defence was out of the question, and Colonel Talbot, who would probably have been deemed an important capture, quietly walked out of the back door as the invaders entered at the front. Some of the Indians saw the colonel, who was dressed in homely, everyday garb, walking off through the woods, and were about to fire on him, when they were restrained by Captain Patterson, who begged them not to hurt the poor old fellow, who, he said, was the person who tended the sheep. The marauders rifled the place, and carried off everything they could lay hands on, including some valuable horses and cattle. Colonel Talbot’s gold, consisting of about two quart pots full, and some valuable plate, concealed under the front wing of the house, escaped notice. The invaders set fire to the grist-mill that the colonel had built in the township of Dunwick, which was totally consumed, and this was a serious loss to the settlement generally. Mrs. Jameson, who travelled in Upper Canada in 1837-38, has left us the following description of her visit to Port Talbot. Speaking of the colonel, she says, “this remarkable man is now about sixty-five, perhaps more, but he does not look so much. In spite of his rustic dress, his good-humoured, jovial, weather-beaten face, and the primitive simplicity, not to say rudeness, of his dwelling, he has in his features, air, deportment, that _something_ which stamps him gentleman. And that _something_, which thirty-four years of solitude has not effaced, he derives, I suppose, from blood and birth, things of more consequence, when philosophically and philanthropically considered, than we are apt to allow. I had always heard and read of him as the ‘eccentric’ Colonel Talbot. Of his eccentricity I heard much more than of his benevolence, his invincible courage, his enthusiasm, his perseverance; but, perhaps, according to the worldly nomenclature, these qualities come under the general head of ‘eccentricity’ when devotion to a favourite object cannot possibly be referred to self-interest. Of the life he led for the first sixteen years, and the difficulties and obstacles he encountered, he drew, in his discourse with me, a strong, I might say a _terrible_, picture; and observe that it was not a life of wild, wandering freedom—the life of an Indian hunter, which is said to be so fascinating that ‘no man who has ever followed it for any length of time, ever voluntarily returns to civilized society!’ Colonel Talbot’s life has been one of persevering, heroic self-devotion to the completion of a magnificent plan, laid down in the first instance, and followed up with unflinching tenacity of purpose. For sixteen years he saw scarce a human being, except the few boors and blacks employed in clearing and logging his land; he himself assumed the blanket coat and axe, slept upon the bare earth, cooked three meals a day for twenty woodsmen, cleaned his own boots, washed his own linen, milked his own cows, churned the butter, and made and baked the bread.