14000 miles, a carriage and two women

by Frances S. Howe

We dined at the Iroquois, on the “mountain,” the resort of Canada. It is a large English hotel with all the appointments, and a pretty lake is seen a little farther up the mountain, through the woods. We illustrated the Canada Mountains we saw, to a friend in New Hampshire, by placing balls of lamp-wicking on her table; they have no foothills and look like excrescences.

One night in quite a large hotel, we had no fastening on our door. We were assured we were perfectly safe, but our room could be changed if we wished. We did not like to distrust such hospitality as we had met continually in Canada, so we kept our room, but, lest the wind should blow the door open, we tilted a rocking-chair against it, with a bag balanced on one corner, and so arranged the lunch basket, with the tin cups attached, that if the door opened a half-inch the whole arrangement would have fallen with a crash, and everybody else would have been frightened if we were not.

The last forty miles to Sorel, where we crossed the St. Lawrence to Berthier, we drove close by the river Richelieu. We had left Montreal twenty miles to our left, as we were bound to a point fifty miles farther north. There were villages all along on either side of the river, the larger ones marked by the cathedrals, whose roofs and spires are dazzlingly bright with the tin covering, which does not change in the Canadian atmosphere. In the smaller villages we saw many little “shrines” along the wayside; sometimes a tiny enclosure in the corner of a field, with a cross ten or twelve feet high, and a weather-beaten image nailed to it; and again a smaller and ruder affair. Life in all the little villages seemed very leisurely; no rush or luxury, save of the camping-out style. The little houses were very like the rough cottages we find by lakes and ponds and at the seashore. We were charmed by the French windows, which open to all the light and air there is. The living-room was, without exception, spotlessly neat, and almost invariably furnished with a highly polished range, which would put to shame many we see in the States; and frequently a bed with a bright patched quilt in one corner. The little yards and the space under the piazza, which is usually three or four feet from the ground, were swept like a parlor. Touches of color and curtains of lace reveal a love of the beautiful. The men in the field often had wisps of red or white around their big straw hats, but the women wore theirs without ornamentation. We saw them loading hay and digging in the field; those at home were spinning by the door. If we came across a group of men “loafing,” they would cease their jabbering, raise their hats and stand in silence while we passed. We missed these little attentions when we got back to the States.

By the time we reached Sorel we felt quite at home in Canada. We found there a mixture of nationalities. The host of the Brunswick, where we stopped for dinner and to wait two or three hours for the boat to Berthier, was a native of the States, and we were well cared for. We were well entertained while waiting, for it was market-day, and men and women were standing by their carts, arms akimbo, as they traded their vegetables for straw hats and loaves of bread—so large, it took two to carry them off. We had been meeting them all along, the women and children usually sitting on the floor of the rude carts, with their purchases packed about them.

At four o’clock Jerry was driven to the door in visiting trim, well groomed, and the phaeton washed. We went to the boat, and there for the first time we thought we had encountered that “mean person,” attracted by our “Yankee rig,” for a fellow stepped up where we stood by Jerry in the bow of the boat, as he was a little uneasy, and began to talk about “trading horses.” The young woman who had him in charge soon called him away, however, and we heard no more from him.

The sail of nearly an hour among the islands, which at this point in the St. Lawrence begin to be quite numerous, was very pleasant, and when we came in sight of Berthier, marked by its twin shining spires, we thought it the prettiest village we had seen in Canada. The main street is alongside the river, and as we stood on the deck, we caught sight of Mr. —— and Ruthie walking down street, and waved a salute with our handkerchiefs. In a few moments more we landed, and perching Ruthie on the top of our bags, we drove back to a charming home, walking in upon our somewhat surprised friends as if it was an every-day occurrence.

Rowing is the thing to do there, and we had a feast of it, exploring the “Little Rivers” with so many unexpected turns. Then too, of course, we rowed out to take the wake of the big boats, all of which recalled vividly gala times farther up the river, in days before carriage journeys were dreamed of even.

When we at last faced about and said good-by to our friends, we realized we were a long way from home. We knew now what was before us; indeed, could trace the way in mind way back to the State line, and then the length of Vermont or New Hampshire, as the case might be. At all events we must take in the Shayback camp on Lake Memphremagog before we left Canada, and as a direct course promised to take us over hills too large to illustrate by lamp-wicking, we followed the Richelieu again, revisited the Saints Hilaire and Cesaire, and turned east farther south. Our hosts along the way who had directed us to Berthier, were now confirmed in their belief that “we could go anywhere.” When we turned east, after leaving St. Cesaire, we felt we were going among strangers once more, so we prepared ourselves by stopping in a stumpy land, uninhabited even by beasts, and blacking our boots by the wayside.

We drove over a mountain that was a mountain before we reached the level of Lake Memphremagog. We had been told we could save quite a distance by going to Tuck’s Landing, where we could be taken across to Georgeville, instead of driving to Newport. We went by faith altogether, having no idea what sort of a raft we should find; we only knew if it was not there we were to signal for it.

As we slowly picked our way down the last steep pitch, we saw something coming towards the landing. It moved so slowly we could only tell which way it was going by the silver trail which we traced back to Georgeville. We reached the landing just in season to go back on its last regular trip for the night, and were greatly interested in this new, but not rapid transit. Jerry was impressed with the strangeness, but is very sensible and never forgets himself. We think he would really have enjoyed the trip had it not been for the continual snapping of a whip as a sort of mental incentive to the two horses, or outlines of horses, which revolved very slowly around a pole, thereby turning a wheel which occasioned the silent trail that indicated we moved. A man, a boy, and a girl alternated in using the incentive which was absolutely essential to progress, and we chatted with them by turn, recalling to mind the points on the lake, and hearing of the drowning men rescued by this propeller.