I especially call attention to a comedy by this poet called Pome de Léon. Nothing can be more disjointed and fragmentary than this composition, both as regards thoughts and languages. Yet all these shreds and tatters live and whirl round so merrily that in reading it one fancies himself in a masqued ball of words, and thoughts, and witticisms. There everything rushes and riots and rolls together in delightful confusion, and it is only the generally prevailing madness which makes a kind of harmony. The most preposterous puns run like harlequins through all the piece, and slap everybody with their wooden swords. Sometimes a serious idea addresses us, but it stutters like the Doctor of Bologna. There a phrase lounges and strolls like a Pierrot with far too loose hanging sleeves and far too large waistcoat buttons, and there again humpy dwarfy witticisms, with little legs, leap like Punches, while words of love flutter about with sorrow in their hearts. So all dances, and leaps, and whirls, and rattles, and drones, while ever and anon blare out the trumpets of a Bacchantic rage for ruin and destruction.
A great tragedy by this poet, called "The Founding of Prague," is also very remarkable. There are scenes in it where we are inspired by the most mysterious thrills or chills of primevally ancient legends. In it rustle the dark Bohemian
