CHAPTER LIX.

SUNDAY AT DAVID MURDOCHâ€™S.â€”THE SCENERY OF BRAS Dâ€™OR.

Saturday,July 23. We were off betimes, and trundling right merrily again along the hilly shores of Bras Dâ€™or, a much more expanded sheet of water than yesterday. At three oâ€™clock,P. M., we arrived at David Murdochâ€™s, the end of our journey with Dearingâ€™s conveyances, and where we remain until Monday morning.

I have just returned from a walk through wood and meadow, picking berries by the way, and now wait for dinner, which, from the linen on the table, the look of the landlady, and the general air of things, promises uncommonly well. From this frequent mention of the quality of our dinner, it may be thought that I think them of great importance. I do think them of very great importance; not so much because good meals are necessary and the best on mere sanatory grounds, but because they are an allowable luxury, especially at a time when one is apt to have a sharp appetite and good digestion. A man is something of an animal, and likes excellent eating for the comfort of it, and the stomachâ€™s sake, and thatlikeis defensible on good moral grounds. I need not add, that the indulgence of it should have upon it the bit and curb of moderation; in the application of which moral force consists temperance, a virtue that stands not in the scantiness, the meanness, or the entire absence of things drank and eaten, but in the strong, controlling will. After this brief apology for the hungry travellerâ€™s love of bountiful dinners well and neatly served, I will return to the sylvan nook where ours, for to-day and to-morrow, are to be cooked and eaten.

We are at the foot of a high, broad hill, verdant with meadows and pastures, and checkered with woods and orchards, around the lake-end of which the road comes gracefully winding down to the creek and the bridge close by. The expanse of water lying off to the west, as you might have guessed, is named St. Peterâ€™s Bay, and the buildings, a mile or more distant along the spruce and pine-covered shore, is St. Peterâ€™s itself, a village. The accommodations of Mr. Murdoch are ampler than those of the Widow Kelly; and the brown, wooden house stands backed into the thick evergreen forest, the front door dressing to the right and left, with its square-toed stone step in line with the trees along the street. We have each a neat room, softened under foot with a rag carpet, and dimmed by a small window and its clean white curtain. The narrow feather-beds are freshened with the cleanest linen. We have seen the last of our driver, who returns to-day as far as the Widow Kellyâ€™s.

With one horse attached to the hinder end of the forward wagon, he went over the bridge and up the hill, â€œan hour and a half ago.â€

Sunday,July 24. We rest according to the commandment, and have religious service in the family, the members of which, like most of the Scotch of Cape Breton, are Presbyterians. In the afternoon, we sauntered through the adjoining woods and fields, picking a few strawberries, and giving to ourselves a practical illustration of the ease with which people slip into the habit of Sabbath-breaking, who live in out-of-the-way places, distant from the parish church, and beyond the restraints of a well-ordered community. In the course of our walk, we came out upon the beach, and looked at the beautiful evening sky across the water. Bountiful Providence! Where hast thou not sown the seeds of loveliness, and made the flowers of glory bloom? Celestial colors are also beneath the foot. The swells that fretted, and left their froth along the sloping sand, were freighted with the jelly-fish, several of which were of the most exquisite purple.

CHAPTER LX.

OFF FOR THE STRAIT OF CANSO.â€”ST. PETERâ€™S AND THE COUNTRY.â€”DAVID MURDOCHâ€™S HORSES, AND HIS DRIVING.â€”ARRIVE AT PLASTER COVE.

Monday,July 25. We are out â€œby the dawnâ€™s early light,â€ and assist in getting our baggage upon the coach, as David Murdoch calls his two-horse covered wagon, which is to carry us on to the Strait of Canso. We have breakfasted, and all is ready. As I pen these notes, here and there by the wayside, I keep them mainly in the present tense. David, a little fair-complexioned, sandy-whiskered farmer, innkeeper, stage-proprietor, and driver, all in one, is exactly the man for his vocation. Quick in his motions, intelligent and good-tempered, he is entirely to our purpose. He starts his Cape Bretons, a span of light, wiry animals, upon a canter, in our opinion an indiscreet pace. We pass St. Peterâ€™s, a superlative placeâ€”superlatively minute, the smallest city in the world. It had, for several years, one house, but has of late been in a more thriving condition. It has now a name on the map, a population of some nine or ten souls, and two houses, a large public work in the shape of a beach, and a little shipping, not able to say how much exactly, as it is all absent but a skiff and a bark canoe, and the wreck of a schooner, in a poor and neglected condition. How long, at this rate of progress, it will take for St. Peterâ€™s to grow out of existence, is a fair question of arithmetic, left for the statist of the island to cipher out. We pause for a moment only, and that in front of a mercantile establishment, if one may guess from a tin-foil-covered paper of tobacco, and astride of it a couple of pipes in the window, but dash through its suburbs, a pig-pen and a hen-roost, and pass the gates of a calf-pen and a potato-patch, and gain the open country, a wild and lonesome tract, half-wooded, and the other half weeds, brush, and stumps of all calibre and colors, from rotten-red and brown down to coal-black, and all torn to pieces, and tangled into one briery wilderness, just fit for the fires that occasionally scour through.

We were mistaken about the indiscretion of David, in his driving, and add two more to the list of those impertinent travellers who hastily pass judgment upon persons and things of which they are quite ignorant. David is the Jehu of the road, and his steeds are chosen, and fitted to their master. Like locomotives, they work with the greater ease and spirit as they wax hotter. For three hours they trotted, galloped, ran, as if something more than horse was in them, and something worse than man was in their driver. There was; as we knew by the flame in his face and about his nostrils, and by his breath that had spirit in it. Around the hills, and at their foot, over bridges, and through the bushy dales, the road described many a Hogarthâ€™s line of beauty, and many a full-blooded S. In whirling through these graceful sinuosities, now strongly on the right wheels, then heavily on the left, flirting the dust or mud into the air, we seemed to swim or fly on the oily brim of peril. Expostulation flashed out upon the lips in vain. A shake of the head, and a knowing smile, sharpened off by the crack of the whip, restored assurance, and fairly straightened all things out. But all went well, and passengers as well as driver became rash and brave, and foolishly came to like and applaud what at first they were disposed to protest against.

A change of horses has enabled David to persist in this extraordinary driving, which brings us to Plaster Cove at noon, where we part with both the mercurial little Scotchman, and Cape Breton. Thus have we coasted, and crossed this British Island, in which, with all that is repulsive and desolate, nature has done much, especially in the picturesque, and where agriculture and commerce have large fields for improvement. To the tourist that loves nature, and who, for the manifold beauties by hill and shore, by woods and waters, is happy to make small sacrifices of personal comfort, I would commend Cape Breton. Your fashionable, whose main object is company, dress, and frivolous pleasure with the gay, and whose only tolerable stopping-place is the grand hotel, had better content himself with reading of this Island.

CHAPTER LXI.

ADIEU TO DAVID AND CAPE BRETON.â€”THE STRAIT OF CANSO.â€”OUR NOVA SCOTIA COACH.â€”ST. GEORGEâ€™S BAY, AND THE RIDE INTO ANTIGONISH.

Plaster Cove, a small village, and our dining-place, is at the main point of departure for Nova Scotia on the Strait of Canso, a river to all appearance, and not unlike the Niagara, pouring its deep, green tides back and forth through its rocky channel, overlooked by cliffs and highlands. Directly opposite, the hills rise into quite a mountain, thickly wooded, down the sides of which is a broad clearing for the telegraphic wire connecting with the Atlantic cable. At first a very high tower of timber was erected on this, the Cape Breton side, in order to carry the wire above the highest mast, but it was soon abandoned and left to fall into ruin. The wire is now submerged, and enters the water in the form of a substantial iron rope strong enough for the anchor of a man-of-war.

Two oâ€™clock,P. M., we crossed the strait in a small sail-boat, and encountered quite a disagreeable sea, enough so to give us a few dashes of salt water, and frighten the women that were in company. We have a two-horse post-coach, of queer shape and uncomfortable dimensions, being short and narrow in the body, but tall enough to serve for a canopy at the head of a procession. One could easily spread his umbrella overhead, and find some inconvenience in disposing of it closed down below. To Antigonish, the town for which we start in thisâ€”I am at a loss to determine whether antique, or an anticipation of the futureâ€”carriage, it is thirty-six miles, and not greatly different from as many miles lately passed over, if I may guess from what I can see for a mile ahead. Our fellow-sufferers in this strait jacket of a carriage are Scotchmen, and think in Gaelic before they speak, I imagine, as have many of them that we have met. They are much amused at the humour of the painter, of whose vocation and standing in the world they have not the remotest notion.

â€œSt. George, he was for England,St. Denis was for France;Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense,â€

â€œSt. George, he was for England,

St. Denis was for France;

Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense,â€

is the refrain of Master John Grubb, of Christ Church, Oxford, his ballad, rehearsed at the anniversary feast of St. Georgeâ€™s club, on St. Georgeâ€™s Day, the 23d of April. And now for the reason that I have been humming this classic nonsense, or rather that I should have thought of it: To the north of us is a blue expanse, dotted and bordered by inlands, headlands, and the warm blue heights of Cape Breton. It is a kind of azure reticule, or pocket of the Gulf, and was early christened, by whom I cannot tell, St. Georgeâ€™s Bay. This is the second Bay in honor of the martyr of Nicomedia, the patron Saint of England, to repeat a popish fancy, that we have encountered within a few days. And truly, could the old religious hero revisit these earthly scenes, he would own that they had given his name to a very fine extent of water, whose purple hills to the northeast stand at the opening of the Strait of Canso. Due north, a vessel would touch, in a few hoursâ€™ sail, the eastern cape of Prince Edwardâ€™s Island, the garden of all the Gulf, another region for the summer traveller.

These landscapes of island, sky, and water are softly beautiful in the afternoon and sunset lights, but scarcely picturesque, and never grand. The country is dull and wearisome, gently diversified with hill and dale, woodlands and farms, in no very high state of culture, and thinly populated. There is some advantage, however, resulting from this dulness of scenery: it drives us to ourselves for entertainment. A merrier time I do not remember than that lately passed on the driverâ€™s seat. The theme was scarecrowsâ€”a peculiar walk of art, in which the painter, during a recent stay in a remote part of the country, became sufficiently adept to frighten, not only the little creatures that pulled up the corn, but even the larger ones that planted it. To such perfection did he finally carry old clothes and straw, that, like the statue of Pygmalion, his images became indued with life, and ended with running after the astonished rustics of the neighborhood. We ride into Antigonish, a thriving village, with pretty white houses and spreading shade-trees, at dusk, and alight at a comfortable tavern, where we sup on salmon, and rest until after midnight.

CHAPTER LXII.

NEW GLASGOW.â€”THE RIDE TO TRURO.â€”THE RAILWAY RIDE TO HALIFAX.â€”PARTING WITH THE PAINTER.

Tuesday,July 26. New Glasgow. We halt here for breakfast, after a sociable and merry ride of several hours from Antigonish, where, after a refreshing sleep, we were favored by a change of coaches, and the pleasant company of an officer of the English army. Here is a broad and fertile vale with a pretty river and town; all reminding us of New England. Across the river are coal-mines, a railroad, and the roar of cars, merely coal-cars, however. Tide-water is close by, setting in from the Strait of Northumberland, the lengthy water lying between the mainland and Prince Edwardâ€™s Island. We are all ready for our ride to Truro, onMines Bay, or a spur of it, an eastern reach of the Bay of Fundy, and distant forty miles, where we take the cars for Halifax, or all the world. Those wonderful cars! Why, at Truro, I shall begin to feel at home, a point more remote than Europe, in the day of only sails and horse-power.

The ride is cheering, as we take it on the coach-top in the breezy, bright day. Broad farms, with barns and dwellings, grass and grain and orchards, cattle and bleating sheep spread out upon the hills, and stretch along the valleys. The plain of Truro has many of the features of a populous and well-cultivated county. Its groves and trees and wide meadows, waiting for the mower, form a pretty and extended landscape. The town itself, reached at three oâ€™clock, with its central square and grass and shades, is too much like a village of New England to need further mention. While at dinner, the whistle of the locomotive indicated the direction of the station, a welcome call, which we obeyed with rather more than ordinary alacrity. The ride to Halifax, which occupied from four oâ€™clock until dusk, was by no means at Yankee speed, and took us through a thinly inhabited country, somewhat broken, and interspersed with woods and watersâ€”a region that makes no very definite or lasting impression, and yet one that the traveller looks out upon with some pleasure. The last few miles along the banks of the river flowing into Halifax Bay was a lovely valley ride. Rounded hills and bluffs green and bowery, and handsome residences looking out between pretty groves and down grassy lawns, never appeared more attractive. Had we been going the other way, perhaps they would not have seemed deserving of more than a passing look. In the weary hours, and along the torrid portions of the path of life, I am sure that I shall remember the quiet, refreshing scenery of that river, and wish myself among its graceful and placid beauties. From the noisy station we trundled in an omnibus through the narrow streets of an old-fashioned, hill-side city, crowned with a fortress looking off south upon a bay and the distant ocean, and alighted at a hotel of stories and many windows, where we heard a gong, instrument of Pandemonium, and took tea with the relish of medicine, and talked over the conclusion of our journey. As haste was more requisite on my part, I resolved to post across the province to Windsor, that night, and leave the painter to wend his way homeward at his leisure.

CHAPTER LXIII.

COACH RIDE AT NIGHT FROM HALIFAX TO WINDSOR.â€”THE PRINCE EDWARDâ€™S MAN, AND THE GENTLEMAN FROM NEWFOUNDLAND.

Immersedin fog, and shut up in a small coach, three of us, a Prince Edwardâ€™s man and a gentleman from Newfoundland, rode at a round trot, with but two or three brief intermissions, from ten oâ€™clock in the evening until six next morning. The country, I concludeâ€”if a man may have any conclusions, who rides with his eyes fast shut, and sleeps and nodsâ€”is a succession of hills and dales. From the bridges, over which we rumbled, and from the crowing of the cocks at midnight and at dawn, I argue that there were farms and streams. My companions were agreeable. Being partners in the enterprise, at the cost of twenty-two dollars and a half for an eight hoursâ€™ drive, we had fellow-feelings on all things in general, and upon the expensiveness of night travelling in Nova Scotia in particular. The Prince Edwardâ€™s man, a tradesman, was on his first visit to the States, in fact to the great world, and was a modest, thoughtful person, who talked as men of merely home experience are apt to talk, saying nothing to object to, nothing to startle, and some little to remember concerning the climate, the society, and products of his native isle. The gentleman from Newfoundland had seen the world to his soulâ€™s content, and now was a most passionate lover of wild nature. He had dined with nobility and gentry, and could talk of them and of cities, from the end of his tongue; but of the pleasures of the sportsman in British America, out of his very heart. A more genial companion the lonely traveller could not easily light upon. I had seen him before, but forgot to mention it. It was at Murdochâ€™s, on the last Sunday, which I was sorry to recollect of him. He drove up about noon, in wood-manâ€™s dress partly; washed, dined, and departed in great haste for Pictou, in order to reach Halifax in time for the very steamer that we were hoping to catch. With all his speed he missed it as well as we. Hinc illÃ¦ lachrymÃ¦. In his conversation you heard the crack of the rifle, and the roar of the forest and the ocean. He was often reeling in the largest salmon and the finest trout, and bringing down with a crash in the brushwood the fattest of all bucks. The light of his nut-brown pipe, a costly article, flashing faintly on his well-marked face, reminded me of the red blaze of camp-fires in the woods, on the banks of mountain brooks, and the shores of solitary lakes. From one of a nature so companionable you part, on the road, after no longer than a dayâ€™s acquaintance, with genuine regret. He was a character for the novelist, with a head and countenance both for painter and sculptor.

CHAPTER LXIV.

WINDSOR.â€”THE AVON AND THE TIDE.â€”THE STEAMER FOR ST. JOHNS, NEW BRUNSWICK.â€”MINES BASIN.â€”COAST SCENERY.â€”THE SCENE OF EVANGELINE.â€”PARSBORO.â€”THE BAY OF FUNDY.â€”NOVA SCOTIA AND NEW BRUNSWICK SHORES.â€”ST. JOHNS.â€”THE MAINE COAST, AND GRAND MANAN.

Wednesday,July 27. Windsor, N. S. Soon after our arrival, I walked down to the Avon, an arm of Mines Bay, itself an expanded inlet of the great Bay of Fundy, to view the wonderful tide. It was not coming in, as I had hoped, but quite out, leaving miles of black river-bottom entirely bare, with only a small stream coursing through in a serpentine manner. A line of blue water was visible on the northern horizon. After an absence of an hour or so, I loitered back, when, to my surprise, there was a river like the Hudson at Catskill, running up with a powerful current. The high wharf, upon which, but a short time before, I had stood and surveyed the black, unsightly fields of mud, was now up to its middle in the turbid and whirling stream, and very nearly in, the steamer from St. Johns, N. B.

In the course of an hour more I was on board, and waiting for the turn of the tide, upon which, of necessity, the boat takes her departure. I had missed, after all, seeing the first approach of the tidal wave, and had to content myself with what I have described, and with a short walk in the town, of late esteeming itself noteworthy on account of being the birthplace of General Williams, the hero of Kars, of whose fine personal appearance I have spoken.

We are now at the opening of the Avon into Mines Bay or Basin, as they call this small sea, and look upon scenes of which Longfellow speaks in the first pages of his Evangeline. It is simply a pleasant-looking farming country, checkered with fields of green, now of a yellow tint and then of a blue. Shores of reddish rocks and sand make a pretty foreground line along the west, and rise to the picturesque as they wind away northward. Headlands of gray and red rocks in slopes and precipices stand out in bold relief crowned with underwood and loftier trees. The clouds are clearing away before the breeze, and letting us have a sparkling sea, a fine blue sky, and landscapes dappled with light and shadow.

Parsboro, a village on the north shore of the Basin, enjoys more than its share of broad, gravelly beach, overhung with clifted and woody bluffs. One fresh from the dead walls of a great city would be delighted with the sylvan shores of Parsboro. The beach, with all its breadth, a miracle of pebbly beauty, slants steeply to the surf, which is now rolling up in curling clouds of green and white. Here we turn westward into the great bay itself, going with a tide that rushes like a mighty river toward a cataract, whirling, boiling, breaking in half moons of crispy foam. Behind us is the blue reach of Chignecto Bay, the northern of the two long and winding horns of the main body of water, up which it would be play for a fortnight to hunt romantic scenery, and witness the â€œbore,â€ that most brilliant of all tidal displays.

Here is a broad sea, moving with strange velocity for a sea. The prospect to the south is singularly fine. Nova Scotia, sloping from the far-off sky gently down to the shores, its fields and villages and country dwellings gleaming in the warm noon-day, or darkening in the shadow of a transient cloudâ€”a contrast to the northern, New Brunswick coast, iron-bound and covered with dark forests. Drops from a coming shower are wasting their sweet freshness upon the briny deep, an agreeable discord in the common music of the day, and chime in, among pleasant incidents, with the talk of the Prince Edwardâ€™s man, and the sparkling conversation of the Newfoundland gentleman. â€œAnd so sail weâ€ into the harbor of St. Johns, the last of the waters of this divine apostle, in time for supper and a pleasant ramble about the city. You might call it the city of hills.

Thursday,July 28, 1859. St. Johns, N. B. This is my last date, and I write it out in full, in the light of a fine morning, on the deck of the steamer for Portland. The coast of Maine, truly picturesque as it is, with its rocky points, lake-like bays, and islands bristling in their dark evergreens like porcupines, and particularly Mount Desert Island and Frenchmanâ€™s Bay, is the mildest form of Newfoundland scenery as you see it on the Atlantic side, with an additional dressing of forest and vegetation, sparsely studded with towns and habitations.

Speaking of Mount Desert Island, recalls Cole to memory, who was, I believe, the first landscape painter of our country that visited that picturesque region. I remember with what enthusiasm he spoke of the coast sceneryâ€”the fine surf upon Sand Beachâ€”the play of the surge in the caverns of Great Headâ€”the Ã†gean beauty of Frenchmanâ€™s Bayâ€”the forests, and the wild, rugged mountains, from the tops of which he could count a multitude of sails upon the blue ocean, and follow the rocky shores and sparkling breakers for many and many a mile. Familiar to me as all that has long since become, I shall not pass it to-day without emotion.

Grand Manan, a favorite summer haunt of the painter, is the very throne of the bold and romantic. The high, precipitous shores, but for the woods which beautify them, are quite in the style of Labrador. I look upon its grand old cliffs with double interest from the fact that he has made me familiar with its people and scenery. As it recedes from my view, and becomes a dot in the boundless waters, I will put the period to this record.

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Moral Emblems, with Aphorisms, Adages, and Proverbs,of all Ages and Nations. FromJacob CatzandRobert Fairlie. With 120 Illustrations truly rendered from Designs found in their Works, byJohn Leighton, F. S. A. The whole Translated and Edited, with Additions, byRichard Pigot. 1 vol. Royal 8vo. Cloth gilt, $7 50; mor., $10; mor., extra, $12.

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Hopes and Fears;or; Scenes from the Life of a Spinster: a Novel. By the Author of â€œThe Heir of Redclyffe.â€ (Nearly ready.)

A History of Civilization.ByHenry T. Buckle. Vol. I. Price, $2 50. Vol. II. (Nearly ready.)

The History of Herodotus.A new English version. Edited with copious Notes and Appendices, illustrating the History and Geography of Herodotus, from the most Ancient Sources of Information; and embodying the Chief Results, Historical and Ethnographical, which have been obtained in the progress of Cuneiform and Hieroglyphical Discovery. ByGeorge Rawlinson, M. A., assisted by Col. Sir. Henry Rawlinson and Sir J. G. Wilkinson. With Maps and Illustrations. 4 vols. 8vo. Price $2 50 each.

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Life of William T. Porter.ByFrancis Brinley. 1 vol. 12mo. $1.

The Ebony Idol.By a Lady of New England. 1 vol. 12mo. Illustrated. $1.

What may be Learned from a Tree.ByHarland Coultas. 1 vol. 8vo. $1.

The Physiology of Common Life.ByGeo. Henry Lewes. 2 vols. 12mo. $2.

Notes on Nursing;What it Is, and What it is Not. ByFlorence Nightingale. 1 vol. 12mo. Paper covers, 15 cents; cloth, 25 cents.

Dr. Oldham at Greystones,and his Talk there. 1 vol. 12mo. Price $1.

Voyage Down the Amoor;with a Journey through Siberia, and Incidental Notes of Manchoria, Kamschatka, and Japan. ByPerry McDonough Collins. 1 vol. 12mo. Cloth, $1 25.

A Run Through Europe.ByErastus C. Benedict. 1 vol. 12mo. Price $1 25.

The History of the State of Rhode Islandand Providence Plantations. By the Hon.Samuel Greene Arnold. 2 vols. Price $5.

Transcriberâ€™s Notes:

Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Punctuation and obvious typesetting errors have been corrected without note. Some illustrations have been moved slightly from their original positions to keep paragraphs intact. There are many references to St. Johns, Newfoundland throughout the book which have been left as printed but which would normally be spelled as St. Johnâ€™s.

page xiv, Steamer for St. Johns, New Brunswick. ==> references toSt. Johns, New Brunswickin the Contents and throughout Chapter LXIV most likely refer to St. John, New Brunswick.page xiv, Mines Basin. ==>Mines Basinas given in the Contents and within Chapter LXIV most likely refer to Minas Basin.page 326, to Truro, onMines Bay, ==> likely refers to Minas Basin

page xiv, Steamer for St. Johns, New Brunswick. ==> references toSt. Johns, New Brunswickin the Contents and throughout Chapter LXIV most likely refer to St. John, New Brunswick.

page xiv, Mines Basin. ==>Mines Basinas given in the Contents and within Chapter LXIV most likely refer to Minas Basin.

page 326, to Truro, onMines Bay, ==> likely refers to Minas Basin

[End ofAfter Icebergs with a Painter, by Louis Legrand Noble]

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