I do not know that I ever heard much of St. Augustin in my earlier days,
except as the residence of Mr. Gale, an oldtime school master, who fixed
his residence there, and taught many of the (after) prominent men of
Quebec. His wife, a prim little lady of wax-doll complexion and flaxen
hair done up in frizzes, was quite a character as well as her husband.
A very kind-hearted little lady she was, with a peculiar gift of
hospitality, and her cakes and home-made wine were of wide renown. Mr.
Gale had a taste for antiquities; a small museum, in great part
contributions of curiosities, the gifts of his admiring scholars, was
one of his cherished parlor ornaments.
His was a school of the _ancien régime_, but in its best sense, though
religiously a day was appointed for the pulling out of teeth, those for
administering sulphur and molasses and other time-honored medicines,
happily or unhappily exploded.
Nevertheless, Mr. Gale’s was a thoroughly comfortable home, and his
students had a true regard for himself and good wife, testified often in
later years by his _anciens élèves_ constantly sending him contributions
of rare articles to add to his collection.
*ST. ANDRÉ—NEXT PARISH BELOW KAMOURASKA.*
"In the days when we went gipseying a long time ago."
About seventy-five years ago or more a wealthy Englishman, John S.
Campbell, came out from the old country and commenced a large business
in lumber and ship building at the part of St. André called Pointe
Sèche. Here he built a beautiful residence with every luxury and
appliances then known, splendid walks in the shrubbery, beautiful
gardens, and even a residence for a physician, as at that time there was
a great deal of ship fever, and he employed a great number of workmen in
his ship building and other mercantile business. He brought out his
wife (with her lady’s maid), who, accustomed to society life, must have
been indeed startled at the contrast of her surroundings, for here she
was virtually in a wilderness. It is true that previous to the railroad
from Quebec to the lower ports, these same villages had much more life
in a business point than to-day, for then all travellers stopped at the
wayside inns, and there being no facilities for going or coming from
Quebec, the shopkeepers who brought down in their schooners goods at
certain seasons of the year did a fine business, and really large
fortunes were made by many: an apt illustration of the truth of the
vulgar old proverb, "that what is one man’s meat is another man’s
poison," for the railroad, which is such a boon to the farmers and those
bordering its route, has proved utterly destructive to the old-fashioned
inns and shops on the old route, for the transfer being solely by
vehicles, a regular influx of travellers was expected and received, thus
giving life to the village and current cash.
Mr. J. S. Campbell and his lady becoming after some years thoroughly
disgusted, abandoned the place, and so swiftly, I many years after,
about forty years ago, found a book belonging to the family in the
disused dining-room. I heard from one of the family to-day who own this
lovely property now, and use it as a summer residence (Mrs. Rankin of
Dorchester street), that a caretaker had been left in charge of the
property; if so, his conscience must have been very lax, for it was the
custom of all those giving picnics at Kamouraska, who wished to do so,
to use the house as well as the grounds, and to simply walk in at open
doors and take temporary possession. Well, on one occasion my
father-in-law’s family had a kind of picnic, but, though going up to the
Campbell grounds, had brought their provisions to a neat little wayside
inn a short distance, from the mill and wharf built by the aforesaid J.
S. Campbell; and as I always preferred a quiet read to those excursions
(I fear I am naturally rather lazy), I said I would await their return
at the small hotel—its quiet and cleanliness were very inviting. "But,"
said Mr. McP. (I think I hear the words as he addressed me often in
fun), "Mistress Charlotte, if you stay behind, you are responsible for
the dinner." I promised in good faith, and with a firm resolve of doing
my duty, that all should be in order on their return, and, telling the
landlady at what hour lunch must be ready, made arrangements for an hour
of delightful repose, by ensconcing myself into the most cosy of sofas
with an interesting novel. As the old grandmother’s clock tolled forth
the midday hour, it struck me I had better see how the dinner was
progressing for the hungry folks expected soon. Fortunately, I did not
delay, for, to my dismay, I found the lamb-chops put to boil, and the
green peas frying in the frying-pan. By hastily changing their
positions, I managed matters so as to disguise my carelessness, and so
all was well that ends well.
A thoroughly respectable house like the Campbell House, of Pointe Sèche,
could not be without its ghost, and it’s doubly guaranteed by having two
of them: one a lady who is heard to moan and sob and say she was shut up
from every one (it is presumed Mrs. C., who, instead of dying of ennui
and country fare, took the more sensible plan of returning to England);
the other, the apparition of a gentleman, supposed to have been murdered
because he disappeared—a rejected suitor put on board a vessel by Mr. C.
for making too violent love to a cousin and quarrelling with a more
favored lover. I have exorcised several ghosts already, and would like
to try my observations on those inhabitants of a higher, or, more
likely, our earthly sphere, to whom the unoccupancy of this fine mansion
might be a convenience.
*LES EBOULEMENTS.*
So called from the tremblings of constant earthquakes, which with
apparent volcanic action has thrown up hill after hill so steep. I can
compare the ascent and descent to nothing else but a winter sleighing
slide. In fact, the hills are almost perpendicular, and almost
inaccessible to a nervous party, who in descending feels as if he must
fall on the horse’s tail, and ascending drop out of the cart behind.
Yet to the young and active it is a wild, lovely summer resort, its
unusual scenery presenting a most pleasurable and novel spectacle. In
fact, my friends, if you have a desire to visit Switzerland and cannot
compass it, just go to Les Eboulements, and very little imagination will
help you to transport yourself there. Cradled in mist, perched on some
rocky elevation, with the simple people about you, you can easily deem
yourself in the land of William Tell. But, did I say simple? yes, with
a spice of modern craft, for I well remember a friend being ill asking
me, as it was a non-licensed place, to ask the landlady for a little
stimulant of any kind, as she might give it to me instead of a
gentleman. The answer to my demand was the query, "What would you
have?" "Well, if possible, port wine," and a bottle of excellent
quality was forthcoming, and also the remark, "if more is required, in
fact, as much as is necessary can be obtained. We have plenty for our
own use." As these people were great fish traders with St. Pierre
Miquelon, in view of recent developments as to the smuggling business I
have my thoughts, but as I believe in free trade between all nations,
and I should think it no sin to smuggle myself, I do not condemn them.
Apropos of smuggling, a funny incident came under my observation. A
young married cousin some years ago lived on the border dividing Canada
from the United States, and while (with the fresh memory of the Fenian
raids) countenanced, as was said, by the Americans, expressed great
dislike to Brother Jonathan. He dubbed her a thorough Yankee, and she
proved herself a very cute one. Well, these ladies had been accustomed
under lax custom house discipline to drive over to St. Albans and
purchase many effects, cotton especially, at a very much less price than
on Canadian soil, and were very indignant when a new official was
appointed, who openly boasted that no tricks would be played upon him.
That was enough for my sprightly cousin. She arranged a plan with her
sister, went over in a light waggon, and when stopped at the frontier by
the aforesaid young clerk on her return, who, with many apologies,
requested leave to search her vehicle, answered in a tone of impatience,
"Well, search my waggon as much as you please, but don’t wake my baby."
She held in her arms a good-sized baby in long clothes, a heavy veil
covering the face. The official searched and found nothing contraband.
He was, however, very much disgusted to hear later that the baby was a
mass of dress and cotton goods, and that Mrs. K., as she walked up and
down the platform soothing her supposed infant, was inwardly chuckling
over her clever trick played on the too confident custom house clerk.
*SOCIETY IN QUEBEC FIFTY YEARS AGO.*
Fifty years ago Quebec was a prominent military station, and from that
circumstance, as well as the fact that it counted amongst its members so
many of the truly good old French families of the _ancienne noblesse_,
there was then none of that petty jealousy between French and English.
They had fought valiantly, but when peace was declared they shook hands
heartily and became friends. The English reserve was tempered by French
suavity, and as Captain Warburton, in his Stadacona _Feuilleton_, says,
"There were such a number of pretty girls in Quebec, and so attractive,
such pleasant manners, combining maidenly reserve with refined
out-spokenness, they were irresistible, and some English mammas, it was
said, murmured sadly when they heard their darling sons were to be sent
to Canada, fearing they would be effectually captured, as they certainly
would be, in the silken but enduring nets of the fair demoiselles;
however, they must have been satisfied eventually, for the ladies of
whom the military gentlemen deprived us of have done credit to their
native city."
Old Quebecers will remember Miss L., wife of General Elliot; Miss A.,
wife of General Pipon; Miss P., wife of General Shakspeare, and dozens
of others; but I have before me at least twenty beautiful and
accomplished ladies, our society belles who accompanied the red coats to
England. What a different aspect Quebec wore when the military were
first taken away! it seemed as if the silence of death reigned, and why
all should have been taken has ever been an unanswered question.
Of people prominent in society in my early days were Mr. Lemesurier,
Judge McCord, Mr. Berthelot (he gave me a French grammar, I remember, he
had published; he was father-in-law of Sir Louis LaFontaine), Mr.
Faribault, the Hon. John Malcolm Fraser, Mr. Symes, whose pretty and
amiable daughter married the son of the Empress Eugenie’s trusty friend,
the Marquis de Bassano.
Besides the house occupied by the Hon. George Primrose, there was at
that time but one small house used by the military, and now the site of
the splendid residence of the Hon. Mr. Thibodeau, facing the Governor’s
garden. At the intersecting street facing the river is the old Langham
house, still occupied by her grand-daughter, Mrs. T.; a few doors from
there the residence of Chief Justice Bowen, whose ladies entertained a
great deal, and one of whose daughters was the wife of the late Rev. Mr.
Houseman.
We will take a skip now to where Palace gate formerly stood, and watch
G. H. Parke, Esq., a noted whip (father of Dr. Parke), and see him guide
his tandem through one of the sally-ports to the houses of the members
of the tandem, who could in vain hope to follow him. Mr. P., who
delighted in guiding the club through most intricate places, had taken
the measure of the sally-port and knew his cariole would pass through,
and thus triumphantly headed the others, who feared to follow him.
Should he read this account of his old exploit, I am sure it would yet
bring up a smile.
The remembrance of this feat recalls a story I have heard of the time of
the noted Chamberlain gang. There were no houses at one time between
the grand house here and a large one opposite St. Patrick’s church, at
that time occupied by Miss or Mrs. M., an elderly lady of ample means,
who occupied the present residence of J. Scott, Esq., formerly the home
of Mr. Faucher de St. Maurice. This Chamberlain was the leader of a
notorious gang, who for some time held Quebec in a state of terror;
their rapacity, cruelty and audacity exceeded anything ever before seen,
and they continued their course with impunity till a most providential
circumstance caused their discovery. Well, one of their exploits was to
get one of their gang into Mrs. M.’s as ostensible man servant to rob
the house. Late at night one of the maids discerned a light in the
basement and heard voices, indicating that there were robbers in the
dwelling. She thought for a moment of trying to run and get help from
the guard, but fearing that unlocking the back door might arouse the
burglars, she decided on barricading the room in which her mistress
slept, hoping to be able to call for help to some passer-by; but alas!
none came; the robbers came up, quickly destroyed her barricade, and
though she fought bravely with some fire-wood,—the only weapon at her
hand—was overpowered, gagged, tied up with her mistress in a carpet, and
so left for hours. When the milkman and butcher came and called
ineffectually for admittance, the doors were forced, and they were
released after much suffering; such was a sample of some of their
exploits.
Leaving St. Patrick’s church, nearly opposite this residence, we go on
to and up Esplanade Hill, till we come to a pretty little church, and it
was the sacrilege perpetrated here that was the cause of their
discovery. Amongst other articles they had stolen a solid silver statue
of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Every effort was made to trace the thieves,
but ineffectually, till the curiosity of an old country woman found them
out. Somewhere, I think, back of Point Levis, there lived a Canadian
farmer, whose old domestic had become very much disgusted at the changed
aspect of the home—from a respectable, quiet domicile it had become a
most disorderly house; half intoxicated people coming in and out at all
hours, arriving with carioles loaded with things kept out of her sight.
She noticed that she was always sent off while they unloaded, and they
made their way to a hut in the woods built for boiling maple sugar, and
that huge fires were built, though no sugar was made. Finally, she
followed the gang secretly, and went close enough to hear, though not to
see, what was going on, and overheard these words uttered: "I am very
sorry for you, my poor little virgin, but you must boil in the pot too.
Ah! I’ll keep this little finger to remember you by." Horrified beyond
expression, the old woman returned swiftly to the house and kept a
terrified watch; her master came in, and most of the men drove off; but
the one whose voice she had recognized was so intoxicated that he fell
into a heavy sleep, and out of his pocket fell the tiny silver finger of
the statue. Seizing the first opportunity, she sought the parish priest
and told him all. He at once connected the small finger with the recent
church robbery, enjoined the most absolute silence on the woman, and
advised her for her own sake as well as that of others to go about her
work as usual and so excite no suspicion. In the meantime he
communicated with the authorities, who wisely determined to make no
display of their knowledge, as the silver was melted and all traces
destroyed; but on the occasion of the next burglary, a posse of police
instantly surrounded the place, and effectually captured in time the
whole gang, several of whom were hanged.
They owed their long immunity to the fact that several people of
position were implicated. Some, against their will, too terrified to
break from them. One man, on the scaffold, confessed that a young man
unwarily brought into their meshes had begged leave to be permitted to
break off from them on his taking oath never to betray them. A seeming
acquiescence was yielded, and an appointment made to take a row on the
river to negotiate where no one could overhear their conversation. As
soon as out of sight and sound the man confessed he had silenced him
effectually by a knock on the head and a pitch into the river.
Leaving the little church on the Esplanade, on reaching St. Ann, and
turning to the left, at the top of Ursule hill, you find a double brown
house, with peculiar pointed turret windows. Here I lived when about
eight years old, but most distinctly do I remember its surroundings.
Come in and sit with me in the end parlor window and I will point out to
you Colonel (afterwards General) Macdonald, in his brave uniform, the
picture of dignity, coming down, the steps of the building formerly
occupied by Dr. Boswell; also the house where Dr. Lemieux now lives,
some officers (Guards, I think) had their quarters, and pretty lively
quarters they were. Most of these gentlemen were rich, young, full of
fun, and quite regardless of consequences. One of their eccentricities
was to insist on a favorite horse being brought in by the front door and
harnessed in one of the large rooms off the entrance. I used to watch
these proceedings with great glee. No doubt they paid richly for their
whistle when settling day came with their landlord. But they could well
afford to pay for their pranks.
Opposite this house, the door facing Ann street is still the solid
residence, the home some years since of the much-lamented Judge Alleyne;
in the early days I speak of, the house of Mr. Le Mesurier, a merchant
then, but previously an officer in ——, and carrying a reminder of the
same in an empty sleeve, a noble mark of valor.
To be a good carver was then an absolute necessity, for all carving was
done at table, and Mr. Le Mesurier piqued himself on always discharging
this duty himself, which he did most skillfully by means of a peculiarly
constructed knife and fork. Once seated at a side-table (I had been
invited to tea with some of the younger members of the family), I
watched him do so with great admiration. I do not recall precisely who
else were there; but one figure is specially impressed on my memory,
that of Mrs. Kerr (mother of the late Judge Kerr), a very stately lady
in pink silk and high white plumes.
Mrs. Le Mesurier, although at the head of fashionable society, was one
of the old-time good housekeepers. I think I see her now with her keys
in hand, giving directions to some domestic. She had a large family—all
popular; but the two special favorites were, I think, Miss Harriet, who
is married to General Elliot, and Henry Le Mesurier, whose former lovely
residence on the St. Lewis road still exists. He had a peculiarly
winning charm of manner, inherited, as I saw in a very short interview I
had with him, by his son George.
I will now take you up the Esplanade and stop at a cut-stone house on
the corner of St. Lewis road, once used as the residence of the
Lieut.-Governor. It was conveniently situated, and there was great
indignation expressed when the project was mooted of buying Spencer
Wood, for, though in most respects suitable, many said it was too far,
for those whose position entitled them to vice-regal entertainments
would find horse hire a heavy tax. For, my friends, in those early days
the almighty dollar was not worshipped as now; in fact, very few of
those moving in the highest society were rich—good family, culture and
education were the tests, and no amount of money would have introduced a
vulgar person into the charmed circle; in fact, permission to subscribe
to the Quebec assemblies was a matter of almost as great moment as
admittance to old London Almacks. An instance of which may be found in
this over-true tale told me by an aged aunt who knew all the
circumstances. Briefly, it was this: A rich tradesman lived on Mountain
Hill, who had a pretty wife, who, not content with every needful luxury
for her happiness, must needs sigh for, to her, the unattainable (that
was _entrée_ to the castle). On one occasion a military gentleman of
high position who owed this tradesman some money said he regretted the
circumstance, and that if he would give him time he would do anything
possible for him in return. "Well," said Mr. Blank, "if you could do
something for my wife, I should not only consider the bill paid, but be
grateful too." "What is asked?" said the colonel. "Just this: you see,
sir, my wife is young, and has taken it into her foolish little head she
must get to one of the castle balls. Could you get her in?" "Nothing
easier, my dear sir; on my arm she can come in unquestioned." So grand
preparations were made by the lady, and at the appointed time she went
to the castle, triumphant, on her cavalier’s arm, advanced to the door
where the cards of admission were received, when the official in waiting
said, "Enter, colonel, but Mrs. —— is not known here, where is her
invitation?" Mortified to death, it was said that Mrs. Blank, unwilling
to face the occupants of the ladies’ dressing-room, turned and fled
precipitately in her slippers and without her outward wraps, rushed
home, and that chagrin and cold brought on a severe illness that
resulted in consumption. On her death-bed, unable to forgive the wound
to her pride, she made her daughter promise that, eschewing all thoughts
of love, she would promise her to marry only a man of such position she
would be able to look down on those who had snubbed her mother. Being
young, rich and pretty, this young girl accepted an aged man of very
high rank, refusing one of the finest young men in Quebec, of whom she
was fond, and commenced a life of unhappiness with a gentleman who in
his dotage made her live almost a recluse in the country, and dress up
and go through the drill as if he were commanding still.
His death finally rescued her from such a life, but by that time her
nervous system had become so thoroughly unhinged, her mind gave way, and
the last I knew of her was her being sent to the lunatic asylum, having
no child or relative to care for her. A sad comment on an ill-placed
mother’s ambition.
At the opposite corner of said stone house was a pretty little residence
occupied at one time and owned by the late Major Temple, adjoining which
was his father-in-law’s residence, the late Hon. Chief Justice Jonathan
Sewell. Both these houses still stand, but in vain I look for the
pretty lace curtains, and the two parrots on their stands, calling to
you through the bright flowers in the window of the late Major Temple’s
residence. As an old Quebecer I am ashamed to say that pretty house has
been the one blot on the whole of Quebec’s loveliest street. It has
been turned into a petty candy shop, a couple of bottles of sweets, two
or three sugar-sticks and halfpenny cakes, and a notice, "Registry
Office for Servants," replaces the view of the parrots and flowers.
Were I rich I should purchase the property myself, and for old times let
some one occupy it who would keep up somewhat its former appearance.
Such a thing would not have occurred in Montreal. The Montrealers have
too much ambition for their city to let it deteriorate, and consequently
property becomes more valuable every day. Why, to think Americans
should have been permitted to carry off bodily the house where
Montgomery’s body was laid and are making a fortune out of it, having
set it up as an Indian curiosity shop in some part of the States. Why
not have done it here?
Strolling on through the beautiful St. Louis Gate, past the new armory,
certainly a credit to the old city, and past rows of handsome new
houses, we come to a solid looking building with a golden lion sign.
When I looked at it, I wondered if it was chosen to beguile the innocent
into the impression that they were at the old chien d’or. It does not
need that it has memories enough of its own, for here lived the late A.
Joseph, Esq., and his amiable wife, one of the most charming of
hostesses, and who gave us any number of pleasant parties, but almost
every house on that street (then, as now, quite a fashionable one) is
associated with pleasant recollections. The one just inside the toll
gate on the left was then occupied by Capt. Charles Campbell, a retired
officer of Her Majesty’s 99th, I think, father of our old friend, A. C.,
joint Prothonotary of Quebec.
Mr. Le Moine, in his able work, "The Explorations of Eastern Latitudes,"
by Jonathan Old Buck, F. G. S. Q., so graphically depicted the Plains of
Abraham and its surroundings, I can but touch on old personal memories,
which as they please me in writing, for I live but in the past, may
serve to amuse you, my readers, in an idle hour. I will now stop at
Spencer Wood, and visit the pretty home of our favorite author.
The house at present occupied by Judge Bosse, Quebec, was fitted up in
1860 for Lord Monck, Spencer Wood having been burnt down on 12th March,
1860. Spencer Wood residence having been rebuilt and fitted up in
accordance with the requirements of a permanently selected vice-regal
residence, was successively occupied by the following parties:
Sir Edmund Head, 1860; Lord Monck, 1861; Sir N. F. Belleau,
Lieut.-Governor, 1867; Hon. R. E. Caron, Lieut.-Governor, afterwards Sir
R. E. Caron, 1870; Hon. Luc Letellier, 1878; Hon. Theodore Robitaille,
1879; Hon. Mr. Masson, 1884; Hon. Auguste Réal Angers, 1889, who married
in April, 1890, Emelie Le Moine, daughter of the late Alex. Le Moine,
who now resides there, Oct. 15th, 1890.
*SPENCER GRANGE, RESIDENCE OF
JAMES MACPHERSON LE MOINE,
F.R.L.C.*
You drive through a pretty road, heavily lined with trees, but through
the foliage discern a neat cottage at the left, frequently occupied by
the pastors of St. Michael’s church. On the right, facing the grass
plots and bedded in trees stands a very pretty residence, quite spacious
inside, and containing every comfort and elegance, presided over by a
charming hostess and her daughters. Mrs. L., the most amiable of
ladies, spares no fatigue in showing you all that can interest, and
there is a great deal to see at the Grange. The parlor windows look on
a lawn skirted with various trees, where many a wild bird makes its
nest, and looking outwards, and listening to their varied notes, you
could fancy yourself in a deep wood. From a pretty dining-room you pass
through a passage lined with marble busts of the ancient heroes of
Greece and Rome, into the grapery, where the heavy clusters of grapes
look too lovely to be plucked. An aviary adjoins this, and at times the
soft cooing of doves mingles with the other caged inmates and the notes
of the wild birds in the adjacent shrubbery. All is so quiet here, you
might fancy yourself miles from civilization. It is a fitting home for a
literary man, and bears everywhere an impress of elegance and
refinement. Mr. Le Moine has some very curious heads of rare animals
and numerous trophies of the chase and rare birds sent by admiring
friends. The odor of the new-mown hay and the varied scent of the
flowers complete the charm of this pretty home. Amongst other
curiosities, Mr. Le Moine has the original key of one of the city gates,
which has been presented to him. It is a very ponderous looking affair.
*SOCIETY IN 1854.*
We will take a stroll back, citywards, coming down the Esplanade, about
the year 1850. We notice, as we near the Esplanade, the sound of the
band in full force. The Esplanade benches are crowded with ladies.
From the windows of many houses, spectators look on the gay scene; while
lord and lady, cavalier and belle, pass to and fro to enjoy the military
music and a chat with their acquaintances. The militia, in some
measure, replace the regular army, but with a difference: the latter
were, as a general rule, men of wealth, culture, travel, and leisure
with little else to do but make themselves, agreeable to the ladies,
which they did so successfully as to arouse the ire of the civilians.
Even from the few houses that face the Esplanade alone, one, at least,
and, as in the family of Sheriff Sewell (now occupied by Mr. Hunt), no
less than three, if not four, were carried off by English officers; and
from houses nearly adjoining went Miss Panet, Miss Healy, two Misses
Motz, the handsome Miss Joly, Miss Bradshaw, Miss Maxham; and a few
doors around the corner, on St. Anne street, Miss Ashworth.
Amongst the noted belles living on the Esplanade were the handsome
Burrage ladies and the Misses Mackenzie, whose father met his death in a
very sad manner. There was a house situated on the St. Louis road
called the "H—— House," where (there being very large rooms to let for
picnic use) were often held evening entertainments. On one occasion the
bachelors gave us a ball there. It was a lovely moonlight night, but
very cold, and, wherever there was little snow, glare ice. Mr. Mackenzie
and his daughters drove out in safety to the door; but, on alighting, he
slipped and broke his leg. Being a man beyond middle age, he never
quite recovered. The shock was, I think, the prime cause of his death.
C. E. Levy, Esq., occupied the house, former corner of St. Anne and the
Esplanade. The first house opposite, on St. Anne street, was then the
residence of Captain, afterwards Admiral Boxer, and the propinquity was
so favorable, he induced the handsome daughter of Captain B—— to change
her father’s home for his. His widow now owns one of Quebec’s most
beautiful and costly residences on the St. Louis road. The house now
occupied by Sir William Meredith was, when I was a child, the house of
Judge, after Sir William Stuart. His daughter, most kindly I remember,
sent me a doll, dressed in crimson satin, velvet and train, to represent
Her Majesty. Its gorgeousness is still before me. The corner house
above that was at one time occupied by Mrs. White, whose two handsome
daughters married the brothers G—— and another took captive a favorite
army doctor. One, her pretty young niece, if I mistake not, Miss McG——,
afterwards Mrs. B——, lived with her here.
Some years later one sees the erect, handsome old gentleman, Town-Major
Knight, taking his daily stroll always arm-in-arm with one of his sons,
as hale and hearty a year or two before his death as he was almost
twenty years before. One of his daughters still resides in Quebec, the
wife of our old but always young friend, Henry A——.
It gives me so much pleasure to recall these old days, to people the
streets of my old birthplace with dead and gone friends, who come up so
vividly before my mental vision, I could sit for hours and bring them up
before you; but to strangers this would be wearisome, so I’ll only
glance at one or two more, and then, with a few hasty memories of some
of our most eminent Quebec gentlemen, turn from the past to the present.
I cannot close without speaking of two gentlemen who occupied such a
prominent place in gay society, Messrs. Angers and Lelièvre, lawyers,
partners and near neighbors. We always looked to them for a succession
of most agreeable entertainments. If I am not mistaken, at the time
they lived on Haldimand hill, and before they purchased the St. Louis
hotel, it was divided into two houses,—one occupied by that gay old
gentleman, Mr. Burroughs and his family, one of whose handsome
daughters, Cecil, not long deceased, married the Hon. Mr. Garneau; the
other still lives, I think, in Paris (Mrs. Kimber). His son John, a
very quiet looking gentleman, most unexpectedly carried off our great
society belle at that time, the lovely Leda L., from numerous
competitors, mother of Madame Masson, wife of the late Governor Masson.
But if I go on to speak of all the pretty girls of which we could boast
at that time, I should go on for ever, so I will present to you a slight
sketch of some of our most prominent men. Of Hon. George Okill Stuart,
Sir James Stuart, and Hon. Henry Black so much has been written that I
will only mention their names, and give you a slight sketch of Mr.
Faribault, a most genial gentleman, of particularly courteous manners,
very literary, of good old French family, and universally respected. He
lived in the old house on whose site is built that now occupied by his
only child and daughter, who married Quebec’s famous artist, Mr. Hamel.
Mr. Hamel had a most particular gift for catching likenesses,
demonstrated when quite a boy. He died unfortunately quite young,
leaving a son and daughter, who with their mother reside in her father’s
old home.
Charles Gethings, son of Captain James Gethings, an Irish officer of the
old 100th Regiment, was born in Bona Vista, Newfoundland, and came to
this country with his father. His first residence was that occupied
formerly by Hon. George Primrose. Captain Gethings was stricken with
paralysis while mounting guard at Hope Gate, and died at the fourth
house on the right hand going up towards the Fabrique. His son Charles,
after being employed a short time in the Commissariat, then with
Gillespie, Moffatt & Co., Montreal, subsequently in the City Bank of
Quebec, spent many years as manager of the Quebec Bank, Quebec,
receiving to the day of his death a liberal pension from the Quebec
Bank. A kind father, a scrupulously upright man, the family all honor
his memory. He sleeps in St. Matthew’s churchyard vault.
*NEW YEAR’S DAY, 1840—IN QUEBEC.*
Old Time, with customary speed,
Has passed us on his flying steed,
And once again a New Year’s day
Now greets us smiling bright and gay.
My young friends, I live so little in the present, so much in the past,
I hardly know the customs of modern society, but I am not so totally out
of the world as not to be conscious that old-time hospitalities on that
day are quite relegated to the past, and happily the cake and wine given
once so freely are no longer fashionable, for I think now with amaze of
our ancient customs, and wonder how, having partaken of the lavish
hospitality of these old days, any of our beaux could have got home
without the aid of Dickens’ traditional wheelbarrow. As it may amuse
you I will just give you a picture of New Year’s day as kept about forty
years ago. Well, I cannot state what precise year, but one New Year’s
day the courtyard of the English Cathedral was a mass of glare ice, just
like a skating rink, and no lady could go to service at the English
cathedral without the assistance of a well-shod beau to help her to keep
her equilibrium, and after service return with me to the home of one of
our city belles. You will find the mother of the family in full dress,
seated in a comfortable arm chair, a bright fire burning in the grate,
magazine in hand, to while away the hour when the ready attendant will
usher in the first visitor. A couple of young ladies beside her, in
full dress, pink, blue or gray satin or silk décolleté, a heavy gold
chain or valuable watch visible attached to a handsome gold watch hook
on the side of the dress, a bouquet holder in one hand, and embroidered
handkerchief and white kid gloves and numerous bracelets, they sit with
all the indifference it is possible to simulate, till the announcement
of Mr. A, soon followed by B, C, D, and E, till the room is so crowded
only the compliments of the season can be exchanged before with a bow
one gentleman gives place to another, and so numerous are the visitors
in some favored houses, perhaps even eighty in a day, one of the family
surreptitiously takes the names for future recognizance, and woe be to
the unfortunate swain whom forgetfulness or too much occupation may have
prevented from paying his respects; he will surely be left out of the
list of invites for the next ball. And yet, poor unfortunate, he cannot
leave the house without taking from the hand of the fair lady of the
house a glass of wine, and that offer he was expected to accept perhaps
at twenty or thirty houses. A year or two later it was considered bon
ton to offer nothing in the parlor, but an obsequious waiter tendered
ale, wines and other delicacies, catching the departing visitor in a
parlor near the hall door. This was something better. A gentleman
could refuse a waiter’s demand—not so easily a lady’s. Still later,
about fifteen years ago, I well remember the Rev. Mr. Hébert, of
Kamouraska, asking as a personal favor and a mark of respect to himself
that none of his parishioners should offer temptation to the weak in the
form of stimulant to New Year’s visitors, and he very lucidly expressed
himself in these terms: "You say some of you are advised by your
physician to take wine, well, that is all right, and put your liquor
beside your pills, and as you do not think it necessary to give physic
to all your friends because the doctor orders it for you, neither do I
think the tonic that may do you good necessary to sow broadcast to those
to whom it may prove a bitter poison." This was particularly hard on a
character in the village we had dubbed Monseigneur because he served a
former Bishop, and being wealthy he piqued himself on bringing something
new for New Year, and his last purchase had been a valuable liquor
stand. He was heart-broken. Being a very pious man he was deeply
chagrined to think he could not display his new purchase, till he was
once more elevated to the summit of happiness by the suggestion that
raspberry vinegar, lime juice and lemon syrup would look equally well in
his fine caraffe.
*A POINT OF HONOR.*
It must be fifty-two years ago fully when I first remember the house now
occupied by Mr. O’Hare as a first-class private boarding house. Its rear
faces the Citadel, its front looks into the barrack yard of the former
barracks on St. Louis street, now occupied by Major Forrest, Well, this
house was then occupied, and I think owned, by a very dear uncle, the
late Charles Adolphus H. I say, I think owned, because I perfectly
remember the rocks in rear being blasted to make a stable and the
building of an extension with vaulting apparatus and so forth for the
young people’s recreation, and this extension adjoined the nursery where
presided a female nurse of wonderful imaginative powers, who, when the
twilight gathered, and we begged for stories, detailed for our benefit
horror after horror—her only idea of entertainment for young children.
Well, in the garret of this old house my dear grand-uncle found a large
ledger, very strongly bound. On the outer pages were these words: "I
implore whoever finds this volume to keep it until the year ——, when, if
not reclaimed, then burn it unless he would incur the curse of a dead
man, for by that time all interested and for whom this book is kept must
be dead." The leaves were crossed with red tape, and every here and
there sealed with red sealing wax, but by breaking off a bit of wax we
could read a few words, and though I do not remember why, we seemed to
associate their meaning with some record of the North-West. Devoured by
curiosity, we young people, too afraid of the curse to openly destroy
the seals, devised every plan to ascertain the contents, and one of them
was to give the book to the younger children of the family as a
play-thing, hoping they would break them open and the contents be
exposed; but alas! one day my dear grand-uncle came upon the scene,
fathomed our project, and put a stop for all time to our endeavors by
putting said ledger in the stove, and watched it while it burnt. Was
this absolutely necessary? Did the most rigid scrupulousness demand
this? I don’t know how others will answer. For myself, if I had the
book before me now I would read its contents, and then judge whether I
should divulge its secrets or not in the interest of the public. What a
field of conjecture is open here! This book contained records of the
North-West. Of what? Do you remember, my friends, an article that
appeared in the papers very many years ago, saying that a voyageur had
discovered somewhere in the far north an old white-haired gentleman, the
Rev. Ebenezer Williams, who claimed to be the son of the unfortunate
Dauphin, son of the decapitated Louis XVI., and whose devoted followers
had rescued from prison and substituted a pauper, and at great personal
risk brought the unfortunate boy to America and placed him for safe
keeping with an Indian tribe, and leaving documents to prove his
identity should there ever appear a chance of his claiming the throne.
But as years rolled on, and no prospect of his being recalled to the
throne, and his protectors being dead, he had been educated as a
clergyman and served as missionary till his death. In fact, it was only
when on his deathbed these facts were discovered. Had this book—a very
closely written volume—anything to do with him? God only knows!
*COUNTRY POST OFFICES FORTY AND
FIFTY YEARS AGO.*
Our ancestors must have been very honest in rural parts, and had
unlimited faith in each other’s integrity, judging by the early post
offices. The first one I remember was that of Murray Bay, when on the
arrival of the bag its contents were dumped on the floor and every one
picked out the letters for themselves and friends, and enacted the part
of voluntary carriers for their friends, and very curious were the
articles then transmitted through the post office, the mail bags then
doing the present express service. A relative told me that he was
somewhere in the Gaspé district when the carrier arrived with the bags
he had carried a long distance on his back, and using rather hard
language at the unwonted weight of the bag, and curious to see what was
the cause of this extraordinary weighty mail, when lo! out tumbled two
immense wild geese, sent as a present by the Hon. W. H. to a friend.
Fancy the dénouement and the wrath of the old Scotchman, who had borne
the weight on a long tramp through a pathway in the forest.
One of the most curious experiences I ever had occurred about ten years
ago, when I went with my family to a rural summer resort. We were
several miles from the post office, and had very steep hills to climb on
every side, so I wished to kill two birds with one stone, and decided to
go to the post office after church service. I did so, and inquired for
a registered letter I expected. After a few minutes inquiry the maitre
de poste said: "Yes, there is a registered letter for you, but I can’t
find it, but it is all right, it is in the book." "Well," I said, as
the assistant was absent and might possibly have said letter in charge,
"I’ll call back after afternoon service." I did so, but again the
letter could not be found. "You’ll probably be passing in a week or so,
won’t you call in then, by that time I have no doubt we’ll have it for
you." "But," I said, "that won’t do. I am a stranger here and need the
money." "Ah! madame" (they were French Canadians), "we are very sorry
to inconvenience you, and if you will say how much you need will be
happy to advance you the cash, as by our books you are entitled to
some." I could not feel angry with these simple people, they were
evidently so honest and true. Yet, as I wanted my letter, with home
news, as well as the cash, I proposed that we should make a search in
the post office, which was also a shop of general merchandise. So,
after looking through box after box, some suggested looking in the
cellar, as an ill-fitting trap door with wide cracks was directly under
the official desk. The cellar, however, did not contain the missing
document, and I was almost in despair of recovering for some time my
lost property, when a happy inspiration came to me, and I inquired if
they sold envelopes. "Ah! oui, madame," they did, and among the
envelopes ready to be sold at about a cent a piece was my letter
containing fifty dollars cash, which, minus my persistence, might have
found its way into the pocket of some honest or dishonest purchaser. But
all is well that ends well, and I parted from my post office friends
with expressions of mutual regard, and fearing to do them harm,
believing so fully in their integrity, I never spoke of the matter; but
when, some years later, I heard the Post Office Inspector had made
radical changes, I thought it was beneficial to the general public.
*THE SUBTERRANEAN PASSAGES OF
THE CITADEL, QUEBEC.*
In the year ——, the late lamented Lieut. Fayrer, ordinance officer, came
to Quebec on a tour of inspection as to supplies needed (accompanied by
his wife, Lizzie Henshawe, a cousin). He asked us if we would like to
accompany him through the underground passages of the Citadel, very
rarely open to visitors. We gratefully accepted the offer, and so well
guarded was the secrecy of these premises, it was with the utmost
astonishment the soldiers present heard that underneath their Citadel
were miles of underground passages for transfer in case of siege, large
rooms for the refuge of women and children, and places for the safe
depositing of treasure. We accompanied him, and I remember going down
stairs intersected with heavy iron doors and through long passages with
only outlets for muskets to give light, then into large damp underground
chambers for a safe.
I cannot tell the length we went through of dark passage, but it was
some considerable distance, and the rooms are quite large, I suppose
capable of each holding fifty people. I have heard it said (but can’t
vouch for the truth), that these passages have an outlet on the St.
Lawrence at one end, and the Martello towers at the other. I have no
doubt such is the case. The underground passages are bombproof, and no
sound can be heard from them. A soldier forgotten there once gave
himself up to die, until he remembered he might be missed at roll call.
Such was the case, and his life thus saved. The passages are underneath
the Citadel at Cape Diamond, so called because at one time great
quantities of an inferior diamond were found there. I remember when the
Cape quite shone with them, and many old people have handsome jewellery
made from these gems. There is one street of houses opposite the Cape
about fifty-five years ago occupied by the following parties: the late
Chas. Gethings, the late Col. Dyde, John Carleton Fisher, William Patton
and Col. Gore, father of the present Countess of Errol. A small house
on the off side, occupied by a waiter, is the spot where is the present
High School of Quebec.
*THE FIRST ST. PATRICK’S SOCIETY
IN QUEBEC.*
Ireland, so prominent at the present time, especially appeals to
favorable remembrance of all her true people, and it may prove
interesting to many of my readers to hear something of the first St.
Patrick’s Society ever formed in Quebec. I therefore copy for public
benefit the very interesting account of its first doings, given me by an
old friend:—
"In the year 1836 a few Irish gentlemen met in a small house in the
Upper Town market place to form a St. Patrick’s Society without
reference to church or creed, but merely for the purpose of rendering
assistance to any of their countrymen who might be requiring help or
advice. Those gentlemen present on that occasion were as follows:—
The Hon. Dominick Daly, then Secretary of the Province.
The Hon. George Pemberton, merchant.
The Hon. Mr. Cochrane, brother-in-law to Bishop Mountain.
Sir Henry Caldwell, Baronet.
Geo. Holmes Parke, Esq., merchant.
Charles Gethings, Esq., of the Bank, Quebec.
Edward Bowen, Esq., son of Judge Bowen.
Edward Ryan, Esq., merchant, and Mr. O’Meara, Custom House.
"These gentlemen formed the St. Patrick’s Society, and the subscription
was to be five shillings each, annually. They also decided to have an
annual dinner every anniversary. The first president was the Hon. D.
Daly, and their first dinner was in a building where now stands the
Russell House. The subscription to the dinner was to be six dollars, to
make the meeting as select as possible, and to be paid out of the
subscribers’ own pockets without reference to the annual subscription.
The next president was the Hon. George Pemberton, and that dinner took
place in the Albion Hotel in Palace street. The third president was Sir
H. Caldwell; they dined in the same building, the Albion. The fourth
president was George Holmes Parke, Esq., who was annually elected
president for the succeeding fourteen years in succession, and the
dinners took place principally in the old chateau. To the anniversary
dinners the presidents of St. George, St. Andrew and St. John the
Baptist were invited as guests, as was also the heads of all military
and civil departments. On one occasion in the old chateau, when over
two hundred and fifty guests sat down to dinner, it looked well to see
Geo. Holmes Parke, Esq., with the president of St. George on one arm,
and the presidents of St. Andrew and St. John the Baptist on the other,
walking up the long room to the head of the dinner table. There were a
large number of subscribers to the Society, and the consequence was,
although the subscription was small, it was enabled to do a multitude of
good. The Society for many years got on admirably until other branches
were formed, and then Mr. Parke did not take the same interest as he had
formerly done. Notwithstanding, there never was an anniversary dinner
given afterwards but Mr. Parke was invited to it as a guest, and given
one of the most prominent seats at the table. Charles Gethings, Esq., I
believe, followed Mr. Parke as president, and after him others whose
names I have not ascertained. Of all the gentlemen that met to form the
Society, Mr. Parke is the only one living. In 1840 Mr. Parke bought a
large tract of land on the River St. Charles, a short distance from the
Dorchester Toll Bridge, on which he had built a splendid mansion, and
ornamented it with thousands of forest trees and circular avenues, iron
entrance gates, stone pillars, etc., also beautiful quickset hedges on
each side of the avenues kept neatly trimmed. In this house, which he
called "Ringfield," he has lived for the last fifty years, and is still
living in it. There is a splendid view from Ringfield. From St. Foy’s
church to St. Peter street in Lower Town can be seen almost every house
in Upper Town, St. Roch and St. Sauveur. Down the River St. Lawrence can
be seen nine miles, and from the hall door, before the trees grew up,
could be counted fourteen parish churches, apart from the city or
suburbs. Mr. Parke came to Canada in 1830, and is now in his
eighty-fourth year. During his business career he did a large business,
and in the course of twenty-five years he had built for himself
seventy-six large ships by different ship builders, which cost and was
paid for out of his office over three million of dollars, apart from his
other business." This gentlemen is father of the present popular
physician, Dr. Parke. Mr. Lemoine in his "Tourist’s Note Book" says: "A
very remarkable vestige of French domination exists behind the villa of
Mr. Parke, a circular field house, hence the name Ringfield, covering
about twelve acres, with an earthwork once about twenty feet high to the
east, to shield its inmates from the shot of Wolfe’s fleet lying at the
entrance of the St. Charles below Quebec."
*SILLERY CHURCH—THE PARSONAGE,
ONE TIME A RESIDENCE OF
SIR E. R. CARON.*
Sillery Church, beautifully situated above Sillery Cove (one of the
best-known lumber coves near Quebec), has for its parishioners many
families of note, foremost amongst whom were the Sharples family, well
known for their Catholic piety and their active benevolence.
At the time I first knew Sillery Church, its pastor was the Rev. George
Drolet, a very fervent, energetic priest, who I fear lost his health in
part from over zeal in the discharge of his arduous duties. His people
being mixed English and French, I have known him go through the ritual
of two masses, preach two sermons one in French and one in English
(fasting) though frequently warned against such over-exertion.
He was stricken with paralysis some years ago, and though comparatively
a young man, is quite debarred now from all church services.
He exercised considerable influence amongst his parishioners, many of
them being very difficult to deal with—a floating population of sailors;
but his genial manner and tact carried him through many difficulties. I
cannot give a better illustration of that same tact than by narrating a
fact that occurred full thirty years ago. At the time of the great
_Corrigan Murder_ (as it was called)—the outcome of a fight between
Orangemen and R. C. Irishmen—the feud ran so high, the Bishop of Quebec,
seeing how impossible it would be for an Irish priest to abstain from
being drawn into the vortex of party strife, decided on sending a
French-Canadian priest, who would have no national feeling in the
matter. The matter was discussed, but it was supposed to be such a post
of danger, even for a priest, the Bishop decided he would ask for a
volunteer instead of issuing a command to one of his clergy. All eyes
turned to the Rev. Mr. Drolet as _the one_ suited; he had been junior
priest in St. Patrick’s Church in Quebec, was thoroughly acquainted with
the character of the Irish people, and much beloved by them. He offered
his services, which were at once accepted; but some of his confrères
felt badly over the matter and remonstrated: "You must remember, my dear
sir, that you have a mother and sisters dependent on you for a home, and
you hold your life in your hand, if you go to —— in the present state of
feeling, as the Irish say they will not have a French-Canadian priest."
"I am not afraid," was the Rev. Mr. D.’s rejoinder; he went, to find the
Presbytery closed, the Parish Church nailed up, and a very threatening
crowd assembled. He could do nothing that day, so went to a neighboring
parish to say his morning mass. The next day the same scene. Undaunted
he began to talk, said he always thought an Irishman liked fair play,
and thought he might ask for a few minutes hearing—he, one man against
hundreds. "Oh! yes," they said, ashamed. "We’ll let you talk, but
remember we don’t want to insult your reverence, but we won’t have a
French-Canadian over us." "Well, answer me one question, I like to know
to whom I am talking: what is your name, and in what part of Ireland
were you born?" "Oh, sir, I was not born in Ireland, but my grandfather
and grandmother came from the Old country." "And you? and you?" The
same answer, not one perhaps in forty were born in Ireland, all really
by birth Canadians, and Mr. D. said, "You say you won’t have me because
I am a French-Canadian, my name is so, but, as my grandmother was Irish,
I consider myself as Irish as any of you." His wit carried the day. He
resided there for many years, and was so well liked that between thirty
and forty of his parishioners accompanied him to do him honor, when he
was given the pastorate of St. Michel, and I shall never forget the
sight of a crowded steamboat, half of the people in tears as they went
to see him off, and land him at Sillery, to which he had been
promoted—the most desirable rectorship, I fancy, in the R. C. gift, near
Quebec; but which he was to enjoy only a few years.
*ST. MATTHEW’S CHAPEL.*
A beautiful little church on the site of the old burying ground, on St.
John street, Quebec, built by that well-known philanthropist, Matthew
Hale, Esq., and very much enlarged and beautified by the various members
of the Hamilton family with their well-known liberality.
*BISHOP HAMILTON.*
About thirty years ago, there arrived fresh from college a
newly-ordained clergyman of the Church of England. So youthful looking,
so mild in character, it appeared at first as if he would hardly yet be
fitted for the onerous position of pastor, but he was appointed. Family
influence and money soon caused St. Matthew’s to be most largely
patronized, also free seats. In the meantime our young clergyman
pursued his unobtrusive way. Daily he might be seen in the poorest and
least frequented streets of the city, driving a little waggonette,
evidently constructed to order from its capacity for holding comforts
for his poor people. A thoroughly earnest, fervently pious man, our
young clergyman, before many years, displayed his innate force of
character, acquired great influence, and we know him now as Charles
Hamilton, Bishop of Ontario.
*ST. PATRICK’S CEMETERY, QUEBEC.*
Formerly Woodfield, the residence of the late
James Gibb, Esq., previously the residence of
Chas. Sheppard, Esq.
As I tread the sod of this cemetery what a host of memories are evoked.
Here was the handsome residence of Chas. Sheppard, formerly large timber
merchant of Quebec, one of whose sons, Mansfield Sheppard, Esq., and his
daughter, Mrs. Watt, I think still survive! This pleasant home was
burnt down, the family having hardly time to escape, and many cherished
and valuable mementoes of the past perished with it. It was purchased
by James Gibb, Esq., as a homestead, and so occupied for many years; and
who in the flush of enjoyment at the many pleasant entertainments given
by the Gibb family would have foreseen the day when many of those
dancing and promenading through those beautiful grounds would be
treading over perhaps the very spot may be their own resting place in
the quiet grave. Such is life. This cemetery, now of great beauty from
its natural characteristics, is about two miles from Quebec.
*MOUNT HERMON CEMETERY,*
About three miles from the city of Quebec, is most beautifully situated
on the St. Louis road its grounds at the back overlooking the St.
Lawrence.
Amongst other noted monuments here is the slab that indicates the last
resting place of the young son of Sir Edmund Head, who was accidentally
drowned in the St. Lawrence river, and buried here in Mr. Price’s lot.
The Price family had long occupied a high position in Quebec society,
and been intimate with the families of several of the governors. I see
they had the honor of a visit from the Prince on his late trip to
Quebec, who lunched with them.
I will attempt no further description of old Quebec, Mr. Le Moine has
too thoroughly exhausted the subject, but confine myself to a
description of people and incidents illustrative of the to me good old
times. Perhaps the beauty of the prospective is enhanced by the
distance, but to those who have passed the meridian of life the past
must ever be dearer than the present, for it alone is peopled with so
many of the loved we look for in vain now. So many of my once dear
associates have gone on before me, I often ponder on what must be the
feelings of one living to a hundred years, who stands totally alone
without one he has known in his earlier days to greet him.
*IN MEMORIAM.*
To my darling husband on the anniversary of
his death—September the 14th, 1889.
A year has come and gone since, by God’s Holy will
You left me, husband darling, and I still
Sorrow as in the earlier days, and grieve
As only those do who also are bereaved
Of one so fondly loved, whose life for years so
closely ’twined together
It seemed that death itself could never sever
The bonds, so firmly bound, in sickness or in health
Times of disaster, poverty or wealth,
The love which warmer grew with length of year.
It seems not possible you’re gone, I here;
Be still my heart, ’tis only for a time.
God’s will be done, and humbly mine
Must bow to His who doeth all things well.
Perchance you hear me, darling; who can tell
What line divides us? Thought may meet thought
On the high shore you stand,
And waft a loving greeting to the spirit land.
So I’ll not grieve you with my helpless sorrow.
But happily look toward that glad to-morrow
Will surely reunite us on that Heavenly shore.
The time will come, we’ll meet and part no more.
*NOVEMBER.*
When you speak of drear November,
Of its days of rain and gloom,
You should also ere remember
It’s the advent very soon
Of the bright month of December,
With its Christmas joys and cheer.
That its family rejoicings,
And its greetings of New Year,
Eclipse all previous darkness,
As the dark before the dawn;
Ignoring all the dangers,
That yet before us yawn.
For happily so the future
Is hidden from our gaze,
We only blindly, step by step,
Tread the ever-tangled maze
That encircles all our future,
And no one can design
The pathway to be trodden
By either yours or mine.
So implicitly we’ll leave
Our Heavenly Guide to say
The road that we will travel
And journey day by day,
Assured He will truly guide us,
If we will only follow,
And land us safely on the shore,
When some assured to-morrow
Will join the past, and safe return
All those for whom we sorrow.
*TO THE OYSTER.*
How I love you! toothsome oyster.
Because at hunger’s call
You are at all times ready
To fill our empty maw.
But still more do I love you
For the odor that you waft
Of seaside and sea-air you bring
With memories of the past.
The past whene’er your advent,
In autumn’s wintry weather,
Was grandly hailed on every side,
And brought all friends together.
When seated at a well-spread board,
Full quite a score and more
Of neighbors met to eat the food
All must pronounce so very good.
So whether hot, or whether cold,
In stew, or soup, or pie,
We sing your praise, for very few
Your excellence can deny.
*LIST OF NEW SUBSCRIBERS.*