A Name for Herself Read online

  In the case of the thirty-five instalments of Montgomery’s “Around the Table” column, I have provided a courtesy title for each instalment and placed it within brackets, except for the first instalment, published as “Over the Tea-Cups,” whose title I retain. When it appeared in Everywoman’s World in 1917, “The Alpine Path: The Story of My Career” was divided randomly into six instalments, sometimes in the middle of a journal entry or an anecdote; for this reason, I have opted to run the entire text continually, but I note where each instalment from the magazine edition (as well as each chapter in the 1974 edition) begins. Photos appear rather randomly in the original publication, sometimes in clusters – photos of Montgomery’s sons appear alongside text that likens the publication of Anne of Green Gables to a form of creation, for instance – so whenever possible, for ease of reading, I have placed these images where their contents are mentioned in the text. I also include, for ease of reference, the signatures Montgomery used for the items in this volume, except those signed “L.M. Montgomery” or unsigned.

  I have not attempted to regularize spelling, punctuation, or hyphenation, although for ease of reading I have made some silent amendments, including italicizing periodical and book titles, names of ships, and non-English phrases (such as sotto voce), as well as normalizing quotation marks, particularly for quotations that extend beyond one paragraph, and correcting obvious typographical errors. More substantive corrections are explained in the notes, as are errors or misquotations that I did not correct.

  The notes also identify allusions to texts, people, and events, draw parallels to Montgomery’s fiction and life writing, and provide bibliographical details about the items included in this volume. When bibliographical details could not be confirmed because the original periodicals could not be located, these details appear within brackets and the copy-text is from one of Montgomery’s scrapbooks, which do not have page numbers. Many of these items in her scrapbooks appear with minor annotations in Montgomery’s hand (including dates of composition and publication), all of which are noted.

  B.L.

  A Name for Herself

  SELECTED WRITINGS, 1891–1917

  FIGURE 1 A photograph and description of L.M. Montgomery appearing in Everywoman’s World in August 1917 alongside an instalment of her celebrity memoir, “The Alpine Path: The Story of My Career.”

  PART 1

  Early and Student Publications

  FIGURE 2 L.M. Montgomery’s first prose publication (detail), appearing in the Montreal Daily Witness, 5 March 1891.

  The Wreck of the “Marco Polo”

  LUCY MAUD MONTGOMERY

  After L.M. Montgomery died on 24 April 1942, her obituary in the Globe and Mail stated that “at the age of 12 she won a story-writing contest sponsored by the Montreal Star.”1 Such an assertion requires several corrections and clarifications: Montgomery was fifteen, not twelve, when she won the prize;2 the competition was for sketches and compositions, not for fiction; it was sponsored by the Montreal Daily Witness, not the Montreal Star; and Montgomery won third prize for Queens County in Prince Edward Island, as opposed to a national prize. Written as a school assignment in February 1890 and submitted as part of a nationwide competition referred to interchangeably as “Canadian Stories Competition,” “Canada Competition Prize,” and “Dominion Competition Prize” (to which she had submitted an essay on the legend of Cape Leforce the year before),3 the essay narrates a shipwreck that occurred on Cavendish beach in 1883, the summer after Montgomery’s eighth birthday.4 Montgomery mentioned in passing the results of that year’s competition in a journal entry dated 31 May 1890, but while she included in her scrapbook a clipping of the comments made by the judge for her award of third prize for her county, which described her piece as “a very chaste description of a sad event of coast life,”5 she omitted those comments from her journal entry. And although the publication of her first poem in November 1890, mere days before her sixteenth birthday, received its own journal entry,6 the publication of this school essay in the winter of 1891 – while she was living in Prince Albert, Saskatchewan, with her father and his new family – was not mentioned at all in her journal for that year; her scrapbook even states that the piece was published in February 1891, when in fact it appeared on 5 March 1891 in the Montreal Daily Witness and on 11 March 1891 in the Charlottetown Daily Patriot. The piece is signed “Lucy Maud Montgomery / Cavendish, Queen’s County, P.E.I.” but is accompanied by a sketch drawing of the young author that is captioned “Miss L.M. Montgomery” (see figure 2).

  Forty years after this piece appeared in the Montreal Daily Witness as a submission to a national essay contest, Montgomery herself donned the judge’s hat for two contests: the Canadian portion of the International Kodak Company Competition in 19317 and the Nancy Durham Memorial Contest held by the Circle of Young Canada column of the Toronto Globe.8 Montgomery’s published report for the fiction portion of the latter contest offers some practical advice to young writers about what constitutes good writing, including – somewhat surprisingly given her propensity as an adolescent to draw on some of the oral stories of her community – the recommendation that beginning writers resist attempting to rework old plots.9

  IN WRITING AN ESSAY FOR THE WITNESS IT IS NOT MY INTENTION to relate any hairbreadth escapes of my ancestors, for, though they endured all the hardships incidental to the opening up of a new country, I do not think they ever had any hair-raising adventures with bears or Indians. It is my purpose, instead, to relate the incidents connected with the wreck of the celebrated “Marco Polo” off Cavendish,10 in the summer of 1883.

  Cavendish is a pretty little village, bordering on the Gulf of St. Lawrence and possessing a beautiful sea coast, part of which is a stretch of rugged rocks and the rest of broad level beach of white sand. On a fine summer day a scene more beautiful could not be found than the sparkling blue waters of the Gulf, dotted over with white sails and stately fishing vessels. But it is not always so calm and bright; very often furious storms arise, which sometimes last for several days, and it was in one of these that the “Marco Polo” came ashore.

  The “Marco Polo” was a barque of the “Black Ball” line of packets and was the fastest sailing vessel ever built, her record never having been beaten.11 She was, at the time of her shipwreck, owned by a firm in Norway and was chartered by an English firm to bring a cargo of deal planks12 from Canada. The enterprise was risky, for she was almost too rotten to hold together, but she made the outward trip in safety and obtained her cargo; but, on her return, she was caught in a furious storm and became so water-logged that the captain, P.A. Bull of Christiania,13 resolved to run her ashore as the only way to save crew and cargo.

  What a day that 25th of July was in Cavendish! The wind blew a hurricane and the waves ran mountains high; the storm had begun two days before and had now reached its highest pitch of fury. When at its worst, the report was spread that a large vessel was coming ashore off a little fishing station called Cawnpore,14 and soon an excited crowd was assembled on the beach. The wind was nor’-nor’-east, as sailors say,15 and the vessel, coming in before the gale, with every stitch of canvas set, was a sight never to be forgotten! She grounded about 300 yards from the shore, and, just as she struck, the crew cut the rigging, and the foremast and the huge iron mainmast, carrying the mizzen-topmast with it, went over with a crash that could be heard for miles above the roaring of the storm!16 Then the ship broached to and lay there with the waves breaking over her.

  By this time, half the people in Cavendish were assembled on the beach and the excitement was intense. As long as the crew remained on the vessel they were safe, but, if ignorant of the danger of such a proceeding, they attempted to land, death was certain. When it was seen that they were evidently preparing to hazard a landing all sorts of devices to warn them back were tried, but none were successful until a large board was put up, with the words, “Stick to the ship at all hazards” painted on it. When they saw this they made no further attem
pt to land and thus night fell.

  The storm continued all night but by morning was sufficiently abated to permit a boat to go out to the ship and bring the crew ashore. They were a hard looking lot – tired, wet and hungry, but in high spirits over their rescue, and, while they were refreshing the inner man, the jokes flew thick and fast. One little fellow, on being asked, “if it wasn’t pretty windy out there,” responded, with a shrug of his shoulders, “Oh, no, der vas not too mooch vind but der vas too mooch vater!”

  Lively times for Cavendish followed. The crew, consisting of about twenty men, found boarding places around the settlement and contrived to keep the neighborhood in perpetual uproar, while the fussy good-natured captain came to our place. He was a corpulent, bustling little man, bluff and hearty – the typical sea-captain; he was idolized by his crew, who would have gone through fire and water for him any day. And such a crew! Almost every nationality was represented. There were Norwegians, Swedes, Dutchmen, Englishmen, Irishmen, Spaniards, two Tahitians, and one quarrelsome, obstinate little German who refused to work his passage home and demanded to be sent back to his fatherland by steamer. It was amusing to hear them trying to master the pronunciation of our English names. We had a dog called “Gyp” whose name was a constant source of vexation to them. The Norwegians called him “Yip,” the irritable little German termed him “Schnip” and one old tar twisted it into “Ship.”17

  But the time passed all too quickly by. The “Marco Polo” and her cargo were sold to parties in St. John, N.B.,18 and the captain and his motley crew took their departure. A company of men were at once hired to assist in taking out her cargo and eighteen schooner loads of deal were taken from her. The planks had so swelled from the wet that it was found necessary to cut her beams through in order to get them out and consequently she was soon nothing but a mere shell with about half of her cargo still in her.

  One night in August, about a month after she had come ashore, the men who were engaged in the work of unloading resolved to remain on the vessel until the following morning. It was a wild thing to think of remaining on her over night, but, seeing no indication of a storm, they decided to do so. It was a rarely beautiful evening; too fine, indeed – what old weather-prophets call a “pet” day.19 The sun set amid clouds of crimson, tinging the dusky wavelets with fire and lingering on the beautiful vessel as she lay at rest on the shining sea, while the fresh evening breeze danced over the purple waters. Who could have thought that, before morning, that lovely, tranquil scene would have given place to one of tempestuous fury! But it was so. By dawn a storm was raging, compared to which, that in which the “Marco Polo” came ashore was nothing.

  The tidings spread quickly and soon the shore was lined with people gazing with horror stricken eyes at the vessel, which, cut up as she was, must inevitably go to pieces in a short time. One can only imagine the agony of the relatives and friends of the poor men at seeing their dear ones in such danger and knowing that they were powerless to aid them. As for the men themselves, they were fully alive to their danger, for they knew that the vessel could not hold together much longer. Their only boat was stove in20 by the fury of the waves so that their sole hope of rescue lay in some boat being able to reach them from the shore which, in the then state of the sea, was impossible. In spite of the fact that the boat was full of water three of the men insanely got into it and tried to reach land. Of course the boat was instantly swamped and the men left struggling in the water. Two of them managed to regain the wreck in safety, but the third, a poor Frenchman called Peter Buote, was drowned instantly and, several days after the storm, his body was picked up some distance away.21

  The horror-stricken onlookers still kept their eyes fixed on the fated vessel, in horrible expectation of the inevitable catastrophe; suddenly a cry of horror burst from every lip as the ship was seen to part at the forecastle head and at once go down. The next minute, however, it was seen that the windlass and a small piece of the bow still remained held by the anchors, and that the men were clinging to this. With the courage of desperation, several attempts were now made to reach the wreck, but all the boats filled with water and were compelled to return. Nothing could now be done till the storm would abate and it was only one chance in a hundred that the fragment would hold so long.

  Meanwhile the beach was a sight to behold; the vessel having broken up, the planks in her washed ashore and for miles the shore was piled with deals and all sorts of wreckage till it was absolutely impassable!

  At last, towards evening, the sea grew a little smoother and, though the attempt was still fraught with much danger, a seine-boat22 was procured and a party of brave men went to the rescue. They reached the wreck in safety and hauled the men on board the boat by means of ropes. Thus they were all brought safely to land, exhausted with cold, wet, and hunger, but still alive. What rejoicing there was when they were safely landed, and, as the kindly neighbors crowded around with that “touch of nature that makes the whole world kin,”23 there was joy indeed except among the poor Frenchman’s relatives, who were mourning the loss of their friend.

  About a week afterward, in another gale, the last vestige of the vessel disappeared and that was the end of the famous “Marco Polo,” celebrated in song and story. Her copper bottom, chains, anchors, etc., in all, it was said, about $10,000, are still there, and, though almost buried in the sands, on a clear calm day the little fishing boats sailing over the spot can discern, far beneath, the remnants that mark the spot where the “Marco Polo” went down.

  (1891)

  A Western Eden

  LUCY MAUD MONTGOMERY

  This article, signed Lucy Maud Montgomery, appeared in the Prince Albert Times and Saskatchewan Review in June 1891, five months before Montgomery’s seventeenth birthday. In her journal, she called the article “a description of the prairies and scenery and the characteristics of the Indians,” adding that it would “finish up with a flowery peroration on the possibilities of the country as a whole.” A later journal entry indicates that the article had made “quite a bit of sensation” in her community.1 The article was reprinted with minor variations a few weeks later in the Manitoba Daily Free Press (Winnipeg), signed Lucy Ward Montgomery and including a descriptive phrase that called the piece “an article on the great Saskatchewan district”: “Beauty of the Noblest of All Northwestern Rivers – Prince Albert’s Pride – Words from the Pen of a Lady Writer.”

  “Let others raise the song of praise

  Of lands renowned in story;

  The land for me of the maple tree

  And the pine in all its glory!

  Hurrah, for the grand old forest land

  Where Freedom spreads her pinion!

  Hurrah, with me for the maple tree!

  Hurrah for the new Dominion.”

  MCLAUCHLIN2

  AN UNLIMITED EXPANSE OF GENTLE SLOPES AND VELVET meadows, dotted with groves and clumps of poplar, a pretty little town nestling at the foot of the terraced hills, a noble river flowing past, and beyond it the vast sweep of the “forest primeval”3 – that is Saskatchewan and Prince Albert. To be fully appreciated, Saskatchewan must be seen, for no pen, however gifted or graphic, can describe, with anything like justice, the splendid natural resources, the unequalled fertility, and the rare beauty of the prairies of this Western Eden. Nature has here seemed to shower down with most unstinted generosity her choicest gifts; and certainly, if richness of soil and mineral wealth, beautiful scenery, and unsurpassed climate have anything to do with the advancement of a country, then Saskatchewan is bound to speedily come to the front as one of the finest and wealthiest portions of this, our fair Dominion.

  To any lover of nature, a ride over the prairies of Saskatchewan is filled with the keenest pleasure. Never does one feel such a deep sense of the beauty of the universe as when, pausing on some breezy hill-top, spread out beneath is seen this magnificent wilderness where a century ago the buffalo and deer roamed undisturbed and where, even as yet, civilization has obtained
little more than a footing. Pause with me here, reader, and let us from this point of vantage take a look over this country which some timid people have, in days of yore, asserted to possess a winter nine months long and a remaining three of very doubtful character. On every hand, as far as eye can reach, extend the prairies adorned with groves of willow and poplar, clear and distinct near by, but in the distance mingling into a seeming forest clothed, over the outline of the distant hills, in hazy purple mists. Here the prairies extend in level, grassy meadows, sweet with the breath of the dainty prairie bluebells and wild roses; there they swell in ranges of picturesque bluff which curve around, every few yards, to enclose a tiny blue lake in its encircling of frost-yellowed grasses, like a sapphire set in gold. All is quiet – sound there is none save when some happy bird trills out a gush of warbling among the willows, or when the cool breeze rustles the poplar leaves in silvery music, and sweeps airily over the hills, bringing with it delicious whiffs of sweet clover and meadow grasses. The drowsy summer sunshine sleeps lazily on the slopes, the air is full of fragrance, and above, the peerless Canadian sky – dark azure in the tranquil deeps o’erhead, paling to silvery blue and pearl towards the horizon, with here and there trails of filmy white clouds tinged golden on the sunward side – arches its glorious dome over a scene which inspires us to exclaim with enthusiastic pride, –