many equals of this book
I have not read.

It is of course necessary to remember that it is expressly subtitled
"Romans Goguenards," thereby preparing the reader for the reverse of
seriousness. That reverse, especially in young hands, is a difficult
thing to manage. "Guffaw" and "yawn" are two words which have actually
two letters in common; _y_ and _g_ are notoriously interchangeable in
some dialects and circumstances, while _n_ and _u_ are the despair of
the copyist or the student of copies. There remain only "ff"--the
lightest of literals. We need not cite _nominatim_ (indeed it might be
rash) the endless examples in French and English where the guffaw of the
writer excites the yawn of the reader. But this is hardly ever the case,
at least as I find it, with Gautier.

The _Preface_, in which the author presents himself in his unregenerate
and un-"young-France" condition, is really a triumph; I wish I could
give the whole of it here. And what is more, it is a sort of epitome by
anticipation of the entire Gautier, though without, of course, the
mastery of artistry he attained in years of laborious prose and verse.
For that quality of humour which his younger friend Taine was to define
happily, though by no means to his own comfort or approval, in the
phrase devoted to one of our English masters of it, "Il se moque de ses
emotions a l'instant meme ou il s'y livre," you must go to Fielding or
to Thackeray to beat it.

He (the supposed author) _was_ the most ordinary and insignificant
creature in the world. He had never either killed a policeman nor
committed suicide; he possessed neither pipe, nor dagger, _ni quoi que
ce soit qui ait du caractere_. He _did_ like cats (which taste
fortunately remained with Gautier himself throughout his life), and his
reflections on politics had arrived at a final result of zero (another
abiding feature, by the way, with "Theo"). He never could learn to play
at cards. He thought artists were merely mountebanks, etc., etc. But
some kind friends took him in hand and made him an accomplished
Jeune-France. He took to himself a very long _nom de guerre_, a very
short moustache, a middle parting to his hair (the history of the
middle parting would be worth writing), and a "delirious" waistcoat. He
learnt to smoke, and to get "Byronically" drunk. He bought an Italian
stiletto (by great luck he had a sallow complexion naturally); a silk
rope-ladder ("which is of the first importance"); several