Well can we recall the time when this lordly demesne extended from Wolfefield, adjoining Marchmont, to the meandering Belle-Borne brook, which glides past the porter's lodge at Woodfield, due west, the historic stream Ruisseau Saint Denis, up which clambered the British hero, Wolfe, to conquer or die, intersecting it at Thornhill. It was then a splendid old seat of more than one hundred acres, a fit residence for the proudest nobleman England might send us as Viceroy—enclosed east and west between two streamlets, hidden from the highway by a dense growth of oak, maple, dark pines and firs—the forest primeval—letting in here and there the light of heaven on its labyrinthine avenues; a most striking landscape, blending the sombre verdure of its hoary trees with the soft tints of its velvety sloping lawn, fit for a ducal palace. An elfish plot of a flower garden, alas! how much dwarfed, then stood in rear of the dwelling to the north, it once enjoyed the privilege of attracting many eyes. It had also an extensive and well-kept fruit and vegetable garden, enlivened with flower beds, the centre of which was adorned with the loveliest possible circular fount in white marble, supplied with the crystal element from the Belle-Borne rill by a hidden aqueduct; conservatories, graperies, peach and forcing houses, pavilions picturesquely hung over the yawning precipice on two headlands, one looking towards Sillery, the other towards the Island of Orleans, the scene of many a cosy tea-party; bowers, rustic chairs perdues among the groves, a superb bowling green and archery grounds. The mansion itself contained an exquisite collection of paintings from old masters, a well- selected library of rare and standard works, illuminated Roman missals, rich portfolios with curious etchings, marble busts, quaint statuettes, medals and medallions, objets de vertu purchased by the millionaire proprietor during a four years' residence in Italy, France and Germany. Such we remember Spencer Wood in its palmiest days, when it was the ornate home of a man of taste, the late Henry Atkinson, Esquire, the President of the Horticultural Society of Quebec.
May I be pardoned, for lingering lovingly on this old spot, recalling "childhood scenes" of one dear to me and mine!
The following, written by a valued old friend of Mr. Atkinson, is dated
Brighton, England:
On a sketch of Spencer Wood sent to the writer (Miss A.), with her
album, Oct. 18, 1848.
Dear Spencer Wood! What a group of pleasing remembrances are clustered around me as I gaze upon this visible image and type of thee. Thy classic lawn, with its antiquated oaks and solemn pines; thy wood- crowned cliffs and promontories, with the sparkling sunlight reflected on a thousand sheaves from the broad surface of Jacques Cartier's river, hundreds of feet below. And then the quiet repose of thy ample mansion, with its stores of art and models of taste within and without; thy forest shades, thy gardens, thy flowers and thy fruit. But most of all, thy gay and happy inmates, their glad and joyous hearts beating with generous emotions, and their countenances brightened with the welcome smile. Ah! how I seem to hear, as in time past I have heard, their lively prattle, or their merry laugh echoing across the lawn, or through the flower garden, or along the winding paths down the steep slope to the pavilion.
And can it be that I shall never again realize these happy scenes! I would fain hope otherwise; but life is a changeful drama, and time fleeting; this world is not our home.
Adieu, then, dear friends. May God's blessing ever rest upon you; and should it be His providence that we meet not again here, may we all so use His dealings with us in this disciplinary state that we may be sure to meet.
Brighton, Dec. 20th. In memory of some pleasant moments.
E. E. DOUGLASS.
In the beginning of the century Spencer Wood, as previously stated, was known as Powell Place. His Excellency Sir James Henry Craig spent there the summers of 1808-9-10. Even the healthy air of Powell Place failed to cure him of gout and dropsy. A curious letter from Sir James to his secretary and chargé d'affaires in London, H. W. Ryland, Esquire, dated "Powell Place, 6th August, 1810," has been, among others, preserved by the historian Robert Christie. It alludes in rather unparliamentary language to the coup d'état which had on the 19th March, 1810, consigned to a Quebec dungeon three of the most prominent members of the Legislature, Messrs. Bédard, Taschereau and Blanchet, together with Mr. Lefrançois, the printer of the Canadien newspaper, for certain comments in that journal on Sir James' colonial policy. Sir James had spent the greatest part of his life in the army, actively battling against France; a Frenchman for him was a traditional enemy. This unfortunate idea seems more than once to have inspired his colonial policy with regard to the descendants of Frenchmen whom he ruled.