vieve have exhausted their imagination to devise the most tasteful adornments for the apartments of the wealthy baron's children, Leon perceives, in the Champs Elysées, then crowded with gay equipages, Rose Chaumier in a carriage with some fashionable friends, and attended by a young exquisite, assiduous for her favour. Rodolph de Redeuil galloped at the carriage door; the vehicle passed so rapidly that Leon could not be sure whether Rose had recognised him and his sister. Then, notwith

standing M. Anselmo's philosophical commonplace, Leon felt all the painfulness of his poverty. Rodolph galloped by the side of Rose! He had no horse, he never should have one; and yet he was a good horseman, skilful and bold. He glanced at his clothes, which, for cut and freshness, could not vie with those of Rodolph. Rather unjustly, his vexation reflected itself on Rose; he felt angry with her, because Rodolph de Redeuil had a fine horse and a coat made by . . ."

"The deuce take me if I know who was the fashionable tailor at that time."

The last fifteen words we have written form an entire chapter of M. Karr's book, and we have given it as an example of his trivial and impertinent oddity. In chapter xlv. we are informed that Anselmo bitterly lamented having torn his coat against a nail in the baron's new house. The concern he testified quite dissipated a suspicion of Genevieve's, who fancied she had seen him give a piece of gold to a poor German tailor out of work.

If Leon is sad at Rose's coquetry, Genevieve is not without her sorrows. She receives an advantageous offer of marriage, and Albert almost breaks her heart by praising the good qualities of her suitor, and urging her to accept him. Blind to the jewel that lies upon his path, her insensible cousin turns aside after tinsel. She hears of his squandering his fortune and his time upon an actress. Then, to repair his extravagance, he makes a rich marriage, and poor Genevieve cannot refuse to be present at his wedding-the funeral of her happiness.

We cannot trace a tithe of the incidents and episodes of this book, which is a sort of history or chronicle of a family, extending over several years. Early in the second volume there are a couple of chapters relating to Albert's intrigues, which had been as well omitted. Then we have some ludicrous scenes in an artist's painting

room. Here M. Karr is perfectly at home. His peculiar humour finds full scope in depicting the frolics of a party of young painters (a very numerous class in Paris) who imagine they study art whilst in reality they do nothing but smoke long pipes, make bad puns, cut-jokes on their rapin or colour-grinder (a boy of fourteen, with long hair and a grey blouse, up to every kind of villany, and christened Gargantua, on account of his prodigious appetite,) and devise means of torturing their landlord, who occupies a floor in the same house and has the impertinence to ask for his rent. In a sitting held to deliberate upon this grave offence, and apportion a proper punishment, a variety of resolutions are adopted, and a great deal of untranslatable fun is introduced. Leon calls, and is forthwith taken to task by his brother artists for the shabbiness of his dress, and for his defection from their parties of pleasure. The truth was that the summer, by taking his pupils out of town, had sadly diminished his income; and Leon, whose affection for his only sister was a species of idolatry, stinted himself of the very necessaries of life that she might enjoy its superfluities. In reply to the humourous and good-humoured, but pointblank attack of the embyro Parisian Apelles, Leon affected a rakish tone, talked vaguely of disorder, debt, dissipation, &c., &c.

"When he might have said:
"I am badly dressed, but my

sister Genevieve lacks nothing;-her satin shoes are of the best maker, and set off her pretty foot to the best advantage; her dresses are made by the most renowned milliner; I have no cloak, but she has wood in abundance to warm herself; my sister Genevieve wants for nothing; hideous poverty approaches her not, to blight her blooming youth with its mortal breath.""

Genevieve was far from suspecting the straits to which her unselfish brother was often reduced. Nevertheless she invented every sort of economy to save his money; whilst Leon, on the other hand, who trembled with grief and rage at the mere idea of her suffering a privation, invented wants for her, in order to satisfy them. "One day he found Genevieve busy repairing an old gown. That very morning he had seen upon the Boulevard various actresses and loose women magnificently dressed and drawn by superb horses. Good Heavens!' he had said to himself, what does Providence reserve for a good and virtuous girl like Genevieve, when all that is rich and beautiful in the world is lavished upon such creatures as those?' The thought had haunted him all the day; and the work on which Genevieve was engaged embittered his regrets. He sat down beside her and said: Why do you make up that old worn-out dress?'

I

"Indeed,' said Genevieve, assure you it will do me much honour this summer?'

"Less than a new one, though?' "A new one would be expensive, and our means

"Who told you that, my dear girl? Do you share the vulgar notion that an artist is an unfortunate wretch, doomed to live in misery and die in an hospital? The sister of a musician should be on a par with the proudest. I earn money-a great deal of money. It is my wish you should always be elegantly dressed. Give that old frock to the servant; after dinner, we will go out and buy a new one.'

"And as they passed along the Boulevards, he took her to Tortoni's to eat ice. Near them sat several ladies whose carriages waited hard by. A flower-girl came to offer a bouquet of remarkable beauty.

"The woman offered her flowers to the other ladies, and received the same answers from all. But when she came to Leon, he threw two five-franc pieces upon the table, and presented the bouquet to Genevieve. The ladies and their male companions looked at the artist's sister with an air of curiosity.

"What folly!' said Genevieve to her brother, as they left Tortoni's.

"Not at all,' replied Leon. Are you not much prettier than all those women with their impertinent looks? I was glad to vex them a little.'

"And they entered a shop, where Leon selected the best of everything for his sister.

"The same night, before going to bed, he inked the seams of his only coat."

There is a quiet naturalness about this passage that pleases us much. We see the true artist-character: proud, generous to prodigality, selfdenying and susceptible. M. Karr is happy in traits of this kind. By an accidental circumstance Genevieve discovers the poverty her brother so carefully conceals. On the eve of a dinner at the house of a pupil, she witnesses, without his knowledge, the inking of the seedy coat, the refolding of the worn cravat-all the manœuvres, in short, resorted to by the shabby-genteel. "Genevieve noiselessly retreated; she passed a sleepless night; her brother's generosity and self-sacrifice were, for the first time, revealed to her. The next day she said nothing of her discovery; but as she passed through the room in which the old coat hung over a chair -that old coat for which many despised Leon-she stooped and kissed it with respect." And although, since the day of Albert's marriage, a low fever mined her health, and at times, in spite of her piety and resignation, she suffered from terrible attacks of despondency, the courageous girl vied with her brother in generosity and devotedness. She dismissed their only servant-a charwoman-who, for a few francs a-week, came each morning to do the housework.

"I dare not think but that God cast an approving glance on Genevieve, when in the morning, an hour before daybreak, she gently got up and lit her candle. Then she began the most menial toil: she washed the dishes, she swept the rooms-anxious above all things not to disturb Leon, who would be grieved to see her labour thus, and would insist on her ceasing to employ the only means she had been able to devise of contributing to the household expenses. But what she did with the most touching care and respect was to brush Leon's clothes. How she cherished that poor old coat, which recalled all the selfimposed privations he had borne for her! With what care she put in a stitch whose necessity she had perceived in the daytime, but of which she had not spoken, because she felt it would be adding to Leon's sorrows to show him that he succeeded not in deceiving his sister! An old coat, indeed, but an old coat more respecable than richest purple-a work nobler than the embroidery of idle women on tissues of gold and of silver. "Genevieve had delicate hands, white and tapering, with nails of a tender pink; and, with those pretty hands, she cleaned even her brother's shoes; then she put everything in its place, exactly as the charwoman did. Her work done, she prepared breakfast; then she dressed herself, and combed and braided her beautiful hair, that Leon, when he left his chamber, might find nothing in her appearance to make him suspect the task she had fulfilled. Every mornning it was the same labour and the

same care.

"One night Leon wished to give her money, but she showed that she still had much more than was probable;-poor girl, how happy she was that night! Leon then thought he might perhaps afford a new hat, his old one having long been kept together only by the most extraordinary attention. The next day he passed five or six times before the hatter's door, without daring to enter; at last the sight of his hat in a mirror decided him, and he went in, ashamed, for others, to have worn his hat so long -ashamed, for himself, not to wear it a little longer."

On the second anniversary of Madame Lauter's funeral, Leon and Genevieve went to Fontainebleau, and were astonished to find, in place of the wooden cross that had stood there a year previously, a slab of black marble covering their mother's grave. Her name was upon it, and various dates-one being that of her death, and another of her birth. To the others they could attach no particular meaning. The tombstone was surrounded by an iron railing they could not ascertain who had erected it. Men had brought marble and railing from Paris, saying they were sent and paid by the family of the deceased lady.

Genevieve fell ill, and was obliged to recall the charwoman she had dismissed. Leon summoned a physician, who would not say there was no hope, but who shook his head gravely in reply to his questions, and could not deny that there was danger, although he declared it not imminent.

"One morning Leon went out, saying to Genevieve- I will be back early, and bring what the doctor ordered,' For the first time he left her without money: Leon had none at all; but he had to give a lesson to a lady, who already owed him for tuition, and, according to custom, she would that day pay him.

"In the middle of the lesson, M. Rodolph de Redeuil was announced. Rodolph came in, kissed the lady's hand, and bowed to Leon with a protective air of such extreme impertinence that Leon had some difficulty in returning the salutation-yet more cavalierly. Leon was there as a paid professor; Rodolph, had he even been Leon's friend, would not have had the courage to own it under such circumstances; but as it was, both of them, whenever they meet, neglected no opportunity of showing their mutual dislike. Rodolph, who had less wit than Leon, had not often the advantage of his adversary--notwithstanding the superiority of position behind which he intrenched himself; and his aversion became more bitter at each meeting.

"M. de Redeuil,' said Madame de Dréan, will you allow me to continue my lesson?'

"Leon felt himself change colour :

it was asking Rodolph whether he was to be sent away or not. Rodolph bowed in silence; but before he could speak, Leon had resumed his seat at the piano, and had pitched the key for Madame de Dréan. She sang, and when she had finished, Leon said: That is not very well sung.' Rodolph sprang from his seat, exclaiming, Delightful!' Leon pretended not to hear him, and pointed out to Madame de Dréan the faults she had committed; then, as the manner in which Rodolph had paid his compliment was more than disobliging to him, he added: There are persons who would consider it well sung, but you are too happily endowed to be satisfied with vulgar mediocrity.'

เ

เ

"Madame de Dréan asked Rodolph if he was musical. 'No,' was his answer, but for a year past I have a poor devil of a piano-master, who walks a league a-day through the mud to give me a lesson I hardly ever take. I have lately adopted the plan of making him play something droll to amuse me; I give him his ticket, and he takes himself off.'

"Poor devil, indeed!' murmured Leon, to be obliged to submit to that.'

:

"I do not care for music,' replied Rodolph, and your note informed me that your party was entirely musical besides, I had promised-' Here Leon interrupted by a prelude upon the piano, and asked Madame de Dréan if she would sing an old ditty, to which she was particularly partial. An angry cloud crossed Rodolph's brow. Madame de Dréan got up and began the song. Whilst she sang, Rodolph, his elbow on the piano, his head on one side, ogled her with all his powers of fascination.

'Pardon me, sir,' said Leon, but your elbow upon the piano takes away a great deal of the sound.'

"The lesson was at an end, but, before Rodolph, Leon would not do like the poor devil of a piano-master, who received his ticket and went away;-besides, it was not thus that he was in the habit of acting with Madame de Dréan. Leon was perfectly well-bred, and a man of the world, and his pupils were generally glad to treat him with proper consideration. I except a few persons who, in their worship of gold, never really believe that what is given for money, however precious it may be, is actually worth the money exchanged for it, and who always think themselves the benefactors of those to whom they give money, however little they give, and whatever the value of what is given them in exchange; for, after all, say they, it is not money.

"It was nowise astonishing or unusual, therefore, that Leon, the lesson over, took a chair and remained to chat. There is nothing more disagreeable for a man than to be detected by another in ogling and looking languishing. This was the kind of vexation Leon had occasioned Rodolph when he politely begged him not to put his elbow on the piano. Madame de Dréan talked of music; Rodolph made several nonsensical remarks.

"In France,' said Leon, music is strangely understood; it is taken like an intermittent fever. For five or six years nobody thinks of music; then it suddenly comes into fashion again; everybody loves it and talks of it, and is transported when listening to it. Young men crowd the stalls of the Italian Opera, and exclaim: Bravo, Roubine! Brava, la Grise! whilst Rubini and Grisi sing, so that neither they nor the rest of the audience can hear the singers thus applauded.

It is pity to see the most lovely thing in the world, the most divine of arts, thus rendered ridiculous; it is a pity to see persons affecting, for want of a proper appreciation of music, an admiration, grotesque by its exaggeration, for strollers to whom they pay a thousand times more homage than to the great men of genius whose works they sing.'

"By the by,' continued the lady, your delightful talent is no reason for my not paying your lessons; for when they are paid, I am still most grateful to you for giving them. I am in your debt since the last. You have my tickets, have you not?'

"That morning Leon had counted the tickets four times, to be quite sure he had not forgotten any, and to run no risk of delaying their payment; and before entering Madame de Dréan's house, he had put his hand on his pocket to make sure they were there. But the idea of receiving, in Rodolph's presence, the money for his lessons, was unbearable, and he told Madame de Dréan, he had not got his tickets. It was no consequence, she said; he could bring them another day; she was quite sure she had given him the twelfth the last time he came, and she would give him his money at once. And she went to her writing-desk.

"Money! there was money, so near to Leon's hand; money due to him, which belonged to him, which they were about to give him, which he might touch and grasp and put in his pocket-money which, in so small a compass, includes so many pleasures, so much happiness and independence, exercises such wondrous power, and dries so many tears.

"And Leon said, 'No, thank you, you can give it me some other time; it would inconvenience me to take it to-day.'"

"Inconvenience him! poor fellow, might it not be thought his pockets were crammed with coin! Alas! his poor pockets were completely empty: if he left Genevieve nothing, it was because he had nothing left."

We wish it would occur to some man of heart and genius, familiar with

VOL. LXXII.-NO. CCCCXLI.

the subject, to write a novel founded on the struggles and tribulations of a professional musician in the nineteenth century. There is far less favourwe had almost written mercy-shown to this class of artists in England than in France and Germany; and the consequence is, that their standard of manners and respectability is here unquestionably lower than on the Continent. We speak of the classindividual exceptions are of course to be found. M. Karr's father was a pianist of some eminence, and from him the son may have inherited his quick perception of the slights and mortifications which men of real talent and keen feelings are frequently compelled to endure with a smiling countenance, if they would not lose the bread they have qualified them-selves to earn by long and diligent cultivation of an art which we call "fine," but whose professors we too often treat on a level with dancingmasters and French cooks. Independently of hereditary sympathies, M. Karr is himself more than half an artist. We do not say this because we infer from passages in his writings that he cultivates, as an amateur, both music and painting, but because the artistical tone of his mind is repeatedly evident in his pages. Most of his books are admirably adapted for illustration, which some of them have obtained. They contain passages which are of themselves pictures, just as they contain pages and chapters which are very pleasing poetry, although their author has thought proper to have them printed as prose. M. Karr's love of the beauties of nature is most enthusiastic; and probably many of his readers will quarrel with him for sometmes lingering too long over their description. He loves to dilate on a flower, a tree, or a landscape, and he does it well, and with a poet's feeling. He has even written two bulky volumes, entitled Voyage autour de mon Jardin-a series of letters or essays, botanical, entomological, floricultural, ornithological, sprinkled with reminiscences, classical, historical, and artistical-a perfect medley, in short, including anecdotes, jeux d'esprit, and burlesque inventions à la Karr, such as could proceed from none but the whimsical editor of the Guèpes. We

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