gs in the latter more especially which no
other poet of this age could have written. My years and experience give
me, unfortunately, the right to be frank, and I say candidly that there
are passages which I like less; but what is good in your poems is very
good."

In the attitude, inflections of voice and intonation of the speaker's
phrases there was something sovereign, which rather diminished than
exalted the young writer in his own eyes. Night came and lights were
brought. The master of the mansion permitted the conversation to
languish, and Hugo was much relieved when the friend who had introduced
him rose to go. Chateaubriand, seeing them about to take their leave,
invited Hugo to come and see him on any day between seven and nine in
the morning, and the youth gained the street, where he drew a long
breath.

"Well," said his friend, "I hope you are content?"

"Yes--to be out!"

"How! Why, M. de Chateaubriand was charming! He talked a great deal to
you. You don't know him: he passes four or five hours sometimes without
saying a word. If you are not satisfied, you are hard to please."

In response to Chateaubriand's general invitation, Hugo went soon
afterward, at an early hour of the morning, to repeat his visit. He was
shown into Chateaubriand's chamber, and found the illustrious personage
in his shirt-sleeves, with a handkerchief tied around his head, seated
at a table and looking over some papers. He turned round cordially, and
said, "Ah! good-day, Monsieur Victor Hugo. I expected you. Sit down.
Have you been working since I saw you? have you made many verses?"

Hugo replied that he wrote a few every day.

"You are right," said Chateaubriand. "Verses! make verses! 'Tis the
highest department of literature. You are on higher ground than mine:
the true writer is the poet. I have made verses, too, and am sorry I did
not continue to do so, as my verses were worth more than my prose. Do
you know that I have written a tragedy? I must read you a scene.
Pilorge! come here: I want you."

An individual with red face, hair and moustaches entered.

"Go and find the manuscript of _Moses_," said Chateaubriand.

Pilorge was Chateaubriand's secretary, and the place was no sinecure.
Besides manuscripts and letters which his master signed, Pilorge copied
everything. The illustrious author, attentive to the demands of
posterity, preserved with religious care copies of his most trifling
notes. The tragedy which Chateaubr