THE WALK TO DUMMER.
Reader! have you ever heard of a place situated in the forest-depths of
this far western wilderness, called Dummer? Ten years ago it might not
inaptly have been termed “The _last_ clearing in the World.” Nor to
this day do I know of any in that direction which extends beyond it. Our
bush-farm was situated on the border-line of a neighbouring township,
only one degree less wild, less out of the worid, or nearer to the
habitations of civilization than the far-famed “English Line,” the boast
and glory of this _terra incognita_.
This place, so named by the emigrants who had pitched their tents in
that solitary wilderness, was a long line of cleared land, extending
upon either side for some miles through the darkest and most
interminable forest. The English Line was inhabited chiefly by Cornish
miners, who, tired of burrowing like moles underground, had determined
to emigrate to Canada, where they could breathe the fresh air of heaven,
and obtain the necessaries of life upon the bosom of their mother earth.
Strange as it may appear, these men made good farmers, and steady,
industrious colonists, working as well above ground as they had toiled
in their early days beneath it. All our best servants came from Dummer;
and although they spoke a language difficult to be understood, and
were uncouth in their manners and appearance, they were faithful
and obedient, performing the tasks assigned to them with patient
perseverance; good food and kind treatment rendering them always
cheerful and contented.
My dear old Jenny, that most faithful and attached of all humble
domestic friends, came from Dummer, and I was wont to regard it with
complacency for her sake. But Jenny was not English; she was a generous,
warm-hearted daughter of the Green Isle--the emerald gem set in the
silver of ocean. Yes, Jenny was one of the poorest children of that
impoverished but glorious country where wit and talent seem indigenous,
springing up spontaneously in the rudest and most uncultivated minds;
showing what the land could bring forth in its own strength, unaided by
education, and unfettered by the conventional rules of society. Jenny
was a striking instance of the worth, noble self-denial, and devotion,
which are often met with--and, alas! but too often disregarded--in the
poor and ignorant natives of that deeply-injured and much-abused land.
A few words about my old favourite may not prove uninteresting to my
readers.
Jenny Buchanan, or, as she called it, Bohanon, was the daughter of a
petty exciseman, of Scotch extraction (hence her industry), who, at the
time of her birth, resided near the old town of Inniskillen. Her mother
died a few months after she was born; and her father, within the twelve
months, married again. In the mean while the poor orphan babe had been
adopted by a kind neighbour, the wife of a small farmer in the vicinity.
In return for coarse food and scanty clothing, the little Jenny became
a servant of all work. She fed the pigs, herded the cattle, assisted
in planting potatoes and digging peat from the bog, and was undisputed
mistress of the poultry-yard. As she grew up to womanhood, the
importance of her labours increased. A better reaper in the
harvest-field, or footer of turf in the bog, could not be found in the
district, or a woman more thoroughly acquainted with the management
of cows and the rearing of young cattle; but here poor Jenny's
accomplishments terminated.
Her usefulness was all abroad. Within the house she made more dirt than
she had the inclination or the ability to clear away. She could neither
read, nor knit, nor sew; and although she called herself a Protestant,
and a Church of England woman, she knew no more of religion, as revealed
to man through the Word of God, than the savage who sinks to the grave
in ignorance of a Redeemer. Hence she stoutly resisted all idea of being
a sinner, or of standing the least chance of receiving hereafter the
condemnation of one.
“Och, shure thin,” she would say, with simple earnestness of look and
manner, almost irresistible, “God will never trouble Himsel' about a
poor, hard-working crathur like me, who never did any harm to the manest
of His makin'.”
One thing was certain, that a benevolent Providence had, “throubled
Himsel'” about poor Jenny in times past, for the warm heart of this
neglected child of Nature contained a stream of the richest benevolence,
which, situated as she had been, could not have been derived from any
other source. Honest, faithful, and industrious, Jenny became a law
unto herself, and practically illustrated the golden rule of her blessed
Lord, “to do unto others as we would they should do unto us.” She
thought it was impossible that her poor services could ever repay the
debt of gratitude that she owed to the family who had brought her up,
although the obligation must have been entirely on their side. To them
she was greatly attached--for them she toiled unceasingly; and when evil
days came, and they were not able to meet the rent-day, or to occupy the
farm, she determined to accompany them in their emigration to Canada,
and formed one of the stout-hearted band that fixed its location in the
lonely and unexplored wilds now known as the township of Dummer.
During the first year of their settlement, the means of obtaining the
common necessaries of life became so precarious, that, in order to
assist her friends with a little ready money, Jenny determined to hire
out into some wealthy house as a servant. When I use the term wealth
as applied to any bush-settler, it is of course only comparatively; but
Jenny was anxious to obtain a place with settlers who enjoyed a small
income independent of their forest means.
Her first speculation was a complete failure. For five long, hopeless
years she served a master from whom she never received a farthing of her
stipulated wages. Still her attachment to the family was so strong, and
had become so much the necessity of her life, that the poor creature
could not make up her mind to leave them. The children whom she had
received into her arms at their birth, and whom she had nursed with
maternal tenderness, were as dear to her as if they had been her own;
she continued to work for them, although her clothes were worn to
tatters, and her own friends were too poor to replace them.
Her master, Captain N----, a handsome, dashing officer, who had served
many years in India, still maintained the carriage and appearance of a
gentleman, in spite of his mental and moral degradation, arising from a
constant state of intoxication; he still promised to remunerate at some
future day her faithful services; and although all his neighbours well
knew that his means were exhausted, and that that day would never come,
yet Jenny, in the simplicity of her faith, still toiled on, in the hope
that the better day he spoke of would soon arrive.
And now a few words respecting this master, which I trust may serve as a
warning to others. Allured by the bait that has been the ruin of so many
of his class, the offer of a large grant of land, Captain N---- had been
induced to form a settlement in this remote and untried township; laying
out much, if not all, of his available means in building a log house,
and clearing a large extent of barren and stony land. To this uninviting
home he conveyed a beautiful young wife, and a small and increasing
family. The result may be easily anticipated. The want of society--a
dreadful want to a man of his previous habits--the total absence of all
the comforts and decencies of life; produced inaction, apathy, and
at last, despondency, which was only alleviated by a constant and
immoderate use of ardent spirits. As long as Captain N---- retained his
half pay, he contrived to exist. In an evil hour he parted with this,
and quickly trod the down-hill path to ruin.
And here I would remark that it is always a rash and hazardous step for
any officer to part with his half pay; although it is almost every day
done, and generally followed by the same disastrous results. A-certain
income, however small, in a country where money is so hard to be
procured, and where labour cannot be attained but at a very high
pecuniary remuneration, is invaluable to a gentleman unaccustomed to
agricultural employment; who, without this reserve to pay his people,
during the brief but expensive seasons of seed-time and harvest, must
either work himself or starve. I have known no instance in which such
sale has been attended with ultimate advantage; but, alas! too many
in which it has terminated in the most distressing destitution. These
government grants of land, to half-pay officers, have induced numbers of
this class to emigrate to the backwoods of Canada, who are totally
unfit for pioneers; but, tempted by the offer of finding themselves
landholders of what, on paper, appear to them fine estates, they
resign a certainty, to waste their energies, and die half-starved and
broken-hearted in the depths of the pitiless wild.
If a gentleman so situated would give up all idea of settling on his
grant, but hire a good farm in a favourable situation--that is, not too
far from a market--and with his half pay hire efficient labourers,
of which plenty are now to be had, to cultivate the land, with common
prudence and economy, he would soon obtain a comfortable subsistence
for his family. And if the males were brought up to share the burden and
heat of the day, the expense of hired labour, as it yearly diminished,
would add to the general means and well-being of the whole, until the
hired farm became the real property of the industrious tenants. But the
love of show, the vain boast of appearing richer and better dressed than
our neighbours, too often involves the emigrant's family in debt, from
which they are seldom able to extricate themselves without sacrificing
the means which would have secured their independence.
This, although a long digression, will not, I hope, be without its
use; and if this book is regarded not as a work of amusement but one
of practical experience, written for the benefit of others, it will
not fail to convey some useful hints to those who have contemplated
emigration to Canada: the best country in the world for the industrious
and well-principled man, who really comes out to work, and to better his
condition by the labour of his hands; but a gulf of ruin to the vain and
idle, who only set foot upon these shores to accelerate their ruin.
But to return to Captain N----. It was at this disastrous period
that Jenny entered his service. Had her master adapted his habits and
expenditure to his altered circumstances, much misery might have been
spared, both to himself and his family. But he was a proud man--too
proud to work, or to receive with kindness the offers of service
tendered to him by his half-civilized, but well-meaning neighbours.
“Hang him!” cried an indignant English settler (Captain N---- was an
Irishman), whose offer of drawing wood had been rejected with unmerited
contempt. “Wait a few years and we shall see what his pride will do for
him. _I am_ sorry for his poor wife and children; but for himself, I
have no pity for him.”
This man had been uselessly insulted, at the very moment when he was
anxious to perform a kind and benevolent action; when, like a true
Englishman, his heart was softened by witnessing the sufferings of a
young delicate female and her infant family. Deeply affronted by the
Captain's foolish conduct, he now took a malignant pleasure in watching
his arrogant neighbour's progress to ruin.
The year after the sale of his commission, Captain N---- found himself
considerably in debt, “Never mind, Ella,” he said to his anxious wife;
“the crops will pay all.”
The crops were a failure that year. Creditors pressed hard; the
Captain had no money to pay his workmen, and he would not work himself.
Disgusted with his location, but unable to change it for a better;
without friends of his own class (for he was the only gentleman then
resident in the new township), to relieve the monotony of his existence
with their society, or to afford him advice or assistance in his
difficulties, the fatal whiskey-bottle became his refuge from gloomy
thoughts.
His wife, an amiable and devoted creature, well born, well educated,
and deserving of a better lot, did all in her power to wean him from
the growing vice. But, alas! the pleadings of an angel, in such
circumstances, would have had little effect upon the mind of such a man.
He loved her as well as he could love any thing, and he fancied that he
loved his children, while he was daily reducing them, by his favourite
vice, to beggary.
For awhile, he confined his excesses to his own fireside, but this was
only for as long a period as the sale of his stock and laud would supply
him with the means of criminal indulgence. After a time, all these
resources failed, and his large grant of eight hundred acres of land had
been converted into whiskey, except the one hundred acres on which his
house and barn stood, embracing the small clearing from which the family
derived their scanty supply of wheat and potatoes. For the sake of
peace, his wife gave up all her ornaments and household plate, and the
best articles of a once handsome and ample wardrobe, in the hope of
hiding her sorrows from the world, and keeping her husband at home.
The pride, that had rendered him so obnoxious to his humbler neighbours,
yielded at length to the inordinate craving for drink; the man who had
held himself so high above his honest and industrious fellow-settlers,
could now unblushingly enter their cabins and beg for a drop of whiskey.
The feeling of shame once subdued, there was no end to his audacious
mendicity. His whole time was spent in wandering about the country,
calling upon every new settler, in the hope of being asked to partake
of the coveted poison. He was even known to enter by the window of an
emigrant's cabin, during the absence of the owner, and remain drinking
in the house while a drop of spirits could be found in the cupboard.
When driven forth by the angry owner of the hut, he wandered on to the
distant town of P----, and lived there in a low tavern, while his wife
and children were starving at home.
“He is the filthiest beast in the township,” said the aforementioned
neighbour to me; “it would be a good thing for his wife and children if
his worthless neck were broken in one of hit, drunken sprees.”
This might be the melancholy fact, but it was not the less dreadful
on that account. The husband of an affectionate wife--the father of a
lovely family--and his death to be a matter of rejoicing!--a blessing,
instead of being an affliction!--an agony not to be thought upon without
the deepest sorrow.
It was at this melancholy period of her sad history that Mrs. N----
found, in Jenny Buchanan, a help in her hour of need. The heart of the
faithful creature bled for the misery; which involved the wife of her
degraded master, and the children she so dearly loved. Their want and
destitution called all the sympathies of her ardent nature into active
operation; they were long indebted to her labour for every morsel of
food which they consumed. For them, she sowed, she planted, she reaped.
Every block of wood which shed a cheering warmth around their desolate
home was cut from the forest by her own hands, and brought up a steep
hill to the house upon her back. For them, she coaxed the neighbours,
with whom she was a general favourite, out of many a mess of eggs for
their especial benefit; while with, her cheerful songs, and hearty,
hopeful disposition, she dispelled much of the cramping despair which
chilled the heart of the unhappy mother in her deserted home.
For several years did this great, poor woman keep the wolf from the door
of her beloved mistress, toiling for her with the strength and energy
of a man. When was man ever so devoted, so devoid of all selfishness,
so attached to employers, yet poorer than herself, as this uneducated
Irishwoman?
A period was at length put to her unrequited services. In a fit of
intoxication her master beat her severely with the iron ramrod of his
gun, and turned her, with abusive language, from his doors. Oh, hard
return for all her unpaid labours of love! She forgave this outrage for
the sake of the helpless beings who depended upon her care. He repeated
the injury, and the poor creature returned almost heart broken to her
former home.
Thinking that his spite would subside in a few days, Jenny made a third
effort to enter his house in her usual capacity; but Mrs. N---- told
her, with many tears, that her presence would only enrage her husband,
who had threatened herself with the most cruel treatment if she allowed
the faithful servant again to enter the house. Thus ended her five
years' service to this ungrateful master. Such was her reward!
I heard of Jenny's worth and kindness from the Englishman who had been
so grievously affronted by Captain N----, and sent for her to come to
me. She instantly accepted my offer, and returned with my messenger. She
had scarcely a garment to cover her. I was obliged to find her a suit
of clothes before I could set her to work. The smiles and dimples of
my curly-headed, rosy little Donald, then a baby-boy of fifteen months,
consoled the old woman for her separation from Ellie N----; and the
good-will with which all the children (now four in number) regarded the
kind old body, soon endeared to her the new home which Providence had
assigned to her.
Her accounts of Mrs. N----, and her family, soon deeply interested me in
her fate; and Jenny never went to visit her friends in Dummer without an
interchange of good wishes passing between us.
The year of the Canadian rebellion came, and brought with it sorrow into
many a bush dwelling. Old Jenny and I were left alone with the little
children, in the depths of the dark forest, to help ourselves in the
best way we could. Men could not be procured in that thinly-settled
spot for love nor money, and I now fully realized the extent of Jenny's
usefulness. Daily she yoked the oxen, and brought down from the bush
fuel to maintain our fires, which she felled and chopped up with her own
hands. She fed the cattle, and kept all things snug about the doors; not
forgetting to load her master's two guns, “in case,” as she said, “the
ribels should attack us in our retrate.”
The months of November and December of 1838 had beer unnaturally mild
for this iron climate; but the opening of the ensuing January brought
a short but severe spell of frost and snow. We felt very lonely in
our solitary dwelling, crouching round the blazing fire, that scarcely
chased the cold from our miserable log tenement, until this dreary
period was suddenly cheered by the unexpected presence of my beloved
friend, Emilia, who came to spend a week with me in my forest home.
She brought her own baby-boy with her, and an ample supply of buffalo
robes, not forgetting a treat of baker's bread, and “sweeties” for the
children. Oh, dear Emilia! best and kindest of women, though absent in
your native land, long, long shall my heart cherish with affectionate
gratitude all your visits of love, and turn to you as to a sister,
tried, and found most faithful, in the dark hour of adversity, and
amidst the almost total neglect of those from whom nature claimed a
tenderer and holier sympathy.
Great was the joy of Jenny at this accession to our family party, and
after Mrs. S---- was well warmed, and had partaken of tea--the only
refreshment we could offer her--we began to talk over the news of the
place.
“By the by, Jenny,” said she, turning to the old servant, who was
undressing the little boy by the fire, “have you heard lately from poor
Mrs. N----? We have been told that she and the family are in a dreadful
state of destitution. That worthless man has left them for the States,
and it is supposed that he has joined Mackenzie's band of ruffians on
Navy Island; but whether this be true or false, he has deserted his wife
and children, taking his eldest son along with him (who might have been
of some service at home), and leaving them without money or food.”
“The good Lord! What will become of the crathurs?” responded Jenny,
wiping her wrinkled cheek with the back of her hard, brown hand. “An'
thin they have not a sowl to chop and draw them firewood; an' the
weather so oncommon savare. Och hone! what has not that _baste_ of a man
to answer for?”
“I heard,” continued Mrs. S----, “that they have tasted no food but
potatoes for the last nine months, and scarcely enough of them to keep
soul and body together; that they have sold their last cow; and the poor
young lady and her second brother, a lad of only twelve years old, bring
all the wood for the fire from the bush on a hand-sleigh.”
“Oh, dear!--oh, dear!” sobbed Jenny; “an' I not there to hilp them! An'
poor Miss Mary, the tinder thing! Oh, 'tis hard, terribly hard for the
crathurs! an' they not used to the like.”
“Can nothing be done for them?” said I.
“That is what we want to know,” returned Emilia, “and that was one of my
reasons for coming up to D----. I wanted to consult you and Jenny
upon the subject. You who are an officer's wife, and I, who am both an
officer's wife and daughter, ought to devise some plan of rescuing this
unfortunate lady and her family from her present forlorn situation.”
The tears sprang to my eyes, and I thought, in the bitterness of my
heart, upon my own galling poverty, that my pockets did not contain even
a single copper, and that I had scarcely garments enough to shield me
from the inclemency of the weather. By unflinching industry, and taking
my part in the toil of the field, I had bread for myself and family, and
this was more than poor Mrs. N---- possessed; but it appeared impossible
for me to be of any assistance to the unhappy sufferer, and the thought
of my incapacity gave me severe pain. It was only in moments like the
present that I felt the curse of poverty.
“Well,” continued my friend, “you see, Mrs. Moodie, that the ladies of
P---- are all anxious to do what they can for her; but they first want
to learn if the miserable circumstances in which she is said to be
placed are true. In short, my dear friend, they want you and me to make
a pilgrimage to Dummer, to see the poor lady herself; and then they will
be guided by our report.”
“Then let us lose no time in going upon our own mission of mercy.”
“Och, my dear heart, you will be lost in the woods!” said old Jenny.
“It is nine long miles to the first clearing, and that through a lonely,
blazed path. After you are through the beaver-meadow, there is not a
single hut for you to rest or warm yourselves. It is too much for the
both of yees; you will be frozen to death on the road.”
“No fear,” said my benevolent friend; “God will take care of us, Jenny.
It is on His errand we go; to carry a message of hope to one about to
perish.”
“The Lord bless you for a darlint,” cried the old woman, devoutly
kissing the velvet cheek of the little fellow sleeping upon her lap.
“May your own purty child never know the want and sorrow that is around
her.”
Emilia and I talked over the Dummer scheme until we fell asleep. Many
were the plans we proposed for the immediate relief of the unfortunate
family. Early the next morning, my brother-in-law, Mr. T----, called
upon my friend. The subject next our heart was immediately introduced,
and he was called into the general council. His feelings, like our own,
were deeply interested; and he proposed that we should each provide
something from our own small stores to satisfy the pressing wants of
the distressed family; while he promised to bring his cutter, the next
morning, and take us through the beaver-meadow, and to the edge of the
great swamp, which would shorten four miles, at least, of our long and
hazardous journey.
We joyfully acceded to his proposal, and set cheerfully to work to
provide for the morrow. Jenny baked a batch of her very best bread, and
boiled a large piece of beef; and Mr. T---- brought with him, the next
day, a fine cooked ham, in a sack, into the bottom of which he stowed
the beef and loaves, besides some sugar and tea, which his own kind
wife, the author of “The Backwoods of Canada,” had sent. I had some
misgivings as to the manner in which these good things could be
introduced to the poor lady, who, I had heard, was reserved and proud.
“Oh, Jenny,” I said, “how shall I be able to ask her to accept
provisions from strangers? I am afraid of wounding her feelings.”
“Oh, darlint, never fear'that! She is proud, I know; but 'tis not a
stiff pride, but jist enough to consale her disthress from her ignorant
English neighbours, who think so manely of poor folk like her who were
once rich. She will be very thankful to you for your kindness, for she
has not experienced much of it from the Dummer people in her throuble,
though she may have no words to tell you so. Say that old Jenny sent
the bread to dear wee Ellie, 'cause she knew she would like a loaf of
Jenny's bakin'.”
“But the meat.”
“Och, the mate, is it? Maybe, you'll think of some excuse for the mate
when you get there.”
“I hope so; but I'm a sad coward with strangers, and I have lived so
long out of the world that I am at a great loss what to do. I will try
and put a good face on the matter. Your name, Jenny, will be no small
help to me.”
All was now ready. Kissing our little bairns, who crowded around us with
eager and inquiring looks, and charging Jenny for the hundredth time to
take especial care of them during our absence, we mounted the cutter,
and set off, under the care and protection of Mr. T----, who determined
to accompany us on the journey.
It was a black, cold day; no sun visible in the gray, dark sky; a keen,
cutting wind, and hard frost. We crouched close to each other.
“Good heavens, how cold it is!” whispered Emilia. “What a day for such a
journey!”
She had scarcely ceased speaking, when the cutter went upon a stump
which lay concealed under the drifted snow; and we, together with the
ruins of our conveyance, were scattered around.
“A bad beginning,” said my brother-in-law, with a rueful aspect, as he
surveyed the wreck of the cutter from which we had promised ourselves so
much benefit. “There is no help for it but to return home.”
“Oh, no,” said Mrs. S----; “bad beginnings make good endings, you know.
Let us go on; it will be far better walking than riding such a dreadful
day. My feet are half frozen already with sitting still.”
“But, my dear madam,” expostulated Mr. T----, “consider the distance,
the road, the dark, dull day, and our imperfect knowledge of the path.
I will get the cutter mended to-morrow; and the day after we may be able
to proceed.”
“Delays are dangerous,” said the pertinacious Emilia, who, woman-like,
was determined to have her own way. “Now or never. While we wait for the
broken cutter, the broken hearted Mrs. N---- may starve. We can stop at
Colonel C----'s and warm ourselves, and you can leave the cutter at his
house until our return.”
“It was upon your account that I proposed the delay,” said the good Mr.
T----, taking the sack, which was no inconsiderable weight, upon his
shoulder, and driving his horse before him into neighbour W----'s
stable. “Where you go, I am ready to follow.”
When we arrived, Colonel C----'s family were at breakfast, of which they
made us partake; and after vainly endeavouring to dissuade us from what
appeared to them our Quixotic expedition, Mrs. C---- added a dozen fine
white fish to the contents of the sack, and sent her youngest son to
help Mr. T---- along with his burthen, and to bear us company on our
desolate road.
Leaving the Colonel's hospitable house on our left, we again plunged
into the woods, and after a few minutes' brisk walking, found ourselves
upon the brow of a steep bank that overlooked the beaver-meadow,
containing within its area several hundred acres.
There is no scenery in the bush that presents such a novel appearance as
those meadows, or openings, surrounded, as they invariably are, by dark,
intricate forests; their high, rugged banks covered with the light, airy
tamarack and silver birch. In summer they look like a lake of soft, rich
verdure, hidden in the bosom of the barren and howling waste. Lakes they
certainly have been, from which the waters have receded, “ages, ages
long ago;” and still the whole length of these curious level valleys is
traversed by a stream, of no inconsiderable dimensions.
The waters of the narrow, rapid creek, which flowed through the meadow
we were about to cross, were of sparkling brightness, and icy cold. The
frost-king had no power to check their swift, dancing movements, or stop
their perpetual song. On they leaped, sparkling and flashing beneath
their ice-crowned banks, rejoicing as they revelled on in their lonely
course. In the prime of the year, this is a wild and lovely spot, the
grass is of the richest green, and the flowers of the most gorgeous
dyes. The gayest butterflies float above them upon painted wings; and
the whip-poor-will pours forth from the neighbouring woods, at close of
dewy eve, his strange but sadly plaintive cry. Winter was now upon the
earth, and the once green meadow looked like a small forest lake covered
with snow.
The first step we made into it plunged us up to the knees in the snow,
which was drifted to a great height in the open space. Mr. T---- and
our young friend C---- walked on ahead of us, in order to break a track
through the untrodden snow. We soon reached the cold creek; but here a
new difficulty presented itself. It was too wide to jump across, and we
could see no other way of passing to the other side.
“There must be some sort of a bridge hereabout,” said young C----, “or
how can the people from Dummer pass constantly during the winter to and
fro. I will go along the bank, and halloo to you if I find one.”
In a few minutes he gave the desired signal, and on reaching the spot,
we found a round, slippery log flung across the stream by way of bridge.
With some trouble, and after various slips, we got safely on the other
side. To wet our feet would have been to ensure their being frozen;
and as it was, we were not without serious apprehensions on that score.
After crossing the bleak, snowy plain, we scrambled over another brook,
and entered the great swamp, which occupied two miles of our dreary
road.
It would be vain to attempt giving any description of this tangled maze
of closely-interwoven cedars, fallen trees, and loose-scattered masses
of rock. It seemed the fitting abode of wolves and bears, and every
other unclean beast. The fire had run through it during the summer,
making the confusion doubly confused. Now we stopped, half doubled, to
crawl under fallen branches that hung over our path, then again we had
to clamber over prostrate trees of great bulk, descending from which
we plumped down into holes in the snow, sinking mid-leg into the rotten
trunk of some treacherous, decayed pine-tree. Before we were half
through the great swamp, we began to think ourselves sad fools, and to
wish that we were safe again by our own firesides. But, then, a great
object was in view,--the relief of a distressed fellow-creature, and
like the “full of hope, misnamed forlorn,” we determined to overcome
every difficulty, and toil on.
It took us an hour at least to clear the great swamp, from which we
emerged into a fine wood, composed chiefly of maple-trees. The sun had,
during our immersion in the dark shades of the swamp, burst through his
leaden shroud, and cast a cheery gleam along the rugged boles of the
lofty trees. The squirrel and chissmunk occasionally bounded across our
path; the dazzling snow which covered it reflected the branches above
us in an endless variety of dancing shadows. Our spirits rose in
proportion. Young C---- burst out singing, and Emilia and I laughed and
chatted as we bounded along our narrow road. On, on for hours, the same
interminable forest stretched away to the right and left, before and
behind us.
“It is past twelve,” said my brother T----, thoughtfully; “if we do
not soon come to a clearing, we may chance to spend the night in the
forest.”
“Oh, I am dying with hunger,” cried Emilia. “Do, C---- give us one or
two of the cakes your mother put into the bag for us to eat upon the
road.”
The ginger-cakes were instantly produced. But where were the teeth to
be found that could masticate them? The cakes were frozen as hard as
stones; this was a great disappointment to us tired and hungry wights;
but it only produced a hearty laugh. Over the logs we went again; for
it was a perpetual stepping up and down, crossing the fallen trees that
obstructed our path. At last we came to a spot where two distinct blazed
roads diverged.
“What are we to do now?” said Mr. T----.
We stopped, and a general consultation was held, and without one
dissenting voice we took the branch to the right, which, after pursuing
for about half-a-mile, led us to a log hut of the rudest description.
“Is this the road to Dummer?” we asked a man, who was chopping wood
outside the fence.
“I guess you are in Dummer?” was the answer.
My heart leaped for joy, for I was dreadfully fatigued.
“Does this road lead through the English Line?”
“That's another thing,” returned the woodman. “No; you turned off from
the right path when you came up here.” We all looked very blank at each
other. “You will have to go back, and keep the other road, and that will
lead you straight to the English Line.”
“How many miles is it to Mrs. N----'s?”
“Some four, or thereabouts,” was the cheering rejoinder. “'Tis one of
the last clearings on the line. If you are going back to Douro to-night,
you must look sharp.”
Sadly and dejectedly we retraced our steps. There are few trifling
failures more bitter in our journey through life than that of a tired
traveller mistaking his road. What effect must that tremendous failure
produce upon the human mind, when, at the end of life's unretraceable
journey, the traveller finds that he has fallen upon the wrong track
through every stage, and instead of arriving at the land of blissful
promise sinks for ever into the gulf of despair!
The distance we had trodden in the wrong path, while led on by hope and
anticipation, now seemed to double in length, as with painful steps we
toiled on to reach the right road. This object once attained, soon led
us to the dwellings of men.
Neat, comfortable log houses, surrounded by well-fenced patches of
clearing, arose on either side of the forest road; dogs flew out and
barked at us, and children ran shouting indoors to tell their respective
owners that strangers were passing their gates; a most unusual
circumstance, I should think, in that location.
A servant who had hired two years with my brother-in-law, we knew must
live somewhere in this neighbourhood, at whose fireside we hoped not
only to rest and warm ourselves, but to obtain something to eat.
On going up to one of the cabins to inquire for Hannah J----, we
fortunately happened to light upon the very person we sought. With many
exclamations of surprise, she ushered us into her neat and comfortable
log dwelling.
A blazing fire, composed of two huge logs, was roaring up the wide
chimney, and the savoury smell that issued from a large pot of pea-soup
was very agreeable to our cold and hungry stomachs. But, alas, the
refreshment went no further! Hannah most politely begged us to take
seats by the fire, and warm and rest ourselves; she even knelt down
and assisted in rubbing our half-frozen hands; but she never once made
mention of the hot soup, or of the tea, which was drawing in a tin
tea-pot upon the hearth-stone, or of a glass of whiskey, which would
have been thankfully accepted by our male pilgrims.
Hannah was not an Irishwoman, no, nor a Scotch lassie, or her very first
request would have been for us to take “a pickle of soup,” or “a sup of
thae warm broths.” The soup was no doubt cooking for Hannah's husband
and two neighbours, who were chopping for him in the bush; and whose
want of punctuality she feelingly lamented.
As we left her cottage, and jogged on, Emilia whispered, laughing,
“I hope you are satisfied with your good dinner? Was not the pea-soup
excellent?--and that cup of nice hot tea!--I never relished any thing
more in my life. I think we should never pass that house without giving
Hannah a call, and testifying our gratitude for her good cheer.”
Many times did we stop to inquire the way to Mrs. N----'s, before we
ascended the steep, bleak hill upon which her house stood. At the door,
Mr. T---- deposited the sack of provisions, and he and young C---- went
across the road to the house of an English settler (who, fortunately
for them, proved more hospitable than Hannah J----), to wait until our
errand was executed.
The house before which Emilia and I were standing had once been a
tolerably comfortable log dwelling. It was larger than such buildings
generally are, and was surrounded by dilapidated barns and stables,
which were not cheered by a solitary head of cattle. A black pine forest
stretched away to the north of the house, and terminated in a dismal,
tangled cedar swamp, the entrance to the house not having been
constructed to face the road.
The spirit that had borne me up during the journey died within me. I was
fearful that my visit would be deemed an impertinent intrusion. I knew
not in what manner to introduce myself and my embarrassment had been
greatly increased by Mrs. S---- declaring that I must break the ice, for
she had not courage to go in. I remonstrated, but she was firm. To hold
any longer parley was impossible. We were standing on the top of a bleak
hill, with the thermometer many degrees below zero, and exposed to
the fiercest biting of the bitter, cutting blast. With a heavy sigh, I
knocked slowly but decidedly at the crazy door. I saw the curly head of
a boy glance for a moment against the broken window. There was a stir
within, but no one answered our summons. Emilia was rubbing her hands
together, and beating a rapid tattoo with her feet upon the hard and
glittering snow, to keep them from freezing.
Again I appealed to the inhospitable door, with a vehemence which seemed
to say, “We are freezing, good people; in mercy let us in!”
Again there was a stir, and a whispered sound of voices, as if
in consultation, from within; and after waiting a few minutes
longer--which, cold as we were, seemed an age--the door was cautiously
opened by a handsome, dark-eyed lad of twelve years of age, who was
evidently the owner of the curly head that had been sent to reconnoitre
us through the window. Carefully closing the door after him, he stepped
out upon the snow, and asked us coldly but respectfully what we wanted.
I told him that we were two ladies, who had walked all the way from
Douro to see his mamma, and that we wished very much to speak to her.
The lad answered us, with the ease and courtesy of a gentleman, that he
did not know whether his mamma could be seen by strangers, but he would
go in and see. So saying he abruptly left us, leaving behind him an
ugly skeleton of a dog, who, after expressing his disapprobation at our
presence in the most disagreeable and unequivocal manner, pounced like
a famished wolf upon the sack of good things which lay at Emilia's feet;
and our united efforts could scarcely keep him off.
“A cold, doubtful reception, this!” said my friend, turning her back to
the wind, and hiding her face in her muff. “This is worse than Hannah's
liberality, and the long, weary walk.”
I thought so too, and begun to apprehend that our walk had been in vain,
when the lad again appeared, and said that we might walk in, for his
mother was dressed.
Emilia, true to her determination, went no farther than the passage. In
vain were all my entreating looks and mute appeals to her benevolence
and friendship; I was forced to enter alone the apartment that contained
the distressed family.
I felt that I was treading upon sacred ground, for a pitying angel
hovers over the abode of suffering virtue, and hallows all its woes.
On a rude bench, before the fire, sat a lady, between thirty and
forty years of age, dressed in a thin, coloured muslin gown, the
most inappropriate garment for the rigour of the season, but, in all
probability, the only decent one that she retained. A subdued melancholy
looked forth from her large, dark, pensive eyes. She appeared like
one who, having discovered the full extent of her misery, had proudly
steeled her heart to bear it. Her countenance was very pleasing, and,
in early life (but she was still young), she must have been eminently
handsome. Near her, with her head bent down, and shaded by her thin,
slender hand, her slight figure scarcely covered by her scanty clothing,
sat her eldest daughter, a gentle, sweet-looking girl, who held in her
arms a baby brother, whose destitution she endeavoured to conceal. It
was a touching sight; that suffering girl, just stepping into womanhood,
hiding against her young bosom the nakedness of the little creature she
loved. Another fine boy, whose neatly-patched clothes had not one piece
of the original stuff apparently left in them, stood behind his mother,
with dark, glistening eyes fastened upon me, as if amused, and wondering
who I was, and what business I could have there. A pale and attenuated,
but very pretty, delicately featured little girl was seated on a low
stool before the fire This was old Jenny's darling, Ellie, or Eloise.
A rude bedstead, of home manufacture, in a corner of the room, covered
with a coarse woollen quilt, contained two little boys, who had crept
into it to conceal their wants from the eyes of the stranger. On the
table lay a dozen peeled potatoes, and a small pot was boiling on the
fire, to receive this their scanty and only daily meal. There was such
an air of patient and enduring suffering in the whole group, that, as I
gazed heart-stricken upon it, my fortitude quite gave way, and I burst
into tears.
Mrs. N---- first broke the painful silence, and, rather proudly, asked
me to whom she had the pleasure of speaking. I made a desperate effort
to regain my composure, and told her, but with much embarrassment, my
name; adding that I was so well acquainted with her and her children,
through Jenny, that I could not consider her as a stranger; that I hoped
that, as I was the wife of an officer, and, like her, a resident in the
bush, and well acquainted with all its trials and privations, she would
look upon me as a friend.
She seemed surprised and annoyed, and I found no small difficulty in
introducing the object of my visit; but the day was rapidly declining,
and I knew that not a moment was to be lost. At first she coldly
rejected all offers of service, and said that she was contented, and
wanted for nothing.
I appealed to the situation in which I beheld herself and her children,
and implored her, for their sakes, not to refuse help from friends who
felt for her distress. Her maternal feelings triumphed over her assumed
indifference, and when she saw me weeping, for I could no longer
restrain my tears, her pride yielded, and for some minutes not a word
was spoken. I heard the large tears, as they slowly fell from her
daughter's eyes, drop one by one upon her garments.
At last the poor girl sobbed out, “Dear mamma, why conceal the truth?
You know that we are nearly naked, and starving.”
Then came the sad tale of domestic woes:--the absence of the husband and
eldest son; the uncertainty as to where they were, or in what engaged;
the utter want of means to procure the common necessaries of life; the
sale of the only remaining cow that used to provide the children with
food. It had been sold for twelve dollars, part to be paid in cash,
part in potatoes; the potatoes were nearly exhausted, and they were
allowanced to so many a day. But the six dollars she had retained as
their last resource! Alas! she had sent the eldest boy the day before to
P----, to get a letter out of the post-office, which she hoped
contained some tidings of her husband and son. She was all anxiety and
expectation--but the child returned late at night without the letter
which they had longed for with such feverish impatience. The six dollars
upon which they had depended for a supply of food were in notes of the
Farmer's Bank, which at that time would not pass for money, and which
the roguish purchaser of the cow had passed off upon this distressed
family.
Oh! imagine, ye who revel in riches--who can daily throw away a large
sum upon the merest toy--the cruel disappointment, the bitter agony of
this poor mother's heart, when she received this calamitous news, in the
midst of her starving children. For the last nine weeks they had lived
upon a scanty supply of potatoes;--they had not tasted raised bread or
animal food for eighteen months.
“Ellie,” said I, anxious to introduce the sack, which had lain like
a nightmare upon my mind, “I have something for you; Jenny baked some
loaves last night, and sent them to you with her best love.”
The eyes of all the children grew bright. “You will find the sack with
the bread in the passage,” said I to one of the boys. He rushed
joyfully out, and returned with Mrs. ---- and the sack. Her bland and
affectionate greeting restored us all to tranquillity.
The delighted boy opened the sack. The first thing he produced was the
ham.
“Oh,” said I, “that is a ham that my sister sent to Mrs. N----; 'tis of
her own curing, and she thought that it might be acceptable.”
Then came the white fish, nicely packed in a clean cloth. “Mrs. C----
thought fish might be a treat to Mrs. N----, as she lived so far from
the great lakes.” Then came Jenny's bread, which had already been
introduced. The beef, and tea, and sugar, fell upon the floor without
any comment. The first scruples had been overcome, and the day was ours.
“And now, ladies,” said Mrs. N----, with true hospitality, “since you
have brought refreshments with you, permit me to cook something for your
dinner.”
The scene I had just witnessed had produced such a choking sensation
that all my hunger had vanished. Before we could accept or refuse Mrs.
N----'s kind offer, Mr. T---- arrived, to hurry us off.
It was two o'clock when we descended the hill in front of the house,
that led by a side-path round to the road, and commenced our homeward
route. I thought the four miles of clearings would never be passed; and
the English Line appeared to have no end. At length we entered once more
the dark forest.
The setting sun gleamed along the ground; the necessity of exerting
our utmost speed, and getting through the great swamp before darkness
surrounded us, was apparent to all. The men strode vigorously forward,
for they had been refreshed with a substantial dinner of potatoes and
pork, washed down with a glass of whiskey, at the cottage in which they
had waited for us; but poor Emilia and I, faint, hungry, and foot-sore,
it was with the greatest difficulty we could keep up. I thought of
Rosalind, as our march up and down the fallen logs recommenced, and
often exclaimed with her, “Oh, Jupiter! how weary are my legs!”
Night closed in just as we reached the beaver-meadow. Here our ears were
greeted with the sound of well-known voices. James and Henry C---- had
brought the ox-sleigh to meet us at the edge of the bush. Never was
splendid equipage greeted with such delight. Emilia and I, now fairly
exhausted with fatigue, scrambled into it, and lying down on the straw
which covered the bottom of the rude vehicle, we drew the buffalo robes
over our faces, and actually slept soundly until we reached Colonel
C----'s hospitable door.
An excellent supper of hot fish and fried venison was smoking on the
table, with other good cheer, to which we did ample justice. I, for one,
was never so hungry in my life. We had fasted for twelve hours, and that
on an intensely cold day, and had walked during that period upwards of
twenty miles. Never, never shall I forget that weary walk to Dummer; but
a blessing followed it.
It was midnight when Emilia and I reached my humble home; our good
friends the oxen being again put in requisition to carry us there.
Emilia went immediately to bed, from which she was unable to rise for
several days. In the mean while I wrote to Moodie an account of the
scene I had witnessed, and he raised a subscription among the officers
of the regiment for the poor lady and her children, which amounted
to forty dollars. Emilia lost no time in making a full report to her
friends at P----; and before a week passed away, Mrs. N---- and her
family were removed thither by several benevolent individuals in the
place. A neat cottage was hired for her; and, to the honour of Canada be
it spoken, all who could afford a donation gave cheerfully. Farmers
left at her door, pork, beef, flour, and potatoes; the storekeepers sent
groceries, and goods to make clothes for the children; the shoemakers
contributed boots for the boys; while the ladies did all in their power
to assist and comfort the gentle creature thus thrown by Providence upon
their bounty.
While Mrs. N---- remained at P---- she did not want for any comfort. Her
children were clothed and her rent paid by her benevolent friends, and
her house supplied with food and many comforts from the same source.
Respected and beloved by all who knew her, it would have been well had
she never left the quiet asylum where, for several years, she enjoyed
tranquillity, and a respectable competence from her school; but in an
evil hour she followed her worthless husband to the Southern States, and
again suffered all the woes which drunkenness inflicts upon the wives
and children of its degraded victims.