We have not spoken of his tales; their merit is the same as of the _comedies_--that of spontaneous feeling, and of putting people before us in whose feelings we believe. Besides this, they have Musset's grace and delicacy in a perhaps excessive degree; they are the most mannered of his productions. Two or three of them, however--"Emmeline," "Les Deux Maitresses," "Frederic et Bernerette"--are masterpieces; this last epithet is especially to be bestowed upon the letter written by the heroine of the last-mentioned tale (an incorrigibly _volage_ grisette) to her former lover on the occasion of his marrying and settling. The incoherency, the garrulity, the mingled resignation and regret of an amiable flirt of the lower orders, divided between the vivacity of her emotion and the levity of her nature, are caught in the act; and yet it is not fair to say of anything represented by Musset that it is caught in the act. Just the beauty and charm of it is that it is not the exact reality, but a something seen by the imagination--a tinge of the ideal, a touch of poetry. We must try to see Musset himself in the same way; his own figure needs to a certain extent the help of our imagination. And yet, even with such help taken, we cannot but feel that he is an example of the wasteful way in which nature and history sometimes work--of their cruel indifference to our personal standards of economy--of the vast amount of material they take to produce a little result. Alfred de Musset's exquisite organization, his exaltations and weaknesses, his pangs and tears, his passions and debaucheries, his intemperance and idleness, his years of unproductiveness, his innumerable mistresses (with whatever pangs and miseries it may seem proper to attribute to _them_), his quarrel with a woman of genius, and the scandals, exposures, and recriminations that are so ungracefully bound up with it--all this was necessary in order that we should have the two or three little volumes into which his _best_ could be compressed. It takes certainly a great deal of life to make a little art! In this case, however, we must remember, that little is exquisite. HENRY JAMES, JR. REFLECTED LIGHT. Your eyes say, "Sweet, I love--I love you, sweet." Where is the blame If, when their mute significance I meet, Mine say the same? Nay, thank me not, nor deem your triumph near. The message bright My glance conveys--'tis but--believe, me, dear-- Reflected light! MARY AINGE DE VERE. LIFE INSURANCE.--II.