Part 7 (1/2)
Driving home, we take more special note of what interested us aggressively before,--Lord Elgin's residence,--the house occupied by the Duke of Kent when a young man in the army here, long I suppose before the throne of England placed itself at the end of his vista.
Did the Prince of Wales, I wonder, visit this place, and, sending away his retinue, walk slowly alone under the shadows of these sombre trees, striving to bring back that far-off past, and some vague outline of the thoughts, the feelings, the fears and fancies of his grandfather, then, like himself, a young man, but, not like himself, a fourth son, poor and an exile, with no foresight probably of the exaltation that awaited his line,--his only child to be not only the lady of his land, but our lady of the world,--a warm-hearted woman worthily seated on the proud throne of Britain,--a n.o.ble and great-souled woman, in whose sorrow nations mourn, for whose happiness nations pray,--whose name is never spoken in this far-off Western world but with a silent blessing.
Another low-roofed, many-roomed, rambling old house I stand up in the carriage to gaze at lingeringly with longing, misty eyes,--the sometime home of Field Marshal the Marquis de Montcalm. Writing now of this in the felt darkness that pours up from abandoned Fredericksburg, fearing not what the South may do in its exultation, but what the North may do in its despondency, I understand, as I understood not then, nor ever before, what comfort came to the dying hero in the certain thought, ”I shall not live to see the surrender of Quebec.”
Now again we draw near the city whose thousands of silver (or perhaps tin) roofs dazzle our eyes with their resplendence, and I have an indistinct impression of having been several times packed out and in to see sundry churches, of which I remember nothing except that I looked in vain to see the trophies of captured colors that once hung there, commemorating the exploits of the ancients,--and on the whole, I don't think I care much about churches except on Sundays. Somewhere in Canada--perhaps near Lorette--is some kind of a church, perhaps the oldest, or the first Indian church in Canada,--or may be it was interesting because it was burnt down just before we got there. That is the only definite reminiscence I have of any church in Quebec and its suburbs, and that is not so definite as it might be. I am sure I inspected the church of St. Roque and the church of St. John, because I have entered it in my ”Diary”; but if they were all set down on the table before me at this moment, I am sure I could not tell which was which, or that they had not been transported each and all from Boston.
But we ascend the cliff, we enter the citadel, we walk upon the Plains of Abraham, and they overpower you with the intensity of life. The heart beats in labored and painful pulsations with the pressure of the crowding past. Yonder s.h.i.+nes the lovely isle of vines that gladdened the eyes of treacherous Cartier, the evil requiter of hospitality.
Yonder from Point Levi the laden s.h.i.+ps go gayly up the sparkling river, a festive foe. Night drops her mantle, and silently the unsuspected squadron floats down the stealthy waters, and debarks its fateful freight. Silently in the darkness, the long line of armed men writhe up the rugged path. The rising sun reveals a startling sight. The impossible has been attained. Now, too late, the hurried summons sounds. Too late the deadly fire pours in. Too late the thickets flash with murderous rifles. Valor is no subst.i.tute for vigilance.
Short and sharp the grapple, and victor and vanquished alike lie down in the arms of all-conquering death. Where this little tree ventures forth its tender leaves, Wolfe felt the bullet speeding to his heart.
Where this monument stands, his soldier-soul fled, all anguish soothed away by the exultant shout of victory,--fled from pa.s.sion and pain, from strife and madness, into the eternal calm.
Again and again has this rock under my feet echoed to the tramp of marching men. Again and again has this green and pleasant plain been drenched with blood, this blue, serene sky hung with the black pall of death. This broad level of pasture-land, high up above the rus.h.i.+ng waters of the river, but coldly wooed by the faint northern sun, and fiercely swept by the wrathful northern wind, has been the golden bough to many an eager seeker. Against these pitiless cliffs full many a hope has hurtled, full many a heart has broken. Oh the eyes that have looked longingly hither from far Southern homes! Oh the thoughts that have vaguely wandered over these bluffs, searching among the shouting hosts, perhaps breathlessly among the silent sleepers, for household G.o.ds! Oh the cold forms that have lain upon these unnoting rocks! Oh the white cheeks that have pressed this springing turf! Oh the dead faces mutely upturned to G.o.d!
Struggle, conflict, agony,--how many of earth's Meccas have received their chrism of blood! Thrice and four times hopeless for humanity, if battle is indeed only murder, violence, l.u.s.t of blood, or power, or revenge,--if in that wild storm of a.s.sault and defence and deathly hurt only the fiend and the beast meet incarnate in man. But it cannot be.
Battle is the Devil's work, but G.o.d is there. When Montgomery cheered his men up their toilsome ascent along this scarcely visible path over the rough rocks, and the treacherous, rugged ice, was he not upborne by an inward power, stronger than brute's, holier than fiend's, higher than man's? When Arnold flung himself against this fortress, when he led his forlorn hope up to these sullen, deadly walls, when, after repulse and loss and bodily suffering and weakness, he could still stand stanch against the foe and exclaim, ”I am in the way of my duty, and I know no fear!” was it not the glorious moment of that dishonored life? Battle is of the Devil, but surely G.o.d is there. The intoxication of excitement, the sordid thirst for fame and power, the sordid fear of defeat, may have its place; but there, too, stand high resolve, and stern determination,--pure love of country, the immortal longing for glory, ideal aspiration, G.o.d-like self-sacrifice, loyalty to soul, to man, to the Highest. The meanest pa.s.sions of the brute may raven on the battle-field, but the sublimest exaltations of man have found there fit arena.
From the moment of our pa.s.sing into the citadel enclosure, a young soldier has accompanied us,--whether from caution or courtesy,--and gives us various interesting, and sometimes startling information. He a.s.sures us that these guns will fire a ball eight miles,--a long range, but not so long as his bow, I fear. I perceive several gashes or slits in the stone wall of the buildings, and I ask him what they are. ”Them are for the soldiers' wives hin the garrison,” he replies promptly. I say nothing, but I do not believe they are for the soldiers' wives. A soldier's wife could not get through them. ”How many soldiers in a regiment are allowed to have wives?” asks Halicarna.s.sus. ”Heighty, sir,” is the ready response. I am a little horror-struck, when we leave, to see Halicarna.s.sus hold out his hand as if about to give money to this brave and British soldier, and scarcely less so to see our soldier receive it quietly. But I need not be, for my observation should have taught me that small change--fees I believe it is called--circulates universally in Canada. Out doors and in, it is all one. Everybody takes a fee, and is not ashamed. You fee at the falls, and you fee at the steps. You fee the church, and here we have feed the army; and if we should call on the Governor-General, I suppose one would drop a coin into his outstretched palm, and he would raise his hat and say, ”Thank you, sir.” I do not know whether there is any connection between this fact and another which I noticed; but if the observation be superficial, and the connection imaginary, I shall be no worse off than other voyageurs, so I will hazard the remark, that I saw very few intellectual or elegant looking men and women in Quebec, or, for that matter, in Canada. Everybody looked peasant-y or shoppy, except the soldiers, and they were noticeably healthy, hale, robust, well kept; yet I could not help thinking that it is a poor use to put men to. These soldiers seem simply well-conditioned animals, fat and full-fed; but not nervous, intellectual, sensitive, spiritual.
However, if the people of Canada are not intellectual, they are pious.
”Great on saints here,” says Halicarna.s.sus. ”They call their streets St. Genevieve, St. Jean, and so on; and when they have run through the list, and are hard up, they club them and have a Street of All Saints.”
Canada seemed to be a kind of Valley of Jehoshaphat for Secessionists.
We scented the aroma somewhat at Saratoga; nothing to speak of, nothing to lay hold of; but you were conscious of a chill on your warm loyalty.
There were petty smirks and sneers and quips that you could feel, and not see or hear. You SENSED, to use a rustic expression, the presence of a cla.s.s that was not palpably treasonable, but rather half cotton.
But at Canada it comes out all wool. The hot South opens like a double rose, red and full. The English article is cooler and supercilious. I say nothing, for my role is to see; but Halicarna.s.sus and the Anakim exchange views with the greatest nonchalance, in spite of pokes and scowls and various subtabular hints.
”What is the news?” says one to the other, who is reading the morning paper.
”Prospect of English intervention,” says the other to one.
”Then we are just in season to see Canada for the last time as a British province,” says the first.
”And must hurry over to England, if we design to see St. George and the dragon tutelizing Windsor Castle,” says the second; whereupon a John Bull yonder looks up from his 'am and heggs, and the very old dragon himself steps down from the banner-folds, and glares out of those irate eyes, and the ubiquitous British tourist, I have no doubt, took out his notebook, and put on his gla.s.ses and wrote down for home consumption another instance of the insufferable a.s.surance of these Yankees.
”Where have you been?” I ask Halicarna.s.sus, coming in late to breakfast.
”Only planning the invasion of Canada,” says he, coolly, as if it were a mere pre-prandial diversion, all of which was not only rude, but quite gratuitous, since, apart from the fact that we might not be able to get Canada, I am sure we don't want it. I am disappointed. I suppose I had no right to be. Doubtless it was sheer ignorance, but I had the idea that it was a great country, rich in promise if immature in fact,--a nation to be added to a nation when the clock should strike the hour,--a golden apple to fall into our hands when the fulness of time should come. Such inspection as a few days' observation can give, such inspection as British tourists find sufficient to settle the facts and fate of nations, leads me to infer that it is not golden at all, and not much of an apple; and I cannot think what we should want of it, nor what we should do with it if we had it. The people are radically different from ours. Fancy those dark-eyed beggars and those calm-mouthed, cowy-men in this eager, self-involved republic. They might be annexed to the United States a thousand times and never be united, for I do not believe any process in the world would turn a French peasant into a Yankee farmer. Besides, I cannot see that there is anything of Canada except a broad strip along the St. Lawrence River. It makes a great show on the map, but when you ferret it out, it is nothing but show--and snow and ice and woods and barrenness; and I, for one, hope we shall let Canada alone.
”I think we shall be obliged to leave Quebec tomorrow evening,” says Halicarna.s.sus, coming into the hotel parlor on Sat.u.r.day evening.
”Not at all,” I exclaim, promptly laying an embargo on that iniquity.
”Otherwise we shall be compelled to remain till Monday afternoon at four o'clock.”
”Which we can very contentedly do.”
”But lose a day.”
”Keeping the Sabbath holy is never losing a day,” replies his guide, philosopher, and friend, sententiously and severely, partly because she thinks so, and partly because she is well content to remain another day in Quebec.