garnished c >—-_ bran“ AND WESTERN PIONEER. W DEVOTED T0 LITERATURE, SCIENCE, COMMERCE, AGRICUILTVUREJ'AND NEWS. Vol. 2? ' Summerside, Prince Edward Island, Thursday, January I7, 1867. No. 15- * f 1 THE ' one would give the lowestauimal. [would dos slumber. Again I Iaiiced at the liiers, and even in their modes of expres- 3 11 II I II f II 55 Q ii I d 5 . mwtmoi look out upon the silver water kissed by mot er. It was Emily‘s fficc, surely. I'sioii. He who has attained old a c has Summerside Journal is PRINTED AND reunions!) Ivnnr THURSDAY EVENING, nv BERTBAH d: BABNARD. CENTRAL STREET. A'l‘ 'l‘IIlIIt OFFICE, T E II. III S : , I copy for one year, in advance. 6s. 3d. _ H “ lialt‘ advance, 7s. 8d. N " at the end of year 9s. Persons getting up owns of TEN Subscribers will be entitled to the Joumui. forone year. The following gentlemen have consented to net as sona'rs, and they are authorized to re- ceive monies and give rceeipts,un our wccount: Charlottetown—W. E. Dawson, Esq. IIenry Harvic, Esq. Contractile—Major Wright, Esq Upper Bodegas—Wm. G. Strong, Esq Tryon—Gcorge Multan, Esq Crapaud—Charles Collit. St. Eleonora—W. '1‘. [font 6s Co Hiawatha—Joseph B. I‘crry. Port [It'll—David Ramsay, Esq. Cmsampet—Beuiamin Rogers, Esq 1'1' mist—Benjamin Haywood, Esq Miminigash—Thomas Costin llargate—Rcuben 'I‘uplin, Esq MW London—Pidgcon & Stewart Shirley Bridge-George It. Garrett Halpeque—D. «it I'. McNutt Southport—Ilcnry Beer, Esq Vernon [liver—Mr. George Vickerson Georgetown—Andrew LeBrocque. Esq Mr. ’I‘ismus Goiibox, of Newcastle,N.B. is our Agent for that place . ADVERTISEMENTS inserted at moderate rates and in good style. Srecui. AOnIflIIENTl may be made on reasonable terms for a whole, a half, or quar- ter column, or by the year. JOB PRI TIN G ofevory description, performed with ncotncss Ind dcsputuh, and at moderate rates, Summersido Markets. Snintnsismit, Jan. 17,1867. Oats per bnsh - - - 4:! Ida 2s 2d rle r bush - 3! n (is (id Iggtatgupcper bush - - - ls flda 1s 6d 'I‘urnips per buin - - - - - - - o - Is a is Id Butter per lb by ‘I‘nb - - ~ - Is a Is id Lard per lb - - - - - - 9d a 10d Tallow perlb.---- bdolod Eggs per do: 9d a 10.1 Ilecfperlb - . 8d a id Mutton perlb -- - - - 3d a 4d Pork per lb by amass . - - - 3d a Md Goescesch - - - - - - -- ---1siidn.is9d - - - 50s a 60s Flour per bbl - s - - - - Oatmeal per cert. Hay per Ton - - - Straw per cwt. - l‘lno Boards - Spruce Boards Easiness (hauls. IIANK 0F PRINCE EDWARD ISLAND. Corner of Queen 4' Water Sts., Charlottetown President—Hon. Tisoiuis H. Human». CuhIeP—WILLIAI Conn i., Esquire. Discount. Days—Mondays Thursdays. Hours ofBusinessA—Fom l0 n.m. to i p.ni., front? p.ni to 4 p.iii., UNION BANK. Grafton St., Queen's Square, Charlottetown President—Ciuitws Psuunn, )sguire. Cashier—Jules Axnanson, Esquire. Discount Days—Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays. Hours of Business—From 10 a.m to lp m., from 2 p.ni to 4 p m. SUMMERSIDE BANK. Central Street, Summerri'ds, P. E. Island. President—lion. JOHN R. Gsniiisiiii. Cuhler— E. L. Lvuisno, Esquire Discount Days—Tuesdays andI‘ddnys. Notes for Discount must be in before Ii o'clock on Discount days. Hours of Business—10 a. m., to 1 p. m., from 2 p. m., to 4 p.m. ' Join Hobie. u. n. r. u. M. s. MEDICAL OFFICE OVER GREEN ti. SCIIUIIMAN'S STORE, WATER STREET, SUMMER-310E. I’.E.l. WILLIAM M. IIOW E, Attorney-at-Law sun nouns PUBLIC, Sr. Ennauon‘s .............. ..I’. E. Isnnzo. GEORGE ALLEY, BARBISTER AND Attorne y-a t-L aw , nonnv I’UIIIJC, kc. Telégraph Buildings, Water Slreet, Charlottetown. --- --~-----‘ I‘. 1'}. Island. THOMAS KELLY, Barr ster - at - Law ND NOTARY I‘PIIBLIC, &o. lUMbIEllSllm, - - I’. E. ISLAND. an]. 9, 1860 “Moulds ---50s360s ---- lstid --- 10s ---4salii I! iibscrlher having purchased the ,‘IN TRADE of. )IHH L. [Ionuss I future will he s intention to p' ety of goods adopted fo trad , he respectfully solicits s share of pub l patronage. ALBERT L. ANDERSON. St. Eleanor's, April 10, 1866. DAVID isuirriiAM, Saddle and Harness Maker, WII‘I' Street . . . . . Summerside. 102m.l.’;!9‘§:~ _._. .___ -_._,. J. H. GIBSON, 91m & @rnnmcatnl II 0 U S E & S I Ci N PAINTER. Summerside, . . . . P. E. Island. Omen is, is“. o .Dealer in Flour, D R. P R I C E, Physician 85 Surgeon, OFFICE—At the SUWERBIDII Dnuo S'i'onis, next door to Bank, Central Street SUMMEHSIDE, . . . . . P. E. ISLAND, October 12, 1865. Me R. McNEILL, I New York, w to the inhabitnu ty, that he has yof llevus IIospitnl, ld resp tfully announce New Lei don and Vicini- d his S l ‘ (formerly k ow may be consultc of his Profession, a Stanley Bridge, New L d Out. 18, 1866.—-ti II. J. ItICIIAROSOh , Coupnssxox IIIERCHANT Auctioneer. Groceries, and Dry Goods. IVnter Street . . . . . . Sumincrcide. CARV ELL BROTHERS, AUCTIONEERS, Commission Merchants, And General Agents, BANK BUILDING, QUEEN STREET. Charlottetown. - l’. 1'}. Island " "Elli-D WILLrs‘M BEAIRSTO, Commissmn Merchant, Auctioneer ((5 General Agent, wusn s'rnncr. Summerside, -------------- -- I’. E. Islaan James Grceuough, F L O U R Commission Merchant. No 47 Commercial Street Corner of Clinton Sircct- - - - - BOSTON “EmfilILLl—AAT'IYOTSDT Commission Merchant, And Auctioneer, QUEEN SQUARE, CIIARLOTTETO WN - - - P. E. ISLAND “THOMAS HANFORDT‘ AUCTIONEER AND Commission Merchant, S'I‘. JOIIN, N. B. Nov 1, 1865 O. L. RICHARDS, Importer and VVlioIcsale Dealer in 3mist it ginnigu (turnips 4, North Ithirf, ST. JOHN, NEW BRUNSWICK, Dec. 6, ltititi. Iy . .I. F. HILL & 00., DEALERS IN Potatoes, Apples, Onions, Junign it. anuslit Qlimits, Cranberries, Beans, Green & Dried Apples Stalls 107 and 109. v and Cellar No. 19, Fancuil IIaII Market SOUTH SIDE BOSTON. E. D. S’I‘AIR, CABINET - MAKER, AND Undertaker. FURNITURE OF ALL KINDS MADE TO ORDER. Knit Slrecl. - . - - - — - - — - — Charlottetown. Sept. 1866. um JOHN ANDRHW' MACDONALD, Importer of Dry Goods, Hardware, Crockei‘ywurc, Groceries, stoves, Furniture, &c. &c. Snmmcrsfrle, - - - - - - - r - P. 1‘}. Island. J‘s; ‘sqsgu 30 soisselg ‘1v.i.mvo am am: no 'umunai EN! 5 a go E: 3 ‘5 a... "I . .7 ,, gsség- H m Ema“): w % owmn n 89 .1 new III :" 35M 5; 522,; p 3 “° 2 3% u I." H ".1 til we?" ‘oxnon sn'mvno . ‘aesmms Iowa's-fair HHIHSVONV'I 18’ NOCINO'I HHJ. ‘nyuvawoo n‘ouvunsui TIIE DRUNKA RD'S LA MEN'I‘. Now madly I seek In this wine-cup to quench, The fires that are raging within, Which madden and torture My fcvcrcd brain, And good me still onward to sin. Despised and forsaken, In hunger and rays, I wander an outcast forlorn; To the Demon of drink. I have bartered my soul, Ohl would I had never been born. And tell me. ye demons That pray on my soul And laugh with a fiendish delight, Of her, whose entroaties Still ring in my ears. Amid the dark hours of the night: Whose tears I resisted, Whose counsels I mocked, And spurned at her efforts to save, 'I‘ill weary she drooped, And with heart-broken wail, Sank early to rest in the grave. And mother, dca! mother, Dost thou from above, Look down and in pity behold The promise of childhood, The hopes of my youth, To the demon Iiiteuiperance sold? Though vainly Iwrithe In the grasp of the fiend, And bitterly sigh to be free, Sweet angel of peace, I have bid thee farewell, For the dark gulfis yawning forum. Main McGaiscon. Rawdon, Dec. 1866. * $21th Eilrruiurr. THE SAILOR’S W STORY. I sailed about thirty-four years ago. in our good, new ship Coriolanus, from New York to the coast of Al ricu. A weary time we Iiud ofit too. We left the ship to set- tlc down in a. whirlpool, while we made hot haste to man the boats and row away, away from the dangerous spot. It was tough work getting clear, and O, how dreary was the waste of watcrs, for two whole days and nights. to men who had nothing to subsist on but the leather bits torn from their water soaked shoes. At length, on the third‘duy, eiuiio relief, but such i‘clief us was infinitely worse than the fate which seemed prepared for us. An Algeriiiu corsair took us as captives, and our next footsteps on the land were on the terrible shore of Algiers. [—Ai-iiold White—n brave man and a fearless sailor, though I say it myself, sat down and cried—cried and sobbcd like a child. For well I knew that nothing await- ed me but long and dreary years of cruel slavery to the hardest, bitten-st of task masters, doomed, to a lung, perhaps a life loiiw, separation from those whom my soul liclfl dcurcr than life. In a little cottagc,just removed from the sounds of the city, I had left a young wife mid her babe. What terrors awaited that gentle creature, when the ‘carshould pass away and no tidiii s shou d come of her husband. She luu been a lonely orphan. She was now a happy wife and mother. My poo; Emily! what could she be now that he who had become father, husband and brother to her should return no more? In the boat with me had been an old man called Jacob Arnistcad; a young, vigorous youth, Martin Frost, and little l-ldwiii Car- ter the Captain‘s boy. The latter was a bright, active boy—a widow’s son. He was of toudor years, and unfit. to battle with his tcvriblc fate. The iiioifhtcrs sci him tasks which .1 strong man would have died under, and beforo two weeks had pas- scd he was lying dead beneath thcupliltcd rod. My heart bled snow, and yctI thought he was to be cnvlcd tor escaping such a life. [low I lived I know not. It must have been that. the little spark of hope that 1 should see my wife and child once more, kcpl. me from dying. The old man followed Edwin almostim- niediately; but I and Martin l-‘rost lived to endure. We were younrr and strong. No disease or dissipation Ilflt subdued the high health of our frames or capped the energies of our souls. We pci'foi'iiicd our tasks faithfully and well. The I'ufliaiis \vcsei'vi-d know that we must be fed \ch1 to enable us to go through with their tasks, and we fared luxurioust for this reason alone. thn night. camo, niciuory took up her bittcr work. but sleep came soon—tho dull and drcsnilcss slec ) of lived out mortals. No change in our ( ay s—thcy went on in fearful monotony. Wc scarce know one day from another; Sabbutlis were unknown and seasons iiunuticud. We had commen- ced to keep our time by notches iiizulcon a stick ; but our toi'uicutors took it from us, intinintiug that it. was some cabalistie sign that might do them an injury. They were great cowards—those fierce Algerines. My nights were not without theirsolacn, after those dreary days. In dreams, lsaw Emily—Jaw her with our child in hcrarnis, and heard her utter tho Welcuiiie which, alas! might iiovcrnioi'e be heard until it sounded for me at. the entrance m‘hcnveu's etc. It was strange. I thought. that in t can visions, the face of the child should alwn s be hidden from my sight. Emily‘s face Ialwa s Iaw~somotimcs with s des- pairing loo upon it. that wrunF my heart with anguish, although it won d have kill— ad me to see it bright and happy. For years I dreamed thus; and then the visions were suddenly withdrawn. Eager- Iv I sought my hard bcd each night, hoping they would come to me again—but they rctunied no more. Iiut imagination had not. deserted me. That showed me the lair sweet face of my wife, when the day of servilo labor was over. and the calm that follows great weariness came over me. Then. as I sat in the rude cabin which scr- ved me as a shelter for the night. but which was lai poorer and more wretched than the moonlight, or up into the starry sky, and—God be thanked l—therc was my wife‘s don: face. Sometimes she was holdingout my babe toward me, as if for n. kiss—sometimes she was folding its innocent hands in prayer for its father, and sometimes she was lay- ing it to its nightly slunibers and weeping above its pillow. Ah! well I knew for whom those precious tears were falling. O God! should I never again behold her? You have heard of the bond of great- IIOaI’tOfI Christian men who. for years, went out from Rome, bearing noble ransom for the captives of Al icrs. They had already commenced their lessed work on tho bov- tiers, and were penetrating far into the in- terior, whither we had been carried; and one day the blessed tidings came to me and in poor comrade that we were free .’ Oh! how the word sounded to our cars ! [low itsoeiiied some strange, unknown language from tho far-off, unknown shores! Free! we spelled it over and over, as if its meatl- iiig was too hard to be understood. Per- haps it was better thus than to have the tidings burst upon us at once. Sorrow had nearry worn us out. Despair was last coming upon us; and the sudden revulsion might have killed us. But, slowly. we came to the sense of what Iiudhappoiied to us. \Ve were clothed in decent i'ainieiif, instead of the miserable rows that mocked the name of clothing, and were put on board a ship. No one thought of seeing two such ling iii-d wretches to work; and we lay in our erths, or sunned ourselves upon the deck as we listed. Sometimes I was nearly delirious, from the wild tide of fancies that came througing to my mind. Often I could not remember my own nor my compaiiioii‘s name, and then again a host of confuted rcmcnibraiiccs would come surging over me, driving the nearly mad. as they seemed to mock me; and sel- dom did I realize, clearly, that I was going home—homo to my wife and child. flat, as we neared the shores of my na- tive land, it. rushed upon me, like a flash of lightning. My heart throbbcd with ex- pectaiicy. The years that [had beciiuway dwindch into nothing. All thut stern, cruel past gave way to the joyful future, until the moment. when I stopped from the ship to the shore and parted from the coin- miiiou of so many dreary years—he to go his way and I mine, and each one «lane. T‘licii the heart sickness came upon me once more. I wrung his hand, and the tears came into the eyes of both. Should we evcriiicet again? Something in that bricfmomcnt warned me not to proffer the invitation that was rising to my lips for him to visit me at. my home when he had taken hiswelcoiiio at his own. Sonic-thing, too, of pity I felt for him; for ho liiid no wife—no child awaiting him. 0 God! had I? . I could not pray in that strange lioi:!'- 1 could not kneel on the shore and lIlitllh’ (lod that ho had returned ms to my native land, ll! one would have thought would have been my first not. A carriage block- ed ni path and the driver called to me. I colil not even get into it withouthis assis- tance, so ultci'ly had I lost the habits and even the motions of civilized life. The fellow looked at me with a halllpityiug, halt-sarcastic glance that. woke iicithcr gratitude nor resentment. Ile asked whe- tlicrlie should carry me, and I did have. sense enmiin left to tcll him the name of the little town just. out of the city, where my homo used to be. He spokc kindly to me, when he found that I was bewildered :iiid dizzy, and asked my mime. I could answer that now, although I had forgotten it in Algiers. and he stai’tcd when he heard it, “ Good heavens!" he cried, ‘ are you the poor fellow who has been missing so long?“ I burst out crying, for it was so strange that I should meet any one who ever kncvv of me. " I will take you home myself, and you shall be welcome to go free of charge, though there are a dozen others waiting for me,“ he said, kindly. l sank on the cushions, my licnribcatiug funeral marches all the way. I was litcr- ally as \vcuk as a child. It was a narrow lane on which stood my cottage, and the carriage could not well get through it; so the driver helped me out, kindly wished me good night and saying flint Iic trusted I should find all right. at home. It was a chilly autumn night, and I shud— dcred as I stopped from the shelter of the carriage. The dry leaves rustch beneath my footsteps. the wind monncd heavily in the bare trees, and the crickets took up their melancholy strain—dreary autumnal sounds that went to my heart, waking a vawuo terror. I staggered and rcclcd like a drunken niau ; stooping every few mo- ments to lean against some fence, to re- eovor the sti'cnwtli that was iiioincnlarily leaving me, wlulc the chill blast was pier- cing me to the very bone, though licnv ‘ drups of sweat stood upon my f'orcliea . At last my heart stood still. A bright. light came from the spot that I knew was my home, for no other house was in the lane when I hit it. Dare 1 go up to ili‘ My breath Set-mod leaving me, and l paiitcd like a hunted hm'c. Should I find Emily there, or was it a stranger's light that was leading me to a. lost home? Itottcrcd (m. Would any one believi- that this night, of coming home was the hardest I had ever known—so full of tur- i'or—so strange—so dark and uh welcoming to the poor worn being approaching it? Somehow, I found myself beforotlielnw window. I clasped my hands over my eyes for a moment afraid to look in. In that same moment I heard a voice uttering cii. dcnring caressing tunes. I should have known it lrid I heard itin that fnrland from which I had come, and [safely must know it in my own home. Emily was alive then and my heart told me she was talking to my child. I had courage then to uncover Iiy eyes and to look through the window. There was my darling! For many minutes I saw nothing blit. that door face, fair and pure and chctns ever; only changed a little by years. It was lint cvcii sorrowful, as I had expected, but were a cheerful us- pecl, as of one content and happy. I wiped away the mist that my breath was making on the window, and then for the first time since I stood there, I saw that she held a child upon burlap. Not the fair rosy boy of ten years, that I had pictdi'ed to myself, but an infant of a few weeks or months, lying I'It'lpluss and quiet, as ifl’ a. I. could not be mistaken, or perhaps I was going mad again, as in those dreadful nights long ago. She spoke once more, and as she spoke she looked up fondl ' to another face which [now perceived, vv icii I had again cleared the mist away. The fnco was that of John IIarnioii, my old friend and associate. My hand clutched the door-handle and turned it. but I knew notliinguntil I heard awild shriek rising l'enrl'ully above the terrible noises in my ears. Nevcr shall I for ct that awful hour. Never have I tol this tale to human ears before; but each night I tell it to God, and implore his pity! [Emily had mercifully fainted, but John Harmon, quivering in every limb like one who sees 3 spectra, and pale with agony and distress, yet held out his trembling hand to me. “ You see—you see, Arnold." he whis- pered hoarse] ', " you see Iiow it is. God knows, old friend, she iior I would nevcr have wronvcd you for worlds. [hit nine long years Lliad gone by. and the ship had never been heard from: and we thought you dead. I‘lmiiy' was ill and in trouble, for little Arnold was taken from her; and, God help me! Lhad seen her quiet, pn- tieiit sorrow so long that I could but love and protect her, thinking all the while, too, that if Arnold White could look down from heaven, he would scarcely bless our union. It was long before she would consent to be my wife; but one year ago she lost her child, nuil her home was iii« tolerable in its desolation. O, pity and forgive her. Arnold l“ The tears were flowing fast down the poor man’s clieck's. I’ity Iici‘! God knows I did pity them both, from the very duplh of my crushed heart. John was trying to revive the poor, half-dead woman who lay at our feet. He had laid the infant in its cradle when she fainted, and it lay there slccpilig sweetly still. When she revived, I went up to her chair and knccled down before her, piit« ting my arms around her, and pressing my lips to hers. John Iiuriiioii stood by her side. holding her pale hand in his. He could not grudge me that one linger- ing caress. nor blame. her that she suffered and returned it. “ Ito not distressed, I-Imily,“l said, as firmly as my quivering lips would let mt’. “I have no words to utter to either of you. save those of pity and forgiveness. Let no thought of mo disturb your peace. Would that I had never come home to cast a brief shadow on your path.“ [was too weak and exhausted to say more, and I broke down. We wcpt to- gether—we thrcc broken-hearted mics— nnd then, worn out and sick,[ fainted away. Islcpt there that night. and the next morning I awoke with a buruiii fcvct'. John Ilariiiou nursed me like a mother. u‘cntlc and tender as a woman, he watched me all through llmttvrrilllc sickness. and — iioblo follow that ho wasl—Iw call“! Emily to my bedside, and bath) licrehoosc between us. “Only say the word. Emily-Who said, “ and 1 will go at once. Arnold has tlic first right.“ She looked at the sleeping child in John‘s arms, and then at me. “ [Ind Arnold lived, Emily," aid I, “it would have been hard to say what I am going to say. [int he is dead, and you cannot abandon this little child. Let me go, not this child's hither. Iwill come here no more after I recover. (it’ll help and bless us all! ‘ Iii licavcn there will bi: neither marrying not" giving in niar- i'iugc.‘ "' And so, on a bright, clear winter morn- ing, I went away witliouta single fare- wcll word, before they wore awake. I have followed the sea ever since—and with better fortune than before. I am now an old, gi'aylicadcd captain, with more wealth thauf can use. John liar- mou‘s son docsaiol suspect who is the un- kiiown friend that my: all his collcgc bills, but his father um iiiotlicr could enlighten him. I hear them all nothing but friendly lccliugs for the cruel wound my heart has bornc. Isliall never see my lost darling again, until I meet her in the other world and find my own child once more. My life‘s suusot is near its closing. It seems years on years ago, since I parted fro") the wife of my youth, and the waves of the “ Long Ago" sweep over that Il’l‘l'I- blc night when I found her the Min of another. Illit I know that when earth‘s sorrows and cures have passed away, she will be mine again—mine for UVt'l‘llIUl‘L‘, and that in that blcsscd iiiccliiig, (iod will wipe away all Illcicul‘s from our eyes, and we shall be like the angels of Iitlfl. Every day—every hour—I think thus; and I know that when my freed spirit shall ascend upward, here will not linger long upon the c 'th. _____________.______._.__. COUNTRY Lil-iambic. . i-ziiwAub ISLAND iN THE PAST oi-zsiauxriox. (From the Examiner.) ” Here, too, dwelt siniple}ruth; plain innu- cciice; Iinsullied beauty; sound. unbroken youth, I'aliciit of labor, with ii litllc pleased; llcalth cvcr blooming; iiiiiiliibilioiis foil; (‘aliii contemplation, and poetic ease." 'l'iioiiiisos. Those who live in an old country see in their life time but very few changes, either in the face of the country or iii the manners and condition of the people. The. country of their childhood is the country of their old ago. Its hills and valleys, its streams and groves, present to them very nearly the some up earance us they did in their fathers and heir grandfathers. 'I‘hc vil- lages and hamlets are very little altered in fifty or even in a hundred years. The very houses that sheltered their ancestors are now the dwellings of their children‘s children. The wanderer returns gray- haired to the village which he left in the fluin of youth, to find it in everything, cxct‘ tits inhabitants, very nearly in the condition which be full. it half a century below. How dim-rent is all this from the new countries on this side ofthe Atlantic! Ieru a man cannot have lived to middle go without having witnessed many and great changes. not only in tho general features of tho country, but. in the condi- tion ol the people, lbuit' habits and man- ,' beheld even greater changes. In his boy- hood he has seen the greater [hit of the country covered with the i'inieval forest. Fi'oni every hill-top lam wards nothing meets his I: '0 but a vast unbroken sea of foliage, so I «use as almost to appear solid. Who that has travelled through the coun- try thirty. or even twenty years ago, has not been struk by the sight of the immense expanses, rounded tree to )8, so uniform in icight, and so substantia iiiappeni‘onco as to look as if one might walk with safety over the dense masses of foliage. The settlements then consisted of a number of small cleared spaces cut out of the forest with great labor. The view from the set- llcrs‘ log cabin was bounded on every side by an apparently impenetrable ws 1 of forest. One or two fields, pleutifully dotted with blackened and unsightly stumps, and surrounded by irregular fciiccs, equally unsightly, fanned the whole landscape. A small patch of sky, corresponding to the size of the clear- ance, was all of the “ spacious fil‘niomcut" that the new settler could obtain a glimpse of. His nearest neighbor, thouin it may I)? Only a few rods distant, might, as far as appearances were concerned, he fifty miles away. All those cheerful sights and sounds, so dcarnnd faniiliarlo the dweller of the the thiekl inhabited country, were shut out by the (Iiansc woods that separated him from his brother pioneer. These first settlers were lodged. fed and clothed in tho riidcst fashion. The but had blit one door, one window, and one room. Their food was coarse and often scanty. and not. rendered pilatable by any of the retina- motifs of cookery; and their garments were either part of unsuitable wardrobes which they were provident enough to take with them from the Old ('ountry, or the rougher fabrics of his newliomc, fashioned by the loving but unskillul hands of their wich and daughters. Many are the stories told us bv poi-sons still living of the privatioiis and shifts of these early settlers. 'I'hci-oads were mere bridle paths, whosc direction was marked by blazed trees; carts, wagons and bar- ucss, were almost unknown ; cvon ploughs wcrc scarce, and thoso such as a modern Iaviiier would not dcigii to use. tough times were those for all—both for men and women, but particulu'ly for the wo- men, for in those times no small part of the field work full to their share. [‘0 their ordinary household work, and spinning and weavili , niakinrr and mending, there \v re nddc piling, digging and reaping. This was owing to no want of tenderness, industry or maiiliiiess on the part of the men, but the planting and harvest seasons being very short. and the hoe and the reaping book being the only farmiiigim- plements in use, every hand, however lender, was wanted to assist in raising loud enough to last through the Ion months that were to elapse before the next harvest. As may be imagined, lux- urics were almost unknown to those hardy people. Tea, which is now considered a necessary ofllfe by nearly every one, was then seen only on rare mansions on the tables ofcven the most well-to-do people; and the bcuux and belles of these times would, we fear, ciit a rather ridiculous figure in our backwoods churches. [lard as those times were, and great as were the privations‘tliat every one had to suffer, we have known people who looked back to them with regret, and who declared that they were liappicrand more contented tlicu than when in lr.‘"r years they were surrounded by a thousand comforts. Many of our best men, too, have first seen light in the log house we liaVc attempted to describe, and passed the first years of their lives in the midst of such hardships. liut the march of iiiipi‘uvcment was rapid and continuous. ’I'lio settlui‘wugcd war against the forest with fire and steel. The waste of timber scams now very deplora- ble. Splendid trees were cut down more- ly to be burned. Every Spring had its fires in the woods of greater or less extent. The woods on fire presented asceno of terrible beauty and magnificence. At night it is really sublime. Iii rythinw is dry, and everything burns rapidly. ’ 'lio flames run along the fallen leaves, and roar and rage among the windfalls and other debris of the forest. Suddenly they seize the lowermost branches of n fir or spruce tree, and in an instant it becomes a p amid oi fli'c—thc flames darting Iiiin above the tallest trees. In the morning the burned woods are a melancholy sight. 'I'hvso icrrlblofii‘cs greatly facilitqu the labors of the former. In a. few years the trees are uprooted by the wind. Another lire passes over them; and if the land is cleared before is new 'l’OIVlII of wood has time to spring up, tie soltlcr is spared much exhausting labor. A few years pass away, and the scltlc- inciit arrives atits second stage of develop- ment. The “ camp“ is replaced by a. comfortable one storied log hounu, well sliiuglcd and clapboardcd, having two large rooms and a bed room or two on its ground floor. The settler himself has been, in a majority of cases, architect, builder, plasterer, painter and glazier. The furniture is simple, and, for the most part, home-made. You our furniture and “ n0- tious“ have not as yet been imported. llis stock, too, has increased; and for them he has built a large stable. These, with the barn and other out-houses, give the liomcstcad quits acmnfm'tablo look. The slumps have disappeared from the few acres near the Iiouw, and the woods, though still extensive, have rl'ti'eatod to A considerable distance. Many of his neigh- boi's' houses are in full view. The river or creek, which, a few years ogo. was so hidden by overhanging woods that only is low yards of dark Wtbit'l‘ was visible at one time, can now be seen wiiidi.. through the country—beautiful and Iii'ight its “IDIK‘I. hanks—here and thorn lvin d with and the slope on either side cleared and divided into farms, each with its little cluster of son buildings. The roads have been wldcnct and lcvcllcd.nnd though the grass grows between the horse-path and the wheel-track, still they can I». travelled on with safety mid even with comfort. The former has as yet received but very little lid from machinery. Ilia grain is out with n reaping hook or the scythe; it is tlircsiied by the band flail, and Wilma!!- ml by tho mes-:4: Il‘lim heaven. Those are the lava c opp ug, plliii . stuns :snd billing "frolic-"4.in ghen n33}: J"