We went from Port Hope to Toronto, the home of the celebrated Canadian Oculist, Doctor Roseborough, whose fame had been heralded in every portion of the Provinces I had visited.  My past experience had so disgusted me with eye surgeons that for one week I had daily passed his house, instinctively avoiding an entrance.  One day, however, I quite as instinctively sought an interview with the Doctor, impelled by some strange impulse I could not well define.  I was familiarly but courteously greeted with these words, “You have been in the city an entire week, and yet have not called to see me.”  In reply I frankly confessed that I avoided upon principle the members of his branch of the surgical profession.

His subtle magnetism would soon have dispelled all feeling of repulsion; and before I was conscious of the degree of confidence he inspired, I found myself almost persuaded to accept his cordial invitation to tea.  The only barrier I could interpose was want of acquaintance with his wife, and that obstacle was soon removed.  We found her a most intelligent and charming person, and her mother, Mrs. Reeves, who was present, a dignified, stately English lady of “the old regime.”

In a few moments after our meeting all her reserve vanished, and she impulsively and almost tearfully drew near.  She told in trembling tones of a blind sister who had passed away some time before, and while she had come in contact with so many who had resorted to her son-in-law for treatment, she had never before met one who resembled her sister, while in me she seemed to have found her counterpart.

This became at once a bond between us, and throwing off all her usual reserve, she insisted upon having us leave the hotel and spend the remainder of the time of our stay with her.  So pronounced was her character and so peremptory her demand, there was no room for refusal, and when in a succeeding conversation with her son I expressed some compunction at our stay, I was at once silenced by the remark that his mother was a woman of marked idiosyncracies, and when she so distinguished an individual as to make them a guest the decision was final, and I must not wound her by an expression of possible impropriety.  It is needless to say I left this family with deep regret, carrying letters from Doctor Roseborough; and in my visits to the various places en route to Montreal I found these credentials of great service.

On arriving at Montreal we were handsomely domiciled at St. Lawrence Hall.  Our room was large and airy, and our bed stood in one of those quaint old alcoves so peculiar to the English bed-chamber; while the table d’hote, with its savory roast beef, plumb pudding, etc., was equally characteristic of British comfort.

This was during the blustering month of March, and all who have visited that city at the season in which it becomes necessary to cut away the ice from the streets will remember the pitfalls and realize how difficult it would be for the blind, even with the kindest and most careful attendance, to avoid danger.  I escaped without any greater mishap than a fall into one of these excavations, attended by a wetting of my feet, as well as a thorough soaking of five books and their consequent loss.  I had, however, four weeks of successful canvassing, and during that time the condition of the streets had quite improved.