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A slave passed him a guitar; he touched the strings and sang with good taste a song in questionable taste: "Jeanneton prend sa fauçille." A delicate melody and neatly done; yet the verse "Le deuxième plus habile L'embrassant sous le menton" made me redden, and the envoi nigh burned me alive with blushes, yet was rapturously applauded, and the patroon fell a-choking with his gross laughter.
Having composed more verses than any man that ever lived, Hugo can only be taken in the smallest doses; if you repeat any passage to a friend across a café table, you are both appalled by the splendour of the imagery, by the thunder of the syllables. "Quel dieu, quel moissonneur dans l'éternel été Avait s'en allant négligemment jeté Cette faucille d'or dans les champs des étoiles."
Having composed more verses than any man that ever lived, Hugo can only be taken in the smallest doses; if you repeat any passage to a friend across a café table, you are both appalled by the splendour of the imagery, by the thunder of the syllables. "Quel dieu, quel moissonneur de l'éternel été Avait en s'en allant négligemment jeté Cette faucille d'or dans les champs des étoiles."
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