When the French first settled on the banks of St. Lawrence, they were
stinted by the intendant, Monsieur Picard, to a can of spruce beer a
day. The people thought this measure very scant, and every moment
articulated, “Can-a-day!” It would be ungenerous in any reader to desire
a more rational derivation of the word Canada.
* * * * *
* * * *
THE FATAL EFFECTS OF INDULGING THE PASSIONS,
Exemplified in the History of M. De La Paliniere.
_Translated from the French._
(Concluded from page 18.)
In the midst of these thoughts, there was one more afflicting than all
the rest; I was arrived at that height of misery, that my greatest
misfortune was not that of being for ever separated from Julia; no,
I had another more insupportable. The most virtuous and innocent of
women, the ornament and glory of her sex, groaned beneath the
opprobrious burthen of the world’s contempt, and I alone was the cause
of this cruel injustice; the remembrance of this distracted me, and made
me almost insensible to the consolations of friendship. Yes, said I to
Sinclair, I could suffer singly for my errors, and support my punishment
perhaps with fortitude. Time I know destroys passion and regret, but it
never can enfeeble the remorse of a feeling heart born to the practice
of virtue. The day may come, when Julia will no longer live in my
imagination with all those seductive charms I now continually behold;
but she will ever remain there the innocent sacrifice of folly and
distraction, and the remembrance of that will be the torment of my life.
In effect, neither the tender cares of Sinclair, nor the dissipation of
a long voyage, could weaken my chagrin. When we returned to Paris,
Sinclair was obliged to leave me and rejoin his regiment, and I
departed, almost immediately, for Holland; where, six months after,
Sinclair came to me. He suggested an idea of my undertaking some kind of
commerce, and lent me money necessary to make a beginning.
Fortune seconded this next project, and I foresaw the possibility of
regaining the happiness I had lost: the desire of laying the fruits of
my travels at the feet of my Julia, gave me as much industry as
perseverance; I vanquished my natural indolence, and the tiresome
disgust with which this new species of employment at first inspired me,
and read and reflected during the time that business did not call my
attention.
Study soon ceased to appear painful: I acquired a passionate love for
reading; my mind was insensibly enlightened, my ideas enlarged, and my
heart became calm. Industry, reading, and thinking, recovered me, by
degrees, from the soporiferous draught of indolence; religion likewise
gave fortitude to reason, elevated my soul, and released me from the
tyrannical empire of passion.
This revolution in my temper and sentiments did not at all change my
projects. ’Tis true, I had no longer that excessive and silly passion
for Julia which had made us both so unhappy. I loved with less violence,
with less self-interest, but with more certainty. Passion is always
blind, selfish, and seeking its own satisfaction: friendship is founded
upon esteem, owes all its power to virtue, is more affectionate, and the
more affectionate it is, the more it is equitable and generous.
I passed five years in Holland, during which time I was constantly
fortunate in the business in which I was engaged; and at length, by
extreme œconomy and unwearied assiduity, entirely re-established my
fortune. I then thought of nothing but of once more visiting my own
country. I imagined, with the most tender delight, the happiness I was
going to regain, when falling at the feet of Julia, I might say to her,
“I return worthy of you; I return to consecrate my life to your
happiness.”
Thus occupied by the most delightful of ideas, I departed from Holland,
far, alas! from suspecting the blow I was about to receive.
I had written to Sinclair, desiring him to inform Julia of my journey,
and received an answer at Brussels; by which I learned Julia had had a
fever, but at the same time the letter assured she had not been
dangerously ill, and was almost recovered. The explanations which
accompanied that letter prevented all uneasiness, and I continued my
route with no other fear than that of seeing Julia more surprized than
affected at my resolutions and return.
I drew nearer and nearer to Paris, and at last, when within twenty
leagues, I met Sinclair, who stopped my carriage, and descended from his
own: I opened my door, and flew to embrace him; but as soon as my eyes
met his, I shuddered: astonishment and terror rendered me speechless!
Sinclair opened his arms to me, but his face was bathed in tears!
I durst not ask the reason, and he had not the power to tell me.
I expected the worst, and from that moment faithless fleeting joys
forever forsook my heart!
Sinclair dragged me towards my carriage without speaking a single word,
and the postillions instantly quitted the road to Paris. “Whither are
you taking me?” cried I distractedly; “tell me: I will know.”
Ah, unhappy man!
Go on! continue! strike me to the heart!
Sinclair answered not, but wept and embraced me. Tell me, continued I,
what is my fate? Is it her hatred, or her loss, thou wouldst announce?
Sinclair’s lips opened to answer, and my heart sunk within me; I wanted
the courage to hear him pronounce my sentence; “Oh, my friend!” added I,
“my life this moment is in thy hands.”
The supplicating tone with which I spoke these words, sufficiently
expressed my feelings. Sinclair looked at me with compassion in his
eyes. “I can be silent,” said he, “but dare not deceive:” he stopt;
I asked no more; and the rest of the road we both kept a profound
silence, which was only interrupted by my sobs and sighs.
Sinclair conducted me to a country-house, where I at length received a
confirmation of my misery: alas! all was lost: Julia existed no more;
her death not only deprived me of all felicity, but took from me the
means of repairing my faults, of expiating my past errors, except by
regret, repentance, and by daily pouring out my silent griefs before an
elegant Mausoleum, which the generous friendship of Sinclair had kindly
caused to be erected to her memory in the neighbourhood of his
country-house.
The remainder of my history has nothing interesting; consoled by time
and religion, I consecrated the rest of my career to friendship, study,
and the offices of humanity; I obtained my uncle’s pardon, and the care
of making him happy became my greatest delight; and I fulfilled, without
effort, and in their whole extent, those sacred duties which nature and
gratitude required.
Though my uncle was far advanced in years, heaven still permitted him to
remain with me ten years, after which I had the misfortune to lose him:
I purchased his estate, and retired thither for the rest of my days.
Sinclair promised to come and see me once a-year, and though fifteen are
now past since that event, we have never been eighteen months without
seeing each other.
Sinclair, at present in his fifty-eighth year, has run a career the most
brilliant and the most fortunate: a happy husband, a happy father,
a successful warrior, covered with glory, loaded with fortune’s favours,
he enjoys a felicity and fate the more transcendant, in that they only
could be procured by virtue united to genius.
As for me, I, in my obscure mediocrity, might yet find happiness, were
it not for the mournful, the bitter remembrance of the evils which
others have suffered through the errors of my youth.
[[Sources:
Original: _Les veillées du château_, 1785, by Stéphanie Félicité,
comtesse de Genlis, 1746-1830.
English Translation: _Tales of the castle; or, Stories of instruction
and delight_, trans. Thomas Holcroft, 1745-1809. This selection is
pages 203-270 in Volume 1 (of 5), in the 1793 (4th) edition.
The serial began in no. 45 of the New-York Weekly; the first 8 of its
12 installments are in Volume I.