To go back to Barty: he was the most generous boy in the school. If I may paraphrase an old saying, he really didn't seem to know the difference betwixt tuum et meum. Everything he had, books, clothes, pocket-money--even agate marbles, those priceless possessions to a French school-boy--seemed to be also everybody else's who chose. I came across a very characteristic letter of his the other day, written from the Pension Brossard to his favorite aunt, Lady Caroline Grey (one of the Rohans), who adored him. It begins: "My Dear Aunt Caroline,--Thank you so much for the magnifying-glass, which is not only magnifying, but magnifique. Don't trouble to send any more gingerbread-nuts, as the boys are getting rather tired of them, especially Laferté and Bussy-Rabutin. I think we should all like some Scotch marmalade," etc., etc. And though fond of romancing a little now and then, and embellishing a good story, he was absolutely truthful in important matters, and to be relied upon implicitly. He seemed also to be quite without the sense of physical fear--a kind of callousness. Such, roughly, was the boy who lived to write the _Motes in a Moonbeam_ and _La quatrième Dimension_ before he was thirty; and such, roughly, he remained through life, except for one thing: he grew to be the very soul of passionate and compassionate sympathy, as who doesn't feel who has ever read a page of his work, or even had speech with him for half an hour? Whatever weaknesses he yielded to when he grew to man's estate are such as the world only too readily condones in many a famous man less tempted than Josselin was inevitably bound to be through life. Men of the Josselin type (there are not many--he stands pretty much alone) can scarcely be expected to journey from adolescence to middle age with that impeccable decorum which I--and no doubt many of my masculine readers--have found it so easy to achieve, and find it now so pleasant to remember and get credit for. Let us think of _The Footprints of Aurora_, or _Étoiles mortes_, or _Déjanire et Dalila_, or even _Les Trépassées de François Villon!_ Then let us look at Rajon's etching of Watts's portrait of him (the original is my own to look at whenever I like, and that is pretty often). And then let us not throw too many big stones, or too hard, at Barty Josselin. Well, the summer term of 1847 wore smoothly to its close--a happy "trimestre" during which the Institution F. Brossard reached the high-water mark of its prosperity. There were sixty boys to be taught, and six house-masters to teach them, besides a few highly paid outsiders for special classes--such as the lively M. Durosier for French literature, and M. le Professeur Martineau for the higher mathematics, and so forth; and crammers and coachers for St.-Cyr, the Polytechnic School, the École des Ponts et Chaussées.