aging in the Peninsula. The prospect for military advancement in Canada was not encouraging. America was at peace. Canada was but slowly developing. While her exports of lumber and fish att

nd no official utterance, hence the outlook from a soldier's standpoint was far from desirable. Brock's life in the West Indies had created a distaste

is optimism and faith banished gloomy thoughts. The ship had hardly dropped the last headland of the Irish coast when the winds bred in Labrador awoke the Viking strain in him and filled his soul with hope. The swinging seas of this northern ocean revived thoughts of the long-ago exploits of Sebastian Cabot, the discoverer of Newfoundland, and of his own sea-dog ancestors, those rough-riders of the sea who had defied the banks of

en Islands, the brazen bosom of the Bay of Chaleur that had allured Jacques Cartier 265 years before, the might of the noble river and the glorious vista of the citad

tell me

continued, "Don't lie! Tell the truth like a man. You know I have ever treated you kindly." The confession of intended desertion followed. "Go, then," said Colonel Brock,-"g

the men in the ranks." His accurate knowledge of human nature served him in the graver experiences of life which followed. His stay in Quebec was short. A study of the ancient citadel and its incomplete fortifications occupied his time. In the summer of 1803 he was stationed at York, a hamlet carved out of the back

k, with his trusty sergeant-major and the ever-watchful Dobson, in another batteau with twelve men, passed out of the western gap in hot pursuit of the defaulters. Though the night was calm the trip was perilou

ion there was little wind, and "Master Isaac," for example's sake, and "to keep my biceps and fore-arm in good condition"-as he told the sergeant-major-took his regular spells at the oar. On arriving at Fort George, Colonel Hunter, Governor an

TNO

, lap-strake pleasure-skiff, by the writer and another Argonaut-Herbert Bartlett-one unruly morning in the summer of

enston Road