I
would write a sermon on this text.
Here the external
acts of life communicate with the subtle and divine mind;
the link so delicate, so secret, becomes for a moment
visible. Into terms of spirit we translate the motions
of reality or service, and are aware of the complex reaction
of the soul upon itself. The promptings to kindness result
in a greater humanity, to abstinence in a more sublime
self-control. And who shall measure the effect, or set
a bound to the force of the objective value of service?
The washing the disciples’ feet, the acts of tenderness
and mercy start at once a thousand roots of peace and
promise in the heart. By these present virtues we communicate
with the millennium; we are part of that circle of goodness
and beauty which shall widen out into eternity. By this
service we are linked to the past, and its throes are
triumphant in us. So between the two abysses we stand
conservators of the past, pioneers of the future. But
we are most of all pioneers, the function of our service
is one for progress, for advance; by these acts of humanity
and usefulness we increase the store of the beauty and
goodness of the race. No individual excellence was ever
lost; to-day we are protected by the valor of one of our
ancestors, who stood in the breach of the wall and would
not let the enemy pass. And will we not by our present
self-control make the task of life easier for some one
who is to come after us. Beauty is not a term of form
alone, it is the secret and ever-present essence of the
spirit of absolute truth, of supreme goodness, so that
each service, each stroke of kindness, each expression
of geniality is one more beauty.
S.
Hitherto
English literature in Canada has been cultivated by
so scanty a population, scattered at great distances
over so vast a country, that it has not been a matter
of any great public interest whether our native writers
produced good work or bad. Consequently anything like
an efficient critical press has been out of the question.
Certainly those occasional writers in the daily papers,
who greet every new production of whatever merit or
demerit with the same ridiculous praises decked out
in the same fulsome and meaningless phraseology, have
the least claim possible to be considered critics. Of
late years we have had to depend solely upon The Week,
and it may be observed here that, considering the difficulties
with which the publisher of that journal has been obliged
to contend, it is surprising that he has been bale to
supply its pages with so much really excellent matter.
It will probably be a generation or so before the study
of literature will become a matter of daily intent and
solicitude to so large a body of our people that it
will be necessary to adjust the claim of each new publication
according to a rigorous scale; but even now much benefit
might be done to our growing literary movement by the
establishment on a solid financial basis of a really
good literary magazine, including a department of criticism
conducted in a spirit of serious appreciation and uncompromising
candor. There could be no sounder stimulus to the young
talent of Canada than the knowledge that its work would
be seriously examined and honestly ranked by competent
authority, instead of meeting either with the inert
neglect or the spasmodic and senseless eulogy which
are its lot to-day. But in the meantime, in the absence
of any such acknowledged authority within our own country,
let each one of us be the more careful to exercise the
severest self-criticism. Let the young writer not fall
into the mistake of imagining that, because he appears
to be a little better than his more deplorable neighbors,
his work is therefore satisfactory. Let him remember
that he must “scorn delights and live laborious
days,” that he must apply himself to intense study,
to unremitting observation, to perpetual practice, if
he would win fame that is worth the having. There is
only one standard for all the world. Let us ascertain
what that is, and direct our labors solely with reference
to it. Nothing less will do.
L.
Yes; he borrowed
the book. I had rather it were put that way than to
have it said I lent it to him. He was a professional
book borrower and so I have only myself to thank for
it. I knew it by his pose and by the peculiar, innocent
wheedling of his tone of voice. It was years ago, but
I remember it all as if it were day before yesterday.
He was leaning against the bookshelves with his hat
and gloves in his hand. I knew he was going and I felt
glad; but the admission of this feeling was my ruin.
I suppose by the subtle spirit that is in these fellows
he must have known that his moment had arrived, for
he said, “Oh, by the way, I’d just like
to take this Boccaccio, I won’t keep it long.”
“Oh certainly,” I said, “take it with
you.” My heart quaked as I heard the words, but
he went off very speedily, trying to stuff the book
into his pocket although it was much too large. I never
saw it again. Many times I asked for it but the devil
always put a good excuse into his mouth. Very often
he met me on the street and said: “By the way
I have a Boccaccio of yours; haven’t I?”
Twice he wrote me a note about it. One of these notes
was characteristic. He said that last night (it was
years ago) he had just put that Boccaccio of mine aside
to bring it over when the fire department turned up
at his house and insisted on laying the hose; they broke
a window and deluged the place with water and his natural
indignation at their conduct, for there was no fire
anywhere in his house, his family being in the country
and he having meals at the club, made him forget all
about the book. He moved several times and each time
further away, and at last he left the city altogether
and took my Boccaccio with him.
Strange! I
have just taken up the evening paper. I see that wretched
fellow has been sent to Baghdad to inquire into the
state of the coffee trade in Turkey and Arabia. Good-bye,
Boccaccio.
Stranger still!
The postman has just left a parcel, and it was my long
lost copy of Boccaccio. But how changed, how altered
with the flux of time. Three of the plates have disappeared;
a child has drawn a house on the red cover with a blue
pencil; his wife must have got hold of the book, for
she is a very pious person, and many of the leaves are
gone, or has he saved these and taken them to Baghdad
with him? The book is a wreck. I wish I could forget
what it once was. Is it any consolation to be told,
under these circumstances, that I will be the first
person to get a sack of real Mocha direct from Arabia
via the C.P.R.? Is it likely that a man who could not
send back my book will remember me in Arabia, especially
when he has returned the Boccaccio and has nothing left
to remember me by?
S.
Many
Canadians were deeply affected by the news recently
received of the death of Mr. Joseph Edmund Collins at
New York. The New York Critic referred to him as a man
“of strong individuality and considerable ability.”
As a journalistic statement, cold and brief, this was
accurate enough. Mr. Collins was a man whose personality
will always be vividly remembered by every one who was
brought into contact with him, and I think that his
ability might be regarded as potentially more than considerable.
He was an instance of how in a raw and uncultured society
like ours a great deal of genuine original talent may
be dissipated and wasted through the pressure of sordid
conditions, and the absence of bracing, intellectual
influences. In Mr. Collins there was a genuine streak
of genius. He had an exceedingly rare faculty of appreciation
as regards the true and the good in literature, and
especially in poetry. He was one of the only two or
three good readers of verse whom I have ever met with.
His genuine delight in fine literary work, and his boundless
enthusiasm for it were a source of refreshment and help
to all who were much in his company. The fact that Mr.
Collins never attained real excellence in his own efforts
of the pen was no doubt owing to the circumstances of
his early life, the utter want of proper education and
discipline, his long journalistic experience which was
deadly to the literary gift, the society into which
he was thrown, and the perpetual struggle he was obliged
to maintain for self-support. All these causes have
no doubt been the ruin of many another goodly talent
in Canada.
There are
two or three—perhaps more—young writers,
whose names are now well known in the Dominion, who
remember Collins with an especial feeling of tenderness,
gratitude, and almost of reverence. To his helpful enthusiasm,
his kindly praise, his eager excitement, they owe the
courage and self-confidence which enabled them to take
the first daring step in the difficult and unpromising
path of literature. Collins was almost the literary
father of some of the young men who are now winning
fame among us. There are only a few people who know
what Joseph Edmund Collins has done in this way for
our literature, and perhaps all that he has done will
never be known. The few who were his nearest friends—and
one of the nearest was myself—will always tenderly
remember his passionate constancy of friendship, his
prodigal generosity, his contagious humor, his gift
of story-telling and all the strange whims of his emphatic
personality.
L.
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