"Och! Who Would Have Thought, A Year Ago, Misthress Dear, That We
Should Be Living In A Mansion Like This, And Ating Off Raal Chaney?
It Is But Yestherday That We Were Hoeing Praties In The Field."
"Yes, Jenny, God has been very good to us, and I hope that we shall
never learn to regard with indifference the many benefits which we
have received at His hands."
Reader! it is not my intention to trouble you with the sequel of our
history. I have given you a faithful picture of a life in the
backwoods of Canada, and I leave you to draw from it your own
conclusions. To the poor, industrious working man it presents many
advantages; to the poor gentleman, none! The former works hard,
puts up with coarse, scanty fare, and submits, with a good grace,
to hardships that would kill a domesticated animal at home. Thus
he becomes independent, inasmuch as the land that he has cleared
finds him in the common necessaries of life; but it seldom, if ever,
in remote situations, accomplishes more than this. The gentleman
can neither work so hard, live so coarsely, nor endure so many
privations as his poorer but more fortunate neighbour. Unaccustomed
to manual labour, his services in the field are not of a nature to
secure for him a profitable return. The task is new to him, he knows
not how to perform it well; and, conscious of his deficiency, he
expends his little means in hiring labour, which his bush-farm
can never repay. Difficulties increase, debts grow upon him, he
struggles in vain to extricate himself, and finally sees his family
sink into hopeless ruin.
If these sketches should prove the means of deterring one family
from sinking their property, and shipwrecking all their hopes, by
going to reside in the backwoods of Canada, I shall consider myself
amply repaid for revealing the secrets of the prison-house, and feel
that I have not toiled and suffered in the wilderness in vain.
THE MAPLE-TREE
A CANADIAN SONG
Hail to the pride of the forest - hail
To the maple, tall and green;
It yields a treasure which ne'er shall fail
While leaves on its boughs are seen.
When the moon shines bright,
On the wintry night,
And silvers the frozen snow;
And echo dwells
On the jingling bells
As the sleighs dart to and fro;
Then it brightens the mirth
Of the social hearth
With its red and cheery glow.
Afar, 'mid the bosky forest shades,
It lifts its tall head on high;
When the crimson-tinted evening fades
From the glowing saffron sky;
When the sun's last beams
Light up woods and streams,
And brighten the gloom below;
And the deer springs by
With his flashing eye,
And the shy, swift-footed doe;
And the sad winds chide
In the branches wide,
With a tender plaint of woe.
The Indian leans on its rugged trunk,
With the bow in his red right-hand,
And mourns that his race, like a stream, has sunk
From the glorious forest land.
But, blythe and free,
The maple-tree
Still tosses to sun and air
Its thousand arms,
While in countless swarms
The wild bee revels there;
But soon not a trace
Of the red man's race
Shall be found in the landscape fair.
When the snows of winter are melting fast,
And the sap begins to rise,
And the biting breath of the frozen blast
Yields to the spring's soft sighs,
Then away to the wood,
For the maple, good,
Shall unlock its honied store;
And boys and girls,
With their sunny curls,
Bring their vessels brimming o'er
With the luscious flood
Of the brave tree's blood,
Into cauldrons deep to pour.
The blaze from the sugar-bush gleams red;
Far down in the forest dark,
A ruddy glow on the trees is shed,
That lights up their rugged bark;
And with merry shout,
The busy rout
Watch the sap as it bubbles high;
And they talk of the cheer
Of the coming year,
And the jest and the song pass by;
And brave tales of old
Round the fire are told,
That kindle youth's beaming eye.
Hurrah! For the sturdy maple-tree!
Long may its green branch wave;
In native strength sublime and free,
Meet emblem for the brave.
May the nation's peace
With its growth increase,
And its worth be widely spread;
For it lifts not in vain
To the sun and rain
Its tall, majestic head.
May it grace our soil,
And reward our toil,
Till the nation's heart is dead.
CHAPTER XXVIII
CANADIAN SKETCHES
The preceding sketches of Canadian life, as the reader may well
suppose, are necessarily tinctured with somewhat somber hues,
imparted by the difficulties and privations with which, for so many
years the writer had to struggle; but we should be sorry should
these truthful pictures of scenes and characters, observed fifteen
or twenty years ago, have the effect of conveying erroneous
impressions of the present state of a country, which is manifestly
destined, at no remote period, to be one of the most prosperous in
the world. Had we merely desired to please the imagination of our
readers, it would have been easy to have painted the country and the
people rather as we could have wished them to be, than as they
actually were, at the period to which our description refers; and,
probably, what is thus lost in truthfulness, it would have gained
in popularity with that class of readers who peruse books more for
amusement than instruction.
When I say that Canada is destined to be one of the most prosperous
countries in the world, let it not be supposed that I am influenced
by any unreasonable partiality for the land of my adoption. Canada
may not possess mines of gold or silver, but she possesses all those
advantages of climate, geological structure, and position, which are
essential to greatness and prosperity. Her long and severe winter,
so disheartening to her first settlers, lays up, amidst the forests
of the West, inexhaustible supplies of fertilising moisture for the
summer, while it affords the farmer the very best of natural roads
to enable him to carry his wheat and other produce to market.
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