Reprinted from The Skipper Parson: On the Bays and Barrens of Newfoundland by James Lumsden.
Transcribed by Wanda Garrett, 2015
Customs and characterizations
“To me more dear, congenial to my heart.
One native charm, than all the gloss of art;
Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play,
The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway.” — Goldsmith
A pretty custom pertained very generally throughout the island, and was conspicuously event in Trinity. Nearly every family had a flagstaff on its grounds, and flags were hoisted on national, local, or family celebrations. On a public holiday, every flag would be flying, making a brave and imposing scene. I question if, outside of Newfoundland, there is a place to be found of equal size that, at a moment’s notice, could make such a show of bunting as Trinity. Various were the uses of flags. They were called into requisition to announce to the world such important events as a marriage, a birth, the arrival of a friend, and the like. Neighbors rejoiced with rejoicing friends. And when a death and funeral occurred, many flags at half-mast were the silent but eloquent witnesses of a sympathy sincere and general.
There was, also, a more striking and original use of the flag. The churches appropriated it, so that when one was without a bell it simply substituted a flag, and a splendid substitute it made. This is how they work it. The flagstaff, which is a high one, stands in a conspicuous place near the church, and the flag can be seen by all. An hour before the service the flag is hoisted full mast ; a quarter of an hour before the appointed time it is put half-mast; and as the minister enters the church it is taken down altogether. This excellent plan works well, and insures punctuality. Here I am reminded of a still more novel method of regulating church services adopted and carried out by Brother Blundell in St. Jones, who always made the minister his honored guest. He had a horn which he blew with such vigor that its reverberations echoed and reechoed among the hills. The first strong blast was a signal to intending worshipers an hour in advance. The second and last was given as the minister was about to leave his house for the church. Immediately it would appear as if the houses were all being emptied, and all the people in the Harbor were on their way to worship God in their neat little sanctuary.
When we come to speak of matters relating to the table we are reminded of the limited meaning given to the word “fish,” which is used not in a generic but a specific sense. When the Newfoundlander speaks of fish he means codfish. Cod is king. No other of the denizens of the deep has a right to the title fish (salmon alone excepted), but is merely a “haddock” or a “herring.” There are various appetizing ways of cooking fish, but an old fisherman will affirm that fish tastes best when, immediately after being caught, it is cooked and eaten at sea. I remember while cruising in a schooner one beautiful summer morning some fish were caught and put in the pot to boil. At dinner they were served with pork fat and potatoes. It was then I first heard my fishermen friends declare that those who had only eaten fish ashore did not know the genuine taste. And unmistakably it was good; but it is only fair to own that we had the best sauce — hunger.
Of course tea was served also, for no meal in Terra Nova would be complete without “a cup o’ tea.” If one were asked to name the favorite beverage of Newfoundland, there could only be one reply—tea. It is used morning, noon, and night —ay, and between times, too, by poor and rich alike.
“Hamburg bread,” or hard biscuit (not to be confounded with pilot or sailor biscuit as popularly known, being thick and cake-like in shape and extraordinarily hard), is in constant use on the vessels and in the houses of the fishermen. On a journey I always carried one or two of these biscuits. When hungry I would soak one in a brook, and found in it a sustaining meal.
A popular dish in Newfoundland is “brewis,” pronounced broose. In the north it was always the Sunday breakfast of the fishermen. Brewis is made from Hamburg bread, boiled and served with pork fat or butter, and often accompanied with salt fish. This is a wholesome dish, and helps to nourish a strong and hardy race.
The noble Newfoundland dog is a familiar object in all civilized countries. Burns sketches him well:
“The first I’ll name, they ca’d him Caesar,
Was keepit for his honor’s pleasure:
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,
Showed he was nane o’ Scotland’s dogs;
But whalpit some place far abroad,
Where sailors gang to fish for cod.
His locked, letter’d, braw brass collar
Show’d him the gentleman and scholar;
But though he was o’ high degree,
The fient a pride—nae pride had he.”
Though this splendid animal derived its name from Newfoundland its origin is obscure, and authorities assert: “It is doubtful whether the aborigines possessed the dog at all; and it is highly improbable that it is indigenous. Some happy crossing of breeds may have produced it here!”
Most boys and girls, probably, when they think of Newfoundland think simultaneously of the Newfoundland dog, and imagine that the breed abounds there; but we must look elsewhere for the finest specimens to-day. Occasionally in Terra Nova we may find a good specimen of this dog owned by some gentleman, and “keepit for his honor’s pleasure,” but the members of the canine species abounding in Newfoundland are a mongrel race. They are generally used by the fishermen to assist in hauling wood in winter time. One of the commonest sights, and not a very pleasing one, in localities of my acquaintance was this: a man, and perhaps a couple of dogs, dragging a sled-load of wood over the snow. These dogs are often dangerous brutes. They will lurk under the fishermen’s houses, which rest merely on “shores,” and thus offer a convenient refuge, or in the porch, ready to attack a stranger who approaches incautiously. Many an ugly scrimmage I have had with these wolfish brutes.
Annoyance came sometimes in other ways. When staying in Deer Harbor I was awakened by the loud barking of a great dog, right underneath my room. His deep-mouthed bay seemed to set all the dogs in the Harbor barking in response. They kept up this sport until daylight, when welcome silence at last reigned, and my long-enforced vigil ended in “sleep, that knits up the raveled sleeve of care.” These dogs are sometimes a pest to the people themselves, being great sheep destroyers. The people have “local option” in the matter, the majority deciding, between sheep and dogs, which must go under. These facts, like many others, are not beautiful. Actual facts differ from dreams, prose from poetry. We are sorry if we have dissipated a bright fancy, yet I think we shall love none the less our noble friend—the Newfoundland dog.
The system of education obtaining is denominational. P. T. McGrath, of St. John’s, says: “It is in the matter of scholastic progress the colony is behindhand. Its isolation, its hundreds of harbors with too few children to make a public school possible, and the disabilities consequent on inadequate funds, have served to leave us lagging in the race.” While indorsing the truth of this statement, I would remark that, as far as my observation went, the small settlements often supported a school if only for a few months in the year, and at least a knowledge of reading and writing and a little arithmetic was acquired; while in the larger centers, particularly St. John’s, grammar schools and colleges were well equipped, from which numbers each year passed the London University matriculation examination. The Bible has a prominent place in the day school, and religious teaching is shaping the character of the youth. The denominational system has grave drawbacks, but under existing circumstances it seems the only possible one in Newfoundland, and all classes, apparently, are wisely making the best of it. No denominational partiality is shown in the working of the system; the claims of minorities are considered even to the extent of permitting two schools in a place that could only fairly support one. This broad-spirited working of the law may be deemed extravagant and inefficient, but this much may be said in its favor: it precludes the possibility of religious strife.
The people of Newfoundland are naturally industrious. They are not, however, as provident and independent as one might wish, and if we are correct in this estimate we are sure that the greatest cause is the “credit system,” by which a large portion of the population have been all their lives in debt, with no better prospect for the future. A new era is dawning; Religion, and her handmaid Education, are working in the people a noble discontent, following which there cannot fail to be a sure, if silent, revolution.
Among the fishing population a share of work falls on the women. A man will often take with him his wife and children to distant and stormy Labrador for the season’s fishing, and frequently into the woods, living in a “tilt,” while he engages in a little winter’s lumbering. When the fish are landed fresh from the great deeps, the women and girls take their part in curing operations. The potato or cabbage patch, the family garden, when made by the men, is often their special care. The spinning wheel is frequently seen in their kitchens, and their deft fingers convert the fleecy wool into mitts and undergarments. On the whole, women do not appear to work harder than in other countries. Like their brothers, they are gifted with a bright and happy temperament. At work in the home or in the fields, you will hear their cheerful voices raised in song; and the only songs they know are the best—“the songs of Zion.” The grand old hymns of Wesley and Watts, to the grand old tunes, in the communities in which I lived, were known by young and old, and sung everywhere.
In Newfoundland “the tilt,” to which allusion has been made, answers to the log cabin in other parts of America. As a temporary home some very respectable families will winter in these tilts in the woods, making them clean and comfortable, though they themselves are necessarily “cabined, cribbed, confined.” It is an unpleasant truth, however, that there are others, though few, who never seem to aspire to an abode better than a “tilt.” Entering at the low door, one is as likely as not to stumble over the pig in the porch, to find frightened hens making desperate efforts to escape over his head, and, when he gains the “living room,” to feel his eyes smarting from the smoke of green sticks smoldering on the open fireplace. In common with Newfoundland, the greatest nations have their housing problem, their ever present poor problem.
The Newfoundlander “turns his hand” successfully to several different occupations. Of course, as a fisherman he is a past master, but he makes a good second at such diverse crafts as house-carpentering, shipbuilding, cobbling, lumbering, etc. Necessity often compels him to be a jack-of-all-trades, and this again has developed a cleverness, a rough-and ready expertness, that stands him in good stead in a country where by training there are few skilled artisans.
We have already observed that the people are fond of singing. They have a certain pride in this regard which is altogether creditable. In public worship, participation in the service of praise is considered so fitting and the exercise of sacred song is felt to be so delightful that a worshiper would not only feel unhappy, but rather ashamed to be without a hymn book. The ludicrous side of it appeared when a hymn book was handed to and accepted by a man who I knew could not read a word. As book in hand he joined lustily in the singing—doubtless he knew the words by heart—I could scarcely keep back a smile, while I honored him for his manly pride and love of the services of the sanctuary.
The typical Newfoundlander is characterized by a happy, easy-going manner, with little apparent regard for the value of time. The missionary, visiting from house to house, soon learns this latter peculiarity. On rising to leave he will probably be reminded in a half-admonitory tone that “time is long.” In vain he will plead that the Scriptures say just the reverse. To them in their isolation, “far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife,” time walks with leaden feet.
A genial friend used to measure the length of my visit by the burning of a log. If I attempted to go too soon, as he thought, he would smilingly remonstrate, saying, “Why, time is long, sir; you’ve only burned out one log”; and forthwith putting another big stick on the fire, he would good-humoredly issue the command, “Stay till that is burned out.”
They dearly love a chat, and are not easily satisfied in this regard either. These dear souls look upon the missionary as a kind of “central office,” where they may always apply for news of the doings of the world near and far. Hence the oft-repeated inquiry, “Anything strange lately, sir?” Certainly it was a pleasure to gratify such seekers for knowledge. The tedium of many a long, cold, and stormy winter’s night has been pleasantly relieved as we have sat by the stove and narrated to eager listeners, in fullest detail, stopping to answer many questions, the movements of contending armies in deadly war, the outgoings and incomings of Britain’s universally beloved queen, also descriptions of great cities, and accounts of Christian life and work.
To know the religion of a people a brief visit is not enough; you must get behind the scenes and to the heart for that. So every Newfoundlander would say who reads the following: “In Ragged Harbor some men have fashioned a god of rock and tempest and sea’s rage—a gigantic, frowning shape, throned in a mist, where under black waters curl and hiss and are cold without end; and in the right hand of the shape is a flaming rod of chastisement, and on either side of the throne sit grim angels, with inkpots and pens, who jot down the sins of men, relentlessly spying out their innermost hearts; and behind the mist, far back in the night, the flames of pain, which are forked and writhing and lurid, light up the clouds and form an aureole for the shape and provide him with his halo.” Another, commenting on these awesome and gruesome imaginings, writes the strange words: “The comedy is furnished by the religion, or rather superstition, of this primitive people, whose theology is fierce and hard and cruel as the tempest-battered rocks upon which they so often gasp out their poor lives. This also is tragic in its way, for, although you cannot share their terror of the vengeful and capricious deity they worship, you cannot but be filled with pity for the brave, toil toughened, but benighted souls in whose stern creed there is no mention of the brightening and alleviating fact that God is love.” A creed in which there is no mention of the love of God! They have never heard of it. The gospel has been preached in Newfoundland with success, in every part of it. They no more derive their theological conceptions from the rocks and storms of their native land than did the Galilean fishermen from their storm swept lakes. Superstitions, as proved in more privileged lands, are hard to die, and they linger here where the gospel is known and loved; but in the main intelligence, as well as sincerity and genuineness, characterize the religion of the Newfoundland people.
How beautiful the sight of a harbor in Labrador on a summer Sabbath day, as it has often been described to me! The harbor is crowded with “fore and afters.” On one of the schooners the flag is hoisted as a signal for “prayers.” Soon the deck is crowded with worshipers—sunburnt, weather-beaten men and women, for women are there, too. No minister stands before them, but a stalwart son of the sea, like themselves, in blue guernsey and long leather boots. Simply, directly, the leader gives out a hymn, and, after the singing, reads the Word of God. His voice is soft and reverent; the refining touch of the grace of God is unmistakable in tone and manner. Now there is heard a simple, earnest prayer, after which the “sermon book” is produced, and the congregation of sea-toilers listen with becoming attention and interest to the reading of the words of some noted preacher, great in his simplicity. The sermon done, another burst of jubilant praise floats afar off to reach the ears of stragglers on sea and land. Following this comes a chain of song, prayer, and exhortation. One after another, men and women, with heaven’s light on their sea-bronzed faces, tell of temptations and triumphs, and of an immortal hope. In all this unique service nothing is needed to convince of the presence of Jesus, as with the fishermen disciples on Lake Galilee, but his visible form only. The rocky harbors of Newfoundland and Labrador witness many such scenes.
Original thinking on theological, church, and social matters is not uncommon, and often expressed in words which are “as goads and nails well fastened.” For instance, here is a streak of fatalism. A man is drowned: his shipmates with almost stoical resignation will say, “It was to be.” To argue with them is in vain. They will tell you of a case in which two men were swept into the sea, one a strong swimmer and the other unable to swim at all, and that it was the swimmer who was drowned, while the man who could not swim a stroke was saved. Then with a look and air of utter submission they will repeat words which to them mean the end of all argument. “What is to be, will be.” Or again, there is an example of other-worldliness. The strenuous man, if perchance he come their way, wins no admiration. They cannot understand pushfulness and ambition. They view him with ill-disguised pity, while the judgment they pass on him is crystallized in the words, “Too much for this world.” And with regard to the social scale, a fisherman-philosopher nicely adjusts it to his own satisfaction as ranging from workingmen to “nobles,” explaining, “The workingmen, they are the fishermen; the nobles, they are the lawyers, members, and parsons.” Touching the giving of religious experience, I always liked the way an honest miner often ended his fervid words in prayer meeting or class meeting. “These are my present feelings,” would be his emphatic declaration as he resumed his seat. The saying suited the man and his utterances, which latter were as fresh and spontaneous as a mountain spring.
A remarkable hardiness, robust vigor of manhood and womanhood, is common among the people of Terra Nova. The tint of health adorns the cheeks of fair maidens, and a splendid fitness in physical make-up causes the eye to linger admiringly on the young men. Longevity is often the reward of their simple outdoor life. A minister from St. John’s was taken to see a centenarian, and found him in the act of lifting a sack of potatoes. Greatly surprised, he remarked, “That’s a heavy load for you.” “Well, sir,” replied the rugged centenarian, doffing his hat and scratching his head, “I’ve just been wondering how it comes about that I can’t lift it as easy as I used to.” Forthwith he raised his load to his shoulders, and staggered off, leaving his interviewers in silent amazement.
The Newfoundlander is an ardent lover of his country. Wherever he may wander, in most instances he seems restless, until sooner or later he returns to his island home.
These transcriptions may contain human errors. As always, confirm these as you would any other source material.