Transcriber’s Notes.
Hyphenation has been standardised.
A Table of Contents has been created by the Transcriber and is
placed in the public domain.
Other changes made are noted at the end of the book.
Travels in Nova Scotia in the Year Nineteen Thirteen
Being a full, free and Authentic Record of Perilous Adventures and
Marvelous Escapes along the Deep Indentations and Rocky Points of the
Atlantic Coast of Western Nova Scotia. Made during the rain of his
Most Ungracious Majesty, Jupiter Pluvius I. And including the Personal
observations, views and deductions of a Traveler, seemingly well versed
in the art of placing one Foot before the other. Read and Learn what
his Travel hath brought forth.
A wind’s in the heart of me, a fire’s in my heels,
I am tired of brick and stone and rumbling wagon wheels;
I hunger for the sea’s edge, the limits of the land,
Where the wild old Atlantic is shouting on the sand.
_Masefield._
Travels in Nova Scotia in
the Year 1913
Containing Much That Is Curious Concerning the
Manners and Customs of the People :: The Stories
and Legends of the Southern Shore and Including
Short Excursions Into the History of the Country
BY
CHARLES GILBERT HINE
[Illustration]
HINE’S ANNUAL
1913
Table of Contents
Preface. 3
The South Coast of Nova Scotia. 10
Port Latour and Burchtown. 20
Shelburne and the Road to East Jordan. 27
Lockport and the Way to Liverpool. 35
Liverpool Port Medway and Beyond. 41
Petite Riviere and Dublin Shore. 51
Lunenburg and Mahone Bay. 60
Halifax and the Evangeline Country. 69
Epilogue. 81
Index. 82
PREFACE.
Nova Scotia was a sudden inspiration, induced by the enthusiasm of
a friend who had enjoyed a recent vacation here, and after some
correspondence with Nova Scotians who knew their country, I selected
the coast line between Yarmouth and Halifax.
The afternoon of October 12, 1913, saw me venturing forth from Boston
on the _Governor Cobb_. The day had been given over to much rain, but
ran dry late in the afternoon, and my hopes revived, though the evening
started somewhat unprofitably with the moon tucked away in the attic
of cloudland. And the following morning Jupiter Pluvius helped matters
distressfully, having refilled his tanks over night.
It is a simple thing to reach Nova Scotia from New York as I went, and
not expensive: Fall River Line to Boston, Yarmouth Line to Yarmouth. A
two weeks’ trip can easily be made for $75 or less.
My adventure started as a walking trip along the coast line, but
quickly resolved itself into a series of short walks punctuated
with railroad rides. Away from the coast all roads are wood roads,
bordered by spruces or other evergreens, picked out here and there
at this season of the year with a bit of vivid color where the frost
has touched the scrub maple or oak or an occasional white birch. The
shadows are deep and rich and cool, and the odors from pine and
hemlock a delicate perfume that is a constant joy, but there is little
variety in the outlook, as the woods usually close in on both sides
and, while by no means unattractive, the chief interest and beauty lie
along the shore--hence the variegated method of my travel.
If I grumble now and then let no one take it too seriously. Possibly I
was tired or hungry, or both--that always makes me cross--and then the
weather can easily account for some of my flings, for it was anything
but charming a goodly part of the time, wet and close--very close. I
larded the lean earth much of the way as even Falstaff might envy. The
east wind which held day after day brought many clouds and high fogs
which, with a slender mist that filled the air at times, assisted in
making many exquisite pictures that the camera did its best to take
advantage of, though many times with indifferent success. The east wind
also meant unsettled weather, but of persistent rain there was little
after the first day.
Of the towns which I saw Lockport particularly commended itself,
though Shelburne carries a quaint air of having once been, which could
easily make the visitor love it. Liverpool and Lunenburg also set out
attractions of their own, but it was the villages and little wayside
stopping places that were the chief delight, such as Port Latour, Port
Mouton, Hunts Point, Port Medway, Petite Riviere and the wonderful
stretches of Dublin Shore and Western Shore. I speak only of those I
saw.
In 1767 Lord William Campbell wrote that Nova Scotia has “more ports
of safety for ships of any burthen than any other province of America,
and almost at the entrance of these, inexhaustible mines of fish, which
furnish all Europe with that commodity, and ought to be the first
nursery of seamen to supply, as occasion may require, the British
navy.” In fact this southern coast is almost as regularly notched with
bays and inlets as is the deep-toothed timber saw.
Many of the smaller hotels give no outward indication that they are
such, but, when found, are apt to prove more inviting than those of
nobler bulk. Here, if one is damp, he may adjourn to the kitchen and
hang his coat near the fire, talk to the cook (who is usually the
landlady or a daughter of the house), and eat in his shirt sleeves
if so minded. A nice, friendly lot they are--good, honest people, to
whom it is a pleasure to be obliging. The only exception I met was at
Pubnico, where the landlady tried to bite my head off, but I adopted
General Washington’s famous Fabian policy and came out with a full
stomach and serene conscience, but I still feel sorry for her old man.
At this season there is much talk of moose and moose hunting. Listen a
moment to any group in hotel or on street corner and one is reasonably
sure to learn how impossible it was for any man to have made a
successful shot under the circumstances, or what a wonderfully clever
shot it really was. The result guides the conversation.
Everywhere I found pleasant, kindly people, and came to the conclusion
that the Nova Scotia coat of arms should consist of a smiling face and
welcoming hand.
One particularly commendable feature of the country from the point of
view of the man on foot is the scarcity of automobiles. They do have
them, but they are few and far between. Outside of Yarmouth and Halifax
I did not see one during my two weeks’ exploration. It is no trouble to
dodge an ox cart, and one is never surprised into a sudden dash for the
brush by an unexpected toot in the rear.
The roads are good dirt roads and, so far as my observation went, never
deeply rutted, but I presume they are not what an automobile enthusiast
would regard as even fair, and it is probable that there will be no
change so long as the ox is universally used for hauling, as his feet
with their thin shoes would hardly stand the unelastic stone road.
“Acadia” is spelled in different ways. I do not cling to any one
spelling, but have rather endeavored to follow the spelling used at the
time which happens to be under discussion in the narrative.
Samuel de Champlain has described the coast of my travels, but begins
at Lahave and works west, and as I was bound to the east’ard he cannot
well be followed through the course of the narrative; so, as his
description is interesting, it is included here. He says:--
“Cape de la Héve, is a place where there is a bay, where are several
islands covered with fir trees, and the main land with oaks, elms and
birches. It is on the shore of Acadie. * * * Seven leagues from this,
is another called le Port au mouton, where are two small rivers. The
land is very stony, covered with underwood and bushes. There is a
quantity of rabbits and much game on account of the ponds there. Going
along the coast there is also a harbor very good for vessels, and the
head of it a little river which runs from a distance inland, which I
named the port of cape Negre, on account of a rock which at a distance
resembles one, which is raised above the water near a cape that we
passed the same day, four leagues from it and ten to port au mouton.
This cape is very dangerous on account of the rocks around it. The
coasts thus far are very low, covered with the same kind of wood as
cape de la Héve, and the islands all full of game. Going further on we
passed a night in Sable bay where vessels can lie at anchor without any
fear of danger. Cape Sable, distant two full leagues from Sable bay,
is also very dangerous for certain rocks and reefs lying out a mile
almost to sea. Thence one goes on the isle aux cormorants, a league
distant, so called on account of the infinite number there of these
birds, with whose eggs we filled a cask, and from this island making
westwardly about six leagues, crossing a bay which runs in two or
three leagues to the northward, we meet several islands, two or three
leagues to sea, which may contain some two others three leagues and
others less according to my judgment. They are mostly very dangerous
for large vessels to come close to on account of the great tides and
rocks level with the water. These islands are filled with pine trees,
firs, birches and aspens. A little further on are four others. In one
there is so great a quantity of birds called tangueux, that they may
be easily knocked down with a stick. In another there are seals. In
two others there is such an abundance of birds of different kinds, that
without having seen them could not be imagined, such as cormorants,
ducks of three kinds, geese, marmettes, bustards, perroquets de mer,
snipes, vultures, and other birds of prey, mauves, sea larks of two
or three kinds, herons, goillants, curlews, sea gulls, divers, kites,
appoils, crows, cranes, and other sorts, which make their nests there.
I gave them the name of the Seal islands. They are distant from the
main land or cape Sable four or five leagues. Thence we go on to a cape
which I called the port Fourchu (Forked harbor) inasmuch as its figure
is so, being five or six leagues distant from Seal islands. This harbor
(Yarmouth?) is very good for vessels in its entrance but further up
it is almost all dry at low tide with the exception of the course of
a small river, all surrounded by meadows which renders the place very
agreeable.”
Champlain again describes the coast from Lahave eastward:--
“From leaving cape de la Héve until you reach Sesambre (Sambro), which
is an island so called by some Mallouins, fifteen leagues distant from
La Héve, there are to be found on the way a quantity of islands, which
we have named “the Martyrs” on account of some Frenchmen killed by the
Indians. These islands are in general cul de sacs and bays, in one of
which there is a river called Sainte Margueritte, seven leagues distant
from Sesambre. The islands and shores are full of pines, firs, birches,
and other inferior timber. The catch of fish there is abundant, and
so is the quantity of birds. From Sesambre we passed a very safe bay
(Chebucto?), containing seven or eight leagues, where there are no
islands in the route except at the head of it, where there is a small
river.”
THE SOUTH COAST OF NOVA SCOTIA
LAND OF ROMANCE AND MYSTERY
YARMOUTH TO BARRINGTON.
I have a very proper cousin in the West who, when it was announced to a
waiting world that my precious person was to be intrusted to the great
deep, hastily sent on the following incident in the life of one who had
preceded me:
The facts in the case were about as follows--Mr. Smith was to make
his first trip abroad and, having heard much concerning that grievous
malady of the sea which is usually a matter for ribald jest on the
part of those kind friends not afflicted, he concluded to consult a
physician. This learned gentleman advised that, “For a few days before
setting out, eat heartily of everything you enjoy; eat abundantly.”
This did not quite agree with his preconceived notions, and he
concluded to see another doctor, who advised, “For a few days before
you go eat sparingly, almost starve yourself.” Wholly at sea now,
he called in a third man of medicine, who stated, “Both are right;
it depends entirely on whether you wish to discard from strength or
weakness.” I went to neither extreme myself and, the sea being calm,
suffered no harm.
The only real fault I have to find with this trip is that too much was
attempted. Yarmouth to Halifax does not look like a great distance on
the map, and consequently I looked up the story of that section, to
discover so many items of interest strewn along the deep indentations
of this rugged coast that it seemed highly improper to allow any to
pass by unobserved. But while a straight line between the two points is
not appalling, to follow the coast line is much like attempting a trip
from the Hudson at Forty-second street to the opposite point on the
East River by way of the Battery.
I doubt the wisdom of one in my frame of mind spending an entire day
in one town--it was the open road that beckoned. But a day had been
set apart for Yarmouth, and as this particular one was never intended
for such a pleasure exertion as mine, owing to its moist condition, it
seems probable that I had planned better than I knew.
The history of Yarmouth appears to have been rather uneventful, but
the public library contains an interesting relic of prehistoric times
in a runic stone discovered on the west side of the harbor about 1815
by a Doctor Fletcher, and which the antiquarians after much labor have
translated as “Harko’s son addressed the men.” The records show that in
1007 the Norsemen made an expedition along this coast, and one Harki
is mentioned therein, and this and a somewhat similar stone found in
the same general locality in 1897 are supposed to commemorate some
important event of that trip. Nothing more is known. The stones when
discovered were lying face down in the mud; but for this the action of
the elements would have effaced the lettering during the nine hundred
years that have passed since the work was done.
I called on J. Bond Gray, Secretary of the Tourist Committee of the
Yarmouth Board of Trade, with whom some previous correspondence had
been held, and on his advice covered the first nineteen miles, to
Argyle, by rail. Mr. Gray was courteous and pleasant, but in this he
but follows the custom of the land where courtesy is as much a matter
of course as is the glacial boulder. While on this subject I cannot
overlook A. L. Nickerson, station agent. I unfolded to him my great and
consuming desire for a timetable, as I expected to fall back on the
railroad with more or less frequency. He had none, but appreciating
the situation, said he would do what he could, and during the day he
telegraphed to headquarters in the expectation of receiving a copy.
That he was not successful was no fault of his, and as a last resort he
made a suggestion that enabled me to secure a copy at another point.
This proved to be the almost universal spirit of the people throughout
the excursion.
The walking actually began on October 14th. The rain had made desperate
efforts during the greater part of the preceding night to wash Nova
Scotia off the map, and when I alighted from the train at Argyle at
7:54, the morning was still highly charged with moisture. To the great
wonderment of a gentleman who was spending a quiet hour with the depot
stove I harnessed up and, throwing a rubber cape over my shoulders, set
forth.
Once out in the storm the experience was more than pleasant. The
smell of the fresh dampness was delicious, and there was a certain
exclusiveness in having the highway all to one’s self that was far
from unattractive, while the cleansing which the wayside foliage had
undergone made even the frost-bitten ferns a rich, warm brown.
Of the entire distance to Pubnico, ten miles, the spot that best
pleased my eye is to be located by the first church steeple after
leaving the Argyle station. The small settlement lies close upon the
water at the head of an inlet filled with beautiful little islands. But
all the way through Lower Argyle the eye is filled with Argyle Sound
and its many islets.
By 10:30 the drizzle was drizzling less and less, and at one time
it seemed as though the sun might get the better of the situation.
A short walk through what had once been woods, but now is little
better than waste land, brought me to Pubnico and the head of Pubnico
Harbor. By this time my rubber cape had been shed, when the discovery
was made that it was more in the nature of a sieve, as it was quite
as wet inside as out, and that damp feeling which I had supposed was
honest sweat turned out to be nothing but rainwater. It was quite as
penetratingly wet, however.
Pubnico claims to be the oldest Acadian settlement in Nova Scotia,
having been planted by D’Entrement in 1650. After the expulsion some
of the exiles returned, and the region is still peopled by their
descendants, it being commonly known as the “French Shore.” The houses
give no indication of age, and there is no outward sign to suggest an
old-settled place. Here, as elsewhere, I saw no indications of extreme
poverty; the farms are of little value, but the fisheries supply every
need. The various nationalities do not mix and disappear in this land
as with us. While all speak the English language the French are still
French; the Germans, German and the Scotch, Scotch. This is so even
where several generations have been born here.
I presented myself at Goodwin’s Hotel, Pubnico, about 11:30 a. m., and
found the lady of the house as cross as two sticks; if it was dinner
that was wanted it would be ready at 12:30, and I could wait for it.
Could I have some bread and milk? No! it took time to get it. She was
as sour an old party as has crossed my path in many a day, and my heart
goes out to any who may fall under her spell.
However, the intervening hour gave an opportunity to drape myself and
clothes around the parlor stove, and as I discovered a local history,
the time was not counted lost.
As I took up the task of searching out East Pubnico there were to be
seen hints of blue in the upper regions of the air, and it looked
as though something better was in store for the afternoon. Shortly
the camera came on an ox cart and two boys, and we stopped to get
acquainted. It turned out that their motive power was known as “Spark,”
and there seems to be no doubt but that he is the live wire of the
region, as I was reliably informed that he can make three miles an hour
under favoring conditions.
At East Pubnico two ways were open: one through the nine mile woods,
the other around the shore, some twenty-two miles, and as time was an
object and my sailing directions did not show any stories connected
with this portion of the shore, I picked the former. It proved to be
nine miles without a house or clearing, or even a crossroad--one ox
team, one light wagon, one bunch of stray cattle and a few partridges
composed all the life I saw. It was a rather desolate region, some
large burned tracts, but most of it given over to brush and small
trees, with an occasional lake in the distance. It is said that deer
are common along this road and moose occasional, but I did not have the
good fortune to see any.
For a pair of antiquated and out-of-practice legs such as I had with
me, nine miles added to an earlier thirteen, began to appear like
something of an undertaking as the afternoon wore on, and I communed
with myself as to just why my running gear was being pushed at such a
furious pace, and this a holiday, but did not learn much of interest
except that there I was and thence I must.
Some time later my knees began to squeak and a warm spot appeared on
a little toe, but just at this juncture a house swung into view and I
knew Oak Park was nigh.
It was heartrending to learn that they did not and would not take
boarders, and that the only man who did in those parts lived a half
mile further on. No amount of looking pleasant had the least effect,
and I must compromise on a glass of water, which my dry and withered
interior sadly needed. Testing my knees gently and finding that they
would bend without breaking, and that my feet could be lifted and
pushed forward if care were exercised, the journey was again taken up;
but why linger further on the sad scene?
Mr. Charles M. Crowell was counting his chickens when I arrived. He
did not know whether I could stay the night or not; the old woman had
the say on such subjects, and she had gone to see a sister. I said
that I would go in and sit down to wait. The kitchen seemed the warm
spot, and I snuggled up to the stove and was having a nice, comfortable
time when my host dropped in and remarked that there was no fire in
the stove. However, if I wanted one, it was no trouble, and soon there
was a roaring blaze and I began to steam. When one has been sweating
for hours it is a great comfort to sit close by a fire as the cool
of evening comes on, although it seems quite evident that a good
imagination can be a wonderful aid to comfort. As the poet has said:
“There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.”
Seven o’clock came and went and the better half of the Crowell family
was still absent. I had in the meantime become intimate with two ginger
cookies which, having been overbrowned in the making, were left on
the kitchen table, but felt that a hard worker like myself could not
live on ginger cookies alone, at least not on two, and made no attempt
to disguise my joy when my hospitable friend supposed I would like
something to eat. He made tea and gathered up various cold fragments of
pie and cookies, bread and apple-sauce, and we did very well.
The missis came along about nine o’clock, and shortly thereafter I was
dreaming that little devils were twisting my legs off.
When it was time to depart on the following morning Mrs. Crowell
thought that fifty cents would be sufficient as the meals had not been
very substantial, which was true enough, but the room was clean and my
host and hostess were kindly people, and so far as I was able to judge
the food was sustaining.
The two and one-half miles into Barrington were without incident,
except for a strange bird that crossed my path. It was not a partridge,
nor was it any ordinary escape from the barnyard. It stood as though
its usual occupation was looking for berries rather than worms, and
walked with a dignity that the domestic hen never possessed.
It is claimed for the old meeting house in Barrington (1765) that it
is the only church in Canada of its age that has been retained in its
original form inside and out; others that remain have been altered and
built over until little or nothing is left of the original. This only
escaped destruction by a narrow margin, as some time in the eighties
the Legislature decreed that the building should be demolished, owing
to its dangerous condition. But local pride came to its aid at the last
moment, and by the application of two or three hundred dollars where
most needed, it was put in good repair, and at the present time two
denominations worship every Sunday within its old fashioned box pews.
Some eighty families from Nantucket and Cape Cod emigrated to this
place between the years 1761 to 1763; about half remained to form a
permanent settlement. Work was probably commenced on the church shortly
after, as by 1765 the building was finished and dedicated. With the
first settlers came Samuel Wood, a Congregational pastor. He held
services here and at other points along the shore as far as Yarmouth,
but when the Revolution broke out, returned to his former home and
became a chaplain in the American army.
In the meantime, about 1770, the New York Methodist Conference sent
Freeborn Garretson to this region to proselyte. He was received but
coldly, however, though permitted to preach in the meeting house.
He failed entirely to win any converts to his cause, and finally
withdrew to the woods to commune with his Maker. While offering up his
supplications for light and guidance he was overheard by some of the
people, and these, spreading the report abroad, aroused much curiosity
which led to a considerable attendance when a second meeting was held.
It does not appear, however, that any were deeply impressed.
After those attending the meeting had returned to their homes a Mrs.
Homer asked her less hospitable half where the minister was stopping,
and on being informed that he did not know, she took a lantern and went
forth to seek him. Either through thoughtlessness, or because none was
quite brave enough to take this expounder of a strange religion to his
home, Mrs. Homer found him at the meeting house in the act of spreading
his surtout on the floor for a couch. The good lady brought him to her
home and later became his first convert.
All this I have from one who evidently takes a great interest in the
church, but whose name has fallen out of its proper brain cell and been
lost.
Other annals have I none.
At Barrington I made my home at a large square house just east of the
livery stable, rather than at the hotel. The place was clean, and the
meals were good; the hot muffins were worthy of a poet’s pen. The house
was full, chiefly of commercial men, which would seem to indicate what
they thought of the situation.
I was given the last vacant room, but there came one after me also
seeking lodging, whereupon the landlady turned to me with the remark
that I was his only hope, as there were two beds in my room. I did as
I would have had him do had the situation been reversed, and found
no occasion for regret. He was a very earnest gentleman, and amusing
withal, much given to conversation not wholly instructive, though
I did learn that silk socks were better for tired feet than is the
more plebian cotton article. I was so unfortunate as not to secure my
companion’s name, but ascertained that when not devoting his time to
greatly increasing the fortunes of the firm for which he traveled he
resides on the farm of his mother in Yarmouth.
PORT LATOUR AND BURCHTOWN.
Even this early I clearly saw that to walk all the coast line between
Yarmouth and Halifax could not be done at my leisurely three miles
or less per hour. It is three miles when no pictures intervene or
no friendly Nova Scotian comes along with a ghost story or tale of
the seas: Under such circumstances time is not of the essence of the
contract.
It was necessary to visit Port Latour, as here were the ruins of an
old fort to be photographed, and when I saw “Livery Stable” writ large
across a Barrington barn, there came the thought that this was a Heaven
sent opportunity to economize time, the twenty miles to Port Latour and
back could be more easily accomplished and abundant time remain for the
visit. But no one was about the stable. A call on a neighboring house
elicited the information that the livery man was driving a commercial
individual to some far hamlet, while his chief and only understudy was
employed in like manner in another direction. Finally a man was found
on the road who thought he could harness the one horse left, but when
it came to a conveyance he hesitated. Of the two on hand one was new
and undefiled, the other freshly painted, so he suggested that I take
his open wagon, as mud could not harm it, and the horse was led to his
barn, where the operation of hitching up was completed. No credentials
on my part appeared to be necessary, not even my name was asked, nor
did I ask the price until evening came, when I learned that the charge
was $1.50 for the day.
The road follows the shore of Barrington Bay as far as Villagedale
(formerly Solid Rock), then crosses to the eastern side of the point
where reposes Port Latour. The morning was full of sunshine, the
spruces and hemlocks made strong shadows against the high lights of the
sun illumined landscape, while many pleasant views over Barrington Bay
charmed the hours away.
Solid Rock (not the village, but the rock) is possibly two-thirds of
the ten miles to Port Latour, and must be inquired for to be found, as
the spot lies on the shore a quarter mile from the road and across a
farm. It is merely a group of unusually large granite boulders against
which the waves break, the surroundings are extremely beautiful and
a rugged lane that covers part of the distance is captivating in its
primitive simplicity. In itself it was worth the entire trip. Words
would be a mere catalogue of its component parts; they cannot describe
it as it appeared on that brilliant afternoon when the depths of the
hemlock shadows were almost black.
My acquaintance with the Latour House is confined to a dinner, and I
know not what the rooms are like. But I know what the people are like
and that, with the dinner to back them, is enough. William B. Crowell,
the proprietor, unharnessed my horse, put him in the stable and gave
him a feed of hay, and when I wished to return walked a long quarter
mile from his boatshop to harness up, and all he wanted was ten cents
for the hay. I only had five cents and a quarter; he had no change, and
positively refusing the quarter, accepted the smaller coin perfectly
satisfied that he had done the proper thing, and his wife who runs the
house may still be his better half. Her chicken dinner was good right
down to the last mouthful, the charge was but thirty-five cents, and I
could not force a half dollar on her.
A pleasant, friendly, unmercenary spirit seems to be the usual thing
throughout this coast region of Nova Scotia.
This village is charmingly simple, inhabited by a race of sailormen
with whom it is not difficult to become acquainted, the Atlantic coast
is at the door, and I have no doubt but that a week here would pass as
a puff of steam on a dry day.
Now for our history. Claude Turgis de Sainte Etienne, Sieur de la
Tour and his son Charles de la Tour left France in 1606, when the son
was fourteen years of age, to mend their fortunes in the new world.
After one Argal ravaged these coasts in 1613 and destroyed the French
settlements, Charles attached himself to one Biencourt and lived with
him among the Indians. Biencourt, when dying, bequeathed to Charles his
rights in Port Royal (now Annapolis), and named him as successor in
command. This is 1623.
During the next four years Charles lived in Fort Saint Louis at Cape
Sable on a harbor called Port Lomeron (or L’Omeroy), now Port Latour.
About 1625-6 Charles wrote to Louis XIII., asking to be appointed
commandant in all the coasts of Acadie. This letter was intrusted to
the father, Claude, who started for France, but on the way was captured
and carried to England. Claude was a Huguenot, and in London met others
of like faith. These persuaded him to renounce France and take up the
cause of England. He married an English woman, was made a Baronet of
Nova Scotia, receiving a like honor for his son, and engaged to deliver
to England Fort Saint Louis, then being held by Charles for France.
With this object in view two men-of-war were fitted out for him, and
with his wife he turned his face toward the new world once more.
Arriving (1627) Claude landed and presented his case to the son in the
full assurance that the latter would promptly accept the situation
and the new honors which would flow therefrom, but Charles seems to
have been only half La Tour, the other half, much the better, probably
represented his mother, and he confounded his father with the following
melodramatic effusion:--
“If those who sent you on this errand think me capable of betraying
my country, even at the solicitation of a parent, they have greatly
mistaken me. I am not disposed to purchase the honors now offered me
by committing a crime. I do not undervalue the proffer of the King
of England; but the Prince in whose service I am is quite able to
reward me; and whether he does so or not, the inward consciousness of
my fidelity to him will be in itself a recompense to me. The King of
France has confided the defense of this place to me. I shall maintain
it, if attacked, till my latest breath.”
Claude then threatened the obstinate boy and finally attacked the
fort, but Charles defended his post with such success that the English
commanding officer, who had not counted on resistance, having lost
several of his best soldiers, informed Claude that he would abandon the
siege.
William E. Smith of Port Latour, whose ancestors have dwelt here for
many generations, told me that an older member of the family who died
some years ago, and who knew much of the early history of the region,
had stated that Claude La Tour at first attacked the fort from his
ships, and being unsuccessful in this, sailed around into Barrington
Bay, where he landed his men at or near Solid Rock, and marched them
across to attack the fort in the rear.
A small, swampy strip immediately north of the fort is said to have
been caused by the digging of a trench in which those who fell in the
battle were buried.
Claude was placed in a most embarrassing position. He could not well
return to England, much less to France. He had no money or men, and
the only course left to him was to appeal to his son’s clemency. He
presented the situation to his wife and suggested that she return to
England, but she preferred to accept what might come to her husband.
Claude then applied to his son for permission to live in Acadie, which
appears to have been readily granted, but it was stipulated that
neither he nor his wife were to come into the fort, though Charles
gave his word that neither should want for anything.
The terms were hard, but there was no alternative and, with the
permission of the English commander, Claude and his wife and servants
disembarked with all their belongings and the two vessels returned to
England. Charles caused a suitable house to be erected at some distance
from the fort and took care of their maintenance. M. Denys relates that
he found them there in 1635, and that they were well off.
The story seems to have been patched together from several accounts
of the settlements along this coast which differ in some details. One
account states that after the battle Claude sailed to Port Royal and
came back later at the invitation of Charles, who hoped to persuade his
father to break his alliance with England and tell what he knew of the
condition of the English. And, having now no great expectations from
his adopted country, Claude accepted the invitation and told Charles
that the English were preparing to capture his fort. On this the La
Tours and other Frenchmen took council among themselves and decided to
form a settlement at the mouth of the St. John River, Claude to command
there and Charles to continue at his old post.
At the time of the expulsion, 1755, the fort was destroyed and the
village wiped out. And to-day nothing remains but a few grass grown
mounds. These have been excavated to some extent, but nothing was found
beyond a few clay pipes and other matters of small moment. Those of
the Acadians who wandered back after the expulsion are said to have
established themselves in Pubnico.
That my time should be used to the best advantage, a train was taken
at Barrington for Burchtown, originally a settlement of colored people
who escaped into the English lines in New York during the Revolution.
This lies some seven miles west of Shelburne; these miles are chiefly
through woods, much of which has been desolated by forest fires, and
looks as forlorn as a tramp attempting to shut out the winter winds
with a covering of newspapers. It was a pleasant change to come out on
the Roseway River, even though this meant sawmills, which are eating
the heart out of the woodlands.
SHELBURNE AND THE ROAD TO EAST JORDAN.
Shelburne has a history that is peculiarly interesting to the people of
the United States, as it was settled by Loyalist refugees immediately
after the Revolutionary War.
Colonel Alexander McNutt about 1765 secured a grant of land at Port
Razoir, and arrived from Ireland with about three hundred settlers.
He called the place New Jerusalem, but Colonel McNutt seems to have
been an obstreperous gentleman and his little settlement was in almost
constant hot water, and within a short time boiled down to a small
residuum.
In the year 1782 one hundred heads of families in New York,
sympathizers with the English cause, bound themselves to settle in
Nova Scotia. These were led to believe that the city which they were
to establish would become the capital of the Province, and many men of
wealth and position were among them. All were respectable; no family
was admitted unless some member could vouch for its good reputation.
Within a year four hundred and seventy heads of families had signed and
on May 4, 1783, eighteen brigs and many schooners dropped anchor off
New Jerusalem and landed five thousand persons.
On July 20th Governor Parr arrived at the new settlement and, having
landed, proceeded up King street to the place appointed for his
reception. This may have been what is now known as the “Governor’s
House,” as it is said to be so called because some Governor made
a speech from its steps. Here he made a short address in which he
signified his intention of calling the place Shelburne. On the 23d he
dined in the house of Justice Robertson with the principal inhabitants.
About September a second hegira of Loyalists arrived from New York.
Many of these were undesirable characters who lowered the tone of the
place greatly. Others followed, and within a short time there were
sixteen thousand inhabitants settled here, nine thousand of which
drew government rations. At the end of four years the government
rations ceased, and as the place could not support so many, it began
to dwindle. In 1798 a storm which destroyed wharves and shipping made
matters worse, and by 1818 Shelburne was reduced to three hundred
inhabitants.
About 1855 ship-building began to be an important industry, and the
place took an upward turn. In 1864 an academy was built, but the day
of the wooden ship is passing, and while Shelburne still has two small
yards where fishermen are built, the town has dwindled again and is
now a delightfully sleepy old place where one can lounge on a box at
the smithy door or on a bit of timber near some growing fisherman and
harken if he will to tales of the good old times.
On the way into Shelburne I passed a beautiful clump of goldenrod
whose waiting seed vessels were as a halo in the bright sunlight, and
shortly after turning the corner came upon the picturesque disorder
of a shipyard framed between the stubs of willows whose aged trunks
suggested that they might date back two hundred years. The scene
aroused huge anticipations in the breast of the camera.
After a dinner in the Atlantic House I proceeded to ask questions of
such as were gathered in the hotel office concerning the town. One
of those present offered to pilot me about, and we ventured forth
together. The Governor’s House is still standing on King street; the
only other old house that my guide seemed to know of is the “Thompson”
house. When it was built or by whom I did not learn, but it is supposed
to have been erected at an early period, as the walls of the lower
story are solid wood, some six or eight inches in thickness, presumably
made so for defensive purposes.
Being left to my own guidance I naturally selected the waterfront,
where quite soon was discovered a boat shop that was at the moment
turning out dories, presumably part of the equipment of a fishing
schooner, the hull of which was nearing completion in an adjoining
shipyard.
The weather conditions were ideal for pictorial effects. A sky filled
with damp clouds and a misty atmosphere that graduated the distance
lent themselves to some beautiful and striking pictures; particularly
was this so when the clouds thinned and the sun almost broke through.
The east wind was very successful as a scene-shifter, rumpling the
water in a gentle way while pushing the cloud masses on and off as they
were needed.
My travels finally brought me to the blacksmith’s shop of one who is
now living on the fruit of his earlier industry. In the long ago he
cared for the feet of the stagecoach horses, and as they had a way of
wanting to be shod at all hours of the day and night, the mighty man
worked overtime more often than not. Now he directs while others do the
heavy work, or stands at the door of his shop and entertains callers.
As I stood here helping to shoe an ox the “cow-reeve” passed. This is
a duly elected official of the town in whom is vested authority to
comprehend all “vagrom” cows that may be leading too gay an existence
in the streets of Shelburne. These he removes to the pound and shares
with the poundmaster such emolument as comes from the sad faced owner
of the segregated cow.
As the “cow-reeve” passed there was a great flood of strong language
from those idling about, from which I gathered that he was not the
most popular man in town; in fact he was more than once invited to go
where only the bad are supposed to abide--not conscientious officials
who do their duty. It was further suggested that if he desired to have
the contour of his nose or other features altered he should attempt to
interfere with the oxen awaiting in the open street the attentions of
the blacksmith, but he, being a man of peace, opened not his mouth.
And it was thus that I discovered what a “cow-reeve” was. It seems that
this official in his zeal for the public good had, a few days before,
attempted to uphold the majesty of the law as against the owners of
certain oxen, but when the said owners charged on him he discreetly
withdrew.
Shoeing an ox is somewhat more complicated and tedious than shooing a
hen, but the effects are more lasting. A strong cage is constructed
that no ox may break down; the animal is then coaxed within with much
noise and slapping, bars are closed on his neck, a heavy cloth is
passed beneath the body, one end being pulled aft between his legs.
This end and the side are then attached to windlasses which are set up
until the ox might easily suppose he is being fitted with a new pair of
corsets. The hoof to be shod is next strapped securely to a block, and
the incumbent is about as helpless as the first Frenchman in the ditch
at Waterloo. After that the shoeing is a mere detail.
The only milestone that I observed during the trip intimated broadly
that the miles were twenty-one between Shelburne and Lockport, but
I am inclined to believe it somewhat less; for instance, I had only
joggled six miles out of the pedometer at Jordan, while those of the
neighborhood called it seven. It may be that some time someone in
authority has said, “Let there be seven,” and it was seven. All day the
pedometer fell just a little short of the local figures.
At Jordan I met three children homing from school, and with _Venator_,
Izaak Walton’s chance acquaintance, could have said, “We are all so
happy as to have a fine, fresh, cool morning, and I hope we shall
each be the happier in the other’s company. And that I may not lose
yours, I shall either abate or amend my pace to enjoy it, knowing
that as the Italians say, ‘Good company in a journey makes the way to
seem the shorter.’” It seemed that teacher had gone to her home for
Thanksgiving, which occurs in this land on October 20th, and as there
is but one train each day and that chanced along some time before noon,
the natural consequence was that school was dismissed at an early hour.
We discoursed of many things of mutual interest: The surprising fact
that in the far country from which I came Thanksgiving does not occur
until late in November; the joys of skating; apples; the bumps one
receives in this naughty world, this being somewhat personal to the
small boy of the party, who had but recently fallen on stony ground
and was at the moment nursing a swollen lip. The scene of the accident
being near at hand we stepped one side to view it and, having found
the identical stone that proved so hard, proceeded on our way. They
were quite as ready to be friendly as I, and accepted the stranger as a
matter of course without wonder, and made no attempt to learn why I was
as I was; we had our little jokes and our hearty laughs and walked thus
together for perhaps half a mile, and I think were none the worse for a
little light conversation.
At East Jordan I pulled up at the house of Munroe with a hopeful
expression on my countenance, and was told by the mistress of the house
that she would do the best she could. This consisted of bread and
butter, pickled beets, milk and two kinds of cookies, was filling and,
so far as I have been able to judge, nourishing.
Mrs. Munroe has thirteen to look after, and at the time was cooking
enough to last most of them a week in the woods, where they will cut
pulpwood. Norma, the eldest of eleven, is now a trained nurse in
Boston, and earns $25 each week. The local doctor says there is not
another girl in the county with as little education as she had a chance
to secure who could have passed the examination. “You know the eldest
child in a large family does not have great opportunity for education.”
Norma spent three weeks at home last summer, but could not stand it
longer. A smart little shower passed to the westward while the lunch
was being disposed of, the only one that occurred during the day.
My course from East Jordan lay through woods; one glimpse over the
head of Green Harbor was the only variation. If one can judge by the
names of places the people here have no great inventive faculty. For
instance, the five towns on Jordan Bay are Jordan, Jordan Ferry, Jordan
Bay, Lower Jordan Bay and East Jordan.
The ox, which is the common carrier of this region, is seen everywhere
on the road, always harnessed to a yoke which is fitted around the
horns so that all the pull comes on the neck. The Biblical injunction,
“Be ye not stiff necked as your fathers were” would never do for Nova
Scotian oxen, whose value would be greatly lessened were they other
than stiff necked as their fathers were. Their beautiful, great,
soft eyes indicate a habit of thought that would hardly make them
entertaining companions, but they accomplish much heavy hauling.
One has much time to moralize thusly while plodding along the wood
roads that for the most part offer little to the imagination, unless
a partridge whirrs up and over the treetops or scurries through the
brush, as sometimes occurs.
One who picked me up about two miles out of Lockport and regaled
me with much talk by the way, had somewhat to say concerning his
father-in-law, a native of these parts, but to his way of thinking made
of a superior brand of clay.
During the days of the Fenian raid along in the sixties, when all up
and down the coast there was much excitement, a stranger appeared on
this shore against whom the people with one accord shut their doors,
dreading they knew not what. After being rebuffed at several houses
he finally sought shelter with father-in-law who, fearing nothing,
promptly took him in and learned in the course of time that the
visitor was of Prince Edward Island, that his brother-in-law had been
arrested for smuggling, and that he was the only witness against him.
If he could keep in hiding until after the trial there could be no
conviction, and as his host had little sympathy with government efforts
to suppress the illicit traffic, the stranger was kept within his gates
until he could safely return unto his own people. Ever after when he of
the sheltering hand visited the home land of the former refugee, he was
received with open arms and entertained with the best.
LOCKPORT AND THE WAY TO LIVERPOOL.
At Lockport I put up at Mrs. Mack’s “New Hillcrest,” from which it is
but “two minutes’ walk to the celebrated Lockport beach,” a pebbly,
crescent shaped stretch, where the waves break well out, owing to the
shoal water.
Mrs. Mack is a large success from the point of view of the traveler.
Here I had the best supper of the entire trip, oyster stew and roast
chicken, each in perfection, and was told by one who had spent three
weeks under her hospitable roof that it was always the same. On
entering the house there is a pleasant home air that is charming. That
her place is full all summer, and that she rooms large numbers outside,
is the logical result of her methods.
The day was very dull and the light none too good for the camera, but
after leaving my excess baggage with my hostess, I soon found the way
to the cold storage dock where fishermen were preparing signals and
buoys for an expedition to the Banks. The slip was well filled with
small vessels; fishermen, judging from the dories and trawl tubs nested
on their decks, and the activity was interesting to a layman, but owing
to weather conditions the camera did not enthuse much.