"Beautiful Isle of the Sea!"
When we said, "Let us go to Mt. Desert," Joe gave us Punch's advice on marriage: "Don't!" Sue said. "It has lost half its charms by becoming so fashionable;" and Hal added, as an unanswerable argument, "You'll not be able to get enough to eat." As to his veracity on this subject we cannot vouch, though we can testify to his voracity, and mischievously throw a quotation at him:—
"The turnpike to men's hearts, I find,
Lies through their mouths, or I mistake mankind."
Despite such discouragements, being naturally obstinate, go we do; and here we are in the most refreshingly primitive and unfashionable abiding place, the domicile commanding a view which cannot be equaled by any public house on the island. From the piazzas and our windows the eye never tires of gazing on the beautiful bay with its numerous islands,—a charming picture, with the blue and symmetrical range of Gouldsboro' hills for background. From a point not far back of the house, the eye ranges from the head of Frenchman's Bay out to the broad ocean; while a retrospective view takes in the wild mountainous region of the interior of this lovely isle.
We arrive at a fortunate time. For a long while previous Nature had persistently enveloped her face in a veil, giving an air of mystery which the summer guests did not appreciate. The skipper of the yacht which conveys us when we circumnavigate the island tells us "there is a fog factory near by," a statement which, for a few days, we are inclined to credit. The nabobs of Newport, the Sybarites of Nahant, and even the commonplace rusticators at other shore resorts have been served in the same manner, however; so we sympathize with them fully, and with them exult at the final dissolution of the vapors, as the gray curtain gradually lifts and rolls away, its edge all jagged as if torn by the lance-like tips of fir and spruce trees as it swept over them. These noble hills are densely wooded, but not with the forest giants one sees among the White Mountains; and when I express my surprise thereat, I am told that fifty or sixty years ago the greater part of the island was denuded by fire, so that remains of the primeval forest can only be found in distant spots not easily accessible. Notices are now posted in the woods at various points, by which "visitors are earnestly requested to extinguish all fires which they may light, and not to strip the bark from the birches."
In our inland excursions the rugged mountains, with their storm scarred, rocky summits, wild ravines, and forest embedded bases, so constantly suggest the grand scenery of New Hampshire that we can hardly realize that we are anywhere near the sea. Then, on a sudden turn of the road, a broad stretch of ocean—blue, sparkling, and sail dotted, framed in graceful birches, feathery larches, and dark pines—comes upon us as a surprise.
The peculiar vehicle which is here known as a "buckboard" we find a comfortable conveyance, with a motion which seems a combination of see-saw and baby-jumper. The "body" is composed of four long boards laid side by side, supported only at the extreme ends where they are hung over the axles. The seats are in the middle. They are neither elegant nor graceful, but easy, "springy" vehicles, which, having neither sides nor top covers, give unimpeded views, and are excellent for sight seeing, though not precisely the thing for rainy weather.
Canoeing is a favorite amusement; and in the management of these light and graceful boats many of the summer guests become quite expert. The motion suggests that of a gondola, A catamaran scoots about the harbor among the islands; tiny steamers, sailing craft of all kinds, are seen; and sometimes United States training ships sail majestically into the bay and drop anchor, giving a finishing touch to the picture.
Skippers are very cautious, and frequently will not allow their canoes or other boats to go out, although it may appear perfectly safe to the uninitiated. Visitors rarely have any idea what sudden "flaws" and gusts of air are caused by the position of and openings between the mountains; and when these, as well as the tidal swell and currents of the ocean about the shore, have to be studied, navigation becomes scientific.
The arrival of the steamer is the great event of the day; and on Sunday, after morning service, the butterflies of fashion flit to the pier to see the landing of passengers. It is rather embarrassing for weary travelers to be obliged to "run the gauntlet" as they pass through the gay throng, for every one stares with all his might. This does not seem to be considered rude here, and every one is met by a "battery of eyes;" I presume because each person expects, if he remain here through the season, to meet every one whom he ever knew.