On viewing the memorable scenes witnessed at Ringfield,—the spot where the French discoverer wintered in 1535-36, and also the locality, where it was decided to surrender the colony to England in 1759—are we not justified in considering it as both the cradle and the tomb of French Dominion in the new world?
Ringfield has, for many years, been the family mansion of George Holmes
Parke, Esquire.
CASTOR VILLE
"In woods or glens I love to roam,
* * * *
Or by the woodland pool to rest."
In the deepest recesses of the Lorette woods, amongst the most shady meanders of the sinuous Cahire Coubat, some five miles due north from Castel-Coucy, we know a bank, not precisely where
"The wild thyme grows,"
but where you are sure, in spring and summer, to pluck handfuls of trilliums, wild violets, ferns of rare beauty, columbines, kalmias, ladies' slippers, ladies' tresses (we mean of course the floral subjects). In this beauteous region, sacred to Pan, the Naiades, Dryades, and the daughters of Mnemosyne, you might possibly, dear reader, were you privileged with a pass from one of our most respected friends, be allowed to wander; or perchance in your downward voyage from Lake Charles to the Lorette Falls, in that vade mecum of a forester's existence—a birch canoe—you might, we repeat, possibly be allowed to pitch your camp on one of the mossy headlands of Castor Ville, and enjoy your luncheon, in this sylvan spot, that is, always presuming you were deemed competent to fully appreciate nature's wildest charms, and rejoice, like a true lover, in her coyest and most furtive glances.
Castor Ville, a forest wild, where many generations of beavers, otters, caribou, boars, foxes and hares once roamed, loved and died, covers an area of more than one hundred acres. Through it glides the placid course of the St. Charles—overhung by hoary fir trees—from the parent lake to the pretty Indian Lorette Falls, a distance of about eight miles of fairy scenery, which every man of taste, visiting Lake St. Charles, ought to enjoy at least once in his life. It is all through mantled over by a dense second growth of spruce and fir trees, intersected by a maze of avenues. The lodge sits gracefully, with its verandah and artillery, on a peninsula formed by the Grand Desert and St. Charles streams. You can cross over in a canoe to that portion of the domain beyond the river: along the banks, a number of resting places—tiny bowers of birch bark—dingies and canoes anchored all round—here and there a portage—close by, a veritable Indian wigwam—Oda Sio [293] by name. On a bright morning in early spring, you may chance to meet, in one of the paths, or in his canoe, a white-haired hunter, the Master of Castor Ville, returning home after visiting his hare, fox, or otter traps, proudly bearing Lepus in his game bag, next to which you may discover a volume of Molière, Montaigne or Montesquieu. On selling Castle-Coucy, its loyal-hearted old proprietor, taking with him the guns of the fort, retired to the present wild demesne, in which occasionally he passes, with his family, many pleasant hours, amidst books, friends and rural amusements, far from city noises and city excitement.
Castor Ville belongs to the Hon. Louis Panet, member of the Legislative
Council of Canada." (Written in 1865.)
Since this little sketch was penned, sixteen years ago, the unwelcome shadow of years has crept over our old friend, eighty-six winters and then frost has cooled the ardor of the Chasseur, Castor Ville for Mr. Panet has lost much of its sunshine.