many things in which the new world and the old world are equally incomprehensible. I cannot un. derstand why an evil everywhere acknowledged and felt is not remedied somewhere, or discussed by some one, with a view to a remedy; but no, it is like putting one's hand into the fire, only to touch upon it; it is the universal bruise, the putrefying sore, on which you must not lay a finger, or your patient (that is, society) cries out and resists, and, like a sick baby, scratches and kicks its physician.

Strange, and passing strange, that the relation between the two sexes, the passion of love in short, should not be taken into deeper consideration by our teachers and our legislators. People educate and legislate as if there was no such thing in the world; but ask the priest, ask the physician-let them reveal the amount of moral and physical results from this one cause. Must love be always discussed in blank verse, as if it were a thing to be played in tragedies or sung in songs-a subject for pretty poems and wicked novels, and had nothing to do with the prosaic current of our every-day existence, our moral welfare and eternal salvation? Must love be ever treated with profaneness, as a mere illusion? or with coarseness, as a mere impulse? or with fear, as a mere disease? or with shame, as a mere weakness? or with levity, as a mere accident? Whereas, it is a great mystery and a great necessity, lying at the foundation of human existence, morality, and happiness; mysterious, universal, inevitable as death. Why then should love be treated less seriously than death? It is as serious a thing. Love and Death,

the alpha and omega of human life, the author and finisher of existence, the two points on which God's universe turns; which He, our Father and Creator, has placed beyond our arbitration-beyond the reach of that election and free will which He has left us in all other things!

Death must come, and Love must come-but the state in which they find us?-whether blinded, astonished, and frightened, and ignorant, or, like reasonable creatures, guarded, prepared, and fit to manage our own feelings ?-this, I suppose, depends on ourselves; and for want of self-management and self. knowledge, look at the evils that ensue !—hasty, improvident, unsuitable marriages; repining, diseased, or vicious celibacy; irretrievable infamy; cureless insanity—the death that comes early, and the love that comes late, reversing the primal laws of our

nature.

It is of little consequence how unequal the conventional difference of rank, as in Germany-how equal the condition, station, and means, as in America,— if there be inequality between the sexes; and if the sentiment which attracts and unites them to each other, and the contracts and relations springing out of this sentiment, be not equally well understood by both, equally sacred with both, equally binding on

both.

Another of my deck companions is a son of the celebrated Daniel Webster, with whom I began an acquaintance over Philip van Artevelde. He was reading that most charming book for the first time→

a pleasure that I half envied him: but as I have it well nigh by heart, I could at least help him to admire, I know nothing prettier than this sort of sympathy over a favourite book-and then there was no end to the talk it gave rise to, for Philip van Artevelde is àpropos to everything-war, love, politics, religion. Mr. Webster was naturally anxious to know something of an author who had so much interested him, and I was sorry I could not better satisfy the curiosity and interest he expressed.

There is yet another person on board who has attracted my attention, and to whom I was especially introduced. This is General Brady, an officer of high distinction in the American army. He has taken a conspicuous part in all the Indian wars on the frontiers since Wayne's war in 1794, in which he served as lieutenant; and was not only present, but also a distinguished actor in most of the scenes I have alluded to. I did certainly long to ask him a thousand things; and here was a good opportunity of setting myself right on doubtful points. But General Brady, like many men who are especially men of action and daring, and whose lives have been passed amid scenes of terrific adventure, seems of a silent and modest temper; and I did not conceive that any longing or curiosity on my part gave me a right to tax his politeness, or engross his attention, or torment him with intrusive questions. So, after admiring for some time his fine military bearing, as 10*

VOL. II.

he paced up and down the deck alone, and as if in deep thought, I turned to my books, and the corner of my sofa.

At Detroit I had purchased Miss Sedgwick's tale of "The Rich Poor Man and the Poor Rich Man," and this sent away two hours delightfully, as we were gliding over the expanse of Lake St. Clair. Those who glanced on my book while I was reading always smiled-a significant sympathising smile, very expressive of that unenvious, affectionate homage and admiration which this genuine American writer inspires among her countrymen. I do not think I ever mentioned her name to any of them, that the countenance did not light up with pleasure and gratified pride. I have also a sensible little book, called "Three Experiments in Living," attributed to Miss Sedgwick-but I should think not hers* -it must be popular, and true to life and nature, for the edition I bought is the tenth. I have also another book to which I must introduce you more particularly-"The Travels and Adventures of Alexander Henry." Did you ever hear of such a man? No. Listen then, and perpend.

This Mr. Henry was a fur-trader who journeyed over these lake regions about seventy years ago, and is quoted as first-rate authority in more recent books of travels. His book, which was lent to me at Toronto, struck me so much as to have had some influence in directing the course of my present tour. Plain, unaffected, telling what he has to tell in few

It is written by Mrs. Lee of Boston.

and simple words, and without comment-the internal evidence of truth-the natural sensibility and power of fancy, betrayed rather than displayedrender not only the narrative, but the man himself, his personal character, unspeakably interesting. Wild as are the tales of his hairbreadth escapes, I never heard the slightest impeachment of his veracity. He was living at Montreal so late as 1810 or 1811, when a friend of mine saw him, and described him to me as a very old man past eighty, with white hair, and still hale-looking and cheerful, so that his hard and adventurous life, and the horrors he had witnessed and suffered had in no respect impaired his spirits or his constitution. His book has been long out of print. I had the greatest difficulty in procuring the loan of a copy, after sending to Mon. treal, Quebec, and New York, in vain. Mr. Henry is to be my travelling companion, or rather our travelling companion, for I always fancy you of the party. I do not know how he might have figured as a squire of dames when living, but I assure you that being dead he makes a very respectable hero of epic or romance. He is the Ulysses of these parts, and to cruise among the shores, rocks, and islands of Lake Huron without Henry's travels, were like coasting Calabria and Sicily without the Odys. sey in your head or hand,-only here you have the island of Mackinaw instead of the island of Circe; the land of the Ottawas instead of the shores of the Lotophagi; cannibal Chippewas, instead of maneating Læstrygons; Pontiac figures as Polypheme; and Wa-wa-tam plays the part of good king Alcinous. I can find no type for the women, as Henry does not