Acadia | Page 6

House is Fuller's American Book-store,
which we will step into, and now among these books, fresh from the
teeming presses of the States, we feel once more at home. Fuller
preserves his equanimity in spite of the blandishments of royalty, and
once a year, on the Fourth of July, hoists the "stars and stripes," and
bravely takes dinner with the United States Consul, in the midst of
lions and unicorns. Many pleasant hours I passed with Fuller, both in
town and country. Near by, on the next corner, is the print-store of our
old friends the Wetmores, and here one can see costly engravings of
Landseer's fine pictures, and indeed whole portfolios of English art. But
of all the pictures there was one, the most touching, the most suggestive!
The presiding genius of the place, the unsceptred Queen of this little
realm was before me--Faed's Evangeline! And this reminded me that I
was in the Acadian land! This reminded me of Longfellow's beautiful
pastoral, a poem that has spread a glory over Nova Scotia, a romantic
interest, which our own land has not yet inspired! I knew that I was in
Acadia; the historic scroll unrolled and stretched its long perspective to
earlier days; it recalled De Monts, and the la Tours; Vice Admiral
Destournelle, who ran upon his own sword, hard by, at Bedford Basin;
and the brave Baron Castine.
The largest settlement of the Acadians is in the neighborhood of

Halifax. In the early mornings, you sometimes see a few of these
people in the streets, or at the market, selling a dozen or so of fresh
eggs, or a pair or two of woollen socks, almost the only articles of their
simple commerce. But you must needs be early to see them; after eight
o'clock, they will have all vanished. Chezzetcook, or, as it is
pronounced by the 'Alligonians, "Chizzencook," is twenty-two miles
from Halifax, and as the Acadian peasant has neither horse nor mule,
he or she must be off betimes to reach home before mid-day nuncheon.
A score of miles on foot is no trifle, in all weathers, but Gabriel and
Evangeline perform it cheerfully; and when the knitting-needle and the
poultry shall have replenished their slender stock, off again they will
start on their midnight pilgrimage, that they may reach the great city of
Halifax before day-break.
We must see Chezzetcook anon, gentle reader.
Let us visit the market-place. Here is Masaniello, with his fish in great
profusion. Codfish, three-pence or four-pence each; lobsters, a penny;
and salmon of immense size at six-pence a pound (currency), equal to a
dime of our money. If you prefer trout, you must buy them of these
Micmac squaws in traditional blankets, a shilling a bunch; and you may
also buy baskets of rainbow tints from these copper ladies for a mere
trifle; and as every race has a separate vocation here, only of the
negroes can you purchase berries. "This is a busy town," one would say,
drawing his conclusion from the market-place; for the shifting crowd,
in all costumes and in all colors, Indians, negroes, soldiers, sailors,
civilians, and Chizzincookers, make up a pageant of no little theatrical
effect and bustle. Again: if you are still strong in limb, and ready for a
longer walk, which I, leaning upon my staff, am not, we will visit the
encampment at Point Pleasant. The Seventy-sixth Regiment has pitched
its tents here among the evergreens. Yonder you see the soldiers,
looking like masses of red fruit amidst the spicy verdure of the spruces.
Row upon row of tents, and file upon file of men standing at ease, each
one before his knapsack, his little leather household, with its shoes,
socks, shirts, brushes, razors, and other furniture open for inspection.
And there is Sir John Gaspard le Marchant, with a brilliant staff,
engaged in the pleasant duty of picking a personal quarrel with each

medal-decorated hero, and marking down every hole in his socks, and
every gap in his comb, for the honor of the service. And this Point
Pleasant is a lovely place, too, with a broad look-out in front, for
yonder lies the blue harbor and the ocean deeps. Just back of the tents is
the cookery of the camp, huge mounds of loose stones, with grooves at
the top, very like the architecture of a cranberry-pie; and if the simile
be an homely one, it is the best that comes to mind to convey an idea of
those regimental stoves, with their seams and channels of fire, over
which potatoes bubble, and roast and boiled scud forth a savory odor.
And here and there, wistfully regarding this active scene, amid the
green shrubbery, stands a sentinel before his sentry-box, built of spruce
boughs, wrought into a mimic military temple,