Memoranda of Events Which Occurred in the Latter Part of July 1834, at York Cottage Near Quebec 1885

On Thursday, 24 July 1834, I dined with Mr. Hacker at his house in St. Stanislas Street.¹ I there ate some boiled peas, which I think were the cause of my subsequent illness. After leaving the office, I went home as usual. Shortly afterwards young May Horn came out with my Father; he met me in the passage and shook hands very warmly with me. We two then took a stroll together, going out on the road towards Ste. Foy’s, turning up by a crossroad beginning where Mr. A. Simpson’s Brick Cottage now stands, and returning by the St. Louis Road. In the evening we played backgammon together, and when we had done, my father and mother sat down to play. Wine having been brought in, I took a glass of cold port wine and water, with sugar. As soon as I had swallowed it, I felt a dead and heavy sensation in the stomach, as though the digestion powers had ceased to act. I went into the open air and moved my limbs—but to no purpose; and I went to bed with an indefinable dread of the future.

When morning came, I was seriously unwell; having been troubled throughout the night with cramps and violent purging. However I managed to get up and dress myself and laid down on the sofa below; spasms beginning to seize me, I went up stairs again, and laid down on the bed in my father’s room. My father and mother then came up, and asked me what was the matter with me? I told them I felt the cramps—and never shall I forget the mute look of intelligence that passed between them! They then knew I had the Asiatic cholera. I was put instantly to bed, and made to drink half a tumbler of spiced brandy—a medicine highly recommended by our opposite neighbour, Miss Martin. This brandy, I think saved my life: for, it being the heat of summer, and a blanket or two having been laid on the bed, a violent perspiration broke out over my body and limbs. In about an hour Dr. Douglas came up and prescribed some medicine. While he was in the room, my father came in and said in a choking voice, “Well, doctor, how is my boy?” Dr. Douglas said that I was in a profuse perspiration. Mr. Hacker soon afterwards came up, and said, “Well, Ned my boy, how are you?” He came to my bedside, and I saw by his look that he thought my case hopeless.

This forenoon was the crisis of my fate; but my excellent constitution, uninjured by excess of any kind, combined with the powerful stimulant, were, under Heaven, victors over the disease. During this period I suffered much—not only from violent spasms, but also from a raging thirst that was almost insupportable, which is not to be wondered at, considering the heat of the weather, the brandy and blankets, and the nature of the disease itself. Dr. Douglas, however, very properly forbid my taking a large draught of liquid, only allowing a spoonful at a time.

Towards the afternoon there were strong hopes of my recovery: The Doctor saying that the only thing then to be feared was the fever which generally followed. My dear mother was almost rapturous with joy and watched unceasingly near me. The cramps began to abate and before night ceased altogether. Mr. Henniker, young Mimee, May Horn and Mr. Hacker were at my bedside at different times. At nightfall, the feather bed on which I lay was exchanged for a straw one, which was far more cool and pleasant.

Saturday morning (the 25th) dawned and found me better. The disease had taken a turn and I was rapidly recovering. The doctor visited me in the forenoon and recommended some chicken broth. Mrs. Murphy paid us her usual weekly visit with her poultry, so that the broth was under way in no time. I improved throughout the day. Young Horn was sitting by my bed side most of the day, reading some of Farquhar and Congreve’s comedies,² and often laughing aloud at their equivocal witticisms.

Sunday came: and still I was getting better. Young May Horn took his leave today and shook me by the hand, saying, “Good-bye, I wish you well.” The weather was rather cooler, and there was a delightful breeze.

Monday the 28th. Little of importance occurred this day. Fine weather and my health gradually improving.

The following day also passed over quietly. Night came. But about midnight, or perhaps afterwards, I heard my mother, in a faint voice calling to my sister Anna and directing some medicine to be prepared as “she felt very ill.” The mournful and unnatural tone of her voice, breaking thus suddenly on the silence around, struck on my ear like a death knell. She got rapidly worse. I could hear her retching in a dreadful manner. Dr. Douglas came up not long afterwards.

At about daybreak on the 30th, I was moved from the large bed in the front room. My mother was carried to the bed I had left—and never rose from it again! —From the room where I was (my sisters’) I could hear many feet moving lightly backwards and forwards and felt convinced that she was in extreme danger. However, during the forenoon Mr. Hacker came in and told me she was better, but it was a transient gleam—she got worse afterwards. Drs. Skey and Douglas attended on her, and the former came occasionally into the room where I was, to wash his hands, as he was afraid of contagion. For myself, the disease was leaving me rapidly. In the afternoon I got up and went downstairs. I entered the room where my mother lay: but my father caught me by the arm and led me out. I saw my mother lying on her left side, with her face towards the windows. She looked as though asleep, and the expression of her whole attitude was that of tranquil repose. I left the room; and never saw her more.

At last I went to bed. But my thoughts were confused, and, I think, slightly delirious. At about nine, or perhaps later, my eldest sister came in, and said, “She’s dying, Ned” and burst into tears. Mrs. Hacker shortly afterwards came in and confirmed what Anna had said.

On the morning of the 31st I saw the coffin lying by the side of her bed. Then the assistants came and screwed it down.

At nine o’clock the funeral left the house. Mr. Grassett officiating. I did not accompany it, being too weak. My father returned about two hours afterwards and embraced us all.

She was interred in the St. Matthew’s Burial ground, near the north wall on St. John’s Street.³

Her death was a heavy blow to us all. Her bright and cheerful temper made her the life and soul of our home. In maternal care she was unwearied. Throughout my long illness (eczema) of the winter of 1830–31 her attention was unremitting. In the morning, before any were up, she would come to my room, and perform all the kindly duties which her affection prompted. She is gone. And to me it is a painful thought that she died in saving me, and most probably took from me the disease which carried her off.

Copied from the old draught, made at the time.

Edward Taylor Fletcher

Quebec, 12 September 1885