Then damsels all who hear my tale
Hold not your heads so high,
A downward glance give now and then,
Hid dangers to descry.
We arrive at St. Thomas after a forty miles drive, and stay over, if the
tide does not serve for coming, at Madame F.’s well-known hotel—not far
from which is the residences of the late Sir Etienne Taché and Mr.
Bender, father of the present well-known Boston physician, Dr. Bender.
A short distance from here is the house now occupied by E. P. Bender,
formerly owned by Mr. William Patton, a splendid specimen of an English
gentleman. A lumber merchant, doing a large business with ample means,
his house was the home of generous hospitality. It is thirty years
since I visited it or more—it then gave you an idea of one of England’s
far-famed country homes; Everything handsome, well ordered grounds, its
steel grates (then a novelty), and handsome paperings, a host so
courteous, his wife a refined lady of the old school—all appeared to
promise long years of happiness to its inmates, when in a day, alas! all
was changed. Mr. Patton was most energetic in his efforts to hasten the
building of the railroad from Quebec to St. Thomas, and went into town
to see Messrs. Morton, Peto & Brassey, when he met his fate.
Overheated by his exertions, he lay down to rest opposite an open window
facing the St. Lawrence, a gale sprung up, he got a chill, and in
twenty-four hours he was dead, of inflammation, before his wife could
reach him, and yet she arrived almost in time, due to a mysterious
warning of some kind, I forget what it was—she told me of it herself.
Sitting quietly in her room she heard or saw something, and, convinced
that her husband needed her, she ordered a carriage, and, despite all
remonstrance, drove all night, and passed in the darkness the carriage
sent for her, and arrived in the grey dawn of morning to find her
husband just dead.
How many such unaccountable occurrences happen. I could tell of at
least six such experiences in my own history. My theory is this, that
under certain conditions thought meets thought, and so mesmerically
impresses on the loved one its own yearnings and wishes.
Previous to Mr. Patton’s purchasing it, this house had been occupied by
several families of note, the De Beaujeus, Olivas, etc. It was
purchased a few years since by E. P. Bender, Esq., who now occupies it
with his family.
*SECOND VISIT TO ROBERVAL,
LAKE ST. JOHN.*
I was unfortunately prevented from visiting Roberval until late in the
season—in fact, only a few weeks before the hotel closed—but I saw
enough to confirm my first impressions as to its desirability as a
summer resort for people who really need to recuperate after the wear
and tear of town life. It was late in August, a cold spell was on; we
arrived per railroad on Pullman car, which brings you to the very gate
of the hotel premises. A dull heavy rain came down as we got off the
cars, but what of that? you are ushered into a hallway where burns a
generous grate fire. Courteous officials greet you and inquire your
wants. Shown to a comfortable bedroom, and then to a supper as good in
quality as meals served in most town hotels, with excellent attendance,
you fancy you are in fairy land, as, gazing on the wild country around,
you remember that this locality a few years ago was not even inhabited
by farmers, but all was bush. Ushered into the ladies’ parlor you are
greeted by a most winning hostess, Mrs. Scott, daughter of the Honorable
Mr. Shehyn, who, residing here at present with her children, does the
honors, and welcomes you as if to her own private parlor. The season
was so nearly over there were comparatively few guests, but those of the
most pleasant—Dr. and Mrs. Lovely, Rev. Mr. —— and his wife, and several
members of the Beemer family, who by their musical talents contributed
largely to our enjoyment. Roberval I am sure has a grand future before
it. Dr. Lovely, one of the most eminent physicians of the United States,
assured me that he had discovered coal-oil there, not five miles from
the hotel, and also some stone (I forget what) of which he was taking
specimens away with him. He said if it was what he thought, it would
indeed be a bonanza.
It appears to me that Roberval would be especially beneficial for those
suffering from nervous exhaustion or debility, or tendency to
consumption. The pure mountain air, the quiet, the absence of rush and
excitement, must surely be most grateful to such parties, while for
those who want a livelier existence, the trips in excursion steam-boats,
the visits to various other fishing grounds, the power of jumping on the
railroad that comes to your door and whirls you off for a few hours to
other lakes, is a matter not to be lost sight of. Added to the perfect
inside comfort of this hotel—baths on your bedroom flat—the immense
piazza runs the full length of the building, affording in wet weather an
excellent promenade, with a view of the lovely lake, and what I much
appreciated was the absence of the horrid gong calling you to meals.
Here you are told the time for meals, and if you so desire a civil
waiter calls you at the hour you name, but the fearful din that
elsewhere rouses you from your pet morning sleep is absent.
Entering the ladies’ parlor in the evening you feel almost that you are
in a private house. A bright fire burns in an open grate. Some fair
lady is employing her talents at the piano in your service, and you
enjoy some really good music, when one of the ladies asks are you to
have a little dance or a small game of cards—the first at once, the
latter when we are tired. After a short time small tables are brought
in, the guests group into little coteries, each one retires when he
will, after enjoying all the comforts of a home with the liberty of an
hotel.
I must not forget to state that at the village, about a mile from the
hotel, is a Roman Catholic Church and fine Ursuline Convent, a
delightful boarding school for young ladies, who enjoy boating every day
and pleasant little trips to an island now belonging to the Nuns. There
is also a telegraph in the hotel, and any amount of vehicles and horses
and boats for visitors—also cheaper boarding houses in the village for
those who require them.
During the few days I stayed there, one or two funny incidents occurred.
On one occasion I had an old man to drive me, when I said, "I hope it
will not rain before we get home." "I hope it won’t, indeed," he said,
"I am not dry yet since yesterday." "How is that?" I asked. Said he: "I
was out with that party from the hotel who when out fishing were so
drenched, and the storm being so great I stayed by the hotel kitchen
fire instead of going home to change; but, madame," as a sudden thought
struck him, "you live at the hotel, is there a doctor living there?"
Having been there only a few hours, I did not know, but inquired why he
asked. "The fact is, I hear that when people come from Louisiana or
Paris, a party of ten always brings a doctor with them" (a party
recently arrived just numbering ten), "and hearing that I had a son ill,
one gentleman said if I would take him to see my son or bring my son to
him, he would try and cure him." "Well," I asked, "have you done so?"
"But no," he said, "he is English." (I spoke in French and he thought I
was a French Canadian.) "What difference would that make?" "Why,
madame, do you think the English know anything?" "Well," I said,
"perhaps a little; you might try the doctor." At the same time I was
quite prepared to hear that he was a victim of some practical joke from
his statement that every ten persons coming from Louisiana or Paris
brought a doctor with them; I little expected the dénouement. "Oh! my
son would not see him at all. He said, ’father, do you wish me to die
at once?’ But, madame, I would not have minded taking him to the doctor
myself. You don’t think that even though English he would have given
him something to kill him at once?" "Oh! no," I answered, "I am sure he
would not do that." But my story does not end here. On entering the
parlor, where several were seated, I addressed a peculiarly pleasant
lady near me, and began to narrate for their benefit my conversation
with the old driver, when I noticed my hearer give a kind of warning
glance: and then she went off into a merry peal of laughter as the door
opened and a gentleman popped in his head. "Come here, my dear, learn a
lesson of humility. This, my dear lady, is my husband, Dr. Lovely" (I
have learned since that he is one of the most well-known of American
physicians); "he is the Englishman, who can’t know anything."
The doctor, who enjoyed the joke, engaged the same driver next day to
have his fun as much as anything. After a good deal of skirmishing, he
elicited all from the old coachman, who, however, said, though English,
if Dr. L—— was a Roman Catholic, he might induce his son to trust him,
as he believed that the little bottles he showed him really contained
_des remèdes_. I know that the doctor explained to him that, though not
a Roman Catholic, he attended nearly all the members of that
denomination in the United States, and there was some kind of
negotiation going on when I left. They may have come to terms, and the
boy cured, despite himself. Perhaps this poor old chap, living for many
years utterly isolated from civilization, might have the same horror of
_Les terribles Anglais_ that the English peasantry had of Napoleon the
First, who, when children were refractory, were threatened to be given
to ’Bonaparte. And, now, as some of our English people may be hard on
this old French-Canadian, I must tell you that the clergyman’s wife,
attached to some very prominent hospital in one of the large cities of
the United States, said they came across sometimes very odd cases, and
instanced that of a patient coming to the hospital, and, being ordered
to take a bath, said he had never taken a bath in his life, and must go
home and consult his wife. He went and never returned!!! This, in one
of the largest cities of America. So don’t too much despise the old
backwoodsman’s prejudice. As Mrs. Lovely most kindly invited me to pay
her a visit, I may yet tell you more about this very true tale.
*ST. LEON SPRINGS.*
It is fully fifty years ago since my father took me to Three Rivers en
route for St. Leon Springs. We were most hospitably received by Mr.
Lajoie (father of the present dry goods merchant of Three Rivers), and
his good lady, and Mr. Faucher de St. Maurice, father of the present
gentleman of the same name. Of the party were, I think, Mr. Gingras,
whose son, brother-in-law of Mr. Dorion, recently deceased, was the
first I think to establish the reputation of these waters. After a
sumptuous repast at Mr. Lajoie’s, we were driven to St. Leon Springs,
and this us what I remember of it then: a steep sandy hill, up which was
walking a pale, thin young lady, whom my father pointed out to me as
Miss G——; that lady has been in bed seven years, you see her walking
now; whether the cure was permanent or not I have no means of
ascertaining, but Mr. Campbell, late proprietor of St. Leon Springs,
told me only two weeks since that he remembered Miss G—— perfectly. Mr.
Campbell further told me since that his father had noticed the cattle
drinking at this spring, and finding it had a peculiar taste, had it
analyzed, and gave to the public this boon for the afflicted, and
health-preserving drink for the sick. We had tea that day at the
Springs on a deal table, without table-cloth, seated on wooden benches,
while carpenters were putting the roof on a large building we sat in. I
presume this was the first hotel, rather a contrast to that of the
present day, which is yearly crowded with an increased number of
fashionable visitors from all parts of the Dominion, in search of health
or amusement. This hotel has been very lately enlarged and fitted up
with every modern convenience. Parties leaving Montreal by the Canadian
Pacific Railroad, and getting off at Louiseville, will find vehicles
waiting to take them to St. Leon Springs.
This lady just alluded to, Miss G——, was one of those peculiar patients
one hears of in a lifetime, and, as all her near relatives are dead and
few will recognize the initial, I will inform my readers that Dr. A——,
one of my father’s physicians (now deceased), told me that she was
afflicted with a kind of fit—cataleptic, I think, they called it—when
she fell into a state so closely resembling death that two of Quebec’s
most prominent medical men were about to perform a post-mortem
examination on her, when the slight quiver of an eyelid proved her still
alive, and on her recovering she told them that, though unable to make
the slightest motion, she had heard and seen all that had passed, and
Dr. A—— was exceedingly indignant that such a subject should have been
sent to him as an ordinary patient, as the same thing might have
occurred again. He was, if I mistake not, then residing in Halifax and
he told me that all the instructions he received were to provide a
suitable lodging for a nervous patient, who could afford to pay well for
a quiet private residence. Accordingly, Dr. A—— persuaded a well-to-do
Scotch farmer to take her as a boarder. For a time all went well,
though she would go off into a sort of trance, when she lay apparently
dead for perhaps three days and returned to consciousness, often
cognizant of what had occurred during her semi-deathlike state. But on
one occasion her second sight, if you can so term it, was so great, she
terrified the old people so, they begged the doctor to remove her,
saying she was no canny. The facts were these:—On one occasion Miss G——
fell into her cataleptic state, and the doctor not expecting her to
revive before a certain time, said he would not call till the following
Thursday. But on the Tuesday, receiving a summons from a very old
patient, twenty miles distant, he decided on calling on her _en route_.
The weather being rainy, he asked for a covered vehicle, and the only
one procurable was a shabby, very old-fashioned waggon. In the
meantime, Miss G—— awoke from her trance, and said, "the doctor is
coming." "No," said the mistress of the house; "he is not coming till
Thursday." "He is coming now," said Miss G——, "he is at the red gate"
(a gate some distance from the back of the house, and too far for any
sound to reach)—"what a funny carriage he has." When he really drove up
in this queer-looking vehicle, the landlady was so scared, she uttered
that exclamation, "she is no canny," and insisted that board should be
taken elsewhere. I offer no explanation—let the savants do that—I only
narrate facts I vouch for.
*MY SECOND VISIT TO ST. LEON SPRINGS.*
Going by the Canadian Pacific Railroad to Louiseville, we took a trap
awaiting at the station, and, after a drive over a rather pretty country
road, arrived at St. Leon Springs. Alas! the season was over, only Mr.
Thomas and his son, and Mr. Langlois, were there, and a few servants.
Nevertheless, we saw enough to convince us what a delightful health
resort this must be in summer. When I say health resort, I do not mean
pleasure resort, though there is plenty of amusement for reasonable
people, who would find pleasant companionship, dancing, music, drives,
croquet, lawn-tennis sufficient for summer heat; but, we speak now of
St. Leon Springs as a retreat for the really ill or convalescent, and as
such it must simply be perfection. A large hotel, nicely kept, numerous
bath-rooms, all fitted up with an abundant supply of St. Leon water for
bathing, excellent meals, well-cooked and nicely served, as we saw even
during our brief and unexpected stay (I have never eaten such perfect
home-made bread as there), with the drinking of these health-giving
waters, must surely be of incalculable benefit. Twitting Mr. Langlois
on the supposition that perhaps in cities the St. Leon water is in part
manufactured, Mr. Langlois told us a funny incident. He said, I think it
was in Toronto, he overheard some one saying, as his trucks came in
loaded with barrels: "I wonder how much of this is manufactured?" On
the impulse of the moment, Mr. L—— gave a hint to the carters to dump
the casks on the pavement instead of taking them through the yard.
As anticipated, a policeman came up and remonstrated on impeding the
sidewalk. Soon a crowd gathered. Just what Mr. L—— desired. When
spoken to, he said: "Of course, it was an oversight, the water should
have been taken into the yard; but as it was there, he would like to
prove to the people assembled how genuine was the water, by tapping
several barrels, and, igniting with a match the gas, said: "My friends,
can any of you manufacture gas in water to burn like this?" Mr. L—— is
not by any means a man you would credit with being a religious
enthusiast; but I will never forget the solemnity of the act, as,
raising his hand towards Heaven, he uttered these words: "He who made
these waters can alone make the gas."
Mr. Thomas, a wealthy gentleman, with his son, for health and
occupation, takes the management here. The latter, quite a sport, drove
us with his blood horses to the station, at a pace that made me tremble.
There a grand old-fashioned coach with four spanking horses waits at the
railroad station to drive you in style to the hotel. Come and try them,
my fast American friends. I will conscientiously stick to the
old-fashioned one-horse buckboard—not elegant and hardly comfortable,
but very safe.
*ST. RAYMOND.*
About eight years ago my dear husband and myself took rooms for the
summer with a Mr. Ignace Déry, a carpenter. The house, a very large one
of many buildings, was prettily situated on the banks of the river.
Facing the house an immense barn indicated the prosperity of the farm.
In course of conversation I remarked to Mr. D. how astonished I was to
find such a handsome church, fine shops, and a musical choir, with a
thriving village, in a place we had only heard of a few years before.
"You will be more surprised, dear lady," he said, "when I inform you
that I came here fifty years ago, a boy of fifteen, against my people’s
will, with another cousin, and broke the first road in what was all then
bush." "How did you hear of this place at all?" "Well, from the
Indians, and I went out with the surveyors and thought what a splendid
place it was for a settlement, and said so, but my father would not hear
of it. However, one day, my cousin, Joseph Déry, said to me after
church, ’Have you decided on coming to squat or take possession and make
an opening on these lands?’ ’My family will not hear of it,’ I
answered. ’Well, then, come without their leave; if they see you
succeed, they will be quite satisfied.’" So Déry and his cousin started
off right after mass, the equipment of the former being a loaf of bread
and piece of pork procured from his sister, whom he let into the secret,
about half a bag of potatoes for seed, a hatchet, and his working
clothes and a little salt. The boys walked out about fifteen miles: the
one, my friend Déry, remained at the east end, his cousin at the west.
These two houses now form the boundary in a certain measure of the
village of St. Raymond. Mr. Déry told me his first occupation was to
plant some potatoes, then build a small hut, and he said for food he had
only to dip a line into the river back of the site of his house to
procure all the fish he needed. On this he lived, with fruit and a
little flour procured later. Such was the commencement of this
prosperous village. The cousin, Joseph Déry, still kept a few years ago
intact his first cottage, though building a comfortable house beside it.