But, by this time, the roads had become utterly impracticable. They were, indeed, obliterated; the snow lying, in some places, lightly upon them; and in others, forming huge swelling wreaths, either across or along them. We were eager to go forward, but were dissuaded by our host from attempting it, till the afternoon, when the road might be at least practicable. On such occasions the law requires the owners of land to “break the roads” passing through or by their respective properties; and by two o’clock every sleigh in St. Giles’s was out for the purpose. As soon as a track was opened, we prepared to start. The road for the first quarter of a mile had been well sheltered; and as the evergreens were still standing, there was but little difficulty in keeping the old track, which afforded a firm footing for the horses. But beyond that the evergreens had been prostrated and buried in the snow; and it was evident that our pioneers had floundered in the midst of difficulties. Such was presently our own fate, our horses having plunged into the soft snow, where it was fully six feet deep, from which we had with no little difficulty and labour to dig them out. This quenched our enthusiasm, and we returned to the inn, where we remained for another night. Next morning we were enabled to proceed, though but slowly, on our way. Leaving St. Giles’s, we entered St. Sylvestre, the last, on this road, of the belt of French seignories lying between the St. Lawrence and the “Townships.” It is almost exclusively inhabited by British settlers. In the townships, Frenchmen are as rare as negroes in Siberia. The first township we came to was that of Leeds; on entering which we found a great change in the whole aspect of the country. From being flat and monotonous it became suddenly varied and undulating, and appeared to consist of a succession of rather lofty ridges, with broad belts of fertile table land at their summit. On gaining the top of the first, we turned to enjoy the prospect which lay behind us. It was really magnificent. The air was so clear and crisp, that almost every object embraced within the distant horizon had a distinct form and outline. The level tract over which we had passed lay extended beneath our feet, stretching for about forty miles to the St. Lawrence. In appearance it was as variegated as a carpet,—the white patches of every shape and size with which it was interspersed indicating the clearances amongst the dark brown woods. The bold and precipitous banks of the St. Lawrence could be traced for miles, whilst here and there the stream itself was visible. The distant city, on its rocky promontory, came out in fine relief against the sky, its tin covered spires glistening in the sunshine like silver pinnacles. A little to the right, the outline of the chain of hills lying behind it, although they were fully sixty miles distant from us, was distinctly visible in the far-off heavens.