me could have turned the hero
from his purpose, Quebec would not be to-day the oldest city in the
western hemisphere. As it was, his character gave the keynote not only
to the great fortress-capital, but to the whole history of New France.
He was an embodiment at once of the religious zeal and of the mediaeval
spirit of romance which carried the Bourbon lilies into the trackless
wilderness of North America, at a time when English colonisation
contented itself with a narrow strip on the Atlantic seaboard.

Samuel de Champlain was born in 1567 at the small seaport of Brouage,
on the Bay of Biscay. His father was a captain in the French navy, in
which profession the son also received early training. In the conflict
between the King and the rebellious Duc de Mercoeur and the League,
Champlain was found on the Royalist side; and Henry the Fourth
rewarded his faithful subject with a pension and a place at court. But
the war in Brittany was not long over before Champlain became
restless. The spirit of adventure beat strong in his veins, and at
length he determined upon a project which, while it should serve the
purpose of the King, was also well spiced with peril. Proceeding to
Cadiz, where his uncle was Pilot-General of the Spanish marine,
Champlain obtained command of one of the ships in Don Francisco
Colombo's fleet, bound for the West Indies. On this voyage he was
absent from France more than two years, visiting not only the West
Indies, but also Mexico and Central America.

On his return, these travels gave him an unusual importance at the
French court; and when, in 1603, the aged De Chastes, Governor of
Dieppe, decided to seal his pious life with an enterprise for the King
and for the Church, the adventurous Champlain became the instrument of
his purpose.

De Chastes' two small vessels set sail from Honfleur, one commanded by
Pontgrave, the other by Champlain. The voyage was long but
uneventful. Pontgrave's former trading-post at Tadousac had been
abandoned, and they held their lonely way up the St. Lawrence, past
the mantling rock of Stadacone, on to the wooded heights of Hochelaga.
Cartier's Indian village of sixty-eight years before had
disappeared--undoubtedly swept from existence by the relentless
Iroquois. At this point, however, the foaming St. Louis rapids barred
their way, and the caravels were turned homeward. With wind and
current down the river, and out through the Gulf, in due season they
came safely to