marvelous book, that the poet has entitled comedy, and which he might
have called history; which assumes all forms and all styles: which goes
beyond Tacitus and reaches Suetonius, which crosses Beaumarchais and
reaches Rabelais; a book which is observation itself, and imagination
itself; which is prodigal of the true, the passionate, the common, the
trivial, the material, and which at moments throws athwart realities,
suddenly and broadly torn open, the gleam of the most somber and tragic
ideal.

"Without knowing it, whether he will or not, whether he consents or not,
the author of this strange and immense work is of the mighty race of
revolutionary writers. Balzac goes directly to his object. He assails
modern society face to face. From all he forces something: from some
illusions, from others hope, from these a cry of pain, from those a mask.
He unvails vice and dissects passion. He penetrates and sounds the heart,
the soul, the sentiments, the brain, the abyss that each man has within
him. And by a gift of his free and vigorous nature, by a privilege of the
intelligences of our times,--who, having seen revolutions nearly and with
their own eyes, perceive better the end of humanity and comprehend better
the course of Providence,--Balzac came forth serene and smiling from
those redoubtable studies which produced melancholy in Moliere and
misanthropy in Rousseau.

"This is what he has accomplished among us. Such is the work he has left
us, lofty and solid, a pile of granite, a monumental edifice, from whose
summit his renown will henceforth shine. Great men make their own
pedestals: the future charges itself with their statues.

"His death has struck Paris with stupor. But a few months since he
returned to France. Feeling that he was about to die, he desired to see