188 RECOLLECTIONS OF CHATEAUBRIAND IN ENGLAND. 



Almack's, and their glory eclipses his. Of all the names of the past 

 or the present generation, perhaps one only will survive, because as- 

 sociated with literary merit and that name is Pitt. Two small 

 tiny volumes sometimes hand down a name to posterity, for whom 

 alone an author should write ; and it is simply because I doubt if 

 generations yet unborn will speak of my own works, that I hold them 

 cheap. I feel an intimate conviction that my literary fame rests on 

 no solid foundation : it will not resist the hand of the destroyer 

 Time ! When these reflections assail me, ennui, like an unwelcome 

 guest, returns. Even the solitude to which I have devoted the last 

 twenty-five years of my life is now distasteful to me. I was happier 

 when exposed to danger; my soul was then .absorbed by the excite- 

 ment of a struggle. For this reason,, my ten years of persecution 

 under Buonaparte were perhaps the best of my life. When the king 

 returned, his imbecile ministers prolonged my satisfaction for some 

 five or six years, inasmuch as I had to combat their system, and their 

 pernicious measures. But now that we have gained the battle, I am 

 again the victim of ennui. I have been named Ambassador ; only 

 one step more remains to complete the mishap : the probabilities are 

 a hundred to one that I shall one day be appointed Minister. Who 

 has not been Minister ? 'Tis true, when I compose I am less subject 

 to ennui. The Martyrs, the first two acts of Moise, which I finished 

 in my garden at Aulnay, afforded me some hours of mental activity. 

 Mine is the trite story of the cobbler, who toils and toils at an old 

 shoe, and yawns when his work is finished. There are but two or 

 three things in the world which excite my admiration. Buffon some- 

 times awakens that feeling within me Rousseau never. Of all the 

 authors who have spoken of the Romans, Montesquieu is the most 

 eloquent. It was unquestionably a glorious age that produced those 

 three men and Voltaire. I have never read the first scene of 

 Athalie without shedding tears. An ode of Horace, and a little 

 poetical piece of Voltaire, which has approached the nearest to it, 

 produce the same effect upon me . 



' Si vous voulez que j'aime encore, 

 Rendez moi Tage des amours ; 

 Au crepus-cula de mes jours 

 Rejoignez, s'il se peut, 1'aurore.' 



In that and the following stanzas there is a tone of feeling which 

 affects me sensibly. The Bible, and the solemn hymns of the church, 

 some of the canticles, and the Dies irce, that fearful portraiture of the 

 terrible day, terminated by the sublime cry of prayer, have always 

 struck me with admiration. The following lines, too, by an obscure 

 author, appear to me to breathe the genuine spirit of poetry : 



' Arrete-toi, passant contemple ma poussiere, 

 II ne me reste rien de ma beaute premiere ; 

 Vois 1'etat ou la mort m'a mis. 

 Je n'ai plus mes parens, mes biens, ni mes amis. 



* * * * * * 



On doute en me voyant si j'ai jamais etd 



* * * * * # 



La mort ne m'a laisse que les os." 

 In the old church music," continued M. de Chateaubriand, " there 



