In 1864 M. Frechette was admitted to practice at the bar of Quebec. He was a poet first and always; but just at this time he was second a journalist, third a politician, and perhaps fourth a barrister. He began to publish a paper, Le Journal de Levis. It failed: disgusted, he bade farewell to Canada, and began in Chicago the publication of L'Observateur: it died in a day. He poured forth his complaints in 'Voix d'un Exile' (The Voice of an Exile). "Never," cries M. Darveau in 'Nos Gens de Lettres' (Our Literary Workers), "did Juvenal scar the faces of the corrupt Romans as did Frechette lash the shoulders of our wretched politicians." His L'Amerique, a journal started in Chicago, had some success, but it temporarily ruined Frechette, as the Swiss whom he had placed in charge of it suddenly changed its policy, and made it sympathize with Germany in the Franco-Prussian war. Frechette's early prose is fiery and eloquent; his admirers compared it to that of Louis Veuillot and Junius, for the reason, probably, that he used it to denounce those whom he hated politically. Frechette's verse has the lyrical ring. And although M. Camille Doucet insisted that the French Academy in crowning his poems honored a Frenchman, it must be remembered that Frechette is both an American and a British subject; and these things, not likely to disarm Academical conservatism, made the action the more significant of the poet's value. There is strong and noble passion in 'La Voix d'un Exile' and in the 'Ode to the Mississippi.' His arraignment of the Canadian politicians may be forgotten without loss,--no doubt he has by this time forgiven them,--but the real feeling of the poet, who finds in the Mississippi the brother of his beloved St. Lawrence, is permanent:-- "Adieu, vallons ombreux, mes campagnes fleuries, Mes montagnes d'azur et mes blondes prairies, Mon fleuve harmonieux, mon beau del embaume-- Dans les grandes cites, dans les bois, sur les greves, Ton image flottera dans mes reves, O mon Canada, bien aime. Je n'ecouterai plus, dans nos forets profondes, Dans nos pres verdoyants, et sur nos grandes ondes, Toutes ces voix sans nom qui font battre le coeur." [Farewell, shaded valleys, my flowery meadows, my azure mountains and my pale prairies, my musical stream, my fair sky! In the great towns, in the wood, along the water-sides, thy scenes will float on in my dreams, O Canada, my beloved! I shall hear no more, in our deep forests, in our verdant meads and upon our broad waters, all those nameless voices which make one's heart throb.]