SUNDAY AT DAVID MURDOCH’S.—THE SCENERY OF BRAS D’OR.
SATURDAY, _July 23_. We were off betimes, and trundling right merrily
again along the hilly shores of Bras D’or, a much more expanded sheet of
water than yesterday. At three o’clock, P. M., we arrived at David
Murdoch’s, the end of our journey with Dearing’s conveyances, and where
we remain until Monday morning.
I have just returned from a walk through wood and meadow, picking
berries by the way, and now wait for dinner, which, from the linen on
the table, the look of the landlady, and the general air of things,
promises uncommonly well. From this frequent mention of the quality of
our dinner, it may be thought that I think them of great importance. I
do think them of very great importance; not so much because good meals
are necessary and the best on mere sanatory grounds, but because they
are an allowable luxury, especially at a time when one is apt to have a
sharp appetite and good digestion. A man is something of an animal, and
likes excellent eating for the comfort of it, and the stomach’s sake,
and that _like_ is defensible on good moral grounds. I need not add,
that the indulgence of it should have upon it the bit and curb of
moderation; in the application of which moral force consists temperance,
a virtue that stands not in the scantiness, the meanness, or the entire
absence of things drank and eaten, but in the strong, controlling will.
After this brief apology for the hungry traveller’s love of bountiful
dinners well and neatly served, I will return to the sylvan nook where
ours, for to-day and to-morrow, are to be cooked and eaten.
We are at the foot of a high, broad hill, verdant with meadows and
pastures, and checkered with woods and orchards, around the lake-end of
which the road comes gracefully winding down to the creek and the bridge
close by. The expanse of water lying off to the west, as you might have
guessed, is named St. Peter’s Bay, and the buildings, a mile or more
distant along the spruce and pine-covered shore, is St. Peter’s itself,
a village. The accommodations of Mr. Murdoch are ampler than those of
the Widow Kelly; and the brown, wooden house stands backed into the
thick evergreen forest, the front door dressing to the right and left,
with its square-toed stone step in line with the trees along the street.
We have each a neat room, softened under foot with a rag carpet, and
dimmed by a small window and its clean white curtain. The narrow
feather-beds are freshened with the cleanest linen. We have seen the
last of our driver, who returns to-day as far as the Widow Kelly’s.
With one horse attached to the hinder end of the forward wagon, he went
over the bridge and up the hill, “an hour and a half ago.”
* * * * *
SUNDAY, _July 24_. We rest according to the commandment, and have
religious service in the family, the members of which, like most of the
Scotch of Cape Breton, are Presbyterians. In the afternoon, we sauntered
through the adjoining woods and fields, picking a few strawberries, and
giving to ourselves a practical illustration of the ease with which
people slip into the habit of Sabbath-breaking, who live in
out-of-the-way places, distant from the parish church, and beyond the
restraints of a well-ordered community. In the course of our walk, we
came out upon the beach, and looked at the beautiful evening sky across
the water. Bountiful Providence! Where hast thou not sown the seeds of
loveliness, and made the flowers of glory bloom? Celestial colors are
also beneath the foot. The swells that fretted, and left their froth
along the sloping sand, were freighted with the jelly-fish, several of
which were of the most exquisite purple.