Fancy
paints dreamy and fascinating pictures of the fruitful and verdant
meadow land, the hills, the woods, the simple hearted, childlike
peasants; upright, faithful, devout, leading blameless lives of placid
serenity:
"At peace with God and the world."
It seemed that there must be some means of crossing the beauteous Basin
whence the broken hearted exiles sailed away so sadly; and that any
tourist with a particle of romance or sentiment in his composition would
gladly make even a wide detour to visit it. Therefore we were surprised
to learn that railroad schedules said nothing of this route, and that
it seemed almost unknown to summer pleasure seekers. Not to be deterred,
however, what better can one do than write direct for information to
Parrsboro, - a pretty village, which is the nearest point to the Basin.
Thus we learn that a short railway, connecting with the Intercolonial,
will convey us thither, though not a road intended for passenger
service.
"It will only add to the novelty and interest of our tour," we say. We
rather hope it will prove a very peculiar road, and are prepared for
discomfort which we do not find; although, at Spring Hill, the point of
divergence from the main line, such a queer train is waiting, that one
exclaims, "Surely we have come into the backwoods at last!"
The car is divided in the middle, the forward part devoted to baggage,
while in the rear portion, on extremely low backed and cushion less
seats, beside tiny, shade less windows, sit the passengers. And such
passengers! We mentally ejaculate something about "Cruikshank's
caricatures come to life." With much preliminary clanking of chains, a
most dolorous groaning and creaking of the strange vehicle, a shudder
and jar, the train is in motion, and slowly proceeding through densely
wooded and wild country, - a coal and lumber district, where only an
occasional log house relieves the monotony of the scene, - log huts which
look as if they have strayed away from the far South and dropped down in
this wilderness. At intervals, with a convulsive jerk which brings to
their feet some new travelers on this peculiar line, the train halts to
take on lumber; and one of our tourists remarks, "This old thing starts
like an earthquake, and stops as if colliding with a stone wall;" and
continues: "Do you think the poet who longed for 'a lodge in some vast
wilderness', would have been satisfied with this?" Without waiting for
a reply, the next remark is: "We are looking for summer accommodations;
don't you think we could find board cheap here?" The prosaic one,
ignoring such an attempt at pleasantry, replies, "Five dollars per
thousand feet, I have been told."
When the conductor, in a huge straw hat and rough suit, sans collar or
cravat, comes to collect tickets, the satirical one asks, "Will he
punch them with his penknife, or clip them with a pair of old scissors?"
We have
"Heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay,
That was built in such a logical way
It ran a hundred years to a day,"
and conclude that the S. H. & P. R. R. resembles it somewhat; and that,
although there is a "general flavor of mild decay" about it in some
respects, it will not be in danger of wearing out from high rate of
speed; but who cares about time when on a holiday?
At last, in the distance, a range of blue hills becomes visible, with a
faint, far gleam of water; and, as the blue line abruptly descends to
the glistening streak below, we know in an instant what that promontory
must be, and ecstatically quote with one voice, -
"Away to the northward Blomidon rose,"
regardless of geography, as that Cape happens, in this case, to be
south of us.
Having received information by mail that "hosses and carages" are to be
found at Parrsboro, and that the sailing of the steamer is "rooled by
the tide," eager looks are cast about on alighting at that charming
village, the natives of which, to our surprise, are not backwoodsmen or
rough countrymen. Mine host, genial and gentlemanly, becomes visible;
and we are soon bowling merrily along through the neat village, the
picturesque country beyond, and are set down at a refreshingly
old-timey inn directly on the shore of the Basin of Minas, which bursts
suddenly upon the view, amazing one by its extent and beauty. We exclaim
in surprise, "Why, it looked no larger than one's thumb nail on the
map!"
THE BASIN OF MINAS
A curving beach with rolling surf, a long and very high pier, showing
the great rise of the tide, - at this point sixty feet in the spring, -
and directly before one the peculiarly striking promontory of Blomidon,
with the red sandstone showing through the dark pines clothing his
sides, and at his feet a powerful "rip" tossing the water into chopped
seas; a current so strong that a six-knot breeze is necessary to carry
a vessel through the passage which here opens into the Bay of Fundy.
This is the place where schedules said nothing of a boat to convey the
tourist across the inland sea - of thirty miles' width - to the railroad
on its south shore, - the line which bears on its rolling stock the
ominous initials W. A. R, but passes through the most peaceful country
nevertheless. Yet our genial host's assurances that such a vessel will
come are not to be doubted; and, after a dainty repast, a group sits on
the pier, watching ghostly ships and smaller craft emerge from and
vanish into the mist. As the mists disperse and the moon comes out
clearly, it reveals the "Hiawatha" approaching, - a graceful propeller
of five hundred tons burden, and one hundred and some odd feet in
length.
Partridge Island, which is close at hand, commands exceptionally fine
views, as Blomidon does also; the famous Capes d'Or and Chignecto, seven
hundred and thirty to eight hundred feet high, with Advocate Harbor,
are within pleasant driving distance.
