"Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys and destiny obscure,
Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor." _Gray_.

The Counties of Compton and Beauce, in the Province of Quebec, were
first opened up to settlement about fifty years ago. To this spot a
small colony of Highlanders from the Skye and Lewis Islands gravitated.
They brought with them the Gaelic language, a simple but austere
religion, habits of frugality and method, and aggressive health. That
generation is gone, or almost gone, but the essential characteristics of
the race have been preserved in their children. The latter are generous
and hospitable, to a fault. Within a few miles of the American frontier,
the forces of modern life have not reached them. Shut in by immense
stretches of the dark and gloomy "forest primeval," they live drowsily
in a little world where passions are lethargic, innocence open-eyed, and
vice almost unknown. Science has not upset their belief in Jehovah. God
is real, and somewhat stern, and the minister is his servant, to be
heard with respect, despite the appalling length of his sermons.
Sincerely pious, the people mix their religion with a little whiskey,
and the blend appears to give satisfaction. The farmers gather at the
village inn in the evening, and over a "drap o' Scotch" discuss the
past. As the stimulant works, generous sentiments are awakened in the
breast; and the melting songs of Robbie Burns--roughly rendered, it may
be--make the eye glisten. This is conviviality; but it has no relation
to drunkenness. Every household has its family altar; and every night,
before retiring to rest, the family circle gather round the father or
the husband, who devoutly commends them to the keeping of God.