’"Qu’il est doux, qu’il est doux d’ecouter les histoires
      Des histoires du temps passe
      Quand les branches des arbres sont noires,
      Quand la neige est essaisse, et charge un sol glace,
      Quand seul dans un ciel pale un peuplier s’elance,
      Quand sous le manteau blanc qui vient de le cacher
      L’immobile corbeau sur l’arbre se balance
      Comme la girouette au bout du long clocher.”

    ’These poems generally are only interesting as the leisure
    hours of an interesting man.

’De Vigny writes in an excellent style; soft, fresh, deliberately graceful.  Such a style is like fine manners; you think of the words select, appropriate, rather than distinguished, or beautiful.  De Vigny is a perfect gentleman; and his refinement is rather that of the gentleman than that of the poets whom he is so full of.  In character, he looks naturally at those things which interest the man of honor and the man of taste.  But for literature, he would have known nothing about the poets.  He should be the elegant and instructive companion of social, not the priest or the minstrel of solitary hours.

’Neither has he logic or grasp with his reasoning powers, though of this, also, he is ambitious.  Observation is his forte.  To see, and to tell with grace, often with dignity and pathos, what he sees, is his proper vocation.  Yet, where he fails, he has too much tact and modesty to be despised; and we cannot enough admire the absence of faults in a man whose ambition soared so much beyond his powers, and in an age and a country so full of false taste.  He is never seduced into sentimentality, paradox, violent contrast, and, above all, never makes the mistake of confounding the horrible with the sublime.  Above all, he never falls into the error, common to merely elegant minds, of painting leading minds “en gigantesque.”  His Richelieu and his Bonaparte are treated with great calmness, and with dignified ease, almost as beautiful as majestic superiority.

’In this volume is contained all that is on record of the inner life of a man of forty years.  How many suns, how many rains and dews, to produce a few buds and flowers, some sweet, but not rich fruit!  We cannot help demanding of the man of talent that he should be like “the orange tree, that busy plant.”  But, as Landor says, “He who has any thoughts of any worth can, and probably will, afford to let the greater part lie fallow.”

’I have not made a note upon De Vigny’s notions of abnegation, which he repeats as often as Dr. Channing the same watch-word of self-sacrifice.  It is that my views are not yet matured, and I can have no judgment on the point.’

BERANGER.

’Sept., 1839.—­I have lately been reading some of Beranger’s chansons.  The hour was not propitious.  I was in a mood the very reverse of Roger Bontemps, and beset with circumstances the most unsuited to make me sympathize with the prayer—­

      ’"Pardonnez la gaiete
          De ma philosophie;”