and stern-posts that are merely ornamental, they cannot be beached
by a gentle tug at the painter, such as is always sufficient with a
Red-Lake boat.]
IX.
AREAS OF RAIN.
Sleep was sedulously courted this morning by the entire squadron, for
not only did the late hours and social dissipations of the preceding
night have a soporific effect, but a steady rain had set in during the
small hours, and not even the Cook felt any disposition to arise and
shine. The tent was rather close quarters for four, so the Commodore
had slept in his canoe, and for him rising meant stepping out of a dry
nest into a steady down-pour. After a while, however, voices began to
issue from the tent and a desire for breakfast soon asserted itself.
As the camp was in the outskirts of a town, no wood was to be had save
through purchase, so the Rob-Roy cuisine was resorted to with eminent
success, and a wandering small boy who spoke nothing but Kanuck of the
most rudimentary description, was persuaded to fill an order from the
maternal larder.
Breakfast was at last finished, and numerous pipes were smoked to
kill time until the rain should cease, but still it poured down with
such steady persistency, that it had its effect even upon the buoyant
spirits of the quartette. The sole objects of interest which presented
themselves were boats laden with hay which drove past the tent-door
down the river before the wind. These the Commodore sketched with the
adjoining result, and then relapsing into a state of demoralization was
maliciously portrayed by the artist on page 147. At length the showers
became intermittent, and the two division commanders sallied forth in
different directions to collate information regarding the rapids.
[Illustration: Aristocratic.]
[Illustration: Plebeian.]
"One charm of the character of your true rural," remarked the
Commodore, on their return to compare notes, "is that he is
unconventional. When you have learned the opinions of one, upon matters
about him, you are not justified in accepting them as those of the
community at large."
[Illustration: The Commodore Weather Bound.]
"Very true," said the Vice. "I have spent two hours in interviewing
the honest villagers near the waterside, to ascertain if the rapids,
which begin a short half mile below, are passable, and from no two of
them did I get the same reply. One said yes, another said no, a third
looked doubtful, a fourth encouraging, number five was dumb, and from a
dozen or two others I obtained enough of shrugs, gestures, and facial
contortions to supply the clown of a pantomime. So little recks your
true rural of what doesn't particularly concern him that one fellow,
who works in a flour-mill, informed me that there were no rapids
whatever, any where in the river."
"Proof positive that he doesn't pay taxes upon property," said the
Commodore. "The tax-collector is the grand educator upon local
geography: hence, the most intelligent nations of Europe are those
which are taxed heaviest."
"The Turks, for instance," suggested the Vice. "I accept your theory,
however, for the sake of offering it back to you as proof positive that
we Americans are the most intelligent people on the face of the globe."
"The exact bearings of taxation upon the passability of rapids," said
the Commodore, "may be clear to a statesman's mind, but the editorial
brain fails to record any impression regarding it. The question is, are
we to run the rapids or pass around them by canal? I propose first to
listen to the counsels of my captains, and then to act according to my
own. Officers will speak in reverse order of rank. Cook?"
"Run the rapids by all means," promptly replied the Cook, who had no
nautical reputation to lose, but might gain an immense amount without
exceeding the demand.
"Purser?" said the Commodore.
The custodian of the fleet's treasure tossed his auburn locks gaily
behind his ears, and replied,
"As well ask the bird if it would soar heavenward, the imprisoned soul
if it would yearn for light, the poet if he would seek his ideal!"
"Or a duck could he swim," put in the Vice.
"Do you mean that you prefer to run the rapids?" asked the Commodore.
"Certainly," replied the Purser.
"Say so, then," said the Commodore, with editorial sternness, "Vice?"
"The one delight of a canoe cruise," said the Vice, "is to run rapids.
I don't know of another joy that compares with it, unless it be that of
a Presidential campaign full of personalities."
"I decide in favor of the canal," said the Commodore. "My duty to
society demands it. Moreover, I encountered this morning a large number
of natives, all of whom without a single exception assured me that
the rapids could not be run. Running unknown rapids is attended by
considerable danger, and while the loss of a Statesman, an Artist or a
Scribbler might be a blessing to suffering humanity, an Editor cannot
be spared. Editors are born, not made, and are consequently very rare."
"Which fact, like that of the crocodile destroying its young," remarked
the Vice, "is a proof of the merciful interposition of Providence to
save the human race from what might otherwise be a terrible scourge."
As the natives had missed neither spoons, poultry nor any other easily
secreted property during the night, they viewed the departing fleet
with kindly eyes, and pressed sundry favors upon it. The expedition
attempted to advance in column under sail, but it speedily became
involved in difficulties with sundry saw-logs and slightly submerged
ropes, until all available seamanship was called into exercise to avoid
humiliating disaster. When the entrance to the canal was reached, the
navigators discovered that the water was spanned, at short intervals,
by bridges not only so low as to compel the striking of masts, but
also to necessitate the striking of signal staffs fore and aft, and
the temporary assumption, by the various commanders, of a physical
attitude most truly devout. As the fourth bridge was approached by the
expedition, it was also reached by an industrious shower, and no one
made haste to pass from under the cover afforded by the structure.
"Think of the poor sailors on the broad ocean, with no bridge to
shelter them," remarked the Cook, as he improved the opportunity to
light a peaceful pipe. Just then a small stream of water, in search
of its final level, meandered between two planks of the bridge, and
trickled into the Cook's pipe, producing a sizzle which seemed to
greatly titillate the nerves of those who were not smoking. Then
another stream struck the helmet of the Vice and broke into what would
have been a graceful cascade had not its perfect curve been broken by
the official nose. The Purser bowed his head to avoid showing unseemly
merriment at the expense of his superior officer, when another stream,
heavily charged with the soil which wagons had deposited upon the
bridge, insinuated itself between his shirt and his skin. Then began
a magnificent but ineffectual struggle of mind against matter. Given,
a bridge the planks of which were not more than ten inches wide, and
several men whose shoulders exceeded in width any two of the planks,
and whose depth of chest, with its environment, also exceeded the
distance between any two cracks, and the reader will perceive, more
freely than by any logical form of demonstration, the utter futility
of free will in a contest against destiny. The best that man can do
in such an unequal conflict is to prepare himself as well as possible
for the blow, and this the Commodore did by throwing a rubber poncho
(a square sheet with a hole in the middle) over his head, the ends
dropping outside the gunwales of the boat, and shedding the water into
the canal. The wooden decks of the Chrysalids kept water from dripping
into the boats except amidships, the oilcloth decking of the flagship
served a similar purpose, but the inside of the Cherub was soon
deplorable in the extreme.
In time the sun banished the shower, and under its beams the canoeists
brightened sufficiently to drop into song, beating time with their
paddles. As they approached one bridge, and recurred to the reflection
that civilization has its penalties as well as its pleasures, the
keeper of the bridge good-naturedly opened it.
"By Jove!" exclaimed the Commodore, "no one but a Frenchman would have
been civil enough to do that. Let's sing the 'Marseillaise' for him,
and remind him of his far distant home. Now!
'Allons, enfants de la patrie.
Le jour de gloire est arrivè.'"
The song was given with spirit, and with that confidence of accent
which song somehow inspires. The squadron, in perfect line, and keeping
a rhythmic stroke as of one man, reached the bridge just as they struck
the refrain,--
"Aux armes, citoyens!
Formez vos battalions!
Marchez, marchez, qu'un sang impur,
Abreuve nos sillons."
The bridge-keeper raised himself from the leaning position which he had
at first assumed, his eye brightened, a flush of red showed under the
dark brown of his cheek.
"That's a magnificent song," he shouted in French. "What do you call
it?"
[Illustration: Aux Armes Citoyennes.]
Four paddles stopped abruptly in mid-air, four men stared blankly at
each other, then the Commodore sank back into his cockpit as nerveless
as Salvini in the finale of "La Morte Civile." In a moment he recovered
himself enough to gasp,
"True enough; the ancestors of these French Canadians came over a
century before Rouget de Lisle was born!"
"What?" exclaimed the Vice, hastily backing out of line and turning his
boat, "and that poor fellow knows nothing of the glory of his race, of
the rights of man, and things? I'll go back and enlighten him."
"Let him alone," said the Purser. "He knows enough to be polite
and sympathetic--to volunteer extra labor that others may be saved
annoyance, so he knows more of the rights of man than you can teach
him."
The Vice meekly drew back into line, merely asking if it was not
nearly dinner-time. As one bank of the canal was heavily covered with
weeds, and the other was being frequently traversed by tow-horses,
the noon-day meal was taken in the boats, the four being temporarily
lashed together that the various viands might be passed back and forth
without danger of being dropped overboard. The leisure consequent upon
dining enabled the squadron to observe critically the crews of the
various barges that passed, and to learn that although the spirit of
trade has not altered the French canal-boatmen of Canada from their
national model, the environment of circumstance has made the rider of
the canal-horse like unto his brother navigators of all climes. The
remarks which these gentlemen volunteered as they passed the squadron
were all couched in the French tongue, but the accent was that of the
Erie canal, the Delaware and Hudson, and all other watery highways upon
which the motive power is equine or mulish.
These canalers indeed, as was quickly evident, were of cosmopolitan
or at least of republican habit, for so personal did their remarks
become that some means of retaliation or self-defence was manifestly
necessary. Dignified silence is all very well, but your modern canaler
does not appreciate it in the traditional fashion, and when a quiet
professional gentleman is invited to "come out of that and have a
head put on him" by a burly ruffian, it is apparent that the policy
of silence is not always that of wisdom. Under these circumstances it
occurred to the Vice, who had been a "Son of Malta," that portions of
the extinct ritual might be made available. The Cook was accordingly
instructed to hang the expeditionary frying-pan over his forward-thwart
and provide himself with a short baton, wherewith to beat it after the
manner of a Chinese gong. The next "Bargees" that we encountered opened
the usual conversation, inquiring where we were from, and where bound,
all which questions were answered with due civility. Then the chaff
element cropped out.
"Say, Boss, whar did you get that hat?" The remark was addressed to
the Commodore who headed the line. In a resonant voice that officer
repeated: "He asks where did I get my hat."
Then the Vice, "He asks where did he get his hat?"
Then the Purser, "He asks where did he get his hat?"
Then the Cook, "He asks where did he get his hat?" and then lifting his
bâton he proclaimed in a stentorian voice RECORDED! and mightily smote
the frying-pan till it rung again. The invariable sequence of this was
a momentary pause, during which the squadron usually passed out of
ear-shot. Sometimes however, the canalers attempted a continuation of
the attack, as for instance:
"Now then," (but really this part of the sentence can only be
represented by blanks) "Come out o' that, and I'll learn yer."
_Commodore._ "He calls us scions of a noble race."
_Vice._ "He calls us scions of a noble race."
_Purser._ "He calls us scions of a noble race."
_Cook._ "He calls us scions of a noble race. Recorded! WHANG!!"
"The recorded answer turneth away chaff," said the Vice somewhat
irreverently after the success of the experiment was established, and
so it was, for the profane resources of the most fluent mule-driver
failed him in the presence of the frying-pan.
Soon after dinner the squadron approached a lock, and the Commodore
went ashore to exhibit the passes of his command. As the collective
measurement of the boats did not reach ten tons, the four had been
included in a single pass, the cost of which was twenty cents, and
this sufficed for the dozen locks which were to be passed before the
smooth water of the river could again be reached. It was probably a
realization of the small amount of money which their labor represented
which made the various lock-keepers so solemn of mien as they labored
over their gates to let the Liliputian squadron through. The walls of
each lock were substantially built of huge blocks of grey stone, and
as the water subsided rapidly the Artist imagined himself being let
down into a dark dungeon. He hastily drew his portfolio from a locker,
and proceeded to sketch a study for a "Prisoner of Chillon," hugging
the shady side of the lock as he did so. The sketch proceeded to his
satisfaction, and then some loose earth behind the stones ejected
through a crack some of its superfluous moisture in a parabolic curve
over the Artist's shoulder, and upon the sketch, putting in some half
tints which gave the picture an air of extreme realism and antiquity.
Reaching at length a long stretch of canal upon which no boats were
visible, the squadron disembarked and washed its respective faces
with soap, an operation rendered necessary by the drippings it had
encountered under the bridge, and during the various showers. An hour
later, the face of the Vice looked as if it had been liberally but
carelessly patched with court-plaster. Fragments of skin fluttered
aimlessly from his cheeks and brow, while his Roman nose was as
picturesque as the brown shoulders of a tramp who had lately begged
a very ragged white shirt. The Vice became conscious that he was
attracting attention, and a pocket-mirror, furtively consulted,
revealed to him the cause. He passed his mirror to the others, and the
merriment of the party came to a sudden stop, for every one else was
displaying symptoms of impending trouble of the same sort. Not one of
them had experienced an hour of sunshine a day for months; their faces
had been burning steadily for days, and the alkali of the soap had
destroyed the last bond between the burned cuticle and that beneath.
The Purser suggested that cold cream, being peculiarly a French
production, could doubtless be found in the next village, but the Vice
said him nay.
"Frenchmen who don't know the Marseillaise when they hear it," said
he, "can't be expected to know anything about the appliances of modern
civilization."
The morning's rain, the late start and sundry delays had hindered the
fleet more than it realized, and the sun was setting before the canal
was half-way passed. It became necessary therefore to camp on the
canal bank, but this was no great hardship, as a smooth strip of green
sward opportunely presented itself on the side away from the tow-path,
as shown at the left of this sketch. A moral title is appended to
this illustration because the Vice went off by himself after supplies
and came back thoroughly sobered, as he intimated, by the sublime
immensity of the canal, which, he said, stretched away before him
like the narrow path which he remembered as depicted in the "Pilgrim's
Progress" of his boyhood.
[Illustration: Alone with his Conscience.]
Indeed there was a pastoral beauty about this canal which one is not
apt to associate with artificial waterways. It was but a few miles in
length and skirted a lovely valley, rich in historic association and
beautifully diversified by wood and meadow, hill and stream. Beyond
the lowlands, as shown in the sketch, rose a commanding and somewhat
isolated mountain range which caught the last rays of the setting
sun, and welcomed him again in the morning in such charming fashion
that it was simple luxury to exist within the range of its influence.
Since crossing the line, too, minor incidents of daily recurrence
recalled the fact that this valley was first penetrated by emissaries
of "Mother Church." On every side the little tin covered spires, one
just like the other, arose, and at sunrise and sunset, the matin and
vesper bells sent their notes far and near, reminding all within range
that the priest was at the altar holding aloft the sacred emblems
and repeating the angelus. The members of the expedition were all
Protestants by birth and association, but there was not one of them
who had not a tender spot in his heart when the bells rang out and he
knew that hundreds of fellow beings, far and near, paused a moment at
their tasks to repeat the prayer that the church had taught them to
say. These little churches, of which this may serve as a type, form a
charming feature of the Acadian land. You may walk into any of them at
any hour, and some are very quaint, and in a strange fashion touching,
in their interior design and adornment. It seemed as though the prayers
of generations of simple minded folk were imprisoned there, willing
and ever anxious to get up to heaven, if that were possible, and yet
hampered somehow so that they did not make it out. Often as one or
another of the quartette strolled into a village church and sat down
in the suggestive silence, a man or woman would come in and kneeling
repeat a prayer. To say that the act is mechanical and heartless is
not to the purpose. It may be both mechanical and heartless, but it is
not meaningless, and through it and other like observances, the church
retains a tolerably strong hold upon a very considerable fraction
of Christendom. Would that the home-feeling could be as successfully
cultivated by some of our Protestant sects as it seems to be by the
church of Rome. Perhaps however the home feeling as it there exists is
incompatible with advanced thought, and the liquefaction of gases, and
Boston Monday Lectures.
[Illustration: The Typical Church.]
So at least the Vice was remarking when he suddenly became aware that
a canal-propeller was coming down his recent straight and narrow path,
towing behind her an endless chain of lumber barges. Anxiety for the
boats banished every other sentiment. The Red Lakers were confidently
trusted to take care of themselves by their commanders, but Chrysalids
must be carefully tended and held off shore, lest the swell should
dash them against the stone facing of the embankment. Considering
what the Rochefort had been through on her various lee shores, this
solicitude seemed rather superfluous. Furthermore, no perceptible swell
was caused by the passage of the tow, and the only notable result was
that the Purser, in his anxiety to hold the Arethusela off shore with a
boat-hook, lost his balance and took a ducking, much to the amusement
of spectators on the canal boats.
An exquisite moonlit night was this on the canal. The tent stood white
against the grassy bank, the canal glittered, from far away could be
heard the hoarse roar of rapids, and farther still the blue mountain
range rose flat against the sky as if it had no irregularities save
those which marked its outline. Only one anxiety marred the serenity
of the fleet.
Ever since "the Enchantress" arose upon its horizon, one member of
the command who shall be nameless, had not been quite in his right
mind. While passing along the canal, he had evinced a preference for
such airs as "Annie Laurie" and "The Girl I left behind Me," while the
"Mulligan Guards" and the Marseillaise failed to stir his soul as was
their wont. This evening he passed walking up and down the canal bank
in the moonlight, apart from the rest, and he was even suspected of
declaiming poetry _sotto-voce_. There the squadron left him when it
turned in.
After a long interval of quiet, no one knows what the hour was, the
sleepers were softly awakened by the enthusiast, who by the straggling
moonbeams was seen with a finger on his lips as an injunction of
silence, while with the other hand he pointed toward the remains
of the camp-fire in front of the tent. Each man arose noiselessly;
one softly cocked his revolver, another grasped a boat hook, while
a third clutched two empty beer-bottles, stole out of the tent, and
peered warily about, in the shadows of the trees. Each man saw that
the boats were safe, and as all cargoes had been removed to the tent
before nightfall, the nature of the danger which impended could not
be imagined by any one. The demented man threw several twigs upon the
smouldering embers, thus making a bright light; then he squatted near
the fire, motioned to the others to take similar attitudes, and spoke
thus to his mystified auditors:
"Gentlemen, for years I have endeavored to formulate a definition of
the phrase 'pretty girl;' not to give a mere literal description,
but one which should be artistic as well as truthful, and have the
virtue, peculiar to all true art, of suggesting more than it says. At
last I have fully succeeded; or, rather, a glorious inspiration has
enlightened me. Before disclosing this marvel of truth and poetry,
I beg you to give me your own definitions of the same precious
phrase--they will be useful by way of contrast."
"I can better tell you what a pretty girl is _not_," answered one of
the party promptly. "She is not an imbecile who rouses people at dead
of night for the idiotic purpose of revising standard lexicography."
"Nor is she," quoth another, who, being a very light sleeper, sprang
to his feet, in a violent fit of trembling, on being aroused, "nor is
she a being who will in cold blood frighten an honest fellow almost to
death."
"Nor a person whose literary musings disturb the slumber of any one,
unless, haply, he be editor of a paper containing a poet's column,"
said the third.
"Listen, then," replied the lunatic, his look of scorn giving place
to a lambent light from within, which irradiated his pale features.
"A pretty girl is a person from whose glass you are willing to drink,
after she is done with it."
For several moments there was dead silence, then somebody asked in the
iciest of tones,
"And you aroused us only for the purpose of imparting this."
"I did."
"Have I offered you a single affront since the cruise began?" asked
another. "I certainly have tried hard to do my duty, and have never
discriminated knowingly against any one."
"You are guiltless," was the reply.
"I suppose I am the guilty one," groaned the third. "I gave him a cigar
to-day which was not what it should have been. But how out of all
proportion to the offence is the punishment!"
The object of these denunciations, remaining unchanged of mien, began
again to pace the bank beneath the moonbeams, while his companions
returned to their blankets and failed miserably to devise any vengeance
commensurate with his shameful act.
At length the wisest of the trio, raising himself on his elbow,
exclaimed "I have it--make him marry one."
X.
ACADIA.