indeed, we shall see a celebrity. The tall, light-haired young man coming towards us, and attended by such a retinue, is a young Saxon nobleman who made his appearance here a short time ago, and commenced his gambling career by staking very small sums; but, by the most extraordinary luck, he was able to increase his capital to such an extent that he now rarely stakes under the maximum, and almost always wins. They say that when the croupiers see him place his money on the table, they immediately prepare to pay him, without waiting to see which color has actually won; and that they have offered him a handsome sum down to desist from playing while he remains here. Crowds of people stand outside the Kursaal doors every morning, awaiting his arrival, and when he comes, following him into the room, and staking as he stakes. When he ceases playing they accompany him to the door, and shower on him congratulations and thanks for the good fortune he has brought them. See how all the people make way for him at the table, and how deferential are the subdued greetings of his acquaintances! He does not bring much money with him his luck is too great to require it. He takes some notes out of a case, and places maximums on black and couleur. A crowd of eager hands are immediately outstretched from all parts of the table, heaping up silver and gold and notes on the spaces on which he has staked his money, till there scarcely seems room for another coin; while the other spaces on the table only contain a few florins, staked by sceptics who refuse to believe in the count's luck." He wins; and the narrative proceeds to describe his continued successes, until he rises from the table a winner of about one hundred thousand francs at that sitting.

The success of Garcia was so remarkable at times as to affect the value of the shares in the Privilegirte Bank ten or twenty per cent. Nor would it be difficult to cite many instances which seem to supply_incontrovertible evidence that there is something more than common chance in the temporary successes of these (so-called) fortunate men.

Indeed, to assert merely that in the nature of things there can be no such thing as luck that can be depended on, even for a short time, would probably be quite useless. There is only one way of meeting the infatuation of those who trust in the fates of lucky gamesters. We can show that, granted a sufficient number of trials, - and it will be remembered that the number of those who have risked their fortunes at roulette and rouge et noir is incalculably great,

there must inevitably be a certain number who appear exceptionally lucky; or rather, that the odds are overwhelmingly against the continuance of play on the scale which prevails at the foreign gambling tables, without the occurrence of several instances of persistent runs of luck.

To remove from the question the perplexities resulting from the nature of the above-named games, let us suppose that the tossing of a coin is to determine the success or failure of the player, and that he will win if he throws "head." Now, if a player tossed " head" twenty times running on any occasion, it would be regarded as a most remarkable run of luck; and it would not be easy to persuade those who witnessed the occurrence that the thrower was not in some special and definite manner the favorite of fortune. We may take such exceptional success as corresponding to the good fortune of a "bank-breaker." Yet it is easily shown, that with a number of trials which must fall enormously short of the number of cases in which fortune is risked at foreign Kursaals, the throwing of twenty successive heads would be practically insured. Suppose every adult person in Britain -say ten million persons in all—were to toss a coin, each tossing until “tail” was thrown; then it is practically certain that several among them would toss twenty times before "tail" was thrown. Thus, it is certain that about five millions would toss "head once; of these about one-half, or some two millions and a half, would toss "head" on the second trial; about a million and a quarter would toss "head" on the third trial; about six hundred thousand on the fourth; some three hundred thousand on the fifth; and by proceeding in this way,- roughly halving the numbers successively obtained, we find that some eight or nine of the ten mil

--

lion persons would be almost certain to toss "head" twenty times running. It must be remembered, that, so long as the numbers continue large, the probability that about half will toss "head" at the next trial amounts almost to certainty. For example, about one hundred and forty toss "head" sixteen times running: now, it is utterly unlikely that of these one hundred and forty, fewer than sixty will toss "head" yet a seventeenth time. But if the above process failed on trial to give even one person who tossed heads twenty times running,- an utterly improbable event,yet the trial could be made four or five times, with prac tical certainty that not one or two, but thirty or forty persons would achieve the seemingly incredible feat of tossing "head" twenty times running. Nor would all these thirty or forty persons fail to throw even three or four more "heads."'

Now, if we consider the immense number of trials made at gambling tables, and if we further consider the gamblers as in a sense typified by our ten millions of coin-tossers, we shall see that it is not merely probable, but absolutely certain, that from time to time there must be marvellous runs of luck at roulette, rouge et noir, hazard, faro, and other games of chance. Suppose that at the public gamblingtables on the Continent there sit down each night but one thousand persons in all; that each person makes but ten ventures each night, and that there are but one hundred gambling nights in a year, each supposition falling far below the truth, there are then one million ventures each year. It cannot be regarded as wonderful, then, that among the fifty millions of ventures made (on this supposition) during the last half century, there should be noted some runs of luck which on any single trial would seem incredible. On the contrary, this is so far from being wonderful, that it would be far more wonderful if no such runs of luck had occurred. It is probable that if the actual number of ventures, and the circumstances of each, could be ascertained, and if any mathematician could deal with the tremendous array of figures in such sort as to deduce the exact mathematical chance of the occurrence of bank-breaking runs of luck, it would be found that the antecedent odds were many millions to one in favor of the occurrence of a certain number of such events. In the simpler case of our coin-tossers the chance of twenty successive "heads" being tossed can be quite readily calculated. We have made the calculation; and we find that if the ten million persons had each two trials, the odds would be more than ten thousand to one in favor of the occurrence of twenty successive "heads" once at least; and only a million and a half need have a single trial each, in order to give an even chance of such an e

currence.

But we may learn a further lesson from our illustrative tossers. We have seen, that, granted only a sufficient number of trials, runs of luck are practically certain to oceur; but we may also infer that no run of luck can be trusted to continue. The very principle which has led us to the conclusion that several of our tossers would throw twenty "heads" successively, leads also to the conclusion that one who has tossed heads twelve or thirteen times, or any other considerable number of times in succession, is not more (or less) likely to toss "head" on the next trial than at the beginning. About half, we said, in discussing the fortunes of the tossers, would toss "head" at the next trial; in other words, about half would fail to toss "head." The chances for and against these lucky tossers are equal at the next trial, precisely as the chances for and against the least lucky of the ten million tossers would be equal at any single tossing.

Yet, it may be urged, experience shows that luck continues; for many have won by following the lead of lucky players. Now, we might, at the outset, point out that this belief in the continuance of luck is suggested by an idea directly contradictory to that on which is based the theory of the maturity of the chances. If the oftener an event has occurred, the more unlikely is its occurrence at the next trial

the common belief; then, contrary to the common belief, the oftener a player has won (that is, the longer has been his run of luck), the more unlikely is he to win at the

next venture. We cannot separate the two theories, and assume that the theory of the maturity of the chances relates to the play, and the theory of runs of luck to the player. The success of the player at any trial is as distinctly an event -a chance event. as the turning up ace or deuce at the cast of a die.

What, then, are we to say of the experience of those who have won money by following a lucky player? Let us revert to our coin-tossers. Let us suppose that the progress of the venture in a given county is made known to a set of betting men in that county; and that when it becomes known that a person has tossed "head" twelve times running, the betting men hasten to back the luck of that person. Further, suppose this to happen in every county in England. Now, we have seen that these persons are no more likely to toss a thirteenth "head," than they are to fail. About half will succeed, and about half will fail. Thus about half of their backers will win, and about half will lose. But the successes of the winners will be widely announced; while the mischances of the losers will be concealed. This will happen the like notoriously does happen- for two reasons. First, gamblers pay little attention to the misfortunes of their fellows: the professed gambler is utterly selfish; and, moreover, he hates the sight of misfortune because it unpleasantly reminds him of his own risks. Secondly, losing gamblers do not like their losses to be noised abroad; they object to having their luck suspected by others, and they are even disposed to blind themselves to their own illfortune as far as possible. Thus the inevitable success of about one-half of our coin-tossers would be accompanied inevitably by the success of those who "backed their fuck," and the success of such backers would be bruited abroad and be quoted as examples; while the failure of those who had backed the other half (whose luck was about to fail them) would be comparatively unnoticed. Unquestionably, the like holds in the case of public gambling-tables. doubt this, let them inquire what has been heard of those who continued to back Garcia and other "bank-breakers." We know that Garcia and the rest of these lucky gamblers have been ruined: they had risen too high, and were followed too constantly, for their fall to remain unnoticed. But what has been heard of those unfortunates who backed Garcia after his last successful venture, and before the change in his luck had been made manifest? We hear nothing of them, though a thousand stories are told of those who made money while Garcia and the rest were "in luck."

If any

In passing, we may add to these considerations the circumstance, that it is the interest of gaming-bankers to conceal the misfortunes of the unlucky, and to announce and exaggerate the success of the fortunate.

We by no means question, be it understood, the possibility that money may be gained quite safely by gambling. Granting, first, odds such as the "banks" have in their favor; secondly, a sufficient capital to prevent premature collapse; and thirdly, a sufficient number of customers, success is absolutely certain in the long run. The capital of the gambling-public doubtless exceeds collectively the capital of the gambling-banks; but it is not used collectively; the fortunes of the gambling-public are devoured successively, the sticks which would be irresistible as a fagot are broken one by one. We leave our readers to judge whether this circumstance should encourage gambling, or the reverse.

It is also easy to understand why, in the betting on horseracing in this country and others, success ordinarily attends the professional better, rather than the amateur; or, in the slang of the subject, why "the ring" gets the advantage of "the gentlemen." Apart from his access to secret sources of information, the professional better nearly always "lays the odds," that is, bets against individual horses; while the amateur "takes the odds," or backs the horse he fancies. Now, if the odds represented the strict value of the horse's chance, it would be as safe, in the long run, to "take "lay" the odds. But no professional better lays fair odds, save by mistake. Nor is it difficult to get the amateur to take unfair odds. For "backing" is seemingly a safe course. The backer" risks a small sum to gain a large one,

as to

and if the fair large sum is a little reduced, he still conceives that he is not risking much. Yet (to take an example), if the true odds are nine to one against a horse, and the amateur sportsman consents to take eight to one in hundreds, then, though he risks but a single hundred against the chance of winning eight, he has been as truly swindled out of ten pounds as though his pocket had been picked of that sum. This is easily shown. The total sum staked is nine hundred pounds; and, at the odds of nine to one, the stakes should have been respectively ninety pounds and eight hundred and ten pounds. Our amateur should, therefore, only have risked ninety pounds for his fair chance of the total sum stated. But he has been persuaded to risk one hundred pounds for that chance. He has therefore been swindled out of ten pounds. And in the long run, if he laid several hundreds of wagers of the same amount, and on the same plan, he would inevitably lose on the average about ten pounds per venture.

In conclusion, we may thus present the position of the gambler who is not ready to secure fortune as his ally by trickery. If he meets gamblers who are not equally honest, he is not trying his luck against theirs, but, at the best (as De Morgan puts it), only a part of his against more than the whole of theirs. If he meets players as honest as himself, he must, nevertheless, as Lord Holland said to Selwyn, "be in earnest and without irony en verité le serviteur très humble des événements, in truth, the very humble servant of events."

DELPHINE GAY.

In addition to being a novelist, Delphine Gay was a poetess, an author of plays, and a writer of lively, sparkling letters that skimmed the cream of fashionable follies, and kept frivolity from being wearisome by the most delicate touches of social satire. In a similar manner her own light-hearted gayety was preserved from being childish in a Frenchman's eyes by a pungent wit and a pathetic sentimentality.

Blonde-haired and drooping eye-lashed, she was the pet of French literary society; and the position she gained by her charms of form, she kept by her sweetness of character, her unaffected simplicity, her piquant conversation and fine faculty of repartee. There is no danger now in telling the date of this lady's birth, for she is no longer alive to dispute it. The giving of a lady's age is in England considered rather a breach of etiquette; but to publish the age of a French lady appears to be an unpardonable offence. The individual who, under the name of Eugène de Mirecourt, writes so many hundreds of little contemporary biographies, asserts that Mlle. Dejazet never pardoned him for having told her age in print; that Madame Georges Sand, against whom he committed the same offence, found his fault so inexcusable that she even added on a year to her age, solely for the purpose of making him stand committed to an untruth. Nor, he tells is the other sex any the less susceptible. When Paul de Kock sees his certificate of birth, he emits fire and flames. Théophile Gautier, too, protests against the years allotted to him, and so calculates them as to make him have written "Mademoiselle de Maupin " on the knees of his nurse. This is not bad, for 'tis a book ridiculously unlikely to have been composed in so innocent a place.

us,

Madame de Girardin, or Delphine Gay, for the latter name seems to suit her better, was born on the 26th of January, 1804, or, as styled in the new phraseology at the time, "le 6 pluviose an XII." At the time when, most probably, Mirecourt wrote his sketch of her, she would have been near fifty, -an age when too much knowledge on the part of her acquaintance might well be resented. But he gallantly refrains from communicating this; in fact, he manifests quite a killing kindness towards her. "Be off," says he, "with your dusty registers. The age of a woman is on her face, in her eyes, in her smile; and the smile, the eyes, the face, of Madame de Girardin are five-and-twenty years old. And, if facts and dates seem to contradict this, pay them no heed." We English have this creed too. Says a wellknown writer:

"A man is as old as he's feeling; A woman as old as she looks."

Delphine Gay was the daughter of Mlle. Lavallette, who married a M. Gay, a French official in one of the departments. This Madame Gay was herself the author of a number of works, both in poetry and prose; so her daughter, after, as it is said, having been been baptized at Aix-laChapelle, on the tomb of Charlemagne, was, in the words of some poetaster::

"Cradled by rhythm, and taught,

While quite a child, to twang the lyre."

An anecdote is told of this Madame Sophie Gay, which will be interesting to us, who have so recently witnessed the sudden shiftings of feeling and unaccountable moods in the minds of the Parisians. Sophie Gay was one of those who applauded the downfall of the first Napoleon, and might have been seen with her friends at the head of those Parisian ladies who advanced in front of the Duke of Wellington and ofered him bunches of violets. "Ladies," said he to them with dignity, "if the French were entering London, all the English ladies would be in mourning." But Madame Sophie had a private grievance against the Government. A witty sally of hers against a prefect of the department had deprived her husband of an official position which he enjoyed under the victim of his wife's satire; and so her pique seems to have affected her politics.

Delphine Gay was brought up in the society of the large literary circle in which her mother moved. Chateaubriand was a constant visitor; Horace Vernet and Talma would accept the invitations of the queen of the salon, and Béranger might be seen there occasionally. There was plenty of chatting, plenty of laughter, plenty of dancing. Then would come a game of cards, and after that they would read verses. Such an atmosphere would be a very stimulating one for a precocious child. And Delphine Gay, being at fourteen radieuse de beauté, doubtless attracted much attention.

We notice we have called her plain " Delphine:" had we lived a little earlier, we might have been called over the coals for this breach of ceremonial. The writer who was found fault with for so doing, answered, that, if his critics ever wrote the history of poetesses, he should expect to see Mile. Corinne, or Miss Sappho. We will take shelter under his target.

In the portraits of Delphine Gay we see large, soft eyes, and what appears to be meant for a fine complexion; but she must have been beautiful exceedingly, if we are to believe what is told us. At the time of the appearance of Victor Hugo's romantic drama of "Hernani," when the theatre would be filled with the enthusiastic crowd of young romantiques, and the advocates of the old classicism were trying to stem the torrent, we could scarcely expect that there would be any applause to spare for a mere spectator in a box. But when Delphine Gay entered hers, there came from the tumultuous assemblage a triple salvo of applause, —“not a manifestation in very good taste," says M. Théophile Gautier, in describing it. But then it must be remembered that the pit was full of poets, sculptors, and painters, intoxicated with enthusiasm about "Hernani," and more attentive to their feelings than to the cold laws of society. And she must have been an imposing picture as she sat there, her magnificent blonde hair being knotted on the top of her head in a large silver comb till it formed a crown like a queen's, and "vaporously "crisped, shaded off into a golden haze the contour of her cheeks, whose hue her admirers could liken to nothing but rose-colored marble. "Radieuse de beauté," as we have shown, exclaims one biographer, in an ecstasy; "Bellezza folgorante," exclaims another, with similar enthusiasm. Browning's words might perhaps have suited her:

"Her eyes are dark and humid, like the depth on depth of lustre Hid i' the harebell, while her tresses, sunnier than the wildgrape cluster,

Gush in golden-tinted plenty down her neck's rose-misted marble;

Then her voice's music... call it the well's bubbling, the bird's warble!"

At all events, she makes a pretty picture in the centre of her crowd of admirers.

The Parisian littérateurs made a society of their own, and remained Bohemians to enjoy themselves. There is, doubtless, much to be said for that kind of decent respectability which conducts itself with propriety on a crowded staircase or landing for a number of hours, professes to have enjoyed itself, and styles the entertainment not humdrum, but kettledrum." And what proper-minded person, on the other hand, could say a word for a gathering where, in the midst of dancing and cards, men would now and then sing their own songs, and ladies would now and then fail to resist the temptation of a cigarette? But the Parisian exquisites thought no evil of such doings, and probably rather enjoyed them. Did not the handling of the dainty cigarette afford many an elegant pose to the white arm and neck of the coquettish belle? and did not the pale blue cloud of smoke form a miniature heaven for her starry eyes to gleam through? and what a provoking curl the lips would take as they emitted their tiny puffs! What dull folk we English are! we have not a tithe of the sentimental play of the Parisian's fancy. On the other hand, perhaps, we do not make ourselves quite so childishly ridiculous as he does about trifles.

While yet very young, at the age of eighteen in fact, Delphine Gay gained a special prize from the Academy for a poem. Soon after this she travelled for some time in Italy, where she was received with adulations, and with the advances of many an opulent swain. All these she rejected for love of France.

"Non, l'accent étranger le plus tendre lui-même
Attristerait pour moi jusqu'au mot, Je vous aime,"

says she, in a poem entitled "Return." At Rome she was conducted in triumph to the Capitol, where she recited some verses in the presence of an enthusiastic crowd. And after her return to Paris she went through a similar ovation, on the occasion of the completion of the frescos of the Panthéon by Baron Gros. This period of her life is described as a perpetual joy, a poetic fee of every day and every hour. "Marriage alone," says the chronicler, "could make her know, at a later time, chagrin and prose." Although we might imagine her to have been a queen of enjoyment at this period, yet her maxim was "To suffer is to deserve; and Balzac considered her to have approximated more closely than any one else to his ideal of what a woman's life should be. "To feel, to love, to suffer, to devote herself," says mournfully the great master of realism, "will always be the text of woman's life."

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Delphine Gay married the busy and quarrelsome journalist, M. Emile de Girardin. We hear but little of him in gay company, while artistic and literary society is always most enthusiastic about his wife. There was a doubt as to who was his mother, as there had been some curious juggling or kidnapping at his birth. This mystery soured his temper, and he appears to have been undesirable as an acquaintance. He was the founder of an important newspaper, and well-known for his extreme views and violence of language.

For art he cared nothing. In the circle in which his wife moved there were included all shades of literary character, excepting the particular elements of which his life was composed. There was politics plus art, as represented in the persons of Victor Hugo and others. There was criticism, in the person of Sainte-Beuve, upon whom our authoress made the rather ill-natured remark, that, whereas he had once produced a great work, it was because he was then under Victor Hugo's influence. “He was only," said she," a stove, supplied with fuel by Hugo; and the latter having left off putting wood on, M. Sainte-Beuve had fallen to his proper mediocrity." The great critic was for a long time a frequenter of the salons where the friends of whom we are speaking met together; but he appears to have grown unpopular among them by degrees. His nature was doubtless too cold for the ardent enthusiasts of the romantic school. In this coterie, too, there was art minus politics, as represented by Théophile Gautier, who

takes refuge in the doctrine of art for art's sake, by reason of utter pessimism and want of faith in progress, and finds the beauty of poetry and painting a satisfying haven, apart from the worries and weariness of political conflict. Balzac, too, entered not at all into politics, being wholly occupied with the dream-world of his romances. But politics minus art, this appears to have been inadmissible as qualification for the refined society in which Delphine was queen. Her husband was voted a nuisance, and lived always in his own set of ultra-reformers.

M. de Girardin was not Delphine Gay's first love. This explains something of the want of harmony between them. She had made selection from amongst a crowd of admirers of M. le Baron de la Grange; and rings of betrothal had been exchanged between the pair. All at once, without any warning, the engagement came to an end. And, alas! the fault, or the misfortune, lay with the lady's mother. Madame Sophie Gay, coming as a guest to a drawing-room, where, at the time of her arrival, a number of people had already assembled, chose, for some unaccountable reason, to make her entrance singing a light little song, and dancing the chassé step of the gavotte. This procedure was amusing, but queer. The servants had just announced her by name, in the usual sonorous fashion; and the idea of so lively a mother-in-law proved too much for the nerves of M. le Baron de la Grange. He beat a retreat, and left the field open to M. Emile de Girardin. The journalist and the "tenth

muse were married in 1831. M. de Girardin was but moderately well off; but this fact did not prevent his purchasing a magnificent mansion wherein to receive his bride. Delphine Gay, doubtless, seemed to need a princely establishment to set off her beauty. M. de Girardin, senior, came to pay the young couple a visit soon after their marriage: he saw the buhl and the paintings and the damask, and he shrugged his shoulders thereat. Delphine was ashamed and stammered, "It is Emile who desired all this: I did not ask for it, I declare to you. Such like frivolities add nothing to happiness. Emile and a garret, that is enough for me.'

"A garret!" said the old gentleman, who went away grumbling, "that will come, madame; that will come."

This grumpy father-in-law was a general, a great hunter, and a bachelor: he had, however, recognized his son, but only when he was grown up. His predictions about the mansion of the young couple-his son was the younger of the two were soon realized. It had to be sold; and Delphine and her husband took a part of the house inhabited by the latter's partner and co-editor in the Presse newspaper. When they gave a party, the door of communication between their portion of the house and that of the coproprietor was opened: he was sent from home for the day, and the house appeared to be a large one. So they avoided the appearance of retrenchment, a vice which the world is vastly ashamed of being suspected of. For a time, the young wife manifested the influence of her husband in her writings, which deteriorated correspondingly. But after a while she escaped into her own true self again, and began to write novels. Her husband, whose literary pursuits were all philosophical, speculative, and quarrelsome, disapproved of her compositions; and, when she had sold one of her books for fifteen hundred francs, quietly pocketed the money, hoping so to disgust her with her pen. But it did not produce the effect expected: she only wrote the more after this little episode. Soon she had a series of papers appearing in his own journal, which attracted a good deal of attention. She had been encouraged to the composition of these "Lettres Parisiennes," by her husband's fellow-editor, who conducted the literary department of the journal, while M. de Girardin had charge of the political department. These letters, and some novels which appeared afterwards, were published under the pseudonym of the Vicomte de Launay. One of these latter was a four-in-hand affair, in which the three others concerned were Théophile Gautier, Méry, and Jules Sandeau. It is entitled "La Croix de Berny," and might have been purchased in London for about fourpence a few months ago, when the book-stalls were swamped with some

thousands of small Brussels editions of French poems and romances. It is well written, and worth reading; being quite a model of finished French style.

There are some charming bits of conversation to be found in our lady's books. Here is an example: "How do you pass your time? says one friend to another. "Can you find amusement in this lower world?" "Oh, yes! I keep an existence to myself: I sail in a boat with people of spirit over an ocean of imbeciles." "You do," was the reply: "take care! a tempest of imbeciles would be dangerous." This little puff is scarcely meant to apply to herself, yet the crew with whom she was associated was a very distinguished one. They did not, however, meet in a boat rocking upon an ocean of imbeciles, but in Madame de Girardin's bedroom. "And here," says one of them, when describing these reunions, "let English prudishness refrain from taking umbrage, or crying out against impropriety: you might be a long time in the room without discovering the bed under the fold of its curtain." Here were to be found, between eleven o'clock and midnight, the following celebrities, some on one day, some on another: here came often Lamartine, Alexandre Dumas, Balzac, Victor Hugo, Méry, Théophile Gautier, Eugène Sue; and now and then Alfred de Musset would turn up. The lady, we learn, was very proud of her friends they were the luxury of her life. She had discovered that no fête with ten thousand candles, a forest of camellias, and the sparkle of all the diamonds of Golconda, was worth these three or four easy-chairs filled with the friends who shared her sympathies and tastes. One of her sayings, "It's the husband's fault," first uttered, probably, at one of these gatherings, became proverbial. A friendly biographer, in concluding his memoir, says he knows not of a single fault which she possesses. Then he suddenly thinks of one. What is it? asks the indiscreet reader. It is her husband. Poor man! he inhabited his own rooms, and never joined the brilliant company which filled those of his wife. She sometimes met him at dinner, and was always at hand to aid him when he was in any difficulty or danger. He narrowly escaped being shot several times, owing to his mode of delivering his opinions, and on account of his general quarrelsomeness. He may have been a good man, in spite of his temper; but two persons could not have been united in marriage of more opposite natures than he and his wife. Bind up a sheet of his newspaper with a piece of his wife's music, and the result could not be more incongruous than the pair themselves.

Delphine Gay sat at the feet of Balzac, and was one of the most constant listeners to his vertiginous conversations. At one time Balzac had been studying very intently the occult sciences, chiromancy, cartomancy, and the like, and had heard a story of a most astonishing sibyl, a more weird and wonderful witch than all the examples recorded, the witch of Endor included. Of course he expatiated volubly on this living example, for every subject grew in size under his hands. Of course, too, he made the party he was addressing share his convictions. It consisted of Théophile Gautier, Méry, and Delphine Gay; and they were all prevailed upon to accompany Balzac on a voyage of discovery, in order to find the pythoness. She lived at Auteuil, but in what street is not recorded; but, as it turned out, that mattered little, for the address given was a false one. They came upon a family of honest people, living in country sojourn, -a husband, his wife, and old mother. Balzac, perfectly convinced, would have it that this old crone had a cabalistic air. But the good woman was scarcely flattered at being taken for a sorceress, and began to grow angry. The husband took them for practical jokers or pickpockets; the younger woman burst out laughing, and the maid-servant made haste to lock up the silver for precaution's sake. They had to retire with shame; but Balzac maintained the truth of his assertions, and when he was in the carriage again grumbled out between his teeth the injuries received from the conduct of the old woman. "Screech-owl, harpy, magician, vampire, hag, ravenous fish, lemur, ghoul, juggler," he cried, using the strangest terms that came into his head. "Well, if she is a sorceress, she has a very good idea of hiding her game," said one of his friends. Still

Balzac's suspicions were not allayed. They tried, however, some more places for the sibyl, but without success; and Delphine pretended that the whole affair was a make-believe of Balzac's, in order to get taken out in a carriage with agreeable companions. They must have made a jolly company. None could be otherwise where Balzac, master of weird drollery, was king.

Delphine Gay seems to have inspired the admiration of men of widely different dispositions; for Lamartine, than whom there could be none less like Balzac, loved her from the first moment of their meeting. If we give the account of this meeting in the words in which we find it described, we shall afford a good example of the faculty which a writer of the French school possesses, of making the descriptions of actual persons and places read like pages of a romance. A little imagination, a little extra color, a good deal of sentiment, and we have a young lady transformed into a goddess, and this plain earth of ours transmogrified into a heaven for her. Perhaps Delphine Gay was not quite the ordinary young lady of the period, but, for a rapturous description of an angel, commend us to her picture as she is made out to have appeared to Lamartine. The poet was visiting the cascades of Terni. As the story runs, "Slowly he ascended to the parapet formed by the rocks, that from thence he might gaze on the cascades below; and great was his astonishment, when he reached this height, to behold there, though at first unseen by her, a young and beautiful girl reclining against the trunk of a fallen tree, and looking down with a sort of fascination upon the waters rushing and roaring beneath her feet. It was Delphine Gay, the improvisatrice of France." Then follows a very rhapsody of romance. "The background of dark rock and foliage helped to define the graceful outline of her tall, elastic form, clothed in white; her arms, which were of extraordinary beauty, were bare; her left hand supported her head, the long golden curls of which floated in the breeze; her blue eyes were fixed on the torrent; tears of ecstasy were on her pale cheeks, and on the long, dark eyelashes, which, when she closed her eyes in silent contemplation, rested on them. To his poetic imagination she was a sibyl, a goddess." Every detail in this picture is so deftly adjusted to the sentimental aspect most proper to it, that we ought surely to have been favored as well with the impression made upon young Lamartine by the nose, the chin, the ears, of his charmer, as well as by her white arms, her golden hair, her ecstatic tears, her drooping, long eyelashes, her hand poised as for a photograph. May we not add that her ears were catching poetic murmurs in the foaming strife of the cascade, murmurs unheard by any other mortal, save, shall we say, by Lamartine? That her nose, unspoiled by the manufactured perfumes of Paris, was taking deep breaths of unsophisticated Italian fragrance. That her chin, well, this French art of description is easy enough, and might be prolonged forever. The weakness of it is, that any such description could, with a few slight changes of color and size, be made to fit any pretty woman. A curious feature in this hallucination of Lamartine's was, that he could not endure the laughter of his charmer. And yet, we are told, she was a lovely laugher, having an exquisitely-formed mouth and perfect teeth. But, alas! Lamartine had deeply loved and deeply suffered; and looking to Delphine for consolation and sympathetic sighs, he found her gayety discordant. When he laughed, it seemed to him "a defect of youth, ignorant of destiny." Verily, is not this sentimentality carried to the verge of the ridiculous and the puerile? Byron, who pretended he could not bear to see a woman eat, was probably laughing at his own sentimentality all the while. But a man who, because he has, like most other people, passed through sorrows, is so woe-begone as to be insensible to the beauty of a young girl's laugh, is surely made of very poor stuff indeed. Lamartine enjoys a fitting acknowledgment of his poetic merits. He is read at girls' schools more than anywhere else.

Madame de Girardin's plays are now and then brought forward upon the English stage, and are deservedly popular. The writer chanced to see one little piece of hers

twice over. On one occasion, at a Manchester theatre, he enjoyed a hearty laugh at a brisk afterpiece, entitled “Betty Martin." Some months afterwards, at a theatre in town, he elected to sit out a farce, called "The Clockmaker's Hat," wherein the vivacious Miss Farren was to appear. Soon after the commencement of the performance, a feeling stole over him that he was on familiar ground; but the name of the piece was quite new to him. "One form of many names," the Greek poet says; and so it was in this instance. "Betty Martin". -a most un-Parisian appellation, by the way · and "The Clockmaker's Hat " are one and the same; the double title being a deception. The piece is an adaptation from the "Chapeau d'un Horloger" of Delphine Gay.

At such tiny comedies, little laughing scenes, with delicate play of character, touching passages, and exquisite morsels of wit, she is highly successful, but is of far too light-hearted a nature for sombre tragedy, or for any thing requiring solemnity of treatment or great force of passion. But she has pathos and tenderness; and for calling the gentle tears, as well as lively laughter, she has scarcely a rival. But a short time ago there was acted, at one of the London theatres, a comedy of hers, "La Joie fait Peur," by which the hard-hearted critic of one of the morning papers alleged himself to have been moved to tears. The subject of this comedy is so natural and pleasant that we wonder it has not been utilized more frequently upon the stage. The story runs as follows: News is brought home of the death of a young naval officer, who is engaged on foreign service. His family- his mother, his sister, and his betrothed go into mourning for him. The evil news chances to have arisen out of a mistake. The youth arrives home whilst the mourners are still in the depth of their grief. The first person he meets is an old servant of the family, who informs him of the unexpected position of affairs, and cautions him of the danger of sudden good news; for joy, like grief, will sometimes kill. Old Noel promises himself to communicate the glad tidings gently to the sadhearted ladies in black. The various delicacies of stratagem by which this is attempted to be effected in each case form the chain of the story of this pretty comedy.

A quotation from one of Delphine Gay's "Parisian Letters," will show the lively style of her composition. It is a comparison between the walking-dancing as practised in the present day, and the real dances of an expiring era. "A very pretty young lady said to us the other day, 'My mother told me, that, at my age, nothing amused her more than dancing; but, as for me, I confess it does not amuse me at all!' 'You know nothing of it,' we answered her; 'you have never danced!' 'How-but yesterday.' 'Oh! you call that dancing; to walk three steps forward, with the feet turned in, the back crooked, and the shoulders rounded; then shuffle to the right, again to the left, without lifting your feet from the floor during the solemn scene; after this, you may hazard crossing sides, but with the same, always the same slow step, or you would be taken for a woman of forty years. At a ball, the age is known by the feet more than by the face; a woman who dances with the feet turned out, acknowledges to thirty; she who wheels round in the figure avows herself forty; whoever is nimble of foot, and dances with zeal, confesses to fifty; and she who hazards the zephyr motion betrays herself sixty, if she is capable of performing it. You walk in measure; you do not dance, and cannot know if you love dancing. Formerly the dance was an exercise, for that was required to accomplish the steps; now exertion is scorned. Dancing was also a pleasure, because it gave hopes of success. young girl who could dance had a future. Matches were made at balls; a solo well performed was worth a dowry." At the time when this was written, there must indeed have been a dancing decadence in Paris.

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Delphine Gay's "Parisian Letters" are considered to afford a perfect picture of French society from 1836 to 1848. But she worked under difficulties. There is an amusing passage relative to these in the preface to her novelette entitled "Balzac's Walking-stick.' This will give us some idea of the incongruity between a wife who writes upon