Une eau courait, fraîche et creuse,

Sur les mousses de velours;

Et la nature amoureuse

Dormait dans les grands bois sourds.'—

and here, not unworthy to be remembered with Proud Maisie, that wonderful harmony of legend and superstition and the facts and dreams of common life, the death-song of Fantine:

'Nous achèterons de bien belles choses,

En nous promenant le long de faubourgs.

La Vierge-Marie auprès de mon poële
Est venue hier, en manteau brodé,
Et m'a dit: Voici, caché sous mon voile,

Le petit qu'un jour tu m'as demandé.
Courez à la ville; ayez de la toile,
Achetez du fil, achetez un dé.

Les bluets sont bleus, les roses sont roses,
Les bluets sont bleus, j'aime mes amours.'

And from this masterpiece of simple and direct emotion, which to me has always seemed the high-water mark of Hugo's lyrical achievement as well as the most human of his utterances, one might pass on to masterpieces of another inspiration: to the luxurious and charming graces of Sara la Baigneuse; to the superb crescendo and diminuendo of les Djinns; to 'Si vous n'avez rien à me dire,' that daintiest of songlets; to the ringing rhymes and gallant spirit of the Pas d'Armes du Roi Jean:

'Sus, ma bête,

De façon
Que je fête

Ce grison!
Je te baille

Pour ripaille
Plus de paille,

Plus de son,

Qu'un gros frère,
Gai, friand,
Ne peut faire,
Mendiant
Par les places
Où tu passes,

De grimaces

En priant!'

to the melodious tenderness of "Si tu voulais, Madelaine'; to the gay music of the Stances à Jeanne :

'Je ne me mets pas en peine
Du clocher ni du beffroi.
Je ne sais rien de la reine,
Et je ne sais rien du roi.'—

to the admirable song of the wind of the

sea:

'Quels sont les bruits sourds?

Ecoutez vers l'onde

Cette voix profonde

Qui pleure toujours,

Et qui toujours gronde,

Quoiqu'un son plus claire
Parfois l'interrompe . . .
Le vent de la mer

Souffle dans sa trompe.'—

to the Romance Mauresque, to the barbaric fury of les Reîtres, to the magnificent rodomontade of the Romancero du Cid. 'J'en passe, et des meilleurs,' as Ruy Gomez observes of his ancestors. Here at Here at any rate are jewels enough to furnish forth a casket that should be one of the richest of its kind? The worst is, they are most of them not necessaries but luxuries. It is impossible to conceive of life without Shakespeare and Burns, without Paradise Lost and the Intimations ode and the immortal pageant of the Canterbury Tales; but (the technical

question apart) to imagine it wanting Hugo's lyrics is easy enough. The largesse of which he was so prodigal has but an arbitrary and conventional value. Like the magician's money much has changed, almost in the act of distribution, into withered leaves; and such of it as seems minted of good metal is not for general circulation.

The Villainy of Trans

H

HEINE

EINE had a light hand with the branding-iron, and marked his sublation. jects not more neatly than indelibly. And really he alone were capable of dealing adequate vengeance upon his translators. His verse has only violent lovers or violent foes; indifference is impossible. Once read as it deserves, it becomes one of the loveliest of our spiritual acquisitions. We hate to see it tampered with; we are on thorns as the translator approaches, and we resent his operations as an individual hurt, a personal affront. What business has he to be trampling among our borders and crushing our flowers with his stupid hobnails? Why cannot he carry his zeal for topsy-turvy horticulture elsewhere? He comes and lays a brutal hand on our pet growths, snips off their graces, shapes them anew according to his own ridiculous ideal, paints and varnishes them with a villainous compound of