_HALIFAX TO LIVERPOOL._
Halifax--Cunard Line--Intercolonial Railway--Truro--Travelling
by Pullman--New Brunswick--Miramichi--Great Fires in New
Brunswick--Salmon Fishing--Micmac Indians--Rimouski--S. S.
Parisian--The first Ocean Steamer the Royal William--Incidents
of Ocean Voyage--Arrival.
Halifax, selected for its excellence as a harbour in connection with
its geographical position, is well known throughout the world as one
of the most important stations for the British Navy. For upwards of a
century it has been pre-eminently the Admiralty port for the British
fleet in North Atlantic waters, and it was its superiority as a harbour
in all respects which determined the demolition of Louisburg in 1756.
It was held that no second naval arsenal was required in proximity to
Halifax, and consequently not one stone was left standing upon another
at Louisburg after its second capture. The enterprise of the city
has intimately connected its name with the history of the navigation
of the ocean. Ships of Nova Scotia may be seen on every sea, and it
is here that the centre has been, around which the commerce of the
Province revolved. It was in Halifax that the Cunard Steamship Company
took its origin, under the distinguished family who have so long
lived there: an organization which may well be considered one of the
most successful known. For nearly half a century the record of their
immense fleet shows that not a passenger has been lost or a letter
miscarried. The irreverent Frederick the Great was wont to say that
Providence was generally on the side of large armies. His own good
fortune in the field was owing, however, mainly to his supervision of
the simplest detail and attention to discipline. In a similar manner
the unprecedented success and the perfect organization of the Cunard
Company must be traced to the unwonted care and vigilance continually
observed in connection with the enterprise. The principle laid down by
Mr. Cunard was that nothing was to be left to chance; that the best of
all material and workmanship was to be obtained in the construction
of his steamers; that the crew were to be subjected to the strictest
discipline; and that no possible care or precaution, even in the
simplest detail, was to be omitted. The result of these efforts from
the initiation of the company is seen in the magnificent Cunard fleet:
a noble monument to the name it bears.
My connection with Halifax sprang from my relationship with the
Intercolonial Railway, the explorations of which I was appointed to
conduct in 1863, and of which I remained Chief Engineer until its
completion in 1876. My acquaintance with this locality consequently
extends back twenty years. I have formed there many warm friendships,
which I am happy to think I still retain, and scarcely a year goes by
without my passing some portion of the summer months at that delightful
suburb of Halifax known as the “Northwest Arm.”
In common with all who have been connected with Halifax, I must express
my humble view of the charm which the place possesses. Its scenery
of wood, hill and dale; its ample expanse of water in all forms; its
healthy climate and fresh air; its cool evening breezes in the heat
of summer; its pleasant drives and the varied features of its daily
life; all leave an impression not easily forgotten. But when to these
recognized advantages the social elements of Halifax are added, it is
held by common consent that there are few cities more attractive. And
when we remember the well-bred, travelled men, many of whom also highly
educated, to be met among the officers of the garrison and on board
the ships at the station, with their continuous efforts to return the
hospitalities of the citizens, we all must acknowledge that Halifax, in
its social aspects, possesses features and a charm peculiar to itself.
A line of steamers runs from Halifax to Liverpool, but I had taken
my passage by the steamer “Parisian,” of the Allan Line. The weekly
steamer of this line, as a rule, leaves her moorings in front of
Quebec at a fixed hour on the forenoon of Saturday. The traveller
ordinarily goes on board the tender an hour earlier. But a train
leaves Toronto, 480 miles west of Quebec, on the evening of Friday,
connecting at Montreal on Saturday morning with an express mail train
for Rimouski, a point on the St. Lawrence about 200 miles below Quebec.
By this means letters can be posted at Toronto, indeed at nearly all
the cities in Canada west of Quebec, to the last moment. This express
mail, which makes rapid time, reaches Rimouski late on Saturday night.
By it, passengers who have been unable to embark at Quebec may take
the steamer, as it always remains off Rimouski to receive the mail.
Travellers to Europe from the Maritime Provinces may also embark at
Rimouski by taking the regular train over the Intercolonial Railway
from St. John or Halifax. The latter is the route which I followed.
On the afternoon of the 15th June I said goodbye to my family at
the station at Halifax, and with my youngest daughter I started for
England. The day was bright and beautiful; indeed, although sea fogs
prevail at certain seasons of the year, I know no latitude where the
air is purer than it is in Nova Scotia, or where nature, during summer,
is more attractive. There were several of my friends on the train, and
when the sadness of parting passed away there was everything to make
the trip cheerful.
After leaving Halifax we have supper at Truro, a large, clean-looking
Nova Scotian town, situated on one of the heads of the Bay of Fundy.
Truro, however, was not always so clean and cheerful looking as it
is to-day. At one time it was conspicuous for its dark and dingy
appearance, and it has to thank the visit of the Prince of Wales,
nearly a quarter of a century back, for the change. The Prince had
landed at Halifax, and was expected to pass through Truro in a few
days. Meetings were held to devise means to do honour to the Royal
visitor. I think it was Mr. Hiram Hyde who said that “evergreen arches
would be out of place unless the town presented a clean face.” He moved
a resolution, which was unanimously adopted, that a schooner load of
lime lying in the bay should be secured, and every one be obliged to
turn out with whitewash brushes. In forty-eight hours Truro was so
metamorphosed as not to seem the same place, and so well satisfied were
the inhabitants that they have kept its face clean ever since.
To continue. We are at the Truro refreshment room. One never criticizes
railway meals too severely, at least those who are much accustomed to
travel. The golden rule on such occasions is to open your mouth, shut
your eyes, and take what is placed before you. If things are to your
liking, then you can “give them the painted flourish of your praise.”
Our route passes over the Cobequid Mountains, and at Amherst, on
another inlet of the Bay of Fundy, you may have further refreshments
at ten o’clock. Then comes the night’s rest in the Pullman. To the
denizens of this continent the Pullman is a necessity. In a country of
narrow geographical limit nothing is more pleasant than a few hours
in an ordinary first class English carriage. But we do not count our
trips by hours on the western continent. Often we do so by days.
Sitting up all night in one of the old carriages, which many yet from
circumstances are obliged to do, was one of the small miseries of life.
The want of rest, the cramped position, the foul air, the banging of
doors, frequently the crowd of passengers, had all to be endured; and
who of that date cannot remember the extreme discomfort to which the
traveller was compelled to submit as best he could. With a Pullman you
have comparative quiet, and with well-mannered and competent officials,
who keep the car heated only to an endurable temperature and properly
ventilated, you have all the auxiliaries of comfort. What dream is
there in the Arabian Nights equal to the realization of finding
yourself in a comfortable bed, with all the accessories of home,
travelling at the rate of forty miles an hour?
Soon after leaving Amherst we crossed the Missiquash, the river
which separates Nova Scotia from New Brunswick. It has some historic
import of which I will speak hereafter. Our course is now through New
Brunswick to the River Restigouche, on the north side of which lies
the Province of Quebec. The whole distance through the three Provinces
embraces a variety of scenes of great interest to me, as many years of
my life were passed in the construction of the Intercolonial Railway.
It was not until after the American Revolution that New Brunswick was
looked upon as a colony. Five thousand of the United Empire Loyalists
arrived at St. John in the British fleet in 1783, one hundred years
ago. It became a Province in 1786. No little of its history is in
connection with its terrible fires. That of Miramichi in 1825; of St.
John in 1837, when, in the heart of a rigorous winter, nearly the whole
business part of the city was destroyed; and again of St. John in 1877,
when, in the short space of nine hours, 200 acres of buildings were
levelled to the ground, and fully two-thirds of the entire city laid in
ashes. During the night the train passes through the scene of the first
disaster, which left some 6,000 square miles in a state of devastation.
The summer had been unusually hot and dry. On the first day of October,
1825, the inhabitants of the valley of the Miramichi were disturbed by
immense forest fires in the neighbourhood of the settlements. The smoke
with great heat continued for seven days, when the fire extended to the
settlements, defying all efforts to extinguish it, and sweeping away
all that lay before it. The town of Newcastle was consumed, as also
Douglastown with all the smaller outlying settlements. The devastation
continued along the northern side of the river for one hundred miles.
Hundreds of settlers and thousands of cattle were lost. The number of
wild animals which were burned was also very great. Even the salmon
perished in the smaller streams, owing to the intense heat. To this
date the trace of the fire is distinctly seen in the character of
the trees which have grown upon the burnt district. A gale increased
the violence of the fire, so that its fury was uncontrollable. In
many cases the inhabitants, not looking for such a calamity, were
suddenly awakened in their beds by the alarm of danger. A few minutes’
delay would have led to their destruction. Many were unable to save
themselves. Not a few owed their preservation to the fact that their
farms were near the river, in which they threw themselves, and escaped
by clinging to logs. The loss of life to those at a distance from the
river, where escape was impossible, must have been serious. Many of the
survivors were dreadfully mutilated, and in the distant settlements few
escaped to tell their dreadful experience.
In the morning we reached Campbellton, on the Restigouche, at the head
of the Bay Chaleur, and we have a royal breakfast of salmon fresh from
the nets. Some of our friends on the train are enthusiastic fishermen.
Col. Chalmers, recently from India, and the Rev. Mr. Townend, Garrison
Chaplain at Halifax, are among the number. They are bound for the
fishing pools on the Restigouche, and are in high spirits. They learn
here that the run of salmon up the river is unprecedentedly large, and
their excitement is intense. My sympathies are with them, for fishing
to me is a most pleasant recreation. If I am not a skillful, I am at
least a devout, disciple of Isaac Walton.
At the station I met some of my old Micmac Indian friends, some of whom
I have known for twenty years, and who accompanied me in my various
wanderings in the wilds of New Brunswick. I have a strong and kindly
feeling for these children of the forest. Personally I have found their
simplicity of character not the sham which many claim it to be. There
are exceptions, but, as a rule, in their relations to me, they have
proved honest and faithful. Although perfectly undemonstrative, they
never forget a kind act or word. Such is my experience, and I have had
much to do with Indians of nearly every tribe between the Atlantic and
the Pacific. It has been my invariable good fortune to come in contact
with those among them to whom I could at any time have trusted my life.
We shook hands all round. Breakfast, however, has only left time for a
few words. The train starts, and as it leaves the station I receive
from my dusky friends a hearty _bò jou! bò jou!_
We are still in New Brunswick, but in half an hour we cross the
Restigouche and enter the Province of Quebec near the Metapedia
station. Here our friends of the rod leave us with our best wishes for
their success. The Railway now follows the River Metapedia, and the run
up the valley is all we could wish. The day was fine; no morning could
be more bright. The curves in the track are frequent but unavoidable,
and how few who whirl over them ever think of the labour bestowed in
order to reduce them to a minimum! In the Metapedia many splendid
salmon pools are found. Mr. George Stephen, President of the Canadian
Pacific Railway Company, has the most pleasant of fishing boxes here,
pleasantly situated within sight of the passing train at Causapscal.
H. R. H. Princess Louise and Prince Leopold remained for some weeks
here three years ago. Mr. Stephen is himself a keen sportsman, and
never lets a season pass without spending a holiday at Causapscal. He
had arrived the day previous with a party of friends.
In the middle of the afternoon we reached Rimouski, where we left
the train and placed ourselves in the hands of Madame Lepage, who
keeps a comfortable _pension_ at this place. This landlady’s untiring
devotion to the comforts of her guests is on a par with the glow of
her sparkling black eyes. She is the mother of a large family, some
of whom are grown up, yet she retains all her youthful vivacity and
_naiveté_.
Rimouski is a large straggling French Canadian town, the last of
any importance in the Province of Quebec to the east, if we except
the thriving village of Matane. It is chiefly remarkable for its
ecclesiastical and educational institutions. There is another
peculiarity; the largeness of the family in many households. It is no
uncommon matter to find a family of from fifteen to twenty children.
Not long ago I heard of a case of a family of eighteen, and there was
a question of an orphan to be taken, for whose nurture nothing was to
be paid, its parents having died under circumstances of privation and
poverty. “Let it come and take its chance with our children,” said this
excellent French Canadian mother, and it was so resolved.
Travellers to Europe, like ourselves, have their letters and telegrams
directed to Rimouski in case of more or less last words being
necessary. I was very glad to find good news in those I received. I
went to the station to meet the train for the south. There I found more
fishermen bound for the Restigouche, New Yorkers, who now come yearly
to our waters, a class who do not fish for the pot, but are sportsmen.
Among them were Mr. Dean Sage and Mr. Worden, with a party of friends.
At 10 o’clock p.m., the mail train having arrived, we took the tender
for the steamer, which lay off in the stream. Sir Alex. Galt was on
the train, on his way back from Halifax, where he had taken part in
a public banquet given to his successor as High Commissioner for
Canada in London; Sir Charles Tupper. I was in hopes that he, too, was
starting for England, but to my disappointment he continued his journey
to Montreal.
We reach the wharf on the branch railway, where the tender is lying.
The arrangements are not quite perfect. The wharf itself is of unusual
length, but it only reaches shallow water at low tide. In consequence
the capacity of the tender is limited, and, although strongly built, it
rolls disagreeably in rough weather, to the discomfort of passengers
who are indifferent sailors.
We embarked on the “Parisian,” and at once found our way to the cabins
allotted to us. A friend had previously consoled us by saying that
they were the worst in the ship. They were directly under the scuppers
used for pouring the ashes overboard, the disagreeable noise of which
operation we were expecting to hear every hour in the night. We did
not, however, experience much inconvenience on this score, as for the
greater part of the voyage, our cabin was on the windward side, which
is never used at sea for the discharge of refuse.
The passenger list placed in our hands contained several familiar
names. There were Canadian Cabinet Ministers and Montreal merchants,
with their wives and families, and there were friends whom we expected
to meet, some of them we found in the saloon before retiring for the
night.
Trips by ocean steamers have much the same features, and, while
the changes and vicissitudes of fog, rain and fine weather are all
important in the little floating community, they have little concern
for the outer world. To sufferers from sea-sickness, an ocean trip is a
terror. Medical men say, in a general way, that the infliction should
be welcomed, for it brings health, but I have seen those prostrated by
it who have been so depressed that I can not but think that if this
theory be true the improvement to health will be dearly purchased by
the penalty. Such, however, are the exceptions. With most people one
or two days’ depression is generally the extent of the infliction.
Personally I cannot complain. Nature has made me an excellent sailor.
With no remarkable appetite, I have never missed a meal on board ship,
nor ever found the call to dinner unwelcome.
Our first morning commenced with fog, but it cleared away as we coasted
along the somewhat bold shore of Gaspé in smooth water. There is always
divine service on these vessels on Sunday. The Church of England form
is as a rule adhered to, which is read by the captain or doctor if no
clergyman be present. If a clergyman be found among the passengers he
is generally invited to conduct divine service, and any Protestant form
is admitted. On the present occasion the Rev. C. Hall, Presbyterian
minister of Brooklyn, N. Y., officiated. The service was simple and
appropriate, and the sermon admirable. The day turned out fine, and the
water so smooth that in the afternoon every passenger was on deck. Our
course being to the south of the Island of Newfoundland, we passed the
Magdalen Islands and the Bird Rocks, and we think of the vast number of
ships which have ploughed these waters on their way to and from Quebec
and Montreal. It is now fifty years since “The Royal William” steamed
homewards on the same course we are now following. Much interest begins
to centre in “The Royal William.” It is claimed that she was one of the
pioneers of steamers, if not the very first steamer which crossed the
Atlantic under steam the whole distance. She was built in Canada. She
left Quebec on the 18th August, 1833, coaled at Pictou, in Nova Scotia,
and arrived at Gravesend on the 11th September. She did not return to
Canada, as she was sold by her owners to the Spanish Government. Her
model is preserved by the Historical Society of Quebec. Some of these
particulars I had from the lips of one of the officers of “The Royal
William,” who died a quarter of a century ago.
There is but one counter claim to the distinction. A ship named the
“Savannah” crossed the Atlantic from the port of that name in the
Southern United States to Liverpool in 1819. She had machinery for
propulsion of a somewhat rude description, which seemed to be attached
as an auxiliary power to be used when the wind failed. There is nothing
to show that it was continuously employed. I have recently heard from
a friend in Savannah on the subject, and I quote from his letter: “She
was 18 days on the voyage. She resembled very much in mould an old
United States war frigate. The hull was surmounted with a stack and
three masts--fore, main and mizzen--and was provided with side wheels
of a primitive pattern, left wholly exposed to view, and so arranged
that they could at any time be unshipped and the vessel navigated by
sails only.”
On Monday before 2 a.m. we pass out of the Gulf by the Strait of St.
Paul into the open Atlantic, and still the water continues perfectly
smooth. There is a slight fog, which passes away, and we behold nothing
but the world of waters around us. The moon appears, and we have an
evening on deck long to be remembered. Everything stands out clear and
distinct, but the shadows are dark and heavy. The moon casts its line
of rippling light across the waves, and the ship glides onward, almost
weird-like in its motion.
One of the pleasures, as well as penalties, of travelling is to be
asked to make one at whist. It is a pleasure to take part in a single
rubber if played without stakes, but to one indifferent to cards, who
does not want to win his friend’s money or lose his own, to join such a
party is often no little of a sacrifice. Your reply when asked to play
may take the conventional form, “With pleasure,” and in a way you feel
pleasure, for you like to oblige people you care for, and you may be
in an extra genial mood; but how often I have wished some other victim
could have been found at such times. On this occasion I left the deck
when I would have willingly remained, and took my seat at the card
table.
The fog returned, and the ship went at half speed for the night. When
next day came there was no fog, but there was some little rocking,
which, to me, during the previous night, was but a pleasant incentive
to sleep, for I did not once hear the fog whistle in its periodic
roar--no pleasant sound--nor was I sensible of the dreaded rattling of
the ashes emptied overboard, a nightly and unavoidable duty, and by no
means a musical lullaby.
I find that several ladies are absent from breakfast this morning. A
breeze springs up; a sail is hoisted; and occasionally we have fog, and
now and then a cold blast, with alternations of damp and moist air.
Such is the general experience in crossing the Banks. As one passenger
remarked, “It is hungry weather.” The breakfast in most cases had been
sparing, an enforced necessity in some instances, but the general
feeling is one of being ravenous for lunch. The day passes pleasantly,
possibly idly, and in the evening the whist table has its votaries. We
leave the fog behind us, but the next day is cloudy. There is a light
wind, and the sea is a little disturbed. Most of the passengers keep
the deck. We fancy we see a whale. There is too much cloud for the
moon to penetrate, so the passengers generally leave the deck to enjoy
themselves quietly in the saloon. We have a bright midsummer day this
21st June after a glorious morning, and we advance eastward with all
sail set. The spirits of all on board seem to rise, the sky is so blue,
and the sea so bright. There is but slight motion, with which, most of
the passengers are becoming familiar.
We are now half way across. We begin to calculate when we shall arrive,
and what trains we shall take at Liverpool. I have many times crossed
the Atlantic, but I never could understand the restlessness with
which so many look for the termination of the voyage. If there were
some urgent necessity for immediate action on the part of those who
are travelling this impatience could be accounted for. The majority,
however, are tourists for pleasure or for health, and, as for business
or professional men, I never could see how a few hours one way or the
other could influence their operations. To some the voyage is simply
imprisonment; the condition of being at sea is a penalty they pay at
the sacrifice of health and comfort. These are the exceptions. There
are a large number who feel as I do, and for my part, while it would be
affectation to profess to be fond of storm and tempest, a sea voyage
in ordinary fine weather is one of the most pleasurable experiences of
my life. I have good digestion and good spirits, and I am satisfied
with the pleasant change from a life on shore. I can generally read,
and I can always remain on deck, and I always have a certain feeling
of regret when I think that the voyage is soon coming to an end. We
are all well cared for, we form pleasant associations, and anyone who
can study human nature finds no little opportunity for doing so on
shipboard.
Our library, it is true, is somewhat limited, but it has a few good
books. I was somewhat struck on reading during this voyage almost
the last words of the celebrated Mary Somerville, who, after a most
distinguished career in science, died eleven years ago at Naples. These
words appear more striking to me when read on board ship. “The blue
peter has long been flying at my foremast, and, now that I am in my
92nd year, I may soon expect the signal for sailing.”
We discuss our progress on all occasions. There is a general
thankfulness as we advance. Towards evening the motion of the ship has
increased, but we can all walk the deck. On the following day we put
on more canvas, for the breeze has increased and is more favorable,
and our progress is much greater. There is now considerable motion,
but we have all got familiar with it, and, as sailors say, we have our
sea-legs. The wind is at north-west; the day clear and bright, with a
warm-looking sky, speckled with fleecy clouds. The decks are dry. We
appear to be achieving wonders in speed, and we are entering into all
sorts of calculations as to what extent we shall make up the seven
hours’ detention by fog on the Banks of Newfoundland. Our run yesterday
was 342 miles in 23½ hours. Reckoning by observed time, we lose half an
hour daily by the advance made easterly. During the afternoon we have
a fair breeze, with all sail set, followed by the same pleasant and
agreeable evening. The passengers talk of leaving with much readiness.
Well is it said that much of the pleasure of life is retrospective. “We
are approaching land” is now the cry, and we commence early the next
morning calculating when we shall reach Moville. Saturday afternoon
is delightful. Bright gleams of sunshine appear in the intervals of
occasional showers. In the evening there is a concert with readings
from eight to ten. The collection is for the “Sailors’ Orphanage” at
Liverpool. On account of the concert our lights are allowed to burn
until midnight, and many of us remain on deck nearly to that hour. The
moon is three-quarters full; we have all sail set, and we can see the
reflected light of the sun in the northern sky at midnight. To me
there is a strange fascination in a scene of this character, with all
its accompaniments. There is a movement in the sea and a freshness in
the air which give a tingle to the blood, and we seem to walk up and
down the deck with an elasticity we cannot explain to ourselves.
Next morning was Sunday. I was on deck half an hour before breakfast.
The land on the west coast of Ireland was in sight. The morning was
most fair, and it seemed to give additional zest to the excitement
produced by the approaching termination of the voyage. We learn that
we shall be at Moville at 2 o’clock. We have again divine worship. A
Methodist minister read the Church of England service and delivered an
admirable sermon. We reach Moville, and find we have been seven days
and ten hours making the run from Rimouski. I took the opportunity
here to send a cablegram home; it consisted of one word, but that word
contained a page of family meaning.
We passed the Giant’s Causeway, at which the passengers intently
looked. We could also see Islay and the Mull of Kintyre.
In the evening we have a second service. Our eloquent friend from
Brooklyn satisfied us so well the previous Sunday that we begged of him
to give us another sermon. He complied with our wishes, and with equal
success.
It is our last night on board; to-morrow we are to separate. Many
of us on this voyage have met for the first time, and in all human
probability few of us will again come side by side. There is always
a feeling of sadness in thinking you do something for the last time.
I can fancy even a convict leaving his cell where he has passed some
years pausing upon the threshold while a rush of the old recollections,
the long, sad hours cheered by gleams of hope, crowd upon him, when he
will feel some strange sentiment of regret that it is the last time he
looks upon the place. The feeling may last but a second, but it is an
impulse of our nature which is uncontrollable.
On board ship, with a certainty of gaining port to-morrow, the last
hours are passed in packing up and preparing to leave, and a feeling of
regret creeps in that now so many pleasant associations are to end, and
in spite of yourself some of the good qualities of those who are set
down as disagreeable people come to the surface in your memory. Some
few friendships are formed at sea which are perpetuated, but generally
the pleasantest of our relations terminate with the voyage. It is too
often the case, as in the voyage of life, that those we have learned to
esteem are seen no more.
We had to lose no time in order to pass the troublesome bar at the
mouth of Liverpool harbour. With vessels of the draught of the American
steamers it can only be crossed at high water. The officers generally
calculate what can be done from the hour they leave Moville, and
regulate their speed accordingly, so as to approach it at the right
moment.
No one knows better than the occupants of the cabin corresponding with
our own on the opposite side of the vessel that a great many tons of
ashes have been thrown overboard during the voyage: we all know that
a large volume of smoke has passed out of the funnel, a proof of the
great weight of fuel which has been expended in keeping the screw
revolving. The draught of the ship is consequently considerably less
than when we left the St. Lawrence.
There is now no fog; the weather is fine; there is everything to
encourage the attempt to run in, and it proves successful. On this
occasion, had we been twenty minutes later, we should have had to
remain outside until another tide. The lights of Galloway and the
Isle of Man were passed before the most of us retired last night. We
all awoke early; at a quarter to five we had crossed the bar; the
“Parisian” was in the Mersey; the tender came alongside the ship, and
very soon afterwards I stood again on English ground.