LAMARTINE'S RAPHAEL. * IN one of the French memoirs of Lamartine,
and doubtless in many Eng- lish imitations or translations, there is an allusion to something mys- terious in which the poet was engaged in very early manhood. Of course the reference is to some affair of the heart; but, dimly as it is intimated, we should not have concluded that the story of Raphael had anything to do with it, but for the sort of indication in the titlepage, which ob- viously means something. The notion of getting at biographical secrets in the guise of fiction, coupled with the literary celebrity and political no- toriety of Lamartine, will procure more readers for the book, both in
France and England, than its own merits could command. There is no novelty of substance or manner in Raphael. The frame- work is easy and hacknied : the dying autobiographer leaves his friend a manuscript, which he may either burn or preserve as a memorial The form of the narrative, broken down into sections, and admitting of di- gressions for reflection, reverie, and effusion of any kind, is likewise old enough. The clear, flowery style, of poetical pitch without poetical power, and descriptions whose principal end is to show how the writer can describe, are not rare in literature, though Lamartine is entitled to be rated as a master of the school. The sentiment is essentially of that unreal and exaggerated German vein which Canning burlesqued in "Ma- tilda Pottingen," or which in " The Sorrows of Werther " was burlesque itself; though French taste may have refined it. The moral tone is intended to be of the highest kind — to exhibit a sort of etherial platonism animated by the fire of restrained passion. To English ideas, the purity will seem rather odd : but French notions differ from ours. There seems little doubt that M. de Lamartine's object is to show the triumph of heavenly over sensual passion, and how the mind can be led from speculative unbelief to sentimental religion by means of the affec- tions.
The book contains the narrative of a platonic passion between Ra- phael and Julie. Raphael is an unknown and unappretiated genius, with a pride and sensibility too great to gain advancement in this work- a-day world; and is probably designed to adumbrate the poet in his youth, though his poverty and that of his family would seem to be exaggerated. Julie is a Creole from the isle that gave birth to the Virginia of the ro- mance. Julie lost her mother in childhood ; her father returned to France, to die in difficulties ; but his daughter was received into a public institution for the education of the orphans of men who have deserved well of their country. In this asylum she was often noticed by a philo- sopher of great fame and great age, when he came officially to the institu- tion. Shortly before the time for her departure expired, be visited her, and finding, as he expected, that she had no home or prospects in the world, persuaded her to marry him for a home and protection, on the understanding that she was to live with him as a daughter. Julie, how- ever, pines for love : which, Booth to say, the philosophic old husband does not seem inclined to object to; but she meets with no one to reach the ideal she has proposed to herself. Meanwhile, she is affected with a disease of the heart, not metaphorical but physical, for which travel is suggested. At a boarding-house at Aix, in Savoy, the pair meet. At first Raphael is abashed and speechless ; but a convenient though common accident on the water breaks the spell, and the lovers avow their affection. In the outset, M. Raphael is rather inclined to- wards an earthly passion; but it is checked, and finally eradicated, by the lofty feelings of Julie. This service he is enabled to requite by be- ooming a means of converting Julie to Theism ; which, before her death, leads to her reception into the bosom of the Church—for in the society of the old philosopher and his friends she had imbibed a sort of philosophical Atheism. Of a description of this platonic passion, running into the most elaborate effusion of sentiment, a great part of the volume consists ; the incidents being comparatively few, and dealing mostly with the be- haviour of a lover in a hot fit,—watching windows, and kissing spots which the beloved one's feet have trod.
Amid the mass of eloquent and rather verbose description of feelings, that will as often raise a smile as sympathy, there are some interesting passages of a more real and substantial character. They seem evidently autobiographical, and describe Lamartine's studies, and criticisms on the authors he read, as well as record the difficulties he underwent in Paris. The following account of an attempt to raise money by the sale of his poems, in order to continue near Julie, is doubtless real ; for M. de La- martine would hardly place an individual before the public in a false light. We may feel assured that the obscure poet's interview with the great bookseller is a leaf out of life.
"One morning, after a desperate struggle between timidity and love, love tri- =plied. I concealed beneath my coat my small manuscript, bound in green, containing my verses, my last hope ; and, though wavering and uncertain in my design., I turned my steps towards the house of a celebrated publisher, whose name J13 associated with the progress of literature and typography in France, Mon- sieur Didot. I was first attracted to this name because M. Didot, independently of his celebrity as a publisher, enjoyed at that time some reputation as an author. Ile had published his own verses with all the elegance, pomp, and cir- cumstance of a poet who could himself control the approving voice of Fame.* * * "I wa:s politely received by M. Didot; a middle-aged man, with a precise and eommercial air, whose speech was brief and plain, as that of a man who knows the value of minutes. He desired to know what I had to say to him. I stam- mered for some time, and became embarrassed in one of those labyrinths of am- biguous phrases under which one conceals thoughts that will, and will not, come to the point. I thought to gain courage by gaining time: at last, I unbuttoned my coat, drew out the little volume, and presented it humbly with a trembling hand to N. Didot. I told him that I had written these verses, and wished to have • Raphael or Pages of the Book of Life at Twenty. By Alphonse de Lamartine. T1140ated with the sanction of the Author. Published by J. W. Parker.
them published; not, indeed, to bring me fame, (I had not that absurd delusion,) but in the hopes of attracting the notice and good-will of influential literary men; that my poverty would not permit of my going to the expense of printing; and - therefore I came to submit my work to him, and request him to publish it, should he, after looking over it, deem it worthy of the indulgence or favour of cultivated minds. M. Didot nodded, smiled kindly but somewhat ironically, took my manu- script between two fingers, which seemed accustomed to crumple paper contempt- uously, and putting down my verses on the table, appointed me to return in week for an answer as to the object of my visit. I took my leave. The next seven days appeared to me seven centuries." • •
"My heart failed as, on the eighth day, I ascended his stairs. I remained a long while standing on the landing-place at his door, without daring to sing. At last some one came out, the door was opened, and I was obliged to go in. M. Didot's face was as unexpressive and as ambiguous as an oracle. He requested me to be seated ; and while looking for my manuscript, which was buried beneath heaps of papers, ' I have read your verses, Sir,' he said: 'there is some talent in them, but no study. They are unlike all that is received and appretiated in our poets. It is difficult to see whence you have derived the language, ideas, and imagery of your poetry, which cannot be classed in any definite style. It is a pity, for there is no want of harmony. You must renounce these novelties, which would lead astray our national genius. Read our masters—Delille, Parny, Mi- chaud, Reynouard, Luce de Lancival, Fontanes ; these are the poets that the pub- lic loves. You must resemble some one, if you wish to be recognised and to be read. I should advise you ill if I induced you to publish this volume ; and I should be doing you a sorry service in publishing it at my expense.' So saying, he rose, and gave me back my manuscript. I did not attempt to contest the point with Fate, which spoke in the voice of the oracle. 1 took up the volume thanked M. Didot, and, offering some excuse for having trespassed on his time went down stairs, my legs trembling beneath me, and my eyes moistened with tears.
" Ah! if N. Didot, who was a kind and feeling man, a patron of letters, could have read in my heart, and have understood that it was neither fame nor fortune that the unknown youth came to beg, with his book in his hand—that it was life and love I sued for—I am sure he would have printed my volume. He would have been repaid in heaven at least."
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