as has been producing a ridiculous series of ephemeral governments in France. Government is always weak, and is always driven to intrigue or demagogism for temporary support. But political intellect and political speculation are now active, opinions are divergent, and it is impossible to shut up in one penfold enough political sheep to give a government a safe majority. It can be done at least only by compromise of principle.

The government majority at present in England, though numerically large, is really made up of sections most imperfectly united, as they have just shown by breaking on a vital question. A commonwealth cannot rest for ever on such a basis.

It is in the United States perhaps that the system is carried to its greatest extreme and its consequences are most plainly revealed. There two great organised factions carry on a continual contest for power, each of them making up a new platform before the Presidential election, and shifting their policies, so that one who had seen the Republican party, for instance, forty years ago, would hardly recognise it now. The obvious consequence is sacrifice of the national interests to those of faction. When the military pension list was instituted, an annual cost of about $25,000,000 was talked of as the amount. Now, forty years after the principal war, the annual cost is about $140,000,000; and an act has just been passed, without opposition, which will cause an addition of $20,000,000 at least, some say a

good deal more. The Congressional Record still swarms with private pension bills, which go through as a matter of course. Everybody knows and owns in private that this is party bidding at the cost of the nation for the soldiers' vote. In public not a single politician has dared to say an honest word. Both parties in their platforms, on the contrary, applaud the

system.

The late J. M. Forbes, of Boston, was about the wisest and most thoroughly patriotic man of the Republican party. He has left on record his conviction that war was made on Spain to keep a party in power. Those who have read the diplomatic correspondence and seen that Spain offered to sacrifice everything but her honour, will be inclined to think that Forbes was right.

What fills the political air of Canada now with "graft" and suspicions of "graft"? What is impairing the integrity of judicial appointments and thus assailing the last stronghold of public right and purity of government? What but the necessities of party, which compel it to pay its adherents? Our people are good, but corruption will gradually work downwards. It has its instruments in party organisations and conventions, which, though the people are not aware of it, practically take the elections out of their hands. Government thus becomes standing machinery for the demoralisation of the people.

It seems impossible that the world should forever acquiesce in such a system.

THIS brief record deals with noth

ing more than the peaceful change and quiet charm that may be obtained in that far-away corner of Nova Scotia that lies upon the sea's edge, and is part of the historic ground that was the scene of some of the earliest Canadian history; ground upon which France and England often met; upon which they put up many fights: England winning at last, which is "just her little way," even now. The home of the Acadian was, and still is, there. It may be seen in all its picturesque simplicity in the country back of Evangeline's land. But we are interested just now in panoramic scenes along the Neck, Digby Neck, as it is quite properly known. So we must begin at Digby, a clean, bright little town, for the most part, much sought after and beloved of the American at play. Here may be found tucked away in odd corners those ancient fish-like smells, suggesting toothsome viands like unto the "Digby Chick" and the ever-popular haddie. Digby snuggles a bit inland from the Bay of Fundy, right across from St. John. Weymouth is the first stop out, so there I gave the Flying Bluenose the slip and got busy preparing for the run across St. Mary's Bay, to touch the Neck, handing my bike over to the tender mercies of "old boy Bon

gard." He turned it out ready for any kind of road. The little steamer that made the trip across the Bay regulated her movements according to the vagaries of the tide, and slipped away before I was quite ready, so I had to spend the night and best part of the next day in Weymouth town. At last the welcome whistles of the dinky little Ida Lue were heard, promptly accepted, and she steamed away, passing under the railway bridge, speeding gently down the placid and pretty waters of the Sissiboo river, past the little town of Weymouth, lying at its mouth, and distant some three miles odd from the firstnamed Weymouth, which is commonly known as Weymouth Bridge, and out upon the quiet, sunshiny waters of St. Mary's Bay. The Ida meets a barkentine lying far out, discharges the captain of that vessel, and then heads for Little River, her first port upon Digby Neck. Here, with others, the Weymouth schoolmaster is landed, and in short order our "little liner" brings up at Mink Cove. Sandy Cove is her next port, where she is berthed for the night. It is a case of all hands ashore, so I seek the shelter and hospitalities of the Sandy Cove House, Mine host is also mail carrier from Digby, throughout the whole length of the Neck, to Brier Island, whose extremest point is

washed by the heave and swell of the mighty Atlantic. Eldridge, ably assisted. by his wife, keeps a comfortable little house and makes the summer tourist very welcome, hinting at improvements that will be sure to please, and make his house more popular still. He is just the man I want, and as good as a guide-book to all points upon the Neck road and its varying conditions over the whole distance. A charming spot is Sandy Cove. The little village lies at the head of a deeply indented and almost land-locked cove; the houses, climbing the bold slopes, have much more than a fancied resemblance to a Rhine town. So near are the waters of the Bay of Fundy, that a few minutes' walk brings one there, to find a thriving little fishing industry; a strongly built pier makes snug harbour for the fishing boats; round about the fish houses cluster, and again one comes upon the ancient and fish-like odours, some of them particularly strong. To dismiss Sandy Cove without any remark about the fine view to be had from the top of what is locally known as the "Bluff" would be most unfair. From this lofty eminence the enthusiastic climber looks over the wide waters of the Bay of Fundy; on the other hand, the eye is caught and charmed with the expanse of St. Mary's Bay, running away and across to the Weymouth shore, and down and down, until the land is attenuated and lost in the extreme distance towards Yarmouth. From the same point may be viewed that wondrous spectacle, a sunset upon the waters! The traveller who approaches Sandy Cove from the north, and gets the first impression and peep of this really beautiful place from the top of the highway hill, ought to engrave it deep upon the tablets of memory. The southward approach is also very fine and entirely different in aspect. It is such things It is such things as these that make the Neck a unique and charming place. One is in touch with the sea all along; at many points both waters can be seen by climbing a little, and always the land is interesting, with its fine sweeps and bold hills. On a bright and breezy morning I make my start, the wind blowing strongly in the wrong direction. Wind or no wind, this

means a long climb up and out of Sandy Cove. Once at the top, with so good a road, and the machine running free, the miles begin to spin off-glorious prospects of hill and valley; a turning, twisting and vanishing road always, accompanied ever by the blue waters of St. Mary's Bay.

The little hamlet of Mink Cove is flashed through, and a passing glimpse caught of a neat little hostelry, intended evidently for the stray tourist who wanders so far from the beaten path of travel. Next comes Little River with its bold hills and flash of water caught through a gap in the harbour heights. On and on spins the wheel, and wondrous are the views. Well might this be termed the road of many surprises, with all its twists and The town-tired man can soon shake off his staleness on such a road and with such a progress as this. The air is like wine; the traveller is "on the heights,' and quickly sheds off the burden of daily routine.

turns.

The ten-mile run from Sandy Cove brings up with the bright waters all in front now; far below lies the racing foam. of the Petit Passage; on the opposite shore the village of Tiverton is seen; a gasoline launch plies between the two shores, and an ancient bell, high-hung and rung by a long hand-rope, is used to summon the ferryman of the passage. Tiverton is fishy; everybody goes after the fish; all live by it, in one way or another. Once again the odours are not to be mistaken; a little strong perhaps for town-bred noses. One could soon get accustomed to this varied bouquet, which at the first seems a little overdone something too much. Tiverton cannot boast of a hotel, but good fortune and the ferryman directed my steps to the home of Mrs. Outhouse, where rest and refreshment both were obtained. Tiverton village is on the part of the Neck called Long Island; at the other end is the village of Freeport-also abandoned to the fishing-whose southward edge is washed by the waters of the Grand Passage. The race through the Petit Passage is a thing to go and see, and at all times it has to be treated with respect. With a high tide running and a heavy blow from the sou'west, it is a wild and dangerous place. A sailing vessel caught

The ten miles of road down Long Island was interesting, with the road itself better than the previous part; it was still a push against the strong head wind, which appears to be the favourite "summer blow." The road always keeps part way up the slopes, the changing hills heaving and swelling upward on the right, while, far below on the other hand, a small stream winds along, appearing and again vanishing in a very pleasing way. Beyond all, lies St. Mary's Bay, with its far-away shores of Yarmouth county. This "thread of water" is with the traveller the whole ten miles to Freeport, there losing itself, most likely, in the waters of the Grand Passage. Always, the near approach to these passages was most interesting; the feeling of being so much above and "in the air," with the blue sea in front and the land beyond, with its possibilities to be explored, gave a keener zest to the sight. Freeport, for the most part, lies low and upon the sea edge. There the telephone calls the ferryman across from Westport, to bridge the passage and take the traveller across. Westport lies very long drawn out-practically the whole length of the Passage, which is much wider than the Petit at Tiverton. Here again, strong tide-rips and dangerous race-ways have to be reckoned with, and might easily be the undoing of the overconfident novice in boating or sailing. In these parts the weather changes with extreme rapidity; what had continued to be a warm and sunshiny day came to an end at Freeport, without any warning. The skies became overcast; the wind freshened, and before the "gasoline" had put well out, a half-gale was blowing, with a strong lift to the water. Westport can boast of a very comfortable little hotel, to which the stray traveller is cheerfully received and made very welcome. To find a nice bathroom, with an abundance of hot and cold water, was a cheerful surprise, and a welcome addition to the other comforts. It would appear that I am on the track of schoolmasters, for one is found lodging in the house. As night

settles down, the heavy fog comes in, with the horn down at the lighthouse blowing a drear accompaniment. Morning prospects are none too bright; fog is still heavy, and the rain beats down; a sudden shift of the wind, and the fog vanishes. The warming sun shines brightly again; skies are blue, and everything invites. I must to the end of Brier Island. So, after dinner, the three miles are ridden, and I stand upon the outmost rocks, and look off across the wide Atlantic. Fishing vessels dot the expanse, appearing like mere specks upon a sea that has become quite calm. quite calm. The lighthouse, close by, is responsible for the noise of the night before. Hereabouts the rocks are tumultuous in formation, the prevailing colour a dingy and somewhat mournful gray, not at all of a character to much tempt the men who "map down sceneries" and paint things.

In the evening I cross back to Freeport,, and finding another hotel, put up for the night. It is kept by a widow named Morrell; she is helped by her son, and between them the good quality of the Neck entertainment is well sustained. Once again the schoolmaster! The new morning in Freeport is fine, a cool, fresh breeze is blowing gaily and the bright sun nicely tempers the edge of it. I stroll down to one of the wharves, where seems something of a crowd and the stir of business. A fishing schooner has come in, and the process of unloading the fish goes on. The crew are busy and the captain very much in evidence; the eyes of the idle and curious watch him as he bustles about and talks and laughs with the loudest. This captain and his vessel have assumed something more than the ordinary importance of those who go out after the fish and home-along again; for they have had a very near chance of being sent to the bottom. While "lying to" in the fog of the morning before, the schooner came into collision with an ocean liner, and just the little fact that the fishing crew had finished breakfast and were on deck again saved them from being ploughed under in the heavy fog. Skipper made very light of the whole matter, and so did the crew. That they had escaped with a sound boat and whole skins seemed to be