AST year Alexander McLachlan,

LA

well known during the past twentyfive years throughout the Dominion as the Canadian Poet, passed away somewhat suddenly from the scene of his labours.

For a number of years Mr. McLachlan had lived, in almost unbroken retirement, on his farm in Amaranth, a few miles from Orangeville. Many of the friends of his more ambitious years had passed away, and he was left alone with the memories of his past friendships and buried friends, who in those years were among the bravest and best of the land. Among them were George Brown, D'Arcy McGee, Mrs. Moodie, and many others, who have years ago gone to their reward. So that amide hanging scenes and new methods and new interests, but most of all new men, the aged poet found himself if not to some extent forgotten, at least very much out of place in the new order of things. But now that he has finished his labours and left us his best, by no means a poor legacy, an approximate estimate of his contribution to Canadian literature is certainly not out of place, is indeed due to one whom fortune treated rather niggardly during his life.

-McLachlan.

the public was much less than the professed admiration which had for some years a periodical but unfruitful outbreak; and that in his old age the work to which he had devoted his life brought him little or nothing in return. Except in his cherished independence, his farm was equally unfruitful, and it alone stood between him and absolute want. When his son, who managed this, died some three years ago, even the frugality and self-denial which had been gained in the rough school of experience could not at the price of purchased labour make the struggle worth continuing. So the poet gave up his country home and his cherished rural haunts, where he and Yarrow were wont to take their evening stroll together, and moved into town, where, in a few weeks, the curtain fell on the last scene. The now prophetic words of his last written poem found an ample and speedy fulfilment :

But a' our strolling days are dune,
Ne'er to return, and very sune
The turf shall cleed us baith.

Mr. McLachlan has been called "the Canadian Poet," and it is certain it was a distinction which he desired to retain, and one in which he took considerable pride. Why he should receive or covet this title is not very clear, except that at the time when he was at his best

It is safe to say here, whatever be the merits of McLachlan's work, the substantial return for what he gave to

there was no other Canadian writer of verse, of more than average ability, besides himself and Sangster. McCall, "the bard of Loch Tyne," was not an aspirant for the title, and, therefore, by general consent, whatever honour or distinction there be in the name fell to McLachlan, though his songs of the Dominion are not by any means his best work, nor Canada nor Canadian scenes the true source of his inspiration. So far as phraseology, tone and colour are concerned, no careful reader can fail to see that he has carried the inspiration and moral texture of much of his best poetry across the ocean from his Scottish home; and when he sings of Canadian subjects it is the men and women, the thinkings and doings, and the moral atmosphere of some Old World scene that have been unconsciously transferred across the sea, and set up with a Canadian bush for a background, or a little clearance, as a frame for the picture. This is shown in one of his first poems published in Canada, "Dr. Burns Preaching in the Scotch Block." Here were to be seen :

Shepherds from the vale of Ettrick
In the tartan of their tribe.

And the literature by which the moral and intellectual natures of this Covenanters' Conventicle transferred to the wilds of Canada had been nurtured was, "The Bible, Scott's Worthies, John Bunyan, and Burns." In fact, all but the stage scenery of Canadian backwoods is pre-eminently Scottish, of the days of Walter Scott. And it is the moral aspect of the scene rather than the Canadian setting that yields the inspiration. Indeed, in the nature of the case, this inspiration must have been of the Old World rather than of Canada. Even to-day the texture of our thoughts is woven and moulded almost wholly on trans-Atlantic models. Canada has not as yet a language of tradition or history made classic by the records enshrined therein. It no doubt is a fact that the groundwork of the richest poetic thought is abundantly present in Canadian scenery, Canadian history, and Canadian social and moral

conditions, but it has not yet been translated into story or song having any special Canadian individuality. Even native-born Canadians still think in the language, and build from the pictures of Scott, Burns, Tennyson and Shakespere. McLachlan was still more limited to these sources for his inspiration than are the writers of today. But notwithstanding late efforts in the way of building up a literature distinctively Canadian, it must be many years before we shall be able to dispense with the great fountains of inspiration of the Motherland.

It is, perhaps, contrary to the generally received opinion to say that McLachlan is not great in description. Pathos is in him a stronger element; but Canadian poetry, as such, must rest largely and depend much on descriptive power. The Canadian poet has little else than natural scenery wherewith to build. Canada is not old enough to have any rich background of legend or tradition, and moral heroes are the same everywhere. At least, Canadian heroes have no distinctive features to embellish a literature purely Canadian. McLachlan, then, in assuming the title Canadian Poet, adopted a most difficult character to sustain with credit. It has been said over and over again that the United States has no purely American poet except Walt Whitman, that Lowell, Bryan and Longfellow have moulded their work after Old World thinking, Old World forms and Old World phraseology. If this be true of American poets and poetry generally, how very difficult a task it must be to produce anything very creditable of a purely Canadian type. If Canadian poetry means that the writer lives and writes in Canada, then it means nothing; but if it means that the writer must confine himself to subjects wholly and purely Canadian, then the Canadian poet has yet to be born. At least it is safe to say his song is still unsung.

But even if, as we believe, the title Canadian Poet was not wisely taken nor well sustained, McLachlan is not without his own particular claim to high distinction as a writer of verse. No

other Canadian writer has so great an introspective power. The analysis of human longings and human desires, and the clear setting forth of the great problems of life, death and immortality, finds nowhere, in Canada at least, so able an exponent. All nature is to him a great scroll written within and without, with infinite and ever recurring questions which appeal to him everywhere and under all circumstances. This, we believe, is the most marked feature of our author's work, and that into which he has put most of his own personality.

Here is a statement of the case, as it appeared in his first volume some thirty-five years ago:

And again in "Who Knows?":

I ponder'd long on this weary life,
And I cried, "Are we what we seem;
Or sail we here in a phantom ship,
In search of a vanished dream?
From deep to deep, from doubt to doubt,
While the night still deeper grows;
Who knows the meaning of this life?"
When a voice replied, "Who knows?"

I prayed for light through that weary night,
And I question'd saint and seer;
But the demon Doubt put all to rout,
And kept ringing in mine ear:
"Your life's a trance and a spectral dance,
And round and round ye go;

Ye are poor ghosts all at a spectral ball,
And that is the most ye know.'

And yet again in "The Rain it Falls ":

The years they come and they hurry on,
Ah, just as they did in the days agone!
And bear us back to the vast unknown.

For the rain may fall and the wind may blow, And the generations come and go,

But the why and the wherefore none may know.

And just as this half melancholy introspection is one of the strong features of McLachlan's poetry, it furnishes him with that power of soul analysis which crops out everywhere in his character sketches. One of his best things in this line is his estimate of "David, King of Israel," which is the title of the poem from which we select the following stanzas as a fair example of this kind of work:

Come and look upon this picture,
Thoughtfully those features scan,
There he sits, the bard of Scripture,
Not an angel, but a man.

In his hand, the harp that often Thrilled the shepherd in the glen, And has now supreme dominion O'er the hearts and souls of men.

That same harp which charmed the demon
In the darkened soul of Saul;
And has soothed the troubled spirit
In the bosoms of us all.

'Tis a face that, somehow, tells us
God has made us all the same,
Of one blood, and heart and nature,
Differing but in creed and name.

All that has been done or suffer'd,
All that has been thought or said,
Israel's strength, and Israel's weakness,
Summed up in that lordly head.

'Tis a face supremely human,

Brother to us, every one,

For he oft has sinned and sorrowed,
Just as you and I have done.

Space will not admit of any more extended quotation, but the reader must feel that this is very genuine work, into which the author has put his best heart's blood, never bearing with it the suspicion that it had been got up to order.

"The

In pure pathos, also, we think McLachlan stands without a rival among Canadian writers. There is nothing in Canadian verse more touching than the story of "Old Hannah." Death of the Ox" has been frequently quoted as a humble subject dignified by the true and deep feeling which the author throws around it. "The Old Settler's Address to his Log-house might also be given as an example of this power of elevating the simplest subjects to positions of interest and dignity.

It is, perhaps, too early to form a correct opinion of McLachlan's place as a poet among the writers of his own day. This much, however, may be freely admitted, as being no more than just to him whose voice and pen are now forever still, viz., that no Canadian writer appeals more strongly and directly to the common sympathies, longings and aspirations of humanity. And no other has written so much in which only what is true, beautiful and good is held up for our admiration and approval.

Fifty-six years ago Mr. McLachlan emigrated from his native town of Johnston, in Ayrshire, and settled in the Township of Caledon, County of Peel, Ontario, where he had ample opportunity of becoming acquainted with such phases of early pioneer life as have found expression in his works. Here, too, he was married to a cousin of his own, who still survives him, and who has been his faithful and ever-ready helpmeet in his long and somewhat unequal struggle with fortune. Ten children were born of the marriage, five sons and five daughters. All the daugh

ters are still living, but three of the sons have preceded their father to the grave.

Mr. McLachlan has published in all three volumes of poems, one in the early fifties, one in 1861, and another in 1874. And at the time of his death he had a fourth volume ready for the press. It will be evident, therefore, that our author had enough faith in his mission to devote his whole life unreservedly to his work, without once looking back; and he gave us at least his best and his all. The advantage to himself was certainly very little. But we, as of old, still slay the prophets, and our children build their sepulchres. McLachlan's faith in his countrymen justified more generous treatment. He needed bread and they gave him a stone. He believed that he who ministers to the needs of the human soul should live by the fruits of his labours, but the souls neither heeded nor needed the wares he brought into the intellectual market-place, and left the merchantman to perish of hunger, with his wares lying unsold on the bookshelves. Had he been possessed of more business tact, and less faith in humanity, we might have had less poetry, but he an easier and less anxious journey to provide for. But the shadows and cares have all passed away. He is now fully provided for. Old Mother Nature has made the same bountiful provision for him that she does for her wisest and wealthiest children. He shall not hunger nor thirst any more. And from the mystery and uncertainty of all earthly things, the darkness, for him, shall have passed into the brightness of perfect day.

In closing this brief sketch the writer can truly say that in an acquaintance of forty years, only that which was noble, generous and forgiving ever came to the surface, throughout this long and uninterrupted friendship, and if the good and the true have their reward, we know that "after life's fitful fever he sleeps well."

Donald McCaig.