A Cyclopaedia of Canadian Biography: Being Chiefly Men of the Time. Various

A Cyclopaedia of Canadian Biography: Being Chiefly Men of the Time - Various


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and manly scorn for all that is false, time-serving, or hypocritical; there is no narrow-mindedness, no bigotry in his soul. In the domestic circle, all the warmth in the man’s heart—the full flow of genuine feeling and affection—is ever uppermost. He is a thoroughly earnest man, in whose daily walks and conversation as well as in his actions, Longfellow’s ‘Psalm of Life’ is acted out in verity. In his friendship he is sincere; in his dislikes equally so. He is thoroughly Scottish in his leanings. His national love burns with intensity. In poetry, he is not merely zealous, but enthusiastic, and he carries his natural force of character into all he says and does.”

      All his virtues he inherited from his parents. Among Evan MacColl’s old country friends have been John Mackenzie, of “The Beauties;” the late R. Carruthers, LL.D., Hugh Miller, the brothers Sobeiskie Stewart, at Eilean-Aigais, and drank with them out of a cuach, once the property of Prince Charlie; Dugald Moore, author of “Scenes before the Flood,” and “The Bard of the North;” Alexander Rogers, the author of “Behave yourself before Folk,” Rev. Dr. Norman McLeod, Dr. Chambers, Bailey, the author of “Festus;” Leighton, author of “The Christening of the Bairn;” J. Stuart Blackie, the great Edinburgh professor; James Logan, author of “The Scottish Gael;” Fraser, of Fraser’s Magazine, and Hugh Fraser, the publisher of “Leabhar nan Cnoc.” He is a member of the Royal Canadian Literary and Scientific Society, founded by the Marquis of Lorne, and was the guest several times of his lordship and the Princess Louise at Rideau Hall, Ottawa. MacColl has been twice married. Of a family of nine sons and daughters, Evan, the poet’s eldest son, has been educated for the ministry, and is now pastor of the Congregational Church at Middleville, Ontario. His eldest daughter’s productions have merited a very high admiration, and the more youthful members of his family give promise of proving worthy of the stock from whence they sprang. John Massie, of Keene, a brother poet, not having heard from the “Bard of Lock Fyne” for over six weeks after having written him a letter, thus addressed the Limestone City:—

      Say, Kingston, tell us where is Evan?

      Thy bard o’ pure poetic leaven!

      And is he still amang the livin’?

      Or plumed supernal,

      Has taen a jink and aff to heaven,

      There sing eternal!

      Or if within your bounds you find him,

      A’ bruised and broken, skilfu’ bind him;

      Or sick, or sair, O! carefu’ mind him,

      Thy darling chiel!

      And dinna lat him look behind him

      Until he’s weel.

      But if he’s gane, ah, wae’s to me!

      His like we never mair shall see—

      Nae servile, whinging coof was he,

      Led by a string,

      But noble, gen’rous, fearless, free,

      His sang he’d sing.

      Hech, sirs! we badly could bide loss him,

      For should this world vindictive toss him.

      Or ony hizzie dare to boss him.

      Clean gyte he’d set her;

      The deil himsel’, he daur’dna cross him,

      Faith, he ken’d better!

      Let any man, o’ any station,

      But wink at fraud, or wrong the nation,

      E’en gowd, nor place, ’twas nae temptation

      To sic a chiel—

      He’d shortly settle their oration,

      And drub them weel.

      Or let them say’t, be’t high or low,

      Auld Scotia ever met the foe,

      That laid her in the dust fu’ low,

      Right at them see him!

      Professor George still rues the blow

      MacColl did gie him.

      Is history in Fiction’s grip,

      Does Falsehood let her bloodhounds slip,

      Crack goes his castigating whip,

      With patriot scorn!

      Macaulay laid upon his hip.

      Amidst the corn.

      Does English critic meanly itch,

      To cast old Ossian in the ditch,

      And trail his laurels through the pitch

      Of mind benighted;

      Our bardie gies his lugs a twitch

      And sees it righted.

      In a’ this warld, there’s no a skellum,

      Nor silly self-conceited blellum,

      But Evan, lad, wad bravely tell ’em

      The honest truth;

      E’en if he kend that they should fell ’im

      Withouten ruth.

      Ye feathered things in mournfu’ tune,

      Come join my waesome, doleful croon;

      Ye dogs that bay the silver moon,

      Your sorrow show it;

      And a’ ye tearfu’ starns aboon,

      Bewail our poet.

      What though this grasping world, and hard,

      May barely grant him just reward,

      Still shall his genius blissful starred,

      Effulgent shine,

      And endless ages praise the bard

      Of fair Loch Fyne.

      Mr. MacColl has many admirers in Canada, in proof of which he has lately issued the third edition of his poems here, and they are having a good sale. His Gaelic Lyrics, lately issued in Edinburgh, is also attracting attention among his countrymen on this side of the Atlantic.


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