of remorseless creditors. He departs, and in twenty minutes returns in the guise of a wine-merchant's porter trundling on a hand-cart a vinous looking vessel. He calls out that his employer has sent him to exchange the present article for the cask in the vault, which had been sent in mistake, and was of an inferior quality of course the false porter is not aware of the seizure. So the genuine good liquor is removed under Janin's careful attention, a vessel of indifferent water left in its place; and the erewhile proprietor is treated to a good glass of the generous beverage that evening, and gratified by a receipt in due form for the quarter's lessons given by our talented friend.

Through the intervention of a friend, he gets on the staff of La Lorgnette.

At this point the critic excuses the jesting character of the biography by simply asking "if any of his readers ever took Janin at his word," and asserts that the style is worthy of the subject.

"M. Janin is really a man of honour, a respectable citizen: in this light, he shall have our genuine esteem, and that is something. But why did he meddle with literature? Where was the need of his becoming feuilletonist? Why did he Se fourrer dans cette galère? • Can you say with hand on heart, that this broad simple-looking countenance, made for good nature, candour, and laughter, should ever present flashing eyes and snarling teeth. Look at that smooth,

round, and dimpled hand; ought a cat with such a velvet paw ever exhibit her claws?

Ah poor Jules, what a piece of folly!

To distribute criticism with dignity, no matter in what department, you should be sure of yourself; you should have perfected your judgment by serious study; you should have examined your conscience; you should have inspected the very recesses of your soul, to see that reason, sincerity, and justice were its occupants.

Have you done so ? answer.

Criticism is a kind of priesthood, my poor garçon, do not deceive yourself. It demands great moral strength, a hale spirit free from the mists of ignorance, and proof against rancor, jealousy, and caprice. There is more to be done than throw over your shoulders a Collegian's greasy gown, pick up a quill and lie in wait round the corner of a journal for unwary authors. That is not all that's needful, Janin, my good friend.t"

"Les Fourberies de Scapin."

It seems to us that our vivacious, acute, and easily prejudiced friend himself, would derive some profit by close personal attention to the lesson he is here administering to his temporary victim.

The actresses obnoxious to Janin's criticism, cajole him for favorable notices, and call him contemptuously Jean Jean when his back is turned. By-and-by they joke on him to his face in this free and easy style.

Ah! good morning, Monsieur Jean Jean. How do you find yourself, Mr. Jean Jean? Have you seen Mr. Jean Jean's last article, my dear? every one devours Jean Jean. This big Jean Jean is quite the rage. Will you treat us to a nice little supper this evening, Jean Jean, my friend?"

Julius Janin, not acting as Julius Cæsar would, on such occasions, takes these stupid pleasantries in bad part; and the unthinking culprit shortly lights on a printed compliment such as the subjoined train of thought passing through the mind of the offended critic would naturally produce:

"You have nick-named me Jean Jean, Madame: very well. In your acting I neither recognise merit, delicacy, nor grace-you have no inspiration; you are destitute of vigour; the audience find you not at all to their taste, and your arms are remarkably meagre."

Jules once gave a troublesome hanger-on an effective piece of advice-doubly effective, indeed, as he thereby got rid of his importunities for the insertion of articles, and put money in the poor fellow's pockets.

"Impossible," cried Jules, "you write like an oyster-set your its on the invention of monstrosities, strange suicides, horrible assassinations tell how a child was born in such a place with a pair of horns on him-describe the sea serpent that appeared last week off Havre, three hundred metres in length. Take fourteen or fifteen lines to each article; if it induces a reply so much the better."

The advice was taken, and the system thus improvised has now acquired vast proportions. We have seen one of these Marchands de Canards in the office of M. Dumont of the Estafetts. He entered, made his bow, and taking out a bundle of square bits of paper, read out one to the director. "How much for this?" "Two francs." "Too much; say fifteen sous." "Be it so." Ho pocketed the coin, and departed to dispose of his flimsies to other newspapers. It is really a lucrative profession.

Janin effectively contributed to the success of Figaro, exhibiting in that paper the jovial and aggressive spirit of his character. They cite, as his most glorious piece of mystification, the bizarre discourse at an academic reception, to which was appended, as signature, Le Duc de Montmorency.

The last of this noble line had been just admitted to a chair among the FORTY.

He protested in the Quotidienne against the burlesque harangue of the Figuro; the other royalist papers added their indignant reclamations.

Janin had his answer ready in his pocket.

"What the deuce is the matter with you, Monseigneur?" cried he, You say you have been admitted to the Académie Francaise ? Parbleu! I did not know a word of the matter, I assure you, and have, very unwittingly, led the public astray. M. Leduc, keeper of the White Horse at Montmorency was received member of the Glorious Appollos of that town. I gave a report of the reception, and published the speech of the new member. You count for nothing in the matter. Very sorry, I'm sure, for the quiproquo. The double meaning was most adroitly maintained from one end of the article to the other."

A young actress, daughter of a portier, rue de Tournon, makes Jules be of opinion that she is impressed by his talents of mind and graces of person; cunning young rogue! and she all the time the affianced bride of a young painter-but she thought it the surest road to success in her vocation. The deluded youth occasionally sees her safe home, but is not invited to enter, as she lives with her family. His hopes of a conquest are strong, till the real state of affairs is revealed by an officious tatler.

"Scandal great-duel unavoidable-but friends interpose, and they come to a sorrowful but amicable resolution. Let us mutually swear to see this woman no more,' cried the painter. Yes, my friend, we will swear,' answered the feuilletoniste, and they grasped each other's hands like men in earnest."

On the third day the painter forgave the faithless fair, and the critic was seeking an interview.

"Lovers' oaths," thought he to himself," Jesuits' vows!" But his false rival had anticipated him in his perjury: he uttered cries of rage, took pen in hand, and wrote out the nastiest of his novels without taking breath.

In the story, he assigned the fair but false cause of his woe, the punishment she so richly merited; but, as if to spite him farther, she is at this day a faithful and virtuous wife, and respectable mistress of a household, possessing the esteem of her friends, and the love of her husband and children.

Nestor Roqueplau, in whose judgment Mirecourt reposes trust, when music is not in question, thus apostrophises Janin

“You are a writer of an undecided, powerless, and above all, of a frivolous cast. You adorn yourself with mock lace: you jerk about the furbelows of your faded robe, the inharmonious hues of whose tissue is never relieved by a pure or correct pattern. Your phrases abrupt, powdered with conceits, and, spun out, fly away in shreds. These circumstances, of which good writers avail themselves to give repose to their readers, become in your bands delusive fingerposts to set them astray. Sometimes, self- shed and involved in

a complicated phrase without issue, you go bu... g at random to find an outlet, like a wasp inside a window. Then it is quick, undo me this button-be brisk with a citation to extricate M. Janin, who is knocking his forehead against the wall of his grand style.'

A

You never make a frank, manly attack. Your weapon, in conseqnence of being barbed like a Chinese dart, never penetrates. wrestler without strength of arm, you try to trip up your adversary. Noise and no stroke-thunder and no flash-damp fireworks, the squibs escaping as chance will have it. Your pen scratches and blots the paper, and cannot make a straight line. Your composition is uncertain, and not under your proper command: it goes at random and without order; it seems no more under the control of your proper will, than the limbs of a paralytic under the influence of the spinal Barrow. There is a profusion of words, but the right one is never forthcoming. When we dissect this plump-looking old child in swalding clothes, we find neither vein, muscle, nor sinew." So far Nestor Roqueplan.

Our merciless critic goes on to scarify his patient at greater length than we can follow. He says that he has en gossipping, that he is gossipping, and that he will conthe to gossip for ever; that he is a flood of epithets, an ocean of phrases; that he swells the balloon of the paradox, puts his lip to the sophism to blow it out to fabulous dimenstons, and that he tempers the soap water for the produce of millions of sparkling bubbles which float about and burst when their hour comes. A quarter of an idea will serve for the production of a dozen columns, and his knowledge of history and geography is on a par with Mr. Jolly Green's, of the New Monthly. He criticises a theatrical piece without having heard a word of it spoken; he confounds people and incidents, for the Debats is waiting for copy, and he has not time to be accurate. Like Harlequin, his head may be broken by an enraged victim, and with his own wooden sword too; no matter, he continues his dance.

In October our hero is married; and on the very wedding night, instead of looking after his bride, he locks himself

up in his study to write a feuilleton, not of the last new piece, but of his own perilous exploit. This is to be the news of the week.

"At first a universal stupor fell on men's senses. • What do you say? he is married-himself, and at his age-he is a dead man. What will become of him, and what will he do with his bride?' Why what can a Bohemien do with his wife but make her a Bohemienne?'"'

And then he relates the difficulties he had to overcome before he could cast the lasso with effect: but at last, through fire, water, and mud, the notary's table is reached, and the contract signed. Chateaubriand does not send his blessing, because it generally brings misfortune; but the Archbishop is not so scrupulous. Let Jeames of the Morning Post read the following, and blush for his own shortcomings.

"And then, trembling with emotion, astonished at the deep regard shown to her, and in such high quarters, she cast her eyes timidly around. Her limpid and modest glance became more decided, and seemed to say, You see I was right.' Mean time the church was prepared, and the altar decked, the crowd great, and nothing wanted but the presence of the young bride. At last she appeared, and they saw her such as she was-young, beauteous, smiling, sincere-the most touching, the most modest, and the most calm of beings. Eh, well! that delicate fair hand, that perfect grace, the serenity of that beauteous countenance, that loveliest of creatures, all those treasures for a mere scribbler, for a-”

Mirecourt :—“Ah, silence! you indiscreet spouse; the National is cocking its ears. Why should you begin to blab in the public feuilleton? Alas! it is too late; they have taken a note of your avowals; they are turning your confidences into ridicule, and M. Rolle is mending his pen. Ah! Janin, Janin, instead of an epithalamium, hear this apostrophe." Rolle Loquitur.

"Allow me, Monsieur, to join my congratulations to those which you have offered to yourself, and to lay my poor grain of incense on the mighty heap which you burn in your own proper honor. In fine you are married, and now there is neither Ah, nor Oh, nor How about it. Let the entire universe recover from its stupor, thank God, and say nothing. Your conjugal feuilleton, dated St. Sulpice, and written on the very altar, you have charitably entitled, The Wedding, not of a Critic, but of Criticism.' As another great man once boasted, The State is vested in me,' so you modestly announce, Criticism and I are one. Many thanks, Monsieur! From the embodiment of the genius, talent, and merit of all living critics in one, it results that eight days ago we were all wedded in your person. A charming cadeau you have offered us, Monsieur, if I may trust the prospectus of the bride of whom you have got ten thousand copies issued. What a liberal husband you are, Monsieur! I know