sentiment of the people. But his wit is so truly French in its lightness and sparkling, feathering vivacity, that one like me, accustomed to the bitterness of English tonics, suicidal November melancholy, and Byronic wrath of satire, cannot appreciate him at once. But when used to the gentler stimuli, we like them best and we also would live awhile in the atmosphere of music and mirth, content if we have “bread for to-day, and hope for to-morrow.”
‘There are fine lines in his “Cinq Mai;” the sentiment is as grand as Manzoni’s, though not sustained by the same majestic sweep of diction, as, —
‘“Ce rocher repousse l’espérance,
L’Aigle n’est plus dans le secret des dieux,
Il fatiguait la victoire à le suivre,
Elle était lasse: il ne l’attendit pas.”
‘And from “La Gérontocratie, ou les infiniment petits:”
‘“Combien d’imperceptibles êtres,
De petits jésuites bilieux!
De milliers d’autres petits prêtres,
Lui portent de petits bons dieux.”
‘But wit, poet, man of honor, tailor’s grandson and fairy’s favorite, he must speak for himself, and the best that can be felt or thought of him cannot be said in the way of criticism. I will copy and keep a few of his songs. I should like to keep the whole collection by me, and take it up when my faith in human nature required the gentlest of fortifying draughts.
‘How fine his answer to those who asked about the “de” before his name! —
| ‘“Je suis vilain, |
| Vilain, vilain,” &c. |
