The broad St. Lawrence River flows one hundred and eighty miles from
Montreal to Quebec. A succession of parishes is passed, each with its
lofty church and presbytère, reproducing the picturesque buildings of
old Normandy and Brittany, with narrow windows and steep roofs, all
covered with shining white tin which the dry air preserves. Little
villages cluster around the churches, with long stretches of arable
lands between. Among a mass of wooded islands on the northern bank,
the turbid waters of the lower Ottawa outlet flow in, the edge of the
clearer blue of the St. Lawrence being seen for some distance below.
The delta makes green alluvial islands and shoals. Thus we sail down
the great river, past shores that were long ago very well settled.
"Past little villages we go,
With quaint old gable ends that glow
Bright in the sunset's fire;
And, gliding through the shadows still,
Oft notice, with a lover's thrill,
The peeping of a spire."
In the eighteenth century, Kalm, a Swedish tourist in America, said it
could be really called a village, beginning at Montreal and ending at
Quebec, "for the farmhouses are never more than five arpents apart,
and sometimes but three asunder, a few places excepted;" and two
centuries ago a traveller on the river wrote that the houses "were
never more than a gunshot apart." All the people are French, retaining
the language and old customs, simple-minded and primitive, the same as
under the ancient French régime, and excepting that one village,
Varennes, has put two towers upon its stately church, all of them are
exactly alike. It is recorded that in Champlain's time some Huguenot
sailors came up the river piously singing psalm tunes. This did not
please the officials, and soon a boat with soldiers put off from one
of these villages, and the officer in charge told them that
"Monseigneur, the Viceroy, did not wish that they should sing psalms
on the great river." The first steamer that came along the St.
Lawrence created unlimited dread, horrifying the villagers. Solemnly
crossing himself, an old voyageur, who probably thought his trade on
the waters endangered, exclaimed, in his astonishment, "But can you
believe that the good God will permit all that?"
The Richelieu River, the outlet of Lake Champlain, comes in at Sorel,
the chief affluent on the southern bank, its canal system making a
navigable connection with the Hudson River. Cardinal Richelieu took
great interest in early Canadian colonization, and Fort Richelieu was
built at the mouth of this river, being afterwards enlarged to prevent
Iroquois forays, by Captain Sorel, whose name is preserved in the
town. Below, there is an archipelago of low alluvial islands, and the
St. Lawrence broadens out into Lake St. Peter, nine or ten miles wide,
and generally shallow, this being the head of the tidal influence. On
its southern side flows in the St. Francis River, the outlet of Lake
Memphremagog and of many streams and lakes in the vast wilderness
along the boundary north of Vermont and east of Lake Champlain. At its
mouth is the little village of St. François du Lac. As the shores
contract below Lake St. Peter, the town of Three Rivers is passed
midway between Montreal and Quebec. Here the fine river St. Maurice,
another great lumber-producing stream, flows in upon the northern
bank, two little islands dividing its mouth into a delta of three
channels, thus naming the town. The St. Maurice is full of rapids and
cataracts, the chief being Shawanagan Fall, about twenty miles inland,
noted for its grandeur and remarkable character. The river, suddenly
bending and divided into two streams by a pile of rocks, falls nearly
one hundred and fifty feet and dashes against an opposing wall, where
the reunited stream forces its way through a narrow passage scarcely a
hundred feet wide. The two lofty rocks bounding this abyss are called
La Grande Mere and Le Bon Homme. The headwaters of St. Maurice
interlock with some of those of the gloomy Saguenay north of Quebec.
An enormous output of lumber comes down to Three Rivers, and the
district also produces much bog iron ore. Here are extensive sawmills,
iron-works, and one of the largest paper-pulp establishments in
America, the unrivalled water-power being thus utilized. Below the St.
Maurice, as the outcropping foothills from the Laurentian Mountains
approach the river, the scenery becomes more picturesque. The
Richelieu rapids are here, requiring careful navigation among the
rocks, and Jacques Cartier River comes in from the north. In front of
St. Augustin village, years ago, the steamer "Montreal" was burnt with
a loss of two hundred lives, and on the outskirts is an ancient ruined
church, which is said to have fallen in decay because the devil
assisted at its building. This was in 1720, and the tradition is that
His Satanic Majesty appeared in the form of a powerful black stallion,
who hauled the blocks of stone, until his driver, halting at a
watering-trough, where there was also a small receptacle of holy water
for the faithful, unbridled the horse, who became suddenly restive and
vanished in a cloud of sulphurous smoke. Many pious pilgrimages are
made to the present fine church of the village, having a statue of
the guardian angel standing out in front, commemorating the Vatican
Council of 1870. As Quebec is approached, the "coves" are seen on the
northern shore, arranged with booms for the timber ships, for easier
transfer of lumber from the rafts floated down the river, and the
steep bluffs behind run off into Cape Diamond, projecting far across
the stream. Old Sillery Church stands up with its tall spire atop of
the bold bluff, with a monastery behind it. Here Noel Brulart de
Sillery, Knight of Malta, in 1637, established one of the early Jesuit
missions. Point Levis stretches from the southern bank to narrow the
river channel. The low gray walls of the citadel surmount the highest
point of the extremity of Cape Diamond, and rounding it, we are at
Quebec.