One of the most considerable
merchants, went in immediately after the 6th of May, (the day when the
town people made a sally with about 900 men in all, who drove nigh
3000 of the Yankees from their camp, and relieved the town) and was
sent to prison and kept several days. Major John Nairn was so obliging
as to come out 8 or 9 days after that affair to see me; he asked me
why I had not been in town. I told him the reason; I had got no pass.
The next day he sent me one; except another, this is the only one
which had been granted by the Governor as yet, and it is thought some
won't be allowed to go in this summer, why, I cannot say. Every person
had liberty to leave or stay by a proclamation for that purpose, but
as it is military law, no person dare say it is wrong
I am going now again to remain in town, having now learned a little of
the French. I understand every word almost that is said, although I
cannot speak it as well; however I could wish that my brother John
knew as much of it. I three days ago wrote him they were gone to
Halifax, but am told they are to go from there to New York soon....
I am at present studying a little of the French law. If I do not make
use it, it will do me no harm. I expect you have had letters from my
brother Andrew....
I wish you would send me your vouchers of all your Jamaica debts I
could go easily from here to there. If I cannot get money I can get
rum, which sells and will sell, at a great price in this place. I can
only stay there a few months."
Nor must we forget the jolly pic-nics the barons held there some eighty
years ago. [329]
On quitting these silent halls, from which the light of other days had
departed, and from whence the voice of revelry seems to have fled forever,
I re-crossed the little brook, already mentioned, musing on the past. The
solitude which surrounds the dwelling and the tomb of the dark-haired
child of the wilderness, involuntarily brought to mind that beautiful
passage of Ossian, [330] relating to the daughter of Reuthamir, the
"white-bosomed" Moina: - "I have seen the walls of Balclutha, but they
were desolate. The fire had resounded in the halls, and the voice of the
people is heard no more. The thistle shook there its lonely head; the moss
whistled to the wind. The fox looked out of the windows, the rank grass of
the wall waved round its head. Desolate is the dwelling of Moina, silence
is in the house.... Raise the, song of mourning, O bards! over the land of
strangers.
