Joseph Quesnel and Gold Pan City

Joseph Quesnel died 200 years ago today. I expect the anniversary will pass unnoticed by the remnants of our daily newspapers. In the late 18th and early 19th centuries, Quesnel was the most accomplished dramatist and poet living and working in the Canadas. A businessman and militia officer, his life in the arts has been traced back to 1780, when he performed with several amateur theatrical companies. Nine years later Quesnel formed the Théâtre de Société, a venture he was forced to defend against attacks from the Church and the Gazette. His Colas et Collinette; ou le Bailli dupé debuted in 1790 as the first operetta written in North America. Other theatrical works followed, but it is his poetry that most deserves notice.

Little attention is paid to Quesnel these days, yet his name lives on, spread throughout British Columbia's Caribou District. The Quesnel Highland, the Quesnel River, Quesnel Lake, Quesnel Indian Reserve and, of course, the City of Quesnel, owe their names to son Jules-Maurice, who in 1808 explored the area with Simon Fraser.

Charles G.D. Roberts' Dominion Day Collect

Admirable sentiments from Confederation Poet Charles G.D. Roberts. Written in the early months of 1885, it was first published in the July 1886 issue of New York's The Century magazine. The above was drawn from Roberts' collection In Divers Tones (Boston: Lothrop, 1886).

Related post:

Two Hurrahs for the New Dominion

Galt's Damaged Pastor Novelist

92 Glenmorris Street, Cambridge, Ontario, home of Robert E. Knowles

I spent much of this past Father's Day in Cambridge, that awkward, factitious product of forced amalgamation. It's a city without a centre, dominated by a strip of parasitic plazas, malls and big box retailers. Still, the older areas have retained much of their beauty. The gem remains the weakened downtown of what was once Galt. Margaret Avison was born here and, as a girl, Mazo de la Roche called it home.

One hundred years ago, Galt's literary community was dominated by Robert E. Knowles, novelist and very popular pastor of Knox's Presbyterian Church. It's said that for a time Knowles' Canadian sales rivaled those of L. M. Montgomery and Ralph Connor. Between 1905 and 1911 the reverend published seven novels, including The Handicap (1910), which I have before me. I confess that I've never made it past the first page:

"An' how far might it be to Liddel's Corners now, boss?"

The man who asked the question seemed very much in earnest about it and his tone. which, by the way, was distinctly Irish, implied that considerable hung upon the answer.

As one sets down the commonplace inquiry after the long lapse of years it certainly sounds insignificant enough. But it was quite a different matter to the rosy-cheeked traveller that frosty winter morning as the heavily-laden stage made its creaking way along the primitive road that led from Hamilton to Glen Ridge.

Nor did the question seem a trifling one to the other occupants of the four-seated sleigh, if quick and eager glances in the direction of the driver may be considered evidences of interest. As a matter of fact, some of them stirred a little in their seats as...

Yes, yes, yes, but how far to Liddel's Corners?

(The answer – nine miles – comes at the end of the third page.)

Thumbing through The Handicap, I see that I may have been too ready to dismiss. 'The Canadian atmosphere gives it a touch of the unusual', says an anonymous 1911 New York Times review, but I see signs of even greater quirkiness.

In the novel's concluding chapters, 'The Right Hon., The Premier' and 'Sir John A.'s Handiwork', none other than John A. Macdonald shows up to save the day.

After The Handicap Knowles wrote only one more novel, The Singer of the Kootenay. Jean O'Grady, who penned Knowles' entry in The Oxford Companion to Canadian Literature, suggests that alcoholism brought an end to his careers as a novelist and as a minister of the cloth. Not at all fitting for a man who'd previously devoted much energy to the goals of the temperance movement. Knowles spent his later years working as a journalist for the Toronto Daily Star.

Cambridge has honoured Knowles with a spot in its 'Hall of Fame', making much of his work against that old demon alcohol, while carefully avoiding mention of his personal struggles with drink.

The city's large public library system doesn't have a single one of his books.

A Song for la Fête de la St-Jean

A translation of 'Ô Canada! mon pays! mes amours!', composed by the great George-Étienne Cartier, ninth president of the Société Saint-Jean-Baptiste. First sung at a society banquet on la Fête de la St-Jean in 1834 or 1835, this version comes from Songs of French Canada (Toronto: Musson, 1909), selected and arranged by Lawrence J. Burpee. Cartier's words were translated by E. W. Thomson.

Always amusing to consider that Cartier, by far the most accomplished president of the now sovereignist Société, was one of the leading Fathers of Confederation.

Related post: Encore!

(Probably Not) The David Lewis Centenary

Youngsters David Lewis and A. M. Klein

Recognition today of David Lewis, né Losz, born sometime around one hundred years ago in Svisloch, Russia. The Canadian Encyclopedia has Lewis' date of birth as 23 June 1909, but family biographer Cameron Smith tells us that the happy event likely took place a little over three months later. In his Unfinished Journey: The Lewis Family, Smith writes that 23 June was 'the first date that popped into David's twelve-year-old head' when confronted by a Halifax immigration officer. The Parliament of Canada website provides the same date, without comment, and muddies the water by placing Svisloch in Poland. In fact, the town has been Russian since 1795.

While Lewis isn't thought of as literary figure, he did count a number of writers among his friends. A. M. Klein was a pal from his days at Montreal's Baron Byng High School. Lewis' first book, Make this Your Canada, was co-authored by F. R. Scott. There followed another couple of titles: A Socialist Takes Stock and Louder Voices – the latter introducing the term 'corporate welfare bums', for which he is, perhaps, best remembered. Lewis was working on his biography when he died. What he did manage was published posthumously as The Good Fight: Political Memoirs 1909-1958.

Maria Monk's Immortal Book

Awful Disclosures of Maria Monk;

or, The Hidden Secrets of a Nun's Life Exposed!

Manchester: Milner & Co., n.d.

192 pages

This review now appears, revised and rewritten, in my new book:

The Dusty Bookcase:

A Journey Through Canada's

Forgotten, Neglected, and Suppressed Writing

Available at the very best bookstores and through

Biblioasis, Amazon, Chapters/Indigo, and McNally-Robinson.

Related posts:

Pornography of the Puritan

Maria Monk and the Kennedy Campaign

Words of Hate for Maria Monk

A Garneau Bicentenary

Not many of our writers have been honoured with a statue, and the finest by far is that of François-Xavier Garneau, born 200 years ago today in Quebec City. Poet, journalist, translator, notary, civil servant and bank clerk, he is best-remembered for the multi-volume Histoire du Canada depuis sa découverte jusqu'à nos jours (1845-48). The work established Garneau as French Canada's historien national and continues to influence. Not so his verse, written under the influence of French classicism. In this case, too, reading rewards the reader.

And so, with summer approaching, some sentiments on a season long past.

L'HIVER

Voila l'été qui fuit et la feuille qui tombe

Pâle et morte sur les gazons.

Le vent du nord mugit, la fleur des champs succombe,

L'écho se tait dans les vallons.

Déjà les bois ont perdu leur feuillage;

Vers la chaumière accourent les troupeaux,

Car ils ont vu l'hiver sur les nuages,

Et le grésil bondir sur les côteaux.

Adieu, charmants oiseaux, habitants des bocages,

Allez vers de plus doux climats.

Puissé-je comme vous fuir le temps des orages,

Et de l'été suivre les pas!...

Mais ils sont loin, — leur suave murmure

A déserté les hameaux de nos bords;

Seul l'autan mêle au deuil de la nature

Dans nos vallons de sauvages accords.

Là-bas, à l'horizon, connue un fantôme immense

L'hiver semble couvrir les cieux;

Le vent devant son front roule avec violence

Les flots épars de ses cheveux;

De longs glaçons pendent à ses paupières;

Dans les airs bat sa robe de frimas;

Le jour pâlit sous ses regards sévères,

Et la tempête enveloppe ses pas.

Sonne, lyre fidèle, à mon âme isolée,

Chante le deuil de nos climats.

Vois de l'orme orgueilleux la tête mutilée

Qui se penche sous les verglas.

Dans l'air glacé, d'un vol lent et sinistre,

Le hibou blanc erre de toits en toits,

Et, de l'hiver officieux ministre.

Il remplit l'air de sa funèbre voix.

Les flots ont disparu; partout la terre blanche

Entoure les sombres forêts;

Du sapin, vers le sol, bas s'incline la branche

Que chargent des frimas épais.

Là, la fumée en rapides nuages

S'élève et fuit au-dessus des hameaux.

Tandis qu'ici de pesants attelages

A petits pas font gémir les côteaux.

Dans le fourneau de fonte, au sein de la chaumière,

Bourdonne l'érable des monts;

Les airs sont obscurcis par la neige légère

Qui glisse et monte en tourbillons;

Et le toit crie, et puis dans la fenêtre

Le grésil vient sans cesse pétiller...

Mais le vent tombe, et sur le toit champêtre

L'astre des nuits se lève et va briller.

En quel autre climat la reine du silence

Montre-t-elle plus de splendeur ?

Que j'aime, ô Canada, la nuit, ta plaine immense

Resplendissante de blancheur!

L'étoile aussi semble embi-aser les ondes;

Comme un géant, l'arbre est seul dans les champs;

Non... pas un bruit dans les forêts profondes;

Le calme est vaste et les cieux rayonnants.

Et peut-être, pourtant, dans cette nuit si belle,

Un voyageur las et glacé.

Égaré sur sa route, et s'arrête et chancelle:

À ses yeux tout semble effacé.

Un doux sommeil, trahissant sa faiblesse,

Vient s'emparer lentement de ses sens,

Sommeil fatal dont la perfide ivresse

Dans le plaisir rompt le fil de ses ans.