During the pilgrimage everything does not suit the tastes of
the pilgrim.--TURKISH PROVERB.
One seeking Baddeck, as a possession, would not like to be detained a
prisoner even in Eden,--much less in St. John, which is unlike Eden in
several important respects. The tree of knowledge does not grow there,
for one thing; at least St. John's ignorance of Baddeck amounts to a
feature. This encountered us everywhere. So dense was this ignorance,
that we, whose only knowledge of the desired place was obtained from
the prospectus of travel, came to regard ourselves as missionaries of
geographical information in this dark provincial city.
The clerk at the Victoria was not unwilling to help us on our journey,
but if he could have had his way, we would have gone to a place on
Prince Edward Island which used to be called Bedeque, but is now named
Summerside, in the hope of attracting summer visitors. As to Cape
Breton, he said the agent of the Intercolonial could tell us all about
that, and put us on the route. We repaired to the agent. The kindness of
this person dwells in our memory. He entered at once into our longings
and perplexities. He produced his maps and time-tables, and showed us
clearly what we already knew. The Port Hawkesbury steamboat from Shediac
for that week had gone, to be sure, but we could take one of another
line which would leave us at Pictou, whence we could take another across
to Port Hood, on Cape Breton. This looked fair, until we showed the
agent that there was no steamer to Port Hood.
“Ah, then you can go another way. You can take the Intercolonial railway
round to Pictou, catch the steamer for Port Hawkesbury, connect with the
steamer on the Bras d'Or, and you are all right.”
So it would seem. It was a most obliging agent; and it took us half an
hour to convince him that the train would reach Pictou half a day too
late for the steamer, that no other boat would leave Pictou for Cape
Breton that week, and that even if we could reach the Bras d'Or, we
should have no means of crossing it, except by swimming. The perplexed
agent thereupon referred us to Mr. Brown, a shipper on the wharf, who
knew all about Cape Breton, and could tell us exactly how to get there.
It is needless to say that a weight was taken off our minds. We pinned
our faith to Brown, and sought him in his warehouse. Brown was a prompt
business man, and a traveler, and would know every route and every
conveyance from Nova Scotia to Cape Breton.
Mr. Brown was not in. He never is in. His store is a rusty warehouse,
low and musty, piled full of boxes of soap and candles and dried fish,
with a little glass cubby in one corner, where a thin clerk sits at a
high desk, like a spider in his web. Perhaps he is a spider, for the
cubby is swarming with flies, whose hum is the only noise of traffic;
the glass of the window-sash has not been washed since it was put in
apparently. The clerk is not writing, and has evidently no other use for
his steel pen than spearing flies. Brown is out, says this young votary
of commerce, and will not be in till half past five. We remark upon the
fact that nobody ever is “in” these dingy warehouses, wonder when the
business is done, and go out into the street to wait for Brown.
In front of the store is a dray, its horse fast-asleep, and waiting
for the revival of commerce. The travelers note that the dray is of a
peculiar construction, the body being dropped down from the axles so
as nearly to touch the ground,--a great convenience in loading and
unloading; they propose to introduce it into their native land. The
dray is probably waiting for the tide to come in. In the deep slip lie a
dozen helpless vessels, coasting schooners mostly, tipped on their beam
ends in the mud, or propped up by side-pieces as if they were built for
land as well as for water. At the end of the wharf is a long English
steamboat unloading railroad iron, which will return to the Clyde full
of Nova Scotia coal. We sit down on the dock, where the fresh sea-breeze
comes up the harbor, watch the lazily swinging crane on the vessel,
and meditate upon the greatness of England and the peacefulness of the
drowsy after noon. One's feeling of rest is never complete--unless he
can see somebody else at work,--but the labor must be without haste, as
it is in the Provinces.
While waiting for Brown, we had leisure to explore the shops of King's
Street, and to climb up to the grand triumphal arch which stands on top
of the hill and guards the entrance to King's Square.
Of the shops for dry-goods I have nothing to say, for they tempt the
unwary American to violate the revenue laws of his country; but he may
safely go into the book-shops. The literature which is displayed in the
windows and on the counters has lost that freshness which it once may
have had, and is, in fact, if one must use the term, fly-specked, like
the cakes in the grocery windows on the side streets. There are old
illustrated newspapers from the States, cheap novels from the same, and
the flashy covers of the London and Edinburgh sixpenny editions. But
this is the dull season for literature, we reflect.
It will always be matter of regret to us that we climbed up to the
triumphal arch, which appeared so noble in the distance, with the trees
behind it. For when we reached it, we found that it was built of wood,
painted and sanded, and in a shocking state of decay; and the grove to
which it admitted us was only a scant assemblage of sickly locust-trees,
which seemed to be tired of battling with the unfavorable climate, and
had, in fact, already retired from the business of ornamental shade
trees. Adjoining this square is an ancient cemetery, the surface of
which has decayed in sympathy with the mouldering remains it covers, and
is quite a model in this respect. I have called this cemetery ancient,
but it may not be so, for its air of decay is thoroughly modern, and
neglect, and not years, appears to have made it the melancholy place of
repose it is. Whether it is the fashionable and favorite resort of the
dead of the city we did not learn, but there were some old men sitting
in its damp shades, and the nurses appeared to make it a rendezvous for
their baby-carriages,--a cheerful place to bring up children in, and to
familiarize their infant minds with the fleeting nature of provincial
life. The park and burying-ground, it is scarcely necessary to say,
added greatly to the feeling of repose which stole over us on this sunny
day. And they made us long for Brown and his information about Baddeck.
But Mr. Brown, when found, did not know as much as the agent. He had
been in Nova Scotia; he had never been in Cape Breton; but he presumed
we would find no difficulty in reaching Baddeck by so and so, and so and
so. We consumed valuable time in convincing Brown that his directions
to us were impracticable and valueless, and then he referred us to Mr.
Cope. An interview with Mr. Cope discouraged us; we found that we
were imparting everywhere more geographical information than we were
receiving, and as our own stock was small, we concluded that we should
be unable to enlighten all the inhabitants of St. John upon the subject
of Baddeck before we ran out. Returning to the hotel, and taking our
destiny into our own hands, we resolved upon a bold stroke.
But to return for a moment to Brown. I feel that Brown has been let off
too easily in the above paragraph. His conduct, to say the truth, was
not such as we expected of a man in whom we had put our entire faith for
half a day,--a long while to trust anybody in these times,--a man whom
we had exalted as an encyclopedia of information, and idealized in
every way. A man of wealth and liberal views and courtly manners we had
decided Brown would be. Perhaps he had a suburban villa on the heights
over-looking Kennebeckasis Bay, and, recognizing us as brothers in a
common interest in Baddeck, not-withstanding our different nationality,
would insist upon taking us to his house, to sip provincial tea with
Mrs. Brown and Victoria Louise, his daughter. When, therefore, Mr. Brown
whisked into his dingy office, and, but for our importunity, would
have paid no more attention to us than to up-country customers without
credit, and when he proved to be willingly, it seemed to us, ignorant
of Baddeck, our feelings received a great shock. It is incomprehensible
that a man in the position of Brown with so many boxes of soap and
candles to dispose of--should be so ignorant of a neighboring province.
We had heard of the cordial unity of the Provinces in the New Dominion.
Heaven help it, if it depends upon such fellows as Brown! Of course,
his directing us to Cope was a mere fetch. For as we have intimated, it
would have taken us longer to have given Cope an idea of Baddeck, than
it did to enlighten Brown. But we had no bitter feelings about Cope, for
we never had reposed confidence in him.
Our plan of campaign was briefly this: To take the steamboat at eight
o'clock, Thursday morning, for Digby Gut and Annapolis; thence to go by
rail through the poetical Acadia down to Halifax; to turn north and east
by rail from Halifax to New Glasgow, and from thence to push on by stage
to the Gut of Canso. This would carry us over the entire length of Nova
Scotia, and, with good luck, land us on Cape Breton Island Saturday
morning. When we should set foot on that island, we trusted that we
should be able to make our way to Baddeck, by walking, swimming, or
riding, whichever sort of locomotion should be most popular in that
province. Our imaginations were kindled by reading that the “most superb
line of stages on the continent” ran from New Glasgow to the Gut of
Canso. If the reader perfectly understands this programme, he has the
advantage of the two travelers at the time they made it.
It was a gray morning when we embarked from St. John, and in fact a
little drizzle of rain veiled the Martello tower, and checked, like
the cross-strokes of a line engraving, the hill on which it stands. The
miscellaneous shining of such a harbor appears best in a golden haze, or
in the mist of a morning like this. We had expected days of fog in this
region; but the fog seemed to have gone out with the high tides of the
geography. And it is simple justice to these possessions of her Majesty,
to say that in our two weeks' acquaintance of them they enjoyed as
delicious weather as ever falls on sea and shore, with the exception of
this day when we crossed the Bay of Fundy. And this day was only one of
those cool interludes of low color, which an artist would be thankful
to introduce among a group of brilliant pictures. Such a day rests the
traveler, who is overstimulated by shifting scenes played upon by the
dazzling sun. So the cool gray clouds spread a grateful umbrella above
us as we ran across the Bay of Fundy, sighted the headlands of the Gut
of Digby, and entered into the Annapolis Basin, and into the region of
a romantic history. The white houses of Digby, scattered over the downs
like a flock of washed sheep, had a somewhat chilly aspect, it is true,
and made us long for the sun on them. But as I think of it now, I prefer
to have the town and the pretty hillsides that stand about the basin
in the light we saw them; and especially do I like to recall the high
wooden pier at Digby, deserted by the tide and so blown by the wind that
the passengers who came out on it, with their tossing drapery, brought
to mind the windy Dutch harbors that Backhuysen painted. We landed a
priest here, and it was a pleasure to see him as he walked along the
high pier, his broad hat flapping, and the wind blowing his long skirts
away from his ecclesiastical legs.
It was one of the coincidences of life, for which no one can account,
that when we descended upon these coasts, the Governor-General of the
Dominion was abroad in his Provinces. There was an air of expectation of
him everywhere, and of preparation for his coming; his lordship was the
subject of conversation on the Digby boat, his movements were chronicled
in the newspapers, and the gracious bearing of the Governor and Lady
Dufferin at the civic receptions, balls, and picnics was recorded with
loyal satisfaction; even a literary flavor was given to the provincial
journals by quotations from his lordship's condescension to letters in
the “High Latitudes.” It was not without pain, however, that even in
this un-American region we discovered the old Adam of journalism in the
disposition of the newspapers of St. John toward sarcasm touching
the well-meant attempts to entertain the Governor and his lady in the
provincial town of Halifax,--a disposition to turn, in short, upon the
demonstrations of loyal worship the faint light of ridicule. There were
those upon the boat who were journeying to Halifax to take part in the
civic ball about to be given to their excellencies, and as we were going
in the same direction, we shared in the feeling of satisfaction which
proximity to the Great often excites.
We had other if not deeper causes of satisfaction. We were sailing along
the gracefully moulded and tree-covered hills of the Annapolis Basin,
and up the mildly picturesque river of that name, and we were about to
enter what the provincials all enthusiastically call the Garden of Nova
Scotia. This favored vale, skirted by low ranges of hills on either
hand, and watered most of the way by the Annapolis River, extends from
the mouth of the latter to the town of Windsor on the river Avon. We
expected to see something like the fertile valleys of the Connecticut
or the Mohawk. We should also pass through those meadows on the Basin of
Minas which Mr. Longfellow has made more sadly poetical than any other
spot on the Western Continent. It is,--this valley of the Annapolis,--in
the belief of provincials, the most beautiful and blooming place in the
world, with a soil and climate kind to the husbandman; a land of fair
meadows, orchards, and vines. It was doubtless our own fault that this
land did not look to us like a garden, as it does to the inhabitants of
Nova Scotia; and it was not until we had traveled over the rest of
the country, that we saw the appropriateness of the designation. The
explanation is, that not so much is required of a garden here as in some
other parts of the world. Excellent apples, none finer, are exported
from this valley to England, and the quality of the potatoes is said to
ap-proach an ideal perfection here. I should think that oats would ripen
well also in a good year, and grass, for those who care for it, may be
satisfactory. I should judge that the other products of this garden are
fish and building-stone. But we anticipate. And have we forgotten the
“murmuring pines and the hemlocks”? Nobody, I suppose, ever travels
here without believing that he sees these trees of the imagination, so
forcibly has the poet projected them upon the uni-versal consciousness.
But we were unable to see them, on this route.
It would be a brutal thing for us to take seats in the railway train
at Annapolis, and leave the ancient town, with its modern houses and
remains of old fortifications, without a thought of the romantic
history which saturates the region. There is not much in the smart,
new restaurant, where a tidy waiting-maid skillfully depreciates our
currency in exchange for bread and cheese and ale, to recall the early
drama of the French discovery and settlement. For it is to the French
that we owe the poetical interest that still invests, like a garment,
all these islands and bays, just as it is to the Spaniards that we owe
the romance of the Florida coast. Every spot on this continent that
either of these races has touched has a color that is wanting in the
prosaic settlements of the English.
Without the historical light of French adventure upon this town and
basin of Annapolis, or Port Royal, as they were first named, I confess
that I should have no longing to stay here for a week; notwithstanding
the guide-book distinctly says that this harbor has “a striking
resemblance to the beautiful Bay of Naples.” I am not offended at this
remark, for it is the one always made about a harbor, and I am sure the
passing traveler can stand it, if the Bay of Naples can. And yet
this tranquil basin must have seemed a haven of peace to the first
discoverers.
It was on a lovely summer day in 1604, that the Sieur de Monts and his
comrades, Champlain and the Baron de Poutrincourt, beating about the
shores of Nova Scotia, were invited by the rocky gateway of the Port
Royal Basin. They entered the small inlet, says Mr. Parkman, when
suddenly the narrow strait dilated into a broad and tranquil basin,
compassed with sunny hills, wrapped with woodland verdure and alive with
waterfalls. Poutrincourt was delighted with the scene, and would fain
remove thither from France with his family. Since Poutrincourt's day,
the hills have been somewhat denuded of trees, and the waterfalls are
not now in sight; at least, not under such a gray sky as we saw.
The reader who once begins to look into the French occupancy of Acadia
is in danger of getting into a sentimental vein, and sentiment is the
one thing to be shunned in these days. Yet I cannot but stay, though the
train should leave us, to pay my respectful homage to one of the most
heroic of women, whose name recalls the most romantic incident in
the history of this region. Out of this past there rises no figure so
captivating to the imagination as that of Madame de la Tour. And it
is noticeable that woman has a curious habit of coming to the front in
critical moments of history, and performing some exploit that eclipses
in brilliancy all the deeds of contemporary men; and the exploit usually
ends in a pathetic tragedy, that fixes it forever in the sympathy of the
world. I need not copy out of the pages of De Charlevoix the well-known
story of Madame de la Tour; I only wish he had told us more about her.
It is here at Port Royal that we first see her with her husband. Charles
de St. Etienne, the Chevalier de la Tour,--there is a world of romance
in these mere names,--was a Huguenot nobleman who had a grant of Port
Royal and of La Hive, from Louis XIII. He ceded La Hive to Razilli,
the governor-in-chief of the provinces, who took a fancy to it, for
a residence. He was living peacefully at Port Royal in 1647, when the
Chevalier d'Aunay Charnise, having succeeded his brother Razilli at La
Hive, tired of that place and removed to Port Royal. De Charnise was
a Catholic; the difference in religion might not have produced any
unpleasantness, but the two noblemen could not agree in dividing the
profits of the peltry trade,--each being covetous, if we may so express
it, of the hide of the savage continent, and determined to take it off
for himself. At any rate, disagreement arose, and De la Tour moved over
to the St. John, of which region his father had enjoyed a grant from
Charles I. of England,--whose sad fate it is not necessary now to recall
to the reader's mind,--and built a fort at the mouth of the river. But
the differences of the two ambitious Frenchmen could not be composed.
De la Tour obtained aid from Governor Winthrop at Boston, thus verifying
the Catholic prediction that the Huguenots would side with the enemies
of France on occasion. De Charnise received orders from Louis to arrest
De la Tour; but a little preliminary to the arrest was the possession of
the fort of St. John, and this he could not obtain, although be sent all
his force against it. Taking advantage, however, of the absence of De
la Tour, who had a habit of roving about, he one day besieged St. John.
Madame de la Tour headed the little handful of men in the fort, and made
such a gallant resistance that De Charnise was obliged to draw off his
fleet with the loss of thirty-three men,--a very serious loss, when the
supply of men was as distant as France. But De Charnise would not
be balked by a woman; he attacked again; and this time, one of the
garrison, a Swiss, betrayed the fort, and let the invaders into
the walls by an unguarded entrance. It was Easter morning when this
misfortune occurred, but the peaceful influence of the day did not
avail. When Madame saw that she was betrayed, her spirits did not quail;
she took refuge with her little band in a detached part of the fort, and
there made such a bold show of defense, that De Charnise was obliged to
agree to the terms of her surrender, which she dictated. No sooner had
this unchivalrous fellow obtained possession of the fort and of this
Historic Woman, than, overcome with a false shame that he had made terms
with a woman, he violated his noble word, and condemned to death all
the men, except one, who was spared on condition that he should be the
executioner of the others. And the poltroon compelled the brave woman
to witness the execution, with the added indignity of a rope round her
neck,--or as De Charlevoix much more neatly expresses it, “obligea sa
prisonniere d'assister a l'execution, la corde au cou.”
To the shock of this horror the womanly spirit of Madame de la Tour
succumbed; she fell into a decline and died soon after. De la Tour,
himself an exile from his province, wandered about the New World in his
customary pursuit of peltry. He was seen at Quebec for two years. While
there, he heard of the death of De Charnise, and straightway repaired
to St. John. The widow of his late enemy received him graciously, and
he entered into possession of the estate of the late occupant with the
consent of all the heirs. To remove all roots of bitterness, De la
Tour married Madame de Charnise, and history does not record any ill of
either of them. I trust they had the grace to plant a sweetbrier on
the grave of the noble woman to whose faithfulness and courage they owe
their rescue from obscurity. At least the parties to this singular
union must have agreed to ignore the lamented existence of the Chevalier
d'Aunay.
With the Chevalier de la Tour, at any rate, it all went well thereafter.
When Cromwell drove the French from Acadia, he granted great territorial
rights to De la Tour, which that thrifty adventurer sold out to one
of his co-grantees for L16,000; and he no doubt invested the money in
peltry for the London market.
As we leave the station at Annapolis, we are obliged to put Madame de la
Tour out of our minds to make room for another woman whose name, and we
might say presence, fills all the valley before us. So it is that woman
continues to reign, where she has once got a foothold, long after her
dear frame has become dust. Evangeline, who is as real a personage as
Queen Esther, must have been a different woman from Madame de la Tour.
If the latter had lived at Grand Pre, she would, I trust, have made
it hot for the brutal English who drove the Acadians out of their
salt-marsh paradise, and have died in her heroic shoes rather than float
off into poetry. But if it should come to the question of marrying the
De la Tour or the Evangeline, I think no man who was not engaged in the
peltry trade would hesitate which to choose. At any rate, the women who
love have more influence in the world than the women who fight, and so
it happens that the sentimental traveler who passes through Port Royal
without a tear for Madame de la Tour, begins to be in a glow of tender
longing and regret for Evangeline as soon as he enters the valley of the
Annapolis River. For myself, I expected to see written over the railway
crossings the legend,
“Look out for Evangeline while the bell rings.”
When one rides into a region of romance he does not much notice his
speed or his carriage; but I am obliged to say that we were not hurried
up the valley, and that the cars were not too luxurious for the plain
people, priests, clergymen, and belles of the region, who rode in them.
Evidently the latest fashions had not arrived in the Provinces, and we
had an opportunity of studying anew those that had long passed away in
the States, and of remarking how inappropriate a fashion is when it has
ceased to be the fashion.
The river becomes small shortly after we leave Annapolis and before we
reach Paradise. At this station of happy appellation we looked for the
satirist who named it, but he has probably sold out and removed. If
the effect of wit is produced by the sudden recognition of a remote
resemblance, there was nothing witty in the naming of this station.
Indeed, we looked in vain for the “garden” appearance of the valley.
There was nothing generous in the small meadows or the thin orchards;
and if large trees ever grew on the bordering hills, they have given
place to rather stunted evergreens; the scraggy firs and balsams, in
fact, possess Nova Scotia generally as we saw it,--and there is nothing
more uninteresting and wearisome than large tracts of these woods. We
are bound to believe that Nova Scotia has somewhere, or had, great pines
and hemlocks that murmur, but we were not blessed with the sight of
them. Slightly picturesque this valley is with its winding river and
high hills guarding it, and perhaps a person would enjoy a foot-tramp
down it; but, I think he would find little peculiar or interesting after
he left the neighborhood of the Basin of Minas.
Before we reached Wolfville we came in sight of this basin and some of
the estuaries and streams that run into it; that is, when the tide goes
out; but they are only muddy ditches half the time. The Acadia College
was pointed out to us at Wolfville by a person who said that it is a
feeble institution, a remark we were sorry to hear of a place described
as “one of the foremost seats of learning in the Province.” But our
regret was at once extinguished by the announcement that the next
station was Grand Pre! We were within three miles of the most poetic
place in North America.
There was on the train a young man from Boston, who said that he was
born in Grand Pre. It seemed impossible that we should actually be near
a person so felicitously born. He had a justifiable pride in the fact,
as well as in the bride by his side, whom he was taking to see for
the first time his old home. His local information, imparted to her,
overflowed upon us; and when he found that we had read “Evangeline,” his
delight in making us acquainted with the scene of that poem was pleasant
to see. The village of Grand Pre is a mile from the station; and perhaps
the reader would like to know exactly what the traveler, hastening on to
Baddeck, can see of the famous locality.
We looked over a well-grassed meadow, seamed here and there by beds of
streams left bare by the receding tide, to a gentle swell in the ground
upon which is a not heavy forest growth. The trees partly conceal the
street of Grand Pre, which is only a road bordered by common houses.
Beyond is the Basin of Minas, with its sedgy shore, its dreary flats;
and beyond that projects a bold headland, standing perpendicular against
the sky. This is the Cape Blomidon, and it gives a certain dignity to
the picture.
The old Normandy picturesqueness has departed from the village of Grand
Pre. Yankee settlers, we were told, possess it now, and there are no
descendants of the French Acadians in this valley. I believe that Mr.
Cozzens found some of them in humble circumstances in a village on the
other coast, not far from Halifax, and it is there, probably, that the
“Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kirtles of homespun,
And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's story, While from its
rocky caverns the deep-voiced, neighboring ocean Speaks, and in accents
disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.”
At any rate, there is nothing here now except a faint tradition of the
French Acadians; and the sentimental traveler who laments that they were
driven out, and not left behind their dikes to rear their flocks, and
cultivate the rural virtues, and live in the simplicity of ignorance,
will temper his sadness by the reflection that it is to the expulsion he
owes “Evangeline” and the luxury of his romantic grief. So that if the
traveler is honest, and examines his own soul faithfully, he will not
know what state of mind to cherish as he passes through this region of
sorrow.
Our eyes lingered as long as possible and with all eagerness upon these
meadows and marshes which the poet has made immortal, and we regretted
that inexorable Baddeck would not permit us to be pilgrims for a day in
this Acadian land. Just as I was losing sight of the skirt of trees at
Grand Pre, a gentleman in the dress of a rural clergyman left his seat,
and complimented me with this remark: “I perceive, sir, that you are
fond of reading.”
I could not but feel flattered by this unexpected discovery of my
nature, which was no doubt due to the fact that I held in my hand one
of the works of Charles Reade on social science, called “Love me Little,
Love me Long,” and I said, “Of some kinds, I am.”
“Did you ever see a work called 'Evangeline'?”
“Oh, yes, I have frequently seen it.”
“You may remember,” continued this Mass of Information, “that there is
an allusion in it to Grand Pre. That is the place, sir!”
“Oh, indeed, is that the place? Thank you.”
“And that mountain yonder is Cape Blomidon, blow me down, you know.”
And under cover of this pun, the amiable clergyman retired, unconscious,
I presume, of his prosaic effect upon the atmosphere of the region. With
this intrusion of the commonplace, I suffered an eclipse of faith as to
Evangeline, and was not sorry to have my attention taken up by the river
Avon, along the banks of which we were running about this time. It is
really a broad arm of the basin, extending up to Windsor, and beyond in
a small stream, and would have been a charming river if there had been a
drop of water in it. I never knew before how much water adds to a river.
Its slimy bottom was quite a ghastly spectacle, an ugly gash in the land
that nothing could heal but the friendly returning tide. I should think
it would be confusing to dwell by a river that runs first one way and
then the other, and then vanishes altogether.
All the streams about this basin are famous for their salmon and shad,
and the season for these fish was not yet passed. There seems to be an
untraced affinity between the shad and the strawberry; they appear and
disappear in a region simultaneously. When we reached Cape Breton, we
were a day or two late for both. It is impossible not to feel a little
contempt for people who do not have these luxuries till July and August;
but I suppose we are in turn despised by the Southerners because we do
not have them till May and June. So, a great part of the enjoyment of
life is in the knowledge that there are people living in a worse place
than that you inhabit.
Windsor, a most respectable old town round which the railroad sweeps,
with its iron bridge, conspicuous King's College, and handsome church
spire, is a great place for plaster and limestone, and would be a good
location for a person interested in these substances. Indeed, if a man
can live on rocks, like a goat, he may settle anywhere between Windsor
and Halifax. It is one of the most sterile regions in the Province.
With the exception of a wild pond or two, we saw nothing but rocks
and stunted firs, for forty-five miles, a monotony unrelieved by one
picturesque feature. Then we longed for the “Garden of Nova Scotia,” and
understood what is meant by the name.
A member of the Ottawa government, who was on his way to the
Governor-General's ball at Halifax, informed us that this country is
rich in minerals, in iron especially, and he pointed out spots where
gold had been washed out. But we do not covet it. And we were not sorry
to learn from this gentleman, that since the formation of the Dominion,
there is less and less desire in the Provinces for annexation to the
United States. One of the chief pleasures in traveling in Nova Scotia
now is in the constant reflection that you are in a foreign country; and
annexation would take that away.
It is nearly dark when we reach the head of the Bedford Basin. The noble
harbor of Halifax narrows to a deep inlet for three miles along the
rocky slope on which the city stands, and then suddenly expands into
this beautiful sheet of water. We ran along its bank for five miles,
cheered occasionally by a twinkling light on the shore, and then came
to a stop at the shabby terminus, three miles out of town. This basin is
almost large enough to float the navy of Great Britain, and it could
lie here, with the narrows fortified, secure from the attacks of
the American navy, hovering outside in the fog. With these patriotic
thoughts we enter the town. It is not the fault of the railroad, but its
present inability to climb a rocky hill, that it does not run into the
city. The suburbs are not impressive in the night, but they look better
then than they do in the daytime; and the same might be said of the city
itself. Probably there is not anywhere a more rusty, forlorn town, and
this in spite of its magnificent situation.
It is a gala-night when we rattle down the rough streets, and have
pointed out to us the somber government buildings. The Halifax Club
House is a blaze of light, for the Governor-General is being received
there, and workmen are still busy decorating the Provincial Building
for the great ball. The city is indeed pervaded by his lordship, and
we regret that we cannot see it in its normal condition of quiet; the
hotels are full, and it is impossible to escape the festive feeling that
is abroad. It ill accords with our desires, as tranquil travelers, to be
plunged into such a vortex of slow dissipation. These people take their
pleasures more gravely than we do, and probably will last the longer for
their moderation. Having ascertained that we can get no more information
about Baddeck here than in St. John, we go to bed early, for we are to
depart from this fascinating place at six o'clock.
If any one objects that we are not competent to pass judgment on the
city of Halifax by sleeping there one night, I beg leave to plead the
usual custom of travelers,--where would be our books of travel, if more
was expected than a night in a place?--and to state a few facts. The
first is, that I saw the whole of Halifax. If I were inclined, I could
describe it building by building. Cannot one see it all from the citadel
hill, and by walking down by the horticultural garden and the Roman
Catholic cemetery? and did not I climb that hill through the most
dilapidated rows of brown houses, and stand on the greensward of the
fortress at five o'clock in the morning, and see the whole city, and the
British navy riding at anchor, and the fog coming in from the Atlantic
Ocean? Let the reader go to! and if he would know more of Halifax, go
there. We felt that if we remained there through the day, it would be a
day of idleness and sadness. I could draw a picture of Halifax. I could
relate its century of history; I could write about its free-school
system, and its many noble charities. But the reader always skips such
things. He hates information; and he himself would not stay in this dull
garrison town any longer than he was obliged to.
There was to be a military display that day in honor of the Governor.
“Why,” I asked the bright and light-minded colored boy who sold papers
on the morning train, “don't you stay in the city and see it?”
“Pho,” said he, with contempt, “I'm sick of 'em. Halifax is played out,
and I'm going to quit it.”
The withdrawal of this lively trader will be a blow to the enterprise of
the place.
When I returned to the hotel for breakfast--which was exactly like the
supper, and consisted mainly of green tea and dry toast--there was a
commotion among the waiters and the hack-drivers over a nervous little
old man, who was in haste to depart for the morning train. He was a
specimen of provincial antiquity such as could not be seen elsewhere.
His costume was of the oddest: a long-waisted coat reaching nearly to
his heels, short trousers, a flowered silk vest, and a napless hat. He
carried his baggage tied up in mealbags, and his attention was divided
between that and two buxom daughters, who were evidently enjoying their
first taste of city life. The little old man, who was not unlike a
petrified Frenchman of the last century, had risen before daylight,
roused up his daughters, and had them down on the sidewalk by four
o'clock, waiting for hack, or horse-car, or something to take them
to the station. That he might be a man of some importance at home was
evident, but he had lost his head in the bustle of this great town,
and was at the mercy of all advisers, none of whom could understand
his mongrel language. As we came out to take the horse-car, he saw his
helpless daughters driven off in one hack, while he was raving among his
meal-bags on the sidewalk. Afterwards we saw him at the station, flying
about in the greatest excitement, asking everybody about the train; and
at last he found his way into the private office of the ticket-seller.
“Get out of here!” roared that official. The old man persisted that
he wanted a ticket. “Go round to the window; clear out!” In a very
flustered state he was hustled out of the room. When he came to the
window and made known his destination, he was refused tickets, because
his train did not start for two hours yet!
This mercurial old gentleman only appears in these records because he
was the only person we saw in this Province who was in a hurry to do
anything, or to go anywhere.
We cannot leave Halifax without remarking that it is a city of great
private virtue, and that its banks are sound. The appearance of its
paper-money is not, however, inviting. We of the United States lead the
world in beautiful paper-money; and when I exchanged my crisp, handsome
greenbacks for the dirty, flimsy, ill-executed notes of the Dominion,
at a dead loss of value, I could not be reconciled to the transaction.
I sarcastically called the stuff I received “Confederate money;” but
probably no one was wounded by the severity; for perhaps no one knew
what a resemblance in badness there is between the “Confederate” notes
of our civil war and the notes of the Dominion; and, besides, the
Confederacy was too popular in the Provinces for the name to be a
reproach to them. I wish I had thought of something more insulting to
say.
By noon on Friday we came to New Glasgow, having passed through a
country where wealth is to be won by hard digging if it is won at all;
through Truro, at the head of the Cobequid Bay, a place exhibiting more
thrift than any we have seen. A pleasant enough country, on the whole,
is this which the road runs through up the Salmon and down the
East River. New Glasgow is not many miles from Pictou, on the great
Cumberland Strait; the inhabitants build vessels, and strangers drive
out from here to see the neighboring coal mines. Here we were to dine
and take the stage for a ride of eighty miles to the Gut of Canso.
The hotel at New Glasgow we can commend as one of the most unwholesome
in the Province; but it is unnecessary to emphasize its condition, for
if the traveler is in search of dirty hotels, he will scarcely go amiss
anywhere in these regions. There seems to be a fashion in diet which
endures. The early travelers as well as the later in these Atlantic
provinces all note the prevalence of dry, limp toast and green tea; they
are the staples of all the meals; though authorities differ in regard
to the third element for discouraging hunger: it is sometimes boiled
salt-fish and sometimes it is ham. Toast was probably an inspiration of
the first woman of this part of the New World, who served it hot; but
it has become now a tradition blindly followed, without regard to
temperature; and the custom speaks volumes for the non-inventiveness
of woman. At the inn in New Glasgow those who choose dine in their
shirt-sleeves, and those skilled in the ways of this table get all they
want in seven minutes. A man who understands the use of edged tools
can get along twice as fast with a knife and fork as he can with a fork
alone.
But the stage is at the door; the coach and four horses answer the
advertisement of being “second to none on the continent.” We mount
to the seat with the driver. The sun is bright; the wind is in the
southwest; the leaders are impatient to go; the start for the long ride
is propitious.
But on the back seat in the coach is the inevitable woman, young and
sickly, with the baby in her arms. The woman has paid her fare through
to Guysborough, and holds her ticket. It turns out, however, that she
wants to go to the district of Guysborough, to St. Mary's Cross Roads,
somewhere in it, and not to the village of Guysborough, which is away
down on Chedabucto Bay. (The reader will notice this geographical
familiarity.) And this stage does not go in the direction of St. Mary's.
She will not get out, she will not surrender her ticket, nor pay her
fare again. Why should she? And the stage proprietor, the stage-driver,
and the hostler mull over the problem, and sit down on the woman's hair
trunk in front of the tavern to reason with her. The baby joins its
voice from the coach window in the clamor of the discussion. The baby
prevails. The stage company comes to a compromise, the woman dismounts,
and we are off, away from the white houses, over the sandy road, out
upon a hilly and not cheerful country. And the driver begins to tell us
stories of winter hardships, drifted highways, a land buried in snow,
and great peril to men and cattle.