Chateaubriand was long a venerated figure, central in the pure and brilliant _salon_ of Madame Recamier, that later Marchioness Rambouillet at Paris. His easy airs of patriarchal condescension toward the younger generation of authors who drew around him there naturally engaged them to prolong the long days of his triumphs. But his triumphs may be said to have come to an end when Sainte-Beuve was ready to pronounce, as he did, that this defender of Christianity was a skeptic at heart, this preacher and praiser of purity was a libertine in life. We will not say that we accept this destructive view of Chateaubriand's character. But we are bound to confess that we wish there were more internal evidence contained in his writings to throw doubt on the justice of a sentence so severe. DE MAISTRE (Joseph Marie, 1753-1821), is another author who, like Chateaubriand, a little earlier than he, took up a polemic for Christianity as represented in Roman Catholicism. A truly high and nobly earnest spirit was De Maistre, as such contrasting with Chateaubriand, a far deeper and far more philosophical thinker than his brilliant compeer, but wanting in that grace and seductiveness of style which gave to Chateaubriand his life-long wide supremacy in the empire of French letters. It would be not incongruous, if there were room for it in our volume, to prolong this chapter with some brief notice and exemplification of De Maistre's literary work. We must content ourselves with this respectful bare mention of his name. The proportionately small space in these pages that, in here ending our notice of him, we allot to Chateaubriand, fails indeed to represent by symbol to the eye the proportionate space that he occupies in the literature of his country. But it has afforded us fairly adequate opportunity to exhibit in description and specimen the characteristic quality of his literary production. XXI. BERANGER. 1780-1857. Beranger was a song-writer, the whole of him. He was a song-writer and nothing else. It is his own word, "My songs, they are myself." Beranger was not the rose-crowned lyrist of love and wine; he was not Anacreon. Beranger was not the hymner of heroes and kings, a maker of odes; he was not Pindar. Beranger was not the poet of the world, the gay world and the wise; he was not Horace. Beranger was not by chance the lowly melodist, who might by chance as well have been a lofty bard; he was not Robert Burns. Beranger was the song-singer of the people; he himself elected to be such, and he was by the people elected to be such; he said himself, "My muse is the people." In one word, Beranger was--Beranger. There was none like him before, there has been none like him since; Beranger is alone. We do not thus praise him, we simply describe him. But it is possible to describe him better. We do so by borrowing from Victor Hugo through Sainte-Beuve.