severe truths to his great niece, whom he worshipped, exclaimed, in order to dissipate the sharpness of this conversation,— "Do not torment my poor Emilie! do not you see that she is waiting for the coming of age of the Duc de Bordeaux ?" An universal laugh greeted the old man's pleasantry. "Take care lest I marry you, you silly old man!" retorted the young girl, whose last words were happily drowned by the noise. "My children," said Madame de Fontaine, to soften this impertinence, Emilie, like the rest of you, will only follow her mother's advice." "Certainly not. I shall listen to no one but myself in an affair which .concerns myself only," said Mademoiselle de Fontaine, very distinctly. All eyes were then turned to the head of the family. Every one seemed curious to know how he would maintain his dignity. Not only did the venerable Vendean enjoy great consideration in the world, but, happier than many fathers, he was appreciated by his family, all the members of which recognised the solid qualities which had enabled him to make the fortunes of those who belonged to him. He was, therefore, surrounded with the profound respect which English families, and some continental aristocratic houses, bear to the representative of the genealogical tree. Profound silence followed; and the eyes of the guests glanced alternately at the sullen and haughty face of the spoiled child, and the severe countenances of Monsieur and Madame de Fontaine. "I have left my daughter Emilie mistress of her fate," was the answer made by the count, in a solemn voice. The relations and guests then gazed at Mademoiselle de Fontaine with mingled curiosity and pity. Those words seemed to announce that paternal tenderness was weary of struggling against a character which the family knew to be incorrigible. The sons-in-law murmured, and the brothers smiled scornfully at their wives. Henceforth, every one ceased to interest himself in the haughty girl's marriage. Her old uncle was the only one who, in his quality of an old sailor, used to en counter her broadsides, and suffer from her whims, without any difficulty in returning fire for fire. When the fine weather arrived, after the budget had been voted, this family, a true model of the parliamentary families on the other side of the Channel, who have a finger in every administration, and ten votes in the Commons, flew off like a nestful of birds towards the beautiful prospects of Aulnay, Antony, and Châtenay. The opulent receivergeneral had recently bought a house in this neighbourhood for his wife, who only remained at Paris during the session. Although the fair Emilie despised the plebeians, this sentiment did not extend to the fortunes amassed by them. She therefore accompanied her sister to her magnificent villa, less from affection for those of her family who assembled there, than because fashion imperiously commands every woman who respects herself to quit Paris during the summer. The green meadows of Sceaux admirably fulfilled the conditions demanded by fashion, and the duty of public avocations. The bal champêtre at Sceaux is celebrated: it is rare when the most collets montés proprietors of the neighbourhood do not emigrate once or twice in the season to this palace of the village Terpsichore. The hope of meeting there some women of the fashionable world, and of being seen by them; the hope less frequently deceived of seeing there young peasant girls as shrewd as judges, brings on a Sunday, to the ball of Sceaux, innumerable swarms of lawyers' clerks, of disciples of Esculapius, and of young men, whose pale complexions and freshness are kept up by the damp air of Parisian back shops. A great number of bourgeois marriages have been planned to the sounds of the orchestra, which occupies the centre of this circular room. If the roof could talk, how many love-affairs it could tell! This interesting medley makes the ball of Sceaux more piquant than two or three other balls in the environs of Paris, over which its rotunda, the beauty of its situation, and the charms of its garden, give it incontestable advantages. Emilie was the first who manifested the desire to go and faire peuple at this joyous ball, and promised herself intense pleasure from such an assembly. Every one was astonished at her wish to wander about in the midst of such a crowd; but is not the incognito a very strong enjoyment to the great? Mademoiselle de Fontaine amused herself by imagining all the citizen figures; she saw herself leaving in more than one bourgeois heart the remembrance of an enchanting look and smile; already laughed at the affectations of the dancers, and cut her pencils for the scenes with which she expected to enrich the pages of her satirical album. Sunday could not arrive soon enough to satisfy her impatience. The company from the Pavillon Planat set out on foot, in order not to betray the rank of the persons who meant to honour the ball with their presence. They had dined early. The month of May favoured this aristocratic escapade by one of its finest evenings. Mademoiselle de Fontaine was quite surprised to find under the rotunda some quadrilles, formed of persons who appeared to belong to good society. She certainly saw here and there some young men who appeared to have employed the savings of a month to shine for one day, and discovered several couples whose too frank gaiety was decidedly not conjugal; but she had only to glean instead of to reap. She was astonished to sec pleasure dressed in muslin so very like pleasure robed in satin; and the bourgeoisie dance as gracefully, and sometimes more so, than nobility. Most of the dresses were simple and worn gracefully. Mademoiselle Emilie was even obliged to study the various elements which composed this assembly before she could find in it a subject for pleasantry. But she had neither the time to devote herself to her malicious criticisms, nor the leisure to hear many of those queer sayings which caricaturists joyfully collect. The haughty creature suddenly met in this vast field with a flower (the metaphor is an appropriate one), of which the brilliancy and colours acted on her imagination with the prestige of a novelty. We often look at a dress, a hanging, a blank paper, with so much carelessness, as not to perceive on them at once a stain, or some dazzling spot, which later sud denly strike our eye, as if they only appeared there at the moment we become conscious of them; by a tolerably similar species of moral phenomenon, Mademoiselle de Fontaine discovered in a young man the type of the external perfections which she had so long dreamed of. Seated on one of the rough chairs which formed the boundary of the room, she had placed herself at the extremity of the group formed by her family, in order to get up or advance as she liked, behaving to the living pictures and groups presented by this room as if she were at the exhibition of the Musée. She impertinently put up her eye-glass at a person a few steps from her, and made her reflections as if she had criticised or praised a head in some study or scène de genre. Her eyes, after wandering over this vast, animated canvass, were suddenly arrested by this figure, which seemed to have been placed purposely in a corner of the picture, in the best light, like something out of all proportion with the rest. The unknown, pensive and alone, leaning against one of the columns which support the roof, had his arms folded, and stooped, as if he had placed himself there for a painter to take his picture. Although full of elegance and haughtiness, this attitude was free from affectation. No gesture indicated that he had placed his face, and slightly inclined his head to the right, like Alexander, Lord Byron, and some other great men, with the only view of attracting attention. His gaze followed the movements of a young girl who was dancing, and betrayed some profound sentiment. His well-made and graceful figure recalled the fine proportions of the Apollo. Beautiful black hair curled naturally over his high forehead. In one glance Mademoiselle de Fontaine remarked the fineness of his linen, the freshness of his kid gloves, evidently bought at the best maker's, and the smallness of a foot advan-· tageously displayed by well-made boots. He wore none of those ignoble trinkets with which the dandies of the garde nationale, or the Adonises of the counter, adorn themselves. Nothing but a black riband, to which his eye-glass was suspended, hung over his well-cut waistcoat. Never had the fastidious Emilie seen the eyes of a man shaded by such long and curled lashes. Melancholy and passion dwelt in this countenance, rendered more manly by an olive complexion. His mouth seemed always ready to smile, and curl the corners of two eloquent lips; but this disposition, far from indicating gaiety, rather betrayed a species of sad sweetness. There was too much thought in the head, too much distinction in the person, for any one to say, There is a handsome man! You desired to know him. On seeing the unknown, the most perspicacious observer could not have avoided taking him for a man of superior talent, whom some powerful interest attracted to this village festival. This mass of observations only cost Emilie a moment's attention, during which, this privileged man, submitted to a severe analysis, became the object of secret admiration. She did not say to herself, “He must be a peer of France !" but, "If he is noble, and he must be so Without finishing her thought she suddenly rose, and went, followed by her brother the lieutenant-general, towards the pillar, while appearing to look at the joyous quadrilles; but by an optical artifice familiar to women, she did not lose one single movement of the young man whom she was approaching. The unknown politely gave way to the new-comers, and leant on another column. Emilie, as piqued by the stranger's politeness as she would have been by an impertinence, began to talk to her brother in a much shriller tone than good taste allowed; she moved her head, multiplied her gestures, and laughed without much cause, less to amuse her brother than to attract the attention of the imperturbable unknown. None of these little artifices succeeded. Mademoiselle de Fontaine then followed the direction of the young man's eyes, and perceived the cause of this indifference. In the midst of the quadrille before her, was a pale young girl, similar to those Scotch deities whom Girodet has placed in his immense composition of the French warriors received by Ossian. Emilie thought she recognised an illustrious English lady, who had recently come to inhabit a neighbouring country-house. Her partner was a boy of fifteen, with red hands, nankin trousers, a blue coat, and white shoes, which proved that her love of dancing did not make her fastidious in the choice of her partners. Her movements did not correspond with her apparently delicate health; but a slight red tinge was already beginning to colour her pale cheeks, and her complexion was becoming brighter. Mademoiselle de Fontaine approached the quadrille, in order to examine the stranger when she returned to her place, while the vis-à-vis repeated the figure. But the unknown advanced, leaned towards the pretty dancer, and the inquisitive Emilie distinctly heard these words, although pronounced in a voice at once gentle and decided, "Clara, my child, do not dance any more." Clara pouted her lips, nodded in token of obedience, and ended by smiling. After the quadrille the young man took all the precautions of a lover, throwing a cashmere shawl over the girl's shoulders, and placing her on a seat sheltered from the wind. Mademoiselle de Fontaine, who saw them get up and walk round the enclosure, like people about to depart, soon found means of following them, under the pretext of admiring the scenery from the garden. Her brother lent himself with arch good nature to the caprices of this rambling walk. Emilie then perceived the handsome couple getting into an elegant tilbury, which a livery servant on horseback was taking care of. At the moment the young man sat down, and endeavoured to equalise the reins, she obtained from him one of those looks which one carelessly bestows on large crowds; but she had the feeble satisfaction of seeing him look back two different times, and his companion imitated him. Was it jealousy? PUBLIC PATRONAGE OF MEN OF LETTERS. OUR literary men have not yet assumed, it is said, that position in society so pre-eminently due to them. Mr. Cobden, in the spirit we hope of a true prophet, foretels their future advancement. The destinies of the French nation are directed by literary men-by Guizot, who is in place, and by Thiers, who is out of it. Our literary men have no such rank in England. In short they have no rank or position at all. They are a scattered race, working in knots, or cliques, or single-handed, and exist as a body by name alone. The onehalf are unknown, except by reputation, to the other half; and while other classes combine and at times cabal to extend their reputations, the most influential race of men, the directors of the minds and passions, and even prejudices of the people, are scattered throughout the three kingdoms, often at war with and too often unknown to one another. This should not be! Literary men should no longer live aloof; they should combine in one common cause, the advance of their own respectability and standing in society, the growth of good letters, and the interchange of ideas. The sea of politics keeps too many apart. The editor of the Quarterly holds no communication with the critics of the Edinburgh, or the editor of The Times with the writers of the Morning Chronicle. The author of the Lays of Ancient Rome thinks very little of the editor of Boswell, and the editor of Boswell of the editor of the Lays. The sentiment is reciprocal. There is, therefore, very little hope of anything like an interchange of ideas between these doughty personages. They might meet and be perhaps more civil to one another than Dr. Johnson and Adam Smith were, but civility is all that would pass-the shrug of dislike would follow the bow of common politeness, and they would part only to renew hostilities. The critics are a very numerous race, and literary men too often live on one another. Other grades and classes of intellectual men are without critics by profession, but litera ture cannot do, it would appear, without them. The corruption of an author is, we are told, the generation of a critic, and there is too much reason to believe that the saying is a true one. A disappointed poet seeks consolation in criticism— he has no other joy than to retaliate, while the successful critic is afraid to append his name to any publication of his own for fear of the mousing owls that haunt the purlieus of his trade. Yet jealousy is by no means a prominent feature in the literary character. Your Fellows of the Royal Society and Royal Academicians are still more jealous, but as few of them can write a style fit to appear in print they want a ready outlet for their venom. The pen is a fearful weapon. The opportunity of saying a good thing, of resenting an unfair criticism, or of pulling down a man of genius to your own level, are too tempting to be resisted. With young men this is too often the case-they aim at notoriety in this way, and lull disappointed ambition with the satisfactory feeling of inflicting a stab in the dark. The critics, we have said, are a prolific people, and we are, perhaps, to impute their number, and in some respects their existence, as a class, more to a want of combination among literary men than any particular appetite on the part of the public for the sour produce of the "ungentle craft." The forty artists who are Royal Academicians stand firm to one another, through good and through evil report. An ill-natured or even severe criticism upon an individual member is viewed as an aspersion upon the whole body. This is in some degree the secret of the extraordinary influence of that well-organized association. It is one part of a member's creed to believe that the forty Royal Academicians are the forty best artists in the country, and that the best artist out of the Academy is the individual who will be elected a member on the next vacancy. This is a happy state of things; and what is the result?-that the rank of Royal Academician carries an appendage of respectability with it. But the literary man has no such rank, he has no class to uphold him, he has no distinction to aspire to, he has no lay benefice to hope for. We look for our artists in the ranks of the Royal Academy, for our men of science in the ranks of the Royal Society, for our physicians in their College, for our lawyers, if not already ennobled, on the benches of their respective Inns, and for our authors in the columns of the daily, weekly, and monthly. Who are our literary men? The question would seem by many to be very easily answered. But each would answer for his set, and you would hear of classes, composed somewhat in this way-1. Moore, Rogers, Hallam, and Macaulay; 2. Wordsworth, Wilson, Lockhart, Milman, and Wilson Croker ; 3. Talfourd, Bulwer, Dickens, and Jerrold, with Tennyson and Monckton Milnes, Henry Taylor, and Mr. Browning. But a union of literary men is not so hopeless as it at first would seem; a good writer will outlive an unfair criticism, "I never knew," says Dr. Johnson, "a man of merit neglected; it was generally by his own fault that he failed of success." Look at the history of opinion, as written in the Edinburgh Review; read its early and its after criticisms on Wordsworth and Southey, on Coleridge and Lamb, on Byron and on Moore. The silly Mr. Wordsworth of its early volumes is the philosophical poet of its later numbers. It has had to do penance for its early mistakes, and its penance has been accepted. Lord Byron forgave, it is said, Mr. Brougham, and the author of Lalla Rookh lives in friendly intercourse with the Dennis of his early lucubrations. Literary resentments are not, therefore, so lasting as they would seem. But, then, there is this obstacle to the formation of a society of literary men. Criticism, as a profession, must necessarily cease. This, however, is not, let us hope, so formidable an obstacle as it at first would seem. A society of authors must have a limitation of numbers. The Royal Academy is honourably efficient on this account, and the Royal Society is notoriously defective because it is not restricted. A society of forty of the best authors making common cause with one another, might treat with contempt the onset of the gadflies of criticism without; while every vacancy that occurred would afford an opportunity of strengthening your ranks and quieting the clamour of the ablest of your assailants. Good authors need no protection from criticism. Your Milbournes and Dennises wither and rot of their own accord if left unnoticed. We would suggest the formation of a society of forty of the best authors, for a very distinct and different reason. We wish to bring our literary men together, to give them collectively that standing in society which a few of them individually possess, and to shew our own people, and our continental neighbours as well, that a society of literary men in England is no common body, that they are aware of their own strength, and can maintain that influential station in established society so pre-eminently due to them. 66 The history of letters in England is not without a record of several attempts at combination among literary men, but so imperfectly matured or inauspiciously started that it is perhaps unfair to speak of them as anything more than the mere spectres of attempts. Authors have been, and we believe are, still a friendly, even a convivial race. Your meetings at the Mermaid with Shakspeare and his "fellows," your suppers in the Apollo with Ben Jonson and his sons," your late hours with Dryden at Wills', and still later at Button's with Addison and Steele, are among the most pleasing memories preserved to us of days gone by. It is not, however, to meetings of this kind that we wish to do more than refer at present. We allude, more particularly at this moment, to the formation of the Literary Club, the incorporation of the Royal Society of Literature, the establishment of the Athenæum Club, and the institution of the late Literary Union. The Literary Club, or the Club, as it was first called, was founded by Samuel Johnson and Sir Joshua Reynolds. It was Johnson's original intention that the number of the club should not exceed nine, but Samuel Dyer,-"the learned Mr. |