A History of Prince Edward Island

• Introduction
• Chapter 1 The Land of the Mi'kmaq: Pre-Colonial Life on Epekwitk
• Chapter 2 First Encounters: European Exploration and a New Name
• Chapter 3 Île Saint-Jean: French Settlement and the Acadian Experience
• Chapter 4 The Tumult of Empires: The British Conquest and Deportation
• Chapter 5 A Land Divided: The 1767 Land Lottery and its Legacy
• Chapter 6 A Colony is Born: The Establishment of St. John's Island
• Chapter 7 Echoes of Revolution: The Island and the American War of Independence
• Chapter 8 The Loyalist Influx: A New Wave of Settlers
• Chapter 9 The Struggle for the Land: Tenants, Proprietors, and the Escheat Movement
• Chapter 10 The Road to Self-Rule: Achieving Responsible Government
• Chapter 11 The Cradle of Confederation: The 1864 Charlottetown Conference
• Chapter 12 A Reluctant Partner: Why the Island Initially Rejected Confederation
• Chapter 13 Forging a Nation: Prince Edward Island Joins Canada
• Chapter 14 The Iron Horse: The Prince Edward Island Railway and its Impact
• Chapter 15 Black Gold and Silver Foxes: The Rise and Fall of the Fur Industry
• Chapter 16 The Great War: The Island's Contribution and Sacrifice
• Chapter 17 Between the Wars: Prohibition, the Great Depression, and Social Change
• Chapter 18 A World at War Again: Prince Edward Island's Role in World War II
• Chapter 19 The Post-War Boom: Modernization and the Shift Away from Agriculture
• Chapter 20 Anne's Land: The Enduring Power of a Literary Icon and the Growth of Tourism
• Chapter 21 The Comprehensive Development Plan: A Blueprint for the Future
• Chapter 22 The Great Debate: The Fixed Link and the End of "Islandness"
• Chapter 23 The Confederation Bridge: A New Era of Connection
• Chapter 24 A Province Transformed: The Modern Economy and Changing Demographics
• Chapter 25 Challenges and Opportunities in the 21st Century
• Afterword

There is an inherent paradox to Prince Edward Island. It is, by a significant margin, Canada's smallest province, a gentle crescent of red earth and rolling green fields nestled in the Gulf of St. Lawrence. Yet, for all its modest size, its history is a grand tapestry woven with threads of Indigenous heritage, colonial ambition, geopolitical struggle, and a quiet but determined march toward its own unique identity. Its provincial motto, Parva sub ingenti—"The small under the protection of the great"—adopted in 1769, speaks to a long history of being a smaller player on a larger stage, a reality that has shaped its destiny in profound ways. This book is the story of that small island and its outsized journey.

Long before the sails of European ships appeared on the horizon, the island was Epekwitk, a name given by its first inhabitants, the Mi'kmaq, meaning "cradled on the waves" or "something lying on the water.” For millennia, this was a cherished part of Mi'kma'ki, the ancestral homeland of the Mi'kmaq people, a place of seasonal bounty where life was lived in harmony with the rhythms of the land and sea. The story of Prince Edward Island cannot begin without acknowledging this deep and enduring legacy, a history recorded not in ink and paper but in oral traditions and a spiritual connection to the land that persists to this day.

The arrival of Europeans in the 16th century marked an irrevocable turning point. French explorer Jacques Cartier, upon sighting the island in 1534, was captivated by its beauty, describing it as "the finest land 'tis possible to see." France laid claim to the territory, naming it Île Saint-Jean, but for nearly two centuries, it remained a peripheral concern, sparsely populated. It was only after France lost control of mainland Acadia in the early 18th century that Île Saint-Jean became a vital refuge for French and Acadian settlers seeking to remain under French rule. This period of French settlement, though relatively brief, established a foundational European culture on the island, the legacy of which is still vibrant in its Acadian communities.

The global conflict between the British and French empires would ultimately decide the island's fate. In 1758, during the Seven Years' War, British forces captured Île Saint-Jean and initiated one of the most tragic episodes in its history: the deportation of the Acadian settlers. More than 3,000 inhabitants were forcibly removed and shipped to France, a perilous journey on which over half would perish from shipwreck or disease. This traumatic event, part of the wider Great Upheaval, reshaped the island's demographic and political landscape, paving the way for British colonization. Ceded to Great Britain by the Treaty of Paris in 1763, the island was anglicized to St. John's Island.

What followed was one of the most peculiar and consequential experiments in British colonial policy. To avoid the expense of administering the new colony, the British government in 1767 devised a system whereby the entire island was surveyed and divided into 67 lots of approximately 20,000 acres each. These lots were then distributed not to hardy settlers, but to a group of well-connected British proprietors—politicians, military officers, and merchants—through a lottery held in London. In exchange for the land, these new owners were expected to settle their lots and pay annual "quit rents" to fund the colonial government. This system of absentee landlordism would become the dominant and most vexing issue in Island politics for the next century, creating a tenant-based society and a deep-seated struggle for control over the very land the Islanders worked.

Despite these foundational challenges, a new colony began to take shape. In 1769, it was granted its own administration, separate from Nova Scotia, and in 1799, it was renamed Prince Edward Island in honor of Prince Edward, Duke of Kent. Charlottetown, the new capital, grew from a tiny settlement into the political and commercial heart of the colony. The 19th century saw the rise of a prosperous shipbuilding industry, with Island-built vessels sailing the world's oceans, forming the backbone of the economy for decades. Alongside this maritime enterprise, agriculture flourished in the rich, red soil, earning the island its enduring nickname, the "Garden of the Gulf."

It was in this context of growing prosperity and a distinct identity that Prince Edward Island took its most famous turn on the national stage. In September 1864, Charlottetown hosted the first conference to discuss the potential union of Britain's North American colonies. This pivotal event earned the province the title "Cradle of Confederation." Yet, in a twist of historical irony, when the Dominion of Canada was formed in 1867, Prince Edward Island refused to join. Islanders, wary of their small voice being lost in a large federation and seeing little economic benefit, chose to remain a separate British colony.

The decision could not hold forever. The ambition to build a railway from one end of the island to the other, intended to modernize the colony, instead plunged it into a crippling debt crisis. Faced with bankruptcy, the once-reluctant partner turned to Canada for a solution. In 1873, after securing a deal that included Canada assuming the railway debt and providing funds to finally buy out the absentee landlords, Prince Edward Island entered Confederation as the nation's seventh province.

The late 19th and early 20th centuries brought new economic ventures, most notably the lucrative but volatile silver fox farming industry. The island also contributed significantly to the nation's efforts in two World Wars. But perhaps its most famous export from this era was not a product, but a story. In 1908, Lucy Maud Montgomery published Anne of Green Gables, a novel that would capture the imagination of the world and forever link Prince Edward Island with its spirited, red-headed heroine. The enduring global appeal of Anne has had a profound and lasting impact on the province, shaping its cultural identity and becoming a cornerstone of its tourism industry.

The post-war era ushered in a period of profound transformation. The 1960s saw the implementation of the Comprehensive Development Plan, a sweeping federal-provincial initiative designed to modernize the Island's economy, infrastructure, and social services. This ambitious and sometimes controversial plan aimed to bring the province "up to date," accelerating the shift from a purely agrarian society to a more diversified economy. But the most significant change was yet to come. For centuries, the defining characteristic of the province was its "islandness"—its physical separation from the mainland. That all changed with the fierce debate and eventual construction of the Confederation Bridge. Its opening in 1997 physically connected the island to the mainland for the first time, ending an era of reliance on ferries and iceboats and heralding a new chapter of integration with the rest of Canada.

This book chronicles this remarkable journey in all its complexity. From the ancient traditions of the Mi'kmaq to the political debates of the 21st century, it is a story of adaptation, resilience, and community. It explores how a small island, shaped by the push and pull of larger global forces, forged a distinct and cherished identity. It is the history of a place that, while small, has never been insignificant.

Long before the first European sail broke the horizon, the crescent-shaped island cradled in the southern Gulf of St. Lawrence was not a place waiting to be discovered, but a cherished and integral homeland. For the Mi'kmaq, the Indigenous people who have inhabited the region since time immemorial, this was Epekwitk, a name that translates evocatively as "something lying on the water" or "cradled on the waves". This was not a border on a map but a vital part of their ancestral territory, Mi'kma'ki, a domain that encompassed much of what is now known as Atlantic Canada. Archaeological evidence, combined with the deep well of Mi'kmaq oral tradition, points to a continuous presence on the island stretching back thousands of years. A human jawbone fragment found near Stanhope, dated to be about 5,000 years old, stands as a tangible link to this ancient past, confirming a profound and enduring connection to the land that predates all other histories.

Epekwitk was one of seven traditional districts within the broader Mi'kma'ki territory, a district known as Epekwitk aq Piktuk, which also included the adjacent mainland area of Pictou. Life on the island was governed by a sophisticated understanding of the environment and a social structure built on kinship, respect, and consensus. The fundamental unit of Mi'kmaq society was the extended family, which formed small, mobile bands. Several of these bands, related by alliance and kinship, would constitute a larger community. Leadership was not based on coercive power but on prestige, wisdom, and the ability to effectively manage the community's economic and social well-being. Each local band had a chief, or Saqmaw, a position often passed down from father to son, who would consult with a regional chief. These regional chiefs represented their districts on a national body called the Mi'kmawey Mawio'mi, or Grand Council. This traditional government, established long before European arrival, was the apex of Mi'kmaq political organization, addressing issues that affected the entire nation and managing relations with other Indigenous peoples, such as their allies in the Wabanaki Confederacy. Decision-making was a collective process, deeply respectful of the insights of community Elders. Issues were often discussed in talking circles where every voice could be heard, ensuring that choices were made through deliberation and consensus, a tradition passed down not through written laws but through the powerful medium of oral history.

The rhythm of life on Epekwitk was dictated by the unceasing cycle of the seasons. The Mi'kmaq were a semi-nomadic people, their movements a graceful and practical response to the changing availability of resources throughout the year. This seasonal round was a testament to a deep, accumulated knowledge of the land and sea, allowing them to arrive in specific areas precisely when the bounty was at its peak. Their year was divided into four seasons: siwkw (Spring), nipk (Summer), toqa'q (Autumn), and kesik (Winter), with the winter solstice marking the transition from one year to the next.

As the harsh cold of kesik, or winter, descended upon the island, the Mi'kmaq would move from the exposed coastline to the sheltered interior of the great Acadian forest. These inland camps, nestled among the hardwoods, provided protection from the fierce winds blowing off the gulf. Winter was the primary season for hunting the island's large land mammals. Though moose were not present on the island in pre-colonial times, herds of native woodland caribou roamed the forests and bogs, providing a critical source of food, hides, and bone. Black bears, also common before European settlement, were another important source of food, fat for cooking and preserving, and thick furs for warmth. Hunters, masters of tracking and survival, utilized the deep snow to their advantage, wearing snowshoes of their own invention to glide over the drifts while the heavier animals were slowed. Smaller animals such as beavers and martens were also trapped for their pelts and meat. The winter camps were not only places of subsistence but also of community and culture. The long nights were a time for storytelling, for passing on the great oral traditions, histories, and lessons embodied in figures like Glooscap, the cultural hero who, according to one legend, used the island as his pillow. It was a time for crafting and repairing tools, for women to engage in the intricate art of decorating clothing with porcupine quills, and for the community to strengthen its bonds in the shared warmth of the wigwam.

When the grip of winter loosened and siwkw, or spring, arrived, a profound shift occurred. As the ice broke up on the rivers and the land began to reawaken, the Mi'kmaq bands would journey back towards the coast. This was a time of immense abundance, signaled by the massive spawning runs of fish in the island's rivers and estuaries. Gaspereau, smelt, and herring surged upstream in such numbers that they could be harvested with nets, weirs, and spears, providing a much-needed replenishment of food stores after the lean months of winter. The coast also offered a wealth of other resources. Migratory seabirds and waterfowl returned to their nesting grounds, and their eggs were an important source of protein. As the coastal landscape turned green, women gathered the first edible plants and roots, possessing an encyclopedic knowledge of which species were nutritious and which held medicinal properties.

Nipk, the summer, was a time of coastal living, with larger communities gathering at traditional sites along the shores of the island's many bays and estuaries, such as the bountiful Malpeque Bay. The sea became the primary larder. The Mi'kmaq were expert mariners, navigating the coastal waters in ingeniously designed birchbark canoes. These vessels, built with cedar frames and sheathed in waterproof birchbark sewn with spruce root, were light enough to be carried over land but resilient enough for sea voyages, capable of transporting entire families and their possessions. From these canoes, men fished for cod, mackerel, and sturgeon, using hooks carved from bone and three-pronged spears known as leisters. The shallow bays and tidal flats offered up vast quantities of shellfish, and ancient shell middens—piles of discarded shells—found on places like Robinsons Island provide archaeological proof of this seasonal harvest of oysters, clams, and quahogs. The summer diet was further supplemented by hunting seals and even walrus, which once gathered in the thousands on the island's sandy shores.

The arrival of toqa'q, or autumn, signaled a time of intense preparation for the coming winter. As the air grew crisp, the focus shifted to harvesting and preserving food. The eel runs in September were a particularly important event. Building stone or wicker weirs across rivers, the Mi'kmaq could trap vast quantities of eels, which were then smoked or dried to be stored for later use. Migratory birds were hunted as they passed through the island on their southward journey. Berries and other plants were harvested and dried. It was during this transitional season that the bands would begin their journey back to the interior, leaving the increasingly stormy coast for the relative shelter of their winter camps, their stores replenished and their community prepared for the cycle to begin anew.

The Mi'kmaq worldview was one of profound spiritual connection to the natural world. This was not a relationship of dominion, but one of interdependence and respect. Their spirituality was woven into every aspect of daily life, rooted in the belief that a Great Spirit, Kisu'lk, was the creator of all things, and that this spirit resided in every plant, animal, person, and feature of the earth. This belief gave rise to the guiding principle of Netukulimk. Netukulimk is a complex concept that can be understood as a way of harvesting resources for the sustenance of oneself and the community without jeopardizing the environment for future generations. It is a philosophy of stewardship, of taking only what is needed, and of acting with a constant awareness that every life form is interrelated. This principle is encapsulated in the Mi'kmaq expression Msit No'kmaq, which means "all my relations," a phrase that extends the concept of kinship to all living things.

This respect was reflected in their hunting practices. When an animal was killed, it was seen as giving itself to the people so they could survive. Hunters were expected to honour the animal's spirit, ensuring that all parts of it were used. Meat was eaten, hides were tanned for clothing and shelter, bones and antlers were carved into tools like fish hooks and needles, and sinew was used for cordage. To do otherwise was to show disrespect and risk angering the spirits, which could lead to failure in future hunts. This intimate relationship with the environment also fostered a deep understanding of medicinal plants. Through generations of observation and orally transmitted knowledge, the Mi'kmaq developed a rich pharmacopeia, using various plants and roots to heal illnesses.

The physical landscape of pre-colonial Epekwitk was a lush and wild place. An estimated 98 percent of the island was covered in a dense Acadian forest, a mix of hardwoods like maple, beech, and oak, and conifers such as massive white pine and spruce. The rich, red soil supported a diverse ecosystem teeming with wildlife. In addition to the woodland caribou and black bears, the forests were home to Canada lynx, American marten, and river otters. The surrounding waters of the Gulf of St. Lawrence were extraordinarily rich in marine life, providing the foundation for the Mi'kmaq's seasonal economy.

The ingenuity of the Mi'kmaq was evident in their material culture. They were masters of using the natural resources available to them to create everything they needed for survival. Their homes, called wikuoms or wigwams, were marvels of practical design. Built with a frame of wooden poles, they were covered in sheets of birchbark or animal hides. The conical shape was common for summer dwellings, while larger, oblong structures were often built for the winter camps to accommodate more people. Inside, the floors were lined with soft fir boughs and woven reed mats, with a central fire for warmth and cooking. Tools and weapons were crafted with precision from stone, wood, and bone. They chose specific types of stone, like chalcedony, for its ability to be fractured into razor-sharp edges for arrowheads, knives, and scrapers. Heavier stones were pecked and ground to create axes and gouges for woodworking. Women were skilled weavers, creating bags and mats from reeds and grasses, and were particularly renowned for their exquisite decorative quillwork, using brightly dyed porcupine quills to create intricate mosaics on clothing and birchbark containers.

For thousands of years, this was the way of life on Epekwitk. It was a life of motion, attuned to the rhythms of the seasons and sustained by a deep knowledge of the natural world. It was a society with a stable and sophisticated political structure, a rich spiritual tradition, and a culture of resilience and ingenuity. The island was not an isolated outpost but a central and cherished part of the Mi'kmaq homeland, a place of sustenance, community, and spirit, cradled on the waves.