Neville Trueman the Pioneer Preacher | Page 3

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 passed 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 shore, 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 noble 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 passed 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 clustering 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 document 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, blushing 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 principal 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.
"Hello! 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