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

by Sir William Howard Russell

A telegram from Toronto informed me that it was in contemplation to invite me to a public banquet, and desired me to state my wishes. Very much as I appreciated such an honour from my countrymen and fellow-subjects, it was inconsistent, as I conceived, with my position, as it certainly was with my sense of the merits attributed to me, to accept the very great compliment offered to me. It came all the more agreeably as it was in such contrast to the manner in which I had been received in the United States for the last few months; and it touched me very sensibly, more than my friends at Toronto could have imagined.

A——n came in rather wroth about a matter of flags. He had been to see some Frenchmen, whether real or true Zouaves of the Crimea I know not, who gave out on tremendous posters that they were the identical children of the Beni Zoug Zoug, who had acted before us all in that theatre on the Woronzow Road once so charming and well filled; and he had been seized with indignation because they, in that Canadian city, under the British flag, had dared to perform under the folds of the tricolor, and the stars and stripes of the United States. I explained that the British flag was metaphorically and properly supposed to float above both; all which much comforted him, and so to bed—cold enough, in despite of stoves and open fire. The servants here are Irish men and women, with a sprinkling of free negroes.

Next day the weather was not at all warmer. In winter time the cold is by no means unbearable in this Canadian clime, when one is well furred and clad; to the poor it must be very trying, for furs and fuel are dear, and even clothing of an ordinary kind is not cheap. The emigrant, in his rude log hut open in many chinks, must shrink and shiver and suffer in the blast. What do they, who follow, not owe to the hardy explorer who has opened up wood and mountain, and laid down paths on the sea for them?

A thick haze had now settled down on all things, a cold freezing rime, which clung and crept to one, and almost sat down on the very hearth. Descending the stairs, which were in a transition state and in the hands of carpenters, to the long “salon-à-manger,” I found the tables well filled by guardsmen, riflemen, and members of the staff, military and civil, who gave the place the air of a mess-room under disorderly circumstances.

I had before this seen many such rooms in American hotels in cities filled with soldiery, and I am bound to say the difference between the two sets of men was remarkable. The noise, gaiety, and life of these grave English were exuberant when compared to the silence of American gatherings of the same kind, which are, indeed, disturbed by the clatter of plates and dishes, and the horrible squeaking of chair legs over the polished floors, but otherwise are quiet enough. Here, men laughed out, talked loud, shouted to the waiters, aired their lungs in occasional scoldings and objurgations, having reference to chops and steaks and tardy-coming dishes; “old-fellowed” their friends; asked or told the news. I don’t know that the Englishmen were better looking, taller, or in any physical way had the advantage of the men of the continent, except in ruddier cheeks perhaps, and in frames better provided with cellular tissue; but the distinction of style and manner was marked.

The Americans usually came into the salon singly; each man, with a bundle of newspapers under his arm, took a seat at a vacant table, ordered a prodigious repast, which he gobbled in haste, as though he was afraid of losing a train, and then rushed off to the bar or smoked in the passages, never sitting for a moment after his breakfast. The Englishmen came in little knots or groups, exhibited no great anxiety about newspapers, ordered simple and substantial feasts, enjoyed them at their ease, chattered much, and were in no particular hurry to leave the table. The taciturnity of the American was not well-bred, nor was the good humour of the Briton vulgar. It may be said the comparison is not just, because the Americans were engaged in a fearful war, which engrossed all their thoughts; whilst the English officer was merely sent out on a tour of duty. But in the bar-room, restaurants, or streets, the American did not maintain the same aspect: he put on what is called a swaggering air, and was not at all disposed to let his shoulder-straps or his sword escape notice.

The good people at home would have been greatly surprised to hear the way in which the officers spoke of their exile to the snows of Canada; but though they growled and grumbled when breakfast was over, probably till dinner time, they would have fought all the better for it. Indeed there was not much else to do.

The streets were piled with snow; and at the front of the hotel, sleighs, driven by Irishmen, such as are seen managing the Dublin hacks, wrapped up in fur and sheepskins, were drawn up waiting for fares, to the constant jingle of the bells, which enlivened the air. It was too early and too raw and cold for many of the ladies of Montreal to trust their complexions to the cruelties of the climate, thickly veiled though they might be; but now and then a sleigh slid by with a bright-eyed freight half-buried in fourrures, and some handsome private vehicles of this description reached in their way as high a point of richness and elegance as could well be conceived. The horses were rarely of corresponding quality. The guardsmen and other soldiers, “red” and “green,” strode about in cold defiant boots, and seemed to like the town and climate better than their officers. Mr. Blackwell, the amiable and accomplished chief of the Grand Trunk Railway, called for me, and drove me out to an early dinner.

It was a matter of some ceremony to set forth: a fur cap with flaps secured over the ears and under the chin, a large fur cloak, and a pair of moccasins for the feet, had to be put on; and then we climb the sides of the boat-like sleigh, and started off at a rapid pace, which produced a sea-sick sensation—at least what I am told is like it—in very rough places where the runners of the sleighs have cut into the snow. On our way we were rejoiced by the sight of the “Driving Club” going out for an excursion, Sir Fenwick Williams leading. All one could see, however, was a certain looming up of dark forms through the drift gliding along to the music of the bells, which followed one after the other, and were lost in the hazy yet glittering clouds tossed up by the horses’ hoofs from the snow. In the afternoon the rime passed off, and the day became clearer, but no warmer.