Canada and Newfoundland

by Frank G. Carpenter

The port handles at times as much as twenty-three hundred thousand bushels of wheat in a day. It is not uncommon for a lake vessel to arrive early in the morning, discharge its cargo, and start back to the head of the lakes before noon. Rivers of wheat are sucked out of the barges, steamers, and freight cars, and flow at high speed into the storage bins. There are sixty miles of water-front railways, most of which have been electrified. Every operation possible is performed by machinery, and there are never more than a few workmen anywhere in sight. Yet the grain business is a source of great revenue to the city, and furnishes a living to thousands of people. One of the industries it has built up is that of making grain sacks, of which one firm here turns out two and one half millions a year.

But let me tell you something of the city itself—or, better still, suppose we go up to the top of Mount Royal and look down upon it as it lies under our eyes. We shall start from my hotel, a new eight-million-dollar structure erected chiefly to accommodate American visitors, and take a coach. As a concession to hack drivers, taxis are not allowed on top of Mount Royal.

Our way lies through the grounds of McGill University, and past one of the reservoirs built in the hillside to supply the city with water pumped from the river. McGill is the principal Protestant educational institution in the province of Quebec. Here Stephen Leacock teaches political economy when he is not lecturing or writing his popular humorous essays. Besides colleges of art, law, medicine, and applied science, McGill has a school of practical agriculture. It also teaches young women how to cook. It has branches at Victoria and Vancouver in British Columbia. The medical school is rated especially high, and many of its graduates are practicing physicians in the United States.

Now we are on the winding drive leading to the top of the hill. Steep flights of wooden stairs furnish a shorter way up for those equal to a stiff climb, and we pass several parties of horseback riders. All this area is a public park, and a favourite spot with the people of the city. See those three women dressed in smart sport suits, carrying slender walking sticks. They seem very English. Over there are two girls, in knickers and blouses, gaily conversing with their young men. They have dark eyes and dark hair, with a brunette glow on their cheeks that marks them as French.

Step to the railing on the edge of the summit. If the day were clear we could see the Adirondacks and the Green Mountains of Vermont. Like a broad ribbon of silver the St. Lawrence flows at our feet. That island over there is called St. Helene, bought by Champlain as a present for his wife. Since he paid for it out of her dowry, he could hardly do less than give it her name.

That narrow thread to the right, parallel with the river, is the Lachine Canal, in which a steamer is beginning its climb to the level of Lake St. Louis. The canal has a depth of fourteen feet, and accommodates ships up to twenty-five hundred tons. The shores of the lake, which is really only a widening out of the river, furnish pleasant sites for summer bungalows and cool drives on hot nights. Nearer the city the canal banks are lined with warehouses and factories. Montreal’s manufactures amount to more than five hundred million dollars a year.

There below us is Victoria Jubilee Bridge, one and three quarters miles long. Over it trains and motors from the United States come into the city. Another railroad penetrates the heart of Montreal by a tunnel under Mount Royal that has twin tubes more than three miles in length. The Canadian Pacific Railroad has bridged the St. Lawrence at Lachine.

Most of Montreal lies between Mount Royal and the river, but the wings of the city reach around on each side of the hill. The French live in the eastern section. The western suburbs contain the homes of well-to-do English Canadians. One of them, Westmount, is actually surrounded by the city, yet it insists on remaining a separate municipality.

Mark Twain said that he would not dare throw a stone in Montreal for fear of smashing a church window. If he could view the city to-day he would be even more timid. Almost every building that rises above the skyline is a church, and the largest structures are generally Catholic schools, colleges, hospitals, or orphanages.

In the heart of Montreal’s Wall Street is the huge Church of Notre Dame. It seats twelve thousand people, and in its tower is the largest bell in America, weighing about twenty-nine thousand pounds. That dome farther over marks the location of the Cathedral of St. James. It is a replica, on a reduced scale, of St. Peter’s at Rome. It seats several thousand worshippers; nevertheless, when I went there last Sunday morning hundreds were standing, and within fifteen minutes after one service was concluded it was again filled to capacity for the next.