lips. Their supper, consisting of bread, salt pork, and some pickerel which they had caught that day, was soon cooked and eaten, and then the keg was broached, their pipes lighted, and prosperity to the new settlement drunk in fast and furious draughts amidst vociferous oaths, slang jests, and loud merriment.
It was a strange wild scene, that noisy and reckless little band of revellers, making the woods, the sky, the water, ring with boisterous mirth, hundreds of miles away from the dwellings of civilised men, encircled by forests whose pathless recesses might conceal innumerable perils in the shape of dusky Indians or brindled panthers, shut out from all resources, all aid except what lay in themselves, yet indifferent to everything but the rude enjoyment of the hour. The pure, calm purple heaven with all its myriad stars shone above their heads, the soft lustre of that young moon streamed over the lake, which lay hushed in a waveless calm, and glanced on the crystal spring till its tiny bubbles gleamed like living diamonds; the west wind murmured softly among the swelling buds, in which spring’s green garniture lay hidden; the whip-po-will fled back into the dark arches of the forest, scared by the noise of the invaders; even the hooting owl feared to uplift her voice amidst the human din that for the first time reached her ears; the frogs only were not to be silenced—bull-frog, green frog, and tree-frog, all croaking together, as if in mockery of the rioters. The boy Keefe lay close beside them, his wounded dog in his arms. He listened to their coarse jests and songs, and watched their flushed faces, and then he turned his gaze on the heaven above, and a vague impression of beauty and goodness, mingled with thoughts of his mother, whose memory was his childish ideal of both, stole into his mind. But fresh jests, and the loud peals of laughter with which they were welcomed, forced themselves on his ears. He listened with keen amusement, and the lessons which those divine monitors to man, the stars, the winds, the waters, the solemn night, are for ever preaching were forgotten.
CHAPTER II.
Though at the period at which I write, villages and towns, even in America, did not spring up with that marvellous rapidity which now marks their growth, ten years sufficed to change the solitary spot to which Dillon had been the first pioneer, into a flourishing settlement. The young men who had accompanied him to assist in clearing his land and building his shanty, purchased small lots for themselves, built log-cabins, and brought young wives to inhabit them. Others soon followed, the rich timber which centuries had matured in beauty and strength attracted lumbermen, and the abundance and delicacy of the fish in the bay led fishermen thither. A village sprang up at the spot where the long low point before mentioned jutted out from the mainland, and it soon bore the name of Long Arrow, which had already been given to the point. A tavern and store were opened, two or three mechanics came next, roads were formed to the nearest town, and lastly, a grist and saw-mill were erected. There was also a school-house, which, whenever any wandering missionary or itinerant preacher (no matter what his creed might be) arrived at the settlement, was given up to him as a meeting-house; but church or chapel there was none. Neither were there any doctors or lawyers. As to the first, the settlement was so healthy that no other medicaments were needed than the salves and herb teas concocted by the old wives of the place; and for the last, the community was yet too poor to be litigious. This poverty, however, was more in money than in goods, and though there was no luxury, and scarcely any attempt at neatness, there was no deficiency of rough comfort. Dillon had made a good bargain in the purchase of his farm. The soil was excellent, and as he was shrewd and energetic in matters of business, and there were few temptations to extravagance at Long Arrow, a few years sufficed to make him independent, or, as the term is used in a new country, even rich. But while his wealth greatly accumulated his character had been rapidly sinking. Thrown exclusively among a coarse and low class of associates, his habits and principles, never very refined or elevated, had gradually assimilated to theirs. Reckless as he was, however, the change brought with it a sense of degradation, and to escape its sting, he plunged still deeper into intemperance, till at last he became a confirmed drunkard, scarcely ever in possession of his senses. Unfortunately, there were many such among the settlers. The rough, reckless, half-savage characters of those adventurers, who form the staple population in most settlements, is well known, and if the love of gain, and the habits of industry it induces, formed some check upon them, the lumbermen who were constantly in the neighbourhood felt no such restraining motives, and were generally ready to lead the way in every species of vice. In such a community where there is no recognised authority, no settled law, no fixed standard of right or wrong, the necessity for dissimulation which such restraint enforces on the vicious, does not exist; hypocrisy is scouted, cant ridiculed, seeming finds no favour, false virtues can no longer wear the semblance of true ones, no moral varnish or gilding is allowed to pass current, and the evil which ignorance, bad training, and worse examples develop in human nature, shows itself without disguise. In this vitiating atmosphere, and with hardly one counteracting influence, except the working of his own mind, and the gentle preachings of nature, Keefe Dillon grew to manhood.
It was hardly to be expected that he would exhibit much higher views of life than those he saw about him, but he very soon displayed such superiority over his companions as a powerful frame, indomitable hardihood, and great natural acuteness and force of intellect must always exercise, especially when the arena in which they are manifested approaches the savage state where they are the only elements of power understood. The elder Dillon was both fond and proud of his son, the only link that remained to connect him with his earlier and better life, but he was too careless and indolent to take much trouble about the boy’s education or conduct. Keefe was therefore left to
