We spent the greater part of two days at Penetanguishene, which is truly
a most lovely spot. The bay runs up into the land like some of the
Scottish lochs, and the shores are bolder and higher than usual, and as
yet all clothed with the primeval forest. During the war there were
dockyards and a military and naval depot here, maintained at an immense
expense to government; and it is likely, from its position, to rise into
a station of great importance; at present, the only remains of all the
warlike demonstrations of former times are a sloop sunk and rotting in
the bay, and a large stone-building at the entrance, called the "Fort,"
but merely serving as barracks for a few soldiers from the garrison at
Toronto. There are several pretty houses on the beautiful declivity,
rising on the north side of the bay, and the families settled here have
contrived to assemble round them many of the comforts and elegancies of
life. I have reason to remember with pleasure a Russian lady, the wife
of an English officer, who made my short sojourn here very agreeable.
There was an inn here, not the worst of Canadian inns; and the _wee_
closet called a bed-room, and the little bed with its white cotton
curtains appeared to me the _ne plus ultra_ of luxury. I recollect
walking in and out of the room ten times a day for the mere pleasure of
contemplating it, and anticipated with impatience the moment when I
should throw myself down into it, and sleep once more on a christian
bed. But nine nights passed in the open air, or on rocks, and on boards,
had spoiled me for the comforts of civilisation, and to sleep _on a bed_
was impossible; I was smothered, I was suffocated, and altogether
wretched and fevered;--I sighed for my rock on Lake Huron.