Life in the Clearings versus the Bush | Page 9

wit is a
quality of native growth.
"I wish you a happy death, Pat S---," said Mr. R---, the jolly,

black-browed priest of P---, after he had married an old servant of ours,
who had reached the patriarchal age of sixty-eight, to an old woman of
seventy.
"D--- clear of it!" quoth Pat, smiting his thigh, with a look of inimitable
drollery,--such a look of broad humour as can alone twinkle from the
eyes of an emeralder of that class. Pat was a prophet; in less than six
months he brought the body of the youthful bride in a waggon to the
house of the said priest to be buried, and, for aught I know to the
contrary, the old man is living still, and very likely to treat himself to a
third wife.
I was told two amusing anecdotes of the late Bishop Macdonald; a man
whose memory is held in great veneration in the province, which I will
give you here.
The old bishop was crossing the Rice Lake in a birch bark canoe, in
company with Mr. R---, the Presbyterian minister of Peterboro'; the day
was rather stormy, and the water rough for such a fragile conveyance.
The bishop, who had been many years in the country, knew there was
little danger to be apprehended if they sat still, and he had perfect
reliance in the skill of their Indian boatman. Not so Mr. R---, he had
only been a few months in the colony, and this was the first time he had
ever ventured upon the water in such a tottleish machine. Instead of
remaining quietly seated in the bottom of the canoe, he endeavoured to
start to his feet, which would inevitably have upset it. This rash
movement was prevented by the bishop, who forcibly pulled him down
into a sitting posture, exclaiming, as he did so, "Keep still, my good sir;
if you, by your groundless fears, upset the canoe, your protestant
friends will swear that the old papist drowned the presbyterian."
One hot, sultry July evening, the celebrated Dr. Dunlop called to have a
chat with the bishop, who, knowing the doctor's weak point, his
fondness for strong drinks, and his almost rabid antipathy to water,
asked him if he would take a draught of Edinburgh ale, as he had just
received a cask in a present from the old country. The doctor's thirst
grew to a perfect drought, and he exclaimed that nothing at that
moment could afford him greater pleasure.

The bell was rung; the spruce, neat servant girl appeared, and was
forthwith commissioned to take the bishop's own silver tankard and
draw the thirsty doctor a pint of ale.
The girl quickly returned: the impatient doctor grasped the nectarian
draught, and, without glancing into the tankard--for the time
"Was that soft hour 'twixt summer's eve and close,"--
emptied the greater part of its contents down his throat. A spasmodic
contortion and a sudden rush to the open window surprised the
hospitable bishop, who had anticipated a great treat for his guest: "My
dear sir," he cried, "what can be the matter!"
"Oh, that diabolical stuff!" groaned the doctor. "I am poisoned."
"Oh, never fear," said the bishop, examining the liquid that still
remained in the tankard, and bursting into a hearty laugh, "It may not
agree with a Protestant's stomach, but believe me, dear doctor, you
never took such a wholesome drink in your life before. I was lately sent
from Rome a cask of holy water,--it stands in the same cellar with the
ale,--I put a little salt into it, in order to preserve it during this hot
weather, and the girl, by mistake, has given you the consecrated water
instead of the ale."
"Oh, curse her!" cried the tortured doctor. "I wish it was in her stomach
instead of mine!"
The bishop used to tell this story with great glee whenever Dr. Dunlop
and his eccentric habits formed the theme of conversation.
That the Catholics do not always act with hostility towards their
Protestant brethren, the following anecdote, which it gives me great
pleasure to relate, will sufficiently show:--
In the December of 1840 we had the misfortune to be burnt out, and
lost a great part of our furniture, clothing, and winter stores. Poor as we
then were, this could not be regarded in any other light but as a great

calamity. During the confusion occasioned by the fire, and, owing to
the negligence of a servant to whose care he was especially confided,
my youngest child, a fine boy of two years old, was for some time
missing. The agony I endured for about half an hour I shall never forget.
The roaring flames, the impending misfortune that hung over us, was
forgotten in the terror that shook my