The village of Digby stretches along the shore, and from the hills
surrounding it the Basin with its islands, the Gap, and Annapolis
River, are charming.
Disciples of old "Izaak" would be likely to meet with greater success
here than at Annapolis; as the current of the river at the latter place
is so strong that, as a general thing, only the "old salts" are anglers;
and they being most of the time out in the Bay or off on cruises, it
follows that fish are scarce in the market.
An "ancient and fish-like smell" pervades the atmosphere in some parts
of the village where the herring - humorously known as "Digby
Chickens" - are spread on racks to dry; but this odor, the odd little
shops and restaurants, the clumsy and queer lumber boats, the groups of
tars gossiping about doorways and wharves, only add to the nautical
character of the place, and suggest reminiscences of "Peggoty", "Ham",
and others of Dickens's characters.
We ignore the pleasant embowered hotel "in bosky dell", far up the
street this time, though we visit it in a later sojourn; and, "just for
the fun of it", take lunch in one of the peculiar little restaurants;
where, seated at a minute table in one of the tiny calico curtained
alcoves, we partake of our frugal repast (the bill of fare is extremely
limited), amusing ourselves watching the odd customers who come to make
purchases at the counter across the room, and "making believe" that we
are characters in an old English story.
On the bluff beyond the village, beneath great old Balm of Gilead trees
whose foliage is perpetually in a flutter from the breeze through the
Gap, there are several cannon, which it seems could not possibly have
any hostile intent, but appear to be gratifying a mild curiosity by
peering across the Basin and up the river beyond.
The long and very high pier stretches far out into the Basin, and upon
it picturesque groups unconsciously pose for us, adding to the effect
of the picture.
That the climate is salubrious and conducive to longevity we are
convinced after visiting the cemetery, where one tomb records the
demise of a man at the age of one hundred and two!
A peculiar taste for wandering among the tombs we have acquired in this
summer jaunt. Here we see the tomb of one recorded proudly as "descended
from the noble families of Stuart and Bruce", who, tradition says, was
supposed to have held the position of servant to said scions of
nobility. One who was known as a scoffer during life here is virtuously
represented ah "a sincere worshipper of Eternal, Almighty and ever just
God"; reminding us of the popular adage, "lying like an epitaph". Twice
have we seen one stone made to do service for two in an amusing manner:
on the upper part the usual, "Sacred to the memory of," etc.; then
half-way down had been carved a hand pointing to one side, and under it
the words "There lies"; while the name, age, etc., of the later
decedent was inscribed below the first.
One old tomb we were with this epitaph: -
"Tho' gready worm destroy my skin
And gnaw my wasting flesh
When God doth build my bones agen
He'll cloath them all afresh."
and another: -
"What says the silent dead
He bids me bear my load
With silent steps proceed
And follow him to God."
We notice that the English rule of the road maintains here, and our
driver turns to the left when other vehicles are approaching. Captain
C., who is from the States, tells us that he did not know of this
custom, and in his first drive nearly collided with another vehicle, the
driver of which thereupon used strong language. On being informed that
he had almost overturned the conveyance of the Governor of Prince
Edward's Island, the rash Yankee, undismayed, remarked, "Well, I don't
care who he is, he don't know how to drive!"
HALIFAX
Of course, as we are in the neighborhood, we must see the locality to
which - in mild and humorous profanity - States people are sometimes
assigned; and therefore proceed to Halifax and thoroughly "do" that
sedate, quiet, and delightfully old-fashioned city.
En route, as the train passes beyond Windsor, one says, "Here we are
out of sight of land"; and we then understand that it must have been
some one from this locality who christened the valley of Annapolis the
Garden of Nova Scotia; for here a scene of utter sterility and
desolation meets the view: not a foot of earth is to be seen, but rocks
are piled in wild confusion everywhere. A few dead trees stand among the
débris, emphasizing the loneliness; and Conductor says when the world
was created the "leavings" were deposited in this dreary tract.
By special arrangement with "Old Prob", there are none of the
prevailing fogs during our stay; and Aurora Borealis gets up a special
illumination. Regiments of red-coats, with torches and band, - aware
doubtless of the presence of such distinguished strangers, - march past
our hotel in the evening.
Though we are quartered in what is called the best hotel, it is a musty,
fusty, rusty old building; and we agree with our friends among the
residents (who vie with each other in showing us true English
hospitality) who say they need an enterprising Yankee to start a good
new hostelry, and "to show 'em how to run it."
Just at this time of year the city is full of summer tourists, many of
whom come direct from Baltimore by the ocean steamships, which touch at
this port; but, as we are subject to mal-de-mer's tortures, we rejoice
that we came by "overland route".
Though our friends have engaged rooms for us beforehand, we are
fortunate in securing apartments on the fourth floor, where peculiar
coils of rope by the windows at once attract our attention.
