next four the imprint of Heideloff et Campe at
Paris; and the last four nothing but 'A Bruxelles.' The volumes are all
uniform, and were all really printed for the firm of Brockhaus. This,
however far from representing the real text, is the only authoritative
edition, and my references throughout this article will always be to this
edition.

In turning over the manuscript at Leipzig, I read some of the suppressed
passages, and regretted their suppression; but Herr Brockhaus, the
present head of the firm, assured me that they are not really very
considerable in number. The damage, however, to the vivacity of the whole
narrative, by the persistent alterations of M. Laforgue, is incalculable.
I compared many passages, and found scarcely three consecutive sentences
untouched. Herr Brockhaus (whose courtesy I cannot sufficiently
acknowledge) was kind enough to have a passage copied out for me, which I
afterwards read over, and checked word by word. In this passage Casanova
says, for instance: 'Elle venoit presque tous les jours lui faire une
belle visite.' This is altered into: 'Cependant chaque jour Therese
venait lui faire une visite.' Casanova says that some one 'avoit, comme
de raison, forme le projet d'allier Dieu avec le diable.' This is made to
read: 'Qui, comme de raison, avait saintement forme le projet d'allier
les interets du ciel aux oeuvres de ce monde.' Casanova tells us that
Therese would not commit a mortal sin 'pour devenir reine du monde;' pour
une couronne,' corrects the indefatigable Laforgue. 'Il ne savoit que lui
dire' becomes 'Dans cet etat de perplexite;' and so forth. It must,
therefore, be realized that the Memoirs, as we have them, are only a kind
of pale tracing of the vivid colours of the original.

When Casanova's Memoirs were first published, doubts were expressed as to
their authenticity, first by Ugo Foscolo (in the Westminster Review,
1827), then by Querard, supposed to be an authority in regard to
anonymous and pseudonymous writings, finally by Paul Lacroix, 'le
bibliophile Jacob', who suggested, or rather expressed his 'certainty,'
that the real author of the Memoirs was Stendhal, whose 'mind, character,
ideas and style' he seemed to recognise on every page. This theory, as
foolish and as unsupported as the Baconian theory of Shakespeare, has
been carelessly accepted, or at all events accepted as possible, by many
good scholars who have never taken the trouble to look into the matter
for