Canada; its Defences, Condition, and Resources / Being a third and concluding volume of "My Diary, North and South"

by Sir William Howard Russell

On our right, now and then glimpses could be caught of a pale blue riband-like streak across the dazzling white plain. “That’s the St. Lawrence you see there. Pitty it’s friz up so long. We wouldn’t envy the Yankees anything they’ve got to show us if we had a port open all the year,” quoth an honest Canadian beside me. For the first time I began to feel sympathy for a country that “can’t get out” for five mortal months, and that breathes through another man’s nostrils and mouth. A horrible semi-suffocated sort of existence. No wonder the Canadians look longingly over at that bit of land which Lord Ashburton yielded to the United States and the State of Maine.

A——n and I, by way of counteracting the influence of the atmosphere and external scenery, talked of India. Some poor creatures half the world’s girth away, whom we were speaking of at that moment, would have given a good deal for some of the despised ice and snow around us, groaning no doubt under that sun which even in February knows no coolness in Central India in mid-day. How oddly things turn up! I had ever firmly believed that a young soldier friend of mine had slain many enemies in that great rebellion, and had, Achilles-like, sent many souls of sepoys to Hades, and so in that faith speaking, suddenly I was interrupted by A——n. “What are you talking of? He kill so many budmashes at Nulla-Nullah! Why, I don’t believe he ever fired a shot or made a cut at a nigger in his life.” My fierce little friend had done both, and many a time and oft. And so, as he knew, away went a reputation, within thirty miles of Montreal; thermometer 10°.

Hereabouts were seen many snug homesteads rising up through the snow, with farmhouses, and outhouses—all clad in the same livery. The country looked well cleared and settled; sleighs glided over the surface, and were drawn up at the stations to carry passengers and luggage. Anon we came upon a great frozen river, and crossed it by a series of arches too great for a bridge; but this was nevertheless the Ottawa itself rolling away under its ice coat, as the blood flows through an artery, to rush unseen into the cold embrace of the St. Lawrence. These two great bridges must be worth visiting when they can be seen in the full exercise of their functions. The river forms an island here which the ice now continentalises.

About four o’clock, very much as land looms up in the ocean, we saw the dark mass of Montreal rising up in contrast to the whitened mountain at the foot of which it lies; the masts of vessels frozen in, and funnels of steamers, mingled with steeples and domes; and as the sun struck the windows a thousand flashes of glowing red darted back upon us. Then the train ran past a “marine factory,” whatever that may be, and a suburb of stone and wooden houses intermixed, and a population of children whose faces looked preternaturally pale, perhaps from the reflection of the snow, and of women in pork-pie hats with thick veils over their faces, and of men, mostly smoking, in great fur coats and boots; and at last the train reached the terminus, where a great concourse of sleigh-drivers, who spoke as though they had that moment left Kingstown jetty, Ireland, claimed our body and property. These were promptly routed by the staff of the St. Lawrence Hall, who carried off our party to an omnibus without wheels, which finally bore us off to the hotel so called.

The soldiers about the streets were all comfortably clad in dark overcoats, fur caps with flaps for the ears, and long boots; but the dress takes from their height, and does not conduce to a smart soldier-like appearance.

The streets through which we passed were lined with well-built lofty houses. It might scarce be fancy which made me think that Montreal was better built than American cities of the same size. In the great cold hall of the hotel there was excessive activity: befurred officers of the regiments sent to Canada during the Trent difficulty, before Mr. Seward had made up his mind and persuaded the President to give up the Southern envoys, were coming in, going out, or were congregated in the passage. Orderlies went to and fro with despatches and office papers. In fact the general-in-chief, Sir Fenwick Williams of Kars, and staff, the commanding officer of the Guards, Lord G. Paulet, and staff, were quartered here, and carried on their office business; and the Commissary-General, Power, and the Principal Medical Officer, Dr. Muir, were also lodging in the hotel, with a host of combatant officers of inferior grade.

There was no rush to the table-d’hôte, after the American fashion, but the dinner itself was very much in the American style. I was much amused at the distress of a Guardsman who made his appearance at the doorway during dinner, with a letter in his hand for one of the officers. He halted stiffly at the threshold, and stood staring at the brilliancy of the splendid ormolu ornaments, and the array of lacquered chandeliers and covers. In vain the waiters pointed out to him the officer he sought; he would not intrude on the gorgeous scene, nor would he trust his missive to another hand. At last, after gazing in a desperate manner on space, and balancing from one leg to another, he took a maddening resolve, put his hand to his cap, held the other out with the letter in it as his dumb apology and in mitigation of punishment, and marching straight to his mark, trampling crowds of waiters in his way, only halted when he came up to the table he sought, where, with eyeballs starting, he put the missive to the level of the captain’s nose, saluted, and ejaculated, “By order of Colonel Jones, sir.” “All right.” With a wheel round and a salute, the perturbed warrior countermarched and escaped into the prosaic outward world. A Frenchman would have come in with the most perfect self-possession, and possibly with some little grace. An American would probably have turned his chew, have addressed some remarks to the waiters on his way, have given the captain a tap on the back or a nudge of the elbow, and would rather have expected a drink. And which of the three, after all, is to be preferred?

I met a whole regiment of men I knew, and after dinner adjourned with some of them to my rooms. They all growled of course, found fault with Canada and abused the Government, and seemed to think it ought not to snow in winter.

I received a most interesting letter from a friend of mine with the Burnside expedition, which revealed as large an amount of bad management as could well be conceived. Burnside, personally, has enough ingenuity, but is quite wanting in self-reliance, presence of mind, and vigour. The expedition from which so much was expected did more than might have been thought possible at one time under the circumstances.