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inducement to be sympathetic in writing a preface to
a book like this is naturally very great. The authoress
was of Indian blood, and lived the life of the Indian
on the Iroquois Reserve with her chieftain father and
her white mother for many years; and though she had
white blood in her veins was insistently and determinedly
Indian to the end. She had the full pride of the aboriginal
pure blood, and she was possessed of a vital joy in
the legends, history and language of the Indian race
from which she came, crossed by good white stock. But
though the inducement to be sympathetic in the case
of so chivalrous a being who stood by the Indian blood
rather than by the white blood in her is great, there
is, happily, no necessity for generosity or magnanimity
in the case of Pauline Johnson. She was not great, but
her work in verse is sure and sincere; and it is alive
with the true spirit of poetry. Her skill in mere technique
is good, her handling of narrative is notable, and if
there is no striking individuality—which might
have been expected from her Indian origin—if she
was [Page 5] often reminiscent in her
manner, metre, form and expression, it only proves her
a minor poet and not a Tennyson or a Browning. That
she should have done what she did do, devotedly, with
an astonishing charm and the delight of inspired labour,
makes her life memorable, as it certainly made both
life and work beautiful. The pain and suffering which
attended the latter part of her life never found its
way into her work save through increased sweetness and
pensiveness. No shadow of death fell upon her pages.
To the last the soul ruled the body to its will. Phenomenon
Pauline Johnson was, though to call her a genius would
be to place her among the immortals, and no one was
more conscious of her limitations than herself. Therefore,
it would do her memory poor service to give her a crown
instead of a coronet.
Poet
she was, lyric and singing and happy, bright-visioned,
high-hearted, and with the Indian’s passionate
love of nature thrilling in all she did, even when from
hunting-grounds of poesy she brought back now and then
a poor day’s capture. She was never without charm
in her writing; indeed, mere charm was too often her
undoing. She could not be impersonal enough, and therefore
could not be great; but she could get very near to human
sympathies, to domestic natures, to those who care for
pleasant, happy things, to the lovers of the wild. [Page
6]
This is what she has done in
this book called “The Moccasin Maker.” Here
is a good deal that is biographical and autobiographical
in its nature; here is the story of her mother’s
life told with rare graciousness and affection, in language
which is never without eloquence; and even when the
dialogue makes you feel that the real characters never
talked as they do in this monograph, it is still unstilted
and somehow really convincing. Touching to a degree
is the first chapter, “My Mother,” and it,
with all the rest of the book, makes one feel that Canadian
literature would have been poorer, that something would
have been missed from the story of Indian life if this
volume had not been written. It is no argument against
the book that Pauline Johnson had not learnt the art
of short-story writing; she was a poetess, not a writer
of fiction; but the incidents described in many of these
chapters show that, had she chosen to write fiction
instead of verse, and had begun at an early stage in
her career to do so, she would have succeeded. Her style
is always picturesque, she has a good sense of the salient
incident that makes a story, she could give to it the
touch of drama, and she is always interesting, even
when there is discursiveness, occasional weakness, and
when the picture is not well pulled together. The book
had to be written; she knew it, and she did it. The
book will be read, not for patriotic reasons, not from
[Page 7] admiration of work achieved
by one of the Indian race; but because it is intrinsically
human, interesting and often compelling in narrative
and event.
May it be permitted to add one
word of personal comment? I never saw Pauline Johnson
in her own land, at her own hearthstone, but only in
my house in London and at other houses in London, where
she brought a breath of the wild; not because she dressed
in Indian costume, but because its atmosphere was round
her. The feeling of the wild looked out of her eyes,
stirred in her gesture, moved in her footstep. I am
glad to have known this rare creature who had the courage
to be glad of her origin, without defiance, but with
an unchanging, if unspoken, insistence. Her native land
and the Empire should be glad of her for what she was
and for what she stood; her native land and the Empire
should be glad of her for the work, interesting, vivid
and human, which she has done. It will preserve her
memory. In an age growing sordid such fresh spirits
as she should be welcomed for what they are, for what
they do. This book by Pauline Johnson should be welcomed
for what she was and for what it is.
GILBERT
PARKER.
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