ST. JOHN’S, NEW BRUNSWICK, _July 8, 1788_.
MY DEAREST MOTHER—Here I am, after a very long and fatiguing journey. I
had no idea of what it was; it was more like a campaign than anything
else, except in one material point, that of having no danger. I should
have enjoyed it most completely but for the musquitoes, but they took
off a great deal of my pleasure; the millions of them are dreadful; if
it had not been for this inconvenience, my journey would have been
delightful. The country is almost all in a state of nature, as well as
its inhabitants. There are four sorts of these—the Indians, the French,
the old English settlers, and now the refugees from other parts of
America; the last seem the most civilized. The old settlers are almost
as wild as Indians, but lead a very comfortable life; they are all
farmers, and live entirely within themselves. * * * I came by a
settlement along one of the rivers, which was all the work of one pair;
the old man was seventy-two, the old lady seventy; they had been there
thirty years; they came there with one cow, three children, and one
servant; there was not a being within sixty miles of them. The first
year they lived mostly on milk and marsh leaves; the second year they
contrived to purchase a bull by the produce of their moose skins and
fish; from this time they got on very well; and there are now five sons
and a daughter, all settled in different farms along the
river for the space of twenty miles, and all living comfortably and at
ease. The old pair live alone in the little old cabin they first settled
in, two miles from any of their children; their little spot of ground is
cultivated by these children, and they are supplied with so much butter,
grain, meal, etc., from each child, according to the share he got of the
land, so that the old folks have nothing to do but to mind their house,
which is a kind of inn they keep, more for the sake of the company of
the few travelers there are than for gain. I was obliged to stay a day
with the old people, on account of the tides, which did not answer for
going up the river till next morning. It was, I think, as odd and
pleasant a day, in its way, as ever I passed. I wish I could describe it
to you, but I can not; you must only help it out with your own
imagination. Conceive, dearest mother, arriving about twelve o’clock in
a hot day, at a little cabin upon the side of a rapid river, the banks
all covered with wood, not a house in sight, and there finding a little,
clean, tidy woman spinning, with an old man, of the same appearance,
weeding salad. We had come for ten miles up the river without seeing any
thing but woods. The old pair, on our arrival, got as active as if only
five-and-twenty, the gentleman getting wood and water, the lady frying
eggs and bacon, both talking a great deal, telling their story, as I
mentioned before, how they had been there thirty years, and how their
children were settled, and, when either’s back was turned, remarking how
old the other had grown; at the same time all kindness, all
cheerfulness, and love to each other. The contrast of all this, which
had passed during the day, with the quietness of the evening, when the
spirits of the old people had a little subsided and began to wear off
with the day, and with the fatigue of their little work, sitting quietly
at their door, on the same spot they had lived in thirty years together;
the contented thoughtfulness of their countenances, which was increased
by their age and the solitary life they had led; the wild quietness of
the place—not a living creature or habitation to be seen—and me, Tony,
and our guide, sitting with them, all on one log; the difference of the
scene I had left—the immense way I had to get from this corner of the
world to any thing I loved—the difference of the life I should lead from
that of this old pair, perhaps at their age discontented, disappointed,
and miserable, wishing for power—my dearest mother, if it was not for
you, I believe I never should go home, at least I thought so at that
moment. However, here I am with my regiment, up at six in the morning
doing all sorts of right things, and liking it very much, determined to
go home next spring, and live with you a great deal. Employment keeps up
my spirits, and I shall have more every day. I own I often think how
happy I should be with G——, in some of the spots I see; and envied every
young farmer I met whom I saw sitting down with a young wife whom he was
going to work to maintain. I believe these thoughts made my journey
pleasanter than it otherwise would have been; but I don’t give way to
them here. Dearest mother, I sometimes hope it will all end well; but
shall not think any more of it till I hear from England. * * * * * * *