As I stood on the high platform that had been erected in front of the house that the governor might more conveniently address the great throng, and looked out upon it all, my heart swelled with feelings of pride and satisfaction. Far above and below me, slipping between the rich meadows, I could follow the winding, glittering line of the river. The hills, rising belt on belt beyond, were throbbing with the warmth and life of the magnificent mid-summer day. The air was warm and sweet with clover bloom. The sun shone brilliantly and yet not oppressively. The fields of grain, just beginning to show full green heads; the wild gaiety of the flower-decked pastures and gardens; the neat, white homes; the slow moving flocks and herds on the hillsides near and far; the black mass of people in front; the hundreds of schooners and thousands of canoes on the river, winding and passing, bowing and saluting like figures in a dance, all gaily and variously decorated, made up a picture that would be difficult to surpass.
The forenoon of the day was spent in sports—in rowing, running, wrestling, shooting, and jumping—in all of which the Indians took prominent part. During all this part of the celebration, the governor moved among the people as an ordinary citizen. Dressed as an English gentleman, he moved easily and happily among the people. Now it was the French with whom he talked, now the farmer Loyalists; now he congratulated warmly a crew of Indians as they stepped from the winning canoe in the race; now he was relating part of his strange adventure in the woods to a group of interested and courtly ladies in the garden. Everywhere, in everything, he was the fine gentleman, the master of the art of manners, the representative of the finest traditions in both colony and kingdom; and it was not to be wondered at that the hearts of many Loyalists swelled larger that day, as they thought of the transplanting to the St. John, of a finer culture, directly from the homeland.
But the proceedings of the morning were to be quite overshadowed by the events of the afternoon. A vessel from St. John had brought up the governor's magnificent uniform. He was arrayed in this—no longer the citizen, but now the representative of the King—when in the afternoon, surrounded by his entire council and many distinguished Loyalists, he appeared upon the raised platform from which he was to speak. By the governor's special request, my mother and sisters, Father Bourg, Pierre Tomah (the Indian chief), I and the two Indians who had accompanied me at the fortunate ending of our great search in the forest, were taken to the platform. Then when the mighty cheer with which he was received had died in the throats of the mass of people that filled the field from the house to the river, the governor spoke.
'Subjects of the King,' he began, 'my friends and fellow-citizens, it is with feelings of just pride and thankfulness that I stand before you to-day. In the name of your King, whose representative I am, I bring you greeting.' A wave of applause swept the crowd. The people pressed closer; canoes on the river hurried shoreward.
The speaker went on—
'For many of you, around the name of King, there cluster, I am sure, associations that cannot but bring memories of your past—a past as noble as it is unparalleled in the history of the world.
'My friends and fellow-citizens, I am not unacquainted with what you have done and suffered; of your zeal and unflinching courage, of your devotion to your flag, your country, and your King; of your loyalty and sacrifices; of your honour and perseverance; of what you have done south of the line, nay, of what you have done here;—of these things I might say much, but I feel it is quite unnecessary that I should speak of them. Further, it is a task to which I am unequal. Again, your deeds are their own vindication; your acts are their own eulogy. You left a country rich and beautiful for one that seemed poor and forbidding. No sword was lifted up to drive you hence; driven only by the fire of your loyalty you came; this is your defence. What more is necessary?'
Passing then from the Loyalists, he commended the French for their refusal to assist the rebels; thanked the Indians for the fulfilment of all their treaty obligations; and declared forgiveness to all who, on the river, had been misguided into rebellion. Then, in a few words, he closed.
'And now, my friends and fellow-citizens, as I look abroad upon this magnificent river before me; as I behold these fields and flocks; as I look into your faces and read there your past, I read a future also. You are happy now; it is the King's good pleasure that you shall be happier still. In that distressed land to the south of us, though cannon no longer boom, and though the sword is sheathed, a great war still wages—the war of faction and political turmoil that must always exist where men are unscrupulous and where measures are unjust. Here peace shall flourish. If you will permit me a glimpse into the future years, I see rising a nation, new, pure-blooded, loyal, strong, the happiest land on earth.'
A wave of applause surged over the crowd and swept off to the canoes on the river.