Part 9

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.