Adieu, ye joys of fair Quebec!
We've got what's coarsely termed the sack.
Adieu, kind homes that we have entered;
What hopes and joys are around ye centered!
Adieu, ye flights of Lower Town stairs!
To mount you often, no one cares.
Adieu, that Club, with cook whose skill
Makes none begrudge his dinner bill.
Adieu, O sunny Esplanade!
You suit us loungers to a shade.
Adieu, thou Platform, rather small,
For upper-ten, the band and all.
And Music Hall! adieu to thee!
Ne'er kinder audiences we'll see;
There on each 'Stadacona' night,
'Ye antient citie' proves its right
To boast of beauty, whose fair fame,
To us at Malta even came.
Adieu, O Rink, and 'thrilling steel,'
Another sort of thrill we feel,
As eye entranced, those forms we follow,
And see the Graces beaten hollow.
Adieu, John's Gate! your mud and mire
Must end in time, as does each fire!
Adieu, that pleasant four-mile round,
By bilious subs so useful found.
Adieu, Cathedral! and that choir,
All eye and ear could well desire.
Adieu, that service—half-past three
And chance walks after, home to tea.
And 'city fathers,' too, adieu!
Sorry we shan't know more of you.
Adieu, your daughters passing fair,
In dancing, skating, who so rare?
Adieu, too soon, O Citadel!
Adieu, hogs-back, we like thee well,
Though when on poudré days we've crossed,
Noses and ears we've all but lost.
Adieu, to Montmorency's Fall!
Adieu, ye ice-cones large and small!
Who can forget the traîneau's leap
From off that icy height, so steep;
It takes your breath as clean away
As plunge in air—at best you may
Get safely down, and borne along,
Run till upset; but ah! if wrong
At first, you take to turning round,
The traîneau leaves you, and you're found
Down at the bottom, rolling still,
Shaken and bruised and feeling ill.
Adieu, ye lakes and all the fishing!
To cast a fly we've long been wishing.
One last adieu! sorry are we
That this must be our p.p.c.!
Folly to think we'll feel resigned
In leaving you, who've proved so kind.
Our bark of happiness goes wreck,
In quitting you, far-famed Quebec!
—P.P.C., of the 25th K.O.B.
Our thoroughfares, our promenades, even in those dreary months, when the northern blast howls over the Canadian landscape, have some blithsome gleams of sunshine. Never shall we forget one bright, frosty January afternoon, about four o'clock, in the year 1872, when solitary, though not sad, standing on Durham [80] Terrace, was unveiled to us "a most magnificent picture, a scene of glorified nature painted by the hand of the Creator. The setting sun had charged the skies with all its gorgeous heraldry of purple and crimson and gold, and the tints were diffused and reflected through fleecy clouds, becoming softer and richer through expansion. The mountain tops, wood-crowned, where the light and shadow appeared to be struggling for mastery, stood out in relief from the white plain, and stretching away in indistinct, dreamy distances finally seemed to blend with the painted skies. The ice-covered bay was lit up with glowing shades, in contrast with the deep blue of the clear water beyond; from which the island rose, and into which the point jutted with grand picturesqueness; the light played through the frost-adorned, but still sombre pines, and spread out over deserted fields. Levis and the south shore received not so much of the illumination, and the grimness of the Citadel served as a contrast and a relief to the eye bewildered with the unaccustomed grandeur. But as the sun sank deeper behind the eternal hills, shadows began to fall, and the bright colours toned down to the grey of dusk, stars shone out, the grey was chased away, and the azure, diamond-dotted skies told not of the glory of sunset which had so shortly before suffused them."—(Morning Chronicle.)
We have just seen described the incomparable panorama which a winter sunset disclosed from the lofty promenade, to which the Earl of Dufferin has bequeathed his name. Let us now accompany one of our genial summer butterflies, fluttering through the mazes of old Stadacona escorting a bride; let us listen to W. D. Howells in the WEDDING JOURNEY. "Nothing, I think, more enforces the illusion of Southern Europe in Quebec than the Sunday-night promenading on the Durham (now Dufferin) Terrace. This is the ample span on the brow of the cliff to the left of the Citadel, the noblest and most commanding position in the whole city, which was formerly occupied by the old Castle of St. Louis, where dwelt the brave Count Frontenac and his splendid successors of the French régime. The castle went the way of Quebec by fire some forty years ago (23rd January, 1834), and Lord Durham levelled the site and made it a public promenade. A stately arcade of solid masonry supports it on the brink of the rock, and an iron parapet incloses it; there are a few seats to lounge upon, and some idle old guns for the children to clamber over and play with. A soft twilight had followed the day, and there was just enough obscurity to hide from a willing eye the Northern and New World facts of the scene, and to leave in more romantic relief the citadel dark against the mellow evening, and the people gossiping from window to window across the narrow streets of the Lower Town. The Terrace itself was densely thronged, and there was a constant coming and going of the promenaders, and each formally paced back and forth upon the planking for a certain time, and then went quietly home, giving place to new arrivals. They were nearly all French, and they were not generally, it seemed, of the first fashion, but rather of middling condition in life; the English being represented only by a few young fellows, and now and then a red-faced old gentleman with an Indian scarf trailing from his hat. There were some fair American costumes and faces in the crowd, but it was essentially Quebecian. The young girls, walking in pairs, or with their lovers, had the true touch of provincial unstylishness, the young men had the ineffectual excess of the second-rate Latin dandy, the elder the rude inelegance of a bourgeoisie in them; but a few better-figured avocats or notaires (their profession was as unmistakable as if they carried their well-polished door-plates upon their breasts), walked and gravely talked with each other. The non-American character of the scene was not less vividly marked in the fact, that each person dressed according to his own taste, and frankly indulged private shapes and colours. One of the promenaders was in white, even to his canvas shoes; another, with yet bolder individuality, appeared in perfect purple. It had a strange, almost portentous effect when these two startling figures met as friends and joined with each other in the promenade with united arms; but the evening was beginning to darken round them, and presently the purple comrade was merely a sombre shadow beside the glimmering white.
The valleys and the heights now vanished; but the river defined itself by the varicolored light of the ships and steamers that lay, dark, motionless hulks upon its broad breast; the lights of Point Levis swarmed upon the other shore; the Lower Town, two hundred feet below them, stretched an alluring mystery of clustering roofs and lamp-lit windows, and dark and shining streets around the mighty rock, mural-crowned. Suddenly a spectacle peculiarly Northern and characteristic of Quebec revealed itself; a long arch brightened over the northern horizon; the tremulous flames of the aurora, pallid violet or faintly tinged with crimson, shot upward from it, and played with a vivid apparition and evanescence to the zenith. While the stranger looked, a gun boomed from the Citadel, and the wild, sweet notes of the bugle sprang out upon the silence."
THE LOWER TOWN.
On bidding adieu to the lofty plateau which constitutes the Upper Town, on our way to an antiquarian ramble in the narrow, dusty, or muddy thoroughfares of the Lower (as it was formerly styled) the Low Town, we shall cast a glance, a glance only, at the facade of the City Post Office, on the site of which, until razed in 1871, stood that legendary, haunted old house, "LE CHIEN D'OR." Having fully described it elsewhere, [81] let us hurry on, merely looking up as we pass, to the gilt tablet and inscription and its golden dog, gnawing his bone, pretty much as he appeared one hundred and twenty-two years ago, to Capt. John Knox, of the 43rd Regt., on his entering Quebec, after its capitulation on the 18th September, 1759. History has indeed shed very little light on the Golden Dog and its inscription since that date, but romance has seized hold of him, and Kirby, Marmette, Soulard and others have enshrined both with the halo of their imagination. In 1871 the corner stone of the "Chien d'Or" was unearthed; a leaden plate disclosed the following inscription:—
"NICOLAS LAQUIN
Dit PHILIBER,
M'a posé le 2e Aoust,
1735."
We clip the following from KNOX'S JOURNAL, of the siege of Quebec in 1759, at which he was both an actor and an eye-witness:—
"On the right of the descent, leading to the low town, stands a stately old house, said to be the first built of stone in this city (Quebec), and over the front door of it is engraved a dog gnawing a large, fleshy bone, which he has got under and between his fore-feet, with the following whimsical inscription:—
"Je suis le chien qui ronge l'os,
Sans en perdre an seul morceau;
Le temp viendra, qui n'est pas venu,
Je mordrai celui, qui m'aura mordû."