Lady Rosamond's Secret A Romance of Fredericton   By: Rebecca Agatha Armour (1846?-1891)

LADY ROSAMOND'S SECRET:

A Romance of Fredericton.

by

RE. AGATHA ARMOUR.

St. John, N. B. Telegraph Printing and Publishing Office. 1878.

INTRODUCTION.

The object of the following story has been to weave simple facts into form dependent upon the usages of society during the administration of Sir Howard Douglas, 1824 30. The style is simple and claims no pretensions for complication of plot. Every means has been employed to obtain the most reliable authority upon the facts thus embodied. The writer is deeply indebted to several gentlemen of high social position who kindly furnished many important facts and showed a lively interest in the work, and takes the present opportunity of returning thanks for such support. In producing this little work the public are aware that too much cannot be expected from an amateur. Hoping that this may meet the approval of many, the writer also thanks those who have so generously responded to the subscription list.

Fredericton. August, 1878.

LADY ROSAMOND'S SECRET

A ROMANCE OF FREDERICTON.

CHAPTER I.

OLD GOVERNMENT HOUSE.

Breathes there a man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land! Scott.

A September sunset in Fredericton, A. D. 1824. Much has been said and sung about the beauteous scenes of nature in every clime. Scott has lovingly depicted his native heaths, mountains, lochs and glens. Moore draws deep inspiration amid scenes of the Emerald Isle, and strikes his lyre to chords of awakening love, light and song. Cowper, Southey and Wordsworth raised their voices in tuneful and harmonious lays, echoing love of native home. Our beloved American poet has wreathed in song the love of nature's wooing in his immortal Hiawatha. Forests in their primeval grandeur, lovely landscapes, sunrise, noonday and sunset each has attracted the keen poetic gaze. Though not the theme of poet or pen who that looks upon our autumn sunset can deny its charms? The western horizon, a mass of living gold, flitting in incessant array and mingling with the different layers of purple, violet, pink, crimson, and tempting hues of indescribable beauty; at intervals forming regular and successive strata of deep blue and red, deepening into bright red. Suddenly as with magic wand a golden cloud shoots through and transforms the whole with dazzling splendour. The bewildering reflection upon the trees as they raise their heads in lofty appreciation, forms a pleasing background, while Heaven's ethereal blue lies calmly floating above. The gently sloping hills lend variety to the scene, stretching in undulations of soft and rich verdure; luxuriant meadow and cultivated fields lie in alternate range. The sons of toil are returning from labour; the birds have sought shelter in their nests; the nimble squirrel hides beneath the leafy boughs, or finds refuge in the sheltering grass, until the next day's wants shall urge a repeated attack upon the goodly spoils of harvest. Soon the golden sheen is departing, casting backward glances upon the hill tops with studied coyness, as lingering to caress the deepening charms of nature's unlimited and priceless wardrobe.