Numbersoftourists，ofanationalitythatshoweditselfsuperiortoeverydistinctionofrace，werestrollingvaguelyandnotalwaysquitehappilyabout；buttheymadenoimpressionontheproperlocalcharacter，andtheairthroughoutthemorningwasfullofthesentimentofSundayinaCatholiccity。Therewastheapparentlymeaninglessjanglingofbells，withprofoundhushesbetween，andthenmorejubilantjangling，andthendeepersilence；therewasthedevouttroopingofthecrowdstothechurches；andtherewasthebeginningofthelongafternoon’sloungingandamusementwithwhichthepeopleofthatfaithrewardtheirmorning’sdevotion。Littlestandsforthesaleofknottyapplesandchoke-cherriesandcakesandcidersprangmagicallyintoexistenceafterservice，andpeoplewerealreadyeatinganddrinkingatthem。Thecarriage-driversresumedtheirchaseofthetourists，andtheunvoicefulstirofthenewweekhadbegunagain。Quebec，infact，isbutapantomimicreproductionofFrance；itisasiftwocenturiesinanewland，amidsttheprimevalsilencesofnatureandthelonghushoftheNorthernwinters，hadstilledthetonguesofthelivelyfolkandmadethemtaciturnasweofagraverrace。Theyhavekepttheancestralvivacityofmanner；theeleganceoftheshrugisintact；thetalkinghandstakepartindialogue；theagitatedpersonwillhaveitsshareofexpression。Buttheloudandeagertoneiswanting，andtheirdumbshowmystifiesthebeholderalmostasmuchastheSouthernarchitectureundertheslantingNorthernsun。ItisnotAmerica；ifitisnotFrance，whatisit？
OfthemanybeautifulthingstoseeintheneighborhoodofQuebec，ourwedding-journeyerswereindoubtonwhichtobestowtheironepreciousafternoon。ShoulditbeLorette，withitscataractanditsremnantofbleachedandfadingHurons，ortheIsleofOrleanswithitsfertilefarmsanditsprimitivepeasantlife，orMontmorenci，withtheunrivaledfallandthelongdrivethroughthebeautifulvillageofBeauport？Isabelchosethelast，becauseBasilhadbeentherebefore，andithadtoitthepoetryofthewastedyearsinwhichshedidnotknowhim。Shehadpossessedherselfofthejournalofhisearlytravels，amongtheotherportionsandparcelsrecoverablefromthedreadfulpast，andfromtimetotimeonthisjourneyshehadreadhimpassagesoutofit，withmingledsentimentandirony，and，whethershewasmockingoradmiring，equallytohisconfusion。Now，astheysmoothlybowledawayfromthecity，shemadehimlistentowhathehadwrittenofthesameexcursionlongago。
Itwas，tobesure，asadfarragoofsentimentaboutthevillageandtheruralsights，andespeciallyagirltossinghayinthefield。Yetithadtouchesofnatureandreality，andBasilcouldnotutterlydespisehimselfforhavingwrittenit。“Yes，“hesaid，“lifewasthenathingtobeputintoprettyperiods；nowit’ssomethingthathasrisksandaverages，andmaybeinsured。“
Therewasregret，fanciedorexpressed，inhistone，thatmadehersigh，“Ah！ifI’donlyhadalittlemoremoney，youmighthavedevotedyourselftoliterature；“forshewasatrueBostonianinherhonorofourpoorcraft。
“O，you’renotgreatlytoblame，“answeredherhusband，“andIforgiveyouthelittlewrongyou’vedoneme。IwasquitswiththeMuse，atanyrate，youknow，beforeweweremarried；andI’mverywellsatisfiedtobegoingbacktomyapplicationsandpoliciesto-morrow。“
To-morrow？Thewordstruckcolduponher。Thentheirweddingjourneywouldbegintoendtomorrow！Soitwould，sheownedwithanothersigh；
andyetitseemedimpossible。
“There，ma’am，“saidthedriver，risingfromhisseatandfacinground，whilehepointedwithhiswhiptowardsQuebec，“that’swhatwecalltheSilverCity。“
Theylookedbackwithhimatthecity，whosethousandsoftinnedroofs，risingoneabovetheotherfromthewater’sedgetothecitadel，wereallasplendorofargentlightintheafternoonsun。Itwasindeedasifsomemagichadclothedthathugerock，baseandsteepyflankandcrest，withasilvercity。Theygazeduponthemarvelwithcriesofjoythatsatisfiedthedriver’sutmostprideinit，andIsabelsaid，“Tolivethere，thereinthatSilverCity，inperpetualsojourn！Tobealwaysgoingtogoonamorrowthatnevercame！Tobeforeverwithinonedayoftheendofaweddingjourneythatneverended！“
Fromfardowntheriverbywhichtheyrodecamethesoundofacannon，breakingtheSabbathreposeoftheair。“That’sthegunoftheLiverpoolsteamer，justcomingin，“saidthedriver。
“O，“criedIsabel，“I’mthankfulwe’reonlytostayonenightmore，fornowweshallbeturnedoutofourniceroombythosepeoplewhotelegraphedforit！“
ThereisacontinuousvillagealongtheSt。LawrencefromQuebec，almosttoMontmorenci；andtheymetcrowdsofvillagerscomingfromthechurchastheypassedthroughBeauport。ButBasilwasdismayedatthechangethathadbefallenthem。TheyhadtheirSunday’sbeston，andthewomen，insteadofwearingthepeasantcostumeinwhichhehadfirstseenthem，werenowdressedasifoutof“Harper’sBazar“oftheyearbefore。Heanxiouslyaskedthedriverifthebroadstrawhatsandthebrightsacksandkirtleswerenomore。“O，you’dseethemonweekdays，sir，“wastheanswer，“butthey’renotsoplentyanytimeastheyusedtobe。“Heopenedhisstoreoffactsaboutthehabitans，whomhepraisedforeveryvirtue，——forthrift，forsobriety，forneatness，foramiability；andhiswordsoughttohavehadthegreaterweight，becausehewasoftheIrishrace，betweenwhichandtheCanadiansthereisnokindnesslost。Butthelooksofthepassers-bycorroboratedhim，andasforthelittlehouses，open-dooredbesidetheway，withthepleasantfacesatwindowandportal，theyweremiraclesofpicturesquenessandcleanliness。Fromeachtheowner’sslimdomain，narrowingateverysuccessivedivisionamongtheabundantgenerations，runsbacktohillorriverinwell-definedlines，andbesidethecottageisagardenofpot-herbs，borderedwithaflameofbrightautumnflowers；somewhereindecentseclusiongruntsthefatteningpig，whichistoenrichallthosepeasandonionsforthewinter’sbroth；
thereisacheerfulnessofpoultryaboutthebarns；Idarebeswornthereisalwaysasmallgirldrivingaflockofdecorousducksdownthemiddleofthestreet；andofthepriestwithabookunderhisarm，passingaway-sideshrine，whatpossibledoubt？Thehouses，whichareofonemodel，arebuiltbythepeasantsthemselveswiththestonewhichtheirlandyieldsmoreabundantlythananyothercrop，andarefurnishedwithgalleriesandbalconiestocatcheveryrayofthefleetingsummer，andperhapstorememberthelong-lostancestralsummersofNormandy。Ateverymoment，inpassingthroughthisideallyneatandprettyvillage，ourtouristsmustthinkofthelovelypoemofwhichallFrenchCanadaseemsbutareminiscenceandillustration。ItwasGrandPre，notBeauport；andtheypaidaneagerhomagetothebeautifulgeniuswhichhastouchedthosesimplevillageaspectswithanundyingcharm，andwhich，whatevertheland’spoliticalallegiance，isthereperpetualSeigneur。
Thevillage，stretchingalongthebroadintervaloftheSt。Lawrence，growssparserasyoudrawneartheFallsofMontmorenci，andpresentlyyoudrivepastthegroveshuttingfromtheroadthecountry-houseinwhichtheDukeofKentspentsomemerrydaysofhisjovialyouth，andcomeinsightoftwoloftytowersofstone，——monumentsandwitnessesofthetragedyofMontmorenci。
Onceasuspension-bridge，builtsorelyagainstthewilloftheneighboringhabitans，hungfromthesetowershighoverthelongplungeofthecataract。Butonemorningofthefatalspringafterthefirstwinter’sfrosthadtriedtheholdofthecableontherocks，anoldpeasantandhiswifewiththeirlittlegrandsonsetoutintheircarttopassthebridge。Astheydrewnearthemiddletheanchoringwiressuddenlylosttheirgripupontheshore，andwhirledintotheair；thebridgecrashedunderthehaplesspassengersandtheywerelaunchedfromitsheight，uponthevergeofthefallandthenceplunged，twohundredandfiftyfeet，intotheruinoftheabyss。
Thehabitansrebuilttheirbridgeofwooduponlowstonepiers，sofaruptheriverfromthecataractthatwhoeverfellfromitwouldyethavemanyachanceforlife；anditwouldhavebeenperiloustooffertoreplacethefallenstructure，which，inthebeliefoffaithfulChristians，clearlybelongedtothenumerousbridgesbuiltbytheDevil，intimeswhentheDevildidnotcallhimselfacivilengineer。
Thedriver，withjustunction，recountedthesadtaleashehaltedhishorsesonthebridge；andashispassengerslookeddowntherock-frettedbrowntorrenttowardsthefall，Isabelseizedtheoccasiontoshudderthatevershehadsetfootonthatsuspension-bridgebelowNiagara，andtoprovetoBasil’sconfusionthatherdoubtofthebridgesbetweentheThreeSisterswasnotacaseofnervesbutaninstinctivewisdomconcerningtheunsafetyofallbridgesofthatdesign。
FromthegateopeningintothegroundsaboutthefalltwoorthreelittleFrenchboys，whomtheyhadnotthehearttoforbid，rannoisilybeforethemwithcriesintheirsoleEnglish，“Thisway，sir“andledtowardaweather-beatensummer-housethattottereduponaprojectingrockabovethevergeofthecataract。Butourtouristsshooktheirheads，andturnedawayforamoredistantandlessdizzyenjoymentofthespectacle，thoughanycommandingpointwassufficientlychasmalandprecipitous。
TheloftybluffwasscoopedinwardfromtheSt。Lawrenceinavastirregularsemicircle，withcavernoushollows，onewithinanother，sinkingfarintoitssides，andnakedfromfoottocrest，ormeagrelywoodedhereandtherewithevergreen。Fromthecentralbrinkofthesegloomypurplechasmsthefoamycataractlauncheditself，andlikeacloud，“Alongtheclifftofallandpauseandfalldidseem。“
Isayacloud，becauseIfinditalreadysaidtomyhand，asitwere，inaprettyverse，andbecauseImustneedslikenMontmorencitosomethingthatissoftandlight。Yetaclouddoesnotrepresenttheglintingofthewaterinitsdownwardswoop；itislikesomebroadslopeofsun-
smittensnow；butsnowiscoldlywhiteandopaque，andthishasacreamywarmthinitsluminousmass；andso，therehangsthecataractunsaidasbefore。Itisamysterythatanythingsograndshouldbesolovely，thatanythingsotenderlyfairinwhateveraspectshouldyetbesolargethatoneglancefailstocomprehenditall。Theruggedwildnessofthecliffsandhollowsaboutitissoftenedbyitsgraciousbeauty，whichhalfredeemsthevulgarityofthetimber-merchant’susesinsettingtheriveratworkinhissaw-millsandchokingitsoutletintotheSt。Lawrencewithraftsoflumberandrubbishofslabsandshingles。Nay，rather，itisaloneamidstthesethings，andtheeyetakesnoteofthembyaseparateeffort。
Ourtouristssankdownupontheturfthatcreptwithitswhiteclovertotheedgeoftheprecipice，andgazeddreamilyuponthefall，fillingtheirvisionwithitsexquisitecolorandform。BeingwiserthanI，theydidnottrytoutteritsloveliness；theywerecontenttofeelit，andtheperfectionoftheafternoon，whoselowsunslantingoverthelandscapegave，underthatpale，greenish-bluesky，apensivesentimentofautumntotheworld。Thecricketscriedamongstthegrass；thehesitatingchirpofbirdscamefromthetreeoverhead；ashaggycoltleftoffgrazinginthefieldandstalkeduptostareatthem；theirlittleguides，havingfoundthatthesepeoplehadnopleasureinthesightofsmallboysscufflingonthevergeofaprecipice，threwthemselvesalsodownuponthegrassandcroonedalong，longballadinamournfulminorkeyaboutsomemaidenwhosenamewasLaBelleAdeline。Itwasamomentofunmixedenjoymentforeverysense，andthroughalltheirbeingtheywereglad；whichconsidering，theyceasedtobeso，withadeepsigh，asonereasoningthathedreamsmustpresentlyawake。Theynevercouldhaveanemotionwithoutdesiringtoanalyzeit；butperhapstheirrapturewouldhaveceasedasswiftly，eveniftheyhadnottriedtomakeitafactofconsciousness。
