I amuse myself with making little sketches of the fort and the surrounding scenery, or watching the groups of emigrants on shore.  We have already seen the landing of the passengers of three emigrant ships.  You may imagine yourself looking on a fair or crowded market, clothes waving in the wind or spread out on the earth, chests, bundles, baskets, men, women, and children, asleep or basking in the sun, some in motion busied with their goods, the women employed in washing or cooking in the open air, beside the wood fires on the beach; while parties of children are pursuing each other in wanton glee rejoicing in their newly-acquired liberty.  Mixed with these you see the stately form and gay trappings of the sentinels, while the thin blue smoke of the wood fires, rising above the trees, heightens the picture and gives it an additional effect.  On my husband remarking the picturesque appearance of scene before us to one of the officers from the fort who had come on board, he smiled sadly, and replied, “Believe me, in this instance, as in many others, ’tis distance lends enchantment to the view.”  Could you take a nearer survey of some of those very picturesque groups which you admire, I think you would turn away from them with heart sickness; you would there behold every variety of disease, vice, poverty, filth, and famine—­human misery in its most disgusting and saddening form.  Such pictures as Hogarth’s pencil only could have pourtrayed, or Crabbe’s pen described.

August 14.—­We are once more under weigh, and floating up the river with the tide.  Gros Isle is just five and twenty miles below Quebec, a favourable breeze would carry us up in a few hours; as it is we can only make a little way by tacking from side to side when we lose the tide.  I rather enjoy this way of proceeding, as it gives one a close view of both sides the river, which narrows considerably as we approach nearer towards Quebec.  To-morrow, if no accident happens, we shall be anchored in front of a place rendered interesting both by its historical associations and its own native beauty of situation.  Till to-morrow, then, adieu.

I was reckoning much on seeing the falls of Montmorenci, which are within sight of the river; but the sun set, and the stars rose brilliantly before we approached within sound of the cataract; and though I strained my eyes till they were weary of gazing on the dim shadowy scene around me, I could distinguish nothing beyond the dark masses of rock that forms the channel through which the waters of the Montmorenci rush into the St. Laurence.

At ten last night, August the 15th, the lights of the city of Quebec were seen gleaming through the distance like a coronet of stars above the waters.  At half-past ten we dropped anchor opposite the fort, and I fell asleep dreaming of the various scenes through which I had passed.  Again I was destined to be disappointed in my expectations of going on shore.  The visiting surgeon advised my husband and me by no means to land, as the mortality that still raged in the town made it very hazardous.  He gave a melancholy description of the place.  “Desolation and woe and great mourning—­Rachel weeping for her children because they are not,” are words that may well be applied to this city of the pestilence.