I found at Quebec a very agreeable society, the tone of feeling which prevails in a capital, the utmost hospitality. Had I had a hundred mouths they would here all have been kept busy. Invitations came in scores, and were to be resisted with difficulty. Knowing all this I am the more astonished at the recent statements which I have heard, that the Canadians have not extended any civilities to our officers. If so, a great change must have taken place. I am not now talking of sleighing parties, but of the hospitality of the inner house. The fair Canadians may have been too kind in accepting the name and position of “muffins” from the young Britishry; but the latter cannot say they have suffered much in consequence. A muffin is simply a lady who sits beside the male occupant of the sleigh--_Sola cum solo_, “and all the rest is leather and prunella.” The social system is intended rather for the comfort of the inner life, and for the development of domestic happiness, than for such external glare and glitter as Broadway delights in, or for such unsound social relations as mark the America of hotels. The great artists who adorn the drama or the lyric stage can rarely be bribed sufficiently high to visit these northern regions; but I doubt whether there is not a better taste in art among the people of Quebec than there is to be found in most cities of the same size in the United States. On a gloomy winter evening I was once more battling with the ice on the St. Lawrence; and, after a long passage, left Point Levi for Montreal. A weary life-long night it seemed, and a still wearier day in the train. It was close upon twenty-one hours of stuffy, foodless travel, ere we arrived at Montreal. Nor can I remember anything worth recording of all that linked weariness, long drawn out, except that, halting at a roadside station in the night, I came on a detachment of the Scots Fusilier Guards, who had come up from Rivière du Loup, after their passage in sleighs over the snows of New Brunswick, and were in high spirits, looking very red in the face, and bulky in comparison with the lean habitans. “Misthress,” quoth one of them to the woman at the bar, “wad ye gi’e me a dhrap av whuskie?” The Hebe complied with this request, and for some very small pecuniary consideration filled him out nearly a tumblerful of the dreadful preparation known in the States as “Fortyrod.” The soldier tasted it, blinked his eyes, squeezed them close, pursed up his lips, smacked them, gave a short watery cough, smelt the mixture, and, looking at his comrades, exclaimed, “My Gude! Hech! I’d jist as soon face a charge of baynets.” After that proem I was prepared to see the hardy warrior eject the fluid, but he proceeded to a most inconsequent act: for, nodding his head, he said, “Sae, here’s t’ye, my lads,” and tossed down the fire-water incontinent.