not hold a pen to write. He was very weak. I saw him every day of his doctrine go hulie and fear, with a furring of masticks about his neck, a staff in one hand, and godly Richard Ballenden (Bannatyne), his servant, holding up the other oxter, from the Abbey to the parish kirk, and he the said Richard, and another servant, lifted him up to the pulpit, where he behoved to lean at his first entry; but ere he had done with his sermon he was sae active and vigorous that he was lyke to ding the pulpit in blads, and fly out of it." If this description should lead any person to suppose that his sermons contained what is called rant, we can only desire him to read the one specimen which is left us, and for which he was summoned as being unusually violent. Of that sermon, we should say, that words more full of deep clear insight into human life, were never uttered in a pulpit. It is all which pulpit eloquence, properly so called, is not, full of powerful understanding and broad masculine sense; and the emotion of it, the real emotion of a real heart. Doctrine, in the modern sense, we suspect was very little heard in Knox's sermons; any more than vague denunciations of abstract wickedness. He aimed his arrows right down upon wicked acts, and the wicked doers of them, present or not present, sovereign or subject; and our Exeter Hall friends would have had to complain of a lamentable deficiency of "gospel truth." After thirteen months' absence, a truce between the contending parties enabled Knox to return to Edinburgh. The summer of 1572 was drawing to its close, and his life was ebbing away from him with the falling year. He attempted once to preach in his old church, but the effort was too great for him; he desired his people to choose some one to fill his place, and had taken his last leave of them, when at the beginning of September the news came of the Bartholomew massacre. If even now, with three centuries rolling between us and that horrible night, our blood still chills in us at the name of it, it is easy to feel what it must have been when it was the latest birth of time; and nowhere, except in France itself, was the shock of it felt as it was in Scotland. The associations of centuries had bound the two countries together in ties of more than common alliance; and between the Scotch Protestants and the Huguenots, there were further connections of the closest and warmest attachment. They had fought for the same cause and against the same persecutors; they had stood by each other in their common trials; and in 1559, Condé and Coligni had saved Scotland by distracting the attention of the Guises at home. Community of interest had led to personal intimacies and friendships, and in time of danger such links are stronger than those of blood-so that thousands of the Paris victims were dearer than brothers to the Lowland Protestants. One cry of horror rose all over Scotland. The contending parties forgot their animosities; even the Catholics let fall their arms in shame, and the flagging energies of Knox rallied back once more, to hurl across the Channel the execrations of a nation whom a crime so monstrous had for a moment reunited. The Tolbooth was fitted up for the occasion, and the voice of the dying hero was heard for the last time in its thunder, denouncing the vengeance of Heaven on the contrivers of that accursed deed. "He But this was the last blow to him. was weary of the world, as the world was weary of him." There was nothing now for him to do; and the world at its best, even without massacres of St. Bartholomew, is not so sweet a place, that men like him care to linger in it longer than necessary. A few days before he died, feeling what was coming, in a quiet simple way he set his house in order and made his few preparations. We find him paying his servants' wages, telling them these were the last which they would ever receive from him, and so giving them each twenty shillings over. Two friends come in to dine with him, not knowing of his illness, and "for their cause he came to the table, and caused pierce an hogged of wine which was in the cellar, and willed them send for the same as long as it lasted, for that he would not tarry till it was drunken." As the news got abroad, the world, in the world's way, came crowding with their anxieties and inquiries. Among the rest came the Earl of Morton, then just declared regent; and from his bed the old man spoke words to him which, years after, on the scaffold, Lord Morton remembered with bitter tears. One by one they came and went. As the last went out, he turned to Campbell of Braid, who would not leave him— "Ilk ane," he said, "bids me gude night, but when will ye do it? I have been greatly be haudin and indebted to you, whilk I can never be able to recompense you. But I commit you to One who is able to do it, that is to the eternal God." The curtain is drawing down; it is time that we drop it altogether. He had taken leave of the world, and only the few they did not require to be taught by losing him. What he had been to his country, "Albeit," in his own words, "that unthankful age would not know," the after ages have experienced, if they have not confessed. His work is not to be measured by the surface changes of ecclesiastical establishments, or the substitution for the idolatry of the mass of a more subtle idolatry of formulæ. Religion with him was a thing not of forms and words, but of obedience and righteous dear ones of his own family now remained with him for a last sacred parting on the shore of the great ocean of eternity. The evening before he died, he was asked how he felt. He said he had been sorely tempted by Satan, "and when he saw he could not prevail, he tempted me to have trusted in myself, or to have boasted of myself; but I repulsed him with this sentence-Quid habes quod non accepisti." It was the last stroke of his "long struggle," the one business of life for him and all of us-the strug-life; and his one prayer was, that God would gle with self. The language may have withered into formal theology, but the truth is green for ever. On Monday, the twenty-fourth of November, he got up in the morning, and partially dressed himself, but feeling weak, he lay down again. They asked him if he was in pain; "It is na painful pain," he answered, "but such a one as, I trust, shall put an end to the battle." grant to him and all mankind "the whole and perfect hatred of sin." His power was rather over the innermost heart of his coun try, and we should look for the traces of it among the keystones of our own national greatness. Little as Elizabeth knew it, that one man was among the pillars on which her throne was held standing in the hour of its danger, when the tempest of rebellion and invasion which had gathered over her passed away without breaking. We complain of the hard destructiveness of these old reformHeers, and contrast complacently our modern "progressive improvement" with their intolerant iconoclasm, and we are like the agriculturalists of a long settled country who should feed their vanity by measuring the crops which they can raise against those raised by their ancestors, forgetting that it was these last who rooted the forests off the ground, and laid the soil open to the seed. His wife sate by him with the Bible open on her knees. He desired her to read the fifteenth of the first of Corinthians. thought he was dying as she finished it. "Is not that a beautiful chapter?" he said; and then added, "Now, for the last time, I commend my spirit, soul, and body, into thy hands, O Lord." But the crisis passed off for the moment. Towards evening he lay still for several hours, and at ten o'clock "they went to their ordinary prayer, whilk was the longer, because they thought he was sleeping. When it was over, the physician asked him if he had heard anything. "Aye," he said, "I wad to God that ye and all men heard as I have heard, and I praise God for that heavenly sound." Suddenly thereafter he gave a long sigh and sob, and cried out, "Now it is come!' Then Richard Bannatyne, sitting down before him, said, 'Now, sir, the time that ye have long called for, to wit, an end of your battle, is come; and seeing all natural power now fails, remember the comfortable promise which ofttime ye have shown to us, of our Saviour Christ; and that we may understand and know that ye hear us, make us some sign,' and so he lifted up his hand; and incontinent thereafter, rendered up the spirit, and sleepit away without ony pain." In such sacred stillness, the strong spirit which had so long battled with the storm, passed away to God. What he had been to those who were gathered about his death-bed, It The real work of the world is done by men of the Knox and Cromwell stamp. is they who, when the old forms are worn away and will serve no longer, fuse again the rusted metal of humanity, and mould it afresh; and, by and by, when they are past away, and the metal is now cold, and can be approached without danger to limb or skin, appear the enlightened liberals with file and sand-paper, and scour off the outer roughness of the casting, and say-See what a beautiful statue we have made. Such a thing it was when we found it, and now its surface is like a mirror, we can see our own faces in every part of it. But it is time to have done. We had intended to have said something of Knox's writings, but for the present our limits are run out. We will leave him now with the brief epitaph which Morton spoke as he stood beside his grave: "There lies one who never feared the face of mortal man." From the Westminster Review. BALZAC AND HIS WRITINGS.* IN the last act of Soulié's "Closérie des Genêts," (an amputation from which, with comic excresences, was played at the Adelphi, under the title of the "Willow Copse,") the following dialogue takes place between two of the principal characters: "Montéclain. Have you read M. de Blazac ? "Léona. I should not be a woman if I did not know all his delightful works by heart. "Montéclain. In that case you must remember his Histoire des Treize ?' "Léona. Indeed I do remember it. It interested me exceedingly." own form the basis. Since 1850, the year in which literature was deprived of the author who has depicted with the greatest success the morals and manners of the first half of the nineteenth century, the works composing his "Comédie Humaine" have been given to the public in two different illustrated editions; his plays have been published in a complete form; his "Mercadet " has been produced amidst universal applause; two or three biographical and critical sketches of him have appeared; a book devoted to his female characters, and another containing his maxims and reflections have been brought out, and numerous pieces, founded upon narratives by him, have been represented at various theatres. The "Histoire des Treize" is a most exciting narrative, founded upon a compact between thirteen "great-hearted gentlemen," who have sworn to avenge society of certain "In the provinces," wrote Sainte Beuve, injuries, the authors of which it is impossi- a few years since, M. de Balzac has met ble to reach by the ordinary legal means. with the most lively enthusiasm. There are We never admired it so much as Léona ap- numbers of women living there whose secret pears to have done, and we have no preten- he has divined, who make a profession of sions to knowing more than half a dozen of loving him, who discourse continually on his "Balzac's delightful works by heart;" but genius, and who endeavor, pen in hand, to after allowing for the exaggeration peculiar vary and embroider, in their turn, the inexto the theatre, and further, for the exaggera-haustible theme of these charming sketches, tion generally found in the expressions of ladies in real life, we have no hesitation in saying that Léona's admiration for the author of the "Comédie Humaine," was and is equalled by that of the most educated women in France. A few years ago, the most popular thing in Paris after M. de Balzac himself, was M. de Balzac's cane; portraits and caricatures of the former were in all the print-shops, and Madame de Giradin's clever novel suggested by the latter, was in all the libraries. Now that Balzac's features are beginning to be forgotten, and that his diamond-headed cane has become a relic, his popularity is attested by the numerous forms in which his works are produced, and the variety of other works of which his La Femme de trente ans,' 'La Femme malheureuse,' La Femme abandonnée.'" In St. Petersburgh, where he is said to have been invited by the Court, he was scarcely less popular than in Paris. It was there that a lady, hearing Balzac was in the room, is said to have dropped a glass of water through emotion. In Venice, it was once the fashion to represent Balzac's characters in drawing-rooms, and "during an entire season," says the critic above mentioned, "nothing but Rastignacs, Duchesses de Langeais, and Duchesses de Maufrigneuse could be seen." Germany sent letters entreating the author to continue his "Illusions perdues" without delay; and one notary wrote from a distant and uncivilized part of France to request that M. de Balzac would make the members of his profession appear in a more Euvre. Par Armand Baschet. Avec Notes His- engaging light than that in which they had toriques par Champfleury. 1. Honoré de Balzac: Essai sur l'Homme et sur 2. Vie de H. de Balzac. Par Desnoiresterres. hitherto been represented. In spite of Balzac's long and continued | popularity on the continent, only two of his productions have been translated into English. One of these, "La Grande Bretèche," is an episode in one of his novels where it is introduced as a tale of horror, in order to dismay a lady whose conduct has been supposed to offer some analogy to that of the heroine of the said episode. Powerfully written and terrible as it undoubtedly is, this episode, when viewed by itself, is like a diamond taken out of its setting. It appeared in one of the annuals, and the author's name was not attached to it. The comedy of "Mercadet" also, cut down from five acts to three by M. Dennery, has had an English physiognomy given to it, and has been acted, with great success, at the Lyceum. How it happens that not one of Balzac's novels-not even "Eugénie Grandet," nor the "Recherche de l'absolu," both of which are not only irreproachable as to the morality of the details, but have the additional advantage of being master-pieces-how it happens that neither of these has been translated into English, we can only explain by the supposition that the publishers of translations imagine the public cares for nothing more elevated than Eugene Sue, or more decent than Paul de Kock. Without possessing the slightest affection for paradoxes, we think we can prove that the popularity of French novelists in England, is in inverse proportion to their literary merits. If we judge by the number of his works (!) translated, we find that high-minded and conscientious artist, Paul de Kock, occupying the first place in popularity, although there are forcible reasons-the extended sale which the "Mysteries" and the "Wandering Jew" met with -for assigning the post of honor to the pure and gentle Eugene Sue. Next comes Dumas, proving, by his own case alone, the truth of our theory, inasmuch as only one volume of his "Impressions de Voyage," and scarcely any of his carefully-written novels have been translated, whereas most of his violently unnatural romances, without ever having been written in French, have nevertheless been "done into English." Very few of George Sand's works have been translated, and only two of Merimée's. Lastly, not one of Balzac's novels has ever been presented in an English dress,-which, according to our theory, would prove M. de Balzac to have been the greatest of French novelists, a conclusion to which a careful perusal of his works had already led us. In Balzac's "Mémoires de deux jeunes Mariées," one of the heroines mentions what was undoubtedly true at the time, viz., that out of all the novels and romances in circulation, the only ones worth reading are "Corinne," and Benjamin Constant's " "Adolphe." In "Corinne," however, the characters are mere shadows, and, moreover, unnatural shadows; and in Benjamin Constant's admirable tale, Adolphe and Eléonore, are quite without individuality. The only pictures of manners existing in France, when Balzac was preparing to make his début, were "Gil Blas" (if we can apply the term picture to a panorama) and "Manon Lescaut." In "Gil Blas," the fact of all the characters being knaves, with the exception of a select few who are fools, and the entire absence of sentiment and passion, render it, on the whole, an untrue picture of human life, in spite of the knowledge of mankind exhibited in almost every page; while the frequent interruption of the story by the introduction of episodes more or less interesting, renders it tedious, in spite of the variety of the incidents. and the wit of the narrative. Absence of passion is certainly not the fault of "Manon Lescaut," and although the constant recurrence of the same situation makes it resemble a beautiful duet, in which the same motive is too frequently repeated, it was, perhaps, the truest picture of human life existing in France anno Domini 1830. The country which, in less than twenty years, has produced Balzac and George Sand, Nodier, Mérimée, Jules Sandeau, and Alphonse Karr, Victor Hugo, Théophile Gauthier, and Alfred de Vigny, can afford to admit this undeniable truth, that it possessed no more than the germ of a literature of fiction until nearly the middle of the present century. The influence of the French Academy, which, while endeavoring to preserve the language of France, has nearly stifled its literature by sacrificing all other principles of art to the heroic and the classical (otherwise the conventional), can alone explain the existence of Scudéry and the celebrity of Florian; and the attack on conventionality in the drama, which was commenced by Victor Hugo during the Restoration, had for its indirect effect a reform in the novel, as it notoriously aided that which has since taken place in painting. In England, where Providence has spared us the infliction of an Academy, and where the standard of taste has always been so low that thinkers have been able, ever since the dark ages, to express their thoughts in any form which they have chosen to select-in England the literary warfare of the romanticists against the class- | Touraine; the "Grenadière," to which Mad- ame de Willemsens retired broken-hearted, is The reform in art, to which the name of romanticism has been given-a name which has never been accepted by its chiefs-by abolishing the conventional models, led naturally enough to the adoption of real and natural models, and to the exact imitation of nature. 66 Art," says one of Balzac's literary heroes, "is nature concentrated." Those who copy from nature, and, above all, from modern nature, and the nature which surrounds them at every instant, were destined to receive from the champions of conventionality the appellation of "realists,"-this "realism" being in fact only a continuation or branch of what had before been absurdly styled "romanticism." The head of this realist school was Honoré de Balzac ; and we shall see, from the history of his life and from an examination of some of his principal works, in the order in which they appeared, that it was many years even before he understood the true bent of his genius and the destinies of the modern French novel. Honoré de Balzac was born on the 16th March, 1799, at Tours, the birth-place of Rabelais, Descartes, and Paul Louis Courier; and it is at this town that the scene of some of his most admirable productions is laid. Madame de Mortsauf lived in a valley of At seven years of age, Honoré was sent to the college of Vendôme, where he is said, by M. Desnoiresterres, to have been remarkable for his inattention to ordinary studies, and his affection for "Louis Lambert," whose story M. Desnoiresterres appears to regard as a piece of actual biography. Similar mistakes have been made several times since the days of Defoe, and must be looked upon as complimentary to the realizing power of an author, although they say little for the discrimination of the reader who falls into such an error. M. Armand Baschet, from whose excellent memoir we shall borrow the few important facts connected with a life which was purely literary, mentions that Balzac, when at school, wrote a "Traité de la Volonté," which one of the masters discovered, and, as a matter of course, burned. The "human will," as the readers of Balzac will remember, was the subject to which Raphael, in the "Peau de Chagrin," devoted his two years' study, which ended in an essay intended to form the "necessary complement to the works of Mesmer, Gall, and Lavater." Having taken his degree of bachelor of arts, Honoré studied law, and at the same time attended the lectures at the Sorbonne and the College of France with the greatest punctuality. At the age of nineteen he entered the office of a solicitor, and of course discovered that the profession was an intolerable one. A year afterwards he attempted to reduce himself to the proportions of a notary's clerk, without any sort of success. The crisis, as the newspapers say, was now at hand. The scene is laid in the Rue du Temple. |