Toronto
"Fiction, however wild and fanciful,
Is but the copy memory draws from truth.
'Tis not in human genius to _create_:
The mind is but a mirror that reflects
Realities that are, or the dim shadows
Left by the past upon its placid surface
Recalled again to life."
The glow of early day was brightening in the east, as the steamer
approached Toronto. We rounded the point of the interminable, flat,
swampy island, that stretches for several miles in front of the city,
and which is thinly covered with scrubby-looking trees. The land
lies so level with the water, that it has the appearance of being
half-submerged, and from a distance you only see the tops of the trees.
I have been informed that the name of Toronto has been derived from this
circumstance, which in Indian literally means, "Trees in the water."
If the island rather takes from, than adds to, the beauty of the place,
it is not without great practical advantages, as to it the city is
mainly indebted for its sheltered and very commodious harbour.
After entering the harbour, Toronto presents a long line of frontage,
covered with handsome buildings, to the eye. A grey mist still hovered
over its many domes and spires; but the new University and the Lunatic
Asylum stood out in bold relief, as they caught the broad red gleam of
the coming day.
It was my first visit to the metropolitan city of the upper province,
and with no small degree of interest I examined its general aspect as we
approached the wharf. It does not present such an imposing appearance
from the water as Kingston, but it strikes you instantly as a place of
far greater magnitude and importance. There is a fresh, growing, healthy
vitality about this place, that cannot fail to impress a stranger very
forcibly the first time he enters it. He feels instinctively that he
sees before him the strong throbbing heart of this gigantic young
country, and that every powerful vibration from this ever increasing
centre of wealth and civilisation, infuses life and vigour through the
whole length and breadth of the province.
Toronto exceeded the most sanguine expectations that I had formed of it
at a distance, and enabled me to realize distinctly the rising greatness
and rapid improvement of the colony. It is only here that you can form
any just estimate of what she now is, and what at no very distant period
she must be.
The country, for some miles round the city, appears to the eye as flat
as a floor; the rise, though very gradual, is, I am told, considerable;
and the land is sufficiently elevated above the lake to escape the
disagreeable character of being low and swampy. Anything in the shape of
a slope or hill is not distinguishable in the present area on which
Toronto is built; but the streets are wide and clean, and contain many
handsome public buildings; and the beautiful trees which everywhere
abound in the neat, well-kept gardens, that surround the dwellings of
the wealthier inhabitants, with the broad, bright, blue inland sea
that forms the foreground to the picture, give to it such a lively and
agreeable character, that it takes from it all appearance of tameness
and monotony.
The wharfs, with which our first practical acquaintance with the city
commenced, are very narrow and incommodious. They are built on piles
of wood, running out to some distance in the water, and covered with
rotten, black-looking boards. As far as comfort and convenience go, they
are far inferior to those of Cobourg and Kingston, or even to those of
our own dear little "City of the Bay," as Belleville has not inaptly
been christened by the strange madcap, calling himself the "Great Orator
of the West."
It is devoutly to be hoped that a few years will sweep all these decayed
old wharfs into the Ontario, and that more substantial ones, built of
stone, will be erected in their place. Rome, however, was not built
in a day; and the magic growth of this city of the West is almost as
miraculous as that of Jonah's celebrated gourd.
The steamboat had scarcely been secured to her wharf before we were
surrounded by a host of cabmen, who rushed on board, fighting and
squabbling with each other, in order to secure the first chance of
passengers and their luggage. The hubbub in front of the ladies' cabin
grew to a perfect uproar; and, as most of the gentlemen were still
in the arms of Morpheus, these noisy Mercuries had it all their own
way--swearing and shouting at the top of their voices, in a manner
that rivalled civilized Europe. I was perfectly astonished at their
volubility, and the pertinacity of their attentions, which were
poured forth in the true Milesian fashion--an odd mixture of blarney,
self-interest, and audacity. At Kingston these gentry are far more
civil and less importunate, and we witnessed none of this disgraceful
annoyance at any other port on the lake. One of these Paddies, in his
hurry to secure the persons and luggage of several ladies, who had been
my fellow-passengers in the cabin, nearly backed his crazy old vehicle
over the unguarded wooden wharf into the lake.
We got safely stowed at last into one of these machines, which,
internally, are not destitute of either comfort or convenience; and
driving through some of the principal avenues of the city, were safely
deposited at the door of a dear friend, who had come on board to conduct
us to his hospitable home; and here I found the rest and quiet so much
needed by an invalid after a long and fatiguing journey.
It was some days before I was sufficiently recovered to visit any of
the lions of the place. With a minute description of these I shall
not trouble my readers. My book is written more with a view to convey
general impressions, than to delineate separate features,--to while away
the languid heat of a summer day, or the dreary dulness of a wet one.
The intending emigrant, who is anxious for commercial calculations and
statistical details, will find all that he can require on this head in
"Scobie's Almanack," and Smith's "Past, Present, and Future of
Canada,"--works written expressly for that purpose.
Women make good use of their eyes and ears, and paint scenes that amuse
or strike their fancy with tolerable accuracy; but it requires the
strong-thinking heart of man to anticipate events, and trace certain
results from particular causes. Women are out of their element when they
attempt to speculate upon these abstruse matters--are apt to incline too
strongly to their own opinions--and jump at conclusions which are either
false or unsatisfactory.
My first visit was to King-street, which may be considered as the
Regent-street of Toronto. It is the great central avenue of commerce,
and contains many fine buildings, and handsome capacious stores, while
a number of new ones are in a state of progress. This fine, broad, airy
thoroughfare, would be an ornament to any town or city, and the bustle
and traffic through it give to strangers a tolerably just idea of the
wealth and industry of the community. All the streets terminate at the
water's edge, but Front-street, which runs parallel with it, and may be
termed the "west end" of Toronto; for most of the wealthy residents have
handsome houses and gardens in this street, which is open through the
whole length of it to the lake. The rail-road is upon the edge of the
water along this natural terrace. The situation is uncommonly lively,
as it commands a fine view of the harbour, and vessels and steamboats
are passing to and fro continually.
The St. Lawrence market, which is near the bottom of King-street, is
a handsome, commodious building, and capitally supplied with all the
creature-comforts--fish, flesh, and fowl--besides abundance of excellent
fruits and vegetables, which can be procured at very reasonable prices.
The town-hall is over the market-place, and I am told--for I did not
visit it--that it is a noble room, capable of accommodating a large
number of people with ease and comfort.
Toronto is very rich in handsome churches, which form one of its chief
attractions. I was greatly struck with the elegant spire of Knox's
church, which is perhaps the most graceful in the city. The body of the
church, however, seems rather too short, and out of proportion, for the
tall slender tower, which would have appeared to much greater advantage
attached to a building double the length.
Nothing attracted my attention, or interested me more, than the
handsome, well-supplied book stores. Those of Armour, Scobie, and
Maclean, are equal to many in London in appearance, and far superior to
those that were to be found in Norwich and Ipswich thirty years ago.
This speaks well for the mental improvement of Canada, and is a proof
that people have more leisure for acquiring book lore, and more money
for the purchase of books, than they had some years ago. The piracies
of the Americans have realized the old proverb, "That 'tis an ill wind
that blows nobody any good." Incalculable are the benefits that Canada
derives from her cheap reprints of all the European standard works,
which, on good paper and in handsome bindings, can be bought at a
quarter the price of the English editions. This circumstance must always
make the Canadas a bad market for English publications. Most of these,
it is true, can be procured by wealthy individuals at the book stores
mentioned above, but the American reprints of the same works abound a
hundred-fold.
Novels form the most attractive species of reading here for the young;
and the best of these, in pamphlet form, may be procured for from
twenty-five to fifty cents. And here I must claim the privilege of
speaking a few words in defence of both novel readers and novel writers,
in spite of the horror which I fancy I see depicted on many a grave
countenance.
There are many good and conscientious persons who regard novels and
novel writers with devout horror, who condemn their works, however
moral in their tendency, as unfit for the perusal of responsible and
intelligent creatures, who will not admit into their libraries any books
but such as treat of religious, historical, or scientific subjects,
imagining, and we think very erroneously, that all works of fiction have
a demoralizing effect, and tend to weaken the judgment, and enervate the
mind.
We will, however, allow that there is both truth and sound sense in some
of these objections; that if a young person's reading is entirely
confined to this class of literature, and that of an inferior sort, a
great deal of harm may be the result, as many of these works are apt to
convey to them false and exaggerated pictures of life. Such a course of
reading would produce the same effect upon the mind as a constant diet
of sweetmeats would upon the stomach; it would destroy the digestion,
and induce a loathing for more wholesome food.
Still, the mind requires recreation as well as the body, and cannot
always be engaged upon serious studies without injury to the brain, and
the disarrangement of some of the most important organs of the body.
Now, we think it could be satisfactorily proved, in spite of the stern
crusade perpetually waged against works of fiction by a large portion of
well-meaning people, that much good has been done in the world through
their instrumentality.
Most novels and romances, particularly those of the modern school, are
founded upon real incidents, and, like the best heads in the artist's
picture, the characters are drawn from life; and the closer the drawing
or story approximates to nature, the more interesting and popular will
it become. Though a vast number of these works are daily pouring from
the British and American press, it is only those of a very high class
that are generally read, and become as familiar as household words. The
tastes of individuals differ widely on articles of dress, food, and
amusement; but there is a wonderful affinity in the minds of men, as
regards works of literature. A book that appeals strongly to the
passions, if true to nature, will strike nearly all alike, and obtain
a world-wide popularity, while the mere fiction sinks back into
obscurity--is once read and forgotten.
The works of Smollett and Fielding were admirable pictures of society as
it existed in their day; but we live in a more refined age, and few
young people would feel any pleasure in the coarse pictures exhibited in
those once celebrated works. The novels of Richardson, recommended by
grave divines from the pulpit as perfect models of purity and virtue,
would now be cast aside with indifference and disgust. They were
considered quite the reverse in the age he wrote, and he was regarded as
one of the great reformers of the vices of his time. We may therefore
conclude, that, although repugnant to our taste and feelings, they were
the means of effecting much good in a gross and licentious age.
In the writings of our great modern novelists, virtue is never debased,
nor vice exalted; but there is a constant endeavour to impress upon the
mind of the reader the true wisdom of the one, and the folly of the
other; and where the author fails to create an interest in the fate
of his hero or heroine, it is not because they are bad or immoral
characters, like Lovelace in Clarissa Harlowe, and Lord B--- in Pamela,
but that, like Sir Charles Grandison, they are too good for reality,
and their very faultlessness renders them, like the said Sir Charles,
affected and unnatural. Where high moral excellence is represented as
struggling with the faults and follies common to humanity, sometimes
yielding to temptation, and reaping the bitter fruits, and at other
times successfully resisting the allurements of vice, all our sympathies
are engaged in the contest; it becomes our own, and we follow the hero
through all his trials, weep over his fall, or triumph in his success.
Children, who possess an unsophisticated judgment in these matters,
seldom feel much interest in the model boy of a moral story; not from
any innate depravity of mind, which leads them to prefer vice to virtue,
for no such preference can exist in the human breast,--no, not even in
the perverted hearts of the worst of men--but because the model boy is
like no other boy of their acquaintance. He does not resemble them, for
he is a piece of unnatural perfection. He neither fights, nor cries, nor
wishes to play when he ought to be busy with his lessons; he lectures
like a parson, and talks like a book. His face is never dirty; he
never tears his clothes, nor soils his hands with making dirt pies, or
puddling in the mud. His hair is always smooth, his face always wears
a smile, and he was never known to sulk, or say _I won't!_ The boy is
a perfect stranger--they can't recognise his likeness, or follow his
example--and why? because both are unnatural caricatures.
But be sure, that if the naughty boy of the said tale creates the most
interest for his fate in the mind of the youthful reader, it is simply
because he is drawn with more truthfulness than the character that
was intended for his counterpart. The language of passion is always
eloquent, and the bad boy is delineated true to his bad nature, and is
made to speak and act naturally, which never fails to awaken a touch of
sympathy in beings equally prone to err. I again repeat that few minds
(if any) exist than can find beauty in deformity, or aught to admire in
the hideousness of vice.
There are many persons in the world who cannot bear to receive
instruction when conveyed to them in a serious form, who shrink with
loathing from the cant with which too many religious novels are loaded;
and who yet might be induced to listen to precepts of religion and
morality, when arrayed in a more amusing and attractive garb, and
enforced by characters who speak and feel like themselves, and share
in all things a common humanity.
Some of our admirable modern works of fiction, or rather truths
disguised, in order to make them more palatable to the generality of
readers, have done more to ameliorate the sorrows of mankind, by drawing
the attention of the public to the wants and woes of the lower classes,
than all the charity sermons that have been delivered from the pulpit.
Yes, the despised and reprobated novelist, by daring to unveil the
crimes and miseries of neglected and ignorant men, and to point out the
abuses which have produced, and are still producing, the same dreadful
results, are missionaries in the cause of humanity, the real friends and
benefactors of mankind.
The selfish worldling may denounce as infamous and immoral, the
heart-rending pictures of human suffering and degradation that the
writings of Dickens and Sue have presented to their gaze, and declare
that they are unfit to meet the eyes of the virtuous and refined--that
no good can arise from the publication of such revolting details--and
that to be ignorant of the existence of such horrors is in itself a
species of virtue.
Daughter of wealth, daintily nurtured, and nicely educated, _Is
blindness nature?_ Does your superiority over these fallen creatures
spring from any innate principle in your own breast, which renders you
more worthy of the admiration and esteem of your fellow-creatures? Are
not you indebted to the circumstances in which you are placed, and to
that moral education, for every virtue that you possess?
You can feel no pity for the murderer, the thief, the prostitute. Such
people may aptly be termed the wild beasts of society, and, like wild
beasts, should be hunted down and killed, in order to secure the
peace and comfort of the rest. Well, the law has been doing this for
many ages, and yet the wild beasts still exist and prey upon their
neighbours. And such will still continue to be the case until
Christianity, following the example of her blessed Founder, goes forth
into the wilderness of life on her errand of mercy, not to condemn,
but to seek and to save that which is lost.
The conventional rules of society have formed a hedge about you, which
renders any flagrant breach of morality very difficult,--in some cases
almost impossible. From infancy the dread commandments have been
sounding in your ears,--"Thou shalt not kill! Thou shalt not steal! Thou
shalt not commit adultery!"--and the awful mandate has been strengthened
by the admonitions of pious parents and good ministers, all anxious for
your eternal welfare. You may well be honest; for all your wants have
been supplied, and you have yet to learn that where no temptation
exists, virtue itself becomes a negative quality. You do not covet the
goods which others possess. You have never looked down, with confusion
of face and heartfelt bitterness, on the dirty rags that scarcely
suffice to conceal the emaciation of your wasted limbs. You have never
felt hunger gnawing at your vitals, or shuddered at the cries of
famishing children, sobbing around your knees for bread. You have
dainties to satiety every day, and know nothing of the agonies of
sacrificing your virtue for the sake of a meal. If you are cold, you
have a good fire to warm you, a comfortable mansion to protect you from
the inclemency of the weather, and garments suitable to every season
of the year. How can you be expected to sympathize with the ragged,
houseless children of want and infamy!
You cannot bear to have these sad realities presented to your notice. It
shocks your nerves. You cannot bring yourself to admit that these
outcasts of society are composed of the same clay; and you blame the
authors who have dared to run a tilt against your prejudices, and have
not only attested the unwelcome fact, but have pointed out the causes
which lead to the hopeless degradation and depravity of these miserable
fellow-creatures. You cannot read the works of these humane men, because
they bid you to step with them into these dirty abodes of guilt and
wretchedness, and see what crime really is, and all the horrors that
ignorance and poverty, and a want of self-respect, never fail to bring
about. You cannot enter into these abodes of your neglected and starving
brothers and sisters--these forlorn scions of a common stock--and
view their cold hearths and unfurnished tables, their beds of straw
and tattered garments, without defilement--or witness their days of
unremitting toil, and nights of unrest; and worse, far worse, to behold
the evil passions and crimes which spring from a state of ignorance,
producing a moral darkness that can be felt.
You are insulted and offended at being seen in such bad company; and
cannot for a moment, imagine that a change in your relative positions
might have rendered you no wiser or better than them. But, let me ask
you candidly, has not the terrible scene produced some effect? Can you
forget its existence,--its shocking reality? The lesson it teaches may
be distasteful, but you cannot shake off a knowledge of its melancholy
facts. The voice of conscience speaks audibly to your heart; that still
small voice--that awful record of himself that God has placed in
every breast (and woe be to you, or any one, when it ceases to be
heard!)--tells you that you cannot, without violating the divine
mandate, "love thy neighbour as thyself," leave these miserable
creatures to languish and die, without making one effort to aid in
rescuing them from their melancholy fate.
"But what can I do?" I hear you indignantly exclaim.
Much; oh, how much! You have wealth, a small part of which cannot be
better bestowed than in educating these poor creatures; in teaching them
to recognise those divine laws which they have broken; in leading them
step by step into those paths of piety and peace they have never known.
Ignorance has been the most powerful agent in corrupting these perishing
criminals. Give them healthful employment, the means of emigrating to
countries where labour is amply remunerated, and will secure for them
comfort, independence, and self-respect. In Canada, these victims of
over-population prove beneficial members of society, while with you they
are regarded as a blight and a curse.
Numbers of this class are yearly cast upon these shores, yet the crimes
which are commonly committed by their instrumentality in Britain, very
rarely occur with us. We could not sleep with unfastened doors and
windows near populous towns, if the change in their condition did not
bring about a greater moral change in the character of these poor
emigrants.
They readily gain employment; their toils are amply remunerated; and
they cease to commit crime to procure a precarious existence. In the
very worst of these people some good exists. A few seeds remain of
divine planting, which, if fostered and judiciously trained, might yet
bear fruit for heaven.
The authors, whose works you call disgusting and immoral, point out
this, and afford you the most pathetic illustrations of its truth. You
need not fear contamination from the vices which they portray. Their
depravity is of too black a hue to have the least attraction, even to
beings only removed a few degrees from the same guilt. Vice may have
her admirers when she glitters in gold and scarlet; but when exposed in
filth and nakedness, her most reckless devotees shrink back from her in
disgust and horror. Vice, without her mask, is a spectacle too appalling
for humanity; it exhibits the hideousness, and breathes of the
corruption of hell.
If these reprobated works of fiction can startle the rich into a painful
consciousness of the wants and agonies of the poor, and make them, in
spite of all the conventional laws of society, acknowledge their kindred
humanity, who shall say that their books have been written in vain?
For my own part, I look upon these authors as heaven-inspired teachers,
who have been commissioned by the great Father of souls to proclaim
to the world the wrongs and sufferings of millions of his creatures;
to plead their cause with unflinching integrity, and, with almost
superhuman eloquence, demand for them the justice which the world has so
long denied. These men are the benefactors of their species, to whom the
whole human race owe a vast debt of gratitude.
Since the publication of Oliver Twist, and many other works of the same
class, inquiries have been made by thinking and benevolent individuals
into the condition of the destitute poor in great cities and
manufacturing districts. These works brought to light deeds of darkness,
and scenes of oppression and cruelty, scarcely to be credited in modern
times and in Christian communities. The attention of the public was
directed towards this miserable class of beings, and its best sympathies
enlisted in their behalf. It was called upon to assist in the liberation
of these white slaves, chained to the oar for life in the galleys of
wealth, and to recognize them as men and brethren.
Then sprang up the ragged schools,--the institutions for reclaiming the
youthful vagrants of London, and teaching the idle and profligate the
sublime morality of sobriety and industry.
Persons who were unable to contribute money to these truly noble objects
of charity, were ready to assist in the capacity of Sunday-school
teachers, and add their mite in the great work of moral reform. In
over-peopled countries like England and France, the evils arising out of
extreme poverty could not be easily remedied; yet the help thus afforded
by the rich, contributed greatly in ameliorating the distress of
thousands of the poorer classes. To the same source we may trace the
mitigation of many severe laws. The punishment of death is no longer
enforced, but in cases of great depravity. Mercy has stepped in, and
wiped the blood from the sword of justice.
Hood's "Song of the Shirt" produced an almost electric effect upon the
public mind. It was a bold, truthful appeal to the best feelings of
humanity, and it found a response in every feeling heart. It laid bare
the distress of a most deserving and oppressed portion of the female
operatives of London; and the good it did is at this moment in active
operation. Witness the hundreds of work-women landed within the last
twelve months on these shores, who immediately found liberal employment.
God's blessing upon thee, Thomas Hood! The effect produced by that work
of divine charity of thine, will be felt long after thou and thy
heart-searching appeal have vanished into the oblivion of the past. But
what matters it to thee if the song is forgotten by coming generations?
It performed its mission of mercy on earth, and has opened for thee the
gates of heaven.
Such a work of fiction as "The Caxtons" refreshes and invigorates the
mind by its perusal; and virtue becomes beautiful for its own sake. You
love the gentle humanity of the single-hearted philosopher, the charming
simplicity of his loving helpmate, and scarcely know which to admire
the most--Catherine in her conjugal or maternal character--the noble
but mistaken pride of the fine old veteran Roland, the real hero of the
tale--or the excellent young man, his nephew, who reclaims the fallen
son, and is not too perfect to be unnatural. As many fine moral lessons
can be learned from this novel, as from most works written expressly for
the instruction and improvement of mankind; and they lose nothing by the
beautiful and attractive garb in which they are presented to the reader.
Our blessed Lord himself did not disdain the usc of allegory, which is
truth conveyed to the hearer under a symbolical form. His admirable
parables, each of which told a little history, were the most popular
methods that could be adopted to instruct the lower classes, who,
chiefly uneducated, require the illustration of a subject in order to
understand it.
Aesop, in his inimitable fables, pourtrayed through his animals the
various passions and vices of men, admirably adapting them to the
characters he meant to satirize, and the abuses he endeavoured through
this medium to reform. These beautiful fictions have done much to throw
disgrace upon roguery, selfishness, cruelty, avarice and injustice,
and to exalt patience, fidelity, mercy, and generosity, even among
Christians who were blessed with a higher moral code than that enjoyed
by the wise pagan; and they will continue to be read and admired as long
as the art of printing exists to render them immortal.
Every good work of fiction is a step towards the mental improvement of
mankind, and to every such writer, we say God speed!
The Earthquake.
"Hark! heard ye not a sound?"
"Aye, 'tis the sullen roar
Of billows breaking on the shore."
"Hush!--'tis beneath the ground,
That hollow rending shock,
Makes the tall mountains rock,--
The solid earth doth like a drunkard reel;
Pale nature holds her breath,
Her tribes are mute as death.
In silent dread the coming doom they feel."
"Ah, God have mercy!--hark! those dismal cries--
Man knows his danger now,
And veils in dust his brow.
Beneath, the yawning earth--above, the lurid skies!
Mortal, behold the toil and boast of years
In one brief moment to oblivion hurled.
So shall it be, when this vain guilty world
Of woe, and sad necessity and tears,
Sinks at the awful mandate of its Lord,
As erst it rose to being at his word."