For awhile, he confined his excesses to his own fireside, but this was only for as long a period as the sale of his stock and land would supply him with the means of criminal indulgence.  After a time, all these resources failed, and his large grant of eight hundred acres of land had been converted into whiskey, except the one hundred acres on which his house and barn stood, embracing the small clearing from which the family derived their scanty supply of wheat and potatoes.  For the sake of peace, his wife gave up all her ornaments and household plate, and the best articles of a once handsome and ample wardrobe, in the hope of hiding her sorrows from the world, and keeping her husband at home.

The pride, that had rendered him so obnoxious to his humbler neighbours, yielded at length to the inordinate craving for drink; the man who had held himself so high above his honest and industrious fellow-settlers, could now unblushingly enter their cabins and beg for a drop of whiskey.  The feeling of shame once subdued, there was no end to his audacious mendacity.  His whole time was spent in wandering about the country, calling upon every new settler, in the hope of being asked to partake of the coveted poison.  He was even known to enter by the window of an emigrant’s cabin, during the absence of the owner, and remain drinking in the house while a drop of spirits could be found in the cupboard.  When driven forth by the angry owner of the hut, he wandered on to the distant town of P—–­, and lived there in a low tavern, while his wife and children were starving at home.

“He is the filthiest beast in the township,” said the afore-mentioned neighbour to me; “it would be a good thing for his wife and children if his worthless neck were broken in one of his drunken sprees.”

This might be the melancholy fact, but it was not the less dreadful on that account.  The husband of an affectionate wife—­the father of a lovely family—­and his death to be a matter of rejoicing!—­a blessing, instead of being an affliction!—­an agony not to be thought upon without the deepest sorrow.

It was at this melancholy period of her sad history that Mrs. N—–­ found, in Jenny Buchanan, a help in her hour of need.  The heart of the faithful creature bled for the misery which involved the wife of her degraded master, and the children she so dearly loved.  Their want and destitution called all the sympathies of her ardent nature into active operation; they were long indebted to her labour for every morsel of food which they consumed.  For them, she sowed, she planted, she reaped.  Every block of wood which shed a cheering warmth around their desolate home was cut from the forest by her own hands, and brought up a steep hill to the house upon her back.  For them, she coaxed the neighbours, with whom she was a general favourite, out of many a mess of eggs for their especial benefit; while with her cheerful songs, and hearty, hopeful disposition, she dispelled much of the cramping despair which chilled the heart of the unhappy mother in her deserted home.