h at him?—Yet the one we would wish to be is thyself, Cervantes, unconquerable spirit!
gaining flavor and color like wine from every change, while being carried round the world; in whose eye the serene sagacious laughter could not be dimmed by poverty, slavery, or unsuccessful authorship.
Thou art to us still more the Man, though less the Genius, than Shakspeare; thou dost not evade our sight, but, holding the lamp to thine own magic shows, dost enjoy them with us.
My third friend was Moliere, one very much lower, both in range and depth, than the others, but, as far as he goes, or the same character.
Nothing secluded or partial is there about his genius,— a man of the world, and a man by himself, as he is. It was, indeed, only the poor social world of Paris that he saw, but he viewed it from the firm foundations of his manhood, and every lightest laugh rings from a clear perception, and teaches life anew.
These men were all alike in this,—they loved the natural history of m<
e was well read in French, Italian, and German literature.
She had learned Latin and a little Greek.
But her English reading was incomplete; and, while she knew Moliere, and Rousseau, and any quantity of French letters, memoirs, and novels, and was a dear student of Dante and Petrarca, and knew German books more cordially than ane Thou, or the Memoirs of the House of Nevers?
I do not think this is a respectable way of passing my summer, but I cannot help it.
I never read any life of Moliere.
Are the acts very interesting?
You see clearly in his writing what he was: a man not high, not poetic; but firm, wide, genuine, whose clearsightedness only madshowing those myriad mean faults of the social man, and yet make no nearer approach to misanthropy than his Alceste.
These witty Frenchmen, Rabelais, Montaigne, Moliere, are great as were their marshals and preux chevaliers; when the Frenchman tries to be poetical, he becomes theatrical, but he can be romantic, and also dignified