firm, courageous and far-sighted.  In well chosen language—­always characteristic of his public addresses—­he spoke of the cordial reception he had met with, when he arrived a stranger in Montreal, of the beauty of its surroundings, of the kind attention with which its citizens had on more than one occasion listened to the advice he gave to their various associations, of the undaunted courage with which the merchants had promoted the construction of that great road which was so necessary to the industrial development of the province, of the patriotic energy which first gathered together such noble specimens of Canadian industry from all parts of the country, and had been the means of making the great World’s Fair so serviceable to Canada; and then as he recalled the pleasing incidents of the past, there came to his mind a thought of the scenes of 1849, but the sole reference he allowed himself was this:  “And I shall forget—­but no, what I might have to forget is forgotten already, and therefore I cannot tell you what I shall forget.”

The last speech which he delivered in the picturesque city of Quebec gave such eloquent expression to the feelings with which he left Canada, is such an admirable example of the oratory with which he so often charmed large assemblages, that I give it below in full for the perusal of Canadians of the present day who had not the advantage of hearing him in the prime of his life.

“I wish I could address you in such strains as I have sometimes employed on similar occasions—­strains suited to a festive meeting; but I confess I have a weight on my heart and it is not in me to be merry.  For the last time I stand before you in the official character which I have borne for nearly eight years.  For the last time I am surrounded by a circle of friends with whom I have spent some of the most pleasant days of my life.  For the last time I welcome you as my guests to this charming residence which I have been in the habit of calling my home.[23] I did not, I will frankly confess it, know what it would cost me to break this habit, until the period of my departure approached, and I began to feel that the great interests which have so long engrossed my attention and thoughts were passing out of my hands.  I had a hint of what my feelings really were upon this point—­a pretty broad hint too—­one lovely morning in June last, when I returned to Quebec after my temporary absence in England, and landed in the coves below Spencerwood (because it was Sunday and I did not want to make a disturbance in the town), and when with the greetings of the old people in the coves who put their heads out of the windows as I passed along, and cried ‘Welcome home again,’ still ringing in my ears, I mounted the hill and drove through the avenue to the house door, I saw the drooping trees on the lawn, with every one of which I was so familiar, clothed in the tenderest green of spring, and the river beyond, calm and transparent as a mirror, and the ships