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originally made of mud from the flats, held together by the wiry marsh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 that _cidereal_ observations 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 sunset
Lighteth 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-tide
Flagons of home-brewed ale,...
Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in the village of Grand
Pré,"
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 heirloom
Handed 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".
ANNAPOLIS--ROYAL
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 Green
On ev'ry Side, the Prospect brings to Sight
The Fields, the Flow'rs, and ev'ry fresh Delight
His lovely Banks, most beauteously are grac'd
With Nature's sweet variety of Taste
Herbs, Fruits and Grass, with intermingled Trees
The Prospect lengthen, and the Joys increase
The 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 ends
Fair Scenes! to which should Angels turn their Sight,
Angels might stand astonished with Delight
Majestic Grove in ev'ry View arise
And 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 Fir
And beauteous Pine perfume the ambient Air,
The air, at once, both Health and Fragrance yields,
Like sweet Arabian or Elysian Fields
Thou 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 green
The Streets, the Buildings, Gardens, all concert
To 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 see
Their prosp'rous Offering to the fourth Degree:
With Grief sincere, the blooming offspring close
Their 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 move
In active Bus'ness, and in chastest Love.
The Nymphs and Swains appear in Streets and Bowers
As 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 share
Retir'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 Spheres
The 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 Eye
But 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 conspire
T' inflame all pious Hearts with holy Fire,
Each one in Fancy seems among the Throng
Of 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 Heart
Be 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 Friend
Attain 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 out _en 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 a _member 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?
DIGBY.
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 conferred
On mortals at baptism in this queer world
Seem 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 tell
_you_!"--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.