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 morning that I bade adieu to Quebec. I had never travelled on a Sunday before, and should not have done so on this occasion had it not been a matter of necessity. I am happy to state that no boats run on the St. Lawrence on the Sabbath, and the enforced sailing of the John Munn caused a great deal of grumbling among the stewards and crew. The streets were thronged with people going to early mass, and to a special service held to avert the heavy judgments which it was feared were impending over the city. The boat was full, and many persons who were flying from the cholera had slept on board.

I took a regretful farewell of my friends, and with them of beautiful Quebec. I had met with much of kindness and hospitality, but still I must confess that the excessive gaiety and bustle of the city exercise a depressing-influence. People appear absorbed by the fleeting pleasures of the hour; the attractions of this life seem to overbalance the importance of the life to come; and among the poor there is a large amount of sin and sorrow—too many who enter the world without a blessing, and depart from it without a hope. The bright sun of the Indian summer poured down its flood of light upon the castled steep, and a faint blue mist was diffused over the scene of beauty. Long undulating lines showed where the blue hills rose above the green island of Orleans, and slept in the haze of that gorgeous season. Not a breath of wind stirred the heavy folds of the flag of England on the citadel, or ruffled the sleeping St. Lawrence, or the shadows of the countless ships on its surface; and the chimes of the bells of the Romish