never sound in your ear again, and that you are to feel the friendly grasp no more. of those people to come down to It was very good see me start, but I had been much better pleased had they staid away. The bell rings, they hasten off the deck on to the wharf; again a hurried "good bye;" the paddle wheels make a few strokes backwards to gain an opening, then turn ahead, bite deep into the water, and we glide rapidly on. As we pass the wharf, those friends wave their hands, I do so too; we are quite close, but somehow my eyes are a little dim, I can scarcely distinguish them as they run along the end of the quay, keeping pace with us up to the very edge. Our hands wave once again for the last time--I cannot see a bit now. When my sight cleared we were out in the middle of the broad stream, the people on the shore but tiny specks in the distance. In describing one American river steam-boat you describe all. The greater part of the engines is above the level of the water; two large arms labour up and down over each side of the upper deck, while a funnel from near each paddle-box puffs out the smoke. They are not fitted with masts for inland navigation; the sleeping and eating saloon is in the body of the boat; the ladies' cabin, the state-room, with the bar, ticket office, &c., are in a sort of upper story erected on the deck, their roof being the promenade. These vessels are beautifully built, and go through the water with great rapidity; fifteen and sixteen miles an hour is not uncommon; they are also comfortable and very well managed, and those between Quebec and Montreal are not surpassed by any in America. We pass Wolfe's Cove, rich in undying memories; beyond it, green slopes, gentle woodlands, and neat country-houses, each recalling to recollection some pleasant ride or drive, or social evening; on the left, the Chaudière river, dwindled into a tiny stream under the summer's sun, its rustic bridge, and rocky, pine-fringed banks; on the right, Cap Rouge, the end of the bold table-land on which stands the great citadel of the west. Beyond it, stretches out for many miles a rich flat tract, varied by field and forest; and ever and anon the church and village, and in the far distance the bold range of hills which shelters these fair valleys from the ice-blast of the north. For one hundred miles up the great river, the scene is the same, monotonous if you will, but monotonous in beauty; the shores all along thickly dotted with the white cottages of the simple habi tans. A short distance above Cape Rouge, we met a large raft of white pine, one of the strange sights of the St. Lawrence. It was about three acres of timber, bound together by clamps of wood into a solid stage; on this were erected five or six wooden houses, the dwellings of the raftsmen. The wind was in their favour, and they had raised in front a great number of broad thin boards, with the flat sides turned to the breeze, so as to form an immense sail. These floating islands are guided by long oars; they drop down with the stream till they meet the tide, then anchor when it turns, till the ebb again comes to their aid. They have travelled from many hundred miles in the interior; by the banks of the far distant branches of the Ottawa those pines were felled: in the depth of winter the remote forests ring with the woodman's axe; the trees are lopped of their branches, squared, and dragged by horses over the deep snow to the rivers, where, upon the ice, the rafts are formed. When the thaw in the spring opens up the mountain streams, the stout lumberers collect the remains of their winter stock, with their well-worn implements, and on these rafts boldly trust themselves to the swollen waters. They often encounter much danger and hardship; not unfrequently the huge mass goes aground, and the fast sinking stream leaves the fruit of their winter's labours stranded and useless on the shingly beach. As the evening dropped upon us, the clouds thickened into a close arch of ominous darkness, while a narrow rim of light all round the horizon, threw all above and below into a deeper gloom. Soon, a twinkle of distant lightning, and a faint rolling sound, ushered in the storm; then the black mass above split into a thousand fragments, each with a fiery edge; the next moment the dazzled sight was lost in darkness, and the awful thunder crashed upon the ear, reverberating again and again. Then jagged lines of flame dived through the dense clouds, lighting them for a moment with terrible brilliance, and leaving them gloomier than before. We saw the forked lightning strike a large wooden building stored with hay and straw on the bank somewhat a-head of us immediately afterwards a broad sheet of flame sprung up through the roof and, before we had passed, only a heap of burning embers was left. In a short time the tortured clouds melted into floods of rain. We pass St. Croix, St. Anne's, Three Rivers, Port St. Francis, and enter Lake St. Peter. These towns improve but little their population is nearly : all of the French race; the houses are poor, the neighbouring farms but rudely tilled. The Canadian does not labour to advance himself, but to support life; where he is born there he loves to live, and hopes to lay his bones. His children divide the land, and each must have part bordering the road or river, so you see many farms half-a-mile in length but only a few yards wide. Here in autumn they reap their scanty crops; in winter dance and make merry round their stoves. With the same sort of dress that the first settlers wore, they crowd, each Sunday and saint's day, to the parish church, Few can read or write, or know anything of the world beyond their Canada; each generation is as simple and backward as the preceding. But, with their gentle, courteous manners, their few wants, their blind, trusting, superstitious faith, their lovely country, their sweet old songs, sung by their fathers centuries ago, on the banks of the sunny Loire,-I doubt if the earth contains a happier people than the innocent habitans of Canada. Lake St. Peter is but an expansion of the river the waters are shallow and the shores flat and monotonous; after twenty-five miles it contracts again and flows between several wooded islands. |