Life in the Clearings versus the Bush

by Mrs. Moodie

Author of "Roughing it in the Bush," &c.

"I sketch from Nature, and the draught is true.

Whate'er the picture, whether grave or gay,

Painful experience in a distant land

Made it mine own."

TO
JOHN WEDDERBURN DUNBAR MOODIE, ESQ.
SHERRIFF OF THE COUNTY OF HASTINGS,
UPPER CANADA,
THIS WORK IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED,
BY HIS ATTACHED FRIEND
AND WIFE,
SUSANNA MOODIE

Introduction
Belleville
Local Improvements--Sketches of Society
Free Schools--Thoughts on Education
Amusements
Trials of a Travelling Musician
The Singing Master
Camp Meetings
Wearing Mourning for the Dead
Odd Characters
Grace Marks
Michael Macbride
Jeanie Burns
Lost Children
Toronto
Lunatic Asylum
Provincial Agricultural Show
Niagara
Goat Island
Conclusion

INTRODUCTION

"Dear foster-mother, on whose ample breast

The hungry still find food, the weary rest;

The child of want that treads thy happy shore,

Shall feel the grasp of poverty no more;

His honest toil meet recompense can claim,

And Freedom bless him with a freeman's name!"

S.M.

In our work of "Roughing it in the Bush," I endeavoured to draw a picture of Canadian life, as I found it twenty years ago, in the Backwoods. My motive in giving such a melancholy narrative to the British public, was prompted by the hope of deterring well-educated people, about to settle in this colony, from entering upon a life for which they were totally unfitted by their previous pursuits and habits.

To persons unaccustomed to hard labour, and used to the comforts and luxuries deemed indispensable to those moving in the middle classes at home, a settlement in the bush can offer few advantages. It has proved the ruin of hundreds and thousands who have ventured their all in this hazardous experiment; nor can I recollect a single family of the higher class, that have come under my own personal knowledge, that ever realised an independence, or bettered their condition, by taking up wild lands in remote localities; while volumes might be filled with failures, even more disastrous than our own, to prove the truth of my former statements.

But while I have endeavoured to point out the error of gentlemen bringing delicate women and helpless children to toil in the woods, and by so doing excluding them from all social intercourse with persons in their own rank, and depriving the younger branches of the family of the advantages of education, which, in the vicinity of towns and villages, can be enjoyed by the children of the poorest emigrant, I have never said anything against the REAL benefits to be derived from a judicious choice of settlement in this great and rising country.

God forbid that any representations of mine should deter one of my countrymen from making this noble and prosperous colony his future home. But let him leave to the hardy labourer the place assigned to him by Providence, nor undertake, upon limited means, the task of pioneer in the great wilderness. Men of independent fortune can live anywhere. If such prefer a life in the woods, to the woods let them go; but they will soon find out that they could have employed the means in their power in a far more profitable manner than in chopping down trees in the bush.

There are a thousand more advantageous ways in which a man of property may invest his capital, than by burying himself and his family in the woods. There never was a period in the history of the colony that offered greater inducements to men of moderate means to emigrate to Canada than the present. The many plank-roads and railways in the course of construction in the province, while they afford high and remunerative wages to the working classes, will amply repay the speculator who embarks a portion of his means in purchasing shares in them. And if he is bent upon becoming a Canadian farmer, numbers of fine farms, in healthy and eligible situations, and in the vicinity of good markets, are to be had on moderate terms, that would amply repay the cultivator for the money and labour expended upon them.

There are thousands of independent proprietors of this class in Canada--men who move in the best society, and whose names have a political weight in the country. Why gentlemen from Britain should obstinately crowd to the Backwoods, and prefer the coarse, hard life of an axeman, to that of a respectable landed proprietor in a civilised part of the country, has always been to me a matter of surprise; for a farm under cultivation can always be purchased for less money than must necessarily be expended upon clearing and raising buildings upon a wild lot.

Many young men are attracted to the Backwoods by the facilities they present for hunting and fishing. The wild, free life of the hunter, has for an ardent and romantic temperament an inexpressible charm. But hunting and fishing, however fascinating as a wholesome relaxation from labour, will not win bread, or clothe a wife and shivering little ones; and those who give themselves entirely up to such pursuits, soon add to these profitless accomplishments the bush vices of smoking and drinking, and quickly throw off those moral restraints upon which their respectability and future welfare mainly depend.

The bush is the most demoralizing place to which an anxious and prudent parent could send a young lad. Freed suddenly from all parental control, and exposed to the contaminating influence of broken-down gentlemen loafers, who hide their pride and poverty in the woods, he joins in their low debauchery, and falsely imagines that, by becoming a blackguard, he will be considered an excellent backwoodsman.

How many fine young men have I seen beggared and ruined in the bush! It is too much the custom in the woods for the idle settler, who will not work, to live upon the new comer as long as he can give him good fare and his horn of whisky. When these fail, farewell to your good-hearted, roystering friends; they will leave you like a swarm of musquitoes, while you fret over your festering wounds, and fly to suck the blood of some new settler, who is fool enough to believe their offers of friendship.

The dreadful vice of drunkenness, of which I shall have occasion to speak hereafter, is nowhere displayed in more revolting colours, or occurs more frequently, than in the bush; nor is it exhibited by the lower classes in so shameless a manner as by the gentlemen settlers, from whom a better example might be expected. It would not be difficult to point out the causes which too often lead to these melancholy results. Loss of property, incapacity for hard labour, yielding the mind to low and degrading vices, which destroy self-respect and paralyse honest exertion, and the annihilation of those extravagant hopes that false statements, made by interested parties, had led them to entertain of fortunes that might be realised in the woods: these are a few among the many reasons that could be given for the number of victims that yearly fill a drunkard's dishonourable grave.

At the period when the greatest portion of "Roughing it in the Bush" was written, I was totally ignorant of life in Canada, as it existed in the towns and villages. Thirteen years' residence in one of the most thriving districts in the Upper Province has given me many opportunities of becoming better acquainted with the manners and habits of her busy, bustling population, than it was possible for me ever to obtain in the green prison of the woods.

Since my residence in a settled part of the country, I have enjoyed as much domestic peace and happiness as ever falls to the lot of poor humanity. Canada has become almost as dear to me as my native land; and the homesickness that constantly preyed upon me in the Backwoods, has long ago yielded to the deepest and most heartfelt interest in the rapidly increasing prosperity and greatness of the country of my adoption,--the great foster-mother of that portion of the human family, whose fatherland, however dear to them, is unable to supply them with bread.

To the honest sons of labour Canada is, indeed, an El Dorado--a land flowing with milk and honey; for they soon obtain that independence which the poor gentleman struggles in vain to realise by his own labour in the woods.

The conventional prejudices that shackle the movements of members of the higher classes in Britain are scarcely recognised in Canada; and a man is at liberty to choose the most profitable manner of acquiring wealth, without the fear of ridicule and the loss of caste.

The friendly relations which now exist between us and our enterprising, intelligent American neighbours, have doubtless done much to produce this amalgamation of classes. The gentleman no longer looks down with supercilious self-importance on the wealthy merchant, nor does the latter refuse to the ingenious mechanic the respect due to him as a man. A more healthy state pervades Canadian society than existed here a few years ago, when party feeling ran high, and the professional men and office holders visited exclusively among themselves, affecting airs of aristocratic superiority, which were perfectly absurd in a new country, and which gave great offence to those of equal wealth who were not admitted into their clique. Though too much of this spirit exists in the large cities, such as Quebec, Montreal, and Toronto, it would not be tolerated in the small district towns and villages, where a gentleman could not take a surer method of making himself unpopular than by exhibiting this feeling to his fellow-townsmen.

I have been repeatedly asked, since the publication of "Roughing it in the Bush," to give an account of the present state of society in the colony, and to point out its increasing prosperity and commercial advantages; but statistics are not my forte, nor do I feel myself qualified for such an arduous and important task. My knowledge of the colony is too limited to enable me to write a comprehensive work on a subject of vital consequence, which might involve the happiness of others. But what I do know I will endeavour to sketch with a light pencil; and if I cannot convey much useful information, I will try to amuse the reader; and by a mixture of prose and poetry compile a small volume, which may help to while away an idle hour, or fill up the blanks of a wet day.

Belleville, Canada West,
Nov. 24th, 1852.

Indian Summer.

By the purple haze that lies

On the distant rocky height,

By the deep blue of the skies,

By the smoky amber light,

Through the forest arches streaming.

Where nature on her throne sits dreaming,

And the sun is scarcely gleaming

Through the cloudlet's snowy white,

Winter's lovely herald greets us,

Ere the ice-crown'd tyrant meets us.

A mellow softness fills the air--

No breeze on wanton wing steals by,

To break the holy quiet there,

Or make the waters fret and sigh.

Or the golden alders shiver,

That bend to kiss the placid river,

Flowing on and on for ever;

But the little waves seem sleeping,

O'er the pebbles slowly creeping,

That last night were flashing, leaping,

Driven by the restless breeze,

In lines of foam beneath yon trees.

Dress'd in robes of gorgeous hue--

Brown and gold with crimson blent,

The forest to the waters blue

Its own enchanting tints has lent.

In their dark depths, life-like glowing,

We see a second forest growing,

Each pictur'd leaf and branch bestowing

A fairy grace on that twin wood,

Mirror'd within the crystal flood.

'Tis pleasant now in forest shades;--

The Indian hunter strings his bow

To track, through dark entangled glades,

The antler'd deer and bounding doe;

Or launch at night his birch canoe,

To spear the finny tribes that dwell

On sandy bank, in weedy cell,

Or pool the fisher knows right well,--

Seen by the red and livid glow

Of pine-torch at his vessel's bow.

This dreamy Indian summer-day

Attunes the soul to tender sadness:

We love, but joy not in the ray,--

It is not summer's fervid gladness,

But a melancholy glory

Hov'ring brightly round decay,

Like swan that sings her own sad story,

Ere she floats in death away.

The day declines.--What splendid dyes,

In flicker'd waves of crimson driven,

Float o'er the saffron sea, that lies

Glowing within the western heaven!

Ah, it is a peerless even!

See, the broad red sun has set,

But his rays are quivering yet

Through nature's veil of violet,

Streaming bright o'er lake and hill;

But earth and forest lie so still--

We start, and check the rising tear,

'Tis beauty sleeping on her bier.

LIFE IN THE CLEARINGS
VERSUS THE BUSH

CHAPTER I
Belleville

"The land of our adoption claims

Our highest powers,--our firmest trust--

May future ages blend our names

With hers, when we shall sleep in dust.

Land of our sons!--last-born of earth,

A mighty nation nurtures thee;

The first in moral power and worth,--

Long mayst thou boast her sovereignty!

Union is strength, while round the boughs

Of thine own lofty maple-tree;

The threefold wreath of Britain flows,

Twined with the graceful fleur-de-lis;

A chaplet wreathed mid smiles and tears,

In which all hues of glory blend;

Long may it bloom for future years,

And vigour to thy weakness lend."

Year after year, during twenty years' residence in the colony, I had indulged the hope of one day visiting the Falls of Niagara, and year after year, for twenty long years, I was doomed to disappointment.

For the first ten years, my residence in the woods of Douro, my infant family, and last, not least, among the list of objections, that great want,--the want of money,--placed insuperable difficulties in the way of my ever accomplishing this cherished wish of my heart.

The hope, resigned for the present, was always indulged as a bright future--a pleasant day-dream--an event which at some unknown period, when happier days should dawn upon us, might take place; but which just now was entirely out of the question.

When the children were very importunate for a new book or toy, and I had not the means of gratifying them, I used to silence them by saying that I would buy that and many other nice things for them when "our money cart came home."

During the next ten years, this all-important and anxiously anticipated vehicle did not arrive. The children did not get their toys, and my journey to Niagara was still postponed to an indefinite period.

Like a true daughter of romance, I could not banish from my mind the glorious ideal I had formed of this wonder of the world; but still continued to speculate about the mighty cataract, that sublime "thunder of waters," whose very name from childhood had been music to my ears.

Ah, Hope! what would life be, stripped of thy encouraging smiles, that teach us to look behind the dark clouds of to-day for the golden beams that are to gild the morrow. To those who have faith in thy promises, the most extravagant fictions are possible; and the unreal becomes material and tangible. The artist who placed thee upon the rock with an anchor for a leaning post, could never have experienced any of thy vagrant propensities. He should have invested thee with the rainbow of Iris, the winged feet of Mercury, and the upward pointing finger of Faith; and as for thy footstool, it should be a fleecy white cloud, changing its form with the changing breeze.

Yet this hope of mine, of one day seeing the Falls of Niagara, was, after all, a very enduring hope; for though I began to fear that it never would be realized, yet, for twenty years, I never gave it up entirely; and Patience, who always sits at the feet of Hope, was at length rewarded by her sister's consenting smile.

During the past summer I was confined, by severe indisposition, almost entirely to the house. The obstinate nature of my disease baffled the skill of a very clever medical attendant, and created alarm and uneasiness in my family: and I entertained small hopes of my own recovery.

Dr. L---, as a last resource, recommended change of air and scene; a remedy far more to my taste than the odious drugs from which I had not derived the least benefit. Ill and languid as I was, Niagara once more rose before my mental vision, and I exclaimed, with a thrill of joy, "The time is come at last--I shall yet see it before I die."

My dear husband was to be the companion of my long journey in search of health. Our simple arrangements were soon made, and on the 7th of September we left Belleville in the handsome new steam-boat, "The Bay of Quinte," for Kingston.

The afternoon was cloudless, the woods just tinged with their first autumnal glow, and the lovely bay, and its fairy isles, never appeared more enchanting in my eyes. Often as I had gazed upon it in storm and shine, its blue transparent waters seemed to smile upon me more lovingly than usual. With affectionate interest I looked long and tenderly upon the shores we were leaving. There stood my peaceful, happy home; the haven of rest to which Providence had conducted me after the storms and trials of many years. Within the walls of that small stone cottage, peeping forth from its screen of young hickory trees, I had left three dear children,--God only could tell whether we should ever meet on earth again: I knew that their prayers would follow me on my long journey, and the cherub Hope was still at my side, to whisper of happy hours and restored health and spirits. I blessed God, for the love of those young kindred hearts, and for having placed their home in such a charming locality.

Next to the love of God, the love of nature may be regarded as the purest and holiest feeling of the human breast. In the outward beauty of his creation, we catch a reflection of the divine image of the Creator, which refines the intellect, and lifts the soul upward to Him. This innate perception of the beautiful, however, is confined to no rank or situation, but is found in the most barren spots, and surrounded by the most unfavourable circumstances; wherever the sun shines and warms, or the glory of the moon and stars can be seen at night, the children of genius will find a revelation of God in their beams. But there is not a doubt that those born and brought up among scenes of great natural sublimity and beauty, imbibe this feeling in a larger degree, and their minds are more easily imbued with the glorious colouring of romance,--the inspired visions of the poet.

Dear patient reader! whether of British or Canadian origin, as I wish to afford you all the amusement in my power, deign to accompany me on my long journey. Allow me a woman's privilege of talking of all sorts of things by the way. Should I tire you with my desultory mode of conversation, bear with me charitably, and take into account the infirmities incidental to my gossiping sex and age. If I dwell too long upon some subjects, do not call me a bore, or vain and trifling, if I pass too lightly over others. The little knowledge I possess, I impart freely, and wish that it was more profound and extensive, for your sake.

Come, and take your seat with me on the deck of the steamer; and as we glide over the waters of this beautiful Bay of Quinte, I will make you acquainted with every spot worthy of note along its picturesque shores.

An English lady, writing to me not long ago, expressed her weariness of my long stories about the country of my adoption, in the following terms:--"Don't fill your letters to me with descriptions of Canada. Who, in England, thinks anything of Canada!"

Here the pride so common to the inhabitants of the favoured isles spoke out. This is perhaps excusable in those who boast that they belong to a country that possesses, in an eminent degree, the attributes bestowed by old Jacob on his first-born,--"the excellency of dignity, and the excellency of power." But, to my own thinking, it savoured not a little of arrogance, and still more of ignorance, in the fair writer; who, being a woman of talent, should have known better. A child is not a man, but his progress is regarded with more attention on that account; and his future greatness is very much determined by the progress he makes in his youth.

To judge Canada by the same standard, she appears to be a giant for her years, and well worthy the most serious contemplation. Many are the weary, overtasked minds in that great, wealthy, and powerful England, that turn towards this flourishing colony their anxious thoughts, and would willingly exchange the golden prime of the mother country for the healthy, vigorous young strength of this, her stalwart child, and consider themselves only too happy in securing a home upon these free and fertile shores.

Be not discouraged, brave emigrant. Let Canada still remain the bright future in your mind, and hasten to convert your present day-dream into reality. The time is not far distant when she shall be the theme of many tongues, and the old nations of the world will speak of her progress with respect and admiration. Her infancy is past, she begins to feel her feet, to know her own strength, and see her way clearly through the wilderness. Child as you may deem her, she has already battled bravely for her own rights, and obtained the management of her own affairs. Her onward progress is certain. There is no if in her case. She possesses within her own territory all the elements of future prosperity, and she must be great!

The men who throng her marts, and clear her forests, are workers, not dreamers,--who have already realized Solomon's pithy proverb, "In all labour is profit;" and their industry has imbued them with a spirit of independence which cannot fail to make them a free and enlightened people.

An illustration of the truth of what I advance, can be given in the pretty town we are leaving on the north side of the bay. I think you will own with me that your eyes have seldom rested upon a spot more favoured by Nature, or one that bids fairer to rise to great wealth and political importance.

Sixty years ago, the spot that Belleville now occupies was in the wilderness; and its rapid, sparkling river and sunny upland slopes (which during the lapse of ages have formed a succession of banks to the said river), were only known to the Indian hunter and the white trader.

Where you see those substantial stone wharfs, and the masts of those vessels, unloading their valuable cargoes to replenish the stores of the wealthy merchants in the town, a tangled cedar swamp spread its dark, unwholesome vegetation into the bay, completely covering with an impenetrable jungle those smooth verdant plains, now surrounded with neat cottages and gardens.

Of a bright summer evening (and when is a Canadian summer evening otherwise?) those plains swarm with happy, healthy children, who assemble there to pursue their gambols beyond the heat and dust of the town; or to watch with eager eyes the young men of the place engaged in the manly old English game of cricket, with whom it is, in their harmless boasting, "Belleville against Toronto-Cobourg; Kingston, the whole world."

The editor of a Kingston paper once had the barbarity to compare these valiant champions of the bat and ball to "singed cats--ugly to look at, but very devils to go."

Our lads have never forgiven the insult; and should the said editor ever show his face upon their ground, they would kick him off with as little ceremony as they would a spent ball.

On that high sandy ridge that overlooks the town eastward--where the tin roof of the Court House, a massy, but rather tasteless building, and the spires of four churches catch the rays of the sun--a tangled maze of hazel bushes, and wild plum and cherry, once screened the Indian burying-ground, and the children of the red hunter sought for strawberries among the long grass and wild flowers that flourish profusely in that sandy soil.

Would that you could stand with me on that lofty eminence and look around you! The charming prospect that spreads itself at your feet would richly repay you for toiling up the hill.

We will suppose ourselves standing among the graves in the burying-ground of the English church; the sunny heavens above us, the glorious waters of the bay, clasping in their azure belt three-fourths of the landscape, and the quiet dead sleeping at our feet.

The white man has so completely supplanted his red brother, that he has appropriated the very spot that held his bones; and in a few years their dust will mingle together, although no stone marks the grave where the red man sleeps.

From this churchyard you enjoy the finest view of the town and surrounding country; and, turn your eyes which way you will, they cannot fail to rest on some natural object of great interest and beauty.

The church itself is but a homely structure; and has always been to me a great eyesore. It is to be regretted that the first inhabitants of the place selected their best and most healthy building sites for the erection of places of worship. Churches and churchyards occupy the hills from whence they obtain their springs of fresh water,--and such delicious water! They do not at present feel any ill-consequences arising from this error of judgment; but the time will come, as population increases, and the dead accumulate, when these burying-grounds, by poisoning the springs that flow through them, will materially injure the health of the living.

The English church was built many years ago, partly of red brick burnt in the neighbourhood, and partly of wood coloured red to make up the deficiency of the costlier material. This seems a shabby saving, as abundance of brick-earth of the best quality abounds in the same hill, and the making of bricks forms a very lucrative and important craft to several persons in the town.

Belleville was but a small settlement on the edge of the forest, scarcely deserving the name of a village, when this church first pointed its ugly tower towards heaven. Doubtless its founders thought they had done wonders when they erected this humble looking place of worship; but now, when their descendants have become rich, and the village of log-huts and frame buildings has grown into a populous, busy, thriving town, and this red, tasteless building is too small to accommodate its congregation, it should no longer hold the height of the hill, but give place to a larger and handsomer edifice.

Behold its Catholic brother on the other side of the road; how much its elegant structure and graceful spire adds to the beauty of the scene. Yet the funds for rearing that handsome building, which is such an ornament to the town, were chiefly derived from small subscriptions, drawn from the earnings of mechanics, day-labourers, and female servants. If the Church of England were supported throughout the colony, on the voluntary principle, we should soon see fine stone churches, like St. Michael, replacing these decaying edifices of wood, and the outcry about the ever-vexed question of the Clergy Reserves, would be merged in her increased influence and prosperity.

The deep-toned, sonorous bell, that fills the steeple of the Catholic church, which cost, I have been told, seven hundred pounds, and was brought all the way from Spain, was purchased by the voluntary donations of the congregation. This bell is remarkable for its fine tone, which can be heard eight miles into the country, and as far as the village of Northport, eleven miles distant, on the other side of the bay. There is a solemn grandeur in the solitary voice of the magnificent bell, as it booms across the valley in which the town lies, and reverberates among the distant woods and hills, which has a very imposing effect.

A few years ago the mechanics in the town entered into an agreement that they would only work from six to six during the summer months, and from seven till five in the winter, and they offered to pay a certain sum to the Catholic church for tolling the bell at the said hours. The Catholic workmen who reside in or near the town, adhere strictly to this rule, and, if the season is ever so pressing, they obstinately refuse to work before or after the stated time. I have seen, on our own little farm, the mower fling down his scythe in the swathe, and the harvest-man his sickle in the ridge, the moment the bell tolled for six.

In fact, the bell in this respect is looked upon as a great nuisance; and the farmers in the country refuse to be guided by it in the hours allotted for field labour; as they justly remark that the best time for hard work in a hot country is before six in the morning, and after the heat of the day in the evening.

When the bell commences to toll there is a long pause between each of the first four strokes. This is to allow the pious Catholic time for crossing himself and saying a short prayer.

How much of the ideal mingles with this worship! No wonder that the Irish, who are such an imaginative people, should cling to it with such veneration. Would any other creed suit them as well? It is a solemn thing to step into their churches, and witness the intensity of their devotions. Reason never raises a doubt to shake the oneness of their faith. They receive it on the credit of their priests, and their credulity is as boundless as their ignorance. Often have I asked the poor Catholics in my employ why such and such days were holy days? They could seldom tell me, but said that "the priest told them to keep them holy, and to break them would be a deadly sin."

I cannot but respect their child-like trust, and the reverence they feel for their spiritual teachers; nor could I ever bring myself to believe that a conscientious Catholic was in any danger of rejection from the final bar. He has imposed upon himself a heavier yoke than the Saviour kindly laid upon him, and has enslaved himself with a thousand superstitious observances which to us appear absurd; but his sincerity should awaken in us an affectionate interest in his behalf, not engender the bitter hatred which at present forms an adamantine barrier between us. If the Protestant would give up a little of his bigotry, and the Catholic a part of his superstition, and they would consent to meet each other half way, as brothers of one common manhood, inspired by the same Christian hope, and bound to the same heavenly country, we should no longer see the orange banner flaunting our streets on the twelfth of July, and natives of the same island provoking each other to acts of violence and bloodshed.

These hostile encounters are of yearly occurrence in the colony, and are justly held in abhorrence by the pious and thinking portion of the population of either denomination. The government has for many years vainly endeavoured to put them down, but they still pollute with their moral leprosy the free institutions of the country, and effectually prevent any friendly feeling which might grow up between the members of these rival and hostile creeds.

In Canada, where all religions are tolerated, it appears a useless aggravation of an old national grievance to perpetuate the memory of the battle of the Boyne. What have we to do with the hatreds and animosities of a more barbarous age. These things belong to the past: "Let the dead bury their dead," and let us form for ourselves a holier and truer present. The old quarrel between Irish Catholics and Protestants should have been sunk in the ocean when they left their native country to find a home, unpolluted by the tyrannies of bygone ages, in the wilds of Canada.

The larger portion of our domestics are from Ireland, and, as far as my experience goes, I have found the Catholic Irish as faithful and trustworthy as the Protestants. The tendency to hate belongs to the race, not to the religion, or the Protestant would not exhibit the same vindictive spirit which marks his Catholic brother. They break and destroy more than the Protestants, but that springs from the reckless carelessness of their character more than from any malice against their employers, if you may judge by the bad usage they give their own household goods and tools. The principle on which they live is literally to care as little as possible for the things of to-day, and to take no thought at all for the morrow.

"Shure, Ma'am, it can be used," said an Irish girl to me, after breaking the spout out of an expensive china jug, "It is not a hair the worse!" She could not imagine that a mutilated object could occasion the least discomfort to those accustomed to order and neatness in their household arrangements.

The Irish female servants are remarkably chaste in their language and deportment. You are often obliged to find fault with them for gross acts of neglect and wastefulness, but never for using bad language. They may spoil your children by over-indulgence, but they never corrupt their morals by loose conversation.

An Irish girl once told me, with beautiful simplicity, "that every bad word a woman uttered, made the blessed Virgin blush."

A girl becoming a mother before marriage is regarded as a dreadful calamity by her family, and she seldom, if ever, gets one of her own countrymen to marry her with this stain on her character.

How different is the conduct of the female peasantry in the eastern counties of England, who unblushingly avow their derelictions from the paths of virtue. The crime of infanticide, so common there, is almost unknown among the Irish. If the priest and the confessional are able to restrain the lower orders from the commission of gross crime, who shall say that they are without their use? It is true that the priest often exercises his power over his flock in a manner which would appear to a Protestant to border on the ludicrous.

A girl who lived with a lady of my acquaintance, gave the following graphic account of an exhortation delivered by the priest at the altar. I give it in her own words:--

"Shure, Ma'am, we got a great scould from the praste the day." "Indeed, Biddy, what did he scold you for?" "Faix, and it's not meself that he scoulded at all, at all, but Misther Peter N--- and John L---, an' he held them up as an example to the whole church. 'Peter N---' says he, 'you have not been inside this church before to-day for the last three months, and you have not paid your pew-rent for the last two years. But, maybe, you have got the fourteen dollars in your pocket at this moment of spaking; or maybe you have spint it in buying pig-iron to make gridirons, in order to fry your mate of a Friday; and when your praste comes to visit you, if he does not see it itself, he smells it. And you, John L---, Alderman L---, are not six days enough in the week for work and pastime, that you must go hunting of hares on a holiday? And pray how many hares did you catch, Alderman John?'"

The point of the last satire lay in the fact that the said Alderman John was known to be an ambitious, but very poor, sportsman; which made the allusion to the hares he had shot the unkindest cut of all.

Such an oration from a Protestant minister would have led his congregation to imagine that their good pastor had lost his wits; but I have no doubt that it was eminently successful in abstracting the fourteen dollars from the pocket of the dilatory Peter N---, and in preventing Alderman John from hunting hares on a holiday for the time to come.

Most of the Irish priests possess a great deal of humour, which always finds a response in their mirth-loving countrymen, to whom wit is a quality of native growth.

"I wish you a happy death, Pat S---," said Mr. R---, the jolly, black-browed priest of P---, after he had married an old servant of ours, who had reached the patriarchal age of sixty-eight, to an old woman of seventy.

"D--- clear of it!" quoth Pat, smiting his thigh, with a look of inimitable drollery,--such a look of broad humour as can alone twinkle from the eyes of an emeralder of that class. Pat was a prophet; in less than six months he brought the body of the youthful bride in a waggon to the house of the said priest to be buried, and, for aught I know to the contrary, the old man is living still, and very likely to treat himself to a third wife.

I was told two amusing anecdotes of the late Bishop Macdonald; a man whose memory is held in great veneration in the province, which I will give you here.

The old bishop was crossing the Rice Lake in a birch bark canoe, in company with Mr. R---, the Presbyterian minister of Peterboro'; the day was rather stormy, and the water rough for such a fragile conveyance. The bishop, who had been many years in the country, knew there was little danger to be apprehended if they sat still, and he had perfect reliance in the skill of their Indian boatman. Not so Mr. R---, he had only been a few months in the colony, and this was the first time he had ever ventured upon the water in such a tottleish machine. Instead of remaining quietly seated in the bottom of the canoe, he endeavoured to start to his feet, which would inevitably have upset it. This rash movement was prevented by the bishop, who forcibly pulled him down into a sitting posture, exclaiming, as he did so, "Keep still, my good sir; if you, by your groundless fears, upset the canoe, your protestant friends will swear that the old papist drowned the presbyterian."

One hot, sultry July evening, the celebrated Dr. Dunlop called to have a chat with the bishop, who, knowing the doctor's weak point, his fondness for strong drinks, and his almost rabid antipathy to water, asked him if he would take a draught of Edinburgh ale, as he had just received a cask in a present from the old country. The doctor's thirst grew to a perfect drought, and he exclaimed that nothing at that moment could afford him greater pleasure.

The bell was rung; the spruce, neat servant girl appeared, and was forthwith commissioned to take the bishop's own silver tankard and draw the thirsty doctor a pint of ale.

The girl quickly returned: the impatient doctor grasped the nectarian draught, and, without glancing into the tankard--for the time

"Was that soft hour 'twixt summer's eve and close,"--

emptied the greater part of its contents down his throat. A spasmodic contortion and a sudden rush to the open window surprised the hospitable bishop, who had anticipated a great treat for his guest: "My dear sir," he cried, "what can be the matter!"

"Oh, that diabolical stuff!" groaned the doctor. "I am poisoned."

"Oh, never fear," said the bishop, examining the liquid that still remained in the tankard, and bursting into a hearty laugh, "It may not agree with a Protestant's stomach, but believe me, dear doctor, you never took such a wholesome drink in your life before. I was lately sent from Rome a cask of holy water,--it stands in the same cellar with the ale,--I put a little salt into it, in order to preserve it during this hot weather, and the girl, by mistake, has given you the consecrated water instead of the ale."

"Oh, curse her!" cried the tortured doctor. "I wish it was in her stomach instead of mine!"

The bishop used to tell this story with great glee whenever Dr. Dunlop and his eccentric habits formed the theme of conversation.

That the Catholics do not always act with hostility towards their Protestant brethren, the following anecdote, which it gives me great pleasure to relate, will sufficiently show:--

In the December of 1840 we had the misfortune to be burnt out, and lost a great part of our furniture, clothing, and winter stores. Poor as we then were, this could not be regarded in any other light but as a great calamity. During the confusion occasioned by the fire, and, owing to the negligence of a servant to whose care he was especially confided, my youngest child, a fine boy of two years old, was for some time missing. The agony I endured for about half an hour I shall never forget. The roaring flames, the impending misfortune that hung over us, was forgotten in the terror that shook my mind lest he had become a victim to the flames. He was at length found by a kind neighbour in the kitchen of the burning building, whither he had crept from among the crowd, and was scarcely rescued before the roof fell in.

This circumstance shook my nerves so completely that I gladly accepted the offer of a female friend to leave the exciting scene, and make her house my home until we could procure another.

I was sitting at her parlour window, with the rescued child on my lap, whom I could not bear for a moment out of my sight, watching the smoking brands that had once composed my home, and sadly pondering over our untoward destiny, when Mrs. ---'s servant told me that a gentleman wanted to see me in the drawing-room.

With little Johnnie still in my arms I went to receive the visitor; and found the Rev. Father B---, the worthy Catholic priest, waiting to receive me.

At that time I knew very little of Father B---. Calls had been exchanged, and we had been much pleased with his courteous manners and racy Irish wit. I shall never forget the kind, earnest manner in which he condoled with me on our present misfortune. He did not, however, confine his sympathy to words, but offered me the use of his neat cottage until we could provide ourselves with another house.

"You know," he said, with a benevolent smile, "I have no family to be disturbed by the noise of the children; and if you will accept the temporary home I offer you, it is entirely at your service; and," he continued, lowering his voice, "if the sheriff is in want of money to procure necessaries for his family, I can supply him until such time as he is able to repay me."

This was truly noble, and I thanked him with tears in my eyes. We did not accept the generous offer of this good Samaritan; but we have always felt a grateful remembrance of his kindness. Mr. B--- had been one of the most active among the many gentlemen who did their best in trying to save our property from the flames, a great portion of which was safely conveyed to the street. But here a system of pillage was carried on by the heartless beings, who regard fires and wreck as their especial harvest, which entirely frustrated the efforts of the generous and brave men who had done so much to help us.

How many odd things happen during a fire, which would call up a hearty laugh upon a less serious occasion. I saw one man pitch a handsome chamber-glass out of an upper window into the street, in order to save it; while another, at the risk of his life, carried a bottomless china jug, which had long been useless, down the burning staircase, and seemed quite elated with his success; and a carpenter took off the doors, and removed the window-sashes, in order to preserve them, and, by sending a rush of air through the burning edifice, accelerated its destruction.

At that time there was only one fire engine in the town, and that was not in a state to work. Now they have two excellent engines, worked by an active and energetic body of men.

In all the principal towns and cities in the colony, a large portion of the younger male inhabitants enrol themselves into a company for the suppression of fire. It is a voluntary service, from which they receive no emolument, without an exemption from filling the office of a juryman may be considered as an advantage. These men act upon a principle of mutual safety; and the exertions which are made by them, in the hour of danger, are truly wonderful, and serve to show what can be effected by men when they work in unison together.

To the Canadian fire-companies the public is indebted for the preservation of life and property by a thousand heroic acts; deeds, that would be recorded as surprising efforts of human courage, if performed upon the battlefield; and which often exhibit an exalted benevolence, when exercised in rescuing helpless women and children from such a dreadful enemy as fire.

The costume adopted by the firemen is rather becoming than otherwise;--a tight-fitting frock-coat of coarse red cloth, and white trousers in summer, which latter portion of their dress is exchanged for dark blue in the winter. They wear a glazed black leather cap, of a military cut, when they assemble to work their engines, or walk in procession; and a leather hat like a sailor's nor-wester, with a long peak behind, to protect them from injury, when on active duty.

Their members are confined to no particular class. Gentlemen and mechanics work side by side in this fraternity, with a zeal and right good will that is truly edifying. Their system appears an excellent one; and I never heard of any dissension among their ranks when their services were required. The sound of the ominous bell calls them to the spot, from the greatest distance; and, during the most stormy nights, whoever skulks in bed, the fireman is sure to be at his post.

Once a year, the different divisions of the company walk in procession through the town. On this occasion their engines are dressed up with flags bearing appropriate mottoes; and they are preceded by a band of music. The companies are generally composed of men in the very prime of life, and they make a very imposing appearance. It is always a great gala day in the town, and terminates with a public dinner; that is followed by a ball in the evening, at which the wives and daughters of the members of the company are expected to appear.

Once a month the firemen are called out to practise with the engine in the streets, to the infinite delight of all the boys in the neighbourhood, who follow the engine in crowds, and provoke the operators to turn the hose and play upon their merry ranks: and then what laughing and shouting and scampering in all directions, as the ragged urchins shake their dripping garments, and fly from the ducking they had courted a few minutes before!

The number of wooden buildings that compose the larger portion of Canadian towns renders fire a calamity of very frequent occurrence, and persons cannot be too particular in regard to it. The negligence of one ignorant servant in the disposal of her ashes, may involve the safety of the whole community.

As long as the generality of the houses are roofed with shingles, this liability to fire must exist as a necessary consequence.

The shingle is a very thin pine-board, which is used throughout the colony instead of slate or tiles. After a few years, the heat and rain roughen the outward surface, and give it a woolly appearance, rendering the shingles as inflammable as tinder. A spark from a chimney may be conveyed from a great distance on a windy day, and lighting upon the furry surface of these roofs, is sure to ignite. The danger spreads on all sides, and the roofs of a whole street will be burning before the fire communicates to the walls of the buildings.

So many destructive fires have occurred of late years throughout the colony that a law has been enacted by the municipal councils to prevent the erection of wooden buildings in the large cities. But without the additional precaution of fire-proof roofs, the prohibition will not produce very beneficial effects.

Two other very pretty churches occupy the same hill with the Catholics and Episcopal,--the Scotch Residuary, and the Free Church. The latter is built of dark limestone, quarried in the neighbourhood, and is a remarkably graceful structure. It has been raised by the hearty goodwill and free donations of its congregation, and affords another capital illustration of the working of the voluntary principle.

To the soul-fettering doctrines of John Calvin I am myself no convert; nor do I think that the churches established on his views will very long exist in the world. Stern, uncompromising, unloveable and unloved, an object of fear rather than of affection, John Calvin stands out the incarnation of his own Deity; verifying one of the noblest and truest sentences ever penned by man:--"As the man, so his God. God is his idea of excellence, the compliment of his own being."

The Residuary church is a small neat building of wood, painted white. For several years after the great split in the National Church of Scotland, it was shut up, the few who still adhered to the old way being unable to contribute much to the support of a minister. The church has been reopened within the last two years, and, though the congregation is very small, has a regular pastor.

The large edifice beneath us, in Pinacle street, leading to the bay, is the Wesleyan Methodist church, or chapel, as it would be termed at home. Thanks to the liberal institutions of the country, such distinctions are unknown in Canada. Every community of Christian worshippers is rightly termed a church. The Church is only arrogated by one.

The Wesleyans, who have been of infinite use in spreading the Gospel on the North American continent, possess a numerous and highly respectable congregation in this place. Their church is always supplied with good and efficient preachers, and is filled on the Sabbath to overflowing. They have a very fine choir, and lately purchased an organ, which was constructed by one of their own members, a genius in his way, for which they gave the handsome sum of a thousand dollars.

There is also an Episcopal Methodist church, composed of red brick, at the upper end of the town, by the river side, which is well attended.

You can scarcely adopt a better plan of judging of the wealth and prosperity of a town, than by watching, of a Sabbath morning, the congregations of the different denominations going to church. Belleville weekly presents to the eye of an observing spectator a large body of well-dressed, happy-looking people,--robust, healthy, independent-looking men, and well-formed, handsome women;--an air of content and comfort resting upon their comely faces,--no look of haggard care and pinching want marring the quiet solemnity of the scene.

The dress of the higher class is not only cut in the newest French fashion, imported from New York, but is generally composed of rich and expensive materials. The Canadian lady dresses well and tastefully, and carries herself easily and gracefully. She is not unconscious of the advantages of a pretty face and figure; but her knowledge of the fact is not exhibited in an affected or disagreeable manner. The lower class are not a whit behind their wealthier neighbours in outward adornments. And the poor emigrant, who only a few months previously had landed in rags, is now dressed neatly and respectably. The consciousness of their newly-acquired freedom has raised them in the scale of society, in their own estimation, and in that of their fellows. They feel that they are no longer despised; the ample wages they receive has enabled them to cast off the slough of hopeless poverty, which once threw its deadening influence over them, repressing all their energies, and destroying that self-respect which is so necessary to mental improvement and self-government, The change in their condition is apparent in their smiling, satisfied faces.

This is, indeed, a delightful contrast to the squalid want and poverty which so often meet the eye and pain the heart of the philanthropist at home. Canada is blessed in the almost total absence of pauperism; for none but the wilfully idle and vicious need starve here, while the wants of the sick and infirm meet with ready help and sympathy from a most charitable public.

The Wesleyan Methodists wisely placed their burying-ground at some distance from the town; and when we first came to reside at Belleville, it was a retired and lovely spot, on the Kingston road, commanding a fine view of the bay. The rapid spread of the village into a town almost embraces in its arms this once solitary spot, and in a few years it will be surrounded with suburban residences. There is a very large brick field adjoining this cemetery, which employs during the summer months a number of hands.

Turn to the north, and observe that old-fashioned, red-brick house, now tottering to decay, that crowns the precipitous ridge that overlooks the river, and which doubtless at some very distant period once formed its right bank. That house was built by one of the first settlers in Belleville, an officer who drew his lot of wild land on that spot. It was a great house in those days, and he was a great man in the eyes of his poorer neighbours.

This gentleman impoverished himself and his family by supplying from his own means the wants of the poor emigrants in his vicinity during the great Canadian famine, which happened about fifty years ago. The starving creatures promised to repay him at some future period. Plenty again blessed the land; but the generous philanthropist was forgotten by those his bounty had saved. Peace to his memory! Though unrewarded on earth, he has doubtless reaped his reward in heaven.

The river Moira, which runs parallel with the main street of the town, and traverses several fine townships belonging to the county of Hastings in its course to the bay, is a rapid and very picturesque stream. Its rocky banks, which are composed of limestone, are fringed with the graceful cedar, soft maple, and elegant rock elm, that queen of the Canadian forest. It is not navigable, but is one great source of the wealth and prosperity of the place, affording all along its course excellent sites for mills, distilleries, and factories, while it is the main road down which millions of feet of timber are yearly floated, to be rafted at the entrance of the bay.

The spring floods bring down such a vast amount of lumber, that often a jam, as it is technically called, places the two bridges that span the river in a state of blockade.

It is a stirring and amusing scene to watch the French Canadian lumberers, with their long poles, armed at the end with sharp spikes, leaping from log to log, and freeing a passage for the crowded timbers.

Handsome in person, and lithe and active as wild cats, you would imagine, to watch their careless disregard of danger, that they were born of the waters, and considered death by drowning an impossible casualty in their case. Yet never a season passes without fatal accidents thinning their gay, light-hearted ranks.

These amphibious creatures spend half their lives in and on the waters. They work hard in forming rafts at the entrance of the bay during the day, and in the evening they repair to some favourite tavern, where they spend the greater part of the night in singing and dancing. Their peculiar cries awaken you by day-break, and their joyous shouts and songs are wafted on the evening breeze. Their picturesque dress and shanties, when shown by their red watch-fires along the rocky banks of the river at night, add great liveliness, and give a peculiarly romantic character to the water scene.

They appear a happy, harmless set of men, brave and independent; and if drinking and swearing are vices common to their caste and occupation, it can scarcely be wondered at in the wild, reckless, roving life they lead. They never trouble the peaceful inhabitants of the town. Their broils are chiefly confined to their Irish comrades, and seldom go beyond the scene of their mutual labour. It is not often that they find their way into the jail or penitentiary.

A young lady told me an adventure that befell her and her sister, which is rather a droll illustration of the manners of a French Canadian lumberer. They were walking one fine summer evening along the west bank of the Moira, and the narrator, in stooping over the water to gather some wild-flowers that grew in a crevice of the rocks, dropped her parasol into the river. A cry of vexation at the loss of an article of dress, which is expensive, and almost indispensable beneath the rays of a Canadian summer sun, burst from her lips, and attracted the attention of a young man whom she had not before observed, who was swimming at some distance down the river. He immediately turned, and dexterously catching the parasol as it swiftly glided past him, swam towards the ladies with the rescued article, carried dog-fashion, between his teeth.

In his zeal to render this little service, the poor fellow forgot that he was not in a condition to appear before ladies; who, startled at such an extraordinary apparition, made the best of their heels to fly precipitately from the spot.

"I have no doubt," said Miss ---, laughing, "that the good-natured fellow meant well, but I never was so frightened and confounded in my life." The next morning the parasol was returned at the street door, with "Jean Baptiste's compliments to the young ladies." So much for French Canadian gallantry.

It is a pretty sight. A large raft of timber, extending perhaps for a quarter of a mile, gliding down the bay in tow of a steamer, decorated with red flags and green pine boughs, and managed by a set of bold active fellows, whose jovial songs waken up the echoes of the lonely woods. I have seen several of these rafts, containing many thousand pounds worth of timber, taking their downward course in one day.

The centre of the raft is generally occupied by a shanty and cooking apparatus, and at night it presents an imposing spectacle, seen by the red light of their fires, as it glides beneath the shadow of some lofty bank, with its dark overhanging trees. I have often coveted a sail on those picturesque rafts, over those smooth moonlighted waters.

The spring-floods bring with them a great quantity of waste timber and fallen trees from the interior; and it is amusing to watch the poor Irishwomen and children wading to the waist in the water, and drawing out these waifs and strays with hooked sticks, to supply their shanties with fuel. It is astonishing how much an industrious lad can secure in a day of this refuse timber. No gleaner ever enters a harvest-field in Canada to secure a small portion of the scattered grain; but the floating treasures which the waters yield are regarded as a providential supply of firing, which is always gathered in. These spring-floods are often productive of great mischief, as they not infrequently carry away all the dams and bridges along their course. This generally happens after an unusually severe winter, accompanied with very heavy falls of snow.

The melting of the snows in the back country, by filling all the tributary creeks and streams, converts the larger rivers into headlong and destructive torrents, that rush and foam along with "curbless force," carrying huge blocks of ice and large timbers, like feathers upon their surface.

It is a grand and beautiful sight, the coming down of the waters during one of these spring freshets. The river roars and rages like a chafed lion; and frets and foams against its rocky barrier, as if determined to overcome every obstacle that dares to impede its furious course. Great blocks of ice are seen popping up and down in the boiling surges; and unwieldy saw-logs perform the most extravagant capers, often starting bolt upright; while their crystal neighbours, enraged at the uncourteous collision, turn up their glittering sea-green edges with an air of defiance, and tumble about in the current like mad monsters of the deep.

The blocks of ice are sometimes lifted entirely out of the water by the force of the current, and deposited upon the top of the bank, where they form an irregular wall of glass, glittering and melting leisurely in the heat of the sun.

A stranger who had not witnessed their upheaval, might well wonder by what gigantic power they had been placed there.

In March, 1844, a severe winter was terminated by a very sudden thaw, accompanied by high winds and deluges of rain. In a few days the snow was all gone, and every slope and hill was converted into a drain, down which the long-imprisoned waters rushed continuously to the river. The roads were almost impassable, and, on the 12th of the month, the river rose to an unusual height, and completely filled its rocky banks. The floods brought down from the interior a great jam of ice, which, accumulating in size and altitude at every bridge and dam it had carried away in its course towards the bay, was at length arrested in its progress at the lower bridge, where the ice, though sunk several feet below the rushing waters, still adhered firmly to the shore. Vast pieces of ice were piled up against the abutments of the bridge, which the mountain of ice threatened to annihilate, as well as to inundate the lower end of the town.

It presented to the eager and excited crowd, who, in spite of the impending danger rushed to the devoted bridge, a curious and formidable spectacle. Imagine, dear reader, a huge mass, composed of blocks of ice, large stones, and drift timber, occupying the centre of the river, and extending back for a great distance; the top on a level with the roofs of the houses. The inhabitants of the town had everything to dread from such a gigantic battering-ram applied to their feeble wooden bridge.

A consultation was held by the men assembled on the bridge, and it was thought that the danger might be averted by sawing asunder the ice, which still held firm, and allowing a free passage for the blocks that impeded the bridge.

The river was soon covered with active men, armed with axes and poles, some freeing the ice at the arch of the bridge, others attempting to push the iceberg nearer to the shore, where, if once stranded, it would melt at leisure. If the huge pile of mischief could have found a voice, it would have laughed at their fruitless endeavours.

While watching the men at their dangerous, and, as it proved afterwards, hopeless work, we witnessed an act of extraordinary courage and presence of mind in two brothers, blacksmiths in the town. One of these young men was busy cutting away the ice just above the bridge, when quite unexpectedly the piece on which he was standing gave way, and he was carried with the speed of thought under the bridge. His death appeared inevitable. But quick as his exit was from the exciting scene, the love in the brother's heart was as quick in taking measures for his safety. As the ice on which the younger lad stood parted, the elder sprang into the hollow box of wood which helped to support the arch of the bridge, and which was filled with great stones. As the torrent swept his brother past him and under the bridge, the drowning youth gave a spring from the ice on which he still stood, and the other bending at the instant from his perch above, caught him by the collar, and lifted him bodily from his perilous situation. All was the work of a moment; yet the spectators held their breath, and wondered as they saw. It was an act of bold daring on the one hand, of cool determined courage on the other. It was a joyful sight to see the rescued lad in his brave brother's arms.

All day we watched from the bridge the hill of ice, wondering when it would take a fresh start, and if it would carry away the bridge when it left its present position. Night came down, and the unwelcome visitant remained stationary. The air was cold and frosty. There was no moon, and the spectators were reluctantly forced to retire to their respective homes. Between the watches of the night we listened to the roaring of the river, and speculated upon the threatened destruction. By daybreak my eager boys were upon the spot, to ascertain the fate of the bridge. All was grim and silent. The ice remained like a giant slumbering upon his post.

So passed the greater part of the day. Curiosity was worn out. The crowd began to disperse, disappointed that the ruin they anticipated had not taken place; just as some persons are sorry when a fire, which has caused much alarm by its central position in a town or city, is extinguished, without burning down a single house. The love of excitement drowns for a time the better feelings of humanity. They don't wish any person to suffer injury; but they give up the grand spectacle they had expected to witness with regret.

At four o'clock in the afternoon most of the wonder-watchers had retired, disgusted with the tardy movements of the ice monster, when a cry arose from the banks of the river, to warn the few persons who still loitered on the bridge, to look out. The ice was in motion. Every one within hearing rushed to the river. We happened to be passing at the time, and, like the rest, hurried to the spot. The vast pile, slowly, almost imperceptibly, began to advance, giving an irresistible impulse to the shore ice, that still held good, and which was instantly communicated to the large pieces that blocked the arch of the bridge, over which the waves now poured in a torrent, pushing before them the great lumps which up to the present moment had been immoveably wedged. There was a hollow, gurgling sound, a sullen roar of waters, a cracking and rending of the shore-bound ice, and the ponderous mass smote the bridge; it parted asunder, and swift as an arrow the crystal mountain glided downwards to the bay, spurning from its base the waves that leaped and foamed around its path, and pouring them in a flood of waters over the west bank of the river.

Beyond the loss of a few old sheds along the shore, very little damage was sustained by the town. The streets near the wharfs were inundated for a few hours, and the cellars filled with water; but after the exit of the iceberg, the river soon subsided into its usual channel.

The winter of 1852 was one of great length and severity. The snow in many of the roads was level with the top rail of the fences, and the spring thaw caused heavy freshets through the colony. In the upper part of the province, particularly on the grand river, the rising of the waters destroyed a large amount of valuable mill property. One mill-owner lost 12,000 saw logs. Our wild, bright Moira was swollen to the brim, and tumbled along with the impetuosity of a mountain torrent. Its course to the bay was unimpeded by ice, which had been all carried out a few days before by a high wind; but vast quantities of saw logs that had broken away from their bosoms in the interior were plunging in the current, sometimes starting bolt upright, or turning over and over, as if endued with the spirit of life, as well as with that of motion.

Several of these heavy timbers had struck the upper bridge, and carried away the centre arch. A poor cow, who was leisurely pacing over to her shed and supper, was suddenly precipitated into the din of waters. Had it been the mayor of the town, the accident could scarcely have produced a greater excitement. The cow belonged to a poor Irishman, and the sympathy of every one was enlisted in her fate. Was it possible that she could escape drowning amid such a mad roar of waves? No human arm could stem for a moment such a current; but fortunately for our heroine, she was not human, but only a stupid quadruped.

The cow for a few seconds seemed bewildered at the strange situation in which she found herself so unexpectedly placed. But she was wise enough and skilful enough to keep her head above water, and she cleared two mill-dams before she became aware of the fact; and she accommodated herself to her critical situation with a stoical indifference which would have done credit to an ancient philosopher. After passing unhurt over the dams, the spectators who crowded the lower bridges to watch the result, began to entertain hopes for her life.

The bridges are in a direct line, and about half a mile apart. On came the cow, making directly for the centre arch of the bridge on which we stood. She certainly neither swam, nor felt her feet, but was borne along by the force of the stream.

"My eyes! I wish I could swim as well as that ere cow," cried an excited boy, leaping upon the top of the bridge.

"I guess you do," said another. "But that's a game cow. There's no boy in the town could beat her."

"She will never pass the arch of the bridge," said a man, sullenly; "she will be killed against the abutment."

"Jolly! she's through the arch!" shouted the first speaker. "Pat has saved his cow!"

"She's not ashore yet," returned the man. "And she begins to flag."

"Not a bit of it," cried the excited boy. "The old daisy-cropper looks as fresh as a rose. Hurrah, boys! let us run down to the wharf, and see what becomes of her."

Off scampered the juveniles; and on floated the cow, calm and self-possessed in the midst of danger. After passing safely through the arch of the bridge, she continued to steer herself out of the current, and nearer to the shore, and finally effected a landing in Front-street, where she quietly walked on shore, to the great admiration of the youngsters, who received her with rapturous shouts of applause. One lad seized her by the tail, another grasped her horns, while a third patted her dripping neck, and wished her joy of her safe landing. Not Venus herself, when she rose from the sea, attracted more enthusiastic admirers than did the poor Irishman's cow. A party, composed of all the boys in the place, led her in triumph through the streets, and restored her to her rightful owner, not forgetting to bestow upon her three hearty cheers at parting.

A little black boy, the only son of a worthy negro, who had been a settler for many years in Belleville, was not so fortunate as the Irishman's cow. He was pushed, it is said accidentally, from the broken bridge, by a white boy of his own age, into that hell of waters, and it was many weeks before his body was found; it had been carried some miles down the bay by the force of the current. Day after day you might see his unhappy father, armed with a long pole, with a hook attached to it, mournfully pacing the banks of the swollen river, in the hope of recovering the remains of his lost child. Once or twice we stopped to speak to him, but his heart was too full to answer. He would turn away, with the tears rolling down his sable cheeks, and resume his melancholy task.

What a dreadful thing is this prejudice against race and colour! How it hardens the heart, and locks up all the avenues of pity! The premature death of this little negro excited less interest in the breasts of his white companions than the fate of the cow, and was spoken of with as little concern as the drowning of a pup or a kitten.

Alas! this river Moira has caused more tears to flow from the eyes of heart-broken parents than any stream of the like size in the province. Heedless of danger, the children will resort to its shores, and play upon the timbers that during the summer months cover its surface. Often have I seen a fine child of five or six years old, astride of a saw-log, riding down the current, with as much glee as if it were a real steed he bestrode. If the log turns, which is often the case, the child stands a great chance of being drowned.

Oh, agony unspeakable! The writer of this lost a fine talented boy of six years--one to whom her soul clave--in those cruel waters. But I will not dwell upon that dark hour, the saddest and darkest in my sad eventful life. Many years ago, when I was a girl myself, my sympathies were deeply excited by reading an account of the grief of a mother who had lost her only child, under similar circumstances. How prophetic were those lines of all that I suffered during that heavy bereavement!--

The Mother's Lament.

"Oh, cold at my feet thou wert sleeping, my boy,

And I press on thy pale lips in vain the fond kiss!

Earth opens her arms to receive thee, my joy,

And all my past sorrows were nothing to this

The day-star of hope 'neath thine eye-lid is sleeping,

No more to arise at the voice of my weeping.

"Oh, how art thou changed, since the light breath of morning

Dispersed the soft dewdrops in showers from the tree!

Like a beautiful bud my lone dwelling adorning,

Thy smiles call'd up feelings of rapture in me:

I thought not the sunbeams all gaily that shone

On thy waking, at night would behold me alone.

"The joy that flash'd out from thy death-shrouded eyes,

That laugh'd in thy dimples, and brighten'd thy cheek,

Is quench'd--but the smile on thy pale lip that lies,

Now tells of a joy that no language can speak.

The fountain is seal'd, the young spirit at rest,--

Oh, why should I mourn thee, my lov'd one--my blest!"

The anniversary of that fatal day gave birth to the following lines, with which I will close this long chapter:--

The Early Lost.

"The shade of death upon my threshold lay,

The sun from thy life's dial had departed;

A cloud came down upon thy early day,

And left thy hapless mother broken-hearted--

My boy--my boy!

"Long weary months have pass'd since that sad day,

But naught beguiles my bosom of its sorrow;

Since the cold waters took thee for their prey,

No smiling hope looks forward to the morrow--

My boy--my boy!

"The voice of mirth is silenced in my heart,

Thou wert so dearly loved--so fondly cherish'd;

I cannot yet believe that we must part,--

That all, save thine immortal soul, has perish'd--

My boy--my boy!

"My lovely, laughing, rosy, dimpled, child,

I call upon thee, when the sun shines clearest;

In the dark lonely night, in accents wild,

I breathe thy treasured name, my best and dearest--

My boy--my boy!

"The hand of God has press'd me very sore--

Oh, could I clasp thee once more as of yore,

And kiss thy glowing cheeks' soft velvet bloom,

I would resign thee to the Almighty Giver

Without one tear,--would yield thee up for ever,

And people with bright forms thy silent tomb.

But hope has faded from my heart--and joy

Lies buried in thy grave, my darling boy!"

CHAPTER II
Local Improvements--Sketches of Society

"Prophet spirit! rise and say,

What in Fancy's glass you see--

A city crown this lonely bay?

No dream--a bright reality.

Ere half a century has roll'd

Its waves of light away,

The beauteous vision I behold

Shall greet the rosy day;

And Belleville view with civic pride

Her greatness mirror'd in the tide."

S.M.

The town of Belleville, in 1840, contained a population of 1,500 souls, or thereabouts. The few streets it then possessed were chiefly composed of frame houses, put up in the most unartistic and irregular fashion, their gable ends or fronts turned to the street, as it suited the whim or convenience of the owner, without the least regard to taste or neatness. At that period there were only two stone houses and two of brick in the place. One of these wonders of the village was the court-house and gaol; the other three were stores. The dwellings of the wealthier portion of the community were distinguished by a coat of white or yellow paint, with green or brown doors and window blinds; while the houses of the poorer class retained the dull grey, which the plain boards always assume after a short exposure to the weather.

In spite of the great beauty of the locality, it was but an insignificant, dirty-looking place. The main street of the town (Front-street, as it is called) was only partially paved with rough slabs of limestone, and these were put so carelessly down that their uneven edges, and the difference in their height and size, was painful to the pedestrian, and destruction to his shoes, leading you to suppose that the paving committee had been composed of shoemakers. In spring and fall the mud was so deep in the centre of the thoroughfare that it required you to look twice before you commenced the difficult task of crossing, lest you might chance to leave your shoes sticking fast in the mud. This I actually saw a lady do one Sunday while crossing the church hill. Belleville had just been incorporated as the metropolitan town of the Victoria District, and my husband presided as Sheriff in the first court ever held in the place.

Twelve brief years have made a wonderful, an almost miraculous, change in the aspect and circumstances of the town. A stranger, who had not visited it during that period, could scarcely recognize it as the same. It has more than doubled its dimensions, and its population has increased to upwards of 4,500 souls. Handsome commodious stores, filled with expensive goods from the mother country and the States, have risen in the place of the small dark frame buildings; and large hotels have jostled into obscurity the low taverns and groceries that once formed the only places of entertainment.

In 1840, a wooded swamp extended almost the whole way from Belleville to Cariff's Mills, a distance of three miles. The road was execrable; and only a few log shanties, or very small frame houses, occurred at intervals along the road-side. Now, Cariff's Mills is as large as Belleville was in 1840, and boasts of a population of upwards of 1000 inhabitants. A fine plank road connects it with the latter place, and the whole distance is one continuous street. Many of the houses by the wayside are pretty ornamental cottages, composed of brick or stone. An immense traffic in flour and lumber is carried on at this place, and the plank road has proved a very lucrative speculation to the shareholders.

In 1840, there was but one bank agency in Belleville, now there are four, three of which do a great business. At that period we had no market, although Saturday was generally looked upon as the market-day; the farmers choosing it as the most convenient to bring to town their farm produce for sale. Our first market-house was erected in 1849; it was built of wood, and very roughly finished. This proved but poor economy in the long run, as it was burnt down the succeeding year. A new and more commodious one of brick has been erected in its place, and it is tolerably supplied with meat and vegetables; but these articles are both dearer and inferior in quality to those offered in Kingston and Toronto. This, perhaps, is owing to the tardiness shown by the farmers in bringing in their produce, which they are obliged to offer first for sale in the market, or be subjected to a trifling fine. There is very little competition, and the butchers and town grocery-keepers have it their own way. A market is always a stirring scene. Here politics, commercial speculations, and the little floating gossip of the village, are freely talked over and discussed. To those who feel an interest in the study of human nature, the market affords an ample field. Imagine a conversation like the following, between two decently dressed mechanics' wives:

"How are you, Mrs. G---?"

"Moderate, I thank you. Did you hear how old P--- was to-day?"

"Mortal bad."

"Why! you don't say. Our folks heard that he was getting quite smart. Is he dangerous?"

"The doctor has given him up entirely."

"Well, it will be a bad job for the family if he goes. I've he'rd that there won't be money enough to pay his debts. But what of this marriage? They do say that Miss A--- is to be married to old Mister B---."

"What are her friends thinking about to let that young gal marry that old bald-headed man?"

"The money to be sure--they say he's rich."

"If he's rich, he never made his money honestly."

"Ah, he came of a bad set,"--with a shake of the head.

And so they go on, talking and chatting over the affairs of the neighbourhood in succession. It is curious to watch the traits of character exhibited in buyer and seller. Both exceed the bounds of truth and honesty. The one, in his eagerness to sell his goods, bestowing upon them the most unqualified praise; the other depreciating them below their real value, in order to obtain them at an unreasonably low price.

"Fine beef, ma'am," exclaims an anxious butcher, watching, with the eye of a hawk, a respectable citizen's wife, as she paces slowly and irresolutely in front of his stall, where he has hung out for sale the side of an ox, neither the youngest nor fattest. "Fine grass-fed beef, ma'am--none better to be had in the district. What shall I send you home--sirloin, ribs, a tender steak?"

"It would be a difficult matter to do that," responds the good wife, with some asperity in look and tone. "It seems hard and old; some lean cow you have killed, to save her from dying of the consumption."

"No danger of the fat setting fire to the lum"--suggests a rival in the trade. "Here's a fine veal, ma'am, fatted upon the milk of two cows."

"Looks," says the comely dame, passing on to the next stall, "as if it had been starved upon the milk of one."

Talking of markets puts me in mind of a trick--a wicked trick--but, perhaps, not the less amusing on that account, that was played off in Toronto market last year by a young medical student, name unknown. It was the Christmas week, and the market was adorned with evergreens, and dressed with all possible care. The stalls groaned beneath the weight of good cheer--fish, flesh, and fowl, all contributing their share to tempt the appetite and abstract money from the purse. It was a sight to warm the heart of the most fastidious epicure, and give him the nightmare for the next seven nights, only dreaming of that stupendous quantity of food to be masticated by the jaws of man. One butcher had the supreme felicity of possessing a fine fat heifer, that had taken the prize at the provincial agricultural show; and the monster of fat, which was justly considered the pride of the market, was hung up in the most conspicuous place in order to attract the gaze of all beholders.

Dr. C---, a wealthy doctor of laws, was providing good cheer for the entertainment of a few choice friends on Christmas-day, and ordered of the butcher four ribs of the tempting-looking beef. The man, unwilling to cut up the animal until she had enjoyed her full share of admiration, wrote upon a piece of paper, in large characters, "Prize Heifer--four ribs for Dr. C---;" this he pinned upon the carcase of the beast. Shortly after the doctor quitted the market, and a very fat young lady and her mother came up to the stall to make some purchases. Our student was leaning carelessly against it, watching with bright eyes the busy scene; and being an uncommonly mischievous fellow, and very fond of practical jokes, a thought suddenly struck him of playing off one upon the stout young lady. Her back was towards him, and dexterously abstracting the aforementioned placard from the side of the heifer, he transferred it to the shawl of his unsuspecting victim, just where its ample folds comfortably encased her broad shoulders.

After a while the ladies left the market, amidst the suppressed titters and outstretched fore-fingers of butchers and hucksters, and all the idle loafers the generally congregate in such places of public resort. All up the length of King street walked the innocent damsel, marvelling that the public attention appeared exclusively bestowed upon her. Still, as she passed along, bursts of laughter resounded on all sides, and the oft-repeated words, "Prize Heifer--four ribs for Dr. C---;" it was not until she reached her own dwelling that she became aware of the trick.

The land to the east, north, and west of Belleville, rises to a considerable height, and some of the back townships, like Huntingdon and Hungerford, abound in lofty hills. There is in the former township, on the road leading from Rawdon village to Luke's tavern, a most extraordinary natural phenomenon. The road for several miles runs along the top of a sharp ridge, so narrow that it leaves barely breadth enough for two waggons to pass in safety. This ridge is composed of gravel, and looks as if it had been subjected to the action of water. On either side of this huge embankment there is a sheer descent into a finely wooded level plain below, through which wanders a lonely creek, or small stream. I don't know what the height of this ridge is above the level of the meadow, but it must be very considerable, as you look down upon the tops of the loftiest forest trees as they grow far, far beneath you. The road is well fenced on either side, or it would require some courage to drive young skittish horses along this dangerous pass. The settlers in that vicinity have given to this singular rise the name of the "Ridge road." There is a sharp ridge of limestone at the back of the township of Thurlow, though of far less dimensions, which looks as if it had been thrown up in some convulsion of the earth, as the limestone is shattered in all directions. The same thing occurs on the road to Shannonville, a small but flourishing village on the Kingston road, nine miles east of Belleville. The rock is heaved up in the middle, and divided by deep cracks into innumerable fragments. I put a long stick down one of these deep cracks without reaching the bottom; and as I gathered a lovely bunch of harebells, that were waving their graceful blossoms over the barren rock, I thought what an excellent breeding place for snakes these deep fissures must make.

But to return to Belleville. The west side of the river--a flat limestone plain, scantily covered with a second growth of dwarf trees and bushes--has not as yet been occupied, although a flourishing village that has sprung up within a few years crowns the ridge above. The plain below is private property, and being very valuable, as affording excellent sites for flour and saw mills, has been reserved in order to obtain a higher price. This circumstance has, doubtless, been a drawback to the growth of the town in that direction; while, shutting out the view of the river by the erection of large buildings will greatly diminish the natural beauties of this picturesque spot.

The approach to Belleville, both from the east and west, is down a very steep hill, the town lying principally in the valley below. These hills command a beautiful prospect of wood and water, and of a rich, well-cleared, and highly cultivated country. Their sides are adorned with fine trees, which have grown up since the axe first levelled the primeval forests in this part of the colony; a circumstance which, being unusual in Canada round new settlements, forms a most attractive feature in the landscape.

A more delightful summer's evening ride could scarcely be pointed out than along the Trent, or Kingston roads, and it would be a difficult thing to determine which afforded the most varied and pleasing prospect. Residing upon the west hill, we naturally prefer it to the other, but I have some doubts whether it is really the prettiest. I have often imagined a hundred years to have passed away, and the lovely sloping banks of the Bay of Quinte, crowned with rural villages and stately parks and houses, stretching down to these fair waters. What a scene of fertility and beauty rises before my mental vision! My heart swells, and I feel proud that I belong to a race who, in every portion of the globe in which they have planted a colony, have proved themselves worthy to be the sires of a great nation.

The state of society when we first came to this district, was everything but friendly or agreeable. The ferment occasioned by the impotent rebellion of W.L. Mackenzie had hardly subsided. The public mind was in a sore and excited state. Men looked distrustfully upon each other, and the demon of party reigned preeminent, as much in the drawing-room in the council-chamber.

The town was divided into two fierce political factions; and however moderate your views might be, to belong to the one was to incur the dislike and ill-will of the other. The Tory party, who arrogated the whole loyalty of the colony to themselves, branded, indiscriminately, the large body of Reformers as traitors and rebels. Every conscientious and thinking man who wished to see a change for the better in the management of public affairs, was confounded with those discontented spirits, who had raised the standard of revolt against the mother country. In justice even to them, it must be said, not without severe provocation; and their disaffection was more towards the colonial government, and the abuses it fostered, than any particular dislike to British supremacy or institutions. Their attempt, whether instigated by patriotism or selfishness--and probably it contained a mixture of both--had failed, and it was but just that they should feel the punishment due to their crime. But the odious term of rebel, applied to some of the most loyal and honourable men in the province, because they could not give up their honest views on the state of the colony, gave rise to bitter and resentful feelings, which were ready, on all public occasions, to burst into a flame. Even women entered deeply into this party hostility; and those who, from their education and mental advantages, might have been friends and agreeable companions, kept aloof, rarely taking notice of each other, when accidentally thrown together.

The native-born Canadian regarded with a jealous feeling men of talent and respectability who emigrated from the mother country, as most offices of consequence and emolument were given to such persons. The Canadian, naturally enough, considered such preference unjust, and an infringement upon his rights as a native of the colony, and that he had a greater claim, on that account, upon the government, than men who were perfect strangers. This, owing to his limited education, was not always the case; but the preference shown to the British emigrant proved an active source of ill-will and discontent. The favoured occupant of place and power was not at all inclined to conciliate his Canadian rival, or to give up the title to mental superiority which he derived from birth and education; and he too often treated his illiterate, but sagacious political opponent, with a contempt which his practical knowledge and experience did not merit. It was a miserable state of things; and I believe that most large towns in the province bore, in these respects, a striking resemblance to each other. Those who wished to see impartial justice administered to all had but an uncomfortable time of it, both parties regarding with mistrust those men who could not go the whole length with them in their political opinions. To gain influence in Canada, and be the leader of a party, a man must, as the Yankees say, "go the whole hog."

The people in the back woods were fortunate in not having their peace disturbed by these political broils. In the depths of the dark forest, they were profoundly ignorant of how the colony was governed; and many did not even know which party was in power, and when the rebellion actually broke out it fell upon them like a thunder-clap. But in their ignorance and seclusion there was at least safety, and they were free from that dreadful scourge--"the malicious strife of tongues."

The fever of the "Clergy Reserves question" was then at its height. It was never introduced in company but to give offence, and lead to fierce political discussions. All parties were wrong, and nobody was convinced. This vexed political question always brought before my mental vision a ludicrous sort of caricature, which, if I had the artistic skill to delineate, would form no bad illustration of this perplexing subject.

I saw in my mind's eye a group of dogs in the marketplace of a large town, to whom some benevolent individual, with a view to their mutual benefit, had flung a shank of beef, with meat enough upon the upper end to have satisfied the hunger of all, could such an impossible thing as an equal division, among such noisy claimants, have been made.

A strong English bull-dog immediately seized upon the bone, and for some time gnawed away at the best end of it, and contrived to keep all the other dogs at bay. This proceeding was resented by a stout mastiff, who thought that he had as good a right to the beef as the bull-dog, and flung himself tooth and claw upon his opponent. While these two were fighting and wrangling over the bone, a wiry, active Scotch terrier, though but half the size of the other combatants, began tugging at the small end of the shank, snarling and barking with all the strength of his lungs, to gain at least a chance of being heard, even if he did fail in putting in his claims to a share of the meat.

An old cunning greyhound, to whom no share had been offered, and who well knew that it was of no use putting himself against the strength of the bull-dog and mastiff, stood proudly aloof, with quivering ears and tail, regarding the doings of the others with a glance of sovereign contempt; yet, watching with his keen eye for an opportunity of making a successful spring, while they were busily engaged in snarling and biting each other, to carry off the meat, bone and all.

A multitude of nondescript curs, of no weight in themselves, were snapping and snuffling round the bone, eagerly anticipating the few tit bits, which they hoped might fall to their share during the prolonged scuffle among the higher powers: while the figure of Justice, dimly seen in the distance, was poising her scales, and lifting her sword to make an equal division; but her voice failed to be heard, and her august presence regarded, in the universal hubbub. The height to which party feeling was carried in those days had to be experienced before it could be fully understood.

Happily for the colony, this evil spirit, during the last three years, has greatly diminished. The two rival parties, though they occasionally abuse and vilify each other, through the medium of the common safety valve--the public papers--are not so virulent as in 1840. They are more equally matched. The union of the provinces has kept the reform party in the ascendant, and they are very indifferent to the good or ill opinion of their opponents.

The colony has greatly progressed under their administration, and is now in a most prosperous and flourishing state. The municipal and district councils, free schools, and the improvement in the public thoroughfares of the country, are owing to them, and have proved a great blessing to the community. The resources of the country are daily being opened up, and both at home and abroad Canada is rising in public estimation.

As a woman, I cannot enter into the philosophy of these things, nor is it my intention to do so. I leave statistics for wiser and cleverer male heads. But, even as a woman, I cannot help rejoicing in the beneficial effects that these changes have wrought in the land of my adoption. The day of our commercial and national prosperity has dawned, and the rays of the sun already brighten the hill-tops.

To those persons who have been brought up in the old country, and accustomed from infancy to adhere to the conventional rules of society, the mixed society must, for a long time, prove very distasteful. Yet this very freedom, which is so repugnant to all their preconceived notions and prejudices, is by no means so unpleasant as strangers would be led to imagine. A certain mixture of the common and the real, of the absurd and the ridiculous, gives a zest to the cold, tame decencies, to be found in more exclusive and refined circles. Human passions and feelings are exhibited with more fidelity, and you see men and women as they really are. And many kind, good, and noble traits are to be found among those classes, whom at home we regard as our inferiors. The lady and gentleman in Canada are as distinctly marked as elsewhere. There is no mistaking the superiority that mental cultivation bestows; and their mingling in public with their less gifted neighbours, rather adds than takes from their claims to hold the first place. I consider the state of society in a more healthy condition than at home; and people, when they go out for pleasure here, seem to enjoy themselves much more.

The harmony that reigns among the members of a Canadian family is truly delightful. They are not a quarrelsome people in their own homes. No contradicting or disputing, or hateful rivalry, is to be seen between Canadian brothers and sisters. They cling together through good and ill report, like the bundle of sticks in the fable; and I have seldom found a real Canadian ashamed of owning a poor relation. This to me is a beautiful feature in the Canadian character. Perhaps the perfect equality on which children stand in a family, the superior claim of eldership, so much upheld at home, never being enforced, is one great cause of this domestic union of kindred hearts.

Most of the pretence, and affected airs of importance, occasionally met with in Canada, are not the genuine produce of the soil, but importations from the mother country; and, as sure as you hear any one boasting of the rank and consequence they possessed at home, you may be certain that it was quite the reverse. An old Dutch lady, after listening very attentively to a young Irishwoman's account of the grandeur of her father's family at home, said rather drily to the self-exalted damsel,--

"Goodness me, child! if you were so well off, what brought you to a poor country like this? I am sure you had been much wiser had you staid to hum--"

"Yes. But my papa heard such fine commendations of the country, that he sold his estate to come out."

"To pay his debts, perhaps," said the provoking old woman.

"Ah, no, ma'am," she replied, very innocently, "he never paid them. He was told that it was a very fine climate, and he came for the good of our health."

"Why, my dear, you look as if you never had had a day's sickness in your life."

"No more I have," she replied, putting on a very languid air, "but I am very delicate."

This term delicate, be it known to my readers is a favourite one with young ladies here, but its general application would lead you to imagine it another term for laziness. It is quite fashionable to be delicate, but horribly vulgar to be considered capable of enjoying such a useless blessing as good health. I knew a lady, when I first came to the colony, who had her children daily washed in water almost hot enough to scald a pig. On being asked why she did so, as it was not only an unhealthy practice, but would rob the little girls of their fine colour, she exclaimed,--

"Oh, that is just what I do it for. I want them to look delicate. They have such red faces, and are as coarse and healthy as country girls."

The rosy face of the British emigrant is regarded as no beauty here. The Canadian women, like their neighbours the Americans, have small regular features, but are mostly pale, or their faces are only slightly suffused with a faint flush. During the season of youth this delicate tinting is very beautiful, but a few years deprive them of it, and leave a sickly, sallow pallor in its place. The loss of their teeth, too, is a great drawback to their personal charms, but these can be so well supplied by the dentist that it is not so much felt; the thing is so universal that it is hardly thought detrimental to an otherwise pretty face.

But, to return to the mere pretenders in society, of which, of course, there are not a few here, as elsewhere. I once met two very stylishly-dressed women at a place of public entertainment. The father of these ladies had followed the lucrative but unaristocratic trade of a tailor in London. One of them began complaining to me of the mixed state of society in Canada, which she considered a dreadful calamity to persons like her and her sister; and ended her lamentations by exclaiming,--

"What would my pa have thought could he have seen us here to-night? Is it not terrible for ladies to have to dance in the same room with storekeepers and their clerks?"

Another lady of the same stamp, the daughter of a tavern-keeper, was indignant at being introduced to a gentleman, whose father had followed the same calling.

Such persons seem to forget, that as long as people retain their natural manners, and remain true to the dignity of their humanity, they cannot with any justice be called vulgar; for vulgarity consists in presumptuously affecting to be what we are not, and in claiming distinctions which we do not deserve and which no one else would admit.

The farmer, in his homespun, may possess the real essentials which make the gentleman--good feeling, and respect for the feelings of others. The homely dress, weather-beaten face, and hard hands, could not deprive him of the honest independence and genial benevolence he derived from nature. No real gentleman would treat such a man, however humble his circumstances, with insolence or contempt. But place the same man out of his class, dress him in the height of fashion, and let him attempt to imitate the manners of the great, and the whole world would laugh at the counterfeit.

Uneducated, ignorant people often rise by their industry to great wealth in the colony; to such the preference shown to the educated man always seems a puzzle. Their ideas of gentility consist in being the owners of fine clothes, fine houses, splendid furniture, expensive equipages, and plenty of money. They have all these, yet even the most ignorant feel that something else is required. They cannot comprehend the mysterious ascendancy of mind over mere animal enjoyments; yet they have sense enough, by bestowing a liberal education on their children, to endeavour, at least in their case, to remedy the evil.

The affectation of wishing people to think that you had been better off in the mother country than in Canada, is not confined to the higher class of emigrants. The very poorest are the most remarked for this ridiculous boasting. A servant girl of mine told me, with a very grand toss of the head, "that she did not choose to demane herself by scrubbing a floor; that she belonged to the ra'al gintry in the ould counthry, and her papa and mamma niver brought her up to hard work."

This interesting scion of the aristocracy was one of the coarsest specimens of female humanity I ever beheld. If I called her to bring a piece of wood for the parlour fire, she would thrust her tangled, uncombed red head in at the door, and shout at the top of her voice, "Did yer holler?"

One of our working men, wishing to impress me with the dignity of his wife's connexions, said with all becoming solemnity of look and manner--

"Doubtless, ma'am, you have heard in the ould counthry of Connor's racers. Margaret's father kept those racers."

When I recalled the person of the individual whose fame was so widely spread at home, and thought of the racers, I could hardly keep a "straight face," as an American friend terms laughing, when you are bound to look grave.

One want is greatly felt here; but it is to be hoped that a more liberal system of education and higher moral culture will remedy the evil. There is a great deficiency among our professional men and wealthy traders of that nice sense of honour that marks the conduct and dealings of the same class at home. Of course many bright exceptions are to be found in the colony, but too many of the Canadians think it no disgrace to take every advantage of the ignorance and inexperience of strangers.

If you are not smart enough to drive a close bargain, they consider it only fair to take you in. A man loses very little in the public estimation by making over all his property to some convenient friend, in order to defraud his creditors, while he retains a competency for himself.

Women whose husbands have been detained on the limits for years for debt, will give large parties and dress in the most expensive style. This would be thought dishonourable at home, but is considered no disgrace here.

"Honour is all very well in an old country like England," said a lady, with whom I had been arguing on the subject; "but, Mrs. M---, it won't do in a new country like this. You may as well cheat as be cheated. For my part, I never lose an advantage by indulging in such foolish notions."

I have no doubt that a person who entertained such principles would not fail to reduce them to practice.

The idea that some country people form of an author is highly amusing. One of my boys was tauntingly told by another lad at school, "that his ma' said that Mrs. M--- invented lies, and got money for them." This was her estimation of works of mere fiction.

Once I was driven by a young Irish friend to call upon the wife of a rich farmer in the country. We were shewn by the master of the house into a very handsomely furnished room, in which there was no lack of substantial comfort, and even of some elegancies, in the shape of books, pictures, and a piano. The good man left us to inform his wife of our arrival, and for some minutes we remained in solemn state, until the mistress of the house made her appearance.

She had been called from the washtub, and, like a sensible woman, was not ashamed of her domestic occupation. She came in wiping the suds from her hands on her apron, and gave us a very hearty and friendly welcome. She was a short, stout, middle-aged woman, with a very pleasing countenance; and though only in her coloured flannel working-dress, with a nightcap on her head, and spectacled nose, there was something in her frank good-natured face that greatly prepossessed us in her favour.

After giving us the common compliments of the day, she drew her chair just in front of me, and, resting her elbows on her knees, and dropping her chin between her hands, she sat regarding me with such a fixed gaze that it became very embarrassing.

"So," says she, at last, "you are Mrs. M---?"

"Yes."

"The woman that writes?"

"The same."

She drew back her chair for a few paces, with a deep-drawn sigh, in which disappointment and surprise seemed strangely to mingle. "Well, I have he'rd a great deal about you, and I wanted to see you bad for a long time; but you are only a humly person like myself after all. Why I do think, if I had on my best gown and cap, I should look a great deal younger and better than you."

I told her that I had no doubt of the fact.

"And pray," continued she, with the same provoking scrutiny, "how old do you call yourself?"

I told her my exact age.

"Humph!" quoth she, as if she rather doubted my word, "two years younger nor me! you look a great deal older nor that."

After a long pause, and another searching gaze, "Do you call those teeth your own?"

"Yes," said I, laughing; for I could retain my gravity no longer; "in the very truest sense of the word they are mine, as God gave them to me."

"You luckier than your neighbours," said she. "But airn't you greatly troubled with headaches?"

"No," said I, rather startled at this fresh interrogatory.

"My!" exclaimed she, "I thought you must be, your eyes are so sunk in your head. Well, well, so you are Mrs. M--- of Belleville, the woman that writes. You are but a humly body after all."

While this curious colloquy was going on, my poor Irish friend sat on thorns, and tried, by throwing in a little judicious blarney, to soften the thrusts of the home truths to which he had unwittingly exposed me. Between every pause in the conversation, he broke in with--"I am sure Mrs. M--- is a fine-looking woman--a very young-looking woman for her age. Any person might know at a glance that those teeth were her own. They look too natural to be false."

Now, I am certain that the poor little woman never meant to wound my feelings, nor give me offence. She literally spoke her thoughts, and I was too much amused with the whole scene to feel the least irritated by her honest bluntness. She expected to find in an author something quite out of the common way, and I did not come up at all to her expectations.

Her opinion of me was not more absurd than the remarks of two ladies who, after calling upon me for the first time, communicated the result of their observations to a mutual friend.

"We have seen Mrs. M---, and we were so surprised to find her just like other people!"

"What did you expect to see in her?"

"Oh, something very different. We were very much disappointed."

"That she was not sitting upon her head," said my friend, smiling; "I like Mrs. M---, because she is in every respect like other people; and I should not have taken her for a blue-stocking at all."

The sin of authorship meets with little toleration in a new country. Several persons of this class, finding few minds that could sympathise with them, and enter into their literary pursuits, have yielded to despondency, or fallen victims to that insidious enemy of souls, Canadian whisky. Such a spirit was the unfortunate Dr. Huskins, late of Frankfort on the river Trent. The fate of this gentleman, who was a learned and accomplished man of genius, left a very sad impression on my mind. Like too many of that highly-gifted, but unhappy fraternity, he struggled through his brief life, overwhelmed with the weight of undeserved calumny, and his peace of mind embittered with the most galling neglect and poverty.

The want of sympathy experienced by him from men of his own class, pressed sorely upon the heart of the sensitive man of talent and refinement; he found very few who could appreciate or understand his mental superiority, which was pronounced as folly and madness by the ignorant persons about him. A new country, where all are rushing eagerly forward in order to secure the common necessaries of life, is not a favourable soil in which to nourish the bright fancies and delusive dreams of the poet. Dr. Huskins perceived his error too late, when he no longer retained the means to remove to a more favourable spot,--and his was not a mind which could meet and combat successfully with the ills of life. He endeavoured to bear proudly the evils of his situation, but he had neither the energy nor the courage to surmount them. He withdrew himself from society, and passed the remainder of his days in a solitary, comfortless, log hut on the borders of the wilderness. Here he drooped and died, as too many like him have died, heartbroken and alone. A sad mystery involves the last hours of his life: it is said that he and Dr. Sutor, another talented but very dissipated man, had entered into a compact to drink until they both died. Whether this statement is true cannot now be positively ascertained. It is certain, however, that Dr. Sutor was found dead upon the floor of the miserable shanty occupied by his friend, and that Dr. Huskins was lying on his bed in the agonies of death. Could the many fine poems composed by Dr. Huskins in his solitary exile, be collected and published, we feel assured that posterity would do him justice, and that his name would rank high among the bards of the green isle.

To The Memory of Dr. Huskins.

"Neglected son of genius! thou hast pass'd

In broken-hearted loneliness away;

And one who prized thy talents, fain would cast

The cypress-wreath above thy nameless clay.

Ah, could she yet thy spirit's flight delay,

Till the cold world, relenting from its scorn,

The fadeless laurel round thy brows should twine,

Crowning the innate majesty of mind,

By crushing poverty and sorrow torn.

Peace to thy mould'ring ashes, till revive

Bright memories of thee in deathless song!

True to the dead, Time shall relenting give

The meed of fame deserved--delayed too long,

And in immortal verse the Bard again shall live!"

Alas! this frightful vice of drinking prevails throughout the colony to an alarming extent. Professional gentlemen are not ashamed of being seen issuing from the bar-room of a tavern early in the morning, or of being caught reeling home from the same sink of iniquity late at night. No sense of shame seems to deter them from the pursuit of their darling sin. I have heard that some of these regular topers place brandy beside their beds that, should they awake during the night, they may have within their reach the fiery potion for which they are bartering body and soul. Some of these persons, after having been warned of their danger by repeated fits of delirium tremens, have joined the tee-totallers; but their abstinence only lasted until the re-establishment of their health enabled them to return to their old haunts, and become more hardened in their vile habits than before. It is to be questioned whether the signing of any pledge is likely to prove a permanent remedy for this great moral evil. If an appeal to the heart and conscience, and the fear of incurring the displeasure of an offended God, are not sufficient to deter a man from becoming an active instrument in the ruin of himself and family, no forcible restraint upon his animal desires will be likely to effect a real reformation. It appears to me that the temperance people begin at the wrong end of the matter, by restraining the animal propensities before they have convinced the mind. If a man abstain from drink only as long as the accursed thing is placed beyond his reach, it is after all but a negative virtue, to be overcome by the first strong temptation. Were incurable drunkards treated as lunatics, and a proper asylum provided for them in every large town, and the management of their affairs committed to their wives or adult children, the bare idea of being confined under such a plea would operate more forcibly upon them than by signing a pledge, which they can break or resume according to the caprice of the moment.

A drunkard, while under the influence of liquor, is a madman in every sense of the word, and his mental aberration is often of the most dangerous kind. Place him and the confirmed maniac side by side, and it would be difficult for a stranger to determine which was the most irrational of the two.

A friend related to me the following anecdote of a physician in his native town:--This man, who was eminent in his profession, and highly respected by all who knew him, secretly indulged in the pernicious habit of dram-drinking, and after a while bade fair to sink into a hopeless drunkard. At the earnest solicitations of his weeping wife and daughter he consented to sign the pledge, and not only ardent spirits but every sort of intoxicating beverage was banished from the house.

The use of alcohol is allowed in cases of sickness to the most rigid disciplinarians, and our doctor began to find that keeping his pledge was a more difficult matter than he had at first imagined. Still, for examples' sake, of course, a man of his standing in society had only joined for examples' sake; he did not like openly to break it. He therefore feigned violent toothache, and sent the servant girl over to a friend's house to borrow a small phial of brandy.

The brandy was sent, with many kind wishes for the doctor's speedy recovery. The phial now came every night to be refilled; and the doctor's toothache seemed likely to become a case of incurable tic douloureux. His friend took the alarm. He found it both expensive and inconvenient, providing the doctor with his nightly dose; and wishing to see how matters really stood, he followed the maid and the brandy one evening to the doctor's house.

He entered unannounced. It was as he suspected. The doctor was lounging in his easy chair before the fire, indulging in a hearty fit of laughter over some paragraph in a newspaper, which he held in his hand.

"Ah, my dear J---, I am so glad to find you so well. I thought by your sending for the brandy, that you were dying with the toothache."

The doctor, rather confounded--"Why, yes; I have been sadly troubled with it of late. It does not come on, however, before eight o'clock, and if I cannot get a mouthful of brandy, I never can get a wink of sleep all night."

"Did you ever have it before you took the pledge?"

"Never," said the doctor emphatically.

"Perhaps the cold water does not agree with you?"

The doctor began to smell a rat, and fell vigorously to minding the fire.

"I tell you what it is, J---," said the other; "the toothache is a nervous affection. It is the brandy that is the disease. It may cure you of an imaginary toothache; but I assure you, that it gives your wife and daughter an incurable heartache."

The doctor felt at that moment a strange palpitation at his own. The scales fell suddenly from his eyes, and for the first time his conduct appeared in its true light. Returning the bottle to his friend, he said, very humbly--"Take it out of my sight; I feel my error now. I will cure their heartache by curing myself of this beastly vice."

The doctor, from that hour, became a temperate man. He soon regained his failing practice, and the esteem of his friends. The appeal of his better feelings effected a permanent change in his habits, which signing the pledge had not been able to do. To keep up an appearance of consistency he had had recourse to a mean subterfuge, while touching his heart produced a lasting reform.

Drinking is the curse of Canada, and the very low price of whisky places the temptation constantly in every one's reach. But it is not by adopting by main force the Maine Liquor law, that our legislators will be able to remedy the evil. Men naturally resist any oppressive measures that infringe upon their private rights, even though such measures are adopted solely for their benefit. It is not wise to thrust temperance down a man's throat; and the surest way to make him a drunkard is to insist upon his being sober. The zealous advocates of this measure (and there are many in Canada) know little of their own, or the nature of others. It would be the fruitful parent of hypocrisy, and lay the foundation of crimes still greater than the one it is expected to cure.

To wean a fellow-creature from the indulgence of a gross sensual propensity, as I said before, we must first convince the mind: the reform must commence there. Merely withdrawing the means of gratification, and treating a rational being like a child, will never achieve a great moral conquest.

In pagan countries, the missionaries can only rely upon the sincerity of the converts, who are educated when children in their schools; and if we wish to see drunkenness banished from our towns and cities, we must prepare our children from their earliest infancy to resist the growing evil.

Show your boy a drunkard wallowing in the streets, like some unclean animal in the mire. Every side-walk, on a market-day, will furnish you with examples. Point out to him the immorality of such a degrading position; make him fully sensible of all its disgusting horrors. Tell him that God has threatened in words of unmistakable import, that he will exclude such from his heavenly kingdom. Convince him that such loathsome impurity must totally unfit the soul for communion with its God--that such a state may truly be looked upon as the second death--the foul corruption and decay of both body and soul. Teach the child to pray against drunkenness, as he would against murder, lying, and theft; shew him that all these crimes are often comprised in this one, which in too many cases has been the fruitful parent of them all.

When the boy grows to be a man, and mingles in the world of men, he will not easily forget the lesson impressed on his young heart. He will remember his early prayers against this terrible vice--will recall that disgusting spectacle--and will naturally shrink from the same contamination. Should he be overcome by temptation, the voice of conscience will plead with him in such decided tones that she will be heard, and he will be ashamed of becoming the idiot thing he once feared and loathed.

The Drunkard's Return.

"Oh! ask not of my morn of life,

How dark and dull it gloom'd o'er me;

Sharp words and fierce domestic strife,

Robb'd my young heart of all its glee,--

The sobs of one heart-broken wife,

Low, stifled moans of agony,

That fell upon my shrinking ear,

In hollow tones of woe and fear;

As crouching, weeping, at her side,

I felt my soul with sorrow swell,

In pity begg'd her not to hide

The cause of grief I knew too well;

Then wept afresh to hear her pray

That death might take us both away!

"Away from whom? Alas! What ill

Press'd the warm life-hopes from her heart?

Was she not young and lovely still?

What made the frequent tear-drops start

From eyes, whose light of love could fill

My inmost soul, and bade me part

From noisy comrades in the street,

To kiss her cheek, so cold and pale,

To clasp her neck, and hold her hand,

And list the oft-repeated tale

Of woes I could not understand;

Yet felt their force, as, day by day,

I watch'd her fade from life away.

"And he, the cause of all this woe,

Her mate--the father of her child,

In dread I saw him come and go,

With many an awful oath reviled;

And from harsh word, and harsher blow,

(In answer to her pleadings mild,)

I shrank in terror, till I caught

From her meek eyes th' unwhisper'd thought--

'Bear it, my Edward, for thy mother's sake!

He cares not, in his sullen mood,

If this poor heart with anguish break.'

That look was felt, and understood

By her young son, thus school'd to bear

His wrongs, to soothe her deep despair.

"Oh, how I loath'd him!--how I scorn'd

His idiot laugh, or demon frown,--

His features bloated and deform'd;

The jests with which he sought to drown

The consciousness of sin, or storm'd,

To put reproof or anger down.

Oh, 'tis a fearful thing to feel

Stern, sullen hate, the bosom steel

'Gainst one whom nature bids us prize

The first link in her mystic chain;

Which binds in strong and tender ties

The heart, while reason rules the brain,

And mingling love with holy fear,

Renders the parent doubly dear.

"I cannot bear to think how deep

The hatred was I bore him then;

But he has slept his last long sleep,

And I have trod the haunts of men;

Have felt the tide of passion sweep

Through manhood's fiery heart, and when

By strong temptation toss'd and tried,

I thought how that lost father died;

Unwept, unpitied, in his sin;

Then tears of burning shame would rise,

And stern remorse awake within

A host of mental agonies.

He fell--by one dark vice defiled;

Was I more pure--his erring child?

"Yes--erring child; but to my tale.

My mother loved that lost one still,

From the deep fount which could not fail

(Through changes dark, from good to ill,)

Her woman's heart--and sad and pale,

She yielded to his stubborn will;

Perchance she felt remonstrance vain,--

The effort to resist gave pain.

But carefully she hid her grief

From him, the idol of her youth;

And fondly hoped, against belief,

That her deep love and stedfast truth

Would touch his heart, and win him back

From Folly's dark and devious track.

"Vain hope! the drunkard's heart is hard as stone,

No grief disturbs his selfish, sensual joy;

His wife may weep, his starving children groan,

And Poverty with cruel gripe annoy.

He neither hears, nor heeds their famish'd moan,

The glorious wine-cup owns no base alloy.

Surrounded by a low, degraded train,

His fiendish laugh defiance bids to pain;

He hugs the cup--more dear than friends to him--

Nor sees stern ruin from the goblet rise,

Nor flames of hell careering o'er the brim,--

The lava flood that glads his bloodshot eyes

Poisons alike his body and his soul,

Till reason lies self-murder'd in the bowl.

"It was a dark and fearful winter night,

Loud roar'd the tempest round our hovel home;

Cold, hungry, wet, and weary was our plight,

And still we listen'd for his step to come.

My poor sick mother!--'twas a piteous sight

To see her shrink and shiver, as our dome

Shook to the rattling blast; and to the door

She crept, to look along the bleak, black moor.

He comes--he comes!--and, quivering all with dread,

She spoke kind welcome to that sinful man.

His sole reply,--'Get supper--give me bread!'

Then, with a sneer, he tauntingly began

To mock the want that stared him in the face,

Her bitter sorrow, and his own disgrace.

"'I have no money to procure you food,

No wood, no coal, to raise a cheerful fire;

The madd'ning cup may warm your frozen blood--

We die, for lack of that which you desire!'

She ceased,--erect one moment there he stood,

The foam upon his lip; with fiendish ire

He seized a knife which glitter'd in his way,

And rush'd with fury on his helpless prey.

Then from a dusky nook I fiercely sprung,

The strength of manhood in that single bound:

Around his bloated form I tightly clung,

And headlong brought the murderer to the ground.

We fell--his temples struck the cold hearth-stone,

The blood gush'd forth--he died without a moan!

"Yes--by my hand he died! one frantic cry

Of mortal anguish thrill'd my madden'd brain,

Recalling sense and mem'ry. Desperately

I strove to raise my fallen sire again,

And call'd upon my mother; but her eye

Was closed alike to sorrow, want, and pain.

Oh, what a night was that!--when all alone

I watch'd my dead beside the cold hearth-stone.

I thought myself a monster--that the deed

To save my mother was too promptly done.

I could not see her gentle bosom bleed,

And quite forgot the father, in the son;

For her I mourn'd--for her, through bitter years,

Pour'd forth my soul in unavailing tears.

"The world approved the act; but on my soul

There lay a gnawing consciousness of guilt,

A biting sense of crime, beyond control:

By my rash hand a father's blood was spilt,

And I abjured for aye the death-drugg'd bowl.

This is my tale of woe; and if thou wilt

Be warn'd by me, the sparkling cup resign;

A serpent lurks within the ruby wine,

Guileful and strong as him who erst betray'd

The world's first parents in their bowers of joy.

Let not the tempting draught your soul pervade;

It shines to kill, and sparkles to destroy.

The drunkard's sentence has been seal'd above,--

Exiled for ever from the heaven of love!"

CHAPTER III
Free Schools--Thoughts on Education

"Truth, Wisdom, Virtue--the eternal three,

Great moral agents of the universe--

Shall yet reform and beautify the world,

And render it fit residence for Him

In whom these glorious attributes combined,

To render perfect manhood one with God!"

S.M.

There is no calculating the immense benefit which the will colony will derive from the present liberal provision made for the education of the rising generation.

A few years ago schools were so far apart, and the tuition of children so expensive, that none but the very better class could scrape money enough together to send their children to be instructed. Under the present system, every idle ragged child in the streets, by washing his face and hands, and presenting himself to the free school of his ward, can receive the same benefit as the rest.

What an inestimable blessing is this, and how greatly will this education of her population tend to increase the wealth and prosperity of the province! It is a certain means of a calling out and making available all the talent in the colony; and as, thanks be to God, genius never was confined to any class, the poor will be more benefited by this wise and munificent arrangement than the rich.

These schools are supported by a district tax, which falls upon the property of persons well able to pay it; but avarice and bigotry are already at work, to endeavour to deprive the young of his new-found blessing. Persons grumble at having to pay this additional tax. They say, "If poor people want their children taught, let them pay for it: their instruction has no right to be forced from our earnings."

What a narrow prejudice is this--what miserable, short-sighted policy! The education of these neglected children, by making them better citizens, will in the long run prove a great protection both to life and property.

Then the priests of different persuasions lift up their voices because no particular creed is allowed to be taught in the seminaries, and exclaim--"The children will be infidels. These schools are godless and immoral in the extreme." Yes; children will be taught to love each other without any such paltry distinctions as party and creed. The rich and the poor will meet together to learn the sweet courtesies of a common humanity, and prejudice and avarice and bigotry cannot bear that.

There is a spirit abroad in the world--and an evil spirit it is--which through all ages has instigated the rich to look down with contemptuous feelings of superiority on the humble occupations and inferior circumstances of the poor. Now, that this spirit is diametrically opposed to the benevolent precepts of Christianity, the fact of our blessed Lord performing his painful mission on earth in no higher capacity than that of a working mechanic, ought sufficiently to show. What divine benevolence--what god-like humility was displayed in this heroic act! Of all the wonderful events in his wonderful history, is there one more astonishing than this--

"That Heaven's high Majesty his court should keep

In a clay cottage, by each blast controll'd,--

That Glory's self should serve our hopes and fears,

And free Eternity submit to years?"

What a noble triumph was this, over the cruel and unjust prejudices of mankind! It might truly be termed the divine philosophy of virtue. This condescension on the part of the great Creator of the universe, ought to have been sufficient to have rendered labour honourable in the minds of his followers; and we still indulge the hope, that the moral and intellectual improvement of mankind will one day restore labour to her proper pedestal in the temple of virtue.

The chosen disciples of our Great Master--those to whom he entrusted the precious code of moral laws that was destined to overthrow the kingdom of Satan, and reform a degraded world--were poor uneducated men. The most brilliant gems are often enclosed in the rudest incrustations; and He who formed the bodies and souls of men, well knew that the most powerful intellects are often concealed amidst the darkness and rubbish of uneducated minds. Such minds, enlightened and purified by his wonder-working Spirit, He sent forth to publish his message of glad tidings through the earth.

The want of education and moral training is the only real barrier that exists between the different classes of men. Nature, reason, and Christianity, recognise no other. Pride may say nay; but pride was always a liar, and a great hater of the truth. Wealth, in a hard, abstract point of view, can never make any. Take away the wealth from an ignorant man, and he remains just the same being he was before he possessed it, and is no way bettered from the mere circumstance of his having once been rich. But let that wealth procure for him the only true and imperishable riches--knowledge, and with it the power to do good to himself and others, which is the great end of moral and religious training--and a mighty structure is raised which death itself is unable to destroy. The man has indeed changed his nature, and is fast regaining the resemblance he once bore to his Creator.

The soil of man is no rank, sex, or colour. It claims a distinction far above all these; and shall we behold its glorious energies imprisoned in the obscene den of ignorance and want, without making the least effort to enlighten its hideous darkness?

It is painful to reflect upon the vast barren wilderness of human intellect which on every side stretches around us--to know that thousands of powerful minds are condemned by the hopeless degradation of their circumstances to struggle on in obscurity, without one gleam of light. What a high and noble privilege has the Almighty conferred upon the wealthy and well-educated portion of mankind, in giving them the means of reclaiming and cultivating those barren minds, and of lifting them from the mire of ignorance in which they at present wallow, to share with them the moral dignity of thinking men!

A small portion of the wealth that is at present bestowed upon mere articles of luxury, or in scenes of riot and dissipation, would more than effect this great purpose. The education of the poorer classes must add greatly to the well-being and happiness of the world, and tend to diminish the awful amount of crimes and misery, which up to the present moment has rendered it a vale of tears.

The ignorance of the masses must, while it remains, for ever separate them from their more fortunate brethren. Remove this stumbling block out of the way, and the hard line of demarcation which now divides them will soften, and gradually melt away. Their supposed inferiority lies in their situation alone. Turn to the history of those great men whom education has rescued from the very lowest walks of life, and you will find a mighty host, who were in their age and day the companions, the advisers, the friends of princes--men who have written their names with the pen and sword upon the pillars of time, and, if immortality can exist in a world of constant change, have been rendered immortal by their words or deeds.

Let poverty and bigotry do their utmost to keep such spirits, while living, in the shades of obscurity, death, the great equalizer, always restores to its possessors the rights of mind, and bids them triumph for ever over the low prejudices of their fellow-men, who, when reading the works of Burns, or gazing on the paintings of Raphael, reproach them with the lowliness of their origin; yea, the proudest who have taste to appreciate their glorious creations, rejoice that genius could thus triumph over temporary obstacles.

It has often been asserted by the rich and nobly-born, that if the poorer classes were as well educated as themselves, it would render them familiar and presumptuous, and they would no longer pay to their superiors in station that deference which must exist for the well-being of society. We view the subject with far other eyes, and conclude from analogy, that that which has conferred such incalculable benefits on the rich, and helped mainly to place them in the position they now hold, could not be detrimental to the poor. The man who knows his duty, is more likely to perform it well than the ignorant man, whose services are compulsory, and whose actions are influenced by the moral responsibility which a right knowledge must give.

My earnest wish for universal education involves no dislike to royal rule, or for those distinctions of birth and wealth which I consider necessary for the well-being of society. It little matters by what name we call them; men of talent and education will exert a certain influence over the minds of their fellow-men, which will always be felt and acknowledged in the world if mankind were equalized to-morrow. Perfect, unadulterated republicanism, is a beautiful but fallacious chimera which never has existed upon the earth, and which, if the Bible be true, (and we have no doubts on the subject,) we are told never will exist in heaven. Still we consider that it would be true wisdom and policy in those who possess a large share of the good things of this world, to make labour honourable, by exalting the poor operative into an intelligent moral agent. Surely it is no small privilege to be able to bind up his bruised and broken heart--to wipe the dust from his brow, and the tears from his eyes--and bid him once more stand erect in his Maker's image. This is, indeed, to become the benefactor both of his soul and body; for the mind, once convinced of its own real worth and native dignity, is less prone to fall into low and degrading vices, than when struggling with ignorance and the galling chain of despised poverty.

It is impossible for the most depraved votary of wealth and fashion really to despise a poor, honest, well-informed man. There is an aristocracy of virtue as well as of wealth; and the rich man who dares to cast undeserved contempt upon his poor, but high-minded brother, hears a voice within him which, in tones which cannot be misunderstood, reproves him for blaspheming his Maker's image. A glorious mission is conferred on you who are rich and nobly born, which, if well and conscientiously performed, will make the glad arch of heaven ring with songs of joy. Nor deem that you will be worse served because your servant is a religious, well educated man, or that you will be treated with less respect and attention by one who knows that your station entitles you to it, than by the rude, ignorant slave, who hates you in his heart, and performs his appointed services with an envious, discontented spirit.

When we consider that ignorance is the fruitful parent of crime, we should unite with heart and voice to banish it from the earth. We should devote what means we can spare, and the talents with which God has endowed us, in furthering every national and benevolent institution set on foot for this purpose; and though the progress of improvement may at first appear slow, this should not discourage any one from endeavouring to effect a great and noble purpose. Many months must intervene, after sowing a crop, before the husbandman can expect to reap the harvest. The winter snows must cover, the spring rains vivify and nourish, and the summer sun ripen, before the autumn arrives for the ingathering of his labour, and then the increase, after all his toil and watching, must be with God.

During the time of our blessed Lord's sojourn upon earth, he proclaimed the harvest to be plenteous and the labourers few; and he instructed his disciples to pray to the Lord of the harvest to send more labourers into the field. Does it not, therefore, behove those who live in a more enlightened age--when the truth of the Gospel, which he sealed with his blood, has been preached in almost every country--to pray the Father of Spirits to proportion the labourers to the wants of his people, so that Christian kindness, brotherly love, and moral improvement, may go hand in hand, and keep pace with increasing literary and scientific knowledge?

A new country like Canada cannot value the education of her people too highly. The development of all the talent within the province will in the end prove her real worth, for from this source every blessing and improvement must flow. The greatness of a nation can more truly be estimated by the wisdom and intelligence of her people, than by the mere amount of specie she may possess in her treasury. The money, under the bad management of ignorant rulers, would add but little to the well-being of the community, while the intelligence which could make a smaller sum available in contributing to the general good, is in itself an inexhaustible mine of wealth.

If a few enlightened minds are able to add so much strength and importance to the country to which they belong, how much greater must that country become if all her people possessed this intelligence! How impossible it would be to conquer a country, if she could rely upon the united wisdom of an educated people to assist her in her hour of need! The force of arms could never subdue a nation thus held together by the strong hands of intellectual fellowship.

To the wisdom of her educated men, Britain owes the present position she holds among the nations. The power of mind has subdued all the natural obstacles that impeded her course, and has placed her above all her competitors. She did not owe her greatness to extent of territory. Look at the position she occupies upon the map--a mere speck, when compared with several European nations. It was not to her superior courage, great as that is acknowledged to be; the French, the Germans, the Spaniards, are as brave, as far as mere courage is concerned, are as ready to attack and as slow to yield, as the lion-hearted king himself. No, it is to the moral power of her educated classes that she owes her superiority. It is more difficult to overcome mind than matter. To contend with the former, is to contend with God himself, for all true knowledge is derived from him; to contend with the latter, is to fight with the grosser elements of the earth, which being corruptible in their nature, are more easily overcome. From her educated men have sprung all those wonderful discoveries in science, which have extended the commerce of Great Britain, enlarged her capacity for usefulness, and rendered her the general benefactress of mankind.

If education has accomplished these miracles--for they would have been regarded as such in a more remote period of the world's history--think of what importance it is to Canada to bestow this inestimable gift upon her children.

Yet I should be sorry to see the sons of the poor emigrant wasting their valuable time in acquiring Latin and Greek. A man may be highly educated, may possess the most lofty and comprehensive mind, without knowing one syllable of either. The best years of a boy's life are often thrown away in acquiring the Latin language, which often proves of little use to him in after life, and which, for the want of practice, becomes to him a dead letter, as well as a dead language. Let the boy be taught to think, to know the meaning thoroughly of what he learns, and, by the right use of his reflective faculties, be enabled to communicate the knowledge thus acquired to others. A comprehensive knowledge of the arts and sciences, of history, geography, chemistry, and mathematics, together with a deep and unbigoted belief in the great truths of Christianity, would render a man or woman a highly intellectual and rational companion, without going beyond the pale of plain English. "Light! give me more light!" were the dying words of Goethe; and this should be the constant prayer of all rational souls to the Father of light. More crimes are committed through ignorance than through the influence of bad and malignant passions. An ignorant man is incapable of judging correctly, however anxious he may be to do so. He gropes in the dark, like a blind man; and if he should happen to stumble on the right path, it is more by accident than from any correct idea which has been formed in his mind respecting it.

The mind which once begins to feel a relish for acquiring knowledge is not easily satisfied. The more it knows, the less it thinks of its own acquirements, and the more anxious it becomes to arrive at the truth; and finding that perfection is not a growth of earth, it carries its earnest longings beyond this world, and seeks it in communion with the Deity. If the young could once be fully persuaded that there was no disgrace in labour, in honest, honourable poverty, but a deep and lasting disgrace in ignorance and immorality, their education would be conducted on the most enlightened plan, and produce the most beneficial results.

The poor man who could have recourse to a book for amusement, instead of wasting a leisure hour in the barroom of a tavern, would be more likely to promote the comfort and respectability of his family. Why should the labourer be debarred from sharing with the rich the great world of the past, and be able to rank amongst his best friends the distinguished men of all creeds and countries, and to feel for these dead worthies (who, thanks to the immortal art of printing, still live in their works) the warmest gratitude and admiration? The very mention of some names awaken in the mind the most lively emotion. We recall their beautiful thoughts to memory, and repeat them with as much earnestness as though the dead spake again through our lips.

Of all the heaven-inspired inventions of man, there are none to which we are so greatly indebted as to the art of printing. To it we shall yet owe the emancipation of the larger portion of mankind from a state of mental and physical slavery. What floods of light have dawned upon the world since that silent orator, the press, set at liberty the imprisoned thoughts of men, and poured the wealth of mind among the famishing sons of earth! Formerly few could read, because manuscript books, the labours of the pen, were sold at such an enormous price that only men of rank or great wealth could afford to purchase them. The peasant, and the landholder who employed him, were alike ignorant; they could not obtain books, and therefore learning to read might well be considered in those dark ages a waste of time. This profound ignorance gave rise to all those superstitions which in the present enlightened age are regarded with such astonishment by thinking minds.

"How could sensible, good men, condemn poor old women to death for being witches?" was a question once asked me by my nephew, a fine, intelligent boy, of eight years of age.

Now this boy had read a good deal, young as he was, and thought more, and was wiser in his day and generation than these same pious bigots. And why? The boy had read the works of more enlightened men, and, making a right use of his reason, he felt convinced that these men were in error (although he had been born and brought up in the backwoods of Canada)--a fact which the great Mathew Hale was taught by bitter experience.

I have said more on this subject than I at first intended, but I feel deeply impressed with the importance of it; and, though I confess myself wholly inadequate to do it the justice it deserves, I hope the observations I have made will attract the attention of my Canadian readers, and lead them to study it more profoundly for themselves. Thanks be to God! Canada is a free country; a land of plenty; a land exempt from pauperism, burdensome taxation, and all the ills which crush and finally sink in ruin older communities. While the vigour of young life is yet hers, and she has before her the experience of all other nations, it becomes an act of duty and real patriotism to give to her children the best education that lies in her power.

The Poet.

"Who can read the Poet's dream,

Shadow forth his glorious theme,

And in written language tell

The workings of the potent spell,

Whose mysterious tones impart

Life and vigour to his heart?

'Tis an emanation bright,

Shooting from the fount of light;

Flowing in upon the mind,

Like sudden dayspring on the blind;

Gilding with immortal dyes

Scenes unknown to common eyes;

Revealing to the mental sight

Visions of untold delight.

'Tis the key by Fancy brought,

That opens up the world of thought;

A sense of power, a pleasing madness,

A hope in grief, a joy in sadness,

A taste for beauty unalloyed,

A love of nature never cloyed;

The upward soaring of a soul

Unfetter'd by the world's control,

Onward, heavenward ever tending,

Its essence with the Eternal blending;

Till, from 'mortal coil' shook free,

It shares the seraph's ecstacy."

CHAPTER IV
Amusements

"Life hath its pleasures, stern Death hath its fears,

Joy hath gay laughter, and Grief bitter tears;

Rejoice with the one, nor shrink from the other,--

Yon cloud hides the sun, and death is life's brother!

As the beam to the day, so the shade to the night--

Be certain that Heaven orders all for the right."

S.M.

My dear reader, before we proceed further on our journey, it may be as well to give you some idea of how the Canadian people in towns spend their time. I will endeavour to describe to you the various sources from whence they derive pleasure and amusement.

In large cities, like Montreal and Toronto, the higher classes are as refined and intellectual as ladies and gentlemen at home, and spend their lives much in the same manner. Their houses abound in all the elegancies and luxuries of life, and to step into their drawing-rooms you would imagine yourself still in England. They drive handsome carriages, and ride fine spirited horses; and if they are encumbered with fewer domestic pests in the shape of pampered servants, they have, in this respect, a decided advantage over their European friends. They dress well and expensively, and are very particular to have their clothes cut in the newest fashion. Men and women adopt the reigning mode so universally, that they look all dressed alike. The moment a fashion becomes at all obsolete, the articles of dress made to suit it are discarded. In England, a lady may please herself in the choice of colours, and in adopting as much of a fashion as suits her style of person and taste, but in Canada they carry this imitation of the fashions of the day to extremes. If green was the prevailing colour, every lady would adopt it, whether it suited her complexion or no; and, if she was ever so stout, that circumstance would not prevent her from wearing half-a-dozen more skirts than was necessary, because that absurd and unhealthy practice has for a long period prevailed. Music is taught very generally. Though very few attain any great perfection in the science, a great many perform well enough to gratify their friends, and contribute to the enjoyment of a social evening. You will find a piano in every weathy Canadian's house, and even in the dwellings of most of the respectable mechanics.

I never met with a Canadian girl who could not dance, and dance well. It seems born in them, and it is their favourite amusement. Polkas, waltzes, and quadrilles, are the dances most approved in their private and public assemblies. The eight Scotch reel has, however, its admirers, and most parties end with this lively romping dance.

Balls given on public days, such as the Queen's birthday, and by societies, such as the Freemasons', the Odd Fellows', and the Firemen's, are composed of very mixed company, and the highest and lowest are seen in the same room. They generally contrive to keep to their own set--dancing alternately--rarely occupying the floor together. It is surprising the goodwill and harmony that presides in these mixed assemblies. As long as they are treated with civility, the lower classes shew no lack of courtesy to the higher. To be a spectator at one of these public balls is very amusing. The country girls carry themselves with such an easy freedom, that it is quite entertaining to look at and listen to them. At a freemasons' ball, some years ago, a very amusing thing took place. A young handsome woman, still in her girlhood, had brought her baby, which she carried with her into the ball-room. On being asked to dance, she was rather puzzled what to do with the child; but, seeing a young lawyer, one of the elite of the town, standing with folded arms looking on, she ran across the room, and, putting the baby into his arms, exclaimed--"You are not dancing, sir; pray hold my baby for me, till the next quadrille is over." Away she skipped back to her partner, and left the gentleman overwhelmed with confusion, while the room shook with peals of laughter. Making the best of it, he danced the baby to the music, and kept it in high good humour till its mother returned.

"I guess," she said, "that you are a married man?"

"Yes," said he, returning the child, "and a mason."

"Well, I thought as much any how, by the way you acted with the baby."

"My conduct was not quite free from selfishness--I expect a reward."

"As how?"

"That you will give the baby to your husband, and dance the next set with me."

"With all my heart. Let us go a-head."

If legs did not do their duty, it was no fault of their pretty owner, for she danced with all her strength, greatly to the amusement of her aristocratic partner.

When we first came to Belleville, evening parties commenced at the primitive and rational hour of six o'clock, but now invitations are issued for eight; the company, however, seldom assemble before nine, and those who wish to be very fashionable don't make their appearance before ten. This is rather absurd in a country, but Folly, as well as Wisdom, is justified of her children. Evening parties always include dancing and music, while cards are provided for those gentlemen who prefer whist to the society of the ladies. The evening generally closes with a splendid supper, in which there is no lack of the good things which the season affords. The ladies are always served first, the gentlemen waiting upon them at supper; and they never sit down to the table, when the company is large, until after the ladies have returned to the drawing-room. This custom would not be very agreeable to some English epicures, but it is an universal one with Canadian gentlemen, whose politeness and attention to the other sex is one of the most pleasing traits in their character.

The opportunities of visiting the theatre occur very seldom, and only can be enjoyed by those who reside in the cities of Canada. The young men of the place sometimes get up an amateur performance, in which they act the part of both ladies and gentlemen, greatly to the delight and amusement of their audience. I must say that I have enjoyed a play in one of these private houses more than ever I did at Drury Lane or Covent Garden. The lads act with their whole hearts, and I have seen them shed real tears over the sorrows they were called upon to pourtray. They did not feign--they really felt the part. Of course, there was little artistic skill, but a good deal of truth and nature.

In the summer, riding and boating parties take the place of dancing. These are always regular picnics, each party contributing their share of eatables and drinkables to the general stock. They commonly select some pretty island in the bay, or shady retired spot on the main land, for the general rendezvous, where they light a fire, boil their kettles, and cook the vegetables to eat with their cold prog, which usually consists of hams, fowls, meat pies, cold joints of meat, and abundance of tarts and cakes, while the luxury of ice is conveyed in a blanket at the bottom of one of the boats.

These water parties are very delightful. The ladies stroll about and gather wild fruit and flowers, while the gentlemen fish. The weather at that season of the year is sure to be fine, and the water scenery beautiful in the extreme. Those who possess good voices sing, and the young folks dance on the greensward. A day spent thus happily with nature in her green domain, is one of pure and innocent enjoyment. There is always a reunion, in the evening, of the party, at the house of one of the married ladies who were present at the picnic.

In a riding party, some place is selected in the country, and those who are invited meet at a fixed hour on the appointed ground. The Oakhill pond, near the village of Rawdon, and about sixteen miles from Belleville, is a very favourite spot, and is one of singular beauty. This Oakhill pond is a small, clear, and very deep lake, on the summit of a high hill. It is about two miles in circumference, and being almost circular, must nearly be as broad as it is long. The waters are intensely blue, the back-ground is filled up with groves of dark pine, while the woods in front are composed of the dwarf oaks and firs, which are generally found on these table lands, interspersed with low bushes--the sandy soil abounding with every Canadian variety of wild fruits and flowers.

There is an excellent plank road all the way from Belleville to Rawdon. The Oakhills lie a little to the left, and you approach them by a very steep ascent, from the summit of which you obtain as fine a prospect as I have seen in this part of Canada. A vast country lies stretched beneath your feet, and you look down upon an immense forest, whose tree-tops, moved by the wind, cause it to undulate like a green ocean. From this spot you may trace the four windings of the bay, to its junction with the blue waters of the Ontario. The last time I gazed from the top of this hill a thunder-storm was frowning over the woods, and the dense black clouds gave an awful grandeur to the noble picture.

The village of Rawdon lies on the other side of this table land, quite in a valley. A bright, brisk little stream runs through it, and turns several large mills. It is a very pretty rural place, and is fast rising towards the dignity of a town. When we first came to Belleville, the spot on which Rawdon now stands belonged principally, if not altogether, to an enterprising Orkney man, Edward Fidlar, Esq., to whose energy and industry it mainly owes its existence. Mr. Fidlar might truly be termed the father of the village. A witty friend suggested, that instead of Rawdon, it ought more properly to be called "Fidlar's Green."

There is a clean country inn just at the foot of the long hill leading to the Oakhill pond, kept by a respectable widow-woman of the name of Fairman. If the pic-nic party does not wish to be troubled with carrying baskets of provisions so far, they send word to Mrs. Fairman the day previous, to prepare dinner for so many guests. This she always does in the best possible country style, at the moderate charge of half-a-dollar per head.

A dinner in the country in Canada, taken at the house of some substantial yeoman, is a very different affair from a dinner in the town. The table literally groans with good cheer; and you cannot offer a greater affront to your hostess, than to eat sparingly of the dainties set before you.

They like to have several days' warning of your intended visit, that they may go "to trouble," as they most truly term making such magnificent preparations for a few guests. I have sat down to a table of this kind in the country, with only Mr. M. and myself as guests, and we have been served with a dinner that would have amply fed twenty people. Fowls of several sorts, ham, and joints of roast and boiled meat, besides quantities of pies, puddings, custards, and cakes. Cheese is invariably offered to you with apple pie; and several little, glass dishes are ranged round your plate, for preserves, honey, and apple sauce, which latter dainty is never wanting at a country feast. The mistress of the house constantly presses you to partake of all these things, and sometimes the accumulation of rich food on one plate, which it is impossible for you to consume, is everything but agreeable.

Two ladies, friends of mine, went to spend the day at one of these too hospitable entertainers. The weather was intensely hot. They had driven a long way in the sun, and both ladies had a headache, and very little appetite in consequence. The mistress of the house went "to trouble," and prepared a great feast for her guests; but, finding that they partook very sparingly of her good cheer, her pride was greatly hurt, and rising suddenly from her seat, and turning to them with a stern brow, she exclaimed,--

"I should like to know what ails my victuals, that you don't choose to eat."

The poor ladies explained the reason of their appetites having failed them; but they found it a difficult matter to soothe their irritated hostess, who declared that she would never go "to trouble" for them again. It is of no use arguing against this amiable weakness, for as eating to uneducated people is one of the greatest enjoyments of life, they cannot imagine how they could make you more comfortable, by offering you less food, and of a more simple kind.

Large farmers in an old cleared country live remarkably well, and enjoy within themselves all the substantial comforts of life. Many of them keep carriages, and drive splendid horses. The contrast between the pork and potato diet, (and sometimes of potatoes alone without the pork), in the backwoods, is really striking. Before a gentleman from the old country concludes to settle in the bush, let him first visit these comfortable abodes of peace and plenty.

The Hon. R. B---, when canvassing the county, paid a round of visits to his principal political supporters, and they literally almost killed him with kindness. Every house provided a feast in honour of their distinguished guest, and he was obliged to eat at all.

Coming to spend a quiet evening at our house, the first words he uttered were--"If you have any regard for me, Mrs. M---, pray don't ask me to eat. I am sick of the sight of food."

I can well imagine the amount of "trouble" each good wife had taken upon herself on this great occasion.

One of the most popular public exhibitions is the circus, a sort of travelling Astley's theatre, which belongs to a company in New York. This show visits all the large towns, once during the summer season. The performances consists of feats of horsemanship, gymnastics, dancing on the tight and slack rope, and wonderful feats of agility and strength; and to those who have taste and nerve enough to admire such sights, it possesses great attractions. The company is a large one, often exceeding forty persons; it is provided with good performers, and an excellent brass band. The arrival of the circus is commonly announced several weeks before it makes its actual entrée, in the public papers; and large handbills are posted up in the taverns, containing coarse woodcuts of the most exciting scenes in the performance. These ugly pictures draw round them crowds of little boys, who know the whole of the programme by heart, long before the caravans containing the tents and scenery arrive. Hundreds of these little chaps are up before day-break on the expected morning of the show, and walk out to Shannonville, a distance of nine miles, to meet it.

However the farmers may grumble over bad times and low prices, the circus never lacks its quantum of visitors; and there are plenty of half-dollars to be had to pay for tickets for themselves and their families.

The Indians are particularly fond of this exhibition, and the town is always full of them the day the circus comes in.

A large tent is pitched on the open space between the Scotch church and the old hospital, big enough to contain at least a thousand people, besides a wide area for the performance and the pit. An amphitheatre of seats rise tier above tier, to within a few feet of the eaves of the tent, for the accommodation of the spectators; and the whole space is lighted by a large chandelier, composed of tin holders, filled with very bad, greasy, tallow candles, that in the close crowded place emit a very disagreeable odour.

The show of horses and feats of horsemanship are always well worth seeing, but the rest grows very tiresome on frequent repetition. Persons must be very fond of this sort of thing who can twice visit the circus, as year after year the clown repeats the same stale jests, and shows up the same style of performers.

The last time I went, in order to please my youngest son, I was more amused by the antics of a man who carried about bull's-eyes and lemonade, than by any of the actors. Whenever he offered his tray of sweets to the ladies, it was with such an affectedly graceful bend; and throwing into his voice the utmost persuasion, he contrived to glance down on the bulls'-eyes with half an eye, and to gaze up at the ladies he addressed with all that remained of the powers of vision, exclaiming, with his hand on his heart,--"How sweet they a-r-e!" combining a recommendation of his bulls'-eyes with a compliment to the fair sex.

The show opens at two o'clock, P.M., and again at half-past seven in the evening. The people from a distance, and the young children, visit the exciting scene during the day; the town's-people at night, as it is less crowded, cooler, and the company more select. Persons of all ranks are there; and the variety of faces and characters that nature exhibits gratis, are far more amusing to watch than the feats of the Athletes.

Then there is Barnham's travelling menagerie of wild animals, and of tame darkie melodists, who occupy a tent by themselves, and a white nigger whom the boys look upon with the same wonder they would do at a white rat or mouse. Everybody goes to see the wild beasts, and to poke fun at the elephants. One man who, born and brought up in the Backwoods, had never seen an elephant before, nor even a picture of one, ran half frightened home to his master, exclaiming as he bolted into the room, "Oh, sir! sir! you must let the childer go to the munjery. Shure there's six huge critters to be seen, with no eyes, and a tail before and behind."

The celebrated General Tom Thumb paid the town a visit last summer. His presence was hailed with enthusiastic delight, and people crowded from the most remote settlements to gaze upon the tiny man. One poor Irishwoman insisted "that he was not a human crathur, but a poor fairy changeling, and that he would vanish away some day, and never be heard of again." Signor Blitz, the great conjuror, occasionally pays us a visit, but his visits are like angel visits, few and far between. His performance never fails in filling the large room in the court-house for several successive nights, and his own purse. Then we have lecturers from the United States on all subjects, who commonly content themselves with hiring the room belonging to the Mechanics' Institute, where they hold forth, for the moderate sum of a York shilling a head, on mesmerism, phrenology, biology, phonography, spiritual communications, etc.

These wandering lectures are often very well attended, and their performance is highly entertaining. Imagine a tall, thin, bearded American, exhibiting himself at a small wooden desk between two dingy tallow candles, and holding forth in the genuine nasal twang on these half-supernatural sciences on which so much is advanced, and of which so little is at present understood. Our lecturer, however, expresses no doubts upon the subject of which he treats. He proves on the persons of his audience the truth of phrenology, biology, and mesmerism, and the individuals he pitches upon to illustrate his facts perform their parts remarkably well, and often leave the spectators in a maze of doubt, astonishment, and admiration.

I remember, about three years ago, going with my husband to hear the lecturers of a person who called himself Professor R---. He had been lecturing for some nights running at the Mechanics' Institute for nothing; and had drawn together a great number of persons to hear him, and witness the strange things he effected by mesmerism on the persons of such of the audience, who wished to test his skill. This would have been but a poor way of getting his living. But these American adventurers never give their time and labour for nothing. He obtained two dollars for examining a head phrenologically, and drawing out a chart; and as his lectures seldom closed without securing him a great many heads for inspection, our disinterested professor contrived to pocket a great deal of money, and to find his cheap lectures an uncommonly profitable speculation.

We had heard a great deal of his curing a blacksmith of tic-douloureux by mesmerizing him. The blacksmith, though a big, burly man, had turned out an admirable clairvoyant, and by touching particular bumps in his cranium, the professor could make him sing, dance, and fight all in a breath, or transport him to California, and set him to picking gold. I was very curious to witness this man's conduct under his alleged mesmeric state, and went accordingly. After a long lecture, during which the professor put into a deep sleep a Kentuckian giant, who travelled with him, the blacksmith was called upon to satisfy the curiosity of the spectators. I happened to sit near this individual, and as he rose to comply with the vociferous demands of the audience, I shall never forget the sidelong knowing glance he cast across the bench to a friend of his own; it was, without exception, the most intelligent telegraphic despatch that it was possible for one human eye to convey to another, and said more plainly than words could--"You shall see how I can humbug them all." That look opened my eyes completely to the farce that was acting before me, and entering into the spirit of the scene, I must own that I enjoyed it amazingly. The blacksmith was mesmerised by a look alone, and for half an hour went on in a most funny manner, keeping the spectators with their eyes open, and in convulsions of laughter. After a while, the professor left him to enjoy his mesmeric nap, and chose another subject, in the person of a man who had lectured a few nights before on the science of mnemonics, and had been disappointed in a very scanty attendance.

After a decent time had elapsed, the new subject yielded very easily to the professor's magic passes, and fell into a profound sleep. The mesmerizer then led him, with his eyes shut, to the front of the stage, and pointed out to the spectators the phrenological development of his head; he then touched the bump of language, and set the seeming automaton talking. But here the professor was caught in his own trap. After once setting him going, he of the mnemonics refused to hold his tongue until he had given, to his weary listeners, the whole lecture he had delivered a few nights before. He pranced to and fro on the platform, declaiming in the most pedantic voice, and kept us for one blessed hour before he would suffer the professor to deprive him of the unexpected opportunity thus afforded him of being heard. It was a droll scene: the sly blacksmith in a profound fox's sleep--the declaimer pretending to be asleep, and wide awake all the time--and the thin, long-faced American, too wise to betray his colleagues, but evidently annoyed beyond measure at the trick they had played him.

I once went to hear a lecture at the Mechanics' Institute, delivered by a very eccentric person, who styled himself the Hon. James Spencer Lidstone--the Great Orator of the West. My astonishment may be guessed better than described, when he gave out for the subject of his lecture--"Great women, from Eve down to Mrs. M---." Not wishing to make myself a laughing-stock, to a pretty numerous audience, I left the room. Going up the street next morning, a venerable white-haired old man ran after me, and pulling me by the shawl, said, "Mrs. M---, why did you leave us last night? He did you justice--indeed he did. You should have stayed and heard all the fine things he said of you."

Besides scientific lecturers, Canada is visited by singers and musicians of every country, and of every age and sex--from the celebrated Jenny Lind, and the once celebrated Braham, down to pretenders who can neither sing nor play, worth paying a York shilling to hear. Some of these wandering musicians play with considerable skill, and are persons of talent. Their life is one of strange vicissitudes and adventure, and they have an opportunity of making the acquaintance of many odd characters. In illustration of this, I will give you a few of the trials of a travelling musician, which I took down from the dictation of a young friend, since dead, who earned a precarious living by his profession. He had the faculty of telling his adventures without the power of committing them to paper; and, from the simplicity and truthfulness of his character, I have no doubt of the variety of all the amusing anecdotes he told. But he shall speak for himself in the next chapter.

A May-Day Carol.

"There's not a little bird that wings

Its airy flight on high,

In forest bowers, that sweetly sings

So blithe in spring as I.

I love the fields, the budding flowers,

The trees and gushing streams;

I bathe my brow in balmy showers,

And bask in sunny beams.

"The wanton wind that fans my cheek,

In fancy has a voice,

In thrilling tones that gently speak--

Rejoice with me, rejoice!

The bursting of the ocean-floods,

The silver tinkling rills,

The whispering of the waving woods,

My inmost bosom fills.

"The moss for me a carpet weaves

Of patterns rich and rare;

And meekly through her sheltering leaves

The violet nestles there.

The violet!--oh, what tales of love,

Of youth's sweet spring are thine!

And lovers still in field and grove,

Of thee will chaplets twine.

"Mine are the treasures Nature strews

With lavish hand around;

My precious gems are sparkling dews,

My wealth the verdant ground.

Mine are the songs that freely gush

From hedge, and bush, and tree;

The soaring lark and speckled thrush

Discourse rich melody.

"A cloud comes floating o'er the sun,

The woods' green glories fade;

But hark! the blackbird has begun

His wild lay in the shade.

He hails with joy the threaten'd shower,

And plumes his glossy wing;

While pattering on his leafy bower,

I hear the big drops ring.

"Slowly at first, but quicker now,

The rushing rain descends;

And to each spray and leafy bough

A crown of diamonds lends.

Oh, what a splendid sight appears!

The sun bursts forth again;

And, smiling through sweet Nature's tears,

Lights up the hill and plain.

"And tears are trembling in my eyes,

Tears of intense delight;

Whilst gazing upward to the skies,

My heart o'erflows my sight.

Great God of nature! may thy grace

Pervade my inmost soul;

And in her beauties may I trace

The love that form'd the whole!"

CHAPTER V
Trials of a Travelling Musician

"The man that hath not music in his soul."

I will say no more. The quotation, though but too true, I is too well known; but it will serve as the best illustration I can give to the various annoyances which beset the path of him who is musically inclined, and whose soul is in unison with sweet sounds. This was my case. I loved music with all my heart and soul, and in order to give myself wholly up to my passion, and claim a sort of moral right to enjoy it, I made it a profession.

Few people have a better opportunity of becoming acquainted with the world than the travelling musician; yet such is the absorbing nature of his calling, that few make use of it less. His nature is open, easy, and unsuspecting; pleased with his profession, he hopes always to convey the same pleasure to his hearers; and though doubts will sometimes cross his mind, and the fear of ridicule make him awkward and nervous, yet, upon the whole, he is generally sure of making a favourable impression on the simple-hearted and generous among his hearers.

The musician moves among his fellow-men as a sort of privileged person; for who ever suspects him of being a rogue? His first attempt to deceive would defeat its own object, and prove him to be a mere pretender. His hand and voice must answer for his skill, and form the only true test of his abilities. If tuneless and bad, the public will not fail to condemn him.

The adventures of the troubadours of old, if they were more full of sentiment and romance than the every-day occurrences that beset the path of the modern minstrel, were not more replete with odd chances and ludicrous incident. Take the following for an example of the many droll things which have happened to me during my travels.

In the summer of 1846 I was making a professional tour through the United States, and had advertised a concert for the ensuing evening at the small town of ---, and was busy making the necessary arrangements, when I was suddenly accosted, as I left the hotel, by a tall, thin, lack-a-daisical looking man, of a most unmusical and unprepossessing appearance: "How-do-ye-do? I'm highly tickled to see you. I s'pose you are going to give an extra sing here--ain't you?"

"Yes; I intend giving a concert here this evening."

"Hem! How much dew you ax to come in? That is--I want to say--what are you goin' to chearge a ticket?"

"Half a dollar--the usual price."

"How?" inclining his ear towards me, as if he doubted the soundness of the organ.

"Half a dollar?" repeated I, carelessly.

"Tis tew much. You had better chearge twenty-five cents. If you dew, you'll have a pretty good house. If you make it twelve and a half cents, you'll have a smasher. If, mister, you'll lower that agin to six and a quarter cents, you'll have to take a field,--there ain't a house would hold 'em." After a pause, scratching his head, and shuffling with his feet, "I s'pose you ginnerally give the profession tickets?"

"Sometimes."

"I'm a leetle in your line myself. Although I'm a shoe-maker by trade, I leads the first Presbyterian choir upon the hill. I should like to have you come up, if you stay long enough."

"As that is the case, perhaps you can tell me if I am likely to have a good house to-night?"

"I kind a reckon as how you will; that is, if you don't chearge tew much."

"Where shall I get the best room?"

"Well, I guess, you had better try the old meetin' house."

"Thank you. Allow me, sir, to present you with a ticket." I now thought that I had got rid of him, and amply paid him for the information I had received. The ticket was for a single admission. He took it, turned it slowly round, held it close to his eyes, spelt it carefully over, and then stared at me. "What next?" thought I.

"There's my wife. Well--I s'pose she'd like to come in."

"You wish me to give you a double ticket?"

"I don't care if you dew," again turning the new ticket in his hand; and, scratching his head more earnestly, he said, "I've one of the smartest boys you ever seed; he's a fust-rate ear for music; he can whistle any tune he hears right straight off. Then there's my wife's sister a-staying with us jist now; she's very fond of music tew."

"Perhaps," said I, losing all patience, "you would prefer a family ticket?"

"Well; I'd be obliged. It don't cost you any, mister; and if we don't use it, I'll return it to-morrow."

The stranger left me, and I saw no more of him, until I spied him in the concert-room, with a small family of ten or twelve. Presently, another man and a dog arrived. Says he to the doorkeeper, "What's a-goin on here?"

"It's a concert--admission, half-a-dollar."

"I'm not a-goin' to give half-a-dollar to go in here. I hire a pew in this here church by the year, and I've a right to go in whenever the door's open." So in he went with his dog.

The evening turned out very wet, and these people happened to form all my audience; and as I did not feel at all inclined to sing for their especial benefit, I returned to my lodgings. I learned from my doorkeeper the next morning, that my friends waited for an hour and a half for my reappearance, which could not reasonably have been expected under existing circumstances.

I thought I had got rid of the musical shoemaker for ever, but no such good luck. Before I was out of my bed, he paid me a visit.

"You will excuse my calling so early," says he, "but I was anxious to see you before you left the town."

Wishing him at the bottom of the Mississippi, I put on my dressing gown, and slipped from my bed, whilst he continued his introductory address.

"I was very sorry that you had not a better attendance last night; and I s'pose that accounted for your leaving us as you did. We were all kinder disappointed. You'd have had a better house, only the people thought there was a leetle humbug about this," and he handed me one of my programmes.

It is well known to most of my readers, that in writing these bills the name of the composer generally follows the song, particularly in any very popular compositions, such as

Grand Introduction to Pianoforte .............. HENRY HERTZ.
Life on the Ocean Wave ........................ HENRY RUSSELL.
Old English Gentleman ......................... Melody by MART. LUTHER.

"Humbug!" said I, attempting to take the bill, in order to see that no mistake had originated in the printing, but my tormentor held it fast. "Look," said he; "Now where is Henry Hertz; and Henry Russell, where is he? And the Old English Gentleman, Martin Luther, what has become of him? The folks said that he was dead, but I didn't believe that, for I didn't think that you would have had the face to put his name in your bill if he was."

Thus ended my acquaintance with the enlightened shoemaker of the Mississippi. I was travelling in one of the western canal boats the same summer, and was sauntering to and fro upon the deck, admiring the beauty of the country through which we were passing, when I observed a very tall, thin-laced, sharp looking man, regarding me with very fixed attention. Not knowing who or what he was, I was at last a little annoyed by the pertinacity of this steady stare. It was evident that he meditated an attack upon me in some shape or other. Suddenly he came up to me, and extending his hand, exclaimed,--

"Why, Mister H---, is this you? I have not seen you since you gave your consort at N---; it seems a tarnation long while ago. I thought, perhaps, you had got blowed up in one of those exploded steam-boats. But here you are as large as life--and that's not over large neither, (glancing at the slight dimensions of my figure,) and as ready to raise the wind as ever. I am highly gratified to meet with you, as I have one of the greatest songs you ever he'rd to show you. If you can but set it to music, and sing it in New York city, it will immortalize you, and immortalize me tew."

Amused at the earnestness with which the fellow spoke, I inquired the subject of his song.

"Oh, 'tis des-crip-tive; 'tis tre-men-dous. It will make a sensation all over the Union."

"But what is it about?--Have you got it with you?"

"No--no, mister; I never puts these things down on paper, lest other folk should find them and steal them. But I'll give you some idee of what it is. Look you, mister. I was going from Syracuse to Rochester, on the canal-boat. We met on our way a tre-men-dous storm. The wind blew, and the rain came down like old sixty, and everything looked as black as my hat; and the passengers got scared and wanted to get off, but the captain sung out, 'Whew--let 'em go, Jem!' and away we went at the rate of tew miles an hour, and they could not stop. By and by we struck a rock, and down we went."

"Indeed!" said I, "that's very unusual in a canal-boat; were any lives lost?"

"No, but we were all dreadfully sceared and covered with mud. I sat down by the en-gine till I got dry, and then I wrote my pome. I will repeat what I can to you, and what I can't I will write right off when I gets hum.--Hold on--hold on--" he continued, beating his forehead with the back of his hand, as if to awaken the powers of memory--"I have it now--I have it now,--'tis tre-men-dous--"

"Oh Lord, who know'st the wants of men,

Guide my hand, and guide my pen,

And help me bring the truth to light,

Of that dread scene and awful night,

Ri, tu, ri, tu, ri, tu.

There was Mister Cadoga in years a-bud,

Was found next morning in tew feet mud;

He strove--he strove--but all in vain,

The more he got up, he fell down again.

Ri, tu, ri, tu, ri, tu."

The poet paused for a moment to gain breath, evidently overcome by the recollection of the awful scene. "Is not that bee-u-tiful?" he exclaimed. "What a fine effect you could give to that on the pee-a-ne, humouring the keys to imitate his squabbling about in the mud. Let me tell you, mister, it would beat Russell's 'Ship on Fire' all hollow."

Wiping the perspiration from his face, he recommenced--

"The passengers rushed unto the spot,

Together with the crew;

We got him safe out of the mud,

But he had lost his shoe.

Ri, tu, ri, tu, ri, tu."

I could not listen to another line of this sublime effusion, the passengers who had gathered around us drowning his nasal drawl in a complete roar of laughter. Seeing that I was as much infected as the rest, the poet turned to me, with an air of offended dignity,--

"I don't take the trouble, mister, to repeat any more of my pomes to you; nor do I take it kind at all, your laughing at me in that ere way. But the truth is, you can't comprehend nor appreciate anything that is sublime, or out of the common way. Besides, I don't think you could set it to music; it is not in you, and you can't fix it no-how."

This singular address renewed our mirth; and, finding myself unable to control my inclination to laugh, and not wishing to hurt his feelings, I was about to leave him, when the man at the helm sung out, "Bridge!"

The passengers lowered their heads to ensure their safety--all but my friend the poet, who was too much excited to notice the signal before he came in contact with the bridge, which sent him sprawling down the gangway. He picked himself up, clambered up the stairs, and began striding up and down the deck at a tremendous rate, casting from time to time indignant glances at me.

I thought, for my part, that the man was not in his right senses, or that the blow he had received had so dulled his bump of caution, that he could no longer take care of himself; for the next moment he stumbled over a little child, and would have been hurt severely if I had not broken his fall, by catching his arm before he again measured his length on the deck. My timely assistance mollified his anger, and he once more became friendly and confidential.

"Here, take this piece of poetry, Mister H---, and see if you can set it to music. Mind you, it is none of mine; but though not quite so good, it is som'at in my style. I cut it out of a newspaper down East. You are welcome to it," he continued, with a patronizing nod, "that is, if you are able to do justice to the subject."

I took the piece of dirty crumpled newspaper from his hand; and, struck with the droll quizzing humour of the lines, I have preserved them ever since. As I have never seen them before or since, I will give you them here.

To The Falls Of Niagara.

"I wonder how long you've been roarin'

At this infernal rate;

I wonder if all you've been pourin'

Could be cipher'd on a slate.

"I wonder how such a thunderin' sounded

When all New York was woods;

'Spose likely some Injins have been drownded,

When the rains have raised your floods.

"I wonder if wild stags and buffaloes

Have stood where now I stand;

Well--s'pose being scared at first, they stubb'd their toes;

I wonder where they'd land.

"I wonder if that rainbow has been shinin'

Since sun-rise at creation;

And this waterfall been underminin'

With constant spatteration.

"That Moses never mention'd ye--I've wonder'd,

While other things describin';

My conscience!--how ye must have foam'd and thunder'd

When the deluge was subsidin'!

"My thoughts are strange, magnificent, and deep,

When I look down on thee;--

Oh, what a glorious place for washing sheep

Niagara would be!

"And oh, what a tremendous water power

Is wash'd over its edge;

One man might furnish all the world with flour,

With a single privilege.

"I wonder how many times the lakes have all

Been emptied over here;

Why Clinton did not feed the grand Canal

Up here--I think is queer.

"The thoughts are very strange that crowd my brain,

When I look up to thee;

Such thoughts I never expect to have again,

To all eternity."

After reading the lines, I begged my friend to excuse me, as I wanted to go below and take a nap. I had not been long in the cabin before he followed me. To get rid of him I pretended to be asleep. After passing me two or three times, and leaning over me in the most inquisitive manner, until his long nose nearly went into my eye, and humming a bow-wow tune in my ear to ascertain if I were really napping, he turned from me with a dissatisfied grunt, flung himself into a settee, and not long after was puffing and blowing like a porpoise. I was glad of this opportunity to go on deck again, and "I left him alone in his glory." But, while I was congratulating myself on my good fortune, I found him once more at my side.

Good heavens! how I wished him at the bottom of the canal, when he commenced telling me some awful dream he had had. I was too much annoyed at being pestered with his company to listen to him, a circumstance I now rather regret, for had his dreams been equal to his poetry, they certainly must have possessed the rare merit of originality; and I could have gratified my readers with something entirely out of the common way.

Turning abruptly from him, I entered into conversation with another gentleman, and quite forgot my eccentric friend until I retired for the night, when I found him waiting for me in the cabin.

"Ho, ho, mister,--is that you? I was afear'd we had put you ashore. What berth are you goin' to take?"

I pointed to No. 4.

"Then," said he, "would you have any objection to my locating in the one above you, as I feel a leetle afear'd? It is so awful dark out-doors, and the clouds look tre-mend-ous black, as if they'd be a-pourin' all night. The reason why I prefer the upper berth is this," he continued confidentially; "if we should fall in with a storm, and all go to the bottom, I should have a better chance of saving myself. But mind you, if she should sink I will give you half of my berth, if you'll come up."

I thanked him for his offer, and not being at all apprehensive, I told him that I preferred staying where I was. Soon after I retired, hoping to sleep, but I had not calculated on the powers of annoyance possessed by my quondam friend. I had just laid myself comfortably down, when I felt one of his huge feet on the side of my berth. Looking out, I espied him crawling up on all-fours to his place of security for the night. His head had scarcely touched the pillow before he commenced telling me some long yarn; but I begged him, in no very gentle tone, to hold on till the morning, as I had a very severe headache, and wanted to go to sleep.

I had fallen into a sort of doze, when I thought I heard some one talking in a low voice close to my ear. I started into a sitting posture, and listened a moment. It was pitch dark; I could see nothing. I soon, however, discovered that the mysterious sounds proceeded from the berth above me. It was my friend reciting, either for my amusement or his own, the poem he had favoured me with in the morning. He was apparently nearly asleep, and he drawled the half-uttered sentences through his nose in the most ludicrous manner. He was recapitulating the disastrous condition of Mr. Cadoga:--

"There was Mister Ca-do-ga--in years a-bud--

Next morning--tew--feet--mud--

He strove--he--but--in vain;

The more he fell--down--he got up--a-g-a-in.

Ri--tu--ri--tu."

Here followed a tremendous snore, and I burst into a prolonged fit of laughter, which fortunately did not put a stop to the sonorous bass of my companion overhead, whose snoring I considered far more tolerable than his conversation.

Just at this moment the boat struck the bank, which it frequently does of a very dark night, which gave the vessel such a shock, that it broke the cords that secured the poet's bed to the beam above, and down he came, head foremost, to the floor. This accident occasioned me no small discomfort, as he nearly took my berth with him. It was fortunate for me that I was awake, or he might have killed me in his descent; as it was, I had only time to throw myself back, when he rushed past me with the speed of an avalanche, carrying bed and bed-clothes with him in one confused heap; and there he lay upon the floor, rolling and roaring like some wild beast caught in a net.

"Oh, dear! oh, dear! I wonder where I is; what a tre-men-dous storm--what a dreadful night--not a soul can be saved,--I knew it--I dreampt it all. Oh Lord! we shall all go to the bottom, and find eternity there--Captain captain--where be we?"

Here a child belonging to one of the passengers, awakened by his bellowing, began to cry.

"Oh, dear! Some one else sinking.--Captain--captain--confound him! I s'pose he's drownded, like the rest. Thank heaven! here's something to hold on to, to keep me from sinking;" and, clutching at the table in the dark, he upset it, and broke the large lamp that had been left upon it. Down came the broken glass upon him in a shower which, doubtless, he took for the waves breaking over him, for he raised such a clatter with his hands and feet, and uttered such doleful screams, that the passengers started simultaneously from their sleep,--

"What's the matter? is that man mad or drunk?" exclaimed several voices.

The gentleman beneath the bed-clothes again groaned forth,--"We are all lost. If I once get upon dry land, you'll never catch me in a canal-boat agin."

Pitying his distress I got up, groped my way to the steward's berth, and succeeded in procuring a light. When I returned to the cabin, I found the poet lying on the floor, with the table upon him, and he holding it fast with both hands, crying vehemently, "I will never let go. I will hang on to the last."

"You are dreaming," said I; "come, get up. The cords of your bed were not strong enough to hold you, and you have got a tumble on to the floor; nothing else is the matter with you."

As I ceased speaking the vessel again struck the bank, and my friend, in his eagerness to save himself, upset me, light and all. I again upset all the small pieces of furniture in my reach, to the great amusement of the passengers, who were sitting up in their berths listening to; and laughing at our conversation. We were all once more in the dark, and I can assure my readers that my situation was everything but comfortable, as the eccentric gentleman had hold of both my legs.

"You foolish fellow," cried I, kicking with all my might to free myself. "There is no harm done; the boat has only struck again upon the bank."

"Where is the bank?" said he, still labouring under the delusion that he was in the water. "Give me a hold on it. If I can only get on the bank I shall be safe."

Finding it impossible to convince him how matters really stood, I left him to unroll himself to his full dimensions on the floor, and groping my way to a sofa, laid myself down once more to sleep.

When the passengers met at the breakfast-table, the poor poet and his misfortunes during the night gave rise to much quizzing and merriment, particularly when he made his appearance with a black eye, and the skin rubbed off the tip of his nose.

One gentleman, who was most active in teasing him, cried out to me,--"Mr. H---, do try and set last night's adventures to music, and sing them this evening at your concert. They would make a tre-men-dous sensation, I assure you."

The poet looked daggers at us, and seizing his carpet-bag, sprang to the deck, and from the deck to the shore, which he fortunately reached in safety, without casting a parting glance at his tormentors.

The Mountain Air.

"Rave not to me of your sparkling wine;

Bid not for me the goblet shine;

My soul is athirst for a draught more rare,

A gush of the pure, fresh mountain air!

"It wafts on its currents the rich perfume

Of the purple heath, and the honied broom;

The golden furze, and the hawthorn fair,

Shed all their sweets to the mountain air.

"It plays round the bank and the mossy stone,

Where the violet droops like a nun alone;

Shrouding her eyes from the noon-tide glare,

But breathing her soul to the mountain-air.

"It gives to my spirits a tone of mirth--

I bound with joy o'er the new-dress'd earth,

When spring has scatter'd her blossoms there,

And laden with balm the mountain air.

"From nature's fountain my nectar flows,

'Tis the essence of each sweet bud that blows;

Then come, and with me the banquet share,

Let us breathe together the mountain air!"

CHAPTER VI
The Singing Master

The Singing-School.

"Conceit's an excellent great-coat, and sticks

Close to the wearer for his mortal life;

It has no spot nor wrinkle in his eyes,

And quite cuts out the coats of other men."

S.M.

"He had a fiddle sadly out of tune,

A voice as husky as a raven croaking,

Or owlet hooting to the clouded moon,

Or bloated bull-frog in some mud-hole choking."

During my professional journies through the country, I have often had the curiosity to visit the singing-schools in the small towns and villages through which I passed. These are often taught by persons who are perfectly ignorant of the common rules of music--men who have followed the plough all their lives, and know about as much of the divine science they pretend to teach as one of their oxen.

I have often been amused at their manner of explaining the principles of their art to their pupils, who profit so little by their instructions, that they are as wise at the end of their quarter as when they began. The master usually endeavours to impress upon them the importance of making themselves heard, and calls him the smartest fellow who is able to make the most noise. The constant vibration they keep up through their noses gives you the idea that their teacher has been in the habit of raising sheep, and had caught many of their peculiar notes. This style he very kindly imparts to his pupils; and as apt scholars generally try to imitate their master, choirs taught by these individuals resemble a flock of sheep going bahing one after another over a wall.

I will give you a specimen of one of these schools, that I happened to visit during my stay in the town of W---, in the western states. I do not mean to say that all music masters are like the one I am about to describe, but he bears a very close resemblance to a great many of the same calling, who practise their profession in remote settlements, where they are not likely to find many to criticise their performance.

I had advertised a concert for the 2nd of January, 1848, to be given in the town of W---. I arrived on the day appointed, and fortunately made the acquaintance of several gentlemen amateurs, who happened to be boarding at the hotel to which I had been recommended. They kindly manifested a lively interest in my success, and promised to do all in their power to procure me a good house.

While seated at dinner, one of my new friends received a note, which he said came from a singing master residing in a small village a few miles back of W---. After reading the epistle, and laughing heartily over its contents, he gave it to me. To my great astonishment it ran as follows:--

"My Dear Roberts,

"How do you do? I hope you will excuse me for troubling you on this occasion; but I want to ax you a partic'lar question. Is you acquainted with the man who is a-goin' to give a sing in your town to-night? If you be, jist say to him, from me, that if he will come over here, we will get him up a house. If he will--or won't cum--please let me know. I am teaching a singing-school over here, and I can do a great deal for him, if he will only cum.

"Yours, most respectfully,

"John Browne."

"You had better go, Mr. H---," said Roberts. "This John Browne is a queer chap, and I promise you lots of fun. If you decide upon going we will all accompany you, and help to fill your house."

"By all means," said I. "You will do me a great favour to return an answer to the professional gentleman to that effect. I will send him some of my programmes, and if he can get a tolerable piano, I will go over and give them a concert next Saturday evening."

The note and the bills of performance were duly despatched to ---, and the next morning we received an answer from the singing master to say that all was right, and that Mr. Browne would be happy to give Mr. H--- his valuable assistance; but, if possible, he wished that I could come out on Friday, instead of Saturday, as his school met on that evening at six o'clock, and he would like me to witness the performance of his scholars, which would only last from five in the evening till six, and consequently need not interfere at all with my concert, which was to commence at eight.

We ordered a conveyance immediately, and as it was the very day signified in the note, we started off for the village of ---. On our arrival we were met at the door of the only hotel in the place, by the man a "leetle in my line."

"Is this you, Mr. Thing-a-my. I can't for the life of me think of your name. But no matter. Ain't you the chap as is a-goin' to give us the con-sort this evening?"

I answered in the affirmative, and he continued--

"What a leetle fellow you be. Now I stand six feet four inches in my boots, and my voice is high in proportion. But I s'pose you can sing. Small fellows allers make a great noise. A bantam roaster allers crows as loud as an game crower, to make folks believe that the dung-hill is his'n."

I was very much amused at his comparing me to a bantam cock, and felt almost inclined to clap my wings and crow.

"I have sent all your bills about town," continued the odd man, "and invited all the tip-tops to cum and hear you. I have engaged a good room, and a forty pound pee-a-ne. I s'pose it's worth as much, for 'tis a terrible smart one. It belongs to Deacon S---; and his two daughters are the prettiest galls hereabouts. They play 'Old Dan Tucker,' and all manner of tunes. I found it deuced hard to get the old woman's consent; but I knew she wouldn't refuse me, as she is looking out to cotch me for one of the daughters. She made many objections--said that she would rather the cheese-press and the cook-stove, and all the rest of the furniture went out of the house than the pee-a-ne, as she afear'd that the strings would break, and all the keys spill out by the way. The strings are rusty, and keys loose enough already. I told the old missus that I would take good care that the right side was kept uppermost; and that if any harm happened to the instrument, you could set it all right agin."

"I am sorry," said I, "to hear such a poor account of the instrument. It is impossible to sing well to a bad piano--"

"Phoo, phoo, man! there's nobody here that ever he'rd a better. Bad or good, it's the only one in the village. I play on this pee-a-ne a leetle myself, and that ought to be some encouragement to you. I am goin' to do a considerable business in the singing line here. I have stirred up all the leetle girls and boys in the place, and set them whistling an' playing on the Jew's harp. Then I goes to the old 'uns, and says to them, what genuses for music these young 'uns be! it is your duty to improve a talent that providence has bestowed on your children. I puts on a long face, like a parson, when I talks of providence and the like o'that, and you don't know how amazingly it takes with the old folks. They think that providence is allers on the look out to do them some good turn.

"'What do you charge, Mr. Browne?' says they, instanter.

"Oh, a mere trifle, say I, instanter. Jist half-a-dollar a quarter--part in cash, part in produce.

"''Tis cheap,' says they agin.

"Tew little, says I, by half.

"'Well, the children shall go,' says the old man. 'Missus, you see to it.'

"The children like to hear themselves called genuses, and they go into it like smoke. When I am tuning my voice at my lodgings in the evening, just by way of recreation, the leetle boys all gets round my winder to listen to my singing. They are so fond of it I can't get them away. They make such a confounded noise, in trying to imitate my splendid style. But I'll leave you to judge of that for yourself. 'Spose you'll be up with me to the singing-school, and then you will hear what I can do."

"I shall be most happy to attend you."

"You see, Mr. Thing-a-my, this is my first lesson, and you must make all allowances, if there should be any trouble, or that all should not go right. You see one seldom gets the hang of it the first night, no how. I have been farming most of my life, but I quits that about five weeks ago, and have been studying hard for my profession ever since. I have got a large school here, another at A--- and another at L---; and before the winter is over, I shall be qualified to teach at W---. I play the big bass fiddle and the violin right off, and--"

Here a little boy came running up to say that his father's sheep had got out of the yard, and had gone down to Deacon S---; and, said he, "The folks have sent for you, Mister Browne, to cum and turn 'em out."

"A merciful intervention of providence," thought I, who was already heartily weary of my new acquaintance, and began to be afraid that I never should get rid of him. To tell the truth, I was so tired of looking up at him, that I felt that I could not converse much longer with him without endangering the elasticity of my neck, and he would have been affronted if I had asked him to walk in and sit down.

He was not very well pleased with Deacon S---'s message.

"That comes of borrowing, mister. If I had not asked the loan of the pee-a-ne, they never would have sent for me to look arter their darned sheep. I must go, however. I hope you'll be able to keep yourself alive in my absence. I have got to string up the old fiddle for to-night. The singing-school is about a mile from this. I will come down with my old mare arter you, when its just time to be a-goin'. So good-bye."

Away he strode at the rate of six miles an hour; his long legs accomplishing at one step what would have taken a man of my dimensions three to compass. I then went into the hotel to order dinner for my friends, as he had allowed me no opportunity to do so. The conceited fellow had kept me standing a foot deep in snow for the last hour, while listening to his intolerably dull conversation. My disgust and disappointment afforded great amusement to my friends; but in spite of all my entreaties, they could not be induced to leave their punch and a warm fire to accompany me in my pilgrimage to the singing-school.

We took dinner at four o'clock, and the cloth was scarcely drawn, when my musical friend made his appearance with the old mare, to take me along to the school.

Our turn-out was everything but prepossessing. A large unwieldy cutter of home manufacture, the boards of which it was composed unplained and unpainted, with rope harness, and an undressed bull's hide by way of buffalo's, formed our equipage. But no description that I could give you would do justice to the old mare. A sorry beast she was--thick legged, rough coated, and of a dirty yellow-white. Her eyes, over one of which a film was spread, were dull as the eyes of a stale fish, and her temples so hollow, that she looked as if she had been worn out by dragging the last two generations to their graves. I was ashamed of adding one more to the many burdens she must have borne in her day, and I almost wished that she had realized in her own person the well-known verse in the Scotch song--

"The auld man's mare's dead,

A mile ayont Dundee,"

before I ever had set my eyes upon her.

"Can she carry us?" said I, pausing irresolutely, with my foot on the rough heavy runner of the cutter.

"I guess she can," quoth he. "She will skim like a bird over the snow; so get into the sleigh, and we will go straight off to the singing-school."

It was intensely cold. I drew the collar of my great-coat over my ears, and wrapped my half of the bull's hide well round my feet, and we started. The old mare went better than could have been expected from such a skeleton of a beast. To be sure, she had no weight of flesh to encumber her motions, and we were getting on pretty well, when the music master drove too near a stump, which suddenly upset us both, and tumbled him head foremost into a bank of snow. I fortunately rolled out a-top of him, and soon extricated myself from the difficulty; but I found it no easy matter to drag my ponderous companion from beneath the snow, and the old bull's hide in which he was completely enveloped.

The old mare stood perfectly still, gazing with her one eye intently on the mischief she had done, as if she never had been guilty of such a breach of manners before. After shaking the snow from our garments, and getting all right for a second start, my companion exclaimed in an agonized tone--

"My fiddle! Where, where is my fiddle? I can do nothing without my fiddle."

We immediately went in search of it; but we did not succeed in finding it for some time. I had given it up in despair, and, half-frozen with cold, was stepping into the cutter to take the benefit of the old bull's hide, when, fortunately for the music master one of the strings of the lost instrument snapped with the cold. We followed the direction of the sound, and soon beheld the poor fiddle sticking in a snow-bank, and concealed by a projecting stump. The instrument had sustained no other injury than the loss of three of the strings.

"Well, arn't that too bad?" says he. "I have no more catgut without sending to W---. That's done for, at least for to-night."

"It's very cold," I cried, impatiently, seeing that he was in no hurry to move on. "Do let us be going. You can examine your instrument better in the house than standing up to your knees in the snow."

"I was born in the Backwoods," say he; "I don't feel the cold." Then jumping into the cutter, he gave me the fiddle to take care of, and pointing with the right finger of his catskin gloves to a solitary house on the top of a bleak hill, nearly a mile a-head, he said, "That white building is the place where the school is held."

We soon reached the spot. "This is the old Methodist church, mister, and a capital place for the voice. There is no furniture or hangings to interrupt the sound. Go right in, while I hitch the mare; I will be arter you in a brace of shakes."

I soon found myself in the body of the old dilapidated church, and subjected to the stare of a number of very unmusical-looking girls and boys, who, certainly from their appearance, would never have led you to suppose that they ever could belong to a Philharmonic society. Presently, Mr. Browne made his debut.

Assuming an air of great importance as he approached his pupils, he said--"Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce to your notice Mr. H---, the celebrated vocalist. He has cum all the way from New York on purpose to hear you sing."

The boys grinned at me and twirled their thumbs, the girls nudged one another's elbows and giggled, while their eloquent teacher continued--

"I don't know as how we shall be able to do much tonight; we upset, and that spilt my fiddle into the snow. You see,"--holding it up--"it's right full of it, and that busted the strings. A dropsical fiddle is no good, no how. Jist look at the water dripping out of her."

Again the boys laughed, and the girls giggled. Said he--

"Hold on, don't laugh; it's no laughing matter, as you'll find."

After a long pause, in which the youngsters tried their best to look grave, he went on--

"Now all of you, girls and boys, give your attention to my instructions this evening. I'm goin' to introduce a new style, for your special benefit, called the Pest-a-lazy (Pestalozzi) system, now all the fashion. If you are all ready, produce your books. Hold them up. One--two--three! Three books for forty pupils? That will never do! We can't sing to-night; well, never mind. You see that black board; I will give you a lesson to-night upon that. Who's got a piece of chalk?"

Life in the Clearings versus the Bush

by Mrs. Moodie

Author of "Roughing it in the Bush," &c.

Contents

INTRODUCTION

Indian Summer.

LIFE IN THE CLEARINGSVERSUS THE BUSH

CHAPTER IBelleville

The Mother's Lament.

The Early Lost.

CHAPTER IILocal Improvements--Sketches of Society

To The Memory of Dr. Huskins.

The Drunkard's Return.

CHAPTER IIIFree Schools--Thoughts on Education

The Poet.

CHAPTER IVAmusements

A May-Day Carol.

CHAPTER VTrials of a Travelling Musician

To The Falls Of Niagara.

The Mountain Air.

CHAPTER VIThe Singing Master

The Singing-School.

LIFE IN THE CLEARINGS
VERSUS THE BUSH

CHAPTER I
Belleville

CHAPTER II
Local Improvements--Sketches of Society

CHAPTER III
Free Schools--Thoughts on Education

CHAPTER IV
Amusements

CHAPTER V
Trials of a Travelling Musician

CHAPTER VI
The Singing Master