times a sacrifice, for he was not past
the age when people take a lively interest in most other human beings.
When breakfast was over, and he had made the tour of the boat, and seen
all his fellow-passengers, he perceived that he could have little in
common with any of them, and that probably the journey would require the
full exercise of that tolerant spirit in which he had undertaken a
branch of summer travel in his native land.

The rush of air against the steamer was very raw and chill, and the
forward promenade was left almost entirely to the English professional
people, who walked rapidly up and down, with jokes and laughter of their
kind, while the wind blew the girl's hair in loose gold about her fresh
face, and twisted her blue drapery tight about her comely shape. When
they got out of breath they sat down beside a large American lady, with
a great deal of gold filling in her front teeth, and presently rose
again and ran races to and from the bow. Mr. Arbuton turned away in
displeasure. At the stern he found a much larger company, most of whom
had furnished themselves with novels and magazines from the stock on
board and were drowsing over them. One gentleman was reading aloud to
three ladies the newspaper account of a dreadful shipwreck; other ladies
and gentlemen were coming and going forever from their state-rooms, as
the wont of some is; others yet sat with closed eyes, as if having come
to see the Saguenay they were resolved to see nothing of the St.
Lawrence on the way thither, but would keep their vision sacred to the
wonders of the former river.

Yet the St. Lawrence was worthy to be seen, as even Mr. Arbuton owned,
whose way was to slight American scenery, in distinction from his
countrymen who boast it the finest in the world. As you leave Quebec,
with its mural-crowned and castled rock, and drop down the stately
river, presently the snowy fall of Montmorenci, far back in its purple
hollow, leaps perpetual avalanche into the abyss, and then you are
abreast of the beautiful Isle of Orleans, whose low shores, with their
expanses of farmland, and their groves of pine and oak, are still as
lovely as when the wild grape festooned the primitive forests and won
from the easy rapture of old Cartier the name of Isle of Bacchus. For
two hours farther down the river either shore is bright and populous
with the continuous villages of the _habitans_, each clustering about
its slim-spired church, in its shallow va