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.