"No, you turned off
from the right path when you came up here." We all looked very blank
at each other. "You will have to go back, and keep the other road,
and that will lead you straight to the English Line."
"How many miles is it to Mrs. N - -'s?"
"Some four, or thereabouts," was the cheering rejoinder. "'Tis one
of the last clearings on the line. If you are going back to Douro
to-night, you must look sharp."
Sadly and dejectedly we retraced our steps. There are few trifling
failures more bitter in our journey through life than that of a
tired traveller mistaking his road. What effect must that tremendous
failure produce upon the human mind, when at the end of life's
unretraceable journey, the traveller finds that he has fallen upon
the wrong track through every stage, and instead of arriving at a
land of blissful promise, sinks for ever into the gulf of despair!
The distance we had trodden in the wrong path, while led on by hope
and anticipation, now seemed to double in length, as with painful
steps we toiled on to reach the right road. This object once
attained, soon led us to the dwellings of men.
Neat, comfortable log houses, surrounded by well-fenced patches of
clearing, arose on either side of the forest road; dogs flew out and
barked at us, and children ran shouting indoors to tell their
respective owners that strangers were passing their gates; a most
unusual circumstance, I should think, in that location.
A servant who had hired two years with my brother-in-law, we knew
must live somewhere in this neighbourhood, at whose fireside we
hoped not only to rest and warm ourselves, but to obtain something
to eat. On going up to one of the cabins to inquire for Hannah J - -,
we fortunately happened to light upon the very person we sought.
With many exclamations of surprise, she ushered us into her neat and
comfortable log dwelling.
A blazing fire, composed of two huge logs, was roaring up the wide
chimney, and the savoury smell that issued from a large pot of
pea-soup was very agreeable to our cold and hungry stomachs. But,
alas, the refreshment went no further! Hannah most politely begged
us to take seats by the fire, and warm and rest ourselves; she even
knelt down and assisted in rubbing our half-frozen hands; but she
never once made mention of the hot soup, or of the tea, which was
drawing in a tin teapot upon the hearth-stone, or of a glass of
whiskey, which would have been thankfully accepted by our male
pilgrims.
Hannah was not an Irishwoman, no, nor a Scotch lassie, or her very
first request would have been for us to take "a pickle of soup," or
"a sup of thae warm broths." The soup was no doubt cooking for
Hannah's husband and two neighbours, who were chopping for him in
the bush; and whose want of punctuality she feelingly lamented.
As we left her cottage, and jogged on, Emilia whispered, laughing,
"I hope you are satisfied with your good dinner? Was not the
pea-soup excellent? - and that cup of nice hot tea! - I never relished
anything more in my life. I think we should never pass that house
without giving Hannah a call, and testifying our gratitude for her
good cheer."
Many times did we stop to inquire the way to Mrs. N - -'s, before we
ascended the steep, bleak hill upon which her house stood. At the
door, Mr. T - - deposited the sack of provisions, and he and young
C - - went across the road to the house of an English settler (who,
fortunately for them, proved more hospitable than Hannah J - -),
to wait until our errand was executed.
The house before which Emilia and I were standing had once been
a tolerably comfortable log dwelling. It was larger than such
buildings generally are, and was surrounded by dilapidated barns
and stables, which were not cheered by a solitary head of cattle.
A black pine-forest stretched away to the north of the house, and
terminated in a dismal, tangled cedar-swamp, the entrance to the
house not having been constructed to face the road.
The spirit that had borne me up during the journey died within me. I
was fearful that my visit would be deemed an impertinent intrusion.
I knew not in what manner to introduce myself, and my embarrassment
had been greatly increased by Mrs. S - - declaring that I must break
the ice, for she had not courage to go in. I remonstrated, but she
was firm. To hold any longer parley was impossible. We were standing
on the top of a bleak hill, with the thermometer many degrees below
zero, and exposed to the fiercest biting of the bitter, cutting
blast. With a heavy sigh, I knocked slowly but decidedly at the
crazy door. I saw the curly head of a boy glance for a moment
against the broken window. There was a stir within, but no one
answered our summons. Emilia was rubbing her hands together, and
beating a rapid tattoo with her feet upon the hard and glittering
snow, to keep them from freezing.
Again I appealed to the inhospitable door, with a vehemence which
seemed to say, "We are freezing, good people; in mercy let us in!"
Again there was a stir, and a whispered sound of voices, as if
in consultation, from within; and after waiting a few minutes
longer - which, cold as we were, seemed an age - the door was
cautiously opened by a handsome, dark-eyed lad of twelve years of
age, who was evidently the owner of the curly head that had been
sent to reconnoitre us through the window. Carefully closing the
door after him, he stepped out upon the snow, and asked us coldly
but respectfully what we wanted.
