Journey from Peterborough.--Canadian Woods.--Waggon and Team.--Arrival
at a Log-house on the Banks of a Lake.--Settlement and first
Occupations.
October 25, 1832.
I SHALL begin my letter with a description of our journey through the
bush, and so go on, giving an account of our proceedings both within-
doors and with-out. I know my little domestic details will not prove
wholly uninteresting to you; for well I am assured that a mother's eye
is never weary with reading lines traced by the hand of an absent and
beloved child.
After some difficulty we succeeded in hiring a waggon and span (i.e.
pair abreast) of stout horses to convey us and our luggage through the
woods to the banks of one of the lakes, where S------ had appointed to
ferry us across. There was no palpable road, only a blaze on the other
side, encumbered by fallen trees, and interrupted by a great cedar
swamp, into which one might sink up to one's knees, unless we took the
precaution to step along the trunks of the mossy, decaying timbers, or
make our footing sure on some friendly block of granite or limestone.
What is termed in bush language a _blaze_, is nothing more than notches
or slices cut off the bark of the trees, to mark out the line of road.
The boundaries of the different lots are often marked by a blazed tree,
also the concession-lines*. These blazes are of as much use as finger-
posts of a dark night.
[* These concession-lines are certain divisions of the townships; these
are again divided into so many lots of 200 acres. The concession-lines
used to be marked by a wide avenue being chopped, so as to form a road
of communication between them; but this plan was found too troublesome;
and in a few years the young growth of timber so choked the opening,
that it was of little use. The lately-surveyed townships, I believe, are
only divided by blazed lines.]
The road we were compelled to take lay over the Peterborough plains, in
the direction of the river; the scenery of which pleased me much, though
it presents little appearance of fertility, with the exception of two or
three extensive clearings.
About three miles above Peterborough the road winds along the brow of a
steep ridge, the bottom of which has every appearance of having been
formerly the bed of a lateral branch of the present river, or perhaps
some small lake, which has been diverted from its channel, and merged in
the Otanabee.
On either side of this ridge there is a steep descent; on the right the
Otanabee breaks upon you, rushing with great velocity over its rocky
bed, forming rapids in miniature resembling those of the St. Laurence;
its dark, frowning woods of sombre pine give a grandeur to the scenery
that is very impressive. On the left lies below you a sweet secluded
dell of evergreens, cedar, hemlock, and pine, enlivened by a few
deciduous trees. Through this dell there is a road-track leading to a
fine cleared farm, the green pastures of which were rendered more
pleasing by the absence of the odious stumps that disfigure the
clearings in this part of the country. A pretty bright stream flows
through the low meadow that lies at the foot of the hill, which you
descend suddenly close by a small grist-mill that is worked by the
waters, just where they meet the rapids of the river.
[Illustration: Road through a Pine Forest]
I called this place "Glen Morrison," partly from the remembrance of the
lovely Glen Morrison of the Highlands, and partly because it was the
name of the settler that owned the spot.
Our progress was but slow on account of the roughness of the road, which
is beset with innumerable obstacles in the shape of loose blocks of
granite and limestone, with which the lands on the banks of the river
and lakes abound; to say nothing of fallen trees, big roots, mud-holes,
and corduroy bridges, over which you go jolt, jolt, jolt, till every
bone in your body feels as if it were going to be dislocated. An
experienced bush-traveller avoids many hard thumps by rising up or
clinging to the sides of his rough vehicle.
As the day was particularly fine, I often quitted the waggon and walked
on with my husband for a mile or so.
We soon lost sight entirely of the river, and struck into the deep
solitude of the forest, where not a sound disturbed the almost awful
stillness that reigned around us. Scarcely a leaf or bough was in
motion, excepting at intervals we caught the sound of the breeze
stirring the lofty heads of the pine-trees, and wakening a hoarse and
mournful cadence. This, with the tapping of the red-headed and grey
woodpeckers on the trunk of the decaying trees, or the shrill whistling
cry of the little striped squirrel, called by the natives "chitmunk,"
was every sound that broke the stillness of the wild. Nor was I less
surprised at the absence of animal life. With the exception of the
aforesaid chitmunk, no living thing crossed our path during our long
day's journey in the woods.
In these vast solitudes one would naturally be led to imagine that the
absence of man would have allowed Nature's wild denizens to have
abounded free and unmolested; but the contrary seems to be the case.
Almost all wild animals are more abundant in the cleared districts than
in the bush. Man's industry supplies their wants at an easier rate than
seeking a scanty subsistence in the forest.
You hear continually of depredations committed by wolves, bears,
racoons, lynxes, and foxes, in the long-settled parts of the province.
In the backwoods the appearance of wild beasts is a matter of much rarer
occurrence.
I was disappointed in the forest trees, having pictured to myself hoary
giants almost primeval with the country itself, as greatly exceeding in
majesty of form the trees of my native isles, as the vast lakes and
mighty rivers of Canada exceed the locks and streams of Britain.
There is a want of picturesque beauty in the woods. The young growth of
timber alone has any pretension of elegance of form, unless I except the
hemlocks, which are extremely light and graceful, and of a lovely
refreshing tint of green. Even when winter has stripped the forest it is
still beautiful and verdant. The young beeches too are pretty enough,
but you miss that fantastic bowery shade that is so delightful in our
parks and woodlands at home.
There is no appearance of venerable antiquity in the Canadian woods.
There are no ancient spreading oaks that might be called the patriarchs
of the forest. A premature decay seems to be their doom. They are
uprooted by the storm, and sink in their first maturity, to give place
to a new generation that is ready to fill their places.
The pines are certainly the finest trees. In point of size there are
none to surpass them. They tower above all the others, forming a dark
line that may be distinguished for many miles. The pines being so much
loftier than the other trees, are sooner uprooted, as they receive the
full and unbroken force of the wind in their tops; thus it is that the
ground is continually strewn with the decaying trunks of huge pines.
They also seem more liable to inward decay, and blasting from lightning,
and fire. Dead pines are more frequently met with than any other tree.
Much as I had seen and heard of the badness of the roads in Canada, I
was not prepared for such a one as we travelled along this day: indeed,
it hardly deserved the name of a road, being little more than an opening
hewed out through the woods, the trees being felled and drawn aside, so
as to admit a wheeled carriage passing along.
The swamps and little forest streams, that occasionally gush across the
path, are rendered passable by logs placed side by side. From the ridgy
and striped appearance of these bridges they are aptly enough termed
corduroy.
Over these abominable corduroys the vehicle jolts, jumping from log to
log, with a shock that must be endured with as good a grace as possible.
If you could bear these knocks, and pitiless thumpings and bumpings,
without wry faces, your patience and philosophy would far exceed mine;--
sometimes I laughed because I would not cry.
Imagine you see me perched up on a seat composed of carpet-bags, trunks,
and sundry packages, in a vehicle little better than a great rough deal
box set on wheels, the sides being merely pegged in so that more than
once I found myself in rather an awkward predicament, owing to the said
sides jumping out. In the very midst of a deep mud-hole out went the
front board, and with the shock went the teamster (driver), who looked
rather confounded at finding himself lodged just in the middle of a
slough as bad as the "Slough of Despond." For my part, as I could do no
good, I kept my seat, and patiently awaited the restoration to order.
This was soon effected, and all went on well again till a jolt against a
huge pine-tree gave such a jar to the ill-set vehicle, that one of the
boards danced out that composed the bottom, and a sack of flour and bag
of salted pork, which was on its way to a settler's, whose clearing we
had to pass in the way, were ejected. A good teamster is seldom taken
aback by such trifles as these.
He is, or should be, provided with an axe. No waggon, team, or any other
travelling equipage should be unprovided with an instrument of this
kind; as no one can answer for the obstacles that may impede his
progress in the bush. The disasters we met fortunately required but
little skill in remedying. The sides need only a stout peg, and the
loosened planks that form the bottom being quickly replaced, away you go
again over root, stump, and stone, mud-hole, and corduroy; now against
the trunk of some standing tree, now mounting over some fallen one, with
an impulse that would annihilate any lighter equipage than a Canadian
waggon, which is admirably fitted by its very roughness for such roads
as we have in the bush.
The sagacity of the horses of this country is truly admirable. Their
patience in surmounting the difficulties they have to encounter, their
skill in avoiding the holes and stones, and in making their footing sure
over the round and slippery timbers of the log-bridges, renders them
very valuable. If they want the spirit and fleetness of some of our
high-bred blood-horses, they make up in gentleness, strength, and
patience. This renders them most truly valuable, as they will travel in
such places that no British horse would, with equal safety to their
drivers. Nor are the Canadian horses, when well fed and groomed, at all
deficient in beauty of colour, size, or form. They are not very often
used in logging; the ox is preferred in all rough and heavy labour of
this kind.
Just as the increasing gloom of the forest began to warn us of the
approach of evening, and I was getting weary and hungry, our driver, in
some confusion, avowed his belief that, somehow or other, he had missed
the track, though how, he could not tell, seeing there was but one road.
We were nearly two miles from the last settlement, and he said we ought
to be within sight of the lake if we were on the right road. The only
plan, we agreed, was for him to go forward and leave the team, and
endeavour to ascertain if he were near the water, and if otherwise, to
return to the house we had passed and inquire the way.
After running full half a mile ahead he returned with a dejected
countenance, saying we must be wrong, for he saw no appearance of water,
and the road we were on appeared to end in a cedar swamp, as the farther
he went the thicker the hemlocks and cedars became; so, as we had no
desire to commence our settlement by a night's lodging in a swamp--
where, to use the expression of our driver, the cedars grew as thick as
hairs on a cat's back,--we agreed to retrace our steps.
After some difficulty the lumbering machine was turned, and slowly we
began our backward march. We had not gone more than a mile when a boy
came along, who told us we might just go back again, as there was no
other road to the lake; and added, with a knowing nod of his head,
"Master, I guess if you had known the bush as well as I, you would never
have been _fule_ enough to turn when you were going just right. Why, any
body knows that _them_ cedars and himlocks grow thickest near the water;
so you may just go back for your pains."
It was dark, save that the stars came forth with more than usual
brilliancy, when we suddenly emerged from the depth of the gloomy forest
to the shores of a beautiful little lake, that gleamed the more brightly
from the contrast of the dark masses of foliage that hung over it, and
the towering pine-woods that girt its banks.
Here, seated on a huge block of limestone, which was covered with a soft
cushion of moss, beneath the shade of the cedars that skirt the lake,
surrounded with trunks, boxes, and packages of various descriptions,
which the driver had hastily thrown from the waggon, sat your child, in
anxious expectation of some answering voice to my husband's long and
repeated halloo.
But when the echo of his voice had died away we heard only the gurgling
of the waters at the head of the rapids, and the distant and hoarse
murmur of a waterfall some half mile below them.
We could see no sign of any habitation, no gleam of light from the shore
to cheer us. In vain we strained our ears for the plash of the oar, or
welcome sound of the human voice, or bark of some household dog, that
might assure us we were not doomed to pass the night in the lone wood.
We began now to apprehend we had really lost the way. To attempt
returning through the deepening darkness of the forest in search of any
one to guide us was quite out of the question, the road being so ill
defined that we should soon have been lost in the mazes of the woods.
The last sound of the waggon wheels had died away in the distance; to
have overtaken it would have been impossible. Bidding me remain quietly
where I was, my husband forced his way through the tangled underwood
along the bank, in hope of discovering some sign of the house we sought,
which we had every reason to suppose must be near, though probably
hidden by the dense mass of trees from our sight.
As I sat in the wood in silence and in darkness, my thoughts gradually
wandered back across the Atlantic to my dear mother and to my old home;
and I thought what would have been your feelings could you at that
moment have beheld me as I sat on the cold mossy stone in the profound
stillness of that vast leafy wilderness, thousands of miles from all
those holy ties of kindred and early associations that make home in all
countries a hallowed spot. It was a moment to press upon my mind the
importance of the step I had taken, in voluntarily sharing the lot of
the emigrant--in leaving the land of my birth, to which, in all
probability, I might never again return. Great as was the sacrifice,
even at that moment, strange as was my situation, I felt no painful
regret or fearful misgiving depress my mind. A holy and tranquil peace
came down upon me, soothing and softening my spirits into a calmness
that seemed as unruffled as was the bosom of the water that lay
stretched out before my feet.
My reverie was broken by the light plash of a paddle, and a bright line
of light showed a canoe dancing over the lake: in a few minutes a well-
known and friendly voice greeted me as the little bark was moored among
the cedars at my feet. My husband having gained a projecting angle of
the shore, had discovered the welcome blaze of the wood fire in the log-
house, and, after some difficulty, had succeeded in rousing the
attention of its inhabitants. Our coming that day had long been given
up, and our first call had been mistaken for the sound of the ox-bells
in the wood: this had caused the delay that had so embarrassed us.
We soon forgot our weary wanderings beside the bright fire that blazed
on the hearth of the log-house, in which we found S------ comfortably
domiciled with his wife. To the lady I was duly introduced; and, in
spite of all remonstrances from the affectionate and careful mother,
three fair sleeping children were successively handed out of their cribs
to be shown me by the proud and delighted father.
Our welcome was given with that unaffected cordiality that is so
grateful to the heart: it was as sincere as it was kind. All means were
adopted to soften the roughness of our accommodation, which, if they
lacked that elegance and convenience to which we had been accustomed in
England, were not devoid of rustic comfort; at all events they were such
as many settlers of the first respectability have been glad to content
themselves with, and many have not been half so well lodged as we now
are.
We may indeed consider ourselves fortunate in not being obliged to go at
once into the rude shanty that I described to you as the only habitation
on our land. This test of our fortitude was kindly spared us by S------,
who insisted on our remaining beneath his hospitable roof till such time
as we should have put up a house on our own lot. Here then we are for
the present _fixed_, as the Canadians say; and if I miss many of the
little comforts and luxuries of life, I enjoy excellent health and
spirits, and am very happy in the society of those around me.
The children are already very fond of me. They have discovered my
passion for flowers, which they diligently search for among the stumps
and along the lake shore. I have begun collecting, and though the season
is far advanced, my hortus siccus boasts of several elegant specimens of
fern; the yellow Canadian violet, which blooms twice in the year, in the
spring and fall, as the autumnal season is expressively termed; two
sorts of Michaelmas daisies, as we call the shrubby asters, of which the
varieties here are truly elegant; and a wreath of the festoon pine, a
pretty evergreen with creeping stalks, that run along the ground three
or four yards in length, sending up, at the distance of five or six
inches, erect, stiff, green stems, resembling some of our heaths in the
dark, shining, green, chaffy leaves. The Americans ornament their
chimney-glasses with garlands of this plant, mixed with the dried
blossoms of the life-everlasting (the pretty white and yellow flowers we
call love-everlasting): this plant is also called festoon-pine. In my
rambles in the wood near the house I have discovered a trailing plant
bearing a near resemblance to the cedar, which I consider has, with
equal propriety, a claim to the name of ground or creeping cedar.
As much of the botany of these unsettled portions of the country are
unknown to the naturalist, and the plants are quite nameless, I take the
liberty of bestowing names upon them according to inclination or fancy.
But while I am writing about flowers I am forgetting that you will be
more interested in hearing what steps we are taking on our land.
My husband has hired people to log up (that is, to draw the chopped
timbers into heaps for burning) and clear a space for building our house
upon. He has also entered into an agreement with a young settler in our
vicinity to complete it for a certain sum within and without, according
to a given plan. We are, however, to call the "bee," and provide every
thing necessary for the entertainment of our worthy _hive_. Now you know
that a "bee," in American language, or rather phraseology, signifies
those friendly meetings of neighbours who assemble at your summons to
raise the walls of your house, shanty, barn, or any other building: this
is termed a "raising bee." Then there are logging-bees, husking-bees,
chopping-bees, and quilting-bees. The nature of the work to be done
gives the name to the bee. In the more populous and long-settled
districts this practice is much discontinued, but it is highly useful,
and almost indispensable to the new settlers in the remote townships,
where the price of labour is proportionably high, and workmen difficult
to be procured.
Imagine the situation of an emigrant with a wife and young family, the
latter possibly too young and helpless to render him the least
assistance in the important business of chopping, logging, and building,
on their first coming out to take possession of a lot of wild land; how
deplorable would their situation be, unless they could receive quick and
ready help from those around them.
This laudable practice has grown out of necessity, and if it has its
disadvantages, such for instance as being called upon at an inconvenient
season for a return of help, by those who have formerly assisted you,
yet it is so indispensable to you that the debt of gratitude ought to be
cheerfully repaid. It is, in fact, regarded in the light of a debt of
honour; you cannot be forced to attend a bee in return, but no one that
can does refuse, unless from urgent reasons; and if you do not find it
possible to attend in person you may send a substitute in a servant or
in cattle, if you have a yoke.
In no situation, and under no other circumstance, does the equalizing
system of America appear to such advantage as in meetings of this sort.
All distinctions of rank, education, and wealth are for the time
voluntarily laid aside. You will see the son of the educated gentleman
and that of the poor artisan, the officer and the private soldier, the
independent settler and the labourer who works out for hire, cheerfully
uniting in one common cause. Each individual is actuated by the
benevolent desire of affording help to the helpless, and exerting
himself to raise a home for the homeless.
At present so small a portion of the forest is cleared on our lot, that
I can give you little or no description of the spot on which we are
located, otherwise than that it borders on a fine expanse of water,
which forms one of the Otanabee chain of Small Lake. I hope, however, to
give you a more minute description of our situation in my next letter.
For the present, then, I bid you adieu.