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It was a cold, gloomy October morning, a cold east wind rustled the russet
leaves, and a heavy, dry
Fog enveloped Point Diamond, when I left the
bustle of Quebec for a quiet drive to Montmorenci in a light waggon with a
very spirited little horse, a young lady acting as charioteer. The little
animal was very impetuous, and rattled down the steep, crowded streets of
Quebec at a pace which threatened to entangle our wheels with those of
numerous carts driven by apathetic habitans, who were perfectly
indifferent to the admonitions "Prenez garde" and "Place aux dames,"
delivered in beseeching tones. We passed down a steep street, and through
Palace-gate, into the district of St. Roch, teeming with Irish and dirt,
for I fear it is a fact that, wherever you have the first, you invariably
have the last. Beyond this there was a space covered with mud and sawdust,
where two habitans were furiously quarrelling. One sprang upon the other
like a hyena, knocked him down, and then attempted to bite and strangle
him, amid the applause of numerous spectators.
Leaving Quebec behind, we drove for seven miles along a road in sight of
the lesser branch of the St. Lawrence, which has on the other side the
green and fertile island of Orleans. The houses along this road are so
numerous as to present the appearance of a village the whole way.
Frenchmen who arrive here in summer can scarcely believe that they are not
in their own sunny land; the external characteristics of the country are
so exactly similar.
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