A Name for Herself

by L. M. Montgomery

And islands that empurpled bright

  Floated amid the livelier light,

  And mountains that like giants stand

  To sentinel enchanted land.”20

  And as it grows darker and duskier, the stars begin to peep out in the rosy sky, and on every shadowy cape and island

  “Springs into life a grim gigantic shape,

  Holding its lantern o’er the restless surge

  A new Prometheus chained upon the rock,

  Still grasping in his hand the fire of Jove,”21

  and now and then some vessel creeps past like a huge, noiseless shadow. The deck is almost deserted, and, as a gush of laughter and music comes up from below, we shiver and suddenly realize that all the fairy light is gone, and that the Lake Superior damps are beginning to play havoc with our poetic fancies; so we retreat.

  Next day is as gloriously fine as ever. We get to the “Soo” about noon.22 We are “locked in” while at dinner, so we miss that performance and when we go on deck again we find ourselves in the lock, close to Uncle Sam’s territory, with the American part of pretty Sault Ste. Marie on one hand and on the other the rapids foaming restlessly between us and our Canada.

  Everyone is on deck, our American friend included. Somebody asks if this is the American side of the Sault. “Of course it is,” he says loftily, “you might know that by the fine houses. You’d never see a nice house or a pretty girl in Canada.” “Must be some fine looking men in the States, if he’s a specimen,” murmurs a gentleman near us, sotto voce,23 and we have the satisfaction of seeing that our critic evidently overhears it, for he gets very red and immediately finds something interesting in the other side of the boat.

  We are three hours at the Sault and after the novelty wears away the delay is long and tedious. We all lean over the railing and chat in a desultory fashion over one thing or another. Our American friend has digested his humor and returns to his place. A United States officer attracts his eye. “Ah,” he exclaims, exultantly, “it does me good to see a blue uniform like that again after those red jackets the Canadians wear. I detest them, don’t you?” turning to us. We respond indignantly that indeed we don’t but instead admire them very much. “Why,” he says, “they are too flashy for anything. And besides,” he adds, with the air of one advancing a crushing argument, “they are no good! They never did anything!”

  “Oh, didn’t they?” we murmur innocently, “well, of course, we may be wrong, but it seems to us that, when going to school, we remember learning in a history that those same red coats did beat somebody – but, of course, it couldn’t have been blue coats – at Queenston Heights and Lundy Lane.24 But maybe the historian was incorrect.” “Why,” he gasps, “are you Canadian?” “Of course we are,” we declare proudly, “we wouldn’t be anything else for the world.” At this he gives another gasp and goes away in disgust at finding us so hopelessly depraved. But in justice, be it said, the other Americans on the boat are not like this. They are kind and pleasant, thorough ladies and gentlemen, and we have a very nice time all around. Finally we get away and steam slowly down the St. Marys River,25 where the scenery is simply exquisite, past the maple clad shores, till we emerge upon Lake Huron. Another night on the boat and at noon next day we reach Owen Sound,26 which presents a charming appearance from the water. We have just time to hurry off the boat and scramble on board the waiting train when off she goes! What a delightful ride it is! Really Ontario is almost as pretty as our own dear Island! We go at a dizzy rate past the smiling farms, pretty towns, beautiful groves and green woods, where an occasional early dyed maple hangs out its scarlet flag – on, on, on till at three we reach Toronto. Beautiful Toronto! We are only there a few hours, but in that time we see quite enough to convince us that the Queen City is indeed the most beautiful one in Canada.27

  But nine o’clock comes, and off we are again! All night we ride! It is fearfully dismal. Just as sure as we coax ourselves into a dreamy doze, along comes a conductor to demand our tickets or make us change cars until, when we finally alight at Ottawa in the chilly gray dawn, we feel more unamiable than ever we did in our lives.

  We have heard so much of the depravity and corruption that reigns at Ottawa, that we hardly know what sort of a place we looked for. We expected something very disagreeable to say the least. Therefore we are quite surprised when we find that this much-slandered place is as pretty and peaceable a city as one would wish, even if it is not as beautiful or stately as others in Canada.

  Of course the Parliament buildings are the centre of attraction here. So in the afternoon we go up to them and under the guidance of a kind old veteran senator,28 we explore all their halls and windings. We are quite lost in the labyrinth of rooms and follow our guide blindly, wondering where in the world we are ever going to come out. The House is adjourned so we go through the commons and the senate chambers and the long halls hung with portraits of departed worthies. We sit a moment in the Governor General’s chair and feel at least two inches taller after this, of course.29 Then we explore the magnificent library and finally go into the Commons gallery and hear Sir Richard Cartwright speak on the census.30 Then we go out and ramble around beautiful Parliament Square, see the trunk of a tree that was 150 years old when Columbus discovered America, catch a glimpse of the glistening white Chaudiere Falls31 in the distance and, in open defiance of the rules, gather a tiny bouquet to carry away as a relic. Then in the evening we go again, and listen to a debate on the census and watch the brilliant scene below and around us. It is amusing to notice how, when someone is speaking, the members of the opposite side thin out to a meagre few to come back in redoubled force when one of their own party has the floor. We, in our innocence, supposed that nothing frivolous ever disgraced the members of the House of Commons. That they all sat in solemn conclave, or at least gave strict attention to all that was in progress. But alas! they don’t! They laugh, talk, doze, and throw paper balls at each other on the sly, till the bullets fall about as thick as leaves in an autumn gale.

  We are very insignificant ourselves in that crowded gallery! But, nevertheless, we feel a thrill of exultant pride as we hear it whispered behind us that the finest speaker in the House of Commons comes from little Prince Edward Island. We feel as if some of his glory must be reflected on his countrymen.

  Doubtless, it is unpatriotic, – but we cannot find the census debate very interesting. We are stupid enough to get very sleepy even in that temple of our country’s greatness (or weakness), so we finally come away just as some energetic politician begins to pulverize the argument of the previous speaker.

  The next afternoon we bid good-bye to Ottawa and by night we are in Montreal – stately, brilliant Montreal – where we stay till morning. In leaving the city we cross the famous Victoria Bridge32 – an experience not soon forgotten. How very long it seems. All is dense darkness save when, now and then, we pass a loophole and a flash of ghostly light flits down the car, and all hands breathe more freely when we are once more out in the clear sunlight. The ride from Montreal to Quebec is very uninteresting. There is little to be seen save some sterile stony little farms and what we had never thought to see in Canada, cutting grain with the primitive reaping hook. We catch a glimpse of the Montmorency Falls,33 looking at that distance like a moveless white snowbank, and a few minutes after we reach Point Levis.34 Opposite us, across the blue river, is “historic Quebec,” and we get a peep at the Plains of Abraham, where long ago was fought the famous battle which decided the destiny of Canada.35 It is dark when we reach Dalhousie,36 and then a dreary ride through the long, cold night ensues. Morning finds us at Moncton,37 where we improve a delay by inspecting the pretty little town, which is growing rapidly. At ten we leave and are at Point du Chene by noon where the dandy little Northumberland is waiting for us.38 It is rather rough crossing over, but we do not mind that, and, as the fresh breeze comes dancing up the Strait, bringing the echo of the salt seas, we realize, with a happy thrill, that we are very near home. Somebody says, “see, th
ere is Prince Edward Island,” and we eagerly rush on deck to catch a glimpse of the old sod! Yes; there it is – the long red line of cliffs, sloping to the green uplands with villages nestled here and there – dear P.E.I. at last! Never, Canada over, have we seen a lovelier, fairer spot than this! We feel like the old Scotch Islander in Winnipeg did. He said he was from “the Island!” What Island? queried a listener. “What Island,” repeated our honest countryman, in amazement. “Why, Prince Edward Island, man? What other Island is there?”39 Nearer and nearer we come till Summerside lies before us. Slowly we steam up beside the wharf, and then, amid the bustle and the noise, we descend the ladder, realizing that our long journey is over at last and our destination reached. And as our feet press the dear red soil once more we exclaim, with heart-felt delight:–

  “This is my own, my native land.”40

  Cavendish, Oct. 22nd, 1891.

  (1891)

  The Usual Way

  While a student at Prince of Wales College during the 1893–1894 academic year, some of her classmates launched, in February 1894, a short-lived monthly paper entitled The College Record, which “created quite a bit of excitement,” as she stated in a retrospective article, published in 1927, about her Prince of Wales year.1 Montgomery contributed four items in three months: the next three pieces in this volume as well as a poem, “The Last Prayer,” about the final moments in the life of a soldier. This first contribution, a playlet about the thwarted attempts of two first-class “co-eds” to study for their classes, a piece that takes up almost one-quarter of the eight-page second issue, apparently elicited a compliment from her Latin instructor, Dr. Alexander Anderson (1836–1925), who was reported to have called the piece “very cleverly written.” As she noted in her journal, “A compliment like that from the doc is worth having.”2 In an annotation to Montgomery’s journal entry dated 5 September 1893, Mary Henley Rubio and Elizabeth Hillman Waterston note that “First Class students normally attended for two years, adding Greek and Trigonometry to advanced studies in basic courses: English, history, geography, arithmetic, French, chemistry, agriculture, school management, school laws, teaching, and music.”3 Montgomery was such a student, and moreover, she elected to complete two years of study in one, as would the adolescent Anne Shirley in Anne of Green Gables.

  CHARACTERS: MILLICENT AND ROSE, TWO P.W.C. FIRST-class girls.

  Time, 4 o’clock, p.m.

  Place, Millicent’s room at boarding-house. Millicent looking over some books. Enter Rose.

  Millicent (effusively) – Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come at last. I was afraid something had prevented you. And I just can’t study alone. I never get on well.

  Rose (laying aside wraps) – Nor I; I think we always get on twice as well together. Do you know, I was just making up my mind, as I was coming down the street, that I would study awfully hard the rest of the term.

  M. – Wasn’t I just thinking the same thing! Now, just let’s both resolve that from this out we’ll study as hard as ever we can.

  R. – I say so, too; and let’s begin this very night.

  M. – All right; but hold on a minute, Rose dear, I want to show you my new coat. I just got it home an hour ago. It’s real pretty, I think. There it is. Now, how do you like it?

  R. – O-o-o-o-h, Milly! isn’t it just sweet. Hurry and put it on. I want to see how you look in it. (Millicent puts it on). Oh, it’s awfully becoming. I believe I’ll get mine something like it. Let me try it on, and see how I look in it. (Puts it on and surveys herself in the glass from all points of view). Who trimmed it, Milly?

  M. – Mrs. Fluffandfeathers. She’s fine.

  R. – I’ll get her to do mine. Just see how cute that little feather is. (They begin to examine the hat, discussing shape, ribbons, feathers, etc., till Millicent glances at clock).

  M. (startled) – My patience, Rose, it’s half-past four. I never dreamed we’d been so long. Let’s get a wiggle on. (Shoves hat hastily into box).

  R. – Goodness, yes! I’ve got to be home by six. Let’s see, to-morrow’s Friday and first lesson’s Cicero.4 Where’s your Cicero, Milly?

  M. (frantically turning the books over). Goodness, I don’t know. It was here a minute ago. Where do things disappear to? Oh, here it is! Well, sit down. Where does the old thing begin?

  R. – Chapter 8. Oh, say, don’t you hate Cicero?

  M. – I guess I do! It’s horrid hard. If it wasn’t for those notes at the back I never could make head or tail of it; and even then I’m stuck half the time.

  R. – So’m I. I declare I don’t feel one bit like trying to make it out to-night; my head is kind of aching.

  M. – So’s mine. Say, suppose we – (looks guiltily at Rose).

  R. – I believe we might. ’Tisn’t likely Dr. —— will ask us anyhow.

  M. – Well, let it slide. But I must see if I know that horrid chapter off by heart. You hear me say it, Rose, and I’ll hear you. (Rose takes book). “Quæres a nobis, Grati –”5 (Rose drops book and dashes to the window).

  R. – Oh, Milly, come quick! Amy Lee’s just gone past, and she’s got the prettiest sacque6 on you ever saw. Just look.

  M. – Oh, isn’t it, though? Wherever did she get it? Doesn’t she look nice in it?

  R. – Lovely! Aren’t the streets sloppy? I declare, I just hate to move out. There’s a lot of people on the go to-day. (They stand at window some time longer, discussing passers-by).

  M. (returning to table with a sigh) Well, let’s begin again. I don’t feel like any more Cicero. Will I hear you say it, Rose?

  R. (yawning) – Never mind. I guess I know it, anyhow. Geometry comes next, doesn’t it?

  M. – Yes, it’s the 16th prop. This old sixth book is more than I can see through.

  R. – Same here. What’s the enunciation?

  M. (reading) – If four straight lines be proportional, the rectangle contained by the extremes is equal to the rectangle contained by the means; and if the rectangle contained by the extremes be equal to the rectangle contained by the means, the four straight lines are proportionals. (Disgustedly).7 Who in the world could ever find any sense in that?

  R. (despairingly) – I don’t believe I’ll ever be able to learn geometry, anyhow. I don’t understand it.

  M. – Do you think Prof. Shaw’d be likely to ask us, anyhow, to-morrow?8

  R. – I don’t believe he would. We’re away at the back. Anyhow, if I learned it now, I’d forget it before to-morrow.

  M. (tossing books away) – So would I. Well, here’s Roman History. I like it just splendid.9

  R. (enthusiastically) – So do I. And isn’t Cæsar just glorious?10 I could read about him forever and ever. The lesson to-morrow’s about him being murdered, isn’t it?

  M. – Yes, it’s awfully interesting. But those Roman names mix me all up. I never can tell one from the other. Will I read the lesson out loud?

  R. – Yes, go on. Oh, here’s some chocolates, Milly. I got them at Sweetman & Co’s. They do have such nice candies there.

  M. – Don’t they, though. Thanks, awfully. I do love chocolates. (Begins to read and eat chocolates at same time, mixing up her words, skipping Roman names, and stopping in the midst of every sentence for a fresh bite. Lays down the book at end). Those chocolates are lovely, Rose.

  R. – H’m. Say, do you think Dr. —— is going to give us a week’s holidays at Easter?

  M. – Oh, don’t I hope he will. Wouldn’t it be jolly?

  R. – Have some more chocolates?

  M. – Don’t mind if I do. Thanks. Well, there’s History disposed of; what’s next?

  R. – English Literature; but there’s nothing to learn in that. Then there’s only French left for to-morrow.

  M. – Oh, I’m not going to bother myself about French when we’re so near the end. I know how it’s going to turn out now. It’s been just splendid, hasn’t it? But I’m real sorry for poor Eriphile now, aren’t you?11

  R. – Indeed I am. But Iphigenia’s sweet. I
haven’t revised half that French. Don’t know what I’m ever going to do when the exam. comes on. Well, we’ve got on pretty well at the studies to-day. And we’ve sometime yet. Let’s look over a little hygiene. I like it.

  M. – So do I, if it wasn’t for the horrid pictures in it. They give me the creeps. Say, do you really believe we’d look like that if we were skinned?

  R. – I suppose so. Here, let’s see if we can answer the questions for next day. Here’s a funny one: “Is there any good in sighing?” Well, is there any good?

  M. – I’m sure I can’t imagine, but if there is, I know a girl who ought to be healthy. She’s the worst to sigh you ever heard. She was so nice, though. She and I used to be such great chums.

  R. (rather jealously) – Not any greater than you and I are now, Milly.

  M. – No, indeed. You are my dearest friend, you dear thing. (They get their arms around each other).

  R. – After we leave college we’ll have to write to each other every week.

  M. – Indeed we will. Won’t it be horrid to leave college. I love going to it so.

  R. – So do I.

  M. – Well: “If a person is plunged under water will it enter his lungs?”

  R. – Well, he’ll drown anyhow, if they keep him there long enough. Well, I guess I must be going for it’s a quarter to six, and I want to run up to the Bazaar before tea. Haven’t we had a real nice spell studying? You’d better come up with me for a walk, Milly.

  M. (weakly) – I ought to work some algebra.

  R. – Never mind it. Algebra can wait.

  M. – I believe I’ll go. I feel sleepy, anyhow. I do think when we’re studying so hard we ought to take more exercise than we do. (Puts on wraps). Are you ready? Isn’t it nice to think all our lessons are learned, and we’re free to enjoy ourselves.

  (Exit both girls.)

  (1894)

  Extracts from the Diary of a Second Class Mouse