Over the Border: Acadia, the Home of "Evangeline" Part 8

"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 Pre'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 Pa.s.sage and Pet.i.t Pa.s.sage, through which the fishermen sail when conveying their cargoes to St. John. The Pet.i.t Pa.s.sage is one mile wide; and pa.s.sing 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 sh.o.r.e, 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 sh.o.r.es; 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 sh.o.r.e 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.s 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'

fete, which commences next day; nevertheless, had we been princes of the realm, we could not have been shown truer hospitality. Pere 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 n.o.ble 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, Abbe Segoigne, 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 c.u.mbersome 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.

Abbe 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 "etwelles" for _etoiles_, "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 the", 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 sh.e.l.l 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 sh.o.r.es 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 sh.o.r.e where a boy has a quant.i.ty 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 arivee Dans ce joli pays, Avec bonne sante, Mais bien fatiguee.

Adieu. E. B. C.

(O quelle atrocite!

Mais je n'ai ni grammaire Ni dictionnaire francais.)

"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 pa.s.sed 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."

Pere 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.ses the grounds where the fete 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 pa.s.sage 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 pa.s.ses through h.e.l.l Gate. This remarkable pa.s.sage 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 pa.s.sengers might be designated by that t.i.tle); 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 pa.s.sage 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!"