be precise in the matter of
costume,--the ladies _decolletees_ to the admissible extent, and the
gentlemen in black dress-coats and white "chokers." The necessity of
supporting the position suggested by this attempt at style, though,
induced extravagance. Many of the swells became bankrupt. Their farms
passed into more homespun hands. Their black dress-coats have long since
become rusty and out of the mode, and the mortiferous whiskey of the
country now tantalizes such of them as it has not killed with melancholy
remembrances of the Burgundy that was.

The simple faith and primitive arrangements that existed in some of
these clearings before the advent of the iron horse were peculiarities
that never failed to impress visitors from far-off cities and
settlements of older growth. Bolts and bars were the last things that a
settler would think about, when fitting up his house. A man would leave
his rifle in the canoe, upon the river's bank, for days together,
without the least misgiving as to its being spirited away. Rust would
not touch it, the climate of Western Canada being singularly free from
moisture; and the roving Indians who traversed these woods were
dependent in a great measure upon the white man, and had learned to look
upon his property with respect. Looking over one of my note-books, I
recall the picture of a deserted old shanty that stood in a meadow by
the margin of a bright and swift river. The gentleman who had formerly
occupied this weather-stained hut had built himself a larger and more
ambitious mansion upon the opposite bank of the stream. For some time
after he had moved into this, the interior of the house remained in an
unfinished state, and he had no accommodation for his books. Of these he
had a choice collection, and they were left in their large wooden cases,
for two years or so, on the upper floor of the old shanty, the doors of
which had already parted from their hinges, and the windows yielded to
the autumnal blasts. To this most curious of circulating libraries the
owner accorded free access to the few neighbors who occupied the
clearings around. Many a time I have swung myself up by the crazy ladder
that led to the attic where the books were; and in summer I would often
sit there for hours, reading Cooper's novels, which had then an
attraction enhanced by the circumstances and place. In winter I would
take books away. If it was the season for wild ducks I would have a gun
beside me, to get