The sandy road was bordered with discouraged evergreens, through which we had glimpses of sand-drifted farms.If Baddeck was to be like this, we had come on a fool's errand.There were some savage, low hills, and the Judique Mountain showed itself as we got away from the town.In this first stage, the heat of the sun, the monotony of the road, and the scarcity of sleep during the past thirty-six hours were all unfavorable to our keeping on the wagon-seat.We nodded separately, we nodded and reeled in unison.But asleep or awake, the driver drove like a son of Jehu.Such driving is the fashion on Cape Breton Island.Especially downhill, we made the most of it; if the horse was on a run, that was only an inducement to apply the lash;speed gave the promise of greater possible speed.The wagon rattled like a bark-mill; it swirled and leaped about, and we finally got the exciting impression that if the whole thing went to pieces, we should somehow go on,--such was our impetus.Round corners, over ruts and stones, and uphill and down, we went jolting and swinging, holding fast to the seat, and putting our trust in things in general.At the end of fifteen miles, we stopped at a Scotch farmhouse, where the driver kept a relay, and changed horse.
The people were Highlanders, and spoke little English; we had struck the beginning of the Gaelic settlement.From here to Hogamah we should encounter only the Gaelic tongue; the inhabitants are all Catholics.Very civil people, apparently, and living in a kind of niggardly thrift, such as the cold land affords.We saw of this family the old man, who had come from Scotland fifty years ago, his stalwart son, six feet and a half high, maybe, and two buxom daughters, going to the hay-field,--good solid Scotch lassies, who smiled in English, but spoke only Gaelic.The old man could speak a little English, and was disposed to be both communicative and inquisitive.He asked our business, names, and residence.Of the United States he had only a dim conception, but his mind rather rested upon the statement that we lived "near Boston." He complained of the degeneracy of the times.All the young men had gone away from Cape Breton; might get rich if they would stay and work the farms.
But no one liked to work nowadays.From life, we diverted the talk to literature.We inquired what books they had.
"Of course you all have the poems of Burns?""What's the name o' the mon?"
"Burns, Robert Burns."
"Never heard tell of such a mon.Have heard of Robert Bruce.He was a Scotchman."This was nothing short of refreshing, to find a Scotchman who had never heard of Robert Burns! It was worth the whole journey to take this honest man by the hand.How far would I not travel to talk with an American who had never heard of George Washington!
The way was more varied during the next stage; we passed through some pleasant valleys and picturesque neighborhoods, and at length, winding around the base of a wooded range, and crossing its point, we came upon a sight that took all the sleep out of us.This was the famous Bras d'Or.
The Bras d'Or is the most beautiful salt-water lake I have ever seen, and more beautiful than we had imagined a body of salt water could be.If the reader will take the map, he will see that two narrow estuaries, the Great and the Little Bras d'Or, enter the island of Cape Breton, on the ragged northeast coast, above the town of Sydney, and flow in, at length widening out and occupying the heart of the island.The water seeks out all the low places, and ramifies the interior, running away into lovely bays and lagoons, leaving slender tongues of land and picturesque islands, and bringing into the recesses of the land, to the remote country farms and settlements, the flavor of salt, and the fish and mollusks of the briny sea.
There is very little tide at any time, so that the shores are clean and sightly for the most part, like those of fresh-water lakes.It has all the pleasantness of a fresh-water lake, with all the advantages of a salt one.In the streams which run into it are the speckled trout, the shad, and the salmon; out of its depths are hooked the cod and the mackerel, and in its bays fattens the oyster.
This irregular lake is about a hundred miles long, if you measure it skillfully, and in some places ten miles broad; but so indented is it, that I am not sure but one would need, as we were informed, to ride a thousand miles to go round it, following all its incursions into the land.The hills about it are never more than five or six hundred feet high, but they are high enough for reposeful beauty, and offer everywhere pleasing lines.
What we first saw was an inlet of the Bras d'Or, called, by the driver, Hogamah Bay.At its entrance were long, wooded islands, beyond which we saw the backs of graceful hills, like the capes of some poetic sea-coast.The bay narrowed to a mile in width where we came upon it, and ran several miles inland to a swamp, round the head of which we must go.Opposite was the village of Hogamah.I had my suspicions from the beginning about this name, and now asked the driver, who was liberally educated for a driver, how he spelled "Hogamah.""Why-ko-ko-magh.Hogamah."
Sometimes it is called Wykogamah.Thus the innocent traveler is misled.Along the Whykokomagh Bay we come to a permanent encampment of the Micmac Indians,--a dozen wigwams in the pine woods.Though lumber is plenty, they refuse to live in houses.The wigwams, however, are more picturesque than the square frame houses of the whites.Built up conically of poles, with a hole in the top for the smoke to escape, and often set up a little from the ground on a timber foundation, they are as pleasing to the eye as a Chinese or Turkish dwelling.They may be cold in winter, but blessed be the tenacity of barbarism, which retains this agreeable architecture.
