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.
That room, methought, was curtained from the light;
Yet through the curtains shone the moon's cold ray
Full on a cradle, where, in linen white,
Sleeping life's first sleep, an infant lay.
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