_oui_, etc.; the dancing crests of the waves he calls "chapeaux blancs",
which is similar to our appellation, and also speaks of "un bon _coop_
de thé", showing that an English word is occasionally adopted, though
hardly recognizable in their peculiar phraseology.
One pleasant acquaintance, Dr. R, who lived here several years after he
"came out" from England, tells us that the mackerouse, a wild duck, is
found here; and, as it subsists upon fish, the people are allowed to eat
that bird on Fridays. He also says that the pigs wade out into the mud
at low tide to root for clams; while the crows, following in their
tracks, steal the coveted shell fish from under the very noses of the
swine. Of the remarkably long nasal appendages of this peculiar porcine
species he adds, "They do say that they'll root under a fence and steal
potatoes from the third row!"
In this locality we hear Yarmouth spoken of as if it were a port equal
to New York in importance, and so it doubtless seems to these simple
un-traveled people. In reality it is a prosperous maritime town owning
one hundred and thirty thousand tons of shipping, and is a mildly
picturesque place when the tide is high.
The Indian name appropriately signifies "end of the land," and one might
naturally suppose, when arriving there, that he had reached "that famous
fabled country, 'away down east';" though, should he continue his
travels to Labrador, that mythical region would still lure him on. The
inhabitants are mainly seafaring men,--many of the captains of Cape Ann
fishing fleets came from here originally,--and they call the Atlantic
from Cape Ann to Yarmouth all Bay of Fundy, though that is "rather
stretching it."
It was near here that De Monts made his first landing and caught a
nightingale (May 16, 1604). Not far beyond, about the shores of Argyle
Bay, a great many "French Neutrals" found refuge in 1755 (though an
English ship tried to rout them); and they were hunted like wild
animals about here for two or three years after.
We conclude that the hamlets on the upper part of St. Mary's Bay are
most interesting, and that it is hardly worth while to continue down
the coast unless one desires to take steamer from this port to Boston.
In our strolls about the village, we come to a point on the shore where
a boy has a quantity of fine large lobsters which he has just taken from
the trap; and when one of our party asks for what price he will sell
some, the answer--"One cent each"--is so astounding that the query is
repeated, so we may be convinced that we have heard aright. Pere Basil
is evidently surprised at our taste when he sees us returning with our
purchases, as he remarks, "We don't think much of those at this time of
year;" from which we infer that at some seasons they have to depend so
much upon fish, lobsters, etc., that they become weary of them.
There is such Gallic atmosphere about this place (and trip) that Octavia
is infected, and perpetrates doggerel on a postal, which is to be mailed
from the "land's end" to acquaint foreign relatives with our advent in
a foreign country also!--
Tout est "0. K."
Je suis arivée
Dans ce joli pays,
Avec bonne santé,
Mais bien fatiguée.
Adieu. E. B. C.
(O quelle atrocité!
Mais je n'ai ni grammaire
Ni dictionnaire français.)
"Pleasantly rose next morn the sun,"
and though we are up and out betimes,--
"Life had long been astir in the village, and clamorous labor
Knocked with its hundred hands at the golden gate of the morning.
Now from the country around, from the farms and the neighboring
hamlets,
Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian peasants.
Many a glad good morrow and jocund laugh from the young folk
Made the bright air brighter, as up from the numerous meadows,
Group after group appeared, and joined or passed on the highway.
Long ere noon, in the village all sounds of labor were silenced.
Thronged were the streets with people; and noisy groups at the house
doors
Sat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped together.
Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed and feasted,
For with this simple people, who lived like brothers together,
All things were held in common, and what one had was another's."
Père Basil is surprised to find that we have not come especially to
attend the festival, of which we had not heard until our arrival,
though he evidently thinks the fame of their elaborate preparations has
traveled far and wide. While we are waiting for the vehicles which are
to convey us to the railroad station (a long drive inland) many most
picturesque groups pass the door; some walking, some riding on ox-carts,
and all carrying flowers, pyramidal and gorgeously ornamented cakes, or
curious implements for games, totally unknown to us moderns! Our host
has a pleasant greeting for all, and receives cordial reply, and
sometimes merry jest and repartee from the happy revelers.
Much to our delight, our route to the station passes the grounds where
the fête is held; and here we see booths of boughs, a revolving swing
(which they call a "galance"), fluttering flags, and gay banners.
Merry groups of young people are engaged in games or dances, while the
elders are gossiping, or look on approvingly, and the air is filled with
lively music. Can it be that the melodies which we hear are the famous
old ones, "Toes les Bourgeois de Charters" and "Le Carillon de Dunker"?
It would hardly surprise us, as this quaint place seems a century or so
behind the times.
We wish we could stop for an hour or two to watch them; but trains wait
for no man, and we must return to Digby and there take steamer for St.
John.
That short passage of twelve leagues has been our bugbear for some days,
as travelers whom we met at Annapolis pictured its horrors so vividly,
representing its atrocities as exceeding those of the notorious English
Channel. Yet we glide as smoothly through the eddies and whirlpools of
the beautiful Gap as a Sound steamer passes through Hell Gate. This
remarkable passage way is two miles in length; the mountains rise on
either hand to the height of five hundred and sixty and six hundred and
ten feet, the tide between rushing at the rate of five knots an hour.
We note gray, water worn rocks at the sides, resembling pumice in
appearance, though of course very much harder stone, and evidently of
similar formation to that of the ovens at Mt. Desert. And now we sweep
quietly out into the dreaded Bay of Fundy, the water of which rests in
such oily quietude as even Long Island Sound rarely shows. On this hazy,
lazy, sunny afternoon not a swell is perceptible (unless some among the
passengers might be designated by that title); and after four and a half
hours of most dreamy navigation, we enter the harbor of St. John, where
the many tinted signal lights are reflected in the black water, and a
forest fire on a distant hill throws a lurid light over the scene.
When the tide turns, there can be seen frequently far out in the Bay a
distinct line in the water,--a line as sharply defined as that between
the Arve and Rhone at their junction near Geneva. It is when wind and
tide are at variance that the roughest water is encountered; and they
say that if one would avoid an unpleasant game of pitch and toss, the
passage across should not be attempted during or immediately after a
blow from the northwest or southeast. So make a note of that! Old salts
at Annapolis told us that the water of the Bay "gets up" suddenly, but
also quiets down soon, and that after a windless night one might be
reasonably certain of a comfortable trip across.
Having supposed that St. John had lost half its charm and quaintness
since the fire, we are surprised to find so much of interest when we
are out at the "top of the morning" next day, and are reluctant to
leave; but here the Octave disintegrates, scatters to finish the season
elsewhere; and each member, on arrival at home, probably invests in
reams of paper and quarts of ink, setting to work to tell his friends
all about it, and where "they must surely go next summer!"
"L'ISLE DES MONTS DESERTS."
(A LETTER BY THE WAY.)
"Beautiful Isle of the Sea!"
When we said, "Let us go to Mt. Desert," Joe gave us Punch's advice on
marriage: "Don't!" Sue said. "It has lost half its charms by becoming so
fashionable;" and Hal added, as an unanswerable argument, "You'll not be
able to get enough to eat." As to his veracity on this subject we cannot
vouch, though we can testify to his voracity, and mischievously throw a
quotation at him:--
"The turnpike to men's hearts, I find,
Lies through their mouths, or I mistake mankind."
Despite such discouragements, being naturally obstinate, go we do; and
here we are in the most refreshingly primitive and unfashionable abiding
place, the domicile commanding a view which cannot be equaled by any
public house on the island. From the piazzas and our windows the eye
never tires of gazing on the beautiful bay with its numerous
islands,--a charming picture, with the blue and symmetrical range of
Gouldsboro' hills for background. From a point not far back of the
house, the eye ranges from the head of Frenchman's Bay out to the broad
ocean; while a retrospective view takes in the wild mountainous region
of the interior of this lovely isle.
We arrive at a fortunate time. For a long while previous Nature had
persistently enveloped her face in a veil, giving an air of mystery
which the summer guests did not appreciate. The skipper of the yacht
which conveys us when we circumnavigate the island tells us "there is a
fog factory near by," a statement which, for a few days, we are inclined
to credit. The nabobs of Newport, the Sybarites of Nahant, and even the
commonplace rusticators at other shore resorts have been served in the
same manner, however; so we sympathize with them fully, and with them
exult at the final dissolution of the vapors, as the gray curtain
gradually lifts and rolls away, its edge all jagged as if torn by the
lance-like tips of fir and spruce trees as it swept over them. These
noble hills are densely wooded, but not with the forest giants one sees
among the White Mountains; and when I express my surprise thereat, I am
told that fifty or sixty years ago the greater part of the island was
denuded by fire, so that remains of the primeval forest can only be
found in distant spots not easily accessible. Notices are now posted in
the woods at various points, by which "visitors are earnestly requested
to extinguish all fires which they may light, and not to strip the bark
from the birches."
In our inland excursions the rugged mountains, with their storm scarred,
rocky summits, wild ravines, and forest embedded bases, so constantly
suggest the grand scenery of New Hampshire that we can hardly realize
that we are anywhere near the sea. Then, on a sudden turn of the road,
a broad stretch of ocean--blue, sparkling, and sail dotted, framed in
graceful birches, feathery larches, and dark pines--comes upon us as a
surprise.
The peculiar vehicle which is here known as a "buckboard" we find a
comfortable conveyance, with a motion which seems a combination of
see-saw and baby-jumper. The "body" is composed of four long boards laid
side by side, supported only at the extreme ends where they are hung
over the axles. The seats are in the middle. They are neither elegant
nor graceful, but easy, "springy" vehicles, which, having neither sides
nor top covers, give unimpeded views, and are excellent for sight
seeing, though not precisely the thing for rainy weather.
Canoeing is a favorite amusement; and in the management of these light
and graceful boats many of the summer guests become quite expert. The
motion suggests that of a gondola, A catamaran scoots about the harbor
among the islands; tiny steamers, sailing craft of all kinds, are seen;
and sometimes United States training ships sail majestically into the
bay and drop anchor, giving a finishing touch to the picture.
Skippers are very cautious, and frequently will not allow their canoes
or other boats to go out, although it may appear perfectly safe to the
uninitiated. Visitors rarely have any idea what sudden "flaws" and gusts
of air are caused by the position of and openings between the mountains;
and when these, as well as the tidal swell and currents of the ocean
about the shore, have to be studied, navigation becomes scientific.
The arrival of the steamer is the great event of the day; and on Sunday,
after morning service, the butterflies of fashion flit to the pier to
see the landing of passengers. It is rather embarrassing for weary
travelers to be obliged to "run the gauntlet" as they pass through the
gay throng, for every one stares with all his might. This does not seem
to be considered rude here, and every one is met by a "battery of eyes;"
I presume because each person expects, if he remain here through the
season, to meet every one whom he ever knew.
The yachting and tennis costumes which are worn here would certainly
cause many of the sober residents of the Quaker City to open their eyes
wide with horror,--if they were able to open them, and were not blinded
by the first glance. One divinity, in scarlet and white striped awning
cloth, awe christen the "mint stick". And _such_ hats!--each so
placed upon the head that, however huge, it is utterly useless as a
shade; but as effect is what all are striving for, any other
consideration is of no importance whatever. Such attire would be hooted
at in some places; and we wonder that it does not strike old settlers
breathless with amazement at the extravagances and follies of "these
city folks". Jim quotes, "Any color so it's red," when surveying a
brilliantly attired company at this place, as that aggressive hue
prevails. These fantastic costumes are frequently seen in the mornings
on the shore, where the wearers are engaged in an amusement here known
as "rocking". This consists in lounging on the rocks with interesting
youths, who, arrayed in picturesque yachting or tennis suits, pose
artistically, and, beneath the shade of scarlet or Japanese umbrellas,
talk of the weather, of course. Elsewhere this would be known as
flirting.
We do not approve of the names of some of the public houses, and wonder
that they could not have chosen more suggestive titles. The "Hotel des
Isles" has a more suitable and appropriate cognomen,--if they would
spell it correctly, which they invariably do not. This name is borne by
descendants of the old French settlers, but is now, sad to tell,
pronounced by their contemporaries "De Sizzle". We call our house
Pleasant Haven, or Restful Retreat, though it appears under a different
title in the guide book. It would never do to tell what its name "really
and truly" is, lest you should think I have been engaged to "puff" it.
We have delicious bread and excellent fare; and, though this is plain,
of course, all is temptingly served, and everything neat and nice
enough for any one.
Our rooms are extremely plain, but neat. Closets are unknown; but on
hooks along the wall on one side of the apartment we hang our garments,
protecting them with chintz curtains which we brought for the purpose.
A resident of Fifth Avenue occupies the garret rooms above, having
selected them from choice; and, expatiating on their advantages in
quiet, air, and views, becomes an Attic Philosopher.
Occasionally we get out our fineries, and go to some "hop" or
entertainment in the village, but return better satisfied with our
present home; and, snapping our fingers at Mrs. Grundy, do not envy any
of her votaries. If our advice were asked, we should say: "Come to one
of the smaller hostelries, like this, where you can be independent and
comfortable; and bring half worn winter garments, with boots ditto, to
be prepared for tramping and excursions."
The excursions which can be taken I will not enumerate; will merely
state that the ascent of Green Mountain, in clear weather, and the drive
to Great Head are most satisfactory. On our way to the latter point we
stop at Anemone Cave, where we enjoy an impromptu concert by members of
Philadelphia glee clubs, the fine voices and beautiful harmonies being
enhanced by the dark arch of rock and the ceaseless music of the surf,
which forms a grand accompaniment.
The view from Green Mountain is quite unique, the eye traversing ocean
and land for forty miles in any direction; following the singularly
serrated coast of Maine, the course of Somes Sound,--that remarkable
inlet from the sea which almost divides the island,--and tracing the
waving line of far distant mountain ranges. The mainland is curiously
cut into long rocky points and ragged peninsulas, from which the islands
seem to have broken off and drifted out to sea. From this height
(fifteen hundred and thirty-five feet) the ocean seems placid and
smooth,--much less awe-inspiring than from the shore, where the surges
roll in with such tremendous power, as if endeavoring to crush the
towering cliffs which oppose them. The clustering buildings of Bar
Harbor appear like a child's playthings, or Nuremberg toys; the
miniature vessels like sea gulls just alighted; the white tents of the
Indian encampment ludicrously suggest a laundry with big "wash" hung out
to dry; and the whole scene looks as if viewed through the large end of
an opera glass. It is a peaceful and beautiful picture for memory to
treasure and look back upon with delight.
At Fernald's Point, at the base of Flying Mountain, two miles north of
Southwest Harbor, is the supposed location of the French settlement,
which was founded by a party of priests and colonists sent out from
France to Port Royal (now Annapolis, Nova Scotia), who, losing their way
in fog, landed here. The peaceful little community, after only a few
weeks' occupancy, were routed by that grasping individual, Argall, the
deputy governor of Virginia, who was detested by his own colonists for
his tyranny and rapacity. That person, not content with the domains
which his position entitled him to govern, cruised along the Atlantic
coast, making many such incursions among the colonists. In this case,
after destroying the buildings, he cruelly set adrift in an open boat
fifteen of the poor, harmless people, who, after suffering great
hardships, were picked up by a trading vessel and conveyed to St. Malo.
We wonder that investigations have not been made ere this at this spot,
as it seems probable that old implements and objects of interest might
be brought to light. How we wish we were members of the Maine Historical
Society, and by that body empowered to superintend excavations at the
site of a colony which was in existence (1613) seven years before the
landing of the Pilgrims!
Samuel de Champlain, friend, associate, and pilot of De Monts in the
latter's investigations of his possessions in Acadia (in 1604), was
sponsor of this island which has since become so famous, of which he
speaks as "La grande Isle des Monts Deserts;" and by the early Lord of
the Realm the whole of Frenchman's Bay was also called La Havre du Saint
Sauveur. That wicked Jim says that the _Indian_ name of the island must
suggest itself to some travelers on their way here, unless they come by
the land route.
There are thirty-five guests in our house, who form a pleasant company;
and though of course there is great diversity of taste and character
shown among them, they form a harmonious assembly. In the evenings we
have "sings", readings, games, and charades, frequently growing
hilarious. Sedate professors, dignified divines, and learned writers
enter into these sports with the zest of schoolboys on a holiday. Some
of these games may be new; and that others may derive amusement for
similar occasions, I will describe two of them. In one, called
Comparison, the company seat themselves in a circle. Each one whispers
to his right hand neighbor the name of a person (known to the company);
to the one at his left, the name of an object. Then each in turn gives
aloud the name which his neighbor whispered to him, and tells why he or
she resembles the object, making the comparison complimentary or
otherwise. The uncomplimentary comparisons are generally the most
laughable, and of course all understand that 't is "all for fun", so no
one takes any offence. For instance: "Mr. J. resembles the _harbor bar_,
or did this morning, because there was a heavy swell rolling over him;"
the company understanding this as an allusion to a frolicsome tussle
which Mr. J. had with the beau of the house. A rhyming game also affords
much amusement. One person gives his neighbor a list of words,--the
words ending the lines of a sonnet or part of a poem,--and the person
receiving the list must fill in the lines, bringing in the words given,
in proper order, at the ends of the lines. In the following instance
the words italicized are the ones which the player received from his
neighbor; in this case the terminal words of Longfellow's beautiful
description of a calm night by the sea will be recognized, although the
word "ocean" was inadvertently substituted for "organ":--
"All the long white beach is _silent_
As a beach should ever _be_,
While the sea gulls stand and _listen_
To the moaning of the _sea_,
All the solemn oysters _gather_,
Gazing upward to the _sky_,
While a lobster breaks the _silence_,
Crooning low his _litany_
Little shrimps in their dark _caverns_,
Eating supper all _alone_,
Looking out upon the ocean,
Whispering in an _undertone_
'Tis sad and lonely by these _beaches_,
Shall we ne'er go _beyond_?'
All the barnacles, _uprising_,
'Never,' tearfully _respond_."
As we are by the sea, nautical rhymes seem to turn out naturally. The
writer of this remarkable effusion is evidently not an evolutionist,
though he may think there are some "queer fish" among the heterogeneous
inhabitants of this island.
At last the day comes when we must turn away from these lovely scenes;
and it is with regret, and many a backward look, that we are conveyed
to the Rockland boat. That vessel pursues a circuitous route along the
coast, among the picturesque islands; the trip suggesting quite forcibly
the St. Lawrence with its Thousand Isles, as old Neptune is fortunately
in amiable mood, and shows a smiling countenance. So we have no grudge
to lay up against him, and only pictures tinged with _couleur-de-rose_
to carry away with us.
SEA-SIDE AMUSEMENT IN THE "CITY OF SOLES".
As it is our custom to come to these New England shores every summer, in
order, as Jim says, to get salted so that we may keep well through the
winter (by which you need not infer that we "get into a pickle"), we
commence the process at this place, before proceeding to more Northerly
points.