Nature and Human Nature Part 55

"Plenty, Sir," she said; "at the head of this river there is an immense bog, chock full of them."

"Well," sais I, "there is nothin' in natur I am so fond of as them; I would give anything in the world for a few bushel. Tell your husband to employ some people to pick me this fall a barrel of them, and send them to me by one of our vessels, directed to me to Slickville, and when I go on board I will send you a barrel of flour to pay for it.

"Dear me, Sir," said she, "that's a great deal more than their value; why they ain't worth more than two dollars. We will pick them for you with great pleasure. We don't want pay."

"Ain't they worth that?" said I, "so much the better. Well, then, he can send me another barrel the next year. Why, they are as cheap as bull beef at a cent a pound. Good bye; tell him to be sure to come and see me the first time he goes to the States. Adieu."

"What do you think of that, Doctor?" said I, as we proceeded to the boat; "ain't that a nice woman? how cheerful and uncomplaining she is; how full of hope and confidence in the future. Her heart is in the right place, ain't it? My old mother had that same sort of contentment about her, only, perhaps, her resignation was stronger than her hope.

When anything ever went wrong about our place to home to Slickville, she'd always say, 'Well, Sam, it might have been worse;' or, 'Sam, the darkest hour is always just afore day,' and so on. But Minister used to amuse me beyond anything, poor old soul. Once the congregation met and raised his wages from three to four hundred dollars a-year. Well, it nearly set him crazy; it bothered him so he could hardly sleep. So after church was over the next Sunday, he sais, 'My dear brethren, I hear you have raised my salary to four hundred dollars. I am greatly obliged to you for your kindness, but I can't think of taking it on no account. First, you can't afford it no how you can fix it, and I know it; secondly, I ain't worth it, and you know it; and thirdly, I am nearly tired to death collecting my present income; if I have to dun the same way for that, it will kill me. I can't stand it; I shall die.

No, no; pay me what you allow me more punctually, and it is all I ask, or will ever receive.'

"But this poor woman is a fair sample of her cla.s.s in this country; I do believe the only true friends.h.i.+p and hospitality is to be found among them. They ain't rich enough for ostentation, and are too equal in condition and circ.u.mstances for the action of jealousy or rivalry; I believe they are the happiest people in the world, but I know they are the kindest. Their feelings are not chilled by poverty or corrupted by plenty; their occupations preclude the hope of wealth and forbid the fear of distress. Dependent on each other for mutual a.s.sistance, in those things that are beyond individual exertion, they interchange friendly offices, which commencing in necessity, grow into habit, and soon become the 'labour of love.' They are poor, but not dest.i.tute, a region in my opinion in which the heart is more fully developed than in any other. Those who are situated like Steele and his wife, and commence a settlement in the woods, with the previous training they have received in the rural districts, begin at the right end; but they are the only people who are fit to be pioneers in the forest. How many there are who begin at the wrong end; perhaps there is no one subject on which men form such false notions as the mode of settling in the country, whether they are citizens of a colonial town, or strangers, from Great Britain.

"Look at that officer at Halifax: he is the best dressed man in the garrison; he is well got up always; he looks the gentleman every inch of him; how well his horses are groomed; how perfect his turn-out looks; how well appointed it is, as he calls it. He and his servant and his cattle are a little bit of fas.h.i.+on imported from the park, and astonish the natives. Look at his wife, ain't she a beautiful creature? they are proud of, and were just made for each other. This is not merely all external appearance either: they are accomplished people; they sing, they play, they sketch, they paint, they speak several languages, they are well read, they have many resources.

Soldiering is dull, and, in time of peace, only a police service. It has disagreeable duties; it involves repeated removals, and the alternation of bad climates--from Hudson's Bay to Calcutta's Black Hole. The juniors of the regimental officers are mere boys, the seniors great empty cartouch-boxes, and the women have cabals,--there is a sameness even in its variety; but worse than all, it has no home--in short, the whole thing is a bore. It is better to sell out and settle in the province; land is cheap; their means are ample, and more than sufficient for the requirements of the colony; country society is stupid; there are no people fit to visit. It is best to be out of the reach of their morning calls and their gossip. A few miles back in the woods there is a splendid stream with a beautiful cascade on it; there is a magnificent lake communicating with several others that form a chain of many miles in extent. That swelling knoll that slopes so gently to the water would be such a pretty site for a cottage-orne, and the back-ground of hanging wood has an indescribable beauty in it, especially in the autumn, when the trees are one complete ma.s.s of variegated hues. He warms on the theme as he dilates on it, and sings as he turns to his pretty wife:

'I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curled Above the green elms that a cottage was near; And I said, if there's peace to be found in the world, The heart that is humble might hope for it here.'

"How sweet to plan, how pleasant to execute. How exciting to see it grow under one's own eye, the work of one's own hand, the creation of one's own taste. It is decided on; Dechamps retires, the papers go in, the hero goes out--what a relief! no inspection of soldiers' dirty kits--no parade by day--no guards nor rounds by night--no fatigue parties of men who never fatigue themselves--no stupid court-martial--no horrid punishments--no reviews to please a colonel who never is pleased, or a general who will swear--no marching through streets, to be stared at by housemaids from upper windows, and by dirty boys in the side paths--no procession to follow bra.s.s instruments, like the train of a circus--no bearded band-master with his gold cane to lead on his musicians, and no bearded white goat to march at the head of the regiment. All, all are gone.

"He is out of livery, he has played at soldiering long enough, he is tired of the game, he sells out, the man of business is called in, his lawyer, as he terms him, as if every gentleman kept a lawyer as he does a footman. He is in a hurry to have the purchase completed with as little delay as possible. But delays will occur, he is no longer a centurion and a man of authority, who has nothing to do but to say to this one, Come, and he cometh; and another, Go, and he goeth; Do this, and it is done. He can't put a lawyer under arrest, he is a man of arrests himself. He never heard of an attachment for contempt, and if he had, he couldn't understand it; for, when the devil was an attorney, he invented the term, as the softest and kindest name for the hardest and most unkind process there is. Attachment for contempt, what a mockery of Christian forgiveness!

"A conveyancer is a slow coach, he must proceed cautiously, he has a long journey to take, he has to travel back to a grant from the crown, through all the 'mesne' conveyances. He don't want a mean conveyance, he will pay liberally if it is only done quickly; and is informed 'mesne' in law signifies intermediate. It is hard to say what the language of law does mean. Then there are searches to be made in the record offices, and the--d.a.m.n the searches, for he is in a hurry and loses his patience--search at the bankers, and all will be found right. Then there are releases and a.s.signments and discharges. He can stand it no longer, he releases his lawyer, discharges him, and a.s.signs another, who hints, insinuates, he don't charge; but gives him to understand his predecessor was idle. He will lose no time, indeed he has no time to lose, he is so busy with other clients' affairs, and is as slow as the first man was.

"But at last it is done; the t.i.tles are completed. He is presented with a huge pile of foolscap paper, very neatly folded, beautifully engrossed and endorsed in black letters, and nicely tied up with red tape, which, with sundry plans, surveys, and grants, are secured in a large despatch box, on which are inscribed in gold letters the 'Epaigwit estate.' It is a pretty Indian word that, it means the 'home on the wave.' It is the original name of that gem of the western ocean which the vulgar inhabitants have christened Prince Edward's Island.

"But what can you expect of a people whose governor calls the gentry 'the upper crust of society,' and who in their turn see an affinity between a Scotch and a Roman fiddle, and denounce him as a Nero? But then who looks, as he says, for taste in a colony? it is only us Englishmen who have any. Yes, he calls this place 'Epaigwit.' It has a distingue appearance on his letters. It has now a name, the next thing is 'a local habitation.' Well, we won't stop to describe it, but it has an elegant drawing-room, if there was only company to collect in it, a s.p.a.cious dining-room, and though only two plates are on the table there is room for twenty, and a charming study, only awaiting his leisure to enjoy it, and so on.

"It is done and the design carried out, though not completed; prudence forbids a further expenditure just now. It has cost five times as much as was contemplated, and is not worth a tenth part of the outlay, still it is very beautiful. Strangers go to see it, and every one p.r.o.nounces it the prettiest thing in the Lower provinces. There have been some little drawbacks, but they are to be expected in a colony, and among the Goths and Vandals who live there. The contractors have repudiated their agreement on account of the extensive alterations made in the design and the nature of the work, and he has found there is law in the country if not justice. The servants find it too lonely, they have no taste for the beauties of nature, and remain without work, or quit without notice. If he refuses to pay he is sued, if he pays he is cheated. The house leaks, for the materials are green; the chimneys smoke, for the drafts are in the wrong place. The children are tormented by black flies and musquitoes, and their eyes are so swelled they can't see. The bears make love to his sheep, and the minks and foxes devour his poultry. The Indians who come to beg are supposed to come to murder, and the negroes who come to sell wild berries are suspected of coming to steal. He has no neighbours, he did not desire any, and if a heavy weight has to be lifted, it is a little, but not much, inconvenience to send to the town for a.s.sistance; and the people go cheerfully, for they have only five miles to come, and five to return, and they are not detained more than five minutes, for he never asks them into his house. The butcher won't come so far to carry his meat, nor the baker his bread, nor the postman to deliver his letters.

"The church is too far off, and there is no school. But the clergyman is not fit to be heard, he is such a drone in the pulpit; and it is a sweet employment to train one's own children, who thus avoid contamination by not a.s.sociating with vulgar companions.

"These are trifling vexations, and what is there in this life that has not some little drawback? But there is something very charming in perfect independence, in living for each other, and in residing in one of the most delightful spots in America, surrounded by the most exquisite scenery that was ever beheld. There is one thing however that is annoying. The country people will not use or adopt that pretty word Epaigwit, 'the home of the wave,' which rivals in beauty of conception an eastern expression. The place was originally granted to a fellow of the name of Umber, who was called after the celebrated navigator Cook. These two words when united soon became corrupted, and the magnificent sheet of water was designated 'the Cuc.u.mber Lake,'

while its splendid cataract, known in ancient days by the Indians as the 'Pan-ook,' or 'the River's Leap,' is perversely called by way of variation 'the Cowc.u.mber Falls;' can anything be conceived more vulgar or more vexatious, unless it be their awkward attempt at p.r.o.nunciation, which converts Epaigwit into 'a pig's wit,' and Pan-ook into 'Pond-hook?'

"But then, what can you expect of such boors, and who cares, or what does it matter? for after all, if you come to that, the 'c.u.mberland Lakes' is not very euphonious, as he calls it, whatever that means. He is right in saying it is a beautiful place, and, as he often observes, what an immense sum of money it would be worth if it were only in England! but the day is not far distant, now that the Atlantic is bridged by steamers, when 'bag-men' will give place to tourists, and 'Epaigwit' will be the 'Killarney' of America. He is quite right, that day will come, and so will the millennium, but it is a good way off yet; and dear old Minister used to say there was no dependable authority that it ever would come at all.

"Now and then a brother officer visits him. Elliott is there now, not the last of the Elliotts, for there is no end of them, and though only a hundred of them have been heard of in the world, there are a thousand well known to the Treasury. But he is the last chum from his regiment he will ever see. As they sit after dinner he hands the olives to his friend, and suddenly checks himself, saying, I forgot, you never touch the 'after-feed.' Then he throws up both eyes and hands, and affects to look aghast at the mistake. 'Really,' he says, 'I shall soon become us much of a boor as the people of this country.

I hear nothing now but mowing, browsing, and 'after-feed,' until at last I find myself using the latter word for 'dessert.' He says it prettily and acts it well, and although his wife has often listened to the same joke, she looks as if it would bear repet.i.tion, and her face expresses great pleasure. Poor Dechamps, if your place is worth nothing, she at least is a treasure above all price.

"Presently Elliott sais, 'By-the-by, Dechamps, have you heard we are ordered to Corfu, and embark immediately?'

"Dear me, what magic there is in a word. Sometimes it discloses in painful distinctness the past, at others it reveals a prophetic page of the future; who would ever suppose there was anything in that little insignificant word to occasion a thought, unless it was whether it is p.r.o.nounced Corfoo or Corfew, and it's so little consequence which, I always give it the go by and say Ionian Isles.

"But it startled Dechamps. He had hoped before he left the army to have been ordered there, and from thence to have visited the cla.s.sic coasts of Greece. Alas, that vision has gone, and there is a slight sigh of regret, for possession seldom equals expectation, and always cloys. He can never more see his regiment, they have parted for ever.

Time and distance have softened some of the rougher features of military life. He thinks of the joyous days of youth, the varied scenes of life, his profession exposed to his view, and the friends he has left behind him. The service he thinks not so intolerable after all, and though regimental society is certainly not what he should choose, especially as a married man, yet, except in a rollicking corps, it may at least negatively be said to be 'not bad.'

"From this review of the past he turns to the prospect before him. But he discerns something that he does not like to contemplate, a slight shadow pa.s.ses over his face, and he asks Elliott to pa.s.s the wine. His wife, with the quickness of perception so natural to a woman, sees at once what is pa.s.sing in his mind; for similar, but deeper, far deeper thoughts, like unbidden guests, have occupied hers many an anxious hour. Poor thing, she at once perceives her duty and resolves to fulfil it. She will be more cheerful. She at least will never murmur.

After all, Doctor, it's no great exaggeration to call a woman that has a good head and kind heart, and the right shape, build, and bearings, an angel, is it? But let us mark their progress, for we shall be better able to judge then.

"Let us visit Epaigwit again in a few years. Who is that man near the gate that looks unlike a servant, unlike a farmer, unlike a gentleman, unlike a sportsman, and yet has a touch of all four characters about him? He has a shocking bad hat on but what's the use of a good hat in the woods, as poor Jackson said, where there is no one to see it. He has not been shaved since last sheep-shearing, and has a short black pipe in his mouth, and the tobacco smells like n.i.g.g.e.r-head or pig-tail. He wears a coa.r.s.e check s.h.i.+rt without a collar, a black silk neck-cloth frayed at the edge, that looks like a rope of old ribbons.

His coat appears as if it had once been new, but had been on its travels, until at last it had got p.a.w.ned to a Jew at Rag-alley. His waistcoat was formerly buff, but now resembles yellow flannel, and the b.u.t.tons, though complete in number are of different sorts. The trowsers are homespun, much worn, and his boots coa.r.s.e enough to swap with a fisherman for mackarel. His air and look betokens pride rendered sour by poverty.

"But there is something worse than all this, something one never sees without disgust or pain, because it is the sure precursor of a diseased body, a shattered intellect, and voluntary degradation. There is a bright red colour that extends over the whole face, and reaches behind the ears. The whiskers are prematurely tipt with white, as if the heated skin refused to nourish them any longer. The lips are slightly swelled, and the inflamed skin indicates inward fever, while the eyes are bloodshot, the under lids distended, and incline to shrink from contact with the heated orbs they were destined to protect. He is a dram-drinker; and the poison that he imbibes with New England rum is as fatal, and nearly as rapid in its destruction, as strikline.

"Who is he; can you guess? do you give it up? He is that handsome officer, the Laird of Epaigwit as the Scotch would say, the general as we should call him, for we are liberal of t.i.tles, and the man that lives at Cowc.u.mber Falls, as they say here. Poor fellow, he has made the same discovery Sergeant Jackson did, that there is no use of good things in the woods where there is no one to see them. He is about to order you off his premises, but it occurs to him that would be absurd, for he has nothing now worth seeing. He scrutinises you however to ascertain if he has ever seen you before. He fears recognition, for he dreads both your pity and your ridicule; so he strolls leisurely back to the house with a certain bull-dog air of defiance.

"Let us follow him thither; but before we enter, observe there is some gla.s.s out of the window, and its place supplied by s.h.i.+ngles. The stanhope is in the coach-house, but the by-road was so full of stumps and cradle-hills, it was impossible to drive in it, and the moths have eaten the lining out. The carriage has been broken so often it is not worth repairing, and the double harness has been cut up to patch the tacklin' of the horse-team. The shrubbery has been browsed away by the cattle, and the rank gra.s.s has choked all the rose bushes and pretty little flowers. What is the use of these things in the woods? That remark was on a level with the old dragoon's intellect; but I am surprised that this intelligent officer; this man of the world, this martinet, didn't also discover, that he who neglects himself soon becomes so careless as to neglect his other duties, and that to lose sight of them is to create and invite certain ruin. But let us look at the interior.

"There are some pictures on the walls, and there are yellow stains where others hung. Where are they? for I think I heard a man say he bought them on account of their handsome frames, from that crack-brained officer at Cuc.u.mber Lake; and he shut his eye, and looked knowing and whispered, 'Something wrong there, had to sell out of the army; some queer story about another wife still living; don't know particulars.' Poor Dechamps, you are guiltless of that charge at any rate, to my certain knowledge; but how often does slander bequeath to folly that which of right belongs to crime! The nick-knacks, the antique china, the Apostles' spoons, the queer little old-fas.h.i.+oned silver ornaments, the French clock, the ill.u.s.trated works, and all that sort of thing,--all, all are gone. The housemaids broke some, the children destroyed others, and the rest were sent to auction, merely to secure their preservation. The paper is stained in some places, in others has peeled off; but where under the sun have all the accomplishments gone to?

"The piano got out of tune, and there was n.o.body to put it in order: it was no use; the strings were taken out, and the case was converted into a cupboard. The machinery of the harp became rusty, and the cords were wanted for something else. But what is the use of these things in the woods where there is n.o.body to see them? But here is Mrs Dechamps.

Is it possible! My goody gracious as I am a living sinner! Well I never in all my born days! what a dreadful wreck! you know how handsome she was. Well, I won't describe her now, I pity her too much.

You know I said they were counterparts, just made for each other, and so they were; but they are of different s.e.xes, made of different stuff, and trouble has had a different effect on them. He has neglected himself, and she is negligent of her dress too, but not in the same way. She is still neat, but utterly regardless of what her attire is; but let it be what it may, and let her put on what she will, still she looks like a lady. But her health is gone, and her spirits too; and in their place a little, delicate hectic spot has settled in her cheek, beautiful to look at, but painful to think of.

This faint blush is kindly sent to conceal consumption, and the faint smile is a.s.sumed to hide the broken heart. If it didn't sound unfeelin', I should say she was booked for an early train; but I think so if I don't say so. The hour is fixed, the departure certain; she is glad to leave Epaigwit.

"Somehow though I must say I am a little disappointed in her. She was a soldier's wife; I thought she was made of better stuff, and if she had died would have at least died game. Suppose they have been unfortunate in pitching their tent 'on the home of the wave,' and got aground, and their effects have been thrown overboard; what is that, after all? Thousands hare done the same; there is still hope for them.

They are more than a match for these casualties; how is it she has given up so soon? Well, don't allude to it, but there is a sad tragical story connected with that lake. Do you recollect that beautiful curly-headed child, her eldest daughter, that she used to walk with at Halifax? Well, she grew up into a magnificent girl; she was full of health and spirits, and as fleet and as wild as a hare.

She lived in the woods and on the lake. She didn't shoot, and she didn't fish, but she accompanied those who did. The beautiful but dangerous bark canoe was her delight; she never was happy but when she was in it. Tom Hodges, the orphan boy they had brought with them from the regiment, who alone of all their servants had remained faithful in their voluntary exile, was the only one permitted to accompany her; for he was so careful, so expert, and so good a swimmer. Alas! one night the canoe returned not. What a long, eager, anxious night was that! but towards noon the next day the upturned bark drifted by the sh.o.r.e, and then it was but too evident that that sad event which the anxious mother had so often dreaded and predicted had come to pa.s.s.

They had met a watery grave. Often and often were the whole chain of lakes explored, but their bodies were never found. Entangled in the long gra.s.s and sunken driftwood that covered the bottom of these basins, it was not likely they would ever rise to the surface.

"It was impossible to contemplate that fearful lake without a shudder.

They must leave the place soon and for ever. Oh, had Emily's life been spared, she could have endured any and everything for her sake. Poor thing! how little she knew what she was a talking about, as she broke the seal of a letter in a well-known hand. Her life was spared; it never was endangered. She had eloped with Tom Hodges--she had reached Boston--she was very happy--Tom was all kindness to her. She hoped they would forgive her and write to her, for they were going to California, where they proposed to be married as soon as they arrived.

Who ever appealed to a mother for forgiveness in vain? Everything appeared in a new light. The child had been neglected; she ought not to have been suffered to spend so much of her time with that boy; both her parents had strangely forgotten that they had grown up, and--it was no use to say more. Her father had locked her out of his heart, and thrown away the key for ever. He wished she had been drowned, for in that case she would have died innocent; and he poured out such a torrent of imprecations, that the poor mother was terrified lest, as the Persians say, these curses, like fowls, might return home to roost, or like prayers, might be heard, and procure more than was asked.

"You may grieve over the conduct of a child, and lament its untimely death, and trust in G.o.d for his mercy; but no human being can reverse the order of things, and first mourn the decease of a child, and then grieve for its disgraceful life; for there is a grave again to be dug, and who knoweth whether the end shall be peace? We can endure much, but there is a load that crusheth. Poor thing! you were right, and your husband wrong. Woman-like, your judgment was correct, your impulses good, and your heart in the right place. The child was not to be blamed, but its parents. You could, if you thought proper, give up society and live for each other; you had proved it, and knew how hollow and false it was; but your children could not resign what they never had, nor ignore feelings which G.o.d had implanted within them.

Nature has laws which must and will be obeyed. The swallow selects its mate, builds its nest, and occupies itself in nurturing its young. The heart must have something to love, and if it is restricted in its choice, it will bestow its affections not on what it would approve and select, but upon what it may chance to find; you are not singular in your domestic affliction; it is the natural consequence of your isolation, and I have known it happen over and over again.

"Now, Doctor, let us return, after the lapse of a few years, as I did, to Epaigwit. I shall never forget the impression it made upon me. It was about this season of the year I went there to fish, intending to spend the night in a camp, so as to be ready for the morning sport: 'Why, where am I?' sais I to myself, when I reached the place. 'Why, surely this ain't Cuc.u.mber Lake! where is that beautiful hanging wood, the temptation in the wilderness that ruined poor Dechamps? gone, not cleared, but destroyed; not subdued to cultivation, but reduced to desolation.' Tall gaunt black trees stretch out their withered arms on either side, as if balancing themselves against a fall, while huge trunks lie scattered over the ground, where they fell in their fierce conflict with the devouring fire that overthrew them. The ground is thickly covered with ashes, and large white glistening granite rocks, which had formerly been concealed by moss, the creeping evergreen, and the smiling, blus.h.i.+ng may-flower, now rear their cold snowy heads that contrast so strangely with the funereal pall that envelopes all around them. No living thing is seen there, nor bird, nor animal, nor insect, nor verdant plant; even the hardy fire-weed has not yet ventured to intrude on this scene of desolation, and the woodp.e.c.k.e.r, afraid of the atmosphere which charcoal has deprived of vitality, shrinks back in terror when he approaches it. Poor Dechamps, had you remained to witness this awful conflagration, you would have observed in those impenetrable boulders of granite a type of the hard, cold, unfeeling world around you, and in that withered and blackened forest, a fitting emblem of your blighted and blasted prospects.

"But if the trees had disappeared from that side of the lake, they had been reproduced on the other. The fields, the lawn, and the garden were over-run with a second growth of wood that had nearly concealed the house from view. It was with some difficulty I forced my way through the chaparel (thicket), which was rendered almost impenetrable by thorns, Virginia creepers, honeysuckles, and sweet-briars, that had spread in the wildest profusion. The windows, doors, mantle-pieces, bannisters, and every portable thing had been removed from the house by the blacks, who had squatted in the neighbourhood; even the chimneys had been taken down for the bricks. The swallows were the sole tenants; the barn had fallen a prey to decay and storms, and the roof lay comparatively uninjured at some distance on the ground. A pair of glistening eyes, peeping through a broken board at the end, showed me that the foxes had appropriated it to their own use. The horse-stable, coach-house, and other buildings were in a similar state of dilapidation.

"I returned to the camp, and learned that Mrs Dechamps was reposing in peace in the village church-yard, the children had been sent to England to their relatives, and the captain was residing in California with his daughter and Tom Hodges, who were the richest people in St Francisco."

"What a sad picture!" said the doctor.

"Well, it's true though," said I, "ain't it?"

"I never was at Cuc.u.mber Lake," said he, smiling, "but I have known several similar failures. The truth is, Mr Slick, though I needn't tell you, for you know better than I do, our friend Steele began at the right and Dechamps at the wrong end. The poor native ought always to go to the woods, the emigrant or gentleman never; the one is a rough and ready man; he is at home with an axe, and is conversant as well with the privations and requirements as with the expedients and s.h.i.+fts of forest life; his condition is ameliorated every year, and in his latter days he can afford to rest from his labours; whereas, if he buys what is called a half-improved farm, and is unable to pay for it at the time of the purchase, the mortgage is almost sure to ruin him at last. Now a man of means who retires to the country is wholly unfit for a pioneer, and should never attempt to become one; he should purchase a farm ready made to his hands, and then he has nothing to do but to cultivate and adorn it. It takes two generations, at least, to make such a place as he requires. The native, again is one of a cla.s.s, and the most necessary one too in the country; the people sympathise with him, aid and encourage him. The emigrant-gentleman belongs to no cla.s.s, and wins no affection; he is kindly received and judiciously advised by people of his own standing in life, but he affects to consider their counsel obtrusive and their society a bore; he is therefore suffered to proceed his own way, which they all well know, as it has been so often travelled before, leads to ruin. They pity, but they can't a.s.sist him. Yes, yes, your sketch of 'Epaigwit' is so close to nature, I shouldn't wonder if many a man who reads it should think he sees the history of his own place under the name of 'the Cuc.u.mber Lake.'"

CHAPTER XXV.

THE RECALL.