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; ’I tell 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.