ext door he had better luck. Pound, pound. An
angry voice, "What do you want?"

"Time to take the train, sir."

"Not going to take any train."

"Ain't your name Smith?"

"Yes."

"Well, Smith"--

"I left no order to be called." (Indistinct grumbling from Smith's
room.)

Porter is heard shuffling slowly off down the passage. In a little while
he returns to Smith's door, evidently not satisfied in his mind. Rap,
rap, rap!

"Well, what now?"

"What's your initials? A. T.; clear out!"

And the porter shambles away again in his slippers, grumbling something
about a mistake. The idea of waking a man up in the middle of the night
to ask him his "initials" was ridiculous enough to banish sleep for
another hour. A person named Smith, when he travels, should leave his
initials outside the door with his boots.

Refreshed by this reposeful night, and eager to exchange the stagnation
of the shore for the tumult of the ocean, we departed next morning for
Baddeck by the most direct route. This we found, by diligent study
of fascinating prospectuses of travel, to be by the boats of the
International Steamship Company; and when, at eight o'clock in the
morning, we stepped aboard one of them from Commercial Wharf, we
felt that half our journey and the most perplexing part of it was
accomplished. We had put ourselves upon a great line of travel, and
had only to resign ourselves to its flow in order to reach the desired
haven. The agent at the wharf assured us that it was not necessary to
buy through tickets to Baddeck,--he spoke of it as if it were as easy a
place to find as Swampscott,--it was a conspicuous name on the cards of
the company, we should go right on from St. John without difficulty.
The easy familiarity of this official with Baddeck, in short, made
us ashamed to exhibit any anxiety about its situation or the means of
approach to it. Subsequent experience led us to believe that the only
man in the world, out of Baddeck, who knew anything about it lives in
Boston, and sells tickets to it, or rather towards it.

There is no moment of delight in any pilgrimage like the beginning
of it, when the traveler is settled simply as to his destination,
and commits himself to his unknown fate and all the anticipations of
adventure before him. We experienced this pleasure as we ascended to the
deck of the steamboat and snuffed the fresh air of Boston Harbor. What
a beautiful harbor it is, everybody says, with its irregularl