Chapter II: Part 2

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.

Nor was this, with Harper, a blind love, an unreasoned passion. On the contrary, whatever its origin, it derived its strength from a carefully thought out philosophy of life, a philosophy based on a belief in a divine order and purpose in the universe, and in the sanctity of individual lives. He had faith in both God and man, and he held that the will of the one could only be fulfilled as it was realized in the life of the other. This belief explains his efforts on behalf of individuals, it interprets the views he held on such questions as those of social and political reform.

He loved men because of the belief he had in their natures. "After all," he writes, "it is not the external appearance of a man, nor what he says or does, that ought to excite our admiration or distrust, but that inner personality, the individuality, the soul, which is 'the all and in all,' and of which appearances are but imperfect representations and expressions." He was not a man given to professions, or to the public performance of good deeds; in fact, the being seen of men caused him to hesitate in the doing of much which a less sensitive nature would have allowed. He did not shrink, however, from manifesting a personal interest in lives which seemed to demand it of him, or from revealing his purpose to those whom he knew could appreciate it aright.

One incident, among two or three which he has recorded, but one of a great many known only to those with whom the occasion was shared, is sufficient to illustrate how practical expression was given to this belief. It occurred within a short time after he had left the university, and before he had entered upon his journalistic career.

"I was returning home one night after a social evening, when I
saw a young man in the hands of a policeman. He was what some
people would have called a 'bad boy,' kept rather doubtful
company, and was under arrest for having raised a disturbance
during a drunken row. Well, I managed to get the boy, who was
about eighteen years of age, out of the cells on bail, and, in
company with a fellow who had been 'painting the town' with him,
I undertook to take him home. I contrived, after some time, to
get rid of his 'pal,' and, as soon as the boy was sober enough, I
undertook to find out whether he had a conscience.

"After walking about the streets with him for a couple of hours
in the beautiful moonlight, by the aid of a power which was
certainly not my own, I discovered that he had; and the boy
opened up his heart to me. I showed him the uselessness and folly
of the life into which he was rapidly drifting, and, in a voice
convulsed with sobs, he told me that what I said was true. My own
eyes moistened as he confessed what a fool he was. He concluded
by promising me in a voice and with a pressure of the hand which
meant truth, that he would never touch a drop of liquor again.
From the frank manner in which he meets my eyes when I now see
him occasionally, I believe that he has thoroughly reformed. That
night, as I went home, I knew that one prayer had not been in
vain."

For society as a whole, as for its individual members, his aim was a constant betterment.

"There are so few men who couple the capacity for appreciating
the troubles of struggling humanity with an earnest desire to
remove them, that I can see in such a life a tremendous power for
good, and, after all, is not that the highest ideal a man can
hold before him?"

In this sentence, penned in reference to another, he wrote of himself more truly than he knew. His journals are full of passages which disclose his "capacity to appreciate," and his "earnest desire to remove," the obstacles which thwart the upward and onward progress of men engaged in the competitive rivalries of the world, and in the struggle for daily bread. Whether it was pursuing an uncongenial task in the wilds of Muskoka, or immersed in the cares and unrest of journalism, or busied in research for material from which to construct an article for the _Labour Gazette_, a human interest in the life and the lot of the mass of men was ever before him, and a purpose to understand and improve that lot his aim.

"During the course of my stay here," he writes of Muskoka, in
the winter of 1895, "I have had some chance to notice the type
of inhabitants of this inhospitable district. First and foremost
come the lumbermen, not the miners who live in the town, but
the stout fellows in smock and jersey, with their pants shoved
into stockings, which are in turn encased in stout rubbers.
Overcoats are scarce, they don't seem to be needed. Altogether,
though these fellows lead a hard life, and are often coarse and
dissipated, they have opinions of their own, and must be reckoned
with by the rulers of the country.

"Next comes the Muskoka farmer living in his shanty, for that is
pretty much the rule, although there is, of course, an occasional
farmhouse of more pretentious appearance, and drawing a bare
livelihood by his constant toil with antiquated implements; most
of the hay (the chief product, since it requires little care,)
being cut by the scythe on patches of land cleared by years of
toil, and in most cases thickly strewn with rocks, the only
satisfaction that they have in their poverty being that they are
independent.

"It is difficult to conceive of culture and refinement under such
circumstances. It may be well, however, to have one part of our
population comparatively free from the two dangerous influences
of our time, riches and luxury on the one hand, and, on the
other, embittered and ignorant combinations actuated by selfish
interests and swayed too largely by demagogues.

"My sojourn here, though not pleasant and not profitable from a
business point of view, has opened an extensive field of thought.
Of my companions the most interesting was the lumberman whose
wife was sick, and who as a result was leaving the woods. I was
quite interested by his ideas of human life, although they were
not given in a scientific way. He was evidently a man of energy;
one who took life seriously and who had his share of troubles. It
was pathetic to hear the way he spoke of how his wife's family
usually died at about twenty-four years of age, how his wife was
now at that age and was sick. In fact, there are worse places
than the lumber woods for the study of man."

In the spring of 1898 he was rejoiced at having the opportunity of conducting a more or less extended inquiry into the conditions of working men in the several trades.

"The _Mail_," he writes, "intends, during the coming summer, to
publish a series of articles concerning the conditions, social,
moral and economic, governing each of the various trades, the
facts to be gathered by personal observation and enquiry from
journeymen, apprentices, employers and employees. The work is
to be a feature of each day's paper, and, _mirabile dictu_, the
entire charge of the matter, design and detail, has been handed
over to me. I need not say that I am pleased. I have at once an
opportunity of examining into the industrial and sociological
conditions of the city and province, and possibly of doing
good to my fellow men as the result of these observations.
Incidentally, also, I have an opportunity of strengthening myself
in my own profession, although that is a thing that one can do in
journalism no matter what line of work one is pursuing. Roughly
described, the aim of the series of sketches is to indicate to
the parent what qualifications are required for, and what returns
are to be expected from, the several vocations, in order that
he may the better decide what to do with his boy or girl. I
appreciate the responsibility which the work places upon me, and
pray that I may be able to meet it."

The articles which were written by Harper, then twenty-four years of age, and which appeared under the caption "What to do with your boy or girl," were continued in the _Mail_ from day to day for several months, and attracted very considerable attention at the time. They disclose a remarkable ability to get at facts, and the strongest sympathy with the end in view, and constitute a not unimportant contribution to the scanty literature which has thus far appeared, having to do with industrial and labour conditions in the Dominion.

The human interest which made even the dry language of statutes to glow with animation for him, is abundantly apparent from the following passages in reference to some of his work in the department of labour:

"I spent most of the day in the Library of Parliament, reading up
the provincial acts concerning mining. The thing which impressed
me, as I read, was the uninviting nature of the task of the
miner, cut off from the light of day, hewing away in the bowels
of the earth, exposed to the danger of cave-ins, explosions,
and a living entombment, as the result of carelessness on the
part of his employers, or his associates, or the will of nature.
How can such men, if they are crowded down almost to the margin
of subsistence, develop a roseate view of life! Ever facing
almost terrorizing conditions, they must become brave, sturdy,
self-reliant and earnest enough, but how can they fail to be out
of sympathy with the shams, hypocrisies and dilettantisms of
modern society!"

And again:

"At the office, I have been much interested in working upon the
article on the Fisheries of Canada, inasmuch as it has shown to
me a sturdy class of men toiling under conditions of hardship
and danger for what is comparatively a small return. Doubtless
the isolation of the fishing villages, the system of part
proprietorship, and the passion for a sea-faring life, account
for the relative immobility of the population.

"I am becoming more and more convinced daily of the fact that
this country is going through a transition stage which must
influence it to the bottom. The use of machinery, the weakening
of the artisan by removing the rewards of skill, the work and
wages of girls, the prevalence of piece work and its results,
the effects of pauper and convict labour, and a thousand other
problems are brought daily before my notice in terms of flesh and
blood.

"It is important to know and understand all sorts and conditions
of men if society as a whole is to be led towards what is better.
Certainly the 'better class of people' need leading as well as
the others, for with them the opportunity offered by leisure is
too often wasted in dilettantism and folly."

To "society," in the highly specialized meaning of that word, a reference may not be out of place. In its ambitions, its mandates, Harper saw but little which made for the development of true manhood or womanhood, while he saw much which aimed directly at the destruction of both. There was never any one who enjoyed more the pleasure of good company, whose temperament, frank, hearty and mirthful, and whose manner, courteous and sincere, made him a more welcome guest wherever he went. It was no affectation, therefore, which caused Harper to feel as he did; it was his belief in the true purpose of life. What to some, and to himself, was a pastime, he saw, to others, was becoming an end; instead of developing, it was robbing, natures of their finer sensibilities. Many of its conventions were wholly artificial, some of its relationships altogether false. The following short sentences are sufficient to reveal this view:

"Social engagements may, I think, be a healthy relaxation, if
kept in their place, and if one does not forget to keep hold of
one's self, and remembers the force of example. With many people
here in Ottawa, I fear the social round is becoming an end in
itself, and therefore a danger to themselves and others.

"I am coming to the conclusion that if a man is to wield any
influence worth while in this world, he has to cut this folly out
of his life. The past fortnight has shown me how impossible it
is for a man to do what the social world expects of him, and do
justice to himself."

Commenting on a wedding notice which appeared in a local paper, he writes:

"So spoke the society editor this morning. The important thing,
really, was the happy union for life of two loving hearts.
Apparently what the public is supposed to be interested in, is
the gown of white something or other. It may be salutary, as a
means of developing an æsthetic taste generally, to have space
in our public prints for such trifles. For my own part, I often
think the world would be better and saner if the society editor
had never been born."

And of the "better part," in a personal letter to a friend:

"If you will pardon me for making the remark, I was very
pleased to see the lively interest your sisters take in the
great work of improving the condition of the masses. It is
one which is bound to widen their sympathies, and remove any
possibility of their becoming enthralled by the chains of hollow
conventionality, which, more than anything else, prevents the
development of true womanhood, under the conditions of our modern
society."

How, according to his view, true womanhood might be developed, may be gathered from a letter written by Harper to one of his sisters a short time before his death. It is one of many home letters which might be quoted, but it may be taken by itself as characteristic. In speaking of his love for others, its reproduction here may not be out of place:

"_Ottawa, Oct. 4th, 1901._
"MY DEAR L----:

"I am not writing to give you news, for there is little to give.
I have been having a quiet happy little evening all by myself,
and I thought I could not do better than let you into the secret
of my happiness. I think I have told you before that I am an
admirer of the high-mindedness of Matthew Arnold, 'the apostle
of sweetness and light.' Latterly, I have been taking a great
deal of true pleasure from his poems, and one of the best of
them, _The Buried Life_, I have just finished reading, not for
the first time, for they stand many readings; and I am sure
you would find it hopeful and inspiring. I wish you would read
Matthew Arnold's works, particularly some of the poems, such as
_Rugby Chapel_, _Dover Beach_, _Self Dependence_ and _The Buried
Life_; the last, most of all. There is a good deal of the stoical
Greek about Matthew Arnold, but his is a beautiful, noble, pure
mind whose example makes the pursuit of perfection meaningful,
and beautiful to contemplate. There is much in his philosophy
with which you doubtless will not agree, but there is a richness,
beauty and purity, which you will find most inspiring.

"And this brings me still to another question. Why should not you
and E---- turn this winter to profit by spending a part of every
day reading aloud to each other, choosing, preferably, such works
as _The Idylls of the King_, Matthew Arnold's poems, or other
writings of the great masters in literature which take one away
from the sordidness of life, and tend to develop the best that is
in one. This, with an adulteration of fiction, would make the
winter very profitable as well as very enjoyable to you both.
When E---- can find time, he could read with you, and direct
your reading course. My dear L----, I am becoming more and more
convinced every day that the most important duty we have is the
moulding of our character; for it is in the strength and richness
of our character that we obtain the title to self-respect, and
are able to influence others. It is by bringing ourselves into
closer contact with the highest thought that we are going to be
enabled to obtain high-mindedness and purity ourselves. There
is a world of truth in the statement, 'Blessed are the pure in
heart, for they shall see God,' and these things of which I speak
are some of the ways of attaining that purity of heart which
makes life richer, deeper and happier.

"Longfellow, in his prose romance, _Hyperion_, has something of
what I have in mind, when he says:

"'It is the part of an indiscreet and troublesome ambition to
care too much about fame, about what the world says of us; to
be always looking into the faces of others for approval; to be
always anxious for the effect of what we do and say; to be
always shouting to hear the echo of our own voices. If you look
about you, you will see men who are wearing life away in feverish
anxiety of fame, and the last we shall ever hear of them will be
the funeral bell which tolls them to their early graves! Unhappy
men and unsuccessful! because their purpose is, not to accomplish
well their task, but to clutch the "fantasy and trick of fame";
and they go to their graves with purposes unaccomplished, and
wishes unfulfilled. Better for them, and for the world in their
example, had they known how to wait! Believe me, the talent of
success is nothing more than doing what you can do well; and
doing well whatever you do,--without a thought of fame. If it
comes at all, it will come because it is deserved, not because it
is sought after. And, moreover, there will be no misgivings, no
disappointment, no hasty, feverish, exhausting excitement.'

"This is rather a heavy quotation for a letter, but I wished
you to catch the thought, you will find it in the chapter in
_Hyperion_ on _Literary Fame_. You will see the truth of it, if
you allow your mind to dwell upon it for a moment. Longfellow
has no thought of discouraging ambition. Far from it. He
simply wants to emphasize the folly of hoping for fame which is
undeserved, and, as he points out, the way to deserve it is by
doing well what is to be done. But as you are not fame hunting,
it is not the fame part of it that I wish to dwell upon here,
so much as the parallel thought, that it is the inner life, the
inner strength which comes from resolute effort and familiarity
with the best thought, which tells, and which makes for true
happiness.

"I have often told you that your worst danger is your tendency
to worry, a tendency which is based, I know, upon the depth of
the interest which you take in those who are dear to you. What
you must do is to prevent that tendency from casting a shadow
over your life. I have a picture of you--a copy which W----
enlarged from the little sunbeam of you, with a big white hat,
you remember,--in a gold frame over my desk. It is much admired,
and I am proud to introduce it as my sister. As I look at it, I
can see my dear little sister, bright, happy and devoted, and
now I don't want to think of her with any unnecessary cares. Now
do be good, and you and E---- try and make the winter profitable
to both of you. Take walks, get exercise in the open air, be
cheerful, read, and generally try and make life happier by
the means which you have at hand. I am neither scolding nor
lecturing, and I have said nothing which you do not already know,
but somehow to-night, you have been running in my mind, and I
wanted to tell you what I thought and wished, so that, in due
course of time, you will look back to the winter of 1901 as one
of the happiest chapters in your life. I am sorry that, when we
were in Barrie, the shadow of memories and the pressure of many
things must have made me seem selfish and not kind enough to my
sisters, but I need not tell you, L----, that your happiness is
dear to me.

"And now I must close. So good-night, my dear little sister.

"With much love,
"Ever your affectionate brother,
"BERT."

Just how characteristic this letter is of the interest taken by Harper in the welfare and happiness of those to whom he was united by the closest of ties, will be apparent from another letter, written many months previous, to a brother in New York, after returning from a short visit to that city. It reveals the same earnest endeavour of a life to impart its own secret to the lives of others, and to establish a standard of happiness which could bring no deceptions. Its practical common sense will make it no less commendable as an evidence of the truest affection.

He writes:

"_Ottawa, Dec. 30, 1900._
"MY DEAR WILL:

"Since returning to Ottawa there has been little happening that
would be of interest to you. I have been busy enough, and have
managed to control a tendency, fostered by the invitations of a
number of kind people here, and my own disposition, to be drawn
into the social whirl. It is weak, and life is earnest, so I
have decided to do with as little of it as possible. No man who
desires to make progress in this world, can hope to do so if he
squanders his evenings. There are two ways in which a man may
equip himself so that he may be in the van of progress:--first,
by strengthening his own mind through a study of what is and has
been in the minds of great men of thought,--this, one can do
from books;--secondly, by pursuing positive original work along
the special line to which he has devoted himself. These things I
am attempting to do. The difficulty lies in selection. What we
have to do is to get away from the semblances, and get at the
realities of life.

"Of Carlyle's _Hero Worship_, I have already spoken to you. It
is healthy and sturdy. I am now reading Carlyle's _Past and
Present_, and do not know anything in literature more wholesome
or worth reading. Do not neglect to read it. Men of the stamp of
Carlyle, Emerson and Matthew Arnold go to the root of questions,
and their books will do you one hundred times as much good as
all the novels which are going the rounds. Every man owes it to
himself to supply his mind with the best material available, and,
although Carlyle may seem a little heavy in parts, where one may
not have become familiar with the subject matter he refers to,
you will find the influence of his sturdy personality upon your
own views of life.

"With regard to the second point,--work along one's own special
line,--I am plodding along at work in the field of economics,
and hope to be able to get out a book in the more or less near
future. You know best what will be profitable for you. What I
would suggest is, that you lose no opportunity of familiarizing
yourself with the best writings on architecture; that you devote
time and thought to studying architectural models of buildings
as they are, and otherwise; and, that you take every opportunity
to attend lectures or discussions where architectural subjects
are being considered. In this way you will find your interest in
your work, and in life generally, as well as your usefulness to
your employers, increasing at a surprising rate. I know how hard
it is for a man living in a great, interesting place like New
York, to do deliberate, consecutive work, and to keep control of
himself and his time, but he must do this, if he is going to get
along. Life is real and earnest, and a man who is going to hold
up his end in dull times, and in the autumn of life, must take
every opportunity to equip himself, and to save his dollars. A
man need not be mean, he can go to things worth going to, he can
dress decently, and hold up his end generally; but there are lots
of things upon which money is often spent, which are absolute
folly. Money is hard to make, and a man cannot justify himself in
throwing it away.

"I hope you will pardon all this which may appear like a
lecture. It is not, I can assure you, dear old Will. It is simply
a few conclusions which I have come to, and which I believe to
be absolutely true. If they are, why should we not follow them?
I want us both to live fruitful and useful lives, and it is by
such conscious, deliberate work as I have referred to, that we
both can do it. Let us cut asunder what of empty, unprofitable
conviviality, and the like, may have grown into our lives, and
let us live so that when we are old men,--if we are spared,--we
may look back upon our lives without regret, and feel that we
have been worthy of the best that is in us, and of the trust
which our dear parents placed in us.

"My visit to New York was thoroughly profitable; it has given
me much food for thought, and has enabled me to see some things
more clearly than ever before. I cannot tell you of all the
impressions New York brought, and has left upon me. I have never
quite managed to shake off the attitude of mind of a student, and
I find myself constantly weaving my experiences in New York into
my philosophy of life. The two events which seem to stand out
most clearly are the visit to the _Art Museum_, and the concert
at the _Metropolitan_. That was a glorious day, for it showed
how men in the rush and flurry of business life have at hand
the means of soul purifying and refreshment in art and music,
two great agencies which bring men's minds back from semblances
to truth. Will you ever forget the music we heard? The singing
of Rossini's _Stabat Mater_ was to me like wandering through a
sea of dreams, beautiful yet sad. Greatest of all, I thought,
was Nordica's _Inflammatus_, a soul-stirring song, splendidly
set off by the orchestra and chorus, and which stirred the vast
audience to its depths. It was the great victory of the evening.
How strong must be the satisfaction of the possession of so
magnificent a voice, both in the capacity to interpret such
beautiful music, and in the ability to thrill and purge the human
soul. For is it not the case that great music ever does this? I
know little of the _technique_ of music, but for years I have
felt its influence upon me for good.

"Every hour of my visit was profitable, and I need not say
that it would have been a blind, stupid ramble without your
assistance. I know what it meant in sacrifice of time and
hard-earned money to you. I would have liked to have controlled
your generosity. However, I know the spirit which moved you, and
I am deeply grateful to you.

"And now, my dear brother Will, I trust that this New Year which
ushers in a new century, will bring to you true happiness, and
the accomplishment of your most worthy ambitions.

"Your affectionate brother,
"BERT."

It is not surprising to find in a remote corner of the diary of a man whose feelings were so genuine, and sympathies so sincere, such mention as the following, of an evening spent with "The Woodcutters," a society he had helped to organize the year after he left the university, and the purposes of which will be sufficiently clear from the reference:

"We went to old Thomas Mahoney's where we worked hard from about
8:30 to 11:00 P. M., sawing and splitting wood. The family
consisted of Mrs. Mahoney, an old woman of about sixty or
sixty-five, and her daughter. The daughter, who is half-witted,
goes out washing and scrubbing, while the old lady has to saw
and split all the wood necessary to keep their hovel warm, it
being situated in an exposed place on the edge of the common.
The interior does not betoken wealth, but the old woman and her
daughter seem to be not unhappy, this probably because of their
having come from the Emerald Isle. I shall try and follow up the
acquaintance with a view to discovering to what causes their
poverty is due. This institution is a good one, for besides the
hard work, it affords undoubtedly a good way of helping the
deserving poor, and gives one a splendid chance for economic
study."