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110 Such a freedom was to be almost without bounds: 'A voir les choses d'un peu haut, il n'y a en poésie, ni bons ni mauvais sujets, mais de bons et de mauvais poëtes. D'ailleurs, tout est sujet; tout relève de l'art; tout a droit de cité en poésie.'

Hugo had no such exquisite and severe taste as not sometimes to abuse a full freedom of subject. The manifesto, it has been said, of the party of romantisme had been published, in 1827, in the Preface to 'Cromwell.' 'Les Orientales' was the challenge to the upholders of tradition. The subjects were barbarous, it seemed to these, the metres strange, and broken, and horrible. The tragedy of 'Hernani' was acted on February 25, 1830; and the king about this time being prayed to keep such stuff by force out of the Théâtre Français, confessed—with such good sense as, used elsewhere, might have saved him from the days of July—that in these matters, 'il n'avait que sa place au parterre.' 'Hernani' in form, and more so in verse, differs essentially from the tragedies of the seventeenth century. The same metre, apparently so different, must be paralleled by English blank verse, as used by different poets, or the heroic couplet in the hands of Pope and of Shelley. And so the failing classiques cried—

Hugo and his followers were, their leader said, 'hommes dévoués qui ne voudraient enfin que doter le pays d'une liberté de plus, celle de l'art, celle de l'intelligence.'

'Le romantisme n'est  que le libéralisme en littérature.'

Victor Hugo's work and its effects are lasting. And, having had time to bring it to an end, he would have that lofty and proud self-confidence of genius in himself; for when still young he wrote, with the wish now granted:—'En attendant, ce qu'il a fait est bien peu de chose, il le sait. Puissent le temps et la force ne pas lui manquer pour achever son œuvre! Elle ne vaudra qu'autant qu'elle sera terminée. Il n'est pas de ces poëtes privilégiés qui peuvent mourir, ou s'interrompre avant d'avoir fini, sans péril pour leur mémoire; il n'est pas de ceux qui restent grands, même sans avoir complété leur ouvrage.'

It would be ungracious now to dwell on the inequalities of the works of the great writer whom European literature mourns. There is egoism, a want of humour which leads to things ridiculous, melodramatic and even unreal effect, failure in taste, and a pretended universal knowledge. But there is also great poetry, such as may excuse the blindness of his most enthusiastic English critic, so fitted to glory in this splendid flow of grand and melodious verse. Generous and noble thoughts, too, a striving after an ideal of justice and love—these are leading characteristics in Victor Hugo. And if he has not definite teaching, such as many crave for, on many subjects in which our teachers are the poets, his readers who have learnt from other poets must know how this want has been found by some in each of the others—it may be in a less degree. But can there be readers of Victor Hugo's poetry who have not been stirred by his noble inspiration, who have not been ready to worship the master of such tender love, who have not wept with him over suffering, and even in sympathy with the sternest sorrow? To exercise such power through the medium of beautiful form is the praise of a great poet. W. F. S.

Naschina. I, as a shepherd dressed, will seek and seek

Until I find him. What a weary week,

My pretty child, since he has gone, oh say

Once more how on that miserable day

He passed across the lake.

Antonio.When we two came

From the wood's ways, then, like a silver flame,

We saw the dolorous lake; and then thy name

He carved on trees, and with a sun-dry weed

He wrote it on the sands (the owls may read

And ponder it if they will); then near at hand

The boat's prow grated on the shallow sand,

And loudly twice the living wings flapt wide,

And, leaping to their feet, far Echoes cried,

Each other answering. Then between each wing

He sat, and then I heard the white lake sing,

Curving beneath the prow; as some wild drake

Half lit, so flapt the wings across the lake—

Alas! I make you sadder, shepherdess.

Naschina. Nay, grief in feeding on old grief grows less.