Chapter IX (4)

All that poor Mrs Moodie endured from her reprobate neighbours, could not be told in detail within the compass of a much larger work than hers. But we may glean a tolerable idea of her constant vexations and annoyance from her first volume, which contains sketches, at once painful and humorous, of the persecutions to which she was subjected. Impudent intrusion and unscrupulous borrowings were of daily occurrence, varied occasionally by some gross act of unneighbourliness and aggression. Although evidently a person of abundant energy and spirit, Mrs Moodie, partly through terror of these semi-savages, and partly from a wish to conciliate and make friends, long submitted to insolence and extortion. The wives and daughters of the Yankee settlers--some of whom had "squatted," without leave or license, on ground to which they had no right, made a regular property of her. Every article of domestic use, kettles and pans, eatables, drinkables, and wearables, did these insatiable wretches borrow--and never return. They would walk into her house and carry off the very things she at the moment needed, or come in her absence and take her gown from the peg, or the pot from the fire. The three families from which she had most to endure were those of a red-headed American squatter, who had fled his own country for some crime; of "Uncle Joe," the former proprietor of her farm, and still the occupant of her house; and of "Old Satan," a disgusting and brutal Yankee, who had had one eye gouged out in a fight, and whose face was horribly disfigured by the scars of wounds inflicted by his adversary's teeth. A pertinacious tormentor, too, was old Betty Fye, who lived in the log shanty across the creek. Having made Mrs Moodie's acquaintance, under pretence of selling her a "rooster," she became a constant and most unwelcome visitor, borrowing everything she could think of, returning nothing, and interlarding her discourse with oaths, which greatly shocked the good-tempered English lady.

"'Everybody swears in this country,' quoth Betty Fye. 'My boys
(she was a widow with twelve sons) all swear like Sam Hill;
and I used to swear mighty big oaths, till about a month ago,
when the Methody parson told me that if I did not leave it off
I should go to a tarnation bad place; so I dropped some of the
worst of them.'

"'You would do well to drop the rest; women never swear in my
country.'

"'Well, you don't say! I always hear'd they were very ignorant.
Will you lend me the tea?'"

Tea to-day--it was something else to-morrow. Mrs Moodie tried every means of affronting her, but long without success. The most natural and effectual plan would have been to refuse all her demands; but to this Mrs Moodie, perhaps from unwillingness to disoblige, was tardy in having recourse. At last she got rid of her by quoting Scripture.

"The last time I was honoured with a visit from Betty Fye, she
meant to favour me with a very large order upon my goods and
chattels.

"'Well, Mrs Fye, what do you want to-day?'

"'So many things, that I scarce know where to begin. Ah, what a
thing it is to be poor! First, I want you to lend me ten pounds
of flour to make some Johnie cakes.'

"'I thought they were made of Indian meal?'

"'Yes, yes, when you've got the meal. I'm out of it, and this is
a new fixing of my own invention. Lend me the flour, woman, and
I'll bring you one of the cakes to taste.'

"This was said very coaxingly.

"'Oh, pray don't trouble yourself. What next?' I was anxious to
see how far her impudence would go, and determined to affront
her, if possible.

"'I want you to lend me a gown and a pair of stockings. I have
to go to Oswego, to see my husband's sister, and I'd like to
look decent.'

"'Mrs Fye, I never lend my clothes to any one. If I lent them to
you, I should never wear them again.'

"'So much the better for me,' (with a knowing grin.) 'I guess
if you won't lend me the gown, you will let me have some black
slack to quilt a stuff petticoat, a quarter of a pound of tea
and some sugar; and I will bring them back as soon as I can.'

"'I wonder when that will be. You owe me so many things that it
will cost you more than you imagine to repay me.'

"'Since you're not going to mention what's past, I can't owe you
much. But I will let you off the tea and the sugar, if you will
lend me a five-dollar bill.'"

This was too much for even Mrs Moodie's patience. She read the incorrigible Betty a sharp lecture upon her system of robbing under colour of borrowing, and concluded by saying she well knew that all the things she had _lent_ her would be a debt owing to the day of judgment.

"'S'pose they are,' quoth Betty, not in the least abashed at my
lecture on honesty, 'you know what the Scripture saith, "It is
more blessed to give than to receive."'

"'Ay, there is an answer to that in the same book, which
doubtless you may have heard,' said I, disgusted with her
hypocrisy, 'The wicked borroweth, and payeth not again.'

"Never shall I forget the furious passion into which this too
apt quotation threw my unprincipled applicant. She lifted up her
voice and cursed me, using some of the big oaths temporarily
discarded for _conscience'_ sake. And so she left me, and I
never looked upon her face again."

Uncle Joe was another pleasant neighbour, and brought up his children to resemble himself. Mrs Joe would occasionally stroll over to visit Mrs Moodie, and exult over the unaccustomed toils to which the young English wife and mother submitted with a cheerfulness that did her infinite honour. It was a rough and hard life, even for men, in that Canadian loghouse; much worse, then, for a delicate woman, and worst of all for one who arrived there with an infant, and whose family rapidly augmented.

"For a week I was alone," writes Mrs Moodie, in the early days
of her exile, "my good Scotch girl having left me to visit her
father. Some small baby-articles were needed to be washed,
and after making a great preparation, I determined to try my
unskilled hand upon the operation. The fact is, I knew nothing
about the task I had imposed upon myself, and in a few minutes
rubbed the skin off my wrists, without getting the clothes
clean. The door was open, as it generally was, even during the
coldest winter days, in order to let in more light and let out
the smoke, which otherwise would have enveloped us like a cloud.
I was so busy that I did not perceive that I was watched by the
cold, heavy, dark eyes of Mrs Joe, who, with a sneering laugh,
exclaimed, 'Well, thank God! I am glad to see you brought to
work at last.'"

Further, the amiable Mrs Joe declared her intense hatred of all Britishers, and her hearty wish that her unoffending neighbour might be brought down upon her knees to scrub the floor. Mrs Moodie had sense and dignity enough merely to smile at her vulgar malignity. The impudence of these people knew no bounds. The same evening, Mrs Joe sent over two of her offspring to borrow something she needed of the woman she had spitefully abused in the morning.

During Mrs Moodie's abode near C----, Old Satan got married for the fourth time. This was the occasion of a charivari, a custom dating from the French occupation of Canada, and still kept up there. Mrs Moodie has an amusingly _naïf_ chapter on this subject, concerning which she has collected some curious anecdotes. It is hardly necessary to explain that a mismatch--of a young and an old person--is the usual pretext for a charivari.

"The idle young fellows of the neighbourhood disguise
themselves, blackening their faces, putting their clothes on
hind part before, and wearing horrible masks, with grotesque
caps on their heads, adorned with cocks' feathers, and
bells. They then form in a regular body, and proceed to the
bridegroom's house, to the sound of tin kettles, horns, drums,
&c. Thus equipped, they surround the house, just at the hour
when the happy couple are supposed to be about to retire to
rest, beating upon the door with clubs and staves, and demanding
of the bridegroom admittance to drink the bride's health, or in
lieu thereof, a certain sum of money to treat the band at the
nearest tavern."

Mrs Moodie expresses all a woman's indignation at what she styles "a lawless infringement upon the natural rights of man." The charivari is usually bought off--she mentions an instance when thirty pounds were disbursed by an antiquated swain who had wedded a handsome widow--but sometimes the victim resists, and the consequences are serious. Shortly before old Satan's bridal, a tragical affair had taken place at one of these saturnalia.

"The bridegroom was a man in middle life, a desperately resolute
and passionate man, and he swore that if such riff-raff dared
to interfere with him, he would shoot at them with as little
compunction as if they were so many crows. His threats only
increased the mischievous determination of the mob to torment
him; and when he refused to admit their deputation, or even to
give them a portion of the wedding cheer, they determined to
frighten him into compliance by firing several guns, loaded
with peas, at his door. Their salute was returned from the
chamber-window, by the discharge of a double-barrelled gun,
loaded with buck-shot. The crowd gave back with a tremendous
yell. Their leader was shot through the heart, and two of the
foremost in the scuffle dangerously wounded. They vowed they
would set fire to the house, but the bridegroom boldly stepped
to the window and told them to try it, and before they could
light a torch he would fire among them again, for his gun was
reloaded, and he would discharge it at them as long as one of
them dared to remain on his premises. They cleared off."

In point of amusement there is little difference between the first and the second volumes of Mrs Moodie's book--which, however, is not intended merely to amuse, but also as "a work of practical experience," written for the benefit of, and conveying useful hints to, persons contemplating emigration to Canada. The first volume is the gayest of the two; there is a vein of great humour in Mrs Moodie's descriptions and sketches of her neighbours, and of her wild Irish servant, John Monaghan, who gave Uncle Joe an awful thrashing for purloining the captain's hay; and of Mrs D., the Yankee lady, who considered her English neighbours shocking proud because they did not eat with their "helps," but was of opinion that all negroes were children of the devil, for that "God never condescended to make a nigger." But it is in the second volume that the interest is strongest, and at times becomes intense. Disgusted with their neighbours, Captain and Mrs Moodie left their farm at C----, and removed to the township of Douro, forty miles off, in the backwoods, where they had friends and relatives settled, and where the society--consisting chiefly of English, Irish, and Scotch gentlemen, recently come from Europe, and many of them half-pay officers--was more congenial to their tastes and habits. Unfortunately, about this time Captain Moodie sold his commission, in consequence of an intimation in the newspapers that half-pay officers must either do so or join a regiment. This was not enforced in the case of officers settled in the colonies, and the captain greatly repented his haste; the more so, as he was induced to invest the proceeds of his sale in shares in a steamboat on Lake Ontario. Q----, the landjobber, appears to have led him into this investment. He received no interest on his shares, and when, some years afterwards, the boat was sold, he got back only a fourth of his capital. The mistake he made in parting with his half-pay was the cause of great privations and anxiety.

"It was a bright frosty morning," says Mrs Moodie, "when I
bade adieu to the farm, the birthplace of my little Agnes,
who, nestled beneath my cloak, was sweetly sleeping on my
knee, unconscious of the long journey before us into the
wilderness.... It was not without regret that I left Melsetter,
for so my husband had called the place, after his father's
estate in Orkney. It was a beautiful, picturesque spot; and,
in spite of the evil neighbourhood, I had learned to love it;
indeed, it was much against my wish that it was sold. I had a
great dislike to removing, which involves a necessary loss, and
is apt to give to the emigrant roving and unsettled habits.
But all regrets were now useless; and, happily unconscious of
the life of toll and anxiety that awaited us in those dreadful
woods, I tried my best to be cheerful, and to regard the future
with a hopeful eye."

Most nobly, when the toil and anxiety came, did this high-hearted woman bear up against them. Severer hardships and trials were perhaps never endured, for so long a period, by one of her delicate sex. At first, affairs looked promising in the forest. A timely legacy supplied means to purchase and clear land and to build a house; a considerable sum still remained in hand, and a good income from the steamboat stock was looked upon as certain. The first spring in the forest was spent in comparative ease and idleness.

"Those were the halcyon days of the bush. My husband had
purchased a very light cedar canoe, to which he attached a
keel and a sail; and most of our leisure hours, directly the
snows melted, were spent upon the water. These fishing and
shooting excursions were delightful.... We felt as if we were
the first discoverers of every beautiful flower and stately tree
that attracted our attention, and we gave names to fantastic
rocks and fairy isles, and raised imaginary houses on every
picturesque spot which we floated past during our aquatic
excursions. I learned the use of the paddle, and became quite a
proficient in the gentle craft."

They received visits from the Indians, a number of whom (of the Chippewa tribe) frequented a dry cedar-swamp hard by, fishing, shooting, and making maple-sugar, baskets, and canoes. They were friendly and communicative, grateful for the slightest kindness, never intrusive or offensively familiar; in short, they were born gentlemen, and in every respect a perfect contrast and immeasurably superior to the Yankee squatters at C----. Mrs Moodie devotes the greater part of a most interesting chapter to stories and traits of her red friends. No attention, however small, was lost upon these warm-hearted people. One cold night, late in autumn, six squaws asked shelter of Mrs Moodie. It was rather a large party to lodge, but forest hospitality is not stinted. There was "Joe Muskrat's squaw" and "Betty Cow," and an old white-haired woman, whose scarlet embroidered leggings showed her to be a chief's wife. After they had all well supped, mattresses and blankets were spread on the parlour floor for their use, and Mrs Moodie considerately told her servant to give the aged squaw the best bed.

"The old Indian glanced at me with her keen, bright eye; but
I had no idea that she comprehended what I said. Some weeks
after this, as I was sweeping my parlour floor, a slight tap
drew me to the door. On opening it I perceived the old squaw,
who immediately slipped into my hand a set of beautifully
embroidered bark trays, fitting one within the other, and
exhibiting the very best sample of the porcupine-quill work.
While I stood wondering what this might mean, the good old
creature fell upon my neck, and kissing me, exclaimed, 'You
remember old squaw--make her comfortable! Old squaw no forget
you. Keep them for her sake,' and before I could detain her she
ran down the hill with a swiftness which seemed to bid defiance
to years. I never saw this interesting Indian again, and I
concluded that she died during the winter, for she must have
been of a great age."

When fortune frowned on _Nono-cosiqui_, "the humming-bird," (the name given to Mrs Moodie by the Indians, in allusion to the pleasure she took in painting birds,) when her purse and pantry were alike empty, and, in Indian phrase, "her hearthstone was growing cold," many an acceptable supply of much-needed food was brought to her by her red friends.

"Their delicacy in conferring these favours was not the least
admirable part of their conduct. John Nogan, who was much
attached to us, would bring a fine bunch of ducks, and drop
them at my feet, 'for the papoose [child,]' or leave a large
muskinonge on the sill of the door, or place a quarter of
venison just within it, and slip away without saying a word,
thinking that a present from a poor Indian might hurt our
feelings, and he would spare us the mortification of returning
thanks."

The coolness and courage of these Indians are remarkable. Mrs Moodie tells a story of a squaw who was left by her husband in charge of some dead game, and who, whilst sitting carelessly upon a log, with his hunting-knife in her hand, heard a cracking amongst the branches, and, turning round, saw a bear within a few paces of her.

"It was too late to retreat; and seeing that the animal was very
hungry, and determined to come to close quarters, she rose, and
placed her back against a small tree, holding her knife close
to her breast, and in a straight line with the bear. The shaggy
monster came on. She remained motionless, her eyes steadily
fixed upon her enemy, and as his huge arms closed around her,
she slowly drove the knife into his heart. The bear uttered
a hideous cry, and sank dead at her feet. When the Indian
returned, he found the courageous woman taking the skin from the
carcass of the formidable brute."

Mrs Moodie was not likely to emulate such feats as this. She had a horror of wild beasts, and was afraid even of cattle. Her dread of lions, tigers, and other unamiable carnivora, was the reason of her finding herself in Canada. Her husband had a property in South Africa, where he had passed many years, and whither the fine climate and scenery made him desirous to return. But his wife would not hear of it, and, when he tried to remove her exaggerated terrors, referred him triumphantly to the dangerous encounters and hairbreadth escapes recorded in a book of his own, called _Ten Years in South Africa_. A European woman's fear of tigers and rattle-snakes is natural enough, and let none impute want of courage to Mrs Moodie. The hero of a hundred fights might feel nervous, if perched on the top-gallant-yards of a frigate, whose captain might prefer boarding a French three-decker to riding at a bull-fence. Mrs Moodie's courage was not of the bear-fighting sort, but of a higher kind--moral, rather than physical. We read with admiration and deep sympathy of her presence of mind and intrepidity upon many trying occasions--when her house, for instance, was blazing over her head, and she alone was there to rescue her four children and such portions of her worldly possessions as her strength enabled her to carry out of the cedar-log dwelling, whose roof "was burning like a brush heap, and, unconsciously, she and her eldest daughter were working under a shelf upon which was deposited several pounds of gunpowder, procured for blasting a well. The gunpowder was in a stone-jar, secured by a paper stopper; the shelf upon which it stood was on fire." As to her fortitude under severe suffering--from bitter cold and other causes--and the perseverance with which she toiled, even at farm-labour, they are beyond praise.

"In the year 1835, my husband and I," she says, "had worked
hard in the field; it was the first time I had ever tried my
hand at field-labour, but our ready money was exhausted, and
the steamboat stock had not paid us one farthing; we could not
hire, and there was no help for it. I had a hard struggle with
my pride before I would consent to render the least assistance
on the farm, but reflection convinced me that I was wrong--that
Providence had placed me in a situation where I was called upon
to work--that it was not only my duty to obey that call, but to
exert myself to the utmost to assist my husband, and help to
maintain my family."

Most affecting is the account that follows, of hopes disappointed and hardships endured, in the years 1836 and 1837. To pay off debts--incurred chiefly for clearing land, and in confident expectation of deriving an income from the steamboat--Captain and Mrs Moodie resorted to a pinching economy. Milk, bread, and potatoes, were for months their only fare. Tea and sugar were luxuries not to be thought of. "I missed the tea very much," says the poor English lady, who, on an anchorite's fare, performed a day-labourer's task, hoeing potatoes, and cheerfully sharing with her husband the rude toils of the field. "We rang the changes on peppermint and sage, taking the one herb at our breakfast, the other at our tea, until I found an excellent substitute for both in the root of the dandelion." This root, roasted crisp, and ground, proved a very good imitation of coffee. Squirrel--stewed, roast, and in pies--was a standard dish at the dinner-table in the bush. In a trap set near the barn, often ten or twelve were caught in a day. But the lake was the great resource.

"Moodie and I used to rise by daybreak, and fish for an hour
after sunrise, when we returned, he to the field, and I to dress
the little ones, clean up the house, assist with the milk, and
prepare the breakfast. Oh, how I enjoyed those excursions on the
lake!--the very idea of our dinner depending upon our success
added double zest to the sport."

Even here there was some compensation. The strange, Robinson-Crusoe-like existence had its joys as well as its sorrows. Who can doubt that, seasoned by labour, squirrel pie had, for the dwellers in the forest, such savour as few epicures find in pasty of choicest venison? The warm breath of summer, too, alleviated the hardships of the poor emigrants. But winter came, and, with winter, privation and misfortune.

"The ruffian squatter P----, from Clear Lake, drove from the
barn a fine young bull we were rearing, and for several weeks
all trace of the animal was lost. We had almost forgotten the
existence of poor Whisky, when a neighbour called and told
Moodie that his yearling was at P----'s, and that he would
advise him to get it back as soon as possible. Moodie had to
take some wheat to Y----'s mill, and as the squatter lived
only a mile farther, he called at his house; and there, sure
enough, he found the lost animal. With the greatest difficulty
he succeeded in regaining his property, but not without many
threats of vengeance from the parties who had stolen it. To
these he paid no regard; but a few days after, six fat hogs,
on which we depended for all our winter store of animal food,
were driven into the lake and destroyed. The death of these
animals deprived us of three barrels of pork, and half-starved
us through the winter. That winter of '36, how heavily it wore
away! The grown flour, frosted potatoes, and scant quantity of
animal food, rendered us all weak, and the children suffered
much from the ague."

Under these circumstances, great was the glee when a stray buck was shot. Spot, Katie's pet pig, had to be killed, in spite of the tears and entreaties of its little owner, for the family were craving after a morsel of meat. Here is a melancholy note in the diary of the emigrant's wife:--

"On the 21st May of this year, my second son, Donald, was born.
The poor fellow came in hard times. The cows had not calved, and
our bill of fare, now minus the deer and Spot, only consisted
of bad potatoes, and still worse bread. I was rendered so
weak by want of proper nourishment that my dear husband, for
my sake, overcame his aversion to borrowing, and procured a
quarter of mutton from a friend. This, with kindly presents from
neighbours--often as badly off as ourselves--a loin of young
bear, and a basket containing loaf of bread, some tea, fresh
butter, and oatmeal, went far to save my life."

Think of this, ye dainty dames, who, in like circumstances, heap your beds with feathers, and strew the street with straw. Think of the chilly forest, the windy log-house, the frosted potatoes, the five children, the weary, half-famished mother, the absence of all that gentle aid and comfort which wait upon your slightest ailment. Think of all these things, and, if the picture move you, remember that the like sufferings and necessities abound nearer home, within scope of your charity and relief.

Quitting, for a while, the sad catalogue of her woes, Mrs Moodie launches forth into an episode which fills one of the most characteristic chapters of her work. In the midst of these hard times, an Englishman--with whom Captain Moodie had once travelled in the mail to Toronto, and whom he had invited to call on him, should he come into his part of the country--dropped in upon them one evening, proposing to remain for the night. He was their inmate for nine months. Mrs Moodie disliked him, from the very first day, for he was a surly, discontented, reckless scamp, but somehow there was no getting rid of him. He grumbled over his first meal of salt pork, dandelion coffee, and heavy bread; and he grumbled almost daily, until the happy morning when he left them for good and all. Malcolm (as Mrs Moodie chooses to call him) told his host that he was in hiding from the sheriff's officers, and should esteem it a great favour to be allowed to remain a few weeks at his house. The captain was far too good-natured and hospitable to refuse his request. "To tell you the truth, Malcolm," said he, "we are so badly off that we can scarcely find food for ourselves and the children. It is out of our power to make you comfortable, or to keep an additional hand, without he is willing to render some little help on the farm. If you can do this, I will endeavour to get a few necessaries on credit, to make your stay more agreeable." The proposition suited Malcolm to a hair. By working for his keep, he got rid of the obligation, and acquired a right to grumble. As to the work he did, it was really not worth speaking of. Mrs Moodie had a sort of rude bedstead made for him out of two large chests, and put up in a corner of the parlour. Upon that he lay, during the first fortnight of his stay, reading, smoking, and drinking whisky and water from morning till night. There was a mystery about the fellow which he did not care fully to clear up, but portions of his history oozed out.

"He was the son of an officer in the navy, who had not only
attained a very high rank in the service, but, for his gallant
conduct, had been made a Knight-Companion of the Bath. He had
himself served his time as a midshipman on board his father's
flag-ship, but had left the navy, and accepted a commission
in the Buenos-Ayrean Service during the political struggles
in that province. He had commanded a sort of privateer under
the government, to whom, by his own account, he had rendered
many very signal services. Why he left South America, and came
to Canada, he kept a profound secret. He had indulged in very
vicious and dissipated courses since he came to the province,
and by his own account had spent upwards of four thousand
pounds in a manner not over-creditable to him.... He was now
considerably in debt. Money he had none; and, beyond the dirty
fearnought blue seaman's jacket which he wore, a pair of
trousers of the coarse cloth of the country, an old black vest
that had seen better days, and two blue-checked shirts, clothes
he had none. He shaved but once a week, never combed his hair,
and never washed himself. A dirtier or more slovenly creature
never before was dignified by the title of a gentleman. He was,
however, a man of good education, of excellent abilities, and
possessed a bitter sarcastic knowledge of the world; but he was
selfish and unprincipled in the highest degree."

This piratical sea-bear quarrelled with Mrs Moodie's servants, disgusted and offended her by his ungentlemanly habit of swearing, and behaved altogether so outrageously that any one less forbearing and good-tempered than Captain Moodie would have turned him out of the house before he had been a month in it. But the captain, who lacked not spirit on occasion, had Highland notions of hospitality; and, moreover, he pitied the unhappy scapegrace--whose vile temper was his own greatest curse--and bore with his infirmities. Malcolm got the ague, and poor Mrs Moodie nursed him.

"During the cold fit, he did nothing but swear at the cold, and
wished himself roasting; and, during the fever, he swore at the
heat, and wished that he was sitting in no other garment than
his shirt on the north side of an iceberg."

The only trait that somewhat reconciled Mrs Moodie to her rude guest was his affection for one of her children, a merry golden-haired little boy. When left alone with her in the house, he almost frightened her by his strange, sullen stare, and told her stories about wild deeds of bloodshed committed in his privateering days, and was very anxious to read her a manuscript work on South America, for which Murray, he said, had offered him a sum of money, but to which she preferred not listening. At last he got so indolent and insolent that Captain Moodie was roused to anger, sharply reproved him, and ordered him to be gone. But it was not a trifle in the way of rebuke that would drive Malcolm from free bed and board. He walked away for a few hours, and then returned and joined the family party, as if nothing had happened. One day, however, a nickname applied to him by Mrs Moodie's eldest girl put him in a furious passion, and he took himself off for ever, as his entertainers hoped. They were mistaken.

"Two months after, we were taking tea with a neighbour, who
lived a mile below us on the small lake. Who should walk in but
Mr Malcolm? He greeted us with great warmth, for him; and when
we rose to take leave, he rose and walked home by our side.
'Surely the little stumpy man (the name Katie had given him) is
not returning to his old quarters?' I am still a babe in the
affairs of men. Human nature has more strange varieties than any
one menagerie can contain, and Malcolm was one of the oddest of
her odd species. That night he slept in his old bed below the
parlour window, and for three months afterwards he stuck to us
like a beaver."

The manner of this strange being's final departure was as eccentric as that of his first coming. On Christmas eve he started after breakfast to walk into Peterborough to fetch raisins for next day's pudding. He never came back, but left Peterborough the same day with a stranger in a waggon. It was afterwards said that he had gone to Texas, and been killed at San Antonio de Bexar. Whatever became of him, he never again was seen in that part of Canada. Mrs Moodie's account of his residence in her house is full of character, and admirable for its quietness and truth to nature. "Firing the Fallow," and "Our Logging Bee," are also, apart from their connection with the emigrant's fortunes, striking and interesting sketches of Canadian forest life. We are unable to dwell upon or extract from them, and must hasten to conclude our notice of this really fascinating book.

Rebellion broke out in Canada. Captain Moodie, although suffering from a severe accident he had met with whilst ploughing, felt his loyalty and soldiership irresistibly appealed to by the Queen's proclamation, calling upon all loyal gentlemen to join in suppressing the insurrection. Toronto was threatened by the insurgents, and armed bands were gathering on all sides for its relief. So Captain Moodie marched to the front. Regiments of militia were formed, and in one of them he received command of a company. He left in January, and Mrs Moodie remained alone with her children and Jenny--a faithful old Irish servant--to take care of the house. It was a dull and cheerless time. And yet her husband's appointment was a great boon and relief. His full pay as captain enabled him to remit money home, and to liquidate debts. His wife, on her side, was not inactive.

"Just at this period," she says, "I received a letter from a
gentleman, requesting me to write for a magazine (the _Literary
Garland_) just started in Montreal, with promise to remunerate
me for my labours. Such an application was like a gleam of light
springing up in the darkness."

When the day's toils--which were not trifling--were over, she robbed herself of sleep--which she greatly needed--to labour with her pen; writing by the light of what Irish Jenny called "sluts"--twisted rags, dipped in lard, and stuck in a bottle. Jenny viewed these literary pursuits with huge discontent.

"You were thin enough before you took to the pen," grumbled
the affectionate old creature--"what good will it be to the
children, dear heart! if you die afore your time by wasting your
strength afther that fashion?"

But Mrs Moodie was not to be dissuaded from her new pursuit. She persevered, and with satisfactory results.

"I actually," she says, "shed tears of joy over the first
twenty-dollar note I received from Montreal."

Emulous of her mistress's activity, Jenny undertook to make "a good lump" of maple-sugar, with the aid of little Sol, a hired-boy, whom she grievously cuffed and ill-treated, when he upset the kettle, or committed other blunders. Every evening during the sugar-making Mrs Moodie ran up to see Jenny in the bush, singing and boiling down the sap in front of her little shanty.

"The old woman was in her element, and afraid of nothing under
the stars; she slept beside her kettles at night, and snapped
her fingers at the idea of the least danger."

The sugar-making was a hot and wearisome occupation, but the result was a good store of sugar, molasses, and vinegar.

"Besides gaining a little money with my pen," writes Mrs Moodie
at about this time, "I practised a method of painting birds and
butterflies upon the white velvety surface of the large fungi
that grow plentifully upon the bark of the sugar maple. These
had an attractive appearance; and my brother, who was a captain
in one of the provisional regiments, sold a great many of them
among the officers, without saying by whom they were painted.
One rich lady in Peterborough, long since dead, ordered two
dozen to send as curiosities to England. These, at one shilling
each, enabled me to buy shoes for the children, who, during our
bad times, had been forced to dispense with these necessary
coverings. How often, during the winter season, have I wept
over their little chapped feet, literally washing them with my
tears. But these days were to end. Providence was doing great
things for us; and Hope raised at last her drooping head, to
regard, with a brighter glance, the far-off future. Slowly the
winter rolled away; but he to whom every thought was turned, was
still distant from his humble home. The receipt of an occasional
letter from him was my only solace during his long absence, and
we were still too poor to indulge often in the luxury."

The spring brought work. Corn and potatoes must be planted, and the garden dug and manured. By lending her oxen to a neighbour who had none, Mrs Moodie obtained a little assistance; but most of the labour was performed by her and Jenny, the greatest jewel of an old woman the Emerald Isle ever sent forth to toil in American wildernesses. A short visit from the captain cheered the family. In the autumn, he expected, the regiment to which he belonged would be reduced. This was a melancholy anticipation, and his wife again beheld cruel poverty seated on their threshold. After her husband's departure, the thought struck her that she would write to the Governor of Canada, plainly stating her circumstances, and asking him to retain Captain Moodie in the militia service. She knew nothing of Sir George Arthur, and received no reply to her application. But the Governor acted, though he did not write, and acted kindly and generously. "The 16th of October my third son was born; and a few days after, my husband was appointed paymaster to the militia regiments in the V---- district, with the rank and full pay of captain." The appointment was not likely to be permanent, and Mrs Moodie and the children remained at their log-cabin in the woods during the ensuing winter. Malignant scarlet fever attacked the whole family; a doctor was sent for, but did not come; Mrs Moodie, herself ill, had to tend her five children; and when these recovered, she was stretched for many weeks upon a bed of sickness. Jenny, the most attached of humble friends, and a greater heroine in her way than many whom poets have sung and historians lauded, alone kept her suffering mistress company in the depths of the dark forest.

"Men could not be procured in that thinly-settled spot for
love nor money; and I now fully realised the extent of Jenny's
usefulness. Daily she yoked the oxen, and brought down from the
bush fuel to maintain our fires, which she felled and chopped up
with her own hands. She fed the cattle, and kept all things snug
about the doors; not forgetting to load her master's two guns,
'in case,' as she said, 'the ribels should attack us in our
retrate.'"

What says the quaint old song? that--

"The poor man alone, when he hears the poor moan,
Of his morsel a morsel will give,
Well-a-day!"

It were a libel to adopt the sentiment to its full extent, when we witness the large measure of charity which the more prosperous classes in this country are ever ready to dispense to the poor and suffering. But doubtless the sympathy with distress is apt to be heartiest and warmest on the part of those who themselves have experienced the woes they witness. It is very touching to contemplate Mrs Moodie walking twenty miles through a bleak forest--the ground covered with snow, and the thermometer far below zero--to minister to the necessities of one whose sufferings were greater even than her own. Still more touching is the exquisite delicacy with which she and her friend Emilia imparted the relief they brought, and strove to bestow their charity without imposing an obligation. "The Walk to Dummer" is a chapter of Mrs Moodie's book that alone would secure her the esteem and admiration of her readers. Captain N. was an Irish settler in Canada, who had encountered similar mishaps to those Captain Moodie had experienced--but in a very different spirit. He had taken to drinking, had deserted his family, and was supposed to have joined Mackenzie's band of ruffians on Navy Island. For nine weeks his wife and children had tasted no food but potatoes; for eighteen months they had eaten no meat. Before going to Mrs Moodie, Jenny had been their servant for five years, and, although repeatedly beaten by her master with the iron ramrod of his gun, would still have remained with them, would he have permitted her. She sobbed bitterly on learning their sufferings, and that Miss Mary, "the tinder thing," and her brother, a boy of twelve, had to fetch fuel from the bush in that "oncommon savare weather." Mrs Moodie was deeply affected at the recital of so much misery. She had bread for herself and children, and that was all. It was more than had Mrs N. But for the willing there is ever a way, and Mrs Moodie found means of doing good, where means there seemed to be none. Some ladies in the neighbourhood were desirous to do what they could for Mrs N.; but they wished first to be assured that her condition really was as represented. They would be guided by the report of Mrs Moodie and Emilia, if those two ladies would go to Dummer, the most western clearing of Canada's Far West, and ascertain the facts of the case. _If_ they would! There was not an instant's hesitation. Joyfully they started on their Samaritan pilgrimage. Ladies, lounging on damask cushions in your well-hung carriages, read this account of a walk through the wilderness; read the twelfth chapter of Mrs Moodie's second volume, and--having read it--you will assuredly read the whole of her book, and rise from its perusal with full hearts, and with the resolution to imitate, as far as your opportunities allow--and to none of us, who seek them with a fervent and sincere spirit, shall opportunities be wanting--her energetic and truly Christian charity.

_Le diable ne sera pas toujours derrière la porte_, says the French proverb. The gentleman in question had long obstinately kept his station behind Mrs Moodie's shanty door; but at last, despairing, doubtless, of a triumph over her courage and resignation, he fled, discomfited. The militia disbanded, Captain Moodie's services were no longer needed. But his hard-saved pay had cleared off many debts, and prospects were brighter.

"The potato crop was gathered in, and I had collected my store
of dandelion roots for our winter supply of coffee, when one day
brought a letter to my husband from the Governor's secretary,
offering him the situation of Sheriff of the V---- district.
Once more he bade us farewell; but it was to go and make ready
a home for us, that we should no more be separated from each
other. Heartily did I return thanks to God that night for all
his mercies to us."

Short time sufficed for preparation to quit the dreary log-house. Crops, furniture, farm-stock, and implements, were sold, and as soon as snow fell and sleighing was practicable, the family left the forest for their snug dwelling in the distant town of V----. Strange as it may seem, when the time came, Mrs Moodie clung to her solitude.

"I did not like," she says, "to be dragged from it to mingle in
gay scenes, in a busy town, and with gaily-dressed people. I
was no longer fit for the world; I had lost all relish for the
pursuits and pleasures which are so essential to its votaries;
I was contented to live and die in obscurity. For seven years
I had lived out of the world altogether; my person had been
rendered coarse by hard work and exposure to the weather. I
looked double the age I really was, and my hair was already
thickly sprinkled with grey."

Honour to such grey hairs, blanched in patient and courageous suffering. More lovely they than raven tresses, to all who prefer to the body's perishable beauty, the imperishable qualities of the immortal soul!

FAREWELL TO THE RHINE.

LINES WRITTEN AT BONN.

Fare thee well, thou regal river, proudly-rolling German Rhine,
Sung in many a minstrel's ballad, praised in many a poet's line!
Thou from me too claim'st a stanza; ere thy oft-trod banks I
leave,
Blithely, though with thread the slenderest, I the grateful rhyme
will weave;
Many a native hymn thou hearest, many a nice and subtle tone,
Yet receive my stranger lispings, strange, but more than half
thine own.

Fare thee well! but not in sorrow; while the sun thy vineyards
cheers,
I will not behold thy glory through a cloud of feeble tears;
Bring the purple Walportzheimer, pour the Rudesheimer bright,
In the trellis'd vine-clad arbour I will hold a feast to-night.
Call the friends who love me dearly, call the men of sense and
soul,
Call the hearts whose blithe blood billows, like the juice that
brims the bowl:
Let the wife who loves her husband, with her eyes of gracious
blue,
Give the guests a fair reception--serve them with a tendance
true;
With bright wine, bright thoughts be mated; and if creeping tears
must be,
Let them creep unseen to-morrow, Rhine, when I am far from thee!

Lo! where speeds the gallant steamer, prankt with flags of
coloured pride,
And strong heart of iron, panting stoutly up the swirling tide;
While from fife, and flute, and drum, the merry music bravely
floats,
And afar the frequent cannon rolls his many-pealing notes;
And as thick as flowers in June, or armies of the ruddy pine,
Crown the deck the festive sailors of the broad and German Rhine.
"_Der Rhein! Der Rhein!_" I know the song, the jovial singers too
I know,--
'Tis a troop of roving Burschen, and to Heisterbach they go;
There beneath the seven hills' shadow, and the cloister'd ruin
grey,
Far from dusty books and paper, they will spend the sunny day;
There will bind their glittering caps with oaken wreaths fresh
from the trees,
And around the rustic table sit, as brothers sit, at ease;
Hand in hand will sit and laugh, and drain the glass with social
speed,
Crowned with purple Asmannshausen, drugged with many a fragrant
weed;
While from broad and open bosom, with a rude and reinless glee,
Sounds the jocund-hearted pæan,--_Live the Bursch! the Bursch is
free!_
Thus they through the leafy summer, when their weekly work is
o'er,
Make the wooded hamlets echo with strong music's stirring roar
From young life's high-brimming fulness--while the hills that
bear the vine
Brew their juice in prescient plenty for the Burschen of the
Rhine.

Oft at eve, when we were sated with the various feast of sight,
Looking through our leafy trellis on the hues of loveliest light,
Poured on the empurpled mountains by the gently westering sun;
When at length the blazing god, his feats of brilliant duty done,
Veiled his head, and Güdinghofen's gilded woods again were grey;
When the various hum was hushed that stirred the busy-striving
day,
And the air was still and breezeless, and the moon with
fresh-horned beam
Threw aslant a shimmering brightness o'er the scarcely-sounding
stream;
We with ear not idly pleased would rise to catch the mellow note
Softly o'er the waters wandering from the home-returning boat;
And we saw the festive brothers, sobered by the evening hour,
Shoreward drifted by the river's deep and gently-rolling power;
And our car imbibed sweet concord, and our hearts grew young
again,
And we knew the deep devotion of that solemn social strain.
And we loved the Bursch that mingles truth and friendship with the
wine,
While his floods of deep song echo o'er the broad and murmuring
Rhine.

Fare thee well, thou people-bearing, joy-resounding, ample flood,
Mighty now, but mightier then, when lusty Europe's infant blood
Pulsed around thee; when thy Kaisers, titled with the grace of
Rome,
With a holy sanction issued from hoar Aquisgranum's dome,
And with kingly preparation, where the Alps frost-belted frown,
Marched with German oak to wreathe the fruitful Lombard's iron
crown.
Then the stream of wealth adown thee freely floated; then the
fire
Of a rude but hot devotion piled strong tower, and fretted spire,
Thick as oaks within the forest, where thy priestly cities rose.
Weaker now, and faint and small, the sacerdotal ardour glows
Round the broad Rhine's unchurched billows; but an echo still
remains,
And a fond life stiffly lingers, in the old faith's ghostly veins.
Ample rags of decoration, scutcheons of the meagre dead,
By thy banks, thou Christian river, still, from week to week, are
spread.
Flags and consecrated banners wave around thee; I have seen
Strewn with flowers thy streets, and marching in the gay sun's
noonday sheen
Lines of linen-vested maidens, lines of sober matrons grey,
Lines of feeble-footed fathers, priests in motley grim array;
I have seen the bright cross glitter in the summer's cloudless
air,
While the old brown beads were counted to the drowsy-mutter'd
prayer;
I have seen the frequent beggar press his tatters in the mud,
For the bread that is the body, and the wine that is the blood,
(So they deem in pious stupor,) of the Lord who walked on earth.
Such thy signs of life, thou strangely-gibbering imp of Roman
birth,
Old, but lusty in thy dotage, on the banks of German Rhine:
Though thy rule I may not own it, and thy creed be far from mine,
I have loved to hear thy litany o'er the swelling waters float,
Gently chaunted from the crowded, gaily-garnished pilgrim-boat;
I have felt the heart within me strangely stirred; and, half
believer,
For a moment wished that Reason on her throne might prove deceiver.
Live, while God permits thy living, on the banks of German Rhine,
Fond old faith!--thou canst not live but by some spark of power
divine;
And while man, who darkly gropes, and fretful feels, hath need of
thee,
Soothe his ear with chiming creeds, and fear no jarring taunt from
me.

Fare ye well, ye broad-browed thinkers! pride of Bonn upon the
Rhine,
Patient teachers, in the rock of ancient lore that deeply mine;
Men, with whom in soul lives Niebuhr, and loves still to glean
with them,
From huge piles of Roman ruin many a bright and human gem;
Oft with you, beneath the rows of thickly-blooming chestnut trees,
I have walked, and seen with wonder how ye flung with careless
case
Bales of treasured thought about ye, even as children play with
toys.
Strange recluses! we who live 'mid bustling Britain's smoke and
noise,
Ill conceive the quiet tenor of your deeply-brooding joys;
How ye sit with studious patience, and with curious travelling
eyes
Wander o'er the well-browned folio, where the thoughtful record
lies;
Musing in some musty chamber day by day, and hour by hour,
Dimly there ye sit, and sip the ripest juice from Plato's bower;
Each fair shape that graceful floateth through the merry Grecian
clime,
Each religious voice far-echoed through the galleries of time,
There with subtle eye and ear ye watch, and seize the airy booty,
And with faithful ken to know the rescued truth is all your duty.
Souls apart! with awe I knew your silent speculative looks,
And the worship that ye practise in the temples of your books;
And I felt the power of knowledge; and I loved to bridge with you
Gulfs of time, till oldest wisdom rose to shake hands with the
new;
May the God of truth be with you, still to glean, with pious
patience,
Grains of bright forgotten wisdom for the busy labouring nations;
And, while books shall feed my fancy, may I use the pondered line,
Grateful to the broad-browed thinkers, pride of Bonn upon the
Rhine!

Fare ye well, old crags and castles! now with me for ever dwells,
Twined with many a freakish joy, the stately front of Drachenfels.
O'er thy viny cliffs we rambled, where the patient peasant toils,
Where the rugged copse scarce shelters from the sun that broadly
smiles,
And the fresh green crown is plaited from the German's oaken
bower:
Here we wandered, social pilgrims, careless as the sunny hour,
Gay and free, nor touched with horror of the legendary wood,
Harnessed priests and iron knights, and dragons banqueting on
blood.
Praise who will the mail-clad epoch, when the princes all were
reivers,
Every maundering monk a god, and all who heard him dumb believers;
Me, the peaceful present pleases, and the sober rule of law,
Quiet homes, and hearths secure, and creeds redeemed from
idiot-awe;
Peopled cities' din; and where then tolled the cloister's languid
chime,
Now the hum of frequent voices from each furthest human clime,
Every form of various life beneath the crag that bears the vine,
Borne upon the steam-ploughed current of the placid-rolling Rhine.