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feels at such moments that he would gladly die for her safety. America is a great country,—she owes her greatness to the kind gifts of Providence,—to the enterprise of her children,-and to her fathers from dear old England, the “ nursing mother of us all."-At heart Americans are proud of the “mother country.”

The Roman could receive no higher mark of distinction than the “ toga virilis”-the robe of manhood. Nearly a century ago, America won among the nations a “toga" for herself. It was a good and lasting garment, well worth the winning. Woven in a Saxon loom brought from the old country, with the warp of religious freedom, crossed with threads of civil liberty-it was at first a homely garment. Since then, statesmen, warriors, men of literature, ministers, and philanthropists have been weaving upon it deeds of goodness and signs of honor. Year by year the embroidering goes on. Already the young Republic carries high a crown of glory, which many a monarchy has failed to gain. Unalterable laws decree that there shall be no oppression, and no persecution within the land; and that the lamp of education shall be kindled and kept burning before each one of the nation's children.





E are steaming up the Bay of Fundy, bound for

the commercial capital of New Brunswick. Away tc the westward are seen some islands, standing as landmarks amid the furious tides of Fundy. There are shoals of mackerel in the waters, and hither come whales in pursuit of them. Some of these ocean-monsters, said to be forty feet long, are seen “blowing" ahead of our ship. The poor whales, monsters as they seem, have other enemies besides man. A gentleman described to me a fight which he had witnessed in crossing the Atlantic. Two thrashers made up to “leviathan,” and one on each side of him belaboured the whale with blows from their huge fins, each the height of a paddle-wheel. The pitiless castigation would not in all probability cease until they had run him to death.

The coast of New Brunswick is wild, hilly and desolate, clothed with a small growth of pines. It is an iron-bound coast,—we should not like to go ashore upon it. Seen from the bay, St. John has a very picturesque appearance. It is built up from the water's edge on rising slopes. Numbers of houses are constructed of wood, and among blocks of solid dwellings are interspersed many churches, with their tall spires shooting up like masts above the city. But there is no lack of the real thing in masts. The harbour is full of sbipping; new vessels are rising on the stocks, and an English man-of-war is keeping guard at the entrance of the port. As our steamer comes near the land, a beautiful rainbow spans the bay. It is indeed a sign of promise. A whaling-captain at my elbow mutters the old adage,

A rainbow at night,

Is a sailor's delight. But what of this phenomenon in the morning! The old salt is ready enough with his answer,

A rainbow in the morning,

Jack must take warning. Now there is a rush on shore, and a scramble for any and every kind of vehicle which presents itself. My modest luggage is hoisted into a farmer's light waggon, and I am soon safely housed in the Waverley Hotel. Mine host was parrying the angry complaints of an American visitor; with Colonial independence of speech informing the gentleman that if St. John hotel-arrangements were not good enough for him, he bad better go back and bring the St. Nicholas with him. “That we would right smart, if we had our way and you fellows were annexed," replied the Yankee lawyer, for such he was. Mr. Guthrie then turned to me, “the house was so full,” he said, " that I must be content with a shake-down on a sofa." I expressed my willingness, and by and by a clean, pleasant bed-room took the place of the visioned sofa. On the walls hung a picture that reminded me of home. Sir Walter Scott's fame and name are known here, for it was his likeness on the canvas. There he sits as in the library at Abbotsford, with his favourite dogs and trophies round him.

To an Englishman many of the city scenes have a stamp of freshness; there is an essence of originality about the life of the people. St. John has a population of 45,000. It is sometimes called an Irish city, from the prevalence in it of the Celtic element. The site of it was once an isolated rock; the ocean washed round it on all sides. Now the waters have been banked out, partly by nature and partly by artificial means. Lumber and fishing constitute the great trades of the place. Some of the streets by their up-hill and down-hill formation remind you of a little town among the Pyrenees. The Roman Catholic Cathedral is a fine building of stone. The Bishop's palace stands close by; very peaceful in spirit are crest and motto chiseled over the porch; a dove with bended wings, and the words, “pax vobis.”

The railway-station is down in the valley, between the hills on which the city is built. This is the morning of a gala-day, for 500 citizens are going out on a pic-nic to Hampden, in the country. I saw the “start,” as the train moved slowly out of the station, the good folks were enlivened with strains of music, and their banners waved joyously from engine and car. The railroad is government property and pays well, I am told. Locomotives and carriages are constructed on the plan of those used in the United States. I visited Fleming and Humberts’ factory in the city, where the engines are made, and was much pleased with what I saw. Asking permission to go round the works, I was answered “Go where you like, it is not the custom of this country to hide anything in our factories from a stranger.” Homely as are the streets of St. John in the matter of pavement, you see elegant carriages being driven through them. After all, St. John is not exclusively Irish. There is a “fair field and no favor" for every nationality. In the “New Brunswick

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