Picturesque Quebec : a sequel to Quebec past and present Part 5

M. Temple, Timolaus Beaulieu, C. S. Beaulieu, N. Laforce, George Bouchard, L. N. Carrier, J. B. Michaud, Dr. Lamontagne. Dr. Collet, Arthur Lavigne, P. Boutin, M.P.P., F. Fortier, G. Bresse, J. S. C.

Wurtele, M.P.P., P. E. G.o.dbout, Paul Dumas, Lieutenant Drury, Captain Wilson, H. G. Sheppard, J. B. Charleson, Dr. Hubert LaRue, H. J. J. B.

Chouinard, President de l'Inst.i.tut Canadien, H. J. Beemer, J. L.

Renaud, E. W. Methot, E. C. E. Gauthier, O. Leger, J. E. Pouliot, D.

R. Barry, L. P. Lemay, Jacques Auger, Ernest Pacaud, J. Allaire, M.P., T. G. Tremblay, M.P., J. J. Gahan, Joseph Blondeau, Thomas Potvin, J.

B. Z. Dubeau, Frs. Bertrand, J. C. Hamel, Emile Jacot, John Buchanan, Antoine Carrier, William Breakey.

"The Chair was occupied by Hon. Judge H. T. Taschereau, having on his right the guest of the evening, L. H. Frechette, the Count Premio- Real, Hon. C. A. P. Pelletier, Mr. Wa.s.son, Hon. F. Langelier, M. Thors of Paris, &c., and on his left the Consul-General for France, Hon. Mr.

Laurier, Mr. Bols, Hon. D. Ross, &c.

"The banquet was given in the well-known excellent style of the Russell Hotel Company, which never leaves anything to be desired.

After full justice had been done the good things provided for the occasion, silence was obtained, when the following resolution, presented to Mr. Frechette by the Literary and Historical Society of Quebec, was read by the Secretary, Mr. Delagrave:--

"At a monthly general meeting of the Literary and Historical Society, held on the 13th October last:

"It was proposed by Commander Ashe, R.N., seconded by R. McLeod, Esq.,

"That the Literary and Historical Society of Quebec has witnessed with the highest satisfaction the literary honours conferred in August last, by the _Academie Francaise_, on Monsieur Louis Honore Frechette, for the poetical excellence of his two poems, 'Les Fleurs Boreales'

and 'Les Oiseaux de Neige.'

"That the Academical crown, encircling the brow of a Canadian poet, ought to be as much prised by Canada as it must be dear to its gifted son, the Laureate of the French Academy.

"That such a signal distinction conferred by the highest literary tribunal, whilst it exhibits in such a favourable light the intellectual vigour of the Province of Quebec, cannot be otherwise than a subject of legitimate pride to the Dominion of Canada.

"That the President and Secretary of this Society be charged with the pleasant duty of conveying to Monsieur L. H. Frechette the expression of the sentiments of admiration with which it views his literary success.

(Signed,) J. M. LEMOINE, President ALEX. ROBERTSON, Secretary

_Quebec_, 13th October, 1880.

"The usual loyal toasts--the Queen and Governor-General--were given by the Chairman, and enthusiastically honoured.

"The Chairman then proposed "France," the toast being received with the usual honours and responded to by M. Lefaivre, the Consul-General for France.

"M. Lefaivre made an interesting speech, alluding to the past and present of France, to the communication between the France of the Old World and the _Nouvelle France_ of this Western hemisphere, dwelling upon the honours achieved by the guest of the evening in Paris, and contending that literature was the soul of a nation.

"The Chairman, Hon. Mr. Justice H. Taschereau, then rose to propose the toast of the evening, being received with loud and prolonged cheering. He said,--

"GENTLEMEN,--I have now the honour to propose the toast of the evening--the health of our distinguished fellow-countryman, our guest, Louis Honore Frechette, the poet of Canada, crowned by the Academy of France. You have heard, gentlemen, the loud hurrah of all Canada in honour of one of her children, and here, perhaps, I might cease speaking. Nothing that I might say could increase the glad strength of the general voice of the country, when the news arrived here that the grand arena of literature, the French Academy, an inst.i.tution whose life is counted by centuries, and which is without equal in the world, that great interpreter and infallible judge of the difficulties, the beauties and the genius of the French language, had given one of its annual prizes, and perhaps the finest of all--the prize of poetry--to one of our countrymen. I could never fittingly express or depict the sentiments of pride and joy felt by all lovers of literature in this country--I may add of all good Canadians--when the news came from beyond the ocean, from that sacred France, mother of civilization; from fairy Paris, capital of the Muses, that Mr. Frechette had been crowned! But, as Chairman of this happy reunion, at the risk of but faintly re-echoing the general sentiment, I must at least try to express my feelings in proposing this toast. The emotions which I feel are of a dual nature, that of friendship and of patriotism, and, as friendship is nearer to the heart, so I gave that feeling the first place. The speaker here referred to his collegiate days in the Seminary of Quebec, where he met Mr. Frechette, and in preparing himself for the battle of life, had won the friendship of the Canadian poet. He alluded to Mr. Frechette's first efforts in verse, and had judged his early attempts, and in referring to his (the Judge's) own literary works at the time, the speaker said that the line of Boileau might be applied to him,

"'Pour lui, Phoebus est sourd et Pegase est retif.'

"At that time, Mr. Frechette 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. Frechette published in a small journal in ma.n.u.script, 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. Frechette, he studied law, that dry study, and though the poet was thus devoted to the G.o.ddess 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 alb.u.ms 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 Inst.i.tutes of Justinian were put aside for the more pleasing task of framing idyllic pictures of poetic genius. In fact, Cremazie was almost forgotten, and the name of Frechette 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. Frechette 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 Frechette 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. Frechette 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. Frechette 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. Frechette 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. Frechette, 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 gaite: J'ai perdu jusqu'a la fierte Qui faisait croire a mon genie."

"'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. Frechette, 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. Frechette 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 embarra.s.s 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 embarra.s.sed 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--_confreres_ 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 a.s.suring 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 sh.o.r.es 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 n.o.ble 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, ent.i.tled '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 n.o.blest children a.s.sembled 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 grat.i.tude 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 Cremazie, 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 a.s.sociation 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 sh.o.r.es? 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 gla.s.s 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 G.o.d 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 a.s.sisting 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 Inst.i.tute. 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.

"Buvons, buvons, amis, de ce bon maccallome, Venant directement du bra.s.seur qu'il denome!

C'est ca 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. a.r.s.ene 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 circ.u.mstance 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 dest.i.tute, 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 Pet.i.tclerc, Parent, Soulard, Chauveau, Garneau, L'Ecuyer, Ferland, Barthe and Real 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'Abbe Laverdiere, l'Abbe Casgrain, LeMoine, Fiset, Tache, Plamondon, LaRue, and the first among all Octave Cremazie, 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'Abbe Begin, Routhier, Oscar Dunn, Faucher de St. Maurice, Buies, Marmette and Legendre, all charged with the glorious task of preserving for Quebec her legitimate t.i.tle 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 ill.u.s.trious 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 ill.u.s.trious 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 Frechette 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. Frechette, and concluded a highly intellectual and eloquent speech, amidst the reiterated cheers of the whole a.s.semblage.

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 a.s.sist 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. Frechette 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 Beranger and De Musset,--that the "Forty Immortals" of Mother France, recognized in Mr. Frechette,--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.

Frechette 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 Oth.e.l.lo, or I might ask you to hear a word about Ben Jonson, "rare Ben," or poor Philip Ma.s.singer 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 Ra.s.selas, 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. Frechette'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 cla.s.sic 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 pa.s.sing, 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, d.i.c.kens, 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 _blase_ 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 surpa.s.sed 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 Frechette 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 ma.s.sive and spirited and grand.