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An Algonquin Maiden
Excerpt from An Algonquin Maiden
T was a May morning in 182 5-spring-time of the year, late spring-time of the century. It had rained the night before, and a warm pallor in the eastern sky was the only indication that the sun was trying to pierce the gray dome of nearly opaque watery fog, lying low upon that part of the world now known as the city of Toronto, then the town of Little York. This cluster of five or six hundred houses had taken up a determined position at the edge of a forest then gloomily forbidding in its aspect, interminable in extent, inexorable in its resistance to the shy or to the sturdy approaches of the settler. Man versus nature  the successive assaults of perishing humanity upon the almost impregnabl'e fortresses of the eternal forests  this was the struggle of Canadian civilization, and its hard-won triumphs were bodied forth in the scattered roofs of these cheap habitations. Seen now through soft gradations of vapoury gloom, they took on a poetic significance, as tenderly in tangible as the romantic halo which the mist of years loves to weave about the heads of departed pioneers, who, for the most part, lived out their lives in plain, grim style, without anv thought of posing as conquering heroes in the eyes of succeeding generations. From the portico of one of these dwellings, under a wind-swayed sign which advertised it to be a place of rest and refreshment, stepped a man of more than middle age, whose nervous gait and anxious face betokened a mind ill at ease. He had the look and air of a highly respectable old servitor,  one who had followed the family to whom he was bound by ties of life-long service to a country of which he strongly disapproved, not because it offered a poor field for his own advancement, but because, to his mind, its crude society and narrow opportunities ill became the distinction of the Old World family to whose fortunes he was devoted. Time had softened these prejudices, but had failed to melt them; and if they had a pardonable fashion of congealing under the stress of the Canadian winter, they generally showed signs of a thaw at the approach of spring. At the present moment he had no thought, no eyes, for anything save a mist-enshrouded speck far off across the waters of Lake Ontario. All the impa tience and longing of the week just past found vent through his eyes, as he watched that pale, uncertain, scarcely visible mote on the horizon. As he reached the shore the fog lifted a little, and a great sunbeam, leaping from a cloud, illumined for a moment the smooth expanse of water; but the new day was as yet chary of its gifts. It was very still. The woods and waves alike were tranced in absolute calm. The unlighted heavens brooded upon the silent limpid waters and the breathless woods, while between them, with restless step, and heart as gloomy as the morning, with secret, sore misgiving, paced the old servant, his attention still riveted upon that distant speck. The sight of land and home to the gaze ofa long absent wanderer, wearied with ocean, is not more clear than the first glimpse of the approaching sail to watching eyes on shore.
T was a May morning in 182 5-spring-time of the year, late spring-time of the century. It had rained the night before, and a warm pallor in the eastern sky was the only indication that the sun was trying to pierce the gray dome of nearly opaque watery fog, lying low upon that part of the world now known as the city of Toronto, then the town of Little York. This cluster of five or six hundred houses had taken up a determined position at the edge of a forest then gloomily forbidding in its aspect, interminable in extent, inexorable in its resistance to the shy or to the sturdy approaches of the settler. Man versus nature  the successive assaults of perishing humanity upon the almost impregnabl'e fortresses of the eternal forests  this was the struggle of Canadian civilization, and its hard-won triumphs were bodied forth in the scattered roofs of these cheap habitations. Seen now through soft gradations of vapoury gloom, they took on a poetic significance, as tenderly in tangible as the romantic halo which the mist of years loves to weave about the heads of departed pioneers, who, for the most part, lived out their lives in plain, grim style, without anv thought of posing as conquering heroes in the eyes of succeeding generations. From the portico of one of these dwellings, under a wind-swayed sign which advertised it to be a place of rest and refreshment, stepped a man of more than middle age, whose nervous gait and anxious face betokened a mind ill at ease. He had the look and air of a highly respectable old servitor,  one who had followed the family to whom he was bound by ties of life-long service to a country of which he strongly disapproved, not because it offered a poor field for his own advancement, but because, to his mind, its crude society and narrow opportunities ill became the distinction of the Old World family to whose fortunes he was devoted. Time had softened these prejudices, but had failed to melt them; and if they had a pardonable fashion of congealing under the stress of the Canadian winter, they generally showed signs of a thaw at the approach of spring. At the present moment he had no thought, no eyes, for anything save a mist-enshrouded speck far off across the waters of Lake Ontario. All the impa tience and longing of the week just past found vent through his eyes, as he watched that pale, uncertain, scarcely visible mote on the horizon. As he reached the shore the fog lifted a little, and a great sunbeam, leaping from a cloud, illumined for a moment the smooth expanse of water; but the new day was as yet chary of its gifts. It was very still. The woods and waves alike were tranced in absolute calm. The unlighted heavens brooded upon the silent limpid waters and the breathless woods, while between them, with restless step, and heart as gloomy as the morning, with secret, sore misgiving, paced the old servant, his attention still riveted upon that distant speck. The sight of land and home to the gaze ofa long absent wanderer, wearied with ocean, is not more clear than the first glimpse of the approaching sail to watching eyes on shore.
246 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1887
About the author
Graeme Mercer Adam
144 booksGraeme Mercer Adam (May 25, 1839 – October 30, 1912) was a Canadian author, editor, and publisher.
Born in Scotland Adam moved to Toronto in his early 20s, where he became a prominent figure in the Canadian publishing industry. He is best known for founding what became the John W. Lovell Publishing Company.
Adam served twelve years in the Canadian militia as a captain and a commander. In the mid-nineteenth century, he married Jane Gibson, a daughter of the late John Gibson, of Montreal, one of the founders Lovell and Gibson, printers and editors.
Born in Scotland Adam moved to Toronto in his early 20s, where he became a prominent figure in the Canadian publishing industry. He is best known for founding what became the John W. Lovell Publishing Company.
Adam served twelve years in the Canadian militia as a captain and a commander. In the mid-nineteenth century, he married Jane Gibson, a daughter of the late John Gibson, of Montreal, one of the founders Lovell and Gibson, printers and editors.
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January 6, 2025Being a researcher means you have to read unbearble things.
October 2, 2009
After some years of absence, young Edward MacLeod is returning to his parents' mansion somewhere in Upper Canada as his mother is dying. There he meets again with his sister Rose and the beautiful Helène De Berczy, a friend of Rose's and a neighbor. While Rose is in love with the ambitious young politician Allan Dunlop whom her father cannot stand for his radical and progresive views, Edward cannot decide whom to love: Blond and cultivated Hélène, the European fragile flower? Or candidate number two, the mysterious and wild Wanda, a girl of Algonquin and Huron descent with "lustruous lips" and "full black hair" who spends her days swimming in lakes, digging her hands into the earth and haunting the woods like an escaping deer?
G. Mercer Adam and Ethelwyn Wetherald have created a microcosm full of clashing stereotypes. There is nothing subversive in this; it is actually rather trashy. The book is still somewhat ok to read for its plot and ideologies.
G. Mercer Adam and Ethelwyn Wetherald have created a microcosm full of clashing stereotypes. There is nothing subversive in this; it is actually rather trashy. The book is still somewhat ok to read for its plot and ideologies.
June 26, 2018
Although the book was enjoyable, none of the characters were really likable except for Wanda the Algonquin and even her character was not what it could have been.
Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews