His reply, and it was delivered with a smile, was:
‘By living in the country some five or six years.’
Under such circumstances I feel, with the poet, that ‘where ignorance is bliss ’tis folly to be wise.’
On one thing Mr. Blake was silent—nor did I allude to it: that was the question of Canadian independence. It is raised in many quarters, it is almost daily discussed in the Canadian newspapers. People are waiting to hear what Mr. Blake has to say on it. At present the oracle is dumb. When the question is settled you may be sure sentiment will have little to do with it; on this side of the Atlantic, at any rate, that sort of thing goes a very little way when the almighty dollar is at stake. But the question to be asked is, How long Canadian independence will stand the cry for annexation with the United States that will then be raised?
One of the pleasures attending my visit to Toronto was the finding out Mrs. Moodie—whose ‘Roughing It in the Bush’ did so much to help English people to understand the hardships of Canadian life some forty years ago. She was the youngest sister of Agnes Strickland; and, like her, wrote books for children, and tales and poems for the annuals, then the rage. She then married a Major Moodie, and went out to Canada, and I had not seen her since I was a raw lad; but of her kindness and her talent I had a distinct impression, and it was with real pleasure that I found her living at an advanced age—but in peace and comfort—at her son’s, a gentleman connected with the Inter-Colonial Railway. The sprightly lady of 1834, eager and enthusiastic, had become an elderly one in 1884; yet time had dealt gently with her, and her youth seemed to me to revive as she talked of her old Suffolk home, and of men and women long since gone over to the majority.
I was glad to find that she had made her mark in Canadian literature. An intelligent Canadian critic, Mr. J. E. Collins, whose acquaintance I was privileged to make—as well as that of his friend, Mr. Charles Robins, a poet of whom Canada may well be proud—writes of Mrs. Moodie: ‘So perfect a picture is Mrs. Moodie’s book of the struggles, the hopes, the dark days, and the sun-spots of that obscure life that fell to her lot in the forest depths, that its whisperings form a delightful music to the memory. The style is limpid as a running brook, picturesque, and abounding with touches that show a keen insight into character, and an accurate observation of external things. There is no padding or fustian in the book, and no word is squandered, Mrs. Moodie regarding the mission of language to be to convey thought, not to put on a useless parade.’
Mrs. Moodie has been living in Canada now fifty years, and loves to talk of the old country, especially of the people with whom she associated when, as Susannah Strickland, she used to stay in London with Pringle, the Secretary of the Anti-Slavery Society, whose beautiful poem, ‘Afar in the desert I love to ride,’ is still a favourite with the English public. But she has no wish to come back to England—her family are all well settled in Canada. She lives with one of her sons, and her daughter, Mrs. Chamberlain, of Ottawa, has won deserved fame by her beautiful illustrations of Canadian flowers and lichens.
English readers who may remember Mrs. Moodie as one of the gifted Strickland sisters will be glad to learn that she is regarded as one of the pioneers of Canadian literature, and although born near the beginning of the present century, possesses a mental vigour and active memory rare in one so aged. She told me anecdotes of myself when a boy that I had quite forgotten, and retains in old age the enthusiasm for which she was remarkable when young. Some of her ghost-stories were capital. For instance, one night, when her sister Agnes was lying sick, in the old hall at Reydon, Suffolk, and was being nursed by her sister Jane, there came to them a tall, stately figure in white, with long garments trailing behind her. Of course, Agnes and her sister were very much frightened at the apparition, which stood at the door, pointed her finger at Agnes, hissed at her, and then disappeared. Other stories followed, equally interesting, in which Mrs. Moodie, it was evident, firmly believed.
It was during her long and lonely residence in the woods that Mrs. Moodie performed most of her literary work. While her husband was away crushing the Rebellion, she wrote her ‘Roughing It in the Bush,’ which did more to establish her fame in Canada and in England than any of her previous productions. It is probably the best picture we have of Canadian life at that time, and written in a style of composition charming, if only on account of its ease. Undisturbed by household cares, she wrote no less than fifteen books for children; a larger work, ‘Life in the Clearings,’ and in addition contributed a mass of matter to the old Canadian Literary Garland, sufficient to fill several large volumes. ‘I remember seeing Carlyle once,’ she said, ‘but he was such a crabbed-looking man that I did not care to make his acquaintance. In fact, his appearance was quite the reverse of pleasing, but he was an honest, close-fisted man, I dare say.’ She had a good deal to say of Cruikshank, who lived next door to Pringle. ‘I went to hear Dan O’Connell,’ she continued, ‘on the Anti-Slavery question. He was completely dressed in green—green coat, green vest, green pants—everything green but his boots. I was greatly amused at his opening remark, “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “England reminds me in this great question of a large lion that has been sleeping a good many years, commencing to rouse itself, stretch, yawn, and wag its tail.” For days after, that lion, with its wagging tail, came visibly before me.’ She also remembered Shiel, who began his speech in Exeter Hall, then quite a new building, by saying that he was afraid he would not be able to make himself heard, and then roared so that he might have been heard at Somerset House. She saw the man in armour proclaim King William in Cheapside, and it touched her to tears when all the people cried: ‘God save the King!’ ‘At one time,’ she said, ‘I helped Pringle to edit one of his annuals. Proctor sent in his poem on “The Sea, the Sea,” and after reading it I recommended it for publication, but Pringle rejected it. However, afterwards he found out his mistake when the poem, published in another channel, brought fame to its author.’
Mrs. Moodie seemed to think that it was a great privilege to have been in London while the Catholic Emancipation Act and the Reform Bills were carried, and still in her comfortable house in Toronto loves to talk of the bustle and excitement of the time. I was privileged twice to see her, and then we parted, never more to meet—in this world, at least.