He said he had no condemnation, however, for those who were rightly proud of the deeds of the French race and its old heroes.

“I have nothing but the enthusiasm of a comrade for any true to the noble feelings which it would be a shame to let die!  I entreat that they be cherished, and let them incite us to new assurance of our capabilities for enterprises fitting to our age.  Let the virtues of old take new forms, and courage will still be courage, hospitality hospitality, and patriotism patriotism!  Away with dragging for inglorious purposes the banner of the past through the dust of the present!  Let the present be made glorious, and not inglorious, in its own kind, and the past shine on at its enchanted distance of beauty!”

* * * * *

“What shall that greatness be—­that splendor of our Canada to come?” He pictured its possibilities in grand vistas.  The people were spell-bound by noble hopes and emotions which carried them upward.  Involuntarily, as Chrysler looked at his face and bearing, he was reminded of the prophets, and the old white church behind seemed to be rising and throwing back its head, and withdrawing its thoughts into some proud region of the great and supernatural.  The old man forgot the crowd and the crowd totally forgot Chrysler: 

“Canadians!” Chamilly closed, his figure drawn up like a hero’s and his rich voice sounding the name again with that wonderful utterance, “the memories of our race are compatible only with the good of the world and our country.  If you are unwilling to accept me on this basis, do not elect me, for I will only express my convictions.”

CHAPTER XXX.

AN ORATION UNDER DIFFICULTIES.

   “On high in yonder old church tower,
          * * * * *
   The ancient bell rings out the hour,
   Sometimes with voice of wondrous power.”

   —­JOHN BREAKENRIDGE.

Monsieur Editor Quinet mounted the platform and stood there, cool and masterful.

At the same moment the Cure in his black gown, bolted up from his chair beside his young vicar, on the gallery of the parsonage, and regarding the orator with indignation, raised his breviary towards the church with outstretched arm.

“Messieurs, what ruins us"....  Quinet commenced.

His sentence was shattered to pieces!

“KLING-KLANG-G-G-G!” a loud church bell resounded from one of the towers, sending a visible shock over the assembly and drowning the succeeding words.

“What ruins us"....  Quinet, with imperturbable composure, commenced again in a louder voice.

A cashing peal from the opposite belfry replied to the first and compelled him to stop.

The Cure, swelling with triumph, marched up and down his gallery, turning quickly at each end; while the bells of both the towers, swinging confusedly in their belfries, sent forth one horrible continued torrent of clangor over the amazed crowd.