Life in the Backwoods | Page 5

of oak and pine, and very much
resembled a gentleman's park at home. Far below, to our right (for we
were upon the Smith-town side) we heard the rushing of the river,
whose rapid waters never receive curb from the iron chain of winter.
Even while the rocky banks are coated with ice, and the frost-king
suspends from every twig and branch the most beautiful and fantastic
crystals, the black waters rush foaming along, a thick steam rising
constantly above the rapids, as from a boiling pot. The shores vibrate
and tremble beneath the force of the impetuous flood, as it whirls round
cedar-crowned islands and opposing rocks, and hurries on to pour its
tribute into the Rice Lake, to swell the calm, majestic grandeur of the
Trent, till its waters are lost in the beautiful bay of Quinté, and finally
merged in the blue ocean of Ontario.
The most renowned of our English rivers dwindle into little muddy rills
when compared with the sublimity of the Canadian waters. No
language can adequately express the solemn grandeur of her lake and
river scenery; the glorious islands that float, like visions from fairy land,
upon the bosom of these azure mirrors of her cloudless skies. No dreary
breadth of marshes, covered with flags, hide from our gaze the expanse
of heaven-tinted waters; no foul mud-banks spread their unwholesome
exhalations around. The rocky shores are crowned with the cedar, the
birch, the alder, and soft maple, that dip their long tresses in the pure
stream; from every crevice in the limestone the harebell and Canadian
rose wave their graceful blossoms.
The fiercest droughts of summer may diminish the volume and power
of these romantic streams, but it never leaves their rocky channels bare,

nor checks the mournful music of their dancing waves. Through the
openings in the forest, we now and then caught the silver gleam of the
river tumbling on in moonlight splendour, while the hoarse chiding of
the wind in the lofty pines above us gave a fitting response to the
melancholy cadence of the waters.
The children had fallen asleep. A deep silence pervaded the party.
Night was above us with her mysterious stars. The ancient forest
stretched around us on every side, and a foreboding sadness sunk upon
my heart. Memory was busy with the events of many years. I retraced
step by step the pilgrimage of my past life, until arriving at that passage
in its sombre history, I gazed through tears upon the singularly savage
scene around me, and secretly marvelled, "What brought me here??"
"Providence," was the answer which the soul gave. "Not for your own
welfare, perhaps, but for the welfare of your children, the unerring hand
of the great Father has led you here. You form a connecting link in the
destinies of many. It is impossible for any human creature to live for
himself alone. It may be your lot to suffer, but others will reap a benefit
from your trials. Look up with confidence to Heaven, and the sun of
hope will yet shed a cheering beam through the forbidden depths of this
tangled wilderness."
The road became so bad that Mr. D---- was obliged to dismount, and
lead his horses through the more intricate passages. The animals
themselves, weary with their long journey and heavy load, proceeded at
foot-fall. The moon, too, had deserted us, and the only light we had to
guide us through the dim arches of the forest was from the snow and
the stars, which now peered down upon us through the leafless
branches of the trees, with uncommon brilliancy.
"It will be past midnight before we reach your brother's clearing,"
(where we expected to spend the night,) said D----. "I wish, Mr.
Moodie, we had followed your advice, and staid at Peterborough. How
fares it with you, Mrs. Moodie, and the young ones? It is growing very
cold."
We were now in the heart of a dark cedar swamp, and my mind was

haunted with visions of wolves and bears; but beyond the long, wild
howl of a solitary wolf, no other sound awoke the sepulchral silence of
that dismal looking wood.
"What a gloomy spot," said I to my husband. "In the old country,
superstition would people it with ghosts."
"Ghosts! There are no ghosts in Canada!" said Mr. D----. "The country
is too new for ghosts. No Canadian is afeard of ghosts. It is only in old
countries, like your'n, that are full of sin and wickedness, that people
believe in such nonsense. No human habitation has ever been erected in
this wood through which you are passing. Until a very few years ago,
few white persons had ever passed through it; and the Red Man would
not pitch his tent in such a place