Picturesque Quebec | Page 7

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-ho��d; 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