Bon soir, Madame Oie, Veux tu le blé? Il est à 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, "Thérese le Blanc", our query, "Votre père, 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 Pré'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' fête, which commences next day; nevertheless, had we been princes of the realm, we could not have been shown truer hospitality. Père 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, Abbé Ségoigne, 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.
Abbé 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 "étwelles" for étoiles, "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 thé", 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 arivée
Dans ce joli pays,
Avec bonne santé,
Mais bien fatiguée.
Adieu. E. B. C.
(O quelle atrocité!
Mais je n'ai ni grammaire
Ni dictionnaire français.)
"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."
Père 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 fête 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:—
"Which knows most, a pig or a hen?
'Tis hard to tell in rustic rhyme
What pigs or hens may know.
A cabbage-head in olden time
Sure knew enough to grow.
If Balm and corn to them were thrown
By parsimonious Bill
I think the fact would then be shown,
For Piggy'd eat his fill."
Next comes the Chemist with the question:—
"Do you like peanuts?
Peanuts are double,
And so is the trouble
Involved in effort
To answer it.
Hand over a few,
And see if I do
Not like peanuts
Better than Sanskrit"
Any one who had heard the Chemist warbling,—
"He who hath good peanuts and gives his neighbor none,
He sha'n't have any of my peanuts when his peanuts are gone,"
would not have doubted this.
The Philosopher next airs his learning in the following:—
"What do you admire in a fool?
Water has such combustibility
That one may rightfully admire
The happy lack of wise ability
Which never rivers sets on fire.
Truth needs no recapitulation
To make what's simple plainer still.
Folly courts our admiration
Wherever Fashion has her will."
Part of this is so abstruse that I fear the company do not fully appreciate it; so the next is quite startling; and after hearing it we learn, the cause of the Astronomer's silent merriment in the corner, and rejoice that Dr. Holmes's experience in "writing as funny as he could" has proved a warning to this individual:—
"What is stronger than an onion?
Oh, scissors! on a summer night
To tax a fat republican
In thinking out with all his might
Some mightier thing than on-i-on.
Garlic, maybe's not strong enough
Well, I'll exert my 'spunk'
So here you have it, 'in the rough,'—
A pole-cat, alias s——k."
The Oleaginous Personage comes next with the question, "Do you like
Crambo?" which was answered, rather ambiguously, thus:—
"If our last lingo was a specimen
Of this most wise and learned game,
'Tis sure that thus not many men
Would long be known to fame.
Any of you as well as I
Would knock our type all into Pi,
If ghost, or man, or printer's devil
Should show us up for good or evil."
Here the sedate and dignified Elsie gives her opinion of a summer recreation after this fashion:—
"Are you fond of fishing?
A foolish amusement, it seems to me,
To be rocking about on the briny sea
Watching for bites 'neath a broiling sun,
(Mosquitoes will give you 'em when day is done)
For my part I'd rather be left in peace
To read of travels in sunny Greece
Varied by poem on 'Pleasures of Hope',—
Whate'er my employment I shall not mope—
But it proves great sport for cousin Bill.
(He's a youth just starting up Life's hill)
But should he as old as I become
He would conclude that 't is all a 'hum'."
Where a person generally considered "proper" became familiar with slang I cannot imagine, but I make no remarks. Owing to the absence of two members of the household, who, having been caught out in the shower, are probably calculating the specific gravity of rain drops and their effect on new straw hats, we have doubtless been deprived of more poems of surprising depth and brilliancy. And, from regard for the excessive modesty of other participants in the game, I suppress many compositions of rare merit which were brought out this stormy evening. This letter is merely to acquaint you with an important fact, which is as follows. As Dr. Holmes has informed you with regard to the "Asylum for Decayed Punsters," be it known hereby that we have here started a rival institution,—a school for poets; so when you wish to secure the services of any of the graduates, you may know where to apply. And, the reason why the game of Crambo is like night is, because it is quiet in the middle and noisy at both ends.