Where are those dashing regiments which every Sunday at 4 p.m. (we were not such Puritans then as now) paraded in the open space facing the Esplanade walls, under the approving eye of the beauty and fashion of all Quebec, assembled from outside and from inside of the walls— the men proud of their bottle-green or dark-blue coats and white duck pants—all the vogue then—while the softer sex and juveniles were apparelled in the gayest of toilettes—brightest of colors—loudest of contrasts: white—pink—green! How densely packed, our Esplanade! Little boys and girls crowding in every corner of the lovely precipitous lawn which, amphitheatre-like, stretches down—a hanging garden of verdure and beauty. The splendid regimental bands of music, the gaudily uniformed staff officers curvetting on their chargers, with nodding plumes and heavy, glittering epaulettes (alas! the navy now seems to have monopolised the gold lace for their shoulder- straps), and those irresistible sappers with their bushy beards heading the pageant, and those incomparable drum-majors, who could fling high in the air their batons, and catch them so gracefully in their descent. How their glittering coats did enrapture the crowd! All these wondrous sights of our youth, where will we now find them?
The mounting guard, the Grand Rounds at noon, when one of the regimental bands (there were here nearly always two, and an honorable rivalry existed between them) struck up a martial strain, whilst every sentry in the city was relieved. What a treat this was to every one, without forgetting the Seminary Externes (pupils), with their blue coats and sashes of green or of variegated tints.
More than one of those lithesome youths came to grief for having rushed away from the Gradus ad Parnassum to those Elysian Fields, ostensibly to hear the band—possibly to cast a sly glance at "sweet sixteen" chatting with the Militaires off duty. Here, too, was the spot where amateurs came to hear new pieces of music—the latest from London. Durham Terrace was the favoured locality from whence the new waltz—the fashionable march—the latest opera—was launched into city existence; from thence it found its way to the salons of the wealthy: such the history of Di tanti palpiti and other sweet emanations of great masters.
Where, now, are those squads of jolly tars, in navy blue, irrepressible in their humors when on shore, far from the quarterdecks of the trim frigates anchored under Cape Diamond: upsetting the cake- stands, the spruce beer kegs—helping open-handed to the contents the saucy street urchins, or, handing round, amidst the startled wayfarers, pyramids of horse cakes, trays of barley-sugar and peppermints, like real princes dispensing the coin of the realm. Where are those noisy gangs of swaggering raftsmen—those voyageurs from the pays d'en haut, with their glittering costumes—hats festooned with red or blue ribbons, sashes of variegated colors, barred shirts— tightly wedged, three by three, in calèches, like Neapolitans— patrolling the streets—interlarding a French song occasionally with an oath, tolerably profane—at all times to be met, whether in the light of day or the still hours of night. No police in those halcyon days; but with the thickening shades of evening issued forth that venerable brotherhood, the City Watch.
The watch, did we say? Where are now these dreamy wanderers of the night, carolling forth, like the muezzin in Eastern cities, their hourly calls, "All's well!" "Fine night!" "Bad weather!" as the case might be—equally ready with their rattles to sound the dread alarm of fire, or with their long bâtons to capture belated midnight brawlers, that is, when they saw they had a good chance of escaping capture themselves. Their most formidable foes were not the thieves, but the gay Lotharios and high-fed swells of the time, returning from late dinners, and who made it a duty, nay, a crowning glory, to thrash the Watch! Where now are those practical jokers who made collections of door-knockers (the house-bell was not then known), exchanged sign- boards from shop-doors, played unconscionable tricks on the simple- minded peasants on market-days—surreptitiously crept in at suburban balls, in the guise of the evil one, and, by the alarm they at times created, unwittingly helped Monsieur le Curé to frown down upon these mundane junkettings.
One of these escapades is still remembered here. [79]
Four of these gentlemanly practical jokers, one night, habited in black like the Prince of Darkness, drove silently through the suburbs in a cariole drawn by two coal-black steeds, and meeting with a well-known citizen, overcome by drink, asleep in the snow, they silently but vigorously seized hold of him with an iron grip; a cahot and physical pain having restored him to consciousness, he devoutly crossed himself, and, presto! was hurled into another snow-drift. Next day all Quebec had heard in amazement how, when and where Beelzebub and his infernal crew had been seen careering in state after nightfall. Oh! the jolly days and gay nights of olden times!
But the past had other figures more deserving of our sympathy. The sober-sided sires of the frolicsome gentry just described: the respected tradesmen who had added dollar to dollar to build up an independence—whose savings their children were squandering so recklessly; those worthy citizens who had filled without stipend numerous civic offices, with a zeal, a whole-heartedness seldom met with in the present day—at once churchwardens, justices of the peace, city fathers, members of societies for the promotion of agriculture, of education, for the prevention of fires; who never sat up later than nine of the clock p.m., except on those nights when they went to the old Parliament Building to listen in awe to fiery Papineau or eloquent Bourdages thunder against the Bureaucracy; who subscribed and paid liberally towards every work of religion, of charity, of patriotism; who every Saturday glanced with trembling eye over the columns of the Official Gazette, to ascertain whether Government had not dismissed them from the Militia or Commission of the Peace, for having attended a public meeting, and having either proposed or seconded a motion backing up Papineau and censuring the Governor. Thrilling—jocund—simple war-like time of 1837, where art thou flown?"
The "sunny Esplanade," the "Club," the "Platform," in those days "rather small," the "Rink," "Montmorency Falls," "Lake Charles," the "Citadel" and its "hog's-back," it would appear, inspired the bard of the 25th King's Own Borderers—for years forming part of our garrison—on this favourite regiment embarking for England, to waft to the old Rock the following poetic tribute.