One seeking Baddeck, as a possession, would not like to be detained a prisoner even in Eden,--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.
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.
"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."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.
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 "in"these dingy warehouses, wonder when the business is done, and go out into the street to wait for Brown.
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,--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--unless he can see somebody else at work,--but the labor must be without haste, as it is in the Provinces.
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.
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.
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.
