a cross between a Cæsar by Gerome, and an archbishop of a provincial
town, set all my natural antipathy instantly on edge. Hugo is often
pompous, shallow, empty, unreal, but he is at least an artist, and when
he thinks of the artist and forgets the prophet, as in "Les Chansons des
Rues et des Bois," his juggling with the verse is magnificent, superb.

"Comme un geai sur l'arbre
Le roi se tient fier;
Son cœur est de marbre,
Son ventre est de chair.

"On a pour sa nuque
Et son front vermeil
Fait une perruque
Avec le soleil.

"Il règne, il végète
Effroyant zéro;
Sur lui se projette
L'ombre du bourreau.

"Son trône est une tombe,
Et sur le pavé
Quelque chose en tombe
Qu'on n'a point lavé."

But how to get the first line of the last stanza into five syllables I
cannot think. If ever I meet with the volume again I will look it out
and see how that _rude dompteur de syllables_ managed it. But stay,
_son trône est la tombe_; that makes the verse, and the generalisation