increased by the death of his
daughter--a charming child of fourteen, the companion of his wanderings,
the depositary of his thoughts, the darling of his affections--who was
snatched away in the spring of life, when in health and joy, by one of
the malignant fevers incident to the pestilential plains of the East.

Though Lamartine's travels are continuous, he does not, like most other
wanderers, furnish us with a journal of every day's proceedings. He was
too well aware that many, perhaps most, days on a journey are monotonous
or uninteresting; and that many of the details of a traveller's progress
are wholly unworthy of being recorded, because they are neither amusing,
elevating, nor instructive. He paints, now and then, with all the force
of his magical pencil, the more brilliant or characteristic scenes which
he visited, and intersperses them with reflections, moral and social;
such as would naturally be aroused in a sensitive mind by the sight of
the rains of ancient, and the contemplation of the decay of modern
times.

He embarked at Marseilles, with Madame Lamartine and his little daughter
Julia, on the 10th July 1830. The following is the picture of the
yearnings of his mind on leaving his native land; and they convey a
faithful image of his intellectual temperament:--

"I feel it deeply: I am one only of those men, without a
distinctive character, of a transitory and fading epoch, whose
sighs have found an echo--only because the echo was more
poetical than the poet. I belong to another age by my desires:
I feel in myself another man: the immense and boundless horizon
of philosophy, at once profound, religious, and poetical, has
opened to my view, but the punishment of a wasted youth
overtook me; it soon faded from my sight. Adieu, then, to the
dreams of genius, to the aspirations of intellectual enjoyment!
It is too late: I have not physical strength to accomplish any
thing great. I will sketch some scenes--I will murmur some
strains, and that is all. Yet if God would grant my prayers,
here is the object for which I would petition--a poem, such as
my heart desires, and his greatness deserves!--a faithful,
breathing image of his creation: of the boundless world,
visible and invisible! That would indeed be a worthy
inheritance to leave to an era of darkness, of doubt, and of
sadness!--an inheritance which would nourish the