It Stands At The
Confluence Of The St. Lawrence And St. Charles Rivers; The Best
Part Of The Town Is Built High Upon The Rock - The Rock Which Forms
The Celebrated Plains Of Abram; And The View From Thence Down To
The Mountains Which Shut In The St. Lawrence Is Magnificent.
The
best point of view is, I think, from the esplanade, which is
distant some five minutes' walk from the hotels.
When that has
been seen by the light of the setting sun, and seen again, if
possible, by moonlight, the most considerable lion of Quebec may be
regarded as "done," and may be ticked off from the list.
The most considerable lion, according to my taste. Lions which
roar merely by the force of association of ideas are not to me very
valuable beasts. To many the rock over which Wolfe climbed to the
plains of Abram, and on the summit of which he fell in the hour of
victory, gives to Quebec its chiefest charm. But I confess to
being somewhat dull in such matters. I can count up Wolfe, and
realize his glory, and put my hand as it were upon his monument, in
my own room at home as well as I can at Quebec. I do not say this
boastingly or with pride, but truly acknowledging a deficiency. I
have never cared to sit in chairs in which old kings have sat, or
to have their crowns upon my head.
Nevertheless, and as a matter of course, I went to see the rock,
and can only say, as so many have said before me, that it is very
steep. It is not a rock which I think it would be difficult for
any ordinarily active man to climb, providing, of course, that he
was used to such work. But Wolfe took regiments of men up there at
night, and that in face of enemies who held the summits. One
grieves that he should have fallen there and have never tasted the
sweet cup of his own fame. For fame is sweet, and the praise of
ones's brother men the sweetest draught which a man can drain. But
now, and for coming ages, Wolfe's name stands higher than it
probably would have done had he lived to enjoy his reward.
But there is another very worthy lion near Quebec - the Falls,
namely, of Montmorency. They are eight miles from the town, and
the road lies through the suburb of St. Roch, and the long,
straggling French village of Beauport. These are in themselves
very interesting, as showing the quiet, orderly, unimpulsive manner
in which the French Canadians live. Such is their character,
although there have been such men as Papineau, and although there
have been times in which English rule has been unpopular with the
French settlers. As far as I could learn there is no such feeling
now. These people are quiet, contented; and, as regards a
sufficiency of the simple staples of living, sufficiently well to
do. They are thrifty, but they do not thrive. They do not
advance, and push ahead, and become a bigger people from year to
year, as settlers in a new country should do. They do not even
hold their own in comparison with those around them. But has not
this always been the case with colonists out of France; and has it
not always been the case with Roman Catholics when they have been
forced to measure themselves against Protestants? As to the
ultimate fate in the world of this people, one can hardly form a
speculation. There are, as nearly as I could learn, about 800,000
of them in Lower Canada; but it seems that the wealth and
commercial enterprise of the country is passing out of their hands.
Montreal, and even Quebec, are, I think, becoming less and less
French every day; but in the villages and on the small farms the
French still remain, keeping up their language, their habits, and
their religion. In the cities they are becoming hewers of wood and
drawers of water. I am inclined to think that the same will
ultimately be their fate in the country. Surely one may declare as
a fact that a Roman Catholic population can never hold its ground
against one that is Protestant. I do not speak of numbers; for the
Roman Catholics will increase and multiply, and stick by their
religion, although their religion entails poverty and dependence,
as they have done and still do in Ireland. But in progress and
wealth the Romanists have always gone to the wall when the two have
been made to compete together. And yet I love their religion.
There is something beautiful, and almost divine, in the faith and
obedience of a true son of the Holy Mother. I sometimes fancy that
I would fain be a Roman Catholic - if I could; as also I would often
wish to be still a child - if that were possible.
All this is on the way to the Falls of Montmorency. These falls
are placed exactly at the mouth of the little river of the same
name, so that it may be said absolutely to fall into the St.
Lawrence. The people of the country, however, declare that the
river into which the waters of the Montmorency fall is not the St.
Lawrence, but the Charles. Without a map I do not know that I can
explain this. The River Charles appears to, and in fact does, run
into the St. Lawrence just below Quebec. But the waters do not
mix. The thicker, browner stream of the lesser river still keeps
the northeastern bank till it comes to the Island of Orleans, which
lies in the river five or six miles below Quebec. Here or
hereabouts are the Falls of the Montmorency, and then the great
river is divided for twenty-five miles by the Isle of Orleans. It
is said that the waters of the Charles and the St. Lawrence do not
mix till they meet each other at the foot of this island.
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