Nor Did The Bully Wait For Any Further Explanations, For,
Whether The Man Who Had Just Brought The Blood Spouting Out At The
Tops Of His Fingers Was Joe Monfaron Or Not, He Was Clearly An Ugly
Customer, And Had Better Be Left Alone.
The St. Lawrence, its rafts of timber, raftsmen, voyageurs and
their songs, are pleasantly alluded to by a sympathetic French writer of
note, X. Marmier, [105] who visited Canada some thirty years ago:
"On the St. Lawrence, traversed by steamboats, by vessels heavily
laden, and by light bark canoes, we may see early in the season
immense rafts of timber that are brought down from the dense northern
forests, hewn where they are felled, drawn to the rivers upon the
snow, and made up into rafts. The Canadian crews erect masts and
spread their sails, and by the aid of wind and current, and sometimes
by rowing, they boldly guide these acres of fir down the rapids to
Quebec, while they animate their labours with the melody of their
popular songs. A part would intone the Canadian song
"A la Claire Fontaine,"
while the others, repeating the last two lines, would at the same time
let drop their oars as those of the former arose.
"There is probably no river on earth that has heard so many vows of
love as the St. Lawrence; for there is not a Canadian boatman that has
ever passed up or down the river without repeating, as the blade of
his oar dropped into the stream, and as it arose, the national
refrain.
"Il y a longtemps que je t'aime,
Jamais je ne t'oublierai!"
"Long time have I loved thee,
Never will I forget thee!"
"And I will here say that there is a harmonious sweetness in these
simple words, that well accords with the simple yet imposing character
of the scenery of this charming region.
"Upon our coquettish rivers in Europe they may whisper of loves along
their flowery banks and under the vine-clad terraces that overhang
them, like the curtains of a saloon; but here, in this grand severity
of nature, upon these immense, half desert plains, in the silence of
these gloomy forests, on the banks of this majestic river that is ever
speeding onward to the eternal ocean, we may feel emotions that are
truly sublime. If, in this quiet solitude, should we open the soul to
a dream of love, it takes the serious tone; it needs must be a pure
being that dares to breathe to the heavens and to the waves these
sacred words, 'I love thee,' and that can add the promise and the
pledge of the Canadian song:
"Jamais je ne t'oublierai."
"Ne'er will I forget thee!" [106]
Among the streets of Quebec, most celebrated in our annals by reason of
the incidents which attach thereto, one may name the frowsy and tortuous
highway which circulates from the foot of Mountain Hill, running for a
distance of two hundred feet below the Cape, up to the still narrower
pathway which commences west of St. James street and leads to the foot of
the hill "de la canoterie;" [107] all will understand we mean the
leading commercial thoroughfare of olden time, [108] Sault-au-Matelot
street. Is it because a sailor, no doubt only partially relieved from the
horrors of sobriety, there made a wild leap? or are we to attribute the
name to the circumstance of a dog named "Matelot" ("Sailor") there taking
a leap? [109] Consult Du Creux. Our friend, Joseph Marmette,
appropriated it for the reception of his hero, "Dent de Loup," who escaped
without broken bones after his leap. [110]
The western portion of the still narrower pathway of which we have just
spoken, rejoices in the name of "Ruelle des Chiens," (Dog Lane); [111] the
directories name it Sous-le-Cap street. It is so narrow that, at certain
angles, two carts passing in opposite directions, would be blocked. Just
picture to yourself that up to the period of 1816, our worthy ancestors
had no other outlet in this direction at high water to reach St. Roch,
(for St. Paul street was constructed subsequently to 1816, as M. de Gaspe
has informed us.) Is it not incredible? As, in certain passes of the Alps,
a watchman no doubt stood at either extremity of this lane, provided with
a speaking trumpet to give notice of any obstruction and thus prevent
collisions. This odoriferous locality, especially during the dog-days, is
rather densely populated. The babes of Green Erin, with a sprinkling of
young Jean Baptistes, here flourish like rabbits in a warren. Miss Kitty
Ellison and her friend. Mr. Arbuton, in their romantic wanderings, were
struck with the mise en scene of Dog Lane: -
"Now that Prescott Gate, by which so many thousands of Americans have
entered Quebec since Arnold's excursionists failed to do so, is
demolished, there is nothing left so picturesque and characteristic as
Hope Gate (alas! since razed), and I doubt if anywhere in Europe there
is a more mediaeval-looking bit of military architecture. The heavy
stone gateway is black with age, and the gate, which has probably
never been closed in our century, is of massive frame, set thick with
mighty bolts and spikes. The wall here sweeps along the brow of the
crag on which the city is built, and a steep street drops down, by
stone-parapeted curves and angles, from the Upper to the Lower Town,
when, in 1775, nothing but a narrow lane bordered the St. Lawrence. A
considerable breadth of land has since been won from the river, and
several streets and many piers now stretch between this alley and the
water, but the old Sault-au-Matelot still crouches and creeps along
under the shelter of the city wall and the overhanging rock, which is
thickly bearded with weeds and grass, and trickles with abundant
moisture. It must be an ice pit in winter, and I should think it the
last spot on the continent for the summer to find; but when the summer
has at last found it, the old Sault-au-Matelot puts on a vagabond air
of southern leisure and abandon, not to be matched anywhere out of
Italy.
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