Well can we recall the time when this lordly demesne extended from Wolfefield, adjoining Marchmont, to the meandering Belle-Borne brook, which glides past the porter's lodge at Woodfield, due west, the historic stream _Ruisseau Saint Denis_, up which clambered the British hero, Wolfe, to conquer or die, intersecting it at Thornhill. It was then a splendid old seat of more than one hundred acres, a fit residence for the proudest nobleman England might send us as Viceroy--enclosed east and west between two streamlets, hidden from the highway by a dense growth of oak, maple, dark pines and firs--the forest primeval--letting in here and there the light of heaven on its labyrinthine avenues; a most striking landscape, blending the sombre verdure of its hoary trees with the soft tints of its velvety sloping lawn, fit for a ducal palace. An elfish plot of a flower garden, alas! how much dwarfed, then stood in rear of the dwelling to the north, it once enjoyed the privilege of attracting many eyes. It had also an extensive and well-kept fruit and vegetable garden, enlivened with flower beds, the centre of which was adorned with the loveliest possible circular fount in white marble, supplied with the crystal element from the Belle-Borne rill by a hidden aqueduct; conservatories, graperies, peach and forcing houses, pavilions picturesquely hung over the yawning precipice on two headlands, one looking towards Sillery, the other towards the Island of Orleans, the scene of many a cosy tea-party; bowers, rustic chairs _perdues_ among the groves, a superb bowling green and archery grounds. The mansion itself contained an exquisite collection of paintings from old masters, a well- selected library of rare and standard works, illuminated Roman missals, rich portfolios with curious etchings, marble busts, quaint statuettes, medals and medallions, _objets de vertu_ purchased by the millionaire proprietor during a four years' residence in Italy, France and Germany. Such we remember Spencer Wood in its palmiest days, when it was the ornate home of a man of taste, the late Henry Atkinson, Esquire, the President of the Horticultural Society of Quebec. May I be pardoned, for lingering lovingly on this old spot, recalling "childhood scenes" of one dear to me and mine! The following, written by a valued old friend of Mr. Atkinson, is dated Brighton, England: On a sketch of Spencer Wood sent to the writer (Miss A.), with her album, Oct. 18, 1848.