A SPORTSMAN'S EDEN. 



but you will say that I have seen too much, and 

 am blase"e. At Bimouski, the first place at which 

 we touched after leaving Moville, we put a few 

 passengers ashore, losing them and ourselves in a 

 dense fog. 



Out of the fog, we steamed slowly up a fair 

 broad water-way between two low, gray walls of 

 rock, hard and bare, looking more like the teeth 

 of a trap than the banks of a river. 



Behind these ice-worn rocks lie low, level 

 lands, stretching back unbroken to the horizon, 

 and so flat that the trees appear to rise from the 

 river-bed. Scores of white cottages straggle in 

 a disorderly way along the banks, not in separate 

 hamlets, but in one long irregular line. There 

 appear to be no big houses, and no factories. 

 Such as they are now, the white houses have 

 been for generations, and will be for generations 

 to come. The people who inhabit them care not 

 for great things, but are content to remain men 

 of low estate. 



There was something in the still, broad water- 

 way, level lands, and green stretches of wild- 

 fowl haunted rush and sedges, which, as we drew 

 near Montreal, reminded me of Holland, and a 

 big, broad-sailed boat (the sail absurdly too big 

 for the boat), bearing down upon us through 

 the evening haze, strengthened the impression. 



