I left the ground, and returned to the chief caravansary of the city to hear a party of Americans, a consul, a majcr, and two other citizens discussing the desirability of annexing Canada to the United States. I must never boast again. On the land-side, Quebec is surrounded by a green plain, dotted with white houses. It reminds me of similar plains in Northern France. We drove through it en route for Lorette Falls. These latter are more a cascade than a waterfall. The river St. Charles rushes over a curved breast of rock, not in one unbroken bound, but languidly and fitfully. Now there is a glimpse caught of white foam, and then a ledge of brown stone. Below its leaping place it has worn many channels. Through these it glides, hiding itself under grottoes of green banks, then again gathering itself into linns of quiet foam. Oft-times it assumes a mantle of softer beauty, almost more enchanting than the dashing display it makes on entering the glen. Above the bridge we come to the Indian village of Lorette. In wooden houses, meanly furnished, dwell the tamed red-men, descendants of cruel savages whose war-cry rung during border raids, amid the wreck of flaming villages. When the Quebec "father" sheathed his sword and lapsed into ways of peace, then the Lorette must also bury his hatchet and leave the war-path. The Indians at Lorette have been civilised to some extent. They have a little church in which Catholic worship is performed. But the poor Indian languishes under restraint, his race is pining away and will soon be extinct. On coming up the river we noticed a gleam of white waters on the right-hand bank. It was like a riband of silver. That thread of light was Montmorenci. A drive of eight miles from Quebec, brings us within sound of its roar, within touch of its spray. The falls are higher than Niagara, but cannot be compared with the Eternal Cataract in volume of water. You may pull round in a boat to a cove at the foot of the Falls and look up. Down comes the torrent, shrouded in a veil of mist of its own netting. The chaldron into which the waters of Montmorenci leap seems to have no outlet above ground. Probably the floods escape into the lower St. Lawrence by a subterranean passage. You may vary your stand point. You may gaze from a wooden gallery in mid-air, upon the wondrous sight. On banks above you notice buttress and tower, and a broken cable. These are the débris of a suspension-bridge, which once spanned the river at this point. Some years ago, the bands snapped asunder and the whole structure fell into the Scylla below. Two miles above the Falls, the limestone-rock bordering the river is formed into a succession of Natural Steps. Not circular stepping-stones such as are found hewn in basalt on Giants' Causeway, but ledges shaped in the solid rock, with as much regularity as if man's hand had cut them. Montmorenci is lonely in its melting moods; in its frozen humours it is gay with life. Old armourer, "Bind their kings in chains," coming down from the pole, grasps hold of its flowing beard of spray and fashions it into a cone of ice. Then the game of "toboggining" commences. Active sledge-men, muffled in furs, carry their runner-bound chairs to the apex of the cone; then setting the ice-boat afloat, they rush down through the frost-laden air, enjoying the while a "dolce far niente" of winter's pleasures. In the Undercliff, 300 feet below are built a range of saw-mills, perhaps the largest in the world. Water is the motive-power. Whether or not Niagara will ever be reined and bitted so successfully as to be compelled to turn a Province of mills, as has been suggested, the mastery has been gained by man at Montmorenci. We descended to the mills. On the way we passed a slide, through which the torrent is conducted on to the "wheels" below. With fearful velocity the water rushes down. In foam and noise, sight and sound are second only to the main cataract. From this off-shoot alone, there is running to waste, a power sufficient to turn mills three-times the size of Mr. Hall's. The saws are kept running day and night. There is no waste here as on the St. John. Every fragment of wood is turned to good account. Laths and pails are prepared from them on the spot; smaller pieces of pine are split up by special machinery into spells for matches. The enterprise evinced here, was commenced by Mr. Patterson many years ago. Its success is increasing. The present owner inherited the mills from his father-in-law. Mr. Hall is a wealthy man. He had the honour of entertaining the Prince of Wales on his visit to Montmorenci in 1860. His house is pleasantly situated in grounds laid-out in the English style. On our way home to the city, we passed through the pleasant suburb of Beauport. I made an excursion to Point Levis. Not many years ago, this bluff was surrounded with forest-land. Now a steam ferry-boat crosses the river, and a thriving town has climbed terrace-like up the rocky slopes. Immense fortifications are being constructed on a hill commanding the St. Lawrence, some distance below the town. They consist of mounds of earth-work, faced with limestone. Within are enclosed trenches and bomb-proof subways; the walls of the inner "strong-boxes" being four to four and a half feet thick of solid masonry. Three-hundred and fifty Highland soldiers were working upon the fortifications. They were induced to perform the work of navvies by a trifle of extra pay. At dinner we had the unexpected pleasure of a young English lady's society, and afterwards we drove to the encampment of the Rifle Brigade, on a knoll overlooking the river. Then we penetrated into a grove of maple-trees where rose a second array of white tents. The 78th Highlanders were camped here. All seemed going merrily in canvas-town. We were permitted to enter that "sanctum sanctorum," an officer's tent. Then we adjourned to the maple-grove. There the "kilts" off duty were engaged in Highland-games. Donalds and Campbells entered as heartily into the sports, as their fellow-clansmen at Taymouth Castle, or under the eye of Royalty at Braemar. The "Allan" line of steamers, running between Quebec and Liverpool, viâ Londonderry, is owned in Montreal. During the summer-months the ships come up to the rock-city, and their passengers are sent on by riversteamers to Montreal and the West. Many emigrants for the United States come by this route. In winter the St. Lawrence is closed by ice; then the "Allan" steamers run to Portland in Maine, passengers going forward by the Grand Trunk Railroad. At Quebec I parted from several pleasant acquaintances. One of them left on the British steamer to face the gales of the "roaring forties"; another took ship for Sybarite Havana. I soon followed their example, taking passage on the steamer "Quebec" for Montreal. I can never forget the old town on the rock. It stands as a relic of antiquity amid the streams of time-present. Huge waves of emigration which have rolled hither from Britain, make no halt at this medioeval city. They rush on, to find in Canada West and in the Great Republic communities of kindred customs and kindred tongue. |