blir la paix
du monde, par l'aneantissement du peuple barbare, et la regenerescence
de la nation francaise."

In most cases there rests an obscurity over the brief lives of these
gallant young officer-authors, whose nature was little observed until
the flash of battle illuminated them for one last brilliant moment. We
feel a strong desire, which cannot be gratified, to follow them from
their childhood to their adolescence, and to see for ourselves what
impulses directed them into the path of heroism. It is rarely that we
can do this, but one of these poets has left behind him two friends
who have recaptured the faint and shrouded impressions of his early
life. The piety of M. Henri Albert Besnard, who was his intimate
companion, and of that practised narrator M. Henri Bordeaux, who is
his biographer, enable us to form a clearer and fuller conception of
Camille Violand than of any of his compeers. Born in 1891, he was
typical of that latest generation of which we have spoken, in whom all
seemed to be unconsciously preparing for the great and critical
sacrifice. He was born at Lyons, but was brought up in the Quercy,
that wild and tortured district just north of the Pyrenees, where
nature seems to gather together all that she possesses of the
grotesque and violent in landscape; but he was educated at Alencon,
and trained at Vouziers, in the midst of the orchards of Normandy.
Thus both sides of France, the Midi and the Manche, were equally known
to him, but the ceaseless peregrinations which he underwent, so far
from enlarging his horizon, seem to have plunged his soul in
melancholy. At the age of twenty he struck M. Bordeaux as being the
typical _deracine._

The letters of Camille Violand and the memories of his friends present
to us the record of a vague and uneasy boyhood. He began quite early
to exercise his mind in prose and verse, but without energy or aim. He
was not fixed in any plan of life. His letters--for he wrote with
abundance, and something undefined seems to have induced his family to
keep his letters--are steeped in sombre and objectless melancholy. He
was tormented by presentiments of misfortune; he indulged a kind of
romantic valetudinarianism. In the confusion of his spirit as he
passed uneasily from boyhood into manhood, the principal moral quality
we perceive is a peevish irritation at the slow development of life.
He was just twenty-one when the death of his mother, to whom he was
passionately att