Physical size and grand proportions are looked upon by the French-Canadian with great respect.  In all the cases of popular emeutes that have from time to time broken out in Lower Canada, the fighting leaders of the people were exceptional men, standing head and shoulders over their confiding followers.  Where gangs of raftsmen congregate, their “captains” may be known by superior stature.  The doings of their “big men” are treasured by the French-Canadians in traditionary lore.  One famous fellow of this governing class is known by his deeds and words to every lumberer and stevedore and timber-tower about Montreal and Quebec.  This man, whose name was Joe Monfaron, was the bully of the Ottawa raftsmen.  He was about six feet six inches high and proportionably broad and deep; and I remember how people would turn round to look after him, as he came pounding along Notre-Dame Street, in Montreal, in his red shirt and tan-colored shupac boots, all dripping wet after mooring an acre or two of raft, and now bent for his ashore-haunts in the Ste.-Marie suburb, to indemnify himself with bacchanalian and other consolations for long-endured hardship.  Among other feats of strength attributed to him, I remember the following, which has an old, familiar taste, but was related to me as a fact.

There was a fighting stevedore or timber-tower, I forget which, at Quebec, who never had seen Joe Monfaron, as the latter seldom came farther down the river than Montreal.  This fighting character, however, made a custom of laughing to scorn all the rumors that came down on rafts, every now and then, about terrible chastisements inflicted by Joe upon several hostile persons at once.  He, the fighting timber-tower, hadn’t found his match yet about the lumber-coves at Quebec, and he only wanted to see Joe Monfaron once, when he would settle the question as to the championship of the rafts on sight.  One day, a giant in a red shirt stood suddenly before him, saying,—­

“You’re Dick Dempsey, eh?”

“That’s me,” replied the timber-tower; “and who are you?”

“Joe Monfaron.  I heard you wanted me,—­here I am,” was the Caesarean response of the great captain of rafts.

“Ah! you’re Joe Monfaron!” said the bully, a little staggered at the sort of customer he saw before him.  “I said I’d like to see you, for sure; but how am I to know you’re the right man?”

“Shake hands, first,” replied Joe, “and then you’ll find out, may be.”

They shook hands,—­rather warmly, perhaps, for the timber-tower, whose features wore an uncertain expression during the operation, and who at last broke out into a yell of pain, as Joe cast him off with a defiant laugh.  Nor did the bully wait for any further explanations; for, whether the man who had just brought the blood spouting out at the tips of his fingers was Joe Monfaron or not, he was clearly an ugly customer and had better be left alone.