The Acadians: A Dark Passage of American History

One of the darkest passages of American history is that on which Longfellow has founded his beautiful poem, "Evangeline,"—the tale and fate of the Acadians. Acadia was the French name for what is now called Nova Scotia. This province was settled by the French at a very early period; and the people were industrious, thrifty, and attached to their New World homes. In the constant wars between England and France they frequently fell into the hands of England, and finally, by the treaty of Utrecht, France gave up all claim to the land, and though the treaty gave them the right to sell and move away, there were none to buy. Even the English authorities induced them to stay, so as not to leave the land a desert. They remained without being compelled to bear arms against their own race. At last, in 1755, the English Government resolved on a terribly cruel blow. They were summoned to take the full English oath of allegiance. They asked to be allowed to take it modified, as of old, and be left in peace. But, fearing vengeance from the preparations making, they offered to swear allegiance unconditionally. They were told that, by a clause in a statute of George II., persons who once refused an oath could not be allowed to take it, but were Popish recusants. Old and young, even down to lads of ten, were ordered to assemble at their posts. On the appointed day, Sept. 5th, they obeyed at Grand Pré. Four hundred and eighteen came in; they were marched into the church and surrounded. There they were told that their lands, tenements, cattle of all kinds, and live stock of all sorts were forfeited to the crown, and that they were to be removed out of the provinces. Their wives and families shared their lot.

The blow was sudden; they had left home but for the morning, and they were never to return. They had not even food for their children. Guarded in separate camps until the ships were ready, they were at last drawn up six deep, and the young men, one hundred and sixty in number, were ordered to march first on board the vessel. They could leave their farms and cottages, the shady rocks on which they had reclined, and their herds and gardens, but could not leave without a struggle, be torn from their aged parents. But they had not a weapon, not even of the rudest kind. The bayonet drove them on to obey; they marched slowly and heavily from the chapel to the shore, between the women and children who knelt in prayer. The old went next; the wives and children were kept till other vessels came; kept on the shore without a comfort for the aged and sick. These poor people, as they were borne off, saw their homes, the church so dear to them, all consumed by fire. What was done at Grand Pré was done elsewhere. From Annapolis to the isthmus all was ruin. A beautiful and fertile tract was reduced to a solitude. There was nothing left round the ruins of the Acadian homes but the faithful [dog], wandering, vainly seeking the hands that fed him.

Seven thousand people were thus driven onto shipboard, father separated from child, wife from husband, and brother from sister. And what was their fate? They were thrown helpless on the coast from Boston to Georgia, without means, ignorant of the language. Hundreds and hundreds perished of want and disease; hundreds more fell a prey to [disease] while endeavoring to reach Canada or Louisiana. That any reached any of these provinces is almost a miracle. Yet numbers did. There husband and wife, who parted that morning in their Acadian home, came at last to each other's arms after years of wandering, happy, too, if they could clasp one of the children who had made them so happy. Others wandered on for years in vain search; others sank and died upon the road, where [...] alone was left them.