paralytic and his granddaughter; how capital and characteristic the interview between the old Italian gambler and the young French thief, when they are paid by the Count to consider each other as father and son! In this romance there is none of the make-weight dialogue so lavishly interpolated in most of the same author's works. In style, too, and description, M. Dumas here rises above his average. His style, always lively and piquant, is usually loose, unpolished, and defaced by conventionalisms the Academy would hardly sanction. In Monte Christo he has evidently taken pains to do well, and the result is the best-written book he has yet produced. But we lose sight of our parcel, as yet but half unpacked. Here is a volume of the Député d'Arcis, (another of the continuation family,) heavy stuff, seemingly, by Balzac; and this brings us to the end of the continuations. With these exceptions, the French writers who have not altogether left off writing, have at least kept within circumscribed limits. Here we have a volume from M. Méry of Marseilles, a clever, careless writer, not much known in England; another by the authoress of Consuelo; two more from M. Alphonse Karr; a couple from that old sinner, Paul de Kock, who is not often so concise, having superadded, of late years, to his other transgressions the crime of long-windedness; a brief Sicilian sketch from M. Paul de Musset. We turn aside a heap of political matter, of no great merit or value; a few pamphlets, of some talent, but fugitive interest, by Girardin and others; a ream of portraits and caricatures; a few more novels whose authors' names or whose first pages condemn them; Mourir pour la Patrie, and some other revolutionary staves, bad music and worse words, and the box is empty. We sit down to peruse the little we have selected as worth perusal from the pile of printed paper. La Famille Alain, by Karr, is the first thing that comes to hand. We have read the greater part ofit already, in the French periodical in which it first appeared. M. Karr is rather a favourite of ours. There are many good points about his novels, although he is, perhaps, less popular as a novelist than as the

writer of a small monthly satirical pamphlet, Les Guèpes, The Wasps, which has existed for several years, with varying, but, upon the whole, with very great success. M. Karr's wit is of a peculiar order, approaching more nearly to humour than French wit generally does. There is an odd sort of dryness and fantastic naïveté in some of his drolleries, quite distinct from what we are accustomed to in the comic writings of his countrymen. With this the German origin to be inferred from his name may have some connexion. There is also a Germanic vagueness and dreaminess in some of his books, although their scene is usually on French ground, frequently on the coast of Brittany, a country M. Karr evidently well knows and loves. One of his great recommendations is the general propriety of his writings. Of most of them, the tone and tendency are alike unexceptionable, and some are mere "simple stories," which the most fastidious papas-who deny that any good thing can proceed from a French press, and look upon the yellow paper cover with "Paris" at its foot as the ineradicable mark of the beast, the moral quarantine flag, betokening uncleanness which no amount of lazaretto can purge or purify— might with safe conscience place in the hands of their blooming artless sixteen-year-old daughters. The fact is, that people will read French novels -so long as they are not audaciously indecent, immoral, or irreligious-because the present race of French novelists are far cleverer and more amusing than their English brethren. And although some French novels are offensive and abominable, it is not fair to include all in the black list, or to deny that a great improvement has taken place since the period (the early years of the reign of the first and last King of the French) when the Paris press was clogged with indecency and infidelity. We should be very sorry to put Mrs George Sand's works into the hands of any young woman; we would insult no woman, of any age, by commending to her notice the obscene buffoonery of De Kock; but neither would we condemn the whole flock for a sprinkling of scabby sheep. There are many French writers of a very different stamp from the two just

named; and M. Karr is one of the better sort. The tale now before us is a Norman story, possessing better plot and incident than many of its predecessors; for in these respects, this author-from indolence, we suspect is often rather deficient. We need hardly tell our readers that the Norman is noted for his cunning, and for his litigious propensities, as the Gascon is for his boasting and vanity, the Lorrainer for his stolidity, &c., &c. In La Famille Alain, the characteristics of the province, and the casualties of the peasant's and fisherman's life, are cleverly illustrated. Tranquille Alain, surnamed Risquetout, from certain bold feats of his earlier years, lives by the seaside on the produce of his nets. His family consists of his wife Pélagie, his sons and daughter, Cæsar, Onesimus, and Berenice, and of his foster-daughter Pulcherie. With respect to these magnificent names, M. Karr thinks it necessary to offer some explanation. "I am not their inventor," he says, "and they are very common in Normandy. There is not a village that has not its Berenices, its Artemesias, its Cleopatras. I know not whence the inhabitants originally took these names. Perhaps they were given by dames of high degree, who took them from Mademoiselle de Scudery's romances, to bestow them on their rustic god-children, and they have since remained traditional in the country." The book opens with the christening of a new fishing-boat, to build which Tranquille Alain has borrowed a hundred crowns of his cousin Eloi, miller and usurer. In France, as elsewhere, and especially in Normandy, millers have a roguish reputation. The loan is to be repaid, part at the beginning and part at the end of the fishing season, with twenty crowns interest. But the season sets in stormy and unfavourable; the fish shun the coast; and at the date appointed for the first payment, the debtor is unprepared with either principal or interest. At last the wind lulls, and the angry waves subside into a long sullen swell. Risquetout and his sons put to sea.

"Towards the close of day, as the boats reappeared on the horizon, Eloi Alain came down from Beuzeval, and waited their arrival upon the beach.

They had taken a few whitings. Onesimus was proud, because almost all the fish had been caught on his line.

Risquetout, who had started that morning rather prematurely, without waiting till the fine weather had thoroughly set in, had a feeling of fear and embarrassment at sight of the miller. "Have you caught any thing?' said Eloi. Will you

"A few whitings. come and eat some with us?'

"Eloi made no answer; but when the lines and fish had been taken out of the boat, and the boat had been washed and hauled up upon the shore, he followed the three fishers to their home. Pélagie also felt uneasy at sight of Eloi; she asked him, as Tranquille had done, if he would eat a whiting, to which he replied,

"Not to refuse you.'

"Then, as they changed the fish from one basket to another, he took up two, and kept them a long time in his hands, repeating, 'Fine whitings these, very fine whitings!' until Pélagie said :

"You shall take them home with you, cousin.'

"Eloi answered nothing; they sat down to dinner; he found the cider not very good, which did not prevent his drinking a great deal of it.

"Well, Tranquille,' said he, at last, it is to-day you are to pay me the hundred and twenty crowns I lent you.'

"Neither the intrepid Risquetout, nor any of his family, dared to observe that the loan was not of one hundred and twenty crowns, but only of one hundred crowns, for which a hundred and twenty were to be paid back.

"True,' said Tranquille Alain, 'true; but the same reason which prevented my paying you the other day, prevents me to-day; to-day only have we been able to put to sea.

"I am sadly inconvenienced for these hundred and twenty crowns I lent you, cousin. I had reckoned on them to employ in an affair-I had taken them from a sum I had in reserve-and here I am, distressed for want of them.'

"I am sorrier for it than you are, cousin, but a little patience and all will go well.'

Tranquille did not dare say that

"Pélagie longed to remind Eloi that the profit sacrificed had been but fifty crowns a few minutes before, but. she held her tongue.

Eloi could not be distressed for the hundred and twenty crowns, their agreement having been, that he should repay only a portion at the beginning of the season, and the remainder at its conclusion.

"And when will you pay me?' "Well, cousin, at the end of the season.'

666

"The two halves shall be paid together,' added Pélagie, bolder than her husband.

"It is to-day the money would be useful to me; I miss an affair on which I should gain fifty crowns! It is very hard to have obliged people, and to find one's-self in difficulty in consequence. I am so much in want of money, Risquetout, that if you give me two hundred francs, I will return you these two bills of sixty crowns each.'

666

"You know very well I have no money, Eloi.'

"Never mind, it shows you what sacrifices I would make to-day, to receive what you owe me.'

"Again no one dared tell the miller that he was not very sincere when he offered to sacrifice a hundred and sixty francs to obtain payment of a sum which would enable him, he said, to gain a hundred and fifty.

"What is to be done?' said he. "I wish I had the money, Eloi.' "You say then that you cannot pay, till Michaelmas, the hundred and twenty crowns you should have paid to-day?'

666

That is to say, cousin,' cried Pélagie, always bolder or less patient than her husband, that we should have given you half of it.'

"'Yes; but that half was due a fortnight ago; and, besides, I am in such want of that half, that-See here, now, I offered just now to give you back your bills for two hundred francs; well, pay me one, and I return you both. There is nothing stingy or greedy in that offer, I hope; I lent you a hundred and twenty crowns, and I cry quits for sixty.

"Cousin, I repeat that I have no money, and besides, if I had sixty crowns, I would give them you, which would not prevent my giving you the sixty others later.'

"It is sixty crowns that I lose on the affair I miss for want of money.'

"I am no Turk,' continued the miller; I will renew your bills. Draw one of a hundred and fifty crowns payable at Michaelmas.'

The husband and wife exchanged a look. Pélagie spoke.

"What, cousin! a hundred and fifty crowns! That makes, then, thirty crowns interest from now till Michaelmas, and that on sixty crowns, or rather on fifty, since only half the sum is due; and out of the sixty crowns ten are for interest.'

66

"I don't deny it. You think thirty crowns interest too much; well, I offer sixty for the same time. Give me sixty crowns, and I return the two bills, and thank you into the bargain, and you will have done me a famous service.'

"Ah! cousin, I wish I had never borrowed this money of you!'

"I am sure I wish you had not; I should not be pinched for it to-day. And why am I? Because I won't get you into difficulties, for I might give your two bills in payment for the affair I speak of, and then you would be made to pay, or your boats would be sold; but I prefer being the loser myself, for after all, cousin, we are brothers' sons, and we must help one another in this world.'

"Nevertheless, cousin, thirty crowns are a very high figure.'

666

Yes; and I should be quite content if you would give me sixty for the hundred and twenty I lent you; but, Lord bless me! add nothing to the bill, if you like-let me lose every thing.'

666

"It is fair to add something, Eloi.'

"Well, since you find thirty crowns too much, when I should be too happy to give sixty, add nothing, or add thirty crowns.'

"Tranquille and his wife looked at each other.

"I will do as you wish,' said Risquetout.'

"Observe,' said the miller, that is is not I who wish it. What I wish, on the contrary, is to see my hundred and twenty crowns which went out of my pocket, and to receive

them without addition; what I would gladly agree to is, to receive sixty, and make you a present of the rest.'

666 Write out the bill; I will make my mark.'

"Eloi wrote; but, when about to set down the sum upon the stamp he had brought with him, he checked himself.

666

Tranquille,' said he, 'the stamp is five sous; it is not fair I should pay it. Give me five sous.'

"There is not a sou in the house,' said Pélagie.

"Then we will add it to the amount of the bill. Thus: At Michaelmas I promise to pay to my cousin, Eloi Alain, the sum of four hundred and fifty-one francs (one cannot put four hundred and fifty francs and five sous, it would look so paltry,) which he has been so obliging as to lend me in hard cash. Signed, Tranquille Alain. There, put your mark, and you, Pélagie, put yours also.'

"The signatures given, Eloi returned the old bills with the air of a benefactor conferring an immense favour. "This time, cousin,' said he, 'be punctual. I shall pay away your bill to a miller at Cherbourg; and if you are not prepared to take it up when due, he may not be so accommodating as I am; for, after all, these four hundred and fifty-one francs would be very useful to me, if I had them in my pocket instead of having lent them to you. Four hundred and fifty-one francs are not to be picked up under every hedge; it is not every day one finds a cousin willing to lend him four hundred and fifty-one francs.'

"No one made any observation on this pretended loan of four hundred and fifty-one francs.

“Well, I must be off. I perhaps lost my temper a little, cousin, but I am really in want of the money. You understand-when one has reckoned on four hundred and fifty-one francs that one has lent and then not to receive a single copper, it is rather vexatious; but, however, I will manage as I can. I am hasty at the moment, but P bear no malice. It is all forgotten.'

"He then took up the two whitings which had been laid aside for him.

VOL. LXIV.-NO. CCCXCVII.

At the same time he took a third out of the basket, and placed it beside one of his, comparing the two.

666

"I think this is a finer one!' he said. And he weighed them, one in each hand.

"There is not much difference,' he observed.

"He changed them into the opposite hands, weighed them again, and appeared sadly embarrassed, until his kinsman said to him:

"Don't mind, cousin, take the three.'

"Here, Onesimus,' said he, 'run a piece of string through their gills.' "Onesimus strung them on the end of a strong line. He was about to cut the piece off, when Eloi checked him.

"Bless me!' said the miller, 'how wasteful children are! He would cut that capital new cord.'

"And he carried away the entire cord, with the three whitings at the end of it, after having several times repeated his advice to Risquetout to be punctual in the payment of his bill, and after kissing Berenice, and saying,

"Good-bye, my dear children; I am delighted to have been of service to you.'

"Our cousin is a very hard and a very griping man,' said Pélagie.

"God does not pay his labourers every night,' replied Tranquille, lifting his woollen cap, but sooner or later he never forgets to pay. Each man shall be recompensed according to his work.'"

This is by no means the sort of thing generally met with in French romances of the present day. It is neither the back-slum and bloodymurder style, nor the self-styled historical, nor the social-subversive. It is just simple, natural, pleasant reading, free from anything indecent or objectionable. We have taken this chapter because it bears extraction well, not as the best in the book, still less as the only good one. Alain has a well-contrived plot and well-managed incidents, contains some droll and quiet caricature, and many touching and delicately-handled passages. The correspondence between the young lady at the Paris boarding. school, and the fisherman's daughter

La Famille

20

at Dive, and the sketches of the company at the watering-place, are each excellent in their way. The introduction of Madame du Mortal and her daughter, and of the Viscount de Morgenstein, is rather foreign to the story, but affords M. Karr opportunity of sketching characters by no means uncommon in France, although little known in England. At this sort of delineation he is the Gavarni of the pen.

"The truth is, that Madame du Mortal's existence had been tolerably agitated. Eight years previously she had quitted M. du Mortal for the society of an officer, who soon, touched by remorse, had left her at full liberty to repair their mutual fault by returning to edify the conjugal mansion by her repentance, and by the exercise of those domestic virtues she had somewhat neglected. Madame du Mortal did nothing of the sort; she knew how to create resources for herself. Formerly, deceived and discouraged people fled to a convent, now they fly to the feuilleton. When a woman finds herself, by misconduct and scandal, excluded from society, she does not weep over her fault and expiate it in a cloister; before long you see her name at the bottom of a newspaper feuilleton, in which she demands the enfranchisement of her sex. No great effort of invention was requisite for Madame du Mortal to devise this resource. Her husband, M. du Mortal, a tall, corpulent man, with a severe countenance and formidable mustaches, had long furnished the article MODES to a widely-circulated newspaper; and under the name of the Marchioness of M, discoursed weekly upon tucks and flounces, upon the length of gowns and the size of bonnets, according to the instructions of milliners and dressmakers, who paid him to give their names and addresses. Madame du Mortal devoted herself to the same branch of literature, and succeeded in seducing some of her husband's customers."

"The Viscount de Morgenstein was one of those illustrious pianists whose talent has much less connexion with music than with sleight of hand. M. de Morgenstein achieved only three notes a minute less than M. Henry Herz; as he was young and

worked hard, it was thought he would overtake, and perhaps surpass that master. He had long curling hair, affected a melancholy and despairing countenance, and was considered to have something fatal in his gait. His mere aspect betrayed the man overwhelmed by the burden of genius and by the divine malediction."

The character of an old country gentleman, who has ruined himself to marry his niece to a spendthrift count, is very well hit off. Eloi Alain, who has a grudge against the poor old fellow, persecutes him in every possible way; his aristocratic and ungrateful nephew refuses him the pension agreed upon, and, to maintain appearances, Monsieur Malais de Beuzeval is reduced to shifts worthy of Caleb Balderstone. Although a parvenu, with vanity for the stimulus of his stratagems, one cannot help feeling sorry for the weak but kind-hearted old man, who shuffles on a livery coat, and puts a patch over his eye, to inform visitors, through the wicket, that he himself is not at home-his own servants having left him; who paints a blaze, each alternate day, upon the face of his sole remaining horse, that neighbours may credit the duplicity of his stud; and who illuminates his drawing-room and jingles his piano in melancholy solitude, to make the world believe M. de Beuzeval is receiving his friends. His manoeuvres to procure a supply of forage, and his ingenuity in dissipating the astonishment of its vender, who cannot comprehend that the master of broad pastures should purchase a load of hay, are capitally drawn. Like every thing else, however, the hay comes to an end, and, at the same time with the horse, the master runs short of provender. Only the four-legged animal has resources the biped does not possess.

"M. de Malais was again compelled to lead out his horse Pyramus during the night, to graze the neighbours' lucerne. One morning the inhabitants of the village of Beuzeval heard the castle-bell announce, as usual, the breakfast. M. de Beuzeval walked into the breakfast room, but found nothing to eat. He nibbled a stale crust and set out for Caen, whence he always brought back a little money, his journeys thither being for the purpose