Humours of '37, Grave, Gay and Grim: Rebellion Times in the Canadas

The mother was extremely small in stature, brunette, and with dark brown hair which, when it turned white, remained as long and abundant as ever; her eyes were sharp and piercing, generally quiet in expression but under excitement flashed ominously. The cheek bones were high, and the small features unmistakably Celtic, the thin-lipped mouth telling of an unconquerable will which she bequeathed to her only child. The face under the broad high forehead was seldom allowed to relax into perfect placidity, the surface always showing more or less of the inward volcano; any repose there was due to religious feeling. In the son we have but a replica of the mother. She spoke Gaelic, but seldom used it; she did not reckon fairies among abolished myths, and she believed firmly in the Mackenzie death-warning which was always given by an invisible messenger. The strongest affection existed between mother and son, who lived together for the last seventeen years of the former’s life.

It was but little to the credit of one of his powerful enemies that, in an effort to equal the Advocate, jeering remarks upon Mackenzie’s aged mother were made in the public press. But so it was; and he was advised to mend his ways as an editor, if he expected to continue to support his mother and family. The inference, as his biographer gives it, is that it was not praiseworthy to support an aged mother. It drew from the son the boast that if he could keep his old mother, his wife and his family, and avoid debt, he cared not for wealth.

Speaking in his paper of the spirit of the “faction” towards the press, Mackenzie indulged in a prophecy of an event at which the same aged mother was a pained witness. In connection with the trials of a Canadian editor of a different political stripe, he says: “By the implied consent of King, Lords and Commons, he is doomed to speedy shipwreck, unless a merciful Providence should open his eyes in time, and his good genius prompt him to hurl press and types to the bottom of Lake Ontario.” Mackenzie lived quite close to the lake, and his evil wishers must have taken the hint. Every one knows the story of how noblesse oblige was construed into the necessity for an invasion of the printing office, at an hour when no man would be there; how the raiders, in age from thirty-four years downwards, were the flower of that “Canadian nobility” against which the editor never wearied hurling his radical sayings; and how Mrs. Mackenzie, then in her seventy-eighth year, stood trembling in a corner of the office—for the building was home as well—while she witnessed, with fear and indignation, the destruction of her son’s property and the means of her own livelihood. As if the tale could be improved upon, some romancers, telling of the rise of Canada from barbarism to civilization, have adorned it with gross maltreatment of the aged lady by these gentlemen who, with her only to stay them, were naturally sans peur. They should also be without this one reproach, for they were too intent upon pi-ing type and throwing the contents of the office into the bay to trouble about her.

Someone says that a good and true woman is like a Cremona violin; age but increases the worth and sweetens the tone. In the words of Disraeli, this woman’s love had illumined the dark woof of poverty; fate had it in store that that love should “lighten the fetters of the slave” before she died.

The way in which Canadian rebels were treated in prison is to the reader of their experiences a continual reproach to the powers which made them thus suffer. But the American Bastille, according to the records left by Mackenzie, out-did the Canadian. A steep staircase, a ladder and a trap-door fastened by bar and lock, led to a room wherein were the dangling rope and hideous apparatus of death ready waiting for the next unfortunate; beyond the room was Mackenzie’s cell. It was only through this passage-way that mother, children, wife or friends could reach him, where they had to run the gauntlet of coarse jests from brutalized men and the worse than brutal remarks of such women as were prisoners there. The gaoler in this place deserved to be immortalized by Dickens. Of low stature, with an exaggerated hook nose, fleshless and fallen-in cheeks on which nature had begrudged a sufficient skin covering; round, sunken, peering eyes, feline from long watching; nails filthy, like claws forever in the dirt—such was the gaoler. “You felt in regarding him that if cast into the sea he would have more power to pollute it than it would have to purify him.” A fee of thirty-six dollars for three months procured from him the occasional admittance of friends, although the iron doors were freely opened to those who wished to see a real live Canadian rebel. Close confinement and miasma broke Mackenzie’s health in a short time; he could no longer eat the food which his children carried him—it was feared he might be poisoned by the gaol fare—his wife was in delicate health, his mother had reached ninety years, and his mind was torn with anxiety over the illness of a beloved daughter. The other prisoners were allowed occasional days of freedom to visit taverns and roam the town, but no such liberty came to him. “My dear little girl grew worse and worse, she was wasted to a skeleton.... I had followed four of her sisters and a brother to the churchyard, but I might not look upon her. One fine day she was carried ... to the prison, and her mother and I watched her for forty-eight hours, but the gaoler vexed us so that she had to be taken home again, where she was soon in the utmost danger, and when her poor little sister comes to tell me how she is at dusk ... the gaoler will tell her to wait in the public place in the gaol, perhaps for an hour or more, till supper comes, as he can’t be put to the trouble of opening my cage twice.”

Then the poor old mother sickens, and he knows her time has come. He makes every effort to be allowed to see her, and when he has given up hope writes her a truly beautiful letter of farewell. In it he thanks her for all she had done for him, all she has been to him, and that if the wealth of the world were his he would give it to be at her side. “But wealth I have none, and of justice there is but little here.” He tells her of his hopes to put, with his coming liberty, the rest in comfort, but “sorrow fills my heart when I am told that you will not have your aged eyes comforted by the sight.” The majesty of the law, for offence against which he was suffering, was invoked to get him freedom for the desired interview. Under the shadow of a writ of Habeas Corpus ad respondendum, a court at which he was required to appear as a witness was held in his house, and accompanied by his gaoler he was allowed to attend. The magistrate was late in arriving, conveniently cold when he did come, and protracted his sitting so that the desired interview between the dying mother and distressed son might have no interruption, while the sheriff and gaoler waited in the room adjoining the bedroom. The mother summoned all her fortitude, pronounced her last farewell, bade him trust in God and fear not. She never spoke afterwards, and from the windows of the gaol the political prisoner, in an agony which any can understand, with which all can sympathize, saw her funeral pass.

Mackenzie’s consideration towards women did not extend beyond the members of his own family. But an alert providence arranged that he should usually be well met. Some hours after Anderson had been shot, a rebel named Pool called at the house of Mr. James Scott Howard, in Yonge Street, to inquire the whereabouts of the body. Immediately after he left, the first detachment of the rebel army, about fifteen or twenty men, drew up on the lawn in front of the house, wheeled at the word of command, and went away in search of the dead man. The next to be seen were three or four Loyalists hurrying down the road, who said there were five hundred rebels behind them, and as the morning wore on more men were seen and the sound of firing was heard. At eleven o’clock, or thereabouts, another detachment of rebels appeared, headed by the afterwards well-known figure stuffed out with extra coats to be bullet-proof, on a small white horse. To enable the pony to enter the lawn the men wrenched off fence-boards, after which the stuffed man, Mackenzie, entered the house without knocking, took possession of the sitting-room, and ordered dinner for fifty. Mrs. Howard said she could not comply with such an order. Mackenzie took advantage of Mr. Howard’s absence in town to indulge in much abuse of the latter, saying it was high time someone else held the postmastership. Mrs. Howard at length referred him to the servant in the kitchen, and Mackenzie went to see about dinner himself. He and his men appropriated a sheep in process of cooking in a large sugar-kettle, a barrel of beef and a baking of bread. The tool house was made free use of to sharpen their weapons, which consisted of chisels and gouges on pole-ends, hatchets, knives and guns of all descriptions. At two o’clock the rebels took a disorderly departure, leaving a young West Highlander on guard. Mrs. Howard said she was sorry to see so fine a Scotchman turn against his Queen, to which the reply was, “Country first, Queen next.” The fifty rebels had evidently left on account of the flag of truce proceedings, and at half-past three they all returned, headed by Mackenzie. He demanded of Mrs. Howard “where the dinner was,” and her coolness of demeanour and temper exasperated him. He pulled her from her chair to the window, shook his whip over her, and told her to be thankful her house was not in the state in which she saw Dr. Horne’s. Lount privately told Mrs. Howard not to mind Mackenzie, as he was quite beside himself. After they had eaten the much-ordered dinner, the men had some barrels of whiskey on the lawn and their behaviour during the night naturally alarmed the family. The one man-servant had made his escape, saying he feared being taken prisoner by the rebels. The party remained there until Wednesday; the true defence of the place lay in Mrs. Howard’s intrepidity. Her troubles did not end with the departure of the rabble, for her husband, a true Loyalist of the best type, suffered much at the hands of either party. Such grinding between the upper and the nether millstone as he thereafter experienced is a matter of history.

Nathaniel Pearson, a Quaker, one of the most refined and gentle of the gentlest sect, an intelligent farmer and keenly interested in politics, lived in the Aurora district. Some of his Quaker principles were sacrificed to those of Reform, and he rode off to join the insurgents on their way south. He missed them, and to his Quaker mind there was but one honourable thing to do, and that was to give himself up to the Government. During his absence his wife, possessed of as many gifts and attractions as her husband, had to go to Aurora on business, with the result that she was marched to the guard-house between two Loyalist soldiers. She appealed for help to a man who was their neighbour, and who often had been kept in the necessities of life by the Quaker family; but he turned a deaf ear, even when she pleaded on the score of her young baby at home. Her case reached the ears of a man named King, from Orillia, who at once interested himself in her behalf. “Do you tell me you have a young baby at home needing you? Gad, if they had taken my wife that way, they wouldn’t know that the devil had ever been born before!” His interest resulted in her release, and on reaching home she found that Quaker principles were to be forfeited once more. The Loyalists were about, searching for food and arms, and the faithful maid, Betty, determined they should have neither at her employers’ expense. The one gun in the house was hidden in a brush-heap behind the barn, and Betty had barely straightened her back after doing so when she saw a Loyalist on the fence, watching her. A party entered the house, demanding food, and were on their way to the cellar, where a large stock of freshly-cooked provisions was stored, when the faithful Betty once more forswore her sect, declared the cellar empty, and saved her master’s property.

When Captain P. De Grasse left his home on that ever eventful night in December to join the Loyalists in the city he was accompanied by his two daughters, Charlotte and Cornelia, who wished to see him to the borders of the town, so that they could report his safety to their mother. The way lay through uncleared bush, and the time was late at night. They fell in with Matthews and his party, who were on their way to destroy the Don bridge, when Charlotte with great presence of mind suddenly wheeled to the left, made her pony stamp noisily through the mud, and thereby averted Matthew’s notice from her father and her sister. They all succeeded in reaching the city about one o’clock, an exciting ride for two girls under fifteen years of age. In spite of the commotion and signs of fear all about, the girls determined to go back to their mother. The first half of the return journey was in bright moon-light, but the second half contained all the terrors of darkness in a section infested by rebels. They reached their mother at four in the morning, and that same day returned to town with information of the proceedings of the rebels at the Don. Again, on the Wednesday, they crossed the bush to seek their father at the turnpike on Yonge Street; he was not there, and when Cornelia saw the general terror, consequent upon the report that the rebels were five thousand strong at Montgomery’s Tavern, she resolved to proceed there alone and find out the truth. As she passed the rebel lines all seemed amazed to see a little girl on a fiery pony come fearlessly among them, and she could hear them inquire of one another who she was. She reached the wheelwright’s by Montgomery’s without molestation, inquired in a casual manner as to the price of a sled of particular dimensions, promised to give him an answer the next day, turned her horse’s head towards town, when suddenly several men seized the bridle and said, “You are our prisoner.” They kept her nearly an hour while they waited for Mackenzie, who when he did come, amidst general huzzaing, announced “Glorious news! We have taken the Western Mail!” In the booty he had the historical feminine impedimenta which afterwards disguised him for escape, so capturing little girls was quite in the order of things. While the rebels congratulated him and crowded round the coachman and passengers, the doughty Cornelia saw her opportunity, whipped up her pony and made her escape, although fired at several times. After ridding herself of this party she was fired at from Watson’s and summoned to surrender. This but strengthened her nerve, and in time she reached the city, to give a true account of the robbery of the mail and the number and arms of the rebels.

Meantime the Loyalists were making use of Charlotte as a despatch bearer on the Kingston Road. She returned with the answer and then set out for her home. Near a corner of the bush she was fired at by a large party of rebels; both she and her pony were wounded, and the frightened beast jumped the fence; one of the rebels, not to be outwitted, ran across the angle of the bush, got in front of her and fired in her face.

The next day Cornelia, once more bent on seeing her father, reached the city in time to follow the troops up Yonge Street on their way to Gallows Hill. This daughter of the regiment was urged by the Chief-Justice to collect for him all the particulars of the engagement, which, cool and undaunted—oblivious of thundering of cannon—she undertook to do, and did.

Her adventures were not yet over, for on her way home she discovered that Matthews had by this time set the Don bridge on fire, and she at once returned to the city to give the alarm. While she was thus occupied another heroine, sometime cook to Sir Francis Bond Head, was engaged in putting the fire out, a work which she did not accomplish before receiving a bullet in her knee. As by this time the bridge was useless, Cornelia left her pony in town and set out on foot on her homeward way at eleven o’clock at night through a district filled with dispersed rebels. The story does not relate the final reunion of this mutually devoted family, but it is to be presumed Charlotte went on calmly cutting bread and butter and Cornelia continued worthy of the great name she bore.

One Deborah, who did not pose as such, tells a modest story of what she saw and omits much of what she did. “I remember that Monday before Montgomery’s. I had been in town for some days, and on that Monday there was great excitement—no one knew exactly what about. At first I thought I would go to the Mackenzies’ for safety, even if it was a long time since I had been there; but when I got half-way to the house it struck me that as my father and brothers had turned against him, since he had come back from England and was all for bloodshed, I had better leave the Mackenzies alone. So I went to a friend farther east, and found her half crazy with fright, swinging her baby above her head, and saying we would take a boat and row over to the island, as the rebels wouldn’t touch us there. But I thought if there was going to be trouble I had better be with my own people; so I started to walk up Yonge Street towards home. I met no one, but every now and then a horseman would rush past, or two or three armed men would be seen together, and by and by I saw a few farmers going in to offer their services to the Government. At Bloor Street I was tired and went into the Red Lion parlour to rest; everything was in great confusion, but nobody spoke to me. In a little while I went on; and at the toll-gate above the Davenport Road I saw the rebels coming over Blueberry Hill opposite. The toll-keeper swung the gates to and ran off to the woods, and I turned up Davenport Road a little way and watched the rebels; they were my friends and neighbours, and it was dreadful to see them. It is said that when they reached the house that Mackenzie set fire to it was deserted, but I know that it looked very ordinary when I passed it, smoke coming out of the chimney, no sign of disturbance. I was frightened and went on, but I heard that when Mackenzie set to work to build a fire in the cupboard of that house some of his supporters were angry, and said they did not come out to burn houses but to fight for their rights, and one, when he saw he was not listened to, threw down his gun and took himself and his sons off to the States.

“When I got home I found father had gone to offer himself to the Government, and everyone was busy preparing food and baking bread. We had once been supporters of Mackenzie, and everybody knew we had turned against him after he came back from England. Some people were, therefore, very bitter against us, and we thought it wise to fill the house with food, leave the place open, barn, grain, everything, so that they could get it all easily, and take the chance of the house therefore not being burned down. So we left everything ready for them, and went to stay at a relative’s farther back in the country.

“There are plenty to say that Moodie was not shot at all. Some declared that he was alive when taken to the tavern and that he would not give in, and it ended in his being trampled to death in the tavern.

“Sheriff Jarvis took the news of the rising coolly. When father was going down Yonge Street to offer himself he met the sheriff, who said, ‘Well, John, what’s the news with you to-day?’ And when father said, ‘There’s great news—Toronto will be taken and burnt, if you don’t stop it,’ the sheriff said, ‘You don’t say so!’ and only half believed him.

“For a long time before the rising I did not go very often to the Mackenzies, for they thought I would spy on them, and father thought I had better leave them alone anyway. We had supported Mackenzie strongly, like the rest of the farmers, before he went to England, and my father and his friends took their turn in watching him for fear the Compact people would spirit him away; but that was when he was all for reform and agitating for our rights. Whatever it was happened to him in England turned everything into fighting, and father wasn’t going to fight against his country. That Mackenzie was the craziest man you ever did see. He wore a wig, and when he got excited—he was always excited, for the matter of that—he would throw it on the floor, or throw it at you if he felt extra pleasant. You’ve heard of the time he was brought home with cheering and torches and great doings, and given the gold chain?6 A fine chain it was, long and thick, and he was very pleased and worked up. He saw me standing by, laughing—for I was excited, too—and he cried at me, ‘Ah, Mary!’ and quick as lightning threw the chain at me and the wig on the floor, and then he flung his arms round his mother’s neck and kissed her.

“Every market day, when business was all done, and before the farmers went home, there would be a crowd round him as he talked from the top of a waggon. He made great speeches, I can tell you. I happened to be there once through a friend of his, who was staying in his house and wanted to hear him, and would not go alone. We turned down by the church, and waited at the market corner below King Street, where Mackenzie was standing in a waggon, talking, and you should have seen how the people listened. Perhaps you know that the Compact had a lot of hangers-on who would do anything they were told for the soup, clothes, and stuff that was given them, and we used to call them ‘soupets,’ like the bits of bread you put in soup to sop it up. As Mackenzie was talking, suddenly the vestry door was thrown open, and out rushed a crowd of soupets, caught hold of the tongue of Mackenzie’s waggon, and ran off with him towards the bay. He just stood there, waiting, I suppose, till the farmers got over their surprise. But the soupets nearly had him ducked in the bay before the farmers came to their senses.”

However, there were some whose principles were not changed by Mackenzie’s bloodthirstiness; we have one (Mrs. Dew, then Miss Betty Duffield) who is still proud to tell the tale of how she pinned on the white badges. “I was staying with the Leonard Watsons, who lived near Montgomery’s tavern, when the troubles came to a head, and with my own hands I tied on the badges of white cotton worn by some of our fighting men. On that Wednesday morning I saw Mackenzie ride from the direction of the tavern just as the sound of music was heard coming from the city. Mackenzie halted near our house and exclaimed, ‘Are these our friends?’ meaning those whom he expected from the other districts; but he was soon convinced that the music belonged to the loyalist militia coming up Yonge Street. I am sorry to say that while Mackenzie never could be accused of cowardice in so far as his tongue was concerned, his fighting qualities were not so assured, for I myself saw him fling off his cloak and gallop away.7 Mr. Leonard Watson found it necessary to try to make his escape. Mrs. Watson and the daughters went to a neighbour’s, carrying some of their valuables with them, as they were afraid the militia would burn the house down. Peter Watson eventually reached the United States. But I stood by the house, and when the militia came up they riddled it with bullets; they ransacked everything, upset anything they touched, and broke nearly all the furniture. But part of this damage was probably done by ruffians who had taken the opportunity to follow the militia for the sake of plunder. Watson’s horses were appropriated, a tall dark man taking one, and a short red-headed man another. Someone proposed burning the house down, and very likely this would have been done had I not happened to notice an officer riding up. I accosted him, and he turned out to be one of the Governor’s aides. He drew the attention of his superior, who kindly asked me what I wanted. I said I wanted protection to the property. He immediately told me to get him paper, which I did, and handed to him as he sat in his saddle. He wrote, “Do no further injury to this house,” signed his name, and told me to show it to anyone offering further molestation. A few days afterwards I went to Darlington in behalf of the Watson family, carrying money for Peter Watson to enable him to reach the States from there. I had to walk part of the way, and I remember when passing a large block of woods a man came out and timidly inquired if I had seen anyone on the road. He looked the picture of misery and nearly starved. The woods were being scoured on each side of the road by men on horseback, and I suppose that poor fellow was captured.

“While those taken were in prison they amused themselves by carving various articles in wood, and I have yet in my possession a small maple box, beautifully made and finished, presented to me by Leonard Watson. On the cover is my name, some verses are on the sides, and on the bottom ‘April 12th, 1838, alas for Lount and Matthews.’”

“When Sir John’s order came for all the troops to be sent east, Colonel Foster remonstrated; but the troops had to go, and he was left in command of the sentries, sick soldiers, women and children at the Fort. Under these circumstances the militia came to the front, did their best, fired anywhere, and we were more afraid of them than of the enemy. We were retiring for the night when a loud noise attracted my attention, and I looked out of the window to see Colonel FitzGibbon on horseback half-way up our steps.” FitzGibbon omitted no chance to warn and thus save life and property. “He called out, ‘The rebels are upon us, and this is one of the houses marked for burning,’ and clattered off again. My husband and his son were soon on their way to the Fort. Our household was left undisturbed, but I had orders to answer the door myself should the rioters come; the servants were not to show themselves, and as I was young and fearless then I rather enjoyed the prospect of excitement. In fact, I was distinctly disappointed that nobody did come. For the next week my husband took what rest he could get on a gun-carriage at the Fort, and I was never in bed regularly myself during that period. He came to see us once, and I recall my amusement at watching him hungrily devour the leg of a goose, an utterly absurd sight when one remembers the style of man he was, and the many courses of his ordinary dinners. I was thankful we even had that leg to give him, as every bit of meat we could get might be seized for the hungry militia.

“I do not see why unpleasant remarks should have been made on the score of a boat having been provided for the safety of the Governor’s family. Lady Head seems to be mentioned very little in the history of her husband’s administration, no doubt owing to the quietness of the life she led. But she was extremely pleasant, and much liked by those who knew her.

“Mrs. Draper and I and some others declined to go on board the boat in the bay on which a good many families were hurried for safety. Another boat had been provided for some citizens’ families, but in the middle of the night despatches came down from Colonel Foster to be sent by boat to Sir John Colborne, and immediately everything was haste and dismay. The people and their boxes were unceremoniously bundled on the wharf, and all was confusion, while the boat went off on its errand. But those on the Government boat did not omit to make public the unpleasant predicament of their guard on board. The distinguished duty of protecting so many wives and families of officials was given to one gentleman. Some one on board was not too frightened to have spirit left to play a practical joke. The poor man’s clothes were removed after he had gone to bed, and then the alarm was sounded—you may imagine his discomfort of mind and body.”

Articles of apparel were frequently pressed into active and public service then and later, and Mrs. Ogle Gowan, notable as a true Deborah, conspicuously contributed her share in connection with the Rebellion Losses’ Bill; her enthusiasm had not grown cold in years. Lord Elgin, equally misunderstood with Durham and Sydenham, made a futile attempt to land at Brockville; a black flag, bearing the inscription in white letters, “Down with Elgin and his rebel-paying ministry,” was hoisted on the dock, a banner known then and ever since as Mrs. Gowan’s petticoat, but it is likely that it merely earned its name because designed and made by her. The lady was unconsciously making a link in the much-discussed history of the jacques, and illustrated one meaning of her husband’s paper, The Antidote. It is said the paper had as motto, “The Antidote is set afloat to cure poisonous treason.” Ogle R. Gowan, staunch Irish-Orange Tory as he was, was a herald of Responsible Government—and suffered for it—a prophet as to ’37, chief promoter in the first movement which resulted in Canadian volunteers, father and founder of Orangeism here, and although a strong supporter of Colborne was antagonistic to the methods of Francis Bond Head; in his military career he was chiefly conspicuous at Prescott, and carried the buckshot and bayonet record of that engagement to his grave. To such a man Mrs. Gowan, a womanly woman of great culture and heroic spirit, was a true helpmeet.

The heroic spirit was patent in many ways. A colonel prominent in the Canadian service received the following: “Mrs. M. wishes to be remembered to you, and prays that the day may come when your hands will place the British standard on the top of the citadel of Washington, the capital of the democratic mob.”

Early in the century a handsome stranger was an honoured guest at Quebec mess dinners, so fraternally fond of the military and military life that the inference is if fighting were on the cards he too would be ready. But at one of the dinners the gentleman was convicted of being a lady in disguise. The heroines of Upper Canada in ’37 satisfied their warlike propensities by running their tea-chest lead into bullets, making a Canadian question de joupons, or firing a feu de joie at home. When one pretty girl did the last, on the return of father and brothers, Brown Bess unhandsomely kicked her flat and she found herself prone on that Sol Canadien, terre chérie, which she so dearly loved. Mothers in Israel! Could they have foreseen a certain date in ’97, the year next prominent to ’37 in the Canadian horoscope, they and Brown Besses in conjunction might have furnished material for a legend of the female Brutus. For a certain Tory child of those days who has since developed into a renowned statesman has said, “My earliest memory in life is of the women of my family casting bullets in the Upper Canadian Rebellion of 1837, I am afraid on the wrong side.”

Mixed politics in one family often led to strained relations: “When I went to my brother John’s to ask him to turn out he was not at home, and his wife said she did not intend him to be at home, and that he would not and should not go. I then asked her for his arms, for we were in great need of them, but Mrs. John said she knew nothing about arms. I went into another room for his rifle, which I could not find, but I saw his sword hanging by the head of his bed. I took it down, but as I did so my sister-in-law caught hold of the hilt and jerked it partly away. To save myself from being stabbed I was obliged to pull her close to me, moving towards the door; I wished myself clear of her and the sword, but dared not let go until we got out the door, when I gave her a push and seized the hilt. I walked off with the sword, but instead of following me she ran into the house, calling for the rifle, the children after her. It was a truly ridiculous sight, to see one of Her Britannic Majesty’s officers, armed, running away from his sister-in-law. But run I did, and she told me afterwards that the only reason she did not fire was that I was in motion and she was so greatly excited she was afraid she might not kill me!”

The Canada Museum was a journal much quoted in its day by domestic and American newspapers; its editorials were considered, by editors of both sides of politics, to be temperate, patriotic and logical. Published in Berlin, chiefly in German, partly in English, it naturally was an important influence in Canada West, and its editor, Mr. H. W. Peterson, had an acknowledged and deservedly high standing. He was heartily in love with the Union Jack, as heartily opposed to the Stars and Stripes in Canadian connection, was a Conservative in the true sense of the word, and abominated Toronto rule as utterly as any so-called rebel. But it appears that the guiding hand of this influential paper belonged to a wife and mother, one who had made herself mistress of colonial politics and was eminently qualified to express herself. One to whom Mrs. Peterson was best known says: “She possessed literary abilities of a fine order, with the soundest judgment in every matter. Mr. Peterson, a discreet editor, temperately supported the Government of the day, conceiving that wrongs should be constitutionally redressed by the people through their representatives, without force of arms. Mrs. Peterson concurred in all his views; but while she deprecated bloodshed and the resort to force, she had a woman’s heart added to the courage of her convictions. Her natural benevolence induced her to state, when discussing the question of Mackenzie’s flight and the reward offered for him, that if his journey took him through Waterloo and he called on her for aid and comfort she would undoubtedly give it, and not disclose the fact of his presence until he had had time to move on farther. Woman first, politician afterward, such action would have done no violence to her Conservative principles; but it would have been entirely on her own responsibility, as her husband was a magistrate and could countenance no charity of that kind.”

A much used saying is not necessarily trite. The gentle hand which rocked the cradle could guide the pen when danger threatened the state.

The Canadian Deborah of ’12 or ’37 was not learned in history, nor was she conscious of her part as tenon in that arc de triomphe in the history of nations, that mortised arch of Frank and Saxon whereof the pillars are Hastings and Quebec. She knew but little, perhaps never heard, of those countless hordes who swarmed over Apennines and Pyrenees, nor yet of Clovis, nor of Cedric. She was no seer and could not foretell the many who were destined, after conquest of forest, to crowd the valley of the Peace, make homes on the slopes of our statesman’s “sea of mountains,” and be lost, an equally countless host, who can tell, in the as yet hidden recesses of the untamed remnant of a continent. “Mine all the past, and all the future mine.”

Canadian women, like their famous sisters of Liége, held, and hold, their distaff and their God; but, with few exceptions, unlike the wise ones there, they made no grand bakings of bread in order to be ready for the earliest comer, friend or foe, in the times when shadows spoiled the beauty of the Canadian day. No women of Saragossa they; but each has for record, “She hath done what she could.”

ERRATUM.

On page 171, 8th line from foot of page, for “Colonel Foster, Adjutant-General,” read “Colonel Foster, Assistant Adjutant-General.”

In the Days of the Canada Company
The Story of the Settlement of the Huron Tract, and a View of the Social Life of the Period.

By Robina and Kathleen Macfarlane Lizars
With an Introduction by Rev. Principal Grant, D.D., LL.D. In one volume, 494 pages, freely illustrated, price $2.00.

CONTENTS:—Spirit of the Times—The Father of the Company—Canada as the Company Found It—The Face of the Land—From Champlain to Gooding—The Kings of the Canada Company—The Colborne Clique—Gairbraid—Lunderston—Meadowlands—The Canada Company vs. The People—The People vs. The Canada Company—A Social Pot-Pourri—The Heart of Huron—The Bonnie Easthopes—The Cairn.

OPINIONS OF THE PRESS

“Strong lights and shadows fill these pictures of the early settlers’ day, and the Misses Lizars, in handling large masses of material, have maintained the balance of their picture so well that it is something more than the most forcible and striking piece of word-painting in Canadian literature. The scenes portrayed in this book might be compared with some cinematographe views lately seen in the city, for not only are these flowery-waistcoated, or red-shirted, ancestors, as the case may be, vivid pieces of brush-work; they seem almost possessed of the miracle of movement. We fancy we hear them speak to us, and when Tiger Dunlop strides across the stage in his extraordinary regimentals—roomy grey homespun, with a large check, the big Scotch features surmounted by a shock of red hair, and guarded by the broadest of bonnets, one can almost hear his friendly roar.”—London Advertiser.

“No more entertaining book has ever been written about early life in British North America than ‘In the Days of the Canada Company,’ by Robina and Kathleen M. Lizars. No attempt, the authors tell us, has been made at historical writing; their work is certainly not a history book, but it most assuredly is history of a far more rare and precious kind than the chronological record of events which usually goes by that name. There will be many histories, and good histories too, given to the world before another series of such vivid pictures of the very lives of men and women who made history in a formative period of a country is presented.”—Montreal Daily Witness.

WILLIAM BRIGGS, - Publisher, - TORONTO, ONT. Montreal: C. W. Coates. Halifax: S. F. Huestis.

Canadian Historical Literature.
(PUBLISHED IN 1896-97.)

That the impulse of recent years to gather together and publish the historical records of the various localities has borne fruit, is amply attested in the following list of publications, all from our own presses. We commend to Public Libraries and to all intelligent readers the placing on their shelves of as many as possible of these valuable works:—

For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the publisher.

WILLIAM BRIGGS,
Richmond St. West, Toronto.
Montreal: C. W. COATES. Halifax: S. F. HUESTIS.