Picturesque Quebec : a sequel to Quebec past and present

by Sir J. M. Le Moine

"Buvons, buvons, amis, de ce bon maccallome,
Venant directement du brasseur qu'il dénome!
C'est ça qui vous retape et vous refait un homme?"

The effect was magical. The heart of the brewer was touched. A long waggon on which we could read the eloquent words "pale ale and porter" stopped next day before our door. For twenty minutes a man with burthened step climbed the Jacob's ladder which led to the poet's attic, and one hundred and forty-four bottles of inviting appearance ranged themselves around the chamber. I cannot picture the joy of the happy recipient. In his enthusiasm he offered me a community in his good fortune—of course under a pledge of inviolable secrecy. But as I felt the imperious necessity of communicating my emotions I was as wanting in discretion as he had been, and that evening all the Bohemians, students and literary friends even to the remotest degree followed in the wake of McCallum's bottles, and invaded the attic chamber of poor Arthur (your good-natured cousin, Mr. President.) There we had French, English, Latin and Greek speeches in prose and in verse. Arsène Michaud has even prepared a story for the occasion. In brief, the hecatomb was made; the libation was Olympic, the twelve dozen disappeared and on the morrow poor Casgrain showed me with a sad face the Homeric remains of his one day's wealth, and in a lamentable tone of despair he exclaimed: "I will have to write another poem." Gentlemen, that was the first time in Canada that poetry made a return to its author, and in tasting these delicate viands which the hospitable city of Quebec now offers to one of those early Bohemians in recognition of his literary success, I could not fail to recollect with emotion this amusing circumstance now enveloped, with other scenes of youth, sometimes glad—sometimes sorrowful, in the shadowy robe of past recollections. Another story just suggests itself to my mind. Lusignan and I occupied the attic of an old house in Palace street. Our room was heated by a stove-pipe, which reached from the lower apartments. One day I had published in Le Canadien—Tempora Mutantur—a little poem in which was the following line:

"Shivering in my attic poor."

The next day a surprise awaited us. A dumb stove had replaced the mere stove-pipe, and while holding our sides from laughter we heard this speech: "Gentlemen, we are very indulgent, considering your noisy meetings—we are not very particular when rent-day arrives—and if you so shivered in your room, it would have been better to have said so privately, than to have complained of it in the newspapers." (Laughter.) Poor Mrs. Tessier, our landlady—she was not well acquainted with figures of speech, but she has been the Providence of many of the destitute, and more than one who hears me now can say as I do, that no better or more obliging heart ever beat in a more pitiful bosom towards purseless youth. And who knows, it is perhaps due to this sympathetic feeling of its population towards literary men and writers that this city of Quebec has seen such an array of talent within her bosom, such a succession of Pleiades of distinguished litterateurs, who have glorified her name and that of their country. For the last fifty years, men eminent in all branches of literature have made a gorgeous and resplendent aureole around the city of Quebec. In the generation immediately preceding us, we see Petitclerc, Parent, Soulard, Chauveau, Garneau, L'Ecuyer, Ferland, Barthe and Réal Angers, these grand pioneers of intellect, who in history, poetry, drama and romance, made such a wide opening for the generation which followed them. Then we have l'Abbé Laverdière, l'Abbé Casgrain, LeMoine, Fiset, Taché, Plamondon, LaRue, and the first among all Octave Crémazie, who coming at different times bravely and constantly continued the labours of their predecessors, until we reach the brilliant phalanx of contemporary writers, Lemay, Fabre, l'Abbé Begin, Routhier, Oscar Dunn, Faucher de St. Maurice, Buies, Marmette and Legendre, all charged with the glorious task of preserving for Quebec her legitimate title of the Athens of Canada. And how could it be otherwise? Is not Quebec the cradle of our nationality—the spot whereon is engraved the most illustrious pages of our history—heroic annals, touching souvenirs, all combining with the marvels of nature to speak here the soul of the historian and of the poet. What a flourishing field for the historian and poet is not the tale of that handful of Breton heroes, who, three centuries ago, planted on the rock of Quebec the flag of Christianity and civilization! What innumerable sources of inspiration can we not find in our majestic river, our gigantic lakes, our grand cascades, our lofty mountains, our impenetrable forests and in all that grand and wild nature, which will ever be the characteristic feature of our dear Canada. Oh! our history, gentlemen! Oh, the picturesque beauties of our country! Two marvellous veins—two mines of precious material open at our feet. The European writers are ever striving to discover something fresh. Having exhausted all kinds of themes, they are now stooping to the dust to find an originality which seems to fly from them. Well, this freshness, this originality, so courted and so rare now-a-days, may be found within our grasp,—it is there in our historical archives—in our patriarchal customs—in the many characters of a people young and thirsting for independence—a robust and healthy poetry, floats on our breezes—breathes in our popular songs—sings in the echoes of our wild forests, and opens graceful and proud her white wings to the winds of the free aspirations of the new world. To us this virgin field belongs, gentlemen! Take from Europe her form and experience, but leave to her, her old Muses. Let us be true to ourselves! Be Canadians and the future is ours. "That which strikes us most in your poems" said a member of the French Academy to me, "is that the modern style, the Parisian style of your verses is united to something strange, so particular and singular—it seems an exotic, disengaged from the entire." This perfume of originality which this writer discovered in my writings was then unknown to myself. What was it? It was the secret of their nationality,—the certificate of their origin, their Canadian stamp! And it is important for us, gentlemen, never to allow this character to disappear. Let our young writers stamp it broadly on their pages and then advance to their task, they need no longer fear the thorns on the way. The path is wide open and millions of readers await their efforts. To the work then; France offers us her hand, and now that we have renewed the bonds between us and our illustrious and well-beloved mother country—bonds broken by the vicissitudes which occur in the life of peoples, we shall be enabled once more to prove the great truth enunciated by Bulwer Lytton in "Richelieu," that

"The pen is mightier than the sword."

The Chairman called upon Hon. Wilfred Laurier to propose the next toast.

Hon. Mr. Laurier, on being called on to propose the toast of the Academy of France, was loudly cheered on rising, and the enthusiasm became the greater as he advanced, showing the many claims the great French tribunal of letters had upon the attention of the learned word. He spoke of the old ties which bound France and Canada, and alluded to the argument of Doucet, the French Academician, in favour of the admission of Fréchette to the French concours, viz., that when France was in the throes of agony, the voice of French Canada spoke out its loud attachment to the cause of the ancient mother country. In such action was the forgotten daughter restored to its sorrowing mother. The hon. gentleman then in language of forcible eloquence referred to the pleasure shown by English-Canadians at the success of Mr. Fréchette, and concluded a highly intellectual and eloquent speech, amidst the reiterated cheers of the whole assemblage.

The Chairman then proposed the toast of English and French literature.

Mr. George Stewart, jr., who on rising was greeted with cheers, said:—

MR. CHAIRMAN AND GENTLEMEN:—I must thank you for the very enthusiastic manner in which you have just drank to this toast, and for the cordiality with which you have been good enough to receive my name. Before asking you to consider with me the subject which has just been so happily proposed from the chair, I would ask your permission to say how gratified I am at being present, this evening, to assist you in paying homage to one whom we all delight to honour, and at whose feet it is our special privilege to sit. (Cheers.) It is all of seventeen years since Mr. Fréchette gave to the public, in a little book, the best fruits of his youthful muse, but those early efforts of his mind gave abundant promise of future excellence and hope,—a promise which has since been admirably and delightfully fulfilled. I cannot tell you how proud we all feel,—we who speak the English tongue, alike with you who utter the liquid and mellow language of Béranger and De Musset,—that the "Forty Immortals" of Mother France, recognized in Mr. Fréchette,—what all of us knew before,—that he was a tender and graceful poet, and that his work is as pure and sweet as anything to be found in the lyric poetry of our time. (Cheers.) Mr. Fréchette had not to go abroad to find that out, but it is pleasing to us all to find our opinions confirmed and ratified by the highest authority in France. I again thank you, gentlemen, for the privilege which you have afforded me of saying these few words regarding our laurel-crowned poet and guest. (Applause.) With regard to the subject which has brought me to my feet, what am I to say? I might dilate upon the beauties of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, or Edmund Spenser's immortal Faerie Queene, or Shakespeare's tender women, the Juliet we love, the Rosalind who is ever in our hearts, the Beatrice, the Imogen, gentle Ophelia, or kindly but ill-starred Desdemona, or the great heroes of tragedy, Lear, Macbeth, Hamlet or Othello, or I might ask you to hear a word about Ben Jonson, "rare Ben," or poor Philip Massinger who died a stranger, of the Puritan Milton, the great Catholic Dryden, or Swift, or Bunyan, Defoe, Addison, Pope and Burke and grim Sam Johnson who made the dictionary and wrote Rasselas, the Prince of Abyssinia, but there is not time for us to go into the subject as minutely as that. At a dinner of this kind, which is so rich in every delicacy which the most sensitive palate could desire, and which boasts wines as delicate and as fragrant in bouquet as one of Mr. Fréchette's sonnets—(Cheers)—and I might add also as one of my friend LeMay's hopefullest lyrics— (Cheers), it would be ungenerous of me to keep you very long. I will content myself therefore with a remark or two regarding the peculiar features which seem to inspire our literature, at the present time, and by our literature I mean English literature in its broadest sense and amplest significance. Perhaps at no period of letters, in the whole history of literature from the days of Chaucer and Raleigh, from the renaissance, through the classic period, to more modern times, to our own day in fact, has the cultured world seen such a brilliant array of brilliant men and women, who write the English prose which delights our fire-sides, and enriches our minds at the present time. The world has never presented to mankind before, in all its years of usefulness, such a galaxy of great essayists and novelists as we have enjoyed and enjoy now, within a period of fifty or sixty years, and which properly belong to our own age. The era is rich in stalwart minds, in magnificent thinkers, in splendid souls. Carlyle, Emerson, Wilson, Morley, Froude, Holmes, Harrison, Darwin, Huxley, Spencer, Mill, Buckle, Lewes. In fiction the list is too long for mention, but, in passing, I may note George Eliot—a woman who writes as if her soul had wings, William Black who paints almost as deftly as Walter Scott, Thomas Hardy, Anthony Trollope, Thackeray, Dickens, Reade, William Howells, who has not forgotten to write of the grandeur of the Saguenay, and William Kirby whose Chien d'Or will serve to keep a memory green in many a Quebecer's heart. I need hardly name more. The list could, I am well aware, be extended indefinitely, and as each of you doubtless has your favourite novelist, I need not waste your time by the simple enumeration of men and women who have from time to time, beguiled away the hours with their stories of the heart, or of purpose, or of endeavour. We get blasé now and then perhaps through the reading of so many moderns, but the cure for that lies within easy range. We can take a peep at those old fellows in old- fashioned bindings, who used to delight our grandfathers in the "brave days of old," when Richardson told the story of "Pamela," and "Clarissa Harlowe," when Fielding wrote "Tom Jones," and Smollett narrated the history of "Humphrey Clinker," and the career of "Tristram Shandy" found a truthful historian in that mad parson Lawrence Sterne. We might even read those ancient authors, ancient in style at least, for a change, and still be reading English literature in its truest and widest sense. But it is less with the fiction- writers that we have to deal, than with the thinkers who have given to belles-lettres in this age, its robustness and vigour. In political economy, in scientific thought, in history, in moral philosophy and in polite learning, and in criticism, I think our day has produced the greatest teachers, as well as the largest number of them since the English tongue had a literature of its own. (Applause.) This is true at least in prose writing. I know that in poetry we are surpassed in grandeur and majesty by the bards of other periods of our mental activity, I know that we have not produced a Milton yet, nor a Dryden, nor a Pope—I leave Shakespeare and Chaucer out of the question, nor a Spenser. We have very many more than our share of really tuneful singers and fine poets like Tennyson and Longfellow, Morris and Swinburne, the Arnolds and Lowell—all of them sweet and in every way charming, none of them grand and magnificent like the sons of song of the great days of poesy. We have singers and singers, minor poets and minor poets, all engaged in weaving for our delight very many pretty fancies; graceful story-tellers in verse, if you will, but our chief strength lies in prose, sober, scholarly and healthful prose. Our fame will rest on that branch of the service. (Applause.) Turning to Canada, I might say that our mental outfit is by no means beggarly. In fiction we have produced, and I confine myself particularly to those who have written in English, Judge Haliburton, James DeMille, Wm. Kirby, John Lesperance. (Applause.) In poetry, Heavysege, John Reade, Roberts, Charles Sangster, Wm. Murdoch, Chandler, Howe; in history, Beamish Murdoch, Todd, Morgan, Hannay, Mr. LeMoine—(Applause)—whom I see present here to night; Dr. Miles, Mr. Harper, the efficient Rector of our High School, and others of more or less repute. In Science, Dr. Dawson and Sir Wm. Logan; in logic, Wm. Lyall; in rhetoric, James DeMille. In political and essay writing we have a good list, the most prominent names being Goldwin Smith, whom we may fairly claim, Bourinot, Haliburton, Todd, Howe, Elder, Ellis, Griffin, Anglin, Dymond, McDougall, White. (Cheers.) And here I would just say to you—for I have spoken longer than I intended—over-taxed your patience I fear very much—that we must, if we would ever become great in helping to form current thought and the intellectual movement of the day, renounce all sectionalism in letters, and go in for the great goal which all may aspire to who wish. When the French Academy hailed our friend Fréchette as a brother poet, the act was not done because he was a Canadian, but because he was a poet, writing and speaking the French tongue. (Applause.) There is no such thing really as Canadian literature or American literature. It is all English literature, and we should all strive to add to the glory of that literature. We can do it, in our way, as well as Moore and Lover and Lever and Carleton and McGee did, when they added the splendid work of their genius to build up the renown and prestige of the parent stock. (Applause.) As Scott and Burns, Dunbar and Hector McNeill, and Tannahill and James Hogg and bluff "Kit North;" all of Scotland, did to make the English literature massive and spirited and grand. (Applause.) As Hawthorne and Longfellow, Holmes and Bryant, Cooper and Irving, and Motley did, and as our own John Reade (cheers) and Charles Roberts, a new poet whose star has just arisen, and Bourinot— (cheers)—and the rest of them are doing now. We must forget the small localism which can do us no good, and join the great brotherhood of letters which writes the world over, in the English tongue. France, Germany and Russia, Italy and Spain teem with the grand work of their children. We who speak and write in the English language must not be unmindful of our several duties. We must work for the attainment of the great end, the development of English literature, of which we are as truly a part as the authors of the United States, of Scotland, of Ireland and of England. English literature does not mean simply a literature written solely by Englishmen. It takes its name from the fact that it draws its nourishment from all writers who write in English, and Scotchmen, Irishmen, Americans, and colonists, as well as citizens of England are invited to add to its greatness and permanency. I thank you Mr. Chairman and you gentlemen for your kindness and forbearance in listening to me so long, and so patiently. (Loud continued cheering.)