the suddenness and
extensiveness of the popularity it gives men. We have no means by which
a gifted man can suddenly acquire universal fame,--can "go to bed
unknown and wake famous." The most brilliant speech at the bar is heard
within a narrow horizon. The most brilliant novel is slow in making its
way; and before its author is famous beyond the shadow of the
publisher's house, a later new novel pales the lustre of the rising
star. The French stage occupies the position our Congress once held,
when its halls were adorned by the great men, the Clays, Calhouns,
Websters, of our fathers' days, or the Supreme Court occupied, when
Marshall sat in the chief seat on its bench, and William Pinckney
brought to its bar his elaborate eloquence, and William Wirt his ornate
and touching oratory. The stage is to France what Parliament is to
England. It is more: it is the mirror and the fool; it glasses society's
form and pressure; it criticizes folly. Murger's success on the stage
opened every door of publicity to him. His name was current, it had a
known market-value. The success of the piece assured the success of the
book. The "Revue des Deux Mondes" begged Murger to write for its pages.
Murger's fortune seemed assured.

There was but one croak heard in all the applause. It came from Murger's
father. He could not believe his eyes and his ears, when they avouched
to him that his son's name and praises filled every paper and every
mouth. It utterly confounded him. The day of the second performance of
the piece Murger went to see his father.

"If you would like to see my piece again to-day, you may take these
tickets."

His father replied,--

"Your piece? What! you don't mean to say that they are still playing
it?"

He could not conceive it possible that his "vagabond" son should
interest anybody's attention.

The very first use Murger made of his increased income was to fly Paris
and to seek the country,--that rural life which Frenchmen abhor.
Marlotte, a little village in the Forest of Fontainebleau, became his
home; there he spent eight months of every year. Too poor, at first, to
rent a cottage for himself, he lodged at the miserable village-inn,
which, with its eccentric drunken landlord, he has sketched in one of
his novels; and when fortune proved less unkind to him, he took a
cottage which lay between the highway and the forest, and there the
first happy years of his life were spent. They were few, and they were
che