transmission to her brother by the post, and some of them are unfortunately lost. Of those which remain the first is dated Cayla, November 15, 1834. Before his marriage took place Maurice, after five years' absence, returned home, and spent six happy months at Cayla. Speaking of this period his sister says: Those six months with us, when he was ill, and so much beloved, had again strongly attached him to this place. Five years without seeing us had made him perhaps a little lose sight of our tenderness; but having found it again he had returned it with all his own-he had so completely renewed all his relations with the family that when he left us death alone could have broken them. He had so assured me. His errors were past-his illusions of heart had vanished; from a feeling of need, and by his primitive tastes, he embraced sentiments of a good kind. I knew all. I followed his steps; from the fiery circle of the passions (very brief for him) I have seen him pass into that of the Christian life. Beautiful soul! soul of Maurice! God had withdrawn it from the world to shelter it in Heaven. It was so arranged that Eugénie should accompany the rest of the family to Paris, and be present at the marriage. This was a great event in her life, for she had never before undertaken so long a journey. A visit to the neighbouring towns of Gaillac or Alby had been the utmost limit of her wanderings. But although her diffidence in herself made her fancy that she was unfitted for society, we are assured that in the capital of France her conversation made a deep impression upon those who met her; and owing to her tact and the native grace and dignity of her manner, she was in reality as much at home in the glittering salons of Paris as in the quiet and rustic retirement of Le Cayla. She was, however, little known, and it was not till long after her death that her name reached the ears of those who would most cordially have welcomed and received her. Maurice returned to Le Cayla on July 8, 1839; but his disease had already made great progress, and he was within sight of the bourne of rest which he had so ardently longed for. Ten days afterwards his sister notes in her Journal the end of his melancholy existence. He was buried in the cemetery at Ardillac, and it is a curious trait of the state of feeling in France at this time, even before the Revolution of 1848 had inaugurated the reign of Liberty and Equality, that when the De Guérin family placed a stone crucifix in the churchyard to mark the resting-place of their beloved Maurice, there was a strong opposition on the part of the peasantry, who thought it a violation of the equality of death. It even became necessary to guard the tomb during the night to prevent its spoliation. Eugénie says in her Journal : Poor sovereign people! This is what we must suffer from it; this is the fruit of their knowledge. In times past all would have crossed themselves before that crucifix which to-day they talk of throwing down in the enlightened times in which we live. Unhappy times, when respect for holy things is lost, when the lowest pride themselves in revolting against the mournful elevation of a tomb! As Eugénie had devoted the chief part of her existence to her brother while he lived, so she now consecrated the remainder of her days almost exclusively to his memory. It cannot be denied that there was something morbid in this. She hugged her sorrow to her heart, and, like Rachel weeping for her children, refused to be comforted. But she mourned not as those who have no hope. Across the dark cloud of her sorrow there darted a ray of light, and that was the ineffable comfort she found in the conviction that Maurice had died a sincere Christian. And she knew that his life had been in a singular degree innocent and pure, so that she might say of him what was said by Cowley on the death of his friend Hervey : He, like the stars, to which he now is gone, That shine with beams like flame, Yet burn not with the same, Had all the light of youth, of the fire none. Her great anxiety was that his manuscripts should be published, in order that the world might know his worth, and estimate the treasure it had lost. An eulogistic notice of her brother from the pen of Madame Sand appeared in the 'Revue des Deux Mondes,' of May 15, 1840. This first brought Maurice's name before the public, and it contained a sort of prose poem called 'Centaure,' which was found amongst his papers. The idea of the subject, as well as of another short piece called 'Bacchante,' included in the recent edition of his works, was formed in the course of several visits he paid to the Museum of Antiquities in the Louvre in company with M. Trebutien, a distinguished antiquary, and Conservator of the Library of Caen. He is also the friend who has devoted himself with affectionate zeal to the task of publishing the remains of both brother and sister- his mission,' as he calls it, 'here below.' The 'Centaure' is supposed to relate to Melampus the story of his birth and early life in the dark caverns of the mountains. We will quote the concluding passage by way of specimen of the style : For myself, O Melampus, I decline into old age tranquil as the setting of the constellations. I preserve still sufficient daring to scale the lofty top of the rocks, where I linger, engaged either in watching the wild and restless clouds, or in viewing the watery Hyades, the Pleiades or the great Orion come up from the horizon. But I am conscious that I am sinking, and fail rapidly, like a snowflake floating on the waters, and that soon I shall pass away to mingle with the rivers that flow on the vast bosom of the earth. Unforeseen difficulties occurred to prevent the publication in a collected form of what Maurice had written. Eugénie was profoundly ignorant of the mysteries of publication, and confided entirely to others the fulfilment of the wish which was now dearest to her heart. But she occupied herself diligently in gathering manuscripts and letters, adding, as it were, stone to stone for the cairn which was to be raised to her brother's memory. And in the meantime, with a broken heart, at different intervals, she continued her Journal, and still addressed it to him with the touching inscription :— Still to him, to Maurice dead; to Maurice in Heaven. He was the glory and the joy of my heart. Oh! how sweet and full of affection is the name of Brother! Friday, 19 July, at 11 o'clock. Eternal date! At last the book appeared.' It was published at the end of 1860, and has already passed through several editions. It was preceded by a biographical and critical notice written by M. Sainte-Beuve, one of the first of French critics. He calls the 'Centaurea magnificent and singular composition . . . a colossal fragment of antique marble,' and speaks of 'the youth of a select school, a scattered generation of admirers. who repeated to each other the name of Guérin, who rallied round that young memory, honoured it in secret with rapture, and looked forward to the moment when the complete work would be delivered to them, and when the whole soul would be discovered to them.' This strain of eulogy appears to us to be extremely exaggerated; but the romantic narrative of the lives of these young persons has excited an unusual interest in their literary efforts. The same writer also speaks of 1 The work was entitled 'Maurice de Guérin. Reliquiæ, 2 vols. in 16.' The new edition is entitled 'Maurice de Eugénie as his equal, if not his superior, in talent and in soul.' She did not live to see the wish of her heart gratified by the publication of her brother's works, for, on the 13th of May, 1848, she herself died, and rejoined him in heaven. She lived, after her brother's death, very much the life of a religious recluse, devoted to works of charity in the neighbourhood. Her father survived her only six months, and Erembert died two years afterwards, leaving a widow and one daughter. Caroline returned to India, and, marrying again, died young; and now of the whole family there remain, we believe, only Madlle. Marie de Guérin, and the daughter of Erembert, who still inhabit the old château of Le Cayla. We will now proceed to quote some extracts from the Journal, taken almost at random, conscious as we are how difficult it is to choose where all is so beautiful, and conscious also, alas! how much of their beauty will be lost in a translation. Almost the whole of them were written by Eugénie in her solitary chambrette at Cayla, very often while the nightingale was pouring out its song beneath her window, and the glorious canopy of a Southern sky was studded with stars before her view. It was there that she most loved to be 'an anchorite,' as she expressed it, 'in her cell.' 'Like the dove,' she said, 'I love to return every evening to my nest; I covet no other place : Je n'aime que les fleurs que nos ruisseaux arrosent, Que les prés dont mes pas ont foulé le gazon; Nothing could be more simple or more uneventful than her daily life. In her little room, with her distaff by her side, she span and read, and thought and wrote; now caressing a pet pigeon, or linnet, or goldfinch, now putting aside her Journal or her work to kneel down and pray, now rising like Eve, 'on hospitable thoughts intent,' to descend into the kitchen and preside over the mysteries of the oven, or to go out and carry alms to some poor cripple in the village. She describes her favourite room thus: The air this morning is mild, the birds sing as in spring, and a little sun pays a visit to my chamber. I love it thus, and am as much pleased with it as with the most beautiful place in the world, lonely as it is. The reason is that I make of it what I please, a saloon, a church, an academy. I am there, when I like, in company with Lamartine, Chateaubriand, Fénelon : a crowd of men of genius surrounds me; anon there are saints. On the chimney-piece was an image of the Virgin, above that a print of Christ, above that again a portrait of Saint Theresa, and, surmounting all, a picture of the Annunciation; 'so that,' she says, 'the eye follows a celestial line as it gazes and travels upwards. It is a ladder which leads to heaven.' Under the date November 18, 1834, she writes: 'What a lot of words One evening he asked I am furious against the grey cat. That naughty animal has just carried off a little frozen pigeon which I was warming at the corner of the fire. It began to revive, poor creature! I wished to tame it; it would have loved me; and all that crunched by a cat! What mishaps in life! This event, and all those of today, have passed in the kitchen; it is there that I stay all the morning and part of the evening since I have been without Mimi. It is necessary to superintend the cook, and papa sometimes comes down, and I read to him near the oven, or at the corner of the fire, some morsels of the antiquities of the Anglo-Saxon Church. This big book astonished Pierril (a servant lad). are in it!' he said, in his patois. He is a droll creature. me if the soul was immortal, and, afterwards, what a philosopher was. We discussed grand questions, as you see. Upon my answering that it was a person of wisdom and knowledge, he remarked, 'Then, Mademoiselle, you are a philosopher.' This was said with an air of naïveté and sincerity which might have flattered Socrates, but which made me laugh so that all my seriousness as a catechist was put to flight for the evening. There he is, with his little pig searching for truffles. If he comes this way, I will go and join him, and ask him if he still finds me with the air of a philosopher. With whom would you believe I have been this morning at the corner of the kitchen fire! With Plato. I hardly ventured to say so, but my eyes lighted upon him and I wished to make his acquaintance. I am only at the first pages. He seems to me admirable, this Plato, but I think it a singular idea of his to place health before beauty in the catalogue of blessings which God has given us. If he had consulted a woman, Plato would not have written that; do you think he would? I think not; and yet, remembering that I am a 'philosopher,' I am a little of his opinion. When I was a child I should have wished to be pretty. I dreamed only of beauty because I said to myself, mamma would have loved me more. Thank God that childishness is past, and I desire no other beauty than that of the soul. Perhaps even in that respect I am a child, as heretofore. I should like to resemble the angels. 24th April, 1835.-I know not why it has become necessary for me to write, if it were only two words. To write is my sign of life, as it is of the fountains to flow. I would not say it to others; it would appear folly. Who knows what this outpouring of my soul is, this unfolding itself before God and before some one? I say some one, for it seems to me that you are here, and that this paper is you. God, methinks, hears me: He even answers me in a way which the soul understands, and which one cannot express. When I am alone, seated here, or on my knees before my crucifix, I fancy myself Mary, listening tranquilly to the words of Jesus. There is one passage twice repeated, in which, after quoting an extract from the works of Leibnitz, where he speaks of 'a pious, grave, and discreet confessor, as a great instrument of God for the salvation of souls,' she bursts out into a strain |