the bras d'or road—farewell to picton—home sweet home—the rob roys of cape breton—note and query—chapel island—st. peter's—enterprise—the strait of canseau—west river—the last out-post of the scottish chiefs.
the road that skirts the arm of gold is about one hundred miles in length. after leaving sydney, you ride beside the spanish river a short distance, until you come to the portage, which separates it from the lake, and then you follow the delicious curve of the great beach until you arrive at st. peter's. from st. peter's you travel across a narrow strip of land until you reach the shore upon the extreme westerly end of the island of cape breton, where you cross the strait of canseau, and then you are upon the mainland of nova scotia. i had fondly hoped to voyage upon the bras d'or, instead of beside it; but was obliged to forego that pleasure. romance, at one dollar per mile, is a dear piece of extravagance, even in so ethereal a vehicle as a birch-bark canoe. therefore i engaged a seat[pg 197] in the cape breton stage, instead of the aboriginal conveyance, in which you have to sit or lie in the bottom, at the risk of an upset, and trust to fair weather and the dip of the paddle.
at day-break (two o'clock in the morning in these high latitudes) the stage drove up to the door of our pleasant inn. i was speedily dressed, and ready—and now—"good bye, picton!"
the traveller stretched out a hand from the warm nest in which he was buried.
"good bye," he said, with a hearty hand-shake, and so we parted.
it was painful to leave such an agreeable companion, but then what a relief it was to escape from the cannie scots! the first inhalation of the foggy air went tingling through every vein; the first movement of the stage, as we rolled westward, was indescribable happiness; i was at last homeward bound; in full health, in full strength; swift upon my sight came the vision of the one familiar river; the cottage and the chestnuts; the rolling greensward, and the palisades; and there, too, was my best friend; and there—
"my young barbarians all at play."
drive on, john ormond!
our cape breton stage is an easy, two-seated ve[pg 198]hicle; a quiet, little rockaway-wagon, with a top; and although h. b. m. royal mail coach, entirely different from the huge musk-melon upon wheels with which we are familiar in the states. in it i am the only passenger. thank heaven for that! i might be riding beside an aibstract preencepel.
but never mind! drive on, john ormond; we shall soon be among another race of scotsmen, the bold highlandmen of romance; the mcgregors, and mcphersons, the camerons, grahams, and mcdonalds; and as a century or so does not alter the old-country prejudices of the people in these settlements, we will no doubt find them in their pristine habiliments; in plaids and spleuchens; brogues and buckles; hose and bonnets; with claymore, dirk, and target; the white cockade and eagle feather, so beautiful in the waverley novels.
we left the pretty village of sydney behind us, and were not long in gaining the margin of the bras d'or. this great lake, or rather arm of the sea, is, as i have said, about one hundred miles in length by its shore road; but so wide is it, and so indented by broad bays and deep coves, that a coasting journey around it is equal in extent to a voyage across the atlantic. besides the distant mountains that rise proudly from the remote shores, there are many noble islands in its expanse, and forest-covered penin[pg 199]sulas, bordered with beaches of glittering white pebbles. but over all this wide landscape there broods a spirit of primeval solitude; not a sail broke the loneliness of the lake until we had advanced far upon our day's journey. for strange as it may seem, the golden arm is a very useless piece of water in this part of the world; highly favored as it is by nature, land-locked, deep enough for vessels of all burden, easy of access on the gulf side, free from fogs, and only separated from the ocean at its western end by a narrow strip of land, about three quarters of a mile wide; abounding in timber, coal, and gypsum, and valuable for its fisheries, especially in winter, yet the bras d'or is undeveloped for want of that element which scorns to be alien to the colonies, namely, enterprise.
if i had formed some romantic ideas concerning the new and strange people we found on the road we were now travelling, the highlandmen, the rob roys and vich ian vohrs of nova scotia, those ideas were soon dissipated. it is true here were the celts in their wild settlements, but without bagpipes or pistols, sporrans or philabegs; there was not even a solitary thistle to charm the eye; and as for oats, there were at least two scotchmen to one oat in this garden of exotics. i have a reasonable amount of respect for a highlandman in full cos[pg 200]tume; but for a carrot-headed, freckled, high-cheeked animal, in a round hat and breeches, that cannot utter a word of english, i have no sympathy. one fellow of this complexion, without a hat, trotted beside our coach for several miles, grunting forth his infernal gaelic to john ormond, with a hah! to every answer of the driver, that was really painful. when he disappeared in the woods his red head went out like a torch. but we had scarcely gone by the first highlandman, when another darted out upon us from a by-path, and again broke the sabbath of the woods and waters; and then another followed, so that the morning ride by the bras d'or was fringed with gaelic. now i have heard many languages in my time, and know how to appreciate the luxurious greek, the stately latin, the mellifluous chinese, the epithetical sclavic, the soft italian, the rich castilian, the sprightly french, sonorous german, and good old english, but candor compels me to say, that i do not think much of the gaelic. it is not pleasing to the ear.
yet it was a stately ride, that by the bras d'or; in one's own coach, as it were, traversing such old historic ground. for the very name, and its associations, carry one back to the earliest discoveries in america, carry one back behind plymouth rock to the earlier french adventurers in this hemi[pg 201]sphere; yea, almost to the times of richard crookback; for on the neighboring shores, as the english claim, cabot first landed, and named the place prima vista, in the days of henry the seventh, the "richmond" of history and tragedy.
"le bras d'or! john ormond, do you not think le bras d'or sounds much like labrador?"
"'deed does it," answered john.
"and why not? that mysterious, geological coast is only four days' sail from sydney, i take it? labrador! with its auks and puffins, its seals and sea-tigers, its whales and walruses? why not an offshoot of le bras d'or, its earlier brother in the family of discovery. but drive on, john ormond, we will leave etymology to the pedants."
well, well, ancient or modern, there is not a lovelier ride by white-pebbled beach and wide stretch of wave. now we roll along amidst primeval trees, not the evergreens of the sea-coast, but familiar growths of maple, beech, birch; and larches, juniper or hackmatack—imperishable for ship craft. now we cross bridges, over sparkling brooks, alive with trout and salmon, and most surprising of all, pregnant with water-power. "surprising," because no motive-power can be presented to the eye of a citizen of the young republic without the corresponding thought of "why not use it?" and[pg 202] why not, when bras d'or is so near, or the sea-coast either, and land at forty cents an acre, and trees as closely set, and as lofty, as ever nature planted them? of a certainty, there would be a thousand saw-mills screaming between this and canseau if a drop of yankee blood had ever fertilized this soil.
well, well, perhaps it is well. but yet to ride through a hundred miles of denationalized, high-cheeked, red, or black-headed highlandmen, with illustrious names, in breeches and round hats, without pistols or feathers, is a sorry sight. not one of these mcgregors can earn more than five shillings a day, currency, as a laborer. not a digger upon our canals but can do better than that; and with the chance of rising. but here there seems be no such opportunity. the colonial system provides that every settler shall have a grant of about one hundred and twenty acres, in fee, and free. what then? the government fosters and protects him. it sends out annually choice stocks of cattle, at a nominal price; it establishes a tariff of duties on foreign goods, so low that the revenue derived therefrom is not sufficient to pay the salaries of its officers. what then? the colonist is only a parasite with all these advantages. he is not an integral part of a nation; a citizen, responsible for his franchise. he is but a colonial micmac, or scotch-[pg 203]mac; a mere sub-thoughted, irresponsible exotic, in a governmental cold grapery. by the great forefinger of tom jefferson, i would rather be a citizen of the united states than own all the five-shilling blue noses between sydney and canseau!
as we roll along up hill and down, a startling flash of sunlight bursts forth from the dewy morning clouds, and touches lake, island, and promontory, with inexpressible beauty. stop, john ormond, or drive slowly; let us enjoy dolce far niente. to hang now in our curricle upon this wooded hill-top, overlooking the clear surface of the lake, with leafy island, and peninsula dotted in its depths, in all its native grace, without a touch or trace of hand-work, far or near, save and except a single spot of sail in the far-off, is holy and sublime.
and there we rested, reverentially impressed with the week-day sabbath. we lingered long and lovingly upon our woody promontory, our eyrie among the spruces of cape breton.
"clear, placid leman! thy contrasted lake,
with the wild world i dwelt in, is a thing
which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake
earth's troubled waters for a purer spring."
down hill go horses and mail-coach, and we are lost in a vast avenue of twinkling birches. for[pg 204] miles we ride within breast-high hedges of sunny shrubs, until we reach another promontory, where bras d'or again breaks forth, with bay, island, white beach, peninsula, and sparkling cove. and before us, bowered in trees, lies chapel island, the micmac mecca, with its catholic church and consecrated ground. here at certain seasons the red men come to worship the white christ. here the western descendants of ishmael pitch their bark tents, and swing their barbaric censers before the asiatic-born redeemer. "they that dwell in the wilderness shall bow before him." that gathering must be a touching sermon to the heart of faith!
but we roll onwards, and now are again on the clearings, among the log-cabins of the highlandmen. although every settler has his governmental farm, yet nearly the whole of it is still in forest-land. a log hut and cleared-acre lot, with flora mcivor's grubbing, hoeing, or chopping, while their idle lords and masters trot beside the mail-coach to hear the news, are the only results of the home patronage. at last we come to a gentle declivity, a bridge lies below us, a wider brook; we cross over to find a cosy inn and a rosy landlord on the other side; and john ormond lays down the ribbons, after a sixty-mile drive, to say: "this is st. peter's."
now so far us the old-fashioned inns of new scot[pg 205]land are concerned, i must say they make me ashamed of our own. soap, sand, and water, do not cost so much as carpets, curtains, and fly-blown mirrors; but still, to the jaded traveller, they have a more attractive aspect. we sit before a snow-white table without a cloth, in the inn-parlor, kitchen, laundry, and dining-room, all in one, just over against the end of the lake; and enjoy a rasher of bacon and eggs with as much gusto as if we were in the midst of a palace of fresco. ornamental eating has become with us a species of gaudy, ostentatious vulgarity; and a dining-room a sort of fool's paradise. i never think of the little simple meal at st. peter's now, without tenderness and respect.
here we change—driver, stage, and horses. still no other passenger. the new whip is a yankee from the state of maine; a tall, black-eyed, taciturn fellow, with gold rings in his ears. now we pass the narrow strip of land that divides bras d'or from the ocean. it is only three-quarters of a mile wide between water and water, and look at enterprise digging out a canal! by the bronze statue of de witt clinton, if there are not three of the five-shilling rob roys at work, with two shovels, a horse, and one cart!
as we approach canseau the landscape becomes flat and uninteresting; but distant ranges of moun[pg 206]tains rise up against the evening sky, and as we travel on towards their bases they attract the eye more and more. ear-rings is not very communicative. he does not know the names of any of them. does not know how high they are, but has heard say they are the highest mountains in nova scotia. "are those the mountains of canseau?" yes, them's them. so with renewed anticipations we ride on towards the strait "of unrivalled beauty," that travellers say "surpasses anything in america."
and, indeed, canseau can have my feeble testimony in confirmation. it is a grand marine highway, having steep hills on the cape breton island side, and lofty mountains on the other shore; a full, broad, mile-wide space between them; and reaching from end to end, fifteen miles, from the atlantic to the gulf of st. lawrence. as i took leave of ear-rings, at plaister cove, and wrapped myself up in my cloak in the stern-sheets of the row-boat to cross the strait, the full acadian moon, larger than any united states moon, rose out of her sea-fog, and touched mountain, height, and billow, with effulgence. it was a scene of miltonic grandeur. after the ruined walls of louisburgh, and the dark caverns of sydney, comes canseau, with its startling splendors! truly this is a wonderful country.[pg 207]
another night in a clean nova-scotian inn on the mountain-side, a deep sleep, and balmy awakening in the clear air. yet some exceptions must be taken to the early sun in this latitude. to get up at two o'clock or four; to ride thirty or forty miles to breakfast, with a convalescent appetite, is painful. but yet, "to him, who in the love of nature holds communion with her visible forms, she speaks a various language." admiration and convalescent hunger make a very good team in this beautiful country. you look out upon the unfathomable gulf of st. lawrence, and feel as if you were an unfathomable gulf yourself. you ride through lofty woods, with a tantalizing profusion of living edibles in your path; at every moment a cock-rabbit is saying his prayers before the horses; at every bosk and bole a squirrel stares at you with unwinking eyes, and robin yellow-bill hops, runs, and flies before the coach within reach of the driver's whip, sans peur! and this too is the land of moose and cariboo: here the hunters, on snow-shoes, track the huge animals in the season; and moose and cariboo, in the halifax markets, are cheaper than beef with us. and to think this place is only a four days' journey from the metropolis, in the languid winter! by the ashes of nimrod, i will launch myself on a pair of snow-shoes, and shoot a moose in the snow before i am twelve[pg 208] months older, as sure as these ponies carry us to breakfast!
"how far are we from breakfast, driver?"
"twenty miles," quoth jehu.
now i had been anxious to get a sight of our ponies, for the sake of estimating their speed and endurance; but at this time they were not in sight. for the coach we (three passengers) were in, was built like an omnibus-sleigh on wheels, with a high seat and "dasher" in front, so that we could not see what it was that drew our ark, and therefore i climbed up in the driver's perch to overlook our motors. there were four of them; little, shaggy, black ponies, with bunchy manes and fetlocks, not much larger than newfoundland dogs. yet they swept us along the road as rapidly as if they were full-sized horses, up hill and down, without visible signs of fatigue. and now we passed through another french settlement, "tracadie," and again the norman kirtle and petticoat of the pastoral, black-eyed evangelines hove in sight, and passed like a day-dream. and here we are in an english settlement, where we enjoy a substantial breakfast, and then again ride through the primeval woods, with an occasional glimpse of the broad gulf and its mountain scenery, until we come upon a pretty inland village, by name antigonish.
at antigonish, we find a bridal party, and the[pg 209] pretty english landlady offers us wine and cake with hospitable welcome; and a jovial time of it we have until we are summoned, by crack of whip, to ride over to west river.
i must say that the natural prejudices we have against nova scotia are ill-placed, unjust, and groundless. the country itself is the great redeeming feature of the province, and a very large portion of it is uninfested by scotchmen. take for instance the road we are now travelling. for hours we bowl along a smooth turnpike, in the midst of a deep forest: although scarce a week has elapsed since these gigantic trees were leafless, yet the foliage has sprung forth as it were with a touch, and now the canopy of leaves about us, and overhead, is so dense as scarcely to afford a twinkle of light from the sun. sometimes we ride by startling precipices and winding streams; sometimes overlook an english settlement, with its rolling pasture-lands, bare of trees and rich in verdure. at last we approach the precincts of northumberland strait, and are cleverly carried into new glasgow. it is fast-day, and the shops are closed in sabbath stillness; but on the sign-boards of the village one reads the historic names of "ross" and "cameron;" and "graham," "mcgregor" and "mcdonald." what a pleasant thing it must be[pg 210] to live in that village! here too i saw for the first time in the province a thistle! but it was a silver-plated one, in the blue bonnet of a "pothecary's boy." a metallic effigy of the original plant, that had bloomed some generations ago in native land. there was poetry in it, however, even on the brow of an incipient apothecary.
when we had put new glasgow behind us, we felt relieved, and rode along the marshes on the border of the strait that divides the province from prince edward's island, so named in honor of his graceless highness the duke of kent, edward, father of our queen victoria. thence we came forth upon higher ground, the coal-mines of pictou; and here is the great pictou railway, from the mines to the town, six miles in length. then by rolling hill and dale down to west river, where john frazer keeps the twelve-mile house. this inn is clean and commodious; only twelve miles from pictou; and, reader, i would advise you, as twelve miles is but a short distance, to go to pictou without stopping at west river. for john frazer's is a house of petty annoyances. from the moment you enter, you feel the insolence of the surly, snarling landlord, and his no less gifted lady; the same old greed which has no eye except for money; the miserly table, for which you are obliged to pay be[pg 211]fore hand; the lack of attendance; the abundance of impertinence. just as you are getting into bed you are peremptorily called to the door to pay for your room, which haply you had forgotten; if you want your boots brushed the answer is, "perhaps"—if you request them to call you in the morning, for the only stage, they say, "just as it happens;" (indeed, it was only by accident that the stage-driver discovered he had one more trunk than his complement of passengers, and so awoke me just as the coach was on the point of departure;) if you can submit to all this, then, reader, go to twelve-mile house, at west river.
we left this last outpost of the scotch settlements with pleasure. after all, there is a secret feeling of joy in contrasting one's self with such wretched, penurious, mis-made specimens of the human animal. and from this time henceforth i shall learn to prize my own language, and not be carried away by any catch-penny scotch synonyms, such as the lift for the sky, and the gloamin for twilight. and as forpoortith cauld, and pauky chiel, i leave them to those who can appreciate them:
"farewell, farewell, beggarly scotland,
cold and beggarly poor countrie;
if ever i cross thy border again,
the muckle deil maun carry me."
