“Where wild in woods the lordly savage ran.” DRYDEN.
What changes a few years make in places! That spot over which the Indians roved, free of all control, is now a large and wide-spreading town. Those glorious old trees are fast fading away, the memory only of them remains to some of the first settlers, who saw them twenty-five years ago, shadowing the now open market-place; the fine old oaks have disappeared, but the green emerald turf that they once shaded still remains. The wild rushing river still pours down its resistless spring floods, but its banks have been levelled, and a noble bridge now spans its rapid waters. It has seen the destruction of two log-bridges, but this new, substantial, imposing structure bids fair to stand from generation to generation. The Indian regards it with stupid wonder: he is no mechanic; his simple canoe of birch bark is his only notion of communication from one shore to another. The towns-people and country settlers view it with pride and satisfaction, as a means of commerce and agricultural advantage. That lonely hill, from which Catharine viewed the rapid-flowing river by moonlight, and marvelled at its beauty and its power, is now the Court-house Hill, the seat of justice for the district,--a fine, substantial edifice; its shining roof and pillared portico may be seen from every approach to the town. That grey village spire, with its groves of oak and pine, how invitingly it stands! those trees that embower it, once formed a covert for the deer. Yonder scattered groups of neat white cottages, each with its garden of flowers and fruit, are spread over what was once an open plain, thinly planted with poplar, oaks, and pine. See, there is another church; and nearer, towards the west end of the town, on that fine slope, stands another, and another. That sound that falls upon the ear is not the rapids of the river, but the dash of mill wheels and mill dams, worked by the waters of that lovely winding brook which has travelled far through woods and deep forest dingles to yield its tribute to the Otonabee. There is the busy post-office, on the velvet carpet of turf; a few years, yes, even a few years ago, that spot was a grove of trees. The neat log building that stood then alone there, was inhabited by the Government Agent, now Colonel Macdonald, and groups of Indians might be seen congregated on the green, or reposing under the trees, forming meet subjects for the painter’s pencil, for he knew them well, and was kind to them.