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Canadian cities of romance Hale, Katherine 1922

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; ■■■,»::]Rpiiiatlc«^|;.
■ . T
These delightful impressionistic sketches breathe the atmosphere, the soul, the
romance of Canadian cities.
With deft, clear strokes the
writer etches boldly a comprehensive view of each.
Briefly* yet alluringly, their
fascinating past is unrolled
before tis^§"Moats and
cannon, subterranean casements, hidden tunnels and
secret defences. f|§ftr«, Her e
something crouches ready to
spring forward at a word. .,^j».-:
—this reads like a description
of the mediaeval period, but
is just a glimpse of the ever
fresh attraction that may be
found in tracing up historic
landmarks of our towns and
cities. They contain "bales
of romance never 7*yet unpacked.'*
Young as some of these
Canadian cities are, they are
rich in literary tradition and
literary associations; these
have been gathered with discernment and effectively and
pleasingly presented.
versity of British Columbia Library
WON  (
istic ;
is ju
1 Canadian Cities of Romance "J
a  ,-*
(Mrs.   JOHN   GARVIN)
Author of  "Grey Knitting,'' 'iThe White
Comrade," etc.
Drawings By
wawm«(im;ijifli$H$| CANADIAN   CITIES   of  ROMANCE
These sketches call attention to a phase of Canadian
history largely unregarded, the romantic background
of many of our towns and cities. The writer has not
described every romantic city of Canada, nor does this
claim to be a modern guide book. The portrayals are
unique, not only because of the vivid impressions of one
who is a poet as well as a prose writer of distinction,
but on account of the association established between
certain authors and certain places. The volume is therefore a literary sketch book, as well as a book of cities.
The Publisher. { CANADIAN  CITIES   of  ROMANCE
So many of my friends, from one end of Canada to the
other, have helped me in the matter of these stories that
their names would make a substantial addition to this
book. I can only return thanks, and say that each
request has been met with the utmost kindness and
To the Editor of the Canadian Home Journal, for
the use of excerpts from a series of my stories of Canadian cities, I am especially grateful.
Katherine Hale.
»i ■»^*-*i—™,n i ii iinnaa "liWiT Tinr   :,f*.r -'-aggggMi INDEX
I. Quebec—An Immortal .
II. Domes and Dreams of Montreal
III. Kingston and Her Past      .   .   .
IV. Halifax—A Holding Place
V. The Port of St. John   .
VI. Fredericton—The Celestial City
VII. Ottawa—A Towered Town .
VIII. Toronto—A Place oe Meeting
IX. Historic Backgrounds of* Branteord
X. Golden Winnipeg ....
XL Edmonton and Jasper Park
XII. Calgary and Banee
XIII. Vancouver—The Western Gateway
XIV. Victoria—An Island City   .
Vft I
■*w«"flW?Bwiw!§i LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS
"The Gothic Tower of Parliament Hill" ....    Frontispiece
"Quebec . . . takes on a mediaeval aspect"  19
"She speaks through domes and towers oe some ear off dream" . 33
"The Chateau de Ramsay, eor two hundred years a house oe
importance"  37
"The Place D'Armes centres the city's liee"        .... 39
a distinctive and beautiful feature oe kingston are the mar-
tello Towers  53
"to mark a certain preparedness"      .  64
"There are dreams go down the Harbour with the tall ships oe
St. John"  77
"That quaint, red brick house, the Rectory  88
The old Government House, Fredericton  91
"Where the splendid Chateau Laurier on the old canal looks
down"  101
"The carved stone doorway"  Ill
"The whirlpool oe King and Yonge"  113
"Chieeswood" on the ancient reserve oe the Six Nations Indians 127
"Here the eirst Catholic Mission was established and named
St. Boniface"  138
"From a high window of the Fort Garry Hotel"      .... 142
"The Great House oe the Chief Factor in the 40V .... 149
"The old Hudson Bay Fort huddled up against the Parliament
Buildings"  153
"The busy streets oe a modern city*  166
"a great brown fugue oe giant hills"  170
"This Strang* young Colossus on the shores oe Burrard Inlet" . 178
"Parliament Buildings . . . from the ivy-covered Empress Hotel** 189
m-rrv m
I.  Quebec—An Immortal
/.   Quebec—An Immortal
THE city of Quebec has been loved by generations
of Canadians. Like some beautiful old native
song there is hidden in her, quaint repetitions
and the racial themes that link her, decade by decade,
with the past and the present. She has been the priceless subject of many a picture, song and story. Most
pictures reflect the tones of spring and summer, when
the St. Lawrence runs deep blue and the Laurentians
are wrapped in purple. Then in the narrow alleys of
the Lower Town and the stony streets that wind up to
the Citadel, there are always tourists delighted to be
beguiled by the drivers of the old fashioned caleches.
But Quebec in midwinter is less familiar. A Canadian artist, Horatio Walker, who has depicted this
aspect with great beauty, says: "I live in the midst of
difficulties, hemmed in by snow on the deserted Island
of Orleans, but cannot leave the wonder of Quebec in
winter." Snow in Ontario towns often means a sort of
gray gloom. But Quebec under a white cloak is a
place set high in air, crystal clear and full of sunshine.
The railway route from  Montreal  runs  in  places
2 I
through glittering barbaric jungles of what appear to
be enormous silver ferns sometimes changing to
avenues of innumerable arches of diamonds, crossing
and recrossing in the sparkling air—frozen larches,
bent into fantastic curves by the weight of snow.
It is enchanting to arrive in a winter twilight when
a fading sun is on Point Levis. As we drove to the
Chateau Frontenac, our horses lashed with the native
fury of a French-Canadian cocher, the shadows in the
city had deepened so that we were not prepared for the
beauty of sunset from the Terrace. The rosy light on
Levis had dyed itself into deep crimson, and there was
an afterglow onr the Laurentians and the blossoming of
electric stars in buildings far away across the river.
It was the sudden finding of new magic in a familiar
place, for Quebec at midwinter, cut off from its life
of shipping, takes on a mediaeval aspect of which the
world in general knows nothing.
From the Chateau Frontenac, set in a great open
space below the Citadel and commanding the St.
Lawrence, Levis, and the Laurentians beyond, one
glimpses a life altogether Canadian, in the far early
sense. The low French sleighs, piled with fur rugs;
the driver in his coonskin coat, belted with a gay woollen scarf, standing erect as he drives; nuns in their
black robes; friars in dull brown, with careful galoches
1    -
nnrnTfpmn***1!*"**!!! QUEBEC—AN   IMMORTAL
over what we know are sandalled feet; children, many
of them in the gay blanket tobogganing-suits that
passed out of existence in other provinces decades since,
sailing down and climbing up the slides; all these
figures are apt to appear and disappear as you stand
by your window and watch the ice blocks pass on the
wintry river, silent and inevitable as Fate.
Below, in the city, a strange unknown life is progressing. Here the Ursuline Convent stretches out its
long stone walls. Just below is Laval, more like a
mediaeval palace than a modern university. Suddenly
a sun ray strikes the dome of the Basilica; within are
the endless whispers of prayers.
If I could paint my Quebec in sound it would be to
the ringing of bells, the laughter of French children
and the almost inaudible, incessant whisper of prayers.
The romance of Quebec is like charm in an individual, a thing oF endowment. From out some hidden
spring of being and by long conspiracy of the ages, this
place where Canada began possesses beauty that is in
itself a heritage.
Three centuries ago the city was founded by
Champlain. But nearly a hundred years before that,
Jacques Cartier saw and loved Stadacona, (an Indian
village ruled by its chief, Donnacona, the "Lord of
Canada") which lay at the meeting of the St. Lawrence and the St. Charles, a stcaie's throw from the
present city.
The faith of Cartier in his vision of a Canada to be,
faith which counted death as nothing, is a memory
more keen than the mature affection of Champlain,
who succeeded where Cartier had failed to place
France in the new world. Yet when Champlain arrived, a century later, there was still need for the
courage of a great dream. "When Alexander built
Alexandria he could draw with the might of a master
upon the resources of three continents. When
Constantine built Constantinople he brought to it the
treasures of the ancient world—the marbles of Corinth,
the serpent of Delphi, and the horses of Lysippus.
But from no such origin does the life of Canada proceed. Champlain, in rearing his simple habitation at
Quebec, had no other financial support than could be
drawn from the fur trade. His hungry handful of
followers subsisted largely upon stale pork and smoked
eels. Everything that was won from the wilderness
cost heroism, self-sacrifice and faith."
"La Grande Mere of Canadian cities," her story
from her birth in 1608 is alive with incident. French,
until the Battle of the Plains of Abraham closed what
has been called "the grand but insecure pageant of
French Dominions on the shores of the St. Lawrence,"
the record is one of hotly contested sieges, blockades
and battles. A coveted prize, Quebec for a century
and a half was wooed, seized, stolen, tossed about from
hand to hand and country to country. Five times,
from 1608 to 1775, she was in actual warfare against
21 S8*s»«
England and New England, not to speak of perpetual
skirmishes with the Indians.
With the British conquest her most picturesque
pages closed. An era of progress began:—municipal
government, military tribunals, adjustment of laws and
languages, newspapers, a Literary and Historical
Society with a Royal Charter. And then, hundreds of
English ships in the harbour looking for Canadian pine
and spruce, because continental ports were closed during the Napoleonic wars. Twenty-five years later the
launching, at the Island of Orleans, of the two first
large Canadian_ships.
To-day one may read the romance of Quebec on a
dozen different pages. The streets hold a key to her
history, from Little Champlain, which bears the marks
of the turbulent centuries, to the Grande Allee of
modern residences. The churches and convents are a
story in themselves, and the monuments to Champlain,
Montcalm, Wolfe, Lavallee, Mercier and a long line
of heroes, picture to the mind eras and events.
More fascinating to travellers with a sense of mystery than the rocky precipice up which struggled
Wolfe and his companions, the Plains of Abraham
themselves, or even the Fortress at Citadel Hill gallantly defended by Montcalm, are the narrow old
world streets of the Lower Town.   Little Champlain,
for instance, where they used* to 'crimp' the sailors for
loot in the bad old days, is a place where you feel that
almost anything might happen as the day draws in to
"Mon Dieu!", says the guide, "when they take down
these houses so old, what will remain? A graveyard—
also very old."
Encircling the public square in front of the
Basilica, run the lines of the clanging trolleys, and the
ubiquitous motor car is of course in evidence. Big
Business goes on in Quebec, and naturally she will become more and more absorbed by it. At the same
time there is no resisting the fact that she is, inherently,
a spiritual force. Everywhere you feel the hand of the
Once I chanced upon a strange shrine in the chapel
of the Church of the Most Blessed Sacrament. Here
candles burn forever before an altar at which two nuns
in white robes are always at prayer. The shrine is
built like a miniature church, separated from the rest
of the chapel by a high grille of iron, through the openwork of which are seen four silent forms: two who
bow at the altar, and two who kneel in prayer near
them. When the moment strikes, the latter move forward to relieve their sisters, another pair entering to
take their places.    Hence, year in, year out, the light
23 r
before the altar is unceasing, the shrine is never for a
moment deserted, the worship goes on forever. To
sit in that church, and in the stillness to watch those
motionless figures, is to feel the very hand of eternity
in the midst of time.
The Basilica, where hangs the red hat of the
Cardinal, is full of ritualistic splendour and wonderful
music on a Sunday evening . . . But nearby, in the
palm room of the Chateau, a string orchestra is playing,
people are grouped about little tables having coffee and
cigarettes. Presently dancing begins. Soon you
realize that not even in Paris is there more grace and
beauty to be discovered, in like surroundings, than
here, among these charming young French-Canadians.
St. Louis is one of the delightful old streets. It
was the fashionable thoroughfare of Quebec two hundred years ago. But for a century before that it was a
"street," along which Indians padded silently, along
which the good Nuns walked and about which romance
has always hovered. It lies on the way from the
Ursuline Convent to the Citadel, and is narrow and
stony. Each apparently set directly on to the
pavement. The entrances are mysterious, but certain
houses and buildings are known even to the casual
tourist. Here is the little low house of the Cooper,
Gaubert, where Montgomery's body was laid out for
burial, and the old officers' quarters, an ancient building which long before garrison days was presented by
the Intendent, Bigot, to his beautiful mistress,
Angelique de Meloise. A step farther is Kent House,
where Queen Victoria's father lived for a time in residence, and there is another well-known building which
served in 1812 as a place of detention for American
prisoners taken at Detroit; also the little Ursuline
chapel, built now on the site of the famous house of
Madame de la Peltrie.
Then—if you know modern Quebec—you may be
permitted to ring the door-bell of some old stone house.
A French maid will open. "Montez, s'il vous plait!".
In a moment one is back in the heart of to-day. Here
is a drawing-room in chintz and French wallpaper,
with the latest books lying on the centre table. And
there is tea and toast and excellent talk . . . Meeting
well-known French-Canadians, hearing the music of
their speech, feeling in them the sensitive spirit of an
inherently poetic race, one cannot believe that the flame
of their genius will expire in modern days.
As for the literary traditions of Quebec, they are
precious and unique. We are told by French
historians that between 1764 and 1830 there existed "a
small literary world in Quebec." Poems were written
which circulated in manuscript for want of a printing
office, and a public library was opened in 1785. Dramatic Associations also existed in both Montreal and
Quebec. They played Moliere and some light
comedies of the time of Louis XV. His Royal Highness the Duke of Kent, accompanied by Lieutenant-
Governors, Clark and Simcoe, attended the performance of "La Comtesse de Escarbagna" and "Le
Medecin Malgre bui" in Quebec, in 1792. "There
was a spirit of literature in the air" says Mr. Benjamin Suite writing of these times, "and this came
not only by reading but by the more important practice
of conversation and 'causerie de salon' which is so
thoroughly French."
From 1832 to 1837 we find young French-Canadian
poets writing songs after the manner of Beranger.
Garneau was a genuine poet, full of national spirit.
And there is a low-raftered room on Buade Street
where Octave Cremazie used to spend hours in his
brother's book shop. That was about the year 1884.
"Le Drapeau de Carillon" is perhaps his best-known
and best-loved poem. Probably the most truly national
among the French-Canadian poets of the last century
was Louis Honore Frechette. His greatest work, the
tragedy of Papineau, was crowned by the French
Academy in 1881. Panphile Le May is another well-
known singer.   The mystical pathos of the verse belies
his spring-like name.
26 =RESS!fg!5
Out on the Ste. Foye Road are two interesting
houses; Spencer Grange, the home of Sir James Le
Moine, and the adjacent Spencerwood, Government
House for the Province of Quebec. Both places are
full of mellow, unaffected charm. There is nothing
institutional about the simple and dignified hospitality
of Spencerwood; and in the library of the picturesque,
century-old Grange, whose master is the author of
many volumes on the history and legendary lore of the
St. Lawrence, the fortunate guest will find a precious
collection of Canadiana in old volumes, prints of Quebec, and bric-a-brac.
Quebec people are proud of the work in prose and
verse of their fellow-citizen, Canon Frederick George
Scott, who is the well-loved "Padre" of thousands of
Canadian soldiers.
Perhaps the keen romance of Quebec lies in the
fact that in her history extremes have always met:—
the natural extremes of a climate that can be bitterly
cold and also sun-warm to the core, and extremes of
temperament in two races far as the poles apart in their
expression of feeling. So the generations find and
leave it, town of old dreams and desires, looking out on
the river and the hills from under its rocky Citadel
over which two flags have flown—Quebec, an immortal city of the new world.
1 If
I II. Domes and Dreams of Montreal Urn DOMES   and   DREAMS   of   MONTREAL
//. Domes and Dreams of Montreal
MONTREAL, a slightly younger sister of Quebec, is more sophisticated and progressive.
The largest city in Canada, she is, from a
commercial standpoint, undoubtedly the most substantial. And yet, a mystery rests upon her. She speaks
through domes and towers of some far off dream. She
suggests a form in space that is circular. Most places
are laid out on straight lines. You get the impression of
a runner making for a goal—streets, shops, parks, people all straight line. There are few unexpected places.
The atmosphere is clear cut. But Montreal is surprising, and vastly attractive. Her spirit is cloudy
rather than glowing; and she wears purple best of any
colour, though she began in a blaze of light.
To come up the river from the sea, or to go down
the river from Toronto and so approach Montreal, is
to realize the beauty and the prevalence of her cathedral domes coming like the sound of bells. When the
air is misty and a fog is rising from the river, the sound
is faint and mysterious. If the sun shines you catch a
golden note, and then another and another;  and  in
spite of myriads of roof-tops and the unfolding of a
great city, laid terrace-like at the foot of Mount Royal,
you know that Montreal is a circle.
Remember how she began, in a blaze of light. It
was on a May morning, a little less than three hundred
years ago, that Maisonneuve and his band of religious
enthusiasts landed and on the very spot where, alas for
romance, the Customs House now stands, the saintly
Dumont planted the grain of mustard seed which it
was his belief was "destined to overshadow the land."
Born of the Church, sprung to life out of spiritual zeal
—a sword-like French zeal at that—no wonder that
Montreal ascends dome-like and wears a purple cloak.
The germ of the city came out of religion, but as
she grew, her commanding situation drew commerce
towards her. And from first to last Trade has meant
She was on the outer confines of civilization and at
the door of the Iroquois country. Hence the fur trade
and with it the necessity for a military garrison. Indians, priests, soldiers; these in their garish or sombre
dress held the streets of the town at first. In another
hundred years, though the priests and the soldiers were
both to be seen, the Indians were beginning to disappear and the fur trader was less crafty. After a while
he too disappeared from the life of the modern city.
32 DOMES   and   DREAMS   of   MONTREAL
Apart from religious, political and business relationships, the influence of a dual element is important
fc*.V"  • < wvk ^
t  i
SOME     FAR    OFF    DREAM."
It is a well-known fact that there is no Canadian city,
and only one other in America, New Orleans, that can
compare in picturesqueness with Quebec. No seaport
of the continent has more dignity and beauty than
Montreal. The attraction is largely composed of
solidity, allied to tradition and romance, that makes
the French-English combination.
A book might be written on the various approaches
to Montreal. Even the route by land from Quebec,
over any of several ways across narrow fields facing on
the river, is interesting. Here one may pass some of
the old manorJands discarded at the termination of
French Rule. Visitors from the United States find
points of comparison between Quebec and New
Orleans, Montreal and Mobile. The lower streets of
both Canadian cities recall the Saints, but it was from
the north that Bienville brought names to Mobile and
New Orleans. The old Manors also, common on the
St. Lawrence, were introduced into Louisiana by Louis
the XIV. There are now few traces of these seigneurial
rights in the South, and in Canada the British Government bought them from the Seigneurs in order to
simplify the law system.
Steep streets, wide distances, noble churches, great
squares, river-way or mountain summit; yet with all
its solidity this is a city of surprises. I hear a church
bell ringing, a sandalled monk may pass me, a priest
hurries by, book in hand . . . Then, a laugh in the air,
i DOMES   and   DREAMS   of   MONTREAL
and a party of school girls pass, humming an English
air. Before the great Banks or Railroad Offices, whose
headquarters are stationed here, antiquity is lost in
commerce. But just around a corner there is a narrow
street whose inhabitants deal, one should fancy, in
nothing higher than copper currency.
These glimpses of Montreal make me glad that I
do not know it 'thoroughly.' I would rather retain
flashes that are painted in colours so vivid that they
can not easily be effaced.
There was a snowy night when we stopped at the
great doors of Notre Dame and slipped in where a
thousand candles were burning. Somewhere out of
the distance came the vibrant sing-song chant of the
French priest. There was the city in the cold blue
light of early morning, the streets piled high with snow.
The city burning at noon-day under an August glare,
the golden angel of the spire of Bonsecours touched by
the sun, the drip, drip from the fountain in a Square
insisting upon itself intermittently between the onrush
of traffic. A city of twilight seen from the mountain
with starry lights beginning to twinkle below, a great
ship coming lazily in from the sea, the busy docks a
faint blur in the distance, and the panorama of streets
and squares and towers and steeples all mixed in a
haze of coloured light. The city at night with a mid-
summer moon floating above a serene street of palatial
residences, the silhouettes of great buildings, the blind
high walls that guard the Church's possessions, the
shrill laughter of the French town—the old city—this
is the meeting of past and present in Montreal'.s own
When I see candles lit on the altars of Montreal I
think of the legend that relates to that May day when
she was christened. For we are told that when night
fell a Mass was-celebrated, and fire-flies, caught and
imprisoned in a phial upon the altar, served as lights.
The old houses are full of romance. The Chateau
de Ramesay is a low cottage-like building behind an
old-fashioned stone fence. For over two hundred
years it has been a house of importance. Now it is
gray with age and exceedingly picturesque in spite of
the fact that it is a museum. On its left the quaint
open market edges close and slightly below it; a
crowded, many coloured, odoriferous bouquet. Claude
de Ramesay, Governor of Montreal, used the Chateau
for twenty years. After his death it became the property of "La Compagnie des Indes," and the salons lost
the roses and candle light of polite French society and
were crowded with Indians from the back country and
fur traders. After the Conquest it became the residence of the British Governors.   When the American
36 DOMES   and   DREAMS   of   MONTREAL
revolutionary army occupied Montreal in 1775, this
was Montgomery's headquarters, and from it issued his CANADIAN   CITIES   of  ROMANCE
lin came here at the time, bringing his printing press
which was set up in the vaults of the Chateau.
The other day poking underground, as I have so
often done, in these stone vaults of castle-like construction I found among ancient trophies a queer phaetonlike conveyance with an iron rod sticking up in the
centre. It looked at least two hundred years old. I enquired of an ancient guide upstairs. "That," he said, "is
Montreal's first automobile—a matter of only thirty
years ago!"      ~
The neighbourhood of the Chateau was in 1705 the
fashionable part of the town and was occupied by the
Baron de Longueil, the Contrecoeurs, Madame de
Portneuf and others of the French aristocracy who
naturally chose their houses near the magnificent
garden of the Jesuits.
South of Notre Dame Church, indeed, is the region
in which romance lingers. Going down St. Sulpice
Street to St. Paul Street and then turning east to St.
Jean Baptiste, one of the oldest houses in the city may
be seen. It is now occupied by a Chemical Company.
St. Gabriel Street was laid out in 1680 and one sloping
roofed building dates back to 1687. Its heavily vaulted
cellars were probably used for storing furs. Jacques
Cartier Square also contains its old houses.
The Place D'Armes centres the city's life.    In the
38 DOMES   and   DREAMS   of   MONTREAL
Square stands Maisonneuve in bronze, brave in the
cuirass and French dress of the 17th Century holding
"the place d'armes centres the city's life."
the banner of the fleur-de-lys.   The sculptor, Louis
Hebert, has suggested phases of early Canadian life in
his bas-reliefs and the four figures at the base in bronze,
an Indian, a colonist's wife, a colonist with the legendary dog Pilote, and a soldier. Notre Dame de
Montreal faces the Square with its tall stiff facade and
towers and here is also the Bank of Montreal, pure
classic Corinthian, the white granite Royal Trust
Building, and the Post Office with its bas-reliefs in the
Portico after designs by Flaxman.
All about Bonsecours, the church and market, you
feel the tingling magic of old Canada. The very name
was a thank offering for escape from the Iroquois.
Maisonneuve felled the first trees for the little church
and pulled them out of the forest. That was in 1657.
A second larger chapel was built twenty years later
and the present church was erected upon its site; the
stone foundations go back to 1675. The new church
has been too much lrestored' and 'improved.' But
still the miraculous Virgin, whom Sister Marguerite
Bourdeois set up to guard the sailors two centuries ago,
looks out towards the water, and there are old paintings
and old altars. Old memories too, fading eras slipping
by into the centuries with hardly an echo in the sturdy
French provincial life of to-day. On the Place Viger, a
block from the church, is a statue to Chenier, one of the
'patriotes' of 1837 who died fighting furiously in the
church of St. Eustache, outside the city, where he had
40 DOMES   and   DREAMS   of   MONTREAL
taken refuge. But in the market, where now the
habitants flock on Tuesdays and Fridays, there is still
a note of the past in the quaint carts, the homespuns
and the little chairs that are brought in from the
country for sale. Also there are squawking ducks and
chickens, and maple sugar, and garlic, and straw hats
and native tobac, and rosaries and cheap jewellery.
And the barter takes one back to Paris markets, only
this is a kindlier commerce.
There is a newer but no less striking romance in the
opening up of the mountain district. The upper levels
of Westmount, creeping up cote des Neiges; the magnificent driveways; great vistas of plains seen from
one mountain, with other mountains dim on the
horizon; here a tall column, with an incomparable
back-ground of hills, the Cartier Monument on
Fletcher's Field; there a Pleasure Park; to the lower
left, if you are looking south, the Molson Stadium,
pride of McGill;—every thing on a heroic scale, like
masterful young music set to an old Canadian theme.
Because she is a city with a soul it would seem that
her literary traditions should be many. As a matter
of fact this is hardly the case, though certain outstanding figures are undoubtedly linked with it. Romance
rests upon the name of Charles Heavysege, who came
to Montreal from Liverpool in 1853.    He was a wood-
ii i
mil  HI
carver by profession and his drama "Saul" shows that
he was a poet by birth. George Murray an Oxford
man did much literary work in his new home, and so
did John Reade who arrived in Canada in 1837 from
Belfast and joined the Montreal Gazette, with which
journal he was connected until the time of his death
in 1919. William D. Lighthall is a Canadian anthologist of note, a poet and also a novelist. Dr. William
H. Drummond has for ever left his impress upon the
literature of Canada in the habitant verse which has
immortalized the French-Canadian farmer, the voy-
ageur and the coureur de bois.
The "Chansons Populaires" of Canada are unique.
The songs, which came out of the convents of France
in the Middle Ages, were brought to Quebec by its
founders. As the years went on the ancient, beautiful
songs became Canadianized, in a sort of verbal and
musical patois containing much piquant anecdote of
the early days. Dr. Drummond in his poems illustrates the life and manners, the humour and the tragedy
of the habitant. He does not touch the old songs
which are their heritage.
In a different way Mrs. J. W. F. Harrison,
"Seranus," has pictured the life along the St. Lawrence
in her exquisite Villanelles, many of them written in
or near Montreal.   A group of the younger generation
42 DOMES   and   DREAMS   of   MONTREAL
of writers at work to-day are also alive to the romance
of their city.
During the summer months the entente between
Canada and the United States is strong. Montreal is
full of Americans, which recalls a tribute from Horace
Traubel, late of Philadelphia and long a sojourner in
this city which he loved so well. He says: "What we
get in New York from our East side we get here in a
Latin and sometimes an Oriental way. The distinctly
English cities whether on this or the other side of the
Border are passionless prose. They need fire. They
need colour. They are too respectable to be decent.
Montreal is awake, Sundays and week-days."
For fully a century Montreal has been alive to the
new movement in education, art and science. As far
back as 1801 the establishment of non-sectarian free
schools was provided for, and shortly after that, the
foundation for McGill was laid. It is now one of the
great Universities of the world, and such distinguished
names as those of Sir William Dawson, William
Peterson, LL.D. and Sir Arthur Currie, Commander-
in-Chief of the Canadian forces in France during the
great war, are associated as its Principals. The Hon.
James McGill, a leading merchant and citizen of
Montreal, looked forward to a University which
should consist of several colleges.   Three such are al-
ready in existence, the first and original one being that
which bears his name.
Montreal is a centre for art and for artists. While
the National Gallery at Ottawa contains its treasures,
Montreal possesses the most important permanent collection of European pictures in Canada. The new Art
Gallery on Sherbrooke Street, beautiful in its classic
architecture, was erected through the liberality of a
group of Montreal picture lovers.
44  r KINGSTON    and   HER   PAST
III. Kingston and Her Past
FIRST the Indians, then the French, then the
British; Quebec, Montreal, Kingston; three
steps in history, tradition, situation.
As gray as mother of pearl, but an all-encompassing
gray that includes violet and blue and a fine sea-green
when the sun strikes it, that is Kingston, which, because
it is built upon a ridge of limestone, has for long suffered from the dull phrase, "The Limestone City."
The soft wings of age seem to hover over a town
that is more or less of an impression to the traveller;
for the main lines of the railways merely skirt it, (leaving to a little stub line the duty of carrying passengers)
and it is almost mirage-like as one passes it by water
on the way to or from Montreal; a fairy place in a summer dawn, or by moonlight.
Its position on the north shore of Lake Ontario just
at its junction with the St. Lawrence was sure to attract
a colony from the earliest days. Count Frontenac renamed the Indian "Cataraqui," or "Clay Fort," in 1873
after himself. At that time the French fur trade was
its reason for being.   Two years later Louis XIV made
a grant of two thousand acres of surrounding country
to his friend, Robert, Cavalier de la Salle, because of
the upkeep of the Fort. And then a quarrel arose with
La Barre, after the recall of Frontenac, who took possession in his usual unethical fashion, and in 1695 had
the Fort rebuilt. It became something of a storm
centre. As the French supremacy in Canada drew to a
close, and the New England colonies to the south became stronger, the primitive streets of the fortress town
echoed the sound of drums until Bradstreet led an
army of three thousand men and eleven guns against
it, and in August, 1787, it capitulated. Then for a
long time there was silence.
Another generation had nearly run its course when
it was reclaimed by the United Empire Loyalists, who
gave their settlement the name of Kingston.
Among the town's forefathers were Joseph Brant,
the Indian Chief, Neil McLean, Lawrence Herkimer
and the Rev. John Stuart, the first Anglican clergyman
in Canada, who later founded here a school for boys.
A new town was laid out with a flour mill, a court
of Assize, a Whipping-Post and Stocks. In 1792,
Kingston became for a short time the capital of Upper
Canada with Simcoe as Governor.
Two years later the Duke de la Rochefoucauld-
Liancourt, drew the following picture  of   the   little
town: "Kingston consists of about 130 houses, none of
them distinguished from the rest by a more handsome
appearance. The only structure more conspicuous
than the others is the barracks, a stone building surrounded by palisades."
Then came the war of 1812 when the American
fleet suddenly appeared off the Upper Gap and shots
were interchanged with the shore. But Kingston remained unhurt. Her fortifications were growing. At
this time appeared those fascinating block houses, of
which only one remains. These block houses constituted a cordon of defense round the town and were
connected by a high stockade. They were all of the
same pattern; two stories high, the upper stories
slightly projecting, and were armed with cannonades.
After the war of 1812 this was the military centre
for Upper Canada, and possessed a garrison, a resident
Commandant, and a leisure class of military officers
and their families. Hence of course social life
and ambition. As far back as 1816 we find records
of "a large wooden Government House and Theatre
built by the Military," of balls and parties, of "coloured gauzes and laces," of "Waterloo sarcenets" and
"Wellington bombazines." Horse racing became a
favorite amusement with the officers, and at the entertainments which followed, "the loyal dames of King-
ston would appear in brilliant dresses with threads of
silver forming the motto, 'God Save the King.' " Could
patriotism go farther!
The original St. George's Cathedral, begun in 1794,
was described by a visitor in 1820 as "A long low blue
building with square windows and a little cupola or
steeple for the bell, like the thing on a brewery, placed
on the wrong end of the building." The first building
on the present site was begun in 1825, afterwards enlarged, destroyeiby fire in 1898, then rebuilt with only
the stone pillars on the southern facade belonging to
the original building. In the vault of the Church was
buried Lord Sydenham, a tablet in the present Cathedral commemorating his memory.
But before this Church, came the Military Barracks, in 1789, known as the' Tete du Pont, which stands
on the site of the original Fort Frontenac. Here, as
within the area of the more modern Military College
(a youthful affair opened so late as 1875) the mere
dates do not count when one stands upon ancient ground
where long-forgotten causes were fought out before the
white men came from France or England, old wars that
out date memory.
In the modern Cathedral of St George there hangs
from the Cadets' Gallery, a great flag covered with
stars for the fallen in the Great War.   Laughing faces
50 KINGSTON    and   HER   PAST
of boys arise, vanished in the old cause of freedom that
lured their forefathers to this very spot.
Kingston has had some strange karma to work out.
Always she has desired military and national power.
Always, in spite of great natural resources and gifts,
these things have been denied her. But in the year
1841, when she became the temporary seat of Government for the United Provinces of Upper and Lower
Canada—an honor soon withdrawn—Queen's University was incorporated. It struggled at first for a
bare existence, because all suitable buildings had been
taken over for the Administrative purposes of the
Government. Its first classes were conducted in a
small frame building on Princess Street.
Now the University is the real centre and glory of
A far cry from the old swashbuckler days, the
romance of Indian and French intrigue, the knavish
fur trade, the wild escapades of smugglers, the delightful arrogance and amours of early British military life,
to the deep-thoughted Presbyterianism that has,
through seven decades, meant Queen's. It is as if a
quiet pool had been set in the midst of a town that was
listening to the call of rushing rapids near by, and the
quiet of the pool had gradually stilled the call of the
rapids.    It is a cool but perhaps a kindly fate.
The system of Martello towers which guard the
harbour and city are patterned after those of the 16th
Century in Europe and were begun nearly three decades after the block houses. The oldest of them still
lacks a few years of the century mark but they look as
if they had been there forever, and are a distinctive and
beautiful feature of Kingston. Again the note of gray!
The lovely Shoal Tower, in the harbour, stands as one
writer has said, "its feet in the blue waters of the lake,"
like some remembrance ftom the long ago. So the
Murray Tower in Macdonald Park, where, amid large
trees and facing the lake is a statue to that great son
of Kingston, Sir John A. Macdonald.
The Royal Military College was founded by the
Mackenzie Government. Point Frederick, so long associated with the early Naval depot, became the site of
the buildings. The Cadets have for years lent a stirring colour to Kingston life.
Interesting old houses abound. One goes about the
streets wondering who lived here and there, for many
of the stone exteriors have that about them which at
once awakens interest and a certain quality of suspense
that is the hall-mark of fascination. Many of these
places were undoubtedly the abode of gentlefolk of
British tradition. The history of most is lost but that
of a few we know.    "Alvington House," for instance,
52 KINGSTON    and   HER   PAST
was built by the fourth Baron of Le Moyne de
Longueuil it was the residence of the Governors—
General of Canada for a time. Lord Sydenham lived
there in 1841, Sir Charles Bagot and Sir Charles
Metcalfe succeeded him.    "Rockwood Cottage" was
r a
built by the father of Sir Richard Cartwright, and on
Rideau Street East stands the house in which Sir John
A. Macdonald spent most of his boyhood, while nearly
opposite, overlooking the river, is another historic
abode, once occupied by Molly Brant, the sister of
Joseph Brant, the Mohawk Chief.
The lover of literary reminiscence will seek out the
remains of an ancient cemetery at the end of Clergy
Street where was buried an officer of the British Army,
a brother of Felicia Hemans, the English poetess. In
1825 she writes in "Graves of a Household":
"One midst the forests of the West
By a dark stream is laid;
The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar's shade."
Tom Moore was also a visitor in Kingston.
In the edition of his poems published in 1855 he
describes the writing of his famous "Canadian Boat
Song" on the St. Lawrence between Kingston and
Montreal, a journey which then took five days, "exposed to an intense sun, and at night forced to take
shelter from the dews in any miserable hut upon the
banks that would receive us." Moore adds that the
magnificent scenery of the St. Lawrence repays all such
Miss Agnes Maule Machar, novelist, historian and
poet, a daughter of the Rev. John Machar, D.D.,
second Principal of Queen's University, in "The Story
of old Kingston," refers to the first Canadian novel
published in the English language as "St. Ursula's
Convent, or the Nun of Canada." It was written by
Mrs. George Hart and published in Kingston in 1824.
Charles Sangster was born in 1822 and was the
first Canadian to use the material  all  about him in
poetry. He was followed by Charles Mair, a student
of Queen's, whose poems were published in 1868. His
Indian drama "Tecumseh," written in blank verse in
lines imbued with the splendour of the early days, will
always be a work of importance to Canadians.
To-day upspringing shafts of elevators and spires
predominate the gray batteries and the sixteenth century towers. Long iron rails stretch endlessly east and
west. Yet they hardly touch a city that was born, and
continues to be, a Port, a child of sleepy waterways
whom commerce has failed to allure. For the ancient
Seigniory of Cataraqui still holds a dream which time
has made tranquil but never really disturbed.
IV. Halifax—A Holding Place
"^OR a hundred and seventy years the Holding
Place of the British against the power of enemies and the forces of nature"—so the present
Prince of Wales in his first speech on landing in
Canada in 1919. As he arrived at the quay the guns
of the British, French and Italian warships fired the
salute and the echoes reverberated among the hills that
surround the town, so that it was hard to tell which
was the gun and which the echo. Symbolic, this echo,
of a Port that has always been a receiving station—an
invitation rather than a command.
Looking down from the Citadel one sees the ancient town set on a sort of peninsula; a triangle, with
its base to the east making a main harbour, the two
sides formed by Bedford Basin, twenty miles in circumference, and by the North-West Arm, a three mile
strip of water.
The Micmacs saw the harbour first and called it
Chebucto—'Great'—and after the Indians, true to
Canadian history, came the French. Champlain
named it Baie Saine or 'Safe Harbour.'
The earliest history and romance of Halifax lies
about this Harbour whose magnificence and safety decided her being. "Here gathered the Armadas for the
reduction of Louisbourg in 1757-8," says Professor
Archibald MacMechan. "Loudon, Amherst, Bos-
cawen, Rodney, Wolfe, Cook, saw the old Halifax of
Short's Drawings, with its stone-faced batteries lining
the waterside and the old flag flying from the top of
Citadel Hill, as it does this day. Here came Howe
with his defeated regulars after being clawed by the
buckskins at Boston. Here floated safe at last the
thousands of Loyalists from New York who preferred
exile to renouncing their ancient allegiance. In the
bitter winter of 1783-4, delicately nurtured women
lived in the floating transports while others huddled in
the cabooses taken from the ships and pitched like
wigwams all along Granville Street. Then during the
long wars with the French Republic and with Napoleon the waters of the Harbour never rested from the
stirring of keels coming and going. Ships of the line,
frigates with intelligence, privateers, prizes,' cartels
with exchange of prisoners, transports with licence to
make war on King George's enemies. In the war of
1812 there were one hundred and six ships of war in
this Harbour. On Sunday, June 6th, 1813, there came
a procession of two ships—the little Shannon, proudly
leading her prize, the Chesapeake, up to the anchorage by the dockyard. All yards were manned; the
bands played; the good folk on the wharves cheered
/ft ft?     _/*&fT.« ili t^U-^
like mad, for at last the stain was cleansed from the
flag which Dacres had hauled down on the Guerrier."
Tales of the blockade runners during the American
Civil War, notably the episode of the Confederate
cruiser, Tallahassee, which   three   Federal warships
watched while she safely escaped by the Eastern passage, are also material for romance.
But these adventures were only a prelude for the
mighty drama begun in 1914. Hereafter for five years
Halifax perpetually echoed to the tramping feet of
thousands upon thousands of Canadian soldiers, who
will never forget her welcomes and farewells.
Founded in 1749 by the Hon. Edward Cornwallis
as a rival to the French town of Louisburg in Cape
Breton, Halifax (named after the second Earl of
Halifax) superceded Annapolis as the capital of the
province. St. Paul's Church recalls the early days, in
vaults where lie those whose names made the early history of Halifax. Among them are Lieutenant-
Governor Lawrence, 1760; Admiral Durell, 1766;
Baron Kniphausen, Lieutenant-Governor Wilmot,
Baron de Seitz, Michael Francklin, some time
Lieutenant-Governor, 1782; Lord Charles Grenville
Montagu, son of the Duke of Manchester; Chief
Justice Jonathan Belcher and others.
Government House has seen many illustrious inmates but never a gayer period than that of the administration of Sir John Wentworth, 1792-1808, when His
Royal Highness, Prince Edward, fourth son of King
George III, was stationed in Halifax as "Commander
of the Troops on the North American Station."   It
was during his stay in Nova Scotia that he was created
Duke of Kent.
The records of those rough, warm, full-blooded
times come with a heady flavour and an old-world
tang to the thin asceticism of to-day.
Halifax from the first contained two predominating
elements, Scotch and New England. To this add a
dash of English blood and manners. Dr. Arthur W.
H. Eaton in his 'History of Halifax' gives sidelights
on the stir caused in the breasts of estimable and aristocratic New Englanders by the doings of Royalty in the
Eighteenth Century. Royalty in the old days was
rampant in Halifax. Yet no New Englander among
them was more democratic than the son of plain
'Farmer George' who used often in Halifax "to put
his own hand to the jack-plane and drive the cross-cut
The Duke of Kent, was not, however, a stern observer of the rules of his mother who, Thackeray says,
regarded all deviation from the strict path of conventional morality with disfavour and "hated poor
sinners with a rancour such as virtue sometimes has."
The Duke loved his neighbour as himself, and remained the friend as well as the steady patron of Nova
Scotians until his death. His estate was a veritable
feudal village, and his   lasting  public  memorial   in
Halifax is the Citadel, and the Harbour forts which
he built and made well-nigh impregnable. But his
residence was illuminated by a romance which his
godly mother and his virtuous daughter, Queen Victoria, could not but deplore. It had to do with a lady
who accompanied him from the West Indies when he
came to Halifax, and, "as much as she was permitted by
society, shared his social responsibilities and, sincerely
attached to his interests and to his person, assiduously
ministered to liis wants." In Martinique, the Prince
found Madame Alphonsine Therese Bernardine Julie
de Montgenet de St. Laurent, Baronne de Fortisson.
This noble French woman was his companion during
his stay at Halifax, and afterwards until nearly the
time of his marriage to the widow who was to become
the mother of Queen Victoria.
Soon after the Prince came to Halifax he leased
from Sir John Wentworth a small villa set in a beautiful property several miles out of town and quite near
the post-road which winds around Bedford Basin.
This he beautified and adorned until it became a
spacious residence after the Italian style, the gardens
containing "charming surprises;" an artificial lake,
several Chinese pagodas and Greek and Italian imitation temples. A little Rotunda, containing a single
room, richly decorated and hung with paintings, was
the special joy of the Prince.    It was built for dancing.
Now, all that remains of the gay feudal village
called "Prince's Lodge" is this Rotunda, made over
as a dwelling-house, in some prosaic after-time, and
now no longer occupied. As early as 1828, Hali-
burton says: "It is impossible to visit this spot without
the most melancholy feelings. The tottering fence, the
prostrate gates, the ruined grottoes, the long and winding avenues cut out of the forest, overgrown by rank
grass and occasional shrubs, and the silence and desolation that reign around, all recall to mind the untimely
fate of its noble and lamented owner, and tell of affecting pleasures and the transitory nature of all earthly
things ... A few years more and all trace of it will
have disappeared forever. The forest is fast reclaiming its own, and the lawns and ornamental gardens,
annually sown with seeds scattered by the winds from
the surrounding woods, are relapsing into a state of
The social brilliancy of the days of the Wentworths
is still a legend in Halifax. We hear of splendid and
"most exclusive" entertainments at Government House.
"Royal guests and the officers of the army and navy
assembled for sumptuous entertainments", says the
Halifax Gazette of 1795. "Cotillions above stairs and
during the dancing refreshments of ice, orgeat, capil-
laire, and a variety of other things . . . supper at
twelve . . . Among other table ornaments which were
altogether superb, were exact representations of Harts-
horne and Tremain's new flour mill, and of the windmill on the Common. The model of the lighthouse at
Shelburne was incomparable, and the tract of the new
road from Pictou was delineated in the most ingenious
and surprising manner, as was the representation of our
fisheries, that great source of wealth in this country."
The name of Joseph Howe is bound up with the
history of his native town. He was born in a cottage
on the Arm. His father was a United Empire Loyalist,
who became King's Printer and Post-Master
General of Nova Scotia. Young Joseph was early
sent to a printer's office, and later became a journalist,
a politician and a Lieutenant-Governor of Nova
Scotia. He led his province through the stormy period
of the fight for responsible government, without bloodshed. In his "Speeches and Public Letters" much of
the history of his day and generation is to be found.
In 1835, when he owned and edited The Nova Scotian,
the celebrated "Sayings and Doings of Sam Slick" began to appear.
Thomas Chandler Haliburton was a native of
Windsor, N.S., and a student of King's College, but
Joseph Howe and  Halifax beckoned  him.    In  his
delineation of Sam Slick, type of the Yankee pedlar
who perambulated Nova Scotia in those days, Hali-
burton became not only the founder of Canadian but
also of American humour. The wit that sparkles
through the quaint series of volumes published in
London and Halifax in the '30's has been copied by a
generation of authors less honest than himself.
Marshall Saunders, Macdonald Oxley, Grace D.
MacL. Rogers, Dr. J. D. Logan, poet and critic, are
all associated with Halifax through birth or habitation.
Robert Norwood, the poet, now of Philadelphia,
loves the old city as a part of his youth, and so does
Basil King the novelist. They are both King's College
men, and something of the mellowness of that sweet
old place remains in their memories. Robert Norwood
found great joy as a child in the wharves and shipping
up and down the Harbour. "Water Street has always
held for me a rare charm" he says. "I would walk up
and down it, turning in at every quaint wharf just to
hear the men talking and to watch them at their tasks.
I loved colour, and the effect of the sun on the wharves
with their bales of merchandise lives in lines in
my poem 'Paul to Timothy:' 'Tall, Bacchic amphora,
and the perfumed bales of Tyrian purple along the
quay; the men with arms like anchor cables in their
strength.'   The Hill with its Fort and guns was also a
place for dreams. The Citadel was a great slope of
green that melted at last into the sooty houses below,
but beyond the roofs was the sea and the islands, and
ships moving up and down the Harbour."
Speaking of his residence here some years ago when
he was rector of St. Luke's Cathedral, Basil King calls
Halifax "one of mankind's free ports."
"It is in contact with the great big world to a degree
not surpassed by New York, San Francisco, Liverpool
or Yokohama, ~tt has a settled life, it is true; but its
chief life is that of a magnificent touch-and-go, with a
splendid variety of contacts. Going out to dine, your
neighbor on one side might be from Gibraltar and on
the other side from North Dakota. You could never
tell, or speculate beforehand. Varieties of friendship
were on the same scale. Somewhat like those formed
on board ship, they were quick, warm, impulsive, and
short-lived. There was too much of the here-to-day
and gone-to-morrow in all life to give much social
permanence; but in compensation there was much of
rapid exchange ... It was not so much Halifax that
impressed itself on me during the years I spent
there; it was first the British Empire; and then it was
the world. What I drew from my life there was a
world-view through lens of the British Empire. In
some ways it is the gift of supreme importance in my
Dr. Archibald MacMechan of Dalhousie College
has written much of storied Halifax, and Mr. Henry
Piers calls attention to the fact that as early as 1830
there were Art Exhibitions in what was, at that time,
a small town.
But there is the record that above all others is written in terms of heroic deeds and great sacrifices that
followed the overwhelming disaster caused by the explosion of munitions of war in the harbour in December 1917.
The Wagwaeltic Club on the North-West Arm—
mysteriously beautiful is the Arm with its old trees
banked down to the water's edge—the Public Gardens,
the drives through the Parks over roads made when the
British Regulars were established at the barracks, is
a part of modern Halifax, but there are also moats
andj cannon, subterranean casements, hidden tunnels
and secret defences concealing what mystery! Here
something crouches, ready to spring forward at a
word, though the attitude of dear delapidated Halifax
is beautifully careless. One could hardly expect, and
certainly would, not desire her to be neat. For she
keeps perpetual open house for many and strange
guests. When the sea-doors of Quebec and Montreal
are locked she is busiest. The Naval Institute is the
second largest in America, and to its friendly doors,
69 in
year in and year out, come all sorts of seamen, many of
them sailors in distress, for Halifax is often a 'port of
missing men.'
\ V.   The Port of St. John £ THE   PORT    of   ST.  JOHN
V.   The Port of St. John
STEEP streets and the ringing of church bells; the
distant sea; sunset, and the lovely irregular lines
of masts and spars and rigging; the view of a
hazy hill topped by a martello tower;—these are
some of my pictures of St. John.
An old town long ago linked by trade relations
with the West Indies, a port filled with foreign sailors,
it contains bales of romance never yet unpacked. I
remember crossing Queen Square on a fine spring
morning with a lover and historian of his city who
spoke not of beauty spots, but of old buildings. "I
could show you some shacks, hardly taverns, just
shacks, where rum was stored and barrels were
opened; and the tales of far lands that came in with
the cargoes, the songs, the gestures of the South, were
all a part of the old days of St. John."
When this city plays the pageant of her past she
will have nearly every romantic element of the early
days to draw from. As she is the oldest incorporated
city in British North America such pictures mean
history.    Four   years  before  Quebec was  founded,
Champlain cast anchor at the mouth of the river and
christened the region in honour of the Saint whose day
it was. That was on the 24th of June, 1604. Before
that the site was known to the prehistoric peoples. The
Micmacs and the Malicites loved it; 'Glooscap,' greatest of their demi-gods, had favoured it. Their
descendants wondered as they saw a white man plant
the golden lilies of France.
The next picture has to do with the Lady of St. John.
Her husband, Sieur La Tour, who had taken a desirable site for his French fort, was a friend of Louis
XIV. Lady La Tour was a Huguenot and her dream
was to found a colony. D'Aunay Charnisay, an enemy,
opened a campaign against them. La Tour slipped
away to Boston for help. Charnisay entered the Fort.
And then occurred the heroic defense by Madame La
Tour, who pitted all her slender resources against the
enemy, only to meet with tragedy. Her garrison was
hanged, and the lady herself died a few weeks following her husband's return. Her dream lives on in a
poem by Whittier and a story by Harriet Chesney. La
Tour married his rival's widow, and for 'diplomatic
reasons' became a British subject.
The story of St. John is cast in barbaric colours
during the hundred years that it was a trading post
visited by passing sailors and soldiers of fortune from
74 THE   PORT    of   ST.  JOHN
many lands, and for ever the scene of the jealous little
wars of fur traders.
Then French Acadia was given by the Treaty of
Utrecht to Great Britain. In 1762 came the first
valiant Loyalists—a few families from Massachusetts
under the leadership of Captain Francis Peabody. A
little later arrived James Simonds, William Hazen and
James White, all notable pioneers. The old Hazen
house built in 1773 is yet standing, much renovated, at
the corner of Simonds and Brook Streets. In 1783
there landed twenty shiploads of United Empire Loyalists. Market Slip where they disembarked may look
more picturesque to-day—a ribbon of water lined with
shipping, great buildings as a background—but to the
Loyalists it was a hope. They built St. John and built
it well.
Pictures of this era would show robust gentlemen
like the renowned James Simonds, of whom the Venerable Archdeacon Raymond writes in his record of
Pioneer Days, who brought the first English bride to
the port. She was one of the three lovely daughters of
Captain Peabody, who himself served with distinction
at the Siege of Quebec a few years before. Early
marriages were the rule, and so were large families.
Sarah Le Baron of Plymouth, Massachusetts, was only
sixteen when she married William Hazen, and James
Simonds' wife was little older. They filled their long
lives full of the many interests of fast-growing families
and the adventures of a young and thriving community.
There was a motley crew encamped about this
Post. The Indians, the original French Acadians,
and the workmen who had come with the Loyalists
were on the whole wonderfully friendly with one
another. Hard times threatened, but did not overcome them. The Loyalists believed that they could
conquer the land and even defeat the tides. A pageantry of labour ensued.
For always the land had been harassed by the tides
of the Bay of Fundy; murmuring, menacing all devouring tides, full of mystery and fate for the first
comers. James Simonds and his companion, White,
organized a tremendous enterprise with the result that
an aboideau was built, and other dykes were made, and
the great marshes of Tantramar were redeemed from
the water. Industry was encouraged and paid for.
Building operations were begun, and the first warehouses raised in expectation of the industry in shipping. The Loyalists also made themselves stately
homes of the colonial type. There were bursts of
social gaiety, as when the Duke of York moved his
Court for a short time from Halifax to St John. And
there was the 'old Coffee House' where the merchants
76 mm
THE   PORT    of   ST.   JOHN
of those days used to gather. To-day the Bank of
Montreal stands on a spot that they say was originally
bought for a Spanish doubloon and a gallon of old
Jamaica.   As  the  city of  the  Loyalists grew  rich
through its enormous lumber trade, and famous for fast
sailing ships, one can imagine how far reaching became
the stories told in the taverns!
In 1784, New Brunswick, which had been a part of
Nova Scotia, became a separate Province, and a Royal
Charter was granted to the city of St. John.    It was a
quaint document. To the Mayor was given the office
of "garbling of Spices, and the right to appoint the
bearer of the great beam," while the important clauses
regarding fishing and fowling rights are set out in
language suitable to the Letters Patent of the Hudson
Bay Company. Ward Chipman, the maker and recorder of this same Charter, was also Counsel for the
Crown. We hear of his successful attempt to abolish
the practice of slavery in New Brunswick. Thus did
the 'adherents o£despotism,' as the much abused Loyalists were dubbed, accomplish a reform sixty years before the people of the United States. In the stately
old Trinity Church there is an interesting memorial of
those days in the Royal Coat of Arms removed by the
expatriated Loyalists from the Council Chamber of the
Town Hall of Boston.
To-day there is not a great deal in the outward
aspect of the place to remind one of a romantic past.
St. John is sufficiently picturesque in herself, and beautiful enough in natural surroundings to make one fully
content with the present. Still at the foot of Middle
Street, in West St. John, may be seen the remains of
earth works, marking the site of Fort La Tour erected
in 1631. But, alas, the Electric Light Station now
stands on the site of the old French Burial Ground
where lay Governor Villebon and the heroic Lady La
78 THE   PORT    of   ST.  JOHN
Tour. Indeed the city does not even possess a statue
in honour of the latter. Everyone goes to see. the old
Burial Ground lying near King Square, once on the
outskirts of the town and still tree guarded, where
many of the founders of St. John are buried. The
Court House is an elderly and dignified building that
fortunately escaped the fire of 1877 which destroyed
two-thirds of the city.
In the two beautiful city Squares, King and Queen,
a good deal of the life of the city centres. Many of the
prominent houses are nearby, and still on summer
evenings that almost archaic entertainment, a band
concert, may be enjoyed.
King Square, which in any other town would be
called a Park, is that level plot situated at the head of
King Street and extending to Sydney. Therein the
visitor finds a splendid monument erected to the memory of Sir S. L. Tilley, who was twice Lieutenant-
Governor of New Brunswick and at one time Finance
Minister of Canada. The statue is the work of
Phillippe Hebert of Montreal, the Canadian sculptor.
There is also a statue to a brave youth, who during a
wild storm, lost his life in a fruitless effort to save a
boy from drowning. The Court House faces on this
In Queen Square, Champlain, eager even in cold
stone, points triumphantly to his harbour, and the old
French cannon from Fort La Tour has been set up.
On Carlton Hill a Martello tower was erected to
mark a certain preparedness in 1812. It is one of
several examples of a romantic type of architecture to
be found in Canadian towns and cities. This one was
built by the Royal Engineers, then stationed in St.
John, who made its walls of stone fully six feet thick.
Visitors to St. John may some day enquire about a
book shop kept in the '60's by 'Messrs. Fillimore and
De Mille.' That is if they are admirers of "The Dodge
Club Abroad." Some day a literary or historic society
may go even farther, and actually look up the house in
which James De Mille was born in 1833, if by chance
it still remains, and note it by a name-plate. For here
lived a pioneer of literature in this land who served
80 THE   PORT    of   ST.  JOHN
well his day and generation. It was in 1868 that the
Harpers published a serial which is believed by authorities to be a forerunner of Mark Twain's "Innocents Abroad." The work reappeared in book form,
running through thirty or forty editions. For fifty
years the publishers have steadily sojd it, and are still
selling it. Like the work of Haliburton its life is in
its humour. But De Mille wrote a more notable work
in "The Strange Manuscript Found in a Copper
Cylinder." As Canada then had no publishing houses
he sent what he wrote abroad, and found a wide public.
But he lived and worked in his own country. His
father was a well to do ship-owner and merchant of
St. John, and a Puritan of the Puritans. A student of
Acadia College, De Mille afterwards married Anne
Pryor, a daughter of the first President of Acadia, and
two years later was called to the Classical Chair which
he resigned to take that of English literature at Dal-
housie, Halifax.
As remembrance the permanent pictures of St. John
have to do with her unique setting. She can transport
you, in a morning's drive through Rockwood Park, to
Scottish hills and gemlike lakes. An hour later you
are on the Atlantic seaboard, facing dancing waves,
or else black rocks and tawny sands if the tide is out.
The fascination of her rivers is inexhaustible.    The
'Reversing Falls' is of course one of the wonders of the
world, and any guide book will explain the action and
reaction of the swirling waters in the winding gorge.
But to be interesting it should remain a mystery. I
remember two great bridges, shelter houses and rainy
weather. I remember that waiting for the tide, staring
at red mud where I had imagined glittering waters,
seemed more awesome than the spectacle itself, and the
rocks, like those of Niagara, more wonderful than the
We sailed out of the harbour for Boston, as so many
from the shores of New Brunswick have sailed, bound
by the friendship of many a year. I thought of Bliss
Carman and his love for his "port of heroes;" "the
barren reaches by the tide," "the long dykes with uneasy foam," " the marshes full of the sea." Footsteps
of beauty haunt one here, partly because his poetry
had haunted one's childhood. In departing we
journeyed with him—
Past the light-house, past the nun-buoy,
Past the crimson rising sun.
There are dreams go down the harbour
With the tall ships of St. John.
VI. Fredericton—The Celestial City
AND some miles up the river oae comes upon the
capital of New Brunswick, Fredericton, lying
all blue and gold in the sun, encircled by her
hills and rivers.
The traveller sees a peaceful yet thriving place,
a cathedral city as well as a capital, the military centre
of the Province, the seat of the Supreme Judiciary and
of the Provincial University. He knows that it is also
a centre of lumber trade, and a summer paradise on
account of good roads, good fishing, and the joys of
motor boating.
The historian harks us back to the days of Villebon,
when the site of the present city was an Acadian settlement called St. Anne's Point. It was an Indian camping place as well, and down the St. John came the
canoes of the Melicites, piled with beaver skins. They
came to trade with the gentlemen adventurers of
France. Villebon, Governor of all Acadia, made the
fort just opposite St. Anne's at the Nashwaak's mouth
his citadel, in place of the abandoned Fort Royal. No
one pretended to look for peace in those days.    If it
was not the Indians it was the New Englanders. Villebon had a certain 'old Ben Church' and his fleet of
New England vessels to fight. But the Nashwaak
guns were too many for them.
Generations later the Loyalists built St. John, and
when New Brunswick was made a Province, the first
Governor, Thomas Carleton, must have remembered
the ancient prowess of St. Anne and her invincible
fort, for he made Fredericton its capital. In a little
building still standing near the present Queen's Hotel,
known as the King's Provision Store, the General Assembly met for its third session in July 1788. Two
years before the first sermon ever preached in the settlement was delivered here. It was later remarked by
the Rev. Samuel Cooke, the Rector, that the inhabitants
of Fredericton number four hundred, "of whom one
hundred attend church, but many of ye common sort
prefer to go fishing."
I do not know who first named Fredericton the
Celestial City, but I think it must have been a poet,
for the vision of the poet includes all that the historian
knows and all that the traveller sees. That vivid background, Indian haunted and pierced by the conquering
note of the French, sharpens his imagination, but he
also feels the romance of his city of to-day.
The shimmering waters that surround it, rimmed
by green hills, suggest to him certain celestial qualities.
They imply a life of leisured intellectual pursuit, an
unhurried happy state that seems to mark this community as a thing apart from the usual scramble of
modern life.
In a charming account of his early home, written
by Charles G. D. Roberts years ago and never before
published, the well-known poet and short story writer
describes the beautiful setting of Fredericton. "Drawn
about her, the broad and gleaming crescent of the St.
John, and opposite to her wharves the lovely tributary
streams, the Nashwaak and the Nashwaaksis."
To look over the city from the cupola windows of
the University buildings, across Queen's Park and the
spires of the church steeples, piercing the elm tops
half a mile away, is to see far. Beyond the house roofs
there is the blue sweep of the river and the white villages of St. Mary's and Gibson, and further still the
town of Marysville where the lumber king, Alexander
Gibson, rules his domain. The blue river is often dotted with the sails of wood boats. To quote Mr. Roberts
again, "Here and there puffs a neighbouring tug, towing an acre or two of dark rafts, or a gang of scows
piled high with yellow deals. On all sides is evidence
that Fredericton is the centre of the lumber industry
.  .  . The scene is one that fills the eye with gracious
87 Ill
colour and harmonious composition.   In the Autumn
when the trees flame out with amber and scarlet and
aerial purple, when the air swims with a faint violet
haze, the picture is one that neither the painter's brush
nor the poet's pen can do more than dimly suggest"
A gentle charm lies everywhere. I remember the
overhanging elm trees, which it seems to me should be
part of every Cathedral town. The Cathedral itself,
though small and plain to the point of austerity, is one
of the most perfect examples of Gothic architecture on
the continent. Queen Street, with shops on one side
and lawns and trees and river glimpses on the other, is
equally typical of tranquil Fredericton. Speaking of
the public buildings on Queen Street, Mr. Roberts refers to "the severe gray pile of the Barracks where the
men drill behind high walls, that the glints of their
scarlet may not bedazzle the passing demoiselles."
The favourite residence portion of the city is
within clear call of the Cathedral bells. Here are most
of the handsome houses and the well kept grounds.
Below the Cathedral, where the street runs close to the
water's edge, where the bank is lined with willows,
where rafts tie up at night along the shore, and where
the houses all look out across the river, there stands
a dwelling which should be dear to American hearts.
The author of "Lob-Lie-by-the-Fire" and "The Story
of a Short Life" is beloved of her compatriots. This
plain brown house, with the bow windows and the river
view, is full of memories of Juliena Horatia Ewing
who lived here while her husband, a major in an English regiment, was stationed at Fredericton.   Another
89 Ii
guest not so highly distinguished lived a few hundred
yards below Mrs. Ewing's house, Benedict Arnold,
great General and great traitor. At the creek's mouth
near his house, he built small vessels for the river
But the house best known and loved by Canadians
in general, naturally within clear call of the Cathedral
bells, is the Rectory of the Cathedral, that quaint red
brick house now famous as the Roberts' homestead.
Here lived the Rev. George Goodridge Roberts, Canon
of Christ Church Cathedral, with his wife Emma
Wetmore Bliss, and here Charles G. D., the eldest son,
a daughter, Elizabeth, now Mrs. S. A. R. MacDonald,
Theodore Goodridge, a younger brother, and their
cousin, Bliss Carman, all grew up in the happy atmosphere of the Rectory.
Lloyd Roberts says, "It is any day, any month of the
year—for what are seasons among friends?—when
word goes round among the Clan that the Rectory is
entertaining. That means four hours of undiluted joy,
of unrestrained exuberance, a democracy of action that
sets aside little differences and tumbles everyone helter
skelter into the common basket of enjoyment . . .
There is no master of ceremonies. Possibly the youngest and noisiest—probably yourself—shouts for 'My
ship came home from India,' and the evening is off to
a glorious start.    How the dust flies from the flowered
carpet and the black horsehair sofa!    How the knick-
ii   H
^^^^TXW'PXo *x <-. _
nacks tremble on whatnot and  mantel!    How the
framed pictures of the animals disembarking from the
ark and of Abraham offering up Isaac, sway on their
wires until they hang askew! And this is the drawing-
room where one came and went sedately on ordinary
week days, careful not to disarrange furniture or leave
a cushion awry. Grandpa's explosive gusts, that would
have shaken walls less thick, are topped by shrieks and
children's trebles until all is pandemonium and the
neighbours, half a block off, shake their heads sympathetically over their knitting."
Mrs. C. F. Fraser has written a delightful account
of the Rectory in the days of "dear Rector Roberts," as
he was affectionately called by the town. "He was,"
Mrs. Fraser tells us, "a scholarly gentleman of old
English descent. Of winter evenings the favourite
gathering place was about the great centre table in the
sitting-room, where the young people were wont to
read aloud for each other's amusement the rhymes or
stories which the day had called forth. ... In summer
weather the great old-fashioned garden, haunt of all
fragrant and time-honoured flowers, was the favourite
spot. There in and about the hammocks with their
cousin, Bliss Carman, extending his great length on the
turf below, and shaggy Nestor, wisest and most understanding of household dogs, wandering about from one
to another for a friendly word or pat, and a score of
half tame wild birds fluttering and twittering in the
trees above, the young people did indeed see visions
and dream dreams. It is of this scented garden that
Elizabeth, the sister, too frail to companion her stirring brothers in the active sports in which they
delighted, sings so beautifully in many of her poems."
Associated with the academic life of Fredericton
for sixteen years, and a vital force in Bliss Carman's
career, as in that of so many of his students now scattered world-wide, was Sir George Robert Parkin, the
well known educator, author, and lecturer on Imperial
To a sportsman and naturalist the environs of
Fredericton, its great forests and the waters, are of
more importance than the town itself. The moonlit
nights of October are the time for moose-calling; and
still in the wild part of the woods, bears, lynx and
wild-cats are to be found. The great salmon waters
of the Miramichi, and the trout waters of the Tobique,
the Squateooks or Green River, the cock and snipe
covers and partridge grounds are all fairyland to the
hunter as well as to the writer. Out of such a background have come great stories such as "The Heart of
the Ancient Wood," "Kindred of the Wild" and
"Earth's Enigmas" by Charles G. D. Roberts. The
Rev. H. J. Cody of Fredericton has written a good
lumbering story in the "Fourth Watch," and the woods
of New Brunswick have attracted other than our native
writers. Dr. Henry Van Dyke has used them for
many an essay and story, and so has Dr. S. Wier
Mitchell, the Philadelphian novelist, in "When All
the Woods are Green," a charming idyll of out of
door life on the Restigouche.
It may be that only one out of every hundred of the
travellers who tarry at the Port of St. John, knows the
ancient lovely Capital of the Province, for Fredericton
has not yet been discovered by the tourist. Charles G.
D. Roberts says that is because "she has sat long aloof,
Narcissus-like, admiring her own image in her splendid threshold of water, too loftily indifferent to proclaim her merits to the world."
VII.  Ottawa—A   Towered Town
OTTAWA, the capital of Canada, has been
called "The Washington of the North." No
comparison could be wider of the mark. Ottawa is-as far removed from Washington as from Rome
or Gibraltar. It is true that the thought of a European
town may dimly arise in the mind of the observer as he
feels the domination of the Gothic Tower on Parliament Hill, and is aware of the lordly mass of buildings
set out in splendour on the promontory jutting into the
river. But the effect is not continental. The true
traveller will tell you that is essentially, almost indescribably, Canadian. Waterfalls, rivers, canals, locks,
bordering forests, ridges of glorious rock—these form
an essential part of the picture of Ottawa. A wine-like,
bracing air gives her the divine essence of youth. Her
classic buildings are only the mental side of her.
Like all capitals, Ottawa has to talk a great deal.
But since 1914 she has learned some silences. Then
too she has for years been loved by a little race, nearly
always lost among the talkers, the alien race of poets.
Ottawa, indeed, is a mingling of politicians and poets,
—Macdonald, Tupper and Laurier, but also Lamp-
man, Campbell and Scott. If there had not been a
poet in Macdonald and in Laurier, Canada would have
been less a land than she is. Had there not been a
moulder and maker in Scott and in Campbell, their
poetry would have missed its mark.
I am glad that the statue of Galahad, the shining
boy who typifies, in this case, the willingness of Canadian youth to give its life for a friend, was standing
on Parliament "Hill for years before 1914. I think
that many a soldier going out to the greatest war may
have saluted it in passing.
Nature has added a note from some pagan pipe
to the organ-like grandeur of Ottawa; the tossing
waterfalls, the rocky ways, encroaching even into city
boulevards, are enchanting. And the Rideau Canal
and useful necessary locks are a pretty touch. The
locks at the foot of Parliament Hill are like a sort of
giant stairway. An American tourist and writer once
said: "Usually a canal is a disfigurement, but the
Rideau is different: it is a decorative feature and a
source of endless entertainment. People stand for
hours on the bridges above it or on the masonry coping
of the locks, watching the boats lazily climb the stairs,
while the skippers' wives nurse their babies on deck."
Champlain, who left a splendid legacy of Indian
names to many of our cities, saw the site of the present
Capital in 1619 and because of the seething waterfall
named it "Asticou," Indian for boiling. The French
afterwards translated that into "Chaudiere." But the
Chaudiere danced and gleamed in the sunlight and
was silenced by many a Canadian winter before the
magic word Electricity was understood, or even the
prefacing notes of Electric Force, Water-Power, were
dimly realized.
But there was the national asset of lumber to be
considered, and about a century ago, Hull, just across
the river in Quebec country, was begun as headquarters
of the trade, and in 1827, the pioneer settler in what
grew into Bytown, now lower Ottawa, built the first
house. The heights where the Parliament buildings
stand were not even considered until nearly thirty years
later, when Bytown was made a city, her name changed
to Ottawa, and the beautiful heights included in her
The story of the choosing of Ottawa as the Capital
is historic. It need only be recalled that Queen Victoria was asked to arbitrate between the claims of four
rival cities: Quebec, Montreal, Kingston and Toronto.
Before this time the Capital had been a movable feast,
so the wisest of ladies chose the picturesque dark
horse, Ottawa, which was on the border of Ontario
and Quebec, and safely removed from another border
that was not so friendly a line as it is today. In 1860
the then Prince of Wales, afterwards Edward VII,
laid the corner stone of the Parliament Buildings, and
modern Canada may be said to have begun.
There are certain points of resemblance between
Ottawa and Quebec, with a modicum of difference.
In both places one is obliged to think in terms of
an Upper and Lower town. When I stand on the
Dufferin Terrace and watch the sun set on Levis, I am
irresistibly reminded of evenings on Parliament Hill,
and masses of pink clouds and level purple rays lying
on French-Canadian Hull, just across the river from
Lower Quebec harks back two hundred years.
There is a less obvious and perhaps even more subtle
charm about the old Bytown canal that winds away
from Parliament Hill with its century old suggestion of
quaintnesses forgotten in the life of to-day.
Where the splendid Chateau Laurier,
On the old canal, looks down.
Unimproved roads, coal sheds, old wharves, these
are here for anybody to see. But it takes one with a
spirit of the real explorer to find, in the solidly-built
rough stone  warehouses  and   dilapidated   buildings,
echoes of the old canal trade and the ancient commerce
of Bytown which made it an inland lake-port during
the early and middle nineteenth century.
William Wilfred Campbell, ardent lover of Ot
tawa, relates history of Bytown, where, he says, the
entry to the waterside, through the stone arches of
these old warehouses, suggests the comings and goings
of generations of commerce and the long journeys by
water-ways ere the necessities and luxuries of daily
life could reach their destination. "Upon these old
rotting wharf-sides have landed coal from Pennsylvania; building stone from the south; and all sorts of
commodities coarse and fine from the outside world.
The imagination revives memories of the old Muscovado sugars and syrups, the coffees and spices of the
West and East Indies, the Young Hyson and Ceylon
teas from the far East and the raisins and other delights
dear to our vanished childhood and that of our parents
and grandparents. Here toiled generations of men of
a slower, surer, more exact and careful type than exists
to-day. There yet lingers in those few solid, low, less
pretentious old buildings, with their plain but useful
interiors, the memory of the old time office clerk in
his alpaca coat, quaint dignity, and scorn of haste, who
wrote in his fine clerkly hand, with his steel pen, his
daily dole of strictly honest accounts. . . . That was an
era of the strong and simple hinge and lock, of the
closely-mated, well-seasoned and well-wrought panel,
and small but picturesque window-pane, with a similar
condition in individual character and national and religious outlook. It was an age inimical to anything
shoddy, for as all was done by hand the reputation of
both master and man was at stake."
In those days there were few houses in what was
called Middle Town; and from near what is now Con-
naught Place a pathway wound over the hill to Upper
Town. At each end of this path was a turn-stile, and
this was the only means of approach for many a year.
North on the cliff were the Soldiers' Barracks, and the
town gaol—while on the east side of the Sapper's
Bridge was a lodge and gate which was the entrance
to Mayor's Hill, where was the residence of the
Military Commander.
Mr. Campbell tells how on balmy April mornings,
in these modern days, he loved to linger here "when the
din of mallet and hammer and voices" recommenced,
and the renewing of the winter craft went on until they
would one by one slip out "to disappear in the grey of
the dawn down the Ottawa or up the canal to Kingston
and beyond out on the Great Lakes, some of them to
join the host of the floundered or wrecked never to return.   The 'Kingston Maid,' the 'Water Witch,' the
'Rideau Belle,' the very names are relics of a kaleidoscopic vanishing dream in the insurgent wave of the
grimly common-place."
So much for the oldest Ottawa. But there are landmarks near Parliament Hill familiar to the present
generation that are fast disappearing. The Chateau
Laurier, situated to the left of the Parliament Buildings is a palatial hotel. But our fathers loved the
Russell House, to which "a good share of parliament
went when it adjourned." Here is a picture as old-
fashioned as the hostel itself, though it was written only
a few years ago. The writer says: "There is a touch
of almost arrogant opulence about the Russell.
Over the Rotunda there is a dome which contains in
stained-glass designs the coats-of-arms and mottoes of
the various provinces. In the dining-room there is an
orchestra. The waiters are in evening dress constantly.
Here you are more likely to discover the man you want
than almost anywhere else in Ottawa, except up at
Parliament Here may be found the moccasined man
and the shoepacker; the river-driver with his pipe and
his guernsey; the mining prospector and the lumberman ; the hockey enthusiast and the Cabinet Minister."
The Rideau and the Chaudiere are harnessed for
commercial purposes; their beauty has been abased,
unless by some stretch of imagination, lumber, and the
urgent voice and ugly body of saw mills, can be
The Parkway along the Rideau is another matter.
It is a beautiful drive through parterres of lawns, foliage and flower beds. Here on a summer afternoon the
Highway is thronged with motors and the waterway
with craft, the drive ending in the magnificent five-
hundred-acre Experimental Farm.
Variety is one of the charms of Ottawa. The extent of her water frontages alone would secure this.
The Ottawa, here wide, there narrow, flows along the
length of the city, and the Rideau encircles the greater
part of it, joining the Ottawa in a huge bound of rocky
cliff. The Gatineau enters on another side. Hence
the possibilities for gorgeous natural adornment are
The Civil Service of the Canadian Government
has held a group of poets who have paid full tribute
to the town they loved. W. Wilfred Campbell, was
one of these. Archibald Lampman was another. His
career was all too brief. One of his friends was Duncan
Campbell Scott, a native of Ottawa and himself an
inspired poet. The Roberts' family is linked to
Ottawa by the residence here of Mrs. George Goodridge Roberts, Mrs. S. A. R. MacDonald and a
grandson and nephew, Lloyd Roberts, who sustains the
105 r
literary tradition of his family and adds a distinctive
note of his own. E. W. Thompson, noted for his
depictions of Indian and French-Canadian life, has for
years been associated with the literary circles of Ottawa.
The western poet and novelist, Robert Stead, is also
now a resident.
It has been rumoured that Ottawa is cold at heart,
unsympathetic to strangers, wrapped in her social
round as the place of Vice-Regal residence and the
meeting ground of politicians. I like to think of her
in the words of Duncan Campbell Scott:
City about whose brow the north winds blow,
Gilded with woods, and shod with river foam,
Called by a name as old as Troy or Rome,
Thou   art   too   bright    for   guile,   too   young
And thou wilt live to be too strong for time;
For he may mock thee with his furrowed frowns,
But thou wilt grow in calm throughout the years,
Cinctured with peace and crowned with power sublime,
The maiden queen of all, the towered town.
for   tears,
106 VIII  Toronto—A Place of Meeting
VIII   Toronto—A Place of Meeting
NARROW   streets,  soaring   skyscrapers,   large
bright-red street cars, innumerable impatient
motors, crowds on the pavements, crowds in
the trolleys, crowds in the shops.   And over the whirlpool of King and Yonge  an  invisible  presence,  the
damp breath of the lake.
Travellers from everywhere, lodged for a moment
in one of the down-town hotels, from bedroom windows
high over the roof tops catch a glimpse of shipping, a
sheltering expanse of Island guarding the harbour, and
through the hum of the city hear the sound of a chime
of English bells from the tower of St. James or of the
Metropolitan Church.
From the blue of her southern boundary, the Bay,
to the green of the high ridge that is her northern
threshold, lies Toronto—seething with activity. A
half dozen blocks north of King and Yonge Streets
there is a spot of concentrated fury where Queen Street
cuts across, and great departmental stores draw a
steady stream of shoppers from the four ends of the city.
Slightly to the east is the Massey Music Hall, the
109 1 'lop
H>.   M
centre of musical activity for the Province, and near
this point some of the big publishing houses are situated. There are miles of shops, and in some
districts of factories; street after street in which the
brass plates of doctors and dentists label almost every
house; banks are nearly as prevalent as drug stores; a
great city of a hospital rears up almost sheer out of the
pavement on College Street. Its neighbour, the Conservatory of Music, draws an average attendance of
thousands of students a year.
And then there is a sudden blossoming of gray stone
buildings,, interspersed with a few of unfriendly brick,
set among trees—the University of Toronto in Queen's
Park. Here the old Alma Mater, founded in 1827,
the original grey stone building erected in 1856, still
excels in beauty her fast-growing family. The tower
and carved stone doorway are among the most perfect
examples of Norman architecture on the continent.
Hart House, a club for graduates and undergraduates,
also of gray stone, with magnificent hall for dining,
libraries, study rooms, gymnasium and Little Theatre
is a great students' centre. Hart House is Toronto's
gigantic modern flower of early-English architecture, a
building unique in perfection on this continent.
The city sweeps up the hill, The traveller finds
at the head of Avenue Road the famous old Eton of
Ontario, Upper Canada College, founded in 1829, the
preparatory school of many of the outstanding men of
the Dominion.
He finds to the east of this Hill Road, Rosedale,
one of the most picturesque residential sections of any
modern city. Houses of a hundred modes of architecture but, strange fact, all interesting and harmonious
are built on sites for the most part overlooking ravines.
Ill , *ef
Not small, well ordered ravines but deep, wooded, lush
ferny, brook-haunted bits of wilderness; living pools
of green in summer with lights, seen from bridges or
casement-windows, like glow-worms faintly illuminating far depths. In winter there is a tangle of frozen
branches, or dark trees making slender etchings against
the gray sky. Government House—a huge pile—
stands at the easterly end of Rosedale.
West of Avenue Road, on the Hill top, runs the
wide St. Clair Avenue, and directly north and south
of it is the Hill section proper. Houses such as
"Bellevue," "Glen Edythe," the Nordheimer residence,
"Ravenswood," a site now occupied by "Ardwold," the
magnificent town house of the late Sir John Eaton,
have, for half a century, looked through trees that were
part of a primeval forest over a growing city to the
rim of water miles away. The modern castle of Sir
Henry Pellatt, westward on the same ridge, stands
feudal-like, its feet plunged into a huddle of dingy
little streets.
So Toronto, humming on its commercial way, sometimes surprises one with a lyric or an epic touch.
• • • • •
Trees-in-the-water—so the Indians saw and named
it as they cited from their low-riding canoes the long
stretch of sandy land that is called The Island.
112 i)-0'Uws
Gentle folk were the Mississaugas, who loved the
Valley of the Humber and there pitched their tents and
invited their friends. A Place of Meeting, they called
the little encampment, and there was prophecy in the
name. The French also observed the location. A
trading post, Fort Rouille, was established in 1748.
In 1878 the site became the ground of the Industrial
Exhibition Association of Toronto—a Meeting Place
for a million people every September.
The French-are as fond of seizing a strategic position as the next people. And they had secured one here
at the southern end of the fur trade route from Georgian Bay via Lake Simcoe. Nevertheless the first small
garrison was withdrawn to aid the defence of Niagara
against the British. Then, with the passing of the
French regime, and in 1793, the Old Fort was chosen
as the site of the future capital of Upper Canada.
Governor Simcoe, with his officials and some troops
from Niagara, established themselves facing the beautiful Bay with its sheltering sandy shoals and its comfortable distance from the frontier. A little town was laid
out, re-named York, and its streets were sedately
christened after the Royal Family, as any good street
should be in the gallant days of the Loyalists. There
was Caroline and Frederick and George, and Princess
and Palace and King and Duke and Duchess.
But Governor Simcoe laid out his toy town with the
idea of extension in his mind, and he planned three
main roads which his rangers proceeded to open up.
Westward and south the road led to Niagara and was
named after Henry Dundas, Viscount Melville. Eastward was the Kingston Road, and the third leading
north to Lake Simcoe was named after Sir George
Yonge, a personal friend of Simcoe. And these roads
remain unchanged in name as the old down-town streets
do in their perambulations. But the Royal names have
been discarded in all but a few instances.
Little wars, small military episodes, flashed fire
upon those early days. The town was sufficiently embroiled in the War of 1812 as to be captured by the
Americans in 1813 and held for eleven days. The
Parliament Buildings were burned, the fortifications
attacked and worst of all the invading troops were
billeted upon indignant citizens. The ladies of York
were all in a flutter. When the enemy retired there
was a much-relieved meeting in Jordan's Hotel, on
King Street. A block house built at this period still
stands on the Old Fort Road.
Jordan's Hotel was dear to the hearts of York. Dr.
Henry Scadding in his delightful "Toronto of Old"
says that in 1820 this tavern "looked antique compared
with the Mansion House put up beside it."   One of the
115 ffl
few town pump stations was nearby. The Half-Way
House, built in 1816, was a favourite resort of soldiers.
It bore a famous sign:
Within this hive we're all alive,
Good liquor makes us funny,
If you be dry step in and try
The flavour of our honey.
The important dwelling houses of the town were
built in the vicinity of what is now Front Street, though
Beverley House, the home of Judge Beverley Robinson (and temporarily of Lord Sydenham) was some
blocks further north. The Denisons built Bellevue
House on Queen Street in 1815, and The Grange was
erected two years later by Mr. D'Arcy Boulton, whose
daughter-in-law married Goldwin Smith. The first
summer residence of York was Castle Frank, which
Governor Simcoe erected on the brow of a hill overlooking the Don Valley. It was a picturesque log
house, with a narrow carriage road leading from the
town to the bushland retreat. Along this road many
parties of cavaliers and ladies used to wend their way
from the town to picnics and fetes on summer days and
nights gone a century ago.
Colonial York—gay, muddy, adventurous and
British to the core—holds picturesque pages. Anison
North has given interesting glimpses of these days in
"The Forging of the Pikes" a novel of the Mackenzie
Rebellion/ She writes of St. James Cathedral on a
Sunday morning in 1837. Stained windows, deep
transepts, high pews, people "arriving in crowds, some
in very fine coaches with footmen . . . the women
were quite fine enough in their silk gowns and Paisley
shawls and gay bonnets . . . soon I came to know where
sat the Baldwins, the Powells, the Jarvises, the Ridouts,
the Boultons, the Cawthras, and many others, including
Chief Justice Robinson himself, who was one of the
handsomest men I ever saw."
With the Rebellion of 1837 the Colonial Period
ended. Five years before the name of York had been
replaced by the early Toronto and through the magic
that sometimes lies in names it cast off outward sedate-
ness, and with it perhaps inherent joviality, and, swift-
footed as the Indian tribe that first christened it, the
young town entered upon that race for the conquest
of everything in sight that still distinguishes it. A
bright Runner in a straight line is Toronto. The early
trees-in-the-water, streets in the water, mud, uncertainty—all this solidified into cement, and proper
parks, and great discernment as to enterprise of all
The Rebellion of William Lyon Mackenzie and
his supporters, who objected to the administration of
public affairs by the Family Compact, was quickly
subdued, and a few rebels hanged in the jail-yard. In
1866 there was the Fenian Raid, and the Fenians too
were bound to retire. The progress of Toronto was
not to be stayed by this sort of thing. It ran brightly
on, punctuated all along the way by a steady influx of
retired farmers, villagers, townsfolk the Province
over; by the acquisition of great manufacturing plants
and the constant building up of schools, so that as
wealth makes wealth, this magnetic power increased
upon itself and it came to pass that in little more than
a century the half million mark is reached.
"Toronto—a Place of Meeting," said the gentle
"Toronto—a safe site," echoed Governor Simcoe.
A good deal Canadian in atmosphere, a little
American in manner, wholly British in feeling, Toronto is a stimulating city in which to live and work.
If, swift early Runner, it struts a little now as it grows,
that phase too will pass. Once an adopted daughter,
Isabella Valency Crawford, a pioneer Canadian poet,
wrote of Toronto who had systematically ignored her.
She hears the marching centuries which Time
Leads up the dark peaks of Eternity:
The pulses of past warriors bound in her;
The pulses of dead sages beat in her;
The pulses of dead merchants stir in her.
Already the 'pulses of past warriors.' The South
African Memorial by Walter Allward, the Toronto
sculptor, stands on University Avenue, just south of the
Armouries. In point of value to the city it is, so far
as a single work of art is concerned, the greatest treasure. Here is the young mother, Canada, sending out
her sons to battle for the Empire. The greatest art
contains not only beauty but revelation. The gesture
of Canada, who had sent but few sons when this
monument was raised to celebrate a peace, expresses
readiness for any future. And when the doors of the
Armouries opened on a midsummer noon of August
1914, and the first men of the First Contingent marched
out and down the Avenue on their way to Camp, the
most vital figure on the crowded thoroughfare was
Allward's young Canada—looking out into the distance, hearing the first footsteps go by to the awful war,
knowing that there would be increasing footsteps to
follow. Crowning the granite shaft, with wings outstretched and arms uplifted, is an angel of victory
over-topping the mother and her sons.
'Centres' of commerce, art or education, taken
singly or in combination, make great cities. Toronto
has always possessed them. After the primitive
centres of a hundred years had faded, and the famous
houses and public buildings and warehouses of even
half a century ago were changing, there came the new
meeting places of the eighties and nineties.
The 'Sage of The Grange,' Professor Goldwin
Smith was known the English-speaking world over as
a brilliant if caustic philosopher and critic. He used
to gather visitors of note from many places in the fine
old house standing so grandly on its tree-decked lawns.
The same house, now remodelled, again opens its doors.
Now the visitors are lovers of pictures, for this is the
Toronto Art Museum in which, during the winter
season, many Views are held, exhibitions of the
work o£ Canadian artists interspersed by loan
collections of foreign pictures.
Algernon Blackwood, the English novelist, in a
letter to the writer says "Beverley Street recalls my
student days in Toronto when I used to go up and down
that quiet street to haunt the garden of The Grange.
Can you still hear the crows and the rooks in those
mighty trees?"
Trinity College, out on Queen Street, beautiful of
design, was a fit setting for the residence of Professor
William Clarke, an Englishman whose brilliant lectures on literature endeared him to a generation of
And there was a certain dingy office in a lane-like
street that was also a centre in the early eighties.   "The
120 .«*«$■■■""./• »*■.»'.'
Week" was founded by Goldwin Smith, with Charles
G. D. Roberts as its first editor. The names of Lamp-
man, Bliss Carman, W. W. Campbell and other distinguished writers appear frequently. It is interesting
to know that in those early days the woman editor was
already in evidence. We find that Mrs. J. W. F.
Harrison, known by her pen name 'Seranus,' was the
musical and then the literary editor. Sara Jeanette
Duncan, of Brantford, the well-known novelist, was
also an editor.
To-day the varied life of Toronto is made up of
many centres of as many interests. I leave to guide
books and histories the list of her public buildings and
industries. Other phases of her life enchant me more.
In the Royal Ontario Museum of Archaeology, for
instance, the collection of Chinese paintings and vases,
among many other notable collections, is unique on this
continent. Exploring those ancient blues and greens
one forgets that this is a modern commercial and educational centre. An hour later, motoring in High Park,
or roaming through acre after acre of its hills and
dales, one is lost again amid blues and greens. Ten
minutes by motor will bring one to a sort of censored
Coney Island on the wide Lake Front Boulevard.
New airs for old!   Yes,—but still along the sand
dunes of the Island guarding the harbour, looking out
over the blue wash of lake which holds a hope of
harbour some day for sea-going vessels, there comes a
whisper and the sound of the paddles of the first
Indians—'Toronto—Place of Meeting/
122 IX. Historic Backgrounds of Brantford f
IX. Historic Backgrounds of Brantford
BRANTFORD from Tutela Heights is a pleasant
panorama of roofs and spires, with a river
meadow lying between the heights and the town.
The spot is famous as the home of Alexander Graham
Bell, and the municipality has secured thirteen acres
of what was the Bell homestead as a public park.
A long high hedge makes a sort of green tunnel to
the front verandah of the quaint little white-washed
house, and within you are shown a dreary refreshment
room, flanked by models of certain unaccepted designs
offered by various sculptors to the Committee of
Selection for the Bell Memorial.
The Grand River, perambulating its gentle course
from the blue hills near Georgian Bay to Lake Erie,
has been loved by Indians, generations of settlers and
decades of artists. But never in its joyous course
through the loveliest lands of Ontario does it pass a
more interesting spot than just here, at the turning of
these heights, where half a century ago a pale boy,
still in his twenties, used to haunt a quiet grape arbour
and look down on the river. Behind his father's garden,
125 HI
across a little orchard, and so to the ravine-like bank
he wandered with a great problem tormenting his
mind night and day—that of the transference of the
human voice through space, by means of what was then
called 'electric speech.'
Dr. Bell's own words at the unveiling of the
Memorial in his honour in 1917 tells the story. "I
came to Brantford in 1870, having been given six
months to live. I am glad that I survived to witness
the unveiling of this Memorial. As I look back in
time, I recall the Brantford of those days, the Grand
River, my dream-place on Tutela Heights, where the
vision came to my eyes. I never thought I would see
such a Memorial as this erected here, to me, and to
the invention itself. I cannot claim to be the inventor
of the modern telephone. That is the product of many
minds. I but initiated the transmission of sound. It
was initiated here. So much has been said about it being invented in Boston. The telephone was invented
here. It only acquired a physical existence in Boston
. . . Too little is said of Brantford in the United
States, for here, between Brantford and Paris, the first
message was sent over the first long distance line."
• • • • •
Farther down the river, eight miles or so, there is
another historic house where  a  little  later  lived  a
genius of quite a different order. This is "Chiefs-
wood," where on the ancient reserve of the Six Nations
Indians their Chief, Onwanonsyshon, the father of
Pauline Johnson, established his house.
This Brotherhood of what was originally known as
the Five Nations is bound up with the early history of
Canada. It was founded by Hiawatha four centuries
ago in Jacques Cartier's time.    When the early French
explorers and missionaries came the name Iroquois
cropped up. Yet Pauline Johnson's grandfather, a
firm ally of the British both in French and Colonial
feuds, was known as the Mohawk Warbler.
It was a romantic household, for Onwanonsyshon
had married an English lady, one of the Howells, of
whom the American descendant, W. D., is best known,
and her surroundings must have been in picturesque
contrast with her traditions. The Indians at this time
still wore theifliative dress, and the ancient industries
of weaving and basket-making prevailed. Their
daughter, a princess of the tribe, Tekahionwake, her
English name Pauline Johnson, loved the legends and
poetry of her race, and through her personality and
lyric gift made her impress on her day and generation.
She made her debut in the early nineties as a poet-
reciter, and many appearances in Great Britain, the
United States and Canada followed. Thrilling was
her effect. Dramatic the appeal of this dark-hued
girl who seemed to personify her race. "It was the
Indian who spoke," says one who heard her recite, "the
Indian woman, as with intense passion she voiced the
cry of her kindred."
From the Mohawk Chief, Joseph Brant, the town
took its name. Shortly ago the world of art was
reminded of him in the search for the portrait by
Romney, painted in London about 1776. It was acquired by the Earl of Warwick, a friend of Brant,
and hung in Warwick Castle for nearly a century.
Finally, after keen competition, it was bought at
Christies for the Canadian Government, and now
hangs in the main gallery at Ottawa.
In his hunting dress, with white sleeves, colored
sash, head-dress of red feathers and tomahawk in his
hand, he was a picturesque subject for the brush of one
of the greatest of portrait painters. As well as a warrior Brant was a statesman, and a sincere patriot. He
had gone to England on a mission that appealed to
English hearts at the time, to raise funds for his beloved
(English) Mohawk church in Upper Canada.
And so it is fitting that he should sleep here, in the
quiet of the little churchyard all fenced about with
iron as befits a Chief, and just beside him, Onwanonsy-
shon. Nothing in Canada is more unique than the
wooden church itself, made by the Mohawks themselves in a simple, almost austere design and dedicated by them to the Christian God. A silver communion service given to her loyal subjects by Queen
Anne is still in use.
It was here, in the meadow just beyond this peaceful
churchyard, that in 1869 an extraordinary ceremony
was observed when Arthur, Duke of Connaught, then
a young lad, was made and still remains the only living
white Chief of the Six Nations Indians.
An interesting story is told of the occasion when, beside the English boy in his state carriage, rode Onwan-
onsyshon, on his jet black pony, "garmented in full
native costume, buckskin and beaded moccasins, head
band of feathers, silver ornaments and scarlet blanket,"
and how, riding along the dusty roads, the English
Prince and the Chief ate grapes together joyously. And
then on reaching the church the son of Queen Victoria
suddenly found himself surrounded by braves and warriors of what must have seemed, to his English eyes,
a truly ferocious type; their copper-coloured skins
gleaming in the sun, brilliant with paints and gorgeous
dyes, and carrying tomahawks and bows and arrows.
An appalling war-whoop arose as the young guest
stepped forward to meet them, then more deafening
war cries, as hundreds of Indians filed by, preparatory
to the inaugural ceremony performed by an ancient
chief who had fought under Sir Isaac Brock at Queens-
ton Heights in 1812.
In this ceremony the Constitution that Hiawatha
had formed four centuries before was broken. For he
decreed that fifty chiefs, no more no less, should form
the Council of the Six Nations, and this day the first
and last addition was made whereby Arthur of Con-
naught alone bears the right of the fifty-first title of
the Iroquois.
Towards the centre of the town the Bell Memorial
by Walter Allward has been placed; a great work in
granite and bronze perpetuating the inventor and his
accomplishment. Giant figures, the Speaker and the
Listener, suggest the patience and the endurance of
Man the Creator, who is symbolized in the panel on
the crest of the Memorial, awake to his new found
power to transmit sound through space. He sends out
his thought in three floating figures; messengers of
Knowledge, Joy and Sorrow.
A stone's throw from the Memorial one finds a
large old fashioned house with a garden full of flowers.
In the pleasant drawing-room there hangs a life-sized
portrait of a young girl with serious eyes who is emphatically the courageous Sara Jeanette Duncan, the
late Mrs. Everard Cotes, author of "An American Girl
in London" and other stories that made her famous
while she was still in her twenties.
Norman Duncan, also a native of Brantford, is not
related to Sara Jeanette. In no estimate of Canadian
literature can his work be overlooked. A master of
gendre, his "Dr. Luke of the Labrador" and "The
Mother" are among his finest novels.
Against a background of the Brotherhood of the
Six Nations modern figures seem like youth dancing in
a moment of time. But figures of certain men and
women are never shadows dancing, but rather the
living spirit of the environment in which their youth
was spent. Brantford is romantic, though she is a
busy and influential industrial centre, because of her
backgrounds and her interesting personalities.
132 X.  Golden  Winnipeg
133 I
!r ■
4t HUr+4*
X.   Golden   Winnipeg
WINNIPEG—golden as her nearby grain-
fields. Through the long sharp winters the
sun supplies the gold. In the early spring it
anticipates the promise of the rich earth. You say to
yourself, "If anything should happen, shortage, danger,
unexpected circumstance, here is our answer."
But I found the talk was all of Power—water-
power—marvellous water-power.
A short distance to the north-east of the city, the
Winnipeg river, collecting the waters from fifty-five
thousand square miles of lake and forest, flows over a
series of falls on its journey to Lake Winnipeg. Investigation decided the fact that the river was to do
more. Gauging stations were established, scientific
knowledge and activity were brought to bear, and now
the undeveloped power of Winnipeg's shining water
sounds like a dream.
Winnipeg's colour means strength, also it is flamelike and flame moves fast. That she is the centre of
Canada, geographically speaking, and the gateway to
the West, is an old story.    But there is a much older
TO liU
story. It has to do with the first glimmering thought
of our great golden Winnipeg which was born in a
Frenchman who came up the Red River—the river of
red willows—as early as 1731. He tried to build a
fort, was ungently dissuaded by the Sioux, but returning five years later, made a palisaded trading post for
furs, named Fort Rouge. Then he built Fort Reine,
where Portage la Prairie stands to-day. But La
Verendrye was looking for the western waterway of
Indian fable and he travelled southward, and never
returned to this land.
A history of forts and fur companies, savage warfare, cut-throat commerce—those were the early days.
"Irregular" is a polite adjective for the methods of the
North-West Company; and the "gentlemen adventurers" of the Hudson's Bay Company, who followed,
were not much better. Lord Selkirk, a Scottish nobleman, taking advantage of bitter wrangles, bought a
controlling interest in the Hudson's Bay Company,
whose stock had fallen low, acquired what is now the
District of Assiniboia and peopled it with his settlers.
But he was outwitted by the North-West Company,
and in 1816 came the terrible massacre at Seven Oaks.
Afterwards the section was bought over by Robert
In 1817 a band of French soldiers came to the res-
cue of the settlement then known as Fort Douglas.
They remained for some time and made their headquarters on the east bank of the Red River. Here the
first Catholic Mission was established and named St.
Boniface. To-day a modern cathedral on the same
site is the scene of the colourful ritual of the Roman
Catholic Church.
Fort Garry, erected in 1835 by the Hudson's Bay
Company, was in the early '70's pictured by Mr. William J. Morris, who made the trip by way of the
United States with a stage drive of four hundred miles,
as "an enclosure of stone wall some twenty feet high.
Government House, not very long ago headquarters
of the rebel chief Louis Riel, a log and clapboard
dwelling, and servants quarters which used to be storehouses for the Hudson's Bay Company."
The story of early times is as vivid as that of present
day power.
Stirring days were those, from 1812 to 1870, when
the first Riel Rebellion was over and the Province of
Manitoba was formed and had entered Confederation.
Times of adventure that Canada will never experience
again—when the wilderness said "no" and civilization
answered "yes;" when a bag of beaver skins or a string
of coloured beads was worth a man's life, when there
were no rails, no telegraph poles, no motors; when dog-
sleds in winter and ox-carts in summer made their long
journeys through a silent, savage land. The date 1862,
"first steamboat navigating the  Upper Red  River
reaches Fort Garry," is more interesting than 1873,
"Winnipeg Incorporated," but 1886, "First Railway
Train over the C.P.R. from Montreal," is thrilling.
The story of "The Streets of Winnipeg" is told by
Mary Hyslop in an interesting little book which shows
us, for instance, why it is that in a flat country there
should be a crook in Main Street. The river was the
highway, and as the river bends the street takes on its
angles. Main Street is a long trail, the outcome of a
growth, not a laid-out town like the newer cities of the
western plains. Portage Avenue is the oldest trail to
Edmonton and the longest street in the world. In the
early days it was travelled by ponies and the old Red
River cart, a vehicle made entirely of wood, "which
could be heard long before it came in sight." Notre
Dame is of French ancestry, but Logan Avenue and
the old Logan homestead have disappeared. This
house marked the spot where the dead were laid from
Seven Oaks. Here too Lord Selkirk stayed during his
visit to the colony. Fortunately, the old Fonseca
House still stands facing McDonald Street. The
grounds harbour trees and lilac bushes, but the family
of old Spanish descent live there no longer.
The very names of these streets are fascinating.
One, changed to Elgin was formerly Jemima Street,
after a famous hostess of the early days. And there is
Colony Gardens, now Victoria Park, which was the
centre of social life in the colony. South of Portage
Avenue to the Assiniboine River lay the Hudson's Bay
Reserve; so, naturally, its streets received the Company's names. History is also contained in the cross-
streets south of Portage Avenue, Fort Street and Garry
Street especially.
The half-breeds and the prairie wagons and the
Royal Mounted Police. Later the railroad and the
horse-cars and the problem of muddy streets. There
was the Big Boom of 1881 and then the American invasion. Capitalists began to discover the Canadian
West. Winnipeg was overtaken by eager days full of
work, full of promise, full of enthusiasm. The golden
tide had begun to rise and to surge in as though driven
by some mighty natural force. Great Britain came
to realize that here was a vantage point. In twenty
years the population rose from thirty thousand to two
hundred and fifty thousand people.
In 1907, Rudyard Kipling, speaking before the
Canadian Club, said:,
"I went away from Winnipeg for fifteen years,
which in the life of a nation is equivalent to about
fifteen minutes in the life of a man. I come back and
I find the Winnipeg of to-day a'metropolis. The visions that your old men saw fifteen years ago I saw
translated to-day into stone and brick and concrete.
Dreams that your young men have dreamed I saw
accepted as the ordinary facts of everyday life, and they
will in turn give place to vaster and more far-reaching
"May one write of Winnipeg and not speak of the
cold?" I asked her one-time daughter, Nellie
McClung, who could never have written her stories
of the border-land of the Great West anywhere else,
and she said, "Yes—the casual visitor is sure to comment on the cold of Winnipeg winters. But those of
us who have called it home think of the warmth of the
people's hearts and the happy days and nights spent
within its hospitable borders. When I first knew it
there were no skyscrapers or picture shows or juvenile
courts or votes for women, but it was a great city, a
dim, rich city to me. I wish I knew as great a city
now. I would like to find a city where shop windows
are as beautiful and the streets as broad as Winnipeg's
were then, and I would go far to see it—but there
aren't any, any place."
The Rev. C. W. Gordon, "Ralph Connor," has
been identified with Winnipeg for many years as the
minister of St. Stephen's Church. At Banff his early
mission work in the foothill country brought him in
contact with some of the characters that have made his
books famous. "Black Rock," "The Sky Pilot," "The
Man from Glengarry" and others, were written in
141 i
Agnes Laut, the well-known writer, was born in
Manitoba and in spite of long residence in New York
has   remained   a   Westerner.    Her   experience   in
Winnipeg began when she was a little girl and she has
watched the city develop.    It is still impressive to her.
I ma
To see the penniless immigrant of to-day become the
capitalist of to-morrow is a training in economic ideas.
"The weeding out process," says Miss Laut, "was terrific. The no-goods fall by the wayside, also the
whiners, the slackers and the shirkers—and those with
the red blood and the dauntless courage carry the flag
over the line."
The foreign folk of Winnipeg can hardly be overlooked in any sketch of the city. Far away from the
ocean road that brought them to this continent, the
cities and towns of western Canada have attracted and
held many European immigrants, so that Winnipeg
is a splendid ground for the study of nationalities.
In cities too young for literary tradition one sometimes finds a modern writer gathering up the ancient
customs and beliefs of these new comers. Living in
Winnipeg has enabled Mrs. J. F. B. Livesay to paint,
through vivid translations of their songs, many brief
pictures of the Ukrainians and the Ruthenians. As
these people become more and more absorbed in Canadian life the songs will fade, so that the translations,
not only of these but other folk songs in various parts of
the country, is an important work.
I have heard Winnipeg called flat and treeless, but
from a high window of the Fort Garry hotel we looked
down on leafy streets.   And in the Roslyn Road and
other residential districts the houses are set off by
careful trees. All is not lost in gold. There is here
and there an old-fashioned touch. Fuchsias and pelargoniums, in the conservatories of the Public Park, are
more popular than the new favorites.
Just outside the city are the Agricultural Buildings,
and the original Fort Garry is now converted into a
delightful motor club.
Built of native stone, and with its surrounding
grounds occupying a city square, stands the stately
new Parliament Building with its huge pillars, and
bronze buffaloes guarding the impressive stairway.
At night the lighted dome shines over the city, a ruddy
crown set amid innumerable lights. . . . From nearby
is the sound of a bugle call. It comes from the station
or barracks of the Royal Mounted Police.
*4!VK!VSjj XI. Edmonton and Jasper Park
10 fMU
• r' '
XI. Edmonton and Jasper Park
Le VERANDRYE, the Frenchman who came up
the Red River in 1731 and built a fort at Winnipeg, pressed farther on. His route at last was
by way of the north Saskatchewan River. The fur
trade was his lure, and those low wooded hills lying to
the east of the river were called by the Indians the
Beaver Hills. Le Verandrye had come a thousand
miles since he left the gateway of the West—a thousand
miles over the Prairies, a thousand miles of long undulating Deflowered grass, of bleak desert, of snow filled
plain.   And then this oasis of rivered green.
The next recorded recognition of a wonderful site
came in 1778, when the Nor'-West Company, rivals of
the Hudson's Bay, founded Fort des Prairies. In enormous isolation it stood on the bank of the river and
when the union of the two fur companies came to
pass, and the Hudson's Bay took command about 1809
the Fort was renamed Edmonton, after the town immortalized by Cowper in "John Gilpin," and because
of the affection of the trader in charge for his suburban
abode on the outskirts of London.
The Fort has been likened to some rude baronial
stronghold in the feudal ages of the old world, with
the Liege's Hall and retainers' cottages all safely enclosed by a palisade twenty-feet high made of stout
trees split in halves and sunk into the ground. Around
this, encompassing the entire Fort, the sentinels' gallery ran and at the four corners the peaked roofs of the
bastions rose, with cannon mouths filling the port-holes.
There was a flour-mill, and carpenter, boat-building,
blacksmith and harness shops. It was indeed a tiny
walled city. The buildings were much crowded, there
being only narrow alleyways between. A Court and
yet a Community, it held within its limited area all the
elements that make British rule the world over. It
was self-contained and splendidly poised on the edge
of a world in the making. All around the wooden
walls dwelt the great unknown: natural elements vast
in power. Indians insistent and inscrutable: herds of
buffalo that then seemed numberless.
From the records of those days it will be seen that
the first fort of 1796 was built on the lower level of the
meadow, home of the present Power Plant of Edmonton. The second fort was built on the high ground
where the Parliament Buildings now stand. It was
under the command of a Chief Factor who kept up the
traditions and wore a cocked hat and  a bejeweled
sword. The men who commanded the garrison were
usually Scots, and were signed on for service as in the
army or navy.
THE 40'S.'*
There was a Canadian artist, one Paul Kane, who
made the first sketching trip over the prairies in 1847.
He spent a winter at Edmonton, which had then become a great food-producing centre.   Within the walls
of the fort the inhabitants then numbered over one
hundred and fifty. Kane says they lived in "luxury
and fashion." His diary gives a fascinating account of
the times. He is of course deeply interested in the
Indians. "Eleven of the most important and war-like
tribes," he says, "were in constant communication with
the fort. Crees and Assiniboines lived in the country,
while at least twice a year Blackfeet, Sarcees, Peigans
and Bloods from southern Alberta, traded at Edmonton their dried meat and fat."
We hear of a great feast and dance at the Factor's
House in the fort on Christmas night, 1848. To the
dance some Indians were invited. The music was
made by a violin in combination with the Indian drumsticks. The dance was a medley of Highland reels,
strathspeys and hornpipes and the wild pageantry of
the Indian ritualistic dances. Among the motley
colours and barbaric excitement of the liquor-fed
music-mad crowd, the artist, Kane, espied a young
Cree so lovely that he afterwards immortalized her on
canvas, which is included in the magnificent Kane
collection in the Royal Ontario Museum, Toronto.
"Her poetic name was Con-ne-wah-bam," says the
artist, "it means 'one who looks at the stars.' She sat
for her likeness with greatest patience, holding her fan
which was made of the tip of a swan's wing, with a
handle of porcupine quills, in a most coquettish
Kane tells us also that the sequel to the festivity of
this Christmas week was the wedding at New Year's
of John Rowand, Jr., in charge of Fort Pitt, and Miss
Herriot, the daughter of the Chief Factor. The wedding trip down the ice two hundred miles to Fort Pitt
was made by sledge. Three carioles and four sledges
with four dogs to each formed the cavalcade. Nine
men, including Kane, were the bodyguard. The dogs
were decked in bright-coloured saddle cloths, fantastically embroidered, feathered, and covered with
innumerable tiny bells. No provisions were taken, for
a party went ahead, killed the buffalo and prepared it,
made the camp, lit the great fires in the snow and slung
the wigwam for the bride and groom. Battles with the
wolf-packs, violence, and sudden death and the glory
of sunbathed untracked spaces—only seventy-five years
The "Life of Father Lacombe" by Katherine
Hughes gives graphic pictures of those days. The
missionary was brought to Fort Edmonton in 1852 by
John Rowand and became a force in the community.
The very names of his friends and associates, Rowand
and Christie, Sir Sanford Fleming, Chief Engineer of
the construction of the C.P.R., Sir William Van Horne
and Lord Strathcona, call up the history and the great
enterprises that they so successfully staged.
Stories of the early West contained in the lives of
the Factors are not only heroic but splendidly picturesque. There was Chief Factor Christie, for instance,
who in lo73 travelled over two thousand miles by dog
team from Fort Simpson on the Mackenzie River to
attend the first meeting at Fort Garry of the North-
West Council, the Government of the Territories.
His French half-breed driver made the whole journey
with him on snow-shoes. The life of Richard G.
Hardisty, the next to the last Chief Factor of Edmonton, is also closely associated with the place. The
Hardisty family were bound up with the Hudson's Bay
Company. A sister of Richard married Donald
Smith, who afterwards became Lord Strathcona, and
his wife, greatly beloved in Edmonton, was the
daughter of the pioneer missionary, the Rev. George
McDougall. For twenty years the hospitality of the
Hardisty's in the big house in the centre of the quadrangle, was famous the North-West over. The
Christies, also, are a living link with the past. Two
sons are in the H.B.C. service and a daughter, Mrs.
Malcolm Groat, still lives in Edmonton.
After the Factors, and following in the wake of the
H.B.C, came the independent fur trader, the prospec-
£ BB^^^HSSj
tor and the boot-legger. The escapades of these
gentlemen drew the attention of the Dominion Government to the need of police protection in the west, and so
came the formation of the Royal North-West Mounted
Police in 1874, and the next step in civilization.
Followed the settler "treking across the plains with
his ox-carts"—and suddenly, almost miraculously, the
modern Edmonton arose. The French and Scotch
traders sent for their families, the great hope of the
transcontinental railway became a certainty, and the
epic of the iron rails began. In 1885, when the Riel
rebellion showed the strength and the weakness of
l&js^ifiiSiMili ill
the half-breed, the little settlement greatly augmented
its numbers by an influx of refugees. That same year
the Canadian Pacific was completed, and with the
dawn of the twentieth century, Edmonton was a town
of three thousand people. Three years after a branch
line was made to connect her with the great road, she
was a city; and when, in 1905, the Province of Alberta
was formed, she found herself its capital. In 1921,
her population numbered over sixty thousand.
To-day there is a hardy young city of wide streets,
splendid houses^ hospitals, schools, churches, colleges,
shops and warehouses, hotels and parks.
But the painted past lingers, the primal colours are
not quite blurred, and when one least expects it comes a
vibrant note from the past.
Until recently the old H. B. Fort huddled up
against the new Parliament Buildings. Still one may
'trade' at the Hudson's Bay Store—huge, departmental,
Of late, on a summer noon, I was busy there buying
French blouses. Along the crowded aisles came many
an Indian, civilized and sometimes uncivilized—down
from the north country. You feel the presence of the
Great North in Edmonton.. These people, with their
quiet-smiling, quiet-frowning faces, connect one instantly with the stories out of the past that may be de-
ciphered from the stained glass windows on the stair-
landings, which deal with various aspects of early days.
A pity to destroy such a link with the past as
the old wooden building up against the Parliament
Buildings! Mrs. Arthur Murphy, the well-known
writer, "Janey Canuck," who is Magistrate Emily
Murphy of the Juvenile Court in and for the Province
of Alberta as well as the author of books which have
depicted the life of the country she loves to many
readers, is one of the few among Canadians who
realize the importance of old landmarks. She has also
gathered up interesting data regarding the Factors of
the days of the Fort.
Pictures of Edmonton to-day call to my mind a
panorama of broad flowing river and small glimmering woods, of wide imposing streets, splendid shops
and houses, ugly scattered shacks, crowds of foreigners,
waste spaces and vast impending energies. But always
I go back in mind to river banks and hidden loveliness.
I remember an English bungalow with a wonderful
view of leafy ravine, tea on a wide verandah, a Japanese servant, Spode cups.
Other pictures. That vast tract of poplar bush-
land situated only some ten blocks from the centre of
the city, vacant and pulseless, though surrounded on
four sides by a scattered population.   A great paved
-triWBani MM
roadway, like a crooked smile, runs across the face of
it. Along the northern bank is a railway track over
which an occasional train may be seen meandering
gingerly. Above this again many bleary basements
defacing the beautiful bank. The flat itself a thing
of gently rolling surface and timbered edge. Here is
the golfer in his white flannels. Here is many a cool
spot where the grass encroaches on the poplar bluff.
Higher up, if one wishes to explore farther afield,
there are leafy dells which nevertheless give sight of
the busy thoroughfare of the great bridge, that overleaps the valley at its eastern end, with its never ceasing coming and going. Opposite, on the southern
bank, stands the nucleus of a great University. And
again there is the river vista, this time superb, where
the Saskatchewan makes a wide enchanting turn—and
there, too, the little whispering woods.
The Edmonton of to-day, many-hued and magnetic,
calls to the tribes and peoples of the earth with the
sparkling lure of youth and riches. But in the Edmonton of yesterday rang the call that carries an age-old
lure. In it there was a note of danger which is the
preface to curiosity and adventure.
Our adventure was not with danger but the un-
known, when for the first time we explored a bit of
Jasper Park, the great National Reserve which lies two
hundred miles west of Edmonton and contains at least
five thousand miles of mountain, stream and valley. It
was untraversed wilderness, even for western Canadians, before the coming of the railroad about 1909.
Before us, after a night of travel, lay the Yellow-
head Pass, dividing line between Alberta and British
Columbia, and the watershed that sends its streams in
one direction to the Pacific and in the other to the
Arctic ocean. Tete Jaune Cache was our objective,
it was then the end of steel. In Canada we have a way
of naming places after first comers. Jasper Dawes
will go down the ages because he came as early as 1817
and made a friend of the Indians. He was, in fact,
in charge of the Hudson's Bay Trading Post then
established in this region, and it is from his shock of
yellow hair that the Pass gets its name. The French
of it, Tete Jaune, goes to a valley fifty miles beyond
the summit, and to an Indian village near which
Jasper established a Cache, later to become a construction camp.
Nearly all day we journeyed to this camp, passing
the Divide where the Fraser River begins its thousand-
mile run to the Pacific, with good-bye to the little
Miette, a charming stream that gives a Japanese im-
pression of the deep blue shadows of mountains
reflected on its surface. We found Tete Jaune a place
of expectation; hotels were being planned, stations
thought out, the land slowly mapped out, Buffalo
reserves considered—in fact a great movement on foot.
In the vast solitude one mountain peak after another
arises. First the Pyramid and Miette Mountains, pale
blue with snow. Then as you climb the Divide, with
only the low snowless Rainbow Mountains between,
you look for tidings of the white summit, 13,700 feet
high, that lies beyond—Mount Robson. Presently it
seems to float gently forward, crowned with snow and
often hidden by clouds, but, because of a clear June
day, gleaming now soft and white above the clouds
against an indigo sky.
How wonderful to be alive in this great wilderness!
One of the first generation to greet the mightiest peak
of the Rockies, and in the vanguard at least of untold
peoples. Looking into the distance one can see them,
from Europe coming Westward, from the United
States north, from the Orient journeying East again—
travellers in a playground of giants.
Always to be remembered was the wild effect of
rafts filled with logs shooting down the turbulent
Fraser, never to return. There was the shadow of
Mount Geggie in still water, and Tete Jaune for a
background. As we watched the swift river, the
barges and the busy little camp were like bits of scaffolding clinging to the framework of a great building,
things of the moment. Instinctively one's mind
reached beyond the lapse of time between one generation and the next, and the next. Shadows fell as dim as
centuries. But the summer day spoke of freedom,
stored up here for the peoples of the earth. w XII  Calgary and Banff  CALGARY   and   BANFF
XII   Calgary and Banff
REAMS have been written about the ocean and
its effect upon individuals and peoples. Little
has been recorded of the prairie, but there is a
certain moment on the journey between Winnipeg and
the mountains when an impressionable traveller hears
its music, as untranslatable as it is distinct It may
come to you tramping the snow-piled platform of some
wayside station, as you momentarily break a wintry
journey, or out of a summer night.
I remember a midnight break-down on the C.P.R.
somewhere between Edmonton and Calgary. At first
the ceasing of the wheels brought only a sense of unusual quiet, penetrated, I must admit, by the rumble
of a full-throated snore in the distance. Peering into
the darkness from the dim enclosure of my berth, suddenly I saw the moon rise out of a cloud and send a
spear of light over a limitless sea of grass. And yet
not grass. Not the July-green Ontario carpet that I
knew, but something—a great undulating naked hairy
line of the very body of the Earth itself, the Earth all
alive and full of hidden possibilities, murmuring in its
sleep. The murmur seemed to me rhythmical, almost
like the purr of a large sleepy .cat. Sometimes
across the murmur came a sigh, rather like a wind, but
no wind that I had ever heard before. And in the
sigh that heaved that living grassy line there was a
call, an invitation, as though immensity had deigned to
speak. Then lanterns twinkling along the side of the
sleeper, hoarse shouts and orders, and the great express, slowly gathering energy, shot away westward.
But I, with thousands of others, had heard the voice of
the prairie.
It was with such a feeling for the immensities with
which she is surrounded that I accepted Calgary just
as I found her a symbol of nature on a grand scale.
I did not ask many questions or wish to be deeply enlightened as to her history and antecedents. But as I
had heard her called 'a glorified Cow Town,' I was
glad to find a narrow Main Street giving me a far away
suggestion of a trail rather than the usual wide Western
The truth is that when the first railway train crossed
the prairie, in 1886, this city was no more than a little
distributing centre for a wild country. It was known
to Indians, traders, and a few ranchers. It was commended by all on account of its situation, its winey air
and warm Pacific winds. But the miracle that makes it
164 CALGARY  and   BANFF
now was then non-existent, save in the minds of a few
men. Shortly these thoughts emerged. The Canadian
Government gave as part payment to the Canadian
Pacific Railway, three million acres of land in the
extreme west of the prairie belt.
"Ranching Country!" said the C.P.R. "In fifty
years it may amount to something!" But there was an
optimist who declared that a rainfall averaging but
twenty inches held great harvests in possibility. Later
on the railway arranged with the Dominion Government for a block of land stretching one hundred and
fifty miles east. Irrigation! It is all in the word that
makes the desert blossom. Hence the glorification of
Everyone knows how the Government came to the
assistance of the project by devising simple but effective irrigation laws. The western section of the C.P.R.
block was watered by means of the canal which is one
of the first and foremost of Calgary's points of interest.
It is seventeen miles long and a hundred and twenty
feet wide at the water line, and has a hundred and fifty
miles of secondary canals and eight hundred miles of
irrigating ditches.
And so the rancher, who used to tie his horse to a
post outside the store and proceed to trade in leisurely
fashion became an "intensive farmer" and his needs
165 I
the busy streets of a modern city.
grew many.   The spirit of young Calgary responded.
By a modern magic the great factories and wholesale
166 CALGARY   and   BANFF
depots, shops and houses emerged and there followed
the busy streets and public buildings of a modern city.
One can only picture a place as one finds it. Here
the first and the last note seems to be magnetism.
Something intensely alive reached out and caught me.
I felt it from the moment of arrival on what I supposed
must be a public holiday, judging by the air of bustle
at the railway station. I was told, however, that this
was an everyday coming and going. I saw English
and American tourists, Jews, Japanese, a Hindoo with
a smooth-folded turban, an Indian with coloured baskets to sell, business men, school girls,—all of them
setting out to find their own Calgary.
Emerging on Ninth Avenue, a decade ago called
Whiskey Row, one is suddenly in the midst of large
hotels, public buildings and clubs, amongst which the
Ranchers' Club (on an Avenue near by) is unique.
Here are the Administrative Offices,of the Canadian
Pacific from where the business of the vast land holdings, mines and other interests of the company are
managed. Eventually you reach the great stock-yards
of Pat Burns, the Cattle King, an old-timer in the
West, who controls its largest packing plant. Eighth
Avenue is the principal shopping street, and they tell
you that on Saturday night it is as congested as
Piccadilly Circus.
167 I
Essentially a man's town, this is also a place which
is in the grip of elemental forces. As I walked about
in the mid-summer heat I wondered if it were temperature or altitude that made me feel so light-headed.
I decided that it was altitude. And the dust storm!
"Something like a London fog" it has been called," only
a dust fog,"—an animated fog in which everything unsubstantial is fair prey. I have seen whole newspapers
caught up like balloons and tossed sky-high.
A kindlier force is the Bow River, which waters
the land and contains a mineral quality that is quite
Calgary stands in the midst of millions of
acres of workable soil. Professor Tanner, the
agricultural chemist, says that it is richer than the
famous "black earth" of central Russia. There
is sunshine most of the year and bracing air softened by
the Chinook winds, so that horses and cattle run in
the open throughout the winter, and among the foothills are many notable ranches. The Pleasant Range
Stock Farms is one of these. It is a cattle-ranching corporation, of which a well-known Canadian authoress is
secretary and part owner. Thousands of people know
"The Japanese Nightingale" and other novels by Onota
Watanna, but few have discovered Mrs. Frances F.
Reeve in her picturesque ranch house, "Bow View,"
h. mri
on the Bow River, midway between Calgary and Banff.
Another well-known writer who combines farming and
literature is Mrs. Eva Jacobs, who believes in the
future of drama, dealing with life in the ranch country
Bar U Ranch—now the property of H.R.H. the
Prince of Wales, in close proximity to Calgary, is of
course the show place of the entire region, and the hills
and valleys, streams and meadow-lands are quite beautiful enough to have aroused a desire for possession in
so cosmopolitan a traveller as His Royal Highness.
The Sarcee Indian Reserve, seven miles from Calgary, was used as a Training Camp during the war of
We first saw the foothills from the Roof Garden of
the Palliser Hotel,—ghostly beckoning peaks sixty
miles away. One day we answered their call and
motored to Banff through the foothill ranching country, the Morley Indian Reserve, past Kananaskes Falls,
the mining country about Canmore, and on into the
hills.      I |
When you return to mountains, after long absence,
the impression is as fresh as though you had never seen
them before. It may come from the atmospheric effect
of altitude, colour and spacing which makes you feel
as if you are in a land of coloured pictures.   Whether
i •'Irjl"
it is the airy green and white of the Alps, about which
there seems to be a kind of vibration like the far chim-
170 CALGARY   and   BANFF
ing of small bells, the gorgeous crimson and purples
of the southern Rockies, the copper and gold of the
Canadian range, there is to the plains-dweller, a sense
of unreality in painted distances that custom does not
dim. Banff is a great brown fugue of giant hills that
would break your spirit if it could, but you know that
beyond it lies a marvellous journey westward in which
beauty is not lost in vastness.
I fancy that arrival by train at Banff has its compensations, for I hear that a large drag conveys you
to the C.P.R. hotel. It boasts four spirited steeds, and
you ascend the winding road with a clanking of chains
and drive up with a splendid flourish before the entrance of an irregular pile that looks rather like the
dream of some bold baron of a century ago. Before
you enter, something draws you to the right of the
stone portico; something more than the suggestion of
a wide view. You look over and find intuition justified, for the wall of the building seems to fall away
to the almost perpendicular mountain side. Set in a
cranny commanding the Bow Valley and ringed about
with mountains, this is an opera box from which one
watches big plays on a big stage. Day after day the
curtain is rung up.on troops of winds and clouds and
sun rays,—versatile actors who love variety.
I have seen a day so leaden that every peak was
austere.   Then a rift in the clouds, a band of pink, and
the whole region a paradise of colour.
There is everything to do in Banff, and its admirers
seem to be inordinately energetic. They play golf, and
climb, and swim in the great Pool or canoe on the river.
They visit the Buffalo Reserve and the Sun-dance Canyon and the Cave. There seems to be a peculiar reverence in everyone's mind for the Cave. Even the pilot
is reverent, as he solemnly conducts you through a
mysterious tunnel cut out of solid rock. On each side
you hear the rush of water, and also you smell sulphur.
The tunnel widens into a circular cave in the centre
of which there is a pool of emerald green water
through which bubbles of gas come constantly up to the
surface, as though the spirit of the place wanted to be
free once more. For long ago this was the home of a
boiling geyser, a wild pre-historic youth who now does
tricks for travellers. We felt more annoyance than
reverence for his imprisoning Cave.
172 XIII. Vancouver—The Western Gateway IV' VANCOUVER—THE   WESTERN   GATEWAY
XIII. Vancouver—The Western Gateway
WHEN Monsieur Lahore, a distinguished
visitor from Paris, the defender of Zola and
Dreyfus, by the way, was in Vancouver some
years ago, he was struck by the curious effect which the
mere situation of the city produces. "Next to Paris,"
he said, "I am ready to give my affection and my wonder to this strange young Colossus on the shores of
Burrard Inlet. Wonderful transformation will take
place here, for the destiny of the world must lie in the
hands of those on the Pacific Coast, where the civilization of the Occident will have to be subjected to the
survival test of the ancient civilization of the Orient."
The approach to Vancouver is startlingly dramatic.
You come down to the coast through a great day and
night of mountains—the Rockies, brown and terrible,
and the green Selkirks. Then, through crowded
gorges and beside swift rivers you journey until the
hand of the sea, felt from far off, seems to reach out
and soften all the air; the altitudes melt away, and the
darkness falls. At dawning there is flat country with a
glimpse of wider, tidal rivers, and presently the guard
calls "Vancouver" and the train runs into an unassuming station.
It is early morning, and if you are fortunate you
may get your first glimpse of the city from a certain
famous club, high up in the Pacific Building, overlooking the Inlet. Great windows let in a liquid
radiance. There lies the Pacific—blue glimpses of it
are rimmed about with hills, some snow-capped, some
purple-veined, some misted in rose. The picture is an
enchantment, it looks almost too good to be true. But
its promise fe sure. There are more enchantments to
Vancouver is like a fairy book, and each page is a
fresh story. It is all very young. Innocent indeed of
any civilized history, as a city, before 1886, when the
first wooden shacks emerged out of the thick forest.
The decade following saw the first railway train
arrive from the East, the first C.P.R. steamship
anchored in port, the Klondike "boom," and the great
mining industries of British Columbia well under way.
Then the wooden houses were replaced by "solid
brick," those in turn giving way to the more fashionable
stone or plaster and clapboard. Already there was the
older settlement of Victoria, over on Vancouver Island,
to set an example in architecture, and Vancouver, blessed or cursed as may be  by cheap-priced  Oriental
labour, began to lay out good streets and acquire "residences." In an incredibly short time it mounted to
Shaughnessy Heights, with its fine modern houses and
beautiful gardens.
Vancouver is by far the most fascinating "new" city
that I have ever known. There is a freshness and
charm about it that comes from something more than
sea air or even the beauty of mountains, that makes one
inquire into the quality of a place so eloquent of youth
and vigour. Of history so little—of tradition so much.
But that the most romantic of all, Indian tradition.
For the legends of Vancouver relate to time uncounted
by any calendar, when the Pacific Coast, still unknown
to white peoples, was ruled by a copper-coloured race.
In 1910, the last of the great chiefs of the Squamish
tribes, Chief Capilano, died in Vancouver. But not
before he had given to a sympathetic interpreter fabled
stories of the coast, as fascinating as any in the traditions of Eastern and European countries. At the
Court of King Edward and Queen Alexandra he met
the Canadian poet of Indian ancestry, Pauline Johnson,
and it was a delight to the old chief to be greeted in
the Chinook, his native tongue. The friendship then
formed continued, when a few years later Miss
Johnson went to live in Vancouver. Capilano gave
into her keeping some of the sacred legends of his
12 I
tribe, the writing of which she completed shortly before her own death.    In a small paper-covered book
live these early-world stories, precious to Canadians
because they symbolize not only landmarks but the
qualities that make and keep a country heroic.
Twin mountain peaks that rise over the city and
guard the harbour were named by early residents of
Vancouver after Landseer's stone lions in Trafalgar
Square. But they are known as the Two Sisters to the
Indians, who centuries before made them the symbols
of Peace and Brotherhood. The story goes that a
Great Tyee was at war with the Upper Coast Indians.
Pledged, as was the custom, to celebrate the coming
into womanhood of his two beautiful daughters, he
decided that war must cease for the moment. Then
they came to him to ask the old favour of women—a
peaceful feast, a feast in honour of joy, an interlude
of war to which everyone, even the enemy, might be
invited. Because he loved them the Great Tyee
listened, and ordered his tribesmen to build fires of
welcome at sunset. And when the northern tribes got
this invitation they flocked down the coast and brought
their women and their children and filled the canoes
with game and fish, gold and white stone beads, baskets
and carven ladles and wonderful woven blankets as
gifts to the Great Tyee. He in turn gave such a potlatch "that nothing in tradition can vie with it." The
hostile war songs ceased, and in their places were heard
the soft shuffle of dancing feet and the singing voices
of women.
[I will make these young-eyed maidens immortal,"
tt si
said the Sagalie Tyee. And he lifted the chief's two
daughters and set them forever in a high place, for they
had borne two offspring—Peace and Brotherhood—
each of which is now a Great Tyee guarding the welfare of the Pacific Coast.
The familiar landmark, Siwash Rock, near which
Pauline Johnson is buried, looms up at the entrance to
the Narrows, a symmetrical column of solid gray stone
with the crest of a small green tree nodding over its
brow. There is no similar formation anywhere about,
for it stands straight like a man.
"It is a man," says Capilano, "a warrior who fought
for everything that is noble." And he tells of a young
chief who defied the gods and swam across the course
of their Great Canoe and would not leave it even at
their command, for the sake of his coming child, that
the tribal law of vicarious purity might be obeyed. As
he touched land he was immortalized in stone as a
saviour of the race.
So with the Cathedral Trees in Stanley Park, that
group of some half dozen giants unique among the
forests of the world. No one can stand close to them
without feeling their protective power. The Coast
Indians say that they harbour human souls: great beneficent persons chosen to protect humanity from a secret
influence that lies somewhere in the depths of the Park.
This is an evil "lure," the condemned soul of a witch
woman whom the Sagalie Tyee (the great God) punished, turning her into a bare white stone shunned by
moss and vine and lichen. Pauline Johnson says,
"Nothing in this nor yet the next world would tempt
a Coast Indian into the compact centres of the wild
portions of the park where lies the "lure" they all believe in, for there is not a tribe in the entire district that
does not know of this strange legend. No one will volunteer to be your guide, for having once come within
the circle of the "lure" it is a human impossibility to
leave it. Your will-power is dwarfed, your intelligence
blighted, your feet will refuse to lead you out by a
straight trail, you will circle, circle for evermore about
this magnet, for if death kindly comes to your aid your
immortal spirit will go on in that endless circling that
will bar it from entering the Happy Hunting
These things lie behind the history of Vancouver
and follow you to-day. One evening, after hours in
the Capilano Canyon, we found ourselves on a melancholy little street of the Indian village at its foot. A
twilight woven of violet and grey was drifting over the
Inlet, and this might have been a street of the Lost
Tribes. There was an air of futility about it all, as
though nothing could stay the course of change even In
181 m
this primitive little settlement of a disappearing people. I remember one old woman who was limping
about in the twilight and seemed to follow us like an
entreating cry.    She haunts me even yet.
Much of modern Vancouver spends its summer
evenings by English Bay, enjoying the lovely colours
of the sunset. Here you see all sorts and conditions of
men and women, from 'Arry and 'Arriet to the American tourist or the turbanned Moor. In a place where
East is bound to mingle with West in the long run the
element of romance is never lacking, yet strangely
enough it remains largely unrecorded. There are
those who have come to the Farthest West to make
money and have a good time, and there are others who
have come to make money and remain English. The
first are progressive, the second are picturesque and
they make a strange combination. In the golf clubs
you meet Vancouver at its favourite sport.
The eastern phase of western life is interesting if
controversial. I should like to have seen Vancouver
before pigtails were taboo and when there was a real
Chinatown. What is left, and that is very little, is
amusing. Five minutes from the business centre will
bring you into a section of small streets, sparsely
enough peopled in the evening when a Chinaman plays
Fan-Tan with due secrecy.   We went in and out of
dingy little shops where stoical merchants had to be
induced to produce hidden treasures and where the
odours were not those of Araby. As we came out of
one shop there was a thin far-off sound as if some
ancient viol were being carelessly tuned. It drew us
near an open door which chanced to be that of the
Chinese theatre. There we saw a part of an act of
one of the interminable Chinese plays done by an excellent company.
Yachting about Vancouver is a constant pleasure.
As we go south we see the profile of Siwash Rock at the
end of the wooded peninsula that is Stanley Park. To
the north the shore line of West Vancouver and the
village of Caulfields. Around Point Atkinson you
enter Howe Sound, one of the loveliest places in the
world, where are bays and islands and always the distant view of mountains. These mountains of Vancouver are sometimes southern in warmth of colour,
though often after a rain they hold great armfuls of
wisp-like clouds against their sombre breasts. But
always they are a fulfilment of some beauty, always
they hold surprise.
On account of the great natural magnificence of
her setting and the soft sea airs that surround her, airs
more equable than those of England, there is a sort of
late-blooming rose quality about the whole place that
183 I ii
should make a natural setting for work that above all
things requires leisure. And Vancouver is and will
more and more be sought by artists, musicians and
writers. Amongst the latter is one who will always
be remembered for the great beauty of her work,
Marjorie Pickthall, the exquisite lyrist who lived on
the coast for several years and whose death occurred in
1922 in Vancouver. Julia Henshaw, Mrs. Lefevre,
Isabel Ecclestone Mackay, Lionel Haweis, Elspeth
Honeyman, Robert Allison Hood and Wilson Mac-
Donald are only a few of the well-known writers who
have come under the spell of Vancouver.
Tom Maclnnes gives one a sense of glamour in
poetry that sails strange seas and loves queer companions better than tame ones. There is an outlandish
something that contains a fine flavour of adventure.
And who does not dream of adventure here, where
holly hedges and roses speak of England, and mountains mean the west and turbanned heads remind one of
the Orient:—Vancouver, where still one may often
A full-rigged ship unutterably fair,
Her masts, like trees in winter, frosty bright.
184 XIV.  Victoria—An Island City
XIV.   Victoria—An Island City
VICTORIA, chief city of Vancouver Island, is
Canada's lyric postscript. If you like it better,
the last note of an heroic song.
Dreamers have always loved islands, and the
islands of the sea hold a special magic, gray and misty
as the north itself or coloured with the south. Vancouver, cool and tranquil, circled by the Pacific has
been a "bonne bouche" reserved for the younger generations of North America. Of course it has not lain
undiscovered through the ages. In the sixteenth century, the Greek navigator, "masquerading as Juan de
Fuca in the service of Spain," waved to it in passing,
saw it lying beautiful and silent on the ocean, coveted
but lacked the courage to possess. George Vancouver
of the British navy landed in 1792 and quaintly wrote
of the "abundant fertility that unassisted nature here
puts forth and of the need of man's industry, not to
speak of the pen of a skilful panegyrist."
It was nearly a hundred years after this that the
Hudson's Bay Company founded the little city of Victoria, to-day the capital of British Columbia and the
only "southern resort" of Canada—a place intended
from all time, on account of climate and environment,
to be a city of homes and gardens.
To eyes not over dazzled by the brilliance of Californian colour, the gardens of Victoria are as enchanting as any the world over. I love sturdy English
estates, and Italian gardens, faun-haunted, full of
memories. But these new gardens of Victoria, these
soft-hued, rich, swift-sprung places, where nature cannot do enough to show her welcome to that lord of
creation, a Scotch gardener!   They are full of serenity.
"Here I do not miss even my beloved Paris," said
a well-known artist who had come to paint portraits in
Victoria. "I find in the people who have been attracted to a spot so beautiful, the mental, artistic and
financial resource which gives to them and to their city
the rare quality of graciousness. In this town I have
discovered treasures—rare books, old silver, splendid
collections of Japanese art and curious Indian relics,
nameless centuries old . . . Splendid people are making one of the picturesque cities of the world, yearly
more beautiful.       What is left to be desired?"
I remember a rock garden treated in Japanese
fashion with slender bridges and lanterns, dwarf
maples and a pond with pink water-lilies floating on its
surface.   Another with its high red brick walls, hedges
■ i of roses, borders of carnations and Italian pergola,
transports one to a different atmosphere. From casement windows I looked out on still another garden
famous for its perennial beds,  where on  a  summer
7). 5fm*s ~_
"parliament buildings   .   .   .   FROM  THE IVY*
evening masses of delphiniums and foxgloves were the
foreground for a dreamy picture of Oak Bay with an
old schooner and a gay young yacht going by in the
blue night
These gardens one remembers more vividly than
public buildings and streets. No ardent traveller can
forget, however, his first sight of Victoria as he enters
the harbour; the sparkling water, mountains snowcapped and floating in cloud-land, and the burning
earthly gold of gorse.
The city herself greets you with her Parliament
Buildings on one hand and the ivy-covered Empress
Hotel on the other. But behind them you know lie the
gardens—secluded, fragrant, dewy.
Victoria reminds me of jade green teacups, teak
furniture, wonderful drives and golden gorse.
But there are always "the sights." There is, as I
have said, the Parliament Buildings, also the Provincial Library with historical prints and documents
regarding the Pacific Coast. There is the Dominion
Observatory on Little Saanich mountain, with a telescope which in 1918 was the largest in the world. It
was placed in Victoria because of the unequalled
climate and low range of temperature. And there is
Esquimalt, a four mile drive, where is the Dock Yard,
for long Great Britain's only naval station on the Pacific Coast, now handed over to the Canadian
One motors also to Brentwood, on Saanich Inlet,
where you come upon what seems at first sight an old
English Inn.   Nearby are beautiful sunken gardens,
which Mr. R. P. Butchart generously opens to interested visitors.
After I had driven about Vancouver Island for a
week, my mind was a medley of Totem poles, golf
courses, rocks, beaches, ocean, swans on small lakes,
pergolas, chalets, and ribbon-like roads between huge
gorges filled with hemlock and pines. And I had met
all sorts of people—miners, fishermen, Moors, Japanese, farmers, remittance men and Americans. Also
Canadians. But the people who seemed to be rarest
were the men and women actually born in British
Columbia or Vancouver Island.
One of these was a well-known Victoria architect
who has done much to make his city beautiful. I
asked him if he sometimes desired the stimulus of
European life and criticism, here in this place that
seemed to be apart. Like the portrait painter who was
only a passing guest he answered, "One really cannot
miss much here."
Island of serenity, "where blows nor heat nor cold,"
island of faint gardens and soft flowers, you need no
poets, but we beg you still to beckon them, for you,
last word of the continent, hold the secret for which
we are all waiting, the renewal of beauty that lies in
peace of heart.
191 I
t  ill
I 7C 7^    HiL    f?**
< An ardent lover of the out-
of-doors, a close and keen
observer of the beauty and die
varied phenomena of Nature. -
•^logical, 1 Inroad-minded and
entertaining i philosopher,\fsW.
skilled and sympathetic horse-
manai the ^writer of these
sketches presents the incidents
and Impressions of his drives
over prairie trails with such
vividness' and allurement] that
the reader enters with enjoyment into his every mood and
follows with fascination every
stage of each journey; |
,• '^venty-twc(Tdrives in all
were made between the same
points—from the heart of
prairie country to the fringe of
the great n off hern timber
expan se. These chive*! were
at different times and seasons
—some; were weird and others
dangerous—all were full of
adventurevi^The fastest was
made in somewhat over four
hours and the longest owing to
impeded roads, took nearly i
eleven.ajpTie distance varied
from thirty-four to forty-five
miles according i to i the routes
taken. Seven of these drives,
lifted above the mass of the
others as worthyjto be described in some detail are here
most entertainingly recorded.
b'V **•
"T   5
tr4SP1,^essay3j ■ fro;
THpfiAURENTIANl^:iypM©rri5 Lonistreth.'
A rarely delightful Canadian hook of travel among the hills of athe habi-
tant.ff < Illustrated.:
^H^DIANtipES OF;ROMANCE-|IdV Kalhrim Hale.
J^onderfullyjyivid word-etcrungs, presenting; the romance, thejjioul and
■jfitmospherejof our chief cities.    Illustrated.
OVER PRAIRIE TRAILS.   By Frederick PhiH^JOroet^K
Reveals a keen'intimacy with nature, close observation, and delight in,
natural phenomena1*!Illustrated.
BEFORE THE WHllS MAN CAME. By Mabel Burkfalden
Legends, storks, quaint and curious folklore of the Indians of Canada.
Clever, fwtty sketches for would-be-honey mooned past honeyraooners,,
and those who wish to laugh at both.
ENCORE 0By Jessie ^exanderM    it    ^OT^MS a.
Reminiscences, readings, hints and suggestion*,,  by Canada's favorite
platform reader.
CONTRASTS*    By fyiwrcn Harris.
N$\.remarkably clever aiM^rig^iraJ^series of Impressionistic word-paintings
' done in 1i^pEt?irer^yp
BRITAIN AND AMERICAi^ The Roadbmlder^m
A forceful and convincing discussion of the future of Britain and America,
in line with the Anglo-Israel theory'
The STORY of thllREVISIONlp   By Res. Archdeacon
A history of the revision movement, and an explanation j$£ the various
THE GLORl||)F HIS ROBEffl|;% Re& Edward John Stobo.
Stimulating, helpful talks that will bring brightness into daily routine.
MASTERED MENlȣy Re9. KA tobintpM
Courageous, heartening tale* ©f the salvaging of men.
By Itabel £ccltsion% Mackay
I!r&. aBy J*an Blenett
|||   ai^Matfotfe Picklhall
By ^hol^O^Hagan.^hyj^k
-     By Wfma Sheard
publishers     \ ^WEll^ND & STOIWpllMITED
*Cht Livett {Book Lid in Canada


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