In 1852 he was elected to the French Academy, that honor so limited by the small number of members, so ridiculed by unsuccessful aspirants, yet without which no French author feels his career to be complete. His plays were being performed with great favor, his poems and tales were becoming more and more popular, his verses were set to music, his stories were illustrated: but all this brought no cheer or consolation to the sick spirit. He lived more and more alone: the Theatre Francais, a silent game of chess at his cafe, the deadly absinthe, were his only sources of excitement. It is a comfort to learn that the last ray of pleasure which penetrated his moral dungeon, reviving for an instant the generous glow of enthusiasm, was the appearance of Ristori: inspired by her, he began a poetical address which he never finished, nor even wrote down, but a fragment of it was preserved orally by one or two who heard it: For Pauline and Rachel I sang of hope, And over Malibran a tear I shed; But, thanks to thee, I see the mighty scope Of strength and genius wed. Ah keep them long! The heart which breathes the prayer When genius calls has ever made reply, Bear smiling home to Italy the fair, A flower from our sky. * * * * * They tell me that in spite of grief and wrong, And pride bent earthward by a tyrant's heel, A noble race, though crushed and conquered long, Has not yet learned to kneel. Rome's godlike dwellers of a bygone age, The marble, porphyry, alabaster forms, Still live: at night, to speech upon the stage, An ancient statue warms. * * * * *