through a progeny, is in strong contrast with the almost scholastic
penury and obscurity of much of Balzac's career. But the analogy is
still very striking.

In speaking formerly of Balzac in these pages we insisted upon the fact
that he lacked charm; but we said that our last word upon him should be
that he had incomparable power. His letters only confirm these
impressions, and above all they deepen our sense of his strength. They
contain little that is delicate, and not a great deal that is positively
agreeable; but they express an energy before which we stand lost in
wonder, in an admiration that almost amounts to awe. The fact that his
devouring observation of the great human spectacle has no echo in his
letters only makes us feel how concentrated and how intense was the
labor that went on in his closet. Certainly no solider intellectual work
has ever been achieved by man. And in spite of the massive egotism, the
personal absoluteness, to which these pages testify, they leave us with
a downright kindness for the author. He was coarse, but he was tender;
he was corrupt in a way, but he was hugely natural. If he was
ungracefully eager and voracious, awkwardly blind to all things that did
not contribute to his personal plan, at least his egotism was exerted in
a great cause. The "Comedie Humaine" has a thousand faults, but it is a
monumental excuse.

HENRY JAMES, JR.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Paris: Calmann Levy. 1876.

[2] December, 1875.

LOVE'S REQUIEM.

I.

Bring withered autumn leaves!
Call everything that grieves,
And build a funeral pyre above his head!
Heap there all golden promise that deceives,
Beauty that wins the heart and then bereaves--
For love is dead.

II.

Not slowly did he die!
A meteor from the sky
Falls not so swiftly as his spirit fled;
When with regretful, half-averted eye
He gave one little smile, one little sigh--
And so was sped.

III.

But, oh, not yet, not yet
Can my lost soul forget
How beautiful he was while he did live;
Or, when his eyes were dewy and lips wet,
What kisses, tenderer than all regret,
My love would give!

IV.

Strew roses on his breast!
He loved the roses best;
He never cared for lilies or for snow.
Let be this bitter end o