PICTOU AND NEW GLASGOW
Old Scotland has no advantage over New Scotland
in the matter of coal. My first introduction to Nova
Scotia’s coal was made at Stellarton, in what are called
the Pictou coal-fields. Coal has been mined hereabouts for
upwards of a century, and one of the very earliest railways
on the Continent was that built from the Albion mine to
Pictou Landing, six miles away. That was in 1836-39.
The promoters of this miniature line of rail showed considerable
prescience in building it of a width then considered
unusual, but which has since come to be the “standard
gauge.” Stephenson’s rival, Hackworth, built the first
engine used thereupon for over forty years, and now considered
a great curiosity. It was shown at the World’s
Fair, Chicago, and later at St. Louis.
About 1825 an English company received, under certain
terms from the Crown, the right of working mines and
minerals in Nova Scotia, and this company shortly thereafter
commenced spirited operations both at Pictou and at Sydney
in Cape Breton, restricting themselves to coal-mines and
iron works from imported material. Previously coal came
chiefly from surface pits, and was of inferior quality.
“The principal shaft,” we read in the original prospectus
of the company, “has been sunk to the depth of two
hundred and fifty feet below the surface, and steam power
has been applied for the usual purposes of draining and of
raising minerals. The veins of coal laid open by this procedure
are of a quality much superior to those formerly
discovered. The coal is overlaid by a decayed blackish
shale; it is of jet-black colour, and contains a large proportion
of bitumen. Excellent coke is made from it, and
for the furnace it is highly esteemed. The Cape Breton coal
is preferred for household use on account of its producing
less of the white or brown ashes than that of Pictou.”
The lease was granted to the company for sixty years
to work all minerals belonging to the Crown, save in such
tracks as had already been reserved to others. One of these
was then worked by the Annapolis Iron Company, which
was in fact the only competitor of the General Mining
Association. It was then, eighty years ago, observed that
the mining industry was proving of greater apparent benefit
to the valley of the East River than upon Pictou Town.
“Good roads, increase of settlement, numerous waggons
and horses where none were previously kept, and a market
well supplied where none formerly existed, are outward and
visible signs indicative of the neighbourhood of two hundred
well-paid beef-eating and porter-drinking operatives.”
The result being then foreshadowed, New Glasgow and
Stellarton sprang into being formidable rivals to Pictou,
which, from its marine situation, has been almost side-tracked
by the railway. Other mines flourish in these parts,
such as the Drummond and Acadia Collieries in Westville,
and the Vale Colliery at Thorburn. But the character of
the mines is the same here on this side of the Atlantic as
that which depressed the soul of John Ruskin and gladdened
the heart of Samuel Smiles.
Stay! I think this statement required some qualification.
It would be manifestly unfair not to take notice
of the system here inaugurated by which so many of the
miners—nearly all the married ones—own their own homes.
And there is even an effort, and by the miners themselves,
that these homes shall be tasteful within and without, and
that each shall have his garden. Nothing has ever struck
me so forcibly when perambulating the mining districts of
the Black Country of Wales as the indifference with which
men, immured for at least a third of their lives in the
darksome bowels of the earth, regard the amenities of the
home and its surroundings of lawn and flower and vine.
More passionately because of their long deprivation would
one expect them to cling to the superterrene light and
colour of life, and the _res pulchra domi_. Far otherwise is it,
and all the more refreshing to see here a brawny Cornishman
hurrying from the pit, and after washing the grime from
his face and hands, employ the remaining hour of daylight
in rolling his bit of turf and hoeing his patch of flower
garden. Will a time come, we wonder, when no human
occupation shall be too strenuous, too sordid, for a man to
spend his leisured hours in decency and calm. No vain
visions have I of pitmen and navvies reading Tennyson in
velvet smoking jackets and slippers, or pit foremen in dress
clothes sipping port wine; but I do look forward confidently
to the time, in England, when a man may, without remark,
boast the domestic virtues and enjoy the higher domestic
comfort, even though he engage in an occupation in which
for so many hours a day the wearing of a white shirt, or of
any shirt at all, is totally dispensed with. Some steps
towards the realisation of this I witnessed with my own
eyes at New Glasgow, where a man who had been broiling
half-naked before a fiery furnace all day, was at twilight
seated in cool, clean raiment, in his own little parlour (very
tastefully furnished, too), playing one of Sousa’s marches
on a pianola!
[Illustration: THE END OF BRUIN.]
A thriving town is New Glasgow, and very beautiful
when viewed from the other side of the East River. Here
are coal-mines, iron and steel works, shipbuilding yards,
glassworks, and other industries. Here, two miles from
the heart of the town, is the headquarters of the Nova
Scotia Steel and Iron Company, the pioneer steelworks in
Canada, with open-hearth converters, the latest equipped
rolling mills, steel hammers, &c., altogether employing
800 men. On the way thither I passed a cemetery filled
with the tombs of the early settlers, nearly all Highland
names, many hailing from Old Glasgow, who would
probably be very much astonished and highly gratified
to-day at the prosperity and size of the town they founded.
Mr. Cantley, the able manager, told me something
about the operation of the works for three months of the
year. Increases had been made in practically every line
of work in connection with the company, referring by this
to the coal mined, the coal shipped, and outputs in
the mills and forges. The increase in the output of
ingots from 17,508 tons for the first quarter of the previous
year, to 20,372 tons for the corresponding period of
the year following, or an increase of practically 19 per cent.;
an increase in the amount of coal mined of 8 per cent., and
of coal shipped 20 per cent. Increases were also recorded
in the forge department, steel department, and in fact in
practically every department; in addition to that, the most
important feature was that the average nett prices now
obtained from steel sales showed an increase of 2.01 dollars
per ton.
As to the steel tonnage now on the books of the
company, it amounted to about 15,000 tons, which was
all he cared to see on the order sheets of the company
for the present until prices had improved.
The population of New Glasgow is about 6400 souls,
and an electric tramway connects the town with Stellarton
and Westville. The islands around the town are particularly
fine. From Fraser’s Mountain, an eminence
350 feet high, one may form an excellent idea of the lie
of the country round about Pictou and Pictou Islands,
the Strait of Canso as far as Cape St. George, the far
distant hills of Inverness, even the extremity of Prince
Edward Island. To the southward the eye meets the
fertile land dotted with churches and settlements, stretching
thirty miles away to the mountains of Antigonish.
In the foreground courses tortuously the glistening East
River on its way to Pictou and Northumberland Strait.
[Illustration: PICTOU—NORWAY HOUSE. (THE PROPERTY OF LORD STRATHCONA.)]
The town of Pictou is situate upon the north side of
a capacious harbour, into which three rivers empty, the
harbour’s mouth being three miles from the town. It is
certainly very much in its disfavour that in winter the
basin is closed by ice and is therefore inaccessible between
December and April. Pictou was once the second town
in the Province, to-day it has been left far behind; yet
it enjoys a peculiar old-world character of its own, and
is the most Scottish town in all New Scotland. In this
district the French had made certain settlements before
the Peace of 1763. On the conquest of New France
these were deserted, and their farms were again overgrown
with forest. In 1765 one Doctor Weatherspoon became
the leading spirit of the Philadelphia Company, and, obtaining
an extensive grant in the Pictou district, sent hither
a number of Maryland families. By way of bounty each of
these received a farm-lot, and a supply of provisions.
Following these came thirty families from the Scottish
Highlands, who were landed here in the good ship _Hector_,
late in 1773, without sufficient food to carry them through
the winter, with the natural result that they nearly starved,
many making their way across the forest primeval to the
Basin of Minas for assistance. But the settlement struggled
on; it was later joined by further families from Dumfries,
and gained a great addition to its numbers in 1784, after
the American Revolution, by the immigration of many
disbanded troopers, who, however, being rather wild and
dissolute, greatly shocked the simple-minded, God-fearing
pioneers. Not until 1786 did the first pastor, Dr. M’Gregor,
arrive to administer to the flock and to preach the Gospel
in Gaelic. In the decade following several other ministers
arrived at Pictou and the district put forth a great store of
grain and godliness. More shiploads of Highlanders landed
in Pictou Harbour, and an Academy was founded, which
flourishes to this day. But the corner-stone of the first house
in Pictou town was not laid until 1789. Once started the
growth to a village and then to a town was rapid. It became
the resort of coasting vessels from all parts of the Gulf
of St. Lawrence, and the quantity of oil and fish brought
thither annually being large, the exports to the West Indies
increased proportionately. More than a century ago at
least 100 ships left Pictou loaded with timber for Great
Britain, worth, together with other exports, £100,000.
Houses of well-to-do merchants went up—houses of stone—which
are as staunch to-day as the day they were built.
“The air of the place,” wrote a traveller nearly ninety years
ago, “strikes a stranger’s eye as peculiarly Scotch. Keen-looking
fellows in bob-tailed coats, _à la Joseph_, of many
colours, stand in knots about the streets discussing in broad
Scotch or pure Gaelic the passing topics of the day; while
in the distance, a long scarlet robe floating gaudily in the
wind, as if in mockery of the sedate air of the student who
bears it, carries us back to the classic precincts of Aberdeen
or Glasgow. The Academy, to which these students to
the number of about fifteen belong, is an ordinary wooden
building neatly painted outside, but not yet finished within,
and contains nothing remarkable if we except the learned
professor and his little museum consisting (chiefly) of
native animals.”
At the northern and eastern parts of the town are
suburban residences with spacious grounds enclosed with
hedges of English hawthorn, from whence a commanding
view can be had of the Straits of Northumberland and the
blue waves of the great St. Lawrence Gulf.
On clear days the shores of Prince Edward’s Island are
distinctly visible; and out beyond the harbour light, Cape
St. George and the distant outline of Cape Breton’s rocky
coast can be seen jutting out into the wide Atlantic.
Many years ago a dreadful catastrophe happened to a
small mail steamer, the _Fairy Queen_, plying between Pictou
and Prince Edward Island. Through the captain’s carelessness
she sprang a leak and went to the bottom. The
captain and the crew succeeded in escaping to Pictou in
the boats, which were spacious enough to have held all on
board. On landing they related a tale of the disaster,
believing that no human voice would ever reveal the true
story of their cowardice and cruelty. It chanced, however,
that although many perished, including a promising British
officer and five young ladies, one of whom was bound for
England to be married, a few passengers floated off on the
upper deck and ultimately, after many hardships, reached
land in safety. Along the coast they struggled to Pictou,
there to raise a voice from the dead to strike terror and
remorse into the hearts of the cowardly captain and crew.
The captain was arrested for manslaughter, but, although
the popular wrath was great, managed to escape the punishment
he merited.
As time wore on in Pictou the Highland bonnet, slouching
like a night-cap on the heads of the first generation of
settlers, disappeared, to give place to native straw in summer
and fur in winter. But the kilts, banned in the old land,
sprang up at clan gatherings, and the bagpipes and the
Highland ballads and Highland spirit are in vogue to this
day.
The morning was warm and balmy as I strode along the
harbour front, past the cottages and villas of wood and stone,
to a point of land called the Battery at Pictou. Several
mounted cannon were pointing seaward, and a weather-beaten
man, with his back towards me, shaded his eyes as
he gazed intently in the same direction. When he became
aware of my presence, he turned and bade me good
morning. “Waiting for my molasses ship from Jamaica,”
he said, jerking his thumb outward. “I thought I saw her
in the offing, but I guess I was mistaken.”
We fell to talking about fish, and molasses, and mining.
He had been interested in a mine in Newfoundland, and
knew something of the ways of Yankee company promoters.
He had speculated in many things, but found West Indian
produce safest.
“Do you see that building across there—with the tall
chimney and the wharves in front of it, and the rails running
down to the wharves?”
I said I did.
“Would it surprise you if you found that chimney built
of rubble, with no outlet top or bottom?”
I said it would surprise me very much indeed.
“I suppose it would astonish you also to know that only
one ship had ever been at that wharf, and no engine or truck
on that railway, and no men ever at work in that swelter?”
When I had duly satisfied my companion that these
things stood in need of some explanation, he volunteered
one.
“That yonder’s the relics of the Pictou Copper and
General Mining Company, Limited—capital, Lord knows
how many thousands of pounds! When I was in England
they told me that for these cinematograph exhibitions they
get up sample fires, imitation explosions, intentional railway
collisions, and collapse old buildings merely on purpose to
photograph ’em. Well, that there’s a dummy copper-mine,
got up on purpose to photograph, and I’m bound to say the
photograph looked darn well in the prospectus. There it
all was, and nobody who saw it could get away from it—engine
puffing away on the rails, hired for a day from the
Inter-Colonial Railway; smoke pouring out of the chimney—they
had lit a bushel of brown paper on top; schooner at
the wharf, also hired for the occasion—and dang me, sir,
there never was a more realistic thing! The capital was
raised in no time. People here in Pictou, who weren’t in
the secret, expected all manner of things. Then the Boston
promoters lit out for home, and they ain’t been seen or heard
of since. There’s their dummy establishment—I guess you
could buy it for a hundred pounds—and there are a lot
of people somewhere, in some corner of the earth, who,
when they hear the very name Pictou, turn pale and grind
their teeth.”
I could not refrain from inquiring whether this was an
incident of frequent occurrence.
“I know where it’s happened before and since. Lord
bless you, these here Maritime Provinces, including Gaspé,
are a perfect hunting-ground for that sort of thing. Now,
down at Chignecto....”
But it is needless to retail all the ensuing conversation,
or the instances with which my friend on the Battery at Pictou
illustrated it. It suffices to say that every wild-cat scheme
engineered by astute and unprincipled financiers from across
the border, damages to the extent of its operation, multiplied
by ten, the good name and the prospects of New Scotland.
All should be alert to inquire into the _bona fides_ of all schemes
ostensibly directed to the exploiting of their locality, because
the failure of such is certain to redound to that locality’s,
nay, the whole Province’s, disadvantage.
The best house in Pictou—perhaps the best-built private
one in New Scotland—is Norway House, which, together
with 200 acres of farm land adjoining, is the property
of Lord Strathcona. Seventy or eighty years ago it was
built of stone brought from Scotland, and, as I mention
elsewhere, is an excellent specimen of the kind of house
that is popular with Canadian insurance companies. I only
wish that Lord Strathcona could be induced to work this
farm, instead of allowing it to lie fallow, if only because it
would in active able hands be an effective advertisement for
the agricultural possibilities of this part of New Scotland.
The town is the seat of Pictou Academy, which deserves
a passing mention. The academy was established for the
purpose of affording to the children of Dissenters, excluded
from the honours of King’s College (Windsor), those literary
and scientific requirements which might qualify them for the
learned professions. The corporation consists of twelve
trustees, the choice for whom, in virtue of an annual Government
grant, has to be ratified by the governor. They are
required to be Presbyterians or members of the Anglican
body. As, however, no religious tests are required of the
students, the academy is attended by youths of all denominations.
The curriculum is a sound one, and from the first
Pictou began to send forth what the Province sadly needed,
a race of qualified schoolmasters. Some very eminent
Canadian scholars have been educated at Pictou, including
Professor Dawson and Principal Grant.
Forty-three miles by railway from Stellarton is Antigonish
(accent, please, on the last syllable). A century ago
Antigonish was called Dorchester, in honour of Sir Guy
Carleton, first Lord Dorchester, Governor of Canada. But
the district round about had the Indian name long before
that. The first white inhabitants were a few Acadian
families at Pomquet, Tracadie, and Au Bouché, whose
descendants are still to be found at St. George’s Bay. Just
after the American Revolution a number of officers and
men of the Nova Scotia Regiment, under Lieutenant-Colonel
Hierlihy and Major Monk, got grants of land
here, and immured themselves for several winters without
roads of communication to any other part of the Province.
After a dozen seasons or so they were joined by Scottish
immigrants from the Isles and the Highlands. They
found the agricultural country far superior to any they
had ever known, and indeed one of the best in New
Scotland. Upon the rearing and export of horses, horned
cattle and sheep, grain, butter, and pork, they quickly
prospered; and the production of shingles and stones, when
the large timber was exhausted, was carried on upon a large
scale. The shire town of Dorchester or Antigonish was
described nearly a century ago as “one of the prettiest
villages in the eastern section of Nova Scotia, and the
neatness and simplicity of its appearance amply compensates
for the absence of bolder scenery.” Judging from
that description, I do not think Antigonish has greatly
changed. My train brought me there about midnight,
and a buggy driven by the landlord himself brought me
along a wide street, lined with majestic elms, through
whose dark foliage the moon sent spangled rays of light,
to a quaint little inn. It is true the quaintness of the
inn, architecturally speaking, hardly corresponded with its
name: the Queen Hotel (how they love these high-sounding
titles! I have a recollection of a certain Chateau
Frontenac at Rimouski, P.Q., where they gave me a single
sheet to my bed), and the quaintness was in directions rather
disconcerting. For instance, when morning came, I was
suddenly aroused by the apparition of an uncouth figure
in my room. He was in the act of closing a closet door,
from which he had apparently just emerged. I sprang up.
“What do you want?” I demanded.
“Nothing,” returned the intruder calmly.
“But what are you doing in my room? I locked the
door last night.”
“What am I doing in _your_ room? How else do you
think I am going to get out of _mine_?” He jerked his
thumb in the direction of the closet in an aggrieved
manner, as if I had meanly suggested his climbing out of
the window in order to pursue his daily avocations. All
the same, I do not think highly of these peculiar inn-keeping
arrangements; nor do I hold that the employment
of the title of Majesty on a long sign-board can altogether
atone for their primitive simplicity.
Before I leave the inn at Antigonish I am tempted
to recall another trifling association. A traveller, commercial
or otherwise, will have noticed throughout Nova
Scotia, as in the American States, that all maid-servants
perform their functions, with rare exceptions, in a singular
spirit of protest, as if they were really not enjoying themselves
in the most becoming and most appropriate of all
feminine _rôles_, to wit, the handmaiden of man. It is
really most provoking of the dear creatures! More
especially is this uncomfortable spirit manifested towards
strangers. My belief is that a too profuse native chivalry
is at the bottom of it. You have noticed the scorn and
independent air of the British barmaid? her affability
and condescension when addressed by her familiars under
the names of “Flossie,” “Beryl,” or “Sadie?” Well,
then, you have put your finger on that which vexes
the traveller’s soul here. Yet I am bound to say that
there were several inns in the Province where I was
waited upon with a celerity and good humour which
went far to atone for inevitable gastronomic shortcomings.
She was rather a comely wench, was the handmaiden at
Antigonish, but sadly spoilt, and a shrewish wrinkle marred
her brow. She showed her sense of my coming down late
to breakfast by conducting me to a seat where a great
draught blew.
“Ye’ll sit there,” she said.
“Oh no, thank you. I will sit _here_,” I rejoined pleasantly,
taking a seat by the wall. She paused in angry
astonishment. A smile curled her lip. “Oho,” she
seemed to say to herself, “I’ll teach you, my fine gentleman.”
I ordered fish. “There’s no fish.” “Very well.
I’ll have eggs, boiled in the shell three and a-half minutes,
dry toast and coffee.” With a toss of her head the damsel
slowly disappeared. In something under twenty minutes
she re-entered, bringing a tray upon which reposed a large
cup of weak tea, a plate of fried eggs, and some very
bilious-looking buttered toast. These having been noisily
and carelessly deposited before me, I turned over a fresh
page of my newspaper and observed nonchalantly, “Please
remove all this stuff, will you, and bring me what I
ordered—boiled eggs, boiled for three and a-half minutes
in the shell, coffee, and some dry toast. Look sharp,
please.” She did look sharp—sharp and shrewish, yet
with a something almost of consternation withal. I met
her glance with a smile. For ten seconds we confronted
one another—a ludicrous situation. Then, gathering the
breakfast back again upon the tray, the poor girl departed.
When she reappeared she was quite cheerful—the novelty
of the experience had, it seemed, taken her fancy. She
waited upon me with alacrity. So far from diminishing
I multiplied my wants, preferring them with punctilious
courtesy. We parted friends, and at luncheon she greeted
me with smiles. It is a great pity that the tendency to
spoil and pamper girls in menial situations, especially
when they are pretty, is not confined to Nova Scotia. It
does not make them any the happier, but is, on the contrary,
productive of a good deal of unhappiness and discontent.
A little less familiarity on the part of those
served and a little more attention to business on the part
of those serving would be far better. Less than a century
ago one could chuck the inn chambermaid under
the chin and call her “my dear” without loss of dignity,
eliciting only a prim and grateful curtesy. It is different
now.
[Illustration: VIEW ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF ANTIGONISH.]
An attractive little town is Antigonish. The houses,
built on low ground, are shaded by trees, while the hills
rise on all hands. Here is the seat of the Roman Catholic
Bishop of Antigonish, St. Ninian’s Cathedral, and St.
Francis Xavier College. Chiefly of Highland extraction
is the community—the names of the chief clans so abound
that in the case of the Macdonalds and Frasers it is usual
to mention the Christian names or initials to indicate certain
leading individuals. One hears of “E. M.,” and “J. S.,”
and “D. C.” in common conversation. Gaelic here is
still spoken, especially amongst the older folk, and for
the benefit of these latter sermons are occasionally
preached in the cathedral; which building is of stone and
capable of seating 1200 persons. As I recall the taming
of the shrewish maidservant at Antigonish I must not
omit mention of my encounter with one whom I was
informed was the Episcopal body-servant and factotum.
A more astonishingly grotesque individual I have never
set eyes upon in my life. Somewhat portly, you only saw
fragments of his puffy, white face, owing to a thick growth
of beard, which left a space of about two inches between
it and a pair of bushy eyebrows. Beard and eyebrows
had been red, but were now dyed a startling blue-black,
which looked purple in the sunlight. His aspect was truly
_farouche_.
“Is his lordship at home?”
“Ah!”
“Will you take him my card?”
“Eh?”
The factotum was engaged in climbing into a buggy.
He stared for a second at the proffered card, crossed
himself, gathered up his reins, said “Gaw!” to his steed
and drove away, leaving me standing there. I watched
him until he had turned the corner, thinking what a weird
and beautiful pirate this beady-eyed purple-whiskered
joker would have made—what a loss to the comic
opera stage!
“Eh, ye’ll no see his reverence the day,” murmured an
old woman in my ear; and so I came away.
The College of Saint Francis Xavier is an educational
institution, of which not only Antigonish, but also the
whole eastern section of Nova Scotia is greatly proud.
Students come hither from nearly all parts of Canada and
America. The number in attendance is increasing from
year to year, and the accommodation is becoming taxed
to such an extent that a further addition to the present
commodious building has been found necessary. The
number of students at present is over one hundred and
fifty. Besides the College, and to some extent affiliated
with it, is Mount St. Bernard’s Seminary, attended by about
seventy young ladies from many of the counties in the
Province, and from beyond it. Although both are Roman
Catholic, I found that students of all denominations are
welcomed, and no better illustration of the broad-mindedness
that prevails is the fact that at least two of the
Professors at the College are Protestants. Besides these
two institutions of higher education, Antigonish boasts
two well equipped “separate schools” of three departments,
each conducted by competent and experienced
teachers.
It was prize-giving day amongst the young lady pupils
at the seminary, and I had an opportunity of seeing “sweet
girl graduates” from all parts of Nova Scotia, and also
from the other provinces. I cannot say that they were all
very beautiful or very graceful, but oh—I am sure that they
were very, very good! And amongst themselves they were
very merry, and spoke of their failures in this or that
“exam” with resignation. Many of these girls, I was
told, were destined to be teachers.
A Catholic newspaper is published at Antigonish called
_The Casket_. I enjoyed a chat with the editor, a quiet,
enlightened man, who aims at “restraint and accuracy,” a
journalistic motto which one wishes were only more prevalent.
_The Casket_ is an excellent little paper, and a
relief from the journalistic horrors elsewhere.
Eight miles from Antigonish is the mouth of the harbour,
with a wide sandy beach, much used for bathing, and
a number of Antigonians have summer cottages there.
But the gem of the district is Lochaber Lake, on the road to
Sherbrooke, distant some dozen miles. The lake is five miles
in length, very narrow, and a pretty road runs along the shore
the whole distance. On the whole the roads are capital
hereabouts, and the landscape scenery well worth seeing.
The banks on either side of this lake rise from it
abruptly to a considerable height, but without rocky precipices.
The water is as clear as a spring, and very deep.
It is the last body of water in the district to freeze, and
even in January frequently shows a ripple over miles of its
limpid surface. How often has the Highland emigrant,
home-sick for the heather, sat by its banks and dreamt of
the old land and the old faces, ere he or she set out for
the new land to see “Lochaber no more”!
Which reminds me that while at Pictou I was taken
to see the shanty of an old Highland woman, once well
known to travellers by coach, Nancy Stuart of the Mountain.
Many stories are still told of Nancy, her sons and
her dogs—as well as the “Oiche Whaith Chuibh. Brannachd
luibh” with which she parted from any who had
ever been in the Highlands.
The views throughout the whole of this part of the
peninsula are superb. Standing on the top of Sugar-Loaf
Mountain, which is close to Antigonish, one obtains a spectacle
that is well worth climbing to gain. Gaspereau Lake,
also close at hand, is situate 500 feet above sea-level, and is
a great resort for wild geese and ducks. Here is a famous
centre for partridge shooting. These birds, nobody’s preserves,
are often seen in dense coveys close to the railway.
If we follow the line of this lake—the St. Mary’s road,
we cut right across the eastern end of the peninsula,
and come to Sherbrooke, a few miles from the Atlantic, at
the mouth of the St. Mary’s River. Sherbrooke is the
headquarters of a busy fishing community, and there is
some gold mining carried on hereabouts.
Journeying eastward twenty miles by rail from Antigonish
we reach Tracadie, close to a good harbour, opening
into St. George’s Bay. There is an Indian reserve in the
neighbourhood, but the place is famous for its monastery
of Our Lady of Petit Clarivaux, which was founded in 1820.
The members of the community are Cistercian Monks,
commonly called Trappists, from their obedience to the
rule of La Trappe, the founder of the order. The life of
a Trappist is consecrated to prayer, manual labour, and
silence. The ordinary hour of rising is two o’clock in the
morning, except on Sundays and feast days, when the hour
is half-past one. The remainder of the morning, or rather
the night, is spent in chanting the offices of the church, in
meditation, and other religious duties. The fast is broken
by a light meal at 7.30 in the summer, and 11.30 in the
winter, the latter season being kept as a Lent. The Monks
never eat meat, fish, or eggs, and it is only of recent years
that butter has been allowed in the preparation of the
vegetable food. The discipline is strict in all other respects,
for the Trappist life is the most rigorous of all the
monastic orders. Conversation, when necessary, is carried
on by signs, except in addressing the abbot.
Besides their own manual labour, the monks furnish
considerable employment to others who assist them in their
work, and they are excellent farmers. In their religious
duties they seek to make reparation for the sins of the
outside world. Despite what seems a severe life they
enjoy excellent health, and as a rule live to a great age.
All their life, however, is a preparation for death. The
burial place is close to the monastery, where it is continually
in sight. When a monk dies, he is buried in his habit,
uncoffined; and when the grave is filled in another grave
is opened to remind the survivors that one of them must
be its tenant in his appointed time.
There is also a convent of Sisters of Charity at Tracadie.