The Dusty Bookcase

A Poet's Angry Words for the Fenian Brotherhood

'Mort de Thomas D'Arcy McGee'
Thomas D'Arcy McGee: 150 Years

23 September 2024

Of Poets, Poetry, Politicians, and Parliament Hill

Yet another gloriously sunny September weekend, I spent most of it stacking firewood in preparation for winter. The high point came early Saturday morning when I found myself in Ottawa's ByWard Market with an hour to kill. It was so early, that Patrick McGahern Books hadn't yet opened, and so I made for Parliament Hill to see how the restoration of the Centre Block is progressing.

Quite well, it seems.

Despite the early hour, there were swarms of tourists from the United Kingdom and China... but then it was noon in London and early evening in Shanghai.

It had been nearly twenty-four years since I'd walked around the building. The last time was on Sunday, October 1, 2000, when Pierre Elliott Trudeau's body lay in state in the Centre Block's Hall of Honour. I was there with my birth parents, both staunch Liberals. Here I am waiting in the eight-hour line with my birth mother; I have no idea as to the identity of the man in the turquoise cap:

The pins we are wearing were distributed on the evening PET made his farewell speech. I'm no Grit, but the conclusion of that speech has always inspired.

Enough nostalgia.

What I most wanted to see was the Library of Parliament. Its restoration took four years, beginning in 2002. From the outside, the library looks better than I remember. Money well spent, I say!

Several statues have had to be relocated during the restoration, but not the one honouring D'Arcy McGee. His still stands in place, though you really have to look.

See it?

It's not a good photo, but I remind that Saturday was gloriously sunny. I took a better snap of this plaque, which I'd never seen before:

cliquez pour agandir

As you can see, it lies just outside the construction zone. I really like the design and text. Sadly, "the female figure, representing Memory" is currently hidden by the fence. McGee, something of a hero to me, made his greatest impact as a politician and journalist, of course, but I like that his work as a poet and historian is also recognized. The reference to McGee's verse sent me off walking toward what I think is the most interesting statue on Parliament Hill.

I knew just where to find it.

'A Canadian Galahad' memorializes the heroism of Henry Albert Harper, who on 6 December 1901 died attempting to save Bessie Blair, a young woman who had fallen though the ice while skating on the Ottawa River. The Dictionary of Canadian Biography features a brief entry on Harper by H. Blair Neatby. William Lyon Mackenzie King provides a more thorough biography in The Secret of Heroism: A Memoir of Henry Albert Harper (New York: Revell, 1906). The future prime minister's book, his first, was published the year after 'A Canadian Galahad' was unveiled by Prime Minister Wilfrid Laurier. Three thousand people were in attendance.

The deaths of Henry Harper and Bessie Blair shook the national's capital, in part because the young lady's father, Andrew George Blair, was the Minister of Railways and Canals. The statue was funded by public donations. Inspiration was drawn from a reproduction of George Frederic Watts' 'Sir Galahad,' which Harper had placed above his desk.

To this Canadian, 'A Canadian Galahad,' a statue inspired by a painting, is forever linked with verse. Within days of the tragedy, William Wilfred Campbell, who had a mutual friend in King, wrote a tribute to the doomed hero. This version comes from The Collected Poems of Wilfred Campbell (Toronto: Briggs, 1905):

HENRY A. HARPER
(Drowned in the Ottawa River while trying to save Miss Blair)

We crown the splendours of immortal peace,
And laud the heroes of ensanguined war.
Rearing in granite memory of men
Who build the future, recreate the past.
Or animate the present dull world's pulse
With loftier riches of the human mind.

But his was greatness not of common mould,
And yet so human in its simple worth,
That any spirit plodding its slow round
Of social commonplace and daily moil.
Might blunder on such greatness, did he hold
In him the kernel sap from which it sprung.

Men in rare hours great actions may perform,
Heroic, lofty, whereof earth will ring,
A world onlooking, and the spirit strung
To high achievement, at the cannon's mouth.
Or where fierce ranks of maddened men go down.

But this was godlier. In the common round
Of life's slow action, stumbling on the brink
Of sudden opportunity, he chose
The only noble, godlike, splendid way.
And made his exit, as earth's great have gone,
By that vast doorway looking out on death.

No poet this of winged, immortal pen;
No hero of an hundred victories;
Nor iron moulder of unwieldy states.
Grave counsellor of parliaments, gold-tongued.
Standing in shadow of a centuried fame.
Drinking the splendid plaudits of a world.

But simple, unrecorded in his days,
Unostentatious, like the average man
Of average duty, walked the common earth.
And when fate flung her challenge in his face.
Took all his spirit in his blinded eyes.
And showed in action why God made the world.

He passes as all pass, both small and great,
Oblivion-clouded, to the common goal; —
And all unmindful moves the dull world round.
With baser dreams of this material day.
And all that makes man petty, the slow pace
Of small accomplishment that mocks the soul.

But he hath taught us by this splendid deed,
That under all the brutish mask of life
And dulled intention of ignoble ends,
Man's soul is not all sordid; that behind
This tragedy of ills and hates that seem,
There lurks a godlike impulse in the world,
And men are greater than they idly dream.

Henry Albert Harper
1873-1901

Elizabeth "Bessie" Blair
1879-1901

RIP

Related post:

A Dedication Born of Tragedy

07 April 2018

Thomas D'Arcy McGee: 150 Years

He has gone from us, and it will be long ere we find such a happy mixture of eloquence and wisdom, wit and earnestness. His was no artificial or meretricious eloquence, every word of his was as he believed, and every belief, every thought of his, was in the direction of what was good and true.

— Sir John A. Macdonald, 7 April 1868

The great Thomas D'Arcy McGee was murdered 150 years ago today, nine months after Confederation. His remains the only assassination of a federal politician in our history. Is it unseemly that I take some pride in this?

McGee became my hero at Allancroft Elementary School. He was never mentioned in class; I first learned about him through a book, Pierre Berton's Historic Headlines (Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1967), borrowed from the school library.

These past nine years I've marked the anniversary of McGee's death with verse written as news of the tragedy swept across the Dominion he'd brought into being. This year, a unfinished poem composed by McGee himself. Appropriate, I think.

The Poems of Thomas D'Arcy McGee
New York: Sadlier, 1869

Related posts:

A Poet's Angry Words for the Fenian Brotherhood

'Mort de Thomas D'Arcy McGee'

07 April 2017

'Mort de Thomas D'Arcy McGee'

from La Voix d'un exile: première et seconde année

Louis Fréchette

1868

Related posts:

A Poet's Angry Words for the Fenian Brotherhood

07 April 2016

A Poet's Angry Word With the Fenian Botherhood

Angry verse on this 148th anniversary of Thomas D'Arcy McGee's assassination found in Evan MacColl's Poems and Songs (Toronto: Hunter, Rose, 1883).

A WORD WITH THE FENIAN BROTHERHOOD

(Suggested by the assassination of Thomas D'Arcy McGee, in 1868)

"The Fenian Brotherhood "! the phrase sounds well,
But what's your right to such a title, tell?
Strangers alike to honour, truth, and shame—
Conspirators to aim at Fenian fame!
If truly sang the bard of Selma old,
The Fenian race were of no cut-throat mould;
Though sometimes they in Erin loved to roam,
A land more north was their heroic home;
The "Cothrom Féine," was their pride and boast;
Of all base things they scorned a braggart most;
Besides 'twas not a custom in their day,
Assassin-like, one's victim to way-lay
And shoot unseen contented if, cash down,
The price of blood were only half-a crown!
Fenians, indeed! all true men of that race
Fraternity with you would deem disgrace;
Fenians, forsooth! renounce that honour'd name;
"Thugs" would more fitly suit your claim to fame!

Poor souls, I pity your demented state;
You will be vicious if you can't be great.
Better for Erin any fate would be,
Than to be ruled by bedlamites like ye:
The war of the Kilkenny cats renewed,
She'd find, I think, a very doubtful good.
O wondrous-valiant, treason-hatching crew,
If words were deeds, what great things might ye do?
Ye, who have left your country for her good—
Ye talk of righting all her wrongs in blood!
'Tis laughable — the more so, that we feel
Your necks were made for hemp, and not for steel.
At Britain's lion you may spare your howls,—
That noble beast is never scared by owls;
Tis well for you, with all your vapouring frantic,
You have 'tween him and you the broad Atlantic.

Let no one think that he who now cries shame
On your misdeeds, your Celtic blood would blame;
A Celt himself, his great grief is to see
The land that nursed you cursed by such as ye.
So bright the record of her better days—
So much to love she still to us displays—
So rich her heritage of wit and song—
So warm her heart, so eloquent her tongue,
He honours Erin. 'Tis to fools like you
Alone the tribute of his scorn is due.

Union is strength. Joy to the nations three
As now united! May they ever be
The first and foremost in fair freedom's van—
An empire built upon the Shamrock plan—
A seeming THREE and yet a perfect ONE.

Related posts:

01 February 2016

McGee's Lines on a Once Famous Festival Day

Verse written by son of Erin and Father of Confederation Thomas D'Arcy McGee in celebration of Saint Bridget of Kildare (a/k/a Saint Brigid, Saint Brigit), patron of poets, printing presses and scholars.

The Poems of Thomas D'Arcy McGee

Montreal: D & J Sadlier, 1870

Good Catholics and Anglicans will recognize the first of February as St Brigid's Feast Day; bad Anglicans like myself will not, which is why I reach for Sean Kelly and Rosemary Rogers' Saints Preserve Us! First published in 1993 and in print to this day, it has long served as a spiritual guide.

The story of this chaste result of unholy union between a pagan chieftain and a slave girl shows itself to be both fantastical and a touch titillating:

She hated her own beauty, for it attracted numerous lusty suitors, despite her well-known vow of perpetual chastity. Finally, her constant prayers to become ugly were answered – miraculously, one of her eyes became grotesquely huge, while the other disappeared – so her father consented to her becoming a nun. It is said that, during the ceremony, Angels shoved aside the attending priest and presented her with the veil, the wooden steps of the altar burst into leaf, and her good looks were instantly restored.

You can't make that stuff up. Not always, anyway. Later in the entry, Kelly and Rogers inform:

Since she was born sixty-six years after the death of Saint Patrick, reports of their intimate friendship are doubtless exaggerated. Nor is it necessarily true that the holy but drunken Saint Mel consecrated her a full-fledged bishop. Some facts we may be sure of, though. Her bath water was sometimes transformed into beer for the sake of thirsty clerics…

There's much more, but the image of a naked virgin turning bathwater into beer should be inspiration enough for today's poets.

Need more?

She also taught a fox to dance.

08 April 2015

Collard's Cock-up (and a curious coincidence)

Edgar Andrew Collard seems to have been a pretty interesting fellow. A Montrealer armed with a M.A. in history from McGill, in 1942 he found to work in the Gazette library – eleven years later he was editor-in-chief. Robertson Davies, once a newspaperman himself, wrote of his tenure: "I follow about 25 Canadian editorial pages day by day, and I see nothing to compare with this work, either in subject or in treatment."

In 1971, Collard stepped down. Youngsters like myself remember him only as a columnist. From August 1944 to August 2000 – the month before his death – Collard's "All Our Yesterdays" appeared each and every weekend. With titles like "When Dominion Square Was a Cemetery", "Was Dr. James Barry a Woman?", "Strange Experiences of Colonel Ham" and "College as the Ruination of Girls", they focussed on the more colourful aspects of Montreal's past. Several hundred were collected in books like Montreal Yesterdays, Montreal: The Days That Are No More, All Our Yesterdays and 100 More Tales from All Our Yesterdays, but this column on the country's first political assassination isn't one of them :

Saturday, 16 November 1963
(cliques pour grander)

Writes Collard:

Did D'Arcy McGee foresee his sudden death at the age of 42? He did. And he wrote about his fate in a poem entitled "Forewarned."

"Forewarned" meant nothing to me; it doesn't figure in the 612-page Poems of Thomas D'Arcy McGee. A quick search reveals that the verse isn't by McGee at all, rather it belongs to Irish novelist, poet and playwright Gerald Griffin (1803-1840). You can find all 64 lines beginning on page 395 of The Life of Gerald Griffin (Dublin: James Duffy, 1872), written by brother Daniel.

I wonder if Collard ever realized his mistake. As far as I can tell, he never issued a correction. Published the following weekend, Collard's next column dealt with the sculptures gracing the Bank of Montreal Head Office.

Here's that day's front page:

Saturday, 23 November 1963

Related posts:

07 April 2015

'Erin's Address to the Hon. Thomas D'Arcy McGee'

Verse on the 147th anniversary of the assassination of the great D'Arcy McGee. "Erin's Address to the Hon. Thomas D'Arcy McGee" precedes "Death of D'Arcy McGee" as the first of two poems to the politician in Nora Pembroke's Verses and Rhymes by the Way (Pembroke, ON: S.E. Mitchell, 1880).

ERIN'S ADDRESS TO THE HON. THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE

O thou son of the dark locks and eloquent tongue,
With the brain of a statesman sagacious, and strong,
And the heart of a poet, half love, and half fire,
Thou hast many to love thee and more to admire;
But I bore thee, and nursed thee, and joyed at the fame
Which the sons of the stranger have spread round thy name,
I am Erin, green Erin, the "Gem of the sea."
Listen, then, to thy mother's voice, D'Arcy McGee.

Since the crown from my head, and the sceptre are gone
To the hand of the stranger, who held what he won,
I have borne much of sorrow, of wrong and of shame,
I've been spoken against with scorning and blame;
But still have my daughters been spotless and fair,
And my sons have been dauntless to do and to dare;
For as great as thou art and most precious to me.
Still thou art not my only one, D'Arcy McGee.

At the bar, in the senate, in cassock or gown,
Our foes being judges, they've got them renown;
On the red field of battle, of glory, of death,
They've been true to their colours and true to their faith;
And where bright swords were clashing and carnage ran high,
They have taught the stern Saxon they know how to die.
Well, no wit, poet, statesman or hero can be
More dear to my heart than thou, D'Arcy McGee.

Wild heads, may plan glories for Erin their mother,
Weak plans and wicked plans chasing each other;
To me worse than the loss of a sceptre and crown
Is a spot that might tarnish my children's renown,
'Tis the laurels they win are the jewels I prize,
They're the core of my heart and the light of my eyes;
For my children are gems and crown jewels to me,
And art thou not one of them, D'Arcy McGee!

I had one son, and, oh, need I mention his name!
He who well knew where lay both our weakness and shame;
His true, tender heart sought to measure and know
This thing, most accursed, formed of babbling and woe;
And his life did he dedicate freely, to slay
The monster that made my bright children his prey;
In the place where the wine cup flows deadly and free,
The bane of the gifted, oh D'Arcy McGee.

For so well hath the father of lies tried to fling
A false glory around it, so hiding the sting,
Saying wit gets its flash, and high genius its fire,
From the fiend that drags genius and wit through the mire.
Ah! it biteth, it stingeth, it eateth away,
And our best and our brightest it takes for its prey,
'Tis the bowl of the helot, no cup for the free,
As thou very well knowest, my D'Arcy McGee.

Hast thou risen my loved one and cast from thy name
All the shadows that darken thy life with their shame;
Thou hast raised thyself up, against wind, against tide,
Thou art high, thou art honoured, my joy and my pride;
Now the song of the drunkard is chased from thy place,
And my pride is relieved from this touch of disgrace.
Thou wilt help to make Erin "great, glorious and free,"
And I bless thee my silver-tongued D'Arcy McGee.

Related posts:

07 April 2014

Remembering Edith Eaton and D'Arcy McGee

It's become something of a tradition here to acknowledge Thomas D'Arcy McGee on this day, the anniversary of his assassination. And I will. But it would be wrong to let this seventh of April pass without paying homage to Edith Eaton, who died one hundred years ago today.

Writing as "Sui Sin Far", Eaton has been described variously as "the first Chinese-American fictionist", "the first Chinese-American woman writer" and "the mother of Chinese-American literature", but these descriptions come from our cousins to the south. Pay them no mind.

The eldest daughter of Englishman Edward Eaton and his Chinese wife Lotus Blossom, she was born in 15 March 1865 in Prestbury, Cheshire, emigrating to Montreal seven or eight years later.

Eaton's earliest writing appeared in The Dominion Illustrated, The Montreal Daily Star and The Montreal Daily Witness. Both fiction and non-fiction, all show a great sensitivity toward the Chinese communities of Canada and the United States, as reflected in her modest memoir, "Leaves from the Mental Portfolio of an Eurasian", published in the Independent (21 January 1890):

I have come from a race on my mother’s side which is said to be the most stolid and insensible to feeling of all races, yet I look back over the years and see myself so keenly alive to every shade of sorrow and suffering that it is almost a pain to live.

Never a healthy woman, in her mid-thirties she left Quebec for more temperate California. The writer spent roughly a decade on the American west coast and lived briefly in Boston before returning to Montreal. A monument stands in her honour at Mount Royal Cemetery, in which D'Arcy McGee is also interred.

This year, a poem to the politician by Joliette's Louis-Thomas Groulx, written six days after the assassination.

Assasinat de l'honorable Thomas D'Arcy McGee — 7 avril 1868

O mon Dieu!… c'est horrible!… une assassine

A tranché le fil de ses jours….

Mais son âme set allée à ta bonté divine

Qui sourit aux martyrs – toujours.

Il meurt ennemi du désordre

Et de ces hommes vile qu'on nomme Feniens.

Prions pour ce martyr de l'Ordre,

Nous tous qu'il a servis, ô mes concitoyens.

Dieu veuille que son sang répandu par ses frères,

Ne tombe – encore tout chaud – sur leurs fils et sur eux.

Appraise, O doux Jésus, la haine et les colères

Qui vont semant le meurtre et font le deuil affreux.

Il ne reverra plus sa femme ni sa fille,

Ni son fils qu'il aimait d'un amour infini.

Tous vont pleurer, hélas! – Console la famille

Seigneur, et dis: enfants, votre père est béni.

La Nation prend soin de l'épouse chérie,

De la famille et du fils – tendre orphelin qui prie,

Il est pour chaque vie, une heure de douleur

Que je ne saurais pendre et qui bris le cœur.

Alors, heureux qui meurt: mais malheur à qui tue.

Des vivants et des morts, Dieu seul se constitue

Juge. Aussi, seul il a droit de vie et de mort

Sur tous. Caïn, – tuer d'Abel – en vain se tord.

De désespoir. Son crime est avec lui, sans cesse.

Et suivra, partout, soit qu'il coure ou bien cesse

D'Aller. Qu'il veille ou dorme, Abel agonisant

Sera, devant sa face, à toute heure, présent.

Caïn voudrait mourir de remords qui l'oppresse,

Mais son crime est si grand qu'il lui faudra longtemps

Encore, ouïr la voix douce mais vengeresse

Qui dit toujours: "Caïn, que te faisais-je, aux champs."

Il ne dormira plus le cruel fratricide;

Et le bon Dieu, pourtant, l'a pris sous son égide,

Disant: en quelque lieu qu'il aille – ce vilain –

Chacun reconnaîtra mon signe sur Caïn.

III

Que l'assassin se nome Eagleson ou White,

Ou de tout autre nom qu'on entend prononcer,

Son forfait odieux rend mon âme interdite,

Et c'est presque mourir, mon dieu! que d'y penser.

Le ciel saura punir une action si noire.

………………………………………………….

Maintenant que McGee a vu Dieu dans sa gloire,

Et que sa voix se mêle au séraphique chanr,

Regrette-t-il la terre où l'hommes est si méchant?

A quoi me servirait de biaiser ou de feindre?

La pauvre humanité, certes! est bien à plaindre

L'homme détruit, Dieu crée, et la gouffre béant

Dévore ce que Dieu fait sortir du Néant.

Qui sondera, Seigneur, ce mystère insondable?

Je vois, partout, l'énigme écrite par ton doigt.

Toujours, ce que tu fais me parait admirable

Ce que tu laisses faire est indigne de toi.

Tu ne réponds jamais, quand l'homme t'interroge

Pourquoi m'as-tu donné l'entendement, la voix

Et la cœur, si ce n'est pour faire ton éloge?

Mais le ferai-je…. après le meurtre que je vois?

Ou donc regardais-tu, quand fut ourdi ce crime?

Quand tombait, sous le coup, l'innocente victime?

Comment as-tu souffert – toi si juste et si bon –

Que D'Arcy fût atteint par balle de plomb?

Je ne veux pas, Seigneur, que mon âme murmure,

Mais je dis: ton enfant trouve cette morte dure!…

………………………………………………….

Merci. --Dieu parle enfin. Vici ce que j'entends:

"J'ai pris votre martyr." – Et le bourreau? – j'attends.

"L'ivraie est dans le blé, la rose a son épine,

"Je fais une Merveille avec une ruine.

"J'appelle à moi le bon et j'attends le méchant

"Mais que le juge humain sévisse et attendant.

"Que vos lois aient leur cours. Mais que votre sentence

"Ne fasse pas périr la timide innocence.

"Faites que la justice atteigne l'assassin.

"Ce qu'il doit, qu'il le paie à son fatal destin.

"Meurtrier, tue encor, tue encore et te hâte.

"Toi, martyr, souffre encore, souffre comme Socrate

"Sans te plaindre et pardonne. Ils viennent les temps dûis

"Ou ma faux abattra comme des épis mûrs

"Les hommes – cœurs pervers – qui font de la malice

"Et leur unique étude et leur plus cher délice.

"Je sais qui fait le mal, et sais qui fait le bien

"Je vois l'être maudit qui fait le Fenien.

"Il est tout près de moi; je le sens, je le touche

"Peu s'en faut que son nom ne sorte de ma bouche

"Et si je n'avais pas horreur de ce gueux-là,

"Mettant le pied dessus, je dirais – le voilà.

"On dirait que le peuple – aveugle volontaire –

"Ne voit pas le serpent, avec sa tête altière,

"Qui se plie et s'allonge, et se promène et va

"Jusqu'aux pieds de son Roi qu'il enlace déjà."

Quoi, donc, est le serpent? Est-ce le Royalisme,

Ou la démocratie, ou le saint-Simonisme,

Ou l'Athéisme encore? – Dis, seigneur, qu'est-ce enfin?

" – Aucun de ces mots-là ne convient au Matin.

"Vous le verrez bientôt. Son ardente prunelle

"Vous illumine avec sa brillante étincelle.

"Il s'en vient du Midi, sinon de l'Orient

"Qu'il souilla comme il veut souiller tout l'Occident.

"Si je n'étais pas là, quand paraîtra la Bête,

"Le combat serait court, et sûre le Défaite.

"Mais je veille sur vous et sur le Trône, aussi,

"Et garde auprès de moi mon fidèle D'Arcy."

Joliette, 13 avril 1868

Related posts:

A Poet's Angry Word With the Fenian Brotherhood

02 July 2013

Of Old Books and (possibly) Mummy Paper

Delightfully charming, unconventionally sentimental schoolgirl verse from Ethel Ursula Foran, whose "New Year's Day" has proven to be by far the most popular poem posted on this blog. Here a very young Miss Foran turns her attention towards favourite things material:

The dead, the embalmed, the mausoleumed... I'm certain that this is the first verse I've read to feature the word "sarcophagi".

You chat and live with dead men of thought
As you sit and pursue the words they wrought.
They are peaceful companions that never betray,
Nor dispute, nor quarrel, for silent are they.

'Tis lovely, though one cannot escape the sad thought that Miss Foran is herself now a peaceful companion.

What I find most intriguing comes in the poet likening aging books to "Egyptian mummies of old." Might this be a clever allusion to the oft-repeated myth – or is it? – that linen wrappings of mummies were used by nineteenth-century New England papermakers?

I suppose we'll never know.

Never mind.

As we nurse our respective Dominion Day hangovers, I present the six oldest Canadian books in my collection.

The Poems of Thomas D'Arcy McGee

Thomas D'Arcy McGee

Montreal: D. & J. Sadlier, 1870

Purchased four years ago – US$8.00 – at an antique store in Point Pleasant, New Jersey. At my aunt's 88th birthday dinner the previous evening I'd bragged that only one Canadian politician had ever been assassinated: McGee. I am a joy at parties. No invitations declined.

Endymion

The Right Hon. Earl of Beaconsfield

Montreal: Dawson Brothers, 1880

Not by a Canadian, but it was published in Canada, I picked up Endymion three years ago for $1.99 at our local Salvation Army Thrift Store. The Dawson Brothers – Samuel and William – were once Montreal's preeminent publishers and booksellers; I came along a century later. A bookish lad raised in the oldish suburb of Beaconsfield, I knew Benjamin Disraeli's name before those of Messrs Wilson and Heath.

Tecumseh: A Drama

Charles Mair

Toronto: Hunter, Rose, 1883

A first edition of the Confederation Poet's epic about the great man, this was a gift from a friend who had rescued it from a box of rejected donations to the McGill Library Book Sale. Most generous, I think you'll agree.

A Popular History of the Dominion of Canada

Rev. William H. Withrow, D.D. F.R.S.C.

Toronto: William Briggs, 1885

How popular? Well, my copy ranks amongst the sixth thousand. Purchased in 2000 for forty dollars – I paid too much. Though I've never taken so much as a glance beyond the title page, I'll bet that it's a more interesting work than Neville Trueman: Pioneer Preacher, Rev Withrow's preachy War of 1812 novel.

The Other Side of the "Story"

[John King]

Toronto: James Murray, 1886

A new acquisition, found just last week at a bookstall in London, Ontario. Storm clouds were gathering. In his "INTRODUCTORY", Mr King describes this publication as a "brochure", but at 150 bound pages I'm going to say it's a book. I've not yet had a chance to properly investigate its contents, so know only that it is a critique of John Charles Dent's The Story of the Upper Canadian Rebellion (Toronto: C. Blackett Robinson, 1885). Price: 50¢.

Sam Slick, The Clockmaker

Thomas Chandler Haliburton

New York: John B. Alden, 1887

Purchased thirteen years ago for US$8.00 from a Yankee bookseller, this is surely the skinniest edition of the CanLit classic. Thin, pulpy and grey/brown in colour, the paper is typical of the publish and crumble era. I can write, with great certainty, that no mummies were destroyed in it's making.

07 April 2013

'IN MEMORIAM! The Hon. T.D. McGee'

IN MEMORIAM!

The Hon. T.D. McGee

Dedicated to his sorrowing Widow

"Cum lugeate, lugebo."

Dead! – and by a death terrific! –
Erin, hear it! – Can it be,
The young spirit so prolific
Beats no more in great McGee?
  Dies irae! – break it gently
Oh! let pleasure hold her breath!
For 'tis true that tongue so mighty
Now lies cold in silent death!

Breathe his name in muffled numbers!
Gather, nations, round his brier!
Gaze upon him as he slumbers,
Starting pity's choicest tear!
Nature seems to've caught the spirit
Of his sad, yet noble fall,
And, through sympathy for merit,
Drops to-day her virgin pall.

Envy may spit all her rancour –
Strike at honesty her best –
She but does her body honour,
While she sends his soul to rest.
  Patriot, orator,and statesman
Of unsullied purity;
With such pow'rs were interwoven
Fairest flow'rs of poetry.

But no longer chained in wonder
Shall admiring throngs rejoice,
Or give back applause in thunder
To the magic of his voice!
  Hope, though like a paraphelion,
Cheers us in our awful gloom:
For 'tis sweet to know Religion
Smoothed his pathway to the tomb.

Noblest forms must soon or layer,
Mingle with their kindred dust,
While their spirits rise to brighter
Regions of the happy just.
Spirits! bear his soul to heaven!
And, what's left, – a glorious name! –
Be it reverently given
To be canonized by fame!

Ah! but who can consolation.
To his orphans now impart!
Or can sooth in dereliction
His poor widow's breaking heart!
Let us breathe a De profundis,
That a bright eternity
May receive the spirit of his
Own originality!

  – P.J. Buckley
Grand Seminary
Montreal, 8th April 1868

Assassinated 145 years ago today.

RIP

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