The most considerable lion, according to my taste.  Lions which roar merely by the force of association of ideas are not to me very valuable beasts.  To many the rock over which Wolfe climbed to the plains of Abram, and on the summit of which he fell in the hour of victory, gives to Quebec its chiefest charm.  But I confess to being somewhat dull in such matters.  I can count up Wolfe, and realize his glory, and put my hand as it were upon his monument, in my own room at home as well as I can at Quebec.  I do not say this boastingly or with pride, but truly acknowledging a deficiency.  I have never cared to sit in chairs in which old kings have sat, or to have their crowns upon my head.

Nevertheless, and as a matter of course, I went to see the rock, and can only say, as so many have said before me, that it is very steep.  It is not a rock which I think it would be difficult for any ordinarily active man to climb, providing, of course, that he was used to such work.  But Wolfe took regiments of men up there at night, and that in face of enemies who held the summits.  One grieves that he should have fallen there and have never tasted the sweet cup of his own fame.  For fame is sweet, and the praise of ones’s brother men the sweetest draught which a man can drain.  But now, and for coming ages, Wolfe’s name stands higher than it probably would have done had he lived to enjoy his reward.

But there is another very worthy lion near Quebec—­the Falls, namely, of Montmorency.  They are eight miles from the town, and the road lies through the suburb of St. Roch, and the long, straggling French village of Beauport.  These are in themselves very interesting, as showing the quiet, orderly, unimpulsive manner in which the French Canadians live.  Such is their character, although there have been such men as Papineau, and although there have been times in which English rule has been unpopular with the French settlers.  As far as I could learn there is no such feeling now.  These people are quiet, contented; and, as regards a sufficiency of the simple staples of living, sufficiently well to do.  They are thrifty, but they do not thrive.  They do not advance, and push ahead, and become a bigger people from year to year, as settlers in a new country should do.  They do not even hold their own in comparison with those around them.  But has not this always been the case with colonists out of France; and has it not always been the case with Roman Catholics when they have been forced to measure themselves against Protestants?  As to the ultimate fate in the world of this people, one can hardly form a speculation.  There are, as nearly as I could learn, about 800,000 of them in Lower Canada; but it seems that the wealth and commercial enterprise of the country is passing out of their hands.  Montreal, and even Quebec, are, I think, becoming less and less French every day; but in the villages and on the small farms the French still remain, keeping up their language, their