his native country he was offered the restoration of his property if he would bring back his ward to Russia. He refused; but he was so base as to promise that he would take no further trouble about her, and leave her to her fate. Catherine pardoned him, and forthwith put Alexis Orloff on the scent. He was a keen bloodhound, she well knew, capable of any villany that might serve his ambition. Gold unlimited was placed at his disposal, and promise of high reward if he discovered the retreat of the princess, and lured her within Catherine's reach. Orloff set out for Italy; and on arriving there he took into his employ a Neapolitan named Ribas, a sort of spy, styling himself a naval officer, who pledged himself to find out the princess, but stipulated for rank in the Russian navy as his reward. M. Blanc asserts that he demanded to be made admiral at once; and that Orloff, afraid, notwithstanding the extensive powers given him, to bestow so high a grade, or compelled by the suspicions of Ribas to produce the commission itself, wrote to Catherine, who at once sent the required document. Whether this be exact or not, more than one historian mentions that Ribas subsequently commanded in the Black Sea as a Russian vice-admiral. When certain of his reward, Ribas, who then had spent two months in researches, revealed the retreat of the unfortunate princess. With some abridgment we will follow M. Blanc, whose narrative agrees, in all the main points, with the most authentic versions of this touching and romantic history. The princess was at Rome. Abandoned by Radzivil, she was reduced to the greatest penury, existing only by the aid of a woman who had been her servant, and who now served other masters. Alexis Orloff visited her in her miserable abode, and spoke at first in the tone of a devoted slave addressing his sovereign; he told her she was the legitimate empress of Russia; that the entire population of that great empire anxiously longed for her accession; that if Catherine still occupied the throne, it was only because nobody knew where she (the princess) was hidden; and that her appearance amongst her faithful subjects would be a signal for the instant downfall of the usurper. Notwithstanding her youth, the princess mistrusted these dazzling assurances; she was even alarmed by them, and held herself upon her guard. Then Orloff, one of the handsomest men of his time, joined the seductions of love to those of ambition; he feigned a violent passion for the young girl, and swore that his life depended on his obtaining her heart and band. The poor isolated girl fell unresistingly into the infamous snare spread for her inexperience; she believed and loved him. The infamous Orloff persuaded her that their marriage must be strictly private, lest Catherine should hear of it and take precautions. In the night he brought to her house a party of mercenaries, some wearing the costumes of priests of the Greek church, others magnificently attired to act as witnesses. The mockery of a marriage enacted, the princess willingly accompanied Alexis Orloff, whom she believed her husband, to Leghorn, where entertainments of all sorts were given to her. The Russian squadron, at anchor off the port, was commanded by the English Admiral Greig. This officer, either the dupe or the accomplice of Orloff, invited the princess to visit the vessels that were soon to be commanded in her name. She accepted, and embarked after a banquet, amidst the acclamations of an immense crowd: the cannon thundered, the sky was bright, every circumstance conspired to give her visit the appearance of a brilliant festival. From her flag-bedecked galley she was hoisted in a splendid arm-chair on board the admiral's vessel, where she was received with the honors due to a crowned head. Until then Orloff had never left her side for instant. Suddenly the scene changed. Orloff disappeared in place of the gay and smiling officers who an instant previously had obsequiously bowed before her, the unfortunate victim saw herself surrounded by men of sinister aspect, one of whom announced to her that she was prisoner by order of the Empress Catherine, and that soon she would be brought to trial for the treason she had attempted. The princess thought herself in a dream. With loud cries she summoned her husband to her aid; her guardians laughed in her face, and told her she had had a lover, but no husband, and that her marriage was a farce. Her despair at these terrible revelations amounted to frenzy; she burst into sobs and reproaches, and at last swooned away. They took advantage of her insensibility to put fetters on her feet and hands, and lower her into the hold. A few hours later, the squadron sailed for Russia. Notwithstanding her helplessness and entreaties, the poor girl was kept in irons until her arrival at St. Petersburg, when she was taken before the empress, who wished to see and question her. Catherine was old; the Princess Tarraka- | his lamp against the wall, and tried to sucnoff was but sixteen, and of surpassing beau- cor his prisoner; but when he succeeded ty; the disparity destroyed her last chance in raising her up, she was dead! The posof mercy. But as there was in reality no sibility anticipated by his employers was charge against her, and as her trial might have realized; there had been stress of circummade too much noise, Catherine, after a long stances, and the princess being dead, he was and secret interview with her unfortunate at liberty to leave the dungeon. Bearing prisoner, gave orders she should be kept the corpse in his arms, he succeeded in in the most rigorous captivity. She was reaching the upper part of the prison. confined in one of the dungeons of a prison near the Neva. Five years elapsed. The victim of the heartless Catherine, and of the villain Orloff, awaited death as the only relief she could expect; but youth, and a good constitution, struggled energetically against torture and privations. One night, reclining on the straw that served her as a bed, she prayed to God to terminate her sufferings by taking her to himself, when her attention was at tracted by a low rumbling noise like the roll of distant thunder. She listened. The noise redoubled: it became an incessant roar, which each moment augmented in power. The poor captive desired death, and yet she felt terror; she called aloud, and implored not to be left alone. A jailer came at her cries; she asked the cause of the noise she heard. ""Tis nothing," replied the stupid slave; "the Neva overflowing." "But cannot the water reach us here?" "It is here already." At that moment the flood, making its way under the door, poured into the dungeon, and in an instant captive and jailer were over the ankles in water. "For heaven's sake, let us leave this!" cried the young princess. If we may offer a hint to authors, it is our opinion that this tragical anecdote will be a godsend to some romance-writer of costive invention, and on the out-look for a plot. Very little ingenuity will suffice to spread over the prescribed quantity of foolscap the incidents we have packed into a page. They will dilute very handsomely into three volumes. As to characters, the novelist's work is done to his hand. Here we have the Empress Catherine, vindictive and dissolute, persecuting that "fair girl," the Princess Tarrakanoff, with the assistance of Orloff, the smooth villain, and of the sullen ruffian Ribas. The latter will work up into a sort of Italian Varney, and may be dispersed to the elements by an intentional accident, on board the ship blown up by Orloff's order, for the enlightenment of the painter Hackert. With the exception of the dungeon-scene, we have given but a meagre outline of M. Blanc's narrative; and there are a number of minor characters that may be advantageously brought in and expanded. "This event," says M. Blanc, referring to the kidnapping of the Princess, "caused a strong sensation at Leghorn. Prince Leopold, Grand-duke of Tuscany, complained bitterly of it, and would have had Alexis Orloff arrested; but this vile assassin of Peter III. "Not without order; and I have received maintained that he had only executed the ornone." "But we shall be drowned!" "That is pretty certain. But without special orders I am not to let you leave this dungeon, under pain of death. In cases of unforeseen danger I am to remain with you, and to kill you should rescue be attempted." "Good God! the water rises. I cannot sustain myself." The Neva overflowing its banks, floated enormous blocks of ice, upsetting everything in its passage, and inundating the adjacent country. The water now plashed furiously against the prison-doors: the sentinels had been carried away by the torrent, and the other soldiers on guard had taken refuge on the upper floors. Lifted off her feet by the icy flood, which still rose higher, the unfortunate captive fell and disappeared; the jailer, who had water to his breast, hung ders of his sovereign, who would well know how to justify him. He was supported, in this circumstance, by the English consul, who was his accomplice; and the Grand-duke, seeing he was not likely to be the strongest, suffered the matter to drop." "Some Englishmen," another French writer asserts, had been so base as participate in Alexis Orloff's plot; but others were far from approving of it. They even blushed to serve under him, and sent in their resignations. Admiral Elphinstone was one of these. Greig was promoted in his place." An Italian prince, indignant, but timid; a foreign consul, sold to Russian interests; a British sailor, spurning the service of a tyrant. We need say no more; for we are quite sure that before they get thus far, the corps of historical novelists will be handling their goose-quills. From Bentley's Miscellany. EARLY LIFE OF DE LAMARTINE, VICTOR HUGO, AND BY P. G. PATMORE. THERE is nothing more pleasant, and few, things more profitable, than to gather up and place on record, at the fitting moment, those slight and (in themselves) insignificant passages in the early life of celebrated men which are very wisely passed by at the period of their occurrence, as not claiming more than the momentary note and recogniton of personal friends. But these buds of genius, when they have actually blossomed into the "bright consummate flowers" which they promised, are more precious to the memory than are those full-blown flowers themselves to the sense. It is this consideration which induces us to place before our readers a few private anecdotes of the boyhood and youth of men, one of whom, De Lamartine, has, during the last few months, occupied a more prominent place in the eyes of Europe than any other living individual, and who has, during the greater portion of that period, done more to prove and illustrate the sublime power of intellect over brute force than was, perhaps, ever before effected, within the like period, by any other living man. Another of those men, Victor Hugo, has done scarcely less than Lamartine, and will, probably, hereafter do still more, to influence the destinies of his countrymen. Alphonse de Lamartine when he was a boy of twelve years of age, and perhaps there is not on record a more remarkable instance of precocity of intellect, or one that has been more fully and characteristically borne out in its prophetic promise by after years; for the marking feature of Lamartine's genius is that union of complexional tenderness and sensibility with intellectual enthusiasm, which forms the essence of that religio-poetical eloquence in which his genius consists. At the period to which our anecdote relates, the widowed mother of De Lamartine resided with her family in a château in Burgundy, in the vicinity of which she was looked up to as the great lady of the district. Among her few habitual visitors was the good cure of the neighboring village, who, from his amiable temper and endearing manners, was the delight of all who came within the sphere of his influence, and particularly of the young folks at the château, who honored and revered him as a father, without ceasing to love and cherish him as a playmate and companion. On the occasion in question he had called at the château in passing homeward from one of his visitations of duty and benevolence, and nothing could satisfy his young friends, who crowded round him with welcomes and caresses, but his remaining to dine and spend the rest of the day with them. The lady of the château joined her solicitations to those of her children, and the good cure's inclinations strongly seconded their wishes; but there was a serious obstacle in the way. The third, Jules Janin, though enjoying European celebrity as a feuilletoniste, is of inferior note to the foregoing. But the passage we are enabled to give from his early life is so singularly a propos to the political events that have lately occurred in France, that we cannot doubt of its being read with interest and curiosity-the rather that M. Janin has, during the whole of the late events in Paris, kept himself studiously in the background, and abstained from expressing, or even indicating, any political opinions whatever. "Oh, if that's all," cried Alphonse, who The first of our reminiscences relates to had receded from the crowd of little suitors It is Saturday," said the good man, "and I've not prepared a line of my to-morrow's sermon. And to compose a good sermon," added he, smiling, "is no joke. It will take me all the rest of the day, and, it may be, an hour or two of the night." around the curé, and was contemplating from | De Lamartine, who had by this time seriousa window the scene without, "if that's all, ly adopted the métier of a poet, had, on his I'll write your sermon for you, Monsieur le visiting Paris for the purpose of publishing Curé. I often write sermons, and preach them his "Meditations," been recommended to the too-in my head! What shall the text be?" Countess de A- by a provincial friend; and All present, the cure included, greeted having herself been allowed to peruse his this half-serious, half-jocular sally with good- verses, and judge as to the talents of the humored smiles or laughter, and the good young poet, she invited, on the occasion in man himself appeared to yield to the argu- question, all that was brilliant in Paris, in ment for his stay among them. According- letters, statesmanship, art, fashion, and beauly he gave a text at random to the young ty-it being expressly hinted to them that aspirant for preaching honors, and determin- they would be called upon to hear and ed to borrow a few hours from his pillow for pronounce on the verses of a young poet the composition of his to-morrow's discourse. from the provinces who was entirely unAfter dinner Alphonse disappeared from known to fame. the family party; but as this was the frequent result of his contemplative habits, nobody took notice of his absence till the curé was preparing for his early departure in the evening-when Alphonso made his appearance with a roll of paper in his hand. "Here is your sermon, Monsieur le Curé," exclaimed he, with a smile of exultation on his beautiful and expressive countenance. The good curé, innocently humoring the joke, took the scroll and opened it. 66 Well," said he, "let us see what this sermon of our young friend is made of. Suppose we try a little of it upon the present audience," and he proceeded to open and read it aloud. He had not read many lines, however, before his aspect and manner became entirely changed. In a word, the child of twelve years of age had produced a composition of deep thought, fervid eloquence, and high poetry, and the good curé pronounced it at church the next day to a delighted and admiring audience. No coincidence could have been more fitting and appropriate, than that of the first work of the author of the "Meditations" and the "Harmonies Sacrées" being first given to the world within the walls of a religious temple. The second triumph of De Lamartine, though less precocious than the first, was infinitely more difficult of attainment-since the one was accorded by a partial friend and an unlettered provincial audience, whereas the other was achieved over the élite of the critics and men of letters of Paris, rendered doubly fastidious by the presence of the fairest representatives of her female wit and beauty. It took place pretty nearly thirty years ago, when De Lamartine was about eighteen or nineteen years of age, and the scene of it was the salon of the celebrated Madame de St. A-, celebrated no less for her beauty than for her talents and literary taste. The young This open challenge to the exercise of all the literary prejudice and partisanship, all the critical severity, all the irony, all the professional "envy, hatred, and malice" of rivalry, not to mention all the insouciance and frivolity of the most frivolous and insouciant society in the world, was preparing a hard trial for the boy-poet; and Madame de St. A-, who took a deep and sincere interest in the success of her young protégé, felt it to be so. She felt, however, that if, as she believed, he was capable of passing through the ordeal triumphantly, it would at once command for him that reputation which otherwise it might take him years of unrequited labor to acquire. As the time approached for the young aspirant to recite his verses, the mere curiosity, wholly divested of interest, which prevailed, assumed the shape and tone of a contemptuous irony. "Who is this that we are to hear?" inquired one. Upon my life I don't know," was the reply. "I didn't catch the name, but I think the Countess said he comes from Mâcon." From Mâcon!-a poct from Mâcon!" "Did you say Maçon ?" "Yes-Mâcon, I think it was-or the moon-I wont be sure which." And this terrible Mâcon went the round of the salon, acquiring new significance at every repetition. At length the exquisitely harmonious voice of the young poet was heard above the busy hum of the brilliant company, and that politeness which is never absent from a well-bred French assembly, immediately commanded a silent hearing, though it by no means promised impartial listeners. And now (as one who was present on this occasion relates) nothing could be more remarkable, and at the same time more beautiful to man, witness, than the magical effect of genius on to have calculated the price of a base action that assemblage of variously constituted, never to have taken the wages of a lie? and apparently ill-assorted elements of social And is there any such man among you, ye life and character. All present, the states-poets' of France? Is there among you one the savant, the man of letters, and the artist; the man of fashion, the millionaire, the idler, the egotist, and the fainéant; the beauty, the fashionable leader, the coquette, the intriguante, even the prude-if, indeed, there be prudes in French fashionable society-all were presently reduced, or rather lifted, to that level where truth and intellectual beauty reign supreme, cancelling all accidental distinctions, and abolishing all conventional forms and habits of feeling and of thought; so universally true is it that "One touch of nature makes the whole world kin." The poem which young De Lamartine read on this occasion was that one among his "Meditations" which is entitled "Le Lac." The surprise and admiration which the entire novelty of its style and mode of treatment at first excited, were presently changed into that profound emotion which all classes and conditions are capable of feeling when under the immediate influence of high genius; and from that evening Lamartine became the most popular poet in France, and has remained so to this day, without a rival, with scarcely a competitor for the laurel except Victor Hugo-who, in fact, owes no little of his inspiration to his boundless admiration of his brother poet; as the following almost involuntary effusion of boyish enthusiasm will testify. The rhapsody we are about to give was written by Victor Hugo when he was only sixteen years of age, and before the "Méditations Poetiques" of Lamartine had obtained that universal acceptance to which their entire novelty was at first an obstacle, especially among the literary and critical portion of the Paris community, who were still almost exclusively attached to that classic school which Victor Hugo and Lamartine have well-nigh abolished even in France, its latest strong-hold. man who possesses the os magna sonaturum, the mouth capable of uttering great things?the ferrea vox-the voice of iron? Is there a man among ye who is not ready to bend before the caprices of a tyrant or the command of a party? Has not every one of ye acted the part of the Eolian harp, changing its tone with every change in the wind that passes through its chords? What have all your odes, your hymns, and your epics done for us? Have ye not denied the true Deity, and offered up on the altars of the false idol an incense as impure as that idol itself? My words are dark, perhaps; they will not be understood by the world. But you should thank me for this. Like the Writing on the Wall, they will be intelligible enough to those whom they most concern! They will want no Daniel to expound them! There would be no difficulty in finding among you those who are ready to flatter power after having extolled anarchy; those who, having hugged the iron chains of an illegitimate despotism, are (like the snake in the fable) breaking their teeth against the file of the law! But a poet? No-not one! For it is to prostitute the term to apply it to any but a firm and upright spirit, a pure heart, a noble and aspiring soul! "Ever since I could think and feel, I have sought among my countrymen for a poet, and have found him not, and in my destitution I have created the ideal of one in my imagination, and, like the blind bard of the Paradise Lost,' have attempted to sing the glories of that sun which I could not behold. "At last, however, I have opened a volume, in which I find the following verses." He then gives an extract from "La Semaine Sainte," beginning at the line "Ici viennent mourir les derniers bruits du monde," &c. "These verses first astonished, then delighted me. It is true they lack the conventional elegances and studied graces of our modern bards; but what a sweet yet grave harmony do they breathe! How rich are they in thoughts and images, and those how new and original! "Men of the world and of society," exclaims the boy-critic, "you will laugh at what I say. Men of letters, you will sneer and shrug your shoulders; but the truth is, not one among you knows what the word POET means. Do you find any one answering to the name in your gilded palaces? Do you find him in your luxurious solitudes ? And first, as to the soul of a poet: is not the O toi qui m'apparus dans ce desert du monde,' prime and indispensable condition of it, never 6 "Further on I find, under the title of L'Invocation,' the following stanzas: &c. |