Travels in Nova Scotia in the Year 1913

by C. G. Hine

PREFACE.

Nova Scotia was a sudden inspiration, induced by the enthusiasm of a friend who had enjoyed a recent vacation here, and after some correspondence with Nova Scotians who knew their country, I selected the coast line between Yarmouth and Halifax.

The afternoon of October 12, 1913, saw me venturing forth from Boston on the Governor Cobb. The day had been given over to much rain, but ran dry late in the afternoon, and my hopes revived, though the evening started somewhat unprofitably with the moon tucked away in the attic of cloudland. And the following morning Jupiter Pluvius helped matters distressfully, having refilled his tanks over night.

It is a simple thing to reach Nova Scotia from New York as I went, and not expensive: Fall River Line to Boston, Yarmouth Line to Yarmouth. A two weeks’ trip can easily be made for $75 or less.

My adventure started as a walking trip along the coast line, but quickly resolved itself into a series of short walks punctuated with railroad rides. Away from the coast all roads are wood roads, bordered by spruces or other evergreens, picked out here and there at this season of the year with a bit of vivid color where the frost has touched the scrub maple or oak or an occasional white birch. The shadows are deep and rich and cool, and the odors from pine and hemlock a delicate perfume that is a constant joy, but there is little variety in the outlook, as the woods usually close in on both sides and, while by no means unattractive, the chief interest and beauty lie along the shore—hence the variegated method of my travel.

If I grumble now and then let no one take it too seriously. Possibly I was tired or hungry, or both—that always makes me cross—and then the weather can easily account for some of my flings, for it was anything but charming a goodly part of the time, wet and close—very close. I larded the lean earth much of the way as even Falstaff might envy. The east wind which held day after day brought many clouds and high fogs which, with a slender mist that filled the air at times, assisted in making many exquisite pictures that the camera did its best to take advantage of, though many times with indifferent success. The east wind also meant unsettled weather, but of persistent rain there was little after the first day.

Of the towns which I saw Lockport particularly commended itself, though Shelburne carries a quaint air of having once been, which could easily make the visitor love it. Liverpool and Lunenburg also set out attractions of their own, but it was the villages and little wayside stopping places that were the chief delight, such as Port Latour, Port Mouton, Hunts Point, Port Medway, Petite Riviere and the wonderful stretches of Dublin Shore and Western Shore. I speak only of those I saw.

In 1767 Lord William Campbell wrote that Nova Scotia has “more ports of safety for ships of any burthen than any other province of America, and almost at the entrance of these, inexhaustible mines of fish, which furnish all Europe with that commodity, and ought to be the first nursery of seamen to supply, as occasion may require, the British navy.” In fact this southern coast is almost as regularly notched with bays and inlets as is the deep-toothed timber saw.

Many of the smaller hotels give no outward indication that they are such, but, when found, are apt to prove more inviting than those of nobler bulk. Here, if one is damp, he may adjourn to the kitchen and hang his coat near the fire, talk to the cook (who is usually the landlady or a daughter of the house), and eat in his shirt sleeves if so minded. A nice, friendly lot they are—good, honest people, to whom it is a pleasure to be obliging. The only exception I met was at Pubnico, where the landlady tried to bite my head off, but I adopted General Washington’s famous Fabian policy and came out with a full stomach and serene conscience, but I still feel sorry for her old man.

At this season there is much talk of moose and moose hunting. Listen a moment to any group in hotel or on street corner and one is reasonably sure to learn how impossible it was for any man to have made a successful shot under the circumstances, or what a wonderfully clever shot it really was. The result guides the conversation.

Everywhere I found pleasant, kindly people, and came to the conclusion that the Nova Scotia coat of arms should consist of a smiling face and welcoming hand.

One particularly commendable feature of the country from the point of view of the man on foot is the scarcity of automobiles. They do have them, but they are few and far between. Outside of Yarmouth and Halifax I did not see one during my two weeks’ exploration. It is no trouble to dodge an ox cart, and one is never surprised into a sudden dash for the brush by an unexpected toot in the rear.

The roads are good dirt roads and, so far as my observation went, never deeply rutted, but I presume they are not what an automobile enthusiast would regard as even fair, and it is probable that there will be no change so long as the ox is universally used for hauling, as his feet with their thin shoes would hardly stand the unelastic stone road.

“Acadia” is spelled in different ways. I do not cling to any one spelling, but have rather endeavored to follow the spelling used at the time which happens to be under discussion in the narrative.

Samuel de Champlain has described the coast of my travels, but begins at Lahave and works west, and as I was bound to the east’ard he cannot well be followed through the course of the narrative; so, as his description is interesting, it is included here. He says:—

“Cape de la Héve, is a place where there is a bay, where are several islands covered with fir trees, and the main land with oaks, elms and birches. It is on the shore of Acadie. * * * Seven leagues from this, is another called le Port au mouton, where are two small rivers. The land is very stony, covered with underwood and bushes. There is a quantity of rabbits and much game on account of the ponds there. Going along the coast there is also a harbor very good for vessels, and the head of it a little river which runs from a distance inland, which I named the port of cape Negre, on account of a rock which at a distance resembles one, which is raised above the water near a cape that we passed the same day, four leagues from it and ten to port au mouton. This cape is very dangerous on account of the rocks around it. The coasts thus far are very low, covered with the same kind of wood as cape de la Héve, and the islands all full of game. Going further on we passed a night in Sable bay where vessels can lie at anchor without any fear of danger. Cape Sable, distant two full leagues from Sable bay, is also very dangerous for certain rocks and reefs lying out a mile almost to sea. Thence one goes on the isle aux cormorants, a league distant, so called on account of the infinite number there of these birds, with whose eggs we filled a cask, and from this island making westwardly about six leagues, crossing a bay which runs in two or three leagues to the northward, we meet several islands, two or three leagues to sea, which may contain some two others three leagues and others less according to my judgment. They are mostly very dangerous for large vessels to come close to on account of the great tides and rocks level with the water. These islands are filled with pine trees, firs, birches and aspens. A little further on are four others. In one there is so great a quantity of birds called tangueux, that they may be easily knocked down with a stick. In another there are seals. In two others there is such an abundance of birds of different kinds, that without having seen them could not be imagined, such as cormorants, ducks of three kinds, geese, marmettes, bustards, perroquets de mer, snipes, vultures, and other birds of prey, mauves, sea larks of two or three kinds, herons, goillants, curlews, sea gulls, divers, kites, appoils, crows, cranes, and other sorts, which make their nests there. I gave them the name of the Seal islands. They are distant from the main land or cape Sable four or five leagues. Thence we go on to a cape which I called the port Fourchu (Forked harbor) inasmuch as its figure is so, being five or six leagues distant from Seal islands. This harbor (Yarmouth?) is very good for vessels in its entrance but further up it is almost all dry at low tide with the exception of the course of a small river, all surrounded by meadows which renders the place very agreeable.”

Champlain again describes the coast from Lahave eastward:—

“From leaving cape de la Héve until you reach Sesambre (Sambro), which is an island so called by some Mallouins, fifteen leagues distant from La Héve, there are to be found on the way a quantity of islands, which we have named “the Martyrs” on account of some Frenchmen killed by the Indians. These islands are in general cul de sacs and bays, in one of which there is a river called Sainte Margueritte, seven leagues distant from Sesambre. The islands and shores are full of pines, firs, birches, and other inferior timber. The catch of fish there is abundant, and so is the quantity of birds. From Sesambre we passed a very safe bay (Chebucto?), containing seven or eight leagues, where there are no islands in the route except at the head of it, where there is a small river.”

THE SOUTH COAST OF NOVA SCOTIA
LAND OF ROMANCE AND MYSTERY

YARMOUTH TO BARRINGTON.

I have a very proper cousin in the West who, when it was announced to a waiting world that my precious person was to be intrusted to the great deep, hastily sent on the following incident in the life of one who had preceded me:

The facts in the case were about as follows—Mr. Smith was to make his first trip abroad and, having heard much concerning that grievous malady of the sea which is usually a matter for ribald jest on the part of those kind friends not afflicted, he concluded to consult a physician. This learned gentleman advised that, “For a few days before setting out, eat heartily of everything you enjoy; eat abundantly.” This did not quite agree with his preconceived notions, and he concluded to see another doctor, who advised, “For a few days before you go eat sparingly, almost starve yourself.” Wholly at sea now, he called in a third man of medicine, who stated, “Both are right; it depends entirely on whether you wish to discard from strength or weakness.” I went to neither extreme myself and, the sea being calm, suffered no harm.

The only real fault I have to find with this trip is that too much was attempted. Yarmouth to Halifax does not look like a great distance on the map, and consequently I looked up the story of that section, to discover so many items of interest strewn along the deep indentations of this rugged coast that it seemed highly improper to allow any to pass by unobserved. But while a straight line between the two points is not appalling, to follow the coast line is much like attempting a trip from the Hudson at Forty-second street to the opposite point on the East River by way of the Battery.

I doubt the wisdom of one in my frame of mind spending an entire day in one town—it was the open road that beckoned. But a day had been set apart for Yarmouth, and as this particular one was never intended for such a pleasure exertion as mine, owing to its moist condition, it seems probable that I had planned better than I knew.

The history of Yarmouth appears to have been rather uneventful, but the public library contains an interesting relic of prehistoric times in a runic stone discovered on the west side of the harbor about 1815 by a Doctor Fletcher, and which the antiquarians after much labor have translated as “Harko’s son addressed the men.” The records show that in 1007 the Norsemen made an expedition along this coast, and one Harki is mentioned therein, and this and a somewhat similar stone found in the same general locality in 1897 are supposed to commemorate some important event of that trip. Nothing more is known. The stones when discovered were lying face down in the mud; but for this the action of the elements would have effaced the lettering during the nine hundred years that have passed since the work was done.

I called on J. Bond Gray, Secretary of the Tourist Committee of the Yarmouth Board of Trade, with whom some previous correspondence had been held, and on his advice covered the first nineteen miles, to Argyle, by rail. Mr. Gray was courteous and pleasant, but in this he but follows the custom of the land where courtesy is as much a matter of course as is the glacial boulder. While on this subject I cannot overlook A. L. Nickerson, station agent. I unfolded to him my great and consuming desire for a timetable, as I expected to fall back on the railroad with more or less frequency. He had none, but appreciating the situation, said he would do what he could, and during the day he telegraphed to headquarters in the expectation of receiving a copy. That he was not successful was no fault of his, and as a last resort he made a suggestion that enabled me to secure a copy at another point. This proved to be the almost universal spirit of the people throughout the excursion.

The walking actually began on October 14th. The rain had made desperate efforts during the greater part of the preceding night to wash Nova Scotia off the map, and when I alighted from the train at Argyle at 7:54, the morning was still highly charged with moisture. To the great wonderment of a gentleman who was spending a quiet hour with the depot stove I harnessed up and, throwing a rubber cape over my shoulders, set forth.

Once out in the storm the experience was more than pleasant. The smell of the fresh dampness was delicious, and there was a certain exclusiveness in having the highway all to one’s self that was far from unattractive, while the cleansing which the wayside foliage had undergone made even the frost-bitten ferns a rich, warm brown.

Of the entire distance to Pubnico, ten miles, the spot that best pleased my eye is to be located by the first church steeple after leaving the Argyle station. The small settlement lies close upon the water at the head of an inlet filled with beautiful little islands. But all the way through Lower Argyle the eye is filled with Argyle Sound and its many islets.

By 10:30 the drizzle was drizzling less and less, and at one time it seemed as though the sun might get the better of the situation. A short walk through what had once been woods, but now is little better than waste land, brought me to Pubnico and the head of Pubnico Harbor. By this time my rubber cape had been shed, when the discovery was made that it was more in the nature of a sieve, as it was quite as wet inside as out, and that damp feeling which I had supposed was honest sweat turned out to be nothing but rainwater. It was quite as penetratingly wet, however.

Pubnico claims to be the oldest Acadian settlement in Nova Scotia, having been planted by D’Entrement in 1650. After the expulsion some of the exiles returned, and the region is still peopled by their descendants, it being commonly known as the “French Shore.” The houses give no indication of age, and there is no outward sign to suggest an old-settled place. Here, as elsewhere, I saw no indications of extreme poverty; the farms are of little value, but the fisheries supply every need. The various nationalities do not mix and disappear in this land as with us. While all speak the English language the French are still French; the Germans, German and the Scotch, Scotch. This is so even where several generations have been born here.

I presented myself at Goodwin’s Hotel, Pubnico, about 11:30 a. m., and found the lady of the house as cross as two sticks; if it was dinner that was wanted it would be ready at 12:30, and I could wait for it. Could I have some bread and milk? No! it took time to get it. She was as sour an old party as has crossed my path in many a day, and my heart goes out to any who may fall under her spell.

However, the intervening hour gave an opportunity to drape myself and clothes around the parlor stove, and as I discovered a local history, the time was not counted lost.

As I took up the task of searching out East Pubnico there were to be seen hints of blue in the upper regions of the air, and it looked as though something better was in store for the afternoon. Shortly the camera came on an ox cart and two boys, and we stopped to get acquainted. It turned out that their motive power was known as “Spark,” and there seems to be no doubt but that he is the live wire of the region, as I was reliably informed that he can make three miles an hour under favoring conditions.

At East Pubnico two ways were open: one through the nine mile woods, the other around the shore, some twenty-two miles, and as time was an object and my sailing directions did not show any stories connected with this portion of the shore, I picked the former. It proved to be nine miles without a house or clearing, or even a crossroad—one ox team, one light wagon, one bunch of stray cattle and a few partridges composed all the life I saw. It was a rather desolate region, some large burned tracts, but most of it given over to brush and small trees, with an occasional lake in the distance. It is said that deer are common along this road and moose occasional, but I did not have the good fortune to see any.

For a pair of antiquated and out-of-practice legs such as I had with me, nine miles added to an earlier thirteen, began to appear like something of an undertaking as the afternoon wore on, and I communed with myself as to just why my running gear was being pushed at such a furious pace, and this a holiday, but did not learn much of interest except that there I was and thence I must.

Some time later my knees began to squeak and a warm spot appeared on a little toe, but just at this juncture a house swung into view and I knew Oak Park was nigh.

It was heartrending to learn that they did not and would not take boarders, and that the only man who did in those parts lived a half mile further on. No amount of looking pleasant had the least effect, and I must compromise on a glass of water, which my dry and withered interior sadly needed. Testing my knees gently and finding that they would bend without breaking, and that my feet could be lifted and pushed forward if care were exercised, the journey was again taken up; but why linger further on the sad scene?

Mr. Charles M. Crowell was counting his chickens when I arrived. He did not know whether I could stay the night or not; the old woman had the say on such subjects, and she had gone to see a sister. I said that I would go in and sit down to wait. The kitchen seemed the warm spot, and I snuggled up to the stove and was having a nice, comfortable time when my host dropped in and remarked that there was no fire in the stove. However, if I wanted one, it was no trouble, and soon there was a roaring blaze and I began to steam. When one has been sweating for hours it is a great comfort to sit close by a fire as the cool of evening comes on, although it seems quite evident that a good imagination can be a wonderful aid to comfort. As the poet has said: “There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.”

Seven o’clock came and went and the better half of the Crowell family was still absent. I had in the meantime become intimate with two ginger cookies which, having been overbrowned in the making, were left on the kitchen table, but felt that a hard worker like myself could not live on ginger cookies alone, at least not on two, and made no attempt to disguise my joy when my hospitable friend supposed I would like something to eat. He made tea and gathered up various cold fragments of pie and cookies, bread and apple-sauce, and we did very well.

The missis came along about nine o’clock, and shortly thereafter I was dreaming that little devils were twisting my legs off.

When it was time to depart on the following morning Mrs. Crowell thought that fifty cents would be sufficient as the meals had not been very substantial, which was true enough, but the room was clean and my host and hostess were kindly people, and so far as I was able to judge the food was sustaining.

The two and one-half miles into Barrington were without incident, except for a strange bird that crossed my path. It was not a partridge, nor was it any ordinary escape from the barnyard. It stood as though its usual occupation was looking for berries rather than worms, and walked with a dignity that the domestic hen never possessed.

It is claimed for the old meeting house in Barrington (1765) that it is the only church in Canada of its age that has been retained in its original form inside and out; others that remain have been altered and built over until little or nothing is left of the original. This only escaped destruction by a narrow margin, as some time in the eighties the Legislature decreed that the building should be demolished, owing to its dangerous condition. But local pride came to its aid at the last moment, and by the application of two or three hundred dollars where most needed, it was put in good repair, and at the present time two denominations worship every Sunday within its old fashioned box pews.

Some eighty families from Nantucket and Cape Cod emigrated to this place between the years 1761 to 1763; about half remained to form a permanent settlement. Work was probably commenced on the church shortly after, as by 1765 the building was finished and dedicated. With the first settlers came Samuel Wood, a Congregational pastor. He held services here and at other points along the shore as far as Yarmouth, but when the Revolution broke out, returned to his former home and became a chaplain in the American army.

In the meantime, about 1770, the New York Methodist Conference sent Freeborn Garretson to this region to proselyte. He was received but coldly, however, though permitted to preach in the meeting house. He failed entirely to win any converts to his cause, and finally withdrew to the woods to commune with his Maker. While offering up his supplications for light and guidance he was overheard by some of the people, and these, spreading the report abroad, aroused much curiosity which led to a considerable attendance when a second meeting was held. It does not appear, however, that any were deeply impressed.

After those attending the meeting had returned to their homes a Mrs. Homer asked her less hospitable half where the minister was stopping, and on being informed that he did not know, she took a lantern and went forth to seek him. Either through thoughtlessness, or because none was quite brave enough to take this expounder of a strange religion to his home, Mrs. Homer found him at the meeting house in the act of spreading his surtout on the floor for a couch. The good lady brought him to her home and later became his first convert.

All this I have from one who evidently takes a great interest in the church, but whose name has fallen out of its proper brain cell and been lost.

Other annals have I none.

At Barrington I made my home at a large square house just east of the livery stable, rather than at the hotel. The place was clean, and the meals were good; the hot muffins were worthy of a poet’s pen. The house was full, chiefly of commercial men, which would seem to indicate what they thought of the situation.

I was given the last vacant room, but there came one after me also seeking lodging, whereupon the landlady turned to me with the remark that I was his only hope, as there were two beds in my room. I did as I would have had him do had the situation been reversed, and found no occasion for regret. He was a very earnest gentleman, and amusing withal, much given to conversation not wholly instructive, though I did learn that silk socks were better for tired feet than is the more plebian cotton article. I was so unfortunate as not to secure my companion’s name, but ascertained that when not devoting his time to greatly increasing the fortunes of the firm for which he traveled he resides on the farm of his mother in Yarmouth.