insensible, indeed, to the beautiful realities of the
sweet wild solitude that reigned around, must that man
have been, who could have gazed unmoved, from the lofty
banks of the Erie, on the placid lake beneath his feet,
mirroring the bright starred heavens on its unbroken
surface, or throwing into full and soft relief the snow
white sail, and dark hull of some stately war-ship,
becalmed in the offing, and only waiting the rising of
the capricious breeze, to waft her onward on her THEN
peaceful mission of dispatch. Lost indeed to all perception
of the natural must he have been, who could have listened,
without a feeling of voluptuous melancholy, to the
plaintive notes of the whip-poor-will, breaking on the
silence of night, and harmonising with the general
stillness of the scene. How often have we ourselves, in
joyous boyhood, lingered amid these beautiful haunts,
drinking in the fascinating song of this strange night-bird,
and revelling in a feeling we were too young to analyze,
yet cherished deeply--yea, frequently, even to this hour,
do we in our dreams revisit scenes no parallel to which
has met our view, even in the course of a life passed in
many climes; and on awaking, our first emotion is regret
that the illusion is no more.

Such was Amherstburg, and its immediate vicinity, during
the early years of the present century, and up to the
period at which our story commences. Not, be it understood,
that even THEN the scenery itself had lost one particle
of its loveliness, or failed in aught to awaken and fix
the same tender interest. The same placidity of earth,