Chapter XXXVI “The Maple Leaf.”
It was in the year 1841, that the Rev. Dr. John McCaul entered upon his duties as Vice-President of King’s College, after having been Principal of Upper Canada College since 1838. With this gentleman are closely connected some of the most pleasurable memories of my own life. He was a zealous promoter of public amusement, musical as well as literary. Some of the best concerts ever witnessed in Toronto were those got up by him in honour of the Convocation of the University of Toronto, October 23rd, 1845, and at the several public concerts of the Philharmonic Society, of which he was president, in that and following years. As a member of the managing committee, I had the honour of conducting one of the Society’s public concerts, which happened, being a mixed concert of sacred and secular music, to be the most popular and profitable of the series, greatly to my delight.
In 1846, 1847 and 1848, Dr. McCaul edited the Maple Leaf, or Canadian Annual, a handsomely illustrated and bound quarto volume, which has not since been surpassed, if equalled, in combined beauty and literary merit, by any work that has issued from the Canadian press.
Each volume appeared about Christmas day, and was eagerly looked for. The principal contributors were Dr. McCaul himself; the Hon. Chief Justice Hagarty; the late Rev. R. J. McGeorge, then of Streetsville, since of Scotland; the late Hon. Justice Wilson, of London; Miss Page, of Cobourg; the Rev. Dr. Scadding; the late Rev. J. G. D. McKenzie; the late Hon. J. Hillyard Cameron; the Rev. Alex. (now Archdeacon) Dixon, of Guelph; the Rev. Walter Stennett, of Cobourg; C. W. Cooper, Esq., now of Chicago; the late T. C. Breckenridge; the late Judge Cooper, of Goderich; and myself; besides a few whose names are unknown to me.
My own connection, as a writer, with the “Maple Leaf” originated thus: While printing the first volume, I had ventured to send to Dr. McCaul, through the post-office, anonymously, a copy of my poem entitled “Emmeline,” as a contribution to the work. It did not appear, and I felt much discouraged in consequence. Some months afterwards, I happened to mention to him my unsuccessful effusion, when he at once said that he had preserved it for the second volume. This was the first ray of encouragement I had ever received as a poet, and it was very welcome to me. He also handed me two or three of the plates intended for the second volume, to try what I could make of them, and most kindly gave me carte-blanche to take up any subject I pleased. The consequence of which was, that I set to work with a new spirit, and supplied four pieces for the second and five for the third volume. Two of my prose pieces—“A Chapter on Chopping,” and “A First Day in the Bush”—with two of the poems, I have incorporated in these “Reminiscences:” my other accepted poems, I give below. After this explanation, the reader will not be surprised at the affection with which I regard the “Maple Leaf.” I know that the generous encouragement which Dr. McCaul invariably extended to even the humblest rising talent, in his position as head of our Toronto University, has been the means of encouraging many a youthful student to exertions, which have ultimately placed him in the front rank among our public men. Had I met with Dr. McCaul thirty years earlier, he would certainly have made of me a poet by profession.
Emmeline
The faynt-rayed moone shynes dimme and hoar,
The nor-wynde moans with fittful roare,
The snow-drift hydes the cottage doore,
Emmeline,
I wander lonelie on the moore,
Emmeline.
Thou sittest in the castle halle
In festal tyre and silken palle,
’Mid smylinge friendes—all hartes thy thrall,
Emmeline,
My best-beloved—my lyfe—my all,
Emmeline.
I marke the brightness quit thy cheeke,
I knowe the thought thou dost not speake,
Some absent one thy glances seeke,
Emmeline,
I pace alone the mooreland bleake,
Emmeline.
Thy willfull brother—woe the daye!
Why did hee cross mee on my waye?
I slewe him that I would not slaye,
Emmeline,
I cannot washe his bloode awaye,
Emmeline.
Oh, why, when stricken from his hande,
Far flew his weapon o’er the strande—
Why did hee rush upon my brande?
Emmeline,
Colde lyes his corse upon the sande,
Emmeline.
Thou’rt too, too younge—too younge and fayre
To learne the wearie rede of care—
My bitter griefe thou must not share,
Emmeline,
I could not bidde thee wedde despaire,
Emmeline.
Through noisome fenne and tangled brake,
Where crawle the lizard and the snake,
My mournfull hopelesse way I take,
Emmeline,
To live a hermitt for thy sake,
Emmeline.
Thy buoyaunt spirit may forgett
The happie houre when last we mett—
My sunne of hope is darklie sett,
Emmeline,
I’ll bee thy guardian-angell yett,
Emmeline.