Neville Trueman the Pioneer Preacher | Page 3

ground in midwinter to plant his palisades, to the time that
the gallant Prideaux lay mangled in its trenches by the bursting of a
cohorn--on the very eve of victory. These memories have been well
expressed in graphic verse by a living Canadian poet--a denizen of the
old borough of Niagara. [Footnote: William Kirby, Esq., in
CANADIAN METHODIST MAGAZINE for May, 1878.]
Two grassy points--not promontories--front The calm blue lake--the
river flows between, Bearing in its full bosom every drop Of the wild
flood that leaped the cataract. And swept the rock-walled gorge from
end to end. 'Mid flanking eddies, ripples, and returns, It rushes past the
ancient fort that once Like islet in a lonely ocean stood, A mark for half
a 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.