The New Hampshire Gazette

Honeymoon on The St. Lawrence.

Lord Elgin has been getting married at St. Peter's Church, St. James's, just as he is on the point of setting off for—where, do you suppose?—Leamington, Cheltenham, Brighton, Torquay, Pau, Como, &c. Nothing of the sort; but for Canada, of which he has been made Governor-General.

Now, only fancy a man going to spend the honeymoon in a place so cold that it requires three thermometers to tell when the kettle boils. There would be some sense in taking your spouse to Sierra Leone, or Borneo, or Madagascar, or any quiet watering place in the tropics, where she and you and a few boa constrictors, a couple of alligators, a hyena or two, and the yellow fever, might do the domestic to the tune of "Love's Young Dream," and no charge made for coal or candles, besides being always particularly well off for soap, because of the palm oil.

But the idea of a lady with a "wreath of orange blossoms," as the song says, in her hair, being whisked off into a snow wreath, is enough to put the gallantry of a polar bear to the blush.

Imagine a bride sitting down to her first breakfast at Toronto, and finding her dry toast has to be divided with a hand-saw, and the butter with a chisel and mallet; while, if she is not particularly nimble in blowing her conjugal nose, she will have involuntarily hoisted a signal of distress, in the shape of a frozen pocket handkerchief, which can only be removed by the application of hot water or cupping, as if it were a skin plaster you were taking off, and were not sure the skin wouldn't come with it.

Conceive her astonishment at seeing good sized hammers and pick-axes placed on the table with the dessert, and an orange or an apple dug out of the dish with as much uproar and difficulty as though it were a specimen of petrified moonshine, or a fossil aurora borealis for the geological section of the British Association.

And, lastly, picture her consternation when, on wishing to retire for the night, she is preceded by two Irish laborers, to pull down the congealed bed clothes, and an Ojibbeway chamber-maid to use a screeching warming pan, large and hot enough to singe a two year old pig a dozen yards off.—Liverpool Albion