The elements that make up a truly civilized country

This column first appeared in the Victoria Daily Times on Oct. 14, 1939.

It is a pity that the fine day should ever do any harm.

So say the Irish, as they look with rapture on their emerald isle, when the sunshine turns the grass into green velvet, and the hummocks of the bog, in the morning mist, make a silver island as in a sea of pearl.

We felt like this recently when we drove up the Island, on an amber-coloured afternoon, with blue haze filling the valleys, and wrapping the mountains. There was a sweet smell of burning leaves and ripening fruit in the air, and everywhere we looked we could see beauty. The poplar trees rippled with gold coins. In the orchards, trees bent under their weight of apples and pears.

We drove over country roads that wind and loop, up and down, as they run past little houses set securely in sheltered spots away from the turmoil of life. We saw pumpkin and squash in the fields and contented Jersey cows turned out to graze on the little fields of alfalfa. Hardly a dog barked, so peaceful was the air of departing summers, and even the crows on the fence sat motionless like strings of jet beads.

When we stopped at a filling station, with a bed of geraniums in front, and window boxes aflame with nasturtiums, we could find no one to sell us gas, and were about to drive on, feeling sure that the people were down on the shore reading poems about Indian summer, but as we hesitated a young woman in a flowered smock appeared and before she attended to our needs turned down the radio.

“You certainly came at the right time,” she said, as she counted out the change. “I came up to get the news. We are all anxious to hear about the submarine reported to have been seen on this coast. It’s hard to believe that anything like that could happen in these peaceful waters. But no one is safe now.”

We stayed to listen, too, and so the spell of the peaceful afternoon was broken, and the fine day shattered. We were back again to reality.

The fields were places where food must be raised for a long war. The men we saw working peaceably on the land ceased to be kindly individuals, taking joy in their harvest. They became manpower now — part of Canada’s defences.

And the sea, the dimpling and circling sea, rolling listlessly upon the sand, where the children on this Saturday afternoon were digging clams, ceased to be a playground and became a place of evil, where ships could sink and men drown. Already, it is being patrolled and watched, fishermen have been armed with guns, and so have become another faction in our defences.

As we drove away, the radio called out that another British cargo boat had been torpedoed in undesignated waters, and half the crew were missing.

When we arrived at our destination and sat in our friend’s lovely garden looking out on the opalescent sea where the setting sun warmed and brightened the shadowy hull of a passing boat, all of our talk was of these crushing times and what it means to be at war.

“We have never really been at peace,” said the doctor. “There is no peace when hatred still smoulders in people’s hearts. No one country can crush another, but we have not learned that yet, even we, who call ourselves civilized.”

We asked him what he meant when he used that word “civilized,” and the definition he gave was a good one.

“You can tell a civilized man or woman by their treatment of those who are in their power; who recognizes the rights of those who have not the power to enforce their rights. A nation is civilized which cares for its minorities and sees that nothing prevents their progress and liberty of thought and action.

“An individual is civilized who knows that all people are entitled to the privileges which he enjoys, who pays even his small debts and obligations, knowing his failure to pay would work a hardship to someone, who perhaps has no way of forcing the payment. A woman is civilized who recognizes in her own children’s right to an education, good food and happiness, the claims of all children to the same privileges.

“In other words, civilization is the definite working of the Golden Rule … Hitler denies all these. He encourages his youth to believe only Germans have rights. He says all questions must be settled in the German way. He has turned the children of Germany into young barbarians who insult and maltreat other human beings. Kindness and sympathy are wiped out. They have no place with the dictators.”

“How do you account,” we asked him, “for the power he has on the youth of Germany?”

“He gave them something to do,” he replied. “Even though it was destructive. He gave them someone to kick. It is brutal and horrible, but it made the strutting young German feel important. We have failed in giving our young people no responsibility.”

“But we have always had youth movements,” said our hostess. “The Boys’ Brigade in England, was active 50 years ago. It was organized for poor boys to make them clean and thrifty. Then the Boy Scouts, which includes all classes. It makes boys clever with their hands, courteous and helpful, fond of the open air. Then there are the Girl Guides, and the Woodcraft Folk in England, which is part of the co-operative movement. It is doing a good work among boys and girls of different nationalities.”

“These,” said the doctor, “are excellent as far as they go, but they do not reach far enough. Here we are, representative Canadians, a group of us. How many of us have done anything to engage our young people in definite patriotic international work, something that will lay hold of their imagination and make them feel they are part of the nation or of the world? We are like people who have a fine plan for a home and intend to build one some day but just haven’t gotten around to it.”

All the way home, through the silvery moonlight, we talked of how these problems of peace and war can be met. Everyone at this time wants to help. The air rings with calls for registration and organization. Party politics has been suspended. Neighbourhood quarrels have been forgotten and there is a shaking of the dry bones of complacency all across the country.

Here in our neighbourhood, which is a microcosm of Canada, we have doctors, nurses, technicians, horticulturists, weavers, rug makers, artists, musicians, teachers, agrarians, writers, economists, businessmen and I do not know how many others. The day is set for beginning the registration, when our people will designate the services they can give to their country.

Who knows what will come of this pooling of our resources? Out of the desert of war with its grim harvest of death and destruction, there may come a gift.

In service, in sacrifice, this young country may be made whole.