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says, "The influence of the author of the Génie de Christianisme' has been equally felt abroad; and it would, perhaps, be but just to say that the bard of 'Childe Harold' belongs to the family of 'Réné."

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The next opinion in his favor which Chateaubriand brings before us is that of a French critic, M. Villemain. The former note was said to be too flattering to quote entire for quoting this one Chateaubriand craves forgiveness, begs the reader to excuse him, and to reckon for nothing praise bestowed through the indulgence of talent. He then quotes from an article, on Lord Byron, as follows: "Some incomparable pages of Réné,' had, it is true, exhausted his poetic character." Upon which Chateaubriand, with shy air of patronage, comments thus: "I know not whether Byron imitated or renewed them by his genius."

We will leave Béranger, who looked upon Chateaubriand with pity as a superior man who had lost his way. And let us turn to "Réné," perhaps the most famous work of its author. "Réné" has taken such hold of the French mind that the Parisian, ennuyé as that effervescent animal so frequently is, calls his melancholy disorder "maladie de Réné." The "family of Réné" comprises all those who indulge in morbid questionings of life, whose nerves are restless rather than healthy, who find the great gift of existence "slow" rather than joyful. Such a state as this, the condition, as it were, of those who have not strength to grasp the nettle of life, or health enough to gain a mastery of its meanings, we would rather let France enjoy the credit of producing than England. Let Chateaubriand be the parent of the moping element in Byron: Byron has yet a glory and a strength which are not Chateaubriand.

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Réné is weary of all things of glory and genius, of work and leisure, of prosperity and misfortune alike. Every thing bores him he drags along, as he constantly tells us, his days chained to a burden of ennui: his life is a yawn. The fact was Chateaubriand never found his place in life: he was always, as Béranger well put it, egaré. He had too much brain to believe in the old-fashioned monarchy, with its inglorious caterpillar kings; he was too great a seigneur to identify himself with the people; there was no patriciate in France

ready for him to enter, and suitable to his dreams. And so existence became to him an abyss, which something was always wanted to fill. The prophet of morbidness and the apostle of ennui we have styled him. What name else can we give him, as the author of dreariness, like the sayings that follow: "At length my heart could furnish no resources for my mind, and I was only sensible of existence by an oppressive feeling of fatigue and uneasiness."

"It is much better that we should resemble, in a small degree, the generality of mankind, in order that we may be a little less unhappy." Or this: "When really unhappy I had no longer any wish for death. My grief was become a kind of occupation which took up every moment of my time." The pity of it is, that there has grown up a sickly family with the cowardly and mawkish ideas of Réné for philosophy. Here is another sample of Chateaubriand's helpless and woe-begone creed: "The many examples we have before us, and the multitudes of books we possess, give us knowledge without experience; we are undeceived before we have enjoyed; there still remain desires but no illusions. Our imagination is rich, abundant, and full of wonders; but our existence is poor, insipid, and destitute of charms. With a full heart we dwell in an empty world, and scarcely have we advanced a few steps when we have nothing to learn." With all respect to Chateaubriand, we venture to contradict every separate assertion of his maudlin creed. Life deceives none but fools; if you pluck a cherry, it remains a cherry in your mouth, and does not turn to bitter dust on the palate, as cheerless Chateaubriand would make believe. "Desires without illusions"—the very best thing possible. And no "full heart," or rich imagination can see the world empty around it: 'tis a meagre heart and a barren imagination that cries out the unsuggestiveness and desolation of the world. Matthew Arnold, and Tennyson, and William Morris, are all, more or less, of the English "family of Rene!" Let us turn for a moment to another poet, happily an Englishman, who laughs at the querulous children of despair. Perhaps he is thinking of Chateaubriand when he says in the "Secret of Long Life:" "To him" (the supreme poet) "life is not by any means a 'long unhappy dream,'

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idea worthy of a Frenchman or a fool."

Again: "The Greeks knew better. Their poet was Apollo, the divinity of sunshine and strength, and youth and love. Fancy Apollo in need of hourly varied anodynes,' one day the melancholy verse of Tennyson, and another, the distraught prose of Carlyle one day, Holloway's pills, and another old Dr. Jacob Townsend's sarsaparilla. I say that, to the true poet and to the brave man, this world is full to the brim of happiness, and that the future is as certain as the truthfulness of God."

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We have said enough of Chateaubriand's productions from a philosophical point of view: there is scarcely, however, any other view to be taken of his romances which have scarcely any plot, but rely for their charm upon their exquisite elegance of style, and the manner in which morbid sadness is made beautiful by polish.

Chateaubriand returned to France when Napoleon was Consul, and he soon rose considerably above his position in London as hack-translator. His mother died in 1798, with a prayer on her lips for the conversion of her son, whose melancholy had taken the form of skepticism. This longing of hers, it is said, produced the "Genius of Christianity," which was published in 1802, a year after the appearance of "Atala." The "Genius of Christianity" was looked upon as something that the weak faith of Frenchmen might lean upon; and Chateaubriand became looked up to as a power. Napoleon made him his minister, but the two never agreed very well. Chateaubriand had a high-handed way of saying what he thought, and found himself ill able to conform to the wishes of a superior. The Breton gentleman never relinquished his aristocratic dignity. When he was of fered the "Academy," his address was found to be a protest against revolution and despotism. It is said to have made Napoleon ask bitterly: "Am I then nothing more than a usurper ?" He feared the man who would never bend to bribe or flattery. Though brought up in royalist ideas, and strongly impregnated with the old aristocratic sentiment, Chateaubriand preferred democracy to despotism. "Had France formed herself into a republic," he says, “I would have gone with her, for there would have been reason and consistency in the fact, but to exchange a crown preserved in the treasury of St. Denis for a crown that has been picked up—that is not

worth a perjury." No wonder that Napoleon had no love to spare for the most powerful man in France after himself, when he spoke in this outspoken manner, and threw the appointments offered him in the imperial teeth. When the crown fell that has been "picked up" so often and fallen so often, and the allied armies entered France in 1814, Chateaubriand's work, "Bonaparte et les Bourbons," was worth an army to Louis XVIII.: he was made Minister of the Interior and a member of the House of Peers. This peerage he relinquished in 1830, after protesting against the casting out of the elder branch of the Bourbon family in favor of Louis Philippe. Here again this singular Chateaubriand was dangerously isolated, being, as he tells us, "a monarchist from conviction, a Bourbonist from honor, and a Republican by nature." Pitt's saying: "My ambition is character, not office," has been applied to him, and is reasonably fitting.

Now that we have considered Chateaubriand in his literary and political capacities, we will look at him for a moment in his domestic relations.

Chateaubriand loved to patronize, and was one of the earliest admirers of Victor Hugo. He sent for the poet while quite boy, to see him, and paid him a very high compliment on some passages of an ode which he had written. The youth was rather frightened by his pompous and haughty manner. However, on one visit that M. Hugo paid him, this feeling was somewhat modified, for as they were sitting together, a servant opened the door and brought in an immense bucket of water. Chateaubriand loosened his cravat, and began taking off his green morocco slippers. Young Hugo naturally rose to take his leave, probably deeming that no hint could be stronger than this. It was not, however, meant as a hint at all, for the great man would not let him go, but went on undressing as if no one were present. He removed his gray swan-skin pantaloons, his shirt, and his flannel waistcoat(French descriptions, it will be observed, are partial to detail)-and got into the big tub where he was washed by his servant. After being dried and dressed, he cleaned his teeth, which were notably beautiful, and for the care of which he kept a whole case of dentist's instruments. After this little episode was over, Chateaubriand, greatly revived by his splashing about in the water,

began a most animated conversation, interrupting it occasionally to give his teeth another touch with the brush. After this, Victor Hugo did not look upon Chateaubriand's haughty dignity with so much

fear.

The author of "Réné" is described as follows: "M. de Chateaubriand affected a military style; the man of the pen could not forget the man of the sword. His neck was imprisoned in a black cravat which hid the collar of his shirt; a black greatcoat, buttoned all the way up, confined his little stooping body. His head was the finest part of him; it was disproportioned to his height, but it was a noblelooking, serious head. His nose was long and straight, his eye keen, his smile bewitching, but it came and went with the rapidity of lightning, and his mouth would quickly resume its haughty, severe expres

sion.

Madame de Chateaubriand was very charitable, and maintained an infirmary for sick priests. As it cost her more than the money she possessed to effect this, she had a chocolate manufactory, and sold the produce to her friends by the pound. The price was rather dear, we are told. Victor Hugo was once asked to purchase a pound of it, and, in his youthful enthusiasm, said at once that he would take three. He did so, but when the operation of paying for it

was over, he had nothing left in his purse. Chateaubriand, too, was the reverse of miserly with regard to money. He was plunged in debt, but was always ready to be charitable. He kept a pile of five-franc pieces on the mantel-piece of his diningroom; and whenever his servant brought him a begging letter, which was not seldom, he would approach the pile, grumble, and wrap up a piece or two in a paper, which he would send out by the servant. He was once visiting Charles X. while in exile at Prague, and the ex-king made inquiries as to his fortune. "I am as poor as a rat," answered Chateaubriand, "and hail-fellow-well-met with all Madame de Chateaubriand's protégés." "Oh, that won't do," replied the king. "Come, Chateaubriand, how much would it take to make you a rich man ?" ""Twould be a loss of time, Sire," replied the great author, who appeared to be quite resigned to a position of impecuniosity; "were you to give me four millions this morning, I should not have a sous left by to-night."

A moping philosopher, a powerful minister, a jealous poet, a dignified aristocrat, an honest politician, an easy-going spendthrift, an upholder of Christianity, and a popular novelist, all rolled into one; Chateaubriand is a sort of human kaleidoscope, and somewhat interesting to look into. [From London Society.

LETTER I.

FROM CAIRO TO ATHENS.

BY M. BETHAM-EDWARDS.

AMONG other introductions, we two Englishwomen had brought a letter to a certain Turkish princess at Cairo, widow of a pasha, and reputed to be a beautiful, amiable, and agreeable lady. The presentation of this missive required some little formality, but after one or two interviews between our dragoman and her royal highness's chief of the household, all was arranged; and one sultry afternoon we found ourselves at the gate of the palace. Two very smart negroes, dressed in black frock coats and trousers, received us with stately politeness. We were led through a garden to the front of the house, where several women-servants received us, and the men retired. These women at a first glance, might have been taken for English

maids-of-all-work, but, on closer inspection, their olive complexions and features betrayed an Oriental nationality. They were, in fact, Circassian slaves.

On the terrace sat a very ugly old duenna smoking a long pipe. We bowed to each other, and she rose, with some difficulty, to accompany us to the receptionroom, a long apartment that made us fancy we were in a fashionable English lodging-house. Excepting a few knick-knacks, all the furniture had come from Paris or London, and was in very bad taste indeed. The old lady motioned us to sit down; pipes were presented to us, which we refused with all the graciousness attainable; then followed a long pause, during which our companion continued to puff away and stare hard without a word.

Then the princess entered. She was tall and slender and very handsome, with a pearly skin, delicately cut features, and black hair and eyes. Her dress was simply perfect-ample, flowing, easy, of soft noiseless lustrous silk, the precise hue of which it would be impossible to describe. It was something between an asphodel blossom and the palest pink coral, and yet neither the one nor the other approach it at all nearly. Around her head was wound a little turban of delicate colored gauze, fastened over the forehead with a jewel.

Now I am sorry to confess that this graceful and imposing creature was such an inveterate smoker that it seemed the sole business of two or three of her slavegirls to supply her wants. During the two hours that we were honored with her presence, one of these automaton-like figures would come in about every six or seven minutes unsummoned, and hand each of the ladies a cigarette. Any thing more like machinery could not be conceived. There was no salutation on the part of the servant, no acknowledgment on the part of the mistress. The cigarrettes came and went, and that was all.

Meantime our hostess had sent for the French governess of her little adopted daughter Gilparé to act as interpreter, and soon the governess and her young pupil appeared. Coffee was handed to us in little jeweled cups, the French lady made something like sociability possible, and we were asked if we should like some music and dancing.

Of course the proposal was accepted joyfully. "You will be much amused," said the French governess to me; "the Turkish national airs are so naïve, and the princess has among her young slaves some really fine voices."

"We do not realize at home," I said, "that slavery still exists in the East."

"Oh, but what kind of slavery? These girls are happier than are cooks and housemaids at home. The princess is like a mother to them. Some she marries off and provides with a dowry; to all she is kindness itself. They have no cares-think of that!"

Not being able to argue the point from her evdoğa, I was silent. I could readily believe that our hostess would be good and kind to every body and every thing under her care, but the thought was uppermost in my mind how differently such goodness

and kindness work in our own conditions of society. With us a good mistress is sure to have a smiling household. Here no one smiled. Every look and movement of the dozens of women we saw about us, most of them young girls, was joyless, mechanical, monotonous. They were evidently neither starved nor beaten, nor overworked, but the prevailing look of apathetic helplessness and hopelessness was very depressing to unaccustomed eyes.

Meantime the musicians and dancers entered, ten in number, all Circassians. The latter wore Turkish trousers of white linen, striped with gold, bright silk sashes, and flowers in their hair, which was long and flowing. The singing had something inexpressibly savage about it, consisting for the most part of wild chants repeated again and again to monotonous accompaniment. After the songs came the dancing-which lasted nearly an hour-if a series of gymnastic feats and exercises could indeed be called dancing. The woodcuts in Wilkinson's Ancient Egyptians, representing women tumbling and performing feats of agility, would give a better idea of the entertainment than any descriptions in writing. The jumps, prostrations, rhythmic movement of the arms, standing on the head, and other ungraceful and laborious performances, displayed for our amusement, must be very like those of the dancing women at the time of the Pharaohs.

On the termination of the dance, we rose to take leave. Gilparé, her governess, and half-a-dozen maids-I mean slaves-accompanied us to the garden, where we were presented with roses; then they retired, and we drove away without the slightest wish ever again to enter the precincts of a harem. The monotony, the inanition, the dead-alive atmosphere, were unendurable.

There are a hundred thousand slaves or thereabouts still in Cairo; and we heard some interesting stories of daring escapes from the harem. The English consul is empowered to give civil manumission, but of course has no authority to go farther, and the religious ties can at any time step in between slavery and freedom. For example, a slave girl flies to the British Embassy, and protests against the cruelty of her master, but if he demands her, declaring that she is his wife, the end of the matter is that she must go with him. Then there is the difficulty of providing for man

umitted slaves. They are, for the most part, incapable of shifting for themselves. The Circassian women who have been brought up from childhood in the care of the harem are extremely difficult to deal with. Vain, ignorant, and self-conceited, they look upon themselves as important personages, and would turn up their noses at the notion of marrying a man who could not provide them with a slave! Thus affairs are likely to remain much as they are, and slavery promises to outlast Oriental costume, architecture, and other things daily giving way to European civilization. Those who wish to see the Cairo of the past should not delay. The beautiful old houses, with their polished and fantastic lattice-work; the narrow streets of such delicious coolness and play of light and shadow, are fast disappearing. You hear the remorseless chipping and hammering of the mason all day long, and soon demolishers will be replaced by reconstructors, and boulevards will be the promenades of the Cairenes. Of course, travelers are compensated for much that is lost. There are the roads, for example, which enable you to drive to the Pyramids in an hour and a half, and to breathe the sweet air of the desert with as little fatigue as if you were driving in the Richmond road. Then there are the hotels, which, though expensive, are in other respects satisfactory-clean, cool, and comfortable. It is all very well to talk of the romance of travel ending where modernization begins. A fine landscape is enjoyed none the less because it is seen after a good breakfast, and rapturous impressions do not wear off the sooner because you sleep upon them in a good bed. If people travel for pleasure they must be comfortable. In scientific explorations, of course, all minor points are left out. You make up your mind to hardships beforehand, and start off with the smallest possible amount of luggage, to which it is necessary to add the largest possible amount of endurance. But holiday travel, like music, painting, and other recreations, should be perfect of its kind; and granted a capacious portmanteau and a good supply of money, where can not one find it in these days?

The drives around Cairo are delicious. I think I liked the Abbasseah road best of all, where we met the sweet, fresh, inexpressibly exhilarating air of the desert.

and they are evidently doomed to the same fate of ruin and neglect. The Tombs of the Memlook kings are encumbered with broken walls, filth, and rubbish; whilst within nothing is done to hinder impending decay. It is heartbreaking to see all this. We can ill afford to lose what little remains of Moorish art, characterized as it is by such bewitching qualities of grace and fancy as we shall vainly seek elsewhere. They were essentially an artistic people; and, like the Greeks, carried their love of art into domestic life of every day. Dress, dwelling, furniture, were all made choice and beautiful. They breathed an atmosphere of beauty all their lives long.

The glorious mosques of Cairo are not easy to see. In the first place, strangers have to obtain formal permission from the police, which involves delay, and, in the second, if they are ladies, they are sure to be objects of curiosity and observation. Memlook kings. The Memlook dynasty lasted from 1250 to 1517 A.D., when El Toman was defeated by the Turks near Heliopolis, and hanged at Cairo.

The Tombs are exquisitely beautiful, with small minarets and cupolas, each slightly differing from the rest in size and design. A more graceful cluster can not be conceived-all, alas! fast falling to ruin. The minarets are of dark orange color, and very dainty in shape. The cupolas have a rich pattern, and are designed in the best Saracenic taste. Inside, the wealth and elegance of decoration remind one of the Alhambra. There are floors of inlaid marble, screens of elaboratelycarved wood, painted ceilings, tombs, pulpits, and walls, as beautiful as any thing to be seen either at Granada or Cordova, After passing avenues of acacia, sycamore, and tamarisk, we came upon a wide wondrous prospect of waving sands, burnt to a dark brown, purple hills, or what, for want of the proper name, I call purple— there are so many new colors in Egypt!— here and there the white cupola of a mosque, and, over all, that pale mysterious evening sky, never before seen or imagined, and, once seen, never more forgotten.

Some of the most beautiful monuments in Cairo are on the borders of the desert, about half an hour's drive from the town. These are the so-called Tombs of the Caliphs, but what are in reality tombs of the

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