the heavy debt to which we formerly alluded, he removed to a smaller lodging at No. 2, Rue de la Tournon. Let him speak for himself:

"When I took that modest apartment I had enormous debts to discharge, something like 50,000 francs, and what had I to face it with? a ream of paper, a bundle of quills, a penknife, a bottle of ink, my youth, an iron will, and a robust energy to overcome all difficulties and break through all obstacles."

From this abode he removed to No. 4, Rue Cassini, where he remained for nine years, during which time he wrote most of his best works (1829 to 1838); here were elaborated his "Contes Philosophiques," "Père Goriot," "Eugenie Grandet,' La Peau de Chagrin," "Louis Lambert," "L'Histoire des Treize," "Le Lys dans la Vallée," "Seraphita," and about twenty other works.

>>

Here he accumulated the greater part of his magnificent library. Even then it was considerable, containing a good collection of very rare choice books, luxuriously bound in crimson morocco, and embellished with the arms of the "Entragues," a set of classics and of classic French writers, amongst which were Voltaire and Rousseau. One feature in his library was the large preponderance of works upon the various forms of worship; religions, superstitions, and traditions of every nation in the world, and conspicious among these were the works of Swedenborg, upon whom and whose mystic speculations "Seraphita" is founded-worthy child of its parent.

His removal from this house was caused by his unwillingness to serve in the National Guard. He made arrangements with his landlord to keep his apartments vacant during the rest of his term, and he retired without letting anyone know where, to a secluded house kept by a Madame Veuve Brunet, at Chaillot. He, however, grew tired of this house, and being once more discovered by the bourgeois military, he resolved upon buying three acres of land on a spot called Les Jardies, near St. Cloud. He then began to build a villa, à l'Italienne, hired a lot of workmen, and himself in person superintended the works. He was a very obstinate

tyrannical overseer, and he soon convinced the workpeople that the only thing for them to do was to give up offering advice and quietly execute his orders. They did so implicitly, and the whole building was completed, when Balzac suddenly received a deputation of the boldest among them. The spokesman apologized for the intrusion, but the building was completed, and they were anxious to know where they should make the staircase. Balzac had entirely forgotten that item, and found that the only disadvantage to his villa was that there was no access to the upstair rooms. Still he was equal to the emergency, and after a moment's reflection he replied, "It appears the staircase wishes to master me, I will therefore put it out of the house," and he executed his threat by having it erected outside. He afterwards removed in succession to Ville d'Avray, to the Rue Basse, to the Rue St. Honoré, to the Rue Richelieu, and finally settled in the 'quartier Beaujon, in the Allée Fortunée.

This last house was fitted up with almost regal pomp; everything that art could provide was procured. All his collections were gathered together in a large gallery; his rooms were furnished with beautifully sculptured furniture, the staircase was covered with a thick carpet, on each stair was a large china vase of great value, and it was lit up by a magnificent lantern suspended by a cord of red silk.

Surely," said a friend who had just been conducted over this scene, you must have rifled the treasures of some Aboul-Cassem. I always thought you were a millionaire."

Balzac assured him that he was very poor, and that he had even prepared this splendid mansion for a friend whom he was expecting, so that he was only the guardian of the hotel.

We have already alluded to a mysterious visit of Balzac to Vienna, to meet a certain carissima, to whom he was very much attached. The history of the origin of that attachment is lost to us, as utterly lost as the Egyptian history of Manetho and the first thirteen books of Ammianus Marcellinus. For years the intimacy had existed, and there can be little doubt, if any, that it was of the purest

character. She was a Polonnaise, young, handsome, and clever. It was to her Balzac dedicated his Seraphita à la carissima. Her husband was an old Muscovite, whose declining health gave him hope. The attachment was increased by the subtle charm of correspondence, and the death of the old Muscovite in 1849 released his amiable wife from the bonds she had borne so honourably. About this time Lamartine says he met Balzac accidentally in one of those shady_avenues between the Chamber of Deputies and the Palais des Invalides.

He addressed me," says the historian, with the air of a man who was burning to communicate something to a friend."

"What have you done?" I asked. "I am expecting," said he, "the felicity of angels. I love and am beloved by the most charming being on earth; she is young, free, and has an independent fortune. Certain hindrances prevent our union, but in less than a month I am as sure of my happiness as of her love."

Lamartine thought it was one of his wild dreams, and left him, not believing a word of it; but in less than a month he heard that Balzac had gone on another mysterious journey. From this journey he returned in February, 1850, bringing to the mansion in the Allée Fortunée Madame Balzac.

At the time of his marriage he was only a month from the completion of his fiftieth year; ten of those years we have seen were passed in obscurity and poverty, such as it falls to the lot of genius in this busy world too often; ten more years he spent in labour of the most severe kind, which however brought him fame and competence. He stood at the head of his branch of literature, he had realized the dream of his youth, and won that crown towards which he had aspired; he looked forward now in his new domestic life to rest in ease and happy contentment for the rest of his days-but it was not to be. He was allowed to taste of the cup of bliss, and it was dashed from his lips.

Scarcely four months after his marriage he was seized with aneurism of the heart, and daily growing worse, he gradually became resigned to the

fact that his end was approaching. In the intervals of his terrible agonies he called frequently upon the name of Frederic Soulié, another victim to excessive mental exertion :—

"Pauvre Frederic, je mourrais comme toi, par le cœur, et comme toi à la fleur de l'age.'

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From the account of his death we learn the fact that his aged mother wept over his dying bed, and in her arms, after thirty-four hours of intense suffering, he expired on the 18th of August, 1850, just four months after his marriage with the Countess Eve de Hansha.

His death cast a gloom over the gay saloons of Paris, where he had so often triumphed, and the élite of that city did honour to his remains.

On the 21st of August, at eleven o'clock, a crowd filled the approaches to the Chapel of St. Philippe du Roule, where the body lay awaiting the last ceremony. A few candles placed on the altar and around the coffin, covered with the pall, was all the décoration of the interior. After prayers had been said the coffin was placed on a simple hearse drawn by two horses, and the procession moved towards the church. The bier was supported by M. Baroche, Minister of the Interior, Messrs. Victor Hugo, Alexander Dumas, and Francis Wey; an immense cortége followed the bier, surrounded by a silent and respectful crowd. The Institute, the University, the Learned Societies, the Society of Men of Letters, the Society of Dramatic Authors, and the Schools of Law and Medicine, were represented in that procession.

There were also Englishmen, Americans, Germans, and Russians.

After the service in the church, the cortège proceeded to the cemetery of Père la Chaise, where the body was solemnly consigned to the tomb, in the presence of an immense crowd of persons, before whom Victor Hugo pronounced the following funeral oration :—

"The man who has just gone down into this tomb was one of those for whom the public grieves. In these times all fictions have vanished; our regards are fixed henceforth not upon reigning heads, but upon thinking heads, and the whole country trembles when one of these heads disappears. To-day the cause of popular grief is

FROM what we have the pleasure of knowing of Mrs. Sadbrooke, it may be supposed that she kept her departed husband in excellent order. Now that he was departed, however, he formed a fine imaginary court of appeal; his opinion was quoted on subjects on which in his lifetime it certainly wouldn't have been asked; and when Amelia or Arabella or Matilda Jane was particularly "aggravating," and the widow had not sufficient energy to take more violent measures, she always told the delinquent to remember "her poor dear father."

That reverend gentleman had been a very obedient husband and a very bad schoolmaster. He had quaint old-fangled notions. He read long Latin prayers morning and evening, and made the boys repeat in turn long Latin graces before and after meals. He knew nothing, and taught nothing. Mr. Vellelly, having less authority, was of course rather worse. The boys' food was of good quality, but scanty. One thick round of bread and butter, and one cup of milk and water for breakfast and tea; dinner of meat and pudding, with the understanding that there was no pudding for the boy who had two plates of meat; a little bit of bread and cheese for supper. On Saturdays bread and cheese instead of meat for dinner. The boys were not starved, but certainly under fed ; and I fancy this is the case with a very large number of middle class schools. Our middle class education is in a semi-barbarous state, even

now.

Stephen, notwithstanding his aunt Harriet's kind intentions towards him, did not get into trouble. He had a good memory and learned his lessons easily. He was popular among the boys, for they soon discovered his tale-telling faculty, and he spun them interminable yarns in the bed-room. He was averse from athletic sports, and used to wander about the country in dreary loneli

VOL. LXX.—NO. CCCCXVIII.

ness. The boys were not kept within bounds, but might wander where they pleased, if they were punctual at school and meals. Some of the elder ones, strong bucolic lads of sixteen or seventeen, used to follow the Duke's hounds in the hunting season, carrying poles to leap the hedges and brooks. But Stephen lived apart from all their robust fun, and dreamed his dreams, and saw weird phantoms, and told strange tales when the moonlight poured through the casements upon their little beds.

One reason why he escaped Mrs. Sadbrooke's notice was, perhaps, that she was dreadfully worried about Matilda Jane and John Daw. For that young lady had been caught, more than once, and had been subjected to such indignities as her mamma could invent and apply, but all to no purpose. The widow thought of sending her usher away; but then he was very cheap; besides, he was the son of her butcher, who was very amiable in matters of credit, and whom she did not wish to offend. So an impartial historian must record that Matilda Jane's delinquencies interfered with Mrs. Sadbrooke's duty to the rest of her establishment, and that several young gentlemen escaped floggings which they would inevitably have had if her mind had been at peace. It was a remarkably mild half year.

Our poor little friend's turn came at last, and I must say he deserved it. Mr. John Daw was not popular with the boys; an usher just out of boyhood never is. Now Mr. Daw, being enamoured of Matilda Jane, gave up much time to his toilet, and used immense quantities of pomatum. Stephen's class were reading Phædrus, and they came upon the fable of "Graculus Superbus". "The Vain Jackdaw." The pun was irresistible; Stephen wrote "Graculus Superbus on a piece of paper, and affixed it to Mr. Daw's coat. Of course the awkward boy was caught, and the angry usher boxed his ears

26

with fury. This, however, did not satisfy him; but he did not venture to excite general laughter by a complaint to Mr. Vellelly; so, when Stephen was writing a copy that morning, he passed behind him and jogged his elbow. A huge blot was the result. Stephen was sent up to Mr. Vellelly, and came back to his place with the dreadful words in his

ears,

"You will stay down this evening." Now flogging, as public schoolboys know, is a mere nothing, whatever it once might have been; and the pleasant author of Etoniana tells his stories about it as if it were quite agreeable as a reminiscence. "But middle class schoolmasters have been in the habit of using the rod with extreme ferocity. Vellelly, however, was not one of the severer operators. Notwithstanding, little Stephen Langton, sensitive and timorous, fancied something far more dreadful than the castigations of Aunt Harriet, though that lady was in my belief worse than the schoolmaster. Moreover, there was an air of awe about it. The victims—and there were about half a dozen most days-remained below after prayers when the rest went to bed. The punishment was administered with pomp and ceremony in the presence of the whole household, a man servant taking the part which at Eton is performed by two collegers. Stephen had heard his schoolfellows, after the infliction, creep up in the dark and go sobbing to their beds. The anticipation was too much for the imaginative child. He determined to run away.

It was a half holiday. All the boys would be rambling far and wide, and his absence would be unnoticed till tea was served at six o'clock. What he should gain-or lose-by running away Stephen did not consider. Distance lent enchantment even to his Aunt Harriet at the end of the walk. So, when dinner was over, he started.

As he passed out of the playground, Hugh Thurston noticed the trouble on his countenance. Hugh was the leader of the school in everything athletic; a fine handsome boy, always ready to jump, or fight, or swim, or run, but quite devoid of scholastic tendencies. He had often protected Stephen from the bullies of the

“O," said Stephen, "I've got to be flogged this evening, and I'm afraid." Bah, you little blockhead, what is there to be afraid of? It's rather nice, when you're used to it. By Jove, I'd forgotten all about it, but I believe I've got to be flogged this evening, and you see how much I care. Old Vellelly can't hit hard.'

And away went young Thurston with a flying leap over the nearest hedge, doubling his legs well under him, as is the wont of a born leaper. But Stephen, unconsoled, pursued his way along the lane, and emerged into the high road, and made for Idlechester at his fastest walk. He had traversed about four miles, and was walking along with eyes blind to all outward sights, and ears deaf to all outward noises, when he was suddenly arrested by a hand on his shoulder. was Mr. Page's. That gentleman was taking a quiet stroll, with a keen eye for anything that grew wild in the hedgerows, when he saw his young acquaintance coming headlong towards Idlechester.

said.

It

Why, Stephen, where now ?" he

Come, my little friend, tell me where you are going."

O, Mr. Page, I've run away. "Have you indeed?" he said, taking the excited child's hand. 'And why have you run away?" "Because I'm to be flogged tonight," said Stephen, "and I don't like it."

Mr. Page took the boy into a wayside inn which they had just reached, called for a glass of water, and poured into it a few drops from a stoppered phial which he took from his pocket.

"Drink that, Stephen,” he said.

Stephen drank it, and was refreshed. Mr. Page then sent him away, in the care of a buxom maiden who had brought the water, to wash his face. When he returned, cool and fresh, his benefactor said—

'Well, Stephen, you don't want to be flogged, it seems.