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Journey from Peterborough.--Canadian Woods.--Waggon
and Team.--Arrival at a Log-house on the Banks of a Lake.--Settlement and
first Occupations.
October 25, 1832.
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 with-out. 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 abreast) of stout horses to convey us and our
luggage through the woods to the banks of one of the lakes, where S------
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 bark 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*. These blazes are of as much use as finger-posts of a dark
night.
[* 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.]
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 presents 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 in 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. Laurence; its dark, frowning woods of sombre pine give a grandeur to
the scenery that 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 so.
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 trunk 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 of 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 up on 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 just in the
middle of 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 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 of 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.
After running full half a mile ahead 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 farther 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 himlocks 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 depth of
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 halloo.
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; 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 out 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 accommodation,
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
now are.
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 lake shore. 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 are 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 the new settlers in the remote townships, where the price
of labour is proportionably high, and workmen difficult to be procured.
Imagine the situation of an emigrant with a
wife and young family, the latter possibly too young and helpless 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 other
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.
At present so small a portion of the forest is
cleared on our lot, that I can give you little or no description of the spot
on which we are located, otherwise than that it borders on a fine expanse of
water, which forms one of the Otanabee chain of Small Lake. I hope, however,
to give you a more minute description of our situation in my next letter.
For the present, then, I bid you adieu. |
