yet I am not quite insensible to their wit, high sentiment, and spontaneous grace.  A wit that sparkles all over the ocean of life, a sentiment that never puts the best foot forward, but prefers the tone of delicate humor, to the mouthings of tragedy; a grace so aerial, that it nowhere requires the aid of a thought, for in the light refrains of these productions, the meaning is felt as much as in the most pointed lines.  Thus, in “Les Mirmidons,” the refrain—­

      ’"Mirmidons, race feconde,
        Mirmidons
      Enfin nous commandons,
      Jupiter livre le monde,
      Aux mirmidons, aux mirmidons, (bis.)”

’The swarming of the insects about the dead lion is expressed as forcibly as in the most sarcastic passage of the chanson.  In “La Faridondaine” every sound is a witticism, and levels to the ground a bevy of what Byron calls “garrison people.”  “Halte la! ou la systeme des interpretations” is equally witty, though there the form seems to be as much in the saying, as in the comic melody of sound.

’In “Adieux a la Campagne,” “Souvenirs du Peuple,” “La Deesse de la Liberte,” “La Convoi de David,” a melancholy pathos breathes, which touches the heart the more that it is so unpretending.  “Ce n’est plus Lisette,” “Mon Habit,” “L’Independant,” “Vous vieillirez, O ma belle Maitresse,” a gentle graceful sadness wins us.  In “Le Dieu des Bonnes Gens,” “Les Etoiles qui filent,” “Les Conseils de Lise,” “Treize a Table,” a noble dignity is admired, while such as “La Fortune” and “La Metempsycose” are inimitable in their childlike playfulness.  “Ma Vocation” I have had and admired for many years.  He is of the pure ore, a darling fairy changling of great mother Nature; the poet of the people, and, therefore, of all in the upper classes sufficiently intelligent and refined to appreciate the wit and 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’esperance,
      L’Aigle n’est plus dans le secret des dieux,
      Il fatiguait la victoire a le suivre,
      Elle etait lasse:  il ne l’attendit pas.”

    ’And from “La Gerontocratie, ou les infiniment petits:” 

      ’"Combien d’imperceptibles etres,
      De petits jesuites bilieux! 
      De milliers d’autres petits pretres,
      Lui portent de petits bons dieux.”