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In one point he was more fortunate than the novel's fantastic

hero. He never knew-never, indeed, had any cause to know-that

somewhat grotesque dread of mirrors, and polished metal surfaces,

and still water which came upon the young Parisian so early in

his life, and was occasioned by the sudden decay of a beau that

had once, apparently, been so remarkable. It was with an almost

cruel joy-and perhaps in nearly every joy, as certainly in every

pleasure, cruelty has its place-that he used to read the latter

part of the book, with its really tragic, if somewhat

overemphasized, account of the sorrow and despair of one who had

himself lost what in others, and the world, he had most dearly

valued.