I left Quebec with regret, for it was necessary to bid farewell to an agreeable circle, and an old friend. The voyage to Montreal presented nothing remarkable, and, after passing a few days in that city, I prepared to return to the United States.

After crossing the St Lawrence to Longueuil, it was discovered that a portmanteau had been left at Montreal. My servant accordingly returned in the steam-boat, while I was forced to wait several hours for his reappearance in a very miserable tavern. After all, this compulsory arrangement was not unfortunate. The heat was intense, and travelling, if not impossible, would bave been very disagreeable. In order to pass the time, I bathed in the river, read all the old newspapers the house could afford, and, finally—discovering that the luxury of sofas was unknown at Longueuil—went to bed.

Why this dirty and paltry village should be more tormented by flies than other places, I know not. Every room in the tavern absolutely swarmed with them. Myriads of these detestable insects, duly officered by blue-bottles, kept hovering around, and perched in whole battalions at every favourable opportunity on the face and hands of the victim. Under these circumstances, a siesta was impossible, and, on descending to dinner, I could at first discern nothing but four dishes of flies. The sight was not calculated to increase appetite, and during the meal a woman with a large fan was obliged to defend the table from their approach.

The 25th of November, being the anniversary of the evacuation of the city by the British army, is always a grand gala-day at New York. To perpetuate the memory of this glorious event, there is generally a parade of the militia, some firing of cannon and small arms, a procession of the different trades, and the day then terminates as it ought, in profuse and patriotic jollification. But on the present occasion it was determined, in addition to the ordinary cause of rejoicing, to get up a pageant of unusual splendour, in honour of the late Revolution in France. This resolution, I was informed, originated exclusively in the operative class, or workies, as they call themselves, in contradistinction to those who live in better houses, eat better dinners, read novels and poetry, and drink old Madeira instead of Yankee rum. The latter and more enviable class, however, having been taught caution by the results of the former French Revolution, were generally disposed to consider the present congratulatory celebration as somewhat premature, but finding it could not be prevented, prudently gave in, and determined to take part in the pageant.

It was arranged, that should the weather prove unfavourable on the 25th, the gala should be deferred till the day following. Nor was this precaution unwise. The morning of the appointed day was as unpropitious, as the prayers of the most pious advocate of legitimacy could have wished.