddy, English look, a frank and honest expression in his light blue eyes, and an impulsiveness of manner that indicated a temper--

That carries anger as the flint bears fire, Which much enforced, showeth a hasty spark, And straight is cold again.

He was not a Methodist, but his dead wife had been one, and for her sake, and because he had the instincts of a gentleman, of respect to the ministerial character, he extended a hospitable welcome to the travelling Methodist preachers, who were almost the only ministers in the country except the clergyman of the English Church in the neighbouring village of Niagara.

”The new preacher has come, father. He brought this letter from Elder Ryan,” said Katherine, handing him the missive.

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