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.