remarked upon. I should have as much thought of working upon the roads, when I first came to Canada, as of throwing myself into the lake. When I caught sight of those young men working on the roads among a miscellaneous lot of common-looking people, a sensation of awkwardness came over me on their account. I manœuvred so as to appear not to see them, with the best possible intentions at the time towards their feelings. But I do not now think that I was right. I think now that it was squeamish. I should not do so to-day. Besides, I laid myself open to the suspicion of incivility, or of entertaining feelings directly contrary to those by which I was in reality actuated. No, there is a happy mean, if one could hit it, but it requires good shooting.
The truth is, that in matters of this kind in Canada, we simply please ourselves. We go about our own business in our own way, without much regard for Mrs. Grundy, who suffers not exactly a sea-change, but a freshwater one; the air of the lakes does not agree with her. On my first arrival in the province, I took a trip through the west, to see how the land lay. I was a genuine Johnny Raw, staring at everything that was new to me, and everything was new to me then. I had brought a letter of introduction to an old settler, and he was showing me the lions. We met, coming along the road, two persons, each driving a load of lime. The foremost pulled up. He was a man of education and breeding; the first half dozen words he uttered spoke for themselves. I was puzzled. His clothes were shabby and dusty; he wore an undeniable common red flannel shirt, and he had not shaved that morning. The other man was evidently a mere working-man, yet their occupation was the same. But pray do not picture them to yourself as stalking along at about a mile and a half an hour, in smock-frocks and ankle-jacks; brandishing preposterous whips, almost as long as South African ones; bawling some outlandish gibberish to three or four immense brutes, all in a row. That may do in Sussex, but it will not do here. No, they were sitting in the waggons, on seats ingeniously raised above the load, on wooden springs; driving with reins two “span” of smart little roadsters, able to do their five miles an hour with the lime behind them, in light handy waggons. That certainly takes the edge off the rusticity of the position. When we had separated, Mr. said to me, “That is our clergyman.”
“Church of England?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“And the other man is his servant?”
“Yes, his hired servant.”
Johnny Raw set all that down in his diary. Now he almost doubts whether it is worth the relating.
One great peculiarity about Canada is, that for three or four months out of the year the climate makes our roads for us. Then we discard wheels and slide along on skates. It is a moot point whether the pathmaster’s jurisdiction extends into that wintry province. There is a perpetual schism between those who hold that he has a right to call out the men to “bush” roads across the ice, or to break a track through heavy drifts, and those who contest that doctrine. These last say that such work is thrown away; that there is nothing to show for it; that, if people want the roads broken, they may turn out and do it. No doubt they may. I am an old Canadian, but it is a point upon which I can give no decision.
LEGENDS OF CHARLEMAGNE’S CITY.
NO. I.
Charlemagne’s memory is as fresh among the people of Aix-la-Chapelle, as poor old George the Third’s among the peasantry around Windsor. “Kaiser Karl” he is still, as though no other Emperor Charles had succeeded him. In rude old images and ruder lays, in the household traditions of the people, in the ancient monkish chronicles, his lofty and majestic presence still overawes us.
Even among the stalwart Franks his stature is gigantic, his strength unsurpassed. He is girt with a broad sword no other arm can wield, a wrought baldric supports the mighty horn which calls his followers in battle and in chace; he wears a crown no other head could fill, even could it bear the weight.
Fierce and terrible as he is in the fury of battle, in peace he is friendly and hospitable, reverent to learned and holy men, loving to his beautiful Fastrada and his children, a frank and cheery comrade with his Paladins, a father to his people.
Rather than fatten on the spoils of the husbandman, he sells the produce of the royal farms, while wealth torn from Italian cities and Germanic tribes goes to build churches, and found cities and colleges.
All this lives in the memory of the people, while they forget the wrongs of hapless Ermendgard, and the fire and sword with which he spread the Gospel of peace.
Romance and tradition have been busy with his name.
The magic ring, torn from the radiant tresses of the beloved dead, his favourite daughter’s love, punishment, and pardon, the stately apparition passing over the Rhenish vineyards in years of plenty, and blessing them with shadowy hand,—all these have got interwoven with the dry, hard facts of history. Nor have his faithful Paladins been forgotten, though strangely transformed. These rough old Frankish champions, tall and brawny, with unshorn beard and flowing tawny or flaxen locks, the cherished badge of the freeman, have passed from the domain of history, into the hands of the minstrels of the Middle Ages. These gentry have tried hard to make them out fantastical knights errant, but, despite all gauds of poetry, something of the old barbaric flavour lingers round them still.
Most beautiful of all the stories in which they figure is that of Roland’s ill-fated love, the lie,—discovered too late,—the fair young girl’s life given to God, in the dreary cloister,—the champion’s given for his king on the bloody field of battle.
Then, as a contrast, come the secret courtships and happy marriage of smooth-tongued Master