I said in the last chapter that the City of Ottawa was still to be built; but I must explain, lest I should draw down on my head the wrath of the Ottawaites, that the place already contains a population of 15,000 inhabitants.  As, however, it is being prepared for four times that number—­for eight times that number, let us hope—­and as it straggles over a vast extent of ground, it gives one the idea of a city in an active course of preparation.  In England we know nothing about unbuilt cities.  With us four or five blocks of streets together never assume that ugly, unfledged appearance which belongs to the half-finished carcass of a house, as they do so often on the other side of the Atlantic.  Ottawa is preparing for itself broad streets and grand thoroughfares.  The buildings already extend over a length considerably exceeding two miles; and half a dozen hotels have been opened, which, if I were writing a guide-book in a complimentary tone, it would be my duty to describe as first rate.  But the half dozen first-rate hotels, though open, as yet enjoy but a moderate amount of custom.  All this justifies me, I think, in saying that the city has as yet to get itself built.  The manner in which this is being done justifies me also in saying that the Ottawaites are going about their task with a worthy zeal.

To me I confess that the nature of the situation has great charms, regarding it as the site for a town.  It is not on a plain; and from the form of the rock overhanging the river, and of the hill that falls from thence down to the water, it has been found impracticable to lay out the place in right-angled parallelograms.  A right-angled parallelogramical city, such as are Philadelphia and the new portion of New York, is from its very nature odious to me.  I know that much may be said in its favor—­that drainage and gas-pipes come easier to such a shape, and that ground can be better economized.  Nevertheless, I prefer a street that is forced to twist itself about.  I enjoy the narrowness of Temple Bar and the misshapen curvature of Picket Street.  The disreputable dinginess of Hollowell Street is dear to me, and I love to thread my way up the Olympic into Covent Garden.  Fifth Avenue in New York is as grand as paint and glass can make it; but I would not live in a palace in Fifth Avenue if the corporation of the city would pay my baker’s and butcher’s bills.

The town of Ottawa lies between two waterfalls.  The upper one, or Rideau Fall, is formed by the confluence of a small river with the larger one; and the lower fall—­designated as lower because it is at the foot of the hill, though it is higher up the Ottawa River—­ is called the Chaudiere, from its resemblance to a boiling kettle.  This is on the Ottawa River itself.  The Rideau Fall is divided into two branches, thus forming an island in the middle, as is the case at Niagara.  It is pretty enough, and worth visiting even were it farther from the town than it is; but by those who