I passed two days in this happy valley, sometimes riding across to the dykes, sometimes visiting the neighboring villages, sometimes wandering on foot over the hills to the upper waters of the rivers. And the Gasperau in particular is an attractive little mountain sylph, as it comes skipping down the rocks, breaking here and there out in a broad cascade, or rippling and singing in the heart of the grand old forest. I think my friend Kensett might set his pallet here, and pitch a brief tent by Minas and the Gasperau to advantage. For my own part, I would that I had my trout-pole and a fly! But now the sun sinks behind the cliffs of Blow-me-down. To-morrow I must take the steamer for home, "sweet home!" What shall I say in conclusion? Shall I stop here and write _finis_, or once more trim the lamp of history? I feel as it were the whole wrongs of the French Province concentrated here, as in the last drop of its life blood, no tender dream of pastoral description, no clever veil of elaborate verse, can conceal the hideous features of this remorseless act, this wanton and useless deed of New England cruelty. Do not mistake me, my reader. Do not think that I am prejudiced against New England. But I hate tyranny--under whatever disguise, or in whatever shape--in an individual, or in a nation--in a state, or in a congregation of states; so do you; and of course you will agree with me, that so long as the maxim obtains, "that the object justifies the means," certain effects must follow, and this maxim was the guiding star of our forefathers when they marched into the French province.