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**************************************************************** * Gaslight note: after reading two articles in The Canadian * * Magazine (1899-may) which discussed literary greats, * * Robert Barr was provoked to write the following two- * * part, complementary article chiding the editor and all * * Canadians for neglecting to promote home-grown literature. * * Barr's article was featured prominently and generated at * * least two other response articles from other writers. Barr * * participated in articles for The Canadian Magazine at * * at least once a year after becoming successful abroad. * ****************************************************************
from The Canadian Magazine, XIV, 1 (November 1899), pp. 3-7
In the May number of The Canadian Magazine there appeared an article by the editor entitled 'The Strength and Weakness of Current Books.' The article deals largely of Canada and its literature, and thus it is interesting to all of us who have an affection for Canada, especially as the subject is treated with illuminating restraint by Mr. Cooper.
As the matter is, strictly speaking, none of my business, I naturally desired to say something about it, but the year has grown several months older before I could snatch time from more pressing work than the delightful task of lecturing Canada, and even now I must treat this important theme with a haste and superficiality it does not deserve.
Canada, from its position on the map, its hardy climate, its grand natural scenery, its dramatic and stirring historical associations should be the Scotland of America. It should produce the great poets, which I believe it is actually doing, although I doubt if their books are selling in the Dominion. It should produce the great historical novelist; the Sir Walter Scott of the New World. Has the Sir Walter Scott of Canada appeared? And if so, is he unrecognized? If he has not yet come forward, what are the chances for his materialization? If Scott came to Canada, to change W.T. Stead's phrase, how long would it be before he starved to death? It is towards the solution of these questions that the jumbling remarks which follow will be directed, although I do not guarantee to keep to the point, and reserve to myself the privilege of wandering all over the place if I want to. I have felt for some years that it would be desirable for a writing man to take upon himself the odium of telling the truth to Canada, as far as literature is concerned. It is so popular to be eulogistic, that the average man's address or article touching Canada, on literature and that sort of thing, has a tendency to strengthen the delusion, already too wide spread, that Canada is an intellectual country. For an excellent example of this fatal habit, turn to Mr. W.A. Fraser's address before the Press Association published in the May number of The Canadian Magazine. The chief fault which I find in this address is that it embodies an underestimation of Canadian men and women writers, which is so typical of Canada itself.
Mr. Fraser is addressing a body of Canadian Pressmen, and one of the duties of a Canadian Pressman should be to foster Canadian literature. Does Canada possess a literary man or woman? Not so far as may be learned from Mr. Fraser. Here are the names of the persons mentioned to the Pressmen: Zangwill, Baring Gould, Robert Burns, Talmage, Shakespeare, Goethe, Kossuth, Dickens, Rudyard Kipling, and G.W. Steevens. In that oration there is not a single Canadian mentioned, or even hinted at, unless the phrase that 'Canada is the abode of wicked French priests, who are only kept from ruining everybody by the gallantry of the hero,' is a sneer at the charming romance of Charles G.D. Roberts, 'The Forge in the Forest.' The Bible tells us that a prophet is not without honour save in his own country, and this eternal truth is exemplified in Canada to-day, and has been for years past. Mecca cast out Mahomet, and it was only when he was driven from its gates that he founded the religion of which Mecca is to-day the centre.
Mr. Fraser says, 'So far, literature has done little for Canada.' This remark, which, by the way, is untrue, recalls to my mind the much more striking phrase of the late John Sandfield Macdonald. 'What in hell has Strathroy done for me?' What has Canada done for literature? Little or nothing. Her greatest literary man would live in squalor, if he remained within her boundaries and depended upon her for support. Canada does not buy books to any extent worth mentioning. Apologists for the Dominion have said that life in Canada is strenuous; that there is the inevitable struggle in conquering a new country; that money is scarce and that books are not a necessity. Is this true? Is it the lack of money that makes Canada so poor a book market? Or is it because the Canadians are not a reading people? Is it lack of intellect rather than lack of cash? In writing this article here in England I have to admit I am not well supplied with statistical volumes relating to Canada, and any statement I make in the line of figures is subject to correction. I have at my elbow the statistical 'Year Book of Canada' for 1889, and so whatever I glean from it will be at least ten years old. I find (page 191) that in the year 1885, for instance, Canada drank 1.12 gallons of whiskey per head, as against 1.01 gallons per head in Great Britain and Ireland. That is to say, the Canadian drank eleven hundredths of a gallon more than the Britisher, who has never been held up to the natives of this earth as a strictly temperance individual. I find that in the five years ending in 1889, Canada consumed annually an average of two million eight hundred and ninety thousand five hundred and eight gallons of spirits.
Now, when I was in Canada last year, five bottles of whiskey went to a gallon, and they charged me a dollar a bottle; so, putting the gallon at the low figure of three dollars, this would mean that Canada's liquor bill was something under nine millions of dollars, more than double of what Ontario paid during those years for education. We used to have a phrase in Canada to this effect, 'Talk is cheap, but it takes money to buy whiskey.'
I find that in those years Canada transformed something like a hundred million bushels of good wheat into spirituous liquor, but her production of books during the same time seems to have been so infinitesimal that the statistical Year Book does not even mention the output.
It will be seen by these statements that it is not the lack of money that makes Canada about the poorest book market in the world outside of Senegambia.
It may be said that I am putting literature on a low level when I place it on a cash basis; but an author must live if he is to write, and he must eat if he is to live, and he must have money if he is to eat. Cash is the magic wand of modern life; it will conjure up nearly anything you like. Recently a music dealer in Italy offered a substantial prize for an opera, and the offer brought forth 'Cavalleria Rusticana' and 'Pagliacci,' two musical efforts which became instantly successful all over the world. The Youth's Companion once offered a large prize for the best short story, and the taker of it was an unknown writer in Toronto. The Toronto Globe some years ago offered tempting prizes for short stories, and actually hooked in one of mine, and if mine did not take the first prize it was because there was a better story ahead of it.
The bald truth is that Canada has the money, but would rather spend it on whiskey than on books. It prefers to inflame its stomach, rather than inform its brain. And yet there are people who actually hold that Canada is an intellectual country. The trouble is that it adds stupidity to its lack of intelligence. This sounds somewhat tautological, but a person may lack intelligence and still not be stupid. Commercially, nothing pays a country better than lavishly to subsidize an author. A Sir Walter Scott would bring millions into Canada every year. Scotland could well have afforded to bestow on Sir Walter Scott a hundred million dollars for his incomparable Waverley Novels. His works have made Scotland the dearest district in the world in which a traveller can live, and have transformed it from a poverty-stricken land into a tourist-trodden country, rolling in wealth. The reason I choose Sir Walter Scott as an example is, first, that he was the man whom the six gentlemen mentioned by Mr. Cooper chose to lead their list of desirable authors; second, because no Canadian writer has ever been made wealthy by Canada, and so I can't go to the Dominion for an example; and, third, because I am myself an adoring admirer of Sir Walter Scott's works.
Now Sir Walter Scott was not writing for laurel wreaths; he wrote entirely and solely for cash. He began his Waverley Novels to support his lavish expenditure on Abbotsford. I doubt if he had any idea how good the books were. I think it was a canny precaution of Scott when he refused to put his name on them, fearing they were bad, and that he might jeopardise his already well-won reputation as a poet; yet whether they were good or bad he resolved to write them if they would bring in money. He continued his output of novels afterwards to pay his debts, incurred in a disastrous commercial speculation, the object of which had been to make money. If Sir Walter had thought he could make more money by planting trees or raising stock he would undoubtedly have turned his attention to those pursuits, and the Waverley Novels would have been unwritten.
One of the first recorded utterances of Sir Walter Scott's, touching upon books, that I can find, was made to Ballantyne just a hundred years ago, where he says:
'I think I could, with little trouble, put together
sundry selections of them (Border Ballads) as might make
a neat little volume that would sell for four or five
shillings,'
You see, he does not say that it would be well to
collect these ballads in case they might be lost to the
world, or that their publication would give deserved fame
to ancient writers, but that the book would sell for four
or five shillings. It is the four or five shillings that
the average literary man is after and must have, if he is
to continue in the business.
What chance has Canada, then, of raising a Sir Walter
Scott? I maintain that she has but very little chance,
because she won't pay the money, and money is the root of
all literature. The new Sir Walter is probably tramping
the streets of Toronto to-day, looking vainly for
something to do. But Toronto will recognize him when he
comes back from New York or London, and will give him a
dinner when he doesn't need it.
I would like to say before going further, that although
Mr. Fraser's address to the journalists filled me with
resentment, because of his ignoring Canadian literary
men, I am, nevertheless, a great admirer of that
gentleman's stories, and, if I am not very much mistaken,
he got his start in somewhat the same manner as I did
myself. In the Philadelphia Saturday Evening Post of
June the 24th, are two items side by side which ought to
be pondered on by Canada. One paragraph says: 'Mr. W.A.
Fraser sent his first sketch to The Detroit Free Press,
and it was at once accepted. The cheque for it
determined Mr. Fraser to regular writing, and his success
has been pronounced.'
The second item is about Charles G.D. Roberts, and
reads: 'Professor Roberts is in future going to live in
England. It is understood that he goes abroad by the
advice of a well-known publisher, who assures him that he
can make much more money in London.'
Mr. Fraser had to go outside of Canada to secure his
first cheque, and that was my own experience, getting the
cheque from the same paper.
The first article of mine that was accepted by The
Detroit Free Press had been sent to every paper in
Ontario, without exception, and unanimously declined,
although it was offered for nothing. The preacher in the
story, said 'Thank God' when he got back his hat after
passing it round a very stingy congregation, but I was
not so fortunate as the reverend gentleman, for many of
the papers not only kept the manuscript, but the stamps
enclosed for its return as well. I never expected to get
pay for anything published in Canada, but was always glad
when editors did not send me in a bill for publishing my
contributions.
The Honourable Mr. W.E. Quinby, editor and proprietor
of the Detroit Free Press, who gave Mr. Fraser and
myself our first cheques, has himself done more for
literature than all the editors from Quebec to Vancouver,
and his literary judgment is infallible. He does not
care from whom the manuscript comes, so long as it is
good, and again, he is willing to back his opinion with
money, and that, as I have said, is what counts in this
world, whether in a horse trade, in literature, or in an
election. I know men and women in England, in Canada,
cmd in the United States, now in the front rank of
literature who owe their start to Mr. Quinby's
appreciation of their early efforts. There is little
merit in recognizing genius when all the world recognizes
it, but to select a winner when no one else knows of him
is a feat to be proud of.
One winter, during a visit to Atlanta, Georgia, I had
the pleasure of meeting the late Henry W. Grady, one of
the most remarkable journalists that the United States
has produced -- a man who would certainly have been
Vice-President of the United States had he lived, and
probably President. In speaking of the beginning of his
successful career, he said his starting point was a
cheque from Mr. Quinby, of Detroit, received when he was
out of employment, with no hope of gaining any.
'My assets were, one wife, two children, and three
dollars,' he said. 'That was all I had in the world.
The encouraging words of Mr. Quinby to me, then an
unknown, no-account young man, and the substantial nature
of the cheque he sent, raised me from despair to hope,
and I have never had an uneasy moment from that time.'
Kipling, himself an early contributor to the columns of
the Free Press, said to me once, 'The reading of the
Detroit Free Press was about the only pleasure I had in
my newspaper work in India; what a splendidly edited
paper it is.'
As one good turn deserves another, I believe the Free
Press was the first paper in America to call attention
to Kipling's genius. It is something for a man to have
produced a paper like that, and more, that he paid
generously for the contributions he accepted whether the
sender was famous or unknown.
My advice then to the Walter Scott tramping the streets
of Toronto is:
'Get over the border as soon as you can; come to London
or go to New York; shake the dust of Canada from your
feet. Get out of a land that is willing to pay money for
whiskey, but wants its literature free in the shape of
Ayer's Almanac, in my day the standard work of reference
throughout the rural districts, because it cost nothing.
Vamoose the ranch. Go back when all the rest of the
world is acquainted with you, and you may find that
Canada has, perhaps, some knowledge of your existence.
Anyhow, when you return you will have a good time, for
there are some of the finest people in the world in
Canada.'
This proves a very much larger subject than I thought
it was when I took it in hand, so instead of dealing with
it in one article I propose to devote two to it. It
would be useless to scold over a state of things for
which there was no remedy. I believe there is a remedy;
I believe that Canada can be claimed from literary dark-
ness and rye whiskey; therefore, in a future
contribution, I propose to point out what this remedy is.
IN
a previous article I devoted some attention to the
somewhat benighted condition of the average citizen of
the Dominion who, according to his own statistics, loves
whiskey better than books. I now turn with equal horror
to the contemplation of the educated Canadian.
Canada has suffered much at the hands of her cultured
class. Mr. Cooper, in his article in the May number of
this magazine, says the educated Canadian is
conservative. This is putting it mildly, but I believe
the statement is accurate as far as it goes. The
educated Canadian is conservative because he has no
opinion of his own. In literature he waits until a
definite judgment is pronounced outside of Canada; then
your educated Canadian knows it all. He retails this
second-hand estimate to admiring listeners with all the
confidence of a man exploiting his own discovery. This
is a very happy state of things for the educated
Canadian, for if you contradict him he waves you off by
saying, 'Oh, the London Times agrees with me,' or 'The
Athenæum has given expression to my view,' and thus you
are floored. But the unfortunate thing for a young
Canadian endeavouring to make his way in literature is,
that until he leaves his own domicile and has achieved
commendation from other people, he has no chance whatever
of making any impression on the second-hand opinion of
his educated fellow-countrymen. The cultured Canadian
glosses his ignorance with a hard polish, which is
utterly impervious to thought that is Canadian in origin.
He says of Canada as they of old said, 'Can there any
good come out of Nazareth,' and it is not until Jerusalem
has deified, or crucified the Nazarene, that he becomes
of honour in his own land.
Mr. Cooper tells an interesting story which is not
related for the purpose of confirming my argument, but
which, nevertheless, goes some distance in that
direction.
Six men of education and culture, he said, were taking
dinner in a private room in a Toronto restaurant. Being
cultivated persons their talk naturally turned towards
literature, and the good old stock question came up. If
all the books were to be blotted out with exception of
the Bible and Shakespeare and one other volume, what
should that one other volume be? Please note the
conventionality of the exception. There are many men of
culture and education who are not in the habit of reading
either the Bible or Shakespeare, yet when this stock
question arises, this stock exception is invariably made;
sometimes Milton and Homer are lugged in, usually
suggested by a posing man of education and culture who
has never read a line of one or the other. Here then are
the authors preserved to us by the six men of culture and
education in Toronto -- Scott, Dickens, Carlyle, Kipling,
Macaulay, Parkman, Thackeray, Ruskin, Elliott, Pope,
Lecky, Stevenson, Browning, Tennyson, Goldsmith and
Arnold, in the order named.
Imagine, if you can, the depth of decadence into which
critical judgment has fallen in Toronto, when there can
be found half a dozen men throughout that ill-fated city
who actually place Dickens before Thackeray, and who, at
this age of the world, seriously consider Macaulay, when
right in their own town, doubtless within a street car
fare of where they were dining, lives Goldwin Smith, a
writer incomparably superior to Macaulay, whether
considered as a literary stylist or as an accurate
historian. If cultured Canadians would only import their
opinions with reasonable celerity, such mistakes could
not occur, and there is really no excuse for this
tardiness when there are several lines of steamers
running from England to Montreal each week. Doubtless
the distinguished diners themselves will be shocked to
learn that, to use a commercial phrase, Dickens stock
began to decline on the day of his death, and has been
declining ever since, while in like manner Thackeray
stock began to appreciate and has continued to do so.
But there are six prigs in other places than Canada.
The editor of an English magazine told me a while since
that six English novelists dined together and the usual
question came up with the usual exception. It took this
form: 'If you were sentenced to a term of imprisonment
and could get only one book to read, which book would you
choose. Shakespeare and the Bible excepted?' The answer
was unanimous; the six novelists chose George Borrows'
book Lavengro.
I sat silent for a moment or two when this was told me,
and then said with deliberation, 'I think I should have
chosen Lavengro too.'
'So should I,' replied the editor.
Thus there were eight of us, like the little niggers.
On leaving my editor friend I went at once to my
favourite book-store on the Strand, and said to the man
in charge: 'Have you got a copy of a book entitled
Lavengro?'
'Well,' replied the attendant, 'there isn't much call
for it, but I think I have a copy. Yes, here it is; two
shillings; by George Borrow.'
I paid the money, took the book home with me, and
since then I have read it.
Now these six English prigs differed from the six
Canadian prigs in this; there was at least some
originality about their choice. Without knowing who the
six were, I surmised that probably an article on George
Borrows had appeared in one of the reviews, and each man
supposed he alone had read that article, so he thought he
would surprise the others by naming a book of which they
had never heard. I take some delight in imagining the
long faces pulled by the six novelists when the poll was
declared. Next year, Mr. Cooper, when your six men are
dining again in their private room, I'll bet you a year's
subscription to this magazine that they choose
Lavengro.
Rather more than a year ago, when I was in America I
had the pleasure of listening to a lecture by Mr. James
L. Hughes, Inspector of Schools for Toronto. The lecture
was the last of a series on the same subject, and the
subject was Charles Dickens. I sat entranced, listening
to the rounded periods of Mr. Hughes. For the time being
the years rolled off my shoulders, and I was once more a
boy of seventeen listening to the estimate of the noted
novelist whom I had cherished at that period of my
existence. It staggered me at first, I confess, to learn
that any educated man considered the exaggerations of
Charles Dickens worthy of six discourses, but once in the
auditorium all that was forgotten, and I bathed in the
eloquence of the Inspector as if I had discovered the
fountain of youth which Ponce de Leon failed to find in
Florida.
I quote here from an inaccurate memory, and so cannot
reproduce the exact words; but this was their substance:
'Murdstone'! The sonorous voice of Mr. Hughes rolled
out the cognomen, dwelling thrillingly on the 'r's.'
'Think of the significance of that name! "Murd," the
first syllable of murder, and "stone," typical of the
hard heart of this wonderfully drawn character.'
This was most impressive, but still, if Mr. Hughes had
wished to get names with meanings, he had only to go back
a little further in literature to the old dramatists, and
there he would have found Mr. Lovemore, Mr. Bashful
Constant, Mr. Brilliant Fashion, Mr. Lively, Mr. Sombre,
Mr. Moody, Mr. Joyful, Sir John Reckless, Lord Graball, a
miser; indeed he might have had a more recent example,
for an American novelist once wrote: 'Mr. Winterbottom
was a cold, stern man.'
But after the discourse was over and I had removed
myself from the magnetism of the lecturer's presence, I
began to ponder on the disquieting position of things
which this oration displayed. If the chief educational
official in the largest and probably the most enlightened
city of Ontario, held literary opinions which perhaps it
would be too harsh a term to call infantile, what must be
the state of mind of the ordinary teachers throughout the
Province, and what chance is there of any of their
unfortunate pupils becoming a Judge Haliburton or a
Gilbert Parker, an Archibald Lampman or a Dr. Drummond?
The fact that the country does produce such men is merely
an example of the amazing fertility of nature. To expect
it to do so as a matter of course, would be as absurd as
if a farmer looked for fall wheat to sprout in the
spring, when he had neither ploughed the land nor sown
the grain the year before.
During all my school days in Canada, whether in the
humble log chalet of the backwoods or the more imposing
educational halls of Toronto, I never once heard the name
of a literary mall mentioned. Never once was I told that
I lived in a country containing the grandest scenery; the
world has to show. Never once was the information given
to me that the history of the deeds which won an empire
from the wilderness was more absorbingly interesting than
the most thrilling romance ever penned. And here I come
to the chief indictment I have to bring against the
conservative educated Canadian. The school books which
he compiled for his unhappy victims throughout the
Province reflected his own second-hand state of mind.
Unfortunately I have not in my possession the school
books at present in use in Ontario, but the third, fourth
and fifth books of my day were as bad as if I had
compiled them myself. Canadian history was represented,
when I first went to school in Canada, by a little yellow
book, which was as dull as a page of logarithms. Later
we had a larger book containing many bad wood-cuts, and
this volume was even duller than the other, because it
was bigger. The selections for the reading books were
mostly chosen from English sources, and if we saw Canada
at all, it was through English eyes. There were some
turgid poems on Niagara, if I remember aright, but they
were all by Englishmen, and I think the prose description
was by Charles Dickens himself.
The other night 1 was invited by the Whitefriar's Club
to attend a dinner given to Mark Twain. One of the
speakers was Dean Hole, of Rochester, celebrated alike as
an orator and a bookmaker. He told a story which he
credited to Dr. Conan Doyle, but which, nevertheless, was
my story. Discussing the very point I am endeavouring to
throw light upon now, I told this story to Dr. Doyle, to
emphasize my remarks, and he asked permission to use the
anecdote on his lecture tour, which permission I most
cheerfully gave, and now Dean Hole has got the story in
one of his books, and if my name were only attached, I
should have some chance of going down to posterity. Here
is the yarn:
As a boy I worked my way from Detroit on a schooner to
the Welland Canal. The schooner was the Olive Branch,
and I believe her bones now lie exposed to the winds on
the shore near Toronto. My objective point was the
Niagara Falls, and as soon as I got off the schooner I
tramped from the canal to the cataract, one hot, dusty
summer's day. I sat and looked at the Falls, but was
bitterly disappointed with them. No reality can ever
equal the expectation of a boy's lurid fancy. However, I
consoled myself by saying, 'Never mind; some day I shall
have money enough to go to England and see the Falls of
Ladore.' In the third, or the fourth, or the fifth book,
which was than used in all schools throughout Canada,
Southey's poem, the Falls of Ladore, was given:
Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling, And
steaming, and beaming, and gleaming, and streaming, And
dashing, and flashing, and splashing, and clashing. All
at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar, And this way
the water comes down at Ladore!
Naturally I thought such a cataract must be the
greatest downpour in the world, and sure enough, neither
money nor opportunity being lacking, I had a chance of
viewing the wonder of nature which inspired Southey's
muse. I landed one summer evening at a lakeside town two
miles from Ladore. My impatience would not admit of my
waiting till daylight, so I started on foot along the
beautiful well-made road which skirts the lake, then
almost as light as day under a full harvest moon. After
I had tramped about two miles I began to fear I had lost
my way, for, pausing every now and then, I could hear no
sound of water, so I sat down on the rocks by the wayside
until some belated passerby should happen along and give
me more definite directions. At last a countryman came
slowly down the road and I hailed him.
'Can you tell me where the Falls of Ladore are?' I
asked. The man paused in astonishment.
'Why, sir,' he said finally, 'you're a-sittin' in 'em.'
The fact was the falls had gone temporarily out of
commission because of the dryness of the summer. Now,
however picturesque the surroundings of a cataract may
be, I maintain that a little water is necessary as well,
and yet, thanks to our Canadian school books, I had waved
Niagara contemptuously aside for this heap of dusty
stones!
Canada always underestimates her own, and my reason for
writing this article is to enlarge, if possible, her bump
of self-appreciation; self-conceit, if you like. I have
done it before in an instance which I shall relate, and
so I do not despair even with so large a handful as the
Dominion. Once when spending a winter in the lovely
English watering place of Torquay, I took my map and
walked towards the village of Babbacombe. Nearing the
place I met the local policeman and asked him if there
was anything worth seeing in Babbacombe.
'No,' he said slowly, 'there isn't. You ought to see
Torquay, that's a great place.'
'But, I objected, 'I have just come from Torquay. You
don't think it would be worth my while then to go on to
Babbacombe?'
'Oh, no, sir,' he said, 'there's nothing a-goin' on
there. I was born and bred in the place, and nothing
much has happened ever since.'
Nevertheless, I continued my journey across the
wind-swept down and came to the edge of a precipice,
where an astonishing view burst upon me. The cliffs were
of red sandstone, resembling in colour the Esterel
mountains in Southern France; the water was as deeply
blue as the Mediterranean, and down the densely-wooded
Devonshire Combe, embowered in foliage, straggled the
thatched roofs of the quaint old cottages of Babbacombe,
the floor of one house level with the peak of another,
and so on to the edge of the glittering sand, and the
white line of foam from the rippling tide. On returning
I again met the leisurely policeman.
'Look here,' I said, 'Babbacombe is the loveliest place
I ever saw in my life. The next stranger you meet, tell
him that whatever else he misses, he mustn't miss
Babbacombe. The cliffs are the colour of the mountains
of Judea, near Jerusalem; the water is as lovely as the
Golden Horn at Constantinople.'
'Do you mean to tell me so, sir?' he asked, opening his
eyes wide in astonishment.
'I do, and I don't want you to forget it either. A man
who was born in such a place should be proud of it.'
When I looked back from away down the hill the
policeman was still standing where I left him, gazing
after me.
Six years passed before I met that policeman again. He
did not recognize me, but I recognized him.
'Well, officer,' I said, 'I'm tramping on to
Babbacombe. Is it worth while going there?'
'Worth while?' he cried, with enthusiasm, 'it's the
prettiest village in the whole world; them as travels has
told me so. Part o' Babbicom is just like Jerusalem, and
another part is like Constantinople. You mustn't miss
Babbicum, sir, for I was born and bred there.'
Now I should like to do for Canada what I did for that
policeman. He got his similes rather mixed up, but he
was on the right track, and I believe he will remain on
it until he is superannuated.
The thing that seems to me to stand in the way of the
Canadian Walter Scott, is Canada's persistent
undervaluation of her own men and women. Mr. Cooper in
his article commented on the fact that his six prigs
dining in a private room had included no modern author
except Kipling and Stevenson, but what strikes me as
emblematical of their limited minds is, that not one of
the half dozen gave any chance to a Canadian. Mr. W.A.
Fraser, in his address to the newspaper men, to which I
took exception on this same count, said that above all
else we must have Truth, and he spelt it with a capital
T. I think there must be truth in fiction, otherwise it
will not live. It is probably the absence of truth in
the writing of Charles Dickens, all his pictures being
exaggerations, and his character sketches, caricatures,
which accounts for his gradual decline, and which will
account for the ultimate extinction of his work.
Stevenson is another of the men chosen by the learned
six, and in some of his books he has ventured on American
topics, which he treats with a lack of truth which must
ever distinguish the work of a foreigner writing of a
country not his own.
'A man should write what is in his bones,' said Kipling
once, and the phrase has stuck to me ever since I heard
it. Kipling himself is the exception which goes to prove
his own rule, for he has written truthfully of a life
which, so to speak, was not in his bones, as is shown in
his story of the fisher folk in 'Captains Courageous.'
'The Master of Ballantrae' is generally admitted to be
one of Stevenson's most notable books, and the character
of the Master is drawn by a vigorous and sure hand, while
an even more subtle creation is the old servant,
MacKellar, who tells the story. But the moment Stevenson
brings his people across to America the element of truth
escapes from his novel, and it goes to pieces. He has
his company wander blundering through the north woods
from Albany for something like three weeks, when anyone
who knows the Indian and the time is well aware that
every member of that company would be decently scalped
and dead before they were half an hour in the forest.
Stevenson has his Indians do what no Indian ever thought
of doing. He has the aborigines stroll listlessly along
the valley with the white foreigners gazing down on them
from the ridge, when in reality the incident would have
been the other way about.
This is what comes of dining in a private room in a
city restaurant instead of camping out in the valley of
the Don and learning the ways of Indians. I hope Mr.
Cooper will take his six, next time they are hungry, to
the city limits on an electric car and treat them to a
picnic where they may see the methods of the wilderness.
If there had been a single original idea in the brains of
the six they would have given a vote for at least one
Canadian book, and so against their next meeting in a
private room, I'll bestow upon them a hint. I shall not
go to any author so well known as Gilbert Parker, whose
splendid array of books is now heading the lists both in
England and in the United States. I shall take a writer
much less famous perhaps, but no less deserving of fame.
In a book written by Mrs. Harrison, of Toronto, entitled
The Forest of Bourg-Marie, there is a chapter
describing an ancient ruined chateau in Canada which has
been made a storehouse for furs by the grim old man who
is the striking hero of the book. Not only has Robert
Louis Stevenson, nor any one mentioned by the six, never
written anything so striking as that description of the
furs, but, to find its equal in literature, you will have
to go back to the time of the Arabian Tales. I know
nothing of Mrs. Harrison beyond what may be surmised by a
reading of her book, but I stake whatever little
reputation I have on the statement that The Forest of
Bourg-Marie is a notable work of genius, a book superb
in its character drawing, noble in diction, thrilling in
incident, and so strongly constructed that it dispenses
with conventional love-making, without losing an atom of
its interest, a feat which has not been accomplished, to
my knowledge, since Robinson Crusoe, and I doubt if there
is a novelist living, however famous, who would have the
courage to put forth a romance without a heroine in it.
I must apologize to the immaculate six, for mentioning
a work which emanates from mere Toronto.
Now what is the remedy; what can be done to get Canada
out of the literary slough of despond in which it
wallows? I think it will help to clear the way if we
admit that, with the present generation, all effort is
useless. The six cultured and educated men who dined in
the private room are hopeless, and perhaps even I am not
able to convince them that they are six egregious asses,
holding the same literary opinions now to be found only
in the colliery districts of England; opinions which have
been discarded by men of intelligence everywhere else in
the world. Our endeavour at reform must begin with the
rising generation and so, if possible, an attempt should
be made to civilize the school teachers of Canada. I am
taking it for granted that the school books are nearly,
if not quite, as bad as they were in my day, and I arrive
at this estimate of them because the Inspector of Public
Schools in an imperial city like Toronto holds good old
matured literary opinions that are of the vintage of
1876. I doubt also if the Normal School has improved,
and so it were useless to look to that institution for
help in reclaiming the teachers. In my day the Normal
School was a sort of educational pork-packing factory.
It gathered in to itself the raw material from all parts
of the Province, rushed it through the machine, scraped
off some of the ignorance, but not much, and there stood
the manufactured article, produced in so many minutes by
the watch. I was captured from my native lair, soaked,
scraped and so flung upon a defenceless Province,
certified as being of correct weight and size, all in
something less than four months.
We must get at the teachers direct. My plan is to
place The Canadian Magazine into the hands of every
teacher in Ontario. To expect the teachers to pay two
dollars and a half a year for it is absurd; because
Canada, although willing to lavish millions on rail ways
or on telegraphs to the other end of the earth, is
graspingly penurious where her teachers are concerned.
She pays them meagre salaries, so that every woman among
them is looking towards the day when she will get
married, and every man is anxious for the time when he
can step into something that will bring him in more
money. My statistical hand-book of Canada shows that in
the year 1887 there were something like five thousand
schools in Ontario. I suppose that by this time the
number has doubled. Placing the figure then at ten
thousand, how are we to get the magazine into those ten
thousand schools? Of course it would be a small matter
and quite unnoticeable in the tax list if each school
section in Canada were to appropriate two dollars and a
half a year for the magazine, but to look for that is to
look for an impossibility, although this would be the
natural way out in a civilized community. I propose,
therefore, to start a fund. I will place a hundred
dollars in the hands of the Editor of The Canadian
Magazine if forty-nine other prigs, educated and
cultured, will put up a like amount each; that would be
five thousand dollars. I should expect the ten thousand
teachers to subscribe on their own account fifty cents
apiece, and I should expect the proprietors of The
Canadian Magazine, on getting an order for ten thousand
copies, to let us have them at a dollar a year, each
subscription.
Then if I were the editor of the magazine I would get a
number of the bright young people to write articles on
the stirring historical events of Canada. The war of
1812 alone is a mine of wealth, and in the United States,
not to mention Canada, there is a vast amount of
ignorance regarding the outcome of that historical
episode. What writer could wish for a more attractive
hero than General Brock, or a more romantic character
than Tecumseh? Where, even in the history of Scotland,
is there an act of more womanly devotion than the night
excursion taken by Mrs. Secord through swamp and forest
to warn her countrymen of the enemy's approach?
Literally, the woods are full of incidents like these.
The recent success of McClure's Magazine in New York
shows what can be done on these lines. Miss Ida M.
Tarbell, a girl unheard of before the magazine was
founded has been, as it were, the backbone of that
publication. She began by writing a life of Abraham
Lincoln, and is still at it, having sandwiched Napoleon
between the two histories of the Martyred President, and
I must confess I read the account of that great plain
man's life with as intense an interest as I did some
years ago, when the articles first appeared.
Now, in Canada there are hundreds of girls who are as
bright, as clever, and as well educated as Miss Tarbell,
but there is no opening for them in the Dominion. The
United States' publications are closed to them because
readers on the other side of the line are not interested
in the historical annals of a foreign country. When I
offered my first book, which dealt with the Fenian Raid
in Canada, to a New York publisher he refused it, but
said if I changed the venue of the incidents over to the
States he would publish the book. 'We have no interest
in Canada,' he added. Well, as I was unable to transport
the Fenian Raid from the Province of Ontario to the State
of New York, my book had to be published by another
fellow, who took it with some reluctance, having exactly
the same objection to it. This shows the disadvantage
under which Canadian writers labour when they seek an
outlet for their wares across the border.
Last year, when I visited one of the High Schools of
Buffalo, I found on the desk of each teacher files of
every New York magazine. Stories and articles from these
magazines were read to the classes, explained and
commented upon. Such a course not only interested, but
brightened the pupils, and made them alert and
up-to-date. I propose then that The Canadian Magazine
be read in the Canadian schools; that the children should
be taught something about the leading writers of the day,
especially those who belong to Canada, or who write about
Canada; that they should be taught something of the
grandeur of their country, of its scenery and its
history. They should be told that the important things
of life are right around the schoolhouse door, and not
over in England, or on any other distant shore. To this
end I am ready to contribute a hundred dollars a year for
the next five years, if there are forty-nine men in
Canada willing to do the same. In such a way I think the
chances of Canada producing a Sir Walter Scott or a Jane
Austen from among the present boys and girls of Canada
will be considerably enhanced, and, perhaps, when the
boys now in school grow up, they will be willing to buy
more books and less whiskey.
(End.)
Part Two
The Canadian Magazine, XIV, 2 (December 1899), pp. 130-6