Balzac's Albert Savarus. IN Miss Wormeley's "Memoirs of Balzac" may be found the date of 'Albert Savarus," 1842, and so this collection of three stories, "Albert Savarus," "Paz" and "Madame Firmiani," may hardly be classed as among new novels, but Balzac never is old in fiction any more than is Chopin in music. Albert Savarus" is to be classed among the Scènes de la vie privée of Balzac's "La Comédie Humaine." What the story develops as particularly as it does anything else is that powerful argument Balzac advances in his "Louis Lambert "the potency of human will. Perhaps, too, it shows how fruitless are our struggles, and how an accident, the least tremor, may shake the edifice we have reared and tumble it to the ground. It is the malice of a little girl, Rosalie de Watteville, which wrecks Albert Savarus' fortunes. Savarus during the Restoration was in a fair way to achieve success. All the work he did was to make himself the equal of a woman he loved, who was placed above him in rank. She had fired his heart with ambition. He toiled for her alone. When Louis Philippe and 1830 came, his political footing had given way, and he had to begin all over again. Savarus burned his ships and went to Besançon. In this dull old city, having with the exception of the higher clergy no intellectual pursuits and not a single aspiration, Albert Savarus takes his place. With that wonderful skill Balzac alone of all writers possesses, he tells how Savarus made his way by sheer stress of will. Retiring though he be, seeking entrance nowhere, suspected on account of his self-imposed isolation, declining advances, Savarus stood a good chance of becoming a deputy. He will kill himself if he does not become the most famous man in France, the equal in position, at least, of the woman he loves, who is Francesca, the Duchess d'Argaiolo. Meanwhile Rosalie, the only child of the richest and most distinguished person in Besançon, has ideas of her own. The mystery which surrounds Savarus excites her imagination. She comes from a family that is hardheaded. There is the blood of an old regicide in her veins. She hears of Savarus and of his intellectual ability; she has a chance to see him at a distance, and at once loves him. She must ferret out his secrets. She is jealous of him, though he is not even conscious of her existence. She plays the spy on his correspondence. A short romance he has written puts her on the track. She has his correspondence tampered with. She learns of Savarus' devotion to Francesca. The impish girl destroys some of the letters, withholds others, and her work is done. The Duchess is now free, and Albert might marry her. She writes him and she waits his happy coming, and she will marry him, but it is Rosalie who secures the letters and burns them. Francesca waits and waits. Believing that Albert loves her no longer, brokenhearted, at her father's command she marries the Duke de Rhétoré. It is Rosalie de Watteville who with infernal cleverness has forged Albert's handwriting and told the Duchess that he was going to marry Mlle. de Watteville. Albert, his life thus wrecked, leaves Besançon, and seeks peace as a brother in La Grande Chartreuse. What Rosalie has done is to have ruined three lives, for she, too, is wretched. Maimed and crippled by an accident on a steamboat, "she leads a life which is wholly devoted to her religious duties." All this story is clearly, sharply defined. The story of social conditions in provincial France a half century ago is told with a master's hand. The traits of Rosalie are so vividly etched that you hate Mlle. de Watteville, and with the Abbé de Grancey, her confessor, you would say, "The most infamous crimes and the most odious are those which human justice can never reach." In "Paz" Balzac is singularly interesting when explaining what was the best Parisian Polish society of his time. In contrast with the rather weak Comte Adam Lagen ski, there is the stronger and more heroic Paz. But Paz, as Balzac constructs him, was not all Polish. The original founder of the Paz family was one of the Florentine Pazzi, and Italians have other traits than have Poles. Paz lives only to make his friend Albert and his wife (a Mlle. du Rouvre) happy. He sacrifices himself rather than allow the Countess to know that he loves her. "Mme. Firmiani" is a short story in Balzac's best manner. It is one where the lesson of human probity is held high. The theme was a favorite one of Balzac's, and he extended the idea later on. A man learns that his wealth has come to him from an ancestor who had been a robber. The dear con science," when the restitution is made, is at last made happy. You see in this beautiful piece of fiction that idea Balzac ever entertained of the possibility of suddenly attaining vast wealth. It may have been one of those delusions which kept him alive. Miss Wormeley's translations of Balzac are already well known, and "Albert Savarus" is as carefully worked up as are the other romances. It is not so extraordinary to translate French into running English, but it takes great ability to understand Honoré de Balzac, and this exceptional talent Miss Wormeley possesses. (Roberts Bros. $1.50)—New York Times. LINCOLN CHINA. From Mrs. Earle's "China Collecting in America." (Copyright, 1892, y Charles Scribner's Sons.) China Collecting in America. also the "Grant set." It makes a fine room decoration when the pieces are arranged in the beautiful buffet that President Arthur had made for it, and is more satisfactory in that position than when in use on the table. It may be asked how all these pieces of Presidential china come to be found in private collections, and offered for sale, and so generally distributed over the country. A very reprehensibie custom existed until recent years (and indeed may still be possible) of selling at auction at the end of each Presidential term, or in the middle if thought necessary, whatever household effects the house steward and house occu A VERY full set of presidential china was bought in Abraham Lincoln's time. It is of finest French porcelain, with a border of crimson purple or plum-color, with delicate lines and dots of goid, and the plates, platters and saucers have slightly scalloped edges. In the centre of the plates and on the sides of the dishes and small pieces is a very spirited version of the coat-of-arms of the United States, with the motto E Pluribus Unum upon a clouded background of gold. A plate and cup of this set, now in possession of Miss Henrietta D. Lyon, of Staten Island, is here shown. This design is very dignified and appropriate, and, pants chose to consider of no further use. with the substitution of a blue border with gilt These Presidential sales were, of course, eagerears of Indian corn, has been reproduced for ly attended by relic-hunters. At such a sale in the present mistress of the White House. Plates President Grant's day a lot of "old truck," as of this Abraham Lincoln set sold at the Govit was irreverently called, valued at $500 ernor Lyon sale for $4.25 each, and little covered brought $2,760. (Charles Scribner's Sons. $3.) custard or egg-cups for $1.50 each. I have recently had some of these plates offered to me for $25 apiece. Portions of this set still remain and are used at the White House. The General Grant set is well-known and is very handsome. The border is of buff and gold, broken once by a small United States shield in high colors. In the centre is a well-painted spray or bunch of flowers, many being the wild flowers of the United States. The coffee-cups of this set were ordered for use at the wedding of the President's daughter, and were known as the "Nellie Grant cups." A plate said to have been ordered for the White House in General Grant's time is here shown. Of the beautiful and costly set ordered by Mrs. Hayes too much is known, and too many cheaper copies have been sold, and may be seen in any large china shop, to make it worth while to give any detailed description here. It was made at Limoges by the Havilands, as was -Extract from Mrs. Earle's "China Collecting in America.' His new Poems by William Watson. MR. WATSON has won recognition in many quarters as the most promising of our younger poets-not a small achievement at a time when England is once more "a nest of singing-birds." volume consists of a reprint of "Wordsworth's Grave," together with a number of freshly collected pieces, mostly from the Academy and other papers. A reading of it has served to confirm and deepen our original impression of the author's powers, and of the mingled strength and delicacy which stamp his style. He is not, indeed, of those who take the world by storm, rather of those who need time to reach its heart, and are most loved where they are best known. He inherits the tradition of Wordsworth and of Matthew Arnold-a tradition of song which is serene rather than fervent, of poetry tempered by philosophy. For the Muse has two sons, the one full-blooded and fiery-hearted, "with mouth of gold and morning in his eyes," passionate for the "wild joys of living," and making his music out of love and beauty and summer, and all the rapturous side of things. And the other sings sedately, in a minor key, less of the world's splendors than its calms, loving the past better than the future, eve better than dawn, autumn better than summer or spring, or if spring at all, then in its first tender promise—the hope, not the fruition. The masterpiece of Mr. Watson's book is a poem on Autumn," full of great sentiment and delicate melody, from which we may venture to quote a couple of stanzas: "Thou burden of all songs the earth hath sung, Oh, be less beautiful, or be less brief, Thou tragic splendor, strange and full of fear! Crumbles the gorgeous year. Ah, ghostly as remembered mirth, the tale Whose very being is thy going hence, And passage and departure all thy theme; Whose life doth still a splendid dying seem, And thou at height of thy magnificence A figment and a dream." Something one misses in Mr. Watson of spontaneity he does not always "sing because he must;" but he has merits which go far to make up for this. His work is elaborate every poem cut and polished like a gem, until it attains to that exquisite simplicity which is not baldness, and which only perfected art can bestow. The lucidity of phrase, the feeling for rhythm, the subtle and scholarly use of Latin-derived words, are a constant and abiding delight. Nor is this all. Mr. Watson's thought is always pure, always sane; he contemplates the turmoil of existence from philosophic heights, and, like the two great poets who are his masters, is able to breathe something of his own peace into ruffled souls. Here is a wise lesson from one of his epigrams, the most successful handling of that difficult genre with which we are acquainted: "Think not thy wisdom can illume away The ancient tanglement of night and day. Enough to acknowledge both, and both revere: They see not clearliest who see all things clear." (Macmillan. $1.50.-E. K. CHAMBERS, in the Academy. The Hero of the Vendée. ONE may with painstaking search all history and not find a figure comparable in heroic fascination to that of the young Count of La Rochejaquelein, whose brilliant and brief career is depicted with so much charm by Louise Imogen Guiney in her little character-study called "Monsieur Henri." Combating Carlyle's fling at the Vendéans as simple people blown into flame and fury by the theological and seignorial bellows," Miss Guiney maintains that the war was fought from the start on a moral principle, and she describes in a stirring manner the uprising of these strong, temperate, cheerful peasants who felt that their liberties had been invaded by the decree evicting the nonconforming clergy, and so in all trustfulness and sincerity sought the arbitrament of the sword. The incident of Cathelineau is an example of the popular temper. He was kneading bread when the news came that the government troops had fired upon the recruits. "We must begin the war,' he murmured. His startled wife echoed his words, wailing: Begin what war? Who will help you begin the war?' 'God,' he answered quietly. Putting her aside he wiped his arms, drew on his coat, and went out instantly to the market-place. That afternoon he attacked two Republican detachments and seized their ammunition, his small force augmenting on the march; in a few days it was a thousand strong and carried Chollet." Henri du Vergier, Count of La Rochejaquelein, was a youth of twenty at this critical period in the history of his native province. He was tall and handsome, with hair the color of ripened wheat, flashing eyes, a quiet humor; a little indolent, Miss Guiney thinks, but something of an athlete and a judge of horses and hounds. Such was the lad upon whom the peasants called. "Come with us," they said. "The whole country-side look to you; it will obey you." He went, and to the throng of eager farmers made the little speech that will be handed down among the brave speeches of all time: "Friends! if my would have confidence. father were here you As for me, I am only a boy, but I will prove that I deserve to lead you. When I advance do you follow me; when I flinch, cut me down; when I fall, avenge me!" He was as good as his word, sat his fleet steed on many a dashing assault, harried the enemy right and left through sheer love of honest fighting, told his command when they complained they were out of ammunition: "The Blues have plenty;" denying himself bread that others near him might the better appease their hunger, running astounding risks, taking never a prisoner without offering him a chance for his life, sword to sword; always courteous, always ready of resource, always bravest of the brave-what wonder that the peasants of La Vendée spoke of him affectionately as "Monsieur Henri" and worshipped the ground he trod on? Two years he swayed the destinies of revolution, then perished, shot by a traitorous hand while negotiating a parley, and left behind him a memory that gleams with the splendor of true romance across the intervening century. Miss Guiney compares him, not without reason, to Graham of Claverhouse, but there was a buoyancy, a light and verve in his mental make-up that the Scottish soldier did not possess. "He was made to despatch this world like an errand or a game. He had no sovereign interests here of his own; rather was he his brother's keeper. A sort of rich unreason shot him past the work, the musing, the sightseeing for self, the pleasant banquets over which men linger. Careless for the making of a name, for the gain of experience, even for the duty of prolonging his usefulness, he chose the first course which he believed to be honorable, and to which he would give his heart; and so stumbled on to death. He represents, in the economy of things, the waste which is thrift, the daring which is prudence, the folly which is wisdom ineffable." A fascinating career, truly, and exquisitely chronicled. In a Steamer Chair. ROBERT Barr, who is perhaps best known by his pen name of "Luke Sharp," has gathered into a seasonable volume a collection of sketches called "In a Steamer Chair, and Other Shipboard Stories." Mr. Barr aims to provide his readers with entertainment, and it is only fair to say that he usually succeeds to a very emphatic degree in doing what he sets out to do. The first story in the present collection has for its chief characters the junior partner in a New York commercial house and a saleswoman from the ribbon counter of his own establishment. A pretty little comedy goes on as the voyage progresses; a vindictive blonde, a former flame of the junior partner, supplying the obstructive features in what might otherwise have been a!together too smooth a love affair. "Mrs. Tremain" records the blandishments of a silly married flirt. "An International Row" is a very funny account of a quarrel over the usual ocean concert for the benefit of sailors' orphans. "A Ladies' Man" relates the experiences of a company of students who take passage on the same ship with a party of "personally conducted" young women tourists. Another story is de From "In a Steamer Chair." (Copyright, 1892, by Cassell Publishing Company.) Mrs. Olive Thorne Miller is so true a birdlover that she devotes a great part of her summers to getting into relation with the shy warblers whose acquaintance can only be made at the cost of time and pains. No one who has not tried can estimate the patience required to get near the purposely secluded nests of the wood-thrush, the cuckoo, the sapsucker, the flicker, or the bobolink, and persuade their occupants, especially the male bird, who is always most suspicious and irascible, of the innocence of your intentions. Dressed in unobtrusive woodland colors, sometimes with ferns or leaves stuck into her hair as a screen, and armed with an opera glass, Mrs. Miller has been accustomed to spend whole afternoons sitting immovable in the underbrush, till the scared and indignant householders grew to accept her as a part of nature, and fearlessly went on with their routine-their alternate guard over the nest, their admonitions to the brood, and the perpetual bringing of food to the insatiable nestlings, always open-mouthed and quivering with hungry expectation. The reading of this delightful little book is enough to make any one share Mrs. Miller's acute and sympathetic interest in her "Little Brothers." Their songs, their colors, the odd difference in rapport between bird and bird, their devices and subterfuges and instincts are full of an endless interest. The whole volume is quotable, but we must confine ourselves to one curious little anecdote, which has twice been paralleled in Mrs. Miller's experience, and which seems to indicate an "astuciousness" and histrionic ability scarcely to be expected in a pewee: Our first call was on a small dame, very high up in the world, thirty feet at least. We introduced ourselves to Madam Wood-Pewee, not by ringing and sending up cards, but by pausing before her door, seating ourselves on our stool and levelling our glasses at her house. We felt, indeed, that we had almost a proprietary interest in that little lichen-covered nest resting snugly in a fork of a dead branch, for we had assisted in building it, at least by our daily presence, during the week or two that she spent in bringing, in the most desultory way, snips of material, fastening them in place, and moulding the whole by getting into the nest and pressing her breast against it, while slowly turning round and round. Now that she had really settled herself to sit, we never neglected to leave a card upon her, so to speak, every morning. As we approached we were pleased to see her tried lord and master bearing in his mouth what was doubtless intended for a delicate offering to cheer her weary hours, for a gauzy yellow wing stuck out on each side of his beak, suggesting something uncommonly nice within. He stood a moment till we should pass, looking the picture of unconsciousness, and defying us to assert that he had a house and home anywhere about that tree. But when we did not pass, after hesitatingly hopping from perch to perch nearer the nest, he deliberately diverted yellow-wing from its original destiny-swallowed it himself, and wiped his beak with an air that said, There, now, what can you make of that?" 44 Ashamed to have deprived the little sitter of her treat, we folded our stool and resumed our march. (Houghton, Mifflin & Co. $1.25).Boston Literary World. Charles Sumner. MESSRS. DODD, MEAD & Co. have added to their Makers of America series a monograph entitled "Charles Sumner," by Anna Laurens Dawes, who is to be congratulated on the skill with which she has arranged her mass of biographic materials, her clear perception of the salient points of the character and temperament of her subject, and the calm, impartial spirit in which she has narrated the tumultuous events of the time in which he figured so conspicuously. Sumner was not so much a great man as a man with great qualities, which he was too singleminded and impetuous to control—a strong, determined nature, confident in his opinions, impatient of opposition, a master of invective the terrible force of which he was incapable of comprehending. The power of such men in public affairs is often in inverse ratio to what the world considers their wisdom, which is seldom of the kind that their contemporaries practise. They are indifferent politicians and unsafe statesmen; but when all is said and done they are factors which cannot be ignored, however they may be detested by their enemies or censured by their friends. Sumner was certainly one of the makers of America, particularly as America is understood in New England. (Dodd, Mead & Co. $1.)-Mail and Express. |