From the Falls of Montmorency[151] to Quebec, a continuous chain of intrenchments defended the northern bank of the St. Lawrence. A large boom lay across the mouth of the River St. Charles, and the bridge, about a quarter of a mile high up the stream, was protected by a "tête du pont." All these various works and fortifications were, however, rude and imperfect; the strength, as well as the beauty, of this magnificent position, was chiefly due to the bountiful hand of Nature. The cultivation of the fertile Canadian soil was of a very rude description; but even the feeble industry of the "habitan" was generally repaid by rich and plentiful crops. The animals of the chase, and the inexhaustible supplies of fish in their lakes and rivers, were resources that better suited the thriftless and scanty population than the toilsome produce of the field. Tillage was neglected; they cared not to raise more grain than their own immediate wants demanded. The unparalleled monopolies of the colonial government deprived labor of the best stimulant--the certain enjoyment of its fruits. The farmer hardly cared to store up his superabundant harvest, when his haggard was exposed to the licensed plunder of cruel and avaricious officials, or served but as a sign where the domineering soldiery of Old France might find free quarters. He that sowed the seed knew not who might reap the crop. Often, when the golden fields were almost ripe for the sickle, the war-summons sounded in the Canadian hamlets, and the whole male population were hurried away to stem some distant Indian onslaught, or to inflict on some British settlement a ruin scarcely more complete than their own. In the early wars with the fierce Iroquois, this rude militia had ever answered their leaders' call with ready zeal, and fought with worthy courage; when the haughty savage was subdued and humbled, and a new and more dangerous foe arose in the hereditary enemies of their fatherland, the Canadians again took the field, strong in the spirit of national hatred. But as, year after year, the vain strife continued, and, despite their valor and even success, the British power hemmed them more closely in, their hearts sickened at the hopeless quarrel, and they longed for peace even under a stranger's sway. Their fields desolate, their villages deserted, their ships driven from the seas, what cared they for the pride of France, when its fruit to them was ruin, oppression, and contempt![152] What cared they for the Bourbon lily, when known but as the symbol of avarice and wrong!