Acadia | Page 4

that the view they take of the
great world, so early in life, will make them more contented with that
minor world, henceforth to be within the limits of their dominion.
Lullaby to the young wives! there will be rocking enough anon!
But we coasted along pleasantly enough the next day, within sight of
the bold headlands of Maine; the sky and sea clear of vapor, except the
long reek from the steamer's pipe. And then came nightfall and the
northern stars; and, later at night, a new luminary on the edge of the
horizon--Sambro' light; and then a sudden quenching of stars, and
horizon, lighthouse, ropes, spars, and smoke stack; the sounds of hoarse
voices of command in the obscurity; a trampling of men; and then
down went the anchor in the ooze, and the Canada was fog-bound in
the old harbor of Chebucto for the night, within a few miles of the city.
But with the early dawn, we awoke to hear the welcome sounds of the
engines in motion, and when we reached the deck, the mist was drifted
with sunlight, and rose and fell in luminous billows on water and shore,
and then lifted, lingered, and vanished!
"And this is Halifax?" said I, as that quaint, mouldy old town poked its
wooden gables through the fog of the second morning. "This is Halifax?
This the capital of Nova Scotia? This the city that harbored those loyal
heroes of the Revolution, who gallantly and gayly fought, and bled, and
ran for their king? Ah! you brave old Tories; you staunch upholders of
the crown; cavaliers without ringlets or feathers, russet boots or

steeple-crown hats, it seems as if you were still hovering over this
venerable tabernacle of seven hundred gables, and wreathing each
particular ridge-pole, pigeon-hole, and shingle with a halo of fog."
The plank was laid, and the passengers left the steamer. There were a
few vehicles on the wharf for the accommodation of strangers; square,
black, funereal-like, wheeled sarcophagi, eminently suggestive of
burials and crape. Of course I did not ride in one, on account of
unpleasant associations; but, placing my trunk in charge of a cart-boy
with a long-tailed dray, and a diminutive pony, I walked through the
silent streets towards "The Waverley."
It was an inspiriting morning, that which I met upon the well-docked
shores of Halifax, and although the side-walks of the city were neither
bricked nor paved with flags, and the middle street was in its original
and aboriginal clay, yet there was novelty in making its acquaintance.
Everybody was asleep in that early fog; and when everybody woke up,
it was done so quietly that the change was scarcely apparent.
But the "Merlin," British mailer, is to sail at noon for the Shakspeare
Island, and breakfast must be discussed, and then once more I am with
you, my anti-bilious ocean. It chanced, however, I heard at breakfast,
that the "Curlew," the mate of the "Merlin," had been lost a short time
before at sea, and as there was but one, and not two steamers on the
route, so that I would be detained longer with Prospero and Miranda
than might be comfortable in the approaching hot weather, it came to
pass that I had reluctantly to forego the projected voyage, and anchor
my trunk of tropical clothing in room Number Twenty, Hotel Waverley.
It was a great disappointment, to be sure, after such brilliant
anticipations--but what is life without philosophy? When we cannot get
what we wish, let us take what we may. Let the "Merlin" sail! I will
visit, instead of those Islas Encantadas, "The Acadian land on the shore
of the Basin of Minas." Let the "Merlin" sail! I will see the ruined walls
of Louisburgh, and the harbors that once sheltered the Venetian sailor,
Cabot. "Let her sail!" said I, and when the morn passed I saw her
slender thread of smoke far off on the glassy ocean, without a sigh of
regret, and resolutely turned my face from the promised palms to

welcome the sturdy pines of the province.
The city hill of Halifax rises proudly from its wharves and shipping in a
multitude of mouse-colored wooden houses, until it is crowned by the
citadel. As it is a garrison town, as well as a naval station, you meet in
the streets red-coats and blue-jackets without number; yonder, with a
brilliant staff, rides the Governor, Sir John Gaspard le Marchant, and
here, in a carriage, is Admiral Fanshawe, C.B., of the "Boscawen"
Flag-ship. Every thing is suggestive of impending hostilities; war, in
burnished trappings, encounters you at the street corners, and the air
vibrates from time to time with bugles, fifes, and drums. But oh! what a
slow place it is! Even two Crimean regiments with medals and