NORTHERN SPARKS.

THE QUESTION OF THE HOUR IN LUCAN.

[...] Special Correspondence of the Advertiser. LUCAN.

The utmost consternation reigns in this once peaceful and prosperous village, and a gloom of a most appalling nature is gradually settling down on the inhabitants of unhappy Lucan. The torch of the incendiary looms on the midnight air and dark forms, knife in hand, prowl near the dwellings of the sleeping villager. Women move from house to house with hesitating steps and strong men enquire of each other, “Whither are we drifting?” The wind was blowing with fury from the north-west, it was after midnight, and had the vile plot of burning the Oddfellow’s Hall succeeded, the whole village would have been laid in ruins. Almost every morning brings tidings of some new outrage. A store burnt, dwellings destroyed, stables, filled with valuable horses, consumed, horses with their throats cut. The catalogue is revolting in the extreme, and we blush to think that scenes of blood and midnight rapine heretofore confined to countries remote should be enacted in this fair Canada of ours.