at disappointed in the few buildings of this kind that I saw along
the banks of the river. It was not the rudeness of the material so much
as the barn-like form of the buildings of this kind, and the little
attention that paid to the picturesque, that displeased me. In Britain
even the peasant has taste enough to plant a few roses or honeysuckles
about his door or his casement, and there is the little bit of garden
enclosed and neatly kept; but here no such attempt is made to ornament
the cottages. We saw no smiling orchard or grove to conceal the bare log
walls; and as to the little farm-houses, they are uglier still, and look
so pert and ungraceful stuck upon the bank close to the water's edge.

Further back a different style of building and cultivation appears. The
farms and frame-houses are really handsome places, and in good taste,
with clumps of trees here and there to break the monotony of the
clearing. The land is nearly one unbroken level plain, apparently
fertile and well farmed, but too flat for fine scenery. The country
between Quebec and Montreal has all the appearance of having been under
a long state of cultivation, especially on the right bank of the river.
Still there is a great portion of forest standing which it will take
years of labour to remove.

We passed some little grassy islands on which there were many herds of
cattle feeding. I was puzzling myself to know how they got there, when
the captain told me it was usual for farmers to convey their stock to
these island pastures in flat-bottomed boats, or to swim them, if the
place was fordable, and leave them to graze as long as the food
continued good. If cows are put on an island within a reasonable
distance of the farm, some person goes daily in a canoe to milk them.
While he was telling me this, a log-canoe with a boy and a stout lass
with tin pails, paddled across from the bank of the river, and proceeded
to call together their herd.

We noticed some very pleasant rural villages to the right as we
advanced, but our pilot was stupid, and could not, or would not tell
their names. It was Sunday morning, and we could just hear the quick
tinkling of the church bells, and distinguish long lines of caleches,
light waggons, with equestrians and pedestrians hastening along the
avenue of trees that led to the churchyard; besides these, were boats
and canoes crossing the river, bound to the same peaceful haven.

In a part of the St. Laurence, where the