DOWN TO MONTREAL.
The run down the river to Montreal was made rapidly and without
incident. The boys found the slow progress they had to make through the
canals adjoining the Lachine and Long Sault rapids, which they could not
descend, rather tedious. Nevertheless, they thoroughly enjoyed watching
one of the red-funneled excursion steamers from up the river shoot
through the boiling waves and cascades, apparently to certain
destruction.
At the Lachine Canal they were “locked down” eighty-two feet, passing
through three locks in the process. They arrived at Montreal, Canada’s
“White City,” that evening. The next morning they devoted to seeing the
sights of the town.
Perhaps some extracts from a letter written some days later by Ralph to
a school chum will give our readers a boy’s idea of this city and of
Quebec.
“About the first thing we noticed,” wrote Ralph, “was the Victoria
Bridge, which spans the south channel of the St. Lawrence and carries
the rails of the Grand Trunk Railway. It is almost two miles long, has
twenty-four spans, and hangs sixty feet above the river. We saw it first
in the twilight. It looked like a black ribbon stretched across the sky.
“Montreal is the queerest city from the point of view of design that I
ever saw. It is built up from the river in a series of terraces. It is
chock full of fine buildings, as fine and finer than any in New York,
but of course not so tall. There is the big cathedral of Notre Dame,
with twin towers like the one in France. It has a bell weighing 24,780
pounds, the heaviest bell in North America. The church will seat fifteen
thousand people.
“The ice cream sodas here are not good. We know, for we sampled them.
But I was going to tell you, under Notre Dame Street are buried the
bones of Le Rat, a Huron chief, who broke the peace pact between the
French and his tribe. He fell dead as a door nail while addressing a lot
of Hurons and French who had come together to have a pow-wow.
“We didn’t spend very much time here, however, being anxious to get on
to Quebec. Besides, something happened the other night at the island
that we are anxious to get back to solve. I can’t tell you more about it
now than to say that it was a ‘ghost ship’! That sounds promising,
doesn’t it?
“Now, to tell you something about Quebec. I am mighty glad to have been
there. It is truly a wonderful city. Somebody told us that it got its
name from Cartier exclaiming, as he saw the three-hundred-foot rock that
rises from the river, ‘_Que bec!_’ Knowing that you are not much of a
French scholar, I will translate. That means ‘What a beak!’ And so that
is how Quebec got its name, and, if you’d ever seen it, you would think
it was a good one.
“I can’t describe the city better than to call it a huge cliff all stuck
over with spires, roofs, chimneys, ramparts and muzzles of antiquated
guns that a modern piece of artillery could knock into a cocked hat.
Cape Diamond, as the immense rock is called, is all tufted with patches
of shrubs. It made me think of Professor Crabtree’s face. You know: all
hard and rugged, with whiskers scrawling over it!
“The Lower Town, as it is called, lies at the base of this rock. Here is
the water-front section, and streets that turn and twist about like
corkscrews. It is a smoky, ancient, old place full of queer smells and
business.
“You get out of it to the Upper Town by Mountain Street, and it’s all of
that! They say that till thirty years ago a carriage couldn’t get up it,
but it has been graded so that now you can drive up. We walked, thinking
it would be good exercise for Persimmons, who hates walking, anyhow.
“The citadel is a wonderful place perched up on a high rock, and you can
see all over the region from it. One thing to be seen there is a brass
cannon the Britishers captured at Bunker Hill. No wonder they’re proud
of it. I guess it’s about all they did get.
“The Citadel runs, in the form of a big granite wall with towers and
bastions stuck on it at regular intervals, all along the brow of the
height overlooking the city, like a wrinkle on a forehead. Quebec, as
perhaps you know, is the only walled city in America. It certainly is a
great place to see. You might think that you were looking down from the
Citadel on some old town in the middles ages—except for the tourists
with their cameras!
“We went out to the Plains of Abraham; that is, Persimmons didn’t go,
having overeaten on some cake he made himself and we wouldn’t touch,
having sampled his cooking before. This is the place where Wolfe licked
Montcalm. But both their names are carved on a monument just as if they
had fought side by side.
“In the Post Office, where I am going to mail this letter, there is a
block of granite from an old building that once stood on its site. It
was called the _Chien d’Or_, or the Golden Dog. There is a story
connected with Phillibert, the merchant who built it. He came here when
Bigot, a ‘grafter’ or ‘boss,’ as we should call him nowadays, had
control of the city and of New France. He ran things to suit himself and
pocketed all kinds of crooked money. Phillibert ran a sort of department
store and fought Bigot all he could. Over the door of his store he had
the figure of a dog cut. It was gnawing a bone. The dog was meant to be
Bigot and the bone the country he was ‘grafting’ on. Bigot got so sore
at this that he had his brother-in-law assassinate Phillibert.
“There are more churches here than in any place I ever saw. The folks of
Quebec ought to be the best in the world. Near the market in the Lower
Town is one of the first churches built in America. A porch was built
over its door as a token of thanksgiving when a fleet of British ships
on its way to wallop Quebec was wrecked off the mouth of the St.
Lawrence.
“Near where this church stands is a place where they will tell you
Champlain lived in 1608 and planted the first garden in the country with
seeds brought from France. In a convent on Garden Street Montcalm is
buried. The Canadians have marked all these places with tablets. I think
it would be a good scheme to do the same thing with historic places at
home.
“But you are probably getting tired of all this. Tell the fellows we are
having a great time and expect to have a better. Anyhow, I will write
you before long how we come out about that queer motor boat. We are
going to find out what is up; you can bet your life on that.
“Always your pal,
“Ralph.”