ford Basin is now rapidly
growing in importance. The great Nova Scotia railway skirts the margin of
its storied waters, and already suburban villas for Haligonian
Sparrowgrasses, are being erected upon its banks.

I was much amused one morning, upon opening one of the Halifax papers, to
find in its columns a most warm and hearty invitation from the editor to
her majesty, Queen Victoria, soliciting her to visit the province, which,
according to the editorial phraseology, would be, no doubt, as interesting
as it was endeared to her, as the former residence of her gracious father,
the Duke of Kent.

In the year 1798, just twenty years before her present majesty was born,
the young Prince Edward was appointed Commander-in-Chief of the forces in
British North America. Loyalty, then as now, was rampant in Nova Scotia,
and upon the arrival of his Royal Highness, among other marks of
compliment, an adjacent island, that at present rejoices in a governor and
parliament of its own, was re-christened with the name it now bears,
namely--Prince Edward's Island. But I am afraid Prince Edward was a sad
reprobate in those days--at least, such is the record of tradition.

The article in the newspaper reminded me that somewhere upon Bedford Basin
were the remains of the "Prince's Lodge;" so one afternoon, accompanied by
a dear old friend, I paid this royal bower by Bendemeer's stream, a visit.
Rattling through the unpaved streets of Halifax in a one horse vehicle,
called, for obvious reasons, a "jumper," we were soon on the high-road
towards the basin. Water of the intensest blue--hill-slopes, now
cultivated, and anon patched with evergreens that look as black as squares
upon a chess board, between the open, broken grounds--a fine road--a
summer sky--an atmosphere spicy with whiffs of resinous odors, and no
fog,--these are the features of our ride. Yonder is a red building,
reflected in the water like the prison of Chillon, where some of our
citizens were imprisoned during the war of 1812--ship captives doubtless!
And here is the customary little English inn, where we stop our steed to
let him cool, while the stout landlord, girt with a clean white apron,
brings out to his thirsty travellers a brace of foaming, creamy glasses of
"right h'English h'ale." Then remounting the jumper, we skirt the edge of
the basin again, until a stately dome rises up before us on the road,
which, as we approach, we see is supported by columns, and based up