onymous
landscapes, and he explained and named everything to me. My innocence of
American things in general touched him. He was a great treat after those
"ill-licked bears" that you so often come across in the American cars.
He went further than that: he kindly recommended me to the Canadian
custom-house officers, when we arrived at the frontier, and the
examination of my trunk and valise did not last half a minute.

[Illustration: THE AMIABLE CONDUCTOR.]

Altogether, the long journey passed rapidly and agreeably. We were only
two people in the parlor car, and my traveling companion proved a very
pleasant man. First, I did not care for the look of him. He had a new
silk hat on, a multicolored satin cravat with a huge diamond pin fixed
in it; a waistcoat covered with silk embroidery work, green, blue, and
pink; a coat with silk facings, patent-leather boots. Altogether, he was
rather dressed for a garden party (in more than doubtful taste) than for
a fifteen hours' railway journey. But in America the cars are so
luxurious and kept so warm that traveling dresses are not known in the
country. Ulsters, cloaks, rugs, garments made of tweed and rough
materials, all these things are unnecessary and therefore unknown. I
soon found out, however, that this quaintly got-up man was interesting
to speak to. He knew every bit of the country we passed, and, being
easily drawn out, he poured into my ears information that was as rapid
as it was valuable. He was well read and had been to Europe several
times. He spoke of France with great enthusiasm, which enrolled my
sympathy, and he had enjoyed my lecture, which, you may imagine, secured
for his intelligence and his good taste my boundless admiration. When we
arrived at Montreal, we were a pair of friends.

* * * * *

I begin my Canadian tour here on Monday and then shall go West. I was in
Quebec two years ago; but the dear old place is not on my list this
time. No words could express my regret. I shall never forget my feelings
on landing under the great cliff on which stands the citadel, and on
driving, bumped along in a sleigh over the half-thawed snow, in the
street that lies under the fortress, and on through the other quaint
winding steep streets, and again under the majestic archways to the
upper town, where I was set down at the door of the Florence, a quiet,
delightful little hotel that the visitor to Quebec should not fail to
stop at, if he l