In the middle of the afternoon we reached Rimouski, where we left the train and placed ourselves in the hands of Madame Lepage, who keeps a comfortable _pension_ at this place. This landlady’s untiring devotion to the comforts of her guests is on a par with the glow of her sparkling black eyes. She is the mother of a large family, some of whom are grown up, yet she retains all her youthful vivacity and _naiveté_. Rimouski is a large straggling French Canadian town, the last of any importance in the Province of Quebec to the east, if we except the thriving village of Matane. It is chiefly remarkable for its ecclesiastical and educational institutions. There is another peculiarity; the largeness of the family in many households. It is no uncommon matter to find a family of from fifteen to twenty children. Not long ago I heard of a case of a family of eighteen, and there was a question of an orphan to be taken, for whose nurture nothing was to be paid, its parents having died under circumstances of privation and poverty. “Let it come and take its chance with our children,” said this excellent French Canadian mother, and it was so resolved. Travellers to Europe, like ourselves, have their letters and telegrams directed to Rimouski in case of more or less last words being necessary. I was very glad to find good news in those I received. I went to the station to meet the train for the south. There I found more fishermen bound for the Restigouche, New Yorkers, who now come yearly to our waters, a class who do not fish for the pot, but are sportsmen. Among them were Mr. Dean Sage and Mr. Worden, with a party of friends. At 10 o’clock p.m., the mail train having arrived, we took the tender for the steamer, which lay off in the stream. Sir Alex. Galt was on the train, on his way back from Halifax, where he had taken part in a public banquet given to his successor as High Commissioner for Canada in London; Sir Charles Tupper. I was in hopes that he, too, was starting for England, but to my disappointment he continued his journey to Montreal. We reach the wharf on the branch railway, where the tender is lying. The arrangements are not quite perfect. The wharf itself is of unusual length, but it only reaches shallow water at low tide. In consequence the capacity of the tender is limited, and, although strongly built, it rolls disagreeably in rough weather, to the discomfort of passengers who are indifferent sailors. We embarked on the “Parisian,” and at once found our way to the cabins allotted to us. A friend had previously consoled us by saying that they were the worst in the ship. They were directly under the scuppers used for pouring the ashes overboard, the disagreeable noise of which operation we were expecting to hear every hour in the night. We did not, however, experience much inconvenience on this score, as for the greater part of the voyage, our cabin was on the windward side, which is never used at sea for the discharge of refuse.