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TERMS OF USE
Preface
Acknowledgments
About the Authors
Introduction: The Five-Step Program
Resource Guide
Using Literary Works in European History
General Websites
General Background
Resources by Historical Period
PREFACE
With this new light on his path, Clide hastened his return to
England, farther than ever, it seemed, from his journey’s end, and
laden with a heavier burden than when he set out. March! march!
was still the command that sounded in his ears, driving him on and
on like the Wandering Jew, and never letting him get nearer the
goal.
He had not the faintest idea of Isabel’s native place. She had told
him she was Scotch, and her name said so too, though she was
perfectly free from the native accent which marked her uncle’s
speech so strongly. But what did that prove either way? Was
Cameron her name, or Prendergast his? He had taken a new name
in his travels, and so had she. Still, feeble as the thread was, it was
the only one he had to guide him; so he started for Scotland as soon
as he landed in England, having previously taken the precaution to
acquaint the police in London with his present purpose, and what
had led him to it. If Isabel were sufficiently recovered to appear
again in public, it was probable that the brutal man—who was in
reality no more than her task-master—would have made some
engagement for her with a manager, and she might at this moment
be singing her brain away for his benefit in some provincial theatre.
It was clear he shunned the publicity of the London stage. Clide
thought of these things as he tramped over the purple heather of
the Highlands, following now one mirage, now another; and his
heart swelled within him and smote him for his angry and vindictive
feelings toward Isabel; and tears, that were no disgrace to his
manhood, forced themselves from his eyes. Poor child! She was not
to blame, then, for wrecking his life, and coming again like an evil
genius to thrust him back into the abyss just as he had climbed to
safety, beckoned onwards and upwards by another angel form. She
was a victim herself, and had perhaps never meant to deceive or
betray him, but had loved him with her mad, untutored heart as well
as she knew how.
The winter days dragged on drearily, as he went from place to
place in Scotland, and found no trace of the missing one, heard
nothing that gave him any hopes of finding her. The police were
equally unsuccessful in London. Stanton had gone back there, very
much against his inclination; but Clide insisted that he would be of
more use in the busy streets, keeping his keen eyes open, than
following his master in his wanderings up and down Scotland.
One dark afternoon the valet was walking along Regent Street,
when he stopped to look at some prints in a music-shop. The gas
was lighted, and streamed in a brilliant blaze over the gaudily-attired
tenors and prime donne that were piling the agony on the backs of
various operatic songs. Stanton was considering them, and mentally
commenting on the manner of ladies and gentlemen who found it
good to spend their lives making faces and throwing themselves into
contortions that appeared to him equally painful and ridiculous,
when he noticed a lady inside the shop engaged in choosing some
music. She was dressed in black, and he only caught a glimpse of
her side face through her veil; but the glimpse made him start. He
watched her take the roll of music from the shopman, secure it in a
little leathern case, and then turn to leave the shop. She walked out
leisurely, but the moment she opened the door she quickened her
pace almost to a run; and before Stanton knew where he was, she
had rushed into the middle of the street. He hastened after her, but
a string of carriages and cabs intervened and blocked the street for
some moments. As soon as it was clear, he saw the slight figure in
black stepping into an omnibus. He hailed it, gesticulating and
hallooing frantically; but the conductor, with the spirit of
contradiction peculiar to conductors, kept his head persistently
turned the other way. Stanton tore after him, waving his umbrella
and whistling, all to no purpose, until at last he stopped for want of
breath. At the same moment the omnibus pulled up to let some
travellers alight; he overtook it this time, and got in. The great
machine went thundering on its way, and there opposite to him sat
the lady in black, his master’s wife, he was ready to swear, if she
was in the land of the living. He saw the features very indistinctly,
but well enough to be certain of their identity; the height and
contour were the same, and so was the mass of jet black hair that
escaped in thick plaits from under the small black bonnet. Then
there was the conclusive fact of his having seen her in a music-shop.
This clinched the matter for Stanton. The omnibus stopped, the lady
got out, ran to the corner of the street, and waited for another to
come up, and jumped into it; Stanton meanwhile following her like
her shadow. She saw it, and he saw that she saw it, and that she
was frightened and trying to get away from him. Why should she do
so if she were not afraid of being recognized? He was not a
gentleman, and could see no reason for an unprotected young
woman being frightened at a man looking fixedly at her and
pursuing her, unless she had a guilty conscience. He sat as near as
he could to her in the omnibus, and when it pulled up to let her
down he got down. She hurried up a small, quiet street off
Tottenham Court Road, and on reaching a semi-detached small
house, flew up the steps and pulled violently at the bell. Stanton was
beside her in an instant.
“Excuse me, ma’am, but I know you. I don’t mean to do you any
’arm, only to tell you that I’m Stanton, Mr. Clide’s valet; you are my
master’s wife!”
He was excited, but respectful in his manner.
“You are mistaken,” replied the lady, shrinking into the doorway. “I
know nothing about you. I never heard of Mr. Clide, and I’m not
married!”
Stanton was of course prepared for the denial, and showed no
sign of surprise or incredulity; but, in spite of himself, her tone of
assurance staggered him a little. He could not say whether the
sound of the voice resembled that of Mrs. de Winton. Its echoes had
lingered very faintly in his memory, and so many other voices and
sounds had swept over it during the intervening years that he could
not the least affirm whether the voice he had just heard was hers or
not. Before he had found any answer to this question, footsteps
were audible pattering on the tarpauling of the narrow entry, and a
slip-shod servant-girl opened the door. The lady passed quickly in;
Stanton followed her.
“You must leave me!” she said, turning on him. “This is my papa’s
house, and if you give any more annoyance he will have you taken
into custody.” She spoke in a loud voice, and as she ceased the
parlor door was opened, and a gentleman in a velveteen coat and
slippers came forward with a newspaper in his hand.
“What’s the matter? What is all this about?” he demanded blandly,
coming forward to reconnoitre Stanton, who did not look at all
bland, but grim and resolute, like a man who had conquered his
footing on the premises, and meant to hold it.
“Sir, I am Stanton, Mr. Clide’s valet; this lady knows me well, if you
don’t.”
“Papa! I never saw him in my life! I don’t know who Mr. Clide is!”
protested the young lady in a tremor. “This man has annoyed me all
the way home. Send him away!”
“I must speak to you, sir,” said Stanton stoutly. “I cannot leave the
house without.”
“Pray walk in!” said the gentleman, waving his newspaper towards
the open parlor; “and you, my dear, go and take off your bonnet.”
“Now, sir, be good enough to state your business,” he began when
the door was closed.
“My business isn’t with you, sir, but with your daughter, if she is
your daughter,” said Stanton. “One thing is certain—she’s my
master’s wife; there an’t no use in her denying it, and the best thing
she can do is to speak out to her ’usband penitent-like, and he’ll
forgive her, poor thing, and do the best he can for her, which will be
better than what that uncle of hers ’as been doin’ for her, draggin’
her about everywhere and driving the poor creature crazy. That’s
what I’ve got to say, sir, and I ’ope you’ll see as it’s sense and
reason.”
The occupant of the velveteen slippers listened to this speech with
eyes that grew rounder and rounder as it proceeded; then he threw
back his head and laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.
“My good man, there’s some mistake! You’ve mistaken my
daughter for somebody else; she never was married in her life, and
she has no uncle that ever I heard of. Ha! ha! ha! It’s the best joke I
ever heard in my life!”
“Excuse me; it an’t no joke at all!” protested Stanton, nettled, and
resolved not to be shaken by the ring of honesty there was in the
man’s laugh. “You mayn’t know the person that calls himself her
uncle, but I do, sir. Mayhap you are duped by the rascal yourself; but
it’ll all come out now. I have it all in the palm of my hand.” And he
opened that capacious member and closed it again significantly.
“Your daughter must either come away with me quietly, or I’ll call
the police and have her taken off whether she will or no!”
“I tell you, man, you are under some preposterous mistake,” said
the gentleman, his blandness all gone, and his choler rising. “My
name is Honey. I am a clerk in H—— Bank, and my daughter, Eliza
Jane Honey, has never left me since she was born. She is an artist, a
singer, and gives lessons in singing in some of the first houses in
London!”
“Singer! Singing lessons! Ha! Just so! I know it all,” said Stanton,
his mouth compressing itself in a saturnine smile. “I know it all, and
I tell you I don’t leave this ’ouse without her.”
“Confound your insolence! What do you mean? You’d better be
gone this instant, or I’ll call the police and give you into custody!
“No, sir, don’t try it; it won’t answer,” said Stanton, imperturbable.
“It ’ud only make more trouble; the poor thing has enough on her
already, and I’m not the one to make more for her. If you call in the
police I’ve something ’ere,” slapping his waistcoat pocket, “as ’ud
settle at once which of us was to be took up.”
Before Mr. Honey could say anything in answer to this, a voice
came carrolling down the stairs, singing some air from an opera, rich
with trills and fioriture.
“There it is! The very voice! The very tune I’ve ’eard her sing in
the drawing-room at Lanwold!” exclaimed Stanton.
The singer dashed into the room, but broke off in her trills on
seeing him.
“What! you are not gone? Papa, who is he?”
“My dear, he is either a madman or—or worse,” said her father.
“It’s the most extraordinary thing I ever heard in my life!”
“Speak out, ma’am, and don’t you fear I’ll do you any ’arm; my
master wouldn’t ’ave it, not for all the money he’s worth. Nobody
knows the sum he’s spent on them detectives already to try and
catch you; and it speaks badly for the lot to say they’ve not caught
you long ago. But don’t you be afraid of me, ma’am!” urged Stanton,
making his voice as mild as he could.
Eliza Jane’s answer was a peal of laughter.
“Why should I be afraid of you? I never laid my eyes on you
before, or you on me; you mistake me for somebody else, I tell you.
I never heard of Mr. Clide, and I am certain he never heard of me.
The idea of your insisting that I’m his wife!” And she laughed again;
but there was a nervous twitch about her mouth, and Stanton saw
it.
“As like as two peas in a pod!” was his emphatic remark, as he
deliberately scanned her face.
There was no denying the resemblance, indeed. The face was
fuller, the features more developed, but the interval of years would
explain that.
“Look at my hand! You see I have no wedding-ring? Ask me a few
questions; you will find out the blunder at once, if you only try,” she
said.
Stanton paused for a moment, as if trying to recall something that
might serve as a test.
“I ’ave it!” he said, looking up with a look of triumph. “Open your
mouth, ma’am, and let me look into it!”
He advanced towards her, expecting instant compliance. But Miss
Honey rushed behind her father with a cry of terror and disgust. The
movement was perfectly natural under the circumstances, but
Stanton saw it in the light of his own suspicions.
“Ha! I guessed as much,” he said, drawing away, and speaking in
a quiet tone of regret. “I was sure of it. Well, you give me no choice.
I know my dooty to a lady, but I know my dooty to my master too.”
He went toward the window, intending to throw it up and call for a
policeman.
“Stop!” cried Mr. Honey. “What do you expect to find in my
daughter’s mouth?”
“That, sir, is known to her and to me,” was the oracular reply. “If
she has nothing in it as can convict her, she needn’t be afraid to let
me look into it.”
Mr. Honey turned aside, touched his forehead with his forefinger,
and pointed with the thumb toward Stanton. After this rapid and
significant little pantomime, he said aloud to his daughter:
“My dear, perhaps it is as well to let the man have his way. He will
see that there is nothing to see. Come and gratify his singular
curiosity.”
The girl was now too frightened to see the ludicrous side of the
performance; she advanced gravely to the table, on which a gas-
burner threw a strong, clear light, and opened her mouth. Stanton
came and peered into it. “Please to lift the left side as wide open as
you can, ma’am; it was the third tooth from the back of her left jaw.”
She did as he desired, but, after looking closely all round, he could
see nothing but two fine, pearly rows of teeth, all ivory, without the
smallest glimmer of gold or silver to attest the presence of even an
unsound one.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am! I beg a thousand pardons, sir! I find
I’ve made a great mistake! I’ve behaved shameful rude to you and
the young lady; but I hope you’ll forgive me. I was only doing my
dooty to my master. I’m sorrier than I can say for my mistake!” Both
father and daughter were too thankful to be rid of him to withhold
their free and unconditional pardon. They even went the length of
regretting that he had had so much trouble and such an unpleasant
adventure all to no purpose, and cordially wished him better success
next time, as he withdrew, profusely apologizing.
“Papa, he must be an escaped lunatic!” cried the young lady, as
the hall-door closed on Stanton.
“I dare say they took me for a maniac, and indeed no wonder!”
was Stanton’s reflection, as he heard a peal of laughter through the
window.
The adventure left, nevertheless, an uneasy feeling on his mind,
and the next day he called on Mr. Peckitt, the dentist, and related it.
Mr. Peckitt had not seen the wearer of the silver tooth since the time
he had attended her before her departure for Berlin; but he had
seen her uncle, and made an entire set of false teeth for him. He
took the liberty on first seeing him of inquiring for the young lady;
but her uncle answered curtly that she was in no need of dental
services at present, and turned off the subject by some irrelevant
remark. Mr. Peckitt, of course, took the hint, and never reverted to
it. This was all he had to tell Stanton; but he did not confirm the
valet’s certainty as to the non-identity of Miss Honey on the grounds
of the absence of the silver tooth. It was, he thought, improbable
that his patient should have parted with that odd appendage, and
that, if so, she should have gone to a strange dentist to have it
replaced by an ordinary tooth; but either of these alternatives was
possible.
This was all the information that Stanton had for his master when
the latter returned from his bootless search in Scotland.
On the following day Sir Simon Harness came to London and
heard of the strange adventure. He was inclined to attach more
importance to it than Clide apparently did.
“Suppose this so-called Eliza Jane Honey should not have been
Isabel,” he said, “but some one like her—the same whom you saw at
Dieppe?” Clide shook his head.
“Impossible! I could not be deceived, though Stanton might. This
Miss Honey, too, was fuller in the face, and altogether a more robust
person, than Isabel, as Stanton remembers her. Now, after the
terrible attack that she has suffered lately, it is much more likely that
she is worn and thin, poor child!”
“That is true. Still, there remains the coincidence of the splendid
voice and of her being an artist. If I were you, I would not rest till I
saw her myself.”
“It would only make assurance doubly sure. Stanton has startled
me over and over again for nothing. Every pair of black eyes and
bright complexion that he sees gives him a turn, as he says, and
sets him off on the chase. No; the woman I saw at Dieppe was my
wife—I am as sure of that as of my own identity. I did not get near
enough to her to say, ‘Are you my wife?’ but I am as certain of it as
if I had.” He promised, however, to satisfy Sir Simon, that he would
go to Tottenham Court and see Miss Honey.
While Clide’s tongue was engaged on this absorbing topic, he was
mentally reverting to another subject which was scarcely less
absorbing, and which was closer to his heart. His love for Franceline
had not abated one atom of its ardor since absence and a far more
impassable gulf had parted him from her; her image reigned
supreme in his heart still, and accompanied him in his waking and
sleeping thoughts. He felt no compunction for this. His conscience
tendered full and unflinching allegiance to the letter of the moral
law, but it was in bondage to none of those finer spiritual tenets that
ruled and influenced Franceline. He would have cut off his right hand
rather than outrage her memory by so much as an unworthy
thought; but he gave his heart full freedom to retain and foster its
love for her. He had not her clear spiritual insight to discern the
sinfulness of this, any more than he had her deep inward strength to
enable him to crush the sin out of his heart, even if he had tried,
which he did not. It was his misfortune, not his fault, that his love
for her was unlawful. Nothing could make it guilty; that was in his
own power, and the purity of its object was its best protection. She
was an angel, and could only be worshipped with the reverent love
that one of her own pure kindred spirits might accept without
offence or contamination. Such was Clide’s code, and, if he wanted
any internal proof of his own loyalty to sanction it, he had it in the
shape of many deep-drawn sighs—prayers, he called them, and
perhaps they were—that Franceline might not suffer on his account,
but might forget him, and be happy after a time with some worthier
husband. He had been quite honest when he sighed these sighs—at
least he thought he was; yet when Sir Simon, meaning to console
him and make things smooth and comfortable, assured him
emphatically that they had been both happily mistaken in the nature
of Franceline’s feelings, and then basely and cruelly insinuated that
Ponsonby Anwyll was in a fair way to make her a good husband by
and by, Clide felt a pang more acute than any he had yet
experienced. This is often the case with us. We never know how
much insincerity there is in the best of our prayers—the anti-self
ones—until we are threatened with the grant of them.
Sir Simon said nothing about the stolen ring. His friendship for
Raymond partook of that strong personal feeling which made any
dishonor in its object touch him like a personal stain. He could not
bear even to admit it to himself that his ideal was destroyed. M. de
la Bourbonais had been his ideal of truth, of manly independence, of
everything that was noble, simple, and good. There are many
intervals in the scale that separates the ordinary honest man from
the ideal man of honor. Sir Simon could count several of the former
class; but he knew but one of the higher type. He had never known
any one whom he would have placed on the same pinnacle of
unsullied, impregnable honor with Raymond. Now that he had fallen,
it seemed as if the very stronghold of Sir Simon’s own faith had
surrendered; he could disbelieve everything, he could doubt
everybody. Where was truth to be found, who was to be trusted,
since Raymond de la Bourbonais had failed? But meantime he would
screen him as long as he could. He would not be the first to speak of
his disgrace to any one. He told Clide how Raymond had lost, for
him, a considerable sum of money recently, through the dishonesty
of a bank, and how he had borne the loss with the most incredible
philosophy, because just then it so happened he did not want the
money; but since then Franceline’s health had become very delicate,
and she was ordered to a warm climate, and these few hundreds
would have enabled him to take her there, and her father was now
bitterly lamenting the loss.
Clide was all excitement in a moment.
“But now you can supply them?” he cried. “Or rather let me do it
through you! I must not, of course, appear; but it will be something
to know I am of use to her—to both of them. You can easily manage
it, can you not? M. de la Bourbonais would make no difficulty in
accepting the service from you.”
“Humph! As ill-luck will have it, there is a coldness between us at
present,” said Sir Simon—“a little tiff that will blow off after a while
but meanwhile Bourbonais is as unapproachable as a porcupine. He’s
as proud as Lucifer at any time, and I fear there is no one but myself
from whom he would accept a service of the kind.”
“Could not Langrove manage it? They seemed on affectionate
terms,” said Clide.
“Oh! no, oh! no. That would never do!” said Sir Simon quickly. “I
don’t see any one at Dullerton but myself who could attempt it.”
“Well, but some one must, since you say you can’t,” argued Clide
with impatience. “When do you return to the Court?”
“I did not mean to return just yet a while. You see, I have a great
deal of business to look to—of a pleasant sort, thanks to you, my
dear boy, but still imperative and admitting of no delay. I can’t
possibly leave town until it has been settled.”
“I should have thought Simpson might have attended to it. I
suppose you mean legal matters?” said the young man with some
asperity. He could not understand Sir Simon’s being hindered by
mere business from sparing a day in a case of such emergency, and
for such a friend. It was unlike him to be selfish, and this was
downright heartlessness.
“Simpson? To be sure!” exclaimed the baronet jubilantly, starting
up and seizing his hat. “I will be off and see him this minute.
Simpson is sure to hit on some device; he’s never at a loss for
anything.”
TO BE CONTINUED.
This is the refrain running through the poem like the aria of the
“Last Rose of Summer” through Martha. Yet the picture conveyed to
the reader’s mind is that of the Atlantic coast of Acadia, or Nova
Scotia, not of the Basin of Mines, where Evangeline dwelt with her
people. The natural features of the two sections of country are
strikingly diverse. On the east coast of Nova Scotia rises a line of
granitic and other cliffs, sterile, vast, jagged, opposing their giant
shoulders to the roaring surges of the Atlantic. On the hills behind,
the pines and hemlocks rustle and murmur in answer to the waves.
This is the “forest primeval” and the “loud-voiced neighboring
ocean.” But on the west coast is quite another scene. The Basin of
Mines is an inland gulf of an inland sea—the Bay of Fundy. Here the
granite rocks and murmuring pines give place to red clay-banks and
overflowed marshes. And here is Horton, or Grand Pré. It is
separated by the whole breadth of the peninsula of Nova Scotia from
the ocean. The “mists from the mighty Atlantic,” which
are in reality the fogs of the Bay of Fundy shut out by the North
Mountain. Instead of the long swell of the Atlantic breaking on a
rocky coast, we have in the Basin of Mines numerous small rivers
running through an alluvial country, with high clay-banks left bare by
the receding tide. This last feature of the scene is correctly described
by the poet; but it must be borne in mind that it is not united with
the natural features of the east coast. The Acadians never, in fact,
affected the Atlantic sea-board. They sailed shuddering past its
frowning and wintry walls, and, doubling Cape Sable, beat up the
Bay of Fundy to where the sheltered Basins of Port Royal and Mines
invited an entrance from the west. For over one hundred years after
the founding of Port Royal the Atlantic coast of Acadia remained a
waste. A fishing-village at Canseau on the north—a sort of stepping-
stone to and from the great fortress of Louisburg—and a few
scattered houses and clearings near La Tour’s first settlement alone
broke the monotonous silence of the wilderness. The Indian hunter
tracking the moose over the frozen surface of the snow, and some
half-solitary Irish and New England fishermen in Chebucto Bay,
divided the rest of the country between them. It was not until 1749
that Cornwallis landed his colonists at Halifax, and made the first
solid footing on the Atlantic coast. But for generations previously, in
the rich valley of the River of Port Royal, and along the fertile banks
of the streams flowing into the Basin of Mines—the Gaspereau, the
Canard, and the Pereau—the thrifty Acadians spread their villages,
built their churches, and were married and buried by the good
Recollect Fathers.
I was a lad scarce emancipated from college when I first visited
those scenes. I remember well my emotion when I drew my eyes
away from the landscape, and, turning to my companion, Father K
——, asked him if there were any remains of the old village of Grand
Pré. To my youthful imagination Evangeline was as real as the
people about me. Father K—— was the priest stationed at Kentville,
about ten miles distant from Grand Pré and the Gaspereau River,
which were included in his mission. He was an old family friend, and
I was going to spend the summer vacation with him. We were
driving from Windsor through Horton and Wolfville to Kentville,
passing on our road through all the scenes described in the poem. I
have often visited that part of the country since then, but never has
it made such an impression on me. The stage-coach then rolled
between Windsor and Kentville, and something of the rural simplicity
congenial with the poem was still felt to be around one. Last year I
rode by rail over the same ground, and later on another line of
railroad to Truro, and thence around the Basin of Mines on the north
through Cumberland. But my feelings had changed, or the whistle of
the locomotive was a sound alien to the memories of those green
meadows and intersecting dykes. Evangeline was no longer a being
to be loved, but a beautiful figment of the poet’s brain.
I don’t know to this day whether Father K—— was quizzing me, or
was loath to shatter my boyish romance, when he told me that there
were some old ruins which were said to be the home of Evangeline.
It is probable he was having a quiet joke at my expense, as he was
noted for his fund of humor, which I learned better to appreciate in
later years. Poor Father K——! He was a splendid type of the old
Irish missionary priest—an admirable Latinist; well read in English
literature, especially the Queen Anne poets; hearty, jovial, and could
tell a story that would set the table in a roar. And, withal, no priest
worked harder than he did in his wide and laborious mission, or was
a more tender-hearted friend of the poor and afflicted. He is since
dead.
During the month or six weeks I spent with Father K——, that part
of the country became quite familiar to me by means of his
numerous drives on parish duties, when I usually accompanied him.
Often, as the shades of the summer evening descended, have I
watched the mists across the Basin shrouding the bluff front of Cape
Blomidon—“Blow-me-down,” as it is more commonly called by the
country-folk. At other times we drove up the North Mountain, where
the
and, standing there, I have looked down upon the distant glittering
waters of the Bay of Fundy.
On one occasion we rode over from Kentville to Wolfville, and then
up the Gaspereau, at the mouth of which
swung with the tide on the morning which ushered in the doom of
Grand Pré. We rode some distance up the valley to the house of a
Catholic farmer, and there put up for the day. It was the day on
which the elections took place for the House of Assembly. The
contest was fiercely conducted amid great popular excitement. One
of those “No-Popery” cries, fomented by an artful politician—which
sometimes sweep the colonies as well as the mother country—was
raging in the province. Father K—— left Kentville, the county town,
on that day to avoid all appearance of interference in the election,
and also to get away from the noise and confusion that pervaded
the long main street of the village. I can remember the news coming
up the Gaspereau in the evening how every one of the four
candidates opposed to Father K—— had been returned. But at that
time I paid little heed to politics, and during the day I wandered
down through the field to the river, and strolled along its willow-
fringed banks. Some of those willows were very aged, and might
have swung their long, slim wands and narrow-pointed leaves over
an Evangeline and a Gabriel a hundred years before. Those willows
were not the natural growth of the forest, but were planted there—
by whom? No remnant of the people that first tilled the valley was
left to say!
Riding home next day, a laughable incident, but doubtless
somewhat annoying to Father K——, occurred. Just as we were
about to turn a narrow bend of the road, suddenly we were
confronted by a long procession in carriages and all sorts of country
vehicles, with banners flying, men shouting, and everything to
indicate a triumphal parade. It was, in fact, a procession escorting
two of the “No-Popery” members elected the day before. The
position was truly rueful, but Father K—— had to grin and bear it.
There was no escape for us; we had to draw up at the side of the
road, and sit quietly in our single wagon until the procession passed
us. It was a very orderly and good-humored crowd, but there were a
good many broad grins, as they rode by, at having caught the portly
and generally popular priest in such a trap. Nothing would persuade
them, of course, but that he had been working might and main for
the other side during the election. Finally, as the tail of the
procession passed us, some one in the rear, more in humor than in
malice, sang out: “To h—ll with the Pope.” There was a roar of
laughter at this, during which Father K—— gathered up his reins,
and, saying something under his breath which I will not vouch for as
strictly a blessing, applied the whip to old Dobbin with an energy
that that respectable quadruped must have thought demanded
explanation.
Changed indeed was such a scene from those daily witnessed
when Father Felician,
had been burned down twice by the English and its altar vessels
stolen by Col. Church in the old wars. Nor had permanent conquest,
as we have said, brought any change for the better. The curés were
frequently imprisoned on pretext of exciting attacks on the English
garrisons, and sometimes, as in the case of Father Felix and Father
Charlemagne, were exiled from the province. In 1714 the intention
was first announced of transporting all the Acadians from their
homes. It was proposed to remove them to Cape Breton, still held
by the French. The pathetic remonstrance of Father Felix Palm, the
curé of Grand Pré, in a letter and petition to the governor, averted
this great calamity from his people at that time. But the project was
again revived by the English Board of Trade, 1720-30. In pursuance
of its orders, Gov. Philipps issued a proclamation commanding the
people of Mines to come in and take the oath of allegiance by a
certain day, or to depart forthwith out of the province, permitting, at
the same time—a stretch of generosity which will hardly be
appreciated at this day—each family to carry away with it “two
sheep,” but all the rest of their property to be confiscated. This
storm also blew over. But the result of this continual harassment and
threatening was to drive the Acadians into closer correspondence
with the French at Louisburg, and to cause their young men to enlist
in the French-Canadian forces on the frontier. In view of this aid and
comfort given to the enemy, and their persistent refusal to take the
oath of allegiance, later English writers have not hesitated to declare
the removal of the Acadians from the province a political and military
necessity. But the otherwise unanimous voice of humanity has
unequivocally denounced their wholesale deportation as one of the
most cruel and tyrannical acts in the colonial history of England. We
are not to suppose, however, that the Acadians folded their hands
while utter ruin was thus threatening them. In 1747 they joined in
the attack on Col. Noble’s force at Mines, in which one hundred of
the English were killed and wounded, and the rest of his command
made prisoners. They were accused, not without some show of
reason, of supporting the Indians in their attack on the new
settlement at Halifax. It is admitted that three hundred of them,
including many of the young men from Grand Pré, were among the
prisoners taken at Fort Beau Sejour on the border a few months
before their expulsion. It is not our purpose to enter into any
defence or condemnation of those hostilities. But it is plain that Mr.
Longfellow’s beautiful lines describing the columns of pale blue
smoke, like clouds of incense, ascending
“free from fear, that reigns with the tyrant, or envy, the vice of
republics,” were not applicable to the condition of affairs at Grand
Pré in 1755, nor at any time.
The poem follows with fidelity the outlines of the scenes of the
expulsion. Heart-rending indeed is the scene, as described even by
those who were agents in its execution. The poet gives almost
verbatim the address of Col. John Winslow in the chapel.
Nevertheless one important clause is omitted. Barbarous as were the
orders of Gov. Lawrence, he was not absolutely devoid of humanity.
Some attempt was made to lessen the pangs of separation from
their country by the issuing of orders to the military commanders
that “whole families should go together on the same transport.”
These orders were communicated with the others to the inhabitants
by Col. Winslow, and it appears, they were faithfully executed as far
as the haste of embarkation would permit. But as the young men
marched separately to the ships, and some of them escaped for a
time into the woods, there was nothing to prevent such an incident
occurring as the separation of Evangeline and Gabriel.
About seven thousand (7,000) Acadians, according to Gov.
Lawrence’s letter to Col. Winslow, were transported from their
homes. The total number of these unfortunate people in the
province at that time has been estimated at eighteen thousand. The
destruction was more complete at Grand Pré than elsewhere, that
being the oldest settlement, with the exception of Annapolis, and the
most prosperous and thickly settled. A few years later another
attempt was made to transfer the remainder of the Acadian
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