We arrived at Port Talbot, Canada West, a day or two ago from Niagara, where we stayed a fortnight. This is a delightful place. We went back to Buffalo, then crossed a part of Lake Erie (we were a day and a night on board the steamer “London”), and, landing at Port Stanley, we had some refreshments at the little hotel there, where we were well taken care of by the particularly attentive and obliging proprietors; and then we came on in a hired carriage through beautiful woods to this beautiful spot.

The road, however, was not equally beautiful, and we broke down, which, apparently not un foreseen accident, our driver took very unconcernedly and philosophically, and immediately set about repairing the damage. A carriage breaking down is of little moment indeed in the woods of Canada, where they are usually of a tough and rough kind, and where the charioteer (who, I believe, is generally expected to be somewhat experienced in this way) speedily rectifies the injury by cutting down the first likely tree by the road side, and adapting it to his purpose by some “rough and ready” kind of craft.

In this instance I had little doubt but that our damaged vehicle would come out of the hands of our Jehu nearly, if not quite, as good as new; for its “build” was such, that he might very probably have been himself the coach-maker originally, as well as coach-driver and coach-breaker.