Part 9

The shanty is a sort of primitive hut in Canadian architecture, and is nothing more than a shed built of logs, the chinks between the round edges of the timbers being filled with mud, moss, and bits of wood; the roof is frequently composed of logs split and hollowed with the axe, and placed side by side, so that the edges rest on each other; the concave and convex surfaces being alternately uppermost, every other log forms a channel to carry off the rain and melting snow. The eaves of this building resemble the scalloped edges of a clam shell; but, rude as this covering is, it effectually answers the purpose of keeping the interior dry, far more so than the roofs formed of bark or boards, through which the rain will find entrance. Sometimes the shanty has a window, sometimes only an open doorway, which admits the light and lets out the smoke. A rude chimney, which is often nothing better than an opening cut in one of the top logs above the hearth, and a few boards fastened in a square form, serves as the vent for the smoke; the only precaution against the fire catching the log-walls behind the hearth being a few large stones, placed in a half circular form, or more commonly a bank of dry earth raised against the wall.

Nothing can be more comfortless than some of these rude shanties, reeking with smoke and dirt, the common receptacle for children, pigs, and fowls. But I have given you the dark side of the picture; I am happy to say all the shanties on the squatters’ ground were not like these. On the contrary, by far the larger proportion were inhabited by tidy folks, and had one or even two small windows, and a clay chimney, regularly built up through the roof; some were even roughly floored, and possessed similar comforts with the small log-houses.

You will, perhaps, think it strange when I assure you that many respectable settlers, with their wives and families, persons delicately nurtured, and accustomed to every comfort before they came hither, have been contented to inhabit a hut of this kind during the first or second year of their settlement in the woods.

I have listened with feelings of great interest to the history of the hardships endured by some of the first settlers in the neighbourhood, when Peterborough contained but two dwelling-houses. Then there were neither roads cut, nor boats built, for communicating with the distant and settled parts of the district; consequently the difficulties of procuring supplies of provisions was very great, beyond what any one who has lately come hither can form any notion of.

When I heard of a whole family having had no better supply of flour than what could be daily ground by a small hand-mill, and for weeks being destitute of every necessary, not even excepting bread, I could not help expressing some surprise, never having met with any account in the works I had read concerning emigration that at all prepared one for such evils.

“These particular trials,” observed my intelligent friend, “are confined principally to the first breakers of the soil in the unsettled parts of the country, as was our case. If you diligently question some of the families of the lower class that are located far from the towns, and who had little or no means to support them during the first twelve months, till they could take a crop off the land, you will hear many sad tales of distress.”

Writers on emigration do not take the trouble of searching out these things, nor does it answer their purpose to state disagreeable facts. Few have written exclusively on the “Bush.” Travellers generally make a hasty journey through the long-settled and prosperous portions of the country; they see a tract of fertile, well-cultivated land, the result of many years of labour; they see comfortable dwellings, abounding with all the substantial necessaries of life; the farmer’s wife makes her own soap, candles, and sugar; the family are clothed in cloth of their own spinning, and hose of their own knitting. The bread, the beer, butter, cheese, meat, poultry, &c., are all the produce of the farm. He concludes, therefore, that Canada is a land of Canaan, and writes a book setting forth these advantages, with the addition of obtaining land for a mere song; and advises all persons who would be independent, and secure from want, to emigrate.

He forgets that these advantages are the result of long years of unremitting and patient labour; that these things are the _crown_, not the _first-fruits_ of the settler’s toil; and that, during the interval, many and great privations must be submitted to by almost every class of emigrants.

Many persons on first coming out, especially if they go back into any of the unsettled townships, are dispirited by the unpromising appearance of things about them. They find none of the advantages and comforts of which they had heard and read, and they are unprepared for the present difficulties; some give way to despondency, and others quit the place in disgust.

A little reflection would have shown them that every rood of land must be cleared of the thick forest of timber that encumbers it before an ear of wheat can be grown; that, after the trees have been chopped, cut into lengths, drawn together, or _logged_, as we call it, and burned, the field must be fenced, the sped sown, harvested, and thrashed, before any returns con be obtained; that this requires time and much labour, and, if hired labour, considerable outlay of ready money; and, in the mean time, a family must eat. If at a distance from a store, every article must be brought through bad roads, either by hand or with a team, the hire of which is generally costly in proportion to the distance and difficulty to be encountered in the conveyance. Now these things are better known beforehand, and then people are aware what they have to encounter.

Even a labouring man, though he have land of his own, is often, I may say generally, obliged to _hire out_ to work for the first year or two, to earn sufficient for the maintenance of his family; and ever so many of them suffer much privation before they reap the benefit of their independence. Were it not for the hope and certain prospect of bettering their condition ultimately, they would sink under what they have to endure; but this thought buoys them up. They do not fear an old age of want and pauperism; the present evils must yield to industry and perseverance; they think also for their children; and the trials of the present time are lost in pleasing anticipations for the future.

“Surely,” said I, “cows, and pigs, and poultry might be kept; and you know where there is plenty of milk, butter, cheese, and eggs, with pork and fowls, persons cannot be very badly off for food.”

“Very true,” replied my friend; “but I must tell you it is easier to talk of these things at first than to keep them, unless on cleared or partially cleared farms; but we are speaking of a _first_ settlement in the backwoods. Cows, pigs, and fowls must eat; and if you have nothing to give them unless you purchase it, and perhaps have to bring it from some distance, you had better not be troubled with them, as the trouble is certain, and the profit doubtful. A cow, it is true, will get her living during the open months of the year in the bush, but sometimes she will ramble away for days together, and then you lose the use of her, and possibly much time in seeking her; then, in the winter, she requires some additional food to the _browse_ that she gets during the chopping season, or ten to one but she dies before spring; and as cows generally lose their milk during the cold weather if not very well kept, it is best to part with them in the fall, and buy again in the spring, unless you have plenty of food for them, which is not often the case the first winter. As to pigs, they are great plagues on a newly-cleared farm if you cannot fat them off hand; and that you cannot do without you buy food for them, which does not answer to do at first. If they run loose, they are a terrible annoyance both to your own crops and your neighbour’s, if you happen to be within half a mile of one, for though you may fence out cattle you cannot pigs: even poultry require something more than they pick up about the dwelling to be of any service to you, and are often taken off by hawks, eagles, foxes, and pole-cats, till you have proper securities for them.”

“Then how are we to spin our own wool, and make our own soap and candles?” said I. “When you are able to kill your own sheep, and hogs, and oxen, unless you buy wool and tallow.” Then, seeing me begin to look somewhat disappointed, he said, “Be not cast down, you will have all these things in time, and more than these, never fear, if you have patience, and use the means of obtaining them. In the meanwhile prepare your mind for many privations to which at present you are a stranger; and if you would desire to see your husband happy and prosperous, be content to use economy, and, above all, be cheerful. In a few years the farm will supply you with all the necessaries of life, and by and by you may even enjoy many of the luxuries. Then it is that a settler begins to taste the real and solid advantages of his emigration; then he feels the blessings of a country where there are no taxes, tithes, nor poor-rates; then he truly feels the benefit of independence. It is looking forward to this happy fulfilment of his desires that makes the rough paths smooth, and lightens the burden of present ills. He looks round upon a numerous family, without those anxious fears that beset a father in moderate circumstances at home; for he knows he does not leave them destitute of an honest means of support.”

In spite of all the trials he had encountered, I found this gentleman was so much attached to a settler’s life, that he declared he would not go back to his own country to reside for a permanence on any account; nor is he the only one that I have heard express the same opinion; and it likewise seems a universal one among the lower class of emigrants. They are encouraged by the example of others, whom they see enjoying comforts that they could never have obtained had they laboured ever so hard at home; and they wisely reflect they must have had hardships to endure had they remained in their native land, (many indeed had been driven out by want,) without the most remote chance of bettering themselves, or becoming the possessors of land free of all restrictions. “What to us are the sufferings of one, two, three, or even four years, compared with a whole life of labour and poverty?” was the remark of a poor labourer, who was recounting to us the other day some of the hardships he had met with in this country. He said, he “knew they were only for a short time, and that by industry he should soon get over them.”

I have already seen two of our poor neighbours that left the parish a twelve-month ago; they are settled in Canada Company lots, and are getting on well. They have some few acres cleared and cropped, but are obliged to “_hire out_,” to enable their families to live, working on their own land when they can. The men are in good spirits; and say, “they shall in a few years have many comforts about them that they never could have got at home, had they worked late and early; but they complain that their wives are always pining for home, and lamenting that ever they crossed the seas.” This seems to be the general complaint with all classes; the women are discontented and unhappy. Few enter with their whole heart into a settler’s life. They miss the little domestic comforts they had been used to enjoy; they regret the friends and relations they left in the old country; and they cannot endure the loneliness of the backwoods.

This prospect does not discourage me; I know I shall find plenty of occupation within doors, and I have sources of enjoyment when I walk abroad that will keep me from being dull. Besides, have I not a right to be cheerful and contented for the sake of my beloved partner? The change is not greater for me than him; and if, for his sake, I have voluntarily left home, and friends, and country, shall I therefore sadden him by useless regrets? I am always inclined to subscribe to that sentiment of my favourite poet, Goldsmith,—

“Still to ourselves in every place consign’d, Our own felicity we make or find.”

But I shall very soon be put to the test, as we leave this town to-morrow by ten o’clock. The purchase of the Lake lot is concluded. There are three acres chopped, and a shanty up; but the shanty is not a habitable dwelling, being merely an open shed that was put up by the choppers as a temporary shelter; so we shall have to build a house. Late enough we are; too late to get in a full crop, as the land is merely chopped, not cleared; and it is too late now to log and burn the fallow, and get the seed-wheat in; but it will be ready for spring crops. We paid five dollars and a half per acre for the lot; this was rather high for wild land, so far from a town, and in a scantily-settled part of the township; but the situation is good, and has a water-frontage, for which my husband was willing to pay something more than if the lot had been further inland. * * * *

I shall begin my letter with a description of our journey through the bush, and so go on, giving an account of our proceedings, both within doors and without. I know my little domestic details will not prove wholly uninteresting to you; for well I am assured that a mother’s eye is never weary with reading lines traced by the hand of an absent and beloved child.

After some difficulty, we succeeded in hiring a waggon and span (_i. e._ pair a-breast) of stout horses, to convey us and our luggage through the woods to the banks of one of the lakes, where——had appointed to ferry us across. There was no palpable road, only a blaze on the other side, encumbered by fallen trees, and interrupted by a great cedar swamp, into which one might sink up to one’s knees, unless we took the precaution to step along the trunks of the mossy, decaying timbers, or make our footing sure on some friendly block of granite or limestone. What is termed in bush language a _blaze_, is nothing more than notches or slices cut off the back of the trees, to mark out the line of road. The boundaries of the different lots are often marked by a blazed tree, also the concession-lines.[1] These blazes are of as much use as finger-posts of a dark night.

The road we were compelled to take lay over the Peterborough plains, in the direction of the river; the scenery of which pleased me much, though it presented little appearance of fertility, with the exception of two or three extensive clearings.

About three miles above Peterborough the road winds along the brow of a steep ridge, the bottom of which has every appearance of having been formerly the bed of a lateral branch of the present river, or perhaps some small lake, which has been diverted from its channel, and merged into the Otanabee.

On either side of this ridge there is a steep descent; on the right, the Otanabee breaks upon you, rushing with great velocity over its rocky bed, forming rapids in miniature, resembling those of the St. Lawrence; its dark frowning woods of sombre pine give a grandeur to the scene which is very impressive. On the left lies below you a sweet secluded dell of evergreens, cedar, hemlock, and pine, enlivened by a few deciduous trees. Through this dell there is a road-track, leading to a fine cleared farm, the green pastures of which were rendered more pleasing by the absence of the odious stumps that disfigure the clearings in this part of the country. A pretty bright stream flows through the low meadow that lies at the foot of the hill, which you descend suddenly close by a small grist-mill that is worked by the waters, just where they meet the rapids of the river.

I called this place “Glen Morrison,” partly from the remembrance of the lovely Glen Morrison of the Highlands, and partly because it was the name of the settler that owned the spot.

Our progress was but slow, on account of the roughness of the road, which is beset with innumerable obstacles, in the shape of loose blocks of granite and limestone, with which the lands on the banks of the river and lakes abound; to say nothing of fallen trees, big roots, mud-holes, and corduroy bridges, over which you go jolt, jolt, jolt, till every bone in your body feels as if it were going to be dislocated. An experienced bush-traveller avoids many hard thumps by rising up or clinging to the sides of his rough vehicle.

As the day was particularly fine I often quitted the waggon, and walked on with my husband for a mile or two.

We soon lost sight entirely of the river, and struck into the deep solitude of the forest, where not a sound disturbed the almost awful stillness that reigned around us. Scarcely a leaf or bough was in motion, excepting at intervals we caught the sound of the breeze stirring the lofty heads of the pine-trees, and wakening a hoarse and mournful cadence. This, with the tapping of the red-headed and grey woodpeckers on the trunks of the decaying trees, or the shrill whistling cry of the little striped squirrel, called by the natives ‘chitmunk,’ was every sound that broke the stillness of the wild. Nor was I less surprised at the absence of animal life. With the exception of the aforesaid chitmunk, no living thing crossed our path during our long day’s journey in the woods.

In these vast solitudes one would naturally be led to imagine that the absence of man would have allowed nature’s wild denizens to have abounded free and unmolested; but the contrary seems to be the case. Almost all wild animals are more abundant in the cleared districts than in the bush. Man’s industry supplies their wants at an easier rate than seeking a scanty subsistence in the forest.

You hear continually of depredations committed by wolves, bears, racoons, lynxes, and foxes, in the long-settled parts of the province. In the backwoods the appearance of wild beasts is a matter of much rarer occurrence.

I was disappointed in the forest trees, having pictured to myself hoary giants, almost primeval with the country itself, as greatly exceeding in majesty of form the trees of my native isles, as the vast lakes and mighty rivers of Canada exceed the locks and streams of Britain.

There is a want of picturesque beauty in the woods. The young growth of timber alone has any pretension to elegance of form, unless I except the hemlocks, which are extremely light and graceful, and of a lovely refreshing tint of green. Even when winter has stripped the forest, it is still beautiful and verdant. The young beeches, too, are pretty enough, but you miss that fantastic bowery shade that is so delightful in our parks and woodlands at home.

There is no appearance of venerable antiquity in the Canadian woods. There are no ancient spreading oaks, that might be called the patriarchs of the forest. A premature decay seems to be their doom. They are uprooted by the storm, and sink in their first maturity, to give place to a new generation that is ready to fill their places.

The pines are certainly the finest trees. In point of size there are none to surpass them. They tower above all the others, forming a dark line that may be distinguished for many miles. The pines being so much loftier than the other trees, are sooner uprooted, as they receive the full and unbroken force of the wind in their tops; thus it is that the ground is continually strewn with the decaying trunks of huge pines. They also seem more liable to inward decay, and blasting from lightning, and fire. Dead pines are more frequently met with than any other tree.

Much as I had seen and heard of the badness of the roads in Canada, I was not prepared for such a one as we travelled along this day; indeed, it hardly deserved the name of a road, being little more than an opening hewed out through the woods, the trees being felled and drawn aside, so as to admit a wheeled carriage passing along. The swamps and little forest streams, that occasionally gush across the path, are rendered passable by logs placed side by side. From the ridgy and striped appearance of these bridges, they are aptly enough termed corduroy.

Over these abominable corduroys the vehicle jolts, jumping from log to log, with a shock that must be endured with as good a grace as possible. If you could bear these knocks, and pitiless thumpings and bumpings, without wry faces, your patience and philosophy would far exceed mine;—sometimes I laughed because I would not cry.

Imagine you see me perched upon a seat composed of carpet-bags, trunks, and sundry packages, in a vehicle little better than a great rough deal box set on wheels, the sides being merely pegged in, so that more than once I found myself in rather an awkward predicament, owing to the said sides jumping out. In the very midst of a deep mud-hole out went the front board, and with the shock went the teamster (driver), who looked rather confounded at finding himself lodged in a slough as bad as the “Slough of Despond.” For my part, as I could do no good, I kept my seat, and patiently awaited the restoration to order. This was soon effected, and all went on well again, till a jolt against a huge pine-tree gave such a jar to the ill-set vehicle, that one of the boards danced out that composed the bottom, and a sack of flour, and a bag of salted pork, which was on its way to a settler’s whose clearing we had to pass in the way, were ejected. A good teamster is seldom taken aback by such trifles as these.

He is, or should be, provided with an axe. No waggon, team, or any other travelling equipage, should be unprovided with an instrument of this kind, as no one can answer for the obstacles that may impede his progress in the bush. The disasters we met fortunately required but little skill in remedying. The sides need only a stout peg, and the loosened planks that form the bottom being quickly replaced, away you go again over root, stump, and stone, mud-hole, and corduroy; now against the trunk of some standing tree, now mounting over some fallen one, with an impulse that would annihilate any lighter equipage than a Canadian waggon, which is admirably fitted by its very roughness for such roads as we have in the bush.

The sagacity of the horses in this country is truly admirable. Their patience in surmounting the difficulties they have to encounter, their skill in avoiding the holes and stones, and in making their footing sure over the round and slippery timbers of the log bridges, renders them very valuable. If they want the spirit and fleetness of some of our high-bred blood horses, they make up in gentleness, strength, and patience. This renders them most truly valuable, as they will travel in such places that no British horse would, with equal safety to their drivers. Nor are the Canadian horses, when well fed and groomed, at all deficient in beauty of colour, size, or form. They are not very often used in logging; the ox is preferred in all rough and heavy labour of this kind.

Just as the increasing gloom of the forest began to warn us of the approach of evening, and I was getting weary and hungry, our driver, in some confusion, avowed his belief that, somehow or other, he had missed the track, though how he could not tell, seeing there was but one road. We were nearly two miles from the last settlement, and he said we ought to be within sight of the lake if we were on the right road. The only plan, we agreed, was for him to go forward and leave the team, and endeavour to ascertain if he were near the water; and, if otherwise, to return to the house we had passed, and inquire the way.