“Nearly half a century ago James Macpherson Le Moine, advocate, and inspector of inland revenue for the district of Quebec, published a modest little volume of historical and legendary lore relating to the city and environs of Quebec, under the title of Maple Leaves. Little had been accomplished, prior to that time, in the way of collecting the scattered wealth of Lower Canadian legends and folklore, and English-speaking Canadians knew scarcely anything of the extremely valuable collections of manuscript sources of early Canadian history, scattered through the vaults of various public buildings in Quebec. To Le Moine, whose maternal grandfather was a Macpherson, though on his father’s side the young author was a French-Canadian, belongs much of the credit, through his English books, in interesting English-speaking Canadians in the history, the traditions, and the archæology of French Canada. It was at his initiative and under his presidency that the Quebec Literary and Historical Society, founded by the Earl of Dalhousie in 1824, undertook the publication of some of the most important existing manuscripts concerning the early history of the country.”
The morning after my arrival in Montreal, a week later, various people presented themselves before me—they had seen long notices in the two papers that morning, and came on errands of friendship, or through introductions. One was announced as “Dr. Drummond.”
I looked up; the name conveyed nothing to me; and as I was not ill, I wondered at the visit.
“If I can be of any service to you,” he said, “you have but to command me. I knew your father, his profession is my profession, your profession is mine too.”
“You write? Are you any connection of the Dr. Drummond who wrote the Habitant?” I asked.
“I am he.”
“Oh, then, you can indeed do something for me.”
“And that is?”
“Take me to see the Habitants in their own homes.”
Accordingly I spent several days among the farms and cottages of the old French-Canadians with this large-hearted man. I shall never forget his recitation of his own poems. They brought tears to my eyes and lumps to my throat, they were so simple and so real. And these poor folk loved him. It was a treat to see a man so respected and adored by the people whom he had been at such pains to make understood. Drummond was the Kipling—the Bret Harte of Canada. He was not much of a French scholar. His accent was horrible, but he comprehended. He had that human understanding and perception that count for more than mere words. He would sit and smoke in the corner with an old man, and draw him out to tell me stories while the wife made cakes for our tea.