Fog clears Up--The One Idea not comprehended by the American Mind--A June
Morning in the Province--The Beginning of the Evangeliad--Intuitive
Perception of Genius--The Forest Primeval--Acadian Peasants--A Negro
Settlement--Deer's Castle--The Road to Chezzetcook--Acadian Scenery--A
Glance at the Early History of Acadia--First Encroachments of the
English--The Harbor and Village of Chezzetcook--Etc., etc.
The celebration being over, the fog cleared up. Loyalty furled her flags;
the civic authorities were silent; the signal-telegraph was put upon short
allowance. But the 'Alligonian papers next day were loaded to the muzzle
with typographical missiles. From them we learned that there had been a
great amount of enthusiasm displayed at the celebration, and "everything
had passed off happily in spite of the weather." "Old Chebucto" was right
side up, and then she quietly sparkled out again.
There is one solitary idea, and only one, not comprehensible by the
American mind. I say it feebly, but I say it fearlessly, there is an idea
which does not present anything to the American mind but a blank. Every
metaphysical dog has worried the life out of every abstraction but this. I
strike my stick down, cross my hands, and rest my chin upon them, in
support of my position. Let anybody attempt to controvert it! "I say, that
in the American mind, there is no such thing as the conception even, of an
idea of tranquillity!" I once for a little repose, went to a "quiet
New-England village," as it was called, and the first thing that attracted
my attention there was a statement in the village paper, that no less than
twenty persons in that quiet place had obtained patent-rights for
inventions and improvements during the past year. They had been at
everything, from an apple-parer to a steam-engine. In the next column was
an article "on capital punishment," and the leader was thoroughly fired up
with a bran-new project for a railroad to the Pacific. That day I dined
with a member of Congress, a peripatetic lecturer, and the principal
citizens of the township, and took the return cars at night amid the glare
of a torch-light procession. Repose, forsooth? Why, the great busy city
seemed to sing lullaby, after the shock of that quiet New-England village.
But in this quaint, mouldy old town, one _can_ get an idea of the calm and
the tranquil--especially after a celebration. It has been said: "Halifax
is the only place that is finished." One can readily believe it. The
population has been twenty-five thousand for the last twenty-five years,
and a new house is beyond the memory of the oldest inhabitant.
The fog cleared up. And one of those inexpressibly balmy days followed.
June in Halifax represents our early May. The trees are all in bud; the
peas in the garden-beds are just marking the lines of drills with faint
stripes of green. Here and there a solitary bird whets his bill on the
bare bark of a forked bough. The chilly air has departed, and in its place
is a sense of freshness, of dewiness, of fragrance and delight. A sense of
these only, an instinctive feeling, that anticipates the odor of the rose
before the rose is blown. On such a morning we went forth to visit
Chezzetcook, and here, gentle reader, beginneth the Evangeliad.
The intuitive perception of genius is its most striking element. I was
told by a traveller and an artist, who had been for nearly twenty years on
the northwest coast, that he had read Irving's "Astoria" as a mere
romance, in early life, but when he visited the place itself, he found
that _he was reading the book over again_; that Irving's descriptions were
so minute and perfect, that he was at home in Astoria, and familiar, not
only with the country, but with individuals residing there; "for," said
he, "although many of the old explorers, trappers, and adventurers
described in the book were dead and gone, yet I found the descendants of
those pioneers had the peculiar characteristics of their fathers; and the
daughter of Concomly, whom I met, was as interesting a historical
personage at home as Queen Elizabeth would have been in Westminster Abbey.
At Vancouver's Island," said the traveller, "I found an old dingy copy of
the book itself, embroidered and seamed with interlineations and marginal
notes of hundreds of pens, in every style of chirography, yet all
attesting the faithfulness of the narrative. I would have given anything
for that copy, but I do not believe I could have purchased it with the
price of the whole island."
What but that wonderful clement of genius, _intuitive perception_, could
have produced such a book? Irving was never on the Columbia River, never
saw the northwest coast. "The materials were furnished him from the
log-books and journals of the explorers themselves," says Dr. Dryasdust.
True, my learned friend, but suppose I furnish you with pallet and colors,
with canvas and brushes, the materials of art, will you paint me as I sit
here, and make a living, breathing picture, that will survive my ashes for
centuries? "I have not the genius of the artist," replies Dr. Dryasdust.
Then, my dear Doctor, we will put the materials aside for the present, and
venture a little farther with our theory of "intuitive perception."
Longfellow never saw the Acadian Land, and yet thus his pastoral begins:
"This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks."
This is the opening line of the poem: this is the striking feature of Nova
Scotia scenery. The shores welcome us with waving masses of foliage, but
not the foliage of familiar woods. As we travel on this hilly road to the
Acadian settlement, we look up and say, "This is the forest primeval," but
it is the forest of the poem, not that of our childhood. There is not, in
all this vast greenwood, an oak, an elm, a chestnut, a beech, a cedar or
maple. For miles and miles, we see nothing against the clear blue sky but
the spiry tops of evergreens; or perhaps, a gigantic skeleton, "a
rampike," pine or hemlock, scathed and spectral, stretches its gaunt
outline above its fellows. Spruces and firs, such as adorn our gardens,
cluster in never-ending profusion; and aromatic and unwonted odor pervades
the air--the spicy breath of resinous balsams. Sometimes the sense is
touched with a new fragrance, and presently we see a buckthorn, white
with a thousand blossoms. These, however, only meet us at times. The
distinct and characteristic feature of the forest is conveyed in that one
line of the poet.
And yet another feature of the forest primeval presents itself, not less
striking and unfamiliar. From the dead branches of those skeleton pines
and hemlocks, these _rampikes_, hang masses of white moss, snow-white,
amid the dark verdure. An actor might wear such a beard in the play of
King Lear. Acadian children wore such to imitate "_grandpere_," centuries
ago; Cowley's trees are "Patricians," these are Patriarchs.
----"The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
_Bearded with moss_, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,
Stand like Druids of old, with voices sad and prophetic,
_Stand like harpers hoar with beards that rest on their bosoms_."
We are re-reading Evangeline line by line. And here, at this turn of the
road, we encounter two Acadian peasants. The man wears an old tarpaulin
hat, home-spun worsted shirt, and tarry canvas trowsers; innovation has
certainly changed him, in costume at least, from the Acadian of our fancy;
but the pretty brown-skinned girl beside him, with lustrous eyes, and soft
black hair under her hood, with kirtle of antique form, and petticoat of
holiday homespun, is true to tradition. There is nothing modern in the
face or drapery of that figure. She might have stepped out of Normandy a
century ago,
"Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-rings
Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heir-loom,
Handed down from mother to child, through long generations."
Alas! the ear-rings are worn out with age! but save them, the picture is
very true to the life. As we salute the pair, we learn they have been
walking on their way since dawn from distant Chezzetcook: the man speaks
English with a strong French accent; the maiden only the language of her
people on the banks of the Seine.
"Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers,
Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the
way-side:
Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her
tresses."
Who can help repeating the familiar words of the idyl amid such scenery,
and in such a presence?
"We are now approaching a Negro settlement," said my _compagnon de voyage_
after we had passed the Acadians; "and we will take a fresh horse at
Deer's Castle; this is rough travelling." In a few minutes we saw a log
house perched on a bare bone of granite that stood out on a ragged
hill-side, and presently another cabin of the same kind came in view. Then
other scare-crow edifices wheeled in sight as we drove along; all forlorn,
all patched with mud, all perched on barren knolls, or gigantic bars of
granite, high up, like ragged redoubts of poverty, armed at every window
with a formidable artillery of old hats, rolls of rags, quilts, carpets,
and indescribable bundles, or barricaded with boards to keep out the air
and sunshine.
"You do not mean to say those wretched hovels are occupied by living
beings?" said I to my companion.
"Oh yes," he replied, with a quiet smile, "these are your people, your
_fugitives_."
"But, surely," said I, "they do not live in those airy nests during your
intensely cold winters?"
"Yes," replied my companion, "and they have a pretty hard time of it.
Between you and I," he continued, "they are a miserable set of devils;
they won't work, and they shiver it out here as well as they can. During
the most of the year they are in a state of abject want, and then they are
very humble. But in the strawberry season they make a little money, and
while it lasts are fat and saucy enough. We can't do anything with them,
they won't work. There they are in their cabins, just as you see them, a
poor, woe-begone set of vagabonds; a burden upon the community; of no use
to themselves, nor to anybody else."
"Ye who listen with credulity to the whispers of fancy and pursue with
eagerness the phantoms of hope, who expect that age will perform the
promises of youth, and that the deficiencies of the present day will be
supplied by the morrow, attend to the history of Rasselas, here in his
happy valley."
"Now then," said my companion, as this trite quotation was passing through
my mind. The wagon had stopped in front of a little, weather-beaten house
that kept watch and ward over an acre of greensward, broken ever and anon
with a projecting bone of granite, and not only fenced with stone, but
dotted also with various mounds of pebbles, some as large as a
paving-stone, and some much larger. This was "Deer's Castle." In front of
the castle was a swing-sign with an inscription:
"William Deer, who lives here,
Keeps the best of wine and beer,
Brandy, and cider, and other good cheer;
Fish, and ducks, and moose, and deer.
Caught or shot in the woods just here,
With cutlets, or steaks, as will appear;
If you will stop you need not fear
But you will be well treated by WILLIAM DEER,
And by Mrs. DEER, his dearest, deary dear!"
I quote from memory. The precise words have escaped me, but the above is
the substance of the sense, and the metre is accurate.
It was a little, weather-beaten shanty of boards, that clung like flakes
to the frame-work. A show-box of a room, papered with select wood-cuts
from _Punch_ and the _Illustrated London News_, was the grand banquet-hall
of the castle. And indeed it was a castle compared with the wretched
redoubts of poverty around it. Here we changed horses, or rather we
exchanged our horse, for a diminutive, bantam pony, that, under the
supervision of "Bill," was put inside the shafts and buckled up to the
very roots of the harness. This Bill, the son and heir of the Castellen,
was a good-natured yellow boy, about fifteen years of age, with such a
development of under-lip and such a want of development elsewhere, that
his head looked like a scoop. There was an infinite fund of humor in
Billy, an uncontrollable sense of the comic, that would break out in spite
of his grave endeavors to put himself under guard. It exhibited itself in
his motions and gestures, in the flourish of his hands as he buckled up
the pony, in the looseness of his gait, the swing of his head, and the
roll of his eyes. His very language was pregnant with mirth; thus:
"Bill!"
"Cheh, cheh, sir? cheh."
"Is your father at home?"
"Cheh, cheh, father? cheh, cheh."
"Yes, your father?"
"Cheh, cheh, at home, sah? cheh."
"Yes, is your father at home?"
"I guess so, cheh, cheh."
"What is the matter with you, Bill? what are you laughing about?"
"Cheh, cheh, I don't know, sah, cheh, cheh."
"Well, take out the horse, and put in the pony; we want to go to
Chizzencook."
"Cheh, Cheh'z'ncook? Yes, sah," and so with that facetious gait and droll
twist of the elbow, Bill swings himself against the horse and unbuckles
him in a perpetual jingle of merriment.
"And this," said I to my companion, as we looked from the door-step of the
shanty upon the spiry tops of evergreens in the valley below us, and at
the wretched log-huts that were roosting up on the bare rocks around us,
"this is the negro settlement?"
"Yes," he replied.
"Are all the negro settlements in Nova Scotia as miserable, as this?"
"Yes," he answered; "you can tell a negro settlement at once by its
appearance."
"Then," I thought to myself, "I would, for poor Cuffee's sake, that
much-vaunted British sympathy and British philanthropy had something
better to show to an admiring world than the prospect around Deer's
Castle."
Notwithstanding the very generous banquet spread before the eyes of the
traveller, on the sign-board, we were compelled to dismiss the pleasant
fiction of the poet upon the announcement of Mrs. Deer, that "Nathin was
in de house 'cept bacon," and she "reckoned" she "might have an egg or two
by de time we got back from Chizzincook."
"But you have plenty of trout here in these streams?"
"Oh! yes, plenty, sah."
"Then let Bill catch some trout for us."
And so the pony being strapped up and buckled to the wagon, we left the
negro settlement for the French settlement. They are all in "settlements,"
here, the people of this Province. Centuries are mutable, but prejudices
never alter in the Colonies.
But we are again in the Acadian forest--a truce to moralizing--let us
enjoy the scenery. The road we are on is but a few miles from the
sea-shore, but the ocean is hidden from view by the thick woods. As we
ride along, however, we skirt the edges of coves and inlets that
frequently break in upon the landscape. There is a chain of fresh-water
lakes also along this road; sometimes we cross a bridge over a rushing
torrent; sometimes a calm expanse of water, doubling the evergreens at its
margin, comes in view; anon a gleam of sapphire strikes through the
verdure, and an ocean-bay with its shingly beach curves in and out between
the piny slopes. At last we reach the crest of a hill, and at the foot of
the road is another bridge, a house, a wharf, and two or three coasters at
anchor in a diminutive harbor. This is "Three Fathom Harbor." We are
within a mile of Chezzetcook.
Now if it were not for Pony we should press on to the settlement, but we
must give Pony a respite. Pony is an enthusiastic little fellow, but his
lungs are too much for him, they have blown him out like a bagpipe. A mile
farther and then eleven miles back to Deer's Castle, is a great
undertaking for so small an animal. In the meanwhile, we will ourselves
rest and take some "home-brewed" with the landlord, who is harbor-master,
inn-keeper, store-keeper, fisherman, shipper, skipper, mayor, and
corporation of Three Fathom Harbor, beside being father of the town, for
all the children in it are his own. A draught of foaming ale, a whiff or
two from a clay pipe, a look out of the window to be assured that Pony had
subsided, and we take leave of the corporate authority of Three Fathom
Harbor, and are once more on the road.
One can scarcely draw near to a settlement of these poor refugees without
a feeling of pity for the sufferings they have endured; and this spark of
pity quickly warms and kindles into indignation when we think of the story
of hapless Acadia--the grievous wrong done those simple-minded, harmless,
honest people, by the rapacious, free-booting adventurers of merry
England, and those precious filibusters, our Pilgrim Fathers.
The early explorations of the French in the young hemisphere which
Columbus had revealed to the older half of the world, have been almost
entirely obscured by the greater events which followed. Nearly a century
after the first colonies were established in New France, New England was
discovered. I shall not dwell upon the importance of this event, as it has
been so often alluded to by historians and others; and, indeed, I believe
it is generally acknowledged now, that the finding of the continent itself
would have been a failure had it not been for the discovery of
Massachusetts. As this, however, happened long after the establishment of
Acadia, and as the Pilgrim Fathers did not interfere with their French
neighbors for a surprising length of time, it will be as well not to
expatiate upon it at present. In the course of a couple of centuries or
so, I shall have occasion to allude to it, in connection with the story of
the neutral French.
In the year 1504, says the Chronicle, some fishermen from Brittany
discovered the island that now forms the eastern division of Nova Scotia,
and named it "Cape Breton." Two years after, Dennys of Harfleur, made a
rude chart of the vast sheet of water that stretches from Cape Breton and
Newfoundland to the mainland. In 1534, Cartier, sailing under the orders
of the French Admiral, Chabot, visited the coast of Newfoundland, crossed
the gulf Dennys had seen and described twenty-eight years before, and took
possession of the country around it, in the name of the king, his master.
As Cartier was recrossing the Gulf, on his return voyage, he named the
waters he was sailing upon "St. Lawrence," in honor of that saint whose
day chanced to turn up on the calendar at that very happy time. According
to some accounts, Baron de Lery established a settlement here as early as
1518. Some authorities state that a French colony was planted on the St.
Lawrence as early as 1524, and soon after others were formed in Canada and
Nova Scotia. In 1535, Cartier again crossed the waters of the Gulf, and
following the course of the river, penetrated into the interior until he
reached an island upon which was a hill; this he named "_Mont Real_."
Various adventurers followed these first discoverers and explorers, and
the coast was from time to time visited by French ships, in pursuit of the
fisheries.
Among these expeditions, one of the most eminent was that of Champlain,
who, in the year 1609, penetrated as far south as the head waters of the
Hudson River; visited Lake George and the cascades of Ticonderoga; and
gave his own name to the lake which lies between the proud shores of New
York and New England. Thence le Sr. Champlain, "_Capitaine pour le Roy_,"
travelled westward, as far as the country of the Hurons, giving to the
discovered territory the title of Nouvelle France; and to the lakes
Ontario, Erie, and Huron, the names of St. Louis, Mer Douce, and Grand
Lac; which any person can see by referring to the original chart in the
State library of New York. But before these discoveries of Champlain, an
important step had been taken by the parent government. In the year 1603,
an expedition, under the patronage of Henry IV., sailed for the New World.
The leader of this was a Protestant gentleman, by name De Monts. As the
people under his command were both Protestants and Catholics, De Monts had
permission given in his charter to establish, as one of the fundamental
laws of the Colony, the free exercise of "religious worship," upon
condition of settling in the country, and teaching the Roman Catholic
faith to the savages. Heretofore, all the countries discovered by the
French had been called New France, but in De Monts' Patent, that portion
of the territory lying east of the Penobscot and embracing the present
provinces of New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, and part of Maine was named
"Acadia."
The little colony under De Monts flourished in spite of the rigors of the
climate, and its commander, with a few men, explored the coast on the St.
Lawrence and the bay of Fundy, as well as the rivers of Maine, the
Penobscot, the Kennebec, the Saco and Casco Bay, and even coasted as far
south as the long, hook-shaped cape that is now known in all parts of the
world as the famous Cape Cod. In a few years, the settlement began to
assume a smiling aspect; houses were erected, and lands were tilled; the
settlers planted seeds and gathered the increase thereof; gardens sprang
out of the wilderness, peace and order reigned everywhere, and the savage
tribes around viewed the kind, light-hearted colonists with admiration and
fraternal good-will. It is pleasant to read this part of the
chronicle--of their social meetings in the winter at the banqueting hall;
of the order of "_Le Bon Temps_," established by Champlain; of the great
pomp and insignia of office (a collar, a napkin, and staff) of the grand
chamberlain, whose government only lasted for a day, when he was
supplanted by another; of their dinners in the sunshine amid the
corn-fields; of their boats, banners, and music on the water; of their
gentleness, simplicity, and honest, hearty enjoyments. These halcyon days
soon came to an end. The infamous Captain Argall, hearing that a number of
white people had settled in this hyperborean region, set sail from
Jamestown for the colony, in a ship of fourteen guns, in the midst of a
profound peace, to burn, pillage, and slaughter the intruders upon the
territory of Virginia! Finding the people unprepared for defence, his
enterprise was successful. Argall took possession of the lands, in the
name of the King of England, laid waste some of the settlements, burned
the forts, and, under circumstances of peculiar perfidy, induced a number
of the poor Acadians to go with him to Jamestown. Here they were treated
as pirates, thrown into prison, and sentenced to be executed. Argall, who
it seems had some touch of manhood in his nature, upon this confessed to
the Governor, Sir Thomas Dale, that these people had a patent from the
King of France, which he had stolen from them and concealed, and that they
were not pirates, but simply colonists. Upon this, Sir Thomas Dale was
induced to fit out an expedition to dislodge the rest of them from Acadia.
Three ships were got ready, the brave Captain Argall was appointed
Commander-in-chief, and the first colony was terminated by fire and sword
before the end of the year. This was in 1613, ten years after the first
planting of Acadia.
"Some of the settlers," says the Chronicle, "finding resistance to be
unavailing, fled to the woods." What became of them history does not
inform us, but with a graceful appearance of candor, relates that the
transaction itself "was not approved of by the court of England, nor
resented by that of France." Five years afterward we find Captain Argall
appointed Deputy-Governor of Virginia.
This outrage was the initial letter only of a series that for nearly a
century and a half after, made the successive colonists of Acadia the prey
of their rapacious neighbors. We shall take up the story from time to
time, gentle reader, as we voyage around and through the province.
Meanwhile let us open our eyes again upon the present, for just below us
lies the village and harbor of Chezzetcook.
A conspiracy of earth and air and ocean had certainly broken out that
morning, for the ominous lines of Fog and Mist were hovering afar off upon
the boundaries of the horizon. Under the crystalline azure of a summer
sky, the water of the harbor had an intensity of color rarely seen, except
in the pictures of the most ultra-marine painters. Here and there a green
island or a fishing-boat rested upon the surface of the tranquil blue. For
miles and miles the eye followed indented grassy slopes, that rolled away
on either side of the harbor, and the most delicate pencil could scarcely
portray the exquisite line of creamy sand that skirted their edges and
melted off in the clear margin of the water. Occasional little cottages
nestle among these green banks, not the Acadian houses of the poem, "with
thatched roofs, and dormer windows projecting," but comfortable,
homely-looking buildings of modern shapes, shingled and un-weather-cocked.
No cattle visible, no ploughs nor horses. Some of the men are at work in
the open air; all in tarpaulin hats, all in tarry canvas trowsers. These
are boat-builders and coopers. Simple, honest, and good-tempered enough;
you see how courteously they salute us as we ride by them. In front of
every house there is a knot of curious little faces; Young Acadia is out
this bright day, and although Young Acadia has not a clean face on, yet
its hair is of the darkest and softest, and its eyes are lustrous and
most delicately fringed. Yonder is one of the veterans of the place, so we
will tie Pony to the fence, and rest here.
"Fine day you have here," said my companion.
"Oh yes! oh yes!" (with great deference and politeness).
"Can you give us anything in the way of refreshment? a glass of ale, or a
glass of milk?"
"Oh no!" (with the unmistakable shrug of the shoulders); "we no have milk,
no have ale, no have brandy, no have noting here: ah! we very poor peep'
here." (Poor people here.)
"Can we sit down and rest in one of your houses?"
"Oh yes! oh yes!" (with great politeness and alacrity); "walk in, walk in;
we very poor peep', no milk, no brandy: walk in."
The little house is divided by a partition. The larger half is the hall,
the parlor, kitchen, and nursery in one. A huge fire-place, an antique
spinning-wheel, a bench, and two settles, or high-backed seats, a table, a
cradle and a baby very wide awake, complete the inventory. In the
apartment adjoining is a bin that represents, no doubt, a French bedstead
of the early ages. Everything is suggestive of boat-builders, of Robinson
Crusoe work, of undisciplined hands, that have had to do with ineffectual
tools. As you look at the walls, you see the house is built of timbers,
squared and notched together, and caulked with moss or oakum.
"Very poor peep' here," says the old man, with every finger on his hands
stretched out to deprecate the fact. By the fire-side sits an old woman,
in a face all cracked and seamed with wrinkles, like a picture by one of
the old masters. "Yes," she echoes, "very poor peep' here, and very cold,
too, sometime." By this time the door-way is entirely packed with little,
black, shining heads, and curious faces, all shy, timid, and yet not the
less good-natured. Just back of the cradle are two of the Acadian women,
"knitters i' the sun," with features that might serve for Palmer's
sculptures; and eyes so lustrous, and teeth so white, and cheeks so rich
with brown and blush, that if one were a painter and not an invalid, he
might pray for canvas and pallet as the very things most wanted in the
critical moment of his life. Faed's picture does not convey the Acadian
face. The mouth and chin are more delicate in the real than in the ideal
Evangeline. If you look again, after the first surprise is over, you will
see that these are the traditional pictures, such as we might have fancied
they should be, after reading the idyl. From the forehead of each you see
at a glance how the dark mass of hair has been combed forward and over the
face, that the little triangular Norman cap might be tied across the crown
of the head. Then the hair is thrown back again over this, so as to form a
large bow in front, then re-tied at the crown with colored ribbons. Then
you see it has been plaited in a shining mesh, brought forward again, and
braided with ribbons, so that it forms, as it were, a pretty coronet,
well-placed above those brilliant eyes and harmonious features. This, with
the antique kirtle and picturesque petticoat, is an Acadian portrait. Such
is it now, and such it was, no doubt, when De Monts sailed from Havre de
Grace, two centuries and a half ago. In visiting this kind and simple
people, one can scarcely forget the little chapel. The young French priest
was in his garden, behind the little tenement, set apart for him by the
piety of his flock, and readily admitted us. A small place indeed was it,
but clean and orderly, the altar decorated with toy images, that were not
too large for a Christmas table. Yet I have been in the grandest
tabernacles of episcopacy with lesser feelings of respect than those which
were awakened in that tiny Acadian chapel. Peace be with it, and with its
gentle flock.
"Pony is getting impatient," said my companion, as we reverently stepped
from the door-way, "and it is a long ride to Halifax." So, with courteous
salutation on both sides, we take leave of the good father, and once more
are on the road to Deer's Castle.