“The navigation on Lake St. Peter is so difficult, that we were obliged to lie at anchor all night. On the 23d, we passed the Three Rivers, a handsome town, on the three mouths of a respectable river; and at five o’clock in the evening arrived at Quebec, 180 miles from Montreal. As we approached the town we passed close under the plains of Abraham, and the precipitous rocks which our gallant hero scaled; and after straining our eyes to reach the fortifications, which seem to frown destruction to any hostile force which might have the temerity to approach, we were pleased, on looking round us, to find ourselves in the middle of British shipping. I cannot tell you with what satisfaction I renewed my acquaintance with old Cumberland brigs, which in England I should not condescend to notice. As soon as we landed, an English friend and I procured a calèche, and drove off to the Falls of Montmorency, nine miles distant, which we reached just at sunset. Our beautiful summer evening closed in upon us before we had seen the Falls from the most favourable situation. The full moon, however, soon rose, and threw her light upon the broken torrent, which precipitates itself from a height of 220 feet, while the dark shadows of the rocks and trees, which overhang the waters below, contributed greatly to heighten the grandeur of the scene. Our conductor was an interesting little peasant girl, nine years of age, whose pretty French was most agreeable. The ride home was delightful, the full moon ‘walking in brightness,’ and throwing her horizontal rays across the river as she rose. The fortresses of Quebec were constantly in sight, and did, indeed, seem impregnable by human force. It would be difficult even to imagine a more commanding site, and I could not help admiring the skill with which the French had chosen their northern post, which they evidently intended to connect with New Orleans, by a series of intermediate forts, which might confine the British within a narrow strip on the Atlantic. Reflections on their system of policy were the more interesting to me, from having so lately visited the southern extremity of their trans-Atlantic dominions, and having in the interval passed through so many of the immense forests which lie between them. We stopped at Malhrot’s, the best inn in Quebec; but an unwillingness to intrude on the present occupiers of my bed decided me to prefer a chair, in which I sat till after three o’clock, looking on the beautiful moonlight prospect before me. At five o’clock we set out in a calèche on our way to Loretto, an Indian village of the Hurons, nine miles from Quebec. They have a neat catholic church, and speak French; but, from what I could gather from the chief, they have no land, and support themselves by fishing and hunting.