of song, descriptive of that curious specimen
of humanity, la Parisienne, Dupont is, as may
be supposed, far less at home, and the result is
not satisfactory. Here is

                          EUSEBIUS.

   The woodmen of the valley pause,
      And point with smile of scorn,
   At the foolish youth, whose floating hair
      Is blowing all forlorn.
   His eye, blue as a summer stream,
      Swims with a bitter tear,
   For his heart is full as the boundless sea,
      With a mighty grief and fear.
                He loves—oh, folly wild!
                  The nameless, low-born youth—
                He loves the only child
                  Of the Christian baron, forsooth!

   He saw her as one day he went
      By her window, at her glass,
   And now he roams from park to church,
      ln the thicket to see her pass.
   Fair, slender, tall and graceful, she,
      From her hair to her shoe, in truth,
   She looks a baroness, every inch,
      And he's but a student youth.
                He love—oh, folly wild! &c.

   No Greek nor Latin does he know,
      His studies come by chance,
   Only in Nature's book he reads,
      And in the lady's glance—
   And yet the world must yield to him—
      Will the baron say him nay?
   A secret, God to him reveals,
      That chases fear away.
                He loves—oh, folly wild! &c.

   This secret deep, this mystery,
      Makes him at once a sage,
   It teaches that the rich and poor,
      In every clime and age,
   Are moulded from the self-same clay,
      That love and learning raise
   All to a level.  Forth he goes
      To seek the baron's face.
                He loves—oh folly wild! &c.

   His tale he to the baron tells,
      Who bears upon his shield,
   A cross, a lance-head, and a gem,
      Upon an azure field.
   "Twere a scurvy thing," the baron says,
      No wise inclined to yield,
   "To see thy science and thy love,
      Engraved upon my shield!"
                He loves—oh, folly wild! &c.

   The damsel listened silently,
      The while her fingers fair
   Entwined the laurel and the rose
      That clustered richly there.
   "These lovely branches can but add
      New grace to it, I wis."
   "Your hand, young man," the baron said,
      And joined the two in his.
                "He loves me! bliss extreme!
                  His heart—the noble youth!—
                Is worth the love supreme
                  Of the baron's child, in truth!"

To regard Pierre Dupont's works in a merely
literary point of view would be altogether a
mistake; their claims to actual poetical merit
varying considerably, and seldom rising to the first
rank. But he was the poet the times required;
he rose from among the class who wanted a
voice to speak their wrongs and their sufferings,
their few joys and many sorrows, their claims
and their aspersions, with a personal knowledge
and experience of what these were: he refused
to let himself be trammelled by the lifeless
conventionalities of the modern French school of
poetry, and above all, though sometimes
prejudiced, he was always true, to the extent of his
knowledge and belief; always in earnest, and
despite occasional outbursts of indignation, his
was a loving, hopeful, and essentially genial and
human nature, and when the voices of such men
speak, they must infallibly find an echo. He
believed that men were honest; that they had
hearts and consciences; that they loved what
was right, and high, and true; and that they
were anxious and able to advance to freedom
and regeneration through love and union,
through hope and courage; and if ever men are
so to advance, it will, under God, be through
the sound of such appeals, through the awakening
of their nobler and better natures by confident
addresses to such higher part of them.

Many a time France has been called to assert
herself by empty swash-buckler cries of "La
patrie! Our country!" "La Fr-r-rance!" and
"A bas, Down with this!" "A bas, Down with
that!" it has always been down with something;
surely now it is time to think of building
something up.

In the year 1850 or 1851 commenced the
publication of an edition of Pierre Dupont's songs
in numbers, each number containing an illustration;
which illustrations, be it remarked in passing,
although in some instances signed by the
names of Tony Johannot, Andrieux, &c., were,
for the greater part, singularly poor, ill-
imagined, conventional, ugly, and most carelessly
executed. With the words was the music,
which, with very rare exceptions, was of
Dupont's own composition. But whether this
edition was ever completed, I have not been able
to ascertain: I should think that the political
tone of some of the songs would render their
appearance, under the existing condition of the laws
that govern the press, highly problematical.

Some time alter the coup d'état it was
decided that Pierre Dupont's republican notions
were no longer in any degree to be tolerated in
France, and he was sentenced to transportation.

Many persons, however, even among those
who had given in a more or less sincere
adherence to the new order of things, were interested
in him, and Gudin, the celebrated marine painter,
whose house had afforded him very efficient
shelter and hospitality in these perilous times
—when men of weight and note were sent out
of France at twenty-four hours' notice, without
any further reason being assigned than that
it was for the "general security" of the nation
—organised a dinner to which were invited the
Maréchal Magnan and other influential guests,
among whom Pierre Dupout, unnamed and
unknown, took his place. After dinner, Gudin,