X

The Backwoods of Canada (New Canadian Library)

Product ID : 44094896


Galleon Product ID 44094896
Model
Manufacturer
Shipping Dimension Unknown Dimensions
I think this is wrong?
-
1,499

*Price and Stocks may change without prior notice
*Packaging of actual item may differ from photo shown

Pay with

About The Backwoods Of Canada

Product Description The toils, troubles, and satisfactions of pioneer life are recorded with charm and vivacity in this portrayal of pioneer life by Catharine Parr Traill, who, like her sister Susanna Moodie, left the comforts of genteel English society for the rigours of a new, young land. About the Author CATHARINE PARR TRAILL was born in Surrey, England, on January 9, 1802. She was the fifth child of Thomas and Elizabeth Strickland. Her siblings were Eliza, Jane Margaret, Susanna (later Susanna Moodie), Samuel, and Agnes. In 1832 she married Lt. Thomas Traill. The couple emigrated to Upper Canada and settled near the Otonabee River close to Peterborough. Traill is the author of a number of books but is best-known for The Backwoods of Canada. She died in 1899 in Lakefield, Ontario. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Letter I   Departure from Greenock in the Brig Laurel. – Fitting-up of the Vessel. – Boy Passenger. – Sea Prospect. – Want of Occupation and Amusement. – Captain’s Goldfi nch.     Brig Laurel , July 18, 1832.   I received your last kind letter, my dearest mother, only a few hours before we set sail from Greenock. As you express a wish that I should give you a minute detail of our voyage, I shall take up my subject from the time of our embarkation, and write as inclination prompts me. Instead of having reason to complain of short letters, you will, I fear, fi nd mine only too prolix.   After many delays and disappointments, we succeeded at last in obtaining a passage in a fast-sailing brig, the Laurel, of Greenock; and favourable winds are now rapidly carrying us across the Atlantic.   The Laurel is not a regular passenger-ship, which I consider an advantage, for what we lose in amusement and variety we assuredly gain in comfort. The cabin is neatly fi tted up, and I enjoy the luxury (for such it is, compared with the narrow berths of the state cabin) of a handsome sofa, with crimson draperies, in the great cabin. The state cabin is also ours. We paid fi fteen pounds each for our passage to Montreal. This was high, but it includes every expense; and, in fact, we had no choice. The only vessel in the river bound for Canada, was a passenger-ship literally swarming with emigrants, chiefl y 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 fi fteen 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 fall with the rocking billows, or fl it 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 fl ight, In the long way that I must tread alone Will guide my steps ar