Argument and remonstrance were alike in vain, he could not be dissuaded from his purpose.  Tom was as obstinate as his bear.

The next morning he conducted us to the stable to see Bruin.  The young denizen of the forest was tied to the manger, quietly masticating a cob of Indian corn, which he held in his paw, and looked half human as he sat upon his haunches, regarding us with a solemn, melancholy air.  There was an extraordinary likeness, quite ludicrous, between Tom and the bear.  We said nothing, but exchanged glances.  Tom read our thoughts.

“Yes,” said he, “there is a strong resemblance; I saw it when I bought him.  Perhaps we are brothers;” and taking in his hand the chain that held the bear, he bestowed upon him sundry fraternal caresses, which the ungrateful Bruin returned with low and savage growls.

“He can’t flatter.  He’s all truth and sincerity.  A child of nature, and worthy to be my friend; the only Canadian I ever mean to acknowledge as such.”

About an hour after this, poor Tom was shaking with ague, which in a few days reduced him so low that I began to think he never would see his native shores again.  He bore the affliction very philosophically, and all his well days he spent with us.

One day my husband was absent, having accompanied Mr. S—–­ to inspect a farm, which he afterwards purchased, and I had to get through the long day at the inn in the best manner I could.  The local papers were soon exhausted.  At that period they possessed little or no interest for me.  I was astonished and disgusted at the abusive manner in which they were written, the freedom of the press being enjoyed to an extent in this province unknown in more civilised communities.

Men, in Canada, may call one another rogues and miscreants, in the most approved Billingsgate, through the medium of the newspapers, which are a sort of safety-valve to let off all the bad feelings and malignant passions floating through the country, without any dread of the horsewhip.  Hence it is the commonest thing in the world to hear one editor abusing, like a pickpocket, an opposition brother; calling him a reptile—­a crawling thing—­a calumniator—­a hired vendor of lies; and his paper a smut-machine—­a vile engine of corruption, as base and degraded as the proprietor, &c.  Of this description was the paper I now held in my hand, which had the impudence to style itself the Reformer—­not of morals or manners, certainly, if one might judge by the vulgar abuse that defiled every page of the precious document.  I soon flung it from me, thinking it worthy of the fate of many a better production in the olden times, that of being burned by the common hangman; but, happily, the office of hangman has become obsolete in Canada, and the editors of these refined journals may go on abusing their betters with impunity.

Books I had none, and I wished that Tom would make his appearance, and amuse me with his oddities; but he had suffered so much from the ague the day before that when he did enter the room to lead me to dinner, he looked like a walking corpse—­the dead among the living! so dark, so livid, so melancholy, it was really painful to look upon him.