of the newest fashion to be sent as a present to his affianced bride: or the young clerk who, having heard his lady-love say she should so like a certain locket, in a certain shop, in a certain street,' goes off to countermand the dashing new waistcoat he ordered yesterday, and runs thence to the locket shop, and purchases the identical locket which his mistress has set her heart upon? Which enjoys the pleasure of giving most? And if we think of the result of the two presents, we shall feel that the one damsel will probably forget the giver in the multiplicity and richness of the gifts, if she be not too much accustomed to such things, and do not put them aside in her casket, to be worn when wanted; while it is ten to one that the other damsel required the locket for the sole purpose of putting into it a lock of her dear Edward or Henry's hair, which is put into it before his eyes, and, suspended by a ribbon, is placed next the heart of the happy girl, to be worn there day and night. The pleasure of a holiday or a treat is one of the pleasures of poverty. The life of the rich man is all holiday, tant pis pour lui; but the poor man, to whom a holiday comes once in six months or so, knows what a depth of enjoyment lurks in the word holiday-making.

The pleasures of contriving, and managing, and making old things look maist as weel's the new,' are by no means contemptible. Then that one great pleasure, which sheds its azure light over a man's whole lifethe pleasure of hope that something good will turn up for him; that, if he keep on steadily and actively in a right path, he must succeed, and learn at last what are the joys of competence. This pleasure of hope is perhaps the pleasantest, as it is assuredly the best grounded, of all the pleasures of poverty. I will say no more on the subject, feeling convinced that enough has been said to suggest much more to the reader who is acquainted with it by experience; and to establish this fact in the minds of those who are not, that there is some reason, some very good sense, in these wordsThe pleasures of poverty.'

THE WIVES OF WEINSBERG.

[THE following vivacious piece, dashed off in the earnest hearty style of the poets of Fatherland, is extracted from one of the most brilliant of the books of the season.'* 'The Pictorial Gift-Book,' a full-sized quarto, with splendidly illuminated cover and frontispiece, numerous engravings, and plenty of poetry, wants nothing to recommend itself to the givers and receivers of New-Year's presents.]

THE little town of Weinsberg

Is built upon a hill

And the ladies there are famed for

Sagacity and skill:

If e'er I go a-wooing,

Whatever may betide,

The little town of Weinsberg

Shall furnish me a bride.

The mighty Kaiser Conrad,

By fancied wrongs enraged, Together drew his forces,

And war against it waged.

By sap and escalading

He struggled to prevail-
But its bulwarks were of granite,
Its burghers cased in mail!

Three times the veteran warriors
Redoubled the attack,
And thrice the stalwart burghers
The imperial host beat back;
But fell disease and famine

The patriots did assail

The civic guards of Weinsberg

Could scarce support their mail!

Repulsed, and chafed to frenzy,
Dishonoured, one and all,
The despot sent a herald

Beneath the leaguered wall:

'Ye base rebellious varlets,
Lay down your arms to me,
Or every boor shall dangle
Upon the nearest tree!'

A panic spread like wildfire
Through street, and square, and lane,
And frantic words were uttered,
Both pious and profane:
By famine or the halter,
Alas, we must expire!

I feel the noose already!'
Exclaimed a famished friar.
With wild vociferation

A shrivelled landlord cried, 'My larders all are empty,

And cannot be supplied!' 'We're lost!' cried Hans the baker; 'Undone!' rejoined a priest; And grim old Karl, the blacksmith, He smote his withered breast!

The iris spans the valley

When clouds obscure the sky,
And winter nights are darkest
When dawn is drawing nigh;
When lordly man's confounded,
Distracted, and distressed,
A balm is oft discovered
In woman's gentle breast.

Close to the hour of midnight,
An embassy of wives
Hied to the foe's encampment
At hazard of their lives-
Led on by Madame Lobson,

Whose bright dishevelled hair Streamed o'er her milk-white shouldersA picture of despair!

She sought the chief's pavilion,
And humbly on her knee
The lovely suppliant bended,
And prayed for clemency!
Ah! vehemently she pleaded,
And copiously she wept ;
But still the ruthless monarch
His fatal purpose kept.

'Go! tell that horde of traitors

Audacious base-born thralls-
I'll hang them high as Haman,
When once I scale their walls:

I wage no war on women,
Be high or low their birth;
You're free!-So bring such treasure
As you can carry forth.'

The morning dawned serenely,
The birds were all in song,
When from the portals issued
A helpless female throng:
Each to the distant mountains
Pursued her devious track,
With terror in her bosom,

Her husband on her back!

Repudiated courtiers,

They sickened at the sight; But Conrad from his tent-door Beheld it with delight!

Ha! bravo!' cried the KaiserAnd rubbed his hands with glee;

I question if the empress

Would do as much for me.'

From turret, spire, and steeple,
The civic banners streamed;
A pardon has been granted,
An amnesty proclaimed!
A sumptuous entertainment
The almoner provides;
And Conrad at the table
In regal state presides!

Ah! how the viands vanished,
Like snow-flakes in the Rhine;
The burghers were enraptured
With loyalty and wine!
They snapped their skinny fingers,
They toasted and they drank,
Without regard to talent,

Or precedence, or rank!

What ho! ye mopping minstrels,
Strike up a lively air!'

And Conrad in a twinkling
Sprung from his regal chair,

JOURNAL

No. 212. NEW SERIES.

INCIDENTS OF WINTER LIFE IN QUEBEC. SURPASSINGLY picturesque is the situation of Quebec. Crowning the high and precipitous cliff which terminates the promontory formed by the confluence of the St Charles with the St Lawrence, it overlooks a scenic panorama, which, for extent and variety of features, is equalled by few prospects in the world. On one side of the city, and laving its very feet, rolls the lordly St Lawrence in sullen grandeur, the high grounds of Point Levy frowning over its deep, dark channel about a mile distant on the opposite side. On the north it is flanked by the broad estuary of the St Charles, after the junction of which with the main river, the latter swells into colossal proportions, which it not only retains, but greatly enlarges during the remainder of its course to the ocean. Close to the water's edge, its northern bank is covered with a succession of villages, which extend, from opposite the city, almost the whole way down to the Falls of Montmorency, the white walls sparkling gaily in the sunlight, and contrasting pleasantly in the summer-time with the rich and luxuriant vegetation to which an extended cultivation gives rise. In the midst of the great reservoir formed by the junction of the two streams, is the island of Orleans, its nearest point to the city being about seven miles distant, and dividing the river into two great channels for the next seven leagues of its course. Of these, the southern is the narrower, and that usually taken by shipping-the northern spreading out like a great firth, and forcing its way to the foot of the mountain-chain visible in the distance; the tumultuous masses of which constitute the left bank of the river, until it empties itself, about four hundred miles from the city, into the Gulf of St Lawrence. Near the parish of St Anne, several miles below the city, where the tide rises with a rapidity equal to that of its flow in the Solway, this mountain chain suddenly leaves the river, the channel of which, as you ascend it, diverges at Quebec several degrees to the south. The hills, as they run their straight course in a direction almost due west, form, by their serried and broken outlines, a splendid background to the lovely and widely-extended landscape which stretches between them and the city. As you follow their course westerly, the sight roams over the broad valley, which lies at their feet, shrouded in the foliage of the primeval forests, and which you can trace till the eye flags in the distance. Far to the south again, and on the opposite side of the St Lawrence, you have the distant uplands of Megantic, about midway between you and the American boundary. From the more elevated points of the city, the eye on all hands commands a prospect of nearly fifty miles in extent, replete with all the elements which enter into the formation of a perfect landscape. Over this glorious combination of

PRICE 1d.

land and water, mountain and valley, forest and cornfield, town, hamlet, and village, floats the proud emblem of England's supremacy from the highest point of Cape Diamond.

Gorgeous as is the prospect in the summer-time, it is dreary and desolate when all around is wrapped in the frigid mantle of winter. From its position, Quebec is peculiarly liable to extremes of cold and heat: in the summer-time, the thermometer is not unfrequently for days at 100 degrees in the shade; whilst it sometimes descends, in the opposite season, as low as 40 degrees below zero, or 72 degrees below freezing-point, on Cape Diamond, which is the loftiest part of the Citadel. Some years ago, the Government-House fell a prey to the flames in the depth of winter. Numerous fireengines were on the spot, but they were unavailable; for the water congealed into a solid mass in its passage through the hose-pipes: nor did it mend the matter that they were afterwards supplied with boiling water from the breweries.

Quebec, on the approach of winter, is as if in a partial state of siege. This is chiefly perceptible in the increase which generally takes place in the price of provisions and firewood. During the summer months, the town is abundantly supplied with the one, whilst it is only for culinary purposes that it is in want of the other. It is then plentifully supplied by the country on both sides of the river, a constant communication being kept up between both banks by means of horse boats, by which the bulkiest articles can be conveyed to and from either side. But early in November, winter lays his embargo upon the southern shore; and but for the means to which I shall presently advert, the city would be left, until the end of April, for its supplies to the poorer district, on the northern side of the St Lawrence.

Intense and protracted as are the rigours of a Canadian winter, it is seldom that they succeed in arresting the voluminous current of the St Lawrence. The depth of the stream and the strength of the current are, generally speaking, more than a match for even a Canadian frost. The river freezes, on an average, about once only every five years; and when it does so, the joyful event is announced by the booming of cannon and by extra issues of the newspapers.

It must not be supposed, however, that when not frozen across, the St Lawrence is unencumbered with ice. For the long dreary winter it is so burdened with it, that navigation is entirely interrupted; and for days at a time, it is sometimes impossible, as you cast your eye over its broad surface, to catch even a glimpse of its dark leaden waters. Its channel then presents to you nothing but one vast, moving, solid white mass, which glides rapidly past the city, up or down, at the will of the tide. This is caused by the conglomeration of dif

ferent masses of ice, of all sizes and shapes, some of which are detached from the shores of the river; but the bulk of which, proceeding from the great and lesser lakes of the upper country, sometimes so chokes up the channel of the river, as to give rise to the most calamitous consequences.

It is not always, however, that its surface is completely covered with these frozen masses. Sometimes they form the exception to the deep dark tide which bears them, when they look like ornaments of frosted silver on a basis of steel. They are of all sizes, from several hundred acres in extent to a few feet in circumference; whilst in appearance they are singularly fantastic, their surfaces presenting a succession of spires and pyramids, interspersed amongst huge frozen billows, piled in some places in fragments, like the masses blocked from a quarry-here presenting the regular outlines of the cone, there an irregular complication of form, which the fancy may shape into the most fantastic images-smooth and glassy in some places, broken and rugged in others—with here and there deep patches of snow, flanked with frozen masses resembling splintered rocks; and others, in shape like colossal boards, standing upon end. In the bright sunshine of a clear frosty day, they present, as you thread your way over their billowy surfaces, a singularly beautiful appearance-in some places reflecting the hues of the rainbow, and shining in others with a dazzling whiteness, here and there relieved by the deep-green lustre of the emerald. Throughout the winter, a species of communication is kept up between the two sides of the river, which qualifies, to some extent, the assertion that all intercourse is then suspended between its opposite shores. By means of canoes, which are adroitly managed by habitans, as the French Canadians are frequently styled, passengers and lighter goods are constantly conveyed from side to side. But as this is a mode of conveyance not common to the experiences of Europe, a brief description of it will not be amiss in this place. If, therefore, the reader will accompany me, we will cross together from Point Levy to Quebec.

It is low water, and our first business is to scramble to the river's edge over the broken fragments of ice which have been deposited by the retreating tide upon the beach. The river is profusely covered with ice, which is floating rapidly down with the current. Its huge glittering masses seem to interpose an insuperable barrier between us and the city, part of which is nestled along the foot of the dark frowning rock opposite the rut, struggling up its different clefts and crowning its summit, the impervious battlements of the Citadel rising high and grimly over all. The town is fully a mile from us, but it does not look half that distance in the clear crisp air. Look which way you will, the scene around you has but one wild wintry aspect to present: far as the eye can reach on either hand, there is but one monotonous succession of ice and snow, relieved only here and there by the dusky forms of precipices, to which snow cannot adhere, and the brown leafless woods, from which it has been shaken by the wind. Nevertheless, the scene has excitements which partially atone for its intrinsic cheerlessness. There is a pleasure in breathing through your furs the pure keen air; the blood, thoroughly oxygenated, courses rapidly through the system, and you experience an exhilaration of spirits which harmonises with the cold brilliant sunshine which is streaming around you; for, cold though it may be, it is seldom that the wintry sky of Canada is darkened by a frown, retaining, amid the intensest rigours of the season, the deep lustrous blue which characterises its summer glow.

Here we are at last, ready to embark with our crew and fellow-passengers. The latter, like ourselves, are well clad in furs and overalls'-a necessary protection against the intense cold. The former are all attired in the gray capote of the Canadian, with its hood thrown down with a careful fold upon the back, and which, with the bonnet rouge, or red nightcap, which covers

their heads, the variegated sash around their waists, and the well-greased moccasins which protect their feet and legs, impart to them an appearance decidedly picturesque. Our craft seems rather frail for the accommodation of so many, and for a voyage apparently perilous. It is a large canoe, neatly excavated from a single log, and calculated at twelve persons' burden. With passengers and crew, we have our complement; so now for embarkation.

The canoe, which was lying on the ice, having been carefully launched, and passengers and crew having got aboard, we push off for the opposite side: but how to make it is the question, for, within pistol-shot a-head of us, an enormous field of ice is moving past with the current. To double this at any point appears hopeless, for we seem hemmed in on all sides by floating masses. The difficulty is soon solved, for we are no sooner alongside the impediment in question, than our crew are landed upon it, whereupon the passengers are politely requested to disembark. Then follows the most striking peculiarity of this novel species of navigation. After some manoeuvring, we get the canoe high and dry again upon the ice. Here we are, then, upon a veritable floating island, which it is now our business to cross, and launch again upon the water at its opposite side. So off we set, dragging our canoe after us, which is no easy matter, considering the precariousness of our foothold, and the uneven and rugged surface of the ice. We have to make many a detour to avoid confused heaps of the frozen matter, piled and jammed together by the force of the current. All this time we are being borne rapidly down by the tide, and must make up our leeway on nearing the opposite bank. By and by we reach the water, launch, and embark again as before.

Our journey across, with some slight variations, consists of several repetitions of what is here described: now on the water, then on the ice; now afloat in our tiny bark, then dragging it after us, until another opportunity offers of rendering it serviceable. Here and there a pool of water, tranquillised by its confinement between two large sheets of ice, has frozen on the surface, forming a slender link connecting them together. When not very thick, it is broken by the weight of the canoe, which the stout habitans paddle lustily through it, crunching it before them. Sometimes, however, it is too strong, and defies their efforts, in which case the crew alone disembark upon it, and pull the canoe, with the passengers in it, over the glassy new-formed ice, which not unfrequently, whilst they are so engaged, breaks beneath their feet, when they are only prevented from sinking by the hold which they have upon the sides of the canoe. These successive interruptions render the passage exceedingly tedious, particularly when the river is much encumbered with ice; and the cold is sometimes so intense, that the drops which the boatmen throw off from their paddles fall frozen globules into the bottom of the canoe. One would be apt to suppose that so novel a species of navigation would be attended with peculiar hazards; and so it is. When the tide is ebbing, and the wind strong from the west, the adventurous voyager is sometimes driven far out of his course. I once left Point Levy for the city, and was landed, after drifting for three hours and a half upon the ice, on the island of Orleans, at a point about eight miles below the town. The stream was then so choked up, that it was seldom we could find an opportunity of launching our canoe; the intermediate spaces between the larger fields of ice being filled up with pieces too small for us to venture upon with safety. Cases have occurred, too, in which a canoe has been crushed to atoms between two sheets, the passengers only saving themselves by springing upon them, and drifting up and down until rescued from their perilous situation. On one occasion, when this happened to a canoe with nine persons in it, six of them sprang upon one piece of ice, and three on the other. They soon parted company: the six being picked up shortly afterwards by parties