How many
vicissitudes do they undergo before giving way to modern progress, the
exigencies of commerce, the wants or whims of new masters? The edifices,
did we say? Their origin, their progress, their decay, nay, their
demolition by the modern iconoclast - have they no teachings? How many
phases in the art of the builder and engineer, from the high-peaked Norman
cottage to the ponderous, drowsy Mansard roof - from Champlain's picket
fort to the modern citadel of Quebec - from our primitive legislative
meeting-house to our stately Parliament Buildings on the Grande Allee?
The streets and by-ways of famous old world cities have found chroniclers,
in some instances of rare ability: Timbs, Howitt, Augustus Sala,
Longfellow, &c. Why should not those of our own land obtain a passing
notice?
Is there on American soul a single city intersected by such quaint,
tortuous, legend-loving streets as old Quebec? Is there a town retaining
more unmistakable vestiges of its rude beginnings - of its pristine,
narrow, Indian-haunted, forest paths?
Our streets and lanes bear witness to our dual origin: Champlain,
Richelieu, Buade streets, by their names proclaim the veneration our
fathers had for the memory of men who had watched over the infancy of the
colony, whilst the mystic, saintly nomenclature of others exhibited the
attachment of the early dwellers in Quebec to the hallowed old Roman faith
which presided at their natal hour.
