The Recluse of New-Brunswick

by John Gordon Lorimer (1807–1897)

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The
RECLUSE
of
NEW-BRUNSWICK;
or,
HERMIT OF POINT LEPREAUX.

 

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A Poetic Tale.

 

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BY A NOVASCOTIAN,
in
CHARLOTTE COUNTY, NEW-BRUNSWICK.

 

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Be mine, to please my country and adorn my tale,With truth and fiction, such as truth itself would hail.The Author. 

 

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"And down his cheek the tear of pity roll’d—A tear so sweet he wish’d it not controll’d."Author of “Early Recollections.” 

 

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SAINT JOHN, N. B.
PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR.

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1842.

PREFACE.

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The Author of the following little work makes no pretensions to the attainments of the refined Poet—yet without arrogating to himself any thing of the classic minstrel’s lays, he still candidly acknowledges, that he entertains the opinion, that he is not altogether a stranger to the inspiring muse; consequently he humbly hopes that the kind reader will, after a patient perusal, feel himself justified in coinciding with him in his opinion; he also hopes that the subjects and characters introduced into the work will be found suitable for the purposes therein represented, and give the Author the merit of blending the “useful with the pleasant.”—To accomplish this desirable attainment, he draws his “bow at a venture,” humbly anticipating, that if he does not “hit the mark,” he may come so near it, that a generous-minded public will enable him to “fill his quiver with arrows,” so that he may send them winging their way with antidote for crime’s pernicious bane.

THE AUTHOR.

 

THE
RECLUSE OF NEW-BRUNSWICK,
or,
HERMIT OF POINT LEPREAUX.

 

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Dark was the night, and drear the storm that rag’d,In which the clements appear’d engagedIn unison, to fling destruction o’erThe late calm waters and the slumb’ring shore.The vivid lightning would e’en now pass by,And, passing, mock the eagle’s piercing eye!The fiery fluid from the vaulted sky,Would hers and there in quick succession fly.And now the thunder peal’d tremendously—Thunder, ’bout which so many disagree!Some say, that “’tis God’s voice in angry mood“For wickedness committed since the flood;”And others note it of “volcanic birth,‘Struggling to free itself from out the earth!”Who’s right or wrong, is all unknown to me—Suffice it, ’tis the work of Deity! And, revelation speaks it “reserv’d in store,”Annihilation's aid, when “time’s no more.”And on this night its peals did rollFrom arctic to antarctic pole!Caught in the storm—benighted, and alone—I weary walk’d, “unknowing and unknown”To all, but unto that omniscient eye,To whom’s alike, the sea, or earth, or sky.Thus went I on, ’midst the “pitiless storm,”No friend to cheer me—nor a home to warm;My trembling knees almost refus’d their weight—I felt that mine was an untimely fate.Methought a light gleamed near my closing eye—It pass’d away—I laid me down to die.The “tempest-storm” unconscious o’er me rav’d,Nor aught knew I, until, “you’re sav’d! you’re sav’d!”Resounded in mine ears, and then I feltA hand’s warm pressure from a form that kneltBeside me, while a soothing—trembling voice,Whisper’d such words as made my heart rejoice.“My friend, let nothing here afflict your breast,No howling storm will here disturb your rest—At perfect ease you here yourself may keep,A brother’s eye will watch you while you sleep.”“And where am I?” I audibly exclaimed,“And who are you? yourself a brother nam’d;Am I deluded by delusive dreams?Or, is it real, as real to me it seems?”“’Tis true—’tis real—’tis no delusive dream,All’s here indeed, as here to you does seem;I found you, lifeless-seeming, near my cave,I wept, and pray’d that God your life would save;I pray’d until the sun refulgent shone—When, lo! my pray’r was heard—I heard you groan!”I look’d upon the speaker, and my eyesWere fix’d on him with wonder and surprise— A stranger sav’d me from the rueful storm,And one so strange, possessing human form;His words likewise did my excitement raise,He seemed a Patriarch of ancient days,Whose long silvery locks and Jewish beardSeem’d present proofs of what I read or heardOf those before the flood, or even thoseWho stood as priests where holy incense rose—Pure worshippers of God! that sacrificePresented, swiftly rising to the skies.I look’d again, my canopy was rock,That safely stood amidst the tempest’s shock;No work of art adorn’d the rocky walls,Nor aught within, that admiration, calls;The simple rock in nature's plain attire,Seem’d form'd for one, who’d from the world retire.And, can it be, indeed, that I am whereA human being lives remote from care?Remote from social intercourse with man,Ere I depart, I’ll solve this if I can.These words the old man must have heard, for heSaid, “friend, I’ll solve for you this mystery—Aye, and I’ll tell you much of Brunswick shore,Of things unheard by any man before;These eyes have seen what now this tongue revealsTo you, but much—aye, much it still conceals.That I do live ‘remote from care,’ my friend,Is true, and ‘intercourse with man’ did endLong since, is likewise true, I feel it here!”He press’d his breast, and then he wip’d a tear.O for one ray of intellectual fireTo warm my brain and here my verse inspire!Thou “sacred nine,” who round Parnassus sing,And quaff large draughts from the “Castalian spring,”O let thy suppliant now on bended knee,Receive thy aid—such aid as pleaseth thee; Then, may I boldly strike my simple lyre—Perchance, ’twill live like some tall tow’ring spireIts “little hour,” or, rudely smitten down—In fragments lie neglected on the ground.Well, be it so, the work itself may findA kindred spirit to the builder’s mind;Perchance, of greater art and wider fame,Who’ll change, it to a thing of diff’rent name,Still it may live, and from its fragments raiseA something to exist, and merit praise.Now, my “advent’rous song” goes back to tellOf him, who, when I fainting, fainted, fell,And lay expos’d to die! such succour gaveAs quite restor’d and sav’d me from the grave!Of him I need not, for himself does speak—Wiping the “big tear” from his “furrowed check”—“Stranger, friend,” (he thus to me began.)“I feel that you're my fellow creature—man,And ’bide you here within my hermit cellTo hear my tale—for ere you leave, I wellDo know this aged head of mine will beQuiet in death! ’tis no vain prophecy.”Years have roll’d.” (and then he gaz’d around,)“Yes, years have pass’d since shelter here I found—One half century, and one quarter moreHave pass’d since first I trod New-Brunswick's shore;And, one century’s quarter, less twice two,Had pass’d o’er me when that I bade adieuTo parents, brothers, sisters, country, andThe fairest flow’r that bloom’d in Erin’s landPardon the weakness of a ‘poor old man,’For ‘flesh is flesh,’ resist it as we can;Pardon this weakness, for I here speak truth,When memory carries me back to scenes of youth,And flings the sombre veil of time aside,When youth in all its beauty, bloom and pride, Is seen to win with fascinating artSuch guileless art as captivates the heart,And makes the creature to the creature kneel—Ah! then we know how much the heart can feel.Thus have I felt aye, wonder not, I’ve feltAs others have, at beauty’s shrine I’ve kneltA worshipper! ’tis youth’s delirious ageTo stray away, to dread a hermitage.Smile not, stranger! my words are words of truth;We little know while in the days of youthThe ills of life—its snares and dangers drearOr, if known at all, how distant they appear, aeAnd thus deceiv’d, to run madly steer.’Tis true, some shun those ills and smoothly passO’er life’s beguiling wave—but few, alas!So happy are, that will the warning takeOf scripture’s pilots, and follow in their “wake,”Until they gain the port of endless restTo be companions of the good and blestAnd some are set apart by God’s decree,To live a life of sweet austerity;And by experience sage instructed beSuch, am I here, and from this rocky nookI have been taught without the aid of book,Save one—’tis broad creation’s ample page—’Tis this, with ‘aid divine!’ that makes me sage.Young, when I bow’d my head to enter here,With heart foreboding and desponding tear;The only being rescued from the waveThat clos’d o’er ninety souls a wat’ry grave,I knew not then the arm that stretch’d itself to save!His mercy boundless, nor his bounty less—Like old Elijah in the wilderness,I’m fed with all that nature’s wants require,By him who took him home on ‘wheels of fire’—The dome to which my longing hopes aspire. Short is my stay on earth, but, ere I go,I must fulfil my business here below;What long’s been lock’d up in my memory,I am required to tell in part, to thee.In part, I say, for only part is given—The rest is chronicled in Heaven!And, Heav’n alone will all the rest revealOn that great day when nothing can concealThe deeds of earth, (to man a ‘sealed book.’)Yes, when the voice that once ‘Mount Sinai shook’Will then proclaim the deeds and destinyOf mortals then with awful majesty!”So spake the sage while his uplifted eyeSeem’d lit with hope and holy exstacy!As some poor traveller absent from his homeWill homeward gaze and wish the hour to come—The happy hour that there will give him restWhere home’s sweet joys conspire to make him blest,Where all his ardent wishes, cherish’d, priz’d,Are far—far more than amply realiz’d.So gaz’d the aged Hermit of Point Lepreaux,And look’d away from things of earth belowTowards the skies, “unutterable things”Seem'd his, of whom my muse astonish'd sings;Again he spake, and thus spake he to me—“My time is short—my time is short with thee,Attention give; but thrice revolv’d yon sunSince that methought I saw a ‘shining one’Cloth’d with the robes of Heaven’s most pure array,Approach my cell just at the close of day,And as he nearer came methought he smil’dAnd said, ‘be of good cheer, Heaven’s favour’d child?I’m sent to tell you that to you is giv’nA work to do and then come home to Heav’n!Within this week,’ (so said Heaven’s messenger,}‘Will come this way a weaty traveller ; Page:Recluse of Point Lepreaux.pdf/13 Page:Recluse of Point Lepreaux.pdf/14 Page:Recluse of Point Lepreaux.pdf/15 Page:Recluse of Point Lepreaux.pdf/16 Page:Recluse of Point Lepreaux.pdf/17 Page:Recluse of Point Lepreaux.pdf/18 Page:Recluse of Point Lepreaux.pdf/19 Page:Recluse of Point Lepreaux.pdf/20 Are some for some, and this must be confess’d,Is’t fair, is’t just, the teacher who maintainsA family should reap no other gainsThan a young female from a sitting room,More fitting for a spinning wheel or loom?Training, statute labour, taxes, all are paidBy the male teacher, but exempt the maidWho sips her tea at home, and when at schoolCan teach the misses curtseying by rule.The spelling book’s her teaching’s minus part,The ‘sampler’ is the ‘sample’ of her art;I cannot frame your laws, but, this I say,Forty pounds ’twixt the two, I would this wayAt once divide, and let it changeless be—Fifteen the miss—twenty-five the master’s salary.Perhaps when I am gone, some friend of rightWill urge it home and bring it to the light.Again my subject changes, for I findA something else impress’d upon my mind.Have you not seen a spider’s web catch flies?Perchance a butterfly now proves a prize;The gilded thing is sure a tempting bait,Once caught, the spider issues forth elateAnd fastens on it with relentless hold,So with the person that possesses gold,If once he’s caught within the lawyer’s net,He there may writhe—but out he cannot getUntil, as ’tis in scripture truly said,By him the very utmost farthing’s paid;The poor man, like the despicable fly,Receives a bite or two, then’s left to die,Or grated in, a prey to want and cold,Makes restitution there for want of gold!Tis true indeed, that, ’tis not always so—There are exceptions to be found below,Be careful then to find and mark the man Who does within his sphere the best he can,That will not swindling take, nor meanly act,Nor pledge his word, and then his word retract;Scorning to wrong, or in the least deceiveSuch men as those with open arms receive.There’s some I know who smile but to betray,And set their traps to catch you on their wayWith fair prolific words to lead astray—Of such be careful and aware alway.Yet, the profession’s honourably good,Tho’ oft disgraced by some of knavish blood;No ‘Court of Chancery’ in their guilty breast,They live and die unpitied and unblest!Not so the man who pleads for the distrest,He’s valued here and Heaven gives him rest.I know of one deep skill’d in knavery,His name is * * *, to tell is forbidden me—He lives where ‘mills’ to him proximate be.Not like the ‘miller’ who takes part for toll,Whate’er you leave with him he takes the whole;His ‘light complexion’ marks no deeds of light,His deeds, dark as the darkest shades of night.Again my subject changes to the breathThat far exceeds a pestilential death!’Tis the proud scoffer of religion’s ways,And those who weekly meet on sabbath days,God’s mercies to recount, and sing his praise.And when my friend from here that you do go,You’ll find this man six leagues from Point Lepreaux;No consort’s love his daily comforts spread,He eats alone a thankless Deist’s bread.Sometimes a rustic youth does seek his door,And lays his ‘bag of yarn’ upon the floor—The yarn and warp consigned unto his care,He soon assails the youth concerning pray’r;The christian’s creed to his astonish’d ears Receives abuse—indignant now he hears;But, ere he goes, his cherish’d faith gives way,Compunction or despair is his another day—By his delusive reasoning led astray,Then, if it must be, let the parent goAnd save the child from all a Deist’s woe;But better far another ‘loom’ go seekThan go where scriptures foe such words do speak.Again my tale does change, and I must speakOf one that’s pious once a week;The sure criterion by which to knowThe self-made saint from other folks below,Six days her neighbours does defame, condemn,The seventh rise to lecturize the men,Small faults to which mankind is ever prone,Are magnified. ten-fold with whinish drone,And every sect is wrong but her’s alone.Visions and dreams form basis for her faithThe superstructure raised—in holy wrathShe quotes the ‘gospel of good news’ in ire,And scares the timid with her tale of fire!Not like the fire which Sampson tied, betweenPoor foxes’ tails, but such as ne’er was seenOn earth! the sabbath past, her pietyIs changed to scandal—her name’s hypocrisy!Although not pleasant, ’tis a needful taskTo drag her to the light, and there unmaskThe aged dame, that all may plainly seeA vile heart ’neath a face of sanctity.When blind zeal from plain truths thus derogates,And the ‘christian church’ in wrath execrates,Straying far from a good matron’s station,Preaching life to some—to others sure damnation!Let then the bible still your pilot be,To guide you from the sea of misery.The ‘Mælstroom’ of despair in which have fell Too many victims—I have known some well,But, they are gone, and others yet will be,I fear, engulphed in the calamity;Fanatic’s tongues like ‘poisonous adder’s hiss,’Smile to betray, to kill, like Judas, kiss.Beware O youth! the vortex is at hand,Then still be sure to keep a self-command;The prating creature of delusion’s schoolYou’ll then with pity see to be a fool.As such regard her, then you need not go ’stray,But still keep on the true—the ‘good old way,’Your exit peace, your life an endless day.Another subject now could occupyMy time indeed, it is theology,A most momentuous subject, ‘sacred theme,’No visionary, wild, delusive dream.O dear religion! which alone impartsSubstantial joys to men of virtuous hearts:Consoling boon, be ever with this friendOf mine, comfort and shield him to the end.”So spake the Hermit, and again he said,“Have you not in the holy scriptures readThat there are those commissioned to proclaimSalvation to mankind thro’ Jesus’ name;And all so vile that would not credit those,Would disregard a saint if one aroseFrom the dark grave! so tell mankindTo seek a gospel guide of pious mind,And cherish him, the preacher wise and goodWho feeds your souls with Heaven’s refreshing food.Have you not felt delighted as you've heardThe sacred sound and treasured every word?When sorrow chafes, then peaceful, quiet, feelAnd own that ‘he who wounds, alone can heal;’The perturbed spirit calm, the anguished mindRelieve, and be, tho’ sore chastised, resign’d. Have you not seen a weeping husband's woes?His bosom heaving with deep sorrow's throes,His lifeless consort ’neath the sable pall,Mourn’d for by him, lamented too, by all?The ‘house of God’ is entered, and ’tis thereThe preacher loves to offer up his prayer.The ‘balm of Gilead’ is in scripture found,And he applies it to the mourner’s wound;The preacher wipes his eyes and then proceedsTo prove that death’s the fruit of man’s misdeeds;And all must die and leave this earthly sphere,(There is a home of joys more pure and clear,)This mortal part in faith resign to clayTo rise immortal on some future day.And parted friends will there no parting know,But walk the ‘golden streets’ where death nor woeCan e’er approach; but holy, happy blissThat’s for the good; with comfort such as thisThe preacher heals the husband’s wounds and sendsHim home relieved among his faithful friends.And now my friend I soon will take my leaveOf earth and you, but do not for me grieve;I’m going home, my father wills it so,Take this, ’tis all I have to give below;Its colour, emblematic of the wearOf angels, will remind you that ’tis thereI am, (be faithful to your sacred trust.)There is a place, they call it Pennfield, friend,And one lives there to whom I wish to sendThe ‘manuscript’ traced by this aged hand,And much it does contain of Brunswick’s land.What, tho’ this breath of mine must it conceal,The Hermit's manuscript will all reveal;Tell him to send it soon to every youth,That it may be, (what ‘Boaz’ was to ‘Ruth,’)A cherished friend, to see him lose no tine, One part is prose, the other part is rhyme.My work’s now done, yours is now to do,I’m going home, my brother man adieu.”He “stretched his hand and gave the parting sign”And died, such death as his I pray be mine.

 

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