Life in the Clearings Versus the Bush Page 27

  Another woman – wild, dark, and fierce-looking, with her hands in mufflers – flitted after us from room to room, her black, flashing eyes fixed intently on my daughter. “Yes, it is my own Mary! but she won’t speak to me.”

  The gentleman in attendance begged us to take no notice of this person, as she was apt to be very violent.

  Another stout, fair-haired matron, with good features and a very pleasant face, insisted on shaking hands with us all round. Judging from her round, sonsy, rosy face, you never could have imagined her to have been mad. When we spoke in admiration of the extreme neatness and cleanness of the large sleeping apartment, she said very quietly –

  “Ah, you would not wonder at that could you see all the water-witches at night cleaning it.” Then she turned to me, and whispered very confidentially in my ear, “Are you mad? You see these people; they are all mad – as mad as March hares. Don’t come here if you can help it. It’s all very well at first, and it looks very clean and comfortable; but when the doors are once shut, you can’t get out – no, not if you ask it upon your knees.” She then retreated, nodding significantly.

  Leaving this ward, we visited the one which contained the male lunatics. They appeared far more gloomy and reserved than the women we had left. One young man, who used to travel the country with jewellery, and who had often been at our house, recognised us in a moment; but he did not come forward like Mrs.— to greet us, but ran into a corner, and, turning to the wall, covered his face with his hands until we had passed on. Here was at least a consciousness of his unfortunate situation, that was very painful to witness. A gentlemanly man in the prime of life, who had once practised the law in Toronto, and was a person of some consequence, still retained the dress and manners belonging to his class. He had gone to the same school with my son-in-law, and he greeted him in the most hearty and affectionate manner, throwing his arm about his shoulder, and talking of his affairs in the most confidential manner. His mental aberration was only displayed in a few harmless remarks, such as telling us that this large house was his, that it had been built with his money, and that it was very hard he was kept a prisoner in his own dwelling; that he was worth millions, and that people were trying to cheat him of all his money, but that if once he could get out, he would punish them all. He then directed my son-in-law to bring up some law books that he named, on the morrow, and he would give him a dozen suits against the parties from whom he had received so many injuries.

  In the balcony, at the far end of the gallery, we found a group of men walking to and fro for the sake of air, or lounging listlessly on benches, gazing, with vacant eyes, upon the fine prospect of wood and water dressed in the gorgeous hues of an autumnal sunset. One very intelligent-looking man, with a magnificent head, was busy writing upon a dirty piece of paper with a pencil, his table furnished by his knee, and his desk the cover of his closed but well worn Bible. He rose as we drew near him, and bowing politely, gave us a couple of poems which he drew from his waistcoat pocket.

  “These were written some time ago,” he said; “One of them is much better than the other. There are some fine lines in that ode to Niagara – I composed them on the spot.”

  On my observing the signature of Delta affixed to these productions, he smiled, and said, with much complacency, “My name is David Moir.” This, upon inquiry, we found was really the case, and the mad poet considered that the coincidence gave him a right to enjoy the world-wide fame of his celebrated namesake. The poems which he gave us, and which are still in my possession, contain some lines of great merit; but they are strangely unconnected, and very defective in rhyme and keeping. He watched our countenances intently while reading them, continually stepping in, and pointing out to us his favourite passages. We were going to return them, but he bade us keep them. “He had hundreds of copies of them,” he said, “in his head.” He then took us on one side, and intreated us in the most pathetic manner to use our influence to get him out of that place. “He was,” he said, “a good classic scholar, and had been private tutor in several families of high respectability, and he could shew us testimonials as to character and ability. It is hard to keep me here idling,” he continued, “when my poor little boys want me so badly at home; poor fellows! and they have no mother to supply my place.” He sighed heavily, and drew his hand across his brow, and looked sadly and dreamily into the blue distance of Ontario. The madman’s thoughts were far away with his young sons, or, perhaps, had ranged back to the rugged heathery hills of his own glorious mountain land!

  There were two boys among these men who, in spite of their lunacy, had an eye to business, and begged pathetically for coppers, though of what use they could be to them in that place I cannot imagine. I saw no girls under twelve years of age. There were several boys who appeared scarcely in their teens.

  Mounting another flight of snowy stairs, we came to the wards above those we had just inspected. These were occupied by patients that were not in a state to allow visitors a nearer inspection than observing them through the glass doors. By standing upon a short flight of broad steps that led down to their ward, we were able to do this with perfect security. The hands of all these women were secured in mufflers; some were dancing, others running to and fro at full speed, clapping their hands, and laughing and shouting with the most boisterous merriment. How dreadful is the laugh of madness! how sorrowful the expressions of their diabolical mirth! tears and lamentations would have been less shocking, for it would have seemed more natural.

  Among these raving maniacs I recognised the singular face of Grace Marks – no longer sad and despairing, but lighted up with the fire of insanity, and glowing with a hideous and fiend-like merriment. On perceiving that strangers were observing her, she fled shrieking away like a phantom into one of the side rooms. It appears that even in the wildest bursts of her terrible malady, she is continually haunted by a memory of the past. Unhappy girl! when will the long horror of her punishment and remorse be over? When will she sit at the feet of Jesus, clothed with the unsullied garments of his righteousness, the stain of blood washed from her hand, and her soul redeemed, and pardoned, and in her right mind? It is fearful to look at her, and contemplate her fate in connexion with her crime. What a striking illustration does it afford of that awful text, “Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord!”

  There was one woman in this ward, with raven hair and eyes, and a sallow, unhealthy complexion, whom the sight of us transported into a paroxysm of ungovernable rage. She rushed to the door, and doubled her fists at us, and began cursing and swearing at a furious rate, and then she laughed – such a laugh as one might fancy Satan uttered when he recounted, in full conclave, his triumph over the credulity of our first mother. Presently she grew outrageous, and had to be thrown to the ground, and secured by two keepers; but to silence her was beyond their art. She lay kicking and foaming, and uttering words too dreadful for human ears to listen to; and Grace Marks came out from her hiding-place, and performed a thousand mad gambols round her: and we turned from the piteous scene, – and I, for one, fervently thanked God for my sanity, and inwardly repeated those exquisite lines of the peasant bard of my native county: –

  “Oh, Thou, who bidd’st the vernal juices rise,

  Thou on whose blast autumnal foliage flies;

  Let peace ne’er leave me, nor my heart grow cold,

  Whilst life and sanity are mine to hold.”

  We cast but a cursory glance on the men who occupied the opposite ward. We had seen enough of madness, and the shrieks from the outrageous patients above, whom strangers have seldom nerve enough to visit, quickened our steps as we hurried from the place.

  We looked into the large ball-room before we descended the stairs, where these poor creatures are allowed at stated times to meet for pleasure and amusement. But such a spectacle would be to me more revolting than the scene I had just witnessed; the delirium of their frightful disease would be less shocking in my eyes than the madness of their mirth. The struggling gleam
s of sense and memory in these unhappy people reminded me a beautiful passage in “Tupper’s Proverbial Philosophy”:

  “On all things created remaineth the half-effaced signature of God;

  Somewhat of fair and good, though blotted by the finger of corruption.”

  What a sublime truth! How beautifully and forcibly expressed! With what a mournful dignity it invests our fallen nature! Sin has marred the Divine image in which we were made, but the soul in its intense longing after God and good bears, in its sorrowful servitude to evil, the impress of the hand that formed it happy and free. Yes, even in the most abject and fallen, some slight trace of good remains – some spark of the Divine essence that still lingers amid the darkness and corruption of guilt, to rekindle the dying embers, and restore them once more to life and liberty. The madman raving in his chains still remembers his God, to bless or blaspheme his name. We are astonished at his ecstatic dream of happiness, or shocked beyond measure at the blackness of his despair. His superhuman strength fills us with wonder; and, even in the extinction of reason, we acknowledge the eternal presence of God, and perceive flashes of his Spirit breaking through the dark material cloud that shades, but cannot wholly annihilate the light of the soul, the immortality within.

  The poor, senseless idiot, who appears to mortal eyes a mere living machine, a body without a soul, sitting among the grass, and playing with the flowers and pebbles in the vacancy of his mind, is still a wonderful illustration of the wisdom and power of God. We behold a human being inferior in instinct and intelligence of the meanest orders of animal life, dependent upon the common charities of his kind for subsistence, yet conscious of the friend who pities his helplessness, and of the hand that administers to his wants. The Spirit of his Maker shall yet breathe upon the dull chaos of his stagnant brain, and open the eyes of this blind of soul into the light of his own eternal day! What a lesson to the pride of man – to the vain dwellers in houses of clay!

  Returning from the asylum, we stopped to examine Trinity College, which is on the opposite side of the road. The architect, K. Tully, Esq. has shown considerable taste and genius in the design of this edifice, which, like the asylum, is built of white brick, the corners, doors, and windows faced with cut stone. It stands back from the road in a fine park-like lawn, surrounded by stately trees of nature’s own planting. When the college is completed, it will be one of the finest public buildings in the province, and form one of the noblest ornaments to this part of the city.

  THE MANIAC.

  “The wind at my casement scream’d shrilly and loud,

  And the pale moon look’d in from her mantle of cloud;

  Old ocean was tossing in terrible might,

  And the black rolling billows were crested with light.

  Like a shadowy dream on my senses that hour

  Stole the beautiful vision of grandeur and power;

  And the sorrows of life that brought tears to mine eye,

  Were forgot in the glories of ocean and sky.

  “‘Oh nature!’ I cried, ‘in thy beautiful face

  All the wisdom and love of thy Maker I trace;

  Thy aspect divine checks my tears as they start,

  And fond hopes long banish’d flow back to my heart!’

  Thus musing, I wander’d alone to the shore,

  To gaze on the waters, and list to their roar,

  When I saw a poor lost one bend over the steep

  Of the tall beetling cliff that juts out o’er the deep.

  “The wind wav’d her garments, and April’s rash showers

  Hung like gems in her dark locks, enwreath’d with wild flowers;

  Her bosom was bared to the cold midnight storm,

  That unsparingly beat on her thin fragile form;

  Her black eyes flash’d sternly whence reason had fled,

  And she glanc’d on my sight like some ghost of the dead,

  As she sang a loud strain to the hoarse dashing surge,

  That rang on my ears like the plaint of a dirge.

  “And he who had left her to madness and shame,

  Who had robb’d her of honour, and blasted her fame –

  Did he think in that hour of the heart he had riven,

  The vows he had broken, the anguish he’d given? –

  And where was the infant whose birth gave the blow

  To the peace of his mother, and madden’d her woe?

  A thought rush’d across me – I ask’d for her child, –

  With a wild laugh of triumph the maniac replied –

  “‘Where the dark tide runs strongest, the cliff rises steep,

  Where the wild waters eddy, I’ve rock’d him to sleep:

  His sleep is so sound that the rush of the stream,

  When the winds are abroad, cannot Waken his dream.

  And see you that rock, with its surf-beaten side,

  There the blood of my false love runs red with the tide;

  The sea-mew screams shrilly, the white breakers rave –

  In the foam of the billow I’ll dance o’er his grave!’

  “‘Mid the roar of the tempest, the wind’s hollow moan,

  There rose on my chill’d ear a faint dying groan;

  The billows raged on, the moon smiled on the flood,

  But vacant the spot where the maniac had stood.

  I turn’d from the scene – on my spirit there fell

  A question that sadden’d my heart like a knell;

  I look’d up to heav’n, but I breath’d not a word,

  For the answer was given –’Trust thou in the Lord!’”

  PROVINCIAL AGRICULTURAL SHOW

  “A happy scene of rural mirth,

  Drawn from the teeming lap of earth,

  In which a nation’s promise lies.

  Honour to him who wins a prize! –

  A trophy won by honest toil,

  Far nobler than the victor’s spoil.”

  S.M.

  Toronto was all bustle and excitement, preparing for the Provincial Agricultural Show; no other subject was thought of or talked about. The ladies, too, taking advantage of the great influx of strangers to the city, were to hold a bazaar for the benefit of St. George’s Church; the sum which they hoped to realise by the sale of their fancy wares to be appropriated to paying off the remaining debt contracted for the said saint, in erecting this handsome edifice dedicated to his name – let us hope not to his service. Yet the idea of erecting a temple for the worship of God, and calling it the church of a saint of very doubtful sanctity, is one of those laughable absurdities that we would gladly see banished in this enlightened age. Truly, there are many things in which our wisdom does not exceed the wisdom of our forefathers. The weather during the two first days of the exhibition was very unpropitious; a succession of drenching thunder showers, succeeded by warm bursts of sunshine, promising better things, and giving rise to hopes in the expectant visitants to the show, which were as often doomed to be disappointed by returns of blackness, storm, and pouring rain.

  I was very anxious to hear the opening address, and I must confess that I was among those who felt this annihilation of hope very severely; and, being an invalid, I dared not venture upon the grounds before Wednesday morning, when this most interesting part of the performance was over. Wednesday, however, was as beautiful a September day as the most sanguine of the agricultural exhibitors could desire, and the fine space allotted for the display of the various objects of industry was crowded to overflowing.

  It was a glorious scene for those who had the interest of the colony at heart. Every district of the Upper Province had contributed its portion of labour, talent, and ingenuity, to furnish forth the show. The products of the soil, the anvil, and the loom, met the eye at every turn. The genius of the mechanic was displayed in the effective articles of machinery, invented to assist the toils and shorten the labour of human hands, and were many and excellent in their kind. Improvements in old implements, and others entirely new, were shown or put i
nto active operation by the inventors, – those real benefactors to the human race, to whom the exploits of conquerors, however startling and brilliant, are very inferior in every sense.

  Mechanical genius, which ought to be regarded as the first and greatest effort of human intellect, is only now beginning to be recognised as such. The statesman, warrior, poet, painter, orator, and man of letters, all have their niche in the temple of fame all have had their worshippers and admirers; but who among them has celebrated in song and tale the grand creative power which can make inanimate metals move, and act, and almost live, in the wondrous machinery of the present day! It is the mind that conceived, the hand that reduced to practical usefulness these miraculous instruments, with all their complicated works moving in harmony, and performing their appointed office, that comes nearest to the sublime Intelligence that framed the universe, and gave life and motion to that astonishing piece of mechanism, the human form.

  In watching the movements of the steam-engine, one can hardly divest one’s self of the idea that it possesses life and consciousness. True, the metal is but a dead agent, but the spirit of the originator still lives in it, and sways it to the gigantic will that first gave it motion and power. And, oh, what wonders has it not achieved! what obstacles has it not overcome! how has it brought near things that were far off, and crumbled into dust difficulties which, at first sight, appeared insurmountable. Honour to the clear-sighted, deep-thinking child of springs and wheels, at whose head stands the great Founder of the world, the grandest humanity that ever trode the earth! Rejoice, and shout for joy, ye sons of the rule and line! for was he not one of you? Did he not condescend to bow that God-like form over the carpenter’s bench, and handle the plane and saw? Yours should be termed the Divine craft, and those who follow it truly noble. Your great Master was above the little things of earth; he knew the true dignity of man – that virtue conferred the same majesty upon its possessor in the workshop or the palace – that the soul’s title to rank as a son of God required neither high birth, nor the adventitious claims of wealth – that the simple name of a good man was a more abiding honour, even in this world, than that of kings or emperors.