By the untimely rains or untimelier heat have been blighted,
And from our bursting barns they would feed their cattle and
children."
But in the church the mystery was solved soon enough, and naturally a
terrible scene ensued. They were informed that their "lands, tenements,
cattle, and livestock of all kinds were to be forfeited to the crown,
with all their effects, saving their money and household goods," and
they themselves banished; though, "so far as the capacity of the
transports permitted," they were "to be allowed to carry their household
goods with them." They were also promised that families should not be
separated, and that the transportation should be made as easy as
possible.
Then they were declared prisoners, and the church became the guardhouse.
Ten men at a time were allowed to leave the building, to pack their
goods and assist in the preparations for departure; and when they
returned ten others were also permitted to leave for a time. While
Moncton was destroying Remsheg, Shediac, and other towns on the Gulf
coast, Handfield gathered up the French Annapolitans, and Murray those
about Windsor, putting them on shipboard; and on the 21st of October the
ships, with their wretched passengers, set sail. In the confusion and
hurry of embarkation some families were separated; and it is on this
fact that the story of Evangeline is founded.
Most of the exiles were scattered among the towns of Massachusetts; and
in the State House in Boston some curious old records relate to them,
one town desiring compensation "for keeping three French pagans", from
which it seems that there was still prejudice against them because of
their religion.
"From the cold lakes of the north to sultry southern Savannahs,"
to the region where
"On the banks of the Teche are the towns of St. Maur and St Martin,"
to the parish of Attakapas
"and the prairies of fair Opelousas"
in Louisiana, some of the exiles wandered. Their descendants live there
at the present time, and are known as Cajeans. Though sometimes harshly
treated in the towns where they were quartered, though shouldered off
from one village to another when one grew weary of or made excuses for
not maintaining them, the poor wanderers were mild, gentle, and
uncomplaining.
A writer in "Canadian Antiquities" says: "None speaks the tongue of
Evangeline; and her story, though true as it is sweet and sorrowful, is
heard no more in the scenes of her early days."
The way in which it came about that Longfellow wrote his poem was in
this wise: one day, when Hawthorne and a friend from Salem were dining
with the poet, the Salem gentleman remarked to the host, "I have been
trying to persuade Hawthorne to write a story based on a legend of
Acadie and still current there,--the legend of a girl who, in the
dispersion of the Acadians, was separated from her lover, and passed
her life in waiting and seeking for him, and only found him dying in a
hospital when both were old." The host, surprised that this romance did
not strike the fancy of the novelist, asked if he himself might use it
for a poem; and Hawthorne, readily assenting, promised not to attempt
the subject in prose until the poet had tried what he could do with it
in metrical form. No one rejoiced more heartily in the success of the
world-renowned poem than the writer who generously gave up an
opportunity to win fame from his working up of the sad theme.
Authorities differ widely regarding the number of persons expelled from
Acadia, many historians giving the estimate at seven thousand. In a
letter from Governor Lawrence to the governors of the different colonies
to which the exiles were sent, he says: "As their numbers amount to near
seven thousand persons, the driving them off with leave to go whither
they pleased would have doubtless strengthened Canada with so
considerable a number of inhabitants." Bryant says: "Seven thousand
probably represented with sufficient accuracy the total French
population of Acadia in 1755; but the entire number of the exiled did
not exceed, if Minot be correct, two thousand, of whom many
subsequently returned to Acadia."
Five years after the departure of the exiles a fleet of twenty-two
vessels sailed from Connecticut for Grand Pré with a large number of
colonists, who took possession of the deserted farms. They found sixty
ox carts and yokes, while on the edge of woods of the inland country and
in sheltered places heaps of bones told of cattle which had perished of
starvation and cold after their owners were forced to leave them to such
a fate. A few straggling families of the Acadians were also found, who
had escaped from the search of the soldiers, and had lived in hiding in
the wilds of the back country for five years, and during that time had
not tasted bread.
CLARE
"Only along the shore of the mournful and misty Atlantic
Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers from exile
Wandered back to their native land to die in its bosom.
In the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom are still busy,
Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kirtles of homespun,
And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's story."
Resolved to see these curious "Clare settlements," extending for fifty
miles on the coast, where descendants of the French Acadians live in
peace and unity, we reluctantly take our departure at last from dear old
Annapolis, which has been our restful haven so long, and where we have
been reviving school days in studying history and geography seasoned
with poetry and romance. Although it was expected that the W. C. R. R.
would be completed from Yarmouth to Annapolis by the latter part of
1876, we are pleased to find that this is not the case, and that we
shall have to take steamer, train, and carriage to our destination;
anticipating that any place so out of the beaten track must be
interesting.
The French settlements, a succession of straggling hamlets, were
founded by descendants of the exiles, who,--
"a raft as it were from the shipwrecked nation,...
Bound by the bonds of a common belief and a common misfortune,"
drifted back to "L'Acadie" in 1763, the year of the treaty between
France and England.
The lands of their fathers in their old haunts on the Basin of Minas
were in possession of people from New England; and, having a natural and
inherited affection for localities by the sea, they wandered down the
coast and scattered along shore as we find them now.
A pleasant excursion by steamer to Digby, thence proceeding some miles
by rail, finally a long but charming drive by the shore of St. Mary's
Bay, and we are set down at the house of a family of the better class,
among these kindly and old-fashioned farming and fisher folk. This
beautiful bay is thirty-five miles long, was christened Baie St. Marie
by Champlain, and here the four ships of De Monts lay in calm and secure
harbor for two weeks in 1604, while the adventurers were examining the
shores of Nova Scotia,--explorations in which the discovery of iron
pyrites deluded them with the belief that this would prove an El
Dorado.
Madame M. at first looks dismayed at the appearance of such a group of
strangers at her door, and is sure she cannot accommodate us; but her
daughters slyly jog her elbow, saying something in an undertone, as if
urging her to consent, and we are made most comfortable.
At first the family are a little shy, but in a couple of days we become
quite well acquainted; and, when the time comes for our departure they
"wish we could stay longer",--a wish which we heartily re-echo.
Madame proudly displays her treasures in hand-spun and home-woven linen
and blankets; also a carpet, the material for which she first spun, then
dyed, and finally wove; and, though it has been in use for ten years,
it is still fresh and shows no apparent wear. In response to our
entreaties, she shows us the loom, and brings out her spinning wheel to
instruct us in that housewifely accomplishment. How easy it looks, as
the fleecy web moves through her fingers, and winds in smooth, even yarn
on the swiftly turning reel; and, oh, what bungling and botching when
we essay that same! The two pretty, modest, and diffident daughters are
quite overcome at last, and join in our peals of merriment.
One--oh bliss!--is named _Evangeline_, and, if we understand correctly,
there is an old name similar to this among these people. Though they
sing some charming old French chansons for us, the two sweet girls
cannot be induced to converse in that language. Madame laughs, saying,
"Dey know dey doant speak de _goot_ French, de fine French, so dey will
only talk Angleesh wid you." But in the evening, when Octavia sings an
absurd college song, with a mixture of French and English words, they
enjoy the fun; and immediately set to work to learn:--
"Oh, Jean Baptiste, pourquoi vous grease
My little dog's nose with tar?
Madame, je grease his nose with tar
Because he have von grand catarrh,
Madame, je grease his nose
Parcequ'il he vorries my leetle fite chat."
Then the pretty Evangeline in turn becomes instructor, the theme being
an ancient peasant song of France which her grandmother used to sing.
One plays the melody from memory, while the other hastily rules a bit
of paper and writes off the notes, afterwards copying the words from a
scrap of tattered manuscript; and thus the lady from "America" feels
that she has secured a pretty souvenir of the visit:
LES PERLES ET LES ÉTOILES.
1.
Comme les perles et les é - tol – les
Or-nent dé - ja le front des cleux
La nuit e-tend partout votle
Elle vient de ju fermer mes yeux,
Re - viendras tu dans un doux songe,
O mon bel ange, tor que j'adore
Me re - pe - ter divers mensonges
Me re - pe - ter -ye taime encore--
2.
Sur un soup-çon tu t'es en—fuie
Je pleure bélas ton a - ban – don
Par un bais er je t'en supplie
Viens m’accorder undous pardon
Oh crois le bien ma bonne a se
Pour te revoir oh om, un jor,
Je donnerais toute ma vie
Je donnerais tous mes amours
The word "_mensonges_" has not the meaning in French which our literal
translation would give it. It probably signifies the pretty falsehoods
or white lies to which lovers are somewhat addicted. The next day is
Sunday, and troops of people, in their peculiar costume, appear on the
road from all directions, wending their way to the great white wooden
church.
Despite the innate grace of the French, of which we hear so much, we
see that the young men among these peasants are not unlike the shy and
awkward country lads of Yankee land. Before and between the services
they roost on the fence opposite the church, while the young
girls--totally oblivious of their proximity, of course--gather in groups
on the other side of the road, gossiping. We infer that many have come a
long distance to attend service, as we see several families eating their
lunch, picnic fashion, in the fields near the church. In the church,
what a sensation the strangers make, and how interesting is the service!
To one of us, at least, the grand service of Notre Dame of Paris was
not so impressive as this. In the one case, a famous Bishop, robed in
priceless lace and cloth of gold, with a troop of acolytes at the altar,
while the most famous singers of the Opera filled the vast structure
with rapturous melody; in the other, a large plain wooden building with
glaring windows of untinted glass; the priest in vestments of coarse
Nottingham lace and yellow damask,--but with spiritual, benignant
countenance,--and a choir of untrained voices. A company of men droned
out Gregorian chants in painfully nasal tones, using antique books with
square headed notes; then the sweet voice of our host's daughter,
Evangeline, sounded solo, and her youthful companions in the choir took
up the chorus of the Kyrie Eleison:--
"Then came the evening service.
The tapers gleamed from the altar,
Fervent and deep was the voice of the priest, and the people
responded,
Not with their lips alone, but with their hearts; and the Ave Maria
Sang they, and fell on their knees, and their souls with devotion
translated,
Rose on the ardor of prayer, like Elijah ascending to heaven."
The young girls array themselves in hats and costumes which are only two
or three years behind the prevailing mode; but the attire of the middle
aged and elderly women is striking and peculiar. For Sundays, this is
invariably black throughout, and yet does not look funereal. The dress
is of plain bombazine or alpaca, a shawl folded square, and over the
head a large silk handkerchief, which must be put on with greatest
exactness and care to make just so many folds at the sides with a huge
knot under the chin; while the point at the back hangs below the neck,
and generally has one or more initials neatly worked in colors
("cross-stitch") in the corner. As most have clear olive complexion,
with rich color in the cheeks, arid lustrous black eyes, this headdress
is surprisingly becoming, giving quite a gypsyish effect.
During the week, a calico dress with long white apron is worn by women
and children, and over the head a light chintz handkerchief, or a gay
"bandanna";--quite suggestive of the every day wear of foreign
peasantry. We are told that a girl's wealth is sometimes estimated by
the number of handkerchiefs she owns. Mrs. R. says she has, in winter,
seen a girl divest herself of no less than ten head-kerchiefs; taking
them off, one by one, and carefully folding them in the most natural
manner, as if there could be nothing uncommon or amusing in the
proceeding.
The old women, in winter, wear enormous cloaks, made with a large square
yoke, into which eight or ten breadths of material are closely plaited,
--this unwieldy garment completely enveloping them from head to foot.
These distinctive features in costume are disappearing, and ere long our
American peasantry may become commonplace and uninteresting. Let us hope
that they may never lose the sweet simplicity, frankness, honesty,
thrift, and other pleasing characteristics which they now possess.
In the houses is seen a peculiar rocking-settle, similar to those in use
among the Pennsylvania Dutch. This odd piece of furniture has one end
railed in front to serve for cradle; so papa, mamma, and baby can rock
and "take comfort" together.
Towards evening we visit the convent, where the sisters--who probably do
not receive frequent calls from visitors--seem glad of the opportunity
for a pleasant chat and a bit of news from the outside world. They show
us through their exquisitely neat establishment, where, in the culinary
department, a crone who is deaf and rather childish approaches us
with such strong evidence of delight, that we expect at least to be
embraced; but a sign from the Superior relieves us from the impending
demonstration.
At sunset, as we stroll along the road, three pretty little girls
who are driving home a flock of geese tempt us to air our French a
little, and a lively conversation ensues, causing their black eyes
to sparkle and their white teeth to flash bewitchingly. One of the
children explains why one of the awkward birds wears a clumsy triangular
collar of wood, with a stake apparently driven through its throat,
"to prevent it from going through the fences;" and when one of the
strangers, imitating the waddling gait of the creatures, improvises,--
Bon soir, Madame Oie, Veux tu le blé? Il est à toi!
such a shout of merry laughter is heard as one might willingly go a long
way to listen to. When one gives her name, "Thérese _le Blanc_", our
query, "Votre père, est il _la Notaire_?" strange to say, puzzles her;
but she probably is not familiar with a certain famous poem, although
our hostess and her daughters have perused it.
As time passes, and she feels better acquainted and at ease with us,
Madame M.'s younger daughter amuses us by showing some mischievous
tendency; and we conclude she is something of "a tease". In the most
artless manner, and without intentional familiarity, she slides her arm
through Octavia's in a confidential manner and imparts some important
information "dans l'oreille". What is it? Well, remember it is
_whispered_; and now _don't_ go and tell! It is that there _is_ a swain
who is Evangeline's special devoted; and the quick blush which rises
most becomingly on that damsel's cheek speaks for itself. We have seen
for ourselves how
"Many a youth, as he knelt in the church and opened his missal, fixed
his eyes upon her,"
and as our eyes turn to the lovely view of the Bay with its sheltering
highlands we can readily imagine how, on just such evenings as this,--
"apart, in the twilight gloom of a window's embrasure,
Sat the lovers, and whispered together, beholding the moon rise
Over the pallid sea,"
while
"Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven,
Blossom the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels."
We do not ask if the lover's name is "Gabriel", but earnestly wish her
a happier lot than that of the sad heroine of Grand Pré's story.
The sun sinks behind the hills which bound lovely St. Mary's Bay, and
we plainly see the two curious openings known as the Grand Passage and
Petit Passage, through which the fishermen sail when conveying their
cargoes to St. John. The Petit Passage is one mile wide; and passing
through this deep strait the hardy fishermen can, in favorable weather,
cross to St John in eight to ten hours. These highlands across the Bay,
known as Digby Neck and Long Island, are a continuation of the range of
mountains terminating in Blomidon on the Minas Basin, and so singularly
cut away to make entrance to Annapolis Basin, at St. George's Channel,
vulgarly known as Digby Gut.
When De Monts and his party were ready to continue their cruise from
this sheltered haven, behold! one of their company--a priest--was
missing; and though they waited several days, making signals and firing
guns, such sounds were drowned by the roar of the surf, and never
reached the ears of the poor man lost in the woods. At last, supposing
that the wanderer had fallen a prey to wild animals, the explorers
sailed away, and, finding the entrance to Annapolis Basin, began to
make preparation for colonizing at Port Royal.
Sixteen days after the disappearance of the priest, some of De Monts'
men returning to this Bay to examine the minerals more thoroughly, were
attracted by a signal fluttering on the shore, and, hurrying to land,
there found the poor priest, emaciated and exhausted. What strange
sensations the distracted wanderer must have experienced in these forest
wilds, with starvation staring him in the face! No charms did _he_ see
in this scene which now delights us; and doubtless, with Selkirk, would
have exclaimed, "Better dwell in the midst of alarms, than to live in
this beautiful place."
This strange wild coast and the Cod Banks of Newfoundland were known to
and visited by foreign fishermen at a very early date. "The Basques,
that primeval people, older than history," frequented these shores; and
it is supposed that such fisheries existed even before the voyage of
Cabot (1497). There is strong evidence of it in 1504; while in 1527
fourteen fishing vessels--Norman, Portuguese, and Breton--were seen at
one time in the Bay of Fundy, near the present site of St. John.
When we question our hostess as to the species of finny tribes found in
these waters, she mentions menhaden, mackerel, alewives, herring, etc;
and, proud of her English, concludes her enumeration with, "Dat is de
most only feesh dey kotch here."
Another drive of many miles along the shore brings us to the
neighborhood of the very jumping off place of the Scotian peninsula,
with novel sights to attract the attention _en route_. Now and then a
barn with thatched roof; here a battered boat overturned to make Piggy
and family a habitation; there heavy and lumbering _three_ wheeled
carts, with the third rotator placed between the shafts, so the poor ox
who draws the queer vehicle hasn't much room to spare.
Huge loads of hay pass us, and other large farm wagons, drawn invariably
by handsome oxen. The ox-yokes are a constant marvel to us; for,
divested of the bows, they are fastened with leather straps to the bases
of the poor creatures' horns. Evidently there is no "S. P. C. A." here;
and we cannot convince those with whom we converse on the subject that
the poor animals would pull better by their shoulders than by their
heads. At several places we see the clumsiest windmills for sawing wood;
not after the fashion of the picturesque buildings which Don Quixote so
valiantly opposed, but a heavy frame work or scaffolding about twelve
feet in height. To this is attached a wheel of heaviest plank with five
fans, each one shaped like the arm of a Greek cross, and the whole so
ponderous we are confident that nothing less than a hurricane could
make it revolve.
Here is a house entirely covered with diamond shaped shingles, having
also double and triple windows, which are long, narrow, and pointed at
the top, yet not suggestive of the gothic.
Next we pass a point where an old post inn once stood, and where the
curiously curved, twisted, and strangely complicated iron frame which
once held the swinging sign still remains.
Many a bleak ride did that mounted carrier have, no doubt, in days of
yore; and we can imagine him saying:--
"The night is late, I dare not wait, the winds begin to blow,
And ere I gain the rocky plain there'll be a storm, I know!"
At our final halting place all is bustle, in preparation for a two days'
fête, which commences next day; nevertheless, had we been princes of the
realm, we could not have been shown truer hospitality. Père Basil Armand
himself waits upon us, while his wife is cooking dainties for the coming
festival; and the pretty Monica, giving up her neat apartment to one of
our party, lodges at a neighbor's.
Monsieur R., though seventy-eight years of age, retains all his
faculties perfectly, is straight as an Indian, his luxuriant hair
unstreaked with gray, and he is over six feet in height. He reminds us
of the description of Benedict Bellefontaine:--
"Stalwart and stately in form was the man of seventy winters,
Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow flakes,"
but our host is even a finer specimen of vigorous age. Then his books--
for he is collector of customs, a post which he has held for twenty-five
years--would amaze many a younger clerk or scribe; and he is amused, but
apparently gratified, when we ask for his autograph, which he obligingly
writes for each in a firm, clear, and fine hand. He says of the people
of this settlement, that they generally speak patois, though many, like
himself, can speak pure French; that they are faithful and true hearted,
industrious and thrifty. He adds: "We are not rich, we are not poor,
but we are happy and contented."
During the fearful scenes of 1793 an amiable priest of great culture, a
man noble in character, as by birth, fled from the horrors of the French
Revolution, and found among this simple, childlike people a peaceful
haven and happy home. This earnest man, Abbé Ségoigne, devoted himself
in everyway to their good, governing them wisely and well, and might
truly have said, in the words of Father Felician,--
"I labored among you and taught you, not in word alone but in deed."
Many years he resided here. His memory is now venerated almost as that
of a saint, and we are of course greatly interested when Monsieur R.
brings out, with just pride, his greatest treasure,--a cumbersome and
quaint old volume which was once the property of the good priest.
There is a strong feeling of brotherhood, like the Scottish clanship,
among the people; and the lands of parents are divided and subdivided,
so the children at marriage may each receive a portion as dower, and
"settle down" near their childhood's home; consequently the farms are
"long drawn out", extending sometimes in very narrow strips for a mile
or more inland.
Abbé Raynal writes most poetically, although not absolutely in rhyme, of
this gentle brotherhood, "where every misfortune was relieved before it
could be felt, without ostentation on the one hand and without meanness
on the other. Whatever slight differences arose from time to time among
them were amicably adjusted by their elders."