Chapter III: Part 3

Just at this time of year the city is full of summer tourists, many of whom come direct from Baltimore by the ocean steamships, which touch at this port; but, as we are subject to _mal-de-mer's_ tortures, we rejoice that we came by "overland route".

Though our friends have engaged rooms for us beforehand, we are fortunate in securing apartments on the fourth floor, where peculiar coils of rope by the windows at once attract our attention. These, on examination, we find have big wooden beads (like the floats of a seine) strung on them at regular intervals; and this peculiar arrangement is a primitive fire escape, which we are positive that no creature but a monkey could use with safety.

The prevailing fogs, and the use of soft coal, cause the buildings to appear dingy and rusty; but we like them all the better for that, as the city has a more foreign air, and, in some parts, quite strongly suggests Glasgow.

In the Parliament building we study the old portraits, concluding that the wigs must have been uncomfortable. Octavius wickedly hints that there _is_ a fashion among ladies of the present time!--but as he does not tread on our toes, we ignore this insinuation, and turn our attention to the elaborate ornamentation of the woodwork--which is all antique hand-carving--in the council chambers; and are much interested in some rare old books in the Library,--among them a copy of the Psalms, three hundred years old; and another, with music, dated 1612. Here also we see and are actually allowed to handle a book,--

"PRESENTED
TO
THE LEGISLATIVE LIBRARY
OF
NOVA SCOTIA
IN MEMORY OF HER GREAT AND GOOD HUSBAND
BY
HIS BROKEN-HEARTED WIDOW
VICTORIA R."

and of course are duly overpowered at beholding the valuable autograph of that sovereign.

In one of the churches we are informed that a certain balustrade "is from America, and is all _marvel_" but do not find it marvelously beautiful nevertheless.

Of the gardens the natives are justly proud, as in this moist atmosphere plants, trees, and flowers flourish remarkably; still, we are not willing to concede that they are "the finest in America", as we have been told.

We conclude, as we pass the large Admiralty House, with its spacious and beautiful grounds, that Sir Somebody Something must find it a comfortable thing to be

"monarch of the sea, the ruler of the Queen's nave,"

and may with reason say,--

"When at anchor here I ride, my bosom swells with pride,"

while Halifax herself, with her famous harbor, in which the navy of a great and powerful nation could find safe anchorage, with room to spare, might justly finish out his song with the appropriate words concluding the verse:--

"And I snap my fingers at a foeman's taunts!"

Then the Citadel, the very name of which revives reminiscences of Quebec, and suggests something out of the every-day order of summer jaunts. As we ascend the hill to the fortress, the first thing attracting our attention is amusing. The "squatty" looking clock tower, which appears as if part of a church spire, had been carried away by a high wind and dropped down on this embankment. Octavius says, "What a jolly place for coasting, if it were not for the liability of being plunged into the harbor at the foot!" as we mount the hill. At the gate we are consigned to the care of a tall soldier, whose round fatigue cap must be _glued_ to his head, or it certainly would fall off, so extreme is the angle at which it inclines over his ear. A company of soldiers are drilling within the enclosure, their scarlet coats quite dazzling in the bright sunlight and in contrast with the cold gray granite; while others, at opposite angles of the walls, are practicing signals with flags, the maneuvers of the latter being quite entertaining as they wave the banners, now slowly, now rapidly, diagonally, vertically, horizontally, or frantically overhead, as if suddenly distraught. Probably this exercise could be seen in any of our forts; but as we are now beyond the borders of the United States, every detail interests us, and we have become astonishingly observant. The gloomy and massive bomb proof walls of the soldiers' quarters appear quite prison-like, with their narrow windows; and our guide, speaking of the monotony of garrison life, rejoices that in a few months his term of service will expire, and then he "will go to the States".

"The States" seem to be a Land of Promise to many people of this region; and, though this is gratifying to our national pride, we cannot but see that many make a mistake in going to "America"; as, for instance, the young girls of Annapolis, who, leaving comfortable homes, the away to Boston, where, if they can get positions in an already crowded field, they wear themselves out in factories; or, having a false pride which prevents them from acknowledging failure and returning home, they remain until, broken down by discouragement and disappointment, compelled to accept charity. On this account the service at Annapolis is not what might be desired; and Octavius humorously wonders, when the "green hand" persistently offers him viands from the wrong side, "how he is expected to reach the plate unless he puts his arm around her."

"But we digress." As our party, with other sight seers who have joined the procession, promenade about the fort, a culprit in the guardroom catches sight of the visitors as they pass, and, evidently for their hearing, sings mischievously,--

"Farewell, my own!
Light of my life, farewell!
For crime unknown
I go to a dungeon cell"

We conclude, as he is so musical about it, that he does not feel very much disgraced or oppressed by his imprisonment, though some one curiously inquiring "why he is there", learns that it is for a trifling misdemeanor, and that punishments are not generally severe; though the guide tells of one soldier who, he says, "threw his cap at the Colonel, and got five years for it; and we thought he'd get ten."

From the ramparts the picture extending before us southeastwardly is very fine indeed, as, over the rusty houses shouldering each other up the hill so that we can almost look down the chimneys, we look out to the fortified islands and points, with the ocean beyond.

Point Pleasant, thickly wooded to the water's edge, hides the strangely beautiful inlet from the harbor known as the North West Arm, which cuts into the land for a distance of four miles (half a mile in width), suggesting a Norwegian fiord; but that, and the country all about the city, we enjoy in a long drive later.

On the return, regardless of the gaze of passengers astonished at our unconventional actions, we sit on the platform of the rear car, while

"Pleasantly gleams in the soft, sweet air the Basin of Minas."

and the model conductor plies us with bits of information, which we devour with the avidity of cormorants.

GRAND PRÉ.

Finally the brakeman shouts "Grand _Pree_;" and Octavia remarks, "Yes, indeed, this is the _grand prix_ of our tour," as the party step off the train at this region of romance. The gallant conductor, with an air of mystery, leads the way to a storage room in the little box of a station, and there chops pieces from a clay-covered plank and presents us as souvenirs. "Pieces of a coffin of one of the Acadians, exhumed at Grand Pré fourteen months ago, near the site of the old church," we are told; and when he continues: "A woman's bone was found in it", one unromantic and matter-of-fact member of the Octave asserts, "Evangeline's grandmother, of course"; while another skeptically remarks, "That's more than _I_ can swallow; it would give me such a spell o' coughin' as I couldn't get over"; but the conductor and others staunchly avouch the genuineness of the article, affirming that they were present "when it wus dug up."

The "forest primeval", if it ever stood in this region, must have clothed the distant hills which bound the vast meadow, and now are covered with a dense growth of small trees which are _not_ "murmuring pines".

A superannuated tree in the distance it is said once shaded the smithy of "Basil Lajeunesse", that "mighty man of the village"; and only stony hollows in the ground mark the site of the house of "Father Felician" and the village church.

It was to this spot, then, that the wondering peasants were lured by stratagem, when,--

"with a summons sonorous
Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a drum beat.
Thronged ere long was the church with men. Without in the churchyard,
Waited the women. They stood by the graves, and hung on the head
stones
Garlands of autumn leaves and evergreens fresh from the forest
Then came the guard from the ships, and marching proudly among them,
Entered the sacred portal. With loud and dissonant clangor
Echoed the sound of their brass drums from ceiling to casement,--
Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous portal
Closed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will of the soldiers."

After refreshing ourselves with pure, clear, and cold water from the old well,--made by the French, and re-walled a few years ago,--we turn away, with "a longing, lingering look behind", and continue our drive through the great prairie, which resembles the fertile meadow land along the Connecticut River. We stop a few moments near a picturesque little church of gray unpainted wood, and look off over the verdant fields to the point where a distant shimmer of water catches the eye, and the hills bound the picture. Near at hand, on the right, the trunk of an aged apple tree, "planted by the French", shows one green shoot; and about the church are Lombardy poplars, which, though good sized trees, are perhaps only shoots from those planted by the Acadians, in remembrance of such arboreal grenadiers of their native land.

The old French dike is surmounted by a rough rail fence, and is now far inland, as hundreds of acres have been reclaimed beyond,--

"Dikes that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessant
Shut out the turbulent tides"

Our lamented American poet never visited this region which he describes so delightfully; his reason being that, cherishing an ideal picture, he feared reality might dissipate it. Yet an easy journey of twenty-eight hours would have brought him hither; and we, feeling confident that he could not have been disappointed, shall always regret that he did not come.

As an appropriate close to this sentimental journey, we drive through the secluded Gaspereau valley, along the winding river, which is hardly more than a creek, toward its wider part where it flows into the Basin, which stretches out broad and shining. With such a view before us, we cannot fail to picture mentally the tragic scenes of that October day in 1755, when the fleet of great ships lay in the Basin, and

"When on the falling tide the freighted vessels departed,
Bearing a nation, with all its household gods, into exile,
Exile without an end, and without an example in story,"

those whom Burke describes as "the poor, innocent, deserving people, whom our utter inability to govern or reconcile, gave us no sort of right to extirpate," were torn from their happy homes, and

"Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean."

In the midst of these peaceful scenes was perpetrated a cruel wrong, and an inoffensive people banished by the mandate of a tyrant!

In that beautiful poem, parts of which one unconsciously "gets by heart", or falls into the habit of quoting when sojourning in this lovely region, Basil the blacksmith says:--

"Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau-Séjour nor Port Royal;"

and having held an impromptu history class on the subject of the last mentioned, we turn our attention to the other fortified points of which "the hasty and somewhat irascible" sledge-wielder spoke.

By the treaty of Utrecht in 1713 Acadia was ceded to the English; but the French colonists, in taking the oath of allegiance to their new rulers (1727-28), were promised that they should not be required at any time to take up arms against France. They were now in the position of Neutrals, and by that name were known; but this placed them in an awkward predicament, as they were suspected by both contending powers. The English hated them, believing their sympathies to be with the French; while even their countrymen in Canada were distrustful of them, urging them to withdraw.

The English colonists, fearing the extension of the French possessions, and having Puritanical aversion of Roman Catholicism,--of which the Neutrals were devout adherents,--entered upon the expedition against the French forts with the zeal of fanatics, seeming in some instances to consider their incursions in the light of religious crusades.

These "men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands", whose descendants are to this day childlike and simple hearted, could not understand these political distinctions, and naturally clung to the pleasant farms which they had reclaimed from the sea and cultivated so diligently, being most reluctant, of course, to leave those

"Strongly built houses, with frames of oak and of chestnut,
Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries.
Thatched were the roofs, with dormer windows, and gables projecting
Over the basement below protected and shaded the doorway."

The French dominions were guarded by a chain of forts extending all along the Atlantic coast, from the St. Lawrence to the Gulf of Mexico. That on Cape Breton Island, which protected the approach to the St. Lawrence, was considered invincible, its walls being thirty feet high, forty feet thick, and surrounded by a moat eighty feet in width.

Boston sent out a fleet of forty-one vessels and three thousand men to Cape Breton, to assail the "Gibraltar of America", as the fort of Louisburg was called. Forces from New Hampshire and Connecticut joined the expedition at Canso; and this remarkable fortress, whose fortifications alone cost five million dollars, was besieged, and capitulated after forty-nine days, yielding to untrained soldiers; the victory owing to "mere audacity and hardihood, backed by the rarest good luck", as one English writer says. The conquerors themselves were amazed at their success when they discovered the great strength of the fort. Their victory was, in fact, due largely to maneuvers which deceived the French regarding the strength of their forces.

This was ten years before the dispersion of the French Neutrals was effected; and during those years the Acadians, being zealous Catholics and devoted to the mother country, naturally but almost unconsciously were drawn into the disputes between France and England; and it is not to be wondered at, if, as some authorities state, there were three hundred of their young men found in arms when the English attacked Fort Beau-Séjour. The French had built Forts Beau-Séjour and Gaspereau on the neck connecting the peninsula of Nova Scotia with the mainland, to guard the entrance to their territory. A few hotheaded youths, who thought they were honestly serving their country and people by taking up arms in defense, might have been forgiven, particularly as it is known that some were pressed into the service, and that the oath which they had taken years before absolved them from taking arms against France, but did not pledge them against serving in her defense.

These forts were taken by Lieutenant-Colonel Moncton in June, 1755, the garrison of Beau-Séjour being sent to Louisburg on condition that they should not take up arms in America for six months. Prince Edward's Island--then called St. John's Island--fell into the hands of the English when Cape Breton was taken, and the inhabitants were sent to France. In the summer of 1755 matters seemed to be culminating, and the bitter dissensions were brought to a crisis. The Neutrals were again called upon to take the oath, the following being the form in which it was presented to them: "Je promets et jure sincerement, en foi de Chrétien, que je serai entierement fidele et obeirai vraiment sa Majesté Le Roi George, que je reconnais pour le Souverain seigneur de l'Acadie, ou nouvelle Ecosse--ainsi Dieu me soit en aide."

But this was not the "reserved oath", as the former one was called; and the Acadians, feeling themselves bound by the old pledge, asked exemption from this, and requested the restoration of arms which had been taken from them, agreeing also to keep faithfully the old form of oath.

Deputies from the settlements near Port Royal (which were above, below, and almost on the site of the present town of Annapolis), at Pisiquid (now Windsor), Minas, etc., were sent to Halifax, where a long conference was held; but the deputies still declining to accept the new oath, they were imprisoned, and the deportation of the Acadians decided upon. In order to do this artifice was resorted to, to prevent the people from suspecting what was in store for them, and that the poor peasants might have no chance to leave themselves or carry away their possessions. "Both old men and young men, as well as the lads of ten years of age," were called, by a proclamation, "to attend at the church at Grand Pré" at a certain time; and it was declared that "no excuse" would "be admitted, on any pretence whatever, on pain of forfeiting goods and chattels, in default of real estate."

The settlers on the Basin of Minas were immigrants from Saintonge, Poitou, and La Rochelle, who came to this country in the early part of the seventeenth century. The land which they had reclaimed from the Basin was rich and fertile; they exported grain to Boston, and became prosperous. The object of the call to the church does not seem to have been suspected. When Basil says,--

"Four days now are passed since the English ships at their anchors
Ride in the Gaspereau's mouth, with their cannon pointed against us
What their designs may be is unknown; but all are commanded
On the morrow to meet in the church, where his Majesty's mandate
Will be proclaimed as law in the land;"

Benedict responds,--

"Perhaps the harvests in England
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."

Our driver says "étwelles" for _étoiles_, "fret" for _froid_, "si" for _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.