of everything, from apples and mutton down to parsley, and all for the memory of England; while, perhaps, were she there, she might be without a pie.  The honest Scotchman is silent upon the subject of “vivers,” and wisely talks not of either “crowdy” or barley meal, but tells of the time when he was a sitter in the kirk of the Rev. Peter Poundtext, showing his Christian charity by the most profound contempt as well for the ordinances of the Church of England as for the “dippings” of the Baptists.  He attends none of them, for he says “he canna thole it,” but when by chance a minister of the kirk comes his way, then you may see him, with well-saved Sabbath suit, pressing anxiously forward to catch the droppings of the sanctuary:  snows or streams offering no obstacle to his zeal.  The Irishman, too, is there seen all in his glory—­one with a medal on his breast, flinging his shillalagh over his head and shouting for O’Connell, while another is quaffing to the “pious, glorious, and immortal memory of King William,” inviting those around him to join together in an Orange Lodge, of which community he certainly shows no favourable specimen; but by degrees these national feelings and asperities become more softened, and the second generation know little of them.  The settlement from whence these sketches are drawn, was formed of a motley mixture of all the different nations—­Blue Nose, English, Scotch, Irish, Welch, and Dutch.

We had been living for some time at a place called Long Creek, on the margin of a broad and rapid stream, which might well have borne the more dignified appellation of river—­the land on its borders was the flat, rich “intervale,” so highly prized, formed by alluvial deposits.  There are, I believe, two descriptions of this intervale,—­one covered with low small bushes, and, therefore, more easily cleared—­the other with a gigantic growth of the butternut, the oak, and the elm.  This where we lived was of the latter description.  A few of the stately monarchs of the forest yet stood upon the emerald plains, spreading their magnificent branches to the sunlight, and telling of the kindly soil that nourished them.  Along the fences wild hops festooned themselves in graceful wreaths of wild luxuriance.  A few clumps of cranberry bushes had also been permitted to remain, notwithstanding the American’s antipathy to trees or bushes is such, that his axe, which he hardly ever stirs without, is continually flying about him; but this berry, one amongst the many indigenous to the country, is a useful addition to the winter store—­they grow abundantly, and, after the first frost which ripens them they have a brilliant appearance, hanging like clustering rubies, reminding one of the gem-clad boughs of Aladdin.  When gathered, they are hung up in bunches, when they become frozen, keeping good till the spring.  They are used for tarts and jellies, the frost neither altering their colour nor flavour.  Those places are overflown in the spring;