verses friends as precursory to a greater maturity of thought. He then wrote proverbs of an exquisite delicacy, and verses always beautiful, but light, and invested with a superior ease withal pregnant of wit and reflection allied to an elegant carelessness. He would burst into accents of profound melody, that recalled the harmonious sounds of other times: Star of love, descend not from the skies! All this seemed to promise a more temperate season, and the lasting reign of a talent that was sought after in the most critical circles, as well as by the most fervent of youth. Whether it were a question of singing the first triumphs of Rachel, or the début of Pauline Garcia, or railing at the coarsely emphatic effusions of patriotism from the free "German Rhine," or writing a witty tale, De Musset would rise to the occasion, appropriately blending enthusiasm with satire. He verified more and more the device of the poet: "I am a light thing, flying to every subject." He was the fashion. His books, as I have already remarked in another article, became acceptable as bridal presents, and I have noticed young husbands giving them to their wives to read from the very first month of their marriage, so as to develop in them a poetical taste. It was then, also, that men of wit and reputed discernment, the dilettanti that are so numerous in our country, presumed to say they preferred De Musset's prose to his poetry, as if his prose were not essentially that of a poet only a poet could have written such fine prose. There are people who, if they could, would sever a bee in two. However, De Musset gained theatrical triumphs as well as the favor of society. It had been discovered for some time that more than one of the comedies composing "The Performance in an Armchair," could, if understood and well rendered by amateur actors and actresses, procure an hour of very agreeable recreation. These little pieces were represented in the country houses, where there was always plenty of leisure time. To Madame Allan, the actress, is due the honor of having discovered that De Musset's stage works were equally suitable for representation on the public boards. It was wittily said of her, that she brought his "Caprice" from Russia in her muff. The success that was gained at the Comédie Française by this pretty poetical gem proved that the public still possessed a latent refinement in literary taste, that merely required arousing. What, then, did the poet wish to render him happy? Why did he, who was still so young, not wish to live and enjoy life? Why did he not return the smiles that greeted his presence? Why did his genius, now influenced by a greater calm, not reawaken the old inspiration, which would have been purified by his later finer shades of taste? De Musset was essentially a poet; he wished to feel. He belonged to a generation whose password, whose first vow, inscribed in the depths of the heart, was, "Poetry, poetry itself, poetry before anything." "During my youth," remarked one of the poets of this period, "I desired and worshiped nothing beyond passion," that is to say, the living part of poetry. De Musset disdained adopting what is called wisdom, but which seemed to him merely the gradual decay of life. It was impossible for him to transform himself. Having attained and gone beyond the summit of the mountain, it seemed to him that he had come to the end of every desire; life had become a burden to him. He was not one of those to whom the pleasure of criticism could supply the place of artistic production; of those who can find interest in literary work, and who are capable of studying arduously, in order to avoid passions that are still in search of prey, without having any really serious object. He could but hate life from the moment (using his own language) that it was no longer sacred youth. He considered life not worth living unless mingled with a slight delirium. His verses are steeped in these sentiments. He must often have experienced a feeling of anguish and defeat in reflecting on the existence of a superior truth, of a severer poetical beauty, of which he formed a perfect conception, but that he had no longer the power of attaining. On a certain occasion, one of De Musset's most devoted friends, and whose recent death must have been a grievous omen to him-Alfred Tattet, whom I happened to encounter on the Boulevards-showed me a scrap of paper, containing some penciled lines, that he had found that very morning on the table at De Musset's bedside. The poet was at that time staying with him in his country house, in the Valley of Montmorency. Here are the verses stolen from him by his friend, and since published, but they only possess their full meaning when one knows they were written during a night of utter exhaustion and bitter regret : I have lost my strength and life, When I discovered truth, She had already wearied me. And yet she is immortal; And those who have lived without her Have ignored everything. God speaks, and I must answer. The only thing that remains to me Is sometimes to have wept. Let us remember his first songs of the Page or Amorous Knight To the hunt, the happy hunt! a matutinal sound of the horn,—and in placing it at the side of his final sorrowing lines, we seem to perceive the whole of De Musset's poetical career illustrated in the two poems representing glory and pardon. In the beginning, what a glorious train of light! Then, what gloom, what shadow! The poet who has been but the startling type of many unknown souls of his day, he who has but expressed their attempts, their failures, their grandeur, their miseries, — his name, I say, will never die. Let us, in particular, engrave this name on our hearts. He has bequeathed to us the task of getting old, — to us, who could exclaim the other day, in all truth, on returning from his funeral: "For many years our youth has been dead, but we have only just buried it with him!” Let us admire, continue to love and to honor in its best and most beautiful expression, the profound and light spirit that he has breathed forth in his poems; but withal it behooves us not to forget the infirmity inherent in our being, and never to boast of the gifts that human nature has received. THE SEA. BY BRYAN WALLER PROCTER ("Barry Cornwall"). [1787-1874.] THE Sea! the Sea! the open Sea! It runneth the earth's wide regions 'round; I'm on the Sea! I'm on the Sea! I am where I would ever be; With the blue above, and the blue below, If a storm should come and awake the deep, I love (oh! how I love) to ride I never was on the dull tame shore, The waves were white, and red the morn, As welcomed to life the Ocean-child! I've lived since then, in calm and strife, Full fifty summers a sailor's life, With wealth to spend and a power to range, But never have sought, nor sighed for change; And Death, whenever he come to me, Shall come on the wide unbounded Sea! NELL COOK. A LEGEND OF THE 66 DARK ENTRY." BY RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM. (From the "Ingoldsby Legends.") Entering [RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM, English humorist and antiquary, was born December 6, 1788, at Canterbury; died June 17, 1845, at London. Of a good old family, with a jolly and literary father, he had a first-rate private education, finished at St. Paul's in London, and at Brasenose College, Oxford. the church, he held livings in the district near Romney Marsh, with smuggling its chief trade, and desperadoes its most noted denizens; he made rich literary capital out of it later. Finally he obtained livings in London, and became a member of a famous circle of wits, including Sydney Smith and Theodore Hook. In 1834 he began in Bentley's Miscellany the series of "Ingoldsby Legends," chiefly in verse, which still remain in unabated popularity, another series appearing in Colburn's New Monthly Magazine in 1843; they are largely burlesque developments of medieval church legends or other stories, or local traditions.] "HARK! listen, Mrs. Ingoldsby, the clock is striking nine! Give Master Tom another cake, and half a glass of wine, And ring the bell for Jenny Smith, and bid her bring his coat, And a warm bandanna handkerchief to tie about his throat. "And bid them go the nearest way, for Mr. Birch has said That nine o'clock's the hour he'll have his boarders all in bed; And well we know when little boys their coming home delay, They often seem to walk and sit uneasily next day!""Now, nay, dear Uncle Ingoldsby, now send me not, I pray, Back by that Entry dark, for that you know's the nearest way; I dread that Entry dark with Jane alone at such an hour, It fears me quite-it's Friday night!-and then Nell Cook hath power!" "And who's Nell Cook, thou silly child? and what's Nell Cook to thee? That thou should'st dread at night to tread with Jane that dark entrée ?" "Nay, list and hear, mine Uncle dear! such fearsome things they tell Of Nelly Cook, that few may brook at night to meet with Nell! "It was in bluff King Harry's days, — and Monks and Friars were then, . You know, dear Uncle Ingoldsby, a sort of Clergymen. cravats, no shirts and no And a cord was placed about their waist- they had no shovel hats! |