stretches its arms across them; while Culture and Travel go and come,
still wearing their plumes, still redolent with odors of civilized
lands. The North reigns more absolutely. Commerce is but a surf on its
shores. Travel creeps guardedly, fearfully in, only to turn and creep
still more fearfully out.

We, indeed, are feeble even in our purposes of travel. Not Kanes,
Parrys, Franklins, not intrepid to brave the presence of the Arctic
Czar, and look on his very face, with its half-year lights and
shades,--we go only to see the skirts of his robe, blown southward by
summer-seeking winds. But even the hope of this fills the Before with
enchantment, and lures us like a charm.

Lures the ship, too, one would think: for how she flies! Fair wind and
fog we had, where clear skies were looked for,--fair wind and clear
skies, where we had expected to plough fog; Cape Sable forbears for once
to hide itself; the shores of Nova Scotia are seen through an atmosphere
of crystal and under an azure without stain, and on the third day the
Gut of Canso is reached, and anchor cast in the little harbor of a
little, dirty, bluenose villagette, ycleped "Port Mulgrave."

Port Mulgrave? Port Filth, Port Rum, Port Dirk-Knife, Port Prostitution,
Port Fish-Gurry, Port everything unsavory and unconscionable!

"What news from the war?" asks Bradford of the first man, on landing.

Answer prompt. "Good news! Grant has been beaten, lost seventeen
thousand men, and is making for Washington as fast as he can run!"

Respondent's visage questionable, however,--too dirty, and too happy.
Hence further researches; and at last a man is found who (under
prospects of trade) can contrive to tell the truth; and he acknowledges
that even the Canadian telegraph has told no such story.

In the evening, as some of us go on shore, there is a drunken fight.
Knives are drawn, great gashes given, blood runs like rain; the
combatants tumble together into a shallow dock, stab in the mud and
water, creep out and clench and roll over and over in the ooze, stabbing
still, with beast-like, unintelligible yells, and half-intelligible
curses. A great, nasty mob huddles round,--doing what, think you?
Roaring with laughter, and hooting their fish-gurry happiness up to the
welkin! Suddenly there is a surging among them; then Smith, our young
parson, ploughs through, springs upon the fighters, who owe to nothing
but extreme drunkenness their escape from the crime of murder. H