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On the cars and off Sladen, Douglas Brooke Wheelton, 1856-1947 1895

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Array     ON   THE   CARS   AND   OFF.    ON THE CARS AND OFF. 
With Nineteen Collotype Plates and Eighty-Seven Illustrations in the Text. 
With Additional Matter on Klondike by P. A. Hurd 

{All rights reserved.)  ©eoicatefc to tbe
r I THE letter in which Lord Dufferin did me the
honour of accepting the dedication will he of
such interest to all who love Canada, that, with his
permission, I puhlish it.—D. S.
" Glandeboye,
"Co. Down,
"Sept. 27,1894.
"My dear Mb. Sladen,—
i I gladly acquiesce in your proposal to
dedicate to me your forthcoming hook, * On the Oars
and Off,' not only on account of the honour thus
conferred upon me, hut more especially as adding
another link, however slight, to the ties hy which
my affections are indissoluhly bound up with Canada
and its people. Though many years have passed
since I quitted Quebec, I have never ceased to take
the deepest interest in those who accepted in so
indulgent a spirit my poor attempts to do them loyal
service. Since then the Dominion has gathered fresh
strength and majesty.    Her great North-West has NOTE.
been traversed by railways, and its prairies decorated
by prosperous settlements, which ere long will have
grown into populous cities. The voyage between
Liverpool and Montreal has been reduced to half the
number of days it required in my time, and Toronto
has become, I am informed, one of the most beautiful
cities on the Continent, whilst Quebec still sits upon
her rock in all her pristine loveliness. In endeavouring to make our countrymen better acquainted with
the glories and beauties of ' this Canada of ours,' you
are rendering an equal service to the two kindred
communities that are joined in hand and heart across
the Atlantic, and in united loyalty to a common
" Believe me, yours sincerely,
rT^HLS does not pretend to be a historical, or statistical,
-*- or, in any way, an authoritative book. It is simply
designed to show the British and American reader what a
beautiful, romantic, easy and interesting country Canada is
to visit, and how full of promise is her future.
Of all the lands beyond the seas which I have visited, there
is none which appealed to me as Canada appealed. Putting
aside the East Indies, with their glorious wealth of tropical
vegetation, and their glorious wealth of imaginative architecture, on account of their deadly fevers and reptiles, and
Italy on account of its malaria, I say without hesitation that
there is no such exquisite place to live in as Canada.
From one end to the other, the scenery of mountain or
prairie, forest, lake, and river, is magnificent. From one
end to the other there is shooting and fishing that cannot
be surpassed. Canada is Scotland on the scale of a continent,
and with the summer and autumn climate of an earthly
Paradise. In winter it is, in its frozen East, a land of
sunshine and blue skies, and the cold never passes the
battlemented rampart of the Rocky Mountains. Beyond this
in the low months of the year there is rain, but to compensate,
the Gulf Stream and soft Chinook winds make the air like
the air of New Zealand.
Over Australia, which is delightful in so many ways,
Canada has three or four advantages, apart from its magnificent shooting and fishing.   It has neither extreme heat. TO THE READER.
nor, except in one small district, any venomous reptile; it
has a history with noble historical monuments ; and almost
any part of.it is within a few days', if not one day's, post
of New York, one of the world's great literary centres.
Canada is proud of its authors; newspapers do their best
to foster native literature ; and the frequency with which
contributions by Canadians appear in the best American
periodicals proves that they can hold their own in the open
Canada is historically the most interesting country in the
New World, both for its ancient buildings, at Quebec and
elsewhere, and for the romantic story of the knightly Frenchmen who settled it, and fought such a stout fight with the
English for its possession.
Of Canadian authors I must say nothing here; I could not
mention those I have space for, without injustice to the rest.
I must merely express my thanks to the friends who helped
me to see what I wanted in Canada ; these were in Montreal,
above all others, Mr. and Mrs. Robert Reid, Mr. and Mrs.
George  Washington   Stephens,  Mr.  W.   D.   Lighthall,  Sir
William Van Home, Mr. Wm. McLennan, author of those
exquisite dialect stories in Harper's, Mr. John Reade, the
poet, Mr. J. P. Edwards, and the editors of the Gazette, Star,
and Witness ;  in  Nova Scotia, Mr. Longley, the brilliant
Attorney-General of the Colony, who was particularly kind
and hospitable to me, the poets Charles Roberts and Bliss
Carman, and Mr.  Hall ;   in New Brunswick, Mr. I. Allan
Jack, and Mr. James Hannay, the historian of Acadia ; in
Quebec,   Dr.   George   Stewart,  and   [the writing  0f]   Mr
Le  Moine;   in Kingston, the poetess   Miss Agnes   Maule
Machar;  in   Toronto,   Professor   Goldwin   Smith,   Colonel
George   Taylor   Denison, and   the   editors   of  the   World
^Saturday Sight; in Winnipeg,  Mr.  Arthur Eden; in
Banff. Dr. Brett \ in Donald, Mr. Griffiths; at the Glacier
Mr. Marpole ; at Vancouver, Mr. Harry Abbott, Mayor
Oppenheimer, Dr. Lefevre, Mr. D. A. Brown, Mr. and Mrs.
Major, and Mr. O'Brien; and in London, Mr. Archer Baker,
who has been of the utmost assistance to me.
I have also to thank Mr. Wm. Notman of Montreal, the
finest landscape photographer in the world, for permission
to j reproduce the many photographs of his, which illustrate
this book. I asked his son for details of the famous trip
he made through the mountains, with a private car fitted
up as a photographer's studio, when he was taking these
magnificent views ; but it has not reached me in time to be
included in the book.
And above all I have to thank my friends, Mr. Horace
Cox, of the Queen (in whose pages so many of these chapters
appeared), and his son, Mr. Percy Cox, for their sympathy
and help at every turn.
I fear   that,  writing to entertain   the oft-bored English
reader, I may not always have made it clear how thoroughly
I love both Canada and the Canadians.    If I have hurt any
one's feelings, they will know that I have done it, not in
malice, but to amuse.   If you wish to interest people, you
must only be serious incidentally.
Douglas Sladen.
Authobs' Club,
Jmpermm in Imperio.
To the Air of " God save the Queen."
Beneath our Northern skies
Behold a nation rise
Born of two foes ;
Destined, as Earth grows old,
Glory and power to hold,
As do those rivals bold,
Lilt and Rose.
God reared the lonely child,
Bred in the frost and wild,
For some great end;
Forest and waste untracked,
Snow-deep and cataract,
Passes with glaciers packed,
Made her their friend.
Exiles for England's sake
Loved she, and bade them take
Half she possessed;
And, when the foeman came
Brandishing sword and flame,
Hurled him with wonnds and shame
Back from her breast.
God save our Canada,
Long live our Canada,
Loyal, though free 1
Steering her own stout helm,
No storm shall overwhelm
" A eealm within a realm"
That rules the sea.
Douglas Sladen. CONTENTS. '  '
I.   Nova Scotia : the Land of Evangeline         .      , 1
II.   New Brunswick : the Land op .the Loyalists       . 19
III. Flowery Frederickton  25
IV. Quebec: the Capital of New France     .      .      .35.
V.   The Battle of Quebec  51
VI.   Below Quebec  59
"VII.   Montreal: the Principal City of Canada     .      . 71
VIII.   Winter Sports in Montreal  91
IX.   A Montreal Carnival  103
X.   Nelson in Canada : and a Colonial Marathon    . 113
XI.   St. Anne's, P.Q.: the Canadian Home of Thomas
Moore  121
XIL   A Fishing Box in the Canadian Backwoods .      . 134
XIII. The   Thousand  Islands  of  the  St.  Lawrence :
Toronto: and Niagara     . ■  146
XIV. Trout Lake : and Camping-out in Canada     .      . 165
XV.   On the Shores of Lake Superior    .... 183
XVI.   Anglers' Hotels : at Peninsula and Nepigon       . 198
XVII.   Life on the Cars  212
XVIII.   Flying across the Prairie         ,      ,      ,      , 233  LIST OF ILLUSTEATIONS—FULL PAGE.
Frontispiece.   The Gate of the Rocky Mountain : the Three Sisters
at CAnmore (vide p. 277).
Page  18.   Forest and Fell : the Head op The Emerald Lake, near
Field, B.C. (vide p. 281).
„     27.   In the Mountains (vide p. 285).
„      32.   A Shack.
„     38.   The Ramparts op Quebec: looking East.
„     46.   Quebec: Dufferin Terrace, The Citadel and the HOtel
„      91.   The Lair of a Glacier (vide p. 284):  Mt. Hermit, taken
with a Telescopic Camera.
„    102.   The   Pyramids   of   the   North-West :   the   Chancellor
Leanchoil (vide p. 282).
„    112.   Lake Louise : a little beyond Banff (vide p. 270).
„    186.   Lordly Fish.
„    208.   The Nepigon River; and its Hudson's Bay Post.
„    212.   The Lock of Lake Superior : a Canadian Pacific Railway
Lake Steamer in the Sault St. Marie Lock.
„    238.   Fort William: a Grain Elevator.
„    248.   A Sulky Plough.
„    256.   Banff : the Valley of the Bow, and the Canadian Pacific
Railway Hotel (vide p. 266).
„    276.   Mount Stephen : the Town of Field, and the Valley op
the Kickinghorse.
„    309.   A Snow Shed and a Summer Track at the Glacier House.
„    384.   The BEA VER: the Pioneer Steamer of the Pacific.
„    400.   Sealing Schooners at Victoria.  ILLUSTRATIONS IN THE TEXT. xvii
At Alexandria   Bay :   the   Thousand   Islands   of   the   St.
Lawrence  147
Colonel George Taylor Denison  155
The Whirlpool Rapids              . 160
Niagara in Winter       .      ,  161
Moonlight on Lake Nipissing  166
Trolling in a Birch-bark Canoe  170
Where the Deer drink  171
My Hundredweight of Pickerel  174
The Bass that broke the Rod  175
A " Sleeper " by Day  214
The State-room of. a "Sleeper"  217
A Dining Car  223
A Colonists' Car, showing how the Berths let down      .      . 227
Sir James Grant  232
Blackfoot Indian, with Squaw and Papooses .... 260
Banff : View from the Canadian Pacific Railway Hotel looking
down the Bow Valley  263
Banff : The Pool  265
Banff: The Cave  208
Cascade Canon on the Road to the Devil's Lake     .      .      . 269
Banff: "The White Friars" Natural Monuments     .      .      . 272
Castle Mountain ; and a Canadian Pacific Railway Velocipede 278
Emerald Lake  280
The Highest Bridge in the World, Stony Creek       .      .      . 285
Exterior of the Snow Shed at the Glacier House Station   . 287
The Loop  289
The Albert Canon, Three Hundred Feet Deep    .      .      .      .291
The Great Glacier of the Selkirks  295
The Fairy Cavern in the Glacier  301
Mount Fox : Crevasses in Front  303
The Hermit  307
An Earthly Paradise:  the Shuswap Lakes  311
A Freight Train in "■ the Jaws of Death"   ..... 317
Like Australia  3-2 xviii ILLUSTRATIONS IN THE TEXT.
| The old Cariboo Road, pinned to the face of the precipice
a thousand feet above us "  323
The Golden City of the Rocky Mountains  325
The Royal Mail Steamer DUCHESS  328
The Mighty Columbia : Rocky Mountains in the Background . 330
Cayuses and Cowboys  336
A " Sansculottes " Competition  339
Races Primjeval  341
Klootchman   (female   Coast   Indian),  with    Papoose   in   a
Moss-bag  344
An Indian scooping Salmon on the Fraser  346
Siwash drying Salmon on the Fraser  347
Chinamen washing Gold on the Fraser  349
Siwash's Hut at North Bend  350
The Fraser at Yale  . 352
Klootchman with Papoose in a Moss-bag  358
The Constantinople of America  361
A   Cedar,  fifty-three   feet  round,  in  the   Stanley  Park,
Vancouver  363
The Skeleton of a Giant in a Vancouver Street . . . 367
The   Whittington  of  Vancouver,  Mr.   David   Oppenheimer,
Thrice Mayor  369
Birth op a Boulevard, Vancouver  370
The Steamer ISLANDER at Vancouver, with the Mission and
Forest Primaeval in the Background  373
Mb. Harry Abbott  331
The Harbour of Victoria, B.C  388
" China Town," Victoria, B.C.     .      .  3^9
A Chinese Hawker, Victoria, B.C  391
Victoria, B.C., showing the Anglican Cathedral       .      .      .393
Chinese Men Housemaids, Victoria, B.C  396
The Wharves of Vancouver  409
The MIOWERA  412
Sydney Harbour  419 ON THE CABS AND OFF
WHAT a change from the floating hotel on the
Pall River to the taut sea bull-dog Halifax,
trading from Boston to Halifax ! The change is
from luxury to sturdiness; in fact, from the American
to the Canadian. Not that the Halifax is not as
luxurious as an ocean-going boat of her size need
he—she has a delightful saloon—but that she is
essentially an ocean-going boat, which all the
winter through has to face the wildest weather in
the world. She is the model of a ship for such a
line, built of steel, with tremendously powerful
engines, and not an inch of unnecessary top-hamper;
and in moments of danger the face of the genial
Canadian who commands her takes a grim, undaunted expression, which makes him look like one
of Nelson's captains, in the great pictures of England's
sea-fights at Greenwich Hospital. R.N. is written
in every line of Captain Hill's face. ON THE CARS AND OFF.
A fair passage brings us to Halifax, and as we
glide between the formidable batteries which guard
this noble harbour our eyes gladden at the sight of
the beautiful white ensign, which guards the commerce of England in Earth's many waters, floating
over the stern of the Queen's ships, and the Union
Jack shining over the summit of the citadel. British
soil again. Uncle Sam, like St. Michael, is good to
strangers; but it is better to stand in one's own
country, in whatever continent the particular bit
of one's country may be. Britain is not two small
islands, but an empire—Canadian, Australian^ and
what not—thrice the size of the United States.
But to return to Halifax. It was in June, the
leaves' and lovers' month, that we made our entry
into Canada at the eastern point, the beautiful and
romantic peninsula of Nova Scotia. The staunch
steel steamer went its fourteen knots past the sparsely
inhabited coast, and the once important Shelburne,
to Halifax. The sea was rough, and black semi-
submerged reefs showed their teeth all the way.
There are few more dangerous coasts in the world,
apart from the frequency of fogs and gales. Halifax
is a veritable harbour of refuge, protected by its
narrow mouth" alike from storm and foe. There is
no bar, and inside there are ten square miles of
deep water ; and, as in Sydney Harbour, large ships
can lie alongside of the wharves.
Halifax is a beautiful place, a rus in urbe, a city
full of turf and trees, clustered round the citadel as a NOVA SCOTIA: THE LAND  OF EVANGELINE. 3
mediaeval town grew under the shelter of its castle.
It has its citadel for a heart, and the arms of the sea
to embrace it. It has a charmingly laid-out public
park, yet more charming because it is not laid out
at all, but simply faithfully preserved Nature; and
delightful villas embowered in the woody banks of
I The Arm." The city is enlivened, moreover, with
naval and military pomp. Stately men-of-war ride
in the harbour, while dashing, sunburned British
officers and well set-up, scarlet-tunicked Tommy
Atkinses capture the feminine hearts of their respective grades in society; for Halifax is as particular about its society as an English garrison town.
We spent a day in Halifax to drive through its
pleasant streets, admire its court-house and one or
two other fine old mansions, go over the seat of
the Provincial Legislature and Supreme Court, and
wander reverently round its old church, full of
monuments to young scions of noble English families,
who died in what was then a distant and perilous
service. The English founders of Canada were
literally men of the best blood in England; and
though the Provincial Government is anything but
enthusiastic in the matter of patriotism, Haligonians
remind me with intense pride that the Knight of
Kars, and Sir Provo Wallis, and Stairs, the companion of Stanley, wrere Nova Scotians; as was the
founder of the Cunard Line.
I was struck with the happy combination of public
institutions   in   the   Province   Building—viz.,  the
Houses of Parliament, the General Post-office, and
the leading museum. There is, however, plenty of
room for them all, for the Council contains but
seventeen members and the Assembly thirty-eight.
As we left Halifax by train for Windsor we were
enraptured by the beauty of the environs. The
magnificently wooded "Arm" was succeeded by a
bewildering tangle of lake and forest and hill,
rivalling Norway.
Windsor is a flourishing town of four thousand
inhabitants, without anything apparently for so many
to live on. But one learns that the real industry of
the place is ship-owning, in which only two ports of
Canada exceed it. One can hardly'find a village on
the Bay of Pundy that is not building its barque or
schooner of staunch Nova Scotia spruce, much cheaper
and easier to work than oak, though it does not last
as long. And when these are not owned in St. John,
they are owned in Windsor for the most part.
At Windsor we were, of course, a good deal taken
up with the venerable University, which celebrated
its centenary a few years ago. King's College, as it
is called, is a veritable bit of old Oxford, looking
7 O
exactly like one side of an Oxford quadrangle
sheathed in wood, and having its Oxford encsenia,
its Oxford scale of degrees, its Oxford suite of gowns.
Behind the college are its woods, a grove of spruce
and pine, with here a delightful glade such as that
of " The Three Elms," and there a clear pool fringed
with bulrushes,  and glowing with Jfieur-de-lys  or NOVA SCOTIA :  THE LAND OF EVANGELINE.
golden water-lily, according to the season. In front,
separated only by a line of quaint colonial elms,
with their trunks feathered with leaves like the legs
of Cochin China fowls, are deep aromatic meadows.
What meadows Windsor has ! Not Grand Pre itself
only, but Grand Pre, Windsor, and all the places
round are one vast dyked meadow. The meadow-
vestured     limestone *.   .
hills above the dykes
are quaintness itself— •?&&.
for they are full of deep
I pots," as they are
called in Yorkshire,
down one of which a
stream disappears like
the    famous    Mallam
River.   These meadows,      ™ofessor c. g. d. Roberts
hill and dyke alike, are glowing with ox-eyes,
self-heal, and St. John's wort, with here and there
an orchid, or an archrpelago of reed-fringed pools
full of the purple Fleur-de-lys Iris—the Purple
Flag. And what berries !—wood and meadow alike
carpeted with wild strawberries, and every little
thicketed hollow a tangle of wild raspberries, blue- ON THE CARS AND OFF.
berries, pigeonberries, and mitchella. Over this
earthly Paradise we wandered with the poets, Bliss
Carman and Charles Roberts, the University Professor
of Literature, bathed in sunshine all day and sleeping
at night in the quaint old college, where we had
large, airy rooms, and lived on the fat of the land
for a sovereign a week.
01 Fortunati nimium sua si bona norint, the people
who live in this delicious country. No wonder that
Roberts's nature-poems are so lovely. Charles
Roberts, "the Canadian Laureate"—Nova Scotia's
link with the great world—lives in a pretty house
in the croft behind the college. His muscular
exploits have instilled in the undergraduates a
genuine regard for poetry, which has resulted in
a more literary atmosphere than I ever remember
finding in an university. Roberts is a well-knit
man, a little below middle height, with large brown
eyes, spectacled from overwork, in general appearance reminding one strongly of Rudyard Kipling.
He is devoted to literature, hospitality, and sport.
He feels his seclusion from the great world, but
living in the Arcadia of North America has given
his poetry a certain aroma that one gets nowhere
else in English verse. Professor Roberts, whose
work has a great vogue in the American magazines,
spreads Nature in her romantic Nova Scotian garb
before us like an open book. He is not mystical
like Mr. Carman, the other nature-poet of the
I had almost forgotten the Avon, that red daughter
O 7 O
of Fundy, by whose broad bosom Roberts and I
watched the building of a ship—a spruce schooner
of seven hundred tons—that was being put together
by the hand labour of a handful of men. The Avon
at low tide is a valley of red sand and mud; but at
the turn the mighty tides of Fundy roll up like a
•bush fire, and make a river as great as the Thames
at London Bridge. As we sailed down it to the basin
of Minas to pay our respects to mighty Blomidon,
we found a ship building at every little town, some
as large as two thousand tons.
Nor must I leave Windsor without mentioning the
dear old country house, embowered in trees, where
Judge Haliburton, himself a King's College graduate,
. and the only Canadian novelist who has a world-wide
reputation, wrote " Sam Slick," and the queer old
beetling block-house fort, that was standing when
the Acadians sailed away to their southern exile.
From Windsor we did not fail to go once, twice,
thrice, to Grand Pre—the inconspicuous Acadian
village, made hallowed ground by the genius of
Longfellow, though his fellow Bostonian, Parkman,
has shown that he was rather ignorant and exaggerated in his sympathies. Parkman has proved
that the British Government had been most long-
suffering with the Acadians. King George might
well have said: "Forty years long have I been
grieved of this generation; for they have erred in
their hearts and have not known my ways."   The
English Government had done its best to make them
contented. Though a conquered people, their religion, their property, and much freedom had been
secured to them; and no doubt this simple, kindly,
industrious people would have been delighted to live
placidly under the, for once, paternal sway of the
Georges. But the arch-schemer, La Loutre, who
was the secret agent of France, corresponding to
the Russian agents in the Balkan peninsula, did
not intend them to become placid subjects of King
George. He meant them always to be ready to rise
in revolt when any invading force from France
appeared in Nova Scotia; and to do this he had tc
keep the international sore open—an end for which
he was ready to use the most approved Land-League
methods. The Indians, and Acadians disguised as
Indians, cut off lonely English settlers; well-disposed
Acadians were boycotted; supplies were either
denied to their English masters, or sold at fabulous
prices, and furnished, if need were, for nothing to
the enemies of the English; and New England was
kept in constant dread of the French making Nova
Scotia a basis for a descent upon their shores. New
England was even more anxious than Old England
that these treasonable practices should be put an end
to, and accordingly the Acadians were told they
would absolutely have to take the oath to behave
themselves loyally and sincerely to England, which
they had been evading through forty years of the
greatest kindness ever shown to a conquered people. NOVA SCOTIA:  THE LAND  OF EVANGELINE. 9
Unwilling, or unable, to believe that the Government
was actually in earnest this time, they were at
length removed, with all the humanity possible
(families being taken' to the same places, and where
feasible in the same ships), by a body of troops, with
few exceptions, from New England. That there
was much real suffering is without doubt. These
good souls were as fond of their holdings as an Irish
peasant, and had been rebellious, not from inclination,
but because they were body and soul in the control
of the Church, which was a mere machine in the
hands of the Abbe La Loutre. Their sacrifices and
sufferings gave Longfellow genuine material, which
he worked up with the art of an advocate, who picks
out every point for his client and against his adversary, and would be embarrassed by extenuating
circumstances. Nathless, Evangeline is a lovely poem,
and will hold men's hearts and'illuminate Grand Pre
as long as English is the language of this continent.
Dear old Longfellow!
And now for Grand Pre. What is Grand Pre ? A
deep aromatic meadow dyked in from the basin of
Minas and its tributary rivers, and rising on the
land side to a gently swelling horseshoe hill, on the
declivities of which stand what remains of a village.
One can still trace not a few cellars, more or less
filled in with loose stones by the present owners, in
the hopes of winning a yard and a half more for
cultivation. These sites are generally marked by
thickets of glorious wild raspberries, and are found, 10
as a rule, near the lines of stunted willows planted
by the Acadians, and cut down in vain by theii
conquerors. The vitality of willows is astonishing:
the closer they are polled the thicker they grow.
Here and there are pathetic little touches. By one
cellar or foundation a footworn threshold-stone is
still in situ, and round it cinnamon roses, once in
its garden, run wild. Down in the river meadow is
a well, and at the hill-foot the debris of a forge.
From the bottom of this well the other day were
dredged a number of articles, some of which in all
probability were flung into it by Colonel Winslow's
New Englanders when they were rendering the
village uninhabitable for stragglers, who had disobeyed
the summons to come in. Two well-bucket chains,
three or four hatchet heads of an old-fashioned
pattern, a queer clasp knife, a knife and fork,
undoubtedly old French, a bucket handle or two,
and the like, are the principal relics ; and they are
preserved, as they should be, at the house of the
gentleman who is now " The wealthiest farmer in
Grand Pre." The well is fondly called "Evangeline's
Grand Pre is delightfully pretty. The meadow
itself, like all Acadian meadows, is deep with hay
grass, aromatic with clover, and glowing with wild
flowers; above all marguerites, evening primroses,
and St. John's wort as large as its garden cousin
the rose of Sharon; and there are not a few purple
Canterbury bells.    Round the edges of the railway, NOVA  SCOTIA : THE LAND  OF EVANGELINE.
the roads, the cellars—round the edges of everything—are thickets of exquisite wild roses of an
unusually deep crimson. I gathered a hatful, to
press as relics of a place which Longfellow had
made me yearn to visit. Dotted about the hills
are picturesque farmsteads embowered in orchards;
and when one climbs the hill the prospect is
magnificent. At one's feet, according to the tide,
is broad red sand or broad red sea/—a veritable
Red Sea; and across the basin on opposite sides
are the stately promontories of Blomidon, looking
like a couching lion, and Cheverie, standing out
as bold and clear as the ramparts of Quebec. In
the blue haze of the distance are the Five Islands
and the fine bluff of Partridge Island, with Parrsboro'
on its elbow, and nearer home the winding estuary
of the far-famed Gaspereau, and that little bay where
rode the little fleet of King's ships while Winslow
and his New Englanders went through the disagreeable task of carrying out a political necessity
against sheep misled by their shepherd.
When I was there, Nova Scotia rejoiced in the
funniest of legal fictions—the Scott Act, prohibiting
the sale of spirituous liquors. It was openly disregarded. In the larger towns hotels sold liquor
as if the Act did not exist, and in the smaller ones
it was merely a case of finding out whether the
milkman, or the milliner, or the fancy stationer,
would oblige you. Nova Scotia differs to this extent
from Vermont, where in prohibitionist towns every
1 12
shop is said to sell spirituous liquors. At Annapolis
I did have to pay twenty-five cents for a biscuit,
and got a bottle of beer thrown in; but it was
quite unusual to go through this farce. I inquired
of Professor Roberts how they managed things so
comfortably. " Oh, juries won't convict, so it's no
good prosecuting."     At Windsor the farce -was at
its height.
fifSSfttS1*1^ jj5)B$ -v.
* 3B"Sa
The Windsor and Annapolis Railway runs through
some of the most famous scenery in Canada, for after
passing Halifax, with its citadel and its park effects,
and Windsor, with its meadowy hills, and Evano-e-
line's Grand Pre", one comes to the valley of the
Gaspereau, the Annapolis Valley, and Annapolis itself,
every one of them halting-places to the pilgrim in
quest of the picturesque. The direction of the line
is admirably chosen, following the water where the
water scenery is best, then running right down the NOVA  SCOTIA:  THE LAND  OF EVANGELINE.
central ridge of the Annapolis Valley, and returning
to the water in the outskirts of Annapolis.
It makes a very pleasant feature in a day at
Grand Pre to skirt .the cellar-strewn fields, which
were the site of the old French village, and make
one's way to the very English-looking little town of
Wolfville, with its important Baptist university—
the Acadia College.
Wolfville gardens are full of old English cottage
flowers—tall larkspurs, Canterbury bells, and homely
creeping roses.
Not far from Wolfville is the famous valley of the
Gaspereau, with its clear mountain stream threading
it amid tangles of goose-grass, lady's slipper, golden-
rod, crimson yarrow, evening primroses, and glorious
clusters of crimson and crimsoner wild roses, which,
like the thickets of wild raspberries, make all
Acadia picturesque by their bright patches of colour.
The gently swelling sides of the valley are admirably adapted for fond lovers to help fair ladies in a
descent, which does not absorb too much of their
attention, as are the planks which span the tributaries of the  river.
The whole valley is ideal for picnics, and, to
an American, singularly beautiful, with its aging
homesteads and its rich orchard-studded slopes.
To an Englishman, except in so far as it reminds
him of what he has left behind, it is less impressive;
for just such a valley he will often see in Kent
or  Sussex, and there the orchards are richer and 14
diversified with hop-gardens,. the homesteads are
more ancient and much finer, and exquisite church
towers, dating back to far beyond the Reformation,
will overhang a river at intervals of a mile or two.
And the same applies to the Annapolis Valley;
To the American, charmed by a richly cultivated
landscape, it is almost the nearest approach to
scenery such as he rhapsodises over from the
window of the railway carriage as he flies from
Dover to London by the Continental Express. The
Englishman prefers the wild grandeur of forest and
water between Halifax and Mount Uniacke.
However, as one approaches Annapolis, the view
is made more interesting by some fine old Loyalist
houses. Annapolis, or as it is called by its inhabitants, Annapolis Royal, in proud remembrance that it
is the original Port Royal of the Ordre de Bon Temps,
Lescarbot, Charnisay, and others, who have filled
the poetry of Canada with an old-world romance, is
the oldest town on the continent north of Florida—
a quaint old town, with dear old wooden colonial
houses overgrown with creepers. It amply makes
up in picturesqueness for the tamer scenery of the
rich valleys, which are its avenues from Halifax,
with its queer old wooden quays, such as one reads
of in Dickens's London novels, lying between a fine
pool above and a lordly sea-basin below, at the foot
of forested hills which send down tributary rivers;
and with its capelike point occupied by the quaint
Fort, pictured over and over again for the antique NOVA SCOTIA :  THE LAND  OF EVANGELINE.
block-house and archway, above which floated the
lilies of France when Louis Quatorze was king.
The oldest part of the city is across the river.
Three or four miles from the present Granville rose
the original forts of De Monts and Poutrincourt,
immortal for the genius of Champlain and the wit of
the merry Lescarbot. From the fifteen gentlemen
of the colony Champlain organised the most famous
dining club that has ever been on New World soil.
I He organised them," says Hannay, the historian of
Acadia, "into a society which he called the Ordre
de Bon Temps. Each guest in his turn became
steward and caterer for the day, during which he
wore the  collar  of the  order and a napkin, and
n\\ 16
carried a staff. At dinner he marshalled the way to
the table at the head of the procession of the guests.
After supper he resigned the insignia of the office to
his successor, with the ceremony of drinking to him
in a cup of wine. It became the point of honour
with each guest, as his day of service came, to have
the table well supplied with game, either by his own
exertions or by purchase from the Indians; and, in
consequence, they fared sumptuously during the
whole winter, so that Lescarbot was enabled to reply
with truth to some Parisian epicures, who made
sport of their coarse fare, that they lived as luxuriously as they could have done in the street Aux
Ours in Paris, and at much less cost. It is painful,
however, to be obliged to record that, although bread
and game were so abundant, the wine of those festive
Frenchmen fell short, so that before spring they
were reduced from three quarts a man daily to the
inconsiderable allowance of a pint." A quaint old
place is Granville, with its fast-decaying wooden
wharves, once lined with shipping from the East
and West Indies, in the good old days when Salem,
Massachusetts, was a great seaport, and Nathaniel
Hawthorne its Collector. Annapolis then did a brisk
trade in what the Germans call " colonial wares "—
sugar and spice, and all that's nice; and even now
a considerable register of wooden shipping hails
from this port, though for the most part employed
on other routes.
Granville   is   a happy hunting-ground of past-
masters of merchant vessels—bluff sea captains with
blue eyes and purple faces, who have braved Atlantic
hurricanes their half-century apiece in stout barques
built of spruce on the Bay of Fundy. They rather
affect modern brick villas, with no trade-mark beyond
hard oil-paintings or woolwork portraits of the ships
they have commanded, and perhaps a top-heavy
model of a schooner, put together by some sailor with
a jack-knife to beguile a voyage round the world.
No wonder the French chose Granville for their
abiding city in the New World—nestling between
lofty hills and the beautiful Annapolis basin, a stretch
of water nearly twenty miles long, land-locked from
sea-storms. Of the original Port Royal, founded in
1606, hardly a stone remains, though there is a fine
old fort on the Annapolis side, with its turf ramparts
abandoned to wild flowers, but its block-house of
massive masonry still intact. It was in this very
block-house, with its steep-pitched roof, that the
citizens of 1781 were locked up while the town was
being looted by two American war-ships, which had
taken it by surprise. Old as it is, Annapolis has
unsubdued wilds within a drive of it, where the
beaver still builds and the trout fishing is in virgin
There are a good many Indians in the vicinity—
I forget whether Melicetes or Micmacs—clothed and
civilised as the Hurons round Quebec. They are
famous for the magnificent birch-barks they manufacture ;   especially their sea-going canoes, staunch
2 18
enough to navigate the great basin and coast along
the shores of Fundy.
We passed a good many of them fishing as we
journeyed across the bay, in the smart white steamer
City of Monticello, from the original French settlement
to that of the American Loyalists, who left the
United States in 1783, rather than live under
an alien flag. I mean of course the stately rock-
founded city of St. John. U£
rriHE day that we crossed the Bay of Fundy, two
-*- of our most rooted preconceptions were upset
—we were pursued by a wall, and saw a waterfall
turn round and run up. We were on the sea when
a white wall, many feet in height, flew after  us
7 v CJ 7
faster than our swift little steamer. It turned out
to be one of the sudden fogs of Fundy, which roll up
in this way. The other phenomenon we saw when
Mr. Bliss Carman, the delightful Canadian poet
who has just taken literary England by storm with
his Shelley-like poeticality of vision, drove us out
just before dinner to see the falls of the noble river
from which St. John takes its name. These are, in
a way, the most remarkable in the world. Through
a gorge with angry black cliffs the river at low tide
hurls itself in a mighty waterfall into the harbour,
while the incoming tide when it gets sufficiently high
pours back over the wall of rock into the river; and
at certain states of the tide there is no fall at all, but a
smooth river safely navigable by boats and rafts,—the
fact being that there is a mere wall of rock running
across the bed of the river in a closely shut-in gorge.
19 20
When the phenomenon was explained to me by
Mr. Carman, and I saw the mad swirl as the huge
volume of water poured over the cliff at the turn of
the tide, I said I thought it was very high-spirited
of the citizens to preserve this wonder of the world
when a dollar's worth of dynamite would blow up
the barrier and make everything plain sailing. Then
he expounded the origin and use of this lusus natural.
A volcanic upheaval elevated a strip of the New
Brunswick coast, leaving the fertile country behind,
lying round the stately river with its tributaries
and lakes, about the best land in Canada, below
sea-level; and if it were not for the double waterfall,
the ravening tides of Fundy would turn the garden
of New Brunswick into another Zuyder Zee.
Few things in Canada impressed me more than
St. John, a city of spires, built upon a lofty
acropolis, dominating one of the world's great
As we steamed up to the Market Slip below
King Street, Mr. Carman reminded me that it was
at the head of this estuary that La Tour built the
famous fort from which he defied the superior
authority of Charnisay, the representative of the
most Christian king in Acadia, who lorded it at
Port Royal. In the slow days of the seventeenth-
century sailing ships the authority of the King of
France was more or less shadowy on the other side
of the stormy Atlantic, and La Tour was so eager
in his struggle for independence against Charnisay NEW BRUNSWICK: THE LAND  OF THE LOYALISTS, 21
that he did not hesitate to call in the aid of the
English in Massachusetts.
For a long time La Tour maintained himself
against the superior authority and power of Charnisay,
and one attack on the fort at the mouth of the
St. John, during his absence, was beaten off by his
beautiful and spirited wife. But the second time
he was away the attack was more successful; and
Madame La Tour surrendered, only to find the terms
of surrender scornfully repudiated when the invaders
had taken possession. Charnisay hung every man
in the garrison, and only spared Madame La Tour
when he had subjected her to the ignominy of
witnessing the executions with a halter round her
neck and wearing fetters. One at least of the
best Canadian historical poems deals with this,
After this there were various small settlements
on the St. John of the English from the eastern
colonies. But they are lost sight of in the surpassing interest of that grey morning in the May of
1783 when the five thousand Loyalists, men of the
best blood and brains in America—judges, lawyers,
clergymen, doctors, and the principal merchants and
landowners—came to pioneer in the wilderness rather
than forswear their allegiance to Great Britain. In
one day the city of five thousand people was founded
and was christened Parrtown, a name which was
almost immediately changed to St. John; and about
the same time what is now New Brunswick, and had 22
previously been included in Acadia, was erected into
a separate colony.
The United Empire Loyalists, as they are called,
have thriven exceedingly, and to-day St. John is the
fifth town in Canada for population, and the first
for the tonnage of its shipping. For this latter it
has the special advantage of being one of the two
great seaports in Eastern Canada open to navigation
all the year round.
Truly impressive is it to land at St. John. It
rises up so quickly from the water's edge; and no
town in Canada has statelier streets. These are due
to a blessing in disguise, the great fire of June 1877,
in which nearly a couple of thousand buildings were
burnt; and though the city felt the rebuilding
severely from the financial point of view, there is
no doubt that the streets gained immensely in
regularity and magnificence.
The city is piled up on the rocks very much after
the manner of Torquay, and but for the prevalence
of summer fogs it would be very hot in that season.
Mr. Carman, who made himself our host while we
were in New Brunswick, only let us remain a few
days in St. John; it was glorious summer weather,
and he was so anxious for us to be ascending the
St. John River to Frederickton. " The St. John has
been called the Rhine of America," he said laughingly, "but without any particular reason except
that it is a fine river." There were certainly magnifi-
cent stretches of water in it, like the Grand Bay, NEW BRUNSWICK:  THE LAND  OF THE LOYALISTS. 23
nine miles .broad, and the Long Reach, twenty miles
long and three to five miles broad, lying between
O 7 v O
high   shores  of softly   rounded hills,  some richly
cultivated and some yet forest.
Puffing up the eighty-four miles from Indiantown,
the suburb of St. John above the falls, to Frederick-
ton in the comfortable David Weston was our first
experience of the delightful Canadian river trips Mr.
Carman had told us about, where the traffic is not
too great for the captain and passengers to form
themselves into one large picnic party. 1 If you've
nobody else to talk to, or want any information or
even a shot at a shell-duck, you will always be
welcome in the wheel-house," he said.
In the glorious Canadian summer without a cloud
on the sky, with the weather just as warm as one can
comfortably bear it, a river trip in a moderate-sized
steamer is about as delightful a thing as one can
imagine. There is plenty of incident in it. Mr.
Carman had warned us that every now and then
the river would be so choked with log-rafts that we
might just as well be in the Polar Seas; or the
steamer be stopped off a mud-bank to wait for a
slow little scow containing an old woman, dressed
in the fashion of a generation back and armed with
some preposterous bundles, wrho would at once be
recognised and treated as a personage by the
All along the course of the mighty river Mr.
Carman pointed us  out little places which have i uuu>. 'umi jujwwu
i BpjjJPHB
02V T27.E 0422S AND  OFF.
recorded themselves in the Provincial history.
Maugerville, he told us, was the first English-
speaking settlement in New Brunswick, colonised
from Andover in Massachusetts as far back as
1763, and the village of Maugerville was almost
the only part of what is now Canada that took the
side of the rebels in the War of Independence. And
the old Fort of Oronocto had stood a notable siege
from the Indians. But for the most part the river
was like, either a broad Devonshire estuary with
tiny hamlets and decaying piers dotting its banks
at intervals, or like the long arm of Sydney Harbour
known as the Paramatta River, with its broad
stretches of shimmery water, its lush marshes, its
trees, rising as it were right out of the water;
though here they are silvery alders instead of shining
Towards the end of a long day we reached
Frederickton, and stepped off the sunny upper deck
where we had feasted all day on the Canadian
kindness to strangers, which we perhaps enjoyed to
a special degree, as nearly every one on board had
known Mr. Carman from his childhood. CHAPTER III.
/^LATTER, clatter 1 a pair of beautiful, turbulent
^-^ young chestnuts, the pride of the heart of mine
host of the " Queen," dash down the slope to our
door. We scramble on board, and whirl through
the dignified streets of the century-old cathedral
town which is New Brunswick's capital, outward-
bound for the Indian encampment, which occupies
the site of the old French village. First we pass
the handsome little Gothic cathedral, standing on
a mossy lawn, shrouded in stately elms, on the bank
v 7 v 7
of the great St. John, looking for all the world like
the Thames at Kew, with its broad sweep of silver
water, and its environment of quaint old houses and
English-looking turf and trees. We speed by the
Houses of Parliament, the home not only of the
Upper and Lower Houses of the Province, but the
Supreme Court, which, without its rather attenuated
cupola, would be a pleasing and imposing building,
and soon are abreast of the fine old English mansion,
which is the seat of the Governors of the Province.
Then, at last, we are in the open country. It is
up hill and down dale, and our horses will brook
—— 26
no pulling up ; but this is exactly the mood of the
editor of Progress, who holds the reins, and we
descend the hills, in the only enjoyable way in which
hills can be descended, at full steam, with sufficient
way on to take us half-way up the opposite hill. In
Canada, the home of hospitality, editors expect themselves to "drive round" every interesting stranger
who comes to the town. So they are apt to be good
whips. Our particular editor has a deft turn of the
wrist, which whisks us safely round the corner and
over the bridge at a breakneck pace, and the air
is the pure ozone which breathes after rain, and the
road runs through a forest of flowers, till we feel
as if we had been drinking champagne.
A forest of   flowers!    Such flowers!    Acres   of
golden-rod, the firework'of the fields, looking like
O 7 7 O
those rockets which turn into palm trees of golden
fire. The golden-rod is rivalled by the fire-weed,
of a colour that has no parallel, except in the
inferior raspberry ice-cream, which poisons children
by Sunday schools at a time. Marguerites, of
course, there are, known locally by their less
poetical natural history name of ox-eye, snowing
the meadows; and a rich red clover, with an intoxicating scent; and glowing velvety-purple spikes,
called here wild pea; and self-heal, and buttercups,
and the tall evening primroses, with their sentimental
shade of yellow.
The soil grows poorer, and the flowers thinner, but
there is one among them which gladdens our British   FLOWERY FREDERICKTON.
hearts with a thrill of home, the little lilac bluebell,
known in England as the harebell, and north of the
Tweed as the Bluebell of Scotland.    Was the seed
of it brought by the brave bonneted boys of the
42nd Highlanders, who had
Gone to fight the French
For King George upon his throne,
and never came back home again, but settled on the
banks of the winding Nashwaak ?
Now that I have visited the scenes in the New
World, where the " Lions " and the " Lilies " fought
out the old feud that the blood of Crecy and Poictiers
and Agincourt could not quench, this ballad has new
pathos for me.
But the soil is not too poor for the mullein to grow
tall, with its stately yellow spike; and here and
there is  the yellow Canadian marguerite, looking
v O 7 O
something like the old country's corn marigold, with
a great soft brown eye set in it.
Soon we come to a little dell with a clear, gurgling
brooklet deep down under over-arching trees. As
soon as this brook escapes the shade of the trees it is
bordered by grand bulrushes with unusually heavy
cat's-tails; and here and there a late purple iris—
the purple flag, or fleur-de-lys, which some of our
American cousins are anxious to have adopted as
the national flow^er, out of compliment to France,
as they say; forgetting that the France of the fleur-
de-lys was that old feudal France, whose haughty
Princes of the Lilies would have regarded the entire 28
American nation with the contemptuous pity they
felt for the weavers of Flanders, or for their own
By the brook, too, grows the tall red valerian,
regarded as a most potent remedy for various
ailments once by men, and even yet by cats.
But we have no more time at present for flowers ;
we must hurry on to our Indian village, which we
find some ten miles off, round a little wooden church
devoted to these reclaimed Melicetes. Little knots
are standing about, and a flag is floating half-
mast high. Evidently some considerable personage is dead. We learn that the old chief, Francis
Toomah, is lying in the church awaiting interment.
After our kind-hearted guide has given a coin to
each of the queer little papooses, I steal in, and
am confronted by a pathetic sight, not without its
touches of grotesqueness. The dead chief's coffin
is wrapped in a coarse kind of black lining tied
round it with ropes, and from one corner of the
coffin, drip, drip, drip on the floor, splashes a
ghastly fluid—dissolving blood. On one end stands
an old pewter candlestick, with a stump of a dip
guttering on its spike; and round the chapel hang
six withered boughs of willow—the old Shakspearian
willow—in mourning for the departed chief of a
race of departed glory. The church itself has a
pretty, fresh,, white altar, with flowers. But through
the flowers comes a fetid smell. To earth quickly
with this poor dead shell of a dying species. FLOWERY FREDERICKTON.
The sun is shining brightly now. Out into it,
and hasten down the broad, sparkling St. John,
which has been our companion, with its sheen and
whisper, all through this delicious drive. We cross
on a ferry-boat driven by the oldest of old-world
contrivances—a horizontal horse treadmill. The
horse stands in a hole, and as he struggles forward
to get out of it, the wheel recedes from under his
feet and drives the shallow paddles. The two
animals in this boat are patient enough to be
managed by a negro boy and a little child. The
big boy, with true negro laziness, collects the fares
and the little child steers, and eventually we are
over. The negro directs us to turn off by the school-
house. We ask him how we are to know it. He
says it looks just like a dirty school-house. And we
feel that we understand him.
We are not very certain of our way—but we do
not care. It is so lovely. First it lies through a
wood, like a bit of the New Forest—chequered light
and shade on mossy turf. Then we pass by the
dirty school-house (a Daniel! a Daniel!) into a
perfect wilderness of wild flowers, where, to our
delight, we see for the first time the glorious Canada
lilies—like strayed revellers of tiger lilies, orange
spotted with crimson, with their upright stems and
graceful hanging bells reminding one of the
columbine, the belfry of the fairies. These are
down in the meadows that once were the bed of the
river; and a boat, lying among them high and dry 30
a hundred yards from the water, reminds us that the
haughty St. John reconquers its ancient realm from
time to time.
Now we climb again beside the railway and find
the hedge here snowy with elder-flowers, there
glowing with the cones of the sumach—one can call
them nothing but red hot.
We lose our way a few times, of course; and come
in two hours behind time. What of that ? Our
lungs are full of ozone, and our eyes have feasted on
flowers; and as we crawl at the pace the law enjoins
under horrible penalties over the curious half-mile
long wooden bridge which links Frederickton to
St. Mary's, we feel as if we had made a good meal
of our day.
We had begun it well, floating, with a sensation
of swimming, in a birch canoe propelled by a New
Brunswicker six feet three in his stockings—Bliss
Carman, the poet. Mr. Carman loves his canoe as
King William the Conqueror loved his red deer, and
dips his paddle with the hand of an artist and the
satisfaction of a poet. What a dream it was to
glide up the picturesque Nashwaak—our canoeist
towering in the stern, with fair hair bared to wind
and sun, now poling, now paddling with swift, deft
stroke, now running us into some little natural cove
to pluck a frond of the exquisite Canadian polypody
or the sagittaria, that queer plant whose leaves are
arrowheads, with barbs like Dundreary whiskers !
We cannot go up far, because the river is choked FLOWERY FREDERICKTON.
with King Gibson's huge rafts of deals. But it is
a novelty to land on one of them and walk up the
river, leaping from raft to raft. And we stopped
before we leaped once too often.
Professor Roberts, the poet, was New Brunswick
bred as well as Mr. Carman; and they had for a head
master Mr. G. R. Parkin, who is known all over the
world as the exponent of Imperial Federation.
At Frederickton Bliss Carman took us to his
home, and we learned the secret of some of the
pathos which is so marked a note in his poetry.
For his father, a brilliant lawyer who rose to be
Attorney-General of the Province, died young,
leaving Mr. Carman under the necessity of fighting
the world for a living; and the ideal little home at
Frederickton has often to stand empty.
The poet, who comes from the original Loyalist
settlers on both sides, is by his mother descended
from Jonathan Bliss, their foremost man, a leading
lawyer in the Thirteen Colonies before he became an
emigre, and afterwards the first Attorney-General of
the New Colony and Chief Justice.
The home his father left him at Frederickton is
a dear old wooden cottage—cottage in the Colonies
does not imply size, but style of architecture—with
a wealth of creepers, and a garden run wild. When
we were there the principal feature of the garden
was an emeritus birch-bark canoe, which had carried
him many a mile in voyages—half exploration, half
picnic—up the mysterious and enchanting backwaters 32
of the great river. Now alas ! her stitches—she was
a real Melicete canoe, sewn together with sinews—
yawned, and she stood sorely in need of caulking
with the resinous preparation they use. The house
was entirely unoccupied; I doubt if it was even
securely locked; the prisca virtus prevailing in that
smiling land—if anywhere in the world.
From Frederickton we took the train to Edmund-
ston, passing the grand Falls of St. John and the
lovely valley of the Aroostook.
Edmundston might have been in Japan, a queer
little wooden village with a lovely mountain river
which had to fight its way through the logs and
sawdust. Perhaps it was a regimen of spruce-wood
sawdust which made the trout so extraordinarily
fine. The front of the hotel was built on piles,
which gave it quite a picturesque and Jappy appearance. However, we saw very little of it, for we
arrived there late one night and went on early next
morning by the most novel little railway to Riviere
du Loup on the St. Lawrence in the province of
Quebec. The Temiscouata Railway was a light line
running through the forest; it had a very pleasant
little saloon carriage, half first-class and half second,
and ran for the most part through a forest which
would have been very primaeval, if it had not had
all the finest trees lumbered out of it. Here for the
first time we came across the shack or log-hut of
the Canadian settler, built of roughly trimmed tree
trunks, with the interstices plugged up with clay. mmm
Any inhabitants who were not away in the forest
turned out en masse to see that still novel spectaclej
a train.
The forest when we passed it was ablaze with
fire-weed, the tall magenta-coloured phlox referred to
above, and a couple of varieties of golden-rod.
A good part of the journey was taken up with
hugging the shores of Lake Temiscouata, thirty
miles long of dark water surrounded by pine forests,
and hiding in its vast depths the lordliest lake-trout
of America. Lake Temiscouata has its history too :
the brilliant episode, in a bitter winter, of the gallant
regiment of New Brunswickers, who afterwards
became the 104th regiment of the British army.
We arrived at Riviere du Loup in time for lunch,
which in these primitive parts is a dinner washed
down by tea. This was perhaps our first introduction
to the Canadian country hotel, where the tables and
table-cloths look as if they were one flesh and washed
together. They are more attractive to flies than a
country grocery; the cruet and the sugar basin never
leave the table, relays being added to the top when
the flies and dust have been picked over pretty
carefully. " Where the flies suck there lurk I! "
Tea is included in the price of every meal; consequently very little else is drunk except by the
fastidious English globe-trotter. Breakfast is bacon
and eggs, dinner is underdone joints, and supper is
chops and steaks. Passengers and the train hands
sit down together; the former are considered intruders
ill 34
and made to know their place. Dead flies are the
least objectionable part of these hotels.
After this luncheon-tea-dinner we went out to see
the really magnificent Falls of Riviere du Loup.
The rain came down in a perfect waterfall, and we
had to take refuge in a large shed which commanded
a view of the cataract while it afforded seclusion.
Quite a romantic situation, if we had not been
married for ten years. A lull in the shower let us
regain the village. In a street ever so long, without
any features except the poor little French-Canadian
style of the houses, we took refuge in a cobbler's
shop, where the shoes were clumsier than sabots.
When we bought some brown laces as an excuse for
taking refuge, the cobbler detected us, and could
hardly be persuaded to sell them, though we really
wanted them. He considered it a reflection on his
hospitality. His family was on the usual French-
Canadian scale, and asphyxiation possessed no
terrors for him.
So after a while we braved the elements again,
O 7
and climbed the brow of the hill to indulge our
enthusiasm at having spread out at our feet the
glorious water-way up which Cartier and his blue-
eyed Bretons passed more than three hundred years
ago, to winter below the Acropolis of Quebec,
and carry the Cross and the Lilies to the summit of
Mount Royal. CHAPTER IV.
"T ~TE must be strangely constituted whose heart
-*—*- does not beat a trifle quicker when, turning
a sharp corner on the mighty St. Lawrence, he
suddenly beholds looming up before him the Rock
of Quebec, with its fantastic pile of steeples and
ramparts bristling with old-fashioned cannon, which
belched forth fire and death often enough in the
mighty controversy that preceded the birth of this,
great nineteenth century; and towering above,
gleaming like a great diamond in the sun, the
frowning Cape Diamond, crowned with the King's
Bastion; and, high over all, the banner of England—
an old shot-rent Union Jack.
An Englishman is apt to be affected; for to him
Quebec brings back so much—the brilliant conquest
of Canada, the proud day when England won an
empire as large as the United States, and the banner
of St. George's waved from Oglethorpe's colony of
Georgia to Rupert's Land and Hudson's Bay. And
a Frenchman hardly less so ; for the New France of
Acadia and Canada was the only real colony the
French ever had, and is sown so thickly with gallant
1 where Montcalm and Montgomery were defeated,
wiping out the stigma with their gallant deaths.
I never go to Quebec without visiting the citadel
and the Heights of Abraham. Maitre Abraham was
the king's pilot of the St. Lawrence. His full name
was Abraham Martin, and it occurs as early as
1621 in the parish registers of Quebec, when. his
son  Eustache  wras christened by Father Denis, a QUEBEC: THE CAPITAL  OF NEW FRANCE.
Franciscan. He was the owner of nine children, and
of the whole plateau, from the city walls to Sillery
Woods, and from the St. Lawrence to the heights
overhanging the St. Charles, called after him Cote
Things are much changed since Maitre Abraham's
time, or, indeed, for the matter of that, since the
fatal September day when Montcalm rode back along
the Grande Allee to die at the Ursulines' Convent.
In those days there was no lofty granite citadel
crowning Cape Diamond; no Martello tower on the
Cote d'Abraham; no gentle declivity leading up
from Wolfe's Cove, which had heights almost as
inaccessible as the citadel rock. Every schoolboy
knows the story of the battle,—how Wolfe, dropping
down to the landing under cover of the darkness,
beguiled the tedium by repeating to the midshipman
who was steering the man-of-war's boat which bore
him the whole of Gray's " Elegy," concluding with
the remark, " I would rather have written that
poem than take Quebec"; how a storming party
overcame the sentries on the heights and made the
entree for the rest; how the sailors, by superhuman
exertions, dragged a field-piece or two up the cliffs;
how when day broke Montcalm saw Wolfe, a man
whom he knew to be daring and skilful beyond the
ordinary, in a position commanding the city, and
marched to dislodge him ere he could entrench
himself too impregnably; how before the sunset
Wolfe, in the pride of his youth, but thirty-three 38
years old, was lying dead in his glory, Montcalm, a
dying man in the House of the Good Sisters of St.
Ursula, and the Lilies of France prostrated, never to
rise again in the New World !
Wolfe had been wounded twice before he had been
killed ; Montcalm was wounded twice before he left
the field, and, just as he was entering the St. Louis
gate, received his mortal wound through the groin.
He died in the Convent of the Ursulines, and in its
chapel is his tomb, ornamented, by an English
Governor-General, with a white marble tablet. His
skull has been exhumed, and is, rather sacrilegiously
in my opinion, exhibited by the good Sisters.
Montcalm's chateau is still standing, though both
the wings have been rebuilt. It now constitutes
three houses, and the centre is still the original
building. The only noticeable features, however,
are the queer old brass door-knocker, a lion's head,
some old French fireplaces, and the enormous cellars,
in which during Wolfe's terrible cannonading the
inhabitants took refuge.
Montgomery fell in a ravine close to the spot
where the landslide took place last year. Fell is
perhaps rather a misleading word to use, because he
did not, as formerly supposed, miss his footing, but
was shot down while attempting to scale a barricade
across a sort of ravine, which was not so steep as the
face of the rock.
To Americans Quebec is no longer what it was.
Half its picturcsqueness vanished with the destruc- iw
tion of its gates, and the other half with the
withdrawal of the kilts and redcoats, who so
enlivened the grim old rock with their uniforms and
their festivities. The destruction of the gates was
an act of vandalism. America has lost her principal
architectural curiosities, and the subsequent increase in the business of Quebec has not in any way
warranted it. Quebec, however, presents naturally
and artificially one of the world's most picturesque
coups d'asiL
We went from the terrace to the post-office, which
still bears the device of the Chien d'Or, with the
defiant motto in old French, " I am the dog that
gnaws the bone." A romantic bit of Quebec this.
Here stood the Chien d'Or—"that famous legendary
haunted house," Le Moine, the historian of Quebec,
calls it—the first ever built of stone in the city.
This was the mansion, historic for the quarrel of the
Intendant Bigot and the merchant Philibert, which
inspired Kirby with his romance.
In 1871, when it was destroyed to make room for
the present post-office, its corner-stone was unearthed,
adorned with a leaden plate bearing an inscription
showing that it was erected in 1735. Over the front
door was engraved a dog gnawing at a large fleshy
bone, which he had got under and between his forefeet, with an inscription in French, of which the
following is a translation : " I am the dog who gnaws
the bone within, without losing a single morsel; the
time will oome when I will bite him that has bitten and its queer lintel; and at the little Chien d'Or
Restaurant opposite, Captain Horatio Nelson, of
H.M.S. Albemarle, attempted to elope with beautiful
Mary Simpson, the barmaid—the landlord's niece. QUEBEC:  THE CAPITAL  OF NEW FRANCE.
He fully meant to have married her and settled in
Canada, if Davison had not prevented him, with
who shall say what result upon the wars of 1776
or 1812 ?
Just below are the famous " Breakneck " steps leading down to " Our Lady of Victories." We went
down the zigzags of Mountain Hill Street, about the
wickedest hill up which a horse ever drew a load
within the boundaries of a city.
Surely if any place ever richly deserved its ascenseur,
as the French call it, it is Quebec, and its elevator
shaft is almost as steep as if it were in a house.
A little to the other side of the Chien d'Or are
the Place d'Armes and the Dufferin Terrace. The
feature of the Place d'Armes now is the noble white
Court-house, in the old French style of architecture ;
but formerly it was dominated by the stately buildings of the Recollet friars on the land side, and the
Chateau of St. Louis, the residence of the Governors
of Quebec, on the other. Both have perished by fire,
and given way, one to the Anglican Cathedral and
the other to Dufferin Terrace. At the end of Dufferin
Terrace has just been erected the magnificent new
H6tel Frontenac, which I have not seen.
Just below it, at one end, Champlain was buried,
though his grave is as secret as that of Moses.
Under the crags of the mountain-side at the back
of the main street we passed along " Dog-lane," a
narrow alley, quaint and dirty, and blocked up with
overhanging houses and hanging-out clothes, which might have been a street in the Ghetto at Rome or a
Then we climbed
to the Upper Town again, to ramble along the rampart ; for Quebec has still its walls, bristling with
"long twenty-fours." It is here at the lower end
of the rock that the great University of Laval, the
leading Catholic University of America, stands—the
vast block of buildings whose little dome makes
such a picturesque landmark as one comes up the
river. The cathedral and palace of the Cardinal-
Archbishop adjoin it. The University was developed
in 18T£5, orrt <of the old seminary founded by the
famous Bishop Laval in 1663. It is happily described
thus by Mr. Dawson:—
I The University building now stands out in the
forefront of the Upper Town, conspicuous for magnitude, solidity, and stiffness. Within, it is furnished
lavishly with all the appliances of modern teaching :
a splendid library of 77,000 volumes and costly
apparatus, convenient lecture-rooms, and spacious
halls. The main building is 297 feet long, and five
stories high. A wing 265 feet long was added in
1880. It is fire-proof, and it is surmounted by a
dome, from which magnificent views may be had
over the country in all directions. Without, it is
utterly bare of ornament, and rigid as its founder.
The hall of entrance is of noble proportions. On
each flat a corridor runs down the centre 8 feet wride
and 265 feet long."
Laval is a superb institution, and has a few valu- QUEBEC: THE CAPITAL  OF NEW FRANCE.
able pictures; but the building is modern, and had
not the same interest for me as the fine old wooden
mansion overlooking the ramparts in Rampart Street,
which was the chateau of the great Montcalm. The
ramparts are delightful in many places. Here the
old cannon and the sweeping view of the river are
the attraction. Between the St. John Gate, with
its interesting market, and the stately St. Louis
Gate they are broad enough for a esassj lover's walk
shaded with trees. There, under its shadow, is the
smooth turf of the lawn-tennis club, where French
ladies, exquisite women, are desperately English
within a stone's throw of the Garrison Club—a case
of Rome capturing Greece twice over, to invert the
Horatian saw of Grsecia Capta. The St. Louis Gate
—new, but the most effective bit of Gothic in
America—spans the Grande Allee, the historical
road down which Montcalm,rode from the Heights
of Abraham on that September morning fatal to
I shall never forget my first impressions. We had
had our view of the famous falls at Riviere du Loup
spoiled by the incessant downpour, and under the
same depressing circumstances had dragged in the
slow I Intercolonial" train past St. Anne de la
Pocatiere and St. Roch and St. Jean Port Joli and
Three Salmons and St. Peter and St. Thomas and
St. Charles, and all the rest of the little towns which
patronise little saints on the shores of the great river,
when all of a sudden the evening sun shone out 44
just as we were entering Levis. Overhead the clouds
were black and thundery, but the horizon was a
radiance of lurid fire.
On the brow of the precipice stood out in bold
relief the outline of the discrowned capital of the
New World, like a warrior lying in state, with the
black night filling the lofty cathedral above him, and
the glow of torches round his bier. The citadel on
the brow of the precipice suggested* his head, and
the rigid Laval University on the toe of the rock his
upturned feet. I did not then recognise how typical
these two landmarks were of English and French
power—the sword and the keys.
The next day was gloriously fine; and how
gloriously fine July days can be in Eastern Canada,
where one gets the dry, champagny Australian heat,
and the dark blue Australian skies, and a breeze from
mountain or river! We were staying on the old
Place d'Armes, which has glittered with the pomp
of generations of knightly Frenchmen. From my
bedroom window I could see the broad bay of the
St. Lawrence, at the head of which Quebec stands,
with the beautiful Isle of Orleans in its midst, and
the Laurentides beyond, rising abruptly out of the
plain like the tombs of the Troad. Not a stone's
throw from my door once rose the Chateau of St.
Louis, from which New France was governed; and
just beyond is Dufferin Terrace, the magnificent
promenade along the face of the precipice, which
leads to the towering   citadel,  and   seems to me QUEBEC: THE CAPITAL  OF NEW FRANCE.
conceived and named with unique appropriateness.
With the exception of Wolfe, no Englishman who
ever went to Canada lives in the hearts of the people
like Lord Dufferin. We were in Canada the best
part of two years, and never passed a day without
hearing some kindly tribute to his memory. Each
town treasures up the words in which, with a felicity
entirely his own, he summed up or picked out its
outward and visible graces and true claims to greatness. No Governor-General ever enjoyed such a
popularity, and exercised such a restraining or inspiring influence. Lord Derby, with his shrewd
bonhomie, used constantly to complain that Lord
Dufferin was such an impossible man to follow—he
always said and did the right thing. And Lord
Derby was right; Lord Dufferin's Viceroyalty accumulated in Canada a perennial fund of loyalty to
No fitter monument could have been chosen to
bear his name than Dufferin Terrace, which is to the
citadel of Quebec what the Propyleea was to the
Acropolis of Athens—the avenue to the crowning
glory of city and country.
Quebec—the first port on the great river St.
Lawrence, the highway which is to make Chicago
and Toronto, Buffalo and Port Arthur seaports
when a little dredging has been done—is the gate
of Canada; and its citadel will be for ever associated
in the minds of patriotic Canadians (and what
Canadian is not patriotic?)  with Wolfe   and the 46
conquest of Canada. As one steams across the lordly
bay in which the Isle of Orleans is situated, almost
before the citadel one notices the noble sweep of
Dufferin Terrace. As a great writer once remarked,
"It is the first noticeable thing in Canada "; and
he added with much felicity "It connects the old
order with the new."
It was the happiest idea to make the ancient
capital of one of our most important colonies a
monument to Lord Dufferin, because if all our
colonies had had Lord Dufferins for Governors the
United States would still have been part of the
This promenade, before the landslip temporarily
wrecked it, bade fair to be a joy for ever, standing as
it did two hundred feet above the river—a broad sweep
of planking as smooth as the deck of a man-of-war, a
quarter of a mile long, and commanding such a view.
I shall not easily forget that first morning on
Dufferin Terrace. First of all Vascenseur, a queer
elevator, working on a very steep inclined plane,
carried us down to the quaint old fisher town
clustered round " Notre Dame Des Victoires," the
tiny church which commemorates to patriotic and
superstitious Canucks the repulse of Sir William
Phipps in 1690 and the storm-scattering of Walker's
fleet in 1711. It was called " Notre Dame de
Victoire " from 1690 to 1711. The church stands in
a dear little seventeenth-century square, the quaintest
bit but one in the New World; and nearer in is the u
Champlain market-place, where the time-honoured
quack with his vegetable medicines, and the Indian
corn-doctor with his long hair, who used to drive
about drawn by four white horses, still excite the
profoundest faith, conducting their professions in the
midst of a medley of dried tobacco leaves, maple-
sugar cakes, black puddings, blocks of frozen milk in
winter, rubbishy haberdashery and sabots, which the
habitants, in their coarse blue home-made serges of
old Breton fashions, come to sell or buy.
This old-fashioned Lower Town is most interesting
with its queer stores, where the hardy sailors of the
St. Lawrence buy their fishing and boating outfits.
The old mansard-roofed houses on the slope of the
rock, swallowed up in the landslip, were, of course,
occupied by the poor Irish. They regard Providence
with much less awe than the rent collector. Their
houses are the quaintest in Quebec, backing on the
rock still many of them, and inhabited in spite of
the terrific warning of the landslip, when vast masses
of it came down like an avalanche and overwhelmed
houses and people alike. There is a ghastly photograph on sale in Quebec of rows of dead children
laid out for the coroner, telling with peaceful little
faces how instantaneous was their destruction.
From this the lower road would have taken us to
Wolfe's Cove, but we wished to be on the terrace for
the noonday gun-fire; so we reascended, in time to
see a stately Allan liner cross the dancing waves of
the bay, and run under the citadel, which, being a 48
Royal mail steamer, she duly saluted with cannon.
It made a fine spectacle, the great steamer swinging
with the tide as she anchored, a white puff coming
from her side, and beyond her the transpontine
suburb of Levis, perched on the side of the hill,
crowned with the three great forts.
In the morning the terrace seems principally occupied by old men with telescopes, and tourists. The
young men and maidens wait for the evening, when
the band plays and shades are friendly.
The new St. Louis Gate is an exceedingly handsome one; and when it has stood as long as the one
it replaced, its terraced top and chateau turret, and
guard-house will make it picturesque enough to be a
worthy entrance to the picturesque old ramparts,
with their facing of hoary stone banked with turf,
trodden into devious paths by the feet of moonlight
lovers. In the shadow outside the St. Louis Gate
some fine tennis courts intrude the nineteenth
century; and on opposite sides of the road, just
beyond, rise the stately Parliament House of the
Province of Quebec, and a beautiful grey stone building in the old turreted French style, the Drill Hall.
This bit of rampart runs right down to the St.
John's Gate, bringing one to the market, where the
inhabitants sell birch-bark pottles of fruit in summer,
and come in every variety of strange frost-wrap in
the winter.
Not so very far from this gate, along the St. Foye
Road, is the monument to Levis and Murray, the QUEBEC:  THE CAPITAL  OF NEW FRANCE.
French and British generals on the battle-field, which
saw, as the British sullenly retreated, the last ray of
success that gilded the French arms.
The fortress called the Citadel towers right over
Dufferin Terrace, and the little Governor's garden,
with its monument, so honourable to the chivalrous-
ness of England, erected by Governor-General Lord
Dalhousie to the joint memory of Wolfe and Montcalm. The Citadel stands on Cape Diamond, three
hundred and fifty feet above the river; and if its
t> 7
heavy granite ramparts were made the basis of a
modern earthwork, the fortress would be immensely
strong, as it could fire its shot point blank on to the
decks of an attacking fleet that tried to run the
gauntlet, and would have to be attacked from a great
distance to train the fleet guns high enough.
The last evening before we left we ascended the apex
of the Citadel to take our leave of Quebec and study
once more the battle-field on which France bade
good-bye to the New World. There were the turf
outworks of the French fortress that held out against
Wolfe's bombardment so long, and beyond them the
Martello towers, erected by the victorious English,
and the column built over the ruins of the monument that marked the place where Wolfe died with
the shouts of victory in his ears.
Beyond the woody point of Sillery the river was
lost to the gaze; so we instinctively turned to the left
to look over the broad, surging river to Levis, whence
Wolfe tore Quebec to pieces with his cannonade—
4 50
and the great bay formed by the historical island of
Orleans, with the spires of the good St. Anne glistening in the sunlight, and the distant blue Laurentides
rising out of the plain beyond. Distant mountain and
sea-like expanse of river; stately shipping; crumbling
ramparts bristling with the cannon of a bygone day;
Norman houses with steep-pitched roofs and dormer
windows; fantastic buildings piled at all sorts of
elevations up the rock, historic and romantic alike
for exploration and battle; and the glittering Canadian
summer and winter, have conspired to make Quebec
one of the unique places of the world—a promontory
in one's memory.
I purposely left the Citadel to the last. The keep,
still used as a fortress, but with a sadly reduced garrison and an insignificant armament, is a little disappointing. The keenest pleasure I could get out of
it was to go at dusk to ramble in the deep moat under
the lofty ramparts, based in rich clusters of toad flax,
whose intense orange and yellow glimmered even by
night. Here, cut off from all sights of to-day, one
could meditate on the romantic history of the New-
World Troy. And sometimes the glamour would be
heightened by the apparition on the ramparts of the
captive bear, or the imprisoned bison, kept by the
officers, poor relics of the primsevality so rapidly
forsaking America. The effect of the bison especially
—a fierce young bull—as he stood with his leonine
head silhouetted against the twilight, growlino-
ominously, was weird, even pathetic. CHAPTER V.
A S some people are born without the noble rage
-x^- to enjoy a battle I shall give the Battle of
Quebec, one of the most picturesque in history, a
chapter to itself—a quantity to be neglected at
It was fought upon the Plains (or Heights) of
Abraham, so called after Master Abraham the Scot,
nominated King's pilot of the St. Lawrence in 1646,
whose full name, Abraham Martin, occurs both on
the parish and the prison registers. They now contain the magnificent Houses of Parliament and Drill
Hall, a big asylum or jail, and a flourishing suburb
of the city. In those days the plains were open
from the walls of the Citadel to Cap Rouge, and
slightly wooded, especially on their precipitous river
face, approachable only by a path which could not
then take two men abreast, though it has since
grown into a high road of a sort. Montcalm, who
was a good general, leaving fifteen hundred men
to guard this flank besides the garrison in the
Citadel, encamped his main body at Beauport, where
the slope begins to lead from the river St. Charles
SI 52
to the city, the only point where an attack could
be successfulif the defenders were on the alert.
Whenever the city was threatened he could thus
force on a battle. Wolfe, who had a fleet to cooperate with him, and expected to be joined by
Amherst's army of twelve thousand men, and Sir
William Johnson's Indians, had entrenched himself
on the Isle of Orleans; and on the Quebec bank of
the St. Lawrence, separated from Montcalm by the
river Montmorency, which here throws itself over
the famous falls; and on the south bank at what
is now called Levis.
He had waited in vain for both Amherst and
Johnson; and his attempt to force the French lines
at the Montmorency had been disastrously repulsed.
"On Sept. 9th," says Lord Mahon, "he wrote as
if anxious to prepare the public mind of England >..iimMiij      < .
for his failure or retreat." He was prostrated with
a fever, and suffering agony from an internal
disease. His concluding words were, 1 My constitution is entirely ruined, without the consolation
of having done any considerable service to the State,
or without any prospect of it."
Four days after this he tried a final coup, with the
genius and audacity of a Nelson, and won for his
country in the early hours of an autumn morning
an empire that is almost as large as Europe.
Leaving Admiral Saunders from the Isle of Orleans
to feint an attack upon the city from below, and
Admiral Holmes to feint another attack three leagues
above the city, Wolfe dropped quietly down on the
tide, to avoid the noise of the rowing, to a little
bay two miles above Quebec, since known as Wolfe's
He had only bateaux enough for half his force,
about sixteen hundred men, but he landed these;
and the boats, as soon as the alarm was raised and
all motive for stealth had passed, hastened back
with all possible speed for the remainder. As the
path up from the cove to the Plains of Abraham
above would only take Indian file, the men
scrambled up the almost precipitous face of the
heights, hanging on to the bushes and trees, and
O 7 O       O 7
left the path to the sailors who were dragging up
the single gun.
The French guard of one hundred and fifty men
heard them, fired, received their return fire, and 54
fled in a panic, though they could have rewritten
the history of the New World by behaving with
ordinary courage. Once on the heights, Wolfe
ordered his men with the utmost skill, so as to hold
the ground till the remainder of his force could
come up. Montcalm would not credit the alarm
till he had seen for himself, but rode off at once
to see. "Oui, je les vois, ou ils ne doivent pas etre,"
he confessed; but he added, to cheer his army,
" Je vais les ecraser" (to smash them up). He
knew his peril. The British, inferior in number,
were steadier troops. Though galled by his
skirmishers, they reserved their fire, as Wolfe
ordered, till within forty paces, and then pouring
it in with deadly effect, the English with the
bayonet, and the Highlanders with the claymore,
were on the French before they could recover, and
the battle was over. Pitt, the elder, had but
recently brought out his Highland Regiment scheme.
The wild yells of Eraser's clansmen have passed
into history by the ghastly impression of ferocity
which they made upon the French. Wolfe was
thrice shot, and the third wound brought him down.
Conveyed dying to the rear, he gazed with lifted
head till his sight failed, and he fell back speechless
and motionless. Suddenly a bystander called out,
"See how they run!" "Who run?" he cried,
raising himself on his elbow. " The enemy; they
give way in all directions." " Then God be praised;
I shall die happy." THE BATTLE OF QUEBEC.
A column inscribed, " Here died Wolfe, victorious,
September the 13th, 1759," marks the place on the
battle-field where he fell.
Four or five days afterwards the Sire de Ramezay,
less jealous of the honour of France than Montcalm,
surrendered, the city, which the English could not
have taken had he held out a few weeks, the winter
fell so early that year. The poor, shot-riddled,
diseased body of the thirty-three-year-old general
was   carried  back to his native Kent to rest in
ill 56
Greenwich church. Regarding the Canada of to-day,
one might well apply to him that epitaph of Wren,
"Lector, si monumentum requiris, circumspice."
His opponent, the gallant Marquis of Montcalm,
died amid confusion so dire that history was long in
doubt whether he dragged his sorely wounded body
as far as his own mansion on the ramparts or. died
on the wray to the Chateau of St. Louis. Men are
still alive, or recently dead, who have heard eyewitnesses relate how they saw the trail made by his
blood down the Grande Allee (now St. Louis Street).
The story of Montcalm has been most eloquently
told by the historian of Quebec, Mr. J. M. Le Moine,*
himself of French-Canadian extraction, to a mixed
audience of the descendants of the conquerors and
the conquered at the local historical society. One
can almost see from his description the St. Louis Gate,
which leads to the Plains of Abraham, open to admit
the stricken commander, held on to his great black
charger by two tall grenadiers, pale with the loss of
blood which was streaming from his wounds, but
facing his end with the composure of the Grand
Women had heard the cry that Wolfe was at the
gate—the roar of artillery—the incessant roll of
musketry, and were craning their necks anxiously
out of the quaint overhanging windows of the
Grande Allee.
* Author of many delightful, picturesque, and most invaluable
books about Quebec and its vicinity. THE BATTLE OF QUEBEC.
" Oh, mon Dieu, mon Dieu! le Marquis est tue ! |
they cried.
His courtly breeding triumphed for a moment
over the pain of his wounds, as he strove to reassure
them. I Ce n'est rien, ce n'est rien; ne vous
affiigez pas pour moi, mes bonnes amies ! "
Now we know that he was taken into the ancient
Convent of the Ursulines, because he lacked the
strength to proceed to his own mansion or the
Chateau of St. Louis. There he sent for the King's
Lieutenant in charge of the Quebec garrison—that
Sire de Ramezay, whose old mansion still stands in
the busiest street of Montreal—and the colonel of
the Rousillon Regiment.
| Gentlemen, to your keeping I commend the
honour of France. Endeavour to secure the retreat
of my army to-night beyond Cap Rouge. As for
myself, I shall pass the night with God, and prepare
for death."
Right in the heart of Quebec there still exists
the Ursuline Convent, founded in 1659 by Madame
de la Peltrie, in answer to an earnest appeal from
the Jesuits that something should be done for the
female children of the Indians. It is a quaint
old building—buildings age so quickly in the New
Hither, at nine o'clock in that September evening
of 1759, his remains were followed by De Ramezay
and the officers of the garrison, with a military
escort.   He was buried most appropriately in a spot
MY 58
in the chapel floor where a bomb had fallen through
the roof and torn up the flags.
" A few citizens had gathered in," said Mr.
Le Moine, " and amongst the rest one led by the
hand his little daughter, who, looking into the
grave, saw and remembered, more than three-fourths
of a century later, the rough wooden box, which
was all the ruined city could afford to enclose the
remains of her defender."
f I TEERE are seventy thousand people in Quebec,
-1- mostly cabmen. The centre of attraction to
them all seemed to be exactly opposite the front door
of the dear old house at 3, St. Louis Street, which
rivals the hotels in its attraction for strangers.
There was a splendid diversity in their utterances
when they were unfolding the glories of the
environs of Quebec, but a strange unanimity in
manifolding their prices. Quebec deals in two kinds
of cabs : the four-wheeler of effete civilisation being
represented by a kind of waggonette, such as they
use in Melbourne; and the hansom by the caleche
(pronounced calash), which was the modish vehicle
of the seventeenth-century France perpetuated in
Canada. The caleche, more than anything else in
the world, resembles an enormously high jinriksha,
drawn by a horse instead of a man; it has really
no place for the driver, who balances himself over
your feet. Being on leather springs it is very easy
travelling, and you feel as if you were acting in
a burlesque all the time.
One fine day we hired a caleche to go to the famous
y never reaches the bottom at all, but somewhere in
mid-air dissipates itself into spray for the sport of
the winds. In the winter, however, there is a good
fall till the water gets frozen into the finest and
most dangerous toboggan slide in the World. One
winter an enterprising caterer scooped a fairy palace BELOW QUEBEC.
or grotto at the bottom of the ice, and drove a roaring
trade in licensed victuals.
On the way we took in the Indian village of
Lorette — painfully civilised. The chief of the
Hurons, a tribe so powerful once as almost to
amount to our idea of a nation, lives in a cottage,
in seedy European clothes like a retired gardener's,
I ,i * I
and only puts on his native dress on great occasions,
such as a Good Templar's picnic, or when he has to
go through the fiction of transacting tribal business.
But he makes a very good living by selling shilling
birch-bark canoes, and shilling deer-skin knife cases
embroidered with beads, and mocassins up to a
couple of dollars. His wife on ordinary days looks
like a charwoman; but she* rises to great occasions
by wearing an old chimney-pot hat, with a long, 62
broad sash of the brightest Mrs. Gladstone blue tied
round it in the most approved funeral fashion. She
looks very fine in that. An enterprising Irish
surveyor has married the chief's comely daughter,
with a view to the reversion of the Huron crown
and revenues, the chief owning a considerable
amount of land in the village. These Indians here
are very devout, worthy people, regular attendants
at the little chapel which they have used for nearly
two hundred years. The power of the tribe was
stamped out long, long ago by their hereditary
enemies, the fierce Iroquois. Near the village are
the famous Falls of Lorette, of which the most
picturesque part is the fierce, deep cascade below,
tearing through the rocks that bind it in, like the
famous Strid in Wharfedale, and over-awed by
precipitous wooded heights.
As you drive back into town convinced by experience that going down a hill in a caleche doesn't
necessarily mean breaking your neck, you will dismount for a minute or two to walk reverently over
the ruins of the old Duchesnay manor house, Montcalm's headquarters all through that terrible summer
of 1759, and the simple home of De Salaberry, who
saved Canada for the British by his victory in 1813
at Chateauguay.
As one nears home one passes by a very historical
spot, where three hundred and fifty years ago, in
1535, Jaques Cartier landed and wintered. A
monument marks the spot where he  erected the BELOW QUEBEC.
first cross that stood in the northern part of this
continent. Not far off the city surveyor of Quebec,
three hundred years, later unearthed the stout oak
timbers of the Petite Hermine, a ship of sixty tons,
which Cartier beached and left here. And only a
little farther is the entrenched camp, twelve acres
in extent and surrounded by a ditch and an earth-
work twenty feet high, in which Montcalm's army
sheltered themselves from the cannonading of Wolfe's
fleet. The field is circular, hence called the " Ring-
I stood on the spot, classical with the memories of
Cartier and Montcalm, late one summer afternoon.
I had intended to diverge to the lonely valley that
contains the exquisite ruins of the Chateau of the
Intendant Bigot. Many a dark deed it probably
saw in its day, for Bigot's cruelties and profligacy
are historical. I regret that in a lazy mood I made
up my mind that it was too late, and that I would
make another expedition of it, which expedition, of
course, I never did make. So, instead of wandering
among the roofless ruins of Chateau Bigot, we drove
through the picturesque Lower Town, with its narrow
streets scooped out of the rock-side, its tall stone
houses with their steep-pitched roofs and dormer
windows, and its ancient market-place.
I went once again to the Montmorency Falls on a
picnic, which I am not likely to forget. The Press
Association of Ontario were being entertained by
the Municipality and Press of Quebec, the former 64
presumably playing paymaster. I do not know
where I came in, except that I happened to be
staying in Quebec, and that Canadian hospitality
to strangers knows no bounds. We left Quebec on a
bright summer morning for a trip down the harbour,
and went first to inspect the port, more especially
the Princess Louise basin, erected at such a cost.
All went swimmingly till we nearly had to swim
for it, from being run into by one of the quaint
wooden ferry-boats, two or three stories high, used
on the St. Lawrence like other American rivers. If
our boat had been seriously damaged, there would
have been a run on the Quebec morgue, for the
whole of the French journalists of the city, each
talking his loudest, made a bolt to the hold at
the heels of the captain; and captain, engineers,
and journalists must have gone to the bottom like
sardines in a box if the boat had sunk, for it took
them about five minutes to extricate themselves
from the inspection. The Englishmen above took
things in their level-headed way, reflecting that, if
there were a hole in the steamer's bottom, it would do
them less good to inspect it than to be on deck with
a life-belt handy; and the French mayor's beautiful
young wife and the other ladies sat still and showed
the most difficult kind of pluck. The Press came
up without having been able to lay their fingers
on a hole in the ship's bottom, but with ,an air of
disappointment and distrust which cast a distinct
gloom over the expedition, until an idea of genius BELOW QUEBEC.
struck the representative of La Minerve that the
Press of Ontario would not be properly treated
unless they were taken over the graving dock of
St. Joseph's, where the Polynesian was having a
little hole of twenty-four feet square in her bows—
a memento of her meeting with the Cynthia—plated
over. We fell into the trap blithely; and while we
were inspecting the Polynesian, the wily Minerva
got the chief surveyor of. the dockyard to inspect
our little steamer. The contusion was found, and
pronounced insignificant, and Minerva whispered
the news; and we re-embarked and voyaged with
7 v        O
conspicuous volubility and lightheartedness along
the orchard-crowded shores of the Isle of Orleans
to our destination, Ste. Anne de Beaupre, the
Lourdes of New France. I was reminded strangely
of the great Abbey of Einsiedeln, which Meinrad
of Hohenzollern founded in the wild hills behind
Zurich a thousand years ago, reverently visited ten
centuries afterwards by the greatest of all his race,
the founder of the new German Empire, though
a Protestant. The village consists of very little
beyond the great cathedral and a few boarding-
houses opposite, which are run in connection with
the shrine in the naive way in which the Catholic
Church in Canada combines commerce and salvation.
The shrine of the good St. Anne, like the shrine of
the famous Black Virgin of Einsiedeln, is blockaded
with offerings of crutches, wooden legs, spectacles,
and   other  props   to  infirm humanity   superseded
5 66
by her intercessions.    There are pictures too, less
notable  as works of  art  than  for  their   Zola-like
realism or flights of the imagination.    Shipwrecks,
fires, murders, pestilences, yield to the sanctity of
the good St. Anne.    As far as I can make out, she
had tried her hand on everything except explosions
in   mines   and   railway  collisions.     The   pilgrims
seemed expected to buy something, and you could
buy  nearly  anything,  from  a  rosary  or  a  cheap
image of the Saint down to a photograph of the
Falls or a penholder blessed by being sold under
the sacred roof.    The piety of the devotees affected
me; there were all sorts, from wealthy and elegant
leaders of Quebec society to women from the forest,
in   homespun,  all   kneeing the floor in  a gentle
passion of   piety.     Whenever  I  looked from the
ramparts  of  Quebec down the great river  to  the
twin spires of this  cathedral,  glittering like gold
with their roofing of rusty tin, I used to think of
these transfigured women; and then it seemed to me
that the  secret of the extraordinary vitality  and
influence of the Catholic Church might be that it
can dispense to its children a peace of God which
passes the understanding of the indifferent. The whole
valley of the St. Lawrence glitters with such steeples.
From St. Anne's we were the first passengers who
ever travelled by the  Quebec, Montmorency, and
Charlevoix Railroad, just finished.    We felt a little
" previous" wiien we found that the only rolling
stock   provided   were   the   " platforms"  used   for BELOW QUEBEC.
carrying rails and sleepers, with wooden forms
nailed on to them to prevent you from slipping off,
as there is no kind of rail or side to these platform
trucks. The forms were not even planed; and I may
mention that it was raining heavily. The ladies
screamed, and thought they were coming off every
time the engine driver put the brake on. We made
two or three stoppages; one to inspect the famous
Falls at Montmorency, which that day had quite a
respectable little river falling over the precipice of
two hundred and sixty-five feet high, showing the
aptness of the habitants' name for the fall, La Vache,
with its masses of milk-white foam. Montmorency has
a further interest, for on opposite sides of this river,
typified in the broken bridge which has a road of
mossy turf leaping into space from each of its lofty
banks, Wolfe and Montcalm watched each other like
crouching cats before Wolfe made his decisive spring
on the Heights of Abraham. We stopped, too, at
the works which supply the entire city of Quebec
with electric light generated by the falls. Here the
management committed a grave error of judgment:
they had a mass of interesting scientific apparatus to
show us, but unfortunately decided to give us food
first and information afterwards. About seventy-five
per cent, of the picnickers never got to the science
stage at all, preferring to pop off champagne corks
till the train started. But I Hare say they wrote
up the company's efforts just as enthusiastically.
Montmorency Falls are no less than nine miles from 68
Quebec, but the electric light is so good that one
wonders why they do not use the current to work
the elevator which connects the Upper and Lower
v< m.
•T1 HH €
H   M I
Towns. Being driven by
hydraulic pressure, it always stops in the winter,
when one needs it more
than any other time to
escape the sloping sheets
of glass on the Mountain
Hill Road. We never got
to Quebec at all; that is
to say, the railway never
did, for it suddenly lost itself in the mud down by
the river St. Charles, and we had to find our way
home in open cabs and a deluge of rain,—a conclusion
that might have been dismal to a most interesting and
amusing day, had it not been enlivened for me by
the company of Dr. George Stewart, the centre of
English literary life in Quebec, and one of the most
brilliant prose writers Canada has produced, whose
life of Canada's greatest Governor, Lord Dufferin, is
already a classic—a striking-looking man, with his
keen, twinkling blue eyes and heavy black moustache.
It was he who sketched out in advance for me,
almost point by point, the speech the French Mayor
of Quebec would make at luncheon, about the English
conquest of New France being as profitable to the
conquered as the Norman conquest had been to
England, and, in fact, the whole affair being merely
Norman conquering Norman, for Canada was mostly
colonised from Normandy and Brittany. He made
rue laugh, too, when we were met on our return by
a pretentious militia officer, who was going to the
Governor-General's ball in the Citadel, and was
afraid he should be called upon to make a speech
at the supper. There were two men-of-war in the
river, H.M.S. Bellerophon and H.M.S. Pylades. "I
say, Stewart, who was Pylades ? " asked the anxious
v 7 7 v
hero.    I You won't be asked to propose his health,
old chap; he's dead."
The Governor-General's annual ball in the palace
in the Citadel was enchanting. The ladies of Quebec
are proverbially pretty and smart, and there was no
lack of bronzed faces and epaulettes. The band of
the flagship played, and was of course excellent.
But I soon left the dancers and the fair Quebeckers,
to pace with a friend, who had wandered over half
the world with me, along the-terrace on the brow
of the rock, illuminated by the search-lights of the
men-of-war. anchored three hundred feet below, upon
the vast and romantic river. From the open palace
windows were wafted echoes of the State " Lancers,"
led by the Governor-General—the light tramp of
slippered feet, moving in unison to the touching old
Jacobite air, usurped for a music-hall ballad, with
the refrain of " Soon to be in London Town." We
seemed very far from London Town, as our eyes
followed the search-lights of the Queen's ships,
lying where King's ships had lain one hundred
and thirty years before to support Wolfe, who
had his siege-train on the lofty Levis shore.
Quebec on a Canadian summer night, with all
the  stars  in heaven  shining  down on it, and the
magic  light  of  electricity
the towering Acropolis of the New World, the
bristling lines of ancient cannon, and the sea-like
river below, seems to belong to the same intangible
sphere of romance as the Alhambra of Washington
Irving. Moreover, our hearts were full; for were
we not standing where the haughty and magnificent
Frontenac stood bending his longing eyes on the
limitless West, of which he was one of the first
prophets ? We, too, were bending our eyes on the.
Great West, but with all the resources of modern
science at our beck; for the luxurious cars of the
Canadian Pacific Railway—a first-class hotel on
wheels—would take us in less than a week, if there
were not so many paradises to linger in by the way,
to the western limit of the great empire, the western
end of the world—British Columbia.
r I ^HERE are three means of going from Quebec
-*- to Montreal: by the river steamer up the
stately St. Lawrence, by the Grand Trunk, and by
the Canadian Pacific Railway. Like most other
travellers, we chose the last.
How shall I describe Montreal ? In many ways
it is like Edinburgh, with its handsome, regular, grey-
stone streets, Mount Royal taking the place of the
Castle Rock, and the mighty St. Lawrence of the
Firth. The shops in Montreal are only moderately
good. It gives one the idea more of a wholesale
than a retail place, with its noble custom-house, vast
warehouses, and miles of wharves along the river
front, crowded with the stately ocean liners of the
Allan, Dominion, and Beaver companies, the grain
flats from the great lakes, and the bowless and
sternless ferry-boats like floating wooden wedding
cakes used on Transatlantic rivers.
Montreallers love fine horses. The finest jumper
ever exhibited at a Madison Square horse show in
New York was Canadian, and outside Montreal there
is a magnificent stud farm of French draught horses.
1      '
~m I 72
They drive very spirited horses too. It was at
Montreal that the pretty girl who plays such a
conspicuous part in these pages first distinguished
herself. A friend of hers, a young English M.P. (a
first-class whip, by the way), hired a dogcart for a
'ri&mr' A.-SwwiffB^&fl'MBgaSSg *
drive on the mountain. The horse took fright and
tore full tilt down the zigzag roads. With her
usual pluck, she had the nerve to resist clutching at
the reins, and sat like a statue; so he was able to
give his full attention to the horse, keeping him
clear of obstacles, and when they had got to the
street at the bottom of the mountain, and had gone MONTREAL: THE PRINCIPAL  CITY OF CANADA.   73
about a mile along it, managed to pull him up.
Montreallers were lost in admiration of the girl, and,
it must be added, the horse.
Pleasant people to deal with are the Montreallers,
moderate in their prices compared to Americans, and
of better physique than the people of the Eastern
States. The Canadian despises the American as
emasculated and mixed-blooded, and the American
retorts with a still finer contempt for the poverty
and want of go in Canada. The fine physique of the
Montreallers is no doubt largely due to their athletic
clubs, which are almost more important than social
clubs, though the St. James's is a very fine club,
and the Metropolitan the reverse of dull. Montreal
goes mad upon athletics ; it has snow-shoeing clubs,
tobogganing clubs, rinking clubs, hunt clubs, lacrosse
clubs, football clubs, and what not else; and in the
winter hockey on the ice and sleighing parties fill
the whole atmosphere. Millionaires mostly betray
their origin by their enthusiasm over the Curling
Club; it is no uncommon sight to see a man sixty
years old, worth £200,000, playing crossing-sweeper
on the rink, while his daughters telephone to the
candy shops for boxes of choice sweets, as the enthusiasm of the younger generation weakens.
Pretty nearly every house and shop in Montreal
has its telephone. The day I arrived I called upon
a lady to deliver a letter of introduction from
Mrs. Moulfcon, the chief American poetess, whose
literary receptions are one of the features  of the
..i 74
London season. No sooner had I effected the introduction than the lady went to her telephone, and
within half an hour there were twenty or thirty
people meeting me at afternoon tea, with every kind
of luxurious sweetmeat and confection, sent in, as
they were arriving, from the leading confectioner.
I never was in a town where the telephone had
such a perfect system as in Montreal.
Montreal is the NeAv York of Canada, just as
Toronto is the Chicago. Like New York, though
neither the national nor the provincial capital, it
contains the finest buildings and the head offices of
the great companies. Montreal is a delightful city,
laid out for the most part in rectangles, bounded
by fine broad streets, lying between the mountain
dubbed Mount Royal by Jacques Cartier in 1535,
and the St. Lawrence, here nearly two miles wide.
Montreal is properly the name of the island on
which the city stands, the city having been christened
Ville Marie de Montreal. The story of the foundation is thus told by Dawson :—
I It was an attempt to found in America a
veritable Kingdom of God, as understood by devout
Roman Catholics. In the year 1636 the Abbe Olier,
a zealous priest, while praying in the Church of
St. Germain de Pres, in Paris, received, or thought
he received, a divine revelation to found upon the
island of Montreal a society of priests for the
propagation of the true faith in the New World.
Led by various mystical guidings, he formed the MONTREAL:  THE PRINCIPAL  CITY OF CANADA.   15
acquaintance of Dauversiere, a receiver of taxes in
Anjou, whose mind had been prepared in a similar
manner. These two men resolved to found upon
the island three religious orders—one of priests, to
preach the true faith; one of nuns, to nurse the
sick; and a third, also of nuns, to educate the
young. The dream of these enthusiasts is to-day
realised in the seminary of St. Sulpice, the hospital
of the H6tel Dieu, and the schools of the Congrega-
7 o      o
tion of Notre Dame. Olier and Dauversiere had
very little money, but they found the  Baron de
V V    7 V
Fancamp, who was rich; and, with the aid of three
others, they purchased in the year 1640 the seigniory
of the island of Montreal from the company to whom
it had been granted by the king of France. Then,
finding in Paul de Chomedey, Sieui* de Maisonneuve,
O v 7 7
a suitable leader, they sent out in 1641 the colony
which, in May 1642, the year the great rebellion
broke out in England, founded the city of Montreal.
" When the Governor of Quebec sought to dissuade
the chivalrous De Maisonneuve, from settling at
s the siege perilous,' he replied, ' Monsieur, your
reasoning would be conclusive if I had been sent
to deliberate upon the selection of a suitable site;
but the company having decided that I should go
to Montreal, it is a matter of honour, and I trust
that you will not be displeased that I settle my
colony there.' And again; when further pressed,
I Gentlemen, if all the trees of the island of
Montreal were changed into Iroquois, I am bound by 76
honour and duty to go.' The founding of Montreal
would be a splendid text for goody-goody story
books ; for De Maisonneuve's blind obedience to the
instruction of Olier, Dauversiere, and De Fancamp
has resulted in the Sulpician Fathers inheriting One
of the noblest properties ever held by an ecclesiastical corporation."
Such, in brief, was the origin of the chief city of
Canada, and the Fathers are still landlords of the city
and the island, with their boundless potentialities of
wealth. How rich the Catholic Church is here may
be seen at a glance, if one climbs the mountain
which gave the Ville Marie de Montreal its name;
for spread out at his feet, on every vantage point,
will be seen rising huge barracks or stately churches,
the barracks being this or the other Catholic school
or hospital; and more than half the churches are
dedicated to the same faith. The offices and headquarters of the Fathers of St. Sulpice are in the
dear old building adjoining Notre Dame, built
nearly two hundred years ago. The seminary is at
the western end of the city, made picturesque with
grim round towers and block-houses of the old Fort
de la Montagne. These, with their quaint steeple
roofs, are two of the oldest edifices in Montreal,
having been built by the city's founder, De Maisonneuve, for protection against the Iroquois. The
seminary, with its eight hundred students, is known
as the Montreal College, and is affiliated to the
Laval University at Quebec. -Pi      ~^
From Montreal College one naturally used to
proceed to Villa Maria, the superbly situated Mother
House of the Sisters of the Congregation of Notre
Dame. But last year a bald telegram from
Montreal announced, 1 The destruction by fire of
the Convent of Villa Maria, insured for one hundred
thousand dollars, damages assessed at one million
dollars. Nuns and pupils all safely removed." The
burnt convent house included the old Goverment
House, occupied by the Governor of the Canadas
fifty years ago; but this was only a fraction of it.
The Sisters added immense piles of buildings. The
convent proper was built to receive one thousand nuns
and three hundred pupils ; but those accommodated
in it formed only a small portion of the sisterhood.
It was built on the slopes of Mount Royal,
commanding a view of the St. Lawrence as far
as the White Mountains on the other side of the
boundary, to emblematise its ramifications all over
Canada and the United States, it having no less
than one hundred and six daughter houses in Nova
Scotia, Cape Breton, and Prince Edward Island,
Connecticut, Massachusetts, Maine, Vermont,
Illinois, New York, etc., containing one thousand
nuns and twenty-five thousand pupils. The Sisters
of the Congregation of Notre Dame had not always
been housed in the magnificent collegiate buildings
of red brick just destroyed. Until recently the
Mother House of the community was in St. Jean
Baptiste Street, with the chapel, entered by an arch- MONTREAL: THE PRINCIPAL  CITY OF CANADA.   79
way from Notre Dame Street, upon the site of the
church erected in 1693 by the foundress. The building just burnt down included a nunnery with sufficient
accommodation for all the nuns in the order, besides
a boarding school, church, and so on; the pleasant
theory being that, whenever the Sisters were worn out
with work, they should come to the Mother House
7 V
for rest, and that there should be space for all to
come together if necessary. The school was the most
celebrated ladies' school on the continent, Protestants
as well as Catholics from all parts of the United
States and Canada coming to it. The church was
notable even in Montreal, "The City of Churches "
of the New World. It was in the Byzantine style,
with a dome 165 feet high and 34 feet in diameter
over the high altar, and with western towers 160 feet
high. The church was 300 feet long, with a high
altar standing mid-way in the nave to divide the
nuns from the general public; it had a beautiful
rose window, and its proportions were most harmoniously designed. There was a fine hall, used
for speech-days and the like, in which the Comte
de Paris was officially received when he visited, in
1890, the institution founded under the protection
of his ancestors in 1653 by Marguerite Bourgeois,
who gave all her property to the poor, and came out
to Canada with De Maisonneuve on his second voyage
to establish an institution for the education of the
female children of the settlers and Indians alike.
The interior was to have been adorned with frescoes 80
of her visions and her labours among the poor French
and savages in the hardships endured by the early
settlement in that rigorous climate. Anyway, it
was better that the magnificent new buildings were
destroyed rather than the venerable buildings in
St. Jean Baptiste and Notre Dame Streets, where
an old chapel still exists, built under the eye of the
good Sister herself, whence, for two hundred years,
the movements of the whole community were
regulated. Happily the work of Marguerite^
Bourgeois  is beyond the reach of fire, though the
O v 7 o
noble building on Mount Royal, which rivalled the
O v 7
great Laval University in completeness, is no more.
Villa Maria maintains the traditions of New
France, the memory that the French flag which
floated over Canada before the fatal day of Quebec
was white and not tricoloured. The day the
Comte de Paris visited it the French-Canadian and
American girls, who came forward at the close of
the charming musical reception to present addresses
in French and English prose and verse, did not
observe the diplomatic caution of the sterner sex,
but frankly prayed for a speedy restoration of the
heirs of Hugh Capet.
Villa Maria; the Catholic Cathedral of St. Peter's,
an unfinished but stately copy of the original at
Rome; and the Anglican Cathedral copied from
Chichester, by no means exhaust the noble buildings
of "The City of Churches "; for under the mountain are
conspicuous the broken outline of McGill, Montreal's
magnificent University, and the gilded dome of the
Hotel Dieu; and down in the city the superb parish
church   of   Notre   Dame,  the   finest in the New.
World, the  Canadian-Pacific-Railway building, the
Windsor Hotel, and half a dozen others almost as
fine.    Notre Dame, rebuilt in 1824 on the site of
the church of 1672, has towers 227 feet high, and
a good deal of the majestic appearance of St. Sulpice
at Paris.   The seigneurs of the Island of Montreal, it
must be remembered, are the Fathers of St. Sulpice.
Inside, no church on this continent so recalls the
carving and colour and richness of mediaeval churches.
Money is plentiful with the authorities;  yet they
are   not  content with   their   inheritance   and the
offerings of the faithful, but make money out of the
just and unjust by taking them up one of the towers
in an elevator at twenty-five cents per head, which
most people pay,   quite as much for the curiosity
of   such   a novel  ecclesiastical  proceeding  as  for
the really fine view.    They are great on mechanical
contrivances in this church, for the very candles,
except on the altars, are not candles, but electroliers.
I saw a singularly interesting ceremony there.    The
great church will seat from ten to fifteen thousand
people, according to the packing the occasion will
warrant; but from fifteen to twenty thousand people
had assembled to  see the head of the  House  of
France, for the first time, at High Mass in New
Round the altar rails had been arranged a crescent
6 82
of handsome fauteuils, in the centre of which sat the
heir of St. Louis, surrounded by the high officials
of the Society of St. Jean Baptiste, whom, with
characteristic energy, he had received at 9 a.m.
The St. Jean Baptiste Society is to the Canadian
French what the St. George's, St. Andrew's, and St.
Patrick's are to the Canadian English, Scotch, and
Irish, excepting that it is not a benefit society, and
that it constitutes itself the guardian of the history
and monuments and institutions of its race. I
asked how many members it numbered. " How
many French Canadians are there ? " was the reply.
Preceded by a gorgeous scarlet beadle they had
escorted the Royal party up the nave amid a blare
of joyous music. Almost immediately afterwards
the Bishop of St. Hyacinthe, Monseigneur Moreau,
preceded by about two hundred clergy and acolytes,
filled the dai's of the apse.
In this land, so remote from the pomp of princes,
the stately ceremonies of the Roman Church seemed
unusually gorgeous and impressive. The slow and
frequent changing of the bishop's vestments; the
black-and-white gowned boys who robed him so
reverently, and held book and candle for him to
read by; the swinging of gilded censers; the tall
candles burning before the altar ; the rich intoning ;
the full choir of five hundred voices, with its band of
brass and stringed instruments, impressed me more
than even the Christmas service in St. Peter's itself,
with Cardinal Howard as celebrant. _^_^~~>—_
If I had been a Frenchman I do not know how I
should have suppressed my emotion sitting by the
throneless king—the first of his house to visit the
New France, over which the Lily flag had not
waved for more than a hundred years, though the
speech of Languedoil, as at home, flowed all round
Here, on the day of Chateauguay (October 26th),
the greatest victory ever won by the French colonists
fighting for England, the parish priest had the
honour of preaching before the Son of France. He
addressed him particularly, " Monseigneur, et Mes
Freres." A comical old chap he looked as he
mounted the steep, winding stairs to the high pulpit,
preceded by the scarlet beadle. He was immensely
fat; the mere exercise of speaking made him
perspire profusely ; and, as he warmed to his subject
with real eloquence, he tried his constitution sorely
with his muscular gesticulations. His fat, round,
red face and little cambric cape were set off by the
tall sounding board, towering up almost to the rose-
windowed roof with its pinnacles and double tiers
of figures, three saints below, and Notre Dame
The sermon over, a flood of rich music filled the
church, and out of it welled, with increasing volume,
five hundred human voices. Suddenly a trumpet
sounded, and a blaze of electric lights flashed forth
from every foot of the lofty apse, lighting up the
tall pinnacles and carven niches and figured saints
ItiL 84
of the reredos, with the central groups of the
crucified Saviour looking down on the three Maries,
the Magdalene sobbing at the foot of His cross; and,
above it, of Our Lady, patroness of the church,
being crowned by the Father in Heaven; while
below were lovely groups of angels carved in soft
greystone, reminding one of the Paradise of Brother
John of Fiesole, the Era Angelico. Immediately
round the crucifix there were no lights, which
heightened the effect. The vast audience sank upon
their knees, prominent among them " the Eldest
Son of the Church," " the most Christian King;"
who, when standing—like Saul, the son of Kish—
was a head and shoulders above his fellows. As he
knelt there, in the full blaze of the church lamps,
with his mediaeval-looking face bent on one side by
his ailment, he looked for all the world like the effigy
of one of his crusading ancestors called to life from
an alabaster tomb. All around flashed the gold
chain collars and cloth-of-gold baldricks of the high
officers of St. Jean Baptiste; and behind them gazed
a sea of upturned faces—dark French faces—and, far
away in the background towards the west, a glimpse
of sunlight stole through the great west doors.
In the awed hush the bishop in his cloth-of-gold
vestments elevated the wafer and the cup, and then
the lights went out, and the vast audience rose to its
feet, and the music burst forth again; and the Comte
de Paris and Due D'Orleans passed through the
thronging thousands in the church and the cheering
%M "PW
thousands out in the old Place D'Armes to the
Windsor Hotel, where they were staying, and where
they were to receive the Canadians who had fought
as Pontificial Zouaves in the last battles of the
temporal Church.
The Windsor Hotel is the best in America; it is
of great size, though not as gigantic as some of the
irr.-iM'«*H'.WUIi»W.'i1 * "''"'mKmmimmWmttiKmi,,,.     '""""
„, Bla;/Bli'H,l",""i
caravanserais of the United States, built like most
Montreal buildings of handsome greystone, not
wood, and bearing an unique name for its cuisine,
solid luxury, and, what is much rarer than either
v 7 7
over the water, its admirable attendance. It was
here that the Comte de Paris was received in the
banquet hall, beautifully decorated with the banners
of the ancient foes, come together to welcome the
crownless heir of the long line of kings who had 86
been England's hereditary enemies, on the anniversary of Agincourt, where his ancestor had lost
his kingdom four centuries and three-quarters ago,
and of Balaclava, where a generation ago the rivals
fought side by side. The doors were hung with
crimson velvet spangled with silver fleurs-de-lys, and
the French flag flew above the English behind the
Royal seat, the conquered flag occupying the pride
of place elsewhere, while all round the hall went a
thick border of the Canadian flag, broken in four
places by clusters of stars and stripes—much more
than one usually sees of the Union Jack at American
festivities, where it is often the one national flag
absent, owing to Irish sensibilities. Few who
were present will forget the room as it appeared,
when the toasts began, crowded with two or three
thousand people in full evening dress, the light silks
and diamonds of the ladies contrasting finely against
the banner-hung walls, as the hall rang first with
" God save the Queen " from loyal French throats,
and then with the applause which greeted the
Royal guest's and the Secretary of State's speeches.
The exiled king's speech was very pathetic, the
first that the head of the House of France had ever
addressed to the ears of the New France, founded
by his ancestors, though for more than a hundred
years it had loyally carried in peace and war the
banner of his house's once worst enemy and now
best friend. Sweet to the exile, he said, was it to
come to a land with a French tongue; hopeful to MONTREAL: THE PRINCIPAL  CITY OF CANADA.   87
a Frenchman to see that, in a country unhampered
by tyrannical testamentary laws, the French race
was among the most prolific of mankind; comforting
to the descendant of the Champions of the Church
to find the whole people proud to be Christian and
Catholic. Happy were they to be under a Queen
who was one of the grandest figures of the age, and
to whom they had reason to pay the proofs of their
fidelity. Theirs was the noble task of maintaining
in the New World the honour of the French name,
and perpetuating its language, its character, and
its traditions. As a climax he proposed the health
of Canada in English. His own health had been
very appropriately drunk to the old Royalist tune
of "Dieu Protege la France par le Roi," as the
glasses clashed. The excitement rose to its highest
pitch when M. Chapleau, the Canadian Secretary of
State, addressing English and French, and English
and French Canadians, with magnificent eloquence
and earnestness, declared that the French Canadian
in nationality was French, in patriotism English.   .
The royal party spent much of their time in
the corridor at the " Windsor "—the most delightful
I ever knew, 180 feet long by 30 feet wide, full of
comfortable lounges, and opening on one side into
a suite of drawing-rooms, and on the other into the
huge dining hall. In this corridor a fine band played
for a couple of hours after dinner. At dinner one
had no less than sixteen different kinds of fish.
The   offices   and   the   principal   station   of   the THE MAN AT THE WHEEL—SIR WILLIAM VAN  HORNE.
town in Europe. It is typical of the great railway
company which it houses, the possessor of the longest
line in the world; the bond of unity between the
provinces of the vast Dominion; the strenuous link of
steel between Great Britain and her distant colonies;
the Queen's high road to the East, along the route to —
Cathay, dreamed of by all the great discoverers, from
Columbus to La Salle. From Halifax to Vancouver,
even by the short line, is 3,664 miles. One of the
most remarkable men in Canada is the Canadian
Pacific Railway's President, Sir William Van Home.
Not content with controlling the largest railway
concern in the world, and having succeeded in
inaugurating the introduction of papier-mache railway wheels, he is one of the leading art collectors
of the city, and has mastered such a difficult
language as the Japanese. He keeps pace with
all the political and literary and artistic questions
of the day. He has, further, no superior amongst
amateur thought-readers. There is nothing which
tends to keep Canada free from the United States,
and united in itself, so much as this magnificent
railway system under his guidance.
The Windsor Hotel and Canadian Pacific Railway
building face St. Peter's Cathedral, on the opposite
side of Dominion Square. Victoria Square, at the
end of the principal thoroughfare, is even more
imposing, from the number of fine buildings surrounding it, though none of them have the individual
importance of those in the former square.
But I suppose that the tour de force in building of
Montreal is the great Victoria Bridge, which weighs
eight thousand tons, and for nearly two miles carries
the Grand Trunk Railway over the mighty St.
One of the glories of Montreal, especially in the 90
autumn, when the maple and sumach and cherry
and briar and American oak rival each other in the
splendour of their crimson, is Mount Royal. It
forms the city park, and is a triumph of preserved
Nature and added art. An elevator travels up the
face of the mountain, and a fine zigzag high road
carries carriages or sleighs to the summit for the
view over the St. Lawrence, and the backriver, and
the Park toboggan slide, in winter. The glades are
left undisturbed and populous with the queer little
Canadian squirrel, the chipmunk. How Montreallers
love their mountain! how it enters into the life of
the city ! It is not only their public park, but on its
flanks are the two great toboggan slides, besides the
Amateur Athletic and the Snowshoers' Club Houses.
All the winter through it is crowded with toboggan-
ners in their gay blanket suits, and on the great
night of the carnival it is from its summit that the
torch-bearing snowshoers descend like a fiery serpent
to the assault of the Ice Palace.
Ij FEBRUARY is the month for winter sports in
-*- Canada, and Canada in winter is an enchanting
place to visit, however dreary it may be to live in.
Not that the inhabitants seem to feel it much. The
thermometer may ramble ten, twenty, or thirty
degrees below zero, but it is under a warm sun and
a cloudless sky, and the little children are turned
out to play in the snow, and adults stand about the
streets chatting or watching a procession just as if
it were summer. The secret of this is that they take
such precautions against cold in their dress. A
strong man must be very English not to wear rubber
and canvas overshoes over his boots; and he will
certainly wear a large Russian fur-lined coat, coming
down to his ankles, and with an enormous fur collar
buttoned close to the throat, and turned up over his
ears to meet the fur cap pulled down over his eyebrows. Huge fur gloves, or, better still, fur mittens
made on the boxing-glove principle, with only the
thumbs separate, complete the costume. This is
his street dress; for shooting, snowshoeing, or
tobogganing he will wrear  a tuque, or fisherman's
91 92
woollen cap, drawn down over his ears and eyebrows,
a tremendously thick blanket coat coming down
half-way to the knee,  caught in at the waist for
warmth with a knotted scarf, a short pair of blanket
breeches, and two or three pairs of thick woollen
stockings, one over the other, terminating in buckskin mocassins, ornamented with Indian embroidery. mmmmmm
-,M  _JL   ....»
These costumes are exceedingly picturesque, reminding one rather of the classic Greek tunics and
leggings still used in the little village, once the
deme, of Acharnae. The material is generally of
some brilliant colour, or white striped with brilliant
colours, and adorned with the painted ribbon badges
of the snowshoe and toboggan clubs to which the
wearer belongs. The tuque and scarf are also club
Very young girls wrear blanket costumes, which
are comparatively inexpensive ; but as they grow up
they are quite alive to the beauty of costly furs, and,
since they require them for the greater part of each
year, most daughters of Eve contrive to have them.
They, too, have to wear fur caps, but they do not, as
a rule, wear their fur coats anything like as lengthy
as the men, and, using muffs, often wear thinner
gloves. Canadian ladies seldom wear boots in the
winter, unless they are going to skate. They merely
draw very thick, loose woollen stockings over their
slippered feet, and thrust them into rubbers. When
they come into their own or a friend's house, they
pull off stockings and rubbers. For skating, however,
the fair Canadians are careful to have their ankles
tautly laced up. People who have skated ever since
they could walk, and wear the strapless skeleton
skates, know the value of such a support. But they
are very proud of their pretty feet, and think the
daintiest kid boots, if closely laced, quite sufficient
support.    They never wear thick boots in winter. 94
Children, like their elders, are swathed from head
to foot, the white Persian lamb fur and white
blanketing being very popular for them. When
turned out they roll about in the snow, snowball
each other a little, dig out caves in the snow, and
" coast " on toy toboggans down slides made from
the middle of the road to the pavement, the snow
often being several feet high in the road, as the
pavements are kept clear by the snow being thrown
on to the road. There is no fear of them being run
over; all through America a child is everybody's
7 O v v
care, and the sleighs, which all have bells, go no
great pace in the streets. Besides, the sleighs have
to keep their trodden track in the middle of the road,
or their horses would be swallowed up in the soft
snow, and it is in the soft snow that the children play.
The staple winter amusements which go on,
carnival or no carnival, are sleighing, tobogganing,
and snowshoeing. Montreal has a four-in-hand
sleighing club, which meets every Saturday afternoon
CO-7 v */
to drive round " the mountain," as the Mount Royal
—climbed and named by Jacques Cartier more than
three hundred and fifty years ago—is proudly
styled by its inhabitants, though it is not much
higher than Shooter's Hill. The meet is in Dominion
Square, which is bounded on one side by the vast but
slowly growing New World St. Peter's, and on the
other by the Canadian Pacific Railway Station and
the Windsor Hotel. This is where the Ice Palace
stands in carnival years.    Montreallers are great on WINTER SPORTS IN MONTREAL.
fine horses, and at a good meet one sees dozens of
four-horse, unicorn, vandem, tandem, and pair-horse
sleighs, each rivalling the other in the beauty of its
horses and furs, and each with its pretty girl beside
its stalwart driver. There is a common humanity in
the Englishman of five continents. Whether he be
amid the snows of Canada, the parched paddocks of
Australia, or the green fields of the old country;
whether he requires a female companion for a sleigh
drive, a ride in the Row, or a box seat on a drag for
the Melbourne Cup; he feels it his duty to give a
treat to the prettiest girl he knows, even if he be
put to some trouble over it, rather than give way to
the lazy impulse of just making shift with his plain
When the sleighs are duly marshalled, away they
spin (taking in Sherbrooke Street on the way, of
course), up the zigzags that bring them to the table-
top of the mountain, where there is a Belvedere
commanding a view of nearly the whole Island of
Montreal, with the broad St. Lawrence at your feet,
and the Laurentides rising up separately and abruptly
out of the distant plains like so many tumuli. But
in sleighing time people do not generally devote much
time to the view. They drive off to the Park Slide
(for Montreal's mountain is also its park), the headquarters of one of the two great tobogganing clubs.
The slide is not so steep as the Tuque Bleue on
another cote or slope of the mountain, and for that
reason is held in less esteem by the devotee; but to 96
the stranger it is far more attractive, for, instead of
being one plain rush down, it is up and down like a
switchback railway, and has one famous jump. For
four-in-hand sleighers it has the further attraction
of a narrow arch under the starting platform, through
which it is; only just possible to guide a team. Your
Canadian is a true chip of the old block in at least
one respect. The most typical foxhunter could not
have a greater relish for the chance of breaking his
neck. The tobogganing place, par excellence, is
the frozen-over Montmorency Falls (higher than
Niagara), near Quebec. And he has a craze for
shooting rapids, whether it be steaming over the
mighty rapids of the St. Lawrence, or taking his
birch-bark over the incidental rapids in a sporting
The coup d'mil at the Montreal Park Slide is
ravishing. Imagine a rifted hill. The broad hollow
between its breasts is a sun-lit basin of virgin
snow, lipped with snow-arabesqued trees, and broken
only by the long lines of green ice, down which the
tobogganers shoot at the rate of a mile a minute,
and the slender, dark path up which they wearily
drag back their toboggan. So much for the inanimate. Scattered round the slides, standing about
or climbing up to the starting platform, are groups
of laughing tobogganers, male and female, mocassined,
and in picturesque blanket suits of all the colours of
the rainbow. In cold like this it keeps one warm to
laugh.   Every minute there is a swish, and something WINTER SPORTS IN MONTREAL.
flies past like a cannon shot, the downhill impetus
carrying it up any smaller hill (on the principle of
waterworks). The moment one toboggan is safe off
the slide another is started. They have to wait so
long in case of accident. To any one upset on the
track another toboggan following would be as terrible
as a locomotive. Toboggans and tobogganers may
both be included in the animate side.
A Chinaman was once, by an unusually condescending Caucasian, offered a slide on a toboggan.
John put his finger to the side of his nose : " All
welly good for an Amelican. Me no wantee swish!
swish ! walkee back a mile."
While we were at Montreal an old lady from
California showed the superiority of the Caucasian.
She was between seventy and eighty, and had come
three thousand miles to have one toboggan before
she died.
The " swish! swish ! walkee back a mile " is not
so severe on the Park Slide as at the Tuque Bleue;
for the decline being gentler, and with a hill at each
end, there is a return slide for part of the way. Both
these famous clubs, of course, have I made " slides
—slippery green ice instead of mere snow. They
are made by pouring water over inclined wooden
frameworks, about two feet wide. In the country,
people I coast " over any incline of frozen snow;
but, of course, the velocity and excitement is far
greater on ice, apart from the fact that Nature's
handiwork is held in very poor esteem on the other 98
side, when it can be replaced by Art's. The Canadian,
as he prefers to toboggan on made slides, invariably
skates on made rinks.
And now I suppose I ought, for the benefit of
the uninitiated, to describe a "toboggan."
A toboggan is a light sledge made of wood, five
or six feet long, very much in the shape of the
blade of a Dutch skate, except that it is about
twenty inches wide. On this perch one, two, or
three people, the front ones squatting, the back one
trailing his feet to steer the toboggan in case it
gives signs of leaving the track. If there is only
one, he lies prone on the toboggan. The start is
very steep, not far short of perpendicular, so as to
give the proper impetus.
But it is time to leave tobogganing. The sleigh
is, of course, an open one—nearly all the sleighs in
Montreal are. One even goes to a ball, very often,
in an open sleigh. The " carter," or driver, will be
wearing a buffalo coat with the matted hairy side
outwards. There are still a fair number of buffalo
skins in stores, though the animal is practically
extinct. But buffalo coats are getting dear now;
even the carters, who are not particular about the
look of the skins, have to give three or four pounds
for a coat, and Canada is beginning to look to
parched Australia for cheap, warm furs ('possum)
for her poor. The carter's patrons, of course, are
all wearing their furs, and each sleigh—even those
which   you   can   hire at a  shilling for a twenty WINTER SPORTS IN MONTREAL.
minutes' drive—is well supplied with handsome fur
"robes," or, as we should call them, rugs. It is
most exhilarating to dash along, warmly wrapped
up, through the crisp air in a well-appointed sleigh.
The bells jingle merrily, and it is as smooth as
skating unless you suddenly stumble into a cowhole,
or the horse slips off the track of hard, beaten snow
into the soft snowdrift on either side. If he does, he
will have a very good chance of burying himself,
for they are often many feet deep. I remember, as
we passed one once on the Lower Lachine Road, the
toll-keeper coming out with a rod and measuring it
seventeen feet eight inches deep. The road had required to be cut through this one. Such accidents
often happen when two sleighs have to pass, for the
hard track is seldom wide enough for two, and all
they can do is to creep past each other as gingerly
as possible.
At Montreal they have sleigh trotting races on the
frozen river, where there is a magnificent expanse of
good snow. It is very odd to see races being held,
and caravans of country carts passing on the ice in
perfect safety, while at no great distance the river
is open from some fierce rapid. Hockey on the ice,
like ordinary skating, is nearly always in covered
rinks. Canadians play it with amazing elegance.
Montreallers have very little ice yachting, a particularly dangerous amusement, because it is almost
v O 7
impossible to stop the yacht, on its immense skates,
in a high wind.    Toronto, from its position on Lake 1
Ontario, is the headquarters of this pastime. But
for snowshoeing, the other great winter amusement,
no city excels Montreal. The premier snowshoeing
club of all Canada is the St. George's—the English-
Canadians' club—at Montreal. It has affiliations
far and wide. When we were at Montreal a deputation came all the way from the Winnipeg St.
George's Club, fifteen hundred miles away. They
have a magnificent club house on the side of the
mountain, at which they have regular club nights,
with singing, even dancing, and "bouncing.'
Bouncing is a typical Canadian institution. Six
stalwart snowshoers lift you into the air. You lie
as stiff and still as you can on their hands, and at a
given signal you are tossed five or six feet up into
the air once, twice, thrice. It is a most delightful
sensation : you go up like a ball and come down on
retreating hands as softly as on to a feather bed.
You realise for the first time what a cricket ball feels
like when it is caught by a man who knows how to
catch. For a sensation neither switchbacking nor
tobogganing gives any idea of it, though being shot
down a fire-escape might.
The showshoer in his tuque and mocassins and
blanket suit looks rather as if he had been stolen
from a comic opera. When not wearing his snow-
shoes he slings them over his back like an angel
with folded wings. Only the toe of the foot is
fastened to the snowshoe, the end of the thong being
Running on snowshoes
knotted round the ankle. WINTER SPORTS IN MONTREAL.
is rather ungraceful, but walking on them swiftly
very graceful. They glance over the snow as lightly
as a wild animal, or rather, a good deal more lightly,
for the Indians use them to run down hares and
deer bogged in the deep snowdrifts. The snow-
shoes themselves are stout frames shaped like
narrow kites, about five feet long and a foot broad ;
over these frames is stretched a close netting made
of gut; on them you can traverse the softest and
deepest snow.
In concluding, I feel that I ought to say something
about Montreal houses. They are mostly built of
greystone, which is found in inexhaustible quantities
on the little island on which the city stands. In
winter they all have double windows, the outer one
of which is hardly ever opened, and are heated with
hot air to an extent which paralyses the Briton—
70° Fahrenheit is a trifle. To make up for this,
though the temperature outside may be 25° below
zero, ices, or as they are called over there, icecreams, are an indispensable at every hotel dinner.
Milk is constantly sold in frozen lumps, especially
at the funny old French market by Notre Dame dc
Bonsecours, where the habitants still come, some of
them, in the old Norman dress.
Certainly one does well to form his impressions of
Montreal during the state of siege by King Winter.
When one cannot step out even to post a letter
without wrapping up in heavy furs; when one is
hemmed in, even  in the city, by a blizzard or a 102
snowdrift, one can form a better idea, than in the
glorious Canadian summer, of what those men
endured—those knightly Frenchmen who founded
Canada, justified now of their enemies and doubting
friends. The fair city of Montreal almost covers the
island, to which Maisonneuve, in peril of his life,
went to found the original Ville Marie for the
Sulpician Fathers.
And the mighty Canadian Pacific Railroad, the
largest on the earth's surface, now " The Queen's
Highway to the East," crosses the rapids of the
St. Lawrence, at Lachine, named in mockery of
La Salle's new route to China. That great man
was convinced, that if commerce could surmount
these rapids, this would be the shortest way to the
El Dorado of the Middle Ages.
^ppp hJL~
T SUPPOSE I ought to describe a Montreal-
-*- Carnival, since my first impressions of Ville
Marie de Montreal were in Carnival time. The
whole city was a mass of banners; conspicuous
among them, a veritable relic of the past, a memento
of Canada's old warlike days, the Royal standard of
England, which floated from the flagstaff on the
Citadel of Quebec as far back as 1766, when his
Excellency Guy Carleton was Lieutenant-Governor
and Commander of His Majesty's forces. The great
banner, twenty-one feet in length and thirteen in
breadth, has the fleur-de-lys as well as the English
7 v O
leopards and the Scottish lion and the Irish harp,
for in those days the kings of England were still
designated kings of France as heirs of the body of
Henry the Fifth.
We had rather expected to be cheated of the
spectacle of the Ice Palace, which is the feature of a
Montreal Carnival; the weather had been so mild
that it had collapsed almost as soon as it was built;
but a sudden sharp frost of 20° below zero setting
in, there it stood; a fresh one had risen—one can
Jhardly say on its ashes—a graceful mediaeval castle
With tall machicolated towers, keep, curtain wall,
and gates. The effect when lit by electric light was
simply fairy-like.
In those days Lord Derby was Governor-General;
and though he came only in a private capacity,
because he wished to entertain a large house party
himself instead of going through a round of functions,
he was received with every attention that the citizens
-could devise, including a living arch, a framework
■covered with five hundred snowshoers, in costume,
looking very much like saints on the west front of
a cathedral. In the evening there was a hockev
match on the ice between two of the crack clubs, in
which, in spite of the tremendous pace, not one player
Tiad a fall for more than half an hour. To do the
Governor-General honour, snowshoers came fifteen
hundred miles from the cities on the prairie, whose
violet tuques and sashes showed that they belonged
to affiliations of the crack Montreal Club, the St.
George's, composed exclusively of men of English
All kinds of sports were provided for his Excellency's delectation.   There was a trotting dog, against
v o \J7 O
which only two people dared to match their ponies ;
and there were trotting races, presumably not open
to dogs, on the frozen St. Lawrence opposite Jacques
Cartier Square. There were Carnival snowshoe races
at the Montreal Club ground, tobogganing galore,
parties at the snowshoe houses, a Hunt Club ball, A  MONTREAL  CARNIVAL.
a Carnival ball, and a great Carnival procession.
The first notable entertainment was the gathering of
the St. George's Snowshoe Club at their club house
out at C6te St. Antoine on the side of the mountain.
Nearly a hundred stalwart snowshoers rendezvoused
in the stately hall of the Windsor Hotel, and at a
given signal donned their snowshoes and started off
in Indian file with swift Indian gait, their shoes
glancing over the snow like the lizards on the walls
in Italy. Very soon after passing the towers of the'
old block-house in which the founders of Montreal
defied the Iroquois, one saw the red glare of the
tar-barrels half a mile away, and from the foot of
v 7
the mountains up to the club house the road was
illuminated. The club house itself had the names
of itself and its daughters—Montreal, Winnipeg,
Port Arthur, Portage La Prairie—and its verandahed
front thrown up by red and green fires, and magnificent rockets were sent up from it; but the night was
bad for seeing fireworks—blizzardy, though not cold.
Great piles of tar-barrels had been built up, which
gave a royal glare, throwing out in proud relief the
banner of England, the white flag of St. George.
Within was a bright bizarre sight. Groups of sturdy
snowshoers with their snowshoes strung over their
shoulders were standing about in their mocassins,
and their rough blanket or Indian deer-skin coats,
and the violet and white tuques, which betoken the
sons of St. George all over Canada. And mingled
with them were little knots of the prettiest and most 106
fashionable girls of Montreal, in light silk dresses
and slippers, just emerged from heavy wraps and
overshoes like butterflies from chrysalises. The
club house is very spacious and handsome, built of
pine and decorated with quaint snowshoes and
trophies of the chase, the latest of which was the
head of the Rocky Mountain sheep brought down,
only two days ago, by the Winnipegers to their
parents. The gaseliers are made of gilt snowrshoes.
Refreshments were served; then the snowshoers
danced together; and then the president opened the
evening with a speech, the snowshoers standing in a
horseshoe listening. Certainly their physique was
magnificent. After some speeches and singing the
event of the evening, the bouncing, took place.
Among those thus honoured were the president and
ex-president of the Montreal St. George's and the
president of the Winnipeg branch. Then came a
reel by a young Scotchman who was present, and
then there was general dancing, in which the ladies
joined, and very soon after, singing " Auld Lang
Syne " and " God Save the Queen," and the hymn
to the ladies, the snowshoers slipped their feet into
the thongs, and one after another leaped off the
high verandah into the deep snowdrift below, and
lighting Chinese lanterns glided away down the
mountain. It was a pretty sight to look down over
the world of snow, as sleigh after sleigh shot down
the steep incline, with a ringing, ringing, ringing
of  the  bells,  and   peals of   bright laughter   and
will w—
shouting.    It formed the most typically Canadian
event of the Carnival.
On the following afternoon, though the snow that
blew from the north-wTest was blinding, the Governor-
General and his party drove out to the Tuque Bleue
slide on the flank of the mountain, to formally open
the new chutes; for which he was rewarded with a
racing toboggan—a rather slight affair for a man of 108
his weight—and being " bounced." The snowshoers
showed their loyalty and the Governor-General his
intrepidity by going through the bouncing no less
than three or four times, after which he risked himself several times on his new toboggan. Then he
went to the Thistle Rink, where the gentlemen with
the high cheek bones and deep pockets mustered
in great force to see their Club curl against his
Excellency's Club from Ottawa. Something in the
wav of an indoor amusement was advisable, for the
blizzard was too wild for the trotting races on the
ice to proceed. The snow flurries were terrible; a
biting, driving, westerly wind was blowing, which
drove fine, powdery snow into the eyes, blinding one
and making foot passage almost an impossibility; one
could only feel one's way. Some people had three
or four feet of snow against their front doors at the
top of a flight of steps, and the city roller had to be
brought out before the roads were passable for sleighs.
But in spite of it all there were thousands and
thousands of people standing about the streets by the
hour at a time, when night came, to see one of the
great events of the Carnival—the bombarding of the
Ice Palace. Before eight o'clock there were thirty
thousand people in Dominion Square, where the Ice
Palace stood, and when morning came it was seen
that the snow, which had been falling heavily all
day, was trampled into a level floor. The attack
was made by the allied Snowshoe Clubs of Montreal,
who assembled on Mount Royal to march down to A MONTREAL CARNIVAL.
Dominion Square for the assault and capture. Just
before nine o'clock rockets were seen to flash from
the mountain-top, and the procession of torches began
to move down its slopes. It flowed down like a river
of light, and wound in and out among the evergreens
bordering the serpentine path. The allied clubs,
two thousand three hundred strong, then encircled
the ice structure with a girdle of flame, and took up
their positions. The scene was most brilliant as they
hurled their fire on the walls and towers of the palace
and as from the structure coloured flames burst out.
For two hours the warfare was continued. Then the
palace capitulated, and the snowshoers walked in.
The Carnival procession, which was exceedingly
good, was much like other Carnival processions
except for a few local features. It was headed by
police and cavalry, followed by two horsemen in the
picturesque uniforms of the Waterloo period. Then
came outriders in royal blue liveries, with black
fur caps, cowboys in Indian buckskins shirts, and
trousers, and devils on horseback. Then came the
great American bob-sleigh, of fabulous length, with
nickel runners, and not an inch of wood to cover its
elegant skeleton. This was followed by the Nova
Scotian trophy, one of the most noticeable in the
whole procession, with its national insignia and the
huge fish on the apex bestridden by a Nova Scotian
fisherman carrying the grim motto, " If you want cod
for supper, apply to Sir Charles Tupper," [that great
man is like a king in Nova Scotia], supplemented 110
bv two mottoes which might have seemed a little
paradoxical in their position of contrast—" Welcome,
our American cousins," " Canada is Ours." Nova Scotia
took the cod, because Newfoundland, our oldest and
most obstreperous colony, has nothing to do with
Canada. Then came a burlesque American car with
a picture of Mr. Cleveland with a black eye and the
inscription, " Cleveland wears the pitch." Then
the car of the Laval, the Catholic University,
with students in red and black foolscaps. After
this was another capital car belonging to the great
Canadian Pacific Railway, representing a voyageur's
canoe for shooting the rapids, manned with French
voyageurs singing one of the French-Canadian
catches, or as they would say Canadian catches,
for the French here arrogate to themselves the title
of Canadians. The Hochelaga, which followed next,
represented the meeting of Jacques Cartier with the
Indians, and was manned with the French chevaliers
and Indians of his day. This was set off by its
successor, a comic affair, representing the Mugsville
plantation, with its log hut and rather inebriate
negroes. The city roller was surmounted by a
pantomime old lady and gentleman. The St. George's
Club had a most spirited waggon load. They came
out as babies with capital masks, representing the
very tears and drivel incidental to infant life. Then
came the " padding " of the procession, which made
the splendid car of the great French snowshoeing
club, the Trappeurs, a thing of beauty and almost a A  MONTREAL CARNIVAL.
joy. This car was very tasteful, and as all its crew
of snowshoers wore no colours but a beautiful
French blue, the effect was exceedingly pleasing.
The Royal Scots Club had a fine car, each side
consisting of one huge thistle flower and leaves
manned by some splendid Scots in picturesque uniforms. Immediately after came the German car, to
which I should give the palm of the whole procession.
It had picturesque outriders, and the car itself,
magnificently draped, had a black-robed professor
and stately baron surrounded by knights in glittering
armour, and Lanzknechts in morions and cuirasses,
familiar to those who have seen historical pageants
in Germany. Then came the Holly Snowshoe Club's
lofty car, with a markedly loyal display of Union
Jacks, followed by the Emeralds, a little disturbed
by an unfortunate overthrow. The Montreal University—McGill College—supplied two capital cars.
The first was surmounted by a huge wooden model
of the college itself, and crowded with students in
cap and gown, including two ladies hedged in from
the rest in a close cage labelled " Co-education."
The other, belonging to the medicals, was surmounted
by a huge skull as big as a hogshead.
This was
followed by a man in armour, a very poor protection
in Canada, and Mr. Ross, the champion snowshoer,
with his breast amply covered with medals. The
last trophy of note was a fortress with mottoes hung
round it and cannon protruding, and crowned with
the British flag. 112
The procession was a very long one, with dozens
of emblematic cars, some of them very costly and
elaborate. The national element was capitally
brought out. It compared very favourably with the
Roman carnival processions; indeed, there can hardly
be any comparison with the attenuated efforts of the
city of carnivals in late years. The Heidelberg procession at the quincentenary of its university was
undoubtedly finer, owing to the rich, historical
materials laid under contribution and the careful
studies of the period by German professors. The
Jubilee procession in England was also undoubtedly
finer, owing to the presence of the magnificent Household troops, such as the Life Guards, and the large
number of royal and distinguished personages engaged
in the procession. But the Queen of Italy's birthday procession at Florence in 1886, and the Independence Day procession at Athens in 1887, were
no more comparable than a Roman carnival procession with the carnival drive of the frozen North
of America.
ill <
5 [IIII fc—^i
A WELL-NIGH forgotten romance was recalled
saga when the telegram announced the attempt to
blow up the Nelson Memorial in Montreal by the
young Mercier, son of the ex-premier, whose corruptions drove himself and the Liberals of the province of
Quebec from power. There was a time when Nelson
had serious intentions of marrying and settling in
Canada. This was when his sloop-of-war lay at
Quebec in the autumn of 1782. His high soul chafed
at the limited outlook of the British Navy. People
must still have been talking at Quebec about the
year before's surrender at Yorktown, where Lord
Cornwallis was compelled to capitulate by the
blockade of the Comte de Grasse's fleet. If this boy
of three-and-twenty had been there with a fleet only
half the force of the French, the history of America
might have been colonial history still, as it might
also if the great Clive had not been goaded into
suicide by the Little England party of that day,
just two years before the war began. Ireland had,
six months before, achieved its independence; and
Gibraltar, which had been three years besieged, was
7 v O a
regarded as certain to fall to France or Spain.
And still the navy was being choked with red
With such a hopelessly black horizon a man like
Nelson may be excused for thinking of settling in
a new world, as the Dutch in their darkest hour had
thought of abandoning Holland for Batavia.
Of course there was a lady in the case. The captain
of His Majesty's sloop Albemarle at Quebec was as
soft-hearted, where a beautiful woman was concerned,
as His Majesty's admiral at Naples. It came out
the day the Albemarle was under orders to sail for
the West Indies. Nelson had said good-bye to all
his friends the day before, and joined his ship, which
was lying in the bay made by the Isle of Orleans.
On the morning of sailing, Alexander Davison, or
another of his Quebec friends, Matthew Lymburner,
was walking in the Lower Town, when, to his surprise, he saw Nelson coming back in his barge.
Upon inquiring the cause of his reappearance, Nelson
took his arm towards the town, and told him he
found it utterly impossible to leave Quebec without
again seeing the woman whose society contributed so
much to his happiness, and then and there offering her
his hand. " If you do," said his friend, " your utter
ruin must inevitably follow." " Then let it follow,"
cried Nelson, "for I am resolved to do it." "And
I," replied Davison (or Lymburner), "am resolved
you shall not." Nelson, however, on this occasion
was less resolved than his friend, and suffered himself NELSON IN CANADA.
to be led back to his boat. This is Southey's account,
corrected by Le Moine.
There has been a great deal of discussion as to the
identity of the lady. It used to be said that she was
the Miss Simpson who was barmaid at the Chien
d'Or; but evidence, says Mr. Le Moine, in one of
his admirable books on Quebec, points to her being
Miss Mary Simpson, " quite the belle of Quebec,"
daughter of Saunders (Sandy) Simpson, Wolfe's
Provost Marshal at Louisbourg, Quebec, and
Montreal; though some say it was her cousin, the
* O v 7
daughter of Captain Miles Prentice, a wealthy
Quebecer, who lived in a huge sort of chateau near
the old St. Louis Gate; or a Miss Woolsey. Miss
Simpson herself, who married another Englishman,
Colonel Matthews, Governor of Chelsea Hospital,
died with the name of Nelson on her lips.
There is a curious letter from one of " the oldest
inhabitants " of Quebec, given by Mr. Le Moine:—
I Dear Sir —
" I have much pleasure in acceding to your request to
send you a note of some circumstances connected with the
city in which seventy-one years of my life—now verging
towards eighty—have been spent. I am familiar with no
part of Nelson's career except what I heard from my mother's
own lips respecting this brave man. My mother was gifted
with a remarkable memory, and recollected well having
herself seen Captain Nelson, when, in 1782, he commanded,
at Quebec the sloop-of-war Albemarle. ' He was erect, stern
of aspect, and wore, as was then customary, the queue or
pigtail,' she often repeated. Her idea of the Quebec young
lady, to whom he had taken such a violent fancy, was that her / »
name was "Woolsey, an aunt, or elder sister perhaps, of the
late John W. "Woolsey, President for some years of the Quebec
Bank, who died in 1852 at a very advanced age. According to
her, it was a Mr. Davison who prevented the imprudent
marriage contemplated.
" As to the doings of the pressgangs in the lower town and
suburbs, I can speak from what I saw more than once. Impressing seamen lasted at Quebec from 1807 until after the
battle of Waterloo. The terror these seafaring gentlemen
created was great. I remember a fine young fellow, who
refused to surrender, being shot through the back with a
holster pistol, and dying of the wound. This was in 1807. I
can name the following as being seized by pressgangs. . . .
Soon ruses were resorted to by the gay fellows who wandered
after nightfall, in quest of amusement, in the highways and
byways. His Majesty's soldiers were, of course, exempt from
being impressed into the naval service, so that our young city
youths would either borrow coats, or get some made similar
to the soldiers, and elude the pressgang. These ruses were,
however,  soon  stopped;  the pressgang   having   secured the
services of two city constables, Eosa and , who could spot
every city youth, and point out the counterfeits.
" E. Urquhart.
I Quebec,
"August 1st, 1876."
The other most exciting experience which Nelson
had while he was stationed at Quebec was his
chase by three French ships of the line and the Iris
frigate, as he was cruising off Boston. They all
outsailed him, but he shook off the line-of-battle
ships by running in among the shoals of the
St. George's Bank, and then tacked to fight the
frigate. But when the Iris saw him lay back his
maintopsail to the mast, she, too, tacked, and made
the best haste she could to rejoin her consorts. NELSON IN CANADA.
The Nelson monument Mr. Mercier and his fellow-
conspirators wished to destroy, not because of his
moral failings, as they alleged—few French
Canadians are in a position to throw stones on the
score of perfection—but because Nelson represents
the triumph of England over France in the long
Napoleonic war. The statue, which stands on a
circular column about fifty feet high, rising out of a
base about ten feet high, adorned with panels emblematic of the Battle of the Nile, might be re-erected
in a more appropriate place than Jacques Cartier
Square, where, being in the French part of the town,
it may cause offence to Chauvinist French people.
In Victoria Square, for instance, it would be surrounded by the palatial business premises of the
English and Scotch, whose enterprise has made
Montreal one of the greatest railway and shipping
towns in the world. It was by the British merchants of
Montreal that the monument was first put up in 1808.
It must not be supposed from what I have written
that the French Canadians desire the amalgamation
of Canada with the United States. In no part of
Canada would it meet with a more strenuous opposition
than in the province of Quebec. The Canuck can
see for himself how much better off he is than the
French Catholics who swarm in Maine and Vermont;  and he  does not forget how gloriously his
7 O O v
forefathers fought, at Chateauguay and elsewhere,
against the United States in the war of 1812.
October 26th, 1893, was the eightieth anniversary r       1
of the day of Chateauguay, the Canadian Marathon;
not quite like the immortal Athenian fight in
point of numbers—about five thousand five hundred
Americans and less than three hundred Canadians
being actually engaged—but the Marathon of Colonial
history, because it saved Canada against a similar
disparity of odds. Had Hampton been victorious,
there was nothing to stop his advance on Montreal,
ill-garrisoned and unprepared; and with Montreal
fallen, Canada would have had her back broken, her
upper and lower forces cut off from each other.
The Major McKinleys and General Porters of that
day coveted the Naboth's vineyard across the St.
Lawrence, and thought that while England was
maintaining, almost single-handed, the struggle
against Napoleon, was a good time to jump upon
her back and strip her of her possessions. President
Madison shared or yielded to their opinions, not
remembering how the Switzers met Charles the Bold,
and Leopold of Austria, or foreseeing his own capital
in flames.
The war was in vain. It was declared to abrogate
the right of search, and concluded without obtaining
its abrogation. The best Americans protested against
its declaration as they deprecate commercial hostilities now.
In 1813 General Wilkinson was commissioned to
capture Montreal in the hope that its capture would
lead to the fall of Canada, as had the capture of
Quebec from the French in 1759.    He and General
[yjlj j| j| / NELSON IN CANADA.
Hampton were concentrating on Montreal by different
lines of march, when on that autumn morning of
October 26th, 1813, the army of the latter tried to
force the lines held by De Salaberry with his few
hundred Voltigeurs and Sedentary Militia—the last
defence between them and their prey—with such
disastrous results. The sequel is well known. Every
true Canadian should have pictured in his heart
the romantic figure of the knightly De Salaberry,
almost by his single exertions defeating the over-
whelming numbers of the alien; the touching
spectacle of Captain Longtin and his handful of
Beauharnais militia rising from their knees, fortified
by prayer, and his memorable saying " that now
they had fulfilled their duty to their God they would
fulfil that to their king"; De Salaberry's self-
depreciatory letter to his father, " I have won a
victory on a wooden horse "; and the bugling that
routed an army. He and his men had actually won
it barefoot.
As time goes on people may forget the individual
exploits of his officers—of Daly, with but seventy
men, hurling himself into the heart of the foe; of
Fergusson and the Duchesnays; and of the faithful
Indians; but in every loyal Canadian's heart De
Salaberry's bugles will go on sounding to the end
of time, waking such echoes as they woke in the
7 O v
heart of the Canadian poet Lighthall, delivering the
inaugural lecture before the Society of Chateauguay,
when he concluded his address with: " The meaning 120
of it all is this—that, given a cause, and the defence
of our homes against wanton aggression, we can
dare odds that would otherwise seem hopeless; that
it is, in the future, as in the past, the spirits of
men, and not their material resources, which count
for success; that we need only be brave and just
and ready to die, and our country can never be
conquered; and that we shall always be able to
preserve ourselves free in our own course of development towards our own idea of a nation." CHAPTER XI.
AMONG the many delightful excursions within
easy reach of Montreal by the Canadian
Pacific Railway are St. Anne's and Lachine, classical
for their memories of Tom Moore, and the latter of
La Salle also. We took the train out to St. Anne's
one October morning glittering with sun and the
autumn gales, and with the frost still in the air
which had been crimsoning the woods. We asked
the way to the poet's house. It was at St. Anne's
that Moore was living when he wrote " Row,
brothers, row," and his other Canadian poems.
Nobody in the station seemed to know; but our
one saloon fellow-passenger, a very fine-looking,
square-shouldered old gentleman, in a picturesque
knickerbocker suit, said, " It will be much more
worth your while to come and see the old French
fort in my garden."
We recognised in the florid, clean-shaven face, set
off by splendid white hair, that Senator Abbott who
afterwards became Sir John, and Premier of the
Dominion, and who died a year or two back. He was
not going direct, but he directed us the way, and a
very muddy way it was, in spite of the sharp frost
the night before. It took us so long that we found
him in his home when we got there—a pleasant
matting-wainscotted summer home, of no great size,
standing in the midst of extensive and rather
elaborately planted grounds. He took us at once
to the old mill above the house, in which twelve
men and thirteen women were burnt two hundred
and five years ago, as we learn from the Jesuit
archives. The mill is loopholed, for obvious reasons
when one has seen the fort below—a mere trading
station in the district of the Iroquois incursions.
Then we went down to the little trade fort by the
grey lake shore, looking on a waste of woody isles
and bays and capes in long procession—a charming
contrast to the windy brown waters and the grey
beach. The idea of the fort is clearly distinguishable,
the house for storing the pelts, the high coped wall,
and enfilading towers. The interior was gay with
sumachs wearing their autumn tints, the exterior
with a brilliant Virginia creeper. From the front
of the fort to the lake a pretty stairway led down,
by which we descended. There are many of these
little fur-trading forts by the side of the Ottawa and
St. Lawrence, none more interesting or famous than
Fort Remy, the first seigniory of the great La Salle,
situated at Lachine, to be described later.
Loath are we to leave this picturesque bit of old
France; but we have come to see Moore's house, so
must hurry back beside the great river, with its ST. ANNE'S, P.Q.
patches of rapids—veritable breakers to-day in the
October gales—and the farther bank glowing with
the first fire of the maples—a forest fire of maples,
all reds and yellows and greens. A walk brings us
to St. Anne's.
St. Anne's, P.Q., is a queer little French town at
the extreme end of the Island of Montreal where the
Ottawa divides. There are hardly any English in
the place, except well-to-do Montreallers, who have
summer homes here. A quiet country inn or two,
a few queer country shops, some boat-houses, and the
aforesaid villas constitute St. Anne's, with a Roman
Catholic Church, probably a successor to the one
which rang " those evening chimes " to Tom Moore. 124
It is difficult to refrain from smiling at the shops.
Mile. Gautier, modiste, must find it so hard to be
modish in such a tenement and locality. More in
his element, probably, is the owner of the most
remarkable sign I ever saw—a piebald lamb of the
pattern usually associated with John the Baptist,
but minus its flag, with its fore feet buttoned into a
pair of ladies' boots, and its hind feet thrust into
a pair of top-boots. " A bootmaker," you will say.
Not at all. On one side of the shop are exposed
gigantic Turks'-head pumpkins, and on the other
straw hats done with till next summer. Who cares ?
We step into the best inn of the place, kept by a
Frenchman with the historical-sounding name of
Godfroid Charlevoix, where we have an excellent
stew, beautiful country butter, biscuits, crab-apple
conserve, and blackberry preserves—all for twenty
cents each and the exercise of my remarkably poor
French. " Does Monsieur, the innkeeper, know the
house where Thomas Moore, the English poet, lived
nearly a hundred years since ?" He shakes his
head gravely; he does not think that he is living
here any longer. A friend, also French, thinks that
it must be the big house at the end of the village—
probably because he has caught the word " English "
and associates it with wealth. We trudge there,
but it does not match in any way with the house
tradition assigns to the poet, as depicted in the
Dominion Illustrated, " Journal English of Montreal "
two weeks since.    So we go off to the station-master mm
of the Grand Trunk, who fortunately knows the
house of the tradition quite well, and directs us a
few doors from the foot of the Grand Trunk Bridge.
There is one thing in favour of the tradition.    The
house is certainly old enough, looks as if it had
v kD      7
hardly been inhabited since the poet's time, and had
begun to fall to pieces while he was actually tenant.
It is the ordinary old-fashioned house of French
Canada—built in this instance of stone, with the
front door under a narrow verandah raised a few
steps from the ground, and a high-pitched roof, which
has three dormer windows to light the upper story.
The house has—as one can easily fancy, a commendation in Moore's eyes—a fine cellar half under-
^.-    ::-■-: ,_ ON THE CARS AND  OFF.
ground, the whole length and breadth of the building, and a wooden porch tumbling into picturesque
decay, but covered by a luxuriant vine relieved of
its grapes by the neighbours. Inside there is the
abomination of desolation, the unwholesome damp
chill of a house long abandoned, the musty smell,
plaster falling from walls and ceilings strewed
about the floor, windows naked of glass, a chimney
with a hole showing daylight through, a wall with
a breach rudely patched, doors boarded up, shutters
closed for many a year, and—saddest of all—rooms
divided up into little cabins by rudely papered
hoardings, showing that, after sheltering a poet like
Moore, the house had indeed fallen to low estate and
been cut up into the most meagre of tenements.
There are some queer old locks on the doors—one of
them a shackle. There are other quaint old houses
round. I am sure this one has a romance, with its
balustraded roof and balcony projecting on rafters
over a stone foundation, like the old Greek houses
of Constantinople; its yellow, red, and green
jalousies, and its outside staircase. It stands in a
typical French-Canadian garden, with its few maize
cobs, its little row of sunflowers, its well with a
huge iron caldron working on a rusty chain, its
three ragged elms and skinny maples, and its
pumpkins on the verandah of a little wood-and-
plaster house. It was hailing a minute ago, and now
the sun is lighting up the shiny autumn woods on
the farther shore that slope away into dark distance, ST.  ANNE'S, P.Q.
prolonged by islets. I sit down on the old stone
sledge-mud-roller to " look lazy" at the brown
waters lapping on the stones, and meditate on Moore
in Canada, Camoens at Macao.
From St. Anne's to Lachine is |not such a very far
cry, and it was at Lachine that the great La Salle
had his first seigniory. This Norman founder of
Illinois, who reared on the precipices of Fort St.
Louis the white flag and his great white cross nearly
a couple of centuries before the beginnings of the
Metropolis of the West, made his beginnings at his
little seigniory round Fort Remy, on the Island of
The son of a wealthy and powerful burgher of
Rouen, he had been brought up to become a Jesuit.
La Salle was well fitted for an ecclesiastic, a prince
of the Church, a Richelieu, but not for a Jesuit,
where effacement of self is the keystone of the order.
To be one step, one stone in the mighty pyramid of
the Order of Jesus was not for him, a man of mighty
individuality like Columbus or Cromwell, and accordingly his piety, asceticism, vast ambition, and superhuman courage were lost to the Church and gained
to the State.    So says Parkman.
He was given a sum of money, bringing in only
three or four hundred francs a year, and sailed for
Canada to make his fortune in Dryden's Annus
Mirabilis, 1666. He found his way to Montreal,
where the Sulpician Fathers were gallantly maintaining a colony in the teeth of the savage Iroquois. ON THE CARS AND  OFF.
The Five Nations had just received a severe chastisement from Courcelles, the Governor; but, for all
that, no one could venture outside the walls without
peril of his life.
The Fathers were endeavouring to establish a chain
of alarm posts, something after the manner of the
Roman settlements of veterans in imperfectly conquered countries, and were disposed to be very
La Salle was the man for such a purpose had the
priests understood him, which they evidently did
not, for some of them suspected him of levity, the
last foible with which he could be charged—the man
above all others consumed with earnestness. " But,"
says Parkman, " Queylus, Superior of the Seminary,
made him a generous offer, and he accepted it. This
was the gratuitous grant of a large tract of land at
the place now called Lachine, above the. great rapids
of the same name, and eight or nine miles from
Montreal. On the one hand it was greatly exposed
to attack, and on the other it was favourably situated for the fur trade. La Salle and his successors
became its feudal proprietors on the sole condition
of delivering to the Seminary, on every change of
ownership, a medal of fine silver weighing one
I Lightly won, lightly spent," the saying goes. La
Salle laid out a township and leased it to his tenants
on very "nominal" terms. Each settler received
a third of an acre inside the palisade of the town ST. ANNE'S, P.Q.
for a farthing a year and three capons, and a common
of about one hundred and thirty acres was set apart
for the use of any one who felt well enough off to
pay twopence halfpenny a year for the privilege.
He received two hundred and eighty acres for his
own domain, and on this he began to clear the ground
and erect.
" Similar to this were the beginnings of all the
Canadian seigniories formed at this troubled period,"
says the American Macaulay—Parkman.
His seigniory and fort—probably the Fort Remy
of which a contemporary plan has come down to us
—were just where the St. Lawrence begins to widen
into Lake St. Louis, abreast of the famous rapids of
Lachine, shot by so many tourists with blanched
cheeks every summer. I say tourists, for, as I have
said before, there is nothing your true Canadian
loves so much as the off-chance of being drowned in
a cataract or | spifflicated " on a toboggan slide. It
is part of the national education, like the Bora Bora
or teeth-drawing of the Australian aborigines. The
very name Lachine breathes a memory of La Salle,
for it was so christened in scorn by his detractors—
the way by which La Salle thinks he is going to get
to China. A palisade containing, at any rate, the
house of La Salle, a stone mill still standing, and a
stone barrack and munition house, now falling into
most picturesque and pitfallish decay—such is Fort
Remy, founded nearly two centuries and a quarter
ago, when England was just beginning to feel the
invigorating effects of a return to the blessings of
Stuart rule. This was in 1667, but La Salle was not
destined to remain here long. In two years' time
he had learned seven or eight Indian languages, and
felt himself ready for the ambition of his life: to
find his way to the Vermilion Sea—the Gulf of
California—for a short cut to the wealth of China
and Japan,—an ambition which resolved itself into
founding a province or Colonial Empire for France
at the mouth of the Mississippi, when he discovered
later on that the Mississippi flowed into the Gulf of
Mexico and not into the Gulf of California.
We cannot follow him in his long connection with
the Illinois Indians and Fort St. Louis. We must
leave him gazing from the walls of his seigniory
across the broad bosom of Lake St. Louis at the forests
of Beauharnais and Chateauguay (destined afterwards
to be Canada's Thermopylae) and the sunset, behind
which must be a new passage to the South Seas and
the treasures of Cathay and Cipango—the dream
which had fired the brain of every discoverer from
Columbus and Vasco Nunez downwards.
Nowadays Lachine suggests principally the canal
by which the rapids are avoided, the rapids themselves, and the superb Canadian Pacific Railway
Bridge, which is a link in the realisation of La
Salle's vast idea. Hard by, too, the St. Lawrence
opens out into the expanse of Lake St. Louis, dear
to Montreallers in the glowing Canadian summer.
Seen from the bank, the rapids are most disappointing mm
to people who expect them to look like Niagara.
Seen from the deck of the steamer which runs in
connection with the morning and evening train
from Montreal, they make the blood of the novice
creep, though the safety of the trip is evinced by the
fact that it is no longer considered necessary to take a
pilot from the neighbouring Indian village of Caugh-
nawaga. It is said that, if the steamer is abandoned
to the current, it is impossible for her to strike, the
scour being so strong; certainly, her engines are
slowed; she reels about like a drunken man; right and ON THE CARS AND  OFF.
left you see fierce green breakers with hissing white
fillets threatening to swamp you at every minute.
Every second thud of these waves upon the sides
convinces you that the ship is aground and about
to be dashed to pieces. There seems absolutely no
chance of getting safely out of the boiling waters,
which often rush together like a couple of fountains.
Yet, after a few trips, you know that the Captain is
quite justified in sitting in his easy chair and smoking
a cigarette all through it. It is admirably described
in brief by Dawson: "As the steamer enters the
long and turbulent rapids of the Sault St. Louis,
the river is contracted and obstructed by islands;
and trap dykes, crossing the softer limestone rocks,
make, by their uneven wear, a very broken bottom.
The fall of the river is also considerable, and the
channel tortuous, all which circumstances combined
cause this rapid to be more feared than any of the
others. IP
i As the steamer enters the rapids the engines are
slowed, retaining a sufficient speed to give steerage
way, and, rushing along with the added speed of the
swift current, the boat soon begins to labour among
the breakers and eddies. The passengers grow excited at the apparently narrow escapes, as the steamer
seems almost to touch rock after rock, and dips her
prow into the eddies, while the turbulent waters
throw their spray over the deck."
One cannot more fittingly take leave of Lachine
than gazing at the great steel Canadian Pacific Railway Bridge which leaps the terrible rapids. It is
on the Cantilever system, and built entirely without
balustrading. There is nothing, as Mrs. Malaprop
would say, to prevent the train slipping off as it
makes its leap, in spans of four hundred and eight
feet each, at a giddy height. But in reality, of
course, if a train left the rails no balustrade could
keep it from tearing into the river; and the bridge
is, as a matter of fact, much safer than an ordinary
bridge, because, being built in skeleton only, it offers
so little mark for the wind. Throughout their
gigantic line the Canadian Pacific Railway have
acted up to the latest scientific ideas. CHAPTER XII.
A MONTREAL gentleman asked us to spend
a fortnight with him at his fishing box on a
lake in the Maskinonge Forest; and as it would be
our first glimpse of the French Canadian habitant
in the forest, to which he takes as naturally as a fish
to the water, we had an additional reason for being
glad to accept the invitation. It was a real forest;
we had thirty miles and more to drive in buckboards
over forest tracks, from Louiseville, a town of thirteen
hundred inhabitants, half-way between Montreal and
Quebec. We had to pass a night at the principal inn,
the unambitiousness of which can be gauged by the
fact that the sugar basins were left standing on the
dining-tables from one week's end to another; but
ambitious enough for all that to have a long-distance
telephone to Montreal and Quebec, each nearly a
hundred miles away, over which the enterprising
proprietor did his daily shopping and let his rooms
to drummers (Anglice, commercial travellers). It
had a verandah all round, with a high wooden platform, from which we stepped into the buckboards
almost on a level.    The proprietor made us  start
very early in the morning, about eight, as far as I
can remember, because it had been raining heavily,
and no one could estimate how long it would take
to plough through a Maskinonge road after heavy
rain. I am not fond of driving,—I always want to
be looking round and taking notes when I am amid
new surroundings,—but the proprietor stoutly refused
to let us have more than one driver for the two
buckboards, as they were to be tied together coming
back. The first part of the road was not very
interesting, bounded as it was on each side by what
we should call allotments, from which the thrifty
habitant raised a livelihood for himself, his wife and
his mother-in-law, and a dozen or twenty children.
For being fruitful and multiplying, the southern
negro does not approach the French Canadian.
These allotments contained, as a rule, a patch of
maize, a patch of tobacco, a patch of potatoes, some
pumpkins and sunflowers, and odds and ends; and
now and then a few stalks of sorghum.
I ought to have described the buckboards, which
dispense with springs by consisting of springy boards
mounted on two pairs of buggy wheels, with something after the manner of garden seats adjustable on
them. It takes a good rut to break the back of a
By-and-by we got to St. Alexis des Monts, a little
forest township, in which the principal features were
the butcher and the cure and the little tin-roofed
church.    The cure was a man of genius: the only ON THE CARS AND  OFF.
people who had any money in his parish were the
rich Protestant English-Canadians and Americans* who
had fishing boxes, but he contrived to make them as
liberal as if they had been Catholics. In that hilly,
thickly forested country he found his congregation
very irregular in church attendance.    He shifted the
market day to Sunday, and opened the market himself in front of the church at the close of the service,
and his church was forthwith attended not only by
his own parishioners, but by every farmer round
within a drive.
We did not linger at St. Alexis, but plunged into
the nine miles of forest which lay between us and
Lac Eau Clair. The road had been pretty bad in
the open; in the forest, except where it was rocky, A FISHING BOX.
it was diabolical, and where it was rocky it was
breaknecky. The swampy places were corduroyed,
which means that they had faggots laid across them,
and they all wanted re-corduroying ; the buckboards
bumped enough to separate soul from body. Presently
a cheerful thing happened. The driver of the other
buckboard had taken care to take the best horses,
and had got so far ahead that he was out of sight
when we came to a place where the road divided into
two. There were fresh ruts in each; we coo-ee-ed,
but no one heard, and finally took the right road
by pure chance. About a mile before we came to
Lac Eau Clair we came upon a beautiful clearing
of rich green grass, with a well-built settler's house
in the middle. This belonged to a habitant named
Gautier, whose principal interest for us lay in the
savageness of his dogs; but he afforded never-ending
interest to our American neighbours, who sometimes
called him Goat-chaise and sometimes Zeb, his
Christian name being Cyprian.
I have forgotten another settler at whose house
we had been stopped twenty miles farther back by
an appalling thunderstorm, our buckboards being
open. The habitant came to his door, and was too
frightened to do anything except cry, " Mon Dieu ! I
As the pretty girl jumped she entangled her ankles
in the reins, and, falling heavily, lay under the
horses' feet for at least a minute before we could
extricate her, without the smallest assistance from
pere, mere, grandmere, or the score of children. I
Lac Eau Clair house was rather an ambitious one
for the backwoods, situated charmingly on a ridge
between the main lake and a smaller one; but we
lived in regular camp style, dependent on fish and
berries for everything except canned and salted
The lake was lovely ; a precipitous wooded island,
for all the world like a couching lion, lay in front
of the house about half a mile off shore. And down
at the water's edge a beautiful little bathing basin
of uniform depth had been divided off from the lake,
with a boom at the entrance for the gentlemen to
dive under and swim out. Here, for the first time
in Canada, we bathed, ladies and gentlemen together
—in suitable dresses, of course. A FISHING BOX.
The unspoiledness of the place was delightful.
Standing on the boards between the bathing-place
and the lake one could catch noble brook trout;
my eight-year-old little boy caught one nearly three
pounds weight. While you were fishing, the fur
minks and martens played round quite familiarly,
even going so far as putting their paws on the boat
you were fishing from when it was lying against the
bank.   Mr. S would never allow them to be shot.
We had to reserve our rifle bullets for the loons, who
laughed when it was going to rain, and the bears who
stole our vegetables and rolled in the corn. We
had great fun out of a loon; they are very difficult
to shoot. The matter-of-fact woman came into the
verandah crying, " What's all this polly-wog about ? "
(a polly-wog being the tadpole of a bull-frog). The
pretty girl lying in a hammock said, laughing," Oh,
G  has gone to shoot a loon."    "I'll give you
ten dollars if he does," said our hostess; " there hasn't
been one killed here for eleven years." The matter-
of-fact woman disappeared, and the pretty girl tried
to swing herself to sleep, when G , the son of
the house, appeared making mysterious signs, and she
got out of the hammock with more speed than grace,
and they went round to the back of the house,
whence they reappeared dragging a great speckled
bird about six feet long, which they deposited at our
hostess's feet. She duly deposited the ten-dollar note
on the breakfast-table next morning.
The   bears were  very entertaining;   we always ON THE CARS AND OFF.
missed each other. One evening we found a place
where they had been rolling in the corn, and, it being
moonlight, went back, and posted ourselves  after
supper for their return. It was quite a sharp night,
and the dew was drenching; but we stuck to our
watch. Meanwhile our hostess and the pretty girl
sat up for us, snoozing with dead tiredness. They
heard a noise in the back kitchen, and thought it was A FISHING BOX.
us sneaking in ashamed at our empty-handedness;
but it was the bear turning over the barrel for the
carrots, which they had brought all the way from
Montreal, as Mrs. S discovered to her consternation next morning.
The bears were very familiar at Lac Eau Clair.
One night, as G was returning home without a
rifle, he met one standing on its hind legs, drinking
out of the waterbutt; and if you took a lady
out for a moonlight romance in a birch-bark, her
whispers were drowned in the noise the bears made
coming down to the water to drink, just like a lot
of lambs. They did one thing which made us savage.
It was quite a novelty to us to tap the sugar maple
and to hang little birch-bark vessels underneath to
catch the syrup; but the bears always reached the
syrup first.
The lake was surrounded by subsidiary lakes,
divided by short portages, as they call the breaks
over which you have to carry your canoe in Canada.
These portages through the forest were made perfectly
exquisite with queer lichens and fungi, maidenhair
fern and wild flowers, strangely geometrical. They
were also execrable with mosquitoes. They were
too shady for berries; for the blueberries and raspberries, which formed so important a feature in our
cuisine, one had to go to the clearings round the
roads. The lakes swarmed with fish, but we always
left off catching them as soon as we had enough
to eat.     The chipmunks, the lovely little striped ON THE CARS AND OFF.
Canadian squirrels, were ubiquitous, and so tame
that I used nearly to catch them in a butterfly net.
They are terrible fellows to chatter, and scold you
for a quarter of an hour if you intrude upon their
privacy. I used to spend a great deal of time
watching them and Pierre the habitant's children.
These Canuck children are as immortal as they are
numerous, nothing ever hurts them; they used to
gorge the deadly blue belladonna berries. Pierre
himself was typical in his checked, Guernsey-shaped,
Crimean shirt, butcher's-blue drill trousers, beef
boots, and a deplorable straw hat. Beef boots are a
sort of loose top-boots made of raw hide—the soles
of the same leather and thickness as the legs, and
lapping over the feet. They are soaked in grease,
waterproof, and very durable; most of the gentlemen who came up fishing wore them. There was
a sameness about the food, though there was plenty
of variety of occupation; so one day the pretty girl
tried to vary the regime with a dish of bull-frog's
legs, but not one of these imbecile batrachians fell a
victim to either hook or landing-net, so she went off
for a tandem drive in a buckboard with the two
high-stepping bays which drew the millionaire's
carriage in Montreal. We did not expect them to
return, for the horses were almost unmanageable in
town, and the bridges here were so shaky and the
hills so dangerous ; but the leader felt shy in his new
surroundings, and, far from showing any of his town
temper, tried every dangerous place as gingerly as A FISHING BOX.
an old maid. Our hostess was a splendid backwoodsman; she swam, rode, paddled, and .drove with
remarkable strength and grace, and shot like a man.
The French Canadians are most enduring and born
backwoodsmen, but they hate and dread the water.
Mrs. S—     had sent the cook across the lake to fetch
a girl to help in the house. It was three miles to
the bottom of the lake and six miles beyond through
the wood. Just as they were ready to start back
a puff of wind rippled the lake, and rather than
face the ripples they slept all night in the woods.
There was only one drawback to the fishing, and
that was the worms would not  grow in the soil.
They had to bring a cartload of earth thirty miles
before they could establish a colony of the humble
earthworm. But there were lots of snakes—only the
harmless milk snakes, which the habitants always
killed because they said they sucked the cows (they
were always ready to point you out the scratches of
snake's teeth on the udders). One day we paid a
visit to our American neighbours, who lived a sort
of champagne and pdte de fois gras life in the backwoods. They used the finest and most expensive
spider tackle, and had a pond full of fine fish in the
garden in case they felt too lazy to go any farther •
but they had most divine lakes all round, with
swampy banks full of the strange and lovely pitcher
plant, and one of them with a beaver dam, sixty feet
long, tremendously thick and high. Here they
carefully preserved beavers in the summer, which
the habitants as carefully poached in the winter.
One of the residents in the neighbourhood was a
great character. He lived in a poor little shack,
with a whitewashed interior, which contained hardly
anything except a cradle and some kitchen chairs,
and consisted only of a kitchen, and an attic reached
by a ladder, divided into two cabins ; but it was his
boast that he had once owned Chicago. It appears
that about half a century ago he did have a farm
embracing much of the land on which the capital of
advertisement now stands.
It was amid the glorious pine woods of Lac Eau
Clair that I wrote my 1 Lester, the Loyalist " ; and
the scene of the Sherwoods' house is in reality laid
here, though the remainder of the New Brunswick
scenery is genuine. The snowing-up incident
actually happened in a settler's hut here. Our host
drove us down in style from Lac Eau Clair to St.
Alexis Des Monts, but we continued the journey
from St. Alexis to Louiseville in the butcher's buck-
boards. The butcher's grey mare was a trifle rocky in
its joints, and roused the matter-of-fact woman's scorn.
I How many knots an hour will that old niojDoke
go ? " But the butcher did not understand English
—or Australian. Still he felt that she wished to be
unsympathetic, so he jumped on the box of our
buckboard. I conversed with him in my best
French, and at the end he remarked, with a fine
provincial contempt for my accent, " You come
from the old France, Monsieur ? "    It was Sunday
7 V
afternoon when we got back to Louiseville, and we
found half the population making a church parade of
the railway station (a popular custom in the villages
of New France), the other half beguiling a broiling
summer's day with a ball in our hotel to a band of
three instruments brought all ,the way from Quebec.
Verily, one felt that the place was excelling itself.
10 II
THEY do things on a large scale in America. The
St. Lawrence, where it receives the waters of
Lake Ontario, is a trifle of eight miles wide, and
contains the far-famed Thousand Islands, which are
considerably over a thousand in number and vary in
size from an island big enough to contain a town to
a mere rock with one nodding tree. So wooded to
the water's edge are the Thousand Islands, that one
would not count an islet that did not run to a tree
of some sort. Though so wide, the water is often
very shallow; there are wide stretches of water one
V 7
could wade across, generally forested with reeds.
7    UJ v
As the boundary line between the State of New
York and the Province of Ontario runs down the
middle of the St. Lawrence, it follows that the
Thousand Islands are half in Canada and half in
the United States. The contrast between them is
as marked as the contrast between the countries.
On the Canadian side it is generally one island one
house, and a very simple one at that. On the
American side there are fashionable watering-places
with great hotels and luxurious villas.
It is not my purpose in this chapter to describe the
extravagances of fashionable life in the Thousand
Islands,—Alexandria Bay with its huge hotels or
sumptuous villas, such as that belonging to the
family of Dr. Holland, late editor of the Century
Magazine; or the blow-the-expense monstrosities of
HJG3 ggiftv fin
i«^^B|^^4nNgH^A«nh  4§§|B|j|b* •        *
^^B*     SV
1       §miSi
successful patentees. Mr. Pullman has endeavoured
to reproduce architectural details from the famous
cars which have made his name and his fortune,
and the proprietor of a I Safe Cure " combines a
lordly pleasure-house with a mammoth advertisement. The ordinary summer-houses on the American
side are quite bad enough, with their gaudy paint, H [■
[ |[
striped red and white, like the trousers of the stage
Uncle Sam, and their latest-appliance boats. They
seem incapable of doing the thing simply and
inexpensively. I have a sort of idea that the good
American despises himself if he does not spend a
bloated slice of his income on his summer holiday.
Decidedly the most amusing thing in the Thousand
Islands is the grand hotel and grounds, to which
admission is a question of Methodist principles,
where you get a camp meeting and summer resort
rolled into one.
We took a tiny bungalow on a tiny island. Bungalow was rather a glorified name for it. It was
hideously ugly and hardly better than a shed divided
into three—kitchen, gentlemen's dormitory, and
ladies' dormitory. Our sitting-rooms were the open
air; of course there was room to have pitched one
or two tents to sleep in; but we were old campaigners, and knew that, " Be it never so humble,
there's no place like a house."
Our island was the tiniest affair, little better than a
flat rock. If the river had risen a few feet, it would
have floated us away, and it—the river—is eight miles
wide here. There were no real trees on our island,
but there were a few weedy wild cherries, just to
make it worth counting as an island and not a rock,
and an inexhaustible supply of blueberry bushes,
though it was only about the size of a London flat.
It must not be supposed, however, that we were
isolated in the middle of the St. Lawrence like a THOUSAND ISLANDS OF ST.  LAWRENCE, ETC.     149
pin's head.    On the contrary, we formed part of a
very respectable little archipelago.
Not twenty feet away from us was quite a large
well-wooded island, with little inlets and little
ravines and a regular cave and a spring which fed
a little river with a course of at least a dozen yards.
But we maintained our independence by a channel
four or five feet deep, clear as glass and full of the
most exquisite feathery water-weeds, which was a
regular Kraken, if you did not remember to swim
Of course we spent some of every day in swimming,
generally at noon, or the hour before dinner at night.
The water was then so caressingly warm. Both
sexes wore comprehensive bathing dresses and bathed
together, and there were such delightful excursions
to be made, now wading, now swimming to other
islets. If we felt inclined for boating instead of
swimming, we used to jump into one of the flotilla of
boats (none of them up to very much) let with the
house, and pull across to the summer home of a
friend, a delightful little chalet, situated, not upon
an island, but on a peninsula of uncommon beauty,
with three sides descending perpendicularly to the
river, and the fourth through beautiful woods to a
shallow, sunny bay, which gave us the most charming
bathing we ever enjoyed. Full advantage had been
taken, with flower and fern, of the gardening capabilities of the place. The only drawback was the
occasional incursion of a skunk.    What this means
i 150
may be judged from a curious  local  lawsuit.    A
gentleman hired a bungalow for the summer ; while
he was there a skunk came and established itself
under the verandah, the house becoming, of course,
untenable; he naturally left and refused to pay the
balance of the rent; the proprietor sued for it and
got it, because there had been no proviso  about
skunks in the lease.    The prospect from the house
and cliffs was simply exquisite—island after island,
large and small, and bays with bamboo-brakes of
reeds.    Of course, one simply lived in boats ; it was
so enchanting to paddle lazily along the channels
between the rocky, woody islands—channels clear
as crystal, with swaying gardens of water-weed at
their bottoms.     Nor was it far to the broad main
channel of the river, where one could get quite a sea
in  gusty weather.    This  was  our fishing  ground.
Fishing in the Thousand Islands  comes about as
near fishing from an armchair as anything I have
tried.    If you are wise, as I was, and hire one of
v 7 7
the regular fishermen who make a business of taking
out Americans, instead of pulling yourself about to
the wrong places with the wrong tackle in one of
the leaky boats you have hired with the bungalow,
you have a fine roomy boat, with luxurious cushions
and backed seats. On each side of the boat is a shoe
to stick the rod into, and a crutch on the opposite
gunwale to hold it in position. The rod itself is a
strong bamboo about ten feet long, with a bell at the
end.   When the fish bites, the bell rings, and you fc-
draw the line to you by a little cross lanyard, and
V V V 7
haul in. If you are not ambitious, the boatman
takes the line from you when the fish is near enough
for you to have a chance of losing it, and lifts it
into the boat. He, of course, does all the baiting as
well as all the rowing. In this way quite a novice
may be credited with a catch of a lordly maskelunge
(locally known as a " lunge ") running up to twenty
pounds weight, or a monster pike. Some boatmen
even go so far as to keep little flags for mounting in
the bows when a " lunge " has been captured. They
are getting rare in these much-fished waters, though
they are still plentiful in places like the Muskoka
Lakes. You read a novel till the bell rings—the
latest one pirated from England, and therefore purchasable from fifteen to twenty-five cents.
The people who enjoy themselves most in the
Thousand Islands are the good Canadians, who, as
we did, hire a little island with a little bungalow on
it, furnished with nothing but the bare walls and
windows. They bring no more than they would
take into camp with them—in fact, less, because
they do not want tents, and simply live al fresco;
they are on the water all the day and most of the
night; and the parties generally contain assorted
couples. Given the cloudless Canadian summer,
given the most romantically lovely coves and islands
imaginable, picture life a perpetual picnic broken up
into tete-d-tetes, and you have some idea of the Golden
7 V
Age and canoe-camp life in the Thousand Islands. 152
We did not only ruralise. As I was an Englishman of letters, we were asked to plenty of garden
parties or rather island parties; and the hospitable
Canadians would even go to the expense of chartering a special steamer to bring the leading literary
people and others whom they thought I should like
to meet from Kingston or Toronto. The local guests
came in every conceivable species of skiff and canoe
and catamaran. But the blight of the Prohibition
Act hung over all the festivities, which generally
consisted of tea and fruit and confectionery and icecream and introductions.
As far as I remember, none of our hosts were
unregenerate enough to offer us a " square drink,"
though the weather made it as easy to raise a thirst
as if one had been east of Suez. Our larder was a
difficulty with us. I must say that the pretty girl,
who had undertaken the catering, treated us rather
badly. She had to be rowed two or three miles to get
to the township, and though we had a treasure of a
man who rowed the boat, cooked the meals, and made
the beds, it took such an effort to go shopping, that
she fed us almost entirely upon potatoes and canned
goods and blueberries, and fish—until we were simply
afraid to bring our fish in (especially if the fish were
pike, which run large and eat coarse), and could not
endure the sight of blueberries. Added to this, she
would not have any beer or spirits on the island
because she considered it a temptation to the boatman.   A fortnight of practical teetotalism combined 1
with a diet of fish and wild fruit made me feel as
thin as a rat, till I hit upon the expedient of sending
the boatman just before the hotels closed at night
to bring me in the darkness sufficient evil for the
morrow. He took the empty bottles back next night,
and as he was not a teetotaller and I always gave
him a quarter for his trouble I don't see how the
temptation was eliminated. It is warm work rowing
four or five miles on a Canadian summer night.
Anyhow, it bore fruit in the thereafter, because, when
we went camping on Trout Lake, she withdrew the
Prohibition embargo.
From the Thousand Islands we passed, in a crazy
little steamer which spent most of its time in running
aground, to Kingston, the ancient Frontenac, a handsome little city ideally situated on a point running
out into Lake Ontario. Frontenac thought it the
finest site he had ever seen, and La Salle was its
governor until he made that expedition down the
Mississippi that was to have brought him to the
Vermilion Sea, face to face with Cathay, but only
7 *}   7 V
took him to the Bayous, on which he founded New
Orleans, and found his death. Kingston is like a bit
of the old world, with its ramparts, its Martello
towers, its Military Academy, and its stately stone
7 t/ *J 7 v
streets embosomed in ancient trees. Once upon a
time a hundred-gun ship was built here, of timber
sent from England, and here Ontario (Upper Canada)
became a colony. But that was a hundred years
ago.    Kingston has long  ceased to be the seat of <
Government. The stately old Government House is
still standing, charmingly situated on the lake shore,
and now has an added interest to the literary world
as the Canadian home of Grant Allen, whose father
lives there. The blood of La Salle ran in the veins
of his mother, who was one of the Grants, whose
barony of Longueil was the only title in New France
recognised by the British Government. Mr. Allen
has some fine historical portraits of old Canada,
among them one of La Salle. Kingston is now a
port of considerable importance, and a great educational centre; but we could not linger there, because
we had to be at Toronto by a fixed day for the
annual exhibition. Toronto is the Chicago of Canada,
the heart of English Canada, the centre of the most
flourishing portion of the Dominion. It does not
equal Montreal in population by twenty-five per
cent., and the headquarters of the great companies
are for the most part at Montreal, as the seaport
which stands at the head of navigation. But the
Toronto branch will often rival in importance the
head office in Montreal. The millionaires live in
Montreal, but there are more evidences of diffused
wealth in Toronto, and more bustle and hum about
it, as the Americans say—the fact being that Montreal
is a French community, with English for its head,
while Toronto is all English.
Toronto is one of the most unpleasantly righteous
cities I was ever caught in on a Sunday. Tramways
do not run, and the public-houses are closed from THOUSAND ISLANDS OF ST. LAWRENCE, ETC.
seven on Saturday night till Monday morning—not
that that makes much difference in Canada, where
prohibitionist laws are strict, but not strictly regarded.
I had this very amusingly brought home to me. I
was being driven about the city by one of the leading
editors, who was doing the honours of the place,
introducing me to all the leading citizens and institutions. Among other places, we happened on the
Toronto Fair or Exhibition, where I was introduced
at once to the head, who behaved most mysteriously.
He led the way straight into his office cupboard,
which had fortunately a ray of light, though it was w^
1 i
devoted to brooms and such-like, till there was
hardly room to stand. It was all about a bottle of
rye, as they call whisky in Canada, deftly hidden
among these Lares and Penates. The exhibition
was run on prohibitionist lines weekdays as well as
Sundays (though they do not reckon cider alcoholic),
and even in the seclusion of his own office the head
dared not offer me a drink till he had hidden me in
the broom closet. We spent a great deal of time at
the fair without my deriving much edification; it
seemed to consist mostly of domestic animals and
agricultural machines, hardware and woodware, beds
that turned into bureaus, organettes, and fruits in
syrups,—things in which for the most part I am not an
expert, though the furniture certainly struck me as
exceedingly good. The Ontarians know how to turn
to advantage the beautiful woods of the province. I
am told that their organs and pianos are very good.
Of course, in agricultural machines Ontario has a
world-wide reputation; there are very few parts of
the world where one cannot see a Massey Reaper-
and-Binder. The exhibition was immense, and so
was the concourse of people from all the neighbouring
parts of Canada and the United States.
I was honestly glad when tea-time came, for Mr.
Goldwin Smith had written to say that he would send
his carriage to fetch us up to meet some of his friends,
as mourning precluded him from entertaining in a
more formal way. Goldwin Smith has the most
ideal   house in  Canada,  The  Grange,  a dear old
M   (
colonial house, with a demesne round it, right in the
heart of the city—a sort of Toronto Holland Park.
The house is typical of the man, in the very centre of
everything, but isolated; an admired, but unimitated
landmark. Among wire-pulling politicians he has
no followers. But there is no one whose judgment
is considered so independent, and people recognise
that there is no one whose good opinion is so hard to
have, and whose criticism is so difficult to disarm.
The value of a man with the courage of his opinions
is inestimable in a new country, where it is almost
V    7
impossible to escape fron the treadmill of log-rolling.
His worst enemy never accused Goldwin Smith of
log-rolling. He has generally been a Cassandra,
popular with neither the imported nor the native-
born Canadian. Each likes hearing the other abused,
but he has a happy knack of putting himself out of
court with each. When a minute before he has
flattered New World foibles by harping on the
advantages of democracies, however crude, in the
next he will trample on them with some such remark
as calling a colonial university a contradiction in
terms. But he enjoys great personal respect. I
was lunching with him at his club one day in a
room full of the ablest men in Toronto, and could
not help marking the deference with which they
received this tall, spare being from another sphere,
with his scornful, intellectual face, and his marvellous
gift of literary expression.
There are many  striking Torontonians,—for in-
4l ssa
stance, the queer German-looking Premier, so
advanced in internal policy, but so resolute a foe
to the amalgamation of Canada with the United
States, the author of that famous phrase, " a hostile
country to the south of us"; or Colonel George
Taylor Denison, Her Majesty's most loyal colonial-
born subject, the smart cavalry officer who won the
prize open to the whole world offered by the Czar
of all the Russias for the best cavalry manual.
We stayed at a commercial hotel at Toronto, the
Walker House, and received better food and attendance than at the much-vaunted Palace Hotel at
San Francisco—green corn, in particular, we never
had so good in any hotel on the American Continent.
We were inconveniently crowded, it is true; but
what place would not have been crowded at Toronto
in the Fair week ? Toronto is most en joy ably situated, right on Lake Ontario, though the City Fathers,
for some reason known only to themselves, have
allowed the railway companies to monopolise the
whole foreshore. But there is a charming walk to
Hanlan's Point, and Toronto has its specialities,
summer and winter—yachting on Lake Ontario in
the summer, and ice-boating in winter. And what
other capital in the world is there with just a narrow
lake to sail across, and a spectacle like Niagara
opposite ?
The day we went to Niagara, Lake Ontario was
emphasising the fact that a shallow lake can rival
the Atlantic for danger and discomfort to voyagers. THOUSAND ISLANDS OF ST. LAWRENCE, ETC.     159
We were in a shaky old wooden side-wheel steamer,
as the Yankee calls them, and the seas were short
and heavy. One wave would send the steamer
almost on her beam ends, and before she recovered
herself the next hit her and made her shake like
chattering teeth. The pretty girl, who did not know
what fear was on the ocean, even when it was too
rough for any one to eat except the officers, was
genuinely frightened, and made us promise to go
back by land; almost everybody on board was seasick, and the windows rattled like dice in a box.
We did go back by land, and when we arrived in
Toronto heard that the return voyage had been so
much rougher that nearly every pane of glass in the
steamer was smashed.
Once on shore, it was sight-seeing with a vengeance. The boy on the cars was simply loaded
with literature, or rather art, on the subject of
Niagara, and the people rushed from side to side in
chase of the view. The town of Niagara consists
mainly of cabs, keepsakes, and restaurants. Advertisements are no longer more conspicuous than the
Falls, but they enjoy due consideration on the
American side. The Canadian Government have
cleared them out bag and baggage, with the sharks
who used to render a visit to Niagara more expensive than a young second wife.
Niagara is not disappointing except to people who
thought the Falls would be four thousand feet high ;
they are certainly the most stupendous thing I ever
saw, though Mark Twain did say he would have
thought more of them, if they had run up hill
instead of down. He did not see any difficulty in
that. I once witnessed six streets of New York on
fire at the same time; they were filled with hogs'
lard, but they did not compare with Niagara. The
dull roar, the smooth glassy green rush over the
precipice, the soft white foam, impress one with the
idea of the greatest reserve power in the world.
Again, there is such variety,—the placid lake-like
expanse   above,  then   the   impatient   rapid which THOUSAND ISLANDS OF ST. LAWRENCE, ETC     161
spares the islands and bridges, apparently only in
obedience to a Supreme will, for it looks every
minute as if it was going to wash them over the
Falls like the Fenian steamer Caroline, which the
plucky Canadian volunteers cut out right under the
guns of Fort Schlosser and sent blazing over the Falls.
At the conclusion of this Upper Rapids come the
Falls themselves, more than a thousand feet wide
on the American side, and double as much on the
Canadian. Terrible as is the impact of that vast
body of water (1,500,000 cubit feet a minute) on the
pool below from the height of 160 feet, the little
steamer Maid of the Mist, and even rowing boats,
11 HIP
venture quite near to give you a view from the Falls
below. The most dangerous part is a little lower
down, in the Whirlpool Rapids, where the body of
water emptied over the Falls from the four great
lakes is so confined that the centre of the stream is
often thirty feet above the sides—it was here that
Webb lost his life. Niagara has, of course, a noble
record of foolish deaths. Sam Patch made two
successful leaps into the water from Biddle's Stairs,
with the remark that 1 one thing might be done as
well as another " ; he tried again when he was not
sober, and found that made a difference. Captain
Webb was drowned in trying to swim the Whirlpool
Rapids ; but another man, seemingly more foolhardy
than either, successfully demonstrated that it was
more dangerous to eat eggs than to be washed over
the Falls of Niagara. The same issue of the New
York Herald announced the death by apoplexy at the
eighty-seventh egg of a coloured gentleman who
had backed himself to eat a hundred at a sitting,
O 7
and the safe descent of a dare-devil who had let
himself be shut up in a barrel and launched over the
Falls. It always seemed to me as if the most,
dangerous thing you could do at Niagara was to go
down the open elevator attached to the face of the
cliff to look at the whirlpool. The elevator seems
to sway about like a pendulum. You pay two
shillings each for the chance of perdition. It is
much more terrifying than going under the Horseshoe Falls, which you can do at the same price, —_
including the hire of an oilskin suit. This last was
not so impressive as I expected; it only looked like
a cross between a cellar and a shower bath; you
could form no idea of the size or thickness of the
body of water looking at it through a gap like a
larder window. There is a capital hotel on the
Canadian side, where Mr. Erastus Wiman, the New
York millionaire, who has lately been imprisoned for
business irregularities, used to entertain representative people sumptuously, and after they were well
eaten and drunken, trot out his annexation fallacies,
whence the skit beginning—
" Will you walk into my parlour ? said the Wiman to the fly,
I've the great Falls of Niagara a-rolling rolling by."
Impossible as it might seem, the Falls freeze in
winter into a great hill of ice.
All the country round Niagara was debatable in
the year 1812. Here are the Queenston Heights,
where Brock hurled the American army into the
river, and died in the moment of victory. Close by
is Lundy's Lane, another Canadian victory-field;
and, a few miles west, Beaver Dams, where, owing
to the heroism of Laura Secord, Colonel Boerstler
surrendered six hundred infantry, fifty cavalry, two
field guns, and a stand of colours to a boy ensign,
with forty British soldiers and two hundred militiamen and Indians. These foughten fields are now a
forest of peach trees, a garden of grapes. Over a
million baskets of peaches are shipped from Grimsby
alone, and the  only Canadian wine is made from w
Niagara grapes. As the poet Roberts once wrote
on the Brock column at the summit of Queenston
Heights, I Standing on this gallery, one sees unrolled
before him a matchless panorama of battle-field and
vineyard, of cataract and quiet stream, of dark wood
and steepled villages, and breadths of peach orchards,
and fortresses no longer hostile; and far across the
blue waters of Ontario, the smoke of the great city
towards which our feet are set." m Mm
T I THE bungalow life in the Thousand Islands put it
-*- into our minds to try some real camping-out
in tents in the forest primaeval, and where there
was something else to catch besides pike' which-
hooked themselves and rang the bell when they
were ready. Everybody assured us that the very
best district for this kind of thing was the chain
of lakes which formed the headwaters of the
Ottawa and Mattawa rivers. They told us, moreover,
that the easiest way to strike them was to go by
train to North Bay, the saw-mills town on Lake
Nipissing, which is the junction of the line from
Toronto with the Canadian Pacific Railway's main
line from Vancouver. When we got there we were
directed to drive" out about six miles through the forest
to Trout Lake, and then to go by boat and canoe as
far as ever we liked from one lake to another.
And this is why we are here—stranded (with the
sun going down) at the water's edge of a sandy bluff
on a lonely island, separated by half a dozen miles
of water and half a dozen miles of thick forest from
the nearest town, and that little more than a railway
7 V divisional point at one corner of the great Lake
Nipissing. However, here we are, and we feel quite
thankful for that; for when we were out in the
middle of the four-mile reach the guide, with the
nonchalance of his race, remarked that he hoped it
would not blow, because if he had thought there was
any chance of it, he would not have ventured out in
the open in such a crazy old birch-bark. Even
trolling (without getting any bites) was hardly
sufficient distraction to drive away unpleasant
thoughts till we were in shore again. Our fleet
consisted of a scow—a kind of large punt, to
transport the tents and the stores and the camp
kettles which had made such a glorious rattling as
the buckboard bumped over the unmitigated corduroy
trail through the forest—the aforesaid birch-bark, TROUT LAKE, AND CAMPING-OUT IN CANADA.    167
and a skiff. Fortunately we had a sea captain among
the party, who sailed the scow with great success,
looking in the distance as if it must be carrying the
body of King Arthur.
This is Big Camp Island—very well named, for
one could not desire any better camping ground than
this high and dry bluff of sand with its certainty of
dry beds, sheltered by thick woods from the prevailing winds, but sufficiently cleared around the camp
to keep away mosquitoes. The stomach of man had
been here, for there was a rude trestle table still in
situ, with a form in front of it—a board nailed on
two tree stumps. Moreover, an adjoining hollow was
filled with preserved-milk cans and broken bottles;
and a canned-salmon tin, which seemed a little
superfluous at Trout Lake, reminded us that we had
intended to eat fish for supper.
As one of the guides (a temporary. one only) was
lame, and therefore not of much use in pitching the
camp, he was told off to take my small boy and
myself to the nearest fishing-ground to provide the
supper.    Captain M  and the other guide had
already started cutting poles and erecting the tents,
and the ladies stayed ashore under the delusion that
the culinary comforts of the expedition depended on
them. The matter-of-fact woman did not see the
good of camping-out at all—she had only come to
chaperone the pretty one. Our fishing-ground was
only half a mile off, in full view, between a little
rocky islet and the opposite shore.    Trout Lake, I If
may explain, though ten miles long, is generally not
wider than a good river. We got bites almost
directly we started; our guide, of the family of
Jessop, the only inhabitant of the upper end of the
lake, who supplies the boats and guides, was in
despair. " It's them little rock fellers; they're no
good to eat, and they won't let the black ones get
near the bait." "Are they bass, too?" "Rock
bass." " Shall we go somewhere else ? " " Isn't
time; night would catch us," he said, pointing to
the swift twilight which was spreading over the dark
forested shores, making the lake itself look like an
oval shield of polished steel. I gave my rod to
Charles, who was not above catching anything, food
or no food, until frantic shouts, coo-ee-ing, and the
blowing of the funny green tin foghorn—dear to
the Canadian backwoodsman—summoned us back
to supper.
The lame man's rowing was not impaired by his
accident, and soon we were in the midst of a little
cluster of white tents, seated before bread and butter
and jam, beer and tea, a noble sirloin of beef, and
most lovely fried potatoes. The matter-of-fact
woman, who had been in Australia, was, it appeared,
responsible for the fine stew of tea; but the potatoes
were the production of the guide, who had made us
buy several pounds of salt pork from Mrs. Jessop,
as we had suspected at the time, for a stand-by to a
colossal appetite. But we were soon to be glad that,
he knew enough.    Of course, there was a blazing
fire, and a big pile of logs in reserve. We were
hardly through the fragrant meal when the difficulty
of seeing the way to our mouths, or rather our food,
forced the unwelcome discovery on us that we had
brought no lamps or candles. The people at the
capital Pacific Hotel, at North Bay, which we had
made our basis for this camping expedition, had been
kindness itself to us. For their moderate two dollars
a head per day charge they had kept on our rooms
for us, with all our masses of luggage undisturbed,
and undertaken to supply us with our food for
the expedition free of extra charge; but, as the
staff of the hotel did not go out camping themselves quite every day, they naturally could not be
expected to remember everything. I was surprised
at being able to be the deus ex machina. Nobody else
had ever heard of the common sludge lamp of the
Australian bush; but directly I described it, our
half-breed French guide, George Rancier (one of the
handiest men I ever saw), had cut the salmon-tin
half-way down, to make a shade from the wind, put
a small piece more of our all-useful salt pork into
the frying-pan, and frayed out and unpicked a rag,
which he wove into a most workmanlike wick quick
as lightning; and we were soon having a noble
smoking flare, aided by fresh fuel on the fire.    With
O 7 v
this additional strain on it, it was quite clear that
the fuel would not hold out for the night, so I had
half an hour's strong exercise in felling a tree, which
had been left rather nearer the camp than most ON THE CARS AND  OFF.
because it was too thick to cut down in a few chops.
Then toddy for those who liked it, brewed divinely
out of Canadian rye and lemons by that invaluable
half-breed, and to bed. I, personally, preferred
devoting my attention to the lovely moonlit night;
the pines of the surrounding wood silhouetting
against the blue starlit sky; the steely lake under
the tall sandy point, with the moon stretching right
across it in a glittering, quivering shaft; the black
pine masses of the opposite shore; and the three backwoodsmen outlined against the tents by the blood-red
glare of the gigantic fire.
But we all had to go to bed like Moses. No
wonder that William the Conqueror's British subjects   hated   the  curfew  so.     However,  the   beds TROUT LAKE, AND CAMPING-OUT IN CANADA.   171
themselves were lovely soft deep piles of fragrant
fir needles with deer-skin rugs piled on them, and red
Indian blankets on the top of these. And so, having
no light at one end, we got as much as we could at
the other by rising before dawn, while the mists
v O 7
were still rolling. We lost no time in making up
the fire, for it was bitterly cold; but we considered
that we should not be doing the thing properly
unless we bathed—all except the matter-of-fact
woman, who put off her bath to the middle of
the day, " when all of you will be fooling round
after the fish." The pretty girl walked half a mile
to find a sufficiently sequestered cove for Diana's
bath, hung her looking-glass—a Japanese one—on a
tree, and plunged in. When she came out she was
so long doing her hair with her frozen fingers that
the universal provider of a half-breed thought she
must have got cramp and been drowned. He went
(I believe not expecting to bring her body back with
the soul inside, though he did), and she was very glad
to be brought back with a few deft strokes in the
birch-bark, instead of having to force a way back
through the dewy wood. The gentlemen, of course,
bathed off the particularly bald sandy bluff within a
few yards of the camp; the matter-of-fact woman
could be relied on not to disturb them; she had
announced her intention of cooking her own breakfast in the middle of the morning.
We were all afire to get to the fishing, more
especially as we had to go for bait to a reedy
shallow, where there might be a deer if we went
early enough and quietly enough. They were out
of season, but seasons do not signify in the forest.
The pretty girl, too, felt nervous about the strawberry jam. We had only brought two pots, and the
sea captain, who, in spite of the hard tack he had
been accustomed to all his life, was far daintier than
the delicately brought up ladies, and swore (in
guarded language) at the victuals all the time,
seemed inclined to concentrate the whole of his
Gargantuan appetite on this one item. So she
promised to go in the skiff alone with him, if he
would start at once. Charles and I and the half-
breed went into the shaky birch-bark.
It was a bit of Paradise—a soft September morning;
we glided between two lovely wooded islands, over TROUT LAKE, AND  CAMPING-OUT IN CANADA.
clear shallow water in a light canoe, plied so deftly
that the only noise was the hissing of the reeds as we
slipped through them to the place where the deer
came down to water.
Here we posted in ambush, while the guide caught
multitudinous minnows as bait for the bass and
pickerel. Pace the name—Trout Lake—we were
told that it was highly unlikely that we should catch
any trout. The brook trout were not fond of this
lake, and it was too early in the season for the
monster lake trout to come into the shallows, where
we might catch them. In the summer they swim
very deep; one has to have a 200-foot heavily
weighted line, and even then they do not bite
No deer came; so we divided the bait with the
skiff, and paddled into a long bay with many headlands, round each of which, as we came up to them,
we expected to catch that most exciting of finny
prey—black bass. But never a bite did we get, and
we felt like giving up the whole thing in despair
(as, from their attitudes, the captain and the pretty
girl obviously had), when the half-breed's quick eye
detected a pickerel in a little bay. Taking my rod
he angled for him, and the fish bit greedily. 1 Take
your rod back, sir," he said; " if there are any more
round here they will bite like fury." And I did,
and almost as fast as I could bait my line hooked
fine pickerel, four or five pounds weight, which
towed the little canoe round in their struggle to free ON THE CARS AND OFF.
themselves. So strong and greedy were they that
they kept breaking my hooks until I took the triple
hook of a spinning bait and used that. They still
swallowed the bait freely. I caught about a hundred
pounds' weight of them in an hour, and then left off
to go home for lunch.
In the afternoon we had a taste of the other side of
camp life.    Captain M  and Charles and I were
in the skiff lying off the opposite shore for the black
bass that would not come, and the guides had gone
7 O O
off, one to get more bait and the other twelve miles
back to North Bay for candles and lamps.    Sailor
like, Captain M had seen the squall coming and
run the boat into a cove sheltered from that quarter. TROUT LAKE, AND  CAMPING-OUT IN CANADA.    175
There was, moreover, a sail in the boat, for he had a
craze for trying to sail anything that would float.
When the first drops came, we had made ourselves,
our rifles, and our worms, the only things in the
boat worth anything, snug under the sail, though
Captain M  got pretty wet in looking out from
time to time to see if the boat was all right.
The ladies were not so fortunate. The pretty girl,
not feeling very bright, was lying on her bed reading
a novel, when suddenly she heard a pitter patter.
It had been bright sunshine when she was outside
a few minutes before, without a breath astir in the 176
trees. She had noticed, however, when she came in,
hearing a sudden rush in the tree tops, and then,
with no more warning, the squall broke. In an
instant the tents were uprooted. In her terror of
thunder and lightning she made a wild effort, and,
catching hers as it was flying away, wrapped it
round her as she sat upon her bed. All the other
tents, the bedclothes, and our clothes were flying
across the island before the tornado (fortunately in
the direction of the woods and not the water), with
the matter-of-fact woman after them, full tear,
blowing like mad on the green tin horn for the
guides to come back. She had found an interest at
last. Of the camp nothing remained but the half-
charred logs of the fire, which had been extinguished
in a few seconds by the deluge of rain, and the pots
and pans, which were going to be used for frying the
fish. The pretty girl was a pretty spectacle when
the storm suddenly dropped, and we put back across
the lake to the summons of the horn; the smart
starched shirt, in which she had looked such a
picture, had received the runnings of her blue
yachting jacket and the tent.
The half-breed got there as soon as we did, and at
once began repairing damages, which took the line,
as we afterwards discovered, of stealing a blanket
from each of our beds, as soon as they were dry, to
v t/ 7
add them to the pretty girl's. Her grace and golden
hair had taken him by storm. We returned to our
fishing, and the storm seemed to have cleared the TROUT LAKE, AND CAMPING-OUT IN CANADA. Ill
water as well as the air, for almost immediately
came an almighty tug that broke the common
seventy-five-cent rod I was using, like a straw. But
I had taken the precaution of hitching the line
round every joint of the rod, for I knew what
powerful fish there were in the lake, so I was able
to stick to my fish and play him; and after he
had towed the boat round for a few minutes in came
Master Black Bass, a six-pounder, looking for all
the world like a big schnapper, but for his colour.
Then came another and another not so large to
one or other rod, and we pulled back early to our
island, so as to land in time for supper the finest
delicacy in the world—a black bass fresh from the
What a supper we had that night! The half-breed
cooked fish better than any hotel cook in the United
States; it was like eating flakes of cream flavoured
with turbot, and fried to perfection in breadcrumbs.
The nautical man frightened us with his carrying
capacity. We felt serious apprehensions for his
safety, till the strain was relieved after supper by
his standing so close to the fire to dry his wet
clothes that the whitey-brown tweed coat, which was
his special pride and our nightmare, began to broil,
and fell in flakes off his back. Once more were we
dependent on our sludge lamp. The other guide did
not get back with the candles till next morning.
We were clever about our morning dip; we lighted
a big fire by the water's edge before we jumped in,
12 178
and dried ourselves and dressed on the lee side of it.
A six o'clock bath on a September morning is cold
work. We had another delicious meal off the bass
(fried with salt pork—I don't know what we should
have done without the salt pork and the half-breed),
and then went off to shoot the rapid into a smaller
lake, the river just above and below being a famous
bass ground; and we were rewarded, though I had
only a hazel-pole to replace my broken rod. In the
afternoon it occurred to us that we should like a
change of fare. We gentlemen were alarmed at the
supplies of meat running out, and the pretty girl
had exhausted all the novels she had brought to
read while she was fishing, and the matter-of-fact
woman thought camping such rot, so we packed off
the other guide back for more meat, carnal and intellectual. As he had only just returned from the
township we suggested that the half-breed should go
in his place—but he objected. Twelve miles was
nothing to him, and a night in North Bay as much
joy and dissipation as a night in London to a
Scotchman. We meanwhile thought we would kill
some of the spruce-grouse which had been described
to us as so numerous and so obliging; and, in
accordance with instructions, landed on the opposite
side of the lake, and took the lumberman's trail to
a small lake a couple of miles through the woods.
But we saw no grouse—we hardly expected to, for
without a dog one is helpless; and the dogs had all-
gone with Mr. Jessop to the Toronto Fair; but when TROUT LAKE, AND  CAMPING-OUT IN CANADA.    i79
we got to the lovely little reed-fringed lake in the
midst of a broad red moss we  saw some ducks.
" Fire, M ," I cried; and then he discovered, for
nothing could induce him to load his gun before he
saw his game, that the gun the hotel manager had
lent us was a ten-bore, and we, taking it for granted
that it was a twelve-bore, without looking at it, had
brought twelve-bore cartridges. I fired a couple of
'balls at the ducks without any effect, to my double
sorrow, for we wanted them badly to eat, and M	
had jeeringly offered to swim for them, and I wished
to hold him to his word.
Coming back we stopped to examine the lumbermen's camp, long deserted, because all the old,
valuable trees had been thinned out of the forest-
It consisted of a stable, and a hut hardly better than
a stable, both built of heavy logs, and the latter
with a raised log floor surrounded by bunks, with a
stone hearth in the middle, and only shutters for
windows. The half-breed said that the lumbermen,
who onlv work in the winter, when the logs can be
sledged, wear enormous quantities of clothing, three
or four guernseys apiece under their buckskin shirts,
and never take off their clothes at all during the
lumbering season. Coming back we really did see
a grouse, but he hardly showed the simplicity we
had been led to expect. If there was one thing more
than all others we had been assured of, it was that
he would sit still to be shot; but he kept dodging
about so unpleasantly that one could never bring a 1
rifle to bear on him, and we wrent home with nothing
to show but the mud from " the moss " on our boots.
The guide with the supplies, to our surprise and his
chagrin, arrived back at night, to say that a local
J.P., who lived near North Bay, having heard of our
disappointment at not being able to get Mr. Jessop
and his dogs, was, with true Canadian hospitality,
going to bring his own dogs up in the night, so as to
start at dawn.
Dawn came, and our friend—one of the bleached-
bearded men one meets in the colonies—explained
that I must not write anything about the episode
till we got back to England, because we were about
to break the law in three ways. He would like us
to shoot a moose, the finest game in these woods, but
it was against the law to shoot a moose at all in
Ontario for a fixed period, till their number got up
a little; secondly, the season had not begun; and,
thirdly, it was not legal to drive deer down to the
water to be shot, as he intended to do, so as to give
us a good day's sport. But in the backwoods, when
the sport of the country was to be shown to strangers
from distant parts, none of these objections seemed
to signify much.
Our friend undertook to work the dogs himself.
We were posted in two divisions—I, with Charles
and the half-breed, on a berry-thicketed peninsula;
Captain M and the pretty girl on an island off
the shore.    I tried to beguile the time by learning
the names of the various berries round our ambush TROUT LAKE, AND CAMPING-OUT IN CANADA.    181
—the blue, red, and white kohush berries, the
electric-blue belladonna berries, the bear berries,
the nanny berries, the tiny chock cherries (so called
from their choking, sloe-like effect on the throat),
the little red winter-green berries (so invaluable
medicinally), the raspberries, blackberries, dewberries, dogwood berries, pigeon or partridge berries,
the red, three-cornered cockscomb berries, wild
gooseberries, wild currants and wild strawberries,
sugar plums, sweet cherries, mountain-ash berries,
blueberries, high and low cranberries, and kinnick-
kinnicks. We lay prostrate, and listened as anxiously
as if we expected a burglar, but only heard the lake
rippling like tiny bells against the crags, the
drumming of the boat upon the ledge, the skir-ir-irr-irr
of the chipmunk, the little striped Canadian squirrel,
and the south wind whipping through the trees.
Presently we heard the sound of barking not so far
from where Captain M  must be.    But no shot
came. The pretty girl hated guns. She said a
lover and a gun in the boat at the same time were
enough to turn a woman's brain. So the captain
and the rifle were put on shore, and as he stood
watching her, and endeavouring to lure her from
her novel into a conversation, naturally the deer saw
him instead of his seeing the deer, and simply ran
past. They admitted afterwards that they had heard
a lot of barking, but thought that was us killing the
deer. And so our J.P. was unable to break the law,
and we took no deer back to North Bay, but merely ON THE CARS AND  OFF.
the story of the half-breed's first moose-call. He
had heard the moose calling to each other, and made
a decoy of birch bark which exactly reproduced the
noise. One day he tried it, and soon heard a large
bull-moose coming towards him; but when he saw it
he thought it must be mad, it was so furious. When
it got within fifty yards of him he was so frightened
that he fired and missed it. Next day he told the
story to an old backwoodsman. " Give me the call,"
was the reply. He gave it. " Oh, that's easily
explained; it is a bull-moose's challenge to fight
over a female which you have imitated." CHAPTER XV.
TROUT LAKE inspired us with a desire to visit
the monarch of lakes, Lake Superior, Hiawatha's Gitche Gumee—big sea-water. Only that
we meant to visit the luxuriantly picturesque north
shore instead of the south, and we meant to sleep in
a hotel, or a station-master's house, or any other
wooden habitation that might present itself, rather
than the most luxurious of tents.
Before we started on our journey across Canada,
I had asked Sir William Van Home, the President
of the Canadian Pacific Railway, who is very fond of
v 7 V
giving his friends and strangers sport, where I could
get the best fishing on Lake Superior. He told me
the Nepigon, and the Steel River, which runs into
Jackfish Bay. Both rivers run into Lake Superior
on the north. But I found that the fishing on the
Nepigon required thirty miles canoeing and portaging
from the hotel and the nearest point on the railway;
while at Jackfish, the nearest point for the Steel
River, there was no hotel at all. Schreiber, which was
a divisional point, had two or three hotels, but was
inland from the lake, and had no famous trout river. ON THE  CARS AND  OFF.
Then a Hudson's Bay agent told me that he
believed that there was a hotel at Peninsula Bay,
right on Lake Superior, and that the Monro River,
famous for its gigantic trout, was only four miles
along the line, and therefore accessible by the hand car.
I wrote to the postmaster of Peninsula, a town
which consists of a railway station, a store and post-
office combined, a hotel, and a washerwoman, to ask
him if there was a hotel, and if so to engage rooms
for us—our party consisting of myself, my wife, my
little boy, the pretty girl, and Captain M——.
I got a letter from the hotel proprietor, a very
modest letter, in which he said that he never thought
of accommodating tourists, that his hotel was a very
humble affair which he had opened for the accommodation of train hands, but that it was clean, and that
if we would put up with hardships he would be glad
to take us, and that he would charge us a dollar a
day. After we had been there a day or two I told
him he ought to have charged us two. It was a
plain two-storied wooden house, clean as a new pin ;
and an enormous Irishwoman, who acted as cook and
housekeeper, really was very motherly and obliging.
It is true that the supply of meat was open to chance.
One day there was an accident on the main line,
between Port Arthur and Peninsula, and for the
next day or two canned meat and cabbage and bacon
was all we got, when we did not acquit ourselves
creditably with the rods. But after the first day we
got all the fish we wanted. IWU*i»- i. —t"..
I went to Peninsula for the lake fishing. The big
lake trout, which run up to forty pounds weight,
come into the shallow water towards the end of the
Fall, and then the trolling season begins. But I
found that though Peninsula has a beautiful landlocked harbour, there was not a single boat in the
However, two Indians, with good canoes, great
sportsmen, were reported to have erected their tepees
at the mouth of the Monro River, five or six miles
away; and, taking a rifle on the chance of sighting
one of the bears which had come down to the lake
shores for the berry harvest, we started off on the
hand car. When we reached the rather inaccessible
spot at which the river runs into Gitche Gumee—
the big, dark, wild lake—we found only bones and
ashes; the Indians had moved on. We were
momentarily relieved in our chagrin by finding the
fresh trail of a bear, which had been rioting in a
splendid patch of wild gooseberries—sweet and tasty,
and almost as dark as a Morella cherry. But we
could not find Bruin, so we tramped wearily back to
Peninsula to send a telegram to Port Coldwell to get
one of the trolling fleet there, fine big sail-boats, to
come round to Peninsula and take us out every day
while we were there.
When we went to the station-master to ask him
to telegraph to Port Coldwell (eleven miles off—
one of the great fishing stations of Lake Superior
for the lake trout season), it was about sundown. ON THE CARS AND OFF.
| What do you want a boat for ? " he asked; " why
don't you go down to the Dundas Creek ? It's only
a quarter of a mile down the track, and the roadsman
catches beauties there sometimes."
| Will they rise to a fly ? 1
"He uses nothing else—though folks take them
with a grasshopper quite often."
The grasshoppers had most of them gone to bed,
but we managed to catch a few by patting them
with a stick and picking them up while they were
stunned, and we took some red and white flies, the
ones commonly sold at the Hudson's Bay Stores on
the north shore of Lake Superior.
The creek crossed the line, so we could not miss
it. We could either go up or down, but the big fish
lay under the waterfalls.
The Lake Superior waterfall is a species all to
itself. There is no Niagara-like impact of a mass
of water leaping over a precipice. The waterfall is
over a sloping boulder. Things run large about
Lake Superior—the lake itself in length, breadth,
and depth, and the boulders which surround it are
on a par in this respect. One sees boulders of the
bright red stone, characteristic of the north shore,
fifty or sixty feet long, twenty or thirty feet through.
Every now and then one of these gets jammed
lengthways in the sloping bed of a creek, and the
water rushes over it like a big sheet of glass, into a
hole two or three feet deep below the lower end,
usually hemmed in more or less with smaller boulders.  l\ ON THE SHORES OF LAKE SUPERIOR.
The creeks are in most places thickly fringed with
small trees, which add to the angler's task severely.
We went down stream till we came to just such a
pool, with a big rock jutting out into the stream on
one side of it, from which one could throw a fly—an
utter impossibility from the banks themselves, which
formed a regular brake.
We fished steadily for about an hour and caught
nothing ; I climbed up on to a ledge of rocks above
us, which commanded a view of the lake, to drink
in the glorious prospect. I had seen few pieces of
scenery like this.
In front of us was the beautiful island-studded
harbour or bay of Peninsula, with the vast expanse
of Lake Superior beyond; on my left lay the big
cape, nearly surrounded by water, which gives the
place its name, and which once had a busy town
under its shadow. On my right was a long line of
lofty islands horizoning the sunset, and the crimson
glow with its warm light was imparting an unearthly
beauty to the sea of gigantic red boulders, which
had every cranny filled with wild cherry or blue-
berry bushes—such blueberries as I never saw before,
as large as grapes, and seeming to spring straight
out of the moss, so little stem or leaf had they. The
fierce gales of Lake Superior dwarf every tree and
plant, and this seems to give increased vigour to the
fruit. The blueberries were so thick and so grapelike in their fecundity of juice that the ladies could
not go to the trout pool without staining their skirts,.
and I seriously thought of starting a factory for
blueberry wine to compete against the not very
brilliant (grape) wine of Niagara.
Poetising over the scenery was not without result,
for walking along to a ledge of the rock that commanded a view of the creek just below the waterfall
where the others were fishing, I saw a sight to make
an angler's heart beat a tattoo. Where the deeper
water met the shallow, clearly outlined, even with
the fading light in the clear, gravel-bottomed stream
were a pair of gigantic brook trout, the most prized
fish, after Scotch salmon, which swim in fresh water.
I hastily slid down the embankment to my rod.
The others had quitted in disgust the jutting boulder
below the waterfall; I stealthily occupied it, dreading
a shout of excitement and an invasion from them.
But they had not seen the monsters. The stream
was strong enough for there to be no fear of the fly
sinking, and I had a mere stick of a rod, with no
reel, and quite likely to break at the first severe strain.
It only cost twenty-five cents at the Peninsula store
and post-office. We had come there, it must be
remembered, for lake fishing, to troll with sea-trolls
for the mighty thirty and forty-pounder lake trout,
who keep fifty and sixty feet down. We had only
fallen back on this creek because there was no boat
at Peninsula.
To make as sure as I could of not losing my fish,
if I managed to hook one of these monster brook
trout which looked every ounce of three pounds, I mm
had, as I mentioned, knotted my line firmly round
each of the three pieces of my rod, preferring not
to trust the miserable little brass rings let into its
cheap cane.
The trout lay nearly thirty feet farther down the
stream than my rock. I had about fifteen feet of
line at the end of my rod, and started operations by
holding the rod nearly perpendicularly, and then
sloped and stretched it more and more as the swift
current swept the fly down to the trout. There
were so many little eddies and currents from the
rocks in the stream that I had to make a good many
casts before I saw the exact place to drop the fly for
it to drift right on to the fish; and they would not
chase it. Either they were sluggish (the weather
was getting cold and the season nearly expired, for
breeding time was approaching) or else it was too
dark for the fish to see.
I was just getting desperate when I made an
unusually successful cast. The fly got caught in a
nice little ripple which ran right over where the big
trout lay, dark, and fat as a carp. Bob, bob, bob,
right up to his nose. He gave a lazy snap at it, and
I struck at that moment, for he didn't look as if
he cared enough for it to take much trouble about it.
I felt as if I had had a galvanic shock. There
were too many roots and boulders to let him have
his head and tie the line up in a knot, so I held his
head up as one holds a stumbling horse, trusting to
Providence that the wretched twenty-five-cent rod
would stand the strain. It bent like a mole-trap,
but it did not give way for many a day afterwards.
"M , M !" I shouted, "the landing-net;
I've got a whacking fish on."
" Got a snag ! " he called out scornfully. But he
came, and fairly screamed with excitement when he
saw what a beauty I had towing the line round the
pool, with its nose up on the surface of the water,
which it was lashing into ripples and foam, showing
the silver of its sides and crimson tint of its belly, as
well as its dark, strong back. It was a game fish,
but the tackle stood the strain. The rod I have
described, and the line was really too thick for
throwing a fly captivatingly, but it was all I could
raise in a place that devoted itself to lake fishing.
Round and round the pool that stately fish steamed,
towing my line and flogging the water with his
strong tail; but I held him up, preventing him from
fouling the line in a snag, and gradually he got more
exhausted and I was able to work him into a little
bay behind the rock on which I stood, where Captain
M slipped the landing-net under him.    He was
one of the grandest brook trout I have ever seen. A
couple of inches more and he would have been two
feet long, and when we got home and weighed him,
though he was a little bit out of condition, for it was
so late in the season, he scaled over four pounds, so
deep in the belly was he. His flesh was a beautiful,
rich salmon colour, and he showed all the colours of
the rainbow on his belly when he was first caught. _
My fly was uninjured, for I had hooked him
through the cartilage of the upper lip ; so as soon as
he was landed and hauled up the bank in our excitement lest he should slip back into the water, I threw
out my line for his mate, a somewhat smaller fish,
which had darted away down stream when he was
caught, but which had come back to look for him
when the water got quieter, while we were despatching him on the bank, as I could see by the dim
outline at the edge of the shallows, in the grey light
of the dusk so rapidly changing to night. This fish,
perhaps because it was alone now, or perhaps because
it was growing darker, was not so suspicious, and
charging the fly as it drifted towards it, swallowed
it boldly, and then we had another terrific tussle.
It was lucky for me that the fish was well-hooked,
for I couldn't see so well what it was doing and
didn't handle it particularly well, and it managed
to twist the line round a branch with a broken twig
that  overhung the water.     But  Captain M ,
pulling out the big knife which, sailor-like, he
carried, cut the branch away, and the fish had pretty
well exhausted itself in its efforts to get away when
hitched up to the branch, so it was fairly plain
sailing afterwards. The fish scaled about two and
a half pounds, and was not so handsomely marked
as the other. I have been talking about them as if
the big handsome fish was the male, and the small
one the female, but as a natural history fact I am
not quite certain that the reverse is not the case.
Ml 192
That night with these two big fish—it was too
dark to go on fishing any more—we enjoyed quite a
Roman triumph as we filed up past the railway
station and the post-office store to the hotel kitchen
to scale our prizes, and they made a very acceptable
addition to the canned meat, which was the corollary
of the railway accident.
The next day, as in duty bound, we returned to
our creek, morning and afternoon, and caught a few
insignificant trout, till evening approached, when
once more the big fish began to come up stream.
I dare say we saw six or eight that evening and
caught three, and so it was every evening—two or
three fish running from a pound and a half to four
pounds.    I never caught such a splendid average.
After the third day we learned that for some
particular reason the particular hour to fish this
particular creek at this particular season of the year
was sunset, and devoted ourselves to the other enjoyments of the place during the day. One delightful
ramble was to follow the creek up towards its faraway source in the hills, past numbers of the queer
boulder-waterfalls, over a kind of rock-strewn Scotch
moor, in which the grape-like dwarf blueberry, and
wild cherries and high-bush cranberries flourished
round deep, delicious pools of running water fit for a
Naiad, and harbouring some small trout.
Another, along the railroad track, led to the famous
Monro Creek or River, with its magnificent trestle
bridge, the largest timber bridge in Canada except ON THE SHORES OF LAKE SUPERIOR.
the Red Sucker trestle. This Monro Creek is, after
the Nepigon and the Steel River, the most renowned
trout river that runs into Lake Superior from the
north shore. It is famous for the big trout above
its first fall, but as we could catch more than we
could eat in a little creek a quarter of a mile from
home—the monsters described above—we saw no
good in going four miles farther.
There is a big sort of gorge here about a mile
wide, which I never saw rivalled for wild fruit. It
was here that we came upon the unparalleled patch
of luscious, crimson wild gooseberries, which the big
bear had just vacated. And here the red wild
currants were sweeter and wineier than any garden
currants. Blackberries, raspberries, blueberries,
cranberries (high-bush and low-bush), wild cherries,
sugar plums, partridgeberries, all were huge, luscious
and omnipresent. I never saw such a tangle of
wild fruit. Below the railway embankment on the
north side there is a fine place for a camp, on the dry
raised bank of the creek, protected by the embankment and the gorge from the wind, and free enough
of trees and bushes to discourage mosquitoes.
Only thirty-five miles from Peninsula is the Jackfish Bay station of the Canadian Pacific Railway.
It takes about a couple of hours in the train, which
leaves at 6.15 a.m., and leaves Jackfish on the
return journey at 9.30 p.m. At Jackfish is the
famour Steel River, the second on the north shore
in its repute for trout fishing.    President Van Home
13 194
generally takes his guests there, but one has to trust
to the good nature of the station-master for accommodation, while Peninsula has a hotel from which one
can go away fishing in the Steel River all day and
come back at night. There is a fine sweep of Lake
Superior visible from Jackfish. But the only hotel
commanding a view of Lake Superior on the whole
north shore is at Peninsula, which makes it pleasant
for ladies and children, who cannot always be going
away on expeditions, while this place has the further
advantage for children of a beautiful sandy beach.
Those who are of a romantic turn of mind need
not go to the hotel. There are still some habitable
shacks standing right on the lake shore (the hotel
being in full view of the lake, but half a mile up
hill). These shacks (huts) are the remains of quite
a considerable town with dozens and dozens of saloons,
where hundreds of men drank, and gambled, and
fought in the " construction days " of the Canadian
Pacific Railway. The work of carrying the line
round the north shore of Lake Superior was terrific.
There was so much heavy " cutting" to be done
through the prodigious cliffs and boulders which
dominate the lake shore—one section cost $700,000
per mile, and unless minerals are found it can never
be very productive. But to the lover of the picturesque this following the wild shore-line of the great
lake is glorious. Not since the Caribou Rush in
British Columbia, a generation and more ago, had
there been  such wild scenes in Canada as at the mm
i construction " town at Peninsula. Now the whole
of it is dismantled and many of the buildings pulled
down for the deals of which they were built. But
there are still some that would do for camping in,
which one can hire for a mere song from the storekeeper, a Yorkshire man, named Harry Wilson, who
keeps all kinds of stores that one would want for
roughing it.
One stormy day when the creek was too full for
fishing, we went down to the harbour's edge to see
this dead town, reminding one of a murderer's ghost.
The gale whistled through the broken windows, and
the rain poured