THE ST. LAWRENCE LINE _August 20_.--Premising that my three or four months in Canada were intended, among the rest, as an exploration of the line of the St. Lawrence, from lake Superior to the sea, (the engineers here insist upon considering it as one stream, over 2000 miles long, including lakes and Niagara and all)--that I have only partially carried out my programme; but for the seven or eight hundred miles so far fulfill'd, I find that the _Canada question_ is absolutely control'd by this vast water line, with its first-class features and points of trade, humanity, and many more--here I am writing this nearly a thousand miles north of my Philadelphia starting-point (by way of Montreal and Quebec) in the midst of regions that go to a further extreme of grimness, wildness of beauty, and a sort of still and pagan _scaredness_, while yet Christian, inhabitable, and partially fertile, than perhaps any other on earth. The weather remains perfect; some might call it a little cool, but I wear my old gray overcoat and find it just right. The days are full of sunbeams and oxygen. Most of the forenoons and afternoons I am on the forward deck of the steamer. THE SAVAGE SAGUENAY Up these black waters, over a hundred miles--always strong, deep, (hundreds of feet, sometimes thousands,) ever with high, rocky hills for banks, green and gray--at times a little like some parts of the Hudson, but much more pronounc'd and defiant. The hills rise higher--keep their ranks more unbroken. The river is straighter and of more resolute flow, and its hue, though dark as ink, exquisitely polish'd and sheeny under the August sun. Different, indeed, this Saguenay from all other rivers--different effects--a bolder, more vehement play of lights and shades. Of a rare charm of singleness and simplicity. (Like the organ-chant at midnight from the old Spanish convent, in "Favorita"--one strain only, simple and monotonous and unornamented--but indescribably penetrating and grand and masterful.) Great place for echoes: while our steamer was tied at the wharf at Tadousac (taj-oo-sac) waiting, the escape-pipe letting off steam, I was sure I heard a band at the hotel up in the rocks--could even make out some of the tunes. Only when our pipe stopp'd, I knew what caused it. Then at cape Eternity and Trinity rock, the pilot with his whistle producing similar marvellous results, echoes indescribably weird, as we lay off in the still bay under their shadows. CAPES ETERNITY AND TRINITY