There is scope for imagination here.4 How full such a life might have been of adventure! And, as for his personal qualities, could human eulogy go further?
But what is this? We pause by a plain little headstone, covered from top to bottom by lettering that is blurred and worn. The cemetery with its overarching trees and long aisles of shadows, fades from sight. We see the Halifax harbor of nearly a century agone. Out of the mist comes slowly a great frigate, brilliant with “the meteor flag of England.”5 Behind her is another with the Stars and Stripes reversed floating beneath St. George’s cross,6 and a still, silent form, wrapped in that same starry flag, lying on his own quarter-deck. Surely Time’s finger has turned back his pages and that is the Shannon sailing triumphant up the bay with the Chesapeake as her prize!7
This little monument is a memento of that famous sea duel. Two officers of the Shannon, a boyish middy of 18 and a man well past middle age, are buried here. They “died of desperate wounds received in the gallant action” – so reads their epitaph. It is such as a soldier might wish for!
And so our half-hour ramble ends as we pass out by the beautiful tribute to Nova Scotia’s dead heroes that guards the gates, with its memories of Inkerman and Alma and Balaklava,8 those “bleak heights that are famous in story,”9 out into the busy streets again, leaving behind those passionless shades where autumn leaves are drifting noiselessly down over the old forgotten graves of men and women who lived and loved and joyed and suffered when the last century was young.
“After life’s fitful fever they sleep well.”10
(1901)
FIGURE 4 Visual heading for “Cynthia’s” newspaper column “Around the Table,” published in thirty-five instalments in the Halifax Daily Echo (many of them reprinted in the Morning Chronicle) from September 1901 to May 1902. (Microfilm at Library and Archives Canada.)
Around the Table
CYNTHIA
This newspaper column, which appeared in thirty-five instalments between September 1901 and May 1902 in the Halifax Daily Echo and which is reprinted in its entirety for the first time in this volume, contains some of Montgomery’s most innovative work. It is signed “Cynthia,” an unmarried woman who lives with “Polly,” “Theodosia,” “Ted,” and “Aunt Janet” in a Halifax home. Together, they form a virtual family even when their personalities clash. They play practical jokes on each other, start an “anti-slang” society, discuss reading materials, and try to amuse themselves on their limited budgets.
Montgomery referred to these pieces as “a column or so of giddy stuff” for which “everything is fish that comes to Cynthia’s net – fun, fashions, fads, fancies.”1 After publishing a first instalment under the title “Over the Tea Cups,” she settled on the name “Around the Table”; a Daily Echo staff artist “made a heading for it in which four or five rather melancholy and spinsterish maidens sit around a table, presumably talking gossip” (see figure 4). Given that she commented frequently on the fast pace of the newspaper office, it is fortunate that her ability to write the witty column did not depend on her mood: as she noted in a journal entry dated November about her “sparkling” column, “I can always write brilliantly when I’m in the dismals.”2
Montgomery did not record how this newspaper column came about or how it was received by her colleagues or by the general public, except for the cryptic remark that “I think it rather goes.”3 A few publication details can illuminate this at least in part, however. Out of the thirty-five columns, twenty-three were reprinted in the Morning Chronicle, which was published in the same building and often used the same material, within days of their publication in the Daily Echo. Moreover, in contrast with the women’s columns that Janice Fiamengo studies in her book The Woman’s Page: Journalism and Rhetoric in Early Canada (2008), thirteen of the columns appeared or at least began on the front page of the newspaper. These columns also anticipate some of Montgomery’s hallmarks as a novelist: her fascination with word play, her parody of people’s foibles and prejudices (including her own), and her strategy of couching social criticism in humour. Many of the anecdotes told here would be reworked into key moments in her novels, particularly in Anne of Avonlea and Anne of the Island.
Over the Tea Cups
Saturday, 28 September 1901
The Art of Selecting a New Hat –
This Season’s Creations.
——
Autumn at the Public Gardens
and the Passing of the Old Garden.
——
Don’t Get in a Panic Unless You Have To.
——
How a Young Man Proposed to His Best Girl and
Why the Engagement Was Broken.4
——
(Written Specially for Saturday’s Daily Echo.)
THIS IS THE TIME OF YEAR WHEN A WOMAN STARTS TO get or make a new hat. Now comes one of our chances for pitying the men. They never have the fun in selecting new hats that we have – at least, it doesn’t seem possible that they have. I suppose men do get new hats occasionally; but there can’t really be much excitement in it for them – their hats are so plain and so much alike.
Now, when a woman gets a new hat it is always exciting – it is more exciting than ever this season, when the “picture” hat has come to its own.5 The variety where from to choose is bewildering – so, too, are the prices, sometimes.
“Sweet simplicity”6 is out of date, and lavish use of material is the hall-mark of a fashionable hat today. Some of the hats on exhibition are dreams.
The greatest trouble is, that the folks who designed this season’s hats seem to have had in mind only goddess-like creatures, “divinely tall and most divinely fair.”7 On such the new hats must look bewitching – if it be not incongruous to speak of a goddess as being bewitching. But what of the small women? There are a few of us left, despite the vogue of the Gibson girl,8 and as one of them I rise to make my feeble protest. Oh powers that be in the world of fashion, do please give us something that won’t eclipse us altogether.
A word of warning! Don’t – if you can possibly avoid it – don’t try to trim your own hat this fall. You will find it a delusion and a snare.9 It looks easy. It really seems as if anyone ought to be able to jumble silk and velvet and feathers and frills together into the seemingly careless creations of fall millinery. Nothing was ever more deceptive. That seeming carelessness calls for heaven-born genius. If you don’t possess this don’t let even precious economy beguile you into trimming your own hat. Nine times out of ten it would be, not a “dream,” but a nightmare.
By the way, who ever originated that expression, “Beautiful as a dream”?10 Some dreams are perfectly horrible. Just eat a bedtime snack of mince pie and Welsh rabbit and fruit cake, and see for yourself.
The Public Gardens are very beautiful just now, and so apparently think the crowds who frequent them.11 The color harmonies are exquisite – the greens of the trees, ranging from darkest emerald to golden, the sparkle of fountains and the moonlight gleam of shadowy pools, the bright tints of the flowers and the brighter tints of ladies’ dresses. Everyone, from the babies who toddle delightedly along the paths, to the octogenarian, who basks contentedly on the bench, seems to find the place a garden of delight.
Somebody has said that who ever loves a garden is a good person. So there must be lots of good people in Halifax.
Speaking of gardens, somebody ought to write a treatise on “The Passing of the Old-Fashioned Garden.” It is almost a thing of ancient history now – worse luck, for it was a beautiful place. There are a few old-timey gardens left yet, here and there in some remote country village, and to go into one of them seems like entering into a different world “where all things always seemed the same.”12 There is such dignity and repose about an old-fashioned garden. It seems like a desecration to think of “the strenuous life”13 in such a place.
Old-fashioned gardens were all pretty much alike. Perennials flourished there, coming up faithfully every year like tried and true old frien
ds, poking their green heads bravely up in sunny nooks before the last snow bank had dwindled away in the shadow of the firs at the north. There were holly-hocks in gay, stiff, soldierly ranks under the parlor windows, tiger lilies in gorgeous cuirasses to guard the gate, groups of nodding poppies like fine ladies in frilled silken gowns, clumps of southern wood that great grandmother planted two generations ago, strips of ribbon-grass, rows of cabbage roses down the central path and a tangle of sweet briars by the fence, honeysuckle climbing over the front porch and two big lilac trees before the door with day lilies at their roots.
There were flowers there, too, that you never hear of nowadays. They exist still, no doubt, but in the new order of things they seem ashamed of their plebeian names. You can find some of them in the catalogues masquerading under weird Latinized appellations. In olden days they were content to be known as “Clove Pinks,” “Adam and Eve,” “Bouncing Bess,” “Scarlet Lightning,” “Sweet Balm,” “Butter and Eggs,” “Bride’s Bouquet,” “Prince’s Feather” and “Bleeding Heart.”14 But those names seem to have passed with the passing of the old garden.
Don’t, if your little finger aches, straightway imagine that you have the smallpox.15 The chances are that you haven’t.
When the diphtheria was around Polly thought she had it.16 One day she was talking to a friend and the next day she heard that that friend had diphtheria. That night she came to my room at one o’clock and roused me out of the sleep of the just17 to tell me she had diphtheria – she knew she had it because her throat was sore and she just felt shivery all over. She made me hunt out a medical treatise on infectious diseases and read her the symptoms of diphtheria in its incipient stages while she checked them off on her fingers. She said she had ’em every one, too.
I began to get scared myself and went to the glass and peered down my throat. It seemed normal. Polly knew she was going to die and said she wished she hadn’t been in such a hurry getting her new winter hat and would I promise faithfully to give Jack the message she would leave for him? And did I think she would be black in the face if she choked to death?
We didn’t sleep any all the rest of the night and we cried a good deal and kept examining each other’s throats. Next day Polly found out it wasn’t her friend who was sick and the person who was sick hadn’t diphtheria.
Moral: Don’t get in a panic until you have to.
This story was told me the other day by a person who assured me it happened not a hundred miles from Halifax. I can’t vouch for it, but here it is:
He was one of those systematic fiends who eat and sleep and make love by rule and method. The other night he called on his best girl, proposed and was accepted. After he had gone she found this memorandum which he had accidentally dropped:
“Things I must do this evening.”
1. Shave myself.
2. Borrow $5 to buy roses for Dorothy.
3. Call at the laundry to get my collars and cuffs.
4. Propose to Dorothy. (a) Tell her I’ve loved her ever since that day I saw her in the park wearing that little red coat – make that strong. (b) Mention that when I look into her beautiful eyes I realize how unworthy I am – that’s the conventional thing to say. (c) Get my arm gradually around her waist. (d) Ask her if she thinks she can like me just a little. (e) Kiss her.
5. Stop in at Jimmy’s and have a game of poker with the boys.
6. Wind up my alarm clock and put it close to my ear so that it will go off at 7 tomorrow morning.
The young lady, it is said, concluded that she didn’t care for so methodical a husband and the engagement is off.
To wind up with here is a new wrinkle Polly has got for hair dressing. She brushes her hair into a very fluffy pompadour and twists it into a loose 8 at the back.18 On the left of this she fastens crookedwise a plump velvet bow. Then she takes a black velvet ribbon and passes it through a loop of hair directly in front of her pompadour where she ties it in a small bow above her forehead. With Polly’s piquant features the effect is charming.
[Letters, Books, and Neckwear]
Saturday, 5 October 1901
ONE OF THE MOST NOTICEABLE THINGS IN THIS SEASON’S fashions is the dainty neckwear. The display in the stores is bewildering and it is a liberal education to walk down Barrington street19 and look at all the pretty things that are destined to nestle under dimpled chins and encircle white throats. It really seems as if the homeliest woman in the world ought to be able to make herself pretty with the aid of these charming confections.
There are ties and fichus20 and collars of lace and gauze, fine as cobwebs; ruffs and boas of chiffon and feathers; and the loveliest of ribbons. Polly went uptown yesterday and squandered some of her substance21 on two new ties that she didn’t need in the world – for her top bureau drawer is crammed with all sorts and conditions of neckwear already.22 She said the temptation was irresistible and when I saw the ties I didn’t blame her. One was a wide plaid ribbon in delicate shades of blue and the other was of lovely old rose hemstitched silk.
I think I have more moral backbone in these matters than Polly has, but I always take the precaution of leaving my purse at home when I sally forth to look at the new neckwear.
Polly has been reading a recently published volume of somebody’s love-letters – I forget whose, but it doesn’t matter.23 As a result she has burned all hers – a very wise precaution. Nowadays, when we are bombarded with such literature, the people who preserve love-letters are only one degree less foolish than the people who write them. Nobody is safe. Because you are not a Browning24 or a Bismarck25 or a Hugo26 is no guarantee that some excavating fiend will not get hold of your soul-outpourings when you are dead and gone and straightway inflict them on a public that suffereth long and is kind.27 The interest of love-letters doesn’t depend on the eminence of the writers. We have had “Love Letters of a King,”28 “Love Letters of a Worldly Woman,”29 “Love Letters of an English Woman,”30 and so on. Next thing, we will have “Love Letters of a Cook,” or “Love Letters of Tommy the Policeman.” And, doubtless, they will be just as interesting as the others.
But to those people who don’t like the idea of a posthumous edition of their affections I give Punch’s advice – “don’t.”31
With the exception of love-letters which are perennial and will probably continue to be despite all warnings, correspondence seems to be in a parlous state nowadays32 – at least so say those who are always lamenting the good old times. Letter writing is numbered among the lost arts.
This is doubtless true in a measure. The telegraph and telephone, quick travelling and cheap postal rates have all contributed to do away with the long, leisurely, sometimes stilted but oftentime delightful epistle of “ye olden tyme.”33
Besides we have no time nowadays to inscribe our thoughts in friendly correspondence. Mostly we haven’t time to even think the thoughts.
But there are one or two points in which modern letter-writers might improve. One of these is in answering questions. You write to a friend asking about several little matters in which you are interested. Can anything be more exasperating than to receive a reply, telling you lots of news, perhaps, but ignoring your questions completely?
I confess with shame and contrition that I have not been always blameless in this respect myself and Polly pulled me up right smartly when she returned from her last vacation.
When she came back I asked her how Aunt Eliza’s rheumatism was. Polly responded that the baby had an attack of croup. I said:
“Is it true that Edith and Ted are engaged?”
Said Polly:
“Millicent is coming to Halifax for the winter.”
After this had gone on for some minutes I anxiously asked Polly if she had been dissipating too muchly during vacation and didn’t think she ought to consult a brain specialist at once?
Polly said she had meant to ask me the same thing. She had asked so many questions in her letters and I had answered them in just the same way.
I took the lesson to heart and I have reformed to such an extent that I feel at liberty to preach to other people.
Speaking of Polly’s vacation here is something she told me about it:
“You know Kitty Felix. She always has a joke to fill up one of those horrid silences that sometimes fall on a roomful of people and she is always reminded of a good story at the right time. I’ve often envied her for my mind always becomes a perfect blank on such occasions. She has worked up a reputation for brightness just on that.
Well, when we were at the L——s in Kentville34 Kit was scintillating as usual and one day I came across a book she’d dropped. Cynthia, you’d never guess! It was a collection of jokes and conundrums. Kit had marked off those she had used and the rest were divided into sections – one for every day of her visit. Well, I just learned by heart all those she had marked for that evening and I sprung them all before she had a chance. Of course she was simply furious, but she couldn’t say a thing without giving herself away.”
[Charitable Fits and Desperate Measures]
Saturday, 12 October 1901
POLLY HAD ONE OF HER CHARITABLE FITS LAST SUNDAY, and spent the afternoon at the Poor’s Asylum.35 She got herself up regardless in a befrilled and beflounced organdy and a picture hat. When I protested she silenced me by declaring that the poor old folks out there just loved to see pretty things, and that she always put on her very spiffiest when she went to see them. Then she rifled her window garden – and mine, too, I may add – for flowers to take with her, and departed with them and a whole armful of miscellaneous literature which she had begged, borrowed or stolen.36 Among the rest she had about three dozen religious tracts. Goodness knows where she got them, but I suppose from the cook. Our cook’s idea of wild and frenzied dissipation and excitement is simply to revel in tracts.
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