I dispensed my usual quantum of
vows of eternal love and fidelity before I left them, and my departure
was marked in the calendar of Halifax as a black day, by at least
seven or eight pairs of blue eyes.
We had not been long at sea before we spoke an Irish Guineaman from
Belfast, loaded with emigrants for the United States: I think about
seventeen families. These were contraband. Our captain had some twenty
thousand acres on the island of St John's, or Prince Edward's, as
it is now called, a grant to some of his ancestors, which had been
bequeathed to him, and from which he had never received one shilling
of rent, for the very best reason in the world, because there were no
tenants to cultivate the soil. It occurred to our noble captain, that
this was the very sort of cargo he wanted, and that these Irish people
would make good clearers of his land, and improve his estate. He made
the proposal to them, and as they saw no chance of getting to the
United States, and provided they could procure nourishment for
their families, it was a matter of indifference to them where they
colonised, the proposal was accepted, and the captain obtained
permission of the admiral to accompany them to the island, to see them
housed and settled. Indeed, nothing could have been more advantageous
for all parties; they increased the scanty population of our own
colony, instead of adding to the number of our enemies. We sailed
again from Halifax a few hours after we had obtained the sanction of
the admiral, and, passing through the beautiful passage between Nova
Scotia and the island of Cape Breton, known by the name of the Gut of
Canso, we soon reached Prince Edward's Island.
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