ROUGHING IT IN THE BUSH

By SUSANNA MOODIE

To Agnes Strickland
Author of the "Lives of the Queens of England"
This simple tribute of affection
is dedicated by her sister
Susanna Moodie

CONTENTS

         Introduction to the Third Edition
      I  A Visit to Grosse Isle
     II  Quebec
    III  Our Journey up the Country
     IV  Tom Wilson's Emigration
      V  Our First Settlement, and the Borrowing System
     VI  Old Satan and Tom Wilson's Nose
    VII  Uncle Joe and his Family
   VIII  John Monaghan
     IX  Phoebe R---, and our Second Moving
      X  Brian, the Still-Hunter
     XI  The Charivari
    XII  The Village Hotel
   XIII  The Land-Jobber
    XIV  A Journey to the Woods
     XV  The Wilderness, and our Indian Friends
    XVI  Burning the Fallow
   XVII  Our Logging-Bee
  XVIII  A Trip to Stony Lake
    XIX  The "Ould Dhragoon"
     XX  Disappointed Hopes
    XXI  The Little Stumpy Man
   XXII  The Fire
  XXIII  The Outbreak
   XXIV  The Whirlwind
    XXV  The Walk to Dummer
   XXVI  A Change in our Prospects
  XXVII  Adieu to the Woods
 XXVIII  Canadian Sketches
 Appendix A  Advertisement to the Third Edition
 Appendix B  Canada: a Contrast
 Appendix C  Jeanie Burns


INTRODUCTION TO THE THIRD EDITION

Published by Richard Bentley in 1854

In most instances, emigration is a matter of necessity, not of
choice; and this is more especially true of the emigration of
persons of respectable connections, or of any station or position
in the world. Few educated persons, accustomed to the refinements
and luxuries of European society, ever willingly relinquish those
advantages, and place themselves beyond the protective influence of
the wise and revered institutions of their native land, without the
pressure of some urgent cause. Emigration may, indeed, generally be
regarded as an act of severe duty, performed at the expense of
personal enjoyment, and accompanied by the sacrifice of those local
attachments which stamp the scenes amid which our childhood grew, in
imperishable characters, upon the heart. Nor is it until adversity
has pressed sorely upon the proud and wounded spirit of the
well-educated sons and daughters of old but impoverished families,
that they gird up the loins of the mind, and arm themselves with
fortitude to meet and dare the heart-breaking conflict.

The ordinary motives for the emigration of such persons may be
summed up in a few brief words;--the emigrant's hope of bettering
his condition, and of escaping from the vulgar sarcasms too often
hurled at the less-wealthy by the purse-proud, common-place people
of the world. But there is a higher motive still, which has its
origin in that love of independence which springs up spontaneously
in the breasts of the high-souled children of a glorious land. They
cannot labour in a menial capacity in the country where they were
born and educated to command. They can trace no difference between
themselves and the more fortunate individuals of a race whose blood
warms their veins, and whose name they bear. The want of wealth
alone places an impassable barrier between them and the more
favoured offspring of the same parent stock; and they go forth to
make for themselves a new name and to find another country, to
forget the past and to live in the future, to exult in the prospect
of their children being free and the land of their adoption great.

The choice of the country to which they devote their talents and
energies depends less upon their pecuniary means than upon the
fancy of the emigrant or the popularity of a name. From the year
1826 to 1829, Australia and the Swan River were all the rage. No
other portions of the habitable globe were deemed worthy of notice.
These were the El Dorados and lands of Goshen to which all
respectable emigrants eagerly flocked. Disappointment, as a matter
of course, followed their high-raised expectations. Many of the
most sanguine of these adventurers returned to their native shores
in a worse condition than when they left them. In 1830, the great
tide of emigration flowed westward. Canada became the great
land-mark for the rich in hope and poor in purse. Public newspapers
and private letters teemed with the unheard-of advantages to be
derived from a settlement in this highly-favoured region.

Its salubrious climate, its fertile soil, commercial advantages,
great water privileges, its proximity to the mother country, and
last, not least, its almost total exemption from taxation--that
bugbear which keeps honest John Bull in a state of constant
ferment--were the theme of every tongue, and lauded beyond all
praise. The general interest, once excited, was industriously
kept alive by pamphlets, published by interested parties, which
prominently set forth all the good to be derived from a settlement
in the Backwoods of Canada; while they carefully concealed the toil
and hardship to be endured in order to secure these advantages.
They told of lands yielding forty bushels to the acre, but they
said nothing of the years when these lands, with the most careful
cultivation, would barely return fifteen; when rust and smut,
engendered by the vicinity of damp over-hanging woods, would blast
the fruits of the poor emigrant's labour, and almost deprive him
of bread. They talked of log houses to be raised in a single day,
by the generous exertions of friends and neighbours, but they never
ventured upon a picture of the disgusting scenes of riot and low
debauchery exhibited during the raising, or upon a description of
the dwellings when raised--dens of dirt and misery, which would, in
many instances, be shamed by an English pig-sty. The necessaries of
life were described as inestimably cheap; but they forgot to add
that in remote bush settlements, often twenty miles from a market
town, and some of them even that distance from the nearest
dwelling, the necessaries of life which would be deemed
indispensable to the European, could not be procured at all, or,
if obtained, could only be so by sending a man and team through
a blazed forest road,--a process far too expensive for frequent
repetition.

Oh, ye dealers in wild lands--ye speculators in the folly and
credulity of your fellow men--what a mass of misery, and of
misrepresentation productive of that misery, have ye not to answer
for! You had your acres to sell, and what to you were the worn-down
frames and broken hearts of the infatuated purchasers? The public
believed the plausible statements you made with such earnestness,
and men of all grades rushed to hear your hired orators declaim
upon the blessings to be obtained by the clearers of the
wilderness.

Men who had been hopeless of supporting their families in comfort
and independence at home, thought that they had only to come out
to Canada to make their fortunes; almost even to realise the story
told in the nursery, of the sheep and oxen that ran about the
streets, ready roasted, and with knives and forks upon their backs.
They were made to believe that if it did not actually rain gold,
that precious metal could be obtained, as is now stated of
California and Australia, by stooping to pick it up.

The infection became general. A Canada mania pervaded the middle
ranks of British society; thousands and tens of thousands for the
space of three or four years landed upon these shores. A large
majority of the higher class were officers of the army and navy,
with their families--a class perfectly unfitted by their previous
habits and education for contending with the stern realities of
emigrant life. The hand that has long held the sword, and been
accustomed to receive implicit obedience from those under its
control, is seldom adapted to wield the spade and guide the plough,
or try its strength against the stubborn trees of the forest. Nor
will such persons submit cheerfully to the saucy familiarity of
servants, who, republicans in spirit, think themselves as good as
their employers. Too many of these brave and honourable men were
easy dupes to the designing land-speculators. Not having counted
the cost, but only looked upon the bright side of the picture held
up to their admiring gaze, they fell easily into the snares of
their artful seducers.

To prove their zeal as colonists, they were induced to purchase
large tracts of wild land in remote and unfavourable situations.
This, while it impoverished and often proved the ruin of the
unfortunate immigrant, possessed a double advantage to the seller.
He obtained an exorbitant price for the land which he actually
sold, while the residence of a respectable settler upon the spot
greatly enhanced the value and price of all other lands in the
neighbourhood.

It is not by such instruments as those I have just mentioned, that
Providence works when it would reclaim the waste places of the
earth, and make them subservient to the wants and happiness of its
creatures. The Great Father of the souls and bodies of men knows
the arm which wholesome labour from infancy has made strong, the
nerves which have become iron by patient endurance, by exposure
to weather, coarse fare, and rude shelter; and He chooses such,
to send forth into the forest to hew out the rough paths for the
advance of civilization. These men become wealthy and prosperous,
and form the bones and sinews of a great and rising country. Their
labour is wealth, not exhaustion; its produce independence and
content, not home-sickness and despair. What the Backwoods of
Canada are to the industrious and ever-to-be-honoured sons of
honest poverty, and what they are to the refined and accomplished
gentleman, these simple sketches will endeavour to portray. They
are drawn principally from my own experience, during a sojourn of
nineteen years in the colony.

In order to diversify my subject, and make it as amusing as
possible, I have between the sketches introduced a few small poems,
all written during my residence in Canada, and descriptive of the
country.

In this pleasing task, I have been assisted by my husband, J. W.
Dunbar Moodie, author of "Ten Years in South Africa."

BELLEVILLE, UPPER CANADA


CANADA

  Canada, the blest--the free!
  With prophetic glance, I see
  Visions of thy future glory,
  Giving to the world's great story
  A page, with mighty meaning fraught,
  That asks a wider range of thought.
  Borne onward on the wings of Time,
  I trace thy future course sublime;
  And feel my anxious lot grow bright,
  While musing on the glorious sight;--
  My heart rejoicing bounds with glee
  To hail thy noble destiny!

  Even now thy sons inherit
  All thy British mother's spirit.
  Ah! no child of bondage thou;
  With her blessing on thy brow,
  And her deathless, old renown
  Circling thee with freedom's crown,
  And her love within thy heart,
  Well may'st thou perform thy part,
  And to coming years proclaim
  Thou art worthy of her name.
  Home of the homeless!--friend to all
  Who suffer on this earthly ball!
  On thy bosom sickly care
  Quite forgets her squalid lair;
  Gaunt famine, ghastly poverty
  Before thy gracious aspect fly,
  And hopes long crush'd, grow bright again,
  And, smiling, point to hill and plain.

  By thy winter's stainless snow,
  Starry heavens of purer glow,
  Glorious summers, fervid, bright,
  Basking in one blaze of light;
  By thy fair, salubrious clime;
  By thy scenery sublime;
  By thy mountains, streams, and woods;
  By thy everlasting floods;
  If greatness dwells beneath the skies,
  Thou to greatness shalt arise!

  Nations old, and empires vast,
  From the earth had darkly pass'd
  Ere rose the fair auspicious morn
  When thou, the last, not least, wast born.
  Through the desert solitude
  Of trackless waters, forests rude,
  Thy guardian angel sent a cry
  All jubilant of victory!
  "Joy," she cried, "to th' untill'd earth,
  Let her joy in a mighty birth,--
  Night from the land has pass'd away,
  The desert basks in noon of day.
  Joy, to the sullen wilderness,
  I come, her gloomy shades to bless,
  To bid the bear and wild-cat yield
  Their savage haunts to town and field.
  Joy, to stout hearts and willing hands,
  That win a right to these broad lands,
  And reap the fruit of honest toil,
  Lords of the rich, abundant soil.

  "Joy, to the sons of want, who groan
  In lands that cannot feed their own;
  And seek, in stern, determined mood,
  Homes in the land of lake and wood,
  And leave their hearts' young hopes behind,
  Friends in this distant world to find;
  Led by that God, who from His throne
  Regards the poor man's stifled moan.
  Like one awaken'd from the dead,
  The peasant lifts his drooping head,
  Nerves his strong heart and sunburnt hand,
  To win a potion of the land,
  That glooms before him far and wide
  In frowning woods and surging tide
  No more oppress'd, no more a slave,
  Here freedom dwells beyond the wave.

  "Joy, to those hardy sires who bore
  The day's first heat--their toils are o'er;
  Rude fathers of this rising land,
  Theirs was a mission truly grand.
  Brave peasants whom the Father, God,
  Sent to reclaim the stubborn sod;
  Well they perform'd their task, and won
  Altar and hearth for the woodman's son.
  Joy, to Canada's unborn heirs,
  A deathless heritage is theirs;
  For, sway'd by wise and holy laws,
  Its voice shall aid the world's great cause,
  Shall plead the rights of man, and claim
  For humble worth an honest name;
  Shall show the peasant-born can be,
  When call'd to action, great and free.
  Like fire, within the flint conceal'd,
  By stern necessity reveal'd,
  Kindles to life the stupid sod,
  Image of perfect man and God.

  "Joy, to thy unborn sons, for they
  Shall hail a brighter, purer day;
  When peace and Christian brotherhood
  Shall form a stronger tie than blood--
  And commerce, freed from tax and chain,
  Shall build a bridge o'er earth and main;
  And man shall prize the wealth of mind,
  The greatest blessing to mankind;
  True Christians, both in word and deed,
  Ready in virtue's cause to bleed,
  Against a world combined to stand,
  And guard the honour of the land.
  Joy, to the earth, when this shall be,
  Time verges on eternity."


CHAPTER I

A VISIT TO GROSSE ISLE

  Alas! that man's stern spirit e'er should mar
  A scene so pure--so exquisite as this.

The dreadful cholera was depopulating Quebec and Montreal when our
ship cast anchor off Grosse Isle, on the 30th of August 1832, and
we were boarded a few minutes after by the health-officers.

One of these gentlemen--a little, shrivelled-up Frenchman--from
his solemn aspect and attenuated figure, would have made no bad
representative of him who sat upon the pale horse. He was the only
grave Frenchman I had ever seen, and I naturally enough regarded
him as a phenomenon. His companion--a fine-looking fair-haired
Scotchman--though a little consequential in his manners, looked
like one who in his own person could combat and vanquish all the
evils which flesh is heir to. Such was the contrast between these
doctors, that they would have formed very good emblems, one, of
vigorous health, the other, of hopeless decay.

Our captain, a rude, blunt north-country sailor, possessing
certainly not more politeness than might be expected in a bear,
received his sprucely dressed visitors on the deck, and, with very
little courtesy, abruptly bade them follow him down into the cabin.

The officials were no sooner seated, than glancing hastily round
the place, they commenced the following dialogue:--

"From what port, captain?"

Now, the captain had a peculiar language of his own, from which he
commonly expunged all the connecting links. Small words, such as
"and" and "the," he contrived to dispense with altogether.

"Scotland--sailed from port o' Leith, bound for Quebec, Montreal--
general cargo--seventy-two steerage, four cabin passengers--brig
Anne, one hundred and ninety-two tons burden, crew eight hands."

Here he produced his credentials, and handed them to the strangers.
The Scotchman just glanced over the documents, and laid them on the
table.

"Had you a good passage out?"

"Tedious, baffling winds, heavy fogs, detained three weeks on
Banks--foul weather making Gulf--short of water, people out of
provisions, steerage passengers starving."

"Any case of sickness or death on board?"

"All sound as crickets."

"Any births?" lisped the little Frenchman.

The captain screwed up his mouth, and after a moment's reflection
he replied, "Births? Why, yes; now I think on't, gentlemen, we had
one female on board, who produced three at a birth."

"That's uncommon," said the Scotch doctor, with an air of lively
curiosity. "Are the children alive and well? I should like much to
see them." He started up, and knocked his head--for he was very
tall--against the ceiling. "Confound your low cribs! I have nearly
dashed out my brains."

"A hard task, that," looked the captain to me. He did not speak,
but I knew by his sarcastic grin what was uppermost in his
thoughts. "The young ones all males--fine thriving fellows. Step
upon deck, Sam Frazer," turning to his steward; "bring them down
for doctors to see." Sam vanished, with a knowing wink to his
superior, and quickly returned, bearing in his arms three fat,
chuckle-headed bull-terriers, the sagacious mother following
close at his heels, and looked ready to give and take offence on
the slightest provocation.

"Here, gentlemen, are the babies," said Frazer, depositing his
burden on the floor. "They do credit to the nursing of the brindled
slut."

The old tar laughed, chuckled, and rubbed his hands in an ecstacy
of delight at the indignation and disappointment visible in the
countenance of the Scotch Esculapius, who, angry as he was, wisely
held his tongue. Not so the Frenchman; his rage scarcely knew
bounds--he danced in a state of most ludicrous excitement, he
shook his fist at our rough captain, and screamed at the top of his
voice--

"Sacre, you bete! You tink us dog, ven you try to pass your puppies
on us for babies?"

"Hout, man, don't be angry," said the Scotchman, stifling a laugh;
"you see 'tis only a joke!"

"Joke! me no understand such joke. Bete!" returned the angry
Frenchman, bestowing a savage kick on one of the unoffending pups
which was frisking about his feet. The pup yelped; the slut barked
and leaped furiously at the offender, and was only kept from biting
him by Sam, who could scarcely hold her back for laughing; the
captain was uproarious; the offended Frenchman alone maintained
a severe and dignified aspect. The dogs were at length dismissed,
and peace restored.

After some further questioning from the officials, a Bible was
required for the captain to take an oath. Mine was mislaid, and
there was none at hand.

"Confound it!" muttered the old sailor, tossing over the papers
in his desk; "that scoundrel, Sam, always stows my traps out of
the way." Then taking up from the table a book which I had been
reading, which happened to be Voltaire's History of Charles XII.,
he presented it, with as grave an air as he could assume, to the
Frenchman. Taking for granted that it was the volume required, the
little doctor was too polite to open the book, the captain was duly
sworn, and the party returned to the deck.

Here a new difficulty occurred, which nearly ended in a serious
quarrel. The gentlemen requested the old sailor to give them a few
feet of old planking, to repair some damage which their boat had
sustained the day before. This the captain could not do. They
seemed to think his refusal intentional, and took it as a personal
affront. In no very gentle tones, they ordered him instantly to
prepare his boats, and put his passengers on shore.

"Stiff breeze--short sea," returned the bluff old seaman; "great
risk in making land--boats heavily laden with women and children
will be swamped. Not a soul goes on shore this night."

"If you refuse to comply with our orders, we will report you to the
authorities."

"I know my duty--you stick to yours. When the wind falls off, I'll
see to it. Not a life shall be risked to please you or your
authorities."

He turned upon his heel, and the medical men left the vessel in
great disdain. We had every reason to be thankful for the firmness
displayed by our rough commander. That same evening we saw eleven
persons drowned, from another vessel close beside us while
attempting to make the shore.

By daybreak all was hurry and confusion on board the Anne.
I watched boat after boat depart for the island, full of people
and goods, and envied them the glorious privilege of once more
standing firmly on the earth, after two long months of rocking
and rolling at sea. How ardently we anticipate pleasure, which
often ends in positive pain! Such was my case when at last indulged
in the gratification so eagerly desired. As cabin passengers, we
were not included in the general order of purification, but were
only obliged to send our servant, with the clothes and bedding we
had used during the voyage, on shore, to be washed.

The ship was soon emptied of all her live cargo. My husband went
off with the boats, to reconnoitre the island, and I was left alone
with my baby in the otherwise empty vessel. Even Oscar, the
Captain's Scotch terrier, who had formed a devoted attachment to
me during the voyage, forgot his allegiance, became possessed of
the land mania, and was away with the rest. With the most intense
desire to go on shore, I was doomed to look and long and envy every
boatful of emigrants that glided past. Nor was this all; the ship
was out of provisions, and I was condemned to undergo a rigid fast
until the return of the boat, when the captain had promised a
supply of fresh butter and bread. The vessel had been nine weeks at
sea; the poor steerage passengers for the two last weeks had been
out of food, and the captain had been obliged to feed them from the
ship's stores. The promised bread was to be obtained from a small
steam-boat, which plied daily between Quebec and the island,
transporting convalescent emigrants and their goods in her upward
trip, and provisions for the sick on her return.

How I reckoned on once more tasting bread and butter! The very
thought of the treat in store served to sharpen my appetite, and
render the long fast more irksome. I could now fully realise all
Mrs. Bowdich's longings for English bread and butter, after her
three years' travel through the burning African deserts, with her
talented husband.

"When we arrived at the hotel at Plymouth," said she, "and were
asked what refreshment we chose--'Tea, and home-made bread and
butter,' was my instant reply. 'Brown bread, if you please, and
plenty of it.' I never enjoyed any luxury like it. I was positively
ashamed of asking the waiter to refill the plate. After the
execrable messes, and the hard ship-biscuit, imagine the luxury of
a good slice of English bread and butter!"

At home, I laughed heartily at the lively energy with which that
charming woman of genius related this little incident in her
eventful history--but off Grosse Isle, I realised it all.

As the sun rose above the horizon, all these matter-of-fact
circumstances were gradually forgotten, and merged in the
surpassing grandeur of the scene that rose majestically before me.
The previous day had been dark and stormy, and a heavy fog had
concealed the mountain chain, which forms the stupendous background
to this sublime view, entirely from our sight. As the clouds rolled
away from their grey, bald brows, and cast into denser shadow the
vast forest belt that girdled them round, they loomed out like
mighty giants--Titans of the earth, in all their rugged and awful
beauty--a thrill of wonder and delight pervaded my mind. The
spectacle floated dimly on my sight--my eyes were blinded with
tears--blinded with the excess of beauty. I turned to the right and
to the left, I looked up and down the glorious river; never had I
beheld so many striking objects blended into one mighty whole!
Nature had lavished all her noblest features in producing that
enchanting scene.

The rocky isle in front, with its neat farm-houses at the eastern
point, and its high bluff at the western extremity, crowned with
the telegraph--the middle space occupied by tents and sheds for the
cholera patients, and its wooded shores dotted over with motley
groups--added greatly to the picturesque effect of the land scene.
Then the broad, glittering river, covered with boats darting to and
fro, conveying passengers from twenty-five vessels, of various size
and tonnage, which rode at anchor, with their flags flying from the
mast-head, gave an air of life and interest to the whole. Turning
to the south side of the St. Lawrence, I was not less struck with
its low fertile shores, white houses, and neat churches, whose
slender spires and bright tin roofs shone like silver as they
caught the first rays of the sun. As far as the eye could reach, a
line of white buildings extended along the bank; their background
formed by the purple hue of the dense, interminable forest. It was
a scene unlike any I had ever beheld, and to which Britain contains
no parallel. Mackenzie, an old Scotch dragoon, who was one of our
passengers, when he rose in the morning, and saw the parish of St.
Thomas for the first time, exclaimed: "Weel, it beats a'! Can thae
white clouts be a' houses? They look like claes hung out to drie!"
There was some truth in this odd comparison, and for some minutes,
I could scarcely convince myself that the white patches scattered
so thickly over the opposite shore could be the dwellings of a
busy, lively population.

"What sublime views of the north side of the river those habitans
of St. Thomas must enjoy," thought I. Perhaps familiarity with the
scene has rendered them indifferent to its astonishing beauty.

Eastward, the view down the St. Lawrence towards the Gulf, is the
finest of all, scarcely surpassed by anything in the world. Your
eye follows the long range of lofty mountains until their blue
summits are blended and lost in the blue of the sky. Some of these,
partially cleared round the base, are sprinkled over with neat
cottages; and the green slopes that spread around them are covered
with flocks and herds. The surface of the splendid river is
diversified with islands of every size and shape, some in wood,
others partially cleared, and adorned with orchards and white
farm-houses. As the early sun streamed upon the most prominent of
these, leaving the others in deep shade, the effect was strangely
novel and imposing. In more remote regions, where the forest has
never yet echoed to the woodman's axe, or received the impress of
civilisation, the first approach to the shore inspires a melancholy
awe, which becomes painful in its intensity.


  Land of vast hills and mighty streams,
  The lofty sun that o'er thee beams
  On fairer clime sheds not his ray,
  When basking in the noon of day
  Thy waters dance in silver light,
  And o'er them frowning, dark as night,
  Thy shadowy forests, soaring high,
  Stretch forth beyond the aching eye,
  And blend in distance with the sky.

  And silence--awful silence broods
  Profoundly o'er these solitudes;
  Nought but the lapsing of the floods
  Breaks the deep stillness of the woods;
  A sense of desolation reigns
  O'er these unpeopled forest plains.
  Where sounds of life ne'er wake a tone
  Of cheerful praise round Nature's throne,
  Man finds himself with God--alone.


My daydreams were dispelled by the return of the boat, which
brought my husband and the captain from the island.

"No bread," said the latter, shaking his head; "you must be content
to starve a little longer. Provision-ship not in till four
o'clock." My husband smiled at the look of blank disappointment
with which I received these unwelcome tidings, "Never mind, I have
news which will comfort you. The officer who commands the station
sent a note to me by an orderly, inviting us to spend the afternoon
with him. He promises to show us everything worthy of notice on the
island. Captain --- claims acquaintance with me; but I have not the
least recollection of him. Would you like to go?"

"Oh, by all means. I long to see the lovely island. It looks a
perfect paradise at this distance."

The rough sailor-captain screwed his mouth on one side, and gave
me one of his comical looks, but he said nothing until he assisted
in placing me and the baby in the boat.

"Don't be too sanguine, Mrs. Moodie; many things look well at a
distance which are bad enough when near."

I scarcely regarded the old sailor's warning, so eager was I to go
on shore--to put my foot upon the soil of the new world for the
first time--I was in no humour to listen to any depreciation of
what seemed so beautiful.

It was four o'clock when we landed on the rocks, which the rays
of an intensely scorching sun had rendered so hot that I could
scarcely place my foot upon them. How the people without shoes bore
it, I cannot imagine. Never shall I forget the extraordinary
spectacle that met our sight the moment we passed the low range of
bushes which formed a screen in front of the river. A crowd of many
hundred Irish emigrants had been landed during the present and
former day; and all this motley crew--men, women, and children, who
were not confined by sickness to the sheds (which greatly resembled
cattle-pens) were employed in washing clothes, or spreading them
out on the rocks and bushes to dry.

The men and boys were in the water, while the women, with their
scanty garments tucked above their knees, were trampling their
bedding in tubs, or in holes in the rocks, which the retiring
tide had left half full of water. Those who did not possess
washing-tubs, pails, or iron pots, or could not obtain access to a
hole in the rocks, were running to and fro, screaming and scolding
in no measured terms. The confusion of Babel was among them. All
talkers and no hearers--each shouting and yelling in his or her
uncouth dialect, and all accompanying their vociferations with
violent and extraordinary gestures, quite incomprehensible to the
uninitiated. We were literally stunned by the strife of tongues. I
shrank, with feelings almost akin to fear, from the hard-featured,
sun-burnt harpies, as they elbowed rudely past me.

I had heard and read much of savages, and have since seen, during
my long residence in the bush, somewhat of uncivilised life; but
the Indian is one of Nature's gentlemen--he never says or does a
rude or vulgar thing. The vicious, uneducated barbarians who form
the surplus of over-populous European countries, are far behind the
wild man in delicacy of feeling or natural courtesy. The people who
covered the island appeared perfectly destitute of shame, or even
of a sense of common decency. Many were almost naked, still more
but partially clothed. We turned in disgust from the revolting
scene, but were unable to leave the spot until the captain had
satisfied a noisy group of his own people, who were demanding a
supply of stores.

And here I must observe that our passengers, who were chiefly
honest Scotch labourers and mechanics from the vicinity of
Edinburgh, and who while on board ship had conducted themselves
with the greatest propriety, and appeared the most quiet, orderly
set of people in the world, no sooner set foot upon the island than
they became infected by the same spirit of insubordination and
misrule, and were just as insolent and noisy as the rest.

While our captain was vainly endeavouring to satisfy the
unreasonable demands of his rebellious people, Moodie had discovered
a woodland path that led to the back of the island. Sheltered by
some hazel-bushes from the intense heat of the sun, we sat down by
the cool, gushing river, out of sight, but, alas! not out of
hearing of the noisy, riotous crowd. Could we have shut out the
profane sounds which came to us on every breeze, how deeply should
we have enjoyed an hour amid the tranquil beauties of that retired
and lovely spot!

The rocky banks of the island were adorned with beautiful
evergreens, which sprang up spontaneously in every nook and
crevice. I remarked many of our favourite garden shrubs among
these wildings of nature: the fillagree, with its narrow, dark
glossy-green leaves; the privet, with its modest white blossoms
and purple berries; the lignum-vitae, with its strong resinous
odour; the burnet-rose, and a great variety of elegant unknowns.

Here, the shores of the island and mainland, receding from each
other, formed a small cove, overhung with lofty trees, clothed from
the base to the summit with wild vines, that hung in graceful
festoons from the topmost branches to the water's edge. The dark
shadows of the mountains, thrown upon the water, as they towered to
the height of some thousand feet above us, gave to the surface of
the river an ebon hue. The sunbeams, dancing through the thick,
quivering foliage, fell in stars of gold, or long lines of dazzling
brightness, upon the deep black waters, producing the most novel
and beautiful effects. It was a scene over which the spirit of
peace might brood in silent adoration; but how spoiled by the
discordant yells of the filthy beings who were sullying the purity
of the air and water with contaminating sights and sounds!

We were now joined by the sergeant, who very kindly brought us
his capful of ripe plums and hazel-nuts, the growth of the island;
a joyful present, but marred by a note from Captain ---, who had
found that he had been mistaken in his supposed knowledge of us,
and politely apologised for not being allowed by the health-officers
to receive any emigrant beyond the bounds appointed for the
performance of quarantine.

I was deeply disappointed, but my husband laughingly told me that
I had seen enough of the island; and turning to the good-natured
soldier, remarked, that "it could be no easy task to keep such wild
savages in order."

"You may well say that, sir--but our night scenes far exceed those
of the day. You would think they were incarnate devils; singing,
drinking, dancing, shouting, and cutting antics that would surprise
the leader of a circus. They have no shame--are under no
restraint--nobody knows them here, and they think they can speak
and act as they please; and they are such thieves that they rob one
another of the little they possess. The healthy actually run the
risk of taking the cholera by robbing the sick. If you have not
hired one or two stout, honest fellows from among your fellow
passengers to guard your clothes while they are drying, you will
never see half of them again. They are a sad set, sir, a sad set.
We could, perhaps, manage the men; but the women, sir!--the women!
Oh, sir!"

Anxious as we were to return to the ship, we were obliged to remain
until sun-down in our retired nook. We were hungry, tired, and out
of spirits; the mosquitoes swarmed in myriads around us, tormenting
the poor baby, who, not at all pleased with her first visit to the
new world, filled the air with cries, when the captain came to tell
us that the boat was ready. It was a welcome sound. Forcing our way
once more through the still squabbling crowd, we gained the landing
place. Here we encountered a boat, just landing a fresh cargo of
lively savages from the Emerald Isle. One fellow, of gigantic
proportions, whose long, tattered great-coat just reached below the
middle of his bare red legs, and, like charity, hid the defects of
his other garments, or perhaps concealed his want of them, leaped
upon the rocks, and flourishing aloft his shilelagh, bounded and
capered like a wild goat from his native mountains. "Whurrah! my
boys!" he cried, "Shure we'll all be jintlemen!"

"Pull away, my lads!" said the captain. Then turning to me, "Well,
Mrs. Moodie, I hope that you have had enough of Grosse Isle. But
could you have witnessed the scenes that I did this morning--"

Here he was interrupted by the wife of the old Scotch dragoon,
Mackenzie, running down to the boat and laying her hand familiarly
upon his shoulder, "Captain, dinna forget."

"Forget what?"

She whispered something confidentially in his ear.

"Oh, ho! the brandy!" he responded aloud. "I should have thought,
Mrs. Mackenzie, that you had had enough of that same on yon
island?"

"Aye, sic a place for decent folk," returned the drunken body,
shaking her head. "One needs a drap o' comfort, captain, to keep up
one's heart ava."

The captain set up one of his boisterous laughs as he pushed the
boat from the shore. "Hollo! Sam Frazer! steer in, we have
forgotten the stores."

"I hope not, captain," said I; "I have been starving since
daybreak."

"The bread, the butter, the beef, the onions, and potatoes are
here, sir," said honest Sam, particularizing each article.

"All right; pull for the ship. Mrs. Moodie, we will have a glorious
supper, and mind you don't dream of Grosse Isle."

In a few minutes we were again on board. Thus ended my first day's
experience of the land of all our hopes.


OH! CAN YOU LEAVE YOUR NATIVE LAND?

A Canadian Song

  Oh! can you leave your native land
    An exile's bride to be;
  Your mother's home, and cheerful hearth,
    To tempt the main with me;
  Across the wide and stormy sea
    To trace our foaming track,
  And know the wave that heaves us on
    Will never bear us back?

  And can you in Canadian woods
    With me the harvest bind,
  Nor feel one lingering, sad regret
    For all you leave behind?
  Can those dear hands, unused to toil,
    The woodman's wants supply,
  Nor shrink beneath the chilly blast
    When wintry storms are nigh?

  Amid the shades of forests dark,
    Our loved isle will appear
  An Eden, whose delicious bloom
    Will make the wild more drear.
  And you in solitude will weep
    O'er scenes beloved in vain,
  And pine away your life to view
    Once more your native plain.

  Then pause, dear girl! ere those fond lips
    Your wanderer's fate decide;
  My spirit spurns the selfish wish--
    You must not be my bride.
  But oh, that smile--those tearful eyes,
    My firmer purpose move--
  Our hearts are one, and we will dare
    All perils thus to love!

[This song has been set to a beautiful plaintive air,
by my husband.]


CHAPTER II

QUEBEC

  Queen of the West!--upon thy rocky throne,
    In solitary grandeur sternly placed;
  In awful majesty thou sitt'st alone,
    By Nature's master-hand supremely graced.
  The world has not thy counterpart--thy dower,
  Eternal beauty, strength, and matchless power.

  The clouds enfold thee in their misty vest,
    The lightning glances harmless round thy brow;
  The loud-voiced thunder cannot shake thy nest,
    Or warring waves that idly chafe below;
  The storm above, the waters at thy feet--
  May rage and foam, they but secure thy seat.

  The mighty river, as it onward rushes
    To pour its floods in ocean's dread abyss,
  Checks at thy feet its fierce impetuous gushes,
    And gently fawns thy rocky base to kiss.
  Stern eagle of the crag! thy hold should be
  The mountain home of heaven-born liberty!

  True to themselves, thy children may defy
    The power and malice of a world combined;
  While Britain's flag, beneath thy deep blue sky,
    Spreads its rich folds and wantons in the wind;
  The offspring of her glorious race of old
  May rest securely in their mountain hold.

On the 2nd of September, the anchor was weighed, and we bade a long
farewell to Grosse Isle. As our vessel struck into mid-channel, I
cast a last lingering look at the beautiful shores we were leaving.
Cradled in the arms of the St. Lawrence, and basking in the bright
rays of the morning sun, the island and its sister group looked
like a second Eden just emerged from the waters of chaos. With what
joy could I have spent the rest of the fall in exploring the
romantic features of that enchanting scene! But our bark spread her
white wings to the favouring breeze, and the fairy vision gradually
receded from my sight, to remain for ever on the tablets of memory.

The day was warm, and the cloudless heavens of that peculiar azure
tint which gives to the Canadian skies and waters a brilliancy
unknown in more northern latitudes. The air was pure and elastic,
the sun shone out with uncommon splendour, lighting up the changing
woods with a rich mellow colouring, composed of a thousand
brilliant and vivid dyes. The mighty river rolled flashing and
sparkling onward, impelled by a strong breeze, that tipped its
short rolling surges with a crest of snowy foam.

Had there been no other object of interest in the landscape than
this majestic river, its vast magnitude, and the depth and
clearness of its waters, and its great importance to the colony,
would have been sufficient to have riveted the attention, and
claimed the admiration of every thinking mind.

Never shall I forget that short voyage from Grosse Isle to Quebec.
I love to recall, after the lapse of so many years, every object
that awoke in my breast emotions of astonishment and delight.
What wonderful combinations of beauty, and grandeur, and power,
at every winding of that noble river! How the mind expands with
the sublimity of the spectacle, and soars upward in gratitude
and adoration to the Author of all being, to thank Him for having
made this lower world so wondrously fair--a living temple,
heaven-arched, and capable of receiving the homage of all
worshippers.

Every perception of my mind became absorbed into the one sense
of seeing, when, upon rounding Point Levi, we cast anchor before
Quebec. What a scene!--Can the world produce such another?
Edinburgh had been the beau ideal to me of all that was beautiful
in Nature--a vision of the northern Highlands had haunted my dreams
across the Atlantic; but all these past recollections faded before
the present of Quebec.

Nature has lavished all her grandest elements to form this
astonishing panorama. There frowns the cloud-capped mountain, and
below, the cataract foams and thunders; wood, and rock, and river
combine to lend their aid in making the picture perfect, and worthy
of its Divine Originator.

The precipitous bank upon which the city lies piled, reflected in
the still deep waters at its base, greatly enhances the romantic
beauty of the situation. The mellow and serene glow of the autumnal
day harmonised so perfectly with the solemn grandeur of the scene
around me, and sank so silently and deeply into my soul, that my
spirit fell prostrate before it, and I melted involuntarily into
tears. Yes, regardless of the eager crowds around me, I leant upon
the side of the vessel and cried like a child--not tears of sorrow,
but a gush from the heart of pure and unalloyed delight. I heard
not the many voices murmuring in my ears--I saw not the anxious
beings that thronged our narrow deck--my soul at that moment was
alone with God. The shadow of His glory rested visibly on the
stupendous objects that composed that magnificent scene; words are
perfectly inadequate to describe the impression it made upon my
mind--the emotions it produced. The only homage I was capable of
offering at such a shrine was tears--tears the most heartfelt and
sincere that ever flowed from human eyes. I never before felt so
overpoweringly my own insignificance, and the boundless might and
majesty of the Eternal.

Canadians, rejoice in your beautiful city! Rejoice and be worthy of
her--for few, very few, of the sons of men can point to such a spot
as Quebec--and exclaim, "She is ours!--God gave her to us, in her
beauty and strength!--We will live for her glory--we will die to
defend her liberty and rights--to raise her majestic brow high
above the nations!"

Look at the situation of Quebec!--the city founded on the rock that
proudly holds the height of the hill. The queen sitting enthroned
above the waters, that curb their swiftness and their strength to
kiss and fawn around her lovely feet.

Canadians!--as long as you remain true to yourselves and her, what
foreign invader could ever dare to plant a hostile flag upon that
rock-defended height, or set his foot upon a fortress rendered
impregnable by the hand of Nature? United in friendship, loyalty,
and love, what wonders may you not achieve? to what an enormous
altitude of wealth and importance may you not arrive? Look at the
St. Lawrence, that king of streams, that great artery flowing from
the heart of the world, through the length and breadth of the land,
carrying wealth and fertility in its course, and transporting from
town to town along its beautiful shores the riches and produce of
a thousand distant climes. What elements of future greatness and
prosperity encircle you on every side! Never yield up these solid
advantages to become an humble dependent on the great
republic--wait patiently, loyally, lovingly, upon the illustrious
parent from whom you sprang, and by whom you have been fostered
into life and political importance; in the fulness of time she will
proclaim your childhood past, and bid you stand up in your own
strength, a free Canadian people!

British mothers of Canadian sons!--learn to feel for their country
the same enthusiasm which fills your hearts when thinking of the
glory of your own. Teach them to love Canada--to look upon her as
the first, the happiest, the most independent country in the world!
Exhort them to be worthy of her--to have faith in her present
prosperity, in her future greatness, and to devote all their
talents, when they themselves are men, to accomplish this noble
object. Make your children proud of the land of their birth, the
land which has given them bread--the land in which you have found
an altar and a home; do this, and you will soon cease to lament
your separation from the mother country, and the loss of those
luxuries which you could not, in honor to yourself, enjoy; you will
soon learn to love Canada as I now love it, who once viewed it with
a hatred so intense that I longed to die, that death might
effectually separate us for ever.

But, oh! beware of drawing disparaging contrasts between the colony
and its illustrious parent. All such comparisons are cruel and
unjust;--you cannot exalt the one at the expense of the other
without committing an act of treason against both.

But I have wandered away from my subject into the regions of
thought, and must again descend to common work-a-day realities.

The pleasure we experienced upon our first glance at Quebec was
greatly damped by the sad conviction that the cholera-plague raged
within her walls, while the almost ceaseless tolling of bells
proclaimed a mournful tale of woe and death. Scarcely a person
visited the vessel who was not in black, or who spoke not in tones
of subdued grief. They advised us not to go on shore if we valued
our lives, as strangers most commonly fell the first victims to
the fatal malady. This was to me a severe disappointment, who felt
an intense desire to climb to the crown of the rock, and survey
the noble landscape at my feet. I yielded at last to the wishes
of my husband, who did not himself resist the temptation in his
own person, and endeavored to content myself with the means of
enjoyment placed within my reach. My eyes were never tired of
wandering over the scene before me.

It is curious to observe how differently the objects which call
forth intense admiration in some minds will affect others. The
Scotch dragoon, Mackenzie, seeing me look long and intently at
the distant Falls of Montmorency, drily observed,--

"It may be a' vera fine; but it looks na' better to my thinken than
hanks o' white woo' hung out o're the bushes."

"Weel," cried another, "thae fa's are just bonnie; 'tis a braw
land, nae doubt; but no' just so braw as auld Scotland."

"Hout man! hauld your clavers, we shall a' be lairds here," said a
third; "and ye maun wait a muckle time before they wad think aucht
of you at hame."

I was not a little amused at the extravagant expectations
entertained by some of our steerage passengers. The sight of the
Canadian shores had changed them into persons of great consequence.
The poorest and the worst-dressed, the least-deserving and the most
repulsive in mind and morals, exhibited most disgusting traits of
self-importance. Vanity and presumption seemed to possess them
altogether. They talked loudly of the rank and wealth of their
connexions at home, and lamented the great sacrifices they had made
in order to join brothers and cousins who had foolishly settled in
this beggarly wooden country.

Girls, who were scarcely able to wash a floor decently, talked of
service with contempt, unless tempted to change their resolution by
the offer of twelve dollars a month. To endeavour to undeceive them
was a useless and ungracious task. After having tried it with
several without success, I left it to time and bitter experience to
restore them to their sober senses. In spite of the remonstrances
of the captain, and the dread of the cholera, they all rushed on
shore to inspect the land of Goshen, and to endeavour to realise
their absurd anticipations.

We were favoured, a few minutes after our arrival, with another
visit from the health-officers; but in this instance both the
gentlemen were Canadians. Grave, melancholy-looking men, who
talked much and ominously of the prevailing disorder, and the
impossibility of strangers escaping from its fearful ravages.
This was not very consoling, and served to depress the cheerful
tone of mind which, after all, is one of the best antidotes
against this awful scourge. The cabin seemed to lighten, and
the air to circulate more freely, after the departure of these
professional ravens. The captain, as if by instinct, took an
additional glass of grog, to shake off the sepulchral gloom
their presence had inspired.

The visit of the doctors was followed by that of two of the
officials of the Customs--vulgar, illiterate men, who, seating
themselves at the cabin table, with a familiar nod to the captain,
and a blank stare at us, commenced the following dialogue:--

Custom-house officer (after making inquiries as to the general
cargo of the vessel): "Any good brandy on board, captain?"

Captain (gruffly): "Yes."

Officer: "Best remedy for the cholera known. The only one the
doctors can depend upon."

Captain (taking the hint): "Gentlemen, I'll send you up a dozen
bottles this afternoon."

Officer: "Oh, thank you. We are sure to get it genuine from you.
Any Edinburgh ale in your freight?"

Captain (with a slight shrug): "A few hundreds in cases. I'll send
you a dozen with the brandy."

Both: "Capital!"

First officer: "Any short, large-bowled, Scotch pipes, with metallic
lids?"

Captain (quite impatiently): "Yes, yes; I'll send you some to smoke,
with the brandy. What else?"

Officer: "We will now proceed to business."

My readers would have laughed, as I did, could they have seen how
doggedly the old man shook his fist after these worthies as they
left the vessel. "Scoundrels!" he muttered to himself; and then
turning to me, "They rob us in this barefaced manner, and we dare
not resist or complain, for fear of the trouble they can put us to.
If I had those villains at sea, I'd give them a taste of brandy and
ale that they would not relish."

The day wore away, and the lengthened shadows of the mountains fell
upon the waters, when the Horsley Hill, a large three-masted vessel
from Waterford, that we had left at the quarantine station, cast
anchor a little above us. She was quickly boarded by the
health-officers, and ordered round to take up her station below the
castle. To accomplish this object she had to heave her anchor; when
lo! a great pine-tree, which had been sunk in the river, became
entangled in the chains. Uproarious was the mirth to which the
incident gave rise among the crowds that thronged the decks of
the many vessels then at anchor in the river. Speaking-trumpets
resounded on every side; and my readers may be assured that the
sea-serpent was not forgotten in the multitude of jokes which
followed.

Laughter resounded on all sides; and in the midst of the noise
and confusion, the captain of the Horsley Hill hoisted his
colours downwards, as if making signals of distress, a mistake
which provoked renewed and long-continued mirth.

I laughed until my sides ached; little thinking how the Horsley
Hill would pay us off for our mistimed hilarity.

Towards night, most of the steerage passengers returned, greatly
dissatisfied with their first visit to the city, which they
declared to be a filthy hole, that looked a great deal better from
the ship's side than it did on shore. This, I have often been told,
is literally the case. Here, as elsewhere, man has marred the
magnificent creation of his Maker.

A dark and starless night closed in, accompanied by cold winds and
drizzling rain. We seemed to have made a sudden leap from the
torrid to the frigid zone. Two hours before, my light summer
clothing was almost insupportable, and now a heavy and well-lined
plaid formed but an inefficient screen from the inclemency of the
weather. After watching for some time the singular effect produced
by the lights in the town reflected in the water, and weary with a
long day of anticipation and excitement, I made up my mind to leave
the deck and retire to rest. I had just settled down my baby in her
berth, when the vessel struck, with a sudden crash that sent a
shiver through her whole frame. Alarmed, but not aware of the real
danger that hung over us, I groped my way to the cabin, and thence
ascended to the deck.

Here a scene of confusion prevailed that baffles description. By
some strange fatality, the Horsley Hill had changed her position,
and run foul of us in the dark. The Anne was a small brig, and her
unlucky neighbour a heavy three-masted vessel, with three hundred
Irish emigrants on board; and as her bowspirit was directly across
the bows of the Anne, and she anchored, and unable to free herself
from the deadly embrace, there was no small danger of the poor brig
going down in the unequal struggle.

Unable to comprehend what was going on, I raised my head above my
companion ladder, just at the critical moment when the vessels were
grappled together. The shrieks of the women, the shouts and oaths
of the men, and the barking of the dogs in either ship, aided the
dense darkness of the night in producing a most awful and stunning
effect.

"What is the matter?" I gasped out. "What is the reason of this
dreadful confusion?"

The captain was raging like a chafed bull, in the grasp of several
frantic women, who were clinging, shrieking, to his knees.

With great difficulty I persuaded the women to accompany me below.
The mate hurried off with the cabin light upon the deck, and we
were left in total darkness to await the result.

A deep, strange silence fell upon my heart. It was not exactly
fear, but a sort of nerving of my spirit to meet the worst. The
cowardly behaviour of my companions inspired me with courage.
I was ashamed of their pusillanimity and want of faith in the
Divine Providence. I sat down, and calmly begged them to follow
my example.

An old woman, called Williamson, a sad reprobate, in attempting
to do so, set her foot within the fender, which the captain had
converted into a repository for empty glass bottles; the smash
that ensued was echoed by a shriek from the whole party.

"God guide us," cried the ancient dame; "but we are going into
eternity. I shall be lost; my sins are more in number than the
hairs of my head." This confession was followed by oaths and
imprecations too blasphemous to repeat.

Shocked and disgusted at her profanity, I bade her pray, and not
waste the few moments that might be hers in using oaths and bad
language.

"Did you not hear the crash?" said she.

"I did; it was of your own making. Sit down and be quiet."

Here followed another shock, that made the vessel heave and
tremble; and the dragging of the anchor increased the uneasy
motion which began to fill the boldest of us with alarm.

"Mrs. Moodie, we are lost," said Margaret Williamson, the youngest
daughter of the old woman, a pretty girl, who had been the belle
of the ship, flinging herself on her knees before me, and grasping
both my hands in hers. "Oh, pray for me! pray for me! I cannot,
I dare not, pray for myself; I was never taught a prayer." Her
voice was choked with convulsive sobs, and scalding tears fell in
torrents from her eyes over my hands. I never witnessed such an
agony of despair. Before I could say one word to comfort her,
another shock seemed to lift the vessel upwards. I felt my own
blood run cold, expecting instantly to go down; and thoughts of
death, and the unknown eternity at our feet, flitted vaguely
through my mind.

"If we stay here, we shall perish," cried the girl, springing to
her feet. "Let us go on deck, mother, and take our chance with the
rest."

"Stay," I said; "you are safer here. British sailors never leave
women to perish. You have fathers, husbands, brothers on board, who
will not forget you. I beseech you to remain patiently here until
the danger is past." I might as well have preached to the winds.
The headstrong creatures would no longer be controlled. They rushed
simultaneously upon deck, just as the Horsley Hill swung off,
carrying with her part of the outer frame of our deck and the
larger portion of our stern. When tranquillity was restored,
fatigued both in mind and body, I sunk into a profound sleep, and
did not awake until the sun had risen high above the wave-encircled
fortress of Quebec.

The stormy clouds had all dispersed during the night; the air was
clear and balmy; the giant hills were robed in a blue, soft mist,
which rolled around them in fleecy volumes. As the beams of the sun
penetrated their shadowy folds, they gradually drew up like a
curtain, and dissolved like wreaths of smoke into the clear air.

The moment I came on deck, my old friend Oscar greeted me with his
usual joyous bark, and with the sagacity peculiar to his species,
proceeded to shew me all the damage done to the vessel during the
night. It was laughable to watch the motions of the poor brute, as
he ran from place to place, stopping before, or jumping upon, every
fractured portion of the deck, and barking out his indignation at
the ruinous condition in which he found his marine home. Oscar had
made eleven voyages in the Anne, and had twice saved the life of
the captain. He was an ugly specimen of the Scotch terrier, and
greatly resembled a bundle of old rope-yarn; but a more faithful or
attached creature I never saw. The captain was not a little jealous
of Oscar's friendship for me. I was the only person the dog had
ever deigned to notice, and his master regarded it as an act of
treason on the part of his four-footed favourite. When my arms were
tired with nursing, I had only to lay my baby on my cloak on deck,
and tell Oscar to watch her, and the good dog would lie down by
her, and suffer her to tangle his long curls in her little hands,
and pull his tail and ears in the most approved baby fashion,
without offering the least opposition; but if any one dared to
approach his charge, he was alive on the instant, placing his paws
over the child, and growling furiously. He would have been a bold
man who had approached the child to do her injury. Oscar was the
best plaything, and as sure a protector, as Katie had.

During the day, many of our passengers took their departure; tired
of the close confinement of the ship, and the long voyage, they
were too impatient to remain on board until we reached Montreal.
The mechanics obtained instant employment, and the girls who were
old enough to work, procured situations as servants in the city.
Before night, our numbers were greatly reduced. The old dragoon and
his family, two Scotch fiddlers of the name of Duncan, a Highlander
called Tam Grant, and his wife and little son, and our own party,
were all that remained of the seventy-two passengers that left the
Port of Leith in the brig Anne.

In spite of the earnest entreaties of his young wife, the said Tam
Grant, who was the most mercurial fellow in the world, would insist
upon going on shore to see all the lions of the place. "Ah, Tam!
Tam! ye will die o' the cholera," cried the weeping Maggie. "My
heart will brak if ye dinna bide wi' me an' the bairnie." Tam was
deaf as Ailsa Craig. Regardless of tears and entreaties, he jumped
into the boat, like a wilful man as he was, and my husband went
with him. Fortunately for me, the latter returned safe to the
vessel, in time to proceed with her to Montreal, in tow of the
noble steamer, British America; but Tam, the volatile Tam was
missing. During the reign of the cholera, what at another time
would have appeared but a trifling incident, was now invested with
doubt and terror. The distress of the poor wife knew no bounds.
I think I see her now, as I saw her then, sitting upon the floor
of the deck, her head buried between her knees, rocking herself to
and fro, and weeping in the utter abandonment of her grief. "He is
dead! he is dead! My dear, dear Tam! The pestilence has seized upon
him; and I and the puir bairn are left alone in the strange land."
All attempts at consolation were useless; she obstinately refused
to listen to probabilities, or to be comforted. All through the
night I heard her deep and bitter sobs, and the oft-repeated name
of him that she had lost.

The sun was sinking over the plague-stricken city, gilding the
changing woods and mountain peaks with ruddy light; the river
mirrored back the gorgeous sky, and moved in billows of liquid
gold; the very air seemed lighted up with heavenly fires, and
sparkled with myriads of luminous particles, as I gazed my last
upon that beautiful scene.

The tow-line was now attached from our ship to the British America,
and in company with two other vessels, we followed fast in her
foaming wake. Day lingered on the horizon just long enough to
enable me to examine, with deep interest, the rocky heights of
Abraham, the scene of our immortal Wolfe's victory and death;
and when the twilight faded into night, the moon arose in solemn
beauty, and cast mysterious gleams upon the strange stern landscape.
The wide river, flowing rapidly between its rugged banks, rolled in
inky blackness beneath the overshadowing crags; while the waves in
mid-channel flashed along in dazzling light, rendered more intense
by the surrounding darkness. In this luminous track the huge
steamer glided majestically forward, flinging showers of red
earth-stars from the funnel into the clear air, and looking like
some fiery demon of the night enveloped in smoke and flame.

The lofty groves of pine frowned down in hearse-like gloom upon the
mighty river, and the deep stillness of the night, broken alone by
its hoarse wailings, filled my mind with sad forebodings--alas! too
prophetic of the future. Keenly, for the first time, I felt that I
was a stranger in a strange land; my heart yearned intensely for my
absent home. Home! the word had ceased to belong to my present--it
was doomed to live for ever in the past; for what emigrant ever
regarded the country of his exile as his home? To the land he has
left, that name belongs for ever, and in no instance does he bestow
it upon another. "I have got a letter from home!" "I have seen a
friend from home!" "I dreamt last night that I was at home!" are
expressions of everyday occurrence, to prove that the heart
acknowledges no other home than the land of its birth.

From these sad reveries I was roused by the hoarse notes of the
bagpipe. That well-known sound brought every Scotchman upon deck,
and set every limb in motion on the decks of the other vessels.
Determined not to be outdone, our fiddlers took up the strain,
and a lively contest ensued between the rival musicians, which
continued during the greater part of the night. The shouts of noisy
revelry were in no way congenial to my feelings. Nothing tends so
much to increase our melancholy as merry music when the heart is
sad; and I left the scene with eyes brimful of tears, and my mind
painfully agitated by sorrowful recollections and vain regrets.


  The strains we hear in foreign lands,
    No echo from the heart can claim;
  The chords are swept by strangers' hands,
    And kindle in the breast no flame,
             Sweet though they be.
  No fond remembrance wakes to fling
    Its hallowed influence o'er the chords;
  As if a spirit touch'd the string,
    Breathing, in soft harmonious words,
             Deep melody.

  The music of our native shore
    A thousand lovely scenes endears;
  In magic tones it murmurs o'er
    The visions of our early years;--
             The hopes of youth;
  It wreathes again the flowers we wreathed
    In childhood's bright, unclouded day;
  It breathes again the vows we breathed,
    At beauty's shrine, when hearts were gay
             And whisper'd truth;

  It calls before our mental sight
    Dear forms whose tuneful lips are mute,
  Bright, sunny eyes long closed in night,
    Warm hearts now silent as the lute
             That charm'd our ears;
  It thrills the breast with feelings deep,
    Too deep for language to impart;
  And bids the spirit joy and weep,
    In tones that sink into the heart,
             And melt in tears.


CHAPTER III

OUR JOURNEY UP THE COUNTRY

  Fly this plague-stricken spot! The hot, foul air
  Is rank with pestilence--the crowded marts
  And public ways, once populous with life,
  Are still and noisome as a churchyard vault;
  Aghast and shuddering, Nature holds her breath
  In abject fear, and feels at her strong heart
  The deadly pangs of death.

Of Montreal I can say but little. The cholera was at its height,
and the fear of infection, which increased the nearer we approached
its shores, cast a gloom over the scene, and prevented us from
exploring its infected streets. That the feelings of all on board
very nearly resembled our own might be read in the anxious faces of
both passengers and crew. Our captain, who had never before hinted
that he entertained any apprehensions on the subject, now confided
to us his conviction that he should never quit the city alive:
"This cursed cholera! Left it in Russia--found it on my return to
Leith--meets me again in Canada. No escape the third time." If the
captain's prediction proved true in his case, it was not so in
ours. We left the cholera in England, we met it again in Scotland,
and, under the providence of God, we escaped its fatal visitation
in Canada.

Yet the fear and the dread of it on that first day caused me to
throw many an anxious glance on my husband and my child. I had been
very ill during the three weeks that our vessel was becalmed upon
the Banks of Newfoundland, and to this circumstance I attribute my
deliverance from the pestilence. I was weak and nervous when the
vessel arrived at Quebec, but the voyage up the St. Lawrence, the
fresh air and beautiful scenery were rapidly restoring me to health.

Montreal from the river wears a pleasing aspect, but it lacks the
grandeur, the stern sublimity of Quebec. The fine mountain that
forms the background to the city, the Island of St. Helens in
front, and the junction of the St. Lawrence and the Ottawa--which
run side by side, their respective boundaries only marked by a
long ripple of white foam, and the darker blue tint of the former
river--constitute the most remarkable features in the landscape.

The town itself was, at that period, dirty and ill-paved; and the
opening of all the sewers, in order to purify the place and stop
the ravages of the pestilence, rendered the public thoroughfares
almost impassable, and loaded the air with intolerable effluvia,
more likely to produce than stay the course of the plague, the
violence of which had, in all probability, been increased by these
long-neglected receptacles of uncleanliness.

The dismal stories told us by the excise-officer who came to
inspect the unloading of the vessel, of the frightful ravages of
the cholera, by no means increased our desire to go on shore.

"It will be a miracle if you escape," he said. "Hundreds of
emigrants die daily; and if Stephen Ayres had not providentally
come among us, not a soul would have been alive at this moment in
Montreal."

"And who is Stephen Ayres?" said I.

"God only knows," was the grave reply. "There was a man sent from
heaven, and his name was John."

"But I thought this man was called Stephen?"

"Ay, so he calls himself; but 'tis certain that he is not of the
earth. Flesh and blood could never do what he has done--the hand of
God is in it. Besides, no one knows who he is, or whence he comes.
When the cholera was at the worst, and the hearts of all men stood
still with fear, and our doctors could do nothing to stop its
progress, this man, or angel, or saint, suddenly made his appearance
in our streets. He came in great humility, seated in an ox-cart,
and drawn by two lean oxen and a rope harness. Only think of that!
Such a man in an OLD OX-CART, drawn by ROPE HARNESS! The thing
itself was a miracle. He made no parade about what he could do, but
only fixed up a plain pasteboard notice, informing the public that
he possessed an infallible remedy for the cholera, and would engage
to cure all who sent for him."

"And was he successful?"

"Successful! It beats all belief; and his remedy so simple! For
some days we all took him for a quack, and would have no faith in
him at all, although he performed some wonderful cures upon poor
folks, who could not afford to send for the doctor. The Indian
village was attacked by the disease, and he went out to them, and
restored upward of a hundred of the Indians to perfect health.
They took the old lean oxen out of the cart, and drew him back to
Montreal in triumph. This 'stablished him at once, and in a few
days' time he made a fortune. The very doctors sent for him to cure
them; and it is to be hoped that in a few days he will banish the
cholera from the city."

"Do you know his famous remedy?"

"Do I not?--Did he not cure me when I was at the last gasp? Why, he
makes no secret of it. It is all drawn from the maple-tree. First
he rubs the patient all over with an ointment, made of hog's lard
and maple-sugar and ashes, from the maple-tree; and he gives him a
hot draught of maple-sugar and ley, which throws him into a violent
perspiration. In about an hour the cramps subside; he falls into a
quiet sleep, and when he awakes he is perfectly restored to health."
Such were our first tidings of Stephen Ayres, the cholera doctor,
who is universally believed to have effected some wonderful cures.
He obtained a wide celebrity throughout the colony.[1]

[1] A friend of mine, in this town, has an original portrait of
this notable empiric--this man sent from heaven. The face is rather
handsome, but has a keen, designing expression, and is evidently
that of an American, from its complexion and features.


The day of our arrival in the port of Montreal was spent in packing
and preparing for our long journey up the country. At sunset, I
went upon deck to enjoy the refreshing breeze that swept from the
river. The evening was delightful; the white tents of the soldiers
on the Island of St. Helens glittered in the beams of the sun, and
the bugle-call, wafted over the waters, sounded so cheery and
inspiring, that it banished all fears of the cholera, and, with
fear, the heavy gloom that had clouded my mind since we left
Quebec. I could once more hold sweet converse with nature, and
enjoy the soft loveliness of the rich and harmonious scene.

A loud cry from one of the crew startled me; I turned to the river,
and beheld a man struggling in the water a short distance from our
vessel. He was a young sailor, who had fallen from the bowsprit of
a ship near us.

There is something terribly exciting in beholding a fellow-creature
in imminent peril, without having the power to help him. To witness
his death-struggles--to feel in your own person all the dreadful
alternations of hope and fear--and, finally, to see him die, with
scarcely an effort made for his preservation. This was our case.

At the moment he fell into the water, a boat with three men was
within a few yards of the spot, and actually sailed over the spot
where he sank. Cries of "Shame!" from the crowd collected upon the
bank of the river, had no effect in rousing these people to attempt
the rescue of a perishing fellow-creature. The boat passed on. The
drowning man again rose to the surface, the convulsive motion of
his hands and feet visible above the water, but it was evident that
the struggle would be his last.

"Is it possible that they will let a human being perish, and so
near the shore, when an oar held out would save his life?" was the
agonising question at my heart, as I gazed, half-maddened by
excitement, on the fearful spectacle. The eyes of a multitude were
fixed upon the same object--but not a hand stirred. Every one
seemed to expect from his fellow an effort which he was incapable
of attempting himself.

At this moment--splash! a sailor plunged into the water from the
deck of a neighbouring vessel, and dived after the drowning man.
A deep "Thank God!" burst from my heart. I drew a freer breath as
the brave fellow's head appeared above the water. He called to the
man in the boat to throw him an oar, or the drowning man would be
the death of them both. Slowly they put back the boat--the oar was
handed; but it came too late! The sailor, whose name was Cook, had
been obliged to shake off the hold of the dying man to save his own
life. He dived again to the bottom, and succeeded in bringing to
shore the body of the unfortunate being he had vainly endeavoured
to succour. Shortly after, he came on board our vessel, foaming
with passion at the barbarous indifference manifested by the men
in the boat.

"Had they given me the oar in time, I could have saved him. I knew
him well--he was an excellent fellow, and a good seaman. He has
left a wife and three children in Liverpool. Poor Jane!--how can I
tell her that I could not save her husband?"

He wept bitterly, and it was impossible for any of us to witness
his emotion without joining in his grief.

From the mate I learned that this same young man had saved the lives
of three women and a child when the boat was swamped at Grosse
Isle, in attempting to land the passengers from the Horsley Hill.

Such acts of heroism are common in the lower walks of life. Thus,
the purest gems are often encased in the rudest crust; and the
finest feelings of the human heart are fostered in the chilling
atmosphere of poverty.

While this sad event occupied all our thoughts, and gave rise to
many painful reflections, an exclamation of unqualified delight at
once changed the current of our thoughts, and filled us with
surprise and pleasure. Maggie Grant had fainted in the arms of her
husband.

Yes, there was Tam--her dear, reckless Tam, after all her tears and
lamentations, pressing his young wife to his heart, and calling her
by a thousand endearing pet names.

He had met with some countrymen at Quebec, had taken too much
whiskey on the joyful occasion, and lost his passage in the Anne,
but had followed, a few hours later, in another steam-boat; and he
assured the now happy Maggie, as he kissed the infant Tam, whom she
held up to his admiring gaze, that he never would be guilty of the
like again. Perhaps he kept his word; but I much fear that the
first temptation would make the lively laddie forget his promise.

Our luggage having been removed to the Custom-house, including
our bedding, the captain collected all the ship's flags for our
accommodation, of which we formed a tolerably comfortable bed;
and if our dreams were of England, could it be otherwise, with
her glorious flag wrapped around us, and our heads resting upon
the Union Jack?

In the morning we were obliged to visit the city to make the
necessary arrangements for our upward journey.

The day was intensely hot. A bank of thunderclouds lowered heavily
above the mountain, and the close, dusty streets were silent, and
nearly deserted. Here and there might be seen a group of
anxious-looking, care-worn, sickly emigrants, seated against a
wall among their packages, and sadly ruminating upon their future
prospects.

The sullen toll of the death-bell, the exposure of ready-made
coffins in the undertakers' windows, and the oft-recurring notice
placarded on the walls, of funerals furnished at such and such a
place, at cheapest rate and shortest notice, painfully reminded us,
at every turning of the street, that death was everywhere--perhaps
lurking in our very path; we felt no desire to examine the beauties
of the place. With this ominous feeling pervading our minds, public
buildings possessed few attractions, and we determined to make our
stay as short as possible.

Compared with the infected city, our ship appeared an ark of
safety, and we returned to it with joy and confidence, too soon to
be destroyed. We had scarcely re-entered our cabin, when tidings
were brought to us that the cholera had made its appearance: a
brother of the captain had been attacked.

It was advisable that we should leave the vessel immediately,
before the intelligence could reach the health-officers. A few
minutes sufficed to make the necessary preparations; and in less
than half an hour we found ourselves occupying comfortable
apartments in Goodenough's hotel, and our passage taken in the
stage for the following morning.

The transition was like a dream. The change from the close, rank
ship, to large, airy, well-furnished rooms and clean attendants,
was a luxury we should have enjoyed had not the dread of cholera
involved all things around us in gloom and apprehension. No one
spoke upon the subject; and yet it was evident that it was
uppermost in the thoughts of all. Several emigrants had died of
the terrible disorder during the week, beneath the very roof that
sheltered us, and its ravages, we were told, had extended up the
country as far as Kingston; so that it was still to be the phantom
of our coming journey, if we were fortunate enough to escape from
its head-quarters.

At six o'clock the following morning, we took our places in the
coach for Lachine, and our fears of the plague greatly diminished
as we left the spires of Montreal in the distance. The journey from
Montreal westward has been so well described by many gifted pens,
that I shall say little about it. The banks of the St. Lawrence are
picturesque and beautiful, particularly in those spots where there
is a good view of the American side. The neat farm-houses looked
to me, whose eyes had been so long accustomed to the watery waste,
homes of beauty and happiness; and the splendid orchards, the trees
at that season of the year being loaded with ripening fruit of all
hues, were refreshing and delicious.

My partiality for the apples was regarded by a fellow-traveller
with a species of horror. "Touch them not, if you value your life."
Every draught of fresh air and water inspired me with renewed
health and spirits, and I disregarded the well-meant advice; the
gentlemen who gave it had just recovered from the terrible disease.
He was a middle-aged man, a farmer from the Upper Province,
Canadian born. He had visited Montreal on business for the first
time. "Well, sir," he said, in answer to some questions put to him
by my husband respecting the disease, "I can tell you what it is:
a man smitten with the cholera stares death right in the face; and
the torment he is suffering is so great that he would gladly die to
get rid of it."

"You were fortunate, C---, to escape," said a backwood settler, who
occupied the opposite seat; "many a younger man has died of it."

"Ay; but I believe I never should have taken it had it not been for
some things they gave me for supper at the hotel; oysters, they
called them, oysters; they were alive! I was once persuaded by a
friend to eat them, and I liked them well enough at the time. But I
declare to you that I felt them crawling over one another in my
stomach all night. The next morning I was seized with the cholera."

"Did you swallow them whole, C---?" said the former spokesman,
who seemed highly tickled by the evil doings of the oysters.

"To be sure. I tell you, the creatures are alive. You put them on
your tongue, and I'll be bound you'll be glad to let them slip down
as fast as you can."

"No wonder you had the cholera," said the backwoodsman, "you
deserved it for your barbarity. If I had a good plate of oysters
here, I'd teach you the way to eat them."

Our journey during the first day was performed partly by coach,
partly by steam. It was nine o'clock in the evening when we landed
at Cornwell, and took coach for Prescott. The country through which
we passed appeared beautiful in the clear light of the moon; but
the air was cold, and slightly sharpened by frost. This seemed
strange to me in the early part of September, but it is very common
in Canada. Nine passengers were closely packed into our narrow
vehicle, but the sides being of canvas, and the open space allowed
for windows unglazed, I shivered with cold, which amounted to a
state of suffering, when the day broke, and we approached the
little village of Matilda. It was unanimously voted by all hands
that we should stop and breakfast at a small inn by the road-side,
and warm ourselves before proceeding to Prescott.

The people in the tavern were not stirring, and it was some time
before an old white-headed man unclosed the door, and showed us
into a room, redolent with fumes of tobacco, and darkened by paper
blinds. I asked him if he would allow me to take my infant into a
room with a fire.

"I guess it was a pretty considerable cold night for the like of
her," said he. "Come, I'll show you to the kitchen; there's always
a fire there." I cheerfully followed, accompanied by our servant.

Our entrance was unexpected, and by no means agreeable to the
persons we found there. A half-clothed, red-haired Irish servant
was upon her knees, kindling up the fire; and a long, thin woman,
with a sharp face, and an eye like a black snake, was just emerging
from a bed in the corner. We soon discovered this apparition to be
the mistress of the house.

"The people can't come in here!" she screamed in a shrill voice,
darting daggers at the poor old man.

"Sure there's a baby, and the two women critters are perished with
cold," pleaded the good old man.

"What's that to me? They have no business in my kitchen."

"Now, Almira, do hold on. It's the coach has stopped to breakfast
with us; and you know we don't often get the chance."

All this time the fair Almira was dressing as fast as she could,
and eyeing her unwelcome female guests, as we stood shivering over
the fire.

"Breakfast!" she muttered, "what can we give them to eat? They pass
our door a thousand times without any one alighting; and now, when
we are out of everything, they must stop and order breakfast at
such an unreasonable hour. How many are there of you?" turning
fiercely to me.

"Nine," I answered, laconically, continuing to chafe the cold hands
and feet of the child.

"Nine! That bit of beef will be nothing, cut into steaks for nine.
What's to be done, Joe?" (to the old man.)

"Eggs and ham, summat of that dried venison, and pumpkin pie,"
responded the aide-de-camp, thoughtfully. "I don't know of any
other fixings."

"Bestir yourself, then, and lay out the table, for the coach can't
stay long," cried the virago, seizing a frying-pan from the wall,
and preparing it for the reception of eggs and ham. "I must have
the fire to myself. People can't come crowding here, when I have
to fix breakfast for nine; particularly when there is a good room
elsewhere provided for their accommodation." I took the hint, and
retreated to the parlour, where I found the rest of the passengers
walking to and fro, and impatiently awaiting the advent of
breakfast.

To do Almira justice, she prepared from her scanty materials a very
substantial breakfast in an incredibly short time, for which she
charged us a quarter of a dollar per head.

At Prescott we embarked on board a fine new steam-boat, William
IV., crowded with Irish emigrants, proceeding to Cobourg and
Toronto.

While pacing the deck, my husband was greatly struck by the
appearance of a middle-aged man and his wife, who sat apart from
the rest, and seemed struggling with intense grief, which, in spite
of all their efforts at concealment, was strongly impressed upon
their features. Some time after, I fell into conversation with the
woman, from whom I learned their little history. The husband was
factor to a Scotch gentleman, of large landed property, who had
employed him to visit Canada, and report the capabilities of the
country, prior to his investing a large sum of money in wild lands.
The expenses of their voyage had been paid, and everything up to
that morning had prospered them. They had been blessed with a
speedy passage, and were greatly pleased with the country and the
people; but of what avail was all this? Their only son, a fine lad
of fourteen, had died that day of the cholera, and all their hopes
for the future were buried in his grave. For his sake they had
sought a home in this far land; and here, at the very onset of
their new career, the fell disease had taken him from them for
ever--here, where, in such a crowd, the poor heart-broken mother
could not even indulge her natural grief!

"Ah, for a place where I might greet!" she said; "it would relieve
the burning weight at my heart. But with sae many strange eyes
glowering upon me, I tak' shame to mysel' to greet."

"Ah, Jeannie, my puir woman," said the husband, grasping her hand,
"ye maun bear up; 'tis God's will; an sinfu' creatures like us
mauna repine. But oh, madam," turning to me, "we have sair hearts
the day!"

Poor bereaved creatures, how deeply I commiserated their grief--how
I respected the poor father, in the stern efforts he made to
conceal from indifferent spectators the anguish that weighed upon
his mind! Tears are the best balm that can be applied to the
anguish of the heart. Religion teaches man to bear his sorrows with
becoming fortitude, but tears contribute largely both to soften and
to heal the wounds from whence they flow.

At Brockville we took in a party of ladies, which somewhat relieved
the monotony of the cabin, and I was amused by listening to their
lively prattle, and the little gossip with which they strove to
wile away the tedium of the voyage. The day was too stormy to go
upon deck--thunder and lightening, accompanied with torrents of
rain. Amid the confusion of the elements, I tried to get a peep at
the Lake of the Thousand Isles; but the driving storm blended all
objects into one, and I returned wet and disappointed to my berth.
We passed Kingston at midnight, and lost all our lady passengers
but two. The gale continued until daybreak, and noise and confusion
prevailed all night, which were greatly increased by the uproarious
conduct of a wild Irish emigrant, who thought fit to make his bed
upon the mat before the cabin door. He sang, he shouted, and
harangued his countrymen on the political state of the Emerald
Isle, in a style which was loud if not eloquent. Sleep was
impossible, whilst his stentorian lungs continued to pour forth
torrents of unmeaning sound.

Our Dutch stewardess was highly enraged. His conduct, she said,
"was perfectly ondacent." She opened the door, and bestowing upon
him several kicks, bade him get away "out of that," or she would
complain to the captain.

In answer to this remonstrance, he caught her by the foot, and
pulled her down. Then waving the tattered remains of his straw hat
in the air, he shouted with an air of triumph, "Git out wid you,
you ould witch! Shure the ladies, the purty darlints, never sent
you wid that ugly message to Pat, who loves them so intirely that
he manes to kape watch over them through the blessed night." Then
making us a ludicrous bow, he continued, "Ladies, I'm at yer
sarvice; I only wish I could get a dispensation from the Pope,
and I'd marry yeas all." The stewardess bolted the door, and the
mad fellow kept up such a racket that we all wished him at the
bottom of the Ontario.

The following day was wet and gloomy. The storm had protracted the
length of our voyage for several hours, and it was midnight when we
landed at Cobourg.


THERE'S REST

(Written at midnight on the river St. Lawrence)

  There's rest when eve, with dewy fingers,
    Draws the curtains of repose
  Round the west, where light still lingers,
    And the day's last glory glows;
  There's rest in heaven's unclouded blue,
    When twinkling stars steal one by one,
  So softly on the gazer's view,
    As if they sought his glance to shun.

  There's rest when o'er the silent meads
    The deepening shades of night advance;
  And sighing through their fringe of reeds,
    The mighty stream's clear waters glance.
  There's rest when all above is bright,
    And gently o'er these summer isles
  The full moon pours her mellow light,
    And heaven on earth serenely smiles.

  There's rest when angry storms are o'er,
    And fear no longer vigil keeps;
  When winds are heard to rave no more,
    And ocean's troubled spirit sleeps;
  There's rest when to the pebbly strand,
    The lapsing billows slowly glide;
  And, pillow'd on the golden sand,
    Breathes soft and low the slumbering tide.

  There's rest, deep rest, at this still hour--
    A holy calm,--a pause profound;
  Whose soothing spell and dreamy power
    Lulls into slumber all around.
  There's rest for labour's hardy child,
    For Nature's tribes of earth and air,--
  Whose sacred balm and influence mild,
    Save guilt and sorrow, all may share.

  There's rest beneath the quiet sod,
    When life and all its sorrows cease,
  And in the bosom of his God
    The Christian finds eternal peace,--
  That peace the world cannot bestow,
    The rest a Saviour's death-pangs bought,
  To bid the weary pilgrim know
    A rest surpassing human thought.


CHAPTER IV

TOM WILSON'S EMIGRATION

  "Of all odd fellows, this fellow was the oddest. I have seen
  many strange fish in my days, but I never met with his equal."

About a month previous to our emigration to Canada, my husband said
to me, "You need not expect me home to dinner to-day; I am going
with my friend Wilson to Y---, to hear Mr. C--- lecture upon
emigration to Canada. He has just returned from the North American
provinces, and his lectures are attended by vast numbers of persons
who are anxious to obtain information on the subject. I got a note
from your friend B--- this morning, begging me to come over and
listen to his palaver; and as Wilson thinks of emigrating in the
spring, he will be my walking companion."

"Tom Wilson going to Canada!" said I, as the door closed on my
better-half. "What a backwoodsman he will make! What a loss to the
single ladies of S---! What will they do without him at their balls
and picnics?"

One of my sisters, who was writing at a table near me, was highly
amused at this unexpected announcement. She fell back in her chair
and indulged in a long and hearty laugh. I am certain that most of
my readers would have joined in her laugh had they known the object
which provoked her mirth. "Poor Tom is such a dreamer," said my
sister, "it would be an act of charity in Moodie to persuade him
from undertaking such a wild-goose chase; only that I fancy my good
brother is possessed with the same mania."

"Nay, God forbid!" said I. "I hope this Mr. ---, with the
unpronounceable name, will disgust them with his eloquence; for
B--- writes me word, in his droll way, that he is a coarse, vulgar
fellow, and lacks the dignity of a bear. Oh! I am certain they will
return quite sickened with the Canadian project." Thus I laid the
flattering unction to my soul, little dreaming that I and mine
should share in the strange adventures of this oddest of all odd
creatures.

It might be made a subject of curious inquiry to those who delight
in human absurdities, if ever there were a character drawn in works
of fiction so extravagantly ridiculous as some which daily
experience presents to our view. We have encountered people in the
broad thoroughfares of life more eccentric than ever we read of in
books; people who, if all their foolish sayings and doings were
duly recorded, would vie with the drollest creations of Hood, or
George Colman, and put to shame the flights of Baron Munchausen.
Not that Tom Wilson was a romancer; oh no! He was the very prose of
prose, a man in a mist, who seemed afraid of moving about for fear
of knocking his head against a tree, and finding a halter suspended
to its branches--a man as helpless and as indolent as a baby.

Mr. Thomas, or Tom Wilson, as he was familiarly called by all his
friends and acquaintances, was the son of a gentleman, who once
possessed a large landed property in the neighbourhood; but an
extravagant and profligate expenditure of the income which he
derived from a fine estate which had descended from father to son
through many generations, had greatly reduced the circumstances of
the elder Wilson. Still, his family held a certain rank and
standing in their native county, of which his evil courses, bad as
they were, could not wholly deprive them. The young people--and a
very large family they made of sons and daughters, twelve in
number--were objects of interest and commiseration to all who knew
them, while the worthless father was justly held in contempt and
detestation. Our hero was the youngest of the six sons; and from
his childhood he was famous for his nothing-to-doishness. He was
too indolent to engage heart and soul in the manly sports of his
comrades; and he never thought it necessary to commence learning
his lessons until the school had been in an hour. As he grew up
to man's estate, he might be seen dawdling about in a black
frock-coat, jean trousers, and white kid gloves, making lazy bows
to the pretty girls of his acquaintance; or dressed in a green
shooting-jacket, with a gun across his shoulder, sauntering down
the wooded lanes, with a brown spaniel dodging at his heels, and
looking as sleepy and indolent as his master.

The slowness of all Tom's movements was strangely contrasted with
his slight, and symmetrical figure; that looked as if it only
awaited the will of the owner to be the most active piece of human
machinery that ever responded to the impulses of youth and health.
But then, his face! What pencil could faithfully delineate features
at once so comical and lugubrious--features that one moment
expressed the most solemn seriousness, and the next, the most
grotesque and absurd abandonment to mirth? In him, all extremes
appeared to meet; the man was a contradiction to himself. Tom was
a person of few words, and so intensely lazy that it required a
strong effort of will to enable him to answer the questions of
inquiring friends; and when at length aroused to exercise his
colloquial powers, he performed the task in so original a manner
that it never failed to upset the gravity of the interrogator.
When he raised his large, prominent, leaden-coloured eyes from the
ground, and looked the inquirer steadily in the face, the effect
was irresistible; the laugh would come--do your best to resist it.

Poor Tom took this mistimed merriment in very good part, generally
answering with a ghastly contortion which he meant for a smile, or,
if he did trouble himself to find words, with, "Well, that's funny!
What makes you laugh? At me, I suppose? I don't wonder at it; I
often laugh at myself."

Tom would have been a treasure to an undertaker. He would have been
celebrated as a mute; he looked as if he had been born in a shroud,
and rocked in a coffin. The gravity with which he could answer a
ridiculous or impertinent question completely disarmed and turned
the shafts of malice back upon his opponent. If Tom was himself an
object of ridicule to many, he had a way of quietly ridiculing
others that bade defiance to all competition. He could quiz with a
smile, and put down insolence with an incredulous stare. A grave
wink from those dreamy eyes would destroy the veracity of a
travelled dandy for ever.

Tom was not without use in his day and generation; queer and
awkward as he was, he was the soul of truth and honour. You might
suspect his sanity--a matter always doubtful--but his honesty of
heart and purpose, never.

When you met Tom in the streets, he was dressed with such neatness
and care (to be sure it took him half the day to make his toilet),
that it led many persons to imagine that this very ugly young man
considered himself an Adonis; and I must confess that I rather
inclined to this opinion. He always paced the public streets with
a slow, deliberate tread, and with his eyes fixed intently on the
ground--like a man who had lost his ideas, and was diligently
employed in searching for them. I chanced to meet him one day in
this dreamy mood.

"How do you do, Mr. Wilson?" He stared at me for several minutes,
as if doubtful of my presence or identity.

"What was that you said?"

I repeated the question; and he answered, with one of his
incredulous smiles--

"Was it to me you spoke? Oh, I am quite well, or I should not be
walking here. By the way, did you see my dog?"

"How should I know your dog?"

"They say he resembles me. He's a queer dog, too; but I never could
find out the likeness. Good night!"

This was at noonday; but Tom had a habit of taking light for
darkness, and darkness for light, in all he did or said. He must
have had different eyes and ears, and a different way of seeing,
hearing, and comprehending, than is possessed by the generality of
his species; and to such a length did he carry this abstraction of
soul and sense, that he would often leave you abruptly in the
middle of a sentence; and if you chanced to meet him some weeks
after, he would resume the conversation with the very word at which
he had cut short the thread of your discourse.

A lady once told him in jest that her youngest brother, a lad of
twelve years old, had called his donkey Braham, in honour of the
great singer of that name. Tom made no answer, but started abruptly
away. Three months after, she happened to encounter him on the same
spot, when he accosted her, without any previous salutation,

"You were telling me about a donkey, Miss ---, a donkey of your
brother's--Braham, I think you called him--yes, Braham; a strange
name for an ass! I wonder what the great Mr. Braham would say to
that. Ha, ha, ha!"

"Your memory must be excellent, Mr. Wilson, to enable you to
remember such a trifling circumstance all this time."

"Trifling, do you call it? Why, I have thought of nothing else ever
since."

From traits such as these my readers will be tempted to imagine him
brother to the animal who had dwelt so long in his thoughts; but
there were times when he surmounted this strange absence of mind,
and could talk and act as sensibly as other folks.

On the death of his father, he emigrated to New South Wales, where
he contrived to doze away seven years of his valueless existence,
suffering his convict servants to rob him of everything, and
finally to burn his dwelling. He returned to his native village,
dressed as an Italian mendicant, with a monkey perched upon his
shoulder, and playing airs of his own composition upon a
hurdy-gurdy. In this disguise he sought the dwelling of an old
bachelor uncle, and solicited his charity. But who that had once
seen our friend Tom could ever forget him? Nature had no counterpart
of one who in mind and form was alike original. The good-natured
old soldier, at a glance, discovered his hopeful nephew, received
him into his house with kindness, and had afforded him an asylum
ever since.

One little anecdote of him at this period will illustrate the quiet
love of mischief with which he was imbued. Travelling from W--- to
London in the stage-coach (railways were not invented in those
days), he entered into conversation with an intelligent farmer who
sat next to him; New South Wales, and his residence in that colony,
forming the leading topic. A dissenting minister who happened to
be his vis-a-vis, and who had annoyed him by making several
impertinent remarks, suddenly asked him, with a sneer, how many
years he had been there.

"Seven," returned Tom, in a solemn tone, without deigning a glance
at his companion.

"I thought so," responded the other, thrusting his hands into his
breeches pockets. "And pray, sir, what were you sent there for?"

"Stealing pigs," returned the incorrigible Tom, with the gravity
of a judge. The words were scarcely pronounced when the questioner
called the coachman to stop, preferring a ride outside in the rain
to a seat within with a thief. Tom greatly enjoyed the hoax, which
he used to tell with the merriest of all grave faces.

Besides being a devoted admirer of the fair sex, and always
imagining himself in love with some unattainable beauty, he had a
passionate craze for music, and played upon the violin and flute
with considerable taste and execution. The sound of a favourite
melody operated upon the breathing automaton like magic, his frozen
faculties experienced a sudden thaw, and the stream of life leaped
and gambolled for a while with uncontrollable vivacity. He laughed,
danced, sang, and made love in a breath, committing a thousand mad
vagaries to make you acquainted with his existence.

My husband had a remarkably sweet-toned flute, and this flute Tom
regarded with a species of idolatry.

"I break the Tenth Commandment, Moodie, whenever I hear you play
upon that flute. Take care of your black wife," (a name he had
bestowed upon the coveted treasure), "or I shall certainly run off
with her."

"I am half afraid of you, Tom. I am sure if I were to die, and
leave you my black wife as a legacy, you would be too much
overjoyed to lament my death."

Such was the strange, helpless, whimsical being who now
contemplated an emigration to Canada. How he succeeded in the
speculation the sequel will show.

It was late in the evening before my husband and his friend Tom
Wilson returned from Y---. I had provided a hot supper and a cup of
coffee after their long walk, and they did ample justice to my
care.

Tom was in unusually high spirits, and appeared wholly bent upon
his Canadian expedition.

"Mr. C--- must have been very eloquent, Mr. Wilson," said I,
"to engage your attention for so many hours."

"Perhaps he was," returned Tom, after a pause of some minutes,
during which he seemed to be groping for words in the salt-cellar,
having deliberately turned out its contents upon the tablecloth.
"We were hungry after our long walk, and he gave us an excellent
dinner."

"But that had nothing to do with the substance of his lecture."

"It was the substance, after all," said Moodie, laughing; "and his
audience seemed to think so, by the attention they paid to it
during the discussion. But, come, Wilson, give my wife some account
of the intellectual part of the entertainment."

"What! I--I--I--I give an account of the lecture? Why, my dear
fellow, I never listened to one word of it!"

"I thought you went to Y--- on purpose to obtain information on the
subject of emigration to Canada?"

"Well, and so I did; but when the fellow pulled out his pamphlet,
and said that it contained the substance of his lecture, and would
only cost a shilling, I thought that it was better to secure the
substance than endeavour to catch the shadow--so I bought the book,
and spared myself the pain of listening to the oratory of the
writer. Mrs. Moodie! he had a shocking delivery, a drawling, vulgar
voice; and he spoke with such a nasal twang that I could not bear
to look at him, or listen to him. He made such grammatical
blunders, that my sides ached with laughing at him. Oh, I wish you
could have seen the wretch! But here is the document, written in
the same style in which it was spoken. Read it; you have a rich
treat in store."

I took the pamphlet, not a little amused at his description of Mr.
C---, for whom I felt an uncharitable dislike.

"And how did you contrive to entertain yourself, Mr. Wilson, during
his long address?"

"By thinking how many fools were collected together, to listen to
one greater than the rest. By the way, Moodie, did you notice
farmer Flitch?"

"No; where did he sit?"

"At the foot of the table. You must have seen him, he was too big
to be overlooked. What a delightful squint he had! What a ridiculous
likeness there was between him and the roast pig he was carving!
I was wondering all dinner-time how that man contrived to cut up
that pig; for one eye was fixed upon the ceiling, and the other
leering very affectionately at me. It was very droll; was it not?"

"And what do you intend doing with yourself when you arrive in
Canada?" said I.

"Find out some large hollow tree, and live like Bruin in winter by
sucking my paws. In the summer there will be plenty of mast and
acorns to satisfy the wants of an abstemious fellow."

"But, joking apart, my dear fellow," said my husband, anxious to
induce him to abandon a scheme so hopeless, "do you think that you
are at all qualified for a life of toil and hardship?"

"Are you?" returned Tom, raising his large, bushy, black eyebrows
to the top of his forehead, and fixing his leaden eyes steadfastly
upon his interrogator, with an air of such absurd gravity that we
burst into a hearty laugh.

"Now what do you laugh for? I am sure I asked you a very serious
question."

"But your method of putting it is so unusual that you must excuse
us for laughing."

"I don't want you to weep," said Tom; "but as to our
qualifications, Moodie, I think them pretty equal. I know you think
otherwise, but I will explain. Let me see; what was I going to
say?--ah, I have it! You go with the intention of clearing land,
and working for yourself, and doing a great deal. I have tried
that before in New South Wales, and I know that it won't answer.
Gentlemen can't work like labourers, and if they could, they
won't--it is not in them, and that you will find out. You expect,
by going to Canada, to make your fortune, or at least secure a
comfortable independence. I anticipate no such results; yet I mean
to go, partly out of a whim, partly to satisfy my curiosity whether
it is a better country than New South Wales; and lastly, in the
hope of bettering my condition in a small way, which at present is
so bad that it can scarcely be worse. I mean to purchase a farm
with the three hundred pounds I received last week from the sale
of my father's property; and if the Canadian soil yields only half
what Mr. C--- says it does, I need not starve. But the refined
habits in which you have been brought up, and your unfortunate
literary propensities--(I say unfortunate, because you will seldom
meet people in a colony who can or will sympathise with you in
these pursuits)--they will make you an object of mistrust and envy
to those who cannot appreciate them, and will be a source of
constant mortification and disappointment to yourself. Thank God!
I have no literary propensities; but in spite of the latter
advantage, in all probability I shall make no exertion at all;
so that your energy, damped by disgust and disappointment, and my
laziness, will end in the same thing, and we shall both return
like bad pennies to our native shores. But, as I have neither
wife nor child to involve in my failure, I think, without much
self-flattery, that my prospects are better than yours."

This was the longest speech I ever heard Tom utter; and, evidently
astonished at himself, he sprang abruptly from the table, overset a
cup of coffee into my lap, and wishing us GOOD DAY (it was eleven
o'clock at night), he ran out of the house.

There was more truth in poor Tom's words than at that moment we
were willing to allow; for youth and hope were on our side in those
days, and we were most ready to believe the suggestions of the
latter.

My husband finally determined to emigrate to Canada, and in the
hurry and bustle of a sudden preparation to depart, Tom and his
affairs for a while were forgotten.

How dark and heavily did that frightful anticipation weigh upon my
heart! As the time for our departure drew near, the thought of
leaving my friends and native land became so intensely painful that
it haunted me even in sleep. I seldom awoke without finding my
pillow wet with tears. The glory of May was upon the earth--of an
English May. The woods were bursting into leaf, the meadows and
hedge-rows were flushed with flowers, and every grove and copsewood
echoed to the warblings of birds and the humming of bees. To leave
England at all was dreadful--to leave her at such a season was
doubly so. I went to take a last look at the old Hall, the beloved
home of my childhood and youth; to wander once more beneath the
shade of its venerable oaks--to rest once more upon the velvet
sward that carpeted their roots. It was while reposing beneath
those noble trees that I had first indulged in those delicious
dreams which are a foretaste of the enjoyments of the spirit-land.
In them the soul breathes forth its aspirations in a language
unknown to common minds; and that language is Poetry. Here
annually, from year to year, I had renewed my friendship with the
first primroses and violets, and listened with the untiring ear of
love to the spring roundelay of the blackbird, whistled from among
his bower of May blossoms. Here, I had discoursed sweet words to
the tinkling brook, and learned from the melody of waters the music
of natural sounds. In these beloved solitudes all the holy emotions
which stir the human heart in its depths had been freely poured
forth, and found a response in the harmonious voice of Nature,
bearing aloft the choral song of earth to the throne of the Creator.

How hard it was to tear myself from scenes endeared to me by the
most beautiful and sorrowful recollections, let those who have
loved and suffered as I did, say. However the world had frowned
upon me, Nature, arrayed in her green loveliness, had ever smiled
upon me like an indulgent mother, holding out her loving arms to
enfold to her bosom her erring but devoted child.

Dear, dear England! why was I forced by a stern necessity to leave
you? What heinous crime had I committed, that I, who adored you,
should be torn from your sacred bosom, to pine out my joyless
existence in a foreign clime? Oh, that I might be permitted to
return and die upon your wave-encircled shores, and rest my weary
head and heart beneath your daisy-covered sod at last! Ah, these
are vain outbursts of feeling--melancholy relapses of the spring
home-sickness! Canada! thou art a noble, free, and rising
country--the great fostering mother of the orphans of civilisation.
The offspring of Britain, thou must be great, and I will and do
love thee, land of my adoption, and of my children's birth; and,
oh, dearer still to a mother's heart-land of their graves!


                          * * * * * *


Whilst talking over our coming separation with my sister C---, we
observed Tom Wilson walking slowly up the path that led to the
house. He was dressed in a new shooting-jacket, with his gun lying
carelessly across his shoulder, and an ugly pointer dog following
at a little distance.

"Well, Mrs. Moodie, I am off," said Tom, shaking hands with my
sister instead of me. "I suppose I shall see Moodie in London. What
do you think of my dog?" patting him affectionately.

"I think him an ugly beast," said C---. "Do you mean to take him
with you?"

"An ugly beast!--Duchess a beast? Why she is a perfect
beauty!--Beauty and the beast! Ha, ha, ha! I gave two guineas for
her last night." (I thought of the old adage.) "Mrs. Moodie, your
sister is no judge of a dog."

"Very likely," returned C---, laughing. "And you go to town
to-night, Mr. Wilson? I thought as you came up to the house that
you were equipped for shooting."

"To be sure; there is capital shooting in Canada."

"So I have heard--plenty of bears and wolves. I suppose you take
out your dog and gun in anticipation?"

"True," said Tom.

"But you surely are not going to take that dog with you?"

"Indeed I am. She is a most valuable brute. The very best venture I
could take. My brother Charles has engaged our passage in the same
vessel."

"It would be a pity to part you," said I. "May you prove as lucky a
pair as Whittington and his cat."

"Whittington! Whittington!" said Tom, staring at my sister, and
beginning to dream, which he invariably did in the company of
women. "Who was the gentleman?"

"A very old friend of mine, one whom I have known since I was a
very little girl," said my sister; "but I have not time to tell you
more about him now. If you so to St. Paul's Churchyard, and inquire
for Sir Richard Whittington and his cat, you will get his history
for a mere trifle."

"Do not mind her, Mr. Wilson, she is quizzing you," quoth I; "I
wish you a safe voyage across the Atlantic; I wish I could add a
happy meeting with your friends. But where shall we find friends
in a strange land?"

"All in good time," said Tom. "I hope to have the pleasure of
meeting you in the backwoods of Canada before three months are
over. What adventures we shall have to tell one another! It will
be capital. Good-bye."


                          * * * * * *


"Tom has sailed," said Captain Charles Wilson, stepping into my
little parlour a few days after his eccentric brother's last visit.
"I saw him and Duchess safe on board. Odd as he is, I parted with
him with a full heart; I felt as if we never should meet again.
Poor Tom! he is the only brother left me now that I can love.
Robert and I never agreed very well, and there is little chance of
our meeting in this world. He is married, and settled down for life
in New South Wales; and the rest--John, Richard, George, are all
gone--all!"

"Was Tom in good spirits when you parted?"

"Yes. He is a perfect contradiction. He always laughs and cries in the
wrong place. 'Charl