Just now there is a feeling growing up in favour of Free Trade with America; but that will not aid the British manufacturer one jot. The system of duties between Canada and America is an enormous nuisance, when one thinks of the daily personal and commercial intercourse between the two countries. For instance, I lost by changing English money into Canadian dollars; and then again, when I had to change Canadian dollars into American greenbacks, I had to submit to a further loss. This was not pleasant, especially when you remember that every time you cross the frontier—and people are doing it daily—you have to submit to a disagreeable examination on the part of Custom House officers. Surely Canada and America will before long have to come to a better understanding than that which at present exists. Of course, I write under correction. I am an outsider. ‘Can you tell me,’ I said to the Hon. E. Blake, ‘how I am to get to a knowledge of Canadian politics?’ His reply, and it was delivered with a smile, was: ‘By living in the country some five or six years.’ Under such circumstances I feel, with the poet, that ‘where ignorance is bliss ’tis folly to be wise.’ On one thing Mr. Blake was silent—nor did I allude to it: that was the question of Canadian independence. It is raised in many quarters, it is almost daily discussed in the Canadian newspapers. People are waiting to hear what Mr. Blake has to say on it. At present the oracle is dumb. When the question is settled you may be sure sentiment will have little to do with it; on this side of the Atlantic, at any rate, that sort of thing goes a very little way when the almighty dollar is at stake. But the question to be asked is, How long Canadian independence will stand the cry for annexation with the United States that will then be raised? One of the pleasures attending my visit to Toronto was the finding out Mrs. Moodie—whose ‘Roughing It in the Bush’ did so much to help English people to understand the hardships of Canadian life some forty years ago. She was the youngest sister of Agnes Strickland; and, like her, wrote books for children, and tales and poems for the annuals, then the rage. She then married a Major Moodie, and went out to Canada, and I had not seen her since I was a raw lad; but of her kindness and her talent I had a distinct impression, and it was with real pleasure that I found her living at an advanced age—but in peace and comfort—at her son’s, a gentleman connected with the Inter-Colonial Railway. The sprightly lady of 1834, eager and enthusiastic, had become an elderly one in 1884; yet time had dealt gently with her, and her youth seemed to me to revive as she talked of her old Suffolk home, and of men and women long since gone over to the majority.