The Backwoods of Canada | Page 4

The only vessel in the river bound for Canada, was a
passenger-ship, literally swarming with emigrants, chiefly of the lower
class of Highlanders.

The only passengers besides ourselves in the Laurel are the captain's
nephew, a pretty yellow-haired lad, about fifteen years of age, who
works his passage out, and a young gentleman who is going out as
clerk in a merchant's house in Quebec. He seems too much wrapped up
in his own affairs to be very communicative to others; he walks much,
talks little, and reads less, but often amuses himself by singing as he
paces the deck, "Home, sweet home," and that delightful song by
Camoens, "Isle of beauty." It is a sweet song, and I can easily imagine
the charm it has for a home-sick heart.
I was much pleased with the scenery of the Clyde; the day we set sail
was a lovely one, and I remained on deck till nightfall. The morning
light found our vessel dashing gallantly along, with a favourable breeze,
through the north channel; that day we saw the last of the Hebrides, and
before night lost sight of the north coast of Ireland. A wide expanse of
water and sky is now our only prospect, unvaried by any object save
the distant and scarcely to be traced outline of some vessel just seen at
the verge of the horizon, a speck in the immensity of space, or
sometimes a few sea-fowl. I love to watch these wanderers of the ocean,
as they rise and fal with the rocking billows, or flit about our vessel;
and often I wonder whence they came, to what distant shore they are
bound, and if they make the rude wave their home and resting- place
during the long day and dark night; and then I recall to mind the words
of the American poet, Bryant,--
"He who from zone to zone Guides through the boundless air their
certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone Wilt guide my
steps aright."
Though we have been little more than a week on board, I am getting
weary of the voyage. I can only compare the monotony of it to being
weather- bound in some country inn. I have already made myself
acquainted with all the books worth reading in the ship's library;
unfortunately, it is chiefly made up with old novels and musty
romances.
When the weather is fine I sit on a bench on the deck, wrapped in my
cloak, and sew, or pace the deck with my husband, and talk over plans
for the future, which in all probability will never be realized. I really do
pity men who are not actively employed: women have always their
needle as a resource against the overwhelming weariness of an idle life;

but where a man is confined to a small space, such as the deck and
cabin of a trading vessel, with nothing to see, nothing to hear, nothing
to do, and nothing to read, he is really a very pitiable creature.
There is one passenger on board that seems perfectly happy, if one may
judge from the liveliness of the songs with which he greets us
whenever we approach his cage. It is "Harry," the captain's
goldfinch--"the _captain's mate_," as the sailors term him. This pretty
creature has made no fewer than twelve voyages in the Laurel. "It is all
one to him whether his cage is at sea or on land, he is still at home,"
said the captain, regarding his little favourite with an air of great
affection, and evidently gratified by the attention I bestowed on his
bird.
I have already formed a friendship with the little captive. He never fails
to greet my approach with one of his sweetest songs, and will take from
my fingers a bit of biscuit, which he holds in his claws till he has
thanked me with a few of his clearest notes. This mark of
acknowledgment is termed by the steward, "saying-grace."
If the wind still continues to favour us, the captain tells us we shall be
on the banks of Newfoundland in another week. Farewell for the
present.

LETTER II
Arrival off Newfoundland.--Singing of the Captain's Goldfinch
previous to the discovery of Land.--Gulf of St. Laurence.--Scenery of
the River St. Laurence.--Difficult navigation of the River.--French
Fisherman engaged as a Pilot.--Isle of Bic.--Green Island.--Gros
Isle.--Quarantine Regulations.--Emigrants on Gros Isle.--Arrival off
Quebec.--Prospect of the City and Environs.
Brig _Laurel_, River St. Laurence. August 6, 1832.
I LEFT off writing, my dear mother, from this simple cause;--I had
nothing to say. One day was but the echo, as it were, of the one that
preceded it; so that a page copied from the mate's log would have
proved as amusing, and to the full as instructive,