Acadiensis/Volume 1/Number 3/Æsthetic Attributes of Acadia
Aesthetic Attributes of Acadia.
HE FORMATION of literary and artistic ideas is due to a number of varied influences, either disintegrating the results of immatured ungoverned taste, or patching and renovating the structure originally well planned; but badly put together. It is true that literature and art are impelled by whims of uncertain origin and of only brief duration; but, like the under-current which presses back the ripple of a short-lived breeze, the first vital impulse drives the faltering intellect along its wonted course, the turgid conceit expands to nothing, the weakly affectation dies; then all is calm, and the stream, unchecked, flows onward as before. The artist cannot answer whence come the inspirations under which he acts, but he feels the hidden motives and takes his part, almost unconsciously, as the indicator of results, in the origin of which his fellow-workers share. At intervals, indeed, the musician catches new strains of harmony from higher angels; a painter portrays upon his canvas the vision of things unseen and scarcely understood by other men; or the mind of a poet bears to earth some blessed gift of heaven. But few musicians, painters or poets add much new lustre to their master arts, and too many pollute the shrines at which they are supposed to worship. Apart from the promptings and teachings of revealed religion, morality, and civil and social law, and irrespective of the tendency which induces inferior minds to imitate successes of real genius, no subjects tend so largely to control the destiny of art and letters as historical and traditional associations and climatic and typographical conditions.
The Greenlander, shivering in his hut, devouring the last morsel of blubber procured, at the risk of his life, amid the floes, indites no odes to the glittering stars, and has no appreciation of the bright auroras flashing across the sky. The Arab, gazing at the vista of burning sand, scarcely lifts his eyes to the eastern heaven, radiant in morning's glories. But the dweller by the Tiber, amid mementoes of literary and artistic skill, amid flowers and vines, and beneath a canopy of richest blue, pours forth his sweet impassioned verses. And the Teuton from his forest home, amid crumbling castles, sings of brave Arminius, Charlemagne and Fatherland. Milton saw not with the outer sense, and hence was driven to create the visions he describes. Dante possessed the nature of a seer; while Shelly, more like faun than mortal, treats of things unknown to earth, and Gustave Dore paints at times as though half wakened from some frightful dream. But these examples are abnormal, and long before the days of Spencer, Shakespeare and Albert Durer, and thence downwards, we find a list of bards and painters, all more or less affected by their own surroundings.
If, then, both poetry and art demand associations of this nature, the question arises, To what extent Acadia possesses these requirements for æsthetic culture? The student who looks only for those stately structures and giant fabrics which lead the mind into the classic ages, will find nothing to delight him in Acadia. No massive pyramids rise in grandeur in her desert places, no solitary Memnon greets the sun rising behind the dark pine forests; no stately amphitheatre or marble temple lies concealed behind her hills. Even the ruins of old cathedrals and noble abbeys, which, in Europe, mark the genius of the middle ages, are wanting here; and no crumbling towers or Gothic gateway glimmers in the midnight moon. But the tourist, wandering among the marshes, will sometimes find the fosse of an ancient fort, the faint remains of a grass-grown parapet, or a row of willows planted by the French. The sportsman, pushing his way through tangled thickets and fleecy spikes of fireweed, among half-burnt rampikes and whitened stumps, will sometimes stumble upon an old log hut; and the farmer's plow will, at times, expose a pointed spear or arrow-head, or an old flint hatchet. The careless eye sees nothing in these relics. But the poet's genius will, in their contemplation, produce a host of fancies; and the student will, by their means, unravel many interesting facts.
Owing to the restless and nomadic nature of the Indian race, and the want of written language among the northern tribes, few of their legends have been received by us intact. But I take from those within my reach a single tale which portrays in the Indian of by-gone ages as brave a spirit as that displayed by the knightly hero of the Tarpeian Rock:
The dreadful Mohawks had then been on the war-path, and had swept the country as far as the head- waters of the St. John, till the peaceful tribes of Acadia had fled at their approach. The strangers still pressed forward, but, with surprise and disappointment, found the wigwams all deserted, while the smouldered embers of camp fires told them that their expected victims had departed many days. At length they found a maiden, who, by threats and promises, was induced to pilot them down stream. The girl, however, seemed so well contented with her lot that at last she gained their unsuspecting trust, and, having fastened the canoes together, they often left her in sole control, with strict injunctions to keep the middle channel, and let the current drift them down. Thus they floated one summer's night beneath a calm, bright moon, which showed in marked and almost supernatural relief the vast flotilla with its freight of sleeping braves and one single wakeful object, the maiden silent, and almost motionless. Beyond the shaded mazes of the river a sound at length broke the stillness as though a wind among the trees were commingled with the surf. The sound grew louder, and the maiden shook her loosened locks, pausing but a moment but to hearken, and then resumed her task. Then the mirrored surface of the stream began to change, a thousand ripples played about the fleet, a thousand mimic whirlpools twirling round and round, with bits of sticks and leaves, and tiny flakes of foam. Then rose before them, like the mighty spirit of the river, a great white sheet of foam, sending clouds of spray and mist aloft into the clear night air, and then a single chieftain woke. At his cry a hundred men sprang up, and every arm was strained to reach the shore, but all too late, the piercing cry of agony was hushed forever in the roaring of the falls. The maiden's wild and joyful chaunt was also silenced, but her father and her tribe were saved!
Among the archives of the Algonquin race, this is almost a solitary sample of a plain, unvarnished tale, but all true Indian stories have their own peculiar beauties, and in almost every instance there is a ghost-like character, which marks this class of legendry, and renders it so utterly distinct from that of any other people that it must hereafter cause regret that no skilful hand has sought to bring together the scattered corner-stones of many an intellectual castle which the poet and the painter might adorn. I do not think, indeed, that from the Indian period of our history we can glean the nuclei for our most noble, intellectual fabrics; but, apart from other objects, it would certainly seem wise, in an age of active, mental competition, to cherish whatever partakes of pleasing novelty or is calculated to suggest new trains of thought. To him whose object is to secure the people's favor, or to purchase vulgar pleasures, it would be useless to suggest that the study of humanity produces knowledge, and that knowledge of every kind is power. But the poet and the pure ideal painter feel the need of teaching; they seek to learn of nature in its truest form, and they know their object can only be obtained by carefully comparing results produced by causes of every form. The proper teachings of the Elusinian mysteries were lost to those who did not understand; the graces of the purest ritual might earn derision only from untrained observers; and I hold it almost worse than useless to seek to bury in oblivion results which even the rudest savage has produced for some especial object. The custom may appear absurd, the legend may seem based on that which could not be, but, upon a full investigation, it will almost certainly appear that custom and legend were born from a rude, uncultured genius, either seeking to create and perfect some form of saving grace, or to portray a real occurrence, or, perhaps, a burning fancy lit with the fire of poesy.
Among the dearest, though less sparkling, gems of literature, there are few examples which touch the heartstrings more than those in which decayed prosperity is pictured; and I have somewhere seen a painting in which, if we apply the best interpretation which actual facts suggest, the same idea occurs. The scene is laid in twilight, and banks of clouds are closing round a flush of light beyond the far horizon, which seems more distant by contrast with the shaded hills. Between these hills and the immediate foreground lie stretches of marsh and lake, while a gloom of shadow and falling night and darkness pervades the whole. In the centre, reflected from the single piece of cloudless sky, appears a lumined space of water, and there, in bold relief, stands an Indian in his canoe. Motionless he stands, and silent, with form erect and steadfast gaze upon the distant glimpse of day; and in contemplation of the painting, one almost seems to see the lingering twilight fade in total darkness, and hear the last faint plashing of the paddle of him who goes from out the gloaming we know not where.
Were the story of French domination in Acadia written by an able writer, it would be seen that no other section of America is supplied with better subjects for every form of the poets' muse. DeMonts, Champlain and Poutrincourt, the earliest settlers, were gentlemen of culture, who aimed at something higher than mere plunder or profit for themselves, while, in after times, men like the Sieur LaTour appear, with lives devoted to gaining influences in this wild new land for France. And among the missionaries, both Recolets and Jesuits, were some of God's devoted servants, and men of the DeRetz and Richelieu stamp, well adapted for aiding or subverting dynasties and building up colonial power. Over the greater portion of the country the French have left mementoes of their occupation in the forms of ruined forts, dykes, and rows of willows and names of places. I think that, in selecting names, the English settlers are far behind both Indians and French. Ouigoudi, the Winding River; Magaguadavic, the Stream of Hills; Shockamock, the Shining Falls; Pokiock, the Dreadful Water, have beauty and suggestiveness, and Digby Gut and Parrsboro and Cow Bay will scarcely bear comparison with Cape Enrage and Grand Prarie. One likes to linger among the old historical scenes and characters, to mark the courtly customs of Port Royal, where the grand Steward of the day, with the staff and collar of his order, ruled the guests; to read the story of the fight at Fort LaTour, of the brave defense by a noble woman, and of her subsequent ill fortune. Then there were fierce engagements between the rival ships of war, when at times King Fog, the guardian spirit of the bay, would separate the combatants, and, at intervals, a Captain Argal drove the settlers off, or a fleet from Massachusetts sailed past Brier Island up the Atlantic coast of Nova Scotia and battered at the sea-girt walls of Louisbourg. At last the struggle ceased. Wolfe was victor at Quebec; the rule of France in North America was at an end. The final story of the Acadians is sad in the extreme. Some of them, neglected by their friends at home, yielded against their inclinations, swore fealty to Great Britain, and continued in the country; others, refusing to take the oaths, or suspected of infidelity by colonial magnates, suffered like the people of Grand Pré. In sight of burning cottages and barns they were borne away over the waters which DeMonts had named, in honor of their country, La Bay Françoise, past points and headlands bearing well-known names; they, looking backwards, with fixed eyes and panting breasts, till the last wreath of smoke was lost in the growing distance—till the sun had set, and banks of eastern clouds had faded in the twilight over Acadia, and the breeze had borne them away, and the night had shut them off forever from the land they loved.
More than a century has passed since England claimed Acadia as her own. The hardy settlers who worked their way through brake and forest are sleeping calmly in the grave. The little cabin, with its moss-filled chinks and rubble chimney, is supplanted with the wooden mansion, with mansard roof and cornice, and the sparsely-settled hamlet has grown into a town, and, with the advent of success and wealth, romance retires. Art fears not progress, but she hates to strive with rancor, and would rather follow in the van of science and use the fragments of established truth. She waits till prejudice and cynicism have done their work, till history and tradition are forsaken by the skeptics, then she paints them in her own fair colors, and they endure.
I will not, therefore, seek to picture English life in Acadia, not because it is devoid of interest, but because it is more recent than the other periods of our history; because it gains its interest rather from connection with commercial than æsthetic progress. Apart from all that man has done, however, Acadia stands adorned with Nature's graces, and God has given her charms which man could nob create. Among the breakers of Cape Breton, where the water surges past the heights at La Bras D'or, among the islands near Cape Sable, at Lunenburg, at Tusket and St. Mary's Bay, there are bits of rugged landscape, rich in all the splendor of bold rocks and splashing waves. From Granville to Cornwallis the sweetest strip of valley lies between two stretches of mountain land, and, standing on the heights of Cobequid, we can gaze for miles away upon a broad and boundless reach of marsh land. From Fort Medway through lake Rosignol to the basin of Annapolis, without leaving the canoe, we may pass through a lovely highway of lakes and outlets, while up the river of New Brunswick we may sail for days till we have to make a portage at huge cascades, which, if Canada did not possess Niagara and her railroads, would gather round them crowds of tourists. I shall not soon forget a night once passed on Blomidon—the wildest spot, perhaps, in all Acadia. It was in my grand old college days, and we, three students, carried with us enough of classic training to make us seek some classic features in the scene. The night was cloudless, and a great round moon hung in the sky above the Parrsboro coast and lit the belts of trap and sandstone which skirt the western boundary of Minas Basin. Along the heights, which rise precipitous three hundred feet above the water's edge, are fearful landslides, where, among fragments of basaltic column, mixed with smaller broken stone and gravel, sprays of birch and dogwood mark the struggle between vegetable and inorganic force. To the south lay Grand Pré, and a few stray distant lights were all that told us of the human world,—the rest was solitude. And then the waters of the Basin were surging at our feet, or soughing up the shingle, or thundering against the cliff, while countless splash and wave and ripple sounded from the distance far away. It was such a scene as Æschylus and Homer must have witnessed, and I do not think we should have wondered had we seen the pale Promotheus shackled to the beetling rock, or heard his wild and sad complaints, or had the story of Andromeda been re-enacted before our eyes.
[The foregoing is the principal portion of an address delivered before the Associated Alumni of King's College, Windsor, N. S., by Mr. Jack. That part which was more personal in its nature has been eliminated.
The address evoked some kindly criticism, and for elegance of diction and depth of poetic feeling, was generally regarded as of more than ordinary merit.
The Halifax Chronicle contained an appreciative reference, from the pen of its Windsor correspondent, which was as follows:
Then came a beautiful essay by a former alumnus Mr. Jack, now a lawyer of St. John, N. B., which was most favorably received. It was difficult to decide whether to call it poetry or prose, so much more of the former style than of the latter was breathed throughout the elegant composition. I hope it will be printed, and thus add another link to the evidence of what poor old King's has done for the intellectual improvement of the colonial mind. One of the speakers pronounced his opinion, that those present may live to see the gifted author added to the long list of chief justices who have been supplied by this institution.
It is to be regretted that Mr. Jack should have been compelled, by ill-health, in the year 1895, to retire from the active pursuit of his profession. With the advent into power in dominion politics of the Liberal party, to whose principles he had always been a firm adherent, his prospects of more ample recognition among his fellows would have been much enhanced. Indeed, we feel that had he been able to retain his health, the friendly prognostication made at Windsor in 1872 would have been verified, almost as a natural sequence of events.—Ed.]