Seventeen years! a large bit of any one’s life—­more than a third of Alfred de Musset’s own term—­yet there is hardly anything to say about it.  The “Souvenir,” which was written about six months after his recovery, is the last poem in which all his strength, beauty and pathos find expression:  he never wrote again in this vein:  it was the last echo of his youth.  He composed less and less frequently, and though what he wrote was redolent of sentiment, wit, grace and elegance, and some of the short occasional verses have a consummate charm of finish, the soul seems gone out of his poetry.  His brother mentions a number of compositions begun, but thrown aside; there were projects of travel never carried out; he gradually gave up the society of even his oldest friends:  everything indicated a rapid decline of the active faculties.  Unhappily, that of suffering seemed only to increase—­no longer the sharp anguish of unspent force which had wrung from him the passionate cries and plaintive murmurs of former years, but the dull numbness of hopelessness.  His existence was monotonous, and the few occurrences which varied it were of a sad or unpleasant nature.  His sister married and left Paris, and his mother subsequently went to live with her in the country, thus breaking up their family circle; Paul de Musset was absent from France for considerable spaces of time, so that for the first time Alfred de Musset was compelled to live alone.  Friends scattered, some died:  the Orleans family, for whom he had a real affection, was driven from France; he fancied that his genius was unappreciated—­a notion which, strangely enough, his brother shared—­and although he was the last man to rage or mope over misapprehension, the idea certainly added to his gloom.  Through the good graces of the duke of Orleans he had been appointed librarian of the Home Office, a post of which he was instantly deprived on the change of government; but a few years later he was unexpectedly given a similar one in the Department of Public Education.  In 1852 he was elected to the French Academy, that honor so limited by the small number of members, so ridiculed by unsuccessful aspirants, yet without which no French author feels his career to be complete.  His plays were being performed with great favor, his poems and tales were becoming more and more popular, his verses were set to music, his stories were illustrated:  but all this brought no cheer or consolation to the sick spirit.  He lived more and more alone:  the Theatre Francais, a silent game of chess at his cafe, the deadly absinthe, were his only sources of excitement.  It is a comfort to learn that the last ray of pleasure which penetrated his moral dungeon, reviving for an instant the generous glow of enthusiasm, was the appearance of Ristori:  inspired by her, he began a poetical address which he never finished, nor even wrote down, but a fragment of it was preserved orally by one or two who heard it: 

For Pauline and Rachel I sang of hope,
And over Malibran a tear I shed;
But, thanks to thee, I see the mighty scope
Of strength and genius wed.