Most of Montreal lies between Mount Royal and the river, but the wings of the city reach around on each side of the hill. The French live in the eastern section. The western suburbs contain the homes of well-to-do English Canadians. One of them, Westmount, is actually surrounded by the city, yet it insists on remaining a separate municipality. Mark Twain said that he would not dare throw a stone in Montreal for fear of smashing a church window. If he could view the city to-day he would be even more timid. Almost every building that rises above the skyline is a church, and the largest structures are generally Catholic schools, colleges, hospitals, or orphanages. In the heart of Montreal’s Wall Street is the huge Church of Notre Dame. It seats twelve thousand people, and in its tower is the largest bell in America, weighing about twenty-nine thousand pounds. That dome farther over marks the location of the Cathedral of St. James. It is a replica, on a reduced scale, of St. Peter’s at Rome. It seats several thousand worshippers; nevertheless, when I went there last Sunday morning hundreds were standing, and within fifteen minutes after one service was concluded it was again filled to capacity for the next. Downtown Montreal is built largely of limestone. It has a massive look, but skyscrapers are barred by a city ordinance. Erection of modern steel and concrete office buildings is now under way, and they stand out conspicuously against the background of more old-fashioned structures. Big as it is and important commercially, Montreal seems a city without any Main Street. St. Catherine Street has the largest retail stores and the “bright lights” of theatres and cafés, but I have seen more impressive thoroughfares in much smaller places at home. This is essentially a French city, though less so than Quebec. The French do not naturally incline toward “big business.” They seem content with small shops, which since the days of their grandfathers have grown in numbers rather than in size. They are by nature conservative, and though they make shrewd business managers, they care little for innovations in either public or private affairs. I have visited the biggest market, the Bonsecours. It is quite as French as those I have seen in southern France. This market takes up a wide street running from the heart of Montreal down to the wharves. The street is the overflow of the market proper, which fills a church-like building covering an acre of ground. When I arrived the open space was crowded with French farmers, who in the early morning had driven their cars and light motor trucks loaded down with fruits and vegetables into the city. Fully half of the wagons were in charge of women, who looked much like those in the Halles Central in Paris. As I pressed my way through the throng many of them called out to me in French and some thrust their wares into my face and urged me to buy.