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      Baddeck and That Sort of Thing, by Charles Dudley Warner
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Project Gutenberg's Baddeck and That Sort of Thing, by Charles Dudley Warner

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org


Title: Baddeck and That Sort of Thing

Author: Charles Dudley Warner

Release Date: August 20, 2016 [EBook #3133]
Last Updated: February 24, 2018

Language: English

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*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BADDECK AND THAT SORT OF THING ***



Produced by David Widger






</pre>
    <h1>
      BADDECK AND THAT SORT OF THING
    </h1>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      By Charles Dudley Warner
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      Contents
    </h2>
    <h3>
      <a href="#link2H_PREF"> PREFACE </a><br /><br /> <a href="#link2H_4_0002">
      BADDECK AND THAT SORT OF THING </a><br />
    </h3>
    <table summary="&rdquo; style=">
      <tr>
        <td>
          <p class="toc">
            <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> I </a>
          </p>
          <p class="toc">
            <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> II </a>
          </p>
          <p class="toc">
            <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> III </a>
          </p>
          <p class="toc">
            <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> IV </a>
          </p>
          <p class="toc">
            <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> V </a>
          </p>
        </td>
      </tr>
    </table>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_PREF" id="link2H_PREF">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <h2>
      PREFACE
    </h2>
    <h3>
      TO JOSEPH H. TWICHELL
    </h3>
    <p>
      It would be unfair to hold you responsible for these light sketches of a
      summer trip, which are now gathered into this little volume in response to
      the usual demand in such cases; yet you cannot escape altogether. For it
      was you who first taught me to say the name Baddeck; it was you who showed
      me its position on the map, and a seductive letter from a home missionary
      on Cape Breton Island, in relation to the abundance of trout and salmon in
      his field of labor. That missionary, you may remember, we never found, nor
      did we see his tackle; but I have no reason to believe that he does not
      enjoy good fishing in the right season. You understand the duties of a
      home missionary much better than I do, and you know whether he would be
      likely to let a couple of strangers into the best part of his preserve.
    </p>
    <p>
      But I am free to admit that after our expedition was started you speedily
      relieved yourself of all responsibility for it, and turned it over to your
      comrade with a profound geographical indifference; you would as readily
      have gone to Baddeck by Nova Zembla as by Nova Scotia. The flight over the
      latter island was, you knew, however, no part of our original plan, and
      you were not obliged to take any interest in it. You know that our design
      was to slip rapidly down, by the back way of Northumberland Sound, to the
      Bras d'Or, and spend a week fishing there; and that the greater part
      of this journey here imperfectly described is not really ours, but was put
      upon us by fate and by the peculiar arrangement of provincial travel.
    </p>
    <p>
      It would have been easy after our return to have made up from libraries a
      most engaging description of the Provinces, mixing it with historical,
      legendary, botanical, geographical, and ethnological information, and
      seasoning it with adventure from your glowing imagination. But it seemed
      to me that it would be a more honest contribution if our account contained
      only what we saw, in our rapid travel; for I have a theory that any
      addition to the great body of print, however insignificant it may be, has
      a value in proportion to its originality and individuality,&mdash;however
      slight either is,&mdash;and very little value if it is a compilation of
      the observations of others. In this case I know how slight the value is;
      and I can only hope that as the trip was very entertaining to us, the
      record of it may not be wholly unentertaining to those of like tastes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of one thing, my dear friend, I am certain: if the readers of this little
      journey could have during its persual the companionship that the writer
      had when it was made, they would think it altogether delightful. There is
      no pleasure comparable to that of going about the world, in pleasant
      weather, with a good comrade, if the mind is distracted neither by care,
      nor ambition, nor the greed of gain. The delight there is in seeing
      things, without any hope of pecuniary profit from them! We certainly
      enjoyed that inward peace which the philosopher associates with the
      absence of desire for money. For, as Plato says in the Phaedo, &ldquo;whence
      come wars and fightings and factions? whence but from the body and the
      lusts of the body? For wars are occasioned by the love of money.&rdquo; So
      also are the majority of the anxieties of life. We left these behind when
      we went into the Provinces with no design of acquiring anything there. I
      hope it may be my fortune to travel further with you in this fair world,
      under similar circumstances.
    </p>
    <p>
      NOOK FARM, HARTFORD, April 10, 1874.
    </p>
    <p>
      C. D. W.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0002"
      id="link2H_4_0002">
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
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    <h1>
      BADDECK AND THAT SORT OF THING
    </h1>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003">
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
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    <h2>
      I
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   &ldquo;Ay, now I am in Arden: the more fool I; when I was at home,
   I was in a better place; but travellers must be content.&rdquo;
                                &mdash;TOUCHSTONE.
</pre>
    <p>
      Two comrades and travelers, who sought a better country than the United
      States in the month of August, found themselves one evening in apparent
      possession of the ancient town of Boston.
    </p>
    <p>
      The shops were closed at early candle-light; the fashionable inhabitants
      had retired into the country, or into the second-story-back, of their
      princely residences, and even an air of tender gloom settled upon the
      Common. The streets were almost empty, and one passed into the burnt
      district, where the scarred ruins and the uplifting piles of new brick and
      stone spread abroad under the flooding light of a full moon like another
      Pompeii, without any increase in his feeling of tranquil seclusion. Even
      the news-offices had put up their shutters, and a confiding stranger could
      nowhere buy a guide-book to help his wandering feet about the reposeful
      city, or to show him how to get out of it. There was, to be sure, a
      cheerful tinkle of horse-car bells in the air, and in the creeping
      vehicles which created this levity of sound were a few lonesome passengers
      on their way to Scollay's Square; but the two travelers, not having
      well-regulated minds, had no desire to go there. What would have become of
      Boston if the great fire had reached this sacred point of pilgrimage no
      merely human mind can imagine. Without it, I suppose the horse-cars would
      go continually round and round, never stopping, until the cars fell away
      piecemeal on the track, and the horses collapsed into a mere mass of bones
      and harness, and the brown-covered books from the Public Library, in the
      hands of the fading virgins who carried them, had accumulated fines to an
      incalculable amount.
    </p>
    <p>
      Boston, notwithstanding its partial destruction by fire, is still a good
      place to start from. When one meditates an excursion into an unknown and
      perhaps perilous land, where the flag will not protect him and the
      greenback will only partially support him, he likes to steady and
      tranquilize his mind by a peaceful halt and a serene start. So we&mdash;for
      the intelligent reader has already identified us with the two travelers
      resolved to spend the last night, before beginning our journey, in the
      quiet of a Boston hotel. Some people go into the country for quiet: we
      knew better. The country is no place for sleep. The general absence of
      sound which prevails at night is only a sort of background which brings
      out more vividly the special and unexpected disturbances which are
      suddenly sprung upon the restless listener. There are a thousand pokerish
      noises that no one can account for, which excite the nerves to acute
      watchfulness.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is still early, and one is beginning to be lulled by the frogs and the
      crickets, when the faint rattle of a drum is heard,&mdash;just a few
      preliminary taps. But the soul takes alarm, and well it may, for a roll
      follows, and then a rub-a-dub-dub, and the farmer's boy who is
      handling the sticks and pounding the distended skin in a neighboring
      horse-shed begins to pour out his patriotism in that unending repetition
      of rub-a-dub-dub which is supposed to represent love of country in the
      young. When the boy is tired out and quits the field, the faithful
      watch-dog opens out upon the stilly night. He is the guardian of his
      master's slumbers. The howls of the faithful creature are answered
      by barks and yelps from all the farmhouses for a mile around, and
      exceedingly poor barking it usually is, until all the serenity of the
      night is torn to shreds. This is, however, only the opening of the
      orchestra. The cocks wake up if there is the faintest moonshine and begin
      an antiphonal service between responsive barn-yards. It is not the clear
      clarion of chanticleer that is heard in the morn of English poetry, but a
      harsh chorus of cracked voices, hoarse and abortive attempts, squawks of
      young experimenters, and some indescribable thing besides, for I believe
      even the hens crow in these days. Distracting as all this is, however,
      happy is the man who does not hear a goat lamenting in the night. The goat
      is the most exasperating of the animal creation. He cries like a deserted
      baby, but he does it without any regularity. One can accustom himself to
      any expression of suffering that is regular. The annoyance of the goat is
      in the dreadful waiting for the uncertain sound of the next wavering
      bleat. It is the fearful expectation of that, mingled with the faint hope
      that the last was the last, that aggravates the tossing listener until he
      has murder in his heart. He longs for daylight, hoping that the voices of
      the night will then cease, and that sleep will come with the blessed
      morning. But he has forgotten the birds, who at the first streak of gray
      in the east have assembled in the trees near his chamber-window, and keep
      up for an hour the most rasping dissonance,&mdash;an orchestra in which
      each artist is tuning his instrument, setting it in a different key and to
      play a different tune: each bird recalls a different tune, and none sings
      &ldquo;Annie Laurie,&rdquo;&mdash;to pervert Bayard Taylor's song.
    </p>
    <p>
      Give us the quiet of a city on the night before a journey. As we mounted
      skyward in our hotel, and went to bed in a serene altitude, we
      congratulated ourselves upon a reposeful night. It began well. But as we
      sank into the first doze, we were startled by a sudden crash. Was it an
      earthquake, or another fire? Were the neighboring buildings all tumbling
      in upon us, or had a bomb fallen into the neighboring crockery-store? It
      was the suddenness of the onset that startled us, for we soon perceived
      that it began with the clash of cymbals, the pounding of drums, and the
      blaring of dreadful brass. It was somebody's idea of music. It
      opened without warning. The men composing the band of brass must have
      stolen silently into the alley about the sleeping hotel, and burst into
      the clamor of a rattling quickstep, on purpose. The horrible sound thus
      suddenly let loose had no chance of escape; it bounded back from wall to
      wall, like the clapping of boards in a tunnel, rattling windows and
      stunning all cars, in a vain attempt to get out over the roofs. But such
      music does not go up. What could have been the intention of this assault
      we could not conjecture. It was a time of profound peace through the
      country; we had ordered no spontaneous serenade, if it was a serenade.
      Perhaps the Boston bands have that habit of going into an alley and
      disciplining their nerves by letting out a tune too big for the alley, and
      taking the shock of its reverberation. It may be well enough for the band,
      but many a poor sinner in the hotel that night must have thought the
      judgment day had sprung upon him. Perhaps the band had some remorse, for
      by and by it leaked out of the alley, in humble, apologetic retreat, as if
      somebody had thrown something at it from the sixth-story window, softly
      breathing as it retired the notes of &ldquo;Fair Harvard.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The band had scarcely departed for some other haunt of slumber and
      weariness, when the notes of singing floated up that prolific alley, like
      the sweet tenor voice of one bewailing the prohibitory movement; and for
      an hour or more a succession of young bacchanals, who were evidently
      wandering about in search of the Maine Law, lifted up their voices in
      song. Boston seems to be full of good singers; but they will ruin their
      voices by this night exercise, and so the city will cease to be attractive
      to travelers who would like to sleep there. But this entertainment did not
      last the night out.
    </p>
    <p>
      It stopped just before the hotel porter began to come around to rouse the
      travelers who had said the night before that they wanted to be awakened.
      In all well-regulated hotels this process begins at two o'clock and
      keeps up till seven. If the porter is at all faithful, he wakes up
      everybody in the house; if he is a shirk, he only rouses the wrong people.
      We treated the pounding of the porter on our door with silent contempt. At
      the next door he had better luck. Pound, pound. An angry voice, &ldquo;What
      do you want?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Time to take the train, sir.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not going to take any train.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ain't your name Smith?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Smith&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I left no order to be called.&rdquo; (Indistinct grumbling from
      Smith's room.)
    </p>
    <p>
      Porter is heard shuffling slowly off down the passage. In a little while
      he returns to Smith's door, evidently not satisfied in his mind.
      Rap, rap, rap!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, what now?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What's your initials? A. T.; clear out!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And the porter shambles away again in his slippers, grumbling something
      about a mistake. The idea of waking a man up in the middle of the night to
      ask him his &ldquo;initials&rdquo; was ridiculous enough to banish sleep
      for another hour. A person named Smith, when he travels, should leave his
      initials outside the door with his boots.
    </p>
    <p>
      Refreshed by this reposeful night, and eager to exchange the stagnation of
      the shore for the tumult of the ocean, we departed next morning for
      Baddeck by the most direct route. This we found, by diligent study of
      fascinating prospectuses of travel, to be by the boats of the
      International Steamship Company; and when, at eight o'clock in the
      morning, we stepped aboard one of them from Commercial Wharf, we felt that
      half our journey and the most perplexing part of it was accomplished. We
      had put ourselves upon a great line of travel, and had only to resign
      ourselves to its flow in order to reach the desired haven. The agent at
      the wharf assured us that it was not necessary to buy through tickets to
      Baddeck,&mdash;he spoke of it as if it were as easy a place to find as
      Swampscott,&mdash;it was a conspicuous name on the cards of the company,
      we should go right on from St. John without difficulty. The easy
      familiarity of this official with Baddeck, in short, made us ashamed to
      exhibit any anxiety about its situation or the means of approach to it.
      Subsequent experience led us to believe that the only man in the world,
      out of Baddeck, who knew anything about it lives in Boston, and sells
      tickets to it, or rather towards it.
    </p>
    <p>
      There is no moment of delight in any pilgrimage like the beginning of it,
      when the traveler is settled simply as to his destination, and commits
      himself to his unknown fate and all the anticipations of adventure before
      him. We experienced this pleasure as we ascended to the deck of the
      steamboat and snuffed the fresh air of Boston Harbor. What a beautiful
      harbor it is, everybody says, with its irregularly indented shores and its
      islands. Being strangers, we want to know the names of the islands, and to
      have Fort Warren, which has a national reputation, pointed out. As usual
      on a steamboat, no one is certain about the names, and the little
      geographical knowledge we have is soon hopelessly confused. We make out
      South Boston very plainly: a tourist is looking at its warehouses through
      his opera-glass, and telling his boy about a recent fire there. We find
      out afterwards that it was East Boston. We pass to the stern of the boat
      for a last look at Boston itself; and while there we have the pleasure of
      showing inquirers the Monument and the State House. We do this with easy
      familiarity; but where there are so many tall factory chimneys, it is not
      so easy to point out the Monument as one may think.
    </p>
    <p>
      The day is simply delicious, when we get away from the unozoned air of the
      land. The sky is cloudless, and the water sparkles like the top of a glass
      of champagne. We intend by and by to sit down and look at it for half a
      day, basking in the sunshine and pleasing ourselves with the shifting and
      dancing of the waves. Now we are busy running about from side to side to
      see the islands, Governor's, Castle, Long, Deer, and the others.
      When, at length, we find Fort Warren, it is not nearly so grim and gloomy
      as we had expected, and is rather a pleasure-place than a prison in
      appearance. We are conscious, however, of a patriotic emotion as we pass
      its green turf and peeping guns. Leaving on our right Lovell's
      Island and the Great and Outer Brewster, we stand away north along the
      jagged Massachusetts shore. These outer islands look cold and wind-swept
      even in summer, and have a hardness of outline which is very far from the
      aspect of summer isles in summer seas. They are too low and bare for
      beauty, and all the coast is of the most retiring and humble description.
      Nature makes some compensation for this lowness by an eccentricity of
      indentation which looks very picturesque on the map, and sometimes
      striking, as where Lynn stretches out a slender arm with knobby Nahant at
      the end, like a New Zealand war club. We sit and watch this shore as we
      glide by with a placid delight. Its curves and low promontories are
      getting to be speckled with villages and dwellings, like the shores of the
      Bay of Naples; we see the white spires, the summer cottages of wealth, the
      brown farmhouses with an occasional orchard, the gleam of a white beach,
      and now and then the flag of some many-piazzaed hotel. The sunlight is the
      glory of it all; it must have quite another attraction&mdash;that of
      melancholy&mdash;under a gray sky and with a lead-colored water
      foreground.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was not much on the steamboat to distract our attention from the
      study of physical geography. All the fashionable travelers had gone on the
      previous boat or were waiting for the next one. The passengers were mostly
      people who belonged in the Provinces and had the listless provincial air,
      with a Boston commercial traveler or two, and a few gentlemen from the
      republic of Ireland, dressed in their uncomfortable Sunday clothes. If any
      accident should happen to the boat, it was doubtful if there were persons
      on board who could draw up and pass the proper resolutions of thanks to
      the officers. I heard one of these Irish gentlemen, whose satin vest was
      insufficient to repress the mountainous protuberance of his shirt-bosom,
      enlightening an admiring friend as to his idiosyncrasies. It appeared that
      he was that sort of a man that, if a man wanted anything of him, he had
      only to speak for it &ldquo;wunst;&rdquo; and that one of his
      peculiarities was an instant response of the deltoid muscle to the brain,
      though he did not express it in that language. He went on to explain to
      his auditor that he was so constituted physically that whenever he saw a
      fight, no matter whose property it was, he lost all control of himself.
      This sort of confidence poured out to a single friend, in a retired place
      on the guard of the boat, in an unexcited tone, was evidence of the man's
      simplicity and sincerity. The very act of traveling, I have noticed, seems
      to open a man's heart, so that he will impart to a chance
      acquaintance his losses, his diseases, his table preferences, his
      disappointments in love or in politics, and his most secret hopes. One
      sees everywhere this beautiful human trait, this craving for sympathy.
      There was the old lady, in the antique bonnet and plain cotton gloves, who
      got aboard the express train at a way-station on the Connecticut River
      Road. She wanted to go, let us say, to Peak's Four Corners. It
      seemed that the train did not usually stop there, but it appeared
      afterwards that the obliging conductor had told her to get aboard and he
      would let her off at Peak's. When she stepped into the car, in a
      flustered condition, carrying her large bandbox, she began to ask all the
      passengers, in turn, if this was the right train, and if it stopped at
      Peak's. The information she received was various, but the weight of
      it was discouraging, and some of the passengers urged her to get off
      without delay, before the train should start. The poor woman got off, and
      pretty soon came back again, sent by the conductor; but her mind was not
      settled, for she repeated her questions to every person who passed her
      seat, and their answers still more discomposed her. &ldquo;Sit perfectly
      still,&rdquo; said the conductor, when he came by. &ldquo;You must get out
      and wait for a way train,&rdquo; said the passengers, who knew. In this
      confusion, the train moved off, just as the old lady had about made up her
      mind to quit the car, when her distraction was completed by the discovery
      that her hair trunk was not on board. She saw it standing on the open
      platform, as we passed, and after one look of terror, and a dash at the
      window, she subsided into her seat, grasping her bandbox, with a vacant
      look of utter despair. Fate now seemed to have done its worst, and she was
      resigned to it. I am sure it was no mere curiosity, but a desire to be of
      service, that led me to approach her and say, &ldquo;Madam, where are you
      going?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Lord only knows,&rdquo; was the utterly candid response; but
      then, forgetting everything in her last misfortune and impelled to a burst
      of confidence, she began to tell me her troubles. She informed me that her
      youngest daughter was about to be married, and that all her
      wedding-clothes and all her summer clothes were in that trunk; and as she
      said this she gave a glance out of the window as if she hoped it might be
      following her. What would become of them all now, all brand new, she did n't
      know, nor what would become of her or her daughter. And then she told me,
      article by article and piece by piece, all that that trunk contained, the
      very names of which had an unfamiliar sound in a railway-car, and how many
      sets and pairs there were of each. It seemed to be a relief to the old
      lady to make public this catalogue which filled all her mind; and there
      was a pathos in the revelation that I cannot convey in words. And though I
      am compelled, by way of illustration, to give this incident, no bribery or
      torture shall ever extract from me a statement of the contents of that
      hair trunk.
    </p>
    <p>
      We were now passing Nahant, and we should have seen Longfellow's
      cottage and the waves beating on the rocks before it, if we had been near
      enough. As it was, we could only faintly distinguish the headland and note
      the white beach of Lynn. The fact is, that in travel one is almost as much
      dependent upon imagination and memory as he is at home. Somehow, we seldom
      get near enough to anything. The interest of all this coast which we had
      come to inspect was mainly literary and historical. And no country is of
      much interest until legends and poetry have draped it in hues that mere
      nature cannot produce. We looked at Nahant for Longfellow's sake; we
      strained our eyes to make out Marblehead on account of Whittier's
      ballad; we scrutinized the entrance to Salem Harbor because a genius once
      sat in its decaying custom-house and made of it a throne of the
      imagination. Upon this low shore line, which lies blinking in the midday
      sun, the waves of history have beaten for two centuries and a half, and
      romance has had time to grow there. Out of any of these coves might have
      sailed Sir Patrick Spens &ldquo;to Noroway, to Noroway,&rdquo;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   &ldquo;They hadna sailed upon the sea
   A day but barely three,

   Till loud and boisterous grew the wind,
   And gurly grew the sea.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      The sea was anything but gurly now; it lay idle and shining in an August
      holiday. It seemed as if we could sit all day and watch the suggestive
      shore and dream about it. But we could not. No man, and few women, can sit
      all day on those little round penitential stools that the company provide
      for the discomfort of their passengers. There is no scenery in the world
      that can be enjoyed from one of those stools. And when the traveler is at
      sea, with the land failing away in his horizon, and has to create his own
      scenery by an effort of the imagination, these stools are no assistance to
      him. The imagination, when one is sitting, will not work unless the back
      is supported. Besides, it began to be cold; notwithstanding the shiny,
      specious appearance of things, it was cold, except in a sheltered nook or
      two where the sun beat. This was nothing to be complained of by persons
      who had left the parching land in order to get cool. They knew that there
      would be a wind and a draught everywhere, and that they would be occupied
      nearly all the time in moving the little stools about to get out of the
      wind, or out of the sun, or out of something that is inherent in a
      steamboat. Most people enjoy riding on a steamboat, shaking and trembling
      and chow-chowing along in pleasant weather out of sight of land; and they
      do not feel any ennui, as may be inferred from the intense excitement
      which seizes them when a poor porpoise leaps from the water half a mile
      away. &ldquo;Did you see the porpoise?&rdquo; makes conversation for an
      hour. On our steamboat there was a man who said he saw a whale, saw him
      just as plain, off to the east, come up to blow; appeared to be a young
      one. I wonder where all these men come from who always see a whale. I
      never was on a sea-steamer yet that there was not one of these men.
    </p>
    <p>
      We sailed from Boston Harbor straight for Cape Ann, and passed close by
      the twin lighthouses of Thacher, so near that we could see the lanterns
      and the stone gardens, and the young barbarians of Thacher all at play;
      and then we bore away, straight over the trackless Atlantic, across that
      part of the map where the title and the publisher's name are usually
      printed, for the foreign city of St. John. It was after we passed these
      lighthouses that we did n't see the whale, and began to regret the
      hard fate that took us away from a view of the Isles of Shoals. I am not
      tempted to introduce them into this sketch, much as its surface needs
      their romantic color, for truth is stronger in me than the love of giving
      a deceitful pleasure. There will be nothing in this record that we did not
      see, or might not have seen. For instance, it might not be wrong to
      describe a coast, a town, or an island that we passed while we were
      performing our morning toilets in our staterooms. The traveler owes a duty
      to his readers, and if he is now and then too weary or too indifferent to
      go out from the cabin to survey a prosperous village where a landing is
      made, he has no right to cause the reader to suffer by his indolence. He
      should describe the village.
    </p>
    <p>
      I had intended to describe the Maine coast, which is as fascinating on the
      map as that of Norway. We had all the feelings appropriate to nearness to
      it, but we couldn't see it. Before we came abreast of it night had
      settled down, and there was around us only a gray and melancholy waste of
      salt water. To be sure it was a lovely night, with a young moon in its
      sky,
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   &ldquo;I saw the new moon late yestreen
    Wi' the auld moon in her arms,&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      and we kept an anxious lookout for the Maine hills that push so boldly
      down into the sea. At length we saw them,&mdash;faint, dusky shadows in
      the horizon, looming up in an ashy color and with a most poetical light.
      We made out clearly Mt. Desert, and felt repaid for our journey by the
      sight of this famous island, even at such a distance. I pointed out the
      hills to the man at the wheel, and asked if we should go any nearer to Mt.
      Desert.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Them!&rdquo; said he, with the merited contempt which officials in
      this country have for inquisitive travelers,&mdash;&ldquo;them's
      Camden Hills. You won't see Mt. Desert till midnight, and then you
      won't.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      One always likes to weave in a little romance with summer travel on a
      steamboat; and we came aboard this one with the purpose and the language
      to do so. But there was an absolute want of material, that would hardly be
      credited if we went into details. The first meeting of the passengers at
      the dinner-table revealed it. There is a kind of female plainness which is
      pathetic, and many persons can truly say that to them it is homelike; and
      there are vulgarities of manner that are interesting; and there are
      peculiarities, pleasant or the reverse, which attract one's
      attention: but there was absolutely nothing of this sort on our boat. The
      female passengers were all neutrals, incapable, I should say, of making
      any impression whatever even under the most favorable circumstances. They
      were probably women of the Provinces, and took their neutral tint from the
      foggy land they inhabit, which is neither a republic nor a monarchy, but
      merely a languid expectation of something undefined. My comrade was
      disposed to resent the dearth of beauty, not only on this vessel but
      throughout the Provinces generally,&mdash;a resentment that could be shown
      to be unjust, for this was evidently not the season for beauty in these
      lands, and it was probably a bad year for it. Nor should an American of
      the United States be forward to set up his standard of taste in such
      matters; neither in New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, nor Cape Breton have I
      heard the inhabitants complain of the plainness of the women.
    </p>
    <p>
      On such a night two lovers might have been seen, but not on our boat,
      leaning over the taffrail,&mdash;if that is the name of the fence around
      the cabin-deck, looking at the moon in the western sky and the long track
      of light in the steamer's wake with unutterable tenderness. For the
      sea was perfectly smooth, so smooth as not to interfere with the most
      perfect tenderness of feeling; and the vessel forged ahead under the stars
      of the soft night with an adventurous freedom that almost concealed the
      commercial nature of her mission. It seemed&mdash;this voyaging through
      the sparkling water, under the scintillating heavens, this resolute
      pushing into the opening splendors of night&mdash;like a pleasure trip.
      &ldquo;It is the witching hour of half past ten,&rdquo; said my comrade,
      &ldquo;let us turn in.&rdquo; (The reader will notice the consideration
      for her feelings which has omitted the usual description of &ldquo;a
      sunset at sea.&rdquo;)
    </p>
    <p>
      When we looked from our state-room window in the morning we saw land. We
      were passing within a stone's throw of a pale-green and rather
      cold-looking coast, with few trees or other evidences of fertile soil.
      Upon going out I found that we were in the harbor of Eastport. I found
      also the usual tourist who had been up, shivering in his winter overcoat,
      since four o'clock. He described to me the magnificent sunrise, and
      the lifting of the fog from islands and capes, in language that made me
      rejoice that he had seen it. He knew all about the harbor. That wooden
      town at the foot of it, with the white spire, was Lubec; that wooden town
      we were approaching was Eastport. The long island stretching clear across
      the harbor was Campobello. We had been obliged to go round it, a dozen
      miles out of our way, to get in, because the tide was in such a stage that
      we could not enter by the Lubec Channel. We had been obliged to enter an
      American harbor by British waters.
    </p>
    <p>
      We approached Eastport with a great deal of curiosity and considerable
      respect. It had been one of the cities of the imagination. Lying in the
      far east of our great territory, a military and even a sort of naval
      station, a conspicuous name on the map, prominent in boundary disputes and
      in war operations, frequent in telegraphic dispatches,&mdash;we had
      imagined it a solid city, with some Oriental, if decayed, peculiarity, a
      port of trade and commerce. The tourist informed me that Eastport looked
      very well at a distance, with the sun shining on its white houses. When we
      landed at its wooden dock we saw that it consisted of a few piles of
      lumber, a sprinkling of small cheap houses along a sidehill, a big hotel
      with a flag-staff, and a very peaceful looking arsenal. It is doubtless a
      very enterprising and deserving city, but its aspect that morning was that
      of cheapness, newness, and stagnation, with no compensating
      picturesqueness. White paint always looks chilly under a gray sky and on
      naked hills. Even in hot August the place seemed bleak. The tourist, who
      went ashore with a view to breakfast, said that it would be a good place
      to stay in and go a-fishing and picnicking on Campobello Island. It has
      another advantage for the wicked over other Maine towns. Owing to the
      contiguity of British territory, the Maine Law is constantly evaded, in
      spirit. The thirsty citizen or sailor has only to step into a boat and
      give it a shove or two across the narrow stream that separates the United
      States from Deer Island and land, when he can ruin his breath, and return
      before he is missed.
    </p>
    <p>
      This might be a cause of war with, England, but it is not the most serious
      grievance here. The possession by the British of the island of Campobello
      is an insufferable menace and impertinence. I write with the full
      knowledge of what war is. We ought to instantly dislodge the British from
      Campobello. It entirely shuts up and commands our harbor, one of our chief
      Eastern harbors and war stations, where we keep a flag and cannon and some
      soldiers, and where the customs officers look out for smuggling. There is
      no way to get into our own harbor, except in favorable conditions of the
      tide, without begging the courtesy of a passage through British waters.
      Why is England permitted to stretch along down our coast in this
      straggling and inquisitive manner? She might almost as well own Long
      Island. It was impossible to prevent our cheeks mantling with shame as we
      thought of this, and saw ourselves, free American citizens, land-locked by
      alien soil in our own harbor.
    </p>
    <p>
      We ought to have war, if war is necessary to possess Campobello and Deer
      Islands; or else we ought to give the British Eastport. I am not sure but
      the latter would be the better course.
    </p>
    <p>
      With this war spirit in our hearts, we sailed away into the British waters
      of the Bay of Fundy, but keeping all the morning so close to the New
      Brunswick shore that we could see there was nothing on it; that is,
      nothing that would make one wish to land. And yet the best part of going
      to sea is keeping close to the shore, however tame it may be, if the
      weather is pleasant. A pretty bay now and then, a rocky cove with scant
      foliage, a lighthouse, a rude cabin, a level land, monotonous and without
      noble forests,&mdash;this was New Brunswick as we coasted along it under
      the most favorable circumstances. But we were advancing into the Bay of
      Fundy; and my comrade, who had been brought up on its high tides in the
      district school, was on the lookout for this phenomenon. The very name of
      Fundy is stimulating to the imagination, amid the geographical wastes of
      youth, and the young fancy reaches out to its tides with an enthusiasm
      that is given only to Fingal's Cave and other pictorial wonders of
      the text-book. I am sure the district schools would become what they are
      not now, if the geographers would make the other parts of the globe as
      attractive as the sonorous Bay of Fundy. The recitation about that is
      always an easy one; there is a lusty pleasure in the mere shouting out of
      the name, as if the speaking it were an innocent sort of swearing. From
      the Bay of Fundy the rivers run uphill half the time, and the tides are
      from forty to ninety feet high. For myself, I confess that, in my
      imagination, I used to see the tides of this bay go stalking into the land
      like gigantic waterspouts; or, when I was better instructed, I could see
      them advancing on the coast like a solid wall of masonry eighty feet high.
      &ldquo;Where,&rdquo; we said, as we came easily, and neither uphill nor
      downhill, into the pleasant harbor of St. John,&mdash;-&ldquo;where are
      the tides of our youth?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      They were probably out, for when we came to the land we walked out upon
      the foot of a sloping platform that ran into the water by the side of the
      piles of the dock, which stood up naked and blackened high in the air. It
      is not the purpose of this paper to describe St. John, nor to dwell upon
      its picturesque situation. As one approaches it from the harbor it gives a
      promise which its rather shabby streets, decaying houses, and steep plank
      sidewalks do not keep. A city set on a hill, with flags flying from a roof
      here and there, and a few shining spires and walls glistening in the sun,
      always looks well at a distance. St. John is extravagant in the matter of
      flagstaffs; almost every well-to-do citizen seems to have one on his
      premises, as a sort of vent for his loyalty, I presume. It is a good
      fashion, at any rate, and its more general adoption by us would add to the
      gayety of our cities when we celebrate the birthday of the President. St.
      John is built on a steep sidehill, from which it would be in danger of
      sliding off, if its houses were not mortised into the solid rock. This
      makes the house-foundations secure, but the labor of blasting out streets
      is considerable. We note these things complacently as we toil in the sun
      up the hill to the Victoria Hotel, which stands well up on the backbone of
      the ridge, and from the upper windows of which we have a fine view of the
      harbor, and of the hill opposite, above Carleton, where there is the
      brokenly truncated ruin of a round stone tower. This tower was one of the
      first things that caught our eyes as we entered the harbor. It gave an
      antique picturesqueness to the landscape which it entirely wanted without
      this. Round stone towers are not so common in this world that we can
      afford to be indifferent to them. This is called a Martello tower, but I
      could not learn who built it. I could not understand the indifference,
      almost amounting to contempt, of the citizens of St. John in regard to
      this their only piece of curious antiquity. &ldquo;It is nothing but the
      ruins of an old fort,&rdquo; they said; &ldquo;you can see it as well from
      here as by going there.&rdquo; It was, however, the one thing at St. John
      I was determined to see. But we never got any nearer to it than the
      ferry-landing. Want of time and the vis inertia of the place were against
      us. And now, as I think of that tower and its perhaps mysterious origin, I
      have a longing for it that the possession of nothing else in the Provinces
      could satisfy.
    </p>
    <p>
      But it must not be forgotten that we were on our way to Baddeck; that the
      whole purpose of the journey was to reach Baddeck; that St. John was only
      an incident in the trip; that any information about St. John, which is
      here thrown in or mercifully withheld, is entirely gratuitous, and is not
      taken into account in the price the reader pays for this volume. But if
      any one wants to know what sort of a place St. John is, we can tell him:
      it is the sort of a place that if you get into it after eight o'clock
      on Wednesday morning, you cannot get out of it in any direction until
      Thursday morning at eight o'clock, unless you want to smuggle goods
      on the night train to Bangor. It was eleven o'clock Wednesday
      forenoon when we arrived at St. John. The Intercolonial railway train had
      gone to Shediac; it had gone also on its roundabout Moncton, Missaquat
      River, Truro, Stewiack, and Shubenacadie way to Halifax; the boat had gone
      to Digby Gut and Annapolis to catch the train that way for Halifax; the
      boat had gone up the river to Frederick, the capital. We could go to none
      of these places till the next day. We had no desire to go to Frederick,
      but we made the fact that we were cut off from it an addition to our
      injury. The people of St. John have this peculiarity: they never start to
      go anywhere except early in the morning.
    </p>
    <p>
      The reader to whom time is nothing does not yet appreciate the annoyance
      of our situation. Our time was strictly limited. The active world is so
      constituted that it could not spare us more than two weeks. We must reach
      Baddeck Saturday night or never. To go home without seeing Baddeck was
      simply intolerable. Had we not told everybody that we were going to
      Baddeck? Now, if we had gone to Shediac in the train that left St. John
      that morning, we should have taken the steamboat that would have carried
      us to Port Hawkesbury, whence a stage connected with a steamboat on the
      Bras d'Or, which (with all this profusion of relative pronouns)
      would land us at Baddeck on Friday. How many times had we been over this
      route on the map and the prospectus of travel! And now, what a delusion it
      seemed! There would not another boat leave Shediac on this route till the
      following Tuesday,&mdash;quite too late for our purpose. The reader sees
      where we were, and will be prepared, if he has a map (and any feelings),
      to appreciate the masterly strategy that followed.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      II
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     During the pilgrimage everything does not suit the tastes of
     the pilgrim.&mdash;TURKISH PROVERB.
</pre>
    <p>
      One seeking Baddeck, as a possession, would not like to be detained a
      prisoner even in Eden,&mdash;much less in St. John, which is unlike Eden
      in several important respects. The tree of knowledge does not grow there,
      for one thing; at least St. John's ignorance of Baddeck amounts to a
      feature. This encountered us everywhere. So dense was this ignorance, that
      we, whose only knowledge of the desired place was obtained from the
      prospectus of travel, came to regard ourselves as missionaries of
      geographical information in this dark provincial city.
    </p>
    <p>
      The clerk at the Victoria was not unwilling to help us on our journey, but
      if he could have had his way, we would have gone to a place on Prince
      Edward Island which used to be called Bedeque, but is now named
      Summerside, in the hope of attracting summer visitors. As to Cape Breton,
      he said the agent of the Intercolonial could tell us all about that, and
      put us on the route. We repaired to the agent. The kindness of this person
      dwells in our memory. He entered at once into our longings and
      perplexities. He produced his maps and time-tables, and showed us clearly
      what we already knew. The Port Hawkesbury steamboat from Shediac for that
      week had gone, to be sure, but we could take one of another line which
      would leave us at Pictou, whence we could take another across to Port
      Hood, on Cape Breton. This looked fair, until we showed the agent that
      there was no steamer to Port Hood.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, then you can go another way. You can take the Intercolonial
      railway round to Pictou, catch the steamer for Port Hawkesbury, connect
      with the steamer on the Bras d'Or, and you are all right.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      So it would seem. It was a most obliging agent; and it took us half an
      hour to convince him that the train would reach Pictou half a day too late
      for the steamer, that no other boat would leave Pictou for Cape Breton
      that week, and that even if we could reach the Bras d'Or, we should
      have no means of crossing it, except by swimming. The perplexed agent
      thereupon referred us to Mr. Brown, a shipper on the wharf, who knew all
      about Cape Breton, and could tell us exactly how to get there. It is
      needless to say that a weight was taken off our minds. We pinned our faith
      to Brown, and sought him in his warehouse. Brown was a prompt business
      man, and a traveler, and would know every route and every conveyance from
      Nova Scotia to Cape Breton.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Brown was not in. He never is in. His store is a rusty warehouse, low
      and musty, piled full of boxes of soap and candles and dried fish, with a
      little glass cubby in one corner, where a thin clerk sits at a high desk,
      like a spider in his web. Perhaps he is a spider, for the cubby is
      swarming with flies, whose hum is the only noise of traffic; the glass of
      the window-sash has not been washed since it was put in apparently. The
      clerk is not writing, and has evidently no other use for his steel pen
      than spearing flies. Brown is out, says this young votary of commerce, and
      will not be in till half past five. We remark upon the fact that nobody
      ever is &ldquo;in&rdquo; these dingy warehouses, wonder when the business
      is done, and go out into the street to wait for Brown.
    </p>
    <p>
      In front of the store is a dray, its horse fast-asleep, and waiting for
      the revival of commerce. The travelers note that the dray is of a peculiar
      construction, the body being dropped down from the axles so as nearly to
      touch the ground,&mdash;a great convenience in loading and unloading; they
      propose to introduce it into their native land. The dray is probably
      waiting for the tide to come in. In the deep slip lie a dozen helpless
      vessels, coasting schooners mostly, tipped on their beam ends in the mud,
      or propped up by side-pieces as if they were built for land as well as for
      water. At the end of the wharf is a long English steamboat unloading
      railroad iron, which will return to the Clyde full of Nova Scotia coal. We
      sit down on the dock, where the fresh sea-breeze comes up the harbor,
      watch the lazily swinging crane on the vessel, and meditate upon the
      greatness of England and the peacefulness of the drowsy after noon. One's
      feeling of rest is never complete&mdash;unless he can see somebody else at
      work,&mdash;but the labor must be without haste, as it is in the
      Provinces.
    </p>
    <p>
      While waiting for Brown, we had leisure to explore the shops of King's
      Street, and to climb up to the grand triumphal arch which stands on top of
      the hill and guards the entrance to King's Square.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of the shops for dry-goods I have nothing to say, for they tempt the
      unwary American to violate the revenue laws of his country; but he may
      safely go into the book-shops. The literature which is displayed in the
      windows and on the counters has lost that freshness which it once may have
      had, and is, in fact, if one must use the term, fly-specked, like the
      cakes in the grocery windows on the side streets. There are old
      illustrated newspapers from the States, cheap novels from the same, and
      the flashy covers of the London and Edinburgh sixpenny editions. But this
      is the dull season for literature, we reflect.
    </p>
    <p>
      It will always be matter of regret to us that we climbed up to the
      triumphal arch, which appeared so noble in the distance, with the trees
      behind it. For when we reached it, we found that it was built of wood,
      painted and sanded, and in a shocking state of decay; and the grove to
      which it admitted us was only a scant assemblage of sickly locust-trees,
      which seemed to be tired of battling with the unfavorable climate, and
      had, in fact, already retired from the business of ornamental shade trees.
      Adjoining this square is an ancient cemetery, the surface of which has
      decayed in sympathy with the mouldering remains it covers, and is quite a
      model in this respect. I have called this cemetery ancient, but it may not
      be so, for its air of decay is thoroughly modern, and neglect, and not
      years, appears to have made it the melancholy place of repose it is.
      Whether it is the fashionable and favorite resort of the dead of the city
      we did not learn, but there were some old men sitting in its damp shades,
      and the nurses appeared to make it a rendezvous for their baby-carriages,&mdash;a
      cheerful place to bring up children in, and to familiarize their infant
      minds with the fleeting nature of provincial life. The park and
      burying-ground, it is scarcely necessary to say, added greatly to the
      feeling of repose which stole over us on this sunny day. And they made us
      long for Brown and his information about Baddeck.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Mr. Brown, when found, did not know as much as the agent. He had been
      in Nova Scotia; he had never been in Cape Breton; but he presumed we would
      find no difficulty in reaching Baddeck by so and so, and so and so. We
      consumed valuable time in convincing Brown that his directions to us were
      impracticable and valueless, and then he referred us to Mr. Cope. An
      interview with Mr. Cope discouraged us; we found that we were imparting
      everywhere more geographical information than we were receiving, and as
      our own stock was small, we concluded that we should be unable to
      enlighten all the inhabitants of St. John upon the subject of Baddeck
      before we ran out. Returning to the hotel, and taking our destiny into our
      own hands, we resolved upon a bold stroke.
    </p>
    <p>
      But to return for a moment to Brown. I feel that Brown has been let off
      too easily in the above paragraph. His conduct, to say the truth, was not
      such as we expected of a man in whom we had put our entire faith for half
      a day,&mdash;a long while to trust anybody in these times,&mdash;a man
      whom we had exalted as an encyclopedia of information, and idealized in
      every way. A man of wealth and liberal views and courtly manners we had
      decided Brown would be. Perhaps he had a suburban villa on the heights
      over-looking Kennebeckasis Bay, and, recognizing us as brothers in a
      common interest in Baddeck, not-withstanding our different nationality,
      would insist upon taking us to his house, to sip provincial tea with Mrs.
      Brown and Victoria Louise, his daughter. When, therefore, Mr. Brown
      whisked into his dingy office, and, but for our importunity, would have
      paid no more attention to us than to up-country customers without credit,
      and when he proved to be willingly, it seemed to us, ignorant of Baddeck,
      our feelings received a great shock. It is incomprehensible that a man in
      the position of Brown with so many boxes of soap and candles to dispose of&mdash;should
      be so ignorant of a neighboring province. We had heard of the cordial
      unity of the Provinces in the New Dominion. Heaven help it, if it depends
      upon such fellows as Brown! Of course, his directing us to Cope was a mere
      fetch. For as we have intimated, it would have taken us longer to have
      given Cope an idea of Baddeck, than it did to enlighten Brown. But we had
      no bitter feelings about Cope, for we never had reposed confidence in him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Our plan of campaign was briefly this: To take the steamboat at eight o'clock,
      Thursday morning, for Digby Gut and Annapolis; thence to go by rail
      through the poetical Acadia down to Halifax; to turn north and east by
      rail from Halifax to New Glasgow, and from thence to push on by stage to
      the Gut of Canso. This would carry us over the entire length of Nova
      Scotia, and, with good luck, land us on Cape Breton Island Saturday
      morning. When we should set foot on that island, we trusted that we should
      be able to make our way to Baddeck, by walking, swimming, or riding,
      whichever sort of locomotion should be most popular in that province. Our
      imaginations were kindled by reading that the &ldquo;most superb line of
      stages on the continent&rdquo; ran from New Glasgow to the Gut of Canso.
      If the reader perfectly understands this programme, he has the advantage
      of the two travelers at the time they made it.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a gray morning when we embarked from St. John, and in fact a little
      drizzle of rain veiled the Martello tower, and checked, like the
      cross-strokes of a line engraving, the hill on which it stands. The
      miscellaneous shining of such a harbor appears best in a golden haze, or
      in the mist of a morning like this. We had expected days of fog in this
      region; but the fog seemed to have gone out with the high tides of the
      geography. And it is simple justice to these possessions of her Majesty,
      to say that in our two weeks' acquaintance of them they enjoyed as
      delicious weather as ever falls on sea and shore, with the exception of
      this day when we crossed the Bay of Fundy. And this day was only one of
      those cool interludes of low color, which an artist would be thankful to
      introduce among a group of brilliant pictures. Such a day rests the
      traveler, who is overstimulated by shifting scenes played upon by the
      dazzling sun. So the cool gray clouds spread a grateful umbrella above us
      as we ran across the Bay of Fundy, sighted the headlands of the Gut of
      Digby, and entered into the Annapolis Basin, and into the region of a
      romantic history. The white houses of Digby, scattered over the downs like
      a flock of washed sheep, had a somewhat chilly aspect, it is true, and
      made us long for the sun on them. But as I think of it now, I prefer to
      have the town and the pretty hillsides that stand about the basin in the
      light we saw them; and especially do I like to recall the high wooden pier
      at Digby, deserted by the tide and so blown by the wind that the
      passengers who came out on it, with their tossing drapery, brought to mind
      the windy Dutch harbors that Backhuysen painted. We landed a priest here,
      and it was a pleasure to see him as he walked along the high pier, his
      broad hat flapping, and the wind blowing his long skirts away from his
      ecclesiastical legs.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was one of the coincidences of life, for which no one can account, that
      when we descended upon these coasts, the Governor-General of the Dominion
      was abroad in his Provinces. There was an air of expectation of him
      everywhere, and of preparation for his coming; his lordship was the
      subject of conversation on the Digby boat, his movements were chronicled
      in the newspapers, and the gracious bearing of the Governor and Lady
      Dufferin at the civic receptions, balls, and picnics was recorded with
      loyal satisfaction; even a literary flavor was given to the provincial
      journals by quotations from his lordship's condescension to letters
      in the &ldquo;High Latitudes.&rdquo; It was not without pain, however,
      that even in this un-American region we discovered the old Adam of
      journalism in the disposition of the newspapers of St. John toward sarcasm
      touching the well-meant attempts to entertain the Governor and his lady in
      the provincial town of Halifax,&mdash;a disposition to turn, in short,
      upon the demonstrations of loyal worship the faint light of ridicule.
      There were those upon the boat who were journeying to Halifax to take part
      in the civic ball about to be given to their excellencies, and as we were
      going in the same direction, we shared in the feeling of satisfaction
      which proximity to the Great often excites.
    </p>
    <p>
      We had other if not deeper causes of satisfaction. We were sailing along
      the gracefully moulded and tree-covered hills of the Annapolis Basin, and
      up the mildly picturesque river of that name, and we were about to enter
      what the provincials all enthusiastically call the Garden of Nova Scotia.
      This favored vale, skirted by low ranges of hills on either hand, and
      watered most of the way by the Annapolis River, extends from the mouth of
      the latter to the town of Windsor on the river Avon. We expected to see
      something like the fertile valleys of the Connecticut or the Mohawk. We
      should also pass through those meadows on the Basin of Minas which Mr.
      Longfellow has made more sadly poetical than any other spot on the Western
      Continent. It is,&mdash;this valley of the Annapolis,&mdash;in the belief
      of provincials, the most beautiful and blooming place in the world, with a
      soil and climate kind to the husbandman; a land of fair meadows, orchards,
      and vines. It was doubtless our own fault that this land did not look to
      us like a garden, as it does to the inhabitants of Nova Scotia; and it was
      not until we had traveled over the rest of the country, that we saw the
      appropriateness of the designation. The explanation is, that not so much
      is required of a garden here as in some other parts of the world.
      Excellent apples, none finer, are exported from this valley to England,
      and the quality of the potatoes is said to ap-proach an ideal perfection
      here. I should think that oats would ripen well also in a good year, and
      grass, for those who care for it, may be satisfactory. I should judge that
      the other products of this garden are fish and building-stone. But we
      anticipate. And have we forgotten the &ldquo;murmuring pines and the
      hemlocks&rdquo;? Nobody, I suppose, ever travels here without believing
      that he sees these trees of the imagination, so forcibly has the poet
      projected them upon the uni-versal consciousness. But we were unable to
      see them, on this route.
    </p>
    <p>
      It would be a brutal thing for us to take seats in the railway train at
      Annapolis, and leave the ancient town, with its modern houses and remains
      of old fortifications, without a thought of the romantic history which
      saturates the region. There is not much in the smart, new restaurant,
      where a tidy waiting-maid skillfully depreciates our currency in exchange
      for bread and cheese and ale, to recall the early drama of the French
      discovery and settlement. For it is to the French that we owe the poetical
      interest that still invests, like a garment, all these islands and bays,
      just as it is to the Spaniards that we owe the romance of the Florida
      coast. Every spot on this continent that either of these races has touched
      has a color that is wanting in the prosaic settlements of the English.
    </p>
    <p>
      Without the historical light of French adventure upon this town and basin
      of Annapolis, or Port Royal, as they were first named, I confess that I
      should have no longing to stay here for a week; notwithstanding the
      guide-book distinctly says that this harbor has &ldquo;a striking
      resemblance to the beautiful Bay of Naples.&rdquo; I am not offended at
      this remark, for it is the one always made about a harbor, and I am sure
      the passing traveler can stand it, if the Bay of Naples can. And yet this
      tranquil basin must have seemed a haven of peace to the first discoverers.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was on a lovely summer day in 1604, that the Sieur de Monts and his
      comrades, Champlain and the Baron de Poutrincourt, beating about the
      shores of Nova Scotia, were invited by the rocky gateway of the Port Royal
      Basin. They entered the small inlet, says Mr. Parkman, when suddenly the
      narrow strait dilated into a broad and tranquil basin, compassed with
      sunny hills, wrapped with woodland verdure and alive with waterfalls.
      Poutrincourt was delighted with the scene, and would fain remove thither
      from France with his family. Since Poutrincourt's day, the hills
      have been somewhat denuded of trees, and the waterfalls are not now in
      sight; at least, not under such a gray sky as we saw.
    </p>
    <p>
      The reader who once begins to look into the French occupancy of Acadia is
      in danger of getting into a sentimental vein, and sentiment is the one
      thing to be shunned in these days. Yet I cannot but stay, though the train
      should leave us, to pay my respectful homage to one of the most heroic of
      women, whose name recalls the most romantic incident in the history of
      this region. Out of this past there rises no figure so captivating to the
      imagination as that of Madame de la Tour. And it is noticeable that woman
      has a curious habit of coming to the front in critical moments of history,
      and performing some exploit that eclipses in brilliancy all the deeds of
      contemporary men; and the exploit usually ends in a pathetic tragedy, that
      fixes it forever in the sympathy of the world. I need not copy out of the
      pages of De Charlevoix the well-known story of Madame de la Tour; I only
      wish he had told us more about her. It is here at Port Royal that we first
      see her with her husband. Charles de St. Etienne, the Chevalier de la
      Tour,&mdash;there is a world of romance in these mere names,&mdash;was a
      Huguenot nobleman who had a grant of Port Royal and of La Hive, from Louis
      XIII. He ceded La Hive to Razilli, the governor-in-chief of the provinces,
      who took a fancy to it, for a residence. He was living peacefully at Port
      Royal in 1647, when the Chevalier d'Aunay Charnise, having succeeded
      his brother Razilli at La Hive, tired of that place and removed to Port
      Royal. De Charnise was a Catholic; the difference in religion might not
      have produced any unpleasantness, but the two noblemen could not agree in
      dividing the profits of the peltry trade,&mdash;each being covetous, if we
      may so express it, of the hide of the savage continent, and determined to
      take it off for himself. At any rate, disagreement arose, and De la Tour
      moved over to the St. John, of which region his father had enjoyed a grant
      from Charles I. of England,&mdash;whose sad fate it is not necessary now
      to recall to the reader's mind,&mdash;and built a fort at the mouth
      of the river. But the differences of the two ambitious Frenchmen could not
      be composed. De la Tour obtained aid from Governor Winthrop at Boston,
      thus verifying the Catholic prediction that the Huguenots would side with
      the enemies of France on occasion. De Charnise received orders from Louis
      to arrest De la Tour; but a little preliminary to the arrest was the
      possession of the fort of St. John, and this he could not obtain, although
      be sent all his force against it. Taking advantage, however, of the
      absence of De la Tour, who had a habit of roving about, he one day
      besieged St. John. Madame de la Tour headed the little handful of men in
      the fort, and made such a gallant resistance that De Charnise was obliged
      to draw off his fleet with the loss of thirty-three men,&mdash;a very
      serious loss, when the supply of men was as distant as France. But De
      Charnise would not be balked by a woman; he attacked again; and this time,
      one of the garrison, a Swiss, betrayed the fort, and let the invaders into
      the walls by an unguarded entrance. It was Easter morning when this
      misfortune occurred, but the peaceful influence of the day did not avail.
      When Madame saw that she was betrayed, her spirits did not quail; she took
      refuge with her little band in a detached part of the fort, and there made
      such a bold show of defense, that De Charnise was obliged to agree to the
      terms of her surrender, which she dictated. No sooner had this
      unchivalrous fellow obtained possession of the fort and of this Historic
      Woman, than, overcome with a false shame that he had made terms with a
      woman, he violated his noble word, and condemned to death all the men,
      except one, who was spared on condition that he should be the executioner
      of the others. And the poltroon compelled the brave woman to witness the
      execution, with the added indignity of a rope round her neck,&mdash;or as
      De Charlevoix much more neatly expresses it, &ldquo;obligea sa prisonniere
      d'assister a l'execution, la corde au cou.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      To the shock of this horror the womanly spirit of Madame de la Tour
      succumbed; she fell into a decline and died soon after. De la Tour,
      himself an exile from his province, wandered about the New World in his
      customary pursuit of peltry. He was seen at Quebec for two years. While
      there, he heard of the death of De Charnise, and straightway repaired to
      St. John. The widow of his late enemy received him graciously, and he
      entered into possession of the estate of the late occupant with the
      consent of all the heirs. To remove all roots of bitterness, De la Tour
      married Madame de Charnise, and history does not record any ill of either
      of them. I trust they had the grace to plant a sweetbrier on the grave of
      the noble woman to whose faithfulness and courage they owe their rescue
      from obscurity. At least the parties to this singular union must have
      agreed to ignore the lamented existence of the Chevalier d'Aunay.
    </p>
    <p>
      With the Chevalier de la Tour, at any rate, it all went well thereafter.
      When Cromwell drove the French from Acadia, he granted great territorial
      rights to De la Tour, which that thrifty adventurer sold out to one of his
      co-grantees for L16,000; and he no doubt invested the money in peltry for
      the London market.
    </p>
    <p>
      As we leave the station at Annapolis, we are obliged to put Madame de la
      Tour out of our minds to make room for another woman whose name, and we
      might say presence, fills all the valley before us. So it is that woman
      continues to reign, where she has once got a foothold, long after her dear
      frame has become dust. Evangeline, who is as real a personage as Queen
      Esther, must have been a different woman from Madame de la Tour. If the
      latter had lived at Grand Pre, she would, I trust, have made it hot for
      the brutal English who drove the Acadians out of their salt-marsh
      paradise, and have died in her heroic shoes rather than float off into
      poetry. But if it should come to the question of marrying the De la Tour
      or the Evangeline, I think no man who was not engaged in the peltry trade
      would hesitate which to choose. At any rate, the women who love have more
      influence in the world than the women who fight, and so it happens that
      the sentimental traveler who passes through Port Royal without a tear for
      Madame de la Tour, begins to be in a glow of tender longing and regret for
      Evangeline as soon as he enters the valley of the Annapolis River. For
      myself, I expected to see written over the railway crossings the legend,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look out for Evangeline while the bell rings.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      When one rides into a region of romance he does not much notice his speed
      or his carriage; but I am obliged to say that we were not hurried up the
      valley, and that the cars were not too luxurious for the plain people,
      priests, clergymen, and belles of the region, who rode in them. Evidently
      the latest fashions had not arrived in the Provinces, and we had an
      opportunity of studying anew those that had long passed away in the
      States, and of remarking how inappropriate a fashion is when it has ceased
      to be the fashion.
    </p>
    <p>
      The river becomes small shortly after we leave Annapolis and before we
      reach Paradise. At this station of happy appellation we looked for the
      satirist who named it, but he has probably sold out and removed. If the
      effect of wit is produced by the sudden recognition of a remote
      resemblance, there was nothing witty in the naming of this station.
      Indeed, we looked in vain for the &ldquo;garden&rdquo; appearance of the
      valley. There was nothing generous in the small meadows or the thin
      orchards; and if large trees ever grew on the bordering hills, they have
      given place to rather stunted evergreens; the scraggy firs and balsams, in
      fact, possess Nova Scotia generally as we saw it,&mdash;and there is
      nothing more uninteresting and wearisome than large tracts of these woods.
      We are bound to believe that Nova Scotia has somewhere, or had, great
      pines and hemlocks that murmur, but we were not blessed with the sight of
      them. Slightly picturesque this valley is with its winding river and high
      hills guarding it, and perhaps a person would enjoy a foot-tramp down it;
      but, I think he would find little peculiar or interesting after he left
      the neighborhood of the Basin of Minas.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before we reached Wolfville we came in sight of this basin and some of the
      estuaries and streams that run into it; that is, when the tide goes out;
      but they are only muddy ditches half the time. The Acadia College was
      pointed out to us at Wolfville by a person who said that it is a feeble
      institution, a remark we were sorry to hear of a place described as
      &ldquo;one of the foremost seats of learning in the Province.&rdquo; But
      our regret was at once extinguished by the announcement that the next
      station was Grand Pre! We were within three miles of the most poetic place
      in North America.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was on the train a young man from Boston, who said that he was born
      in Grand Pre. It seemed impossible that we should actually be near a
      person so felicitously born. He had a justifiable pride in the fact, as
      well as in the bride by his side, whom he was taking to see for the first
      time his old home. His local information, imparted to her, overflowed upon
      us; and when he found that we had read &ldquo;Evangeline,&rdquo; his
      delight in making us acquainted with the scene of that poem was pleasant
      to see. The village of Grand Pre is a mile from the station; and perhaps
      the reader would like to know exactly what the traveler, hastening on to
      Baddeck, can see of the famous locality.
    </p>
    <p>
      We looked over a well-grassed meadow, seamed here and there by beds of
      streams left bare by the receding tide, to a gentle swell in the ground
      upon which is a not heavy forest growth. The trees partly conceal the
      street of Grand Pre, which is only a road bordered by common houses.
      Beyond is the Basin of Minas, with its sedgy shore, its dreary flats; and
      beyond that projects a bold headland, standing perpendicular against the
      sky. This is the Cape Blomidon, and it gives a certain dignity to the
      picture.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old Normandy picturesqueness has departed from the village of Grand
      Pre. Yankee settlers, we were told, possess it now, and there are no
      descendants of the French Acadians in this valley. I believe that Mr.
      Cozzens found some of them in humble circumstances in a village on the
      other coast, not far from Halifax, and it is there, probably, that the
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kirtles of homespun,
      And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's story, While from its
      rocky caverns the deep-voiced, neighboring ocean Speaks, and in accents
      disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      At any rate, there is nothing here now except a faint tradition of the
      French Acadians; and the sentimental traveler who laments that they were
      driven out, and not left behind their dikes to rear their flocks, and
      cultivate the rural virtues, and live in the simplicity of ignorance, will
      temper his sadness by the reflection that it is to the expulsion he owes
      &ldquo;Evangeline&rdquo; and the luxury of his romantic grief. So that if
      the traveler is honest, and examines his own soul faithfully, he will not
      know what state of mind to cherish as he passes through this region of
      sorrow.
    </p>
    <p>
      Our eyes lingered as long as possible and with all eagerness upon these
      meadows and marshes which the poet has made immortal, and we regretted
      that inexorable Baddeck would not permit us to be pilgrims for a day in
      this Acadian land. Just as I was losing sight of the skirt of trees at
      Grand Pre, a gentleman in the dress of a rural clergyman left his seat,
      and complimented me with this remark: &ldquo;I perceive, sir, that you are
      fond of reading.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I could not but feel flattered by this unexpected discovery of my nature,
      which was no doubt due to the fact that I held in my hand one of the works
      of Charles Reade on social science, called &ldquo;Love me Little, Love me
      Long,&rdquo; and I said, &ldquo;Of some kinds, I am.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you ever see a work called 'Evangeline'?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes, I have frequently seen it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You may remember,&rdquo; continued this Mass of Information,
      &ldquo;that there is an allusion in it to Grand Pre. That is the place,
      sir!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, indeed, is that the place? Thank you.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And that mountain yonder is Cape Blomidon, blow me down, you know.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And under cover of this pun, the amiable clergyman retired, unconscious, I
      presume, of his prosaic effect upon the atmosphere of the region. With
      this intrusion of the commonplace, I suffered an eclipse of faith as to
      Evangeline, and was not sorry to have my attention taken up by the river
      Avon, along the banks of which we were running about this time. It is
      really a broad arm of the basin, extending up to Windsor, and beyond in a
      small stream, and would have been a charming river if there had been a
      drop of water in it. I never knew before how much water adds to a river.
      Its slimy bottom was quite a ghastly spectacle, an ugly gash in the land
      that nothing could heal but the friendly returning tide. I should think it
      would be confusing to dwell by a river that runs first one way and then
      the other, and then vanishes altogether.
    </p>
    <p>
      All the streams about this basin are famous for their salmon and shad, and
      the season for these fish was not yet passed. There seems to be an
      untraced affinity between the shad and the strawberry; they appear and
      disappear in a region simultaneously. When we reached Cape Breton, we were
      a day or two late for both. It is impossible not to feel a little contempt
      for people who do not have these luxuries till July and August; but I
      suppose we are in turn despised by the Southerners because we do not have
      them till May and June. So, a great part of the enjoyment of life is in
      the knowledge that there are people living in a worse place than that you
      inhabit.
    </p>
    <p>
      Windsor, a most respectable old town round which the railroad sweeps, with
      its iron bridge, conspicuous King's College, and handsome church
      spire, is a great place for plaster and limestone, and would be a good
      location for a person interested in these substances. Indeed, if a man can
      live on rocks, like a goat, he may settle anywhere between Windsor and
      Halifax. It is one of the most sterile regions in the Province. With the
      exception of a wild pond or two, we saw nothing but rocks and stunted
      firs, for forty-five miles, a monotony unrelieved by one picturesque
      feature. Then we longed for the &ldquo;Garden of Nova Scotia,&rdquo; and
      understood what is meant by the name.
    </p>
    <p>
      A member of the Ottawa government, who was on his way to the
      Governor-General's ball at Halifax, informed us that this country is
      rich in minerals, in iron especially, and he pointed out spots where gold
      had been washed out. But we do not covet it. And we were not sorry to
      learn from this gentleman, that since the formation of the Dominion, there
      is less and less desire in the Provinces for annexation to the United
      States. One of the chief pleasures in traveling in Nova Scotia now is in
      the constant reflection that you are in a foreign country; and annexation
      would take that away.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is nearly dark when we reach the head of the Bedford Basin. The noble
      harbor of Halifax narrows to a deep inlet for three miles along the rocky
      slope on which the city stands, and then suddenly expands into this
      beautiful sheet of water. We ran along its bank for five miles, cheered
      occasionally by a twinkling light on the shore, and then came to a stop at
      the shabby terminus, three miles out of town. This basin is almost large
      enough to float the navy of Great Britain, and it could lie here, with the
      narrows fortified, secure from the attacks of the American navy, hovering
      outside in the fog. With these patriotic thoughts we enter the town. It is
      not the fault of the railroad, but its present inability to climb a rocky
      hill, that it does not run into the city. The suburbs are not impressive
      in the night, but they look better then than they do in the daytime; and
      the same might be said of the city itself. Probably there is not anywhere
      a more rusty, forlorn town, and this in spite of its magnificent
      situation.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is a gala-night when we rattle down the rough streets, and have pointed
      out to us the somber government buildings. The Halifax Club House is a
      blaze of light, for the Governor-General is being received there, and
      workmen are still busy decorating the Provincial Building for the great
      ball. The city is indeed pervaded by his lordship, and we regret that we
      cannot see it in its normal condition of quiet; the hotels are full, and
      it is impossible to escape the festive feeling that is abroad. It ill
      accords with our desires, as tranquil travelers, to be plunged into such a
      vortex of slow dissipation. These people take their pleasures more gravely
      than we do, and probably will last the longer for their moderation. Having
      ascertained that we can get no more information about Baddeck here than in
      St. John, we go to bed early, for we are to depart from this fascinating
      place at six o'clock.
    </p>
    <p>
      If any one objects that we are not competent to pass judgment on the city
      of Halifax by sleeping there one night, I beg leave to plead the usual
      custom of travelers,&mdash;where would be our books of travel, if more was
      expected than a night in a place?&mdash;and to state a few facts. The
      first is, that I saw the whole of Halifax. If I were inclined, I could
      describe it building by building. Cannot one see it all from the citadel
      hill, and by walking down by the horticultural garden and the Roman
      Catholic cemetery? and did not I climb that hill through the most
      dilapidated rows of brown houses, and stand on the greensward of the
      fortress at five o'clock in the morning, and see the whole city, and
      the British navy riding at anchor, and the fog coming in from the Atlantic
      Ocean? Let the reader go to! and if he would know more of Halifax, go
      there. We felt that if we remained there through the day, it would be a
      day of idleness and sadness. I could draw a picture of Halifax. I could
      relate its century of history; I could write about its free-school system,
      and its many noble charities. But the reader always skips such things. He
      hates information; and he himself would not stay in this dull garrison
      town any longer than he was obliged to.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was to be a military display that day in honor of the Governor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why,&rdquo; I asked the bright and light-minded colored boy who
      sold papers on the morning train, &ldquo;don't you stay in the city
      and see it?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pho,&rdquo; said he, with contempt, &ldquo;I'm sick of
      'em. Halifax is played out, and I'm going to quit it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The withdrawal of this lively trader will be a blow to the enterprise of
      the place.
    </p>
    <p>
      When I returned to the hotel for breakfast&mdash;which was exactly like
      the supper, and consisted mainly of green tea and dry toast&mdash;there
      was a commotion among the waiters and the hack-drivers over a nervous
      little old man, who was in haste to depart for the morning train. He was a
      specimen of provincial antiquity such as could not be seen elsewhere. His
      costume was of the oddest: a long-waisted coat reaching nearly to his
      heels, short trousers, a flowered silk vest, and a napless hat. He carried
      his baggage tied up in mealbags, and his attention was divided between
      that and two buxom daughters, who were evidently enjoying their first
      taste of city life. The little old man, who was not unlike a petrified
      Frenchman of the last century, had risen before daylight, roused up his
      daughters, and had them down on the sidewalk by four o'clock,
      waiting for hack, or horse-car, or something to take them to the station.
      That he might be a man of some importance at home was evident, but he had
      lost his head in the bustle of this great town, and was at the mercy of
      all advisers, none of whom could understand his mongrel language. As we
      came out to take the horse-car, he saw his helpless daughters driven off
      in one hack, while he was raving among his meal-bags on the sidewalk.
      Afterwards we saw him at the station, flying about in the greatest
      excitement, asking everybody about the train; and at last he found his way
      into the private office of the ticket-seller. &ldquo;Get out of here!&rdquo;
      roared that official. The old man persisted that he wanted a ticket.
      &ldquo;Go round to the window; clear out!&rdquo; In a very flustered state
      he was hustled out of the room. When he came to the window and made known
      his destination, he was refused tickets, because his train did not start
      for two hours yet!
    </p>
    <p>
      This mercurial old gentleman only appears in these records because he was
      the only person we saw in this Province who was in a hurry to do anything,
      or to go anywhere.
    </p>
    <p>
      We cannot leave Halifax without remarking that it is a city of great
      private virtue, and that its banks are sound. The appearance of its
      paper-money is not, however, inviting. We of the United States lead the
      world in beautiful paper-money; and when I exchanged my crisp, handsome
      greenbacks for the dirty, flimsy, ill-executed notes of the Dominion, at a
      dead loss of value, I could not be reconciled to the transaction. I
      sarcastically called the stuff I received &ldquo;Confederate money;&rdquo;
      but probably no one was wounded by the severity; for perhaps no one knew
      what a resemblance in badness there is between the &ldquo;Confederate&rdquo;
      notes of our civil war and the notes of the Dominion; and, besides, the
      Confederacy was too popular in the Provinces for the name to be a reproach
      to them. I wish I had thought of something more insulting to say.
    </p>
    <p>
      By noon on Friday we came to New Glasgow, having passed through a country
      where wealth is to be won by hard digging if it is won at all; through
      Truro, at the head of the Cobequid Bay, a place exhibiting more thrift
      than any we have seen. A pleasant enough country, on the whole, is this
      which the road runs through up the Salmon and down the East River. New
      Glasgow is not many miles from Pictou, on the great Cumberland Strait; the
      inhabitants build vessels, and strangers drive out from here to see the
      neighboring coal mines. Here we were to dine and take the stage for a ride
      of eighty miles to the Gut of Canso.
    </p>
    <p>
      The hotel at New Glasgow we can commend as one of the most unwholesome in
      the Province; but it is unnecessary to emphasize its condition, for if the
      traveler is in search of dirty hotels, he will scarcely go amiss anywhere
      in these regions. There seems to be a fashion in diet which endures. The
      early travelers as well as the later in these Atlantic provinces all note
      the prevalence of dry, limp toast and green tea; they are the staples of
      all the meals; though authorities differ in regard to the third element
      for discouraging hunger: it is sometimes boiled salt-fish and sometimes it
      is ham. Toast was probably an inspiration of the first woman of this part
      of the New World, who served it hot; but it has become now a tradition
      blindly followed, without regard to temperature; and the custom speaks
      volumes for the non-inventiveness of woman. At the inn in New Glasgow
      those who choose dine in their shirt-sleeves, and those skilled in the
      ways of this table get all they want in seven minutes. A man who
      understands the use of edged tools can get along twice as fast with a
      knife and fork as he can with a fork alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the stage is at the door; the coach and four horses answer the
      advertisement of being &ldquo;second to none on the continent.&rdquo; We
      mount to the seat with the driver. The sun is bright; the wind is in the
      southwest; the leaders are impatient to go; the start for the long ride is
      propitious.
    </p>
    <p>
      But on the back seat in the coach is the inevitable woman, young and
      sickly, with the baby in her arms. The woman has paid her fare through to
      Guysborough, and holds her ticket. It turns out, however, that she wants
      to go to the district of Guysborough, to St. Mary's Cross Roads,
      somewhere in it, and not to the village of Guysborough, which is away down
      on Chedabucto Bay. (The reader will notice this geographical familiarity.)
      And this stage does not go in the direction of St. Mary's. She will
      not get out, she will not surrender her ticket, nor pay her fare again.
      Why should she? And the stage proprietor, the stage-driver, and the
      hostler mull over the problem, and sit down on the woman's hair
      trunk in front of the tavern to reason with her. The baby joins its voice
      from the coach window in the clamor of the discussion. The baby prevails.
      The stage company comes to a compromise, the woman dismounts, and we are
      off, away from the white houses, over the sandy road, out upon a hilly and
      not cheerful country. And the driver begins to tell us stories of winter
      hardships, drifted highways, a land buried in snow, and great peril to men
      and cattle.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      III
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &ldquo;It was then summer, and the weather very fine; so pleased
     was I with the country, in which I had never travelled
     before, that my delight proved equal to my wonder.&rdquo;
      &mdash; BENVENUTO CELLINI.
</pre>
    <p>
      There are few pleasures in life equal to that of riding on the box-seat of
      a stagecoach, through a country unknown to you and hearing the driver talk
      about his horses. We made the intimate acquaintance of twelve horses on
      that day's ride, and learned the peculiar disposition and traits of
      each one of them, their ambition of display, their sensitiveness to praise
      or blame, their faithfulness, their playfulness, the readiness with which
      they yielded to kind treatment, their daintiness about food and lodging.
    </p>
    <p>
      May I never forget the spirited little jade, the off-leader in the third
      stage, the petted belle of the route, the nervous, coquettish, mincing
      mare of Marshy Hope. A spoiled beauty she was; you could see that as she
      took the road with dancing step, tossing her pretty head about, and
      conscious of her shining black coat and her tail done up &ldquo;in any
      simple knot,&rdquo;&mdash;like the back hair of Shelley's Beatrice
      Cenci. How she ambled and sidled and plumed herself, and now and then let
      fly her little heels high in air in mere excess of larkish feeling.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So! girl; so! Kitty,&rdquo; murmurs the driver in the softest tones
      of admiration; &ldquo;she don't mean anything by it, she's
      just like a kitten.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      But the heels keep flying above the traces, and by and by the driver is
      obliged to &ldquo;speak hash&rdquo; to the beauty. The reproof of the
      displeased tone is evidently felt, for she settles at once to her work,
      showing perhaps a little impatience, jerking her head up and down, and
      protesting by her nimble movements against the more deliberate trot of her
      companion. I believe that a blow from the cruel lash would have broken her
      heart; or else it would have made a little fiend of the spirited creature.
      The lash is hardly ever good for the sex.
    </p>
    <p>
      For thirteen years, winter and summer, this coachman had driven this
      monotonous, uninteresting route, with always the same sandy hills, scrubby
      firs, occasional cabins, in sight. What a time to nurse his thought and
      feed on his heart! How deliberately he can turn things over in his brain!
      What a system of philosophy he might evolve out of his consciousness! One
      would think so. But, in fact, the stagebox is no place for thinking. To
      handle twelve horses every day, to keep each to its proper work,
      stimulating the lazy and restraining the free, humoring each disposition,
      so that the greatest amount of work shall be obtained with the least
      friction, making each trip on time, and so as to leave each horse in as
      good condition at the close as at the start, taking advantage of the road,
      refreshing the team by an occasional spurt of speed,&mdash;all these
      things require constant attention; and if the driver was composing an
      epic, the coach might go into the ditch, or, if no accident happened, the
      horses would be worn out in a month, except for the driver's care.
    </p>
    <p>
      I conclude that the most delicate and important occupation in life is
      stage-driving. It would be easier to &ldquo;run&rdquo; the Treasury
      Department of the United States than a four-in-hand. I have a sense of the
      unimportance of everything else in comparison with this business in hand.
      And I think the driver shares that feeling. He is the autocrat of the
      situation. He is lord of all the humble passengers, and they feel their
      inferiority. They may have knowledge and skill in some things, but they
      are of no use here. At all the stables the driver is king; all the people
      on the route are deferential to him; they are happy if he will crack a
      joke with them, and take it as a favor if he gives them better than they
      send. And it is his joke that always raises the laugh, regardless of its
      quality.
    </p>
    <p>
      We carry the royal mail, and as we go along drop little sealed canvas bags
      at way offices. The bags would not hold more than three pints of meal, and
      I can see that there is nothing in them. Yet somebody along here must be
      expecting a letter, or they would not keep up the mail facilities. At
      French River we change horses. There is a mill here, and there are half a
      dozen houses, and a cranky bridge, which the driver thinks will not tumble
      down this trip. The settlement may have seen better days, and will
      probably see worse.
    </p>
    <p>
      I preferred to cross the long, shaky wooden bridge on foot, leaving the
      inside passengers to take the risk, and get the worth of their money; and
      while the horses were being put to, I walked on over the hill. And here I
      encountered a veritable foot-pad, with a club in his hand and a bundle on
      his shoulder, coming down the dusty road, with the wild-eyed aspect of one
      who travels into a far country in search of adventure. He seemed to be of
      a cheerful and sociable turn, and desired that I should linger and
      converse with him. But he was more meagerly supplied with the media of
      conversation than any person I ever met. His opening address was in a
      tongue that failed to convey to me the least idea. I replied in such
      language as I had with me, but it seemed to be equally lost upon him. We
      then fell back upon gestures and ejaculations, and by these I learned that
      he was a native of Cape Breton, but not an aborigine. By signs he asked me
      where I came from, and where I was going; and he was so much pleased with
      my destination, that he desired to know my name; and this I told him with
      all the injunction of secrecy I could convey; but he could no more
      pronounce it than I could speak his name. It occurred to me that perhaps
      he spoke a French patois, and I asked him; but he only shook his head. He
      would own neither to German nor Irish. The happy thought came to me of
      inquiring if he knew English. But he shook his head again, and said,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No English, plenty garlic.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      This was entirely incomprehensible, for I knew that garlic is not a
      language, but a smell. But when he had repeated the word several times, I
      found that he meant Gaelic; and when we had come to this understanding, we
      cordially shook hands and willingly parted. One seldom encounters a wilder
      or more good-natured savage than this stalwart wanderer. And meeting him
      raised my hopes of Cape Breton.
    </p>
    <p>
      We change horses again, for the last stage, at Marshy Hope. As we turn
      down the hill into this place of the mournful name, we dash past a
      procession of five country wagons, which makes way for us: everything
      makes way for us; even death itself turns out for the stage with four
      horses. The second wagon carries a long box, which reveals to us the
      mournful errand of the caravan. We drive into the stable, and get down
      while the fresh horses are put to. The company's stables are all
      alike, and open at each end with great doors. The stable is the best house
      in the place; there are three or four houses besides, and one of them is
      white, and has vines growing over the front door, and hollyhocks by the
      front gate. Three or four women, and as many barelegged girls, have come
      out to look at the procession, and we lounge towards the group.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It had a winder in the top of it, and silver handles,&rdquo; says
      one.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I declare; and you could 'a looked right in?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I'd been a mind to.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who has died?&rdquo; I ask.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's old woman Larue; she lived on Gilead Hill, mostly alone.
      It's better for her.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Had she any friends?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One darter. They're takin' her over Eden way, to bury
      her where she come from.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was she a good woman?&rdquo; The traveler is naturally curious to
      know what sort of people die in Nova Scotia.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, good enough. Both her husbands is dead.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The gossips continued talking of the burying. Poor old woman Larue! It was
      mournful enough to encounter you for the only time in this world in this
      plight, and to have this glimpse of your wretched life on lonesome Gilead
      Hill. What pleasure, I wonder, had she in her life, and what pleasure have
      any of these hard-favored women in this doleful region? It is pitiful to
      think of it. Doubtless, however, the region isn't doleful, and the
      sentimental traveler would not have felt it so if he had not encountered
      this funereal flitting.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the horses are in. We mount to our places; the big doors swing open.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stand away,&rdquo; cries the driver.
    </p>
    <p>
      The hostler lets go Kitty's bridle, the horses plunge forward, and
      we are off at a gallop, taking the opposite direction from that pursued by
      old woman Larue.
    </p>
    <p>
      This last stage is eleven miles, through a pleasanter country, and we make
      it in a trifle over an hour, going at an exhilarating gait, that raises
      our spirits out of the Marshy Hope level. The perfection of travel is ten
      miles an hour, on top of a stagecoach; it is greater speed than forty by
      rail. It nurses one's pride to sit aloft, and rattle past the
      farmhouses, and give our dust to the cringing foot tramps. There is
      something royal in the swaying of the coach body, and an excitement in the
      patter of the horses' hoofs. And what an honor it must be to guide
      such a machine through a region of rustic admiration!
    </p>
    <p>
      The sun has set when we come thundering down into the pretty Catholic
      village of Antigonish,&mdash;the most home-like place we have seen on the
      island. The twin stone towers of the unfinished cathedral loom up large in
      the fading light, and the bishop's palace on the hill&mdash;the home
      of the Bishop of Arichat&mdash;appears to be an imposing white barn with
      many staring windows. At Antigonish&mdash;with the emphasis on the last
      syllable&mdash;let the reader know there is a most comfortable inn, kept
      by a cheery landlady, where the stranger is served by the comely
      handmaidens, her daughters, and feels that he has reached a home at last.
      Here we wished to stay. Here we wished to end this weary pilgrimage. Could
      Baddeck be as attractive as this peaceful valley? Should we find any inn
      on Cape Breton like this one?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never was on Cape Breton,&rdquo; our driver had said; &ldquo;hope I
      never shall be. Heard enough about it. Taverns? You'll find 'em
      occupied.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fleas?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wus.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it is a lovely country?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't think it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Into what unknown dangers were we going? Why not stay here and be happy?
      It was a soft summer night. People were loitering in the street; the young
      beaux of the place going up and down with the belles, after the leisurely
      manner in youth and summer; perhaps they were students from St. Xavier
      College, or visiting gallants from Guysborough. They look into the
      post-office and the fancy store. They stroll and take their little
      provincial pleasure and make love, for all we can see, as if Antigonish
      were a part of the world. How they must look down on Marshy Hope and
      Addington Forks and Tracadie! What a charming place to live in is this!
    </p>
    <p>
      But the stage goes on at eight o'clock. It will wait for no man.
      There is no other stage till eight the next night, and we have no
      alternative but a night ride. We put aside all else except duty and
      Baddeck. This is strictly a pleasure-trip.
    </p>
    <p>
      The stage establishment for the rest of the journey could hardly be called
      the finest on the continent. The wagon was drawn by two horses. It was a
      square box, covered with painted cloth. Within were two narrow seats,
      facing each other, affording no room for the legs of passengers, and
      offering them no position but a strictly upright one. It was a most
      ingeniously uncomfortable box in which to put sleepy travelers for the
      night. The weather would be chilly before morning, and to sit upright on a
      narrow board all night, and shiver, is not cheerful. Of course, the reader
      says that this is no hardship to talk about. But the reader is mistaken.
      Anything is a hardship when it is unpleasantly what one does not desire or
      expect. These travelers had spent wakeful nights, in the forests, in a
      cold rain, and never thought of complaining. It is useless to talk about
      the Polar sufferings of Dr. Kane to a guest at a metropolitan hotel, in
      the midst of luxury, when the mosquito sings all night in his ear, and his
      mutton-chop is overdone at breakfast. One does not like to be set up for a
      hero in trifles, in odd moments, and in inconspicuous places.
    </p>
    <p>
      There were two passengers besides ourselves, inhabitants of Cape Breton
      Island, who were returning from Halifax to Plaster Cove, where they were
      engaged in the occupation of distributing alcoholic liquors at retail.
      This fact we ascertained incidentally, as we learned the nationality of
      our comrades by their brogue, and their religion by their lively
      ejaculations during the night. We stowed ourselves into the rigid box,
      bade a sorrowing good-night to the landlady and her daughters, who stood
      at the inn door, and went jingling down the street towards the open
      country.
    </p>
    <p>
      The moon rises at eight o'clock in Nova Scotia. It came above the
      horizon exactly as we began our journey, a harvest-moon, round and red.
      When I first saw it, it lay on the edge of the horizon as if too heavy to
      lift itself, as big as a cart-wheel, and its disk cut by a fence-rail.
      With what a flood of splendor it deluged farmhouses and farms, and the
      broad sweep of level country! There could not be a more magnificent night
      in which to ride towards that geographical mystery of our boyhood, the Gut
      of Canso.
    </p>
    <p>
      A few miles out of town the stage stopped in the road before a
      post-station. An old woman opened the door of the farmhouse to receive the
      bag which the driver carried to her. A couple of sprightly little girls
      rushed out to &ldquo;interview&rdquo; the passengers, climbing up to ask
      their names and, with much giggling, to get a peep at their faces. And
      upon the handsomeness or ugliness of the faces they saw in the moonlight
      they pronounced with perfect candor. We are not obliged to say what their
      verdict was. Girls here, no doubt, as elsewhere, lose this trustful candor
      as they grow older.
    </p>
    <p>
      Just as we were starting, the old woman screamed out from the door, in a
      shrill voice, addressing the driver, &ldquo;Did you see ary a sick man
      'bout 'Tigonish?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nary.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There's one been round here for three or four days, pretty
      bad off; 's got the St. Vitus's. He wanted me to get him some
      medicine for it up to Antigonish. I've got it here in a vial, and I
      wished you could take it to him.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where is he?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I dunno. I heern he'd gone east by the Gut. Perhaps you'll
      hear of him.&rdquo; All this screamed out into the night.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I'll take it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      We took the vial aboard and went on; but the incident powerfully affected
      us. The weird voice of the old woman was exciting in itself, and we could
      not escape the image of this unknown man, dancing about this region
      without any medicine, fleeing perchance by night and alone, and finally
      flitting away down the Gut of Canso. This fugitive mystery almost
      immediately shaped itself into the following simple poem:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &ldquo;There was an old man of Canso,
     Unable to sit or stan' so.
     When I asked him why he ran so,
     Says he, 'I've St. Vitus' dance so,
     All down the Gut of Canso.'&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      This melancholy song is now, I doubt not, sung by the maidens of
      Antigonish.
    </p>
    <p>
      In spite of the consolations of poetry, however, the night wore on slowly,
      and soothing sleep tried in vain to get a lodgment in the jolting wagon.
      One can sleep upright, but not when his head is every moment knocked
      against the framework of a wagon-cover. Even a jolly young Irishman of
      Plaster Cove, whose nature it is to sleep under whatever discouragement,
      is beaten by these circumstances. He wishes he had his fiddle along. We
      never know what men are on casual acquaintance. This rather stupid-looking
      fellow is a devotee of music, and knows how to coax the sweetness out of
      the unwilling violin. Sometimes he goes miles and miles on winter nights
      to draw the seductive bow for the Cape Breton dancers, and there is
      enthusiasm in his voice, as he relates exploits of fiddling from sunset
      till the dawn of day. Other information, however, the young man has not;
      and when this is exhausted, he becomes sleepy again, and tries a dozen
      ways to twist himself into a posture in which sleep will be possible. He
      doubles up his legs, he slides them under the seat, he sits on the wagon
      bottom; but the wagon swings and jolts and knocks him about. His patience
      under this punishment is admirable, and there is something pathetic in his
      restraint from profanity.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is enough to look out upon the magnificent night; the moon is now high,
      and swinging clear and distant; the air has grown chilly; the stars cannot
      be eclipsed by the greater light, but glow with a chastened fervor. It is
      on the whole a splendid display for the sake of four sleepy men, banging
      along in a coach,&mdash;an insignificant little vehicle with two horses.
      No one is up at any of the farmhouses to see it; no one appears to take
      any interest in it, except an occasional baying dog, or a rooster that has
      mistaken the time of night. By midnight we come to Tracadie, an orchard, a
      farmhouse, and a stable. We are not far from the sea now, and can see a
      silver mist in the north. An inlet comes lapping up by the old house with
      a salty smell and a suggestion of oyster-beds. We knock up the sleeping
      hostlers, change horses, and go on again, dead sleepy, but unable to get a
      wink. And all the night is blazing with beauty. We think of the criminal
      who was sentenced to be kept awake till he died.
    </p>
    <p>
      The fiddler makes another trial. Temperately remarking, &ldquo;I am very
      sleepy,&rdquo; he kneels upon the floor and rests his head on the seat.
      This position for a second promises repose; but almost immediately his
      head begins to pound the seat, and beat a lively rat-a-plan on the board.
      The head of a wooden idol couldn't stand this treatment more than a
      minute. The fiddler twisted and turned, but his head went like a
      triphammer on the seat. I have never seen a devotional attitude so
      deceptive, or one that produced less favorable results. The young man rose
      from his knees, and meekly said,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's dam hard.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      If the recording angel took down this observation, he doubtless made a
      note of the injured tone in which it was uttered.
    </p>
    <p>
      How slowly the night passes to one tipping and swinging along in a slowly
      moving stage! But the harbinger of the day came at last. When the fiddler
      rose from his knees, I saw the morning-star burst out of the east like a
      great diamond, and I knew that Venus was strong enough to pull up even the
      sun, from whom she is never distant more than an eighth of the heavenly
      circle. The moon could not put her out of countenance. She blazed and
      scintillated with a dazzling brilliance, a throbbing splendor, that made
      the moon seem a pale, sentimental invention. Steadily she mounted, in her
      fresh beauty, with the confidence and vigor of new love, driving her more
      domestic rival out of the sky. And this sort of thing, I suppose, goes on
      frequently. These splendors burn and this panorama passes night after
      night down at the end of Nova Scotia, and all for the stage-driver, dozing
      along on his box, from Antigonish to the strait.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here you are,&rdquo; cries the driver, at length, when we have
      become wearily indifferent to where we are. We have reached the ferry. The
      dawn has not come, but it is not far off. We step out and find a chilly
      morning, and the dark waters of the Gut of Canso flowing before us lighted
      here and there by a patch of white mist. The ferryman is asleep, and his
      door is shut. We call him by all the names known among men. We pound upon
      his house, but he makes no sign. Before he awakes and comes out, growling,
      the sky in the east is lightened a shade, and the star of the dawn
      sparkles less brilliantly. But the process is slow. The twilight is long.
      There is a surprising deliberation about the preparation of the sun for
      rising, as there is in the movements of the boatman. Both appear to be
      reluctant to begin the day.
    </p>
    <p>
      The ferryman and his shaggy comrade get ready at last, and we step into
      the clumsy yawl, and the slowly moving oars begin to pull us upstream. The
      strait is here less than a mile wide; the tide is running strongly, and
      the water is full of swirls,&mdash;the little whirlpools of the rip-tide.
      The morning-star is now high in the sky; the moon, declining in the west,
      is more than ever like a silver shield; along the east is a faint flush of
      pink. In the increasing light we can see the bold shores of the strait,
      and the square projection of Cape Porcupine below.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the rocks above the town of Plaster Cove, where there is a black and
      white sign,&mdash;Telegraph Cable,&mdash;we set ashore our companions of
      the night, and see them climb up to their station for retailing the
      necessary means of intoxication in their district, with the mournful
      thought that we may never behold them again.
    </p>
    <p>
      As we drop down along the shore, there is a white sea-gull asleep on the
      rock, rolled up in a ball, with his head under his wing. The rock is
      dripping with dew, and the bird is as wet as his hard bed. We pass within
      an oar's length of him, but he does not heed us, and we do not
      disturb his morning slumbers. For there is no such cruelty as the waking
      of anybody out of a morning nap.
    </p>
    <p>
      When we land, and take up our bags to ascend the hill to the white tavern
      of Port Hastings (as Plaster Cove now likes to be called), the sun lifts
      himself slowly over the treetops, and the magic of the night vanishes.
    </p>
    <p>
      And this is Cape Breton, reached after almost a week of travel. Here is
      the Gut of Canso, but where is Baddeck? It is Saturday morning; if we
      cannot make Baddeck by night, we might as well have remained in Boston.
      And who knows what we shall find if we get there? A forlorn
      fishing-station, a dreary hotel? Suppose we cannot get on, and are forced
      to stay here? Asking ourselves these questions, we enter the Plaster Cove
      tavern. No one is stirring, but the house is open, and we take possession
      of the dirty public room, and almost immediately drop to sleep in the
      fluffy rocking-chairs; but even sleep is not strong enough to conquer our
      desire to push on, and we soon rouse up and go in pursuit of information.
    </p>
    <p>
      No landlord is to be found, but there is an unkempt servant in the
      kitchen, who probably does not see any use in making her toilet more than
      once a week. To this fearful creature is intrusted the dainty duty of
      preparing breakfast. Her indifference is equal to her lack of information,
      and her ability to convey information is fettered by her use of Gaelic as
      her native speech. But she directs us to the stable. There we find a
      driver hitching his horses to a two-horse stage-wagon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is this stage for Baddeck?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not much.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is there any stage for Baddeck?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not to-day.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where does this go, and when?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;St. Peter's. Starts in fifteen minutes.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      This seems like &ldquo;business,&rdquo; and we are inclined to try it,
      especially as we have no notion where St. Peter's is.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does any other stage go from here to-day anywhere else?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. Port Hood. Quarter of an hour.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Everything was about to happen in fifteen minutes. We inquire further. St.
      Peter's is on the east coast, on the road to Sydney. Port Hood is on
      the west coast. There is a stage from Port Hood to Baddeck. It would land
      us there some time Sunday morning; distance, eighty miles.
    </p>
    <p>
      Heavens! what a pleasure-trip. To ride eighty miles more without sleep! We
      should simply be delivered dead on the Bras d'Or; that is all. Tell
      us, gentle driver, is there no other way?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, there's Jim Hughes, come over at midnight with a
      passenger from Baddeck; he's in the hotel now; perhaps he'll
      take you.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Our hope hung on Jim Hughes. The frowzy servant piloted us up to his
      sleeping-room. &ldquo;Go right in,&rdquo; said she; and we went in,
      according to the simple custom of the country, though it was a bedroom
      that one would not enter except on business. Mr. Hughes did not like to be
      disturbed, but he proved himself to be a man who could wake up suddenly,
      shake his head, and transact business,&mdash;a sort of Napoleon, in fact.
      Mr. Hughes stared at the intruders for a moment, as if he meditated an
      assault.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you live in Baddeck?&rdquo; we asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; Hogamah,&mdash;half-way there.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you take us to Baddeck to-day?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Hughes thought. He had intended to sleep&mdash;till noon. He had then
      intended to go over the Judique Mountain and get a boy. But he was
      disposed to accommodate. Yes, for money&mdash;sum named&mdash;he would
      give up his plans, and start for Baddeck in an hour. Distance, sixty
      miles. Here was a man worth having; he could come to a decision before he
      was out of bed. The bargain was closed.
    </p>
    <p>
      We would have closed any bargain to escape a Sunday in the Plaster Cove
      hotel. There are different sorts of hotel uncleanliness. There is the
      musty old inn, where the dirt has accumulated for years, and slow neglect
      has wrought a picturesque sort of dilapidation, the mouldiness of time,
      which has something to recommend it. But there is nothing attractive in
      new nastiness, in the vulgar union of smartness and filth. A dirty modern
      house, just built, a house smelling of poor whiskey and vile tobacco, its
      white paint grimy, its floors unclean, is ever so much worse than an old
      inn that never pretended to be anything but a rookery. I say nothing
      against the hotel at Plaster Cove. In fact, I recommend it. There is a
      kind of harmony about it that I like. There is a harmony between the
      breakfast and the frowzy Gaelic cook we saw &ldquo;sozzling&rdquo; about
      in the kitchen. There is a harmony between the appearance of the house and
      the appearance of the buxom young housekeeper who comes upon the scene
      later, her hair saturated with the fatty matter of the bear. The traveler
      will experience a pleasure in paying his bill and departing.
    </p>
    <p>
      Although Plaster Cove seems remote on the map, we found that we were right
      in the track of the world's news there. It is the transfer station
      of the Atlantic Cable Company, where it exchanges messages with the
      Western Union. In a long wooden building, divided into two main
      apartments, twenty to thirty operators are employed. At eight o'clock
      the English force was at work receiving the noon messages from London. The
      American operators had not yet come on, for New York business would not
      begin for an hour. Into these rooms is poured daily the news of the world,
      and these young fellows toss it about as lightly as if it were household
      gossip. It is a marvelous exchange, however, and we had intended to make
      some reflections here upon the en rapport feeling, so to speak, with all
      the world, which we experienced while there; but our conveyance was
      waiting. We telegraphed our coming to Baddeck, and departed. For
      twenty-five cents one can send a dispatch to any part of the Dominion,
      except the region where the Western Union has still a foothold.
    </p>
    <p>
      Our conveyance was a one-horse wagon, with one seat. The horse was well
      enough, but the seat was narrow for three people, and the entire
      establishment had in it not much prophecy of Baddeck for that day. But we
      knew little of the power of Cape Breton driving. It became evident that we
      should reach Baddeck soon enough, if we could cling to that wagon-seat.
      The morning sun was hot. The way was so uninteresting that we almost
      wished ourselves back in Nova Scotia. The sandy road was bordered with
      discouraged evergreens, through which we had glimpses of sand-drifted
      farms. If Baddeck was to be like this, we had come on a fool's
      errand. There were some savage, low hills, and the Judique Mountain showed
      itself as we got away from the town. In this first stage, the heat of the
      sun, the monotony of the road, and the scarcity of sleep during the past
      thirty-six hours were all unfavorable to our keeping on the wagon-seat. We
      nodded separately, we nodded and reeled in unison. But asleep or awake,
      the driver drove like a son of Jehu. Such driving is the fashion on Cape
      Breton Island. Especially downhill, we made the most of it; if the horse
      was on a run, that was only an inducement to apply the lash; speed gave
      the promise of greater possible speed. The wagon rattled like a bark-mill;
      it swirled and leaped about, and we finally got the exciting impression
      that if the whole thing went to pieces, we should somehow go on,&mdash;such
      was our impetus. Round corners, over ruts and stones, and uphill and down,
      we went jolting and swinging, holding fast to the seat, and putting our
      trust in things in general. At the end of fifteen miles, we stopped at a
      Scotch farmhouse, where the driver kept a relay, and changed horse.
    </p>
    <p>
      The people were Highlanders, and spoke little English; we had struck the
      beginning of the Gaelic settlement. From here to Hogamah we should
      encounter only the Gaelic tongue; the inhabitants are all Catholics. Very
      civil people, apparently, and living in a kind of niggardly thrift, such
      as the cold land affords. We saw of this family the old man, who had come
      from Scotland fifty years ago, his stalwart son, six feet and a half high,
      maybe, and two buxom daughters, going to the hay-field,&mdash;good solid
      Scotch lassies, who smiled in English, but spoke only Gaelic. The old man
      could speak a little English, and was disposed to be both communicative
      and inquisitive. He asked our business, names, and residence. Of the
      United States he had only a dim conception, but his mind rather rested
      upon the statement that we lived &ldquo;near Boston.&rdquo; He complained
      of the degeneracy of the times. All the young men had gone away from Cape
      Breton; might get rich if they would stay and work the farms. But no one
      liked to work nowadays. From life, we diverted the talk to literature. We
      inquired what books they had.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course you all have the poems of Burns?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What's the name o' the mon?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Burns, Robert Burns.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never heard tell of such a mon. Have heard of Robert Bruce. He was
      a Scotchman.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      This was nothing short of refreshing, to find a Scotchman who had never
      heard of Robert Burns! It was worth the whole journey to take this honest
      man by the hand. How far would I not travel to talk with an American who
      had never heard of George Washington!
    </p>
    <p>
      The way was more varied during the next stage; we passed through some
      pleasant valleys and picturesque neighborhoods, and at length, winding
      around the base of a wooded range, and crossing its point, we came upon a
      sight that took all the sleep out of us. This was the famous Bras d'Or.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Bras d'Or is the most beautiful salt-water lake I have ever
      seen, and more beautiful than we had imagined a body of salt water could
      be. If the reader will take the map, he will see that two narrow
      estuaries, the Great and the Little Bras d'Or, enter the island of
      Cape Breton, on the ragged northeast coast, above the town of Sydney, and
      flow in, at length widening out and occupying the heart of the island. The
      water seeks out all the low places, and ramifies the interior, running
      away into lovely bays and lagoons, leaving slender tongues of land and
      picturesque islands, and bringing into the recesses of the land, to the
      remote country farms and settlements, the flavor of salt, and the fish and
      mollusks of the briny sea. There is very little tide at any time, so that
      the shores are clean and sightly for the most part, like those of
      fresh-water lakes. It has all the pleasantness of a fresh-water lake, with
      all the advantages of a salt one. In the streams which run into it are the
      speckled trout, the shad, and the salmon; out of its depths are hooked the
      cod and the mackerel, and in its bays fattens the oyster. This irregular
      lake is about a hundred miles long, if you measure it skillfully, and in
      some places ten miles broad; but so indented is it, that I am not sure but
      one would need, as we were informed, to ride a thousand miles to go round
      it, following all its incursions into the land. The hills about it are
      never more than five or six hundred feet high, but they are high enough
      for reposeful beauty, and offer everywhere pleasing lines.
    </p>
    <p>
      What we first saw was an inlet of the Bras d'Or, called, by the
      driver, Hogamah Bay. At its entrance were long, wooded islands, beyond
      which we saw the backs of graceful hills, like the capes of some poetic
      sea-coast. The bay narrowed to a mile in width where we came upon it, and
      ran several miles inland to a swamp, round the head of which we must go.
      Opposite was the village of Hogamah. I had my suspicions from the
      beginning about this name, and now asked the driver, who was liberally
      educated for a driver, how he spelled &ldquo;Hogamah.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why-ko-ko-magh. Hogamah.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Sometimes it is called Wykogamah. Thus the innocent traveler is misled.
      Along the Whykokomagh Bay we come to a permanent encampment of the Micmac
      Indians,&mdash;a dozen wigwams in the pine woods. Though lumber is plenty,
      they refuse to live in houses. The wigwams, however, are more picturesque
      than the square frame houses of the whites. Built up conically of poles,
      with a hole in the top for the smoke to escape, and often set up a little
      from the ground on a timber foundation, they are as pleasing to the eye as
      a Chinese or Turkish dwelling. They may be cold in winter, but blessed be
      the tenacity of barbarism, which retains this agreeable architecture. The
      men live by hunting in the season, and the women support the family by
      making moccasins and baskets. These Indians are most of them good
      Catholics, and they try to go once a year to mass and a sort of religious
      festival held at St. Peter's, where their sins are forgiven in a
      yearly lump.
    </p>
    <p>
      At Whykokomagh, a neat fishing village of white houses, we stopped for
      dinner at the Inverness House. The house was very clean, and the tidy
      landlady gave us as good a dinner as she could of the inevitable green
      tea, toast, and salt fish. She was Gaelic, but Protestant, as the village
      is, and showed us with pride her Gaelic Bible and hymn-book. A peaceful
      place, this Whykokomagh; the lapsing waters of Bras d'Or made a
      summer music all along the quiet street; the bay lay smiling with its
      islands in front, and an amphitheater of hills rose behind. But for the
      line of telegraph poles one might have fancied he could have security and
      repose here.
    </p>
    <p>
      We put a fresh pony into the shafts, a beast born with an everlasting
      uneasiness in his legs, and an amount of &ldquo;go&rdquo; in him which
      suited his reckless driver. We no longer stood upon the order of our
      going; we went. As we left the village, we passed a rocky hay-field, where
      the Gaelic farmer was gathering the scanty yield of grass. A comely Indian
      girl was stowing the hay and treading it down on the wagon. The driver
      hailed the farmer, and they exchanged Gaelic repartee which set all the
      hay-makers in a roar, and caused the Indian maid to darkly and sweetly
      beam upon us. We asked the driver what he had said. He had only inquired
      what the man would take for the load&mdash;as it stood! A joke is a joke
      down this way.
    </p>
    <p>
      I am not about to describe this drive at length, in order that the reader
      may skip it; for I know the reader, being of like passion and fashion with
      him. From the time we first struck the Bras d'Or for thirty miles we
      rode in constant sight of its magnificent water. Now we were two hundred
      feet above the water, on the hillside, skirting a point or following an
      indentation; and now we were diving into a narrow valley, crossing a
      stream, or turning a sharp corner, but always with the Bras d'Or in
      view, the afternoon sun shining on it, softening the outlines of its
      embracing hills, casting a shadow from its wooded islands. Sometimes we
      opened on a broad water plain bounded by the Watchabaktchkt hills, and
      again we looked over hill after hill receding into the soft and hazy blue
      of the land beyond the great mass of the Bras d'Or. The reader can
      compare the view and the ride to the Bay of Naples and the Cornice Road;
      we did nothing of the sort; we held on to the seat, prayed that the
      harness of the pony might not break, and gave constant expression to our
      wonder and delight. For a week we had schooled ourselves to expect nothing
      more from this wicked world, but here was an enchanting vision.
    </p>
    <p>
      The only phenomenon worthy the attention of any inquiring mind, in this
      whole record, I will now describe. As we drove along the side of a hill,
      and at least two hundred feet above the water, the road suddenly diverged
      and took a circuit higher up. The driver said that was to avoid a
      sink-hole in the old road,&mdash;a great curiosity, which it was worth
      while to examine. Beside the old road was a circular hole, which nipped
      out a part of the road-bed, some twenty-five feet in diameter, filled with
      water almost to the brim, but not running over. The water was dark in
      color, and I fancied had a brackish taste. The driver said that a few
      weeks before, when he came this way, it was solid ground where this well
      now opened, and that a large beech-tree stood there. When he returned next
      day, he found this hole full of water, as we saw it, and the large tree
      had sunk in it. The size of the hole seemed to be determined by the reach
      of the roots of the tree. The tree had so entirely disappeared, that he
      could not with a long pole touch its top. Since then the water had neither
      subsided nor overflowed. The ground about was compact gravel. We tried
      sounding the hole with poles, but could make nothing of it. The water
      seemed to have no outlet nor inlet; at least, it did not rise or fall. Why
      should the solid hill give way at this place, and swallow up a tree? and
      if the water had any connection with the lake, two hundred feet below and
      at some distance away, why didn't the water run out? Why should the
      unscientific traveler have a thing of this kind thrown in his way? The
      driver did not know.
    </p>
    <p>
      This phenomenon made us a little suspicious of the foundations of this
      island which is already invaded by the jealous ocean, and is anchored to
      the continent only by the cable.
    </p>
    <p>
      The drive became more charming as the sun went down, and we saw the hills
      grow purple beyond the Bras d'Or. The road wound around lovely coves
      and across low promontories, giving us new beauties at every turn. Before
      dark we had crossed the Middle River and the Big Baddeck, on long wooden
      bridges, which straggled over sluggish waters and long reaches of marsh,
      upon which Mary might have been sent to call the cattle home. These
      bridges were shaky and wanted a plank at intervals, but they are in
      keeping with the enterprise of the country. As dusk came on, we crossed
      the last hill, and were bowling along by the still gleaming water. Lights
      began to appear in infrequent farmhouses, and under cover of the gathering
      night the houses seemed to be stately mansions; and we fancied we were on
      a noble highway, lined with elegant suburban seaside residences, and about
      to drive into a town of wealth and a port of great commerce. We were,
      nevertheless, anxious about Baddeck. What sort of haven were we to reach
      after our heroic (with the reader's permission) week of travel?
      Would the hotel be like that at Plaster Cove? Were our thirty-six hours of
      sleepless staging to terminate in a night of misery and a Sunday of
      discomfort?
    </p>
    <p>
      We came into a straggling village; that we could see by the starlight. But
      we stopped at the door of a very unhotel-like appearing hotel. It had in
      front a flower-garden; it was blazing with welcome lights; it opened
      hospitable doors, and we were received by a family who expected us. The
      house was a large one, for two guests; and we enjoyed the luxury of
      spacious rooms, an abundant supper, and a friendly welcome; and, in short,
      found ourselves at home. The proprietor of the Telegraph House is the
      superintendent of the land lines of Cape Breton, a Scotchman, of course;
      but his wife is a Newfoundland lady. We cannot violate the sanctity of
      what seemed like private hospitality by speaking freely of this lady and
      the lovely girls, her daughters, whose education has been so admirably
      advanced in the excellent school at Baddeck; but we can confidently advise
      any American who is going to Newfoundland, to get a wife there, if he
      wants one at all. It is the only new article he can bring from the
      Provinces that he will not have to pay duty on. And here is a suggestion
      to our tariff-mongers for the &ldquo;protection&rdquo; of New England
      women.
    </p>
    <p>
      The reader probably cannot appreciate the delicious sense of rest and of
      achievement which we enjoyed in this tidy inn, nor share the anticipations
      of undisturbed, luxurious sleep, in which we indulged as we sat upon the
      upper balcony after supper, and saw the moon rise over the glistening Bras
      d'Or and flood with light the islands and headlands of the beautiful
      bay. Anchored at some distance from the shore was a slender coasting
      vessel. The big red moon happened to come up just behind it, and the masts
      and spars and ropes of the vessel came out, distinctly traced on the
      golden background, making such a night picture as I once saw painted of a
      ship in a fiord of Norway. The scene was enchanting. And we respected then
      the heretofore seemingly insane impulse that had driven us on to Baddeck.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      IV
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &ldquo;He had no ill-will to the Scotch; for, if he had been
     conscious of that, he never would have thrown himself into
     the bosom of their country, and trusted to the protection of
     its remote inhabitants with a fearless confidence.&rdquo;
      &mdash;BOSWELL'S JOHNSON.
</pre>
    <p>
      Although it was an open and flagrant violation of the Sabbath day as it is
      kept in Scotch Baddeck, our kind hosts let us sleep late on Sunday
      morning, with no reminder that we were not sleeping the sleep of the just.
      It was the charming Maud, a flitting sunbeam of a girl, who waited to
      bring us our breakfast, and thereby lost the opportunity of going to
      church with the rest of the family,&mdash;an act of gracious hospitality
      which the tired travelers appreciated.
    </p>
    <p>
      The travelers were unable, indeed, to awaken into any feeling of
      Sabbatical straitness. The morning was delicious,&mdash;such a morning as
      never visits any place except an island; a bright, sparkling morning, with
      the exhilaration of the air softened by the sea. What a day it was for
      idleness, for voluptuous rest, after the flight by day and night from St.
      John! It was enough, now that the morning was fully opened and advancing
      to the splendor of noon, to sit upon the upper balcony, looking upon the
      Bras d'Or and the peaceful hills beyond, reposeful and yet sparkling
      with the air and color of summer, and inhale the balmy air. (We greatly
      need another word to describe good air, properly heated, besides this
      overworked &ldquo;balmy.&rdquo;) Perhaps it might in some regions be
      considered Sabbath-keeping, simply to rest in such a soothing situation,&mdash;rest,
      and not incessant activity, having been one of the original designs of the
      day.
    </p>
    <p>
      But our travelers were from New England, and they were not willing to be
      outdone in the matter of Sunday observances by such an out-of-the-way and
      nameless place as Baddeck. They did not set themselves up as missionaries
      to these benighted Gaelic people, to teach them by example that the notion
      of Sunday which obtained two hundred years ago in Scotland had been
      modified, and that the sacredness of it had pretty much disappeared with
      the unpleasantness of it. They rather lent themselves to the humor of the
      hour, and probably by their demeanor encouraged the respect for the day on
      Cape Breton Island. Neither by birth nor education were the travelers
      fishermen on Sunday, and they were not moved to tempt the authorities to
      lock them up for dropping here a line and there a line on the Lord's
      day.
    </p>
    <p>
      In fact, before I had finished my second cup of Maud-mixed coffee, my
      companion, with a little show of haste, had gone in search of the kirk,
      and I followed him, with more scrupulousness, as soon as I could without
      breaking the day of rest. Although it was Sunday, I could not but notice
      that Baddeck was a clean-looking village of white wooden houses, of
      perhaps seven or eight hundred inhabitants; that it stretched along the
      bay for a mile or more, straggling off into farmhouses at each end, lying
      for the most part on the sloping curve of the bay. There were a few
      country-looking stores and shops, and on the shore three or four rather
      decayed and shaky wharves ran into the water, and a few schooners lay at
      anchor near them; and the usual decaying warehouses leaned about the
      docks. A peaceful and perhaps a thriving place, but not a bustling place.
      As I walked down the road, a sailboat put out from the shore and slowly
      disappeared round the island in the direction of the Grand Narrows. It had
      a small pleasure party on board. None of them were drowned that day, and I
      learned at night that they were Roman Catholics from Whykokornagh.
    </p>
    <p>
      The kirk, which stands near the water, and at a distance shows a pretty
      wooden spire, is after the pattern of a New England meeting-house. When I
      reached it, the house was full and the service had begun. There was
      something familiar in the bareness and uncompromising plainness and
      ugliness of the interior. The pews had high backs, with narrow,
      uncushioned seats. The pulpit was high,&mdash;a sort of theological
      fortification,&mdash;approached by wide, curving flights of stairs on
      either side. Those who occupied the near seats to the right and left of
      the pulpit had in front of them a blank board partition, and could not by
      any possibility see the minister, though they broke their necks backwards
      over their high coat-collars. The congregation had a striking resemblance
      to a country New England congregation of say twenty years ago. The clothes
      they wore had been Sunday clothes for at least that length of time.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such clothes have a look of I know not what devout and painful
      respectability, that is in keeping with the worldly notion of rigid Scotch
      Presbyterianism. One saw with pleasure the fresh and rosy-cheeked children
      of this strict generation, but the women of the audience were not in
      appearance different from newly arrived and respectable Irish immigrants.
      They wore a white cap with long frills over the forehead, and a black
      handkerchief thrown over it and hanging down the neck,&mdash;a quaint and
      not unpleasing disguise.
    </p>
    <p>
      The house, as I said, was crowded. It is the custom in this region to go
      to church,&mdash;for whole families to go, even the smallest children; and
      they not unfrequently walk six or seven miles to attend the service. There
      is a kind of merit in this act that makes up for the lack of certain other
      Christian virtues that are practiced elsewhere. The service was worth
      coming seven miles to participate in!&mdash;it was about two hours long,
      and one might well feel as if he had performed a work of long-suffering to
      sit through it. The singing was strictly congregational. Congregational
      singing is good (for those who like it) when the congregation can sing.
      This congregation could not sing, but it could grind the Psalms of David
      powerfully. They sing nothing else but the old Scotch version of the
      Psalms, in a patient and faithful long meter. And this is regarded, and
      with considerable plausibility, as an act of worship. It certainly has
      small element of pleasure in it. Here is a stanza from Psalm xlv., which
      the congregation, without any instrumental nonsense, went through in a
      dragging, drawling manner, and with perfect individual independence as to
      time:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thine arrows sharply pierce the heart of th' enemies of the
      king, And under thy sub-jec-shi-on the people down do bring.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The sermon was extempore, and in English with Scotch pronunciation; and it
      filled a solid hour of time. I am not a good judge of sermons, and this
      one was mere chips to me; but my companion, who knows a sermon when he
      hears it, said that this was strictly theological, and Scotch theology at
      that, and not at all expository. It was doubtless my fault that I got no
      idea whatever from it. But the adults of the congregation appeared to be
      perfectly satisfied with it; at least they sat bolt upright and nodded
      assent continually. The children all went to sleep under it, without any
      hypocritical show of attention. To be sure, the day was warm and the house
      was unventilated. If the windows had been opened so as to admit the fresh
      air from the Bras d'Or, I presume the hard-working farmers and their
      wives would have resented such an interference with their ordained Sunday
      naps, and the preacher's sermon would have seemed more musty than it
      appeared to be in that congenial and drowsy air. Considering that only
      half of the congregation could understand the preacher, its behavior was
      exemplary.
    </p>
    <p>
      After the sermon, a collection was taken up for the minister; and I
      noticed that nothing but pennies rattled into the boxes,&mdash;a
      melancholy sound for the pastor. This might appear niggardly on the part
      of these Scotch Presbyterians, but it is on principle that they put only a
      penny into the box; they say that they want a free gospel, and so far as
      they are concerned they have it. Although the farmers about the Bras d'Or
      are well-to-do they do not give their minister enough to keep his soul in
      his Gaelic body, and his poor support is eked out by the contributions of
      a missionary society. It was gratifying to learn that this was not from
      stinginess on the part of the people, but was due to their religious
      principle. It seemed to us that everybody ought to be good in a country
      where it costs next to nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the service was over, about half of the people departed; the rest
      remained in their seats and prepared to enter upon their Sabbath
      exercises. These latter were all Gaelic people, who had understood little
      or nothing of the English service. The minister turned himself at once
      into a Gaelic preacher and repeated in that language the long exercises of
      the morning. The sermon and perhaps the prayers were quite as enjoyable in
      Gaelic as in English, and the singing was a great improvement. It was of
      the same Psalms, but the congregation chanted them in a wild and weird
      tone and manner, as wailing and barbarous to modern ears as any Highland
      devotional outburst of two centuries ago. This service also lasted about
      two hours; and as soon as it was over the faithful minister, without any
      rest or refreshment, organized the Sunday-school, and it must have been
      half past three o'clock before that was over. And this is considered
      a day of rest.
    </p>
    <p>
      These Gaelic Christians, we were informed, are of a very old pattern; and
      some of them cling more closely to religious observances than to morality.
      Sunday is nowhere observed with more strictness. The community seems to be
      a very orderly and thrifty one, except upon solemn and stated occasions.
      One of these occasions is the celebration of the Lord's Supper; and
      in this the ancient Highland traditions are preserved. The rite is
      celebrated not oftener than once a year by any church. It then invites the
      neighboring churches to partake with it,&mdash;the celebration being
      usually in the summer and early fall months. It has some of the
      characteristics of a &ldquo;camp-meeting.&rdquo; People come from long
      distances, and as many as two thousand and three thousand assemble
      together. They quarter themselves without special invitation upon the
      members of the inviting church. Sometimes fifty people will pounce upon
      one farmer, overflowing his house and his barn and swarming all about his
      premises, consuming all the provisions he has laid up for his family, and
      all he can raise money to buy, and literally eating him out of house and
      home. Not seldom a man is almost ruined by one of these religious raids,&mdash;at
      least he is left with a debt of hundreds of dollars. The multitude
      assembles on Thursday and remains over Sunday. There is preaching every
      day, but there is something besides. Whatever may be the devotion of a
      part of the assembly, the four days are, in general, days of license, of
      carousing, of drinking, and of other excesses, which our informant said he
      would not particularize; we could understand what they were by reading St.
      Paul's rebuke of the Corinthians for similar offenses. The evil has
      become so great and burdensome that the celebration of this sacred rite
      will have to be reformed altogether.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such a Sabbath quiet pervaded the street of Baddeck, that the fast driving
      of the Gaels in their rattling, one-horse wagons, crowded full of men,
      women, and children,&mdash;released from their long sanctuary privileges,
      and going home,&mdash;was a sort of profanation of the day; and we gladly
      turned aside to visit the rural jail of the town.
    </p>
    <p>
      Upon the principal street or road of Baddeck stands the dreadful
      prison-house. It is a story and a quarter edifice, built of stone and
      substantially whitewashed; retired a little from the road, with a square
      of green turf in front of it, I should have taken it for the residence of
      the Dairyman's Daughter, but for the iron gratings at the lower
      windows. A more inviting place to spend the summer in, a vicious person
      could not have. The Scotch keeper of it is an old, garrulous, obliging
      man, and keeps codfish tackle to loan. I think that if he had a prisoner
      who was fond of fishing, he would take him with him on the bay in pursuit
      of the mackerel and the cod. If the prisoner were to take advantage of his
      freedom and attempt to escape, the jailer's feelings would be hurt,
      and public opinion would hardly approve the prisoner's conduct.
    </p>
    <p>
      The jail door was hospitably open, and the keeper invited us to enter.
      Having seen the inside of a good many prisons in our own country
      (officially), we were interested in inspecting this. It was a favorable
      time for doing so, for there happened to be a man confined there, a
      circumstance which seemed to increase the keeper's feeling of
      responsibility in his office. The edifice had four rooms on the
      ground-floor, and an attic sleeping-room above. Three of these rooms,
      which were perhaps twelve feet by fifteen feet, were cells; the third was
      occupied by the jailer's family. The family were now also occupying
      the front cell,&mdash;a cheerful room commanding a view of the village
      street and of the bay. A prisoner of a philosophic turn of mind, who had
      committed some crime of sufficient magnitude to make him willing to retire
      from the world for a season and rest, might enjoy himself here very well.
    </p>
    <p>
      The jailer exhibited his premises with an air of modesty. In the rear was
      a small yard, surrounded by a board fence, in which the prisoner took his
      exercise. An active boy could climb over it, and an enterprising pig could
      go through it almost anywhere. The keeper said that he intended at the
      next court to ask the commissioners to build the fence higher and stop up
      the holes. Otherwise the jail was in good condition. Its inmates were few;
      in fact, it was rather apt to be empty: its occupants were usually
      prisoners for debt, or for some trifling breach of the peace, committed
      under the influence of the liquor that makes one &ldquo;unco happy.&rdquo;
      Whether or not the people of the region have a high moral standard, crime
      is almost unknown; the jail itself is an evidence of primeval simplicity.
      The great incident in the old jailer's life had been the rescue of a
      well-known citizen who was confined on a charge of misuse of public money.
      The keeper showed me a place in the outer wall of the front cell, where an
      attempt had been made to batter a hole through. The Highland clan and
      kinsfolk of the alleged defaulter came one night and threatened to knock
      the jail in pieces if he was not given up. They bruised the wall, broke
      the windows, and finally smashed in the door and took their man away. The
      jailer was greatly excited at this rudeness, and went almost immediately
      and purchased a pistol. He said that for a time he did n't feel safe
      in the jail without it. The mob had thrown stones at the upper windows, in
      order to awaken him, and had insulted him with cursing and offensive
      language.
    </p>
    <p>
      Having finished inspecting the building, I was unfortunately moved by I
      know not what national pride and knowledge of institutions superior to
      this at home, to say,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is a pleasant jail, but it doesn't look much like our
      great prisons; we have as many as a thousand to twelve hundred men in some
      of our institutions.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, ay, I have heard tell,&rdquo; said the jailer, shaking his head
      in pity, &ldquo;it's an awfu' place, an awfu' place,&mdash;the
      United States. I suppose it's the wickedest country that ever was in
      the world. I don't know,&mdash;I don't know what is to become
      of it. It's worse than Sodom. There was that dreadful war on the
      South; and I hear now it's very unsafe, full of murders and
      robberies and corruption.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      I did not attempt to correct this impression concerning my native land,
      for I saw it was a comfort to the simple jailer, but I tried to put a
      thorn into him by saying,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, we have a good many criminals, but the majority of them, the
      majority of those in jails, are foreigners; they come from Ireland,
      England, and the Provinces.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      But the old man only shook his head more solemnly, and persisted, &ldquo;It's
      an awfu' wicked country.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Before I came away I was permitted to have an interview with the sole
      prisoner, a very pleasant and talkative man, who was glad to see company,
      especially intelligent company who understood about things, he was pleased
      to say. I have seldom met a more agreeable rogue, or one so philosophical,
      a man of travel and varied experiences. He was a lively, robust Provincial
      of middle age, bullet-headed, with a mass of curly black hair, and small,
      round black eyes, that danced and sparkled with good humor. He was by
      trade a carpenter, and had a work-bench in his cell, at which he worked on
      week-days. He had been put in jail on suspicion of stealing a
      buffalo-robe, and he lay in jail eight months, waiting for the judge to
      come to Baddeck on his yearly circuit. He did not steal the robe, as he
      assured me, but it was found in his house, and the judge gave him four
      months in jail, making a year in all,&mdash;a month of which was still to
      serve. But he was not at all anxious for the end of his term; for his wife
      was outside.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jock, for he was familiarly so called, asked me where I was from. As I had
      not found it very profitable to hail from the United States, and had
      found, in fact, that the name United States did not convey any definite
      impression to the average Cape Breton mind, I ventured upon the bold
      assertion, for which I hope Bostonians will forgive me, that I was from
      Boston. For Boston is known in the eastern Provinces.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you?&rdquo; cried the man, delighted. &ldquo;I've lived
      in Boston, myself. There's just been an awful fire near there.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed!&rdquo; I said; &ldquo;I heard nothing of it.' And I
      was startled with the possibility that Boston had burned up again while we
      were crawling along through Nova Scotia.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, here it is, in the last paper.&rdquo; The man bustled away and
      found his late paper, and thrust it through the grating, with the inquiry,
      &ldquo;Can you read?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Though the question was unexpected, and I had never thought before whether
      I could read or not, I confessed that I could probably make out the
      meaning, and took the newspaper. The report of the fire &ldquo;near Boston&rdquo;
      turned out to be the old news of the conflagration in Portland, Oregon!
    </p>
    <p>
      Disposed to devote a portion of this Sunday to the reformation of this
      lively criminal, I continued the conversation with him. It seemed that he
      had been in jail before, and was not unaccustomed to the life. He was not
      often lonesome; he had his workbench and newspapers, and it was a quiet
      place; on the whole, he enjoyed it, and should rather regret it when his
      time was up, a month from then.
    </p>
    <p>
      Had he any family?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes. When the census was round, I contributed more to it than
      anybody in town. Got a wife and eleven children.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, don't you think it would pay best to be honest, and
      live with your family, out of jail? You surely never had anything but
      trouble from dishonesty.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's about so, boss. I mean to go on the square after this.
      But, you see,&rdquo; and here he began to speak confidentially, &ldquo;things
      are fixed about so in this world, and a man's got to live his life.
      I tell you how it was. It all came about from a woman. I was a carpenter,
      had a good trade, and went down to St. Peter's to work. There I got
      acquainted with a Frenchwoman,&mdash;you know what Frenchwomen are,&mdash;and
      I had to marry her. The fact is, she was rather low family; not so very
      low, you know, but not so good as mine. Well, I wanted to go to Boston to
      work at my trade, but she wouldn't go; and I went, but she would n't
      come to me, so in two or three years I came back. A man can't help
      himself, you know, when he gets in with a woman, especially a Frenchwoman.
      Things did n't go very well, and never have. I can't make much
      out of it, but I reckon a man 's got to live his life. Ain't
      that about so?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps so. But you'd better try to mend matters when you get
      out. Won't it seem rather good to get out and see your wife and
      family again?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know. I have peace here.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The question of his liberty seemed rather to depress this cheerful and
      vivacious philosopher, and I wondered what the woman could be from whose
      companionship the man chose to be protected by jail-bolts. I asked the
      landlord about her, and his reply was descriptive and sufficient. He only
      said,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She's a yelper.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Besides the church and the jail there are no public institutions in
      Baddeck to see on Sunday, or on any other day; but it has very good
      schools, and the examination-papers of Maud and her elder sister would do
      credit to Boston scholars even. You would not say that the place was
      stuffed with books, or overrun by lecturers, but it is an orderly,
      Sabbath-keeping, fairly intelligent town. Book-agents visit it with other
      commercial travelers, but the flood of knowledge, which is said to be the
      beginning of sorrow, is hardly turned in that direction yet. I heard of a
      feeble lecture-course in Halifax, supplied by local celebrities, some of
      them from St. John; but so far as I can see, this is a virgin field for
      the platform philosophers under whose instructions we have become the
      well-informed people we are.
    </p>
    <p>
      The peaceful jail and the somewhat tiresome church exhaust one's
      opportunities for doing good in Baddeck on Sunday. There seemed to be no
      idlers about, to reprove; the occasional lounger on the skeleton wharves
      was in his Sunday clothes, and therefore within the statute. No one,
      probably, would have thought of rowing out beyond the island to fish for
      cod,&mdash;although, as that fish is ready to bite, and his associations
      are more or less sacred, there might be excuses for angling for him on
      Sunday, when it would be wicked to throw a line for another sort of fish.
      My earliest recollections are of the codfish on the meeting-house spires
      in New England,&mdash;his sacred tail pointing the way the wind went. I
      did not know then why this emblem should be placed upon a house of
      worship, any more than I knew why codfish-balls appeared always upon the
      Sunday breakfast-table. But these associations invested this plebeian fish
      with something of a religious character, which he has never quite lost, in
      my mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      Having attributed the quiet of Baddeck on Sunday to religion, we did not
      know to what to lay the quiet on Monday. But its peacefulness continued. I
      have no doubt that the farmers began to farm, and the traders to trade,
      and the sailors to sail; but the tourist felt that he had come into a
      place of rest. The promise of the red sky the evening before was fulfilled
      in another royal day. There was an inspiration in the air that one looks
      for rather in the mountains than on the sea-coast; it seemed like some new
      and gentle compound of sea-air and land-air, which was the perfection of
      breathing material. In this atmosphere, which seemed to flow over all
      these Atlantic isles at this season, one endures a great deal of exertion
      with little fatigue; or he is content to sit still, and has no feeling of
      sluggishness. Mere living is a kind of happiness, and the easy-going
      traveler is satisfied with little to do and less to see, Let the reader
      not understand that we are recommending him to go to Baddeck. Far from it.
      The reader was never yet advised to go to any place, which he did not
      growl about if he took the advice and went there. If he discovers it
      himself, the case is different. We know too well what would happen. A
      shoal of travelers would pour down upon Cape Breton, taking with them
      their dyspepsia, their liver-complaints, their &ldquo;lights&rdquo;
      derangements, their discontent, their guns and fishing-tackle, their big
      trunks, their desire for rapid travel, their enthusiasm about the Gaelic
      language, their love for nature; and they would very likely declare that
      there was nothing in it. And the traveler would probably be right, so far
      as he is concerned. There are few whom it would pay to go a thousand miles
      for the sake of sitting on the dock at Baddeck when the sun goes down, and
      watching the purple lights on the islands and the distant hills, the red
      flush in the horizon and on the lake, and the creeping on of gray
      twilight. You can see all that as well elsewhere? I am not so sure. There
      is a harmony of beauty about the Bras d'Or at Baddeck which is
      lacking in many scenes of more pretension. No. We advise no person to go
      to Cape Breton. But if any one does go, he need not lack occupation. If he
      is there late in the fall or early in the winter, he may hunt, with good
      luck, if he is able to hit anything with a rifle, the moose and the
      caribou on that long wilderness peninsula between Baddeck and Aspy Bay,
      where the old cable landed. He may also have his fill of salmon fishing in
      June and July, especially on the Matjorie River. As late as August, at the
      time, of our visit, a hundred people were camped in tents on the Marjorie,
      wiling the salmon with the delusive fly, and leading him to death with a
      hook in his nose. The speckled trout lives in all the streams, and can be
      caught whenever he will bite. The day we went for him appeared to be an
      off-day, a sort of holiday with him.
    </p>
    <p>
      There is one place, however, which the traveler must not fail to visit.
      That is St. Ann's Bay. He will go light of baggage, for he must hire
      a farmer to carry him from the Bras d'Or to the branch of St. Ann's
      harbor, and a part of his journey will be in a row-boat. There is no ride
      on the continent, of the kind, so full of picturesque beauty and constant
      surprises as this around the indentations of St. Ann's harbor. From
      the high promontory where rests the fishing village of St. Ann, the
      traveler will cross to English Town. High bluffs, bold shores, exquisite
      sea-views, mountainous ranges, delicious air, the society of a member of
      the Dominion Parliament, these are some of the things to be enjoyed at
      this place. In point of grandeur and beauty it surpasses Mt. Desert, and
      is really the most attractive place on the whole line of the Atlantic
      Cable. If the traveler has any sentiment in him, he will visit here, not
      without emotion, the grave of the Nova Scotia Giant, who recently laid his
      huge frame along this, his native shore. A man of gigantic height and
      awful breadth of shoulders, with a hand as big as a shovel, there was
      nothing mean or little in his soul. While the visitor is gazing at his
      vast shoes, which now can be used only as sledges, he will be told that
      the Giant was greatly respected by his neighbors as a man of ability and
      simple integrity. He was not spoiled by his metropolitan successes,
      bringing home from his foreign triumphs the same quiet and friendly
      demeanor he took away; he is almost the only example of a successful
      public man, who did not feel bigger than he was. He performed his duty in
      life without ostentation, and returned to the home he loved unspoiled by
      the flattery of constant public curiosity. He knew, having tried both, how
      much better it is to be good than to be great. I should like to have known
      him. I should like to know how the world looked to him from his altitude.
      I should like to know how much food it took at one time to make an
      impression on him; I should like to know what effect an idea of ordinary
      size had in his capacious head. I should like to feel that thrill of
      physical delight he must have experienced in merely closing his hand over
      something. It is a pity that he could not have been educated all through,
      beginning at a high school, and ending in a university. There was a field
      for the multifarious new education! If we could have annexed him with his
      island, I should like to have seen him in the Senate of the United States.
      He would have made foreign nations respect that body, and fear his
      lightest remark like a declaration of war. And he would have been at home
      in that body of great men. Alas! he has passed away, leaving little
      influence except a good example of growth, and a grave which is a new
      promontory on that ragged coast swept by the winds of the untamed
      Atlantic.
    </p>
    <p>
      I could describe the Bay of St. Ann more minutely and graphically, if it
      were desirable to do so; but I trust that enough has been said to make the
      traveler wish to go there. I more unreservedly urge him to go there,
      because we did not go, and we should feel no responsibility for his liking
      or disliking. He will go upon the recommendation of two gentlemen of taste
      and travel whom we met at Baddeck, residents of Maine and familiar with
      most of the odd and striking combinations of land and water in coast
      scenery. When a Maine man admits that there is any place finer than Mt.
      Desert, it is worth making a note of.
    </p>
    <p>
      On Monday we went a-fishing. Davie hitched to a rattling wagon something
      that he called a horse, a small, rough animal with a great deal of &ldquo;go&rdquo;
      in him, if he could be coaxed to show it. For the first half-hour he went
      mostly in a circle in front of the inn, moving indifferently backwards or
      forwards, perfectly willing to go down the road, but refusing to start
      along the bay in the direction of Middle River. Of course a crowd
      collected to give advice and make remarks, and women appeared at the doors
      and windows of adjacent houses. Davie said he did n't care anything
      about the conduct of the horse,&mdash;he could start him after a while,&mdash;but
      he did n't like to have all the town looking at him, especially the
      girls; and besides, such an exhibition affected the market value of the
      horse. We sat in the wagon circling round and round, sometimes in the
      ditch and sometimes out of it, and Davie &ldquo;whaled&rdquo; the horse
      with his whip and abused him with his tongue. It was a pleasant day, and
      the spectators increased.
    </p>
    <p>
      There are two ways of managing a balky horse. My companion knew one of
      them and I the other. His method is to sit quietly in the wagon, and at
      short intervals throw a small pebble at the horse. The theory is that
      these repeated sudden annoyances will operate on a horse's mind, and
      he will try to escape them by going on. The spectators supplied my friend
      with stones, and he pelted the horse with measured gentleness. Probably
      the horse understood this method, for he did not notice the attack at all.
      My plan was to speak gently to the horse, requesting him to go, and then
      to follow the refusal by one sudden, sharp cut of the lash; to wait a
      moment, and then repeat the operation. The dread of the coming lash after
      the gentle word will start any horse. I tried this, and with a certain
      success. The horse backed us into the ditch, and would probably have
      backed himself into the wagon, if I had continued. When the animal was at
      length ready to go, Davie took him by the bridle, ran by his side, coaxed
      him into a gallop, and then, leaping in behind, lashed him into a run,
      which had little respite for ten miles, uphill or down. Remonstrance on
      behalf of the horse was in vain, and it was only on the return home that
      this specimen Cape Breton driver began to reflect how he could erase the
      welts from the horse's back before his father saw them.
    </p>
    <p>
      Our way lay along the charming bay of the Bras d'Or, over the
      sprawling bridge of the Big Baddeck, a black, sedgy, lonesome stream, to
      Middle River, which debouches out of a scraggy country into a bayou with
      ragged shores, about which the Indians have encampments, and in which are
      the skeleton stakes of fish-weirs. Saturday night we had seen trout
      jumping in the still water above the bridge. We followed the stream up two
      or three miles to a Gaelic settlement of farmers. The river here flows
      through lovely meadows, sandy, fertile, and sheltered by hills,&mdash;a
      green Eden, one of the few peaceful inhabited spots in the world. I could
      conceive of no news coming to these Highlanders later than the defeat of
      the Pretender. Turning from the road, through a lane and crossing a
      shallow brook, we reached the dwelling of one of the original McGregors,
      or at least as good as an original. Mr. McGregor is a fiery-haired
      Scotchman and brother, cordial and hospitable, who entertained our wayward
      horse, and freely advised us where the trout on his farm were most likely
      to be found at this season of the year.
    </p>
    <p>
      It would be a great pleasure to speak well of Mr. McGregor's
      residence, but truth is older than Scotchmen, and the reader looks to us
      for truth and not flattery. Though the McGregor seems to have a good farm,
      his house is little better than a shanty, a rather cheerless place for the
      &ldquo;woman&rdquo; to slave away her uneventful life in, and bring up her
      scantily clothed and semi-wild flock of children. And yet I suppose there
      must be happiness in it,&mdash;there always is where there are plenty of
      children, and milk enough for them. A white-haired boy who lacked adequate
      trousers, small though he was, was brought forward by his mother to
      describe a trout he had recently caught, which was nearly as long as the
      boy himself. The young Gael's invention was rewarded by a present of
      real fish-hooks. We found here in this rude cabin the hospitality that
      exists in all remote regions where travelers are few. Mrs. McGregor had
      none of that reluctance, which women feel in all more civilized
      agricultural regions, to &ldquo;break a pan of milk,&rdquo; and Mr.
      McGregor even pressed us to partake freely of that simple drink. And he
      refused to take any pay for it, in a sort of surprise that such a simple
      act of hospitality should have any commercial value. But travelers
      themselves destroy one of their chief pleasures. No doubt we planted the
      notion in the McGregor mind that the small kindnesses of life may be made
      profitable, by offering to pay for the milk; and probably the next
      travelers in that Eden will succeed in leaving some small change there, if
      they use a little tact.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was late in the season for trout. Perhaps the McGregor was aware of
      that when he freely gave us the run of the stream in his meadows, and
      pointed out the pools where we should be sure of good luck. It was a
      charming August day, just the day that trout enjoy lying in cool, deep
      places, and moving their fins in quiet content, indifferent to the
      skimming fly or to the proffered sport of rod and reel. The Middle River
      gracefully winds through this Vale of Tempe, over a sandy bottom,
      sometimes sparkling in shallows, and then gently reposing in the broad
      bends of the grassy banks. It was in one of these bends, where the stream
      swirled around in seductive eddies, that we tried our skill. We heroically
      waded the stream and threw our flies from the highest bank; but neither in
      the black water nor in the sandy shallows could any trout be coaxed to
      spring to the deceitful leaders. We enjoyed the distinction of being the
      only persons who had ever failed to strike trout in that pool, and this
      was something. The meadows were sweet with the newly cut grass, the wind
      softly blew down the river, large white clouds sailed high overhead and
      cast shadows on the changing water; but to all these gentle influences the
      fish were insensible, and sulked in their cool retreats. At length in a
      small brook flowing into the Middle River we found the trout more
      sociable; and it is lucky that we did so, for I should with reluctance
      stain these pages with a fiction; and yet the public would have just
      reason to resent a fish-story without any fish in it. Under a bank, in a
      pool crossed by a log and shaded by a tree, we found a drove of the
      speckled beauties at home, dozens of them a foot long, each moving lazily
      a little, their black backs relieved by their colored fins. They must have
      seen us, but at first they showed no desire for a closer acquaintance. To
      the red ibis and the white miller and the brown hackle and the gray fly
      they were alike indifferent. Perhaps the love for made flies is an
      artificial taste and has to be cultivated. These at any rate were
      uncivilized-trout, and it was only when we took the advice of the young
      McGregor and baited our hooks with the angleworm, that the fish joined in
      our day's sport. They could not resist the lively wiggle of the worm
      before their very noses, and we lifted them out one after an other,
      gently, and very much as if we were hooking them out of a barrel, until we
      had a handsome string. It may have been fun for them but it was not much
      sport for us. All the small ones the young McGregor contemptuously threw
      back into the water. The sportsman will perhaps learn from this incident
      that there are plenty of trout in Cape Breton in August, but that the
      fishing is not exhilarating.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next morning the semi-weekly steamboat from Sydney came into the bay,
      and drew all the male inhabitants of Baddeck down to the wharf; and the
      two travelers, reluctant to leave the hospitable inn, and the peaceful
      jail, and the double-barreled church, and all the loveliness of this
      reposeful place, prepared to depart. The most conspicuous person on the
      steamboat was a thin man, whose extraordinary height was made more
      striking by his very long-waisted black coat and his very short
      pantaloons. He was so tall that he had a little difficulty in keeping his
      balance, and his hat was set upon the back of his head to preserve his
      equilibrium. He had arrived at that stage when people affected as he was
      are oratorical, and overflowing with information and good-nature. With
      what might in strict art be called an excess of expletives, he explained
      that he was a civil engineer, that he had lost his rubber coat, that he
      was a great traveler in the Provinces, and he seemed to find a humorous
      satisfaction in reiterating the fact of his familiarity with Painsec
      junction. It evidently hovered in the misty horizon of his mind as a joke,
      and he contrived to present it to his audience in that light. From the
      deck of the steamboat he addressed the town, and then, to the relief of
      the passengers, he decided to go ashore. When the boat drew away on her
      voyage we left him swaying perilously near the edge of the wharf,
      good-naturedly resenting the grasp of his coat-tail by a friend,
      addressing us upon the topics of the day, and wishing us prosperity and
      the Fourth of July. His was the only effort in the nature of a public
      lecture that we heard in the Provinces, and we could not judge of his
      ability without hearing a &ldquo;course.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Perhaps it needed this slight disturbance, and the contrast of this hazy
      mind with the serene clarity of the day, to put us into the most complete
      enjoyment of our voyage. Certainly, as we glided out upon the summer
      waters and began to get the graceful outlines of the widening shores, it
      seemed as if we had taken passage to the Fortunate Islands.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      V
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &ldquo;One town, one country, is very like another;... there are
     indeed minute discriminations both of places and manners,
     which, perhaps, are not wanting of curiosity, but which a
     traveller seldom stays long enough to investigate and
     compare.&rdquo;&mdash;DR. JOHNSON.
</pre>
    <p>
      There was no prospect of any excitement or of any adventure on the
      steamboat from Baddeck to West Bay, the southern point of the Bras d'Or.
      Judging from the appearance of the boat, the dinner might have been an
      experiment, but we ran no risks. It was enough to sit on deck forward of
      the wheel-house, and absorb, by all the senses, the delicious day. With
      such weather perpetual and such scenery always present, sin in this world
      would soon become an impossibility. Even towards the passengers from
      Sydney, with their imitation English ways and little insular gossip, one
      could have only charity and the most kindly feeling.
    </p>
    <p>
      The most electric American, heir of all the nervous diseases of all the
      ages, could not but find peace in this scene of tranquil beauty, and sail
      on into a great and deepening contentment. Would the voyage could last for
      an age, with the same sparkling but tranquil sea, and the same environment
      of hills, near and remote! The hills approached and fell away in lines of
      undulating grace, draped with a tender color which helped to carry the
      imagination beyond the earth. At this point the narrative needs to flow
      into verse, but my comrade did not feel like another attempt at poetry so
      soon after that on the Gut of Canso. A man cannot always be keyed up to
      the pitch of production, though his emotions may be highly creditable to
      him. But poetry-making in these days is a good deal like the use of
      profane language,&mdash;often without the least provocation.
    </p>
    <p>
      Twelve miles from Baddeck we passed through the Barra Strait, or the Grand
      Narrows, a picturesque feature in the Bras d'Or, and came into its
      widest expanse. At the Narrows is a small settlement with a flag-staff and
      a hotel, and roads leading to farmhouses on the hills. Here is a Catholic
      chapel; and on shore a fat padre was waiting in his wagon for the
      inevitable priest we always set ashore at such a place. The missionary we
      landed was the young father from Arichat, and in appearance the pleasing
      historical Jesuit. Slender is too corpulent a word to describe his
      thinness, and his stature was primeval. Enveloped in a black coat, the
      skirts of which reached his heels, and surmounted by a black hat with an
      enormous brim, he had the form of an elegant toadstool. The traveler is
      always grateful for such figures, and is not disposed to quarrel with the
      faith which preserves so much of the ugly picturesque. A peaceful farming
      country this, but an unremunerative field, one would say, for the
      colporteur and the book-agent; and winter must inclose it in a lonesome
      seclusion.
    </p>
    <p>
      The only other thing of note the Bras d'Or offered us before we
      reached West Bay was the finest show of medusm or jelly-fish that could be
      produced. At first there were dozens of these disk-shaped, transparent
      creatures, and then hundreds, starring the water like marguerites
      sprinkled on a meadow, and of sizes from that of a teacup to a
      dinner-plate. We soon ran into a school of them, a convention, a herd as
      extensive as the vast buffalo droves on the plains, a collection as thick
      as clover-blossoms in a field in June, miles of them, apparently; and at
      length the boat had to push its way through a mass of them which covered
      the water like the leaves of the pondlily, and filled the deeps far down
      with their beautiful contracting and expanding forms. I did not suppose
      there were so many jelly-fishes in all the world. What a repast they would
      have made for the Atlantic whale we did not see, and what inward comfort
      it would have given him to have swum through them once or twice with open
      mouth! Our delight in this wondrous spectacle did not prevent this
      generous wish for the gratification of the whale. It is probably a natural
      human desire to see big corporations swallow up little ones.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the West Bay landing, where there is nothing whatever attractive, we
      found a great concourse of country wagons and clamorous drivers, to
      transport the passengers over the rough and uninteresting nine miles to
      Port Hawkesbury. Competition makes the fare low, but nothing makes the
      ride entertaining. The only settlement passed through has the promising
      name of River Inhabitants, but we could see little river and less
      inhabitants; country and people seem to belong to that commonplace order
      out of which the traveler can extract nothing amusing, instructive, or
      disagreeable; and it was a great relief when we came over the last hill
      and looked down upon the straggling village of Port Hawkesbury and the
      winding Gut of Canso.
    </p>
    <p>
      One cannot but feel a respect for this historical strait, on account of
      the protection it once gave our British ancestors. Smollett makes a
      certain Captain C&mdash;&mdash;tell this anecdote of George II. and his
      enlightened minister, the Duke of Newcastle: &ldquo;In the beginning of
      the war this poor, half-witted creature told me, in a great fright, that
      thirty thousand French had marched from Acadie to Cape Breton. 'Where
      did they find transports?' said I. 'Transports!' cried
      he; 'I tell you, they marched by land.' By land to the island
      of Cape Breton?' 'What! is Cape Breton an island?'
      'Certainly.' 'Ha! are you sure of that?' When I
      pointed it out on the map, he examined it earnestly with his spectacles;
      then taking me in his arms, 'My dear C&mdash;&mdash;!' cried
      he, you always bring us good news. I'll go directly and tell the
      king that Cape Breton is an island.'&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Port Hawkesbury is not a modern settlement, and its public house is one of
      the irregular, old-fashioned, stuffy taverns, with low rooms,
      chintz-covered lounges, and fat-cushioned rocking-chairs, the decay and
      untidiness of which are not offensive to the traveler. It has a low back
      porch looking towards the water and over a mouldy garden, damp and
      unseemly. Time was, no doubt, before the rush of travel rubbed off the
      bloom of its ancient hospitality and set a vigilant man at the door of the
      dining-room to collect pay for meals, that this was an abode of comfort
      and the resort of merry-making and frolicsome provincials. On this now
      decaying porch no doubt lovers sat in the moonlight, and vowed by the Gut
      of Canso to be fond of each other forever. The traveler cannot help it if
      he comes upon the traces of such sentiment. There lingered yet in the
      house an air of the hospitable old time; the swift willingness of the
      waiting-maids at table, who were eager that we should miss none of the
      home-made dishes, spoke of it; and as we were not obliged to stay in the
      hotel and lodge in its six-by-four bedrooms, we could afford to make a
      little romance about its history.
    </p>
    <p>
      While we were at supper the steamboat arrived from Pictou. We hastened on
      board, impatient for progress on our homeward journey. But haste was not
      called for. The steamboat would not sail on her return till morning. No
      one could tell why. It was not on account of freight to take in or
      discharge; it was not in hope of more passengers, for they were all on
      board. But if the boat had returned that night to Pictou, some of the
      passengers might have left her and gone west by rail, instead of wasting
      two, or three days lounging through Northumberland Sound and idling in the
      harbors of Prince Edward Island. If the steamboat would leave at midnight,
      we could catch the railway train at Pictou. Probably the officials were
      aware of this, and they preferred to have our company to Shediac. We
      mention this so that the tourist who comes this way may learn to possess
      his soul in patience, and know that steamboats are not run for his
      accommodation, but to give him repose and to familiarize him with the
      country. It is almost impossible to give the unscientific reader an idea
      of the slowness of travel by steamboat in these regions. Let him first fix
      his mind on the fact that the earth moves through space at a speed of more
      than sixty-six thousand miles an hour. This is a speed eleven hundred
      times greater than that of the most rapid express trains. If the distance
      traversed by a locomotive in an hour is represented by one tenth of an
      inch, it would need a line nine feet long to indicate the corresponding
      advance of the earth in the same time. But a tortoise, pursuing his
      ordinary gait without a wager, moves eleven hundred times slower than an
      express train. We have here a basis of comparison with the provincial
      steamboats. If we had seen a tortoise start that night from Port
      Hawkesbury for the west, we should have desired to send letters by him.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the early morning we stole out of the romantic strait, and by
      breakfast-time we were over St. George's Bay and round his cape, and
      making for the harbor of Pictou. During the forenoon something in the
      nature of an excursion developed itself on the steamboat, but it had so
      few of the bustling features of an American excursion that I thought it
      might be a pilgrimage. Yet it doubtless was a highly developed provincial
      lark. For a certain portion of the passengers had the unmistakable
      excursion air: the half-jocular manner towards each other, the local
      facetiousness which is so offensive to uninterested fellow-travelers, that
      male obsequiousness about ladies' shawls and reticules, the clumsy
      pretense of gallantry with each other's wives, the anxiety about the
      company luggage and the company health. It became painfully evident
      presently that it was an excursion, for we heard singing of that concerted
      and determined kind that depresses the spirits of all except those who
      join in it. The excursion had assembled on the lee guards out of the wind,
      and was enjoying itself in an abandon of serious musical enthusiasm. We
      feared at first that there might be some levity in this performance, and
      that the unrestrained spirit of the excursion was working itself off in
      social and convivial songs. But it was not so. The singers were provided
      with hymn-and-tune books, and what they sang they rendered in long meter
      and with a most doleful earnestness. It is agreeable to the traveler to
      see that the provincials disport themselves within bounds, and that an
      hilarious spree here does not differ much in its exercises from a
      prayer-meeting elsewhere. But the excursion enjoyed its staid dissipation
      amazingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is pleasant to sail into the long and broad harbor of Pictou on a sunny
      day. On the left is the Halifax railway terminus, and three rivers flow
      into the harbor from the south. On the right the town of Pictou, with its
      four thousand inhabitants, lies upon the side of the ridge that runs out
      towards the Sound. The most conspicuous building in it as we approach is
      the Roman Catholic church; advanced to the edge of the town and occupying
      the highest ground, it appears large, and its gilt cross is a beacon miles
      away. Its builders understood the value of a striking situation, a
      dominant position; it is a part of the universal policy of this church to
      secure the commanding places for its houses of worship. We may have had no
      prejudices in favor of the Papal temporality when we landed at Pictou, but
      this church was the only one which impressed us, and the only one we took
      the trouble to visit. We had ample time, for the steamboat after its
      arduous trip needed rest, and remained some hours in the harbor. Pictou is
      said to be a thriving place, and its streets have a cindery appearance,
      betokening the nearness of coal mines and the presence of furnaces. But
      the town has rather a cheap and rusty look. Its streets rise one above
      another on the hillside, and, except a few comfortable cottages, we saw no
      evidences of wealth in the dwellings. The church, when we reached it, was
      a commonplace brick structure, with a raw, unfinished interior, and weedy
      and untidy surroundings, so that our expectation of sitting on the
      inviting hill and enjoying the view was not realized; and we were obliged
      to descend to the hot wharf and wait for the ferry-boat to take us to the
      steamboat which lay at the railway terminus opposite. It is the most
      unfair thing in the world for the traveler, without an object or any
      interest in the development of the country, on a sleepy day in August, to
      express any opinion whatever about such a town as Pictou. But we may say
      of it, without offence, that it occupies a charming situation, and may
      have an interesting future; and that a person on a short acquaintance can
      leave it without regret.
    </p>
    <p>
      By stopping here we had the misfortune to lose our excursion, a loss that
      was soothed by no know ledge of its destination or hope of seeing it
      again, and a loss without a hope is nearly always painful. Going out of
      the harbor we encounter Pictou Island and Light, and presently see the low
      coast of Prince Edward Island,&mdash;a coast indented and agreeable to
      those idly sailing along it, in weather that seemed let down out of heaven
      and over a sea that sparkled but still slept in a summer quiet. When fate
      puts a man in such a position and relieves him of all responsibility, with
      a book and a good comrade, and liberty to make sarcastic remarks upon his
      fellow-travelers, or to doze, or to look over the tranquil sea, he may be
      pronounced happy. And I believe that my companion, except in the matter of
      the comrade, was happy. But I could not resist a worrying anxiety about
      the future of the British Provinces, which not even the remembrance of
      their hostility to us during our mortal strife with the Rebellion could
      render agreeable. For I could not but feel that the ostentatious and
      unconcealable prosperity of &ldquo;the States&rdquo; over-shadows this
      part of the continent. And it was for once in vain that I said, &ldquo;Have
      we not a common land and a common literature, and no copyright, and a
      common pride in Shakespeare and Hannah More and Colonel Newcome and Pepys's
      Diary?&rdquo; I never knew this sort of consolation to fail before; it
      does not seem to answer in the Provinces as well as it does in England.
    </p>
    <p>
      New passengers had come on board at Pictou, new and hungry, and not all
      could get seats for dinner at the first table. Notwithstanding the
      supposed traditionary advantage of our birthplace, we were unable to
      dispatch this meal with the celerity of our fellow-voyagers, and
      consequently, while we lingered over our tea, we found ourselves at the
      second table. And we were rewarded by one of those pleasing sights that go
      to make up the entertainment of travel. There sat down opposite to us a
      fat man whose noble proportions occupied at the board the space of three
      ordinary men. His great face beamed delight the moment he came near the
      table. He had a low forehead and a wide mouth and small eyes, and an
      internal capacity that was a prophecy of famine to his fellow-men. But a
      more good-natured, pleased animal you may never see. Seating himself with
      unrepressed joy, he looked at us, and a great smile of satisfaction came
      over his face, that plainly said, &ldquo;Now my time has come.&rdquo;
      Every part of his vast bulk said this. Most generously, by his friendly
      glances, he made us partners in his pleasure. With a Napoleonic grasp of
      his situation, he reached far and near, hauling this and that dish of
      fragments towards his plate, giving orders at the same time, and throwing
      into his cheerful mouth odd pieces of bread and pickles in an unstudied
      and preliminary manner. When he had secured everything within his reach,
      he heaped his plate and began an attack upon the contents, using both
      knife and fork with wonderful proficiency. The man's good-humor was
      contagious, and he did not regard our amusement as different in kind from
      his enjoyment. The spectacle was worth a journey to see. Indeed, its
      aspect of comicality almost overcame its grossness, and even when the hero
      loaded in faster than he could swallow, and was obliged to drop his knife
      for an instant to arrange matters in his mouth with his finger, it was
      done with such a beaming smile that a pig would not take offense at it.
      The performance was not the merely vulgar thing it seems on paper, but an
      achievement unique and perfect, which one is not likely to see more than
      once in a lifetime. It was only when the man left the table that his face
      became serious. We had seen him at his best.
    </p>
    <p>
      Prince Edward Island, as we approached it, had a pleasing aspect, and
      nothing of that remote friendlessness which its appearance on the map
      conveys to one; a warm and sandy land, in a genial climate, without fogs,
      we are informed. In the winter it has ice communication with Nova Scotia,
      from Cape Traverse to Cape Tormentine,&mdash;the route of the submarine
      cable. The island is as flat from end to end as a floor. When it
      surrendered its independent government and joined the Dominion, one of the
      conditions of the union was that the government should build a railway the
      whole length of it. This is in process of construction, and the portion
      that is built affords great satisfaction to the islanders, a railway being
      one of the necessary adjuncts of civilization; but that there was great
      need of it, or that it would pay, we were unable to learn.
    </p>
    <p>
      We sailed through Hillsborough Bay and a narrow strait to Charlottetown,
      the capital, which lies on a sandy spit of land between two rivers. Our
      leisurely steamboat tied up here in the afternoon and spent the night,
      giving the passengers an opportunity to make thorough acquaintance with
      the town. It has the appearance of a place from which something has
      departed; a wooden town, with wide and vacant streets, and the air of
      waiting for something. Almost melancholy is the aspect of its freestone
      colonial building, where once the colonial legislature held its momentous
      sessions, and the colonial governor shed the delightful aroma of royalty.
      The mansion of the governor&mdash;now vacant of pomp, because that
      official does not exist&mdash;is a little withdrawn from the town,
      secluded among trees by the water-side. It is dignified with a winding
      approach, but is itself only a cheap and decaying house. On our way to it
      we passed the drill-shed of the local cavalry, which we mistook for a
      skating-rink, and thereby excited the contempt of an old lady of whom we
      inquired. Tasteful residences we did not find, nor that attention to
      flowers and gardens which the mild climate would suggest. Indeed, we
      should describe Charlottetown as a place where the hollyhock in the
      dooryard is considered an ornament. A conspicuous building is a large
      market-house shingled all over (as many of the public buildings are), and
      this and other cheap public edifices stand in the midst of a large square,
      which is surrounded by shabby shops for the most part. The town is laid
      out on a generous scale, and it is to be regretted that we could not have
      seen it when it enjoyed the glory of a governor and court and ministers of
      state, and all the paraphernalia of a royal parliament. That the
      productive island, with its system of free schools, is about to enter upon
      a prosperous career, and that Charlottetown is soon to become a place of
      great activity, no one who converses with the natives can doubt; and I
      think that even now no traveler will regret spending an hour or two there;
      but it is necessary to say that the rosy inducements to tourists to spend
      the summer there exist only in the guide-books.
    </p>
    <p>
      We congratulated ourselves that we should at least have a night of
      delightful sleep on the steamboat in the quiet of this secluded harbor.
      But it was wisely ordered otherwise, to the end that we should improve our
      time by an interesting study of human nature. Towards midnight, when the
      occupants of all the state-rooms were supposed to be in profound slumber,
      there was an invasion of the small cabin by a large and loquacious family,
      who had been making an excursion on the island railway. This family might
      remind an antiquated novel-reader of the delightful Brangtons in &ldquo;Evelina;&rdquo;
      they had all the vivacity of the pleasant cousins of the heroine of that
      story, and the same generosity towards the public in regard to their
      family affairs. Before they had been in the cabin an hour, we felt as if
      we knew every one of them. There was a great squabble as to where and how
      they should sleep; and when this was over, the revelations of the nature
      of their beds and their peculiar habits of sleep continued to pierce the
      thin deal partitions of the adjoining state-rooms. When all the possible
      trivialities of vacant minds seemed to have been exhausted, there followed
      a half-hour of &ldquo;Goodnight, pa; good-night, ma;&rdquo; &ldquo;Goodnight,
      pet;&rdquo; and &ldquo;Are you asleep, ma?&rdquo; &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
      &ldquo;Are you asleep, pa?&rdquo; &ldquo;No; go to sleep, pet.&rdquo;
      &ldquo;I'm going. Good-night, pa; good-night, ma.&rdquo; &ldquo;Goodnight,
      pet.&rdquo; &ldquo;This bed is too short.&rdquo; &ldquo;Why don't
      you take the other?&rdquo; &ldquo;I'm all fixed now.&rdquo; &ldquo;Well,
      go to sleep; good-night.&rdquo; &ldquo;Good-night, ma; goodnight, pa,&rdquo;&mdash;no
      answer. &ldquo;Good-night,pa.&rdquo; &ldquo;Goodnight, pet.&rdquo; &ldquo;Ma,
      are you asleep?&rdquo; &ldquo;Most.&rdquo; &ldquo;This bed is all lumps; I
      wish I'd gone downstairs.&rdquo; &ldquo;Well, pa will get up.&rdquo;
      &ldquo;Pa, are you asleep?&rdquo; &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo; &ldquo;It's
      better now; good-night, pa.&rdquo; &ldquo;Goodnight, pet.&rdquo; &ldquo;Good-night,
      ma.&rdquo; &ldquo;Good-night, pet.&rdquo; And so on in an exasperating
      repetition, until every passenger on the boat must have been thoroughly
      informed of the manner in which this interesting family habitually settled
      itself to repose.
    </p>
    <p>
      Half an hour passes with only a languid exchange of family feeling, and
      then: &ldquo;Pa?&rdquo; &ldquo;Well, pet.&rdquo; &ldquo;Don't call
      us in the morning; we don't want any breakfast; we want to sleep.&rdquo;
      &ldquo;I won't.&rdquo; &ldquo;Goodnight, pa; goodnight, ma. Ma?&rdquo;
      &ldquo;What is it, dear?&rdquo; &ldquo;Good-night, ma.&rdquo; &ldquo;Good-night,
      pet.&rdquo; Alas for youthful expectations! Pet shared her stateroom with
      a young companion, and the two were carrying on a private dialogue during
      this public performance. Did these young ladies, after keeping all the
      passengers of the boat awake till near the summer dawn, imagine that it
      was in the power of pa and ma to insure them the coveted forenoon slumber,
      or even the morning snooze? The travelers, tossing in their state-room
      under this domestic infliction, anticipated the morning with grim
      satisfaction; for they had a presentiment that it would be impossible for
      them to arise and make their toilet without waking up every one in their
      part of the boat, and aggravating them to such an extent that they would
      stay awake. And so it turned out. The family grumbling at the unexpected
      disturbance was sweeter to the travelers than all the exchange of family
      affection during the night.
    </p>
    <p>
      No one, indeed, ought to sleep beyond breakfast-time while sailing along
      the southern coast of Prince Edward Island. It was a sparkling morning.
      When we went on deck we were abreast Cape Traverse; the faint outline of
      Nova Scotia was marked on the horizon, and New Brunswick thrust out Cape
      Tomentine to greet us. On the still, sunny coasts and the placid sea, and
      in the serene, smiling sky, there was no sign of the coming tempest which
      was then raging from Hatteras to Cape Cod; nor could one imagine that this
      peaceful scene would, a few days later, be swept by a fearful tornado,
      which should raze to the ground trees and dwelling-houses, and strew all
      these now inviting shores with wrecked ships and drowning sailors,&mdash;a
      storm which has passed into literature in &ldquo;The Lord's-Day Gale&rdquo;
      of Mr Stedman.
    </p>
    <p>
      Through this delicious weather why should the steamboat hasten, in order
      to discharge its passengers into the sweeping unrest of continental
      travel? Our eagerness to get on, indeed, almost melted away, and we were
      scarcely impatient at all when the boat lounged into Halifax Bay, past
      Salutation Point and stopped at Summerside. This little seaport is
      intended to be attractive, and it would give these travelers great
      pleasure to describe it, if they could at all remember how it looks. But
      it is a place that, like some faces, makes no sort of impression on the
      memory. We went ashore there, and tried to take an interest in the
      ship-building, and in the little oysters which the harbor yields; but
      whether we did take an interest or not has passed out of memory. A small,
      unpicturesque, wooden town, in the languor of a provincial summer; why
      should we pretend an interest in it which we did not feel? It did not
      disturb our reposeful frame of mind, nor much interfere with our enjoyment
      of the day.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the forward deck, when we were under way again, amid a group reading
      and nodding in the sunshine, we found a pretty girl with a companion and a
      gentleman, whom we knew by intuition as the &ldquo;pa&rdquo; of the pretty
      girl and of our night of anguish. The pa might have been a clergyman in a
      small way, or the proprietor of a female boarding-school; at any rate, an
      excellent and improving person to travel with, whose willingness to impart
      information made even the travelers long for a pa. It was no part of his
      plan of this family summer excursion, upon which he had come against his
      wish, to have any hour of it wasted in idleness. He held an open volume in
      his hand, and was questioning his daughter on its contents. He spoke in a
      loud voice, and without heeding the timidity of the young lady, who shrank
      from this public examination, and begged her father not to continue it.
      The parent was, however, either proud of his daughter's
      acquirements, or he thought it a good opportunity to shame her out of her
      ignorance. Doubtless, we said, he is instructing her upon the geography of
      the region we are passing through, its early settlement, the romantic
      incidents of its history when French and English fought over it, and so is
      making this a tour of profit as well as pleasure. But the excellent and
      pottering father proved to be no disciple of the new education. Greece was
      his theme and he got his questions, and his answers too, from the ancient
      school history in his hand. The lesson went on:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who was Alcibiades?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A Greek.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. When did he flourish?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can't think.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can't think? What was he noted for?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't remember.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't remember? I don't believe you studied this.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I did.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, take it now, and study it hard, and then I'll hear you
      again.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The young girl, who is put to shame by this open persecution, begins to
      study, while the peevish and small tyrant, her pa, is nagging her with
      such soothing remarks as, &ldquo;I thought you'd have more respect
      for your pride;&rdquo; &ldquo;Why don't you try to come up to the
      expectations of your teacher?&rdquo; By and by the student thinks she has
      &ldquo;got it,&rdquo; and the public exposition begins again. The date at
      which Alcibiades &ldquo;flourished&rdquo; was ascertained, but what he was
      &ldquo;noted for&rdquo; got hopelessly mixed with what Themistocles was
      &ldquo;noted for.&rdquo; The momentary impression that the battle of
      Marathon was fought by Salamis was soon dissipated, and the questions
      continued.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What did Pericles do to the Greeks?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Elevated 'em, did n't he? Did n't he elevate Pem?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Always remember that; you want to fix your mind on leading things.
      Remember that Pericles elevated the Greeks. Who was Pericles?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He was a&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was he a philosopher?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, he was n't. Socrates was a philosopher. When did he
      flourish?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And so on, and so on.
    </p>
    <p>
      O my charming young countrywomen, let us never forget that Pericles
      elevated the Greeks; and that he did it by cultivating the national
      genius, the national spirit, by stimulating art and oratory and the
      pursuit of learning, and infusing into all society a higher intellectual
      and social life! Pa was this day sailing through seas and by shores that
      had witnessed some of the most stirring and romantic events in the early
      history of our continent. He might have had the eager attention of his
      bright daughter if he had unfolded these things to her in the midst of
      this most living landscape, and given her an &ldquo;object lesson&rdquo;
      that she would not have forgotten all her days, instead of this pottering
      over names and dates that were as dry and meaningless to him as they were
      uninteresting to his daughter. At least, O Pa, Educator of Youth, if you
      are insensible to the beauty of these summer isles and indifferent to
      their history, and your soul is wedded to ancient learning, why do you not
      teach your family to go to sleep when they go to bed, as the classic
      Greeks used to?
    </p>
    <p>
      Before the travelers reached Shediac, they had leisure to ruminate upon
      the education of American girls in the schools set apart for them, and to
      conjecture how much they are taught of the geography and history of
      America, or of its social and literary growth; and whether, when they
      travel on a summer tour like this, these coasts have any historical light
      upon them, or gain any interest from the daring and chivalric adventurers
      who played their parts here so long ago. We did not hear pa ask when
      Madame de la Tour &ldquo;flourished,&rdquo; though &ldquo;flourish&rdquo;
      that determined woman did, in Boston as well as in the French provinces.
      In the present woman revival, may we not hope that the heroic women of our
      colonial history will have the prominence that is their right, and that
      woman's achievements will assume their proper place in affairs? When
      women write history, some of our popular men heroes will, we trust, be
      made to acknowledge the female sources of their wisdom and their courage.
      But at present women do not much affect history, and they are more
      indifferent to the careers of the noted of their own sex than men are.
    </p>
    <p>
      We expected to approach Shediac with a great deal of interest. It had
      been, when we started, one of the most prominent points in our projected
      tour. It was the pivot upon which, so to speak, we expected to swing
      around the Provinces. Upon the map it was so attractive, that we once
      resolved to go no farther than there. It once seemed to us that, if we
      ever reached it, we should be contented to abide there, in a place so
      remote, in a port so picturesque and foreign. But returning from the real
      east, our late interest in Shediac seemed unaccountable to us. Firmly
      resolved as I was to note our entrance into the harbor, I could not keep
      the place in mind; and while we were in our state-room and before we knew
      it, the steamboat Jay at the wharf. Shediac appeared to be nothing but a
      wharf with a railway train on it, and a few shanty buildings, a part of
      them devoted to the sale of whiskey and to cheap lodgings. This landing,
      however, is called Point du Chene, and the village of Shediac is two or
      three miles distant from it; we had a pleasant glimpse of it from the car
      windows, and saw nothing in its situation to hinder its growth. The
      country about it is perfectly level, and stripped of its forests. At
      Painsec Junction we waited for the train from Halifax, and immediately
      found ourselves in the whirl of intercolonial travel. Why people should
      travel here, or why they should be excited about it, we could not see; we
      could not overcome a feeling of the unreality of the whole thing; but yet
      we humbly knew that we had no right to be otherwise than awed by the
      extraordinary intercolonial railway enterprise and by the new life which
      it is infusing into the Provinces. We are free to say, however, that
      nothing can be less interesting than the line of this road until it
      strikes the Kennebeckasis River, when the traveler will be called upon to
      admire the Sussex Valley and a very fair farming region, which he would
      like to praise if it were not for exciting the jealousy of the &ldquo;Garden
      of Nova Scotia.&rdquo; The whole land is in fact a garden, but differing
      somewhat from the Isle of Wight.
    </p>
    <p>
      In all travel, however, people are more interesting than land, and so it
      was at this time. As twilight shut down upon the valley of the
      Kennebeckasis, we heard the strident voice of pa going on with the Grecian
      catechism. Pa was unmoved by the beauties of Sussex or by the colors of
      the sunset, which for the moment made picturesque the scraggy evergreens
      on the horizon. His eyes were with his heart, and that was in Sparta.
      Above the roar of the car-wheels we heard his nagging inquiries.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What did Lycurgus do then?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Answer not audible.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. He made laws. Who did he make laws for?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For the Greeks.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He made laws for the Lacedemonians. Who was another great lawgiver?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was&mdash;it was&mdash;Pericles.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, it was n't. It was Solon. Who was Solon?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Solon was one of the wise men of Greece.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's right. When did he flourish?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      When the train stops at a station the classics continue, and the studious
      group attracts the attention of the passengers. Pa is well pleased, but
      not so the young lady, who beseechingly says,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pa, everybody can hear us.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You would n't care how much they heard, if you knew it,&rdquo;
      replies this accomplished devotee of learning.
    </p>
    <p>
      In another lull of the car-wheels we find that pa has skipped over to
      Marathon; and this time it is the daughter who is asking a question.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pa, what is a phalanx?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, a phalanx&mdash;it's a&mdash;it's difficult to
      define a phalanx. It's a stretch of men in one line,&mdash;a stretch
      of anything in a line. When did Alexander flourish?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      This domestic tyrant had this in common with the rest of us, that he was
      much better at asking questions than at answering them. It certainly was
      not our fault that we were listeners to his instructive struggles with
      ancient history, nor that we heard his petulant complaining to his cowed
      family, whom he accused of dragging him away on this summer trip. We are
      only grateful to him, for a more entertaining person the traveler does not
      often see. It was with regret that we lost sight of him at St. John.
    </p>
    <p>
      Night has settled upon New Brunswick and upon ancient Greece before we
      reach the Kennebeckasis Bay, and we only see from the car windows dimly a
      pleasant and fertile country, and the peaceful homes of thrifty people.
      While we are running along the valley and coming under the shadow of the
      hill whereon St. John sits, with a regal outlook upon a most variegated
      coast and upon the rising and falling of the great tides of Fundy, we feel
      a twinge of conscience at the injustice the passing traveler must perforce
      do any land he hurries over and does not study. Here is picturesque St.
      John, with its couple of centuries of history and tradition, its commerce,
      its enterprise felt all along the coast and through the settlements of the
      territory to the northeast, with its no doubt charming society and solid
      English culture; and the summer tourist, in an idle mood regarding it for
      a day, says it is naught! Behold what &ldquo;travels&rdquo; amount to! Are
      they not for the most part the records of the misapprehensions of the
      misinformed? Let us congratulate ourselves that in this flight through the
      Provinces we have not attempted to do any justice to them, geologically,
      economically, or historically, only trying to catch some of the salient
      points of the panorama as it unrolled itself. Will Halifax rise up in
      judgment against us? We look back upon it with softened memory, and
      already see it again in the light of history. It stands, indeed,
      overlooking a gate of the ocean, in a beautiful morning light; and we can
      hear now the repetition of that profane phrase, used for the misdirection
      of wayward mortals,&mdash;-&ldquo;Go to Halifax!&rdquo; without a shudder.
    </p>
    <p>
      We confess to some regret that our journey is so near its end. Perhaps it
      is the sentimental regret with which one always leaves the east, for we
      have been a thousand miles nearer Ireland than Boston is. Collecting in
      the mind the detached pictures given to our eyes in all these brilliant
      and inspiring days, we realize afresh the variety, the extent, the
      richness of these northeastern lands which the Gulf Stream pets and
      tempers. If it were not for attracting speculators, we should delight to
      speak of the beds of coal, the quarries of marble, the mines of gold. Look
      on the map and follow the shores of these peninsulas and islands, the
      bays, the penetrating arms of the sea, the harbors filled with islands,
      the protected straits and sounds. All this is favorable to the highest
      commercial activity and enterprise. Greece itself and its islands are not
      more indented and inviting. Fish swarm about the shores and in all the
      streams. There are, I have no doubt, great forests which we did not see
      from the car windows, the inhabitants of which do not show themselves to
      the travelers at the railway-stations. In the dining-room of a friend, who
      goes away every autumn into the wilds of Nova Scotia at the season when
      the snow falls, hang trophies&mdash;enormous branching antlers of the
      caribou, and heads of the mighty moose&mdash;which I am assured came from
      there; and I have no reason to doubt that the noble creatures who once
      carried these superb horns were murdered by my friend at long range. Many
      people have an insatiate longing to kill, once in their life, a moose, and
      would travel far and endure great hardships to gratify this ambition. In
      the present state of the world it is more difficult to do it than it is to
      be written down as one who loves his fellow-men.
    </p>
    <p>
      We received everywhere in the Provinces courtesy and kindness, which were
      not based upon any expectation that we would invest in mines or railways,
      for the people are honest, kindly, and hearty by nature. What they will
      become when the railways are completed that are to bind St. John to
      Quebec, and make Nova Scotia, Cape Breton, and Newfoundland only
      stepping-stones to Europe, we cannot say. Probably they will become like
      the rest of the world, and furnish no material for the kindly persiflage
      of the traveler.
    </p>
    <p>
      Regretting that we could see no more of St. John, that we could scarcely
      see our way through its dimly lighted streets, we found the ferry to
      Carleton, and a sleeping-car for Bangor. It was in the heart of the negro
      porter to cause us alarm by the intelligence that the customs officer
      would, search our baggage during the night. A search is a blow to one's
      self-respect, especially if one has anything dutiable. But as the porter
      might be an agent of our government in disguise, we preserved an
      appearance of philosophical indifference in his presence. It takes a sharp
      observer to tell innocence from assurance. During the night, awaking, I
      saw a great light. A man, crawling along the aisle of the car, and poking
      under the seats, had found my traveling-bag and was &ldquo;going through&rdquo;
      it.
    </p>
    <p>
      I felt a thrill of pride as I recognized in this crouching figure an
      officer of our government, and knew that I was in my native land.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">






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