The hours slip by unnoted when one sits, on the ramparts dreaming and
gazing on the broad sweep of river, the distant islands, the undulating
lines of the mountain ranges. The sleepy looking cows wander lazily
about, cropping the grass on the embankments, and even clamber over the
ancient archway.
One peoples the place with imaginary martial figures, and is almost
startled when the stillness is broken by a rustle and approaching
footsteps, and turns, as if expecting to see glittering uniforms
appearing through the crumbling arch; but it is only old Moolly, who
deliberately walks into the inner enclosure, and, if "our special artist
on the spot" has left his sketch for a moment, probably puts her foot in
it, with the air of one who should say, "Who are you who dare invade my
realm?"
The quaint barrack building, with its huge chimneys and gambrel roof, is
now occupied by several families; and a whitewashed fence encloses a gay
garden. The small magazine, built of creamy sandstone sent from France
for the purpose, still remains, and its excessively sharp roof shows
above the ramparts; but the massive oaken door stands open wide and is
green with age; the roof is decidedly shaky; and the shingles hang
loosely, so that one would think that only a moderate gale would send
them flying like a pack of cards.
The block-house, built of massive logs and heavy planks of English oak,
stood within the past year by the bridge over the moat; but,
unfortunately, a person without reverence for antiquities has razed it,
thereby obtaining his winter fuel cheaply; and he now turns an honest
penny by selling canes, etc., of the wood.
When we indignantly ask some of the town's-people how they could have
permitted this, they reply, "Oh, it was getting rotten, and would have
tumbled down some day;" but we judge, by pieces which we see of the
sound, tough fibred oak, that it might have stood for fifty years more
without injury; while a little judicious propping and repairing,
perhaps, would have preserved it for a longer period than that. Poor
Annapolitans, who had no Centennial Exhibition to teach them the value
of historical relics and "old things".
On the Maine Central Railroad, quite near the track at Winslow, we
passed, on our way here, an old block-house, which is carefully
preserved.
Not long ago, the Canadian Government received orders that all
buildings, except the barrack and magazine, must be removed from the
fort enclosure; yet a garrulous old Scotchman still resides there in a
tiny house, and plies his trade as cobbler.
His delight is to regale strangers with preposterous "yarns", and
accounts of his adventures in her Majesty's service; accounts which must
be taken with considerably more than the proverbial grain of salt, but
to which we listened with delight and amazingly sober countenances. When
asked how it happens that he still remains in the fort grounds, he
answers, "I writ out home, to Angland, to say that I served in the
arrumy fur thurty yeer, and I know the ould gurrul will let me stay."
(There's respect for a sovereign!)
He talks wisely of the "bumpruf", a word which we have some difficulty
in translating into bomb proof; and we are, apparently, overpowered
with wonder as he explains how "with a few berrls av pouther they cud
send ivery thing flying, and desthroy the whole place, avery bit av
it."
Presumably misled by our simulated credulity, he goes on to describe a
well in front of the magazine, and says, "When they wanted to get red
av throoblesome preesoners, ploomp they'd go in the watter, and thet was
the last av 'em'" Suffice it to say, that the oldest inhabitant has no
recollection of the slightest trace of such a well.
The underground passage has fallen in; only the entrance being now
visible and accessible Old Gill says, "I as the last man iver in it; and
I got caught there with the wall fallin' in, and they were twinty fower
hours gettin' me out," (a li[e]kely story!) adding, "Oh, I was a divil
in them days!" and "I found in there a bit av a goon wrinch" (gun
wrench); and Mr. So and So, from Halifax, "gev me some money fur it,
an' he lapped it up in his han'kerchef like as if it had ben goold."
We are told of an ancient house "of the era of the French occupation,"
and go to see it; but learn, though it looks so aged, that it was built
upon the site of the French house, and is not the old original. The
owner has reached the ripe age of ninety-four, and is a remarkable man,
with the polished manner of a gentleman of the old school In such a
climate as this, one would naturally expect to find centenarians. He
tells us many interesting things about old times here, and his grandson
brings out a barrel of Acadian relics to show us.
We are interested in noting the differences between these ancient
implements and those in use at the present time; here is a gridiron,
with very long handle and four feet (a clumsy quadruped), and we see in
fancy the picture of home comfort, as the busy housewife prepares the
noonday meal, where -
"Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer
Stood on the side of a lull commanding the sea, and a shady
Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreathing around it"
Here, too, are ox chains, a curiously shaped ploughshare, an odd little
spade used in mending the dikes, and digging clay for bricks, and also
the long and heavy tongs of the "blacksmith".
"Who was a mighty man in the village and honored of all men
For since the birth of time, throughout all ages and nations
Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by the people."
These implements were discovered at Frenchman's Brook on this farm, only
three years ago, and were then found apparently as bright and strong as
if just placed there.
