Wellington, on Lake Ontario.(Fishing Nets.)
Wellington, on Lake Ontario.(Fishing Nets.)
“There is a comfort, I guess, in considering oneself equal to a gentleman.”
“Particularly if you could induce the gentleman to think the same.” This was a point that seemed rather to disconcert our candidate for equality, who commenced whistling and kicking his heels with redoubled energy.
“Now,” said his tormentor, “you have explained your notions of Canadian independence, be so good as to explain the machinery of your engine, with which you seem very well acquainted.”
The man eyed my husband for a minute, half sulking, half pleased with the implied compliment on his skill, and, walking off to the engine, discussed the management of it with considerable fluency, and from that time treated us with perfect respect. He was evidently struck with my husband’s reply to his question, put in a most discourteous tone, “Pray, what makes a gentleman; I’ll thank you to answer me that?” “Good manners, and good education,” was the reply. “A rich man, or a high-born man, if he is rude, ill-mannered, and ignorant, is no more a gentleman than yourself.”
This put the matter on a different footing; and the engineer had the good sense to perceive that rude familiarity did not constitute a gentleman.
But it is now time I should give you some account of Peterborough, which, in point of situation, is superior to any place I have yet seen in the Upper Province. It occupies a central point between the townships of Monaghan, Smith, Cavan, Otanahee, and Douro: and may, with propriety, be considered as the capital of the Newcastle District.
It is situated on a fine elevated plain, just above the small lake, where the river is divided by two low wooded islets. The original or government part of the town is laid out in half-acre lots; the streets, which are now fast filling up, are nearly at right-angles with the river, and extend towards the plains to the north-east. These plains form a beautiful natural park, finely diversified with hill and dale, covered with a lovely greensward, enamelled with a variety of the most exquisite flowers, and planted, as if by Nature’s own hand, with groups of feathery pines, oaks, balsams, poplars, and silver birch. The views from these plains are delightful; whichever way you turn your eyes they are gratified by a diversity of hill and dale, wood and water, with the town spreading over a considerable tract of ground.
The plains descend with a steep declivity towards the river, which rushes with considerable impetuosity between its banks. Fancy a long narrow valley, and separating the east and west portions of the town into two distinct villages.
The Otanahee bank rises to a loftier elevation than the Monaghan side, and commands an extensive view over the intervening valley, the opposite town, and the boundary forest and hills behind it: this is called Peterborough East, and is in the hands of two or three individuals of large capital, from whom the town lots are purchased.
Peterborough, thus divided, covers a great extent of ground, more than sufficient for the formation of a large city. The number of inhabitants is now reckoned at 700 and upwards; and if it continues to increase as rapidly in the next few years as it has done lately, it will soon be a very populous town.
There is great water-power, both as regards the river and the fine broad creek which winds its way through the town, and falls into the small lake below. There are several saw and grist-mills, a distillery, fulling-mill, two principal inns, besides smaller ones, a number of good stores, and a government school-house, which also serves for a church till one more suitable should be built. The plains are sold off in pack lots, and some pretty little dwellings are being built; but I much fear the natural beauties of this lovely spot will be soon spoiled.
I am never weary with strolling about, climbing the hills in every direction, to catch some new prospect, or gather some new flowers, which, though getting late in the summer, are still abundant.
Among the plants with whose names I am acquainted, are a variety of shrubby asters, of every tint of blue, purple, and pearly white; a lilacmonarda, most delightfully aromatic, even to the dry stalks and seed-vessels; the whitegnaphalium, or everlasting flower; roses of several kinds, a few late buds of which I found in a valley near the church. I also noticed among the shrubs a very pretty little plant, resembling our box; it trails along the ground, sending up branches and shoots; the leaves turn of a deep copper red, yet, in spite of this contradiction, it is an evergreen. I also noticed some beautiful lichens, with coral caps surmounting the grey hollow foot-stalks, which grow in irregular tufts among the dry mosses; or more frequently I found them covering the roots of the trees or half-decayed timbers. Among a variety of fungi, I gathered a hollow cup, of the most splendid scarlet within, and a pale fawn colour without; another very beautiful fungi consisted of small branches, like clusters of white coral, but of so delicate a texture, that the slightest touch caused them to break.
The ground in many places was covered with a thick carpet of strawberries, of many varieties, which afford a constant dessert during the season to those who choose to pick them,—a privilege of which I am sure I should gladly avail myself were I near them in the summer. Besides the plants I have myself observed in blossom, I am told the spring and summer produce many others; the orange lily; the phlox, or purplelichnidea; the mocassin flower, or lady’s slipper; lilies of the valley in abundance; and, towards the banks of the creek and the Otanahee, the splendid cardinal flower (lobelia cardinalis) waves its scarlet spikes of blossoms.
I am half inclined ta be angry, when I admire the beauty of the Canadian flowers, to be constantly reminded that they are scentless, and therefore scarcely worthy of attention; as if the eye could not be charmed by beauty of form and harmony of colours, independent of the sense of smelling being gratified.
To redeem this country from the censure cast on it by a very clever gentleman I once met in London, who said, “the flowers were without perfume, and the birds without song,” I have already discovered several highly aromatic plants and flowers. The milkweed must not be omitted among these—a beautiful shrubby plant, with purple flowers, which are alike remarkable for beauty of colour and richness of scent.
I consider this country opens a wide and fruitful field to the inquiries of the botanist. I now deeply regret I did not benefit by the frequent offers —— made me of prosecuting a study which I once thought dry, but now regard as highly interesting, and the fertile source of mental enjoyment, especially to those who, living in the bush, must necessarily be shut out from the pleasures of a large circle of friends, and the varieties that a town or village offer.
On Sunday I went to church; the first opportunity I had had of attending public worship since I was in the highlands of Scotland; and surely I had reason to bow my knees in thankfulness to that merciful God, who had brought us through the perils of the great deep, and the horrors of the pestilence.
Never did our beautiful Liturgy seem so touching and impressive as it did that day,—offered up in our lowly log-built church in the wilderness.
This simple edifice is situated at the foot of a gentle slope on the plains, surrounded by groups of oaks and feathery pines, which, though inferior in point of size to the huge pines and oaks of the forest, are far more agreeable to our eye, branching out in a variety of fantastic forms. The turf here is of an emerald greenness; in short, it is a sweet spot, retired from the noise and bustle of the town, a fitting place in which to worship God in spirit and in truth.
There are many beautiful walks towards the Smith-town hills, and along the bank that overlooks the river. The summit of this ridge is sterile, and is thickly set with loose blocks of red and grey granite, interspersed with large masses of limestone scattered in every direction; they are mostly smooth and rounded, as if by the action of water. As they are detached, and merely occupy the surface of the ground, it seems strange to me how they came at that elevation. A geologist would doubtless be able to solve the mystery in a few minutes. The oaks that grow on this high bank are rather larger and more flourishing than those in the valleys and more fertile portions of the soil.
Behind the town, in the direction of the Cavan and Emily roads, is a wide space, which I call the “squatters’ ground,” it being entirely covered with shanties, in which the poor emigrants, commuted pensioners, and the like, have located themselves and families. Some remain here under the ostensible reason of providing a shelter for their wives and children, till they have prepared a home for their reception on their respective grants; but not unfrequently it happens that they are too indolent, or really unable to work on their lots, often situated many miles in the backwoods, and in distant and unsettled townships, presenting great obstacles to the poor emigrant, which it requires more energy and courage to encounter than is possessed by a vast number of them. Others, of idle and profligate habits, spend the money they received, and sell the land, for which they gave away their pensions, after which they remain miserable squatters in the shanty ground.
The shanty is a sort of primitive hut in Canadian architecture, and is nothing more than a shed built of logs, the chinks between the round edges of the timbers being filled with mud, moss, and bits of wood; the roof is frequently composed of logs split and hollowed with the axe, and placed side by side, so that the edges rest on each other; the concave and convex surfaces being alternately uppermost, every other log forms a channel to carry off the rain and melting snow. The eaves of this building resemble the scalloped edges of a clam shell; but, rude as this covering is, it effectually answers the purpose of keeping the interior dry, far more so than the roofs formed of bark or boards, through which the rain will find entrance. Sometimes the shanty has a window, sometimes only an open doorway, which admits the light and lets out the smoke. A rude chimney, which is often nothing better than an opening cut in one of the top logs above the hearth, and a few boards fastened in a square form, serves as the vent for the smoke; the only precaution against the fire catching the log-walls behind the hearth being a few large stones, placed in a half circular form, or more commonly a bank of dry earth raised against the wall.
Nothing can be more comfortless than some of these rude shanties, reeking with smoke and dirt, the common receptacle for children, pigs, and fowls. But I have given you the dark side of the picture; I am happy to say all the shanties on the squatters’ ground were not like these. On the contrary, by far the larger proportion were inhabited by tidy folks, and had one or even two small windows, and a clay chimney, regularly built up through the roof; some were even roughly floored, and possessed similar comforts with the small log-houses.
You will, perhaps, think it strange when I assure you that many respectable settlers, with their wives and families, persons delicately nurtured, and accustomed to every comfort before they came hither, have been contented to inhabit a hut of this kind during the first or second year of their settlement in the woods.
I have listened with feelings of great interest to the history of the hardships endured by some of the first settlers in the neighbourhood, when Peterborough contained but two dwelling-houses. Then there were neither roads cut, nor boats built, for communicating with the distant and settled parts of the district; consequently the difficulties of procuring supplies of provisions was very great, beyond what any one who has lately come hither can form any notion of.
When I heard of a whole family having had no better supply of flour than what could be daily ground by a small hand-mill, and for weeks being destitute of every necessary, not even excepting bread, I could not help expressing some surprise, never having met with any account in the works I had read concerning emigration that at all prepared one for such evils.
“These particular trials,” observed my intelligent friend, “are confined principally to the first breakers of the soil in the unsettled parts of the country, as was our case. If you diligently question some of the families of the lower class that are located far from the towns, and who had little or no means to support them during the first twelve months, till they could take a crop off the land, you will hear many sad tales of distress.”
Writers on emigration do not take the trouble of searching out these things, nor does it answer their purpose to state disagreeable facts. Few have written exclusively on the “Bush.” Travellers generally make a hasty journey through the long-settled and prosperous portions of the country; they see a tract of fertile, well-cultivated land, the result of many years of labour; they see comfortable dwellings, abounding with all the substantial necessaries of life; the farmer’s wife makes her own soap, candles, and sugar; the family are clothed in cloth of their own spinning, and hose of their own knitting. The bread, the beer, butter, cheese, meat, poultry, &c., are all the produce of the farm. He concludes, therefore, that Canada is a land of Canaan, and writes a book setting forth these advantages, with the addition of obtaining land for a mere song; and advises all persons who would be independent, and secure from want, to emigrate.
He forgets that these advantages are the result of long years of unremitting and patient labour; that these things are thecrown, not thefirst-fruitsof the settler’s toil; and that, during the interval, many and great privations must be submitted to by almost every class of emigrants.
Many persons on first coming out, especially if they go back into any of the unsettled townships, are dispirited by the unpromising appearance of things about them. They find none of the advantages and comforts of which they had heard and read, and they are unprepared for the present difficulties; some give way to despondency, and others quit the place in disgust.
A little reflection would have shown them that every rood of land must be cleared of the thick forest of timber that encumbers it before an ear of wheat can be grown; that, after the trees have been chopped, cut into lengths, drawn together, orlogged, as we call it, and burned, the field must be fenced, the sped sown, harvested, and thrashed, before any returns con be obtained; that this requires time and much labour, and, if hired labour, considerable outlay of ready money; and, in the mean time, a family must eat. If at a distance from a store, every article must be brought through bad roads, either by hand or with a team, the hire of which is generally costly in proportion to the distance and difficulty to be encountered in the conveyance. Now these things are better known beforehand, and then people are aware what they have to encounter.
Even a labouring man, though he have land of his own, is often, I may say generally, obliged tohire outto work for the first year or two, to earn sufficient for the maintenance of his family; and ever so many of them suffer much privation before they reap the benefit of their independence. Were it not for the hope and certain prospect of bettering their condition ultimately, they would sink under what they have to endure; but this thought buoys them up. They do not fear an old age of want and pauperism; the present evils must yield to industry and perseverance; they think also for their children; and the trials of the present time are lost in pleasing anticipations for the future.
“Surely,” said I, “cows, and pigs, and poultry might be kept; and you know where there is plenty of milk, butter, cheese, and eggs, with pork and fowls, persons cannot be very badly off for food.”
“Very true,” replied my friend; “but I must tell you it is easier to talk of these things at first than to keep them, unless on cleared or partially cleared farms; but we are speaking of afirstsettlement in the backwoods. Cows, pigs, and fowls must eat; and if you have nothing to give them unless you purchase it, and perhaps have to bring it from some distance, you had better not be troubled with them, as the trouble is certain, and the profit doubtful. A cow, it is true, will get her living during the open months of the year in the bush, but sometimes she will ramble away for days together, and then you lose the use of her, and possibly much time in seeking her; then, in the winter, she requires some additional food to thebrowsethat she gets during the chopping season, or ten to one but she dies before spring; and as cows generally lose their milk during the cold weather if not very well kept, it is best to part with them in the fall, and buy again in the spring, unless you have plenty of food for them, which is not often the case the first winter. As to pigs, they are great plagues on a newly-cleared farm if you cannot fat them off hand; and that you cannot do without you buy food for them, which does not answer to do at first. If they run loose, they are a terrible annoyance both to your own crops and your neighbour’s, if you happen to be within half a mile of one, for though you may fence out cattle you cannot pigs: even poultry require something more than they pick up about the dwelling to be of any service to you, and are often taken off by hawks, eagles, foxes, and pole-cats, till you have proper securities for them.”
“Then how are we to spin our own wool, and make our own soap and candles?” said I. “When you are able to kill your own sheep, and hogs, and oxen, unless you buy wool and tallow.” Then, seeing me begin to look somewhat disappointed, he said, “Be not cast down, you will have all these things in time, and more than these, never fear, if you have patience, and use the means of obtaining them. In the meanwhile prepare your mind for many privations to which at present you are a stranger; and if you would desire to see your husband happy and prosperous, be content to use economy, and, above all, be cheerful. In a few years the farm will supply you with all the necessaries of life, and by and by you may even enjoy many of the luxuries. Then it is that a settler begins to taste the real and solid advantages of his emigration; then he feels the blessings of a country where there are no taxes, tithes, nor poor-rates; then he truly feels the benefit of independence. It is looking forward to this happy fulfilment of his desires that makes the rough paths smooth, and lightens the burden of present ills. He looks round upon a numerous family, without those anxious fears that beset a father in moderate circumstances at home; for he knows he does not leave them destitute of an honest means of support.”
In spite of all the trials he had encountered, I found this gentleman was so much attached to a settler’s life, that he declared he would not go back to his own country to reside for a permanence on any account; nor is he the only one that I have heard express the same opinion; and it likewise seems a universal one among the lower class of emigrants. They are encouraged by the example of others, whom they see enjoying comforts that they could never have obtained had they laboured ever so hard at home; and they wisely reflect they must have had hardships to endure had they remained in their native land, (many indeed had been driven out by want,) without the most remote chance of bettering themselves, or becoming the possessors of land free of all restrictions. “What to us are the sufferings of one, two, three, or even four years, compared with a whole life of labour and poverty?” was the remark of a poor labourer, who was recounting to us the other day some of the hardships he had met with in this country. He said, he “knew they were only for a short time, and that by industry he should soon get over them.”
I have already seen two of our poor neighbours that left the parish a twelve-month ago; they are settled in Canada Company lots, and are getting on well. They have some few acres cleared and cropped, but are obliged to “hire out,” to enable their families to live, working on their own land when they can. The men are in good spirits; and say, “they shall in a few years have many comforts about them that they never could have got at home, had they worked late and early; but they complain that their wives are always pining for home, and lamenting that ever they crossed the seas.” This seems to be the general complaint with all classes; the women are discontented and unhappy. Few enter with their whole heart into a settler’s life. They miss the little domestic comforts they had been used to enjoy; they regret the friends and relations they left in the old country; and they cannot endure the loneliness of the backwoods.
This prospect does not discourage me; I know I shall find plenty of occupation within doors, and I have sources of enjoyment when I walk abroad that will keep me from being dull. Besides, have I not a right to be cheerful and contented for the sake of my beloved partner? The change is not greater for me than him; and if, for his sake, I have voluntarily left home, and friends, and country, shall I therefore sadden him by useless regrets? I am always inclined to subscribe to that sentiment of my favourite poet, Goldsmith,—
“Still to ourselves in every place consign’d,Our own felicity we make or find.”
“Still to ourselves in every place consign’d,Our own felicity we make or find.”
“Still to ourselves in every place consign’d,Our own felicity we make or find.”
“Still to ourselves in every place consign’d,
Our own felicity we make or find.”
But I shall very soon be put to the test, as we leave this town to-morrow by ten o’clock. The purchase of the Lake lot is concluded. There are three acres chopped, and a shanty up; but the shanty is not a habitable dwelling, being merely an open shed that was put up by the choppers as a temporary shelter; so we shall have to build a house. Late enough we are; too late to get in a full crop, as the land is merely chopped, not cleared; and it is too late now to log and burn the fallow, and get the seed-wheat in; but it will be ready for spring crops. We paid five dollars and a half per acre for the lot; this was rather high for wild land, so far from a town, and in a scantily-settled part of the township; but the situation is good, and has a water-frontage, for which my husband was willing to pay something more than if the lot had been further inland. * * * *
I shall begin my letter with a description of our journey through the bush, and so go on, giving an account of our proceedings, both within doors and without. I know my little domestic details will not prove wholly uninteresting to you; for well I am assured that a mother’s eye is never weary with reading lines traced by the hand of an absent and beloved child.
After some difficulty, we succeeded in hiring a waggon and span (i. e.pair a-breast) of stout horses, to convey us and our luggage through the woods to the banks of one of the lakes, where——had appointed to ferry us across. There was no palpable road, only a blaze on the other side, encumbered by fallen trees, and interrupted by a great cedar swamp, into which one might sink up to one’s knees, unless we took the precaution to step along the trunks of the mossy, decaying timbers, or make our footing sure on some friendly block of granite or limestone. What is termed in bush language ablaze, is nothing more than notches or slices cut off the back of the trees, to mark out the line of road. The boundaries of the different lots are often marked by a blazed tree, also the concession-lines.[1]These blazes are of as much use as finger-posts of a dark night.
The road we were compelled to take lay over the Peterborough plains, in the direction of the river; the scenery of which pleased me much, though it presented little appearance of fertility, with the exception of two or three extensive clearings.
About three miles above Peterborough the road winds along the brow of a steep ridge, the bottom of which has every appearance of having been formerly the bed of a lateral branch of the present river, or perhaps some small lake, which has been diverted from its channel, and merged into the Otanabee.
On either side of this ridge there is a steep descent; on the right, the Otanabee breaks upon you, rushing with great velocity over its rocky bed, forming rapids in miniature, resembling those of the St. Lawrence; its dark frowning woods of sombre pine give a grandeur to the scene which is very impressive. On the left lies below you a sweet secluded dell of evergreens, cedar, hemlock, and pine, enlivened by a few deciduous trees. Through this dell there is a road-track, leading to a fine cleared farm, the green pastures of which were rendered more pleasing by the absence of the odious stumps that disfigure the clearings in this part of the country. A pretty bright stream flows through the low meadow that lies at the foot of the hill, which you descend suddenly close by a small grist-mill that is worked by the waters, just where they meet the rapids of the river.
I called this place “Glen Morrison,” partly from the remembrance of the lovely Glen Morrison of the Highlands, and partly because it was the name of the settler that owned the spot.
Our progress was but slow, on account of the roughness of the road, which is beset with innumerable obstacles, in the shape of loose blocks of granite and limestone, with which the lands on the banks of the river and lakes abound; to say nothing of fallen trees, big roots, mud-holes, and corduroy bridges, over which you go jolt, jolt, jolt, till every bone in your body feels as if it were going to be dislocated. An experienced bush-traveller avoids many hard thumps by rising up or clinging to the sides of his rough vehicle.
As the day was particularly fine I often quitted the waggon, and walked on with my husband for a mile or two.
We soon lost sight entirely of the river, and struck into the deep solitude of the forest, where not a sound disturbed the almost awful stillness that reigned around us. Scarcely a leaf or bough was in motion, excepting at intervals we caught the sound of the breeze stirring the lofty heads of the pine-trees, and wakening a hoarse and mournful cadence. This, with the tapping of the red-headed and grey woodpeckers on the trunks of the decaying trees, or the shrill whistling cry of the little striped squirrel, called by the natives ‘chitmunk,’ was every sound that broke the stillness of the wild. Nor was I less surprised at the absence of animal life. With the exception of the aforesaid chitmunk, no living thing crossed our path during our long day’s journey in the woods.
In these vast solitudes one would naturally be led to imagine that the absence of man would have allowed nature’s wild denizens to have abounded free and unmolested; but the contrary seems to be the case. Almost all wild animals are more abundant in the cleared districts than in the bush. Man’s industry supplies their wants at an easier rate than seeking a scanty subsistence in the forest.
You hear continually of depredations committed by wolves, bears, racoons, lynxes, and foxes, in the long-settled parts of the province. In the backwoods the appearance of wild beasts is a matter of much rarer occurrence.
I was disappointed in the forest trees, having pictured to myself hoary giants, almost primeval with the country itself, as greatly exceeding in majesty of form the trees of my native isles, as the vast lakes and mighty rivers of Canada exceed the locks and streams of Britain.
There is a want of picturesque beauty in the woods. The young growth of timber alone has any pretension to elegance of form, unless I except the hemlocks, which are extremely light and graceful, and of a lovely refreshing tint of green. Even when winter has stripped the forest, it is still beautiful and verdant. The young beeches, too, are pretty enough, but you miss that fantastic bowery shade that is so delightful in our parks and woodlands at home.
There is no appearance of venerable antiquity in the Canadian woods. There are no ancient spreading oaks, that might be called the patriarchs of the forest. A premature decay seems to be their doom. They are uprooted by the storm, and sink in their first maturity, to give place to a new generation that is ready to fill their places.
The pines are certainly the finest trees. In point of size there are none to surpass them. They tower above all the others, forming a dark line that may be distinguished for many miles. The pines being so much loftier than the other trees, are sooner uprooted, as they receive the full and unbroken force of the wind in their tops; thus it is that the ground is continually strewn with the decaying trunks of huge pines. They also seem more liable to inward decay, and blasting from lightning, and fire. Dead pines are more frequently met with than any other tree.
Much as I had seen and heard of the badness of the roads in Canada, I was not prepared for such a one as we travelled along this day; indeed, it hardly deserved the name of a road, being little more than an opening hewed out through the woods, the trees being felled and drawn aside, so as to admit a wheeled carriage passing along. The swamps and little forest streams, that occasionally gush across the path, are rendered passable by logs placed side by side. From the ridgy and striped appearance of these bridges, they are aptly enough termed corduroy.
Over these abominable corduroys the vehicle jolts, jumping from log to log, with a shock that must be endured with as good a grace as possible. If you could bear these knocks, and pitiless thumpings and bumpings, without wry faces, your patience and philosophy would far exceed mine;—sometimes I laughed because I would not cry.
Imagine you see me perched upon a seat composed of carpet-bags, trunks, and sundry packages, in a vehicle little better than a great rough deal box set on wheels, the sides being merely pegged in, so that more than once I found myself in rather an awkward predicament, owing to the said sides jumping out. In the very midst of a deep mud-hole out went the front board, and with the shock went the teamster (driver), who looked rather confounded at finding himself lodged in a slough as bad as the “Slough of Despond.” For my part, as I could do no good, I kept my seat, and patiently awaited the restoration to order. This was soon effected, and all went on well again, till a jolt against a huge pine-tree gave such a jar to the ill-set vehicle, that one of the boards danced out that composed the bottom, and a sack of flour, and a bag of salted pork, which was on its way to a settler’s whose clearing we had to pass in the way, were ejected. A good teamster is seldom taken aback by such trifles as these.
He is, or should be, provided with an axe. No waggon, team, or any other travelling equipage, should be unprovided with an instrument of this kind, as no one can answer for the obstacles that may impede his progress in the bush. The disasters we met fortunately required but little skill in remedying. The sides need only a stout peg, and the loosened planks that form the bottom being quickly replaced, away you go again over root, stump, and stone, mud-hole, and corduroy; now against the trunk of some standing tree, now mounting over some fallen one, with an impulse that would annihilate any lighter equipage than a Canadian waggon, which is admirably fitted by its very roughness for such roads as we have in the bush.
The sagacity of the horses in this country is truly admirable. Their patience in surmounting the difficulties they have to encounter, their skill in avoiding the holes and stones, and in making their footing sure over the round and slippery timbers of the log bridges, renders them very valuable. If they want the spirit and fleetness of some of our high-bred blood horses, they make up in gentleness, strength, and patience. This renders them most truly valuable, as they will travel in such places that no British horse would, with equal safety to their drivers. Nor are the Canadian horses, when well fed and groomed, at all deficient in beauty of colour, size, or form. They are not very often used in logging; the ox is preferred in all rough and heavy labour of this kind.
Just as the increasing gloom of the forest began to warn us of the approach of evening, and I was getting weary and hungry, our driver, in some confusion, avowed his belief that, somehow or other, he had missed the track, though how he could not tell, seeing there was but one road. We were nearly two miles from the last settlement, and he said we ought to be within sight of the lake if we were on the right road. The only plan, we agreed, was for him to go forward and leave the team, and endeavour to ascertain if he were near the water; and, if otherwise, to return to the house we had passed, and inquire the way.
After running full half a mile a-head, he returned with a dejected countenance, saying we must be wrong, for he saw no appearance of water; and the road we were on appeared to end in a cedar swamp, as the further he went the thicker the hemlocks and cedars became; so, as we had no desire to commence our settlement by a night’s lodging in a swamp,—where, to use the expression of our driver, the cedars grew as thick as hairs on a cat’s back, we agreed to retrace our steps.
After some difficulty the lumbering machine was turned, and slowly we began our backward march. We had not gone more than a mile, when a boy came along, who told us we might just go back again, as there was no other road to the lake; and added, with a knowing nod of his head, “Master, I guess if you had known the bush as well as I, you would never have beenfuleenough to turn when you were going just right. Why, any body knows thatthemcedars and hemlocks grow thickest near the water; so you may just go back for your pains.”
It was dark, save that the stars came forth with more than usual brilliancy, when we suddenly emerged from the gloomy forest to the shores of a beautiful little lake, that gleamed the more brightly from the contrast of the dark masses of foliage that hung over it, and the towering pine-woods that girt its banks.
Here, seated on a huge block of limestone, which was covered with a soft cushion of moss, beneath the shade of the cedars that skirt the lake, surrounded with trunks, boxes, and packages of various descriptions, which the driver had hastily thrown from the waggon, sat your child, in anxious expectation of some answering voice to my husband’s long and repeated holloa.
But when the echo of his voice had died away, we heard only the gurgling of the waters at the head of the rapids, and the distant and hoarse murmur of a waterfall some half mile below them.
We could see no sign of any habitation, no gleam of light from the shore to cheer us. In vain we strained our ears for the plash of the oar, or welcome sound of the human voice, or bark of some household dog, that might assure us we were not doomed to pass the night in the lone wood.
We began now to apprehend we had really lost the way. To attempt returning through the deepening darkness of the forest in search of any one to guide us was quite out of the question, the road being so ill defined that we should soon have been lost in the mazes of the woods. The last sound of the waggon wheels had died away in the distance, and to have overtaken it would have been impossible. Bidding me remain quietly where I was, my husband forced his way through the tangled underwood along the bank, in hope of discovering some sign of the house we sought, which we had every reason to suppose must be near, though probably hidden by the dense mass of trees from our sight.
As I sat in the wood, in silence and in darkness, my thoughts gradually wandered back across the Atlantic to my dear mother, and to my old home; and I thought, what would have been your feelings, could you at that moment have beheld me as I sat on the cold mossy stone, in the profound stillness of that vast leafy wilderness, thousands of miles from all those holy ties of kindred and early associations that make home in all countries a hallowed spot. It was a moment to press upon my mind the importance of the step I had taken, in voluntarily sharing the lot of the emigrant,—in leaving the land of my birth, to which, in all probability, I might never again return. Great as was the sacrifice,—even at that moment, strange as was my situation,—I felt no painful regret or fearful misgiving depress my mind. A holy and tranquil peace came down upon me, soothing and softening my spirits into a calmness that seemed as unruffled as was the bosom of the water that lay stretched before my feet.
My reverie was broken by the light plash of a paddle, and a bright line of light showed a canoe dancing over the lake; in a few minutes a well-known and friendly voice greeted me as the little bark was moored among the cedars at my feet. My husband having gained a projecting angle of the shore, had discovered the welcome blaze of the wood fire in the log-house; and, after some difficulty, had succeeded in rousing the attention of its inhabitants. Our coming that day had long been given up, and our first call had been mistaken for the sound of the ox-bells in the wood; this had caused the delay that had so embarrassed us.
We soon forgot our weary wanderings beside the bright fire that blazed on the hearth of the log-house, in which we found S—— comfortably domiciled with his wife. To the lady I was duly introduced; and in spite of all remonstrances from the affectionate and careful mother, three fair sleeping children were successively handed out of their cribs to be shown me by the proud and delighted father.
Our welcome was given with that unaffected cordiality that is so grateful to the heart; it was as sincere as it was kind. All means were adopted to soften the roughness of our accommodations; which, if they lacked that elegance and convenience to which we had been accustomed in England, were not devoid of rustic comfort; at all events, they were such as many settlers of the first respectability have been glad to content themselves with, and many have not been half so well lodged as we are now.
We may, indeed, consider ourselves fortunate in not being obliged to go at once into the rude shanty that I described to you as the only habitation on our land. This test of our fortitude was kindly spared us by S——, who insisted on our remaining beneath his hospitable roof till such time as we should have put up a house on our own lot. Here, then, we are for the presentfixed, as the Canadians say; and if I miss many of the little comforts and luxuries of life, I enjoy excellent health and spirits, and am very happy in the society of those around me.
The children are already very fond of me. They have discovered my passion for flowers, which they diligently search for among the stumps, and along the lakeshore. I have begun collecting, and though the season is far advanced, myhortussiccusboasts of several elegant specimens of fern; the yellow Canadian violet, which blooms twice in the year, in the spring and fall, as the autumnal season is expressively termed; two sorts of Michaelmas daisies, as we call the shrubby asters, of which the varieties here are truly elegant; and a wreath of the festoon pine, a pretty evergreen, with creeping stalks, that run along the ground three or four yards in length, sending up, at the distance of five or six inches, erect, stiff, green stems, resembling some of our heaths in the dark, shining, green, chaffy leaves. The Americans ornament their chimney glasses with garlands of this plant, mixed with the dried blossoms of the life-everlasting (the pretty white and yellow flowers we call love-everlasting); this plant is also called festoon pine. In my rambles in the wood near the house, I have discovered a trailing plant, bearing a near resemblance to the cedar, which I consider has, with equal propriety, a claim to the name of ground or creeping cedar.
As much of the botany of these unsettled portions of the country is unknown to the naturalist, and the plants are quite nameless, I take the liberty of bestowing names upon them according to inclination or fancy. But while I am writing about flowers, I am forgetting that you will be more interested in hearing what steps we are taking on our land.
My husband has hired people to log up, (that is, to draw the chopped timbers into heaps for burning,) and clear a space for building our house upon. He has also entered into an agreement with a young settler in our vicinity to complete it for a certain sum, within and without, according to a given plan. We are, however, to call the “bee,” and provide every thing necessary for the entertainment of our worthyhive. Now, you know that a “bee,” in American language, or rather phraseology, signifies those friendly meetings of neighbours who assemble at your summons to raise the walls of your house, shanty, barn, or any other building: this is termed a “raising bee.” Then there are logging-bees, husking-bees, chopping-bees, and quilting-bees. The nature of the work to be done gives the name to the bee. In the more populous and long-settled districts this practice is much discontinued; but it is highly useful, and almost indispensable to new settlers in the remote townships, where the price of labour is proportionately high, and workmen difficult to be procured.
Imagine the situation of an emigrant with a wife and young family, the latter possibly too young to render him the least assistance in the important business of chopping, logging, and building, on their first coming out to take possession of a lot of wild land: how deplorable would their situation be, unless they could receive quick and ready help from those around them!
This laudable practice has grown out of necessity; and if it has its disadvantages,—such, for instance, as being called upon at an inconvenient season for a return of help by those who have formerly assisted you,—yet it is so indispensable to you that the debt of gratitude ought to be cheerfully repaid. It is, in fact, regarded in the light of a debt of honour; you cannot be forced to attend a bee in return, but no one that can does refuse, unless from urgent reasons; and if you do not find it possible to attend in person, you may send a substitute in a servant, or in cattle, if you have a yoke.
In no situation, and under no circumstance, does the equalizing system of America appear to such advantage as in meetings of this sort. All distinctions of rank, education, and wealth are for the time voluntarily laid aside. You will see the son of the educated gentleman and that of the poor artisan, the officer and the private soldier, the independent settler and the labourer who works out for hire, cheerfully uniting in one common cause. Each individual is actuated by the benevolent desire of affording help to the helpless, and exerting himself to raise a home for the homeless. * * * * * * *
Our log-house is not yet finished, though it is in a state of forwardness. We are still indebted to the hospitable kindness of S—— and his wife for a home. This being their first settlement on their land, they have as yet many difficulties, in common with all residents in the backwoods, to put up with this year. They have a fine block of land, well situated; and S—— laughs at the present privations, to which he opposes a spirit of cheerfulness and energy that is admirably calculated to effect their conquest. They are now about to remove to a larger and more commodious house that has been put up this fall, leaving us the use of the old one till our own is ready.
We begin to get reconciled to our Robinson Crusoe sort of life; and the consideration that the present evils are but temporary, goes a great way towards reconciling us to them.
One of our greatest inconveniences arises from the badness of our roads, and the distance at which we are placed from any village or town where provisions are to be procured.
Till we raise our own grain, and fatten our own hogs, sheep, and poultry, we must be dependent upon the stores for food of every kind. These supplies have to be brought us, at considerable expense and loss of time, through our beautiful bush roads; which, to use the words of a poor Irishwoman, “can’t be no worser.” “Och, darlint,” she said, “but they are just bad enough, and can’t be no worser. Och, but they arn’t like to our iligant roads in Ireland.”
You may send down a list of groceries to be forwarded when a team comes up, and when we examine our stores, behold rice, sugar, currants, pepper, and mustard all jumbled into one mess! What think you of a rice pudding seasoned plentifully with pepper, mustard, and, may be, a little rappee or prince’s mixture added by way of sauce? I think the recipe would cut quite a figure in the “Cook’s Oracle,” or Mrs. Dalgairn’s “Practice of Cookery,” under the original title of a “Bush pudding.”
And then, woe and destruction to the brittle ware that may chance to travel through our roads! Lucky, indeed, are we, if, through the superior carefulness of the person who packs them, more than one-half happens to arrive in safety. For such mishaps we have no redress. The storekeeper lays the accident upon the teamster, and the teamster upon the bad roads, wondering that he himself escapes with whole bones after a journey through the bush.
This is now the worst season of the year,—this and just after the breaking up of the snow. Nothing hardly but an ox-cart can travel along the roads, and even that with difficulty, occupying two days to perform the journey; and the worst of the matter is, that there are times when the most necessary articles of provisions are not to be procured at any price. You see, then, that a settler in the bush requires to hold himself pretty independent, not only of the luxuries and delicacies of the table, but not unfrequently even of the very necessaries.
One time no pork is to be procured; another time there is a scarcity of flour, owing to some accident that has happened to the mill, or for the want of proper supplies of wheat for grinding; or perhaps the weather and the bad roads at the same time prevent a team coming up, or people from going down. Then you must have recourse to a neighbour, if you have the good fortune to be near one, or fare the best you can on potatoes. The potatoe is, indeed, a great blessing here; new settlers would often be otherwise greatly distressed; and the poor man and his family, who are without resources, without the potatoe must starve.
Once our stock of tea was exhausted, and we were unable to procure more. In this dilemma milk would have been an excellent substitute, or coffee, if we had possessed it; but we had neither one nor the other, so we agreed to try the Yankee tea—hemlock sprigs boiled. This proved to my taste a vile decoction; though I recognised some herb in the tea that was sold in London at five shillings a pound, which I am certain was nothing better than dried hemlock leaves reduced to a coarse powder.
S—— laughed at our wry faces, declaring the potation was excellent; and he set us an example by drinking six cups of this truly sylvan beverage. His eloquence failed in gaining a single convert; we could not believe it was only second to young hyson. To his assurance that to its other good qualities it united medicinal virtues, we replied that, like all other physic, it was very unpalatable.
“After all,” said S——, with a thoughtful air, “the blessings and the evils of this life owe their chief effect to the force of contrast, and are to be estimated by that principally. We should not appreciate the comforts we enjoy half so much if we did not occasionally feel the want of them. How we shall value the conveniences of a cleared farm after a few years, when we can realise all the necessaries and many of the luxuries of life!”
“And how we shall enjoy green tea after this odious decoction of hemlock!” said I.
“Very true; and a comfortable frame-house, and nice garden, and pleasant pastures, after these dark forests, log-houses, and no garden at all!”
“And the absence of horrid black stumps!” rejoined I. “Yes; and the absence of horrid stumps! Depend upon it, my dear, your Canadian farm will seem to you a perfect paradise by the time it is all under cultivation; and you will look upon it with the more pleasure and pride from the consciousness that it was once a forest wild, which, by the effects of industry and well-applied means, has changed to fruitful fields. Every fresh comfort you realise around you will add to your happiness; every improvement within doors or without will raise a sensation of gratitude and delight in your mind, to which those that revel in the habitual enjoyment of luxury, and even of the commonest advantages of civilization, must in a great degree be strangers. My pass-words are—‘Hope, resolution, and perseverance!’” “This,” said my husband, “is true philosophy; and the more forcible, because you not only recommend the maxim, but practise it also.”
I had reckoned much on the Indian summer, of which I had read such delightful descriptions; but I must say it has fallen far below my expectations. Just at the commencement of this month (November) we experienced three or four warm hazy days, that proved rather close and oppressive. The sun looked red through the misty atmosphere, tinging the fantastic clouds that hung in smoky volumes with saffron and pale crimson light, much as I have seen the clouds above London look on a warm sultry spring morning.
Not a breeze ruffled the waters, not a leaf (for the leaves had not entirely fallen) moved. This perfect stagnation of the air was suddenly changed by a hurricane of wind and snow that came on without any previous warning. I was standing near a group of tall pines, that had been left in the middle of a clearing, collecting some beautiful crimson lichens, S—— not being many paces distant, with his oxen drawing firewood: suddenly we heard a distant hollow rushing sound, that momentarily increased, the air around us being yet perfectly calm; I looked up, and beheld the clouds, hitherto so motionless, moving with amazing rapidity in several different directions. A dense gloom overspread the heavens. S——, who had been busily engaged with the cattle, had not noticed my being so near, and now called to me to use all the speed I could to gain the house, or an open part of the clearing, distant from the pine-trees. Instinctively I turned towards the house, while the thundering shock of trees falling in all directions at the edge of the forest, the rending of the branches from the pines I had just quitted, and the rush of the whirlwind sweeping down the lake, made me sensible of the danger with which I had been threatened.
The scattered boughs of the pines darkened the air as they whirled above me; then came the blinding snow storm; but I could behold the progress of the tempest in safety, having gained the threshold of our house. The driver of the oxen had thrown himself on the ground, while the poor beasts held down their meek heads, patiently abiding “the pelting of the pitiless storm.” S——, my husband, and the rest of the household, collected in a group, watched with anxiety the wild havoc of the warring elements. Not a leaf remained on the trees when the hurricane was over; they were bare and desolate. Thus ended the short reign of the Indian summer.
I think the notion entertained by some travellers, that the Indian summer is caused by the annual conflagration of forests by those Indians inhabiting the unexplored regions beyond the larger lakes, is absurd. Imagine for an instant what immense tracts of woods must be yearly consumed to affect nearly the whole of the continent of North America; besides, it takes place at that season of the year when the fire is least likely to run freely, owing to the humidity of the ground from the autumnal rains. I should rather attribute the peculiar warmth, and hazy appearance of the air that marks this season, to the fermentation going on of so great a mass of vegetable matter that is undergoing a state of decomposition during the latter part of October and the beginning of November. It has been supposed by some persons that a great alteration will be effected in this season, as the process of clearing the land continues to decrease the quantity of decaying vegetation. Nay, I have heard the difference is already observable to those long acquainted with the American continent.
Hitherto my experience of the climate is favourable. The autumn has been very fine, though the frosts are felt early in the month of September; at first slightly, of a morning, but towards October more severely. Still, though the first part of the day is cold, the middle of it is warm and cheerful.
We see already the stern advances of winter. It commenced very decidedly from the breaking up of the Indian summer. November is not at all like the same month at home. The early part was soft and warm, the latter cold, with keen frosts, and occasional falls of snow; but it does not seem to possess the dark, gloomy, damp character of our British Novembers. However, it is not one season’s acquaintance with the climate that enables a person to form any correct judgment of its general character, but a close observance of its peculiarities and vicissitudes during many years’ residence in the country.
I must now tell you what my husband is doing on our land. He has let out ten acres to some Irish choppers, who have established themselves in the shanty for the winter. They are to receive fourteen dollars per acre for chopping, burning, and fencing-in that quantity. The ground is to be perfectly cleared of every thing but the stumps; these will take from seven to nine or ten years to decay; the pine, hemlock, and fir remain much longer. The process of clearing away the stumps is too expensive for new beginners to venture upon, labour being so high that it cannot be appropriated to any but indispensable work. The working season is very short, on account of the length of time the frost remains on the ground. With the exception of chopping trees, very little can be done. Those that understand the proper management of uncleared land, usually underbrush, (that is, cut down all the small timbers and brushwood,) while the leaf is yet on them; this is piled in heaps, and the wind-fallen trees are chopped through in lengths, to be logged up in the spring with the winter’s chopping. The latter end of the summer and the autumn are the best seasons for this work. The leaves then become quite dry and sear, and greatly assist in the important business of burning off the heavy timbers. Another reason is, that when the snow has fallen to some depth, the light timbers cannot be cut close to the ground, or the dead branches and other encumbrances collected and thrown into heaps.
We shall have about three acres ready for spring crops, provided we get a good burning of that which is already chopped near the site of the house; this will be sown with oats, pumpkins, Indian corn, and potatoes: the other ten acres will be ready for putting in a crop of wheat. So you see it will be a long time before we reap a harvest. We could not even get in spring-wheat early enough to come to perfection this year.
We shall try to get two cows in the spring, as they are little expense during the spring, summer, and autumn; and by the winter we shall have pumpkins and oat-straw for them. * * * * * *
But it is time that I should give you some account of our log-house, into which we moved a few days before Christmas. Many unlooked-for delays having hindered its completion before that time, I began to think it would never be habitable.
The first misfortune that happened was the loss of a fine yoke of oxen, that were purchased to draw in the house-logs; that is, the logs for raising the walls of the house. Not regarding the bush as pleasant as their former master’s cleared pastures, or, perhaps, foreseeing some hard work to come, early one morning they took it into their heads to ford the lake at the head of the rapids and march off, leaving no trace of their route excepting their footing at the water’s edge. After many days spent in vain search for them, the work was at a stand, and for one month they were gone, and we began to give up all expectation of hearing any news of them. At last we learned they were some twenty miles off, in a distant township, having made their way through bush and swamp, creek and lake, back to their former owner, with an instinct that supplied to them the want of roads and compass.
Oxen have been known to traverse a tract of wild country to a distance of thirty or forty miles, going in a direct line for their former haunts by unknown paths, where memory could not avail them. In the dog we consider it is scent, as well as memory, that guides him to his far-off home; but how is this conduct of the oxen to be accounted for? They returned home through the mazes of interminable forests, where man, with all his reason and knowledge, would have been bewildered and lost.
It was the latter end of October before even the walls of our house were up. To effect this we called “a bee.” Sixteen of our neighbours cheerfully obeyed our summons; and, though the day was far from favourable, so faithfully did our hive perform their tasks, that by night the outer walls were raised.
The work went merrily on with the help of plenty of Canadian nectar (whisky), the honey that ourbeesare solaced with. Some huge joints of salt pork, a peck of potatoes, with a rice-pudding, and a loaf as big as an enormous Cheshire cheese, formed the feast that was to regale them during the raising. This was spread out in the shanty, in avery rural style. In short, we laughed, and called it apic-nic in thebackwoods; and rude as was the fare, I can assure you great was the satisfaction expressed by all the guests of every degree, our “bee” being considered as very well conducted. In spite of the difference of rank among those that assisted at the bee, the greatest possible harmony prevailed, and the party separated well pleased with the day’s work and entertainment.
The following day I went to survey the newly-raised edifice, hut was sorely puzzled, as it presented very little appearance of a house. It was merely an oblong square of logs, raised one above the other, with open spaces; for the doors and windows were not then chopped out, and the rafters were not up. In short, it looked a very queer sort of a place; and I returned home a little disappointed, and wondering that my husband should be so well pleased with the progress that had been made. A day or two after this I again visited it. Thesleeperswere laid to support the floors, and the places for the doors and windows cut out of the solid timbers, so that it had not quite so much the look of a bird-cage as before.
After the roof was shingled we were again at a stand, as no board could be procured nearer than Peterborough, a long day’s journey through horrible roads. At that time no saw-mill was in progress; now there is a fine one building within a little distance of us. Our flooring-boards were all to be sawn by hand, and it was some time before any one could be found to perform this necessary work, and that at high wages—six-and-sixpence per day. Well, the boards were at length down, but of course of unseasoned timber; this was unavoidable; so as they could not be planed, we were obliged to put up with their rough unsightly appearance, for no better were to be had. I began to recall to mind the observation of the old gentleman with whom we travelled from Cobourg to Rice Lake. We console ourselves with the prospect that by next summer the boards will all be seasoned, and then the house is to be turned topsy-turvy, by having the floors all relaid, jointed, and smoothed.
The next misfortune that happened, was, that the mixture of clay and lime, that was to plaster the inside and outside of the house between the chinks of the logs, was one night frozen to stone. Just as the work was about half completed, the frost suddenly setting in, put a stop to our proceeding for some time, as the frozen plaster yielded neither to fire nor to hot water, the latter freezing before it had any effect on the mass, and rather making bad worse. Then the workman that was hewing the inside walls to make them smooth, wounded himself with the broad axe, and was unable to resume his work for some time.
I state these things merely to show the difficulties that attend us in the fulfilment of our plans; and this accounts, in a great measure, for the humble dwellings that settlers of the most respectable description are obliged to content themselves with at first coming to this country,—not, you may be assured, from inclination, but necessity: I could give you such narratives of this kind as would astonish you. After all, it serves to make us more satisfied than we should be, on casting our eyes around to see few better off than we are, and many not half so comfortable, yet of equal, and, in some instances, superior pretensions as to station and fortune.
Every man in this country is his own glazier; this you will laugh at; but if he does not wish to see and feel the discomfort of broken panes, he must learn to put them in his windows with his own hands. Workmen are not easily to be had in the backwoods when you want them; and it would be preposterous to hire a man at high wages, to make two days’ journey to and from the nearest town to mend your windows. Boxes of glass of several different sizes are to be bought at a very cheap rate in the stores. My husband amused himself by glazing the windows of the house preparatory to their being fixed in.
To understand the use of carpenter’s tools, I assure you, is no despicable or useless kind of knowledge here. I would strongly advise all young men coming to Canada to acquire a little acquaintance with this valuable art, as they will often be put to great inconvenience for the want of it.
I was once much amused with hearing the remarks made by a very fine lady, the reluctant sharer of her husband’s emigration, on seeing the son of a naval officer of some rank in the service busily employed in making an axe-handle out of a piece of rock-elm.
“I wonder you allow George to degrade himself so,” she said, addressing his father.
The captain looked up with surprise. “Degrade himself! In what manner, madam? My boy neither swears, drinks whisky, steals, nor tells lies.”
“But you allow him to perform tasks of the most menial kind. What is he now better than a hedge-carpenter; and I suppose you allow him to chop, too?”
“Most assuredly I do. That pile of logs in the cart there was all cut by him after he had left study yesterday,” was the reply.
“I would see my boys dead before they should use an axe like common labourers.”
“Idleness is the root of all evil,” said the captain. “How much worse might my son be employed if he were running wild about the streets with bad companions.”
“You will allow this is not a country for gentlemen or ladies to live in,” said the lady.
“It is the country for gentlemen that will not work, and cannot live without, to starve in,” replied the captain, bluntly; “and for that reason I make my boys early accustom themselves to be usefully and actively employed.”
“My boys shall never work like common mechanics,” said the lady, indignantly.
“Then, madam, they will be good for nothing as settlers; and it is a pity you dragged them across the Atlantic.”
“We were forced to come. We could not live as we had been used to do at home, or I never would have come to this horrid country.”
“Having come hither you would be wise to conform to circumstances. Canada is not the place for idle folks to retrench a lost fortune in. In some parts of the country you will find most articles of provision as dear as in London; clothing much dearer, and not so good, and a bad market to choose in.”
“I should like to know, then, who Canada is good for?” said she, angrily.
“It is a good country for the honest, industrious artisan. It is a fine country for the poor labourer, who, after a few years of hard toil, can sit down in his own log-house, and look abroad on his own land, and see his children well settled in life as independent freeholders. It is a grand country for the rich speculator, who can afford to lay out a large sum in purchasing lands in eligible situations; for if he have any judgment he will make a hundred per cent. as interest for his money after waiting a few years. But it is a hard country for the poor gentleman, whose habits have rendered him unfit for manual labour. He brings with him a mind unfitted to his situation; and even if necessity compels him to exertion, his labour is of little value. He has a hard struggle to live. The certain expenses of wages and living are great, and he is obliged to endure many privations if he would keep within compass, and be free of debt. If he have a large family, and brings them up wisely, so as to adapt themselves early to a settler’s life, why he does well for them, and soon feels the benefit on his own land; but if he is idle himself, his wife extravagant and discontented, and the children taught to despise labour, why, madam, they will soon be brought down to ruin. In short, the country is a good country for those to whom it is adapted; but if people will not conform to the doctrine of necessity and expediency, they have no business in it. It is plain Canada is not adapted to every class of people.”
“It was never adapted for me or my family,” said the lady, disdainfully.
“Very true,” was the laconic reply; and so ended the dialogue.
But while I have been recounting these remarks, I have wandered far from my original subject, and left my poor log-house quite in an unfinished state. At last I was told it was in a habitable condition, and I was soon engaged in all the bustle and fatigue attendant on removing our household goods. We received all the assistance we required from ——, who is ever ready and willing to help us. He laughed, and called it a “movingbee;” I said it was a “fixing bee;” and my husband said it was a “settling bee;” I know we were unsettled enough till it was over. What a din of desolation is a small house, or any house under such circumstances! The idea of chaos must have been taken from a removal or a setting to rights; for I suppose the ancients had theirflittings, as the Scotch call it, as well as the moderns.
Various were the valuable articles of crockery-ware that perished in their short but rough journey through the woods. Peace to their manes! I had a good helper in my Irish maid, who soon roused up famous fires, and set the house in order.
We have now got quite comfortably settled, and I shall give you a description of our little dwelling. What is finished is only a part of the original plan; the rest must be added next spring or fall, as circumstances may suit.
A nice small sitting-room, with a store-closet, a kitchen, pantry, and bed-chamber, form the ground-floor; there is a good upper floor that will make three sleeping rooms.
“What a nut-shell!” I think I hear you exclaim. So it is at present; but we purpose adding a handsome frame front as soon as we can get boards from the mill, which will give us another parlour, long-hall, and good spare bed-room. The windows and glass-door of our present sitting-room command pleasant lake-views to the west and south. When the house is completed we shall have a veranda in front, and at the south side; which forms an agreeable addition in the summer, being used as a sort of outer room, in which we can dine, and have the advantage of cool air, protected from the glare of the sun-beams. The Canadians call these verandas “stoups.” Few houses, either log or frame, are without them. The pillars look extremely pretty, wreathed with the luxuriant hop-vine, mixed with the scarlet creeper and “morning glory,” the American name for the most splendid of major convolvuluses. These stoups are really a considerable ornament, as they conceal in a great measure the rough logs, and break the barn-like form of the building.
Our parlour is warmed by a handsome Franklin stove, with brass gallery and fender. Our furniture consists of a brass-railed sofa, which serves upon occasion for a bed, Canadian painted chairs, a stained pine table, green and white curtains, and a handsome Indian mat that covers the floor. One side of the room is filled up with our books. Some large maps and a few good prints nearly conceal the rough walls, and form the decoration of our little dwelling. Our bed-chamber is furnished with equal simplicity. We do not, however, lack comfort in our humble home; and though it is not exactly such as we could wish, it is as good as, under existing circumstances, we could have.
I am anxiously looking forward to the spring, that I may get a garden laid out in front of the house, as I mean to cultivate some of the native fruits and flowers, which, I am sure, will improve greatly by cultivation. The strawberries that grow wild in our pastures, woods, and clearings, are several varieties, and bear abundantly. They make excellent preserves, and I mean to introduce beds of them into my garden. There is a pretty little wooded islet on our lake, that is called Strawberry Island—another, Raspberry Island; they abound in a variety of fruits—wild grapes, raspberries, strawberries, black and red currants, a wild gooseberry, and a beautiful little trailing plant that bears white flowers like the raspberry, and a darkish purple fruit consisting of a few grains of a pleasant brisk acid, somewhat like in flavour to our dewberry, only not quite so sweet. The leaves of this plant are of a bright light green, in shape like the raspberry, to which it bears in some respects so great a resemblance (though it is not shrubby or thorny) that I have called it the “trailing” raspberry.
I suppose our scientific botanists in Britain would consider me very impertinent in bestowing names on the plants and flowers I meet with in these wild woods; I can only say, I am glad to discover the Canadian or even the Indian names if I can, and where they fail I consider myself free to become their floral godmother, and give them names of my own choosing.
I was tempted one fine frosty afternoon to take a walk with my husband on the ice, which I was assured was perfectly safe. I must confess for the first half-mile I felt very timid, especially when the ice is so transparent that you may see every little weed or pebble at the bottom of the water. Sometimes the ice was thick and white, and quite opaque. As we kept within a little distance of the shore, I was struck by the appearance of some splendid red berries on the leafless bushes that hung over the margin of the lake, and soon recognised them to be the high-bush cranberries. My husband soon stripped the boughs of their tempting treasure, and I, delighted with my prize, hastened home, and boiled the fruit with some sugar, to eat at tea with our cakes. I never ate anything more delicious than they proved; the more so, perhaps, from having been so long without tasting fruit of any kind, with the exception of preserves during our journey, and at Peterborough.