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this old, starved literature: among them Bernardin de St. Pierre, J. J. Rousseau, and above all Châteaubriand. The works of the latter are full of power; they have not been appreciated as they deserve, owing to their royalistic and Roman Catholic tone. Suddenly appeared the "Meditations" of Lamartine. It was an event in the literary world. Imagine a young nobleman of the province who has constantly lived in solitude and dream-land, and who has the happy fortune to be ignorant of everything in books. Later in life, in the full bloom of his glory, he admits that he never had in his library any books except Tacitus, (why Tacitus?) Ossian, a "Jerusalem Delivered," an old volume of "Paul and Virginia,” and a copy of "Imitation of Christ," formerly his mother's. These books, which he seldom or never read, always sufficed for him.

He writes his first poems, without ever thinking of becoming a poet by profession. Will he be an imitator of antiquity, or a disciple of the new school, classique or romantique; or will he try, like Châteaubriand, to combine the two into a brilliant eclecticism? None of these for Lamartine has had no masters, and is ignorant of all the literary schools. His style was entirely new; never before had anything like it been produced in the French language. When the celebrated publisher, Didot, who felt no thirst for a knowledge of the Unknown, or Unknowable, and was but a smart business man, was asked to publish the new book, he declined, and returned the manuscript, saying: "Monsieur, I have read your verses. They give evidence of natural ability, but of want of study. They in no way resemble what is received or desirable in our poets [the poets of the Didots, without doubt]. It is impossible to tell where you picked up the language, the ideas, and the metaphors of this poetry. It is impossible to classify it. This is a pity, for there is harmony in it. Renounce these novelties, which would denationalize the French nation. Read our masters, Delille, Parny, Michaud, Raynouard, Luce de Lancival, Fontanes [who reads these masters to-day?]; these are the really

popular poets. Be the likeness of somebody if you wish to be recognized. I should give you bad counsel by advising you to publish this book, and I should render you bad service by publishing it at my expense." Fortunately, Lamartine did not follow M. Didot's advice. At different times of his life he obtained quite an uncommon glory, for his lips moved, and the soul of the people spoke. He sang like the bird whose life it is to sing. There were songs in his heart and his imagination which he had but to write; and it happened that in his heart and in his imagination were the sentiments and the impressions which were at that time the soul of France. In 1848 he represented the political and social aspirations of France. As early as 1815, in his "Meditations," he felt and expressed her poetical, moral, religious, and philosophical aspirations. To the Romish and monarchical faith of Bossuet and of Fénélon had succeeded the laugh of Voltaire. Nothing could resist the sarcasm of this man, and France found herself without faith, without religion, without any philosophical or even scientific belief. The church was in ruins, society in ruins, the whole country in ruins, after twenty years of wars and revolutions. It seemed that there was nothing left upon the earth. Is there anything in heaven? Does God exist? Is man immortal? Is there a beyond? The doubting multitudes who asked themselves these great questions saluted in Lamartine "le chantre de l'esperance," as the wise naturalist Cuvier called him.

Lamartine, a child of this faithless age, thirsting for hope, had been touched by this universal doubt, but he had too much youth, too much poetry to yield to it. "There is something beyond"; this is the whole of the "Meditations"; this explains how their appearance was such an event, how so many followers arose at the voice of this harmonious revealer of the Infinite. In opposition to Lord Byron and the Satanic school, to that bitter and sarcastic doubt which ended by cursing life, another flag was raised, under which were enrolled all those who believed because they had need to believe; all those

who hoped because they required an eternity for a fruition. To all these the "Meditations" were an evangel. In this collection, which some call the chef d'œuvre of the author, and which was, at least, the most talked of, Lamartine touched the whole key-board of poetical emotions; in L'Isolement, "that undefinable melancholy which pervades us at the close of day"; in the Epitre à Lord Byron, the most profound sentiments concerning life and the infinite; in the Lac, the sadness of the love which believes itself, and which has need to be eternal, but which scarcely lasted for an hour; and in the Crucifix, the sobbing of the lover at the death-bed of his beloved. In the Ode à Bonaparte he rose to the highest lyric conceptions; and in Les Etoiles he was able to idealize human love with a superabundance of images such as no poet before him had ever found. A great many more of these poems, and among them some of Lamartine's gems, might be cited. To be just, there should be mentioned almost all of the two series of the "Meditations," the second of which, though published twelve years later, must not be separated from the first, because both are one and the same book, born of the same inspiration. This species of poetry was the true form for the genius of Lamartine. When he came to more definite subjects, such as La Morte de Socrate or Le dernier Chant du Pélerinage de Childe Harold, which imprisoned him within certain limits, he lost a great deal of his power. Yet there are some beautiful passages, as for example, the farewell of Childe Harold to Italy:

"Terre ou les fils n'ont plus le sang de leurs aieux,
Ou sur un sol vielli les hommes naissent vieux,
Ou sur les fronts voilés plane un nuage sombre,
Adieux! Pleure ta chute, en vantant tes heros
Sur les bords ou la gloire a ranime leurs os !
Je vais chercher ailleurs-pardonne ombre romaine!
Des hommes, et non pas de la poussiere humaine!"

I have cited these lines, not because they are the diamond of Lamartine, but because they were the cause of a duel; the only one, I believe, that he ever fought. Italian patriotism—the most sensitive of all patriotisms-even worse, in this respect, than the

German, which is saying not a little-Italian patriotism took offense. These worthy patriots wish, at any cost, to be considered the descendants of the old Romans of historical fame, though not seldom they may be the descendants of slaves (as Scipio already said, in his time, rebuking the populace, who boasted of the pompous appellation of Populus Rex). However it may be, a certain Colonel Pepe determined to erase these lines of Lamartine with his sword. Happily, he only made a scratch upon the arm of the poet, and the verses still stand.

After the "Meditations" came the "Harmonies." Though still meditations, they reveal a new phase in the natural development of the genius of the poet. There are no more to be found such morning flowers as adorn his early works; but he appears to have greater power, more grandeur and loftiness of conception. If the style is less graceful, it has more force, amplitude, and magnificence. His inspiration is always the same; yet, and with more intensity, that sense of the infinite which may be given as the characteristic of the poetry of Lamartine. Less and less does he care for minute beauties; his poetry is now a grand whole, flowing with full banks and with a majestic current. No more worldly passions, no more earthly love. Graziella is dead, Elvire is perhaps forgotten, and Mme. de Lamartine has never filled their empty places. Religious and philosophical enthusiasm are sufficient to move the poet who belongs no more to this world. "No shores are to be seen," says Sainte-Beuve-"nothing but the skies and the unlimited plain of the Pacific Ocean! Doubtless this ocean sleeps sometimes, quandoque bonus dormitat Homerus; there are endless days of dead calm, a monotony of hill-like swells. Whether the ship is advancing or not, cannot be easily discovered. But what a splendor on this ocean surface! what a marvelous variety in the midst of this apparent monotony! and then what commotions of repeated waves, powerful though gentle, gigantic though beautiful! and above all and always, the infinite, profundum, altitudo.

We must always return to the infinite when Lamartine is spoken of, for this is his first and last word. May this not be one of the reasons why he is every day less understood and less read? To-day-whether it is wrong or right, I leave others to decide we have ceased to think about the Infinite. Poetry delights herself in the contemplation of nature, loses herself in innumerable details, and sees nothing beyond. When I When I read Lord Byron, I believe in an evil power, an enemy to mankind; when I read Lamartine, I believe in a divinity, full of kindness, whose attributes, somewhat vague, allow me to be a half-pantheist; but when I turn to the present poets, I generally believe in nothing.

Theophile Gautier, who was himself a poet, although he wrote in prose, thus describes the "Meditations" and the "Harmonies":

"Dans ses tableaux, il y a toujours beaucoup de ciel; il lui faut cela pour se mouvoir et tracer de larges cercles autour de sa pensée. Il nage, il vole, il plane comme un cygne se berçant sur ses longues ailes blanches, tantôt dans la lumière, tantôt dans une légère brume, d'autres fois aussi dans des nuages orageux; il ne pose à terre que rarement et bientôt reprend son essor à la première brise qui soulève ses plumes; cet élément fluide, transparent, aérien, qui se deplace devant lui et se referme après son passage, est sa route naturelle; il s'y soutient sans peine, durant de longues heures, et, de cette hauteur, il voit s'azurer les vagues paysages, miroiter les eaux, et poindre les édifices dans un vaporeux effacement.

"Lamartine n'est point un de ces poètes, merveilleux artistes, qui martellent leurs vers comme une lame d'or sur une enclume d'acier, resserrant les grains de métal, lui imprimant des carrés nettes et précises. Il ignore ou dédaigne toutes ces questions de forme, et, dans une négligence de gentil homme qui rime à ses heures, sans s'astreindre plus qu'il ne faut à ces choses de métier, il fait d'admirables poésies, à cheval en traversant les bois, en barque le long de quelque rivage ombreux, ou le coude appuyé à la

fenêtre d'un de ses châteaux. Ses vers se deroulent avec un harmonieux murmure, comme les lames d'une mer d'Italie ou de Grèce, roulant dans leurs volutes transparentes des branches de lauriers, des fruits d'or tombés du rivage, des reflets de ciel, d'oiseaux ou de voiles, et se brisant sur la plage en étincelantes lames argentées. Ce sont des déroulements et des successions de formes ondoyantes, insaissible comme l'eau, mais qui vont à leur but, et, sur leur fluiditè, peuvent porter l'idée, comme la mer porte les navires."

"In his pictures there is always a great breadth of sky; he needs this space to fly aloft and to trace large circles around his thought. He swims, he flies, he soars like a swan balancing itself upon its long white wings, sometimes in the full light, sometimes in a transparent haze, and then in the tempestuous clouds. He touches the earth but rarely, and then only for a moment; for he resumes his flight at the first breeze that stirs his plumage. This element, fluid, transparent, aerial, which divides itself before him and closes behind him, is his natural highway; here he sustains himself without difficulty during long hours, and from this height he sees, in a vaporous obscurity, the blue-tinted, vague landscapes, the mirroring waters, and the uprising edifices.

"Lamartine is not one of those poets, marvelous artists, who hammer their verses like a sheet of gold upon an anvil of steel, pressing together the grains of the metal, stamping it with clear and precise squares. He ignores or disdains all questions of form, and with the negligence of a nobleman who rhymes at his leisure, without restricting himself more than is necessary by the rules of his art, he composes admirable poems on horseback while traversing a forest; in a boat gliding along by some shady bank; or leaning upon his elbow at the window of one of his chateaux. His verses move with a harmonious murmur like the waves of a Grecian or Italian sea; bearing, in their transparent curvings, branches of laurel, golden fruits fallen upon the shore, reflections of the sky, of birds, or of sails, and

life.

finally breaking upon the land in sparkling ing wished to go downward on the ladder of silver sheets. Here are unfoldings and successions of wave-like forms, unseizable as water, but which reach their destination, and are able to bear the idea upon their fluidity as the sea bears the ships."

No one could say this better; as a criticism of the style of Lamartine, nothing is lacking; yet Gautier seems to have looked at the exterior rather than the interior.

Between the "Meditations" and the "Harmonies," and after the "Harmonies," Lamartine published a number of volumes, -poems, novels, and "confidences"-Jocelyn and Graziella among others. To express an opinion concerning them all would far exceed the limits of a magazine article: there scarcely remains space enough to say a few words of La Chute d'un Ange, a poem which exemplifies the third and last phase of his talent. All of Lamartine's works might be represented in this trilogy: the "Meditations," the "Harmonies," La Chute d'un Ange. Many critics put the first of these above the rest; othersand they seem to be right-maintain that the "Harmonies" show an advancement; but almost all seem to think that the "Fall of an Angel" was also the fall of Lamartine. Since all opinions may be contested, I shall allow myself to contest this. It is true, there are grave faults in this poem; even some which are enormous: but it is also true that an unexpected quality here reveals itself, a startling energy appears, where sweetness, harmony, and a kind of vague grandeur have been the marked attributes.

An angel has been ordered to watch over a daughter of the earth: she is so beautiful that he admires her, and passes successively from admiration to love, from love to sadness, from sadness to desire, and at last, from desire to renunciation of his divine nature, that he may share the lot of "Daidah." Having become a man, he has the strangest adventures, which end by his committing suicide near the bodies of his wife and children, who are all dead from starvation. Such is his punishment for hav

Strictly speaking, there is in this poem no commencement, no middle, no end; it is merely a series of episodes, of visions without connection; not the evolution of a progressive thought, but the irregular bounds of the most colossal and most wandering imagination.

The sentiments are heaped

up, the events crowd upon each other, the ideas and the impressions are massed in a most extraordinary manner. Here is excess-an abundance and an overflowing of poetry that bewilders. Therefore the critics, usually so lavish in their praise of Lamartine, were very severe upon La Chute d'un Ange, and the literary public hardly read it-which, however, did not prevent their condemning it. Let it be read first and condemned afterwards, if it must be condemned; but let it be read carefully, once, twice, six times; then perhaps it will be found that the critics and the public have not been wise judges. In fact, in spite of so much well-deserved blame, nobody can deny that here are the boldest conceptions, the most brilliant metaphors, the most manly thoughts; real personages of flesh and bones, with hearts that beat and eyes that shed tears; the largest sympathy with the exterior world; a something that brings back the first ages-in short, all the intellectual riches of Lamartine are contained in this book, the last of his long poetical career. Whatever judgment is passed upon this work, whether or not it exhibits the fall of the angel of the "Meditations," there is one thing which seems certain: it is that Lamartine exhausted himself here; after this his muse was voiceless.

I purposely omit to speak of another collection he published the next year, in 1839, for these are not worthy of the name of poems. They were but a proof to himself, as well as to the public, that his vein was exhausted; that there was no longer gold enough to pay for the working. Let us not regret, then, that he engaged in journalism, that he wrote history. If something should be regretted, it is only that,

politics, in

being now unable to make poetry, he tried too hard to make money. Here is the spot upon the sun. Lamartine, who unceasingly ruined himself by extravagances, was constantly forced to cover the deficit. If, for this purpose, he had been contented to publish books more or less indifferent, which more or less injure the beauty of his collected works, he might have been pardoned. But alas! he went much farther and descended much lower; every day new appeals to public charity were made under the form of lotteries, subscriptions in cash, subscriptions for books to be published, gifts in the way of national rewards, etc. It was said of him, and it was a cruel joke, that he had changed his lyre into a tirelire [money-box].

"Lamartine is especially celebrated as a poet and a Christian: as a poet, he made many millions; as a Christian, he always ate asparagus in December, while the poor were dying of hunger. You would be very much surprised if, upon inviting a gentleman to dinner, he should answer: 'If it is all the

same to you, I should prefer that you should give me my share in cash.' Lamartine is that gentleman. He was offered glory with all its halos, and he answered, 'I should prefer that you should give me my share in cash.””

These are Henri Rochefort's words. It must not be forgotten that this notorious writer is only a witty man—the most bilious and the most envious of all witty men: he has obtained a certain notoriety by the malice of his witticisms, but he will always be obliged to envy others their glory and their money, since he has never acquired the one or the other.

We can but regret that Lamartine did not repair the holes in his purse by more dignified means. But is it not well to throw a veil over his weaknesses, and rejoice that poetry to-day is almost as salable as groceries, cottons, iron goods, and spirituous liquors? Let us leave, then, to Lamartine his glory unsullied, and let us salute in him one of the purest representatives of French poetry of the nineteenth century. F. V. Paget.

THE GREAT GULF.

SIDE by side for so many years-
So close I hear her beating heart,
And yet our souls as far apart
As though we dwelt in different spheres.

Were seas between and leagues of land,
I could bear that with better grace;
But thus to look upon her face,
And thus to clasp and claim her hand

And know, though I would die for her,
That this is all I have; that far
From me as any shining star

Her heart is still a wanderer

This is death's pang; what though there rolls
Wide waves between your paths! a thought
Can span that sea, but there is naught
Can bridge the sea between two souls.

Carlotta Perry.

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