Life in the Clearings Versus the Bush

by Susanna Moodie

  “Get up – go along – waye,” cried he, suddenly drawing up at the door of the hotel. “Well, here we be at last, and jist in time for the con-sort.” Then hitching the horses to the post, and flinging the buffalo robes over them, he left the three females he was driving in the sleigh, and ran directly up to me, –“Arn’t you the con-sort man? I guess you be, by them ere black pants and Sunday-goin’ gear.”

  I nodded assent.

  “What’s the damage?”

  “Half a dollar.”

  “Half a dollar? You don’t mean to say that!”

  “Not a cent less.”

  “Well, it will be expensive. There’s my wife and two darters, and myself; and the galls never seed a con-sort.”

  “Well,” said I, “as there are four of you, you may come in at a dollar and a half.”

  “How; a dollar and a harf! I will go and have a talk with the old woman, and hear what she says to it.”

  He returned to the sleigh, and after chatting for a few minutes with the women, he helped them out, and the four followed me into the common reception room of the inn. The farmer placed a pail of butter on the table, and said with a shrewd curl of his long nose, and a wink from one of his cunning black eyes, “There’s some pretty good butter, mister.”

  I was amused at the idea, and replied, “Pretty good butter! What is that to me? I do not buy butter.”

  “Not buy butter! Why you don’t say! It is the very best article in the market jist now.”

  For a bit of fun I said, –“Never mind; I will take your butter. What is it worth?”

  “It was worth ten cents last week, mister; I don’t know what it’s worth now. It can’t have fallen, no-how.”

  I took my knife from my pocket, and in a very businesslike manner proceeded to taste the article. “Why,” said I, “this butter is not good.”

  Here a sharp-faced woman stepped briskly up, and poking her head between us, said, at the highest pitch of her cracked voice, –“Yes, it is good; it was made this morning express-ly for the con-sort.”

  “I beg your pardon, madam. I am not in the habit of buying butter. To oblige you, I will take this. How much is there of it?”

  “I don’t know. Where are your steelyards?”

  “Oh,” said I, laughing, “I don’t carry such things with me. I will take it at your own valuation, and you may go in with your family.”

  “‘Tis a bargain,” says she. “Go in, galls, and fix yourselves for the con-sort.”

  As the room was fast filling, I thought it time to present myself to the company, and made my entrance, accompanied by that incorrigible pest, the singing master, who, without the least embarrassment, took his seat by the piano. After singing several of my best songs, I invited him to try his skill.

  “Oh, certainly,” said he; “to tell you the truth, I am a leetle surprised that you did not ask me to lead off.”

  “I would have done so; but I could not alter the arrangement of the programme.”

  “Ah, well, I excuse you this time, but it was not very polite, to say the least of it.” Then, taking my seat at the piano with as much confidence as Braham ever had, he run his hand over the keys, exclaiming “What shall I sing? I will give you one of Russell’s songs; they suit my voice best. Ladies and gentlemen, I am going to favour you by singing Henry Russell’s celebrated song, ‘I love to roam,’ and accompany myself upon the pee-a-ne-forty.”

  This song is so well known to most of my readers, that I can describe his manner of singing it without repeating the whole of the words. He struck the instrument in playing with such violence that it shook his whole body, and produced the following ludicrous effect: –

  “Some love to ro-o-o-a-me

  O’er the dark sea fo-o-ome,

  Where the shill winds whistle fre-e-e-e;

  But a cho-o-sen ba-a-and in a mountain la-a-a-and,

  And life in the woo-o-ds for me-e-e.”

  This performance was drowned in an uproar of laughter, which brought our vocalist to a sudden stop.

  “I won’t sing another line if you keep up that infernal noise,” he roared at the top of his voice. “When a fellow does his best, he expects his audience to appreciate his performance; but I allers he’rd as how the folks at W—knew nothing about music.”

  “Oh, do stop,” exclaimed an old woman, rising from her seat, and shaking her fist at the unruly company, –“can’t yee’s; he do sing butiful; and his voice in the winds do sound so natural, I could almost hear them ‘an owling. It minds me of old times, it dew.”

  This voluntary tribute to his genius seemed to console and re-assure the singing master, and, stemming with his stentorian voice the torrent of mistimed mirth, he sang his song triumphantly to the end; and the clapping of hands, stamping of feet, and knocking of benches, were truly deafening.

  “What will you have now?” cried he. “I thought you would comprehend good singing at last.”

  “Give them a comic song,” said I, in a whisper.

  “A comic song! (aloud) Do you think that I would waste my talents in singing trash that any jackass could bray? No, sirra, my style is purely sentimental. I will give the ladies and gentlemen the ‘Ivy Green.’“

  He sang this beautiful original song, which is decidedly Russell’s best, much in the same style as the former one; but, getting a little used to his eccentricities, we contrived to keep our gravity until he came to the chorus, “Creeping, creeping, creeping,” for which he substituted, “crawling, crawling, crawling,” when he was again interrupted by such a burst of merriment that he was unable to crawl any further.

  “Well,” said he, rising; “if you won’t behave, I will leave the instrument to Mr. H—, and make one of the audience.”

  He had scarcely taken his seat, when the farmer from whom I had bought the butter forced his way up to the piano. Says he, “There’s that pail; it is worth ten cents and a half. You must either pay the money, or give me back the pail. –(Hitching up his nether garments) –“I s’pose you’ll do the thing that’s right.”

  “Oh, certainly, there are twelve and a half cents.”

  “I hav’nt change,” said he, with a knowing look.

  “So much the better; keep the difference.”

  “Then we’re square, mister,” and he sank back into his place. “Did he pay you the money?”

  I heard the wife ask in an anxious tone. “Yes, yes; more than the old pail was worth by a long chalk. I’d like to deal with that chap allers.”

  I now proceeded with the concert. The song of the drowning child saved by the Newfoundland dog, drew down thunders of applause. When the clamour had a little subsided, a tall man rose from his seat at the upper end of the room, and, after clearing his throat with several loud hems, he thus addressed me, –“How do you do, Mr. H—? I am glad, sir, to make your acquaintance. This is my friend, Mr. Derby,” drawing another tall man conspicuously forward before all the spectators. “He, tew, is very happy to make your acquaintance. We both want to know if that dog you have been singing about belongs to you. If so, we should be glad to buy a pup.” He gravely took his seat, amid perfect yells of applause. It was impossible to be heard in such a riot, and I closed the adventures of the evening by giving out “ ‘Hail, Columbia,’ to be sung by all present.” This finale gave universal satisfaction, and the voice of my friend the singing-master might be heard far above the rest.

  I was forced, in common politeness, to invite Mr. Browne, to partake of the oyster supper I had provided for my friends from W—. “Will you join our party this evening, Mr. Browne?”

  “Oh, by all manner of means,” said he, rubbing his hands together in a sort of ecstasy of anticipation; “I knew that you would do the thing handsome at last. I have not tasted an i’ster since I sang at Niblo’s in New York. But did we not come on famously at the con-sort? Confess, now, that I beat you holler. You sing pretty well, but you want confidence. You don’t give expression enough to your voice. The applause which followed my firs
t song was tremendous.”

  “I never heard anything like it, Mr. Browne. I never expect to merit such marks of public approbation.”

  “All in good time, my leetle friend,” returned he, clapping me familiarly on the shoulder. “Rome was not built in a day, and you are a young man – a very young man – and very small for your age. Your voice will never have the volume and compass of mine. But I smell the i’sters: let’s in, for I’m tarnation hungry.”

  Gentle reader! you would have thought so to have seen him eat. My companions looked rather disconcerted at the rapidity with which they disappeared within his capacious jaws. After satisfying his enormous appetite, he washed down the oysters with long draughts of porter, until his brain becoming affected, he swung his huge body back in his chair, and, placing his feet on the supper-table, began singing in good earnest, – not one song in particular, but a mixture of all that had appeared in the most popular Yankee song books for the last ten years.

  I wish I could give you a specimen of the sublime and the ridiculous, thus unceremoniously huddled together. The effect was so irresistible, when contrasted with the grave exterior of the man, that we laughed until our sides ached at his absurdities. Exhausted by his constant vociferations, the musician at length dropped from his chair in a drunken sleep upon the floor, and we carried him into the next room and put him to bed; and, after talking over the events of the evening, we retired about midnight to our respective chambers, which all opened into the great room in which I held the concert.

  About two o’clock in the morning my sleep was disturbed by the most dismal cries and groans, which appeared to issue from the adjoining apartment. I rubbed my eyes, and sat up in the bed and listened, when I recognized the well-known voice of the singing master, exclaiming in tones of agony and fear –“Landlord! landlord! cum quick. Somebody cum. Landlord! landlord! there’s a man under my bed. Oh, Lord! I shall be murdered! a man under my bed!”

  As I am not fond of such nocturnal visitors myself, not being much gifted with physical strength or courage, I listened a moment to hear if anyone was coming. The sound of approaching footsteps along the passage greatly aided the desperate effort I made to leave my comfortable pillow, and proceed to the scene of action. At the chamber door I met the landlord, armed with the fire-tongs and a light.

  “What’s all this noise about’?” he cried in an angry tone.

  I assured him that I was as ignorant as himself of the cause of the disturbance. Here the singing master again sung out –

  “Landlord! landlord! there’s a man under the bed. Cum! somebody cum!”

  We immediately entered his room, and were joined by two of my friends from W—. Seeing our party strengthened to four, our courage rose amazingly, and we talked loudly of making mincemeat of the intruder, kicking him down stairs, and torturing him in every way we could devise. We found the singing master sitting bolt upright in his bed, his smallclothes gathered up under his arm ready for a start; his face as pale as a sheet, his teeth chattering, and his whole appearance indicative of the most abject fear. We certainly did hear very mysterious sounds issuing from beneath the bed, which caused the boldest of us to draw back.

  “He is right,” said Roberts; “there is some one under the bed.”

  “What a set of confounded cowards you are!” cried the landlord; “can’t you lift the valence and see what it is?”

  He made no effort himself to ascertain the cause of the alarm. Roberts, who, after all, was the boldest man of the party, seized the tongs from the landlord, and, kneeling cautiously down, slowly raised the drapery that surrounded the bed. “Hold the light here, landlord.” He did so, but at arm’s length. Roberts peeped timidly into the dark void beyond, dropped the valance, and looked up with a comical, quizzing expression, and began to laugh.

  “What is it?” we all cried in a breath.

  “Landlord! landlord!” he cried, imitating the voice of the singing master, “cum quick! Somebody cum! There’s a dog under the bed! He will bite me! Oh, dear! oh, dear! I shall die of hydrophobia. I shall be smothered in a feather-bed! ”

  “A dog!” said the landlord.

  “A dog!” cried we all.

  “Aye, a black dog.”

  “You don’t say! “ cried the singing master, springing from his bed. “Where is he? I’m able for him any how.” And seizing a corn broom that stood in a corner of the room, he began to poke at the poor animal, and belabour him in the most unmerciful manner.

  The dog, who belonged to a drover who penned his cattle in the inn-yard for the night, wishing to find a comfortable domicile, had taken a private survey of the premises when the people were out of the way, and made his quarters under Mr. Browne’s bed. When that worthy commenced snoring, the dog, to signify his approbation at finding himself in the company of some one, amused himself by hosting his tail up and down; now striking the sacking of the bed, and now tapping audibly against the floor. These mysterious salutations became, at length, so frequent and vehement that they awoke the sleeper, who, not daring to ascertain the cause of the alarm, aroused the whole house with his clamours.

  Mr. Browne finding himself unable to thrash the poor brute out of his retreat, and having become all of a sudden very brave, crawled under the bed and dragged the dog out by his hind legs.

  “You see I’m enough for him; give me the poker, and I’ll beat out his brains.”

  “You’ll do no such thing, sir,” said the landlord, turning the animal down the stairs. “The dog belongs to a quiet decent fellow, and a good customer, and he shall meet with no ill usage here. “Your mountain, Mr. Browne, has brought forth a mouse.”

  “A dog sir,” quoth the singing master, not in the least abashed by the reproof. “If the brute had cut up such a dido under your bed, you would have been as ‘turnal sceared as I was.”

  “Perhaps, Mr. Browne,” said I, “you took it for the ghost of the old mare?.”

  “Ghost or no ghost,” returned the landlord, “he has given us a great deal of trouble, and nearly frightened himself into fits.”

  “The fear was not all on my side,” said the indignant vocalist; “and I look upon you as the cause of the whole trouble.”

  “As how?”

  “If the dog had not cum to your house, he never would have found his way under my bed. When I pay for my night’s lodging, I don’t expect to have to share it with a strange dog – no how.”

  So saying he retreated, grumbling, back to his bed, and we gladly followed his example.

  I rose early in the morning to accompany my friends to W—. At the door of the hotel I was accosted by Mr. Browne –

  “Why, you arn’t goin’ to start without bidding me good-bye? Besides, you have not paid me for my assistance at the con-sort.”

  I literally started with surprise at this unexpected demand. “Do you expect a professional price for your services?”

  “Well, I guess the con-sort would have been nothing without my help; but I won’t be hard upon you, as you are a young beginner, and not likely to make your fortune in that line any how. There’s that pail of butter; if you don’t mean to take it along, I’ll take that; we wants butter to hum. Is it a bargain?”

  “Oh, yes; if you are satisfied, I am well pleased.” (I could have added, to get rid of you at any price.) “You will find it on the table in the hall.”

  “Not exactly; I took it hum this morning – I thought how it would end. Good-bye to you, Mr. H—. If ever you come this way again, I shall be happy to lend you my assistance.”

  I never visited that part of the countryside since, but I have no doubt that Mr. Browne is busy in his vocation, and flattering himself that he is one of the first vocalists in the Union. I think he should change his residence, and settle down for life in New Harmony.

  TO ADELAIDE,*

  A Beautiful Young Canadian Lady.

  “Yes, thou art young, and passing fair;

  But time, that bids all blossoms fade,

  Will rob thee of
the rich and rare;

  Then list to me, sweet Adelaide.

  He steals the snow from polish’d brow,

  From soft bewitching eyes the blue,

  From smiling lips their ruby glow,

  From velvet cheeks their rosy hue.

  “Oh, who shall check the spoiler’s power! –

  ’Tis more than conquering love may dare;

  He flutters round youth’s summer bower,

  And reigns o’er hearts like summer fair.

  He basks himself in sunny eyes,

  Hides ‘mid bright locks, and dimpled smiles;

  From age he spreads his wings and flies, –

  Forgets soft vows, and pretty wiles.

  “The charms of mind are ever young,

  Their beauty never owns decay;

  The fairest form by poet sung,

  Before their power must fade away.

  The mind immortal wins from time

  Fresh beauties as its years advance;

  Its flowers bloom fresh in every clime –

  They cannot yield to change and chance.

  “E’en over love’s capricious boy

  They hold an undiminish’d sway;

  For chill and storm can ne’er destroy

  The blossoms of eternal day.

  Then deem these charms, sweet Adelaide,

  The brightest gems in beauty’s zone:

  Make these thine own, – all others fade;

  They live when youth and grace are flown.”

  * The daughter of Colonel Coleman, of Belleville; now Mrs. Easton.

  CAMP MEETINGS

  “On – on! – for ever brightly on,

  Thy lucid waves are flowing:

  Thy waters sparkle as they run,

  Their long, long journey going.”

  S.M.

  We have rounded Ox Point, and Belleville is no longer in sight. The steamboat has struck into mid channel, and the bold shores of the Prince Edward District are before us. Calmly we glide on, and islands and headlands seem to recede from us as we advance; and now they are far in the distance, half seen through the warm purple haze that rests so dreamily upon woods and waters. Heaven is above us, and another heaven – more soft, and not less beautiful – lies mirrored beneath; and within that heaven are traced exquisite forms of earth – trees, and flowers, and verdant slopes, and bold hills, and barren rugged rocks. The scene is one of surpassing loveliness, and we open our hearts to receive its sweet influences, while our eyes rest upon it with intense delight, and the inner voice of the soul whispers God is here! Dost thou not catch the reflection of his glory in this superb picture of Nature’s own painting, while the harmony that surrounds his throne is faintly echoed by the warm balmy wind that stirs the lofty branches of the woods, and the waves that swell and break in gentle undulation against these rocky isles?