Qu'auront faites sur nous et sur vous les batailles ; Des peuples, éclairant une Europe idéale! Vous crierez:-Quoi! des rois ! quoi done! un empereur!- Va, peuple! O vision! combustion sinistre De tout le noir passé, prêtre, autel, roi, ministre, Frères, vous nous rendrez notre flamme agrandie. After that, January, 1871, may open a little more gaily. In a charming letter sent by balloon-post, we get a picture of the internal life of Paris during the siege. "I have given 15 francs for four fresh eggs, not for myself, but for my little George and my little Jeanne. We eat horse, rat, bear, and donkey flesh;" and so on in a very graphic description. A little further on, we find a poem entitled "The Pigeon," in which the city is compared, not very felicitously, to a dark lake, and the bird to a black speck in heaven. "The Atom comes in the shade to succour the Colossus." Rather more felicitous is the Sortie. "And the women with calm faces and broken hearts hand them their guns, first kissing them." After this, we get nothing very striking until (passing over certain savage addresses to the Germans in reference to the capitulation) we come to the end of the month of February, at which point of the diary we find a striking poem on "Progress." It is very long, but very powerful; eloquent rather than poetic. The canto which follows, under the head of "March," may be passed over without comment, as it is chiefly devoted to personal misfortune. In "March" the poet lost his beloved son Charles, who died very suddenly. The misfortune is chronicled in some affecting, but rather theatrical, verses. From this point the diary may be said to fuse itself into one long passionate political chant. April, May, and June, 1871 ;—who does not recollect the terrors and the agonies of those months? As they advance, the poet's fury increases. "Paris Incendié" is a terrific piece of fiery declamation. "The two Trophies" fiercely pleads for the Vendôme Column and the Arc de Triomphe. All the world knows in which direction flowed the sympathies of Victor Hugo; all the world knows also how the poet was driven out of Brussels, because, as a high-souled patriot, he dared to utter the bitter and unpalatable truth. There are many poems expressive of personal feeling at this part of the diary-many strong and incisive words of protest and recrimination-but, to my mind, the simplest and best is "A Qui la Faute?" It speaks for itself, in its terrible subdued irony, and I transcribe it entire : -Mais c'est un crime inouï ! Crime commis par toi contre toi-même, infâme! C'est ton bien, ton trésor, ta dot, ton héritage! Le livre a toujours pris fait et cause pour toi. Des générations ténébreuses encore Qui rendent dans la nuit témoignage à l'aurore. Quoi! dans ce vénérable amas des vérités, Dans ces chefs-d'œuvre pleins de foudre et de clartés, Dans ce tombeau des temps devenu répertoire, Dans les siècles, dans l'homme antique, dans l'histoire, Dans le passé, leçon qu'épelle l'avenir, Dans ce qui commença pour ne jamais finir, Dans les poëtes! quoi, dans ce gouffre des bibles, Dans le divin monceau des Eschyles terribles, C'est le livre? le livre est là sur la hauteur; Ouvre un livre. Platon, Milton, Beccaria. Lis ces prophètes, Dante, ou Shakspeare, ou Corneille ; Ebloui, tu te sens le même homme qu'eux tous; Tu deviens en lisant grave, pensif et doux; Tu sens dans ton esprit tous ces grands hommes croître ; A mesure qu'il plonge en ton cœur plus avant, Car la science en l'homme arrive la première. C'est à toi, comprends donc, et c'est toi qui l'éteins! -Je ne sais pas lire." After that, one turns with trembling hands to the epilogue, "The Old World and the Deluge." "LE FLOT. Tu me crois la marée et je suis le déluge." Verily; and as yet no Dove appears to betoken the subsidence of the waters! Here must cease my sketch of this unique poem. I have left myself little space for comment. It has all the merits, as well as all the faults, of the writer's style. Poor and unwearied in metaphor (observe, for example, the reiterated use of Night and Morning, Light and Darkness, the Abyss, the Stars, and the Tide); sicklied o'er with pet names, such as Eschylus, Cain, Cyrus, Gengis, Timour; tautological in ideas, and theatrical in manner; thin to attenuation in much of its philosophical matter, it is still in no sense disappointing, though in every sense below the high level of the writer at his best. It is firstclass political verse, that is all. With all this, its passion, its music, its veracity, its continued heat of personal emotion, keep us ever reminded of the fact that we are in the presence of a man who in nobility of nature has no superior, in gloomy magnificence of imagery no rival, and in sheer spontaneous poetic eloquence certainly no equal. S. S. SMALL MERCIES. THERE was once an old woman, who, in answer to a visiting almoner's inquiries as to how she did, said, "Oh, sir, the Lord is very good to me,-I've lost my husband, and my eldest son, and my youngest daughter, and I'm half blind, and I can't sleep or move about for the rheumatics; but I've got two teeth left in my head, and, praise and bless His holy name, they're opposite each other!" Now it has been said that this old woman was thankful for small mercies; but when I use the phrase, I am thinking of what we can do for ourselves or each other, and not of what is done for us in the way of a Dutchman's breeches-piece of blue in a whole firmament of blackness. It is curious to note how many ways of making things pleasant are missed in this weary world. We are too idle, or too inattentive, or too dull of wit, or too ignorant,-it is usually a little of all these elements,—to take up the hundreds of small resources which surround us for smoothing the wheels of life. A tradesman once said to me, "You would be surprised, sir, to know how very few people find out the really useful, nice things. This now, which you have ordered," referring to a certain article which saved time and trouble in a certain way on which I shall not be more specific, "it is a very nice thing; but I have not been asked for it once, since I had the stock in. I have tried it in my own family; so I know." The tradesman was correct; but to what he said I beg to make a customer's addition. It is that it is not always easy to induce tradesmen to get in novelties. They know how difficult it is to push them, whatever may be their merits, and so they hang back, afraid of dead stock. Still a great deal may be done by perseverance in asking for things. The first time a tradesman probably says, "We don't keep it, ma'am." The second time he wakes up a bit, and says, hesitatingly, “We have none in stock, ma'am." The third time he will perhaps say, "No, ma'am ; but we expect some in to-morrow." And as it does sometimes happen that a useful article will "take" at once, a housewife may, by this kind of perseverance, do her neighbours a service. The poor, harassed tradesman drops accidentally into the page. I was thinking, rather widely, of the indifference of the generality of men and women-especially women-to the adoption of easy resources of comfort and alleviation within every one's reach. I remember the surprise of a very innocent country cousin at the peremptory injunctions she used to see in London shop-windows, to "Cough No More." And well she might, for there are coughs which nothing will cure. But there are small evils which are almost always curable; the means of cure being within any one's reach; and yet which people go on enduring. To take an instance at random. A gentleman once. apologised to me for treading on my foot as he got into an omnibus. "I hope I didn't hurt your corns, sir?" said he jocosely. But I replied, with virtuous and I think just indignation, "I never have corns." A thrill of suppressed displeasure went round that omnibus ! "Who is that? Why shouldn't he have corns, like the rest of us?" was the sentiment that throbbed in those offended bosoms. But the question I ask is, why should any one submit to having corns? They cause pain, they make a healthy exercise inconvenient, they disfigure the foot, being, in their degree, as painful to the eye and to the consciousness as hump backs or wens; and in this way they degrade life. Now nothing is more easy, as a general thing, than to avoid corns in the first place, or to cure them in the second. I had one once, and one only. On former occasions I had become instantly aware of the danger when it impended, and had taken vigorous preventive measures, which were successful. Once, at a time of great fatigue and worry, followed by much walking over shingly ground, I did get a real, painful corn. But what unceasingly astonishes me is that people should submit to petty degradations of this kind. If they will only read, or ask doctors, or look about them, they will soon find out how to get rid of corns. As soon as I knew I had this hateful intruder, I got some nitric acid and spent half a day in getting rid of him. Then I took proper precautions, and, though he has made attempts to return, he has always been kicked out at the entry. From such other knowledge as I have of well-kept feet, I am certain that corns may almost always be kept away or cured. There are feet in which they have never even threatened to appear-but then the owners of such feet have taken care of them. There is a story that Madame de Pompadour, or some lady of that order, made a bet that she would compel King Louis to kiss her feet. She did. In the dress of a peasant girl, with a butter-basket on her arm, and with her naked pink-white "tots" in sabots, she waylaid his Majesty-who was very soon on his knees to kiss the "tots." No doubt it is understood that any lady would keep her feet as tenderly as Madame de Pompadour kept hers. But it is not done; and even school girls will talk of corns, as if they were necessary evils. Too much upon this particular point. To pass to matters of a totally different order. One great enemy of comfort and excluder of small pleasures, which, added up together go a long way, is routine. "Chops and tomato sauce!" Just so. It was only yesterday that I saw, in a shop-window bottles labelled, "Tomato sauce-good with chops." Now tomato is good with chops-but why with chops only? It would puzzle a Philadelphia lawyer to say. And anybody who |