Joseph Howe had won many laurels as an orator, yet the brilliant French-Canadian writer, Hector Fabre, considered him inferior to McGee. "Mr. Howe is well adapted to the tribune; he pleases, he amuses, he charms; but a severer taste would say that his is far from the brilliant eloquence, the irreproachable diction, the constantly pure style, the breadth of views and the rectitude of ideas of Mr. McGee. To my mind Mr. McGee is a nearly perfect orator, and one who in many senses has no superior." Of McGee's domestic and private life, little need be said. It was happy in the highest degree. He was married in the period of his association with Young Ireland, and his wife shared the subsequent adventures of his chequered career, and survived his tragic death. His home presented to all who entered it a charming circle. McGee, with his family, was like a joyous boy. He would often be found romping on the floor with his baby daughter. Of his children only two daughters survived, one of whom took the veil. A genial, convivial nature and an ever sparkling humour won him friends in every part of Canada. One of the many tokens of esteem on the part of his townsfolk in Montreal was the present of a handsome furnished house in one of the best districts of the city. Although an Irishman and a very devout Catholic, he gained the warm homage of the Scotch Presbyterian population in Lower Canada, a homage deeper than that bestowed by the Scotch on any of their own countrymen. At the old Irish and Scottish festival of Hallowe'en he had been an ever welcome speaker in the St. Andrew's Society. It is interesting to note that on the Hallowe'en after his death, thirty-seven of the forty-six poems competing for prizes contained some allusion to him, and one lamented his absence in Scotland's old dialect: Ah! wad that he were here the nicht, Whase tongue was like a faerie lute! But vain the wish: McGee! thy might Lies low in death--thy voice is mute. He's gane, the noblest o' us a'-- Aboon a' care o' worldly fame; An' wha sae proud as he to ca' Our Canada his hame? The gentle maple weeps an' waves Aboon our patriot-statesman's heed; But if we prize the licht he gave, We'll bury feuds of race and creed. For this he wrocht, for this he died; An' for the luve we bear his name, Let's live as brithers, side by side, In Canada, our hame.