In speaking formerly of Balzac in these pages we insisted upon the fact that he lacked charm; but we said that our last word upon him should be that he had incomparable power. His letters only confirm these impressions, and above all they deepen our sense of his strength. They contain little that is delicate, and not a great deal that is positively agreeable; but they express an energy before which we stand lost in wonder, in an admiration that almost amounts to awe. The fact that his devouring observation of the great human spectacle has no echo in his letters only makes us feel how concentrated and how intense was the labor that went on in his closet. Certainly no solider intellectual work has ever been achieved by man. And in spite of the massive egotism, the personal absoluteness, to which these pages testify, they leave us with a downright kindness for the author. He was coarse, but he was tender; he was corrupt in a way, but he was hugely natural. If he was ungracefully eager and voracious, awkwardly blind to all things that did not contribute to his personal plan, at least his egotism was exerted in a great cause. The "Comedie Humaine" has a thousand faults, but it is a monumental excuse. HENRY JAMES, JR. FOOTNOTES: [1] Paris: Calmann Levy. 1876. [2] December, 1875. LOVE'S REQUIEM. I. Bring withered autumn leaves! Call everything that grieves, And build a funeral pyre above his head! Heap there all golden promise that deceives, Beauty that wins the heart and then bereaves-- For love is dead. II. Not slowly did he die! A meteor from the sky Falls not so swiftly as his spirit fled; When with regretful, half-averted eye He gave one little smile, one little sigh-- And so was sped. III. But, oh, not yet, not yet Can my lost soul forget How beautiful he was while he did live; Or, when his eyes were dewy and lips wet, What kisses, tenderer than all regret, My love would give! IV. Strew roses on his breast! He loved the roses best; He never cared for lilies or for snow. Let be this bitter end of his sweet quest! Let be the pallid silence that is rest-- And let all go! WILLIAM WINTER. STORY OF A LION. When Smith's Circus and Menagerie Combination Company went to Utica James Rounders was a lusty fellow of twenty, of some natural sagacity, and no school education. An interest in wild beasts had been developing in him for several years, and the odor of sawdust had become grateful to his nostrils. It was, however, only one kind of wild beast with which he was especially occupied. The quadruped of the noble aspect, stately gait, and tremendous roar--the lion--was the animal of Rounders's predilection and the object of his study.