where from $35 to $60 in New York, or from $15 to $30 in St. John), an India-rubber reel ($15), an oil-boiled silk line, 300 or 400 feet in length ($8 to $12), a dozen double gut leaders with single gut droppers ($6), five or six dozen assorted salmon flies ($6 a dozen in New York or less than half that price in St. John), and a steel gaff ($2). The rods and lines may be duplicated if "expense is no object;" but only by some unforeseen accident or inexcusable carelessness need either the one or the other give out. No one is more merciless with rod and line than myself, and yet neither failed me during our expedition. Instances of failure, however, to some of the party (but not from any want of skill) occurred, and under circumstances which sorely tried the saintly tempers of these unfortunate victims of misplaced confidence. But as a rule, any strain beyond what a moderately well made rod will bear safely would almost certainly result in the loss of your fish; and the oiled line, if not imperceptibly defective, has the capacity to resist five times the pressure which should ever be employed to kill a salmon. Its great weight is given to it, not to render it secure merely, but rather to adapt it the better for casting.

In regard to supplies, whatever is needful can be better secured, and much more moderately, at Quebec or St. John than at any point this side the

line. But what may be deemed "needful" depends entirely upon the tastes and appetites of the prospective consumers. One gentleman whom we met took, with himself and two guides, in a single canoe, all that he considered "needful" for a thirty days' sojourn, while another loaded two canoes, besides the one he occupied himself, with what he thought "needful" for a fortnight's excursion. I can only say to whoever may be anxious on this point, as was kindly said to our party, that it is well to "live low on the river." If, however, the advice shall be as remorselessly disregarded by any of my readers who may be contemplating a trip, as it was by our commissary, I may regret it but I shall not be surprised.

In reaching any of the rivers on the Bay of Chaleur, or in that immediate neighborhood, the most direct route is by rail to St. John and Shediac and by steamboat to Dalhousie; but the journey can be pleasantly and almost as expeditiously made by steamer from Quebec. We chose the former route, and it was high-noon of the sixth day after we left New York before we pitched our tents and prepared for service. Next year, however, there will be an all-rail route most of the way, if not quite through to Dalhousie - which, by the line of travel, is full three hundred miles from St. John.

[Now, April, 1876, there is an all-rail route to

Dalhousie, via Boston, Portland, Bangor, St. John and Moncton. Early in June of this year, it is expected that a much shorter route will be open from Montreal and River du Loup, and so across to the Bay of Chaleur. This route will greatly lessen the distance to all the most noted salmon rivers in the provinces.]

There was, in the summer of 1874, a provoking loss of twenty-four hours in making this journey, as the time-tables were arranged, there being no night train between Bangor and St. John, nor between St. John and Shediac. So that, unless you started right, you were detained a night at each of these cities. But this proved no inconvenience to those who "took no note of time," for the principal hotels at Bangor and St. John are tidy, home-like and elegant. This is especially true of the hotel at St. John (the Victoria), which ranks with the best in any city. But to those whose time is limited, and who would rather spend a day on a salmon river than a month in a palace, it is not so pleasant.

Even those in a hurry find some compensation for this delay in the attractive scenery which reveals itself at frequent intervals in the journey. It is something to see the thrifty towns below Bangor and the vast quantities of lumber and logs which fill the rivers along which the road passes. It is

something, also, to see the rise and fall of the tide at St. John (from forty to fifty feet), the grand scenery with which that city is environed, and to glance at the old town itself, which, in its shipping, warehouses and marts of trade, bears the impress of real enterprise and thrift. Personally I was glad of the delay, for I had before no just conception either of the commercial-like character and future possibilities of St. John nor of the prolific character of the highly cultivated farms in its neighborhood and along the eighty miles of road to Shediac. It is by no means the dilapidated city, nor is the country about it the barren and glacier-like region I had fancied. Its fogs, however, are rather frequent for comfort, and the recollection of them somewhat dampens the enthusiasm with which I might otherwise have entered upon a description, in detail, of what, between the fogs, delighted our vision.

There are a score of excellent salmon rivers on the Gulf of St. Lawrence and the bays connected therewith; but the fish in none of them excel in size (if they do in number) those of the Cascapedia

which empties into the Bay at New Richmond, a pleasant little hamlet some thirty miles distant (and on the opposite side of the Bay) from Dalhousie, where we left the steamer and took a chaloupe, on board of which we spent several tedious hours, vainly whistling for the wind and uttering pointless

witticisms against those whose distorted mental vision permits them to speak ravishingly of the entrancing beauty of a "sea of glass." Any thing seemed preferable to the monotony of such a cruise -a storm, a hurricane, a cyclone even, would have been welcomed; any thing but the persistent rainfall which came down just in time to drench our garments though not to dampen our spirits as we disembarked at New Richmond and received "e'en a Hieland welcome" from H. R. MONTGOMERY, Esq., to whose kindly offices we were commended by those who knew how surely his hearty courtesy and genial hospitality would obliterate the recollection of any trifling mishap which might have befallen us by the way. Here, too, we met Mr. DIMMICK, the warden of the river, who had, in the most prompt and business-like manner, responded to our telegraphed request to have canoes and guides in readiness upon our arrival. Not only were they in readiness, but they glided out from the shore at our approach, each canoe (sitting like a swan upon the water) being propelled by two paddlers (an Indian and a white man) who were to accompany us during our three weeks' sojourn on the river. Our traps and persons were speedily transferred to these frail looking but wonderfully buoyant craft, when we began what proved to be the most delightful pilgrimage I ever made to any

waters.