Susanna
Moodie, like her older sister Catharine Parr Traill, began her literary career
early, publishing her first novel by the time she was nineteen. She continued
writing and published a collection of her poetry in 1831, the year she married
John Dunbar Moodie, a retired army officer from the Orkneys. The couple
immigrated to Canada in 1832, settling near Cobourg. After two difficult years
they relocated in Douro Township to be closer to Susanna's brother Samuel
Strickland and her sister Catharine. Farming was still so difficult, however,
that only when Dunbar Moodie was recalled to active service because of the
Rebellion of 1837 did the family gain some measure of financial security.
When, in 1839, Mr Moodie was appointed Sheriff of Victoria District (later
Hastings County), it was with relief that the couple moved to Belleville,
abandoning forever their attempts at managing a bush farm.
Once Mrs Moodie left rural life behind, she
was able to return to her faltering literary career. Between 1839 and 1851 she
contributed seventy-five poems and twenty pieces of prose to various
magazines, including The Canadian Literary
Magazine, The North American Review, and The Literary Garland. She integrated
several of her published sketches into a larger narrative recounting her
years of struggle as a farm wife, entitling it Roughing
It in the Bush; or, Forest Life in Canada; it appeared in
1852. In Moodie's lifetime, this book was republished in several editions, the
contents of which varied somewhat; later some versions deleted whole chapters.
(In 1988, the Centre for Editing Early Canadian Texts brought out a scholarly
edition of Roughing It in the Bush.) A
sequel, Life in the Clearings versus the Bush, appeared
the next year. There she explained that while Roughing
It was intended `to point out the error of gentlemen bringing
delicate women and helpless children to toil in the woods', she nevertheless
affirmed `the REAL benefits to be derived from a judicious
choice of settlement in this great and rising country.' Moodie wrote very
rapidly in the years that followed, turning out several novels and helping to
fill the pages of The Literary Garland and
other magazines. Most of what she wrote is little read today except Roughing It, to which is sometimes added Life in the Clearings and the
Introduction to her novel Mark Hurdlestone for its
account of literary activity in Canada in 1853.
Roughing
It in the Bush, originally published in London, was not
immediately popular here: it was not published in Canada until 1871. In a
preface to that edition the author expressed her hard-won affection for her
adopted country. Perhaps because of those comments, or because the events were
now sufficiently distant, the book gained its Canadian readership. It has
maintained one since, even though Moodie's real purpose in writing was to warn
unwary immigrants about the deceptive appearances they would find in Canada. In
fact, Moodie has become a mythic figure for modern Canadians-so much so that Margaret
Atwood responded to her Canadian chronicles with a collection of poems, The Journals of Susanna Moodie (I97o),
that in its own way has become as much of a classic as Roughing It.
Moodie's book is made up of a series of
anecdotes that reveal its author as a practised storyteller. She had a
remarkable ability to convey the variety of characters she met in the bush by
using their colourful, idiomatic speech in lively dialogue. As a whole, Roughing It takes the form of a complaint, so that a
speech in Chapter Iq by an acquaintance seems almost to capture
its essence: `Bah!-The only consolation one feels for such annoyances is to
complain. Oh, the woods!-the cursed woods!-how I wish I were out of them.' In
her Afterword to the Journals Atwood
sees Moodie as `divided down the middle'-an emblem of the `violent duality' of
Canada itself. Indeed, what most engages the modern reader is that although
Moodie reveals herself as melancholy, inflexible, and proud to the point of
condescension, she still continues to struggle against the perpetual defeat of
her hopes, all the while giving vent to a confused mixture of feelings.
Combining in her narrative the perspective of the time of the events described
with the `reconciled' viewpoint of the older woman recalling those
events, she shows us her exhilaration in small victories, a degree of pleasure
in enduring painful experiences, and the tearful sadness even she felt at
leaving the scene of her hardships. It is in watching Moodie make her choice
and achieve-even if almost despite herself-her reconciliation with the land
that the greatest attraction of her story lies.
From Roughing It in the Bush
INTRODUCTION TO THE THIRD EDITION
In
most instances, emigration is a matter of necessity, not of choice; and this is
more especially true of the emigration of persons of respectable connections,
or of any station or position in the world. Few educated persons, accustomed
to the refinements and luxuries of European society, ever willingly relinquish
those advantages, and place themselves beyond the protective influence of the
wise and revered institutions of their native land, without the pressure of
some urgent cause. Emigration may, indeed, generally be regarded as an act of
severe duty, performed at the expense of personal enjoyment, and accompanied by
the sacrifice of those local attachments which stamp the scenes amid which our
childhood grew, in imperishable characters, upon the heart. Nor is it until
adversity has pressed sorely upon the proud and wounded spirit of the
well-educated sons and daughters of old but impoverished families, that they
gird up the loins of the mind, and arm themselves with fortitude to meet and
dare the heart-breaking conflict.
The ordinary motives for the emigration of such persons may be summed up in a few brief words; the emigrant's hope of bettering his condition, and of escaping from the vulgar sarcasms too often hurled at the less wealthy by the purse-proud, common-place people of the world. But there is a higher motive still, which has its origin in that love of independence which springs up spontaneously in the breasts of the high-souled children of a glorious land. They cannot labour in a menial capacity in the country where they were born and educated to command. They can trace no difference between themselves and the more fortunate individuals of a race whose blood warms their veins, and whose name they bear. The want of wealth alone places an impassable barrier between them and the more favoured offspring of the same parent stock; and they go forth to make for themselves a new name and to find another country, to forget the past and to live in the future, to exult in the prospect of their children being free and the land of their adoption great.
The choice of the country to which they devote their talents and energies depends less upon their pecuniary means than upon the fancy of the emigrant or the popularity of a name. From the year 1826 to 1829, Australia and the Swan River were all the rage. No other portions of the habitable globe were deemed worthy of notice. These were the El Dorados' and lands of Goshen to which all respectable emigrants eagerly flocked. Disappointment, as a matter of course, followed their high-raised expectations. Many of the most sanguine of these adventurers returned to their native shores in a worse condition than when they left them. In 1830, the great tide of emigration flowed westward. Canada became the great land-mark for the rich in hope and poor in purse. Public newspapers and private letters teemed with the unheard-of advantages to be derived from a settlement in this highly-favoured region.
Its salubrious climate, its fertile soil, commercial advantages, great water privileges, its proximity to the mother country, and last, not least, its almost total exemption from taxation-that bugbear which keeps honest John Bull in a state of constant ferment were the theme of every tongue, and lauded beyond all praise. The general interest, once excited, was industriously kept alive by pamphlets, published by interested parties, which prominently set forth all the good to be derived from a settlement in the Backwoods of Canada; while they carefully concealed the toil and hardship to be endured in order to secure these advantages. They told of lands yielding forty bushels to the acre, but they said nothing of the years when these lands, with the most careful cultivation, would barely return fifteen; when rust and smut, engendered by the vicinity of damp over-hanging woods, would blast the fruits of the poor emigrant's labour, and almost deprive him of bread. They talked of log houses to be raised in a single day, by the generous exertions of friends and neighbours, but they never ventured upon a picture of the disgusting scenes of riot and low debauchery exhibited during the raising, or upon a description of the dwellings when raised--dens of dirt and misery, which would, in many instances, be shamed by an English pig-sty. The necessaries of life were described as inestimably cheap; but they forgot to add that in remote bush settlements, often twenty miles from a market town, and some of them even that distance from the nearest dwelling, the necessaries of life which would be deemed indispensable to the European, could not be procured at all, or, if obtained, could only be so by sending a man and team through a blazed forest road,-a process far too expensive for frequent repetition.
Oh, ye dealers in wild lands-ye speculators in the folly and credulity of your fellow-men-what a mass of misery, and of misrepresentation productive of that misery, have ye not to answer for! You had your acres to sell, and what to you were the worn-down frames and broken hearts of the infatuated purchasers? The public believed the plausible statements you made with such earnestness, and men of all grades rushed to hear your hired orators declaim upon the blessings to be obtained by the clearers of the wilderness.
Men who had been hopeless of supporting their families in comfort and independence at home, thought that they had only to come out to Canada to make their fortunes; almost even to realize the story told in the nursery, of the sheep and oxen that ran about the streets, ready roasted, and with knives and forks upon their backs. They were made to believe that if it did not actually rain gold, that precious metal could be obtained, as is now stated of California and Australia, by stooping to pick it up.
The infection became general. A Canada mania pervaded the middle ranks of British society; thousands and tens of thousands, for the space of three or four years, landed upon these shores. A large majority of the higher class were officers of the army and navy, with their families-a class perfectly unfitted by their previous habits and education for contending with the stern realities of emigrant life. The hand that has long held the sword, and been accustomed to receive implicit obedience from those under its control, is seldom adapted to wield the spade and guide the plough,
or try its strength against the stubborn trees of the forest. Nor will such persons submit cheerfully to the saucy familiarity of servants, who, republicans in spirit, think themselves as good as their employers. Too many of these brave and honourable men were easy dupes to the designing land-speculators. Not having counted the cost, but only looked upon the bright side of the picture held up to their admiring gaze, they fell easily into the snares of their artful seducers.
To prove their zeal as colonists, they were induced to purchase large tracts of wild land in remote and unfavourable situations. This, while it impoverished and often proved the ruin of the unfortunate immigrant, possessed a double advantage to the seller. He obtained an exorbitant price for the land which he actually sold, while the residence of a respectable settler upon the spot greatly enhanced the value and price of all other lands in the neighbourhood.
It is not by such instruments as those I have just mentioned, that Providence works when it would reclaim the waste places of the earth, and make them subservient to the wants and happiness of its creatures. The Great Father of the souls and bodies of men knows the arm which wholesome labour from infancy has made strong, the nerves which have become ¡ron by patient endurance, by exposure to weather, coarse fare, and rude shelter; and he chooses such, to send forth into the forest to hew out the rough paths for the advance of civilisation. These men become wealthy and prosperous, and form the bones and sinews of a great and risíng country. Their labour is wealth, not exhaustion; its produce independence and content, not home-sickness and despair. What the Backwoods of Canada are to the industrious and ever-to-be-honoured sons of honest poverty, and what they are to the refined and accomplished gentleman, these simple sketches will endeavour to portray. They are drawn principally from my own experience, during a sojourn of nineteen years in the colony.
In order to diversify my subject, and make it as amusing as possible, I have between the sketches introduced a few small poems, all written during my residence in Canada, and descriptive of the country.
In this pleasing task I have been assisted by my husband, J.W. Dunbar Moodie, author of ‘Ten Years in South Africa’.
BELLEVILLE, UPPER CANADA
1854
Published in 1835, the story of Dunbar Moodie's years (i8r9-29) with his brother at his farm near Sellendam, South Africa.
Now, Fortune, do thy worst! For many years,
Thou, with relentless and unsparing hand,
Hast sternly pour'd on our devoted heads
The poison'd phials of thy fiercest wrath.
The early part of the winter of 1837, a year never to be forgotten in the annals of Canadian history, was very severe. During the month of February, the thermometer often ranged from eighteen to twenty-seven degrees below zero. Speaking of the coldness of one particular day, a genuine brother Jonathan[1] remarked, with charming simplicity, that it was thirty degrees below zero that morning, and it would have been much colder if the thermometer had been longer.
The morning of the seventh was so intensely cold that everything liquid froze in the house. The wood that had been drawn for the fire was green, and it ignited too slowly to satisfy the shivering impatience of women and children; I vented mine in audibly grumbling over the wretched fire, at which I in vain endeavoured to thaw frozen bread, and to dress crying children.
It so happened that an old friend, the maiden lady before alluded to, had been return to Britain, by the way of New York, and had offered to convey letters to friends at home, I had been busy all the day before preparing a packet for England.
It was my intention to walk to my sister's with this packet, directly the important affair of breakfast had been discussed; but the extreme cold of the morning had occasioned such delay, that it was late before the breakfast-things were cleared away.
After dressing, I found the air so keen that I could not venture out without some risk to my nose, and my husband kindly volunteered to go in my stead.
I had hired a young Irish girl the day before. Her friends were only just located in our vicinity, and she had never seen a stove until she carne to our house. After Moodie left, I suffered the fire to die away in the Franklin stove in the parlour, and went into the kitchen to prepare bread for the oven.
The girl, who was a good-natured creature, had heard me complain bitterly of the cold, and the impossibility of getting the green wood to burn, and she thought that she would see if she could not make a good fire for me and the children, against my work was done. Without saying one word about her intention, she slipped out through a door that opened from the parlour into the garden, ran round to the woodyard, filled her lap with cedar chips, and, not knowing the nature of the stove, filled it entirely with the light wood.
Before I had the least idea of my danger, I was aroused from the completion of my task by the crackling and roaring of a large fire, and a suffocating smell of burning soot. I looked up at the kitchen cooking-stove. All was right there. I knew I had left no fire in the parlour stove; but not being able to account for the smoke and smell of burning, I opened the door, and, to my dismay, found the stove red-hot, from the front plate to the topmost pipe that let out the smoke through the roof.
My first impulse was to plunge a blanket, snatched from the servant's bed, which stood in the kitchen, into cold water. This I thrust into the stove, and upon it I threw water, until all was cool below. I then ran up to the loft, and, by exhausting all the water in the house, even to that contained in the boilers upon the fire, contrived to cool down the pipes which passed through the loft. I then sent the girl out of doors to look at the roof, which, as a very deep fall of snow had taken place the day before, I hoped would be completely covered, and safe from all danger of fire.
She quickly returned, stamping, and tearing her hair, and making a variety of uncouth outcries, from which I gathered that the roof was in flames.
This was terrible news, with my husband absent, no man in the house, and a mile and a quarter from any other habitation. I ran out to ascertain the extent of the misfortune, and found a large fire burning in the roof between the two stove-pipes. The heat of the fires had melted off all the snow, and a spark from the burning pipe had already ignited the shingles. A ladder, which for several months had stood against the house, had been moved two days before to the barn, which was at the top of the hill near the road; there was no reaching the fire through that source. I got out the dining-table, and tried to throw water upon the roof by standing on a chair placed upon it, but I only expended the little water that remained in the boiler, without reaching the fire. The girl still continued weeping and lamenting.
‘You must go for help,' I said. `Run as fast as you can to my sister's, and fetch your master.'
`And lave you, ma'arm, and the childher alone wid the burnin' house?' `Yes, yes! Don't stay one moment.'
`I have no shoes, ma'arm, and the snow is so deep.'
`Put on your master's boots; make haste, or we shall be lost before help comes.' The girl put en the boots and started, shrieking `Fire!' the whole way. This was utterly useless, and only impeded her progress by exhausting her strength. After she had vanished from the head of the clearing into the wood, and I was left quite alone, with the house burning over my head, I paused one moment to reflect what had best be done.
The house was built of cedar logs; in all probability it would be consumed before any help could arrive. There was a brisk breeze blowing up from the frozen lake, and the thermometer stood at eighteen degrees below zero. We were placed between the two extremes of heat and cold, and there was as much danger to be apprehended from the one as the other. In the bewilderment of the moment, the direful extent of the calamity never struck me; we wanted but this to put the finishing stroke to our misfortunes, to be thrown naked, houseless, and penniless, upon the world. `What shall I save first?' was the thought just then uppermost in my mind. Bedding and clothing appeared the most essentially necessary, and, without another moment's pause, I set to work with a right good will to drag all that I could from my burning home.
While little Agnes, Dunbar, and baby Donald filled the air with their cries, Katie, as if fully conscious of the importance of exertion, assisted me in carrying out sheets and blankets, and dragging trunks and boxes some way up the hill, to be out of the way of the burning brands when the roof should fall in.
How many anxious looks I gave to the head of the clearing as the fire increased, and large pieces of burning pine began to fall through the boarded ceiling about the lower rooms where we were at work. The children I had kept under a large dresser in the kitchen, but it now appeared absolutely necessary to remove them to a place of safety. To expose the young, tender things to the direful cold, was almost as bad as leaving them to the mercy of the fire. At last I hit upon a plan to keep them from freezing. I emptied all the clothes out of a large, deep chest of drawers, and dragged the empty drawers up the hill; these I lined with blankets, and placed a child in each drawer, covering it well over with the bedding, giving to little Agnes the charge of the baby to hold between her knees, and keep well covered until help should arrive. Ah, how long it seemed coming!
The roof was now burning like a brush-heap, and, unconsciously, the child and I were working under a shelf upon which were deposited several pounds of gunpowder, which had been procured for blasting a well, as all our water had to be brought uphill from the lake. This gunpowder was in a stone jar, secured by a paper stopper; the shelf upon which it stood was on fire, but it was utterly forgotten by me at the time, and even afterwards, when my husband was working on the burning loft over it.
I found that I should not be able to take many more trips for goods. As I passed out of the parlour for the last time, Katie looked up at her father's flute, which was suspended upon two brackets, and said,
`Oh, dear mamma! do save papa's flute; he will be so sorry to lose it.'
God bless the dear child for the thought! the flute was saved; and, as I succeeded in dragging out a heavy chest of clothes, and looked up once more despairingly to the road, I saw a man running at full speed. It was my husband. Help was at hand, and my heart uttered a deep thanksgiving as another and another figure carne upon the scene.
I had not felt the intense cold, although without cap, or bonnet, or shawl; with my hands bare and exposed to the bitter, biting air. The intense excitement, the anxiety to save all I could, had so totally diverted my thoughts from myself, that I had felt nothing of the danger to which I had been exposed; but now that help was near, my knees trembled under me, I felt giddy and faint, and dark shadows seemed dancing before my eyes.
The moment my husband and brother-in-law entered the house, the latter exclaimed,
`Moodie, the house is gone; save what you can of your winter stores and furniture.'
Moodie thought differently. Prompt and energetic in danger, and possessing admirable presence of mind and coolness when others yield to agitation and despair, he sprang upon the burning loft and called for water. Alas, there was none!
`Snow, snow; hand me pailfuls of snow!'
Oh! it was bitter work filling those pails with frozen snow; but Mr T - and I worked at it as fast as we were able.
The violence of the fire was greatly checked by covering the boards of the loft with this snow. More help had now arrived. Young B - and S - had brought the ladder down with them from the barn, and were already cutting away the burning roof, and flinging the flaming brands into the deep snow.
`Mrs Moodie, have you any pickled meat?’
'We have just killed one of our cows and salted it for winter stores.' `Well, then, fling the beef into the snow, and let us have the brine.'
This was an admirable plan. Wherever the brine wetted the shingles, the fire turned from it, and concentrated into one spot.
But I had not time to watch the brave workers on the roof. I was fast yielding to the effects of over excitement and fatigue, when my brother's team dashed down the clearing, bringing my excellent old friend, Miss B -, and the servant-girl.
My brother sprang out, carried me back into the house, and wrapped me up in one of the large blankets scattered about. In a few minutes I was seated with the dear children in the sleigh, and on the way to a place of warmth and safety.
Katie alone suffered from the intense cold. The dear little creature's feet were severely frozen, but were fortunately restored by her uncle discovering the fact before she approached the fire, and rubbing them well with snow.
In the meanwhile, the friends we had left so actively employed at the house, succeeded in getting the fire under before it had destroyed the walls. The only accident that occurred was to a poor dog that Moodie had called Snarleyowe. He was struck by a burning brand thrown from the house, and crept under the barn and died.
Beyond the damage done to the building, the loss of our potatoes and two sacks of flour, we had escaped in a manner almost miraculous. This fact shows how much can be done by persons working in union, without bustle and confusion, or running in each other's way. Here were six men, who, without the aid of water, succeeded in saving a building, which, at first sight, almost all of them had deemed past hope. In after-years, when entirely burnt out in a disastrous fire that consumed almost all we were worth in the world, some four hundred persons were present, with a fire-engine to second their endeavours, yet all was lost. Every person seemed in the way; and though the fire was discovered immediately after it took place, nothing was done beyond saving some of the furniture.
[After the fire, circumstances improved
for the Moodies, so much so that Mrs Moodie writes of that time: ‘We were
always cheerful, and sometimes contented and happy.' The Rebellion of 1837
brought this period to a sudden close. ]
XXV. ADIEU TO THE WOODS
Reader! it is not my intention to trouble you with the sequel of our history. I have given you a faithful picture of a life in the backwoods of Canada, and I leave you to draw from it your own conclusions. To the poor, industrious working man it presents many advantages; to the poor gentleman, none! The former works hard, puts up with coarse, scanty fare, and submits, with a good grace, to hardships that would kill a domesticated animal at home. Thus he becomes independent, inasmuch as the land that he has cleared finds him in the common necessaries of life; but it seldom, if ever, in remote situations, accomplishes more than this. The gentleman can neither work so hard, live so coarsely, nor endure so many privations as his poorer but more fortunate neighbour. Unaccustomed to manual labour, his services in the field are not of a nature to secure for him a profitable return. The task is new to him, he knows not how to perform it well; and, conscious of his deficiency, he expends his little means in hiring labour, which his bush-farm can never repay. Difficulties increase, debts grow upon him, he struggles in vain to extricate himself, and finally sees his family sink into hopeless ruin.
If these sketches should prove the means of deterring one family from sinking their property, and shipwrecking all their hopes, by going to reside in the backwoods of Canada, I shall consider myself amply repaid for revealing the secrets of the prison-house, and feel that I have not toiled and suffered in the wilderness in vain.
1852