’... ce singe de genie,
     Chez l’homme en mission par le diable envoye—­’

(that ape of genius, an emissary from the devil to man),’ and the pitiful poverty of our old poetry of pedagogues and ragged-school teachers.  I saw, I understood, I felt that I was alive and must arise and walk.”  Of the influence of “Romeo and Juliet” on him, he says:  “Exposing myself to the burning sun and balmy nights of Italy, seeing this love as quick and sudden as thought, burning like lava, imperious, irresistible, boundless, and pure and beautiful as the smile of angels, those furious scenes of vengeance, those distracted embraces, those struggles between love and death, was too much.  After the melancholy, the gnawing anguish, the tearful love, the cruel irony, the somber meditations, the heart-rackings, the madness, tears, mourning, the calamities and sharp cleverness of Hamlet; after the gray clouds and icy winds of Denmark; after the third act, hardly breathing, in pain as if a hand of iron were squeezing at my heart, I said to myself with the fullest conviction:  ‘Ah!  I am lost.’  I must add that I did not at that time know a word of English, that I only caught glimpses of Shakespeare through the fog of Letourneur’s translation, and that I consequently could not perceive the poetic web that surrounds his marvelous creations like a net of gold.  I have the misfortune to be very nearly in the same sad case to-day.  It is much harder for a Frenchman to sound the depths of Shakespeare than for an Englishman to feel the delicacy and originality of La Fontaine or Moliere.  Our two poets are rich continents; Shakespeare is a world.  But the play of the actors, above all of the actress, the succession of the scenes, the pantomime and the accent of the voices, meant more to me, and filled me a thousand times more with Shakespearean ideas and passion than the text of my colorless and unfaithful translation.  An English critic said last winter in the ‘Illustrated London News,’ that, after seeing Miss Smithson in Juliet, I had cried out, ’I will marry that woman and write my grandest symphony on this play.’  I did both, but never said anything of the sort.”

The beautiful Miss Smithson became the rage, the inspiration of poets and painters, the idol of the hour, at whose feet knelt all the roues and rich idlers of the town.  Delacroix painted her as the Ophelia of his celebrated picture, and the English company made nearly as much sensation in Paris as the Comedie Francaise recently aroused in London.  Berlioz’s mind, perturbed and inflamed with the mighty images of the Shakespearean world, swept with wide, powerful passion toward Shakespeare’s interpreter.  He raged and stormed with his accustomed vehemence, made no secret of his infatuation, and walked the streets at night, calling aloud the name of the enchantress, and cooling his heated brows with many a sigh.  He, too, would prove that he was a great artist, and