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ous family of various ages assembled in the cottage; and they and their habitation were brilliant with cleanliness and snow white linen. It was indeed Sunday, but the week day dresses that I afterwards saw did not disgrace the holiday attire. I could not help expressing my admiration at the order and neatness of every thing around me to the mother of the family. "Vous êtes bien bon, monsieur," she replied; "mais l'ordre et la propreté, ce sont des qualités bien naturelles. Une famille malpropre! Ah, Dieu préserve! Une famille malpropre serait bien remarquée dans notre village, et je croa c'est le cas dans tout le Conodo."

Perhaps we may see in this and similar accounts cause for revising those rather hasty generalizations concerning the necessary connection between Catholicism and dirt, which have formed the subject of many a good Protestant homily from travellers in Switzerland and elsewhere. Wishing to see whether his favorable opinion of the French Canadians was shared by their neighbors, Mr. Kohl consulted one of them, an inhabitant of a village on the Ottawa, which contains not less than six different churches, religions, and nations, and received a very satisfactory reply :

nous sommes venus dans ce pays. Vous cé
lébrez des noces, n'est-ce pas, Monsieur?"
"Ah! ça, c'est très bien, Messieurs; descendez,
descendez toujours, et entrez. Soyez les bien-
venus. Oui, sans doute ce sont des noces !"
We alighted and looked into the house, and at
the company. I think I have never seen such
well-dressed, well-behaved, handsome and cheer-
ful-looking guests at a peasant's wedding before.
There were good-tempered and hale old men and
women, fine young fellows, and crowds of pretty
girls: and, in the midst, the begarlanded and
happy, but dumb and embarrassed, bridal pair.
Here were the "good old times," that we some-
oil and canvas, but in flesh and blood and reality
times hear of in romance, not in pen and ink, or
before us. October is, it appears, the season for
weddings, when everybody, who is not married
before, marries, in order to be settled "warm
and comfortable for the winter." This nuptial
pair was one of four that were, according to
custom, going about from house to house, and
from one relation to another, to pay their wed-
ding visits."

The settlements of the French Canadians can generally be distinguished, we are told, at a considerable distance from those of the Americans, by the houses lying close to each other, instead of being scattered far and "Oh, these Canadians! Sir, I assure you, wide. The habitant has no ambitious longthey are a fine, honest, and mannerly set of peo-ings for thousands of acres, but likes to nesple. It is true there are some among them that tle among his friends and neighbors, to have are like others; but on the whole the Canadians his church within sight, and his children, if are most honest and genteel. There are no liars, possible, settled round him. The Yankee, thieves, drunkards, and blackguards among more self-reliant and self-sufficient, cares not them. When I first came into the country no for neighbors, would rather be without them, Canadian would care to shut his door, and none would ever think about an oath or a paper if you indeed; he looks into the future,—“ sees the bought a piece of land of them. Since the rev-vision of the world, and all the wonders that olution of 1837, the custom of shutting doors has become more general. But still, their houses are always open for the poor and the stranger. If you ever, sir, have lost your way, or feel tired, go to a Canadian house if you can find one. They will make you as comfortable as they possibly can. That what the Canadians

is, sir!"

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"I never go through a Canadian village without looking through the open window into the neat dwellings, at the groups of inhabitants at work, or chatting about the fire. When we got to Beauport (a village not far from the Falls of Montmorenci), some particularly interesting affair seemed to be going on, and when we saw a long procession of gaily dressed men and women entering a house, we stopped the carriage before the wide-open doors and looked in. One of the men standing about seemed to object to this, and asked, "What do you want there, gentlemen? What business have you there?" As we were convinced that no Canadian habitant ever speaks rudely, unless he thinks he has good cause, I replied, "Monsieur, nous sommes des étrangers; c'est aujourd'hui la première fois que

shall be," and can dispense with present comfort. With respect to his children, he accepts, as a law of Nature, the separation from them at the earliest possible period. The traveller ventured to put some questions to an old French farmer, concerning his domestic management, and was told that his daughter had been for some years working at her trousseau,-that his two sons were employed on board a steamboat, but brought their father all that they earned.

"Et je leur ramasse tout ça dans un coffre bien solide. This capital is growing every year, and very soon my eldest son will be able to buy land and marry. I have my eye on a little farm for him-the bit of land up there-close to my house. Then my son will get himself a wife, and come and live near me. By and by my second son will do the same; and if I cannot find land to suit him, I will divide my own with him."-"Your children do not seem to be like the Americans, who leave their parents directly, and go and settle somewhere on their own account?"-" Ah, Dieu préserve, Monsieur! Je déteste ce système là! Non, non, Monsieur; j'aime avoir mes enfans autour de moi, tout près de moi, comme une poule ses petits."

In all this the good habitant was, accord- average weight of the fish in those rivers ing to Mr. Kohl, to be regarded as a repre- with which our author is most intimately acsentative man. No one in the village (which quainted runs from twelve to twenty pounds, was in a new settlement on the Ottawa) had probably the best size for real sport. The more than forty acres of land, and five-and-construction of mill-dams on many of these thirty were thought a good farm. But the land was all nicely cleaned, and "not a stone to be found in the fields."

The chief want of Canada-that of sufficient means of communication-is now about to be supplied; and whatever hopes of prosperity may hitherto have been entertained for it may now probably be multiplied tenfold. To the many blessings it has to offer to those who are looking for a new home, there appears to exist only one drawback; and that is one that falls lightly on a wellfed and well-housed population. England may look with pride on so fair an offspring; and her fine American daughter may echo the invitation to Jaques :-"Come hither, come hither, come hither! Here shall you see no enemy but winter and rough weather."

From The Press.

SALMON FISHING IN CANADA.*

streams has of late years diminished the supply of salmon, which can no longer find their way up for the purpose of spawning. Certain regulations, however, are now being enforced with a view to mitigate this evil, and to remove all obstructions to the abundant increase in that noble fish. Another thing that frequently drives the salmon out of a river for a whole season is the Indian practice of spearing them, for they have a marked horror of the taste and smell of blood. "There are few things," says the Resident," "about which fishermen ought to be more careful than allowing their servants to clean the fish they have killed in the stream, or to throw their offal into it, for it is a fact well known that the slightest tinge of blood, or the smallest portion of intestines, will alarm a whole shoal of salmon, and send them running back in terror to the sea. The servants of the Hudson's Bay Company," he continues," are well aware of this, and at all their fishing stations you will find that the place at which they clean the fish is at some distance from the river, and that they invariably dig a hole in which they deposit scrupulously all the offal."

THE Canadian Resident, as we learn from a chapter headed, "Introductory and Egotistical," is an Irish clergyman, an enthusiastic votary of the "gentle craft," who, after "whipping" the best trout and salmon rivers in the mother-country, has for the last seven- Although prepared for the editor's introteen years pursued his double vocation of ductory remarks to expect "facetious matpreacher and piscator in the country and ter" mixed up with the didactic and narrarivers adjacent to Quebec. The most useful tive portion of the work, we certainly did portion of this not unreadable volume-on not look for "A Sermon" on the text "I I go the principle of extremes meeting-lies in a fishing." It is nevertheless a fact that a the earlier chapters and in the appendices. clergyman of the Church of England has The latter, though somewhat dry for general thought proper to mingle the sacred with the readers, contain much curious information profane, and to place in the midst of secondon the subject of salmon fishing in our North rate jokes a piscatorial sermon which he deAmerican possessions, furnished by the Rev. livered one Sunday on the Saguinay to a W. A. Adamson, D.C.L.-apparently the small congregation collected on board his Resident himself-Dr. Henry, inspector- yacht. Nor, we regret to add, is this the general of hospitals, and Sir James Alexan-only instance of levity and want of due revder. After all, very little seems to be really known as to the sport-giving capabilities of the Canadian rivers. Out of thirty-five magnificent streams which flow into the Gulf of St. Lawrence from its northern shore, not above ten, it is said, "have ever had a fly thrown upon their unexplored waters." The

erence which might be pointed out. As for the promised "facetious matter," there is little to raise a smile with the exception of the initial letters and the colophon to each chapter, which are really funny. On the whole, we fail to discover much literary merit in this joint production of the travelled knight and the salmonical parson, though *Salmon Fishing in Canada. By a Resident. their labors may very likely be of good serEdited by Colonel Sir J. E. Alexander, Knt. Lon-vice to enthusiastic anglers eager to traverse don: Longmans.

seas and continents in order to catch a fish.

AT NIGHT.

"DYING? You do but jest!

You smile in the dark, I know!
Surely I should know best
How the quick pulses go.
Lay your hand on my cheek:
Feel, though you see not, the red.
Why, in another week,

I shall have left my bed! "It was being so long alone

So sick of the world's vain strife,
Uncared for, and unknown,

That sapped the springs of life!
You have given a world of love :
Nay, soften that anxious brow;
Is not our God above?

He will not summon me now. "The summer is coming fast;

I can scent the rich perfume
Of the lilac by the door,

And the delicate apple-bloom.
Where shall our year be spent?
I long for the hills of Spain-
We will go to Rome, for Lent,

Then back to our home again. "O, what is this sudden pang?

Is it growing darker, Will?
Heavily goes my heart,-

It is almost standing still!
Raise me-I cannot breathe-
Pray for me, love," she said.
"Father, into Thy hands!"
And my young wife was dead.
-Once a Week.

THE UNFINISHED POEM. TAKE it, reader-idly passing

This, like hundred other lines; Take it, critic, great at classing

Subtle genius' well-known sign.
But, O reader! be thou dumb;
Critic, let no keen wit come;
For the hand that wrote or blurred
Will not write another word,
And the soul you scorn or prize
Now than angels is more wise.
Take it, heart of man or woman,
This unfinished, broken strain,
Whether it be poor and common,

Or the noblest work of brain;
Let that reverent heart sole sit
Here in judgment over it,
Tenderly, as you could read
(Any one of any creed,
Any churchyard walking by)
"Sacred to the memory."
Wholly sacred: even as lingers

Final word, or light glance cast,
Or last clasp of life-warm fingers
That we knew not was the last;
Wholly sacred-as we lay,
The day after funeral day,
Their dear relics, great or small,
Who need nothing, yet have all-
All the best of us, that lies
Hid with them in Paradise;

All our highest aspirations,

And our closest love of loves: Our most silent resignations,

Our best work that man approves; Yet which jealously we keep In our mute soul's deepest deep. So of this imperfect song Let no echoes here prolong; For the singer's voice is known In the heaven of heavens alone. -All the Year Round.

THE RIVER PATH.

BY JOHN G. WHITTIER.

[The following new and beautiful poem, from our ever-welcome contributor, will be recognized by those who have ever been near his cottage, as a Picture of a Sunset on the Banks of the Merrimac.]-Ed. Independent.

No bird-song floated down the hill,
The tangled bank below was still;
No rustle from the birchen stem,
No ripple from the water's hem.
The dusk of twilight round us grew,
We felt the falling of the dew;
For, from us, ere the day was done,
The wooded hills shut out the sun.
But on the river's furthest side
We saw the hill-tops glorified,-
A tender glow, exceeding fair,
A dream of day without its glare.
With us the damp, the chill, the gloom:
With them the sunset's rosy bloom;
While dark, through willowy vistas seen,
The river rolled in shade between.
From out the darkness where we trod
We gazed upon those hills of God,
Whose light seemed not of moon or sun.
We spake not, but our thought was one.
We paused, as if from that bright shore
Beckoned our dear ones gone before;
And stilled our beating hearts to hear
The voices lost to mortal car;

Sudden our pathway turned from night;
The hills swung open to the light:
Through their green gates the sunshine showed,
A long, slant splendor downward flowed.
Down glade and glen and bank it rolled;
It bridged the shaded stream with gold;

And, borne on piers of mist, allied

The shadowy with the sunlit side!

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FLORA.

At dealing death among the craven rout;

"THEY'VE gone to meet me." Well, we must But, wild with rage and shame, one turns about,

have crossed

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I shout; the bugle sounds, our scanty force
Is quickly in the saddle. Off we ride,
As hunters dash from English covert side.
But ours is fiercer game. Ah! there they go
Our swarthy-visaged, snowy-turbaned foe!
Hark! 'tis a cry for help! 'Tis she! 'tis she!
The fair young bride of my best friend; and he
Lies dead, but we'll avenge his death or die.
Revenge and rescue! Charge!" I hoarsely
cry,

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And, glancing back, I see each trooper's brow Dark with a frown. There is no flinching now; Though ten to one outnumbered by the foe, "Tis a wild race to strike the earliest blow. Ah! we have reached them! Through their ranks we dash

With speed unchecked; pistols and carbines flash,

And keen-edged sabres, bright no longer, wave,
As on we press their prisoner to save.
Too late! too late! A random, fatal blow
Has reached her breast-alas! 'tis better so.

Though we are few, the rebels take to flight, And we pursue, feeling a grim delight

And o'er his head his sabre keen uprears,
Upon my arm it falls-a gleam of light,
O God! great God! through flesh and bone it
shears,

I reel, I drop, and all is dark as night.

*

*

*

*

Once more I gain my senses. Where am I?
Upon a noble vessel's deck I lie,
Feeble and maimed I seek old England's shore,
For I can take my sword in hand no more.
Down at my empty sleeve I cast my eye,
And then with little real success I try
To find some consolation for the loss
In thinking of that priceless, simple cross-
"Reward of Valor." She is sure to prize
The toy; but what a sight to meet her eyes.
Is my brain fevered still? Methinks the scene
Suddenly changes; for the tender green
Of all arovnd, the cooler sky above,
And gentle breeze, soft as the voice of love,
Tell of another clime-of England-home,
More dear to me since I began to roam.
A garden, quaint and old, around extends,
Filled with sweet flowers, my old, familiar
friends,

Not gorgeous, as their Eastern compeers are,
But to my home-sick spirit dearer far.
I still am gazing, when a joyful cry
Falls on my car and makes the vision fly.
I start, I wake, but to a scene as fair,
The very same indeed-oh joy! for there
My cousin Flora stands with all her charms.

"Flora! Dear Flora!" breathlessly I call; "My love! my life!"-Ah! she is in my

arms

My arm, I mean, but this repays for all. -National Magazine. ANON.

WHERE THE GREENWOODS GROW. OH, let me roam where the greenwoods grow, Where the primrose springs and the blue-bells blow,

Where the shades of eve through the forest creep,

And the pearly dews on the flow'rets sleep.
I love to roam when the golden gleam
Of evening plays with the crystal stream;
And muse while the zephyrs sadly sigh,
As the darkling hour of night draws nigh.
Oh, let me roam where the greenwood grows,
While the stars come forth as the sunshine goes,
To cheer the gloom of the gloaming hour.
For a joy upsprings in every flower,
And for lonely ones, at the close of day,
A joy is heard in the dulcet lay

Of the wild-birds' song, so soft and low,
In the shaded dells where the greenwoods grow.
-National Magazine.

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POETRY.-Ode to Garibaldi, 706. The Country Church, 706. Shakspeare's Women, 768. The Golden Year, 768.

SHORT ARTICLES.-Bumptious and Gumption, 719. England at the close of the American War, 723. Dinner Etiquette, 723. Napoleon I. on the Divinity of Christ, 725. Etymologies, 730, 737, 739, 753, 758. Neapolitan Courage, 730. Mr. Bronte, 747. Miss Warner, 747. Holding up the Hand, 749. Spiriting Away, 753. Mottoes of Regiments, 758. The Dry Rot in Men, 758. High Life below Stairs, 765. The Fruit of the Forbidden Tree Poisonous, 765. J. G. Lockhart on Dr. Maginn, 767.

NEW BOOKS.

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formation of Light and Irregular Cavalry, By Captain Henry Shakespeare, Commandant
Nagpore Irregular Force. Ticknor and Fields, Boston.
THE EIGHTH COMMANDMENT. By Charles Reade. Ticknor and Fields, Boston.

PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY

LITTELL, SON, & CO., BOSTON.

For Six Dollars a year, in advance, remitted directly to the Publishers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually for warded free of postage.

Complete sets of the First Series, in thirty-six volumes, and of the Second Series, in twenty volumes, handsomely bound, packed in neat boxes, and delivered in all the principal cities, free of expense of freight, are for sale at two dollars a volume.

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