Our eyes lingered as long as possible and with all eagerness upon these meadows and marshes which the poet has made immortal, and we regretted that inexorable Baddeck would not permit us to be pilgrims for a day in this Acadian land.  Just as I was losing sight of the skirt of trees at Grand Pre, a gentleman in the dress of a rural clergyman left his seat, and complimented me with this remark:  “I perceive, sir, that you are fond of reading.”

I could not but feel flattered by this unexpected discovery of my nature, which was no doubt due to the fact that I held in my hand one of the works of Charles Reade on social science, called “Love me Little, Love me Long,” and I said, “Of some kinds, I am.”

“Did you ever see a work called ’Evangeline’?”

“Oh, yes, I have frequently seen it.”

“You may remember,” continued this Mass of Information, “that there is an allusion in it to Grand Pre.  That is the place, sir!”

“Oh, indeed, is that the place?  Thank you.”

“And that mountain yonder is Cape Blomidon, blow me down, you know.”

And under cover of this pun, the amiable clergyman retired, unconscious, I presume, of his prosaic effect upon the atmosphere of the region.  With this intrusion of the commonplace, I suffered an eclipse of faith as to Evangeline, and was not sorry to have my attention taken up by the river Avon, along the banks of which we were running about this time.  It is really a broad arm of the basin, extending up to Windsor, and beyond in a small stream, and would have been a charming river if there had been a drop of water in it.  I never knew before how much water adds to a river.  Its slimy bottom was quite a ghastly spectacle, an ugly gash in the land that nothing could heal but the friendly returning tide.  I should think it would be confusing to dwell by a river that runs first one way and then the other, and then vanishes altogether.

All the streams about this basin are famous for their salmon and shad, and the season for these fish was not yet passed.  There seems to be an untraced affinity between the shad and the strawberry; they appear and disappear in a region simultaneously.  When we reached Cape Breton, we were a day or two late for both.  It is impossible not to feel a little contempt for people who do not have these luxuries till July and August; but I suppose we are in turn despised by the Southerners because we do not have them till May and June.  So, a great part of the enjoyment of life is in the knowledge that there are people living in a worse place than that you inhabit.

Windsor, a most respectable old town round which the railroad sweeps, with its iron bridge, conspicuous King’s College, and handsome church spire, is a great place for plaster and limestone, and would be a good location for a person interested in these substances.  Indeed, if a man can live on rocks, like a goat, he may settle anywhere between Windsor and Halifax.  It is one of the most sterile regions in the Province.  With the exception of a wild pond or two, we saw nothing but rocks and stunted firs, for forty-five miles, a monotony unrelieved by one picturesque feature.  Then we longed for the “Garden of Nova Scotia,” and understood what is meant by the name.