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The Backwoods of Canada written by Catharine Parr Traill

C >> Catharine Parr Traill >> The Backwoods of Canada




[*Since this account of Peterborough was written, the town has increased
at least a third in buildings and population.]

There is great water-power, both as regards the river and the fine broad
creek which winds its way through the town and falls into the small lake
below. There are several saw and grist-mills, a distillery, fulling-
mill, two principal inns, beside smaller ones, a number of good stores,
a government school-house, which also serves for a church, till one more
suitable should be built. The plains are sold off in park lots, and some
pretty little dwellings are being built, but I much fear the natural
beauties of this lovely spot will be soon spoiled.

I am never weary with strolling about, climbing the hills in every
direction, to catch some new prospect, or gather some new flowers,
which, though getting late in the summer, are still abundant.

Among the plants with whose names I am acquainted are a variety of
shrubby asters, of every tint of blue, purple, and pearly white; a lilac
_monarda_, most delightfully aromatic, even to the dry stalks and seed-
vessels; the white _gnaphalium_ or everlasting flower; roses of several
kinds, a few late buds of which I found in a valley, near the church. I
also noticed among the shrubs a very pretty little plant, resembling our
box; it trails along the ground, sending up branches and shoots; the
leaves turn of a deep copper red*; yet, in spite of this contradiction,
it is an evergreen. I also noticed some beautiful lichens, with coral
caps surmounting the grey hollow footstalks, which grow in irregular
tufts among the dry mosses, or more frequently I found them covering the
roots of the trees or half-decayed timbers. Among a variety of fungi I
gathered a hollow cup of the most splendid scarlet within, and a pale
fawn colour without; another very beautiful fungi consisted of small
branches like clusters of white coral, but of so delicate a texture that
the slightest touch caused them to break.

[* Probably a _Gaultkeria_.--Ed.]

The ground in many places was covered with a thick carpet of
strawberries of many varieties, which afford a constant dessert during
the season to those who choose to pick them, a privilege of which I am
sure I should gladly avail myself were I near them in the summer. Beside
the plants I have myself observed in blossom, I am told the spring and
summer produce many others;--the orange lily; the phlox, or purple
_lichnidea_; the mocassin flower, or ladies' slipper; lilies of the
valley in abundance; and, towards the banks of the creek and the
Otanabee, the splendid cardinal flower (_lobelia cardinalis_) waves its
scarlet spikes of blossoms.

I am half inclined to be angry when I admire the beauty of the Canadian
flowers, to be constantly reminded that they are scentless, and
therefore scarcely worthy of attention; as if the eye could not be
charmed by beauty of form and harmony of colours, independent of the
sense of smelling being gratified.

To redeem this country from the censure cast on it by a very clever
gentleman I once met in London, who said, "the flowers were without
perfume, and the birds without song," I have already discovered several
highly aromatic plants and flowers. The milkweed must not be omitted
among these; a beautiful shrubby plant with purple flowers, which are
alike remarkable for beauty of colour and richness of scent.

I shall very soon begin to collect a hortas siccus for Eliza, with a
description of the plants, growth, and qualities. Any striking
particulars respecting them I shall make notes of; and tell her she may
depend on my sending my specimens, with seeds of such as I can collect,
at some fitting opportunity.

I consider this country opens a wide and fruitful field to the inquiries
of the botanist. I now deeply regret I did not benefit by the frequent
offers Eliza made me of prosecuting a study which I once thought dry,
but now regard as highly interesting, and the fertile source of mental
enjoyment, especially to those who, living in the bush, must necessarily
be shut out from the pleasures of a large circle of friends, and the
varieties that a town or village offer.

On Sunday I went to church; the first opportunity I had had of attending
public worship since I was in the Highlands of Scotland; and surely I
had reason to bow my knees in thankfulness to that merciful God who had
brought us through the perils of the great deep and the horrors of the
pestilence.

Never did our beautiful Liturgy seem so touching and impressive as it
did that day,--offered up in our lowly log-built church in the
wilderness.

This simple edifice is situated at the foot of a gentle slope on the
plains, surrounded by groups of oak and feathery pines, which, though
inferior in point of size to the huge pines and oaks of the forest, are
far more agreeable to the eye, branching out in a variety of fantastic
forms. The turf here is of an emerald greenness: in short, it is a sweet
spot, retired from the noise and bustle of the town, a fitting place in
which to worship God in spirit and in truth.

There are many beautiful walks towards the Smith town hills, and along
the banks that overlook the river. The summit of this ridge is sterile,
and is thickly set with loose blocks of red and grey granite,
interspersed with large masses of limestone scattered in every
direction; they are mostly smooth and rounded, as if by the action of
water. As they are detached, and merely occupy the surface of the
ground, it seemed strange to me how they came at that elevation. A
geologist would doubtless be able to solve the mystery in a few minutes.
The oaks that grow on this high bank are rather larger and more
flourishing than those in the valleys and more fertile portions of the
soil.

Behind the town, in the direction of the Cavan and Emily roads, is a
wide space which I call the "squatter's ground," it being entirely
covered with shanties, in which the poor emigrants, commuted pensioners,
and the like, have located themselves and families. Some remain here
under the ostensible reason of providing a shelter for their wives and
children till they have prepared a home for their reception on their
respective grants; but not unfrequently it happens that they are too
indolent, or really unable to work on their lots, often situated many
miles in the backwoods, and in distant and unsettled townships,
presenting great obstacles to the poor emigrant, which it requires more
energy and courage to encounter than is possessed by a vast number of
them. Others, of idle and profligate habits, spend the money they
received, and sell the land, for which they gave away their pensions,
after which they remain miserable squatters on the shanty ground.

The shanty is a sort of primitive hut in Canadian architecture, and is
nothing more than a shed built of logs, the chinks between the round
edges of the timbers being filled with mud, moss, and bits of wood; the
roof is frequently composed of logs split and hollowed with the axe, and
placed side by side, so that the edges rest on each other; the concave
and convex surfaces being alternately uppermost, every other log forms a
channel to carry off the rain and melting snow. The eaves of this
building resemble the scolloped edges of a clamp shell; but rude as this
covering is, it effectually answers the purpose of keeping the interior
dry; far more so than the roofs formed of bark or boards, through which
the rain will find entrance. Sometimes the shanty has a window,
sometimes only an open doorway, which admits the light and lets out the
smoke*. A rude chimney, which is often nothing better than an opening
cut in one of the top logs above the hearth, a few boards fastened in a
square form, serves as the vent for the smoke; the only precaution
against the fire catching the log walls behind the hearth being a few
large stones placed in a half circular form, or more commonly a bank of
dry earth raised against the wall.

[* I was greatly amused by the remark made by a little Irish boy, that
we hired to be our hewer of wood and drawer of water, who had been an
inhabitant of one of these shanties. "Ma'am" said he, "when the weather
was stinging cold, we did not know how to keep ourselves warm; for while
we roasted our eyes out before the fire our backs were just freezing; so
first we turned one side and then the other, just as you would roast a
_guse_ on a spit. Mother spent half the money father earned at his straw
work (he was a straw chair maker,) in whiskey to keep us warm; but I do
think a larger mess of good hot _praters_ (potatoes,) would have kept us
warmer than the whiskey did."]

Nothing can be more comfortless than some of these shanties, reeking
with smoke and dirt, the common receptacle for children, pigs, and
fowls. But I have given you the dark side of the picture; I am happy to
say all the shanties on the squatters' ground were not like these: on
the contrary, by far the larger proportion were inhabited by tidy folks,
and had one, or even two small windows, and a clay chimney regularly
built up through the roof; some were even roughly floored, and possessed
similar comforts with the small log-houses.

[Illustration: Log house]

You will, perhaps, think it strange when I assure you that many
respectable settlers, with their wives and families, persons delicately
nurtured, and accustomed to every comfort before they came hither, have
been contented to inhabit a hut of this kind during the first or second
year of their settlement in the woods.

I have listened with feelings of great interest to the history of the
hardships endured by some of the first settlers in the neighbourhood,
when Peterborough contained but two dwelling houses. Then there were
neither roads cut nor boats built for communicating with the distant and
settled parts of the district; consequently the difficulties of
procuring supplies of provisions was very great, beyond what any one
that has lately come hither can form any notion of.

When I heard of a whole family having had no better supply of flour than
what could be daily ground by a small hand-mill, and for weeks being
destitute of every necessary, not even excepting bread, I could not help
expressing some surprise, never having met with any account in the works
I had read concerning emigration that at all prepared one for such
evils.

"These particular trials," observed my intelligent friend, "are confined
principally to the first breakers of the soil in the unsettled parts of
the country, as was our case. If you diligently question some of the
families of the lower class that are located far from the towns, and who
had little or no means to support them during the first twelve months,
till they could take a crop off the land, you will hear many sad tales
of distress."

Writers on emigration do not take the trouble of searching out these
things, nor does it answer their purpose to state disagreeable facts.
Few have written exclusively on the "Bush." Travellers generally make a
hasty journey through the long settled and prosperous portions of the
country; they see a tract of fertile, well-cultivated land, the result
of many years of labour; they see comfortable dwellings, abounding with
all the substantial necessaries of life; the farmer's wife makes her own
soap, candles, and sugar; the family are clothed in cloth of their own
spinning, and hose of their own knitting. The bread, the beer, butter,
cheese, meat, poultry, &c. are all the produce of the farm. He
concludes, therefore, that Canada is a land of Canaan, and writes a book
setting forth these advantages, with the addition of obtaining land for
a mere song; and advises all persons who would be independent and secure
from want to emigrate.

He forgets that these advantages are the result of long years of
unremitting and patient labour; that these things are the _crown_, not
the _first-fruits_ of the settler's toil; and that during the interval
many and great privations must be submitted to by almost every class of
emigrants.

Many persons, on first coming out, especially if they go back into any
of the unsettled townships, are dispirited by the unpromising appearance
of things about them. They find none of the advantages and comforts of
which they had heard and read, and they are unprepared for the present
difficulties; some give way to despondency, and others quit the place in
disgust.

[Illustration: Log-Village--Arrival of a Stage-coach]

A little reflection would have shown them that every rood of land must
be cleared of the thick forest of timber that encumbers it before an ear
of wheat can be grown; that, after the trees have been chopped, cut into
lengths, drawn together, or _logged_, as we call it, and burned, the
field must be fenced, the seed sown, harvested, and thrashed before any
returns can be obtained; that this requires time and much labour, and,
if hired labour, considerable outlay of ready money; and in the mean
time a family must eat. If at a distance from a store, every article
must be brought through bad roads either by hand or with a team, the
hire of which is generally costly in proportion to the distance and
difficulty to be encountered in the conveyance. Now these things are
better known beforehand, and then people are aware what they have to
encounter.

Even a labouring man, though he have land of his own, is often, I may
say generally, obliged to _hire out_ to work for the first year or two,
to earn sufficient for the maintenance of his family; and even so many
of them suffer much privation before they reap the benefit of their
independence. Were it not for the hope and the certain prospect of
bettering their condition ultimately, they would sink under what they
have to endure; but this thought buoys them up. They do not fear an old
age of want and pauperism; the present evils must yield to industry and
perseverance; they think also for their children; and the trials of the
present time are lost in pleasing anticipations for the future.

"Surely," said I, "cows and pigs and poultry might be kept; and you know
where there is plenty of milk, butter, cheese, and eggs, with pork and
fowls, persons cannot be very badly off for food."

"Very true," replied my friend; "but I must tell you it is easier to
talk of these things at first than to keep them, unless on cleared or
partially cleared farms; but we are speaking of a _first_ settlement in
the backwoods. Cows, pigs, and fowls must eat, and if you have nothing
to give them unless you purchase it, and perhaps have to bring it from
some distance, you had better not be troubled with them, as the trouble
is certain and the profit doubtful. A cow, it is true, will get her
living during the open months of the year in the bush, but sometimes she
will ramble away for days together, and then you lose the use of her,
and possibly much time in seeking her; then in the winter she requires
some additional food to the _browse_* that she gets during the chopping
season, or ten to one but she dies before spring; and as cows generally
lose their milk during the cold weather, if not very well kept, it is
best to part with them in the fall and buy again in the spring, unless
you have plenty of food for them, which is not often the case the first
winter. As to pigs they are great plagues on a newly cleared farm if you
cannot fat them off-hand; and that you cannot do without you buy food
for them, which does not answer to do at first. If they run loose they
are a terrible annoyance both to your own crops and your neighbours if
you happen to be within half a mile of one; for though you may fence out
cattle you cannot pigs: even poultry require something more than they
pick up about the dwelling to be of any service to you, and are often
taken off by hawks, eagles, foxes, and pole-cats, till you have proper
securities for them."

[* The cattle are supported in a great measure during the fall and
winter by eating the tender shoots of the maple, beech and bass, which
they seek in the newly-chopped fallow; but they should likewise be
allowed straw or other food, or they will die in the very hard weather.]

"Then how are we to spin our own wool and make our own soap and
candles?" said I. "When you are able to kill your own sheep, and hogs,
and oxen, unless you buy wool and tallow"--then, seeing me begin to look
somewhat disappointed, he said, "Be not cast down, you will have all
these things in time, and more than these, never fear, if you have
patience, and use the means of obtaining them. In the mean while prepare
your mind for many privations to which at present you are a stranger;
and if you would desire to see your husband happy and prosperous, be
content to use economy, and above all, be cheerful. In a few years the
farm will supply you with all the necessaries of life, and by and by you
may even enjoy many of the luxuries. Then it is that a settler begins to
taste the real and solid advantages of his emigration; then he feels the
blessings of a country where there are no taxes, tithes, nor poor-rates;
then he truly feels the benefit of independence. It is looking forward
to this happy fulfillment of his desires that makes the rough paths
smooth, and lightens the burden of present ills. He looks round upon a
numerous family without those anxious fears that beset a father in
moderate circumstances at home; for he knows he does not leave them
destitute of an honest means of support."

In spite of all the trials he had encountered, I found this gentleman
was so much attached to a settler's life, that he declared he would not
go back to his own country to reside for a permanence on any account;
nor is he the only one that I have heard express the same opinion; and
it likewise seems a universal one among the lower class of emigrants.
They are encouraged by the example of others whom they see enjoying
comforts that they could never have obtained had they laboured ever so
hard at home; and they wisely reflect they must have had hardships to
endure had they remained in their native land (many indeed had been
driven out by want), without the most remote chance of bettering
themselves or becoming the possessors of land free from all
restrictions. "What to us are the sufferings of one, two, three, or even
four years, compared with a whole life of labour and poverty," was the
remark of a poor labourer, who was recounting to us the other day some
of the hardships he had met with in this country. He said he "knew they
were only for a short time, and that by industry he should soon get over
them."

I have already seen two of our poor neighbours that left the parish a
twelvemonth ago; they are settled in Canada Company lots, and are
getting on well. They have some few acres cleared and cropped, but are
obliged to "_hire out_", to enable their families to live, working on
their own land when they can. The men are in good spirits, and say "they
shall in a few years have many comforts about them that they never could
have got at home, had they worked late and early; but they complain that
their wives are always pining for home, and lamenting that ever they
crossed the seas." This seems to be the general complaint with all
classes; the women are discontented and unhappy. Few enter with their
whole heart into a settler's life. They miss the little domestic
comforts they had been used to enjoy; they regret the friends and
relations they left in the old country; and they cannot endure the
loneliness of the backwoods.

This prospect does not discourage me: I know I shall find plenty of
occupation within-doors, and I have sources of enjoyment when I walk
abroad that will keep me from being dull. Besides, have I not a right to
be cheerful and contented for the sake of my beloved partner? The change
is not greater for me than him; and if for his sake I have voluntarily
left home, and friends, and country, shall I therefore sadden him by
useless regrets? I am always inclined to subscribe to that sentiment of
my favourite poet, Goldsmith,--

"Still to ourselves in every place consign'd,
Our own felicity we make or find."

But I shall very soon be put to the test, as we leave this town to-
morrow by ten o'clock. The purchase of the Lake lot is concluded. There
are three acres chopped and a shanty up; but the shanty is not a
habitable dwelling, being merely an open shed that was put up by the
choppers as a temporary shelter; so we shall have to build a house. Late
enough we are; too late to get in a full crop, as the land is merely
chopped, not cleared, and it is too late now to log and burn the fallow,
and get the seed-wheat in: but it will be ready for spring crops. We
paid five dollars and a half per acre for the lot; this was rather high
for wild land, so far from a town, and in a scantily-settled part of the
township; but the situation is good, and has a water frontage, for which
my husband was willing to pay something more than if the lot had been
further inland.

In all probability it will be some time before I find leisure again to
take up my pen. We shall remain guests with ------ till our house is in
a habitable condition, which I suppose will be about Christmas.




LETTER VII.

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 Fine 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.