"Now there was something amazingly inspiriting in all this,
particularly when coming from the solitude and monotony of a long
voyage.
[5] The very voice that ye-hoed; the hoarse challenge of the
sentinels on the rock; the busy hum of the town - made delicious music
to my ear; and I could have stood and leaned over the bulwark for
hours, to gaze at the scene. I own no higher interest invested the
picture - for I was ignorant of Wolfe. I had never heard of Montcalm -
the plains of "Abraham" were to me but grassy slopes, and "nothing
more." It was the life and stir, - the tide of that human ocean, on
which I longed myself to be a swimmer - these were what charmed me. Nor
was the deck of the old "Hampden" inactive all the while, although
seldom attracting much of my notice: soldiers were mustering,
knapsacks packing, rolls calling, belts buffing, and coats brushing on
all sides; men grumbling, sergeants cursing; officers swearing; half-
dressed invalids popping up their heads out of hatchways, answering to
wrong names, and doctors ordering them down again with many an
anathema: soldiers in the way of sailors, and sailors always hauling
at something that interfered with the inspection-drill: every one in
the wrong place, and each cursing his neighbour for stupidity. At last
the shore-boats boarded us, as if our confusion wanted anything to
increase it. Red-faced harbour-masters shook hands with the skipper
and pilot, and disappeared into the "round-house" to discuss grog and
the gales. Officers from the garrison came out to welcome their
friends - for it was the second battalion we had on board of a regiment
whose first had been some years in Canada; - and then what a rush of
inquiries were exchanged. "How is the Duke?" - "All quiet in England" -
"No sign of war in Europe!" - "Are the 8th come home!" - "Where is
Forbes?" - "Has Davern sold out?" with a mass of such small interests
as engage men who live in coteries." (Confessions of Con. Cregan, Chap
XIII.)
There are yet among the living in Quebec many who can recall the good
olden times when our garrison contained two regiments and more of the red-
coated soldiers of England, at the beck of the "Iron Duke" - him of
Waterloo.
A Haligonian tourist thus writes: -
"HALIFAX, N. S., 1880. - I reached Halifax on the Saturday after
leaving Quebec.....Nothing was wanting to make my impressions of
Quebec perfect, but a little more time to widen, deepen and strengthen
the friendships made; alas! to be severed (for a time) so soon. I went
expecting to see a city perched on a rock and inhabited by the
descendants of a conquered race with a chasm between them and every
Englishman in the Dominion. In place of this, I found the city more
picturesque, more odd, more grand, than I had ever imagined, and
peopled by a race who, if conquered in 1759, have had sweet revenge
ever since, by making a conquest of every stranger who has entered
Quebec - through his higher nature. It is no wonder that Quebec has
such a story of song and adventure. There is romance in the river and
tragedy on the hill, and while the memory of Wolfe and Montcalm is
green, the city will be the Mecca of the Dominion. But keep the hand
of the Goth - the practical man - from touching the old historic
landmarks of the city. A curse has been pronounced on those who remove
their neighbours' landmark, but what shall be said of those who remove
the landmarks which separate century from century and period from
period." (J. T. Bulmer.)
The following affords a good specimen of Capt W. F Butler's pictorial
style: -
"Spring breaks late over the province of Quebec - that portion of
America known to our fathers as Lower Canada, and of old to the
subjects of the Grand Monarque as the kingdom of New France. But when
the young trees begin to open their leafy lids after the long sleep of
winter, they do it quickly. The snow is not all gone before the maple
trees are all green - the maple, that most beautiful of trees! Well has
Canada made the symbol of her new nationality that tree whose green
gives the spring its earliest freshness, whose autumn-dying tints are
richer than the clouds of sunset, whose life-stream is sweeter than
honey, and whose branches are drowsy through the long summer with the
scent and the hum of bee and flower! Still the long line of the
Canadas admits of a varied spring. When the trees are green at Lake
St. Clair, they are scarcely budding at Kingston, they are leafless at
Montreal, and Quebec is white with snow. Even between Montreal and
Quebec, a short night's steaming, there exists a difference of ten
days in the opening of the summer. But late as comes the summer to
Quebec, it comes in its loveliest and most enticing form, as though it
wished to atone for its long delay in banishing from such a landscape
the cold tyranny of winter. And with what loveliness does the whole
face of plain, river, lake and mountain turn from the iron clasp of
icy winter to kiss the balmy lips of returning summer, and to welcome
his bridal gifts of sun and shower! The trees open their leafy lids to
look at him - the brooks and streamlets break forth into songs of
gladness - "the birch tree," as the old Saxon said," becomes beautiful
in its branches, and rustles sweetly in its leafy summit, moved to and
fro by the breath of heaven" - the lakes uncover their sweet faces, and
their mimic shores steal down in quiet evenings to bathe themselves in
the transparent waters - far into the depths of the great forest speeds
the glad message of returning glory, and graceful fern, and soft
velvet moss, and white wax-like lily peep forth to cover rock and
fallen tree and wreck of last year's autumn in one great sea of
foliage.
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