Sons of Music with Respect,
Their Progress to encourage and protect.
May each Musician, and Musician's Friend
Attain to Hymns divine, which never end.
Being a musical company, the Octave accept this peroration without
criticism, and do not seem to consider it an extravagant rhapsody,
though they are so daring as to take exception to other parts of the
queer old poem.
As we have come here for rest, we are not disturbed at finding that
trains, etc., are not always strictly "on time". We are summoned at 7:15
A.M., but breakfast is not served for more than an hour after; we engage
a carriage for two o'clock, and perhaps in the neighborhood of three see
it driving up in a leisurely manner. The people are wise, and do not
wear themselves out with unnecessary rush and hurry, as we do in the
States. The train advertised to start for Halifax at 2 P.M. more
frequently leaves at 3, or 3.30; but then it has to wait the arrival of
the steamboat which, four times per week, comes across from St. John.
The express train requires six hours to traverse the miles intervening
between this quiet village and that not much livelier town, while for
the accommodation train they allow ten hours; but when one comes to see
beautiful country one does not wish to have the breath taken away by
traveling at break-neck speed.
We know that some of our party are capable of raising a breeze, and we
are on a gal(e)a time anyhow; still, this is a remarkably breezy place,
the wind rising with the tide, so we understand why there are so few
flowers in the gardens, - the poor blossoms would soon be torn to pieces;
but the windows of the houses generally are crowded with thriving plants
gay with bloom, giving most cheery effect as one strolls about the town.
In our excursion to the Bay Shore we halt to water the horses at a neat
little cottage on the summit of the North Mountain, and even here the
little garden (protected from the winds by a fence) is all aflame with a
wonderful variety of large double and gorgeous poppies. From this point,
also, we have our first view of the wide Bay, shimmering in the hazy
sunlight far below, and can faintly trace the rugged hills of New
Brunswick in the distance.
Rapidly descending, we follow the coast for several miles, finally
stopping at a lonely house on the rocky and barren shore, - such a wild
spot as a novelist would choose to represent a smuggler's retreat; but
the family would not answer his purpose in that respect, for they are
homely and hospitable, agreeing at once to provide stabling for our
horses and to sell us some milk for our lunch. They drop their net
mending, come out en masse, and, on learning that some of us are from
Philadelphia, greet us like old friends, because their eldest daughter
is living in that distant city. The best pitcher is brought out for our
use, the whole establishment placed at our disposal, and, finding that
we will be so insane as to prefer to picnic under the few straggling
pines by the water instead of using their dining-room, several march
ahead to show the way to the rocky point; and we form a long and, of
course, imposing procession.
As we gaze along this barren and lonely shore, Octavia exclaims,
"Imagine the amazement of De Monts when he sailed along this iron-bound
coast and suddenly came upon that wonderful gateway which leads into the
beautiful Annapolis Basin and the fertile, lovely region beyond!" and we
all agree that it is a shame that the embouchure should now be known by
the vulgar title, Digby Gut, instead of its old cognomen, St. George's
Channel. "Why couldn't they call it the Gap or the Gate?" one exclaims;
"that wouldn't be quite so dreadful."
One evening some of our pleasant acquaintances in the town come to take
us to Lake La Rose, away up on the South Mountain; and there we embark
and glide over the placid water in the moonlight, rousing the echoes
with song, and vainly endeavoring to uproot the coy lilies, which
abruptly slip through our fingers, and "bob" down under the water as if
enjoying our discomfiture. But as Dame Nature tries her hand at painting
in water-colors, treating us to a series of dissolving views, the shower
forces us to hurry back to the village again.
Before leaving this "vale of rest", we must see the widely extended
panorama from the Mackenzie road, where hills beyond hills stretch away
to the horizon, and the lovely valley spreads itself like a map below.
The bird's-eye view from Parker's Mountain must also be seen, and many
other excursions accomplished. The old cannon of Lower Granville also
is "one of the sights". This ancient piece of ordnance was fired in old
times to notify the quiet country folk when news was received from
England. At such times relays, seven to ten miles apart, mounted in hot
haste and carried the messages on until Digby was reached; and from
thence a vessel conveyed the news to Boston.
As we are talking of all we have seen in this region, and of our various
enjoyments, Octavia exclaims, "Some persons thought we could not be
content here for a week; yet more than six have slipped away, and I'm
sure I don't want to go! I shall tell my friends that though we are
'remote', the rest of the quotation does not apply, for we are neither
'unfriended', 'melancholy', nor 'slow'!"
How often has it been our fate, when among the mountains of New
Hampshire, to see the grand ranges disappearing behind a thick curtain
of smoke, which, daily growing denser, at last almost completely blots
out Nature's pictures, so there is no use in undertaking excursions for
the sake of fine views.
