It was Caroline, a child of love, born on the
shores of the great Ottawa river; a French officer was her sire, and
the powerful Algonquin tribe of the Beaver claimed her mother.
"The Canadian Nimrod, struck at the sight of such extraordinary
beauty, asked her name, and after relating his adventure, he begged of
her to shew him the way to the castle in the neighborhood, as she must
be familiar with every path in the forest. Such is the story told of
the first meeting between the Indian beauty and the Canadian Minister
of Finance and Feudal Judge in the year 175 - .
"The Intendant was a married man; [326] his lady resided in the
capital of Canada. She seldom accompanied her husband on his hunting
excursions, but soon it was whispered that something more than the
pursuit of wild animals attracted him to his country seat; an intrigue
with an Indian beauty was hinted at. These discreditable rumors came
to the ears of her ladyship; she made several visits to the castle in
hopes of verifying her worst fears; jealousy is a watchful sentinel.
"The Intendant's dormitory was on the ground floor of the building; it
is supposed the Indian girl occupied a secret apartment on the flat
above; that her boudoir was reached through a long narrow passage,
ending with a hidden staircase opening on the large room which
overlooked the garden.
"The King, therefore, for his defence
Against the furious Queen,
At Woodstock builded such a bower,
As never yet was seen.
Most curiously that bower was built,
Of stone and timber strong."
(Ballad of Fair Rosamond.)
"Let us now see what took place on this identical spot on the 2nd
July, 176 - . It is night; the hall clock has just struck eleven; the
murmur of the neighboring brook, gently wafted on the night wind, is
scarcely audible; the Song Sparrow [327] has nearly finished his
evening hymn, while the Sweet Canada [328] bird, from the top
of an old pine, merrily peals forth his shrill clarion. Silence the
most profound pervades the whole castle; every light is extinguished;
the pale rays of the moon slumber softly on the oak floor, reflected
as they are through the gothic windows; every inmate is wrapped in
sleep, even fair Rosamond who has just retired. Suddenly her door is
violently thrust open; a masked person, with one bound rushes to her
bed-side, and without saying a word, plunges a dagger to the hilt in
her breast. Uttering a piercing shriek, the victim springs in the air
and falls heavily on the floor. The Intendant, hearing the noise,
hurries up stairs, raises the unhappy girl who has just time to point
to the fatal weapon, still in the wound, and then falls back in his
arms a lifeless corpse. The whole household are soon on foot; search
is made for the murderer, but no clue is discovered. Some of the
inmates fancied they had seen the figure of a woman rush down the
secret stair and disappear in the woods about the time the murder took
place. A variety of stories were circulated, some pretended to trace
the crime to the Intendant's wife, whilst others alleged that the
avenging mother of the creole was the assassin; some again urged that
Caroline's father had attempted to wipe off the stain on the honour of
his tribe, by himself despatching his erring child. A profound mystery
to this day surrounds the whole transaction. Caroline was buried in
the cellar of the castle, and the letter 'C' engraved on her
tombstone, which, my son, you have just seen."
Half a century has now elapsed since the period mentioned in this
narrative. In vain do we search for several of the leading characteristics
on which Mr. Papineau descants so eloquently; time, the great destroyer,
has obliterated many traces. Nothing meets one's view but mouldering
walls, over which green moss and rank weeds cluster profusely.
Unmistakable indications of a former garden there certainly are, such as
the outlines of walks over which French cherry, apple and gooseberry trees
grow in wild luxuriance. I took home from the ruins a piece of bone; this
decayed piece of mortality may have formed part of Caroline's big toe, for
aught I can establish to the contrary; Chateau-Bigot brought back to my
mind other remembrances of the past. I recollected reading that pending
the panic consequent on the surrender of Quebec in 1759, the non-
combatants of the city crowded within its walls; this time not to
realized, but to seek concealment until Mars had inscribed another victory
on the British flag. Who would be prepared to swear that later, when
Arnold and Montgomery had possession of the environs of Quebec, during the
greater portion of the winter, of 1775-6, some of those prudent English
merchants, (Adam Lymburner at their head), who awaited at Charlesbourg and
Beauport the issue of the contest, did not take a quiet drive, to Chateau-
Bigot, were it only to indulge in a philosophical disquisition on the
mutability of human events?
We are indebted to Mr. John D. Stewart of Quebec for a copy of the
following letter from his grandfather, written in 1776, from the Chateau.
(Mr. Charles Stewart, father of the late Mr. Charles Grey Stewart,
Comptroller of Customs, to his father.)
"HERMITAGE, June 25th, 1776.
"MY DEAR FATHER, - I was overjoyed to hear by a letter from Mr. Gray,
that you and my dear mother were in good health. Nothing can give me
greater pleasure than to hear so. I was very sorry to hear that my
sister had been ill. I hope she is now getting better.
We have been here for this winter in a very dismal situation. The
rebels came here and blocked up the town of Quebec, at the end of
November.
