We leave Montreal in a great downpour of rain--a perfect deluge. In
spite of the rain, there are many gathered on the pier to see us off.
There is mutual waving of handkerchiefs, and exchange of farewells.
The rain descends in torrents, type and token of God's manifold
blessings, so at least we pilgrims are fain to look upon it. As our
ship frees herself from her moorings, and glides into the stream, one
fond pilgrim is overheard remarking that Montreal is weeping over our
departure. And such copious tears as they are, too!
Last evening at eight, we all met at the Cathedral, St. James's, to
assist at Pontifical Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament. The great
church, modelled on St. Peter's at Rome--one-half of its length and
one-eighth of its cubic contents--was thronged. The Archbishop gave
the Benediction, and afterwards from his throne addressed the
pilgrims in French. He looked every inch of him a Bishop, and spoke
with great dignity and sweetness, in a rich, clear voice. He seems
well fitted to rule the Church of God in Mary's City--the great
Catholic city of Montreal, which, with its grand churches, its
splendid educational and charitable institutions, makes the pilgrim
prouder of his Faith and of his country.
We reach Quebec at 7 p.m. Carriages--cabs, caleches, and vehicles of
all sorts--are in readiness to convey the pilgrim party to the Chapel
of the Ursulines. Here for the first time in Canada Mass was offered
in honour of the Sacred Heart. The Ursulines of Quebec were founded
by the Blessed Mary of the Incarnation--the first religious
foundation in Canada. They are a cloistered Order. From behind
their gratings the nuns sing, in their sweet voices, the Benediction
Service, which is preceded by a stirring address in French to the
pilgrims. At nine we are back on board. There are ringing cheers
from the shore, and hearty cries of bon voyage. On the ship, many of
the pilgrims join in singing a French chanson, with its lively
chorus, "Bon soir, mes amis, bon soir!" Scarcely has the last note
died away when the ship's bugler breaks out in the familiar strains
of Auld Lang Syne. We slip our moorings, and are off.
Down the river we glide swiftly in the stillness of the night. On
either bank is a fine stretch of fertile land studded with
picturesque villages, and dotted with the houses of les habitants.
Now it lies as if asleep, wrapped in the mantle of night. We see but
in shadowy outline the Laurentian hills, rising out of the darkness.
What a majestic river is this St. Lawrence! There is nothing like it
in America--in all the wide world. The scenery on the Hudson is very
picturesque in places, and somewhat more varied, perhaps. But one
misses there the fine expanse of open country, with its setting of
mountains, and the river itself lacks the breadth and grandeur of the
St. Lawrence.
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