SOURCE: Halewood, W. H. “Catching Up with Edward Bellamy.” University of Toronto Quarterly 63, no. 3 (spring 1994): 451-61.

[In the following essay, Halewood charges that the same characteristics of Looking Backward that made it popular with nineteenth-century readers would render the novel unappealing to a twentieth-century audience.]

Looking Backward, 2000-1887 is a ‘canon’ problem only in its absence from the canon. It is an almost vanished work, interesting to consider as the date draws near that might have validated its prophecies only to take note of the different route we have come—not just our failure to achieve its utopia, but our rejection of it—and our rejection, also, of its kind as a possible kind for serious fiction. Clearly, the contributors to Edward Bellamy Abroad (1962), who hoped that their work would ‘promote a reassessment of Bellamy in the literary histories of the United States,’ misjudged the depth and firmness of modern indifference.¹ This is not a minor eclipse but a major one, for Looking Backward had an immense reputation and influence in its time, and that time extended for decades. It was published in millions of copies and translated into all major languages including Russian and Japanese. It had some sort of effect (fiercely negative in the case of William Morris) on everyone who thought about social questions. It influenced movements of Christian Socialism wherever they appeared. Its positions echo and re-echo in George Bernard Shaw, Veblen, Debs, Norman Thomas, and the early Zionists.

What happened to leave it so completely without credit at the present time? There have been, to be sure, several changes of intellectual fashion intervening, among them the rise of the specialist, and it would perhaps be surprising if the modern preference in most matters for the expert did not work against Bellamy the amateur political thinker. Earnestness and a willingness to take on the big questions counted excessively with the late Victorians. Self-Help and Chautauqua were typical enthusiasms of the period. Colonel Robert Ingersoll was accepted as a sufficient philosopher by readers and audiences anxious to express themselves against religion. Madam Blavatsky and Annie Besant were thinkers with followers, and Temperance was a cause that engaged the serious and thoughtful. All of these would come to be seen as amateur or local or quaint, if not inept and cranky. Serious thinking among moderns is done along different lines and by people with different credentials. Inevitably, we would turn for our socialism to Marx and abandon Bellamy who, in fact, insisted somewhat timidly that his ‘nationalism’ was really not socialism at all.

We have also lost interest, and confidence, in the dream of the future as a dream of good things. It is a truism, despite the existence of some hopeful ‘futurists,’ that the modern dream of the good is focused on the past. Part of the outsize popular appeal of Ronald Reagan is supposed to have lain in his invoking of a cleaner, simpler past America. Nostalgic ‘primitivism’ is a pervasive cultural attitude expressed in art and in daily life. The steel and glass office tower is a contemporary reality essentially repudiated by boardrooms of ancient elm and chestnut within. Professors are stylish in jeans bequeathed them by cowboys. Polite people drink coffee from hand-made pottery and inhabit living-rooms decorated with African tribal masks. J. Alfred Prufrock is a primitivist's cautionary example. Country music is old-fashioned balm for city hearts. ‘Colonial’ and ‘Cape Cod’ and ‘ranch’ houses far outnumber ‘modern’ ones in the newest suburbs.

Our dream of the future, by contrast, has features of nightmare. A change that has put Bellamy almost beyond reach is vividly clear in Robert L. Heilbronner's An Inquiry into the Human Prospect (1974), which has a similar claim to express the ‘mind’ of its period, though it has not had Bellamy's world-wide readership and there are no societies of Heilbronnerite enthusiasts. The fact is that Heilbronner offers nothing for enthusiasm to feed on. His vision of the future is as bleak as Bellamy's is radiant. The question that he puts, bleakly answers, and finds characteristic of our time is ‘Is there hope for man?’ Bellamy, of course, hoped much too confidently to raise such a question, and presented his hope in images of urban paradise. Heilbronner's thin hope is for an attenuated future carrying on from an unsatisfactory present—‘retrenchment,’ ‘deterioration,’ and postponement of ‘catastrophe.’ Economic growth, on which the industrial world, both capitalist and socialist, has depended, will come up against environmental limits and depleting resources and be made to cease. Undeveloped nations will know more of misery and privation and may attempt to force redistribution, conceivably by nuclear attack or nuclear blackmail. Developed nations will become harder to govern as abundance disappears, and governments of the future are pretty certain to be authoritarian. Can we hope to endure into the future, Heilbronner asks at the height of his argument, without paying a fearful price? The answer must be: No, there is no such possibility.’ His mood, facing this future, is as dark as Bellamy's is bright: ‘With the full spectacle of the human prospect before us, the spirit qualis and the will falters.’

Bellamy's cheerful futurism has a modest sci-fi aspect and proposes wonders that have of course been overtaken. Radio or ‘telephone’ music displaces the music that people used to have to make; sidewalks are covered against rain; pneumatic transmitters whiz orders back and forth between departments in the shopping centres. Evidently, the ‘technically sweet’ had its own charm for Bellamy. Also the big—with some further distancing effects for the modern reader, for whom the excitements of gigantic scale are likely to be meagre. Bellamy could still hope to dazzle the reader of 1887 with the sheer size of things in 2000. ‘Public buildings of a colossal size and architectural grandeur unparalleled [in 1887] raised their stately piles on every side.’ Factories, too, are ‘incomparably’ larger. Even pleasure is big: ‘art galleries, bridges, statuary … great musical and theatrical exhibitions … providing on a vast scale for the recreations of the people.’ A modern world of this sort does exist, of course, and the giant entertainments of Disneyland and nfl football are well patronized, though perhaps not on the whole by readers of books. Small-scale art—the sonnet, the drawing—may be missing only through inadvertence, but the lack seems an impoverishment in the midst of Bellamy's dream of social wealth.

His limited prescience has earned Bellamy honourable mention as ‘the American prophet,’ though he did better with accidentals—credit cards, Muzak, radio preachers—than with essentials. The nation state has not remade itself along the lines foreseen by him; totalitarian social control, where realized, has not been experienced as a good;² the profit motive has not disappeared; monopoly capitalism has not become benign and has not brought its benignity into national government. The last was an unlikely prophetic miss, in that every other prophet of the time and most ordinary citizens seem to have known better. Monopolies—‘trusts’—were evils denounced by every voice of enlightenment, virtually every newspaper. Both national parties raged against them (and both put anti-trust planks at the centre of their platforms for the election of 1888). Labour hated them, as did independent producers, middlemen, consumers, and a generally vociferous public. The Sherman Anti-trust Act became law in 1891. Writing in the midst of this universal outcry, Bellamy ignores the prevailing radical sentiment and simply announced a state of affairs, a century later, in which the evil tendency of an evil thing has become an essential instrument of good. The ‘mighty wealth-producing principle of consolidated capital’ is self-transforming and world-transforming, and the splendid scene of 2000 is its triumph. Bellamy's spokesman explains:

The movement toward the conduct of business by larger and larger aggregations of capital, the tendency towards monopolies, which had been so desperately and vainly resisted, was recognized at last, in its true significance, as a process which only needed to complete its logical evolution to open a golden future to humanity. Early in the last century the evolution was completed by the final consolidation of the entire capital of the nation. … The epoch of trusts had ended in The Great Trust.

Clearly, Bellamy was that oxymoronic oddity, a conservative revolutionary, and he was almost dangerously (for a revolutionary) inclined to see good in the world around him and in the tendency of present arrangements. He evidently sided, to some extent, with existing concentrations of power in choosing the corporation and the army (in preference to, say, the labour union or the church) as the structuring models for his new society. (His trust that the power and privilege of corporate rulers could eventually be eliminated by replacing owners with managers now seems one of his unluckiest misreadings.)

Bellamy the satirist, I shall be saying, controls a powerful and angry symbolism. Most of Looking Backward, however, is not satire but promotional argument devoted to showing that the new society will be wonderfully agreeable to live in and absurdly easy to bring into existence. (It is only necessary to stop resisting: the stiffest opposition to the monopolies eventually goes quiet, having been forced to see the need for them as ‘a transition phase in the true industrial system.’) The mode is one of celebratory sunniness that simplifies the difficult and suppresses the unpleasant. The permanent evils of existence, those not susceptible to social correction, are simply kept out of sight—not acknowledged as bearing on human happiness and not explained away with the traditional arguments of theodicy. Dr Leete, the ‘informer’ who tells all about the Boston of 2000, is a physician, but one who makes no mention of sickness or death. Most essential institutions are included in the tour he provides for the hero, but no hospitals or cemeteries, and no mention of funeral customs—though most fictive anthropologists, from Pliny to Gulliver, have found these irresistibly interesting (the Lilliputians bury their dead head downward). Thus the language seems excessively millenarian relative to the imagined facts, as when the ‘radio’ preacher tells his audience that their new world would be taken for paradise by the people of 1887, or for the fulfilment of ‘their idea of heaven’ itself. ‘Humanity has burst the chrysalis. The heavens are before it.’ The calmer Dr Leete has the same idea: the view that ‘we have entered upon the millennium,’ he suggests, ‘does not lack plausibility.’ But it is an almost ludicrously lightweight millennium, suspect as mere promotional hyperbole, that promises no relief from existential evil and delivers nothing more than a ‘true industrial system’ still requiring workers and regulation. (Compare Milton's limitless expectancy in Areopagitica as he imagines a suddenly mighty England populated by prophets—an eagle ‘kindling her undazzled eyes full at the midday beam, purging and unscaling her long-abused sight at the fountain itself of heavenly radiance.’)

The story of Looking Backward is a rather simple science-fiction parable of the kind that involves transplanting an ordinary man from a familiar place into unfamiliar surroundings that challenge his ordinary conceptions. Gulliver's Travels is the touchstone of the kind (and may to some extent be a ‘source’ for Bellamy). In Bellamy's story, a young Bostonian, Julian West, is put into a hypnotic trance during which his house is destroyed by fire. He is presumed dead, though in fact preserved alive for 113 years in a fireproof basement vault. He is wakened when later owners of the property accidentally disturb the vault while excavating in their garden. The world he wakes to is a transformed Boston of the year 2000. His guides to this world are Dr Leete and his daughter Edith. West falls in love with Edith, and the tale has an element of conventional romance, though its transparent purpose is to present the conditions of a humane industrial society.³ Capital does not oppress; labour does not struggle to resist oppression. Monopolistic capitalism has made its final irresistible consolidations and merged into (and become) benevolent government. We are not told how this has come about, though Bellamy insists that the process is consistent with the internal logic of nineteenth-century production and commerce. Abundance—industrially produced—is the necessary precondition of this version of the good life, and the general sharing of abundance is what the new order is constructed to achieve.

This is a somewhat suspect novelty in morals as well as in politics. Moral literature since Plato and the Stoics—a literature into which Bellamy means to fit—has given its highest marks to the good of self-denial and, frequently, to its expression in personal asceticism. In Bellamy, these are disjoined and downgraded. Self-denial of a sort is necessary to his system, which would sink laissez-faire individualism in a new spirit of co-operation. But this is co-operation for the sake of material good. Asceticism, then, is no part of his plan. Boston in 2000 is a place of public opulence and private comfort. The leisure class is made up of the whole population over the mandatory retirement age of forty-five, and its untaxing leisure activities are matters of official arrangement. Dining out in elegance is a treat available to everybody and made so by the state. Ladies shop at shopping terminals connected to warehouses stocked with necessities and luxuries. A Mandevillian paradox lurks here that might save these imaginings from insipidity, but Bellamy has no taste for it and no suspicion that a world of such easy gratifications might be a poor setting for moral life. He trivializes and misleads, we are likely to feel, in taking all difficulty out of his revolution and the life that succeeds it.

The objection is only partly wrong. Bellamy would explain that the state he depicts is one in which moral renovation is already complete and moral striving unnecessary—greed and selfishness have been manipulated out of existence by the presence of plenty (a ripe plum for a Mandeville). Swift depicts a similar stasis in Houyhnhnmland among the virtuous horses ‘endowed by nature with a disposition in favour of every virtue’ and therefore beyond the possibility of moral defeat, or even of temptation. The Houyhnhnm setting is of course a Spartan one of oats and straw, but the larger difference is that Swift knows how unreal, or unhuman, his imagining of moral perfection is, and ironizes it: the point of the horse shape is precisely that it is not human. There is other evidence that Swift is better tied to the world we live in, for he does not, like Bellamy, cause moral evil to vanish entirely; it is vigorously present in Houyhnhnmland in the obscene humanoid yahoos, who covet and lust and steal.

Bellamy's belief in moral improvement by manipulation was in large part derived from Robert Owen, a ‘practical’ creator of utopias and a primitive behaviourist who taught that human character was entirely shapeable by external conditions. In fact, one of the more eccentric episodes in Owen's eccentric career was his declaration of war on the churches for their oppressive teaching that men were responsible—and therefore answerable—for their actions and their characters. Not at all, said Owen, men were what circumstances made them, and it was the duty of society to produce better circumstances.

But Owen's is certainly not the only influence at work. Utopias are almost by definition structures of better circumstances, with a built-in bias in favour of nurture over nature and a tendency to invent (sometimes playful) nurturing devices. Under Lycurgus's direction, young Spartans are freed from lust by the practice of nude public dancing, which takes the dangerous excitement out of sex by making it familiar. More's Utopians are tricked out of fondness for gold by the state's policy of making it into chamber pots. In this perspective, Bellamy is a solemn generalizer of utopian technique, totally reconstituting moral character by totally reconstituting the moral environment. Modern readers again find themselves in the presence of the quaint, as they do not with Swift, who was nevertheless a likely source for Bellamy's moral ideal. It is striking that both in Houyhnhnmland and in the revolutionized Boston of 2000 the moral motives that take the place of self-devotion are ‘friendship’ and ‘benevolence.’ But Swift has no interest in the shaping environment: yahoos are not to be improved by putting them in the company of Houyhnhnms, and the comically overdrawn perfection of the Houyhnhnms is a gift of nature.

Bellamy comes nearest Swift and, perhaps, nearest engaging the interest of the modern reader in satiric passages attacking the evils of his own time. In fact, the future-prescriptive part of his work is justified and impelled by his dissatisfaction with the world of the 1880s. Undoubtedly, the most moving image in all of Looking Backward is the horrific coach of the opening pages, a metaphor for the savagery and destructiveness of competitive (unconsolidated) capitalism. The masses of industrialized humanity are harnessed to a gigantic vehicle on which the well-off loll at their ease, indifferent to the sufferings of those who pull them under the whip of the driver, hunger. At ‘bad places in the road,’ the passengers on top may take a little self-interested notice.

At such times, the desperate straining of the team, their agonized leaping and plunging under the pitiless lashing of hunger, the many who fainted at the rope and were trampled in the mire, made a very distressing spectacle, which often called forth highly creditable displays of feeling on the top of the coach. At such times the passengers would call down encouragingly to the toilers of the rope, exhorting them to patience, and holding out hopes of a possible compensation in another world for the hardness of their lot, while others contributed to buy salves and liniments for the crippled and injured.

Passages almost as powerful occur in the final chapter, in which the dreaming West has a nightmare of returning to the old Boston, a scene of ‘moral repulsiveness’ and ‘abominations,’ advertising is everywhere, this ‘horrible babel of shameless self-assertion and mutual depreciation, this stunning clamor of conflicting boasts, appeals and adjurations, this stupendous system of brazen beggary.’ And everywhere, also, are the victims of the coach:

The streets and alleys reeked with the effluvia of a slave ship's between-decks. As I passed I had glimpses within of pale babies gasping out their lives amid sultry stenches, of hopeless-faced women deformed by hardship … while from the windows leered girls with brows of brass. Like the starving bands of mongrel curs that infest the streets of Moslem towns, swarms of half-clad brutalized children filled the air with shrieks and curses as they fought and tumbled among the garbage that littered the courtyards.

In his dream, West eventually comes to the splendid family home of the woman he had intended to marry 113 years before. A dinner party is in progress (‘The table glittered with plate and costly china. The ladies were sumptuously dressed and wore the jewels of queens’). He attempts to bring these privileged people to a sense of the outrageousness of their position in a city/world where others ‘live lives that are one agony from birth to death.’ They want nothing to do with his message and respond to him personally with hatred and violence: ‘Madman!’ ‘Fanatic!’ ‘Enemy of Society!’ ‘Put the fellow out!’ West's response, and Bellamy's, to this expression of evil is to deviate from the angry and elevated satiric way into pity. ‘It was not enmity that I felt toward them as they thronged me, but pity only, for them and for the world.’ This is probably intended as exemplary Christian forgiveness, but seems a mistaken softening of attitude. Undoubtedly, the modern reader is more likely than the Victorian to regret the breaking off of the mood that Swift called saeva indignatio, and the fine flow of denunciation. Swift and Gulliver shed no tears for the yahoos, and the King of Brobdingnag does not give way to pity after giving his opinion that European mankind is a ‘pernicious race of little odious vermin.’ It is not altogether unfair to Bellamy to call him a satirist manqué. He has powers and a point of view that could give him a place in high satiric company, but he deserts satire for his positive program of utopian argument and invention and for effects that he considers appropriate for romantic fiction. His besetting temptation is kitsch.

The final paragraph of Looking Backward is doubtless the worst-placed specimen of the fault:

When at length I raised my bowed head and looked forth from the window, Edith, fresh as the morning had come into the garden and was gathering flowers. I hastened to descend to her. Kneeling before her, with my face in the dust, I confessed with tears how little was my worth to breathe the air of this golden century, and how infinitely less to wear upon my breast its consummate flower.

There is too much here to stimulate modern dislike (and regret at Milton gone to seed). An 1890s issue of the Ladies' Home Journal would provide sentiment of equal quality, which is in fact not Bellamy at his most embarrassing—a distinction which perhaps belongs to the scene in which Edith, forbidding more kisses ‘until she had been vindicated from all suspicion of precipitancy in the bestowal of her affections … blushingly whispered something in her [mother's] ear and ran away.’

Poor Edith. Bellamy means well by women, and women's liberation is intended to be a major innovation in his new social order. Women's happiness, he says repeatedly, has been achieved in his ‘paradise for womankind.’ They are freed from the overwork, specifically housework, and confinement which was their lot in the nineteenth century and introduced to careers and pay equity. Unfortunately, this is not shown working. What is shown is Mrs Leete and Edith leading conventional domestic lives only superficially different from those of middle-class women before the revolution. There is some increase of sexual freedom: women can initiate courtship. But, clearly, Bellamy has problems putting flesh on these theoretical bones, and his new ideal of womanhood is not free of old notions of charming childishness and passivity—and not free, either, of still more primitive notions of the woman as prize for effective manhood: a ‘spur’ to male achievement is ‘the thought of radiant faces’ that would turn away from the under-achiever. It is a failure both of imagination and of boldness, and another point of breakdown in Bellamy's relationship with the modern reader. In fact, his abstract new deal for women must have seemed timid in its approach to the issues that stirred women in his own time. Women's suffrage was a highly visible cause in 1887 that he could suppress in the account of usa 2000 because government will have almost ceased to exist, except to run the economy. An almost impotent Congress meeting every five years is not an interesting institution, and the question who qualifies to vote for it does not come up. Executive authority will be vested in a ‘president’ who will also be the ‘general in chief’ of the industrial army, the male work-force of the nation. The political enfranchisement of women is provided for in a separate organization—whose chief, to be sure, sits in the cabinet of the male president—but which is otherwise limited to female concerns. Thus women have a ‘world of their own’—better yet, an imperium in imperio, says Dr Leete, insisting on its advantages—‘and they are very happy in it.’ The arrangement seems grudging, inadequate, condescending, and not obviously preferable, as Dr Leete claims, to the programs of ‘some reformers’ of the nineteenth century who would obliterate sexual difference in politics. Bellamy is refusing, evidently, to share a platform with the strident feminism of the time. This could be conviction, but also tactics; Bellamy's plan to seduce conventional people into thoughts of revolution pretty certainly meant, to him, that characters like the brilliant and outrageous Susan B. Anthony and her followers would have to be kept at a distance.

Temperance was a vital ‘women's issue’ that Bellamy left alone, though it was fervently embraced by women, who lacked many legal protections and reasonably considered that the unruliness of drunken men was an unnecessary evil in their lives. But, of course, there are no drunken men among the transformed race of 2000, which has ‘laid aside the social traditions and practices of Barbarians’ and entered on ‘a new phase of spiritual development.’ To the women of 1887 whose attention was concentrated on a concrete and present misery, Bellamy's dream of a transformed race must have seemed a kind of desertion, but it is typical of his procedure to bury the hard problem under splendid speculation. The case is perhaps still clearer in the matter of birth control. No circumstance of women's lives was more oppressive in nineteenth-century industrial society, or was felt to be so—more limiting to freedom and personal fulfilment, more damaging to health, more directly associated with poverty—than uncontrolled childbearing. Bellamy, characteristically, displays a world in which the problem is smoothly solved without ever being identified. ‘We believe,’ says Dr Leete, ‘that the magnificent health which distinguishes our women from those of your day, who seem to have been so generally sickly, is owing largely to the fact that all alike are furnished with healthful and inspiriting occupation.’ These healthy, well-occupied women get maternity leaves from their jobs, just to ‘withdraw from the world for a time’ and for no longer than they wish. Clearly, childbearing is under social management. The unacknowledged background for this revolutionary change was the often sensational struggle of late nineteenth-century birth control advocates to get a hearing, even to be allowed to publish their views without legal persecution—usually for ‘obscenity.’ There was international publicity in 1877 for the London obscenity trial of Charles Bradlaugh and Annie Besant, who tried to insist on their right to publish an American birth control pamphlet—for which the author had some years before been given a sentence of hard labour. One result was, of course, hugely increased attention to the issue and perhaps as many as a million pamphlets on birth control put into circulation in the years immediately around 1887.⁴ Too typically, Bellamy's procedure is to present a spruced-up solution while keeping the problem and the controversy out of sight.

It seems obvious that Bellamy's evasions are too great and his confectionary fantasy too sweet for there to be any reviving of interest in Looking Backward among readers of the present time. The puzzling enthusiasm of his own generation is perhaps in part to be explained as urgency to escape, and an indulgence in escapism, from intolerable conditions that were not yielding to practical measures of amendment. Capital was appallingly cruel and rapacious and satisfied to be so. (In Canada, too, of course: an Ontario survey of 1881 showed profits to industry in the province of ＄70,000,000 with an outlay for wages of only ＄59,000,000. Men employed in knitting mills made ＄7.75 for a fifty-nine-hour week; women and children worked the same terrible hours for even lower pay.⁵ Conditions were wretched—noise, filth, overcrowding, danger, lack of sanitary facilities. A Royal Commission of 1889 reported that children were working twelve-hour overnight shifts and being whipped and confined for small infractions of work rules.)⁶

We can hope that even Heilbronner's future at which ‘the spirit quails’ will be less evil than such a past. But it is not beyond imagining that resurgent capitalism, more imperious than ever in its second coming as the multinational corporation, will misbehave. Socialism, so lately dead, may eventually have to be reinvented. In such a process, socialist fantasy is bound to play a part and, perhaps, bound to take forms similar to Bellamy's.

Notes

1. A brief list of modern studies is provided in the Penguin Classics edition of Looking Backward, 2000-1887, ed Cecilia Tichi (1982), 29. The only important addition to be made is Krishan Kumar's discussion of Bellamy in Utopia and Anti-Utopia in Modern Times (Oxford: Oxford University Press 1987), 132-67.

2. Bellamy had few liberal doubts. Among the features of superior social organization in the world of 2000 he describes a worker-recruit class ‘in which the young men are taught habits of obedience, subordination and devotion to duty.’

3. Bellamy's indecision between romance and political apologue can produce misunderstanding, as in the erratic reading of Lewis Mumford, who finds more romance than is there and mislocates it in the story. Mumford misses the clue that Julian West will become an academic historian specializing in the world of 1887 and is himself the author of the preface written from the ‘Historical Section Shawmut College, Boston, December 26, 2000.’ Mumford suggests that West and his experience are the invention of a nameless Shawmut historian (the author of the preface) who presents his work as an ‘avowed romance’ (The History of Utopias, Viking Compass edition [New York: Viking 1962], 160. But history, not romance, is the business of historians, and Julian West historian is simply Julian West truth-teller bearing a certificate of professional honesty. It is Bellamy who is the (on-and-off) romancer, here taking the same trouble that Swift must take in establishing in advance of Gulliver's impossible voyages that Gulliver himself has no imagination. Both narrators are presented as strict transcribers of fantastic experience, put beyond the reach of disbelief by being carefully disabled for invention.

4. J. A. Banks and O. Banks, ‘The Bradlaugh-Besant Trial and the English Newspaper,’ Population Studies 8 (July 1954), 22-34; Edward Royle, Radicals, Secularists and Republicans, Popular Freethought in Britain, 1866-1915 (Manchester: Manchester University Press 1980), 257.

5. Desmond Morton with Terry Copp, Working People (Toronto: Deneau Publishers 1980), 35.

6. Jack Scott, Sweat and Struggle: Working Class Struggles in Canada, I: 1789-1899 (Vancouver: New Star Books 1974), 102.