Читать книгу Travels in Nova Scotia in the Year 1913 - C. G. Hine - Страница 4

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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.