be to Canada--that of Macaulay--historian, essayist, poet. You all know how his parliamentary defeat as candidate for Edinburgh in 1847, rescued him forever from the "dismal swamp" of politics, providing his wondrous mind, with leisure to expand and mature, in the green fields of literature. If New France has not yet produced such a gorgeous genius as he, of whom all those who speak Chatham's tongue are so justly proud, it has however out of its sparse population of one million, put forth a representative whom Old France with its thirty- eight millions has deemed a fit subject to honour in an unmistakable way. Shall I tell you how, figuratively, if you should prefer, ended for Fréchette 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. Fréchette 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. * * * * * And lo! the fairy queens who rule our birth Drew nigh to speak the new-born baby's doom: With noiseless step, which left no trace on earth, From gloom they came, and vanished into gloom. Not deigning on the boy a glance to cast Swept careless by the gorgeous Queen of Gain. More scornful still, the Queen of Fashion passed, With mincing gait and sneer of cold disdain.