Pictures of Canadian Life: A Record of Actual Experiences

by J. Ewing Ritchie

When the train arrived, of course there was no room. This is the working season, and the C.P.R., as everyone calls it in Canada, is hurrying on men to the front as fast as they can be got.

However, I was permitted to get inside the mail van, in company with a contractor, his wife, and a baby, which behaved itself as well as could be expected under the circumstances; a lady who was going to visit her husband, one of the contractors on the line; and an invalid from Pennsylvania, who did not seem much to enjoy that rough mode of travelling. We reached Holt City about eleven, when it was quite dark, and the only bed I could find was a shelf in the van, on which I was glad to lie down—but not, alas! to sleep. Had I got out, I should have been lost, or run over by an engine—that is positive, as there is no road, only divers rails, as, for instance, the Continental Hotel at Newhaven. I am now writing in the post-office, which seems the great social centre of the place, though the mail only leaves twice a week. It is a decent-sized tent, with a desk and counter in the middle for the sale of stamps and cigars and the delivery of letters. Behind it are a couple of beds on which men are reposing in a way that I envy, and covered with buffalo skins—the possession of which I envy them still more. In front is a table, fitted up with old papers and a couple of uncommonly uncomfortable benches, whereon are sitting various loafers, smoking and talking, and warming themselves as best they can at the big stove—one of which you now see in every Canadian house, and which but feebly keeps out the raw cold of the morning.

Holt City is admirably located, to use an American phrase which I heartily detest. It is a clearance in the forest, bordered by the Bow River, which dashes foaming along. There is a shed, which does duty for a railway station; a collection of tents, in which the employés of the company dwell, or which hold the large stores it collects here; a large shed for meals, a railway car, in which Mr. John Ross, the able administrator of the C.P.R. in these parts, resides with his accomplished wife; and further off are other tents, which do duty as hotels, billiard-rooms, and shops. Up here, I see little to remind me of the Old Country, except bottles of Stephens’ inks, of Aldersgate Street, London, which, says the head accountant, are the only inks on which they can rely.

We are in a valley—a valley high up among the mountains—as fair as that in which Rasselas studied to be a virtuous prince, but of a character common in the length and breadth of the Rockies. I have seen scores of valleys as fair; and yet I own the exquisite loveliness of the spot—at any rate, in summer time—is marvellous. Around me rise Alps on Alps, up into the cloudless blue. Firs, all larch and pine, in all the freshness of their new-found greenery, clothe their base; while the snow, in wreaths like marble, glistens on their dark sides or crowns their rugged peaks. It would seem as if there could be no world beyond. It is really wonderful what pleasant nooks of this kind one sees everywhere. I stopped at one such last night, a station called Canmore, which, however, seemed to be the fairest of them all—and so the fish think, as the station-master tells me he often catches speckled trout seven or eight pounds in weight. Very near are valuable sulphur and other springs, and when the railway shall be completed, I look forward to the time when Pullman cars shall come here laden with health seekers from all parts of the world, who are fond of fishing and fine air.

I had a narrow escape from not coming here at all. When we stopped at Canmore for our evening meal, I found I was utterly unable to climb back into the mail van. I may be young in heart, but, alas! I have lost somewhat of the agility of early youth. I mentioned this to the station-master and guard, who both promised me repeatedly that they would have the train drawn up for me. Knowing this, I listened unconcernedly to the cry of ‘All on board!’ Judge, then, of my horror when I saw the train gradually gliding past.

‘Jump into the last car,’ cried the guard, as he saw me looking daggers at him.

Fortunately I succeeded in doing so: it is easier to get on to an American car when in motion than on an English one, on account of its peculiar construction. This is fortunate, as the railway passenger in Canada has to trust entirely to himself. He is ignored by guards and porters and station-master altogether. Unfortunately, I jumped on to the car sacred to the person of Sir John McNeil, and I was requested by the black cook to move off, which I declined doing till we reached the next station, when I moved into another car, and created not a little laughter as I told my story. It is to be trusted that Sir John enjoyed himself all the more for having got rid of my vulgar presence. I hope Sir John may enlighten his friends on his return; but I fear he will gain little knowledge of the people or the country, travelling in such a way. Perhaps he will learn as much about it as the Marquis of Lorne, or the Earl of Carnarvon, who recommends the poor people of the East-end to come to Canada, where the chances are they will be worse off than they are at home. Canada requires hardy, muscular men—if with money in their pockets so much the better—not the refuse of our towns.

Again, I repeat, people in England ought to have fuller information about Canada ere they go thither. It is a fortune for the strong man, but even he has to run risks. Everywhere I hear of what is called mountain fever, or Red River fever, or fever with some other name which stands for typhoid disease. Grand and beautiful as is the country, fertile as is the soil, people forget to observe sanitary laws at times and suffer in consequence. But I must own that all the men I met in Holt City were pictures of health and strength. For one thing, the company feeds them well. I have just breakfasted in camp with the men. We had good coffee and fried ham and other good things for breakfast, and good tins of preserved fruits, to which everyone did justice. Everyone here has to rough it. I washed this morning in the open air, having myself ladled into a tin basin the water out of a cask in which still floated the broken ice.

Holt City is, I suppose, the head-quarters of the C.P.R. Yet it is a place by itself. Nothing can be rougher than the rail from here to Calgary, or finer than the view. It is an advantage that the trains are so slow, as you have more time to enjoy the scenery, which has almost shaken my attachment to the Hebrides, though one misses the purple heather which lends such a charm to the grey hills of the North. But comparisons are odious, and the Rockies, in all their charms, must be seen to be appreciated. It was a wonderful view I had last night as I sat on the steps of the last car, drinking in all the strange beauties of the place. We were climbing hour by hour a wilderness of mountains. We were hemmed in by them from afternoon till night came down upon the face of the earth. Mostly they were black, with snowy variations; some were bare, others clothed with verdure. Some raised their heads in the clear blue sky as fortresses, others were peaks, others ragged and uneven, shapeless masses of matter growing out of one another. Some seemed to like good company, others stood solitary and apart.