On That Occasion, I Found Le
Milord Anglais (As A Waggish Canadian Peasant Called Him) Under His
Ancestral Roof.
Recalling our parish annals of early times, I used then to think that
should England ever (which God forbid)
Hand back to its ancient masters
"these fifteen thousand acres of snow," satirized by Voltaire, ridiculed
by Madame de Pompadour, cruelly and basely deserted by Louis XV, in their
hour of trial, here existed a ready-made manor for the Giffards and
Duchesnays of the future, where their descendants could becomingly receive
fealty and homage. (foi et homage) from their feudal retainers. There
was, however, nothing here to remind one of the lordly pageantry of other
times - the days of absolutism - of the dark era, the age of lettres de
cachet, corvees, lods et ventes, and other feudal burthens, when the
flag of the Bourbons floated over the fortress of New France. In 1846, at
the time of my visit, in vain would you have sought in the farm yard for a
live seigniorial capon (un chapon vif et en plumes) though possibly in
the larder, at Christmas, you might have discovered some fat, tender
turkeys, or a juicy haunch of venison. Of vin ordinaire ne'er a trace,
but judging from the samples on the table, perhaps much mellow Madeira,
and "London Stout" might have been stored in the cellars. Everywhere, in
fact, was apparent English comfort, English cheer. On the walls of the
banqueting apartment, or within the antique red-leathered portfolios
strewn round, you would have run a greater chance of meeting face to face
with the portraits of Lord Dorchester, Genl.
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