mped his image and superscription in a manner all
his own, the work by which he is best known to humanity at large--are
vitiated by the same defect. For one that believes in Bishop Myriel as
Bishop Myriel there are a hundred who see in him only a pose of Victor
Hugo; it is the same with Ursel and Javert, with Cimourdain and Lantenac
and Josiane; the very _pieuvre_ of _les Travailleurs_ is a Hugolater at
heart. It is a proof of his commanding personality, that in spite of
these objections he held in enchantment the hearts and minds of men for
over sixty years. He is almost a literature in himself; and if it be
true that his work is as wholly lacking in the radiant sanity of
Shakespeare's as it is in the exquisite good sense of Voltaire's, it is
also true that he left the world far richer than he found it.

What Lives of Him.

To select an anthology from his work were surely the pleasantest of
tasks. One richer in grace and passion and sweetness might he chosen out
of Musset; one wrought more truly of the finer stuff of humanity as well
as more bountifully touched with tact and dignity and temper from the
work of Tennyson. But the Hugo selection would combine the rarest
technical merits with a set of interests all its own. It would give, for
instance, the _Stella_ of the _Chatiments_ and the _Pauvres Gens_ of the
_Legende_. On one page would be found that admirable _Souvenir de la
Nuit du Quatre_, which is at once the impeachment and the condemnation of
the Coup d'Etat; and on another the little epic of _Eviradnus_, with its
immortal serenade, a culmination of youth and romance and love:

'Si tu veux, faisons un reve.
Montons sur deux palefrois.
Tu m'emmenes, je t'enleve.
L'oiseau chante dans les bois.

. . . . .

Allons-nous-en par l'Autriche!
Nous aurons l'aube a nos fronts.
Je serai grand et toi riche,
Puisque nous nous aimerons.

. . . . .

Tu seras dame et moi comte.
Viens, mon oeeur s'epanouit.
Viens, nous conterons ce conte
Aux etoiles de la nuit.'

Here, a summary of all the interests of romanticism, would be the
complaint of Gastibelza:

'Un jour d'ete, ou tout etait lumiere,
Vie et douceur,
Elle s'en vint jouer dans la riviere
Avec sa soeur.
Je vis le pied de sa jeune compagne
Et son genou . . .--
Le vent qui vient a travers la montagne
Me rendra fou!'--

here the adorable _Vieille Chanson du Jeune Tem