My Dear Mother,
I must follow your example and write when there is nothing much that can be said, not so much because there is nothing to say, as because I have’nt time to say it. I suppose you have got our first letters by this time. I wonder what sort of impression they made? I don’t remember what I put inside my own, except that I confessed to being sea-sick, but it was due to the —inks in the cabin. One thing, though, I did not tell you, namely, that when the time came I was sorry to land, for towards the end I enjoyed it very much. My hat arrived here with only a few dents in it. By-the-bye, talking of things that arrived here, I don’t know if either of us told you the parcel and all your letters had come safe to hand (Thursday.) Here we are suddenly in Sherbrooke again. Awful nuisance this cutting about, but it can’t be helped. It was no use Henry staying longer in Montreal; its resources for him were fairly exhausted; and now is the time for another shot at old Crabtree. We only arrived here this evening, being obliged, by the inconvenient times at which the trains run, to travel in the daytime. I shall have a lot to do to-morrow, but, if possible, I will add something hereto before I mail it. You will have to excuse bad writing, as it’s a fearful bad light, and not very early. I meant to read your letter over again, and answer it as I went, but that will have to slide for the present. I have seen dozens and dozens of people in Montreal lately, and some good friends are also agitating there for me while I am away. I am going to see Colonel Ibbotson to-morrow, and he is going to try and get me in the Government Surveying business at Ottawa, so I may have to go there very soon. I have left my card and address with half the engineers in Canada, and all have promised to make enquiries for me, and let me know if anything turns up. I have’nt entered into minute details of what I have been doing, which people I have seen, and what they have told me, etc., because I would much sooner wait till I can write and tell you what has turned up. You’d be thinking all sorts of direful things if I were to write by one mail and say I was going to see the great so-and-so to-morrow, and tell you how I had backed myself up with an array of mutual friends, letters of introduction, etc., and then write by next mail to say that it had all come to nothing; and yet that is what is constantly happening; it must happen; of course I fortify my position as much as possible for every application, but if a man has’nt got a vacancy you can’t expect him to make one. I have got eight or ten irons in the fire here or in Montreal, and each of them will probably generate other irons, frequently bigger and stronger than they are themselves.
By-the-bye, I don’t know if I told you on the other side of this page (that is the other one), that I had blued 50c. to go and have a look at Lachine Rapids. I don’t know whether I was disappointed or not. I think the boats that go down are far too big; one does’nt get a proper idea of the height of the waves and general ruction of the water. The steering was the best part of it. The water runs down I should say in places at about twelve to fifteen miles an hour, and the channel is sometimes not more than twenty or thirty yards wide between the rocks, which I could’nt see till we were alongside of them; and it twists and turns about a good deal. Altogether I did not grudge the money. I must shut up now mother dear, for to-night. You ought to have a capital M at least, seeing you are such a capital Mother, but my eyes are sore, so we’ll let it slide. Perhaps I shall have to sign my name in pencil, if so you’ll know I had’nt time to write any more.
Well, this arn’t in pencil, and it arn’t my name, it’s ink, and such ink! I believe it’s made from charcoal. Everything here is made of wood, even to the fire-irons and hearthstones. We are not where we was. Different portions of this letter have been inscribed in different places (small chance of your being able to read it if it had not). It was begun in Montreal, continued in Sherbrooke, and I am now writing at the Eastern Township Hotel, Eton Corner, near Birchton, P.Q., which I have every reason to believe will be Henry’s field of action. I may hereafter be able to add for certain that he is settled, and upon what terms. All I can say at present is that a certain farmer named Hardy has consented to take him. I have not seen the man yet, he was called away suddenly on some important business and could not let me know in time to stop rife coming here to see him. I am told it’s a first-rate farm and the man is well off, which is security against Henry suddenly being discharged owing to impecuniosity on the farmer’s part, a thing which seems to be of pretty frequent occurrence about here, or, in fact, anywhere else. We went out to the farm this morning, and saw the man’s father, who lives with him; he is a very decent old chap, but he is going away on Sunday for some time. Henry liked the look of the place very much indeed. It is about sixteen miles from Sherbrooke, and four-and-a-half from the station (Birchton). The country is a good deal wilder than any we have seen yet, though very pretty, nothing but wood all round, mostly pine, but not large timber. The village is also a pretty little place, it looks like a few houses—all wood—built in a field, with a road running through the middle of them, a road that would be considered a disgrace to any county in England, but which passes for a very fair one here. By-the-bye, jack-boots are such an evident necessity here that I advised Henry to get another pair before he left Sherbrooke, which he did for $2 25c., or about nine shillings. Boots of every sort are much cheaper here, though the boot-maker himself said they were not so good; still they look to me to have a great deal of hard wear in them, and there is a wonderful difference in the price. I don’t think Henry could have done without another pair, as they are by a long way the safest and best things to wear in the winter. (Sunday morning.) I have’nt been to church this morning, because it’s three-and-a-half or four miles away, and the roads (owing to heavy rains yesterday and last night) are a mass of mud, and I have nothing but thin shoes. You see I came down from Montreal expecting to be back again on Saturday morning, and I can’t get back now before Tuesday morning. I saw Hardy last night, and slept at his farm with Henry. I think on the whole he is well placed, for placed he certainly is. I made up my mind long ago to close with the first chance that offered for him unless there was some good moral or political reason against doing so. I can’t see the shadow of such a reason in this case. Hardy is a middle-aged, intelligent-looking man, fairly cultured and educated, free and easy in his manners, as everyone is here. From what I hear, I should say he was inclined to be a little quick tempered, not a lot, not what you would call a hot-tempered man by any means. I think it would take a great deal to make him angry, but when he did become so, it would be a flare up and out again like a bunch of tow. He seems a genial sort of chap too, as he always says the best he can of everybody, and is always ready for a laugh. He has the reputation of being fair and upright in his dealings. When I talked to him about wages he said he certainly could’nt give Henry anything to start with during the time that is left for outside work before the winter; he would require too much explanation, and be too raw at his work to be of any value beyond his keep, and during the cold weather there was practically nothing to do but cut wood and attend the cattle. I find that even a skilled hand can seldom get more than $10 a month with his keep at winter work unless he engages for one or more years. I think it’s quite fair, when you consider that he has engaged Henry just when there is very little to be done, and he has no security that he (Henry) won’t leave him when the spring comes, or perhaps before it. Of course, he probably won’t do so, but you can’t expect the man to count upon that. Thus the probability is that Henry will get only his board and lodging during the greater part of the winter; or, to use the man’s own words, “I’ll do the best I can; if I find he’s worth more I’ll give it him, anyway he’s sure of something in the spring.” I like the farmer’s wife very much, she must have been very pretty once, though of course, most of it has worn off now. She is very quiet, and very good tempered looking, and I think she will take a fancy to Henry. They have got one child, a girl of about eight or nine, who it will probably be Henry’s duty to drive in school every morning. I think this settles the family. Henry will no doubt give you a lengthy description of the house, so I will refrain from expatiating on its merits. He will have a room to himself, which, in my opinion, is sufficient reason for clinching the bargain. You were wanting to know about the prices of things here as compared with the old country, as I have already begun to call it. Some son-of-a-gun has been playing the fool with my pen, and all the ink this place can raise is a concentrated solution in the bottom of a stone bottle. Well, I think I have told you all that I know at present, though I can’t be sure. You see I have to write at odd times, and in odd places, and so I very often forget what I have said or have not said. Railway travelling is certainly dearer for short distances, but undoubtedly cheaper for long ones; that is, the tickets are issued at a reduced mileage, but it does not seem cheaper, and if time is money it is certainly not so. I don’t know anything about a three or four day’s journey. The return fare from Montreal to Sherbrooke, 102 miles, first-class, is $5 60c. It is impossible for anyone but a hardened smoker, and one who can throw comfort to the winds, to travel anything but first-class, at least, that is the result of my experience so far. I don’t know enough about it to give any reliable opinion on the merits of Canadian Railways at present. The clothing required in towns seems decidedly dearer than it is in England. What may be called the specialities of the country, such as overall working suits, jack-boots, etc., are cheaper. I can’t say anything about living yet, $5 50c. clears all shoals, washing included, in Montreal, and 6 or 7 would do the same in most country hotels, though I am not sure that they are hotels which you could go to. I have just remembered that last Friday was my birthday. How old am I—twenty-four or twenty-five? Just tell me next time you write, for I really don’t know. I think it must be twenty-four. I can’t be a quarter of a century old yet, surely.
What early birds the people are here. It is just half-past nine and all lights have been out for some time, and everyone in the hotel is asleep. I’ve got to catch the train pretty early to-morrow, so I’ll e’en do likewise. I’ll only put J. S. C. here as I’m sure to have something more to say when I get to Montreal.
Sherbrooke, Monday.—Have just received your letters. These were waiting for me here; also one from Frank. Many thanks for the lot. They were very nearly the first reminders I had about my birthday, but I just managed to remember it the night before I got them. Well, Mother, I am very sorry to hear that you are anxious about us, though I suppose you can’t help it. I told you not to be before I went away, but I knew you’d go and do it again as soon as my back was turned. There’s precious little to be anxious about I can tell you. Henry is fixed and settled, and I am in a very fair way to be so. That does’nt mean that I hope I shall be settled soon. More than that. I am beginning to arrive at more definite results as to my enquiries, etc. Then as to our being sick or in sorrow, you may also make yourself as comfortable as circumstances will permit; neither of us, I think, were ever in better health or more in earnest in the business of life. And concerning the “blues” or “sorrow” contingency, why I never whistled so long or so loud before. That’s because there are not so many people to talk to, and none that object to music. There’s no girls either to talk to. We don’t know a single one in the country. Hard luck, isn’t it? Now, about the weather—cheerful subject (it’s raining like mad). So far it has displayed just as much inconstancy as is usually met with in England. The first night we spent here was cold, the next day was hot, and the next day hotter still, and then it remained so for about a fortnight. Now it has cooled down again, and is pretty changeable. It seems to me so far the main difference between this climate and the English one is the difference between the mean temperatures of summer and winter. In Devonshire I should say the average mean difference between summer and winter is about 40°, and in Sherbrooke it’s probably more like 100°. In both countries sudden changes and rises or falls are common. In this country it will fall from, in summer, say from 90° to 60°, and in England it will fall from 70° to 40°. It therefore stands to reason that this climate must be the most healthy, if people do not mind the heat, for anybody, no matter how thinly clothed, can always, with a little exercise, keep themselves healthily warm with the thermometer at 60°, but it is by no means always easy to prevent getting cold when it falls suddenly as low as 40°. In winter, I am told, it will frequently fall from 0° to 40° below; but then the winter here is such a recognised institution that everyone is prepared for such freaks. The healthy appearance of the kids in the country round about here would make you feel pretty happy about the “Grub,” I think. I have seen some half his age who would make three of him at least.
I should like to know what is inside the castles that you build in connection with my “nice acquaintance of the steamer.” We didn’t make any friends who asked us to stay with them, or anything of that sort. The number of saloon passengers was very limited, and those from whom I would have accepted invitations were more limited still. Dr. Marsh, the only one who took the trouble to help or advise us at all when we got on shore, and who is a very nice chap, gave us his address, and made us promise to hunt him up if ever we came out west, and told us if we wanted to know anything about that part of the country to write to him, and he would make all the enquiries, etc., in his power; which I shall certainly do towards next spring. It’s no good writing now; the correspondence would die out and leave nothing definitely settled behind it. Now I think I’m finished up with Sherbrooke. I leave for Montreal to-night, by the 1.35 train. I hope there may be half-a-dozen appointments waiting for me. I have told you elsewhere why I do not write detailed accounts of the people I have seen or have yet to see, the chances of securing such-and-such a job, etc., etc. I have neither the time nor the ability to give you a clear and concise idea of the value and weight of each introduction, and to what it may probably lead. Besides, if I did, you would naturally want to know how each of them had ended, and I should have to send by each mail a long list of places where I had NOT got work—a glum kind of letter for both sides. Suffice it that my prospects are good, and that all my friends express their unqualified approbation of the courses I have adopted to attain my ends. Montreal, old address. There is nothing much that I can add. I did not travel last night because the trains had been changed, and I should have had to wait two or three hours at a wretched little hole in the small hours of the morning. I therefore slept the night in Sherbrooke, and got here by a train arriving at noon. Having fed and got my baggage stowed away, I hunted up my two principal backers, at least I hunted for them but was unsuccessful, so I can’t tell you anything about what’s been done for me during my absence. I believe I’ve got rather more baggage than Henry. When we split it up it was found that I needed both portmanteaus and the Canadian box as well, that I now have a fearful lot of packages to lug about, including my gun and rifle. The rifle reminds me of old Daddy. How’s he getting on? Making big strides, I hope? He’ll need all he can make when I come to see him. I seem to be always ready for a guzzle now. I wish you could have had the journey I did this morning; I am sure you would have enjoyed it, though the train had suddenly developed amphibious proclivities whilst going over a bridge. What one hears of the “autumn tints” here is rather the reverse of exaggerated. Nearly the whole way from Sherbrooke to Montreal is through woods, and they are all a blaze of red in every shade, from the brightest fieriest crimson to a dark purple, that is, all except those which are green or yellow. The mixture is much prettier than all one colour would be, and by contrast with the dark scraggy-looking pines, it does not look the least gaudy. Well, I’m going to shut up and do some reading. So good bye for the present, and best love to everyone under the sun when it shines in Dawlish.
Your loving Son,
J. Seton Cockburn.
Mailed Friday, 27th.