Hope's Imperfection

Chapter 3: Montreal

I had never been to Montreal before and I took the time to enjoy the cityscape on my march to the museum.  The street names revealed a history that I never knew. Trudeau, Levesque, Mirabel, and McGill were all new to me. Montreal is an island bordered by the St Lawrence River and gently rises to the modest heights of Mount Royal, just north of the city. I wondered where George and his son Richard once lived. They must have spoken French if they’d resided in this city. I was surprised that many people spoke English around town but, judging from the signage, the first language of Montreal was definitely French.

I stepped off the road and into the museum, a gorgeous old house off Sherbrooke Street. I was captivated by the collections and took a while reading about the history of Canada. I spent quite some time looking at the legends of the fur trade, secretly hoping to find a picture of a young George Stanhope. The Hudson’s Bay Company (HBC) was founded in 1670 and expanded by Scottish immigrants over the next two hundred years. The business model was simple: Frenchmen would trap furs in the interior and bring them to cities along the river to trade. An enterprise was born. 

I took time to examine the history of Montreal, paying particular attention to the early 1800s. Montreal was a French-speaking colony but was home to many of the English-speaking executives of the HBC. The city was not officially incorporated until 1832 and became part of the newly formed country of Canada in 1867. This fledgling British colony was the first to harness the wealth from the fur trade; it would be a while before the United States would enter the business in any meaningful way.

I asked for the curator of the museum but found out that he would not be back until 11 am so I completed my trip around the exhibits.

My investigation settled on the history of a special breed of people, the French-Canadian voyageurs. These were the men who carted the furs along the lakes and rivers and transported the men who held commerce on the waters. They were big, strong men who, with their muscular physiques and skillful technique, could make canoes fly down rivers. During portages these tough fellows would routinely throw 150 pounds of gear on their backs as they tramped to the next port further down the river. A mythology was created around these seafaring legends which I was gleefully learning more about. I was particularly interested in the culture formed through the hardships they endured as they sang songs about their loved ones left far behind.

I was engrossed in one of the displays when a man came up to me and introduced himself as Jonathon Martin, the manager of the museum. We moved to his office for a chat.

“Mr. Martin, I am Philip Stanhope and I have come to pick up my great-great-grandfather’s (I left out a few greats) diary. His name was Richard Stanhope.”

“Oh, I see. I’m sorry, Mr. Stanhope, but I sold that piece to a lady from New York City two days ago,” said Mr. Martin.

“I don’t understand. My grandmother told me that I had until this Friday to pick up the item.” I asked.

“I’m sorry but that was last Friday. I decided not put it up for auction but I did include it on the list of items for bid, and a woman from New York saw it, emailed me, and came in to pick it up on Monday,” he stated.

“Do you know her name?” I asked.

“Yes, I have her name and address, if you would like them?” Mr. Martin returned.