When the Revolution of 1848 burst unexpectedly, he was not charmed with it,—­nay, it made him even a little sad.  Less a republican than a patriot, he saw immense danger for France, as he knew her, in the establishment of the pure republican form.  He was of opinion that it was necessary to wear out the monarchy little by little,—­that with time and patience it would fall of itself; but he had to do with an impatient people, and he lamented it.  “We had a ladder to go down by,” said he, “and here we are jumping out of the window!” It was the same sentiment of patriotism, mingled with a certain almost mystical enthusiasm for the great personality of Napoleon, nourished and augmented with growing years, which made him accept the events of 1851-2 and the new Empire.

The religion of Beranger, which was so anti-Catholic, and which seems even to have dispensed with Christianity, reduced itself to a vague Deism, which in principle had too much the air of a pleasantry.  His Dieu des bonnes gens, which he opposed to the God of the congregation and the preachers, could not be taken seriously by any one.  Nevertheless, the poet, as he grew older, grew more and more attached to this symbol of a Deity, indulgent before all else, but very real and living, and in whom the poor and the suffering could put their trust.  What passed in the days preceding his death has been much discussed, and many stories are told about it.  He received, in fact, some visits from the curate of the parish of Saint Elizabeth, in which he lived.  This curate had formerly officiated at Passy,—­a little village near Paris, where Beranger had resided,—­and was already acquainted with the poet.  The conversations at these visits, according to the testimony of those best informed, amounted to very little; and the last time the curate came, just as he was going out, Beranger, already dying, said to him, “Your profession gives you the right to bless me; I also bless you;—­pray for me, and for all the unfortunate!” The priest and the old man exchanged blessings,—­the benedictions of two honest men, and nothing more.

Beranger had one rare quality, and it was fundamental with him,—­obligingness, readiness to perform kind offices, humanity carried to the extent of Charity.  He loved to busy himself for others.  To some one who said that time lay heavy on his hands, he answered, “Then you have never occupied yourself about other people?” “Take more thought of others than of yourself” was his maxim.  And he did so occupy himself,—­not out of curiosity, but to aid, to succor with advice and with deeds.  His time belonged to everybody,—­to the humblest, the poorest, the first stranger who addressed him and told him his sorrows.  Out of a very small income (at most, four or five thousand francs a year) he found means to give much.  He loved, above all, to assist poor artisans, men of the people, who appealed to him; and he did it always without wounding the fibre of manhood in them.  He loved everything that wore a blouse.  He had, even stronger than the love of liberty, the love of equality, the great passion of the French.