Sleep was
impossible, whilst his stentorian lungs continued to pour forth
torrents of unmeaning sound.
Our Dutch stewardess was highly enraged. His conduct, she said,
"was perfectly ondacent." She opened the door, and bestowing upon
him several kicks, bade him get away "out of that," or she would
complain to the captain.
In answer to this remonstrance, he caught her by the foot, and
pulled her down. Then waving the tattered remains of his straw hat
in the air, he shouted with an air of triumph, "Git out wid you,
you ould witch! Shure the ladies, the purty darlints, never sent
you wid that ugly message to Pat, who loves them so intirely that
he manes to kape watch over them through the blessed night." Then
making us a ludicrous bow, he continued, "Ladies, I'm at yer
sarvice; I only wish I could get a dispensation from the Pope,
and I'd marry yeas all." The stewardess bolted the door, and the
mad fellow kept up such a racket that we all wished him at the
bottom of the Ontario.
The following day was wet and gloomy. The storm had protracted the
length of our voyage for several hours, and it was midnight when we
landed at Cobourg.
THERE'S REST
(Written at midnight on the river St. Lawrence)
There's rest when eve, with dewy fingers,
Draws the curtains of repose
Round the west, where light still lingers,
And the day's last glory glows;
There's rest in heaven's unclouded blue,
When twinkling stars steal one by one,
So softly on the gazer's view,
As if they sought his glance to shun.
There's rest when o'er the silent meads
The deepening shades of night advance;
And sighing through their fringe of reeds,
The mighty stream's clear waters glance.
There's rest when all above is bright,
And gently o'er these summer isles
The full moon pours her mellow light,
And heaven on earth serenely smiles.
There's rest when angry storms are o'er,
And fear no longer vigil keeps;
When winds are heard to rave no more,
And ocean's troubled spirit sleeps;
There's rest when to the pebbly strand,
The lapsing billows slowly glide;
And, pillow'd on the golden sand,
Breathes soft and low the slumbering tide.
There's rest, deep rest, at this still hour -
A holy calm, - a pause profound;
Whose soothing spell and dreamy power
Lulls into slumber all around.
There's rest for labour's hardy child,
For Nature's tribes of earth and air, -
Whose sacred balm and influence mild,
Save guilt and sorrow, all may share.
There's rest beneath the quiet sod,
When life and all its sorrows cease,
And in the bosom of his God
The Christian finds eternal peace, -
That peace the world cannot bestow,
The rest a Saviour's death-pangs bought,
To bid the weary pilgrim know
A rest surpassing human thought.
CHAPTER IV
TOM WILSON'S EMIGRATION
"Of all odd fellows, this fellow was the oddest. I have seen
many strange fish in my days, but I never met with his equal."
About a month previous to our emigration to Canada, my husband said
to me, "You need not expect me home to dinner to-day; I am going
with my friend Wilson to Y - -, to hear Mr. C - - lecture upon
emigration to Canada. He has just returned from the North American
provinces, and his lectures are attended by vast numbers of persons
who are anxious to obtain information on the subject. I got a note
from your friend B - - this morning, begging me to come over and
listen to his palaver; and as Wilson thinks of emigrating in the
spring, he will be my walking companion."
"Tom Wilson going to Canada!" said I, as the door closed on my
better-half. "What a backwoodsman he will make! What a loss to the
single ladies of S - -! What will they do without him at their balls
and picnics?"
One of my sisters, who was writing at a table near me, was highly
amused at this unexpected announcement. She fell back in her chair
and indulged in a long and hearty laugh. I am certain that most of
my readers would have joined in her laugh had they known the object
which provoked her mirth. "Poor Tom is such a dreamer," said my
sister, "it would be an act of charity in Moodie to persuade him
from undertaking such a wild-goose chase; only that I fancy my good
brother is possessed with the same mania."
"Nay, God forbid!" said I. "I hope this Mr. - -, with the
unpronounceable name, will disgust them with his eloquence; for
B - - writes me word, in his droll way, that he is a coarse, vulgar
fellow, and lacks the dignity of a bear. Oh! I am certain they will
return quite sickened with the Canadian project." Thus I laid the
flattering unction to my soul, little dreaming that I and mine
should share in the strange adventures of this oddest of all odd
creatures.
It might be made a subject of curious inquiry to those who delight
in human absurdities, if ever there were a character drawn in works
of fiction so extravagantly ridiculous as some which daily
experience presents to our view. We have encountered people in the
broad thoroughfares of life more eccentric than ever we read of in
books; people who, if all their foolish sayings and doings were
duly recorded, would vie with the drollest creations of Hood, or
George Colman, and put to shame the flights of Baron Munchausen.
Not that Tom Wilson was a romancer; oh no! He was the very prose of
prose, a man in a mist, who seemed afraid of moving about for fear
of knocking his head against a tree, and finding a halter suspended
to its branches - a man as helpless and as indolent as a baby.
