There is no ride on the continent, of the kind, so full of picturesque beauty and constant surprises as this around the indentations of St.Ann's harbor.From the high promontory where rests the fishing village of St.Ann, the traveler will cross to English Town.High bluffs, bold shores, exquisite sea-views, mountainous ranges, delicious air, the society of a member of the Dominion Parliament, these are some of the things to be enjoyed at this place.In point of grandeur and beauty it surpasses Mt.Desert, and is really the most attractive place on the whole line of the Atlantic Cable.If the traveler has any sentiment in him, he will visit here, not without emotion, the grave of the Nova Scotia Giant, who recently laid his huge frame along this, his native shore.A man of gigantic height and awful breadth of shoulders, with a hand as big as a shovel, there was nothing mean or little in his soul.While the visitor is gazing at his vast shoes, which now can be used only as sledges, he will be told that the Giant was greatly respected by his neighbors as a man of ability and simple integrity.He was not spoiled by his metropolitan successes, bringing home from his foreign triumphs the same quiet and friendly demeanor he took away; he is almost the only example of a successful public man, who did not feel bigger than he was.He performed his duty in life without ostentation, and returned to the home he loved unspoiled by the flattery of constant public curiosity.He knew, having tried both, how much better it is to be good than to be great.I should like to have known him.I should like to know how the world looked to him from his altitude.I should like to know how much food it took at one time to make an impression on him; I should like to know what effect an idea of ordinary size had in his capacious head.I should like to feel that thrill of physical delight he must have experienced in merely closing his hand over something.It is a pity that he could not have been educated all through, beginning at a high school, and ending in a university.There was a field for the multifarious new education! If we could have annexed him with his island, Ishould like to have seen him in the Senate of the United States.He would have made foreign nations respect that body, and fear his lightest remark like a declaration of war.And he would have been at home in that body of great men.Alas! he has passed away, leaving little influence except a good example of growth, and a grave which is a new promontory on that ragged coast swept by the winds of the untamed Atlantic.
I could describe the Bay of St.Ann more minutely and graphically, if it were desirable to do so; but I trust that enough has been said to make the traveler wish to go there.I more unreservedly urge him to go there, because we did not go, and we should feel no responsibility for his liking or disliking.He will go upon the recommendation of two gentlemen of taste and travel whom we met at Baddeck, residents of Maine and familiar with most of the odd and striking combinations of land and water in coast scenery.When a Maine man admits that there is any place finer than Mt.Desert, it is worth making a note of.
On Monday we went a-fishing.Davie hitched to a rattling wagon something that he called a horse, a small, rough animal with a great deal of "go" in him, if he could be coaxed to show it.For the first half-hour he went mostly in a circle in front of the inn, moving indifferently backwards or forwards, perfectly willing to go down the road, but refusing to start along the bay in the direction of Middle River.Of course a crowd collected to give advice and make remarks, and women appeared at the doors and windows of adjacent houses.
Davie said he did n't care anything about the conduct of the horse,--he could start him after a while,--but he did n't like to have all the town looking at him, especially the girls; and besides, such an exhibition affected the market value of the horse.We sat in the wagon circling round and round, sometimes in the ditch and sometimes out of it, and Davie "whaled" the horse with his whip and abused him with his tongue.It was a pleasant day, and the spectators increased.
There are two ways of managing a balky horse.My companion knew one of them and I the other.His method is to sit quietly in the wagon, and at short intervals throw a small pebble at the horse.The theory is that these repeated sudden annoyances will operate on a horse's mind, and he will try to escape them by going on.The spectators supplied my friend with stones, and he pelted the horse with measured gentleness.Probably the horse understood this method, for he did not notice the attack at all.My plan was to speak gently to the horse, requesting him to go, and then to follow the refusal by one sudden, sharp cut of the lash; to wait a moment, and then repeat the operation.The dread of the coming lash after the gentle word will start any horse.I tried this, and with a certain success.The horse backed us into the ditch, and would probably have backed himself into the wagon, if I had continued.When the animal was at length ready to go, Davie took him by the bridle, ran by his side, coaxed him into a gallop, and then, leaping in behind, lashed him into a run, which had little respite for ten miles, uphill or down.
Remonstrance on behalf of the horse was in vain, and it was only on the return home that this specimen Cape Breton driver began to reflect how he could erase the welts from the horse's back before his father saw them.
