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 Crémazie, 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? We were all rivals, but "Our hearts, as our lute, vibrated as one,"