The bells were ringing in a frenzy of welcome. Laval in pontificals, surrounded by priests and Jesuits, stood waiting to receive the Deputy of the King, and as he greeted Tracy and offered him the holy water, he looked with anxious curiosity to see what manner of man he was. The signs were auspicious. The deportment of the Lieutenant-General left nothing to desire. A prie-dieu had been placed for him. He declined it. They offered him a cushion, but he would not have it, and fevered as he was, he knelt on the bare pavement with a devotion that edified every beholder. Te Deum was sung and a day of rejoicing followed. [83]
In our day, we can recall but one pageant at all equal: the roar of cannon, &c., attending the advent of the great Earl of Durham, [84] but there were noticeable fewer "priests," fewer "Jesuits," and less "kneeling" in the procession. There was something oriental in the vice- regal pageantry. Line-of-battle ships—stately frigates, twelve in number —the Malabar, Hastings, Cornwallis, Inconstant, Hercules, Pique, Charybdis, Pearl, Vestal, Medea, Dee and Andromache visited that summer our shores, a suitable escort to the able, proud, humane, [85] but unlucky Viceroy and High Commissioner, with his clever advisers—the Turtons, Bullers, Wakefields, Hansomes, Derbyshires, Dunkins, cum multis aliis. The Dictator was determined to "make a country or mar a career." He has left us a country.
That warlike, though festive summer of 1838, with our port studded with three-deckers and spanking frigates, was long remembered in the annals of the bon ton. Some men-of-war were in especial favour. A poetical lament by the Quebec ladies was wafted to the departing officers of H. M. frigate Inconstant, the words by the Laureate of the period, George W. Wicksteed, of Ottawa. This effusion includes the names of every vessel in the fleet in italics, and of several of the officers.
THE LADIES' ADDRESS TO THE INCONSTANTS. Written by G. W. Wicksteed.
We saw the Hastings hasting off,
And never made a fuss.
The Malabar's departure waked
No malady in us.
We were not piqued to lose the Pique;
Each lady's heart at ease is,
Altho' the Dees are on the seas,
And gone the Hercules—es.
Our parting with the Andromache
Like Hector's not at all is;
Nor are we Washingtons to seek
To capture a Cornwallis.
And no Charybdis ever caught
Our hearts in passion's whirls;
There's not a girl among us all
Has ever fished for Pearls.
The Vestals with their sacred flame
Were not the sparks we wanted;
We've looked Medeas in the face,
And yet were not enchanted.
But when our dear Inconstants go,
Our grief shall know no bounds,
The dance shall have no joy for us,
The song no merry sounds.