Belford's Magazine, Vol 2, December 1888

"Oh, Malcolm! forgive me!" cried his wife, throwing herself into his arms.

Sam entered in time to be both amazed and delighted by this tableau. When he could claim his master's attention, he drew him aside and told him in an undertone:

"Dat strange ole woman what come hyer las' night done come agin, sah. She outside 'n' say she jes want to see you a minnit, but she mus' see you. She say she got lettahs fo' you, sah, 'n' wun't gib 'em to nubbudy else."

"Show her in here, Sam."

"Yes, sah."

Rutherford had raised his voice in giving the order, and Plowden looked up at him inquiringly as Sam left the room. The lawyer bent down to him and whispered: "Mrs. Plowden, Number One."

The unhappy old man half arose, pallid with a sudden scare, and looked as if he meditated going through the window again; but before he could do so, Sam returned, ushering in a stout elderly woman. At sight of her, Plowden sank back in his seat, and his face gave evidence of lively emotion, but the feeling it expressed was astonishment rather than consternation.

"Are you Mrs. Robert Plowden?" demanded Mr. Rutherford.

"Yes, sir; that's my name," the new-comer replied.

Young Honey, who had been sitting with his back to her, and indeed had not even noticed her coming in, jumped up at sound of her voice, turned and confronted her, with a cry of —

"Mother!"

The woman seemed to shrink and cower, as if overcome, not by fear, but by shame at sight of him, and whined: "Oh, Billy! Hi didn't know you was 'ere hagain."

"Why are you 'ere, mother?"

She hesitated, stammered, seemed as if she would have turned and fled, had not the stern demand in his glance detained her.

"I didn't think it was hany 'arm," she whimpered; "I 'ated so to be dependent hon you an' 'Arriet – an' 'e's so rich."

The honest fellow's face flushed crimson, tears dimmed his eyes, and his voice trembled, as he said, in tones not of anger, but of deep sorrow: "Oh, mother! 'ow could you? Poor an' hignorant we hallways was – which hit was hower condition – 'ard, but not dishonest – and nothink hever for to be hashamed of huntil now. Oh, mother, you've broke my 'art!"

"No, no, my boy," impulsively exclaimed the good-hearted Plowden, hurriedly rising, coming to him and laying a hand on his shoulder, "don't feel so. I can understand better than you how desperately one may feel who is poor as well as old. Sister-in-law Sally, I forgive you; for if you have raised a ghost – that has put some gray hairs in my head in the last twenty-four hours, I think – you have also laid it, and forever. Yes, Sally, I forgive you with all my heart; and if you want to be independent and go back to England, I'll give you enough to enable you to do so."

She was sobbing, too much overcome to reply in words, and could only bow over and kiss the kind hand that he extended to her. Then she turned toward the door, and her son led her out. Rutherford called to him as he went, "You must return, Honey," and he nodded assent. Mrs. Honey, pale and silent, followed them to the vestibule. After a short absence she returned with her husband. Tinkling sharp and clear in the crisp wintry air, they heard the bells on the horses that carried the old woman away. Fainter and fainter became the sound until it died away in the distance, and then the cloud lifted, as if by magic, from over the house-party, and at last "Merry Christmas" came for them.

Celia Logan.

A CHRYSTMESSE WYSHE

There beA wyshe I have for TheeThys Chrystmesse-tyde:Maye Joye, and alle Gladde thyngesThe seasonne brynges,Gette to TheeAnd Abyde.Wm. Hallister Wall.

"DEAD-SHOT DAN." 1

"Come, Dan, old man, it's your turn now."

This remark was made by one of a group of miners seated in front of a camp-fire in San Mateo canyon on the Colorado.

The person addressed as Dan was a splendid specimen of a "frontiersman," having all the characteristics of a frank, free American, with the physical advantages of a stalwart "Englisher." Among the miners he was variously known as "English Dan" and "Dead-Shot Dan." How he got the latter nickname always seemed a puzzle to his comrades, for he was one of the best, gentlest, and kindest fellows on "the lode." His manners and appearance indicated anything but a wicked nature, and he was always ready to do a comrade a good turn, or act as peacemaker in the ever-recurring rows of the miners.

It was Christmas Eve, and the boys were gathered around the fire, smoking their pipes, and telling stories of their past lives. Some told of homes and loved ones in the far-distant States; some of the late Civil War and its scenes of strife and sorrow; and some of escapades with the Mexican "greasers" and cattle-thieves of the Rio Grande.

Now the crowd turned to Dan, whom they regarded as a sort of superior creature. He was a general favorite. He knew something of medicine, and had nursed and cured many a comrade of camp-fever. He had, on more than one occasion, even set a limb and extracted a bullet from a wound – attentions which undoubtedly had the effect of increasing the freedom of the miners in the use of the "seven-shooter."

"Come, Dan, it's your turn now."

"Yes, yes," shouted a dozen voices. "Give us a story, English."

"I'm not much of a story-teller, boys," said Dan; "can anybody suggest a subject?"

"Yes," exclaimed old Peleg Carter, the Nestor of the crowd, "I can suggest a subject."

Peleg was a Missouri man. He was over six feet high, and had gray hair, while his large and flabby ears stood out from his head like the side lamps of a hansom cab. He had only one eye, and he boasted that he had lost the other in driving Joe Smith and the Mormons from "Nauvoo." His word was law in the economy of the camp, so that when he said he could suggest a subject to Dan, all the lads waited with awe and attention to hear what the subject would be.

"Well, old man," observed Dan, "start the subject, and I'll do my best."

"Tell us, then," said Peleg, "how you got the name of 'Dead-Shot Dan.' You never wear a weaping, unless you keep one underneath your jumper."

"No," replied Dan, "I don't carry a weapon. I carried a pistol once, but swore I'd never 'bear arms,' again. Well, lads," he continued, as he filled his pipe, "you want to know how I got the name of 'Dead-Shot Dan'?"

"Yes, yes," was the unanimous response.

"I must tell you, then, that I came to Colorado, not exactly a fugitive from justice, but the victim of what is called in civilized countries the 'code of honor.' I was an assistant-surgeon on board one of the 'Quintard Line' of steamers, sailing from Liverpool to the Mediterranean. On my first voyage we put in for passengers and coal at Marseilles. We had forty-eight hours to remain in port, and as I was anxious to see all I could of foreign parts, I went ashore early in the morning. My companion was the senior surgeon of the ship, a strange, hot-headed old fellow. He had formerly been a surgeon in the Royal Navy, but had been cashiered while on the West Indian station for challenging the admiral on account of some supposed affront. His name was Dr. Caldwell, and he was sometimes known as the 'Fire-eating Surgeon.' Both of us, being very hungry when we got on shore, thought we would have a jolly good breakfast before visiting the objects of interest in the place.

"'Come with me, Dan,' said the Doctor, 'and I will take you to a famous restaurant frequented by all the savants of the city. Astronomers and political economists go there, and Italian refugees and communists too. Frenchmen rarely have more than a crust of bread and a cup of coffee before noon; but if the frog-eaters have such a thing in their larder, we'll have a beefsteak or a brace of chops.'

"With that he led me into a quiet side street, and we soon reached the restaurant. Early as it was, the principal dining-room was filled with customers sipping their coffee, and I could see at a glance that they were of no common order. They appeared to form a kind of literary class.

"We took our seats at a table which was already occupied by an old French gentleman, with a mustache and beard of a decidedly military cut.

"'Two large beefsteaks!' shouted the Doctor, in a voice which attracted the attention of everyone in the room.

"The waiter looked at us as if we were lunatics escaped from an asylum, and said, in broken English, 'Messieurs, this is not the time for beefsteaks. Beefsteaks are at twelve o'clock. 'Tis now only half-past eight.'

"'Two beefsteaks, d'ye hear!' again roared the Doctor.

"'Certainlee, if messieurs will have it so,' replied the waiter, somewhat staggered.

"'Beefsteak! Beefsteak!! Beefsteak!!!' was the exclamation which went from one person to another around the room, and all eyes were turned towards us.

"'Look,' said the Doctor, 'how these French fools stare. Confound them! What do they mean?'

"'Pardon me, sare,' remarked the old gentleman at our table, addressing himself to me, 'ess zis your breakfast or your dinnaire?'

"'Don't answer him,' said the Doctor; 'we'll have some sport with these fellows.'

"The beefsteaks were brought, and we attacked them with great effect.

"'It must be ze dinnaire,' muttered our military friend to himself, just loud enough for us to hear.

"'Pardon me, gentlemen,' he again said, addressing himself to me in a louder tone, 'ess zis your breakfast or your dinnaire?'

"'Bring some fried eggs,' called out the Doctor, before I could answer.

"'Oui, messieurs,' replied the waiter, quickly darting into the kitchen.

"'Oh, it must be ze dinnaire,' again muttered our old friend opposite; 'certainlee, it must be ze dinnaire.'

"The eggs were brought and soon despatched. The old Frenchman looked aghast.

"'Pardon me once more, my dear young friend,' he said, 'ess zis your breakfast or your dinnaire?'

"The Doctor winked at me not to answer, and called out, 'Waiter! two more cups of tea!'

"The old Frenchman looked at his watch and said despairingly, 'Oh, it must be ze dinnaire. Dinnaire at half-past eight! Mon Dieu! Howevaire, I will ask once more. My dear sare, ess zis your breakfast or your dinnaire?'

"'Sir,' I replied, somewhat petulantly, 'we came here to eat, not to answer questions!'

"'Yes, sare, but I am a journalist, and am anxious to study ze characteristics of ze Engleesh; zerefore, I ask, ess zis your breakfast or your dinnaire?'

"'Bring more toast, waiter,' said the Doctor.

"'More tost! Ah, it ess ze dinnaire – must be ze dinnaire,' mumbled the old Frenchman.

"The toast and tea disposed of, we rose and paid our bill. We were about to leave the restaurant, when the old Frenchman quitted the table, as if for the purpose of having a parting shot at us. Just as we were stepping into the street, he tapped me on the shoulder, and making a polite bow, said, 'Sare, if you please, was zat your breakfast or your dinnaire?'

"This seemed too much for human nature to bear, and without thinking exactly what I was about, I threw my glove into his face.

"'Sare, what you mean? An insult?'

"'Yes,' said the Doctor, 'and another, if you like. We have stood your impertinence for the last half-hour. You are no gentleman.'

"'Sare? No gentleman? Zare is my card!'

"'And there is mine,' said the Doctor.

"'One at a time, my friends,' coolly replied the old man. 'My business is wiz zis young gentleman first. He has struck me wiz his glove! He must fight.'

"'Agreed,' said the Doctor. 'Send your friend to me. I shall be happy to assist this young gentleman, and to fight you myself afterwards.'

"'One moment, gentlemen. My friend, Colonel Monier, now at yonder table, will confer wiz you;' and the old fellow called to his friend.

"In a few moments arrangements were perfected for a meeting between the Frenchman and myself the next morning at daylight, at a small clump of trees a few miles from town. Weapons, pistols; distance, fifteen paces.

"'Don't be alarmed, Dan,' said the Doctor, as we were going on board our ship; 'I'll teach you how to wing the frog-eater. Wing him, my boy! Wing him! I've done the trick a dozen times!'

"Next morning the Doctor, Tom Wallace, our purser, and myself drove to the place appointed for the meeting, and found the French party already on the ground.

"'Cheer up, Dan,' said my second, 'and remember, aim for his left shoulder. You'll wing him like a pigeon. Those Frenchmen know nothing of fire-arms.'

"The preliminaries over, we took our positions. I must confess I was terribly nervous; but while I intended to merely wound my adversary, I determined to follow the advice of the Doctor, and 'aim for the left shoulder.'

"'Are you ready?'

"'Ready.'

"'Fire.'

"'One.'

"'Two.'

"'Three.'

"It had been arranged that we should fire between the words 'One' and 'Three;' and as the word 'Two' was on the lips of the second, I fired.

"'Oh, mon Dieu!' cried my opponent, falling bleeding into the arms of his second, as the bullet from his pistol almost grazed my cheek.

"'Parbleu! He is dying – shot through the heart. You are a surgeon; can you do anything for him?' said I, appealing to my friend, the Doctor.

"'No, my lad,' said he; 'you aimed too low.'

"'This is terrible,' I cried, now for the first time realizing the awful position in which I was placed. 'What can we do?'

"'Get across the frontier as soon as possible,' was the advice of the old Frenchman's second.

"'Our ship sails at noon,' said the Doctor.

"I advanced to the dying man, whose life-blood was pouring from his side, and with tears streaming down my face, begged his forgiveness. He opened his poor, sad eyes, now almost glazed in death.

"'Oh, speak to me!' cried I, 'if only one word. I would give the world to recall this wicked duel. Is there anything on earth that I can do for you or yours? Tell me, and on the honor of an English gentleman, I will do as you command.'

"'Ah, my young friend,' said the dying man, 'I feel that I have but a few minutes to live. I am dying even while I speak; but I shall die perfectly happy if you will tell me whether zat was your breakfast or your dinnaire?'"

William J. Florence.

"FORGET-ME-NOT."

"Forget – forget me not!"Vain, piteous human prayer!We all are doomed to be forgot;It is, alas! the common lotOf mortals everywhere.'Tis everywhere the same;Over the olden stoneThat bears the once dear dead one's name,Whom love and tears could not reclaim,The willow weeps alone!There is no sadder thoughtOf death and its sweet restThan that we are so soon forgot —E'en in those hearts remembered not,That we have loved the best.It hath been so, and mustSo be for aye and aye:And though it seemeth hardly just,Affection will not cling to dust,Nor linger with decay.Where'er above the deadThe gentle willow waves,The warmest tears are ever shed,The freshest flowers ever spread,Over the freshest graves!Thomas Hubbard.

CERTAIN ANCESTORS OF PRESIDENT CLEVELAND

President Cleveland's Great-Great-Grandfather in Halifax – "Mather's Church," the First Dissenting Meeting-house – Some Rare Antique Books – St. Matthew's Church – The Poet Cleveland and Others – A Poem – A Repartee.

On Pleasant Street facing Spring Garden Road – two aristocratic avenues of residence in the city of Halifax, Nova Scotia – is St. Matthew's Congregational Church. To sight-seekers from "the States" who during the last three years have visited Halifax this ecclesiastical building has become a place of especial interest. An ancestor of President Cleveland was the first pastor of the society; and through the influence of Rev. Aaron Cleveland, the first non-conforming church in British North America was built. It stood at the corner of the present Hollis and Prince streets, upon what now is the site of the Halifax Club, a portion of the building being occupied by Doull & Miller's dry-goods store.

There the little structure remained for more than a century, although Mr. Cleveland's ministry extended over but five years, when, in 1755, the pioneer pastor removed to England, leaving behind him no church records. Hence the history of Congregationalism in Nova Scotia, during that period, is traditional. A few volumes, unique in style and huge in size, the nucleus of what to-day is the Church and Sunday-school library of St. Matthew's society, survived the pastor's departure. Many of the books were the gift of Mr. Cleveland. In some of them is preserved his autograph presentation. A large proportion of the other volumes were donated by friends of Mr. Cleveland, mostly residents of Great Britain. Of these the notable ones are:

A Large and Complete Concordance to the Bible, by Samuel Newman, now teacher of the church at Rehoboth in New England. London, 1650.

The presentation reads as follows:

"This book is the Gift to the present Minister of the Gospel at Halifax in Nova Scotia, and to his successors,

By their well wisher and Humble Servant

Nov. 6, 1750.

John Staniford.

The same date and wording of presentation accompanies

The History of Britain, 1655.

Bearing the imprint, London, 1684, are the

Works of the Rev. and Learned John Lightfoot; Late Master of Katerine Hall, in Cambridge. With Author's Life and Maps.

Also, illustrated with many fine engravings, are

The Works of the Learned and Pious Author ofThe Whole DUTY of ManLondon, 1704

The Works of the Most Reverend Dr. John Tillotson, Lord Archbishop of Canterbury. London, 1752.

The Works of the Rev. & Learned Lord Mr. Joseph Boyse of Dublin, Never before Published. 2 vols., London, 1728.

This last book was

"The Gift of the Rev. Mr. John Walker of London, to the Rev. Aaron Cleveland and his Successors in the Ministry at Halifax, in Nova Scotia, 1753."

St. Matthew's Church, called in early days "Mather's Church," was constructed after the same plan as Maryborn Chapel, England. This "Meeting-house for Dissenters" was put up in 1750, at a cost to the colony of £1000. In a letter dated July 10, 1750, to The Lords Commissioners for Trade and Plantations, written by Hon. Edward Cornwallace, Governor of Nova Scotia, the "Meeting-house" was grouped as one of the "necessary works," with "a Court House and Prison, and a powder Magazine."

At the time of Mr. Cleveland's ministry in Halifax, "The Dissenting Congregational Meeting-house" was known as "Mather's Church." It derived its name from the then famous New England Congregational divine, Cotton Mather. The frame of the building was brought from Boston. Tradition erroneously says that the edifice was removed bodily to Halifax, and that it was the identical church in which Cotton Mather preached.

After the fire, January 1, 1857, that destroyed the original structure, the present St. Matthew's church edifice was erected. The building, which is of brick, is the best of its kind in the Dominion. Its cost of construction was $75,000. The manse was built at an additional expense of $12,000. The congregation is fashionable and influential. The Word is preached from an old-fashioned box-like pulpit, perched, like a bird's nest, near the ceiling. The minister reaches this enclosure by means of two winding stairways, curtained with red drapery along their sides. The pews are, as in ancient times, padded throughout with scarlet. British "red-coats" constitute a portion of the congregation. They occupy the high gallery that reaches around three sides of the auditorium. The Sunday-school is one of the largest and the best conducted in the city. The original silver-plate communion-set and the baptismal fount have been preserved and are used as occasion allows. These pieces are engraved with the follow inscription:

"The Gift of Francis White, Esq., to the first Protestant Dissenting Church in Halifax, Oct. 25, 1769."

A prominent officer of the St. Matthew's Society stated in the presence of the writer, "We have many proofs that the Lord has abundantly blessed the labors of the first minister, the Rev. Aaron Cleveland, … and we rejoice in the manifestation of His goodness in having raised his descendant to the highest honor in the gift of a free and sovereign people."

To the town of Cleveland, – "a corruption of Cliffe land," – Durham County, England, the family of Cleveland or Cleaveland owes its name. "The principal branch was seated in the county of York. Early in the fourteenth century, Sir Guy de Cleveland was present at the siege of Boulogne, in France, and afterwards at the battle of Poietiers, where he commanded the spearmen. A branch of the family went into Devonshire, and continued until the male line of the family was extinct."

The Rev. Aaron Cleveland, great-great-grandfather to the President of the United States, was the son of Captain Aaron, a grandchild of Moses Cleveland who came to this country from Ipswich, county of Suffolk, England, about 1635, and who died at Woburn, Mass., January, 1701-2. Seven sons and five daughters composed the family of Moses. From the eldest son, "it is confidently believed, are derived all the Clevelands or Cleavelands in this country, of New England origin." The other of the two brothers who came to this country settled in Ohio. One of them, General Moses Cleveland, was born 1754, in Canterbury, Connecticut. He graduated from Yale College, and subsequently held a position as general in the regular army. Afterwards he practised law. As chief of the staff of surveyors commissioned by the Connecticut Land Company, he was sent to the Western Reserve, where he secured the confidence and friendship of the Indians by his tact and repeated evidences of friendliness. He established a surveying camp, laid out a city, and gave to it his name. It was to his memory that the Early Settlers Association of Cleveland, Ohio, celebrated the ninety-second anniversary of this event by unveiling, in the public square, the 22d of last July, a bronze statue of the city's founder.

"The brother who settled in New England had two sons, one of whom removed to Michigan, the other to New York. From the family of the latter sprung the President."

The following epitaph immortalizes the memory of Colonel Aaron Cleveland, who is buried in the Congregational graveyard at Canterbury, Conn.:

"In memory of Col. Aaron Cleveland, who died in a fit of apoplexy, 14th April, A.D., 1785. Born 7th of Decr. 1727; on the 17th of June, A.D. 1782, when in the bloom of health and prime of life, was struck with a numb palsy; from that time to his death, had upward of sixty fits of the palsy and apoplexy. He was employed in sundry honorable offices both civil and military.

"Calm and composed my soul her journey takes,No guilt that troubles, and no heart that aches.Adieu! thou Sun, all bright like her arise,Adieu! dear friends, and all that's good and wise."

Rev. Aaron Cleveland, the Halifax minister, was the fifth son and the seventh child of Captain Aaron Cleveland. He was born in Cambridge, Mass., 1715. He studied and graduated at Harvard College, and was married to Susanna Porter, a daughter of Rev. Aaron Porter, of Medford, Mass., the same year, when but twenty years of age. Four years later, 1739, he was called to the pastorate of a congregation at Haddam, Connecticut, where he continued until dismissed for alleged heterodoxy.

A year later Mr. Cleveland was installed over a congregation at Malden. His views being there deemed too liberal, he was obliged to resign that charge also. This circumstance occurred in 1750, the same year in which he went to Halifax. Falling into disrepute once more, because of his too rapid advance in theological tenets, he was forced to give up the Nova Scotia pastorate. The same year, 1755, he removed to England. He subsequently disconnected himself from the denomination of his early choice, and took holy orders in the Church of England from Bishop Sherlock, of London, from which denomination he received the following commission:

"Charter House, July 1, 1767 – Good Gentlemen: The society for the propagation of the gospel in foreign parts have granted your request and appointed Mr. Cleveland their missionary in your church; but it is on the express condition, which is now a standing rule in their missions, that you provide him with a good house and glebe, and not less than twenty pounds sterling per annum, towards his more comfortable support. Heartily recommending you and Mr. Cleveland to God's blessing, I am, sirs, your very faithful, humble servant,