Higginson thinks there has been too much sentimentalizing over the fate
of the Acadians; and one member of our party so evidently considers that
our enthusiasm savors of the gushing school-girl, that we are cautious
in our remarks. But the old man's grandson, holding his pretty child on
his shoulder, and looking across the valley to his pleasant dwelling,
says, "Oh, it was cruel to send them away from their homes!" to which
all earnestly assent.

Clambering up the hill back of the old house, we come upon the site of
an ancient French church, and commend the taste of those who chose such
an admirable location. Here we find, to our delight, that local
tradition has buried two fine old bells. Bells! What a charm there is
about them! One of the earliest recollections of our childhood is of a
bell, which, being harsh and dissonant, so worked upon our youthful
sensibilities as to cause paroxysms of tears; and now in these later
years we are sure that should some genie set us down blindfolded in any
place where we had ever remained for a time the mere tones of the bells
would enlighten us as to our whereabouts.

"Those evening bells! Those evening bells!
How many a tale their music tells,
Of youth and home and that sweet time
When last I heard their soothing chime."

After the Port Royal settlement was broken up by Argall in 1613,
tradition says this church crumbled away into ruin, and, as the
supporting beams decayed, the bells sank to the ground, where, from
their own weight and the accumulations of Nature's _débris_ they became
more and more deeply embedded until lost to view. Silver bells, from
France, they say. Of course! Who ever heard of any ancient bells which