It has always seemed to me that one about to become “a summer resorter” ought to make up his or her mind what sort of a summer resorter to be.  Thus, if you desire to go in for dress and show, select a place where the fine feathers which proverbially make fine birds are always on display.  Don’t, as do folks I am acquainted with, secure rooms at a quiet place and then regret loss of gayety.  Similarly, it is unwise to choose ground floor rooms at a stylish beach hotel, and then complain because young people foregather in front of your window on “hop” nights and chatter, or sing popular songs to the accompaniment of mandolin and guitar.

         Suppose one wants to pass the summer in a picturesque region where entrancing and romantic history is wrapped up with every view and connected with every field and stone?  Furthermore, let us presume that this visitor isn’t averse to being quite free from any danger of hay fever, that he enjoys riding, driving, walking, golfing and playing other games, as well as rowing and fishing.  Let us add that he wishes to occupy comfortable rooms in a beautiful, up-to-date house, and that he wishes to keep “the heated term” a term quite outside his vocabulary.

         Let such an one journey to the island of Campbello, New Brunswick, and I’ll warrant he will be perfectly satisfied with life.

         Passamaquoddy Bay is worthily famed as one of the most picturesque spots on the Atlantic Coast.  Through this bay passes the boundary line separating the United States from the Province of Quebec.  Papa and I came here in most comfortable manner, taking a Pullman direct to Eastport, Maine, by Maine Shore Line from the North Union Station in Boston.  We might, had we desired, have made the trip by sea, either from Boston or from Portland.  Our journey was accomplished with ease and pleasure, for we caught many charming glimpses of scenic beauty.  “Look out for the last of the United States,” called some one when we neared the easternmost point of the country, and I can testify that said “last look” reveals much that is worth a second and then a third glance.  To the left stands the quaint little town of Lubec, perched on a hill, the town straggling downward from the pretty church that gives a truly religious air to the place.  Beyond Eastport you can see a goodly distance into the land of Evangeline, Acadia, while the waters of the bay give the picture a touch of “true blue” that is very effective.

         The most important of the islands dotting this bay is Campobello, which separates the Passamaquoddy from the Bay of Fundy.  Campobello is no “dot,” but a good-sized island, fully ten miles long, its eastern side wild and rugged, while on the western shore fertile farm lands stretch gently down to pretty beaches.  The interior is densely wooded, but quite accessible, since it is traversed by well-shaded roads.  There are at least fifty miles of road on the island, and many bridle paths and intricate trails, so that to talk of this island life as approaching the “cribbed, cabined and confined” character is quite distant from the truth.  You may, if you will, fancy yourself a Miranda, in that this is a land where the romantic seems quite real, but there is plenty of chance for distant wanderings, and plenty that is amusing, likewise, for doing near at hand.
 By “near at hand,” I mean, of course, near the Ty’n-y-Coed (“House in  the Woods”).  This handsome and commodious hotel is situated near the water’s edge, and yet so as to command a widespread view, since it is way up on a bluff eighty feet above the water.  When I sit on the piazza and look eastward over the bay, to the St. Croix and Denny Rivers, I feel that the view is not to be improved, and yet when I come out at the sunset hour and find a bewitching roseate glow combining with the vivid tints thrown on the fleecy clouds, the effect reminds one of a scene once admired in a water-color sketch, now perfected and reproduced as a finished oil painting.  To get down from the heights to the practical, I will say that papa and I have found our apartments at the hotel in every way comfortable and dainty, and the people who are located in the large annex, Ty’n-y-Maes (“House in the Fields”), are quite as happy.  The annex accommodates 75, and no expense has been spared to make both houses homelike.  Good drainage and abundant supply of water come first in estimation, perhaps, and both are satisfactory.  The plumbing is new, and the lighting plant having been overhauled the past year, one sees the cheerful brightness of new burners and fixtures all about.  The billiard room and bowling alley are kept for the use of the guests alone, none others being admitted.  This is a state of affairs which “we girls” highly appreciate, for it is so nice to bowl on a rainy day, or even try to play billiards, without running the gauntlet of comments from outsiders.

         On fine days I will admit I am very little in the house.  What with a little croquet, more tennis and a great deal of golf, there is little leisure for indoor life.  The Campobello Golf Club has frequent tournaments during the season, and we are all trying to improve our play with the handicap match for the Ty’n-y-Coed cup in mind.  Then the waters of the bay are so safe and placid that they are a constant temptation to those who, like me, are fond of rowing.  One finds all sorts of craft for the hiring -- canoes, row boats, sail boats, with skilful guides and skippers ready to go along if you desire their aid.
 After you have been here you put absolute faith in the climate, because of the excellence of its effect upon those with weary brains or nerves “worn to a frazzle.”  Others, however, may like to know that Prof. Shaler of Harvard, under whose supervision the island was surveyed, and who passed many summers here, has written knowingly about the place.  He saw that its position, together with the strong currents of water sweeping about it, make Campobello warmer than the mainland in winter, yet secure from excessive heat in summer.  He pointed out what the folks here notice, that the extensive forests of balsamic firs affect the atmosphere pleasantly, and invite one to restful sleep at night.  The summer here is like a prolongation of spring that meets an early autumn.  Professor Sheller further prophesied that “the plan of administration adopted would certainly make this a most attractive resort,” and results now prove the truth of his prediction.

         You will probably have been here about one-half day, have enjoyed getting settled in your pretty room, and will have paid just tribute to the excellence of management which Mr. Fred E. Jones displays in the TTY’s-y-Coed and its annex, when you will feel a keen desire to brush up in the history of this quaint and beautiful island.  Go out and stay for a few a few moments in some sequestered spot along toward twilight, and if you possess a vivid imagination you will have little trouble in realizing something of what the place was like in the early days, perhaps after it was discovered in 1604, but before the eighteenth century, when it first began to be well known.

         You will see moose roaming over the swamps, and occasionally looking from the bold headlands.  Indians cross over from the mainland in pursuit of the moose, and once in a while the Red Men come into collision with the skin-clad Frenchmen who have built straggling huts on the northern and southern shores.  Later you will see the island under the squatter sovereignty of two men, Hunt and Flag, and to aid your fancy in bringing them into the picture, you seek out certain stumps indicating apple trees which tradition says they planted.

         The first post office was established in 1795, the first postmaster bearing the sonorous name of Luis Frederick Delesdernier.  Presently the office was abandoned, for in 1805 a post office was opened in Eastport, Maine, and here Campobello people continue to get their mail, here you address Mr. Fred E. Jones if you want to learn anything about Ty’n-y-Coed.

         After you have learned somewhat of the slow growth of the island during the period of 100 years, you come to the occurrence which has given it a unique value in history.  Captain William Owen, R.N., had had a glorious career as a naval officer, but at the blockade of Pondicherry lost his right arm and his command, his ship, the Sunderland, being foundered.  Returning to England somewhat broken in spirit, he memorialized the Admiralty in 1761 asking for some better recognition for his service than “a pitiful pension.”  His request was not in vain, for in 1767 the island of Campobello was granted to him and his cousins, Arthur Davies and Donald and David and William Owen, Jr.  It was some time before Captain Owen came to settle in his new possessions.  He visited the Governor-General of Nova Scotia in Halifax, he some time in Boston and he went to England, so that it was almost 1770 before he actually came to Campobello, bringing with him thirty-eight indentured servants of all sorts and callings, as well as a train of followers who asked nothing from him but his protection “and their grog.”

         Although I have called the island Campobello, up to this time it was known by the cumbersome title of Paasamaquoddy Outer Island.  The captain named it Campobello, which was a sort of a pun on the name of Governor-General Campbell of Nova Scotia, who had been instrumental in securing the grant.  Christening over, the captain began to administer justice, settling disputes between the Indians and their priest, and setting up a pair of stocks and a whipping post.  Captain Owen appears to have cared for the welfare of his people both materially and spiritually, for he organized great hunts and “drives” to provide food, and read religious services once at least each Sunday.  He also performed the marriage ceremony, officiating at the marriage of William Lloyd Garrison’s grandparents, a fact surely interesting to Bostonians.  It was only seven years that Captain Owen reigned at Campobello, when he went away he reviewed the “28” improvements he had instituted, and left meteorological observations which were the first systematic tables in the province.  Captain Owen again went to the East, and lost his life by an accident in 1778, dying with the rank of admiral.  He left two sons, one of whom afterward lived on the island in an even more picturesque way than did the first Owen.  At the time of Admiral Owen’s death, however, his children were quite young, and the island came to be managed by David Owen, who was, in 1789, a Fellow of Trinity College, in Holy Orders and Senior Wrangler.

         As if to further connect the Campobello of early days with Boston, about 1785 Captain and Mrs. Thomas Storrow had settled on the island, being under the impression that they had completed a bargain which made them large owners of the place.  Captain and Mrs. Storrow, let me add, were the grandparents of Colonel Thomas Wentworth Higginson.  In 1791, when Mrs. Storrow, with her young children, were temporarily left alone in their home, notice was served that David Owen was “coming to take his own,” and would acknowledge no right of theirs to remain.  The Storrows departed, Captain Storrow being badly crippled financially because of the affair, and the transplanted senior wrangler was left to a stormy existence.  He dwelt in a barnlike structure near the sire of the present Roosevelt cottage, and preached Sundays in another rude shed.  He owned a fine library, but most of his time was spent in controversies, arguments and wrathful correspondence, now with the British government regarding what he considered the wrong doing of the “contemptible Americans,” and again petitioning the King against acts which David Owen looked upon as injurious to his dignity as “lord of the isle.”

         His grievances were many and varied.  Now he objects to the cutting down of a few trees to repair British vessels. Then he did not desire that his military force should be requested to drill off the island.  A sheep was lost, and the sometime senior wrangler made a great to-do in the matter.  A wounded pig was cause for bitter complaint, and again, when David Owen expected to find forty bushels of apples, he found “the pickets torn down and one solitary apple remaining.”  For forty years D. Owen led this eccentric, yet perhaps entertaining existence, and then he died, in 1829, unmarried.  For a few years the island was looked after by an agent, and then came a most picturesque possessor, Admiral Willian Fitz-William Owen, who acquired the right to the island by predicting the share of his brother, Sir Edward Campbell Rich Owen.

         The life of William Fitz-William Owen reads like a romance.  He led a sad life as a child, in barracks, but was finally removed to Wales by friends of his father, and there brought up.  When fourteen he went to an academy, where he absorbed mathematical knowledge sponge fashion, but learned little of religion, since instructions in that line, as he afterwards said, “consisted in going to church to talk with our fingers to the girls of a school who used the adjoining pew.”  In 1788 he became a midshipman in a line of battle ship, and for forty-three years remained in the service of the King, serving under every naval man of renown, and enjoying the friendship of Nelson.  At forty-four he married a Miss Evans of Welsh extraction.

         At the age of sixty-one, with the rank of admiral, he came to rule over Campobello, taking for his name and title, “The Quoddy -hermit.”  His house was erected where is now “The Oven,” he planted some English oaks near by, and not far off placed a portion of his beloved quarter deck on which he used often to parade in full uniform, recalling days of “Auld Lang Syne.”  Two cannon, which he had captured, he placed on the point, where they bid defiance to American fishing boats.  One of these cannon exploded a few years ago, the other was bought by Mr. Batson of Campobello, and placed in his store, where it still remains.  Under Admiral Owen’s care the population of the island increased in numbers and in prosperity.  He performed the marriage ceremony at church, or at his house, invariably claiming as his fee the first kiss from the lips of the bride.  He widened the roads and journeyed from place to place in the lumbering old stage coach which we visitors to the island are privileged to look at still.
         Admiral and Lady Owen lived in a stately manner, sitting down to a dinner of many courses, with officers from whatever ships chanced to be stationed near by, as guests.  The admiral’s religious notions were odd, and in his Sunday services he was apt to twist the services about. omitting all portions that didn’t accord with his belief.  He gave balls for the gentry and others for the tenants; he invited the latter to theatricals for which he composed songs, and unlike his predecessor, David Owen, he gladly sent tribute to the mother country of fine timbers designed for masts of war ships.  It is indeed difficult to think of anything the indefatigable admiral neglected, from establishing his own bank to setting up schools and an Episcopal Church.

         Admiral William Fitz-William Owen’s strange, pioneer, semi-royal career ended in 1857.  His burial on the island was an occasion for the display of deep sorrow by all his tenants, who buried him at even-tide with the sound of falling tears.  His children and grandchildren remained here until 1881, when the island was sold to an American syndicate.  As long as any of the Owen family lived here they were beneficent rulers and maintained a stately standard of manners and morals, the influence of which is deeply felt.  That tradition and fact still invest the name of Owen with great tenderness and homage was shown on July 10, 1890, when the great-grandson of the admiral visited Campobello, and was greeted with every possible mark of distinction.

        In 1882 the Ty’n-y-Coed was opened, and the annex a year later.  There are many fine cottages on the island, with a beautiful public library, and an attractive church hall and Sunday school building.  Besides journeying about, hunting up historic spots, I have found time to take a trip to Quoddy Lighthouse and life-saving station, where dwell brave men ever ready to venture into storm and sea in the hope of saving human life.  I have also gone to Eastport, both sight-seeing and shopping, more than once, and I have memories of a jolly camping out week at Meddy Bemps, where we caught all the bass and pickerel we could eat, and picked the sweetest blueberries we had ever eaten.

         The longest drive on the island is to Head Harbor, past Cold Spring, whence comes the deliciously cold water served at the table of the Ty’n-y-Coed; also past several hills which we paused to climb, thereby obtaining some charming views, both for memory to keep and for our snap-shot album to retain.  Oh, I cannot begin to name all the splendid trips we have taken.  We have only gone once to Herring Cove at night, to see the men driving the herring in certain boats, carrying bright lights, while others so manage the nets as to catch the fish that have been attracted by the blaze.  And, of course, I have seen Friar’s Head, about which there is an Indian legend, to effect that this stone manikin is really the petrified body of an Indian bride who was told to remain in that place until her husband returned.  And while visiting the remnant of the Passamaquoddy tribe of Indians, now found near Eastport, I have filled my notebook with many a quaint song and story.

         The island is fertile for the greater part, wild roses cover the fields with frail beauty, and there are other brilliant blossoms to make lovely the landscape besides the many cultivated posies, for Campobello folk are famously fond of flowers.  There are also some wild growths of great rarity, which appeal to the botanical collector.  Every year Campobello becomes better known, and one does not wonder after experiencing the excellent result that comes from a stay in its exhilarating climate.  And it is well to remember that the autumn is here as glorious a season as any, since the clearness of atmosphere and the changing tints of foliage compensate for slight loss in the balsamic fragrance and softness of coloring which mark early summer in Campobello.