not exactly to please the harsh and scrutinizing eye of the lord of the mansion.  I then turned my frozen steps towards this house of hospitality where after explaining mon besoin to the waiter he scrupulously and critically eyed me from top to toe, from head to foot, then turned on his heel to go to his master and report accordingly.  During his absence I commenced a serious inspection of self to find if possible what had attracted his attention so pointedly towards my toes, when I observed the cause to be the silver chain of my over-alls peeping out from under my great-coat; which, no doubt, was the reason of having received a favourable answer; for on his re-entrance he asked me to sit down and I finally engaged a room.

On January 9th, 1811, Tom wrote to say that a man had arrived from Murray Bay but without letters: 

“What the Devil has come over those sisters of mine?  Pray are they still behind the stove patching their old stockings?  No time forsooth—­Rediculous—­Could not the lazy wretches have only wrote me the scratch of a pen merely to wish me a good New Year?  Mr. McCord to be sure mumbles something about time; it is highly diverting to have country lasses talk about want of time, particularly those I am now speaking of, unless they have greatly altered for the better since I saw them last, and turned their hands to cow-keeping, tending of poultry, or something of that description; but I’ll be bound for it they still employ themselves with nothing else except perching behind the stove, growling, and driving carriols.”

He exhorts his sisters to take long walks in the fine cold weather.  Then he dips into politics.  There is to be an election at Murray Bay for the county of Northumberland and Mr. Bouchette, a Canadian, had asked for the interest of Tom as seigneur.  He regrets that he cannot himself offer to stand since he is unsettled in plans, “and totally unacquainted with the language of the country”; a strange comment on the fact that in early youth he had known only French.  The habitant had recently secured the right to vote but already pleased himself in exercising it.  Though, as Tom says, “Dr. La Terriere of the adjacent seigniory of Les Eboulements, the Cures, and the Devil knows who” all wished Bouchette elected and Tom was himself anxious that a habitant should not be chosen, Bouchette failed and a habitant was sent to Quebec to represent the district in the Legislature.

Tom’s letters written during the winter of 1810-1811 are full of the gossip and events of the time in Quebec.  He is now obviously keen for self-improvement, and, in the manner of his father, for the improvement of others also; while congratulating Polly on the better style of her letters which are now “sprightly”, he corrects her spelling.  Among other things he is trying to complete a proper inscription for his father’s tomb.  He sends for the title deeds of his property in order that he may do homage to