The Fiery Tide
Has Burst Its Bounds, And Rolls Down Etna's Side.
Thy will is done, great God!
The conflict's o'er,
The silvery moonbeams glance along the sea;
The whispering waves half ripple on the shore,
And lull'd creation breathes a prayer to thee!
The night-flower's incense to their God is given,
And grateful mortals raise their thoughts to heaven.
J.W.D.M.
CHAPTER XXV
THE WALK TO DUMMER
We trod a weary path through silent woods,
Tangled and dark, unbroken by a sound
Of cheerful life. The melancholy shriek
Of hollow winds careering o'er the snow,
Or tossing into waves the green pine tops,
Making the ancient forest groan and sigh
Beneath their mocking voice, awoke alone
The solitary echoes of the place.
Reader! have you ever heard of a place situated in the forest-depths
of this far western wilderness, called Dummer? Ten years ago, it
might not inaptly have been termed "The last clearing in the world."
Nor to this day do I know of any in that direction which extends
beyond it. Our bush-farm was situated on the border-line of a
neighbouring township, only one degree less wild, less out of
the world, or nearer to the habitations of civilisation than
the far-famed "English Line," the boast and glory of this terra
incognita.
This place, so named by the emigrants who had pitched their tents
in that solitary wilderness, was a long line of cleared land,
extending upon either side for some miles through the darkest and
most interminable forest. The English Line was inhabited chiefly
by Cornish miners, who, tired of burrowing like moles underground,
had determined to emigrate to Canada, where they could breathe the
fresh air of Heaven, and obtain the necessaries of life upon the
bosom of their mother earth. Strange as it may appear, these men
made good farmers, and steady, industrious colonists, working as
well above ground as they had toiled in their early days beneath it.
All our best servants came from Dummer; and although they spoke a
language difficult to be understood, and were uncouth in their
manners and appearance, they were faithful and obedient, performing
the tasks assigned to them with patient perseverance; good food and
kind treatment rendering them always cheerful and contented.
My dear old Jenny, that most faithful and attached of all humble
domestic friends, came from Dummer, and I was wont to regard it
with complacency for her sake. But Jenny was not English; she was
a generous, warm-hearted daughter of the Green Isle - the Emerald
gem set in the silver of ocean. Yes, Jenny was one of the poorest
children of that impoverished but glorious country where wit and
talent seem indigenous, springing up spontaneously in the rudest and
most uncultivated minds; showing what the land could bring forth
in its own strength, unaided by education, and unfettered by the
conventional rules of society. Jenny was a striking instance of the
worth, noble self-denial, and devotion which are often met withand,
alas! but too often disregarded - in the poor and ignorant natives of
that deeply-injured, and much abused land. A few words about my old
favourite may not prove uninteresting to my readers.
Jenny Buchanan, or as she called it, Bohanon, was the daughter of a
petty exciseman, of Scotch extraction (hence her industry) who, at
the time of her birth, resided near the old town of Inniskillen. Her
mother died a few months after she was born; and her father, within
the twelve months, married again. In the meanwhile, the poor orphan
babe had been adopted by a kind neighbour, the wife of a small
farmer in the vicinity.
In return for coarse food and scanty clothing, the little Jenny
became a servant-of-all-work. She fed the pigs, herded the cattle,
assisted in planting potatoes and digging peat from the bog, and
was undisputed mistress of the poultry-yard. As she grew up to
womanhood, the importance of her labours increased. A better reaper
in the harvest-field, or footer of turf in the bog, could not be
found in the district, or a woman more thoroughly acquainted with
the management of cows and the rearing of young cattle; but here
poor Jenny's accomplishments terminated.
Her usefulness was all abroad. Within the house she made more dirt
than she had the inclination or the ability to clear away. She could
neither read, nor knit, nor sew; and although she called herself a
Protestant, and a Church of England woman, she knew no more of
religion, as revealed to man through the Word of God, than the
savage who sinks to the grave in ignorance of a Redeemer. Hence
she stoutly resisted all ideas of being a sinner, or of standing
the least chance of receiving hereafter the condemnation of one.
"Och, sure thin," she would say, with simple earnestness of look and
manner, almost irresistible. "God will never throuble Himsel' about
a poor, hard-working crathur like me, who never did any harm to the
manest of His makin'."
One thing was certain, that a benevolent Providence had "throubled
Himsel'" about poor Jenny in times past, for the warm heart of this
neglected child of nature contained a stream of the richest
benevolence, which, situated as she had been, could not have been
derived from any other source. Honest, faithful, and industrious,
Jenny became a law unto herself, and practically illustrated the
golden rule of her blessed Lord, "to do unto others as we would they
should do unto us." She thought it was impossible that her poor
services could ever repay the debt of gratitude that she owed to the
family who had brought her up, although the obligation must have
been entirely on their side. To them she was greatly attached - for
them she toiled unceasingly; and when evil days came, and they were
not able to meet the rent-day, or to occupy the farm, she determined
to accompany them in their emigration to Canada, and formed one of
the stout-hearted band that fixed its location in the lonely and
unexplored wilds now known as the township of Dummer.
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