A REMEMBRANCE OF HAPPY DAYS.
It was a winter evening,
The moon was shining bright,
When from a lady's parlor
Came sounds of laughter light.
But, suddenly, the scene is changed,
There's heard a warning shriek,
And borne upon the air the words,
"Oh! dear, will no one speak?"
Unheeding trap, just at her feet,
Comes with majestic mien
A damsel of sweet presence,
And smiling all serene.
Her eyes are like the glowworm,
Her cheeks like damask rose,
She holds her head so loftily,
She looks not at her toes;
When, roused from contemplation sweet
Of bottles ale and stout,
A head above the trap appears—
"What's all this row about?
I see, I see, Miss Flora, dear,
You'd all but tumbled down;
One further step, and you'd have fall'n
On my unlucky crown.
Oh! had you tumbled on my head
In yonder cellar well,
We now, alas, been both quite dead"—
A sad old tale to tell.
How youth and beauty often fall
Into some snare unseen,
As so hath chanced in many a day
And yet full oft I ween,
While thoughtless youth with eager step
Pursues its heedless way.
MORAL.
Then damsels all who hear my tale
Hold not your heads so high,
A downward glance give now and then,
Hid dangers to descry.
We arrive at St. Thomas after a forty miles drive, and stay over, if the tide does not serve for coming, at Madame F.'s well-known hotel—not far from which is the residences of the late Sir Etienne Taché and Mr. Bender, father of the present well-known Boston physician, Dr. Bender.
A short distance from here is the house now occupied by E. P. Bender, formerly owned by Mr. William Patton, a splendid specimen of an English gentleman. A lumber merchant, doing a large business with ample means, his house was the home of generous hospitality. It is thirty years since I visited it or more—it then gave you an idea of one of England's far-famed country homes; Everything handsome, well ordered grounds, its steel grates (then a novelty), and handsome paperings, a host so courteous, his wife a refined lady of the old school—all appeared to promise long years of happiness to its inmates, when in a day, alas! all was changed. Mr. Patton was most energetic in his efforts to hasten the building of the railroad from Quebec to St. Thomas, and went into town to see Messrs. Morton, Peto & Brassey, when he met his fate. Overheated by his exertions, he lay down to rest opposite an open window facing the St. Lawrence, a gale sprung up, he got a chill, and in twenty-four hours he was dead, of inflammation, before his wife could reach him, and yet she arrived almost in time, due to a mysterious warning of some kind, I forget what it was—she told me of it herself.
Sitting quietly in her room she heard or saw something, and, convinced that her husband needed her, she ordered a carriage, and, despite all remonstrance, drove all night, and passed in the darkness the carriage sent for her, and arrived in the grey dawn of morning to find her husband just dead.
How many such unaccountable occurrences happen. I could tell of at least six such experiences in my own history. My theory is this, that under certain conditions thought meets thought, and so mesmerically impresses on the loved one its own yearnings and wishes.
Previous to Mr. Patton's purchasing it, this house had been occupied by several families of note, the De Beaujeus, Olivas, etc. It was purchased a few years since by E. P. Bender, Esq., who now occupies it with his family.
SECOND VISIT TO ROBERVAL,
LAKE ST. JOHN.
I was unfortunately prevented from visiting Roberval until late in the season—in fact, only a few weeks before the hotel closed—but I saw enough to confirm my first impressions as to its desirability as a summer resort for people who really need to recuperate after the wear and tear of town life. It was late in August, a cold spell was on; we arrived per railroad on Pullman car, which brings you to the very gate of the hotel premises. A dull heavy rain came down as we got off the cars, but what of that? you are ushered into a hallway where burns a generous grate fire. Courteous officials greet you and inquire your wants. Shown to a comfortable bedroom, and then to a supper as good in quality as meals served in most town hotels, with excellent attendance, you fancy you are in fairy land, as, gazing on the wild country around, you remember that this locality a few years ago was not even inhabited by farmers, but all was bush. Ushered into the ladies' parlor you are greeted by a most winning hostess, Mrs. Scott, daughter of the Honorable Mr. Shehyn, who, residing here at present with her children, does the honors, and welcomes you as if to her own private parlor. The season was so nearly over there were comparatively few guests, but those of the most pleasant—Dr. and Mrs. Lovely, Rev. Mr. —— and his wife, and several members of the Beemer family, who by their musical talents contributed largely to our enjoyment. Roberval I am sure has a grand future before it. Dr. Lovely, one of the most eminent physicians of the United States, assured me that he had discovered coal-oil there, not five miles from the hotel, and also some stone (I forget what) of which he was taking specimens away with him. He said if it was what he thought, it would indeed be a bonanza.
It appears to me that Roberval would be especially beneficial for those suffering from nervous exhaustion or debility, or tendency to consumption. The pure mountain air, the quiet, the absence of rush and excitement, must surely be most grateful to such parties, while for those who want a livelier existence, the trips in excursion steam-boats, the visits to various other fishing grounds, the power of jumping on the railroad that comes to your door and whirls you off for a few hours to other lakes, is a matter not to be lost sight of. Added to the perfect inside comfort of this hotel—baths on your bedroom flat—the immense piazza runs the full length of the building, affording in wet weather an excellent promenade, with a view of the lovely lake, and what I much appreciated was the absence of the horrid gong calling you to meals. Here you are told the time for meals, and if you so desire a civil waiter calls you at the hour you name, but the fearful din that elsewhere rouses you from your pet morning sleep is absent.