Mr. Lemay, in replying for French literature, said—It is particularly agreeable to be called on to speak on this occasion because it affords me the opportunity to render to our host an evidence of the admiration and friendship which I bear towards him this evening. It is now over twenty years since we were together at College, and the same tastes which pleased us then govern us now. The same destiny which led us towards the bar guided us also on the paths of literature. The speaker here improvised a magnificent address to the genius of French-Canadian letters. He alluded to the first pages of Canadian history written in the blood of martyrs, thus giving to the Canadian people a literature of heroes. The speaker then traced the changeful epochs from the days of the soldiers of the sword to the warriors of the pen, and he drew forth loud applause as he alluded to the brave polemists who traced their literary endeavors in the brave work of defending their country and redeeming its liberties. In quoting Sir Geo. Cartier's well known line, "O Canada, my country and my love," ("O Canada, mon pays, mes amours,") the eloquent orator elicited the warm and hearty applause of the assemblage. From the troublous days of 1837 to the present moment, Mr. Lemay reviewed the various efforts at literary renown of the French Canadian people, and concluded one of the finest speeches of the evening amidst the tumultuous applause of his sympathising auditors.
The next toast was that of the Literary and Historical Society and of the Institut Canadien of Quebec.
Mr. J. M. LeMoine, in replying to the first part of the toast said:—
GENTLEMEN,—In the name of the Literary and Historical Society of Quebec, I thank you cordially for the health just proposed—As the President of a society numbering close on 400 members, who though diverse in creed and language, are united for one common object—the promotion of culture and science and the encouragement of historical studies,—I cannot help feeling I stand here somehow in the character of a representative man. In tendering a welcome to Mr. Fréchette, our honoured guest, I can add but little to the sentiments conveyed in the resolution adopted at our last meeting and which you have heard read. In presence of so many distinguished persons, several of whom have made their mark, at the Bar—or on the Bench—the forum—in literature—in the bank parlor or in the counting house,—with so many fluent speakers here present and prepared to applaud, with all the graces of oratory and fervour of patriotism,—the distinction conferred on French Canada, by the highest literary tribunal in France—convinced myself of the honour which Mr. Fréchette's laurels must confer on this ancient and picturesque Province of Quebec, with its glorious though yet unrevealed destinies, I feel proud as a Canadian in standing here, the bearer even of a solitary rosebud for the fragrant bouquet, which a grateful country offers this night to its gifted child. Alas! had not the relentless hand [32] of death—had not a self-imposed fate, darker even than death, removed from our midst, another "mind pregnant with celestial fire," Canada this night might possibly have counted two laurel-crowned poets—Louis Honoré Fréchette and Octave Crémazie. For I am not one of those who refuse to recognize Canadian talent; on the contrary, I feel myself moved to rejoice in our wealth of intellect. I am reminded to be brief; around me there is a surging stream of eloquence ready to burst through its floodgates. I must give way. With your permission, I shall therefore merely ask a question. What propitious turn of fortune? which of the benign fairies who watched over his natal hour has Mr. Fréchette to thank for his present success? How came it to pass that, though he was born a poet, he should have to undergo an ordeal like another great poet (whom posterity may specially claim as an historian) the author of the "Lays of Ancient Rome," of emancipating himself from his earthy—at one time not burdensome—thraldom before soaring on the wings of poesy to that lofty region, where his classic diction and lyric power attracted the attention of those worthy but fastidious gentlemen, yclept "The Forty Immortals of the French Academy." I have mentioned a very illustrious name in the Republic of Letters,—a name as dear to Britain as that of our Laureate ought to be to Canada—that of Macaulay—historian, essayist, poet. You all know how his parliamentary defeat as candidate for Edinburgh in 1847, rescued him forever from the "dismal swamp" of politics, providing his wondrous mind, with leisure to expand and mature, in the green fields of literature. If New France has not yet produced such a gorgeous genius as he, of whom all those who speak Chatham's tongue are so justly proud, it has however out of its sparse population of one million, put forth a representative whom Old France with its thirty- eight millions has deemed a fit subject to honour in an unmistakable way. Shall I tell you how, figuratively, if you should prefer, ended for Fréchette the "day of tumult"?
That Ignis Fatuus, ambition, has allured, as you are aware, more than one youthful fowler to an uncertain swampy hunting ground, called "politics." Mr. Fréchette was one of the unfortunate. This game preserve, I pronounce "uncertain" because owing to several inexplicable eventualities sportsmen innumerable, therefrom return empty handed, whilst others, Mr. Chairman, make up, we know, pretty good bags. The Son of Apollo, whilst thus hunting one gruesome, windy morning, fortunately for us, sank in a boggy, yielding quicksand. Luckily he extricated himself in time, and on reaching the margin of the swamp, there stood an old pet of his tethered as if waiting for its loved rider, a vigorous Norman or Percheron steed. Our friend bestrode him, cantered off, and never drew rein until he stood, panting perhaps, but a winner in the race, on the top of a mount, distant and of access arduous, called Parnassus.
In conclusion, Mr. LeMoine quoted the memorable lines from Macaulay, written the night when his parliamentary defeat at Edinburgh, in 1847, restored him to letters:—
The day of tumult, strife, defeat, was o'er,
Worn out with toil, and noise, and scorn, and spleen,
I slumbered and in slumber saw once more
A room in an old mansion, long unseen.
That room, methought, was curtained from the light;
Yet through the curtains shone the moon's cold ray
Full on a cradle, where, in linen white,
Sleeping life's first sleep, an infant lay.
* * * * *
And lo! the fairy queens who rule our birth
Drew nigh to speak the new-born baby's doom:
With noiseless step, which left no trace on earth,
From gloom they came, and vanished into gloom.