[CHAPTER XXI]
THE SOUL OF CANADA
It is all very well for men like William Lloyd Garrison to exclaim, "My country is the world." I cannot lay claim to so broad a humanitarianism. Though I do not see the need of hating any other man's country, there is one country that means more than any other to me. How could I reprove the people of the United States for loving their own country—for being jingos, if you will—when I know that their home love cannot exceed mine?
Let me confess. Often and often I have thought of writing something about the love of my native land, but was restrained by the feeling that it was too intimate and personal to be exposed for the entertainment of the public. Goodness knows I have gossiped about almost everything in the most shameless way, but there was something about love of the land that seemed too sacred to reveal even to intimate friends. But now I am emboldened to hang my heart on my sleeve and talk to those of my readers both in Canada and the United States who have felt the love of the land and know what it means. I have the good fortune to be living on the farm on which I was born—the farm which my father cleared. Although I was born too late to take a hand in the work of clearing, I learned the history of every acre before an open fireplace many years ago. The history of the clearing of the land, the first crops, the names and characters of the horses and cows on the place, are so interwoven with my youthful recollections that I seem to remember them all as if I had taken part in the battle with the wilderness myself, and had shared in all its triumphs and sorrows. Something of this farm struck a tendril into my heart which neither time nor distance could break. It is the only spot on earth that ever gave me the feeling of home. Even after being away for years I have sat down in New York or London, England, and have been as homesick for this farm as a little boy who makes his first journey away from his mother's side. At any time I could close my eyes and see the quiet fields, and I would wonder what crops they were sown to. At all times it was my place of refuge, and, when I finally returned to it, it was with a feeling that my wanderings had ended, and that I could settle down and enjoy life where I belonged.
At the present time this love of the land appeals to me as being especially significant. The turmoil in the world to-day recalls to me the great purpose which moved my father and mother to undertake the task of making a home for themselves in the wilderness. They wanted to establish a home where their children and their children's children could be free. I know the oppression and hardship from which they escaped in the old world, and the toil and hardship they endured in the new before their dream was realized. It is high time that we who are native-born realized the price that our parents paid for the freedom and liberty we have enjoyed. The freedom that they won by their toil and sacrifice is a heritage worthy of our sons who did battle so that it may endure.
There have been times when I thought that the men of my own generation were escaping too lightly in the work of establishing a Canadian nation, but I think so no longer. This new nation was founded by our freedom-loving and infinitely patient fathers, and defended by our freeborn and heroic sons. It is true that we came too late to take part in the pioneer work, and were too old to take our place in the trenches. But on us there rests a heavy responsibility. It is for us to pierce through the confusions and selfishness of political strategy and establish the truth and justice that alone can make a nation endure. We must be true to the great purpose of our fathers and the splendid courage of our sons. Here is something that strikes deeper than party politics, that demands the best that is in us of wisdom and sanity. If we fail to do our part nobly the whole fabric of nationhood will fall. Love of the land carries with it a responsibility that may try us as sorely as the wilderness tried our fathers or as the battlefront tried our sons. And for us there is no escape. The future of Canada is in our keeping.
Whenever I read history, even the history of Canada, I feel like the American soldier who was wallowing through the mud after the battle of Spottsylvania Court-house. Saluting his officer, he exclaimed bitterly:
"If ever I love another country, damn me!"