The inhabitants—or _habitans_, as the French Canadians are usually termed—are an amiable, hospitable, simple people, kind in manner, and generous in disposition. The women are lively and agreeable, and as fond of dress in Quebec as in other civilized places. They are pretty in early youth in the Lower Province, but lose their complexions sooner than the English ladies, owing, perhaps, to the rigour of the climate.[4] However, they possess charms superior to beauty, and seem to retain the affections of their husbands to the last hour of their lives. [4] Mac Taggart’s “Three Years’ Residence in Canada.” Short as was my stay in Quebec, I could not leave without regret the hospitable city where I had received from strangers such a warm welcome. I have never visited the Lower Province since; but my remembrance of its old capital is still as agreeable as it is distinct. The next day our brig was taken in tow by the fine steam-boat, the “Richelieu de Chambly,” and with a leading wind and tide in our favour we proceeded at a rapid rate up the river. I shall not attempt to describe the charming scenery of this most beautiful of all rivers, which has already been so amply described by abler writers. I was delighted with everything I saw; but nothing occurred worthy of narration. The next day saw us safely moored in the port of Montreal, just forty-five days from our departure from the London Docks. Montreal is a handsome town, well situated, and must eventually become the most important city in British North America. The river here is very broad. The Lachine rapids commence immediately above the town, which are an impediment to the navigation, now obviated by a canal terminating at the village of Lachine, I believe nine miles distant from Montreal. I took my passage in a Durham boat, bound for Kingston, which started the next day. We had hard work poling up the rapids. I found I had fallen in with a rough set of customers, and determined in my own mind to leave them as soon as possible, which I happily effected the next evening when we landed at Les Cedres. Here the great Otawa pours its mighty stream into the St. Lawrence, tinging its green waters with a darker hue, which can be traced for miles, till it is ultimately lost in the rapids below. I now determined to walk to Prescot, where I knew I should be able to take the steam-boat for Kingston, on Lake Ontario. At the Coteau du Lac I fell in with a Roman Catholic Irishman, named Mooney. We travelled in company for three days, and as I had nothing else to do, I thought I might as well make an effort to convert him. However, I signally failed; and only endangered my own head by my zeal.