If “Hernani” had been hissed down, Victor Hugo would have lived just as long and might have written better.

Civilization is not held in place by noisy youths in flaming waistcoats; and even if every cabbage had hit its mark, and every egg bespattered its target, the morning stars would still sing together.

“The Hunchback of Notre Dame” was next turned out—­written in five months—­and was a great success.  Publishers besieged the author for another story, but he preferred poetry.  It was thirty years before his next novel, “Les Miserables,” appeared.  But all the time he wrote—­plays, verses, essays, pamphlets.  Everything that he penned was widely read.  Amid storms of opposition and cries of bravo, continually making friends, he moved steadily forward.

Men like Victor Hugo can be killed or they may be banished, but they can not be bought; neither can they be intimidated into silence.  He resigned his pension and boldly expressed himself in his own way.

He knew history by heart and toyed with it; politics was his delight.  But it is a mistake to call him a statesman.  He was bold to rashness, impulsive, impatient and vehement.  Because a man is great is no reason why he should be proclaimed perfect.  Such men as Victor Hugo need no veneer—­the truth will answer:  he would explode a keg of powder to kill a fly.  He was an agitator.  But these zealous souls are needed—­not to govern or to be blindly followed, but rather to make other men think for themselves.  Yet to do this in a monarchy is not safe.

The years passed, and the time came for either Hugo or Royalty to go; France was not large enough for both.  It proved to be Hugo; a bounty of twenty-five thousand francs was offered for his body, dead or alive.  Through a woman’s devotion he escaped to Brussels.  He was driven from there to Jersey, then to Guernsey.

It was nineteen years before he returned to Paris—­years of banishment, but years of glory.  Exiled by Fate that he might do his work!

* * * * *

Each day a steamer starts from Southampton for Guernsey, Alderney and Jersey.  These are names known to countless farmers’ boys the wide world over.

You can not mistake the Channel Island boats—­they smell like a county fair, and though you be blind and deaf it is impossible to board the wrong craft.  Every time one of these staunch little steamers lands in England, crates containing mild-eyed, lusty calves are slid down the gangplank, marked for Maine, Iowa, California, or some uttermost part of the earth.  There his vealship (worth his weight in gold) is going to found a kingdom.

I stood on the dock watching the bovine passengers disembark, and furtively listened the while to an animated argument between two rather rough-looking, red-faced men, clothed in corduroys and carrying long, stout staffs.  Mixed up in their conversation I caught the names of royalty, then of celebrities great, and artists famous—­warriors, orators, philanthropists and musicians.  Could it be possible that these rustics were poets?  It must be so.  And there came to me thoughts of Thoreau, Walt Whitman, Joaquin Miller, and all that sublime company of singers in shirt-sleeves.