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.
One also finds here and there, in the names of certain thoroughfares,
traces of the sojourn within our walls of popular Governors, famous
Viceroys, long since gathered to their fathers, some of whose ashes mingle
in our cemeteries with the dust of our forefathers - [8] Champlain,
Frontenac, Mesy, De Callieres, De Vaudreuil, De la Jonquiere, Ramsay,
Carleton, Hope, Dalhousie, Richmond and Aylmer.
A student of history, in the signboards affixed to street corners, loves
to light on the names of men whose memories are fragrant for deeds of
heroism, devotedness, patriotism or learning. Breboeuf, Champlain,
Dollard, Ferland, Garneau, Christie, Turgeon, Plessis, and many others of
blameless and exemplary life - each has his street. We know of a worthy and
learned old antiquary whose lore and advice has been more than once placed
at our disposal in unravelling the tangled skein on which we are engaged,
who rejoices that his native city, unlike some of the proud capitals of
Europe, is free from vulgar names, such as "Tire-Boudin," "P - t - au
D - - le," in gay Paris, and "Crutched Friars," "Pall-Mall," and "Mary-le-
bone," in great London.
In fact, does not history meet you at every turn? Every nook, every lane,
every square, nay, even the stones and rocks, have a story to tell - a
record to unfold - a tale to whisper of savage or civilized warfare - a
memento to thrill the patriot - a legend of romance or of death - war,
famine, fires, earthquakes, land and snow-slides, riot?
Is it not to be apprehended that in time the inmates of such a city might
become saturated with the overpowering atmosphere of this romantic past -
fall a prey to an overweening love of old memories - become indifferent,
and deadened to the feelings and requirements of the present? This does
not necessarily follow. We are, nevertheless, inclined to believe that
outward objects may act powerfully on one's inner nature: that the haunts
and homes of men are not entirely foreign to the thoughts, pursuits and
impulses, good or bad, of their inmates.
Active, cultured, bustling, progressive citizens, we would fain connect
with streets and localities partaking of that character, just as we
associate cheerful abodes with sunshine, and repulsive dwellings with
dank, perennial shadows.
Mr. N. Legendre, in a small work intituled "Les Echos de Quebec," has
graphically delineated the leading features of several of our
thoroughfares: -
"In a large city each street has its peculiar feature. Such a street
is sacred to commerce - a private residence in it would appear out of
place. Such another is devoted to unpretending dwellings: the modest
grocery shop of the corner looks conscious of being there on
sufferance only. Here resides the well-to-do - the successful merchant;
further, much further on, dwell the lowly - the poor. Between both
points there exists a kind of neutral territory, uniting the
habitations of both classes. Some of the inmates, when calling, wear
kid gloves, whilst others go visiting in their shirt sleeves. The same
individual will even indulge in a cigar or light an ordinary clay
pipe, according as his course is east or west. All this is so marked,
so apparent, that it suffices to settle in your mind the street or
ward to which an individual belongs. The ways of each street vary.
Here, in front of a well-polished door, stands a showy, emblazoned
carriage, drawn by thoroughbreds; mark how subdued the tints of the
livery are. There is, however, something distingue about it, and
people hurrying past assume a respectful bearing.
"In the next street, the carriage standing at the door is just as
rich, but its panelling is more gaudy - more striking in colour are the
horses - more glitter - more profusion about the silver harness
mountings. Though the livery has more eclat, there seems to be
less distance between the social status of the groom and that of his
master.
"Walk on further - the private carriage has merged into the public
conveyance; still further, and you find but the plain caleche.
"Finally, every kind of vehicle having disappeared, the house-doors
are left ajar; the inmates like to fraternise in the street. On fine
evenings the footpath gets strewed with chairs and benches, occupied
by men smoking - women chatting al fresco unreservedly - laughing
that loud laugh which says, "I don't care who hears me." Passers-by
exchange a remark, children play at foot-ball, while the house-dog,
exulting in the enjoyment of sweet liberty, gambols in the very midst
of the happy crowd. These are good streets. One travels over them
cheerfully and gaily. An atmosphere of rowdyism, theft, wantonness,
hovers over some thoroughfares. Dread and disgust accompany him who
saunters over them. Their gates and doorways seem dark - full of pit-
falls. Iron shutters, thick doors with deep gashes, indicate the
turbulent nature of their inhabitants. Rude men on the sidepaths stare
you out of countenance, or make strange signs - a kind of occult
telegraphy, which makes your flesh creep. To guard against an unseen
foe, you take to the centre of the street - nasty and muddy though it
should be, - for there you fancy yourself safe from the blow of a
skull-cracker, hurled by an unseen hand on watch under a gateway.
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