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“ There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar."

_\\ O wrote the deathless Byron; and let him be anathema who would alter or 5" meddle with the matchless lines.

Let us take a humbler course outside the realm of poetry; which, casting around the camp fire an unreal halo, would make things loom gigantic in the “ light that never was on sea or land ”; and, possibly, shew up a good sized mosquito as big as an ox, or lend a Munchansen flavour to our most veracious fish story. Let us, too, throw away the magnifying glass of fiction; and, invoking no muse but the naked nymph of the well, give in bare outline some facts of our experience on stream and shore in this garden of the summer seas.

The uninitiated world-wanderer, who comes to us looking for a sand-bank guarding the coasts of New Brunswick and Nova Scotia from the swell of the Gulf of St. Lawrence, brings with him the idea that this pin-prick on the map of the world can offer little choice or variety of location. Let him disabuse his mind of that illusion, and understand at once that Prince Edward Island can give him any nature of climate—short of tropical, and any sort of scenery——barring mountains.