Just at this period I received a letter from a gentleman, requesting me to write for a magazine (the Literary Garland) just started in Montreal, with promise to remunerate me for my labours.  Such an application was like a gleam of light springing up in the darkness; it seemed to promise the dawning of a brighter day.  I had never been able to turn my thoughts towards literature during my sojourn in the bush.  When the body is fatigued with labour, unwonted and beyond its strength, the mind is in no condition for mental occupation.

The year before, I had been requested by an American author, of great merit, to contribute to the North American Review, published for several years in Philadelphia; and he promised to remunerate me in proportion to the success of the work.  I had contrived to write several articles after the children were asleep, though the expense even of the stationery and the postage of the manuscripts was severely felt by one so destitute of means; but the hope of being of the least service to those dear to me cheered me to the task.  I never realised anything from that source; but I believe it was not the fault of the editor.  Several other American editors had written to me to furnish them with articles; but I was unable to pay the postage of heavy packets to the States, and they could not reach their destination without being paid to the frontier.  Thus, all chance of making anything in that way had been abandoned.  I wrote to Mr. L—–­, and frankly informed him how I was situated.  In the most liberal manner, he offered to pay the postage on all manuscripts to his office, and left me to name my own terms of remuneration.  This opened up a new era in my existence; and for many years I have found in this generous man, to whom I am still personally unknown, a steady friend.  I actually shed tears of joy over the first twenty-dollar bill I received from Montreal.  It was my own; I had earned it with my own hand; and it seemed to my delighted fancy to form the nucleus out of which a future independence for my family might arise.  I no longer retired to bed when the labours of the day were over.  I sat up, and wrote by the light of a strange sort of candles, that Jenny called “sluts,” and which the old woman manufactured out of pieces of old rags, twisted together and dipped in pork lard, and stuck in a bottle.  They did not give a bad light, but it took a great many of them to last me for a few hours.

The faithful old creature regarded my writings with a jealous eye.  “An’, shure, it’s killin’ yerself that you are intirely.  You were thin enough before you took to the pen; scribblin’ an’ scrabblin’ when you should be in bed an’ asleep.  What good will it be to the childhren, dear heart!  If you die afore your time, by wastin’ your strength afther that fashion?”

Jenny never could conceive the use of books.  “Sure, we can live and die widout them.  It’s only a waste of time botherin’ your brains wid the like of them; but, thanks goodness! the lard will soon be all done, an’ thin we shall hear you spakin’ again, instead of sittin’ there doubled up all night, desthroying your eyes wid porin’ over the dirthy writin’.”