| Though
I may have departed slightly from the general
scope and character of encænial addresses, in
selecting for my subject to-day "The beginnings
of a Canadian Literature," nevertheless for
this I suppose I need hardly apologize. To this,
a Canadian University— to us and all others the
children of such universities, in whose hands
chiefly lie the intellectual and moral greatness
of the nation, and of whose hands may Canada justly
demand her chief aids to the development of the
higher life, what question can there be of more
moment, more fitted to this time and this place,
than the question of our mental growth and the
progress of our thought. To observe these we must
look at our literature, because in its widest
sense is literature the fruition of thought, and
contains not only nourishment for present mental
wants, but also the perfected seed whence new
thought shall spring in the future. It is true
that thought develops in other directions than
that of literature; but these other fruitages
of thought are not, as a rule, reproduction. They
are called forth in response to a present demand,
serve a present purpose, and are so entangled
with empiricism as not to afford us reliable measures
of our attainment. But the thought that bears
fruit in literature, this enables us readily to
estimate our rate of advance toward culture, and
liberality, and ripeness.
No other
product is so sensitive to the varying conditions
of the nation as is its literature. Like the tell-tale
eye in the face it responds to and proclaims every
charge. If the national existence is torpid, this
eye is inert and dull. Let the nation’s life awake,
and flow vigorously, and reach out to new domains,
and the eye flashes up with bright alertness.
You hardly notice it before, now it seems the
most prominent feature, lighting all the face
with its vivifying intelligence. Whatever splendid
aspirations, whatever heroic effort, whatever
patriotism, and whatever power may be stirring
to action in the heart, will not the eye declare
it? So, in this respect, the literature of a nation
is rather its eye than its mouth, for through
it we discern the nation’s inmost heart. The mouth
will speak often to disguise the truth; the eye
is less skilled to dissemble. Here, however, the
analogy ceases. Literature is not only the revelation
of present mood and character, but it also has
in its moulding of future character. The exponent
of the present, it is also the architect of the
future. It is an argument never ended, that concerning
great men and their times. One says this man moulded
his time; another, that he was the product of
his time and his circumstances. In truth the man
and his time act and reach upon each other; but
the time and the circumstances get rather the
best of it, probably. These unmistakably speak
through the man. But he makes the times and circumstances
which shall mould his successors. It is with reference
to literature I say this; but it is not less true
with regard to science and art, statesmanship
and generalship.
I have
said that literature is the exponent of the nation’s
intellectual life;—surely we should concern ourselves
with the progress of this life! I have said that
the literature of to-day fathers the thought of
to-morrow; surely, then, it behooves a Canadian
university to concern itself deeply with every
present product of the nation’s thought; to concern
itself very deeply with every influence that is
to mould that thought in the future! If Canadian
universities suffer our literature to develop
apart from their sympathy and guidance, will they
not appear to despise their birthright? Should
not the nation’s intellectual life centre in her
universities? And should not these, by virtue
of matured powers, trained to their most effective
use, make themselves felt in every department
of thought and enlightened action? There will
be, now and then, achievements outside of their
immediate correction. Then it is not only gracious,
in a university, but politic to draw these achievements
to herself and adopt into her family the doers.
It is our universities we should see ever in the
forefront of intellectual and literary progress.
It is to our universities we should look to be
our leaders always when we go to storm the strongholds
of prejudice and sloth and superstition. It is
to them we should turn for promptest recognition
of intellectual work well done.
We should
be able to call our universities nerve-centres,
whence flow the currents of our mental activity.
Then must they be keenly alive to every influence
that is abroad, to every change of temperature
in the fields wherein their currents make their
circuit. They will of necessity identify themselves
with the higher motions and energies of the people,
that these energies may not be wasted through
lack of governed and co-operative effort. Wisely
has spoken Sackville’s Alumni orator for this
year, saying that now is a pressing need for the
educated reformer everywhere. The spirit of reform
is in the air. Long-established rights are being
called to proof. Long-established and venerable
abuses are being inexorably cast out. But there
is danger. Reform is demanded; there are many
workers ready, but too few of these are qualified
for the work. Without training the reformer is
apt to be a destructionist, a physician deadly
to the society he would heal. Those men are needed
for the task of reform who by education, and discipline,
and study of past events with their causes and
their results, have acquired mental balance; who
are striving to attain clear vision and calm judgment;
who will know and preserve the good growth while
strenuously eradicating the evil. This brings
to mind a paragraph by Mr. W. H. Mallock, concerning
Liberalism and Conservatism. He compares society
to a place whose roof is upheld by many pillars.
Some of these are of vital importance to the stability
of the structure, while others are of no use whatever,
but constitute a serious hindrance to advance
and free motion. The office of Liberalism is to
attack these crowding obstructions, which it does
at the risk of destroying indispensable columns,
so hard are these to distinguish from the rest.
The part played by Conservatism is that of vigilantly
guarding the pillars, obstructive and preservative
alike, lest some of the latter should fall. Is
it utterly vain to hope for a union of these attributes
and offices? May we not accept liberalism with
its enthusiastic energy unabated, while tempering
its rashness with some of that enlightened conservatism
to which study has taught that every blind extremist
creates his own Nemesis, in the reaction which
will overwhelm his efforts? Reform is of doubtful
desirability from the hands of narrow demagogues.
Our leaders in literature, in science, in politics,
are wanted now from our universities, wherein
they are expected to have received a comprehensive
training in the thought, not of the past only,
but of the present. There is a tendency too often
visible in our intellectual movements and knowledge
to be a day late. This gives that effect of provincialism
which, not always unjustly, is so often laid to
the charge of the products of Canadian thought.
It is incumbent on our universities to see that
their instruction is such as will keep the student
abreast of the front tide of mental conquest,
instead of leaving him to gyrate indefinitely
in the rearward shoals and eddies. That good characteristics
which has been called modernity is desirable in
our college courses. We must hear not only what
has been done in the past, but what is being done
in the all important present. It is not desirable
that men should come out into the world and find
the world has pressed on far ahead of them; find
their tone of thought, their mental habit, two
decades out of date. Perhaps it will include all
the rest to say that the University training should
turn men’s eyes not backward but forward. To the
front should be the impulse given and the start
from the foremost vantage gained.
Not in
this respect only, but also in that of vital connexion
with the soil, our universities might well emulate
those of some other countries. We have what are
too much universities in Canada rather than Canadian
universities. We want more of the forward-looking
spirit, and we want more of the national spirit,
if we are to play our proper part in moulding
the development of the nation. In other countries,
what members of the social organism are most acutely
sensitive, most promptly responsive to every waking
need and aspiration of the people? The universities.
In other countries, where the exhaustless sources
of national life, the perennial currents of national
feeling, that gather, and concentrate, and direct
with irresistible force the vague but noble aims
that spring in the heart of a people struggling
upward from ignorance and insignificance? In the
universities. In other countries where do we look
for, and find, the most devoted zeal, the boldness
that fights ever in the front, the promptest,
the most burning patriotism? In the universities.
In Canada, where do we want a more vivid realization
of the fact that we have a country, and are making
a nation; that we have a history, and are making
a literature; that we have a heroic past, and
are making ready for a future that shall not be
inglorious? In our universities, if they would
not lose their birthright. Therefore, let me seek
to contribute something, in a small degree and
brief way, toward this more vivid realization.
Let me show that foundations are being laid for
the temple of Canadian literature; and let me
endeavor to prove that in this we have made such
beginnings as may serve for a centre to large
hopes.
In Canadian
literature it is now apparent that there must
long continue to be two parallel streams; and
I can see no reason for imagining that either
of these will ever absorb the other. In the midst
of this Anglo-Saxon Canada there is an off-shoot
of another race, which displays the most persistent
vitality and the most enduring individualism.
It does not seem possible to believe what so many
prophets tell us, namely, that we are destined
to absorb or blot out our French-Canadian brothers.
They will rather continue to flourish side by
side with us, a factor, not indeed large, as compared
with the English speaking millions who are peopling
our limitless territories, but potent in its influence
upon our national development. They are as truly
Canadians as we are; rather, I should say, more
truly and ardently Canadian. They have attained
a richer energy of national feeling and patriotic
devotion than has yet quickened in our more sluggish
veins. More closely have they identified themselves
with the soil that bears them.
While
remembering with reverence and with loving interest
that France, fair and remote, which was the birth-place
of their race, their loyalty is unswervingly directed
upon this Canada which is now their fatherland—our
fatherland. That their patriotism is no lipservice,
no matter of cool-blooded expediency, let Chateauguay
and Chrysler’s Farm attest! The awakening of the
intense national spirit of this section of our
countrymen has called forth a brilliant fruitage
of creative vigor. Of song and romance and history
their soil became suddenly productive. French
Canada, just since yesterday, we may say, has
brought forth to itself a literature—one in a
high degree polished and artistic, imbued with
unmistakable Canadian flavor, yet not servilely
provincial in its themes; a literature, moreover,
which has already drown upon itself the eyes of
the outside world. Would that this were a matter
of greater interest and pride to us of English
Canada! It were well if we would concern ourselves
more warmly with the achievements of this brother
people, strive to lessen our ignorance of their
doings and their characteristics, and in all ways
render more apparent the ties of a national brotherhood
and fellowcitizenship which bind them to us. Most
of us, perhaps, have never heard of the Abbe Casgrain,
one of the chief of French-Canadian prose writers.
Yet by men of letters in the great Republic beside
us his name is known and honored; in France, and
even in England, he does not lack his circle.
His writings are most fascinating for their subject-matter.
Rich in incident, effective in presentation, vivid
and full in coloring, they deal with that which
cannot but hold the reader—the ancient Canadian
traditions, and history, and legends. Critics
more competent than I am to speak of the subtle
graces and finer beauties of that exquisite vehicle
of thought, French prose, accord his style the
warmest praise for excellence and power. To the
weight of the laborious investigator, the magnetism
of the born raconteur, he writes in no small degree
the perfecting impulse of the literary artist.
Having spoken thus at length of the Abbe Casgrain,
as the representative prose-writer of the French-Canadian
circle, it is not necessary here to enlarge upon
other names, such as those of Ferland, Garneau,
Le Moine, Faucher de Saint Maurice, etc., prominent
historians, essayists and general writers whose
abilities are known to me by reputation only.
Of poets
the names that stand out most clearly are those
of Frechette, Cremazie and Le May. The first of
these I must do more than mention. It is probably
an old story to most of us present, how nearly
three years ago, Louis Honore Frechette won for
Canada the year’s laurels from the illustrious
Academy of France. This was a matter for national
congratulation: an intellectual triumph, in which
we should take as much pride, perhaps, as in the
physical prowess of our world-renowned oarsmen.
I am afraid it must be confessed that we were
but moderately moved over M. Frechette’s achievement,
while over Hanlan’s we were certainly excited.
By all means let us glory in our physical, as
well as in our mental triumphs; but surely the
latter should be of supremer interest and the
source of higher pride. It was for his poems—"Les
Oiseaux de Neige" and "Les Fleurs Boreales"—that
M. Frechette was crowned by the French Academy.
There are thoroughly Canadian poems, in inspiration
as well as tone, and possess in the fullest degree
their author’s characteristics of limpid ease
of language and balanced harmony of structure.
But it is elsewhere, I think, that M. Frechette
has reached his loftiest heights of lyric exaltation;
has attained his most commanding sweep of imaginative
vision. A poem of his well exemplifying these
powers is that entitled "La Liberté,"
of which I will quote a stanza. The same excellences
which make it a suitable specimen of the poet’s
genius have led me also to attempt a translation
of it; and this translation I may be permitted
to quote in part, for the benefit of those to
whose ears the original is not easy. If I seem
to take a liberty in repeating before you a verse
in part my own, forgive me, for the lines are
in no way really mine. They are simply the outcome
of a reverent and diligent striving to find some
faint equivalent in English for the poet’s lyric
utterance
"De
saints espoirs ma pauvre ame s’inonde,
Et mon regard monte vers le ciel blue,
Quand j’apercois dans les fastes du monde,
Comme un eclair, briller le doigt de Dieu.
Mais quelquefois, incliné sur le gouffre
Ou l’nomme rampe a l’immortalité,
En contemplant l’humunité qui souffre,
Si je prie en pleurant, c’est pour la Liberté!"
"I
drench my spirit in ecstacy, consoled,
And my gaze trembles toward the azure are,
When in the wide world-records I behold
Flame like a meteor, God‘s finger thro’ the
dark.
But if, at times, bowed over the abyss
Wherein man crawls toward immortality,
Beholding here how sore his suffering is,
I make my prayer with tears, it is for Liberty."
It will
interest some of us to know that M. Frechette
is a lawyer, and has been eminently successful
in his profession. Themis and Calliope may not
seem to have much in common; nevertheless in more
than one notable instance have they been soon
fast friends.
Of English
Canadian writers who have won or who deserves
to win, fame, we have a fair proportion. In verse,
as well as in other departments of literature,
we have produced mighty array of volumes, works
which have been thrust into the light only to
fall back promptly into the darkness of most complete
oblivion. A few of these, perhaps, have deserved
to live—have perished through untoward circumstances;
but in all probability most of them have found
the fate they were fitted for. Of many I know
not even the names, having learned of their brief
excursion into the common light of day only through
publishers’ statistics. But there are works on
the other hand that have proved themselves possessed
of the vigor which is necessary for existence
in this strenuous new land. Charles Heavysege
is a strong and unique personality in our literature.
With an intellect penetrative and alert, but too
little under the discipline of culture, with a
distinct rhythmical faculty and an ear for full
verbal effects; he nevertheless wrote sonnets
and short poems which fail to give unmixed pleasure.
He wrote also "Jephtha’s Daughter,"
a narrative poem which I do not know well enough
to characterize. But his title to a permanent
place upon our roll is securely founded upon his
great drama of "Saul." This work, in
itself remarkable for magnitude of conception
and rough-hewn strength of execution, will impress
us still more forcibly when we consider its author,
at first a mechanic—a cabinet maker, I believe—then
reporter on the busy staff of a Montreal journal;
self-educated with few opportunities, in continual
poverty, toiling incessantly, till he died almost
unrecognized among his fellow-countrymen. Such
considerations as these can add nothing to our
estimate of his work, but must add to our respect
for his great ability and his dauntless determination.
Instead of offering you my own detailed criticism
of "Saul," let me quote from the North
British Review of August,
1858. It was through Hawthorne’s admiration for
the work that the attention of the great review
was turned to it. The reviewer says: "Of
‘Saul‘ a drama in three parts, published anonymously
at Montreal, we have before us perhaps the only
copy which has crossed the Atlantic. At all events
we have heard of none, as probable we should have
done through some public or private notice, seeing
that the work is indubitably one of the most remarkable
English poems ever written out of Great Britain.
It is the greatest subject in the whole range
of history for a drama, and has been treated with
a poetical power and a depth of psychological
insight which are often quite startling."
And again:— "The author proves that he knows
the Bible and human nature. Shakespeare also he
knows far better than most men know him; for he
has discerned and adopted his method as no other
dramatist has done. There are hundreds of passages
for the existence of which we cannot account until
the moral clue is found, and it never would be
found by the careless and unreflecting reader;
yet the work is exceedingly artistic, and there
are few things in modern poetry so praiseworthy
as the quiet and unobstrusive way in which the
theme is treated." And yet again: "As
we have said of Shakespeare, the meaning is too
full to be stated more briefly than by the whole
poem." All this is very strong and very unqualified
commendation; and it is in the main just. Though
to say the Heavysege "has discerned and adopted
Shakespeare’s method as no other dramatist has
done" goes, I think, rather too far. But
we need not concern ourselves here with comparative
estimates. It is enough to claim that Heavysege
had genius. He had also, I believe, some of those
harmless eccentricities which once were supposed
inseparable from genius, but which in these days
have grown unfashionable. I have been told by
one who called himself his friend that Heavysege
rather resented comparison with anyone less than
Shakespeare; but let this go for what it’s worth.
Having
spoken at such length of Heavysege, I cannot do
more than mention the thoughtfulness and chastened
style of Reade, whose best work lacks not the
true fire, while his weakest efforts command respect
by their air of scholarly dignity. Mere mention
also for Hunter-Duvar, whose drama, "The
Enamorado," charms us with its rare romance
flavor, a breath from the days of trouvére and
‘ringing lists." Mr. Duvar’s work is uneven,
but finely poetical at its best; and two or three
of his lyrics are admirable. Then there is Mrs.
MacLean, a singer, whose impulse is genuine, whose
note is high and strong. Her range of subject
is not large, and she has seemed at times to want
restraint, and show need of the "labor of
the file;" but in artistic conception and
in knowledge of technique she displays a constant
growth. Her method is almost exclusively subjecture.
Let me quote from her very beautiful poem, entitled
"In the Shadow of the Mountains:"—
Ye
are so fair, my Mountains! I would lie,
When this long day of toil
is over and done,
Looking with you into the silent sky,
And visited of rain and wind
and sun;
And I shall sleep full sweet in my low bed,
Forgotten of all grief and comforted.
* * *
White
mist that veil your high majestic faces
Shall stoop sometimes and
bless me where I lie;
And I shall hear from out your wan waste places
The long susurrus of the pines
drift by,
When I rest lightly in my strait low bed,
Forgotten of all grief and comforted.
And
I shall watch the stars that seem to reach
Bright hands to you when
nights are still and fair;
And I shall know the secret of their speech,
Because my soul hath dropped
its load of care;
Resting full sweetly in my mountain bed,
Forgotten of all grief and comforted.
Another
fine stanza follows then, addressing the world
left behind—
I
have no tears for you,—The mountain passes
Climbed by the wild goat are
more dear to me,
And the cliff eagle screaming
from the sea;
I shall return to them, and
I shall be
A portion of their blooms and grasses.
A solitary, not ungentle soul,
set free;
And so I shall lie still in my low bed,
After long years of wandering comforted.
Then
we have C.P. Mulvany, at the head of Canadian
lyrists, far too seldom doing his great gifts
justice, but at his best our
best; intense, dramatic, passionate, rapid, in
a degree which not one other Canadian poet has
attained to. Among the host of writers of fugitive
verse we must name Messrs. L’Esperance and Dole;
while two ladies, under the noms de plume
respectively of "Seranus" and "Fidelis,"
compel our respectful attention—the former for
originality and richness of suggestion, the latter
for unstrained contemplative sweetness, and both
for mental force. In this connexion let me say
one word, from a literary point of view, of the
work of our venerable Metropolitan in translating
the Book of Job. After Isaiah, whose measureless
sublimity no other poet, or of age or clime, has
reached, this Book contains some of the loftiest
passages in the range of Hebrew poetry. The language
of the authorized translation is apparently a
perfect vehicle for the conveyance of the fire
and elusive poetic quality of the original; but
unfortunately it now and then fails to convey
any clear meaning. The Metropolitan’s rendering
adheres to that of the Authorized Version where
ever this is adequate; but elsewhere, with true
poetic sensibility, the tone and cadence of the
old version are so infused into every alteration
that the general effect is unmarred, while what
was hopelessly obscure to the reader has the light
let in upon it.
Now,
coming to our prose writers, I dare not take time
to do more than give you a catalogue of them.
First of all there is one who has identified himself
with Canada to Canada’s incalculable benefit—Professor
Goldwin Smith, one of the most eminent of living
essayists and historical writers. Haliburton,
whose "Sam Slick" has become an English
classic alongside of Tristram Shandy, and Hudibras,
was one of the most racy of the racy new world
humorists. Principals Dawson, of McGill, Grant
of Queen’s and Wilson of Toronto University, have
a well earned reputation far beyond the borders
of Canada. Of historians we have a number, the
most important being Messrs. Todd, Hannay, Archer,
and probably Withrow. The names of George Stewart,
Jr., and Nicholas Flood Davin, are widely known
for important works of a semi-historical character,
and for essays on various literary and popular
subjects.
Semi-historical
also are Mr. Rattary’s very able work on "The
Scot in British North America," and also
Mr. Dent’s "The Last Forty Years;" while
the writings of Drs. Scadding and Canniff, of
Messrs. Bourinot and Murdoch, are difficult to
classify hastily, though easy to commend for their
value and their interest. In the matter of pure
literary criticism, Mr. S. E. Dawson, in his "Study
of ‘The Princess,’" has stepped at once into
the front rank. In fiction we have many names,
though few of them are prominent. We have all
heard though probably few of us have read of Kirby’s
"In Chim d’Or;" and Professor DeMille’s
novels have had a wide circulation. With these
exceptions, I am unable to speak from knowledge
on this department of Canadian letters. In political
biography we have, among the rest, the "Life
of Wm. Lyon McKenzie," by Charles Lindsay;
the "Life of the Hon. George Brown,"
by Alexander Mackenzie; and the "Life of
Sir John A. Macdonald," by J. E. Collins.
Of this latter work, from its great intrinsic
importance, and from the fact that it is the latest,
and in its department the most brilliant production
of our prose literature, I might naturally be
expected to speak somewhat at length. But on account
of my intimate personal friendship for Mr. Collins,
and for other reasons affecting myself, it would
be difficult, if not embarrassing, for me to discuss
his work particularly.
Besides
all these authors and some others worthy of mention
whom, through inadvertency or lack of space, I
may have overlooked, there are many occasional
writers of ability whose names will at once occur
to you, but who have not committed themselves
to book form. These I need not specify here. But
before closing these fragmentary remarks let me
say a word concerning that perpetual injunction
to our verse-writers to choose Canadian themes
only. Now it must be remembered that the whole
heritage of English Song is ours and that it is
not
ours to found a new literature. The Americans
have not done so nor will they. They have simply
joined in raising the splendid structure, English
literature, to the building of which may come
workmen from every region of earth where speaks
the English tongue. The domain of English letters
knows no boundaries of Canadian Dominion, of American
Commonwealth, nor yet of British Empire. All the
greatest subject matter is free to the world’s
writers. Of course the tone of a work, the quality
of the handling, must be influenced by the surroundings
and local sympathies of the workman, in so far
as he is a truly original and creative workman
and not a mere copyist. To the assimilativeness
and flexibility of genius it is as impossible
that its works should lack the special flavor
of race and clime, as that honey from Himettus
should fail to smell of the thyme slopes. By all
means let our singers preserve to the sweetness
which they gather a fragrance distinctive of its
origin. It is true we have much poetical wealth
unappropriated in our broad and magnificent landscapes,
in our seasons that alternate so swiftly between
gorgeousness and gloom, in the stirring episodes
scattered so abundantly through parts of our early
history; but let us not therefore think we are
prohibited from drawing a portion of our material
from lands where now the very dust is man. When
our own land as thickly as these has been sown
with human pleasures, and passions, and pains,
has been as many times and as long watered with
human tears and blood, she will be mother, I doubt
not, to as many songs as any land has borne. |
