This column first appeared in the Victoria Daily Times on Sept. 6, 1941.
Like everyone else who writes on controversial matters, I聽have received many anonymous letters. Some of these I burn, but not all.
I have a fine, fat file of them under the title of 鈥淣ut Letters.鈥� But a few days ago, I got my first letter that ends 鈥淗eil Hitler.鈥� In it, I was told that: 鈥淗itler is the saviour of the world, and in everything he does he is protected by Providence. He is fighting to raise the standard of living of other people as well as the Germans, and I will be hanging my head in shame before the two years are over鈥� (for ever having spoken against this great and good man, I聽presume).
The letter is well-written and the writer has evidently been educated in sa国际传媒. That much can be told by the handwriting. Parts of the letter are abusive, and there is a dark hint that: 鈥淭here will be fun when things break open in this country.鈥� I was going to reply to it in detail, but something came in the mail, just when I was getting warmed up and I changed my mind.
However, before I leave the subject of this anonymous letter, I聽want to tell the writer that his friend Hitler has never made any bones about what he intends to do with the other nations; he will reduce them to slavery of body and soul. England, for her resistance, will be 鈥渞educed to poverty and degradation.鈥�
Nazi Germany is not capable of forming a new order in Europe; they understand no relation between nations but that of master and slave, and it is because all this is understood by the other people of the world that Hitler and his 鈥済risly gang鈥� have no chance of winning. The people in sa国际传媒 who hope for a Hitler victory are only those who think they may be given a position of power in that event. Their number is small, their intellect is dim and the police have them under observation. So why should we worry about them?
The pleasant surprise I got in the mail is a book, written by the Alice Duer Miller, who wrote The White Cliffs. I Have Loved England it is called, and it is beautiful in word and picture. The Guildhall is in it, St. Paul鈥檚, St. Martin鈥檚-in-the-Fields and the Tower of London, to which all foreign visitors eagerly turn their steps.
I shall never forget the sudden tightening of the heart I felt in the Tower when I saw the name 鈥淛ane鈥� cut in stone (now covered with glass) and was told by the guide this has been done by Lady Jane Grey as she waited for her execution.
When I read what Mrs. Miller had written about Glastonbury Abbey in Somerset, I was driven to the Encyclopedia Britannica for confirmation, and sure enough there it is. The legend is that Joseph of Arimathea sailed to Glastonbury in the days when the sea covered the marshes and planted his staff there. The staff became a thorn bush, which blossomed twice a year.
In modern times, two hidden chapels were discovered by the Psychical Research Council when engaged in a bit of automatic writing: a 鈥渃ontrol鈥� who called himself Johannes gave directions and even made sketch maps, and when these directions were followed the Edgar and Loretta Chapels were found; and that, of course, is not legend but a cold fact.
There are many places pictured in the book which are famous in fiction 鈥� the Albany in Picadilly, where London鈥檚 literary men had chambers. The doorman in his uniform stands at the entrance as part of the furnishings. There is the Athenaeum Club at Waterloo Place, home of learned conversations.
I thought at first that it was Mrs. Miller鈥檚 intention to say nothing in her lovely book about the war. The verses she quotes are poems of peace, such as the poem called The Old Squire, wherein a well-fed, contented farmer eulogizes his own way of living.
Below a beautiful hunting scene, where the Squire leans on his cane, to see riders pass, is a verse from Goldsmith, beginning:
鈥淎 time there was e鈥檈r England鈥檚 griefs began
When every rood of ground maintained its man 鈥︹��
These all belong to the days of peace, but the war breaks in before you reach the last pages. One picture shows a beautiful little girl about 12 years old on her bicycle. A sturdy-limbed youngster with her hair blown over her forehead, a basket on the handlebars and in the basket a white dog. On the opposite page is the name of the picture 鈥� Noncombatant 鈥� and Wordsworth鈥檚 lines are below:
鈥淎 simple child
That lightly draws its breath
And feels its life in every limb
What should it know of death?鈥�
What indeed? And there we are, back in September 1941.
This afternoon, I sat in the car and watched the people enjoying a lovely afternoon in Mount Douglas Park, about six miles from Victoria. I saw children going up into the treetops on the swings, and bathers going down the steep path to the sea in their bright, brief garments; mothers marshaling their dripping offspring, and getting dry clothes on them behind trees and between cars; men in shirtsleeves carrying tea, coffee or milk from the store in bright pitchers and pots probably our own creations from the Medicine Hat Potteries, bright tablecloths on the tables on which baskets and boxes of food were waiting 鈥� picnic suppers in all stages of preparation, and performance.
It was a typical Canadian scene, everyone doing exactly as they wished and everyone having a good time.
A few people played shuffleboard; some sat with their backs against trees, reading; older people sat in cars listening to radio programs, and some just sitting, as I was.
Ahead of us was the sea, still and calm, streaked with blue shadows; beyond, the San Juan Islands and the Washington shore; white sailboats drifted idly with the tide. Cars came in and cars went, but no one directed the traffic. There was not even a sign to tell us to pick up our papers, but everything was orderly and pleasant.
Behind us under the trees stands the Mount Douglas Hostel Camp, painted green, where 50聽travellers can be comfortably bedded down each night. When the bunks are full, the travellers sleep under the trees. In front of the store stand great beds of petunias; on the veranda are tables where people who wish can have meals, and good ones, too.
I went in to see Mrs. Edwards, the proprietor, and passed a man and woman 鈥� hostellers by their costumes 鈥� who were talking about Geneva and the International Labour office there. The hostellers have been coming and going all summer; sometimes in parties with a leader, sometimes alone. The youngest this year was a 13-year-old girl on her bicycle.
And this is sa国际传媒, our own country, so free we never think of freedom. Let us rejoice and be glad in it!
Some of McClung鈥檚 columns from the 1930s and 1940s have been collected in a book, The Valiant Nellie McClung: Selected Writings by sa国际传媒鈥檚 Most Famous Suffragist, by Barbara Smith.
