Chapter II: Part 2

it was no doubt with silvery tone; and, as it is well known that bells sound best when rung on a slope or in a valley where there is a lake or river, doubtless this wide and lovely stream carried the music of the mellow peal, and returning voyagers heard the welcome notes; as the sailors of the North Sea, on entering the Scheldt, strain their ears to catch the faint, far melody of the chimes of the belfry of Antwerp, visible one hundred and fifty miles away.

Another day we make an expedition to see the Apostle Spoons, and are received, as invariably everywhere, with cordial hospitality. These spoons would, I fear, cause the eye of an antiquary to gleam covetously. They have round, flat bowls about two and a half inches in diameter; narrow, slender, and straight handles, terminating, the one with a small turbaned head, the other with a full length figure about one inch long; the entire length of the handles being about four and a half inches.

In the bowl of one the letters P L I are rudely cut; and on both is stamped something which, they say, under magnifying glass resembles a King's head In the spring of 1874 or 1875 these were turned up by the plough, in a field two miles beyond the town, the discovery being made in the neighborhood of the supposed bite of an old French church. The farmer's thrifty housewife was making soap at the time the spoons were unearthed; and as they were much discolored, "the old lead things" were tossed into the kettle of lye, from whence, to her amazement, they came out gold, or, at least, silver washed with gold. These spoons, they say, were used in the service of the church; but it is more likely that they were the property of some family, and probable that they were dropped by their owners--then living beyond the present site of Annapolis--when, at the time of the banishment of the Acadians, they were hurried away to the ships on the Basin of Minas.

An apostle spoon was often a treasured heirloom in families of the better class, and at the advent of each scion of the family tree was suspended about the neck of the infant at baptism, being supposed to exert some beneficent influence. Especially in the East, about the seventh century, we find that a small vessel, or spoon, sometimes of gold, was used in the churches These were eucharistic utensils, by means of which communicants conveyed the sacred elements to the mouth; but this custom was forbidden and done away with, though probably the tradition of such usage suggested the spoon, which became general in Greek and most Oriental churches many years after. The supposition is, that in those churches, after the wafer had been put into the wine in the chalice, the spoon was used to dip out such portion as was to be reserved for administering the last sacrament to the dying, or to those who were too ill to attend the service in the church. In all churches of the East, except the Armenian, the spoon is used in administering the sacrament.

Curious customs also existed in ancient times in reference to baptism. Honey mixed with milk or with wine was given to the one who had just received this rite, to show that he who received it, being a, newly born child spiritually, must not be fed with strong meat, but with milk. This became a regular part of the ritual, and was closely adhered to. The old customs of festivals of rejoicing, public thanksgivings, wearing of garlands, singing of hymns, and giving presents, are well known and familiarly associated with baptismal festivities. The presentation of apostle spoons at christenings was a very ancient custom in England. A wealthy sponsor or relative who could afford it, gave a complete set of twelve, each with the figure of an apostle carved or chased on the end of the handle; while sometimes a poor person presented only one, but on that was the figure of the saint for whom the child was named. Sometimes this rudely molded little figure represented the patron saint of the sponsor or the donor. In 1666 the custom was on the decline.

An anecdote relating to this usage is told of Shakespeare. The latter "stood godfather" to the child of a friend; and after the ceremonies of the christening, as the poet seemed much absorbed and serious, the father questioned him as to the cause of his melancholy. The sponsor replied, that he was considering what would be the most suitable gift for him to present to his god-child, and that he had finally decided. "I'll give him," said he, "a dozen good latten spoons, and thou shalt translate them." This was a play upon the word Latin. In the Middle Ages a kind of bronze used for church and household utensils was known as "latten"; and the same name was applied in Shakespeare's time to thin iron plate coated with tin, of which domestic utensils and implements were made.

In Johnson's "Bartholomew Fair" one of his characters says, "And all this for the hope of a couple of apostle spoons, and a cup to eat caudle in." In a work of Middleton, entitled "The Chaste Maid of Cheapside", one of the characters inquires, "What has he given her?" to which another replies, "A faire high standing cup, and two great 'postle spoons, one of them gilt."

The hat, or flat covering on the head of the figure,--that which we call a turban in one of these at Annapolis,--was a customary appendage and usual in apostle spoons; the intention being thereby to protect the features of the tiny heads from wear. Whatever the history of these at Annapolis, there can be no doubt of their genuineness, and, in a perfect state, they are extremely rare.

In our antiquarian researches we are naturally drawn to the old cemetery, adjoining the fort grounds; but learn that the oldest graves were marked by oaken slabs, which have all disappeared, as have also many odd stone ones. But among those still standing one records that some one "dyed 1729"; another states that the body below "is deposited here until the last trump"; and one, which must be the veritable original of the "affliction sore" rhyme, ends: "till death did seize and God did please to ease me of my pain." Still another bears this epitaph, _verbatim et literatim_--

"Stay friend stay nor let thy hart prophane
The humble Stone that tells you life is vain.
Here lyes a youth in moulding ruin lost
A blossom nipt by death's untimely frost
O then prepare to meet with him above
In realms of everlasting love."

The stone-cutter's hand must have been as weary when he blundered over the word humble as the poet's brain evidently was when he reached the line which limps so lamely to the conclusion. Near this recently stood a stone,

"With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,"

on which the representation of Father Time was carved in such peculiar manner that from pose and expression the figure might have passed for a lively youth rather than the dread reaper, and was irreverently known to the village youths as "Sarah's young man", a title suggested by a popular song of the day.

In a remote corner we find the tomb of "Gregoria Remonia Antonia", "a native of Spain"; and afterwards learn her story,--an episode in the life of the Iron Duke which does not do him honor. Did _la grande dame_, the Duchess, ever know of the fair foreigner who supplanted her, the dame o' high degree, in her husband's affection? Did the beautiful Spanish maiden dream, when the brilliant English General wooed her, that he was doing her and another woman the greatest wrong? Little did the fascinating Spaniard think that the so-called "nobleman" would compel her to marry another; and that other a rough, illiterate man, who would bring her to this wild, strange, far-away country, and that here she should be laid to rest "after life's fitful fever." Is it to be wondered at that her fiery Southern spirit rebelled, that her wrongs embittered her, and that her life here was unhappy?

To add to the romance, one who attended her in her last illness tells us that when the garrison gave a ball, the slender little Spanish lady loaned or gave "pretty fixins" to the young girls to wear, and appeared herself in rich silks and plumes; that she gave to her attendant in that illness a wonderful box "all done off with,--well--this here plated stuff, you know"; and that when the end was drawing near, the faint, weak voice, with its broken English (at best so difficult to understand), tried to make "Char-loet-tah" comprehend where she must look for something hidden away which she wished her nurse to have in recognition of her services. But alas! the hoarded treasure was not found until months after the poor soul was gone, and then fell into the very hands which the sad alien had most desired should not touch it.

The old adage about a sailor's right to have "a sweetheart in every port" is still cited in these days of boasted advancement in culture, religion, morals; and it is the same old world to-day as that which lauded and bowed down to him whom it called "his Grace" (despite what we consider his graceless actions); the same world, alas! ignoring the open and evident fact when he steps aside from the narrow path of honor and rectitude; while, should she swerve in the least, pouring out mercilessly its harshest taunts, or overwhelming her with pitiless scorn. This, because woman should hold an exalted position, and "be above suspicion"? Then why do not the so-called "lords of creation", as they might and ought, set an example of noble uprightness to "the weaker vessel", guiding, guarding, upholding her through "the shards and thorns of existence"?

The Spanish girl, left an orphan by the wars in which the dashing and gallant English officer figured so proudly, fell to the care of two aunts, who, belonging to that indolent, pleasure loving race of sunny Spain, perhaps left the poor girl too much to her own devices, and thus she may have been more easily beguiled.

"Look here, upon this picture, and on _this_": first, the gay little senorita, holding daintily in her tapering fingers a cigarette, which she occasionally raises to her "ripe red lips", afterwards languidly following with her lustrous black eyes the blue wreaths of smoke as they float above her head and vanish in the air; next, the withered crone, with silver hair, wrinkled skin, and no trace of her early beauty, sitting in the chimney corner, and still smoking, though now it is a clay pipe,--to the amazement and disgust of the villagers. Yet we, believing in the only correct interpretation of _noblesse oblige_, and that he only is truly noble who acts nobly, have only pity for the poor soul who here laid down life's weary burden twenty-two years ago at the age of seventy-two, and scorn for him who rests in an honored grave, and is idealized among the world's heroes.

How amusing it is to hear the people speak of us invariably as "Americans", as if we were from some far-away and foreign country, and to hear them talk of England as "home"!

The hearty cordiality, natural manner, and pleasantly unworldly ways of the people are most refreshing; in "a world of hollow shams", to find persons who are so _genuine_ is delightful; and thus another charm is added to give greater zest to our enjoyment.

One, half in jest, asks a Halifax gentleman how they would like to be annexed to the United States, and is quite surprised at his ready and earnest reply: "Annexed? Oh, yes, we'd be glad to be;... we wouldn't come with empty hands; we have what you want,--fisheries, lumber, minerals; we'd not come as paupers and mendicants.... It will come, though it may not be in our day.... The United States would not wish to purchase,--she has done enough of that: we would have to come of our own free will; and we would, too!"

Then there is the elderly Scotch gentleman, who appropriately hails from the place with the outlandish name of Musquodoboit. He tells us that during the "airly pairt" of his residence in America he visited in the States, and that he has seen "fower Preesidents" inaugurated.

Of his first attendance at such a ceremony he says: "An' whan I see thet mon, in hes plain blek coat, coomin' out amang all o' thim people, an' all the deegnetirries in their blek coats tu, an' not a uniforrum amoong thim, I said, 'This is the coontry fur me,'--it suited my taste. An' how deeferint it wud be in Yerrup, where there wud be tin thausind mooskits aboot, to kep 'im from bein' shot."

On our way here we were told: "Oh, you'll find Annapolis hot!" It might perhaps seem so to a Newfoundlander; but to us the climate is a daily source of remark, of wonder and delight. It is balmy, yet bracing; and though there may be times when at midday it is decidedly warm,--as summer should be,--the nights are always cool, and we live in flannel costumes and luxuriate.

Warner speaks of "these northeastern lands which the Gulf Stream pets and tempers"; yet he passed through this dear old town without stopping, remarking only that he could not be content for a week here, and felt no interest in the place apart from its historic associations. Let him stop next time and investigate. We flatter ourselves that we could enlighten him somewhat.

Our friends at various shore and mountain resorts report constant fogs; yet we can testify that in nearly seven weeks' residence here there were but two mornings which were foggy, and on those days the gray screen was rolled away at noon.

"aloft on the mountains
Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic
Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station descended"

That singular feature spoken of in Longfellow's poem is shown here: the mists rise from the Bay and rest lovingly, caressingly, on the crests of the long range of mountains, giving them the appearance of comfortable warmth under this downy coverlet on cool nights; but this fleece very rarely descends to the valley.

Dr. O. W. Holmes must have had such a place as this in mind when he said:--

"And silence like a poultice came
To heal the blows of sound,"

and surely tympanums most bruised by the world's clangor and jar could not fail here be soothed and healed; and the writer of "Oh, where shall rest be found?" would have received answer to his query here also. The quiet is astonishing: there are no farm sounds even; and, though the hours pass so pleasantly that we "take no note of time", we can tell when Saturday comes, for then numbers of log-laden ox-carts plod slowly into the village from the back country.

The bells on the animals' necks tinkle precisely like the sound of ice when carried in a pitcher of water; and consequently do not jar upon one's ear in this quietude as the clanking herd-bells which we hear in some farming regions of the States.

At night the only break in the profound stillness is when the tide is ebbing, and the Equille can be heard rushing under the bridge a quarter of a mile away. We cannot discover the meaning of that word, and so consult a foreign relative, who fells us that at Dinard, in France, they catch the _équille_,--a small fish, also called a _lançon_, because it darts in and out of the sand, and in its movements is something like an eel.

That certainly describes this peculiar stream, for surely it would be difficult to find one with a more circuitous course. It forms two horseshoes and an ox-bow connected, as we see it from our windows; and when the tide is out diminishes to a rivulet about two feet in width. At flood it is more than twice the width of the Wissahickon, and when the high tides of August come its magnitude is surprising.

Then we understand why the hay-ricks (which we wickedly tell our friends from the "Hub" resemble gigantic loaves of Boston brown bread) are on stilts, for, regardless of dikes or boundaries, this tortuous creek spreads over its whole valley, as if in emulation of the greater river of which it is a tributary. Haliburton says that for a time this was called Allan's River, and the greater one was named the Dauphin; but we are glad that the old French name was restored to the serpentine creek, as it is so much better suited to its peculiar character.

The great event of the week is the arrival of the Boston steamer, when all the town turns out and wends its way to the wharves.

The peculiar rise of the tide (thirty feet) is here plainly shown, as one week the passengers step off from the very roof of the saloon, and next time she comes in they disembark from the lowest gangway possible and climb the long ascent of slippery planks to the level above.

The river shows curious currents and counter-currents, as bits of _débris_ are hurrying upward in the middle of the stream, while similar flotsam and jetsam rush away as rapidly down stream along both shores.

The queer old tub of a ferry boat, with its triangular wings spreading at the sides,--used as guards and "gang planks",--is a curiosity, as it zigzags across the powerful current to the village on the opposite shore.

But "the ferryman's slim, the ferryman's young, and he's just a soft twang in the turn of his tongue"; and in our frequent trips across he probably makes a mental note when he hears us lamenting that we cannot get lobsters, for one day he sends to our abiding place four fine large ones, and will not receive a cent in remuneration.

Another time, when waiting for the farmer's you to guide us to the "ice mine",--a ravine in the mountains where ice remains through the summer, --a delicious lunch, consisting of fresh bread, sweet milk, and cake, is unexpectedly set before us, and the generous farmer's wife will not listen to recompense.

A modern writer says: "A great part of the enjoyment of life is in the knowledge that there are people living in a worse place than that you inhabit;" but it does not add to our happiness to think of those who could not come to this lovely spot; and we commiserate the Can't-get- away Club of the cities.

We would not change places with any of the dwellers at the fashionable resorts at springs, sea, or mountains,--no, indeed! though they no doubt would elevate their noses, and set this place down at once as "deadly dull", or "two awfully slow for anything"!

Doubtless those also of our friends to whom we tell the plain, unvarnished truth, if they come here will be disappointed, as they will not see with our eyes. One cannot expect the luxuries of palatial hotels at five dollars per day; such would be out of place here.

At our abiding place, which looks like a gentleman's residence, and is, as one of the Halifax guests says, "not a bit like an 'otel", there is an extensive garden, from which we are regaled with choice fresh vegetables daily; and we have _such_ home-made butter (The bill of fare "to be issued in our next"). A Frenchman might think that "we return to our muttons" frequently; still, as that viand suggests at least the famous English Southdown in excellence, we are resigned.

A noted wit has said: "Doubtless God might have made a better berry than the strawberry, but doubtless God never did;" and if one is so fortunate as to come to this country in proper season he can feast on that delectable fruit in its perfection,--that is, the wild fruit, so much more delicious and delicate in flavor than after its boasted "improvement" by cultivation. If one arrives before the close of the fisheries, salmon, fit for a royal banquet, graces the table; while even in July and August he may enjoy shad; and strange enough it seems to Philadelphians to be eating that fish at such time of year.

There are in the town a number of inns, and summer guests are also made welcome and comfortable in many of the private residences. In one of the latter--a large old-fashioned house, with antique furniture--three sisters reside, who possess the quiet dignity and manner of the old school; and here one would feel as if visiting at one's grandfather's, and be made pleasantly "at home".

We are surprised to find that this old town has generally such modern and New Englandish aspect; and are told that it has twice been nearly destroyed by fire, even in modern times; therefore but few of the quaint buildings remain. Some of these are picturesque and interesting, the one combining jail and court house being a feature of the main street. The window of one of the cells faces the street; and the prisoner's friends sit on the steps without, whiling away the tedium of incarceration with their converse.

The oldest dwelling in the town stands on St. George's Street, nearly opposite the old-fashioned inn known as the Foster House. Its walls were originally made of mud from the flats, held together by the wiry marsh grass, which, being dried, was mixed in the sticky substance as hair is in plaster; but as these walls gave way from the effects of time the seams and cracks were plastered up, and by degrees boarded over, until now the original shows only in one part of the interior.

The houses throughout this region are almost invariably without blinds or outside shutters, and consequently look oddly to us, who are inclined to screen ourselves too much from "the blessed sunshine". Bay windows are popular.

We saw one small house with four double and two single ones, giving it an air of impertinent curiosity, as the dwellers therein could look out from every possible direction. The ancient dormer windows on the roofs have given place to these queer bulging ones, which, in Halifax especially, are set three in a row on the gray shingles, and bear ludicrous resemblance to gigantic bee-hives.

In some of the shops, at the post office and railroad station, our money is taken at a small discount; but in many of the shops they allow us full value for it. In one the proprietor tells us of the sensation caused here once by the failure of a Canadian bank, and the surprise of the town's-people--whose faith seemed shaken in all such institutions-- when he continued to take United States bank bills. He says: "I told 'em the United States Government hadn't failed, that I believed in it yet, would take all their money I could get, and be glad to have it, too!"

To continue the impression of being in a foreign land, we must attend service at the five or six different churches, and hear the prayers for the Queen and Royal Family. In the first place of worship, where the Octave augments the congregation, Victoria and many of her family are mentioned by full name and title, in sonorous and measured tones; in the next the pastor speaks of "Our Sovereign, and those under her and over us;" in another "Our Queen" is simply referred to; and some ministers who are suspected of being tinctured with republicanism sometimes forget to make any special allusion to her Majesty.

In our walks up the main street, which is not remarkably bustling or busy, we see long rows of great old hawthorn bushes bordering the road, and giving quite an English touch to the scene; and everywhere gigantic apple trees, which would delight an artist, so deliciously gnarled and crooked are they.

I am not aware that astronomy is a favorite study with the inhabitants, but have no doubt that _cidereal_ observations are popular at certain seasons,--as this country is a famous apple growing district, and that fruit, is sent from here to England and the States in vast quantities. Octavius says, "If you would know what ann-apol-is, you should come here in the fall," but is at once frowned down by the other seven for this atrocity.

The valleys of Annapolis and Cornwallis yield an average crop of two hundred thousand barrels of apples. Dealers in Bangor who paid 87 per barrel in Boston for this fruit, have afterwards been chagrined on discovering that it came from Annapolis originally, and that they could have procured the same from that place direct at $2.25 to $3 per barrel.

Very lovely is the view from a hill outside the village, and there also is the Wishing Rock,--one of the most noted objects of interest, as a guide book would term it. "They say" that if one can run to the top without assistance, or touching the rock with the hands, then whatever one wishes will "come true". This feat it is almost impossible to accomplish, as the stone has been worn smooth by countless feet before ours; still the youthful and frisky members of our party must attempt the ascent, with a run, a rush, and a shout, while the elders look on, smiling benignly.

The dikes of L'Équille form a peculiar but pleasant promenade; and along that narrow, circuitous path we frequently wander at sunset. These embankments remain, in great part, as originally built by the Acadians, and are formed of rubbish, brush, and river mud, over which sods are closely packed, and for most of the season they are covered with tall waving grass. This primitive sea wall is six or eight feet in width at the base, and only about one foot wide at the top, so it is necessary for him "who standeth" to "take heed lest he fall"; otherwise his enthusiasm over the beauties of the prospect may receive a damper from a sudden plunge into the water below.

There is a fine new rink in the village; and in the mornings those of us who are novices in the use of rollers have a quiet opportunity to practice and disport ourselves with the grace of a bureau, or other clumsy piece of furniture on wheels!

Then we go to the wharves to witness the lading of lumber vessels. Some of the logs floating in the water are so huge as to attest that there are vast and aged forests somewhere in her Majesty's domains in America; and the lumbermen, attired in rough corduroy, red shirts, and big boots, balance themselves skillfully on some of the slippery trunks, while with pole and boat-hook propelling other great ones to the gaping mouths in the bow of the vessel. Then horse, rope, pulley, and windlass are brought into play to draw the log into the hold and place it properly among other monarchs of the forest, thus ignominiously laid low, and become what "Mantalini" would style "a damp, moist, unpleasant lot." From the wharf above we look down into the hold, and, seeing this black, slimy, muddy cargo, say regretfully, "How are the mighty fallen!" as we think of the grand forests of which these trees were once the pride and glory, but of which ruthless man is so rapidly despoiling poor Mother Earth.

We have brought with us those aids to indolence which a tiny friend of ours calls "hang-ups", expecting to swing them in the woods and inhale the odors of pine; but the woods are too far away; so we are fain to sit under a small group of those trees at the end of the garden and gaze upon the peaceful valley.

"There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunset
Lighteth the village street, and gildeth the vanes on the chimneys,"

we sit, when

"Day with its burden and heat has departed, and twilight descending
Brings back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the
homestead."

There we sit and talk of the romantic story, comparing notes as to our ideal of the heroine; and such is the influence of the air of sentiment and poetry pervading this region, that we decide that Boughton's representation of her,

"When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noon-tide
Flagons of home-brewed ale,...
Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in the village of Grand
Pré,"

is too sturdy, as with masculine stride she marches a-field; and that Constant Meyer's ideal more nearly approaches ours. The one depicts her in rather Puritanical attire; the other, studying authentic costume, they say, shows her

"Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle of blue, and the ear rings,
Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heirloom
Handed down from mother to child, through long generations,"

and seated by the roadside, as,

"with God's benediction upon her,
a celestial brightness--a more ethereal beauty--
Shone on her face and encircled her form."

All along the roads we notice a delicate white blossom, resembling the English primrose in shape, and one day ask an intelligent looking girl whom we meet what it is called; she does not know the name, but says the seed was accidentally brought from England many years ago, and the plant "has since become quite a pest",--which we can hardly understand as we enjoy its grace and beauty. We notice that our pleasant informant follows a pretty fashion of other belles of the village,--a fashion which suits their clear complexions and bright faces; that is, wearing a gauzy white scarf around the hat, and in the dainty folds a cluster of fresh garden flowers.

The artist Boughton says. "The impressionist is a good antidote against the illusionist, who sees too much, and then adds to it a lot that he does not see." If he had ever visited this place we wonder what his idea would be of this quaint poem, supposed to have been written in 1720, which we have unearthed.

We have acquired quite an affection for this pleasant old town, and shall be loath to leave. If our friends think we are too enthusiastic, we shall refer them to this old writer to prove that we have not said all that we might; as he indulges in such airy flights of fancy and such extravagant praise.

His description would lead one to expect to see a river as great as the Mississippi, and mountains resembling the Alps in height, whereas in reality it is a quiet and not extraordinary though most pleading landscape which here "delights the eye".

ANNAPOLIS--ROYAL

The King of Rivers, solemn calm and slow,
Flows tow'rd the Sea yet fierce is seen to flow,
On each fan Bank, the verdant Lands are seen,
In gayest Cloathing of perpetual Green
On ev'ry Side, the Prospect brings to Sight
The Fields, the Flow'rs, and ev'ry fresh Delight
His lovely Banks, most beauteously are grac'd
With Nature's sweet variety of Taste
Herbs, Fruits and Grass, with intermingled Trees
The Prospect lengthen, and the Joys increase
The lofty Mountains rise to ev'ry View,
Creation's Glory, and its Beauty too.
To higher Grounds, the raptur'd View extends,
Whilst in the Cloud-top'd Cliffs the Landscape ends
Fair Scenes! to which should Angels turn their Sight,
Angels might stand astonished with Delight
Majestic Grove in ev'ry View arise
And greet with Wonder the Beholders' Eyes.
In gentle Windings where this River glides,
And Herbage thick its Current almost hides,
Where sweet Meanders lead his pleasant Course,
Where Trees and Plants and Fruits themselves disclose,
Where never-fading Groves of fragrant Fir
And beauteous Pine perfume the ambient Air,
The air, at once, both Health and Fragrance yields,
Like sweet Arabian or Elysian Fields
Thou Royal Settlement! he washes Thee,
Thou Village, blest of Heav'n and dear to me:
Nam'd from a pious Sov'reign, now at Rest,
The last of Stuart's Line, of Queens the best.
Amidst the rural Joys, the Town is seen,
Enclos'd with Woods and Hills, forever green
The Streets, the Buildings, Gardens, all concert
To please the Eye, to gratify the Heart.
But none of these so pleasing or so fair,
As those bright Maidens, who inhabit there.
Your potent Charms fair Nymphs, my verse inspire,
Your Charms supply the chaste poetic Fire.
Could these my Strains, but live, when I'm no more,
On future Fame's bright wings, your names should soar.
Where this romantic Village lifts her Head,
Betwixt the Royal Port and humble Mead,
The decent Mansions, deck'd with mod'rate cost,
Of honest Thrift, and gen'rous Owners boast;
Their Skill and Industry their Sons employ,
In works of Peace, Integrity and Joy.
Their Lives, in Social, harmless Bliss, they spend,
Then to the Grave, in honor'd Age descend.
The hoary Sire and aged Matron see
Their prosp'rous Offering to the fourth Degree:
With Grief sincere, the blooming offspring close
Their Parent's Eyes, and pay their Debt of Woes;
Then haste to honest, joyous Marriage Bands,
A newborn Race is rear'd by careful Hands:
Thro' num'rous Ages thus they'll happy move
In active Bus'ness, and in chastest Love.
The Nymphs and Swains appear in Streets and Bowers
As morning fresh, as lovely as the Flowers.
As blight as Phoebus, Ruler of the Day,
Prudent as Pallas, and as Flora gay.
A Spire majestic roars its solemn Vane,
Where Praises, Pray'r and true Devotion reign,
Where Truth and Peace and Charity abound,
Where God is fought, and heav'nly Blessings found.
The gen'rous Flock reward their Pastor's care,
His Pray'rs, his Wants, his Happiness they share
Retir'd from worldly Care, from Noise and Strife,
In sacred Thoughts and Deeds, he spends his Life,
To mo'drate Bounds, his Wishes he confines,
All views of Grandeur, Pow'r and Wealth resigns,
With Pomp and Pride can cheerfully dispense,
Dead to the World, and empty Joys of Sense,
The Symphony of heav'nly Song he hears,
Celestial Concord vibrates on his Ears.,
Which emulates the Music of the Spheres
The Band of active Youths and Virgins fan,
Rank'd in due Order, by their Teacher's Care,
The Sight of all Beholders gratify,
Sweet to the Soul, and pleasing to the Eye
But when their Voices found in Songs, of Praise,
When they to God's high Throne their Anthems raise,
By these harmonious Sounds, such Rapture's giv'n,
Their loud Hosannas waft the Soul to Heav'n:
The fourfold Parts in one bright Center meet,
To form the blessed Harmony complete.
Lov'd by the Good, esteemed by the Wise,
To gracious Heav'n, a pleasing sacrifice.
Each Note, each Part, each Voice, each Word conspire
T' inflame all pious Hearts with holy Fire,
Each one in Fancy seems among the Throng
Of Angels, chanting Heav'n's eternal Song.
Hail Music, Foretaste of celestial Joy!
That always satiasts, yet canst never cloy:
Each pure, refin'd, extatic Pleasure's thine,
Thou rapt'rous Science! Harmony divine!
May each kind Wish of ev'ry virtuous Heart
Be giv'n to all, who teach, or learn thine Art:
May all the Wise, and all the Good unite,
With all the Habitants of Life and Light,
To treat the Sons of Music with Respect,
Their Progress to encourage and protect.
May each Musician, and Musician's Friend
Attain to Hymns divine, which never end.

Being a musical company, the Octave accept this peroration without criticism, and do not seem to consider it an extravagant rhapsody, though they are so daring as to take exception to other parts of the queer old poem.

As we have come here for rest, we are not disturbed at finding that trains, etc., are not always strictly "on time". We are summoned at 7:15 A.M., but breakfast is not served for more than an hour after; we engage a carriage for two o'clock, and perhaps in the neighborhood of three see it driving up in a leisurely manner. The people are wise, and do not wear themselves out with unnecessary rush and hurry, as we do in the States. The train advertised to start for Halifax at 2 P.M. more frequently leaves at 3, or 3.30; but then it has to wait the arrival of the steamboat which, four times per week, comes across from St. John. The express train requires six hours to traverse the miles intervening between this quiet village and that not much livelier town, while for the accommodation train they allow ten hours; but when one comes to see beautiful country one does not wish to have the breath taken away by traveling at break-neck speed.

We know that some of our party are capable of raising a breeze, and we are on a gal(e)a time anyhow; still, this is a remarkably breezy place, the wind rising with the tide, so we understand why there are so few flowers in the gardens,--the poor blossoms would soon be torn to pieces; but the windows of the houses generally are crowded with thriving plants gay with bloom, giving most cheery effect as one strolls about the town.

In our excursion to the Bay Shore we halt to water the horses at a neat little cottage on the summit of the North Mountain, and even here the little garden (protected from the winds by a fence) is all aflame with a wonderful variety of large double and gorgeous poppies. From this point, also, we have our first view of the wide Bay, shimmering in the hazy sunlight far below, and can faintly trace the rugged hills of New Brunswick in the distance.

Rapidly descending, we follow the coast for several miles, finally stopping at a lonely house on the rocky and barren shore,--such a wild spot as a novelist would choose to represent a smuggler's retreat; but the family would not answer his purpose in that respect, for they are homely and hospitable, agreeing at once to provide stabling for our horses and to sell us some milk for our lunch. They drop their net mending, come out _en masse_, and, on learning that some of us are from Philadelphia, greet us like old friends, because their eldest daughter is living in that distant city. The best pitcher is brought out for our use, the whole establishment placed at our disposal, and, finding that we will be so insane as to prefer to picnic under the few straggling pines by the water instead of using their dining-room, several march ahead to show the way to the rocky point; and we form a long and, of course, imposing procession.

As we gaze along this barren and lonely shore, Octavia exclaims, "Imagine the amazement of De Monts when he sailed along this iron-bound coast and suddenly came upon that wonderful gateway which leads into the beautiful Annapolis Basin and the fertile, lovely region beyond!" and we all agree that it is a shame that the embouchure should now be known by the vulgar title, Digby Gut, instead of its old cognomen, St. George's Channel. "Why couldn't they call it the Gap or the Gate?" one exclaims; "that wouldn't be quite so dreadful."

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'Équille 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 _débris_, emphasizing the loneliness; and Conductor says when the world was created the "leavings" were deposited in this dreary tract.

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

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