to
realize that his later aspect was prefaced by a long, peaceful, and
prosperous beginning. France had never seen a more magnificent band
than that which surrounded him, and which has made the reign of the
_Roi-bourgeois_ illustrious in spite of itself; and it is curious to
mark that these great intelligences did not object to their ruler nor
to his ways, but lived like good citizens, with but an occasional
fling at semi-sentimental politics. Hugo was the champion of abstract
right in all the discussions in which he took part. He it was who
proposed, among other things, that the Bonaparte family should be
permitted to return to France. Perhaps, had he been less abstract and
logical, and more moved by the laws of expediency, it might have been
better both for France and for himself.

The plays which he produced in this time of prosperous calm and
apparent peace are without question the most remarkable dramatic works
of this century, and several of them will, we have no doubt, take
their place permanently among the few of all ages and countries which
the world will not willingly let die.

While these plays were being written, and the mind of their author
reaching its full development, the fountains of pure poetry, those
outbursts of song which are often the most delightful and dear of all
the utterances of the poet, were flowing forth, refreshing and
fertilizing French literature, and giving a noble utterance to the new
thought and rising energy of the times. His youth gave forth some
uncertain notes, his fancy roaming from Bourbon to Bonaparte. But that
his imagination should have been seized by the recollection of the
great Napoleon is so natural, so inevitable, one would suppose, for
every young Frenchman, and especially for the son of a Bonapartist
general, that there would have been something lacking in him had he
escaped that enthusiasm. Apart from these waves of national sentiment,
and from the vague music of the "Orientales" and other such preludes
and symphonies, there is poetry enough in the various volumes which
followed each other at uncertain intervals, to have fully furnished
one man of genius with fame enough for what we call immortality. Hugo
has enough and to spare for all subjects that occurred to him. A
sunset, a landscape, a love song, alternate in his pages with a
philosophical discussion, or a brief and brilliant scene snatched from
history, from contemporary life, from his own inner existence, al