Gen-teel parties, step forward, if you please, to the rescue of the black Jobmaster! The rats are with you. I am informed that they have unanimously passed a resolution that the closing of the London churchyards will be an insult to their professional brethren, and will oblige ’em “to fight for it.” The Parrots are with you. The Owl is with you. The Raven is with you. No General Interments. Carrion for ever! Ha, ha! Halloa! HOW WE WENT FISHING IN CANADA. There were three of us. Our purpose was fishing, in Canadian fashion, _under_ the ice, and our destination was the township of New Ireland, distant about seventy miles from our starting point, Quebec, and situated about midway between the St. Lawrence and the American line. Our conveyance was a stout, commodious, yet light, and not inelegant sleigh, with seats for four, and plentifully supplied with buffalo robes, which are dressed so as to be as soft as blankets—useful in a temperature of twenty degrees below Zero, and ornamental from their fringes, which were garnished with various devices, all of which had some reference to the wild denizens of the forest. Under each seat was a box, which we stowed with a goodly supply of creature comforts and a few books, thus prudently making provision against the contingencies of privation and _ennui_. Our locomotive power consisted of two small but very spirited horses, which were neatly harnessed, with a string of merry sleigh bells dangling from the girths of each. In this comfortable condition we in due time arrived at “Richardson’s,” one of the most celebrated hostelries in the seignory of St. Giles.