But I have dwelt long enough upon these serious subjects; and I will leave my husband, who is better qualified than myself, to give a more accurate account of the country, while I turn to matters of a lighter and a livelier cast.

It was towards the close of the summer of 1833, which had been unusually cold and wet for Canada, while Moodie was absent at D—–­, inspecting a portion of his government grant of land, that I was startled one night, just before retiring to rest, by the sudden firing of guns in our near vicinity, accompanied by shouts and yells, the braying of horns, the beating of drums, and the barking of all the dogs in the neighborhood.  I never heard a more stunning uproar of discordant and hideous sounds.

What could it all mean?  The maid-servant, as much alarmed as myself, opened the door and listened.

“The goodness defend us!” she exclaimed, quickly closing it, and drawing a bolt seldom used.  “We shall be murdered.  The Yankees must have taken Canada, and are marching hither.”

“Nonsense! that cannot be it.  Besides they would never leave the main road to attack a poor place like this.  Yet the noise is very near.  Hark! they are firing again.  Bring me the hammer and some nails, and let us secure the windows.”

The next moment I laughed at my folly in attempting to secure a log hut, when the application of a match to its rotten walls would consume it in a few minutes.  Still, as the noise increased, I was really frightened.  My servant, who was Irish (for my Scotch girl, Bell, had taken to herself a husband and I had been obliged to hire another in her place, who had only been a few days in the country), began to cry and wring her hands, and lament her hard fate in coming to Canada.

Just at this critical moment, when we were both self-convicted of an arrant cowardice, which would have shamed a Canadian child of six years old, Mrs. O—–­ tapped at the door, and although generally a most unwelcome visitor, from her gossiping, mischievous propensities, I gladly let her in.

“Do tell me,” I cried, “the meaning of this strange uproar?”

“Oh, ’tis nothing,” she replied, laughing; “you and Mary look as white as a sheet; but you need not be alarmed.  A set of wild fellows have met to charivari Old Satan, who has married his fourth wife to-night, a young gal of sixteen.  I should not wonder if some mischief happens among them, for they are a bad set, made up of all the idle loafers about Port H—–­ and C—–.”

“What is a charivari?” said I.  “Do, pray, enlighten me.”

“Have you been nine months in Canada, and ask that question?  Why I thought you knew everything!  Well, I will tell you what it is.  The charivari is a custom that the Canadians got from the French, in the Lower Province, and a queer custom it is.  When an old man marries a young wife, or an old woman a young husband, or two old people, who ought to be thinking of their graves, enter for the second or third