One evening some of our pleasant acquaintances in the town come to take us to Lake La Rose, away up on the South Mountain; and there we embark and glide over the placid water in the moonlight, rousing the echoes with song, and vainly endeavoring to uproot the coy lilies, which abruptly slip through our fingers, and "bob" down under the water as if enjoying our discomfiture. But as Dame Nature tries her hand at painting in water-colors, treating us to a series of dissolving views, the shower forces us to hurry back to the village again.

Before leaving this "vale of rest", we must see the widely extended panorama from the Mackenzie road, where hills beyond hills stretch away to the horizon, and the lovely valley spreads itself like a map below. The bird's-eye view from Parker's Mountain must also be seen, and many other excursions accomplished. The old cannon of Lower Granville also is "one of the sights". This ancient piece of ordnance was fired in old times to notify the quiet country folk when news was received from England. At such times relays, seven to ten miles apart, mounted in hot haste and carried the messages on until Digby was reached; and from thence a vessel conveyed the news to Boston.

As we are talking of all we have seen in this region, and of our various enjoyments, Octavia exclaims, "Some persons thought we could not be content here for a week; yet more than six have slipped away, and I'm sure I don't want to go! I shall tell my friends that though we are 'remote', the rest of the quotation does not apply, for we are neither 'unfriended', 'melancholy', nor 'slow'!"

How often has it been our fate, when among the mountains of New Hampshire, to see the grand ranges disappearing behind a thick curtain of smoke, which, daily growing denser, at last almost completely blots out Nature's pictures, so there is no use in undertaking excursions for the sake of fine views. The explanation is invariably "fires in the Canada woods"; and here, in this "cool, sequestered vale", we have an opportunity of seeing forest fires before we take our departure for other fields of observation. After sunset we are apparently almost surrounded by volcanoes, as the lurid flames leap up into the deepening blackness of the night; and when we lovers of Nature, distressed afterwards by seeing vast tracts all scarred and desolate, exclaim, "Why didn't they stop it? Why did they allow it?" echo answers, "Why?"

One day we learn that a mill on L'quille is threatened, and expect that there will be some excitement; but a very old-fashioned fire engine, with clumsy hand power pumps, goes lumbering by, followed by men and boys, who walk in a leisurely and composed manner. The mill is saved by some means, however; and we rejoice, as it is, so to speak, historical, standing in a place favored for such purposes since Lescarbot's time; even Argall (in 1613), when demolishing other buildings of the village, having spared the mill which occupied the site of the present one.

In our various wanderings we visit the Indian settlement at the head of this crooked stream, but find its residents too civilized to be very picturesque. We are interested in learning what the Canadian Government does for their welfare, and wish a similar policy could be instituted in the States. Here, as with us, liquor is their curse. The once famous chief of the Micmacs lives at Bear River, and is addicted to the bottle. One day a young girl, who was a summer guest at this place, sat down on an overturned canoe which this chief (now known as James Meuse) had just completed; and, as the bark bent with her weight, the wily Indian pretended that the boat was irretrievably ruined. The girl's father, asking what amount would compensate for the damage, received reply, "Ten, twenty, dollar"; and receiving thirty dollars from the generous stranger, Redskin remarked afterwards that he "wished more girl come sit on boat", and probably turned the money into liquid fire, and poured it down his throat in a short space of time. As there is a heavy fine for selling liquor to Indians, one of that race will never divulge from whom he has received it, however intoxicated he may be.

Another Indian sachem noted in history—Membertou—lived to the age of one hundred and four, and was buried at Annapolis, then Port Royal, with military honors, as befitted the companion of soldiers. At Poutrincourt's table he was a daily and honored guest in that olden time, and, when the "Order of Happy Times" was instituted there, of course became a member too! Query: Did that ancient convivial society offer suggestions to the famous old "State in Schuylkill Club" of Philadelphia when they were organizing so many years after?



DIGBY.

In the drive to Digby, twenty-one miles, we pass along all the ins and outs of the shore of Annapolis Basin, finding the succession of views on that curiously land-locked harbor a perfect study and delight, and more picturesque than on the trip to the same place by steamer, as we discover later.

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 dbris, 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 PR.

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 Pr 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-Sjour 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-Sjour. The French had built Forts Beau-Sjour 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-Sjour 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 Chrtien, que je serai entierement fidele et obeirai vraiment sa Majest 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 Pr" 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 Pr 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 TOILES.

1. Comme les perles et les - tol les Or-nent d - 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-on tu t'es enfuie Je pleure blas ton a - ban don Par un bais er je t'en supplie Viens maccorder 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 bl? Il est 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, "Threse le Blanc", our query, "Votre pre, 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 Pr'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' fte, which commences next day; nevertheless, had we been princes of the realm, we could not have been shown truer hospitality. Pre 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, Abb Sgoigne, 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.

Abb 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 "twelles" for toiles, "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 th", 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 arive Dans ce joli pays, Avec bonne sant, Mais bien fatigue. Adieu. E. B. C. (O quelle atrocit! Mais je n'ai ni grammaire Ni dictionnaire franais.)

"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."

Pre 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 fte 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.

As the "dry spell" has made the roads so dusty that there is little pleasure in driving, and our horses are at present in the stables of our Chateaux-en-Espagne, and consequently not available this warm evening, we gather on the porch to be entertained by the learned converse of the professors, until an approaching storm drives us in-doors. Within the "shooting box", as the young man who has traveled christens the house,— thinking that an appropriate title for a domicile where so many members of the Hunt family are collected,—there is a motley assembly, as they gather around the sitting room table. There are Portuguese, Michiganders, Pennites, Illinoisyones, Bangorillas, and other specimens of natural history such as would have puzzled Agassiz himself; and the question arises, "What shall we do to amuse ourselves this rainy evening?" But "Pat", the engineer, oiler of the domestic machinery of the establishment, and keeper of this menagerie, seems overcome with fatigue; the Astronomer is eclipsed in a corner; the professors are absorbed in sines and co-sines; the Fisherman nods over his paper; Grandma knits her brows and the stocking; Elsie is deep in a book; and no one displays any special interest in the matter until pencils and paper are distributed for the game of Crambo. The modus operandi of that most wise and learned game is as follows: Four slips of paper are given each person, on one of which he is requested to write a question, and on each of the other scraps a word. These are then shuffled, and all in turn draw. And now there is great commotion, for each participant is expected to answer his question in rhyme, and to bring the three words which he has drawn, into his answer, also. Such a chorus of "Oh dears", and such dismayed faces! The student proposes to procure the coffee mill to assist him in grinding out his "pome"; the tennis player wishes she had a hatchet to chop up a long word which has fallen to her lot, so that she can put it in proper metre; but Mr. Short (6 ft. 2 in.), with watch in hand, calls "Time", and then "Silence", as pencils race over papers as if on a wager. Ten minutes is the brief space allotted for the production of the wondrous effusions; and when Mr. S. announces, "Time's up", the hat is again full; and one says, with a sigh of relief, "There, I never made two lines rhyme in my life before;" another modestly remarks, "You needn't think we are verdant because we are in Green—" but the warning finger of the Philosopher is raised, and Pat, the reader, begins, emphasizing the words drawn as he reads:—

"Why so much quarrelling about Religion! It's as plain as string beans That from this very means The world is not right, If I had but clear sight I might hope ere this night Is beginning to wane The thing to explain. But, lacking the wit, I must e'en submit This doggerel rhyme And hope 't is in time."

"Oh! oh!" exclaimed the "small specimen" (aged ten), "that's Grandma's; I heard her say she 'knows beans', 'cause she is a Yankee;" but the S. S. subsides on hearing the next paper read, and shows so plainly that she "wishes herself further" that it is not difficult to guess the author:—

"What's quicker than lightning? A Turkey or a squirrel Can 'cut' like a knife But I never saw a creature rash Like a deer in all my life."

"Good for Ten-year-old!" exclaim the chorus; and the S. S., brightening up, concludes she'll try it again sometime. Next comes the question:—

"Where do cabbages come from? My will is good, and I propose To tell you all I can In this dry time a garden hose Must come into the plan First plant the seed, and in due course Will little shoots appear, When each from other has divorce They'll flourish, it is clear. If this rhyme is worth preserving, With mucilage it may be fixed On any wall deserving Such wit and wisdom mixed."

As it is well known that the natives of the Emerald Isle have a predilection for cabbages, it is unanimously decided that none but Pat could have perpetrated this; so Pat grins, suggests that a bill poster be secured at once, and proceeds:—

"How would you like to be a cat? In Timbuctoo each stern ascetic, Though blind to folly as a bat, Revels in love peripatetic Which makes him nimble as a cat But though I'm fond of such agility, I better like the busy bees, For they display so much ability They 'mind one of the Portuguese."

At this implied compliment to his people, the black eyes of the foreign student flash approval; and the Mathematician speaks up, saying, "That is the Philosopher, sure, and proves the truth of the saying, 'A little nonsense now and then is relished by the wisest men.'" The Philosopher smiles benignantly, but does not deny the charge; and the reader continues:—

"What do you think of the Ormthorhynchus? My brain's in a 'muss' From thinking of this 'cuss' (Excuse me for using such a word). If it lived at Nahant With this heat it would pant, For surely't is a curious bird. You may think me a 'muff', And declare I talk stuff, But I hope you'll not doubt my word. For though out in all weathers Its coat's not of feathers But of fur,—at least so I've heard. But 'by this illumination' (Kant's ratiocination?) 'I don't see it,' though it may seem quite absurd."

The company, strange to say, hit upon Elsie for this, and are evidently surprised that one so given up to pomps and vanities should display such knowledge of natural history; but they evidently suspect her of shining by reflected light, as she sits next to the Philosopher; and I heard her ask him a question about this animal with the jaw-breaking name. By this time the party have become so brilliant, having polished each other up as by diamond cutters' wheels, that it is "moved and seconded" that we "try again". The laughter has brought down the Chemist from the laboratory, the Fisherman from his den; besides rousing the Astronomer, who scintillates in the corner to such a degree that all others expect to be totally eclipsed. This time the Fisherman, who is also an amateur gardener and farmer on a small scale, draws an appropriate question, in regard to which he enlightens us as follows; and what he says must be true, as we know he has had experience with pigs and hens:—

THE END