art of the city that had been his love, his ambition, his life-dream.
The explorer, the crusader, the sharer of toils and battles, his story
is one of the knightly romances of that period, and his name is
enshrined with that of old Quebec. Other heroes were to come, other
battles to be fought, much work for priest and civilian, but this is the
simplest, the bravest of them all, for its mighty work was done at great
odds.

To-day you find the Citadel, the old French fort, but the wharves and
docks run out in the river, and there are steamboats, instead of canoes.
There is the Market Place and the City Hall, the Grande Allee St. Louis
Place and Gate, the crowded business-point, with its ferries, the great
Louise basin and embankment. The city runs out to St. Charles river, and
stretches on and on until you reach the Convent of the Sacred Heart.
There are still the upper and the lower town, and the steep ways, the
heights that Wolfe climbed, the world-famed Plains of Abraham.

Everywhere is historic ground, monuments of courage, zeal, and religion.
The streets have old names. Here on a height so steep you wonder how
they are content to climb it, juts out a little stone eyrie, just as it
stood a hundred years ago. Three or four generations have lived within
its walls, and they are as French to-day as they were then. They want
nothing of the modern gauds of the present. Grandmothers used the clumsy
furniture, and it is almost worth a king's ransom, it has so many
legends woven around it.

There is the Chateau Frontenac, that recalls romance and bravery. There
are churches, with their stories. There are the old Jesuit barracks, out
of which went many a heroic soul to face martyrdom, there is the Chien
d'Or, with its stone dog gnawing a bone, and the romance of Nicolas
Jaquin Philibert, the brave Huguenot.

There are old graveyards, where rest the pioneers who prayed, and hoped,
and starved with Champlain. All the stories can never be written, all
the monuments that speak of glory do not tell of the sufferings. Yet
there were happy lives, and happy loves, as well. The storms die out,
the light and sunshine dry up the tears, and courage is given to go on.

The old French days have left their impress. Champlain will always be a
living memory, as the founder of one of the marvellous cities of the
world. Gay little girls run about and climb the heights, they dance and
sing, and have their festivals, and are happy in the thrice