[41a] Page 24.—In Mrs. Edgar's excellent annotations to the Ridout Letters in "Ten Years of Upper Canada in Peace and War, 1805–1815," (Toronto, 1890), appears the following account of a courageous woman's exploit which brought disaster to the Americans soon after their defeat at Stoney Creek:
"At a place called Beaver Dams, or Beechwoods, (about twelve miles in a direct road from Queenstown), where is now the town of Thorold, was a depot for provisions for the Canadian troops, guarded by a detachment of thirty of the 49th regiment under Lieutenant Fitzgibbon with some Indians and militia, in all about 200 men. In order to surprise and dislodge this outpost, an American force of 500 men, with fifty cavalry and two field-pieces, under Colonel Boerstler, set out from Fort George (Niagara) on the 23rd of June [1813]. A surprise was meditated, in retaliation, no doubt, for the affair of Stoney Creek. Laura Secord, wife of a Canadian farmer, who had been wounded in the battle of Queenstown Heights, accidentally heard of the designs of the Americans, and determined to give the outpost timely warning. She set out alone before day-break, on the 23rd June, from her house at Queenstown, and arrived at Fitzgibbon's headquarters, a stone house known as DeCew's, near the Beaver Dams, at sunset of the same day. On account of the American sentries and outposts, she had to avoid the high roads and beaten paths, thus making her toilsome journey nearly twice as long. In spite of weakness and fatigue, this heroic woman went on her way through pathless woods, over hill and dale and unbridged streams, till she reached her destination. Her warning came just in time. Lieutenant Fitzgibbon disposed of his little force to the best advantage possible, placing them in ambush on both sides of the road, and taking every precaution to make it appear that he had a large force in reserve. Between eight and nine in the morning of the 24th June, the advance guard of the American riflemen appeared. A volley from the woods received them and emptied their saddles. Soon firing came from all directions, and bugle calls, and Indian yells. The bewildered Americans imagined themselves in the presence of a much superior force. Finding that his men were losing heavily from the fire of the unseen foe, and that they were suffering from fatigue and heat, he consented to surrender. By the capitulation 542 men, 2 field-pieces, some ammunition waggons, and the colours of the 14th U.S. regiment were delivered over to the Canadians. For this brilliant achievement Lieutenant Fitzgibbon [afterwards a military knight of Windsor] received his Company and a Captain's commission. As to Laura Secord, her reward has come to her in fame. The heroine lived until the year 1868, and sleeps now in that old cemetery at Drummondville, where lie so many of our brave soldiers. There is no 'Decoration Day' in Canada, but if there were, surely this woman is entitled to the laurel wreath." Pp. 198–201.
AUSTRALIAN POETS AND NOVELISTS.
[42] Page 25.—The Canadian reader can profitably and easily compare his own poets with those of Australia by reading Slade's "Australian Poets, 1788–1883, being a selection of poems upon all subjects written in Australia and New Zealand during the first century of the British colonization, with brief notes on their authors, etc." (London and Sydney, 1889.) It will be seen, however, that nearly all the so-called "Australian" poets are English born, while with one or two exceptions, those of Canada best known to fame are the product of Canadian life and thought. Henry Clarence Kendall, "the poet of New South Wales," was born at Ulladulla, on the coast of that colony, in 1842. He is the one Australian poet of reputation, except his forerunner, Charles Harpur, who was actually born under the Southern Cross. Kendall's verses on "Coogee," a striking natural feature of Australian scenery, show true poetic instinct and rhythmical ease:
"Sing the song of wave-worn Coogee-Coogee in the distance white,
With its jags and points disrupted, gaps and fractures fringed with light;
Haunt of gledes and restless plovers of the melancholy wail,
Ever lending deeper pathos to the melancholy gale.
There, my brothers, down the fissures, chasms deep and wan and wild,