That reserve, indeed, which was made at the end of the notice of the _Portraits Littéraires_ is even more imperatively called for here, and it is most important that while recognising that the real Sainte-Beuve— the plenilune—is as yet but crescent, we should recognise his brightness and his crescency. It is, for instance, not merely hasty, but fundamentally uncritical, to exclaim at the length, the fulness, the cordiality, with which figures like Fontanes, Fauriel, Daunou are treated; and to contrast, with abomination, the hesitancy, the grudging, the reserves, in the case not merely of Hugo,[579] but of Vigny, Lamartine, even Musset, the roughness on Balzac, the comparative respect paid to Sue, and the comparatively cavalier treatment long accorded to Gautier. Even in regard to the great stone of stumbling, it is necessary, for us who were born later, to remember that however ardent in the _chevelu_ and _gilet rouge_ and _hierro!_ manner we may think we should have been if we had been born earlier, the Hugo of the time before the _Châtiments_, and the _Contemplations_, and the _Legénde_, great as he is, is not the Hugo of that glorious trinity. As for the Empire Critics, no impatience at their disproportionate allowance ought to prevent acknowledgment of Sainte-Beuve’s rare equity and true critical spirit towards the immediate predecessors with whom he did _not_ agree—a thing, as we have seen, deplorably rare in criticism. Indeed, save in that Supreme Court of Critical History where the dignity of the place excuses the personal insignificance of the judge, and puts the greatest author on his defence, apology for these five volumes would be needless, and almost impertinent. They certainly need not fear assay either of pieces or of passages. In the First, where most of the dubious places occur, where the judgment is most immature, and the