CHAPTER I.

OLD GOVERNMENT HOUSE.

Breathes there a man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!--_Scott._


A September sunset in Fredericton, A. D. 1824. Much has been said and
sung about the beauteous scenes of nature in every clime. Scott has
lovingly depicted his native heaths, mountains, lochs and glens. Moore
draws deep inspiration amid scenes of the Emerald Isle, and strikes his
lyre to chords of awakening love, light and song. Cowper, Southey and
Wordsworth raised their voices in tuneful and harmonious lays, echoing
love of native home. Our beloved American poet has wreathed in song the
love of nature's wooing in his immortal Hiawatha. Forests in their
primeval grandeur, lovely landscapes, sunrise, noonday and sunset--each
has attracted the keen poetic gaze. Though not the theme of poet or
pen--who that looks upon our autumn sunset can deny its charms? The
western horizon, a mass of living gold, flitting in incessant array and
mingling with the different layers of purple, violet, pink, crimson, and
tempting hues of indescribable beauty; at intervals forming regular and
successive strata of deep blue and red, deepening into bright red.
Suddenly as with magic wand a golden cloud shoots through and transforms
the whole with dazzling splendour. The bewildering reflection upon the
trees as they raise their heads in lofty appreciation, forms a pleasing