the jig is up with Halifax, and it’s all their own fault.  If a man sits at his door, and sees stray cattle in his field, a eatin up of his crop, and his neighbours, a cartin off his grain, and won’t so much as go and drive ’em out, why I should say it sarves him right.  I don’t exactly understand, Sir, said he—­thinks I, it would be strange if you did, for I never see one of your folks yet that could understand a hawk from a handsaw.  Well, says I, I will tell you what I mean—­draw a line from Cape Sable to Cape Cansoo, right thro’ the Province, and it will split it into two, this way, and I cut an apple into two halves; now, says I, the worst half, like the rotten half of the apple, belongs to Halifax, and the other and sound half belongs to St. John.  Your side of the province on the sea coast is all stone—­I never seed such a pro per sight of rocks in my life, it’s enough to starve a rabbit.  Well, tother side on the Bay of Fundy is a superfine country, there aint the beat of it to be found any where.  Now, would’nt the folks living away up to the Bay, be pretty fools to go to Halifax, when they can go to St. John with half the trouble.  St. John is the natural capital of the Bay of Fundy, it will be the largest city in America next to New York.  It has an immense back country as big as Great Britain, a first chop river, and amazin sharp folks, most as cute as the Yankees—­it’s a splendid location for business.  Well, they draw all the produce of the Bay shores, and where the produce goes the supplies return—­ it will take the whole trade of the Province; I guess your rich folks will find they’ve burnt their fingers, they’ve put their foot in it, that’s a fact.  Houses with out tenants—­wharves without shipping, a town without people—­what a grand investment!!  If you have any loose dollars, let ’em out on mortgage in Halifax, that’s the security—­keep clear of the country for your life—­the people may run, but the town can’t.  No, take away the troops, and you’re done—­you’ll sing the dead march folks did at Louisburg and Shelburne.  Why you hant got a single thing worth havin, but a good harbor, and as for that the coast is full on ’em.  You hav’nt a pine log, a spruce board or a refuse shingle; you neither raise wheat, oats, or hay, nor never can; you have no staples on airth, unless it be them iron ones for the padlocks, in Bridewell—­you’ve sowed pride and reaped poverty, take care of your crop, for it’s worth harvestin—­you have no River and no Country, what in the name of fortin have you to trade on?  But, said he, (and he shewed the whites of his eyes like a wall eyed horse) but, said he, Mr. Slick, how is it then, Halifax ever grew at all, has’nt it got what it always had; it’s no worse than it was.  I guess, said I, that pole aint strong enough to bear you, neither; if you trust to that you’ll be into the brook, as sure as you are born; you once had the trade of the whole Province, but St. John has run off with that now—­you’ve lost all but your trade in blue berries and rabbits with the niggers at Hammond Plains.  You’ve lost your customers, your rivals have a better stand for business—­they’ve got the corner store—­four great streets meet there, and its near the market slip.