Chapter 5

There we see a bright-eyed, pretty little maiden, who wears a gay red handkerchief in place of a hat, and makes a picture as she drives her cow over a bit of moorland. Driver says she is "one of the French people", and that her name is Thibaudia, which, with its English signification (a kind of heath), seems appropriate for one living in the wilds, and deliciously foreign and suggestive. We wonder if old Crumplehorn understands French, and conclude that she is a well educated animal, as she seems to obey directions without needing a touch of willow branch to punctuate them.

Sometimes it seems that the names conferred On mortals at baptism in this queer world Seem given for naught but to spite 'em. Mr. Long is short, Mr. Short is tall, And who so meek as Mr. Maul? Mr. Lamb's fierce temper is very well known, Mr. Hope plods about with sigh and groan,-- "And so proceed ad infinitum"

At one point on our route, when we are passing through a lonely and apparently uninhabited region, our jolly driver, "Manyul", remarks, "Here's where Nobody lives."; and one replies, "Yes, evidently; and I shouldn't think any one would wish to." But a turn of the road brings a house in sight; and driver says, "That's his house, and his name is actually Nobody" (Charles, I believe). We quote, "What's in a name!" and conclude that if he is at all like the kindly people of this region whom we have met he may be well content to be nobody, rather than resemble many whom the world considers "somebodies", but who are not models in any respect.

Our driver is quite a character in his way, and in the winter he "goes a loggin'". On learning this we ply him with questions in such manner as would surprise a lawyer, eliciting in return graphic pictures of camp life in New Brunswick wildernesses, and the amusements with which they while away the long evenings in their rough barracks. He describes their primitive modes of cooking, their beds of fragrant spruce boughs overlaid with straw,--"Better 'n any o' your spring mattresses, I tell _you_!"--the queer box-like bunks along the wall where they "stow themselves away", and where the most active and useful man is, for the time at least, literally laid on the shelf.

Octavius, thinking how much he would enjoy "roughing it" thus, asks what they would charge to take a young man to board in camp; and driver indignantly replies, "_Nothin'_! Do you suppose we'd charge board? No, _indeed_! Just let him come; and if we didn't give him a good time, and if he didn't get strong and hearty, then we'd be ashamed of ourselves and _sell out_."

Here we approach a cove which driver calls the Joggin (as it makes a cut or jog-in, we presume); and beyond, a wide arm of the Basin is spanned by a rickety old bridge, at least a quarter of a mile long, named in honor of her Majesty,--hardly a compliment to that sovereign, we think. The boards are apparently laid down without nails, and rattle like a fusillade as our vehicle rolls over them. Here and there planks are broken or gone entirely, showing the green swirling water beneath. Our chaperone, having more faith in her own feet than those of the horses, dismounts and walks across; while we, being naturally reckless and romantic, are willing to risk our necks for the sake of the charming views.

The village of Digby stretches along the shore, and from the hills surrounding it the Basin with its islands, the Gap, and Annapolis River, are charming.

Disciples of old "Izaak" would be likely to meet with greater success here than at Annapolis; as the current of the river at the latter place is so strong that, as a general thing, only the "old salts" are anglers; and they being most of the time out in the Bay or off on cruises, it follows that fish are scarce in the market.

An "ancient and fish-like smell" pervades the atmosphere in some parts of the village where the herring--humorously known as "Digby Chickens"--are spread on racks to dry; but this odor, the odd little shops and restaurants, the clumsy and queer lumber boats, the groups of tars gossiping about doorways and wharves, only add to the nautical character of the place, and suggest reminiscences of "Peggoty", "Ham", and others of Dickens's characters.

We ignore the pleasant embowered hotel "in bosky dell", far up the street this time, though we visit it in a later sojourn; and, "just for the fun of it", take lunch in one of the peculiar little restaurants; where, seated at a minute table in one of the tiny calico curtained alcoves, we partake of our frugal repast (the bill of fare is extremely limited), amusing ourselves watching the odd customers who come to make purchases at the counter across the room, and "making believe" that we are characters in an old English story.

On the bluff beyond the village, beneath great old Balm of Gilead trees whose foliage is perpetually in a flutter from the breeze through the Gap, there are several cannon, which it seems could not possibly have any hostile intent, but appear to be gratifying a mild curiosity by peering across the Basin and up the river beyond.

The long and very high pier stretches far out into the Basin, and upon it picturesque groups unconsciously pose for us, adding to the effect of the picture.

That the climate is salubrious and conducive to longevity we are convinced after visiting the cemetery, where one tomb records the demise of a man at the age of one hundred and two!

A peculiar taste for wandering among the tombs we have acquired in this summer jaunt. Here we see the tomb of one recorded proudly as "descended from the noble families of Stuart and Bruce", who, tradition says, was supposed to have held the position of servant to said scions of nobility. One who was known as a scoffer during life here is virtuously represented ah "a sincere worshipper of Eternal, Almighty and ever just God"; reminding us of the popular adage, "lying like an epitaph". Twice have we seen one stone made to do service for two in an amusing manner: on the upper part the usual, "Sacred to the memory of," etc.; then half-way down had been carved a hand pointing to one side, and under it the words "There lies"; while the name, age, etc., of the later decedent was inscribed below the first.

One old tomb we were with this epitaph:--

"Tho' gready worm destroy my skin And gnaw my wasting flesh When God doth build my bones agen He'll cloath them all afresh."

and another:--

"What says the silent dead He bids me bear my load With silent steps proceed And follow him to God."

We notice that the English rule of the road maintains here, and our driver turns to the left when other vehicles are approaching. Captain C., who is from the States, tells us that he did not know of this custom, and in his first drive nearly collided with another vehicle, the driver of which thereupon used strong language. On being informed that he had almost overturned the conveyance of the Governor of Prince Edward's Island, the rash Yankee, undismayed, remarked, "Well, I don't care who he is, he don't know how to drive!"

HALIFAX

Of course, as we are in the neighborhood, we must see the locality to which--in mild and humorous profanity--States people are sometimes assigned; and therefore proceed to Halifax and thoroughly "do" that sedate, quiet, and delightfully old-fashioned city.

_En route_, as the train passes beyond Windsor, one says, "Here we are out of sight of land"; and we then understand that it must have been some one from this locality who christened the valley of Annapolis the Garden of Nova Scotia; for here a scene of utter sterility and desolation meets the view: not a foot of earth is to be seen, but rocks are piled in wild confusion everywhere. A few dead trees stand among the _débris_, emphasizing the loneliness; and Conductor says when the world was created the "leavings" were deposited in this dreary tract.

By special arrangement with "Old Prob", there are none of the prevailing fogs during our stay; and Aurora Borealis gets up a special illumination. Regiments of red-coats, with torches and band,--aware doubtless of the presence of such distinguished strangers,--march past our hotel in the evening.

Though we are quartered in what is called the best hotel, it is a musty, fusty, rusty old building; and we agree with our friends among the residents (who vie with each other in showing us true English hospitality) who say they need an enterprising Yankee to start a good new hostelry, and "to show 'em how to run it."

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.