As we passed the jemseg, we spoke of the time when Madame la Tour so bravely defended the fort in the absence of her husband—­this occurred in the early times of the province, and strange stories are told of spirit forms which glide along the beach, beneath whose sands the white bones of the French and Indians, who fell in the deadly fight, lie buried.  Talking of these things, induced Mrs. Gordon to tell us the following tale, which she had heard, and which I have entitled

A WINTER’S EVENING SKETCH,

WRITTEN IN NEW BRUNSWICK.

    “Oh! there’s a dream of early youth,
    And it never comes again;
    ’Tis a vision of joy, and light, and truth,
    That flits across the brain;
    And love is the theme of that early dream,
    So wild, so warm, so new. 
    And oft I ween, in our after-years,
    That early dream we rue.”—–­Mrs. HEMANS.

The winter’s eve had gathered o’er New Brunswick, and the snow was falling, as in that clime it only knows how to fall.  The atmosphere was like the face of Sterne’s monk, “calm, cold, and penetrating,” and the faint tinkling of the sleigh bells came mournfully on the ear as a knell of sadness—­so utterly cheerless was the scene.  Another hour passed, and our journey was ended.  The open door of the hospitable dwelling was ready to receive us, and in the light and heat of a happy home, toil and trouble were alike forgotten.

There is always something picturesque in the interior of a New Brunswick farm house, and this evening everything assumed an aspect of interest and beauty.  It might have been the comfortable contrast to the scene without that threw its mellow tints around.  Even the homely loom and spinning-wheel lost their uncouthness, and recalled to the mind’s imagery the classic dreams of old romance—­Hercules in the chambers of Omphale the story of Arachne and Penelope, the faithful wife of brave Ulysses; but there was other food for the spirit which required not the aid of fancy to render palatable.  On the large centre table, round which were grouped the household band, with smiling brows and happy hearts, lay the magazines and papers of the day, with their sweet tales and poetic gems.  The “Amulet” and “Keepsake” glittering in silk and gold, and “Chambers,” with plain, unwinning exterior, the ungarnished casket of a mine of treasure, gave forth, like whisperings from a better land, their gentle influence to soothe and cheer the heart, and teach the spirit higher aspirations, while breathing the magic spells raised by their fairy power—­those sweet creators of a world unswayed by earth, where hope and beauty live undimmed by time or tears—­givers to all who own their power, a solace ’mid the pining cares of life.  Thus, with the aid of these, and the joys of converse, sped the night; and as the wind which had now arisen blew heavy gusts of frozen rain against the windows,