passengers from twenty-five vessels, of various size and tonnage, which rode at anchor, with their flags flying from the mast-head, gave an air of life and interest to the whole.  Turning to the south side of the St. Lawrence, I was not less struck with its low fertile shores, white houses, and neat churches, whose slender spires and bright tin roofs shone like silver as they caught the first rays of the sun.  As far as the eye could reach, a line of white buildings extended along the bank; their background formed by the purple hue of the dense, interminable forest.  It was a scene unlike any I had ever beheld, and to which Britain contains no parallel.  Mackenzie, an old Scotch dragoon, who was one of our passengers, when he rose in the morning, and saw the parish of St. Thomas for the first time, exclaimed:  “Weel, it beats a’!  Can thae white clouts be a’ houses?  They look like claes hung out to drie!” There was some truth in this odd comparison, and for some minutes, I could scarcely convince myself that the white patches scattered so thickly over the opposite shore could be the dwellings of a busy, lively population.

“What sublime views of the north side of the river those habitans of St. Thomas must enjoy,” thought I. Perhaps familiarity with the scene has rendered them indifferent to its astonishing beauty.

Eastward, the view down the St. Lawrence towards the Gulf, is the finest of all, scarcely surpassed by anything in the world.  Your eye follows the long range of lofty mountains until their blue summits are blended and lost in the blue of the sky.  Some of these, partially cleared round the base, are sprinkled over with neat cottages; and the green slopes that spread around them are covered with flocks and herds.  The surface of the splendid river is diversified with islands of every size and shape, some in wood, others partially cleared, and adorned with orchards and white farm-houses.  As the early sun streamed upon the most prominent of these, leaving the others in deep shade, the effect was strangely novel and imposing.  In more remote regions, where the forest has never yet echoed to the woodman’s axe, or received the impress of civilisation, the first approach to the shore inspires a melancholy awe, which becomes painful in its intensity.

  Land of vast hills and mighty streams,
  The lofty sun that o’er thee beams
  On fairer clime sheds not his ray,
  When basking in the noon of day
  Thy waters dance in silver light,
  And o’er them frowning, dark as night,
  Thy shadowy forests, soaring high,
  Stretch forth beyond the aching eye,
  And blend in distance with the sky.

  And silence—­awful silence broods
  Profoundly o’er these solitudes;
  Nought but the lapsing of the floods
  Breaks the deep stillness of the woods;
  A sense of desolation reigns
  O’er these unpeopled forest plains. 
  Where sounds of life ne’er wake a tone
  Of cheerful praise round Nature’s throne,
  Man finds himself with God—­alone.