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The Falls of Montmorenci form one of the fairest attractions of the Province, and, indeed, of the continent. They are about seven miles from Quebec, where the Montmorenci river, just before its confluence with the St. Lawrence, falls over a black cliff 251 feet high, in a clear and massive white fall, shading to amber tints in its deeper parts, fluttering out at its edges into gauzy clouds, and plunging with continuous roar into huge undulations of foam and prismatic mist. The great gulf of chocolate-coloured earth and rock, decorated with spray-moistened herbage, opens from the St. Lawrence like

, the chancel of a Titanic cathedral, where the solemn music of nature never ceases. “ Instead of an artificial fountain in its square," says Thoreau, “Quebec has this magnificent natural waterfall to adorn one side of its harbour.” The plains of Beauport lie between Montmorenci and Quebec, and are occupied by a long line of quaint and thick-walled cottages, the homes of a contented peasantry, tracing their descent from the colonists who came so long ago from the French province of La Perche. A tall twin-spired church rises from among these antique houses; and here and there are wayside crosses and shrines, making manifest the primitive character of the people, who are shut out from the world by the Rock of Quebec. In all this great county there are but a few hundred English-speaking inhabitants; and as one fares on beyond the Montmorenci, he enters a region even more given over to the sixteenth century. As one of their own abbés has said: “In the inhabitant of the Côte de Beaupré you find the Norman peasant of the reign of Louis XIV., with his annals, his songs, and his superstitions.” Here the hamlet of Ange Gardien nestles in a sheltered glen, guarded at either end by roadside oratories, and grouped about an ancient church, on whose front is a sun-dial. The parish was founded in 1678; and eighty years later the gallant British battalions of the Louisburg Grenadiers captured it. Nor was it an easy conquest, for the people of Château Richer, the next village, had entrenched themselves in the Franciscan monastery which overlooked the plain, and made such a valiant defence, monks, priests, and peasants together, that General Wolfe was forced to send a section of artillery, and batter down the consecrated walls. The last village on the Côte de Beaupré is La Bonne Ste. Anne, whose church is the most highly-venerated shrine in America, visited by many thousands of pilgrims every year, and adorned with a painting of St. Anne, by Le Brun, which was presented by the Viceroy de Tracy, and other pictures by the Franciscan monk Lefrançois. There are also many rude er roto paintings; and piles and sheaves of crutches, left here by those who have been healed. The legend of the translation of the body of the mother of the Virgin from Jerusalem to Marseilles, and thence to the Cathedral of Apt, where it was afterwards discovered by Charlemagne, is familiar. This Canadian church was erected (in 1658) in obedience to a command of the Virgin, given in a vision to a little child; and the nobles of New France presented rich gifts to it, while Bishop Laval made St. Anne's Day a feast of obligation. During the French domination, every ship which ascended the river fired a broadside when passing the church, in token of gratitude for the safe voyage and deliverance from the perils of the sea. In 1665 the Cathedral Chapter of Carcassonne sent over a bone of the hand of St. Anne; this relic, guarded in a crystal globe, is exhibited at morning mass, and miraculous cures of bodily ailments are said to have been effected by it. Superstition and valour went

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hand-in-hand. The villagers gave battle to the destroying Iroquois, hereabouts, often and again; and when the British army advanced up the Côte de Beaupré, they beat off the Highlanders and Light Infantry, and would not give way until enveloped by the hostile detachments. It is a land of beauty and pietism, shadowed, like Umbria, by lofty mountains — the cross-crowned peak of Cap Tourmente, the dark Laurentian ridgessparkling, like the Alban Hills, with splendid waterfalls, and enriched with Vallombrosan forests. Across the broad river is the Isle of Orleans, fair as Devonshire, "the Garden

" of Canada,” which Cartier christened the Isle of Bacchus, on account of its rich wines, and the carly navigators called the Wizards Isle. There are seventy square miles of beauty, occupied by a peaceful and primitive people, the descendants of the old immigrants from Poitou, and dotted here and there with white hamlets, each with its quaint legend or historic memory. Below the isle the majestic St. Lawrence flows away, by many à Norman village and sequestered island community, widening with every league, toward the lonely shores of Newfoundland and Labrador.

Nothing of the kind can be more beautiful than the manner in which Quebec lords it over these hamlets in her environs. The roofs and spires of the town are covered with tin, from which the sun is brilliantly reflected. The peasant of Orleans or the Côte de Beaupré, going forth to his morning labours, or returning homeward at sunset, sees the formidable promontory of Cape Diamond leagues away, clearly outlined in the level light, and crowned with countless sparkling points. Sometimes this imposing apparition is seen over the ruffled dark blue waters of the St. Lawrence; sometimes, across velvety expanses of meadow-land, rich with harvests; sometimes, through the massy foliage of the Laurentian forests; and often, perhaps too often, over interminable reaches of ice and snow, covering meadow and river and forest alike with their dreary shroud. But in sunshine and storm alike, amid the heats of the short but blazing summer, or the rigours of the Siberian winter, the habitan looks upon Quebec as the proud capital of La Nouvelle France; the home of the foremost scholars and divines and statesmen of his race; the city of Laval and Champlain, of Frontenac and Montcalm.

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which she has encircled her head)— Marseilles has preserved little or nothing of her different ages.”

The disappearance of all antiquities has been variously accounted for by different writers. Some attribute it to the zeal of the early Christians, others to the frequent barbaric invasions. But in spite of her fame and commercial prosperity, Marseilles was never a city of the first order, and it is doubtful whether she ever possessed the temples, thermæ, palaces, and amphitheatres met with in other places. In making excavations some fragments of a Greek ship, some tombs with Greek inscriptions, some vases, medals, and other curiosities have been discovered, and placed in the Borelly Museum, but with these trifling exceptions the Phocæan city has utterly passed away. Of the mediæval churches we have already spoken, but in the Old City stands a venerable relic, the Tour de St. Paul, which claims a passing notice. It is a relic of the fifth century, and upon it stood the famous culverin of which Marseilles was so proud, and which was destroyed at the visit of Louis XIV. That culverin played an important part when, in 1525, the Constable, Charles de Bourbon, flushed with victories over numerous enemies, dubbed himself Count of Provence, and came, with his proud standard of the winged stag and flaming swords, to conquer Marseilles.

The burghers, aided by Marshal Chabanas and the engineer Mirabel, who with a number of French gentry had thrown themselves into the city, enrolled themselves to the number of 9,000, and levelled their suburbs, sparing neither churches nor convents to raise outworks and put their fortresses and ramparts in order. Charles came to reconnoitre, and his Lieutenant Pescaire foretold difficulties. The proud Constable declared that at the sound of the first cannon the burghers would come forth with their keys. The army of 16,000 Germans, Spaniards, and Italians invested the city, and on August 23rd, before opening the trenches, Bourbon and Pescaire attended mass. Whilst so engaged a ball from the culverin killed the priest who was officiating. “It is only the burghers of Marseilles coming out with their keys,” said Pescaire. Days of terrible cannonading ensued, met by desperate resistance from the citizens.

As we have already stated, the women aided in repairing the breaches. On August 26th a tremendous assault on the battered walls was unsuccessful. But the French army was now approaching; the baffled Constable was compelled to lead off his troops, and, amidst the acclamations of the citizens, the culverin of the Tour de St. Paul fired its parting volleys into their retreating ranks.

The Hôtel de Ville on the North Quay of the Old Port was of greater importance in ancient days than at the present time. To earlier generations it was the symbol of communal life-it represented the idea of a common interest triumphing over individual aims and efforts. Upon the façade are the royal arms, sculptured by Puget, but considerably mutilated by the Republicans of 1793.

Immense sums have been spent on the municipal buildings of Marseilles during the recent period of aggrandisement and prosperity. The new Bourse on the Canne bière was erected in 1851-60 at a cost of 9,000,000 francs, chiefly at the expense of the Chamber of Commerce, a wealthy and important body directly representing the ancient corporation which originated the early colonisation schemes. The principal hall, measuring 114 feet by 58, is larger than the hall of the Bourse at Paris.

In the gallery is a colossal statue of Napoleon III., who laid the first stone of the edifice when President in 1852, but the

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hand-in-hand. The villagers gave battle to the destroying Iroquois, hereabouts, often and again; and when the British army advanced up the Côte de Beaupré, they beat off the Highlanders and Light Infantry, and would not give way until enveloped by the hostile detachments. It is a land of beauty and pietism, shadowed, like Umbria, by lofty mountains — the cross-crowned peak of Cap Tourmente, the dark Laurentian ridgessparkling, like the Alban Hills, with splendid waterfalls, and enriched with Vallombrosan forests. Across the broad river is the Isle of Orleans, fair as Devonshire, “the Garden of Canada," which Cartier christened the Isle of Bacchus, on account of its rich wines, and the carly navigators called the Wizards' Isle. There are seventy square miles of beauty, occupied by a peaceful and primitive people, the descendants of the old immigrants from Poitou, and dotted here and there with white hamlets, each with its quaint legend or historic memory. Below the isle the majestic St. Lawrence flows away, by many a Norman village and sequestered island community, widening with every league, toward the lonely shores of Newfoundland and Labrador.

Nothing of the kind can be more beautiful than the manner in which Quebec lords it over these hamlets in her environs. The roofs and spires of the town are covered with tin, from which the sun is brilliantly reflected. The peasant of Orleans or the Côte de Beaupré, going forth to his morning labours, or returning homeward at sunset, sees the formidable promontory of Cape Diamond leagues away, clearly outlined in the level light, and crowned with countless sparkling points. Sometimes this imposing apparition is seen over the ruffled dark blue waters of the St. Lawrence; sometimes, across velvety expanses of meadow-land, rich with harvests; sometimes, through the massy foliage of the Laurentian forests; and often, perhaps too often, over interminable reaches of ice and snow, covering meadow and river and forest alike with their dreary shroud. But in sunshine and storm alike, amid the heats of the short but blazing summer, or the rigours of the Siberian winter, the habitan looks upon Quebec as the proud capital of La Nouvelle France; the home of the foremost scholars and divines and statesmen of his race; the city of Laval and Champlain, of Frontenac and Montcalm.

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and Ratonneau. It will be remembered that the Lazaretto of Marseilles was, in the days of John Howard, the prison philanthropist, one of the deadliest pest-houses, and therefore one of the places he was most anxious to visit, as it was then the most important establishment of its kind in Europe. But France hated Howard because he had exposed the evils of the prison systems there, and not only was his application for a permit to visit Varseilles refused, but he was peremptorily forbidden to enter France on pain of being sent to the Bastille. Notwithstanding this, disguised as a physician, and under an assumed name, he made his way through many dangers from Paris to Marseilles, and then, though the agents of police were in search for him, and friends urged him to fly, he remained until he had visited the Lazaretto-which even Frenchmen were prohibited from visiting—and obtained plans and drawings. These, together with an account of his minute investigations into the whole working of the quarantine system, were published in his “Lazarettos in Europe,” and led to reformation.

Of the Arsenal, Mint, Lyceum, Observatory, theatres, schools, lighthouses, and other buildings we cannot stay to speak. The markets are curious places in which to watch Provençal life and manners, especially the Halle Vieille or fish-market.

We have not yet touched on the local industries of Marseilles, which are very extensive. The fishermen are exceedingly numerous, and once formed a powerful corporation. A vast army of labourers finds employment in connection with the harbour and docks. There are large establishments for smelting the ores obtained from Algiers, Spain, and Italy. In lead, Marseilles does more than any other town in France; in 1873 the department produced 13,600 tons. Marseilles also grinds immense quantities of the corn brought to the harbour, transforms seeds and oils into manufactured products, tans skins, and prepares preserved foods and conserves for sailors and travellers. But one of its principal industries is the manufacture of soap, in which for more than a century it has taken the highest rank. Half the soap used in France comes from Marseilles, and quite one-fourth of the sugar used in the country is from the Marseilles refineries.

Marseilles boasts of many distinguished persons amongst its citizens, many of them of local rather than universal fame. In ancient days, besides the two great scientific navigators already referred to, the city produced two learned physicians, Demosthenes and Crinias, the former quoted by Galen, the later by Pliny. Of modern inhabitants we may mention D'Urfé, author of the once-noted romance called "Astræa ;” Father Plumier, the botanist; Puget, the celebrated sculptor and architect; the preacher Mascaron; the grammarian Dumarsais; the inferior poet Dulart; the historian Fabre ; the eloquent democrats, Buzot and Barbaroux, conspicuous in the Revolution, and in their turn dying on its scaffold. Last, but decidedly not least, the noted statesman, M. Thiers, was born at 40, Rue des Petits Pères.

Opposite the harbour of Marseilles are the islands of If, Pomègue, and Ratonneau. The quarantine port formed by the breakwater probably marks the site of the Fretum Julium, where the galleys of Cæsar lay under the command of Decius Brutus at the siege of Marseilles. The Château d’If has procured its chief notoriety from Dumas' startling romance of "Monte Christo.” It contains a square donjon with four towers built by Francis I. in 1529, (according to some authorities on the remains of a Roman circus. It was for a long time a state prison, and in it the celebrated Mirabeau was incarcerated.

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