retagne Pittoresque (1845),
and, finally, Causeries Historiques et Litteraires (1854, 2 vols.)'. His
comedies deserve honorable mention: 'Henri Hamelin, L'Oncle Baptiste
(1842), La Parisienne, Le Mousse, etc'. In 1848, Souvestre was appointed
professor of the newly created school of administration, mostly devoted
to popular lectures. He held this post till 1853, lecturing partly in
Paris, partly in Switzerland.

His death, when comparatively young, left a distinct gap in the literary
world. A life like his could not be extinguished without general sorrow.
Although he was unduly modest, and never aspired to the role of a
beacon-light in literature, always seeking to remain in obscurity, the
works of Emile Souvestre must be placed in the first rank by their
morality and by their instructive character. They will always command the
entire respect and applause of mankind. And thus it happens that, like
many others, he was only fully appreciated after his death.

Even those of his 'confreres' who did not seem to esteem him, when alive,
suddenly found out that they had experienced a great loss in his demise.
They expressed it in emotional panegyrcs; contemporaneous literature
discovered that virtue had flown from its bosom, and the French Academy,
which had at its proper time crowned his 'Philosophe sons les Toits' as a
work contributing supremely to morals, kept his memory green by bestowing
on his widow the "Prix Lambert," designed for the "families of authors
who by their integrity, and by the probity of their efforts have well
deserved this token from the Republique des Lettres."

JOSEPH BERTRAND
de 'Academie Francaise.

AN "ATTIC" PHILOSOPHER

BOOK 1.

CHAPTER I

NEW-YEAR'S GIFTS

January 1st

The day of the month came into my mind as soon as I awoke. Another year
is separated from the chain of ages, and drops into the gulf of the past!
The crowd hasten to welcome her young sister. But while all looks are
turned toward the future, mine revert to the past. Everyone smiles upon
the new queen; but, in spite of myself, I think of her whom time has just
wrapped in her winding-sheet. The past year!--at least I know what she
was, and what she has given me; while this one comes surrounded by all
the forebodings of the unknown. What does she hide in the clouds that
mantle her? Is it the storm or the sunshine? Just now it rains, and I
feel my mind as gloomy as the