St. Charles. Its toes are well down in the mud where this stream joins
the St. Lawrence, while the citadel is high on the instep and commands
the whole field. The grand Battery is a little below, on the brink of
the instep, so to speak, and the promenader looks down several hundred
feet into the tops of the chimneys of this part of the lower town, and
upon the great river sweeping by northeastward like another Amazon. The
heel of our misshapen foot extends indefinitely toward Montreal. Upon
it, on a level with the citadel, are the Plains of Abraham. It was up
its high, almost perpendicular, sides that Wolfe clambered with his
army, and stood in the rear of his enemy one pleasant September morning
over a hundred years ago.

To the north and northeast of Quebec, and in full view from the upper
parts of the city, lies a rich belt of agricultural country, sloping
gently toward the river, and running parallel with it for many miles,
called the Beauport slopes. The division of the land into uniform
parallelograms, as in France, was a marked feature, and is so
throughout the Dominion. A road ran through the midst of it lined with;
trees, and leading to the falls of the Montmorenci. I imagine that this
section is the garden of Quebec. Beyond it rose the mountains. Our eyes
looked wistfully toward them, for we had decided to penetrate the
Canadian woods in that direction.

One hundred and twenty-five miles from Quebec as the loon flies, almost
due north over unbroken spruce forests, lies Lake St. John, the cradle
of the terrible Saguenay. On the map it looks like a great cuttlefish
with its numerous arms and tentacula reaching out in all directions
into the wilds. It is a large oval body of water thirty miles in its
greatest diameter. The season here, owing to a sharp northern sweep of
the isothermal lines, is two or three weeks earlier than at Quebec. The