While about 140 of the settlers took their passage from La Chine in what the Canadians call Durham boats, my father and his family, with the remainder of the settlers, embarked in a vessel of the same description. The accommodation which the boat afforded was so poor, that our situation, during the thirteen days of our voyage from La Chine to Prescott, was in reality “below the reach of envy.” To make room for my mother and the children in the wretched little hole of a cabin, my brother and I were frequently obliged to sleep on the shore in the open air—the refreshing zephyrs being our only curtains, and the “spangled heavens, a shining frame,” our resplendent canopy. Taverns are undoubtedly found in many parts along the banks of the river; but, as the boats do not always stop in the neighbourhood of these refectories, we seldom had any other method of reposing our weary bodies than the one to which I have now alluded.
One night in particular, when we felt the air rather too cool for sleeping on the ground, my brother and I, with three of the settlers, solicited permission of a Canadian farmer to lie on the floor of his kitchen. This request, though humble and moderate, was peremptorily refused. We asked for neither bed nor blanket, meat nor drink, but barely for leave to stretch our fatigued limbs on the uncovered boards; yet even this was denied. We were in the act of quietly returning to the boat, when, on approaching the door of his stable, we found it open, entered, and had but just discovered some clean straw, upon which we designed to rest our heads for the night, when the owner stalked in, and on recognising us, commanded our instant departure. We were therefore compelled to decamp and to take our usual nightly station on the shore. This little incident banished sleep from my eyes; and I spent the greater part of the night in the indulgence of the most gloomy reflections. That fondly beloved Isle of Erin, where the genius of hospitality continually holds her court, and freely spreads her social influence, again recurred to my memory. I thought of her humblest sons, generous and humane, sons of benevolence and toil, whose hard labour just gives what life requires, but gives no more; yet who, with the ever ready smile of heart-felt sympathy, are willing to share that hard-earned little with the weary traveller whom chance directs to their threshold, or necessity throws upon their bounty.