American Notes for General Circulation

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by Dickens, Chales


  tedious.

  Our course lay over a wide, uninclosed tract of country at a little

  distance from the river-side, whence the bright warning lights on

  the dangerous parts of the St. Lawrence shone vividly. The night

  was dark and raw, and the way dreary enough. It was nearly ten

  o'clock when we reached the wharf where the next steamboat lay; and

  went on board, and to bed.

  She lay there all night, and started as soon as it was day. The

  morning was ushered in by a violent thunderstorm, and was very wet,

  but gradually improved and brightened up. Going on deck after

  breakfast, I was amazed to see floating down with the stream, a

  most gigantic raft, with some thirty or forty wooden houses upon

  it, and at least as many flag-masts, so that it looked like a

  nautical street. I saw many of these rafts afterwards, but never

  one so large. All the timber, or 'lumber,' as it is called in

  America, which is brought down the St. Lawrence, is floated down in

  this manner. When the raft reaches its place of destination, it is

  broken up; the materials are sold; and the boatmen return for more.

  At eight we landed again, and travelled by a stage-coach for four

  hours through a pleasant and well-cultivated country, perfectly

  French in every respect: in the appearance of the cottages; the

  air, language, and dress of the peasantry; the sign-boards on the

  shops and taverns: and the Virgin's shrines, and crosses, by the

  wayside. Nearly every common labourer and boy, though he had no

  shoes to his feet, wore round his waist a sash of some bright

  colour: generally red: and the women, who were working in the

  fields and gardens, and doing all kinds of husbandry, wore, one and

  all, great flat straw hats with most capacious brims. There were

  Catholic Priests and Sisters of Charity in the village streets; and

  images of the Saviour at the corners of cross-roads, and in other

  public places.

  At noon we went on board another steamboat, and reached the village

  of Lachine, nine miles from Montreal, by three o'clock. There, we

  left the river, and went on by land.

  Montreal is pleasantly situated on the margin of the St. Lawrence,

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  and is backed by some bold heights, about which there are charming

  rides and drives. The streets are generally narrow and irregular,

  as in most French towns of any age; but in the more modern parts of

  the city, they are wide and airy. They display a great variety of

  very good shops; and both in the town and suburbs there are many

  excellent private dwellings. The granite quays are remarkable for

  their beauty, solidity, and extent.

  There is a very large Catholic cathedral here, recently erected

  with two tall spires, of which one is yet unfinished. In the open

  space in front of this edifice, stands a solitary, grim-looking,

  square brick tower, which has a quaint and remarkable appearance,

  and which the wiseacres of the place have consequently determined

  to pull down immediately. The Government House is very superior to

  that at Kingston, and the town is full of life and bustle. In one

  of the suburbs is a plank road - not footpath - five or six miles

  long, and a famous road it is too. All the rides in the vicinity

  were made doubly interesting by the bursting out of spring, which

  is here so rapid, that it is but a day's leap from barren winter,

  to the blooming youth of summer.

  The steamboats to Quebec perform the journey in the night; that is

  to say, they leave Montreal at six in the evening, and arrive at

  Quebec at six next morning. We made this excursion during our stay

  in Montreal (which exceeded a fortnight), and were charmed by its

  interest and beauty.

  The impression made upon the visitor by this Gibraltar of America:

  its giddy heights; its citadel suspended, as it were, in the air;

  its picturesque steep streets and frowning gateways; and the

  splendid views which burst upon the eye at every turn: is at once

  unique and lasting.

  It is a place not to be forgotten or mixed up in the mind with

  other places, or altered for a moment in the crowd of scenes a

  traveller can recall. Apart from the realities of this most

  picturesque city, there are associations clustering about it which

  would make a desert rich in interest. The dangerous precipice

  along whose rocky front, Wolfe and his brave companions climbed to

  glory; the Plains of Abraham, where he received his mortal wound;

  the fortress so chivalrously defended by Montcalm; and his

  soldier's grave, dug for him while yet alive, by the bursting of a

  shell; are not the least among them, or among the gallant incidents

  of history. That is a noble Monument too, and worthy of two great

  nations, which perpetuates the memory of both brave generals, and

  on which their names are jointly written.

  The city is rich in public institutions and in Catholic churches

  and charities, but it is mainly in the prospect from the site of

  the Old Government House, and from the Citadel, that its surpassing

  beauty lies. The exquisite expanse of country, rich in field and

  forest, mountain-height and water, which lies stretched out before

  the view, with miles of Canadian villages, glancing in long white

  streaks, like veins along the landscape; the motley crowd of

  gables, roofs, and chimney tops in the old hilly town immediately

  at hand; the beautiful St. Lawrence sparkling and flashing in the

  sunlight; and the tiny ships below the rock from which you gaze,

  whose distant rigging looks like spiders' webs against the light,

  while casks and barrels on their decks dwindle into toys, and busy

  mariners become so many puppets; all this, framed by a sunken

  window in the fortress and looked at from the shadowed room within,

  forms one of the brightest and most enchanting pictures that the

  eye can rest upon.

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  In the spring of the year, vast numbers of emigrants who have newly

  arrived from England or from Ireland, pass between Quebec and

  Montreal on their way to the backwoods and new settlements of

  Canada. If it be an entertaining lounge (as I very often found it)

  to take a morning stroll upon the quay at Montreal, and see them

  grouped in hundreds on the public wharfs about their chests and

  boxes, it is matter of deep interest to be their fellow-passenger

  on one of these steamboats, and mingling with the concourse, see

  and hear them unobserved.

  The vessel in which we returned from Quebec to Montreal was crowded

  with them, and at night they spread their beds between decks (those

  who had beds, at least), and slept so close and thick about our

  cabin door, that the passage to and fro was quite blocked up. They

  were nearly all English; from Gloucestershire the greater part; and

  had had a long winter-passage out; but it was wonderful to see how

  clean the children had been kept, and how untiring in their love

 
and self-denial all the poor parents were.

  Cant as we may, and as we shall to the end of all things, it is

  very much harder for the poor to be virtuous than it is for the

  rich; and the good that is in them, shines the brighter for it. In

  many a noble mansion lives a man, the best of husbands and of

  fathers, whose private worth in both capacities is justly lauded to

  the skies. But bring him here, upon this crowded deck. Strip from

  his fair young wife her silken dress and jewels, unbind her braided

  hair, stamp early wrinkles on her brow, pinch her pale cheek with

  care and much privation, array her faded form in coarsely patched

  attire, let there be nothing but his love to set her forth or deck

  her out, and you shall put it to the proof indeed. So change his

  station in the world, that he shall see in those young things who

  climb about his knee: not records of his wealth and name: but

  little wrestlers with him for his daily bread; so many poachers on

  his scanty meal; so many units to divide his every sum of comfort,

  and farther to reduce its small amount. In lieu of the endearments

  of childhood in its sweetest aspect, heap upon him all its pains

  and wants, its sicknesses and ills, its fretfulness, caprice, and

  querulous endurance: let its prattle be, not of engaging infant

  fancies, but of cold, and thirst, and hunger: and if his fatherly

  affection outlive all this, and he be patient, watchful, tender;

  careful of his children's lives, and mindful always of their joys

  and sorrows; then send him back to Parliament, and Pulpit, and to

  Quarter Sessions, and when he hears fine talk of the depravity of

  those who live from hand to mouth, and labour hard to do it, let

  him speak up, as one who knows, and tell those holders forth that

  they, by parallel with such a class, should be High Angels in their

  daily lives, and lay but humble siege to Heaven at last.

  Which of us shall say what he would be, if such realities, with

  small relief or change all through his days, were his! Looking

  round upon these people: far from home, houseless, indigent,

  wandering, weary with travel and hard living: and seeing how

  patiently they nursed and tended their young children: how they

  consulted ever their wants first, then half supplied their own;

  what gentle ministers of hope and faith the women were; how the men

  profited by their example; and how very, very seldom even a

  moment's petulance or harsh complaint broke out among them: I felt

  a stronger love and honour of my kind come glowing on my heart, and

  wished to God there had been many Atheists in the better part of

  human nature there, to read this simple lesson in the book of Life.

  * * * * * *

  We left Montreal for New York again, on the thirtieth of May,

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  crossing to La Prairie, on the opposite shore of the St. Lawrence,

  in a steamboat; we then took the railroad to St. John's, which is

  on the brink of Lake Champlain. Our last greeting in Canada was

  from the English officers in the pleasant barracks at that place (a

  class of gentlemen who had made every hour of our visit memorable

  by their hospitality and friendship); and with 'Rule Britannia'

  sounding in our ears, soon left it far behind.

  But Canada has held, and always will retain, a foremost place in my

  remembrance. Few Englishmen are prepared to find it what it is.

  Advancing quietly; old differences settling down, and being fast

  forgotten; public feeling and private enterprise alike in a sound

  and wholesome state; nothing of flush or fever in its system, but

  health and vigour throbbing in its steady pulse: it is full of

  hope and promise. To me - who had been accustomed to think of it

  as something left behind in the strides of advancing society, as

  something neglected and forgotten, slumbering and wasting in its

  sleep - the demand for labour and the rates of wages; the busy

  quays of Montreal; the vessels taking in their cargoes, and

  discharging them; the amount of shipping in the different ports;

  the commerce, roads, and public works, all made TO LAST; the

  respectability and character of the public journals; and the amount

  of rational comfort and happiness which honest industry may earn:

  were very great surprises. The steamboats on the lakes, in their

  conveniences, cleanliness, and safety; in the gentlemanly character

  and bearing of their captains; and in the politeness and perfect

  comfort of their social regulations; are unsurpassed even by the

  famous Scotch vessels, deservedly so much esteemed at home. The

  inns are usually bad; because the custom of boarding at hotels is

  not so general here as in the States, and the British officers, who

  form a large portion of the society of every town, live chiefly at

  the regimental messes: but in every other respect, the traveller

  in Canada will find as good provision for his comfort as in any

  place I know.

  There is one American boat - the vessel which carried us on Lake

  Champlain, from St. John's to Whitehall - which I praise very

  highly, but no more than it deserves, when I say that it is

  superior even to that in which we went from Queenston to Toronto,

  or to that in which we travelled from the latter place to Kingston,

  or I have no doubt I may add to any other in the world. This

  steamboat, which is called the Burlington, is a perfectly exquisite

  achievement of neatness, elegance, and order. The decks are

  drawing-rooms; the cabins are boudoirs, choicely furnished and

  adorned with prints, pictures, and musical instruments; every nook

  and corner in the vessel is a perfect curiosity of graceful comfort

  and beautiful contrivance. Captain Sherman, her commander, to

  whose ingenuity and excellent taste these results are solely

  attributable, has bravely and worthily distinguished himself on

  more than one trying occasion: not least among them, in having the

  moral courage to carry British troops, at a time (during the

  Canadian rebellion) when no other conveyance was open to them. He

  and his vessel are held in universal respect, both by his own

  countrymen and ours; and no man ever enjoyed the popular esteem,

  who, in his sphere of action, won and wore it better than this

  gentleman.

  By means of this floating palace we were soon in the United States

  again, and called that evening at Burlington; a pretty town, where

  we lay an hour or so. We reached Whitehall, where we were to

  disembark, at six next morning; and might have done so earlier, but

  that these steamboats lie by for some hours in the night, in

  consequence of the lake becoming very narrow at that part of the

  journey, and difficult of navigation in the dark. Its width is so

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  contracted at one point, indeed, that they are obliged to warp

  round by means of a rope.

  After breakfasting at Whitehall, we took the stage-coach for

  Albany: a large and busy town, where we arrived between f
ive and

  six o'clock that afternoon; after a very hot day's journey, for we

  were now in the height of summer again. At seven we started for

  New York on board a great North River steamboat, which was so

  crowded with passengers that the upper deck was like the box lobby

  of a theatre between the pieces, and the lower one like Tottenham

  Court Road on a Saturday night. But we slept soundly,

  notwithstanding, and soon after five o'clock next morning reached

  New York.

  Tarrying here, only that day and night, to recruit after our late

  fatigues, we started off once more upon our last journey in

  America. We had yet five days to spare before embarking for

  England, and I had a great desire to see 'the Shaker Village,'

  which is peopled by a religious sect from whom it takes its name.

  To this end, we went up the North River again, as far as the town

  of Hudson, and there hired an extra to carry us to Lebanon, thirty

  miles distant: and of course another and a different Lebanon from

  that village where I slept on the night of the Prairie trip.

  The country through which the road meandered, was rich and

  beautiful; the weather very fine; and for many miles the Kaatskill

  mountains, where Rip Van Winkle and the ghostly Dutchmen played at

  ninepins one memorable gusty afternoon, towered in the blue

  distance, like stately clouds. At one point, as we ascended a

  steep hill, athwart whose base a railroad, yet constructing, took

  its course, we came upon an Irish colony. With means at hand of

  building decent cabins, it was wonderful to see how clumsy, rough,

  and wretched, its hovels were. The best were poor protection from

  the weather the worst let in the wind and rain through wide

  breaches in the roofs of sodden grass, and in the walls of mud;

  some had neither door nor window; some had nearly fallen down, and

  were imperfectly propped up by stakes and poles; all were ruinous

  and filthy. Hideously ugly old women and very buxom young ones,

  pigs, dogs, men, children, babies, pots, kettles, dung-hills, vile

  refuse, rank straw, and standing water, all wallowing together in

  an inseparable heap, composed the furniture of every dark and dirty

  hut.

  Between nine and ten o'clock at night, we arrived at Lebanon which

  is renowned for its warm baths, and for a great hotel, well

  adapted, I have no doubt, to the gregarious taste of those seekers

 

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