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 brasseur 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. Arsene 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 circumstance 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 destitute, 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.

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