Our friends, wrapped in their cloaks and shawls to defend them from the chill night air, clustered around Jemmy Chapman, who stood at the helm guiding the boat through the difficult and shifting channels, amid the ‘thousand isles’—now in silence gazing on them, as they were lit up with the rosy hues of twilight, and then with the mild but insufficient lustre of the half orbed moon. These verdant islands are of every size and form. Some lying in clusters like the ‘solitary set in families:’ and some like beautiful vestals in single loveliness. Some stretching for miles in length, and some so small, and without a tree or shrub, that they look like lawns destined for fairy sporting grounds; while others are encircled by such an impenetrable growth of trees, that one might fancy that within this sylvan barrier wood-nymphs held their courts and revels; in short, might fancy any thing; for there are no traces of human footsteps to break the spell of imagination, save where the fisherman's hut, placed on the brink of the element by which he lives, is disclosed with its dark relief of unbroken woods by the bright glare of the pine torch, which is his beacon light, and which serves to show the gleaming path-way of his little canoe. Jemmy recounted to the children the sad mishaps and disastrous chances that had befallen unskilful or unfortunate navigators in these dangerous passes, and the kind captain repeatedly fired his signal gun, which seemed to wake the spirits of these deep solitudes, to send back the greeting in echo and re-echo, till their voices died away on the most distant shores.
“Don't they hollow well?” said Jemmy, after the last report, turning briskly around to dame Barton who sat near him.
“Well, I did not hear them,” said she, mournfully.
“Not hear them—why, they spoke as plain as preaching—are you deaf, good woman?”
“Deaf! oh, no—but my thoughts were far from here.”
Mrs. Sackville thought there was something in Mrs. Barton's devotedness to her husband, not common in her class of life. She had been deterred from putting any questions to her, by the habitual silence and diffidence of the poor woman. But now they had become so much more acquainted, that she ventured to say to her, “Come, Mrs. Barton, suppose you favor us while we sit here, with a little history of your life. My children are so much interested in you, that they want to know all they can about you.”
“Oh, you are very good ma'am to say so; but what is there in the history of the like of me to tell? not that I have any objection to make known my story—thank God, that's kept me in his fear—but then what happens to poor plain bodies like me, is not made much count of in the world.”
“But, remember, my good friend,” said Mrs. Sackville, “the happiness of all his creatures, rich and poor, is of equal account in the sight of our heavenly Father, and as I wish my children continually to bear in mind that it is this great Being, whom they are commanded by their Saviour to imitate, I trust that the happiness of their fellow-beings, whether high or low, will be of equal importance in their view.”
Thus encouraged by the kindness of the mother, and the eager looks of the children, who stationed themselves close to her, Mrs. Barton began her simple and brief story.
“I never knew my parents,” she said. “I was, as I have been told, given by a gipsey woman to a magistrate of the town of Lichfield, in England, when I was three years old. The woman was sick, and died shortly after. She declared herself ignorant of my parentage. She believed I had been stolen in London, by some of her tribe, about a year before; and said that I had been committed to her charge for some months, I had a necklace, with a gold clasp with initials, which I had been permitted to retain; and the worthy magistrate, in the hope that this might lead to a discovery, advertised me, with a description of the necklace; but no one appearing to claim me, he finally placed me in the Lichfield alms-house.