altry recompense for his
labours in developing the resources of the country. The honey which this
industrious bee manufactured was sucked by drones, and no one has done
him even a shadow of justice, but Mr. Lyell, who, having no colonial
dependence, had no fears in so doing.

But of Richmond Hill, why so called I never could discover, for it is
neither very highly picturesque, nor very highly poetical, although
Dolby's Tavern is a most comfortable resting-place for a wearied
traveller, at which prose writer or poetaster may find a haven.
Attention, good fare, and neatness prevail. It is English.

I have observed two things in journeying through Upper Canada. If you
find neatness at an hostel, it is kept by old-country people. If you
meet with indifference and greasy meats, they are Americans. If you see
the best parlour hung round with bad prints of presidents, looking like
Mormon preachers, they are radicals of the worst leaven. If prints from
the New York Albion, neatly framed and glazed, hang on each side of a
wooden clock, over a sideboard in the centre of the room, opposite to
the windows, the said prints representing Queen Victoria, Lord Nelson,
Windsor Castle, or the New Houses of Parliament, be assured that loyalty
and John Bullism reign there; and, although you meet with no servility,
you will not be disgusted with vulgar assumption, such as cocking up
dirty legs in dirty boots on a dirty stove, wearing the hat, and not
deigning to answer a civil question.

Personally, no man cares less for the mode of reception, when I take
mine ease at mine inn, than I do, for old soldiers are not very
fastidious, and old travellers still less so; but give me sturdy John
Bull, with his blunt plainness and true independence, before the silly
insolence of a fellow, who thinks he shows his equality, by lowering the
character of a man to that of a brute, in coarse exhibitions of assumed
importance, which his vocation of extracting money from his unwilling
guests renders only more hateful.

We departed from Richmond Hill at half-past five, and waggoned on to
Finch's Inn, seven miles, where we breakfasted. This is another
excellent resting-place, and the country between the two is thickly
settled. I forgot to mention that we have now been travelling through
scenes celebrated in the rebellion of Mackenzie. About five miles from
Holland Landing is the Blacksmith's Shop, which was the head-quarters of
Lount, the smith, who, like J