tality, they contain lines of finished beauty
as perfect as the author ever produced--ample guarantee of what might be
expected from the development of his genius.

He now began to be tired of sowing wild oats, and became less irregular in
his mode of life. A lively, pretty little comedy called _Une Nuit
Venitienne_, which he wrote at the request of the director of the Odeon,
for some inexplicable cause fell flat, which, besides turning him aside
from writing for the stage during a number of years, discouraged him
altogether for some time. Before he entirely recovered from the check he
lost his father, who died suddenly of cholera in 1832. The shock left him
sobered and calm, anxious to fulfil his duties toward his mother and young
sister, whose means, it was feared, would be greatly diminished by the loss
of M. de Musset's salary. Alfred resolved to publish another volume of
poetry, and, if this did not succeed to a degree to warrant his considering
literature a means of support, to get a commission in the army. He set
himself industriously to work, and inspiration soon rewarded the effort: in
six months his second volume appeared, comprising "Le Saule," "Voeux
Steriles," "La Coupe et les Levres," "A quoi revent les jeunes filles,"
"Namouna," and several shorter pieces. Among those enumerated there are
splendid passages, second in beauty and force to but a few of his later
poems, the sublime "Nuits," "Souvenir," and the incomparable opening of
"Rolla." Again he convoked the friends who three years before had greeted
the _Contes d'Espagne_ with acclamation, but, to the unutterable surprise
and disappointment of both brothers, there was not a word of sympathy or
applause: Merimee alone expressed his approbation, and assured the young
poet that he had made immense progress. Perhaps the others took in bad part
their former disciple's recantation of romanticism, which he makes in the
dedication of "La Coupe et les Levres" after the following formula:

For my part, I hate those snivellers in boats,
Those lovers of waterfalls, moonshine and lakes,
That breed without name, which with journals and notes,
Tears and verses, floods every step that it takes:
Nature no doubt but gives back what you lend her;
After all, it may be that they do comprehend her,
But them I do certainly not comprehend.

The chill of this introduction was not carried off by the public reception
of the _Spectacle dans un Fa