rate (for perhaps this power is necessary) by whoso chooses and can.
Therefore, unless I myself mistake grossly, it is a mistake and a grave one to speak of Mérimée as having no "soul," a mistake almost as great as to take him for an exponent of cynical disbelief in life and of arid and limited correctness in literature. His work at its best always glows with "earth-born and absolute fire"; his life often palpitates with what is nothing less than tragedy. This word is often used of authors, but for the most part improperly. Dante's life and career are serious, they are unprosperous in the ordinary sense, but they are not tragical because he is absolutely victorious in literature. He has given us the utmost that it was in him, that it could have been in any man, to give. Burns' life (to take an example as different as possible) is unprosperous too, is in some points almost sordid, and his work is unequal. But he, too, has undoubtedly given us of the best which he had to give, and as for his life, it is very doubtful whether had he been consulted, he would have ordered it very differently. And the same may be said of others. But perhaps two only of the Upper House of Letters in modern times leave us with the impression of pure tragedy, of the state and situa-
