The careless, disrespectful manner often used in this country by children to their parents, is an evil which in all probability originates in this early introduction of young people into the mysteries of society. They imagine themselves persons of consequence, and that their opinion is quite equal in weight to the experience and superior knowledge of their elders. We cannot imagine a more revolting sight than a young lad presuming to treat his father with disrespect and contempt, and daring presumptuously to contradict him before ignorant idlers like himself.
“You are wrong, Sir; it is not so” –“Mamma, that is not true; I know better,” are expressions which I have heard with painful surprise from young people in this country; and the parents have sunk into silence, evidently abashed at the reproof of an insolent child.
These remarks are made with no ill-will, but with a sincere hope that they may prove beneficial to the community at large, and be the means of removing some of the evils which are to be found in our otherwise pleasant and rapidly-improving society.
I know that it would be easier for me to gain the approbation of the Canadian public, by exaggerating the advantages to be derived from a settlement in the colony, by praising all the good qualities of her people, and by throwing a flattering veil over their defects; but this is not my object, and such servile adulation would do them no good, and degrade me in my own eyes. I have written what I consider to be the truth, and as such I hope it may do good, by preparing the minds of emigrants for what they will really find, rather than by holding out fallacious hopes that can never be realized.
In “Roughing it in the Bush,” I gave an honest personal statement of facts. I related nothing but what had really happened; and if illustrations were wanting of persons who had suffered as much, and been reduced to the same straits, I could furnish a dozen volumes without having to travel many hundred miles for subjects.
We worked hard and struggled manfully with overwhelming difficulties, yet I have been abused most unjustly by the Canadian papers for revealing some of the mysteries of the Backwoods. Not one word was said against the country in my book, as was falsely asserted. It was written as a warning to well-educated persons not to settle in localities for which they were unfitted by their previous habits and education. In this I hoped to confer a service both on them and Canada; for the prosperous settlement of such persons on cleared farms must prove more beneficial to the colony than their ruin in the bush.
It was likewise very cruelly and falsely asserted, that I had spoken ill of the Irish people, because I described the revolting scene we witnessed at Grosse Isle, the actors in which were principally Irish emigrants of the very lowest class. Had I been able to give the whole details of what we saw on that island, the terms applied to the people who furnished such disgusting pictures would have been echoed by their own countrymen. This was one of those cases in which it was impossible to reveal the whole truth.
The few Irish characters that occur in my narrative have been drawn with an affectionate, not a malignant hand. We had very few Irish settlers round us in the bush, and to them I never owed the least obligation. The contrary of this has been asserted, and I am accused of ingratitude by one editor for benefits I never received, and which I was too proud to ask, always preferring to work with my own hands, rather than to borrow or beg from others. All the kind acts of courtesy I received from the poor Indians this gentleman thought fit to turn over to the Irish, in order to hold me up as a monster of ingratitude to his countrymen.
In the case of Jenny Buchannon and John Monaghan, the only two Irish people with whom I had anything to do, the benefits were surely mutual. Monaghan came to us a runaway apprentice, – not, by-the-bye, the best recommendation for a servant. We received him starving and ragged, paid him good wages, and treated him with great kindness. The boy turned out a grateful and attached creature, which cannot possible confer the opposite character upon us.
Jenny’s love and affection will sufficiently prove our ingratitude to her. To the good qualities of these people I have done ample justice. In what, then, does my ingratitude to the Irish people consist? I should feel much obliged to the writer in the London Observer to enlighten me on this head, or those editors of Canadian papers, who, without reading for themselves, servilely copied a falsehood.
It is easy to pervert people’s words, and the facts they may represent, to their injury; and what I have said on the subject of education may give a handle to persons who delight in misrepresenting the opinions of others, to accuse me of republican principles; I will, therefore, say a few words on this subject, which I trust will exonerate me from this imputation.
That all men, morally speaking, are equal in the eyes of their Maker, appears to me a self-evident fact, though some may be called by His providence to rule, and others to serve. That the welfare of the most humble should be as dear to the country to which he belongs as the best educated and the most wealthy, seems but reasonable to a reflective mind, who looks upon man as a responsible and immortal creature; but, that perfect equality can exist in a world where the labour of man is required to procure the common necessaries of life – where the industry of one will create wealth, and the sloth of another induce poverty – we cannot believe.
Some master spirit will rule, and the masses will bow down to superior intellect, and the wealth and importance which such minds never fail to acquire. The laws must be enforced, and those to whom the charge of them is committed will naturally exercise authority, and demand respect.
Perfect equality never did exist upon earth. The old republics were more despotic and exclusive in their separation of the different grades than modern monarchies; and in the most enlightened, that of Greece, the plague-spot of slavery was found. The giant republic, whose rising greatness throws into shade the once august names of Greece and Rome, suffers this heart-corroding leprosy to cleave to her vitals, and sully her fair fame, making her boasted vaunt of equality a base lie – the scorn of all Christian men.
They thrust the enfranchised African from their public tables – born beneath their own skies, a native of their own soil, a free citizen by their own Declaration of Independence; yet exclaim, in the face of this black injustice “Our people enjoy equal rights.” Alas! for Columbia’s sable sons! Where is their equality? On what footing do they stand with their white brethren? What value do they place upon the negro beyond his price in dollars and cents? Yet is he equal in the sight of Him who gave him a rational soul, and afforded him the means of attaining eternal life.
We are advocates for equality of mind – for a commonwealth of intellect; we earnestly hope for it, ardently pray for it, and we feel a confident belief in the possibility of our theory. We look forward to the day when honest labour will be made honourable; when he who serves, and he who commands, will rejoice in this freedom of soul together; when both master and servant will enjoy a reciprocal communion of mind, without lessening the respect due from the one to the other.
But equality of station is a dream – an error which is hourly contradicted by reality. As the world is at present constituted, such a state of things is impossible. The rich and the educated will never look upon the poor and ignorant as their equals; and the voice of the public, that is ever influenced by wealth and power, will bear them out in their decision.
The country is not yet in existence that can present us a better government and wiser institutions than the British. Long may Canada recognise her rule, and rejoice in her sway! Should she ever be so unwise as to relinquish the privileges she enjoys under the sovereignty of the mother country, she may seek protection nearer and “fare worse!“ The sorrows and trials that I experienced during my first eight years’ residence in Canada, have been more than counterbalanced by the remaining twelve of comfort and peace. I have long felt the deepest interest in her prosperity and improvement. I no longer regard myself as an alien on her shores, but her daughter by adoption, – the happy mother of Canadian children, – rejoicing in the warmth and hospitality of a
Canadian Home!
May the blessing of God rest upon the land! and her people ever prosper under a religious, liberal, and free government!
FOR LONDON.
A National Song.
“For London! for London! how oft has that cry
From the blue waves of ocean been wafted on high,
When the tar through the grey mist that mantled the tide,
The white cliffs of England with rapture descried,
And the sight of his country awoke in his heart
Emotions no object save home can impart!
For London! for London! the home of the free,
There’s no part in the world, royal London, like thee!
“Old London! what ages have glided away,
Since cradled in rushes thy infancy lay!
In thy rude huts of timber the proud wings lay furl’d
Of a spirit whose power now o’ershadows the world,
And the brave chiefs who built and defended those towers,
Were the sires of this glorious old city of ours.
For London! for London! the home of the free,
There’s no city on earth, royal London, like thee!
“The Roman, the Saxon, the Norman, the Dane,
Have in turn sway’d thy sceptre, thou queen of the main!
Their spirits though diverse, uniting made one,
Of nations the noblest beneath yon bright sun;
With the genius of each, and the courage of all,
No foeman dare plant hostile flag on thy wall.
For London! for London! the home of the free,
There’s no city on earth, royal London, like thee!
“Old Thames rolls his waters in pride at thy feet,
And wafts to earth’s confines thy riches and fleet;
Thy temples and towers, like a crown on the wave,
Are hail’d with a thrill of delight by the brave,
When, returning triumphant from conquests afar,
They wreathe round thy altars the trophies of war.
For London! for London! the home of the free,
There’s no part in the world, royal London, like thee!
“Oh, London! when we, who exulting behold
Thy splendour and wealth, in the dust shall be cold,
May sages, and heroes. and patriots unborn,
Thy altars defend, and thy annals adorn!
May thy power be supreme on the land of the brave,
The feeble to succour, the fallen to save,
And the sons and the daughters now cradled by thee,
Find no city on earth like the home of the free!”
AFTERWORD
BY CAROL SHIELDS
As readers, we like to think that books are prompted into print through a sense of authorial urgency, and that a writer picks up a pen out of the heat of intense conviction. We imagine that the resulting manuscript goes on to forge a mystical bond with an editor – wise, principled – who instantly grasps the historical significance of the work and foresees how its pertinent observations and narrative leaps will fuse with the consciousness of a contemporary audience, speaking with its authentic voice and awakening its best instincts.
This romantic notion holds little truth today, as we all know, nor did it in the summer of 1852 when the English publisher, Richard Bentley, wrote to Susanna Moodie of Belleville asking if she would consider writing a second book on the subject of life in Canada. His terms of reference were genial but specific:
If you could render your picture of the state of society in the large towns and cities of Canada, interesting to the idle reader, at the same time you make it informing to those who are looking for facts it would be acceptable. Present them to the reader’s eye as they were years ago and as they are now, and are still every year I imagine rapidly prospering it might form a good work as a pendant to “Roughing It in the Bush.”
In November she replied. She was eager to begin, so eager that she enclosed a partial manuscript. She was, she explained to Bentley, recovering from a life-threatening illness, and at the urging of her doctors had recently undertaken a restorative boat trip to Niagara Falls.
“My idea was,” she wrote, “to describe as much of the country, as I could in my trip to Niagara, beginning with Belleville, and going through our lovely Bay, sketching the little villages along its shores, and introducing as many incidents and anecdotes illustrative of the present state of Canada, as I could collect or remember, to form a sort of apendix [sic] to Roughing It in the Bush.”
Considering the differences of geography and privilege, gender and sensibility that lay between Bentley and Moodie, it is impossible to say whether his “pendant” bore any resemblance to her “appendix.” Bentley’s intentions can be imagined; he was a gentleman, but also a businessman with an eye to capitalizing on the romance of immigration and on the widespread need for practical information.
Moodie’s expectations were more complex. She was understandably anxious to profit from the success of her previous book and ever in need of money for “bread, butter and tea,” and she also hoped to correct what she perceived to be the public’s grave misunderstanding of Roughing It in the Bush. She had never, she maintained, discouraged immigration to Canada; she had only warned that life on an uncleared farm offered hardship, isolation, and ruin for those of the middle or higher classes who were unfit for hard labour. Far more suitable for such settlers were farms already under cultivation or positions in Canada’s progressive and prosperous towns.
It seems likely that Bentley anticipated a new manuscript, freshly conceived and composed, but Moodie, ever practical and always resourceful, saw the book as a chance to reissue old work, both published and unpublished. Thrifty housewife that she was, she emptied her drawers, added a few new chapters and a thin tissue of connecting material, and quickly arrived at a complete manuscript.
It is little wonder that the book she wrote was not the book that she promised. Once settled in Canada, Moodie scarcely ever travelled more than a few miles from Belleville, and so she was far from being a knowledgeable and objective witness to the state of contemporary society. Her sensibility, too, was firmly rooted in pre-Victorian England, and her syntax was shaped – decorously, protectively – for a readership she had long since lost touch with. The “facts” specified by Bentley in his letter of contract for Life in the Clearings versus the Bush either sink beneath the weight of Moodie’s didactic commentary or are annihilated by her indefatigable enthusiasm. Also fragmented along the way is her proposed structural device, the journey to Niagara Falls in search of health.
The idea of such a pilgrimage is an ancient one, and so, particularly, is the idea that water possesses restorative properties: the pure spring, the enchanted fountain, the sacred river, the calm lake, the bracing seaside. A change of air, a change of scene these held out the promise of a renewal of the body and spirit, and what more abundant source of refreshment could there be than the waters of Niagara. Here the power and purity of nature merged, and here too was a tourist attraction that Moodie shrewdly judged would interest her English readers.
But she seems unable to decide whether this is a literary or historical journey. Again and again in the early chapters she pleads for postponement –“My dear reader, before we proceed further on our journey …” – and imposes her own agenda. From time to time she catches herself, briefly relocating the reader on the map and painting in a few landmarks. Only the final chapters accommodate themselves to the journey scheme, but these suggest an anecdotal travelogue rather than an Odyssian voyage. The vision soon deteriorates, and the vigour with which she devours information, consumes scenery, and thirsts after vignettes refutes her claims to physical frailty.
Life in the Clearings, then, succeeds by default. Moodie was ill-equipped to write the kind of book Bentley commissioned, and she quickly loses control of her organizing framework. Her voice is discursive, euphemistic, overblown, and sometimes oppressive – in the way that all storytelle
rs are oppressive – but it is unmistakably authentic.
When we speak of the voice of a period, we most often mean a voice of authority and munificence, the far-ranging voice of the lavishly gifted or the arbitrarily powerful. In the past that voice frequently was both aristocratic and male, securely located, rich with certitude and learning, a voice either self-anointed or baptized by the circumstantial unfolding of a literary tradition.
An authentic voice is something else. We know it when we hear it. The texture of the quotidian is in it, and every cultural moment secured suggests a thousand others. Even its self-consciousness, even its silences, can make a statement. It whines and falters, but manages to catch enough thieving narrative to reveal the configuration of a society and how it invests itself with meaning.
Susanna Moodie’s life spanned the greater part of the nineteenth century. Her lifetime coincided with enormous shifts in political dominion and, more important, with dramatic new concepts of personal power. To these phenomena, she is a perplexed but never disinterested witness. She immigrated to Canada when she was close to thirty years old, and so her consciousness was stretched across two cultures, two continents, and two political philosophies. Her adopted culture exposed her to the new radical democracy, but failed to erase her conflicting instincts of privilege. “That all men, morally speaking, are equal in the eyes of their Maker, appears to me to be a self-evident fact,” Moodie says in one chapter, but goes on in the next breath to say that “equality of station is a dream.” Her fixed view of society was shaken, finally, by her growing suspicion that many of the grievances of the lower classes were justified, and that immigration and education offered at least a measure of class mobility.
Life in the Clearings Versus the Bush Page 33
