136 NE W BRUNSWICK. 



The stage was due at six o'clock, but at six o'clock it 

 did not come, nor at seven, eight, nine nor ten. We told 

 Wilson to return for us in the morning, and retired to 

 rest in the nearest tavern, leaving word to be called 

 when it did come. 



At midnight there was a pounding at the door an- 

 nouncing the arrival of the conveyance that was to carry 

 us and our baggage, two heavy trunks, seventy miles. It 

 was a light one horse-wagon. We went to bed again, 

 and next morning found the stage-driver still at Boies- 

 town, having turned out liis horse to graze. 



Wilson, however, soon arrived, and we started on that 

 dreary road, following the descent of the Miramichi to 

 its mouth. There is one, and but one, pretty view in 

 the entire seventy miles, arid that is as you ascend the 

 first mountain beyond Boiestown. Looking back, the 

 peaceful valley that we had just left, stretching away 

 to our camping-ground, lay basking in the sunlight. 

 In the distance, scarcely visible among the trees, were 

 the few houses that compose Oampbelltown ; nearer was 

 the straggling village of Boiestown, and at our feet ran 

 the placid river, leaving broad intervals upon its banks, 

 and meandering between smiling islands. The hay was 

 ripening in the meadow, the oats were still luxuriant in 

 their fresh green, the bushes lined the occasional fences 

 or marked out the narrow swamps, while here and there 

 were dotted the majestic white pine, the towering spruce, 

 the noble elm or the graceful willow, and a dead tree now 

 and then stretched its ungainly limbs toward the clouds. 



Beyond, however, we fell into one dull, dreary routine ; 

 civilization was behind us, the few farms once cultivated 



