Chapter THE LAST (2)

For one moment let us follow the wretched Elinor, and trace her in her flight. Whilst her own accusing conscience takes from her pillow the softness of its down, and the vision of her husband, as she last saw him, haunts her at every turn like a ghost--striking terror even to her thoughtless heart, and bestowing a curse upon her life which she had neither foreseen nor thought of, let us do her justice. Vice itself is not all hideousness. The immortal soul cannot be all pollution. Defaced and smirched it may be--cruelly misused and blotted over by the sin and passion of mortality; but it will, and must, proclaim its origin in the depths of degradation. There have been glimpses of the heavenly gift when it has been buried deep, deep in the earth--beams of its light in the murkiest and blackest day! Elinor was guilty--lost here beyond the power of redemption--she was selfish and unworthy; yet not wholly selfish--not utterly unworthy. I am not her apologist--I appear not here to plead her cause. Heaven knows, my sympathy is far away--yet I will do her justice. I will be her faithful chronicler.

Upon the fourth day of her elopement she had reached Lyons. Here, against the wish of the Earl of Minden, she expressed a determination to remain for at least a day: she desired to see the city--moreover, she had friends--one of whom she was anxious to communicate with, and might never see again. Who he was she did not say, nor did his lordship learn, before they quitted the city on the following day. The reader shall be informed.

It was on the afternoon of the day of their arrival in Lyons that Elinor paid her visit to the friend in question. He resided in a narrow street leading from the river-side into the densest and most populous thoroughfares of that extensive manufacturing town: the house was a humble one, and tolerably quiet. The door was open, and she entered. She ascended a tolerably-wide stone staircase, and stopped before a door that led into an apartment on the fourth floor. She knocked softly: her application was not recognised--but she heard a voice with which she was familiar.

"Cuss him imperence!" it said; "him neber satisfied. I broke my heart, sar, in your service, and d--n him--no gratitude."

"Don't you turn against me, too," answered a feeble voice, like that of a sick man. "I shall be well again soon, and we will push on, and meet them at Marseilles."

"Push on! I don't understand 'push on,' when fellow's not got half-penny in the pocket. Stuck to you like a trump all my life; it's not the ting to bring respectable character into dis 'ere difficulty."

"Give me something to drink."

"What you like, old genl'man?" was the answer. "Course you call for what you please--you got sich lots of money. You have any kind of water you think proper--from ditch water up to pump."

"You are sure there were no letters for me at the post?" inquired the feeble voice.

"Come, stop dat, if you please. That joke's damned stale and aggravating. Whenever I ask you for money, you send me to the post. What de devil postman see in my face to give me money?"

Elinor knocked again and again; still unanswered, she opened the door. In the apartment which she entered, she perceived, grinning out of the window, with his broad arms stretched under his black face, the nigger of our early acquaintance--the old servant of her father's house--the gentleman who had represented the yahoo upon the evening of my introduction to the general--the fascinating Augustus. Behind him, on a couch that was drawn close to the wall, and surmounted by a dingy drapery, lay--her father--a shadow of his former self--miserably attired, and very ill, as it would seem, mentally and bodily. Both the yahoo and the general started upon her entrance, for which they were evidently wholly unprepared.

"Elinor!" said the general, "you have received my letter?"

"I have," was the reply--scarcely heard--with such deep emotion was it spoken!

"And you cannot help me?" he asked again, with a distracted air.

"I can," she answered--"I will--it is here--all you ask--take it--repair to my mother--save her--yourself."

She presented him with a paper as she spoke. He opened it eagerly, and his eye glittered again as he perused it.

"Did you get it easily, child?" he said.

"No--with difficulty--great difficulty," she answered wildly. "But there it is. It will relieve you from your present trouble, and pay your passage."

"Augustus--we will start to-night," said the general anxiously, "we will not lose a moment."

"Father," said Elinor, with agitation, "I must be gone. Give my love to my mother. I have sent all that I could procure for her comfort and happiness. I tell you, father, it was not obtained without some sacrifice. Spend it not rashly--every coin will have its value. I may not be able to send you more. Tell her not to curse me when she hears my name mentioned as it will be mentioned, but to forgive and forget me."

The old man was reading the bank-bill whilst his daughter spoke, and had eyes and ears for nothing else.

"We shall never forget you, dear child," he said, almost mechanically.

He folded the bill carefully, put it into his pocket, buttoned that as carefully, and looked up. The daughter had departed.

Rupert Sinclair recovered from the wound he had received, and from the subsequent operation; but strength came not as quickly as it had been promised, or as he could wish. He removed, after many months, from the inn, and commenced his journey homewards. To be released from the tie which still gave his name to her who had proved herself so utterly unworthy of it, was his first business; his second, to provide instruction and maternal care for the young creature committed to his love. He travelled by short and easy stages, and arrived at length in London. He was subdued and calm. All thoughts of revenge had taken leave of his mind; he desired only to forget the past, and to live for the future. He had witnessed and suffered the evil effects of a false education. He was resolved that his child should be more mercifully dealt with. He had but one task to accomplish in life. He would fulfil it to the letter.

Sinclair waited upon his legal adviser as soon as he reached the metropolis. That functionary heard his client's statement with a lugubrious countenance, and sighed profoundly, as though he were very sorry that the affair had happened.

"These are cases, sir," said he, "that make the prosecution of a noble profession a painful and ungrateful labour. Surgeons, however, must not be afraid to handle the knife. What we must do, it is better to do cheerfully. Don't you think so?"

Sinclair nodded assent.

"And now your witnesses, Mr Sinclair. We must look them up. The chief, I presume, are abroad."

"Many are, necessarily," answered Rupert. "There is one gentleman however, in England, with whom I am anxious that you should put yourself in immediate communication. When I went abroad, he was at Oxford, residing in the college, of which he is a fellow. He is my oldest friend. He is well acquainted with my early history, and is aware of all the circumstances of my marriage. He may be of great service to us both: you, he may save much trouble--me, infinite pain."

"Just so," said the lawyer. "And his name?"

"Walter Wilson, Esq. of ---- College, Oxford."

"I will fish him up to-day," said the legal man. "We shall have an easy case. There will be no defence, I presume?"

"Hardly!" answered Sinclair.

"Judgment by default! You will get heavy damages, Mr Sinclair. Lord Minden is as rich as CrA"sus; and the case is very aggravated. Violation of friendship--a bosom-friend--one whom you had admitted to your confidence and hearth. We must have these points prominently put. I shall retain Mr Thessaly. That man, sir, was born for these aggravated cases."

"You will write to Mr Wilson?" said Sinclair, mournfully.

"This very day. Don't be unhappy, Mr Sinclair--you have a capital case, and will get a handsome verdict."

"When you have heard from Mr Wilson, let me know. I wish to arrange an interview with him, and have not the heart to write myself. Tell him I am in town--that I must see him."

"I will do it. Can I offer you a glass of wine, Mr Sinclair, or any refreshment? You look pale and languid."

"None, I thank you!"

"And the little lady in the parlour?"

"I am obliged to you--nothing. I must go to her--I have kept her waiting. Good-morning, sir."

Sinclair joined his daughter, and proceeded with her to his hotel. She was still his constant companion. He did not move without her. His anxiety to have the child always at his side bordered on insanity. Whether he quitted his home for amusement or business, she must accompany him, and clasp the only hand that he had now to offer her. He dreaded to be alone, and no voice soothed him but that of the little chatterer. How fond he was of it--of her--who shall say! or how necessary to his existence the treasure he had snatched from ruin in the hour of universal wreck!

Before visiting his lawyer, Sinclair had dispatched a private communication to his old serving-man, John Humphreys, who, upon the breaking up of Rupert's establishment, had returned to the service of Lord Railton, his ancient master. That trusty servant was already at the hotel when Sinclair reached it.

"You have spoken to nobody of my being here, Humphreys," said Rupert, when he saw him.

"To nobody, your honour."

"Then follow me!"

When they had come to Sinclair's private room, he continued--

"My father, Humphreys--Tell me quickly how he is."

"Oh, a world better, sir."

"Thank God! And my mother?"

"Breaking, sir. This last affair"--

"They are in town?"

"Yes, your honour--you will call upon them, won't you? It will do her ladyship's heart good to see you again--though, saving your honour's presence, you looks more like a spectre than a human being."

"No, Humphreys, I cannot see them. They must not even know that I am now in London. I would have avoided this interview, could I have quitted England again without some information respecting them. I shall be detained here for a few days--it may be for weeks--but I return again to the Continent, never again to leave it."

"Do you think them foreign doctors understand your case, sir?"

"My case!"

"Yes, sir--you are not well, I am sure. You want feeding and building up--English beef and beer. Them foreigners are killing you."

Rupert smiled.

"You'll excuse me, sir, but laughing isn't a good sign, when a man has reason to cry."

Rupert shuddered.

"I beg your pardon, sir--I didn't mean that," continued the honest fellow. "I did not refer to your feelings. I meant your health, sir. Live well, sir; eat good English fare, and take the bilious pills when you are out of sorts."

John Humphreys was dismissed with many thanks for his sympathy and advice, and with strict injunctions to maintain silence respecting Rupert's movements. Had Sinclair learned that his parents were ill, or needful of his presence, he would have gone to them at once. They were well--why should he molest them, or bring fresh anguish to their declining years?

I received the communication of Sinclair's lawyer, and answered it respectfully, refusing the interview that was asked. As I have already intimated, I had avoided his house and himself from the very moment that I had obtained what seemed ocular demonstration of guilt, which that of his friend and patron, the Earl of Minden himself, could not surpass. Whilst reports of that guilt came to me through the medium of servants, however trustworthy, and strangers, however disinterested, I had resisted them as cruel inventions and palpable slanders. With the attestation of my own eyes, I should have been an idiot had I come to any but one conclusion, how degrading soever that might be to my friend, or contradictory to all my past experience or preconceived hopes. Nothing, I solemnly vowed, should induce me to speak again to the man, branded with infamy so glaring, brought by his own folly and vice so low. I had heard, in common with the rest of the world, of the elopement, and possibly with less surprise than the majority of my fellow-men. If I wondered at all at the affair, it was simply as to how much Rupert had been paid for his consent, and as to the value he had fixed upon his reputation and good name. I received the application of the lawyer, and declined to accede to it.

As I sat reading in my room, upon the second morning after I had dispatched my answer to Mr Cribbs, of Carey Street, Lincoln's Inn Fields, I was roused by a knock at the inner door. I requested my visitor to walk in. He did so.--Rupert Sinclair, and his child, stood before me!

I was fearfully shocked. He looked, indeed, more like a ghost than a living man. Fifty years of pain and anxiety seemed written on a brow that had not numbered thirty summers. His eye was sunk, his cheek was very wan and pallid. There was no expression in his countenance; he stood perfectly passionless and calm. The little girl was a lovely creature. A sickening sensation passed through me as I mentally compared her lineaments with those of the joyous creature whom I had met in Bath, and then referred to those of the poor father, so altered, so wofully and so wonderfully changed! She clung to that father with a fondness that seemed to speak of his desertion, and of his reliance upon her for all his little happiness. I was taken by surprise; I knew not what to do; the memory of past years rushed back upon me. I saw him helpless and forsaken. I could not bid him from my door; I could not speak an unkind word.

I placed a chair before the man, whose strength seemed scarce sufficient to support its little burden.

"Sinclair," I exclaimed, "you are ill!"

"I am!" he answered. "Very ill; worse than I had feared. They tell me I must leave the country, and seek milder air. I shall do so shortly; for her sake, not my own."

The little Alice put her delicate and alabaster hand about her parent's face, and patted it to express her gratitude or warm affection. My heart bled in spite of me.

"You refused to meet me, Wilson," said Sinclair quietly.

I blushed to think that I had done so; for I forgot every thing in the recollection of past intimacy, and in the consciousness of what I now beheld. I made no answer.

"You refused to meet me," he repeated. "You did me injustice. I know your thoughts, your cruel and unkind suspicions. I have come to remove them. Walter, you have cursed my name; you shall live to pity my memory."

"Rupert," I stammered, "whatever I may have thought or done, I assert that I have not willingly done you injustice. I have"----

I looked at the child, unwilling to say more in that innocent and holy presence.

Sinclair understood me. He asked permission for her to retire into an adjoining room. I told him that there was no one there to keep her company. He answered, that it did not matter; she was used to be alone, and to wait hours for her parent when business separated them in a stranger's house. "They made it up at home," he added, "and she was happier so than in the society of her governess."

"Is it not so, Alice?" he asked, kissing her as he led her from the apartment.

She answered with a kiss as warm as his, and a smile brighter than any he could give.

"Wilson," began Sinclair, as soon as he returned to me, "you know my history. The whole world knows it, and enjoys it. I have come to England to disannul our marriage. That over, I must save this life if possible: the doctors tell me I am smitten--that I shall droop and die. The mild air of Italy alone can save me. Oh, I wish to live for that young creature's sake! I cannot yet afford to die."

"Things are not so bad, I trust."

He shook his head, and proceeded.

"You, Wilson, must further my views. I have acquainted my solicitor with our former intimacy, and of the part which you took in this unfortunate business. You may accelerate the affair by your co-operation and aid. You must not deny it! Three months to me now are worth ten times as many years. I need peace of mind--repose. I would seek them in the grave, and gladly, but for her. I must find them in a land that will waft health to me, and give me strength for coming duties. You must stand by me now, if ever; you must not leave me, Wilson, till we have reached the opposite shore, and are safely landed."

"What can I do!"

"Much! The solicitor says, every thing. Your evidence is of the utmost consequence. Your assistance cannot be dispensed with. See him, and he will tell you more. We cannot depart until the marriage is dissolved. Should I die, she must have no claim upon that tender innocent!"

"Rupert," I exclaimed, "shall I speak plainly to you?"

"Ay," he answered, growing erect, and looking me full in the face, "as a man!"

"You demand of me," I continued, "a simple impossibility! I can do nothing for you. I can give you no help, no counsel. Ask your own once-faithful conscience, that once stern and honest monitor, how I, of all men, can befriend you? I may speak only to destroy you and your cause together. Seek a better ally--a less shackled adviser. Is it not publicly known?--do I not know it? Rupert, you have told me to speak plainly, and I will, I must. I say, do I not know that you yourself pandered to her profligacy? Did I not, with these eyes, which, would to Heaven, had been blind ere they had seen that miserable day--did I not, with these eyes, behold you walking before your door, whilst Lord Minden was closeted with your wife? Did you not turn back when you discovered he was there? Did I not see you turn back? Answer me, Rupert. Did I?--did I?"

"You did," he answered, with perfect equanimity.

"And," I continued, "acknowledging this horror, you ask me to advance your cause, and to speak on your behalf!"

"I do," he said, with a majestic calmness that confounded and abashed me--so prophetic was it of an approaching justification, so thoroughly indicative of truth and innocence.

"I do," he repeated, looking at me steadily, and speaking with more emotion as he proceeded. "Listen to me, Walter. I am a dying man! Say what they will, the seeds of an incurable disease are sown within me. Do what I may, my hours are numbered, and life is nearly spanned. I speak to you as a dying man. You saw that child! She is friendless, motherless, and will be shortly fatherless. I am about to consign her to Heaven and its mercy. I cannot utter falsehood upon the verge of eternity, leaving that dear pledge behind me. Upon my sacred honour, I speak the truth. Listen to it, and believe, as you would believe a messenger accredited from the skies. I have been a fool, an idiot, weaker than the creature whom the law deprives of self-control, and places in the custody of guards and keepers; but my honour is as spotless as you yourself could wish it. You knew of my difficulties: something you knew also of my introduction to the Earl of Minden--an aged villain--yes _aged_ and old enough to disarm suspicion, if no stronger reason existed to destroy it; but there was a stronger. I marvelled at the extraordinary interest evinced for a stranger by this powerful and wealthy nobleman; but wonder ceased with explanation--and explanation from whom? from one whom I trusted as myself--from my wife, whom I loved better than myself. It is nothing that I look back with sickening wonder _now_. I was her devoted husband _then_, and I believed her. I would have believed her had she drawn upon my credulity a thousand times more largely. What devil put the lie into her soul I know not, but early in the friendship of this lord, she confided to me the fact that General Travis was not her father; she had been consigned to him, she said, at an early age, but her actual parent was who?--the brother of this same Lord Minden. It was a plausible tale coming from her lips. I did not stay to doubt it. Other lies were necessary to maintain the great falsehood; but the fabric which they raised was well-proportioned and consistent in its parts. Why did I not enter my home when Lord Minden was closeted with my wife? You will remember that we speak of a time when there was daily discussion concerning my promotion. 'Her uncle,' she said again and again, 'would do nothing for me if I were present. He was a singular and obstinate man, and would make our fortune in his own way. He was angry with me for running off with his niece--whom, though illegitimate, he had destined for greater honour than even an alliance with Lord Railton's heir; he was further hurt at Lord Railton's treatment of Elinor, and the proud neglect of my mother; the conduct of my parents had inspired him with a dislike for their son, and although for Elinor's sake he would advance our interests, yet he would not consult me, or meet me in the matter. If I were present, her uncle would say nothing--do nothing. This was reiterated day after day. From fountains that are pure, we look not for unclean waters. Trusting her with my whole heart and soul, I should have committed violence to my nature had I doubted her. It was impossible: with the plausibility of Satan, she had the loveliness of angels! Now I see the artifice and fraud--now I feel the degradation--now the horrible position in which I stood is too frightfully apparent! But what avails it all! God forgive me for my blindness! He knows my innocence!"

The injured and unhappy husband stopped from sheer exhaustion. Shame overspread my face; bitter reproaches filled my heart. I had done him cruel wrong. I rose from my seat, and embraced him. I fell upon my knees, and asked his forgiveness.

"Walter," he said, with overflowing eyes; "you do not think me guilty?"

"Punish me not, Rupert," I answered, "by asking me the question. The sorceress was a subtle one. I knew her to be so."

"Name her not, friend," proceeded Sinclair; "I have already forgiven her. I seek to forget her. Life is hateful to me, yet I must live if possible for my darling Alice. You will return to town with me, will you not, and hasten on this business?"

"I will not leave you, Rupert," I replied, "till I have seen you safely through it, and on the seas. We will lose no time. Let us go to London this very day."

No time was lost. We set out in the course of a few hours, and the next day were closeted with Mr Cribbs. Letters produced by Sinclair corroborated all that he had said touching the cheat that had been played upon him. Astounded as I had been by his explanation, it would have argued more for my wisdom, to say nothing of my friendship, had I suspected at the outset some artifice of the kind, and shown more eagerness to investigate the matter, than to conclude the hitherto unspotted Sinclair so pre-eminently base. The fault of his nature was credulity. Did I not know that he trusted all men with the simplicity of childhood, and believed in the goodness of all things with the faith and fervour of piety itself? Had I no proofs of the wilyness of the woman's heart, and of the witchery of her tongue? A moment's reflection would have enabled me to be just. It was not the smallest triumph of the artful Elinor that her scheme robbed me of that reflection, and threw me, and all the world besides, completely off the scent.

Mr Cribbs was the very man to carry on this interesting case. He lost not a moment. He had been concerned, as he acknowledged, in more actions of the kind than could be satisfactory to himself, or complimentary to the virtue of his country, and he knew the salient points of a case by a kind of moral instinct. His witnesses were marshaled--his plan was drawn out; every thing promised complete success, and the day of trial rapidly approached.

That day of trial, however, Rupert was not to see. The great anxiety which he suffered in the preparation of his unhappy cause--the affliction he had already undergone, preying upon a shattered frame, proved too great an obstacle to the slow appliances of healing nature. He sank gradually beneath the weight of his great sorrows. About a month previously to the coming off of the suit which he had brought against the Earl of Minden, conscious of growing still weaker and weaker, he resolved to have a consultation of his physicians, and to obtain from them their honest opinion of his condition. That consultation was held. The opinion was most unfavourable. Rupert heard it without a sigh, and prepared for his great change.

He spent the day upon which his doom was pronounced--alone. The following day found him at an early hour at the family mansion in Grosvenor Square,--not alone,--for his little Alice was with him. He knocked at the door,--the well-known porter opened it, and started at the melancholy man he saw. Sorrow and sickness claim respect, and they found it here. The porter knew not whether he should please his master by admitting the visitors, but he did not think of turning them away. They passed on. His name was announced to his mother. She came to him at once.

"Rupert!" cried Lady Railton, looking at him with astonishment.

"Mother," he answered placidly, "I have brought you my child--the innocent and unoffending. She will be an orphan soon--as you may guess. You will protect and be a mother to her?"

The proudest of women was sufficiently humbled. The prodigal was received with a tenderness that came too late--a welcome that had nothing of rejoicing. He was forgiven, but his pardon availed him nothing. He was watched and attended with affectionate care, when watching and attention could not add an hour to his life, or one consolation to his bruised spirit. The trial came on, a verdict was pronounced in favour of the plaintiff. The knot that had been violently tied was violently broken asunder. Upon the evening preceding that day, Rupert Sinclair had finished with the earth. He died, with his little darling kneeling at his side. He died, breathing her name.

* * * * *

Years have passed since that hour. I have seen much since I followed my poor friend to his last resting-place. It has been my lot to behold a proud and haughty woman instructed by misfortune, and elevated by human grief. Lady Railton repaired the folly of a life by her conduct towards the child committed to her charge. She did her duty to the lovely Alice; she fulfilled her obligations to her father.--I have seen vice terribly punished. A few months ago, I stood at a pauper's grave. It was the grave of ELINOR TRAVIS. Deserted by Lord Minden, she descended in the scale of vice,--for years she lived in obscurity,--she was buried at the public charge. The family of General Travis has long since been extinct. The money with which his daughter supplied him in Lyons enabled him to compound with a merchant, whose name he had forged, and to leave Europe for ever.

The little Alice is a matron now, but lovely in the meridian of her virtuous life, as in her earlier morn. She is the mother of a happy family--herself its brightest ornament.

HOCHELAGA.[4]

LET not the unsophisticated reader be alarmed at the somewhat barbarous and unintelligible word that heads this article. Let him not be deterred by a name from the investigation of facts, nor hindered by the repulsive magic of harshly-sounding syllables from rambling with us through the pages of an amusing and clever book. HOCHELAGA is neither a heathen god nor a Mohawk chief, an Indian cacique nor a Scandinavian idol, but simply the ancient and little known name of a well-known and interesting country. Under it is designated a vast and flourishing territory, a bright jewel in England's crown, a land whose daily increasing population, if only partially of British origin, yet is ruled by British laws, and enjoys the blessings of British institutions. On the continent of North America, over whose southern and central portions the banner of republicanism exultingly floats, a district yet remains where monarchical government and conservative principles are upheld and respected. By nature it is far from being the most favoured region of that New World which Columbus first discovered and Spaniards and English first colonized. It has neither the mineral wealth of Mexico nor the luxuriant fertility of the Southern States. Within its limits no cotton fields wave or sugar-canes rustle; the tobacco plant displays not its broad and valuable leaf; the crimson cochineal and the purple indigo are alike unknown; no mines of silver and gold freight galleons for the Eastern world. Its produce is industriously wrung from stubborn fields and a rigid climate--not generously, almost spontaneously, yielded by a glowing temperature and teeming soil. The corn and timber which it exchanges for European manufactures and luxuries, are results of the white man's hard and honest labour, not of the blood and sweat and ill-requited toil of flagellated negroes and oppressed Indians. From the Lakes and the St Lawrence to Labrador and the Bay of Hudson this country extends. Its name is CANADA.

Mr Eliot Warburton, a gentleman favourably known to the English public, as author of a pleasant book of travel in the East, has given the sanction and benefit of his editorship to a narrative of rambles and observations in the Western hemisphere. We put little faith in editorships; favour and affection have induced many able men to endorse indifferent books; and we took up _Hochelaga_ with all due disposition to be difficult, and to resist an imposition, had such been practised. Even the tender and touching compliments exchanged between author and editor in their respective prefaces, did not mollify us, or dispose us to look leniently upon a poor production. We are happy to say that we were speedily disarmed by the contents of the volumes; that we threw aside the critical cat-o'-nine-tails, whose deserved and well-applied lashes have made many a literary sinner to writhe, and prepared for the more grateful task of commending the agreeable pages of an intelligent and unprejudiced traveller. Since the latter chooses to be anonymous, we have no right to dispel his incognito, or to seek so to do. Concerning him, therefore, we will merely state what may be gathered from his book; that he is plump, elderly, good-tempered, and kind-hearted, and, we suspect, an ex-_militaire_.

Before opening the campaign in Canada, let us, for a moment, step ashore in what our author styles the fishiest of modern capitals, St John's, Newfoundland. Here codfish are the one thing universal; acres of sheds roofed with cod, laid out to dry, boats fishing for cod, ships loading with it, fields manured with it, and, best of all, fortunes made by it. The accomplishments of the daughter, the education of the son, the finery of the mother, the comforts of the father, all are paid for with this profitable fish. The population subsist upon it; figuratively, not literally. For, although the sea is alive with cod, the earth covered with it, and the air impregnated with its odour, it is carefully banished from the dinner table, and "an observation made on its absence from that apparently appropriate position, excited as much astonishment as if I had made a remark to a Northumberland squire that he had not a head-dish of Newcastle coals." But the abundance which renders it unpalatable to the Newfoundlanders, procures them more acceptable viands, and all the luxuries of life. The climate ungenial, the soil barren, crops are difficult to obtain, and rarely ripen; even potatoes and vegetables are but scantily compelled from the niggard earth; fish, the sole produce, is the grand article of barter. In exchange for his lenten ration of _bacallao_, the Spaniard sends his fruits and Xeres, the Portuguese his racy port, the Italian his Florence oil and Naples maccaroni. Every where, but especially in those "countries of the Catholic persuasion" where the fasts of the Romish church are most strictly observed, Newfoundland finds customers for its cod and suppliers of its wants.

Excepting in the case of a boundary question to settle, or a patriot revolt to quell, Canada obtains in England a smaller share than it deserves of the public thoughts. It does not appeal to the imagination by those attractive elements of interest which so frequently rivet attention on others of our colonies. India is brought into dazzling relief by its Oriental magnificence and glitter, and by its feats of arms; the West Indies have wealth and an important central position; our possessions towards the South pole excite curiosity by their distance and comparative novelty. But Canada, pacific and respectable, plain and unpretending, to many suggests no other idea than that of a bleak and thinly-peopled region, with little to recommend it, even in the way of picturesque scenery or natural beauty. Those who have hitherto entertained such an opinion may feel surprised at the following description of Quebec.

"Take mountain and plain, sinuous river and broad tranquil waters, stately ship and tiny boat, gentle hill and shady valley, bold headland and rich fruitful fields, frowning battlement and cheerful villa, glittering dome and rural spire, flowery garden and sombre forest--group them all into the choicest picture of ideal beauty your fancy can create--arch it over with a cloudless sky--light it up with a radiant sun, and, lest the sheen should be too dazzling, hang a veil of lighted haze over all, to soften the lines and perfect the repose; you will then have seen Quebec on this September morning."

The internal arrangements of the chief port and second town of Canada do not correspond with its external appearance and charming environs. The public buildings are ugly; the unsymmetrical streets twist and turn in every possible direction--are narrow and of quaint aspect, composed of houses irregularly placed and built. The suburbs, chiefly peopled by French Canadians, are of wood, with exception of the churches, hospitals, and convents. The population of the city, which now amounts to forty thousand souls, has increased fifteen thousand during the last fifteen years. The people are as motley as their dwellings; in all things there is a curious mixture of French and English. "You see over a corner house, 'Cul de Sac Street;' on a sign-board, 'Ignace Bougainville, chemist and druggist.' In the shops, with English money you pay a Frenchman for English goods; the piano at the evening party of Mrs What's-her-name makes Dutch concert with the music of Madame Chose's _soirA(C)e_ in the next house. Sad to say, the two races do not blend; they are like oil and water--the English the oil, being the richer and at the top." The difference of descent tells its tale; the restless, grumbling Anglo-Saxon pushes his way upwards, energetic and indefatigable; the easy-going, contented French-Canadian, remains where he is, or rather sinks than rises. The latter has many good qualities; he is honest, sober, hardy, kind, and courteous. Brave and loyal, he willingly takes the field in defence of the established government and of British rights. The most brilliant exploit of the last American war is recorded of three hundred French Canadians under M. de Salaberry, who, by their resolute maintenance of a well-selected position, compelled General Hampton, with a park of artillery and a body of troops twenty times as numerous as themselves, to evacuate Lower Canada. Simple, credulous, and easily worked upon, it was at the incitation of a few knaves and adventurers that a portion of the French population were brought to share in the rebellion of 1837. There is little danger of another such outbreak, even though colonial demagogues should again agitate, French republicans again rave about British tyranny towards their oppressed brethren, and though the refuse and rabble of the States should once more assemble upon the frontier to aid and abet an insurrection. The abortive result of the last revolt, the little sympathy it found amongst the masses of the population, the judicious and conciliatory measures of recent governors, have combined to win over the disaffected, and to convince them that it is for their true interest to continue under the mild rule of Great Britain. An excellent feeling has been shown by all parties during our late difficult relations with the United States. "The Americans are altogether mistaken," said the leader of the Upper Canada reformers, "if they suppose that political differences in Canada arise from any sympathy with them or their institutions; we have our differences, but we are perfectly able to settle them ourselves, and will not suffer their interference."

"My countrymen," said one of the most influential French Canadians, during a discussion on the militia bill, "would be the first to rush to the frontier, and joyfully oppose their breasts to the foe; the last shot fired on this continent in defence of the British crown will be by the hand of a French Canadian. By habits, feeling, and religion, we are monarchists and conservatives."

When such sentiments are expressed by the heads of the opposition, there is little fear for Canada, and ambitious democrats must be content to push southwards. In a northerly direction it would be absurd for them to expect either to propagate their principles or extend their territory. They believe that in the event of a war with England, twenty or thirty thousand militia would speedily overrun and conquer Canada. In a clear and comprehensive statement of Canada's means of defence, the author of _Hochelaga_ shows the folly of this belief, which assuredly can only be seriously entertained by men overweeningly presumptuous or utterly oblivious of the events of thirty years ago. When, in 1812, we came to loggerheads with our Yankee cousins, and they walked into Canada, expecting, as they now would, to walk over it, they soon found that they were to take very little by their motion. The whole number of British troops then in the colony was under two thousand four hundred men. Upper Canada was comparatively a wilderness, occupied by a few scattered labourers, difficult to organise into militia, and including no class out of which officers could be made. Yet, even with this slender opposition, how did the invaders fare? Where were the glorious results so confidently anticipated? Let the defeat at Chrystler's farm, the rout and heavy loss at Queenstown, the surrender of General Hall with his whole army and the territory of Michigan, reply to the question. And to-day how do matters stand? "Within the last twenty years, several entire Scottish clans, under their chiefs--M'Nabs, Glengarys, and others, worthy of their warlike ancestors--have migrated hither. Hardy and faithful men from the stern hills of Ulster, and fiery but kind-hearted peasants from the south of Ireland, with sturdy honest yeomen from Yorkshire and Cumberland, have fixed their homes in the Canadian forests. These immigrants, without losing their love and reverence for the crown and laws of their native country, have become attached to their adopted land, where their stake is now fixed, and are ready to defend their properties and their government against foreign invasion or domestic treason." The militia, composed in great part of the excellent materials just enumerated, is of the nominal strength of 140,000 men. Of these a fourth might take the field, without their absence seriously impeding the commerce and industry of the country. The Canadian arsenals are well supplied, and nearly eight thousand regular troops occupy the various garrisons. Quebec, with its strong fortifications and imposing citadel, may bid defiance to any force that could be brought against it from the States; important works have been erected upon the island of Montreal; Kingston and its adjacent forts would require a large army and corresponding naval force to subdue it; Toronto would give the invaders some trouble. Defensive works exist along the frontier of Lower Canada. In no way has the security of the colonies been neglected, or the possibility of a war overlooked. But there is yet one measure whose adoption the author of _Hochelaga_ strongly urges, whose utility is obvious, and which we trust in due time to see carried out. This is the construction of a railroad, connecting the whole of British America; commencing at Halifax and extending, by Quebec, Montreal, Kingston, and Toronto, to Amherstburg and the far west. The essential portion of the line is that from Halifax to Quebec, by which, when the St Lawrence is closed by ice, troops might be forwarded in a couple of days to the latter city. In the spring of 1847, we are told, the canals will be completed which are to open the great lakes to our fleets. For summer time that may suffice. But the five months' winter must not be overlooked. And apart from the military view of the case, the benefit of such a railway would be enormous. "It will strengthen the intimacy between this splendid colony and the seat of government: the emigrant from home, and the produce from the west, will then pass through British waters and over British territories only, without enriching the coffers of a foreign state. The Americans, with their great mercantile astuteness, are making every effort to divert the trade of Canada into their channels, and to make us in every way dependent on them for our communications. The drawback bill, by which the custom-duties on foreign goods are refunded on their passing into our provinces, has already been attended with great success in obtaining for them a portion of our carrying trade, especially during the winter, when our great highway of the St Lawrence is closed."

The estimated cost of the railway, as far as Quebec, is three millions sterling--a sum far too large to be raised by private means in the colony. The advantages would be manifold, and a vast impulse would be given to the prosperity of Canada. The Canadians are anxious to see the scheme carried out, but they look to this country for aid. As one means of repaying the expenses of construction, it has been proposed that tracts of land along the line of road should be granted to the company: the railway once completed, these would speedily become of great value. The engineering difficulties are stated to be very slight.

This proposed railway brings us back to Quebec, whence we have been decoyed sooner than we intended, by the discussion of Canada's military defences. We sincerely wish that these may never be needed; that no clouds may again overshadow our relations with the States, and that, should such arise, they may promptly and amicably be dissipated. In disputes and discussions with the great American republic, this country has ever shown itself yielding; far too much so, if such pliancy encourages to further encroachment. But if we are at last met in a good spirit, if our forbearance and facility are read aright, it will be some compensation to Great Britain for having more than once ceded what she might justly have maintained. We shall not at present enter into the subject, or investigate how far certain English governments have been justified in relinquishing to American clamour, and for the sake of peace, tracts of territory which it would have been more dignified to retain, even by the strong hand. Insignificant though these concessions may individually have appeared, their sum is important. Were evidence of that fact wanting, we should find it in the book before us.

"Extensive though may be this splendid province of Canada, it is yet very different indeed from what it originally was. In the fourteenth year of the reign of George the Third, the boundaries of the province of Quebec, as it was then called, were defined by an act of the Imperial Parliament. By that act it included a great extent of what is now New England, and the whole of the country between the state of Pennsylvania, the river Ohio and the Mississipi, north to the Hudson's Bay territory, where now a great portion of the rich and flourishing Western States add their strength to the neighbouring republic. By gradual encroachments on the one hand, and concessions on the other, by the misconstruction of treaties and division of boundaries, have these vast and valuable tracts of country been separated from the British empire."

England has the reputation of holding her own with a firm and tenacious grasp; and by foreign rivals it is imputed to her as a crime that she is greedy and aggressive, more apt to take with both hands, than to give up with either. If such be really the general character of her policy, in North America she has strangely relaxed it. None, it is true, not even our kinsmen beyond the Atlantic, highly as they estimate their own weight and prowess, will suspect this country of giving way from other motives than a wish to remain on amicable terms with a relative and a customer. But such considerations must not be allowed undue influence. It would be unworthy the British character to fly to arms for a pique or a bauble; it would be still more degrading to submit patiently to a systematic series of encroachments. Unquestionably, had France stood towards America in the same position that we do, with respect to Canada, and if America had pursued with France the same course that she has done with us, there would long since have been broken heads between Frenchmen and Yankees; probably at this very moment the tricolor and the stars and stripes would have been buffeting each other by sea and land. We do not set up France as an example to this country in that particular. We are less sensitive than our Gallic neighbours, and do not care to injure or peril substantial interests by excessive punctiliousness. But there is a point at which forbearance must cease. Governments have patched up disputes, and made concessions, through fear of complicating their difficulties, and of incurring blame for plunging the country into a war. The country has looked on, if not approvingly, at least passively; and, the critical moment past, has borne no malice, and let bygones be bygones. But if war became necessary, the people of England would, whilst deploring that necessity, enter upon it cheerfully, and feel confident of its result. There must be no more boundary questions trumped up, no more attempts to chip pieces off our frontier; or, strong as the desire is to keep friends with Brother Jonathan, something serious will ensue. Meanwhile, and in case of accidents, it is proper and prudent to keep our bayonets bright, and to put bolts and bars upon the gates of Canada.

In Quebec, our Hochelagian friend seems greatly to have enjoyed himself. Judging from his account, it must be a pleasant place and eligible residence. Such quadrilling and polkaing, and riding and sleighing--picnics in the summer to the ChaudiA"re falls and other beautiful places, fishing-parties to Lake Beaufort in the fine Canadian autumn, snow-shoing in the winter, fun and merriment at all seasons. In the Terpsichorean divertisements above cited, our author--being, as already observed, obese and elderly--took no share, but looked on good-humouredly, and slily noted the love-passages between the handsome English captains and pretty Canadian girls. The latter are most attractive. Brought out young, and mixing largely in society, they are not very deeply read, but are exceedingly loveable, and possess an indescribable charm of manner. Owing probably to the extremes of heat and cold in Canada, beauty is there less durable than in the mother country. Early matured, it speedily fades. The fair Canadians make good use of the interval, and find it abundantly long to play havoc with the hearts of the other sex. The English officers are particularly susceptible to their fascinations, and many marry in Canada; as do also a large proportion of the English merchants who go over there. The style of dress of these seductive damsels is simple, but tasteful. In winter, of course, they are furred to the eyes, as a protection from the piercing cold, which rivals that of Siberia. Muffed and gauntleted, well packed in bear and buffalo skins, they are driven about in sledges by their male friends, who wear huge fur caps, flapped over the ears, enormous blanket or buffalo coats, jack-boots, moose-skin moccasins, and other contrivances equally inelegant and comfortable. The extreme dryness of the air renders the cold much more endurable than might be supposed. The sun shines brightly, the atmosphere is crisp and exhilarating; there is rarely much wind. Under these circumstances, the thermometer may go down, as it frequently does, to thirty or forty degrees below zero, without any serious inconvenience or suffering being felt. When a gale comes during the cold season, the effect is very different. Our author tells us of a certain Sunday, "when the thermometer was at thirty degrees below zero, and a high wind blew at the same time. The effect, in many respects, was not unlike that of intense heat; the sky was very red about the setting sun, and deep blue elsewhere; the earth and river were covered with a thin haze, and the tin cross and spires, and the new snow, shone with almost unnatural brightness; dogs went mad from the cold and want of water; metal exposed to the air blistered the hand, as if it had come out of a fire; no one went out of doors but from necessity, and those who did, hurried along with their fur-gloved hands over their faces, as if to guard against an atmosphere infected with the plague; for as the icy wind touched the skin, it scorched it like a blaze. But such a day as this occurs only once in many years."

There is tolerable fishing and shooting around Quebec; trout in abundance, salmon within five-and-twenty miles, snipe and woodcock, hare and partridge. Angling, however, is rendered almost as unpleasant an operation for the fisher as for the fish, by the mosquitoes, which abound in the summer months, and are extremely troublesome in country places, though they do not venture into towns. To get good shooting it is necessary to go a considerable distance. But the grand object of the Canadian chase is the enormous moose-deer, which grows to the height of seven feet and upwards, and is sometimes fierce and dangerous. In the month of February, our author and a military friend started on a moose-hunting expedition, which lasted six days, and ended in the slaughter of two fine specimens. They were guided by four Indians, belonging to a remnant of the Huron tribe, settled at the village of Sorette, near Quebec; a degenerate race, mostly with a cross of the French Canadian in their blood, idle, dirty, covetous, and especially drunken. There are other domesticated Indians in Canada who bear a higher character. During the insurrection, a party of rebels having approached the Indian village of Caughrawaga, the warriors of the tribe hastily armed themselves, and sallied forth to attack them. Taken by surprise, the insurgents were made prisoners, bound with their own sashes, and conveyed to Montreal jail. The victors were of the once powerful and ferocious tribe of the Six Nations. Their chief told the English general commanding, that, if necessary, he would bring him, within four-and-twenty hours, the scalps of every inhabitant of the neighbourhood. None of the Red men's prisoners had been injured.