hy of his brother is
disappointing, we meant more particularly to express our regret that he
has given us no letters--or given us at least but two or three. It is
probable, however, that he had no more in his hands. Alfred de Musset
lived in a very compact circle; he spent his whole life in Paris, and
his friends lived in Paris near him. He was little separated from his
brother, who appears to have been his best friend (M. Paul de Musset
was six years Alfred's senior), and much of his life was passed under
the same roof with the other members of his family. Seeing his friends
constantly, he had no occasion to write to them; and as he saw little
of the world (in the larger sense of the phrase), he would have had
probably but little to write about. He made but one attempt at
travelling--his journey to Italy, at the age of twenty-three, with
George Sand. "He made no important journeys," says Herr Lindau, "and if
one excepts his love affairs, he really had no experiences." But his
love affairs, as a general thing, could not properly be talked about.
M. de Musset shows good taste in not pretending to narrate them. He
mentions two or three of the more important episodes of this class, and
with regard to the others he says that when he does not mention them
they may always be taken for granted. It is perhaps indeed in a limited
sense that Alfred de Musset's love affairs may be said to have been in
some cases more important than in others. It was his own philosophy
that in this matter one thing is about as good as another--

Aimer est le grand point; qu'importe la maitresse?
Qu'importe le flacon pourvu qu'on ait l'ivresse?

Putting aside the "ivresse," which was constant, Musset's life certainly
offers little material for narration. He wrote a few poems, tales, and
comedies, and that is all. He _did_ nothing, in the sterner sense of
the word. He was inactive, indolent, idle; his record has very few
dates. Two or three times the occasion to do something was offered him,
but he shook his head and let it pass. It was proposed to him to accept
a place as attache to the French embassy at Madrid, a comfortable
salary being affixed to the post. But Musset found no inspiration in
the prospect. He had written about Spain in his earlier years--he had
sung in the most charming fashion about Juanas and Pepitas, about
senoras in mantillas stealing down palace staircases that look "blue"
in the starlight. But the desire to _see_ the