Love stories; Scotland -- History -- 18th century -- Fiction
"The regimental wages are not great, and they are not paid with exact
punctuality, because there are too many empty hands waiting between his
French Christian Majesty's coffers and his soldiers in Canada. But
that, to a man like myself who wants little of the so-called comforts
of life, and has, moreover, other sources, is no great hardship, and
there are comfortings, sometimes, in unexpected quarters.
"The French, who know the art of romance, and how to spin it to the
last drop without getting to the dregs, have already peopled this new
land of theirs with colour, but I doubt me if it will last, which is
their affair, not mine, or yours. King Louis himself is indulgent to
the human colouring of his dominion, in that he sends out shipments of
wives from the Old Country for the French settlers.
"Therefore they are called 'King's girls,' and being flowers of a
kingdom which has bloomed rarely with women, they are in much demand.
It is a joke, when a ship-load arrives, that the plumpest are married
first, and this, I gather, for two reasons: Being less active, it is
thought they will more readily stay at home, as honest married women
should, and, being well covered--not fat, oh no! not that--that they
will the better resist the icy cold of New France in the winter. For
myself they do not interest me, not on account of the reason which
drove my late Count Frontenac here, he having in the Old Country a
shrewish wife whose temper he could not bear, but because I have found
attractions more to my taste, of which you shall know something.
"I may admit, with some assurance, that my luck in the regard of the
sweet sex, holds amid the altered conditions in which I find myself.
Those French women have not the freshness, and I am certain not the
innocence--you will admit me a judge on both counts--of my own
country-women in the Scots Highlands. But they have a wondrous charm,
a quality of attractiveness which is as deadly to a Highlander as if a
dirk slit his heart. I speak, you may think, in poetry numbers, but
you must do that, if, speaking of women, you would do them justice,
and, incidentally, yourself. We have all sorts and most conditions of
women, and the trade in laces and ribbons and the gew-gaws with which
they adorn themselves, is wonderful for so small a place as Quebec. No
sooner does a consignment of finery come in than it is snapped up, and
the men, too, are admirable dandies, ruffling it, some of them, as if
Louis Quatorze himself were here with his Court.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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