We shall not condemn our readers to attend the travellers in their tedious passage down the St. Lawrence. Sometimes a favoring breeze filled the single sail of their little boat, and aided by the oars of the lazy boatmen, wafted them gently forward, till, coming to a more rapid descent in the river, their light vessel seemed urged on by an irresistible force to the ‘rapids,’ where the waves, fretting and foaming over the invisible rocks, threatened to engulph it. The boatmen threw themselves prostrate on the bottom of the boat to avoid the splashing of the waves; their oars lay useless beside them, while the pilot strained every nerve to guide the boat in safety through the perilous channel. These passages, like the brilliant events of life, are rare and brief, and are succeeded by the sleepy lakes of the river, bordered by shores uniformly low and monotonous, save where the green mountains of Vermont dimly define the eastern horizon.
Arrived at Montreal, Mrs. Sackville, from consideration for Mrs. Barton, determined to avoid delay, and therefore deferred the examination of this city, so singular and picturesque to an American eye, till their return from Quebec. There was, however, no boat to sail before the evening, and a half day of leisure afforded our industrious travellers an opportunity to visit the churches and convents of Montreal.
The churches are spacious, and decorated with gaudy tinselled ornaments, and indifferent pictures. Edward and Julia were dazzled and delighted with the seeming splendor. A little demure Presbyterian girl, who acted as their guide, smiled at the animated expressions of their wonder. “Notre Dame, is,” she said, “as my grandmother often says, just fit for a baby-house for children.”
This remark caused a sudden revulsion in Edward's mind. He had a truly manly, or rather boyish aversion to be suspected of a juvenile taste, and averting his eye from his conductor, it fell on a miserable, half-famished looking old woman, who was kneeling in one of the aisles absorbed in her devotions.
“Look there, mother,” said he, pointing to the wretched object, “what a contrast to all this pomp.—It reminds me of an anecdote I have somewhere read of a pious pilgrim to whom one of the popes was ostentatiously displaying the decorations of the Vatican.
“Dites à ces ornemens,” said the pilgrim, “de se changer en pain.”[4]
[4] Command these decorations to be changed into bread.
Quite satisfied with this display of his superiority to the childishness indirectly ascribed to him by his conductor, though it was entirely lost on her, Edward left the church, and attended his friends to the Hotel Dieu, the convent of the black nuns. They were shown the different apartments by one of the sisterhood, a well-bred Irish lady, whose fine intelligent dark eyes, benevolent and happy expression of countenance, and short plump figure, made a delightful impression on Edward and Julia, who had always fancied a nun must be tall and thin, with a sad solemn face, condemned to wither under an immoveable veil. She led them to the hospital where the sick of every nation are received and treated with equal kindness according to the law of christian benevolence, which is of universal obligation.
“Do the rules of your order, (the order of St. Joseph I believe,”) inquired Mr. Sackville of the sister, “impose on you the performance of severe penances?”
“No,” she replied, “we are exempted from extraordinary penances, on account of the fatiguing and often loathsome offices that we have to perform for the sick; these are received as sufficient mortifications. We open our doors to the sick mendicant and wounded soldiers. We had in this apartment at one time during the late war seventeen American soldiers.”