Produced by Andrew Sly
[Etext producer's note: Printed copies of this title from the 1917edition onwards have had the misleading subtitle "The Complete Poemsof E. Pauline Johnson" which has been omitted here.]
Collected Verse
By E. Pauline Johnson
To his Royal Highness
The Duke of Connaught
Who is Head Chief of the Six Nations Indians
I inscribe this book by his own gracious permission
I cannot say how deeply it touched me to learn that Pauline Johnsonexpressed a wish on her death-bed that I, living here in the mothercountry all these miles away, should write something about her.I was not altogether surprised, however, for her letters to mehad long ago shed a golden light upon her peculiar character. Shehad made herself believe, quite erroneously, that she was largelyindebted to me for her success in the literary world. The letters Ihad from her glowed with this noble passion: the delusion about herindebtedness to me, in spite of all I could say, never left her. Shecontinued to foster and cherish this delusion. Gratitude indeed waswith her not a sentiment merely, as with most of us, but a veritablepassion. And when we consider how rare a human trait true gratitudeis—the one particular characteristic in which the lower animalsput us to shame—it can easily be imagined how I was touched to findthat this beautiful and grand Canadian girl remained down to thevery last moment of her life the impersonation of that most preciousof all virtues. I have seen much of my fellow men and women, andI never knew but two other people who displayed gratitude as apassion—indulged in it, I might say, as a luxury—and they wereboth poets. I can give no higher praise to the "irritable genus."On this account Pauline Johnson will always figure in my memory asone of the noblest minded of the human race.
Circumstances made my personal knowledge of her all too slight. Ourspiritual intimacy, however, was very strong, and I hope I shall bepardoned for saying a few words as to how our friendship began. Itwas at the time of Vancouver's infancy, when the population of thebeautiful town of her final adoption was less than a twelfth of whatit now is, and less than a fiftieth part of what it is soon goingto be.
In 1906 I met her during one of her tours. How well I remember it!She was visiting London in company with Mr. McRaye—making a tour ofEngland—reciting Canadian poetry. And on this occasion Mr. McRayeadded to the interest of the entertainment by rendering in aperfectly marvellous way Dr. Drummond's Habitant poems. It was inthe Steinway Hall, and the audience was enthusiastic. When, afterthe performance, my wife and I went into the room behind thestage to congratulate her, I was quite affected by the warm andaffectionate greeting that I got from her. With moist eyes shetold her friends that she owed her literary success mainly to me.
And now what does the reader suppose that I had done to win allthese signs of gratitude? I had simply alluded—briefly alluded—inthe London "Athenaeum" some years before, to her genius and herwork. Never surely was a reviewer so royally overpaid. Her allusionwas to a certain article of mine on Canadian poetry which waswritten in 1889, and which she had read so assiduously that shemight be said to know it by heart: she seemed to remember everyword of it.
Now that I shall never see her face again it is with real emotionthat I recur to this article and to the occasion of