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Updated: May 6, 2025
Her lower Weeds were all o'er coarsly patch'd With diff'rent-colour'd Rags, black, red, white, yellow, And seem'd to speak Variety of Wretchedness. If she made any Mistake at Church, and cryed Amen in a wrong Place, they never failed to conclude that she was saying her Prayers backwards. There was not a Maid in the Parish that would take a Pin of her, though she would offer a Bag of Mony with it.
Her lower weeds were all o'er coarsly patch'd With different-coloured rags, black, red, white, yellow, And seem'd to speak variety of wretchedness.
For Joan stood in front of me, dress'd in the very clothes I had worn on the day we first met buff-coat, breeches, heavy boots, and all. Her back was toward me, and at the shoulder, where the coat had been cut away from my wound, I saw the rents all darn'd and patch'd with pack thread. In her hand was the mirror I had given her.
After a short Survey of them, I found they were Patch'd differently; the Faces on one Hand, being spotted on the right Side of the Forehead, and those upon the other on the Left. I quickly perceived that they cast hostile Glances upon one another; and that their Patches were placed in those different Situations, as Party-Signals to distinguish Friends from Foes.
No indeed life and travel and memory have offer'd and will preserve to me no deeper-cut incidents, panorama, or sights to cheer my soul, than these at Chicoutimi and Ha-ha bay, and my days and nights up and down this fascinating savage river the rounded mountains, some bare and gray, some dull red, some draped close all over with matted green verdure or vines the ample, calm, eternal rocks everywhere the long streaks of motley foam, a milk-white curd on the glistening breast of the stream the little two-masted schooner, dingy yellow, with patch'd sails, set wing-and-wing, nearing us, coming saucily up the water with a couple of swarthy, black-hair'd men aboard the strong shades falling on the light gray or yellow outlines of the hills all through the forenoon, as we steam within gunshot of them while ever the pure and delicate sky spreads over all.
Behold that man, with lanky locks, Which hang in strange confusion o'er his brow; And nicely scan his garments, rent and patch'd, In colours varied, like a pictured map; And watch his restless glance now grave, now gay As saddening thought, or merry humour's flash Sweeps o'er the deep-mark'd lines which care hath left; As when the world is steep'd in blackest night, The forked lightning flashes through the sky, And all around leaps into life and light, To sink again in darkness blacker still.
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