66 
FOREST AND STREAM” 



lives here, surrounded by an abundance of the ‘good 
things of this world,” foremost among which stand a wife 
(whose kindness and attention to our ‘‘ creature” comforts 
could not have been exceeded,) and some nine or ten ‘‘olive 
branches,” of all ages and sizes, and whose fat ruddy 
cheeks bear ample witness to the healthy climate of their 
island home. Mr. Pope is a man beloved by the rough 
fishermen, amongst. whom he lives, for his bravery and 
exertions in time of shipwreck have been often proved. 
During his sojourn on the island he has at great personal 
risk, succeeded in saving the lives of ten shipwrecked matri- 
ners, besides having been instrumental in rescuing many 
others from a watery grave. Of so modest and unpretend- 
ing a character, however, is Mr. Pope, that his services 
have I believe only once met with an acknowledgment 
from the Board of Trade of the Dominion. Such gal- 
lant deeds, though they meet not always with the appre- 
ciation they deserve, should not be allowed to pass un- 
noticed, and I rejoice at the opportunity here afforded me 
of making so brilliant an example, and one well worthy 
of imitation, more generally known. 
Southwest Point is formed by a projecting mound of 
limestone, with a small-cove on the northern side, which 
almost constitutes it a peninsula, and the lighthouse which 
stands on the western extremity is built from a grayish 
white, coarse, granular limestone, quarried on. the point. 
To the geologist, Southwest Point is full of interest, for the 
bed which forms the upper strata consists almost entirely 
of organic remains, and large numbers of encrinites, chiefly 
in the form of crinoidal columns, and many fossil shells 
may be picked up throughout its entire length. Red hema- 
tite, a peroxyde of iron, lies scattered over the central bed 
in irregular sized nodules, some of which are nine or ten 
inches in circumference. The cove affords shelter from all 
but westerly winds to vessels of almost any draught, for so 
deep is the water that a line-of-battle ship might lie close 
under the bluff at the extremity of the point. There is no 
beach, the sea washing directly against the lower strata of 
the limestone, which in many places has been undermined 
into hollow caverns, and eroded into deep narrow fissures 
by the violent action of the waves. With a westerly wind, 
a heavy swell sets into the cove, and the water rushing into 
these so-called ‘‘ canons,” strikes with loud report, while 
the escaping air throws up high columns of spray. For 
some years past the Point has been visited during the sum- 
mer months by afew families engaged in prosecuting the 
cod fishing off the reefs. At the time of our visit, there 
were some thirty fishermen, all of whom had been unusu 
ally successful, the cod having struck early and in large 
numbers. Fine halibut are taken, and were there only some 
means of sending them packed in ice to the Canadian or 
American market, this fishing would prove most remuner- 
ative. As matters stand, halibut being more troublesome 
to cure than cod and not so profitable, the fishermen infin- 
itely prefer catching the latter, and consider it a piece of 
bad luck if they hook one of the former. Large shoals of 
herring are periodically taken with the net, and a tremen- 
dous haul had been made on the morning of our arrival. 
Unfortunately, however, asit was near the close of the season, 
there were no barrels to pack them in even if they had been 
cured, and so for the next day or two the surface of the 
cove and the limestone rocks around it were strewed with 
dead herring, thrown away, as there was no use for them. 
The fishermen at Southwest Point are principally natives of 
Douglastown, (on the southwest shore of Gaspé Bay,) and 
whereas the summer residents of English Bay, natives of 
Perce, Paspebiac, and Pabou, were with few exceptions of 
French Canadian descent, those here were almost to a man 
of Ivish origin. The descendents of the ‘‘ United Irish- 
men,” many of whom, after the troubles of ’98, leaving 
their native country, settled along the shores of our North 
American colonies, the inhabitants of Douglastown still re- 
tain the Celtic features, unmistakable brogue, and patro- 
nimics of their forefathers, and so strongly are those char- 
acteristics marked that a stranger passing through parts 
of their little village might for the moment almost fancy 
himself in the ‘‘ old counthry.” 
Peculiar to the island is a remarkably fine breed of dogs, 
apparently a cross between the “ Labrador” and ‘‘ New. 
foundland.” They are a large powerful looking dog, stand- 
ing from twenty-five to thirty inches in height, rather long 
in the body, and with great breadth of chest. In color they 
are generally of a rusty black, sometimes marked with 
white, the hair straight and long,and showing but little 
tendency to curl. The lighthouse keepers and few residents 
of the island use them for lumber drawing and sleigh driv- 
ing in the winter, and the fishermen at English Bay had 
several which they fed altogether on the offal and refuse of 
the cod. The finest specimen we saw was one belonging 
to Mr. Pope, which was about the handsomest dog I had 
everseen, He did not stand more than twenty-six inches 
high, and was beautifully proportioned, with an enormous 
depth of chest, and a jet black curly coat of hair, so thick 
and deep as almost to resemble fleece. He was a young 
dog, only three years old, but his strength and powers of 
endurance were wonderful. In the winter he would alone 
draw a sleigh many miles a day, and would plunge in 
amidst the drifting floes of pack ice time after time to bring 
out wounded ducks that his master had shot. The latter 
told me that on one occasion when he had knocked over 
nine or ten birds of a large flight of cider duck, (very com- 
mon On the island in winter time) his dog jumped in six suc- 
cessive times, on each occasion returning with a duck, 
which he laid on the shore; his legs and chest were cut 
from contact with the sharp ice, but such was the dog’s 

spirit that he would have dropped from cold and sheer ex- 
haustion, had not his master held him back. Poor ‘‘Sail- 
or!” he met witha cruel and untimely death. The evening 
before we left one of the fishermen had occasion to go into 
the woods to draw a bucket of water from the spring. On 
his road he met Sailor, and began teasing and tormenting 
him to such a degree that at length the poor beast turned 
and snapping at his tormentor bit him in the hand. Mul- 
lowney, for that was the man’s name, on his return home 
told his brothers of what had happened, and they deter- 
mined to have theirrevenge. About eight o'clock, as we 
sat round the kitchen fire in the basement of the tower, we 
heard the report of a gun, andthe next minute one of Mr. 
Pope’s assistants ran in, breathless and excited, and stan- 
mered out, ‘S Mullowney a tue le chien!” Tf Pope had been 
told of the death of one of his children he could hardly 
have been more startled. Heturned white as a sheet, and 
for amoment remained speechless, as if incredulous, then 
the blood rushing back to his cheeks and his temples as his 
anger rose, he made for the door, and had he once passed 
the threshold it would have fared ill with Mullowney. 
Luckily, however, on the first sound of: the commotion, 
Mrs. Pope ran down :from the upstairs room, and held her 
husband back, and as he became calmer, and he thought 
of the loss he had sustained, the tears started to his eyes, 
and had it not been for our presence I believe he would 
have cried like a child. If ever dog worked itself into human 
affections, Sailor most certainly had found his way into his 
master’s, for the latter would sooner have lost his right arm 
than parted with the trusty companion of his long winter 
hunting days. Independently of this attachment, the death of 
Sailor was a serious pecuniary loss, for, as I stated above, 
he brought many a bird to the ‘‘larder,” and the eider duck 
alone were a source of profit on account of their down. The 
year before a gentlemen shooting and_ fishing in the island, 
and who spent a few days with Mr. Pope, offered him £380 
for the dog, and if Captain H. happen to read this he will, 
Tam sure, hear with regret of the death of such a noble 
animal. 
And now as the eve of our departure arrived, it was not 
without a feeling of regret that we prepared to say ‘‘ good 
bye” to the island. We had shot and fished along some 
seventy miles of the southern shore, but had time permitted 
there was still a wide field for the sportsman. Salt Lake 
Bay, eleven miles southeast of Southwest Point, was worthy 
of a visit, if only on accouut of its natural salt pans; but 
besides its interest from a geological point of view, it pos- 
sesses another attraction, for it is one of the best bear 
grounds inthe island, three bears having been seen there 
the week before our arrival at the lighthouse. The salt pans 
which, in the form of inland lagoons and ponds, skirt the 
coast for a distance of four or five miles, were once largely 
resorted to by wildfowl of every species, but latterly, since 
the establishment of a small fishing station, they have been 
nearly deserted. 
A few miles in rear of the coast, a vast peat bog, averag- 
ing two miles in width, and from three to ten feet deep, 
reaches from Salt Lake Bay to Heath Point, seventy miles 
distant. This enormous bog is not more than twenty feet 
above the level of the sea, towards which it has a slight in- 
clination, so that if channels were cut, it might be easily 
drained and worked. Other bogs of less extent occur 
throughout the island, and no doubt some future day, when 
the lumber and coal fields of North America become ex- 
hausted to such a degree as to seriously affect the price 
of these articles, (as we have seen recently in England,) the 
great deposits of Anticosti willbe of large value. We would 
fain have taken a glimpse at Fox Bay, with its tragic tale 
of shipwreck and suffering, and seen some of those magni- 
ficent limestone cliffs which line the northern coast, and 
rising sheer from the sea often attain a height of four hun- 
dred feet, while occasionally they assume titanic propor- 
tions, towering upward in one huge wall of dazzling white- 
ness nearly six hundred feet. Of rivers, too, there were 
many to be explored, the principal being Pavilion river, 
thirty-six miles southeast of Southwest Point, Shallop creek, 
(where good wild fowl shooting may be had,) twelve miles 
east of Pavilion river; Dauphin river, a few miles to the 
eastward of South Point, and Salmon river, on the north 
shore, distant about fifty miles from the lighthouse on 
Heath Point. All these streams abound in trout, and yield 
fair returns of salmon to the net fisherman, in 1869 twenty- 
one barrels of the latter fish havin» been taken at Salmon 
river; twelve at Shallop creek; nine at Dauphin river, and 
two at Pavillion river. <A visit to these places we had, how- 
ever, to forego, but I took forward at no distant date to 
again finding myself on the island. There isa delicious 
absence of all restraint, an utter disregard for the morrow, 
and a wonderful sense of freedom about such a life, which 
cannot be realized except by actual experience, and it is 
little wonder that they who have once tasted of this wild 
roving existence should leave it with regret. 
During our stay, with the exception of afew wet nights, 
we had been favored with lovely weather, and though we 
had not met with any brilliant sport, (not from there being 
any lack of it, but chiefly from hurried movements, and it 
being too late for fishing,) we had nevertheless spent a most 
enjoyable fortnight. Strange to say our advent had been 
ushered in by a fog and wind, our sojourn was marked by 
a Boreal interregnum of calm and serene weather, and now 
as the evening approached on which the schooner was to 
leave, the mist coming up from seaward, the thick, driz- 
zling rain, and the rising wind, showed that we were not to 
quit the island without a final proof of the fury of the 
elements. 
We were nearly half an hour pulling off to the schooner, 


which was standing off and on three quarters of a mile from 
the shore, her captain, a young Frenchman, having vowed 
that he would never cast anchor inside the cove. It ap- 
peared that his vessel had been lying all summer about half 
amile from the Point, much to the mconvenience of Geffrard, 
who found it no easy task to tow any portions of wreck 
he recovered such a distance. The weather had been 
unusually calm, and at last Geffrard persuaded the skipper 
of the schooner to anchor in the cove, assuring him that 
there was no cause for alarm. That very night, as ill luck 
would have it, if came on to blow from the westward, the 
worst possible quarter, the Frenchman’s anchor dragged, 
and he was within an ace of losing his vessel on the rocks. 
He escaped by a hair’s breath, but onthe principle of 
‘‘once bit, twice shy,” he determined not to be caught 
again, and from that day till he left the island for good, 
rather more than a fortnight, he remained, like the “Flying 
Dutchman,” cruising off the Southwest Point, never once 
dropping anchor, standing in periodically to within a mile 
to allow Geffrard to put any spars he might have saved 
from the wreck on board, when he would be off again to 
sea. The schooner was ‘‘ hove to” to allow us to come 
alongside, and as we hoisted the boats inboard and ‘‘let 
draw,” the Frenchman shook his fist threatenin#ly at the 
receding shores of the island, and as he snapped his fingers, 
gave utterance to his feelings in pithy and forcible lan- 
guage: ‘‘Sacré, you Anticosti, I nevare see you no more.” 
The mist settled down thick and fast upon the land, and 
the lighthouse was soon lost to view, the rain came down in 
torrents, and the wind moaned through the rigging with a 
mournful sound which always seems to be the precursor of 
astorm. It certainly was as gloomy looking a night as one 
could well imagine, and on board the schooner matters 
were, if possible, still less cheering. The forehold was oc- 
cupied by some fifteen of Geffrard’s men, while the caboose: 
was filled by that worthy himself and the crew, four in 
number, all of whom were either smoking or spitting to- 
bacco juice over the deck. The hatch cover had been hauled 
over to exclude the rain, leaving only a narrow opening 
leading down to the caboose. From this ascended a smell 
of cod oil, tobacco, and filth in general, that was simply 
overpowering, and for along time we preferred remaining 
on. deck and getting soaked to facing the loathsome den, 
and when driven down at last by the seas that broke over 
the vessel, we ventured below, it was only to return in a 
few minutes to make a rush to leeward for a purpose I need 
hardly describe. About 10 o’clock the storm burst upon 
us in all its fury— ‘ 
: —* Ponto nox incubat atra, 
Intonuere poli, et crebeis micat ignibus ether.” 
It was a pitch dark night, lit only by the lurid flashes of the 
forked lightning, which seemed at times to strike the waves 
and run along their tips in streams of liquid fire; peal after 
peal of thunder followed in rapid succession, culminating 
in one grand clap which seemed to have exhausted all the 
batteries of heaven. For a few minutes there was a lull, 
and then with redoubled fury the elemental war commenced 
afresh. The schooner peeled over to the surging wind, 
and as the seas struck her on the quarter, she shook from 
stem to stern, while the water pouring over her bulwarks 
swept her decks fore and aft. High above the din of the 
storm, the thunder clap and the roaring of the wind, were 
heard the confused orders, frantic shrieks, and deep 
‘““sacrés” of the French seamen, as they tried to shorten 
sail, while the occupants of the hold, more affrighted than 
the rest, and thinking their last hour had come, appeared 
on deck, where, holding on like grim death to shrouds, 
belaying pins,, or whatever else they could clutch, they 
uttered ‘‘Ave Marias,” and made rash vows which I fear 
were never fulfilled. Sleep for a long time was out of the 
question, and when about midnight the storm showed signs 
of abating, and we thought of turning in, it was a long time 
before we could make out how on earth we were to get into 
the bunks. Hitherto I had always found it a simple matter 
enough to get into, and a very simple one to get out 
of a bunk, as I once found to my cost in H. M. 8. —, when 
I was shot out of my berth and landed in a most indiscrim- 
inate mass, bed-clothes and all, on the wardroom deck, a 
most undignified proceeding on my part, [Il admit, in 
consequence of which [ went about with a broken head for 
a week afterwards. VWais revenons @ nos moutons. The 
bunks in this particular schooner must have been designed 
by an undertaker, for I can only compare them to coffins, 
with a square hole in the centre of one side. Through this 
hole, first inserting the head, and having wriggled that 
member of the body into the upper extremity of the coffin, 
you were then supposed to draw the legs and deposit them 
somewhere at the other end. They had one advantage cer- 
tainly over an ordinary bunk; when once fairly inside, 
“blow high, blow low,” it required no effort on the part 
of the occupant to remain there, and on this consideration 
I would recommend their adoption on board passenger 
steamers generally—no, stay; on second thought I don’t; 
possibly one day I may have to travel in one, and Heaven 
forefend that I should again pass through similar contortions 
to those I underwent on the night of which I write. Fora 
long time I sat blinking and gazing wistfully at the bunk, 
anxious to get some rest, and yet not half liking the only 
means by which f was to obtain it. Probably I would have 
sat there till morning, had not an old white-headed French- 
man, the mate, I believe, come to the rescue. After at- 
tempting by gesticulation, and a jargon to me wholly unin- 
telligible, (the fellow spoke bad patois French; at least that 
was the only way I could account for it,) to explain the easiest 
method of getting into the bunk, and finding that mode of 
explanation a total failure, the old gentleman next pro- 
ceeded to give a series of practical illustrations or “ dissoly 

