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!"
History, as written, is largely a record of crimes and blunders that are
exposed or whitewashed according to the political bias of the man who is
writing the history. Historians, as a rule, are more given to the use of
whitewash than a political investigating committee. Fired by a patriotic
desire to picture for us a country worth loving they suppress much,
glorify everything that seems worth glorifying, and give us something
that is no nearer the truth than the crayon portraits you see in many
country parlors. If historians told the simple truth, every nation with
a scrap of decency would be trying to live down its history, just as a
convict tries to live down his past. And yet--and yet I confess to a
love of Canada that is not simply a patriotic emotion, but a passion to
which my whole being vibrates. To me Canada is a living soul--a Presence
that companions me in the fields--a mighty mother that nourished my
youth and inspires my manhood. Whenever I think of Canada I remember
Carman's wonderful lines:
"When I have lifted up my heart to thee,
Then hast thou ever hearkened and drawn near,
And bowed thy shining face close over me,
Till I could hear thee as the hill-flowers hear."
When I strive to fathom the secret of this love I find that it is due to
the fact that I learned history, not from books, but from the lips of
the men and women who made Canada--that I learned the history, not of
the government, but of the people. The spirit that broods over me
to-day is the same that danced among the shadows beside an open
fireplace while I listened to endless crooning tales of the sufferings
and hopes of the pioneers. The Spirit of Freedom that led them into the
wilderness became my spirit, and their dream of a free Canada became a
living spirit that danced about me in the flickering light of the
flaming back-logs.
By some trick of the imagination I have always thought of Canada as the
blithe spirit that haunted my childhood. But in my childhood she did not
always come in the same guise. Sometimes she would come gliding out of
the depths of the forest, a shy and dusky sprite that would take me by
the hand and teach me the love of flowers and birds and the infinite
mysteries of Nature. Again she would come as a country maid, glowing
with the joy of life, who would lead me through the fields where she
reaped the harvest and bound the sheaves. Always she walked in the
sunlight and though her moods were full of song and care-free laughter
"She had the lonely calm and poise
Of life that waits and wills."
As the years passed and the burdens of life began to press, I lost the
intimate touch with the spirit of my country. But always I was conscious
that back of the turmoil she was working her will and shaping the
destiny of a free people. Though I might be stunned and disheartened by
the greed of commerce and the clamor of politics, I could still see
dimly that the spirit that companioned my youth was at work wherever men
and women labored. And her love was not only for those who could claim
it as a birthright, but to all who came to Canada in quest of freedom.
Creeds and nationalities and old hatreds were nothing to her. No matter
what wrongs or abuse of power there might be in high places, the spirit
of Canada was nourishing the weak, teaching them the lesson of freedom,
and moving to her place among the nations.
Then came the day when the war trumpets sounded and the soul of Canada
flamed to her full stature. She heard the call of the oppressed and
hurled her legions against the oppressor. Not hers
"To mix with Kings in the low lust for sway,
Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous prey."
Nourished in freedom she gave battle for freedom. To-day I see her, as I
saw her in the time of war, roused but unafraid, and watching with
questioning eyes the sacrifice of her sons. Standing heroic on the soil
that gave her birth she marks with glooming brows the madness of the
nations. This is the hour of her decision. Woe alike to those who would
stay her hand and to those who would hurry her to destruction! Born of
the dreams of humble people who toiled and served for the freedom on
which she was nourished, Canada must be forever free! As a free nation
within the Empire she has given lavishly of her best, and as a free
nation she must endure!