This is a truly dreadful scrawl, but never mind, quantity wins the day, quality nowhere. You see I am taking the subjects of your letter and answering them as I go along. So far from having had to dip into my money for Henry, I left him with fifty odd clear dollars in his pocket; this came from his second 10. He had pretty near come to the end of the ten he had in his belt when he started, when he got the job. I had already come to the end of mine—extraordinary, was'nt it?—and now I have got at this present moment $459 75c.; quite a fortune, is'nt it? I'm sorry I have'nt time to write you a longer letter my dearest mamma, but those nasty wicked people at the Post Office said they would not stop that big ship for a day or two on any account. This is such a beast of a pen. I would put it in the envelope and send it to you if I did not think it would find its way out before it reached you, just to show you what an immoderate amount of patience I have got. I've tried to cross all these t's half-a-dozen times, and pretty vigorously too. It must be awful good paper to withstand the amount of friction necessary. Now I've pretty well filled up the sheet. That's all I've been trying to do lately as you can no doubt see.

With best love to all friends, relations, and acquaintances, believe me,

Ever your loving Son, J. SETON COCKBURN.



202, Bank Street, Ottawa,

October 15th, '84.

My Dearest Mother,

I have just received your letter, dated the—wait a minute till I look—the 17th Sept. Long while ago, isn't it? Do you remember what you wrote about? I never do; and it seems most extraordinary in reading your letters referring to ones I have written about a month ago, that though I know you are answering them, I don't understand what you are talking about the least in the world. I don't want to discourage you, you know. Your letters are rather enhanced in value by their riddle-like quotations. They make me wonder what on earth I can have been writing about. I do not even remember, unless you tell me, whether they were long or short; and, except for my consciousness of never having written in a strain of trifling or levity, or otherwise than in a manner calculated to elevate and improve the minds of everyone but my hearers, I should be almost led to think I had been guilty of excesses in the way of toast-water or gruel previous to writing them (tea-totaller you see). Put it to yourself now. Wouldn't you feel riled if somebody said, in a long commendatory sort of letter to yourself, that your description of so and so was very funny? or that somebody else laughed very much at your whole letter, when you felt certain that the letter in question must have been a well thought out essay on the subject. "Did Socrates ever stand on his head? and if so, upon which end of him did it grow?" Wouldn't it be matter for despair to feed his remorseless eye teeth upon, to find that the highest flights of your intellect were capable only of a jocular interpretation? But I feel certain there must be a mistake somewhere. As I said before, I am fortified with the comfortable assurance of the integrity of my heart in wishing to write only what will feed the hungry mind. By-the-bye, if Socrates ever did stand on the upside down end, he had excellent authority in justification of his action, for Pot, the Patentee, has been known to do likewise. I've only had two pipes to-day, mother; or three, is it—I forget; call it two. Justice, tempered with mercy, &c., which means that I'll have another now. That's the thing for ideas! Oh, certainly. Picture to yourself an editor writing like mad. He indulges in a pipe to soothe his rampant brain, and while lighting it he leans back for a complacent yawn. When he gets up again, his dominant idea is that the back of his chair must have been suffering from a diseased spine. Isn't that a striking picture? The earth hitting a poor man on the back of his head, eh? Well, it's quite a true one, and the incidents it portrays are also of recent occurrence. The weary editor represents me; the earth represents—hooray—a feather bed, which heroically interposes its devoted body between me and the belligerent planet. Every detail you can con (I don't know how to spell conjure) up will represent the scene true to the life in everything save the attitude and gestures of the falling literary warrior. Nothing you could imagine would adequately portray the elegance—the dignity of my descent. Daddy was, I believe, the fortunate witness of my native grace of movement under similar trying circumstances. I allude to an incident which occurred during a small festive gathering held in our Denmark Street domain, on the occasion of his last visit to Gateshead. None of the furniture, I am happy to say, suffered very severely during the encounter. The table, under which my booted feet were disposed happened somehow to have a rather violent oscillation imparted to it, disarranging direfully what was already in direful disarray. The lamp, standing alone in the midst of confusion, suffered a partial eclipse; and my favourite Dublin meerschaum successfully resisted the dilapidating effect of a fall of several feet. So much for tableaux vivants in real life. Now I will just see if there is anything in your letter requiring an answer. First and foremost, I am very much obliged to the Miss Bruces for their kind message, to which please return them for answer a like message from me. As to Kemp I don't think you need be at all uneasy concerning him. Even supposing he had any "foul plots" with regard to either of us, he is done with now; but I am perfectly certain he conspired only to our benefit. It is due entirely to him that a place was found for Henry, while we were galivanting about in Montreal, and I firmly believe a good place too; better any way, as far as I can see, than old Crabtree, who was a baccy chewing old son of a sea-cook.

All I have ever heard against Hardy is that he is not a man to pay ten dollars for what is only worth five—which means in point of fact that Henry will not get very big wages. Still he gets his keep—and good keep too, as I can testify—and will soon get something else besides; and meantime he is in a clean house, among a fairly civilized and certainly good-natured set of people, and with a very comfortable room to himself. When he is two or three years older, he will be able to see his own interests clearly, and to know his own worth, and then if he could benefit himself by a change, let him do so. Henry is at present very young for his years, and has a good many ways and ideas which time will moderate. On an old fossil like Crabtree these youthful vagaries would jar continually, that is, I think, they might; while on Hardy they had just the opposite effect. He seemed to be a good deal amused with Henry—not at all satirically. He seemed to think he was rather good company, and his laugh is so peculiar that he has only to show an incipient inclination to grin, and Henry is ready to join him at once. I had a sort of message from him (Henry) to-day. Your letter was sent to Eton Corner, and Henry sent it on to me enclosed in a note, to the effect that he liked the work immensely, and would write on Sunday. Just received two more letters from you. I was awfully sorry to hear about poor Uncle James. My god-father, wasn't he? Poor fellow! He was always honour itself, and would spend his last dollar in paying a lawyer to give his property to somebody else if he thought it belonged to them, in moral justice. Well, I am very sorry to hear about it, and that's about all I can say. I never saw very much of him; but what I have seen was nothing but what was good—generosity, kindness, honour, and a certain grim good-nature—all his own.

I know I missed a mail in writing to you, but I could not help it. It was the time I went to Eton Corner with Henry, and not being at all aware of the posting difficulties connected with these out of-the-way places, I found when I got there that it took almost as long for a letter to get from Eton Corner to Quebec as from Quebec half-way across the Atlantic. I was knocking about from pillar to post there, and I had to write when and where I could; but I will not miss-fire again if I can help it. Talking about missing fire reminds me that it's all gammon about not being allowed to carry cartridges or combustibles on board a steamer, or on board the "Montreal" any way. Nobody took the trouble to find out even if we had any infernal machines in our bags or not, and everybody carried matches—ship's officers and all—generally wax ones. From not being supplied with these necessaries, I was constantly having to "cadge" a light for my pipe from somebody else, for as I believe I told you I was not always too bad to smoke. In fact, I believe it was due to the sneaking way in which I knocked the ashes out of my Friday morning pipe, that I got seedy at all. You see—well, never mind, we won't talk any more blarney in this letter, out of respect to the memory of poor Uncle James. I can't help remarking though, that you are just a wee peckle Irish in your lamentations concerning my remissness in writing. You say in a letter to me, "There is no note from you this week, except one from Henry." In view of what you say about the Howels and Audleys I think I shall write to them both.—To Mrs. Howel, to explain why I didn't call when I was in Montreal, and to Mrs. Audley, to thank her for the introduction I never received; and besides, I may just as well let them know where I am. I don't think it costs Allen anything to forward my letters. They always come with only the English stamp on them, and his address scratched out and mine put on, generally with the word "re-directed" written above. It's only fair after all. You pay the Post Office to send the letters to where I am, not to where I was. I must shut up now. It's time to turn in, though I expect I'll have time to add something besides my signature before I mail this to-morrow. Friday night.—I have only got a very little time before post, and only a very little to say. I don't know if I have fairly answered all the subjects in your letter that I wish to speak about, and I haven't time to read it over again. However, I suppose you get a letter pretty well every week by the time this comes to hand. The weather here is every bit as changeable as it ever was in Dawlish. Sometimes I have felt it decidedly chilly, even with my great-coat on; and at others it's warm enough to cruise about la dook, without a great coat and "all flying."' The woods away over the other side of the river look something like the colour of an exaggerated orange. In fact, the country just now is pretty, to say the least of it. I don't think I have ever told you what this part of it is like, but I will reserve that subject for a future effort. By-the-bye, who won the tournament at Dawlish? You see I left just in the thick of it, so it naturally interests me, though of course it is quite an affair of the past with you. Did Ethel Beaumont win anything? Remember me to her as warmly as Charlie Wrottesley would permit, also to Mrs. B——. By-the-bye again, I told Daddy I was going to send him a present. So I am. It's coming; but it has'nt gone yet. There is a difficulty concerning the packing for such a long postage journey. Don't be alarmed on the score of my extravagance—there's no ground for it I assure you. I would tell you what the damage was; for I don't believe in keeping the cost of presents a secret. But the truth is, I don't exactly remember it. I think it was something over two, and under three, dollars, for the lot. The brooch is of course for Muriel, with my love. I suppose I may say that—shan't scratch it out anyway. Why, I haven't told you what the brooch is. Time's short; but it's a pair of snow shoes, crossed with a little affair at the top. I got them because they are characteristic of the country they come from, and I knew you would like to see them both dressed alike, though of course there will be something else besides. Love to everybody,

Your loving Son, F. SETON COCKBURN.



202, Bank Street, Ottawa, P.O.

October 17th, '84.

"Bold Old Daddy,"

Mercurial Retailer of Caustic and Squills, Leaches and Rhubarb and Camomile Pills.

Take a run and jump at yourself, and see if you can't hit upon the answer to that riddle.

This small satire is intended to counteract any embarrassing amount of gratitude you may happen to feel for the small present I send herewith to charming Mrs. Lestock Cockburn, that is to be, or that is already, for aught I know to the contrary. The scarf-pin is for yourself; you have got a much better one I know, but not such a pretty one. I hesitated a long time whether to send it to you or to Frank; he having indulged in a birthday some time back, but I argued, with my customary logical powers, that birthdays were, as a rule, of more frequent occurrence in the life of man than weddings, and having fairly gotten the best of the controversy, my opponent being nowhere, I have acted up to my convictions in sending you a miniature pair of snow-shoes as a testimony of my warm affection. (Horrible, ain't it?) Well, never mind. How goes the money-grubbing business in your department. Good word that. I got it in my dealings with the Government of these parts. What do you think? A man had the cheek to-day to ask me if I wanted any money! me, who's got four hundred and fifty dollars somewhere, and fifty cents, in his pocket besides; think of that you old Camomile Pill, and hold a bucket to your mouth to catch the water. That man, Sir, was my esteemed employer, A. Hartley, Esquire, who solicits patents, and gets a good many of them too, and I told that man "no," as became a gentleman of my own independent means, emphatically "no." Ahem! not just at present. Ha, ha, says I to myself, says I, I laugh in my sleeve, this is my first week, and from being new to the work and out of practice anyway, I have'nt appeared to the best advantage. I'll wait till next week, and then it'll be a lot of money or two pistols, says I to myself says I (that's a quotation you know.) Besides, I hope to benefit myself by this temporary abstinence in other ways. A sharp, enterprising chap, who is pushing his way upwards to business distinction as Hartley is, is better satisfied to have at his back a fellow who is evidently not hard up! and may be worth something, than to have a seedy looking dependent who must be paid on Saturday or sleep on a doorstep. Of course, supposing both to possess the same ability, it induces a feeling of respect too, which in its turn brings it about, that in the event of anything going wrong in any way, the more fortunate gentleman is not blown up, until the why and the wherefore of the mishap has been ascertained, when it frequently transpires that he is not in the wrong; whereas the seedy dependent, who generally walks in reluctantly at 9 o'clock and goes out with the air of a dook at five ditto sharp, gets it pretty hot in any case, in the same way that a man will swear at a common pipe for breaking, but will swear at himself for breaking an expensive one. I believe that illustrates my theory somehow, but I forgot my original idea before I had got half through with the simile. However, the plain fact is easy enough of comprehension. I have gone in for impressing my boss with an idea of my importance. You see I closed with this gentleman on the clear understanding that the job would possibly be only a temporary one, but if I can only get him to perceive my manifold merits I shall be kept on through the winter, and somebody else will have to bunk, that is supposing anybody has to. Take it altogether I have made a very good beginning; Hartley talks to me more confidentially every day, and this evening told me I had done very well, which does not look as though he were going to be niggardly in the matter of screw, for that is not a settled point yet. I notice that my writing is nearly as variable as my ideas. You might think this had been written by two different people, or by one man in two different years instead of all at one sitting, bar the last few words, which are a Sunday production. It's all done by a turn of the wrist, something like the handle in a New York printing machine. How can I go on? A slavey, one pre-eminently of the boarding house description, is kicking up a row. I don't exactly know what sort of a row, unless—. Yes, by jove, I have it, she's singing. I don't know whether Messrs. Moody and Sankey would be shocked at her for desecration of the Sabbath or praise her for singing one of their tunes. Probably they would split the difference and tell her she was a good girl, with a hint tacked on that a little went a long way. Well, this is a confounded lot of rubbish I've been writing, but I make it a point never to send an unfilled sheet across the Atlantic, and there is absolutely nothing to write about in all these places. You talk of Dawlish being a dead-and-alive hole, but it's a fool to Ottawa in this respect. It may be a go-ahead country, but the towns stand perfectly still. The prevailing sounds on Sunday afternoon are an occasional lumbering kind of tramp along the wooden pavements, the squalling of stray children, and the bark of stray dogs. Love to everybody (there's philanthropy for you).

Your loving Brother, J. SETON COCKBURN.

P.S.—(Monday night). There is nothing more to say except that I always feel as reluctant to close a letter as to begin one.

J. S. C.



202, Bank Street, Ottawa,

October 22nd, '84.

My Dear Old Daddy,

You wrote to me under the expectation of getting a reply from me, so here you are. Before I proceed further, let me wish you joy, as I suppose you are married by this time. May God bless you both, and may your patients have all the faith in your skill as a doctor, and your honour as a man, that you deserve. I don't know whether to address to you at Hope Cottage or not, as nobody has told me exactly when you are to be married, or where you are going when you've been and gone and done it. Well, by Jove! I know you're a cautious sort of chap as regards the L.S.D., and that you generally seem to know about how much coin you ought to have, but if I had your incipient fortune, I would swear by my own ghost and set up a blacksmith's shop alongside the Houses of Parliament. I would call myself a dooke, nothing less. Why it's magnificent. You'll soon be sporting a donkey cart or a balloon to pay your morning calls in. I would'nt have horses on any account if I were you, they're vulgar, and then if you should have to ride anywhere you would make a much greater sensation on a high mettled donkey with half the attendant personal danger.

No time for more at present, old chap. Give my love to your wife, and believe me,

Your affectionate Brother, J. SETON COCKBURN.



202, Bank Street, Ottawa,

October 22nd, '84.

Dear Mother,

As I am also writing to Daddy by this post, I am afraid you will not get a very long letter. There's a confisticated great buzz-fly knocking about, and I can't kill him. I told you in my last letter I would give you some idea of what Ottawa was like, but now the time has arrove for the ordeal, I don't like it; descriptions of scenery are not my forte, and they're always uninteresting both to write and to read. By-the-bye, before I begin, how's old Frank's ear, poor old chap, I suppose he growled away by himself, till it was found out by accident by some of you. I hope it will soon be all right again, and that he will be able to let me know how he is getting on at the Works, though three words will probably describe the state of affairs to perfection, "same as usual." Still, I should like to know what Major says to him, and if he or any other members of that fossilized firm are beginning to wake up to a consciousness of his merits. You know, it's always been my idea, that they will find out that they have let the two best men they ever had slip through their fingers, namely, the two senior engineering members of this remarkable family, and that it will eventually occur to them that they had perhaps better hold on to the third. The fact of their giving him 22/- a week while they are sacking other men looks promising for my theory, and if only he can establish a claim to any particular qualification, he may yet succeed in drawing some sort of a prize, where I, and even Pot, have only succeeded in drawing blanks. I believe Frank does possess a special qualification, and that is a power of managing and organizing work. Drawing or designing, etc., is not his strong point, though he would often succeed in that, as the tortoise, where many a hare would fail; but give him an erecting job or anything of that sort, and he would so arrange that the work first wanted should be first ready. This does not sound very much to boast of, but it is a very useful knack to have. I certainly do not possess anything of it, and many a scrape I get into at the Works through forgetting to order certain things at the proper time. For instance, when I had a dredger to get ready for action, it was found, when it came to the scratch, that there was no scum cock for the boiler, no posts for the handrails, etc.. etc. I was more sinned against than sinning that time however, as the job was suddenly thrown on my hands, when Pot left the Works in a state of semi-completion, and I did not know, and in the hap-hazard way things were done there, I could not find out whether certain details had been ordered or not. I believe, had Frank been given that job and told the dredger was to be chiefly the same as number so-and-so, that every drawing would have been sent out in proper order, and every question as to alteration, etc., broached in proper time, so that, when the bosses came to see it tried, it would have worked well without delay.

That's a very long eulogium on the poor dear "smiler;" let's hope it will also turn out to be true of him. Do you ever hear from the old Coke? I suppose you do too, though it seems as if from London to Dawlish was so short a distance it was scarcely worth writing. How's he getting on, and which is he? A manager or a millionaire, or, peradventure, a clerk? Tell Pot to let me know as soon as he makes his first tanner from his invention, and I will stand myself a cigar in honour of the occasion. I ought to write him a jaw too, but in case I shouldn't be able to at present, just tell him, please, that even supposing he fails in getting the advantages of his machine recognised in England, he would stand quite as good, if not a better chance, of doing so here. This country, or better still as I believe, the States, is far more ready and willing to accept and make use of improvements than the old one, and he may possibly not know that an English patent does not hold good here, and vice-versa, though both countries are under English rule. Just to give you an instance of the go-ahead nature of the Works here, I can tell you that Hartley, my employer, has had sixteen patents to procure from one Works alone, in the space of six months. I believe it is a large saw mill, or any way there's a large saw mill connected with them, for the machine I am engaged upon now is for sharpening saws, and they light their Works by gas. "made from sawdust," which is another of their patents.

Well, I've got off the scenery so far, and there's the weather to come yet, lots of it too. We've been having no end of weather lately. Sunday was cold and dull, nearly freezing the whole day. Monday ditto, with the addition of a breeze. Tuesday, no breeze, and as warm as toast, simply a beautiful summer's day. Wednesday just as hot, but blowing hard, and to-day. Thursday, cold as ever, and still blowing. I suppose at this time of year it's bound to change any five minutes. Friday.—I must mail this in about an hour, but half that time would suffice to run me dry. By-the-bye, I may as well tell you that my watch goes beautifully. It needed a good deal of regulating, and that took a long time, but at length I have got it quite near enough to perfection for all practical purposes. It gains steadily now at the rate of about a minute and a half a week. I have timed it by a gun that is fired every day at noon from the grounds of the Houses of Parliament. It goes off by electricity, I believe, or the time is given by electricity from Montreal. Doesn't it sound rather funny, to hear of the grounds of the Houses of Parliament? It would to a Londoner, I know, but such is the case. There is such heaps of room everywhere in this great draughty country, that they may just as well take twenty acres for their buildings as two, that's just about it, I should think; it must be quite twenty, and not a single flower or, even as far as I know, a flowering shrub in the place; nothing but level lawns and walks or roads, beautifully kept, I admit. Anyone of the lawns would make half-a-dozen first-rate tennis courts, but the whole affair, seen from a little distance, looks like a painted scene. It's just a mass of even green relieved or embarrassed, as the case may be, by the straight up and down yellow houses, which houses also, in my opinion, have precious little architectural beauty to boast of, bar the centre one, perhaps, which is the house of Parl., par excellence, the others being only departmental ones. There is a very jolly walk, though round at the back of them, where I went last Sunday, you see the houses with their grounds occupy a sort of promontory, which juts out into the river, or rather into a little lake formed by it at its bend. The lawns must be from eighty to one hundred feet above the level of the water, and it is about half way down the banks, which are more than steep, that the walk in question runs. Fifty years ago this must have been one of the prettiest spots in Canada, and now anyone standing there has only the great wooden-looking houses at his back, and a colony of saw mills in front. The saw mills are out-and-out the most interesting of the two. The amount of wood cut up there every day is enormous. I believe Ottawa is the lumbering centre of Canada; any way, there are acres and acres of wood all cut up into planks or battens, and stacked thirty feet high and as close as possible, yet it all looks new, which shows that it must be shipped away at an enormous rate. Going to shut up now suddenly. Give my love to Miss Harley, or something a little milder if you would rather, and believe me, with love also to the rest of the family circle, which will now, I suppose, include a Mrs. Daddy Cockburn,

Your loving Son, J. SETON COCKBURN.



202, Bank Street, Ottawa.

November 7th, '84.

Dear Mother,

This is Friday night again, and I have not begun a letter till now, but the pure fact of the matter is, that I can say all I have got to say in about ten minutes. I have been making enquiries in accessible quarters about rents and taxes, etc., and it seems to me that in the towns at any rate they are just as high as they are in England. Most of the houses in the quiet, respectable sort of streets average about twenty to twenty-five dollars per month, including everything but water-rate, which is three dollars per month. The cost of living I should say, is decidedly less, or else how can lodging-house keepers board and lodge people for from three-and-a-half to five dollars per week in the towns, and from as low as two-and-a-half in the country. Of course, I can't tell you anything about the actual cost of the different articles of food. I would as soon go and bargain with a linen draper about a fathom of calico as go and enquire the price of vegetables while standing between two fat old market women. You see I know precious little about the country, bar half-a-day or so spent at Hardy's farm, I have never been out of the towns. Every time I sit down to write to you I spend half my time thinking who I can tackle on the subjects of your enquiries, and every time all that comes of it is, ask Barnet. Barnet and Hartley are the only two people I know here as yet; the former, you know, is the man that got me my job. He put my name down yesterday for a member of "The St. Andrew's Society;" the subscription is one dollar per annum, and the avowed objects of the Society are the finding out and assisting of needy or unfortunate Scotchmen. I did not join on account of any charitable feelings toward my countrymen, but simply for the purpose of making acquaintances. It will all help in making general enquiries about the country. Besides, who knows if I may not be in want of a kilt myself some day. (When I send you a photo' of myself in full war paint you'll know I am hard up again). Talking about clothing matters, I do not think they are much, if at all, more expensive than in England. You can get a very good great-coat or a suit of clothes for ten dollars, though of course that is mostly in the ready-made department. I asked to-day what a coat like my ulster would cost, and they said from 20 to 24 dollars, equal from 4 3s. 4d. to 5. The price in Gateshead was 4 10s. So it seems that clothes made to order are very much the same, and ready made are perhaps rather dearer. I got a fur collar put on my monkey-jacket, which cost 7 dollars; it's a good deal, but I may be able to do without a fur cap, as the collar when turned up comes nearly up to the top of my head; it's just about six inches deep of beaver skin, which, being a light brown, looks simply swagger on my dark brown coat. We have had a taste of winter here lately, and though the thermometer did not go much below 10 or 15 degrees under freezing temperature, the wind, which blew hard, cut so sharply that I felt certain that when it got 40 or 50 degrees colder I should feel very glad I had got a warm animal on my throat. There was about two or three inches of snow which nearly all thawed before it froze. The snow fell on Tuesday, then it turned to rain, which continued in a regular down-pour till Wednesday morning, by which time the streets were a sight to behold. Spark Street, the principal mud path in Ottawa, looked like a canal of pea soup. It was covered from one end to the other with about three inches of liquid mud. One enterprising shop rigged up a canoe and moored it to the side walk, all decorated with flags, and with "boats or yachts on hire" painted in large letters. That night I went to an oyster feed at Hartley's. I had made up my mind to be bored, but was most agreeably disappointed. Hartley met me at the door, and immediately began offering me all that his house contained in the way of dry socks, slippers, etc. From the moment he appeared in a smoking-cap and dressing-gown, with a tremendous pipe, leading the way, I knew I had not come out for nothing. We went slick up to his den, where he put a box of famous cigars by my side, and a box of chessmen and a board in front. I played away perfectly happy as you may imagine, and with the assistance of three smokes succeeded in vanquishing all comers, including my "boss" himself. He evidently thought he had got me easily, for he had taken two or three of my pieces, but I had laid a foul plot, and at last "The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold" and I nobbled his king without a struggle. We then adjourned to visit the oysters; there were two great washing-basins chock full, and we all squatted round in the kitchen and set to work to get rid of them as fast as we could open them. I lasted them all out, and finished both dishes. I guess I did about four or five dozen. Misfortunes never come singly, no more do the opposite, and next day I had some more in the regular fare of my diggings. What do you think of that for a boarding-house? And last night I had some more again in an eating-house. They are only 20 cents a dozen, and very good.

This is a fearful scrawl, but it's being done at a tremendous rate to see if I can't fill up this sheet before mail time. By jove! no, it's a quarter to eight. Love to everybody.

J. SETON COCKBURN.



202, Bank Street, Ottawa,

November 12th, '84.

My Dear Mother,

This letter is as usual addressed to you and meant for a good many other people besides. Firstly, I think I shall have to start some sort of arrangement by which I shall be able to find out, on reference to it, what the subject-matter of such-and-such a letter was.—In fact, what I really want is a copying-press, for I can't remember what I have told you in answer to your letters and what I have not, and I notice the same questions occur in a good many of them. Well, I sha'nt get a copying-press anyhow, I'll practice self-denial, and get a five-cent. diary instead. Talking about cents. reminds me of an item of news concerning money. Money will undoubtedly go further here than in the old country, but it needs a more determined economy to make it do so, and the reason is that it's all in such small pieces. The only coins are half-dollars, quarters, ten and five cent, pieces, and the copper cents.—of these the cents. and half-dollars are comparatively rare. As a rule, the lowest price charged for anything is five cents. It is such an insignificant little piece of tin, and there are such a tremendous lot of them knocking about. I don't think I have had a quarter of a dollar's worth of copper through my fingers since I've been in the country. There is scarcely any use for them except for stamp-money and to give to beggars, which happily are also rare. In England the small silver coins are almost useless, and the prices of different things vary by pence or half-pence. One goes into an hotel, for instance, for a glass of beer and forks out twopence, or a packet of cigarette papers, one penny. There it goes up from the pence to the shillings, and from the shillings to the pound, and the shillings form a sort of barrier between the small every-day expenses (that might be avoided) and the pounds which are the real wealth. Here the practical scale of money is 5, 10, 15, 20, 25, 30, etc., cents. I got in a rage and smashed my pen because the brute would'nt write, which has blown all my sophistries, as Daddy would call them, to the winds, so I'll shut up for to-night. Now here's a new pen and a new night, Friday night too, so I must look sharp. I don't think my sophistries need much addition, being quite as clear as mud as they are. In England there are a hundred half-pence to four and twopence, and as many different prices for different things according to their value. Here there are also a hundred cents. to the dollar, but practically only twenty different prices. Therefore, one very soon looks upon a five-cent piece in about the same light as one would look at an English penny. This is a horrible pen; it's like writing with the dirty point of a pin. Now to answer father's postscript which I had overlooked till last night. As yet the weather is too mild to need more than a thin overcoat, though it is prophesied that we are going to have an exceptionally severe winter. Be that as it may, I shall wait until it comes before spending any more money. I have blued ten dols. already in winter preparations—seven in a collar for my monkey-jacket, with a view to protecting my gullet against the old attacks; and three in having my ulster lined round the back and chest with chamois leather, for I found in the late spell of cold weather, which however was a mere nothing, that it let the wind through pretty quick. I have asked the price of furs generally, and the different sorts in particular. I have some recollection of being told by one house, I think in Montreal, that furs were dearer here than they were in England, because they had to be sent over there to be worked up, and then brought back here again. I should not believe too much of that, however, as it is quite as likely as not that it was the preface to an extra five dollars on the price, in view of my being an evident stranger to the country. A tailor here, the man that has done my coats for me, says he will line my ulster with minx or racoon, or the something ratskin, for 18 dollars, and, as I told mother in my last letter, he would make just such an ulster for 20 to 25 dols., so that you could get a very good fur-lined coat for 40 dollars, or about eight guineas. Of course the furs I have mentioned are not beautiful soft affairs like beaver or sealskin, but I imagine they are almost if not quite as warm. I tried on a coat to-day, while pricing different things, of Australian grey bear. The fur was very thick and fairly soft, and I felt about 10 degrees warmer the moment I got inside it. It was made entirely out of the fur (hair outside), and lined with some sort of black soft canvas stuff. The price was 25 dols., but it was too thick and cumbersome to be useful for anything but driving or travelling. I have not got to the end of my researches upon this subject, so I will write more when I learn more. I don't know yet what the cost of lining a long coat with one of the better furs would be. Father asked if I had got all instruments I wanted, as he said Pot might send them out to me. I think I can manage with what I have got now. I had to buy them, as I could not wait to write to England. They ran away with another ten dols., and have turned out anything but A 1. I cannot answer all your questions yet, Mother, but here is something. There are plenty of small 10 to 18 acre farms about Ottawa, at a rent of from 60 to 100 dols. per annum, though the houses on them are generally pretty bad. This is a very difficult question to get to the bottom of, as there are no estate agents here that I can find, consequently all enquiries have to be made through private friends, which takes time, and also a certain amount of caution, in this inquisitive community. But I am learning more every day, and you shall have it all as fast as I get it.

In haste,

Your loving Son, J. SETON COCKBURN.

Love to everybody, as usual.

THE END