“But matted woods, where birds forget to sing,
And silent bats in drowsy clusters cling.”
Judge, then, what was our pleasure on beholding a human habitation; for a human one it was, though its title to humanity was founded solely on the fact of its being the abode of man, without the least reference to the gentleness of his nature.
Scene on the River St. Lawrence.
(Near Montreal.)
When we entered within the door, and informed the owner of the circumstances which obliged us to become intruders, and to claim his hospitality, he muttered out a few words with unfeeling frigidity, the purport of which was that we might lie upon the floor if we pleased! It was then about nine o’clock; and from that hour until eleven, when they retired to bed, I do not recollect that we had the pleasure of any further conversation either with our host or his lady. When they withdrew from the apartment we were left sole monarchs of the kitchen; but our throne was, in one respect, like that which the sycophantic courtiers of king Canute urged him to usurp—it was covered with coarse sand, and presented no very agreeable aspect as a resting-place to us, who presumed to think that we had done sufficient penance for our transgressions in this country, by the sufferings which we necessarily endured in the day during the course of our unfortunate perambulations. It was some time before we could reconcile ourselves to the idea of lying down on the rough kitchen floor; but at length the god of dreams prevailed over all our apprehensive sensibilities, and compelled us to resume a recumbent posture. I converted my hat into a pillow, and my cravat into a cap or turban; and, after promising my companions in tribulation a glass of rum in the morning by way of toasting Canadian hospitality, I fell asleep; but awoke some time before day-break with sore limbs and an aching head.
From the perusal of such incidents as these, one would probably form a very low and indifferent opinion of Canadian hospitality; but justice compels me to add, that the people who live on the shores of the St. Lawrence have so frequently been imposed upon, plundered, and otherwise maltreated by various evil-disposed emigrants in their progress to the Upper Province, that, if we had experienced even worse treatment than this which I have related, it ought not, under such provoking circumstances, to excite much astonishment.
The country on each side of the river, between Prescott and Montreal, is similar in appearance to that between the latter city and Quebec, with this difference, that the houses above Montreal are much inferior to those below. For about 60 miles beyond Montreal almost all the inhabitants are of French extraction, and still speak the language of their ancestors. They scarcely understand a word of English, and seem to be of very humble origin. Their habitations are constructed in the style of cottages; and though they certainly are not reproachable with any great degree of taste or elegance in their design, they have a just claim to honourable mention for the compensating attributes of cleanliness and of neatness, if not of refinement, in the simple decorations of their interiors. The traveller, who may have occasion to cross their thresholds, will seldom witness the semblance of poverty, or the shadow of discontent. Since my arrival in the country, I have not beheld a single trace of anxiety or care in the countenances of the people. In the city, the town, the village, and the open country, every eye sparkles with contentment, and every tongue speaks the language of independence. If the maxim of our ethic poet be correct, that—
“Reason’s whole pleasure, all the joys of sense,
Lie in three words, health, peace, and competence,”