of Quebec, a more beautiful spot than which there is not to be found
along the whole range of the Laurentian hills. It is a distance by road
of twelve miles from the capital, eight of which can be covered by
rail. Harper's real sense of freedom began when, after a day's work in
town, that eight miles of travelling was at an end, and the chance came
for a four mile walk across fields, through the woods and along the
country roads, or for a ride upon his wheel or by stage. Then came the
evenings with their glorious sunsets, and the walks and talks in the
twilight, and then night with its unbroken panoply of star-lit sky.
It is, perhaps, impossible to convey, save to those who have known the
experience, any conception of what a constant association of this kind
with Nature really means. It proves, to use Harper's own words, "how
beauty, grandeur, sublimity and purity in God's world, find a ready
response in the human heart unfettered." Yet it is this perception of
God, this communion of soul between the creature and the Creator as He
is revealed in Nature, that is the conscious or unconscious secret of
all the refreshment and joy which comes from a contact of this kind.
Some natures are more susceptible to this kind of revelation than
others. Harper's nature was one that could share and did share it to
the full.
A few paragraphs from his diary may serve to show how real was the
"response" of which he spoke between the world of nature and his
own heart, and how sweetly sensitive to even the most delicate of
impressions, his soul became when under this favouring influence.
Having climbed one Sunday morning to the top of the mountain at
Kingsmere, to find after a hard week's work that rest which is the
truest reward of toil, he gave himself up for a little to recording
some of the enjoyments of the place and the hour. He writes:
"Here I am having church all by myself in this majestically
beautiful spot. It was a hot climb, for it is a sweltering
morning, but I am amply repaid. I had a five minutes'
conversation with a red squirrel on the way up the mountain. He
was a little nervous at first, but became reassured, climbed down
the tree trunk until he was ten feet from me, and looked me in
the face steadily as I prattled away to him. The little fellow
felt like myself, he could not imagine vicious intentions in such
a place. A delightful breeze is making music in the tree-tops,
a bird with a clear yet sympathetic note, I can't describe the
note, and I don't know the name of the bird, is leading in a
medley of wood sounds infinitely refreshing after a hard week's
work.
"The thought of the past week has caused me to look up for a
moment to take another glance at the capital, which stands out
clearly in the bright sunshine, though the lines of the buildings
are softened by a blue white summer haze, sufficiently marked to
give the effect of distance. If men could only get to a mountain
occasionally and look down upon the world in which they live and
move and have their being, there would be less dilettantism, less
worship of forms, institutions, baubles and lath and plaster.
The foot-hills, when last I saw them from here, were rich in
the full colour of maturity. To-day they are strong in the deep
refreshing green of youth. They are happy. Everything about me is
happy, and I thank God for it all."
Recording the events of a day on a short trip taken in the spring of
the year to the city of Quebec and points of interest in that vicinity,
he writes:
"This day was easily the best of our trip. In a few minutes we
were away from civilization, and started our climb, with the
assistance of two locomotives, up the mountains. At every turn
some new beauty burst upon us. First, it was a cloud capped range
of hills, then a quaint whitewashed village, then a laughing
mountain stream, then a tree-encircled, hill-girt lake, then a
rushing river, then a quiet wood, then a deep shadowy valley,
then a burst of sun on the new-leafed trees, until one felt
one's self getting away forever from the pettiness of the world.
Shortly after midday we swung across the bridge at Grand' Mère,
and had a capital view of the falls which have been turned to
practical use by the Laurentide Pulp Company, and, about three
o'clock, arrived at Shawenegan Falls, our objective point. We
lunched at the Cascade Inn, a picturesque summer hotel on a
hilltop, and, guided by a staff of engineers, visited the works
of the Shawenegan Falls Power Company which I found extremely
interesting. All this was as nothing, however, compared with
the marvellous scene which burst upon us when we turned a spur
of the hill and came out at the foot of the roaring, raging
cataract. Down a steep, narrow, boulder-strewn gorge, rushed the
mighty river, struggling, tumbling, roaring, throwing itself
into the air, and shooting forward in huge mountains of surging
foam or clouds of sunlit spray. I could feel my breast heave in
sympathy with the great struggle that was going forward, and my
whole being kindle with the beauty and power of it all. Nowhere
have I seen anything that can rival that magnificent spectacle.
My nature seemed touched to its depths, and I found myself in
immediate sympathy with the Indians who saw in these prodigious
efforts of Nature, in the presence of which man's littleness is
so apparent, the manifestations of the work of the Great Spirit.
As we wound our way through the mountains one had a feeling that,
once stripped of its forest wealth, this district would be a
lonely wilderness so far as practical utility was concerned. As I
gazed into the raging torrent, I felt that it was worth a whole
province of desolation to have that grand, sublime, soul purging
sight. After gazing long and earnestly into the mighty maelstrom,
I raised my eyes to the tree clad mountains around, rich in the
fresh foliage of spring, and furrowed with deep shadowy glens.
I felt that the world was indeed grand, beautiful, that no man
could stand where I stood without feeling that he had a soul.
"And as our train wound its way homeward towards a sublimely
beautiful sunset, behind the glorious tumbled-together hills, the
scene of loveliness was set in my mind and in my heart in deep
rich tints of crimson and gold. That day was one of the happiest
in my life. I cannot attempt to describe what I saw in words. All
I can do is to record something of the impression. It was soul
stirring."
Later in the year Harper visited the Maritime Provinces with members of
the Canadian Press Association on their annual excursion. His account
of the trip contains much that is full of interest, and something in
the way of recorded observation which might surprise those who had had
the same opportunities, or had visited simultaneously these places and
participated in the same events. Two brief paragraphs may suffice to
further illustrate how he was wont to be influenced by scenes of great
natural beauty, and in what regard, relative to other things, he was
accustomed to hold them. Speaking of the Montmorency Falls he says:
"At the Montmorency Falls we spent a very happy hour. We decided
to scramble up the cliff side, instead of taking the steps. At
the top we had a splendid view of the falls which impressed me
differently from any I had seen. The volume of the river is
not great, but it descends from a giddy height, throwing out a
great cloud of white spray, peaceful and beautiful. To me the
message it conveyed was of chastity and purity, like a beautiful,
faithful woman, who had gone through the world to a white age,
unspotted and unstained. The great semicircular basin beneath
seemed wrought by Nature to give full effect to the beautiful
work of the Creator."
And referring to the evening of the same day, after returning to
Quebec, he says:
"After dinner ---- and I gave up a trip to a summer theatre for
a stroll on the terrace before the Château Frontenac. It was a
night not soon to be forgotten. The moon's rays, softened by a
faint film of the most delicate of clouds, fell quietly about
us, and, from the dancing waves far below, came the signal bells
of steamers and the distant calls of boatmen. I can recall few
nights to rival it. The world seemed more kind, and my own work
in it more clear and possible, as we sat there and gazed into
the quiet night, which wore an ethereal, fairy-land air about
it, pure and inspiring. Most of our fellows were off 'seeing'
the city, but none of them could have had half the pleasure that
was ours. Few things in the world could have been more beautiful
than that night out there on the terrace, under the frowning guns
of the hard war citadel, and above the moon-bathed waters of the
grand old St. Lawrence. I felt my heart throb as I thought that
this noble river was the gateway to Canada, the land which gave
me birth, and which I am learning to love more and more dearly as
years roll by."
_BOOKS_
In books, as in nature, Harper found companionship and instruction,
and the selection was as carefully made, and the appreciation of the
beautiful and true as keen and delicate, in the one case as in the
other. It was a distinguishing mark of his reading that he chose, for
the most part, only such works as were likely to be productive of
intellectual or moral growth; he read little, however, for the sake of
mere entertainment, and he was less inclined to seek recreation with a
book than in other ways.
At the university his reading was, for the most part, of the books
prescribed by the college curriculum, with supplementary reading along
the lines it suggested, and some slight addition of current fiction and
standard works in poetry and prose. For a time, after entering upon
journalism, he gave himself up so entirely to its demands that he may
be said to have dropped books altogether, and to have substituted for
their reading a careful perusal of the daily press, and an occasional
survey of current magazines and other periodicals. The habit thus
formed remained constantly with him, and made him a careful observer of
events, and well informed on the main issues and questions of the day.
Though he had the mind of a student and a scholar, his habits, as has
already been hinted, were not of the kind which students are popularly
supposed to have. His temperament was versatile, his nature active,
he was impatient of too detailed or continuous research, and was more
interested in living men and current affairs than in documentary
records of any kind. Yet he was by no means blind to the fact, which
unfortunately many public men are, that to be of real service to any
cause, a man's intellectual as well as his physical powers must be
stimulated and strengthened by sustenance of the proper sort, and that,
except through inborn genius of the rarest kind, a man cannot be saved
from intellectual sterility, unless, to more than a limited degree, he
familiarizes himself with the best thought of the strongest minds.
The books with which Harper sought to become most familiar were the
works of writers whose intellectual preeminence was undoubted, and
whose main concern, though they viewed it from many and frequently
different standpoints, was the problem of existence, the meaning and
the duties of life. Of this class, Carlyle, Matthew Arnold, Emerson,
Tennyson, and, among present day writers, Hamilton Wright Mabie, were
the ones to whose works his spare hours were chiefly devoted during
his last years. It would be difficult to know from which of these
authors he gained the most; that he was strongly influenced by all
is beyond question, though this influence was one rather of clearer
definition and understanding of his own beliefs and convictions, than
of conversion to other and different views. Of what, as a teacher,
literature contributed, something may be gleaned from the pages
containing his views on present day problems and matters of religion.
In the present chapter it is of the companionable enjoyment derived
from this source, consciously sought and cultivated as a means to
the enrichment of life, that it is desired to give a sympathetic
appreciation.
The winter of 1900-01 was made exceptionally profitable through the
opportunities of reading which many of its evenings and Sundays
afforded. Harper and his friend had lodgings in common, and his diary
is full of mention of the evenings they spent together in company with
books, from which each in turn read aloud to the other, and which were
laid aside only that a deeper searching of the heart might follow,
accompanied by pledges of mutual loyalty and resolve, long after the
embers had burned out upon the hearth, and all things were in the
sacred keeping of the night. Did not the personal references which
these accounts contain preclude their publication, opportunity might
be given of looking in upon the best that this world has to offer, the
soul communion of friend with friend. One or two passages relating to
evenings not dissimilar, though spent with less intimate friends, will
suggest, to those who read them, with what profit an evening might have
been shared with him by those who knew and appreciated his genuine self
aright, and what measure of inspiration in turn was accorded to him by
the conversation and views of others, and by the writings of master
minds.
Of the chance happening in of a friend, he writes:
"I had finished reading Matthew Arnold's criticism of Gray when
L---- came in and spent the evening with me. I read Gray's
_Elegy_, _The Bard_ and some other extracts, in order to make
good Matthew Arnold's judgment. Then we talked of men of genius
and their lives, and L---- spoke of their unhappiness and want of
appreciation. I took the ground that this unhappiness was often
more apparent than real; that the greatest happiness in sensation
was that of the soul satisfaction which must come with the
beautiful expression of a great truth; that no great work came by
chance, but rather that the thought was first real and vital to
the artist; that however much, humanly, he might feel the want
of appreciation and physical satisfaction, his pleasure must be
ecstatic at finding an expression for his best self, his inner
life.
"'_These demand not that the things without them_
_Yield them love, amusement, sympathy._'
"Just as theirs is the great happiness, so theirs is the great
sorrow, for sorrow to be expressed in such form must first be
appreciated, felt.
"From this we drifted to Kipling and imperialism, my contribution
being that Kipling was a great imperialist, that of those who
were urging forward the British empire, he was one of the most
enlightened, one of the most clear seeing; that his anxiety
for the empire's future was as much cosmopolitan as British,
having faith in the Anglo-Saxon ideal. In support of this latter
contention I cited the _White Man's Burden_, which I think was
primarily designed for the American people.
"Then to the woes of Ireland and her future. I expressed disgust
with the methods of such men as ----, who are trying to fan the
flame of hatred to England, a flame justly enough started by the
long years of oppression, but which must be smothered if Ireland
is to progress, for I can see only one way for her healthy
development,--as part of the British empire, the great civilizing
and evangelizing power of the world.
"I read some of Moore's poems to illustrate my views of the
beauty and richness of the Irish nature, and its possibilities
when fairly treated. We closed our evening by reading a passage
from _Great Books as Life Teachers_, in the chapter on _Ruskin's
Seven Lamps of Architecture_, to show that true liberty consists
in obedience to law--true law. 'Nature loves paradoxes, and
this is her chiefest paradox--he who stoops to wear the yoke
of law becomes the child of liberty, while he who will be free
from God's law, wears a ball and chain through all his years.
Philosophy reaches its highest fruition in Christ's principle,
"Love is the fulfillment of the law."'"
Of an evening spent with friends, he says:
"To-night we spent a pleasant evening, enjoying music and
reading. Mrs. J----, whose whole life seems to be poetry and
music combined, rendered several brilliant selections on the
piano, conveying to me a conception of beautiful thoughts playing
about the crests of moonlit waves, after which R---- and I read
several of Matthew Arnold's poems. I have grown to like Matthew
Arnold more and more. His philosophy, the pursuit of perfection,
of sweetness and light, and the sweeping away of viciousness,
has always influenced me strongly since I first read _Culture
and Anarchy_ some years ago. But I find in him more and more the
noble high minded man as I proceed. I read _The Buried Life_ and
_Rugby Chapel_ among other things. The latter has always been a
favourite of mine, pointing, as it does, a noble useful view of
human duty, as in the lines--
"'_But thou would'st not alone_
_Be saved, my father! alone_
_Conquer and come to thy goal,_
_Leaving the rest in the wild._'
"_The Buried Life_ seems to me one of the most beautiful, hopeful
and inspiring poems I have ever read--the thought that man's
life and development goes on, and that his real life is realized
despite the spoiling of himself which he does continuously in the
meaningless follies of his daily round.
"'_Fate . . ._
_Bade through the deep recesses of our breast_
_The unregarded river of our life_
_Pursue with indiscernible flow its way;_
_And that we should not see_
_The buried stream, and seem to be_
_Eddying at large in blind uncertainty,_
_Though driving on with it eternally._'
"And then how--
"'_. . . often, in the world's most crowded streets,_
_But often, in the din of strife,_
_There rises an unspeakable desire_
_After the knowledge of our buried life._'
"The room where we sat before a grate fire seemed filled with the
thought of the noble man who penned the poem, and the evening was
a most enjoyable one."
Harper's was a nature quick to respond to the beautiful and true
wherever found, whether in prose or verse, in music or painting, or in
the actions of daily life. He was, moreover, intensely sympathetic,
and what he read or saw always impressed, and sometimes affected, him
deeply. He would often rise from the reading of a beautiful poem, or
the story of some heroic human effort, with eyes filled and voice
completely overcome, and then, as a means of gaining relief, and at the
same time of giving expression to his feelings, would pen in a single
sentence or two the thought that was most in his mind at the time.
Such little entries as the following are a characteristic feature of
his diary, and reveal his sympathetic appreciation of what he read, and
of the subject treated:
"To-night I read the sad story of Keats' life. How sad it is to
see so promising a man pass so soon! How admirably he declared a
great truth when he said,
"'_"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,"--that is all_
_Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know._'"
* * * * *
"To-night I read over again Lanier's _A Ballad of Trees and the
Master_, which, I think, most beautiful. The poem appealed to me
strongly as illustrating the subduing calm of the woods. Before
going to bed I read Ward's biography of Lanier, a story of the
heroic struggle of a soul steeped in music and high purpose."
* * * * *
"In the afternoon I read Matthew Arnold's Essay on Shelley,
whose life was a strange mixture of genius and weakness. But
for his poetry his weakness would have made him detestable. But
for his weakness his poetical genius might have made him one of
the most beautiful of all our authors. As he is, he is one of
those strange paradoxes who give rise to speculation as to the
necessary qualities of genius. Much can be forgiven in one who
has created the ode, _To a Skylark_ and _The Sensitive Plant_."
* * * * *
"Matthew Arnold seems to me above all a critic, clear, impartial,
appreciative, kindly, bravely severe, when this is necessary to
do justice. In what he says in these Essays on Criticism, one
feels how sad it is that noble work is marred by a something
wanting; half results because of the want of something,--'many
are called, few chosen.'"
* * * * *
"Next, of the features of the fortnight, was the completion
of _The Idylls of the King_, from which I have drawn much
healthy inspiration. We read _Pelleas and Ettarre_, _The Last
Tournament_, _Guinevere_ and _The Passing of Arthur_. At the
close I was struck by the wonderful way in which the truth of the
words,--
"'_It is the little rift within the lute,_
_That by and by will make the music mute,_
_And ever widening slowly silence all,_'--
was unfolded. Even that beautifully conceived court, with its
noble King, its high ideals and its battle-tried knights, went
to utter ruin through the example of one sin. Another thing
which struck me was that Tennyson, like others, shows that the
deadliest enemy is the Judas. The most cherished knight and
beloved Queen poisoned the court by betraying friend and husband.
But Tennyson holds out the beautiful hope of the thief upon the
cross. Lancelot was allowed to die a holy man; and Guinevere, by
true repentance and goodly works, was able to purge her soul so
as to be prepared for the reunion hereafter. The gentle teaching
of the poem is that we must be swayed by high resolves and noble
motives.
"'_We needs must love the highest when we see it,
Not Lancelot, nor another._'
"My admiration for the poem increased towards the close. The
delicate portrayal of character, and of utter pain and remorse in
_Guinevere_, and the beautiful imagery of _The Passing of Arthur_
are sublime--
"'_From the great deep to the great deep he goes._'"
* * * * *
"To-day R---- and I read several chapters of _Past and Present_.
Grand, bluff, sturdy old Carlyle is becoming a reality to me. In
his chapters leading up to the selection of Samson as Abbot of
St. Edmundsbury, he throws much light upon a really important
view of public policy, how necessary it is to select the best as
Governor, and how that best is to be recognized and selected.
Carlyle I find to be healthy, wholesome and full of moral fibre."
* * * * *
"Even to the outcry against the fleeting nature of our
impressions of beauty, and, for a time, satisfying, comes an
answer in the story of Shelley's _Sensitive Plant_. The author
concludes the beautiful yet sad story by saying:
_"'I dare not guess; but in this life_
_Of error, ignorance, and strife,_
_Where nothing is, but all things seem,_
_And we the shadows of the dream,_
"'_It is a modest creed, and yet_
_Pleasant if one considers it,_
_To own that death itself must be,_
_Like all the rest, a mockery._
"'_That garden sweet, that lady fair,_
_And all sweet shapes and odours there,_
_In truth have never past away:_
_'Tis we, 'tis ours, are changed; not they._
"'_For love, and beauty, and delight,_
_There is no death nor change: their might_
_Exceeds our organs, which endure_
_No light, being themselves obscure.'_
"If this be so, can we not increase and make more lasting our
knowledge of these things by mastering ourselves and giving scope
to the spiritual side of us?"
_THE LOVE OF OTHERS_
In love for others human nature manifests its highest expression. It
is the quality of soul by which, in his relations with his fellows,
a man's capacity for service is determined; it is the fount at which
all the finer springs of action are fed. Generosity, mercy, pity,
friendship, devotion, sacrifice, flow from this one source, which
conscious effort may help to replenish, but which conscious or
unconscious borrowing can never exhaust.
In his love for others lay the absorbing passion of Harper's life.
It was a love which begot him the strongest and most enduring of
friendships, and it was a love which carried his influence, and the
sweet purpose of his life, away out beyond the circles of those with
whom he was in daily association to where the tide of affection is
wont to ebb, or, apparently, wastes itself in the reefs and shallows
which abound. Man, woman, or child, he felt their kinship to the race;
their lives were related to his life; misfortune only heightened his
sympathy, and failure his compassion. Day after day gave new expression
to the wealth of generous purpose in that great human heart of his. It
dictated the fields into which he directed his activities; it inspired
his impulses, and was the sustaining power in his work.