Читать книгу Westward with the Prince of Wales - W. Douglas Newton - Страница 12

When one talks to a citizen of St. John, New Brunswick, one has an impression that his city is burnt down every half century or so in order that he and his neighbours might build it up very much better.

This is no doubt an inaccurate impression, but when I had listened to various brisk people telling me about the fires—the devastating one of 1877, and the minor ones of a variety of dates—and the improvements St. John has been able to accomplish after them; and when I had seen the city itself, I must confess I had a sneaking feeling that Providence had deliberately managed these things so that a lively, vigorous and up-to-date folk should have every opportunity of reconstructing their city according to the modernity of their minds and status.

The vigorousness of St. John is so definite that it got into our bones though our visit was but one of hours. St. John, for us, represented an extraordinary hustle. We arrived on the morning of Friday, August 15, after the one night when the sea had not been altogether our friend; when the going had been "awfully kinky" (as the seasick one of our party put it), and the spiral motif in the Dauntless' wardroom had been disturbing at meals.

We arrived, moreover, on a wet day, were whisked by launch to the quayside and plunged at once into the company of the Governor-General, Prime Minister, Canadian legislators, Guards of Honour, brigades of "movie" men, crowds of singing children and Canada in the mass determined to make the most of the moment. From this we were hurled headlong in the Canadian manner, in cars through streets of more people and more children to functions where the whole breezy business was repeated again with infinite zest.

It was the day of our first impact with the novelty and bigness of Canada, and it was a trifle dizzying. It was a day on which we encountered so much that was new, and yet it was a day done in the "movie" manner, with all the sensations definite but digested in a hurry.

It was the day on which we first encountered the big Canadian crowd; that hearty, democratic crowd, so scornful of routine and policemen and methods of decorum, yet so generous in its feeling, so good-natured and so entirely reliable in its sense of self-discipline.

It was the day when we gathered our first impressions of Canadian city life, saw (and perhaps we found them a little unexpected) Canada's fine shops and the beautiful things in them, saw Canada's beautiful women and the smart clothes they wore, saw the evidence of the modernity of Canada's business methods, and the comeliness of the suburbs in which Canada lived.

It was the day when we first encountered a Canadian meal, glanced with awe at those marble mosaic temples of the head, the barbers' shops, looked into our first Shoe Shine Parlour, fell under the seduction of our first Canadian ice, and finally surrendered ourselves to the infinite and efficient comfort of a Canadian Railway.

All this was accomplished allegro di molto. We had to assimilate it all in a bunch of hurried hours between our first landing and the collecting and stowing of our suitcases in the sleeping car of the National Railway Special that had been placed at the service of the newspaper men. It was a crowded day, but it was thrilling and it remains unforgettable.