of the name of "Bianca," whose wonderful séances were causing at that time a great deal of discussion in the salons of Florence. At first I was unwilling to accede. I had heard of the wonders of mesmerism and clairvoyance; but I was always disinclined to take part in any public exhibitions of the kind, suspecting that they were greatly aided by, if not composed of, trickery and sleight-ofhand, and fearing to have my senses imposed upon and my mind impressed against the reasoning of my better judgment.

'However, Borghesa was persevering, and to please him I gave in. In another hour we were there. I had expected to find that Bianca's mysteries were carried on in some room prepared for the purpose; but the apartIment into which we were ushered differed in no respect from most of those usual to the city.

'It was a large saloon, fully lighted, and freely open to the air, with a marble floor, a heavy table, and some dozen chairs. When the visitors had assembled (there were only five beside Borghesa and myself), the clairvoyante came in, and the doors were closed and fastened. Bianca was a young woman of perhaps five-and-twenty; small, not at all pretty, and rather sickly in appearance. Apparently she had no colleague or assistant in her business, for of the few assembled Borghesa knew the names, and no one else entered the saloon. She bowed to us all in turn, and then, taking a chair at the head of the table, motioned us to be also seated. I sat down opposite to her, and scarcely took my eyes off her face, which struck me as strangely emotionless and indifferent to what was about to happen. In a few minutes her eyes closed. She leaned back in

her chair; a few convulsive shivers passed over her frame; her face looked pained; she raised her hand as though to keep off something that was oppressing her. Then the look of trouble gradually cleared away; her eyes opened brightly; she sat upright, with a broad smile upon her face, and a determined, manly air about her, and commenced to speak volubly in German, with a deep bass voice. I was astounded. I had never been witness to anything of the kind before, and I could not believe but that it was trickery. The woman was a ventriloquist-there was no doubt of that and she played her part extremely well; but it was too undisguised an imposition to deceive any one. It surprised me, however, to see one of our company, on hearing the deep German voice, start up with all the alacrity of one who recognises the tones of a familiar friend; and, grasping the hand of Bianca, enter into an eager and animated conversation with the influence that was supposed to possess her.

"My friend!" he exclaimed, in his own language, and with tears standing in his eyes; "my good friend Böhler, have you really returned to speak to me? Ah! how long is the time since we parted! how good is Heaven! This is worth everything in the world beside."

'The man seemed perfectly in earnest. He wept, he laughed, he talked all at once, whilst the medium's hand was grasped in his, and, in the same mellow, German voice, she continued to pour out what appeared to be confidences to him, to which he responded with every demonstration of belief.

'But I set him down as a confederate of Bianca's; or, at all events, some weak-minded crea

ture who would credit anything a stronger organisation set before him as the truth.

"The other visitors, however, did not seem to share my incredulity; on the contrary, as soon as the bass voice had ceased to sound, and Bianca had sunk back, apparently exhausted, in her chair, they pressed eagerly around her to demand if no spirit friend of theirs was present and willing to communicate with them.

"Hush!" she said, in her own weak tones, but with her eyes still closed. "Some one is speaking to me. Hush!"

[Now I should have premised that my name was unknown to any one there except Borghesa, and of my antecedents even he knew nothing. We had made acquaintance with each other without the ceremony of a formal introduction; and though he was, of course, aware of my title and family, of my father's death, my lonely youth, or my future prospects, not a syllable had passed between us.

'Nor had we given our names on entering Bianca's saloon. The ordeal was unnecessary, and Borghesa had begged me, as a precautionary measure, to remain incognito.]

་ "Hush!" said the medium. "Some one is speaking to me. Hush!"

'I leaned forward curiously, expecting to receive another proof of her ventriloquial skill; but she continued to speak in her own voice:

"A man-tall, and somewhat old-looking, but not with years," she said, waving her hand towards the place where I sat. "He had much care and grief before he passed away. His face is serious, but calm. He has grey eyes, a straight nose, a mouth sweet but feeble; hair slightly grey. There

"Good God, woman!" I exclaimed, starting up and spluttering in my broken Italian. "Do you know of whom you speak? do you know that you are describing my"

"Hush, Valence! Do be quiet!" entreated Borghesa, as he forced me down into my chair again. "Don't give her any clue, or you will spoil everything."

'There was no need for him to use violence. The excitement was so great, I was no longer able to stand. I cowered in my seat, trembling like a child.

་ "He wishes to write," continued Bianca calmly. "He says my tongue cannot frame the English language. Give me pen and paper."

The materials which were on the table were pushed towards her, and for a few moments nothing was heard but the scratching of the pen as it traversed the paper.

"Who is here by the name of Bernard?" said Bianca, as she ceased writing. "It is a good name-a saint's name; but I can read nothing more. These are English words, I think. Ah! he points to you, signor," she added, addressing myself. "The paper is then for you! I am very glad."

'I stretched out my hand mechanically for what she gave me, and turned it to the light. On it was written, in my father's bold, irregular writing, though somewhat shakily transcribed:

"Bernard, my son; I am always with you! I long to speak to you! Pray more-hope more !

Have faith and patience, and I will come to you. Life is dark at present; but in the future a great light shines. From Valence, your father."

"Who wrote it?"

"Is it satisfactory?" ""Can you recognise the hand?" "Have you had a convincing proof?"

They poured the questions upon me like hail-idle questions to satisfy their own curiosity, whilst I-I felt as though I were stifling.

"Borghesa, my dear fellow; let me go!" I stammered. "I have no wish to disturb you, or break up the evening; but, for God's sake, let me get away from this place, and out into the open air, or I shall faint!"

'Bianca was off into another trance by this time; but my distress was so evident that, yielding to my importunity, the company let Borghesa and me pass through the closed doors, and effect our exit.

"I am so sorry," began my companion, as soon as we had reached the street. "I had no idea you would hear anything to upset you like this. You must forgive me, Valence, for being the unintentional cause of your discomfiture. But try and shake it off. To see you unhappy makes me so also."

"Unhappy!" I exclaimed, as I burst into a peal of laughter. "I feel happier than I have done for years. I could sing aloud, Borghesa; I could dance; I could do anything that is unreasonable and mad. I have found my father again."

"Your letter was from him, then?"

VOL. XXV.-NO. CL.

2 K

M. ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN

MM. are novelists who have at

tained a popularity in this country presumably beyond that of any other author of France, and this in a very short space of time. Victor Hugo's romances are largely read in England, but mostly by a section of the cultivated classes; Alexandre Dumas is well known, but perhaps a little passé; Eugène Sue is known, but not very widely; other French novelists, if we except Georges Sand, are probably known to few save regular readers of French literature in the original. MM. Erckmann-Chatrian have, too, their place with readers of culture, and translations of their works have appeared in our periodicals; but, over and above that, their volumes appear in cheap form at our railway bookstalls; reprints of their stories are found in magazines that do not pretend to appreciation of foreign literatures; and altogether they appear to have been more popularly absorbed amongst us than any of their literary compeers.

Erckmann-Chatrian are French novelists they are Alsatians by birth, but unswayed by Prussian occupation of their fatherland, are very decided in the matter of nationality. They are burningly and unchangeably French. In spite of this, there must somehow be an English element in them for them so strongly to have attracted an English public. They treat of nothing English, for England they cannot know, and what is or what was French soil is the scene of all their romance. What an Englishman, however, would probably recognise as kindred to his own nature in them is the sobriety and

practical common-sense manifested invariably in their work. They have a homely 'innocence of sight,” and what they see they are not afraid to tell in honest fashion, and without the accompaniment of any hysteric excitement.

The popularity of MM. Erckmann-Chatrian in this country has grown very rapidly of late, and English editions of their works have been multiplied exceedingly. Our American cousins are generally readier than ourselves to acknowledge French literature; but no translation of any ErckmannChatrian romance appeared in America before so recent a time as 1868. After that date, however, their progress in America was rapid. Of the first work published in that country several thousands of copies were very soon sold, and other works of the series were put to press forthwith.

For a long period, even in France, the name Erckmann-Chatrian was taken for that of a single individual. This idea is not an unnatural one; and it is difficult to get rid of it in reading the volumes produced under that sobriquet; for which is Erckmann, and which Chatrian, it is quite impossible to determine. And in fact the subjection in the brotherhood of the individualities to the duality is most complete. Their literary partnership is like the ideal marriage-the 'marriage of completion.' That these two imperfect individuals have mutually mated and compacted their intellectual powers, and have not been doomed to journey through life like restless, unsatisfied, separated lovers, ought to be matter of much congratulation to them and

to the world. They have produced a notable family of valuable books, which neither could have given birth to singly. It is a well-known fact that husband and wife, by long and intimate union, grow gradually to assimilate to a certain extent in external appearance. A more singular fact is noted with regard to MM. Erckmann-Chatrian; that while their photographs, when taken separately, show no similitude at all between the pair, yet when they are taken together a singular resemblance is produced by their features being fused into a common expression, a sort of 'Erckmann-Chatrian look.' It has been wickedly observed that they might be useful to sceptics as a stepping-stone to a belief in Athanasius. Erckmann is a novelist, Chatrian is a novelist, and yet it is perfectly plain they are not two novelists, but one novelist-Erckmann-Chatrian.' There is one person of Erckmann, another person of Chatrian, and yet they are not two literary personages, but one literary personage.

Émile Erckmann, the elder of the pair, was born in 1822. He is pure Alsatian by birth, his father having been a bookseller in the province. In 1842 he came to Paris to study law, which proved a dreadful trial to him, for he is an artist to the core. He had an interval of military service in 1848; and it was not until 1857

or 1858 that he succeeded in passing his final legal examination and attaining his status as a barrister. This he accomplished by the committal to memory of the whole of the Code Napoléon, a prodigious and most uncongenial task, the application. necessary for which is said to have cost him the whole of his head of hair. This unfortunate lawyer confesses that the simplest of legal propositions was ever beyond his powers of comprehension.

We can easily understand, therefore, that he soon abandoned the pursuit of his profession. Erckmann wears spectacles, and is given to reverie. His face is delicately formed, with a sensitive mouth. He is of a sanguine temperament, at the same time gentle and violent, with the voice-power of a Boanerges, but with method and circumspection in his remarks, and carefulness of expression and style. He seems to be the fair ideal of an Alsatian-French vivacity commingled with German minuteness and method. He is stated to have in his veins a tincture of careless, gipsy, vagabond blood, whence perhaps he derives his intense artist nature. He is deeply musical, but never enters an opera house. His Bohemian instincts demand the purchase every morning of ten cents' worth of tobacco and a new pipe.

Chatrian's portrait conveys the idea of a man still more artistic by blood than his confrère. He has an immense shock of dark hair, flaring, as it were, over his head like the wavy flames of shaken torches. From this peculiarity he has been thought to resemble the elder Dumas, whose head was exuberantly woolly. He is short, thick-set, with a broad back, and a lion's calm strength. He moves slowly, with a careless but majestic vigour. His voice is rich, full, and decisive. He is a clear, firm, and simple talker. His forehead is rather broad than high, in opposition to Erckmann's, which is rather lofty; and his eyes are scrutinizing and detective. He has a well-carved nose, and a thick, short, scrubby moustache. His mouth is large, and his lips a dark purple-red. He seems to be endowed with a stronger will-power than Erckmann. A French journalist describes him as possessed of 'a frankness, a thoughtfulness, a de