We wish we could stop for an hour or two to watch them; but trains wait
for no man, and we must return to Digby and there take steamer for St.
John.
That short passage of twelve leagues has been our bugbear for some days,
as travelers whom we met at Annapolis pictured its horrors so vividly,
representing its atrocities as exceeding those of the notorious English
Channel. Yet we glide as smoothly through the eddies and whirlpools of
the beautiful Gap as a Sound steamer passes through Hell Gate. This
remarkable passage way is two miles in length; the mountains rise on
either hand to the height of five hundred and sixty and six hundred and
ten feet, the tide between rushing at the rate of five knots an hour.
We note gray, water worn rocks at the sides, resembling pumice in
appearance, though of course very much harder stone, and evidently of
similar formation to that of the ovens at Mt. Desert. And now we sweep
quietly out into the dreaded Bay of Fundy, the water of which rests in
such oily quietude as even Long Island Sound rarely shows. On this hazy,
lazy, sunny afternoon not a swell is perceptible (unless some among the
passengers might be designated by that title); and after four and a half
hours of most dreamy navigation, we enter the harbor of St. John, where
the many tinted signal lights are reflected in the black water, and a
forest fire on a distant hill throws a lurid light over the scene.
When the tide turns, there can be seen frequently far out in the Bay a
distinct line in the water, - a line as sharply defined as that between
the Arve and Rhone at their junction near Geneva. It is when wind and
tide are at variance that the roughest water is encountered; and they
say that if one would avoid an unpleasant game of pitch and toss, the
passage across should not be attempted during or immediately after a
blow from the northwest or southeast. So make a note of that! Old salts
at Annapolis told us that the water of the Bay "gets up" suddenly, but
also quiets down soon, and that after a windless night one might be
reasonably certain of a comfortable trip across.
Having supposed that St. John had lost half its charm and quaintness
since the fire, we are surprised to find so much of interest when we
are out at the "top of the morning" next day, and are reluctant to
leave; but here the Octave disintegrates, scatters to finish the season
elsewhere; and each member, on arrival at home, probably invests in
reams of paper and quarts of ink, setting to work to tell his friends
all about it, and where "they must surely go next summer!"
"L'ISLE DES MONTS DESERTS."
(A LETTER BY THE WAY.)
"Beautiful Isle of the Sea!"
When we said, "Let us go to Mt. Desert," Joe gave us Punch's advice on
marriage: "Don't!" Sue said. "It has lost half its charms by becoming so
fashionable;" and Hal added, as an unanswerable argument, "You'll not be
able to get enough to eat." As to his veracity on this subject we cannot
vouch, though we can testify to his voracity, and mischievously throw a
quotation at him: -
"The turnpike to men's hearts, I find,
Lies through their mouths, or I mistake mankind."
Despite such discouragements, being naturally obstinate, go we do; and
here we are in the most refreshingly primitive and unfashionable abiding
place, the domicile commanding a view which cannot be equaled by any
public house on the island. From the piazzas and our windows the eye
never tires of gazing on the beautiful bay with its numerous
islands, - a charming picture, with the blue and symmetrical range of
Gouldsboro' hills for background. From a point not far back of the
house, the eye ranges from the head of Frenchman's Bay out to the broad
ocean; while a retrospective view takes in the wild mountainous region
of the interior of this lovely isle.
We arrive at a fortunate time. For a long while previous Nature had
persistently enveloped her face in a veil, giving an air of mystery
which the summer guests did not appreciate. The skipper of the yacht
which conveys us when we circumnavigate the island tells us "there is a
fog factory near by," a statement which, for a few days, we are inclined
to credit. The nabobs of Newport, the Sybarites of Nahant, and even the
commonplace rusticators at other shore resorts have been served in the
same manner, however; so we sympathize with them fully, and with them
exult at the final dissolution of the vapors, as the gray curtain
gradually lifts and rolls away, its edge all jagged as if torn by the
lance-like tips of fir and spruce trees as it swept over them. These
noble hills are densely wooded, but not with the forest giants one sees
among the White Mountains; and when I express my surprise thereat, I am
told that fifty or sixty years ago the greater part of the island was
denuded by fire, so that remains of the primeval forest can only be
found in distant spots not easily accessible. Notices are now posted in
the woods at various points, by which "visitors are earnestly requested
to extinguish all fires which they may light, and not to strip the bark
from the birches."
In our inland excursions the rugged mountains, with their storm scarred,
rocky summits, wild ravines, and forest embedded bases, so constantly
suggest the grand scenery of New Hampshire that we can hardly realize
that we are anywhere near the sea.
