An Evening's komuni

Make ample materials for

Weir wit.

ers, sadar at the 19th Stre

!-an hour hath sped,

dream is fled,—

as yet could see,

the end would be;
ght had laid the corse
his own war-horse,
pass'd adown the dell
ly hermit's cell;

e hermit's cares had shewn in truth, was not yet flown,— the lady's tears fell fast,

en the hour of woe was past,eeping more in joy's excess T'han she'd wept in bitterness! Pass'd those phantoms of the brain, Never to be seen again,— Save, perhaps, in dreamy trance, 'Mong the woods of old Romance!

a set of impressions which will stand apart in my memory for life, and these I shall try to convey to you as far as description will stand for reality.

In the middle of February, 1845, I set out for Montreal, in company with Jenkin of the -th.

He, whose voice's kindly tone
Aye responded to mine own,
Wanders far away; and those,
Who from dawn to daylight's close,
Flitting oft from room to room,
Chased away the wintry gloom
With the music of their feet,
And the sound of laughter sweet;
Those gay sprites, those children fair,
Bright-haired, blue-eyed, laughing
pair

(She whose ready fancy still
Summons blithest scenes at will,
Hears the swallow's coming wings,
Sees gay flowers and summer things,
Where my sad eye only sees
Withered plants and leafless trees;
And that younger one, so bright
With her spirit's sunny light,
That a stranger's eye will dwell
On her face, as if the spell
Of her happy beauty won
Ev'ry heart it shone upon);
Each within her little nest
Lieth wrapt in joyful rest.
Yet, to-night, with spirit free,
Lone and silent though I be,
I will dream a poet's dream,
Sitting by the fire's red gleam.
I will gaze with joyful glance
On the woods of old Romance,-
Those wild woods that never fade,
Flinging everlasting shade
Over paths of living green,
Winding, hoary stems between;
Leading oft to nooks apart,
Where no sunbeam e'er can dart
Through the leafy screen above,
Whence the voice of hidden dove
Low replieth to the fall
Of the waters musical
Welling from a fountain clear,
Calmly glad as all things near.

Now along a pathway wide
(Whence diverge on either side
Lesser paths, with flowers bestrown,
Or with burnished moss o'ergrown),
Comes a war-horse' stately tread:
High he rears his graceful head,
And the grass is flecked below,
As he moves, with foam like snow.
Sleek his coat, and black as night,
Save that one small star of white
Gleams upon his brow: dark red
Are his housings, thickly spread
With a maze of golden thread;
On his bridle glitter fair
Wroughten gold and broid'ry rare.
Bears he forth a youthful knight,
Armed and ready for the fight.

He in garb of mail is drest,
And above his jewelled crest
Milk-white plumes are floating free,
Stainless as his fame can be.

O'er the dappled turf he rides,
And anon a sunbeam glides
Through the boughs above his track,
And its light is given back
By his armour's dazzling sheen;
Then through depths of shade serene,
Where dark cedars o'er them bend,
Steed and rider calmly wend.

Now, in thought, some long - past fight

Flashes o'er the warrior's sight,
And his lance he proudly shakes,
While a muttered war-cry breaks
From his parted lips; and now
Dear remembrance of the vow,
Uttered by a voice as sweet
As the hidden streams that fleet
Where the shadow deepest lies,
Bringeth softness to his eyes.
While his heart with fondness thrills,
At the thought of those far hills,
Where the lady of his heart
In her sadness dwells apart.
Suddenly a bitter wail
Rises on the summer gale.
Bound to succour all who need,
Lo, the knight hath turned his steed
Down a walk bestrewn with showers
Of the linden's yellow flowers!
Dim the light that passeth through
Interwoven branch and bough;
Heavy is the air beneath

With the blossoms' scented breath;
Drowsy with their toil the bees
Hang in clusters on the trees,
Moving on, from time to time,
With their pleasant summer chime,
Answered by a merry note
From the leaf-hid cuckoo's throat.

Soon, beyond the linden shade,
Sees the knight a turfy glade,
Folded in with mountain peaks,
Down whose sides in glitt'ring streaks
Many a singing streamlet flows:
In the midst, in still repose,
Lies outspread a crystal pool,
And within its waters cool,
Mirrored sleeps the quiet sky;
And a pearly cloud sails by,-
E'en as if an angel flew
O'er the depths of calmest blue.

But a woful sight is now
'Neath the cedar's whisp'ring bough;
Stretched upon the turf lies one
Whose last battle-deed is done.

Falls the red sword from his hand,
Broken like a willow-wand;
Helm and breastplate, all unbound,
Lie beside him on the ground;
And the life-blood welleth slow
From a wound upon his brow.
At his head a lady fair,

Kneeling, with her long bright hair, Strives to staunch the wound - in vain!

Gasping sigh and sob of pain
Echo back her saddest fear,
And she feels that death is near.
Wildly weeps she in her woe,
O'er his face the hot tears flow;
Yet he speaks no loving word,
He whose heart was ever stirr'd
By the lightest grief that stole
O'er the sunshine of her soul!

Swift the wand'ring knight draws nigh,

Gazing with a pitying eye

On the lady's tear-stain'd cheek;
Words of cheer he fain would speak,
But he feels how vain they were
In that hour of wild despair.
Quickly from his steed he springs,
Lance and shield aside he flings,
And the scarf his lady wove
(Precious token of her love)
From his gallant breast unwinds,
And about the stranger binds.
Vain his care-he writhes no more-
One deep sigh and all is o'er !

Then he strives with gentle speech
That sad lady's ear to reach,
Praying her, in brief, to tell
How such cruel hap befell;
And, at last, in accents weak,
Strives she all the truth to speak,
Pausing many a time to weep
O'er her hero's bloody sleep.
Tells she how for many a day
They had wandered, blithe and gay;

Tells she how her sire held sway
O'er a lovely land that lay
On the sunny Indian shore;
Tells she how that warrior bore
From her gentle mother's side
Her, his fond and wedded bride.
Wrought he many a deed of fame
For the love of his dear dame;
Strong and ready was his arm,
Rescuing the weak from harm,
Laying low each wicked wight,
As became a stalwart knight.
But, at last, a paynim bold,
With a shield of fretted gold,
And a lance of magic might,
Met him there in deadly fight:
Powerless the paynim's arm,
But for help of magic charm;
Strong in that unearthly strength,
He had won the day at length.
Bent he o'er his prostrate foe,
When the lady's shriek of woe
Brought the Flow'r of Knighthood

Hark, the clock!-an hour hath sped,
And my sunny dream is fled,-
Fled while I as yet could see,
Dimly, how the end would be;
Ere the knight had laid the corse
Gently on his own war-horse,
And had pass'd adown the dell
To a holy hermit's cell;
Ere the hermit's cares had shewn
Life, in truth, was not yet flown,-
And the lady's tears fell fast,
When the hour of woe was past,-
Weeping more in joy's excess
Than she'd wept in bitterness!
Pass'd those phantoms of the brain,
Never to be seen again,-
Save, perhaps, in dreamy trance,
'Mong the woods of old Romance!

Y DEAR

--In giving you an account of my hibernation, I shall endeavour to bear in mind that I am trying to depict scenes of which you can have no previous idea. The life I led for a month was so unique, so utterly at variance with the rest of my existence, that I then received

a set of impressions which will stand apart in my memory for life, and these I shall try to convey to you as far as description will stand for reality.

In the middle of February, 1845, I set out for Montreal, in company with Jenkin of the -th.

You recollect Jenkin ?an individual who may be looked upon, in his foibles, as the epitome of the subaltern's world; but, for goodnature and good temper, Jenkin is one in a thousand. He entered the army, I believe, upon principle, it being his impression that not to array such a figure as he conceives himself to possess in uniform, would be an abuse of the gifts of Nature; an opinion in which he was backed by his mamma, and several maiden aunts. But his moral conformation is no less suited to barrack-life than his physical. He has strong prepossessions in favour of clay pipes; and would probably not condescend to enter Paradise, if admission were offered him, unless assured of finding good stout in that region. He walks about the barracks all the morning in an extraordinary hat and no braces; and, after mess, puts a pea-coat over his uniform, and sallies forth on excursions of a disreputable nature. His chimney piece is ornamented with meerschaums, scientifically browned, and he devotes a vast portion of his time to the cutting up of cavendish tobacco. He also bets occasionally on sporting events. I met him on the road to Epsom in a dog-cart on the last Derby day before I left England, when he informed me with immense glee that he had backed a dark horse, which he was assured by a knowing particular friend of his was booked to win. The dark horse, however, sticking resolutely to his character as a dark horse, never emerged from his obscurity, and my friend Jenkin lost his money. It was as much, too, as he could afford. But he told me of his ill luck of his being, as he classically termed it, 'd-d hard up,' with as much gaiety as if he had won a thousand pounds. If Jenkin's soul is not superior to the rubs of Fortune, his spirits are.

At five o'clock in the morning, on Valentine's day, the mail drove up to my door, with Jenkin seated in it. It was very cold, and snowing thickly, so that his portmanteau, which had not been strapped on two minutes, was covered with snow an inch deep; so was the roof of the sleigh, and the horses, naturally bay in colour, were white all over. Can you fancy such a couple

of lunatics, leaving all the comforts of warm, snug rooms, comfortable beds, excellent dinners, and smiling 'muffins,' to drive nearly three hundred miles over infamous roads, and afterwards to spend a month in the snow, cold, sleepless, and hungry, all for the satisfaction of being able to say we had not left Canada without killing a moose?

Jenkin was dozing, but woke up on my entrance. 'Devilish accommodating of the mail,' said he, to come to the door for us; I should like to see an English mail do that.'

Now, when I speak of the Quebec mail, you mustn't run away with the idea of a handsome well-hung coach, with four spanking bays, and a man on the box with ever so many capes to his coat; and a guard behind with a straight-brimmed hat, and a talent for blowing the bugle. Imagine rather a small sedan-chair, with the back painted red and the royal arms depicted thereon, drawn by two horses, tandem, in very indifferent harness, and driven by a Canadian in a hooded grey coat, bound at the waist with a red sash. The vehicle is intended to hold four pas sengers, who sit two and two all facing the horses: the driver stands on a foot-board in front. Though both Jenkin and myself are any thing but corpulent, and, indeed, would together only make a respectable middle-aged man if rolled into one, we found considerable difficulty in wedging ourselves into the back seat, and having done so, could not move hand or foot, except by mutual consent. The reason for making these sleighs so narrow and for driving them tandem, is, that if wider, they could not pass one another on the track; and should you leave this beaten track in the middle of the road, your horse goes into the snow nearly up to his back.

I have travelled many doleful journeys as regards weather, roads, and accommodation; but never one in which the three combined in such a determined manner to create the extreme of discomfort. There was a snow-storm whistling right through the sleigh from end to end, so that the front of each of our blanket coats formed a solid breastplate of ice, on which a tilter might have splintered his lance; the road,

being much worn since the last fall of snow, consisted of a succession of holes, through which we floundered with such an uneasy motion as very soon made me as sick as ever I was at sea in a gale. So we travelled on, in a dozing state, unable quite to wake up, but having a dreamy perception that we were being snowed, and frozen, and thumped, and shaken, till we stopped to breakfast at an inn on the other side of the Ottawa.

All Canadian country inns are alike. They are built of wood, painted red or blue, and surrounded with a balcony on a level with the ground-floor, which is raised two or three feet. The inside is warmed by stoves, which give out a great deal of heat, but of a close, unpleasant kind. However, you are too glad to get heat of any kind to grumble at the quality of it. There is always plenty to eat, but the habitants put so much butter and grease in their dishes as to sicken any stranger except, perhaps, a Laplander. The man who has learned to relish his food at a Canadian inn, will scarcely object to a breakfast of train-oil and tallow-candles.

Our way after this lay, for a considerable distance, along the river; I don't mean along the bank, but on the river itself, which is covered with snow, and winds among the hills like a great white sheet. The country around is smooth as satin; no ruggedness-no corners-for the snow, in its insinuating way, has crept into each crevice and filled it up, bringing every thing to a level in the most democratic manner, so that there is nothing to be seen on the landscape more harsh or abrupt than the gentle undulations of a virgin's bosom. (Here observe I am but inverting an ancient simile, for sentimentalists have for ages been in the habit of comparing a woman's bosom to snow.) The scene is so smooth, so silent, so dreary, and so exceedingly chill, that if a perspiring nabob at Calcutta, in the dog-days, could only catch one glimpse of it, his teeth would chatter. The roofs of the few houses which lie scattered, at long intervals, on the bank, are covered with snow many inches deep; and the eye rests on nothing but great patches of firs and pines of a blueish hue, standing out from the

white surface in boldest relief, like blots on the copy-books of our schooldays.

The road on the river was very good, and Jenkin and I were just congratulating ourselves on the smooth manner in which we glided along, when suddenly the vehicle dropped on one side in such a way as would have made us fancy a wheel had come off, if sleighs had wheels, and then stuck fast. At the same time a gurgling and splashing of water was heard, announcing that we had gone through the upper crust of ice. Jenkin and I got out in all haste; but a corpulent passenger who attempted to follow us stuck fast by the waist, and struggled himself into an incipient apoplexy, his countenance shewing, by its intensity of horror, how strong were his objections to a watery grave. The driver, however, took it very coolly, and appeared to regard it as quite an ordinary occurrence; which, indeed, it was, as we very soon discovered.

We put our shoulders manfully to the sleigh, and pushed and tugged, but not an inch would it stir. The driver tried every species of expostulation with his horses; from Marchez donc! the ordinary term of persuasion in Canada, which is equivalent to Get up with ye-go along!' to the most recondite profanities in the French language. But there we might have spent the day, up to our knees in wet snow, had not Providence sent us a good Samaritan in a carriole, who hooked on his nag in front of ours; and then, amongst the whole of us, we extricated the sunken runner of the sleigh, and went on our way.

The whole of our journey to Quebec was a repetition of these incidents, -sometimes shaken to pieces over the rough road, sometimes stopping at a little greasy oven of an inn, sometimes upsetting. On these latter occasions the whole population of the neighbourhood would turn out and assist by uttering the most frightful oaths, but did not help us in any other way.

We spent a morning in escalading the streets of Quebec, and in the afternoon crossed the St. Lawrence. This was a most singular, and rather hazardous, voyage; the river was filled with vast plains of broken ice,