Part 3

We had two men on board, the very antipodes of each other. The one was a colossal bachelor, who was never ill; the other a diminutive member of a large family, who was never well. They resembled each other only in one point—that they both ate prodigiously. The only account the bachelor could give of himself was that he was going out to Canada to saw the big trees. He had, in fact, been engaged as a sawyer to proceed to the banks of the Ottawa, there to prosecute his avocation in connection with some of the large timber establishments, which are situated far up that noble river. He was so powerful a fellow, that a Yankee passenger declared “he would have only to look at a tree to bring it down.” He lived, whilst on board, on nothing but oatmeal porridge, a large goblet-full of which, after first making it himself, he devoured regularly on deck four times a day. As to the little man, he lived, as regularly, on mashed potatoes, enriched with butter and melted cheese; and his meals were invariably followed by fits of sea-sickness which he considered quite unaccountable. His habits became at length such a scandal to all on board, that the doctor was compelled, by the force of public opinion, to order him to eat less. He had remained below from our time of starting, until the day we made land, when he appeared on deck for the first time, and was for the first time seen without his nightcap.

When we had been about three weeks at sea an incident occurred which appalled us all, and elicited the sympathies of everyone for one of the unfortunate sufferers. I have already alluded to the old man, who was emigrating with his only grandson, whom he wished to see comfortably settled in life, ere his eyes were sealed in death. The youth was one of several on board who were fond, after having been a few days at sea, of climbing the rigging, and exposing themselves to a variety of unnecessary risks. He had been frequently warned, with the rest, against the consequences which might ensue, but disregarded the advice. One day, whilst out upon the bowsprit, he missed his hold and dropped into the water. The alarm of “man overboard” was instantly raised, and, to save him, the ship was immediately hove to; but he had disappeared, and although we remained for an hour upon the spot, we never caught a glimpse of him again. One of the men near him at the time said that, on reaching the water, he was struck on the head by the cut-water of the ship, which was then running about eight knots an hour. The blow stunned him, and he sank like a stone. The poor old man was inconsolable, and gradually sank into a state of vacant imbecility; and, on landing, found a home in the Lunatic Asylum at Quebec.

Let no one dream that the sea, particularly on board an emigrant ship, is the place for reading or study. It is either too cold, when there is the slightest breeze, or too hot when it is calm: it is too noisy at all times. Happy is he who, under such circumstances, has a resource against _ennui_ in his own reflections. Having a clergyman on board, we had divine service regularly on the Sundays. When it was rough, the assemblage took place between decks in the steerage; but when fine we were convened upon deck. Sailors have a dread, not exactly of clergymen in the abstract, but of clergymen on board. A blackbird on the rigging as the ship is about to start, or a clergyman on board, is equally, in their estimation, a token of ill luck; and some of the crew pitied us for anticipating anything else, under the circumstances.

If there is one thing more disagreeable than a storm at sea, it is a calm. It is all very well for a steamer, which can then make her way nobly over the waters; but, the annoyance and tedium on board a sailing vessel are indescribable. In all our calms we were surrounded by sea-gulls and other marine birds. Some of them ventured so close as to be shot; others we endeavoured to catch by means of baited hooks tied to a stick, which was attached to a long cord; but they were too wary for us, for, after closely examining it, they fought shy of the temptation.

On nearing the banks of Newfoundland we were constantly immersed in fogs. One morning, whilst thus situated, the temperature of the sea suddenly lowered, which the captain interpreted into an indication of icebergs not being far off, and a sharp look out was ordered to be kept. It was scarcely noon ere we were in imminent peril of running at full speed against one. We owed our escape to a passenger, who was on the lookout, and who called the attention of one of the sailors to something ahead of us. “Starboard—starboard hard!”—cried he at once to the man at the wheel. The helm was scarcely turned ere we glided rapidly by the frozen mass, which gleamed like a huge emerald in the faint and struggling sunlight. We passed so close to it that I could have leaped upon it with ease. We might as well have run against a whinstone rock as encountered this floating peril, at the rate at which we were then gliding through the water.

Whilst crossing the banks the ship was frequently hove to for soundings. We took advantage of such occasions to fish for cod; nor were we unsuccessful, for we, altogether, hauled on board several dozen fish of a large size. The delight with which we feasted upon our prey, after some weeks’ experience of nothing but salt meat, I leave the reader to imagine. It was during one of our angling attempts that an incident occurred, which would have seemed as incredible to me as it may now do the reader, had I not been an eye-witness of it. One of the crew, whilst fishing for a few minutes, with a line belonging to a passenger, hooked a very large fish, which dropped into the water in the act of being hauled on board. The man, determined on securing his prize, without a moment’s hesitation, leaped overboard after it; and, seizing the half insensible fish in his arms, held it there until he was hauled on board, with his extraordinary booty. In explanation of this, it should be known that the gills of a cod-fish, when out of the water, swell considerably, so as to prevent it from properly performing their functions when restored, even alive, to its native element. It was whilst the fish in question was in the act of thus “coming to” that the man seized and secured it.

On the banks, when the night was clear, we witnessed magnificent exhibitions of the aurora-borealis. It was generally between midnight and ten in the morning that the phenomenon attained the greatest splendour. When the whole northern sky was enveloped in a trellis-work of flashing wavy light, of a mingled golden, silvery pink, and blood-red hue.

The first land we made, was Cape Breton, an island off the northern extremity of Nova Scotia; and between which and Newfoundland, is the entrance to the Gulf of St. Lawrence. The bold shore of the island was more picturesque than inviting; but for the live-long day every passenger strained his eyes upon this, the first positive revelation of the New World to him. The delight imparted by the first sight of land, can only be appreciated by those who have been for weeks at sea, with nothing to meet the eye, day after day, but the same monotonous and dreary circle of waters, in the midst of which the ship seems to rest immoveable. From Cape Breton we stood up the Gulf, and being favoured by the wind, soon made the Island of Anticosti, not far from the mouth of the St. Lawrence. It looked like a mass of petrified guano; an illusion which was not disturbed by the myriads of water-fowl which hovered about its precipices.

The Gulf of St. Lawrence has not been inaptly designated, the “vilest of seas.” It was our lot to have ample experience of its capricious humours. When almost at the mouth of the river, which expands into a magnificent estuary of from seventy to ninety miles in width, we were becalmed for two whole days. Between us and the rocky shore on our left, to which we were very close, lay a vessel from Belfast, crowded with emigrants. There was music and dancing on board; and so near were we to each other, that we, too, sometimes danced to the sound of her solitary violin. On the evening of the second day, we were suddenly overtaken by a furious squall, which descending the river, came upon us so unprepared, that much of our canvas was cut to pieces ere it could be taken in. In about half an hour all was comparatively tranquil again, but on looking for our comrade, not a vestige of her was to be seen. It was not for three weeks afterwards, when we heard of her total loss, with upwards of three hundred and fifty souls on board, that our dreadful suspicions respecting her, were confirmed. Next morning it blew very fresh; and although it was the 3rd of June, we had several heavy falls of snow.

After beating about for two days longer in the mouth of the river, we were boarded by a pilot, and made way for Quebec, about four hundred miles up. The ascent of the stream is sometimes exceedingly tedious; as, when the wind is adverse, it is necessary to come to anchor at every turn of the tide. Thus as much time is sometimes consumed in ascending the river, as in crossing the Atlantic. We were more fortunate, for we made the quarantine ground, thirty miles below the city, in ten days. Under such circumstances, the sail up the river is interesting and agreeable. For the first hundred miles or so, it is so wide, that land on either side is but dimly visible. But, as the estuary narrows, objects on either side become more distinct. The northern shore, which is bold and mountainous, is replete with scenes of the most romantic grandeur. The southern bank being much tamer in its character, and more adapted for human habitations. The channel too, some distance up, is occasionally studded with islands, which add greatly to the interest of the sail.

The quarantine ground of Canada is Gros Isle, between which and Quebec stretches the long Island of Orleans. We had scarcely dropped anchor when we were boarded by an officer of the Board of Health. Whilst ascending the river, the ship had been thoroughly cleaned, and the berths in the steerage white-washed. We were all passed in review before the functionary in question, and could have been at once permitted to proceed to our destination, but for one old lady, who was not exactly ill, but ailing; on her account we were detained until every piece of clothing on board had undergone a thorough ablution. We landed immediately in boats, and, after having been for about six weeks at sea, it was with inexpressible joy that I sprang ashore, for the first time, in the New World.

Gros Isle! With what melancholy associations have the events of 1847 encircled the name of the Canadian lazaretto! On our arrival, in a year when the tide of emigration was not strong, there was a little fleet anchored along side of it. Some of the vessels (they were all from Ireland), with their overloaded cargoes of human beings, had been already there for a month, nor was there any prospect of their being relieved for some weeks to come. There was an hospital for the sick; the accommodation ashore for such as were well, consisted of several large open sheds, tolerably well covered and floored. In these, meals were taken during the day, and beds were made for the night. Outside, the scene presented was picturesque, and even gay; there were nearly three thousand people ashore, and a universal washing of clothes of all kinds was going on; the water being heated by hundreds of wood fires, which were blazing and smoking amongst the rocks in the open air. When there were families, the families belonging to them washed for them; such as were alone had to hire the services of professional washerwomen. The appliances of washing are rather peculiar. Between high and low water-mark the island was very rocky, and the action of the water had here and there scooped out bowls of various sizes from the rock. Into them, for the most part, the hot water was poured, and in them, between tides, the clothes were washed. They were then spread upon the rocks, or hung upon the trees to dry, which gave the island a holiday look. It was anything, however, but a holiday time for hundreds, who were forced to tenant it.

To our great satisfaction, we were permitted, after but one day’s detention, to resume our course. With wind and tide in our favour, we soon dropped up to the city. It was a clear and brilliant morning in June when we left Gros Isle, and as we made our way up the narrow channel between the Island of Orleans and the southern bank of the river, nothing could exceed the beauty of the scene, the great basin, into which the city juts, being visible in the distance, directly ahead of us, whilst the precipitous bank on either side, particularly that on our left, was covered with the most luxuriant vegetation, in the shade of which we could, every here and there, discover foaming torrents, dashing headlong from the country above into the river, like those which, after heavy rains, rush with such fury down the western bank of Loch Ness. On opening one of the points of the Isle Orleans, the cataract of Montmorency burst suddenly upon our view, looking in the distance like a long streak of snow amid the rich green foliage which imbedded it. Considerably higher up, Point Levy still projected between us and the city, but long before we turned it, we could see over it the British flag floating in the distance from the lofty battlements of Cape Diamond. On turning the point, the change of scene was as sudden and complete as any ever effected by the scenic contrivances of the stage. The city was at once disclosed to view, skirting the fort and crowning the summit of the bold rocky promontory on which it stands, its tinned roofs and steeples gleaming in the sunlight, as if they were cased in silver. Very few vessels were at the wharves, but abreast of the city hundreds were anchored in the middle of the stream, some getting rid of their ballast, and others surrounded by islands of timber, with which they were being loaded. The clearness of the air, the brightness of the sky, the merry tumble of the water, slightly ruffled by a fresh easterly breeze, the singular position and quaint appearance of the town, with its massive battlements, its glistening turrets, and its break-neck looking streets, zigzagging up the precipice, with the rich greenery of the Heights of Abraham beyond, and that of Point Levy right opposite, and with hundreds of vessels lying quietly at anchor on the broad expanse of the river, whilst the echoes reverberated to the merry choruses of their busy crews,—all conspired to form a picture calculated to make an impression upon the imagination too deep to be ever effaced.

The anchor had scarcely dropped, terminating our long and weary voyage, when we were boarded by a Custom-House officer, and by an officer of the Board of Health. After another inspection, we were permitted to land; and it was not without many anxious reflections upon the novelty of my situation, that I found myself retiring that night to rest within a stone’s throw of the monument raised to the joint memories of Wolf and Montcalm.

Such were the incidents of my voyage. I have set them down simply, and exactly as they occurred, for the purpose of presenting a true picture of the emigrant’s life afloat. I have since learned that, in all respects, ours was an average journey across the wide waste. Intending emigrants, therefore, who picture to themselves in bright colours the glories of a sea voyage, will, by reading these pages, have their dreams modified by some touches of reality and truth, if not entirely dispelled. If, however, they are adapted for success in the other hemisphere, they will not be daunted by the trials and inconveniences I have pictured.

THE SISTER’S FAREWELL.

Dear Sister, sit beside my bed, And let me see your gentle smile, And let me lay my aching head Upon your kindly arm awhile; I shall not long be with you now, My time is drawing to an end: May we our spirits meekly bow, And He release from suffering send.

The longed-for summer’s drawing near; The wind is softer, and the sun Streams down so brightly on me here, It almost seems already come. But now—I never more shall see The fields and lanes, all gay with flowers, Nor hear the murmur of the bee, Nor song of birds among the bowers.

For here, no beauteous change we see In nature, as the year rolls on; No green bursts forth on bush and tree When winter’s chilling frosts are gone. No gentle flowers or odours sweet, In summer cheer us as we go; Nought see we but th’ unchanging street, And weary passing to and fro.

The summer, though ’tis summer still, Seems not the same while we are here. How sweet the thought of that clear rill, That trembled from the hillock near To our old house! I sometimes think, With my eyes closed, and half-asleep, That I am lying on the brink Of the old fish-pond, still, and deep.

Methinks in one of those sweet nooks, Beneath the hanging willow-trees, I listen to the cawing rooks And busy humming of the bees. And, moodily, I watch the trout Make circles in the tranquil pool; And watch the swallows skim about, And feel the breeze so fresh and cool.

Let me awake—the dream was brief— Be thankful for my sufferings here; Be thankful, too, for Heaven’s relief, E’en though I leave thee, sister dear. Yet let me once more see you smile; A Vision opens on me bright! Lay your hand by me for a while— And now, God bless you, love—Good Night!

THE HOME OF WOODRUFFE THE GARDENER.

IN EIGHT CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER IV.

Fleming did what he could to find fair play for his father-in-law. He spoke to one and another—to the officers of the railway, and to the owners of neighbouring plots of ground, about the bad drainage, which was injuring everybody; but he could not learn that anything was likely to be done. The ditch—the great evil of all—had always been there, he was told, and people never used to complain of it. When Fleming pointed out that it was at first a comparatively deep ditch, and that it grew shallower every year, from the accumulations formed by its uneven bottom, there were some who admitted that it might be as well to clean it out; yet nobody set about it. And it was truly a more difficult affair now than it would have been at an earlier time. If the ditch was shallower, it was much wider. It had once been twelve feet wide, and it was now eighteen. When any drain had been flowing into it, or after a rainy day, the contents spread through and over the soil on each side, and softened it, and then the next time any horse or cow came to drink, the whole bank was made a perfect bog; for the poor animals, however thirsty, tried twenty places to find water that they could drink, before going away in despair. Such was the bar in the way of poor Woodruffe’s success with his ground. Before the end of summer, his patience was nearly worn out. During a showery and gleamy May and a pleasant June, he had gone on as prosperously as he could expect under the circumstances; and he confidently anticipated that a seasonable July and August would quite set him up. But he had had no previous experience of the peculiarities of ill-drained land; and the hot July and August from which he hoped so much did him terrible mischief. The drought which would have merely dried and pulverised a well-drained soil, leaving it free to profit much by small waterings, baked the overcharged soil of Woodruffe’s garden into hard hot masses of clay, amidst which his produce died off faster and faster every day, even though he and all his family wore out their strength with constant watering. He did hope, he said, that he should have been spared drought at least; but it seemed as if he was to have every plague in turn; and the drought seemed, at the time, to be the worst of all.

One day, Fleming saw a welcome face in one of the carriages; Mr. Nelson, a Director of the railway, who was looking along the line to see how matters went. Though Mr. Nelson was not exactly the one, of all the Directors, whom Fleming would have chosen to appeal to, he saw that the opportunity must not be lost; and he entreated him to alight, and stay for the next train.

“Eh! what?” said Mr. Nelson; “what can you want with us here? A station like this! Why, one has to put on spectacles to see it!”

“If you would come down, Sir, I should be glad to show you....”

“Well: I suppose I must.”

As they were standing on the little platform, and the train was growing smaller in the distance, Fleming proceeded to business. He told of the serious complaints that were made for a distance of a few miles on either hand, of the clay pits, left by the railway brickmakers, to fill with stagnant waters.

“Pho! pho! Is that what you want to say?” replied Mr. Nelson. “You need not have stopped me just to tell me that. We hear of those pits all along the line. We are sick of hearing of them.”

“That does not mend the matter in this place,” observed Fleming. “I speak freely, Sir, but I think it my duty to say that something must be done. I heard, a few days ago, more than the people hereabouts know,—much more than I shall tell them—of the fever that has settled on particular points of our line; and I now assure you, Sir, that if the fever once gets a hold in this place, I believe it may carry us all off, before anything can be done. Sir, there is not one of us, within half a mile of the Station, that has a wholesome dwelling.”

“Pho! pho! you are a croaker,” declared Mr. Nelson. “Never saw such a dismal fellow! Why, you will die of fright, if ever you die of anything.”

“Then, Sir, will you have the goodness to walk round with me, and see for yourself what you think of things. It is not only for myself and my family that I speak. In an evil day, I induced my wife’s family to settle here, and....”

“Ay! that is a nice garden,” observed Mr. Nelson, as Fleming pointed to Woodruffe’s land. “You are a croaker, Fleming. I declare I think the place is much improved since I saw it last. People would not come and settle here if the place was like what you say.”

Instead of arguing the matter, Fleming led the way down the long flight of steps. He was aware that leading the gentleman among bad smells and over shoes in a foul bog would have more effect than any argument was ever known to have on his contradictious spirit.

“You should have seen worse things than these, and then you would not be so discontented,” observed Mr. Nelson, striking his stick upon the hard-baked soil, all intersected with cracks. “I have seen such a soil as this in Spain, some days after a battle, when there were scores of fingers and toes sticking up out of the cracks. What would you say to that?—eh?”

“We may have a chance of seeing that here,” replied Fleming; “if the plague comes,—and comes too fast for the coffin-makers,—a thing which has happened more than once in England, I believe.”

Mr. Nelson stopped to laugh; but he certainly attended more to business as he went on; and Fleming, who knew something of his ways, had hopes that if he could only keep his own temper, this visit of the Director might not be without good results.