the village of Lachine, I believe nine miles distant from Montreal.

I took my passage in a Durham boat, bound for Kingston, which started
the next day. We had hard work poling up the rapids. I found I had
fallen in with a rough set of customers, and determined in my own mind
to leave them as soon as possible, which I happily effected the next
evening when we landed at Les Cedres. Here the great Otawa pours its
mighty stream into the St. Lawrence, tinging its green waters with a
darker hue, which can be traced for miles, till it is ultimately lost
in the rapids below.

I now determined to walk to Prescot, where I knew I should be able to
take the steam-boat for Kingston, on Lake Ontario. At the Coteau du Lac
I fell in with a Roman Catholic Irishman, named Mooney. We travelled in
company for three days, and as I had nothing else to do, I thought I
might as well make an effort to convert him. However, I signally
failed; and only endangered my own head by my zeal.

In the heat of argument and the indiscretion of youth, I used
expressions which the Papist considered insulting to his religion. He
was not one to put up patiently with this, so he would fire up, twirl
his blackthorn round his head, and say, "By St. Patrick, you had better
not say that again!" In everything else we agreed well enough; but I
found, on parting, that all my eloquence had been entirely thrown away.
Mr. Mooney remained just as firm a Roman Catholic as ever. Indeed, it
was the height of presumption in me, a boy in my twentieth year, to
attempt the conversion of such a strict Romanist as this Irishman.

The weather was excessively fine. The trees were just bursting into
leaf. The islands in the St. Lawrence, which are here numerous, wore