Chapter IV: Part 4

As I happened to be at this village on the sabbath, and felt curious to see uncivilised men engaged in the worship of the Deity, I called upon Dr. John, and requested to know if there would be any service in the forenoon. He had little the appearance of a minister of that gospel, the principle of which is—“Peace upon earth, and good will towards men,” for he was busily engaged in whetting a tomahawk, and replied to my question with the utmost indifference: “I meant,” said he, “to have had a meeting to-day, but I lost my spectacles in a frolic last night, and cannot, therefore, preach again till Mr. Smith (a neighbouring shopkeeper) gets his goods from Montreal.”

After crossing the Grand River, the road for many miles has a very delightful aspect. On each side of the road, extensive plains, thinly planted, apparently, by the hand of man, spread further than the eye can reach, and afford a pleasant contrast to the sombre gloom which hangs, like the shadow of darkness, over the greater part of this extensive continent. These plains are almost wholly uninhabited, although possessed of many superior advantages. But the want of timber and water for domestic purposes, and the inferiority of the soil, which is light and sandy, render them of little comparative value. To the traveller alone, wearied with his wanderings through interminable forests, these beautiful plantations and flower-covered fields afford an exhilarating prospect. Towards Long Point, in the neighbourhood of which there are also similar extensive plains, the country on each side of the road is tolerably well settled; but the houses of public entertainment afford the most wretched accommodations, and exhibit an appearance, both inside and out, which by no means induces one to form a favourable opinion of Canadian hostelries.

I reached Port Talbot on the 15th of September, and found that my friends had not arrived. As I was sitting a while after in a tavern contiguous to the river, and I expected to have met with my father and his family, a lady and gentleman rode up to the door. When the lady entered, I handed her a seat. The gentleman next appeared, and, on seating himself, inquired, as is customary in the country, whether I was travelling east or west. I told him that I had already explored as much of the western country as I then intended; and added, that, during the last four months, I had travelled from within seven degrees of the Observatory at Greenwich, and that it was not my design to go farther into the country until I had seen my friends, whom I daily expected from the east, safely and comfortably settled a few miles farther to the northward. This topographical reply a little surprised them, for it was too general, and did not descend to such _minutiæ_ as is usually expected.

The lady, who appeared a good deal embarrassed, or rather in a state of mental anxiety, said, with much apparent concern, “Alas, Sir, I fear your friends in America are few, and your hope of seeing them comfortably settled, like most worldly hopes, vain and unfeasible.” I conjured her to explain herself; and, after some hesitation, she reluctantly complied, for her exclamation had undoubtedly been involuntary:—“You are not altogether friendless! You have at least _one brother_! I saw him a few hours ago, in health, but unhappy. He is travelling in this direction, and will be with you in a few hours.” With this expression on her lips, she rose from her seat, and retired hastily to an adjoining apartment, where, addressing the landlady, she continued—“About eight o’clock this morning we overtook a number of young men, all Europeans, among whom was a gentleman, evidently the brother of this young man. They are the only surviving passengers of a large party belonging to the Fort Erie schooner, which was wrecked a few nights ago on the United States’ shore.” I heard this with undefinable emotions, and, rushing into the apartment, in which the lady was still conversing with the hostess, entreated her to tell me all she knew of the melancholy catastrophe. She said, “About three o’clock on the evening of the 19th of September, I saw your friends embark at Fort Erie for Port Talbot, on board a large schooner; and from the great number of passengers who embarked, and the indifferent quality of the vessel, the people of Fort Erie entertained serious apprehensions for the safety of the travellers—the weather being very boisterous, and the captain of the schooner an inefficient and inexperienced man. In a few days afterwards news arrived at Fort Erie that the vessel had been wrecked on the morning of the 21st, on the shore of the United States; and that the few young men who survived were taken up by a New York schooner, and landed in Canada.”

On hearing this awful intelligence, I immediately set off to meet my brother and his companions. Before I had proceeded more than half a dozen miles I met the whole party; and judged from their countenances that the information I had received was not exactly correct. I told them what I had heard, and desired to know whether or not I had been misinformed. My brother replied, that my information was in the main correct; that they had indeed been shipwrecked, but that no lives had been lost, except that of a Mrs. Lewis, who had died in consequence of severe cold and fatigue. I was also further given to understand that my father and his family were all well and safe, and in the United States, waiting only a vessel to bring them over to the shores of Canada. It is impossible to describe the sudden transition of my feelings on hearing these joyful tidings. A few moments before I had the strongest grounds for believing that my nearest relations were lodged in a cold and watery grave; but now I could indulge in the joyful anticipation of meeting them once more, restored, as it were, to life. In about a fortnight after this they all arrived at Port Talbot, after having experienced much kindness from the inhabitants of the State of New York during their continuance among them.

In the latter part of October, my father removed his family from Port Talbot to Westminster, where he procured lodgings for them until a house was erected on his own lands. The township of Westminster is separated from that of Port Talbot only by the river Thames. London is situated about 24 miles north of Lake Erie. On the 1st of November, 1818, it was entirely unsettled, and its surface studded with the various trees which are to be found in Canada. The land is considered, if not superior to every township hitherto opened for location, at least inferior to none in the whole province. The township forms a square, and is divided into 16 concessions, in each of which are 6,400 acres. These concessions are subdivided into lots of 200 acres, of which there are 32 in each. Between every two concessions there are 66 feet set apart for roads, which are called concession lines. These, together with seven side roads of equal width, which intersect them at right angles, and are equi-distant from each other, comprise all the public roads in a township.

On the 26th of October, my brother and I, with six men carrying provisions and felling-axes, took our departure from Westminster; and, having hired a guide, proceeded into London, to fix upon the most desirable lot for the erection of a house. 1,200 acres were assigned to my father for his own demesne, if I may so call it. We had, therefore, a large tract of land to explore before we could decide on the most eligible site. After spending the greater part of the day in approving and disapproving of particular lots, we unanimously determined on making the second lot in the sixth concession the future asylum of our exiled family.

When we had agreed on this point, our next consideration was to procure shelter for the night; for we were upwards of nine miles from the abodes of civilised beings, and in the midst of desolate wilds,—

“Where beasts with men divided empire claim,
And the brown Indian marks with murd’rous aim.”

After walking about for some time in quest of a suitable place for making a fire, we discovered an old Indian wigwam, deserted by its inhabitants. In this little hut we resolved to continue during the night; and, having a tinder-box, with all the other necessary materials, we speedily lighted an excellent fire. After we had taken supper on the trunk of a tree, we lay down to rest, each rolling himself up in a blanket, and each in his turn supplying fuel to the fire. Thus did we pass the first night on our American estate.

In the morning, about sunrise, we were suddenly awakened by the howling of a pack of wolves, which were in full cry after an unfortunate deer. The howl of these ferocious animals so nearly resembles the cry of fox-dogs, that, when I awoke and heard it, I fancied myself in the midst of the sporting woods of Erin. But the delusion was not of long continuance, for I speedily discovered, that, instead of being in my native land,—

”Where the tints of the earth, and the hue of the sky,
In colour though varied, in beauty may vie,”

I was in the midst of a dreary and monotonous wilderness.

To increase our consternation, or, at least, to direct it into another channel, the horses, which we brought with us to carry our bed-clothes and provisions, had broken from their tethers during the night, and consumed every ounce of our bread!—

“Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms,
Except when fast approaching danger warns.”

And yet I was on this occasion sufficiently provoked to revenge our loss on the sides of the ill-natured brutes. We had brought our provender, with the utmost difficulty, a distance of nearly twelve miles through woods and swamps; and then to be deprived of it in this way, was too much for a man of the firmest philosophy to bear without impatience. We should have been under the disagreeable necessity of dispensing with our breakfast, if we had not had the consideration to bring some potatoes with us, which, happily, under the circumstances, are not so well suited to the appetite of an American horse as they are to the palate of an Irishman.

We continued encamped in the woods from the 26th of October until the 1st of December. During this period, we laid the foundation of a house 46 feet long, and 21 feet wide; one half of which we finished first, for the accommodation of the family, who removed into it on the 2d of December—five months and nineteen days after our embarkation for America. During the thirty-five days which we spent in the woods, previous to the arrival of the family, our only lodging was the miserable wigwam, which had a hundred holes in its roof, through which, when lying awake at night, we could easily note every remarkable star that passed the meridian. Our only bed was composed of withered leaves, while

“A log contriv’d a double debt to pay—
By night a pillow, and a seat by day.”

These are only slight specimens of the hardships which must be encountered by those who settle in a wilderness; and yet, no small degree of fortitude is requisite to support the mind of him who is obliged to submit to them. It is a grievance of no inconsiderable magnitude to be compelled, after a day of severe labour, to stretch one’s weary limbs on the bare ground in the cold month of November, and to be protected from the fierce north wind, and from the chilling frost, only by a miserable hut, with a fire sufficiently near it to counteract, in some degree, their benumbing effects.

But the hope of independence is sufficient to sustain the mind under privations still greater than these; and he who can bring himself to think, when lying down to rest on the bare earth, that the day is not far distant when he may happily repose on a more inviting couch, without one anxious thought respecting the future prospects of himself and his family, regards these transient sufferings with a kind of feeling nearly allied to actual pleasure. He sees the time fast approaching when the wilderness to him shall be ‘a fruitful field, and the desert shall blossom as the rose;’ when the productive soil shall gratefully yield an ample reward to his toils; and when the hardships of his situation shall, by the blessing of Heaven on his exertions, gradually disappear, and leave him in possession of health, plenty, and independence. While indulging in such joyful and ecstatic visions, the wooden pillow of a new and industrious settler becomes softer than bolsters of down, and his solitary blanket feels more comfortable than sheets of Holland.

* * * * *

We have presented the views of almost every class of observers on this interesting country; but there yet remains unquoted an observer of the difficulties, toils, and trials to which woman is subjected in Canada; and from her admirable, graphic, and womanly record we make large extracts. The book is the “Backwoods of Canada,” and the authoress the wife of an emigrant officer.

“It is now settled that we abide here till after the government sale has taken place. We are, then, to remain with —— and his family till we have got a few acres chopped, and a log-house put up on our own land. Having determined to go at once into the bush, on account of our military grant, which we have been so fortunate as to draw in the neighbourhood of S——, we have fully made up our minds to enter at once, and cheerfully, on the privations and inconveniences attending such a situation, as there is no choice between relinquishing that great advantage and doing our settlement duties. We shall not be worse off than others who have gone before us to the unsettled townships, many of whom, naval and military officers with their families, have had to struggle with considerable difficulties, but who are now beginning to feel the advantages arising from their exertions.

“In addition to the land he is entitled to as an officer in the British service, my husband is in treaty for the purchase of an eligible lot by Small Lakes. This will give us a water frontage, and a further inducement to bring us within a little distance of S——; so that we shall not be quite so lonely as if we had gone on to our government lot at once.”

We have experienced some attention and hospitality from several of the residents at Peterborough. There is a very genteel society, chiefly composed of officers and their families, besides the professional men and storekeepers. Many of the latter are persons of respectable family and good education. Though a store is, in fact, nothing better than what we should call in the country towns at home a “_general shop_,” yet the storekeeper in Canada holds a very different rank from the storekeeper of the English village. The storekeepers are the merchants and bankers of the places in which they reside. Almost all money matters are transacted by them; and they are often men of landed property and consequence, not unfrequently filling the situations of magistrates, commissioners, and even members of the provincial parliament.

As they maintain a rank in society which entitles them to equality with the aristocracy of the country, you must not be surprised when I tell you that it is no uncommon circumstance to see the sons of naval and military officers and clergymen standing behind a counter, or wielding an axe in the woods with their fathers’ choppers; nor do they lose their grade in society by such employment. After all, it is education and manners that must distinguish the gentleman in this country, seeing that the labouring man, if he is diligent and industrious, may soon become his equal in point of worldly possessions. The ignorant man, let him be ever so wealthy, can never be equal to the man of education. It is the mind that forms the distinction between the classes in this country. “Knowledge is power!”

We had heard so much of the odious manners of the Yankees in this country, that I was rather agreeably surprised by the few specimens of native Americans that I have seen. They were, for the most part, polite, well-behaved people. The only peculiarities I observed in them were a certain nasal twang in speaking, and some few odd phrases; but these were only used by the lower class, who “_guess_,” and “_calculate_,” a little more than we do. One of their most remarkable terms is to “_Fix_.” Whatever work requires to be done, it must be _fixed_. “Fix the room,” is, set it in order. “Fix the table,”—“Fix the fire,”—says the mistress to her servants; and the things are fixed accordingly.

I was amused one day by hearing a woman tell her husband the chimney wanted fixing. I thought it seemed secure enough, and was a little surprised when the man got a rope and a few cedar boughs, with which he dislodged an accumulation of soot that caused the fire to smoke. The chimney being _fixed_, all went right again. This odd term is not confined to the lower orders alone; it becomes a standard word even among the later emigrants from our country.

With the exception of some few remarkable expressions, and an attempt at introducing fine words in their every-day conversation, the lower orders of Yankees have a decided advantage over our English peasantry in the use of grammatical language; they speak better English than you will hear from persons of the same class in any part of England, Ireland, or Scotland—a fact that we should be unwilling, I suppose, to allow at home.

If I were asked, what appeared to me the most striking feature in the manners of the Americans that I had met with, I should say it was coldness, approaching to apathy. I do not at all imagine them to be deficient in feeling or real sensibility, but they do not suffer their emotion to be seen. They are less profuse in their expressions of welcome and kindness than we are, though probably quite as sincere. No one doubts their hospitality; but, after all, one likes to see the hearty shake of the hand, and hear the cordial word that makes one feel oneself welcome.

Persons who come to this country are very apt to confound the old settlers from Britain with the native Americans; and when they meet with people of rude, offensive manners, using certain Yankee words in their conversation, and making a display of independence, not exactly suitable to their own aristocratical notions, they immediately suppose they must be genuine Yankees, while they are, in fact, only imitators; and you well know the fact, that a bad imitation is always worse than the original.

You would be surprised to see how soon the new comers fall into this disagreeable manner and affectation of equality, especially the inferior class of Irish and Scotch; the English less so. We were rather entertained by the behaviour of a young Scotchman, the engineer of the steamer, on my husband addressing him with regard to the management of the engine. His manners were surly, and almost insolent. He scrupulously avoided the least approach to courtesy or outward respect; nay, he even went so far as to seat himself on the bench close beside me, and observed, that, among the many advantages this country offered to settlers like him, he did not reckon it the least of them, that he was not obliged to take off his hat when he spoke to people, (meaning persons of our degree,) or address them by any other title than their name; besides, he could go and take his seat beside any gentleman, or lady either, and think himself to the full as good as them.

“Very likely,” I replied, hardly able to refrain from laughing at this sally; “but I doubt you greatly overrate the advantage of such privileges, for you cannot oblige the lady or gentleman to entertain the same opinion of your qualifications, or to remain seated beside you, unless it pleases them to do so.” With these words I rose up and left the independent gentleman, evidently a little confounded at the manœuvre: however, he soon recovered his self-possession, and continued swinging the axe he held in his hand, and said, “It is no crime, I guess, being born a poor man.”

“None in the world,” replied my husband; “a man’s birth is not of his own choosing. A man can no more help being born poor than rich; neither is it the fault of a gentleman being born of parents who occupy a higher station in society than his neighbour. I hope you will allow this?”

The Scotchman was obliged to yield a reluctant affirmative to the latter position, but concluded with again repeating his satisfaction at not being obliged in this country to take off his hat, or speak with respect to gentlemen, as they styled themselves.

“No one, my friend, could have obliged you to be well-mannered at home any more than in Canada. Surely you could have kept your hat on your head, if you had been so disposed; no gentleman would have knocked it off, I am sure. As to the boasted advantage of rude manners in Canada, I should think something of it, if it benefited you in the least, or put one extra dollar in your pocket; but I have my doubts if it has that profitable effect.”

“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 lilac _monarda_, most delightfully aromatic, even to the dry stalks and seed-vessels; the white _gnaphalium_, 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 purple _lichnidea_; 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 the _crown_, not the _first-fruits_ of 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, or _logged_, 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 to _hire out_ to 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 a _first_ settlement 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 the _browse_ that 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.”

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 a _blaze_, 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.