"On Friday last the mortal remains of the late James Tibbits were committed to their last resting place in Mount Hermon Cemetery. For many years the deceased was a prominent figure in the mercantile community. He was a man of great physical and mental energy, and of unbounded enterprise, always willing to risk in public enterprises the money with which many of his ventures were crowned. One lasting monument of his enterprise and ability remains to us in the excellent ferry service we enjoy with the South Shore. He was the first to demonstrate the possibility of a steamer cutting its way through the masses of ice which obstructed the navigation opposite the city during the winter. Like many others of our enterprising merchants, Mr. Tibbits died poor. Quebec owes his memory a debt of gratitude, which might well have been slightly repaid by a public funeral. It is, however, such a long time since Mr. Tibbits resided in the city, the generation that succeeded are hardly aware of the services rendered by the deceased. It is not fitting, however, that they should be lost sight of."
The ferry boats, summer and winter, land you in close proximity to the railroad, and carriages take you west towards St. David or east to St. Joseph. After driving up a very steep hill you come to a road branching off to the west beside which is the little old English Church and Cemetery, the former being now renewed under the supervision of its popular pastor, Rev. Mr. Nicholls, grandson of the much-esteemed Bishop Mountain. Higher up and last is the Roman Catholic parish church, a monument to the zeal and perseverance of the late Rev. Mr. Dalzeil. Almost a riot was in the parish when he asked for it to be built of its present size, but with far-seeing wisdom he insisted, and now it is crowded to overflowing though two other churches have been built in the space of the last few years. Levis also possesses a fine college in this locality. On the summit of the hill called rue des Marchands is a very handsome and spacious store and residence belonging to Mr. Couture, and opposite to it is a tiny little building kept in good repair, though unused, which Mr. Couture tells you with pride is the shop where he first earned the shillings which were to end by making him a millionaire. Mr. Edouard Couture carries on the business in the same place now, but the Hon. Geo. Couture, Senator, sleeps under a handsome obelisk in Levis Cemetery. The noblest monument that exists to his memory, however, is the beautiful church, built by money left for that purpose in his will, adjoining the splendid hospital, built within about ten years, to which he contributed so largely during his lifetime. One of the head ladies of the institution (a very old friend, sister-in-law of our well-known citizen, Hon. P. Casgrain) took me through this building about a week ago, and I was astonished to find it almost filled already. The poor, the crippled, old women, young children, have here a comfortable home, with delightful surroundings, and on a height and with a view of the Citadel, Quebec.
When Mère St. Monique asked me to go and visit the Catacombs under the church, I decidedly objected, but Josephte, as I called her in our youth, always would have her way, and I am glad she did so here, for I do not know whether similar places for burial are existent elsewhere in this country or only a new creation in Canada, but I am glad I went into them. This seems to be the perfection of burying. Leading me through a long light passage under the church, we came to a very heavy iron door; then on its being opened a second appeared with its blank emblems and death's head and cross bones, sufficiently indicative of where we were going. Entering this door Mère St. Monique struck a light, and we found ourselves in a fire-proof brick chamber and passages. On every side shelves to hold one coffin. There is only one occupant so far—Mr. Gingras—but there are places for ninety. The coffin is placed on a shelf just large enough, then masoned up, and the name put on the masonry. A great improvement on old-fashioned vaults, as all possibility of disturbance is precluded and no danger from foul air. This building is under the High Altar, so to a devout Roman Catholic much of the feeling of gloom is taken away. A few miles west is St. David's Church, a pretty new edifice, and further on at the village of St. Romuald, St. Romuald's Church, so filled with choice paintings and works of art by its late Pastor, the Rev. Mr. Saxe, it has become quite a worthy show place for our sight-seeing American friends. The Rev. Mr. Saxe was of such clever wit and genial presence, he exercised great influence over those with whom he came in contact. I remember saying how proud his parishioners must be of this lovely little edifice. "They well may be," he said, "it has hardly cost them anything for all these works of art. I made the old country, that could afford it, give them, you know. I travelled in Europe for contributions, and impressed on each community how necessary it was that each city should give of its best—something to redound to its own credit, and I got it," the old gentleman said with a merry twinkle in his eye. So much, my friends, for tact and a knowledge of human nature.
BEAUMONT—ST. THOMAS.
Previous to the year 1853, or thereabouts, there was no railroad below Quebec, and vehicles were the only means of transport; but when time and means permit, it is surely the most agreeable of all ways of travelling. We were frequent visitors at Crane Island, and our downward drive to St. Thomas, where we took sail boat to cross, were in the habit of stopping at various way-side houses, not inns, simply neat commodious places where we were always expected and welcomed, and sure of a meal and bed. One of these was the Fraser House at Beaumont: it still exists, but sadly deteriorated, and occupied by a French farmer and family. It is a very long low house in a very small quiet country village, prettily situated with a view of the St. Lawrence.
On one occasion my husband and myself drove up to the door. "Welcome!" (we were frequent visitors) "but it is well you did not come a few days sooner. Who do you think has just left? Lord and Lady Elgin,"—and I forget whether she said any children. "Come, and I'll show you the room as I arranged it for Lady Elgin." If you have never, my readers, seen a genuine old-fashioned habitant bedstead, I would almost fail to impress you with its height; you could not possibly get into it without standing on a chair, and two of these were placed side by side, taking in one whole side of a room, with the long white curtains pendant from a rod attached to the ceiling. I can hardly think of it now without smiling. Of course, it must have been for the novelty of the thing that Lady Elgin used it instead of having one brought from Quebec. Perhaps one gets so tired of formality and grandeur, a change becomes a welcome relief. We said we had but twenty minutes to stay, and must have lunch at once. In about ten minutes we had a most delicious fricassee of chicken in white sauce. On complimenting Mrs. Fraser, she said, "I learnt how to make that from Lord Elgin's cook, and was I not smart? those chickens were running about when you came." That spoilt all, ah—if she only had not told us? There are numerous pretty villages all along the south shore. None prettier than that of St. Michel, adjacent to Beaumont. It much resembles Kamouraska, though much prettier as the foliage is so lovely.
ST. MICHEL.
St. Michel is a delightful summer residence, about fifteen miles from Quebec, reached directly by steamer every day, or by railroad a few miles from the village.
We resided there for a couple of years, and then made the acquaintance of the Rev. Mr. Drolet, who with his mother and sisters tendered us such kindly hospitality. The Parsonage became to all of us a Maison Paternelle, for the family all spoke English as well as French, and the genial curé, a very clever and devoted priest, was in his home an admirable host. I shall have occasion elsewhere to speak of him. I will conclude this article with a few verses I found lately, written on the spur of the moment from the circumstance of one of the ladies nearly falling through a trap door into the cellar of the dining-room of the old-fashioned house we then occupied.
A CHRONICLE OF ST. MICHEL.