Picturesque Quebec | Page 7

Highlander who paced his short path as sentry,
some hundred feet high upon the wall of the fortress, and I thought to
myself with such defenders as these that standard yonder need never
carry any other banner. The whole view is panoramic, the bending of
the river shuts out the channel by which you have made your approach,
giving the semblance of a lake, on whose surface vessels of every
nation lie at anchor, some with the sails hung out to dry, gracefully
drooping from the taper spars; others refitting again for sea, and
loading the huge pine-trunks moored as vast rafts to the stern. There
were people everywhere, all was motion, life and activity. Jolly-boats
with twenty oars, man-of-war gigs bounding rapidly past them with
eight; canoes skimming by without a ripple, and seemingly without
impulse, till you caught sight of the lounging figure, who lay at full
length in the stern, and whose red features were scarce distinguishable
from the copper-coloured bark of his boat. Some moved upon the rafts,
and even upon single trunks of trees, as, separated from the mass, they
floated down on the swift current, boat-hook in hand to catch at the first
object chance might offer them. The quays and the streets leading down
to them were all thronged, and as you cast your eye upwards, here and
there above the tall roofs might be seen the winding of stairs that lead

to the Upper Town, alike dark with the moving tide of men. On every
embrasure and gallery, on every terrace and platform, it was the same.
Never did I behold such a human tide.
"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-hoéd; 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