It is probably appropriate that this post features something trivial, since my failure to update the blog on more important things—Sean's first term at
Canadian Academy, Julian's
coming of age ceremony (753) and Justin's second birthday (see pictures), and continuing progress in walking (however hesitantly), the relief (of a few moments ago) of not having a Romney Presidency—is due to these events having been pushed out by matters of less consequence, such as Justin's bringing home a vicious and powerful stomach bug that has laid low the whole family for two days. (My rational self knows that viruses bear no malice, and certainly don't co-ordinate their activities to screw up my schedule; irrationally however, I hate the fact that children's lurgies always hit us on Tuesdays—the only day of the week both Ayumi and I have a full teaching schedule, and wonder how they know this fact). So, today's filling text is an excerpt from a book that I picked off the department library shelf at random, while waiting for the department secretary to decipher some paperwork that I received some weeks ago, and which—it turned out—I was right to ignore. The excerpt is from
The Englishwoman's Domestic Magazine (1854): quite what this volume is doing in our library is not clear—it's not as if we have unlimited funds—but there it is. And there was I, browsing harmlessly, flicking to page 64, on which is a letter from M. S. (Belfast) seeking advice from Mr. Editor about whether she should emigrate to Australia.
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| Julian's 7-5-3 ceremony (everyone else enjoyed the event!) |
A young governess, separated from her only surviving parent, a mother, to whom she is devotedly attached, wishes to know if Mr. Editor would advise her emigrating to Australia, in hopes of realising sufficient means to maintain her mother in her declining years?...
Mr. Editor is 'relatively unequivocal' in his (her?) response:
We feel there is much responsibility in giving advice upon this subject. All who go to Australia do not realize the object s [sic] which in most cases induce their emigration—namely, that of attaining an independence. The inducement too often held out to young females in the hope of marrying well. But what, we ask, is marrying [sic] well in Australia? To a refined mind, the class of persons seeking wives there are mostly successful gold-finders, and men whose wild and reckless modes of life unfit them for the quiet domestic enjoyment which all English girls are taught to look upon as happiness. We do not say there are no exceptions to this class; but our advice to our fair correspondent is, do not think of leaving England unless assured of a situation on your arrival in Australia, giving the preference to Sydney, as being the seat of government and where the most refined society is likely to be met with...
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| Justin with his nursery teacher, picking sweet potatoes |
Most likely, what strikes everyone first about this passage is the apparently prejudicial and patronising tone of the editor's response (though such appearance is possibly anachronistic—in 1854, it might have been an objective assessment): ironically, 150 years on, and despite Australia's artistic, cultural and intellectual contributions since that time, one still hears many of the same attitudes in England (not helped by
Neighbours, perhaps), and less articulately expressed (The Aussies have no culture, like, not like us). But more interesting is the English: in Present Day English,
gold-finder is not a likely compound, though
gold-digger, even
Goldfinger is; in adult PDE, negative inverted scope readings are clearly dispreferred (when the author writes 'All who go to Australia do not realise' s/he means 'Not everyone who goes to Australia realise'
cf.
All that glisters is not gold. Julian at age 6 often makes such errors but they'll fade by the time he's 10 or so). And in PDE
well, not
marrying, would be emphasized (italicized in the original): this may be a typo, however.
Anyway, this must rank as the most incoherent blog piece I've put together.
At least there are good pictures to go with the ramble.
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