Cameron of Lochiel
XIII. +The Plains of Abraham+ 198
XIV. +The Shipwreck of the Auguste+ 213
XV. +Lochiel and Blanche+ 228
XVI. +The Family Hearth+ 254
XVII. +Conclusion+ 269
FOREWORD.
As my story lays no claim to classicism, either in style or structure,
this foreword may as well be made to play the part of a preface. My
acquaintances will, doubtless, open their eyes on seeing me thus
enter, at the age of seventy-six, on the perilous paths of authorship.
Possibly I owe them an explanation. Although tired of reading all these
years with so little profit either to myself or others, I yet dreaded
to pass the Rubicon. A matter small enough in itself in the end decided
me.
One of my friends, a man of parts, whom I met last year in St Louis
Street, in our good city of Quebec, grasped me warmly by the hand and
exclaimed:
"Awfully glad to see you! Do you know, my dear fellow, I have talked
this morning with no fewer than eleven people, not one of them with
half an idea in his noddle!" And he wrung my arm almost out of joint.
"Really," said I, "you are very complimentary; for I perceive by the
warmth of your greeting that I am the exception, the man you--"
"Oh, yes, indeed," he cried, without letting me finish my sentence,
"those are the only sensible words I have heard this morning." And he
crossed the street to speak to some one, probably his addle-pate number
twelve, who was seeking to attract his attention.
"The devil!" thought I to myself, "if what I just said is in any way
brilliant, it would seem easy enough to shine. Though I have never yet
been suspected of it, I must be rather a clever fellow."
Much elated with this discovery, and congratulating myself that I had
more brains than the unhappy eleven of whom my friend had spoken, I
hurry to my library, I furnish myself, perhaps all too appropriately,
with a ream of the paper called "foolscap," and I set myself to work.
I write for my own amusement, at the risk of wearying the reader who
may have the patience to go through this volume. But, as Nature has
made me compassionate, I will give this dear reader a little good
advice. He had better throw away the unlucky book without taking the
trouble to criticise it, which would be making it much too important,
and would be, moreover, but wasted labor for the serious critic; for,
unlike that old Archbishop of Granada, so touchy on the subject of his
sermons, of whom Gil Blas has told us, I am, for my part, blessed with
an easy humor, and, instead of retorting to my critic, "I wish you good
luck and very much better taste," I will frankly admit that my book has
a thousand faults, of most of which I have a lively consciousness.
As for the unfriendly critic, his work will be all in vain, debarred as
he will be from the privilege of dragging me into a controversy. Let me
say beforehand that I grieve to deprive him of his gentle diversion,
and to clip his claws so soon. I am old and indolently content, like
Figaro of merry memory. Moreover, I have not enough self-conceit to
engage in any defense of my literary productions. To record some
incidents of a well-loved past, to chronicle some memories of a youth
long flown--this is my whole ambition.
Many of the anecdotes, doubtless, will appear insignificant and
childish to some readers. Let these lay the blame upon certain of our
best men-of-letters, who besought me to leave out nothing which could
illustrate the manners and customs of the early Canadians. "That which
will appear insignificant and childish to the eyes of strangers," they
urged, "in the records of a septuagenarian, born but twenty-eight years
after the conquest of New France, will yet not fail to interest true
Canadians."
This production of mine shall be neither very dull nor surpassingly
brilliant. An author should assuredly have too much self-respect to
make his appeal exclusively to the commonplace; and if I should make
the work too fine, it would be appreciated by none but the _beaux
esprits_. Under a constitutional government, a candidate must concern
himself rather with the number than the quality of his votes.
This work will be Canadian through and through. It is hard for an old
fellow of seventy to change his ancient coat for garb of modern pattern.
I must have also plenty of elbow-room. As for rule and precept--which,
by the way, I am well enough acquainted with--I can not submit myself
to them in a work like this. Let the purists, the past masters in the
art of literature, shocked at my mistakes, dub my book romance, memoir,
annals, miscellany, hotch-potch. It is all the same to me.
Having accomplished my preface, let me make a serious beginning with
the following pretty bit of verse, hitherto unpublished, and doubtless
now much surprised to find itself in such unworthy company:
QUEBEC, 1757.
An eagle city on her heights austere,
Taker of tribute from the chainless flood,
She watches wave above her in the clear
The whiteness of her banner purged with blood.
Near her grim citadel the blinding sheen
Of her cathedral spire triumphant soars,
Rocked by the Angelus, whose peal serene
Beats over Beaupré and the Lévis shores.
Tossed in his light craft on the dancing wave,
A stranger where he once victorious trod,
The passing Iroquois, fierce-eyed and grave,
Frowns on the flag of France, the cross of God.
Let him who knows this Quebec of ours betake himself, in body or in
spirit, to the market of the Upper Town, and consider the changes which
the region has undergone since the year of grace 1757, whereat my story
opens. There was then the same cathedral, minus its modern tower, which
seems to implore the charitable either to raise it to its proper height
or to decapitate its lofty and scornful sister.
The Jesuits' College, at a later date transformed into a barrack,
looked much the same as it does to-day; but what has become of the
church which stood of old in the place of the present halls? Where
is the grove of venerable trees behind the building, which adorned
the grounds, now so bare, of this edifice sacred to the education of
Canadian youth? Time and the axe, alas! have worked their will. In
place of the merry sports, the mirthful sallies of the students, the
sober steps of the professors, the high philosophic discourse, we hear
now the clatter of arms, the coarse jest of the guard.
Instead of the market of the present day, some low-built butchers'
stalls, perhaps seven or eight in number, occupied a little plot
between the cathedral and the college. Between these stalls and the
college prattled a brook, which, after descending St. Louis Street and
dividing Fabrique, traversed Couillard and the hospital garden, on its
way to the river St. Charles. Our fathers were bucolic in their tastes!
It is the end of April. The brook is overflowing; children are amusing
themselves by detaching from its edges cakes of ice, which, shrinking
as they go, overleap all barriers, and lose themselves at last in the
mighty tide of the St. Lawrence. A poet, who finds "sermons in stones,
books in the running brooks," dreaming over the scene, and marking
the descent of the ice-cakes, their pausings, their rebuffs, might
have compared them to those ambitious men who, after a restless life,
come with little wealth or fame to the end of their career, and are
swallowed up in eternity.
The houses neighboring the market-place are, for the most part, of
but one story, unlike our modern structures, which tower aloft as if
dreading another deluge.
It is noon. The Angelus rings out from the cathedral belfry. All the
city chimes proclaim the greeting of the angel to the Virgin, who is
the Canadian's patron saint. The loitering _habitants_, whose calashes
surround the stalls, take off their caps and devoutly murmur the
Angelus. All worshiping alike, there is none to deride the pious custom.
Some of our nineteenth-century Christians seem ashamed to perform
before others an act of worship; which is proof, to say the least, of a
shrinking or cowardly spirit. The followers of Mohammed, who have the
courage of their convictions wherever they may chance to be, will seven
times daily make their prayers to Allah under the eyes of the more
timid Christians.
The students of the Jesuits' College, noisy enough on ordinary
occasions, move to-day in a serious silence from the church wherein
they have been praying. What causes this unusual seriousness? They are
on the eve of separation from two beloved fellow-students. The younger
of the two, who, being more of their age, was wont to share more often
in their boyish sports, was the protector of the feeble against the
strong, the impartial arbitrator in all their petty disagreements.
The great door of the college opens, and two young men in traveling
dress join the group of their fellow-students. Two leathern
portmanteaus, five feet long, adorned with rings, chains, and padlocks
which would seem strong enough for the mooring of a ship, lie at their
feet. The younger of the two, slight and delicate-looking, is perhaps
eighteen years old. His dark complexion, great black eyes, alert and
keen, his abruptness of gesture, proclaim his French blood. His name is
Jules D'Haberville. His father is one of the seigneurs, captain of a
company in the colonial marine.
His companion, who is older by two or three years, is much taller and
more robust of frame. His fine blue eyes, his chestnut hair, his blonde
and ruddy complexion with a few scattered freckles on face and hands,
his slightly aggressive chin--all these reveal a foreign origin. This
is Archibald Cameron of Lochiel, commonly known as Archie of Lochiel, a
young Scotch Highlander who has been studying at the Jesuits' College
in Quebec. How is it that he, a stranger, finds himself in this remote
French colony? We will let the sequel show.
The young men are both notably good looking. They are clad alike with
hooded overcoat, scarlet leggings edged with green ribbon, blue woolen
knitted garters, a broad belt of vivid colors embroidered with glass
beads, deer-hide moccasins tied in Iroquois fashion, the insteps
embroidered with porcupine-quills, and, finally, caps of beaver-skin
fastened over the ears by means of a red silk handkerchief knotted
under the chin.
The younger betrays a feverish eagerness, and keeps glancing along
Buade Street.
"You are in a hurry to leave us, Jules," said one of his friends,
reproachfully.
"No," replied D'Haberville, "oh, no, indeed, my dear De Laronde, I
assure you; but, since this parting must take place, I wish it over. It
unnerves me; and it is natural that I should be in a hurry to get back
home again."
"That is right," said De Laronde; "and, moreover, since you are a
Canadian, we hope to see you again before very long."
"But with you the case is different, my dear Archie," said another. "I
fear this parting will be forever, if you return to your own country."
"Promise us that you will come back," cried all the students.
During this conversation Jules darts off like an arrow to meet two men,
each with an oar on his right shoulder, who are hastening along by the
cathedral. One of them wears the costume of the _habitants_--capote
of black homespun, gray woolen cap, gray leggings and garters, belt
of many colors, and heavy cowhide larrigans tied in the manner
of the Iroquois. The dress of the other is more like that of our
young travelers, although much less costly. The first, tall and
rough-mannered, is a ferryman of Point Lévis. The second, shorter,