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Of the towns which I saw Lockport particularly commended itself, though Shelburne carries a quaint air of having once been, which could easily make the visitor love it. Liverpool and Lunenburg also set out attractions of their own, but it was the villages and little wayside stopping places that were the chief delight, such as Port Latour, Port Mouton, Hunts Point, Port Medway, Petite Riviere and the wonderful stretches of Dublin Shore and Western Shore. I speak only of those I saw.

In 1767 Lord William Campbell wrote that Nova Scotia has “more ports of safety for ships of any burthen than any other province of America, and almost at the entrance of these, inexhaustible mines of fish, which furnish all Europe with that commodity, and ought to be the first nursery of seamen to supply, as occasion may require, the British navy.” In fact this southern coast is almost as regularly notched with bays and inlets as is the deep-toothed timber saw.

Many of the smaller hotels give no outward indication that they are such, but, when found, are apt to prove more inviting than those of nobler bulk. Here, if one is damp, he may adjourn to the kitchen and hang his coat near the fire, talk to the cook (who is usually the landlady or a daughter of the house), and eat in his shirt sleeves if so minded. A nice, friendly lot they are—good, honest people, to whom it is a pleasure to be obliging. The only exception I met was at Pubnico, where the landlady tried to bite my head off, but I adopted General Washington’s famous Fabian policy and came out with a full stomach and serene conscience, but I still feel sorry for her old man.