imported from France. "Tiens," said one,
"and is the bottle French also? and the
bouchon?" On being assured that the corks
and the bottles were both from Bordeaux, they
united in asking permission to take the empty
bottles home with them as a remembrance of
the old country. On being told that it was
doubtful whether the champagne bottles or the
champagne inside of them had ever been in
France, they declined to encumber themselves
with such spoil, but affectionately hugged the
claret bottles, and took them down to the boat
and carefully stowed them away. "And what
will you do with them?" said I. "They are
for Jacqueline," replied the elder boatman
—"pour mon épouse. We shall use them every
day instead of jugs or pitchers for our water or
our milk, and when not in use they shall stand
upon our mantelpiece among the ornaments."

On our return late at night to Three Rivers,
I discovered on alighting that a Scottish plaid,
of shepherd tartan, which I had purchased in
my youth in the good town of Inverness, a
plaid that had since those days travelled with
me over nearly half the globe, that had been
my pillow, my cushion, my blanket, and my
mantle, that had borne the pelting of many a
pitiless storm on mountain-top and in mid-ocean,
while I had walked or sat dry and cozy beneath
it—a plaid which long acquaintanceship and
companionship had made worth twenty times as
much to me as a newer and fresher garment—
was nowhere to be found. It had been placed
in the vehicle for the service of the ladies—for
protection against rain or cold; but neither rain
nor cold had rendered its employment necessary.
What had become of it? Had it been
jolted out in the ruts of the dirt-road or the
ridges of the corduroy? Or had it been stolen
while our vehicle was left unprotected during
our pic-nic on the steeps of Shawenegan? No
one could tell. The driver could give no
information, but admitted that during the whole
time we were absent at the Falls, he was either
busy with his own dinner or that of his horses,
and that he had left the carriage and its various
contents of shawls and overcoats without watch
or supervision. On mentioning the loss to the
courteous French Canadian gentleman, the
resident agent at Three Rivers of the lumberers
of St. Maurice, and hinting that there were but
two ways in which the missing article could
have gone astray, and that it was just possible
it might have proved too great a temptation for
some poor habitant, male or female, to resist,
his countenance grew suddenly dark. "Oh no,"
he said, with serious emphasis, "you must not
say that. You do not know our people. There
is not so honest a people in the world. There
is not, and never was, and never will be, a
thief, young or old, big or little, male or female,
among them. If you dropped a purse of gold
on the highway, the finder would immediately
take it to the curé of the parish for restitution
to the owner. Oh no. The shawl is lost, and
will be found. Leave the affair to me. You
must not leave Three Rivers with a suspicion
on your mind that there could be any dishonesty
among our poor, our good habitans." I must
own that I felt quite ashamed of myself, and
endeavoured to soothe his wounded pride by
every excuse and apology I could think of.
Having given him a precise description of the
missing article, I added that I would cheerfully
pay a reward of as many dollars as he might
name to the finder. This offer had well-nigh
made matters worse. "A reward for doing
right! Oh no," he added, "that is not our
way in Canada. You must not think of such
a thing." I saw that I was wrong again, and
he saw also that I was sorry, and generously
forgave me. Two days afterwards the plaid
was returned with the compliments of the curé
of St. Etienne, and a note stating that it had
been found by a young girl in the road, and
brought to him the same evening for restitution
to the owner. With that base feeling so common
among Britons that money is the best and only
recompense for a good action, I was anxious to
send the good curé a few dollars as a
contribution towards the infant school—if there were
one—or the poor-box, or the hospital. "Do
nothing of the kind," said the merchant of
Three Rivers; "why attempt to spoil and
demoralise a good and simple people? You might
as well reward them for eating their dinners
with a good appetite, as for performing what to
them appears a matter of the simplest duty."
So the money was not sent, and I came away
from the villages of the habitans with the
impression, which time is not likely to efface, that a
happier and more innocent people was not easily
to be found on the face of the new continent,
or the old one either.

      DEATH IN THE DOCK.

ON the 28th of April, 1794, a messenger
from the chief secretary's office, with four
policemen, entered Hyde's Coffee-house,
College-green, Dublin. The entrances to the
house had been watched through the night, and
the appearance of the messenger had been
anxiously awaited by at least one resident in
the hotel. This person was a London attorney,
named Cokayne, who had arrived in Dublin on
the 1st of April with a friend of ten years'
standing, the Reverend William Jackson, a
clergyman of the Church of Ireland but
apparently without a cure. Jackson slept in the
room next to that occupied by Cokayne, and
opening on the same passage. The messenger
addressed a few words in whispers to Cokayne,
who, pale and trembling, met him on the stairs.
The whole party proceeded to the corridor,
with which Jackson's room communicated.
Cokayne begged leave to remain outside. The
messenger and his assistants entered. The noise
awakened Jackson. Starting up, he
endeavoured to seize some papers piled upon a table
beside his bed. He had cleared that table the
night before, and now saw at a glance that
treachery had been at work. The messenger