ripeness of his powers, thus frankly tells us his likes and dislikes, tells us what he is. While by reflected action the passage becomes a self-portraiture, it is a sample of finest criticism.

To make Molière loved by more people is in my judgment to do a public service.

Indeed, to love Molière-I mean to love him sincerely and with all one's heart-it is, do you know? to have within one's self a guarantee against many defects, much wrongheadedness. It is, in the first place, to dislike what is incompatible with Molière, all that was counter to him in his day, and that would have been insupportable to him in ours.

To love Molière, is to be forever cured-I do not speak of base and infamous hypocrisy, but of fanaticism, of intolerance, and of that kind of hardness which makes one anathematize and curse; it is to carry a corrective to admiration even of Bossuet, and for all who, after his example, exult, were it only in words, over their enemy dead or dying; who usurp I know not what holy speech, and involuntarily believe themselves to be, with the thunderbolt in their hand, in the region and place of the Most High. Men eloquent and sublime, you are far too much so for me!

To love Molière, is to be sheltered against, and a thousand leagues away from, that other fanaticism, the political, which is cold, dry, cruel, which never laughs, which smells of the sectary, which, under pretext of puritanism, finds means to mix and knead all that is bitter, and to combine in one sour doctrine the hates, the spites, and the jacobinism of all times. It is to be not less removed, on the other hand, from those tame, dull souls who, in the very presence of evil, cannot be roused to either indignation or hatred.

To love Molière, is to be secured against giving in to that pious and boundless admiration for a Humanity which worships itself, and which forgets of what stuff it is made, and that, do what it will, it is always poor human nature. It is, not to despise it too much, however, this common humanity, at which one laughs, of which one is, and into which we throw ourselves through a healthful hilarity whenever we are with Molière.

To love and cherish Molière, is to detest all mannerism in language and expression; it is, not to take pleasure in, or to be arrested by, petty graces, elaborate subtlety, superfine finish, excessive refinement of any kind, a tricky or artificial style.

To love Molière, it is to be disposed to like neither false wit nor pedantic science; it is to know how to recognize at first sight our

Trissotins and our Vadius even under their rejuvenated jaunty airs; it is, not to let one's self be captivated at present any more than formerly by the everlasting Philaminte, that affected pretender of all times, whose form only changes and whose plumage is incessantly renewed; it is, to like soundness and directness of mind in others as well as in ourselves. I only give the first movement and the pitch: on this key one may continue, with variations.

To love and openly to prefer Corneille, as certain minds do, is no doubt a fine thing, and, in one sense, a very legitimate thing; it is, to dwell in, and to mark one's rank in, the world of great souls: but is it not to run the risk of loving, together with the grand and sublime, false glory a-little, to go so far as not to detest inflation and magniloquence, an air of heroism on all occasions? He who passionately loves Corneille cannot be an enemy to a little boasting.

On the other hand, to love and prefer Racine, ah! that is, no doubt, to love, above all things, elegance, grace, what is natural and true (at least relatively), sensibility, touching and charming passion; but at the same time is it not also, to allow your taste and your mind to be too much taken with certain conventional and over-smooth beauties, a certain tameness and petted languidness, with certain excessive and exclusive refinements? In a word, to love Racine so much, it is to run the risk of having too much of what in France is called taste, and which brings so much distaste.

To love Boileau-but no, one does not love Boileau, one esteems him, one respects him; we admire his uprightness, his understanding, at times his animation, and if we are tempted to love him, it is solely for that sovereign equity which made him do such unshaken justice to the great poets his contemporaries, and especially to him whom he proclaims the first of all, Molière.

To love La Fontaine, is almost the same thing as to love Molière; it is, to love Nature, the whole of Nature, humanity ingenuously depicted, a representation of the grand comedy" of a hundred different acts," unrolling itself, cutting itself up before our eyes into a thousand little scenes with the graces and freedoms that are so becoming, with weaknesses also and liberties which are never found in the simple, manly genius of the master of masters. But why separate them? La Fontaine and Molière -we must not part them, we love them united.

* Trissotin, Vadius, and Philaminte are personages in Molière's comedy of Les Femmes Savantes (The Blue-Stockings).

A TALE OF

THE good steamer "Empire" lay swinging uneasily at her moorings in the Chicago River, on a bright August morning in 1848. Railways had not then wrested travel from the lakes, and the best route from the Northwest to New York was the roundabout way by Mackinaw and Buffalo. The old blockhouse of Fort Dearborn was still standing. The streets of the embryo city were innocent of Macadam or Nicolson; indeed, the streets of to-day were not at all, for the Chicago of that day has been buried six feet out of sight. The old "Lake House" was a prince among hotels. A glaring white two-story frame rejoiced in the Bostonian name of "Tremont," on the same corner where its namesake now rears its colossal proportions, while where the "Sherman " now stands, a blowsy red-brick flaunted the same name in pretentious gilt letters on its staring sides. McVicker's and the "Crosby's" were in the undreamedof future, but the since mayor was then proprietor of a Thespian temple where Charles Dibdin Pitt and Mrs. Jones, and other histrionic celebrities of that day and generation delighted the unambitious denizens of what has since become one of the most wonderful cities of the world.

A busy throng hurried to and fro on the wharf where the steamer lay, ready to start on her long run around the lakes. There was a summer pleasureparty, full of merry jest and merrier laughter-self-absorbed-heedless of all the hurry and anxiety and care about them. The merchant from some interior town, journeying to New York to purchase merchandise, clutched his valise closely, and, outwardly calm, but inwardly perturbed and anxious lest some abandoned wretch should steal his trunk or pick his pockets, walked solemnly into the "grand saloon."

All

CHICAGO.

social grades seemed to be represented, from the self-possessed, travelled man of the world, to the wide-eyed bumpkin from the remote farmhouse.

Threading his way daintily through the throng, came a gentleman with strongly-marked and not altogether pleasant, though handsome and smiling features, with faultless outfit and air of most imperturbable aplomb. A plainlydressed and quite pretty woman leaned nervously on his arm, and half accompanied, half followed him. Her eyes bore traces of recent weeping, and her face wore the half-puzzled, half-penitent expression of one in strong doubt whether the present action be criminal or innocent. Stepping from the wharf to the boat, she seemed to hesitate a moment; but her companion ignored any such suspicion, if he entertained it, and, moving rapidly and confidently forward, led her into the saloon. Here he seated her with ceremonious politeness, and, telling her that she need do nothing but wait until he attended to the disposition of her baggage and secured her state-room, he turned away, but, after a step or two, returned, and, with an appearance of respectful concern, said,

"It would be well, Mrs. Barnes, if you would drop your veil. It would save you from impertinent staring, and perhaps from annoying questions."

She glanced towards his face with a slightly surprised look; but he had turned again, and was walking away, with the air of jaunty assurance that sat so naturally on him. She half rose, as if to follow him, but immediately resumed her scat, and muttering, "Perhaps he's right-perhaps he's right," she drew her veil closely over her face, and settled herself back into the luxurious sofa with an uneasy sigh.

Her companion hurried out to the street, and glanced up and down. Pres

ently a baggage-wagon drove up, from which the driver lifted two large trunks, conspicuously lettered, “Mrs. M. E. Barnes," and carried them on board the steamer. Then, approaching the gentleman we have remarked, he said, with a knowing grin,

"There, Mr. Jeremy, I've brought them 'ere trunks in good time, and I shall have to have two dollars, for I've had to drive fast, I tell you."

"Certainly, my man," replied he who was addressed as Mr. 66 Jeremy; three of them, if you like." Then, handing the man a bank-note for five dollars, and also a folded and sealed paper, he added,

"Here,-I shall give you five; but you must promise to take this letter to some one of the newspaper-offices, and hand it to the local editor; but don't, under any circumstances, tell from whom you received it. Will you take the five, and do this, or must I give the three to some other messenger?"

"Oh, I'll take the letter, of course. But" with another grin-" do you think they'll print it ? ”

Mr. Jeremy betrayed a little surprise at the man's manner, but answered, with a pleasant smile,

"I guess so. Items are scarce."

Softly whistling a popular air, Mr. Jeremy stepped aboard the “Empire.” The baggage-man looked after him, admiringly, and muttering to himself, "You're a sharp 'un. It don't make no difference to you whether Cass or Taylor's elected, so you gits the petticoats on your side, I know," he jumped on his wagon, and drove away, well content with his afternoon's earnings.

The steamer's bell rang out the last note of warning; the lines were cast loose, the gleaming engine slid away with a cat-like tread, the ponderous wheels shook off the flashing spray, and the good steamer "Empire," freighted with inanimate value and pulsing life, bearing the buoyancy of youthful years and pleasurable intent, and the uneasy imaginings of unscrupulous and plotting guilt, moved out on the bosom of the lake.

The afternoon of the succeeding day was far advanced. The westering sun pierced his level lances through the veil of grimy smoke that settled along the busy river, and far out across the green bosom of the lake their golden points were dimmed and blunted against the purple east. The clatter, rather than roar, which was the business voice of the Chicago of that day, was dying into quiet, and over vast regions where one now hears the rumble of the horse-cars and the many-toned voice of traffic, the air trembled only to the faint bell-note from grazing kine, or their mellowed lowing, as they lazily wandered homeward.

The steamer "Baltic," from Buffalo direct, had just arrived. The bustle of landing was almost over, and the knot of idlers which such an event at that day always drew, was melting gradually away. A gentleman of thirty to thirtyfive years stepped briskly ashore, leading by the hand a little boy of not more than five years. Both were well but plainly clad, indicating a middle social rank; and the face of the gentleman wore that expression of pleasurable anticipation, not, indeed, entirely unmixed with apprehension, which one always feels upon a return home after long ab

sence.

"We'll soon be home now, Harry, my boy; and I shouldn't wonder if mamma half chokes you with kisses."

"Oh, I'm so glad to come home!" returned the boy. "I'm tired of boats and water. And we've got such lots of nice things for mamma, too; haven't we?"

"Yes, pet; and only think how lonesome mamma must have been all these weeks, without her little boy."

He caught the little fellow up in his arms, and moved onward at a more rapid pace. Along Lake-street he greeted two or three acquaintances with a brief nod to each; while they, unnoted by him, looked after him with troubled eyes and a compassionate shake of the head.

Threading his way rapidly and confidently, he turned up Clark-street,

passed under the shadow of the old court-house to Lasalle, and up that Freet to a point not many hundred feet away from the spot where the great new buildings of the "Young Men's Christian Association" have recently been burned. Here he turned off diagonally, and, crossing some vacant lots, approached a low white cottage. He saw, as he came up, that the blinds were all closed, and the house looked deserted and silent. But it was a hot day, he said to himself, and behind the closed blinds must be the fluttering curtains and cool shade of pleasant home. "Besides," he thought, “she is not expecting me; I am more than a week ahead of time."

He stepped on the little stoop, and turned the knob, but the door was locked. Bidding the boy wait for him there, he went to the rear door. That, too, was closed and locked. He returned to the front with surprise and anxiety, and the shadow of gathering fear written on his face. But he plucked up heart again when he came back to the front, and his little boy asked, "Papa, where is mamma? Why don't we go in ?"

"Mamma did not expect us to-day," he replied, with a dreary cheerfulness, "and she has gone out to see some neighbors, or shopping, may-be. But she'll be back presently, and we'll sit down on the step here, and wait for her."

But he rang the bell loudly, and listened intently as its echoes sounded through the deserted rooms, before he sat down, and tried, with a troubled heart, to think where his wife could be. Presently the clicking of his gate-latch roused him from his unquiet thought, and he looked up with an eager smile. But it was a neighbor, who advanced gravely, and replied to his hurried questions only by wringing his hand and holding out to him a copy of a morning newspaper, folded down to an indicated paragraph. He took it eagerly, and the neighbor, walking quickly away, leaned on the gate. Let us look over his shoulder as he reads:

ELOPEMENT!

Last evening, soon after the departure of one of our magnificent Lake steamers, it transpired that the wife of a quite well-known citizen had taken passage for Buffalo and the East in guilty company with a young man who has contrived to attract the admiration of our business men

by the boldness and success of his commercial operations, quite as much as that of their daughters and wives by his personal graces.

The run-away seems to have been conducted in the most deliberate manner. The gentleman, within a few days, has closed up all his outstanding business, announcing his purpose to remove from the city; and the lady, up to within a few hours of her departure, having continued the apparent course of her life with the utmost sang froid, making engagements with friends and neighbors for days still in the future, and ostentatiously bewailing the absence of her husband, whom pressing business called to New York several weeks ago. On the whole, we have rarely heard of a case exhibiting a cooler depravity. The parties' names we suppress, for obvious reasons.

Later. Since the above was in type, we have learned that Mr. B-rn-s is accompanied in New York by his only child, a bright little boy of five years or thereabouts. Mr. J-re-y has therefore secured his frail inamorata free from any incumbrances of that nature.

His face grew white and rigid, as, first rapidly, then with marvellous deliberation, he read the damning paragraph, and he clutched the paper till the letters thereon left their impression in the dank moisture that stood on his fingers. His little boy had leaned his head upon his lap, and, wearied with the long summer afternoon, had fallen quietly asleep. By and by the paper dropped from his relaxing fingers, and, lifting his child in his arms, he turned his steps once more to the rear of his deserted house. One or two vigorous pushes forced open the door, and father and son, not in the anticipated joy and brightness of happy home, not with the glad smiles and warm kisses of a beaming wife and mother, but in silence and the bitterness of desertion, with a heartsickness and sense of utter loneliness past expression, trod again the familiar rooms. Let us imitate the example of the pitying neighbor, and leave him with his grief.

Twenty-four hours after, looking almost as if twenty-four years had left

their traces on his kindly features, he called to Mr. Gage, the neighbor who brought him the paper on the preceding evening, asking if he could give him an hour. Mr. Gage entered his house, expecting to be asked for all his knowledge with respect to the disappearance of Mrs. Barnes, and felt a vague sense of relief, mingled with surprise, when Mr. Barnes, with a gravity deep and settled, but composed, entered at once upon quite different matters; and throughout their whole conference there was no allusion made to the erring wife.

"I am about to leave the city, Mr. Gage, for a period which may extend over several years, and wish to leave this property in such shape that it may be cared for properly, and ultimately returned to me, or to my boy. I do not wish to sell, because my faith in the future of Chicago is strong; and if any thing should happen to me, I want Harry to profit by the growth of this place. To this end, I have drawn up a lease, at a merely nominal rent, of the whole property (which, you are aware, includes three lots), to run absolutely ten years, and terminable after that period, by giving six months' notice to the lessee. This paper needs only my signature and the filling in of the name of the lessee to complete it. If you will examine it, you will find it in due form. Will you accept the trust (for so I regard it), and suffer me to insert your name as lessee?"

"I will, Mr. Barnes. I do not desire to examine it," as the other offered him the paper. "I am content with what you say. Insert my name at once, if it be your wish."

"Thank you. There are no instructions I wish to give, except that, as the rent falls due, you will forward it, subject to my order, to the Bank of the State of Missouri, at St. Louis; but, under no circumstances, either seek yourself, or, so far as you may be able to prevent, suffer any one else to seek to discover my whereabouts. In good time I will make it known to you. Have I your promise?"

"You have.".

"Let us, then, execute this paper at once. I had forgotten to say, that I would be glad if you would dispose of all my household goods, by auction or otherwise, as you may elect, remitting the proceeds as before. My business affairs I have already placed in process of adjustment. I shall start to-morrow morning."

“And your son ?" "Goes with me."

The Chicago of 1848 had given place to the Chicago of 1867. Nineteen years had wrought changes as radical and as marvellous as those of the kaleidoscope. Instead of a provincial town, there was a considerable city, and a city more full of energy and vitality, as well as of "brag," than any city in the world. Planking had given way to the pervasive "Nicolson; " long rows of wooden "shanties" had yielded up their standing-room to costly stone and iron; bridge after bridge had spanned the sluggish river; the stream itself, from a mere muddy prairie-creek, had become a reeking sewer, to get rid of whose fœtid breath was the subject of anxious consideration to more than two hundred thousand people.

The shadows of a September evening were slowly closing in, yet the roar of the busy city did not seem to lull. At intervals the horse-cars went rumbling by, packed full and running over with tired men seeking their comfortable homes far out in what had been commons and cornfields nineteen years before, and the tide of hurrying pedestrians which flowed along the broad sidewalks seemed to know no ebb.

Near one of the busiest points of the city, a little "fancy store" in a modest wooden house nestled shyly between two pretentious "marble-fronts." It bore on its face the traces of a former era, and it was evident that its successor would be of signally different style. Inside, a young girl was daintily putting in order some laces tumbled by a just-departed visitor, and slowly and tenderly manipulating the soft meshes