Picturesque Quebec : a sequel to Quebec past and present

by Sir J. M. Le Moine

"'Pour lui, Phoebus est sourd et Pégase est rétif.'

"At that time, Mr. Fréchette had not reached the heights of Helicon, nor attained the regions wherein the 'Boreal Flowers' are gathered and the 'Snow Birds' fly, but the little flowers he gathered in more modest fields had around them the perfume of genuine poetry, and the emerald, ruby and topaz of art already shone in the dainty plumage of his summer birds. Mr. Fréchette published in a small journal in manuscript, called L'Echo, of which Judge Taschereau was then editor in the Seminary, the first efforts of his muse. This souvenir of the past is now very precious to me, said the speaker, because it enables me to state that I was the first editor of our poet's works. Judge Taschereau further alluded to the time when, with Mr. Fréchette, he studied law, that dry study, and though the poet was thus devoted to the goddess Themis, he nevertheless found time to worship at the shrine of song. How could the poet do otherwise? His fame had already gone abroad. The journals of the country were already publishing his sonnets, odes and songs. His acrostics were sought after to grace the albums of fair ladies. Even the volunteers of Canada asked him for war-songs, which are happily more frequently heard in drawing-rooms than in camps. The young student did not possess himself. He was already the property of the country, and the Institutes of Justinian were put aside for the more pleasing task of framing idyllic pictures of poetic genius. In fact, Crémazie was almost forgotten, and the name of Fréchette was on every tongue. Mr. Taschereau tried to reclaim the poet to his legal duties, and give him the place of Mr. Faucher de St. Maurice in his office. Mr. Fréchette accepted the sinecure, but no sooner had he done so than Mr. Faucher returned, anxious, no doubt, for good and congenial company. Judge of my happiness, with Fréchette and Faucher in my office, and I their humble patron. I thought I would succeed in converting my friends, but in this I failed, for they led me on their own paths until I myself began to versify, and, instead of reading Pothier, read 'proofs' of verses. As it is, Mr. Fréchette did become a lawyer; but Mr. Faucher abandoned the pursuit—he retired from my office, lost forever to Themis, but safe to the cause of literature. The departure of my young friends saved me. I could never expect to win the applause of the French Academy, and thus, as I am enabled to preside at this banquet, I may be permitted to offer our guest a bouquet of friendship's flowers, gathered during twenty-five years, and I feel that its perfume will be agreeable to my distinguished friend. The life of Mr. Fréchette is written in the poetry and literature of this country. He has marched steadily onward from the day on which he wrote his Loisirs, until the grand moment when he stood the crowned victor in the Academy of France. We have known our guest as a lawyer, journalist and member of Parliament, and have always admired his wonderful faculties, ever ready as he was to promote the welfare of his friends. His large heart contributed to pave the way to success, for, undoubted though his talents are, his winning manners won for him an ever-growing popularity, and we may affirm that, if he had traducers, he had, on the other hand, a host of friends. Traducers always follow the wake of a literary man, and they resemble the creeping things which we suffer in our gardens, because their existence can lead to no effectual harm. I may have occupied your time at too great length in treating of Mr. Fréchette as a friend. Allow me now, however, for a few moments, to speak of his success from a patriotic point of view. As French-Canadians, we are proud of our Laureate, and happy to see him in our midst this evening. In crowning our distinguished poet, the French Academy has given a splendid recognition to Canadian literature in the great Republic of Letters. Our Laureate is a French-Canadian, but our fellow-citizens of British origin have joined with us in this manifestation of our joy, and through their press, as at such gatherings as this, they have spontaneously recognized his talent, thus showing their spirit of justice and their enlightened patriotism. Party politics have ceased their discordant cries to join unanimously in honoring our Laureate, and this is a spectacle of consolation to the country. No commentary is required on this expression of our joy. It is, in itself, the most eloquent of proofs that the citizens of Quebec, as well as those of Montreal, in giving this festival to Mr. Fréchette, have invited all Canadians, in the largest acceptation of the word, to do him honour. In concluding, as I know you are anxious to hear him address you this evening, permit me to make a comparison. One of the most distinguished of modern poets, Alfred de Musset, said in a moment of despair:—

"J'ai perdu ma force, et ma vie,
Et mes amis, et ma gaîté:
J'ai perdu jusqu'à la fierté
Qui faisait croire à mon génie."

"'I have lost my strength and my life, my friends and my gayety, almost my very pride, which made me believe in my genius.' We may say to Mr. Fréchette, as an offset to this cry of despair from one of his elder poetic brethren: 'Courage! You have strength and life! More friends than ever! An enthusiasm of gayety which is fathomless! March on and sing! We are proud of you, and we believe in your genius, crowned, as it is, by the highest literary tribunal in the world—that of the Forty Immortals!' (Cheers.)

"The utmost enthusiasm pervaded those present, and when the poet laureate rose to reply, he was greeted with loud applause, which continued for several minutes. Mr. Fréchette said:—

"MR. CHAIRMAN AND GENTLEMEN,—For some time past I have abstained from public speaking, and there are those amongst my best friends who tell me that I have done well. To-day Montreal [31] and Quebec seem to have conspired against me, to oblige me to make two speeches on the same subject. This, though flattering to me, is hardly fair. If, having pleaded in one sense, I were asked to take the opposite ground, it might appear that such would not embarrass a lawyer, and one who has also been a politician, but in my present position I am called upon to treat the same question twice, and absolutely in the same sense. How can I discover something new to advance. Naturally, I felt embarrassed at the outset, but, at any risk, my duty is to respond to your flattering call, and thus to best avenge myself upon this conspiracy of my friends. It will not be surprising if I affirm that the occasion of this reunion has for me a character of especial solemnity. Seated at this festive board, I see the representatives of different nations, who, in private capacities also, have won general respect. I see, also, my fellow-citizens of Quebec and of Levis, my native town—the schoolmates of my earliest days—confrères in professional life and in the walks of literature—comrades of past political struggles—friends, ever indulgent and generous—political leaders of whom I have always been proud, and gentlemen of various origins, divergent opinions and different religious beliefs, all tendering me their warmest congratulations upon the success I have achieved in the literary world. No words of mine are adequate to express my feelings, not can I sufficiently thank you all for this spontaneous and sympathetic demonstration in honour of one who regrets that he is not more worthy of your favour. I can only accept your evidences of friendship with cordial emotion, thank you from the depth of my heart and bear with me from this hall a proud memory which will unite with the remembrances of my youth, all of which are so intimately identified with the hospitable people of Quebec, and, in so declaring, I am but assuring you that this remembrance will ever attend upon me. The past vouches for this; for when my tent of exile shook in the winds from off the great Western lakes, or slept on the bowery shores of Louisianian streams; when my traveller's skiff was rocked on the waters of the Southern gulfs, or was reflected on the blue waves of the Loire; when I had before me the wild majesty of Niagara, the immensity of the ocean, or when, filled with admiration, I paused to gaze upon the stupendous monuments of the Old World, my thoughts ever instinctively flew back to the good old city of Champlain, unparalleled in the world for the picturesque splendor of its site, and the poetry which no less issues from the very stones of its fortress, than it lingers upon every page of its history. Yes! Old Quebec! In all places I have cherished with devotion every memory of you, for within your walls my heart first opened to the noble teaching of intellect! It is your lofty embrasures—your flag, bravely floating in the skies—your abrupt rock, your stretches of ramparts, your brilliant steeples, reflecting their beauty on the bosom of the St. Lawrence, mingled with the sails of your cosmopolitan navies; which, for the first time, awoke the poetic enthusiasm in my breast. Long ago I first saw these scenes from the window of an humble cottage of Levis, half-hidden in a screen of foliage; and in my youngest days, ere I knew the method or formation of a verse, I felt the fluttering against the cage of my heart of that golden bird, whose sonorous voice is styled Poetry. In fact, gentlemen, I was carried towards a literary career from the very outset, and in this connection you will permit me to relate a little anecdote. You will pardon me if I appear egotistical, but your cordial reception warrants me in looking for your indulgence. I had learned to read in a book full of reveries and sentiment, entitled 'Letters or the poet Gilbert to his sister.' Of course I understood but little of it, yet it made a deep impression on my imagination. One day my father, an honest man and good citizen, if there were ever any such, but who had nothing in common with the Muses, asked my brother and I what professions we would adopt when we grew big. 'For me,' replied my happy-hearted brother Edmond, 'I will be a carter,' and 'I will be a poet,' I immediately added. I still remember my father's smile of affectionate pity when he heard these unexpected declarations from the hopes of his declining years. "My poor children," said he, with a resigned air, "these two occupations will never lead you to wealth and fortune." Later I understood the wise reflection of my father, but no one carves out his own destiny and he must submit to fate. I have vainly tried other careers but finally was obliged to return to this dream of my infancy. As the poet says,

"Drive away the natural, and it returns at full speed."

Yes, dear old City of Quebec, so old and so glorious, so beautiful in your ensemble and so characteristic in your details, so cordial and so hospitable, in presence of your noblest children assembled here to welcome me, within your old walls, let me give this testimony, that if I have had the happiness of causing the Canadian name to be heard in the immortal shrine of French literature it is to you I owe it, and to you is my gratitude offered. For I must tell you, gentlemen, that I loved Quebec too much, at the distance, not to hasten across the river, when the bird felt that his wings were strong enough to fly. At that time the greatest of the poets of Quebec, Octave Crémazie, sang the glories of our ancestors and the brave deeds of old France. His energetic and inspired voice excited youthful emulation. A group of budding writers surrounded him, but each one felt timid and hesitated to tune his notes amongst the loud echoes of his vigorous patriotism. Alas! the star fled from our skies, another generation of enthusiastic poets and writers disputed the honour of seizing the lyre, so heavy for their fingers, which had been left on the rock of Quebec, by the author of the Flag of Carillon. O! my old comrades, do you think as frequently as do I, of those old days, when with hearts full of poetic illusions, we united our talents, our hopes and I might add our poverty, to establish that spiritual association in which the beautiful was idolized, seekers as we were after the ideal, dealers in mental bijouterie, despised at first by some, but which succeeded more than once in directing the attention of literary France to our shores? Do you, at times, remember our joyful meetings, our interminable readings, our long hours of continued study and waking reveries in common—do you yet remember the bewildering evenings in which the glass of Henri Murger mingled its sonorous tinklings, bright and merry, to the love-song of our flowery youth? We were all rivals, but

"Our hearts, as our lute, vibrated as one,"

and God knows that this rivalry never severed the bonds of affection which united us, and so was founded what has since been styled the Mutual Admiration Society. Mutual Admiration Society! If we were to consider the number of books, dress-coats, gloves and other articles of more intimate character that were exchanged between us, it might more safely have been called the Society for Mutual Support. At all events, from the spectacle before me this evening I gather that this Society of Mutual Admiration, if admiration it must be termed, has taken a singular development since I had the honour of assisting so frequently at its meetings, and there is nothing surprising in this, since one of the most distinguished of the founders of this society, Mr. Faucher de St. Maurice, informed me the other day that the society in question was about to annex the French Academy. (Laughter.) But to be serious, allow me to recount another anecdote. There was a time, gentlemen, when our Mutual Admiration was far from being so ambitious as to dream of having a succursale under the rotunda of the French Institute. But if our productions were meagre, our revenues were still more so, and famine often reigned in the chests of the confraternity. However we had our own days of abundance when there was corn in Egypt. The first Quebecer who understood that poetry, unlike perpetual motion, could not feed itself, was a brewer, whose memory is now legendary and who was known by the harmonious name of McCallum. Arthur Casgrain, who in a couple of years afterwards we sorrowfully bore to the cemetery, had thought of composing an Epic on the Grand Trunk. This was called "La grande Tronciade!" Well in one of the twelve parts of this production, so very original, there were three remarkable lines.