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I once saw Jon Stewart on Just for Laughs doing a bit of standup, talking about Canadians (paraphrased here). " It's amazing", he said, "that your ancestors got off the boat at the first frozen port and, looking around at the snow and ice and wilderness, said, 'Yep, looks good to me'. And stayed. 'What's that? You heard they've got palm trees and sunshine if we keep heading south? Nah, this is good right here'." I've marvelled at that myself: that my own ancestors chose Canada, and having survived their first winter here, decided it was worth staying.

In Roughing it in the Bush, Susanna Moodie explains what circumstances led to her family emigrating to Canada from Mother England and what hardships and privations that decision led to. I found her account fascinating and funny in so many places. She relates the following story right at the beginning:

(view spoiler)[ The dreadful cholera was depopulating Quebec and Montreal, when our ship cast anchor off Grosse Isle, on the 30th of August, 1832, and we were boarded a few minutes after by the health-officers. One of these gentlemen–a little, shrivelled-up Frenchman–from his solemn aspect and attenuated figure, would have made no bad representative of him who sat upon the pale horse. He was the only grave Frenchman I had ever seen, and I naturally enough regarded him as a phenomenon. His companion–a fine-looking fair-haired Scotchman–though a little consequential in his manners, looked like one who in his own person could combat and vanquish all the evils which flesh is heir to. Such was the contrast between these doctors, that they would have formed very good emblems–one, of vigorous health; the other, of hopeless decay.
Our captain, a rude, blunt north-country sailor, possessing certainly not more politeness than might be expected in a bear, received his sprucely dressed visitors on the deck, and, with very little courtesy, abruptly bade them follow him down into the cabin.
The officials were no sooner seated, than glancing hastily round the place, they commenced the following dialogue:�
"From what port, captain ?"
Now, the captain had a peculiar language of his own, from which he commonly expunged all the connecting links. Small words, such as "and" and "the," he contrived to dispense with altogether.
"Scotland–sailed from port o' Leith, bound for Quebec, Montreal–general cargo–seventy-two steerage, four cabin passengers–brig, ninety-two tons burden, crew eight hands." Here he produced his credentials, and handed them to the strangers. The Scotchman just glanced over the documents, and laid them on the table.
"Had you a good passage out ?"
"Tedious, baffling winds, heavy fogs, detained three weeks on Banks–foul weather making Gulf� short of water, people out of provisions, steerage passengers starving."
"Any case of sickness or death on board ?"
"All sound as crickets."
"Any births ?" lisped the little Frenchman.
The captain screwed up his mouth, and after a moment's reflection he replied, "Births ? Why, yes; now I think on't, gentlemen, we had one female on board, who produced three at a birth."
"That's uncommon," said the Scotch doctor, with an air of lively curiosity. "Are the children alive and well ? I should like much to see them." He started up, and knocked his head, for he was very tall, against the ceiling. "Confound your low cribs ! I have nearly dashed out my brains."
"A hard task, that," looked the captain to me. He did not speak, but I knew by his sarcastic grin what was uppermost in his thoughts. "The young ones all males–fine thriving fellows. Step upon deck, Sam Frazer," turning to his steward; "bring them down for doctors to see." Sam vanished, with a knowing wink to his superior, and quickly returned, bearing in his arms three fat, chuckle-headed bull-terriers; the sagacious mother following close at his heels, and looked ready to give and take offence on the slightest provocation.
"Here, gentlemen, are the babies," said Frazer, depositing his burden on the floor. "They do credit to the nursing of the brindled slut."
The old tar laughed, chuckled, and rubbed his hands in an ecstacy of delight at the indignation and disappointment visible in the countenance of the Scotch Esculapius, who, angry as he was, wisely held his tongue. Not so the Frenchman; his rage scarcely knew bounds,–he danced in a state of most ludicrous excitement,–he shook his fist at our rough captain, and screamed at the top of his voice,
"Sacré, you bête ! You tink us dog, ven you try to pass your puppies on us for babies ?"
"Hout, man, don't be angry," said the Scotchman, stifling a laugh; "you see 'tis only a joke !"
"Joke! me no understand such joke. Bête!" returned the angry Frenchman, bestowing a savage kick on one of the unoffending pups which was frisking about his feet. The pup yelped; the slut barked and leaped furiously at the offender, and was only kept from biting him by Sam, who could scarcely hold her back for laughing; the captain was uproarious; the offended Frenchman alone maintained a severe and dignified aspect. The dogs were at length dismissed, and peace restored. (hide spoiler)]

And another story that made me laugh about the habit of "borrowing";

(view spoiler)[ While we were all busily employed–even the poor baby, who was lying upon a pillow in the old cradle, trying the strength of her lungs, and not a little irritated that no one was at leisure to regard her laudable endeavours to make herself heard–the door was suddenly pushed open, and the apparition of a woman squeezed itself into the crowded room. I left off arranging the furniture of a bed, that had been just put up in a corner, to meet my unexpected, and at that moment, not very welcome guest. Her whole appearance was so extraordinary that I felt quite at a loss how to address her.
Imagine a girl of seventeen or eighteen years of age, with sharp, knowing-looking features, a forward, impudent carriage, and a pert, flippant voice, standing upon one of the trunks, and surveying all our proceedings in the most impertinent manner. The creature was dressed in a ragged, dirty purple stuff gown, cut very low in the neck, with an old red cotton handkerchief tied over her head; her uncombed, tangled locks falling over her thin, inquisitive face, in a state of perfect nature. Her legs and feet were bare, and, in her coarse, dirty red hands, she swung to and fro an empty glass decanter.
"What can she want ?" I asked myself. " What a strange creature !"
And there she stood, staring at me in the most unceremonious manner, her keen black eyes glancing obliquely to every corner of the room, which she examined with critical exactness.
Before I could speak to her, she commenced the conversation by drawling through her nose, "Well, I guess you are fixing here."
I thought she had come to offer her services; and I told her that I did not want a girl, for I had brought one out with me.
"How!" responded the creature, "I hope you don't take me for a help. I'd have you to know that I'm as good a lady as yourself. No; I just stepped over to see what was going on. I seed the teams pass our'n about noon, and I says to father, 'Them strangers are cum; I'll go and look arter them.' 'Yes,' says he, 'do–and take the decanter along. May be they'll want one to put their whiskey in.' 'I'm goin to, says I; so I cum across with it, an' here it is. But, mind–don't break it�'tis the only one we have to hum, and father says 'tis so mean to drink out of green glass."
My surprise increased every minute. It seemed such an act of disinterested generosity thus to anticipate wants we had never thought of. I was regularly taken in.
"My good girl," I began, " this is really very kind –but�"
"Now, don't go to call me 'gal'–and pass off your English airs on us. We are genuine Yankees, and think ourselves as good–yes, a great deal better than you. I am a young lady."
"Indeed !" said I, striving to repress my astonishment. "I am a stranger in the country, and my acquaintance with Canadian ladies and gentlemen is very small. I did not mean to offend you by using the term girl; I was going to assure you that we had no need of the decanter. We have bottles of our own–and we don't drink whiskey."
"How ! Not drink whiskey ? Why, you don't say ! How ignorant you must be! May be they have no whiskey in the old country ?"
"Yes, we have; but it is not like the Canadian whiskey. But, pray take the decanter home again–I am afraid that it will get broken in this confusion."
"No, no; father told me to leave it–and there it is;" and she planted it resolutely down on the trunk. "You will find a use for it till you have unpacked your own."
Seeing that she was determined to leave the bottle, I said no more about it, but asked her to tell me where the well was to be found.
"The well !" she repeated after me, with a sneer. "Who thinks of digging wells when they can get plenty of water from the creek? There is a fine water privilege not a stone's-throw from the door," and, jumping off the box, she disappeared as abruptly as she had entered. We all looked at each other; Tom Wilson was highly amused, and laughed until he held his sides.
"What tempted her to bring this empty bottle here?" said Moodie. "It is all an excuse; the visit, Tom, was meant for you."
"You'll know more about it in a few days," said James, looking up from his work. "That bottle is not brought here for nought."
I could not unravel the mystery, and thought no more about it, until it was again brought to my recollection by the damsel herself.
Our united efforts had effected a complete transformation in our uncouth dwelling. Sleeping-berths had been partitioned off for the men; shelves had been put up for the accommodation of books and crockery, a carpet covered the floor, and the chairs and tables we had brought from � gave an air of comfort to the place, which, on the first view of it, I deemed impossible. My husband, Mr. Wilson, and James, had walked over to inspect the farm, and I was sitting at the table at work, the baby creeping upon the floor, and Hannah preparing dinner. The sun shone warm and bright, and the open door admitted a current of fresh air, which tempered the heat of the fire.
"Well, I guess you look smart," said the Yankee damsel, presenting herself once more before me. "You old country folks are so stiff, you must have every thing nice, or you fret. But, then, you can easily do it; you have stacks of money; and you can fix everything right off with money."
"Pray take a seat," and I offered her a chair, "and be kind enough to tell me your name. I suppose you must live in the neighbourhood, although I cannot perceive any dwelling near us."
"My name ! So you want to know my name. I arn't ashamed of my name; 'tis Emily S�. I am eldest daughter to the gentleman who owns this house."
"What must the father be," thought I, "if he resembles the young lady, his daughter ?"
Imagine a young lady, dressed in ragged petticoats, through whose yawning rents peeped forth, from time to time, her bare red knees, with uncombed elf-locks, and a face and hands that looked as if they had been unwashed for a month–who did not know A from B, and despised those who did. While these reflections, combined with a thousand ludicrous images, were flitting through my mind, my strange visitor suddenly exclaimed,
"Have you done with that 'ere decanter I brought across yesterday ?"
"Oh, yes ! I have no occasion for it." I rose, took it from the shelf, and placed it in her hand.
"I guess you won't return it empty; that would be mean, father says. He wants it filled with whiskey."
The mystery was solved, the riddle made clear. I could contain my gravity no longer, but burst into a hearty fit of laughter, in which I was joined by Hannah. Our young lady was mortally offended; she tossed the decanter from hand to hand, and glared at us with her tiger-like eyes.
"You think yourselves smart ! Why do you laugh in that way ?"
"Excuse me–but you have such an odd way of borrowing that I cannot help it. This bottle, it seems, was brought over for your own convenience, not for mine. I am sorry to disappoint you, but I have no whiskey."
"I guess spirits will do as well; I know there is some in that keg, for I smells it."
"It contains rum for the workmen."
"Better still. I calculate when you've been here a few months, you'll be too knowing to give rum to your helps. But old country folks are all fools, and that's the reason they get so easily sucked in, and be so soon wound-up. Cum, fill the bottle, and don't be stingy. In this country we all live by borrowing. If you want anything, why just send and borrow from us."
Thinking that this might be the custom of the country, I hastened to fill the decanter, hoping that I might get a little new milk for the poor weanling child in return; but when I asked my liberal visitor if she kept cows, and would lend me a little new milk for the baby, she burst out into high disdain. " Milk ! Lend milk ? I guess milk in the fall is worth a York shilling a quart. I cannot sell you a drop under."
This was a wicked piece of extortion, as the same article in the town, where, of course, it was in greater request, only brought threepence the quart.
"If you'll pay me for it, I'll bring you some tomorrow. But mind–cash down."
"And when do you mean to return the rum ?" I said, with some asperity.
"When father goes to the creek." This was the name given by my neighbours to the village of P�, distant about four miles.
Day after day I was tormented by this importunate creature; she borrowed of me tea, sugar, candles, starch, blueing, irons, pots, bowls–in short, every article in common domestic use–while it was with the utmost difficulty we could get them returned. Articles of food, such as tea and sugar, or of convenience, like candles, starch, and soap, she never dreamed of being required at her hands. This method of living upon their neighbours is a most convenient one to unprincipled people, as it does not involve the penalty of stealing; and they can keep the goods without the unpleasant necessity of returning them, or feeling the moral obligation of being grateful for their use. Living eight miles from �, I found these constant encroachments a heavy burden on our poor purse; and being ignorant of the country, and residing in such a lonely, out-of-the way place, surrounded by these savages, I was really afraid of denying their requests.
The very day our new plough came home, the father of this bright damsel, who went by the familiar and unenviable title of Old Satan, came over to borrow it (though we afterwards found out that he had a good one of his own). The land had never been broken up, and was full of rocks and stumps, and he was anxious to save his own from injury; the consequence was that the borrowed implement came home unfit for use, just at the very time that we wanted to plough for fall wheat. The same happened to a spade and trowel, bought in order to plaster the house. Satan asked the loan of them for one hour for the same purpose, and we never saw them again.
I happened to mention the manner in which I was constantly annoyed by these people, to a worthy English farmer who resided near us; and he fell a laughing, and told me that I did not know the Canadian Yankees as well as he did, or I should not be troubled with them long.
"The best way," says he, " to get rid of them, is to ask them sharply what they want; and if they give you no satisfactory answer, order them to leave the house; but I believe I can put you in a better way still. Buy some small article of them, and pay them a trifle over the price, and tell them to bring the change. I will lay my life upon it that it will be long before they trouble you again."
I was impatient to test the efficacy of his scheme That very afternoon Miss Satan brought me a plate of butter for sale. The price was three and ninepence; twice the sum, by-the-bye, that it was worth.
"I have no change," giving her a dollar; "but you can bring it me to-morrow."
Oh, blessed experiment ! for the value of one quarter dollar I got rid of this dishonest girl for ever; rather than pay me, she never entered the house again. (hide spoiler)]

Amused, I followed her family from farm to bush, marvelling at their resourcefulness, hard work, love of nature and good cheer in the face of adversity. This book needs to be read with some sympathy for the Moodies, well educated and of some status back in England, but reduced to the hardest circumstances-- near starvation, taken advantage of at every turn, poor financial decisions, cold and exhausted or hot and exhausted. And yet, they must have been better off than those who worked as their servants, and those whom they had to dismiss as their servants when they could no longer afford to keep them. But it was the very fact of their education and self-regard that no doubt bore them through the hard times-- an unfailing belief in God and that the hand of Providence would reward them in the end.

I could have skipped the heart-rousing poetry-- it was true to its time period, but of little interest for me reading now except to imagine Susanna scribbling away at her rhymes by candlelight. I could have also skipped the chapters written by Susanna's husband-- in which he tries to justify his poor financial decisions, and then later, gives a dry account of the history and politics of what had become the Province of Ontario during their residency.

As Susanna herself ends the book (in an afterword written twenty years after the events described):

I have given you a faithful picture of a life in the backwoods of Canada, and I leave you to draw from it your own conclusions. To the poor, industrious working man it presents many advantages; to the poor gentleman, none! The former works hard, puts up with coarse, scanty fare, and submits, with a good grace, to hardships that would kill a domesticated animal at home. Thus he becomes independent, inasmuch as the land that he has cleared finds him in the common necessaries of life; but it seldom, if ever, in remote situations, accomplishes more than this. The gentleman can neither work so hard, live so coarsely, nor endure so many privations as his poorer but more fortunate neighbour. Unaccustomed to manual labour, his services in the field are not of a nature to secure for him a profitable return. The task is new to him, he knows not how to perform it well; and, conscious of his deficiency, he expends his little means in hiring labour, which his bush-farm can never repay. Difficulties increase, debts grow upon him, he struggles in vain to extricate himself, and finally sees his family sink into hopeless ruin.
If these sketches should prove the means of deterring one family from sinking their property, and shipwrecking all their hopes, by going to reside in the backwoods of Canada, I shall consider myself amply repaid for revealing the secrets of the prison-house, and feel that I have not toiled and suffered in the wilderness in vain.


The secrets of the prison-house! In the end, Susanna Moodie said that she did not regret emigrating to Canada, and that if she had been given the chance to go back home to England, she would not have taken it. Neither did my own ancestors, those hopeful émigrés whose stories I shall never know, and I am grateful for it. Would I ever leave this land of snow and ice and wilderness? Nah, this is good right here.