seems hard for a poet to do right. If, like Goethe, he holds aloof in great crises, he is branded for it as a traitor and a bad patriot. The battle of Leipzig is being fought, and he sits tranquilly writing the epilogue for a play. If, like George Sand, he throws the whole weight of his enthusiastic eloquence into what he believes to be the right scale, it is ten to one that his power, which knows nothing of caution and patience, may do harm to the cause he has at heart.
Madame Sand rested her hopes for a better state of things, for the redemption of France from political corruption, for the amelioration of the condition of the working classes, and reform of social institutions in general, on the advent to power of those placed at the head of affairs by the collapse of the Government of Louis Philippe, a crisis long threatened, long prepared, and become inevitable.
"The whole system," wrote Heine prophetically of the existing monarchy, five years before its fall, "is not worth a charge of powder, if indeed some day a charge of powder does not blow it up." February 1848 saw the explosion, the flight of the Royal Family, and the formation of a Provisional Government, with Lamartine at its head.
It is hard to realise in the present day, when we contemplate these events through the sobering light of the deplorable sequel, how immense and widespreading was the enthusiasm that at this particular
