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MARSEILLAISE.
He was a miserable creature, with the soul of a hare, and persistent patience of a ploughing ox. When malicious fate pushed him into our black rows we laughed at him, like madmen who make such silly mistakes. And he?—he, of course, cried…. I have never until now seen a man whose tears flowed so easily, from eyes, nose, and mouth. He was just like a sponge, full of water, and squeezed into men’s hands.
In our set I used to meet with weeping men, but their tears were like a fire from which even wild beasts run away. From such manly tears the face became aged, while the eyes beamed with youth, like an avalanche thrown out with force from
