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!
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