s cheated out of an alms in the shape of sympathy. But when the
thing is studied the illusion fades away: in the transitions, above all,
we can detect the evil, ironical temper of the man; and instead of a
flighty work, where many crude but genuine feelings tumble together for
the mastery as in the lists of tournament, we are tempted to think of
the "Large Testament" as of one long-drawn epical grimace, pulled by a
merry-andrew, who has found a certain despicable eminence over human
respect and human affections by perching himself astride upon the
gallows. Between these two views, at best, all temperate judgments will
be found to fall; and rather, as I imagine, towards the last.

There were two things on which he felt with perfect and, in one case,
even threatening sincerity.

The first of these was an undisguised envy of those richer than himself.
He was for ever drawing a parallel, already exemplified from his own
words, between the happy life of the well-to-do and the miseries of the
poor. Burns, too proud and honest not to work, continued through all
reverses to sing of poverty with a light, defiant note. Beranger waited
till he was himself beyond the reach of want before writing the "Old
Vagabond" or "Jacques." Samuel Johnson, although he was very sorry to
be poor, "was a great arguer for the advantages of poverty" in his ill
days. Thus it is that brave men carry their crosses, and smile with the
fox burrowing in their vitals. But Villon, who had not the courage to be
poor with honesty, now whiningly implores our sympathy, now shows his
teeth upon the dung-heap with an ugly snarl. He envies bitterly, envies
passionately. Poverty, he protests, drives men to steal, as hunger makes
the wolf sally from the forest. The poor, he goes on, will always have a
carping word to say, or, if that outlet be denied, nourish rebellious
thoughts. It is a calumny on the noble army of the poor. Thousands in a
small way of life, ay, and even in the smallest, go through life with
tenfold as much honour and dignity and peace of mind as the rich
gluttons whose dainties and state-beds awakened Villon's covetous
temper. And every morning's sun sees thousands who pass whistling to
their toil. But Villon was the "_mauvais pauvre_" defined by Victor
Hugo, and, in its English expression, so admirably stereotyped by
Dickens. He was the first wicked _sans-culotte_. He is the man of genius
with the moleskin cap. He is mighty pathetic and beseechin