Is there on American soul a single city intersected by such quaint, tortuous, legend-loving streets as old Quebec? Is there a town retaining more unmistakable vestiges of its rude beginnings--of its pristine, narrow, Indian-haunted, forest paths? Our streets and lanes bear witness to our dual origin: Champlain, Richelieu, Buade streets, by their names proclaim the veneration our fathers had for the memory of men who had watched over the infancy of the colony, whilst the mystic, saintly nomenclature of others exhibited the attachment of the early dwellers in Quebec to the hallowed old Roman faith which presided at their natal hour. One also finds here and there, in the names of certain thoroughfares, traces of the sojourn within our walls of popular Governors, famous Viceroys, long since gathered to their fathers, some of whose ashes mingle in our cemeteries with the dust of our forefathers--[8] Champlain, Frontenac, Mesy, De Callières, De Vaudreuil, De la Jonquière, Ramsay, Carleton, Hope, Dalhousie, Richmond and Aylmer. A student of history, in the signboards affixed to street corners, loves to light on the names of men whose memories are fragrant for deeds of heroism, devotedness, patriotism or learning. Bréboeuf, Champlain, Dollard, Ferland, Garneau, Christie, Turgeon, Plessis, and many others of blameless and exemplary life--each has his street. We know of a worthy and learned old antiquary whose lore and advice has been more than once placed at our disposal in unravelling the tangled skein on which we are engaged, who rejoices that his native city, unlike some of the proud capitals of Europe, is free from vulgar names, such as "Tire-Boudin," "P--t--au D----le," in gay Paris, and "Crutched Friars," "Pall-Mall," and "Mary-le- bone," in great London. In fact, does not history meet you at every turn? Every nook, every lane, every square, nay, even the stones and rocks, have a story to tell--a record to unfold--a tale to whisper of savage or civilized warfare--a memento to thrill the patriot--a legend of romance or of death--war, famine, fires, earthquakes, land and snow-slides, riot? Is it not to be apprehended that in time the inmates of such a city might become saturated with the overpowering atmosphere of this romantic past-- fall a prey to an overweening love of old memories--become indifferent, and deadened to the feelings and requirements of the present? This does not necessarily follow. We are, nevertheless, inclined to believe that outward objects may act powerfully on one's inner nature: that the haunts and homes of men are not entirely foreign to the thoughts, pursuits and impulses, good or bad, of their inmates. Active, cultured, bustling, progressive citizens, we would fain connect with streets and localities partaking of that character, just as we associate cheerful abodes with sunshine, and repulsive dwellings with dank, perennial shadows.