the only known burying-place of the race of red men. Probably the simple
Indians who buried their dead in a place of such difficult access, and
sacred to the Great Spirit, did so from a wish that none might ever
disturb their ashes. None can tell how long those interred there have
slept their last long sleep, but the ruthless hands of the white men have
profaned the last resting-place of the departed race.

There were also numerous blacks in the streets, and, if I might judge from
the brilliant colours and good quality of their clothing, they must gain a
pretty good living by their industry. A large number of these blacks and
their parents were carried away from the States by one of our admirals in
the war of 1812, and landed at Halifax.

The capital of Nova Scotia looks like a town of cards, nearly all the
buildings being of wood. There are wooden houses, wooden churches, wooden
wharfs, wooden slates, and, if there are side walks, they are of wood
also. I was pleased at a distance with the appearance of two churches, one
of them a Gothic edifice, but on nearer inspection I found them to be of
wood, and took refuge in the substantial masonry of the really handsome
Province Building and Government House. We went up to the citadel, which
crowns the hill, and is composed of an agglomeration of granite walls,
fosses, and casemates, mounds, ditches, barracks, and water-tanks.

If I was pleased with the familiar uniforms of the artillerymen who
lounged about the barracks, I was far more so with the view from the
citadel. It was a soft summer evening, and, seen through the transparent
atmosphere, everything looked unnaturally near. The large town of Halifax
sloped down to a lake-like harbour, about two miles wide, dotted with
islands; and ranges of picturesque country spangled with white cottages
lay on the other side. The lake or firth reminded me of the Gareloch, and