from deep blue pine-wood to yellowing corn-field in what other spot on
the earth's broad bosom lie grouped together in a single glance so many
of these "things of beauty" which the eye loves to feast on and to place
in memory as joys-for ever?

I had been domiciled in Quebec for about a week, when there appeared one
morning in General Orders a paragraph commanding my presence in Montreal
to receive instructions from the military authorities relative to my
further destination. It was the long-looked-for order, and
fortune, after many frowns, seemed at length about to smile upon me. It
was on the evening of the 8th June, exactly two months after the despatch
of my cable message from the South of Ireland, that I turned my face to
the West and commenced a long journey towards the setting sun. When the
broad curves of the majestic river had shut out the rugged outline of the
citadel, and the east was growing coldly dim while the west still glowed
with the fires of sunset, I could not help feeling a thrill of exultant
thought at the prospect before me. I little knew then the limits of my
wanderings-I little thought that for many and many a day my track would
lie with almost undeviating precision towards the setting sun, that
summer would merge itself into autumn, and autumn darken into winter, and
that still the nightly bivouac would be made a little nearer to that west
whose golden gleam was suffusing sky and water.

But though all this was of course unknown, enough was still visible in
the foreground of the future to make even the swift-moving paddles seem
laggards as they beat to foam the long reaches of the darkening
Cataraqui. "We must leave matters to yourself, I think," said the
General, when I saw him for the last time in Montreal, "you will be best
judge of how to get on when you know and see the ground. I will not ask
you to visit Fort Garry, but if you find it feasible, it would be well if