FAREWELL TO CAPTAIN KNIGHT.—ON OUR WAY ACROSS CAPE BRETON.—A
MERRY RIDE, AND THE RUSTIC LOVER.
FRIDAY, _July 22_. Sydney harbor. A bright morning, and the wind from
the quarter where we should be happy to find it, were we going to sea.
But, selfish souls! because it puts us to a small inconvenience, we now
wish that it did not blow, and that we may have calm weather. We are to
breakfast, to finish packing, and take our leave of Captain Knight, from
whom we part with emotions of regret. He will depart in the next steamer
for St. Johns, and we start for Halifax by an inland route.
Here we are, on our way across the Island of Cape Breton, bound for Nova
Scotia. Our baggage—trunks, carpet-bags, reindeer-horns, snow-shoes,
plants, and mosses—in a one-horse wagon, goes ahead; we follow in
another. We are delighted with the change from rolling waves to rolling
wheels. We are delighted with our spirited nag. We are delighted with
the scenery, which, however, is in no way remarkable. I believe that we
should be delighted if we were riding through a smoky tunnel. The truth
is the delight is in us, and will flow out, and would, be the world
about us what it might. Every thing amuses us, even the provoking trick
our pony has of slightly kicking up, every time the breeching cuts into
his hams upon going down hill. As may be supposed, said pony is a
creature of importance to us, now that he is our motive power. We do not
look at the clouds now, and watch the temper of the atmosphere; our eyes
are upon the body and legs of the little fellow wrapped in this brown
skin. After the first effervescence of spirit upon starting, with which,
of course, we were much delighted, he began to lag a trifle, and to
raise suspicions that he was not the horse good-natured Mr. Dearing, his
master, said he was. We are pleased to find ourselves mistaken. Our very
blunders are satisfactory. The longer he goes the smarter he grows,
giving us symptoms of a disposition to run away, when ordinarily we
might look for any thing else. Let him run. We can ride as fast, and
come in not a length behind, at the end of our thirty-two miles, the
distance to a tavern.
The ride along the shore of Sydney harbor, over a smooth, hard road, was
really charming, and would have been to travellers of ill temper. Wild
roses incensed the fresh air, and the sunshine was bright upon the
clover-fields. On the steamer down from Halifax to Sydney, I became
acquainted with a tradesman, an intelligent Scotch Presbyterian. Who
should come running out of a little country store by the road-side, with
a shout that brought our nag down upon his haunches, but our friend! He,
too, was delighted, and shook us heartily by the hand, asking after “the
Labrador,” the icebergs, and our voyage in general. Set in the midst of
our pleasure was one regret: our want of time to visit Louisburg, or the
ruins of it. We talked it over, and then dismissed both the ruins and
the regret.
From the bay of Sydney the way is wonderfully serpentine for a main
road, winding about apparently for the mere love of winding, and when
there seems no more real necessity for it than for a brook in a level
meadow. We have liked it all the better, though, running, as it does,
around the slightest hills, wooded with the perpetual spruce,
intermingled with the birch and maple, crossing with a graceful twist
little farms, and coming around garden fences, by the farmers’ doors,
under the willows and the apple trees. The native Indians, tricked out
with cheap, showy finery, whose huts are seen lazily smoking among the
bushes, were occasionally met, and chatted with. A young Mc. something,
upon whose sleepy face was the moonshine of a smile, was found trotting
his chestnut filly close behind our wagon. The persistence in the thing
was becoming disagreeable, and we looked round several times with an
expression which said plainly: “Please keep a little back.” Mc. was in
no humor to take the hint. When our pace quickened, the click of his
horse’s shoes, and the breath of his steed, which carried a high head,
were close upon us; a sudden slackening of our speed brought him,
horse-head and all, as suddenly into our midst. Presently he changed his
tactics, and dashed by, brushing the wheels with his stirrup, and so
trotting on ahead, taking occasion to twist himself on the saddle, when
a walk permitted, and look back. The fellow was a character, although of
the softer kind, and we struck up an acquaintance, during which, in the
effort to sustain his part of the conversation, he rode around us in all
possible ways. A particularly favorite position was in the gutter at our
side, where, in spite of our united care, he would now and then be
literally run up a stump, or a bank. Whether on the lead, or following,
we kept him frequently at break-neck speed, during which the
conversation was mostly confined to monosyllables—loud and few—and,
when forward, discharged now over one, and then over the other shoulder.
Mc. was a farmer, and lived with “the old folks at home.” He had been on
a courting expedition, in which he considered himself successful. In
fact, he made a clean breast of it, and told us the pleasant story of
his love, and the fine qualities of the lass of whom he was enamored.
Although she might not be thought handsome by a great many, yet she was
handsome to him. Never errant knight rehearsed a softer tale in shorter
periods, with a louder voice, or happier heart. He was full of it, and
it mattered little to whom, or how he uttered it. For what distance he
was intending to bear us company, I have no notion. The house of an
acquaintance, at the gate of which were several persons, who seemed at
once to understand him, and whose faces were so many open doors of
curiosity, finally relieved us of him. It was evidently undesigned, and
he pulled up, I thought, somewhat reluctantly.