THE COUNTRY SEAT OF THE HON. WM. SMITH
(1760-1847.)
Here there was laughing of old, there was weeping,
Haply of lovers none ever will know,
Whose eyes went seaward a hundred sleeping
Years ago.
The ghost of a garden fronts the sea,
A girdle of brushwood and thorn encloses
The — square slope of the blossomless bed
Where the weeds that grew green from the graves of its roses
Now lie dead.
The fields fall southward, abrupt and broken,
To the low last edge of the long lone land,
If a step should sound or a word be spoken
Would a ghost not rise at the strange guest's hand?
SWINBURNE'S Forsaken Garden.
On a grey, cheerless May afternoon, I visited what I might call the ruins of this once bright abode—Longwood—at Cap Rouge. Here the eccentric, influential and scholarly historian of Canada and statesman, the Honorable William Smith, spent the evening of his long and busy life. Whence the name Longwood? Did the Hon. William bestow on his rustic home the name of the residence where sojourned his illustrious contemporary—his admired hero, Napoleon I. (born like himself in 1769), to commemorate his own release from the cares of State? Was Cap Rouge and its quiet and sylvan bowers to him a haven of rest like St. Helena might have been to the Petit Caporal?
The locality, at present, can only attract from its woodland views. The house, of one story, is about eighty feet in length by forty in breadth, of wood, with an oval window over the entrance to light up that portion of the large attic. Its roomy lower apartments and attics must have fitted it admirably for a summer retreat. It is painted a dull yellow; the blinds may have been once green. When I saw it, I found it as bleak, as forlorn, as the snows and storms of many winters can well make a tenantless dwelling.
Outside, the "ghost of a garden" had stared at me, and when the key turned and grated in the rusty old lock of this dreary tenement, with its disjointed floors, disintegrated foundations, darkened apartments with shutters all closed, I almost thought I might encounter within the ghost of the departed historian;
All within is dark as night:
In the windows is no light;
And no murmur at the door,
So frequent on its hinge before,
still the time had been when the voice of revelry, the patter of light feet, the meeting of many friends, had awakened gladsome echoes in these now silent halls of Longwood. Traditions told of noted dinner parties, of festive evenings, when Quebec could boast of a well appointed garrison, and stately frigates crowded its port.
How many balls at the Barons' Club? how many annual dinners of the Veterans of 1775, at Menut's? how many levees at the old Château, had the Laird not attended from the first, the historical levee of Dec. 6, 1786, "where the Governor-General, Lord Dorchester, monopolised the kissing," so graphically depicted by William's dignified papa, [249] the Chief Justice, down to the jocund fêtes champêtres of Sir James Craig at Powell Place immortalized by old Mr. DeGaspé—to the gay soirees of the Duke of Richmond—the literary reunions of the scholarly Earl of Dalhousie—the routs and lawn parties at Spencer Wood.