noon. The sun was shining down with that
intense brilliancy which, I think, is only to be seen in Canada, or
in the sunny climes of those countries bordering on the Mediterranean
sea. The little village of Rimouski seemed this afternoon all asleep,
for the heat made every one drowsy, and the old French Canadian women
at their doorsteps were nodding sleepily over their spinning-wheels.
Spinning-wheels, improbable as it sounds to nineteenth century ears, are
not yet out of date in this part of the country, and many a table-cloth
and fine linen sheet, spun by the women of the district, find their way
to the shops of Quebec and Montreal. A quaint picturesque little village
this; the houses are scattered and at uneven distances from each other.
Nearly all of them have large verandahs projecting far out on the
roadside, which is covered with uneven planks,--pitfalls in many places
to the benighted traveller. There are not many houses of importance here,
but there is a fine convent, where the young women of the district are
sent to be educated. There is also a school for boys, which adjoins the
house of M. le cure. The shops--picture it, ye dwellers in Montreal or
Quebec!--are three in number, and are carried on in the co-operative
style. Everything may be bought in them, from a box of matches or a pound
of tobacco, to the fine black silk to serve for a Sunday gown for Madame
De la Garde, the lady of the Seigneury.

Then, of course, there is the church, for in what village, however small,
in Lower Canada is there not a church? This particular one is not very
interesting. It is very large, and has the inevitable tin roof common
to most Canadian churches, a glaringly ugly object to behold on a hot
afternoon, taking away by its obtrusiveness the restful feeling one
naturally associates with a sacred edifice. This on the outside; inside,
fortunately, all is different, and more like the Gothic architecture of
Northern France than one would imagine from the exterior.

Next comes the railway station, a large ugly building painted a neutral
brown. Here everything was very quiet this afternoon, for except at the
seasons of the pilgrimages to the church of the Good Saint Anne of Father
Point, five miles lower down the line, there is as a rule little traffic
going on.

Between Rimouski and Father Point (called by the French Pointe a Pere) is
a long dusty road, very flat, and, except where the gulf comes in to the
coast in frequent litt