A Romp at Three Fathom Harbor--The Moral Condition of the Acadians--The
Wild Flowers of Nova Scotia--Mrs. Deer's Wit--No Fish--Picton--The
Balaklava Schooner--And a Voyage to Louisburgh.
Pony is very enterprising. We are soon at the top of the first long hill,
and look again, for the last time, upon the Acadian village. How cosily
and quietly it is nestled down amid those graceful green slopes! What a
bit of poetry it is in itself! Jog on, Pony!
The corporate authority of Three Fathom Harbor has been improving his time
during our absence. As we drive up we find him in high romp with a brace
of buxom, red-cheeked, Nova Scotia girls, who have just alighted from a
wagon. The landlady of Three Fathom Harbor, in her matronly cap, is
smiling over the little garden gate at her lord, who is pursuing his
Daphnes, and catching, and kissing, and hugging, first one and then the
other, to his heart's content. Notwithstanding their screams, and slaps,
and robust struggles, it is very plain to be seen that the skipper's
attentions are not very unwelcome. Leaving his fair friends, he catches
Pony by the bridle and stops us with a hospitable--"Come in--you must come
in; just a glass of ale, you'll want it;" and sure enough, we found when
we came to taste the ale, that we did want it, and many thanks to him, the
kind-hearted landlord of the Three Fathoms.
"It is surprising," said I to my companion, as we rolled again over the
road, "that these people, these Acadians, should still preserve their
language and customs, so near to your principal city, and yet with no more
affiliation than if they were on an island in the South Seas!"
"The reason of that," he replied, "is because they stick to their own
settlement; never see anything of the world except Halifax early in the
morning; never marry out of their own set; never read--I do not believe
one of them can read or write--and are in fact _so slow_, so destitute of
enterprise, so much behind the age"----
I could not avoid smiling. My companion observed it. "What are you
thinking about?" said he.
The truth is, I was thinking of Halifax, which was anything but a _fast_
place; but I simply observed:
"Your settlements here are somewhat novel to a stranger. That a mere
handful of men should be so near your city, and yet so isolated: that this
village of a few hundred only, should retain its customs and language,
intact, for generation after generation, within walking distance of
Halifax, seems to me unaccountable. But let me ask you," I continued,
"what is the moral condition of the Acadians?"
"As for that," said he, "I believe it stands pretty fair. I do not think
an Acadian would cheat, lie, or steal; I know that the women are virtuous,
and if I had a thousand pounds in my pocket I could sleep with confidence
in any of their houses, although all the doors were unlocked and everybody
in the village knew it."
"That," said I, "reminds one of the poem:
'Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their windows,
But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of their owners;
There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance.'"
Poor exiles! You will never see the Gasperau and the shore of the Basin of
Minas, but if this very feeble life I have holds out, I hope to visit
Grandpre and the broad meadows that gave a name to the village.
One thing Longfellow has certainly omitted in "Evangeline"--the wild
flowers of Acadia. The roadside is all fringed and tasselled with white,
pink, and purple. The wild strawberries are in blossom, whitening the turf
all the way from Halifax to Chezzetcook. You see their starry settlements
thick in every bit of turf. These are the silver mines of poor Cuffee; he
has the monopoly of the berry trade. It is his only revenue. Then in the
swampy grounds there are long green needles in solitary groups, surmounted
with snowy tufts; and here and there, clusters of light purple blossoms,
called laurel flowers, but not like our laurels, spring up from the bases
of grey rocks and boulders; sometimes a rich array of blood-red berries
gleams out of a mass of greenery; then again great floral white radii,
tipped with snowy petals, rise up profuse and lofty; down by the ditches
hundreds of pitcher plants lift their veined and mottled vases, brimming
with water, to the wood-birds who drink and perch upon their thick rims;
May-flowers of delightful fragrance hide beneath those shining,
tropical-looking leaves, and meadow-sweet, not less fragrant, but less
beautiful, pours its tender aroma into the fresh air; here again we see
the buckthorn in blossom; there, scattered on the turf, the scarlet
partridge berry; then wild-cherry trees, mere shrubs only, in full bud;
and around all and above all, the evergreens, the murmuring pines, and the
hemlocks; the rampikes--the grey-beards of the primeval forest; the spicy
breath of resinous balsams; the spiry tops, and the serene heaven. Is this
fairy land? No, it is only poor, old, barren Nova Scotia, and yet I think
Felix, Prince of Salerno, if he were here, might say, and say truly too,
"In all my life I never beheld a more enchanting place;" but Felix, Prince
of Salerno, must remember this is the month of June, and summer is not
perpetual in the latitude of forty-five.
We reach at last Deer's Castle. Pony, under the hands of Bill, seems
remarkably cheerful and fresh after his long travel up hill and down. When
he pops out of his harness, with his knock-knees and sturdy, stocky little
frame, he looks very like an animated saw-buck, clothed in seal-skin; and
with a jump, and snort, and flourish of tail, he escorts Bill to the
stable, as if twenty miles over a rough road was a trifle not worth
consideration.
A savory odor of frying bacon and eggs stole forth from the door as we
sat, in the calm summer air, upon the stone fence. William Deer, Jr., was
wandering about in front of the castle, endeavoring to get control of his
under lip and keep his exuberant mirth within the limits of decorum; but
every instant, to use a military figure, it would flash in the pan. Up on
the bare rocks were the wretched, woe-begone, patched, and ragged log
huts of poor Cuffee. The hour and the season were suggestive of
philosophizing, of theories, and questions.
"Mrs. Deer," said I, "is that your husband's portrait on the back of the
sign?" (there was a picture of a stag with antlers on the reverse of the
poetical swing-board, either intended as a pictographic pun upon the name
of "Deer," or as a hint to sportsmen of good game hereabouts).
"Why," replied Mrs. Deer, an old tidy wench, of fifty, pretty well bent by
rheumatism, and so square in the lower half of her figure, and so spare in
the upper, that she appeared to have been carved out of her own hips:
"why, as to dat, he ain't good-looking to brag on, but I don't think he
looks quite like a beast neither."
At this unexpected retort, Bill flashed off so many pans at once that he
seemed to be a platoon of militia. My companion also enjoyed it immensely.
Being an invalid, I could not participate in the general mirth.
"Mrs. Deer," said I, "how long have you lived here?"
"Oh, sah! a good many years; I cum here afore I had Bill dar." (Here
William flashed in the pan twice.)
"Where did you reside before you came to Nova Scotia?"
"Sah?"
"Where did you live?"
"Oh, sah! I is from Maryland." (William at it again.)
"Did you run away?"
"Yes, sah; I left when I was young. Bill, what you laughing at? _I_ was
young once."
"Were you married then--when you run away?"
"Oh yes, sah!" (a glance at Bill, who was off again).
"And left your husband behind in Maryland?"
"Yes, sah; but he didn't stay long dar after I left. He was after me putty
sharp, soon as I travelled;" (here Mrs. Deer and William interchanged
glances, and indulged freely in mirth).
"And which place do you like the best--this or Maryland?"
"Why, I never had no such work to do at home as I have to do here,
grubbin' up old stumps and stones; dem isn't women's work. When I was
home, I had only to wait on misses, and work was light and easy." (William
quiet.)
"But which place do you like the best--Nova Scotia or Maryland?"
"Oh! de work here is awful, grubbin' up old stones and stumps; 'tain't
fit for women." (William much impressed with the cogency of this
repetition.)
"But which place do you like the best?"
"And de winter here, oh! it's wonderful tryin." (William utters an
affirmative flash.)
"But which place do you like the best?"
"And den dere's de rheumatiz."
"But which place do you like the best, Mrs. Deer?"
"Well," said Mrs. Deer, glancing at Bill, "I like Nova Scotia best."
(Whatever visions of Maryland were gleaming in William's mind, seemed to
be entirely quenched by this remark.)
"But why," said I, "do you prefer Nova Scotia to Maryland? Here you have
to work so much harder, to suffer so much from the cold and the
rheumatism, and get so little for it;" for I could not help looking over
the green patch of stony grass that has been rescued by the labor of a
quarter century.
"Oh!" replied Mrs. Deer, "de difference is, dat when I work here, I work
for myself, and when I was working at home, I was working for other
people." (At this, William broke forth again in such a series of platoon
flashes, that we all joined in with infinite merriment.)
"Mrs. Deer," said I, recovering my gravity, "I want to ask you one more
question."
"Well, sah," said the lady Deer, cocking her head on one side, expressive
of being able to answer any number of questions in a twinkling.
"You have, no doubt, still many relatives left in Maryland?"
"Oh! yes," replied Mrs. Deer, "_all_ of dem are dar."
"And suppose you had a chance to advise them in regard to this matter,
would you tell them to run away, and take their part with you in Nova
Scotia, or would you advise them to stay where they are?"
Mrs. Deer, at this, looked a long time at William, and William looked
earnestly at his parent. Then she cocked her head on the other side, to
take a new view of the question. Then she gathered up mouth and eyebrows,
in a puzzle, and again broadened out upon Bill in an odd kind of smile; at
last she doubled up one fist, put it against her cheek, glanced at Bill,
and out came the answer: "Well, sah, I'd let 'em take dere _own_ heads for
dat!" I must confess the philosophy of this remark awakened in me a train
of very grave reflections; but my companion burst into a most obstreperous
laugh. As for Mrs. Deer, she shook her old hips as long as she could
stand, and then sat down and continued, until she wiped the tears out of
her eyes with the corner of her apron. William cast himself down upon a
strawberry bank, and gave way to the most flagrant mirth, kicking up his
old shoes in the air, and fairly wallowing in laughter and blossoms. I
endeavored to change the subject. "Bill, did you catch any trout?" It was
some time before William could control himself enough to say, "Not a
single one, sah;" and then he rolled over on his back, put his black paws
up to his eyes, and twitched and jingled to his heart's content. I did not
ask Mrs. Deer any more questions; but there is a moral in the story,
enough for a day.
As we rattled over the road, after our brief dinner at Deer's Castle, I
could not avoid a pervading feeling of gloom and disappointment, in spite
of the balmy air and pretty landscape. The old ragged abodes of
wretchedness seemed to be too clearly defined--to stand out too
intrusively against the bright blue sky. But why should I feel so much for
Cuffee? Has he not enlisted in his behalf every philanthropist in England?
Is he not within ten miles of either the British flag or Acadia? Does not
the Duchess of Sutherland entertain the authoress of Uncle Tom's Cabin,
and the Black Swan? Why should I sorrow for Cuffee, when he is in the
midst of his best friends? Why should I pretend to say that this appears
to be the raggedest, the meanest, the worst condition of humanity, when
the papers are constantly lauding British philanthropy, and holding it up
as a great example, which we must "bow down and worship?" For my own part,
although the pleasant fiction of seeing Cuffee clothed, educated, and
Christianized, seemed to be somewhat obscured in this glimpse of his real
condition, yet I hope he will do well under his new owners; at the very
least, I trust his berry crop will be good, and that a benevolent British
blanket or two may enable him to shiver out the winter safely, if not
comfortably. Poor William Deer, Sen'r, of Deer's Castle, was suffering
with rheumatism in the next apartment, while we were at his eggs and bacon
in the banquet hall; but Deer of Deer's Castle is a prince to his
neighbors. I shall not easily forget the brightening eye, the swift glance
of intelligence in the face of another old negro, an hostler, in Nova
Scotia. He was from Virginia, and adopting the sweet, mellifluous language
of his own home, I asked him whether he liked best to stay where he was,
or go back to "Old Virginny?" "O massa!" said he, with _such_ a look, "you
_must know_ dat I has de warmest side for my own country!"
We rattled soberly into Dartmouth, and took the ferry-boat across the bay
to the city. At the hotel there was no little questioning about
Chezzetcook, for some of the Halifax merchants are at the Waverley. "GOED
bless ye, what took ye to Chizzencook?" said one, "I never was there een
in my life; ther's no bizz'ness ther, noathing to be seen: ai doant think
there is a maen in Halifax scairsly, 'as ever seen the place."
At the supper-table, while we were discussing, over the cheese and ale,
the Chezzetcook and negro settlements, and exhibiting with no little
vainglory a gorgeous bunch of wild flowers (half of which vanity my
_compagnon de voyage_ is accountable for), there was a young English-Irish
gentleman, well built, well featured, well educated: by name--I shall call
him Picton.
Picton took much interest in Deer's Castle and Chezzetcook, but slily and
satirically. I do not think this the best way for a young man to begin
with; but nevertheless, Picton managed so well to keep his sarcasms within
the bounds of good humor, that before eleven o'clock we had become pretty
well acquainted. At eleven o'clock the gas is turned off at Hotel
Waverley. We went to bed, and renewed the acquaintance at breakfast.
Picton had travelled overland from Montreal to take the "Canada" for
Liverpool, and had arrived too late. Picton had nearly a fortnight before
him in which to anticipate the next steamer. Picton was terribly bored
with Halifax. Picton wanted to go somewhere--where?--"he did not care
where." The consequence was a consultation upon the best disposal of a
fortnight of waste time, a general survey of the maritime craft of
Halifax, the selection of the schooner "Balaklava," bound for Sydney in
ballast, and an understanding with the captain, that the old French town
of Louisburgh was the point we wished to arrive at, into which harbor we
expected to be put safely--three hundred and odd miles from Halifax, and
this side of Sydney about sixty-two miles by sea. To all this did captain
Capstan "seriously incline," and the result was, two berths in the
"Balaklava," several cans of preserved meats and soups, a hamper of ale,
two bottles of Scotch whisky, a ramshackle, Halifax van for the luggage, a
general shaking of hands at departure, and another set of white sails
among the many white sails in the blue harbor of Chebucto.
The "Balaklava" glimmered out of the harbor. Slowly and gently we swept
past the islands and great ships; there on the shore is Point Pleasant in
full uniform, its red soldiers and yellow tents in the thick of the pines
and spruces; yonder is the admiralty, and the "Boscawen" seventy-four,
the receiving-ship, a French war-steamer, and merchantmen of all flags.
Slowly and gently we swept out past the round fort and long barracks, past
the lighthouse and beaches, out upon the tranquil ocean, with its ominous
fog-banks on the skirts of the horizon; out upon the evening sea, with the
summer air fanning our faces, and a large white Acadian moon, faintly
defined overhead.
Picton was a traveller; anybody could see that he was a traveller, and if
he had then been in any part of the habitable globe, in Scotland or
Tartary, Peru or Pennsylvania, there would not have been the least doubt
about the fact that he was a traveller travelling on his travels. He
looked like a traveller, and was dressed like a traveller. He had a
travelling-cap, a travelling-coat, a portable-desk, a life-preserver, a
water-proof blanket, a travelling-shirt, a travelling green leather
satchel strapped across his shoulder, a Minie-rifle, several trunks
adorned with geographical railway labels of all colors and languages,
cork-soled boots, a pocket-compass, and a hand-organ. As for the
hand-organ, that was an accident in his outfit. The hand-organ was a
present for a little boy on the other side of the ocean; but nevertheless,
it played its part very pleasantly in the cabin of the "Balaklava." And
now let me observe here, that when we left Halifax in the schooner, I was
scarcely less feeble than when I left New York. I mention it to show how
speedily "roughing it" on the salt water will bring one's stomach to its
senses.
The "Balaklava" was a fore-and-aft schooner in ballast, and very little
ballast at that; easily handled; painted black outside, and pink inside;
as staunch a craft as ever shook sail; very obedient to the rudder; of
some seventy or eighty tons burden; clean and neat everywhere, except in
the cabin. As for her commander, he was a fine gentleman; true, honest,
brave, modest, prudent and courteous. Sincerely polite, for if politeness
be only kindness mixed with refinement, then Captain Capstan was polite,
as we understand it. The mate of the schooner was a cannie Scot; by name,
Robert, Fitzjames, Buchanan, Wallace, Burns, Bruce; and Bruce was as jolly
a first-mate as ever sailed under the cross-bones of the British flag. The
crew was composed of four Newfoundland sailor men; and the cook, whose
h'eighth letter of the h'alphabet smacked somewhat strongly of H'albion.
As for the rest, there was Mrs. Captain Capstan, Captain and Mrs. Captain
Capstan's baby; Picton and myself. It is cruel to speak of a baby, except
in terms of endearment and affection, and therefore I could not but
condemn Picton, who would sometimes, in his position as a traveller,
allude to baby in language of most emphatic character. The fact is, Picton
_swore_ at that baby! Baby was in feeble health and would sometimes bewail
its fate as if the cabin of the "Balaklava" were four times the size of
baby's misfortunes. So Picton got to be very nervous and uncharitable, and
slept on deck after the first night.
"How do you like this?" said Picton, as we leaned over the side of the
"Balaklava," looking down at the millions of gelatinous quarls in the
clear waters.
"Oh! very much; this lazy life will soon bring me up; how exhilarating the
air is--how fresh and free!
"'A life on the ocean wave,
A home on the rolling deep.'"
Just then the schooner gave a lurch and shook her feathers alow and aloft
by way of chorus. "I like this kind of life very much; how gracefully this
vessel moves; what a beautiful union of strength, proportion, lightness,
in the taper masts, the slender ropes and stays, the full spread and sweep
of her sails! Then how expansive the view, the calm ocean in its solitude,
the receding land, the twinkling lighthouse, the"----
"Ever been sea-sick?" said Picton, drily.
"Not often. By the way, my appetite is improving; I think Cookey is
getting tea ready, by the smoke and the smell."
"Likely," replied Picton; "let us take a squint at the galley."
To the galley we went, where we saw Cookey in great distress; for the wind
would blow in at the wrong end of his stove-pipe, so as to reverse the
draft, and his stove was smoking at every seam. Poor Cookey's eyes were
full of tears.
"Why don't you turn the elbow of the pipe the other way?" said Picton.
"Hi av tried that," said Cookey, "but the helbow is so 'eavy the 'ole
thing comes h'off."
"Then, take off the elbow," said Picton.
So Cookey did, and very soon tea was ready. Imagine a cabin, not much
larger than a good-sized omnibus, and far less steady in its motion,
choked up with trunks, and a table about the size of a wash-stand; imagine
two stools and a locker to sit on: a canvas table-cloth in full blotch;
three chipped yellow mugs by way of cups; as many plates, but of great
variety of gap, crack, and pattern; pewter spoons; a blacking-bottle of
milk; an earthen piggin of brown sugar, embroidered with a lively gang of
great, fat, black pismires; hard bread, old as Nineveh; and butter of a
most forbidding aspect. Imagine this array set before an invalid, with an
appetite of the most Miss Nancyish kind!
"One misses the comforts here at sea," said the captain's lady, a pretty
young woman, with a sweet Milesian accent.
"Yes, ma'am," said I, glancing again at the banquet.
"I don't rightly know," she continued, "how I forgot the rocking-chair;"
and she gave baby an affectionate squeeze.
"And that," said the captain, "is as bad as me forgetting the potatoes."
Pic and I sat down, but we could neither eat nor drink; we were very soon
on deck again, sucking away dolefully at two precious cigars. At last he
broke out:
"By gad, to think of it!"
"What is the matter?" said I.
"Not a potato on board the 'Balaklava!'"
So we pulled away dolefully at our segars, in solemn silence.
"Picton," said I, "did you ever hear 'Annie Laurie?'"
"Yes," replied Picton, "about as many times as I want to hear it."
"Don't be impolite, Picton," said I; "it is not my intention to sing it
this evening. Indeed, I never heard it before I heard it in Halifax. I had
the good fortune to make one of a very pleasant company, at the house of
an old friend in the city, and I must say that song touched me, both the
song and the _singing_ of it. You know it was _the_ song in the Crimea?"
"Yes," said Picton, smoking vigorously.
"I asked Major ----," said I, "if 'Annie Laurie' was sung by the soldiers
in the Crimea; and he replied 'they did not sing anything else; they sang
it,' said he, 'by thousands at a time.' How does it go, Picton? Come now!"
So Picton held forth under the moon, and sang "Annie Laurie" on the
"Balaklava." And long after we turned in, the music kept singing on--
"Her voice is low and sweet,
And she's all the world to me;
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I'd lay me down and dee."