I have never experienced the benefit of out-door exertion and the comfort of retirement to the same degree as during these excursions, besides daily riding on horseback and preparing all the wood consumed at my cottage. Between two and three years ago I found it painful labour to walk one mile, I have since walked twelve miles in a day, besides attending to other duties—an improvement of my general system, which is already acting sensibly and encouragingly on the seat of thought and nervous influence. In my lonely voyage from Toronto to Port Ryerse, the scene was often enchanting, and the solitude sweet beyond expression. I have witnessed the setting sun amidst the Swiss and Tyrolese Alps, from lofty elevations, on the plains of Lombardy, from the highest eminence of the Appenines, between Bologna and Florence, and from the crater summit of Vesuvius, but I never was more delighted and impressed (owing, perhaps, in part to the susceptible state of my feelings) with the beauty, effulgence, and even sublimity of atmospheric phenomena, and the softened magnificence of surrounding objects, than in witnessing the setting sun the 23rd of June, from the unruffled bosom of Lake Erie, a few miles east of Port Dover, and about a mile from the thickly wooded shore, with its deepening and variously reflected shadows. And when the silent darkness enveloped all this beauty, and grandeur, and magnificence in undistinguishable gloom, my mind experienced that wonderful sense of freedom and relief which come from all that suggests the idea of boundlessness—the deep sky, the dark night, the endless circle, the illimitable waters. The world with its tumult of cares seemed to have retired, and God and His works appeared all in all, suggesting the enquiry which faith and experience promptly answered in the affirmative—
With glorious clouds encompassed round
Whom angels dimly see;
Will the unsearchable be found;
Will God appear to me?
My last remark is the vivifying influence and unspeakable pleasure of visiting scenes endeared to me by many tender, and comparatively few painful recollections. Amid the fields, woods, out-door exercises, and associations of the first twenty years of my life, I have seemed to forget the sorrows, labours and burdens of more than two score years, and to be transported back to what was youthful, simple, healthy, active, and happy. I can heartily sympathise with the feelings of Sir Walter Scott when, in reply to Washington Irving, who had expressed disapprobation in the scenery of the Tweed, immortalized by the genius of the Border Minstrel, he said,—
It may be partiality, but to my eyes these gray hills and all this wild border country have beauties peculiar to themselves. I like the very nakedness of the land. It has something bold, and stern, and solitary about it. When I have been for some time in the rich scenery of Edinburgh, which is ornamented garden land, I begin to wish myself back again among my honest gray hills, and if I did not see the heather at least once a year I think I should die.
Dr. Ryerson was very bold and skilful in the management of a sail boat, as may be inferred from the foregoing incidents. On one occasion, a few years ago, while sailing on the Toronto bay in his skiff, he was overtaken by a gale, during which the steeple of Zion Church was blown down, but, through God's goodness, he reached terra firma in safety.
He frequently sailed his little craft, as he has mentioned, from Port Ryerse and Port Rowan to his Long Point cottage—a distance of thirteen and nine miles respectively—and that, too, in all sorts of weather, and sometimes when much larger boats would not venture outside of the harbour.
For many years Dr. Ryerson was considered one of the best shots at Long Point. When over seventy years of age, he killed from seventy to eighty duck in one day in his punt and with his own gun. In the spring of 1880, when in his seventy-eighth year, he was overtaken by darkness, and, not being able to reach his cottage, was compelled to remain all night in the marsh. Rolling himself up in his blankets, in his boat, he quietly went to sleep. In the early morning he was rewarded by capturing nine wild geese.
He crossed Lake Ontario, between Toronto and Port Dalhousie, four times alone in his skiff (only sixteen feet long), and three times accompanied by his son. Fear was unknown to him, and he never lost his presence of mind, even in the most perilous circumstances.
Another favourite recreation of his was riding. He was often seen before six o'clock in the morning enjoying a canter in the suburbs of Toronto.
Writing to me from Ridgeway in August, 1866, he said:—