When at last, in the comparative calmness of the entrance to Charlotte
Town harbour, I stood up to look about me, I could not help admiring the
peaceful beauty of the scene. Far in the distance were the sterile cliffs
of Nova Scotia and the tumbling surges of the Atlantic, while on three
sides we were surrounded by land so low that the trees upon it seemed
almost growing out of the water. The soil was the rich red of Devonshire,
the trees were of a brilliant green, and sylvan lawns ran up amongst them.
The light canoes of the aborigines glided gracefully on the water, or lay
high and dry on the beach; and two or three miles ahead the spires and
houses of the capital of the island lent additional cheerfulness to the
prospect.

We were speedily moored at the wharf, and my cousins, after an absence of
eight years, were anxiously looking round for some familiar faces among
the throng on the shore. They had purposely avoided giving any intimation
to their parents of their intended arrival, lest anything should occur to
prevent the visit; therefore they were entirely unexpected. But, led by
the true instinct of natural affection, they were speedily recognised by
those of their relatives who were on the wharf, and many a joyful meeting
followed which must amply have compensated for the dreary separation of
years.

It was in an old-English looking, red brick mansion, encircled by
plantations of thriving firs--warmly welcomed by relations whom I had
never seen, for the sake of those who had been my long-tried friends--
surrounded by hearts rejoicing in the blessings of unexpected re-union,
and by faces radiant with affection and happiness--that I spent my first
evening in the "Garden of British America."