The portrait of this best of kings Is extant still, upon a sign That on a village tavern swings, Famed in the country for good wine. The people in their Sunday trim, Filling their glasses to the brim, Look up to him. Singing, ha, ha, ha! and he, he, he! That's the sort of king for me. In his autobiography, an interesting book, Beranger says that hardly any other writer equally with himself could have dispensed with the help of the printer. His songs traveled of themselves from mouth to mouth without the intervention of printed copies. In fact, Beranger was already famous before his works went into print. It was this oral currency of his songs that made them such engines of power. That brilliant Bohemian wit among Frenchmen, Chamfort, defined, it is said, before Beranger's time, the government of France to be absolute monarchy tempered by songs. This celebrated saying does not overstate the degree, though it may misstate the kind, of influence that Beranger exercised with his lyre. He was, by conviction and in sympathy, a determined and ardent republican, and yet, in fact, he founded, or played the chief part in founding, the imperial usurpation of Louis Napoleon. This he did by getting the glories of the great emperor sung by Frenchmen throughout France, until the very name of Napoleon became an irresistible spell to conjure by. We now give the most celebrated of these Bonaparte songs. Mr. William Young, an American, has a volume of translations from Beranger. Of this particular song, Mr. Young's version is so felicitous that we unhesitatingly choose it for our readers. The title of the song is, "The Recollections of the People." It was, we believe, founded on an incident of Beranger's own observation; we shorten again by a stanza: Aye, many a day the straw-thatched cot Shall echo with his glory! The humblest shed, these fifty years, Shall know no other story. There shall the idle villagers To some old dame resort, And beg her with those good old tales To make their evenings short. "What though they say he did us harm Our love this cannot dim; Come, Granny, talk of him to us; Come, Granny, talk of him." "Well, children--with a train of kings Once he passed by this spot; 'Twas long ago; I had but just Begun to boil the pot. On foot he climbed the hill, whereon I watched him on his way; He wore a small three-cornered hat; His overcoat was gray. I was half frightened till he spoke; 'My dear,' says he, 'how do?'" "O, Granny, Granny, did he speak? What, Granny! speak to you?" * * * * *