It was not very large certainly, being about six feet long by four broad. It could not be called light, as there were bars and a grating to the window. But it was uncommonly comfortable to look at. The space under the window at the farther end was occupied by a square table covered with a reasonably clean and whole red and blue tablecloth; a hard-seated sofa covered with red stuff occupied one side; and a good stout wooden chair afforded a seat for another boy, so that three could sit and work together. Over the door were a row of hat-pegs, and on each side book-cases with cupboards at the bottom; shelves and cupboards being filled indiscriminately with school-books, a cup or two, a mouse-trap and brass candlesticks, leather straps, and some curious-looking articles which puzzled Tom not a little, until his friend explained that they were climbing-irons, and showed their use. A cricket-bat and small fishing-rod stood up in one corner.—From HUGHES’S _Tom Brown’s School-days_. VIII Daudet’s imagination does not consist in the invention of facts or characters: he pictures to himself with extraordinary vividness what has passed before his eyes. Though they are marvellously real, his scenes have not that precise and strict perfection which Flaubert used to give to his. He catches in mid-flight the faintest details and holds fast their very movement. The vibration is still there, and one can feel the tremor in the air and the play of the light. As to his human figures, I question whether Daudet has ever had his equal in the picturesque truthfulness of his portraits, in the capacity of reproducing the expression of a face, an attitude or dress. And it does not follow that, as certain “psychological” writers have hinted, Daudet was deficient in “psychology.” We cannot find in him that cold, pedantic psychology which consists of the authors’s own reflections; and if, to be a “psychologist,” it is necessary to explain minutely every step and every gesture, or to put wearisome commentaries in the place of action, Daudet does not deserve the name. But perhaps there is a distinction to be made between a novel and an anatomical treatise. —From PETIT DE JULLEVILLE, _Hist. de la litt. fr_. vol. viii. IX