That certainly describes this peculiar stream, for surely it would be difficult to find one with a more circuitous course. It forms two horseshoes and an ox-bow connected, as we see it from our windows; and when the tide is out diminishes to a rivulet about two feet in width. At flood it is more than twice the width of the Wissahickon, and when the high tides of August come its magnitude is surprising.
Then we understand why the hay-ricks (which we wickedly tell our friends from the "Hub" resemble gigantic loaves of Boston brown bread) are on stilts, for, regardless of dikes or boundaries, this tortuous creek spreads over its whole valley, as if in emulation of the greater river of which it is a tributary. Haliburton says that for a time this was called Allan's River, and the greater one was named the Dauphin; but we are glad that the old French name was restored to the serpentine creek, as it is so much better suited to its peculiar character.
The great event of the week is the arrival of the Boston steamer, when all the town turns out and wends its way to the wharves.
The peculiar rise of the tide (thirty feet) is here plainly shown, as one week the passengers step off from the very roof of the saloon, and next time she comes in they disembark from the lowest gangway possible and climb the long ascent of slippery planks to the level above.
The river shows curious currents and counter-currents, as bits ofdébrisare hurrying upward in the middle of the stream, while similar flotsam and jetsam rush away as rapidly down stream along both shores.
The queer old tub of a ferry boat, with its triangular wings spreading at the sides,—used as guards and "gang planks",—is a curiosity, as it zigzags across the powerful current to the village on the opposite shore.
But "the ferryman's slim, the ferryman's young, and he's just a soft twang in the turn of his tongue"; and in our frequent trips across he probably makes a mental note when he hears us lamenting that we cannot get lobsters, for one day he sends to our abiding place four fine large ones, and will not receive a cent in remuneration.
Another time, when waiting for the farmer's you to guide us to the "ice mine",—a ravine in the mountains where ice remains through the summer, —a delicious lunch, consisting of fresh bread, sweet milk, and cake, is unexpectedly set before us, and the generous farmer's wife will not listen to recompense.
A modern writer says: "A great part of the enjoyment of life is in the knowledge that there are people living in a worse place than that you inhabit;" but it does not add to our happiness to think of those who could not come to this lovely spot; and we commiserate the Can't-get- away Club of the cities.
We would not change places with any of the dwellers at the fashionable resorts at springs, sea, or mountains,—no, indeed! though they no doubt would elevate their noses, and set this place down at once as "deadly dull", or "two awfully slow for anything"!
Doubtless those also of our friends to whom we tell the plain, unvarnished truth, if they come here will be disappointed, as they will not see with our eyes. One cannot expect the luxuries of palatial hotels at five dollars per day; such would be out of place here.
At our abiding place, which looks like a gentleman's residence, and is, as one of the Halifax guests says, "not a bit like an 'otel", there is an extensive garden, from which we are regaled with choice fresh vegetables daily; and we havesuchhome-made butter (The bill of fare "to be issued in our next"). A Frenchman might think that "we return to our muttons" frequently; still, as that viand suggests at least the famous English Southdown in excellence, we are resigned.
A noted wit has said: "Doubtless God might have made a better berry than the strawberry, but doubtless God never did;" and if one is so fortunate as to come to this country in proper season he can feast on that delectable fruit in its perfection,—that is, the wild fruit, so much more delicious and delicate in flavor than after its boasted "improvement" by cultivation. If one arrives before the close of the fisheries, salmon, fit for a royal banquet, graces the table; while even in July and August he may enjoy shad; and strange enough it seems to Philadelphians to be eating that fish at such time of year.
There are in the town a number of inns, and summer guests are also made welcome and comfortable in many of the private residences. In one of the latter—a large old-fashioned house, with antique furniture—three sisters reside, who possess the quiet dignity and manner of the old school; and here one would feel as if visiting at one's grandfather's, and be made pleasantly "at home".
We are surprised to find that this old town has generally such modern and New Englandish aspect; and are told that it has twice been nearly destroyed by fire, even in modern times; therefore but few of the quaint buildings remain. Some of these are picturesque and interesting, the one combining jail and court house being a feature of the main street. The window of one of the cells faces the street; and the prisoner's friends sit on the steps without, whiling away the tedium of incarceration with their converse.
The oldest dwelling in the town stands on St. George's Street, nearly opposite the old-fashioned inn known as the Foster House. Its walls were originally made of mud from the flats, held together by the wiry marsh grass, which, being dried, was mixed in the sticky substance as hair is in plaster; but as these walls gave way from the effects of time the seams and cracks were plastered up, and by degrees boarded over, until now the original shows only in one part of the interior.
The houses throughout this region are almost invariably without blinds or outside shutters, and consequently look oddly to us, who are inclined to screen ourselves too much from "the blessed sunshine". Bay windows are popular.
We saw one small house with four double and two single ones, giving it an air of impertinent curiosity, as the dwellers therein could look out from every possible direction. The ancient dormer windows on the roofs have given place to these queer bulging ones, which, in Halifax especially, are set three in a row on the gray shingles, and bear ludicrous resemblance to gigantic bee-hives.
In some of the shops, at the post office and railroad station, our money is taken at a small discount; but in many of the shops they allow us full value for it. In one the proprietor tells us of the sensation caused here once by the failure of a Canadian bank, and the surprise of the town's-people—whose faith seemed shaken in all such institutions— when he continued to take United States bank bills. He says: "I told 'em the United States Government hadn't failed, that I believed in it yet, would take all their money I could get, and be glad to have it, too!"
To continue the impression of being in a foreign land, we must attend service at the five or six different churches, and hear the prayers for the Queen and Royal Family. In the first place of worship, where the Octave augments the congregation, Victoria and many of her family are mentioned by full name and title, in sonorous and measured tones; in the next the pastor speaks of "Our Sovereign, and those under her and over us;" in another "Our Queen" is simply referred to; and some ministers who are suspected of being tinctured with republicanism sometimes forget to make any special allusion to her Majesty.
In our walks up the main street, which is not remarkably bustling or busy, we see long rows of great old hawthorn bushes bordering the road, and giving quite an English touch to the scene; and everywhere gigantic apple trees, which would delight an artist, so deliciously gnarled and crooked are they.
I am not aware that astronomy is a favorite study with the inhabitants, but have no doubt thatciderealobservations are popular at certain seasons,—as this country is a famous apple growing district, and that fruit, is sent from here to England and the States in vast quantities. Octavius says, "If you would know what ann-apol-is, you should come here in the fall," but is at once frowned down by the other seven for this atrocity.
The valleys of Annapolis and Cornwallis yield an average crop of two hundred thousand barrels of apples. Dealers in Bangor who paid 87 per barrel in Boston for this fruit, have afterwards been chagrined on discovering that it came from Annapolis originally, and that they could have procured the same from that place direct at $2.25 to $3 per barrel.
Very lovely is the view from a hill outside the village, and there also is the Wishing Rock,—one of the most noted objects of interest, as a guide book would term it. "They say" that if one can run to the top without assistance, or touching the rock with the hands, then whatever one wishes will "come true". This feat it is almost impossible to accomplish, as the stone has been worn smooth by countless feet before ours; still the youthful and frisky members of our party must attempt the ascent, with a run, a rush, and a shout, while the elders look on, smiling benignly.
The dikes of L'Équille form a peculiar but pleasant promenade; and along that narrow, circuitous path we frequently wander at sunset. These embankments remain, in great part, as originally built by the Acadians, and are formed of rubbish, brush, and river mud, over which sods are closely packed, and for most of the season they are covered with tall waving grass. This primitive sea wall is six or eight feet in width at the base, and only about one foot wide at the top, so it is necessary for him "who standeth" to "take heed lest he fall"; otherwise his enthusiasm over the beauties of the prospect may receive a damper from a sudden plunge into the water below.
There is a fine new rink in the village; and in the mornings those of us who are novices in the use of rollers have a quiet opportunity to practice and disport ourselves with the grace of a bureau, or other clumsy piece of furniture on wheels!
Then we go to the wharves to witness the lading of lumber vessels. Some of the logs floating in the water are so huge as to attest that there are vast and aged forests somewhere in her Majesty's domains in America; and the lumbermen, attired in rough corduroy, red shirts, and big boots, balance themselves skillfully on some of the slippery trunks, while with pole and boat-hook propelling other great ones to the gaping mouths in the bow of the vessel. Then horse, rope, pulley, and windlass are brought into play to draw the log into the hold and place it properly among other monarchs of the forest, thus ignominiously laid low, and become what "Mantalini" would style "a damp, moist, unpleasant lot." From the wharf above we look down into the hold, and, seeing this black, slimy, muddy cargo, say regretfully, "How are the mighty fallen!" as we think of the grand forests of which these trees were once the pride and glory, but of which ruthless man is so rapidly despoiling poor Mother Earth.
We have brought with us those aids to indolence which a tiny friend of ours calls "hang-ups", expecting to swing them in the woods and inhale the odors of pine; but the woods are too far away; so we are fain to sit under a small group of those trees at the end of the garden and gaze upon the peaceful valley.
"There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunsetLighteth the village street, and gildeth the vanes on the chimneys,"
we sit, when
"Day with its burden and heat has departed, and twilight descending Brings back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the homestead."
There we sit and talk of the romantic story, comparing notes as to our ideal of the heroine; and such is the influence of the air of sentiment and poetry pervading this region, that we decide that Boughton's representation of her,
"When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noon-tideFlagons of home-brewed ale,…Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in the village of GrandPré,"
is too sturdy, as with masculine stride she marches a-field; and that Constant Meyer's ideal more nearly approaches ours. The one depicts her in rather Puritanical attire; the other, studying authentic costume, they say, shows her
"Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle of blue, and the ear rings,Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heirloomHanded down from mother to child, through long generations,"
and seated by the roadside, as,
"with God's benediction upon her, a celestial brightness—a more ethereal beauty— Shone on her face and encircled her form."
All along the roads we notice a delicate white blossom, resembling the English primrose in shape, and one day ask an intelligent looking girl whom we meet what it is called; she does not know the name, but says the seed was accidentally brought from England many years ago, and the plant "has since become quite a pest",—which we can hardly understand as we enjoy its grace and beauty. We notice that our pleasant informant follows a pretty fashion of other belles of the village,—a fashion which suits their clear complexions and bright faces; that is, wearing a gauzy white scarf around the hat, and in the dainty folds a cluster of fresh garden flowers.
The artist Boughton says. "The impressionist is a good antidote against the illusionist, who sees too much, and then adds to it a lot that he does not see." If he had ever visited this place we wonder what his idea would be of this quaint poem, supposed to have been written in 1720, which we have unearthed.
We have acquired quite an affection for this pleasant old town, and shall be loath to leave. If our friends think we are too enthusiastic, we shall refer them to this old writer to prove that we have not said all that we might; as he indulges in such airy flights of fancy and such extravagant praise.
His description would lead one to expect to see a river as great as the Mississippi, and mountains resembling the Alps in height, whereas in reality it is a quiet and not extraordinary though most pleading landscape which here "delights the eye".
The King of Rivers, solemn calm and slow,Flows tow'rd the Sea yet fierce is seen to flow,On each fan Bank, the verdant Lands are seen,In gayest Cloathing of perpetual GreenOn ev'ry Side, the Prospect brings to SightThe Fields, the Flow'rs, and ev'ry fresh DelightHis lovely Banks, most beauteously are grac'dWith Nature's sweet variety of TasteHerbs, Fruits and Grass, with intermingled TreesThe Prospect lengthen, and the Joys increaseThe lofty Mountains rise to ev'ry View,Creation's Glory, and its Beauty too.To higher Grounds, the raptur'd View extends,Whilst in the Cloud-top'd Cliffs the Landscape endsFair Scenes! to which should Angels turn their Sight,Angels might stand astonished with DelightMajestic Grove in ev'ry View ariseAnd greet with Wonder the Beholders' Eyes.In gentle Windings where this River glides,And Herbage thick its Current almost hides,Where sweet Meanders lead his pleasant Course,Where Trees and Plants and Fruits themselves disclose,Where never-fading Groves of fragrant FirAnd beauteous Pine perfume the ambient Air,The air, at once, both Health and Fragrance yields,Like sweet Arabian or Elysian FieldsThou Royal Settlement! he washes Thee,Thou Village, blest of Heav'n and dear to me:Nam'd from a pious Sov'reign, now at Rest,The last of Stuart's Line, of Queens the best.Amidst the rural Joys, the Town is seen,Enclos'd with Woods and Hills, forever greenThe Streets, the Buildings, Gardens, all concertTo please the Eye, to gratify the Heart.But none of these so pleasing or so fair,As those bright Maidens, who inhabit there.Your potent Charms fair Nymphs, my verse inspire,Your Charms supply the chaste poetic Fire.Could these my Strains, but live, when I'm no more,On future Fame's bright wings, your names should soar.Where this romantic Village lifts her Head,Betwixt the Royal Port and humble Mead,The decent Mansions, deck'd with mod'rate cost,Of honest Thrift, and gen'rous Owners boast;Their Skill and Industry their Sons employ,In works of Peace, Integrity and Joy.Their Lives, in Social, harmless Bliss, they spend,Then to the Grave, in honor'd Age descend.The hoary Sire and aged Matron seeTheir prosp'rous Offering to the fourth Degree:With Grief sincere, the blooming offspring closeTheir Parent's Eyes, and pay their Debt of Woes;Then haste to honest, joyous Marriage Bands,A newborn Race is rear'd by careful Hands:Thro' num'rous Ages thus they'll happy moveIn active Bus'ness, and in chastest Love.The Nymphs and Swains appear in Streets and BowersAs morning fresh, as lovely as the Flowers.As blight as Phoebus, Ruler of the Day,Prudent as Pallas, and as Flora gay.A Spire majestic roars its solemn Vane,Where Praises, Pray'r and true Devotion reign,Where Truth and Peace and Charity abound,Where God is fought, and heav'nly Blessings found.The gen'rous Flock reward their Pastor's care,His Pray'rs, his Wants, his Happiness they shareRetir'd from worldly Care, from Noise and Strife,In sacred Thoughts and Deeds, he spends his Life,To mo'drate Bounds, his Wishes he confines,All views of Grandeur, Pow'r and Wealth resigns,With Pomp and Pride can cheerfully dispense,Dead to the World, and empty Joys of Sense,The Symphony of heav'nly Song he hears,Celestial Concord vibrates on his Ears.,Which emulates the Music of the SpheresThe Band of active Youths and Virgins fan,Rank'd in due Order, by their Teacher's Care,The Sight of all Beholders gratify,Sweet to the Soul, and pleasing to the EyeBut when their Voices found in Songs, of Praise,When they to God's high Throne their Anthems raise,By these harmonious Sounds, such Rapture's giv'n,Their loud Hosannas waft the Soul to Heav'n:The fourfold Parts in one bright Center meet,To form the blessed Harmony complete.Lov'd by the Good, esteemed by the Wise,To gracious Heav'n, a pleasing sacrifice.Each Note, each Part, each Voice, each Word conspireT' inflame all pious Hearts with holy Fire,Each one in Fancy seems among the ThrongOf Angels, chanting Heav'n's eternal Song.Hail Music, Foretaste of celestial Joy!That always satiasts, yet canst never cloy:Each pure, refin'd, extatic Pleasure's thine,Thou rapt'rous Science! Harmony divine!May each kind Wish of ev'ry virtuous HeartBe giv'n to all, who teach, or learn thine Art:May all the Wise, and all the Good unite,With all the Habitants of Life and Light,To treat the Sons of Music with Respect,Their Progress to encourage and protect.May each Musician, and Musician's FriendAttain to Hymns divine, which never end.
Being a musical company, the Octave accept this peroration without criticism, and do not seem to consider it an extravagant rhapsody, though they are so daring as to take exception to other parts of the queer old poem.
As we have come here for rest, we are not disturbed at finding that trains, etc., are not always strictly "on time". We are summoned at 7:15 A.M., but breakfast is not served for more than an hour after; we engage a carriage for two o'clock, and perhaps in the neighborhood of three see it driving up in a leisurely manner. The people are wise, and do not wear themselves out with unnecessary rush and hurry, as we do in the States. The train advertised to start for Halifax at 2 P.M. more frequently leaves at 3, or 3.30; but then it has to wait the arrival of the steamboat which, four times per week, comes across from St. John. The express train requires six hours to traverse the miles intervening between this quiet village and that not much livelier town, while for the accommodation train they allow ten hours; but when one comes to see beautiful country one does not wish to have the breath taken away by traveling at break-neck speed.
We know that some of our party are capable of raising a breeze, and we are on a gal(e)a time anyhow; still, this is a remarkably breezy place, the wind rising with the tide, so we understand why there are so few flowers in the gardens,—the poor blossoms would soon be torn to pieces; but the windows of the houses generally are crowded with thriving plants gay with bloom, giving most cheery effect as one strolls about the town.
In our excursion to the Bay Shore we halt to water the horses at a neat little cottage on the summit of the North Mountain, and even here the little garden (protected from the winds by a fence) is all aflame with a wonderful variety of large double and gorgeous poppies. From this point, also, we have our first view of the wide Bay, shimmering in the hazy sunlight far below, and can faintly trace the rugged hills of New Brunswick in the distance.
Rapidly descending, we follow the coast for several miles, finally stopping at a lonely house on the rocky and barren shore,—such a wild spot as a novelist would choose to represent a smuggler's retreat; but the family would not answer his purpose in that respect, for they are homely and hospitable, agreeing at once to provide stabling for our horses and to sell us some milk for our lunch. They drop their net mending, come outen masse, and, on learning that some of us are from Philadelphia, greet us like old friends, because their eldest daughter is living in that distant city. The best pitcher is brought out for our use, the whole establishment placed at our disposal, and, finding that we will be so insane as to prefer to picnic under the few straggling pines by the water instead of using their dining-room, several march ahead to show the way to the rocky point; and we form a long and, of course, imposing procession.
As we gaze along this barren and lonely shore, Octavia exclaims, "Imagine the amazement of De Monts when he sailed along this iron-bound coast and suddenly came upon that wonderful gateway which leads into the beautiful Annapolis Basin and the fertile, lovely region beyond!" and we all agree that it is a shame that the embouchure should now be known by the vulgar title, Digby Gut, instead of its old cognomen, St. George's Channel. "Why couldn't they call it the Gap or the Gate?" one exclaims; "that wouldn't be quite so dreadful."
One evening some of our pleasant acquaintances in the town come to take us to Lake La Rose, away up on the South Mountain; and there we embark and glide over the placid water in the moonlight, rousing the echoes with song, and vainly endeavoring to uproot the coy lilies, which abruptly slip through our fingers, and "bob" down under the water as if enjoying our discomfiture. But as Dame Nature tries her hand at painting in water-colors, treating us to a series of dissolving views, the shower forces us to hurry back to the village again.
Before leaving this "vale of rest", we must see the widely extended panorama from the Mackenzie road, where hills beyond hills stretch away to the horizon, and the lovely valley spreads itself like a map below. The bird's-eye view from Parker's Mountain must also be seen, and many other excursions accomplished. The old cannon of Lower Granville also is "one of the sights". This ancient piece of ordnance was fired in old times to notify the quiet country folk when news was received from England. At such times relays, seven to ten miles apart, mounted in hot haste and carried the messages on until Digby was reached; and from thence a vessel conveyed the news to Boston.
As we are talking of all we have seen in this region, and of our various enjoyments, Octavia exclaims, "Some persons thought we could not be content here for a week; yet more than six have slipped away, and I'm sure I don't want to go! I shall tell my friends that though we are 'remote', the rest of the quotation does not apply, for we are neither 'unfriended', 'melancholy', nor 'slow'!"
How often has it been our fate, when among the mountains of New Hampshire, to see the grand ranges disappearing behind a thick curtain of smoke, which, daily growing denser, at last almost completely blots out Nature's pictures, so there is no use in undertaking excursions for the sake of fine views. The explanation is invariably "fires in the Canada woods"; and here, in this "cool, sequestered vale", we have an opportunity of seeing forest fires before we take our departure for other fields of observation. After sunset we are apparently almost surrounded by volcanoes, as the lurid flames leap up into the deepening blackness of the night; and when we lovers of Nature, distressed afterwards by seeing vast tracts all scarred and desolate, exclaim, "Why didn't they stop it? Why did they allow it?" echo answers, "Why?"
One day we learn that a mill on L'Équille is threatened, and expect that there will be some excitement; but a very old-fashioned fire engine, with clumsy hand power pumps, goes lumbering by, followed by men and boys, who walk in a leisurely and composed manner. The mill is saved by some means, however; and we rejoice, as it is, so to speak, historical, standing in a place favored for such purposes since Lescarbot's time; even Argall (in 1613), when demolishing other buildings of the village, having spared the mill which occupied the site of the present one.
In our various wanderings we visit the Indian settlement at the head of this crooked stream, but find its residents too civilized to be very picturesque. We are interested in learning what the Canadian Government does for their welfare, and wish a similar policy could be instituted in the States. Here, as with us, liquor is their curse. The once famous chief of the Micmacs lives at Bear River, and is addicted to the bottle. One day a young girl, who was a summer guest at this place, sat down on an overturned canoe which this chief (now known as James Meuse) had just completed; and, as the bark bent with her weight, the wily Indian pretended that the boat was irretrievably ruined. The girl's father, asking what amount would compensate for the damage, received reply, "Ten, twenty, dollar"; and receiving thirty dollars from the generous stranger, Redskin remarked afterwards that he "wished more girl come sit on boat", and probably turned the money into liquid fire, and poured it down his throat in a short space of time. As there is a heavy fine for selling liquor to Indians, one of that race will never divulge from whom he has received it, however intoxicated he may be.
Another Indian sachem noted in history—Membertou—lived to the age of one hundred and four, and was buried at Annapolis, then Port Royal, with military honors, as befitted the companion of soldiers. At Poutrincourt's table he was a daily and honored guest in that olden time, and, when the "Order of Happy Times" was instituted there, of course became amember too!Query: Did that ancient convivial society offer suggestions to the famous old "State in Schuylkill Club" of Philadelphia when they were organizing so many years after?
In the drive to Digby, twenty-one miles, we pass along all the ins and outs of the shore of Annapolis Basin, finding the succession of views on that curiously land-locked harbor a perfect study and delight, and more picturesque than on the trip to the same place by steamer, as we discover later.
There we see a bright-eyed, pretty little maiden, who wears a gay red handkerchief in place of a hat, and makes a picture as she drives her cow over a bit of moorland. Driver says she is "one of the French people", and that her name is Thibaudia, which, with its English signification (a kind of heath), seems appropriate for one living in the wilds, and deliciously foreign and suggestive. We wonder if old Crumplehorn understands French, and conclude that she is a well educated animal, as she seems to obey directions without needing a touch of willow branch to punctuate them.
Sometimes it seems that the names conferredOn mortals at baptism in this queer worldSeem given for naught but to spite 'em.Mr. Long is short, Mr. Short is tall,And who so meek as Mr. Maul?Mr. Lamb's fierce temper is very well known,Mr. Hope plods about with sigh and groan,—"And so proceed ad infinitum"
At one point on our route, when we are passing through a lonely and apparently uninhabited region, our jolly driver, "Manyul", remarks, "Here's where Nobody lives."; and one replies, "Yes, evidently; and I shouldn't think any one would wish to." But a turn of the road brings a house in sight; and driver says, "That's his house, and his name is actually Nobody" (Charles, I believe). We quote, "What's in a name!" and conclude that if he is at all like the kindly people of this region whom we have met he may be well content to be nobody, rather than resemble many whom the world considers "somebodies", but who are not models in any respect.
Our driver is quite a character in his way, and in the winter he "goes a loggin'". On learning this we ply him with questions in such manner as would surprise a lawyer, eliciting in return graphic pictures of camp life in New Brunswick wildernesses, and the amusements with which they while away the long evenings in their rough barracks. He describes their primitive modes of cooking, their beds of fragrant spruce boughs overlaid with straw,—"Better 'n any o' your spring mattresses, I tellyou!"—the queer box-like bunks along the wall where they "stow themselves away", and where the most active and useful man is, for the time at least, literally laid on the shelf.
Octavius, thinking how much he would enjoy "roughing it" thus, asks what they would charge to take a young man to board in camp; and driver indignantly replies, "Nothin'! Do you suppose we'd charge board? No,indeed! Just let him come; and if we didn't give him a good time, and if he didn't get strong and hearty, then we'd be ashamed of ourselves andsell out."
Here we approach a cove which driver calls the Joggin (as it makes a cut or jog-in, we presume); and beyond, a wide arm of the Basin is spanned by a rickety old bridge, at least a quarter of a mile long, named in honor of her Majesty,—hardly a compliment to that sovereign, we think. The boards are apparently laid down without nails, and rattle like a fusillade as our vehicle rolls over them. Here and there planks are broken or gone entirely, showing the green swirling water beneath. Our chaperone, having more faith in her own feet than those of the horses, dismounts and walks across; while we, being naturally reckless and romantic, are willing to risk our necks for the sake of the charming views.
The village of Digby stretches along the shore, and from the hills surrounding it the Basin with its islands, the Gap, and Annapolis River, are charming.
Disciples of old "Izaak" would be likely to meet with greater success here than at Annapolis; as the current of the river at the latter place is so strong that, as a general thing, only the "old salts" are anglers; and they being most of the time out in the Bay or off on cruises, it follows that fish are scarce in the market.
An "ancient and fish-like smell" pervades the atmosphere in some parts of the village where the herring—humorously known as "Digby Chickens"—are spread on racks to dry; but this odor, the odd little shops and restaurants, the clumsy and queer lumber boats, the groups of tars gossiping about doorways and wharves, only add to the nautical character of the place, and suggest reminiscences of "Peggoty", "Ham", and others of Dickens's characters.
We ignore the pleasant embowered hotel "in bosky dell", far up the street this time, though we visit it in a later sojourn; and, "just for the fun of it", take lunch in one of the peculiar little restaurants; where, seated at a minute table in one of the tiny calico curtained alcoves, we partake of our frugal repast (the bill of fare is extremely limited), amusing ourselves watching the odd customers who come to make purchases at the counter across the room, and "making believe" that we are characters in an old English story.
On the bluff beyond the village, beneath great old Balm of Gilead trees whose foliage is perpetually in a flutter from the breeze through the Gap, there are several cannon, which it seems could not possibly have any hostile intent, but appear to be gratifying a mild curiosity by peering across the Basin and up the river beyond.
The long and very high pier stretches far out into the Basin, and upon it picturesque groups unconsciously pose for us, adding to the effect of the picture.
That the climate is salubrious and conducive to longevity we are convinced after visiting the cemetery, where one tomb records the demise of a man at the age of one hundred and two!
A peculiar taste for wandering among the tombs we have acquired in this summer jaunt. Here we see the tomb of one recorded proudly as "descended from the noble families of Stuart and Bruce", who, tradition says, was supposed to have held the position of servant to said scions of nobility. One who was known as a scoffer during life here is virtuously represented ah "a sincere worshipper of Eternal, Almighty and ever just God"; reminding us of the popular adage, "lying like an epitaph". Twice have we seen one stone made to do service for two in an amusing manner: on the upper part the usual, "Sacred to the memory of," etc.; then half-way down had been carved a hand pointing to one side, and under it the words "There lies"; while the name, age, etc., of the later decedent was inscribed below the first.
One old tomb we were with this epitaph:—
"Tho' gready worm destroy my skinAnd gnaw my wasting fleshWhen God doth build my bones agenHe'll cloath them all afresh."
and another:—
"What says the silent deadHe bids me bear my loadWith silent steps proceedAnd follow him to God."
We notice that the English rule of the road maintains here, and our driver turns to the left when other vehicles are approaching. Captain C., who is from the States, tells us that he did not know of this custom, and in his first drive nearly collided with another vehicle, the driver of which thereupon used strong language. On being informed that he had almost overturned the conveyance of the Governor of Prince Edward's Island, the rash Yankee, undismayed, remarked, "Well, I don't care who he is, he don't know how to drive!"
Of course, as we are in the neighborhood, we must see the locality to which—in mild and humorous profanity—States people are sometimes assigned; and therefore proceed to Halifax and thoroughly "do" that sedate, quiet, and delightfully old-fashioned city.
En route, as the train passes beyond Windsor, one says, "Here we are out of sight of land"; and we then understand that it must have been some one from this locality who christened the valley of Annapolis the Garden of Nova Scotia; for here a scene of utter sterility and desolation meets the view: not a foot of earth is to be seen, but rocks are piled in wild confusion everywhere. A few dead trees stand among thedébris, emphasizing the loneliness; and Conductor says when the world was created the "leavings" were deposited in this dreary tract.
By special arrangement with "Old Prob", there are none of the prevailing fogs during our stay; and Aurora Borealis gets up a special illumination. Regiments of red-coats, with torches and band,—aware doubtless of the presence of such distinguished strangers,—march past our hotel in the evening.
Though we are quartered in what is called the best hotel, it is a musty, fusty, rusty old building; and we agree with our friends among the residents (who vie with each other in showing us true English hospitality) who say they need an enterprising Yankee to start a good new hostelry, and "to show 'em how to run it."
Just at this time of year the city is full of summer tourists, many of whom come direct from Baltimore by the ocean steamships, which touch at this port; but, as we are subject tomal-de-mer'stortures, we rejoice that we came by "overland route".
Though our friends have engaged rooms for us beforehand, we are fortunate in securing apartments on the fourth floor, where peculiar coils of rope by the windows at once attract our attention. These, on examination, we find have big wooden beads (like the floats of a seine) strung on them at regular intervals; and this peculiar arrangement is a primitive fire escape, which we are positive that no creature but a monkey could use with safety.
The prevailing fogs, and the use of soft coal, cause the buildings to appear dingy and rusty; but we like them all the better for that, as the city has a more foreign air, and, in some parts, quite strongly suggests Glasgow.
In the Parliament building we study the old portraits, concluding that the wigs must have been uncomfortable. Octavius wickedly hints that thereisa fashion among ladies of the present time!—but as he does not tread on our toes, we ignore this insinuation, and turn our attention to the elaborate ornamentation of the woodwork—which is all antique hand-carving—in the council chambers; and are much interested in some rare old books in the Library,—among them a copy of the Psalms, three hundred years old; and another, with music, dated 1612. Here also we see and are actually allowed to handle a book,—
and of course are duly overpowered at beholding the valuable autograph of that sovereign.
In one of the churches we are informed that a certain balustrade "is from America, and is allmarvel" but do not find it marvelously beautiful nevertheless.
Of the gardens the natives are justly proud, as in this moist atmosphere plants, trees, and flowers flourish remarkably; still, we are not willing to concede that they are "the finest in America", as we have been told.
We conclude, as we pass the large Admiralty House, with its spacious and beautiful grounds, that Sir Somebody Something must find it a comfortable thing to be
"monarch of the sea, the ruler of the Queen's nave,"
and may with reason say,—
"When at anchor here I ride, my bosom swells with pride,"
while Halifax herself, with her famous harbor, in which the navy of a great and powerful nation could find safe anchorage, with room to spare, might justly finish out his song with the appropriate words concluding the verse:—
"And I snap my fingers at a foeman's taunts!"
Then the Citadel, the very name of which revives reminiscences of Quebec, and suggests something out of the every-day order of summer jaunts. As we ascend the hill to the fortress, the first thing attracting our attention is amusing. The "squatty" looking clock tower, which appears as if part of a church spire, had been carried away by a high wind and dropped down on this embankment. Octavius says, "What a jolly place for coasting, if it were not for the liability of being plunged into the harbor at the foot!" as we mount the hill. At the gate we are consigned to the care of a tall soldier, whose round fatigue cap must begluedto his head, or it certainly would fall off, so extreme is the angle at which it inclines over his ear. A company of soldiers are drilling within the enclosure, their scarlet coats quite dazzling in the bright sunlight and in contrast with the cold gray granite; while others, at opposite angles of the walls, are practicing signals with flags, the maneuvers of the latter being quite entertaining as they wave the banners, now slowly, now rapidly, diagonally, vertically, horizontally, or frantically overhead, as if suddenly distraught. Probably this exercise could be seen in any of our forts; but as we are now beyond the borders of the United States, every detail interests us, and we have become astonishingly observant. The gloomy and massive bomb proof walls of the soldiers' quarters appear quite prison-like, with their narrow windows; and our guide, speaking of the monotony of garrison life, rejoices that in a few months his term of service will expire, and then he "will go to the States".
"The States" seem to be a Land of Promise to many people of this region; and, though this is gratifying to our national pride, we cannot but see that many make a mistake in going to "America"; as, for instance, the young girls of Annapolis, who, leaving comfortable homes, the away to Boston, where, if they can get positions in an already crowded field, they wear themselves out in factories; or, having a false pride which prevents them from acknowledging failure and returning home, they remain until, broken down by discouragement and disappointment, compelled to accept charity. On this account the service at Annapolis is not what might be desired; and Octavius humorously wonders, when the "green hand" persistently offers him viands from the wrong side, "how he is expected to reach the plate unless he puts his arm around her."
"But we digress." As our party, with other sight seers who have joined the procession, promenade about the fort, a culprit in the guardroom catches sight of the visitors as they pass, and, evidently for their hearing, sings mischievously,—
"Farewell, my own!Light of my life, farewell!For crime unknownI go to a dungeon cell"
We conclude, as he is so musical about it, that he does not feel very much disgraced or oppressed by his imprisonment, though some one curiously inquiring "why he is there", learns that it is for a trifling misdemeanor, and that punishments are not generally severe; though the guide tells of one soldier who, he says, "threw his cap at the Colonel, and got five years for it; and we thought he'd get ten."
From the ramparts the picture extending before us southeastwardly is very fine indeed, as, over the rusty houses shouldering each other up the hill so that we can almost look down the chimneys, we look out to the fortified islands and points, with the ocean beyond.
Point Pleasant, thickly wooded to the water's edge, hides the strangely beautiful inlet from the harbor known as the North West Arm, which cuts into the land for a distance of four miles (half a mile in width), suggesting a Norwegian fiord; but that, and the country all about the city, we enjoy in a long drive later.
On the return, regardless of the gaze of passengers astonished at our unconventional actions, we sit on the platform of the rear car, while
"Pleasantly gleams in the soft, sweet air the Basin of Minas."
and the model conductor plies us with bits of information, which we devour with the avidity of cormorants.
Finally the brakeman shouts "GrandPree;" and Octavia remarks, "Yes, indeed, this is thegrand prixof our tour," as the party step off the train at this region of romance. The gallant conductor, with an air of mystery, leads the way to a storage room in the little box of a station, and there chops pieces from a clay-covered plank and presents us as souvenirs. "Pieces of a coffin of one of the Acadians, exhumed at Grand Pré fourteen months ago, near the site of the old church," we are told; and when he continues: "A woman's bone was found in it", one unromantic and matter-of-fact member of the Octave asserts, "Evangeline's grandmother, of course"; while another skeptically remarks, "That's more thanIcan swallow; it would give me such a spell o' coughin' as I couldn't get over"; but the conductor and others staunchly avouch the genuineness of the article, affirming that they were present "when it wus dug up."
The "forest primeval", if it ever stood in this region, must have clothed the distant hills which bound the vast meadow, and now are covered with a dense growth of small trees which arenot"murmuring pines".
A superannuated tree in the distance it is said once shaded the smithy of "Basil Lajeunesse", that "mighty man of the village"; and only stony hollows in the ground mark the site of the house of "Father Felician" and the village church.
It was to this spot, then, that the wondering peasants were lured by stratagem, when,—
"with a summons sonorousSounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a drum beat.Thronged ere long was the church with men. Without in the churchyard,Waited the women. They stood by the graves, and hung on the headstonesGarlands of autumn leaves and evergreens fresh from the forestThen came the guard from the ships, and marching proudly among them,Entered the sacred portal. With loud and dissonant clangorEchoed the sound of their brass drums from ceiling to casement,—Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous portalClosed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will of the soldiers."
After refreshing ourselves with pure, clear, and cold water from the old well,—made by the French, and re-walled a few years ago,—we turn away, with "a longing, lingering look behind", and continue our drive through the great prairie, which resembles the fertile meadow land along the Connecticut River. We stop a few moments near a picturesque little church of gray unpainted wood, and look off over the verdant fields to the point where a distant shimmer of water catches the eye, and the hills bound the picture. Near at hand, on the right, the trunk of an aged apple tree, "planted by the French", shows one green shoot; and about the church are Lombardy poplars, which, though good sized trees, are perhaps only shoots from those planted by the Acadians, in remembrance of such arboreal grenadiers of their native land.
The old French dike is surmounted by a rough rail fence, and is now far inland, as hundreds of acres have been reclaimed beyond,—
"Dikes that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessantShut out the turbulent tides"
Our lamented American poet never visited this region which he describes so delightfully; his reason being that, cherishing an ideal picture, he feared reality might dissipate it. Yet an easy journey of twenty-eight hours would have brought him hither; and we, feeling confident that he could not have been disappointed, shall always regret that he did not come.
As an appropriate close to this sentimental journey, we drive through the secluded Gaspereau valley, along the winding river, which is hardly more than a creek, toward its wider part where it flows into the Basin, which stretches out broad and shining. With such a view before us, we cannot fail to picture mentally the tragic scenes of that October day in 1755, when the fleet of great ships lay in the Basin, and
"When on the falling tide the freighted vessels departed,Bearing a nation, with all its household gods, into exile,Exile without an end, and without an example in story,"
those whom Burke describes as "the poor, innocent, deserving people, whom our utter inability to govern or reconcile, gave us no sort of right to extirpate," were torn from their happy homes, and
"Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of OctoberSeize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean."
In the midst of these peaceful scenes was perpetrated a cruel wrong, and an inoffensive people banished by the mandate of a tyrant!
In that beautiful poem, parts of which one unconsciously "gets by heart", or falls into the habit of quoting when sojourning in this lovely region, Basil the blacksmith says:—
"Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau-Séjour nor Port Royal;"
and having held an impromptu history class on the subject of the last mentioned, we turn our attention to the other fortified points of which "the hasty and somewhat irascible" sledge-wielder spoke.
By the treaty of Utrecht in 1713 Acadia was ceded to the English; but the French colonists, in taking the oath of allegiance to their new rulers (1727-28), were promised that they should not be required at any time to take up arms against France. They were now in the position of Neutrals, and by that name were known; but this placed them in an awkward predicament, as they were suspected by both contending powers. The English hated them, believing their sympathies to be with the French; while even their countrymen in Canada were distrustful of them, urging them to withdraw.
The English colonists, fearing the extension of the French possessions, and having Puritanical aversion of Roman Catholicism,—of which the Neutrals were devout adherents,—entered upon the expedition against the French forts with the zeal of fanatics, seeming in some instances to consider their incursions in the light of religious crusades.
These "men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands", whose descendants are to this day childlike and simple hearted, could not understand these political distinctions, and naturally clung to the pleasant farms which they had reclaimed from the sea and cultivated so diligently, being most reluctant, of course, to leave those
"Strongly built houses, with frames of oak and of chestnut,Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries.Thatched were the roofs, with dormer windows, and gables projectingOver the basement below protected and shaded the doorway."
The French dominions were guarded by a chain of forts extending all along the Atlantic coast, from the St. Lawrence to the Gulf of Mexico. That on Cape Breton Island, which protected the approach to the St. Lawrence, was considered invincible, its walls being thirty feet high, forty feet thick, and surrounded by a moat eighty feet in width.
Boston sent out a fleet of forty-one vessels and three thousand men to Cape Breton, to assail the "Gibraltar of America", as the fort of Louisburg was called. Forces from New Hampshire and Connecticut joined the expedition at Canso; and this remarkable fortress, whose fortifications alone cost five million dollars, was besieged, and capitulated after forty-nine days, yielding to untrained soldiers; the victory owing to "mere audacity and hardihood, backed by the rarest good luck", as one English writer says. The conquerors themselves were amazed at their success when they discovered the great strength of the fort. Their victory was, in fact, due largely to maneuvers which deceived the French regarding the strength of their forces.
This was ten years before the dispersion of the French Neutrals was effected; and during those years the Acadians, being zealous Catholics and devoted to the mother country, naturally but almost unconsciously were drawn into the disputes between France and England; and it is not to be wondered at, if, as some authorities state, there were three hundred of their young men found in arms when the English attacked Fort Beau-Séjour. The French had built Forts Beau-Séjour and Gaspereau on the neck connecting the peninsula of Nova Scotia with the mainland, to guard the entrance to their territory. A few hotheaded youths, who thought they were honestly serving their country and people by taking up arms in defense, might have been forgiven, particularly as it is known that some were pressed into the service, and that the oath which they had taken years before absolved them from taking arms against France, but did not pledge them against serving in her defense.
These forts were taken by Lieutenant-Colonel Moncton in June, 1755, the garrison of Beau-Séjour being sent to Louisburg on condition that they should not take up arms in America for six months. Prince Edward's Island—then called St. John's Island—fell into the hands of the English when Cape Breton was taken, and the inhabitants were sent to France. In the summer of 1755 matters seemed to be culminating, and the bitter dissensions were brought to a crisis. The Neutrals were again called upon to take the oath, the following being the form in which it was presented to them: "Je promets et jure sincerement, en foi de Chrétien, que je serai entierement fidele et obeirai vraiment sa Majesté Le Roi George, que je reconnais pour le Souverain seigneur de l'Acadie, ou nouvelle Ecosse—ainsi Dieu me soit en aide."
But this was not the "reserved oath", as the former one was called; and the Acadians, feeling themselves bound by the old pledge, asked exemption from this, and requested the restoration of arms which had been taken from them, agreeing also to keep faithfully the old form of oath.
Deputies from the settlements near Port Royal (which were above, below, and almost on the site of the present town of Annapolis), at Pisiquid (now Windsor), Minas, etc., were sent to Halifax, where a long conference was held; but the deputies still declining to accept the new oath, they were imprisoned, and the deportation of the Acadians decided upon. In order to do this artifice was resorted to, to prevent the people from suspecting what was in store for them, and that the poor peasants might have no chance to leave themselves or carry away their possessions. "Both old men and young men, as well as the lads of ten years of age," were called, by a proclamation, "to attend at the church at Grand Pré" at a certain time; and it was declared that "no excuse" would "be admitted, on any pretence whatever, on pain of forfeiting goods and chattels, in default of real estate."
The settlers on the Basin of Minas were immigrants from Saintonge, Poitou, and La Rochelle, who came to this country in the early part of the seventeenth century. The land which they had reclaimed from the Basin was rich and fertile; they exported grain to Boston, and became prosperous. The object of the call to the church does not seem to have been suspected. When Basil says,—
"Four days now are passed since the English ships at their anchorsRide in the Gaspereau's mouth, with their cannon pointed against usWhat their designs may be is unknown; but all are commandedOn the morrow to meet in the church, where his Majesty's mandateWill be proclaimed as law in the land;"
Benedict responds,—
"Perhaps the harvests in EnglandBy the untimely rains or untimelier heat have been blighted,And from our bursting barns they would feed their cattle andchildren."
But in the church the mystery was solved soon enough, and naturally a terrible scene ensued. They were informed that their "lands, tenements, cattle, and livestock of all kinds were to be forfeited to the crown, with all their effects, saving their money and household goods," and they themselves banished; though, "so far as the capacity of the transports permitted," they were "to be allowed to carry their household goods with them." They were also promised that families should not be separated, and that the transportation should be made as easy as possible.
Then they were declared prisoners, and the church became the guardhouse. Ten men at a time were allowed to leave the building, to pack their goods and assist in the preparations for departure; and when they returned ten others were also permitted to leave for a time. While Moncton was destroying Remsheg, Shediac, and other towns on the Gulf coast, Handfield gathered up the French Annapolitans, and Murray those about Windsor, putting them on shipboard; and on the 21st of October the ships, with their wretched passengers, set sail. In the confusion and hurry of embarkation some families were separated; and it is on this fact that the story of Evangeline is founded.
Most of the exiles were scattered among the towns of Massachusetts; and in the State House in Boston some curious old records relate to them, one town desiring compensation "for keeping three French pagans", from which it seems that there was still prejudice against them because of their religion.
"From the cold lakes of the north to sultry southern Savannahs,"
to the region where
"On the banks of the Teche are the towns of St. Maur and St Martin,"
to the parish of Attakapas
"and the prairies of fair Opelousas"
in Louisiana, some of the exiles wandered. Their descendants live there at the present time, and are known as Cajeans. Though sometimes harshly treated in the towns where they were quartered, though shouldered off from one village to another when one grew weary of or made excuses for not maintaining them, the poor wanderers were mild, gentle, and uncomplaining.
A writer in "Canadian Antiquities" says: "None speaks the tongue of Evangeline; and her story, though true as it is sweet and sorrowful, is heard no more in the scenes of her early days."
The way in which it came about that Longfellow wrote his poem was in this wise: one day, when Hawthorne and a friend from Salem were dining with the poet, the Salem gentleman remarked to the host, "I have been trying to persuade Hawthorne to write a story based on a legend of Acadie and still current there,—the legend of a girl who, in the dispersion of the Acadians, was separated from her lover, and passed her life in waiting and seeking for him, and only found him dying in a hospital when both were old." The host, surprised that this romance did not strike the fancy of the novelist, asked if he himself might use it for a poem; and Hawthorne, readily assenting, promised not to attempt the subject in prose until the poet had tried what he could do with it in metrical form. No one rejoiced more heartily in the success of the world-renowned poem than the writer who generously gave up an opportunity to win fame from his working up of the sad theme.
Authorities differ widely regarding the number of persons expelled from Acadia, many historians giving the estimate at seven thousand. In a letter from Governor Lawrence to the governors of the different colonies to which the exiles were sent, he says: "As their numbers amount to near seven thousand persons, the driving them off with leave to go whither they pleased would have doubtless strengthened Canada with so considerable a number of inhabitants." Bryant says: "Seven thousand probably represented with sufficient accuracy the total French population of Acadia in 1755; but the entire number of the exiled did not exceed, if Minot be correct, two thousand, of whom many subsequently returned to Acadia."
Five years after the departure of the exiles a fleet of twenty-two vessels sailed from Connecticut for Grand Pré with a large number of colonists, who took possession of the deserted farms. They found sixty ox carts and yokes, while on the edge of woods of the inland country and in sheltered places heaps of bones told of cattle which had perished of starvation and cold after their owners were forced to leave them to such a fate. A few straggling families of the Acadians were also found, who had escaped from the search of the soldiers, and had lived in hiding in the wilds of the back country for five years, and during that time had not tasted bread.
"Only along the shore of the mournful and misty AtlanticLinger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers from exileWandered back to their native land to die in its bosom.In the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom are still busy,Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kirtles of homespun,And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's story."
Resolved to see these curious "Clare settlements," extending for fifty miles on the coast, where descendants of the French Acadians live in peace and unity, we reluctantly take our departure at last from dear old Annapolis, which has been our restful haven so long, and where we have been reviving school days in studying history and geography seasoned with poetry and romance. Although it was expected that the W. C. R. R. would be completed from Yarmouth to Annapolis by the latter part of 1876, we are pleased to find that this is not the case, and that we shall have to take steamer, train, and carriage to our destination; anticipating that any place so out of the beaten track must be interesting.
The French settlements, a succession of straggling hamlets, were founded by descendants of the exiles, who,—
"a raft as it were from the shipwrecked nation,…Bound by the bonds of a common belief and a common misfortune,"
drifted back to "L'Acadie" in 1763, the year of the treaty between France and England.
The lands of their fathers in their old haunts on the Basin of Minas were in possession of people from New England; and, having a natural and inherited affection for localities by the sea, they wandered down the coast and scattered along shore as we find them now.
A pleasant excursion by steamer to Digby, thence proceeding some miles by rail, finally a long but charming drive by the shore of St. Mary's Bay, and we are set down at the house of a family of the better class, among these kindly and old-fashioned farming and fisher folk. This beautiful bay is thirty-five miles long, was christened Baie St. Marie by Champlain, and here the four ships of De Monts lay in calm and secure harbor for two weeks in 1604, while the adventurers were examining the shores of Nova Scotia,—explorations in which the discovery of iron pyrites deluded them with the belief that this would prove an El Dorado.
Madame M. at first looks dismayed at the appearance of such a group of strangers at her door, and is sure she cannot accommodate us; but her daughters slyly jog her elbow, saying something in an undertone, as if urging her to consent, and we are made most comfortable.
At first the family are a little shy, but in a couple of days we become quite well acquainted; and, when the time comes for our departure they "wish we could stay longer",—a wish which we heartily re-echo.
Madame proudly displays her treasures in hand-spun and home-woven linen and blankets; also a carpet, the material for which she first spun, then dyed, and finally wove; and, though it has been in use for ten years, it is still fresh and shows no apparent wear. In response to our entreaties, she shows us the loom, and brings out her spinning wheel to instruct us in that housewifely accomplishment. How easy it looks, as the fleecy web moves through her fingers, and winds in smooth, even yarn on the swiftly turning reel; and, oh, what bungling and botching when we essay that same! The two pretty, modest, and diffident daughters are quite overcome at last, and join in our peals of merriment.
One—oh bliss!—is namedEvangeline, and, if we understand correctly, there is an old name similar to this among these people. Though they sing some charming old French chansons for us, the two sweet girls cannot be induced to converse in that language. Madame laughs, saying, "Dey know dey doant speak degootFrench, de fine French, so dey will only talk Angleesh wid you." But in the evening, when Octavia sings an absurd college song, with a mixture of French and English words, they enjoy the fun; and immediately set to work to learn:—
"Oh, Jean Baptiste, pourquoi vous greaseMy little dog's nose with tar?Madame, je grease his nose with tarBecause he have von grand catarrh,Madame, je grease his noseParcequ'il he vorries my leetle fite chat."
Then the pretty Evangeline in turn becomes instructor, the theme being an ancient peasant song of France which her grandmother used to sing. One plays the melody from memory, while the other hastily rules a bit of paper and writes off the notes, afterwards copying the words from a scrap of tattered manuscript; and thus the lady from "America" feels that she has secured a pretty souvenir of the visit:
1.Comme les perles et les é - tol – lesOr-nent dé - ja le front des cleuxLa nuit e-tend partout votleElle vient de ju fermer mes yeux,Re - viendras tu dans un doux songe,O mon bel ange, tor que j'adoreMe re - pe - ter divers mensongesMe re - pe - ter -ye taime encore—
2.Sur un soup-çon tu t'es en—fuieJe pleure bélas ton a - ban – donPar un bais er je t'en supplieViens m’accorder undous pardonOh crois le bien ma bonne a sePour te revoir oh om, un jor,Je donnerais toute ma vieJe donnerais tous mes amours
The word "mensonges" has not the meaning in French which our literal translation would give it. It probably signifies the pretty falsehoods or white lies to which lovers are somewhat addicted. The next day is Sunday, and troops of people, in their peculiar costume, appear on the road from all directions, wending their way to the great white wooden church.
Despite the innate grace of the French, of which we hear so much, we see that the young men among these peasants are not unlike the shy and awkward country lads of Yankee land. Before and between the services they roost on the fence opposite the church, while the young girls—totally oblivious of their proximity, of course—gather in groups on the other side of the road, gossiping. We infer that many have come a long distance to attend service, as we see several families eating their lunch, picnic fashion, in the fields near the church. In the church, what a sensation the strangers make, and how interesting is the service! To one of us, at least, the grand service of Notre Dame of Paris was not so impressive as this. In the one case, a famous Bishop, robed in priceless lace and cloth of gold, with a troop of acolytes at the altar, while the most famous singers of the Opera filled the vast structure with rapturous melody; in the other, a large plain wooden building with glaring windows of untinted glass; the priest in vestments of coarse Nottingham lace and yellow damask,—but with spiritual, benignant countenance,—and a choir of untrained voices. A company of men droned out Gregorian chants in painfully nasal tones, using antique books with square headed notes; then the sweet voice of our host's daughter, Evangeline, sounded solo, and her youthful companions in the choir took up the chorus of the Kyrie Eleison:—
"Then came the evening service.The tapers gleamed from the altar,Fervent and deep was the voice of the priest, and the peopleresponded,Not with their lips alone, but with their hearts; and the Ave MariaSang they, and fell on their knees, and their souls with devotiontranslated,Rose on the ardor of prayer, like Elijah ascending to heaven."
The young girls array themselves in hats and costumes which are only two or three years behind the prevailing mode; but the attire of the middle aged and elderly women is striking and peculiar. For Sundays, this is invariably black throughout, and yet does not look funereal. The dress is of plain bombazine or alpaca, a shawl folded square, and over the head a large silk handkerchief, which must be put on with greatest exactness and care to make just so many folds at the sides with a huge knot under the chin; while the point at the back hangs below the neck, and generally has one or more initials neatly worked in colors ("cross-stitch") in the corner. As most have clear olive complexion, with rich color in the cheeks, arid lustrous black eyes, this headdress is surprisingly becoming, giving quite a gypsyish effect.
During the week, a calico dress with long white apron is worn by women and children, and over the head a light chintz handkerchief, or a gay "bandanna";—quite suggestive of the every day wear of foreign peasantry. We are told that a girl's wealth is sometimes estimated by the number of handkerchiefs she owns. Mrs. R. says she has, in winter, seen a girl divest herself of no less than ten head-kerchiefs; taking them off, one by one, and carefully folding them in the most natural manner, as if there could be nothing uncommon or amusing in the proceeding.
The old women, in winter, wear enormous cloaks, made with a large square yoke, into which eight or ten breadths of material are closely plaited, —this unwieldy garment completely enveloping them from head to foot.
These distinctive features in costume are disappearing, and ere long our American peasantry may become commonplace and uninteresting. Let us hope that they may never lose the sweet simplicity, frankness, honesty, thrift, and other pleasing characteristics which they now possess.
In the houses is seen a peculiar rocking-settle, similar to those in use among the Pennsylvania Dutch. This odd piece of furniture has one end railed in front to serve for cradle; so papa, mamma, and baby can rock and "take comfort" together.
Towards evening we visit the convent, where the sisters—who probably do not receive frequent calls from visitors—seem glad of the opportunity for a pleasant chat and a bit of news from the outside world. They show us through their exquisitely neat establishment, where, in the culinary department, a crone who is deaf and rather childish approaches us with such strong evidence of delight, that we expect at least to be embraced; but a sign from the Superior relieves us from the impending demonstration.
At sunset, as we stroll along the road, three pretty little girls who are driving home a flock of geese tempt us to air our French a little, and a lively conversation ensues, causing their black eyes to sparkle and their white teeth to flash bewitchingly. One of the children explains why one of the awkward birds wears a clumsy triangular collar of wood, with a stake apparently driven through its throat, "to prevent it from going through the fences;" and when one of the strangers, imitating the waddling gait of the creatures, improvises,—