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Updated: May 25, 2025
His is a muse which never lays aside the cothurnus, and a royalty which never puts off its crown, even in sleep. The total absence in him of playfulness, simplicity, familiarity, is a great defect. De Laprade is to the ancients as the French tragedy is to that of Euripides, or as the wig of Louis XIV. to the locks of Apollo. His majestic airs are wearisome and factitious.
And Gaudin, and Laprade, Blouin, and Roussel, old Christofle Roussel of Beau Bassin, Duhon, Roman and Simonette Le Blanc, and Judge Landry, and Thériot, Colonel Thériot, Martin, Hébert again, Robichaux, Mouton, Mouton again, Robichaux again, Mouton oh, I've got 'em all! Castille, Beausoleil cousin of yours? Yes, he said so; good fellow, thinks you're the greatest woman alive."
In a paper on a volume of miscellaneous prose essays by M. Laprade, M. Sainte-Beuve has this sentence: "What strikes me above all and everywhere is, that the author, whether he reasons or whether he addresses himself to literary history, only understands his own mode of being and his own individuality. Hereby he reveals to us that he is not a critic."
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