pieces and removed to Halifax or St John; others had
been converted into fuel, and the rest had fallen a
prey to neglect and decomposition. The chimneys stood
up erect, and marked the spot around which the social
circle had assembled; and the blackened fireplaces,
ranged one above another, bespoke the size of the
tenement and the means of its owner. In some places
they had sunk with the edifice, leaving a heap of
ruins, while not a few were inclining to their fall,
and awaiting the first storm to repose again in the
dust that now covered those who had constructed them.
Hundreds of cellars with their stone walls and granite
partitions were everywhere to be seen like uncovered
monuments of the dead. Time and decay had done their
work. All that was perishable had perished, and those
numerous vaults spoke of a generation that had passed
away for ever, and without the aid of an inscription,
told a tale of sorrow and of sadness that overpowered
the heart.

Alas for the dreams of the Pynchons and the Parrs!
Shelburne is now a quaint and picturesque town; but it
is not the city which its projectors planned.




CHAPTER VII

THE BIRTH OF NEW BRUNSWICK