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your debtor. Yourself and your friends | tone, perfect mastery of his instrument;

will be my guests to-day. But to-morrow you must leave, as I resume my march, and your longer stay might yet produce serious results. Your passports to Holland are prepared."

In an hour, my two friends and myself were seated together in a carriage.

No. II.

Paris, April 13, 1814.

M. to-day wrote me the following note: "Your adventures with the virtuoso in prison, and your eager desire to meet him again, are romantic affairs; but, like all romance, only a distempered dream. I was speaking on the subject to Lafont; he laughed and said, 'I hope to be able to cure this hallucination, and to quench this unsatisfied desire, by playing at a violin concert in his presence.' I took him at his word. This evening he will fulfil his promise; and to ensure the result which he anticipates, I have also invited Baillot, Kreuzer, and Rode. Can you desire anything more? It is needless to add, that I expect you to be present."

still, only a metallic brilliancy, not the flash of a soul-revealing eye. Now Baillot commenced. The full, energetic sounds which he evoked, recalled my recollection powerfully to the past. A noble enthusiasm gave life to his execution. He swayed the tones like a monarch, but my captive ruled them like a god. At last Rode appeared. His fine, spiritual features, his delicate but noble countenance, prepossessed me strongly in his favor. He began. Yes, there is an affinity between them; he bears within his breast a presentiment of my former companion, which deeply moved me. His expression seemed, to my thoughts, like a noble marble statue, combining dignity and grace. Ardor and pathos; that subdued by the restraining measure, this strengthened and increased by the strong hold of power. At the moment when I first heard him, he seemed to me to surpass my mysterious friend, but my longing for the latter soon returned, and I felt the most eager desire that he could only be permitted to know all that I was now hearing from Rode. But his chainless spirit winged its flight to loftier heights, and penetrated to lower depths; he scorned the sway of earthly powers. He soared aloft to other spheres, and the wondrous melodies which there penetrated his deeply agitated soul, he gave back in tones everlastingly impressive.

You may imagine how much this invitation interested me. For four years I had been to hear the violinists of every city, in which our troops had been quartered, yet without finding even the shadow of my ideal. Now, when the memorable but stormy time of the campaign was past, I was to listen to the four most celebrated masters in the world. I was almost sad for the fate of my ideal. With a beating heart, I entered the gorgeous saloon. But the elegant costumes of the gentlemen, the brilliant toilettes of the ladies, were soon forgotten; my dungeon in Milan rose clearly before me, as I thought of one tone that seemed to emanate from another world. The concert began. Lafont was the first performer. The most finished execution a clear, silvery tone-in andante as in allegro; grace itself; still only a beautiful miniature compared with the inexpressible charm of that romantic, strangely illumined picture which was present to my soul. Next Kreuzer played. Sparkling were his passages, like a wreath Just as I reached the threshold, I reof diamonds; bold strength, full, clear | marked that some one immediately fol

Such were my feelings during the concert. After its conclusion, M. introduced me to the celebrated performers. Common politeness required that I should praise their performances, and who could have forborne to do so? I was silent respecting my captive companion. But Lafont, to whom M. had related the circumstance, began himself to interrogate me on the subject. I wished to evade and cut short his inquiries, but in vain. I therefore told the story, and they all, with the exception of Rode, at once began to smile; but when I narrated and described some technical difficulties of execution which I had heard, Lafont exclaimed, "Oh! you're jesting at us." In fine, they would not believe me. came offended, took my hat, and left.

I belowed me.

that period, I have heard nothing of this wonderful genius. But I am much obliged to you; for the sensation was indescribable, and I had endeavored to improve my style by imitating that heavenly melody. Yes, I am indebted, for the greater part of my fame, to this unknown, vanished genius." I stood in astonishment before the great artist who had thus spoken so modestly and so justly. I could not forbear telling him, that I had found, in his performance, some touches of that magical beauty with which the unfortunate prisoner had captivated my heart. Only it seemed to me that Rode had but heard the commencement, the first forebodings of that strange spirit, while I had seen his wings in full development. We parted. I have a hope. Every genius must make his power felt in the world. Unless a cruel destiny has shattered the precious frame in which this intellect was lodged, it must yet, at some future day, fill every heart with rapture.

It was Rode. "Sir," said | compelled me to leave the city. Since he, "is your narrative true, upon your honor?" I assured him that it was. "I believe you," said he. "I am convinced that there is but one man living who corresponds to the description of your captive. When I was a young man, dwelling in Genoa fifteen years ago, I was going home late one evening; I suddenly heard a violin, the enchanting tones of which filled me with astonishment. At first I could not tell whence this charming music proceeded, but I soon found that a young man, almost a boy indeed, who was standing on a low garden wall, with his face turned toward a dimly lighted window, was eliciting the heavenly melody from his instrument. I stood as if spell-bound to the spot. I well knew, at the time, that my own accomplishments as a musician were nothing, but here were mysteries unveiled, of which I had not before suspected the existence. Motionless, and concealed by the shadow of a willow, I listened to the prodigy. The moon just then emerged from the clouds that had obscured her, and shone full on the young violinist's form. The boy's features resembled those which you have described, only the milder graces of youth softened the expression of his remarkable countenance. His strains ceased; a female form appeared at the window, whence something was thrown down below. In an instant I heard a voice exclaim; "Traditore pol diavolo." At the sound of these words, the boy sprang quickly from the wall into the street, then darted down a by-path, and was out of sight before I could recover from my as tonishment. Immediately afterwards, a head appeared above the wall, and long continued curses and imprecations followed. The light in the window was extinguished. That the whole was a love adventure, was too clear to admit of any doubt. After the lapse of a few minutes, I advanced from my hiding-place. As I was approaching the wall from which the boy had leaped so quickly, I trod upon something which I found to be the bow of a violin, that he must have lost in his descent. I have it yet; it is marked P. At that time I hoped, by means of it, to find out the young violinist; but on the very next day, the pressure of hostilities | my heart, beyond the power of oblivion.

No. III.

"But

Berlin, March 30th, 1829. After a long sojourn in the North, I arrived here about half-past eight. "What is going on in the theatre to-night, waiter?" "Nothing of interest; but you should go to the concert, sir. A violinist"-"I am tired of violinists." this is really a prodigy. The critic Rellstab has worn out his pen in writing his praises. Look at the Zeitung newspaper." "Very good; what is the name of this prodigy?" "His name is-I shall remember it directly-an Italian"--"What? an Italian?" "Yes, it begins with P." "With P., I must go to the concert. Where can I obtain a ticket?" "Just go over the way; that is all you have to do." I went at once; the hall was so crowded that I found it impossible to enter; so, like many others, I was obliged to remain in the vestibule. The tutti of the last piece was ended; now commenced a solo, a Polacca. "It can be no other," I exclaimed. "How well do I remember those tones! They lie deep in But what a wonderful performance! Are there two-three-playing? Never before did I hear anything like it. I can scarcely believe my own ears. Oh! that I could but catch a glimpse of him. But 'tis useless, a dense crowd is besieging the doorway. I will at least lose not a single sound." He ended-thunders of ap-diance through my darkened soul. As the

"Now he plays on the G string," said some one near me. He began. Good God! is it possible? That melody I have certainly once heard before. They are the self-same tones, which years ago, inspired, comforted, animated me, and, as if they descended from heaven, diffused a ra

plause echoed through the hall. But I was unable to see the performer, as the whole company rose from their seats for the purpose of catching a sight of him. Could I have done so, my eager curiosity would then have been gratified, while of the crowds around me, not a single hearer could possibly experience emotions similar | to mine. No one, certainly, could know the nature of my reminiscences. I wait ed with impatience the second appearance of the wonderful performer. At last

company before me separated, I saw the pale, melancholy countenance, the deep sunken eyes, the long wild locks, the trembling, emaciated frame. It was he. Thus after the lapse of nineteen years, the man was enabled to solve the enigma which had filled the soul of the youth with strange, mysterious emotions, and which, like a shrouded figure, would have accompanied him forever, had he not been permitted to lift the veil. It was removed. I heard, I saw-Paganini.

MEMOIRS OF MY YOUTH.*

How frequently our taste in books changes! In boyhood, I was extremely fond of Byron, books of voyages and travels, Cook's, La Perouse, Riley's Narrative, Robinson Crusoe, The Arabian Nights; now, where I read one page of Byron, I read fifty of Cowper's; but I have not in many years met with a book so delightful, so suited to my taste as these recollections of my youth by Lamartinethe sweet style and eloquence of which remind me strongly of Rousseau. It has all the elegance, facility, fluency, and golden cadence of poetry. His theme is "fluent as the sea," and from his mother he imbibed the habit of

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"Reviewing life's eventful page, And noting ere they fade away, The little lines of yesterday."

After his mother's death it becomes necessary that Milly, the homestead of the family should be sold, and the proceeds divided into five shares. It was to pass into unknown hands, and here it was that Lamartine had hoped to end his day. He borrowed money and retained the property, but this was merely putting off the evil day, which came at last, when it was necessary to yield or sell. Lamartine says he attempted in vain to delay. "If time has wings, the interest of borrowed capital has the rapidity and weight of a locomotive." "I was overwhelmed with grief. I looked around me in my anguish; I made my decision; then I altered the resolution I had taken. I gazed from afar with despair at that little, gray spire on the slope of the hill, the roof of the house, the clump of linden trees, which are seen from the road, peeping above the

Lamar

tiled roofs of the village. I said to myself, I can never again journey by this road; I can never again turn my eyes in this direction. This spire, this hill, this roof, these walls, will reproach me all my life with having bartered them away for a few bags of crown-pieces! And these worthy inhabitants! And these poor, but honest vine-dressers, who are my foster-brothers, and with whom I have passed my childhood, eating the same bread at the same table! What will they say? What will become of them when they are told that I have sold their vines, their meadows, their roof trees, their cows and their goats; and that a new proprietor, who knows them not, who loves them not, will perhaps change to-morrow their whole destiny, rooted like my own in this ungrateful but natal soil?" " tine wishes to sell so much of the property as will produce an hundred thousand francs, and he sends for one of those persons who purchase property in the mass in order to sell it again in smaller lots, to see if it could be accomplished. The gentleman arrives at Milly, and they walk about the grounds to see what could be most conveniently detached from the rest, to be divided into lots within reach of the means of purchasers in the neighborhood. "Sir," said he, extending his arm, and and cutting the air with a sweep, as a surveyor portions off the land, "there is a lot which might easily be sold together, and which will not greatly disfigure the remainder. "Yes," replied I, " but that is the vineyard which my father planted in the year of my birth, and which he ever enjoined on us to retain in memory of him, as being the best portion of the domain, and as having been watered with the

* Memoirs of my Youth. By A. DE LAMARTINE. New York: Harper & Brothers, 82 Cliff St. 1849. Les Confidences. Raphaël, Pages de la Vingtième Année, par M. de Lamartine. New York: D. Appleton et Compagnie, 200 Broadway. Philadelphia: George S. Appleton. Les Confidences. Confidential Disclosures, by Alphonse de Lamartine. Translated from the French by Eugene Plunkett. New York: D. Appleton & Co, Philadelphia: George S. Appleton.

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sweat of his brow." "Well," resumed the | sists upon it, and gives him three years valuator, "there is another which would tempt purchasers of limited means, as being suited for grazing cattle." "Yes," returned I, but it cannot be. That is the river, the meadow, and the orchard, where our mother took us to play, and bathe, in our childhood, and where she reared with so much care those apple trees, those apricot trees, and those cherry trees for use. Let us look in some other direction." "Well, that hill behind the house?" "But it is that which serves as a boundary to the garden, and is just opposite the window of the family saloon. How could we look on it now without tears rushing to our eyes?" "That group of detached houses, then, with those sloping vineyards which descend to the valley?" "Oh, those are the houses of the husband of my sister's nurse, and of the old woman who reared me with so much care and love. We might as well purchase them two graves in the church-yard at once; for their grief at seeing themselves driven from their roof trees and their vineyards would not be long in bringing them there." "Well, the principal mansion with the out-buildings, the garden, and the surrounding inclosure?" "But I wish to die there, in my father's bed. It is impossible; it would be to commit suicide on all our family affections." "What have you to say against that hollow which is not seen from your windows?" "Nothing; except that it contains the old buryingground, where, in my childhood, I saw my little brother laid, and a sister, whom I wept so bitterly after. Let us go elsewhere! We cannot stir here without mutilating some hallowed feeling or sentiment." We walked in vain; we found nothing that could be detached, without at the same time detaching a fragment of my heart. I returned home sorrowfully at evening. That night I never slept." The next day a packet of letters arrives, there is one from Paris, the address written in one of those clear, decided hands, announcing promptitude, precision, and firmness; it was from M. de Girardin, offering him whatever sum he wanted, provided he will furnish him with his early recollections. Lamartine refuses to publish the dusty relics of memory-without any interest for any one but himself, but Girardin in

to familiarize himself with the idea. Milly is saved from sale. Lamartine's account of his childhood--his hard and simple fare his pleasant life-his ancestors, his father and mother, are exquisitely described. He glories in the thought that he was born in one of those favored families which are as it were the sanctuaries of piety; a. family not known to fame, but without a stain on their character, and placed in an intermediate rank of society--allied to nobility, but living among the peasantry, with the same habits, and enduring the same toils; not high enough to excite envy, nor low enough to excite contempt. His mother was an excellent and extraordinary woman and to her, Lamaratine owes his mental and bodily culture. His mother laid but little stress on what is usually called instruction-she desired to make her son happy, with a healthy tone of mind, and a loving, confiding soul-a creature of God, and not a plaything for society. She mingled religion with all the pleasant events that occurred to her children during the day, who, when they awakened in the morning, and the sun shone in the windows, and the birds sang their

"Love-learned song

The dewy leaves among,"

their mother entered the room, her features "radiant with kindness, tenderness, and joy," she embraced them in their beds, assisted them to dress, listened to their artless prattle, and said to them, "To whom do we owe the happiness which we are about to enjoy together? It is to our Heavenly Father. Without him this lovely sun would not have arisen; these trees would have lost their leaves; these gay and happy birds would have died of hunger and cold on the naked ground; and you, my poor children, would have had neither bed, nor house, nor garden, nor mother, to shelter and nourish you, or to gladden your hearts during the season of life. It is most just, therefore, to thank Him for all that He gives us on this day, and to pray to Him, that He will give us many other such days. She then knelt beside their bed, joined their little hands, frequently kissing them, and then repeated slowly, and in an under voice, a short prayer,

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