University of Virginia Library

37. CHAPTER XXXVII.

A bridle-path through the deep woods which lie
south-west of our village, had long been a favourite
walk on those few days of our Boreal summer, when
shade had seemed an essential element of comfort.
The forest itself is so entirely cumbered with shrubs
and tangled vines, that to effect even a narrow path
through it, had been a work of no little time and
labour; and as no money was likely to flow in upon
us from that direction, I had no fears of a road, but
considered the whole as a magnificent pleasaunce for
the special delight of those who can discern glory and
splendour in grass and wild-flowers.

We lacked not carpets, for there was the velvet
sward, embroidered with blossoms, whose gemmy tints
can never be equalled in Brussels or in Persia; nor
canopy, for an emerald dome was over us, full of
trembling light, and festooned and tasselled with the
starry eglantine, the pride of our Western woods; nor

pillars, nor arches; for, oh! beloved forests of my
country, where can your far-sounding aisles be matched
for grandeur, your “alleys green” for beauty? We
had music too, fairy music, “gushes of wild song,”
soft, sighing murmurs, such as flow from
And recalling, like those other murmurs, the summer
swell of the distant ocean; and withal, the sound of a
bubbling stream, which was ever and anon sweetly
distinct amid the delicate harmony.

Many a dreamy hour have I wandered in this delicious
solitude, not “book-bosomed;” for, at such times,
my rule is peu lire, penser beaucoup; nor yet moralizing,
like the melancholy Jaques, on the folly and inconstancy
of the world; but just “daundering,” to
borrow an expression from Mr. Galt; perhaps Fanny
Kemble would have said “dawdling;” so I leave the
choice with my reader, and make an effort to get on
with my story, which seems as much inclined to loiter
in my favourite wood as I am myself.

I had never ventured far from Montacute in my
strolls with the children, or with my female friends.
To say nothing of my sad pausse, I hate it in English;
but “'tis not half so shocking in French:” not to
mention that at all, there are other “lions in the way;”
Massasaugas for instance, and Indians, and blue racers,
six or eight feet long, and as thick as a man's arm;
“harmless,” say the initiated, but j' en doute, and my
prime and practical favourite among mottoes and
maxims, is “'ware snakes!” Then toads; but if I

once mount a toad, I shall not get back this great
while.

It so happened that one morning when the atmosphere
was particularly transparent, and the shower-laid
earth in delicious order for a ride, I had an invitation
from my husband for a stroll—a “splorification”
on horseback; and right joyously did I endue myself
with the gear proper to such wood-craft, losing not a
moment, for once, that I might be ready for my “beautiful
Orelio,” old Jupiter, when he should come round.
We mounted, and sought at once the dim wood of
which I have been speaking.

We followed the bridle-path for miles, finding
scarcely a trace of human life. We scared many a
grey rabbit, and many a bevy of quails, and started at
least one noble buck; I said two, but may be the same
one was all around us, for so it seemed. I took the
opportunity of trying old Jupiter's nerves and the
woodland echoes, by practising poor Malibran's “Tourment
d'Amour,” at the expense of the deepest recess
of my lungs, while my companion pretended to be
afraid he could not manage Prince, and finally let him
go off at half speed. Old Jupiter, he is deaf, I believe,
jogged on as before, and I still amused myself by arousing
the Dryads, and wondering whether they ever
heard a Swiss refrain before, when I encountered a
sportsman, belted, pouched, gunned, and dogged, quite
comme il faut, and withal, wearing very much such a
face as Adonis must have looked at when he arrayed
himself at the fountain.

What an adventure for a sober village matron! I
almost think I must have blushed. At least I am sure

I must have done so had the affair happened only ten
years earlier.

I thought seriously of apologizing to the stranger
for singing in the woods, of which he seemed like
the tutelar deity; but fortunately Mr. Clavers at this
moment returned, and soon engaged him in conversation;
and it was not long before he offered to show us
a charming variety in the landscape, if we would ride
on for a quarter of a mile.

We had been traversing a level tract, which we had
supposed lay rather low than high. In a few minutes,
we found ourselves on the very verge of a miniature
precipice; a bluff which overhung what must certainly
have been originally a lake, though it is now a
long oval-shaped valley of several miles in extent, beautifully
diversified with wood and prairie, and having a
lazy, quiet stream winding through it, like—like—
“like a snake in a bottle of spirits;” or like a long
strip of apple-paring, when you have thrown it over
your head to try what letter it will make on the carpet;
or like the course of a certain great politician
whom we all know. My third attempt hits it exactly,
neither of the others was crooked enough.

The path turned short to the right, and began, not far
from where we stood, to descend, as if to reach at some
distance, and by a wide sweep, the green plain below
us. This path looked quite rocky and broken, so much
so, that I longed to try it, but my companion thought
it time to return home.

“Let me first have the pleasure of shewing you my
cottage,” said our handsome guide, whose air had a
curious mixture of good-breeding with that sort of rustic

freedom and abruptness, which is the natural growth
of the wilderness. As he spoke he pointed out a path
in the wood, which we could not help following, and
which brought us in a few minutes to a beautiful opening,
looking on the basin below the bluff on one side,
and on the deep woods on the other. And there was
a long, low, irregularly-shaped house, built of rich
brown tamarack logs, nearly new, and looking so rural
and lovely that I longed to alight. Every thing about
the house was just as handsome and picturesque-looking,
as the owner; and still more attractive was the
fair creature who was playing with a little girl under
the tall oaks near the cottage. She came forward to
welcome us with a grace which was evidently imported
from some civilized region; and as she drew near, I
recognized at once an old school-friend; the very Cora
Mansfield who used to be my daughter at Mrs.—'s;
at least the dozenth old acquaintance I have met accidentally
since we came to the new world.

Mutual introductions of our honoured spouses were
now duly performed, and we of Montacute did not refuse
to alight and make such short tarry with our ten-mile
neighbours, as the lateness of the hour permitted.
We found the house quite capacious and well-divided,
and furnished as neatly though far less ostentatiously
than a cottage ornée in the vicinity of some great metropolis.
There was a great chintz-covered sofa—a
very jewel for your siesta—and some well-placed
lounges; and in an embayed window draperied with
wild vines, a reading-chair of the most luxurious proportions,
with its foot-cushion and its prolonged
rockers. Neat, compact presses, filled with books, new

as well as old, and a cabinet piano-forte, made up nearly
all the plenishin', but there was enough. The whole
was just like a young lady's dream, and Cora and her
Thalaba of a husband looked just fit to enjoy it.

The contrast was amusing enough when I recalled
where I had last seen Cora. It was at a fancy ball at
Mrs. L—'s, when she was a little, dimpled, pink-and-silver
maid of honour to Mary of Scots, or some
such great personage, flitting about like a humming-bird
over a honey-suckle, and flirting most atrociously
with the half-fledged little beaux who hung on her
footsteps. She looked far lovelier in her woodland
simplicity, to my simplified eyes at least. She had not,
to be sure, a “sweet white dress,” with straw-coloured
kid-gloves, and a dog tied to a pink ribbon, like “the
fair Curranjel,” but she wore a rational, home-like,
calico—“horrors!” I hear my lady readers exclaim—
aye, a calico, neatly fitted to her beautiful figure; and
her darkly-bright eyes beamed not less archly beneath
her waving locks than they had done—years
before. You did not think I was going to tell, did
you?

Two hundred and forty questions, at a moderate
guess, and about half as many answers, passed between
us, while Mr. Hastings—did n't I say his name was
Hastings?—was shewing Mr. Clavers his place. Cora
and I had no leisure for statistics or economics on this
our first rencontre. She rocked the basket cradle
with her foot, and told me all about her two little
daughters; and I had a good deal to say of the same
sort; and at length, when superior authority said we
could not stay one moment longer, we cantered off,

with promises of reunion, which have since been amply
redeemed on both sides. And now shall I tell, all in
due form, what I have gathered from Cora's many talks,
touching a wild prank of hers? She said I might, and
I will, with the reader's good leave.