I went to the
window, expecting that a vision of beauty would burst upon my eyes.
All
that I saw might be summed up in very few words - a few sticks placed
vertically, which might be masts, and some tin spires looming through a
very yellow, opaque medium. This was my first view of Quebec; happily,
on my last the elements did full justice to its beauty. Other objects
developed themselves as we steamed down to the wharf. There were huge
rafts, some three or four acres in extent, which, having survived the
perils which had beset them on their journey from the forests of the
Ottawa, were now moored along the base of the lofty cliffs which, under
the name of the Heights of Abraham, have a world-wide celebrity. There
were huge, square-sided, bluff-bowed, low-masted ships, lying at anchor in
interminable lines, and little, dirty, vicious-looking steam-tugs twirling
in and out among them; and there were grim-looking muzzles of guns
protruding through embrasures, and peripatetic fur caps and bayonets
behind parapets of very solid masonry.
Above all, shadowing all, and steeping all, was the thickest fog ever seen
beyond the sound of Bow-bells. It lay thick and heavy on Point Diamond,
dimming the lustre of the bayonets of the sentinels as they paced the
lofty bastions, and looked down into the abyss of fog below. It lay yet
heavier on the rapid St. Lawrence, and dripped from the spars and rigging
of ships. It hung over and enveloped the town, where, combined with smoke,
it formed a yellow canopy; and damp and chill it penetrated the flag of
England, weighing it down in heavy folds, as though ominous of impending
calamity.
Slowly winding our tortuous way among multitudinous ships, all vamped in
drizzling mist, we were warped to the wharf, which was covered with a
mixture of mud and coal-dust, permeated by the universal fog. Here
vehicles of a most extraordinary nature awaited us, and, to my great
surprise, they were all open. They were called calashes, and looked
something like very high gigs with hoods and C springs. Where the dash-
board was not, there was a little seat or perch for the driver, who with a
foot on each shaft looked in a very precarious position. These conveyances
have the most absurd appearance; there are, however, a few closed
vehicles, both at Montreal and Quebec, which I believe are not to be found
in the civilized world elsewhere, except in a few back streets of Lisbon.
These consist of a square box on two wheels. This box has a top, back, and
front, but where the sides ought to be there are curtains of deer-hide,
which are a very imperfect protection from wind and rain. The driver sits
on the roof, and the conveyance has a constant tendency backwards, which
is partially counteracted by a band under the horse's body, but only
partially, and the inexperienced denizen of the box fancies himself in a
state of constant jeopardy.
In an open calash I drove to Russell's Hotel, along streets steeper,
narrower, and dirtier than any I had ever seen. Arrived within two hundred
yards of the hotel, we were set down in the mud. On alighting, a gentleman
who had been my fellow-traveller politely offered to guide me, and soon
after addressed me by name. "Who can you possibly be?" I asked - so
completely had a beard metamorphosed an acquaintance of five years'
standing.
Once within the hotel, I had the greatest difficulty in finding my way
about. It is composed of three of the oldest houses in Quebec, and has no
end of long passages, dark winding staircases, and queer little rooms. It
is haunted to a fearful extent by rats; and direful stories, "horrible, if
true," were related in the parlour of personal mutilations sustained by
visitors. My room was by no means in the oldest part of the house, yet I
used to hear nightly sorties made in a very systematic manner by these
quadruped intruders. The waiters at Russell's are complained of for their
incivility, but we thought them most profuse both in their civility and
attentions. Nevertheless, with all its disagreeables, Russell's is the
best hotel in Quebec; and, as a number of the members of the Legislative
Assembly live there while Parliament meets in that city, it is very lively
and amusing.
When my English friends Mr. and Mrs. Alderson arrived, we saw a good deal
of the town; but it has been so often described, that I may as well pass
on to other subjects. The glowing descriptions given of it by the author
of 'Hochelaga' must be familiar to many of my readers. They leave
nothing to be desired, except the genial glow of enthusiasm and kindliness
of heart which threw a couleur de rose over everything he saw.
There are some notions which must be unlearned in Canada, or temporarily
laid aside. At the beginning of winter, which is the gay season in this
Paris of the New World, every unmarried gentleman, who chooses to do so,
selects a young lady to be his companion in the numerous amusements of the
time. It does not seem that anything more is needed than the consent of
the maiden, who, when she acquiesces in the arrangement, is called a
"muffin" - for the mammas were "muffins" themselves in their day, and
cannot refuse their daughters the same privilege. The gentleman is
privileged to take the young lady about in his sleigh, to ride with her,
to walk with her, to dance with her a whole evening without any remark, to
escort her to parties, and be her attendant on all occasions. When the
spring arrives, the arrangement is at an end, and I did not hear that an
engagement is frequently the result, or that the same couple enter into
this agreement for two successive winters.
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