It Belongs To Robert Hamilton, Esq.,
A Leading Merchant Of Quebec.
BIJOU.
And I have heard the whispers of the trees,
And the low laughter of the wandering wind,
Mixed
With the hum of golden-belted bees,
And far away, dim echoes, undefined, -
That yet had power to thrill my listening ear,
Like footsteps of the spring that is so near.
- (Wood Voices, KATE S. McL.)
Shall we confess that we ever had a fancy for historical contrasts? It is
our weakness, perhaps our besetting sin; and when, on a balmy June day, at
the hour when the king of day it sipping the dew-drops from the flowers,
we ride past this unadorned but charming little Canadian home, next to
Westfield, on the St. Foye heights, as it were sunning itself amidst
emerald fields, fanned by the breath of the fragrant morn, enlivened by
the gambols of merry childhood; memory, in spite of us, brings back the
ghastly sights, the sickening Indian horrors, witnessed here on the 28th
April, 1760. There can be no doubt on this point; the mute, but eloquent
witnesses of the past are dug up every day: shot, shell, bullets, old
bayonets, decayed military buttons, all in the greatest profusion.
"The savages," says Garneau, "who were nearly all in the woods behind
during the fight, spread over the battle-field when the French were
pursuing the enemy, and killed many of the wounded British, whose scalps
were afterwards found upon neighboring bushes. As soon as De Levis was
apprised of the massacre, he took vigorous measures for putting a stop to
it.
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