The Humour of Serious Things

Otago Witness, Issue 3714, 19 May 1925, Page 66

The Humour of Serious Things

A GUIDE TO QUEBEC. WHAT ATTRACTS SOME AMERICANS TO THE CANADIAN PROVINCE. (By Stephen Leacock.) (Copyright.—Fob the Witness.) 3 travelled the other day from New York to Montreal, where I live, in. the pleasant company of some Americans oo.ning to the province of Quebec for a brief vacation. “I like the altitude,” said one. “The air in the Laurentians,” 6aid another, “is wonderful.” “What I specially like,” said the third, “is the charm of the old French civilisation.” What they said was true, but it seemed to leave out something. They had with them a little Guide Book to the Province of Quebec. But that, too, seemed to leave out something. So I have compiled a new one, as follows. The Province of Quebec, licensed to sell beer and wine, has an area of 706,000 square miles. Its magnificent extent reaches from the border of New York State to the shore of the Frozen Seas. The most northerly license is that at Oppchoopchik, in Labrador. But it is not necessary to travel so far as that. The great glory of the province is the broad stream of the river St. Lawrence. On its noble bosom ply the magnificent passenger steamers of the Canada Steamships Company, the bars on which usually open at seven o’clock. There is no finer sight for the American tourist than to sit on the forward deck (the bar deck) of one of these palatial vessels and to watch the magnificent panorama of historic scenery which is unfolded to the eye as the ascent of the river is made. Here, on our light hand, as we come up fiom the sea, the magnificent stream of the Saguenay pours its foaming waters through the gateway of frowning rock as it joins the St. Lawrence. Clinging to the very crest of the rock, like an eagle upon its nest, is a tiny hotel, licensed to sell wine, beer, and other malt liquors. WHAT THE EYE COMMANDS. Ascending the river further, we pass the famous falls of the Montmorenci, from which soda water is made. Pouring over the cliff in a cascade over 200 ft high, the water is churned into soda at the foot. Nothing is needed but to mix with this soda a small quantity—or a large—of the Scotch whisky, freely imported for private orders under the laws of the province. Tho result is a delicious beverage, spark ling and refreshing, which may be placed beside us on a little table on the deck, while we smoke our Havana cigar, with one foot up on a camp-stool. Our attention is next turned, though not completely, to the historic and picturesque island of Orleans. Here are the quaint villages, the little spires, and the stone houses of the old French civilisation, unchanged since its first foundation under Louis XIV. Through our fieldglasses we can see the thrifty FrenchCanadian farmer busily engaged in distilling whisky blanc, or, white whisky made from wheat. In front of us now rises the frnpressive outline of the Quebec Bridge, its huge span crossing the river from summit to summit, and here before us there appears the grey old city of Quebec, climbing its rocky stronghold, the sentinel of New France. Our eye detects at once the dominating outline of the Chateau Frontenac Hotel, the bar of which commands a splendid view of the river. Here lie the great ocean steamers of the Canadian Pacific Railway. They do not draw as much water as the steamers of the White Star and the Cunard lines that enter New York Harbour, but they do not need to. They have advantages of their own. We are now so close in that we are right beside one of these leviathans of the deep, and can hear one of the whitecoated stewards cracking ice. As we pass by another of these ocean greyhounds, we catch a glimpse through the windows of the smoking room of ale being sold for eightpence a bottle. PARLIAMENT AND PERCENTAGE. The ancient City of Quebec well repay# our brief visit of inspection. Here is the gateway where brave General Montgomery met bis death on the wild December night when he tried to storm the city gates. Here is the entrance to the Hotel St. Louis. Here 's the famous Convent of the Ursalines where Montcalm died. Here is the Hotel du Canada. Our stay in the mother city of America is all too short. We would fain climb tho heights to reach the broad plateau or Plain of Abraham, where the destiny of America was settled at a blow. There are no licenses now anywhere near the Plain of Abraham. If our time allows, we drop in a moment to visit ‘he splendid building where tho Parliament of the Province of Quebec is in session. Here the Lieutenant-Gov-ernor sits enthroned, the direct representative of the King. Around him are the Ministers of ihe Crown, leaning over his chaL. There ’s a strange charm m listening to courteous debate which is going on, oil of it, we note with unreasonable surprise, conducted in French. The distinguished Premier of the province is speaking. We bend our ear to listen, understanding as best we can. Wo gather that the Prime Minister is speaking graxely and earnestly on the question of the percentage of alcohol in the beverages of tne province. Certain members of the Opposition have unjed that it be laised from 100 to 150. Sir Lomer does not see bis way to do this; but he assures the

House that if anyone will show him how to do it he will do it. THE SCENIC OFFERING REVISED. T he ancient City of Quebec has her own proud way of dealing with the modern liquor problem. She gives no licenses, but sells liquor only through the medical profession, and then only to those who need it As we descend the slope from the Legislature, we pass the gay little street of the doctors, with its laughing crowd of sick people around each door. No prescriptions must be filled out for more than a barrelful at a time. The enforcement of tins law is aided by a vigorous public opinion in its favour. We are back again upon our comfortable steamer. We are again ascending the river on our way to the metropolis of Montreal. The bar, which was closed during our absence on shore, is now open again. It is a strict rule of the Canada Steamship Company that when nobody wants a drink the bar is closed. The scenery has changed now. On either side of the river we pass from time to time the quaint little villages of French Canada, each with its tall church spires and its neat hotel, licensed to sell beer and wine. From time to time larger towns rise upon the bank. Here is Three Rivers, with Its vast piles of lumber, its tall smoke-stacks, and its 18 licenses. PERILS OF THE WILDS. In the counl ry to the north we can see the dim outline of the Laurentian Mountains—a vast wsrritorv of lake and mountain, forest and stream, an ideal hunting ground—the paradise of the sportsman. Some of our passengers have visited the Laurentians, and as we sit about the deck in a circle they exchange stories of their adventures. One tells us how he was once moose-hunting beyond the forks of the Batikan and lost his flask. Another tells a tale of how he and two companions got separated from their party over the divide in the wilderness near Lake Mistassini and for four days had only two bottles of whisky among three of them. Stories such as these, though told lightly and casually, give one a very real idea of the peculiar hardships and dangers of the hunter’s life in the Laurentians. But our steamboat journey is at an end. Our boat is steaming into the river harbour of Montreal crowded with shipping. Before us lies the great metropolis framed against the background of its royal mountain. Our landing fills us with wonder and delight. On every side are objects of interest. Here, in the foreground of the picture, is the great .brewery of the Molsons; we can see the thin steam rising from its covered top in a dainty cloud in the clear air. There is something exquisite in the sight that recalls the canvas of a Turner or a Correggio or the skyline of Milwaukee as she used to be. WE ENTER AN OASIS. In the upper town, all is animation; on every side are evidences of industrial prosperity. It is the noon hour, and we can see that even the labourer on the street has his can of beer beside him as he eats his dinner. Ah ! here is the Ritz Carlton Hotel, our destination. Good Mr Quick is standing at the door to welcome us. His hotel is full to the roof, and has been since January 16, 1920; but Mr Quick can always find room for one more. We enter. We sink into the luxurious wicker chairs of the Palm Room where a Czecho-Slovak orchestra (Mr Quick called it Hungarian before the war) is playing Jugo-Slav music. We order a quart of champagne each and send for a bundle of naturalisation papers and .« fountain pen. We shall never go home.