60, Aylmer Street,
Montreal,
_Wednesday, 17th Sept._, '84.
My Dear Mother,
I must follow your example and write when there is nothing much that
can be said, not so much because there is nothing to say, as because
I have'nt time to say it. I suppose you have got our first letters
by this time. I wonder what sort of impression they made? I don't
remember what I put inside my own, except that I confessed to being
sea-sick, but it was due to the --inks in the cabin. One thing,
though, I did not tell you, namely, that when the time came I was
sorry to land, for towards the end I enjoyed it very much. My hat
arrived here with only a few dents in it. By-the-bye, talking of
things that arrived here, I don't know if either of us told you the
parcel and all your letters had come safe to hand (Thursday.) Here
we are suddenly in Sherbrooke again. Awful nuisance this cutting
about, but it can't be helped. It was no use Henry staying longer in
Montreal; its resources for him were fairly exhausted; and now is
the time for another shot at old Crabtree. We only arrived here this
evening, being obliged, by the inconvenient times at which the
trains run, to travel in the daytime. I shall have a lot to do
to-morrow, but, if possible, I will add something hereto before I
mail it. You will have to excuse bad writing, as it's a fearful bad
light, and not very early. I meant to read your letter over again,
and answer it as I went, but that will have to slide for the
present. I have seen dozens and dozens of people in Montreal lately,
and some good friends are also agitating there for me while I am
away. I am going to see Colonel Ibbotson to-morrow, and he is going
to try and get me in the Government Surveying business at Ottawa, so
I may have to go there very soon. I have left my card and address
with half the engineers in Canada, and all have promised to make
enquiries for me, and let me know if anything turns up. I have'nt
entered into minute details of what I have been doing, which people
I have seen, and what they have told me, etc., because I would much
sooner wait till I can write and tell you what has turned up. You'd
be thinking all sorts of direful things if I were to write by one
mail and say I was going to see the great so-and-so to-morrow, and
tell you how I had backed myself up with an array of mutual friends,
letters of introduction, etc., and then write by next mail to say
that it had all come to nothing; and yet that is what is constantly
happening; it must happen; of course I fortify my position as much
as possible for every application, but if a man has'nt got a vacancy
you can't expect him to make one. I have got eight or ten irons in
the fire here or in Montreal, and each of them will probably
generate other irons, frequently bigger and stronger than they are
themselves.
By-the-bye, I don't know if I told you on the other side of this
page (that is the other one), that I had blued 50c. to go and have a
look at Lachine Rapids. I don't know whether I was disappointed or
not. I think the boats that go down are far too big; one does'nt get
a proper idea of the height of the waves and general _ruction_ of
the water. The steering was the best part of it. The water runs down
I should say in places at about twelve to fifteen miles an hour, and
the channel is sometimes not more than twenty or thirty yards wide
between the rocks, which I could'nt see till we were alongside of
them; and it twists and turns about a good deal. Altogether I did
not grudge the money. I must shut up now mother dear, for to-night.
You ought to have a capital M at least, seeing you are such a
capital Mother, but my eyes are sore, so we'll let it slide. Perhaps
I shall have to sign my name in pencil, if so you'll know I had'nt
time to write any more.
Well, this arn't in pencil, and it arn't my name, it's ink, and such
ink! I believe it's made from charcoal. Everything here is made of
wood, even to the fire-irons and hearthstones. We are not where we
was. Different portions of this letter have been inscribed in
different places (small chance of your being able to read it if it had
not). It was begun in Montreal, continued in Sherbrooke, and I am now
writing at the Eastern Township Hotel, Eton Corner, near Birchton,
P.Q., which I have every reason to believe will be Henry's field of
action. I may hereafter be able to add for certain that he is settled,
and upon what terms. All I can say at present is that a certain farmer
named Hardy has consented to take him. I have not seen the man yet, he
was called away suddenly on some important business and could not let
me know in time to stop rife coming here to see him. I am told it's a
first-rate farm and the man is well off, which is security against
Henry suddenly being discharged owing to impecuniosity on the farmer's
part, a thing which seems to be of pretty frequent occurrence about
here, or, in fact, anywhere else. We went out to the farm this
morning, and saw the man's father, who lives with him; he is a very
decent old chap, but he is going away on Sunday for some time. Henry
liked the look of the place very much indeed. It is about sixteen
miles from Sherbrooke, and four-and-a-half from the station
(Birchton). The country is a good deal wilder than any we have seen
yet, though very pretty, nothing but wood all round, mostly pine, but
not large timber. The village is also a pretty little place, it looks
like a few houses--all wood--built in a field, with a road running
through the middle of them, a road that would be considered a disgrace
to any county in England, but which passes for a very fair one here.
By-the-bye, jack-boots are such an evident necessity here that I
advised Henry to get another pair before he left Sherbrooke, which he
did for $2 25c., or about nine shillings. Boots of every sort are much
cheaper here, though the boot-maker himself said they were not so
good; still they look to me to have a great deal of hard wear in them,
and there is a wonderful difference in the price. I don't think Henry
could have done without another pair, as they are by a long way the
safest and best things to wear in the winter. (Sunday morning.) I
have'nt been to church this morning, because it's three-and-a-half or
four miles away, and the roads (owing to heavy rains yesterday and
last night) are a mass of mud, and I have nothing but thin shoes. You
see I came down from Montreal expecting to be back again on Saturday
morning, and I can't get back now before Tuesday morning. I saw Hardy
last night, and slept at his farm with Henry. I think on the whole he
is well placed, for placed he certainly is. I made up my mind long ago
to close with the first chance that offered for him unless there was
some good moral or political reason against doing so. I can't see the
shadow of such a reason in this case. Hardy is a middle-aged,
intelligent-looking man, fairly cultured and educated, free and easy
in his manners, as everyone is here. From what I hear, I should say he
was inclined to be a little quick tempered, not a lot, not what you
would call a hot-tempered man by any means. I think it would take a
great deal to make him angry, but when he did become so, it would be a
flare up and out again like a bunch of tow. He seems a genial sort of
chap too, as he always says the best he can of everybody, and is
always ready for a laugh. He has the reputation of being fair and
upright in his dealings. When I talked to him about wages he said he
certainly could'nt give Henry anything to start with during the time
that is left for outside work before the winter; he would require too
much explanation, and be too raw at his work to be of any value beyond
his keep, and during the cold weather there was practically nothing to
do but cut wood and attend the cattle. I find that even a skilled hand
can seldom get more than $10 a month with his keep at winter work
_unless he engages for one or more years_. I think it's quite fair,
when you consider that he has engaged Henry just when there is very
little to be done, and he has no security that he (Henry) won't leave
him when the spring comes, or perhaps before it. Of course, he
probably won't do so, but you can't expect the man to count upon that.
Thus the _probability_ is that Henry will get only his board and
lodging during the greater part of the winter; or, to use the man's
own words, "I'll do the best I can; if I find he's worth more I'll
give it him, anyway he's sure of something in the spring." I like the
farmer's wife very much, she must have been very pretty once, though
of course, most of it has worn off now. She is very quiet, and very
good tempered looking, and I think she will take a fancy to Henry.
They have got one child, a girl of about eight or nine, who it will
probably be Henry's duty to drive in school every morning. I think
this settles the family. Henry will no doubt give you a lengthy
description of the house, so I will refrain from expatiating on its
merits. He will have a room to himself, which, in my opinion, is
sufficient reason for clinching the bargain. You were wanting to know
about the prices of things here as compared with the old country, as I
have already begun to call it. Some son-of-a-gun has been playing the
fool with my pen, and all the ink this place can raise is a
concentrated solution in the bottom of a stone bottle. Well, I think I
have told you all that I know at present, though I can't be sure. You
see I have to write at odd times, and in odd places, and so I very
often forget what I have said or have not said. Railway travelling is
certainly dearer for short distances, but undoubtedly cheaper for long
ones; that is, the tickets are issued at a reduced mileage, but it
does not seem cheaper, and if time is money it is certainly not so. I
don't know anything about a three or four day's journey. The return
fare from Montreal to Sherbrooke, 102 miles, first-class, is $5 60c.
It is impossible for anyone but a hardened smoker, and one who can
throw comfort to the winds, to travel anything but first-class, at
least, that is the result of my experience so far. I don't know enough
about it to give any reliable opinion on the merits of Canadian
Railways at present. The clothing required in towns seems decidedly
dearer than it is in England. What may be called the specialities of
the country, such as overall working suits, jack-boots, etc., are
cheaper. I can't say anything about living yet, $5 50c. clears all
shoals, washing included, in Montreal, and 6 or 7 would do the same in
most country hotels, though I am not sure that they are hotels which
you could go to. I have just remembered that last Friday was my
birthday. How old am I--twenty-four or twenty-five? Just tell me next
time you write, for I really don't know. I think it must be
twenty-four. I can't be a quarter of a century old yet, surely.
What early birds the people are here. It is just half-past nine and
all lights have been out for some time, and everyone in the hotel is
asleep. I've got to catch the train pretty early to-morrow, so I'll
e'en do likewise. I'll only put J. S. C. here as I'm sure to have
something more to say when I get to Montreal.
Sherbrooke, Monday.--Have just received your letters. These were
waiting for me here; also one from Frank. Many thanks for the lot.
They were very nearly the first reminders I had about my birthday,
but I just managed to remember it the night before I got them. Well,
Mother, I am very sorry to hear that you are anxious about us,
though I suppose you can't help it. I told you not to be before I
went away, but I knew you'd go and do it again as soon as my back
was turned. There's precious little to be anxious about I can tell
you. Henry is fixed and settled, and I am in a very fair way to be
so. That does'nt mean that I _hope_ I shall be settled soon. More
than that. I am beginning to arrive at more definite results as to
my enquiries, etc. Then as to our being sick or in sorrow, you may
also make yourself as comfortable as circumstances will permit;
neither of us, I think, were ever in better health or more in
earnest in the business of life. And concerning the "blues" or
"sorrow" contingency, why I never whistled so long or so loud
before. That's because there are not so many people to talk to, and
none that object to music. There's no girls either to talk to. We
don't know a single one in the country. Hard luck, isn't it? Now,
about the weather--cheerful subject (it's raining like mad). So far
it has displayed just as much inconstancy as is usually met with in
England. The first night we spent here was cold, the next day was
hot, and the next day hotter still, and then it remained so for
about a fortnight. Now it has cooled down again, and is pretty
changeable. It seems to me so far the main difference between this
climate and the English one is the difference between the mean
temperatures of summer and winter. In Devonshire I should say the
average mean difference between summer and winter is about 40°, and
in Sherbrooke it's probably more like 100°. In both countries sudden
changes and rises or falls are common. In this country it will fall
from, in summer, say from 90° to 60°, and in England it will fall
from 70° to 40°. It therefore stands to reason that this climate
must be the most healthy, if people do not mind the heat, for
anybody, no matter how thinly clothed, can always, with a little
exercise, keep themselves healthily warm with the thermometer at
60°, but it is by no means always easy to prevent getting cold when
it falls suddenly as low as 40°. In winter, I am told, it will
frequently fall from 0° to 40° below; but then the winter here is
such a recognised institution that everyone is prepared for such
freaks. The healthy appearance of the kids in the country round
about here would make you feel pretty happy about the "Grub," I
think. I have seen some half his age who would make three of him at
least.
I should like to know what is inside the castles that you build in
connection with my "nice acquaintance of the steamer." We didn't
make any friends who asked us to stay with them, or anything of that
sort. The number of saloon passengers was very limited, and those
from whom I would have accepted invitations were more limited still.
Dr. Marsh, the only one who took the trouble to help or advise us at
all when we got on shore, and who is a very nice chap, gave us his
address, and made us promise to hunt him up if ever we came out
west, and told us if we wanted to know anything about that part of
the country to write to him, and he would make all the enquiries,
etc., in his power; which I shall certainly do towards next spring.
It's no good writing now; the correspondence would die out and leave
nothing definitely settled behind it. Now I think I'm finished up
with Sherbrooke. I leave for Montreal to-night, by the 1.35 train. I
hope there may be half-a-dozen appointments waiting for me. I have
told you elsewhere why I do not write detailed accounts of the
people I have seen or have yet to see, the chances of securing
such-and-such a job, etc., etc. I have neither the time nor the
ability to give you a clear and concise idea of the value and weight
of each introduction, and to what it may probably lead. Besides, if
I did, you would naturally want to know how each of them had ended,
and I should have to send by each mail a long list of places where I
had NOT got work--a glum kind of letter for both sides. Suffice it
that my prospects are good, and that all my friends express their
unqualified approbation of the courses I have adopted to attain my
ends. _Montreal, old address_. There is nothing much that I can add.
I did not travel last night because the trains had been changed, and
I should have had to wait two or three hours at a wretched little
hole in the small hours of the morning. I therefore slept the night
in Sherbrooke, and got here by a train arriving at noon. Having fed
and got my baggage stowed away, I hunted up my two principal
backers, at least I hunted for them but was unsuccessful, so I can't
tell you anything about what's been done for me during my absence. I
believe I've got rather more baggage than Henry. When we split it
up it was found that I needed both portmanteaus and the Canadian
box as well, that I now have a fearful lot of packages to lug about,
including my gun and rifle. The rifle reminds me of old Daddy. How's
he getting on? Making big strides, I hope? He'll need all he can
make when I come to see him. I seem to be always ready for a guzzle
now. I wish you could have had the journey I did this morning; I am
sure you would have enjoyed it, though the train had suddenly
developed amphibious proclivities whilst going over a bridge. What
one hears of the "autumn tints" here is rather the reverse of
exaggerated. Nearly the whole way from Sherbrooke to Montreal is
through woods, and they are all a blaze of red in every shade, from
the brightest fieriest crimson to a dark purple, that is, all except
those which are green or yellow. The mixture is much prettier than
all one colour would be, and by contrast with the dark
scraggy-looking pines, it does not look the least gaudy. Well, I'm
going to shut up and do some reading. So good bye for the present,
and best love to everyone under the sun when it shines in Dawlish.
Your loving Son,
J. SETON COCKBURN.
Mailed Friday, 27th.
Ottawa,
_October 2nd_, 1884.
My Dear Mother,
I can't lose this mail after having taken so long about my last
letter. But it will scarcely be more than How d'you do? How are you?
I'm all right! Well, that's better than nothing, anyhow. I have, as
you see, again changed my location, whether advantageously or
otherwise I cannot as yet say. But this Capital of Canada is a
miserable little place. The railway station is very little better
than a shed in a field, and the road from there to the town--oh,
"golly!"--a train off the rails is nothing to it. I came up in the
hotel 'bus, and though I tried all I knew to sit firm and not let
daylight be seen betwixt me and my saddle, I was jumped about like a
dancing-master, and I hammered those cushions till I thought of
claiming a week's pay from the hotel for beating the dust out of
them. However, I did'nt; so I am still here. There is one good thing
I have done in coming here, I have reached the head and source of
the immigration question. I can get an unprejudiced opinion as to
the very best spots in the place--that is, settling spots--and also
various items of information which all tend, more or less, to the
endorsement of this moral: Let no professional men, of any sort,
come out here. I used to think there must be lots of openings for
engineers, doctors, etc., in the small towns that were almost daily
springing up along the line, but that is not so. Of course there is
now and then a chance, say for a doctor to start in some place where
eighty or a hundred people have congregated together, and if he can
live on his own pills till another couple of oughts are added to the
figure, he may get a good practice. But then he may not, because
somebody else may get it instead. The fact of the matter is, and I
have high government officials for my authority, that, owing to the
educational mania, which is every whit as rampant here as it is in
England, this country produces annually a number of professional
men, of every class, far in excess of the demand. The illiterate
settler makes his money pretty easy, and then, being impressed with
the "free country" rubbish that is talked here, he decides that his
sons shall not be farm labourers, they shall be gentlemen. "Why the
blazes shouldn't 'Bob' be just as good a doctor or lawyer as anyone
else?" So to school and to college they go, and having been made
gentlemen of, they lounge about the towns, filling the bars and the
billiard-rooms, and smoking themselves green while waiting for a
breeze. Why, in this wretched little place, of about 20 to 25,000
inhabitants, there are thirty lawyers and twenty-five doctors in the
directory, and all these have one or more satelites. Well, this is
all very dry.
The weather is getting colder every day, and the shop windows are
getting full of snow-shoes, mocassins, etc. I hear very different
stories about the winter. Some people say it is so cold that the
rain freezes into icicles as it comes down from the clouds, and so
forms pillars which you can climb up and skate about overhead. And
others say it's so jolly mild in the coldest weather that you've
only got to put a little snow in the fire and it will soon melt.
I must shut up now, as I've got an appointment to meet the Minister
of the Interior and several other swagger gentlemen.
Best love to everybody. Remember me all round.
Your loving Son,
J. SETON COCKBURN.
P.S.--I open this again to tell you that I am fixed here, for the
present at anyrate. I have got a job in a patent solicitor's office,
as draughtsman. Salary is scarcely fixed yet, but will probably be
seven or eight dollars a-week to begin upon, increasing to about
twelve. It may be permanent or it may not, but I have something else
to fall back upon.
Address 202, Bank Street, Ottawa.
The job I have to fall back upon is with a blacksmith, at Eton
Corner. I should at first get only board, but probably more
afterwards.
Ottawa,
_October 6th_, '84.