lves wheresoever they listed.

'That's like Irish politeness' whispered Arthur, whose good spirits were
always talkative. 'My father, dear old gentleman, would take off his hat
to a petticoat on a bush, I do believe.'

The company was very mixed, and quite as much conversation went on in
French as in English. It seemed to the strangers as if the balance of
gentlemanly deportment, and yet vivacity of manner, might possibly lie
on the side of those who spoke the former tongue. Next to Arthur sat the
sallow States'-man, bolting his breakfast with unconscionable speed,
and between whiles, in a high treble voice, volunteering his opinion
pretty freely on Canadian matters, as if he were endowed with a special
commission to set them right. Badly as Hiram Holt thought of the
seignorial system, he was perforce driven to defend it in some measure,
much to Arthur's delectation; but he soon discovered that to carry
war into the enemy's country was his best policy, so he seized the
institution of slavery in his canine teeth, and worried it well. The
States'-man thought that a gentleman might be permitted to travel
without being subject to attacks on his country: Mr. Holt observed that
he thought precisely the same, which species of agreement closed the
conversation. And the States'-man relieved his feelings subsequently
by whittling a stick from the firewood into impalpable chips, with his
heels resting on the apex of the saloon stove. Kind-hearted Hiram Holt
had meanwhile more than half repented his hostility.

'Tell you what, sir,' said he, going up and extending his hand, 'it
wasn't the matter, but the manner of your talk that raised my dander
awhile since. I agree in most of what you say about this Province here,
and I hope as much as you do that the last badge of feudalism may soon
be swept away.'

The American put his bony pale hand almost sullenly into the Canadian's
brawny palm, and after suffering the pressure, returned to his interesting
pursuit of whittling, which he continued in silence for the rest of the
voyage.

CHAPTER VIII.

'JEAN BAPTISTE' AT HOME.

After seeing most of the thoroughfares of Montreal, and receiving the
set of sensations experienced by all new-comers and recorded in all
books of Canadian travel--principally wondering at the incongruities
of French and English nationality grafted together, and coherent as
the segments of the fabled centaur--the active commerce of a British
port carrie