HALLOWE’EN IN CANADA;
AND
HOW IT SETTLED A DOMESTIC QUARREL.
To-night, upon the land or sea,
Wherever Scotland’s bairns may be,
Whether they plough Australian soil,
Or in Canadian forests toil;—
Or, on the Ganges or the Nile,
Defy the gaping crocodile;
Or on the South Sea waters sail,
A terror to the fated whale;
In lonely dell or crowded street,
Wherever two or more may meet,
Warm hands are clasped—no formal grip,—
No dainty, bloodless fingers’ tip,
But such a cordial squeeze and shake
As leave behind a welcome ache,
Such greeting as can only mean,
To-night, my friend, is Hallowe’en.
The quicksand of the sliding years,
Is moistened with perpetual tears;
But as the sunshine tempers showers,
As perfume clings to wounded flowers,
As music tones the midnight storm,
As beauty clothes the lightning’s form,
So wedded to each human ill,
Some pleasing charm is felt or seen,
And hence, though exiles here, they thrill
With yearly joys of Hallowe’en.
But in this logic-leavened age,
When every boot-black is a sage,
When naught but the electric wire,
Or steam-propulsion can inspire,—
When lovers travelling to the moon,
Are married in a great balloon,[6]
“What folly,” says my neighbour wise,
A cyclopædia in his eyes,
“What superstition to uphold
This Hallowe’en, so ghostly, old,
A custom suit for infant schools,
Gray dotards, and the mob of fools.”
Just hearken to a truthful story
Of two plain folk who dwelt alone,
To city shows and glare unknown,
A forest life their only glory,
Then judge, ye unbelieving crew,
What faith in Hallowe’en can do.
The Quarrel.
Tam Gregg and Jean, a thrifty pair,
He lithe and tall, she plump and fair,
Far westward in the wild woods’ shade,
A comfortable home had made,
And lived for years, true man and wife,
Without a single word of strife.
Till one day, with the toothache crossed,
His even temper Tammy lost,
And glowered, and snarled, and snapped, and swore,
And stamped upon the cottage floor,
Kicked the poor dog, and cuffed the wean,
And knit his angry brows at Jean.
At length some bitter words he said
Which fell like fire-flakes on her heart,
And turned her cheek from pale to red,
When bouncing up with sudden start,
She hurried from his evil view;
And with hot purpose inly vowed
That Tam his spiteful fling should rue.
For she was Highland born, and proud,
And boasted the McGregor blood,
Now coursing like a fiery flood
Through all her veins: her heart throbs loud,
But careless if its chambers burst,
Her head upon her hot hands bowed,
She thought: “Weel, Tam, you’ve said your worst,
And even if it holds a week,
I winna look at you, nor speak,
Till sorry for the wrang ye’ve done,
A wrang that would provoke the Deil,
Ye bend your hough, and seek to wun
Forgiveness for the pangs I feel.”
Three days crept past, they slept and woke,
And neither to the other spoke;—
Three wretched days, with sunless eye
Each passed the other coldly by,
Like shadows in a pantomime;
And in that silent lapse of time,
What thoughts, what griefs, were known to each,
Conjecture only scarce may reach.
The woods, but lately green, were bare,
And moaning winds were wandering there;
Their feathered guests had ceased to sing,
And southward flew on chilly wing;
Dark clouds obscured the sickly light,
And night seemed death, and day seemed night.
Sad signals these, and o’er the change
The vacant looks of both would range,
While Love, slow pointing to the past,
Asked each, “Must this forever last?”
Jean still maintained her stately tread,
But Tam grew sad, and drooped his head,
That uncombed, mop-like, sandy pow,
That never looked so wild as now.
He twitched his beard and peeped askance,
In hopes to catch some random glance
Of Jean’s blue eyes, but there, O, fate!
The sullen lids seemed charged with hate,
And curdled scorn, and wounded pride.
But anxious still the truth to hide,
His reasoning all perversely ran;
“If guilty, am I not a man?
And is it not a woman’s place
To yield with a relenting grace?”
Thus did he manage still to frown
And fight his best convictions down.
The fourth day fell on Hallowe’en,
And now remorse and anguish keen,
Like wild cats seized on Tammy’s mind.
A moment’s peace he could not find.
All day he shuffled in and out,
And snuffed, and coughed, and glowered about,
And tried to whistle, but his lips,
As dry as two sun-seasoned chips,
Refused to pucker:—what a look,
When baffled thus, his visage took!
The gloaming hour drew on, and Tam
Was seated by the chimney jamb.
His eyes were bent upon the fire,
And, listening to his heart’s desire,
“To-night,” thought he, “is Hallowe’en,
Seven years ago this very night
I first beheld my comely Jean,
And courted her till morning’s light.
O happy, happy hours! and now!”—
He struck his hand against his brow,
When suddenly a gladsome thought
He from the glowing cinders caught.—
Two nuts with eager hand he drew
From forth his pouch, and muttering low,
“That’s her, that’s me,” he gently threw
The orbs of fate amid the glow
Of golden fire upon the hearth,
And watched them with such eager gaze,
As if his all of heaven and earth
Depended on their puny blaze.
“Now,” whispered Tam, “if I but lean
My kindled kindness toward my Jean,
If over her my flamelet spread,
No matter how she bear her head,
Then must I be the first to speak,
And press repentance on her cheek.”
The nuts caught fire, and Tam’s at first
Swelled up as if its sides would burst;
But instantly a blaze shot out,
And reached and clasped his Jean about,
And round her never ceased to play,
Till both in ashy cinders lay.
“Enough,” cried Tam, with moistened eye,
“Thus may we live, and love, and die,
And thus at last together lie!”
Meantime, poor Jean, sore sick at heart,—
Though mindful of her vow and smart,
Began to feel her purpose fail,
And, strolling out among the kail,
She conjured up some soft excuse
For tooth-afflicted Tam’s abuse.
So came it, as the fates decreed,
She with herself and Heaven agreed
To take her chance, by pulling out
A kail stalk, which, “if tall and stout,
Then must Tam Gregg come ben and speak,
But otherwise if slim and weak,
I’ll take it as a solemn proof
That I maun first hold out my loof.”
Her eyes she bandaged, groped about,
Perturbed with many a tender doubt,
And mindless of the gain or cost,
Cared little if she won or lost.
Just then, as Tam the garden gained,
He spied her, and his heart was pained,
For scarcely could he understand
Whether his wife was daft or wise,
Groping around with shaky hand,
Her apron tied across her eyes.
With open mouth amazed he stood,
And watched her, all remorseful now,
The big veins throbbing on his brow,
Till she her verdict clutched, then rude,
Tore off the bandage from her sight,
And frowning, smiling, red, and white,
Confessed her prize a puny thing,
But little thicker than her thumb;
So must she cower her haughty wing,
And hold her lips no longer dumb.
Still wondering what the lass could mean,
Tam stole upon her ere she knew,
Exclaiming fondly, “Jean! why, Jean!”
His arm around her waist he threw.
No sooner done, no sooner said,
Than on his breast she leaned her head,
And wept like any child;—But no,
Our story must not further go,
Except to add, that tall Tam Gregg,
Grown wild with gladness, shook his leg,
And joked, and laughed and filled his cup,
And threw his auld blue bonnet up,
And kissed the bairn, and Jean, and sang,
Till through the woods such echoes rang,
That prowling catamount and bear,
Fled frightened to their distant lair.
Each learned the other’s plot and plan,
And through their veins such rapture ran,
That heedless of their recent pain,
They almost wished to quarrel again.
So ends the tale, and if I’ve shown,
That though the world has wiser grown,
A loving heart and generous mind
Some good in Hallowe’en may find,—
Then, Caledonians, prize it still,
And whether on the land or sea,
Your scattered homes may chance to be,
Maintain it with a right good will.
Old Scotia! Though they never more
May stand upon thy rugged shore,—
The lofty fame which thou hast won,
The daring deeds thy sons have done,
Thy storied glens, and streams, and heights,
Where heroes fought for freeman’s rights,
And stubborn as the will of fate,
Maintained their independent state,—
These, feeding still their patriot fire,
Will never let the flame expire;
And when, beneath a foreign sky,
Some home-nursed trifle meets the eye,—
A simple bluebell from the glen
Where trod the feet of “Cameron men,”
Or white-cheeked daisy from the braes
Where Burns exhaled his thrilling lays;—
A sigh will rise, a tear will start,
And every prompting of the heart,
Though half the globe should intervene,
Will teach them evermore, I ween,
To meet and hold their Hallowe’en.
[6] An instance of such performance was reported in the public prints at the time when these lines were written.