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.)
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. Frechette, 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. Frechette'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
Honore Frechette and Octave Cremazie. 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.
Frechette 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.
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