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 assuring 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 shores
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 noble 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, entitled '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 noblest children assembled 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 gratitude 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 association 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 shores? 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 glass of Henri Murger mingled its sonorous tinklings, bright
and merry, to the love-song of our flowery youth?
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