St. Alban's is a series of
country-houses, gentlemen's seats, half-pay officers' farms, prettily
fenced, and pleasant to the sight: the next third embraces Thornhill, a
nice village in a hollow; Richmond Hill, with a beautiful prospect and
detached settlements: the ultimate third is a rich, undulating country,
inhabited by well-to-do Quakers, with Newmarket on their right, and
looking for all the world very like "dear home," with orchards, and as
rich corn-fields and pastures as may be seen any where, backed,
however, by the eternal forest. It is peculiarly and particularly
beautiful.

A short distance before reaching St. Alban's, which is quite a new
village, the road descends rapidly, and the ground is broken into
hummocks.

But I must not forget Bond's Lake, a most singular feature of this part
of the road, which, perhaps, I shall treat of in returning from
Penetanguishene, as I am now in a hurry to get to St. Alban's.

Here, where all was scrub forest in 1837, are a little street, a house
of some pretension occupied by Mr. Laughton, the enterprising owner of
the Beaver steamboat, plying on Lake Simcoe, and two inns.

I stopped for the night, for Yonge Street is still a tiresome journey,
although only a stage of thirty three miles, at Winch's Tavern. This is
a very good road-side house, and the landlord and landlady are civil and
attentive. Before you go to roost, for stopping by the way-side is
pretty much like roosting, as you must be up with Chanticleer, you can
just look over Mr. Laughton's paling, and you will see as pretty a
florist's display as may be imagined. The owner is fond of flowers, and
he has lots of them, and, when you make his acquaintance afterwards in
the Beaver, you will find that he has lots of information also. But I
did not go in the Beaver, which ship "wharfs" some two or three miles
further ahead, at Holland River Landing, commonly called "the Landing,"
par excellence. Here flies, mosquitoes, ague, and other plagues, are so
rife, that all attempts at settlement are vanity and vexation of spirit.

So, being willing to see what had happened in Gwillimbury since 1837, I
took a waggon and the land road, and went off as day broke, or rather
before it broke, about four a.m., in a deep gray mist. The waggon should
be described, as it is the best _voiture_ in Western Canada.

Four wheels, of a narrow tire, are attached without any springs to a
long body, formed of straight boards, like a pian