The Land of Sleep

The Land of Sleep.

By Lacey Amy.

The Wide World Magazine VoL xxxvii.—6.  1916.

Courtesy of Public Archives of Nova Scotia, Halifax, N.S.

Digitized by Doug Frizzle for Stillwoods.Blogspot.Ca, November 2017.

Though it is one of the oldest parts of Canada and its coast has been settled for two hundred years, Nova Scotia to-day is among the least known and visited regions of the great Dominion. Its interior is still dense forest, railways and roads are few and far between, and there are practically no industries. In this article Mr. Amy describes a trip along the railwayless southern coast, through a sparsely-inhabited, wonderfully beautiful country, full of memories of an historic past, but now slumbering and decadent. That this veritable “Land of Sleep” exists in the twentieth century will come as a surprise even to many Canadians.

(This article, like Tramping in Unfrequented Nova Scotia, is about the Eastern not Southern shore of Nova Scotia/drf)

 

FROM a high board fence a large weather-beaten sign, “Eastern Shore Coach,” broke in hopefully on sundry misgivings as to the small coastal steamer covering the first stage from Halifax eastward along the railwayless south coast of Nova Scotia. It suggested an unexpected and therefore doubly welcome alternative. To the Canadian mind it pictured a double-decked vehicle of the time of Dickens, with four horses, spectacular yards of flourishing whip in the hands of an expert driver, a winding horn, a boot, a guard, and other pleasantly-antiquated associations of our forefathers across the water. We made inquiries. The coach would leave the yard the next morning at six, the woman said. We could picture it—whip and horn and outside seats and all. We would coach, by all means.

At six-fifteen, in the remnants of a night’s fog, two ordinary double-seated two-horsed light wagons crawled into the narrow streets. There was no whip, no horn, no guard, no choice of outside or inside seats. It was disappointing.

Half an hour later we were on the ferry to Dartmouth, the unoccupied seats of both wagons piled with mail-bags. We were “coaching” for the first time in our lives.

Ahead of us stretched a thousand miles of zigzag coastline, two hundred miles of winding road, leading through the oldest part of Canada, a coast with more than two centuries of active habitation to its credit, and still without a railway—unvisited, unknown, more sparsely peopled than a century ago, sleeping after generations of industry. The time was when Halifax was the symbol of British authority in North America, and the south-east coast was its recruiting-ground, sending thousands of hardy sailors to man the warships that warded off French aggression and American privateering. Most of the rest of Canada was unheard of and uncared for then. Now the scanty population of this strip of Nova Scotia coast sits back and listens hungrily to the tales of its sons who have deserted it for the “call of the West” or the cities that did not exist when it was in its prime.

Our first goal, twenty-eight miles ahead, was Musquedoboit Harbour—a typical assortment of the alphabet discouraging the efforts of the novice and pronounced according to no rule known outside the locality. The French and the Indians were about when names had to be selected in this region, and the resultant compromise with the succeeding English demands experience for pronunciation. Chezzetcook, Petpeswick, Jeddore, Mushaboon, Necumteuch, Ecumsecum, Newdy Quoddy are samples of unconventionality calling for delicate treatment. We—the Woman-who-Worries and I—modestly exhibited a large Government map when making inquiries. It saved time and prevented confusion.

That first score of miles presented us with a fair sample of the country ahead. It was a dreamland of solitude on the left hand—the north—with crowding bush, beautiful lakes, and ragged hills; on the south was a narrow fringe of fishing villages, with decrepit orchards round grass-grown ruins where stone houses had once stood. Everywhere there were glimpses of island-dotted ocean—and throughout the way bumps and rocks and uncontrolled streams and blazing sun. It was generally delightful, with sufficient physical consciousness to preclude, disinterested dozing—perhaps the ideal combination for the appreciative traveller.

At “Fourteen and a Half Mile House” we changed horses. For two hundred miles the coach carries to the residents their tri-weekly mail, changing horses every fourteen miles or thereabouts at roadhouses that honourably admit such discrepancies in distance as half a mile. Simple honesty is in the atmosphere here, and the right kind of traveller sighs with satisfaction—except where the honesty is backed by nothing more substantial than ignorance. Every two or three miles we dropped mail-bags bulging with the evidences of a popular parcel-post system, but since we were loaded for two hundred miles of such post-offices, the relief of the first twenty-eight miles was not material. We swung into Musquedoboit Harbour at noon with our wagons still top-heavy.

That harbour is the first settlement of consequence east of Halifax, and promises in the future to attain some popularity as a summer resort for the weary Haligonian. Like all the coastal villages it is strung along the road for several miles, but it glories in two stores and a first class stopping-place. It is also exceedingly picturesque, with its deserted sawmill, its precipitously-banked river, and its fourteen miles of harbour. It also affords the lure of a mill-dam where speckled trout of four, or five pounds can be hauled out simply by jerking a bare hook up and down. “Jigging” may not be a sportsman’s recreation, but the fish gave no signs of it on the table.

The sawmill was idle. Therein lies one of the tragedies of this ancient coast. All along stand huge sawmills, representing many thousands of pounds of English capital, controlling many hundreds of thousands of acres of bush-land—the one at Musquedoboit alone possessed the rights to three hundred and fifty thousand— and almost all of them are silent and going to ruin. Except where the large timber is cleared out, it is the old story of overcapitalized enterprises, recklessly managed by men inexperienced in Canadian requirements, and suddenly dropped when profits failed to appear. Sawmills were constructed at a cost many times what wisdom would warrant, expenses were incurred out of all reason, and British methods were forced upon a district that would not accommodate itself to them. At Sheet Harbour, Ship Harbour, and many other points we came upon deserted buildings that had once given employment to hundreds of men, their rotting timbers now rattling idly in the wind.

At Musquedoboit we bade farewell to the “coach.” Our plan was to tramp, stopping where we wished as long as pleased us, handing over to the coach the transportation of our baggage. We discovered that we had done better than we thought in avoiding the boats. The wharves were in every case miles from the stopping-places, and a horse could not have been hired for any price at more than one or two places. Horses, in fact, were a novelty, and even oxen were rare; road traffic of any sort was scarce. And it must be remembered that the road we were travelling was the only land trail within seventy-five miles. Northward, right to the north shore district of Nova Scotia, lay nothing but untracked forest where moose and bear abound—the best moose country in America. That road is a thing to marvel at. Throughout its entire length it is doubtful if one can find a straight quarter of a mile. The south coast of Nova Scotia is a saw-toothed meeting of land and water, with sea-arms jutting in every half mile, often to the depth of fifteen miles or more; and, carelessly meandering along, with no apparent regard for anything but that the sea be somewhere within range, the road progresses, wandering over hills that might easily have been avoided with a saving of length and trouble, dipping into steep valleys that offer no excuse even for approach, jogging in and out along the shore, crossing sea-arms by means of embankments and short bridges, beneath which the tide rushes at times like a millrace. A village, therefore, but a few hundred yards away across the water may be five miles distant by the road. That is one of the reasons for the lack of appreciation of this one lone thoroughfare. During our tramp we walked for days without a sign of any vehicle but the coach, and in places the road was grown over with grass that showed only the marks of the tri-weekly passage of the mail. Reaching a settlement is so much more rapid by water, and there is so little need for horses among these fisher-folk, that the highway is a monopoly of the stage and the telephone wire that clings to it every mile of the way. In two hundred miles we met but six vehicles, apart from the stage.

It was a bad road. A superlative adjective could not go too far. The favourite occupation of the Government seemed to be the employment of gangs of men every five or ten miles, whose duty it was temporarily to cover up the worst spots. In eight miles I counted twenty bridges and culverts gone, although in certain sections progress was under way towards the construction of permanent cement bridges. How the mail- driver manages to get along at all hours of the night would puzzle the uninitiated. He claims that the horses do it, but it would seem that Providence must have an extensive hand in the phenomenon. Limpid little streams flowed unimpeded across and down the roadway until the bed they cut for themselves almost blocked the way. We had but to stoop at scores of places to obtain a clear, cold drink. Boulders a foot high were met with frequently, and in one place, in the heart of an important settlement, the rocky way led us to imagine for a minute that we had wandered into a dry stream-bed. It was all very unconventional and natural—but not the best of walking, and hideous to ride over. Everybody complained; nobody used the road. Pretty nearly every family was drawing Government pay for pseudo repairs that left opportunity for more pay next year.

Setting out from Musquedoboit Harbour one afternoon on a short walk of eight miles to Jeddore Oyster-Ponds, the Woman-who-Worries and I fell immediately under the spell of the coast. In and out of the unbroken bush, flashing every now and then into full view of the ocean, with tiny villages breaking in unexpectedly and ex­tending themselves for miles under modifications of the same name, we passed along to the accompaniment of distant cowbells, tumbling water, dashing breakers, and sighing trees. We learned to listen for the cowbells, for they told of approaching settlements long before we burst on them suddenly from close forest. Every few miles a white church steeple peeped above the hills. It was the most “churchy” district in Canada, and every church a wonderful touch of quiet peace and simplicity in a rugged view. Whatever the builders may have omitted in the ways of expensive windows and architecture, they more than made up for by the selection of the sites. Mile after mile we would tramp, with not a sign of man’s handiwork in view save the half-hidden steeple of a church. We came to believe, when we knew the people better, that the outward form may have its influence.

After a long, lonesome tramp we suddenly opened up an exquisite arm of the sea, with a little picnic under way on its shore—a dozen children and as many adults. It was a touch of life we were in a mood to appreciate.

At Jeddore we experienced the first inconvenience of uncertain road-houses. In all Nova Scotia, save in the city of Halifax, there is no licence to sell liquor. Elsewhere the traveller suffers little from that in the way of accommodation, but along the south-east coast it left no excuse for an inn. In the vicinity of Halifax there was no lack of roadhouses, But farther along the problem of finding a place whereat to sleep and eat became the nightmare of the trip. We had been told of a stopping-place at Jeddore, and there the coach had dropped our baggage, as directed. From the steps before a chilly-looking door it faced us when we arrived—as did a woman who stubbornly refused to take us in. Her obstinacy, we discovered later, was largely due to the occurrence of a wedding in the house the day before. With hearts filled with foreboding we plodded along, begging a bed. Finally, we got it. When we returned for our baggage the inhospitable woman informed us that she would not have seen us suffer for a place to sleep.

Jeddore Oyster-Ponds is one of the beauty-spots of the coast. But they are all picturesque. Each has its peculiar claims. The oyster-ponds are no more. A sawmill came along, built a dam, and the oysters died from the sawdust and from lack of salt water. Their bleached shells still lie there as relics of an ancient industry.

The following day another typical experience faced us. Starting out for Ship Harbour with instructions to stop at the four-mile point for dinner, we found ourselves at four miles (by my pedometer) a mile into the heart of the most desolate wilderness of bush and rock encountered along the entire route. We kept on, mile after mile, weak with hunger—for we had eaten no meat for a day and a half, and little else—until we began to fear that we had drifted into a trail through the interior. Shortly after two, as we were debating whether to turn back, a road-gang came into view, and, immediately beyond them, Ship Harbour. Instead of four miles for dinner we had come twelve.

But the dinner we ate was worth travelling for: Breaking unexpectedly on a Mrs. Newsome, burdened with a husband stricken only the previous day with a paralytic stroke, we were served the best meal of our trip. The Mrs. Newsomes are too few in this world.

Ship Harbour drowses on the memories of past glories. There is the wreck of a mill, the wreck of an imposing wharf, a wrecked dam. It still retains a reputation for its salmon-fishing, but little else except its stopping-place. It tops the end of a harbour that provides everything in the way of scenery. Setting out one morning down one side of the harbour we wound through four miles of an exquisite blending of water and bush and tree-crowned island. Out in the mirrored waters herring-boats were counting their spoil. Hanging on the fence was the horn used to call the ferry that would put us across the three-quarters of a mile of inlet at the coach-road. We had dinner at Tangier, where a couple of gold-mines introduce an unsightly element into the landscape, and supper at Spry Bay, in home-like surroundings that offered sufficient attraction for a visit of weeks. We had come twenty-three miles of rocky trudging since morning, but not a foot of it was uninteresting.

But gradually the roughness of the wav began to tell. The new shoes of the Woman-who-Worries showed unmistakable signs of protest. Something must be done, or our walking expedition was over. There was not a shoemaker within fifty miles, and no shoes to buy. A fisherman drove in a few tacks. Ten miles farther we came to the largest settlement in the eighty miles from Halifax—Sheet Harbour. An imposing Catholic church stands aloft at the tip of the harbour, a huge, deserted sawmill beyond; there are three stores in the village, and two stopping-places. Surely there would be a cobbler. We learned of a citizen who worked in the mine by day and cut hair by night. He had been known to mend shoes as well. He mended ours. What was lacking in finish proved to be made up in staunchness of leather and multitude of tacks. We could understand why he worked all night on the job.

From Sheet Harbour the country changes. Everything is wilder, more barren, more lonely, and with it the accommodation deteriorates. There might be a reason for travelling westward towards Halifax; there can be no excuse for facing the rising sun, for in that direction lie the outskirts of everything and, farther east, scores of miles of roadless coast. The highways became worse in spots than ever before, and sometimes better from sheer lack of usage. The bush was more dense and frequent, with here and there stretches of wild barrens that grew nothing but rocks and small spruce trees.

At the end of one day’s walk we intended to spend the night at Harrigan’s Cove, but the disjointed, tumbledown settlement offered no inducement for better acquaintance. In a dense ocean fog, with the fog-horns from the coast lighthouses sending out their booming, dismal signals, we moved on in the gathering darkness into a country new to us, along a road that was difficult to follow even in daylight, the fog so thick we could scarcely see each other. It was only five miles, but it was a dripping, lonely, indefinite distance that might, in the way of locally-estimated distances, have spun out into eight or ten. But we got there, and our reward was the only modern bed we slept in along the coast.

The following morning we came on one of the not unusual incidents of that stormy region—a schooner ashore. In the fog it had struck and was now lying on its side, with a chance of life should the waters stay quiet. The record of wrecks on that dangerous coast can never be written. It was a few miles away at Liscomb Harbour that only a few weeks before an ill-fated lightship had gone down with all on board. A new boat, on its way under its own steam from its builders in England to the Canadian Government, it had encountered one of the south-coast storms. The wreckage was found off Liscomb, and a few bodies, and nothing more is known of the details of the disaster.

Once a bear-cub stood in the middle of the road and stared at us, gambolling off into the forest at our approach. Through Ecumsecum and Necumteuch and their like we trudged in a cold, raw wind. It was six miles to Marie Joseph, we were told. Again and again it was “just along a little.” We found that it was close to thirteen miles, and when, by heedless directions, we were sent another two miles around a headland, we were prepared for our dinner by two o’clock.

The life of Marie Joseph is one of strict simplicity and trust in Providence. Cod, herring, lobsters, swordfish, anything in the way of fish is the fisherman’s game, and most of the citizens were doing well enough without over-exertion.

The setting-in of cold, wet weather here drove us to the “coach” again. Our first stage was one to remember. In the care of a driver who had suffered no apparent deprivation from the lack of licensed bars we dashed along a road that, for roughness, eclipsed the worst we had hitherto covered. Wildly up and down ungraded hills we swayed and surged, the horses lashed to greater effort in the middle of slopes that threatened to throw us on the animals’ backs. To protect ourselves from the flying lash we opened an umbrella; from the stones and ruts there was no protection within our control. A narrow shave of hitting a rock that, had we struck it, would have landed us in the adjacent barrens was acknowledged only by an oath. “This isn’t the life for me,” explained our Jehu; “I’m a sea-going man. If this road gets any worse I’m going back to it.” We were ready to regret just then that Nature had not hastened its operations. In half an hour, over such a road, we did five miles. Next time we decided we would sooner traverse it on hands and knees than trust that driver again.

Twenty miles with another driver saw us at Sherbrooke, the largest village east of Halifax, beautifully situated in a deep valley beside the river of the same name.

From there eastward the country is largely barrens. We preferred to strike the railway, away to the north, by a forty-two mile stage. That morning’s drive was over a road that would do credit to any country, both for condition and scenery. For miles it clings to a river, for miles more it skirts a lake nestling in the hills, and three miles of it is a continuous stiff climb to the brow of a hill where local tradition claims a daily rain all the year round. Eight of us were packed in a “rig” with two seats, the driver and myself clinging precariously to the dashboard for twenty miles. At that point lived the stage-owner—a most obvious provision for “milking” the traveller. The stage left Sherbrooke at 4 a.m., before breakfast was possible. At his home the driver changed horses, collected the fare, and invited us in to the most impossible, most expensive breakfast in southern Nova Scotia. It is a warning to the traveller to carry a biscuit. But even that breakfast could not spoil the pleasures of the seven hours’ ride.

The eastern half of the south coast of Nova Scotia is not a tourists’ paradise. There is as yet no need for the accommodation the holiday-maker demands. The beds are not of the kind most people prefer, but the meals, as a rule, are surprisingly eatable. The difficulty of securing fresh meat is the most serious obstacle in the way of satisfying fare. There is little stock, and a “killing” is an event. At the outskirts of one settlement we came upon the last rites, and happened to mention it at the next roadhouse. The proprietor rushed away, and three hours later we ate a steak from the animal. It was, without doubt, “fresh” meat. There was a pretty uniform cleanliness and an evident desire to be hospitable and kindly. The scenery cannot be beaten, and the natural wildness of the country is especially attractive.

Habitation confines itself closely to the water’s edge, for there is no industry but fishing, save for two or three gold-mines and a very few working sawmills. One confusing characteristic is the length of the villages, which necessitates inquiring for the house you want rather than for the village. Some settlements extend four or five miles, and the situation is further complicated by the adoption of a nomenclature that recognizes as essential certain qualifications, usually of location. For instance, there are in succession, Ship Harbour Lake, Ship Harbour, Lower Ship Harbour, and Lower Ship Harbour East, the whole covering by road a distance of more than twelve miles, with great stretches of intervening bush and water. It demands a minuteness of inquiry that is in itself confusing.

In their unplastered houses the fisherfolk entertain the stranger with a kindliness that makes one eager to overlook the limitations of the accommodation. Dependent entirely on the run of fish, they accept everything with a resignation that is not always convincing, but is invariably becoming. Adversity finds them unprepared. The story of one fisherman is typical. Burnt out by a bush fire, he was unable to pay for the repair of his boat; and he would not borrow. So the boat was sold, and now he shares a herring-boat with a relative. He is still hopeful at sixty-five.

Sickness claims its heavy toll among the helpless villagers. There are but a couple of doctors in as many hundred miles, their transportation being by motor-boat. A patient who can be moved is taken to the hospital at Halifax. An operation demands a surgeon from the same city, and is therefore usually prohibitive. Tuberculosis and cancer are dread scourges for which there is no local relief.

And yet the people are cheery and pleasant, and they have their local amusements. A sign on the side of a building announced one of them: “There is going to be a pie sochel and ice cream and Fuge war the good of the church thursday even at the Hall, 23 July, and anyone wishing a dance can have one at Mr. Samuel Breens at the Lake side.”

My camera was a never-ending source of interest. I discovered that a photographer had passed along the coast a couple of years before, taking pictures of school groups and selling them to the eager children. Everywhere I was bombarded with requests, all the people offering to pay. One boy chased me for a mile—I could see him running far back on the road—with a request from his mother that I would return to take a picture of the family. “There’ve been two new babies since the last man was along,” he urged. A fisherman begged for a picture with the mournful reminder that he had a “fine family back there, and one never knows when something might happen one of them.” He won his point.

The coast is dotted with evidences of better times. All along the way the grass-covered ruins of houses stand as mute testimony of the time when this coast was the best part of Canada. And added to them are newer houses by the score, their windows boarded up, their paint gone; and little stores that have long since ceased to traffic. So many of the younger generation have gone west, leaving the old homes to fall to ruin with the death of the old people. The little steamers plying along the coast fetch from Halifax almost everything the people think they need, and they and the parcel-post between them have sounded the death-knell of the local merchant. In two hundred miles there are not more than a dozen stores.

At fall of dusk we came, at a lonely part of the road, on a tumbledown shack, with a ruined group of buildings about it. Many, many years ago it had been a fine residence, with its stables and outhouses. But now not a sign was to be seen that it was not deserted like the rest. As we looked, however, an old, bent man came tottering through a door with a broken hinge. He glanced at us with aimless wonder, gathered a few sticks in his thin hands, and tottered back. Through the curtainless window we could see him place the faggots in the stove, slowly, indifferently, and presently a puny smoke twined from the chimney. He leant down to the window to stare lifelessly at us once more, in his eyes the vagueness of the memories that are now his only possessions. It was an epitome of the atmosphere of the coast.

On the Roof of the Western World

ON THE ROOF OF THE WESTERN WORLD.

By Julia W. Henshaw.

From The Wide World Magazine, 1908,

Digitized October 2017 by Doug Frizzle for Stillwoods.Blogspot.Ca

Mrs. Henshaw is a well known mountaineer, and in this article she describes the first ascent of one of the mighty peaks in that paradise of the climber, British Columbia, where hundreds of summits remain untrodden by human foot. Mrs. Henshaw illustrates her narrative with some impressive photographs.

Julia W. Henshaw also wrote the article, Vancouver a twelve year old city.(1898)

THE Rocky and Selkirk Ranges, which separate British Columbia from the rest of Canada, form without doubt the finest untrodden field for the Alpinist in the Western world. I say untrodden advisedly, for in spite of the records achieved by such eminent men as Mr. Edward Whymper, Dr. J. Norman Collie, Mr. James Outram, and other intrepid Britishers, only the merest fringe of these glorious ranges of mountains has as yet been explored. Every climber knows the pride of a “first ascent,” and in Western Canada there are hundreds of unconquered peaks, each awaiting its Napoleon of the ice-axe to build the “stone man” on its summit.

Just north of fifty-two degrees north latitude, at an elevation of ten thousand feet, lies the vast Columbia ice-field, two hundred square miles in extent, forming the central source of many important rivers, and probably the largest glacier in the world outside of the Arctic Circle. This particular ice-field heads the long list of those which lie within the boundaries of British Columbia, for even the most cursory survey of the region forces upon the attention of the traveller the fact that a wonderful wealth of névés and glaciers gleams and glitters like a priceless parure of diamonds upon the mighty breast of the Western hills.

The variation in the scenic setting of the mountain pictures is extremely fascinating. The strong contrasts which exist between the warm, flower-strewn valleys; the deep green, conifered slopes, cleft by many a vagabond rill; and the terrific cliff's and snowy crests, bring with them a new surprise at every turn; while the beauties of snow-crest, wood, and water entrance the sight and inspire the mind with high and happy thoughts. Whether you are an expert climber or only an ardent lover of the out-of-doors, the joy of a summer holiday spent among the Canadian Rockies brings an equal appeal. There are several excellent climbing centres in the Rocky and Selkirk mountains, where chalet hotels form the basis of operations and offer comfortable accommodation to travellers, and where climbing and camping outfits and the services of expert Swiss guides are obtainable. Each locality offers special attractions of its own. At Glacier, in the Selkirks, Sir Donald (10,645ft.), named after Lord Strathcona, formerly Sir Donald Smith, and now High Commissioner for Canada in London, is a capital climb, offering a variety of experiences on rock-work, glacier, snow-slope, arête, and couloir; while near by Mount Bonney (10,625ft.), Mount Fox (10,000ft.), Mount Purity (10,100ft.), Mount Dawson (10,800ft.), and The Hermit (9,222ft.) are all delightful ascents in which more or less difficulties are encountered, and from which all danger is eliminated under the splendid guidance of the Swiss. As its name denotes, there are many ice-fields in the vicinity of Glacier, the chief ones among them being the Great Glacier and the Asulkan, and from the summit of Mount Sir Donald alone one hundred and twenty-five ice-fields are visible.

At Kield, in the Rockies, the choice of ascents is unlimited—Mount Stephen (10,428ft.), The Chancellor (10,400ft.), Mount Vaux (10,600ft.), Goodsir (11,400ft), Cathedral Mountain (10,100ft.), Mount Collie (10,500ft.), and Mount Assiniboine (11,860ft.) all being fine climbs, while dozens of other first-rate peaks which have been climbed, and hundreds of peaks which have not been climbed, rise up on every side.

But it is the Lake Louise district in particular that I set out to describe in this article. The turquoise lake, whose waters are like fluid light, lies cradled in the arms of magnificent mountains; at one end stands the chalet, a fleck of human civilization amid a world of Nature in her most majestic mood; at the other rises Mount Victoria, on whose ledges rests a glacier green and grim, cloaked by a glittering névé. At either side stand ranks of fir trees, and about the shore the shrubs of the Labrador tea and white rhododendron shelter masses of blue-eyed veronicas, saxifrages, and purple garlics. Lake Louise is a spot of matchless beauty, one of those perfect pictures painted by Nature upon the canvas of the world, in colours borrowed from the rainbow. Artists and poets have sung its praises, men have marvelled and admired, but no one has ever wearied of the peace and perfection of the scene.

It is to this place that many people journey in the golden days of summer, to climb thence the glorious peaks whose ice-architraves and snow-domes, guarded by frozen gates, form temples fit for the gods. Only those who have stood on the topmost pinnacle of a hitherto unclimbed crest can fully realize the feeling of exultation and pride which fills the breast of the enthusiast who achieves a “first ascent.” This is the reason why the Rocky Mountains form such a favourite playground for Alpinists. Switzerland has been so thoroughly exploited that there is little or nothing left in that land to tempt adventurous spirits in search of fresh fields to conquer. But in British Columbia mountain after mountain rears its untrodden heights to heaven, and offers to the traveller the lure of the most magnificent scenery in the world.

Having spent a few days at the Lake Louise Chalet, and got into good training by means of long scrambles up Mount St. Piran, the Beehive, and the stiff crags of Mount Aberdeen, our party set out early one morning, accompanied by two Swiss guides, bound on a mountain-climbing expedition. It was our intention to ride as far as was feasible along the mountain trail, and to camp for the night on the shore of a small lake some fifteen miles distant, so as to make the desired ascent thence with comparative ease on the following day. The cavalcade was, in consequence, a long one, headed by four pack-ponies carrying a couple of tents, food, blankets, and the minimum of personal impedimenta, and driven by a “packer,” mounted on a splendid black cayuse, whose duty it was to look after the horses and to “make camp.” A few yards behind him the travellers ambled lazily along on their comfortable Mexican saddles, allowing the ponies to set the leisurely pace, for the trail, which ran steeply up and down hill, cross­ing numerous gullies and streams, occasionally rose to a great height in order to cross some projecting shoulder of the cliffs. My own outfit consisted of a flannel shirt, a short tweed skirt and knickerbockers, heavy nailed boots, puttees, and a soft broad-brimmed hat, while from the horn of my saddle hung a woollen sweater and a pair of good field-glasses. The men, too, wore strong, serviceable clothes, nailed boots, puttees, and soft felt hats. In the rucksack slung across the shoulders of one of the guides lay a folding Kodak, a compass, aneroid, and smoked glasses, while the other guide carried the ice-axes; the Manila rope being safely stowed away in one of the pack-saddles.

So we jogged along the narrow stony trail, winding up through thickly-forested ravines and down the beds of brawling brooks, catching here and there, between the trees, exquisite vistas of the Valley of the Bow and the snow­capped range of the Ten Peaks beyond.

Having covered some five or six miles, we crossed a large creek, pausing for a while to water the horses and to enjoy a glorious glimpse up Paradise Valley, flanked by the crags and peaks of Hungabee, Aberdeen, and Mount Temple, and hemmed in at the upper end by the Horseshoe Glacier. Then began a long ascent up grassy slopes, where the pine trees grew sparsely, and the cotton-woods were already turning to gold, until, presently, the high Alpine meadows, gay with flaming castilleias, vetches, and columbines, were reached, and, turning sharply to the right, we espied the lake lying five hundred feet below us, like a tiny turquoise clasped in the golden setting of the sun-steeped valley. Who could ever forget the first glimpse of that lovely pool sheltered amid the oppressive solitude of the hills? Its warm, waveless waters, fringed with tall larkspurs, are fittingly named the “Mirror of the Flowers.”

Down the narrow trail cut out of the precipitous hillside we rode, where the crumbling path was scarcely a foot wide, and where to round each cliff one seemed fairly to launch out into space above the tree-tops of the valley below, until in half an hour the shore of the lake was reached, just in time to allow a catch of a dozen fine trout to be made before supper.

While the packer “hobbled” the horses, turned them out to graze, and made camp the guides reconnoitred the locality with a view to the ascent on the morrow, and presently the whole party turned in to sleep as one can only sleep pillowed on fragrant pine-boughs and sentinelled by the stars.

“Four o’clock and a fine morning!” The cry of the guide awakened everyone to the importance of the day, and an hour later all of us had breakfasted, after first stowing away our belongings beyond the reach of thieving porcupines; then, leaving the packer to take care of the camp, we started out rich in the hope of conquest. One guide put the lunch, Kodak, and field-glasses into his rücksack, the rope being coiled about the shoulders of the other man, so that we climbers “travelled light,” carrying only our ice-axes, and tying our sweaters by the sleeves around our waists.

Clouds of crimsoned mist were drawn like curtains around the helmet-shaped snow summit of the peak which was our goal, for the sun lay somewhere behind the rim of the horizon and crowned the head of each mountain monarch with a shining nimbus. One guide led us; the other brought up the rear. No words can describe the patience, good humour, and skill of these Swiss; their quick eyes see every danger, their prompt actions avert it; when “on the rope ” one has a feeling of perfect security, and on steep arétes and rotten ice, on crumbling rocks and abrupt precipices, one has implicit confidence in their strength, judgment, and endurance. Bidden to jump, I have lightly crossed crevasses and rock-rifts, aided by a firm hand or a steady pull on the rope, which, had I been alone, I should have shrunk from in terror and dismay. With sobbing breath and set muscles I have scaled perpendicular cliffs, roped to and encouraged by a guide, which, in his absence, I would have deemed as difficult to conquer as all the tasks of Hercules combined. That these guides possess a sixth sense is indisputable; one might almost call it “acute premonition,” for it warns them in advance of all dangers incident to mountaineering, and, combined with a marvellous dexterity and an intrepid courage, serves to avert calamity and ensure success.

Through the woods we wended our way upward, hope high in our hearts and the smell of the pines in our nostrils. Soon the route lay across a scree slope, where stonecrops grew, and a wonderful vision of blue gentians met the gaze. Then, suddenly, a golden ball shot up from the horizon, and the world awakened in the smile of the sun. The earth began to pulse with light and life. Marmots whistled shrilly from behind the boulders, a pica ran across the trail and, with a melancholy squeak, disappeared in terror beneath some stones; a few butterflies flitted past, and the Lyall’s larches shook their feathery branches in the strengthening breeze to tell that “tree line” was reached — the spot where green gives place to grey and the bounds of foliage are set.

Here we paused to rest for a few moments and to take some observations and photographs before attacking the steep rock-work which lay ahead of us, and which was likely to prove a nasty climb, while sliding stones and insecure boulders might render the task both difficult and dangerous. At times a single step would send a shower of scree hurling down into the valley, or dislodge some huge rock which crashed away with terrific force and noise, only to be lost in the desolate gorge below. Extreme caution on the part of the guides, who tested and tried each foothold in advance, saved us from all accident, however, and after several hours of ceaseless effort we stood on the pass between two mountains, at a considerable height, and paused to gaze westward, where a grand view of Hungabee, Biddle, Victoria, Lefroy, Temple, and the Ten Peaks lay stretched out, gilded by the level rays of the sun. The haggard outlines of the hills, crisp-etched against the blue, looked cruel in the morning light, but where the fir trees fringed the warm, wet valley flowers and shrubs grew in abundance, their sweet odours floating up to the cliffs above.

Here we “roped up,” and for the next thousand feet picked our way up steep ravines, across shale banks, and among great grey rocks —a wild and desolate climb. It was now that the gallant fibre of the guides bore with perfect equanimity and patience the strain of our stumbling steps, our occasional timidity, and our sudden jerks on the rope, as if their nerves were woven of steel.

If I faltered, a steady encouraging pull, a cheery “Houp,there!” poured the red wine of courage into my veins; did the man slip, the rope held taut gave him certainty of safety, so that fear and fancies were left far behind, and success came ever nearer step by step.

The edge of eternal snow! What a thrill it gives one to stand on the Rubicon and watch the bulwarks of the stone bastions hemming back a mighty rolling sea of ice and snow! There Nature’s last outposts sentinel the great white land, a place of awful purity, a clear, cold, calm country.

Only about seven hundred feet now lay between us and the summit. A long snow-field, agleam on the eastern face, sloped up to the top of the mountain and by cutting steps here and there in the steeper angles the ascent was at length accomplished with comparative ease, and we stood conquerors on the summit.

What a panorama greeted our eyes! We beheld crest upon crest sparkling under an azure tent, range upon range of grand and glorious peaks, snowy domes and frosted valleys, and Alpine streams weaving silver webs from the crystal outpourings of a hundred glaciers.

To the north stood the giants Columbia (14,000ft.), Bryce (13,500ft.), Forbes (14,000ft.), and Saskatchewan (12,500ft.); to the south, Assiniboine (11,830ft.); to the east, Cascade and the Banff district; and to the west, the Lake Louise, Field, and the Yoho Valley districts, the whole forming a sea of mountains unsurpassed anywhere else in the world, a scene of matchless beauty.

On the actual summit where we stood, some slanting rocks, coated with dangerous verglas, protruded in places freshly powdered with light, loose snow. Others were completely windswept, while all around was flung a thick, frozen mantle fringed with glaciers great and small. The wind blew keenly and bit to the bone, so we hastened to build the traditional “stone man ” and to plant a tiny Union Jack (brought for the purpose) on its crown; then, after securing some photographs and recording a few important observations, we started downwards to seek a warmer temperature and shelter for lunch. A magnificent glissade brought us to the beginning of the rocks, where we soon found a nook screened from the wind and, ensconcing ourselves behind a big boulder, began to eagerly devour sandwiches and chocolate, washed down with whisky and water. Never did bread, butter, and beef taste so good, and never was John Barleycorn a truer friend than on this occasion, for the long climb in the crisp Alpine air had whetted our appetites to a keen edge.

After lunch some more photographs were taken, and then the descent began in real earnest. A long scramble over the rocks was followed by another short glissade. Then came a bad bit of precipice where the guides were forced to lower us one at a time from ledge to ledge, and afterwards a long plunge down the shelving shale banks. Next came a halt in the flower-strewn meadows, and, finally, a tramp along the forest trail beneath the sweet-scented pines brought the tents into view.

As hour after hour passed by that night our camp lay asleep beneath the star-spangled sky, enfolded in the peace of the purple hills, while we tired climbers dreamed of our conquest “On the Roof of the Western World.”

Man versus Sea

MAN versus SEA.

The Romance of a Lost Mine.

By Richard A. Haste.

The Wide World Magazine, January 1908. Vol. xx.—36.

Digitized by Doug Frizzle October 2017 for Stillwoods.Blogspot.Ca

A story that has never before been told — the strange tale of a mine which was for years well - nigh world - famous, but is now lost beneath the sea. “I have confined myself strictly to facts,” writes the author, “as gathered from the seventh report of the Bureau of Mines of Ontario and the caretaker of Silver Islet.”

THAT region lying about Lake Superior and including the “height of land”—the great ridge-pole of the roof of the continent — has always been a land of romance, a land of mystery. Here are laid the scenes of many, weird and beautiful legends. The rock-girt shores of the lake were the favourite walks of the Great Spirit. Here, according to the Indians, the maker of the world hid his treasures, and gave them into the keeping of Missibizi, the god of the sea. To this treasure-land, long ago, came strange people from the far south, the Mound-builders and the Aztecs, for copper. To this “shining big sea-water” came also, in a later day, those men of iron whose deeds make up the story of the Great Lone Land—a story that has never been fully told.

It is with one of these hidden treasures of this great lake that this story has to deal.

You who have been so fortunate as to take that most delightful of all summer journeys, the lake trip from Owen Sound or Sarnia to Port Arthur on one of the Canadian Pacific steamers, doubtless remember Thunder Cape, that bold promontory that guards the entrance to Thunder Bay and the twin harbours of Port Arthur and Fort William. No doubt your attention was called to Isle Royale, lying to your left as you approach the cape, and you learned, perhaps, some of its wonderful history. Perhaps, too, if it were a clear day, the captain gave you his binocular and directed your eyes to a low-lying island near the north shore not far from the base of Thunder Cape—a little island that seemed not so large as your hand, on which stand queer-shaped buildings, now partially wrecked and going to decay; but this you will not notice even with the glass. Silver Islet, it is called. Perhaps the captain told you of the lost mine beneath the lake; of the shafts and levels that honeycomb the rock more than a thousand feet below the surface of the water; of the tons and tons of silver that lay in sight when the cold waters of the lake “jumped the claim” and took possession of all save the upper works.

It may be you were told also of the dull shocks that are frequently felt, accompanied by low, rumbling thunder, though the sky is clear from horizon to horizon—the ghosts of imprisoned miners blasting for silver ore beneath the sea, say the superstitious natives.

It was, I think, in the year 1868 that a small party of miners, prospecting for copper at the base of Thunder Cape, chanced to land on a barren rock about a mile from shore to plant observation stakes. This rock was about sixty feet across, and rose not more than four feet above the mean level of the lake. It resembled the dome of a huge human skull, just rising out of the water.

Across this Skull Rock, as it was then called, ran a vein of galena, in which a few strokes of the pick revealed the presence of silver. A half-dozen powder-blasts were sufficient to detach all the ore-bearing rock above the waterline, but the vein was traceable some distance out into the lake, where, through the clear water, large nuggets of silver were visible. These were dislodged with crowbars, the men working up to their necks in the ice-cold water. The game, however, was worth the candle, for the ore thus taken out, sacked and shipped to Montreal, assayed seven thousand dollars per ton pure silver.

The location was owned by the Montreal Mining Company, Limited, a company of con­servative capitalists. In a way luck had favoured them, for here within their grasp was one of the fabled treasures of the lake. So far as human laws were concerned, it belonged to them. But—and it was a big but—the Great Spirit had placed it within the keeping of the sea. For three hundred miles to the east there is nothing to break the awful sweep of the wind. And when, at the call of the storm, the legions of the deep come forth, the little treasure-rock disappears, utterly lost in the spume and froth of the breakers. Where was the man or company of men who would presume to defy these giant powers and remove this jewel from its settings—this treasure from its keep?

The men composing the Montreal Mining Company were conservative, as I have already stated. They were willing and ready, in the pursuit of wealth, to raze hills and tunnel mountains; they were ready to sink shafts through the solid rock until they could feel the earth’s internal fires. In such cases the opposition to be encountered could be measured and provided for; but they shrank from measuring their strength against the unknown powers of the wind and sea. Therefore, they accepted an offer of two hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars and transferred Silver Islet and a number of surrounding mining locations to an American syndicate, headed by Alexander II. Sibley, of New York.

Here begins the active history of one of the world’s most famous mines—a history more dramatic in its details than novelist ever conceived.

It seems that when an unusual task is to be performed — when a Man is wanted — the times, with unerring instinct, bring him forth. Here was an Herculean task, and the first throw of the dice turned up the man—a modest mining engineer, William B. Frue.

There is something strongly feline about Lake Superior — it is so lithe and soft and caressing. In August and September, and often later, it is usually in a peculiarly gentle mood. Like a great tiger, it stretches itself in the warm sun and purrs and sleeps. It is so beautiful, and seems so harmless; yet beneath this calm and gentleness you can see the giant muscles swell as the great cat extends and contracts its claws in pure enjoyment of its latent power.

On one of these perfect days, September 1st, 1870, Superintendent Frue, with machinery, supplies, a crew of thirty-four men, and a great raft of timber, arrived at Silver Islet. There was not a ripple on the surface of the water. The basaltic ledges of Thunder Cape, even to the features of the Sleeping Giant, were duplicated in the water below. But Superintendent Frue knew the lake; he knew its moods. This one might last a day, a week, perhaps a month—not much longer, at any rate; and then!—

There was the Skull Rock—a mere foothold— a tiny island into which a shaft must be sunk down to the bowels of the earth, while around or over it broke the angry waters of this mighty brother of the sea. To sink that shaft and guard it against the fury of the lake was Superintendent Frue’s task.

It was finally decided to encircle the island with a crib of timber filled with rock to break the force of the waves, while a stone and cement coffer-dam was to furnish protection for the immediate mouth of the shaft.

With feverish haste the work was pushed ahead; eighteen hours was a day’s work. If only the cribbing could be got into place before the autumn storms began all might be well. One week, two weeks, a month passed, and still the great lake slept, unconscious or in contempt of the puny efforts of the human ants on Silver Islet. Day after day the sun rose as out of a mirror, and sank unclouded behind the shoulders of the Sleeping Giant.

Five weeks! The cribbing was done, the shaft was being sunk, and every day the precious metal was coming to the surface. Six weeks— seven weeks! The human ants were beginning to feel secure in their new abode. Then came the 26th of October.

It was three o’clock in the afternoon when the wind began to blow strong from the north-east. In half an hour the lake right to the horizon line was white with foam.

“It’s coming at last,” said Frue; “but we’re here first, and I think we’ll stay.”

When the second shift quitted work at six o’clock the waves were leaping the east breakwater, deluging the men outside the coffer-dam. From the rocky shore of Thunder Cape came the boom of the surf, like an incessant, rolling cannonade.

The little plunging tug had just arrived with the third shift, wet to the skin. The cribbing on the windward side was already trembling with the impact of the waves. To remain stubbornly would be useless, and might mean suicide. It was the first trial of strength, and the result, to the mind of the superintendent, was at least doubtful. Orders were therefore given for all hands to go ashore, to the mainland.

There was little sleep for Superintendent Frue that night. He had had first innings; he had had fair play; he had made his utmost score.

And now the sea was taking a hand in the game. All night he walked the beach and listened, guessing, as best he could, the progress of the battle. How the breakers roared—how the wind howled and shrieked as wave after wave came home!

Before sunrise the wind had died down, and by ten o’clock the sea had subsided to a sullen under-swell. Frue promptly went out to the scene of the conflict, and his heart sank at what he saw. Two hundred feet of the break­water had been carried away; the coffer-dam was a partial wreck, and, as if in rebuke, the storm had filled the shaft to the brim with the rock of the cribbing.

The company had agreed to give Frue a bonus of twenty-five thousand dollars, in addition to his salary, on condition that before September 1st, 1871— the first year of operation — he mined and shipped ore to the value of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, an amount sufficient to cover the original purchase price and the bonus. On the morning of October 27th that bonus appeared to Frue as far away as the moon. But under this apparently crushing defeat he lost neither his heart nor his head. He had learned something from the storm. He had learned something of the game as it was played by his antagonist. All hands were put to work; the cribbing was replaced and strengthened, the coffer-dam was restored, and the debris removed from the shaft. The sea remained quiet. Mining was resumed, and by the last day of November, when navigation closed, the plucky superintendent had the satisfaction of knowing that one hundred thousand dollars’ worth of silver ore had been shipped down the lake to Montreal.

Hardly had the vessel with the last shipment got away when the mercury dropped to ten below zero. For a week it froze, covering parts of the lake with a heavy coating of ice, and then from the south-east came another storm.

It was a flank attack, and this time the sea, as if maddened by the persistence of the invaders, brought up its artillery and hurled tons upon tons of ice against the cribbing, which crumbled like an egg-shell before the tremendous onslaught. But this awful battering defeated its own purpose; the accumulation of ice soon formed a breakwater against which the waves beat out their fury. For three days and nights the storm raged; then the sea smoothed out, and again Frue took stock of the ruins. The coffer-dam remained, but most of the cribbing was gone. The foreman, after looking over the wreck, remarked, “You can’t make anything stop here.” But Frue thought differently.

Nature is the greatest of engineers, and he who would oppose her must adopt her plans and be ever ready to profit by a hint. The ice-gorge gave Frue the key to the situation. Taking advantage of the winter and the ice, he threw out a breakwater facing the south-east. This structure had a base of seventy-five feet, rose twenty feet above the surface, and was backed by cribbing and debris from the mine.

Work was prosecuted both underground and on the defences with little interruption until March 8th. Then the lake gathered its forces for what seemed not only another assault, but the commencement of a campaign of annihilation.

Masses of ice as large as the island itself were hurled against the groaning fortifications, which were soon driven bodily up the incline toward the centre of the island. Wave after wave leaped the breakwater, and it seemed that the lake would at last succeed in regaining the whole of the lost territory, and in driving the invaders permanently from the ground.

Storm succeeded storm, during the entire month, each assault more terrific than the last. There was no rest for the miners day or night. Every interval of calm was employed in repairing the breaks and in strengthening the weak places. At last, apparently defeated, the great lake withdrew its forces, and the superintendent for the first time saw in his mind’s eye the twenty-five-thousand-dollar bonus — and it was not far away.

At the close of the first year, the clean - up showed a gross output of nearly one million dollars. The bonus was immediately paid.

There seemed no longer any danger from storms. To all appearances the lake had given up the contest—abandoned the treasure to the spoilers, who, during the next two years, took out another million in silver.

Silver Islet had now become one of the wonder-mines of the world. The little island—the bare Skull Rock—had grown in the meanwhile to ten times its original size. It extended to the outer breakwaters, and supported not only the upper works of the mine, but machine-shops, store-houses, and permanent quarters for certain employes of the mine. From the eastern angle rose a lighthouse, while on the lee side were built great docks and breakwaters for the protection of the now important shipping. On the shore a town had sprung up—a town with churches and a school-house, great reducing works, club-rooms for the miners, and neat cottages for the families of five hundred workmen.

Frue was the magician who had wrought the change. He had found a barren and desolate rock a mile from the shore of a howling wilderness, and in three years had made it the centre of one of the most important enterprises on the continent. He had found the treasure he sought guarded by the most powerful and treacherous of natural forces. He had met every emergency, and at the end of three years was the apparent conqueror. But Nature never gives up a battle.

Ages ago, as if in sentient anticipation of what was to come, the lake had run a counter-mine underneath the island. The main shaft had reached the depth of three hundred feet when this counter-mine was struck. The imprisoned waters, under the enormous pressure, leaped forth fiercely, driving the miners from level to level. Despite the work of a four-inch pump, the water rose at the rate of ten feet per hour. Another six-inch pump was installed, but the two, working day and night, could barely keep the water below the fifth level. An order was dispatched for a pump with a twelve-inch plunger, but before it could arrive the lake made one more tremendous effort to demolish the upper works. A double attack from above and below seemed to have been planned. All previous storms were dwarfed—they were mere zephyrs compared to the hurricane that now swept down from the north-east. A breach was at once made in the breakwater and sixty feet of the structure carried away. Before the damage could be repaired another assault carried away three hundred and sixty feet of the cribbing, with the blacksmith’s shop and five thousand tons of rock. So violent was the wind that refuse rock flew about the island like hailstones. Fortunately the machinery remained intact and the pumps were kept going. At last the storm died away, the mammoth pump arrived, and slowly the waters were got under control. It was a well-planned attack, and the defenders won by a margin so small that an accident, however slight, would have turned the scale.

It was soon after this that Superintendent Frue left the employ of the company and disappears from its history. The fortunes of this remarkable mine for the next ten years need not be recounted. The story differs but little from that of similar ventures. Deeper and deeper drove the shafts, and wider and wider extended the stopes and levels. In constant fear of the wind and sea from above, and the water from below, the work went on. Some years the out­put ran into the hundreds of thousands, but even then it barely paid running expenses.

At last a year came—a poor year—when the output fell far short of the operating expense. The indications were as good as ever, but the ore in hand did not seem to pan out well. The stockholders were called upon to make up the deficiency. There was grumbling and dissension. Rich ore to the estimated value of five hundred thousand dollars was visible in the roof of the first level, but its removal had hitherto been regarded as dangerous. Now, however, plans were decided upon for putting in a false roof and removing this lode.

The main shaft had now reached a depth of thirteen hundred feet below the lake level. Gigantic pumps, driven by powerful engines, were kept busy holding back the insidious sea. Storms might come and wreck the upper works, but storms subside and the ravages of the waves can be repaired; but this eternal assault from beneath could be resisted only by a tireless energy that never slumbered. Let the throbbing engines cease their work, let the pumps stop but for a day, and the battle of years would be lost.

It was November, 1884, and the coal was running low. Only a few hundred tons remained in the sheds on the island, and the hungry furnaces would soon devour that. But more was expected any day—the winter supply had already left the Lower Lakes; it should be somewhere on Lake Superior now. Day followed day, however, and it did not come. It was getting late, and navigation might close at any time. Work went on as usual—some slight accident, no doubt, had delayed the steamer; the coal was sure to come, the miners told themselves.

Day and night was heard the monotonous thud, thud, thud of the pumps; but all the time the coal was getting lower, and the sea was waiting—waiting.

It was an anxious Christmas for the folk of Silver Islet—that Christmas of 1884. There was hoping against hope for the arrival of the long-looked-for steamer. What if it should not come? Could it come now? The cold was intense, and already the ice had formed six inches thick in the bays, and the ice-field was creeping out into the lake, from which rose, like steam from a mighty cauldron, huge banks of cumulus clouds.

The New Year came—January 1st, 1885— and no coal. But instead there came a dog-team from Duluth, bearing the bitter news that a drunken captain with a cargo of a thousand tons of coal for Silver Islet had allowed his vessel to be caught in the ice at Houghton! The furnaces were put on half rations, in the vain hope that something might happen to bring relief. But at last a day came when the fires went out, the pumps stopped, and the exultant sea reclaimed its own.

Twenty-two years have passed since that fatal day, a generation has come and gone, but no. attempt has been made to fight back the sea and re-establish the mine. The island and the village that once stretched for a mile along the beach are abandoned and desolate—inhabited only by a caretaker whose nearest neighbours are at Port Arthur, twenty-five miles away by water. The great engines and the hoisting machinery on the island are rusting where they stand. The lighthouse has gone. The docks and breakwaters are rotting—they are at peace now with the sea, which, in contempt, has given them over to the slow tortures of time. Down in the drifts and galleries where men once wrought fishes stare with unblinking eyes at the slimy walls. On the mainland the great reducing plant, with its batteries, stamps, and vanners, is rapidly going to decay. Grass grows in the abandoned street, and at night hedgehogs hold high revel in the silent church and owls hoot from the rickety tower.

Why has this mine, with all its wealth, been left in the possession of the sea? I do not know. The caretaker will tell you strange stories of strange doings. He will tell you that sometimes, when the air is full of light, when the wind sleeps and the placid sea reflects the great blue bowl of heaven, the surface of the lake will suddenly heave in long low swells, and then smooth out again. Then, as from the depths of the earth, come low, rumbling sounds, muffled and indistinct, like a far-off cannonade. He will tell you, too, that at night, when the storm comes from the east and the air is filled with blinding wrack, ghostly lights flit about the treasure-island, and in the lulls of the wind you may distinctly hear the rumble of a hoisting cable and the rhythmic pulsations of a ghostly engine.

He will give you his theory — weird and uncanny—that, should the waters ever be driven back, nothing will be found but the barren walls of a barren mine.

I fear that years of almost uninterrupted solitude may have warped his imagination. Be that as it may, however, the fact remains that this silver fleece is guarded by a dragon that never sleeps—the omniscient power of the sea.