MEMOIRS OF CHATEAUBRIAND. INTRODUCTION. BY THE FRENCH EDITOR. have undertaken to say a few words by way of introto this work, having long been desirous to express timents respecting M. de Chateaubriand, one of those hearts which elevate literature, and cause the humblest ters to step forward more firmly in the pride of his sion. For these eighteen years, literature has been so omised by a host of giddy aspirants; to such a degree been made a matter of boasting and of trade; and so lently has the reader of the nineteenth century been while being robbed, that we have need to be thankful at writer who has invariably proved himself the most y, without ceasing to be the most renowned. stood alone in the age-he was the honest man-he he great man. His name filled literature, and flooded h a golden light. The Republic came, and he withdrew, and melancholy, hand in hand with those who have him. His remains were conveyed to Bretagne, agreeably s last wish, and there is no more to say. Now go to ilent house in the Rue du Bac, numbered 112; they Chateaubriand's room, Chateaubriand's table, he expired. B LITERARY FUND-ATTIC IN HOLBORN-FAILURE OF MY HEALTH- WALKS-A NIGHT IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY SUMPTUOUS ENTERTAINMENT-END OF MY 120 FRANCS-FRESH DIS- TRESS-TABLE D'HOTE-BISHOPS-DINNER TAVERN-CAMDEN PAPERS Page 371 373 377 380 MY OCCUPATIONS IN THE COUNTRY-DEATH OF MY BROTHER-MIS- THE ESSAI HISTORIQUE SUR LES RÉVOLUTIONS—ITS EFFECT-LET- FONTANES-CLÉRY. A VENDEAN PEASANT. WALKS WITH FONTANES 408 410 PANAT DEATH OF MY MOTHER-RETURN TO RELIGION "GÉNIE DU CHRISTIANISME"-LETTER FROM THE CHEVALIER DE MY UNCLE M. DE BEDÉE-HIS ELDEST DAUGHTER 414 416 419 ENGLISH LITERATURE-DECAY OF THE OLD SCHOOL-HISTORIANS- 420 NOVELS, OLD AND NEW-RICHARDSON-WALTER SCOTT 425 427 LORD BYRON 429 ENGLAND FROM RICHMOND TO GREENWICH-EXCURSION WITH PEL- RETURN OF THE ÉMIGRÉS TO FRANCE THE PRUSSIAN MINISTER MY STAY AT DIEPPE-TWO SOCIETIES YEAR 1800-SIGHT OF FRANCE-ARRIVAL IN PARIS MEMOIRS OF CHATEAUBRIAND. INTRODUCTION. BY THE FRENCH EDITOR. WE have undertaken to say a few words by way of introduction to this work, having long been desirous to express our sentiments respecting M. de Chateaubriand, one of those great hearts which elevate literature, and cause the humblest of writers to step forward more firmly in the pride of his profession. For these eighteen years, literature has been so compromised by a host of giddy aspirants; to such a degree has it been made a matter of boasting and of trade; and so impudently has the reader of the nineteenth century been jeered while being robbed, that we have need to be thankful to that writer who has invariably proved himself the most worthy, without ceasing to be the most renowned. He stood alone in the age–he was the honest man–he was the great man. His name filled literature, and flooded it with a golden light. The Republic came, and he withdrew, mild and melancholy, hand in hand with those who have loved him. His remains were conveyed to Bretagne, agreeably to his last wish, and there is no more to say. Now go to that silent house in the Rue du Bac, numbered 112; they will show you Chateaubriand's room, Chateaubriand's table, the bed on which he expired. VOL. I. B If we now endeavour to recal some traits of that mighty and melancholy genius, if we descend step by step through his works, it is not so much to perform the duty of critic, as to pay a last homage to him who was for so long a period the most brilliant expression of literary France; the last gentleman, perhaps the greatest christian to a certainty. Chateaubriand belongs to that family of colossal thinkers, before whom one pauses twice before one undertakes to go round them. Their collective works excite a respect which their character and the warm esteem that we have vowed to them would scarcely command. It is ever since the Consulate that the glory of the author of the Génie du Christianisme has endured; and, in France, if the success of an hour is rarely right, the success of half a century is never wrong. He who has been the great man for fifty years, is sure of being so for ever. What strikes us most in Chateaubriand's work is Chateaubriand. The history of a thought is sometimes as full of instruction as the thought itself. The author is the first of his books-or, at least, that which furnishes the key to all the others. Now tell us where is a finer history than that of this poet, of this soldier, of this traveller, of this minister, of this ambassador, of this peer of France. Not a shore but he has visited, not a glory but he has tasted, not a misery but he has suffered. I am aware that in this history he will relate himself, that he has made of it a book, in which, with scaffold or flourish of trumpets at their head, the prodigious events wherein he was mixed up, will pass before us. I am aware that this book, profound as the Confessions, epic and forceful as a "Bulletin of the Grand Army," full of kindly feeling as the ، Sentimental Journey," will tell all, and conceal nothing. But, frankly as Chateaubriand relates his own history, there is one thing from which he recoils, that is, self-praise. One cannot pass along the street and look at one's self from the window. We disguise not from ourselves the temerity and the importance of the lines which we are about to offer. From the brilliant place which Chateaubriand occupies in the age, he would deserve perhaps that a more eminent pen than ours should record his glory and his genius. We belong not to the generation which saw him live-we belong to that which saw him die-but we shall belong more especially to that which shall see him survive himself. Where then would be the harm of occasionally asking youth its opinion of the men and things of the time? It is worth while to consider what is thought of the present generation by those who are to form the future one. One morning last July, two black vehicles mournfully reached the shore of Brittany. In one of them was the body of a great thinker. In the other were a clergyman, a testamentary executor, and François, the valet de chambre. In this manner, these two carriages arrived at a small town near Avranches. While they were standing in the road, waiting for horses, a lady of a certain age, holding a modest bouquet wrapped in paper, timidly approached. She laid her present on the seat within, saying, in a low voice, "That is for M. de Chateaubriand; 'tis all I have been able to procure." We will do like the old lady. Here is our bouquet. I. Chateaubriand entered life by the great door of the forests. A native of that gloomy Bretagne, which produces only human oaks or home-sick conscripts, he ever retained the. two-fold character of force and melancholy. The fairies with golden harps, who keep watch beneath those antique canopies, dropped upon his cradle the sacred vervain, to bind upon his brow. He was brought up in a black castle, where. he heard the singing of the sea-the sea, his first and his latest passion. But his youth was sad as a poem of Ossian's. Fling not your children into woods. Nature, and nature alone, is a dangerous mistress, who will make savages of them unless she makes them poets; monsters, unless she makes them |