game, like one who sits before the curtain, and
has no concern with the actors, save, in so far as they amuse him.

"There is no cynicism in this. No one enjoys life more than I do.. Music
is a passion with me--in painting, I take the greatest delight, and
beauty, has still her charm for me. Society, never was a greater
pleasure. Scenery, can give me a sense of happiness, which none but
solitary men ever feel--yet, it is less as one identified with these,
than as a mere spectator. All this is selfish, and egotistical, you will
say--and so it is. But then, think what chance has one like me of any
other pleasure! To how many annoyances should I expose myself, if I
adopted a different career: think of the thousand inquiries, of,--who is
he? what is his family? where did he come from? what are his means? and
all such queries, which would beset me, were I the respectable denizen
of one of your cities. Without some position, some rank, some settled
place in society, you give a man nothing--he can neither have friend,
nor home. Now, I, am a wanderer--my choice of life, happily took an
humble turn: I have placed myself in a good situation for seeing the
game--and I am not too fastidious, if I get somewhat crushed by the
company about me: but now, to finish this long story, for I see the day
is breaking, and I must leave Antwerp by ten o'clock.

"At last, then, we reached Quebec. It was on a bright, clear, frosty
day in December, when all the world was astir--sledges flying here and
there--men slipping along in rackets--women, wrapped up in furs, sitting
snugly in chairs, and pushed along the ice some ten or twelve miles the
hour--all gay, all lively, and all merry-looking--while I and my Indian
friend bustled our way through the crowd towards the post-office. He was
a well-known character, and many a friendly nod, and a knowing shake of
the head welcomed him as he passed along. I, however, was an object of
no common astonishment, even in a town where every variety of costume,
from full dress to almost nakedness, was to be met with daily. Still,
something remained as a novelty, and it would seem I had hit on it.
Imagine, then, an old and ill-used foraging-cap, drawn down over a red
night-cap, from beneath which my hair descended straight, somewhere
about a foot in length--beard and moustaches to match--a red uniform
coat, patched with brown seal-skin, and surmounted by a kind of blanket
of buffalo hide--a pair of wampum shorts,