On April 8th, 1848, the Reverend James Dixon, Doctor of Divinity, of Birmingham, England, whose portrait appears above, embarked upon the ship “Acadia” bound for Boston out of Liverpool. Dixon’s purpose was to acquaint the Methodist body in England with the state and progress of their religion in the United States. The account of his travels in America appeared a year later under the title Personal Narrative of A Tour Through A Part of the United States And Canada with Notices of the History and Institutions of Methodism in America. The quotations which appear below are from the first American edition published by Lane & Scott of New York in 1849.
While Dixon’s views on women, diversity and the supremacy of the Anglo-Saxon might find little favor in today’s America, it is for his description of his travels in New York’s North Country that I find his account fascinating. Northern New York was then, for the most part, a howling wilderness. Only the periphery: the St. Lawrence River and Lake Champlain received his attention. We’ll have to settle for what we can get.
Dixon had to travel through New England before he could get to our part of the country. A few first impressions are worth noting:
Nothing can be more odious than the fences of this country; the landscape is perfectly deformed by their appearance. The farmers employ long pieces of wood, no doubt cut up for the purpose. These are laid lengthwise, crossing each other at the end, and piled one upon another a sufficient height to keep their cattle from going astray. This mode of fence causes the whole country to look like one prodigious wood-yard; and, in the absence of this wood, stone is employed….The villages and towns on our route appeared very pretty; the houses being built of wood, painted white, and the window-blinds green. By these means an air of great cleanliness was secured, and many of these wood buildings rose to magnificence, having a mansion like appearance. I found afterwards that houses thus built of wood are capable of excluding wind and weather, and securing as great a comfort and warmth as the more substantial erections of brick or stone.
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While visiting Niagara Falls, Dixon was moved to make these comments on the differences between the United States and Canada.
Every book I had read, and every person with whom I had conversed, after visiting American and Canada, united in their testimony as to the great difference instantly felt on passing the boundary-line; and this change seemed always to be represented in favor of Canada; while any attempt at pointing out the nature of this contrast, its cause and its characteristics, has never, so far as I know, been attempted. The fact is indisputable. It is not a matter of reasoning, of inference, of opinion; it is instantly felt, as much as in going out of a warm room into a cold atmosphere. What is it that produces the change? The preference is, of course, a matter of taste. The American temperament is by some generally preferred, and by others the Canadian.
Let us look at the case. On the American side, the people are all life, elasticity, Buoyancy, activity; on the Canadian side we have a people who appear subdued, tame, spiritless, as if living much more under the influence of fear than of hope. Again: on the American territory we behold men moving as if they had the idea that their calling was to act, to choose, to govern—at any rate to govern themselves; On the Canada soil we see a race, perhaps more polite than the other but who seem to live under the impression that their vocation is to receive orders, and obey. Then, on the American side, you are placed in the midst of incessant bustle, agitation; the hotels are filled, coaches are in constant movement, railroad trains passing and repassing with their passengers, while men of business are seen pushing their concerns with impassioned ardour.
On the Canada shore we have comparatively still life; delicate, genteel, formal. Morever, on the American territory, all along the shores of the lakes, the country is being cleared, houses and villages built, works put up, incipient ports opened, and trade begun. On the Canada shore, unbroken forest appears for miles, while the small openings which have been made present themselves to view in a very infantine and feeble state of progress.
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There is another striking difference between the American and the Canadian. In the first-mentioned country, ideas, sentiments, opinions—in fine, knowledge seems to be considered common stock. The people sit with their legs across a chair-back, or place them in some other elevated position, and talk at their ease.
On the other hand the Canadian people seem to say, “Do you not know that I am a gentleman? Keep your distance sir.” Then, again, the American officer never forgets that he is a citizen, and the citizen does not forget that he is a man; their intercourse is perfectly easy, free, unembarrassed. The one class never assumes an air of superiority; the other never lowers his status, or yields up his consciousness of equality, or his self-respect. On the other hand, the Canadian officer never moves from his standing of assumed dignity, or condescends to become the citizen; he rarely amalgamates with the people; and they, on their part, as seldom think of stepping beyond their line, and claiming equality. These artificial distinctions have a powerful and obvious effect. The manners of the Canadian population, being thus regulated, appear much more in accordance with European notions than their neighbors’. This circumstance, no doubt, causes the one class to be called vulgar, and the other to be praised as polite. The opinion, as we have said, is a matter of taste. They who have a desire to see nature in its genuine tendencies, will prefer the one; they who admire it the most under the restraints of distinctions and fashion, the other. But it would be unjust in me to say, that the more unrestrained population are not polite; for, in truth, I met with nothing but the most perfect politeness from them all.
And now we come at last to the true North Country, beginning at The Thousand Islands.
Our steamer from Montreal was awaiting our arrival; and after some time we got on board, and were soon off again for fresh scenes and a new destination. We at once got into the current of the St. Lawrence, and found ourselves in themidst of, I should think, the most perfect fairy-scene in the world—The Thousand Islands.
These islands are so called, not because they have been counted,--a definite
being put for an indefinite number. They extend from the singular union of waters by the Bay of Quinti, and the head of the St. Lawrence, for a space of thirty miles. They are of every size and form, though never attaining any great elevation; and are all covered with trees and shrubs. Our passage lay in the midst of this wonderful group, through which we threaded our course safely, though it needed the most careful pilotage. Some of the islands seemed to occupy a considerable space on the bosom of the flood; but one isolated little thing, just standing in our course, and requiring some tact to avoid, looked exactly like a flower-pot, with one plant growing in its centre, of diminutive size, reaching only the elevation which its scanty soil would nourish. So true is nature to its laws! Had this tiny shrub risen higher, the winds would have soon leveled and sent it floating in the water.
The day was clear, the sun was bright, the winds soft and genial; could anything more perfectly remind one of Paradise than this scene? No ruined castles, it is true, graced these islands; no rising turrets, covered with ivy, mantled these spots of primitive beauty, no baronial traditions, no deserted halls, no banqueting rooms, once the scene of revelry, of love, and of revenge, were here open to inspection. All was simple, primeval;--nature clothed in her own attire of leafy loveliness. Not a building, not a cottage, was seen. No ascending smoke, no signs of human life, no bleating animals no ploughman’s note, no stroke of the woodsman’s axe, no labours of the spade or hoe, were anywhere visible; silence and repose reigned in these islands,--which, in ancient times, would have been peopled, in the imagination of poets, with nymphs and goddesses,--without one interrupting sound, except the whispers of the wind.
Nature lay undisturbed in her own soft bed; cradled in the waters; rocked by the elements; and soothed by the rippling stream as it passed along. This simple, primitive state of things, has always been, from the time when God first spoke creation into existence; or, certainly, from the period when, some convulsion breaking off these fragments from the main land, he stretched out his hand to place them in their present setting to show his love of beauty, and teach mankind lessons of grateful admiration.
Only one inhabitant has been known to dwell on these islands, a sort of freebooter, who made them the headquarters of hisr piracy for some time. He shifted his abode as occasion dictated, in order to avoid detection; and sallying forth upon passers-by, feeble enough to tempt his cupidity, plundered them of their effects, and then hastened to his lurking-places in the islands, to enjoy the spoil. He was at last detected, and is now expiating his offenses in some distant prison, or living at large with the brand of infamy upon his forehead, as the violater of the sanctities of a spot hallowed to innocence, peace, and beauty.
In the course of the day, we passed down the Rapids, rendered classical by Tom Moore’s celebrated “Canadian Boat Song.” They are perfectly frightful. The descent is considerable, the river narrow, the current impetuous, the rocks turning the stream into foaming and dashing fury, like the waters of the sea on a shelving shore. A perfect knowledge of the channel is necessary to the pilot, a keen eye, a strict and vigilant watchfulness: if any of these should be wanting, or any accident in any way happen; if the ship, from any cause, should refuse to obey the helm, in the smallest degree; destruction would be inevitable. In one place the bend of the river is so abrupt and the angle so acute, that one would suppose the vessel must go headlong against the shore. Such, however, was the skill of our pilot, that at this point we suddenly wheeled round with the current, and passed safely the whole course of the Rapids.
After spending a suitable amount of time viewing the sights of Montreal and Quebec City, Dixon and his party proceeded to Lake Champlain.
On Thursday, June 22d, the day on which we came up from Quebec, we bade farewell to our dear friends at Montreal, and took a last look at Canada. .… We crossed the St. Lawrence, and soon entered Lake Champlain. A portion of the waters of this lake belong to the British; as usual, just the fag-end, whilst the great body of the lake is owned by the States. The lines of demarcation are marked by a fort, of small dimensions or strength, which might be easily dismantled. This is, unquestionably, the finest lake I had seen. The scenery on its banks is perfectly enchanting; and, unlike Lakes Erie and Ontario, it commands a view of mountain scenery of the most majestic description. This lake is one hundred and thirty-two miles in length, and varies in breadth from the narrow channel above mentioned to nine or ten miles. Many beautiful islands stud the waters, and have a fine effect. At the close of the day we approached a place called Plattsburgh. The scene was the most beautifully romantic which nature can possibly present: a blue sky, deep lofty, stretching its heavenly arch to span the landscape, the sun setting in all its gorgeous glory, the lake smooth as glass, except as disturbed by our motion, wild fowl fluttering about and enjoying the cool evening, the majestic mountains of Vermont looming in the distance, and all the intermediate space filled with cultivated fields and towering forests,--and then the lonely little town of Plattsburgh, touching the fringe of the lake, and presenting the most perfect aspect of rural peace and quiet on which the eye ever gazed. My manliness here was first overcome; I longed and longed to get on shore, to fix my tent, and remain forever. This sentiment was new; I had never before felt any remarkable desire to locate in any place I had seen; but here for a moment I was perfectly overcome. Other affections, of course, soon sprang up, and wafted my soul across the Atlantic, where treasures dearer than even these beauties had their dwelling.
During this little paroxysm, delirium, or whatever it may be called, my kind companion, Dr. Richey, had retired to his cabin, so that one of my wants could not be relieved,--a vent for exclamations of delight! This was just one of those moments which can never be forgotten, an Eden, a paradisiacal scene, into none can enter with one, and which leaves its picture vividly penciled upon the soul. But how soon things change, and in their reality fade away!
We left this spot, passed on, the night closed in, the curtain dropped.
All of this helps to understand, in some small part, why I shall forever be a son of The North Country, a citizen of its earth and waters as well as of the Republic, no matter where I shall find myself, and no matter what my circumstances.
Thirty years before Josie Treggett was born, Ivory Soap published this ad, pointing out that clothes had to be boiled to release accumulated sweat and grime, to say nothing of killing off stray bacteria. This was done, of course, on a cast iron stove, in the heat and humidity of summer and the cold of winter. Few houses in the north had a summer kitchen outdoors. Drying was done on the clothesline, which to this day has several advantages over an electric or gas heated rotary dryer. All of my grandparents and great-grandparents did have a young servant girl, usually Irish, to help out with domestic duties. Not everyone was so fortunate. Even with help, doing the wash was pure drudgery. But no complaint has drifted down to my generation. Our ancestors were made of great stuff. We should be proud of them and respect them for the daily work that they did with their bare hands.
