Part 12

My husband, with an Irish lad, began collecting the sap the last week in March. A pole was fixed across two forked stakes, strong enough to bear the weight of the big kettle. Their employment during the day was emptying the troughs and chopping wood to supply the fires. In the evening they lit the fires, and began boiling down the sap.

It was a pretty, a picturesque sight, to see the sugar-boilers, with their bright log-fire among the trees, now stirring up the blazing pile, now throwing in the liquid and stirring it down with a big ladle. When the fire grew fierce it boiled and foamed up in the kettle, and they had to throw in fresh sap to keep it from running over.

When the sap begins to thicken into molasses, it is then brought to the sugar-boiler to be finished. The process is simple; it only requires attention in skimming and keeping the mass from boiling over, till it has arrived at the sugaring point, which is ascertained by dropping a little into cold water. When it is near the proper consistency, the kettle or pot becomes full of yellow froth, that dimples and rises in large bubbles from beneath. These throw out puffs of steam; and when the molasses is in this stage, it is nearly converted into sugar. Those who pay great attention to keeping the liquid free from scum, and understand the precise sugaring point, will produce an article little if at all inferior to Muscovado.

In general you see the maple-sugar in large cakes, like bees’-wax, close and compact, without showing the crystallization; but it looks more beautiful when the grain is coarse and sparkling, and the sugar is broken in rough masses like sugar-candy.

The sugar is rolled or scraped down with a knife for use, as it takes long to dissolve in the tea without this preparation. I superintended the last part of the process, that of boiling the molasses down to sugar; and, considering it was a first attempt, Mid without any experienced person to direct me, otherwise than the information obtained from ——, I succeeded tolerably well, and produced some sugar of a fine sparkling grain and good colour. Besides the sugar, I made about three gallons of molasses, which proved a great comfort to us, forming a nice ingredient in cakes, and an excellent sauce for puddings.

The Yankees, I am told, make excellent preserves with molasses instead of sugar. The molasses boiled from maple-sap is very different from the molasses of the West Indies, both in flavour, colour, and consistency.

Besides the sugar and molasses, we manufactured a small cask of vinegar, which promises to be good. This was done by boiling five pails-full of sap down to two, and fermenting it after it was in the vessel with barm; it was then placed near the fire, and suffered to continue there in preference to being exposed to the sun’s heat.

With regard to the expediency of making maple-sugar, it depends on circumstances whether it be profitable or not to the farmer. If he have to hire hands for the work, and pay high wages, it certainly does not answer to make it, unless on a large scale. One thing in its favour is, that the sugar season commences at a time when little else can be done on the farm, with the exception of chopping, the frost not being sufficiently out of the ground to admit of crops being sown; time is, therefore, less valuable than it is later in the spring.

Where there is a large family of children, and a convenient sugar-bush on the lot, the making of sugar and molasses is decidedly a saving; as young children can be employed in emptying the troughs and collecting firewood, the bigger ones can tend the kettles and keep up the fire while the sap is boiling, and the wife and daughters can finish off the sugar within doors.

Maple-sugar sells for four-pence and six-pence per pound, and sometimes for more. At first I did not particularly relish the flavour it gave to tea, but after awhile I liked it far better than Muscovado, and as a sweet-meat it is to my taste delicious. I shall send you a specimen by the first opportunity, that you may judge for yourself of its excellence.

The weather is now very warm—oppressively so. We can scarcely endure the heat of the cooking-stove in the kitchen. As to a fire in the parlour there is not much need of it, as I am glad to sit at the open door and enjoy the lake-breeze. The insects are already beginning to be troublesome, particularly the black flies—a wicked-looking fly, with black body and white legs and wings; you do not feel their bite for a few minutes, but are made aware of it by a stream of blood flowing from the wound; after a few hours the part swells and becomes extremely painful.

These “beasties” chiefly delight in biting the sides of the throat, ears, and sides of the cheek, and with me the swelling continues for many days. The mosquitoes are also very annoying. I care more for the noise they make even than the sting. To keep them out of the house we light little heaps of damp chips, the smoke of which drives them away; but this remedy is not entirely effectual, and is of itself rather an annoyance.

This is the fishing season. Our lakes are famous for masquinougé, salmon-trout, white fish, black bass, and many others. We often see the lighted canoes of the fishermen pass and repass of a dark night before our door. S—— is considered very skilful as a spearsman, and enjoys the sport so much that he seldom misses a night favourable for it. The darker the night, and the calmer the water, the better it is for the fishing.

It is a very pretty sight to see these little barks slowly stealing from some cove of the dark pine-clad shores, and manœuvring among the islands on the lakes, rendered visible in the darkness by the blaze of light cast on the water from the jack—a sort of open grated iron basket, fixed to a long pole at the bows of the skiff or canoe. This is filled with a very combustible substance, called fat-pine, which burns with a fierce and rapid flame, or else with rolls of birch-bark, which is also very easily ignited.

The light from above renders objects distinctly visible below the surface of the water. One person stands up in the middle of the boat with his fish-spear,—a sort of iron trident,—ready to strike at the fish that he may chance to see gliding in the still waters, while another with his paddle steers the canoe cautiously along. This sport requires a quick eye, a steady hand, and great caution, in those that pursue it.

I delight in watching these torch-lighted canoes so quietly gliding over the calm waters, which are illuminated for yards with a bright track of light, by which we may distinctly perceive the figure of the spearsman standing in the centre of the boat, first glancing to one side, then the other, or poising his weapon ready for a blow. When four or five of these lighted vessels are seen at once on the fishing ground, the effect is striking and splendid.

The Indians are very expert in this kind of fishing; the squaws paddling the canoes with admirable skill and dexterity. There is another mode of fishing in which these people also excel; this is fishing on the ice, when the lakes are frozen over—a sport that requires the exercise of great patience. The Indian, provided with his tomahawk, with which he makes an opening in the ice, a spear, his blanket, and a decoy-fish of wood, proceeds to the place he has fixed upon. Having cut a hole in the ice, he places himself on hands and knees, and casts his blanket over him, so as to darken the water and conceal himself from observation; in this position he will remain for hours, patiently watching the approach of his prey, which he strikes with admirable precision as soon as it appears within the reach of his spear.

The masquinougé thus caught are superior in flavour to those taken later in the season, and may be bought very reasonably from the Indians. I gave a small loaf of bread for a fish weighing from eighteen to twenty pounds. The masquinougé is, to all appearance, a large species of the pike, and possesses the ravenous propensities of that fish.

One of the small lakes of the Otanahee is called Trout Lake, from the abundance of salmon-trout that occupy its waters. The white fish is also found in these lakes, and is very delicious. The large sorts of fish are mostly taken with the spear, few persons having time for angling in this busy country.

As soon as the ice breaks up, our lakes are visited by innumerable flights of wild fowl; some of the ducks are extremely beautiful in their plumage, and are very fine flavoured. I love to watch these pretty creatures, floating so tranquilly on the water, or suddenly rising and skimming along the edge of the pine-fringed shores, to drop again on the surface, and then remain stationary, like a fleet at anchor. Sometimes we see an old duck lead out a brood of little ones from among the rushes; the innocent soft things look very pretty sailing round their mother, but at the least appearance of danger they disappear instantly by diving. The frogs are great enemies to the young broods; they are also the prey of the masquinougé, and I believe of other large fish that abound in these waters.

The ducks are in the finest order during the early part of the summer, when they resort to the rice-beds in vast numbers, getting very fat on the green rice, which they eagerly devour.

The Indians are very successful in their duck-shooting: they fill a canoe with green boughs, so that it resembles a sort of floating island; beneath the cover of these boughs they remain concealed, and are enabled by this device to approach much nearer than they otherwise could do to the wary birds. The same plan is often adopted by our own sportsmen with great success.

A family of Indians have pitched their tents very near us. On one of the islands of our lake we can distinguish the thin blue smoke of their wood fires, rising among the trees, from our front window, or curling over the bosom of the waters.

The squaws have been several times to see me; sometimes from curiosity, sometimes with the view of bartering their baskets, mats, ducks, or venison, for pork, flour, potatoes, or articles of wearing apparel. Sometimes their object is to borrow “kettle to cook,” which they are very punctual in returning.

Once a squaw came to borrow a washing tub, but not understanding her language I could not for some time discover the object of her solicitude; at last, she took up a corner of her blanket, and, pointing to some soap, began rubbing it between her hands, imitated the action of washing, then laughed, and pointed to a tub; she then held up two fingers, to intimate it was for two days she needed the loan.

The people appear of gentle and amiable dispositions; and, as far as our experience goes, they are very honest. Once, indeed, the old hunter, Peter, obtained from me some bread, for which he promised to give a pair of ducks; but when the time came for payment, and I demanded my ducks, he looked gloomy, and replied with characteristic brevity, “No duck—Chippewa (meaning S——, this being the name they have affectionately given him,) gone up lake with canoe—no canoe—duck by-and-by.” By-and-by is a favourite expression of the Indians, signifying an indefinite point of time; may be, it means to-morrow, or a week, or month, or it may be a year, or even more. They rarely give you a direct promise. As it is not wise to let any one cheat you if you can prevent it, I coldly declined any further overtures to bartering with the Indians till my ducks made their appearance. Some time afterwards I received one duck by the hands of Maquin, a sort of Indian Flibberty-gibbet. This lad is a hunchbacked dwarf, very shrewd, but a perfect imp: his delight seems to be tormenting the brown babies in the wigwams, or teazing the meek deer-hounds.

The forest trees are nearly all in leaf. Never did spring burst forth with greater rapidity than it has done this year. The verdure of the leaves is most vivid. A thousand lovely flowers are expanding in the woods and clearings. Nor are our Canadian songsters mute: the cheerful melody of the robin, the bugle-song of the blackbird and thrush, with the weak but not unpleasing call of the little bird called thitabebee, and a wren, whose note is sweet and thrilling, fill our woods.

For my part, I see no reason or wisdom in carping at the good we do possess, because it lacks something of that which we formerly enjoyed. I am aware it is the fashion for travellers to assert that our feathered tribes are either mute, or give utterance to discordant cries that pierce the ear, and disgust rather than please. It would be untrue were I to assert that our singing birds are as numerous or as melodious, on the whole, as those of Europe; but I must not suffer prejudice to rob my adopted country of her rights, without one word being spoken in behalf of her feathered vocalists. Nay, I consider her very frogs have been belied; if it were not for the monotony of their notes, I really consider they are not quite unmusical. The green frogs are very handsome, being marked over with brown oval shields on the most vivid green coat; they are larger in size than the biggest of our English frogs, and certainly much handsomer in every respect. Their note resembles that of a bird, and has nothing of the croak in it.

In conclusion, though Canada might not seem a paradise to town-bred gentlemen, or modern fine ladies, it possesses advantages to persons of sober, industrious habits, which are not to be found in England. If the emigrant and his family can but struggle through the hardships and privations of a first settlement in the backwoods, there is little doubt that they will in time secure a moderate independence, and be above want, though not above work.

[1] These concession-lines are certain divisions of the townships; these are again divided into so many lots of 200 acres. The concession-lines used to be marked by a wide avenue being chopped, so as to form a road of communication between them; but this plan was found too troublesome; and in a few years the young growth of timber so choked the opening, that it was of little use. The lately-surveyed townships, I believe, are only divided by blazed lines.

CHAP. VII.

NEW BRUNSWICK.

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The Province of New Brunswick holds an important position amongst the colonies of Great Britain. To the political economist it presents a tract of country 27,704 square miles in superficial extent,—blessed with a salubrious climate,—a rich and productive soil, capable of receiving the whole tide of British emigration, should it turn in that direction, and of contributing to the comfort and happiness of the surplus of our industrious population. To the trader and capitalist the advantages this colony offers are equally great:—the whole area of this vast territory is intersected by innumerable navigable rivers and lakes; its shores are indented with safe and commodious harbours; its seas and rivers stored with excellent fish; its fertile plains and valleys, that are now covered with timber, require only the industry of man to make them yield corn and the fruits of the earth in prodigal abundance; its mountains teem with various mineral productions—iron, copper, zinc, manganese; gold and silver have been found in various parts of the province; coal of superior quality is abundant in several localities, and gypsum forms a principal article of the exports of the country to the United States. In short, whether we regard this old but much neglected colony in a social or commercial point of view, it possesses much to recommend it to the attention of every thinking Englishman.

It is not my intention, however, to do more than allude briefly to these or other topics which might be considered irrelevant to the object of a work purporting to illustrate the scenery of the country.

The history of New Brunswick is closely connected with that of the adjoining province of Nova Scotia, of which it formed a portion until the year 1785. Its first settlers were a few families from New England in 1762, who planted themselves on the River St. John, about fifty miles from its mouth. After the peace with America in 1783, upwards of four thousand persons from Nantucket came also to seek a home in those almost untrodden wildernesses.

The difficulties of settling in any new country are sufficiently numerous and formidable; but the hardships which these poor people had to endure were of more than ordinary severity. On their arrival late in the autumn, they found a few wretched hovels where St. John now stands; the surrounding country presenting a most desolate aspect, which was peculiarly discouraging to people who had just left their homes in the beautiful and cultivated parts of the United States. As they proceeded up the river St. John, the country wore a more pleasing aspect. At St. Ann’s, where Fredericton is now built, they met a few scattered huts of the old French settlers, the country around being a perfect wilderness, uninhabited save by wild beasts or more savage Indians. The winter, which was at that time more rigorous than it is at present, surprised the unfortunate settlers before they had time to complete the construction of their cabins; added to which, they were frequently reduced to the direst extremities for food and clothing to preserve their existence. Frequently had they to travel from fifty to one hundred and fifty miles with hand-sleds, through trackless woods, or on the ice-bound rivers, to procure a scanty supply of provisions for their families at the Government stores: and in the piercing cold of winter, a part of the family had to remain up during the night to keep the fire in their huts, to prevent the other part from freezing. Some of the more destitute settlers made use of boards instead of bedding; the father, or some of the elder members of the family, remaining up by turns, and warming two pieces of board, which they applied alternately to the smaller children to keep them warm, with many similar expedients. By patience and endurance, almost unexampled, they struggled through their sufferings; and, by unremitting exertions, subdued the wilderness, and covered the face of the country with thriving towns, and villages, and habitations, where peace, plenty, and industry have fixed their abodes.

My route to New Brunswick from Canada was by the Grand Portage, about thirty-six miles across. The roads, though bad, were better than I expected. On my way I passed through some new settlements on reclaimed swamps, near the Rivière du Loup and crossed two or three high mountains, which form part of the Alleghany chain, lying between New Brunswick and the River St. Lawrence. The greater part of the country here is a complete bed of rocks, and the whole way through the woods offers little encouragement for settlers. Having passed the Portage, I reached Lake Tamisquata or Témiscouata a wild and solitary piece of water, twenty-eight miles in length. The land upon its banks is generally inferior, but upon its western side there are several swells of fruitful ground. From this lake the River Madawaska takes its rise, and winds for thirty miles through an almost boundless forest. The country on either side is exceedingly fertile; and the scenery is of the most wild and magnificent description. A few Acadians[2], the descendants of the original French settlers, are located on the banks of this lonely river; they are exceedingly simple in their manners, and have little intercourse with the rest of the world, except when at distant intervals they visit Fredericton to dispose of the surplus produce of their little farms. Their wants are few, and they live a quiet pastoral life, retaining a strong attachment to the dress, habits, language, and religion of their forefathers.[3]

This settlement is comprehended in the disputed territory claimed by the Americans on the Maine frontier; which, in point of fertility, valuable timber, and beautiful rivers and streams, is equal to any part of America.

The season at which I entered New Brunswick was May, the most favourable period in the year for seeing the country to advantage. It is then that summer bursts at once from the cold embrace of winter; for the few days intervening between the rigorous cold of winter, and the genial heat of the weather such as we experience in England in the month of June, can scarcely be called a spring. To persons who have only witnessed the tardy advances of summer through the months of March, April, and May, in Great Britain, the sudden change which takes place at this season in Canada and the adjoining colonies is especially surprising; in the course of three or four days, the fields and deciduous trees put on their verdant liveries, innumerable garden and field flowers burst into full blow, the birds of summer make their appearance and enliven the woods with their glad songs, and the American nightingales, as the frogs are called, commence their singular evening concerts. In short, nothing can be imagined more delightful than the astonishing quickness with which the face of nature becomes clothed with all the charms of summer. The forests, which cover the greatest part of the province of New Brunswick, are unequalled in magnificence in any other part of the world. The banks of the river St. John are remarkable for the magnitude and abundance of the timber with which they are overgrown. Many varieties of the red, yellow, and pitch pine, intermingled with the graceful larch, the picturesque beech and maple, birch, elm, oak, and numerous other tribes of forest timber, grow down close to the water’s side, spreading in stately grandeur over the broad plains, or stretching proudly up to the summits of the mountains that descend precipitously to the river. In summer the bright and cheerful green of the forests is exceedingly beautiful and refreshing to the eye, the dark pines alone forming a sombre contrast to the vivid freshness of the deciduous trees; but it is in autumn that an American forest wears its most enchanting colours;—two or three frosty nights in the decline of the season transform the rich and boundless verdure of a vast tract into brilliant scarlet, rich violet, and every possible tint of blue and brown, deep crimson and golden yellow. The fir tribes alone maintain their unchangeable dark green hue; all others on mountain and in valley burst into glorious beauty, and exhibit the most splendid and enchanting picture that earth can produce. It is from these immense forests that New Brunswick now draws its principal wealth. The timber trade,[4] which has hitherto almost wholly engaged the attention of settlers, is of great importance, and employs a vast number of people, whose manner of living, owing to the nature of the business they follow, is altogether different from that of the inhabitants who are occupied in agricultural pursuits.