past ten," said my comrade, "let us turn in." (The
reader will notice the consideration for her feelings which has omitted
the usual description of "a sunset at sea.")

When we looked from our state-room window in the morning we saw land.
We were passing within a stone's throw of a pale-green and rather
cold-looking coast, with few trees or other evidences of fertile soil.
Upon going out I found that we were in the harbor of Eastport. I
found also the usual tourist who had been up, shivering in his winter
overcoat, since four o'clock. He described to me the magnificent
sunrise, and the lifting of the fog from islands and capes, in language
that made me rejoice that he had seen it. He knew all about the harbor.
That wooden town at the foot of it, with the white spire, was Lubec;
that wooden town we were approaching was Eastport. The long island
stretching clear across the harbor was Campobello. We had been obliged
to go round it, a dozen miles out of our way, to get in, because the
tide was in such a stage that we could not enter by the Lubec Channel.
We had been obliged to enter an American harbor by British waters.

We approached Eastport with a great deal of curiosity and considerable
respect. It had been one of the cities of the imagination. Lying in the
far east of our great territory, a military and even a sort of naval
station, a conspicuous name on the map, prominent in boundary disputes
and in war operations, frequent in telegraphic dispatches,--we had
imagined it a solid city, with some Oriental, if decayed, peculiarity, a
port of trade and commerce. The tourist informed me that Eastport looked
very well at a distance, with the sun shining on its white houses. When
we landed at its wooden dock we saw that it consisted of a few piles of
lumber, a sprinkling of small cheap houses along a sidehill, a big hotel
with a flag-staff, and a very peaceful looking arsenal. It is doubtless
a very enterprising and deserving city, but its aspect that morning
was that of cheapness, newness, and stagnation, with no compensating
picturesqueness. White paint always looks chilly under a gray sky and on
naked hills. Even in hot August the place seemed bleak. The tourist, who
went ashore with a view to breakfast, said that it would be a good place
to stay in and go a-fishing and picnicking on Campobello Island. It has
another advantage for the wicked over other Maine towns. Owing to the
contiguity of British territory, the Maine L