8 THE ROYAL SOCIETY OF CANADA 



Scott would have been a greater poet had Lampman lived, and had 

 certain others not moved away from Ottawa. Such coteries breed 

 not only creation but criticism. Bourinot sighed for a good monthly, 

 and lamented that we had but one literary weekly, The Week; now 

 we have not even one. But we have at least three Quarterlies of 

 merit: Queen's Quarterly, the oldest and in some ways still the best, 

 which has appeared regularly since July, 1893, and whose uniformly 

 high standard does honour to the Scotch tenacity of my own Alma 

 Mater; The University Magazine, whose editor has laid under a heavy 

 debt all students alike of politics and of poetry, and to whose wise 

 discrimination we owe the first florescence of McCrae and of Marjorie 

 Pickthall ; and now The Canadian Bookman, from which we all hope 

 that there may develop the much-needed school of Canadian literary 

 criticism. Our other magazines or weeklies, such as The Canadian 

 Magazine, Maclean s, or Saturday Night are vigorous and racy, but 

 have for the most part but one eye upon the literary merit of their 

 articles. Few gifts of greater value could be given to our Canadian 

 life by a public spirited millionaire than that of a literary and political 

 weekly, on the lines of The Spectator, The New Statesman or The New 

 Republic. 



Literary criticism has long been our weakest line. Though The 

 University Magazine has made an impression, and though the book- 

 reviewing in our dailies is improving, we still tend with an uneasy 

 arrogance which veils a real humility to hail each new imitator as 

 "The Canadian Keats," or "The Canadian Kipling," or we indulge in 

 a pitch of extravagant laudation in which all standards disappear. 



Alexander McLachlan's verse, for example, is not unworthy of 

 praise. He owed little to Canada, and had a typical Scotch mixture 

 of religious mysticism and fierce political radicalism Such stanzas as 

 "Mystery," or "A Lang-Heidit Laddie" are true poetry. They owe 

 nothing of their inspiration to Canada, but much to Burns and some- 

 what to Wordsworth. But in spite of their debt, there is in them a 

 simplicity and a freshness which raise them far above the realm of 

 mere imitation. But what can we do but lift our hands in despair 

 when the Rev. E. H. Dewart, D.D., editor of McLachlan's completed 

 work (Toronto, 1900), tells us that "In racy humour, in natural 

 pathos, and in graphic portraiture of character, he will compare 

 favourably with the great peasant bard. In moral grandeur and 

 beauty he strikes higher notes than ever echoed from the harp of 

 Burns." Or again, "In quiet contemplation and moralising he 

 reminds us of Cowper and Wordsworth, both of whom he surpasses. 

 His ardent love and worship of nature is akin to that of Wordsworth, 



