The town of Pictou is situate upon the north side of a capacious harbour, into which three rivers empty, the harbour’s mouth being three miles from the town. It is certainly very much in its disfavour that in winter the basin is closed by ice and is therefore inaccessible between December and April. Pictou was once the second town in the Province, to-day it has been left far behind; yet it enjoys a peculiar old-world character of its own, and is the most Scottish town in all New Scotland. In this district the French had made certain settlements before the Peace of 1763. On the conquest of New France these were deserted, and their farms were again overgrown with forest. In 1765 one Doctor Weatherspoon became the leading spirit of the Philadelphia Company, and, obtaining an extensive grant in the Pictou district, sent hither a number of Maryland families. By way of bounty each of these received a farm-lot, and a supply of provisions.

Following these came thirty families from the Scottish Highlands, who were landed here in the good ship Hector, late in 1773, without sufficient food to carry them through the winter, with the natural result that they nearly starved, many making their way across the forest primeval to the Basin of Minas for assistance. But the settlement struggled on; it was later joined by further families from Dumfries, and gained a great addition to its numbers in 1784, after the American Revolution, by the immigration of many disbanded troopers, who, however, being rather wild and dissolute, greatly shocked the simple-minded, God-fearing pioneers. Not until 1786 did the first pastor, Dr. M’Gregor, arrive to administer to the flock and to preach the Gospel in Gaelic. In the decade following several other ministers arrived at Pictou and the district put forth a great store of grain and godliness. More shiploads of Highlanders landed in Pictou Harbour, and an Academy was founded, which flourishes to this day. But the corner-stone of the first house in Pictou town was not laid until 1789. Once started the growth to a village and then to a town was rapid. It became the resort of coasting vessels from all parts of the Gulf of St. Lawrence, and the quantity of oil and fish brought thither annually being large, the exports to the West Indies increased proportionately. More than a century ago at least 100 ships left Pictou loaded with timber for Great Britain, worth, together with other exports, £100,000. Houses of well-to-do merchants went up—houses of stone—which are as staunch to-day as the day they were built. “The air of the place,” wrote a traveller nearly ninety years ago, “strikes a stranger’s eye as peculiarly Scotch. Keen-looking fellows in bob-tailed coats, à la Joseph, of many colours, stand in knots about the streets discussing in broad Scotch or pure Gaelic the passing topics of the day; while in the distance, a long scarlet robe floating gaudily in the wind, as if in mockery of the sedate air of the student who bears it, carries us back to the classic precincts of Aberdeen or Glasgow. The Academy, to which these students to the number of about fifteen belong, is an ordinary wooden building neatly painted outside, but not yet finished within, and contains nothing remarkable if we except the learned professor and his little museum consisting (chiefly) of native animals.”

At the northern and eastern parts of the town are suburban residences with spacious grounds enclosed with hedges of English hawthorn, from whence a commanding view can be had of the Straits of Northumberland and the blue waves of the great St. Lawrence Gulf.

On clear days the shores of Prince Edward’s Island are distinctly visible; and out beyond the harbour light, Cape St. George and the distant outline of Cape Breton’s rocky coast can be seen jutting out into the wide Atlantic.

Many years ago a dreadful catastrophe happened to a small mail steamer, the Fairy Queen, plying between Pictou and Prince Edward Island. Through the captain’s carelessness she sprang a leak and went to the bottom. The captain and the crew succeeded in escaping to Pictou in the boats, which were spacious enough to have held all on board. On landing they related a tale of the disaster, believing that no human voice would ever reveal the true story of their cowardice and cruelty. It chanced, however, that although many perished, including a promising British officer and five young ladies, one of whom was bound for England to be married, a few passengers floated off on the upper deck and ultimately, after many hardships, reached land in safety. Along the coast they struggled to Pictou, there to raise a voice from the dead to strike terror and remorse into the hearts of the cowardly captain and crew. The captain was arrested for manslaughter, but, although the popular wrath was great, managed to escape the punishment he merited.

As time wore on in Pictou the Highland bonnet, slouching like a night-cap on the heads of the first generation of settlers, disappeared, to give place to native straw in summer and fur in winter. But the kilts, banned in the old land, sprang up at clan gatherings, and the bagpipes and the Highland ballads and Highland spirit are in vogue to this day.

The morning was warm and balmy as I strode along the harbour front, past the cottages and villas of wood and stone, to a point of land called the Battery at Pictou. Several mounted cannon were pointing seaward, and a weather-beaten man, with his back towards me, shaded his eyes as he gazed intently in the same direction. When he became aware of my presence, he turned and bade me good morning. “Waiting for my molasses ship from Jamaica,” he said, jerking his thumb outward. “I thought I saw her in the offing, but I guess I was mistaken.”

We fell to talking about fish, and molasses, and mining. He had been interested in a mine in Newfoundland, and knew something of the ways of Yankee company promoters. He had speculated in many things, but found West Indian produce safest.

“Do you see that building across there—with the tall chimney and the wharves in front of it, and the rails running down to the wharves?”

I said I did.

“Would it surprise you if you found that chimney built of rubble, with no outlet top or bottom?”

I said it would surprise me very much indeed.

“I suppose it would astonish you also to know that only one ship had ever been at that wharf, and no engine or truck on that railway, and no men ever at work in that swelter?”

When I had duly satisfied my companion that these things stood in need of some explanation, he volunteered one.

“That yonder’s the relics of the Pictou Copper and General Mining Company, Limited—capital, Lord knows how many thousands of pounds! When I was in England they told me that for these cinematograph exhibitions they get up sample fires, imitation explosions, intentional railway collisions, and collapse old buildings merely on purpose to photograph ’em. Well, that there’s a dummy copper-mine, got up on purpose to photograph, and I’m bound to say the photograph looked darn well in the prospectus. There it all was, and nobody who saw it could get away from it—engine puffing away on the rails, hired for a day from the Inter-Colonial Railway; smoke pouring out of the chimney—they had lit a bushel of brown paper on top; schooner at the wharf, also hired for the occasion—and dang me, sir, there never was a more realistic thing! The capital was raised in no time. People here in Pictou, who weren’t in the secret, expected all manner of things. Then the Boston promoters lit out for home, and they ain’t been seen or heard of since. There’s their dummy establishment—I guess you could buy it for a hundred pounds—and there are a lot of people somewhere, in some corner of the earth, who, when they hear the very name Pictou, turn pale and grind their teeth.”

I could not refrain from inquiring whether this was an incident of frequent occurrence.

“I know where it’s happened before and since. Lord bless you, these here Maritime Provinces, including Gaspé, are a perfect hunting-ground for that sort of thing. Now, down at Chignecto....”

But it is needless to retail all the ensuing conversation, or the instances with which my friend on the Battery at Pictou illustrated it. It suffices to say that every wild-cat scheme engineered by astute and unprincipled financiers from across the border, damages to the extent of its operation, multiplied by ten, the good name and the prospects of New Scotland. All should be alert to inquire into the bona fides of all schemes ostensibly directed to the exploiting of their locality, because the failure of such is certain to redound to that locality’s, nay, the whole Province’s, disadvantage.

The best house in Pictou—perhaps the best-built private one in New Scotland—is Norway House, which, together with 200 acres of farm land adjoining, is the property of Lord Strathcona. Seventy or eighty years ago it was built of stone brought from Scotland, and, as I mention elsewhere, is an excellent specimen of the kind of house that is popular with Canadian insurance companies. I only wish that Lord Strathcona could be induced to work this farm, instead of allowing it to lie fallow, if only because it would in active able hands be an effective advertisement for the agricultural possibilities of this part of New Scotland.

The town is the seat of Pictou Academy, which deserves a passing mention. The academy was established for the purpose of affording to the children of Dissenters, excluded from the honours of King’s College (Windsor), those literary and scientific requirements which might qualify them for the learned professions. The corporation consists of twelve trustees, the choice for whom, in virtue of an annual Government grant, has to be ratified by the governor. They are required to be Presbyterians or members of the Anglican body. As, however, no religious tests are required of the students, the academy is attended by youths of all denominations. The curriculum is a sound one, and from the first Pictou began to send forth what the Province sadly needed, a race of qualified schoolmasters. Some very eminent Canadian scholars have been educated at Pictou, including Professor Dawson and Principal Grant.

Forty-three miles by railway from Stellarton is Antigonish (accent, please, on the last syllable). A century ago Antigonish was called Dorchester, in honour of Sir Guy Carleton, first Lord Dorchester, Governor of Canada. But the district round about had the Indian name long before that. The first white inhabitants were a few Acadian families at Pomquet, Tracadie, and Au Bouché, whose descendants are still to be found at St. George’s Bay. Just after the American Revolution a number of officers and men of the Nova Scotia Regiment, under Lieutenant-Colonel Hierlihy and Major Monk, got grants of land here, and immured themselves for several winters without roads of communication to any other part of the Province. After a dozen seasons or so they were joined by Scottish immigrants from the Isles and the Highlands. They found the agricultural country far superior to any they had ever known, and indeed one of the best in New Scotland. Upon the rearing and export of horses, horned cattle and sheep, grain, butter, and pork, they quickly prospered; and the production of shingles and stones, when the large timber was exhausted, was carried on upon a large scale. The shire town of Dorchester or Antigonish was described nearly a century ago as “one of the prettiest villages in the eastern section of Nova Scotia, and the neatness and simplicity of its appearance amply compensates for the absence of bolder scenery.” Judging from that description, I do not think Antigonish has greatly changed. My train brought me there about midnight, and a buggy driven by the landlord himself brought me along a wide street, lined with majestic elms, through whose dark foliage the moon sent spangled rays of light, to a quaint little inn. It is true the quaintness of the inn, architecturally speaking, hardly corresponded with its name: the Queen Hotel (how they love these high-sounding titles! I have a recollection of a certain Chateau Frontenac at Rimouski, P.Q., where they gave me a single sheet to my bed), and the quaintness was in directions rather disconcerting. For instance, when morning came, I was suddenly aroused by the apparition of an uncouth figure in my room. He was in the act of closing a closet door, from which he had apparently just emerged. I sprang up. “What do you want?” I demanded.

“Nothing,” returned the intruder calmly.

“But what are you doing in my room? I locked the door last night.”

“What am I doing in your room? How else do you think I am going to get out of mine?” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the closet in an aggrieved manner, as if I had meanly suggested his climbing out of the window in order to pursue his daily avocations. All the same, I do not think highly of these peculiar inn-keeping arrangements; nor do I hold that the employment of the title of Majesty on a long sign-board can altogether atone for their primitive simplicity.

Before I leave the inn at Antigonish I am tempted to recall another trifling association. A traveller, commercial or otherwise, will have noticed throughout Nova Scotia, as in the American States, that all maid-servants perform their functions, with rare exceptions, in a singular spirit of protest, as if they were really not enjoying themselves in the most becoming and most appropriate of all feminine rôles, to wit, the handmaiden of man. It is really most provoking of the dear creatures! More especially is this uncomfortable spirit manifested towards strangers. My belief is that a too profuse native chivalry is at the bottom of it. You have noticed the scorn and independent air of the British barmaid? her affability and condescension when addressed by her familiars under the names of “Flossie,” “Beryl,” or “Sadie?” Well, then, you have put your finger on that which vexes the traveller’s soul here. Yet I am bound to say that there were several inns in the Province where I was waited upon with a celerity and good humour which went far to atone for inevitable gastronomic shortcomings.

She was rather a comely wench, was the handmaiden at Antigonish, but sadly spoilt, and a shrewish wrinkle marred her brow. She showed her sense of my coming down late to breakfast by conducting me to a seat where a great draught blew.

“Ye’ll sit there,” she said.

“Oh no, thank you. I will sit here,” I rejoined pleasantly, taking a seat by the wall. She paused in angry astonishment. A smile curled her lip. “Oho,” she seemed to say to herself, “I’ll teach you, my fine gentleman.” I ordered fish. “There’s no fish.” “Very well. I’ll have eggs, boiled in the shell three and a-half minutes, dry toast and coffee.” With a toss of her head the damsel slowly disappeared. In something under twenty minutes she re-entered, bringing a tray upon which reposed a large cup of weak tea, a plate of fried eggs, and some very bilious-looking buttered toast. These having been noisily and carelessly deposited before me, I turned over a fresh page of my newspaper and observed nonchalantly, “Please remove all this stuff, will you, and bring me what I ordered—boiled eggs, boiled for three and a-half minutes in the shell, coffee, and some dry toast. Look sharp, please.” She did look sharp—sharp and shrewish, yet with a something almost of consternation withal. I met her glance with a smile. For ten seconds we confronted one another—a ludicrous situation. Then, gathering the breakfast back again upon the tray, the poor girl departed. When she reappeared she was quite cheerful—the novelty of the experience had, it seemed, taken her fancy. She waited upon me with alacrity. So far from diminishing I multiplied my wants, preferring them with punctilious courtesy. We parted friends, and at luncheon she greeted me with smiles. It is a great pity that the tendency to spoil and pamper girls in menial situations, especially when they are pretty, is not confined to Nova Scotia. It does not make them any the happier, but is, on the contrary, productive of a good deal of unhappiness and discontent. A little less familiarity on the part of those served and a little more attention to business on the part of those serving would be far better. Less than a century ago one could chuck the inn chambermaid under the chin and call her “my dear” without loss of dignity, eliciting only a prim and grateful curtesy. It is different now.