The only other thing of note the Bras d'Or offered us before we reached West Bay was the finest show of medusm or jelly-fish that could be produced.At first there were dozens of these disk-shaped, transparent creatures, and then hundreds, starring the water like marguerites sprinkled on a meadow, and of sizes from that of a teacup to a dinner-plate.We soon ran into a school of them, a convention, a herd as extensive as the vast buffalo droves on the plains, a collection as thick as clover-blossoms in a field in June, miles of them, apparently; and at length the boat had to push its way through a mass of them which covered the water like the leaves of the pondlily, and filled the deeps far down with their beautiful contracting and expanding forms.I did not suppose there were so many jelly-fishes in all the world.What a repast they would have made for the Atlantic whale we did not see, and what inward comfort it would have given him to have swum through them once or twice with open mouth! Our delight in this wondrous spectacle did not prevent this generous wish for the gratification of the whale.It is probably a natural human desire to see big corporations swallow up little ones.
At the West Bay landing, where there is nothing whatever attractive, we found a great concourse of country wagons and clamorous drivers, to transport the passengers over the rough and uninteresting nine miles to Port Hawkesbury.Competition makes the fare low, but nothing makes the ride entertaining.The only settlement passed through has the promising name of River Inhabitants, but we could see little river and less inhabitants; country and people seem to belong to that commonplace order out of which the traveler can extract nothing amusing, instructive, or disagreeable; and it was a great relief when we came over the last hill and looked down upon the straggling village of Port Hawkesbury and the winding Gut of Canso.
One cannot but feel a respect for this historical strait, on account of the protection it once gave our British ancestors.Smollett makes a certain Captain C---- tell this anecdote of George II.and his enlightened minister, the Duke of Newcastle: "In the beginning of the war this poor, half-witted creature told me, in a great fright, that thirty thousand French had marched from Acadie to Cape Breton.
'Where did they find transports?' said I.'Transports!' cried he; 'Itell you, they marched by land.' By land to the island of Cape Breton?' 'What! is Cape Breton an island?' 'Certainly.' 'Ha! are you sure of that?' When I pointed it out on the map, he examined it earnestly with his spectacles; then taking me in his arms, 'My dear C----!' cried he, you always bring us good news.I'll go directly and tell the king that Cape Breton is an island.'"Port Hawkesbury is not a modern settlement, and its public house is one of the irregular, old-fashioned, stuffy taverns, with low rooms, chintz-covered lounges, and fat-cushioned rocking-chairs, the decay and untidiness of which are not offensive to the traveler.It has a low back porch looking towards the water and over a mouldy garden, damp and unseemly.Time was, no doubt, before the rush of travel rubbed off the bloom of its ancient hospitality and set a vigilant man at the door of the dining-room to collect pay for meals, that this was an abode of comfort and the resort of merry-making and frolicsome provincials.On this now decaying porch no doubt lovers sat in the moonlight, and vowed by the Gut of Canso to be fond of each other forever.The traveler cannot help it if he comes upon the traces of such sentiment.There lingered yet in the house an air of the hospitable old time; the swift willingness of the waiting-maids at table, who were eager that we should miss none of the home-made dishes, spoke of it; and as we were not obliged to stay in the hotel and lodge in its six-by-four bedrooms, we could afford to make a little romance about its history.
While we were at supper the steamboat arrived from Pictou.We hastened on board, impatient for progress on our homeward journey.
But haste was not called for.The steamboat would not sail on her return till morning.No one could tell why.It was not on account of freight to take in or discharge; it was not in hope of more passengers, for they were all on board.But if the boat had returned that night to Pictou, some of the passengers might have left her and gone west by rail, instead of wasting two, or three days lounging through Northumberland Sound and idling in the harbors of Prince Edward Island.If the steamboat would leave at midnight, we could catch the railway train at Pictou.Probably the officials were aware of this, and they preferred to have our company to Shediac.We mention this so that the tourist who comes this way may learn to possess his soul in patience, and know that steamboats are not run for his accommodation, but to give him repose and to familiarize him with the country.It is almost impossible to give the unscientific reader an idea of the slowness of travel by steamboat in these regions.Let him first fix his mind on the fact that the earth moves through space at a speed of more than sixty-six thousand miles an hour.This is a speed eleven hundred times greater than that of the most rapid express trains.If the distance traversed by a locomotive in an hour is represented by one tenth of an inch, it would need a line nine feet long to indicate the corresponding advance of the earth in the same time.But a tortoise, pursuing his ordinary gait without a wager, moves eleven hundred times slower than an express train.We have here a basis of comparison with the provincial steamboats.If we had seen a tortoise start that night from Port Hawkesbury for the west, we should have desired to send letters by him.
