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. Shall I tell you how, figuratively, if you should prefer, ended
for Frechette 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. Frechette 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.
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