Chapter VI: Part 6

But I must now tell you of our sugar-making, in which I take rather an active part Our experiment was on a very limited scale, having but one kettle, besides two iron tripods; but it was sufficient to initiate us in the art and mystery of boiling the sap into molasses, and finally the molasses down to sugar.

The first thing to be done in tapping the maples, is to provide little rough troughs to catch the sap as it flows; these are merely pieces of pine-tree, hollowed with the axe. The tapping the tree is done by cutting a gash in the bark, or boring a hole with an auger. The former plan, as being most readily performed, is the most usually practised. A slightly-hollowed piece of cedar or elder is then inserted, so as to slant downwards, and direct the sap into the trough; I have seen a flat chip made the conductor. Ours were managed according to rule, you may be sure. The sap runs most freely after a frosty night, followed by a warm bright day; it should be collected during the day in a barrel or large trough, capable of holding all that can be boiled down the same evening; it should not stand more than twenty-four hours, as it is apt to ferment, and will not grain well unless fresh.

My husband, with an Irish lad, began collecting the sap the last week in March. A pole was fixed across two forked stakes, strong enough to bear the weight of the big kettle. Their employment during the day was emptying the troughs and chopping wood to supply the fires. In the evening they lit the fires, and began boiling down the sap.

It was a pretty, a picturesque sight, to see the sugar-boilers, with their bright log-fire among the trees, now stirring up the blazing pile, now throwing in the liquid and stirring it down with a big ladle. When the fire grew fierce it boiled and foamed up in the kettle, and they had to throw in fresh sap to keep it from running over.

When the sap begins to thicken into molasses, it is then brought to the sugar-boiler to be finished. The process is simple; it only requires attention in skimming and keeping the mass from boiling over, till it has arrived at the sugaring point, which is ascertained by dropping a little into cold water. When it is near the proper consistency, the kettle or pot becomes full of yellow froth, that dimples and rises in large bubbles from beneath. These throw out puffs of steam; and when the molasses is in this stage, it is nearly converted into sugar. Those who pay great attention to keeping the liquid free from scum, and understand the precise sugaring point, will produce an article little if at all inferior to Muscovado.

In general you see the maple-sugar in large cakes, like bees’-wax, close and compact, without showing the crystallization; but it looks more beautiful when the grain is coarse and sparkling, and the sugar is broken in rough masses like sugar-candy.

The sugar is rolled or scraped down with a knife for use, as it takes long to dissolve in the tea without this preparation. I superintended the last part of the process, that of boiling the molasses down to sugar; and, considering it was a first attempt, Mid without any experienced person to direct me, otherwise than the information obtained from ——, I succeeded tolerably well, and produced some sugar of a fine sparkling grain and good colour. Besides the sugar, I made about three gallons of molasses, which proved a great comfort to us, forming a nice ingredient in cakes, and an excellent sauce for puddings.

The Yankees, I am told, make excellent preserves with molasses instead of sugar. The molasses boiled from maple-sap is very different from the molasses of the West Indies, both in flavour, colour, and consistency.

Besides the sugar and molasses, we manufactured a small cask of vinegar, which promises to be good. This was done by boiling five pails-full of sap down to two, and fermenting it after it was in the vessel with barm; it was then placed near the fire, and suffered to continue there in preference to being exposed to the sun’s heat.

With regard to the expediency of making maple-sugar, it depends on circumstances whether it be profitable or not to the farmer. If he have to hire hands for the work, and pay high wages, it certainly does not answer to make it, unless on a large scale. One thing in its favour is, that the sugar season commences at a time when little else can be done on the farm, with the exception of chopping, the frost not being sufficiently out of the ground to admit of crops being sown; time is, therefore, less valuable than it is later in the spring.

Where there is a large family of children, and a convenient sugar-bush on the lot, the making of sugar and molasses is decidedly a saving; as young children can be employed in emptying the troughs and collecting firewood, the bigger ones can tend the kettles and keep up the fire while the sap is boiling, and the wife and daughters can finish off the sugar within doors.

Maple-sugar sells for four-pence and six-pence per pound, and sometimes for more. At first I did not particularly relish the flavour it gave to tea, but after awhile I liked it far better than Muscovado, and as a sweet-meat it is to my taste delicious. I shall send you a specimen by the first opportunity, that you may judge for yourself of its excellence.

The weather is now very warm—oppressively so. We can scarcely endure the heat of the cooking-stove in the kitchen. As to a fire in the parlour there is not much need of it, as I am glad to sit at the open door and enjoy the lake-breeze. The insects are already beginning to be troublesome, particularly the black flies—a wicked-looking fly, with black body and white legs and wings; you do not feel their bite for a few minutes, but are made aware of it by a stream of blood flowing from the wound; after a few hours the part swells and becomes extremely painful.

These “beasties” chiefly delight in biting the sides of the throat, ears, and sides of the cheek, and with me the swelling continues for many days. The mosquitoes are also very annoying. I care more for the noise they make even than the sting. To keep them out of the house we light little heaps of damp chips, the smoke of which drives them away; but this remedy is not entirely effectual, and is of itself rather an annoyance.

This is the fishing season. Our lakes are famous for masquinougé, salmon-trout, white fish, black bass, and many others. We often see the lighted canoes of the fishermen pass and repass of a dark night before our door. S—— is considered very skilful as a spearsman, and enjoys the sport so much that he seldom misses a night favourable for it. The darker the night, and the calmer the water, the better it is for the fishing.

It is a very pretty sight to see these little barks slowly stealing from some cove of the dark pine-clad shores, and manœuvring among the islands on the lakes, rendered visible in the darkness by the blaze of light cast on the water from the jack—a sort of open grated iron basket, fixed to a long pole at the bows of the skiff or canoe. This is filled with a very combustible substance, called fat-pine, which burns with a fierce and rapid flame, or else with rolls of birch-bark, which is also very easily ignited.

The light from above renders objects distinctly visible below the surface of the water. One person stands up in the middle of the boat with his fish-spear,—a sort of iron trident,—ready to strike at the fish that he may chance to see gliding in the still waters, while another with his paddle steers the canoe cautiously along. This sport requires a quick eye, a steady hand, and great caution, in those that pursue it.

I delight in watching these torch-lighted canoes so quietly gliding over the calm waters, which are illuminated for yards with a bright track of light, by which we may distinctly perceive the figure of the spearsman standing in the centre of the boat, first glancing to one side, then the other, or poising his weapon ready for a blow. When four or five of these lighted vessels are seen at once on the fishing ground, the effect is striking and splendid.

The Indians are very expert in this kind of fishing; the squaws paddling the canoes with admirable skill and dexterity. There is another mode of fishing in which these people also excel; this is fishing on the ice, when the lakes are frozen over—a sport that requires the exercise of great patience. The Indian, provided with his tomahawk, with which he makes an opening in the ice, a spear, his blanket, and a decoy-fish of wood, proceeds to the place he has fixed upon. Having cut a hole in the ice, he places himself on hands and knees, and casts his blanket over him, so as to darken the water and conceal himself from observation; in this position he will remain for hours, patiently watching the approach of his prey, which he strikes with admirable precision as soon as it appears within the reach of his spear.

The masquinougé thus caught are superior in flavour to those taken later in the season, and may be bought very reasonably from the Indians. I gave a small loaf of bread for a fish weighing from eighteen to twenty pounds. The masquinougé is, to all appearance, a large species of the pike, and possesses the ravenous propensities of that fish.

One of the small lakes of the Otanahee is called Trout Lake, from the abundance of salmon-trout that occupy its waters. The white fish is also found in these lakes, and is very delicious. The large sorts of fish are mostly taken with the spear, few persons having time for angling in this busy country.

As soon as the ice breaks up, our lakes are visited by innumerable flights of wild fowl; some of the ducks are extremely beautiful in their plumage, and are very fine flavoured. I love to watch these pretty creatures, floating so tranquilly on the water, or suddenly rising and skimming along the edge of the pine-fringed shores, to drop again on the surface, and then remain stationary, like a fleet at anchor. Sometimes we see an old duck lead out a brood of little ones from among the rushes; the innocent soft things look very pretty sailing round their mother, but at the least appearance of danger they disappear instantly by diving. The frogs are great enemies to the young broods; they are also the prey of the masquinougé, and I believe of other large fish that abound in these waters.

The ducks are in the finest order during the early part of the summer, when they resort to the rice-beds in vast numbers, getting very fat on the green rice, which they eagerly devour.

The Indians are very successful in their duck-shooting: they fill a canoe with green boughs, so that it resembles a sort of floating island; beneath the cover of these boughs they remain concealed, and are enabled by this device to approach much nearer than they otherwise could do to the wary birds. The same plan is often adopted by our own sportsmen with great success.

A family of Indians have pitched their tents very near us. On one of the islands of our lake we can distinguish the thin blue smoke of their wood fires, rising among the trees, from our front window, or curling over the bosom of the waters.

The squaws have been several times to see me; sometimes from curiosity, sometimes with the view of bartering their baskets, mats, ducks, or venison, for pork, flour, potatoes, or articles of wearing apparel. Sometimes their object is to borrow “kettle to cook,” which they are very punctual in returning.

Once a squaw came to borrow a washing tub, but not understanding her language I could not for some time discover the object of her solicitude; at last, she took up a corner of her blanket, and, pointing to some soap, began rubbing it between her hands, imitated the action of washing, then laughed, and pointed to a tub; she then held up two fingers, to intimate it was for two days she needed the loan.

The people appear of gentle and amiable dispositions; and, as far as our experience goes, they are very honest. Once, indeed, the old hunter, Peter, obtained from me some bread, for which he promised to give a pair of ducks; but when the time came for payment, and I demanded my ducks, he looked gloomy, and replied with characteristic brevity, “No duck—Chippewa (meaning S——, this being the name they have affectionately given him,) gone up lake with canoe—no canoe—duck by-and-by.” By-and-by is a favourite expression of the Indians, signifying an indefinite point of time; may be, it means to-morrow, or a week, or month, or it may be a year, or even more. They rarely give you a direct promise. As it is not wise to let any one cheat you if you can prevent it, I coldly declined any further overtures to bartering with the Indians till my ducks made their appearance. Some time afterwards I received one duck by the hands of Maquin, a sort of Indian Flibberty-gibbet. This lad is a hunchbacked dwarf, very shrewd, but a perfect imp: his delight seems to be tormenting the brown babies in the wigwams, or teazing the meek deer-hounds.

The forest trees are nearly all in leaf. Never did spring burst forth with greater rapidity than it has done this year. The verdure of the leaves is most vivid. A thousand lovely flowers are expanding in the woods and clearings. Nor are our Canadian songsters mute: the cheerful melody of the robin, the bugle-song of the blackbird and thrush, with the weak but not unpleasing call of the little bird called thitabebee, and a wren, whose note is sweet and thrilling, fill our woods.

For my part, I see no reason or wisdom in carping at the good we do possess, because it lacks something of that which we formerly enjoyed. I am aware it is the fashion for travellers to assert that our feathered tribes are either mute, or give utterance to discordant cries that pierce the ear, and disgust rather than please. It would be untrue were I to assert that our singing birds are as numerous or as melodious, on the whole, as those of Europe; but I must not suffer prejudice to rob my adopted country of her rights, without one word being spoken in behalf of her feathered vocalists. Nay, I consider her very frogs have been belied; if it were not for the monotony of their notes, I really consider they are not quite unmusical. The green frogs are very handsome, being marked over with brown oval shields on the most vivid green coat; they are larger in size than the biggest of our English frogs, and certainly much handsomer in every respect. Their note resembles that of a bird, and has nothing of the croak in it.

In conclusion, though Canada might not seem a paradise to town-bred gentlemen, or modern fine ladies, it possesses advantages to persons of sober, industrious habits, which are not to be found in England. If the emigrant and his family can but struggle through the hardships and privations of a first settlement in the backwoods, there is little doubt that they will in time secure a moderate independence, and be above want, though not above work.

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[1] These concession-lines are certain divisions of the townships; these are again divided into so many lots of 200 acres. The concession-lines used to be marked by a wide avenue being chopped, so as to form a road of communication between them; but this plan was found too troublesome; and in a few years the young growth of timber so choked the opening, that it was of little use. The lately-surveyed townships, I believe, are only divided by blazed lines.

CHAP. VII.

NEW BRUNSWICK.

* * * * *

The Province of New Brunswick holds an important position amongst the colonies of Great Britain. To the political economist it presents a tract of country 27,704 square miles in superficial extent,—blessed with a salubrious climate,—a rich and productive soil, capable of receiving the whole tide of British emigration, should it turn in that direction, and of contributing to the comfort and happiness of the surplus of our industrious population. To the trader and capitalist the advantages this colony offers are equally great:—the whole area of this vast territory is intersected by innumerable navigable rivers and lakes; its shores are indented with safe and commodious harbours; its seas and rivers stored with excellent fish; its fertile plains and valleys, that are now covered with timber, require only the industry of man to make them yield corn and the fruits of the earth in prodigal abundance; its mountains teem with various mineral productions—iron, copper, zinc, manganese; gold and silver have been found in various parts of the province; coal of superior quality is abundant in several localities, and gypsum forms a principal article of the exports of the country to the United States. In short, whether we regard this old but much neglected colony in a social or commercial point of view, it possesses much to recommend it to the attention of every thinking Englishman.

It is not my intention, however, to do more than allude briefly to these or other topics which might be considered irrelevant to the object of a work purporting to illustrate the scenery of the country.

The history of New Brunswick is closely connected with that of the adjoining province of Nova Scotia, of which it formed a portion until the year 1785. Its first settlers were a few families from New England in 1762, who planted themselves on the River St. John, about fifty miles from its mouth. After the peace with America in 1783, upwards of four thousand persons from Nantucket came also to seek a home in those almost untrodden wildernesses.

The difficulties of settling in any new country are sufficiently numerous and formidable; but the hardships which these poor people had to endure were of more than ordinary severity. On their arrival late in the autumn, they found a few wretched hovels where St. John now stands; the surrounding country presenting a most desolate aspect, which was peculiarly discouraging to people who had just left their homes in the beautiful and cultivated parts of the United States. As they proceeded up the river St. John, the country wore a more pleasing aspect. At St. Ann’s, where Fredericton is now built, they met a few scattered huts of the old French settlers, the country around being a perfect wilderness, uninhabited save by wild beasts or more savage Indians. The winter, which was at that time more rigorous than it is at present, surprised the unfortunate settlers before they had time to complete the construction of their cabins; added to which, they were frequently reduced to the direst extremities for food and clothing to preserve their existence. Frequently had they to travel from fifty to one hundred and fifty miles with hand-sleds, through trackless woods, or on the ice-bound rivers, to procure a scanty supply of provisions for their families at the Government stores: and in the piercing cold of winter, a part of the family had to remain up during the night to keep the fire in their huts, to prevent the other part from freezing. Some of the more destitute settlers made use of boards instead of bedding; the father, or some of the elder members of the family, remaining up by turns, and warming two pieces of board, which they applied alternately to the smaller children to keep them warm, with many similar expedients. By patience and endurance, almost unexampled, they struggled through their sufferings; and, by unremitting exertions, subdued the wilderness, and covered the face of the country with thriving towns, and villages, and habitations, where peace, plenty, and industry have fixed their abodes.

My route to New Brunswick from Canada was by the Grand Portage, about thirty-six miles across. The roads, though bad, were better than I expected. On my way I passed through some new settlements on reclaimed swamps, near the Rivière du Loup and crossed two or three high mountains, which form part of the Alleghany chain, lying between New Brunswick and the River St. Lawrence. The greater part of the country here is a complete bed of rocks, and the whole way through the woods offers little encouragement for settlers. Having passed the Portage, I reached Lake Tamisquata or Témiscouata a wild and solitary piece of water, twenty-eight miles in length. The land upon its banks is generally inferior, but upon its western side there are several swells of fruitful ground. From this lake the River Madawaska takes its rise, and winds for thirty miles through an almost boundless forest. The country on either side is exceedingly fertile; and the scenery is of the most wild and magnificent description. A few Acadians[2], the descendants of the original French settlers, are located on the banks of this lonely river; they are exceedingly simple in their manners, and have little intercourse with the rest of the world, except when at distant intervals they visit Fredericton to dispose of the surplus produce of their little farms. Their wants are few, and they live a quiet pastoral life, retaining a strong attachment to the dress, habits, language, and religion of their forefathers.[3]

This settlement is comprehended in the disputed territory claimed by the Americans on the Maine frontier; which, in point of fertility, valuable timber, and beautiful rivers and streams, is equal to any part of America.

The season at which I entered New Brunswick was May, the most favourable period in the year for seeing the country to advantage. It is then that summer bursts at once from the cold embrace of winter; for the few days intervening between the rigorous cold of winter, and the genial heat of the weather such as we experience in England in the month of June, can scarcely be called a spring. To persons who have only witnessed the tardy advances of summer through the months of March, April, and May, in Great Britain, the sudden change which takes place at this season in Canada and the adjoining colonies is especially surprising; in the course of three or four days, the fields and deciduous trees put on their verdant liveries, innumerable garden and field flowers burst into full blow, the birds of summer make their appearance and enliven the woods with their glad songs, and the American nightingales, as the frogs are called, commence their singular evening concerts. In short, nothing can be imagined more delightful than the astonishing quickness with which the face of nature becomes clothed with all the charms of summer. The forests, which cover the greatest part of the province of New Brunswick, are unequalled in magnificence in any other part of the world. The banks of the river St. John are remarkable for the magnitude and abundance of the timber with which they are overgrown. Many varieties of the red, yellow, and pitch pine, intermingled with the graceful larch, the picturesque beech and maple, birch, elm, oak, and numerous other tribes of forest timber, grow down close to the water’s side, spreading in stately grandeur over the broad plains, or stretching proudly up to the summits of the mountains that descend precipitously to the river. In summer the bright and cheerful green of the forests is exceedingly beautiful and refreshing to the eye, the dark pines alone forming a sombre contrast to the vivid freshness of the deciduous trees; but it is in autumn that an American forest wears its most enchanting colours;—two or three frosty nights in the decline of the season transform the rich and boundless verdure of a vast tract into brilliant scarlet, rich violet, and every possible tint of blue and brown, deep crimson and golden yellow. The fir tribes alone maintain their unchangeable dark green hue; all others on mountain and in valley burst into glorious beauty, and exhibit the most splendid and enchanting picture that earth can produce. It is from these immense forests that New Brunswick now draws its principal wealth. The timber trade,[4] which has hitherto almost wholly engaged the attention of settlers, is of great importance, and employs a vast number of people, whose manner of living, owing to the nature of the business they follow, is altogether different from that of the inhabitants who are occupied in agricultural pursuits.

Throughout all New Brunswick, the wood fellers, or “lumberers,” as they are there termed, bear a very indifferent reputation, being generally, and I fear with too much justice, regarded as men of dissolute and extravagant habits, and whose moral character, with few exceptions, is dishonest and worthless. The curious manner in which these people associate themselves for the purpose of cutting timber is so well described by a modern writer, that I cannot do better than transcribe his account of it. “Several men,” he says, “form what is called a lumbering party, composed of persons who are either hired by a master labourer, who pays them wages, and finds them in provisions; or of individuals, who enter into an understanding with each other to have a joint interest in the proceeds of their labour: the necessary supplies of provisions, clothing &c., are generally obtained from the merchants on credit, in consideration of receiving the timber which the lumberers are to bring down the rivers the following summer. The stock deemed requisite for a lumbering party consists of axes, a cross-cut saw, cooking utensils, a cask of rum, tobacco and pipes, a sufficient quantity of biscuit, pork, beef, and fish; pease and pearl barley for soup, with a cask of molasses to sweeten a decoction usually made of shrubs, as of the tops of the hemlock tree. Two or three yokes of oxen, with sufficient hay to feed them, are also required to haul the timber out of the woods. When thus prepared, these people proceed up the rivers with the provisions to the place fixed on for their winter establishment, which is selected as near a stream of water, and in the midst of as much pine timber, as possible. They commence by clearing away a few of the surrounding trees, and building a camp of round logs, the walls of which are seldom more than four or five feet high; the roof is covered with birch bark or boards. A pit is dug under the camp, to preserve any thing liable to injury from the frost. The fire is either in the middle or at one end; the smoke goes out through the roof; hay, straw, or fir branches are spread across, or along the whole length of the habitation, on which they all lie down together at night to sleep, with their feet next the fire. When the fire gets low, he who first awakes or feels cold springs up, and throws on five or six billets; and in this way they manage to have a large fire all night. One person is hired as cook, whose duty it is to have breakfast prepared before daylight; at which time all the party rise, when each takes his “_morning_,” the indispensable dram of raw rum, immediately before breakfast. This meal consists of bread, or occasionally potatoes, with boiled beef, pork, or fish, and _tea_ sweetened with molasses. Dinner is usually the same, with pease soup instead of tea; and the supper resembles the breakfast. These men are enormous eaters; and they also drink great quantities of rum, which they scarcely ever dilute. Immediately after breakfast they divide into three gangs, one of which cuts down the trees, another hews them, and the third is employed with the oxen in hauling the timber, either in one general road leading to the banks of the nearest stream, or at once to the stream itself. Fallen trees and other impediments in the way of the oxen are cut away with the axe.”

Such is the toilsome life of a lumberer from October until the month of April; amidst forests covered with snow, and exposed to all the severity of the winter, without experiencing any of its comforts. But it is when the snow begins to dissolve in April, and the “freshets” come down the rivers, that the lumberer’s most trying labours commence. The timber which has been cut during the winter is now thrown into the stream, and floated down to some convenient place for constructing a raft. The water at this period, owing to the snow water in the freshets, is more intensely cold than in the depth of winter; the lumberers are obliged to be immersed in it from morning till night, and it is seldom less than six weeks from the time the floating the timber commences, till the rafts are delivered into the merchant’s hands. This course of life, it is evident, must undermine the constitution; and the sudden transition from the extreme cold of winter in the backwoods to the scorching heat of the summer sun, must tend still farther to weaken and reduce the system. In order to sustain the cold, and stimulate the organs, these men are in the habit of swallowing immoderate quantities of ardent spirits; we cannot, then, wonder that premature old age and shortness of days should form the almost inevitable fate of a lumberer. Should one of them, more prudent than his fellows, save a little money, and be enabled for the last few years of his life to exist without labour, he only drags out a miserable existence—the victim of rheumatism, and all the miseries of a broken down constitution.

A few miles above the Acadian settlements, the St. John receives the waters of the Madawaska; and inclining to the westward, flows in a deep and sluggish stream through a wilderness of rich and fertile lands, until it reaches the Grand Falls of the St. John, which for romantic beauty are perhaps unequalled by the most celebrated falls in the world. Mr. McGregor, who visited them, asserts, that, though they cannot be compared with Niagara in point of magnitude, the _tout ensemble_ of the tremendous rocks, the gigantic woods, and the continuity of the cataracts and rapids below the St. John Falls, is finer than any thing that the otherwise unparalleled Niagara can boast of. _Bateaux_ and other craft navigating the river at this point, are carried across a narrow neck of land, from a small cove immediately above the falls, to another little creek at some distance below them. The river, which a short way above the falls is broad and placid, becomes suddenly contracted between high and rocky banks, overhung with trees of immense growth, and rushes along a descent of several feet with prodigious impetuosity, until the interruption of a ridge of rocks, close to the edge of the grand falls, changes the turbulent stream into one vast sheet of broken foam, thundering over a precipice, fifty feet in perpendicular height, into a deep vortex filled with huge rocks, amongst which the immense body of waters is for a moment partially lost. Re-appearing, it continues its course through a narrower channel, pent in by rugged overhanging cliffs, and dashing with extraordinary velocity over a succession of lesser falls, more than half a mile in length, forms a picture of terrific grandeur and sublimity. The scenery after passing the grand falls is of the wildest and boldest character imaginable; and the rocky bed of the river is exceedingly dangerous for rafts and _bateaux_, which, however, are dexterously navigated through the broken waters and foaming rapids.

From this point the settlements on the fertile tracts of intervale land which lie near the river become more numerous, and it is no unfrequent occurrence with travellers in the woods to fall in with a farmer and his family hard at work forming A FIRST SETTLEMENT. These settlers are mostly Americans,[5] or English and Scotch farmers, who have emigrated from the mother country to endeavour by honest labour to obtain a comfortable independence for themselves and their children. It is a singularly interesting sight—one of these new settlements buried in the depths of a pine forest, and proves how many seeming and real difficulties a man may overcome by patience and industry. Who without some strong motive for exertion would not feel discouraged at the sight of the wilderness land covered with heavy trees, which he must cut down and destroy before he can commit to the earth the seed which is to produce food for his family? But with the prospect of independence and comfort before him, the strong-hearted settler falls cheerfully to work, the lusty strokes of his axe ring through the lonely woods, and the monarchs of the forest fall one after the other beneath his vigorous arm. A small space is cleared, and he begins to raise the walls of his future dwelling. Round logs, from fifteen to twenty feet in length, are laid horizontally over each other, notched at the corners so as to let them down sufficiently close, till the walls have attained the requisite height:—the interstices between the logs are then filled with moss and clay; a few rafters are afterwards raised for the roof, covered with pine or birch bark, and thatched with spruce branches; the chimney is formed of wooden frame-work, and plastered with clay and straw kneaded together; a doorway and an aperture for a window are next cut in the walls of the house; the door and sashes are fixed in their places; a few rough boards, or logs hewn flat on one side, are laid down for a floor, and overhead a similar flooring, to form a sort of garret or lumber room. With the addition of a few articles of furniture of the rudest construction, the habitation is now considered ready to receive the family of the settler, who view with unbounded delight their new dwelling, and joyfully prepare, for the first time since their sojourn in the forest, to cook and eat their dinner of venison beneath the shelter of their humble roof. The house being completed, the settler next turns his attention to laying out his farm; and his first object is to cut down the trees, which is done by cutting with an axe a deep notch into each side of the tree, about two feet from the ground, in such a manner that the trees all fall in the same direction; the branches are then lopped off, and the timber is suffered to lie on the ground until the beginning of the following summer, when it is set on fire. By this means all the branches and small wood are consumed; the large logs are either piled in heaps and burnt, or rolled away for the purpose of making the zigzag log fences necessary to keep off the cattle and sheep, which are allowed to range at large. The timber being thus removed, the ground requires little further preparation for the seed which is to be sown in it, than merely breaking the surface with a hoe or harrow. Plentiful crops of corn or potatoes may be raised for two and often for three years successively after the wood has been burnt on it. The stumps of the trees are allowed to remain in the ground until they are sufficiently decayed to be easily removed. The roots of spruce, beech, birch, and maple, will decay in four or five years; the pine and hemlock tree require a much longer time. After the stumps are all removed the land is turned up with the plough, and the same system of agriculture is practised as in England.

Destructive fires often occur in the woods, sometimes from the effects of lightning, but more frequently arising from the carelessness of travellers and wood-fellers, who light fires at the roots of trees, and take no trouble about extinguishing them afterwards. If the season happens to be dry, the fire soon communicates to the surrounding trees, and from thence spreading through the forest, it rages with a fury and rapidity that we can scarcely form a conception of in European countries. Let the reader, if possible, fancy the devouring flames curling around the stems of the lofty pine trees, rushing up to their dark tops, and ascending to an immense height amongst the dense clouds of black smoke arising from a whole forest on fire. At each moment the falling trees come down with a thundering crash, while sparks and splinters of burning wood, driven on the wind, spread the destruction far and wide,

“Through the grey giants of the sylvan wild.”

Human means are unavailing to check the progress of the conflagration; onward it rushes, extending to every combustible substance, and spreading desolation in its path until it is quenched by rain, or until it has devoured every thing between it and the cleared lands, the sea, or some river. In the year 1825 the country to the north of Miramichi was visited by one of the most disastrous conflagrations that history has ever recorded;[6] upwards of a hundred miles of the shores of Miramichi were laid waste by the fire, which extended to Fredericton, where it destroyed the governor’s residence and about eighty other houses; and carried its ravages northward as far as the Bay de Chaleur.

From the Grand Falls the river takes a course nearly due south, bounded on either side by precipitous banks and dense forests, whose solemn gloom has not yet been cheered by the hand of man. About half way between the Falls and Fredericton the waters of the Meduxnikeag unite with those of the St. John. It is here the grand and sublime features of the scenery of the latter river soften into the beautiful and picturesque. The towering and abrupt precipices,—the overhanging crags,—the dark and unpenetrated forests,—open into smiling plains and cultivated farms; and the numerous beauties which Nature has lavished on the scene, heightened by art, adorn the landscape with the cheering prospect of human comfort and prosperity. The river from this place to St. John is navigable for rafts and boats; and the settlements, though numerous, are chiefly confined to the banks of the stream,—a situation always selected by early settlers, from the advantages it possesses in enabling them to dispose of the timber with which their land is encumbered.

* * * * *

FREDERICTON, the seat of government of this province, is agreeably situated on a level neck of land, on the south side of the River St. John, about ninety miles above its mouth. The appearance of the town and the adjacent country, viewed from the rising ground behind Fredericton, is highly beautiful and luxuriant. Immediately beneath us stands the College, a plain but extensive building, conspicuously placed on the brow of a wooded eminence, overlooking the town; further down, on the flat shore, lies the neat cheerful looking town; and at some distance on the left, the handsome residence of the governor occupies a charming site near the water. Bending almost round the town, the majestic river, which is here not more than a mile in width, flows tranquilly between its banks; but it is no longer a silent and lonely stream, where the otter and the grey duck make their home, and—

“——with tawny limb,
And belts and beads in sun-light glistening,
The savage plies his skiff, like wild bird on the wing.”

Civilization and commerce are now busy upon its waters,—white sails are gliding to and fro,—and the heavy rafts of the lumberers are seen stealing slowly down the stream, or occasionally a steamer may be observed, stemming the current that runs against her in her passage up from St. John.

Following the course of the river downwards, the eye traces it for several miles winding around bold headlands crowned with noble trees,—or, lingering in those lovely bays where the sombre hue of the surrounding forest scenery is relieved by cheerful settlements, green fields, and comfortable farm houses, sprinkling the rich alluvial lands that fringe the shores. Looking upwards, the scene is still more picturesque and animated;—the face of the country exhibits more extensive cultivation,—the settlements are more numerous,—the woods seem to recede from the shores, yielding their ancient sovereignty of the soil to the untiring industry of man. The best view of FREDERICTON is had FROM THE OPPOSITE SIDE OF THE RIVER, from whence the town presents a very pleasing appearance. Gay spires and white-walled buildings are seen stretching along the shore for a considerable distance; above these the College occupies a commanding situation; and nearer to the spectator the tranquil river flows smoothly on, while the dark green woods that clothe the undulating hills behind the town, form a noble back ground to the picture:—if to this the reader adds a glorious summer sky, overhanging and brightening all beneath, the landscape will be complete.

* * * * *

THE GOVERNOR’S HOUSE stands at a short distance from the town, in one of the most romantic and picturesque situations imaginable. It is a light and elegant structure, forming a very agreeable object from the river, surrounded as it is by ornamented plantations, and sheltered by fine upland slopes, clad with rich and beautiful foliage. The town of Fredericton is laid out with great regularity; the streets crossing at right angles, as in almost all American towns. The public buildings are not numerous; the principal are—the Government House, the College already mentioned, and the barracks, which are good and commodious. The Episcopal church is a very unpretending building; there are besides, four other places of religious worship in the town for the Presbyterian, Methodist, Baptist, and Roman Catholic inhabitants. The environs are exceedingly pretty; neat houses, smiling gardens, and comfortable farms being scattered in every direction.

The condition of the settlers in the neighbourhood of Fredericton, St. John, and other large towns, is very different from that of the adventurous men who go forth to make a clearing in the woods;—their difficulties not being numerous, nor the labour so incessant, as that which the first settler has to encounter. The farms of the former are generally in a high state of cultivation: the rude log-hut has given place to a well-built and commodious dwelling-house, where the farmer, with his family and a numerous establishment of household servants, mechanics, and labourers, reside. Around the main building are scattered, with little regard to regularity or uniformity of appearance, barns, cattle-sheds, stables, workshops, and out-offices; and not unfrequently a grist mill and a saw mill;—all bearing evidence of the thriving condition of the proprietor, who, if he lives near the river, is also generally engaged in the timber trade, and employs large gangs of lumberers in the woods. The following picture of one of these industrious and active individuals, who had settled near Fredericton, may serve, with few exceptions, for the whole class:—This man was worth absolutely nothing when he settled on his farm, yet by industry and perseverance, he had acquired, in seven years, a handsome independence. “He could do little more than read and write; and his manners, though quite unpolished, were not rude. He had a wonderful readiness of address, and, as far as related to his own pursuits, quick powers of invention and application. He raised large crops, ground his own corn, manufactured the flax he cultivated and the wool of his sheep into coarse cloths; sold the provisions which his farm produced, and rum and British goods, to the lumberers, and received timber in payment. He made axes and other tools required by the lumberers, at his forge. He ate, gambled, and associated with his own labourers, and all others, who made his house a kind of rallying point; he appeared, however, to be a sober man, and a person who had in view an object of gain in every thing he engaged in.” The person thus described was an American; and it is an indisputable fact, that there are no people who can more readily adapt themselves to all the circumstances peculiar to a new colony than the descendants of the first settlers in the United States. They exhibit much more perseverance and ingenuity than the British colonists; and though the English farmer is decidedly superior to the Yankee in agricultural knowledge, the latter possesses, in a greater degree, a quickness of invention where any thing is required that can be supplied by the use of edge tools. An American settler is not only a carpenter and joiner, but he can, if necessary, turn his hand to various other handicrafts;—he tans leather, builds boats, makes baskets, soap, and sugar; and is his own smith, farrier, tailor, and shoemaker. Almost every farmer has a loom in his house, and his wife and daughters spin the yarn from the wool and flax produced on the farm, and afterwards weave it into cloth. The home-manufactured woollen cloth is rather coarse, but extremely durable; it is generally dyed a blue colour.

The habitations of the Americans who have settled in the British colonies are generally better constructed than those of any other settlers who have not had the advantage of many years’ residence in the country. But though the house of the English emigrant, from his imperfect knowledge of the use of edge tools, is usually a very clumsy affair, the peculiar neatness and comfort which prevails within doors more than compensates for the want of mechanical skill displayed without.

It has been well observed, that the virtue of cleanliness is one of those which Englishwomen never forget; I may add, that no women exhibit more industry and cheerfulness than the wives of the English settlers. It is no uncommon thing to see amongst them women, who have been tenderly and delicately brought up, milking their own cows, making their own butter, and performing tasks of household work from which they formerly would have shrunk. But a determination to conform to circumstances, soon reconciles a sensible woman to the duties of her new situation; and that which was at first irksome, becomes, in a short time, not only endurable, but a source of real gratification. The value of an industrious, active, and cheerful partner, can be estimated by no one so well as a settler in a new colony. It is to her that he owes all his domestic comforts and enjoyments. Like the prudent housewife described by King Solomon, “She seeketh wool and flax, and worketh willingly with her hands. She looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness.” Her accomplishments are numerous, but not exactly those that a fine lady in England might expect. Her skill is shown in the arts of manufacturing maple sugar; candle and soap-making; baking, cooking, salting meat and fish, knitting stockings and mittens, spinning woollen yarns, feeding poultry, managing a dairy, and, lastly, in mending and making clothes for herself, her husband, and children. These are the occupations of an emigrant’s wife; and if a female cannot resolve to enter upon them cheerfully, she should never think of settling in the woods of Canada or New Brunswick.

The grand features of American scenery cannot be viewed to greater advantage than when sailing down one of those vast rivers which roll the accumulated tributes of a thousand streams in one majestic flood to the ocean. For this reason, I would recommend any traveller wishing to proceed from Fredericton to St. John, to take his passage by one of the steam-boats which ply between these places. Descending the St. John, the traveller cannot avoid remarking the extreme beauty of the shores, which present a succession of undulating hills, alternating with plains of the richest alluvial land. Sometimes the river assumes the appearance of a picturesque lake, studded with islands of varied form and size, reflecting, in its glassy surface, the tints of the lofty pine woods, by which it seems hemmed in. At other times, confined between rocky shores, it rushes onward with troubled speed; until, again expanding into a broad stream, it glides, in tranquil beauty, between its beautiful shores. Frequently, struck by the grandeur of the scenery by which we were passing, have I longed to gaze upon it at my leisure; but our boat, like the monster Time, stayed not for my ardent wishes; and a passing glimpse was often all I could obtain of those wild and beautiful spots. Yet purer pleasure I have seldom experienced than when gliding down this noble river. I can now picture to myself the dense and lofty forests, clothing the upland slopes; the lofty hills that overhung the stream, with pleasant vales between, full of rich fields and green pastures, sprinkled with flocks and herds, and here and there the cheerful white shingled dwellings of the industrious settlers. Sometimes the white sail of a fisherman’s boat, or the painted canoe of the Indian, would cross us in our course. Numerous timber rafts, dropping sluggishly down with the stream, were overtaken and passed by us, with groups of lumberers stretched lazily on the floating mass, smoking, drinking, or sleeping in the sun, and enjoying their brief respite from slavish toil by uncontrolled abandonment to the luxury of idleness. I shall not, however, attempt a very minute description of the beautiful and fertile shores of the St. John River, which, in its descent from Fredericton to the Long Reach, receives the waters of the Washedemoak and Grand Lake from the east, and the Oromocto from the west. At the head of the Long Reach, the lands on either side, and the pretty islands which divide the river into several streams, are unequalled in beauty and fertility. Belle Isle Bay, a fine sheet of water, branches off here, and extends into the country a considerable distance. The spacious estuary of the Kennebecasis next attracts our attention. The shores are abrupt and rocky, but highly cultivated. A lovely tract of land called Sussex Vale lies near the head of the bay, thickly populated, and evincing by its appearance the prosperity and industry of its inhabitants. About a mile above the city of St. John, the river, contracted from the spacious opening of the Kennebecasis Bay, foams over and amongst a number of huge rocky masses, which appear to have been hurled from the adjacent heights into the bed of the stream, and, except at certain times of the tide, render the navigation of the river completely impracticable. This cataract, or rather succession of cataracts, forms what is called THE FALLS OF ST. JOHN. Above the Falls, the expanded river forms a bay of some extent, surrounded by high and rugged woodlands. At the lower end of this bay, and at a short distance from the Falls, stands the picturesque village of INDIAN TOWN, which, owing to the hindrance of the navigation of the river by the Falls, has become a kind of lesser port to St. John, where numbers of small craft load and unload their cargoes. The steamer for Fredericton also lies here; the distance to St. John being not more than a mile and a half, by a good road. The best view of the UPPER FALLS is obtained from the bold heights about midway between Indian Town and St. John. From this spot, looking up the river, the waters are seen rushing in an immense body through the scattered rocks which intercept their progress:—above the Falls the quiet bay spreads out its blue waves, as if in contrast to the turmoil below, winding round the abrupt promontories, and washing the white walls of the village of Indian Town, which is here a beautiful object in the picture.

THE SPLIT ROCK is that portion of the Falls lying nearest to St. John. The river here, pent between steep and rugged rocks, foams through its narrow channel with a tremendous roaring noise. The accompanying engraving represents these Rapids as they appear at low water, when the turbulent stream assumes an aspect of terrible and imposing grandeur. The approach to St. John from Indian Town is through the adjoining village of Portland, a place of some importance as regards the trade and commerce carried on there. It is the great depôt for the timber brought down from the interior of the country, and the principal wharfs and warehouses being situated in this part of the city, the traffic is consequently most considerable there.