Part 10

After running full half a mile a-head, he returned with a dejected countenance, saying we must be wrong, for he saw no appearance of water; and the road we were on appeared to end in a cedar swamp, as the further he went the thicker the hemlocks and cedars became; so, as we had no desire to commence our settlement by a night’s lodging in a swamp,—where, to use the expression of our driver, the cedars grew as thick as hairs on a cat’s back, we agreed to retrace our steps.

After some difficulty the lumbering machine was turned, and slowly we began our backward march. We had not gone more than a mile, when a boy came along, who told us we might just go back again, as there was no other road to the lake; and added, with a knowing nod of his head, “Master, I guess if you had known the bush as well as I, you would never have been _fule_ enough to turn when you were going just right. Why, any body knows that _them_ cedars and hemlocks grow thickest near the water; so you may just go back for your pains.”

It was dark, save that the stars came forth with more than usual brilliancy, when we suddenly emerged from the gloomy forest to the shores of a beautiful little lake, that gleamed the more brightly from the contrast of the dark masses of foliage that hung over it, and the towering pine-woods that girt its banks.

Here, seated on a huge block of limestone, which was covered with a soft cushion of moss, beneath the shade of the cedars that skirt the lake, surrounded with trunks, boxes, and packages of various descriptions, which the driver had hastily thrown from the waggon, sat your child, in anxious expectation of some answering voice to my husband’s long and repeated holloa.

But when the echo of his voice had died away, we heard only the gurgling of the waters at the head of the rapids, and the distant and hoarse murmur of a waterfall some half mile below them.

We could see no sign of any habitation, no gleam of light from the shore to cheer us. In vain we strained our ears for the plash of the oar, or welcome sound of the human voice, or bark of some household dog, that might assure us we were not doomed to pass the night in the lone wood.

We began now to apprehend we had really lost the way. To attempt returning through the deepening darkness of the forest in search of any one to guide us was quite out of the question, the road being so ill defined that we should soon have been lost in the mazes of the woods. The last sound of the waggon wheels had died away in the distance, and to have overtaken it would have been impossible. Bidding me remain quietly where I was, my husband forced his way through the tangled underwood along the bank, in hope of discovering some sign of the house we sought, which we had every reason to suppose must be near, though probably hidden by the dense mass of trees from our sight.

As I sat in the wood, in silence and in darkness, my thoughts gradually wandered back across the Atlantic to my dear mother, and to my old home; and I thought, what would have been your feelings, could you at that moment have beheld me as I sat on the cold mossy stone, in the profound stillness of that vast leafy wilderness, thousands of miles from all those holy ties of kindred and early associations that make home in all countries a hallowed spot. It was a moment to press upon my mind the importance of the step I had taken, in voluntarily sharing the lot of the emigrant,—in leaving the land of my birth, to which, in all probability, I might never again return. Great as was the sacrifice,—even at that moment, strange as was my situation,—I felt no painful regret or fearful misgiving depress my mind. A holy and tranquil peace came down upon me, soothing and softening my spirits into a calmness that seemed as unruffled as was the bosom of the water that lay stretched before my feet.

My reverie was broken by the light plash of a paddle, and a bright line of light showed a canoe dancing over the lake; in a few minutes a well-known and friendly voice greeted me as the little bark was moored among the cedars at my feet. My husband having gained a projecting angle of the shore, had discovered the welcome blaze of the wood fire in the log-house; and, after some difficulty, had succeeded in rousing the attention of its inhabitants. Our coming that day had long been given up, and our first call had been mistaken for the sound of the ox-bells in the wood; this had caused the delay that had so embarrassed us.

We soon forgot our weary wanderings beside the bright fire that blazed on the hearth of the log-house, in which we found S—— comfortably domiciled with his wife. To the lady I was duly introduced; and in spite of all remonstrances from the affectionate and careful mother, three fair sleeping children were successively handed out of their cribs to be shown me by the proud and delighted father.

Our welcome was given with that unaffected cordiality that is so grateful to the heart; it was as sincere as it was kind. All means were adopted to soften the roughness of our accommodations; which, if they lacked that elegance and convenience to which we had been accustomed in England, were not devoid of rustic comfort; at all events, they were such as many settlers of the first respectability have been glad to content themselves with, and many have not been half so well lodged as we are now.

We may, indeed, consider ourselves fortunate in not being obliged to go at once into the rude shanty that I described to you as the only habitation on our land. This test of our fortitude was kindly spared us by S——, who insisted on our remaining beneath his hospitable roof till such time as we should have put up a house on our own lot. Here, then, we are for the present _fixed_, as the Canadians say; and if I miss many of the little comforts and luxuries of life, I enjoy excellent health and spirits, and am very happy in the society of those around me.

The children are already very fond of me. They have discovered my passion for flowers, which they diligently search for among the stumps, and along the lakeshore. I have begun collecting, and though the season is far advanced, my _hortus_ _siccus_ boasts of several elegant specimens of fern; the yellow Canadian violet, which blooms twice in the year, in the spring and fall, as the autumnal season is expressively termed; two sorts of Michaelmas daisies, as we call the shrubby asters, of which the varieties here are truly elegant; and a wreath of the festoon pine, a pretty evergreen, with creeping stalks, that run along the ground three or four yards in length, sending up, at the distance of five or six inches, erect, stiff, green stems, resembling some of our heaths in the dark, shining, green, chaffy leaves. The Americans ornament their chimney glasses with garlands of this plant, mixed with the dried blossoms of the life-everlasting (the pretty white and yellow flowers we call love-everlasting); this plant is also called festoon pine. In my rambles in the wood near the house, I have discovered a trailing plant, bearing a near resemblance to the cedar, which I consider has, with equal propriety, a claim to the name of ground or creeping cedar.

As much of the botany of these unsettled portions of the country is unknown to the naturalist, and the plants are quite nameless, I take the liberty of bestowing names upon them according to inclination or fancy. But while I am writing about flowers, I am forgetting that you will be more interested in hearing what steps we are taking on our land.

My husband has hired people to log up, (that is, to draw the chopped timbers into heaps for burning,) and clear a space for building our house upon. He has also entered into an agreement with a young settler in our vicinity to complete it for a certain sum, within and without, according to a given plan. We are, however, to call the “bee,” and provide every thing necessary for the entertainment of our worthy _hive_. Now, you know that a “bee,” in American language, or rather phraseology, signifies those friendly meetings of neighbours who assemble at your summons to raise the walls of your house, shanty, barn, or any other building: this is termed a “raising bee.” Then there are logging-bees, husking-bees, chopping-bees, and quilting-bees. The nature of the work to be done gives the name to the bee. In the more populous and long-settled districts this practice is much discontinued; but it is highly useful, and almost indispensable to new settlers in the remote townships, where the price of labour is proportionately high, and workmen difficult to be procured.

Imagine the situation of an emigrant with a wife and young family, the latter possibly too young to render him the least assistance in the important business of chopping, logging, and building, on their first coming out to take possession of a lot of wild land: how deplorable would their situation be, unless they could receive quick and ready help from those around them!

This laudable practice has grown out of necessity; and if it has its disadvantages,—such, for instance, as being called upon at an inconvenient season for a return of help by those who have formerly assisted you,—yet it is so indispensable to you that the debt of gratitude ought to be cheerfully repaid. It is, in fact, regarded in the light of a debt of honour; you cannot be forced to attend a bee in return, but no one that can does refuse, unless from urgent reasons; and if you do not find it possible to attend in person, you may send a substitute in a servant, or in cattle, if you have a yoke.

In no situation, and under no circumstance, does the equalizing system of America appear to such advantage as in meetings of this sort. All distinctions of rank, education, and wealth are for the time voluntarily laid aside. You will see the son of the educated gentleman and that of the poor artisan, the officer and the private soldier, the independent settler and the labourer who works out for hire, cheerfully uniting in one common cause. Each individual is actuated by the benevolent desire of affording help to the helpless, and exerting himself to raise a home for the homeless. * * * * * * *

Our log-house is not yet finished, though it is in a state of forwardness. We are still indebted to the hospitable kindness of S—— and his wife for a home. This being their first settlement on their land, they have as yet many difficulties, in common with all residents in the backwoods, to put up with this year. They have a fine block of land, well situated; and S—— laughs at the present privations, to which he opposes a spirit of cheerfulness and energy that is admirably calculated to effect their conquest. They are now about to remove to a larger and more commodious house that has been put up this fall, leaving us the use of the old one till our own is ready.

We begin to get reconciled to our Robinson Crusoe sort of life; and the consideration that the present evils are but temporary, goes a great way towards reconciling us to them.

One of our greatest inconveniences arises from the badness of our roads, and the distance at which we are placed from any village or town where provisions are to be procured.

Till we raise our own grain, and fatten our own hogs, sheep, and poultry, we must be dependent upon the stores for food of every kind. These supplies have to be brought us, at considerable expense and loss of time, through our beautiful bush roads; which, to use the words of a poor Irishwoman, “can’t be no worser.” “Och, darlint,” she said, “but they are just bad enough, and can’t be no worser. Och, but they arn’t like to our iligant roads in Ireland.”

You may send down a list of groceries to be forwarded when a team comes up, and when we examine our stores, behold rice, sugar, currants, pepper, and mustard all jumbled into one mess! What think you of a rice pudding seasoned plentifully with pepper, mustard, and, may be, a little rappee or prince’s mixture added by way of sauce? I think the recipe would cut quite a figure in the “Cook’s Oracle,” or Mrs. Dalgairn’s “Practice of Cookery,” under the original title of a “Bush pudding.”

And then, woe and destruction to the brittle ware that may chance to travel through our roads! Lucky, indeed, are we, if, through the superior carefulness of the person who packs them, more than one-half happens to arrive in safety. For such mishaps we have no redress. The storekeeper lays the accident upon the teamster, and the teamster upon the bad roads, wondering that he himself escapes with whole bones after a journey through the bush.

This is now the worst season of the year,—this and just after the breaking up of the snow. Nothing hardly but an ox-cart can travel along the roads, and even that with difficulty, occupying two days to perform the journey; and the worst of the matter is, that there are times when the most necessary articles of provisions are not to be procured at any price. You see, then, that a settler in the bush requires to hold himself pretty independent, not only of the luxuries and delicacies of the table, but not unfrequently even of the very necessaries.

One time no pork is to be procured; another time there is a scarcity of flour, owing to some accident that has happened to the mill, or for the want of proper supplies of wheat for grinding; or perhaps the weather and the bad roads at the same time prevent a team coming up, or people from going down. Then you must have recourse to a neighbour, if you have the good fortune to be near one, or fare the best you can on potatoes. The potatoe is, indeed, a great blessing here; new settlers would often be otherwise greatly distressed; and the poor man and his family, who are without resources, without the potatoe must starve.

Once our stock of tea was exhausted, and we were unable to procure more. In this dilemma milk would have been an excellent substitute, or coffee, if we had possessed it; but we had neither one nor the other, so we agreed to try the Yankee tea—hemlock sprigs boiled. This proved to my taste a vile decoction; though I recognised some herb in the tea that was sold in London at five shillings a pound, which I am certain was nothing better than dried hemlock leaves reduced to a coarse powder.

S—— laughed at our wry faces, declaring the potation was excellent; and he set us an example by drinking six cups of this truly sylvan beverage. His eloquence failed in gaining a single convert; we could not believe it was only second to young hyson. To his assurance that to its other good qualities it united medicinal virtues, we replied that, like all other physic, it was very unpalatable.

“After all,” said S——, with a thoughtful air, “the blessings and the evils of this life owe their chief effect to the force of contrast, and are to be estimated by that principally. We should not appreciate the comforts we enjoy half so much if we did not occasionally feel the want of them. How we shall value the conveniences of a cleared farm after a few years, when we can realise all the necessaries and many of the luxuries of life!”

“And how we shall enjoy green tea after this odious decoction of hemlock!” said I.

“Very true; and a comfortable frame-house, and nice garden, and pleasant pastures, after these dark forests, log-houses, and no garden at all!”

“And the absence of horrid black stumps!” rejoined I. “Yes; and the absence of horrid stumps! Depend upon it, my dear, your Canadian farm will seem to you a perfect paradise by the time it is all under cultivation; and you will look upon it with the more pleasure and pride from the consciousness that it was once a forest wild, which, by the effects of industry and well-applied means, has changed to fruitful fields. Every fresh comfort you realise around you will add to your happiness; every improvement within doors or without will raise a sensation of gratitude and delight in your mind, to which those that revel in the habitual enjoyment of luxury, and even of the commonest advantages of civilization, must in a great degree be strangers. My pass-words are—‘Hope, resolution, and perseverance!’” “This,” said my husband, “is true philosophy; and the more forcible, because you not only recommend the maxim, but practise it also.”

I had reckoned much on the Indian summer, of which I had read such delightful descriptions; but I must say it has fallen far below my expectations. Just at the commencement of this month (November) we experienced three or four warm hazy days, that proved rather close and oppressive. The sun looked red through the misty atmosphere, tinging the fantastic clouds that hung in smoky volumes with saffron and pale crimson light, much as I have seen the clouds above London look on a warm sultry spring morning.

Not a breeze ruffled the waters, not a leaf (for the leaves had not entirely fallen) moved. This perfect stagnation of the air was suddenly changed by a hurricane of wind and snow that came on without any previous warning. I was standing near a group of tall pines, that had been left in the middle of a clearing, collecting some beautiful crimson lichens, S—— not being many paces distant, with his oxen drawing firewood: suddenly we heard a distant hollow rushing sound, that momentarily increased, the air around us being yet perfectly calm; I looked up, and beheld the clouds, hitherto so motionless, moving with amazing rapidity in several different directions. A dense gloom overspread the heavens. S——, who had been busily engaged with the cattle, had not noticed my being so near, and now called to me to use all the speed I could to gain the house, or an open part of the clearing, distant from the pine-trees. Instinctively I turned towards the house, while the thundering shock of trees falling in all directions at the edge of the forest, the rending of the branches from the pines I had just quitted, and the rush of the whirlwind sweeping down the lake, made me sensible of the danger with which I had been threatened.

The scattered boughs of the pines darkened the air as they whirled above me; then came the blinding snow storm; but I could behold the progress of the tempest in safety, having gained the threshold of our house. The driver of the oxen had thrown himself on the ground, while the poor beasts held down their meek heads, patiently abiding “the pelting of the pitiless storm.” S——, my husband, and the rest of the household, collected in a group, watched with anxiety the wild havoc of the warring elements. Not a leaf remained on the trees when the hurricane was over; they were bare and desolate. Thus ended the short reign of the Indian summer.

I think the notion entertained by some travellers, that the Indian summer is caused by the annual conflagration of forests by those Indians inhabiting the unexplored regions beyond the larger lakes, is absurd. Imagine for an instant what immense tracts of woods must be yearly consumed to affect nearly the whole of the continent of North America; besides, it takes place at that season of the year when the fire is least likely to run freely, owing to the humidity of the ground from the autumnal rains. I should rather attribute the peculiar warmth, and hazy appearance of the air that marks this season, to the fermentation going on of so great a mass of vegetable matter that is undergoing a state of decomposition during the latter part of October and the beginning of November. It has been supposed by some persons that a great alteration will be effected in this season, as the process of clearing the land continues to decrease the quantity of decaying vegetation. Nay, I have heard the difference is already observable to those long acquainted with the American continent.

Hitherto my experience of the climate is favourable. The autumn has been very fine, though the frosts are felt early in the month of September; at first slightly, of a morning, but towards October more severely. Still, though the first part of the day is cold, the middle of it is warm and cheerful.

We see already the stern advances of winter. It commenced very decidedly from the breaking up of the Indian summer. November is not at all like the same month at home. The early part was soft and warm, the latter cold, with keen frosts, and occasional falls of snow; but it does not seem to possess the dark, gloomy, damp character of our British Novembers. However, it is not one season’s acquaintance with the climate that enables a person to form any correct judgment of its general character, but a close observance of its peculiarities and vicissitudes during many years’ residence in the country.

I must now tell you what my husband is doing on our land. He has let out ten acres to some Irish choppers, who have established themselves in the shanty for the winter. They are to receive fourteen dollars per acre for chopping, burning, and fencing-in that quantity. The ground is to be perfectly cleared of every thing but the stumps; these will take from seven to nine or ten years to decay; the pine, hemlock, and fir remain much longer. The process of clearing away the stumps is too expensive for new beginners to venture upon, labour being so high that it cannot be appropriated to any but indispensable work. The working season is very short, on account of the length of time the frost remains on the ground. With the exception of chopping trees, very little can be done. Those that understand the proper management of uncleared land, usually underbrush, (that is, cut down all the small timbers and brushwood,) while the leaf is yet on them; this is piled in heaps, and the wind-fallen trees are chopped through in lengths, to be logged up in the spring with the winter’s chopping. The latter end of the summer and the autumn are the best seasons for this work. The leaves then become quite dry and sear, and greatly assist in the important business of burning off the heavy timbers. Another reason is, that when the snow has fallen to some depth, the light timbers cannot be cut close to the ground, or the dead branches and other encumbrances collected and thrown into heaps.

We shall have about three acres ready for spring crops, provided we get a good burning of that which is already chopped near the site of the house; this will be sown with oats, pumpkins, Indian corn, and potatoes: the other ten acres will be ready for putting in a crop of wheat. So you see it will be a long time before we reap a harvest. We could not even get in spring-wheat early enough to come to perfection this year.

We shall try to get two cows in the spring, as they are little expense during the spring, summer, and autumn; and by the winter we shall have pumpkins and oat-straw for them. * * * * * *

But it is time that I should give you some account of our log-house, into which we moved a few days before Christmas. Many unlooked-for delays having hindered its completion before that time, I began to think it would never be habitable.

The first misfortune that happened was the loss of a fine yoke of oxen, that were purchased to draw in the house-logs; that is, the logs for raising the walls of the house. Not regarding the bush as pleasant as their former master’s cleared pastures, or, perhaps, foreseeing some hard work to come, early one morning they took it into their heads to ford the lake at the head of the rapids and march off, leaving no trace of their route excepting their footing at the water’s edge. After many days spent in vain search for them, the work was at a stand, and for one month they were gone, and we began to give up all expectation of hearing any news of them. At last we learned they were some twenty miles off, in a distant township, having made their way through bush and swamp, creek and lake, back to their former owner, with an instinct that supplied to them the want of roads and compass.