182the hopeful general did not despair. He knew that Arnold was traversing the wilderness along the Kennebeck and the Chaudière to join him, and was then, perhaps, menacing Quebec; and he knew also that the troops under Carleton and M'Lean were hardly adequate to defend the city, even against a smaller force than his own. He winnowed his army of the recusant and mutinous, and then pushed onward down the St. Lawrence. * I remarked that I left my pleasant company at Montreal, and went down to Longueuil. My object was to ascertain, if possible, the place where Warner planted his battery and repulsed the boats of Carleton. Longueuil is an old town, chiefly composed of small stone houses with steep roofs. It has a spacious French church, of antique appearance, though not more than thirty years old. The people all speak bad French, and for more than an hour I sought the "oldest inhabitant." That mysterious creature was an old woman of unknown age, and so deaf that she could not hear half I said, or understand a word. I reciprocated the latter infirmity, and now confess profound ignorance of all she attempted to say. An intelligent lad came to the rescue, and silenced our jargon batteries by referring me to his uncle, who lived near the beach, and "knew every thing." He was a man about fifty, and spoke English pretty well. I made my business known, and he at once assumed the patronizing air of Sir Oraele, said he knew it all, and pointed to the shore a little above as the very spot where "the cavalry horses were stabled," and where "the English dragoons drank a health to King George and vowed death to the Yankees." He knew Sir George Prévost, and praised the veterans of Wellington who accompanied him. As British dragoons and Wellington's veterans were not with Carleton, and as my mentor's first birth-day doubtless occurred twenty years after the time in question, I properly doubted his knowledge of the facts I was in search of. I told him that it was the American Revolution I was inquiring about. He did not seem to understand me, and I called it _rebellion_. "Oh oui yes, yes, I know," he exclaimed. "Two hundred crossed here for St. John's. Captain Glasgow was a fine fellow. Pity Lord Elgin wasn't as great a man as Sir John Colborne." With exhausted patience, I explained to him the time and nature of the revolution of the last century, but he had never heard of it! He knew nothing behind his own "life and times." As he represented the "collective wisdom" of the village, I despaired of better success, and returned to Montreal with the fruit of a three hours' expedition under a hot sun--a Yankee's postulate--a shrewd _guess_. I was as little successful in my search at Montreal for the battle-ground where Ethan Allen and his men were made prisoners. An intelligent gentleman, who was one of the leaders in the rebellion there in 1837, assured me that the spot was unknown to the inhabitants, for tradition has but little