you had swayed and dominated. They went elsewhere, wishing to see something fresh; you had given them too much. You even heard it whispered, 'I declare the son has far more talent.' You well might laugh at that, but you did not; you were merely proud of me, like some ordinary father, and perhaps you thought that they were right. You would have given me all your glory, just as you used to give me all your money when I was an idle boy. Let others of my time claim to be your equals: as they do not bear your name, that is their own affair; but I wish those who come after me to know, when they shall see our two names one above the other on the scroll of this century, that whatever people may say, I have never felt you other than my father, my friend, and my teacher; and that, thanks to you, I have never become conceited, always considering myself a mere pigmy by the side of you."
Reading this filial tribute, in which the regret for the father's lost popularity seems to be sincerely greater than the writer's own pleasure in his success, one may well agree with Hugo, when he wrote to the younger Dumas on the death of his father:—
"That soul was capable of all the miracles, even that of bequeathing itself, even of surviving itself. Your father lives in you."
