he were the most virtuous man in the world, it would not justify you in going out with him alone."

"Not if I were affianced to him?" she asked.

"Why that would be worse than all," the Countess almost shrieked. "He has no money; he is a pauper, and is far too clever to marry a pauper. Emilia," she said solemnly, "I don't know how far you have gone with him, and I have no wish to know, but we shall leave Venice at once-and you will accept Mr. Hudson."

"Never,” said Æmilia. "You will," replied her mother, firmly. Otherwise I will write at once to Edward, and tell him of your intrigue with this Mr. Branscombe."

The threat was effective. The young Earl, his sister knew well, had a high notion of the family honour. Sans peur et sans reproche himself, and descended from a stainless ancestry, he was certain to hear of her doings with indignation.

"Good heaven !" she thought, "and Raphael would be killed. He said he could not defend himself. It is dreadful."

Poor girl, she was awakened from her indolent languor now. She loved this man, who was utterly unworthy of her, with the most absolute love. And if she sacrificed herself to a man for whom she cared nothing, it was to save Raphael from her brother's

And he spoke, frankly and fairly, like a fine foolish young fellow as he was; and Lady Emilia intoxicated him with an indolent Yes. But ah, poor child, she shuddered at his delight, and shrank from the lips that touched her own.

And, before they started for England, she wrote a note to Raphael, which came to him through a gondolier, after she was gone. It was a very little note.

"DEAR CRUEL RAPHAEL,-I have obeyed you. I should not have had courage, but Mamma found out that I love you, and I was afraid Edward she knows. Forget me, please. would kill you. I don't know what

EMILIA.'

"Poor little rogue !" thought Raphael, when he read it. "That's all over.

He went, as he intended, to Rome; having written to his father to say that he was on his way to Guernsey. Rome had not at that time become quite such a suburb of London as it now is. People had not begun to write

"Jemima was cross, and I lost my umbrella, That day at the tomb of Cæcilia Metella."

There was no croquet at the Aldobrandini. Story and Weld had not written their dreary books, nor had my friend Mr. Locker set up as Laureat of the Eternal City. Raphael only stayed a day or two; there was, of course, nobody there; and he took wing to Naples, to look once more upon its voluptuous bay, and the pale cone of Vesuvius. Raphael, a thorough Epicurean, intensely enjoyed fine scenery. All his tastes were exquisite. If he had possessed any kind of ethics, he would have been a very good sort of fellow.

In a former article we gave a sketch of the life and career of Balzac; we shall now endeavour to examine his literary labours.

He wrote like no ordinary writer; he wrote as all great writers have written and must ever write. Where many men finish, Balzac only really began his work. He was a devotee to that "limæ labor" upon which Horace lays so much emphasis. He was a long time thinking over a subject, and before he sat down to his desk he had generally clearly conceived in his mind the whole plan of his work—the subject, the plot, the episodes, the digressions, and even the details of scene and points of conversation; and this mental conception was cherished in his memory as a whole, subjected to mental criticism, embellished, polished, filled with marked characters, whose peculiarities he had settled, whose dress was clear to him, and of whose continued influence on the plot and ultimate destiny he would not have to pause for a moment to consider. Consequently, when he began to write, the labour was to a great extent mechanical; his pen travelled his pen travelled over the paper with the swiftness of lightning he never paused a moment; and people who saw him write, and were ignorant of the previous mental labour he had undergone, used to think him a marvel of rapid conception and ready imagination ; but the detail had been laboured out carefully, painfully, in his mind for months before.

When the composition was finished one would imagine that little more could be left to be done in the way of revision, but with Balzac this was really the commencement of his labour. When he received the proof from the printer he began by annihilating whole chapters or substituting others, changing the place of chapters, re-arranging portions of the plot, so that one chapter which had appeared towards the beginning was now placed at the end; characters

were replaced and others interpolated; details filled in which involved a considerable amount of new matter and after an infinite number of minor corrections it was at last sent back to the printers, to be not corrected, but almost wholly recomposed, and that from a manuscript charged with a network of interpolations, obliterations, long lines leading from one point in the page to some marginal references, and other lines crossing and recrossing each other for a similar purpose, to the utter bewilderment of the poor printers, who used to pore over it, spell it out, discover the course of these many lines, and trace them to their termination with the greatest difficulty. There were only a certain number of men in Paris who could "compose" Balzac, and a rule sprang up amongst them that no one should work more than one hour at a time on his copy. "I have had my hour at Balzac'* was a common saying in the Paris printingoffices, and the signal for a new victim to take up the copy whilst the other took his hour's rest. Then what is called a paged" proof was sent him, which with most men would require only the slightest typographical correction; but with Balzac it was a renewal of his labour. Between certain phrases he inserted new sentences, added new words, obliterated others; a line was paraphrased into a page, and the substance of a page compressed into a sentence; one chapter was developed into three; their order was again disturbed, and not unfrequently arranged as they were placed in the first proof; the margin was crowded with a multitude of alterations, and covered with a new network of lines leading to the portion of the sentences to which they applied. It was then returned to the printers to be almost wholly recomposed, and after another—final proof he allowed it to be struck off.

Not only was this habit a terrible trial to the printers, but it was a continual expense to his publishers. It

cost them forty francs for corrections for every sixteen pages. He was paid by the Revue de Paris 250 francs the sheet; and M. Buloz, the editor, one day, alluding to the labour and expense of correction, said—

Balzac, you will ruin me. He rejoined, angrily "I will give up fifty francs per sheet to be free to make what corrections I think proper; so say no more about it, for you know very well that pecuniary discussions are soon settled with me."

Another good practice he had was the keeping a note-book, which he always carried about with him, and in which he recorded, not only the various phenomena that strike a vigilant observer in society, in the streets, in the fields, but the happy thoughts that so frequently occur to the mind under the stimulus of reading, conversation, or in wandering_amongst the solitudes of nature. For such emergencies Balzac was always ready. No happy thought ever escaped him; no peculiarity in character or temper or even physical formation ever came before him without being recorded in his note-book, which became a repertoire of materials, natural scenes, domestic dissensions, snatches of conversation, happy phrases, elegant thoughts, moral reflections, names, plots, and even apt words. It is to this book that we owe some of the most graphic descriptions of nature and subtle analyses of the human heart ever penned by mortals. He was a true artist; he worked like a galley-slave for his money and his fame, both of which he loved, though we are quite sure he had a true pure love of his art as well, and to that he fell a victim.

It is of course quite impossible in the space of a single review to give a fair idea of the mind of such a voluminous author as Balzac. Amongst so many good things the difficulty of selection is increased, but we hope, by making our selection as varied as possible, to convey some idea of the marvellous anatomy of human nature to be found in this treasure-house of Balzac.

The first work we shall examine is one of the most amusing, and at the

same time one of the keenest analyses of a certain phase of domestic life we have ever found anywhere. The title is, “The Small Miseries of Married Life" ("Les Petites Misères de la Vie Conjugale"). Before proceeding we may remark here a fact we have elsewhere examined more in detail*—that is, the obligation of Thackeray to Balzac. There were not only striking similarities in the styles and conceptions of these two men, but, strange to say, in their

careers.

Balzac began his career in the celebrated Quartier Latin, so did Thackeray. Balzac, as we have seen, went into business and failed at the age of twenty-seven. Thackeray at about the same age had the misfortune to lose considerably by speculation. Both men set to work honourably and nobly to retrieve their position. Both laboured for ten years without much success, in obscurity and with straitened incomes. Both burst suddenly into fame; Balzac by his "Physiologie du Marriage," and Thackeray by his now classical “ Vanity Fair." In twenty years time, both men were famous and wealthy. No man was more respected and beloved by those who knew him than Thackeray. Balzac, though not much beloved, enjoyed a popularity equalled by few, and was feared even by his enemies. But the most extraordinary coincidence is in their deaths, Balzac dying at fifty, and Thackeray at fiftytwo, each somewhat suddenly, and each having an aged mother under his roof to lament his loss.

Thackeray often testified in public to his admiration of Balzac's writings, and his advice to Miss Bronté was to study them. Strange that both the adviser and advised have traces throughout their works of having drunk deeply at the same fountain. The nature of the obligation does not partake of the character of plagiarism. That is a vulgar crime to which writers of Thackeray's or Miss Bronté's stamp have no occasion to descend, nor could they under any circumstances. But it is of the nature of unconscious imitation: that subtle influence which mind exerts on mind.

It is the same with literature as with life. From long contemplation of one character we assimilate into our own a portion of that character. Revelation lays emphasis upon this great mystery of our being. The continued contemplation of the life of our Divine Master, is urged repeatedly as the only means of attracting his Spirit and becoming like him; so that, as the Apostle says, the consummation of that imitation of Christ from continually contemplating his life, will only be complete "when he shall appear, and we shall be like him." And that consummation will still be the effect of more perfect contemplation, for we shall see him as he is." Upon this phenomenon is based the absolute necessity of purity in literature, more especially in that class of literature which, appealing to the fancy, is most popular. What more insidious method could the Evil one have devised for instilling sin into the soul than the pages of an impure novel or play. We all know something of the facility by which an impure thought is implanted in the mind, and of the difficulty of exorcising it; once the germ is planted it becomes vital, grows, matures, and bears deadly fruit.

The "Petites Misères de la Vie Conjugale" is an analysis of that phase of life, or rather it is what would be termed in surgical science a morbid anatomy. It is an endeavour to trace the rise and development of domestic infelicity, that subtle disease of which a keen eye may detect traces in many a gay joyous pair, as they flit through the fairy chambers of fashionable life.

"The way of a man with a maid," was a mystery to Solomon, and it remains a mystery even now. Incomprehensible, unaccountable mystery. The way of man with man is tolerably well understood; it is subject to laws which are known, it is characterized by some degree of regularity; ascertain the character of each, and you can predict with tolerable certainty what kind of communion they will hold with each other. But the companionship of man with woman is capricious, varying, inconsistent; his wisdom becomes folly, and sometimes folly appears like wisdom, the atmosphere is very unsettled; now calm, now stormy; the sun shines brilliantly

on one day, but to-morrow there will be lightning and tempest. And so this French sage observes, "To know women as I know them, would not be to know much about them; they do not know themselves, and the Creator, you recollect, was deceived by the only one that he had to govern, and whom he had taken the trouble to create."

But we will endeavour to give an outline of this lecture on matrimonial anatomy. It consists of two parts, each containing eighteen chapters, and though necessarily there are allusions to phases of domestic life, to which we English are totally unaccustomed, and some of us happily ignorant, but which strongly characterise the domestic economy of the French, yet there is a great fund of general truth capable of universal application. It commences thus:

A friend speaks to you of a young lady-good family, well educated, handsome, and three hundred thousand francs safe. It's just the thing you are looking for."

Generally these accidental meetings are premeditated, and you are soon introduced to the object.'

"Your intended will inherit property from a maternal uncle, an old gouty subject, whom she cajoles, humours, flatters, and muffles--in addition there is the fortune of her father to her. Caroline (name of the object,) has always adored her uncle; her uncle who dandled her on his knees, her uncle this, her uncle that, her uncle everything, whose property was estimated at two hundred thousand francs. A mathematical calculation ensues in all such cases, such as the following:

sum up the whole matter in two sentences; the husband's parents say, "Adolphus has done a good business, and the lady's, "Caroline has made an excellent marriage." Adolphus is an only son, and he will have sixty thousand francs income some day or another."

There is a chapter on discoveries which illustrates the following truth:

Generally a young person does not reveal her true character until after two or three years of marriage. She unconsciously dissimulates her defects during the first rejoicings, the first fêtes she goes into the world to dance, she visits her relations, to parade you there. She becomes suddenly a woman; then she becomes a mother, and in that situation, full of joy and suffering, so full of care as to leave no time or opportunity for observation,it is impossible to judge of a wife. You must spend three or four years of intimate life before the period of discoveries. They commence; you fancy you have been deceived, Caroline is deficient in perception, she cannot converse, she is dull and has no tact, you are alarmed, and you begin to feel that you will have to watch and guide her in society, where she will ever peril your self-love. You have already heard her remarks, and noticed how they have been received politely in a silence which scarcely hid the smile, you have felt quite certain that some such conversation as the following took place when your back was turned :

Poor thing she is-"

As stupid as a cabbage."

"However could a man of his intellect choose her. He should instruct her, or teach her to hold her tongue." Time rolls on, bringing new knowledge, and revealing new facts.

"You have passed the allegro of bachelorhood and reached the grave andante of a father of a family. Instead of that fine English horse, prancing along the Champs Elysées, you drive a quiet large Norman animal. Behind you, in that substantial fourwheeled vehicle, are spread out like flowers your wife and her mother, like a large rose with many leaves. They chirp and chatter about you, knowing well that the noise of the wheels prevents your hearing their

VOL. LXX.—NO. CCCCXIX.

conversation. On the box there is a pretty nursemaid, and upon her knees your little girl; by her side is your son, a restless child, whose antics worry his mother and you."

"You have achieved the triumphant idea of taking your family out; you depart in the morning the admiration of your poorer neighbours, who envy you the privilege of going into the country without undergoing the inconvenience of public vehicles. You have dragged that wretched Norman horse to Vincennes across Paris, from Vincennes to St. Maur, from St. Maur to Charenton, and from Charenton to some small spot which has appeared to the minds of your wife and motherin-law more beautiful than any other."

Let us go to Maisons," they cry. You go to Maisons, which is near Alfort, and return by the left bank of the Seine, in the midst of a cloud of dust; the horse can scarcely get along. At this moment little Adolphus becomes restless and cries.

"What is the matter?" says the grandmother.

"I am hungry."

"He is hungry," says the mother to the daughter.

"And how can he help being hungry? It is half-past five, we have been out two hours, and we are only at the barriers.”

"Your husband should have let us dine in the country.'

"He would rather make his horse go two leagues further and return home," said Caroline.

"The cook would have had her holiday," rejoined the mother-in-law, "but after all Adolphus is right. It is economical to dine at home.

"Adolphus," cried Caroline, stung by the word "economical,” “ we are going so slow, I feel as though I were sea-sick, and you seem to keep us in the dust as long as possible, my bonnet and dress are spoiled."

"Do you want me to kill the horse?” asked her husband.

"Never mind about the horse, think of your child who is dying of hunger, it is seven hours since he has taken anything; whip the horse on or one would think you valued your horse more than your child."

You are afraid to urge the horse for fear of accident, and you take no notice.

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