board' in secessu muri, the words are, parties on all sides. My first recollecas far as I can make out-and she will tions are of a father in prison; of a find a small document, which to me has mother a captive on parole in her house, been in great price. There will also be under a revolutionary guard; of the something else, to be treated pro re nata' songs of the Marseillaise' and the Ca -that means according to circumstances Ira' sung in the streets, and echoing, as -'and according to the orders in the it were, the anguish in the bosom of the document aforesaid. The virgin will be families around us; of the dull thuds brave, and beautiful, ready to give her- which followed the strokes of the guilloself for the house, and of swiftly-growing tine in our public squares; of the march prudence. If there be no such virgin of half-scared troops all day long on the then the need for her will not have arisen. highways. I used myself to sing the It is necessary that no young man should songs I heard others sing, poor little ungo, and my document must lie hidden intelligent echo that I was of a world into for another century. It is not possible which I had just entered amidst smiles that any one of uncertain skill should be and tears!" certain. But there ought to be a great comet also burning in the sky, of the same complexion as the one that makes my calculations doubtful. Farewell, whosoever thou shalt be, from me descended, and obey me.' 66 Papa, I declare, it quite frightens me. How could he have predicted me, for instance, and this great comet, and even you?" The Lamartines were an ancient and noble family of Burgundy. The father of our Lamartine, a younger son, married the daughter of M. de Roys, ComptrollerGeneral of the Finances of the Duc d'Orléans. Most exquisite and touching is the picture which Alphonse has bequeathed us of his mother; beautiful, gentle, pious, charitable, devoted to her children, a perfect pattern of every wo"Then you think that you answer to manly virtue and that this picture is not your description! My darling, I do be- the highly-coloured effusion of filial love lieve that you do. But you never shall is proved by the fact that even unto the 'give yourself for the house,' or for fifty present day (or at least until recently), thousand houses. Now, will you have according to the testimony of a contemanything to do with this strange affair;porary writer, her memory is fondly or will you not? Much rather would I cherished at Mâcon. hear you say that you will have nothing to do with it, and that the old man's book may sleep for at least another century." "Now, papa, you know how much you would be disappointed in me. And do you think that I could have any self-respect remaining? And beside all that, how could I hope to sleep in my bed with all those secrets ever dangling over During the fury of the Revolution the grandfather and grandmother, both over eighty years of age, and the father but a few months wedded, were dragged from their homes and cast into prison. The son has told us very beautifully how the young wife with her first-born infant took up her abode in a garret overlooking the prison, an old convent in Mâcon, and how, by the connivance of a friendly "That last is a very important point. jailer, the husband was confined in a room With your excitable nature you had bet-at the top of the building which comter go always through a thing. It was the same with your dear mother. Here are the keys, my daughter. I really feel ashamed to dwell so long on a mere su-and-by, by means of a bow and arrow, perstition." me ?" From Temple Bar. LAMARTINE. BY THE AUTHOR OF "MIRABEAU." "I WAS born," says Lamartine in the opening of his charming Memoirs, "in the very midst of the French Revolution a time of passion, folly, and fury of manded a view of that garret window; how the unhappy pair could thus exchange signs with each other, and by letters; how on her knees she begged mercy of the proconsul of the Convention, how she softened the heart of the fierce republican, and how, probably owing to this, her husband was forgotten until the fall of the Terrorists opened his prison-doors. By a strange good fortune every member of the family escaped the guillotine. Alphonse was born at Mâcon in the year 1790; but his childhood was passed at Milly in a quaint old building, half château, half farmhouse, a portion of his father's small heritage, upon which the Revolutionists had left indelible marks of their patriotism, ie. destructiveness. Here Monsieur and Madame de Lamartine passed the greater portion of their lives, and here their children, one son and five or six daughters, were born. Their income was a very modest one, only two hundred and fifty pounds a year. Alphonse has bequeathed us several delightful sketches of this home life, and of the simple manners of provincial France of the period. Here are two winter pic tures: give, as I cannot refrain from quoting the following charming description of a primitive life which seems to be centuries distant from us of to-day: spinning of the flax and hemp in the evenings Then (that is, after the vintage) began the at home; or else the cracking of the walnuts, which was the last gay work of the season for the villagers. The mistress of the house, by the light of a rustic lamp called a creuse-yeux, gathered round the large kitchen table, children, servants, visitors, and neighbours. The men went to the cellar and brought out huge sacks of nuts, of which the husk, already half. rotten, was easily detached from the shell, and threw them on the floor. Every one, armed with a hammer, set to work on a heap of rich fruit before him, to crack the nuts carefully, and take out the kernel (if possible entire) and put them in little heaps, either for sale or for the oil mill. Gay laughter and innocent conversation echoed from one end of the room to the other, and made the work seem like play. When all was done, dancing began, and generally continued till midnight. any light or improper word or action; for she had won the respect and love of the whole neighbourhood. The evening is closing in; the doors of the little country-house are shut. The bark of the house-dog outside gives notice from time to time of any strange step. A sharp autumn shower rattles against the panes of two low windows, while the wind, blowing in gusts through the plane-trees, and sweeping their branches towards the outside shutters, produces that melancholy whistle which we sometimes hear in a great pine wood before a storm. The room I am describing is large, but nearly It was the same with the weaving of the bare of furniture. At the bottom is a deep hemp and flax, which used to occupy the winalcove, in which stands a bed. The curtains ter evenings in the great barn until the tow of this bed are of white serge edged with blue. merchants came round and bargained for the This is my mother's. On four wooden chairs long hanks of yarn and vegetable silk, the at the foot of the bed rest two cradles. They product of which was the gain of the wives contain my two little sisters, who have been and daughters and women-servants of the asleep for a long time. A cheerful fire of pine house, and often served to keep them in clothes logs crackles on a stone hearth beyond, with a altogether. We used to take our share in all white marble chimney-piece, of which the these works with our servants and peasants, as revolutionary hammer has broken the arms in was the custom in those primitive days. The the centre, together with the fleurs-de-lis orna-presence of our gentle mother was a check on ments on each side. Even the iron plate at the back of the fireplace has been turned inside out, because it bore on its surface the arms of the king. The ceiling is of old wooden beams blackened with smoke. There is no carpet or inlaid parquet, only square unvarnished tiles, and these broken in a hundred places by the heavy hobnailed shoes of the peasants, who had made this room a dancinghall during my father's imprisonment. Such were the scenes among which Alpaper or hangings of any sort adorn the walls. phonse was reared until the eleventh You see that the plaster is broken away in many places, showing the stone of the outside year of his age, the period at which he wall, just as a torn frock would display a little his education principally at the celebratwas sent away to school. He received beggar child's legs. In one corner is an open ed Jesuit college at Belley, on the borpiano with different pieces of music (among the rest, Jean-Jacques Rousseau's "Divin du ders of Savoy, where he won the brightvillage") scattered over the instrument. Near est laurels of scholarship. When Napothe fireplace, in the middle of the room, is a leon dispersed the Jesuits, he returned little card-table, of which the green baize cover is all marked with inkstains and with His parents were greatly influenced by little holes in the stuff. On the table flare two the wishes and opinions of M. de Lamartallow candles in two silver-plated candle- tine's brothers and sisters, from whom sticks, which throw a little light and a great they had great expectations, more esmany flickering shadows on the whitewashed walls of the room. pecially for Alphonse, whose future fortune was largely dependent upon their good will. These magnates were intensely proud and intensely Legitimatist, consequently their prejudices would not per No Here follows a description of the personal appearance of his mother and father, which space will not permit me to Sometimes the family passed the whole year at Milly, but more frequently the winter months were spent at Mâcon, where, after a time, Monsieur de Lamartine purchased a town-house. home. mit the young man to go to the bar or to serve the Bonapartist government in any capacity. Thus, during the autumn and winter following his return from college, he remained idle and melancholy beneath the paternal roof. turned to the city, our carriage full of flowers and fragments of marbles, and rejoined our old companion, Davide, who took us to finish our day in his opera-box. The fair singer, he adds, had no feelnor did his own affection, spite her ing for him beyond a brotherly liking, beauty, pass beyond that limit. When Camilla and Davide depart, he Being ardent, dreamy, poetical, of course he fell in love. The object of his passion was a very pretty girl of his own age, with whom he read Ossian, and to is again alone; he falls in love with a whom he wrote Ossianic verses- - re-beautiful artist named Bianca Boni, by plied to in the same strain under whom he is very scornfully treated. In whose chamber window he used to wan- the autumn of 1811 he departs for Naples. der in cold winter nights to catch glimpse of a white hand waved respon- the impression produced upon him by a He has given a very graphic picture of sive from the casement. One bitter the sudden transition from the sombre snowy night they met in her father's stillness of Rome to the bustle of this garden, she descending from her window by means of a ladder which he had gay city. brought with him; they seated themselves upon a snow-covered bench, very shy, very embarrassed, when lo! before they could utter the tender thoughts that trembled upon their lips, their tête-à-tête was suddenly interrupted by the barking of Alphonse's dog, who unknown to him had followed his master. This put the lovers to flight. The escapade was discovered, and it was thought desirable that the young man should break the association by a journey to Italy. Italy has ever been the dream of his life; he embraces the idea with enthusiasm, and starts for Leghorn in company with a newly-married couple, relatives of his mother's. After a time they return to France, but Alphonse, now alone, goes on to Florence, and thence to the Eternal City. His travelling companions are Davide, a then famous singer, and a youth whom Alphonse supposes to be his son. Upon their arrival at Rome, the three lodge at the same inn, and to his great surprise our hero discovers the supposed youth to be a very beautiful woman, one of Davide's company. The effect was magical [he says]. Rome Nature and man seem to have combined to was a monastery, Naples the garden of Eden. produce this most perfect spot. The grotto of Pausilippo, where you pass through utter darkness to find on the other side the green plain of Pozzuoli and the azure bay of Baiæ; Virgil's tomb, where the old poet seems to sleep under his laurels to the lulling tune of the seawaves; the ten thousand villas which crowd of the Via di Toledo; the royal palace and its the Chiaja; the never-ceasing noise and bustle terrace; the theatre; the market-place; the women, and children selling fish upon the different cries and costumes of the men, shore; the monasteries and church steeples; the religious habits mingled with the peasants' dresses; the beautiful country-house of the king rising like a white phantom from its groups of cypresses and Italian pines; another palace, like the Reine Jeanne, jutting its bistre-coloured rocks into the sea; Vesuvius smoke, like a priestess playing with the coals soaring above all, with its light cloud of of her censer; add to this a sun without a cloud filling one's heart with gladness, and a sky of the deepest ultramarine. His mother had sent him letters of introduction to a M. de la Chavanne, the director of the tobacco manufactory, at whose house he by-and-by takes up his abode. Camilla (such was her name), he tells us, knew the town by heart, and used to take me at the best hours for seeing this beautiful city Among the young girls employed in the the morning under the stone pines in the manufactory is one named Graziella, who Pincio; the evening under the shade of the is given him for an attendant; she is the grand Colonnade of St. Peter's; by moonlight daughter of a fisherman of the island of in the solemn enclosure of the Coliseum; and Procida, and is destined to produce a in the glorious autumn days to Albano, Fras-lasting impression upon the young man's cati, or the Temple of the Sibyl, echoing with life and genius, and to be immortalized the foaming cascades of Tivoli. Camilla was bright and gay, like a figure of eternal youth scribes her in Procitanian costume : by him in prose and verse. He thus deamidst these vestiges of bygone times; she danced on the tomb of Cecilia Metella; and On her feet she had little yellow slippers while I was sitting dreaming upon a funeral without heels, of which the leather was finely moie, her beautiful voice echoed through the embroidered in red and silver; her blue stockPalace of Diocletian. In the evening we re-lings seemed not to be knitted but woven in some kind of bright stuff. A woollen petti- to seek for a trim-built vessel to supply coat with a multitude of fine plaited folds, and the place of the wreck. The joy and of a dark yet bright brown shade, fell to her gratitude of the poor people when, withfeet; a bodice of green velvet cut square, and out a word of preparation, the boat is made into a point both before and behind, revealed her neck and bosom, both of which brought round opposite their cottage, were modestly covered by a chemisette of may be imagined. Sometimes, after fine lace and embroidery closely buttoned dark, their guest reads to them. One down the front. The sleeves and waistcoat night he selects "Paul and Virginia." were trimmed with rich braiding and em- They listen to the sweet pathetic story broidery, and are alike for rich and poor. with tear-streaming eyes. Graziella holds The head-dress, except on a journey, consisted the lamp, absorbed, spell-bound, drawing of nothing but a profusion of raven black hair, closer and closer to the reader as the inrolled in a thick cable round the head, like a terest rises, until her breath fans his living turban. Her throat and ears were cheek. He breaks off in the middle, rerings of Greek workmanship, and of very fine serving the catastrophe for the next gold, the pendants of which clicked like the evening. They entreat, implore him to little bells of a horse in a circus. The blush- proceed, but he is inexorable. The foling face of the child revealed a mixture of lowing night they gather round him in shame and bashfulness, partly with the con- eager expectancy. When he comes to sciousness of her own beauty and partly with the catastrophe, their deep, convulsive the sense of our appreciation of it. sobs fill the hut. The next day they move about solemnly, mournfully, as under the shadow of death. ornamented with a beautiful necklace and ear He goes away with Herr von Humboldt, the diplomatist, on a tour in Calabria. When he returns Graziella has disappeared, leaving a note behind her. It runs thus: "From the moment you departed I felt I could no longer stay; I shall never see thee again." And the paper is blistered with tear-marks. She has returned to her home. Thither, after a little while, he follows her in company with a friend named Virieu. In all his writings there is no more beautiful episode than that (in his "Confidences") which describes his life upon the lovely Grecian island, where, amidst the primitive inhabitants, lapped in the soft luxury of the delicious climate, he forgets for months, home, friends, and the artificial world to which he belongs. His days are passed idly floating upon the sunlit waters of the Mediterranean, or beneath the shadows of the trellised vines - a few books and Graziella for his companions; the nights are spent wandering upon the sea-beat shore beneath the burning constellations of the southern heavens, his whole soul steeped in the soft lovebreathing languor of the perfumed air. How dangerous such a companionship to two young hearts, but more especially to hers, and he is so handsome, so gentle, so refined, so different to the associations by which she is surrounded! One stormy night her father's boat, although it has been drawn up on the strand, is beaten to pieces by the waves; the family's sole means of support is thus destroyed. While they are bemoaning their hard fate Alphonse and his friend put their small stock of money together, and, without a word of their intention, depart A young fisherman, well-to-do, becomes a suitor for Graziella's hand. The proposal excites in her only horror, and when her parents grow peremptory she disappears from her home. They know not whither she has fled; the island is searched, for a time in vain. At length Alphonse finds her in a religious cell, her beautiful hair cut off, and in all but a dying state from fasting and weeping. At length his mother writes to his friend Virieu, who has returned to Naples, for an explanation of the suspicious life he is leading at the island. over and almost drags him away, leaving Graziella heart-broken and senseless in her mother's arms. Virieu comes He returns to Mâcon. Soon afterwards a traveller brings him a letter; it is her last farewell. She survived his departure but a few days; her last thoughts had been for him. In one of his sweetest poems, which bears her name, he thus describes the spot that contains the ashes of this pathetic love-story: Sur la plage sonore où la mer de Sorrente Aux distraits de l'Etranger; courir, mourir." The memory of this hapless love sinks deep into his heart, and develops into struggle going on in Lamartine's mind morbid, Byronic melancholy, out of which between the real and the ideal. He was by-and-by will come poetry, Byronic in sentimental rather than passionate. In its beauty and sadness, to stir the heart spite of his love romances there was an of Europe. Ah, why did he not remain element of coldness in his nature which, in that beautiful island, make Graziella while it preserved him from error, degenhis wife, turn fisherman, and forsake for- erated into fastidiousness. "It was not," ever the cold artificial life of what is says a contemporary writer, "so much a called civilization? What to him are the woman that was necessary to Lamartine people of this petty provincial town? Has Eve before the serpent, perfect, diand they are divided by gulfs as impas-vine, immaculate in all things." sable as though they were separate creations; they have no ideas, no sympathies in common. With them to be a perfect whist-player is to attain the summit of earthly genius. And to mingle with and pander to these soulless beings; to lead this idle listless life upon which no prospect dawns, he has forsaken that glorious land of eternal sunshine, those simple, kindly people, and condemned that gentle heart to death. "My God!" he writes, "I have often regretted that I was born. I have often wished to fall back even into nothingness rather than advance through so many falsehoods, so many sufferings, and so many successive losses towards that loss of ourselves which we call death." Such is the common wail of genius in this nineteenth century. There is no such burden to the song of Homer and Virgil, nor to that of Tasso; not even to that of Dante, certainly not to Chaucer's nor Shakespeare's. These men of an older age enjoyed life with a more cheerful and robust philosophy: "Eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we may die." But the thought cast no sadness over the feast; they were content to take life as it is; they felt the sorrow of to-day, but anticipated not the woe of to-morrow; when unafflicted by any extraordinary trouble, the mere sense of animal life was happiness. Death cast not his shadow before him in those days. But the morbid preponderance of the intellectual over the physical which characterizes the poetical temperament of our own time robs the world of its gladness. Over the sunlit earth, teeming with the life of summer; over the noble forms of men, over the beauty of women, the dark angel ever sits brooding. All that we hold for dear and beautiful is but a masked corruption, dust and ashes, to be swept into a tomb. Fatal truths all, but imparting a morbid tone to thought if the mind be ever dwelling upon them. Symptoms of disease, marking perhaps the first stages of the world's decay. There seems to have been a constant Tortured by bitter memories; consumed by a restless, ambitious spirit that could find no field for action, by a morbid imagination that fed upon its own moody melancholy; a solitary wanderer among the wild romantic scenery of Burgundy — thus passes away another twelvemonth of his life. Then he goes to Paris, plunges into the excitement of gambling, contracts heavy debts, from which perils he is rescued by his devoted mother, who wins him back to his home once more. Hope at length dawns in the young man's dark horizon. Paris is occupied by the Allies, and Louis the Eighteenth is proclaimed. Alphonse dons the white scarf and departs to join the King. His father presents him at Court, and he is enrolled in the royal body guard. After remaining at Paris for some time, he removes into garrison at Beauvais. There he resumes his old solitary wanderings, and begins writing those poems known hereafter as "Les Méditations Poétiques." His favourite resort is a deserted vineyard, where he reclines in A hollow formed by the furrows and shaded little seat invisible to all eyes. by the vine leaves, where I had made myself a I used to gather the leaves round me, breathing in their sweet aromatic smell, and wishing for nothing else on earth. Sometimes the shade of Gra ziella under the vines of Ischia came before me and fell upon the open book. . . . These hours were spent either in sorrowful remembrance of the past and in tears, as a wellknown face seemed to rise up before me which was engraven forever on my heart; or in writing disconnected verses to her memory, in which my grief was mingled with remorse; or in dreaming of the future, on the threshold of which I was then standing. He returns to Mâcon on leave, and byand-by comes the news that "Napoleon has escaped from Elba, and is marching with a handful of troops across the mountains to Grenoble." He hurries back to "The town," he says, "was in a Paris. strange state of dumb consternation, like a place where there is but one feeling." But the cries of "Vive le Roi!" which |