rible Comédie humaine which he investigates without cease. The frail wife and the deceived husband, the frantic raptures and miseries of one generally degrading passion, are not the principal objects of their art.

And with what power, what splendour and wealth and variety, that great band of romancers did their work! From the gloomy grandeur of that medieval Paris, full to overflowing with the life and inspiration of the past, though already touched with that point of the grotesque from which Victor Hugo rarely emancipated himself to the fresh and breathing innocence of those rural idyls, to which, in her happy moments, no one could give so exquisite a touch as George Sand, how full is their range, how amazing their power! The impression of boundless resource, of endless variety, of a flood and stream of animation, incident, and interest that never flags, has had a curious effect upon the mind of at least the English reader-an effect which perhaps is the result of a little slowness of national intellect, mingled with that faithfulness to an impression once formed, which is one of the special characteristics of our countrymen. The intellectual classes, or those who so consider themselves, the clever people in society, and everybody who hopes to be counted among them, almost without exception own an admiration for the French novel,-a conviction of its superiority-which is, in scientific language, a survival of the oddest description. Putting aside that section of the community which really enjoys filth, and considers the analysis of passion not much better than bestial, to be a high triumph of art, this generally expressed and quite honest belief is nothing but a reflection

from the good days in which the French novel was in reality a work of genius. That time is past; the skies of our neighbours have narrowed their world has contracted. It is not the cheerful, bustling universe of Dumas, any more than it is the great world, seething with a thousand contradictory passions and sentiments, as in Balzac or big with fate, and tragic, irresistible preordination, against which man's utmost ingenuity is powerless, as with Victor Hugo. That large existence has shrunk into a monotonous, often-repeated, never-exhausted tale, the tale so called of love; the record of a passion often in its latest phase brutal - nay, bestial; at its best, a thing of guilt and imposture, limiting the mental as well as infecting the moral atmosphere. All this great world reduced to a little apartment in Paris, where a young man rages against the bad woman who enslaves him, and blasphemes because he cannot get rid of her, and falls back under the disgusting influence whenever she smiles upon him; or a desecrated house, where a woman and her lover seek feverishly for opportunities of meeting, and stave off as long as they can the inevitable discovery. In almost every case the pair loathe each other before they are done, their passion changing into disgust and horror-or a weariness and monotony far more appalling in its dulness than that of the dullest respectable household that was known. And this is life according to our neighbours. And this is what the English reader, slow but sure, having got into his head the conviction of French greatness in fiction from the age of Balzac, Hugo, and George Sand, carried on with faith into the age of Zola and his innumer

ever

able imitators-accepts, though with some bewilderment, and a hazy sense that, disagreeable as it is, it must be somehow the cleverest and most entertaining of all fiction, considering how it is vaunted by all the world!

This is perhaps too long a preface for a review of the French novels of the day. We need scarcely tell the reader that it is not to instruct him in the varieties of uncleanness that we turn over those yellow volumes, in that form for which English writers and readers sometimes sigh, especially the former-with fond hopes that the royalty upon a book which the public buys by thousands, instead of the hundreds taken by the great circulating libraries of England, would ensure him a better recompense for his work. When, however, a writer reaches the position of M. Ohnet, whose latest performance bears upon it the gratifying inscription of cinquantecinquième édition, or of Mr Besant (of whom we beg pardon for the conjunction of names), it perhaps does not greatly matter to him under what régime his books are published. And for less popular authors, we greatly doubt whether the public which buys his one, is a much better patron than the public which hires their three volumes -nor can it be said to be more discriminating. The popularity of M. Ohnet, for instance, is as bewildering as is the popularity attained in our own country by Mr Hugh Conway. We are at a loss to understand the reason for it, or what it means. There is no meretricious flash of brilliancy, no unjustifiable means employed, nothing to appeal to that bad side of human nature which sometimes responds so quickly. M. Ohnet, ih

short, is rather more respectable than most of his compeers. And

Noir et Rose,'' his latest performance, is as inoffensive as it is futile. It is a prettily printed little book, containing two magazine stories. (as we should say on this side of the Channel)-one very noir indeed, entitled "Le Chant du Cygne, which sets forth how a young English lady, the daughter of a lord, falls in love with and marries a Hungarian violinist, and lives very happy, until she falls ill and dies, with this picturesque and tragical person, whose performance upon his violin, as the yacht of her cruel father carries away her corpse to its burial, is the swan-song which ends his life. Stenio Marackyz is the long-lost hero, Byronian, impenetrable, wrapped in that very cloak, and with those dark locks and darker glances, which we remember from our youth up. He ought to have been "originally published" in an Annual, Keepsake, or Forget-me-not, and would have stirred some gentle and ingenuous hearts forty years ago, as perhaps he may now. The cheerful part of the book is a mildly amusing story of much the same calibre, the "Malheur de la Tante Ursule," which is perfectly adapted to be read in any young ladies' school, and of which, accordingly, the reader may be pleased to hear. Perhaps this is the reason why it has reached its fifty-fifth edition. In the absence of respectable light literature, a very small matter which is innocent and decent may thus gain a fictitious acceptance. But M. Ohnet is not always unexceptionable; and we prefer to believe that it is, as in our own country, the mere caprice of that strangest of strange beasts, the public, which has suddenly laid hands upon a me

diocrity, and given an altogether banal crown to a quite unremark. able writer who has no claim to the highest rank, nor even to the lowest, but holds that juste milieu of talent which has been supposed the last thing likely to be distinguished by any crown. We have long been of opinion, however, that this was a mistake, and that mediocrity arrangé, as the French say, with some certain sauce which pleases the general palate, is as likely to secure success as the greatest genius. To find out the ingredients of that sauce is the difficulty. What is it? To our own palate it is indistinguishable; but M. Ohnet has found it, and so did Mr Hugh Conway, with results which we all know.

tion. His book is not so correct as that of his brother-author, but it gives us what M. Ohnet does not, an extremely lively and clever portrait of what we may call a new type. The ambitious young lady, bent upon making a good match, is not new in fiction; but the girl, who is an amusing, bright, and nice little girl, and who yet sets herself with all her might, and by every means in her power, to secure the sort of husband she approves which is primarily a prince, and afterwards what Heaven may send is a really delightful new revelation. Such a picture could only be Parisian, or rather Parisienne. This young lady has the misfortune to be Catherine Duval, the daughter of a rich papermaker living in the Marais-rich, respectable, and bourgeois to the last degree. There is a very pretty little sketch of the serious homely house, of the delightful mother, modest, a little timid, a little dévote-the best housekeeper, the best wife and mother imaginable, without a thought beyond her mild interior, or a preoccupation except that of finding for her daughter a secure and well-established ménage like her own. The scene opens with a conversation between mother and daughter returning from a ball, a ball of their own class, in celebration of a marriage in that respectable bourgeoisie which Mademoiselle Catherine despises with all her soul, the mother asking anxiously, "How did you find him?" the daughter pretending not to understand, though she is very well aware that the person in question is "uncertain blondin tirant sur le roux lequel m'avait été présenté par Madame Marquesson, une marieuse enragée," and who is a young engineer of great promise, the most respectable and the most bourgeois that can be conceived. Catherine

The fifty-fifth edition! Think of that, poor little English romancers, glad and proud of a second! Mr Besant speaks at his ease of selling 20,000 copies; but how many of you do that? Such as do-let the voice of experience be heard will never have to complain of their publisher, whether he sells the book at (nominally) 31s. 6d. or 3 francs 50 centimes. Such writers want no intervention, no protectorate. But it is a lesson for rising genius to learn from the beginning of its career, that such writers are by no means necessarily the best. M. Ohnet's book is the only one before us which has acquired this distinction, and it is absolutely the most trifling and inconsiderable of the collection, which is a thing that donne à pensée; and the thoughts arising from that consideration are not bright.

The next in popularity, as in lightness and insignificance, is a little book by M Halévy, a collection of short stories such as seem to have become fashionable in France as in England. M. Halévy is in his thirty-fourth edi

has already refused seven or eight, "all from the École Centrale or the École Polytechnique," and she is in despair.

Nothing, however, can be prettier than the home scene. The marriage of the father and mother has been a love-match-absolument comme dans les romans anglais; and they have lived happy ever after, were it not for a son who loves pleasure too much and a daughter who loves engineers too little, and who do their best to spoil their parents' peace.

Papa has always lived for his manufactory, and mamma for papa. The works flourished, papa was well, everything was well. They continued to live in the same house, in the same way as people lived fifty years ago. In the drawing-room the same old mahogany easy-chairs ranged against the wall as in the First Empire, furniture made by Jacob -dreadful, incapable of wearing out, eternal, indestructible. I have tried to break one of the chairs, and failed. An excellent cook and a very good table was our sole luxury, for papa is something of a gourmand, and when he has been working hard all day likes to dine well at night. As for mamma, she has not a fault-not one-not even that little one. She could live upon a penny roll and some fried potatoes; but she watches papa at his dinner, and when she sees that he is satisfied she is happy."

This excellent mother is, however, the despair of her daughter, whose "folie,"she confesses, "c'était la toilette." Mamma does not know what it is to have a proper gown. She lets them put anything upon her shoulders, and considers herself dressed; and answers all the entreaties, the protestations, the supplications of her daughter to have a dressmaker worthy of her-" une couturière qui me comprenne, et que fasse de moi ce que on en peut faire"-by declaring that she will never give up the

dressmaker who made her weddinggown. Mademoiselle Catherine's wits, however, when set to work, are too strong for this excellent but not ingenious woman. The young lady is pushed on by her brother Octave, whose laudable attempts to "se faufiler dans le monde have succeeded to a certain point, but who feels that a great marriage for his sister is by far the best way of attaining his end. a fortunate chance, he, has been elected a member of the "Cercle des petits-pois," an enormous step in advance; but the progress of a young man whose name is Octave Duval is necessarily slow. The discussions of these two young people as to how this conquest of society is to be managed, carried on behind-backs at stolen moments

By

while the respectable parents are out of the way, and the plans that ferment in the active brain of the charming, affectionate, merry, calculating little minx in the tranquillity of the evenings at home, when Catherine, un peu de Mo

zart

is enough for the happiness of the excellent pair over the fire, are extremely amusing, as light as air, yet full of spirit and character. Mademoiselle contrives at last, by a secret appeal to her father, to obtain a skilled and capable maid. The marvels that follow are enough to bring tears to the eyes of any lively girl. Nothing but white muslin is permitted by the careful mamma; but white muslin manipulated by the hands of Félicie! "Quelle robes! C'était comme un brouillard blanc qui m'enveloppait. Je me sentais nuage. Je ne touchais plus terre." "Elle n'était pas contente, maman,' adds the young lady; "mais j'ai la joie de voir que papa était ravi, absolument ravi. Il me trouvait déliceuse Quant à Octave-il ne me dit que ces simples mots, Tu es une mer