GEORGES OHNET. From "Paris of To-day." (Copyright, 1891, by Cassell Pub. Co.) at Erfurt as neither more nor less than admissions of treachery to Napoleon. The answer of Talleyrand to such a charge would, of course, be that upon which his whole "apologia pro vita sua" rests, namely, that his first and highest duty was to his country, and that in this case he devoted himself to the interest of France, a bond in honor to do. In those to follow there will doubtless be many deeply interesting passages and whole papers. One-that upon the death of the Duc d'Enghienwill be eagerly awaited, and the account of Talleyrand's English mission will likewise provoke lively anticipation. But it is unlikely that even his skill and deftness can make of any other period in his life a record so thoroughly and unreservedly honorable to himself and beneficial to his country and Europe as was his course at the Congress of Vienna. It is of course too soon to express a definitive judgment upon these Memoirs when but one out of five volumes has appeared. But it is not too soon to say that the importance of their contents much more than compensates for the absence of that lighter material whose supposed presence in them so whetted the curiosity of the world, The Memoirs is a serious work, and it will probably leave a much better impression of its author than can be gathered from the criticism or the gossip of his contemporaries. The work will be completed in five volumes. The second is nearly ready and the remaining three will probably follow at intervals of a month or less. (Putnam. v. 1, $2.50.)-Selected from notice in N. Y. Tribune. PARIS OF TO-DAY. MISS OLGA FLINCH has translated from the Danish of Richard Kaufmann some bright sketches of Parisian life which appear under the title of "Paris of To-Day." However much written of, gay, charming, careless, picturesque Paris still possesses inexhaustible and unfailing interest. Browning called Italy the woman country "beloved of earth's male lands." Paris, also, is feminine and fascinating, the irresistible coquette of cities, winning all hearts and breaking not a few. Every artist says nothing is so difficult and elusive to paint as a woman's expression, and beautiful, bewitching changeful Paris is no exception. Many attempt her portraiture who fail lamentably-they get the features well enough, but they seem flat and lifeless; the spirit, the individuality, the indescribable animation are lacking. Richard Kauf. mann has long been a loyal lover of the fickle city, has studied her face in smiles and frowns, and drawn many a spirited little off-hand sketch of her postures and attitudes. In "Paris of To-Day" he presents us with a lifelike carefully finished " 'full-length" picture of his Mistress in the gala costume in which she celebrated the recent Exposition. And seldom do we find a more attractive and enticing picture; one whose magical art is such that fleeting changeful expressions-now lively, now demure, now winsome and merry, now mocking and scornful-come and go perpetually in its eyes and on its lips. Here is one aspect of Paris: 'Paris is the true 'Venus die süsse Teufelin' into whose arms it is so sweet to rush, and from whom it is so difficult to tear one's self away, that when once enthralled by her, inevitably, one proves himself another Tannhäuser. . . . The mere aspect of the city leaves an impression of festivity. Boulevard follows upon boulevard, and the long asphalt covered sidewalks, overshadowed by the trees, lie there as smooth as a ball-room floor. The shops outbid each other in their shows, and on the broad and always newly macadamized drives, carriages come and go. The From "Paris of To-day." (Copyright, houses with their 1891, by Cassell Pub. Co.) gilded balconies always look their best. Through All phases of Parisian life are not equally pleasing, but all are interesting; and in "Paris of To-Day" we see the life of the streets and the life of the salons; "working Paris" and "dancing Paris;" M'sieu' Pasteur in his laboratory; the student, in the university and out; the babies and the nurse-maids; the ticket speculators and the stars of the stage and the opera; and more than all, and surely high above all, the Tour Eiffel, the modern Tower of Babel, "the apotheosis of Paris." (Cassell. $3.) M. I. C. A LITERARY ARISTOCRACY. IN France writing leads to everything-even to fortune. If it were possible for anybody to doubt it, he would find conviction in reading of the lordly incidents of the marriage of young M. Daudet and Mademoiselle Jeanne Hugo. Victor Hugo was a rich man, and his granddaughter is understood to bring a fortune to her husband. With M. Alphonse Daudet, too, leaves of manuscript have been transformed into bank-notes. All things considered and all deductions made, it would appear that the profession of letters is to-day much more profitable in France than anywhere else in the world. When we say the profession of letters, we of course mean the business of writing fiction. There are some kinds of books-biographies and startling narratives of travel-which are much more splendidly paid for in England and America than in France. But the value of such books depends upon their information, and the writer is paid, not for a piece of writing more or less literary, but for the knowledge which he possesses and other people do not. It is for the note-books and the letters of a celebrity, Such or the diary of strange adventures in unknown lands, that he receives his thousands. But during the last twenty years the emoluments of fiction have in England fallen very considerably, whereas in France, where the royalty system prevails, they are constantly increasing. A French novel which really "hits the public in the eye" and runs through scores of editions in a year or two produces a small fortune for its author. sales are possible because the French buy their books, instead of borrowing them. In England books are usually published on a different system, i and that is one reason, perhaps, why the British novelist makes hundreds where the Frenchman makes thousands. Still, all our great novelists have written under that system, and neither Dickens nor Thackeray, nor, in his palmy days, Harrison Ainsworth, found that it stinted their profits. The main reason why the rewards of action are so much smaller in England now than they were a generation ago is that our best living novelists all belong to the second class. We have no first class, and that undeniable fact is quite sufficient to account for the comparatively low prices that are paid for novels. We should be very much surprised to hear that any living English novelist had received for any work of fiction anything approaching the £7000 paid to George Eliot for one novel and the £10,000 for another. The result of the great possibilities of French fiction is seen in a very curious way. For the first time in the history of literature France is developing a wealthy aristocracy based upon letters. Great literary families are being founded, richer than some of the old aristocracies, more refined and more interesting than that form of aristocracy which has been evolved from mere plutocracy. The names of Hugo. Daudet, Zola, and Dumas occur at once. The present M. Alexandre Dumas is not strictly a case in point, since, although he is the second of his name, he is the first to possess wealth. There seem to be two explanations of this state of things: there is more money to be made by letters in France; and the French writer of the first rank has a good deal of the heavy father in his composition. Whatever he may be in his books, he is bourgeois at home, and rarely forgets that his first duty is to leave his family comfortably, not to say richly, provided for. His advantage it is to receive his gains as income and not as a series of windfalls. The English author receives £1000 down for a novel, and perhaps £250 for the serial rights, and there is the end of it. In France something quite different happens. The abundance of daily feuilletons causes sharp competition among newspapers for the successful man's first-fruits, and he consequently obtains a much larger sum for his serial rights than is possible here.-London St. James' Gazette. OUR ITALY. HAVE we an Italy among us? This is the question Mr. Warner asks and answers in his latest published book. But if Mr. Warner's word can be relied upon-and it has never failed us before "Our Italy," which is Southern California, is more than an Italy; it is a paradise beautiful beyond compare. It is a land flowing with milk and honey, and with everything that honey sweetens or milk nourishes; it is a land in which it is never winter time, and is generally afternoon. Open the pages at random, and the glories of this other Eden will be revealed. There is enough to affect with achromatopsia all of the poets who have sung for centuries about the glories of the old and original Italy of worn-out Europe. "Our Italy," as Mr. Warner shows it to us, is not only beautiful, but it is good. It is remarkably exempt from epidemics and from epidemic diseases. Children are free from all of the pains that rack their little bodies in other climates; in "Our Italy" it does not even hurt or fret them to cut their teeth. There is no malaria therewhatever "malaria" may be-and consequently an absence of those various fevers and other disorders which are attributed to malarial conditions, and gout and rheumatism are not indigeThe climate is stimulating, and at the same time soothing to the nerves. "So that," as Mr. Warner says, "if nervous prostration' is wanted, it must be carried there, and it cannot be relied upon to continue there long." nous. After a perusal of Mr. Warner's book one is almost tempted to overwork one's self or to over play one's self that one may be sent by one's doctor to recover strength and peace of mind in this domestic Italy at our gates, of which we have heard so little before. "who "The gentleman of the whip," writes Mr. Warner in one of the earlier pages, showed us some of the finest places in Los Angeles-places that in their wealth of flowers and semi-tropical gardens would rouse the enthusiasm of the most jaded traveller-was asked whether there were any finer in the city. Finer? Hundreds of them;' and then, meditatively and regretfully, 'I should not dare to show you the best."" Whether or not Mr. Warner has dared to show his readers the best of Southern California only Mr. Warner and those who are familiar with his paradise can ever say. He tempers his enthusiasm sometimes with sound advice, however, and his chapters entitled "The Chance for Laborers and Small Farmers" and "A Land of Agreeable Homes " are well worthy of serious consideration by those men and women who are compelled to fight hard weather and a harder soil for mere existence in less favored parts of the United States. It is to such as these he addresses himself, with no desire to influence those who are already well placed to try "the hazard of new fortunes" in a distant country and with new associations. Mr. Warner writes with all of his old charm and grace of style, and with all that delightful humor which Mr. Twitchell says is" in his grain, and is the humor of a man of very deep convictions and earnest character." (Harper. $2.50.) -Laurence Hutton in Harper's Magazine. |