Montreal is the second French city of the world, much too large for the country behind it, swarming with over a million people out of Canada's entire eleven millions, far gone in the dropsical American disease of size, and its urgent skyscrapers, like weeds in a garden, are crushing out the last relics of a great and noble history.
Quebec, though thirty-four years older, is spry, bright-eyed, fascinating, unmistakably the grand dame. Montreal is losing her figure, tries to hide it under diamonds, fur coats, and rouge, and she appears in public with a shaven poodle on a leash, escorted by a stout gentleman who owns a railway, some banks, and an indifferent digestion.
But Montreal is still as much the metropolis of Canada as New York is of the United States -- not by size alone, but by consent, by tradition, force, history, and sheer character. Everybody goes to Montreal. Through the Windsor Station, as through the Grand Central, flow all the tides of the world, and in the old Windsor Hotel, which somehow has refused to be hurried, you eventually meet everyone.
The money of Canada has drained for three centuries into Montreal. The toil of farmers on the prairies, of trappers up north, of lumberjacks in the New Brunswick woods, of fishermen on the West Coast has built up here our only great city, with a great city's daily habits; our chief accumulation of wealth, rich living, and true metropolitan attitude; the city's cast of mind and, you might say -- if the word had not been