A circumstance no less singular is that the Hôtel Dieu alone has the privilege of selling meat in Lent, for its own advantage and it loses money thereby. M. Chamousset proposed to enter into a contract by which the establishment would gain; his offer was rejected and the butcher, who was thought to have suggested it to him, was dismissed. _Ainsi chez les humains, par un abus fatal,_ _Le bien le plus parfait est la source du mal._ Thus serious ill, if tainted by abuse, The noblest works of man will oft produce. CHARLES IX. Charles IX., king of France, was, we are told, a good poet. It is quite certain that while he lived his verses were admired. Brantôme does not, indeed, tell us that this king was the best poet in Europe, but he assures us that "he made very genteel quatrains impromptu, without thinking (for he had seen several of them), and when it was wet or gloomy weather, or very hot, he would send for the poets into his cabinet and pass his time there with them." Had he always passed his time thus, and, above all, had he made good verses, we should not have had a St. Bartholomew, he would not have fired with a carbine through his window upon his own subjects, as if they had been a covey of partridges. Is it not impossible for a good poet to be a barbarian? I am persuaded it is. These lines, addressed in his name to Ronsard, have been attributed to him: _La lyre, qui ravit par de si doux accords,_ _Te soumets les esprits dont je n'ai que les corps;_ _Le maître elle t'en rend, et te fait introduire_ _Où le plus fier tyran ne peut avoir d'empire._ The lyre's delightful softly swelling lay Subdues the mind, I but the body sway; Make thee its master, thy sweet art can bind What haughty tyrants cannot rule--the mind. These lines are good. But are they his? Are they not his preceptor's? Here are some of his royal imaginings, which are somewhat different: _Il faut suivre ton roi qui t'aime par sur tous_ _Pour les vers qui de toi coulent braves et doux;_ _Et crois, si tu ne viens me trouver à Pontoise,_ _Qu'entre nous adviendra une très-grande noise._ Know, thou must follow close thy king, who oft Hath heard, and loves thee for, thy verse so soft; Unless thou come and meet me at Pontoise, Believe me, I shall make no little noise. These are worthy the author of the massacre of St. Bartholomew. Cæsar's lines on Terence are written with rather more spirit and taste; they breathe Roman urbanity. In those of Francis I. and Charles IX. we find the barbarism of the Celts. Would to God that Charles IX. had written more verses, even though bad ones! For constant application to the fine arts softens the manners and dispels ferocity: _Emollit mores, nec sinit esse feros._