mournful el poeta doliente as I have lately been called in a too flattering dedication of the well-known General Marsilla of the Argentine Republic — since I know my own mind, I am more inclined to like rather than to esteem and admire the man, so upright, forcible and brilliant, so sceptical and so good-natured, who has struck me ever since my birth as a literary genius.
Truly by instinct I liked the man before being able to appreciate the writer, and I liked the writer before being able to thoroughly appreciate him, which I have only comparatively lately, too lately, succeeded in doing. One cannot be more accurate or perhaps more precise in expressing a frankness which is not difficult to me and still less troublesome since it contributes in an infinitesimal degree to the just glory, the glory which naturally belongs and will always be associated with one whose sole efforts were to be amiable, and who fînally found sympathy and approbation except amongst the weak-minded, who must not be counted, although they arc unfortunately in such large numbers.
I cannot boast of what might be called an acquaintance with Alexandre Dumas the younger, but I have often seen him under the circumstances which I will here relate. Chance has
