ST. JOHN'S, NEWFOUNDLAND.

Grey River Argus, Volume VIII, Issue 597, 13 November 1869, Page 4

ST. JOHN'S, NEWFOUNDLAND.

Woolfe and I, talking of these fishy things, slid and slipped and stumbled adown the whole length of Water street, past the wharves and ships ; past the bridge of boats which spans the neck of the harbor, past another mile or so of straggling houses in the suburb, before we turned our backs to the bitter westerly wind. And yet, in all this, the principal part of St. John's, aligning the whole length of the bright hill-surrouuded harbor, not a trace, not a sign of a public building, or of a monument, or ornamental fountain, or anything to denote a love of country, or patriotism, or goodfeeling to one's fellow-men could be noted. From this point we struggled homewards through the snow, by narrower streets leading to the upper parts of the city ; past the Roman Catholic cathedral, so proudly and admirably perched on the highest crest, to command the harbor, the Narrows, and many miles of inland country round ; beneath- the statute -of -the Baptist, at its entrance, with the scallop in his hand, so truly emblamatic of the everlasting cry of the Chief Fisherman — " shell out, shell out ;" and so on, past the big stone Government House, and past the whole outskirts of the other side, towards the east, and uorth. It was ever the same. The houses were principally wooden erections, stright up and down in pattern, without a particle of superfluity or ornament, and mostly mean of their kind, as the residences of British merchants. But few of them had upon the margin of the pretty lakes which fringe the city, country boxes for the summer, preferring the dust and cod-oily smells of the fishy town ; not for economy or meanness, but in the belief that, in the gambling nature of their business, each year would turn up the ace of trumps, and prove the last of exile.- No Athensaum, ,' no Rink, no Library ; no Town-Hall or Museum ; no greenhouses, conservatories, or parks. Nothing, absolutely nothing, to be seen but the bare, cold, unappealing necessities of life. The sun was just setting as we concluded our first walk round St. John's, at Bakehouse Corner, opposite the little fort ; a convenient spot, - where roads meet and converge, and where the folks lounge and chat. "Wait half a minute," said Wolfe ; *' I hear the farmers going home. Its worth while to see the style of driving here." In less time than he named, merry bells and loud voices were heard rapidly turning the corner at the fdot of the glacis. Oil they came in succession, five or six •sleighs, or lumbering catamarans. The occupants, drivers included, were lying full stretch across the bars, backs to the horses, shouting, laughing, or swearing jocosely at one another, as the mood of ;the instant took them. It was a procession of bacchanalians, foolish, half-screwed, yet intending no harm or mischief. The leading catamaran was going at a heavy ', trot, right in the centre of the track, tl c reins dragging through the snow by the side, and the owner flat across the bottom of the concern, face up, and most likely asleep ; while his legs, perched across a, flour barrel, hitched upwards like a pair of pistons at every forward jerk of the horse. Not one of them was watching the road, yet they followed the leader in the narrow track as skilfully as a London cabman could have done. On they went — on, on — past the crest of the hill, down to the little bridge spanning the river at the head of the lake, till wecould see them no longer, or. hear the music of the bells discordantly

mingled with the half-drunken human laughter. "Well," said my friend, < 'what do you think of that?" " Think of it ? Why, that there will bo a frightful accident before these fellows reach home. Look at the leader ! no one guides them ! suppose he drowns the whole lot of them?" " No fear ; that horse is going to a farm six or seven miles across Windsor Lake, and he knows every foot of the road ; and, besides that, his master is dead drunk. He'll carry him home quite safe, and the wife will lift her old man off the sleighj and put him to bed. Valuable horse that, eh?" "What brings all these fellows into town at this season, through all this snow ?" " Why, these are some of the best in the country, half -fishermen, halffarmers. They come in for supplies for their families, mostly flour, tea, and molasses. You may thus see the advantage of the arrangement of our principal street at a glance ; the flour barrel from the merchant's store on one side, and the rum from the grog-shops on the other." — Lost Amid the Fogs, by Lieut-Colonel B. B. M'Crae.