Part 5

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.