and the Red Man would not pitch his tent in such a place as this.  Now, ghosts, as I understand the word, are the spirits of bad men that are not allowed by Providence to rest in their graves but, for a punishment, are made to haunt the spots where their worst deeds were committed.  I don’t believe in all this; but, supposing it to be true, bad men must have died here before their spirits could haunt the place.  Now, it is more than probable that no person ever ended his days in this forest, so that it would be folly to think of seeing his ghost.”

This theory of Mr. D—–­’s had the merit of originality, and it is not improbable that the utter disbelief in supernatural appearances which is common to most native-born Canadians, is the result of the same very reasonable mode of arguing.  The unpeopled wastes of Canada must present the same aspect to the new settler that the world did to our first parents after their expulsion from the Garden of Eden; all the sin which could defile the spot, or haunt it with the association of departed evil, is concentrated in their own persons.  Bad spirits cannot be supposed to linger near a place where crime has never been committed.  The belief in ghosts, so prevalent in old countries, must first have had its foundation in the consciousness of guilt.

After clearing this low, swampy portion of the wood, with much difficulty, and the frequent application of the axe, to cut away the fallen timber that impeded our progress, our ears were assailed by a low, roaring, rushing sound, as of the falling of waters.

“That is Herriot’s Falls,” said our guide.  “We are within two miles of our destination.”

Oh, welcome sound!  But those two miles appeared more lengthy than the whole journey.  Thick clouds, that threatened a snow-storm, had blotted out the stars, and we continued to grope our way through a narrow, rocky path, upon the edge of the river, in almost total darkness.  I now felt the chillness of the midnight hour, and the fatigue of the long journey, with double force, and envied the servant and children, who had been sleeping ever since we left Peterborough.  We now descended the steep bank, and prepared to cross the rapids.

Dark as it was, I looked with a feeling of dread upon the foaming waters as they tumbled over their bed of rocks, their white crests flashing, life-like, amid the darkness of the night.

“This is an ugly bridge over such a dangerous place,” said D—–­, as he stood up in the sleigh and urged his tired team across the miserable, insecure log bridge, where darkness and death raged below, and one false step of his jaded horses would have plunged us into both.  I must confess I drew a freer breath when the bridge was crossed, and D—–­ congratulated us on our safe arrival in Douro.

We now continued our journey along the left bank of the river, but when in sight of Mr. S—–­’s clearing, a large pine-tree, which had newly fallen across the narrow path, brought the teams to a standstill.