tainly idealised by this illustrious and severe dramatic author of the demi-monde. It was with curiosity that I then contemplated with my fourteen-yearold eyes the son of old Alexandre Dumas, at the same time, however, not too admiringly. He was no poet, and that fact of his not being a poet — that is to say of not writing verses — was to be deplored from my point of view, for mind you, the man whatever he may be who writes verses, the man who goes to the absurd trouble of versifying is in a sense somewhat of a poet.
The life which made Dumas the younger considerably and deservinlgy rich has made of me poet who now writes these lines. His work, so severe and even decidedly austere, with occasional flashes of terrible logic, raises him to the highest rank of writers of no extraordinary style, but it also possesses higher flights which in his case are perhaps more suitable.
He was passionate during the calm course of his work, which he aimed at making first good and afterwards better if possible — passionate for the good and for the better — I know the proverb about the Good and his foe the Better : spare me from speaking of it. But his Lettres sur les choses du jour are really extreme, and I was astonished when I read the signature.
