kinds of illness, while her soul is wrung with jealousy of her mother, to whom she is strongly attached. Nor is this jealousy unreasonable: the mother, Hélène, calls in a physician one night when her child is taken with one of its alarming attacks; the physician, who is very handsome, manages to cure the child and to see the mother's beauty. The two happen to be brought into one another's company a great deal,— Hélène becomes intimate with the physician's wife, - and their acquaintance soon ripens into something different. This passion becomes very violent, and Hélène, after some slight coyness, yields to his fascinations. This distracts her from her child, who becomes morbidly jealous; and more than this, being left alone one rainy day while her mother and the doctor are together, she contrives to open the window and to catch a fatal cold. All this part about her last illness is described with great power, and the relative position of the different people to one another is most distinctly drawn. The mother naturally suffers grief and remorse, especially because her daughter died without expressing forgiveness; but she manages to forget her errors when she marries a worthy man, a great deal too good for her, whom she had known all the time.

Many of the minor characters and scenes of the story are well conceived and well executed. The infamous Mère Fétu, for instance, is drawn most cleverly. Yet it is hard to call the novel very successful. The story of a foolish woman's fall is not new, nor is it in this instance told with astounding skill. The most painful parts are the best done. Such is uniformly the case with Zola's novels, just as some artists paint shadows best, and it is impossible to deny his great technical skill. This is, how

1 Vide Atlantic Monthly for June, 1877.

Many critics have been so relieved to find this book comparatively free from noisomeness that they have called it almost idyllic; but this is going too far. If any one else had written it there would be a general outcry about its blackness. Besides the story, there are many pages devoted to rapturous descriptions of Paris at sunrise, at noonday, at sunset, and at night, which contain a good deal of "fine writing." This is lamentably overdone, and indicates only too clearly the narrowness of the ruts in which French novelists work; we all know tho usual plot and the usual setting. Zola in some of his other novels stepped aside, but it was upon even less attractive ground, while here he has accepted all the ordinary conditions, and has not written an immortal book. He has made his name famous, however, and he will find plenty of readers for the dozen volumes still required for the completion of his series. So far, at least, he has drawn with great skill all sorts of outside surroundings of people in diverse circumstances, but he has not yet enriched literature with one memorable representation of some grand passion, and that is the only thing that lives. His books will be invaluable for the statistician in future ages, but where is there one like Balzac's Père Goriot? All the description of all the back streets and roofs in Paris will never make up for the absence of this. But, of course, it may come in time.

Thomas Sergeant Perry.

I.

THE road upon which Holcroft's Tavern stood was a disused turnpike. Years ago, when it was made, it ran straight as a railroad on its unbending way to the city, forty miles to the eastward. Not far from the tavern it encountered a slate quarry, cut it in two instead of avoiding it, then entered the woods, and, crossing the wet intervale upon an embankment made just wide enough, was carried by a bridge over the river, and climbed the hills on the other side. Then there were toll-gates, and a thriving business was done. Now it is not easy to tell where the road ran. By the tavern it has become obliterated in a wider, more pliant road, which winds and bends, in deference to houses and farms, this way and that; the slate quarry, abandoned since, had yet vigor enough to cover the old road-bed with slate chips, and in one place drown it under a stagnant pool; where once it emerged from the quarry is now a buckwheat field, and though its course can be tracked by a grassy wood-road which leads thence to the river, it cannot be long before that part also is reclaimed by nature. went down the wood - road yesterday, and just made out the rude abutments of the long since ruined bridge; in rambling upon the hill beyond I stumbled once on a piece of the old turnpike, with a sign warning people that it was not for public travel. The road that once was a great public thoroughfare now begins nowhere and ends nowhere.

I

barns, with weakness in their joints, stand heavily about, their capacity rendered impertinent by the emptiness that reigns there; long sheds, with roofs that rise and sink as if a perpetual sigh had taken possession of them, are in readiness for the wagons and horses that were long since transformed into freight cars and locomotives, when the railroad, carried through this part of the country, extinguished the turnpike; and a sturdy pole stands, stiffly skewered at the top by iron rods, from which once swung and creaked a sign in token of the good cheer to be found within the house. The only part of the old establishment grown thrifty with age is the environment of oaks and elms, which throw a grateful shade over the buildings and hide the infirmities of a pride that sinks lower year by year.

Holcroft's Tavern was one of these roadside inns; not, indeed, a prominent one, but rather a baiting-place. It had kept its name through various vicissitudes, even after it had ceased to afford slender entertainment to man or beast. It was at one of the loneliest places on the old turnpike; at its back were some shy woods that crept with increasing confidence nearer the house each year, and had little fear of being discovered, for very few people passed in front. The innkeeper and owner worked his meagre farm and kept the ghostly show of an inn, but the misfortunes of the house easily passed upon the family within, and one after another dropped away to join the procession of travelers who never used the turnpike. It had long been wholly closed, when it was opened one day to admit the law, that unwelcome guest that so often comes as undertaker when good fortune has died in a family.

The inn was the only property which could be found in the possession of a certain scampish son of the old innkeeper, when his pockets were turned inside out

in the chance of finding stray coin to satisfy just claims. Notice was accordingly given of a sheriff's sale of the house and land, the barns and outhouses, and all the furniture and agricultural implements and what not to be found on the premises. There was a small gathering of farmers and their wives and idlers of both sexes on the day of the sale. The women went cautiously through the cobwebbed rooms, holding their skirts about them, properly shocked at the lamentable neglect that prevailed, while their lords walked about the barns and sheds, scoffing at the remains of what had once been industrious tools and serviceable vehicles; but when the hour of sale came, it appeared that there had been some shrewd calculation going on as to the worth of the place and its appurtenances. Estimates were ventured warily, and the old tavern was apparently only waiting certain formalities before it should be dismembered by an unsympathetic crowd.

The auctioneer stated the terms of sale and announced that he was instructed first to offer the entire estate, and if no sale was made then to dispose of it in lots, beginning with the buildings. As no person present proposed to buy the whole of this worthless estate, there was some curiosity to know who the voiceless person was whose bid was taken by the auctioneer as a starting-point. It was supposed that the glib salesman, with the vivid imagination of his profession, had suddenly constructed a buyer and was using him as a lure to others; but after all the urging which the impassive company seemed likely to stand, the announcement was made, as the hammer fell, that the tavern was sold to Alden Holcroft.

Who Alden Holcroft was no one knew; certainly he was not of the innkeeper's immediate family, and the auctioneer could give no further intelligence than that he was a young man doing business in the city. The law was satisfied, the young scapegrace lost his homestead, another of the same name succeeded to the property, and the neighbors scattered to their houses.

II.

Alden Holcroft was a banker's clerk. He had no father or mother, brother or sister, and there were none who would have ventured to call him more than acquaintance. For years he had been at his desk promptly every working morning, and had discharged his duties with precision. With that all connection with his associates ended, and though his lodging-place was known to his superiors, his life outside of banking hours was entirely unknown to them. The salary which he received had been increased from time to time, and punctually drawn, but Holcroft never seemed either to lack money or to have it. He was indeed so silent and retiring that his fellow-clerks, after ineffectual attempts at penetrating his reserve, accepted him as they would the ink bottle or blotter, - a necessary part of the office furniture, and that was all.

It was shortly after the auction sale of Holcroft's Tavern that a letter was received by the firm of Goodhue, Son & Co. through the mail, which ran as follows:

A city postage stamp was inclosed for prepayment of the reply.

"That Holcroft is an odd stick," said Mr. Goodhue to his son, handing him the letter. "Who but he would have taken such a formal, roundabout way of asking a favor, when he is only thirty feet away from us all day? And see! the only approach to a justification in his request is in the intimation that he has been uniformly punctual for fifteen years. Write him a note, Theodore, put the two cent stamp on, and drop it in the nearest box. I would n't offend his sense of propriety." A keener sense,

however, than that of propriety was touched in Holcroft when he received the permission. "A single word of praise might have been given," said the solitary man to himself. "They might

have known what it cost me to write that note. Theodore Goodhue finds no difficulty in saying a friendly word to others; why could he not say it to me?" It was the inconsistent yet natural expression of a man who had fenced himself in with reserve, not because he hated his fellows, but because he was afraid of them. Behind that fence all manner of dumb show went on, so real to the man himself that he sometimes forgot how impenetrable he was to others. To be shy is not always to be unlovable, but it is very apt to be unloved.

The routine of office hours was the least part of Holcroft's life, though it was the most conspicuous. It was then that he was visible, and the side which he showed to the small world upon which his little light shone was that of a perfectly methodical, impassive fellow, who blushed when he was spoken to, and answered in a low tone; whose handwriting was regular and exquisitely delicate, entirely free from ornate flourishes; whose manners were so unobtrusive that it was quite impossible for his fellows to characterize them at all; and who did his part of the work with unfailing accuracy. He had been discovered now and then at concerts and plays, but only by those who chanced to pass by the most obscure corner of the hall or theatre, and when in the street he always seemed to court disguise by the hat which he pulled down over his face. His quick gait appeared curiously out of keeping with his ordinary quiet, but it was explained, by those who took the trouble to account for it, on the theory that he was hurrying to a hiding-place.

As a matter of fact, Holcroft led a much more out-of-door life than his acquaintances suspected, for his course and theirs lay in different directions. If it had chanced that any of his fellowclerks had a fancy - which none of them had for old books, or odd musical instruments, or rare prints, or antique fur

niture, they would probably have stumbled upon their shy companion in some one of the dingy recesses where old things bestow themselves before they are dragged out into the glare of fashion. Still, dealers in old things were scarcely a step nearer to a knowledge of this buyer, and the fancy which he showed would tell nothing more than that he was possessed of a certain refinement of taste and education. That he had, and in the exercise of it came much of the pleasure of his life; yet it would have been a barren existence after all which was divided into the two hemispheres of toil at the desk and solitary delight in art, even where, as in the case of Holcroft, there was some little power of creation in art, the faculty of drawing and coloring, the knowledge and use of harmony in music, the power to set down his thoughts in orderly form. Gifts like these create as well as satisfy wants.

To get at the secret of this man, we must be told what he himself never breathed to others: he was in love. Did he not then confess his love to the one who drew him? No, for there was no such person who could receive his passionate expression. He could scarcely be said to be in love with his own ideal; for there was a certain solidity of sense in him which forbade such ghostly and empty love-making. He had no ideal, he was waiting for that to be projected from the real, and meanwhile, in the activity of his passion, he was compelled to feed his flame from very combustible material. When Theodore Goodhue discovered him, one evening, shrinking into the corner of the concert-room, that easy-going young man would have laughed at frequent intervals had he once known that Holcroft was for the time in love with the beautiful singer on the stage; but he never would have known it, for the lover made no sign to his mistress, least of all to his employer. It could hardly be, one would think, a very satisfying devotion which could be contented with love at such long range; but the simple truth is that Holcroft, shrinking from what Brockden Brown calls "the awfulness of flowing muslin,"

had positively no acquaintance in society, and was compelled to let his eyes seek and his feelings run out to those whom he could gaze upon at a distance with unabashed glances. He shared, in common with the audience about him, the privilege of looking steadfastly upon the beautiful creature who came gracefully forward; his own attention could not possibly be construed into any marked devotion, and it was equally true that he could not fairly claim any individual response from the singer. But she sang, and with a lover's right he made song and voice interpretative of her nature. She sang ballads in a deep contralto, and there is something in such a voice which seems peculiarly sincere. Night after night, therefore, Holcroft waited upon this lady's appearance, and suffered his fancy to follow her when his own feet carried him no whit nearer. Once, indeed, lingering after the concert, he caught sight of her entering her carriage, and enjoyed a new delight in the transformation into something domestic and homely which the cloak thrown about her produced.

Yet such a Barmecide feast of love scarcely leaves a full heart behind, and Holcroft bitterly reproached himself at times that with his passionate longing for a wife, and his entire willingness to be loved by some beautiful girl, he seemed never to be any nearer the end. Moreover, while no suspicion rested in his mind upon this or that beautiful singer or actress whom he in turn heard or saw, the possibility of taking any step toward personal acquaintance caused a rush of feeling through his mind at the horrible publicity of such a love the moment it began to be formal. He could love her, but if she really began to love him, and yet sang night after night before all those men, nay, that she had already so sung, even if never thereafter, -this shattered at once any faint resolve for turning his romance into fact.

He had noticed in the papers advertisements of the sale of the Holcroft Tavern, and the name attracted him. He visited it stealthily one afternoon, peeping in at the windows and getting

such knowledge of the interior as he could from the outside. He knew nothing of the owner or his family, and felt no inclination to identify himself with the succession. He was satisfied to learn that the young scapegrace who held the title was the last of his family, and was not likely to interfere with any new owner. The project of buying such a place had long been in his mind. For one thing, his acquisitions had begun to accumulate beyond the capacity of his lodgings, and he had been obliged to store some of his furniture and books; a grievance to him, since it was not possession but use that pleased him. The opportunity now was excellent of owning a house near enough to the city to permit him to visit it occasionally, until he could live there permanently, while far enough away to remove him from fear of intrusion or observation. In effect, no counterfeiter plotting devices could have taken more pains to conceal himself than did this shy man, whose outward motive seemed to be to make himself a home, and whose secret hope was that with a house made perfectly ready, the visitant whom he longed for would enter the open door, take her seat by the fireside, and remain near to bless him.

Indeed, the buying and renewing of Holcroft's Tavern seemed to the young man so positive a step toward his marriage that for a time he was perfectly happy in his plans and work; it was so far an outward fulfillment of his purpose that the other and really more essential matter gave him now little concern. The lack of confidence in himself from which he had so frequently suffered was less painfully present, and he set about making the house ready for his wife in a cheerful spirit which partially recompensed him for her delay in coming. It might be questioned by some whether a man so ignorant of the companionship of women could properly appreciate the peculiar wants which such might be supposed to have. But Holcroft had in his own nature a certain femininity which was almost an added sense. Moreover, he was a careful reader, and a very close observer. He had not visited picture