a strong fancy to Alfred de Musset, which he showed by writing him a profusion of notes during recitation, most of them invitations to dinner at Neuilly, where he occasionally went with other school-fellows of the young prince.  For a time after leaving school De Chartres—­as he was called by his young friends—­kept up a lively correspondence with Alfred, and when their boyish intimacy naturally expired the recollection of it remained fresh and lively in the prince’s mind, as was afterward proved.

De Musset left college at the age of sixteen, having taken a prize in philosophy for a Latin metaphysical essay.  His disposition to inquire and speculate had already manifested itself by uneasy questions in the classes of logic and moral philosophy; and although few will agree with his brother that his writings show unusual aptitude and profound knowledge in these sciences, or that, as he says, “the thinker was always on a level with the poet,” nobody can deny the constant questioning of the Sphinx, the eager, restless pursuit of truth, which pervades his pages.  He pushed his search through a long course of reading,—­Descartes, Spinoza, Cabanis, Maine de Biran—­only to fall back upon an innate faith in God which never forsook him, although it was strangely disconnected with his mode of life.

I have lingered over the early years of Alfred de Musset because the childhood of a poet is the mirror wherein the image of his future is seen, and because there is something peculiarly touching in this season of innocence and unconsciousness of self in the history of men whose after lives have been torn to pieces by the storms of vicissitude and passion.  So far, he had not begun to rhyme—­an unusual case, as boys who can make two lines jingle, whether they be poets or not, generally scribble plentifully before leaving school.  At the age of fourteen he wrote some verses to his mother on her birthday, but it is fair to suppose that they gave no hint of talent, as they have not been preserved:  it was only from his temperament that his destiny might be guessed.  The impressions of his infancy were singularly vivid and deep, and acted directly upon his imagination:  they are reflected in his works in pictures and descriptions full of grace or power.  The ardent Bonapartism of his family, particularly of his mother, whom he loved and revered, took form from his recollections in the magnificent opening of the Confession d’un Enfant du Siecle, which has the double character of a prose poem and a kindling oration, while by the volume and sonorous beauty of the phrase it reminds one of a grand musical composition.  When he was between seven and eight years old his family passed the summer at an old country-place to which belonged a farm, and he and his brother found inexhaustible amusement among the tenants and their occupations.  He never saw it again, but it is reproduced with perfect fidelity in the tale of Margot.  The chivalric mania left, as Paul de Musset observes,