Life in the Clearings versus the Bush | Page 3

of the human
family, whose fatherland, however dear to them, is unable to supply
them with bread.
To the honest sons of labour Canada is, indeed, an El Dorado--a land
flowing with milk and honey; for they soon obtain that independence
which the poor gentleman struggles in vain to realise by his own labour
in the woods.
The conventional prejudices that shackle the movements of members of
the higher classes in Britain are scarcely recognised in Canada; and a
man is at liberty to choose the most profitable manner of acquiring
wealth, without the fear of ridicule and the loss of caste.

The friendly relations which now exist between us and our enterprising,
intelligent American neighbours, have doubtless done much to produce
this amalgamation of classes. The gentleman no longer looks down
with supercilious self-importance on the wealthy merchant, nor does
the latter refuse to the ingenious mechanic the respect due to him as a
man. A more healthy state pervades Canadian society than existed here
a few years ago, when party feeling ran high, and the professional men
and office holders visited exclusively among themselves, affecting airs
of aristocratic superiority, which were perfectly absurd in a new
country, and which gave great offence to those of equal wealth who
were not admitted into their clique. Though too much of this spirit
exists in the large cities, such as Quebec, Montreal, and Toronto, it
would not be tolerated in the small district towns and villages, where a
gentleman could not take a surer method of making himself unpopular
than by exhibiting this feeling to his fellow-townsmen.
I have been repeatedly asked, since the publication of "Roughing it in
the Bush," to give an account of the present state of society in the
colony, and to point out its increasing prosperity and commercial
advantages; but statistics are not my forte, nor do I feel myself
qualified for such an arduous and important task. My knowledge of the
colony is too limited to enable me to write a comprehensive work on a
subject of vital consequence, which might involve the happiness of
others. But what I do know I will endeavour to sketch with a light
pencil; and if I cannot convey much useful information, I will try to
amuse the reader; and by a mixture of prose and poetry compile a small
volume, which may help to while away an idle hour, or fill up the
blanks of a wet day.
Belleville, Canada West, Nov. 24th, 1852.
Indian Summer.
By the purple haze that lies On the distant rocky height, By the deep
blue of the skies, By the smoky amber light, Through the forest arches
streaming. Where nature on her throne sits dreaming, And the sun is
scarcely gleaming Through the cloudlet's snowy white, Winter's lovely
herald greets us, Ere the ice-crown'd tyrant meets us.

A mellow softness fills the air-- No breeze on wanton wing steals by,
To break the holy quiet there, Or make the waters fret and sigh. Or the
golden alders shiver, That bend to kiss the placid river, Flowing on and
on for ever; But the little waves seem sleeping, O'er the pebbles slowly
creeping, That last night were flashing, leaping, Driven by the restless
breeze, In lines of foam beneath yon trees.
Dress'd in robes of gorgeous hue-- Brown and gold with crimson blent,
The forest to the waters blue Its own enchanting tints has lent. In their
dark depths, life-like glowing, We see a second forest growing, Each
pictur'd leaf and branch bestowing A fairy grace on that twin wood,
Mirror'd within the crystal flood.
'Tis pleasant now in forest shades;-- The Indian hunter strings his bow
To track, through dark entangled glades, The antler'd deer and
bounding doe; Or launch at night his birch canoe, To spear the finny
tribes that dwell On sandy bank, in weedy cell, Or pool the fisher
knows right well,-- Seen by the red and livid glow Of pine-torch at his
vessel's bow.
This dreamy Indian summer-day Attunes the soul to tender sadness:
We love, but joy not in the ray,-- It is not summer's fervid gladness, But
a melancholy glory Hov'ring brightly round decay, Like swan that sings
her own sad story, Ere she floats in death away.
The day declines.--What splendid dyes, In flicker'd waves of crimson
driven, Float o'er the saffron sea, that lies Glowing within the western
heaven! Ah, it is a peerless even! See, the broad red sun has set, But his
rays are quivering yet Through nature's veil of violet, Streaming bright
o'er lake and hill; But earth and forest lie so still-- We start, and check
the rising tear, 'Tis beauty sleeping on her bier.

LIFE IN THE CLEARINGS
VERSUS THE BUSH

CHAPTER I
Belleville
"The land of our adoption claims Our