lated the cost of powder and shot, and compared it with the leanness and small size of these wild pigeons, and arrived at the conclusion that it would be cheaper to lock up my guns, especially as the loss of men's time and the frequent excuses for absence told sensibly on the day's work. Thus departed another fond delusion. Of other game there may be said to be none, except a few partridges, which are shot at sitting on the trees and are a cross between partridge and pheasant, larger than the former, smaller than the latter, with a plumage differing from both and white flesh. At night the woods were vocal enough, yet scarcely harmonious, as the barking of foxes, the howling of wolves, the cries of unknown and unseen animals did not mingle well with the shrieks of a sort of wild swan on the lake called a "loon,” and of numerous other waterfowl.

Of fishing there was at first plenty, if fishing that could be called which consisted in dragging behind a punt a twisting spoon with hooks, by the aid of which you could fill a bucket with smallish fish in an hour. Fish-spearing at night with a flambeau, or iron frame filled with lighted pine chips, hanging over the bows, is exciting enough if the fish are worth the trouble, which as a rule they are not, and this for several reasons. The first is that the season chosen for the sport is that of spawning, when the fish get together in shoals and lie in shallow water. Naturally they are out of condition, and in fact hardly eatable. Another is that such is the wild and wanton waste of settlers that they kill for mere killing sake, depopulating the waters in a single year, when Government steps in, too late, alas! and stops their fishing at all, at least after their own fashion. I spent a night at this work, which must ever remain engraven on my memory on account of a series of dangerous experiences through which I passed, and which made the whole affair resemble a midnight dance on the edge of an open grave.

I had put together with rough planks a sort of punt, utterly unsuited to the lake, which was subject, like all inland waters surrounded by high hills, to most dangerous and sudden storms of wind. In this craft three of us embarked, on what seemed to be a fine calm night, for the purpose of spearing fish. We called at an island to get a supply of pitch pine, and rather recklessly let drop a few chips after we had lighted our flamheau. The ground was dry and covered with the usual carpet of dead leaves and dry twigs, which immediately caught light. With inconceivable rapidity the flame spread until the whole island was like a burning fiery furnace. We rather enjoyed the fun as we jumped laughingly into our boat and pushed away from the burning shore. When about twenty yards or so from land, I felt a sort of washing of the waves against my side of the boat, but did not say anything until I felt the water washing into the boat itself. Then I spoke quickly enough, telling the rowers to pull for their lives back to the burning island. There ensued a short, sharp struggle, in which, luckily for us, we gained the victory, for within ten minutes the whole lake was a sheet of foam, over which the wind

screamed and roared like a lion disappointed of his prey. Yet it seemed as if we had only changed the manner of our death from drowning to being roasted alive. Turn where we might, there was nothing behind or before but fire, the horror of which was aggravated by the crash of falling trees into whose hollow trunks the flames had crept or leaped. If we rushed over the burning ground to gain the shelter of a green tree which seemed to be able to resist the flames, tongues of fire seemed to leap from another tree, to lick the bark of our protector, and to twist about it until they found some weak spot, and in less time than it takes to tell there spread over us a canopy of flames. What we went through that night I cannot attempt to describe, nor the sensations of those whom we left in our shanty on the shore of the lake, as they watched our dark forms flitting hither and thither in what seemed to them the dance of death, and knew that our escape was cut off by the raging waters. To our infinite relief the storm passed away as suddenly as it had arisen, and we at once got into our boat and escaped from the burning fiery furnace into which we had by our own imprudence thrust ourselves.

From day to day we struggled to wring a living out of our bush farm. We had to give up our men one by one until we were left quite alone. We had also to live for six months on salt pork, milk, butter, eggs, and bread, with tea at every meal and nothing but tea to drink. After these six months were ended we reduced the establishment to dry bread, milk, and tea, as the cow was giving too little milk for butter and the fowls gave up laying for the season. At last milk failed us, so that nothing remained but dry bread and tea with an occasional wild duck which I was lucky enough to shoot. It was winter again: the lake was frozen over; fishing there was none, until one day an Indian chief who lived on the other side of the lake paid us a visit with his squaw, and kindly instructed me how to cut holes in the ice and fish with a wooden bait which in a few minutes he cut out of a stick.

My memory fails me as to the exact amount of starving we endured, which may have been four or six months, but I well remember starting up on Christmas Eve from a gloomy reverie and going to the stables to put the horses into the sleigh for a journey over the frozen lake. I believe that mine was the first sleigh which had attempted the passage, for though the weather was bitterly cold and the ice generally very thick, yet there were spots which a recent thaw had rendered dangerous. These considerations did not prevent my carrying out my purpose, which was to visit Muckwa, the Indian chief, and ask him if he could not procure me a piece of meat for a Christmas dinner. Luckily he was at home, and, more luckily still, he had just killed a steer, of which he was willing to sell me a decent joint. This Indian was more than friendly; he was attached, and might have become a most valuable friend had I been a little richer, or, in other words, had I possessed the means of living apart from the produce of the farm and given myself up to sport or speculation in land. We had, without any words spoken except those

of natural honesty, come to understand one another, and this is how it occurred. In the early days of my residence in the bush, and before I had learned by experience the hopelessness of anyone, except a labourer, attempting to gain a living by farming there, I had been anxious to secure a good large block of land before the rush of emigrants which I expected should arrive. For this purpose I consulted the land agent, who had not then become my enemy, and he recommended me to buy a hundred acres which ran alongside of my own land. It was agreed that on a certain day we would visit the lot together and see how I liked it; but as the snow lay deep upon the ground and the agent was not well acquainted with that part of the bush, it was necessary to have a guide, and Muckwa was called to our aid. The snow was so deep and the walking so fatiguing that we thought we must have passed over miles and miles of ground, whereas we had been very slowly crunching our way over fallen trees, round great rocks, or making a circuit to avoid swamps. At last the agent grew suspicious of Muckwa's ability to find the Government piquet which marked the limit of the lot, and accused him of losing his way. No one who saw it could ever forget the calm, scornful smile which played over his usually stoical countenance as he replied, "You are wrong; I know my way." "Then where is the landmark?" "Here," said Muckwa, lifting his hand off a post upon which he had been resting it; "here is your Government mark." Before we parted the Indian came up to me quite quietly, and addressed me thus: "You want to buy this land; the land agent wants you to buy it also. No one else would buy it but you, and he knows that." "Why, Muckwa?" "Because if you buy it I shoot you dead." "I should like to hear your reason.” "This is my reason. The land belonged to my father, chief of a tribe

which once lived in these forests. Your Government came and took all our land away, except the small lot which they gave to me. I want this particular land, which once was mine by power and still is mine by right, but I have not yet enough money to buy it. I am saving, and in time I shall get it. That bad man knows this, and wants to get you killed and me hanged if he can; but I have told you the truth, so beware." The English of my Indian friend was not as clear as I have written it; all that I have done is to preserve the sense. "Well, friend Muckwa, you will not have to shoot me, for I promise you that I will never buy your land." He took my hand, shook it, and from that moment we were steady friends.

Christmas Day saw a piece of roast beef on a table which had long been free from such a burden. Christmas Day saw a little party forgetting griefs which had become well-nigh intolerable. That comparatively happy Christmas Day was the last I spent in that house, for within a week I drove the horses back to Ottawa, and forsaking house, land, and belongings, I began life again, though still in the backwoods, in my own natural vocation.

601

Biography.

So much has recently been written in censure of a now famous biography. for its alleged violation of the rules by which the publication of private documents relating to living contemporaries ought always to be governed, that a few words on the subject of biography in general may not be altogether out of place. Biography has always been one of the most fascinating branches of literature; and the source of more than half its charm lies, we are afraid it must be owned, in that appetite for scandal which is common to all the sons of Adam, though kept down, like other vulgar appetites, by the influence of education and manners. The temptation to minister to this appetite will always be present to a biographer; and it is so easy for a man to persuade himself that in serving up the banquet he is after all but complying with the conditions of the work which he has chosen, that we may almost wonder there are not more breaches of confidence and good taste in this walk of literature, instead of less. The author thinks perhaps of the votiva tabula in Horace, of Cromwell and his pimples, turned to such good account by Lord Macaulay, of Othello and his dying speech, and works himself up to the belief that in painting his hero "as he really was"-that is to say, in dragging from their hiding places all his most secret aspirations, partialities, and antipathies, all his frailties and passions, all his bitter words and hasty imputations, recorded in the heat of the moment, but never even then meant to see the light of day—he is actuated only by the highest sense of duty. We say it is so easy for a man to persuade himself of this, and so certain that to do it will enhance the popularity and profits of the work, that great allowance may be made for those who fall into the snare. But snare it is: nor will it be difficult to show that it is impossible as a general rule to defend the publication of such details even in a limited degree, except upon grounds which few writers of respectability would willingly avow.

The motives which prompt one man to write the life of another may be divided, roughly speaking, into three. The primary object of a biographer may be either the amusement of the public for the sake of the money to be got by it, or the erection of a suitable monument to some one whom he loved or venerated, or the effect to be produced upon mankind by the portrait of a great or wise man, and a truthful narrative of the motives and opinions by which his career was regulated. He may wish either to serve himself, or to honour another, or to teach some moral or political lesson to the world at large. Sometimes, of course, all these objects will be present to him; and in proportion as the last two preponderate over the first will he be likely to resist or escape the tempta