Produced by Andrew Sly
ROUGHING IT IN THE BUSH
By Susanna Moodie
To Agnes Strickland
Author of the “Lives of the Queens of England”
This simple tribute of affection
is dedicated by her sister
Susanna Moodie
Transcriber's Notes on this Etext Edition.
Thank you to The Celebration of Women Writers (Mary Mark Ockerbloom,
Editor) for providing the source text. It has since been proof-read
and modified by comparison with multiple editions.
There is a great deal of variation between different editions
ranging from differences in names, spelling and punctuation to
differences in what chapters and poems are included. This text
is not meant to be authoritative or to match a certain paper
edition; rather, its aim is to be be readable and inclusive of
various material that appears in different editions.
CONTENTS
Introduction to the Third Edition
I A Visit to Grosse Isle
II Quebec
III Our Journey up the Country
IV Tom Wilson's Emigration
V Our First Settlement, and the Borrowing System
VI Old Satan and Tom Wilson's Nose
VII Uncle Joe and his Family
VIII John Monaghan
IX Phoebe R----, and our Second Moving
X Brian, the Still-Hunter
XI The Charivari
XII The Village Hotel
XIII The Land-Jobber
XIV A Journey to the Woods
XV The Wilderness, and our Indian Friends
XVI Burning the Fallow
XVII Our Logging-Bee
XVIII A Trip to Stony Lake
XIX The “Ould Dhragoon”
XX Disappointed Hopes
XXI The Little Stumpy Man
XXII The Fire
XXIII The Outbreak
XXIV The Whirlwind
XXV The Walk to Dummer
XXVI A Change in our Prospects
XXVII Adieu to the Woods
XXVIII Canadian Sketches
Appendix A Advertisement to the Third Edition
Appendix B Canada: a Contrast
Appendix C Jeanie Burns
INTRODUCTION TO THE THIRD EDITION
Published by Richard Bentley in 1854
In most instances, emigration is a matter of necessity, not of
choice; and this is more especially true of the emigration of
persons of respectable connections, or of any station or position
in the world. Few educated persons, accustomed to the refinements
and luxuries of European society, ever willingly relinquish those
advantages, and place themselves beyond the protective influence of
the wise and revered institutions of their native land, without the
pressure of some urgent cause. Emigration may, indeed, generally be
regarded as an act of severe duty, performed at the expense of
personal enjoyment, and accompanied by the sacrifice of those local
attachments which stamp the scenes amid which our childhood grew, in
imperishable characters, upon the heart. Nor is it until adversity
has pressed sorely upon the proud and wounded spirit of the
well-educated sons and daughters of old but impoverished families,
that they gird up the loins of the mind, and arm themselves with
fortitude to meet and dare the heart-breaking conflict.
The ordinary motives for the emigration of such persons may be
summed up in a few brief words;--the emigrant's hope of bettering
his condition, and of escaping from the vulgar sarcasms too often
hurled at the less-wealthy by the purse-proud, common-place people
of the world. But there is a higher motive still, which has its
origin in that love of independence which springs up spontaneously
in the breasts of the high-souled children of a glorious land. They
cannot labour in a menial capacity in the country where they were
born and educated to command. They can trace no difference between
themselves and the more fortunate individuals of a race whose blood
warms their veins, and whose name they bear. The want of wealth
alone places an impassable barrier between them and the more
favoured offspring of the same parent stock; and they go forth to
make for themselves a new name and to find another country, to
forget the past and to live in the future, to exult in the prospect
of their children being free and the land of their adoption great.
The choice of the country to which they devote their talents and
energies depends less upon their pecuniary means than upon the
fancy of the emigrant or the popularity of a name. From the year
1826 to 1829, Australia and the Swan River were all the rage. No
other portions of the habitable globe were deemed worthy of notice.
These were the El Dorados and lands of Goshen to which all
respectable emigrants eagerly flocked. Disappointment, as a matter
of course, followed their high-raised expectations. Many of the
most sanguine of these adventurers returned to their native shores
in a worse condition than when they left them. In 1830, the great
tide of emigration flowed westward. Canada became the great
land-mark for the rich in hope and poor in purse. Public newspapers
and private letters teemed with the unheard-of advantages to be
derived from a settlement in this highly-favoured region.
Its salubrious climate, its fertile soil, commercial advantages,
great water privileges, its proximity to the mother country, and
last, not least, its almost total exemption from taxation--that
bugbear which keeps honest John Bull in a state of constant
ferment--were the theme of every tongue, and lauded beyond all
praise. The general interest, once excited, was industriously
kept alive by pamphlets, published by interested parties, which
prominently set forth all the good to be derived from a settlement
in the Backwoods of Canada; while they carefully concealed the toil
and hardship to be endured in order to secure these advantages.
They told of lands yielding forty bushels to the acre, but they
said nothing of the years when these lands, with the most careful
cultivation, would barely return fifteen; when rust and smut,
engendered by the vicinity of damp over-hanging woods, would blast
the fruits of the poor emigrant's labour, and almost deprive him
of bread. They talked of log houses to be raised in a single day,
by the generous exertions of friends and neighbours, but they never
ventured upon a picture of the disgusting scenes of riot and low
debauchery exhibited during the raising, or upon a description of
the dwellings when raised--dens of dirt and misery, which would, in
many instances, be shamed by an English pig-sty. The necessaries of
life were described as inestimably cheap; but they forgot to add
that in remote bush settlements, often twenty miles from a market
town, and some of them even that distance from the nearest
dwelling, the necessaries of life which would be deemed
indispensable to the European, could not be procured at all, or,
if obtained, could only be so by sending a man and team through
a blazed forest road,--a process far too expensive for frequent
repetition.
Oh, ye dealers in wild lands--ye speculators in the folly and
credulity of your fellow men--what a mass of misery, and of
misrepresentation productive of that misery, have ye not to answer
for! You had your acres to sell, and what to you were the worn-down
frames and broken hearts of the infatuated purchasers? The public
believed the plausible statements you made with such earnestness,
and men of all grades rushed to hear your hired orators declaim
upon the blessings to be obtained by the clearers of the
wilderness.
Men who had been hopeless of supporting their families in comfort
and independence at home, thought that they had only to come out
to Canada to make their fortunes; almost even to realise the story
told in the nursery, of the sheep and oxen that ran about the
streets, ready roasted, and with knives and forks upon their backs.
They were made to believe that if it did not actually rain gold,
that precious metal could be obtained, as is now stated of
California and Australia, by stooping to pick it up.
The infection became general. A Canada mania pervaded the middle
ranks of British society; thousands and tens of thousands for the
space of three or four years landed upon these shores. A large
majority of the higher class were officers of the army and navy,
with their families--a class perfectly unfitted by their previous
habits and education for contending with the stern realities of
emigrant life. The hand that has long held the sword, and been
accustomed to receive implicit obedience from those under its
control, is seldom adapted to wield the spade and guide the plough,
or try its strength against the stubborn trees of the forest. Nor
will such persons submit cheerfully to the saucy familiarity of
servants, who, republicans in spirit, think themselves as good as
their employers. Too many of these brave and honourable men were
easy dupes to the designing land-speculators. Not having counted
the cost, but only looked upon the bright side of the picture held
up to their admiring gaze, they fell easily into the snares of
their artful seducers.
To prove their zeal as colonists, they were induced to purchase
large tracts of wild land in remote and unfavourable situations.
This, while it impoverished and often proved the ruin of the
unfortunate immigrant, possessed a double advantage to the seller.
He obtained an exorbitant price for the land which he actually
sold, while the residence of a respectable settler upon the spot
greatly enhanced the value and price of all other lands in the
neighbourhood.
It is not by such instruments as those I have just mentioned, that
Providence works when it would reclaim the waste places of the
earth, and make them subservient to the wants and happiness of its
creatures. The Great Father of the souls and bodies of men knows
the arm which wholesome labour from infancy has made strong, the
nerves which have become iron by patient endurance, by exposure
to weather, coarse fare, and rude shelter; and He chooses such,
to send forth into the forest to hew out the rough paths for the
advance of civilization. These men become wealthy and prosperous,
and form the bones and sinews of a great and rising country. Their
labour is wealth, not exhaustion; its produce independence and
content, not home-sickness and despair. What the Backwoods of
Canada are to the industrious and ever-to-be-honoured sons of
honest poverty, and what they are to the refined and accomplished
gentleman, these simple sketches will endeavour to portray. They
are drawn principally from my own experience, during a sojourn of
nineteen years in the colony.
In order to diversify my subject, and make it as amusing as
possible, I have between the sketches introduced a few small poems,
all written during my residence in Canada, and descriptive of the
country.
In this pleasing task, I have been assisted by my husband, J. W.
Dunbar Moodie, author of “Ten Years in South Africa.”
BELLEVILLE, UPPER CANADA
CANADA
Canada, the blest--the free!
With prophetic glance, I see
Visions of thy future glory,
Giving to the world's great story
A page, with mighty meaning fraught,
That asks a wider range of thought.
Borne onward on the wings of Time,
I trace thy future course sublime;
And feel my anxious lot grow bright,
While musing on the glorious sight;--
My heart rejoicing bounds with glee
To hail thy noble destiny!
Even now thy sons inherit
All thy British mother's spirit.
Ah! no child of bondage thou;
With her blessing on thy brow,
And her deathless, old renown
Circling thee with freedom's crown,
And her love within thy heart,
Well may'st thou perform thy part,
And to coming years proclaim
Thou art worthy of her name.
Home of the homeless!--friend to all
Who suffer on this earthly ball!
On thy bosom sickly care
Quite forgets her squalid lair;
Gaunt famine, ghastly poverty
Before thy gracious aspect fly,
And hopes long crush'd, grow bright again,
And, smiling, point to hill and plain.
By thy winter's stainless snow,
Starry heavens of purer glow,
Glorious summers, fervid, bright,
Basking in one blaze of light;
By thy fair, salubrious clime;
By thy scenery sublime;
By thy mountains, streams, and woods;
By thy everlasting floods;
If greatness dwells beneath the skies,
Thou to greatness shalt arise!
Nations old, and empires vast,
From the earth had darkly pass'd
Ere rose the fair auspicious morn
When thou, the last, not least, wast born.
Through the desert solitude
Of trackless waters, forests rude,
Thy guardian angel sent a cry
All jubilant of victory!
“Joy,” she cried, “to th' untill'd earth,
Let her joy in a mighty birth,--
Night from the land has pass'd away,
The desert basks in noon of day.
Joy, to the sullen wilderness,
I come, her gloomy shades to bless,
To bid the bear and wild-cat yield
Their savage haunts to town and field.
Joy, to stout hearts and willing hands,
That win a right to these broad lands,
And reap the fruit of honest toil,
Lords of the rich, abundant soil.
“Joy, to the sons of want, who groan
In lands that cannot feed their own;
And seek, in stern, determined mood,
Homes in the land of lake and wood,
And leave their hearts' young hopes behind,
Friends in this distant world to find;
Led by that God, who from His throne
Regards the poor man's stifled moan.
Like one awaken'd from the dead,
The peasant lifts his drooping head,
Nerves his strong heart and sunburnt hand,
To win a potion of the land,
That glooms before him far and wide
In frowning woods and surging tide
No more oppress'd, no more a slave,
Here freedom dwells beyond the wave.
“Joy, to those hardy sires who bore
The day's first heat--their toils are o'er;
Rude fathers of this rising land,
Theirs was a mission truly grand.
Brave peasants whom the Father, God,
Sent to reclaim the stubborn sod;
Well they perform'd their task, and won
Altar and hearth for the woodman's son.
Joy, to Canada's unborn heirs,
A deathless heritage is theirs;
For, sway'd by wise and holy laws,
Its voice shall aid the world's great cause,
Shall plead the rights of man, and claim
For humble worth an honest name;
Shall show the peasant-born can be,
When call'd to action, great and free.
Like fire, within the flint conceal'd,
By stern necessity reveal'd,
Kindles to life the stupid sod,
Image of perfect man and God.
“Joy, to thy unborn sons, for they
Shall hail a brighter, purer day;
When peace and Christian brotherhood
Shall form a stronger tie than blood--
And commerce, freed from tax and chain,
Shall build a bridge o'er earth and main;
And man shall prize the wealth of mind,
The greatest blessing to mankind;
True Christians, both in word and deed,
Ready in virtue's cause to bleed,
Against a world combined to stand,
And guard the honour of the land.
Joy, to the earth, when this shall be,
Time verges on eternity.”
CHAPTER I
A VISIT TO GROSSE ISLE
Alas! that man's stern spirit e'er should mar
A scene so pure--so exquisite as this.
The dreadful cholera was depopulating Quebec and Montreal when our
ship cast anchor off Grosse Isle, on the 30th of August 1832, and
we were boarded a few minutes after by the health-officers.
One of these gentlemen--a little, shrivelled-up Frenchman--from
his solemn aspect and attenuated figure, would have made no bad
representative of him who sat upon the pale horse. He was the only
grave Frenchman I had ever seen, and I naturally enough regarded
him as a phenomenon. His companion--a fine-looking fair-haired
Scotchman--though a little consequential in his manners, looked
like one who in his own person could combat and vanquish all the
evils which flesh is heir to. Such was the contrast between these
doctors, that they would have formed very good emblems, one, of
vigorous health, the other, of hopeless decay.
Our captain, a rude, blunt north-country sailor, possessing
certainly not more politeness than might be expected in a bear,
received his sprucely dressed visitors on the deck, and, with very
little courtesy, abruptly bade them follow him down into the cabin.
The officials were no sooner seated, than glancing hastily round
the place, they commenced the following dialogue:--
“From what port, captain?”
Now, the captain had a peculiar language of his own, from which he
commonly expunged all the connecting links. Small words, such as
“and” and “the,” he contrived to dispense with altogether.
“Scotland--sailed from port o' Leith, bound for Quebec, Montreal--
general cargo--seventy-two steerage, four cabin passengers--brig
Anne, one hundred and ninety-two tons burden, crew eight hands.”
Here he produced his credentials, and handed them to the strangers.
The Scotchman just glanced over the documents, and laid them on the
table.
“Had you a good passage out?”
“Tedious, baffling winds, heavy fogs, detained three weeks on
Banks--foul weather making Gulf--short of water, people out of
provisions, steerage passengers starving.”
“Any case of sickness or death on board?”
“All sound as crickets.”
“Any births?” lisped the little Frenchman.
The captain screwed up his mouth, and after a moment's reflection
he replied, “Births? Why, yes; now I think on't, gentlemen, we had
one female on board, who produced three at a birth.”
“That's uncommon,” said the Scotch doctor, with an air of lively
curiosity. “Are the children alive and well? I should like much to
see them.” He started up, and knocked his head--for he was very
tall--against the ceiling. “Confound your low cribs! I have nearly
dashed out my brains.”
“A hard task, that,” looked the captain to me. He did not speak,
but I knew by his sarcastic grin what was uppermost in his
thoughts. “The young ones all males--fine thriving fellows. Step
upon deck, Sam Frazer,” turning to his steward; “bring them down
for doctors to see.” Sam vanished, with a knowing wink to his
superior, and quickly returned, bearing in his arms three fat,
chuckle-headed bull-terriers, the sagacious mother following
close at his heels, and looked ready to give and take offence on
the slightest provocation.
“Here, gentlemen, are the babies,” said Frazer, depositing his
burden on the floor. “They do credit to the nursing of the brindled
slut.”
The old tar laughed, chuckled, and rubbed his hands in an ecstacy
of delight at the indignation and disappointment visible in the
countenance of the Scotch Esculapius, who, angry as he was, wisely
held his tongue. Not so the Frenchman; his rage scarcely knew
bounds--he danced in a state of most ludicrous excitement, he
shook his fist at our rough captain, and screamed at the top of his
voice--
“Sacre, you bete! You tink us dog, ven you try to pass your puppies
on us for babies?”
“Hout, man, don't be angry,” said the Scotchman, stifling a laugh;
“you see 'tis only a joke!”
“Joke! me no understand such joke. Bete!” returned the angry
Frenchman, bestowing a savage kick on one of the unoffending pups
which was frisking about his feet. The pup yelped; the slut barked
and leaped furiously at the offender, and was only kept from biting
him by Sam, who could scarcely hold her back for laughing; the
captain was uproarious; the offended Frenchman alone maintained
a severe and dignified aspect. The dogs were at length dismissed,
and peace restored.
After some further questioning from the officials, a Bible was
required for the captain to take an oath. Mine was mislaid, and
there was none at hand.
“Confound it!” muttered the old sailor, tossing over the papers
in his desk; “that scoundrel, Sam, always stows my traps out of
the way.” Then taking up from the table a book which I had been
reading, which happened to be Voltaire's History of Charles XII.,
he presented it, with as grave an air as he could assume, to the
Frenchman. Taking for granted that it was the volume required, the
little doctor was too polite to open the book, the captain was duly
sworn, and the party returned to the deck.
Here a new difficulty occurred, which nearly ended in a serious
quarrel. The gentlemen requested the old sailor to give them a few
feet of old planking, to repair some damage which their boat had
sustained the day before. This the captain could not do. They
seemed to think his refusal intentional, and took it as a personal
affront. In no very gentle tones, they ordered him instantly to
prepare his boats, and put his passengers on shore.
“Stiff breeze--short sea,” returned the bluff old seaman; “great
risk in making land--boats heavily laden with women and children
will be swamped. Not a soul goes on shore this night.”
“If you refuse to comply with our orders, we will report you to the
authorities.”
“I know my duty--you stick to yours. When the wind falls off, I'll
see to it. Not a life shall be risked to please you or your
authorities.”
He turned upon his heel, and the medical men left the vessel in
great disdain. We had every reason to be thankful for the firmness
displayed by our rough commander. That same evening we saw eleven
persons drowned, from another vessel close beside us while
attempting to make the shore.
By daybreak all was hurry and confusion on board the Anne.
I watched boat after boat depart for the island, full of people
and goods, and envied them the glorious privilege of once more
standing firmly on the earth, after two long months of rocking
and rolling at sea. How ardently we anticipate pleasure, which
often ends in positive pain! Such was my case when at last indulged
in the gratification so eagerly desired. As cabin passengers, we
were not included in the general order of purification, but were
only obliged to send our servant, with the clothes and bedding we
had used during the voyage, on shore, to be washed.
The ship was soon emptied of all her live cargo. My husband went
off with the boats, to reconnoitre the island, and I was left alone
with my baby in the otherwise empty vessel. Even Oscar, the
Captain's Scotch terrier, who had formed a devoted attachment to
me during the voyage, forgot his allegiance, became possessed of
the land mania, and was away with the rest. With the most intense
desire to go on shore, I was doomed to look and long and envy every
boatful of emigrants that glided past. Nor was this all; the ship
was out of provisions, and I was condemned to undergo a rigid fast
until the return of the boat, when the captain had promised a
supply of fresh butter and bread. The vessel had been nine weeks at
sea; the poor steerage passengers for the two last weeks had been
out of food, and the captain had been obliged to feed them from the
ship's stores. The promised bread was to be obtained from a small
steam-boat, which plied daily between Quebec and the island,
transporting convalescent emigrants and their goods in her upward
trip, and provisions for the sick on her return.
How I reckoned on once more tasting bread and butter! The very
thought of the treat in store served to sharpen my appetite, and
render the long fast more irksome. I could now fully realise all
Mrs. Bowdich's longings for English bread and butter, after her
three years' travel through the burning African deserts, with her
talented husband.
“When we arrived at the hotel at Plymouth,” said she, “and were
asked what refreshment we chose--'Tea, and home-made bread and
butter,' was my instant reply. 'Brown bread, if you please, and
plenty of it.' I never enjoyed any luxury like it. I was positively
ashamed of asking the waiter to refill the plate. After the
execrable messes, and the hard ship-biscuit, imagine the luxury of
a good slice of English bread and butter!”
At home, I laughed heartily at the lively energy with which that
charming woman of genius related this little incident in her
eventful history--but off Grosse Isle, I realised it all.
As the sun rose above the horizon, all these matter-of-fact
circumstances were gradually forgotten, and merged in the
surpassing grandeur of the scene that rose majestically before me.
The previous day had been dark and stormy, and a heavy fog had
concealed the mountain chain, which forms the stupendous background
to this sublime view, entirely from our sight. As the clouds rolled
away from their grey, bald brows, and cast into denser shadow the
vast forest belt that girdled them round, they loomed out like
mighty giants--Titans of the earth, in all their rugged and awful
beauty--a thrill of wonder and delight pervaded my mind. The
spectacle floated dimly on my sight--my eyes were blinded with
tears--blinded with the excess of beauty. I turned to the right and
to the left, I looked up and down the glorious river; never had I
beheld so many striking objects blended into one mighty whole!
Nature had lavished all her noblest features in producing that
enchanting scene.
The rocky isle in front, with its neat farm-houses at the eastern
point, and its high bluff at the western extremity, crowned with
the telegraph--the middle space occupied by tents and sheds for the
cholera patients, and its wooded shores dotted over with motley
groups--added greatly to the picturesque effect of the land scene.
Then the broad, glittering river, covered with boats darting to and
fro, conveying passengers from twenty-five vessels, of various size
and tonnage, which rode at anchor, with their flags flying from the
mast-head, gave an air of life and interest to the whole. Turning
to the south side of the St. Lawrence, I was not less struck with
its low fertile shores, white houses, and neat churches, whose
slender spires and bright tin roofs shone like silver as they
caught the first rays of the sun. As far as the eye could reach, a
line of white buildings extended along the bank; their background
formed by the purple hue of the dense, interminable forest. It was
a scene unlike any I had ever beheld, and to which Britain contains
no parallel. Mackenzie, an old Scotch dragoon, who was one of our
passengers, when he rose in the morning, and saw the parish of St.
Thomas for the first time, exclaimed: “Weel, it beats a'! Can thae
white clouts be a' houses? They look like claes hung out to drie!”
There was some truth in this odd comparison, and for some minutes,
I could scarcely convince myself that the white patches scattered
so thickly over the opposite shore could be the dwellings of a
busy, lively population.
“What sublime views of the north side of the river those habitans
of St. Thomas must enjoy,” thought I. Perhaps familiarity with the
scene has rendered them indifferent to its astonishing beauty.
Eastward, the view down the St. Lawrence towards the Gulf, is the
finest of all, scarcely surpassed by anything in the world. Your
eye follows the long range of lofty mountains until their blue
summits are blended and lost in the blue of the sky. Some of these,
partially cleared round the base, are sprinkled over with neat
cottages; and the green slopes that spread around them are covered
with flocks and herds. The surface of the splendid river is
diversified with islands of every size and shape, some in wood,
others partially cleared, and adorned with orchards and white
farm-houses. As the early sun streamed upon the most prominent of
these, leaving the others in deep shade, the effect was strangely
novel and imposing. In more remote regions, where the forest has
never yet echoed to the woodman's axe, or received the impress of
civilisation, the first approach to the shore inspires a melancholy
awe, which becomes painful in its intensity.
Land of vast hills and mighty streams,
The lofty sun that o'er thee beams
On fairer clime sheds not his ray,
When basking in the noon of day
Thy waters dance in silver light,
And o'er them frowning, dark as night,
Thy shadowy forests, soaring high,
Stretch forth beyond the aching eye,
And blend in distance with the sky.
And silence--awful silence broods
Profoundly o'er these solitudes;
Nought but the lapsing of the floods
Breaks the deep stillness of the woods;
A sense of desolation reigns
O'er these unpeopled forest plains.
Where sounds of life ne'er wake a tone
Of cheerful praise round Nature's throne,
Man finds himself with God--alone.
My daydreams were dispelled by the return of the boat, which
brought my husband and the captain from the island.
“No bread,” said the latter, shaking his head; “you must be content
to starve a little longer. Provision-ship not in till four
o'clock.” My husband smiled at the look of blank disappointment
with which I received these unwelcome tidings, “Never mind, I have
news which will comfort you. The officer who commands the station
sent a note to me by an orderly, inviting us to spend the afternoon
with him. He promises to show us everything worthy of notice on the
island. Captain ---- claims acquaintance with me; but I have not the
least recollection of him. Would you like to go?”
“Oh, by all means. I long to see the lovely island. It looks a
perfect paradise at this distance.”
The rough sailor-captain screwed his mouth on one side, and gave
me one of his comical looks, but he said nothing until he assisted
in placing me and the baby in the boat.
“Don't be too sanguine, Mrs. Moodie; many things look well at a
distance which are bad enough when near.”
I scarcely regarded the old sailor's warning, so eager was I to go
on shore--to put my foot upon the soil of the new world for the
first time--I was in no humour to listen to any depreciation of
what seemed so beautiful.
It was four o'clock when we landed on the rocks, which the rays
of an intensely scorching sun had rendered so hot that I could
scarcely place my foot upon them. How the people without shoes bore
it, I cannot imagine. Never shall I forget the extraordinary
spectacle that met our sight the moment we passed the low range of
bushes which formed a screen in front of the river. A crowd of many
hundred Irish emigrants had been landed during the present and
former day; and all this motley crew--men, women, and children, who
were not confined by sickness to the sheds (which greatly resembled
cattle-pens) were employed in washing clothes, or spreading them
out on the rocks and bushes to dry.
The men and boys were in the water, while the women, with their
scanty garments tucked above their knees, were trampling their
bedding in tubs, or in holes in the rocks, which the retiring
tide had left half full of water. Those who did not possess
washing-tubs, pails, or iron pots, or could not obtain access to a
hole in the rocks, were running to and fro, screaming and scolding
in no measured terms. The confusion of Babel was among them. All
talkers and no hearers--each shouting and yelling in his or her
uncouth dialect, and all accompanying their vociferations with
violent and extraordinary gestures, quite incomprehensible to the
uninitiated. We were literally stunned by the strife of tongues. I
shrank, with feelings almost akin to fear, from the hard-featured,
sun-burnt harpies, as they elbowed rudely past me.
I had heard and read much of savages, and have since seen, during
my long residence in the bush, somewhat of uncivilised life; but
the Indian is one of Nature's gentlemen--he never says or does a
rude or vulgar thing. The vicious, uneducated barbarians who form
the surplus of over-populous European countries, are far behind the
wild man in delicacy of feeling or natural courtesy. The people who
covered the island appeared perfectly destitute of shame, or even
of a sense of common decency. Many were almost naked, still more
but partially clothed. We turned in disgust from the revolting
scene, but were unable to leave the spot until the captain had
satisfied a noisy group of his own people, who were demanding a
supply of stores.
And here I must observe that our passengers, who were chiefly
honest Scotch labourers and mechanics from the vicinity of
Edinburgh, and who while on board ship had conducted themselves
with the greatest propriety, and appeared the most quiet, orderly
set of people in the world, no sooner set foot upon the island than
they became infected by the same spirit of insubordination and
misrule, and were just as insolent and noisy as the rest.
While our captain was vainly endeavouring to satisfy the
unreasonable demands of his rebellious people, Moodie had discovered
a woodland path that led to the back of the island. Sheltered by
some hazel-bushes from the intense heat of the sun, we sat down by
the cool, gushing river, out of sight, but, alas! not out of
hearing of the noisy, riotous crowd. Could we have shut out the
profane sounds which came to us on every breeze, how deeply should
we have enjoyed an hour amid the tranquil beauties of that retired
and lovely spot!
The rocky banks of the island were adorned with beautiful
evergreens, which sprang up spontaneously in every nook and
crevice. I remarked many of our favourite garden shrubs among
these wildings of nature: the fillagree, with its narrow, dark
glossy-green leaves; the privet, with its modest white blossoms
and purple berries; the lignum-vitae, with its strong resinous
odour; the burnet-rose, and a great variety of elegant unknowns.
Here, the shores of the island and mainland, receding from each
other, formed a small cove, overhung with lofty trees, clothed from
the base to the summit with wild vines, that hung in graceful
festoons from the topmost branches to the water's edge. The dark
shadows of the mountains, thrown upon the water, as they towered to
the height of some thousand feet above us, gave to the surface of
the river an ebon hue. The sunbeams, dancing through the thick,
quivering foliage, fell in stars of gold, or long lines of dazzling
brightness, upon the deep black waters, producing the most novel
and beautiful effects. It was a scene over which the spirit of
peace might brood in silent adoration; but how spoiled by the
discordant yells of the filthy beings who were sullying the purity
of the air and water with contaminating sights and sounds!
We were now joined by the sergeant, who very kindly brought us
his capful of ripe plums and hazel-nuts, the growth of the island;
a joyful present, but marred by a note from Captain ----, who had
found that he had been mistaken in his supposed knowledge of us,
and politely apologised for not being allowed by the health-officers
to receive any emigrant beyond the bounds appointed for the
performance of quarantine.
I was deeply disappointed, but my husband laughingly told me that
I had seen enough of the island; and turning to the good-natured
soldier, remarked, that “it could be no easy task to keep such wild
savages in order.”
“You may well say that, sir--but our night scenes far exceed those
of the day. You would think they were incarnate devils; singing,
drinking, dancing, shouting, and cutting antics that would surprise
the leader of a circus. They have no shame--are under no
restraint--nobody knows them here, and they think they can speak
and act as they please; and they are such thieves that they rob one
another of the little they possess. The healthy actually run the
risk of taking the cholera by robbing the sick. If you have not
hired one or two stout, honest fellows from among your fellow
passengers to guard your clothes while they are drying, you will
never see half of them again. They are a sad set, sir, a sad set.
We could, perhaps, manage the men; but the women, sir!--the women!
Oh, sir!”
Anxious as we were to return to the ship, we were obliged to remain
until sun-down in our retired nook. We were hungry, tired, and out
of spirits; the mosquitoes swarmed in myriads around us, tormenting
the poor baby, who, not at all pleased with her first visit to the
new world, filled the air with cries, when the captain came to tell
us that the boat was ready. It was a welcome sound. Forcing our way
once more through the still squabbling crowd, we gained the landing
place. Here we encountered a boat, just landing a fresh cargo of
lively savages from the Emerald Isle. One fellow, of gigantic
proportions, whose long, tattered great-coat just reached below the
middle of his bare red legs, and, like charity, hid the defects of
his other garments, or perhaps concealed his want of them, leaped
upon the rocks, and flourishing aloft his shilelagh, bounded and
capered like a wild goat from his native mountains. “Whurrah! my
boys!” he cried, “Shure we'll all be jintlemen!”
“Pull away, my lads!” said the captain. Then turning to me, “Well,
Mrs. Moodie, I hope that you have had enough of Grosse Isle. But
could you have witnessed the scenes that I did this morning--”
Here he was interrupted by the wife of the old Scotch dragoon,
Mackenzie, running down to the boat and laying her hand familiarly
upon his shoulder, “Captain, dinna forget.”
“Forget what?”
She whispered something confidentially in his ear.
“Oh, ho! the brandy!” he responded aloud. “I should have thought,
Mrs. Mackenzie, that you had had enough of that same on yon
island?”
“Aye, sic a place for decent folk,” returned the drunken body,
shaking her head. “One needs a drap o' comfort, captain, to keep up
one's heart ava.”
The captain set up one of his boisterous laughs as he pushed the
boat from the shore. “Hollo! Sam Frazer! steer in, we have
forgotten the stores.”
“I hope not, captain,” said I; “I have been starving since
daybreak.”
“The bread, the butter, the beef, the onions, and potatoes are
here, sir,” said honest Sam, particularizing each article.
“All right; pull for the ship. Mrs. Moodie, we will have a glorious
supper, and mind you don't dream of Grosse Isle.”
In a few minutes we were again on board. Thus ended my first day's
experience of the land of all our hopes.
OH! CAN YOU LEAVE YOUR NATIVE LAND?
A Canadian Song
Oh! can you leave your native land
An exile's bride to be;
Your mother's home, and cheerful hearth,
To tempt the main with me;
Across the wide and stormy sea
To trace our foaming track,
And know the wave that heaves us on
Will never bear us back?
And can you in Canadian woods
With me the harvest bind,
Nor feel one lingering, sad regret
For all you leave behind?
Can those dear hands, unused to toil,
The woodman's wants supply,
Nor shrink beneath the chilly blast
When wintry storms are nigh?
Amid the shades of forests dark,
Our loved isle will appear
An Eden, whose delicious bloom
Will make the wild more drear.
And you in solitude will weep
O'er scenes beloved in vain,
And pine away your life to view
Once more your native plain.
Then pause, dear girl! ere those fond lips
Your wanderer's fate decide;
My spirit spurns the selfish wish--
You must not be my bride.
But oh, that smile--those tearful eyes,
My firmer purpose move--
Our hearts are one, and we will dare
All perils thus to love!
[This song has been set to a beautiful plaintive air,
by my husband.]