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Although the family from which Catharine Parr Strickland (Mrs. Traill) is descended was one of considerable note and standing in the northern counties of England, her immediate ancestor was born and spent the greater part of his life in London.

The cause of the migration of this branch of the Strickland house was the unexpected return of Catharine's great-grandfather's elder and long-lost brother. He had been hidden at the Court of the exiled Stuarts, at St. Germains, and returned, after an absence of upwards of twenty years, to claim the paternal estate of Finsthwaite Hall and its dependencies. He not only established his claim, but, with an ungenerous hand, grasped all the rents and revenues accruing to the property, and his nephew, then a student at Winchester College, disdaining to ask any favors of his uncle, left the now reduced comforts of Light Hall, his mother's jointure house, and went to seek his fortune in the metropolis. Being successful in the quest, he, after a time, married Elizabeth Cotterell, of the loyal Staffordshire family of that name, and maternally descended from one of the honest Penderel brothers, who protected Charles II. in the oak at Boscobel, and succeeded, through their intrepid loyalty to the house of Stuart, in effecting his escape.

Of this marriage there were eight children: Thomas, born in 1758; Samuel, in 1760, and two sisters. The remaining four fell victims to the small-pox, at that date an almost inevitably fatal disease.

Thomas, who was Catharine's father, early obtained employment with the ship-owners, Messrs. Hallet & Wells, and through them became master and sole manager of the Greenland docks, a position which threw him in the way of meeting many of the great men and explorers of the last century. He was twice married, first to a grand-niece of Sir Isaac Newton, and through her he came into possession of a number of books and other treasures formerly belonging to that celebrated scientist. Mrs. Strickland died within a few years of her marriage, having had only one child, a daughter, who died in infancy; and in 1793 Mr. Strickland married, as his second wife, Elizabeth Homer, who was destined to be the mother of a family of nine, five of whom have made a name in the literary annals of the century. Elizabeth and Agnes, afterward joint authoresses of "The Lives of the Queens of England," and each the writer of other historical biographies, poetry and other works; Sara and Jane, the latter author of "Rome, Regal and Republican," and other historical works, were born in London, Kent. There, also, on January 9th, 1802, Catharine Parr was born, and though named after the last queen of Henry VIII., who was a Strickland, she has always spelt her first name with a "C," and was ever known in the home circle by the more endearing words "the Katie."

Mr. Strickland's health being affected by too close application to business, he was advised to retire and take up his residence in the more bracing climate of the eastern counties.

After living a few months at "The Laurels," in Thorpe, near Norwich, he rented "Stowe House," an old place in the valley of the Waveney, not far from the town of Bungay.

"The first and happiest days of my life were spent at 'Stowe House,' in that loveliest of lovely valleys the Waveney," she writes; and truly there is no spot in all England that can vie with it in pastoral beauty.

The highroad between Norwich and London passes behind the site of the old house, separated and hidden from it by the high, close-cropped hedge and noble, wide-spreading oaks. The house (pulled down only within the last few years) stood on the slope of the hill, and below, at the foot of the old world gardens and meadows, the lovely river winds its silvery way to the sea. The green hills, the projecting headlands, the tiny hamlets clustered about the ivy-covered church towers of fifteenth and sixteenth century architecture; the beauty of the velvety meadows and the hawthorn hedges; the red-tiled cottages with their rose-clad porches, and beyond, against the sky, the old grey towers and massive walls of that grand old stronghold, the Castle of Bungay, where the fierce Earl Marshal of England had defied the might and menace of the "King of all Cockaynie and all his braverie," altogether form a scene it would be difficult to equal in any quarter of the globe.

Among other rooms in "Stowe House," there was a small brick-paved parlor, which was given up entirely to the children. Here they learned their lessons, waited in their white dresses for the footman to summon them to the dining-room for dessert, or played when debarred by unpropitious weather from the "little lane," so prettily described by Mrs. Traill in "Pleasant Days of my Childhood."

Many anecdotes and stories have been told me by the elder sisters of the hours spent within the oak-panelled walls and by the great fire-place of the brick parlor, of the pranks and mischief hatched there against the arbitrary rule of a trusted servant who hated the "Lunnon children" in proportion as she loved the Suffolk-born daughters of the house. Here they learned and acted scenes from Shakespeare, pored over great leather-bound tomes of history, such as a folio edition of Rapin's "History of England," with Tyndall's notes, and printed in last century type. Here Agnes and Elizabeth repeated to the younger children Pope's "Homer's Iliad," learned out of Sir Isaac Newton's own copy, or told them stories from the old chronicles.

Mr. Strickland was a disciple of Isaak Walton and a devoted follower of the "gentle craft," but being a great sufferer from the gout, required close attendance. Katie generally accompanied him to the river, and though Lockwood, a man-servant who had been with him many years, was always at hand, Katie could do much to help her father, and became very expert in handling his fishing-tackle, while still a very small child. One of Mrs. Traill's most treasured possessions now is a copy of the first edition of "The Compleat Angler," which formerly belonged to her father.

When talking of her childhood, Sara (Mrs. Gwillym) always spoke of "the Katie" as the idolized pet of the household. "She was such a fair, soft blue-eyed little darling, always so smiling and happy, that we all adored her. She never cried like other children—indeed we used to say that Katie never saw a sorrowful day—for if anything went wrong she just shut her eyes and the tears fell from under the long lashes and rolled down her cheeks like pearls into her lap. My father idolized her. From her earliest childhood she always sat at his right hand, and no matter how irritable or cross he might be with the others, or from the gout, to which he was a martyr, he never said a cross word to 'the Katie.'"

"Stowe House" was only a rented property, and when, in 1808, "Reydon Hall," near Wangford, fell into the market, Mr. Strickland bought it and removed his family to the new home at the end of the year.

"Well do I remember the move to Reydon that bitter Christmas Eve," said Mrs. Traill, when speaking of it on last Thanksgiving Day, her eyes shining as bright as a child's with the recollection. "The roads were deep in snow, and we children were sent over in an open tax-cart with the servants and carpenters. It was so cold they rolled me up in a velvet pelisse belonging to Eliza to keep me from freezing, but I was as merry as a cricket all the way, and kept them laughing over my childish sallies. We stopped at a place called 'Deadman's Grave' to have some straw put into the bottom of the cart to keep us warm. No, I shall never forget that journey to Reydon through the snow."

GUN HILL, SOUTHWOLD BEACH.

A fine old Elizabethan mansion, of which the title-deed dates back to the reign of Edward VI., "Reydon Hall" was a beau ideal residence for the bringing up of a family of such precious gifts as the Strickland sisters. It stands back from the road behind some of the finest oaks, chestnuts and ashes in the county. Built of dark brick, its ivy-covered wall, its gabled roof, tall chimneys, stone-paved kitchen, secret chambers and haunted garrets suited both their imaginative and fearless natures. A magnificent sycamore in the centre of the lawn, a dell at the end of "the plantation" (as a wide open semi-circular belt of oaks was called), and the beautiful Reydon Wood to the north, on the Earl of Stradbroke's property, formed a grand environment for the development of their several characteristics.

Mr. Strickland educated his elder daughters himself, and having a fine library, they were given an education far superior to that which generally fell to the lot of the daughters of that date. He had purchased a house in Norwich, and always spent some months of the year in that beautiful old cathedral city, and as the attacks of gout increased in frequency, was obliged to reside there during the winter. He was generally accompanied by one or two of his daughters, his wife dividing her time as much as possible between the two houses. During her absence from Reydon, the care and education of the younger children devolved upon their eldest sister Elizabeth.

That the literary bent showed itself early will be seen by the following account, which I cannot refrain from giving as much in Mrs. Traill's own words as possible:

"We passed our days in the lonely old house in sewing, walking in the lanes, sometimes going to see the sick and carry food or little comforts to the cottagers; but reading was our chief resource. We ransacked the library for books, we dipped into old magazines of the last century, such as Christopher North styles 'bottled dulness in an ancient bin,' and dull enough much of their contents proved. We tried history, the drama, voyages and travels, of which latter there was a huge folio. We even tried 'Locke on the Human Understanding.' We wanted to be very learned just then, but as you may imagine, we made small progress in that direction, and less in the wonderfully embellished old tome, 'Descartes' Philosophy.' We read Sir Francis Knolles' 'History of the Turks,' with its curious wood-cuts and quaint old-style English. We dipped into old Anthony Horneck's book of 'Divine Morality,' but it was really too dry. We read Ward's 'History of the Reformation in Rhyme,' a book that had been condemned to be burnt by the common hangman. How this copy had escaped I never learned. I remember how it began:

"'I sing the deeds of good King Harry,

And Ned his son and daughter Mary,

And of a short-lived inter-reign

Of one fair queen hight Lady Jane.'

"We turned to the Astrologer's Magazine, and so frightened the cook and housemaid by reading aloud its horrible tales of witchcraft and apparitions that they were afraid to go about after dark lest they should meet the ghost of old Martin, an eccentric old bachelor brother of a late proprietor of the Hall, who had lived the last twenty years of his life secluded in the old garret which still bore his name and was said to be haunted by his unlaid spirit. This garret was a quaint old place, closeted round and papered with almanacs bearing dates in the middle of the past century. We children used to puzzle over the mystical signs of the Zodiac, and try to comprehend the wonderful and mysterious predictions printed on the old yellow paper. There was, too, a tiny iron grate with thin rusted bars, and the hooks that had held up the hangings of the forlorn recluse's bed. On one of the panes in the dormer windows there was a rhyme written with a diamond ring, and possibly of his own composition:

"'In a cottage we will live,

Happy, though of low estate,

Every hour more bliss will bring,

We in goodness shall be great.—M. E.'

"We knew little of his history but what the old servants told us. He had never associated with the family when alive. His brother's wife made him live in the garret because she disliked him, and he seldom went abroad. All the noises made by rats or the wind in that part of the house were attributed to the wanderings of poor Martin. There was also a little old woman in grey, who was said to 'walk' and to play such fantastic tricks as were sufficient to turn white the hair of those she visited in the small hours of the night.

"Had we lived in the days of 'spiritualism' we should have been firm believers in its mysteries. The old Hall with its desolate garrets, darkened windows, worm-eaten floors, closed-up staircase and secret recesses might have harbored a legion of ghosts—and as for rappings, we heard plenty of them. The maid-servants, who slept on the upper floor, where stood the huge mangle in its oaken frame (it took the strong arm of the gardener to turn the crank), declared that it worked by itself, the great linen rollers being turned without hands unless it were by those of ghosts. No doubt the restless little woman in grey had been a notable housewife in her time, and could not remain idle even after being in her grave for a century or more.

"To relieve the tedium of the dull winter days, Susan and I formed the brilliant notion of writing a novel and amusing ourselves by reading aloud at night what had been written during the day. But where should we find paper? We had no pocket-money, and even if we had been amply supplied there was no place within our reach where we could purchase the means of carrying out our literary ambitions. Enthusiastic genius is not easily daunted, and fortune favored us. In the best room there was a great Indian papier-mache chest with massive brass hinges and locks. It had contained the wardrobe of a young Indian prince who had been sent to England with an embassy to the Court of one of the Georges. This chest was large enough to fill the space between the two windows, and hold the large rosewood and bamboo cot with its hangings of stiff cream-white brocaded silk embroidered with bunches of roses, the colors still brilliant and unfaded, alternating with strips worked in gold and silver thread. The four curtains of this luxuriant tented cot were looped with thick green ribbons. There were ancient damasks, silks, old court dresses that had belonged to some grande dame of Queen Anne's reign, and turbans of the finest India muslin of great length and breadth, yet of so fine a texture that the whole width of one could be drawn through a lady's finger-ring. My mother had also made the old chest a receptacle for extra stores of house-linen, and underneath all she had deposited many reams of paper, blotting-paper, and dozens of ready-cut quill pens which had been sent to our father on the death of his brother, who had been a clerk in the Bank of England. Here was treasure trove. We pounced on the paper and pens—their being cut adding much to their value—and from some cakes of Indian ink we contrived to manufacture respectable writing fluid. Among the old books in the library there was a fine atlas in two quarto volumes, full of maps and abounding in the most interesting geographical histories of the European countries, legends, the truth of which we never questioned, and flourishing descriptions that just suited our romantic ideas of places we had never seen but had no difficulty in picturing to ourselves. I chose the period of my hero William Tell, intending to write an interesting love tale; but I soon got my hero and heroine into an inextricable muddle, so fell out of love adventures altogether, and altering my plan ended by writing a juvenile tale, which I brought to a more satisfactory conclusion. Every day we wrote a portion, and at night read it aloud to Sara. She took a lively interest in our stories and gave us her opinion and advice, of which we took advantage to improve them the following day. Not feeling quite sure of our mother's approval, we kept our manuscripts carefully concealed after her return, but we were in even greater dread of our eldest sister, knowing that she would lecture us on the waste of time. "One morning I was sitting on the step inside our dressing-room door, reading the last pages of my story to Sara, when the door behind me opened and a small white hand was quietly placed on mine and the papers extracted. I looked at Sara in dismay. Not a word had been spoken, but I knew my mother's hand, and the dread of Eliza's criticism became an instant reality; and her 'I think you had been better employed in improving your grammar and spelling than in scribbling such trash,' sounded cruelly sarcastic to my sensitive ears. I, however, begged the restoration of the despised manuscript, and obtained it under promise to curl my hair with it. "I did in truth tear up the first part, but a lingering affection for that portion of it containing the story of the 'Swiss Herd-boy and his Alpine Marmot,' induced me to preserve it, and I have the rough copy of that story now in my possession."

Early in the spring of the following year, May 18th, 1818, Mr. Strickland died at Norwich. The sudden tidings of the failure of a firm in which he had allowed his name to remain as a sleeping partner or guarantor, and the consequent loss of the principal part of his private income, brought on an aggravated attack of the gout, which terminated fatally. Katie had spent the winter with him and her sisters Eliza and Agnes in the town house. Mrs. Strickland was at Reydon, but was to return the following day to prepare for the usual move to the old Hall for the summer.

Mr. Strickland's sudden death was a great shock to his family, and Katie grieved much for him. He had always been indulgent to her, and his loss was her first sorrow, the first cloud on her young life. Here I may quote again from her own notes:

"We had often heard our father express a wish to be buried in some quiet churchyard beyond the walls of the city, in the event of his death taking place before his return to Reydon, and in accordance with that wish he was laid to rest at Lakenham, a lovely rural spot about two miles from Norwich. There we three sisters, true mourners, often resorted during the summer evenings to visit the dear father's resting-place, and bring a loving tribute of fresh flowers to strew upon the grave."

The house in Norwich was retained, and as the two brothers were attending Dr. Valpy's school, the two elder sisters and Katie remained there. Elizabeth, having been her father's amanuensis and confidante, had much, to do in connection with business matters. Agnes was not strong, and requiring frequent change of air, was much away visiting friends. Katie was thus left very much to herself.

"I had access to the city library, so that I had no lack of reading matter, and my needle, varied by a daily walk to the garden below the city wall, occupied a good deal of my time. The garden was shut in by a high paling and was quite private. I spent many hours in this retreat with my books, and it was at this time that I ventured once more to indulge the scribbling fever which had been nipped in the bud by adverse criticism the preceding year. I was a great lover of the picturesque, and used to watch with intense interest the Highland drovers as they passed to the great Norwich market. I admired their blue bonnets' and the shepherd's plaids they wore so gracefully across breast and shoulder, and the rough coats of the collie dogs that always accompanied them, and often listened to the wild notes of the bagpipes. Scotland was the dream of my youth. Its history and poetry had taken a strong hold on my fancy, and I called the first story I wrote at this time, 'The Blind Highland Piper.' The next was inspired by a pretty little lad with an earnest face and bright golden curls peeping from under a ragged cap. He carried a wooden yoke on his shoulders, from which were suspended two water-pails. He passed the window so often to and fro that I grew to watch for him, and give him a little nod and smile to cheer his labors day by day. I never knew his history, so I just made one for him myself, and called my story after him, 'The Little Water-Carrier.' Thus I amused myself until my collection comprised some half-dozen tales. One day I was longer than usual absent at the city wall garden gathering red currants, and had unwittingly left my manuscript on the writing-table. On my return, to my confusion and dismay, I found it had been removed. I could not summon courage to question my sister about it, so said nothing of my loss. A few days passed, and I began to fear it had been burned, but on the next visit of our guardian, Mr. Morgan, on business connected with my father's estate, he said to my eldest sister, 'Eliza, I did not know that you had time for story-writing.'

"My sister looked up in surprise and asked him what he meant. Taking my lost property out of his pocket he replied, 'I found this manuscript open on the table, and, looking over its pages, became at once interested and surprised at your work.'

"Eliza looked inquiringly at me, and though confused and half frightened, I was obliged to claim the papers as mine.

"Our kind friend then added as he rolled up the manuscript and replaced it in his pocket, 'Well, Katie, I am going to correct this for you,' and I, glad to escape without a rebuke for waste of time or indulging in such idle fancies, thought no more of my stories. A month afterwards Mr. Morgan, with a smiling face, put into my hands five golden guineas, the price paid for my story by Harris the Publisher, in St. Paul's Churchyard, London."

Thus was Mrs. Traill the first of the Strickland sisters to enter the ranks of literature, as she is now the last survivor of that talented coterie. The unexpected success of Katie's first venture no doubt induced her sisters to send their MSS. to the publishers. How their work has been recognized is matter of history.

"The Blind Highland Piper, and Other Tales" was so well received by the public that Katie was employed by Harris to write another for his House. "Nursery Tales" proved a greater success, although the remuneration she received was not increased. She next wrote for the Quaker House of Messrs. Darton & Harvey, "Prejudice Reproved," "The Young Emigrants," "Sketches from Nature," "Sketch Book of a Young Naturalist," and "The Stepbrothers." This firm paid her more liberally than Harris, and it was with the utmost delight and pleasure that she sent the proceeds of her pen to her mother at Reydon, grateful that she was able to help even in so small a way to eke out the now reduced income of the home.

Messrs. Dean & Mundy published "Little Downy, the Field-mouse," and "Keepsake Guinea, and Other Stories," in 1822. Many other short stories were written and published in the various Annuals issued between that year and Katie's marriage in 1832. "Little Downy, the Field-mouse" was the most popular, and is, I believe, still in print. None of the early works of the sisters were written over their own names, and a late edition of this story was issued by the publishers over Susanna's (Mrs. Moodie) name, and though both the sisters wrote protesting against the blunder and requesting a correction, no notice was taken of their letters.

"Little Downy was a real mouse," said Mrs. Traill recently, when speaking of her early works, "and I well remember how I wrote its story. I used to sit under the great oak tree near where it lived, and watch the pretty creature's frisky, frolicing ways, and write about it on my slate. When I had both sides covered I ran into the house and transcribed what I had written in an old copy-book, then ran out again to watch the gentle dear and write some more."

During the years which intervened between the death of her father and her marriage, nothing of very great moment occurred in Katie's life, save the falling in of a small legacy as her share of a deceased uncle's property. She made occasional visits to London, where she stayed with a cousin of her father's or with other friends—visits full of interest from the people she met, the glimpses obtained of fashionable life, and the often amusing adventures which ever fall to the lot of those who go about the world with their eyes open. Katie's brilliant complexion, soft beauty and sunny smile won her the love and admiration of all with whom she came in contact, and she was always a welcome guest with old and young alike.

The means at Reydon were narrow, and in those days poverty was regarded almost as a crime, so they lived quietly in the old Hall, sufficient society for each other, and each pursuing the line of study in accordance with the particular bent of her individual genius.

Susanna had married in 1831, and come with her husband[1] to live at Southwold, and it was at their house that Katie met her future husband. Mr. Thomas Traill belonged to one of the oldest families in Orkney. He was also a friend and brother officer of Mr. Moodie's in the 21st Royal Scotch Fusiliers, and the two families of Moodie and Traill had been connected by marriage in more than one generation. Educated at Baliol College, Oxford, in the same year with Lockhart, who was an intimate friend, Mr. Traill could number many of the great writers and men of the day among his acquaintances, and knew many anecdotes of Scott, Giffard, Jeffreys and Wilson. He had married first an Orkney lady, and her health requiring a warmer climate, he had lived abroad for several years and enjoyed the opportunity of meeting some of the great men of literature and science at the courts of Paris and Berlin. He was an excellent linguist and a well-read man.

At the time of his visit to Southwold his wife had been dead some years, his two sons were in Orkney with their mother's relatives, and he, having no settled plan for the future, was ready to take a lively interest in the question of emigration to Canada, the new country at that time being widely advertised and lectured upon, and in which free grants of land were being offered as an inducement to retired and half-pay officers to try their fortunes in the New World.

REYDON HALL.

Katie met him at her sister's house, and it was not very long before it became known to the family at Reydon that Mr. Traill meant to precede the Moodies to Canada—and that he was not to go alone.

The grief of the sisters was great at the idea of parting with the beloved Katie. At first they refused to believe so preposterous a tale, but "the Katie" had made her choice and no entreaties could prevail upon her to change her mind. They were married on May 13th, 1832, in the parish church at Reydon, by the vicar, the Reverend H. Birch. It was a very quiet wedding, and a sad one, for the shadow of the coming parting was over them all.

"On the 20th of May I bade farewell to my old home and the beloved mother whom I was never again to see on earth, and, accompanied by my sisters Agnes and Jane, went down to the beach, from whence we were to be rowed out to embark on the City of London, one of the first two steamers which then plied between the metropolis and Leith. "It was Sunday and a lovely bright morning, the heavens cloudlessly blue and the sea without a ripple save that of the incoming tide; the waves running in in curving lines along the beach, with a murmuring music all their own. The bells from the tower of the grand old church of St. Edmund were chiming their summons to the morning service, but they seemed to me to be repeating the sad refrain—

"'Parting forever,

Parting forever,

Never again to meet!

Never, O never!'

"Yet as I leaned over the side of the ship and watched the boat that conveyed my sisters back to the shore until it was a mere speck upon the ocean, I little dreamed that my eyes should never again look upon those dear ones and England's loved shores. Hope was ever bright. To me there was always a silver lining to every cloud, and surely it is a gift of God that it has ever been so, that in the darkest hours of the sorrows, privations and troubles of after years I could look up and say, 'Thy will be done.'"

After a stay of two or three days in Edinburgh, the Traills embarked in the old Pomona packet for Kirkwall.

Mrs. Traill was received by her husband's relations and by his first wife's sisters and father with the utmost kindness and affection, although no one could have appeared in worse plight to captivate unknown relatives than she did that morning, wet from the sea spray, weary and weak from the effects of the stormy passage. One of these sisters, Miss Fotheringham, is still living in London at the advanced age of ninety-one, and I have sat beside the beautiful white-haired old lady and listened with delight to her description of the arrival of the English bride their brother-in-law brought so unexpectedly to their house at Kirkwall.

"We were not altogether pleased at the tidings of his marriage, but we fell in love with his second wife before she had been a day in the house; and truly she was a lovely, bright sunny creature to take out to the untracked wilds of a colony."

After a stay of some weeks in the Islands, they returned to Scotland to sail from the Clyde in the last vessel of the season bound for Quebec and Montreal.

The following word-picture of the parting at Kirkwall is descriptive of the tenacious affection felt by the tenantry and dependents for their feudal lairds, who hold rank and titles peculiar to the islands, and which are derived from their descent from the Norse Vikings who in former ages so often defied the power of the Scottish kings:

"Assembled on the Kirkwall pier we found about twenty-five of the Westove tenantry. They had come down to take leave of their old master. Among them was auld Jean Scott, the nurse or moome of my husband. He, wishing to propitiate her in my favor, had provided me with a handful of coins to give her. Though her hand closed over the silver, she continued to regard me with a stern and forbidding countenance,—I was a stranger and a foreign body, not one of their island folk. In wild, impassioned tones she entreated the master, to stay in his 'ain countrie an' amang his ain people and kin.' Then turning to me she said angrily, 'An' it is ye that are takin' him awa' frae us. Ye are bonnie eneuch, an' if ye wad but speak the word he maunna deny ye; but ye wauna, ye wauna dae it,' and flinging back my hand she threw herself on her knees at her master's feet, sobbing out, 'Ye will gae awa, an' these e'en that see ye the noo wull see ye nae mair.' "My husband lifted and tried to soothe her, but she would not be comforted. Ah, Jean! you spoke truly; the master you so loved and honored lies in the little churchyard on the banks of the Otonabee, far from the Lady Kirk of his Orkney Island home."

At Inverness, Mrs. Traill first saw a Highland regiment "all plaided and plumed in their tartan array," and heard the pipes, playing the grand Highland "March of the Cameron Men." Her enthusiasm, as well as her intimate knowledge of the Scottish writers, won her golden opinions, and the English bride received much attention from the Highland descendants of the men who had striven to the death for the cause of the Stuarts.

"I was far from quite well when we left Inverness by the little passenger steamer Highland Chieftain, yet not too ill to find myself, in company with others of the passengers, climbing the steep winding path which led from the waters of Loch Ness to the Falls of Foyers and plucking many sweet wild-flowers by the way. My love for flowers attracted the attention of two of my companions, a Mr. Allen, of Leith, and a Mr. Sterling, of Glasgow, both of whom I found were horticulturists and well acquainted with the flora of the country. We entered into conversation, and they added much to the pleasure of the journey by pointing out to me the interesting objects along our route. At Glen Morrison, a fine old gentleman with his fishing-basket and tackle was rowed out to the boat by two barefooted Highland lassies, stout girls who plied the oars with as powerful a stroke as any of the fisher lads of Cromarty. I must have eyed the fishing-basket with a longing glance (it reminded me of my childhood days on the bank of the Waveney), for the old laird noticed me and we became quite friendly. He talked of salmon fishing and Highland lochs, and pointed out the wild opening of Lochiel's Glen. Then we spoke of the Camerons and the Macdonells, the Stewarts and Glencoe, the Highland chiefs and Highland feuds and emigration, and I told him we were bound for the far west. Before he left the boat at a point leading to Inverary, he held my hand a few seconds and said: 'If you should ever be near the Highland settlement of Glengarry, and need help or shelter, say that you have seen the Macdonell, and every door will be opened to you, every Highland hand held out in token of friendship.' "That night we spent in a clean little public-house within sight of the giant Ben Ness, the hostess of which talked much of Sir Walter Scott, whom she had known well. The illness I had felt coming on when in Inverness was only stayed, and it now overtook me, robbing me of all the pleasure of the lovely scenery of the Clyde, and by the time we reached Greenock I was completely prostrated. Skilful treatment and careful nursing, however, enabled me to recover sufficiently to be carried on board the brig Laurel, in which our passage had been taken and paid for, and which it would have been a serious loss to forfeit."

Mrs. Traill speaks of this brig as being the last of the season sailing from that port to Quebec. They sailed on the 7th of July, a fact and date which bear interesting comparison with the carrying trade of the present time between the Clyde and Canada.

The passage was a good one, unbroken by storms or fogs, and although very ill during the first part of the voyage, by the time the Laurel entered the Gulf Mrs. Traill had quite recovered her health. The trip up the river was a slow one; there was little wind, and they had to depend largely on the tide for their onward progress, tacking constantly to take advantage of what breeze there was, and casting anchor when the tide turned. They were also delayed waiting for a pilot, and did not reach Quebec until late on the evening of August 15th, and on the 17th cast anchor before Montreal.

The Traills went to the Nelson Hotel until they could have their baggage passed through the Custom house, always a tedious business, and particularly so at that date. The weather was intensely hot. Cholera was raging in the city, and before the two days of delay had expired Mrs. Traill was stricken down with the terrible disease. She was tenderly cared for by a woman in the inn, a sister of the proprietor, to whose fearless devotion, as well as to the skilful treatment of Dr. Caldwell, she owed her recovery. Worn out by his untiring efforts among the cholera patients, this devoted physician fell a victim to the disease about a month later.

Although narrowly escaping death, the recuperative vitality which has ever been the characteristic feature of the family, enabled her to recover quickly, and on the 29th, Mrs. Traill was sufficiently restored to health to continue her journey by stage to Lachine, and thence by boat and stage to Prescott, where they took their passage on board the Great Britain, then the largest and best steamer on the route.

In the sketch, "Sunset and Sunrise on Lake Ontario," Mrs. Traill gives an account of the journey from Brockville to Cobourg. On September 9th, they left Cobourg in a light waggon for the shores of Rice Lake, there to take the steamer for Peterborough, in the neighborhood of which place Mrs. Traill's brother, who had emigrated to Canada some years before, had lately settled.

"A motley group of emigrants shared the only available room in the log-house which did duty as tavern on the shores of Rice Lake. The house consisted of but two rooms, the kitchen and one other apartment or public room. In a corner, on a buffalo robe spread on the floor, and wrapped in my Scotch plaid cloak, I rested my weary limbs. The broad rays of the full moon, streaming in through the panes of the small window, revealed our companions of the Cobourg stage, talking, smoking, or stretched at full length sleeping. On a rude couch at the other end of the room lay a poor sick woman, tossing and turning in a state of feverish unrest, moaning or muttering her delirious fancies, unconscious of the surroundings.

"Our early six o'clock breakfast of fried pork, potatoes, and strong tea without milk, was not very tempting, and it was but a scant portion of the rude meal that I could take. Leaving the crowded table, we strolled down to the landing-place, where a large party of Irish emigrants were encamped. It was a curious scene. What studies of the picturesque for a painter were there! Men in all sorts of ragged coats and brimless hats and huge wrinkled brogues; women with red handkerchiefs tied over their dishevelled locks, and wearing jackets that had once done duty as part of a regimental uniform. There was many a pretty foot coquettishly peeping from beneath a quilted petticoat to be hastily hidden by the black-eyed owner, when she noticed the stranger's approach. A smart young fellow, hat in hand, came forward to know if the 'jintleman' would like to see an Irish jig or a 'toe the plank'—a feat which was performed by two men dancing a wild sort of horn-pipe with a wonderful variety of turnings and twistings, capers and wrestlings, as trials of skill and strength, on a board or door laid on the ground, until one was forced to yield and lose his balance. Of course a reward was expected, though not asked, and a cheer given for the 'jintleman' by the actors and spectators. An empty flask then made its rounds for the whiskey that was not in it, but hoped for. One old crone noticed my husband's foreign habit of taking snuff, and hobbling up to him presented her own snuff-box, with a significant tap to show that it was empty. It was a tiny receptacle and was replenished at once, to her infinite satisfaction. Among the older women there were many sad and anxious faces, while the younger ones were bright and evidently hopeful for the future. Two nice-looking girls interested me, they were so neat and quiet in comparison with the others. One had a piece of very beautiful work in her hand, which she hastily concealed in the bosom of her dress. 'It is only a bit of Irish lace," she said, in answer to my inquiry, 'and it is not nice, it is not clean!' Poor thing, how could she keep her thread and pretty work clean amid such surroundings!

"The little steamer Pem-o-dash, the Indian word for 'fire-boat,' which was to convey us across the lake and up the river to Peterborough, had no cabin, was half-decked, and carried a sail in addition to the steam propeller. When she stopped to take in a supply of wood at a clearing about half way, I seized the opportunity to land and gather some of the splendid cardinal flowers that grew along the shores. Here, too, I plucked as sweet a rose as ever graced an English garden. There was also a bush resembling our hawthorn, which on examination I found to be the Cockspur hawthorn. It had fruit as large as cherries, pulpy and of a pleasant flavor, not unlike tamarind. The thorns were of great length and strength. Among the grasses of the meadow land I found spearmint, and, nearer to the bank, quantities of peppermint. Owing to the rapids and the shallowness of the river, the steamboat was unable to go up the whole way to Peterborough, so a large, unwieldly-looking scow had been engaged to meet it at a point called the 'Yankee Bonnet,' so named from a fanciful resemblance the topmost branches of a tree growing on the bank had to the sort of cap worn by the Yankees. The steamer, however, ran aground some four miles below the rendezvous. This caused a considerable delay and gave rise to much ill-humor among the boatmen at having to row down to meet the steamer. The boat was heavily laden, the men surly, and night had closed in before we heard the sound of the rapids ahead. The moon had now risen, and the stars were shining brilliantly over the water, which gave back the reflection of a glorious multitude of heavenly bodies. A sight so surpassingly beautiful might have stilled the most turbulent spirits, and I leaned back against my husband's supporting arm and looked from sky to star-lighted river, from the river up to the sky, with unspeakable delight and admiration. But my reverie was rudely broken by the grounding of the boat against the rocky bank, and the loud protests of the men against rowing another stroke or attempting the rapids that night. We were two miles distant from the town, the dark forest lay gloomy and dense before us, and I was weak from illness and want of food. To pass the night on an open scow, exposed to the heavy dews and chill air, would be death. It was ten o'clock, and the outlook was not encouraging. How were we to make our way through an unknown forest to the town! "One of our fellow-passengers, whose house lay on the opposite bank of the river, and who had engaged one of the boatmen to put him across, yielded to Mr. Traill's entreaties to allow us to accompany him. Remaining only long enough at this settler's house to take a cup of tea, we procured the services of a little Irish lad and a lantern to guide us through the remaining bit of bush which still separated us from the town, and set forth on our travels to seek a shelter for the night. Our little Irish lad was very full of sympathy for the 'English leddy who looked so tired.' He told us of how he had lost both father and mother from cholera at Montreal, and was alone in the world without anyone to care for him. Our way was crossed by a little stream, over which the only bridge was the rough trunk of a fallen tree. The heavy dew had made it wet and slippery, and in crossing my head turned dizzy and I slipped, wetting my feet, thereby adding one more to my other discomforts. Beyond the stream the forest opened out into a wide grassy plain, and the lights from a few scattered houses told us we were on the site of the now populous city of Peterborough. "'Now, mistress, and yer honor,' said our little guide, 'here is the Government House, an' I cannot show ya any furder bekase I don't know any of the town beyant, but I'll call up Mr. Roseberry, an' shure he'll guide ye to the hotel.' "Mr. Roseberry's man obeyed the summons, and appearing in a wonderful deshabille, directed us to Mr. McFadden's hotel, which, if not shut up, would afford us a night's lodging. Hurrying down the steep hill we found the house still open, but only to learn that there was no room, every available space being occupied by a recent influx of newly-arrived emigrants. This seemed the crowning misfortune to a disastrous day. We inquired how far we were from Mr. Stewart's—friends to whom we had brought letters from Montreal—and were told his house was a long two miles off. We then asked for Mr. Strickland's, only to receive the reply that he lived a day's journey farther on. It seemed as if there would be no alternative but a lodging under the stars, when a woman's kindly hand was laid on my arm, and I was led into the house by the mistress of the little inn. Mrs. McFadden had been listening to our inquiries, and the names Stewart and Strickland attracting her attention, had induced her to make an effort on our behalf. The kind woman put me in a chair by the blazing log fire, and giving directions to a stout Irish girl to bring some warm water and attend to my wet feet, she mixed a hot drink and insisted upon my taking it. The warmth was most grateful, and while I was being thus cared for I could look about me. "Truly the scene was a novel one. The light from the fire illumined the room, showing every available space occupied almost to the very verge of the hearth. Men, women and children were sleeping on improvised beds, bundles of all sizes and shapes forming pillows for their shaggy heads. Some lay on the long dresser, some on the bare floor beneath it—all sleeping the sleep of the weary. "As soon as she saw I was warm and more comfortable, my hostess showed me to the only place in the house that they had to give us. It was a tiny dormitory, more like a bird-cage than anything else. The walls were lathed, but without plaster, and both air and light were freely admitted. However, it had a clean bed in it, and I was glad to lie down and watch the river dancing in the moonlight and listen to the rush of the rapids until I fell asleep. "The following morning a message was sent to my brother to let him know of our arrival, and that evening he ran the rapids in his canoe, and we met again after seven long years of separation."

Mrs. Traill remained in Peterborough with their kind friends, Mr. Stewart and his family, while her husband returned with Mr. Strickland to his clearing on the shores of Lake Katchewanook, the first of the chain of lakes of which the Otonabee is the outlet. Mr. Strickland had taken up land there for the many advantages the locality offered. There was good soil, fine timber, excellent water-power, rich mineral deposits, and the probability or remote certainty that at some future date the lakes would be connected by canals, the river made navigable by the construction of locks, and a water highway be obtained from Lake Huron via Lake Simcoe to the Bay of Quinte and the St. Lawrence, an expectation which appears about to have the first steps taken towards its accomplishment.

Mr. Traill drew his Government grant of land in the neighborhood, the principal portion being in Verulam township, the smaller in Douro, and by the purchase of an additional grant secured a water frontage. Until he could build a house they lived with Mr. Strickland, during which time Mrs. Traill became initiated into the ways of life in the bush. In her "Backwoods of Canada," there is a very pretty description of these first few months of life in Canada, and of her acquaintance with the natural history surrounding her new home.

On the 11th of December, 1833, they moved into the new house, which was duly named "Westove." Here they lived seven happy years, for though they had to endure all the hardships and trials inseparable from the early settlement of the bush, they yet were busy and hopeful, happy in the society of each other and the neighborhood of her brother and his family. Mr. Moodie had also moved up from his first location near Cobourg, in February, 1834, and bought land on the Douro side of the lake, about a mile beyond Mr. Strickland's homestead.

The erection of a good saw-mill and a bridge over the river also gave them readier access to a market at Peterborough and to their friends, and tended to lessen the loneliness of the situation. They all had suffered at times from the low fever and ague, and the various vicissitudes of farm-life, but were always ready to help each other or their less fortunate neighbors.

In 1835, Mrs. Traill again took up her pen. The "Backwoods of Canada" was written, and in 1836 was published in London by Charles Knight, Ludgate Street, for the "Library of Entertaining Knowledge" Series. This volume contained much valuable information for intending emigrants, and had a wide circulation. Though all the hardships and discomforts of life in the bush were told with graphic fidelity, they were described with a cheerful and optimistic pen, as of one who had a far-seeing eye into the future capabilities of the country and a present knowledge of its boundless resources and value, so that the picture of the rough life did not deter many from venturing to embark their all in the effort to make a better home for themselves and their children in the New World, but rather the reverse. The author's cheerful, happy spirit had robbed the backwoods of its terrors.

When the rebellion of 1837 broke out, Mr. Traill—as did every other half-pay officer in the clearing—hastened to offer his services to the Government.

"The tidings of the rising was brought to our clearing from Peterborough," writes Mrs. Traill, "the messenger arriving at midnight through the snow to call all loyal men to the defence of their country. No time was lost that night, and before dawn I said farewell to my husband. The next day my maid left me—she had a lover and must go and keep him from going to the wars—then the man-servant had to follow and see about his people; so there I was alone in the bush with three small children, the eldest scarcely four years old. Jamie and I had to roll in the logs for the fire. He was the cleverer of the two, for he tied a rope to the log, and with his baby help I managed to keep the fires going until a neighbor came to help us."

Mr. Traill, however, only went as far as Cobourg, for by the time the men there were enrolled, orders countermanding their march came from Toronto, and, after some weeks of vexatious delay and uncertainty, they were disbanded and returned to their homes. Mr. Moodie had, however, gone direct to Toronto, and, being commissioned in one of the regiments serving on the Niagara frontier, his return was delayed for months. During this long winter Mrs. Traill was often with her sister, and Mr. Moodie, in several of his letters, speaks most gratefully of their kindness to his wife.

In the sketch, "The First Death in the Clearing," Mrs. Traill gives an instance of how she was called upon to go to the bedside of sorrow or sickness, and reading between the lines one can see what a comfort her loving sympathy must have been to the bereaved mother. Jessie is still alive and often visits Mrs. Traill, bringing her kindly offerings of fresh eggs and butter from the farm. Last summer when Mrs. Traill was so ill that few thought she would recover, Jessie's grief was great. She recalled over and over again the kindness to her in the bush in those early days. "Ay, an' she was sae bonnie; sic a bonnie leddy, wi' her pink cheeks an' her blue e'en, an' she was sae lovin' and dear; my, but I'll greet sair if she is ta'en away!" But Jessie's prayers for the recovery of the dear old friend were answered, and we have her with us still.

In 1839, Mr. Traill sold the farm on the lake, and bought a house and lot in what was lately known as Ashburnham, now a part of Peterborough, where they lived until 1846, when they removed to Rice Lake, and subsequently purchased "Oaklands."

Meanwhile Mrs. Traill had not been idle. They were very poor, as all settlers of Mr. Traill's class and education were in those days, unfitted for the rough life and to cope with the difficulties which the work entailed; and his wife's pen was frequently the means of keeping the wolf from the door. She wrote many short stories and sketches for the magazines both in England and the States, the Anglo-American being one of those in the latter country; and, in 1850, "Lady Mary and her Nurse," more familiar to present-day readers as "Afar in the Forest," was published. In this little volume there is a story of the grey squirrels, that used to be the delight of my early childhood.

The Traills had removed from Ashburnham to "Wolf Tower," a house belonging to Mr. Bridges, which attained some celebrity; from there they went to live in a small log-house on a rise called Mount Ararat, above a deep ravine on the shores of Rice Lake, and it was here, among the actual surroundings, so well depicted on its pages, that Mrs. Traill wrote "The Canadian Crusoes." It was published by Messrs. Hall & Vertue, London, and later the copyright of both it and "Lady Mary and her Nurse" were bought by Messrs. Nelson & Sons, Edinburgh. These books have gone through many editions and been issued under more than one title, given them by the publisher, but the authoress has not received any further remuneration than the £50 paid for the copyright. They are now on sale in every bookshop as "Lost in the Backwoods" and "Afar in the Forest."

After the purchase and removal to "Oaklands," "A Guide for the Female Emigrant" was written and published in London. Owing to some mismanagement of her editor and the publisher, the authoress received very small return for this useful little book.

Mrs. Traill's family now numbered nine, four sons and five daughters (of whom only two sons and two daughters survive), yet, with all the cares and anxiety, as well as the necessary work which the bringing up of a young family entailed, added to the hard labor of farm-life, her love of flowers and for natural history in general was a continual source of pleasure and eventually of profit. She lost no opportunity of studying the botany of the country, and was ever seeking for new specimens to add to her herbarium or collection of dried flowers, ferns and mosses, and making notes of the locality and conditions of their growth. This is still one of her chief pleasures and occupations; she has the gleanings of last summer now ready to put down during the coming winter months.

On the 26th of August, 1857, owing to some cause or accident never ascertained, the crowning misfortune of all the losses in the bush happened. They were burnt out and lost absolutely everything—all the treasures they had striven so hard to save, books, manuscripts and other valuables, the family barely escaping with their lives. Mr. Traill felt the loss very much, especially of his books. He never quite recovered the shock and sorrow of seeing his family thrown thus homeless on the world. Their eldest son was married; the youngest was only a child of ten years. Mr. Strickland and other friends were most kind, helpful and sympathetic, but the loss could never be recovered.

They stayed for some time with Mrs. Traill's brother, Mr. Strickland, and then removed to a house placed at their service by their friend Mrs. Stewart, where Mr. Traill died, after a short but severe illness.

Upon her husband's death, Mr. Strickland urged Mrs. Traill to return to the old neighborhood of their first settlement, now a thriving village, and her daughter Mary obtaining a position as teacher in the school there, they returned to live once more on the banks of the Otonabee. Mrs. Traill had several times during these years sent home small collections of pressed ferns and mosses. These found a ready sale in England. One of these collections attracted the attention of Lady Charlotte Greville, who succeeded in so interesting Lord Palmerston in Mrs. Traill's literary work as to obtain for her a grant of £100 from a special fund.

With this unexpected and welcome present Mrs. Traill purchased the house and lot where she now lives, and which with a loving thought of her husband's old home in the Orkneys and of their first home in the bush, she has called "Westove."

Lady Charlotte Greville also sent her a large package of seeds and a screw-press, with which she could press her ferns more effectually.

In 1869, her botanical notes were utilized in supplying the letter-press for her niece, Mrs. FitzGibbon's "Canadian Wild Flowers," and in 1884, Mrs. Traill published her "Studies of Plant Life in Canada," also illustrated by her niece, now Mrs. Chamberlin.

While the latter book was in the press, Mrs. Traill paid a visit to Ottawa and enjoyed the pleasure of meeting many who had been interested in her work of renewing old friendships and making the personal acquaintance of many with whom she had corresponded on kindred subjects. She was also greatly indebted to Mr. James Fletcher, of the Experimental Farm, for his kind aid in reading the proofs of her book.

Mrs. Traill went to Government House, and took a lively interest in the gay scenes on the skating rink and toboggan slides, as smiling and happy as the youngest among us, and winning admiration and affection from all those who had the pleasure of seeing her. It was during this visit to Ottawa that the photograph was taken from which the engraving forming the frontispiece to the present volume is made. Mrs. Traill was then in her eighty-fourth year.

The fac-simile engraving shown on the page facing this portrait of Mrs. Traill is taken from part of a letter written recently to a friend whom she values highly. It is interesting not only as a specimen of the handwriting of one of such advanced years, but also as indicating the unaffected piety of her life.

"Studies of Plant Life" is now a rare book, chance copies selling for three times the original price.

Mrs. Traill had always received kindly presents from her sisters in England, and during the last few years of their lives they were in a better position to help her and add to the comforts of her home surroundings. The copyright of the "Queens of England," left her by her sister Agnes, although sold for half its value, has added a little to her very small income.

In 1893, hearing of the likelihood of the sale of the little island in Stony Lake, where a poor Indian girl was buried, Mrs. Traill wrote to the Department at Ottawa to ask that it should be granted her. It was but a tiny island, and her anxiety to preserve the Indian girl's grave from desecration induced her to take this step. Mr. Sandford Fleming kindly interested himself in her behalf, and the request was granted.

The following extract from her old friend's announcement is so gratifying to Mrs. Traill that I cannot refrain from quoting it:

"I have the pleasure to inform you that by the same post you will receive a patent for 'Polly Cow's Island,' in the river Otonabee, township of Douro.

"It has been a great pleasure to everyone here, from the highest to the lowest official, to do everything in their power to do you honorable service and gratify your every wish—every one of them feeling that the most any of them can do is but the smallest acknowledgment which is due to you for your life-long devotion to Canada."

The patent is beautifully engrossed by hand and is highly valued by the owner.

Another honor paid Mrs. Traill was the compliment of calling a remarkable form of the fern Aspidium marginale, which she found growing near the village of Lakefield, on a vacant town lot that was only partially cleared from the forest trees, Mrs. Traill's Shield Fern—A. marginale (Swz.) var: Traillæ—is not the least valued by her.

There have been many events in Mrs. Traill's life not mentioned in this brief biographical introduction to her book, such as bereavements, in the death of two of her sons and her daughter Mary—trials patiently borne and sorrows suffered that had overwhelmed her but for her trust in Providence and her unfailing reliance on His will. I have passed them by, not because they are without interest, but because it would be turning back a cloud of sorrow to dim the dear old eyes with tears, and hide for awhile the silver lining that has glorified her life.

She has given such pretty glimpses of her home by the Otonabee, in the sketches, that I should only spoil it were I to attempt to describe it in greater detail. Anyone seeing her now in the pretty sitting-room, busy with her gay patchwork, stitching away at quilts for the Indian Missionary Auxiliary basket, or putting down the ferns and mosses gathered last summer during her visit to the island of Minnewawa, and watching the light in her blue eyes, the smile on her soft old face, unwrinkled by a frown, or listening to her clever conversation, sparkling with well-told anecdotes and incidents of men and things garnered during her long life and retained with a memory that is phenomenal, would realize that the secret of her peaceful old age, her unclouded intellect, and the brightness of her eye, is due to her trust in Providence, her contentment with her lot, and a firm faith in the future where a happy reunion with the loved ones awaits her.

The following lines, written on her mother's eightieth birthday by Mrs. Traill's third daughter, Mary (the late Mrs. Muchall), though faulty in metre, are so descriptive that I cannot end my brief sketch better than by quoting them:

"Eighty to-day is our mother,

A picture so peaceful and fair,

The lilies of fourscore summers

Asleep in her silvered hair.

"Eighty to-day, yet the love-light

Shines as soft in her sweet blue eyes,

As touched with a ray from heaven

Of the peace that never dies.

"The happy spirit of childhood,

That with some is too quickly past,

Caught by some magic enchantment,

Is flooding her life to the last.

"Eighty to-day, and her children,

Near or far in a distant land,

Are strong sons and happy daughters,

A loved and a loving band.

"In our hearts she'll live forever;

When she leaves for a world more fair,

Her smile will be still more radiant

As she welcomes each dear one there."