Oh! I would that I were slumbering where moaneth the sea-wave,
Where the setting sun might linger with a smile upon my grave!
Emblems fit of life’s dark heaving, and of that blessed shore
Where these weary Dreams and Memories shall sadden me no more!
A FIRST NIGHT OF RACINE.
FROM DE JOUY’S ‘HERMITE’ OF THE FOURTH OF JANUARY, EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND TWELVE.
Voilà de vos arrêts, Messieurs les Gens de Goût!
Prior La Metromaine.
Every-body has a hobby-horse, as the English say, on which he is mounted, even when sneering at the steeds of his neighbors. The wits themselves are not exempt from this mental preöccupation, which brings every taste to bear upon only one point. Some ruin themselves in books, some in pictures and statues, others in minerals, shells, or medals. The bibliomaniac, the picture-dealer, the naturalist, the numismatist, all appear to me equally absurd. I speak of course of those who have the collecting mania without the love of science. They play at science as we play at cards, and the ridiculous part of the matter is, the perfect seriousness with which they do it.