 | CHAPTER XLI. The new purchase, or, Seven and a half years in the far West |  |
41. CHAPTER XLI.
“This man's brow, like to a title leaf,
Foretells the nature of a tragic volume.”
Not long after Mr. Seymour's return to Glenville, the
patriarchal cabin with its acres of clearings, deadenings and
girdlings, and with all its untouched and unfenced woods,
was sold to a stranger; and then our friends all removed to
Bishop Hilsbury's late residence, near the tannery. The
name, indeed, was retained, but the glory of Glenville Settlement
although we of Woodville received more than we paid;
and my emotions became most delightful, whenever returning
on Saturday evenings from a short squirrel hunt, I discerned
at a distance Uncle John's horse tied to our rack. Often,
too, would some of us, the day he was expected, sit the
last hour at an upper window, and watch the leafy barrier,
where our dear friend was expected momentarily to break
through into the mellow light of the departing sun—ay!
that dear old man was so loved, we felt like hugging and
kissing the very horse that brought him!
Christmas was now approaching; and all Glenville that remained
was expected to spend the holiday at Woodville.
For this visit, our whole house had been prepared—bed-rooms
were arranged to render sleeping warm and refreshing—fat
poultry was killed—mince-pies concocted, cider
bought; in short, all the goodies, vegetable, animal, and
saccharine, usually congregated at this joyous season, were
stored and ready. In the parlour, a compound of sitting-room,
dining room, and bed-chamber, a magnificent fire of
clean white sugar-tree with a green beech back-log was
warming and enlivening; while the lid of the piano was
raised, with copies of favourite pieces ready, and an
eight-keyed flute, and a four-stringed violin on its top—all
ready for a grand burst of innocent fun and frolic at the
coming of the loved ones! Oh! we should be so happy!
Night at length drew near; and so after an entire afternoon
passed in expectation and affirmations, thus—“Well,
they will be here in a few minutes, now!”—and after repeated
visits to our observatory in the attic, we had concluded
that, beyond all doubt, within a half-hour the cavalcade
would arrive. But, that half-hour elapsed, and no
friends came! and then another! and still another! and
even then no friends! It was then so very much later than
our old folks had been wont to come, that we all sat now
and with forebodings of evil—when the clatter of a horse
moving rapidly over the frozen earth called us in haste to
the door; upon opening which, John Glenville was seen
dismounting, who immediately entered and with a countenance
of deep distress—
“Why, dear John! what is the matter?”
“Melancholy enough! poor Uncle has fallen and broken
his thigh! I've come over for Sylvan, and must go back
with him instantly. I left word for him to be ready in
fifteen minutes.”
Ah! dear reader! if one's happiness is wholly from the
earth, what shall we do when that happiness is so marred?
Our joy became instant mourning—our pleasant apartment,
cheerless—our dainty food, tasteless—our music, the voice
of lamentation!
Dear old kind-hearted man! after all the sore disappointments
of a long life, is this sad affliction added to your sorrows,
and pains, and many bodily injuries! Again, in old
age, must you lie in that dark forest in the anguish of broken
limbs!—again separated from many that so love you!
What a Christmas eve for you! how different from those
passed in our days of prosperity!
For myself, when recalling the incidents of our late
journey—our harmless pleasantries—our solemn and serious
conversations—his hoary head on the floor of the lone
woman's cabin—his patience, hilarity, and noble heart—
and thought of him refused a night's lodging, who had sheltered
and fed so many strangers, and of him turned, weary,
hungry and sick into a western wilderness at night!—and
now that grey head on a pillow of anguish! that pleasant
face changed by pain! that often broken body again
crushed and mangled—But, let us change the subject.
Our friends had purposed leaving home early on the
called away John Glenville, the expedition was postponed
a few hours. Yet when he came not at the hour, it was
then concluded that the old folks should set out by themselves,
with the belief that Mr. Glenville could easily over-take
them on the road. To prepare the horses, Mr. Seymour
descended a small hill to the stable, whilst Aunt Kitty
remained in the cabin to arrange a few small matters previous
to the starting. But as her brother was absent a full
quarter of an hour beyond what seemed necessary, she
stepped to the cabin-door, and with the slightest possible
impatience—when, to her amazement, she heard a faint
voice calling on her for help, and the groans of one as
in great bodily pain! She flew in alarm down the hill—and
at the stable-door lay Uncle John, his leg broken off at the
head of the thigh bone, himself in an agony of pain, and in
danger of perishing even from cold, without a speedy removal!
His horse had proved restive on being led from
the stable, and in a consequent struggle Mr. S. slipping on
some ice had fallen and received the hurt.
Aunt Kitty quickly decided on her plan. She brought
from the cabin the buffalo robe bestowed by the Osage warchief,
and spreading it near her wounded brother, she managed,
weak and unaided, to get him, a large and heavy
man, fairly into the middle of the robe. Staying, then, her
tears, and raising her heart to God for fortitude and strength,
she began to drag her mournful load towards the cabin.
But she soon found herself too weak for the task, and in
despair looked around—when, on her way home, and, by
an unusual path near our cabin, passed now that very woman
commemorated elsewhere in this work for a novel
appearance in cow hunting! Catching a glimpse of this
woman Aunt Kitty cried out for assistance; and the kind-hearted
neighbour was almost instantly at her side, and
adding a strength superior to that of a dozen pretty ladies,
hauled to the cabin-door. Here, with great difficulty and
labour on their part and pain on his, the sufferer was partly
lifted and partly dragged up and over the steps and sill,
and finally laid on a low bed prepared for his reception.
Mrs. Littleton now examined her brother's wound, and
with the help of her humble friend, she forced the leg into
something like a natural position, and then splintered and
bandaged it, to the best of her ability. In a few minutes
after this, John Glenville entered the cabin, who, on learning
the mournful accident, instantly remounted and hurried
to Woodville.
Dr. Sylvan was unfortunately not at home, and we obtained
only one of his students; when Glenville, having
refreshed himself a few moments with us, was, attended by
the pupil, quickly replunged into the cold and darkness of a
now tempestuous night and howling wilderness! They
reached the cabin a short time before day-break: but the
embryo surgeon, without adding or taking from, deemed it
best to let all the bandages remain as Aunt Kitty had bound
them! And so poor Uncle John, after lying on his bed for
seventy wearisome days and nights, rose again to life and
health—yet not to his former shape and activity; for the
leg had shrunk in the knitting of the bone, and his right
side was two inches shorter than before the accident.
And yet, reader, so youthful and buoyant the spirit of
this noble old gentleman, that he and I hunted often together
after his recovery—he walking with a crutch in one
hand and a heavy rifle in the other! But so gloomy had
become the cabin life to the old folks, where death might
easily occur from the absence of ordinary help, and where,
perhaps, Uncle John's deformity might have been lessened
by prompt medical aid, that our tannery was sold, and our
relatives removed to Woodville. Mr. Glenville, however,
chose a new site for a store several miles from the old settlement,
sacred spot reserved in the sale, and where rest, far from
us, scattered as we are, and ever in this life shall be, the
ashes of the mother!
Once, and but once, subsequent to this desertion, did I
pass along a new road laid through that settlement, and
between the two cabins. Around, for many acres, the
forest was no more, but corn and grain were ripening in
its place. A new brick house stood in our garden; and
the cabin was changed into a stable. And yet, while all
the changes were for the better, and a most joyous evening
was smiling on the coming harvest—I sat on my horse
and had one of my girlish fits of tears!
Yes!—I cried like Homer's heroes—and that in spite of
the critic who, running over the book to make an article,
will say, “the author, tender-hearted soul, cries again towards
the close of year the third, Chap. xli. p. 77, Vol. II.”
Yes!—I cried! And since that summer's evening, I have
never seen my first forest home; for I purposely ever after
avoided the hateful new road through it, and that too by
the Indian grave.
| CHAPTER XLI. The new purchase, or, Seven and a half years in the far West | |