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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-14 20:05:15 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-14 20:05:15 -0700 |
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text-indent: -2em;} + div.list1 {margin-left: 0;} + div.list1 p {padding-left: 5em; text-indent: -3em;} + + .rgt {text-align: right; margin-right: 2em;} + .pt05 {padding-top: 0.5em;} + .pt1 {padding-top: 1em;} + .pt2 {padding-top: 2em;} + .ptb1 {padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em;} + td.prl {padding-left: 10%; padding-right: 7em; text-align: left; vertical-align: top;} + + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of French Classics, by William Cleaver Wilkinson + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: French Classics + +Author: William Cleaver Wilkinson + +Release Date: May 20, 2011 [EBook #36174] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FRENCH CLASSICS *** + + + + +Produced by Marius Masi, Juliet Sutherland and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<table border="0" cellpadding="10" style="background-color: #dcdcdc; color: #696969; " summary="Transcriber's note"> +<tr> +<td style="width:25%; vertical-align:top"> +Transcriber’s note: +</td> +<td class="norm"> +A few typographical errors have been corrected. They +appear in the text <span class="correction" title="explanation will pop up">like this</span>, and the +explanation will appear when the mouse pointer is moved over the marked +passage. +</td> +</tr> +</table> + +<div class="center pt2"><img style="width:449px; height:700px; vertical-align: middle;" src="images/cover.jpg" alt="" /></div> + +<p class="pt2"> </p> + +<div style="margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; border: gray 5px solid;"> + +<p class="center f150">OTHER BOOKS BY<br /> +PROFESSOR WILKINSON</p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="sc">The Epic of Saul</p> + +<p class="sc">The Epic of Paul</p> + +<p class="sc">Webster: an Ode. With Notes</p> + +<p class="sc">Poems</p> + +<p class="sc">A Free Lance in the Field Of +Life and Letters</p> + +<p class="rgt">(Volume of Essays)</p> + +<p class="sc">Edwin Arnold As Poetizer and As +Paganizer</p> + +<p class="sc">The Dance of Modern Society</p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="center">FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY<br /> +<span class="f90">NEW YORK</span> <span class="f80" style="text-decoration: underline;">AND</span> <span class="f90">LONDON</span></p> +</div> + +<p class="pt2"> </p> + +<div style="margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; border: gray 2px solid;"> + +<p class="center"><i>WILKINSON’S FOREIGN CLASSICS<br /> +IN ENGLISH</i></p> + +<hr class="full" /> + +<p class="center ptb1 sc" style="color: #c11B17; font-size: 250%;">French Classics</p> + +<hr class="full" /> + +<p class="center f80">BY</p> + +<p class="center">WILLIAM CLEAVER WILKINSON</p> + +<p class="center f80">PROFESSOR OF POETRY AND CRITICISM<br /> +IN THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO</p> + +<p class="center f150" style="letter-spacing: 0.6em;">*****</p> + +<p class="pt2"> </p> +<p class="pt2"> </p> +<hr class="full" /> + +<p class="center" style="letter-spacing: 0.5em;">FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY</p> +<p class="center f80">NEW YORK AND LONDON</p> +<p class="center f80">1909</p> +</div> + +<p class="pt2"> </p> + +<p class="center f80">COPYRIGHT 1900</p> + +<p class="center f80 sc">by</p> + +<p class="center f80">WILLIAM CLEAVER WILKINSON.</p> + +<p class="center f80">(<i>Printed in the United States of America</i>)</p> +<p class="pt2"> </p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page5" id="page5"></a>5</span></p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="chap center">PREFACE.</p> + +<p><span class="sc chap1">The</span> preparation of the present volume proposed to the +author a task more difficult far than that undertaken in the +case of either of the literatures, the Greek or the Latin, treated +in the four preceding volumes of the present series. Those +volumes dealt with literatures limited and finished; this volume +deals with a literature indefinitely vast in extent, and still +in vital process of growth. The selection of material to be +used was, in the case of the earlier volumes, virtually made for +the author beforehand, in a manner greatly to ease his sense +of responsibility for the exercise of individual judgment and +taste. Long prescription, joined to the winnowing effect of +wear and waste through time and chance, had left little doubt +what works of what writers, Greek and Roman, best deserved +now to be shown to the general reader. Besides this, +the prevalent custom of the schools of classical learning +could then wisely be taken as a clew of guidance to be implicitly +followed, whatever might be the path through which +it should lead. There is here no similar avoidance of responsibility +possible; for the schools have not established a custom, +and French literature is a living body, from which no +important members have ever yet been rent by the ravages +of time.</p> + +<p>The plan of this volume, together with the compass proposed +for it, created the necessity of establishing from the +outset certain limits to be very strictly observed. There +could be no introductory general matter, beyond a rapid and +summary review of that literature, as a whole, which is the +subject of the book. The list of authors selected for representation +must not include the names of any still living. A +third thing resolved upon was to make the number of representative +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page6" id="page6"></a>6</span> +names small rather than large, choice rather than +inclusive. The principle at this point adopted was to choose +those authors only whose merit, or whose fame, or whose influence, +might be supposed unquestionably such that their +names and their works would certainly be found surviving, +though the language in which they wrote should, like its parent +Latin, have perished from the tongues of men. The +proportion of space severally allotted to the different authors +was to be measured partly according to their relative importance, +and partly according to their estimated relative capacity +of interesting in translation the average intelligent reader +of to-day.</p> + +<p>In one word, the single inspiring aim of the author has +here been to furnish enlightened readers, versed only in the +English language, the means of acquiring, through the medium +of their vernacular, some proportioned, trustworthy, +and effective knowledge and appreciation, in its chief classics, +of the great literature which has been written in French. +This object has been sought, not through narrative and description, +making books and authors the subject, but through +the literature itself, in specimen extracts illuminated by the +necessary explanation and criticism.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page7" id="page7"></a>7</span></p> + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="chap center">CONTENTS.</p> + +<table class="ws" summary="Contents"> + +<tr><td class="tcr f80 sc" colspan="2">page</td></tr> +<tr><td class="tcc pt1" colspan="2">I.</td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">French Literature</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page5">5</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcc pt1" colspan="2">II.</td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">Froissart</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page22">22</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcc pt1" colspan="2">III.</td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">Rabelais</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page29">29</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcc pt1" colspan="2">IV.</td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">Montaigne</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page40">40</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcc pt1" colspan="2">V.</td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">La Rochefoucauld (la Bruyère; Vauvenargues)</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page55">55</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcc pt1" colspan="2">VI.</td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">La Fontaine</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page66">66</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcc pt1" colspan="2">VII.</td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">Molière</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page76">76</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcc pt1" colspan="2">VIII.</td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">Pascal</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page91">91</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcc pt1" colspan="2">IX.</td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">Madame de Sévigné</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page105">105</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcc pt1" colspan="2">X.</td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">Corneille</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page117">117</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcc pt1" colspan="2">XI.</td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">Racine</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page127">127</a> + <span class="pagenum"><a name="page8" id="page8"></a>8</span></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcc pt1" colspan="2">XII.</td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">Bossuet, Bourdaloue, Massillon, Saurin</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page137">137</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcc pt1" colspan="2">XIII.</td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">Fénelon</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page158">158</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcc pt1" colspan="2">XIV.</td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">Le Sage</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page174">174</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcc pt1" colspan="2">XV.</td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">Montesquieu, Tocqueville</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page184">184</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcc pt1" colspan="2">XVI.</td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">Voltaire</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page199">199</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcc pt1" colspan="2">XVII.</td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">Rousseau (St. Pierre)</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page212">212</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcc pt1" colspan="2">XVIII.</td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">The Encyclopædists</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page235">235</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcc pt1" colspan="2">XIX.</td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">Madame de Stael</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page239">239</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcc pt1" colspan="2">XX.</td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">Chateaubriand</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page248">248</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcc pt1" colspan="2">XXI.</td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">Béranger</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page256">256</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcc pt1" colspan="2">XXII.</td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">Lamartine</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page263">263</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcc pt1" colspan="2">XXIII.</td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">The Group of 1830</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page274">274</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcc pt1" colspan="2">XXIV.</td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">Joubert (swetchine; Amiel)</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page307">307</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcc pt1" colspan="2">XXV.</td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">Epilogue</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page318">318</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc pt1">Index</td> <td class="tcr pt1"><a href="#page319">319</a></td></tr> +</table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page9" id="page9"></a>9</span></p> + +<p class="pt2"> </p> + +<p class="pt2 f200 center" style="color: #993300;">FRENCH CLASSICS IN ENGLISH</p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="center f120">I.</p> + +<p class="chap2 center">FRENCH LITERATURE.</p> + +<p><span class="sc chap1">Of</span> French literature, taken as a whole, it may boldly be +said that it is, not the wisest, not the weightiest, not certainly +the purest and loftiest, but by odds the most brilliant and +the most interesting, literature in the world. Strong at +many points, at some points triumphantly strong, it is conspicuously +weak at only one point,—the important point of +poetry. In eloquence, in philosophy, even in theology; in +history, in fiction, in criticism, in epistolary writing, in +what may be called the pamphlet; in another species of +composition, characteristically, peculiarly, almost uniquely, +French—the Thought and the Maxim; by eminence in +comedy, and in all those related modes of written expression +for which there is scarcely any name but a French +name—the <i>jeu d’esprit</i>, the <i>bon mot</i>, <i>persiflage</i>, the <i>phrase</i>; +in social and political speculation; last, but not least, in +scientific exposition elegant enough in form and in style to +rise to the rank of literature proper—the French language +has abundant achievement to show, that puts it, upon the +whole, hardly second in wealth of letters to any other language +whatever, either ancient or modern.</p> + +<p>What constitutes the charm—partly a perilous charm—of +French literature is before all else its incomparable clearness, +its precision, its neatness, its point; then, added to +this, its lightness of touch, its sureness of aim; its vivacity, +sparkle, life; its inexhaustible gayety; its impulsion toward +wit—impulsion so strong as often to land it in mockery; the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page10" id="page10"></a>10</span> +sense of release that it breathes and inspires; its freedom +from prick to the conscience; its exquisite study and choice +of effect; its deference paid to decorum—decorum, we +mean, in taste, as distinguished from morals; its infinite patience +and labor of art, achieving the perfection of grace +and of ease—in one word, its style.</p> + +<p>We speak, of course, broadly and in the gross. There are +plenty of French authors to whom some of the traits just +named could by no means be attributed, and there is certainly +not a single French author to whom one could truthfully +attribute them all. Voltaire insisted that what was not +clear was not French—so much, to the conception of this +typical Frenchman, was clearness the genius of the national +speech. Still, Montaigne, for example, was sometimes obscure; +and even the tragedist Corneille wrote here and there +what his commentator, Voltaire, declared to be hardly intelligible. +So, too, Rabelais, coarsest of humorists, offending +decorum in various ways, offended it most of all exactly in +that article of taste, as distinguished from morals, which, +with first-rate French authors in general, is so capital a point +of regard. On the other hand, Pascal—not to mention the +moralists by profession, such as Nicole, and the preachers +Bourdaloue and Massillon—Pascal, quivering himself, like a +soul unclad, with sense of responsibility to God, constantly +probes you, reading him, to the inmost quick of your conscience. +Rousseau, notably in the “Confessions,” and in the +“Reveries” supplementary to the “Confessions;” Chateaubriand, +echoing Rousseau; and that wayward woman of genius, +George Sand, disciple she to both—were so far from being +always light-heartedly gay, that not seldom they spread over +their page a somber atmosphere almost of gloom—gloom +flushed pensively, as with a clouded “setting sun’s pathetic +light.” In short, when you speak of particular authors, and +naturally still more when you speak of particular works, +there are many discriminations to be made. Such exceptions, +however, being duly allowed, the literary product of the +French mind, considered in the aggregate, will not be misconceived +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page11" id="page11"></a>11</span> +if regarded as possessing the general characteristics +in style that we have now sought briefly to indicate.</p> + +<p>French literature, we have hinted, is comparatively poor +in poetry. This is due in part, no doubt, to the genius of +the people; but it is also due in part to the structure of the +language. The language, which is derived chiefly from +Latin, is thence in such a way derived as to have lost the +regularity and stateliness of its ancient original, without having +compensated itself with any richness and sweetness of +sound peculiarly its own; like, for instance, that canorous +vowel quality of its sister derivative, the Italian. The +French language, in short, is far from being an ideal language +for the poet.</p> + +<p>In spite, however, of this fact, disputed by nobody, it is +true of French literature, as it is true of almost any national +literature, that it took its rise in verse instead of in prose. +Anciently there were two languages subsisting together in +France which came to be distinguished from each other in +name by the word of affirmation—<i>oc</i> or <i>oïl</i>, yes—severally +peculiar to them, and thus to be known respectively as +<i>langue d’oc</i> and <i>langue d’oïl</i>. The future belonged to the +latter of the two forms of speech—the one spoken in the +northern part of the country. This, the <i>langue d’oïl</i>, became +at length the French language. But the <i>langue d’oc</i>, a soft +and musical tongue, survived long enough to become the vehicle +of lyric strains, mostly on subjects of love and gallantry, +still familiar in mention, and famous as the songs of the +troubadours. The flourishing time of the troubadours was +in the eleventh and twelfth centuries. Provençal is an alternative +name of the language.</p> + +<p>Side by side with the southern <i>troubadours</i>, or a little +later than they, the <i>trouvères</i> of the north sang, with more +manly ambition, of national themes, and, like Virgil, of arms +and of heroes. Some productions of the <i>trouvères</i> may fairly +be allowed an elevation of aim and of treatment entitling +them to be called epic in character. <i>Chansons de geste</i> (songs +of exploit), or <i>romans</i>, is the native name by which those +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page12" id="page12"></a>12</span> +primitive French poems are known. They exist in three +principal cycles, or groups, of productions—one cycle composed +of those pertaining to Charlemagne; one, of those +pertaining to British Arthur, and a third, of those pertaining +to ancient Greece and Rome, notably to Alexander the +Great. The cycle revolving around the majestic legend of +Charlemagne for its center was Teutonic, rather than Celtic, +in spirit as well as in theme. It tended to the religious in +tone. The Arthurian cycle was properly Celtic. It dealt +more with adventures of love. The Alexandrian cycle, so +named from one principal theme celebrated—namely, the +deeds of Alexander the Great—mixed fantastically the traditions +of ancient Greece and Rome with the then prevailing +ideas of chivalry, and with the figments of fairy lore. (The +metrical form employed in these poems gave its name to the +Alexandrine line later so predominant in French poetry.) +The volume of this quasi-epical verse, existing in its three +groups, or cycles, is immense. So is that of the satire and +the allegory in meter that followed. From this latter store +of stock and example, Chaucer drew to supply his muse with +material. The <i>fabliaux</i>, so called—fables, that is, or stories—were +still another form of French literature in verse. It is +only now, within the current decade of years, that a really +ample collection of <i>fabliaux</i>—hitherto, with the exception of +a few printed volumes of specimens, extant exclusively in +manuscript—has been put into course of publication. Rutebeuf, +a <i>trouvère</i> of the reign of St. Louis (Louis IX., thirteenth +century), is perhaps as conspicuous a personal name +as any that thus far emerges out of the sea of practically +anonymous early French authorship. A frankly sordid and +mercenary singer, Rutebeuf always tending to mockery, was +not seldom licentious—in both these respects anticipating, +as probably also to some extent by example conforming, the +subsequent literary spirit of his nation. The <i>fabliaux</i> generally +mingled with their narrative interest that spice of raillery +and satire constantly so dear to the French literary appetite. +Thibaud was, in a double sense, a royal singer of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page13" id="page13"></a>13</span> +songs; for he reigned over Navarre, as well as chanted +sweetly in verse his love and longing, so the disputed legend +asserts, for Queen Blanche of Castile. Thibaud bears the +historic title of The Song-maker. He has been styled the +Béranger of the thirteenth century. To Thibaud is said to +be due the introduction of the feminine rhyme into French +poetry—a metrical variation of capital importance. The +songs of Abélard, in the century preceding Thibaud, won a +wide popularity.</p> + +<p>Prose, meantime, had been making noteworthy approaches +to form. Villehardouin must be named as first in time +among French writers of history. His work is entitled, +“Conquest of Constantinople.” It gives an account of the +fourth crusade. Joinville, a generation later, continues the +succession of chronicles with his admiring story of the life +of St. Louis, whose personal friend he was. But Froissart +of the fourteenth century, and Comines of the fifteenth, are +greater names. Froissart, by his simplicity and his narrative +art, was the Herodotus, as Philip de Comines, for his +political sagacity, has been styled the Tacitus, of French historical +literature. Up to the time of Froissart, the literature +which we have been treating as French was different enough +in form from the French of to-day to require what might be +called translation in order to become generally intelligible +to the living generation of Frenchmen. The text of Froissart +is pretty archaic, but it definitely bears the aspect of +French.</p> + +<p>With the name of Comines, who wrote of Louis XI. (compare +Walter Scott’s “Quentin Durward”), we reach the fifteenth +century, and are close upon the great revival of learning +which accompanied the religious reformation under +Luther and his peers. Now come Rabelais, boldly declared +by Coleridge one of the great creative minds of literature; +and Montaigne, with those essays of his, still living, and, indeed, +certain always to live. John Calvin, meantime, writes +his “Institutes of the Christian Religion” in French as well +as in Latin, showing, once and for all, that in the right hands +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page14" id="page14"></a>14</span> +his vernacular tongue was as capable of gravity as many a +writer before him had superfluously shown that it was +capable of levity. Amyot, the translator of Plutarch, is a +French writer of power, without whom the far greater +Montaigne could hardly have been. The influence of Amyot +on French literary history is wider in reach and longer in +duration than we thus indicate; but Montaigne’s indebtedness +to him is alone enough to prove that a mere translator +had in this man made a very important contribution to the +forming prose literature of France.</p> + +<p>“The Pleiades,” so called, were a group of seven writers, +who, about the middle of the sixteenth century, banded +themselves together in France, with the express aim of supplying +influential example to improve the French language +for literary purposes. Their peculiar appellation, “The +Pleiades,” was copied from that of a somewhat similar group +of Greek writers that existed in the time of Ptolemy Philadelphus. +Of course, the implied allusion in it is to the constellation +of the Pleiades. The individual name by which +the “Pleiades” of the sixteenth century may best be remembered +is that of Ronsard, the poet, associated with the +romantic and pathetic memory of Mary Queen of Scots. +Never, perhaps, in the history of letters was the fame of a +poet in the poet’s own life-time more universal and more +splendid than was the fame of Ronsard. A high court of +literary judicature formally decreed to Ronsard the title of +The French Poet by eminence. This occurred in the youth +of the poet. The wine of success so brilliant turned the +young fellow’s head. He soon began to play lord paramount +of Parnassus, with every air of one born to the purple. +The kings of the earth vied with each other to do him +honor. Ronsard affected scholarship, and the foremost +scholars of his time were proud to place him with Homer +and with Virgil on the roll of the poets. Ronsard’s peculiarity +in style was the free use of words and constructions not +properly French. Boileau indicated whence he enriched his +vocabulary and his syntax, by satirically saying that Ronsard +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page15" id="page15"></a>15</span> +spoke Greek and Latin in French. At his death, +Ronsard was almost literally buried under praises. Sainte-Beuve +strikingly says that he seemed to go forward into +posterity as into a temple.</p> + +<p>Sharp posthumous reprisals awaited the extravagant fame +of Ronsard. Malherbe, coming in the next generation, +legislator of Parnassus, laughed the literary pretensions of +Ronsard to scorn. This stern critic of form, such is the +story, marked up his copy of Ronsard with notes of censure +so many, that a friend of his, seeing the annotated volume, +observed, “What here is not marked will be understood to +have been approved by you.” Whereupon Malherbe, taking +his pen, with one indiscriminate stroke drew it abruptly +through the whole volume. “There I Ronsardized,” the contemptuous +critic would exclaim, when in reading his own +verses to an acquaintance—for Malherbe was a poet himself—he +happened to encounter a word that struck him as harsh or +improper. Malherbe, in short, sought to chasten and check +the luxuriant overgrowth to which the example and method +of the Pleiades were tending to push the language of poetry +in French. The resultant effect of the two contrary tendencies—that +of literary wantonness on the one hand, and that +of literary prudery on the other—was at the same time to +enrich and to purify French poetical diction. Balzac (the +elder), close to Malherbe in time, performed a service for +French prose similar to that which the latter performed for +French verse. These two critical and literary powers +brought in the reign of what is called classicism in France. +French classicism had its long culmination under Louis XIV.</p> + +<p>But it was under Louis XIII., or rather under that monarch’s +great minister, Cardinal Richelieu, that the rich and +splendid Augustan age of French literature was truly prepared. +Two organized forces, one of them private and +social, the other official and public, worked together, though +sometimes perhaps not in harmony, to produce the magnificent +literary result that illustrated the time of Louis XIV. +Of these two organized forces the Hôtel de Rambouillet was +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page16" id="page16"></a>16</span> +one, and the French Academy was the other. The Hôtel de +Rambouillet has become the adopted name of a literary +society, presided over by the fine inspiring genius of the +beautiful and accomplished Italian wife of the Marquis de +Rambouillet, a lady who generously conceived the idea of +rallying the feminine wit and virtue of the kingdom to exert +a potent influence for regenerating the manners and morals, +and indeed the literature, of France. At the high court of +blended rank and fashion and beauty and polish and virtue +and wit, thus established in the exquisitely builded and +decorated saloons of the Rambouillet mansion, the selectest +literary genius and fame of France were proud and glad to +assemble for the discussion and criticism of literature. Here +came Balzac and Voiture; here Corneille read aloud his masterpieces +before they were represented on the stage; here +Descartes philosophized; here the large and splendid genius +of Bossuet first unfolded itself to the world; here Madame +de Sévigné brought her bright, incisive wit, trebly commended +by stainless reputation, unwithering beauty, and +charming address, in the woman who wielded it. The noblest +blood of France added the decoration and inspiration of +their presence. It is not easy to overrate the diffusive beneficent +influence that hence went forth to change the fashion +of literature, and to change the fashion of society, for the +better. The Hôtel de Rambouillet proper lasted two generations +only; but it had a virtual succession, which, though +sometimes interrupted, was scarcely extinct until the brilliant +and beautiful Madame Récamier ceased, about the middle +of the present century, to hold her famous <i>salons</i> in +Paris. The continuous fame and influence of the French +Academy, founded by Richelieu, everybody knows. No +other European language has been elaborately and sedulously +formed and cultivated like the French.</p> + +<p>But great authors are better improvers of a language than +any societies, however influential. Corneille, Descartes, +Pascal, did more for French style than either the Hôtel de +Rambouillet or the Academy—more than both these two +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page17" id="page17"></a>17</span> +great literary societies together. In verse, Racine, following +Corneille, advanced in some important respects upon the +example and lead of that great original master; but in prose, +when Pascal published his “Provincial Letters,” French style +reached at once a point of perfection beyond which it never +since has gone. Bossuet, Bourdaloue, Fénelon, Massillon, +Molière, La Fontaine, Boileau, La Rochefoucauld, La Bruyère—what +a constellation of names are these to glorify the +age of Louis XIV.! And Louis XIV. himself, royal embodiment +of a literary good sense carried to the pitch of something +very like real genius in judgment and taste—what a +sun was he (with that talent of his for kingship, probably +never surpassed), to balance and to sway, from his unshaken +station, the august intellectual system of which he alone constituted +the despotic center to attract and repel! Seventy-two +years long was this sole individual reign. Louis XIV. +still sat on the throne of France when the seventeenth +century became the eighteenth.</p> + +<p>The eighteenth century was an age of universal reaction +in France. Religion, or rather ecclesiasticism—for, in the +France of those times, religion was the Church, and the +Church was the Roman Catholic hierarchy—had been the +dominant fashion under Louis XIV. Infidelity was a broad +literary mark, written all over the face of the eighteenth century. +It was the hour and power of the Encyclopædists and +the Philosophers—of Voltaire, of Diderot, of D’Alembert, +of Rousseau. Montesquieu, though contemporary, belongs +apart from these writers. More really original, more truly +philosophical, he was far less revolutionary, far less destructive, +than they. Still, his influence was, on the whole, exerted +in the direction, if not of infidelity, at least of religious +indifferentism. The French Revolution was laid in train by +the great popular writers whom we have now named, and by +their fellows. It needed only the spark, which the proper +occasion would be sure soon to strike out, and the awful +earthshaking explosion would follow. After the Revolution, +during the First Empire, so called—the usurpation, that is, of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page18" id="page18"></a>18</span> +Napoleon Bonaparte—literature was well-nigh extinguished +in France. The names, however, then surpassingly brilliant, +of Chateaubriand and Madame de Stael, belong to this +period.</p> + +<p>Three centuries have now elapsed since the date of “The +Pleiades.” Throughout this long period, French literature +has been chiefly under the sway of that spirit of classicism in +style which the reaction against Ronsardism, led first by +Malherbe and afterward by Boileau, had established as the +national standard in literary taste and aspiration. But Rousseau’s +genius acted as a powerful solvent of the classic +tradition. Chateaubriand’s influence was felt on the same +side, continuing Rousseau’s. George Sand, too, and Lamartine, +were forces that strengthened this component. Finally, +the great personality of Victor Hugo proved potent enough +definitively to break the spell that had been so long and so +heavily laid on the literary development of France. The +bloodless warfare was fierce between the revolutionary Romanticists +and the conservative Classicists in literary style, +but the victory seemed at last to remain with the advocates +of the new romantic revival. It looked, on the face of +the matter, like a signal triumph of originality over +prescription, of genius over criticism, of power over rule. +We still live in the midst of the dying echoes of this resonant +strife. Perhaps it is too early, as yet, to determine on which +side, by the merit of the cause, the advantage truly belongs. +But, by the merit of the respective champions, the result was, +for a time at least, triumphantly decided in favor of the +Romanticists, against the Classicists. The weighty authority, +however, of Sainte-Beuve, at first thrown into the scale that +was destined to sink, was thence withdrawn, and at last, if +not resolutely cast upon the opposite side of the balance, was +left wavering in a kind of equipoise between the one and the +other.</p> + +<p>But our preliminary sketch already reaches the limit within +which our choice of authors for representation is necessarily +confined.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page19" id="page19"></a>19</span></p> + +<p>With first a few remarks, naturally suggested, that may +be useful, on the general subject thus rather touched merely +than handled, the present writer gives way to let now the +representative authors themselves, selected for the purpose, +supply to the reader a just and lively idea of French literature.</p> + +<p>The first thing, perhaps, to strike the thoughtful mind in a +comprehensive view of the subject is not so much the length—though +this is remarkable—as the long <i>continuity</i> of French +literary history. From its beginning down to the actual moment, +French literature has suffered no serious break in the +course of its development. There have been periods of greater +and periods of less prosperity and fruit; but wastes of +marked suspension and barrenness there have been none.</p> + +<p>The second thing noticeable is, that French literature has, +to a singular degree, lived an independent life of its own. It +has found copious springs of health and growth within its +own bosom.</p> + +<p>But then a third thing to be also observed is that, on the +other hand, the touch of foreign influence, felt and acknowledged +by this most proudly and self-sufficiently national of +literatures, has proved to it, at various epochs, a sovereign +force of revival and elastic expansion. Thus, the great +renascence in the sixteenth century of ancient Greek and +Latin letters was new life to French literature. So, again, +Spanish literature, brought into contact with French through +Corneille and Molière, with others, gave to the national mind +of France a new literary launch. But the most recent and +perhaps the most remarkable example of foreign influence +quickening French literature to make it freshly fruitful is +supplied in the great romanticizing movement under the lead +of Victor Hugo. English literature—especially Shakespeare—was +largely the pregnant cause of this attempted emancipation +of the French literary mind from the bondage of classicism.</p> + +<p>A fourth very salient trait in French literary history consists +in the self-conscious, elaborate, persistent efforts put +forth from time to time by individuals, and by organizations, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page20" id="page20"></a>20</span> +both public and private, in France, to improve the language +and to elevate the literature of the nation. We know of +nothing altogether comparable to this anywhere else in the +literature of the world.</p> + +<p>A fifth striking thing about French literature is, that it has, +to a degree as we believe beyond parallel, exercised a real +and vital influence on the character and the fortune of the +nation. The social, the political, the moral, the religious, +history of France is from age to age a faithful reflex of the +changing phases of its literature. Of course, a reciprocal influence +has been constantly reflected back and forth from the +nation upon its literature, as well as from its literature upon +the nation. But where else in the world has it ever been +so extraordinarily, we may say so appallingly, true as in +France, that the nation was such because such was its literature?</p> + +<p>French literature, it will at once be seen, is a study possessing, +beyond the literary, a social, a political, and even a +religious, interest.</p> + +<p>Readers desiring to push their conversance with the literary +history of France further into the catalogue of its less important +names than the present volume will enable them to +do will consult with profit either the Primer, or the Short +History, of French Literature, by Mr. George Saintsbury. +Mr. Saintsbury is a well-informed writer, who diffuses himself +perhaps too widely to do his best possible work. But +he has made French literature a specialty, and he is in general +a trustworthy authority on the subject.</p> + +<p>Another writer on the subject is Mr. H. Van Laun. Him, +although a predecessor of his own in the field, Mr. Saintsbury +severely ignores, by claiming that he is himself the first +to write in English a history of French literature based on +original and independent reading of the authors. We are +bound to say that Mr. Van Laun’s work is of very poor +quality. It offers, indeed, to the reader one advantage not +afforded by either of Mr. Saintsbury’s works—the advantage, +namely, of illustrative extracts from the authors treated +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page21" id="page21"></a>21</span> +extracts, however, not unfrequently marred by wretched +translation.</p> + +<p>A noteworthy book of the year 1889 is “A History of +French Literature” by Charles Woodward Hutson, Professor +of Modern Languages in the University of Mississippi. +This is an intelligent, well-studied, well-written, carefully conscientious, +comprehensive account of French letters from the +beginning down to the present day. It has, as a concluding +chapter, a notice of the “French Writers of Louisiana.” An +admirable series of books, translated from the French, on the +great French writers, has recently been brought out in Chicago. +These two last mentions, by the way, strikingly suggest +how wide, territorially, the bounds of the republic of +letters are becoming in our country.</p> + +<p>The cyclopædias are, some of them, both in articles on +particular authors and in their sketches of French literary +history as a whole, good sources of general information on +the subject. Readers who command the means of comparing +several different cyclopædias, or several successive editions of +some one cyclopædia, as, for example, the “Encyclopædia +Britannica,” will find enlightening and stimulating the not +always harmonious views presented on the same topics. Hallam’s +“History of Literature in Europe” is an additional +authority by no means to be overlooked. And, finally, it is to +be remembered that any good general history of France will +almost certainly contain notices of the more important literary +events co-ordinately with those of political, social, economic, +or scientific moment.</p> + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page22" id="page22"></a>22</span></p> + +<p class="center f120">II.</p> + +<p class="chap2 center">FROISSART.</p> + +<p class="center">1337-1410.</p> + +<p><span class="sc chap1">French</span> literature, for the purposes of the present volume, +may be said to commence with Froissart. Froissart is a kind +of mediæval Herodotus. His time is, indeed, almost this side +the Middle Ages; but by character and by sympathy he belongs +rather to the mediæval than to the modern world. He +is delightfully like Herodotus in the style and the spirit of +his narrative. Like Herodotus, he became a traveler in order +to become an historian. Like Herodotus, he was cosmopolite +enough not to be narrowly patriotic. Frenchman though he +was, he took as much pleasure in recounting English victories +as he did in recounting French. His countrymen +have even accused him of unpatriotic partiality for the +English. His Chronicles have been, perhaps, more popular +in their English form than in their original French. +Two prominent English translations have been made, of +which the later, that by Thomas Johnes, is now most read. +Sir Walter Scott thought the earlier excelled in charm of +style.</p> + +<p>Jehan or Jean Froissart was a native of Valenciennes. +His father meant to make a priest of him, but the boy had +tastes of his own. Before he was well out of his teens he +began writing history. This was under the patronage of a +great noble. Froissart was all his life a natural courtier. +He throve on the patronage of the great. It was probably +not a fawning spirit in him that made him this kind of man; +it was rather an innate love of splendor and high exploit. +He admired chivalry, then in its last days, and he painted it +with the passion of an idealizer. His father had been an +heraldic painter, so it was perhaps an hereditary strain in the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page23" id="page23"></a>23</span> +son that naturally attached him to rank and royalty. The +people—that is, the <span class="correction" title="amended from promiscous">promiscuous</span> mass of mankind—hardly +exist to Froissart. His pages, spacious as they are, have +scarcely room for more than kings and nobles, and knights +and squires. He is a picturesque and romantic historian, in +whose chronicles the glories of the world of chivalry—a +world, as we have said, already dying, and so soon to disappear—are +fixed forever on an ample canvas, in moving form +and shifting color, to delight the backward-looking imagination +of mankind.</p> + +<p>Froissart, besides being chronicler, was something of a +poet. It would still be possible to confront one who should +call this in question with thirty thousand surviving verses +from the chronicler’s pen. Quantity, indeed, rather than +quality, is the strong point of Froissart as poet.</p> + +<p>He had no sooner finished the first part of his Chronicles, +a compilation from the work of an earlier hand, than he +posted to England for the purpose of formally presenting +his work to the queen, a princess of Hainault. She rewarded +him handsomely. Woman enough, too, she was, woman +under the queen, duly to despatch him back again to his +native land, where the young fellow’s heart, she saw, was +lost to a noble lady, whom, from his inferior station, he could +woo only as moth might woo the moon. He subsequently +returned to Great Britain, and rode about on horseback gathering +materials of history. He visited Italy under excellent +auspices, and, together with Chaucer and with Petrarch, +witnessed a magnificent marriage ceremonial in Milan. Froissart +continued to travel far and wide, always a favorite with +princes, but always intent on achieving his projected work. +He finally died at Chimay, where he had spent his closing +years in rounding out to their completeness his “Chronicles +of England, France, and the Adjoining Countries.”</p> + +<p>Froissart is the most leisurely of historians, or, rather, he +is a writer who presupposes the largest allowance of leisure +at the command of his readers. He does not seek proportion +and perspective. He simply tells us all he has been able to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page24" id="page24"></a>24</span> +find out respecting each transaction in its turn as it successively +comes up in the progress of his narrative. If he +goes wrong to-day, he will perhaps correct himself to-morrow, +or day after to-morrow—this not by changing the first +record where it stands, to make it right, but by inserting a +note of his mistake at the point, whatever it may be, which +he shall chance to have reached in the work of composition +when the new and better light breaks in on his eyes. The +student is thus never quite certain but that what he is at +one moment reading in his author may be an error of which +at some subsequent moment he will be faithfully advised. A +little discomposing, this, but such is Froissart; and it is the +philosophical way to take your author as he is, and make the +best of him.</p> + +<p>Of such an historian, an historian so diffuse, and so little +selective, it would obviously be difficult to give any suitably +brief specimen that should seem to present a considerable +historic action in full. We go to Froissart’s account of the +celebrated battle of Poitiers (France). This was fought in +1356, between Edward the Black Prince on the English side, +and King John on the side of the French. King John, as a +result of the battle, fell into the hands of the enemy.</p> + +<p>The king of the French was, of course, a great prize to +be secured by the victorious English. There was eager individual +rivalry as to what particular warrior should be adjudged +his true captor. Froissart thus describes the strife +and the issue:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>There was much pressing at this time, through eagerness to take the +king; and those who were nearest to him, and knew him, cried out, +“Surrender yourself, surrender yourself, or you are a dead man!” In +that part of the field was a young knight from St. Omer, who was engaged +by a salary in the service of the king of England; his name was Denys +de Morbeque, who for five years had attached himself to the English, on +account of having been banished in his younger days from France, for a +murder committed in an affray at St. Omer. It fortunately happened for +this knight, that he was at the time near to the king of France, when he +was so much pulled about. He, by dint of force, for he was very strong and +robust, pushed through the crowd, and said to the king, in good French, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page25" id="page25"></a>25</span> +“Sire, sire, surrender yourself!” The king, who found himself very +disagreeably situated, turning to him, asked, “To whom shall I surrender +myself? to whom? Where is my cousin, the Prince of Wales? If I +could see him, I would speak to him.” “Sire,” replied Sir Denys, “he +is not here; but surrender yourself to me, and I will lead you to him.” +“Who are you?” said the king. “Sire, I am Denys de Morbeque, a +knight from Artois; but I serve the king of England because I cannot +belong to France, having forfeited all I possessed there.” The king then +gave him his right-hand glove, and said, “I surrender myself to you.” +There was much crowding and pushing about; for every one was eager to +cry out, “I have taken him!” Neither the king nor his youngest son +Philip were able to get forward, and free themselves from the throng....</p> + +<p>The Prince [of Wales] asked them [his marshals] if they knew any +thing of the king of France; they replied, “No, sir, not for a certainty; +but we believe he must be either killed or made prisoner, since he has +never quitted his batallion.” The prince then, addressing the Earl of +Warwick and Lord Cobham, said: “I beg of you to mount your horses, +and ride over the field so that on your return you may bring me some +certain intelligence of him.” The two barons, immediately mounting +their horses, left the prince, and made for a small hillock, that they might +look about them. From their stand they perceived a crowd of men-at-arms +on foot, who were advancing very slowly. The king of France was +in the midst of them, and in great danger; for the English and Gascons +had taken him from Sir Denys de Morbeque, and were disputing who +should have him, the stoutest bawling out, “It is I that have got him.” +“No, no,” replied the others, “we have him.” The king, to escape +from this peril, said: “Gentlemen, gentlemen, I pray you conduct me and +my son in a courteous manner to my cousin the prince; and do not make +such a riot about my capture, for I am so great a lord that I can make all +sufficiently rich.” These words, and others which fell from the king, +appeased them a little; but the disputes were always beginning again, +and they did not move a step without rioting. When the two barons +saw this troop of people, they descended from the hillock, and, sticking +spurs into their horses, made up to them. On their arrival, they asked +what was the matter. They were answered, that it was the king of +France, who had been made prisoner, and that upward of ten knights and +squires challenged him at the same time, as belonging to each of them. +The two barons then pushed through the crowd by main force, and ordered +all to draw aside. They commanded, in the name of the prince, +and under pain of instant death, that every one should keep his distance, +and not approach unless ordered or desired so to do. They all retreated +behind the king; and the two barons, dismounting, advanced to the king +with profound reverences, and conducted him in a peaceable manner to +the Prince of Wales.</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page26" id="page26"></a>26</span></p> + +<p>We continue our citation from Froissart with the brief +chapter in which the admiring chronicler tells the gallant +story of the Black Prince’s behavior as host toward his royal +captive, King John of France (it was the evening after the +battle):</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>When evening was come, the Prince of Wales gave a supper in his +pavilion to the king of France, and to the greater part of the princes and +barons who were prisoners. The prince seated the king of France, and +his son the Lord Philip, at an elevated and well-covered table; with them +were Sir James de Bourbon, the Lord John d’Artois, the Earls of Tancarville, +of Estampes, of Dammartin, of Graville, and the Lord of Partenay. +The other knights and squires were placed at different tables. The prince +himself served the king’s table, as well as the others, with every mark +of humility, and would not sit down at it, in spite of all his entreaties for +him so to do, saying that “he was not worthy of such an honor, nor did +it appertain to him to seat himself at the table of so great a king, or of so +valiant a man as he had shown himself by his actions that day.” He +added, also, with a noble air, “Dear sir, do not make a poor meal because +the Almighty God has not gratified your wishes in the event of this day; +for be assured that my lord and father will show you every honor and +friendship in his power, and will arrange your ransom so reasonably, that +you will henceforward always remain friends. In my opinion, you have +cause to be glad that the success of this battle did not turn out as you +desired; for you have this day acquired such high renown for prowess +that you have surpassed all the best knights on your side. I do not, dear +sir, say this to flatter you: for all those of our side who have seen and +observed the actions of each party, have unanimously allowed this to be +your due, and decree you the prize and garland for it.” At the end of +this speech, there were murmurs of praise heard from every one; and the +French said the prince had spoken nobly and truly, and that he would be +one of the most gallant princes in Christendom if God should grant him +life to pursue his career of glory.</p> +</div> + +<p>A splendid and a gracious figure the Black Prince makes +in the pages of Froissart. It was great good fortune for +the posthumous fame of chivalry that the institution should +have come by an artist so gifted and so loyal as this Frenchman, +to deliver its features in portrait to after-times, before +the living original vanished forever from the view of history. +How much the fiction of Sir Walter Scott owes to Froissart, +and to Philip de Comines after Froissart, those only can understand +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page27" id="page27"></a>27</span> +who have read both the old chronicles and the +modern romances.</p> + +<p>It was one of the congenial labors of Sidney Lanier—pure +flame of genius that late burned itself out so swiftly among us!—to +edit a reduction or abridgment of Froissart’s Chronicles +dedicated especially to the use of the young. “The Boy’s +Froissart,” he called it. This book is enriched with a wise +and genial appreciation of Froissart’s quality by his American +editor.</p> + +<p>Whoever reads Froissart needs to remember that the old +chronicler is too much enamored of chivalry, and is too easily +dazzled by splendor of rank, to be a rigidly just censor of +faults committed by knights and nobles and kings. Froissart, +in truth, seems to have been nearly destitute of the sentiment +of humanity. War to him was chiefly a game and a spectacle.</p> + +<p>Our presentation of Froissart must close with a single +passage additional, a picturesque one, in which the chronicler +describes the style of living witnessed by him at the court—we +may so not unfitly apply a royal word—of the Count de +Foix. The reader must understand, while he reads what we +here show, that Froissart himself, in close connection, relates +at full, in the language of an informant of his, how this magnificent +Count de Foix had previously killed, with a knife at +his throat, his own and his only son. “I was truly sorry,” so, +at the conclusion of the story, Froissart, with characteristic +direction of his sympathy, says, “for the count his father, +whom I found a magnificent, generous, and courteous lord, +and also for the country that was discontented for want of +an heir.” Here is the promised passage; it occurs in the ninth +chapter of the third volume:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Count Gaston Phœbus de Foix, of whom I am now speaking, was at +that time fifty-nine years old; and I must say, that although I have seen +very many knights, kings, princes, and others, I have never seen any so +handsome, either in the form of his limbs and shape, or in countenance, +which was fair and ruddy, with gray and amorous eyes, that gave delight +whenever he chose to express affection. He was so perfectly formed, +one could not praise him too much. He loved earnestly the things he +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page28" id="page28"></a>28</span> +ought to love, and hated those which it was becoming him so to hate. He +was a prudent knight, full of enterprise and wisdom. He had never any +men of abandoned character with him, reigned prudently, and was constant +in his devotions. There were regular nocturnals from the Psalter, +prayers from the rituals to the Virgin, to the Holy Ghost, and from the +burial service. He had every day distributed as alms, at his gate, five florins +in small coin, to all comers. He was liberal and courteous in his gifts, and +well knew how to take when it was proper, and to give back where he +had confidence. He mightily loved dogs above all other animals, and +during the summer and winter amused himself much with hunting....</p> + +<p>When he quitted his chamber at midnight for supper, twelve servants +bore each a lighted torch before him, which were placed near his table, +and gave a brilliant light to the apartment. The hall was full of knights +and squires, and there were plenty of tables laid out for any person who +chose to sup. No one spoke to him at his table, unless he first began a +conversation. He commonly ate heartily of poultry, but only the wings +and thighs; for in the day-time, he neither ate nor drank much. He had +great pleasure in hearing minstrels; as he himself was a proficient in the +science, and made his secretaries sing songs, ballads, and roundelays. He +remained at table about two hours, and was pleased when fanciful dishes +were served up to him, which having seen, he immediately sent them to +the tables of his knights and squires.</p> + +<p>In short, every thing considered, though I had before been in several +courts of kings, dukes, princes, counts, and noble ladies, I was never at +one that pleased me more, nor was I ever more delighted with feats of +arms, than at this of the Count de Foix. There were knights and squires +to be seen in every chamber, hall, and court, going backward, and forward, +and conversing on arms and amours. Every thing honorable +was there to be found. All intelligence from distant countries was there +to be learnt, for the gallantry of the count had brought visitors from all +parts of the world. It was there I was informed of the greater part of +those events which had happened in Spain, Portugal, Arragon, Navarre, +England, Scotland, and on the borders of Languedoc; for I saw, during +my residence, knights and squires arrive from every nation. I therefore +made inquiries from them, or from the count himself, who cheerfully +conversed with me.</p> +</div> + +<p>The foregoing is one of the most celebrated passages of +description in Froissart. At the same time that it discloses +the form and spirit of those vanished days, which will never +come again to the world, it discloses likewise the character of +the man, who must indeed have loved it all well, to have been +able so well to describe it.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page29" id="page29"></a>29</span></p> + +<p>We take now a somewhat long forward step, in going, as +we do, at once from Froissart to Rabelais. Comines, an historian +intervening, we must reluctantly pass, with thus barely +mentioning his name.</p> + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="center f120">III.</p> + +<p class="chap2 center">RABELAIS.</p> + +<p class="center">1495-1553.</p> + +<p><span class="sc chap1">Rabelais</span> is one of the most famous of writers. But he is, +at the same time, of famous writers perhaps quite incomparably +the coarsest.</p> + +<p>The real quality of such a writer it is evidently out of the +question to exhibit at all adequately here. But equally out +of the question it is to omit Rabelais altogether from an account +of French literature.</p> + +<p>Of the life of François Rabelais, the man, these few facts +will be sufficient to know. In early youth he joined the +monastic order of Franciscans. That order hated letters; +but Rabelais loved them. He, in fact, conceived a voracious +ambition of knowledge. He became immensely learned. This +fact, with what it implies of long labor patiently achieved, +is enough to show that Rabelais was not without seriousness +of character. But he was much more a merry-andrew than +a pattern monk. He made interest enough with influential +friends to get himself transferred from the Franciscans to the +Benedictines, an order more favorable to studious pursuits. +But neither among the Benedictines was this roistering spirit +at ease. He left them irregularly, but managed to escape +punishment for his irregularity. At last, after various vicissitudes +of occupation, he settled down as curate of Meudon, +where (the place, however, is doubtful, as also the date) in +1553 he died. He was past fifty years of age before he finished +the work which has made him famous.</p> + +<p>This work is “The Life of Gargantua and Pantagruel,” a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page30" id="page30"></a>30</span> +grotesque and nondescript production, founded, probably, on +some prior romance or traditionary tale of giants. The narrative +of Rabelais is a tissue of adventures shocking every +idea of verisimilitude, and serving only as a vehicle for the +strange humor of the writer. The work is replete with evidences +of Rabelais’s learning. It would be useless to attempt +giving any abstract or analysis of a book which is simply a +wild chaos of material jumbled together with little regard to +logic, order, or method of whatever sort. We shall better +represent its character by giving a few specimen extracts.</p> + +<p>Rabelais begins his romance characteristically. According +as you understand him here, you judge the spirit of the whole +work. Either he now gives you a clew by which, amid the +mazes of apparent sheer frivolity on his part, you may follow +till you win your way to some veiled serious meaning +that he had all the time, but never dared frankly avow; +or else he is playfully misleading you on a false scent, which, +however long held to, will bring you out nowhere—in short, +is quizzing you. Let the reader judge for himself. Here is +the opening passage—the “Author’s Prologue,” it is called +in the English translation executed by Sir Thomas Urquhart +and Motteaux; a version, by the way, which, with whatever +faults of too much freedom, is the work of minds and consciences +singularly sympathetic with the genius of the original; +the English student is perhaps hardly at all at disadvantage, +in comparison with the French, for the full appreciation +of Rabelais:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Most noble and illustrious drinkers, and you thrice precious pockified +blades (for to you, and none else, do I dedicate my writings), Alcibiades, in +that dialogue of Plato’s which is entitled “The Banquet,” whilst he was +setting forth the praises of his schoolmaster Socrates (without all question +the prince of philosophers), amongst other discourses to that purpose said +that he resembled the Sileni. Sileni of old were little boxes, like those we +now may see in the shops of apothecaries, painted on the outside with wanton +toyish figures, as harpies, satyrs, bridled geese, horned hares, saddled +ducks, flying goats, thiller harts, and other such counterfeited pictures, at +pleasure, to excite people unto laughter, as Silenus himself, who was the +foster-father of good Bacchus, was wont to do; but within those capricious +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page31" id="page31"></a>31</span> +caskets called Sileni, were carefully preserved and kept many rich and fine +drugs, such as balm, ambergreese, amomon, musk, civet, with several kinds +of precious stones, and other things of great price. Just such another thing +was Socrates; for to have eyed his outside, and esteemed of him by his exterior +appearance, you would not have given the peel of an onion for him, +so deformed he was in body, and ridiculous in his gesture.... Opening +this box you would have found within it a heavenly and inestimable drug, +a more than human understanding, an admirable virtue, matchless learning, +invincible courage, inimitable sobriety, certain contentment of mind, perfect +assurance, and an incredible disregard of all that for which men commonly +do so much watch, run, sail, fight, travel, toil and turmoil themselves.</p> + +<p>Whereunto (in your opinion) doth this little flourish of a preamble +tend? For so much as you, my good disciples, and some other jolly +fools of ease and leisure, ... are too ready to judge, that there is nothing +in them [Rabelais’s writings] but jests, mockeries, lascivious discourse, +and recreative lies; ... therefore is it, that you must open the book, and +seriously consider of the matter treated in it. Then shall you find that it +containeth things of far higher value than the box did promise; that is to +say, that the subject thereof is not so foolish, as by the title at the first +sight it would appear to be.</p> + +<p> ... Did you ever see a dog with a marrow-bone in his mouth? ... +Like him, you must, by a sedulous lecture [reading], and frequent meditation, +break the bone, and suck out the marrow; that is, my allegorical +sense, or the things I to myself propose to be signified by these Pythagorical +symbols; ... the most glorious doctrines and dreadful mysteries, +as well in what concerneth our religion, as matters of the public state +and life economical.</p> +</div> + +<p>Up to this point the candid reader has probably been conscious +of a growing persuasion that this author must be at +bottom a serious if also a humorous man—a man, therefore, +excusably intent not to be misunderstood as a mere buffoon. +But now let the candid reader proceed with the following, +and confess, upon his honor, if he is not scandalized and perplexed. +What shall be said of a writer who thus plays with +his reader?</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Do you believe, upon your conscience, that Homer, whilst he was +couching his Iliad and Odyssey, had any thought upon those allegories +which Plutarch, Heraclides Ponticus, Eustathius, Phornutus, squeezed +out of him, and which Politian filched again from them? If you trust it, +with neither hand nor foot do you come near to my opinion, which judgeth +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page32" id="page32"></a>32</span> +them to have been as little dreamed of by Homer, as the gospel sacraments +were by Ovid, in his Metamorphoses; though a certain gulligut +friar, and true bacon-picker, would have undertaken to prove it if, perhaps, +he had met with as very fools as himself, and, as the proverb says, +“a lid worthy of such a kettle.”</p> + +<p>If you give any credit thereto, why do not you the same to these jovial +new Chronicles of mine? Albeit, when I did dictate them, I thought +thereof no more than you, who possibly were drinking the whilst, as I was. +For, in the composing of this lordly book, I never lost nor bestowed any +more, nor any other time, than what was appointed to serve me for taking +of my bodily refection; that is, whilst I was eating and drinking. And, +indeed, that is the fittest and most proper hour, wherein to write these +high matters and deep sentences; as Homer knew very well, the paragon +of all philologues, and Ennius, the father of the Latin poets, as Horace +calls him, although a certain sneaking jobbernol alleged that his +verses smelled more of the wine than oil.</p> +</div> + +<p>Does this writer quiz his reader, or, in good faith, give +him a needed hint? Who shall decide?</p> + +<p>We have let our first extract thus run on to some length, +both for the reason that the passage is as representative as +any we could properly offer of the quality of Rabelais, and +also for the reason that the key of interpretation is here +placed in the hand of the reader, for unlocking the enigma of +this remarkable book. The extraordinary horse-play of pleasantry, +which makes Rabelais unreadable for the general public +of to-day, begins so promptly, affecting the very prologue, +that we could not present even that piece of writing entire in +our extract. We are informed that the circulation in England +of the works of Rabelais, in translation, has been interfered +with by the English government, on the ground of +their indecency. We are bound to admit that, if any writings +whatever were to be suppressed on that ground, the writings +of Rabelais are certainly entitled to be of the number. +It is safe to say that never, no, not even in the boundless license +of the comedy of Aristophanes, was more flagrant indecency, +and indecency proportionately more redundant in volume, +perpetrated in literature, than was done by Rabelais. +Indecency, however, it is, rather than strict lasciviousness. +Rabelais sinned against manners more than he sinned against +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page33" id="page33"></a>33</span> +morals. But his obscenity is an ocean, without bottom or +shore. Literally, he sticks at nothing that is coarse. Nay, +this is absurdly short of expressing the fact. The genius of +Rabelais teems with invention of coarseness, beyond what +any one could conceive as possible, who had not taken his +measure of possibility from Rabelais himself. And his diction +was as opulent as his invention.</p> + +<p>Such is the character of Rabelais the author. What, then, +was it, if not fondness for paradox, that could prompt Coleridge +to say, “I could write a treatise in praise of the moral +elevation of Rabelais’s works, which would make the church +stare and the conventicle groan, and yet would be truth, and +nothing but the truth?” If any thing besides fondness for +paradox inspired Coleridge in saying this, it must, one would +guess, have been belief on his part in an allegorical sense +hidden deep underneath the monstrous mass of the Rabelaisian +buffoonery. A more judicious sentence is that of Hallam, +the historian of the literature of Europe: “He [Rabelais] is +never serious in a single page, and seems to have had little +other aim, in his first two volumes, than to pour out the exuberance +of his animal gayety.”</p> + +<p>The supply of animal gayety in this man was something +portentous. One cannot, however, but feel that he forces it +sometimes, as sometimes did Dickens those exhaustless animal +spirits of his. A very common trick of the Rabelaisian +humor is to multiply specifications, or alternative expressions, +one after another, almost without end. From the second +book of his romance—an afterthought, probably, of continuation +to his unexpectedly successful first book—we take the +last paragraph of the prologue, which shows this. The veracious +historian makes obtestation of the strict truth of his +narrative, and imprecates all sorts of evil upon such as do +not believe it absolutely. We cleanse our extract a little:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>And, therefore, to make an end of this Prologue, even as I give myself +to an hundred thousand panniers-full of fair devils, body and soul, ... +in case that I lie so much as one single word in this whole history; after +the like manner, St. Anthony’s fire burn you, Mahoom’s disease whirl +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page34" id="page34"></a>34</span> +you, the squinance with a stitch in your side, and the wolf in your +stomach truss you, the bloody flux seize upon you, the cursed sharp inflammations +of wild fire, as slender and thin as cow’s hair strengthened +with quicksilver, enter into you, ... and, like those of Sodom and Gomorrha, +may you fall into sulphur, fire, and bottomless pits, in case you do +not firmly believe all that I shall relate unto you in this present Chronicle.</p> +</div> + +<p>So much for Rabelais’s prologues. Our readers must now +see something of what, under pains and penalties denounced +so dire, they are bound to believe. We condense and defecate +for this purpose the thirty-eighth chapter of the first +book, which is staggeringly entitled, “How Gargantua did +eat up Six Pilgrims in a Sallad:”</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>The story requireth that we relate that which happened unto six pilgrims, +who came from Sebastian near to Nantes; and who, for shelter +that night, being afraid of the enemy, had hid themselves in the garden +upon the chickling peas, among the cabbages and lettuces. Gargantua, +finding himself somewhat dry, asked whether they could get any lettuce +to make him a sallad; and, hearing that there were the greatest and fairest +in the country—for they were as great as plum trees, or as walnut +trees—he would go thither himself, and brought thence in his hand what +he thought good, and withal carried away the six pilgrims, who were in +so great fear that they did not dare to speak nor cough. Washing them, +therefore, first at the fountain, the pilgrims said one to another, softly, +“What shall we do? We are almost drowned here amongst these lettuce: +shall we speak? But if we speak, he will kill us for spies.” And, +as they were thus deliberating what to do, Gargantua put them, with the +lettuce, into a platter of the house, as large as the huge tun of the White +Friars of the Cistercian order; which done, with oil, vinegar, and salt, he +ate them up to refresh himself a little before supper, and had already +swallowed up five of the pilgrims, the sixth being in the platter, totally +hid under a lettuce, except his bourdon, or staff, that appeared, and nothing +else. Which Grangousier [Gargantua’s father] seeing, said to Gargantua, +“I think that is the horn of a shell snail: do not eat it.” “Why +not?” said Gargantua; “they are good all this month:” which he no +sooner said, but, drawing up the staff, and therewith taking up the pilgrim, +he ate him very well, then drank a terrible draught of excellent white +wine. The pilgrims, thus devoured, made shift to save themselves, as +well as they could, by drawing their bodies out of the reach of the grinders +of his teeth, but could not escape from thinking they had been put in +the lowest dungeon of a prison. And, when Gargantua whiffed the great +draught, they thought to have drowned in his mouth, and the flood of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page35" id="page35"></a>35</span> +wine had almost carried them away into the gulf of his stomach. Nevertheless, +skipping with their bourdons, as St. Michael’s palmers used to +do, they sheltered themselves from the danger of that inundation under +the banks of his teeth. But one of them, by chance, groping, or sounding +the country with his staff, to try whether they were in safety or no, +struck hard against the cleft of a hollow tooth, and hit the mandibulary +sinew or nerve of the jaw, which put Gargantua to very great pain, so +that he began to cry for the rage that he felt. To ease himself, therefore, +of his smarting ache, he called for his tooth-picker, and, rubbing towards +a young walnut-tree, where they lay skulking, unnestled you, my gentleman +pilgrims. For he caught one by the legs, another by the scrip, another +by the pocket, another by the scarf, another by the band of the +breeches; and the poor fellow that had hurt him with the bourdon, him +he hooked to by [another part of his clothes].... The pilgrims, thus +dislodged, ran away.</p> +</div> + +<p>Rabelais closes his story with jocose irreverent application +of Scripture—a manner of his which gives some color to the +tradition of a biblical pun made by him on his death-bed.</p> + +<p>The closest English analogue to Rabelais is undoubtedly +Dean Swift. We probably never should have had “Gulliver’s +Travels” from Swift if we had not first had Gargantua and +Pantagruel from Rabelais. Swift, however, contrasts Rabelais +as well as resembles him. Whereas Rabelais is simply +monstrous in invention, Swift in invention submits himself +loyally to law. Give Swift his world of Lilliput and +Brobdingnag respectively, and all, after that, is quite natural +and probable. The reduction or the exaggeration is made upon +a mathematically calculated scale. For such verisimilitude +Rabelais cares not a straw. His various inventions are recklessly +independent one of another. A characteristic of Swift +thus is scrupulous conformity to whimsical law. Rabelais is +remarkable for whimsical disregard of even his own whimseys. +Voltaire put the matter with his usual felicity—Swift +is Rabelais in his senses.</p> + +<p>One of the most celebrated—justly celebrated—of Rabelais’s +imaginations is that of the Abbey of Thélème [Thelema]. +This constitutes a kind of Rabelaisian Utopia. It +was proper of the released monk to give his Utopian dream +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page36" id="page36"></a>36</span> +the form of an abbey, but of an abbey in which the opposite +should obtain of all that he had so heartily hated in his own +monastic experience. A humorously impossible place and +state was the Abbey of Thélème—a kind of sportive Brook +Farm set far away in a world unrealized. How those Thelemites +enjoyed life, to be sure! It was like endless plum +pudding—for every body to eat, and nobody to prepare:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>All their life was spent not in laws, statutes, or rules, but according to +their own free will and pleasure. They rose out of their beds when they +thought good; they did eat, drink, labor, sleep, when they had a mind to it, +and were disposed for it. None did awake them, none did offer to constrain +them to eat, drink, nor to do any other thing; for so had Gargantua +established it. In all their rule, and strictest tie of their order, there +was but this one clause to be observed,</p> + +<p class="center">DO WHAT THOU WILT.</p> + +<p> ... By this liberty they entered into a very laudable emulation, to do +all of them what they saw did please one. If any of the gallants or ladies +should say, Let us drink, they would all drink. If any one of them said, +Let us play, they all played. If one said, Let us go a-walking into the +fields, they went all.... There was neither he nor she amongst them +but could read, write, sing, play upon several musical instruments, speak +five or six several languages, and compose in them all very quaintly, both +in verse and prose. Never were seen so valiant knights, so noble and +worthy, so dextrous and skilful both on foot and a horseback, more brisk +and lively, more nimble and quick, or better handling all manner of weapons +than were there. Never were seen ladies so proper and handsome, +so miniard and dainty, less forward, or more ready with their hand and +with their needle, in every honest and free action belonging to that sex, +than were there. For this reason, when the time came, that any man of +the said abbey, either at the request of his parents, or for some other +cause, had a mind to go out of it, he carried along with him one of the +ladies, namely her who had before that accepted him as her lover, and +they were married together.</p> +</div> + +<p>The foregoing is one of the most purely sweet imaginative +passages in Rabelais’s works. The representation, as a whole, +sheathes, of course, a keen satire on the religious houses. +Real religion Rabelais nowhere attacks.</p> + +<p>The same colossal Gargantua who had that eating adventure +with the six pilgrims is made, in Rabelais’s second book, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page37" id="page37"></a>37</span> +to write his youthful son Pantagruel—also a giant, but destined +to be, when mature, a model of all princely virtues—a +letter on education, in which the most pious paternal exhortation +occurs. The whole letter reads like some learned Puritan +divine’s composition. Here are a few specimen sentences:—</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Fail not most carefully to peruse the books of the Greek, Arabian, and +Latin physicians, not despising the Talmudists and Cabalists; and by frequent +anatomies get thee the perfect knowledge of that other world, +called the microcosm, which is man. And at some of the hours of the +day apply thy mind to the study of the Holy Scriptures: first, in Greek, +the New Testament, with the Epistles of the Apostles; and then the Old +Testament in Hebrew. In brief, let me see thee an abyss and bottomless +pit of knowledge....</p> + +<p>... It behooveth thee to serve, to love, to fear God, and on him to +cast all thy thoughts and all thy hope, and, by faith formed in charity, to +cleave unto him, so that thou mayest never be separated from him by thy +sins. Suspect the abuses of the world. Set not thy heart upon vanity, +for this life is transitory; but the Word of the Lord endureth forever.</p> +</div> + +<p>“Friar John” is a mighty man of valor, who figures equivocally +in the story of Gargantua and Pantagruel. The Abbey +of Thélème is given him in reward of his services. Some +have identified this fighting monk with Martin Luther. The +representation is, on the whole, so conducted as to leave the +reader’s sympathies at least half enlisted in favor of the fellow, +rough and roistering as he is.</p> + +<p>Panurge is the hero of the romance of Pantagruel,—almost +more than Pantagruel himself. It would be unpardonable to +dismiss Rabelais without first making our readers know Panurge +by, at least, a few traits of his character and conduct. +Panurge was a shifty but unscrupulous adventurer, whom +Pantagruel, pious prince as he was, coming upon him by +chance, took and kept under his patronage. Panurge was an +arch-imp of mischief—-mischief indulged in the form of obscene +and malicious practical jokes. Rabelais describes his +accomplishments in a long strain of discourse, from which we +purge our selection to follow—thereby transforming Panurge +into a comparatively proper and virtuous person:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page38" id="page38"></a>38</span></p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>He had threescore and three tricks to come by it [money] at his need +of which the most honorable and most ordinary was in manner of thieving, +secret purloining, and filching, for he was a wicked, lewd rogue, a cozener, +drinker, roisterer, rover, and a very dissolute and debauched fellow, if +there were any in Paris; otherwise, and in all matters else, the best and +most virtuous man in the world; and he was still contriving some plot, and +devising mischief against the sergeants and the watch.</p> + +<p>At one time he assembled three or four especial good hacksters and roaring +boys; made them in the evening drink like Templars, afterward led +them till they came under St. Genevieve, or about the college of Navarre, +and, at the hour that the watch was coming up that way—which he knew +by putting his sword upon the pavement, and his ear by it, and, when +he heard his sword shake, it was an infallible sign that the watch was +near at that instant—then he and his companions took a tumbrel or +garbage-cart, and gave it the brangle, hurling it with all their force +down the hill, and then ran away upon the other side; for in less than +two days he knew all the streets, lanes, and turnings in Paris as well as +his <i>Deus det</i>.</p> + +<p>At another time he laid, in some fair place where the said watch was to +pass, a train of gunpowder, and, at the very instant that they went along, +set fire to it, and then made himself sport to see what good grace they had +in running away, thinking that St. Anthony’s fire had caught them by the +legs.... In one of his pockets he had a great many little horns full of +fleas and lice, which he borrowed from the beggars of St. Innocent, and +cast them, with small canes or quills to write with, into the necks of the +daintiest gentlewomen that he could find, yea, even in the church; for +he never seated himself above in the choir, but always in the body +of the church amongst the women, both at mass, at vespers, and at +sermon.</p> +</div> + +<p>Coleridge, in his metaphysical way, keen at the moment on +the scent of illustrations for the philosophy of Kant, said, +“Pantagruel is the Reason; Panurge the Understanding.” +Rabelais himself, in the fourth book of his romance, written +in the last years of his life, defines the spirit of the work. +This fourth book, the English translator says, is “justly +thought his masterpiece.” The same authority adds with +enthusiasm, “Being wrote with more spirit, salt, and flame +than the first part.” Here, then, is Rabelais’s own expression, +sincere or jocular, as you choose to take it, for what constitutes +the essence of his writing. We quote from the “Prologue:”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page39" id="page39"></a>39</span></p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>By the means of a little Pantagruelism (which, you know, is <i>a certain +jollity of mind, pickled in the scorn of fortune</i>), you see me now [“at near +seventy years of age,” his translator says], hale and cheery, as sound as a +bell, and ready to drink, if you will.</p> +</div> + +<p>It is impossible to exaggerate the mad, rollicking humor, +sticking at nothing, either in thought or in expression, with +which especially this last book of Rabelais’s work is written. +But we have no more space for quotation.</p> + +<p>Coleridge’s theory of interpretation for Rabelais’s writings is +hinted in his “Table Talk,” as follows: “After any particularly +deep thrust ... Rabelais, as if to break the blow and +to appear unconscious of what he has done, writes a chapter +or two of pure buffoonery.”</p> + +<p>The truth seems to us to be, that Rabelais’s supreme taste, +like his supreme power, lay in the line of humorous satire. +He hated monkery, and he satirized the system as openly as +he dared—this, however, not so much in the love of truth +and freedom as in pure fondness for exercising his wit. +That he was more than willing to make his ribald drollery +the fool’s mask from behind which he might aim safely his +shafts of ridicule at what he despised and hated is, indeed, +probable. But in this is supplied to him no sufficient excuse +for his obscene and blasphemous pleasantry. Nor yet are the +manners of the age an excuse sufficient. Erasmus belonged +to the same age, and he disliked the monks not less. But +what a contrast, in point of decency, between Rabelais and +Erasmus.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page40" id="page40"></a>40</span></p> + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="center f120">IV.</p> + +<p class="chap2 center">MONTAIGNE.</p> + +<p class="center">1533-1592.</p> + +<p><span class="sc chap1">Montaigne</span> is signally the author of one book. His “Essays” +are the whole of him. He wrote letters, to be sure, and +he wrote journals of travel undertaken in quest of health +and pleasure. But these are chiefly void of interest. Montaigne +the Essayist alone is emphatically the Montaigne that +survives. “Montaigne the Essayist”—that has become, as it +were, a personal name in literary history.</p> + +<p>The “Essays” are one hundred and seven in number, distributed +in three books. They are very unequal in length: +and they are on the most various topics—topics often the +most whimsical in character. We give a few of his titles, +taking them as found in Cotton’s translation:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>That men by various ways arrive at the same end; Whether the governor +of a place ought himself to go out to parley; Of liars; Of quick or +slow speech; A proceeding of some ambassadors; Various events from the +same counsel; Of cannibals; That we laugh and cry from the same thing; +Of smell; That the mind hinders itself; Of thumbs; Of virtue; Of coaches; +Of managing the will; Of cripples; Of experience.</p> +</div> + +<p>Montaigne’s titles cannot be trusted to indicate the nature +of the essays to which they belong. The author’s pen will +not be bound. It runs on at its own pleasure. Things the +most unexpected are incessantly turning up in Montaigne—things, +probably, that were as unexpected to the writer when +he was writing as they will be to the reader when he is reading. +The writing, on whatever topic, in whatever vein, always +revolves around the writer for its pivot. Montaigne, +from no matter what apparent diversion, may constantly be +depended upon to bring up in due time at himself. The +tether is long and elastic, but it is tenacious, and it is +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page41" id="page41"></a>41</span> +securely tied to Montaigne. This, as we shall presently let the +author himself make plain, is no accident of which Montaigne +was unconscious. It is the express idea on which the “Essays” +were written. Montaigne, in his “Essays,” is a pure +and perfect egotist, naked and not ashamed. Egotism is +Montaigne’s note, his <i>differentia</i>, in the world of literature. +Other literary men have been egotists—since. But Montaigne +may be called the first, and he is the greatest; by no means +the most monstrous, but the greatest.</p> + +<p>Montaigne was a Gascon, and Gasconisms adulterate the +purity of his French. But his style—a little archaic now, +and never finished to the nail—had virtues of its own which +have exercised a wholesome influence on classic French prose. +It is simple, direct, manly, genuine. It is fresh and racy of +the writer. It is flexible to every turn, it is sensitive to every +rise or fall, of the thought. It is a steadfast rebuke to rant +and fustian. It quietly laughs to scorn the folly of that style +which writhes in an agony of expression, with neither thought +nor feeling present to be expressed. Montaigne’s “Essays” +have been a great and a beneficent formative force in the development +of prose style in French.</p> + +<p>For substance, Montaigne is rich in practical wisdom, his +own by original reflection or by discreet purveyal. He had +read much, he had observed much, he had experienced much. +The result of all, digested in brooding thought, he put into +his “Essays.” These grew as he grew. He got himself +transferred whole into them. Out of them, in turn, the +world has been busy ever since dissolving Montaigne.</p> + +<p>Montaigne’s “Essays” are, as we have said, himself. Such +is his own way of putting the fact. To one admiring his essays +to him, he frankly replied, “You will like me if you like my +essays, for they are myself.” The originality, the creative +character and force of the “Essays” lies in this autobiographical +quality in them. Their fascination, too, consists in the +revelation they contain. This was, first, self-revelation on the +part of the writer; but no less it becomes, in each case, self-revelation +in the experience of the reader. For, as face +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page42" id="page42"></a>42</span> +answereth to face in the glass, so doth the heart of man to man— +from race to race and from generation to generation. If +Montaigne, in his “Essays,” held the mirror up to himself, he, +in the same act, held up the mirror to you and to me. The +image that we, reading, call Montaigne, is really ourselves. +We never tire of gazing on it. We are all of us Narcissuses. +This is why Montaigne is an immortal and a universal writer.</p> + +<p>Here is Montaigne’s preface to his “Essays”—“The +Author to the Reader,” it is entitled:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Reader, thou hast here an honest book; it doth at the outset forewarn +thee that, in contriving the same, I have proposed to myself no other than +a domestic and private end: I have had no consideration at all either to +thy service or to my glory. My powers are not capable of any such design. +I have dedicated it to the particular commodity of my kinsfolk and +friends, so that, having lost me (which they must do shortly), they may +therein recover some traits of my conditions and humours, and by that +means preserve more whole, and more life-like, the knowledge they had of +me. Had my intention been to seek the world’s favor, I should surely have +adorned myself with borrowed beauties. I desire therein to be viewed as I +appear in mine own genuine, simple, and ordinary manner, without study +and artifice; for it is myself I paint. My defects are therein to be read to +the life, and my imperfections and my natural form, so far as public reverence +hath permitted me. If I had lived among those nations which (they +say) yet dwell under the sweet liberty of nature’s primitive laws, I assure +thee I would most willingly have painted myself quite fully, and +quite naked. Thus, reader, myself am the matter of my book. There’s +no reason thou shouldst employ thy leisure about so frivolous and vain a +subject. Therefore, farewell.</p> + +<p>From Montaigne, the 12th of June, 1580.</p> +</div> + +<p>Michel Eyquem de Montaigne, our author, as the foregoing +date will have suggested, derived his most familiar name +from the place at which he was born and at which he lived. +Readers are not to take too literally Montaigne’s notice of his +dispensing with “borrowed beauties.” He was, in fact, a +famous borrower. He himself warns his readers to be careful +how they criticise him; they may be flouting unawares +Seneca, Plutarch, or some other, equally redoubtable, of the +reverend ancients. Montaigne is perhaps as signal an example +as any in literature of the man of genius exercising his prescriptive +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page43" id="page43"></a>43</span> +right to help himself to his own wherever he may +happen to find it. But Montaigne has in turn been freely borrowed +from. Bacon borrowed from him, Shakespeare borrowed +from him, Dryden, Pope, Hume, Burke, Byron—these, with +many more, in England; and, in France, Pascal, La Rochefoucauld, +Voltaire, Rousseau—directly or indirectly, almost every +writer since his day. No modern writer, perhaps, has gone in +solution into subsequent literature more widely than Montaigne. +But no writer remains more solidly and insolubly entire.</p> + +<p>We go at once to chapter twenty-five of the first book of +the “Essays,” entitled, in the English translation, “On the +Education of Children.” The translation we use henceforth +throughout is the classic one of Charles Cotton, in a text of +it edited by Mr. William Carew Hazlitt. The “preface,” +already given, Cotton omitted to translate. We have allowed +Mr. Hazlitt to supply the deficiency. Montaigne addresses +his educational views to a countess. Several others of his +essays are similarly inscribed to women. Mr. Emerson’s excuse +of Montaigne for his coarseness—that he wrote for a +generation in which women were not expected to be readers—is +thus seen to be curiously impertinent to the actual case +that existed. Of a far worse fault in Montaigne than his +coarseness—we mean his outright immorality—Mr. Emerson +makes no mention, and for it, therefore, provides no excuse. +We shall ourselves, in due time, deal more openly with our +readers on this point.</p> + +<p>It was for a “boy of quality” that Montaigne aimed to +adapt his suggestions on the subject of education. In this +happy country of ours all boys are boys of quality; and we +shall go nowhere amiss in selecting from the present essay:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>For a boy of quality, then, I say, I would also have his friends solicitous +to find him out a tutor who has rather a well-made than a well-filled head, +seeking, indeed, both the one and the other, but rather of the two to prefer +manners and judgment to mere learning, and that this man should exercise +his charge after a new method.</p> + +<p>’Tis the custom of pedagogues to be eternally thundering in their pupil’s +ears, as they were pouring into a funnel, whilst the business of the pupil +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page44" id="page44"></a>44</span> +is only to repeat what the others have said: now, I would have a tutor +to correct this error, and that, at the very first, he should, according to the +capacity he has to deal with, put it to the test, permitting his pupil himself +to taste things, and of himself to discern and choose them, sometimes +opening the way to him, and sometimes leaving him to open it for himself; +that is, I would not have him alone to invent and speak, but that he +should also hear his pupil speak in turn.... Let him make him put what he +has learned into a hundred several forms, and accommodate it to so many +several subjects, to see if he yet rightly comprehends it, and has made it +his own.... ’Tis a sign of crudity and indigestion to disgorge what we +eat in the same condition it was swallowed: the stomach has not performed +its office, unless it have altered the form and condition of what was committed +to it to concoct....</p> + +<p>Let him make him examine and thoroughly sift every thing he reads +and lodge nothing in his fancy upon simple authority and upon trust, +Aristotle’s principles will then be no more principles to him than those of +Epicurus and the stoics: let this diversity of opinions be propounded to, +and laid before, him; he will himself choose, if he be able; if not, he +will remain in doubt.</p> + +<p style="margin-left: 5em;">“Che, non men che saper, dubbiar m’aggrata.”</p> + +<p style="text-align: right; margin-right: 2em;"><span class="sc">Dante</span>, <i>Inferno</i>, xl, 93.</p> + +<p style="margin-left: 4em;">[“That doubting pleases me, not less than knowing.”</p> + +<p style="text-align: right; margin-right: 2em;"><span class="sc">Longfellow’s</span> <i>Translation</i>.]</p> + +<p class="noind">For, if he embrace the opinions of Xenophon and Plato, by his own reason +they will no more be theirs, but become his own. Who follows another +follows nothing, finds nothing, nay, is inquisitive after nothing. “Non +sumus sub rege; sibi quisque se vindicet.” [“We are under no king; let +each look to himself.”—<span class="sc">Seneca</span>, <i>Ep.</i> 33.] Let him, at least, know that he +knows. It will be necessary that he imbibe their knowledge, not that he +be corrupted with their precepts; and no matter if he forget where he had +his learning, provided he know how to apply it to his own use. Truth and +reason are common to every one, and are no more his who spake them +first, than his who speaks them after; ’tis no more according to Plato, than +according to me, since both he and I equally see and understand them. +Bees cull their several sweets from this flower and that blossom, here and +there where they find them; but themselves afterward make the honey, +which is all and purely their own, and no more thyme and marjoram: so the +several fragments he borrows from others he will transform and shuffle together, +to compile a work that shall be absolutely his own; that is to say, +his judgment: his instruction, labor, and study tend to nothing else but +to form that.... Conversation with men is of very great use, and travel +into foreign countries, ... to be able chiefly to give an account of the +humors, manners, customs, and laws of those nations where he has been, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page45" id="page45"></a>45</span> +and that we may whet and sharpen our wits by rubbing them against +those of others....</p> + +<p>In this conversing with men, I mean also, and principally, those who +live only in the records of history: he shall, by reading those books, converse +with the great and heroic souls of the best ages.</p> +</div> + +<p>It is difficult to find a stopping-place in discourse so wise +and so sweet. We come upon sentences like Plato for height +and for beauty. An example: “The most manifest sign of +wisdom is a continual cheerfulness; her state is like that of +things in the regions above the moon, always clear and serene.” +But the genius of Montaigne does not often soar, though +even one little flight like that shows that it has wings. Montaigne’s +garnishes of quotation from foreign tongues are often +a cold-blooded device of afterthought with him. His first +edition was without them in many places where subsequently +they appear. Readers familiar with Emerson will be reminded +of him in perusing Montaigne. Emerson himself +said, “It seemed to me [in reading the ‘Essays’ of Montaigne], +as if I myself had written the book in some former life, so +sincerely it spoke to my thoughts and experience.” The rich +old English of Cotton’s translation had evidently a strong influence +on Emerson, to mold his own style of expression. +Emerson’s trick of writing “’tis,” was apparently caught from +Cotton. The following sentence, from the present essay of +Montaigne, might very well have served Mr. Emerson for his +own rule of writing: “Let it go before, or come after, a good +sentence, or a thing well said, is always in season; if it neither +suit well with what went before, nor has much coherence with +what follows after, it is good in itself.” Montaigne, at any +rate, wrote his “Essays” on that easy principle. The logic of +them is the logic of mere chance association in thought. But, +with Montaigne—whatever is true of Emerson—the association +at least is not occult; and it is such as pleases the reader not +less than it pleased the writer. So this Gascon gentleman of +the olden time never tires us, and never loses us out of his +hand. We go with him cheerfully where he so blithely leads.</p> + +<p>Montaigne tells us how he was himself trained under his +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page46" id="page46"></a>46</span> +father. The elder Montaigne, too, had his ideas on education—the +subject which his son, in this essay, so instructively +treats. The essayist leads up to his autobiographical episode +by an allusion to the value of the classical languages, and to +the question of method in studying them. He says:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>In my infancy, and before I began to speak, he [my father] committed +me to the care of a German,... totally ignorant of our language, but +very fluent, and a great critic, in Latin. This man, whom he had fetched +out of his own country, and whom he entertained with a very great +salary, for this only end, had me continually with him: to him there were +also joined two others, of inferior learning, to attend me, and to relieve +him, who all of them spoke to me in no other language but Latin. +As to the rest of his family, it was an inviolable rule, that neither himself +nor my mother, man nor maid, should speak any thing in my company +but such Latin words as every one had learned only to gabble with +me. It is not to be imagined how great an advantage this proved to the +whole family: my father and my mother by this means learned Latin +enough to understand it perfectly well, and to speak it to such a degree +as was sufficient for any necessary use, as also those of the servants did +who were most frequently with me. In short, we Latined it at such a +rate that it overflowed to all the neighboring villages, where there yet +remain, that have established themselves by custom, several Latin appellations +of artisans and their tools. As for what concerns myself, I +was above six years of age before I understood either French or Perigordin +[“Perigordin” is Montaigne’s name for the dialect of his province, +Perigord (Gascony)], any more than Arabic; and, without art, book, +grammar, or precept, whipping, or the expense of a tear, I had, by that +time, learned to speak as pure Latin as my master himself, for I had no +means of mixing it up with any other.</p> +</div> + +<p>We are now to see how, helped by his wealth, the father was +able to gratify a pleasant whimsey of his own in the nurture +of his boy. Highly æsthetic was the matin <i>réveille</i> that broke +the slumbers of this hopeful young heir of Montaigne:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Some being of opinion that it troubles and disturbs the brains of children +suddenly to wake them in the morning, and to snatch them violently +and over-hastily from sleep, wherein they are much more profoundly +involved than we, he [the father] caused me to be wakened by +the sound of some musical instrument, and was never unprovided of a +musician for that purpose.... The good man, being extremely timorous +of any way failing in a thing he had so wholly set his heart upon, suffered +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page47" id="page47"></a>47</span> +himself at last to be overruled by the common opinions:... he +sent me, at six years of age, to the College of Guienne, at that time the +best and most flourishing in France.</p> +</div> + +<p>In short, as in the case of Mr. Tulliver, the world was “too +many” for Eyquem <i>père</i>; and, in the education of his son, +the stout Gascon, having started out well as dissenter, fell +into dull conformity at last.</p> + +<p>We ought to give some idea of the odd instances, classic +and other, with which Montaigne plentifully bestrews his pages. +He is writing of the “Force of Imagination.” He says:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>A woman, fancying she had swallowed a pin in a piece of bread, cried +and lamented as though she had an intolerable pain in her throat, where +she thought she felt it stick; but an ingenious fellow that was brought to +her, seeing no outward tumor nor alteration, supposing it to be only a conceit +taken at some crust of bread that had hurt her as it went down, +caused her to vomit, and, unseen, threw a crooked pin into the basin, +which the woman no sooner saw, but, believing she had cast it up, she +presently found herself eased of her pain....</p> + +<p>Such as are addicted to the pleasures of the field have, I make no question, +heard the story of the falconer, who, having earnestly fixed his eyes +upon a kite in the air, laid a wager that he would bring her down with +the sole power of his sight, and did so, as it was said; for <i>the tales I borrow, +I charge upon the consciences of those from whom I have them</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p>We italicize the last foregoing words, to make readers see +that Montaigne is not to be read for the truth of his instances. +He uses what comes to hand. He takes no trouble to verify. +“The discourses are my own,” he says; but even this, as we +have hinted, must not be pressed too hard in interpretation. +Whether a given reflection of Montaigne’s is strictly his own, +in the sense of not having been first another’s, who gave it to +him, is not to be determined except upon very wide reading, +very well remembered, in all the books that Montaigne could +have got under his eye. That was full fairly his own, he +thought, which he had made his own by intelligent appropriation. +And this, perhaps, expresses in general the sound law +of property in the realm of mind. At any rate, Montaigne +will wear no yoke of fast obligation. He will write as pleases +him. Above all things else, he likes his freedom.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page48" id="page48"></a>48</span></p> + +<p>Here is one of those sagacious historical scepticisms, in +which Montaigne was so fond of poising his mind between +opposite views. It occurs in his essay entitled, “Of the +Uncertainty of our Judgments:”</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Amongst other oversights Pompey is charged withal at the battle of +Pharsalia, he is condemned for making his army stand still to receive the +enemy’s charge, “by reason that” (I shall here steal Plutarch’s own +words, which are better than mine) “he by so doing deprived himself of +the violent impression the motion of running adds to the first shock of +arms, and hindered that clashing of the combatants against one another, +which is wont to give them greater impetuosity and fury, especially when +they come to rush in with their utmost vigor, their courages increasing +by the shouts and the career; ’tis to render the soldiers’ ardor, as a man +may say, more reserved and cold.” This is what he says. But, if Cæsar +had come by the worse, why might it not as well have been urged by +another, that, on the contrary, the strongest and most steady posture of +fighting is that wherein a man stands planted firm, without motion; and +that they who are steady upon the march, closing up, and reserving their +force within themselves for the push of the business, have a great advantage +against those who are disordered, and who have already spent +half their breath in running on precipitately to the charge? Besides that, +an army is a body made up of so many individual members, it is impossible +for it to move in this fury with so exact a motion as not to break the +order of battle, and that the best of them are not engaged before their +fellows can come on to help them.</p> +</div> + +<p>The sententiousness of Montaigne may be illustrated by +transferring here a page of brief excerpts from the “Essays,” +collected by Mr. Bayle St. John in his biography of the +author. The apothegmatic or proverbial quality in Montaigne +had a very important sequel of fruitful influence on +subsequent French writers, as chapters to follow in this volume +will abundantly show. In reading the sentences sub-joined, +you will have the sensation of coming suddenly upon +a treasure-trove of coined proverbial wisdom:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Our minds are never at home, but ever beyond home.</p> + +<p>I will take care, if possible, that my death shall say nothing that my +life has not said.</p> + +<p>Life in itself is neither good nor bad: it is the place of what is good +or bad.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page49" id="page49"></a>49</span></p> + +<p>Knowledge should not be stuck on to the mind, but incorporated in it.</p> + +<p>Irresolution seems to me the most common and apparent vice of our +nature.</p> + +<p>Age wrinkles the mind more than the face.</p> + +<p>Habit is a second nature.</p> + +<p>Hunger cures love.</p> + +<p>It is easier to get money than to keep it.</p> + +<p>Anger has often been the vehicle of courage.</p> + +<p>It is more difficult to command than to obey.</p> + +<p>A liar should have a good memory.</p> + +<p>Ambition is the daughter of presumption.</p> + +<p>To serve a prince, you must be discreet and a liar.</p> + +<p>We learn to live when life has passed.</p> + +<p>The mind is ill at ease when its companion has the colic.</p> + +<p>We are all richer than we think, but we are brought up to go a-begging.</p> + +<p>The greatest masterpiece of man is ... to be born at the right +time.</p> +</div> + +<p>We append a saying of Montaigne’s not found in Mr. St. +John’s collection:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>There is no so good man, who so squares all his thoughts and actions +to the laws, that he is not faulty enough to deserve hanging ten times +in his life.</p> +</div> + +<p>Montaigne was too intensely an egotist, in his character as +man no less than in his character as writer, to have many personal +relations that exhibit him in aspects engaging to our +love. But one friendship of his is memorable—is even historic. +The name of La Boëtie is forever associated with the +name of Montaigne. La Boëtie is remarkable for being, as +we suppose, absolutely the first voice raised in France against +the idea of monarchy. His little treatise <i>Contr’ Un</i> (literally, +“Against One”), or “Voluntary Servitude,” is by many esteemed +among the most important literary productions of +modern times. Others, again, Mr. George Saintsbury, for example, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page50" id="page50"></a>50</span> +consider it an absurdly overrated book. For our own +part, we are inclined to give it conspicuous place in the +history of free thought in France. La Boëtie died young; +and his <i>Contr’ Un</i> was published posthumously—first by the +Protestants, after the terrible day of St. Bartholomew. Our +readers may judge for themselves whether a pamphlet in +which such passages as the following could occur must not +have had an historic effect upon the inflammable sentiment of +the French people. We take Mr. Bayle St. John’s translation, +bracketing a hint or two of correction suggested by comparison +of the original French. The treatise of La Boëtie is +sometimes now printed with Montaigne’s “Essays,” in French +editions of our author’s works; La Boëtie says:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>You sow your fruits [crops] that he [the king] may ravage them; you +furnish and fill your houses that he may have something to steal; you +bring up your daughters that he may slake his luxury; you bring up +your sons that he may take them to be butchered in his wars, to be +the ministers of his avarice, the executors of his vengeance; you disfigure +your forms by labor [your own selves you inure to toil] that he +may cocker himself in delight, and wallow in nasty and disgusting pleasure.</p> +</div> + +<p>Montaigne seems really to have loved this friend of his, +whom he reckoned the greatest man in France. His account +of La Boëtie’s death, Mr. St. John boldly, and not presumptuously, +parallels with the “Phædon” of Plato. Noble +writing, it certainly is, though its stateliness is a shade too +self-conscious, perhaps.</p> + +<p>We have thus far presented Montaigne in words of his +own such as may fairly be supposed likely to prepossess the +reader in his favor. We could multiply our extracts indefinitely +in a like unexceptionable vein of writing. But to +do so, and to stop with these, would misrepresent Montaigne. +Montaigne is very far from being an innocent writer. +His moral tone generally is low, and often it is execrable. +He is coarse, but coarseness is not the worst of him. Indeed, +he is cleanliness itself compared with Rabelais. But +Rabelais is morality itself compared with Montaigne. +Montaigne is corrupt and corrupting. This feature of his +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page51" id="page51"></a>51</span> +writings we are necessarily forbidden to illustrate. In an +essay written in his old age—which we will not even name, +its general tenor is so evil—Montaigne holds the following +language:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>I gently turn aside, and avert my eyes from the stormy and cloudy +sky I have before me, which, thanks be to God, I regard without fear, +but not without meditation and study, and amuse myself in the remembrance of my better years:</p> + +<p class="center"> + “Animus quod perdidit, optat,<br /> +Atque in præterita se totus imagine versat.”—<i>Petronius</i>, c. 128.</p> + +<p>[“The mind desires what it has lost, and in fancy flings itself wholly into the past.”]</p> + +<p>Let childhood look forward, and age backward; is not this the +signification of Janus’ double face? Let years haul me along if they will, +but it shall be backward; as long as my eyes can discern the pleasant +season expired, I shall now and then turn them that way; though it +escape from my blood and veins, I shall not, however, root the image of +it out of my memory:</p> + +<p class="center"> + “Hoc est<br /> +Vivere bis, vita posse priore frui.”—<i>Martial</i>, x. 23, 7.</p> + +<p>[“’Tis to live twice to be able to enjoy former life again.”]</p> +</div> + +<p>Harmlessly, even engagingly, pensive seems the foregoing +strain of sentiment. Who could suppose it a prelude to detailed +reminiscence on the author’s part of sensual pleasures—the +basest—enjoyed in the past? The venerable voluptuary +keeps himself in countenance for his lascivious vein by +writing as follows:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>I have enjoined myself to dare to say all that I dare to do; even +thoughts that are not to be published displease me; the worst of my +actions and qualities do not appear to me so evil, as I find it evil and +base not to dare to own them....</p> + +<p>... I am greedy of making myself known, and I care not to how +many, provided it be truly.... Many things that I would not say to +a particular individual, I say to the people; and, as to my most secret +thoughts, send my most intimate friends to my book.... For my part, +if any one should recommend me as a good pilot, as being very modest, +or very chaste, I should owe him no thanks [because the recommendation +would be false].</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page52" id="page52"></a>52</span></p> + +<p>We must leave it—as, however, Montaigne himself is far +enough from leaving it—to the imagination of readers to +conjecture what “pleasures” they are, of which this worn-out +debauchee (nearing death, and thanking God that he +nears it “without fear”) speaks in the following sentimental +strain:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>In farewells, we oftener than not heat our affections toward the things +we take leave of: I take my last leave of the pleasures of this world; +these are our last embraces.</p> +</div> + +<p>Mr. Emerson, in his “Representative Men,” makes Montaigne +stand for The Skeptic. Skeptic, Montaigne was. He +questioned, he considered, he doubted. He stood poised in +equilibrium, in indifference, between contrary opinions. He +saw reasons on this side, but he saw reasons also on that, +and he did not clear his mind. “<i>Que sçai-je?</i>” was his +motto (“What know I?”), a question as of hopeless ignorance—nay, +as of ignorance also void of desire to know. +His life was one long interrogation, a balancing of opposites, +to the end.</p> + +<p>Such, speculatively, was Montaigne. Such, too, speculatively, +was Pascal. The difference, however, was greater +than the likeness, between these two minds. Pascal, doubting, +gave the world of spiritual things the benefit of his +doubt. Montaigne, on the other hand, gave the benefit of his +doubt to the world of sense. He was a sensualist, he was a +glutton, he was a lecher. He, for his portion, chose the +good things of this life. His body he used, to get him +pleasures of the body. In pleasures of the body he sunk and +drowned his conscience, if he ever had a conscience. But +his intelligence survived. He became, at last—if he was not +such from the first—almost pure sense, without soul.</p> + +<p>Yet we have no doubt Montaigne was an agreeable gentleman. +We think we should have got on well with him as +a neighbor of ours. He was a tolerably decent father, provided +the child were grown old enough to be company for +him. His own lawful children, while infants, had to go out +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page53" id="page53"></a>53</span> +of the house for their nursing; so it not unnaturally happened +that all but one died in their infancy. Five of such +is the number that you can count in his own journalistic entries +of family births and deaths. But, in his “Essays,” +speaking as “moral philosopher,” he says, carelessly, that he +had lost “two or three” “without repining.” This, perhaps, +is affectation. But what affectation!</p> + +<p>Montaigne was well-to-do; and he ranked as a gentleman, +if not as a great nobleman. He lived in a castle, bequeathed +to him, and by him bequeathed—a castle still standing, and +full of personal association with its most famous owner. +He occupied a room in the tower, fitted up as a library. +Over the door of this room may still, we believe, be read +Montaigne’s motto, “<i>Que sçai-je?</i>” Votaries of Montaigne +perform their pious pilgrimages to this shrine of their idolatry, +year after year, century after century.</p> + +<p>For, remember, it is now three centuries since Montaigne +wrote. He was before Bacon and Shakespeare. He was contemporary +with Charles IX., and with Henry of Navarre. But +date has little to do with such a writer as Montaigne. His +quality is sempiternal. He overlies the ages, as the long +hulk of a great steamship overlies the waves of the sea, +stretching from summit to summit. Not that, in the form +of his literary work, he was altogether independent of time +and of circumstance. Not that he was uninfluenced by his +historic place, in the essential spirit of his work. But, more +than often happens, Montaigne may fairly be judged out of +himself alone. His message he might, indeed, have delivered +differently; but it would have been substantially the +same message, had he been differently placed, in the world, +and in history. We need hardly, therefore, add any thing +about Montaigne’s outward life. His true life is in his book.</p> + +<p>Montaigne the Essayist is the consummate, the ideal, expression, +practically incapable of improvement, of the spirit +and wisdom of the world. This characterization, we think, +fairly and sufficiently sums up the good and the bad of Montaigne. +We might seem to describe no very mischievous thing. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page54" id="page54"></a>54</span> +But to have the spirit and wisdom of this world expressed, +to have it expressed as in a last authoritative form, a form +to commend it, to flatter it, to justify it, to make it seem sufficient, +to erect it into a kind of gospel—that means much. +It means hardly less than to provide the world with a new +Bible—a Bible of the world’s own, a Bible that shall approve +itself as better than the Bible of the Old and New +Testaments. Montaigne’s “Essays” constitute, in effect, +such a book. The man of the world may—and, to say truth, +does—in this volume, find all his needed texts. Here is +<i>viaticum</i>—daily manna—for him, to last the year round, +and to last year after year; an inexhaustible breviary for +the church of this world! It is of the gravest historical +significance that Rabelais and Montaigne, but especially that +Montaigne, should, to such an extent, for now three full +centuries, have been furnishing the daily intellectual food of +Frenchmen.</p> + +<p>Pascal, in an interview with M. de Saci (carefully reported +by the latter), in which the conversation was on the subject +of Montaigne and Epictetus contrasted—these two authors +Pascal acknowledged to be the ones most constantly in his +hand—said gently of Montaigne, “Montaigne is absolutely +pernicious to those who have any inclination toward irreligion, +or toward vicious indulgences.” We, for our part, are disposed, +speaking more broadly than Pascal, to say that, to a +somewhat numerous class of naturally dominant minds, Montaigne’s +“Essays” in spite of all that there is good in them—nay, +greatly because of so much good in them—are, by +their subtly insidious persuasion to evil, upon the whole quite +the most powerfully pernicious book known to us in literature +either ancient or modern.</p> + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page55" id="page55"></a>55</span></p> + +<p class="center f120">V.</p> + +<p class="center"><span class="chap2">LA ROCHEFOUCAULD</span>: 1613-1680; <span class="chap2">La Bruyère</span>: 1646(?)-1696; +<span class="chap2">Vauvenargues</span>: 1715-1747.</p> + +<p><span class="sc chap1">In</span> <span class="sc">La Rouchefoucauld</span> we meet another eminent example +of the author of one book. “Letters,” “Memoirs,” and +“Maxims,” indeed name productions in three kinds, productions +all of them notable, and all still extant, from La Rochefoucauld’s +pen. But the “Maxims” are so much more +famous than either the “Letters” or the “Memoirs” that +their author may be said to be known only by those. If it +were not for the “Maxims,” the “Letters” and “Memoirs” +would probably now be forgotten. We here may dismiss +these from our minds and concentrate our attention exclusively +upon the “Maxims.” Voltaire said, “The ‘Memoirs’ +of the Duc de La Rochefoucauld are read, but we know his +‘Maxims’ by heart.”</p> + +<p>La Rochefoucauld’s “Maxims” are detached sentences of +reflection and wisdom on human character and conduct. They +are about seven hundred in number, but they are all comprised +in a very small volume; for they generally are each +only two or three lines in length, and almost never does a +single maxim occupy more than the half of a moderate-sized +page. The “Maxims,” detached, as we have described them, +have no very marked logical sequence in the order in which +they stand. They all, however, have a profound mutual relation. +An unvarying monotone of sentiment, in fact, runs +through them. They are so many different expressions, answering +to so many different observations taken at different +angles, of one and the same persisting estimate of human +nature. Self-love is the mainspring and motive of every +thing we do, or say, or feel, or think—that is the total result +of the “Maxims” of La Rochefoucauld.</p> + +<p>The writer’s qualifications for treating his theme were unsurpassed. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page56" id="page56"></a>56</span> +He had himself the right character, moral and +intellectual; his scheme of conduct in life corresponded; he +wrote in the right language—French; and he was rightly +situated in time, in place, and in circumstance. He needed +but to look closely within him and without him—which he +was gifted with eyes to do—and then report what he saw, +in the language to which he was born. This he did, and his +“Maxims” are the fruit. His method was largely the skeptical +method of Montaigne. His result, too, was much the same +result as his master’s. But the pupil surpassed the master in +the quality of his work. There is a fineness, an exquisiteness, +in the literary form of La Rochefoucauld, which Montaigne +might indeed have disdained to seek, but which he +could never, even with seeking, have attained. Each maxim +of La Rochefoucauld is a “gem of purest ray serene,” wrought +to the last degree of perfection in form with infinite artistic +pains. Purity, precision, clearness, density, point, are perfectly +reconciled in La Rochefoucauld’s style with ease, grace +and brilliancy of expression. The influence of such literary +finish, well bestowed on thought worthy to receive it, has +been incalculably potent in raising the standard of French production +in prose. It was Voltaire’s testimony, “One of the +works which has most contributed to form the national taste, +and give it a spirit of accuracy and precision, was the little collection +of ‘Maxims’ by François, Duc de La Rochefoucauld.”</p> + +<p>There is a high-bred air about La Rochefoucauld the +writer, which well accords with the rank and character of +the man La Rochefoucauld. He was of one of the noblest +families in France. His instincts were all aristocratic. His +manners and his morals were those of his class. Brave, spirited, +a touch of chivalry in him, honorable and amiable as +the world reckons of its own, La Rochefoucauld ran a career +consistent throughout with his own master-principle—self-love. +He had a wife whose conjugal fidelity her husband +seems to have thought a sufficient supply in that virtue for +both himself and her. He behaved himself accordingly. His +illicit relations with other women were notorious. But they +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page57" id="page57"></a>57</span> +unhappily did not make La Rochefoucauld in that respect at +all peculiar among the distinguished men of his time. His +brilliant female friends collaborated with him in working out +his “Maxims.” These were the labor of years. They were +published in successive editions, during the lifetime of the +author; and some final maxims were added from his manuscripts +after his death.</p> + +<p>Using for the purpose a very recent translation, that of +A. S. Bolton (which, in one or two places, we venture to +conform more exactly to the sense of the original), we give +almost at hazard a few specimens of these celebrated apothegms. +We adopt the numbering given in the best Paris +edition of the “Maxims”:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>No. 11. The passions often beget their contraries. Avarice sometimes +produces prodigality, and prodigality avarice: we are often firm +from weakness, and daring from timidity.</p> + +<p>No. 13. Our self-love bears more impatiently the condemnation of our +tastes than of our opinions.</p> +</div> + +<p>How much just such detraction from all mere natural human +greatness is contained in the following penetrative +maxim:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>No. 18. Moderation is a fear of falling into the envy and contempt +which those deserve who are intoxicated with their good fortune; it is a +vain parade of the strength of our mind; and, in short, the moderation +of men in their highest elevation is a desire to appear greater than their +fortune.</p> +</div> + +<p>What effectively quiet satire in these few words:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>No. 19. We have strength enough to bear the ills of others.</p> +</div> + +<p>This man had seen the end of all perfection in the apparently +great of this world. He could not bear that such +should flaunt a false plume before their fellows:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>No. 20. The steadfastness of sages is only the art of locking up their +uneasiness in their hearts.</p> +</div> + +<p>Of course, had it lain in the author’s chosen line to do so, +he might, with as much apparent truth, have pointed out, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page58" id="page58"></a>58</span> +that to lock up uneasiness in the heart requires steadfastness +no less—nay, more—than not to feel uneasiness.</p> + +<p>The inflation of “philosophy” vaunting itself is thus softly +eased of its painful distention:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>No. 22. Philosophy triumphs easily over troubles passed and troubles +to come, but present troubles triumph over it.</p> +</div> + +<p>When Jesus once rebuked the fellow-disciples of James +and John for blaming those brethren as self-seekers, he acted +on the same profound principle with that disclosed in the +following maxim:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>No. 34. If we had no pride, we should not complain of that of others.</p> +</div> + +<p>How impossible it is for that Proteus, self-love, to elude +the presence of mind, the inexorable eye, the fast hand, of +this incredulous Frenchman:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>No. 39. Interest [self-love] speaks all sorts of languages, and plays all +sorts of parts, even that of disinterestedness.</p> + +<p>No. 49. We are never so happy, or so unhappy, as we imagine.</p> + +<p>No. 78. The love of justice is, in most men, only the fear of suffering +injustice.</p> +</div> + +<p>What a subtly unsoldering distrust the following maxim +introduces into the sentiment of mutual friendship:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>No. 83. What men have called friendship is only a partnership, a mutual +accommodation of interests, and an exchange of good offices: it is, in short, +only a traffic, in which self-love always proposes to gain something.</p> + +<p>No. 89. Every one complains of his memory and no one complains of +his judgment.</p> +</div> + +<p>How striking, from its artful suppression of strikingness, +is the first following, and what a wide, easy sweep of well-bred +satire it contains:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>No. 93. Old men like to give good advice, to console themselves for +being no longer able to give bad examples.</p> + +<p>No. 119. We are so much accustomed to disguise ourselves to others, +that, at last, we disguise ourselves to ourselves.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page59" id="page59"></a>59</span></p> + +<p>No. 127. The true way to be deceived is to think one’s self sharper +than others.</p> +</div> + +<p>The plain-spoken proverb, “A man that is his own lawyer +has a fool for his client,” finds a more polished expression in +the following:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>No. 132. It is easier to be wise for others, than to be so for one’s self.</p> +</div> + +<p>How pitilessly this inquisitor pursues his prey, the human +soul, into all its useless hiding-places:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>No. 138. We would rather speak ill of ourselves, than not talk of ourselves.</p> +</div> + +<p>The following maxim, longer and less felicitously phrased +than is usual with La Rochefoucauld, recalls that bitter definition +of the bore—“One who insists on talking about himself +all the time that you are wishing to talk about yourself”:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>No. 139. One of the causes why we find so few people who appear +reasonable and agreeable in conversation, is that there is scarcely any +one who does not think more of what he wishes to say, than of replying +exactly to what is said to him. The cleverest and the most compliant think +it enough to show an attentive air; while we see in their eyes and in +their mind a wandering from what is said to them, and a hurry to return +to what they wish to say, instead of considering that it is a bad way to +please or to persuade others, to try so hard to please one’s self, and that +to listen well is one of the greatest accomplishments we can have in conversation.</p> +</div> + +<p>If we are indignant at the maxims following, it is probably +rather because they are partly true than because they are +wholly false:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>No. 144. We are not fond of praising, and, without interest, we never +praise any one. Praise is a cunning flattery, hidden and delicate, which, +in different ways, pleases him who gives and him who receives it. The +one takes it as a reward for his merit: the other gives it to show his +equity and his discernment.</p> + +<p>No. 146. We praise generally only to be praised.</p> + +<p>No. 147. Few are wise enough to prefer wholesome blame to treacherous +praise.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page60" id="page60"></a>60</span></p> + +<p>No. 149. Disclaiming praise is a wish to be praised a second time.</p> + +<p>No. 152. If we did not flatter ourselves, the flattery of others could not +hurt us.</p> + +<p>No. 184. We acknowledge our faults in order to atone, by our sincerity, +for the harm they do us in the minds of others.</p> + +<p>No. 199. The desire to appear able often prevents our becoming so.</p> + +<p>No. 201. Whoever thinks he can do without the world, deceives himself +much; but whoever thinks the world cannot do without him, deceives +himself much more.</p> +</div> + +<p>With the following, contrast Ruskin’s noble paradox, that +the soldier’s business, rightly conceived, is self-sacrifice; his +ideal purpose being, not to kill, but to be killed:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>No. 214. Valor, in private soldiers, is a perilous calling, which they +have taken to in order to gain their living.</p> +</div> + +<p>Here is, perhaps, the most current of all La Rochefoucauld’s +maxims:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>No. 218. Hypocrisy is a homage which vice renders to virtue.</p> +</div> + +<p>Of the foregoing maxim it may justly be said, that its truth +and point depend upon the assumption, implicit, that there is +such a thing as virtue—an assumption which the whole tenor +of the “Maxims” in general contradicts.</p> + +<p>How incisive the following:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>No. 226. Too great eagerness to requite an obligation is a kind of ingratitude.</p> + +<p>No. 298. The gratitude of most men is only a secret desire to receive +greater favors.</p> + +<p>No. 304. We often forgive those who bore us, but we cannot forgive +those whom we bore.</p> + +<p>No. 313. Why should we have memory enough to retain even the +smallest particulars of what has happened to us, and yet not have +enough to remember how often we have told them to the same individual?</p> +</div> + +<p>The first following maxim satirizes both princes and courtiers. +It might be entitled, “How to insult a prince, and not +suffer for your temerity”:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page61" id="page61"></a>61</span></p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>No. 320. To praise princes for virtues they have not, is to insult them +with impunity.</p> + +<p>No. 347. We find few sensible people, except those who are of our +way of thinking.</p> + +<p>No. 409. We should often be ashamed of our best actions, if the world +saw the motives which cause them.</p> + +<p>No. 424. We boast of faults the reverse of those we have: when we +are weak, we boast of being stubborn.</p> +</div> + +<p>Here, at length, is a maxim that does not depress—that +animates you:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>No. 432. To praise noble actions heartily is in some sort to take part +in them.</p> +</div> + +<p>The following is much less exhilarating:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>No. 454. There are few instances in which we should make a bad bargain, +by giving up the good that is said of us, on condition that nothing +bad be said.</p> +</div> + +<p>This, also:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>No. 458. Our enemies come nearer to the truth, in the opinions they +form of us, than we do ourselves.</p> +</div> + +<p>Here is a celebrated maxim, vainly “suppressed” by the +author, after first publication:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>No. 583. In the adversity of our best friends, we always find something +which does not displease us.</p> +</div> + +<p>Before La Rochefoucauld, Montaigne had said, “Even in +the midst of compassion we feel within us an unaccountable +bitter-sweet titillation of ill-natured pleasure in seeing another +suffer;” and Burke, after both, wrote (in his “Sublime +and Beautiful”) with a heavier hand, “I am convinced +that we have a degree of delight, and that no small one, in +the real misfortunes and pains of others.”</p> + +<p>La Rochefoucauld is not fairly cynical, more than is Montaigne. +But as a man he wins upon you less. His maxims +are like hard and sharp crystals, precipitated from the worldly +wisdom blandly solute and dilute in Montaigne.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page62" id="page62"></a>62</span></p> + +<p>The wise of this world reject the dogma of human depravity, +as taught in the Bible. They willingly accept it—nay, +accept it complacently, hugging themselves for their own +penetration—as taught in the “Maxims” of La Rochefoucauld.</p> + +<p><span class="sc">Jean de La Bruyère</span> is personally almost as little known +as if he were an ancient of the Greek or Roman world surviving, +like Juvenal, only in his literary production. Bossuet +got him employed to teach history to a great duke, who +became his patron, and settled a life-long annuity upon him. +He published his one book, the “Characters,” in 1687, was +made member of the French Academy in 1693, and died in +1696. That, in short, is La Bruyère’s biography.</p> + +<p>His book is universally considered one of the most finished +products of the human mind. It is not a great work—it +lacks the unity and the majesty of design necessary for that. +It consists simply of detached thoughts and observations on a +variety of subjects. It shows the author to have been a man +of deep and wise reflection, but especially a consummate master +of style. The book is one to read in, rather than to read. +It is full of food to thought. The very beginning exhibits a +self-consciousness on the writer’s part very different from +that spontaneous simplicity in which truly great books originate. +La Bruyère begins:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Every thing has been said; and one comes too late, after more than seven +thousand years that there have been men, and men who have thought.</p> +</div> + +<p>La Bruyère has something to say, and that to length unusual +for him, of pulpit eloquence. We select a few specimen +sentences:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Christian eloquence has become a spectacle. That gospel sadness, +which is its soul, is no longer to be observed in it; its place is supplied by +advantages of facial expression, by inflections of the voice, by regularity +of gesticulation, by choice of words, and by long categories. The sacred +word is no longer listened to seriously; it is a kind of amusement, one +among many; it is a game in which there is rivalry, and in which there +are those who lay wagers.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page63" id="page63"></a>63</span></p> + +<p>Profane eloquence has been transferred, so to speak, from the bar +... where it is no longer employed, to the pulpit where it ought not to +be found.</p> + +<p>Matches of eloquence are made at the very foot of the altar, and in the +presence of the mysteries. He who listens sits in judgment on him who +preaches, to condemn or to applaud, and is no more converted by the +discourse which he praises than by that which he pronounces against. +The orator pleases some, displeases others, and has an understanding with +all in one thing—that as he does not seek to render them better, so they +do not think of becoming better.</p> +</div> + +<p>The almost cynical acerbity of the preceding is ostensibly +relieved of an obvious application to certain illustrious contemporary +examples among preachers by the following open +allusion to Bossuet and Bourdaloue:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>The Bishop of Meaux [Bossuet] and Father Bourdaloue make me think +of Demosthenes and Cicero. Both of them, masters of pulpit eloquence, +have had the fortune of great models; the one has made bad critics, the +other bad imitators.</p> +</div> + +<p>Here is a happy instance of La Bruyère’s successful pains +in redeeming a commonplace sentiment by means of a striking +form of expression; the writer is disapproving the use of +oaths in support of one’s testimony:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>An honest man who says Yes, or No, deserves to be believed; his +character swears for him.</p> +</div> + +<p>Highly satiric in his quiet way, La Bruyère knew how to be. +Witness the following thrust at a contemporary author, not +named by the satirist, but, no doubt, recognized by the public +of the time:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>He maintains that the ancients, however unequal and negligent they +may be, have fine traits; he points these out; and they are so fine that +they make his criticism readable.</p> +</div> + +<p>How painstakingly, how self-consciously, La Bruyère did +his literary work is evidenced by the following:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>A good author, and one who writes with care, often has the experience +of finding that the expression which he was a long time in search of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page64" id="page64"></a>64</span> +without reaching it, and which at length he has found, is that which was +the most simple, the most natural, and that which, as it would seem, should +have presented itself at first, and without effort.</p> +</div> + +<p>We feel that the quality of La Bruyère is such as to fit +him for the admiration and enjoyment of but a comparatively +small class of readers. He was somewhat over-exquisite. +His art at times became artifice—infinite labor of style +to make commonplace thought seem valuable by dint of perfect +expression. We dismiss La Bruyère with a single additional +extract—his celebrated parallel between Corneille and +Racine:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Corneille subjects us to his characters and to his ideas; Racine accommodates +himself to ours. The one paints men as they ought to be; the +other paints them as they are. There is more in the former of what one +admires, and of what one ought even to imitate; there is more in the +latter of what one observes in others, or of what one experiences in one’s +self. The one inspires, astonishes, masters, instructs; the other pleases, +moves, touches, penetrates. Whatever there is most beautiful, most noble, +most imperial, in the reason is made use of by the former; by the latter +whatever is most seductive and most delicate in passion. You find in the +former maxims, rules, and precepts; in the latter, taste and sentiment. You +are more absorbed in the plays of Corneille; you are more shaken and more +softened in those of Racine. Corneille is more moral; Racine, more natural. +The one appears to make Sophocles his model; the other owes +more to Euripides.</p> +</div> + +<p>Less than half a century after La Rochefoucauld and La +Bruyère had shown the way, <span class="sc">Vauvenargues</span> followed in a +similar style of authorship, promising almost to rival the fame +of his two predecessors. This writer, during his brief life (he +died at thirty-two), produced one not inconsiderable literary +work more integral and regular in form, entitled, “Introduction +to the Knowledge of the Human Mind;” but it is +his disconnected thoughts and observations chiefly that continue +to preserve his name.</p> + +<p>Luc de Clapiers, Marquis de Vauvenargues, though nobly +born, was poor. His health was frail. He did not receive a +good education in his youth. Indeed, he was still in his youth +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page65" id="page65"></a>65</span> +when he went to the wars. His culture always remained narrow. +He did not know Greek and Latin, when to know Greek +and Latin was, as it were, the whole of scholarship. To +crown his accidental disqualifications for literary work, he +fell a victim to the small-pox, which left him wrecked in +body. This occurred almost immediately after he abandoned +a military career which had been fruitful to him of hardship, +but not of promotion. In spite of all that was thus against him, +Vauvenargues, in those years, few and evil, that were his, +thought finely and justly enough to earn for himself a lasting +place in the literary history of his nation. He was in the +eighteenth century of France without being of it. You have +to separate him in thought from the infidels and the “philosophers” +of his time. He belongs in spirit to an earlier age. +His moral and intellectual kindred was with such as Pascal, +far more than with such as Voltaire. Vauvenargues is, however, +a writer for the few, instead of for the many. His fame is +high but it is not wide. Historically, he forms a stepping-stone +of transition to a somewhat similar nineteenth-century name, +that of Joubert. A very few sentences of his will suffice to +indicate to our readers the quality of Vauvenargues. Self-evidently, +the following antithesis drawn by him between +Corneille and Racine is subtly and ingeniously thought, as +well as very happily expressed—this, whatever may be considered +to be its aptness in point of literary appreciation:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Corneille’s heroes often say great things without inspiring them; Racine’s +inspire them without saying them.</p> +</div> + +<p>Here is a good saying:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>It is a great sign of mediocrity always to be moderate in praising.</p> +</div> + +<p>There is worldly wisdom also here:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>He who knows how to turn his prodigalities to good account practices +a large and noble economy.</p> +</div> + +<p>Virgil’s “They are able, because they seem to themselves +to be able,” is recalled by this:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>The consciousness of our strength makes our strength greater.</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page66" id="page66"></a>66</span></p> + +<p>So much for Vauvenargues.</p> + +<p>And so much for what—considering that, logically, though +not quite chronologically, Vauvenargues belongs with them—we +may call the seventeenth-century group of French +<i>pensée</i>-writers. A nineteenth-century group of the same +literary class will form the subject of a chapter in due course +to follow.</p> + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="center f120">VI.</p> + +<p class="chap2 center">LA FONTAINE.</p> + +<p class="center">1621-1695.</p> + +<p><span class="sc chap1">La Fontaine</span> enjoys a unique fame. He has absolutely +“no fellow in the firmament” of literature. He is the only +fabulist, of any age or any nation, that, on the score simply +of his fables, is admitted to be poet as well as fabulist. +There is perhaps no other literary name whatever among the +French by long proof more secure than is La Fontaine’s, of +universal and of immortal renown. Such a fame is, of +course, not the most resplendent in the world; but to have +been the first, and to remain thus far the only, writer of fables +enjoying recognition as true poetry—this, surely, is an +achievement entitling La Fontaine to monumental mention +in any sketch, however summary, of French literature.</p> + +<p>Jean de La Fontaine was humbly born, at Château-Thierry, +in Champagne. His early education was sadly neglected. +At twenty years of age he was still phenomenally ignorant. +About this time, being now better situated, he developed a +taste for the classics and for poetry. With La Fontaine the +man, it is the sadly familiar French story of debauchee manners +in life and in literary production. We cannot acquit +him, but we are to condemn him only in common with the +most of his age and of his nation. As the world goes, La +Fontaine was a “good fellow,” never lacking friends. These +were held fast in loyalty to the poet, not so much by any +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page67" id="page67"></a>67</span> +sterling worth of character felt in him as by an exhaustless, +easy-going good-nature that, despite his social insipidity, made +La Fontaine the most acceptable of every-day companions. +It would be easy to repeat many stories illustrative of this +personal quality in La Fontaine, while to tell a single story +illustrative of any lofty trait in his character would be perhaps +impossible. Still, La Fontaine seemed not ungrateful +for the benefits he received from others; and gratitude, no +commonplace virtue, let us accordingly reckon to the credit +of a man in general so slenderly equipped with positive claims +to admiring personal regard. The mirror of <i>bonhomie</i> (easy-hearted +good-fellowship), he always was. Indeed, that significant, +almost untranslatable, French word might have +been coined to fit La Fontaine’s case. On his amiable side—a +full hemisphere or more of the man—it sums him up completely. +Twenty years long this mirror of <i>bonhomie</i> was +domiciliated, like a pet animal, under the hospitable roof of +the celebrated Madame de la Sablière. There was truth as +well as humor implied in what she said one day: “I have +sent away all my domestics; I have kept only my dog, my +cat, and La Fontaine.”</p> + +<p>But La Fontaine had that in him which kept the friendship +of serious men. Molière, a grave, even melancholy +spirit, however gay in his comedies; Boileau and Racine, +decorous both of them, at least in manners, constituted, +together with La Fontaine, a kind of private “Academy,” +existing on a diminutive scale, which was not without its +important influence on French letters. La Fontaine seems +to have been a sort of Goldsmith in this club of wits, the +butt of many pleasantries from his colleagues, called out by +his habit of absent-mindedness. St. Augustine was one night +the subject of an elaborate eulogy, which La Fontaine lost +the benefit of, through a reverie of his own indulged meantime +on a quite different character. Catching, however, at +the name, La Fontaine, as he came to himself for a moment, +betrayed the secret of his absent thought by asking, “Do +you think St. Augustine had as much wit as Rabelais?” +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page68" id="page68"></a>68</span> +“Take care, Monsieur La Fontaine: you have put one of +your stockings on wrong side out”—he had actually done +so—was the only answer vouchsafed to his question. The +speaker in this case was a doctor of the Sorbonne (brother +to Boileau), present as guest. The story is told of La +Fontaine, that egged on to groundless jealousy of his wife—a +wife whom he never really loved, and whom he soon would +finally abandon,—he challenged a military friend of his to +combat with swords. The friend was amazed, and, amazed, +reluctantly fought with La Fontaine, whom he easily put at +his mercy. “Now, what is this for?” he demanded. “The +public says you visit my house for my wife’s sake, not for +mine,” said La Fontaine. “Then I never will come again.” +“Far from it,” responds La Fontaine, seizing his friend’s +hand. “I have satisfied the public. Now you must come +to my house every day, or I will fight you again.” The two +went back in company, and breakfasted together in mutual +good humor.</p> + +<p>A trait or two more and there will have been enough of +the man La Fontaine. It is said that when, on the death of +Madame de la Sablière, La Fontaine was homeless, he was +met on the street by a friend, who exclaimed, “I was looking +for you; come to my house, and live with me!” “I was +on the way there,” La Fontaine characteristically replied. At +seventy, La Fontaine went through a process of “conversion,” +so called, in which he professed repentance of his sins. +On the genuineness of this inward experience of La Fontaine, +it is not for a fellow-creature of his, especially at this distance +of time, to pronounce. When he died, at seventy-three, +Fénelon could say of him (in Latin), “La Fontaine is +no more! He is no more; and with him have gone the +playful jokes, the merry laugh, the artless graces, and the +sweet Muses!” La Fontaine’s earliest works were “Contes,” +so styled; that is, tales, or romances. These are in character +such that the subsequent happy change in manners, if not +in morals, has made them unreadable, for their indecency. +We need concern ourselves only with the Fables, for it is on +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page69" id="page69"></a>69</span> +these that La Fontaine’s fame securely rests. The basis of +story in them was not generally original with La Fontaine. +He took whatever fittest came to his hand. With much +modesty he attributed all to Æsop and Phædrus. But invention +of his own is not altogether wanting to his books of +fables. Still, it is chiefly the consummate artful artlessness of +the form that constitutes the individual merit of La Fontaine’s +productions. With something, too, of the air of real poetry, +he has undoubtedly invested his verse.</p> + +<p>We give, first, the brief fable which is said to have been +the prime favorite of the author himself. It is the fable of +“The Oak and the Reed.” Of this fable French critics +have not scrupled to speak in terms of almost the very highest +praise. Chamfort says, “Let one consider, that, within +the limit of thirty lines, La Fontaine, doing nothing but yield +himself to the current of his story, has taken on every tone, +that of poetry the most graceful, that of poetry the most +lofty, and one will not hesitate to affirm, that, at the epoch +at which this fable appeared, there was nothing comparable to +it in the French language.” There are, to speak precisely, +thirty-two lines in the fable. In this one case let us try representing +La Fontaine’s compression by our English form. +For the rest of our specimens, after a single further exception, +introduced, we confess, partly because it could be given +in a graceful version by Bryant, we shall use Elizur Wright’s +translation—a meritorious one, still master of the field +which, about fifty years ago, it entered as pioneer. Mr. +Wright here expands La Fontaine’s thirty-two verses to it +forty-four. The additions are not ill-done, but they encumber +somewhat the Attic neatness and simplicity of the +original. We ought to say, that La Fontaine boldly broke +with the tradition which had been making Alexandrines—lines +of six feet—obligatory in French verse. He rhymes irregularly, +at choice, and makes his verses long or short, as +pleases him. The closing verse of the present piece is, in +accordance with the intended majesty of the representation, +an Alexandrine:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page70" id="page70"></a>70</span></p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> + <p class="i2">The Oak one day said to the Reed,</p> +<p>“Justly might you dame Nature blame.</p> +<p>A wren’s weight would bow down your frame;</p> + <p class="i2">The lightest wind that chance may make</p> + <p class="i2">Dimple the surface of the lake</p> + <p class="i2">Your head bends low indeed,</p> +<p>The while, like Caucasus, my front</p> +<p>To meet the branding sun is wont,</p> +<p>Nay, more, to take the tempest’s brunt.</p> + <p class="i2">A blast you feel, I feel a breeze.</p> +<p>Had you been born beneath my roof,</p> +<p>Wide-spread, of leafage weather-proof,</p> + <p class="i2">Less had you known your life to tease;</p> + <p class="i2">I should have sheltered you from storm.</p> + <p class="i2">But oftenest you rear your form</p> +<p>On the moist limits of the realm of wind.</p> +<p>Nature, methinks, against you sore has sinned.”</p> + + <p class="i2 s">“Your pity,” answers him the Reed,</p> +<p>“Bespeaks you kind; but spare your pain;</p> +<p>I more than you may winds disdain.</p> + <p class="i2">I bend, and break not. You, indeed,</p> +<p>Against their dreadful strokes till now</p> +<p>Have stood, nor tamed your back to bow:</p> +<p>But wait we for the end.”</p> + + <p class="i10 s">Scarce had he spoke,</p> +<p>When fiercely from the far horizon broke</p> +<p>The wildest of the children, fullest fraught</p> +<p>With terror, that till then the North had brought.</p> + <p class="i2">The tree holds good; the reed it bends.</p> + <p class="i2">The wind redoubled might expends,</p> +<p>And so well works that from his bed</p> +<p>Him it uproots who nigh to heaven his head</p> +<p>Held, and whose feet reached to the kingdom of the dead.</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>Here is that fable of La Fontaine’s graced by the hand of +Bryant upon it as translator. It is entitled “Love and Folly:”</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>Love’s worshipers alone can know</p> + <p class="i1">The thousand mysteries that are his;</p> +<p>His blazing torch, his twanging bow,</p> + <p class="i1">His blooming age are mysteries. + <span class="pagenum"><a name="page71" id="page71"></a>71</span></p> +<p>A charming science—but the day</p> + <p class="i1">Were all too short to con it o’er;</p> +<p>So take of me this little lay,</p> + <p class="i1">A sample of its boundless lore.</p> + +<p class="s">As once, beneath the fragrant shade</p> + <p class="i1">Of myrtles fresh, in heaven’s pure air,</p> +<p>The children, Love and Folly, played—</p> + <p class="i1">A quarrel rose betwixt the pair.</p> +<p>Love said the gods should do him right—</p> + <p class="i1">But Folly vowed to do it then,</p> +<p>And struck him, o’er the orbs of sight,</p> + <p class="i1">So hard he never saw again.</p> + +<p class="s">His lovely mother’s grief was deep,</p> + <p class="i1">She called for vengeance on the deed;</p> +<p>A beauty does not vainly weep,</p> + <p class="i1">Nor coldly does a mother plead.</p> +<p>A shade came o’er the eternal bliss</p> + <p class="i1">That fills the dwellers of the skies;</p> +<p>Even stony-hearted Nemesis</p> + <p class="i1">And Rhadamanthus wiped their eyes.</p> + +<p class="s">“Behold,” she said, “this lovely boy,”</p> + <p class="i1">While streamed afresh her graceful tears,</p> +<p>“Immortal, yet shut out from joy</p> + <p class="i1">And sunshine all his future years.</p> +<p>The child can never take, you see</p> + <p class="i1">A single step without a staff—</p> +<p>The harshest punishment would be</p> + <p class="i1">Too lenient for the crime by half.”</p> + +<p class="s">All said that Love had suffered wrong,</p> + <p class="i1">And well that wrong should be repaid;</p> +<p>When weighed the public interest long,</p> + <p class="i1">And long the party’s interest weighed,</p> +<p>And thus decreed the court above—</p> + <p class="i1">“Since Love is blind from Folly’s blow,</p> +<p>Let Folly be the guide of Love,</p> + <p class="i1">Where’er the boy may choose to go.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>In the fable of the “Rat Retired from the World,” La Fontaine +rallies the monks. With French <i>finesse</i> he hits his mark +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page72" id="page72"></a>72</span> +by expressly avoiding it. “What think you I mean by my +disobliging rat? A monk? No, but a Mahometan devotee; +I take it for granted that a monk is always ready with his +help to the needful!”</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>The sage Levantines have a tale</p> + <p class="i2">About a rat that weary grew</p> +<p>Of all the cares which life assail,</p> + <p class="i2">And to a Holland cheese withdrew.</p> +<p>His solitude was there profound,</p> +<p>Extending through his world so round.</p> +<p>Our hermit lived on that within;</p> +<p>And soon his industry had been</p> +<p>With claws and teeth so good,</p> + <p class="i2">That in his novel hermitage</p> + <p class="i2">He had in store, for wants of age,</p> +<p>Both house and livelihood.</p> +<p>What more could any rat desire?</p> + <p class="i2">He grew fat, fair, and round.</p> + <p class="i2">God’s blessings thus redound</p> +<p>To those who in his vows retire.</p> +<p>One day this personage devout,</p> +<p>Whose kindness none might doubt,</p> +<p>Was asked, by certain delegates</p> +<p>That came from Rat-United-States,</p> +<p>For some small aid, for they</p> +<p>To foreign parts were on their way,</p> +<p>For succor in the great cat-war:</p> +<p>Ratopolis beleaguered sore,</p> + <p class="i2">Their whole republic drained and poor,</p> +<p>No morsel in their scrips they bore.</p> + <p class="i2">Slight boon they craved, of succor sure</p> +<p>In days at utmost three or four.</p> +<p>“My friends,” the hermit said,</p> +<p>“To worldly things I’m dead.</p> +<p>How can a poor recluse</p> +<p>To such a mission be of use?</p> +<p>What can he do but pray</p> +<p>That God will aid it on its way?</p> +<p>And so, my friends, it is my prayer</p> +<p>That God will have you in his care.”</p> +<p>His well-fed saintship said no more</p> +<p>But in their faces shut the door. + <span class="pagenum"><a name="page73" id="page73"></a>73</span></p> + <p class="i2">What think you, reader, is the service,</p> +<p>For which I use this niggard rat?</p> + <p class="i2">To paint a monk? No, but a dervise.</p> +<p>A monk, I think, however fat,</p> +<p>Must be more bountiful than that.</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>The fable entitled “Death and the Dying,” is much admired +for its union of pathos with wit. “The Two Doves,” is another +of La Fontaine’s more tender inspirations. “The Mogul’s +Dream” is a somewhat ambitious flight of the fabulist’s muse. +On the whole, however, the masterpiece among the fables of +La Fontaine is that of “The Animals Sick of the Plague.” +Such at least is the opinion of critics in general. The idea +of this fable is not original with La Fontaine. The homilists +of the middle ages used a similar fiction to enforce on priests +the duty of impartiality in administering the sacrament, so +called, of confession. We give this famous fable as our closing +specimen of La Fontaine:</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> + <p class="i2">The sorest ill that Heaven hath</p> +<p>Sent on this lower world in wrath—</p> +<p>The plague (to call it by its name),</p> + <p class="i3">One single day of which</p> + <p class="i2">Would Pluto’s ferryman enrich,</p> +<p>Waged war on beasts, both wild and tame.</p> +<p>They died not all, but all were sick:</p> +<p>No hunting now, by force or trick,</p> +<p>To save what might so soon expire.</p> +<p>No food excited their desire:</p> +<p>Nor wolf nor fox now watched to slay</p> +<p>The innocent and tender prey.</p> + <p class="i4">The turtles fled,</p> +<p>So love and therefore joy were dead.</p> +<p>The lion council held, and said,</p> +<p>“My friends, I do believe</p> +<p>This awful scourge, for which we grieve,</p> +<p>Is for our sins a punishment</p> +<p>Most righteously by Heaven sent.</p> +<p>Let us our guiltiest beast resign</p> +<p>A sacrifice to wrath divine.</p> +<p>Perhaps this offering, truly small,</p> +<p>May gain the life and health of all. + <span class="pagenum"><a name="page74" id="page74"></a>74</span></p> +<p>By history we find it noted</p> +<p>That lives have been just so devoted.</p> +<p>Then let us all turn eyes within,</p> +<p>And ferret out the hidden sin.</p> +<p>Himself let no one spare nor flatter,</p> +<p>But make clean conscience in the matter.</p> +<p>For me, my appetite has played the glutton</p> +<p>Too much and often upon mutton.</p> +<p>What harm had e’er my victims done?</p> + <p class="i4">I answer, truly, None.</p> +<p>Perhaps, sometimes, by hunger pressed,</p> + <p class="i2">I’ve eat the shepherd with the rest.</p> + <p class="i1">I yield myself if need there be;</p> + <p class="i2">And yet I think, in equity,</p> +<p>Each should confess his sins with me;</p> +<p>For laws of right and justice cry,</p> +<p>The guiltiest alone should die.”</p> +<p>“Sire,” said the fox, “your majesty</p> +<p>Is humbler than a king should be,</p> +<p>And over-squeamish in the case.</p> + <p class="i2">What! eating stupid sheep a crime?</p> +<p>No, never, sire, at any time.</p> +<p>It rather was an act of grace,</p> +<p>A mark of honor to their race.</p> +<p>And as to shepherds, one may swear,</p> + <p class="i2">The fate your majesty describes</p> +<p>Is recompense less full than fair</p> + <p class="i2">For such usurpers o’er our tribes.”</p> + + <p class="i2 s"> Thus Renard glibly spoke,</p> +<p>And loud applause from listeners broke</p> +<p>Of neither tiger, boar, nor bear,</p> +<p>Did any keen inquiry dare</p> +<p>To ask for crimes of high degree;</p> + <p class="i2">The fighters, biters, scratchers, all</p> +<p>From every mortal sin were free;</p> + <p class="i2">The very dogs, both great and small,</p> + <p class="i2">Were saints, as far as dogs could be.</p> + + <p class="i2 s">The ass, confessing in his turn,</p> +<p>Thus spoke in tones of deep concern:</p> +<p>“I happened through a mead to pass;</p> +<p>The monks, its owners, were at mass:</p> +<p>Keen hunger, leisure, tender grass, + <span class="pagenum"><a name="page75" id="page75"></a>75</span></p> + <p class="i2">And, add to these the devil, too,</p> + <p class="i2">All tempted me the deed to do.</p> +<p>I browsed the bigness of my tongue:</p> +<p>Since truth must out, I own it wrong.”</p> +<p>On this, a hue and cry arose,</p> +<p>As if the beasts were all his foes.</p> +<p>A wolf, haranguing lawyer-wise,</p> +<p>Denounced the ass for sacrifice—</p> +<p>The bald-pate, scabby, ragged lout,</p> +<p>By whom the plague had come, no doubt.</p> +<p>His fault was judged a hanging crime.</p> + <p class="i2">What! eat another’s grass? Oh, shame!</p> +<p>The noose of rope, and death sublime,</p> + <p class="i2">For that offense were all too tame!</p> +<p>And soon poor Grizzle felt the same.</p> + <p class="i2">Thus human courts acquit the strong,</p> +<p>And doom the weak as therefore wrong.</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>It is suitable to add, in conclusion, that La Fontaine is a crucial +author for disclosing the irreconcilable difference that +exists, at bottom, between the Englishman’s and the Frenchman’s +idea of poetry. No English-speaker, heir of Shakespeare +and Milton, will ever be able to satisfy a Frenchman +with admiration such as he can conscientiously profess for the +poetry of La Fontaine.</p> + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="center f120">VII.</p> + +<p class="chap2 center">MOLIÈRE.</p> + +<p class="center">1623-1673.</p> + +<p><span class="sc chap1">Molière</span> is confessedly the greatest writer of comedy +in the world. Greek Menander might have disputed the +palm; but Menander’s works have perished, and his greatness +must be guessed. Who knows but we guess him too great? +Molière’s works survive, and his greatness may be measured.</p> + +<p>We have stinted our praise. Molière is not only the foremost +name in a certain department of literature; he is one +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page76" id="page76"></a>76</span> +of the foremost names in literature. The names are few +on which critics are willing to bestow this distinction. +But critics generally agree in bestowing this distinction on +Molière.</p> + +<p>Molière’s comedy is by no means mere farce. Farces he +wrote, undoubtedly; and some element of farce, perhaps, entered +to qualify nearly every comedy that flowed from his pen. +But it is not for his farce that Molière is rated one of the few +greatest producers of literature. Molière’s comedy constitutes +to Molière the patent that it does, of high degree in +genius, not because it provokes laughter, but because, amid +laughter provoked, it not seldom reveals, as if with flashes of +lightning—lightning playful, indeed, but lightning that +might have been deadly—the “secrets of the nethermost +abyss” of human nature. Not human manners merely, those +of a time, or a race, but human attributes, those of all times, +and of all races, are the things with which, in his higher +comedies, Molière deals. Some transient whim of fashion +may in these supply to him the mould of form that he uses, +but it is human nature itself that supplies to Molière the substance +of his dramatic creations. Now and again, if you +read Molière wisely and deeply, you find your laughter at +comedy fairly frozen in your throat, by a gelid horror seizing +you, to feel that these follies or these crimes displayed belong +to that human nature, one and the same everywhere and always, +of which also you yourself partake. Comedy, Dante, +too, called his poem, which included the <i>Inferno</i>. And a +Dantesque quality, not of method, but of power, is to be felt +in Molière.</p> + +<p>This character in Molière the writer accords with the character +of the man Molière. It might not have seemed natural +to say of Molière, as was said of Dante, “There goes the +man that has been in hell.” But Molière was melancholy +enough in temper and in mien to have well inspired an exclamation +such as, “There goes the man that has seen the human +heart.”</p> + +<p>A poet as well as a dramatist, his own fellow-countrymen, at +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page77" id="page77"></a>77</span> +least, feel Molière to be. In Victor Hugo’s list of the eight +greatest poets of all time, two are Hebrews (Job and Isaiah), +two Greeks (Homer and Æschylus), one is a Roman (Lucretius), +one an Italian (Dante), one an Englishman (Shakespeare)—seven. +The eighth could hardly fail to be a Frenchman, +and that Frenchman is Molière. Mr. Swinburne might perhaps +make the list nine, but he would certainly include Victor +Hugo himself.</p> + +<p>Curiously enough, Molière is not this great writer’s real +name. It is a stage name. It was assumed by the bearer +when he was about twenty-four years of age, on occasion of +his becoming one in a strolling band of players—in 1646 or +thereabout. This band, originally composed of amateurs, +developed into a professional dramatic company, which passed +through various transformations, until, from being at first +grandiloquently self-styled, L’Illustre Théâtre, it was, twenty +years after, recognized by the national title of Théâtre Français. +Molière’s real name was Jean Baptiste Poquelin.</p> + +<p>Young Poquelin’s bent, early encouraged by seeing plays +and ballets, was strongly toward the stage. The drama, under +the quickening patronage of Louis XIII.’s lordly minister, +Cardinal Richelieu, was a great public interest of those times +in Paris. Molière’s evil star, too, it was perhaps in part that +brought him back to Paris, from Orleans. He admired a certain +actress in the capital. She became the companion—probably +not innocent companion—of his wandering life as +actor. A sister of this actress—a sister young enough to be +daughter, instead of sister—Molière finally married. She led +her jealous husband a wretched conjugal life. A peculiarly +dark tradition of shame, connected with Molière’s marriage, +has lately been to a good degree dispelled. But it is not possible +to redeem this great man’s fame to chastity and honor. +He paid heavily, in like misery of his own, for whatever pangs +of jealousy he inflicted. There was sometimes true tragedy +for himself hidden within the comedy that he acted for others. +(Molière, to the very end of his life, acted in the comedies +that he wrote.) When some play of his represented the torments +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page78" id="page78"></a>78</span> +of jealousy in the heart of a husband, it was probably +not so much acting, as it was real life, that the spectators saw +proceeding on the stage between Molière and his wife, confronted +with each other in performing the piece.</p> + +<p>Despite his faults, Molière was cast in a noble, generous +mold, of character as well as of genius. Expostulated with +for persisting to appear on the stage when his health was +such that he put his life at stake in so doing, he replied that +the men and women of his company depended for their bread +on the play’s going through, and appear he would. He actually +died an hour or so after playing the part of the Imaginary +Invalid in his comedy of that name. That piece was +the last work of his pen.</p> + +<p>Molière produced in all some thirty dramatic pieces, from +among which we select a few of the most celebrated for +brief description and illustration.</p> + +<p>The “Bourgeois Gentilhomme” (“Shopkeeper turned +Gentleman”) partakes of the nature of the farce quite as +much as it does of the comedy. But it is farce such as only +a man of genius could produce. In it Molière ridicules the +airs and affectations of a rich man vulgarly ambitious to figure +in a social rank too exalted for his birth, his breeding, +or his merit. Jourdain is the name under which Molière +satirizes such a character. We give a fragment from one of +the scenes. M. Jourdain is in process of fitting himself for +that higher position in society to which he aspires. He will +equip himself with the necessary knowledge. To this end he +employs a professor of philosophy to come and give him lessons +at his house:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p><i>M. Jourdain.</i> I have the greatest desire in the world to be learned; +and it vexes me more than I can tell, that my father and mother did not +make me learn thoroughly all the sciences when I was young.</p> + +<p><i>Professor of Philosophy.</i> This is a praiseworthy feeling. <i>Nam sine doctrina +vita est quasi mortis imago.</i> You understand this, and you have, no +doubt, a knowledge of Latin?</p> + +<p><i>M. Jour.</i> Yes; but act as if I had none. Explain to me the meaning of it—</p> + +<p><i>Prof. Phil.</i> The meaning of it is, that, without science, life is an image +of death.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page79" id="page79"></a>79</span></p> + +<p><i>M. Jour.</i> That Latin is quite right.</p> + +<p><i>Prof. Phil.</i> Have you any principles, any rudiments, of science?</p> + +<p><i>M. Jour.</i> Oh, yes! I can read and write.</p> + +<p><i>Prof. Phil.</i> With what would you like to begin? Shall I teach you +logic?</p> + +<p><i>M. Jour.</i> And what may this logic be?</p> + +<p><i>Prof. Phil.</i> It is that which teaches us the three operations of the +mind.</p> + +<p><i>M. Jour.</i> What are they—these three operations of the mind?</p> + +<p><i>Prof. Phil.</i> The first, the second, and the third. The first is to conceive +well by means of universals; the second, to judge well by means +of categories; and the third, to draw a conclusion aright by means of the +figures Barbara, Celarent, Darii, Ferio, Baralipton, etc.</p> + +<p><i>M. Jour.</i> Pooh! what repulsive words! This logic does not by any +means suit me. Teach me something more enlivening.</p> + +<p><i>Prof. Phil.</i> Will you learn moral philosophy?</p> + +<p><i>M. Jour.</i> Moral philosophy?</p> + +<p><i>Prof. Phil.</i> Yes.</p> + +<p><i>M. Jour.</i> What does it say, this moral philosophy?</p> + +<p><i>Prof. Phil.</i> It treats of happiness, teaches men to moderate their passions, +and—</p> + +<p><i>M. Jour.</i> No, none of that. I am devilishly hot-tempered, and, morality +or no morality, I like to give full vent to my anger whenever I have +a mind to it.</p> + +<p><i>Prof. Phil.</i> Would you like to learn physics?</p> + +<p><i>M. Jour.</i> And what have physics to say for themselves?</p> + +<p><i>Prof. Phil.</i> Physics is that science which explains the principles of +natural things and the properties of bodies; which discourses of the nature +of the elements, of metals, minerals, stones, plants, and animals; +which teaches us the cause of all the meteors, the rainbow, the <i>ignis fatuus</i>, +comets, lightning, thunder, thunderbolts, rain, snow, hail, and whirlwinds.</p> + +<p><i>M. Jour.</i> There is too much hullaballoo in all that, too much riot and +rumpus.</p> + +<p><i>Prof. Phil.</i> Very good.</p> + +<p><i>M. Jour.</i> And now I want to intrust you with a great secret. I am +in love with a lady of quality; and I should be glad if you would help +me to write something to her in a short letter which I mean to drop at +her feet.</p> + +<p><i>Prof. Phil.</i> Very well.</p> + +<p><i>M. Jour.</i> That will be gallant, will it not?</p> + +<p><i>Prof. Phil.</i> Undoubtedly. Is it verse you wish to write to her?</p> + +<p><i>M. Jour.</i> Oh, no! not verse.</p> + +<p><i>Prof. Phil.</i> You only wish prose?</p> + +<p><i>M. Jour.</i> No. I wish for neither verse nor prose.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page80" id="page80"></a>80</span></p> + +<p><i>Prof. Phil.</i> It must be one or the other.</p> + +<p><i>M. Jour.</i> Why?</p> + +<p><i>Prof. Phil.</i> Because, sir, there is nothing by which we can express +ourselves except prose or verse.</p> + +<p><i>M. Jour.</i> There is nothing but prose or verse?</p> + +<p><i>Prof. Phil.</i> No, sir. Whatever is not prose, is verse; and whatever +is not verse, is prose.</p> + +<p><i>M. Jour.</i> And when we speak, what is that, then?</p> + +<p><i>Prof. Phil.</i> Prose.</p> + +<p><i>M. Jour.</i> What! when I say, “Nicole, bring me my slippers, and give +me my nightcap,” is that prose?</p> + +<p><i>Prof. Phil.</i> Yes, sir.</p> + +<p><i>M. Jour.</i> Upon my word, I have been speaking prose these forty +years without being aware of it; and I am under the greatest obligation +to you for informing me of it. Well, then, I wish to write to her in a +letter, “Fair Marchioness, your beautiful eyes make me die of love”; but +I would have this worded in a gallant manner, turned genteelly.</p> + +<p><i>Prof. Phil.</i> Say that the fire of her eyes has reduced your heart to +ashes; that you suffer day and night for her the torments of a—</p> + +<p><i>M. Jour.</i> No, no, no, I don’t wish any of that. I simply wish what +I tell you—“Fair Marchioness, your beautiful eyes make me die of love.”</p> + +<p><i>Prof. Phil.</i> Still, you might amplify the thing a little.</p> + +<p><i>M. Jour.</i> No, I tell you, I will have nothing but these very words in +the letter; but they must be put in a fashionable way, and arranged as +they should be. Pray show me a little, so that I may see the different +ways in which they can be put.</p> + +<p><i>Prof. Phil.</i> They may be put first of all, as you have said, “Fair +Marchioness, your beautiful eyes make me die of love;” or else, “Of love +die make me, fair Marchioness, your beautiful eyes;” or, “Your beautiful +eyes of love make me, fair Marchioness, die;” or, “Die of love your +beautiful eyes, fair Marchioness, make me;” or else, “Me make your beautiful +eyes die, fair Marchioness, of love.”</p> + +<p><i>M. Jour.</i> But of all these ways, which is the best?</p> + +<p><i>Prof. Phil.</i> The one you said—“Fair Marchioness, your beautiful eyes +make me die of love.”</p> + +<p><i>M. Jour.</i> Yet I have never studied, and I did all right off at the first +shot.</p> +</div> + +<p>The “Bourgeois Gentilhomme” is a very amusing comedy +throughout.</p> + +<p>From “Les Femmes Savantes” (“The Learned Women”)—“The +Blue-Stockings,” we might perhaps freely render +the title—we present one scene to indicate the nature of the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page81" id="page81"></a>81</span> +comedy. There had grown to be a fashion in Paris, among +certain women high in social rank, of pretending to the distinction +of skill in literary criticism, and of proficiency in +science. It was the Hôtel de Rambouillet reduced to absurdity. +That fashionable affectation Molière made the subject +of his comedy, “The Learned Women.”</p> + +<p>In the following extracts, Molière satirizes, under the name +of Trissotin, a contemporary writer, one Cotin. The poem +which Trissotin reads, for the learned women to criticise and +admire, is an actual production of this gentleman. Imagine +the domestic <i>coterie</i> assembled, and Trissotin, the poet, their +guest. He is present, prepared to regale them with what he +calls his sonnet. We need to explain that the original poem +is thus inscribed: “To Mademoiselle de Longueville, now +Duchess of Namur, on her Quartan Fever.” The conceit of +the sonneteer is that the fever is an enemy luxuriously lodged +in the lovely person of its victim, and there insidiously plotting +against her life:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p><i>Trissotin.</i> Sonnet to the Princess Urania on her Fever.</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>Your prudence sure is fast asleep,</p> +<p>That thus luxuriously you keep</p> +<p>And lodge magnificently so</p> +<p>Your very hardest-hearted foe.</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p><i>Bélise.</i> Ah! what a pretty beginning!</p> + +<p><i>Armande.</i> What a charming turn it has!</p> + +<p><i>Philaminte.</i> He alone possesses the talent of making easy verses.</p> + +<p><i>Arm.</i> We must yield to <i>prudence fast asleep</i>.</p> + +<p><i>Bél.</i> <i>Lodge one’s very hardest-hearted foe</i> is full of charms for me.</p> + +<p><i>Phil.</i> I like <i>luxuriously</i> and <i>magnificently</i>: these two adverbs joined +together sound admirably.</p> + +<p><i>Bél.</i> Let us hear the rest.</p> + +<p><i>Triss.</i></p> +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> + <p>Your prudence sure is fast asleep,</p> + <p>That thus luxuriously you keep</p> + <p>And lodge magnificently so</p> + <p>Your very hardest-hearted foe.</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p><i>Arm.</i> <i>Prudence fast asleep.</i></p> + +<p><i>Bél.</i> <i>To lodge one’s foe.</i></p> + +<p><i>Phil.</i> <i>Luxuriously</i> and <i>magnificently</i>.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page82" id="page82"></a>82</span></p> + +<p><i>Triss.</i></p> +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>Drive forth that foe, whate’er men say,</p> +<p>From out your chamber, decked so gay,</p> +<p>Where, ingrate vile, with murderous knife,</p> +<p>Bold she assails your lovely life.</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p><i>Bél.</i> Ah! gently. Allow me to breathe, I beseech you.</p> + +<p><i>Arm.</i> Give us time to admire, I beg.</p> + +<p><i>Phil.</i> One feels, at hearing these verses, an indescribable something +which goes through one’s inmost soul, and makes one feel quite faint.</p> + +<p><i>Arm.</i></p> +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>Drive forth that foe, whate’er men say,</p> +<p>From out your chamber, decked so gay—</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p class="noind">How prettily <i>chamber, decked so gay</i>, is said here! And with what wit +the metaphor is introduced!</p> + +<p><i>Phil.</i>    Drive forth that foe, whate’er men say.</p> + +<p class="noind">Ah! in what an admirable taste that <i>whate’er men say</i> is! To my mind, +the passage is invaluable.</p> + +<p><i>Arm.</i> My heart is also in love with <i>whate’er men say</i>.</p> + +<p><i>Bél.</i> I am of your opinion: <i>whate’er men say</i> is a happy expression.</p> + +<p><i>Arm.</i> I wish I had written it.</p> + +<p><i>Bél.</i> It is worth a whole poem.</p> + +<p><i>Phil.</i> But do you, like me, thoroughly understand the wit of it?</p> + +<p><i>Arm. and Bél.</i> Oh! Oh!</p> + +<p><i>Phil.</i>    Drive forth that foe, whate’er men say.</p> + +<p class="noind">Although another should take the fever’s part, pay no attention; laugh +at the gossips.</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>Drive forth that foe, whate’er men say,</p> +<p>Whate’er men say, whate’er men say.</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p class="noind">This <i>whate’er men say</i>, says a great deal more than it seems. I do not +know if every one is like me, but I discover in it a hundred meanings.</p> + +<p><i>Bél.</i> It is true that it says more than its size seems to imply.</p> + +<p><i>Phil.</i> (<i>to Trissotin.</i>) But when you wrote this charming <i>whate’er men +say</i>, did you yourself understand all its energy? Did you realize all it +tells us? And did you then think that you were writing something so +witty?</p> + +<p><i>Triss.</i> Ah! ah!</p> + +<p><i>Arm.</i> I have likewise the <i>ingrate</i> in my head—this ungrateful, unjust, +uncivil fever that ill-treats people who entertain her.</p> + +<p><i>Phil.</i> In short, both the stanzas are admirable. Let us come quickly +to the triplets, I pray.</p> + +<p><i>Arm.</i> Ah! once more, <i>what’er men say</i>, I beg.</p> + +<p><i>Triss.</i> Drive forth that foe, whate’er men say—</p> + +<p><i>Phil., Arm., and Bél.</i> <i>Whate’er men say!</i></p> + +<p><i>Triss.</i> From out your chamber, decked so gay—</p> + +<p><i>Phil., Arm. and Bél.</i> <i>Chamber decked so gay!</i></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page83" id="page83"></a>83</span></p> + +<p><i>Triss.</i> Where, ingrate vile, with murderous knife—</p> + +<p><i>Phil., Arm., and Bél.</i> That <i>ingrate</i> fever!</p> + +<p><i>Triss.</i> Bold she assails your lovely life.</p> + +<p><i>Triss.</i> <i>Your lovely life!</i></p> + +<p><i>Arm. and Bél.</i> Ah!</p> + +<p><i>Triss.</i></p> +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>What! reckless of your ladyhood,</p> +<p>Still fiercely seeks to shed your blood—</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p><i>Phil., Arm. and Bél.</i> Ah!</p> + +<p><i>Triss.</i></p> +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>And day and night to work you harm.</p> +<p>When to the baths sometime you’ve brought her,</p> +<p>No more ado, with your own arm</p> +<p>Whelm her and drown her in the water.</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p><i>Phil.</i> Ah! It is quite overpowering.</p> + +<p><i>Bél.</i> I faint.</p> + +<p><i>Arm.</i> I die from pleasure.</p> + +<p><i>Phil.</i> A thousand sweet thrills seize one.</p> + +<p><i>Arm.</i> <i>When to the baths sometime you’ve brought her.</i></p> + +<p><i>Bél.</i> <i>No more ado, with your own arm.</i></p> + +<p><i>Phil.</i> <i>Whelm her and drown her in the water.</i></p> + +<p class="noind">With your own arm, drown her there in the baths.</p> + +<p><i>Arm.</i> In your verses we meet at each step with charming beauty.</p> + +<p><i>Bél.</i> One promenades through them with rapture.</p> + +<p><i>Phil.</i> One treads on fine things only.</p> + +<p><i>Arm.</i> They are little lanes all strewn with roses.</p> + +<p><i>Triss.</i> Then, the sonnet seems to you—</p> + +<p><i>Phil.</i> Admirable, new; and never did any one make any thing more +beautiful.</p> + +<p><i>Bél.</i> (<i>to Henriette</i>). What! my niece, you listen to what has been read +without emotion! You play there but a sorry part!</p> + +<p><i>Hen.</i> We each of us play the best part we can, my aunt; and to be a +wit does not depend on our will.</p> + +<p><i>Triss.</i> My verses, perhaps, are tedious to you.</p> + +<p><i>Hen.</i> No. I do not listen.</p> + +<p><i>Phil.</i> Ah! Let us hear the epigram.</p> +</div> + +<p>But our readers, we think, will consent to spare the epigram. +They will relish, however, a fragment taken from a +subsequent part of the same protracted scene. The conversation +has made the transition from literary criticism to +philosophy, in Moliére’s time a fashionable study, rendered +such by the contemporary genius and fame of Descartes. +Armande resents the limitations imposed upon her sex:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page84" id="page84"></a>84</span></p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p><i>Arm.</i> It is insulting our sex too grossly to limit our intelligence to the +power of judging of a skirt, of the make of a garment, of the beauties of +lace, or of a new brocade.</p> + +<p><i>Bél.</i> We must rise above this shameful condition, and bravely proclaim +our emancipation.</p> + +<p><i>Triss.</i> Every one knows my respect for the fairer sex, and that, if I +render homage to the brightness of their eyes, I also honor the splendor +of their intellect.</p> + +<p><i>Phil.</i> And our sex does you justice in this respect; but we will show +to certain minds who treat us with proud contempt, that women also +have knowledge; that, like men, they can hold learned meetings—regulated, +too, by better rules; that they wish to unite what elsewhere is kept +apart, join noble language to deep learning, reveal nature’s laws by a +thousand experiments; and, on all questions proposed, admit every party, +and ally themselves to none.</p> + +<p><i>Triss.</i> For order, I prefer peripateticism.</p> + +<p><i>Phil.</i> For abstractions, I love platonism.</p> + +<p><i>Arm.</i> Epicurus pleases me, for his tenets are solid.</p> + +<p><i>Bél.</i> I agree with the doctrine of atoms; but I find it difficult to understand +a vacuum, and I much prefer subtile matter.</p> + +<p><i>Triss.</i> I quite agree with Descartes about magnetism.</p> + +<p><i>Arm.</i> I like his vortices.</p> + +<p><i>Phil.</i> And I, his falling worlds.</p> + +<p><i>Arm.</i> I long to see our assembly opened, and to distinguish ourselves +by some great discovery.</p> + +<p><i>Triss.</i> Much is expected from your enlightened knowledge, for nature +has hidden few things from you.</p> + +<p><i>Phil.</i> For my part, I have, without boasting, already made one discovery; +I have plainly seen men in the moon.</p> + +<p><i>Bél.</i> I have not, I believe as yet, quite distinguished men, but I have +seen steeples as plainly as I see you.</p> + +<p><i>Arm.</i> In addition to natural philosophy, we will dive into grammar, +history, verse, ethics, and politics.</p> + +<p><i>Phil.</i> I find in ethics charms which delight my heart; it was formerly +the admiration of great geniuses; but I give the preference to the Stoics, +and I think nothing so grand as their founder.</p> +</div> + +<p>“Les Précieuses Ridicules” is an earlier and lighter treatment +of the same theme. The object of ridicule in both these +pieces was a lapsed and degenerate form of what originally +was a thing worthy of respect, and even of praise. At the +Hôtel de Rambouillet, conversation was cultivated as a fine +art. There was, no doubt, something overstrained in the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page85" id="page85"></a>85</span> +standards which the ladies of that circle enforced. Their +mutual communication was all conducted in a peculiar style +of language, the natural deterioration of which was into a +kind of euphuism, such as English readers will remember to +have seen exemplified in Walter Scott’s Sir Piercie Shafton. +These ladies called each other, with demonstrative fondness, +“Ma précieuse.” Hence at last the term <i>précieuse</i> as a designation +of ridicule. Madame de Sévigné was a <i>précieuse</i>. But +she, with many of her peers, was too rich in sarcastic common +sense to be a <i>précieuse ridicule</i>. Molière himself, thrifty +master of policy that he was, took pains to explain that he +did not satirize the real thing, but only the affectation.</p> + +<p>“Tartuffe, or the Impostor,” is perhaps the most celebrated +of all Molière’s plays. Scarcely comedy, scarcely tragedy, it +partakes of both characters. Like tragedy, serious in purpose, +it has a happy ending like comedy. Pity and terror +are absent; or, if not quite absent, these sentiments are +present raised only to a pitch distinctly below the tragic. +Indignation is the chief passion excited, or detestation, perhaps, +rather than indignation. This feeling is provided at +last with its full satisfaction in the condign punishment visited +on the impostor.</p> + +<p>The original “Tartuffe,” like the most of Molière’s comedies, +is written in rhymed verse. We could not, with any +effort, make the English-reading student of Molière sufficiently +feel how much is lost when the form is lost which the +creations of this great genius took, in their native French, +under his own master hand. A satisfactory metrical rendering +is out of the question. The sense, at least, if not the +incommunicable spirit, of the original, is very well given in +Mr. C. H. Wall’s version, which we use.</p> + +<p>The story of “Tartuffe” is briefly this: Tartuffe, the hero, +is a pure villain. He mixes no adulteration of good in his +composition. He is hypocrisy itself, the strictly genuine +article. Tartuffe has completely imposed upon one Orgon, a +man of wealth and standing. Orgon, with his wife, and with +his mother, in fact, believes in him absolutely. These people +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page86" id="page86"></a>86</span> +have received the canting rascal into their house, and are +about to bestow upon him their daughter in marriage. The following +scene from act first shows the skill with which Molière +could exhibit, in a few strokes of bold exaggeration, the infatuation +of Orgon’s regard for Tartuffe. Orgon has been +absent from home. He returns, and meets Cléante, his +brother, whom, in his eagerness, he begs to excuse his not +answering a question just addressed to him:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p><i>Orgon</i> (<i>to Cléante</i>). Brother, pray excuse me: you will kindly allow me to +allay my anxiety by asking news of the family. (<i>To Dorine, a maid-servant.</i>) +Has every thing gone on well these last two days? What has +happened? How is every body?</p> + +<p><i>Dor.</i> The day before yesterday our mistress was very feverish from +morning to night, and suffered from a most extraordinary headache.</p> + +<p><i>Org.</i> And Tartuffe?</p> + +<p><i>Dor.</i> Tartuffe! He is wonderfully well, stout, and fat with blooming +cheeks and ruddy lips.</p> + +<p><i>Org.</i> Poor man!</p> + +<p><i>Dor.</i> In the evening she felt very faint, and the pain in her head was +so great that she could not touch any thing at supper.</p> + +<p><i>Org.</i> And Tartuffe?</p> + +<p><i>Dor.</i> He ate his supper by himself before her, and very devoutly devoured +a brace of partridges and half a leg of mutton hashed.</p> + +<p><i>Org.</i> Poor man!</p> + +<p><i>Dor.</i> She spent the whole of the night without getting one wink of +sleep: she was very feverish, and we had to sit up with her until the +morning.</p> + +<p><i>Org.</i> And Tartuffe?</p> + +<p><i>Dor.</i> Overcome by a pleasant sleepiness, he passed from the table to +his room and got at once into his warmed bed, where he slept comfortably +till the next morning.</p> + +<p><i>Org.</i> Poor man!</p> + +<p><i>Dor.</i> At last, yielding to our persuasions, she consented to be bled, +and immediately felt relieved.</p> + +<p><i>Org.</i> And Tartuffe?</p> + +<p><i>Dor.</i> He took heart right valiantly, and fortifying his soul against all +evils, to make up for the blood which our lady had lost, drank at breakfast +four large bumpers of wine.</p> + +<p><i>Org.</i> Poor man!</p> + +<p><i>Dor.</i> Now, at last, they are both well: and I will go and tell our lady +how glad you are to hear of her recovery.</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page87" id="page87"></a>87</span></p> + +<p>Tartuffe repays the trust and love of his benefactor by +making improper advances to that benefactor’s wife. Orgon’s +son, who does not share his father’s confidence in Tartuffe, +happens to be an unseen witness of the man’s infamous +conduct. He exposes the hypocrite to Orgon, with the result +of being himself expelled from the house for his pains; while +Tartuffe, in recompense for the injury done to his feelings, is +presented with a gift-deed of Orgon’s estate. But now Orgon’s +wife contrives to let her husband see and hear for himself +the vileness of Tartuffe. This done, Orgon confronts +the villain, and, with just indignation, orders him out of his +house. Tartuffe reminds Orgon that the shoe is on the other +foot; that he is himself now owner there, and that it is Orgon, +instead of Tartuffe, who must go. Orgon has an interview +with his mother, who is exasperatingly sure still that +Tartuffe is a maligned good man:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p><i>Madame Pernelle.</i> I can never believe, my son, that he would commit +so base an action.</p> + +<p><i>Org.</i> What?</p> + +<p><i>Per.</i> Good people are always subject to envy.</p> + +<p><i>Org.</i> What do you mean, mother?</p> + +<p><i>Per.</i> That you live after a strange sort here, and that I am but too +well aware of the ill-will they all bear him.</p> + +<p><i>Org.</i> What has this ill-will to do with what I have just told you?</p> + +<p><i>Per.</i> I have told it you a hundred times when you were young, that +in this world virtue is ever liable to persecution, and that, although the envious +die, envy never dies.</p> + +<p><i>Org.</i> But what has this to do with what has happened to-day?</p> + +<p><i>Per.</i> They have concocted a hundred foolish stories against him.</p> + +<p><i>Org.</i> I have already told you that I saw it all myself.</p> + +<p><i>Per.</i> The malice of evil-disposed persons is very great.</p> + +<p><i>Org.</i> You would make me swear, mother! I tell you that I saw his +audacious attempt with my own eyes.</p> + +<p><i>Per.</i> Evil tongues have always some venom to pour forth; and here +below, there is nothing proof against them.</p> + +<p><i>Org.</i> You are maintaining a very senseless argument. I saw it, I tell you—saw +it with my own eyes! what you can call s-a-w, saw! Must I din it +over and over into your ears, and shout as loud as half a dozen people?</p> + +<p><i>Per.</i> Gracious goodness! appearances often deceive us! We must +not always judge by what we see.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page88" id="page88"></a>88</span></p> + +<p><i>Org.</i> I shall go mad!</p> + +<p><i>Per.</i> We are by nature prone to judge wrongly, and good is often mistaken +for evil.</p> + +<p><i>Org.</i> I ought to look upon his desire of seducing my wife as charitable?</p> + +<p><i>Per.</i> You ought to have good reasons before you accuse another, and +you should have waited till you were quite sure of the fact.</p> + +<p><i>Org.</i> Heaven save the mark! how could I be more sure? I suppose, +mother, I ought to have waited till—you will make me say something +foolish.</p> + +<p><i>Per.</i> In short, his soul is possessed with too pure a zeal; and I cannot +possibly conceive that he would think of attempting what you accuse +him of.</p> + +<p><i>Org.</i> If you were not my mother, I really don’t know what I might +now say to you, you make me so savage.</p> +</div> + +<p>The short remainder of the scene has for its important idea +the suggestion that, under the existing circumstances, some +sort of peace ought to be patched up between Orgon and +Tartuffe. Meantime one <i>Loyal</i> is observed coming, whereupon +the fourth scene of act fifth opens:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p><i>Loy.</i> (<i>to Dorine at the farther part of the stage</i>). Good-day, my dear +sister; pray let me speak to your master.</p> + +<p><i>Dor.</i> He is with friends, and I do not think he can see any one +just now.</p> + +<p><i>Loy.</i> I would not be intrusive. I feel sure that he will find nothing +unpleasant in my visit; in fact, I come for something which will be very +gratifying to him.</p> + +<p><i>Dor.</i> What is your name?</p> + +<p><i>Loy.</i> Only tell him that I come from Mr. Tartuffe for his benefit.</p> + +<p><i>Dor.</i> (<i>to Orgon</i>). It is a man who comes in a civil way from Mr. Tartuffe, +on some business which will make you glad, he says.</p> + +<p><i>Clé.</i> (<i>to Orgon</i>). You must see who it is and what the man wants.</p> + +<p><i>Org.</i> (<i>to Cléante</i>). He is coming, perhaps, to settle matters between us +in a friendly way. How, in this case, ought I to behave to him?</p> + +<p><i>Clé.</i> Don’t show any resentment, and, if he speaks of an agreement, +listen to him.</p> + +<p><i>Loy.</i> (<i>to Orgon</i>). Your servant, sir. May heaven punish whoever +wrongs you; and may it be as favorable to you, sir, as I wish!</p> + +<p><i>Org.</i> (<i>aside to Cléante</i>). This pleasant beginning agrees with my conjectures, +and argues some sort of reconciliation.</p> + +<p><i>Loy.</i> All your family was always dear to me, and I served your father.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page89" id="page89"></a>89</span></p> + +<p><i>Org.</i> I am sorry and ashamed to say that I do not know who you are, +neither do I remember your name.</p> + +<p><i>Loy.</i> My name is Loyal; I was born in Normandy, and am a royal +bailiff in spite of envy. For the last forty years I have had the good fortune +to fill the office, thanks to heaven, with great credit; and I come, +sir, with your leave, to serve you the writ of a certain order.</p> + +<p><i>Org.</i> What! you are here—</p> + +<p><i>Loy.</i> Gently, sir, I beg. It is merely a summons—a notice for you to +leave this place, you and yours; to take away all your goods and chattels, +and make room for others, without delay or adjournment, as hereby +decreed.</p> + +<p><i>Org.</i> I! leave this place?</p> + +<p><i>Loy.</i> Yes, sir, if you please. The house incontestably belongs, as you +are well aware, to the good Mr. Tartuffe. He is now lord and master of +your estates, according to a deed I have in my keeping. It is in due +form, and cannot be challenged.</p> + +<p><i>Damis</i> (<i>to Mr. Loyal</i>). This great impudence is, indeed, worthy of all +admiration.</p> + +<p><i>Loy.</i> (<i>to Damis.</i>) Sir, I have nothing at all to do with you. (<i>Pointing to +Orgon.</i>) My business is with this gentleman. He is tractable and gentle, and +knows too well the duty of a gentleman to try to oppose authority.</p> + +<p><i>Org.</i> But—</p> + +<p><i>Loy.</i> Yes, sir; I know that you would not, for any thing, show contumacy; +and that you will allow me, like a reasonable man, to execute +the orders I have received.</p> +</div> + +<p>The scene gives in conclusion some spirited byplay of +asides and interruptions from indignant members of the family. +Then follows scene fifth, one exchange of conversation +from which will sufficiently indicate the progress of the plot:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p><i>Org.</i> Well, mother, you see whether I am right; and you can judge +of the rest by the writ. Do you at last acknowledge his rascality?</p> + +<p><i>Per.</i> I am thunderstruck, and can scarcely believe my eyes and ears.</p> +</div> + +<p>The next scene introduces Valère, the noble lover of that +daughter whom the infatuated father was bent on sacrificing +to Tartuffe. Valère comes to announce that Tartuffe, the villain, +has accused Orgon to the king. Orgon must fly. Valère +offers him his own carriage and money—will, in fact, +himself keep him company till he reaches a place of safety. +As Orgon, taking hasty leave of his family, turns to go, he is +encountered by—the following scene will show whom:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page90" id="page90"></a>90</span></p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p><i>Tar.</i> (<i>stopping Orgon.</i>) Gently, sir, gently; not so fast, I beg. You +have not far to go to find a lodging, and you are a prisoner in the king’s +name.</p> + +<p><i>Org.</i> Wretch! you had reserved this shaft for the last; by it you finish +me, and crown all your perfidies.</p> + +<p><i>Tar.</i> Your abuse has no power to disturb me, and I know how to suffer +every thing for the sake of heaven.</p> + +<p><i>Clé.</i> Your moderation is really great, we must acknowledge.</p> + +<p><i>Da.</i> How impudently the infamous wretch sports with heaven!</p> + +<p><i>Tar.</i> Your anger cannot move me. I have no other wish but to fulfill +my duty.</p> + +<p><i>Marianne.</i> You may claim great glory from the performance of this +duty: it is a very honorable employment for you.</p> + +<p><i>Tar.</i> The employment cannot be otherwise than glorious, when it +comes from the power that sends me here.</p> + +<p><i>Org.</i> But do you remember that my charitable hand, ungrateful +scoundrel, raised you from a state of misery?</p> + +<p><i>Tar.</i> Yes, I know what help I have received from you; but the interest +of my king is my first duty. The just obligation of this sacred duty +stifles in my heart all other claims; and I would sacrifice to it friend, +wife, relations, and myself with them.</p> + +<p><i>Elmire.</i> The impostor!</p> + +<p><i>Dor.</i> With what treacherous cunning he makes a cloak of all that +men revere!...</p> + +<p><i>Tar.</i> (<i>to the Officer</i>). I beg of you, sir, to deliver me from all this +noise, and to act according to the orders you have received.</p> + +<p><i>Officer.</i> I have certainly put off too long the discharge of my duty, +and you very rightly remind me of it. To execute my order, follow me +immediately to the prison in which a place is assigned to you.</p> + +<p><i>Tar.</i> Who? I, sir?</p> + +<p><i>Officer.</i> Yes, you.</p> + +<p><i>Tar.</i> Why to prison?</p> + +<p><i>Officer.</i> To you I have no account to render. (<i>To Orgon.</i>) Pray, +sir, recover from your great alarm. We live under a king [Louis XIV.] +who is an enemy to fraud—a king who can read the heart, and whom all +the arts of impostors cannot deceive. His great mind, endowed with delicate +discernment, at all times sees things in their true light.... He annuls, +by his sovereign will, the terms of the contract by which you gave +him [Tartuffe] your property. He moreover forgives you this secret +offense in which you were involved by the flight of your friend. This to +reward the zeal which you once showed for him in maintaining his rights, +and to prove that his heart, when it is least expected, knows how to +recompense a good action. Merit with him is never lost, and he remembers +good better than evil.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page91" id="page91"></a>91</span></p> + +<p><i>Dor.</i> Heaven be thanked!</p> + +<p><i>Per.</i> Ah! I breathe again.</p> + +<p><i>El.</i> What a favorable end to our troubles!</p> + +<p><i>Mar.</i> Who would have foretold it?</p> + +<p><i>Org.</i> (<i>to Tartuffe as the Officer leads him off</i>). Ah, wretch! now +you are—</p> +</div> + +<p>Tartuffe thus disposed of, the play promptly ends with a +vanishing glimpse afforded us of a happy marriage in prospect +for Valère with the daughter.</p> + +<p>“The Tartuffian Age” is the title of a late Italian book +admirably translated into English by an American, Mr. W. +A. Nettleton. That such should be the Italian author’s +chosen title for his work incidentally shows how cosmopolitan +is our French dramatist’s fame. The book is a kindly-caustic +satire on the times in which we live, found by the +satirist to be abundant in the quality of Tartuffe, that leaven +of the Pharisees which is hypocrisy.</p> + +<p>Molière is said to have had a personal aim in drawing the +character of Tartuffe. This, at least, was like Dante. There +is not much sweet laughter in such a comedy. But there is +a power that is dreadful.</p> + +<p>Each succeeding generation of Frenchmen supplies its +bright and ingenious wits who produce comedy. But as +there is no second Shakespeare, so there is but one Molière.</p> + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="center f120">VIII.</p> + +<p class="chap2 center">PASCAL.</p> + +<p class="center">1623-1662.</p> + +<p><span class="sc chap1">Pascal’s</span> fame is distinctly the fame of a man of genius. +He achieved notable things. But it is what he might have +done, still more than what he did, that fixes his estimation in +the world of mind. Blaise Pascal is one of the chief intellectual +glories of France.</p> + +<p>Pascal, the boy, had a strong natural bent toward mathematics. +The story is that his father, in order to turn his +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page92" id="page92"></a>92</span> +son’s whole force on the study of languages, put out of the +lad’s reach all books treating his favorite subject. Thus shut +up to his own resources the masterful little fellow, about his +eighth year, drawing charcoal diagrams on the floor, made +perceptible progress in working out geometry for himself. +At sixteen he produced a treatise on conic sections that excited +the wonder and incredulity of Descartes. Later he +experimented in barometry, and pursued investigations in +mechanics. Later still he made what seemed to be approaches +toward Newton’s binomial theorem.</p> + +<p>Vivid religious convictions meantime deeply affected +Pascal’s mind. His health, never robust, began to give way. +His physicians prescribed mental diversion, and forced him +into society. That medicine, taken at first with reluctance, +proved dangerously delightful to Pascal’s vivacious and susceptible +spirit. His pious sister Jacqueline warned her +brother that he was going too far. But he was still more +effectively warned by an accident, in which he almost miraculously +escaped from death. Withdrawing from the world, +he adopted a course of ascetic practices, in which he continued +till he died—in his thirty-ninth year. He wore about +his waist an iron girdle armed with sharp points; and this +he would press smartly with his elbow when he detected himself +at fault in his spirit.</p> + +<p>Notwithstanding what Pascal did or attempted worthy of +fame, in science, it was his fortune to become chiefly renowned +by literary achievement. His, in fact, would now be +a half-forgotten name if he had not written the “Provincial +Letters” and the “Thoughts.”</p> + +<p>The “Provincial Letters” is an abbreviated title. The +title in full originally was, “Letters written by Louis de +Montalte to a Provincial, one of his friends, and to the Reverend +Fathers, the Jesuits, on the subject of the morality and +the policy of those Fathers.”</p> + +<p>Of the “Provincial Letters,” several English translations +have been made. No one of these that we have been able +to find seems entirely satisfactory. There is an elusive +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page93" id="page93"></a>93</span> +quality to Pascal’s style, and in losing this you seem to lose +something of Pascal’s thought. For with Pascal the thought +and the style penetrate each other inextricably and almost +indistinguishably. You cannot print a smile, an inflection +of the voice, a glance of the eye, a French shrug of the shoulders. +And such modulations of the thought seem everywhere +to lurk in the turns and phrases of Pascal’s inimitable +French. To translate them is impossible.</p> + +<p>Pascal is beyond question the greatest modern master of +that indescribably delicate art in expression, which, from its +illustrious ancient exemplar, has received the name of the +Socratic irony. With this fine weapon, in great part, it was, +wielded like a magician’s invisible wand, that Pascal did his +memorable execution on the Jesuitical system of morals and +casuistry, in the “Provincial Letters.” In great part, we say; +for the flaming moral earnestness of the man could not abide +only to play with his adversaries to the end of the famous +dispute. His lighter cimeter blade he flung aside before he +had done, and, toward the last, brandished a sword that had +weight as well as edge and temper. The skill that could +halve a feather in the air with the sword of Saladin was +proved to be also strength that could cleave a suit of mail +with the brand of Richard the Lion-hearted.</p> + +<p>It is generally acknowledged that the French language +has never in any hands been a more obedient instrument of +intellectual power than it was in the hands of Pascal. He is +rated the earliest writer to produce what may be called the +final French prose. “The creator of French style,” Villemain +boldly calls him. Pascal’s style remains to this day +almost perfectly free from adhesions of archaism in diction +and in construction. Pascal showed, as it were at once, what +the French language was capable of doing in response to the +demands of a master. It was the joint achievement of +genius, of taste, and of skill, working together in an exquisite +balance and harmony.</p> + +<p>But let us be entirely frank. The “Provincial Letters” of +Pascal are now, to the general reader, not so interesting as +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page94" id="page94"></a>94</span> +from their fame one would seem entitled to expect. You +cannot read them intelligently without considerable previous +study. You need to have learned, imperfectly, with labor, a +thousand things that every contemporary reader of Pascal +perfectly knew as if by simply breathing—the necessary +knowledge being then, so to speak, abroad in the air. Even +thus you cannot possibly derive that vivid delight from perusing +in bulk the “Provincial Letters” now, which the successive +numbers of the series, appearing at brief irregular +intervals, communicated to the eagerly expecting French +public, at a time when the topics discussed were topics of a +present and pressing practical interest. Still, with whatever +disadvantage unavoidably attending, we must give our +readers a taste of the quality of Pascal’s “Provincial Letters.”</p> + +<p>We select a passage at the commencement of the “Seventh +Letter.” We use the translation of Mr. Thomas M’Crie. +This succeeds very well in conveying the sense, though it +necessarily fails to convey either the vivacity or the eloquence, +of the incomparable original. The first occasion of +the “Provincial Letters” was a championship proposed to Pascal +to be taken up by him on behalf of his beleaguered and +endangered friend Arnauld, the Port-Royalist. (Port Royal +was a Roman Catholic abbey situated some eight miles to +the south-west of Versailles, and therefore not very remote +from Paris.) Arnauld was “for substance of doctrine” +really a Calvinist, though he quite sincerely disclaimed being +such; and it was for his defense of Calvinism (under its +ancient form of Augustinianism) that he was threatened, +through Jesuit enmity, with condemnation for heretical +opinion. The problem was to enlist the sentiment of general +society in his favor. The friends in council at Port Royal +said to Pascal, “You must do this.” Pascal said, “I will +try.” In a few days the first letter of a series destined to +such fame was submitted for judgment to Port Royal, and +approved. It was printed—anonymously. The success was +instantaneous and brilliant. A second letter followed, and a +third. Soon, from strict personal defense of Arnauld, the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page95" id="page95"></a>95</span> +writer went on to take up a line of offense and aggression. +He carried the war into Africa. He attacked the Jesuits as +teachers of immoral doctrine.</p> + +<p>The plan of these later letters was to have a Paris gentleman +write to a friend of his in the country (the “provincial”), +detailing interviews held by him with a Jesuit priest of the +city. The supposed Parisian gentleman in his interviews +with the supposed Jesuit father affects the air of a very +simple-hearted seeker after truth. He represents himself as, +by his innocent-seeming docility, leading his Jesuit teacher +on to make the most astonishingly frank exposures of the +secrets of the casuistical system held and taught by his order.</p> + +<p>The “Seventh Letter” tells the story of how Jesuit confessors +were instructed to manage their penitents in a matter +made immortally famous by the wit and genius of Pascal, the +matter of “directing the intention.” There is nothing in the +“Provincial Letters” better suited than this at the same time +to interest the general reader, and to display the quality of +these renowned productions. (We do not scruple to change +our chosen translation a little at points where it seems to us +susceptible of some easy improvement.) Remember it is an +imaginary Parisian gentleman who now writes to a friend of +his in the country. Our extract introduces first the Jesuit +father speaking:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>“You know,” he said, “that the ruling passion of persons in that rank +of life [the rank of gentleman] is ‘the point of honor,’ which is perpetually +driving them into acts of violence apparently quite at variance with +Christian piety; so that, in fact, they would be almost all of them excluded +from our confessionals, had not our fathers relaxed a little from +the strictness of religion, to accommodate themselves to the weakness of +humanity. Anxious to keep on good terms, both with the gospel, by +doing their duty to God, and with the men of the world, by showing +charity to their neighbor, they needed all the wisdom they possessed to +devise expedients for so nicely adjusting matters as to permit these gentlemen +to adopt the methods usually resorted to for vindicating their honor +without wounding their consciences, and thus reconcile things apparently +so opposite to each other as piety and the point of honor.”...</p> + +<p>“I should certainly [so replies M. Montalte, with the most exquisite +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page96" id="page96"></a>96</span> +irony crouched under a cover of admiring simplicity]—I should certainly +have considered the thing perfectly impracticable, if I had not known, +from what I have seen of your fathers, that they are capable of doing +with ease what is impossible to other men. This led me to anticipate +that they must have discovered some method for meeting the difficulty—a +method which I admire, even before knowing it, and which I pray you +to explain to me.”</p> + +<p>“Since that is your view of the matter,” replied the monk, “I cannot +refuse you. Know, then, that this marvelous principle is our grand +method of <i>directing the intention</i>—the importance of which, in our moral +system, is such, that I might almost venture to compare it with the doctrine +of <i>probability</i>. You have had some glimpses of it in passing, from +certain maxims which I mentioned to you. For example, when I was +showing you how servants might execute certain troublesome jobs with a +safe conscience, did you not remark that it was simply by diverting their +intention from the evil to which they were accessory, to the profit which +they might reap from the transaction? Now, that is what we call +<i>directing the intention</i>. You saw, too, that, were it not for a similar divergence +of <i>the mind</i>, those who give money for benefices might be +downright simoniacs. But I will now show you this grand method in all +its glory, as it applies to the subject of homicide—a crime which it justifies +in a thousand instances—in order that, from this startling result, you +may form an idea of all that it is calculated to effect.</p> + +<p>“I foresee already,” said I, “that, according to this mode, every thing +will be permitted: it will stick at nothing.”</p> + +<p>“You always fly from the one extreme to the other,” replied the monk; +“prithee, avoid that habit. For just to show you that we are far from +permitting every thing, let me tell you that we never suffer such a thing +as a formal intention to sin, with the sole design of sinning; and, if any +person whatever should persist in having no other end but evil in the evil +that he does, we break with him at once; such conduct is diabolical. +This holds true, without exception of age, sex, or rank. But when the +person is not of such a wretched disposition as this, we try to put in +practice our method of <i>directing the intention</i>, which consists in his proposing +to himself, as the end of his actions, some allowable object. Not +that we do not endeavor, as far as we can, to dissuade men from doing +things forbidden; but, when we cannot prevent the action, we at least +purify the motive, and thus correct the viciousness of the means by the +goodness of the end. Such is the way in which our fathers have contrived +to permit those acts of violence to which men usually resort in +vindication of their honor. They have no more to do than to turn off +their intention from the desire of vengeance, which is criminal, and direct +it to a desire to defend their honor, which, according to us, is quite warrantable. +And in this way our doctors discharge all their duty toward +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page97" id="page97"></a>97</span> +God and toward man. By permitting the action, they gratify the world +and by purifying the intention, they give satisfaction to the gospel. +This is a secret, sir, which was entirely unknown to the ancients; the +world is indebted for the discovery entirely to our doctors. You understand +it now, I hope?”</p> + +<p>“Perfectly,” was my reply. “To men you grant the outward material +effect of the action, and to God you give the inward and spiritual movement +of the intention; and, by this equitable partition, you form an alliance +between the laws of God and the laws of men. But, my dear sir, +to be frank with you, I can hardly trust your premises, and I suspect that +your authors will tell another tale.”</p> + +<p>“You do me injustice,” rejoined the monk; “I advance nothing but +what I am ready to prove, and that by such a rich array of passages, that +altogether their number, their authority, and their reasonings, will fill you +with admiration. To show you, for example, the alliance which our +fathers have formed between the maxims of the gospel and those of the +world, by thus regulating the intention, let me refer you to Reginald. +(<i>In Praxi.</i>, liv. xxi., num. 62, p. 260.) [These, and all that follow, are +verifiable citations from real and undisputed Jesuit authorities, not to this +day repudiated by that order.] ‘Private persons are forbidden to avenge +themselves; for St. Paul says to the Romans (ch. 12th), “Recompense to +no man evil for evil;” and Ecclesiasticus says (ch. 28th), “He that taketh +vengeance shall draw on himself the vengeance of God, and his sins will +not be forgotten.” Besides all that is said in the gospel about forgiving +offenses, as in the 6th and 18th chapters of St. Matthew.’”</p> + +<p>“Well, father, if after that, he [Reginald] says any thing contrary to +the Scripture, it will, at least, not be from lack of scriptural knowledge. +Pray, how does he conclude?”</p> + +<p>“You shall hear,” he said. “From all this it appears that a military +man may demand satisfaction on the spot from the person who has injured +him—not, indeed, with the intention of rendering evil for evil, but +with that of preserving his honor—<i>non ut malum pro malo reddat, sed ut +conservat honorem</i>. See you how carefully, because the Scripture condemns +it, they guard against the intention of rendering evil for evil? +This is what they will tolerate on no account. Thus Lessius observes +(<i>De Just.</i>, liv. ii., c. 9, d. 12, n. 79), that, ‘If a man has received a blow +on the face, he must on no account have an intention to avenge himself; +but he may lawfully have an intention to avert infamy, and may, with +that view, repel the insult immediately, even at the point of the sword—<i>etiam +cum gladio</i>.’ So far are we from permitting any one to cherish the +design of taking vengeance on his enemies, that our fathers will not allow +any even to <i>wish their death</i>—by a movement of hatred. ‘If your enemy +is disposed to injure you,’ says Escobar, ‘you have no right to wish his +death, by a movement of hatred; though you may, with a view to save +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page98" id="page98"></a>98</span> +yourself from harm.’ So legitimate, indeed, is this wish, with such an +intention, that our great Hurtado de Mendoza says that ‘we may <i>pray +God</i> to visit with speedy death those who are bent on persecuting us, if +there is no other way of escaping from it.’” (In his book, <i>De Spe</i>, vol. +ii., d. 15, sec. 4, 48.)</p> + +<p>“May it please your reverence,” said I, “the Church has forgotten to +insert a petition to that effect among her prayers.”</p> + +<p>“They have not put every thing into the prayers that one may lawfully +ask of God,” answered the monk. “Besides, in the present case, the +thing was impossible, for this same opinion is of more recent standing +than the Breviary. You are not a good chronologist, friend. But, not +to wander from the point, let me request your attention to the following +passage, cited by Diana from Gaspar Hurtado (<i>De Sub. Pecc.</i>, diff. 9; +Diana, p. 5; tr. 14, r. 99), one of Escobar’s four-and-twenty fathers: +‘An incumbent may, without any mortal sin, desire the decease of a life-renter +on his benefice, and a son that of his father, and rejoice when it +happens; provided always it is for the sake of the profit that is to accrue +from the event, and not from personal aversion.’”</p> + +<p>“Good,” cried I. “That is certainly a very happy hit, and I can +easily see that the doctrine admits of a wide application. But yet there +are certain cases, the solution of which, though of great importance for +gentlemen, might present still greater difficulties.”</p> + +<p>“Propose such, if you please, that we may see,” said the monk.</p> + +<p>“Show me, with all your directing of the intention,” returned I, “that +it is allowable to fight a duel.”</p> + +<p>“Our great Hurtado de Mendoza,” said the father, “will satisfy you on +that point in a twinkling. ‘If a gentleman,’ says he, in a passage cited +by Diana, ‘who is challenged to fight a duel, is well known to have no +religion, and if the vices to which he is openly and unscrupulously addicted +are such as would lead people to conclude, in the event of his +refusing to fight, that he is actuated, not by the fear of God, but by +cowardice, and induce them to say of him that he was a <i>hen</i>, and not a +man—<i>gallina, et non vir</i>; in that case he may, to save his honor, appear +at the appointed spot—not, indeed, with the express intention of fighting +a duel, but merely with that of defending himself, should the person who +challenged him come there unjustly to attack him. His action in this +case, viewed by itself, will be perfectly indifferent; for what moral evil +is there in one’s stepping into a field, taking a stroll in expectation of +meeting a person, and defending one’s self in the event of being attacked? +And thus the gentleman is guilty of no sin whatever; for, in +fact, it cannot be called accepting a challenge at all, his intention being +directed to other circumstances, and the acceptance of a challenge consisting +in an express intention to fight, which we are supposing the +gentleman never had.’”</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page99" id="page99"></a>99</span></p> + +<p>The humorous irony of Pascal, in the “Provincial Letters,” +plays like the diffusive sheen of an aurora borealis +over the whole surface of the composition. It does not often +deliver itself startlingly in sudden discharges as of lightning. +You need to school your sense somewhat, not to miss a fine +effect now and then. Consider the broadness and coarseness +in pleasantry, that, before Pascal, had been common, +almost universal, in controversy, and you will better understand +what a creative touch it was of genius, of feeling, and +of taste, that brought into literature the far more than Attic, +the ineffable Christian, purity of that wit and humor in the +“Provincial Letters” which will make these writings live +as long as men anywhere continue to read the productions +of past ages. Erasmus, perhaps, came the nearest of +all modern predecessors to anticipating the purified pleasantry +of Pascal.</p> + +<p>It will be interesting and instructive to see Pascal’s own +statement of his reasons for adopting the bantering style +which he did in the “Provincial Letters,” as well as of the +sense of responsibility to be faithful and fair, under which he +wrote. Pascal says:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>I have been asked why I employed a pleasant, jocose, and diverting +style. I reply ... I thought it a duty to write so as to be comprehended +by women, and men of the world, that they might know the danger +of their maxims and propositions which were then universally propagated.... +I have been asked, lastly, if I myself read all the books, +which I quoted. I answer, No. If I had done so, I must have passed +a great part of my life in reading very bad books; but I read Escobar +twice through, and I employed some of my friends in reading the others. +But I did not make use of a single passage without having myself read +it in the book from which it is cited, without having examined the subject +of which it treats, and without having read what went before and +followed, so that I might run no risk of quoting an objection as an answer +which would have been blameworthy and unfair.</p> +</div> + +<p>Of the wit of the “Provincial Letters,” their wit and their +controversial effectiveness, the specimens given will have +afforded readers some approximate idea. We must deny +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page100" id="page100"></a>100</span> +ourselves the gratification of presenting a brief passage, +which we had selected and translated for the purpose, to exemplify +from the same source Pascal’s serious eloquence. +It was Voltaire who said of these productions: “Molière’s +best comedies do not excel them in wit, nor the compositions +of Bossuet in sublimity.” Something of Bossuet’s sublimity, +or of a sublimity perhaps finer than Bossuet’s, our readers +will discover in citations to follow from the “Thoughts.”</p> + +<p>Pascal’s “Thoughts,” the printed book, has a remarkable +history. It was a posthumous publication. The author +died, leaving behind him a considerable number of detached +fragments of composition, first jottings of thought on a subject +that had long occupied his mind. These precious manuscripts +were almost undecipherable. The writer had used +for his purpose any chance scrap of paper—old wrapping, +for example, or margin of letter—that, at the critical moment +of happy conception, was nearest his hand. Sentences, +words even, were often left unfinished. There was no +coherence, no sequence, no arrangement. It was, however, +among his friends perfectly well understood that Pascal for +years had meditated a work on religion designed to demonstrate +the truth of Christianity. For this he had been thinking +arduously. Fortunately he had even, in a memorable +conversation, sketched his project at some length to his +Port Royal friends. With so much, scarcely more, in the +way of clew, to guide their editorial work, these friends prepared +and issued a volume of Pascal’s “Thoughts.” With +the most loyal intentions, the Port-Royalists unwisely edited +too much. They pieced out incompletenesses, they provided +clauses or sentences of connection, they toned down +expressions deemed too bold, they improved Pascal’s style! +After having suffered such things from his friends, the posthumous +Pascal, later, fell into the hands of an enemy. The +infidel Condorcet published an edition of the “Thoughts.” +Whereas the Port-Royalists had suppressed to placate the +Jesuits, Condorcet suppressed to please the “philosophers.” +Between those on the one side and these on the other, Pascal’s +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page101" id="page101"></a>101</span> +“Thoughts” had experienced what might well have +killed any production of the human mind that could die. +It was not till near the middle of the present century that +Cousin called the attention of the world to the fact that we +had not yet, but that we still might have, a true edition of +Pascal’s “Thoughts.” M. Faugère took the hint, and, consulting +the original manuscripts, preserved in the national +library at Paris, produced, with infinite editorial labor, almost +two hundred years after the thinker’s death, the first satisfactory +edition of Pascal’s “Thoughts.” Since Faugère, M. Havet +has also published an edition of Pascal’s works entire, by him +now first adequately annotated and explained. The arrangement +of the “Thoughts” varies in order, according to the varying +judgment of editors. We use, for our extracts, a current +translation, which we modify at our discretion by comparison +of the original text as given in M. Havet’s elaborate work.</p> + +<p>Our first extract is a passage in which the writer supposes +a skeptic of the more shallow, trifling sort, to speak. This +skeptic represents his own state of mind in the following +strain as of soliloquy:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>“I do not know who put me into the world, nor what the world is, nor +what I am myself. I am in a frightful ignorance of all things. I do not +know what my body is, what my senses are, what my soul is, and that +very part of me which thinks what I am saying, which reflects upon +every thing and upon itself, and is no better acquainted with itself than +with any thing else. I see these appalling spaces of the universe which +inclose me, and I find myself tethered in one corner of this immense expansion +without knowing why I am stationed in this place rather than in +another, or why this moment of time which is given me to live is assigned +me at this point rather than at another of the whole eternity that has +preceded me, and of that which is to follow me.</p> + +<p>“I see nothing but infinities on every side, which inclose me like an +atom, and like a shadow which endures but for an instant, and returns +no more.</p> + +<p>“All that I know is, that I am soon to die; but what I am most ignorant +of is, that very death which I am unable to avoid.</p> + +<p>“As I know not whence I came, so I know not whither I go; and I +know only, that in leaving this world I fall forever either into nothingness +or into the hands of an angry God, without knowing which of these two +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page102" id="page102"></a>102</span> +conditions is to be eternally my lot. Such is my state—full of misery, of +weakness, and of uncertainty.</p> + +<p>“And from all this I conclude that I ought to pass all the days of my +life without a thought of trying to learn what is to befall me hereafter. +Perhaps in my doubts I might find some enlightenment; but I am unwilling +to take the trouble, or go a single step in search of it; and, +treating with contempt those who perplex themselves with such solicitude, +my purpose is to go forward without forethought and without fear +to try the great event, and passively to approach death in uncertainty of +the eternity of my future condition.”</p> + +<p>Who would desire to have for a friend a man who discourses in this +manner? Who would select such a one for the confidant of his affairs? +Who would have recourse to such a one in his afflictions? And, in fine, +for what use of life could such a man be destined?</p> +</div> + +<p>The central thought on which the projected apologetic of +Pascal was to revolve as on a pivot is, the contrasted greatness +and wretchedness of man—with Divine Revelation, in +its doctrine of a fall on man’s part from original nobleness, +supplying the needed link, and the only link conceivable, of +explanation, to unite the one with the other, the human greatness +with the human wretchedness. This contrast of dignity +and disgrace should constantly be in the mind of the reader +of the “Thoughts” of Pascal. It will often be found to throw +a very necessary light upon the meaning of the separate +fragments that make up the series.</p> + +<p>We now present a brief fragment asserting, with vivid +metaphor, at the same time the fragility of man’s frame +and the majesty of man’s nature. This is a very famous +“Thought”:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Man is but a reed, the weakest in nature, but he is a thinking reed. +It is not necessary that the entire universe arm itself to crush him. An +exhalation, a drop of water, suffices to kill him. But were the universe +to crush him, man would still be more noble than that which kills him, +because he knows that he is dying, and knows the advantage that the +universe has over him. The universe knows nothing of it.</p> + +<p>Our whole dignity consists, then, in thought.</p> +</div> + +<p>One is reminded of the memorable saying of a celebrated +philosopher: “In the universe there is nothing great but +man; in man there is nothing great but mind.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page103" id="page103"></a>103</span></p> + +<p>What a sudden, almost ludicrous, reduction in scale, the +greatness of Cæsar, as conqueror, is made to suffer when +looked at in the way in which Pascal asks you to look at it in +the following “Thought”! (Remember that Cæsar, when he +began fighting for universal empire, was fifty-one years +of age:)</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Cæsar was too old, it seems to me, to amuse himself with conquering +the world. This amusement was well enough for Augustus or Alexander; +they were young people, whom it is difficult to stop; but Cæsar ought to +have been more mature.</p> +</div> + +<p>That is as if you should reverse the tube of your telescope, +with the result of seeing the object observed made smaller +instead of larger.</p> + +<p>The following sentence might be a “Maxim” of La Rochefoucauld. +Pascal was, no doubt, a debtor to him as well as +to Montaigne:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>I lay it down as a fact, that, if all men knew what others say of them +there would not be four friends in the world.</p> +</div> + +<p>Here is one of the most current of Pascal’s sayings:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Rivers are highways that move on and bear us whither we wish to go.</p> +</div> + +<p>The following “Thought” condenses the substance of the +book proposed into three short sentences:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>The knowledge of God without that of our misery produces pride. +The knowledge of our misery without that of God gives despair. The +knowledge of Jesus Christ is intermediate, because therein we find God +and our misery.</p> +</div> + +<p>The prevalent seeming severity and intellectual coldness of +Pascal’s “Thoughts” yield to a touch from the heart, and become +pathetic, in such utterances as the following, supposed +to be addressed by the Saviour to the penitent seeking to be +saved:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Console thyself; thou wouldst not seek me if thou hadst not found me.</p> + +<p>I thought on thee in my agony; such drops of blood I shed for thee.</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page104" id="page104"></a>104</span></p> + +<p>It is austerity again, but not unjust austerity, that speaks +as follows:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Religion is a thing so great that those who would not take the pains to +seek it if it is obscure, should be deprived of it. What do they complain +of, then, if it is such that they could find it by seeking it?</p> +</div> + +<p>But we must take our leave of Pascal. His was a suffering +as well as an aspiring spirit. He suffered because he aspired. +But, at least, he did not suffer long. He aspired himself +quickly away. Toward the last he wrought at a problem in +his first favorite study, that of mathematics, and left behind +him, as a memorial of his later life, a remarkable result of investigation +on the curve called the cycloid. During his final +illness he pierced himself through with many sorrows—unnecessary +sorrows, sorrows, too, that bore a double edge, +hurting not only him, but also his kindred—in practicing, +from mistaken religious motives, a hard repression upon his +natural instinct to love, and to welcome love. He thought +that God should be all, the creature nothing. The thought +was half true, but it was half false. God should, indeed, be +all. But, in God, the creature also should be something.</p> + +<p>In French history—we may say, in the history of the +world—if there are few brighter, there also are few purer, +fames than the fame of Pascal.</p> + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page105" id="page105"></a>105</span></p> + +<p class="center f120">IX.</p> + +<p class="chap2 center">MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ.</p> + +<p class="center">1626-1696.</p> + +<p><span class="sc chap1">Of</span> Madame de Sévigné, if it were permitted here to make +a pun and a paradox, one might justly and descriptively say +that she was not a woman of letters, but only a woman of—letters. +For Madame de Sévigné’s addiction to literature +was not at all that of an author by profession. She simply +wrote admirable private letters in great profusion, and became +famous thereby.</p> + +<p>Madame de Sévigné’s fame is partly her merit, but it is also +partly her good fortune. She was rightly placed to be what +she was. This will appear from a sketch of her life, and still +more from specimens to be exhibited of her own epistolary +writing.</p> + +<p>Marie de Rabutin-Chantal was her maiden name. She was +born a baroness. She was married, young, a marchioness. +First early left an orphan, she was afterward early left a +widow—not too early, however, to have become the mother +of two children, a son and a daughter. The daughter grew +to be the life-long idol of the widowed mother’s heart. The +letters she wrote to this daughter, married and living remote +from her, compose the greater part of that voluminous epistolary +production by which Madame de Sévigné became, +without her ever aiming at such a result, or probably ever +thinking of it, one of the classics of the French language.</p> + +<p>Madame de Sévigné was wealthy as orphan heiress, and +she should have been wealthy as widow. But her husband was +profligate, and he wasted her substance. She turned out to +be a thoroughly capable woman of affairs who managed her +property well. During her long and stainless widowhood—her +husband fell in a shameful duel when she was but twenty-five +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page106" id="page106"></a>106</span> +years old, and she lived to be seventy—she divided +her time between her estate, “The Rocks,” in Brittany, and +her residence in Paris. This period was all embraced within +the protracted reign of Louis XIV., perhaps upon the whole +the most memorable age in the history of France.</p> + +<p>Beautiful, and, if not brilliantly beautiful, at least, brilliantly +witty, Madame de Sévigné was virtuous—in that chief +sense of feminine virtue—amid an almost universal empire of +profligacy around her. Her social advantages were unsurpassed, +and her social success was equal to her advantages. +She had the woman courtier’s supreme triumph in being once +led out to dance by the king—her own junior by a dozen +years—no vulgar king, remember, but the “great” Louis +XIV. Her cynical cousin, himself a writer of power, who +had been repulsed in dishonorable proffers of love by the +young marchioness during the lifetime of her husband—we +mean Count Bussy—says, in a scurrilous work of his, that +Madame de Sévigné remarked, on returning to her seat after +her dancing-bout with the king, that Louis possessed great +qualities, and would certainly obscure the luster of all his +predecessors. “I could not help laughing in her face,” the +ungallant cousin declared, “seeing what had produced this +panegyric.” Probably, indeed, the young woman was +pleased. But, whatever may have been her faults or her +follies, nothing can rob Madame de Sévigné of the glory that +is hers, in having been strong enough in womanly and +motherly honor to preserve, against many dazzling temptations, +amid general bad example, and even under malignant +aspersions, a chaste and spotless name. When it is added +that, besides access to the royal court itself, this gifted +woman enjoyed the familiar acquaintance of La Rochefoucauld—with +other high-bred wits, less famous, not a few—enough +will have been said to show that her position was +such as to give her talent its best possible chance. The +French history of the times of Louis XIV. is hinted in +glimpses the most vivid and the most suggestive, throughout +the whole series of the letters.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page107" id="page107"></a>107</span></p> + +<p>We owe it to our readers (and to Madame de Sévigné no +less) first of all to let them see a specimen of the affectionate +adulation that this French woman of rank and of fashion, +literally in almost every letter of hers, effuses on her daughter—a +daughter who, by the way, seems very languidly to +have responded to such demonstrations:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p class="rgt"><span class="sc">The Rocks</span>, Sunday, June 28, 1671.</p> + +<p>You have amply made up to me my late losses; I have received two +letters from you which have filled me with transports of joy. The +pleasure I take in reading them is beyond all imagination. If I have in +any way contributed to the improvement of your style, I did it in the +thought that I was laboring for the pleasure of others, not for my own. +But Providence, who has seen fit to separate us so often, and to place us +at such immense distances from each other, has repaid me a little for the +privation in the charms of your correspondence, and still more in the +satisfaction you express in your situation, and the beauty of your castle; +you represent it to me with an air of grandeur and magnificence that enchants +me. I once saw a similar account of it by the first Madame de +Grignan; but I little thought at that time that all these beauties were +to be one day at your command. I am very much obliged to you for +having given me so particular an account of it. If I could be tired in reading +your letters, it would not only betray a very bad taste in me, but would +likewise show that I could have very little love or friendship for you. Divest +yourself of the dislike you have taken to circumstantial details. I +have often told you, and you ought yourself to feel the truth of this remark, +that they are as dear to us from those we love as they are tedious +and disagreeable from others. If they are displeasing to us, it is +only from the indifference we feel for those who write them. Admitting +this observation to be true, I leave you to judge what pleasure yours +afford me. It is a fine thing truly to play the great lady, as you do at +present.</p> +</div> + +<p>Conceive the foregoing multiplied by the whole number of +the separate letters composing the correspondence, and you +will have no exaggerated idea of the display that Madame de +Sévigné makes of her regard for her daughter. This regard +was a passion, morbid, no doubt, by excess, and, even +at that, extravagantly demonstrated; but it was fundamentally +sincere. Madame de Sévigné idealized her absent +daughter, and literally “loved but only her.” We need not +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page108" id="page108"></a>108</span> +wholly admire such maternal affection. But we should not +criticise it too severely.</p> + +<p>We choose next a marvelously vivid “instantaneous view” +in words, of a court afternoon and evening at Versailles. This +letter, too is addressed to the daughter—Madame de Grignan, +by her married name. It bears date, “Paris, Wednesday, +29th July.” The year is 1676, and the writer is just fifty:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>I was at Versailles last Saturday with the Villarses.... At three the +king, the queen, Monsieur [eldest brother to the king], Madame [that +brother’s wife], Mademoiselle [that brother’s eldest unmarried daughter], +and every thing else which is royal, together with Madame de Montespan +[the celebrated mistress of the king] and train, and all the courtiers, and all +the ladies—all, in short, which constitutes the court of France, is assembled +in the beautiful apartment of the king’s, which you remember. All is +furnished divinely, all is magnificent. Such a thing as heat is unknown; +you pass from one place to another without the slightest pressure. A +game at <i>reversis</i> [the description is of a gambling scene, in which +Dangeau figures as a cool and skillful gamester] gives the company a form +and a settlement. The king and Madame de Montespan keep a bank +together; different tables are occupied by Monsieur, the queen, and +Madame de Soubise, Dangeau and party, Langlée and party. Everywhere +you see heaps of louis d’ors; they have no other counters. I saw +Dangeau play, and thought what fools we all were beside him. He +dreams of nothing but what concerns the game; he wins where others +lose: he neglects nothing, profits by every thing, never has his attention +diverted; in short his science bids defiance to chance. Two hundred thousand +francs in ten days, a hundred thousand crowns in a month, these are +the pretty memorandums he puts down in his pocket-book. He was kind +enough to say that I was partners with him, so that I got an excellent +seat. I made my obeisance to the king, as you told me; and he returned +it as if I had been young and handsome.... The duke said a +thousand kind things without minding a word he uttered. Marshal de +Lorgnes attacked me in the name of the Chevalier de Grignan; in short, +<i>tutti quanti</i> [the whole company]. You know what it is to get a word +from every body you meet. Madame de Montespan talked to me of +Bourbon, and asked me how I liked Vichi, and whether the place did me +good. She said that Bourbon, instead of curing a pain in one of her +knees, injured both.... Her size is reduced by a good half, and yet her +complexion, her eyes, and her lips, are as fine as ever. She was dressed +all in French point, her hair in a thousand ringlets, the two side ones +hanging low on her cheeks, black ribbons on her head, pearls (the same +that belonged to Madame de l’Hôpital), the loveliest diamond earrings, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page109" id="page109"></a>109</span> +three or four bodkins—nothing else on the head; in short a triumphant +beauty, worthy the admiration of all the foreign embassadors. She was +accused of preventing the whole French nation from seeing the king; +she has restored him, you see, to their eyes; and you cannot conceive +the joy it has given everybody, and the splendor it has thrown upon +the court. This charming confusion, without confusion, of all which is +the most select, continues from three till six. If couriers arrive, the +king retires a moment to read the despatches and returns. There is +always some music going on, to which he listens, and which has an excellent +effect. He talks with such of the ladies as are accustomed to +enjoy that honor.... At six the carriages are at the door. The king is +in one of them with Madame de Montespan, Monsieur and Madame de +Thianges, and honest d’Hendicourt in a fool’s paradise on the stool. +You know how these open carriages are made; they do not sit face to +face, but all looking the same way. The queen occupies another with +the princess; and the rest come flocking after, as it may happen. There +are then gondolas on the canal, and music; and at ten they come back, +and then there is a play; and twelve strikes, and they go to supper; +and thus rolls round the Saturday. If I were to tell you how often you +were asked after, how many questions were put to me without waiting +for answers, how often I neglected to answer, how little they cared, and +how much less I did, you would see the <i>iniqua corte</i> [wicked court] +before you in all its perfection. However, it never was so pleasant +before, and everybody wishes it may last.</p> +</div> + +<p>There is your picture. Picture, pure and simple, it is—comment +none, least of all, moralizing comment. The wish +is sighed by “everybody,” that such pleasant things may +“last.” Well, they did last the writer’s time. But meanwhile +the French revolution was a-preparing. A hundred years +later it will come, with its terrible reprisals.</p> + +<p>We have gone away from the usual translations to find +the foregoing extract in an article published forty years ago +and more, in the “Edinburgh Review.” Again we draw from +the same source—this time, the description of a visit paid by +a company of grand folks, of whom the writer of the letter +was one, to an iron-foundery:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> + +<p class="rgt"><span class="sc">Friday</span>, <i>1st Oct.</i> (1677).</p> + +<p>Yesterday evening at Cone we descended into a veritable hell, the +true forges of Vulcan. Eight or ten Cyclops were at work, forging, not +arms for Æneas, but anchors for ships. You never saw strokes redoubled +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page110" id="page110"></a>110</span> +so justly nor with so admirable a cadence. We stood in the +midst of four furnaces; and the demons came passing about us, all +melting in sweat, with pale faces, wild-staring eyes, savage mustaches, +and hair long and black—a sight enough to frighten less well-bred folks +than ourselves. As for me, I could not comprehend the possibility of +refusing any thing which these gentlemen, in their hell, might have +chosen to exact. We got out at last, by the help of a shower of silver, +with which we took care to refresh their souls, and facilitate our exit.</p> +</div> + +<p>Once more:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> + +<p class="rgt"><span class="sc">Paris</span>, <i>29th November</i> (1679).</p> + +<p>I have been to the wedding of Madame de Louvois. How shall I describe +it? Magnificence, illuminations, all France, dresses all gold and brocade, +jewels, braziers full of fire, and stands full of flowers, confusions of carriages, +cries out of doors, lighted torches, pushings back, people run +over; in short, a whirlwind, a distraction; questions without answers, +compliments without knowing what is said, civilities without knowing +who is spoken to, feet entangled in trains. From the midst of all this +issue inquiries after your health, which not being answered as quick as +lightning, the inquirers pass on, contented to remain in the state of ignorance +and indifference in which they [the inquiries] were made. O +vanity of vanities! Pretty little De Mouchy has had the small-pox. O +vanity, <i>et cætera</i>!</p> +</div> + +<p>Yet again. The gay writer has been sobered, perhaps +hurt, by a friend’s frankly writing to her, “You are old.” +To her daughter:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>So you were struck with the expression of Madame de la Fayette, blended +with so much friendship. ’Twas a truth, I own, which I ought to +have borne in mind; and yet I must confess it astonished me, for I do +not yet perceive in myself any such decay. Nevertheless, I cannot help +making many reflections and calculations, and I find the conditions of +life hard enough. It seems to me that I have been dragged, against my +will, to the fatal period when old age must be endured; I see it; I +have come to it; and I would fain, if I could help it, not go any +farther; not advance a step more in the road of infirmities, of pains, +of losses of memory, of <i>disfigurements</i> ready to do me outrage; and I hear +a voice which says, “You must go on in spite of yourself; or, if you +will not go on, you must die;” and this is another extremity from which +nature revolts. Such is the lot, however, of all who advance beyond +middle life. What is their resource? To think of the will of God and +of universal law, and so restore reason to its place, and be patient. Be +you, then, patient accordingly, my dear child, and let not your affection +soften into such tears as reason must condemn.</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page111" id="page111"></a>111</span></p> + +<p>She dates a letter, and recalls that the day was the anniversary +of an event in her life:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> + +<p class="rgt"><span class="sc">Paris</span>, <i>Friday, Feb.</i> 5, 1672.</p> + +<p>This day thousand years I was married.</p> +</div> + +<p>Here is a passage with power in it. The great war minister +of Louis has died. Madame de Sévigné was now sixty-five +years old. The letter is to her cousin Coulanges:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>I am so astonished at the news of the sudden death of M. de Louvois, +that I am at a loss how to speak of it. Dead, however, he is, this great +minister, this potent being, who occupied so great a place; whose personality +[<i>le moi</i>], as M. Nicole says, had so wide a sway; who was the +center of so many orbs. What affairs had he not to manage! what designs, +what projects! what secrets! what interests to unravel, what wars +to undertake, what intrigues, what noble games at chess to play and to +direct! Ah! my God, grant me a little time; I want to give check to the +Duke of Savoy—checkmate to the Prince of Orange. No, no, you shall +not have a moment, not a single moment. Are events like these to be +talked of? Not they. We must reflect upon them in our closets.</p> +</div> + +<p>A glimpse of Bourdaloue:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Ah, that Bourdaloue! his sermon on the Passion was, they say, the +most perfect thing of the kind that can be imagined; it was the same he +preached last year, but revised and altered with the assistance of some +of his friends, that it might be wholly inimitable. How can one love God +if one never hears him properly spoken of? You must really possess a +greater portion of grace than others.</p> +</div> + +<p>A distinguished caterer or steward, a gentleman described +as possessing talent enough to have governed a province, +commits suicide on a professional point of honor:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> + +<p class="rgt"><span class="sc">Paris</span>, <i>Sunday, April</i> 26, 1671.</p> + +<p>I have just learned from Moreuil of what passed at Chantilly with +regard to poor Vatel. I wrote to you last Friday that he had stabbed +himself—these are the particulars of the affair: The king arrived there +on Thursday night; the walk, and the collation, which was served in a +place set apart for the purpose, and strewed with jonquils, were just as +they should be. Supper was served; but there was no roast meat at one +or two of the tables, on account of Vatel’s having been obliged to provide +several dinners more than were expected. This affected his spirits; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page112" id="page112"></a>112</span> +and he was heard to say several times, “I have lost my honor! I cannot +bear this disgrace!” “My head is quite bewildered,” said he to +Gourville. “I have not had a wink of sleep these twelve nights; I wish +you would assist me in giving orders.” Gourville did all he could to comfort +and assist him, but the failure of the roast meat (which, however, did +not happen at the king’s table, but at some of the other twenty-five) was +always uppermost with him. Gourville mentioned it to the prince [Condé, +the great Condé, the king’s host], who went directly to Vatel’s apartment +and said to him, “Every thing is extremely well conducted, Vatel; +nothing could be more admirable than his majesty’s supper.” “Your highness’s +goodness,” replied he, “overwhelms me; I am sensible that there +was a deficiency of roast meat at two tables.” “Not at all,” said the +prince; “do not perplex yourself, and all will go well.” Midnight came; +the fireworks did not succeed; they were covered with a thick cloud; +they cost sixteen thousand francs. At four o’clock in the morning Vatel +went round and found every body asleep. He met one of the under-purveyors, +who was just come in with only two loads of fish. “What!” +said he, “is this all?” “Yes, sir,” said the man, not knowing that Vatel +had despatched other people to all the seaports around. Vatel waited for +some time; the other purveyors did not arrive; his head grew distracted; +he thought there was no more fish to be had. He flew to Gourville: +“Sir,” said he, “I cannot outlive this disgrace.” Gourville laughed at +him. Vatel, however, went to his apartment, and setting the hilt of his +sword against the door, after two ineffectual attempts, succeeded, in the +third, in forcing his sword through his heart. At that instant the couriers +arrived with the fish; Vatel was inquired after to distribute it. They +ran to his apartment, knocked at the door, but received no answer; upon +which they broke it open, and found him weltering in his blood. A +messenger was immediately dispatched to acquaint the prince with what +had happened, who was like a man in despair. The duke wept, <i>for his +Burgundy journey depended upon Vatel</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p>The italics here are our own. We felt that we must use +them.</p> + +<p>Is it not all pathetic? But how exquisitely characteristic +of the nation and of the times! “Poor Vatel,” is the extent +to which Madame de Sévigné allows herself to go in sympathy. +Her heart never bleeds very freely—for anybody except +her daughter. Madame de Sévigné’s heart, indeed, we +grieve to fear, was somewhat hard.</p> + +<p>In another letter, after a long strain as worldly as any one +could wish to see, this lively woman thus touches, with a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page113" id="page113"></a>113</span> +sincerity as unquestionable as the levity is, on the point of +personal religion:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>But, my dear child, the greatest inclination I have at present is to be +a little religious. I plague La Mousse about it every day. I belong +neither to God nor to the devil. I am quite weary of such a situation; +though, between you and me, I look upon it as the most natural one in +the world. I am not the devil’s, because I fear God, and have at the bottom +a principle of religion; then, on the other hand, I am not properly +God’s, because his law appears hard and irksome to me, and I cannot +bring myself to acts of self-denial; so that altogether I am one of those +called lukewarm Christians, the great number of whom does not in the +least surprise me, for I perfectly understand their sentiments, and the +reasons that influence them. However, we are told that this is a state +highly displeasing to God; if so, we must get out of it. Alas! this is the +difficulty. Was ever any thing so mad as I am, to be thus eternally +pestering you with my rhapsodies?</p> +</div> + +<p>Madame de Sévigné involuntarily becomes a maxim-maker:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>The other day I made a maxim off-hand without once thinking of it; +and I liked it so well that I fancied I had taken it out of M. de la Rochefoucauld’s. +Pray tell me whether it is so or not, for in that case my +memory is more to be praised than my judgment. I said, with all the +ease in the world, that “ingratitude begets reproach, as acknowledgment +begets new favors.” Pray, where did this come from? Have I read it? +Did I dream it? Is it my own idea? Nothing can be truer than the +thing itself, nor than that I am totally ignorant how I came by it. I found +it properly arranged in my brain, and at the end of my tongue.</p> +</div> + +<p>The partial mother lets her daughter know whom the +maxim was meant for. She says, “It is intended for your +brother.” This young fellow had, we suspect, been first +earning his mother’s “reproaches” for spendthrift habits, +and then getting more money from her by “acknowledgment.”</p> + +<p>She hears that son of hers read “some chapters out of +Rabelais,” “which were enough,” she declares, “to make us +die with laughing.” “I cannot affect,” she says, “a prudery +which is not natural to me.” No, indeed, a prude this +woman was not. She had the strong æsthetic stomach of her +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page114" id="page114"></a>114</span> +time. It is queer to have Rabelais rubbing cheek and jowl +with Nicole (“We are going to begin a moral treatise of +Nicole’s”), a severe Port-Royalist, in one and the same letter. +But this is French; above all, it is Madame de Sévigné. +By the way, she and her friends, first and last, +“die” a thousand jolly deaths “with laughing.”</p> + +<p>A contemporary allusion to “Tartuffe,” with more French +manners implied:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>The other day La Biglesse played Tartuffe to the life. Being at table, +she happened to tell a fib about some trifle or other, which I noticed, and +told her of it; she cast her eyes to the ground, and with a very demure +air, “Yes, indeed, madam,” said she, “I am the greatest liar in the +world; I am very much obliged to you for telling me of it.” We all burst +out a-laughing, for it was exactly the tone of Tartuffe—“Yes, brother, I +am a wretch, a vessel of iniquity.”</p> +</div> + +<p>M. de la Rochefoucauld appears often by name in the letters. +Here he appears anonymously by his effect:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>“Warm affections are never tranquil;” <i>a maxim</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p>Not a very sapid bit of gnomic wisdom, certainly. We +must immediately make up to our readers, on Madame de +Sévigné’s behalf, for the insipidity of the foregoing “maxim” +of hers, by giving here two or three far more sententious excerpts +from the letters, excerpts collected by another:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>There may be so great a weight of obligation that there is no way of +being delivered from it but by ingratitude.</p> + +<p>Long sicknesses wear out grief, and long hopes wear out joy.</p> + +<p>Shadow is never long taken for substance; you must be, if you would +appear to be. The world is not unjust long.</p> +</div> + +<p>Madame de Sévigné makes a confession which will comfort +readers who may have experienced the same difficulty as +that of which she speaks:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>I send you M. de Rochefoucauld’s “Maxims,” revised and corrected, +with additions; it is a present to you from himself. Some of them I +can make shift to guess the meaning of; but there are others, that, to +my shame be it spoken, I cannot understand at all. God knows how it +will be with you.</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page115" id="page115"></a>115</span></p> + +<p>What was it changed this woman’s mood to serious? She +could not have been hearing Massillon’s celebrated sermon on +the “Fewness of the Elect,” for Massillon was yet only a boy +of nine years; she may have been reading Pascal’s “Thoughts”—Pascal +had been dead ten years, and the “Thoughts” had +been published; or she may have been listening to one of +those sifting, heart-searching discourses of Bourdaloue—the +date of her letter is March 16, 1672, and during the Lent of +that year Bourdaloue preached at Versailles—when she wrote +somberly as follows:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>You ask me if I am as fond of life as ever. I must own to you that I +experience mortifications, and severe ones too; but I am still unhappy at +the thoughts of death; I consider it so great a misfortune to see the termination +of all my pursuits, that I should desire nothing better, if it were +practicable, than to begin life again. I find myself engaged in a scene of +confusion and trouble; I was embarked in life without my own consent, +and know I must leave it again; this distracts me, for how shall I leave +it? In what manner? By what door? At what time? In what disposition? +Am I to suffer a thousand pains and torments that will make me +die in a state of despair? Shall I lose my senses? Am I to die by some +sudden accident? How shall I stand with God? What shall I have to +offer to him? Will fear and necessity make my peace with him? Shall +I have no other sentiment but that of fear? What have I to hope? Am +I worthy of heaven? Or have I deserved the torments of hell? Dreadful +alternative! Alarming uncertainty! Can there be greater madness than +to place our eternal salvation in uncertainty? Yet what is more natural, +or can be more easily accounted for, than the foolish manner in which I +have spent my life? I am frequently buried in thoughts of this nature, +and then death appears so dreadful to me that I hate life more for leading +me to it, than I do for all the thorns that are strewed in its way. You +will ask me, then, if I would wish to live forever? Far from it; but if I +had been consulted, I would very gladly have died in my nurse’s arms; +it would have spared me many vexations, and would have insured heaven +to me at a very easy rate; but let us talk of something else.</p> +</div> + +<p>A memorable sarcasm saved for us by Madame de Sévigné, +at the very close of one of her letters:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Guilleragues said yesterday that Pelisson abused the privilege men +have of being ugly.</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page116" id="page116"></a>116</span></p> + +<p>Readers familiar with Dickens’s “Tale of Two Cities” will +recognize in the following narrative a state of society not +unlike that described by the novelist as immediately preceding +the French Revolution:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>The Archbishop of Rheims, as he returned yesterday from St. Germain, +met with a curious adventure. He drove at his usual rate, like a whirlwind. +If he thinks himself a great man, his servants think him still greater. +They passed through Nanterre, when they met a man on horseback, and +in an insolent tone bid him clear the way. The poor man used his utmost +endeavors to avoid the danger that threatened him, but his horse proved +unmanageable. To make short of it, the coach-and-six turned them both +topsy-turvy; but at the same time the coach, too, was completely overturned. +In an instant the horse and the man, instead of amusing themselves +with having their limbs broken, rose almost miraculously; the man +remounted, and galloped away, and is galloping still, for aught I know; +while the servants, the archbishop’s coachman, and the archbishop himself +at the head of them, cried out, “Stop that villain! stop him! thrash +him soundly!” The rage of the archbishop was so great, that afterward, in +relating the adventure, he said if he could have caught the rascal he +would have broke all his bones, and cut off both his ears.</p> +</div> + +<p>If such things were done by the aristocracy—and the spiritual +aristocracy at that!—in the green tree, what might not +be expected from them in the dry? The writer makes no +comment—draws no moral. “Adieu, my dear, delightful +child. I cannot express my eagerness to see you,” are her +next words. She rattles along, three short sentences more, +and finishes her letter.</p> + +<p>We should still not have done with these letters were we +to go on a hundred pages, or two hundred, farther. Readers +have already seen truly what Madame de Sévigné is. They +have only not seen fully all that she is. And that they would +not see short of reading her letters entire. Horace Walpole +aspired to do in English for his own time something like what +Madame de Sévigné had done in French for hers. In a measure +he succeeded. The difference is, that he was imitative +and affected, where she was original and genuine.</p> + +<p>Lady Mary Wortley Montagu must, of course, also be +named, as, by her sex, her social position, her talent, and the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page117" id="page117"></a>117</span> +devotion of her talent, an English analogue to Madame de +Sévigné. But these comparisons, and all comparison, leave +the French woman without a true parallel, alone in her rank, +the most famous letter-writer in the world.</p> + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="center f120">X.</p> + +<p class="chap2 center">CORNEILLE.</p> + +<p class="center">1606-1684.</p> + +<p><span class="sc chap1">The</span> two great names in French tragedy are Corneille and +Racine. French tragedy is a very different affair from either +modern tragedy in English or ancient tragedy in Greek. It +comes nearer being Roman epic, such as Lucan wrote Roman +epic, dramatized.</p> + +<p>Drama is everywhere and always, and this from the nature +of things, a highly conventional literary form. But the convention +under which French tragedy should be judged, differs, +on the one hand, from that which existed for Greek +tragedy, and, on the other hand, from that existing for the +English. The atmosphere of real life present in English +tragedy is absent in French. The quasi-supernatural religious +awe that reigned over Greek tragedy, French tragedy +does not affect. You miss also in French tragedy the severe +simplicity, the self-restraint, the statuesque repose, belonging +to the Greek model. Loftiness, grandeur, a loftiness somewhat +strained, a grandeur tending to be tumid, an heroic +tone sustained at sacrifice of ease and nature—such is the +element in which French tragedy lives and flourishes. You +must grant your French tragedists this their conventional +privilege, or you will not enjoy them. You must grant them +this, or you cannot understand them. Resolve that you will +like grandiloquence, requiring only that the grandiloquence +be good, and on this condition we can promise that you will +be pleased with Corneille and Racine. In fact, our readers, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page118" id="page118"></a>118</span> +we are sure, will find the grandiloquence of these two tragedy-writers +so very good that a little will suffice them.</p> + +<p>Voltaire in his time impressed himself strongly enough on +his countrymen to get accepted by his own generation as an +equal third in tragedy with Corneille and Racine. There +was then a French triumvirate of tragedists to be paralleled +with the triumvirate of the Greeks. Corneille was Æschylus; +Racine was Sophocles; and, of course, Euripides had +his counterpart in Voltaire. Voltaire has since descended +from the tragic throne, and that neat symmetry of trine comparison +is spoiled. There is, however, some trace of justice +in making Corneille as related to Racine resemble Æschylus +as related to Sophocles. Corneille was first, more rugged, +loftier; Racine was second, more polished, more severe in +taste. Racine had, too, in contrast with Corneille, more of +the Euripidean sweetness. In fact, La Bruyère’s celebrated +comparison of the two Frenchmen—made, of course, before +Voltaire—yoked them, Corneille with Sophocles, Racine +with Euripides. Mr. John Morley, however, in his elaborate +monograph on Voltaire, remarks: “He [Voltaire] is usually +considered to hold the same place relatively to Corneille +and Racine that Euripides held relatively to Æschylus and +Sophocles.”</p> + +<p>It was perhaps not without its influence on the style of +Corneille, that a youthful labor of his in authorship was to +translate, wholly or partially, the “Pharsalia” of Lucan. +His fondness for Lucan, Corneille always retained. This taste +on his part, and the rhymed Alexandrines in which he wrote +tragedy, may together help account for the hyperheroic +style which is Corneille’s great fault. A lady criticised his +tragedy, “The Death of Pompey,” by saying: “Very fine, +but too many heroes in it.” Corneille’s tragedies generally +have, if not too many heroes, at least too much hero, in them. +Concerning the historian Gibbon’s habitual pomp of expression, +it was once wittily said that nobody could possibly tell +the truth in such a style as that. It would be equally near +the mark if we should say of Corneille’s chosen mold of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page119" id="page119"></a>119</span> +verse, that nobody could possibly be simple and natural in +that. Molière’s comedy, however, would almost confute +us.</p> + +<p>Pierre Corneille was born in Rouen. He studied law, and +he was admitted to practice as an advocate, like Molière; +but, like Molière, he heard and he heeded an inward voice +summoning him away from the bar to the stage. Corneille +did not, however, like Molière, tread the boards as an actor. +He had a lively sense of personal dignity. He was eminently +the “lofty, grave tragedian,” in his own esteem. “But I +am Pierre Corneille notwithstanding,” he self-respectingly +said once, when friends were regretting to him some deficiency +of grace in his personal carriage. One can imagine +him taking off his hat to himself with unaffected deference.</p> + +<p>But this serious genius began dramatic composition with +writing comedy. He made several experiments of this kind +with no commanding success; but at thirty he wrote the +tragedy of “The Cid,” and instantly became famous. His +subsequent plays were chiefly on classical subjects. The subject +of “The Cid” was drawn from Spanish literature. This +was emphatically what has been called an “epoch-making” +production. Richelieu’s “Academy,” at the instigation, indeed +almost under the dictation, of Richelieu, who was jealous +of Corneille, tried to write it down. They succeeded +about as Balaam succeeded in prophesying against Israel. +“The Cid” triumphed over them, and over the great minister. +It established not only Corneille’s fame, but his authority. +The man of genius taken alone proved stronger than +the men of taste taken together.</p> + +<p>For all this, however, our readers would hardly relish +“The Cid.” Let us go at once to that tragedy of Corneille’s +which, by the general consent of French critics, is the best +work of its author, the “Polyeuctes.” The following is the +rhetorical climax of praise in which Gaillard, one of the most +enlightened of Corneille’s eulogists, arranges the different +masterpieces of his author: “’The Cid’ raised Corneille above +his rivals; the ‘Horace’ and the ‘Cinna’ above his models; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page120" id="page120"></a>120</span> +the ‘Polyeuctes’ above himself.” This tragedy will, we +doubt not, prove to our readers the most interesting of all +the tragedies of Corneille.</p> + +<p>“The great Corneille”—to apply the traditionary designation +which, besides attributing to our tragedian his conceded +general eminence in character and genius, serves also to distinguish +him by merit from his younger brother, who wrote +very good tragedy—was an illustrious figure at the Hôtel de +Rambouillet, that focus of the best literary criticism in France. +Corneille reading a play of his to the <i>coterie</i> of wits assembled +there under the presidency of ladies whose eyes, as in a kind +of tournament of letters, rained influence on authors, and +judged the prize of genius, is the subject of a striking picture +by a French painter. Corneille read “Polyeuctes” at the Hôtel +Rambouillet, and that awful court decided against the play. +Corneille, like Michael Angelo, had to a good degree the +courage of his own productions: but, in the face of adverse +decision so august on his work, he needed encouragement, +which happily he did not fail to receive, before he would +allow his “Polyeuctes” to be represented. The theatre +crowned it with the laurels of victory. It thus fell to Corneille +to triumph successively, single-handed, over two great +adversary courts of critical appreciation—the Academy of +Richelieu and the not less formidable Hôtel de Rambouillet.</p> + +<p>The objection raised by the Hôtel de Rambouillet against the +“Polyeuctes” was that it made the stage encroach on the prerogative +of the pulpit, and preach instead of simply amusing. +And, indeed, never, perhaps, since the Greek tragedy, was the +theatre made so much to serve the solemn purposes of religion. +(We except the miracle and passion plays and the mysteries +of the Middle Ages, as not belonging within the just bounds +of a comparison like that now made.) Corneille’s final influence +was to elevate and purify the French theatre. In his +early works, however, he made surprising concessions to the +lewd taste in the drama that he found prevailing when he +began to write. With whatever amount of genuine religious +scruple affecting his conscience—on that point we need not +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page121" id="page121"></a>121</span> +judge the poet—Corneille used, before putting them on the +stage, to take his plays to the “Church”—that is, to the +priestly hierarchy who constituted the “Church”—that they +might be authoritatively judged as to their possible influence +on the cause of Christian truth.</p> + +<p>In the “Polyeuctes” the motive is religion. Polyeuctes is +historic or traditional saint of the Roman Catholic church. +His conversion from paganism is the theme of the play. +Polyeuctes has a friend Nearchus who is already a Christian +convert, and who labors earnestly to make Polyeuctes a +proselyte to the faith. Polyeuctes has previously married a +noble Roman lady, daughter of Felix, governor of Armenia, +in which province the action of the story occurs. (The persecuting +Emperor Decius is on the throne of the Roman world.) +Paulina married Polyeuctes against her own choice, for she +loved Roman Severus better. Her father had put his will +upon her, and Paulina had filially obeyed in marrying Polyeuctes. +Such are the relations of the different persons of the +drama. It will be seen that there is ample room for the play +of elevated and tragic passions. Paulina, in fact, is the lofty, +the impossible, ideal of wifely and daughterly truth and devotion. +Pagan though she is, she is pathetically constant, both +to the husband that was forced upon her, and to the father +that did the forcing; while still she loves, and cannot but +love, the man whom, in spite of her love for him, she, with an +act like prolonged suicide, stoically separates from her torn +and bleeding heart.</p> + +<p>But Severus on his part emulates the nobleness of the +woman whom he vainly loves. Learning the true state of the +case, he rises to the height of his opportunity for magnanimous +behavior, and bids the married pair be happy in a long +life together.</p> + +<p>A change in the situation occurs, a change due to the +changed mood of the father, Felix. Felix learns that Severus +is high in imperial favor, and he wishes now that Severus, +instead of Polyeuctes, were his son-in-law. A decree +of the emperor makes it possible that this preferable +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page122" id="page122"></a>122</span> +alternative may yet be realized. For the emperor has decreed +that Christians must be persecuted to the death, and +Polyeuctes has been baptized a Christian—though of this +Felix will not hear till later.</p> + +<p>A solemn sacrifice to the gods is to be celebrated in honor +of imperial victories lately won. Felix sends to summon +Polyeuctes, his son-in-law. To Felix’s horror, Polyeuctes, +with his friend Nearchus, coming to the temple, proceeds in a +frenzy of enthusiasm to break and dishonor the images of the +gods, proclaiming himself a Christian. In obedience to the +imperial decree, Nearchus is hurried to execution, in the sight +of his friend, while Polyeuctes is thrown into prison to repent +and recant.</p> + +<p>“Now is my chance,” muses Felix. “I dare not disobey the +emperor to spare Polyeuctes. Besides, with Polyeuctes once out +of the way, Severus and Paulina may be husband and wife.”</p> + +<p>Polyeuctes in prison hears that his Paulina is coming to see +him. With a kind of altruistic nobleness which seems contagious +in this play, Polyeuctes resolves that Severus shall +come too, and he will resign his wife, soon to be a widow, to +the care of his own rival, her Roman lover. First, Polyeuctes +and Paulina are alone together—Polyeuctes having, +before she arrived, fortified his soul for the conflict with her +tears, by singing in his solitude a song of high resolve and of +anticipative triumph over his temptation.</p> + +<p>The scene between Paulina, exerting all her power to detach +Polyeuctes from what she believes to be his folly, and +Polyeuctes, on the other hand, rapt to the pitch of martyrdom, +exerting all his power to resist his wife, and even to +convert her—this scene, we say, is full of noble height and +pathos, as pathos and height were possible in the verse which +Corneille had to write. Neither struggler in this tragic strife +moves the other. Paulina is withdrawing when Severus enters. +She addresses her lover severely, but Polyeuctes intervenes +to defend him. In a short scene, Polyeuctes, by a sort +of last will and testament, bequeaths his wife to his rival, and +retires with his guard. Now, Severus and Paulina are alone +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page123" id="page123"></a>123</span> +together. If there was a trace of the false heroic in Polyeuctes’s +resignation of his wife to Severus, the effect of that +is finely counteracted by the scene which immediately follows +between Paulina and Severus. Severus begins doubtfully, +staggering, as it were, to firm posture, while he speaks to +Paulina. He expresses amazement at the conduct of Polyeuctes. +Christians certainly deport themselves strangely, he +says. He at length finds himself using the following lover-like +language:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>As for me, had my destiny become a little earlier propitious and honored +my devotion by marriage with you, I should have adored only the +splendor of your eyes; of them I should have made my kings; of them I +should have made my gods; sooner would I have been reduced to dust, +sooner would I have been reduced to ashes, than—</p> +</div> + +<p>But here Paulina interrupts, and Severus is not permitted +to finish his protestation. Her reply is esteemed, and justly +esteemed, one of the noblest things in French tragedy—a +French critic would be likely to say, the very noblest in +tragedy. She says:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Let us break off there; I fear listening too long; I fear lest this warmth +which feels your first fires, force on some sequel unworthy of us both. +[Voltaire, who edited Corneille with a feeling of freedom toward a national +idol comparable to the sturdy independence that animated Johnson +in annotating Shakespeare, says of “This warmth which feels your +first fires and which forces on a sequel:” “That is badly written, +agreed; but the sentiment gets the better of the expression, and what follows +is of a beauty of which there had been no example. The Greeks +were frigid declaimers in comparison with this passage of Corneille.”] +Severus, learn to know Paulina all in all.</p> + +<p>My Polyeuctes touches on his last hour; he has but a moment to live; +you are the cause of this, though innocently so. I know not if your +heart, yielding to your desires, may have dared build any hope on his +destruction; but know that there is no death so cruel that to it with firm +brow I would not bend my steps, that there are in hell no horrors that I +would not endure, rather than soil a glory so pure, rather than espouse, after +his sad fate, a man that was in any wise the cause of his death; and if you +suppose me of a heart so little sound, the love which I had for you would +all turn to hate. You are generous; be so even to the end. My father +is in a state to yield every thing to you; he fears you; and I further +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page124" id="page124"></a>124</span> +hazard this saying, that, if he destroys my husband, it is to you that he +sacrifices him. Save this unhappy man, use your influence in his favor, +exert yourself to become his support. I know that this is much that I +ask; but the greater the effort, the greater the glory from it. To preserve +a rival of whom you are jealous, that is a trait of virtue which appertains +only to you. And if your renown is not motive sufficient, it is +much that a woman once so well beloved, and the love of whom perhaps +is still capable of touching you, will owe to your great heart the dearest +possession that she owns; remember, in short, that you are Severus. +Adieu. Decide with yourself alone what you ought to do; if you are not +such as I dare to hope that you are, then, in order that I may continue to +esteem you, I wish not to know it.</p> +</div> + +<p>Voltaire, as editor and commentator of Corneille, is freezingly +cold. It is difficult not to feel that at heart he was unfriendly +to the great tragedist’s fame. His notes often are +remorselessly grammatical. “This is not French”; “This is +not the right word”; “According to the construction, this +should mean so and so—according to the sense it must mean so +and so”; “This is hardly intelligible”; “It is a pity that such +or such a fault should mar these fine verses”; “An expression +for comedy rather than tragedy”—are the kind of remarks +with which Voltaire chills the enthusiasm of the reader. +It is useless, however, to deny that the criticisms thus made +are, many of them, just. Corneille does not belong to the +class of the “faultily faultless” writers.</p> + +<p>Severus proves equal to Paulina’s noble hopes of him. +With a great effort of self-sacrifice, he resolves to intercede for +Polyeuctes. This is shown in an interview between Severus and +his faithful attendant Fabian. Fabian warns him that he appeals +for Polyeuctes at his own peril. Severus loftily replies +(and here follows one of the most lauded passages in the play:)</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>That advice might be good for some common soul. Though he [the Emperor +Decius] holds in his hands my life and my fortune, I am yet Severus; +and all that mighty power is powerless over my glory, and powerless +over my duty. Here honor compels me, and I will satisfy it; whether +fate afterward show itself propitious or adverse, perishing glorious I shall +perish content.</p> + +<p>I will tell thee further, but under confidence, the sect of Christians is +not what it is thought to be. They are hated, why I know not; and I +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page125" id="page125"></a>125</span> +see Decius unjust only in this regard. From curiosity I have sought to +become acquainted with them. They are regarded as sorcerers taught +from hell; and, in this supposition, the punishment of death is visited on +secret mysteries which we do not understand. But Eleusinian Ceres and +the Good Goddess have their secrets, like those at Rome and in Greece; +still we freely tolerate everywhere, their God alone excepted, every kind of +god; all the monsters of Egypt have their temples in Rome; our fathers, +at their will, made a god of a man; and, their blood in our veins preserving +their errors, we fill heaven with all our emperors; but, to speak +without disguise of deifications so numerous, the effect is very doubtful +of such metamorphoses.</p> + +<p>Christians have but one God, absolute master of all, whose mere will +does whatever he resolves; but, if I may venture to say what seems to +me true, our gods very often agree ill together; and, though their wrath +crush me before your eyes, we have a good many of them for them to be +true gods. Finally, among the Christians, morals are pure, vices are +hated, virtues flourish; they offer prayers on behalf of us who persecute +them; and, during all the time since we have tormented them, have they +ever been seen mutinous? Have they ever been seen rebellious? Have +our princes ever had more faithful soldiers? Fierce in war, they submit +themselves to our executioners; and, lions in combat, they die like lambs. +I pity them too much not to defend them. Come, let us find Felix; let +us commune with his son-in-law; and let us thus, with one single action, +gratify at once Paulina, and my glory, and my compassion.</p> +</div> + +<p>Such is the high heroic style in which pagan Severus resolves +and speaks. And thus the fourth act ends.</p> + +<p>Felix makes a sad contrast with the high-heartedness which +the other characters, most of them, display. He is base +enough to suspect that Severus is base enough to be false and +treacherous in his act of intercession for Polyeuctes. He imagines +he detects a plot against himself to undermine him with +the emperor. Voltaire criticises Corneille for giving this +sordid character to Felix. He thinks the tragedist might +better have let Felix be actuated by zeal for the pagan gods. +The mean selfishness that animates the governor, Voltaire +regards as below the right tragic pitch. It is the poet himself, +no doubt, with that high Roman fashion of his, who, unconsciously +to the critic, taught him to make the criticism.</p> + +<p>Felix summons Polyeuctes to an interview, and adjures +to be a prudent man. Felix at length says, “Adore the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page126" id="page126"></a>126</span> +gods or die.” “I am a Christian,” simply replies the martyr. +“Impious! Adore them, I bid you, or renounce life.” (Here +again Voltaire offers one of his refrigerant criticisms: “<i>Renounce +life</i> does not advance upon the meaning of <i>die</i>; when +one repeats the thought, the expression should be strengthened.”) +Paulina meantime has entered to expostulate with +Polyeuctes and with her father. Polyeuctes bids her, “Live +with Severus.” He says he has revolved the subject, and he +is convinced that another love is the sole remedy for her woe. +He proceeds in the calmest manner to point out the advantages +of the course recommended. Voltaire remarks—justly +we are bound to say—that these maxims are here somewhat +revolting; the martyr should have had other things to say. +On Felix’s final word, “Soldiers, execute the order that I have +given,” Paulina exclaims, “Whither are you taking him?” +“To death,” says Felix. “To glory,” says Polyeuctes. “Admirable +dialogue, and always applauded,” is Voltaire’s note +on this.</p> + +<p>The tragedy does not end with the martyrdom of Polyeuctes. +Paulina becomes a Christian, but remains pagan +enough to call her father “barbarous,” in acrimoniously bidding +him finish his work by putting his daughter also to +death. Severus reproaches Felix for his cruelty, and threatens +him with his own enmity. Felix undergoes instantaneous +conversion—a miracle of grace which, under the circumstances +provided by Corneille, we may excuse Voltaire for +laughing at. Paulina is delighted; and Severus asks, “Who +would not be touched by a spectacle so tender?”</p> + +<p>The tragedy thus comes near ending happily enough to +be called a comedy.</p> + +<p>Such as the foregoing exhibits him is the father of French +tragedy, Corneille, where at his best; where at his worst, he +is something so different that you would hardly admit him to +be the same man. For never was genius more unequal in +different manifestations of itself, than Corneille in his different +works. Molière is reported to have said that Corneille +had a familiar, or a fairy, that came to him at times, and enabled +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page127" id="page127"></a>127</span> +him to write sublimely; but that, when the poet was +left to himself, he could write as poorly as another man.</p> + +<p>Corneille produced some thirty-three dramatic pieces in all, +but of these not more than six or seven retain their place on +the French stage.</p> + +<p>Corneille and Bossuet together constitute a kind of rank +by themselves among the <i>Dii Majores</i> of the French literary +Olympus.</p> + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="center f120">XI.</p> + +<p class="chap2 center">RACINE.</p> + +<p class="center">1639-1699.</p> + +<p><span class="sc chap1">Jean Racine</span> was Pierre Corneille reduced to rule. The +younger was to the elder somewhat as Sophocles or Euripides +was to Æschylus, as Virgil was to Lucretius, as Pope +was to Dryden. Nature was more in Corneille, art was more +in Racine. Corneille was a pathfinder in literature. He led +the way even for Molière still more for Racine. But Racine +was as much before Corneille in perfection of art as Corneille +was before Racine in audacity of genius. Racine, accordingly, +is much more even and uniform than Corneille. +Smoothness, polish, ease, grace, sweetness—these, and monotony +in these, are the mark of Racine. But if there is, in +the latter poet, less to admire, there is also less to forgive. +His taste and his judgment were surer than the taste and the +judgment of Corneille. He enjoyed, moreover, an inestimable +advantage in the life-long friendship of the great critic of his +time, Boileau. Boileau was a literary conscience to Racine. +He kept Racine constantly spurred to his best endeavors in +art. Racine was congratulating himself to his friends on the +ease with which he produced his verse. “Let me teach you +to produce easy verse with difficulty,” was the critic’s admirable +reply. Racine was a docile pupil. He became as +painstaking an artist in verse as Boileau would have him.</p> + +<p>It will always be a matter of individual taste, and of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page128" id="page128"></a>128</span> +changing fashion in criticism, to decide which of the two is, +on the whole, to be preferred to the other. Racine eclipsed +Corneille in vogue during the lifetime of the latter. +Corneille’s old age was, perhaps, seriously saddened by the +consciousness, which he could not but have, of being retired +from the place of ascendency once accorded to him over all. +His case repeated the fortune of Æschylus in relation to +Sophocles. The eighteenth century, taught by Voltaire, +established the precedence of Racine. But the nineteenth +century has restored the crown to the brow of Corneille. To +such mutations is subject the fame of an author.</p> + +<p>Jean Racine was early left an orphan. His grandparents +put him, after preparatory training at another establishment, +to school at Port Royal, where during three years he +had the best opportunities of education that the kingdom +afforded. His friends wanted to make a clergyman of him; +but the preferences of the boy prevailed, and he addicted himself +to literature. The Greek tragedists became familiar to +him in his youth, and their example in literary art exercised a +sovereign influence over Racine’s development as author. It +pained the good Port-Royalists to see their late gifted pupil, +now out of their hands, inclined to write plays. Nicole +printed a remonstrance against the theater, in which Racine +discovered something that he took to slant anonymously at +himself. He wrote a spirited reply, of which no notice was +taken by the Port-Royalists. Somebody, however, on their +behalf, rejoined to Racine, whereupon the young author +wrote a second letter to the Port-Royalists, which he showed +to his friend Boileau. “This may do credit to your head, +but it will do none to your heart,” was that faithful mentor’s +comment, in returning the document. Racine suppressed +his second letter, and did his best to recall the first. But he +went on in his course of writing for the stage.</p> + +<p>Racine’s second tragedy, the “Alexander the Great,” the +youthful author took to the great Corneille, to get his judgment +on it. Corneille was thirty-three years the senior +of Racine, and he was at this time the undisputed master of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page129" id="page129"></a>129</span> +French tragedy. “You have undoubted talent for poetry—for +tragedy, not; try your hand in some other poetical +line,” was Corneille’s sentence on the unrecognized young +rival, who was so soon to supplant him in popular favor.</p> + +<p>It was a pretty, girlish fancy of the brilliant Princess +Henriette (that same daughter of English Charles I., Bossuet’s +funeral oration on whom, presently to be spoken of, is +so celebrated) to engage the two great tragedists, Corneille +and Racine, both at once, in labor, without their mutual +knowledge, upon the same subject—a subject which she herself, +drawing it from the history of Tacitus, conceived to be +eminently fit for tragical treatment. Corneille produced his +“Berenice” and Racine his “Titus and Berenice.” The princess +died before the two plays which she had inspired were +produced; but, when they were produced, Racine’s work won +the palm. The rivalry created a bitterness between the two +authors, of which, naturally, the defeated one tasted the +more deeply. An ill-considered pleasantry, too, of Racine’s, +in making out of one of Corneille’s tragic lines in his “Cid,” +a comic line for “The Suitors,” hurt the old man’s pride. That +pride suffered a worse hurt still. The chief Parisian theater, +completely occupied with the works of his victorious rival, +rejected tragedies offered by Corneille.</p> + +<p>Still, Racine did not have things all his own way. Some +good critics considered the rage for this younger dramatist a +mere passing whim of fashion. These—Madame de Sévigné +was of them—stood by their “old admiration,” and were true +to Corneille.</p> + +<p>A memorable mortification and chagrin for our poet was +now prepared by his enemies—he seems never to have lacked +enemies—with lavish and elaborate malice. Racine had produced +a play from Euripides, the “Phædra,” on which he had +unstintingly bestowed his best genius and his best art. It was +contrived that another poet, one Pradon, should, at the self-same +moment, have a play represented on the self-same subject. +At a cost of many thousands of dollars, the best seats +at Racine’s theater were all bought by his enemies, and left +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page130" id="page130"></a>130</span> +solidly vacant. The best seats at Pradon’s theater were all +bought by the same interested parties, and duly occupied +with industrious and zealous applauders. This occurred at six +successive representations. The result was the immediate +apparent triumph of Pradon over the humiliated Racine. +Boileau in vain bade his friend be of good cheer, and await +the assured reversal of the verdict. Racine was deeply +wounded.</p> + +<p>This discomposing experience of the poet’s, joined with +conscientious misgivings on his part as to the propriety of +his course in writing for the stage, led him now, at the early +age of thirty-eight, to renounce tragedy altogether. His son +Louis, from whose life of Racine we have chiefly drawn our +material for the present sketch, conceives this change in his +father as a profound and genuine religious conversion. +Writers whose spirit inclines them not to relish a condemnation +such as seems thus to be reflected on the theater take +a less charitable view of the change. They account for it as +a reaction of mortified pride. Some of them go so far as +groundlessly to impute sheer hypocrisy to Racine.</p> + +<p>A long interval of silence, on Racine’s part, had elapsed, +when Madame de Maintenon, the wife of Louis XIV., asked +the unemployed poet to prepare a sacred play for the use of +the high-born girls educated under her care at St. Cyr. +Racine consented, and produced his “Esther.” This achieved +a prodigious success; for the court took it up, and an exercise +written for a girls’ school became the admiration of a +kingdom. A second similar play followed, the “Athaliah”—the +last, and, by general agreement, the most perfect work of +its author. We thus reach that tragedy of Racine’s which +both its fame and its character dictate to us as the one by +eminence to be used here in exhibition of the quality of this +Virgil among tragedists.</p> + +<p>Our readers may, if they please, refresh their recollection +of the history on which the drama is founded by perusing +Second Kings, chapter eleven, and Second Chronicles, chapters +twenty-two and twenty-three. Athaliah, whose name +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page131" id="page131"></a>131</span> +gives its title to the tragedy, was daughter to the wicked +king, Ahab. She reigns as queen at Jerusalem over the +kingdom of Judah. To secure her usurped position, she had +sought to kill all the descendants of King David, even her +own grandchildren. She had succeeded, but not quite. +Young Joash escaped, to be secretly reared in the temple by +the high-priest. The final disclosure of this hidden prince, +and his coronation as king in place of usurping Athalia, +destined to be fearfully overthrown, and put to death in his +name, afford the action of the play. Action, however, there +is almost none in classic French tragedy. The tragic drama +is, with the French, as it was with the Greeks, after whom +it was framed, merely a succession of scenes in which +speeches are made by the actors. Lofty declamation is +always the character of the play. In the “Athalia,” as in +the “Esther,” Racine introduced the feature of the chorus, a +restoration which had all the effect of an innovation. The +chorus in “Athalia” consisted of Hebrew virgins, who at +intervals marking the transitions between the acts, chanted +the spirit of the piece in its successive stages of progress +toward the final catastrophe. The “Athalia” is almost proof +against technical criticism. It is acknowledged to be, after +its kind, a nearly ideal product of art.</p> + +<p>First, in specimen of the choral feature of the drama, we +content ourselves with giving a single chorus from the +“Athalia.” This we turn into rhyme, clinging pretty closely +all the way to the form of the original. Attentive readers +may, in one place of our rendering, observe an instance of +identical rhyme. This, in a piece of verse originally written in +English, would, of course, be a fault. In translation from +French, it may pass for a merit; since, to judge from the +practice of the national poets, the French ear seems to be even +better pleased with such strict identities of sound, at the +close of corresponding lines, than it is with those definite, +mere resemblances to which, in English versification, rhymes +are rigidly limited.</p> + +<p>Suspense between hope and dread, dread preponderating, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page132" id="page132"></a>132</span> +is the state of feeling represented in the present chorus. +Salomith is the leading singer:</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p class="sc c s">Salomith.</p> + + <p class="i1"> The Lord hath deigned to speak,</p> +<p>But what he to his prophet now hath shown—</p> +<p>Who unto us will make it clearly known?</p> + <p class="i1">Arms he himself to save us, poor and weak?</p> + <p class="i1">Arms he himself to have us overthrown?</p> + +<p class="sc c s">The whole Chorus.</p> + +<p>O promises! O threats! O mystery profound!</p> + <p class="i1">What woe, what weal, are each in turn foretold?</p> +<p>How can so much of wrath be found</p> + <p class="i1">So much of love to enfold?</p> + +<p class="sc c s">A Voice.</p> + +<p>Zion shall be no more; a cruel flame</p> + <p class="i1">Will all her ornaments devour.</p> + +<p class="sc c s">A Second Voice.</p> + + <p class="i1">God shelters Zion; she has shield and tower</p> +<p>In his eternal name.</p> + +<p class="sc c s">First Voice.</p> + +<p>I see her splendor all from vision disappear.</p> + +<p class="sc c s">Second Voice.</p> + +<p>I see on every side her glory shine more clear.</p> + +<p class="sc c s">First Voice.</p> + +<p>Into a deep abyss is Zion sunk from sight.</p> + +<p class="sc c s">Second Voice.</p> + +<p>Zion lifts up her brow amid celestial light.</p> + +<p class="sc c s">First Voice.</p> + +<p>What dire despair!</p> + +<p class="sc c s">Second Voice.</p> + + <p class="i8">What praise from every tongue!</p> + +<p class="sc c s">First Voice.</p> + +<p>What cries of grief!</p> + +<p class="sc c s">Second Voice.</p> + + <p class="i10">What songs of triumph sung! + <span class="pagenum"><a name="page133" id="page133"></a>133</span></p> + +<p class="sc c s">A Third Voice.</p> + +<p>Cease we to vex ourselves; our God, one day,</p> + <p class="i1">Will this great mystery make clear.</p> + +<p class="sc c s">All Three Voices.</p> + + <p class="i1">Let us his wrath revere,</p> +<p>While on his love, no less, our hopes we stay.</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>The catastrophe is reached in the coronation of little Joash +as king, and in the destruction of usurping and wicked +Athaliah. Little Joash, by the way, with his rather precocious +wisdom of reply, derived to himself for the moment +a certain factitious interest, from the resemblance, meant by +the poet to be divined by spectators, between him and the +little Duke of Burgundy, Louis XIV.’s grandson, then of +about the same age with the Hebrew boy, and of high +reputation for mental vivacity.</p> + +<p>The scene in which the high-priest, Jehoiada, for the first +time discloses to his foster-son, Joash, the latter’s royal +descent from David, and his true heirship to the throne of +Judah, will serve sufficiently to exhibit what maturity of +modest and pious wisdom the dramatist attributes to this +Hebrew boy of nine or ten years. Nine or ten years of age +Racine makes Joash, instead of seven, as Scripture interpreted +without violence would make him. The lad has had +his sage curiosity excited by seeing preparations in progress +for some important ceremonial. That ceremonial is his own +coronation, but he does not guess the secret. Nay, he has +just touchingly asked his foster-mother, observed by him to +be in tears:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>What pity touches you? Is it that, in a holocaust to be this day +offered, I, like Jephtha’s daughter in other times, must pacify by my +death the anger of the Lord? Alas, a son has nothing that does not +belong to his father!</p> +</div> + +<p>The discreet foster-mother refers the lad to her husband, +Jehoiada, now approaching. Joash rushes into the arms of +the high-priest, exclaiming, “My father!” “Well, my +son?” the high-priest replies. “What preparations, then, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page134" id="page134"></a>134</span> +are these?” asks Joash. The high-priest bids him prepare +himself to listen and learn, the time being now come for him +to pay his debt to God:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p><i>Joash.</i> I feel myself ready, if he wishes it, to give to him my life.</p> + +<p><i>Jehoiada.</i> You have often heard read the history of our kings. Do +you remember, my son, what strict laws a king worthy of the crown ought +to impose upon himself?</p> + +<p><i>Joash.</i> A wise and good king, so hath God himself declared, puts not +his reliance upon riches and gold; he fears the Lord his God, has ever +before him his precepts, his laws, his judgments severe, and does not +with unjust burdens overwhelm his brethren.</p> +</div> + +<p>Fénelon had already been two years preceptor to the Duke +of Burgundy when this tragedy was written. It is impossible +not to feel that Racine must have had that prince in +mind when he put into the mouth of young Joash sentiments +so likely to have been instilled into the heart of his royal +pupil, the great king’s grandson, by such a preceptor as +Fénelon. How could the selfish old monarch of France contrive +to avoid recognizing his own portrait suggested by +contrast in that description of the good king from the lips +of little Joash? Racine was here treading on treacherous +ground. He will presently find his footing quite give way +under him, to let him down into the “horrible pit” of disgrace +with his king. This not, however, in the present play.</p> + +<p>The tragedist has generously bestowed upon wicked Queen +Athaliah a certain loftiness of spirit which, in its display in +the final catastrophe, almost redeems her to admiration, if +not to sympathy. There is nothing in the play more nearly +sublime in declamation than the final speech in which Athaliah +greets her own doom, and blasphemously forecasts, for +young King Joash, a future of apostasy from God. With this +admirable piece of rhetoric, resembling a burst of blasphemy +from Satan in “Paradise Lost,” so far as French poetry may +be allowed to resemble English, we conclude our representation +of Racine. Athaliah has now just heard the announcement +of things that assure her of the overthrow of her +usurpation. She expresses herself in a speech, the first words +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page135" id="page135"></a>135</span> +of which were, no doubt, designed by the poet to recall the +celebrated traditional exclamation of Julian the Apostate, +uttered at a moment of irretrievable disaster to his impious +hopes—“O Galilean, thou hast conquered!” as follows:</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>God of the Jews, ’tis thou that dost prevail!</p> +<p>Ay, it is Joash; all without avail</p> +<p>Seek I to cheat myself with other thought:</p> +<p>I know the wound my weapon on him wrought;</p> +<p>I see his father Ahaziah’s face;</p> +<p>Naught but brings back to me that hated race.</p> +<p>David doth triumph, Ahab only fall—</p> +<p>Unpitying God, thou only hast done all!</p> +<p>’Tis thou that, flattering me to hope in vain</p> +<p>For easy vengeance, o’er and o’er again</p> +<p>Hast with myself myself embroiled anew,</p> +<p>Now pangs of conscience rousing, not a few,</p> +<p>Now dazzling me with thy rich treasures rare,</p> +<p>Which I to burn or pillage did not dare.</p> +<p>Let him, then, reign, this son, thy care, thy toil,</p> +<p>And, so to signalize his new-got spoil,</p> +<p>Let him into my bosom plunge the knife,</p> +<p>And take with filial hand his mother’s life.</p> +<p>Hearken what wish for him she dying breathes—</p> +<p>Wish? nay, what hope, assured hope, bequeaths—</p> +<p>That, disobedient, proud, rebellious, he,</p> +<p>Faithful to Ahab’s blood received from me,</p> +<p>To his grandfather, to his father, like,</p> +<p>Abhorrent heir of David, down may strike</p> +<p>Thy worship and thy fane, avenger fell</p> +<p>Of Athaliah, Ahab, Jezebel!</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>With words thus rendered into such English verse as we +could command for the purpose, Athaliah disappears from +the stage. Her execution follows immediately. This is not +exhibited, but is announced with brief, solemn comment from +Jehoiada. And so the tragedy ends.</p> + +<p>The interest of the piece, to the modern reader, is by no +means equal to its fame. One reproaches one’s self, but one +yawns in conscientiously perusing it. Still, one feels the +work of the author to be irreproachably, nay, consummately, +good. But fashions in taste change; and we cannot hold +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page136" id="page136"></a>136</span> +ourselves responsible for admiring, or, at any rate, for enjoying, +according to the judgment of other races and of former +generations. It is—so, with grave concurrence, we say—It +is a great classic, worthy of the praise that it receives. We +are glad that we have read it; and, let us be candid, equally +glad that we have not to read it again.</p> + +<p>As has already been intimated, Racine, after “Athaliah,” +wrote tragedy no more. He ceased to interest himself in +the fortune of his plays. His son “Louis,” in his Life of his +father, testifies that he never heard his father speak in the +family of the dramas that he had written. His theatrical +triumphs seemed to afford him no pleasure. He repented of +them rather than gloried in them.</p> + +<p>While one need not doubt that this regret of Racine’s for +the devotion of his powers to the production of tragedy was +a sincere regret of his conscience, one may properly wish +that the regret had been more heroic. The fact is, Racine +was somewhat feminine in character as well as in genius. +He could not beat up with stout heart undismayed against +an adverse wind. And the wind blew adverse at length to +Racine, from the principal quarter, the court of Versailles. +From being a chief favorite with his sovereign, Racine fell +into the position of an exile from the royal presence. The +immediate occasion was one honorable rather than otherwise +to the poet.</p> + +<p>In conversation with Madame de Maintenon, Racine had +expressed views on the state of France, and on the duties of +a king to his subjects, which so impressed her mind that she +desired him to reduce his observations to writing and confide +them to her, she promising to keep them profoundly +secret from Louis. But Louis surprised her with the manuscript +in her hand. Taking it from her, he read in it, and +demanded to know the author. Madame de Maintenon could +not finally refuse to tell. “Does M. Racine, because he is a +great poet, think that he knows every thing?” the despot +angrily asked. Louis never spoke to Racine again. The +distressed and infatuated poet still made some paltry request +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page137" id="page137"></a>137</span> +of the king—to experience the humiliation that he invoked. +His request was not granted. Racine wilted, like a tender +plant, under the sultry frown of his monarch. He could not +rally. He soon after died, literally killed by the mere displeasure +of one man. Such was the measureless power +wielded by Louis XIV.; such was the want of virile stuff in +Racine. A spirit partly kindred to the tragedist, Archbishop +Fénelon, will presently be shown to have had at about the +same time a partly similar experience.</p> + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="center f120">XII.</p> + +<p class="center"><span class="chap2">BOSSUET</span>: 1627-1704; <span class="chap2">BOURDALOUE</span>: 1632-1704; <span class="chap2">MASSILLON</span>: +1663-1742; <span class="chap2">SAURIN</span>: 1677-1730.</p> + +<p><span class="sc chap1">We</span> group four names in one title, Bossuet, Bourdaloue, +Massillon, Saurin, to represent the pulpit orators of France. +There are other great names—as Fléchier and Claude—but +the names we choose are the greatest.</p> + +<p>Bossuet’s individual distinction is, that he was a great man +as well as a great orator; Bourdaloue’s, that he was priest-and-preacher +simply; Massillon’s, that his sermons, regarded +quite independently of their subject, their matter, their occasion, +regarded merely as masterpieces of style, became at +once, and permanently became, a part of French literature; +Saurin’s, that he was the pulpit theologian of Protestantism.</p> + +<p>The greatness of Bossuet is an article in the French +national creed. No Frenchman disputes it; no Frenchman, +indeed, but proclaims it. Protestant agrees with Catholic, +infidel with Christian, at least in this. Bossuet, twinned here +with Corneille, is to the Frenchman, as Milton is to the Englishman, +his synonym for sublimity. Eloquence, somehow, +seems a thing too near the common human level to answer +fully the need that Frenchmen feel in speaking of Bossuet. +Bossuet is not eloquent, he is sublime. That in French it is +in equal part oratory, while in English it is poetry almost +alone, that supplies in literature its satisfaction to the sentiment +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page138" id="page138"></a>138</span> +of the sublime, very well represents the difference in +genius between the two races. The French idea of poetry +is eloquence; and it is eloquence carried to its height, whether +in verse or in prose, that constitutes for the Frenchman +sublimity. The difference is a difference of blood. English +blood is Teutonic in base, and the imagination of the Teuton +is poetic. French blood, in base, is Celtic; and the imagination +of the Celt is oratoric.</p> + +<p>Jacques Bénigne Bossuet was of good <i>bourgeois</i>, or middle-class, +stock. He passed a well-ordered and virtuous youth, +as if in prophetic consistency with what was to be his subsequent +career. He was brought forward while a young man +in the Hôtel de Rambouillet, where, on a certain occasion, he +preached a kind of show sermon, under the auspices of his +admiring patron. In due time he attracted wide public attention, +not merely as an eloquent orator, but as a profound +student and as a powerful controversialist. His character +and influence became in their maturity such that La Bruyère +aptly called him a “Father of the Church.” “The Corneille +of the pulpit,” was Henri Martin’s characterization and +praise. A third phrase, “the eagle of Meaux,” has passed +into almost an alternative name for Bossuet. He soared like +an eagle in his eloquence, and he was bishop of Meaux.</p> + +<p>Bossuet and Louis XIV. were exactly suited to each other, +in the mutual relation of subject and sovereign. Bossuet +preached sincerely—as every body knows Louis sincerely +practiced—the doctrine of the divine right of kings to rule +absolutely. But the proud prelate compromised neither his +own dignity nor the dignity of the Church in the presence of +the absolute monarch.</p> + +<p>Bossuet threw himself with great zeal, and to prodigious +effect, into the controversy against Protestantism. His +“History of the Variations of the Protestant Churches,” in +two good volumes, was one of the mightiest pamphlets ever +written. As tutor to the Dauphin (the king’s eldest son), +he produced, with other works, his celebrated “Discourse on +Universal History.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page139" id="page139"></a>139</span></p> + +<p>In proceeding now to give, from the four great preachers +named in our title, a few specimen passages of the most +famous pulpit oratory in the world, we need to prepare our +readers against a natural disappointment. That which they +are about to see has nothing in it of what will at first strike +them as brilliant. The pulpit eloquence of the Augustan age +of France was distinctly “classic,” and not at all “romantic,” +in style. Its character is not ornate, but severe. There +is little rhetorical figure in it, little of that “illustration” +which our own different national taste is accustomed to demand +from the pulpit. There is plenty of white light, “dry +light” and white, for the reason; but there is almost no +bright color for the fancy, and, it must be added, not a great +deal of melting warmth for the heart.</p> + +<p>The funeral orations of Bossuet are generally esteemed +the masterpieces of this orator’s eloquence. He had great +occasions, and he was great to match them. Still, readers +might easily be disappointed in perusing a funeral oration of +Bossuet’s. The discourse will generally be found to deal in +commonplaces of description, of reflection, and of sentiment. +Those commonplaces, however, are often made very impressive +by the lofty, the magisterial, the imperial manner of the +preacher in treating them. We exhibit a specimen, a single +specimen only, and a brief one, in the majestic exordium to +the funeral oration on the Princess Henrietta of England.</p> + +<p>This princess was daughter to that unfortunate Stuart, King +Charles I. of England. Her mother’s death—her mother +was of the French house of Bourbon—had occurred but a +short time before, and Bossuet had on that occasion pronounced +the eulogy. The daughter, scarcely returned to +France from a secret mission of state to England, the success +of which made her an object of distinguished regard at Versailles, +suddenly fell ill and died. Bossuet was summoned +to preach at her funeral. (We have not been able to find an +English translation of Bossuet, and we accordingly make the +present transfer from French ourselves. We do the same, +for the same reason, in the case of Massillon. In the case of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page140" id="page140"></a>140</span> +Bourdaloue, we succeeded in obtaining a printed translation +which we could modify to suit our purpose.) Bossuet:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>It was then reserved for my lot to pay this funereal tribute to the high +and potent princess, Henrietta of England, Duchess of Orleans. She +whom I had seen so attentive while I was discharging a like office for +the queen, her mother, was so soon after to be the subject of a similar +discourse, and my sad voice was predestined to this melancholy service. +O vanity! O nothingness! O mortals! ignorant of their destiny! Ten +months ago would she have believed it? And you, my hearers, would +you have thought, while she was shedding so many tears in this place, +that she was so soon to assemble you here to deplore her own loss? O +princess! the worthy object of the admiration of two great kingdoms, +was it not enough that England should deplore your absence, without +being yet further compelled to deplore your death? France, who with +so much joy beheld you again, surrounded with a new brilliancy, had she +not in reserve other pomps and other triumphs for you, returned from +that famous voyage whence you had brought hither so much glory, and +hopes so fair? “Vanity of vanities; all is vanity.” Nothing is left for +me to say but that: that is the only sentiment which, in presence of +so strange a casualty, grief so well-grounded and so poignant permits +me to indulge. Nor have I explored the Holy Scriptures in order to find +therein some text which I might apply to this princess; I have taken, +without premeditation and without choice, the first expression presented +to me by the Preacher with whom vanity, although it has been so +often named, is yet, to my mind, not named often enough to suit the +purpose that I have in view. I wish, in a single misfortune, to lament all +the calamities of the human race, and in a single death to exhibit the +death and the nothingness of all human greatness. This text, which suits +all the circumstances and all the occurrences of our life, becomes, by a +special adaptedness, appropriate to my mournful theme; since never +were the vanities of the earth either so clearly disclosed or so openly +confounded. No, after what we have just seen, health is but a name, +life is but a dream, glory is but a shadow, charms and pleasures are but +a dangerous diversion. Every thing is vain within us, except the sincere +acknowledgment made before God of our vanity, and the fixed judgment +of the mind, leading us to despise all that we are.</p> + +<p>But did I speak the truth? Man, whom God made in his own image, +is he but a shadow? That which Jesus Christ came from heaven to earth +to seek, that which he deemed that he could, without degrading himself, +ransom with his own blood, is that a mere nothing? Let us acknowledge +our mistake; surely this sad spectacle of the vanity of things human was +leading us astray, and public hope, baffled suddenly by the death of this +princess, was urging us too far. It must not be permitted to man to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page141" id="page141"></a>141</span> +despise himself entirely, lest he, supposing, in common with the wicked, +that our life is but a game in which chance reigns, take his way +without rule and without self-control, at the pleasure of his own +blind wishes. It is for this reason that the Preacher, after having commenced +his inspired production by the expression which I have cited, +after having filled all its pages with contempt for things human, is pleased +at last to show man something more substantial by saying to him, “Fear +God, and keep his commandments; for this is the whole duty of man. +For God shall bring every work into judgment, with every secret thing, +whether it be good, or whether it be evil.” Thus every thing is vain in +man, if we regard what he gives to the world: but, on the contrary, every +thing is important, if we consider what he owes to God. Once again: +every thing is vain in man, if we regard the course of his mortal life; but +every thing is of value, every thing is important, if we contemplate the +goal where it ends, and the account of it which he must render. Let us, +therefore, meditate to-day, in presence of this altar and of this tomb, the +first and the last utterance of the Preacher; of which the one shows the +nothingness of man, the other establishes his greatness. Let this tomb +convince us of our nothingness, provided that this altar, where is daily +offered for us a Victim of price so great, teach us at the same time our +dignity. The princess whom we weep shall be a faithful witness, both of +the one and of the other. Let us survey that which a sudden death has +taken away from her; let us survey that which a holy death has +bestowed upon her. Thus shall we learn to despise that which she +quitted without regret, in order to attach all our regard to that which she +embraced with so much ardor—when her soul, purified from all earthly +sentiments, full of the heaven on whose border she touched, saw the light +completely revealed. Such are the truths which I have to treat, and +which I have deemed worthy to be proposed to so great a prince, and +to the most illustrious assembly in the world.</p> +</div> + +<p>It will be felt how removed is the foregoing from any thing +like an effort, on the preacher’s part, to startle his audience +with the far-fetched and unexpected. It must, however, be +admitted that Bossuet was not always—as, of our Webster, +it has well been said that he always was—superior to the +temptation to exaggerate an occasion by pomps of rhetoric. +Bossuet was a great man, but he was not quite great enough +to be wholly free from pride of self-consciousness in matching +himself as an orator against “the most illustrious assembly +in the world.”</p> + +<p>The ordinary sermons of Bossuet are less read, and they +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page142" id="page142"></a>142</span> +perhaps less deserve to be read, than those of Bourdaloue +and Massillon.</p> + +<p class="pt1"><span class="sc">Bourdaloue</span> was a voice. He was the voice of one crying, +not in the wilderness, but amid the homes and haunts of +men, and, by eminence, in the court of the most powerful +and most splendid of earthly monarchs. He was a Jesuit; +one of the most devoted and most accomplished of an order +filled with devoted and accomplished men. It belonged to +his Jesuit character and Jesuit training that Bourdaloue +should hold the place that he did, as ever-successful courtier +at Versailles, all the while that, as preacher, he was using +the “holy freedom of the pulpit” to launch those blank fulminations +of his at sin in high places, at sin even in the highest, +and all the briefer while that, as confessor to Madame +de Maintenon, he was influencing the policy of Louis XIV.</p> + +<p>No scandal of any sort attaches to the reputation of Louis +Bourdaloue. He was a man of spotless fame—unless it be +a spot on his fame that he could please the most selfish of +sinful monarchs well enough to be that monarch’s chosen +preacher during a longer time than any other pulpit orator +whatever was tolerated at Versailles. He is described by +all who knew him as a man of gracious spirit. If he did not +reprobate and denounce the revocation of the Edict of +Nantes, that was rather of the age than of Bourdaloue.</p> + +<p>Sainte-Beuve, in a remarkably sympathetic appreciation of +Bourdaloue—free, contrary to the critic’s wont, from hostile +insinuation even—regards it as part of the merit of this +preacher that there is, and that there can be, no biography of +him. His public life is summed up in simply saying that he +was a preacher. During thirty-four laborious and fruitful +years he preached the doctrines of the Church; and this is +the sole account to be given of him, except, indeed, that in +the confessional he was, all that time, learning those secrets +of the human heart which he used to such effect in composing +his sermons. He had very suave and winning ways as +confessor, though he enjoined great strictness as preacher. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page143" id="page143"></a>143</span> +This led a witty woman of his time to say of him: “Father +Bourdaloue charges high in the pulpit, but he sells cheap +in the confessional.” How much laxity he allowed as confessor, +it is, of course, impossible to say. But his sermons +remain to show that, though indeed he was severe and high +in requirement as preacher, he did not fail to soften asperity +by insisting on the goodness, while he insisted on the awfulness, +of God. Still, it cannot be denied that somehow the elaborate +compliments which, as an established convention of his +pulpit, he not infrequently delivered to Louis XIV., tended +powerfully to make it appear that his stern denunciation of +sin, which at first blush might seem directly leveled at the +king, had in reality no application at all, or but the very +gentlest application, to the particular case of his Most +Christian Majesty.</p> + +<p>We begin our citations from Bourdaloue with an extract +from a sermon of his on “A Perverted Conscience.” The +whole discourse is one well worth the study of any reader. +It is a piece of searching psychological analysis, and pungent +application to conscience. Bourdaloue, in his sermons, has +always the air of a man seriously intent on producing +practical results. There are no false motions. Every swaying +of the preacher’s weapon is a blow, and every blow is a +hit. There is hardly another example in homiletic literature +of such compactness, such solidity, such logical consecutiveness, +such cogency, such freedom from surplusage. +Tare and tret are excluded. Every thing counts. You meet +with two or three adjectives, and you at first naturally assume, +that, after the usual manner of homilists, Bourdaloue +has thrown these in without rigorously definite purpose, +simply to heighten a general effect. Not at all. There follows +a development of the preacher’s thought, constituting +virtually a distinct justification of each adjective employed. +You soon learn that there is no random, no waste, in this +man’s words. But here is the promised extract from the +sermon on “A Perverted Conscience.” In it Bourdaloue depresses +his gun, and discharges it point-blank at the audience +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page144" id="page144"></a>144</span> +before him. You can almost imagine you see the ranks of +“the great” laid low. Alas! one fears that, instead of biting +the dust, those courtiers, with the king in the midst of +them to set the example, only cried bravo in their hearts at +the skill of the gunner:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>I have said more particularly that in the world in which you live—-I +mean the court—the disease of a perverted conscience is far more common, +and far more difficult to be avoided; and I am sure that in this you +will agree with me. For it is at the court that the passions bear sway, +that desires are more ardent, that self-interest is keener, and that, by +infallible consequence, self-blinding is more easy, and consciences, even +the most enlightened and the most upright, become gradually perverted. It +is at the court that the goddess of the world, I mean fortune, exercises over +the minds of men, and in consequence over their consciences, a more absolute +dominion. It is at the court that the aim to maintain one’s self, the impatience +to raise one’s self, the frenzy to push one’s self, the fear of displeasing, +the desire of making one’s self agreeable, produce consciences which anywhere +else would pass for monstrous, but which, finding themselves +there authorized by custom, seem to have acquired a right of possession +and of prescription. People, from living at court, and from no other +cause than having lived there, are filled with these errors. Whatever +uprightness of conscience they may have brought thither, by breathing +its air and by hearing its language they are habituated to iniquity, they +come to have less horror of vice, and, after having long blamed it, a +thousand times condemned it, they at last behold it with a more favorable +eye, tolerate it, excuse it; that is to say, without observing what is happening, +they make over their consciences, and, by insensible steps, from +Christian, which they were, by little and little become quite worldly, and +not far from pagan.</p> +</div> + +<p>What could surpass the adaptedness of such preaching as +that to the need of the moment for which it was prepared? +And how did the libertine French monarch contrive to escape +the force of truth like the following, with which the +preacher immediately proceeds?</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>You would say, and it really seems, that for the court there are other +principles of religion than for the rest of the world, and that the courtier has +a right to make for himself a conscience different in kind and in quality from +that of other men; for such is the prevailing idea of the matter—an idea +well sustained, or rather unfortunately justified, by experience.... Nevertheless, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page145" id="page145"></a>145</span> +my dear hearers, St. Paul assures us, that there is but one God +and one faith; and woe to the man who dividing him, this one God, shall +represent him as at court less an enemy to human transgressions than he is +outside of the court; or, severing this one faith, shall suppose it in the case +of one class more indulgent than in the case of another.</p> +</div> + +<p>Bourdaloue, as Jesuit, could not but feel the power of +Pascal, in his “Provincial Letters,” constantly undermining +the authority of his order. His preaching, as Sainte-Beuve +well says, may be considered to have been, in the preacher’s +intention, one prolonged confutation of Pascal’s immortal indictment. +We borrow of Sainte-Beuve a short extract from +Bourdaloue’s sermon on slander, which may serve as an +instance to show with what adroitness the Jesuit retorted +anonymously upon the Jansenist:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Behold one of the abuses of our time. Means have been found to consecrate +slander, to change it into a virtue, and even into one of the holiest +virtues—-that means is, zeal for the glory of God.... We must humble +those people, is the cry; and it is for the good of the Church to tarnish +their reputation and to diminish their credit. That idea becomes, as it were, +a principle; the conscience is fashioned accordingly, and there is nothing +that is not permissible to a motive so noble. You fabricate, you exaggerate, +you give things a poisonous taint, you tell but half the truth; you make +your prejudices stand for indisputable facts; you spread abroad a hundred +falsehoods; you confound what is individual with what is general; what +one man has said that is bad, you pretend that all have said; and what many +have said that is good, you pretend that nobody has said; and all that once +again for the glory of God. For such direction of the intention justifies +all that. Such direction of the intention will not suffice to justify a prevarication, +but it is more than sufficient to justify calumny, provided +only you are convinced that you are serving God thereby.</p> +</div> + +<p>In conclusion, we give a passage or two of Bourdaloue’s +sermon on “An Eternity of Woe.” Stanch orthodoxy the +reader will find here. President Edwards’s discourse, “Sinners +in the Hands of an Angry God,” is not more unflinching. +But what a relief of contrasted sweetness does Bourdaloue +interpose in the first part of the ensuing extract, to set off +the grim and grisly horror of that which is to follow! We +draw, for this case, from a translation, issued in Dublin under +Roman Catholic auspices, of select sermons by Bourdaloue. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page146" id="page146"></a>146</span> +The translator, throughout his volume, has been highly loyal +in spirit toward the great French preacher; but this has not +prevented much enfeebling by him of the style of his +original, to which we here do what we can to restore the tone:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>There are some just, fervent, perfect souls, who, like children in the +house of the Heavenly Father, strive to please and possess him, in order +only to possess and to love him; and who, incessantly animated by this +unselfish motive, inviolably adhere to his divine precepts, and lay it down +as a rigorous and unalterable rule, to obey the least intimation of his +will. They serve him with an affection entirely filial. But there are also +dastards, worldlings, sinners, terrestrial and sensual men, who are scarcely +susceptible of any other impressions than those of the judgments and +vengeance of God. Talk to them of his greatness, of his perfections, of +his benefits, or even of his rewards, and they will hardly listen to you; +and, if they are prevailed upon to pay some attention and respect to your +words, these will sound in their ears, but not reach their hearts.... +Therefore, to move them, to stir them up, to awaken them from the +lethargic sleep with which they are overwhelmed, the thunder of divine +wrath and the decree that condemns them to eternal flames must be +dinned into their ears: “Depart from me, ye accursed, into everlasting +fire” (Matt. xxv). Make them consider attentively, and represent to +them with all the force of grace, the consequences and horror of this +word “eternal.”...</p> +</div> + +<p>It is not imagination, it is pure reason and intelligence, +that now in Bourdaloue goes about the business of impressing +the thought of the dreadfulness of an eternity of woe. +The effect produced is not that of the lightning-flash suddenly +revealing the jaws agape of an unfathomable abyss directly +before you. It is rather that of steady, intolerable pressure +gradually applied to crush, to annihilate, the soul:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>... Struck with horror at so doleful a destiny, I apply to this eternity +all the powers of my mind; I examine and scrutinize it in all its parts; +and I survey, as it were, its whole dimensions. Moreover, to express it +in more lively colors, and to represent it in my mind more conformably to +the senses and the human understanding, I borrow comparisons from the +Fathers of the Church, and I make, if I may so speak, the same computations. +I figure to myself all the stars of the firmament; to this innumerable +multitude I add all the drops of water in the bosom of the ocean; +and if this be not enough, I reckon, or at least endeavor to reckon, all +the grains of sand on its shore. Then I interrogate myself, I reason with +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page147" id="page147"></a>147</span> +myself, and I put to myself the question: If I had for as many ages, and +a thousand times as many, undergone torments in that glowing fire which +is kindled by the breath of the Lord in his anger to take eternal vengeance, +would eternity be at an end? No; and why? Because it is eternity, and +eternity is endless. To number up the stars that shine in the heavens, +to count the drops of water that compose the sea, to tell the grains of +sand that lie upon the shore, is not absolutely impossible; but to measure +in eternity the number of days, of years, of ages, is what cannot be compassed, +because the days, the years, and the ages are without number; +or to speak more properly, because in eternity there are neither days, +nor years, nor ages, but a single endless, infinite duration.</p> + +<p>To this thought I devote my mind. I imagine I see and rove through +this same eternity, and discover no end, but find it to be always a boundless +tract. I imagine that the wide prospect lies open on all sides, and +encompasses me around: that if I rise up or if I sink down, or what way +soever I turn my eyes, this eternity meets them; and that after a thousand +efforts to get forward I have made no progress, but find it still eternity. +I imagine that after long revolutions of time, I behold in the midst of this +eternity a damned soul, in the same state, in the same affliction, in the +same misery still; and putting myself mentally in the place of this soul, I +imagine that in this eternal punishment I feel myself continually devoured +by that fire which nothing extinguishes; that I continually shed those +floods of tears which nothing can dry up; that I am continually gnawed +by the worm of conscience, which never dies; that I continually express +my despair and anguish by that gnashing of teeth, and those lamentable +cries, which never can move the compassion of God. This idea of myself, +this representation, amazes and terrifies me. My whole body shudders, +I tremble with fear, I am filled with horror, I have the same feelings as the +royal prophet when he cried, “Pierce thou my flesh with thy fear, for I +am afraid of thy judgments.”</p> +</div> + +<p>That was a touching tribute from the elder to the younger—tribute +touching, whether wrung, perforce, from a proudly +humble, or freely offered by a simply magnanimous heart—when, +like John the Baptist speaking of Jesus, Bourdaloue, +growing old, said of Massillon, enjoying his swiftly +crescent renown: “He must increase, and I must decrease.” +It was a true presentiment of the comparative fortune of +fame that impended for these two men. It was not, however, +in the same path, but in a different, that Massillon outran +Bourdaloue. In his own sphere, that of unimpassioned +appeal to reason and to conscience, Bourdaloue is still without +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page148" id="page148"></a>148</span> +a rival. No one else, certainly, ever earned, so well as he, +the double title which his epigrammatic countrymen were +once fond of bestowing upon him—“The king of preachers, +and the preacher of kings.”</p> + +<p class="pt1">Jean Baptiste <span class="sc">Massillon</span> became priest by his own internal +sense of vocation to the office, against the preference +of his family that he should become, like his father, a notary. +He seems to have been by nature sincerely modest in +spirit. He had to be forced into the publicity of a preaching +career at Paris. His ecclesiastical superior peremptorily +required at his hands the sacrifice of his wish to be obscure. +He at once filled Paris with his fame. The inevitable consequence +followed. He was summoned to preach before +the king at Versailles. Here he received, as probably he +deserved, that celebrated compliment in epigram from +Louis XIV.: “In hearing some preachers, I feel pleased with +them; in hearing you, I feel displeased with myself.”</p> + +<p>It must not, however, be supposed that Massillon preached +like a prophet Nathan saying to King David, “Thou art the +man”; or like a John the Baptist saying to King Herod, “It +is not lawful for <i>thee</i> to have <i>her</i>”; or like a John Knox +denouncing Queen Mary. Massillon, if he was stern, was +suavely stern. He complimented the king. The sword with +which he wounded was wreathed with flowers. It is difficult +not to feel that some unspoken understanding subsisted +between the preacher and the king, which permitted the +king to separate the preacher from the man, when Massillon +used that great plainness of speech to his sovereign. The +king did not, however, often invite this master of eloquence +to make the royal conscience displacent with itself. Bourdaloue +was ostensibly as outspoken as Massillon; but somehow +that Jesuit preacher contented the king to be his hearer +during as many as ten annual seasons, against the one or two +only that Massillon preached at court before Louis.</p> + +<p>The work of Massillon generally judged, though according +to Sainte-Beuve not wisely judged, to be his choicest, is contained +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page149" id="page149"></a>149</span> +in that volume of his which goes by the name of +“Le Petit Carême”—literally, “The Little Lent”—a collection +of sermons preached during a Lent before the king’s +great-grandson and successor, youthful Louis XV. These sermons +especially have given to their author a fame that is +his by a title perhaps absolutely unique in literature. We +know no other instance of a writer, limited in his production +strictly to sermons, who holds his place in the first rank of +authorship simply by virtue of supreme mastership in literary +style.</p> + +<p>Still, from the text of his printed discourses—admirable, +exquisite, ideal compositions in point of form as these are—it +will be found impossible to conceive adequately the living +eloquence of Massillon. There are interesting traditions of +the effects produced by particular passages of particular sermons +of his. When Louis XIV. died, Massillon preached +his funeral sermon. He began with that celebrated single +sentence of exordium which, it is said, brought his whole +audience, by instantaneous, simultaneous impulse, in a body +to their feet. The modern reader will experience some difficulty +in comprehending at once why that perfectly commonplace-seeming +expression of the preacher should have produced +an effect so powerful. The element of the opportune, +the apposite, the fit, is always great part of the secret of eloquence. +Nothing more absolutely appropriate can be conceived +than was the sentiment, the exclamation, with which +Massillon opened that funeral sermon. The image and +symbol of earthly greatness, in the person of Louis XIV., +had been shattered under the touch of iconoclast death. +“God only is great!” said the preacher; and all was said. +Those four short words had uttered completely, and with a +simplicity incapable of being surpassed, the thought that +usurped every breast. It is not the surprise of some striking +new thought that is the most eloquent thing. The most +eloquent thing is the surprise of that one word, suddenly +spoken, which completely expresses some thought, present +already and uppermost, but silent till now, awaiting +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page150" id="page150"></a>150</span> +expression, in a multitude of minds. This most eloquent +thing it was which, from Massillon’s lips that day, moved his +susceptible audience to rise, like one man, and bow in mute +act of submission to the truth of his words. The inventive +and curious reader may exercise his ingenuity at leisure. He +will strive in vain to conceive any other exordium than +Massillon’s that would have matched the occasion presented.</p> + +<p>There is an admirable anecdote of the pulpit, which—though +since often otherwise applied—had, perhaps, its first +application to Massillon. Some one congratulating the orator, +as he came down from his pulpit, on the eloquence of the +sermon just preached, that wise self-knower fenced by replying, +“Ah, the devil has already apprised me of that!” +The recluse celibate preacher was one day asked whence he +derived that marvelous knowledge which he displayed of +the passions, the weaknesses, the follies, the sins, of human +nature. “From my own heart,” was his reply. Source sufficient, +perhaps; but from the confessional, too, one may confidently +add.</p> + +<p>There is probably no better brief, quotable passage to +represent Massillon at his imaginative highest in eloquence, +than that most celebrated one of all, occurring toward the +close of his memorable sermon on the “Fewness of the +Elect.” The effect attending the delivery of this passage, +on both of the two recorded occasions on which the sermon +was preached, is reported to have been remarkable. The +manner of the orator—downcast, as with the inward oppression +of the same solemnity that he, in speaking, cast like a +spell on the audience—indefinitely heightened the magical +power of the awful conception excited. Not Bourdaloue +himself, with that preternatural skill of his to probe the conscience +of man to its innermost secret, could have exceeded +the heart-searching rigor with which, in the earlier part of +the discourse, Massillon had put to the rack the quivering +consciences of his hearers. The terrors of the Lord, the +shadows of the world to come, were thus already on all +hearts. So much as this, Bourdaloue, too, with his incomparable +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page151" id="page151"></a>151</span> +dialectic, could have accomplished. But there immediately +follows a culmination in power, such as was distinctly +beyond the height of Bourdaloue. Genius must be super-added +to talent if you would have the supreme, either in +poetry or in eloquence. There was an extreme point in +Massillon’s discourses at which mere reason, having done, +and done terribly, its utmost, was fain to confess that it +could not go a single step farther. At that extreme point, +suddenly, inexhaustible imagination took up the part of exhausted +reason. Reason had made men afraid; imagination +now appalled them. Massillon said:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>I confine myself to you, my brethren, who are gathered here. I speak +no longer of the rest of mankind. I look at you as if you were the only +ones on the earth; and here is the thought that seizes me, and that +terrifies me. I make the supposition that this is your last hour, and the +end of the world; that the heavens are about to open above your heads, +that Jesus Christ is to appear in his glory in the midst of this sanctuary, +and that you are gathered here only to wait for him, and as trembling +criminals on whom is to be pronounced either a sentence of grace or a +decree of eternal death. For, vainly do you flatter yourselves; you will +die such in character as you are to-day. All those impulses toward +change with which you amuse yourselves, you will amuse yourselves with +them down to the bed of death. Such is the experience of all generations. +The only thing new you will then find in yourselves will be, perhaps, +a reckoning a trifle larger than that which you would to-day have to +render; and according to what you would be if you were this moment to +be judged, you may almost determine what will befall you at the termination +of your life.</p> + +<p>Now I ask you, and I ask it smitten with terror, not separating in this +matter my lot from yours, and putting myself into the same frame of +mind into which I desire you to come—I ask you, then, If Jesus Christ +were to appear in this sanctuary, in the midst of this assembly, the most +illustrious in the world, to pass judgment on us, to draw the dread line of +distinction between the goats and the sheep, do you believe that the majority +of all of us who are here would be set on his right hand? Do you +believe that things would even be equal? Nay, do you believe there +would be found so many as the ten righteous men whom anciently the +Lord could not find in five whole cities? I put the question to you, but +you know not; I know not myself. Thou only, O my God, knowest +those that belong to thee! But if we know not those who belong to him, +at least we know that sinners do not belong to him. Now, of what +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page152" id="page152"></a>152</span> +classes of persons do the professing Christians in this assembly consist? +Titles and dignities must be counted for naught; of these you shall be +stripped before Jesus Christ. Who make up this assembly? Sinners, in +great number, who do not wish to be converted; in still greater +number, sinners who would like it, but who put off their conversion; +many others who would be converted, only to relapse into sin; finally, a +multitude who think they have no need of conversion. You have thus +made up the company of the reprobate. Cut off these four classes of +sinners from this sacred assembly, for they will be be cut off from it at +the great day! Stand forth now, ye righteous! where are you? Remnant +of Israel, pass to the right hand! True wheat of Jesus Christ, disengage +yourselves from this chaff, doomed to the fire! O God! where are +thine elect? and what remains there for thy portion?</p> + +<p>Brethren, our perdition is well nigh assured, and we do not give it a +thought. Even if in that dread separation which one day shall be made, +there were to be but a single sinner out of this assembly found on the +side of the reprobate, and if a voice from heaven should come to give us +assurance of the fact in this sanctuary, without pointing out the person +intended, who among us would not fear that he might himself be the +wretch? Who among us would not at once recoil upon his conscience, +to inquire whether his sins had not deserved that penalty? Who among +us would not, seized with dismay, ask of Jesus Christ, as did once the +apostles, “Lord, is it I?”</p> +</div> + +<p>What is there wanting in such eloquence as the foregoing? +Wherein lies its deficiency of power to penetrate and subdue? +Voltaire avowed that he found the sermons of Massillon +to be among “the most agreeable books we have in our +language. I love,” he went on, “to have them read to me +at table.” There are things in Massillon that Voltaire should +not have delighted to read, or to hear read—things that should +have made him wince and revolt, if they did not make him +yield and be converted. Was there fault in the preacher? +Did he preach with professional, rather than with personal, +zeal? Did his hearers feel themselves secretly acquitted by +the man, at the self-same moment at which they were openly +condemned by the preacher? It is impossible to say. But +Massillon’s virtue was not lofty and regal; however it may +have been free from just reproach. He was somewhat too +capable of compliance. He was made bishop of Clermont, +and his promotion cost him the anguish of having to help +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page153" id="page153"></a>153</span> +consecrate a scandalously unfit candidate as archbishop of +Cambray. Massillon’s, however, is a fair, if not an absolutely +spotless, fame. Hierarch as he was, and orthodox +Catholic, this most elegant of eloquent orators had a liberal +strain in his blood which allied him politically with the +“philosophers” of the time succeeding. He, with Fénelon, +and perhaps with Racine, makes seem less abrupt the transition +in France from the age of absolutism to the age of revolt +and final revolution. There is distinct advance in +Massillon, and advance more than is accounted for by his +somewhat later time, toward the easier modern spirit in +Church and in State, from the high, unbending austerity of +that antique pontiff and minister, Bossuet.</p> + +<p class="pt1">In dealing with <span class="sc">Saurin</span> we are irresistibly reminded of the +train of historic misfortunes that age after age have visited +France. It bears eloquent, if tragic testimony to the enduring +noble qualities of the French people, that they have survived +so splendidly so much national suicide. What other +great nation is there that has continued great and spilled so +often her own best blood? The Revocation of the Edict of +Nantes, with its sequel of frightful hemorrhage in the loss +to France of her Huguenots, the guillotine of the Revolution, +the decimations of Napoleon, the madness of the Franco-German +war, the Commune!</p> + +<p>To such reflections we are forced; for Jacques Saurin +preached his great sermons in French as a compulsory exile +from France. He had a year or two’s experience as French +preacher in London; but from his twenty-eighth year till he +died at fifty-two he was pastor of the French church at The +Hague in Holland.</p> + +<p>Saurin’s living renown was great; and his renown has +never been less, though it has been less resounding, since he +died. This is as it could not but be; for the reputation of +Saurin as preacher rested from the first on solid foundations +that were not to be shaken. If he had been a loyal Roman +Catholic, he would have been twinned with Bossuet, whom +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page154" id="page154"></a>154</span> +he somewhat resembles, in the acclamations of general fame. +It is far more in name than in merit that Bossuet surpasses +him. Bossuet’s quasi-pontifical relation to the Gallican +Church indeed engaged him in various activities which +seemed to display a talent in him correspondingly more +various than that of Saurin, who remained almost exclusively +a preacher. But the difference is probably a difference of +fortune rather than a difference of original gift. The intellect +that expresses itself in Saurin’s sermons is certainly a +spacious intellect. Saurin is in mere intellect as distinctly +“great” as is Bossuet. In imagination, however, that attribute +of genius as distinguished from talent, to Bossuet +we suppose must be accorded superiority over Saurin.</p> + +<p>Clearness, French clearness; order, French order; solidity +of matter; sobriety of thought; soundness of doctrine; +breadth of comprehension; sagacity and instructedness of +interpretation; solemnity of inculcation; progress and +cumulation of effect; strength and elevation, rather than +grace and winningness, of style; address to the understanding, +rather than appeal to the emotions; certitude of logic, +rather than play of imagination; a theological, more than a +practical, tendency of interest—such are the distinguishing +characteristics of Saurin as preacher.</p> + +<p>Sermons are literary products in which change from fashion +to fashion of thought and of form makes itself felt more +than in almost any other kind of literature. The sermons of +one age are generally doomed to be obsolete in the age next +following. But to this general rule Saurin’s sermons come +near constituting an exception. They might, many of them, +perhaps most of them, still be preached. This, certain pulpit +plagiarists of a generation or two ago, are said to have learned.</p> + +<p>The following extract will give our readers an idea how +Saurin, toward the close of a discourse—having now done, for +the occasion, with dispassionate argument—would follow up +and press his hearer with deliberately vehement, unescapable +oratoric harangue and appeal. His text is: “Greater is he +that is in you than he that is in the world.” Analyzing this, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page155" id="page155"></a>155</span> +he states thus his second head of discourse: “Motives to +virtue are superior to motives to vice.”</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>What [under the first head] I affirmed of all known truth, that its force +is irresistible, I affirm, on the same principle, of all motives to virtue: the +most hardened sinners cannot resist them if they attend to them; there is +no other way of becoming insensible to them than to turn the eyes away +from them....</p> + +<p>And where is the man so blinded as to digest the falsehoods which the +motives to vice imply? Where is the wretch desperate enough to reason +in this manner:</p> + +<p>“I love to be esteemed; I will, therefore, devote myself exclusively to +acquiring the esteem of those men who, like me, will in a few days be +devoured by worms, and whose ashes will in a few days, like my own, +be mixed with the dust of the earth; but I will not take the least pains to +obtain the approbation of those noble intelligences, of those sublime +spirits, of those angels, of those seraphims, who are without ceasing +around the throne of God; I will not take the least pains to have a share +in those praises with which the great God will one day, in the sight of +heaven and of earth, crown those who have been faithful to him.</p> + +<p>“I love glory; I will therefore apply myself exclusively to make the +world say of me: That man has a taste quite exceptional in dress, his +table is delicately served, there has never been either base blood or +plebeian marriage in his family, nobody offends him with impunity, he +permits none but a respectful approach; but I will never take the least +pains to make envy itself say of me: That man fears God, he prefers his +duty above all other things, he thinks there is more magnanimity in forgiving +an affront than in revenging it, in being holy than in being noble +in the world’s esteem, and so on.</p> + +<p>“I am very fond of pleasure; I will therefore give myself wholly up to +gratify my senses, to lead a voluptuous life, to have the spectacle follow +the feast, debauchery the spectacle, and so on; but I will never take the +least pains to secure that <i>fullness of joy</i> which is at <i>God’s right hand</i>, that +<i>river of pleasure</i> whereof he gives to drink to those <i>who put their trust +under the shadow of his wings</i>.</p> + +<p>“I hate constraint and trouble; I will apply myself therefore exclusively +to escape the idea of emotions of penitence, above all, the idea of prison +cells, of exile, of the rack, of the stake; but I will brave the chains of +darkness with their weight, the demons with their fury, hell with its torments, +eternity with its horrors. I have made my decision; I consent to +curse eternally the day of my birth, to look eternally upon annihilation as +a blessing beyond price, to seek eternally for death without being able to +find it, to vomit eternally blasphemies against my Creator, to hear +eternally the howlings of the damned, to howl eternally with them, and to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page156" id="page156"></a>156</span> +be eternally, like them, the object of that sentence, Depart from me, ye +cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels.” Once +more, Where is the wretch desperate enough to digest these propositions? +Yet these are the motives to vice.</p> +</div> + +<p>To illustrate the point-blank directness, the almost excessive +fidelity, amounting to something very like truculence, +with which Saurin would train his guns and fire his broadsides +into the faces and eyes of his hearers, let the following, +our final citation, serve; we quote from the conclusion to a +powerful sermon on infidelity:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Let us here put a period to this discourse. We turn to you, my brethren.... +You congratulate yourselves for the most part,... on detesting +infidelity, and on respecting religion. But shall we tell you, my +brethren, how odious soever the men are whom we have just been describing, +we know of others more odious still. There is a restriction in the judgment +which the prophet pronounces on the first, when he calls them, in +the words of my text, the most foolish and the most brutish among +the people; and there are men who surpass them in brutality and in +extravagance.</p> + +<p>Do not think we exceed the truth of the matter, or that we are endeavoring +to obtain your attention by paradoxes. In all good faith, I speak +as I think, I find more refinement, and even, if I may venture to say so, +a less fund of corruption in men who, having resolved to abandon themselves +to the torrent of their passions, strive to persuade themselves, +either that there is no God in heaven, or that he pays no attention to +what men do on earth; than in those who, believing in a God who sees +them and heeds them, live as if they believed nothing of the sort. Infidels +were not able to support, in their excesses, the idea of a benefactor +outraged, of a Supreme Judge provoked to anger, of an eternal salvation +neglected, of a hell braved, <i>a lake burning with fire and brimstone</i>, and +<i>smoke ascending up for ever and ever</i>. It was necessary, in order to give +free course to their passions it was necessary for them to put far away from +their eyes these terrifying objects, and to efface from their minds these +overwhelming truths.</p> + +<p>But you, you who believe that there is a God in heaven, you who believe +yourselves under his eye, and who insult him without remorse and +without repentance, you who believe that this God holds the thunderbolt +in his hand to crush sinners, and who live in sin, you who believe that +there are devouring flames and chains of darkness, and who brave their +horrors, you who believe the soul immortal, and who concern yourselves +only with time; what forehead, what forehead of brass, is the one you wear!</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page157" id="page157"></a>157</span></p> + +<p>One thing in just qualification of the praise due to Saurin +for his pulpit eloquence requires to be added. When he attempts +the figure of apostrophe, as he frequently does, personifying +inanimate objects and addressing them in the way +of oratoric appeal, he is very apt to produce a frigid effect, +the absolute opposite of genuine eloquence. Nothing but +imagination white-hot with passion justifies, in the use of +the orator, the expedient of such apostrophe as this which +Saurin affects. With Saurin, both the necessary imagination +and the necessary passion seem somehow to fail; and he +possessed neither the perfect judgment nor the perfect taste, +nor yet the fine feeling, that might have chastised the +audacities to which his ambition incited him. His rhetorically +bold things he did in a certain cold-blooded way; so +that, with him, what should have been the climax of oratoric +effectiveness, or else not been at all, produces sometimes instead +a reaction and recoil of disappointment. We thus +indicate a shortcoming in Saurin which deposes this great +preacher, one is compelled to admit, despite his remarkable +merits, from the first into the second rank of orators.</p> + +<p>Both the Roman Catholic and the Protestant lines of +French pulpit eloquence are continued down to our own day. +Lacordaire, Père Félix, Père Hyacinthe, of the Catholics, +Frédéric Monod, Adolph Monod, Coquerel, of the Protestants, +are names worthy to be here set down; and it may be +added that Eugène Bersier, deceased in 1889, challenges on +the whole not unequal comparison with the men treated in +this chapter for pulpit power. He may be described as a +kind of nineteenth-century Bossuet, tempered to Massillon, +among French Protestant preachers.</p> + +<p>But there is no Louis XIV. now to cast over any great +preachers, even of the Roman Catholics, the illusive, factitious, +reflected glory of the person and court, the sentence +and seal, of the “most illustrious sovereign of the world.”</p> + +<p>The seventeenth-century sacred eloquence of France, the +sacred eloquence, that is to say, of the “great” French age, will +always remain a unique tradition in the history of the pulpit.</p> + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page158" id="page158"></a>158</span></p> + +<p class="center f120">XIII.</p> + +<p class="chap2 center">FÉNELON.</p> + +<p class="center">1651-1715.</p> + +<p><span class="sc chap1">If</span> Bossuet is to Frenchmen a synonym for sublimity, no +less to them is Fénelon a synonym for saintliness. From +the French point of view, one might say, “the sublime Bossuet,” +“the saintly Fénelon,” somewhat as one says, “the +learned Selden,” “the judicious Hooker.” It is as much a +French delight to idealize Fénelon an archangel Raphael, +affable and mild, as it is to glorify Bossuet a Michael in +majesty and power.</p> + +<p>But saintliness of character was in Fénelon commended +to the world by equal charm of person and of genius. The +words of Milton describing Eve might be applied, with no +change but that of gender, to Fénelon, both the exterior +and the interior man:</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>Grace was in all his steps, heaven in his eye,</p> +<p>In every gesture dignity and love.</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>The consent is general among those who saw Fénelon, and +have left behind them their testimony, that alike in person, +in character, and in genius, he was such as we thus describe +him.</p> + +<p>Twice, in his youth, he was smitten to the heart with a +feeling of vocation to be a missionary. Both times he was +thwarted by the intervention of friends. The second time, +he wrote disclosing his half-romantic aspiration in a glowing +letter of confidence and friendship to Bossuet, his senior +by many years, but not yet become famous. Young Fénelon’s +friend Bossuet was destined later to prove a bitter antagonist, +almost a personal foe.</p> + +<p>Until he was forty-two years old, François Fénelon lived +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page159" id="page159"></a>159</span> +in comparative retirement, nourishing his genius with study, +with contemplation, with choice society. He experimented +in writing verse. Not succeeding to his mind, he turned to +prose composition, and, leading the way, in a new species of +literature, for Rousseau, for Chateaubriand, for Lamartine, +and for many others, to follow, went on writing what, in +ceasing to be verse, did not cease to be poetry.</p> + +<p>The great world will presently involve Fénelon in the +currents of history. Louis XIV., grown old, and become +as selfishly greedy now of personal salvation as all his life +he had been selfishly greedy of personal glory, seeks that object +of his soul by serving the Church in the wholesale conversion +of Protestants. He revokes the Edict of Nantes, +which had secured religious toleration for the realm, and proceeds +to dragoon the Huguenots into conformity with the +Roman Catholic Church. The reaction in public sentiment +against such rigors grew a cry that had to be silenced. Fénelon +was selected to visit the heretic provinces, and win them +to willing submission. He stipulated that every form of coercion +should cease, and went to conquer all with love. His +success was remarkable. But not even Fénelon quite escaped +the infection of violent zeal for the Church. It seems not +to be given to any man to rise wholly superior to the spirit +of the world in which he lives.</p> + +<p>The luster of Fénelon’s name, luminous from the triumphs +of his mission among the Protestants, was sufficient to justify +the choice of this man, a man both by nature and by culture +so ideally formed for the office as was he, to be tutor to +the heir prospective of the French monarchy. The Duke of +Burgundy, grandson to Louis XIV., was accordingly put +under the charge of Fénelon to be trained for future kingship. +Never, probably, in the history of mankind, has there +occurred a case in which the victory of a teacher could be +more illustrious than actually was the victory of Fénelon as +teacher to this scion of the house of Bourbon. We shall be +giving our readers a relishable taste of St. Simon, the celebrated +memoir-writer of the age of Louis XIV., if out of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page160" id="page160"></a>160</span> +the portrait in words, drawn by him from life, of Fénelon’s +princely pupil, we transfer here a few strong lines to our +pages. St. Simon says:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>In the first place, it must be said that Monseigneur the Duke of +Burgundy had by nature a most formidable disposition. He was passionate +to the extent of wishing to dash to pieces his clocks when they +struck the hour which called him to what he did not like, and of flying +into the utmost rage against the rain if it interfered with what he +wanted to do. Resistance threw him into paroxysms of fury. I speak +of what I have often witnessed in his early youth. Moreover, an ungovernable +impulse drove him into whatever indulgence, bodily or mental, +was forbidden him. His sarcasm was so much the more cruel, as it was +witty and piquant, and as it seized with precision upon every point open +to ridicule. All this was sharpened by a vivacity of body and of mind +that proceeded to the degree of impetuosity, and that during his early days +never permitted him to learn any thing except by doing two things +at once. Every form of pleasure he loved with a violent avidity, and all +this with a pride and a haughtiness impossible to describe; dangerously +wise, moreover, to judge of men and things, and to detect the weak point +in a train of reasoning, and to reason himself more cogently and more +profoundly than his teachers. But at the same time, as soon as his +passion was spent, reason resumed her sway; he felt his faults, he acknowledged +them, and sometimes with such chagrin that his rage was rekindled. +A mind lively, alert, penetrating, stiffening itself against +obstacles, excelling literally in every thing. The prodigy is, that in a +very short time piety and grace made of him a different being, and +transformed faults so numerous and so formidable into virtues exactly +opposite.</p> +</div> + +<p>St. Simon attributes to Fénelon “every virtue under +heaven”; but his way was to give to God rather than to +man the praise of the remarkable change which, during Fénelon’s +charge of the Duke of Burgundy, came over the character +of the prince.</p> + +<p>The grandfather survived the grandson; and it was never +put to the stern proof of historical experiment whether Fénelon +had indeed turned out one Bourbon entirely different +from all the other members, earlier or later, of that royal line.</p> + +<p>Before, however, the Duke of Burgundy was thus snatched +away from the perilous prospect of a throne, his beloved +teacher was parted from him, not indeed by death, but by +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page161" id="page161"></a>161</span> +what, to the archbishop’s susceptible and suffering spirit, was +worse than death, by “disgrace.” The disgrace was such +as has ever since engaged for its subject the interest, the +sympathy, and the admiration of mankind. Fénelon lost the +royal favor. That was all—for the present; but that was +much. He was banished from court, and he ceased to be +preceptor to the Duke of Burgundy. The king, in signal +severity, used his own hand to strike Fénelon’s name from +the list of the household of his grandson and heir. The +archbishop—for Fénelon had previously been made archbishop +of Cambray—returned into his diocese as into an +exile. But his cup of humiliation was by no means full. +Bossuet will stain his own glory by following his exiled +former pupil and friend, with hostile pontifical rage, to crush +him in his retreat.</p> + +<p>The occasion was a woman, a woman with the charm of +genius and of exalted character, a Christian, a saint, but a +mystic—it was Madame Guyon. Madame Guyon taught +that it was possible to love God for himself alone, purely +and disinterestedly. Fénelon received the doctrine, and +Madame Guyon was patronized by Madame de Maintenon. +Bossuet scented heresy. He was too much a “natural man” +to understand Madame Guyon. The king was like the +prelate, his minister, in spirit, and in consequent incapacity. +It was resolved that Fénelon must condemn Madame Guyon. +But Fénelon would not. He was very gentle, very conciliatory, +but in fine he would not. Controversy ensued, haughty, +magisterial, domineering, on the part of Bossuet; on the +part of Fénelon, meek, docile, suasive. The world wondered, +and watched the duel. Fénelon finally did what king +James’s translators misleadingly make Job wish that his adversary +had done—he wrote a book, “The Maxims of the +Saints.” In this book, he sought to show that the accepted +and even canonized teachers of the Church had taught the +doctrine for which, in his own case and in the case of Madame +Guyon, condemnation was now invoked. Bossuet was pope +at Paris: and he, in full presence, denounced to the monarch +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page162" id="page162"></a>162</span> +the heresy of Fénelon. At this moment of crisis for Fénelon, +it happened that news was brought him of the burning +of his mansion at Cambray with all his books and manuscripts. +It will always be remembered that Fénelon only +said: “It is better so than if it had been the cottage of a poor +laboring-man.”</p> + +<p>Madame de Maintenon, till now his friend, with perfect +frigid facility separated herself from the side of the accused. +The controversy was carried to Rome, where at length +Fénelon’s book was condemned—condemned mildly, but +condemned. The pope is said to have made the remark that +Fénelon erred by loving God too much, and Fénelon’s antagonists +by loving their fellow-man too little. Fénelon +bowed to the authority of the Church, and meekly in his own +cathedral confessed his error. It was a logical thing for him, +as loyal Catholic, to do; and he did it with a beautiful grace +of humility. The Protestant spirit, however, rebels on his +behalf, and finds it difficult even to admire the manner in +which was done by him a thing that seems so unfit to have +been done by him at all. Bossuet did not long survive his +inglorious triumph over so much sanctity of personal character, +over so much difficult and beautiful height of doctrinal +and practical instruction to virtue. Fénelon seems to have +been reported as preaching a funeral sermon on the dead prelate. +“I have wept and prayed,” he wrote to a friend, “for +this old instructor of my youth; but it is not true that I celebrated +his obsequies in my cathedral, and preached his funeral +sermon. Such affectation, you know, is foreign to my +nature.” The iron must have gone deep, to wring from that +gentle bosom even so much cry as this of wounded feeling.</p> + +<p>It is hard to tell what might now have befallen Fénelon, in +the way of good fortune—he might even have been recalled +to court, and re-installed in his office of tutor to the prince—had +not a sinister incident, not to have been looked for, at an +inopportune moment occurred. The “Telemachus” appeared +in print, and kindled a sudden flame of popular feeling, which +instantly spread in universal conflagration over the face of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page163" id="page163"></a>163</span> +Europe. This composition of Fénelon’s the author had written +to convey, under a form of quasi-poetical fiction, lessons +of wisdom in government to the mind of his royal pupil. +The existence of the manuscript book would seem to have +been intended to be a secret from the king—indeed, from +almost every one, except the pupil himself for whose use it +was made. But a copyist proved false to his trust, and furnished +a copy of “Telemachus” to a printer in Holland, who +lost no time in publishing a book so likely to sell. But the +sale of the book surpassed all expectation. Holland not only, +but Belgium, Germany, France, and England multiplied +copies as fast as they could; still Europe could not get copies +as fast as she wanted them.</p> + +<p>The secret of such popularity did not lie simply in the +literary merits of “Telemachus.” It lay more in a certain +interpretation that the book was supposed to bear. “Telemachus” +was understood to be a covert criticism of Louis +XIV., and of the principle of absolute monarchy embodied +in him. This imputed intention of the book could not fail +to become known at Versailles. The result, of course, was +fatal, and finally fatal, to the prospects, whatever these may +have been, of Fénelon’s restoration to favor at court. The +archbishop thenceforward was left to do in comparative +obscurity the duties of his episcopal office in his diocese of +Cambray. He devoted himself, with exemplary and touching +fidelity, to the interests of his flock, loving them and +loved by them, until he died. It was an entirely worthy and +adequate employment of his powers. The only abatement +needful from the praise to be bestowed upon his behavior in +this pastoral relation is that he suffered himself sometimes +to think of his position as one of “disgrace.” His reputation +meantime for holy character and conduct was European. +His palace at Cambray, hospitably open ever to the resort of +suffering need, indeed almost his whole diocese, lying on the +frontier of France, was by mutual consent of contending +armies, treated in war as a kind of mutual inviolable ground, +invested with privilege of sanctuary. It was an instructive +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page164" id="page164"></a>164</span> +example of the serene and beautiful ascendency sometimes +divinely accorded to illustrious personal goodness.</p> + +<p>There had been a moment, even subsequently to the affair +of the “Telemachus” publication, when it looked as if, after +long delay, a complete worldly triumph for Fénelon was +assured, and was near. The father of the Duke of Burgundy +died, and nothing then seemed to stand between Fénelon’s +late pupil and the throne, nothing but the precarious +life of an aged monarch, visibly approaching the end. The +Duke of Burgundy, through all changes, had remained +unchangingly fast in his affectionate loyalty to Fénelon. +Sternly forbidden, by the jealous and watchful king, his +grandfather, to communicate with his old teacher, he yet +had found means to send to Fénelon, from time to time, +reassuring signals of his trust and love. Fénelon was now, +in all eyes, the predestined prime minister of a new reign +about to commence. Through devoted friends of his own, +near to the person of the prince at court, Fénelon sent +minutes of advice to his pupil, which outlined a whole beneficent +policy of liberal monarchical rule. A new day seemed +dawning for France. The horrible reaction of the Regency +and of Louis XV. might, perhaps, have been averted, and, with +that spared to France, the revolution itself might have been +accomplished without the Revolution. But it was not to be. +The Duke of Burgundy first buried his wife, and then, +within a few days, followed her himself to the grave. He +died sincerely rejoicing that God had taken him away from +the dread responsibility of reigning.</p> + +<p>“All my ties are broken,” mourned Fénelon; “there is no +longer any thing to bind me to the earth.” In truth, the +teacher survived his pupil but two or three years. When he +died, his sovereign, gloomy with well-grounded apprehension +for the future of his realm, said, with tardy revival of +recognition for the virtue that had perished in Fénelon: +“Here was a man who could have served us well under the +disasters by which my kingdom is about to be assailed.”</p> + +<p>Fénelon’s literary productions are various; but they all +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page165" id="page165"></a>165</span> +have the common character of being works written for the +sake of life, rather than for the sake of literature. They +were inspired each by a practical purpose, and adapted each +to a particular occasion. His treatise on the “Education of +Girls” was written for the use of a mother who desired +instruction on the topic from Fénelon. His argument on the +“Being of a God” was prepared as a duty of his preceptorship +to the prince. But the one book of Fénelon, which was an +historical event when it appeared, and which stands an +indestructible classic in literature, is the “Telemachus.” It +remains for us briefly to give some idea of this book.</p> + +<p>The first thing to be said is, that those are mistaken who +suppose themselves to have obtained a true idea of “Telemachus” +from having partly read it at school, as an exercise +in French. The essence of the work lies beyond those few +opening pages to which the exploration of school-boys and +school-girls is generally limited. This masterpiece of Fénelon +is much more than a charming piece of romantic and +sentimental poetry in prose. It is a kind of epic, indeed, +like the “Odyssey,” only written in rhythmical prose instead +of rhythmical verse; but, unlike the “Odyssey,” it is an idyllic +epic written with an ulterior purpose of moral and political +didactics. It was designed as a manual of instruction—instruction +made delightful to a prince—to inculcate the +duties incumbent on a sovereign.</p> + +<p>Telemachus, our readers will remember, was the son of +Ulysses. Fénelon’s story relates the adventures encountered +by Telemachus in search for his father, so long delayed on +his return from Troy to Ithaca. Telemachus is imagined by +Fénelon to be attended by Minerva, the goddess of wisdom, +masked from his recognition, as well as from the recognition +of others, under the form of an old man. Minerva, of course, +constantly imparts the wisest counsel to young Telemachus, +who has his weaknesses, as had the young Duke of Burgundy, +but who is essentially well-disposed, as Fénelon +hoped his royal pupil would finally turn out to be. Nothing +can exceed the urbanity and grace with which the delicate +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page166" id="page166"></a>166</span> +business is conducted by Fénelon, of teaching a bad prince, +with a very bad example set him by his grandfather, to be a +good king. The style in which the story is told, and in which +the advice is insinuated, is exquisite, is beyond praise. The +“soft delicious” stream of sound runs on, as from a fountain, +and like “linked sweetness long drawn out.” Never had prose +a flow of melody more luscious. It is perpetual ravishment to +the ear. The invention, too, of incident is fruitful, while the +landscape and coloring are magical for beauty. We give a +few extracts, to be read with that application in mind to Louis +XIV., and to the state of France, which, when the book was +first printed, gave it such an exciting interest in the eyes of +Europe. Telemachus, after the manner of Æneas to Queen +Dido, is relating to the goddess Calypso, into whose island +he has come, the adventures that have previously befallen +him. He says that he, with Mentor (Minerva in disguise), +found himself in Crete. Mentor had been there before, and +was ready to tell Telemachus all about the country. Telemachus +was naturally interested to learn respecting the Cretan +monarchy. Mentor, he says, informed him as follows:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>The king’s authority over the subject is absolute, but the authority of +the law is absolute over him. His power to do good is unlimited, but he +is restrained from doing evil. The laws have put the people into his +hands, as the most valuable deposit, upon condition that he shall treat +them as his children. It is the intent of the law that the wisdom and +equity of one man shall be the happiness of many, and not that the +wretchedness and slavery of many should gratify the pride and luxury of +one. The king ought to possess nothing more than the subject, except +what is necessary to alleviate the fatigue of his station, and impress upon +the minds of the people a reverence of that authority by which the laws +are executed. Moreover, the king should indulge himself less, as well in +ease as in pleasure, and should be less disposed to the pomp and the pride +of life than any other man. He ought not to be distinguished from the +rest of mankind by the greatness of his wealth, or the vanity of his enjoyments, +but by superior wisdom, more heroic virtue, and more splendid +glory. Abroad he ought to be the defender of his country, by commanding +her armies; and at home the judge of his people, distributing justice +among them, improving their morals, and increasing their felicity. It is +not for himself that the gods have intrusted him with royalty. He is exalted +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page167" id="page167"></a>167</span> +above individuals only that he may be the servant of the people. +To the public he owes all his time, all his attention, and all his love; he +deserves dignity only in proportion as he gives up private enjoyments for +the public good.</p> +</div> + +<p>Pretty sound doctrine, the foregoing, on the subject of +the duties devolving on a king. The “paternal” idea, to +be sure, of government is in it; but there is the idea, too, of +limited or constitutional monarchy. The spirit of just and +liberal political thought had, it seems, not been wholly extinguished, +even at the court, by that oppression of mind—an +oppression seldom, if ever, in human history exceeded—which +was enforced under the unmitigated absolutism of +Louis XIV. The literature that, with Montesquieu, Voltaire, +Rousseau, the Encyclopædists, prepared the Revolution, +had already begun virtually to be written when Fénelon +wrote his “Telemachus.” It is easy to see why the fame of +Fénelon should by exception have been dear even to the hottest +infidel haters of that ecclesiastical hierarchy to which +the archbishop of Cambray himself belonged. This lover of +liberty, this gentle rebuker of kings, was of the freethinkers, +at least in the sympathy of political thought. Nay, the +Revolution itself is foreshown in a remarkable glimpse of +conjectural prophecy which occurs in the “Telemachus.” +Idomeneus is a headstrong king, whom Mentor is made by +the author to reprove and instruct for the Duke of Burgundy’s +benefit. To Idomeneus—a character taken, and not +unplausibly taken, to have been suggested to Fénelon by +the example of Louis XIV.—to this imaginary counterpart +of the reigning monarch of France, Mentor holds the following +language. How could the sequel of Bourbon despotism +in France—a sequel suspended now for a time, but two or +three generations later to be dreadfully visited on the heirs +of Louis XIV.—have been more fully foreshadowed? The +“Telemachus”:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Remember that the sovereign who is most absolute is always least +powerful; he seizes upon all, and his grasp is ruin. He is, indeed, the +sole proprietor of whatever his state contains; but, for that reason, his +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page168" id="page168"></a>168</span> +state contains nothing of value; the fields are uncultivated, and almost +a desert; the towns lose some of their few inhabitants every day; +and trade every day declines. The king, who must cease to be a king +when he ceases to have subjects, and who is great only in virtue of his +people, is himself insensibly losing his character and his power, as the +number of his people, from whom alone both are derived, insensibly +diminishes. His dominions are at length exhausted of money and of men: +the loss of men is the greatest and the most irreparable he can sustain. +Absolute power degrades every subject to a slave. The tyrant is flattered +even to an appearance of adoration, and every one trembles at the glance +of his eye; but, at the least revolt, this enormous power perishes by +its own excess. It derived no strength from the love of the people; it wearied +and provoked all that it could reach, and rendered every individual of the +state impatient of its continuance. At the first stroke of opposition, the +idol is overturned, broken to pieces, and trodden under foot. Contempt, +hatred, fear, resentment, distrust, and every other passion of the soul +unite against so hateful a despotism. The king who, in his vain prosperity, +found no man bold enough to tell him the truth, in his adversity +finds no man kind enough to excuse his faults, or to defend him against +his enemies.</p> +</div> + +<p>So much is perhaps enough to indicate the political drift +of the “Telemachus.” That drift is, indeed, observable +everywhere throughout the book.</p> + +<p>We conclude our exhibition of this fine classic, by letting +Fénelon appear more purely now in his character as dreamer +and poet. Young Prince Telemachus has, Ulysses-like, and +Æneas-like, his descent into Hades. This incident affords +Fénelon opportunity to exercise his best powers of awful and +of lovely imagining and describing. Christian ideas are, in +this episode of the “Telemachus,” superinduced upon pagan, +after a manner hard, perhaps, to reconcile with the verisimilitude +required by art, but at least productive of very noble +and very beautiful results. First, one glimpse of Tartarus +as conceived by Fénelon. It is the spectacle of kings who +on earth abused their power that Telemachus is beholding:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Telemachus observed the countenance of these criminals to be pale and +ghastly, strongly expressive of the torment they suffered at the heart. +They looked inward with a self-abhorrence now inseparable from their +existence. Their crimes themselves had become their punishment, and +it was not necessary that greater should be inflicted. They haunted them +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page169" id="page169"></a>169</span> +like hideous specters, and continually started up before them in all their +enormity. They wished for a second death, that might separate them from +these ministers of vengeance, as the first had separated their spirits from +the body—a death that might at once extinguish all consciousness and +sensibility. They called upon the depths of hell to hide them from the +persecuting beams of truth, in impenetrable darkness; but they are reserved +for the cup of vengeance, which, though they drink of it forever, +shall be ever full. The truth, from which they fled, has overtaken them, +an invincible and unrelenting enemy. The ray which once might have +illuminated them, like the mild radiance of the day, now pierces them +like lightning—a fierce and fatal fire, that, without injury to the external +parts, infixes a burning torment at the heart. By truth, now an avenging +flame, the very soul is melted like metal in a furnace; it dissolves all, +but destroys nothing; it disunites the first elements of life, yet the sufferer +can never die. He is, as it were, divided against himself, without +rest and without comfort; animated by no vital principle, but the rage +that kindles at his own misconduct, and the dreadful madness that results +from despair.</p> +</div> + +<p>If the “perpetual feast of nectar’d sweets” that the +“Telemachus” affords is felt at times to be almost cloying, +it is not, as our readers have now seen, for want of occasional +contrasts of a bitterness sufficiently mordant and drastic. +But the didactic purpose is never lost sight of by the +author. Here is an aspect of the Elysium found by Telemachus. +How could any thing be more delectably conceived +and described? The translator, Dr. Hawkesworth, is +animated to an English style that befits the sweetness of his +original. The “Telemachus:”</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>In this place resided all the good kings who had wisely governed mankind +from the beginning of time. They were separated from the rest of +the just; for, as wicked princes suffer more dreadful punishment than +other offenders in Tartarus, so good kings enjoy infinitely greater felicity +than other lovers of virtue, in the fields of Elysium.</p> + +<p>Telemachus advanced toward these kings, whom he found in groves of +delightful fragrance, reclining upon the downy turf, where the flowers +and herbage were perpetually renewed. A thousand rills wandered +through these scenes of delight, and refreshed the soil with a gentle and +unpolluted wave; the song of innumerable birds echoed in the groves. +Spring strewed the ground with her flowers, while at the same time autumn +loaded the trees with her fruit. In this place the burning heat of +the dog-star was never felt, and the stormy north was forbidden to scatter +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page170" id="page170"></a>170</span> +over it the frosts of winter. Neither War that thirsts for blood, nor Envy +that bites with an envenomed tooth, like the vipers that are wreathed +around her arms and fostered in her bosom, nor Jealousy, nor Distrust, nor +Fears, nor vain Desires, invade these sacred domains of peace. The day is +here without end, and the shades of night are unknown. Here the bodies +of the blessed are clothed with a pure and lambent light, as with a garment. +The light does not resemble that vouchsafed to mortals upon earth, which +is rather darkness visible; it is rather a celestial glory than a light—an +emanation that penetrates the grossest body with more subtilty than the +rays of the sun penetrate the purest crystal, which rather strengthens +than dazzles the sight, and diffuses through the soul a serenity which no +language can express. By this ethereal essence the blessed are sustained +in everlasting life; it pervades them; it is incorporated with them, as +food with the mortal body; they see it, they feel it, they breathe it, and +it produces in them an inexhaustible source of serenity and joy. It is a +fountain of delight, in which they are absorbed as fishes are absorbed in +the sea; they wish for nothing, and, having nothing, they possess all +things. This celestial light satiates the hunger of the soul; every desire +is precluded; and they have a fulness of joy which sets them above all +that mortals seek with such restless ardor, to fill the vacuity that aches +forever in their breast. All the delightful objects that surround them are +disregarded; for their felicity springs up within, and, being perfect, can +derive nothing from without. So the gods, satiated with nectar and ambrosia, +disdain, as gross and impure, all the dainties of the most luxurious +table upon earth. From these seats of tranquillity all evils fly far +away; death, disease, poverty, pain, regret, remorse, fear, even hope—which +is sometimes not less painful than fear itself—animosity, disgust, +and resentment can never enter there.</p> +</div> + +<p>The leaden good sense of Louis XIV. pronounced Fénelon +the “most chimerical” man in France. The founder of the +kingdom of heaven would have been a dreamer, to this most +worldly-minded of “Most Christian” monarchs. Bossuet, +who, about to die, read something of Fénelon’s “Telemachus,” +said it was a book hardly serious enough for a clergyman +to write. A <i>more</i> serious book, whether its purpose +be regarded, or its undoubted actual influence in molding +the character of a prospective ruler of France, was not written +by any clergyman of Fénelon’s or Bossuet’s time.</p> + +<p>Fénelon was an eloquent preacher as well as an elegant +writer. His influence exerted in both the two functions, that +of the writer and that of the preacher, was powerfully felt in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page171" id="page171"></a>171</span> +favor of the freedom of nature in style as against the conventionality +of culture and art. He insensibly helped on that reform +from a too rigid classicism, which in our day we have seen +pushed to its extreme in the exaggerations of romanticism. +Few wiser words have ever been spoken on the subject of oratory +than are to be found in his “Dialogues on Eloquence.”</p> + +<p>Disappearing space warns us that we must perforce let pass +from presence the gracious spirit of Fénelon. But we should +wrong this most engaging of prelates, and we should wrong +our readers, not still to represent a side of his character and +of his literary work, a very important side, that thus far has +been only hinted at in incidental allusion. We mean that +distinctively religious side which belongs alike to the man +and to the writer.</p> + +<p>Fénelon, as priest, was something more than professional +preacher, pastor, theologian. He was a devout soul, the subject +of a transcendent Christian experience, even verging on +mysticism. In his capacity of spiritual director, he wrote +what are called “spiritual letters,” many of which survive, +included in his published works. These have a very peculiarly +ripe, sweet, chaste, St. John-like quality of tone, and +they are written in a pure, simple, transparent style, that +reads as if the thought found its own form of expression +without the smallest trouble on the part of the writer. The +style, in fact, is absolute perfection; you cannot tell the mere +literal truth about it and not thus seem to be exaggerating +its merit. Even in translation some charm of such ultimate +felicity in it cannot fail to be felt.</p> + +<p>Almost any “spiritual” letter that we happen first to strike +will be as good as any other, to illustrate the rare culture of +heart, the deep spiritual wisdom, the perfect urbanity in +manner, reconciled with the perfect frankness in fact, and +the circumfluent grace of literary style, with which this +heavenly-minded man conducted, through correspondence, his +cure of individual souls. We pluck out a few specimen +sentences from two different letters, and present them detached, +without setting of context:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page172" id="page172"></a>172</span></p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Consent to be humiliated; silence and peace in humiliation are the true +good of the soul. One might be tempted to speak humbly, and one might +find a thousand fine pretexts for doing so; but it is still better to be silent +humbly. The humility which still speaks is still to be suspected; in +speaking, self-love consoles itself a little.</p> +</div> + +<p>What now follows, ending our extracts from Fénelon’s +writings, we give, not only for its own value, but for the +light it throws on the charming humility of the author:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>It has seemed to me that you needed to enlarge your heart in the matter +of the defects of others....</p> + +<p>Perfection bears with ease the imperfection of others; it becomes all +things to all men. One must grow accustomed to the idea of the grossest +defects in good souls....</p> + +<p>I beg of you more than ever not to spare me in respect of my defects. +Should you believe that you see one that I perhaps have not, that will be +no great misfortune. If your hints wound me, that sensitiveness will +show me that you have touched the quick; thus you will always have +conferred on me a great benefit in disciplining me to be little, and in accustoming +me to take reproof. I ought to be more abased that another +in proportion as I am more exalted by my position, and as God requires +of me more complete death to all. I need such simplicity, and I hope that, +far from weakening, it will strengthen our union of heart.</p> +</div> + +<p>It is impossible not to associate with Fénelon, in the +thought of this spiritual life of his, explored and purified so +deep, that remarkable woman, Madame Guyon, to whom in +certain religious relations the great and gentle archbishop +ostensibly, and perhaps really, submitted himself, as one who +learns to one who teaches. Her exaltation—how far real, and +how far illusory only, let us leave it for the All-knower to +judge—made Madame Guyon easily equal to the seemingly +audacious part of spiritual guide to a man who was at once +one of the most illustrious writers, one of the most highly +placed Church dignitaries, and one of the saintliest Christians +in Europe. It is undoubtedly true that the sage can learn +more from the fool than the fool can from the sage; and +therefore if it could be proved to have been indeed the fact +that, of the two, Fénelon was the greater gainer from the relation +existing between himself and Madame Guyon, that +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page173" id="page173"></a>173</span> +might well be only because he was already a wiser person +than she.</p> + +<p>We have no room here to show Madame Guyon by any of +her extant letters addressed to Fénelon; but we may take the +present occasion to introduce at least a few stanzas from one +of those sweet little Christian poems of hers which a spirit +not far alien from Fénelon’s own, we mean William Cowper, +has put for us into fairly happy English expression. Madame +Guyon spent ten years in prison—for teaching that souls +should love God unselfishly, for his own sake only!—and it is +in prison that this meekly triumphing song of hers must +be imagined as sung by the author. It bears the title, “The +Soul that Loves God Finds Him Everywhere.”</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> + +<p class="i1" style="letter-spacing: 2em;">*****</p> + +<p class="s">To me remains nor place nor time;</p> +<p>My country is in every clime;</p> +<p>I can be calm and free from care</p> +<p>On any shore, since God is there.</p> + +<p class="s">While place we seek, or place we shun,</p> +<p>The soul finds happiness in none;</p> +<p>But, with a God to guide our way,</p> +<p>’Tis equal joy to go or stay.</p> + +<p class="s">Could I be cast where thou art not,</p> +<p>That were indeed a dreadful lot;</p> +<p>But regions none remote I call,</p> +<p>Secure of finding God in all.</p> + +<p class="i1 s" style="letter-spacing: 2em;">*****</p> + +<p class="s">Ah, then! to his embrace repair;</p> +<p>My soul, thou art no stranger there;</p> +<p>There love divine shall be thy guard,</p> +<p>And peace and safety thy reward.</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>French literature, unfortunately, is on the whole such in +character as to need all that it can show to be cast into the +scale of moral elevation and purity. Fénelon alone—he was +not alone, as the instance of Madame Guyon has just freshly +been reminding us—but Fénelon alone were enough, in quality +supported by quantity, not indeed to overcome, but to go far +toward overcoming, the perverse inclination of the balance.</p> + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page174" id="page174"></a>174</span></p> + +<p class="center f120">XIV.</p> + +<p class="chap2 center">LE SAGE.</p> + +<p class="center">1668-1747.</p> + +<p><span class="sc chap1">Le Sage</span> was a fruitful father of literary product, but it is +as the author of “Gil Blas” that he is entitled to his place +in these pages. “The Adventures of Gil Blas” justly enjoys +the distinction of being among the few works of fiction that +are read everywhere, and everywhere acknowledged to be +masterpieces in literature. Lapse of time and change of +fashion seem not to tend at all toward making “Gil Blas” +obsolete. With every generation of men it takes as it were +a fresh lease of inexhaustible immortality.</p> + +<p>Of course, there must be something elemental in the +quality and merit of a book, especially a book of fiction, +concerning which this can truly be said. A novel “Gil +Blas” is generally called. The name is hardly descriptive. +Le Sage’s masterpiece is rather a book of human nature and +of human life. It constitutes already, embraced within the +compass of a single work, that which it was the ambition of +the novelist Balzac to achieve in an Alexandrian library of +fiction; “Gil Blas” is the whole “comedy” of man. The +breadth of it is enormous. There is hardly any thing lacking +to it that is human—unless it be some truly noble human +character, some truly noble human action.</p> + +<p>We spoke of it not amiss, when we used Balzac’s half-cynical +word and called it the <i>comedy</i> of man. Le Sage involuntarily +reveals his own limitation in the fact that he has +converted into comedy the whole mingled drama of man’s +earthly condition. Within his proper individual bounds, +this man’s dimensions are so large that he has been not unfitly +styled Shakespearean. But Shakespeare exceeds Le +Sage in measure by a whole hemisphere. Shakespeare knows +how to be serious, to be tragic; as Le Sage does not. Matter +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page175" id="page175"></a>175</span> +of tragedy indeed abounds in “Gil Blas,” but it is all treated +lightly, in the manner of comedy. You are allured, in +reading, to laugh, when, if you return at all upon yourself, +you are conscious you ought rather to weep. Le Sage is the +antithesis of Rousseau, of Chateaubriand, of Lamartine, of +George Sand—writers who know as little of laughter as Le +Sage does of tears.</p> + +<p>But it should at once, and strongly, be said that Le Sage +is no cynic. It is not a sneering, but a smiling, mask that +he wears. The smile is of a worldly-wisdom not ill-pleased +with itself, and therefore not ill-pleased with the world which +it rallies. It is a genial smile. But for all that, if you are +yourself at bottom a serious man, you are disturbed at last. +You are vexed to find yourself incessantly brought to smile +at what you know ought to move your shame, your indignation, +or your grief. The moral temper which Le Sage exhibits +and which he engenders is not the “enthusiasm of +humanity.” It is less the temper to help your fellow-men +than the temper to profit the most that you can by their +weaknesses, by their follies, and even by their crimes. Le +Sage’s hero, “Gil Blas,” goes through a series of “adventures,” +in which nearly every human sin is committed +by him and by his fellows, either unblushingly, or, if +with any show of compunction at all, then with such +show of compunction as is almost worse than perfect indifference +would be. The book is not in intention immoral, +but only unmoral. It may well be questioned whether in +effect it be not the more immoral for this very character in +it. The abounding gay animal spirits of the narrative go +frisking along as if let loose in a lucky world where moral +distinctions were things that did not exist; the real world +indeed, only with the deepest reality of all left out!</p> + +<p>Verisimilitude seems hardly sought. The situations often +waver on the edge of the ludicrously farcical. The tenor of +the production stops barely short of sheer extravaganza. +There is no unity, progressiveness, culmination of plot. The +whole book is a mere concatenation, scarcely concatenation, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page176" id="page176"></a>176</span> +succession, say rather, of “adventures,” any one of which is +nearly as good a starting-point for the reader as any other +would be.</p> + +<p>The scene of the story and the local color are all Spanish. +Le Sage’s previous experience of travel in Spain, as well as +his long occupation in translating from the Spanish into +French, probably influenced him to this choice of medium for +his masterpiece; which, by the way, it cost the author intervals +of time covering twenty-two years to bring to its completion. +The fact of its Spanish character gave color to the +charge, deemed now to have been exploded, that “Gil Blas” +was plagiarized by Le Sage from a Spanish original. It may +be added that laying the scene and action of his story in +Spain left Le Sage the more free to satirize, as he undoubtedly +does, certain persons and certain manners belonging to +his own country, France.</p> + +<p>Of Alain René Le Sage, the man, there need little be said. +He was a successful writer of comedies for the stage. Of +these the most were ephemeral productions. Two, however, +and one especially, the “Turcaret,” have the honor of ranking, +in French literature, next to the very highest in their +kind, the comedies of Molière. Never rich, Le Sage was +always independent in spirit. The story is told of him +that, arriving once unavoidably late at a noble mansion +where he had made an appointment to read one of his +own productions, he was reproached by the distinguished +hostess for making the company lose an hour in waiting; +whereupon he replied: “I give the company a chance to +recover their lost hour,” and refusing to be placated bowed +himself out.</p> + +<p>Smollet, the celebrated English novelist—and historian so-called—has +translated “Gil Blas.” We make use of his +translation in presenting our extracts from this novel to our +readers. There are two passages, both deservedly famous, +which will admirably exemplify Le Sage at his best; one of +these is the immortal episode concerning the illustrious physician, +Doctor Sangrado, and the other is the instructive relation +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page177" id="page177"></a>177</span> +of Gil Blas’s experience in discharging the office of +what one might call literary valet and critic to an archbishop.</p> + +<p>First we introduce Doctor Sangrado.</p> + +<p>Gil Blas is at this time in the Spanish town of Valladolid +serving an ecclesiastic in the capacity of lackey. His +master, falling sick, sends for a physician. Gil Blas—the +novel is autobiographic in form—shall tell his own story:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>I therefore went in search of Dr. Sangrado, and brought him to the +house.... The licentiate having promised to obey him in all things, Sangrado +sent me for a surgeon, whom he named, and ordered him to take from +my master six good porringers of blood, as the first effort, in order to supply +the want of perspiration. Then he said to the surgeon: “Master Martin +Omnez, return in three hours and take as much more; and repeat the +same evacuation to-morrow. It is a gross error to think that blood is +necessary for the preservation of life; a patient cannot be blooded too +much; for as he is obliged to perform no considerable motion or exercise, +but just only to breathe, he has no more occasion for blood than a man +who is asleep—life, in both, consisting in the pulse and respiration only.” +The doctor having ordered frequent and copious evacuations of this kind, +he told us that we must make the canon drink warm water incessantly; +assuring us that water, drank in abundance, was the true specific in all +distempers whatever.... We set about warming water with all despatch; +and as the physician had recommended to us, above all things, not +to be too sparing of it, we made my master drink for the first dose two or +three pints, at as many draughts. An hour after we repeated it, and +returning to the charge, from time to time, overwhelmed his stomach +with a deluge of water, the surgeon seconding us, on the other hand, by +the quantity of blood which he drew from him. In less than two days +the old canon was reduced to extremity.</p> +</div> + +<p>Blood-letting, as an expedient of the healing art, has happily +gone out of fashion; but Dr. Sangrado’s other master +secret, the therapeutic drinking of hot water, has been rehabilitated +in our days. We sincerely hope that none of our +hot-water-drinking readers will let Le Sage laugh them out +of countenance in holding to their habit—if it really does +them good!</p> + +<p>Gil Blas is promoted to be servant, and then professional +assistant, to the famous Dr. Sangrado. Gil Blas and the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page178" id="page178"></a>178</span> +doctor’s maid were warned by their master against eating +much, but, now, however, Gil Blas shall himself again resume +the part of narrator:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>He allowed us, by way of recompense, to drink as much water as we +could swallow: far from restricting us in this particular, he would sometimes +say, “Drink, my children; health consists in the suppleness and +humectation of the parts: drink water in great abundance: it is an +universal menstruum that dissolves all kinds of salt. When the course +of the blood is too languid, this accelerates its motion; and when too +rapid, checks its impetuosity”.... “If thou feelest in thyself,” said +he to me, “any reluctance to simple element, there are innocent aids +in plenty that will support thy stomach against the insipid taste of +water; sage, for example, and balm will give it an admirable flavor; and +an infusion of corn-poppy, gillyflower, and rosemary, will render it still +more delicious.”</p> + +<p>Notwithstanding all he could say in praise of water, and the excellent +beverages he taught me to compose, I drank of it with such moderation, +that perceiving my temperance, he said: “Why, truly, Gil Blas, I am not +at all surprised that thou dost not enjoy good health. Thou dost not +drink enough, my friend. Water taken in small quantities serves only +to disentangle the particles of the bile, and give them more activity; +whereas they should be drowned in a copious dilution: don’t be afraid, +my child, that abundance of water will weaken and relax thy stomach: +lay aside that panic fear which perhaps thou entertainest of plentiful +drinking.”</p> +</div> + +<p>Gil <span class="correction" title="amended from Glas">Blas</span>, discouraged, was about to leave Dr. Sangrado’s +service, when that distinguished physician said to him—we +take up the text of the story once more:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>“I have a regard for thee, and without further delay will make thy +fortune.... I spare thee the trouble of studying pharmacy, anatomy, +botany, and physic: know, my friend, all that is required is to bleed the +patients and make them drink warm water. This is the secret of curing all +the distempers incident to man”.... I assured him that I would follow +his maxims as long as I lived, even if they should be contrary to those +of Hippocrates. But this assurance was not altogether sincere; for I disapproved +of his opinion with regard to water, and resolved to drink wine +every day, when I went out to visit my patients.</p> +</div> + +<p>This resolution Gil Blas carried out, and, returning home +drunk in consequence, gave Dr. Sangrado an artfully heightened +account of a scuffle he had had with a rival physician of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page179" id="page179"></a>179</span> +his master named Cuchillo. Let Gil Blas pursue the narrative:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>“Thou hast done well, Gil Blas,” said Dr. Sangrado, “in defending the +honor of our remedies against that little abortion of the faculty. He affirms, +then, that aqueous draughts are improper for the dropsy! Ignorant +wretch! I maintain, I do, that a dropsical patient cannot drink too much.”... +He perceived that I drank more water that evening than usual, the +wine having made me very thirsty, ... and said, with a smile, “I see, +Gil Blas, thou hast no longer an aversion to water. Heaven be praised! +thou drinkest it now like nectar.”... “Sir,” I replied, “there is a time +for all things: I would not at present give a pint of water for an hogshead +of wine.” The doctor, charmed with this answer, did not neglect +such a fair opportunity of extolling the excellence of water.... “There +are still a few,” he exclaimed, “who, like thou and I, drink nothing but +water; and, who, as a preservative from, or cure of all distempers, trust +to hot water unboiled: for I have observed that boiled water is more +heavy and less agreeable to the stomach.”</p> + +<p> ... I entered into the doctor’s sentiments, inveighed against the use +of wine, and lamented that mankind had contracted a taste for such a pernicious +liquor. Then (as my thirst was not sufficiently quenched) I filled +a large goblet with water, and having swallowed long draughts of it: +“Come, sir,” said I to my master, “let us regale ourselves with this benevolent +liquor.” ... He applauded my zeal, and during a whole quarter +of an hour exhorted me to drink nothing but water. In order to familiarize +myself to this prescription, I promised to swallow a great quantity +every evening; and that I might the more easily perform my promise, +went to bed with a resolution of going to the tavern every day.</p> +</div> + +<p>In passing from the humor of Le Sage’s Dr. Sangrado, we +cannot refrain from exhorting the reader not to miss that +refinement about water made hot without actually boiling. +The present writer seems to himself to have encountered the +same delicacy of hot-water-drinking in his own personal observation +of those who now practice this method of health +or of cure.</p> + +<p>A later fortune of Gil Blas, in his long career of extremely +various “adventures,” shaken from change to change +as in a kaleidoscope, was to fall into the service of an archbishop, +by whom he was soon advanced to a post of confidential +favor. Gil Blas became in fact the archbishop’s +“guide, philosopher, and friend,” in the very important matter +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page180" id="page180"></a>180</span> +of that high dignitary’s literary and historical reputation. +This happened through Gil Blas’s felicity in copying out with +judicious calligraphy—a calligraphy such as seemed to their +author to commend those productions in some fit proportion +to their worth—the venerable archbishop’s homilies. Gil +Blas thus relates the immediate, and then the more remote, +result of his submitting to the archbishop his maiden essay +in copy-hand reproduction of that prelate’s pulpit rhetoric:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>“Good heaven!” cried he in a transport, when he had surveyed all the +sheets of my copy, “was ever anything seen so correct? You transcribe +so well that you must certainly understand grammar. Tell me ingenuously, +my friend, have you found nothing that shocked you in writing +it over? Some neglect, perhaps, in the style, or improper term?” “O, +sir,” answered I, with an air of modesty, “I am not learned enough to +make critical observations; and if I was, I am persuaded that the works +of your grace would escape my censure.” The prelate smiled at my reply; +and, though he said nothing, discovered through all his piety, that he was +a downright author.</p> + +<p>By this kind of flattery, I entirely gained his good graces, became more +and more dear to him every day.... One evening he repeated in his +closet, when I was present, with great enthusiasm, an homily which he +intended to pronounce the next day in the cathedral; and, not satisfied +with asking my opinion of it in general, obliged me to single out the particular +passages which I most admired. I had the good luck to mention +those that he himself looked upon to be the best, his own favorite morceaus: +by which means I passed, in his judgment, for a man who had a +delicate knowledge of the true beauties of a work. “This is,” cried he, +“what is called having taste and sentiment: well, friend, I assure thee +thou hast not got Bœotian ears.” In a word, he was so well satisfied +with me, that he pronounced with some vivacity, “Gil Blas, henceforth +give thyself no uneasiness about thy fortune: I undertake to make it extremely +agreeable; I love thee; and, as a proof of my affection, make +thee my confidant.”</p> + +<p>I no sooner heard these words than I fell at his grace’s feet, quite penetrated +with gratitude; I heartily embraced his bandy legs, and looked +upon myself as a man on the high way to wealth and opulence. “Yes, my +child,” resumed the archbishop, whose discourse had been interrupted by +my prostration, “thou shalt be the repository of my most secret thoughts. +Listen with attention to what I am going to say: my chief pleasure consists +in preaching; the Lord gives a blessing to my homilies; they touch +the hearts of sinners, make them seriously reflect on their conduct, and +have recourse to repentance.... I will confess my weakness; I propose +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page181" id="page181"></a>181</span> +to myself another reward, a reward which the delicacy of my virtue reproaches +me with in vain! I mean the esteem that the world shows +for fine polished writing. The honor of being reckoned a perfect orator +has charmed my imagination; my performances are thought equally +strong and delicate; but I would, of all things, avoid the fault of good +authors who write too long, and retire without forfeiting the least tittle +of my reputation. Wherefore, my dear Gil Blas,” continued the prelate, +“one thing that I exact of thy zeal is, whenever thou shalt perceive my +pen smack of old age, and my genius flag, don’t fail to advertise me of +it: for I don’t trust to my own judgment, which may be seduced by self-love.” +... “Thank heaven, sir,” said I, “that period is far off: besides, +a genius like that of your grace will preserve its vigor much better than +any other; or, to speak more justly, will be always the same. I look +upon you as another Cardinal Ximenes, whose superior genius, instead of +being weakened by age, seemed to receive new strength from it.” “No +flattery, friend,” said he, interrupting me. “I know I am liable to sink all +at once: people at my age begin to feel infirmities, and the infirmities of +the body often affect the understanding. I repeat it to thee again, Gil +Blas, as soon as thou shalt judge mine in the least impaired, be sure to +give me notice; and be not afraid of speaking freely and sincerely, for I +shall receive thy advice as a mark of thy affection. Besides, thy interest +is concerned; if, unhappily for thee, it should come to my ears that the +public says my discourses have no longer their wonted force, and that it +is high time for me to repose myself, I frankly declare that thou shalt +lose my friendship, as well as the fortune I have promised. Such will be +the fruit of thy foolish reserve!”</p> +</div> + +<p>Gil Blas was destined soon to be put to the extreme proof +of his fidelity. Himself must tell how:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>In the very zenith of my favor we had a hot alarm in the episcopal +palace: the archbishop was seized with a fit of the apoplexy; he was, however, +succored immediately, and such salutary medicines administered +that in a few days his health was re-established; but his understanding +had received a rude shock, which I plainly perceived in the very next +discourse which he composed. I did not, however, find the difference +between this and the rest so sensible as to make me conclude that the +orator began to flag, and waited for another homily to fix my resolution. +This, indeed, was quite decisive; sometimes the good old prelate repeated +the same thing over and over, sometimes rose too high or sunk too low; +it was a vague discourse, the rhetoric of an old professor, a mere +capucinade. [The word, “capucinade,” satirizes the Capuchin monks.]</p> + +<p>I was not the only person who took notice of this. The greatest part +of the audience when he pronounced it, as if they had been also hired to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page182" id="page182"></a>182</span> +examine it, said softly to one another, “This sermon smells strong of the +apoplexy.” Come, master homily-critic, said I then to myself, prepare to +do your office; you see that his grace begins to fail; it is your duty to give +him notice of it, not only as the depository of his thoughts, but, likewise, +lest some one of his friends should be free enough with him to prevent +you; in that case you know what would happen: your name would be +erased from his last will....</p> + +<p>After these reflections I made others of a quite contrary nature. To +give the notice in question, seemed a delicate point. I imagined that it +might be ill-received by an author like him, conceited of his own works; +but, rejecting this suggestion, I represented to myself that he could not +possibly take it amiss after having exacted it of me in so pressing a +manner. Add to this that I depended upon my being able to mention it +with address, and make him swallow the pill without reluctance. In a +word, finding that I ran a greater risk in keeping silence than in breaking +it, I determined to speak.</p> + +<p>The only thing that embarrassed me now was how to break the ice. +Luckily the orator himself extricated me from that difficulty by asking +what people said of him, and if they were satisfied with his last discourse. +I answered that his homilies were always admired, but in my opinion the +last had not succeeded so well as the rest in affecting the audience. +“How, friend!” replied he with astonishment, “has it met with any +Aristarchus?” “No, sir,” said I, “by no means; such works as yours +are not to be criticised; everybody is charmed with them. Nevertheless, +since you have laid your injunctions upon me to be free and sincere, I will +take the liberty to tell you that your last discourse, in my judgment, has +not altogether the energy of your other performances. Are you not of the +same opinion?”</p> + +<p>My master grew pale at these words, and said with a forced smile, “So, +then, Mr. Gil Blas, this piece is not to your taste?” “I don’t say so, +sir,” cried I, quite disconcerted, “I think it excellent, although a little inferior +to your other works.” “I understand you,” he replied, “you think +I flag, don’t you? Come, be plain; you believe it is time for me to think +of retiring.” “I should not have been so bold,” said I, “as to speak so +freely if your grace had not commanded me; I do no more, therefore, than +obey you, and I most humbly beg that you will not be offended at my +freedom.” “God forbid,” cried he, with precipitation, “God forbid that I +should find fault with it. In so doing I should be very unjust. I don’t +at all take it ill that you speak your sentiment; it is your sentiment only +that I find bad. I have been most egregiously deceived in your narrow +understanding.”</p> + +<p>Though I was disconcerted, I endeavored to find some mitigation in order +to set things to rights again; but how is it possible to appease an incensed +author, one especially who has been accustomed to hear himself praised? +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page183" id="page183"></a>183</span> +“Say no more, my child,” said he, “you are yet too raw to make proper +distinctions. Know that I never composed a better homily than that which +you disapprove, for my genius, thank heaven, hath as yet lost nothing of +its vigor. Henceforth I will make a better choice of a confidant and keep +one of greater ability than you. Go,” added he, pushing me by the +shoulders out of his closet, “go tell my treasurer to give you a hundred +ducats, and may heaven conduct you with that sum. Adieu, Mr. Gil +Blas, I wish you all manner of prosperity, with a little more taste.”</p> +</div> + +<p>It would be hard, we think, to overmatch anywhere in +literature the shrewd but genial satire, the quiet, effective +comedy, of the foregoing. How deep it gently goes, probing +and searching into the secret springs of our common human +nature! The cool, the frontless calculation of self-interest on +Gil Blas’s part throughout the whole course of his conduct of +the relation between himself and the archbishop is perfectly +characteristic of the impudent easy-heartedness everywhere +displayed of this conscienceless adventurer. It illustrates +the consummate art of the author that the whole is so managed +that, while you do not sympathize with his hero, you still are +by no means forced to feel unplesantly offended at him. This +is a great feat of lullaby to the conscience of the reader; for +the character of the work is such that if, in perusing it, you +should throughout keep vigilantly obeying the wholesome +safeguard injunction of the apostle, “Abhor that which is +evil,” you would be so busy doing the duty of abhorring as +seriously to interfere with your enjoyment of the comedy. To +get the pleasure or the profit, and at the same time leave the +taint, that is the problem often in studying the masterpieces +of literature. As generally, so in the case of “Gil Blas,” it +is a problem perhaps best to be solved by being still more +intent on leaving the taint than on getting the pleasure or +the profit.</p> + +<p>On the whole, the reading of “Gil Blas” entire is a task +or a diversion that may safely in most cases be postponed to +the leisure of late life. The whole is such, or is not so +good, as the part that has here been shown. It is an +instance in which the building is very fairly represented +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page184" id="page184"></a>184</span> +by a single specimen brick. Multiply what you have seen by +the necessary factor, and you have the total product with little +or no loss.</p> + +<p>It ought to be added that “Gil Blas,” as in local color and +in what might be styled medium not French at all, is also in +general character the least French of French productions. It +seems almost as if expressly written to be part of what Goethe +taught his disciples to look for, namely, a “world-literature.” +“Gil Blas,” though French in form, is in essence French only +because it is human. And for the same reason it is of every +other nation as well. It possesses, therefore, as French +literature a unique and, so to speak, paradoxical importance +in not being French literature; it is, in fact, perhaps quite +the only French book that is less national than universal.</p> + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="center f120">XV.</p> + +<p class="center"><span class="chap2">MONTESQUIEU</span>: 1689-1755; <span class="chap2">DE TOCQUEVILLE</span>: 1805-1859.</p> + +<p><span class="sc chap1">To</span> Montesquieu belongs the glory of being the founder, +or inventor, of the philosophy of history. Bossuet might +dispute this palm with him; but Bossuet, in his “Discourse +on Universal History,” only exemplified the principle which +it was left to Montesquieu afterward more consciously to +develop.</p> + +<p>Three books, still living, are associated with the name of +Montesquieu—“The Persian Letters,” “The Greatness and +the Decline of the Romans,” and “The Spirit of Laws.” +“The Persian Letters” are a series of epistles purporting to +be written by a Persian sojourning in Paris and observing +the manners and morals of the people around him. The idea +is ingenious; though the ingenuity, we suppose, was not +original with Montesquieu. Such letters afford the writer of +them an admirable advantage for telling satire on contemporary +follies. This production of Montesquieu became the +suggestive example to Goldsmith for his “Citizen of the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page185" id="page185"></a>185</span> +World; or, Letters of a Chinese Philosopher.” We shall have +here no room for illustrative citations from Montesquieu’s +“Persian Letters.”</p> + +<p>The second work, that on the “Greatness and the Decline +of the Romans,” is less a history than a series of essays on the +history of Rome. It is brilliant, striking, suggestive. It +aims to be philosophical rather than historical. It deals in +bold generalizations. The spirit of it is, perhaps, too constantly +and too profoundly hostile to the Romans. Something +of the ancient Gallic enmity—as if a derivation from +that last and noblest of the Gauls, Vercingetorix—seems to +animate the Frenchman in discussing the character and the career +of the great conquering nation of antiquity. The critical +element is the element chiefly wanting to make Montesquieu’s +work equal to the demands of modern historical scholarship. +Montesquieu was, however, a full worthy forerunner of the +philosophical historians of to-day. We give a single extract +in illustration—an extract condensed from the chapter in +which the author analyzes and expounds the foreign policy +of the Romans. The generalizations are bold and brilliant,—too +bold, probably, for strict critical truth. (We use, for +our extract, the recent translation by Mr. Jehu Baker, who +enriches his volume with original notes of no little interest +and value.) Montesquieu:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>This body [the Roman Senate] erected itself into a tribunal for the +judgment of all peoples, and at the end of every war it decided upon the +punishment and the recompenses which it conceived each to be entitled +to. It took away parts of the lands of the conquered states, in order to +bestow them upon the allies of Rome, thus accomplishing two objects at +once—attaching to Rome those kings of whom she had little to fear and +much to hope, and weakening those of whom she had little to hope and +all to fear.</p> + +<p>Allies were employed to make war upon an enemy, but the destroyers +were at once destroyed in their turn. Philip was beaten with the half of +the Ætolians, who were immediately afterward annihilated for having +joined themselves to Antiochus. Antiochus was beaten with the help of +the Rhodians, who, after having received signal rewards, were humiliated +forever, under the pretext that they had requested that peace might be +made with Perseus.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page186" id="page186"></a>186</span></p> + +<p>When they had many enemies on hand at the same time, they accorded +a truce to the weakest, which considered itself happy in obtaining such a +respite, counting it for much to be able to secure a postponement of its ruin.</p> + +<p>When they were engaged in a great war, the Senate affected to ignore +all sorts of injuries, and silently awaited the arrival of the proper time for +punishment; when, if it saw that only some individuals were culpable, it +refused to punish them, choosing rather to hold the entire nation as +criminal, and thus reserve to itself a useful vengeance.</p> + +<p>As they inflicted inconceivable evils upon their enemies, there were not +many leagues formed against them; for those who were most distant +from danger were not willing to draw nearer to it. The consequence of +this was, that they were rarely attacked; whilst, on the other hand, they +constantly made war at such time, in such manner, and against such +peoples, as suited their convenience; and, among the many nations which +they assailed, there were very few that would not have submitted to every +species of injury at their hands if they had been willing to leave them in +peace.</p> + +<p>It being their custom to speak always as masters, the ambassadors whom +they sent to nations which had not yet felt their power were certain to be +insulted; and this was an infallible pretext for a new war.</p> + +<p>As they never made peace in good faith, and as, with the design of +universal conquest, their treaties were, properly speaking, only suspensions +of war, they always put conditions in them which began the ruin of +the states which accepted them. They either provided that the garrisons +of strong places should be withdrawn, or that the number of troops should +be limited, or that the horses or the elephants of the vanquished party +should be delivered over to themselves; and if the defeated people was +powerful on sea, they compelled it to burn its vessels, and sometimes to +remove, and occupy a place of habitation farther inland.</p> + +<p>After having destroyed the armies of a prince, they ruined his finances by +excessive taxes, or by the imposition of a tribute under the pretext of requiring +him to pay the expenses of the war—a new species of tyranny, +which forced the vanquished sovereign to oppress his own subjects, and +thus to alienate their affection.</p> + +<p>When they granted peace to a king, they took some of his brothers or +children as hostages. This gave them the means of troubling his kingdom +at their pleasure. If they held the nearest heir, they intimidated the +possessor; if only a prince of a remote degree, they used him to stir up +revolts against the legitimate ruler.</p> + +<p>Whenever any people or prince withdrew their obedience from their +sovereign, they immediately accorded to them the title of allies of the Roman +people, and thus rendered them sacred and inviolable; so that there +was no king, however great he might be, who would for a moment be +sure of his subjects, or even of his family.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page187" id="page187"></a>187</span></p> + +<p>Although the title of Roman ally was a species of servitude, it was, +nevertheless, very much sought after; for the possession of this title made +it certain that the recipients of it would receive injuries from the Romans +only, and there was ground for the hope that this class of injuries would +be rendered less grievous than they would otherwise be.</p> + +<p>Thus, there was no service which nations and kings were not ready to +perform, nor any humiliation which they did not submit to, in order to +obtain this distinction....</p> + +<p>These customs were not merely some particular facts which happened +at hazard. They were permanently established principles, as may +be readily seen; for the maxims which the Romans acted upon against +the greatest powers were precisely those which they had employed in +the beginning of their career against the small cities which surrounded +them....</p> + +<p>But nothing served Rome more effectually than the respect which she +inspired among all nations. She immediately reduced kings to silence, +and rendered them as dumb. With the latter, it was not a mere question +of the degree of their power; their very persons were attacked. To risk +a war with Rome was to expose themselves to captivity, to death, and to +the infamy of a triumph. Thus it was that kings, who lived in pomp +and luxury, did not dare to look with steady eyes upon the Roman people, +and, losing courage, they hoped, by their patience and their obsequiousness, +to obtain some postponement of the calamities with which they were +menaced.</p> +</div> + +<p>The “Spirit of Laws” is probably to be considered the +masterpiece of Montesquieu. It is our duty, however, to say +that this work is quite differently estimated by different authorities. +By some, it is praised in terms of the highest admiration, +as a great achievement in wide and wise political +or juridical philosophy. By others, it is dismissed very +lightly, as the ambitious, or, rather, pretentious, effort of a +superficial man, a showy mere sciolist.</p> + +<p>The philosophical aim and ambition of the author at once +appear in the inquiry which he institutes for the three several +animating <i>principles</i> of the several forms of government +respectively distinguished by him; namely, democracy (or +republicanism), monarchy, and despotism. What these three +principles are will be seen from the following statement: +“As <i>virtue</i> is necessary in a republic, and in a monarchy +<i>honor</i>, so <i>fear</i> is necessary in a despotic government.” The +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page188" id="page188"></a>188</span> +meaning is that in republics virtue possessed by the citizens +is the spring of national prosperity; that under a monarchy +the desire of preferment at the hands of the sovereign is what +quickens men to perform services to the State; that despotism +thrives by fear inspired in the breasts of those subject to +its sway.</p> + +<p>To illustrate the freely discursive character of the work, +we give the whole of chapter sixteen—there are chapters still +shorter—in Book VII.:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p class="center">AN EXCELLENT CUSTOM OF THE SAMNITES.</p> + +<p>The Samnites had a custom which in so small a republic, and especially +in their situation, must have been productive of admirable effects. The +young people were all convened in one place and their conduct was examined. +He that was declared the best of the whole assembly had leave +given him to take which girl he pleased for his wife; the second best +chose after him, and so on. Admirable institution! The only recommendation +that young men could have on this occasion was their virtue +and the service done their country. He who had the greatest share of +these endowments chose which girl he liked out of the whole nation. Love, +beauty, chastity, virtue, birth, and even wealth itself, were all, in some +measure, the dowry of virtue. A nobler and grander recompense, less +chargeable to a petty state and more capable of influencing both sexes, +could scarce be imagined.</p> + +<p>The Samnites were descended from the Lacedemonians; and Plato, +whose institutes are only an improvement of those of Lycurgus, enacted +nearly the same law.</p> +</div> + +<p>The relation of the foregoing chapter to the subject indicated +in the title of the book is sufficiently obscure and remote +for a work like this, purporting to be philosophical. +What relation exists seems to be found in the fact that the +custom described tends to produce that popular virtue by +which republics flourish. But the information, at all events, +is curious and interesting.</p> + +<p>The following paragraphs, taken from the second chapter +of Book XIV., contain in germ a large part of the philosophy +underlying M. Taine’s essays on the history of literature:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p class="center">OF THE DIFFERENCE OF MEN IN DIFFERENT CLIMATES.</p> + +<p>A cold air constringes the extremities of the external fibers of the body; +this increases their elasticity, and favors the return of the blood from the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page189" id="page189"></a>189</span> +extreme parts to the heart. It contracts those very fibers; consequently +it increases also their force. On the contrary, a warm air relaxes and +lengthens the extremes of the fibers; of course it diminishes their +force and elasticity.</p> + +<p>People are therefore more vigorous in cold climates. Here the action +of the heart and the reaction of the extremities of the fibers are better +performed, the temperature of the humors is greater, the blood moves +freer toward the heart, and reciprocally the heart has more power. This +superiority of strength must produce various effects; for instance, a +greater boldness—that is, more courage; a greater sense of superiority—that +is, less desire of revenge; a greater opinion of security—that is, +more frankness, less suspicion, policy, and cunning. In short, this must +be productive of very different tempers. Put a man into a close, warm +place, and for the reasons above given he will feel a great faintness. If +under this circumstance you propose a bold enterprise to him, I believe +you will find him very little disposed towards it; his present weakness +will throw him into a despondency; he will be afraid of every thing, being +in a state of total incapacity. The inhabitants of warm countries are, +like old men, timorous; the people in cold countries are, like young men, +brave.</p> +</div> + +<p>In the following extract, from chapter five, Book XXIV., +the climatic theory is again applied, this time to the matter +of religion, in a style that makes one think of Buckle’s +“History of Civilization”:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>When the Christian religion, two centuries ago, became <span class="correction" title="amended from unhappilly">unhappily</span> divided +into Catholic and Protestant, the people of the north embraced the +Protestant, and those south adhered still to the Catholic.</p> + +<p>The reason is plain: the people of the north have, and will forever +have, a spirit of liberty and independence, which the people of the south +have not; and therefore a religion which has no visible head is more +agreeable to the independency of the climate than that which has one.</p> +</div> + +<p>Climate is a “great matter” with Montesquieu. In treating +of the subject of a State changing its religion, he says:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>The ancient religion is connected with the constitution of the kingdom, +and the new one is not; the former <i>agrees with the climate</i>, and very +often the new one is opposite to it.</p> +</div> + +<p>For the Christian religion, Montesquieu professes profound +respect—rather as a pagan political philosopher might do, +than as one intimately acquainted with it by a personal experience +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page190" id="page190"></a>190</span> +of his own. His spirit, however, is humane and liberal. +It is the spirit of Montaigne, it is the spirit of Voltaire, +speaking in the idiom of this different man, and of this different +man as influenced by his different circumstances. +Montesquieu had had practical proof of the importance to +himself of not offending the dominant hierarchy.</p> + +<p>On the whole, concerning Montesquieu it may justly be +said, that of all political philosophers, he, if not the profoundest, +is at least one of the most interesting; if not the +most accurate and critical, at least one of the most brilliant +and suggestive.</p> + +<p>As to Montesquieu the man, it is perhaps sufficient to say +that he seems to have been a very good type of the French +gentleman of quality. An interesting story told by Sainte-Beuve +reveals, if true, a side at once attractive and repellent +of his personal character. Montesquieu at Marseilles employed +a young boatman, whose manner and speech indicated +more cultivation than was to have been looked for in one +plying his vocation. The philosopher learned his history. +The youth’s father was at the time a captive in one of the +Barbary States, and this son of his was now working to earn +money for his ransom. The stranger listened apparently +unmoved, and went his way. Some months later, home +came the father, released he knew not how, to his surprised +and overjoyed family. The son guessed the secret, and, +meeting Montesquieu a year or so after in Marseilles, threw +himself in grateful tears at his feet, begged the generous +benefactor to reveal his name and to come and see the family +he had blessed. Montesquieu, calmly expressing himself +ignorant of the whole business, actually shook the young +fellow off, and turned away without betraying the least emotion. +It was not till after the cold-blooded philanthropist’s +death that the fact came out.</p> + +<p>A tranquil, happy temperament was Montesquieu’s. He +would seem to have come as near as any one ever did to being +the natural master of his part in life. But the world +was too much for him; as it is for all—at last. Witness the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page191" id="page191"></a>191</span> +contrast of these two different sets of expressions from his +pen. In earlier manhood he says:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Study has been for me the sovereign remedy for all the dissatisfactions +of life, having never had a sense of chagrin that an hour’s reading would +not dissipate. I wake in the morning with a secret joy to behold the +light. I behold the light with a kind of ravishment, and all the rest of +the day I am happy.</p> +</div> + +<p>In late life, the brave, cheerful tone had declined to this:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>I am broken down with fatigue; I must repose for the rest of my life</p> +</div> + +<p>Then it took a further fall to this:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>I have expected to kill myself for the last three months, finishing an +addition to my work on the origin and changes of the French civil law. +It will take only three hours to read it; but, I assure you, it has been +such a labor to me, that my hair has turned white under it all.</p> +</div> + +<p>Finally it touches nadir:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>It [his work] has almost cost me my life; I must rest; I can work no +more.</p> + +<p>My candles are all burned out; I have set off all my cartridges.</p> +</div> + +<p>When Montesquieu died, only Diderot, among Parisian +men of letters, followed him to his tomb.</p> + +<p class="pt1">Belonging to an entirely different world, literary, social, +political, from that in which Montesquieu flourished—more +than one full century, and that a French century, had intervened—was +a man kindred in genius with him, to whom, +for the double reason that his intellectual rank deserves it, +and that the subject of his principal work is one to command +especially the interest of Americans, we feel compelled +to devote serious, though it must be hastening, attention. We +refer to Alexis de <span class="sc">Tocqueville</span>, the author of that famous +book, “Democracy in America.” We can most conveniently +discharge our duty by letting their likeness in intellectual +character and achievement bridge for us the chasm of time +between the two men, and thus considering the later in +conjunction here with the earlier author.</p> + +<p>“Democracy in America” is a most remarkable book to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page192" id="page192"></a>192</span> +have been, as in fact it was, the production of a young man +of thirty. It was the fruit of a tour in the United States +undertaken by the writer ostensibly to visit in an official +capacity the prisons of the new nation that France had +helped create, in a kind of counterpoise to England, on this +side of the Atlantic. The inquisitive young French inspector +inspected much more than the prison system of the lusty infant +republic. He observed and studied American institutions +and manners at large, in order to lay a base line for the +boldest speculative triangulation into the probable political +future of the world.</p> + +<p>Tocqueville held the belief that democracy, as a system of +government, was destined to prevail universally. He wrote +his observations and reflections, and he made his guesses, +primarily for the instruction of France. So confident was +his conviction on the subject of democratic destiny for his +own country at least, that, while as yet the apparently profound +peace was undisturbed of the monarchical reaction +under Louis Philippe, he predicted an impending revolution; +predicted in fact the revolution which actually occurred +in 1848. France, after that date, both during the prophet’s +life, and subsequently to his death, experienced her vibrations +from, one form of government to another; but no one +can now deny that thus far the resultant tendency is in favor +of Tocqueville’s bold speculative forecast of the political +future of his nation. The same thing is true, we think, +more broadly, of the world in general; and of this Brazil +apparently furnishes a striking late instance in confirmation.</p> + +<p>“Democracy in America” is a classic in literature. Its +credit is highest with those best qualified to form a judgment. +But its fame is universal. It associates its author in +rank of genius with the foremost political philosophers of +the world—with Machiavelli, with Montesquieu, with Burke. +Every American aiming at a political career, every American +journalist having to discuss political subjects should be +familiar with this book. Mr. Bryce’s more recent work on +the United States, which has sprung so suddenly into such +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page193" id="page193"></a>193</span> +commanding fame, by no means supersedes, though it does +most usefully supplement, the monumental treatise of Tocqueville—a +name generally miscalled “De Tocqueville.”</p> + +<p>Of Alexis de Tocqueville’s life it need only be said that, +sprung of a noble French family, he ran a respectable, +though neither a brilliant, nor a very influential, career in the +politics of his country; until, discontented with the second +empire, that of the usurper, Louis Napoleon, he retired, about +1851, from public service and devoted himself to labor with +the pen. His second chief work was “The Ancient Régime,” +published in 1856, three years before his death.</p> + +<p>We cannot probably make a better brief selection, at once +more characteristic and more interesting, from Tocqueville’s +“Democracy in America” than by presenting in large part +the chapter entitled: “Causes which render democratic +armies weaker than other armies at the outset of a campaign, +and more formidable in a protracted warfare.”</p> + +<p>A striking illustrative light was destined to be thrown by +momentous subsequent history in our own land on the sagacity +and justness of the speculations hazarded here by the +author on his particular topic.</p> + +<p>It would not be far wrong to consider that Americans, +by the great civil war, furnished, in a single historical case, +the double example required for complete illustration of +Tocqueville’s point: an example of the democratic, together +with an example of the aristocratic, community engaging in +war after a long peace. Readers may make each his own +comparison of the Frenchman’s philosophical speculations +with the actual facts that emerged in the course of our +national strife:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Any army is in danger of being conquered at the outset of a campaign, +after a long peace; any army which has long been engaged in warfare +has strong chances of victory: this truth is peculiarly applicable to democratic +armies. In aristocracies the military profession, being a privileged +career, is held in honor even in time of peace. Men of great talents, great +attainments, and great ambition embrace it; the army is in all respects on +a level with the nation, and frequently above it.</p> + +<p>We have seen, on the contrary, that among a democratic people the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page194" id="page194"></a>194</span> +choicer minds of the nation are gradually drawn away from the military +profession to seek, by other paths, distinction, power, and especially +wealth. After a long peace—and in democratic ages the periods of peace +are long—the army is always inferior to the country itself. In this state +it is called into active service: and until war has altered it, there is +danger for the country as well as for the army.</p> + +<p>I have shown that in democratic armies, and in time of peace, the rule of +seniority is the supreme and inflexible law of advancement. This is not only +a consequence, as I have before observed, of the constitution of these +armies, but of the constitution of the people, <i>and it will always occur</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p>The words italicized by us above illustrate the intrepid +firmness of our author in staking the fortune of an opinion +of his upon the risk of confutation by future fact. He +affirms, it will be seen, absolutely, and does not seek to save +himself by a clause.</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Again, as among these nations the officer derives his position in the +country solely from his position in the army, and as he draws all the distinction +and the competency he enjoys from the same source, he does not +retire from his profession or is not superannuated till toward the extreme +close of life. The consequence of these two causes is that when a democratic +people goes to war after a long interval of peace all the leading +officers of the army are old men. I speak not only of the generals, but +of the non-commissioned officers, who have most of them been stationary, +or have only advanced step by step. It may be remarked with surprise +that in a democratic army after a long peace all the soldiers are mere +boys, and all the superior officers in declining years; so that the former +are wanting in experience, the latter in vigor. This is a strong element +of defeat, <i>for the first condition of successful generalship is youth</i>. I should +not have ventured to say so if the greatest captain of modern times had +not made the observation. [The unequaled success of the aged Von +Moltke in the conduct of the Prussian war against France in 1870 is here +a curious comment on the text.]</p> + +<p class="center" style="letter-spacing: 3em;">*********</p> + +<p>I am therefore of opinion that when a democratic people engages in a +war after a long peace, it incurs much more risk of defeat than any other +nation; but it ought not easily to be cast down by its reverses, for the +chances of success for such an army are increased by the duration of the +war. When a war has at length by its long continuance roused the +whole community from their peaceful occupations and ruined their minor +undertakings the same passions which made them attach so much importance +to the maintenance of peace will be turned to arms. War, after it +has destroyed all modes of speculation, becomes itself the great and sole +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page195" id="page195"></a>195</span> +speculation, to which all the ardent and ambitious desires which equality +engenders are exclusively directed. Hence it is that the self-same democratic +nations which are so reluctant to engage in hostilities sometimes +perform prodigious achievements when once they have taken the field.</p> + +<p>As the war attracts more and more of public attention, and is seen to +create high reputations and great fortunes in a short space of time, the +choicest spirits of the nation enter the military profession. All the enterprising, +proud, and martial minds, no longer of the aristocracy solely, but +of the whole country, are drawn in this direction. As the number of +competitors for military honors is immense, and war drives every man to +his proper level, great generals are always sure to spring up. A long +war produces upon a democratic army the same effects that a revolution +produces upon a people; it breaks through regulations, and allows extraordinary +men to rise above the common level. Those officers whose +bodies and minds have grown old in peace are removed, or superannuated, +or they die. In their stead a host of young men are pressing on whose +frames are already hardened, whose desires are extended and inflamed by +active service. They are bent on advancement at all hazards, and perpetual +advancement. They are followed by others with the same passions +and desires, and after these are others yet, unlimited by aught but +the size of the army. The principle of equality opens the door of ambition +to all, and death provides chances for ambition. Death is constantly thinning +the ranks, making vacancies, closing and opening the career of arms.</p> + +<p>There is, moreover, a secret connection between the military character +and the character of democracies which war brings to light. The men of +democracies are naturally passionately eager to acquire what they covet, +and to enjoy it on easy conditions. They, for the most part, worship +chance, and are much less afraid of death than of difficulty. This is the +spirit which they bring to commerce and manufactures; and this same +spirit, carried with them to the field of battle, induces them willingly to +expose their lives in order to secure in a moment the rewards of victory. +No kind of greatness is more pleasing to the imagination of a democratic +people than military greatness—a greatness of vivid and sudden luster, +obtained without toil, by nothing but the risk of life.</p> + +<p>Thus, while the interest and the tastes of the members of a democratic +community divert them from war, their habits of mind fit them for carrying +on war well; they soon make good soldiers when they are roused from +their business and their enjoyments.</p> + +<p>If peace is peculiarly hurtful to democratic armies, war secures to them +advantages which no other armies ever possess; and these advantages, +however little felt at first, cannot fail in the end to give them the victory. +An aristocratic nation which, in a contest with a democratic people, does +not succeed in ruining the latter at the outset of the war always runs a +great risk of being conquered by it.</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page196" id="page196"></a>196</span></p> + +<p>“Democracy in America” must be credited with a very +important teaching influence on the political thought of +mankind. This influence is more than the impulse of +stimulating speculation. It is a practical force fruitful of +solid political result. The present writer remembers hearing +Tocqueville taught to eager audiences of French students +in the Collège de France, at Paris, by M. Laboulaye, a popular +professor in that national institution. This was while in +France the second empire remained as yet apparently firm on +its base, and while in this country the great duel between +section and section remained as yet apparently doubtful. The +applause with which the lecturer’s praise of free institutions +was greeted signified much. It signified that the leaven of +Tocqueville’s ideas was working in those youthful hearts. +(M. Laboulaye’s lectures, which possessed original merit of +their own, were finally published in a volume.) Present +republican France owes, in no despicable degree, its existence +to the fact that Tocqueville had visited, and reported, and interpreted +the United States to his countrymen. Perhaps, also, +it is true that the American Union is standing to-day partly +because the popular sentiment created by Tocqueville in +France favorable to American democracy was too strong, too +vivid, and too universal, for the emperor safely to disregard +it, in imperial acts, long threatened, hostile to the integrity of +the republic. If Tocqueville’s guess is right, if democratic +institutions are indeed ultimately to prevail throughout the +world, certainly it cannot be denied that the prophet himself +will have done his part toward fulfilling his prophecy.</p> + +<p>We feel that we shall have done scant justice to the high +and serious spirit who forms the subject of these concluding +pages of the present chapter, if we do not go from the one +work itself, by example out of which we have shown him, to +expressions of his in his correspondence that may let us a +little deeper into the personal secret of the man himself. +Tocqueville, although, as we have intimated, a believer in +the democratic destiny of the world, was not such in virtue +of being a democrat by preference himself. On the contrary, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page197" id="page197"></a>197</span> +his own aristocratic blood favoring it perhaps, his individual +choice would apparently have gone, not for, but against, democracy. +This seems to be indicated in what follows, written +to a friend concerning the purpose of his work, “Democracy +in America”:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>I wished to show what in our days a democratic people really was, +and, by a rigorously accurate picture, to produce a double effect on the +men of my day. To those who have fancied an ideal democracy, as a brilliant +and easily realized dream, I undertook to show that they had clothed +the picture in false colors; that the democratic government which they +desired, though it may procure real benefits to the people who can bear it, +has none of the elevated features with which their imaginations would endow +it; and moreover, that such a government can only maintain itself +under certain conditions of faith, enlightenment, and private morality, +which we have not yet reached, and which we must labor to attain before +grasping their political results.</p> + +<p>To men for whom the word “democracy” is the synonym of overthrow, +spoliation, anarchy, and murder, I have endeavored to prove that +it was possible for democracy to govern society, and yet to respect property, +to recognize rights, to spare liberty, to honor religion; that if democratic +government is less fitted than other forms to develop some of the +finest faculties of the human soul, it has yet its noble and its lovely features; +and that perhaps, after all, it may be the will of God to distribute +a moderate degree of happiness to the mass of men, and not to concentrate +great felicity and great perfection on a few. I have tried, moreover, to +demonstrate that, whatever might be their opinion upon these points, the +time for discussing them was past; that the world marched onward day +by day towards a condition of social equality, and dragged them and every +one along with it; that their only choice now lay between evils henceforth +inevitable; that the practical question of this day was not whether +you would have an aristocracy or a democracy, but whether you would +have a democratic society, without poetry and without grandeur, but with +morality and order; or a democratic society disorganized and depraved, +delivered over to a furious frenzy, or else bent beneath a yoke heavier than +any that have weighed upon mankind since the fall of the Roman Empire.</p> +</div> + +<p>The “Commune” in France, “Nihilism” in Russia, “Socialism” +in Germany, “Nationalism” in the United States, are +all of them, each in its own different way, remarkable historical +commentaries on the prophetic political forecast contained +in the foregoing letter.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page198" id="page198"></a>198</span></p> + +<p>Here is ripe practical wisdom occurring in a letter written +by Tocqueville about two years before his death:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>You know that my most settled principle is, that there is no period of +a man’s life at which he is entitled to <i>rest</i>; and that effort out of one’s +self, and still more above one’s self, is as necessary in age as in youth—nay, +even more necessary. Man in this world is like a traveler who is +always walking towards a colder region, and who is therefore obliged to +be more active as he goes farther north. The great malady of the soul +is <i>cold</i>. And in order to counteract and combat this formidable illness, he +must keep up the activity of his mind not only by work, but by contact +with his fellow-men and with the world. Retirement from the great conflicts +of the world is desirable no doubt for those whose strength is on the +decline; but absolute retirement, away from the stir of life, is not desirable +for any man, nor at any age.</p> +</div> + +<p>His experience as practical politician made him write thus:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>It is a sad side of humanity that politics uncovers. We may say, without +making any exception, that nothing there is either thoroughly pure +or thoroughly disinterested; nothing really generous, nothing hearty or +spontaneous. There is no <i>youth</i>, even among the youngest; and something +cold, selfish, and premeditated may be detected even in the most +apparently passionate proceedings.</p> +</div> + +<p>There was so much wholesome reaction in Tocqueville’s +moral nature that, notwithstanding the disparaging views, on +his part, thus revealed of human worth, he never became +cynical. He could even write as follows to a friend of his +who, he thought, went too far in decrying mankind:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>You make humanity out worse than it is. I have seen many countries, +studied many men, mingled in many public transactions, and the result of +my observation is not what you suppose. Men in general are neither very +good nor very bad; they are simply <i>mediocre</i>. I have never closely examined +even the best without discovering faults and frailties invisible at +first. I have always in the end found among the worst certain elements +and <i>holding-points</i> of honesty. There are two men in every man: it is +childish to see only one; it is sad and unjust to look only at the other.... +Man, with all his vices, his weaknesses, and his virtues, this strange +mixture of good and bad, of low and lofty, of sincere and depraved, is, +after all, the object most deserving of study, interest, pity, affection, and +admiration to be found upon this earth; and since we have no angels, we +cannot attach ourselves to anything greater or worthier than our fellow-creatures.</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page199" id="page199"></a>199</span></p> + +<p>On the whole, Alexis de Tocqueville’s own practice in life +showed that he wrote not only with sincerity, but with +earnestness, when he wrote those words. It was not of such +Frenchmen as was Tocqueville that the author of that heavy +sentence on France could have been thinking—that the +French character was made up without conscience. We, for +our part, cannot but maintain that Tocqueville is as much +more solid as he may be less brilliant than his predecessor +and fellow, Montesquieu. They were both too theoretical; +that is, too exclusively French as distinguished, for instance, +from English, in political philosophy. They began to be +deductive, when to be inductive yet longer would have been +their wiser part. In a word—like Guizot, too, the author of the +“History of Civilization,” and the minister of Citizen-King +Louis Philippe—both Montesquieu and Tocqueville failed of +escaping what the French would call the defect of their +quality.</p> + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="center f120">XV.</p> + +<p class="chap2 center">VOLTAIRE.</p> + +<p class="center">1694-1778.</p> + +<p><span class="sc chap1">By</span> the volume and the variety, joined to the unfailing +brilliancy, of his production; by his prodigious effectiveness; +and by his universal fame, Voltaire is undoubtedly entitled +to rank first, with no fellow, among the eighteenth-century +literary men, not merely of France, but of the world. He +was not a great man, he produced no great single work, but +he must nevertheless be pronounced a great writer. There is +hardly any species of composition to which, in the long +course of his activity, he did not turn his talent. It cannot +be said that he succeeded splendidly in all; but in some +he succeeded splendidly, and he failed abjectly in none. +There is not a great thought, and there is not a flat expression, +in the whole bulk of his multitudinous and multifarious +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page200" id="page200"></a>200</span> +works. Read him wherever you will, in the ninety-seven +volumes (equivalent, probably in the aggregate, to two +hundred volumes like the present) which, in one leading +edition, collect his productions, you may often find him +superficial, you may often find him untrustworthy, you will +certainly often find him flippant, but not less certainly you +will never find him obscure, and you will never find him +dull. The clearness, the vivacity of this man’s mind were +something almost preternatural. So, too, were his readiness, +his versatility, his audacity. He had no distrust of himself, +no awe of his fellow-men, no reverence for God, to deter him +from any attempt with his pen, however presuming. If a +state ode were required, it should be ready to order at +twelve to-morrow; if an epic poem—to be classed with the +“Iliad” and the “Æneid “—the “Henriade” was promptly +forthcoming, to answer the demand. He did not shrink +from flouting a national idol, by freely finding fault with +Corneille; and he lightly undertook the task of extinguishing +a venerable form of Christianity, simply with pricks, +innumerably repeated, of his tormenting pen.</p> + +<p>A very large part of the volume of Voltaire’s production +consists of letters, written by him to correspondents perhaps +more numerous, and more various in rank, from kings +on the throne down to scribblers in the garret, than ever, +in any other case, exchanged such communications with a +literary man. Another considerable proportion of his work in +literature took the form of pamphlets, either anonymously or +pseudonymously published, in which this master-spirit of +intellectual disturbance and ferment found it convenient, or +advantageous, or safe, to promulge and propagate his ideas. +A shower of such publications was incessantly escaping from +Voltaire’s pen. More formal and regular, more confessedly +ambitious, literary essays of his, were poems in every kind—heroic, +mock-heroic, lyric, elegiac, comic, tragic, satiric—historical +and biographical monographs, and tales or novels +of a peculiar class.</p> + +<p>Voltaire’s poetry does not count for very much now. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page201" id="page201"></a>201</span> +Still, its first success was so great that it will always remain +an important topic in literary history. Besides this, it really +is, in some of its kinds, remarkable work. Voltaire’s epic +verse is almost an exception, needful to be made, from our +assertion that this author is nowhere dull. “The Henriade” +comes dangerously near that mark. It is a tasteless reproduction +of Lucan’s faults, with little reproduction of Lucan’s +virtues. Voltaire’s comedies are bright and witty, but they +are not laughter-provoking; and they do not possess the elemental +and creative character of Shakespeare’s or Molière’s +work. His tragedies are better; but they do not avoid that +cast of mechanical which seems necessarily to belong to +poetry produced by talent, however consummate, unaccompanied +with genius. Voltaire’s histories are luminous and +readable narratives, but they cannot claim the merit either +of critical accuracy or of philosophic breadth and insight. +His letters would have to be read in considerable volume in +order to furnish a full satisfactory idea of the author. His +tales, finally, afford the most available, and, on the whole, +likewise the best means of arriving shortly and easily at a +knowledge of Voltaire.</p> + +<p>But, before coming to these, we owe it to our readers, +and perhaps to ourselves, to justify with example what, a +little way back, we said of Voltaire as epic poet.</p> + +<p>Voltaire was profoundly influenced by his personal observations +of what England was, alike in her literary, her political, +and her theological aspects. Voltairism may, in fact, be pronounced +a transplantation from English soil. It was English +deism “mixed with cunning sparks of”—French wit. A very +short passage from the “Henriade” will suffice the double +purpose of showing what in quality of style that poem of +Voltaire’s is, and of suggesting its author’s sense of debt to +the England which, for its freedom and its free-thinking, he +so much admired. The reader will not fail to note the skill +with which Voltaire manages in praising another country to +give a very broad hint to his own. The old-fashioned formal +heroic couplet, with rhyme, in which the following +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page202" id="page202"></a>202</span> +passage appears translated, is not inapposite to the artificial +cast and style of the original. Various passions, such as +“Fear,” are not only personified in the “Henriade,” but made +to play the part of veritable characters in the action of the +poem. Supernatural interferences occur. History is boldly +fabricated or falsified at the pleasure of the poet. Of this +audacious freedom the passage from which we take our extract +presents an instance. Voltaire sends his hero on a +mythical mission to England to solicit help from Queen +Elizabeth. He here meets every reader’s familiar old friend, +“a venerable hermit,” who instructs him in English history +and manners. Voltaire wrote prefaces and notes to vindicate +his epic practices. He went to Virgil for precedents. +Lucan he censured for not making free enough with his +history. “Eliza” is, of course, Queen Elizabeth, and +“Bourbon,” is the hero of the epic, Henry IV. of France, +from whose name, it need not be said, comes the title, “Henriade.” +We quote from the first canto of the poem:</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>A virgin queen the regal scepter sway’d,</p> +<p>And fate itself her sovereign power obeyed.</p> +<p>The wise Eliza, whose directing hand</p> +<p>Had the great scale of Europe at command;</p> +<p>And ruled a people that alike disdain</p> +<p>Or freedom’s ease, or slavery’s iron chain.</p> +<p>Of every loss her reign oblivion bred;</p> +<p>There, flocks unnumbered graze each flowery mead.</p> +<p>Britannia’s vessels rule the azure seas,</p> +<p>Corn fills her plains, and fruitage loads her trees.</p> +<p>From pole to pole her gallant navies sweep</p> +<p>The waters of the tributary deep.</p> +<p>On Thames’s banks each flower of genius thrives,</p> +<p>There sports the Muse, and Mars his thunder gives.</p> +<p>Three different powers at Westminster appear,</p> +<p>And all admire the ties which join them there.</p> +<p>Whom interest parts the laws together bring,</p> +<p>The people’s deputies, the peers and king.</p> +<p>One whole they form, whose terror wide extends</p> +<p>To neighboring nations, and their rights defends.</p> +<p>Thrice happy times, when grateful subjects show</p> +<p>That loyal, warm affection which is due! + <span class="pagenum"><a name="page203" id="page203"></a>203</span></p> +<p>But happier still, when freedom’s blessings spring</p> +<p>From the wise conduct of a prudent king!</p> +<p>O when, cried Bourbon, ravished at the sight,</p> +<p>In France shall peace and glory thus unite?</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>A poem flaunting on its front invidious praise like the +foregoing of a foreign government so different from the government +of France, could not be very acceptable to the +ruling classes of his time in the author’s own country. But +in England, during the poet’s two years’ stay in that island, +a revised edition of the “Henriade” was issued under +auspices the most august and imposing. Queen Caroline +headed the list of subscribers, and such was the brilliancy of +the patronage extended to the poem that Voltaire, as is +with probability said, netted forty thousand dollars from +his English edition—a sum of money equivalent to, say, +one hundred thousand dollars, present value. This early +success laid the foundation of a fortune for Voltaire, which +the skill, the prudence, the servility, the greed, and the unscrupulousness +of the owner subsequently built into proportions +that were nothing less than princely. Voltaire’s annual +income at his death was about a hundred thousand dollars. +It seems incredible that a man so rich, and, in some ways, it +must be acknowledged, so generous, should have been at the +same time so mean, so sordid, so literally perjured in sordidness, +as Voltaire is demonstrated, and admitted even by +his farthest-going admirers, for instance, Mr. John Morley, +to have been.</p> + +<p>Among Voltaire’s tales doubtless the one most eligible +for use, to serve our present purpose, is his “Candide.” This +is a nondescript piece of fiction, the design of which is, by +means of a narrative of travel and adventure, constructed +without much regard to the probability of particular incidents, +to set forth, in the characteristic mocking vein of +Voltaire, the vanity and misery of mankind. The author’s +invention is often whimsical enough; but it is constantly so +ready, so reckless, and so abundant, that the reader never +tires as he is hurried ceaselessly forward from change to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page204" id="page204"></a>204</span> +change of scene and circumstance. The play of wit is incessant. +The style is limpidity itself. Your sympathies are +never painfully engaged, even in recitals of experience that +ought to be the most heart-rending. There is never a touch +of noble moral sentiment to relieve the monotony of mockery +that lightly laughs at you and tantalizes you, page after +page, from the beginning to the end of the book. The banter +is not good-natured; though, on the other hand, it cannot +justly be pronounced ill-natured; and it is, in final effect upon +the reader’s mind, bewildering and depressing in the extreme. +Vanity of vanities, all is vanity; such is the comfortless +doctrine of the book. The apples are the apples of +Sodom, everywhere in the world. There is no virtue anywhere, +no good, no happiness. Life is a cheat, the love of +life is a cruelty, and beyond life there is nothing. At least, +there is no glimpse given of any compensating future +reserved for men, a future to redress the balance of good +and ill experienced here and now. Faith and hope, those +two eyes of the soul, are smilingly quenched in their sockets, +and you are left blind, in a whirling world of darkness, with +a whirling world of darkness before you.</p> + +<p>Such is “Candide.” We select a single passage for specimen. +The passage we select is more nearly free than almost +any other passage as long, in this extraordinary romance, +would probably be found, from impure implications. It is, +besides, more nearly serious in apparent motive than is the +general tenor of the production. Here, however, as elsewhere, +the writer keeps carefully down his mocking mask. +At least, you are left tantalizingly uncertain all the time +how much the grin you face is the grin of the man, and how +much the grin of a visor that he wears.</p> + +<p>Candide, the hero, is a young fellow of ingenuous character +brought successively under the lead of several different persons +wise in the ways of the world, who act toward him, each +in his turn, the part of “guide, philosopher, and friend.” +Candide, with such a mentor bearing the name Martin, has +now arrived at Venice. Candide speaks:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page205" id="page205"></a>205</span></p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>“I have heard a great talk of the Senator Pococuranté, who lives in +that fine house at the Brenta, where they say he entertains foreigners in +the most polite manner. They pretend this man is a perfect stranger to +uneasiness.” “I should be glad to see so extraordinary a being,” said +Martin. Candide thereupon sent a messenger to Signor Pococuranté +desiring permission to wait on him the next day.</p> + +<p>Candide and his friend Martin went into a gondola on the Brenta, and +arrived at the palace of the noble Pococuranté: the gardens were laid out +in elegant taste and adorned with fine marble statues; his palace was +built after the most approved rules of architecture. The master of the +house, who was a man of sixty, and very rich, received our two travelers +with great politeness, but without much ceremony, which somewhat disconcerted +Candide, but was not at all displeasing to Martin.</p> + +<p>As soon as they were seated two very pretty girls, neatly dressed, +brought in chocolate, which was extremely well frothed. Candide could +not help making encomiums upon their beauty and graceful carriage. +“The creatures are well enough,” said the senator. “I make them my +companions, for I am heartily tired of the ladies of the town, their coquetry, +their jealousy, their quarrels, their humors, their meannesses, their +pride, and their folly. I am weary of making sonnets, or of paying for +sonnets to be made, on them; but, after all, these two girls begin to grow +very indifferent to me.”</p> + +<p>After having refreshed himself, Candide walked into a large gallery, +where he was struck with the sight of a fine collection of paintings.</p> + +<p>“Pray,” said Candide, “by what master are the two first of these?” +“They are Raphael’s,” answered the senator. “I gave a great deal of +money for them seven years ago, purely out of curiosity, as they were +said to be the finest pieces in Italy: but I cannot say they please me; +the coloring is dark and heavy; the figures do not swell nor come out +enough, and the drapery is very bad. In short, notwithstanding the encomiums +lavished upon them, they are not, in my opinion, a true representation +of nature. I approve of no paintings but where I think I behold +Nature herself; and there are very few, if any, of that kind to be +met with. I have what is called a fine collection, but I take no manner +of delight in them.”</p> + +<p>While dinner was getting ready Pococuranté ordered a concert. Candide +praised the music to the skies. “This noise,” said the noble Venetian, +“may amuse one for a little time; but if it was to last above half an +hour it would grow tiresome to everybody, though perhaps no one would +care to own it. Music is become the art of executing what is difficult; +now, whatever is difficult cannot be long pleasing.</p> + +<p>“I believe I might take more pleasure in an opera, if they had not made +such a monster of that species of dramatic entertainment as perfectly +shocks me; and I am amazed how people can bear to see wretched tragedies +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page206" id="page206"></a>206</span> +set to music, where the scenes are contrived for no other purpose than +to lug in, as it were by the ears, three or four ridiculous songs, to give a +favorite actress an opportunity of exhibiting her pipe. Let who will or +can die away in raptures at the trills of a eunuch quavering the majestic +part of Cæsar or Cato, and strutting in a foolish manner upon the stage. +For my part, I have long ago renounced these paltry entertainments, +which constitute the glory of modern Italy, and are so dearly purchased +by crowned heads.” Candide opposed these sentiments, but he did it in +a discreet manner. As for Martin, he was entirely of the old senator’s +opinion.</p> + +<p>Dinner being served up, they sat down to table, and after a very hearty +repast, returned to the library. Candide, observing Homer richly bound, +commended the noble Venetian’s taste. “This,” said he, “is a book that +was once the delight of the great Pangloss, the best philosopher in Germany.” +“Homer is no favorite of mine,” answered Pococuranté very +coolly. “I was made to believe once that I took a pleasure in reading +him; but his continual repetitions of battles must have all such a resemblance +with each other; his gods that are forever in a hurry and bustle, +without ever doing any thing; his Helen, that is the cause of the +war, and yet hardly acts in the whole performance; his Troy, that holds +out so long without being taken; in short, all these things together +make the poem very insipid to me. I have asked some learned men +whether they are not in reality as much tired as myself with reading +this poet. Those who spoke ingenuously assured me that he had made +them fall asleep, and yet that they could not well avoid giving him a place +in their libraries; but that it was merely as they would do an antique, or +those rusty medals which are kept only for curiosity, and are of no manner +of use in commerce.”</p> + +<p>“But your excellency does not surely form the same opinion of Virgil?” +said Candide. “Why, I grant,” replied Pococuranté, “that the second, +third, fourth, and sixth books of his ‘Æneid’ are excellent; but as for +his pious Æneas, his strong Cloanthus, his friendly Achates, his boy +Ascanius, his silly King Latinus, his ill-bred Amata, his insipid Lavinia, +and some other characters much in the same strain, I think there cannot +in nature be anything more flat and disagreeable. I must confess I prefer +Tasso far beyond him; nay, even that sleepy tale-teller Ariosto.”</p> + +<p>“May I take the liberty to ask if you do not receive great pleasure from +reading Horace?” said Candide. “There are maxims in this writer,” +replied Pococuranté, “from whence a man of the world may reap some +benefit; and the short measure of the verse makes them more easily to +be retained in the memory. But I see nothing extraordinary in his +journey to Brundusium, and his account of his bad dinner; nor in his +dirty, low quarrel between one Rupilius, whose words, as he expresses it, +were full of poisonous filth; and another, whose language was dipped in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page207" id="page207"></a>207</span> +vinegar. His indelicate verses against old women and witches have frequently +given me great offense; nor can I discover the great merit of his +telling his friend Mæcenas, that, if he will but rank him in the class of +lyric poets, his lofty head shall touch the stars. Ignorant readers are apt +to advance everything by the lump in a writer of reputation. For my +part, I read only to please myself. I like nothing but what makes for my +purpose.” Candide, who had been brought up with a notion of never +making use of his own judgment, was astonished at what he heard; but +Martin found there was a good deal of reason in the senator’s remarks.</p> + +<p>“Oh, here is a Tully!” said Candide; “this great man, I fancy, you +are never tired of reading.” “Indeed, I never read him at all,” replied +Pococuranté. “What the deuce is it to me whether he pleads for Rabirius +or Cluentius? I try causes enough myself. I had once some liking to +his philosophical works; but when I found he doubted of everything, I +thought I knew as much as himself, and had no need of a guide to learn +ignorance.”</p> + +<p>“Ha!” cried Martin, “here are fourscore volumes of the ‘Memoirs of +the Academy of Sciences,’ perhaps there may be something curious and +valuable in this collection.” “Yes,” answered Pococuranté; “so there +might, if any one of these compilers of this rubbish had only invented +the art of pin-making. But all these volumes are filled with mere chimerical +systems, without one single article conducive to real utility.”</p> + +<p>“I see a prodigious number of plays,” said Candide, “in Italian, +Spanish, and French.” “Yes,” replied the Venetian; “there are, I think, +three thousand, and not three dozen of them good for anything. As to +those huge volumes of divinity, and those enormous collections of sermons, +they are not all together worth one single page of Seneca; and I +fancy you will readily believe that neither myself nor any one else ever +looks into them.”</p> + +<p>Martin, perceiving some shelves filled with English books, said to the +senator: “I fancy that a republican must be highly delighted with those +books, which are most of them written with a noble spirit of freedom.” +“It is noble to write as we think,” said Pococuranté; “it is the privilege +of humanity. Throughout Italy we write only what we do not think; +and the present inhabitants of the country of the Cæsars and Antoninuses +dare not acquire a single idea without the permission of a father +Dominican. I should be enamored of the spirit of the English nation +did it not utterly frustrate the good effects it would produce by passion +and the spirit of party.”</p> + +<p>Candide, seeing a Milton, asked the senator if he did not think that +author a great man. “Who?” said Pococuranté sharply. “That barbarian, +who writes a tedious commentary, in ten books of rambling verse, +on the first chapter of Genesis! That slovenly imitator of the Greeks, +who disfigures the creation by making the Messiah take a pair of compasses +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page208" id="page208"></a>208</span> +from heaven’s armory to plan the world; whereas Moses represented +the Deity as producing the whole universe by his fiat! Can I think +you have any esteem for a writer who has spoiled Tasso’s hell and the +devil; who transforms Lucifer, sometimes into a toad, and at others into +a pigmy; who makes him say the same thing over again a hundred times; +who metamorphoses him into a school-divine; and who, by an absurdly +serious imitation of Ariosto’s comic invention of fire-arms, represents the +devils and angels cannonading each other in heaven! Neither I, nor any +other Italian, can possibly take pleasure in such melancholy reveries. But +the marriage of Sin and Death, and snakes issuing from the womb of the +former, are enough to make any person sick that is not lost to all sense of +delicacy. This obscene, whimsical, and disagreeable poem met with the +neglect that it deserved at its first publication; and I only treat the author +now as he was treated in his own country by his contemporaries.”</p> + +<p>Candide was sensibly grieved at this speech, as he had a great respect +for Homer, and was very fond of Milton. “Alas!” said he softly to +Martin, “I am afraid this man holds our German poets in great contempt.” +“There would be no such great harm in that,” said Martin. “Oh, what +a surprising man!” said Candide to himself. “What a prodigious genius +is this Pococuranté! Nothing can please him!”</p> + +<p>After finishing their survey of the library they went down into the +garden, when Candide commended the several beauties that offered themselves +to his view. “I know nothing upon earth laid out in such bad +taste,” said Pococuranté; “everything about it is childish and trifling; +but I shall have another laid out to-morrow upon a nobler plan.”</p> + +<p>As soon as our two travelers had taken leave of his excellency, “Well,” +said Candide to Martin, “I hope you will own that this man is the happiest +of all mortals, for he is above everything he possesses.” “But do you +not see,” answered Martin, “that he likewise dislikes everything he possesses? +It was an observation of Plato long since, that those are not +the best stomachs that reject, without distinction, all sorts of aliments.” +“True,” said Candide; “but still, there must certainly be a +pleasure in criticising everything, and in perceiving faults where others +think they see beauties.” “That is,” replied Martin, “there is a pleasure +in having no pleasure.” “Well, well,” said Candide. “I find that I +shall be the only happy man at last, when I am blessed with the sight of +my dear Cunegund.” “It is good to hope,” said Martin.</p> +</div> + +<p>The single citation preceding sufficiently exemplifies, at +their best, though at their worst not, the style and the spirit +of Voltaire’s “Candide;” as his “Candide” sufficiently exemplifies +the style and the spirit of the most characteristic +of Voltaire’s writings in general. “Pococurantism” is a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page209" id="page209"></a>209</span> +word, now not uncommon in English, contributed by Voltaire +to the vocabulary of literature. To readers of the foregoing +extract, the sense of the term will not need to be explained. +We respectfully suggest to our dictionary-makers, +that the fact stated of its origin in the “Candide” of Voltaire +would be interesting and instructive to many. Voltaire +coined the name, to suit the character of his Venetian gentleman, +from two Italian words which mean together “little-caring.” +Signor Pococuranté is the immortal type of men +that have worn out their capacity of fresh sensation and +enjoyment.</p> + +<p>Mr. John Morley’s elaborate monograph on Voltaire +claims the attention of readers desirous of exhaustive acquaintance +with its subject. This author writes in sympathy +with Voltaire, so far as Voltaire was an enemy of the +Christian religion; but in antipathy to him, so far as Voltaire +fell short of being an atheist. A similar sympathy, +limited by a similar antipathy, is observable in the same +author’s still more extended monograph on Rousseau. The +sympathy works without the antipathy to limit it, in Mr. +Morley’s two volumes on “Diderot and the Encyclopædists”—for +Diderot and his closest fellows were good thorough-going +atheists.</p> + +<p>Even in Voltaire and Rousseau, but particularly in Voltaire, +Mr. Morley, though his sympathy with these writers +is, as we have said, not complete, finds far more to praise +than to blame. To this eager apostle of atheism, Voltaire +was at least on the right road, although he did, unfortunately, +stop short of the goal. His influence was potent against +Christianity, and potent it certainly was not against atheism. +Voltaire might freely be lauded as on the whole a mighty +and a beneficent liberalizer of thought.</p> + +<p>And we, we who are neither atheists nor deists—let us not +deny to Voltaire his just meed of praise. There were streaks +of gold in the base alloy of that character of his. He burned +with magnanimous heat against the hideous doctrine and +practice of ecclesiastical persecution. Carlyle says of Voltaire, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page210" id="page210"></a>210</span> +that he “spent his best efforts, and as many still think, +successfully, in assaulting the Christian religion.” This, true +though it be, is liable to be falsely understood. It was not +against the Christian religion, as the Christian religion really +is, but rather against the Christian religion as the Roman +hierarchy misrepresented it, that Voltaire ostensibly directed +his efforts. “You are right,” wrote he to his henchman +D’Alembert, in 1762, “in assuming that I speak of superstition +only; for as to the Christian religion, I respect it and +love it, as you do.” This distinction of Voltaire’s, with +whatever degree of simple sincerity on his part made, ought +to be remembered in his favor, when his memorable motto, +“<i>Écrasez l’Infâme</i>,” is interpreted and applied. He did not +mean Jesus Christ by <i>l’Infâme</i>; he did not mean the Christian +religion by it; he did not even mean the Christian Church +by it; he meant the oppressive despotism and the crass obscurantism +of the Roman Catholic hierarchy. At least, this +is what he would have said that he meant, what in fact he +substantially did say that he meant, when incessantly reiterating, +in its various forms, his watchword, “<i>Écrasez l’Infâme</i>,” +“<i>Écrasons l’Infâme</i>”—“Crush the wretch!” “Let +us crush the wretch!” His blows were aimed, perhaps, at +“superstition;” but they really fell, in the full half of their +effect, on Christianity itself. Whether Voltaire regretted +this, whether he would in his heart have had it otherwise, +may well, in spite of any protestation from him of love for +Christianity, be doubted. Still, it is never, in judgment of +Voltaire, to be forgotten that the organized Christianity +which he confronted was in large part a system justly hateful +to the true and wise lover, whether of God or of man. +That system he did well in fighting. Carnal indeed were +the weapons with which he fought it; and his victory over +it was a carnal victory, bringing, on the whole, but slender +net advantage, if any such advantage at all, to the cause of +final truth and light. The French Revolution, with its excesses +and its horrors, was perhaps the proper, the legitimate, +the necessary, fruit of resistance such as was Voltaire’s, in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page211" id="page211"></a>211</span> +fundamental spirit, to the evils in Church and in State against +which he conducted so gallantly his life-long campaign.</p> + +<p>But though we thus bring in doubt the work of Voltaire, +both as to the purity of its motive and as to the value of +its fruit, we should wrong our sense of justice to ourselves if +we permitted our readers to suppose us blind to the generous +things that this arch-infidel did on behalf of the suffering and +the oppressed. Voltaire more than once wielded that pen of +his, the most dreaded weapon in Europe, like a knight sworn +to take on himself the championship of the forlornest of +causes. There is the historic case of Jean Calas at Toulouse, +Protestant, an old man of near seventy, broken on the wheel, +as suspected, without evidence, and against accumulated impossibilities, +of murdering his own son, a young man of about +thirty, by hanging him. Voltaire took up the case and +pleaded it to the common sense, and to the human feeling, of +France, with immense effectiveness. It is, in truth, Voltaire’s +advocacy of righteousness, in this instance of incredible +wrong, that has made the instance itself immortal. His part +in the case of Calas, though the most signal, is not the only +example of Voltaire’s literary knighthood. He hated oppression, +and he loved liberty, for himself and for all men, +with a passion as deep and as constant as any passion of which +nature had made Voltaire capable. If the liberty that he +loved was fundamentally liberty as against God no less than +as against men, and if the oppression that he hated was +fundamentally the oppression of being put under obligation +to obey Christ as lord of life and of thought, this was something +of which, probably, Voltaire never had a clear consciousness.</p> + +<p>We have now indicated what was most admirable in Voltaire’s +personal character. On the whole, he was far from +being an admirable man. He was vain, he was shallow, he +was frivolous, he was deceitful, he was voluptuous, he fawned +on the great, he abased himself before them, he licked the dust +on which they stood. “<i>Trajan, est-il content?</i>” (“Is Trajan +satisfied?”)—this, asked, in nauseous adulation, and nauseous +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page212" id="page212"></a>212</span> +self-abasement, by Voltaire of Louis XV., so little like Trajan +in character—is monumental. The occasion was the production +of a piece of Voltaire’s written at the instance of Louis +XV.’s mistress, the infamous Madame de Pompadour. The +king, for answer, simply gorgonized the poet with a stony +Bourbon stare.</p> + +<p>But, taken altogether, Voltaire’s life was a great success. +He got on in the world, was rich, was fortunate, was famous, +was gay, if he was not happy. He had his friendship with +the great Frederick of Prussia, who filled for his false +French flatterer a return cup of sweetness, cunningly mixed +with exceeding bitterness. His death was an appropriate +<i>coup de théâtre</i>, a felicity of finish to such a life quite beyond +the reach of art. He came back to Paris, whence he had +been an exile, welcomed with a triumph transcending the +triumph of a conqueror. They made a great feast for him, +a feast of flattery, in the theater. The old man was drunk +with delight. The delight was too much for him. It literally +killed him. It was as if a favorite actress should be +quite smothered to death on the stage under flowers thrown +in excessive profusion at her feet.</p> + +<p>Let Carlyle’s sentence be our epigraph on Voltaire:</p> + +<p>“No great Man.... Found always at the top, less by +power in swimming than by lightness in floating.”</p> + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="center f120">XVII</p> + +<p class="center"><span class="chap2">ROUSSEAU</span>: 1712-1778; <span class="chap2">St. Pierre</span>: 1737-1814.</p> + +<p><span class="sc chap1">There</span> are two Rousseaus in French literature. At least +there was a first, until the second effaced him, and became +the only.</p> + +<p>We speak, of course, in comparison, and hyperbolically. +J. B. Rousseau is still named as a lyric poet of the time of +Louis XIV. But when Rousseau, without initials, is spoken +of, it is always Jean Jacques Rousseau that is meant.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page213" id="page213"></a>213</span></p> + +<p>Jean Jacques Rousseau is perhaps the most squalid, as it +certainly is one of the most splendid, among French literary +names. The squalor belongs chiefly to the man, but the +splendor is wholly the writer’s. There is hardly another +example in the world’s literature of a union so striking of +these opposites.</p> + +<p>Rousseau’s life he has himself told, in the best, the worst, +and the most imperishable of his books, the “Confessions.” +This book is one to which the adjective charming attaches, +in a peculiarly literal sense of the word. The spell, however, +is repellent as well as attractive. But the attraction +of the style asserts and pronounces itself only the more, in +triumph over the much there is in the matter to disgust and +revolt. It is quite the most offensive, and it is well-nigh the +most fascinating, book that we know.</p> + +<p>The “Confessions” begin as follows:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>I purpose an undertaking that never had an example, and whose execution +never will have an imitator. I would exhibit to my fellows a man, +in all the truth of nature, and that man—myself.</p> + +<p>Myself alone. I know my own heart, and I am acquainted with men. +I am made unlike any one I have ever seen—I dare believe unlike any +living being. If no better than, I am at least different from, others. +Whether nature did well or ill in breaking the mold wherein I was cast, +can be determined only after having read me.</p> + +<p>Let the last trumpet sound when it will, I will come, with this book in +my hand, and present myself before the Sovereign Judge. I will boldly +proclaim: Thus have I acted, thus have I thought, such was I. With +equal frankness have I disclosed the good and the evil. I have omitted +nothing bad, added nothing good; and if I have happened to make use +of some unimportant ornament, it has, in every case, been simply for the +purpose of filling up a void occasioned by my lack of memory. I may +have taken for granted as true what I knew to be possible, never what I +knew to be false. Such as I was, I have exhibited myself—despicable +and vile, when so; virtuous, generous, sublime, when so. I have +unveiled my interior being, such as Thou, Eternal Existence, hast beheld +it. Assemble around me the numberless throng of my fellow-mortals; +let them listen to my confessions, let them blush at my depravities, let +them shrink appalled at my miseries. Let each of them, in his turn, +with equal sincerity, lay bare his heart at the foot of thy throne, and +then let a single one tell thee, if he dare, <i>I was better than that man</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page214" id="page214"></a>214</span></p> + +<p>Notwithstanding our autobiographer’s disavowal of debt +to example for the idea of his “Confessions,” it seems clear +that Montaigne here was at least inspiration, if not pattern, +to Rousseau. But Rousseau resolved to do what Montaigne +had done, more ingenuously and more courageously than +Montaigne had done it. This writer will make himself his +subject, and then treat his subject with greater frankness +than any man before him ever used about himself, or than any +man after him would ever use. He undoubtedly succeeded +in his attempt. His frankness, in fact, is so forward and +eager that it is probably even inventive of things disgraceful +to himself. Montaigne makes great pretense of telling +his own faults, but you observe that he generally chooses +rather amiable faults of his own to tell. Rousseau’s morbid +vulgarity leads him to disclose traits in himself of character +or of behavior, that, despite whatever contrary wishes on +your part, compel your contempt of the man. And it is for +the man who confesses, almost more than for the man who is +guilty, that you feel the contempt.</p> + +<p>The “Confessions” proceed:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>I was born at Geneva, in 1712, of Isaac Rousseau and Susannah Bernard, +citizens.... I came into the world weak and sickly. I cost my +mother her life, and my birth was the first of my misfortunes.</p> + +<p>I never learned how my father supported his loss, but I know that he +remained ever after inconsolable.... When he used to say to me, +“Jean Jacques, let us speak of your mother,” my usual reply was, +“Well, father, we’ll cry then,” a reply which would instantly bring the +tears to his eyes. “Ah!” he would exclaim with agitation, “give me +her back, console me for her loss, fill up the void she has left in my soul. +Could I love thee thus wert thou but <i>my</i> son?” Forty years after having +lost her he expired in the arms of a second wife, but with the name of +the first on his lips, and her image engraven on his heart.</p> + +<p>Such were the authors of my being. Of all the gifts Heaven had +allotted them, a feeling heart was the only one I had inherited. While, +however, this had been the source of their happiness, it became the spring +of all my misfortunes.</p> +</div> + +<p>“A feeling heart!” That expression tells the literary +secret of Rousseau. It is hardly too much to say that +Rousseau was the first French writer to write with his heart; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page215" id="page215"></a>215</span> +but heart’s blood was the ink in which almost every word of +Rousseau’s was written. This was the spring of his marvelous +power. Rousseau:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>My mother had left a number of romances. These father and I betook +us to reading during the evenings. At first the sole object was, by +means of entertaining books, to improve me in reading; but, ere long, +the charm became so potent, that we read turn about without intermission, +and passed whole nights in this employment. Never could we break +up till the end of the volume. At times my father, hearing the swallows +of a morning, would exclaim, quite ashamed of himself, “Come, let’s to +bed; I’m more of a child than you are!”</p> +</div> + +<p>The elder Rousseau was right respecting himself. And +such a father would almost necessarily have such a child. +Jean Jacques Rousseau is to be judged tenderly for his +faults. What birth and what breeding were his! The +“Confessions” go on:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>I soon acquired, by this dangerous course, not only an extreme facility +in reading and understanding, but, for my age, a quite unprecedented +acquaintance with the passions. I had not the slightest conception of +things themselves at a time when the whole round of sentiments was +already perfectly familiar to me. I had apprehended nothing—I had felt all.</p> +</div> + +<p>Some hint now of other books read by the boy:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>.... Plutarch especially became my favorite reading. The +pleasure which I found in incessantly reperusing him cured me in +some measure of the romance madness: and I soon came to prefer +Agesilaus, Brutus, and Aristides to Orondates, Artemenes, and Juba. +From these interesting studies, joined to the conversations to which they +gave rise with my father, resulted that free, republican spirit, that haughty +and untamable character, fretful of restraint or subjection, which has +tormented me my life long, and that in situations the least suitable for +giving it play. Incessantly occupied with Rome and Athens, living, so +to speak, with their great men, born myself the citizen of a republic +[Geneva], the son of a father with whom patriotism was the ruling passion, +I caught the flame from him—I imagined myself a Greek or a +Roman, and became the personage whose life I was reading.</p> +</div> + +<p>On such food of reading and of reverie, young Rousseau’s +imagination and sentiment battened, while his reason and +his practical sense starved and died within him. Unconsciously +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page216" id="page216"></a>216</span> +thus in part were formed the dreamer of the +“Émile” and of “The Social Contract.” Another glimpse +of the home life—if home life such experience can be called—of +this half-orphan, homeless Genevan boy:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>I had a brother, my elder by seven years.... He fell into the ways +of debauchery, even before he was old enough to be really a libertine. +... I remember once when my father was chastising him severely and +in anger, that I impetuously threw myself between them, clasping him +tightly. I thus covered him with my body, receiving the blows that were +aimed at him; and I held out so persistently in this position, that whether +softened by my cries and tears, or fearing that I should get the worst of +it, my father was forced to forgive him. In the end my brother turned +out so bad that he ran away and disappeared altogether.</p> +</div> + +<p>It is pathetic—Rousseau’s attempted contrast following, +between the paternal neglect of his older brother and the +paternal indulgence of himself:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>If this poor lad was carelessly brought up, it was quite otherwise with +his brother.... My desires were so little excited, and so little crossed, +that it never came into my head to have any. I can solemnly aver, that +till the time when I was bound to a master I never knew what it was to +have a whim.</p> +</div> + +<p>Poor lad! “Never knew what it was to have a whim!” +It well might be, however—his boy’s life all one whim uncrossed, +unchecked; no contrast of saving restraint, to make +him know that he was living by whim alone!</p> + +<p>Young Jean Jacques was at length apprenticed to an engraver. +He describes the contrast of his new situation and +the effect of the contrast upon his own character and career:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>I learned to covet in silence, to dissemble, to dissimulate, to lie, and at +last to steal, a propensity for which I had never hitherto had the slightest +inclination, and of which I have never since been able quite to cure +myself....</p> + +<p>My first theft was the result of complaisance, but it opened the door to +others which had not so laudable a motive.</p> + +<p>My master had a journeyman named M. Verrat.... [He] took it into +his head to rob his mother of some of her early asparagus and sell it, converting +the proceeds into some extra good breakfasts. As he did not +wish to expose himself, and not being very nimble, he selected me for +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page217" id="page217"></a>217</span> +this expedition. Long did I stickle, but he persisted. I never could +resist kindness, so I consented. I went every morning to the garden, +gathered the best of the asparagus, and took it to “the Molard,” where +some good creature, perceiving that I had just been stealing it, would +insinuate that little fact, so as to get it the cheaper. In my terror I took +whatever she chose to give me and carried it to M. Verrat.</p> + +<p>This little domestic arrangement continued for several days before it came +into my head to rob the robber, and tithe M. Verrat for the proceeds of +the asparagus.... I thus learned that to steal was, after all, not so very +terrible a thing as I had conceived, and ere long I turned this discovery +to so good an account, that nothing I had an inclination for could safely +be left within my reach....</p> + +<p>And now, before giving myself over to the fatality of my destiny, let +me, for a moment, contemplate what would naturally have been my lot +had I fallen into the hands of a better master. Nothing was more agreeable +to my tastes, nor better calculated to render me happy, than the +calm and obscure condition of a good artisan, more especially in certain +lines, such as that of an engraver at Geneva.... In my native country, +in the bosom of my religion, of my family, and my friends, I should have +led a life gentle and uncheckered as became my character, in the uniformity +of a pleasing occupation and among connections dear to my heart. I +should have been a good Christian, a good citizen, a good father, a good +friend, a good artisan, and a good man in every respect. I should have +loved my station; it may be I should have been an honor to it; and after +having passed an obscure and simple, though even and happy, life, I should +peacefully have departed in the bosom of my kindred. Soon, it may be, +forgotten, I should at least have been regretted as long as the remembrance +of me survived.</p> + +<p>Instead of this ... what a picture am I about to draw!</p> +</div> + +<p>Thus ends the first book of the “Confessions.”</p> + +<p>The picture Rousseau is “about to draw” has in it a certain +Madame de Warens for a principal figure. This lady, +a Roman Catholic convert from Protestantism, had forsaken +a husband, not loved, and was living on a bounty from King +Victor Amadeus of Sardinia. For Annecy, the home of +Madame de Warens, our young Jean Jacques, sent thither +by a Roman Catholic curate, sets out on foot. The distance +was but one day’s walk; which one day’s walk, however, the +humor of the wanderer stretched into a saunter of three +days. The man of fifty-four, become the biographer of his +own youth, finds no lothness of self-respect to prevent his +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page218" id="page218"></a>218</span> +detailing the absurd adventures with which he diverted +himself on the way. For example:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Not a country-seat could I see, either to the right or left, without going +after the adventure which I was certain awaited me. I could not muster +courage to enter the mansion, nor even to knock, for I was excessively +timid; but I sang beneath the most inviting window, very much astonished +to find, after wasting my breath, that neither lady nor miss made her +appearance, attracted by the beauty of my voice, or the spice of my songs—seeing +that I knew some capital ones that my comrades had taught me, +and which I sang in the most admirable manner.</p> +</div> + +<p>Rousseau describes the emotions he experienced in his first +meeting with Madame de Warens:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>I had pictured to myself a grim old devotee—M. de Pontverre’s “worthy +lady” could, in my opinion, be none other. But lo, a countenance beaming +with charms, beautiful, mild blue eyes, a complexion of dazzling fairness, +the outline of an enchanting neck! Nothing escaped the rapid +glance of the young proselyte; for that instant I was hers, sure that a +religion preached by such missionaries could not fail to lead to paradise!</p> +</div> + +<p>This abnormally susceptible youth had remarkable experiences, +all within his own soul, during his sojourn, of a few +days only, on the present occasion, under Madame de Warens’s +hospitable roof. These experiences, the autobiographer, +old enough to call himself “old dotard,” has, nevertheless, +not grown wise enough to be ashamed to be very detailed +and psychological in recounting. It was a case of precocious +love at first sight. One could afford to laugh at it as ridiculous, +but that it had a sequel full of sin and of sorrow. Jean +Jacques was now forwarded to Turin, to become inmate of a +sort of charity school for the instruction of catechumens. +The very day after he started on foot, his father, with a friend +of his, reached Annecy on horseback, in pursuit of the truant +boy. They might easily have overtaken him, but they let +him go his way. Rousseau explains the case on behalf of his +father as follows:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>My father was not only an honorable man, but a person of the most reliable +probity, and endowed with one of those powerful minds that perform +deeds of loftiest heroism. I may add, he was a good father, especially +to me. Tenderly did he love me, but he loved his pleasures also, +and, since our living apart, other ties had, in a measure, weakened his +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page219" id="page219"></a>219</span> +paternal affection. He had married again, at Nyon; and though his wife +was no longer of an age to present me with brothers, yet she had connections; +another family circle was thus formed, other objects engrossed his +attention, and the new domestic relations no longer so frequently brought +back the remembrance of me. My father was growing old, and had +nothing on which to rely for the support of his declining years. My +brother and I had something coming to us from my mother’s fortune; +the interest of this my father was to receive during our absence. This +consideration did not present itself to him directly, nor did it stand in the +way of his doing his duty; it had, however, a silent, and to himself imperceptible, +influence, and at times slackened his zeal, which, unacted +upon by this, would have been carried much farther. This, I think, was +the reason, that, having traced me as far as Annecy, he did not follow me +to Chamberi, where he was morally certain of overtaking me. This will +also explain why, in visiting him many times after my flight, I received +from him on every occasion a father’s kindness, though unaccompanied +by any very pressing efforts to retain me.</p> +</div> + +<p>Rousseau’s filial regard for his father was peculiar. It did +not lead him to hide, it only led him to account for, his +father’s sordidness. The son generalized and inferred a +moral maxim for the conduct of life from this behavior of the +father’s—a maxim, which, as he thought, had done him great +good. He says:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>This conduct on the part of a father of whose affection and virtue I +have had so many proofs, has given rise within me to reflections on my +own character which have not a little contributed to maintain my heart +uncorrupted. I have derived therefrom this great maxim of morality, +perhaps the only one of any use in practice; namely, to avoid such situations +as put our duty in antagonism with our interest, or disclose our +own advantage in the misfortunes of another, certain that in such circumstances, +however sincere the love of virtue we bring with us, it will sooner +or later, and whether we perceive it or not, become weakened, and we +shall come to be unjust and culpable in our acts without having ceased to +be upright and blameless in our intentions.</p> +</div> + +<p>The fruitful maxim thus deduced by Rousseau, he thinks +he tried faithfully to put in practice. With apparent perfect +assurance concerning himself, he says:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>I have sincerely desired to do what was right. I have, with all the energy +of my character, shunned situations which set my interest in opposition +to the interest of another, thus inspiring me with a secret though involuntary +desire prejudicial to that man.</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page220" id="page220"></a>220</span></p> + +<p>Jean Jacques at Turin made speed to convert himself, by +the abjurations required, into a pretty good Catholic. He +was hereon free to seek his fortune in the Sardinian capital. +This he did by getting successively various situations in service. +In one of these he stole, so he tells us, a piece of ribbon, +which was soon found in his possession. He said a maid-servant, +naming her, gave it to him. The two were confronted +with each other. In spite of the poor girl’s solemn +appeal, Jean Jacques persisted in his lie against her. Both +servants were discharged. The autobiographer protests that +he has suffered much remorse for this lie of his to the harm +of the innocent maid. He expresses confident hope that his +suffering sorrow, already experienced on his behalf, will +stand him in stead of punishment that might be his due in a +future state. Remorse is a note in Rousseau that distinguishes +him from Montaigne. Montaigne reviews his own +life to live over his sins, not to repent of them.</p> + +<p>The end of several vicissitudes is, that young Rousseau +gets back to Madame de Warens. She welcomes him kindly. +He says:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>From the first day, the most affectionate familiarity sprang up between +us, and that to the same degree in which it continued during all the rest of +her life. <i>Petit</i>—Child—was my name, <i>Maman</i>—Mamma—hers; and <i>Petit</i> +and <i>Maman</i> we remained, even when the course of time had all but effaced +the difference of our ages. These two names seem to me marvelously +well to express our tone toward each other, the simplicity of our +manners, and, more than all, the relation of our hearts. She was to me +the tenderest of mothers, never seeking her own pleasure, but ever my +welfare; and if the senses had anything to do with my attachment for +her, it was not to change its nature, but only to render it more exquisite, +and intoxicate me with the charm of having a young and pretty mamma +whom it was delightful for me to caress. I say quite literally, to caress; +for it never entered into her head to deny me the tenderest maternal kisses +and endearments, nor into my heart to abuse them. Some may say that, +in the end, quite other relations subsisted between us. I grant it; but +have patience—I cannot tell everything at once.</p> +</div> + +<p>With Madame de Warens, Rousseau’s relations, as is intimated +above, became licentious. This continued until, after +an interval of years (nine years, with breaks), in a fit of jealousy +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page221" id="page221"></a>221</span> +he forsook her. Rousseau’s whole life was a series of +self-indulgences, groveling, sometimes, beyond what is conceivable +to any one not learning of it all in detail from the +man’s own pen. The reader is fain at last to seek the only +relief possible from the sickening story, by flying to the conclusion +that Jean Jacques Rousseau, with all his genius, was +wanting in that mental sanity which is a condition of complete +moral responsibility.</p> + +<p>We shall, of course, not follow the “Confessions” through +their disgusting recitals of sin and shame. We should do +wrong, however, to the literary, and even to the moral, character +of the work, were we not to point out that there are +frequent oases of sweetness and beauty set in the wastes of +incredible foulness which overspread so widely the pages of +Rousseau’s “Confessions.” Here, for example, is an idyll of +vagabondage that might almost make one willing to play +tramp one’s self, if one by so doing might have such an +experience:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>I remember, particularly, having passed a delicious night without the +city on a road that skirted the Rhone or the Saône, for I cannot remember +which. On the other side were terraced gardens. It had been a very +warm day; the evening was charming; the dew moistened the faded grass; +a calm night, without a breeze; the air was cool without being cold; the +sun in setting had left crimson vapors in the sky, which tinged the water +with its roseate hue, while the trees along the terrace were filled with +nightingales gushing out melodious answers to each other’s song. I +walked along in a species of ecstasy, giving up heart and senses to the enjoyment +of the scene, only slightly sighing with regret at enjoying it +alone. Absorbed in my sweet reverie, I prolonged my walk far into the +night, without perceiving that I was wearied out. At length I discovered +it. I lay voluptuously down on the tablet of a sort of niche or false door +sunk in the terrace wall. The canopy of my couch was formed by the +over-arching boughs of the trees; a nightingale sat exactly above me; its +song lulled me to sleep; my slumber was sweet, and my awaking still +more so. It was broad day; my eyes, on opening, fell on the water, the +verdure, and the admirable landscape spread out before me. I arose and +shook off dull sleep; and, growing hungry, I gayly directed my steps toward +the city, bent on transforming two <i>pieces de six blancs</i>, that I had +left, into a good breakfast. I was so cheerful that I went singing along +the whole way.</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page222" id="page222"></a>222</span></p> + +<p>This happy-go-lucky, vagabond, grown-up child, this sentimentalist +of genius, had now and then different experiences—experiences +to which the reflection of the man grown old +attributes important influence on the formation of his most +controlling beliefs:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>One day, among others, having purposely turned aside to get a closer +view of a spot that appeared worthy of all admiration, I grew so delighted +with it, and wandered round it so often, that I at length lost myself +completely. After several hours of useless walking, weary and faint +with hunger and thirst, I entered a peasant’s hut which did not present +a very promising appearance, but it was the only one I saw around. I +conceived it to be here as at Geneva and throughout Switzerland, where +all the inhabitants in easy circumstances are in the situation to exercise +hospitality. I entreated the man to get me some dinner, offering to pay for +it. He presented me with some skimmed milk and coarse barley bread, +observing that that was all he had. I drank the milk with delight, and +ate the bread, chaff and all; but this was not very restorative to a man +exhausted with fatigue. The peasant, who was watching me narrowly, +judged of the truth of my story by the sincerity of my appetite. All of a +sudden, after having said that he saw perfectly well that I was a good +and true young fellow that did not come to betray him, he opened a little +trap-door by the side of his kitchen, went down and returned a moment +afterward with a good brown loaf of pure wheat, the remains of a toothsome +ham, and a bottle of wine, the sight of which rejoiced my heart +more than all the rest. To these he added a good thick omelette, and I +made such a dinner as none but a walker ever enjoyed. When it came +to pay, lo! his disquietude and fears again seized him; he would none +of my money, and rejected it with extraordinary manifestations of disquiet. +The funniest part of the matter was, that I could not conceive +what he was afraid of. At length, with fear and trembling, he pronounced +those terrible words, <i>Commissioners</i> and <i>Cellar-rats</i>. He gave me +to understand that he concealed his wine because of the excise, and his +bread on account of the tax, and that he was a lost man if they got the +slightest inkling that he was not dying of hunger. Everything he said +to me touching this matter, whereof, indeed, I had not the slightest idea, +produced an impression on me that can never be effaced. It became the +germ of that inextinguishable hatred that afterward sprang up in my heart +against the vexations to which these poor people are subject, and against +their oppressors. This man, though in easy circumstances, dared not eat +the bread he had gained by the sweat of his brow, and could escape +ruin only by presenting the appearance of the same misery that reigned +around him.</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page223" id="page223"></a>223</span></p> + +<p>A hideously false world, that world of French society was, +in Rousseau’s time. The falseness was full ripe to be laid +bare by some one; and Rousseau’s experience of life, as well +as his temperament and his genius, fitted him to do the work +of exposure that he did. What one emphatically calls character +was sadly wanting in Rousseau—how sadly, witness +such an acted piece of mad folly as the following:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>I, without knowing aught of the matter, ... gave myself out for a +[musical] composer. Nor was this all: having been presented to M. de +Freytorens, law professor, who loved music, and gave concerts at his house, +nothing would do but I must give him a sample of my talent; so I set about +composing a piece for his concert quite as boldly as though I had really +been an adept in the science. I had the constancy to work for fifteen +days on this fine affair, to copy it fair, write out the different parts, and +distribute them with as much assurance as though it had been a masterpiece +of harmony. Then, what will scarcely be believed, but which yet +is gospel truth, worthily to crown this sublime production I tacked to +the end thereof a pretty minuet which was then having a run on the +streets.... I gave it as my own just as resolutely as though I had been +speaking to inhabitants of the moon.</p> + +<p>They assembled to perform my piece. I explain to each the nature of +the movement, the style of execution, and the relations of the parts—I +was very full of business. For five or six minutes they were tuning; to +me each minute seemed an age. At length, all being ready, I rap with +a handsome paper <i>bâton</i> on the leader’s desk the five or six beats of the +“<i>Make ready</i>.” Silence is made—I gravely set to beating time—they +commence! No, never since French operas began, was there such a +<i>charivari</i> heard. Whatever they might have thought of my pretended +talent, the effect was worse than they could possibly have imagined. The +musicians choked with laughter; the auditors opened their eyes and +would fain have closed their ears. But that was an impossibility. My +tormenting set of symphonists, who seemed rather to enjoy the fun, +scraped away with a din sufficient to crack the tympanum of one born +deaf. I had the firmness to go right ahead, however, sweating, it is true, +at every pore, but held back by shame; not daring to retreat, and glued +to the spot. For my consolation I heard the company whispering to each +other, quite loud enough for it to reach my ear: “It is not bearable!” +said one. “What music gone mad!” cried another. “What a devilish +din!” added a third. Poor Jean Jacques, little dreamedst thou, in that cruel +moment, that one day before the king of France and all the court, thy +sounds would excite murmurs of surprise and applause, and that in all +the boxes around thee the loveliest ladies would burst forth with, “What +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page224" id="page224"></a>224</span> +charming sounds! what enchanting music! every strain reaches the +heart!”</p> + +<p>But what restored every one to good humor was the minuet. Scarcely +had they played a few measures than I heard bursts of laughter break +out on all hands. Every one congratulated me on my fine musical taste; +they assured me that this minuet would make me spoken about, and that +I merited the louded praises. I need not attempt depicting my agony, +nor own that I well deserved it.</p> +</div> + +<p>Readers have now had an opportunity to judge for themselves, +by specimen, of the style, both of the writer and of +the man Jean Jacques Rousseau. The writer’s style they +must have felt even through the medium of imperfect anonymous +translation, to be a charming one. If they have felt +the style of the man to be contrasted, as squalor is contrasted +with splendor, that they must not suppose to be a contrast +of which Jean Jacques himself, the confessor, was in the least +displacently conscious. Far from it. In the latter part of +his “Confessions,” a part that deals with the author as one +already now acknowledged a power in the world of letters, +though with all his chief works still to write, Rousseau speaks +thus of himself (he was considering at the time the ways and +means available to him of obtaining a livelihood):</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>I felt that writing for bread would soon have extinguished my genius, +and destroyed my talents, which were less in my pen than in my heart, +and solely proceeded from an elevated and noble manner of thinking.... +It is too difficult to think nobly when we think for a livelihood.</p> +</div> + +<p>Is not that finely said? And one need not doubt that it +was said with perfect sincerity. For our own part, paradoxical +though it be to declare it, we are wholly willing to insist +that Rousseau did think on a lofty plane. The trouble with +him was, not that he thus thought with his heart, rather than +with his head—which, however, he did—but that he thought +with his heart alone, and not at all with his conscience and +his will. In a word, his thought was sentiment rather than +thought. He was a sentimentalist instead of a thinker. +One illustration of the divorce that he decreed for himself, +or rather—for we have used too positive a form of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page225" id="page225"></a>225</span> +expression—that he allowed to subsist, between sentiment +and conduct, will suffice. It was presently to be his fortune, +as author of a tract on education (the “Emile”), to +change the habit of a nation in the matter of the nurture +for babes. French mothers of the higher social class in +Rousseau’s time almost universally gave up their infants to +be nursed at alien bosoms. Rousseau so eloquently denounced +the unnaturalness of this, that from his time it became +the fashion for French mothers to suckle their children +themselves. Meantime, the preacher himself of this beautiful +humanity, living in unwedded union with a woman (not +Madame de Warens, but a woman of the laboring class, found +after Madame de Warens was abandoned), sent his illegitimate +children, against the mother’s remonstrance, one after +another, to the number of five, to be brought up unknown +at the hospital for foundlings! He tells the story himself in +his “Confessions.” This course on his own part he subsequently +laments with many tears and many self-upbraidings. +But these, alas, he intermingles with self-justifications, nearly +as many—so that at last it is hard to say whether the balance +of his judgment inclines for or against himself in the matter. +A paradox of inconsistencies and self-contradictions, this man—a +problem in human character, of which the supposition of +partial insanity in him, long working subtly in the blood, +seems the only solution. The occupation finally adopted +by Rousseau for obtaining subsistence was the copying of +music. It extorts from one a measure of involuntary respect +for Rousseau, to see patiently toiling at this slavish work, to +earn its owner bread, the same pen which had lately set all +Europe in ferment with the “Emile” and “The Social Contract.”</p> + +<p>From Rousseau’s “Confessions,” we have not room to purvey +further. It is a melancholy book—written under monomaniac +suspicion on the part of the author that he was the +object of a wide-spread conspiracy against his reputation, his +peace of mind, and even his life. The poor, shattered, self-consumed +sensualist and sentimentalist paid dear in the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page226" id="page226"></a>226</span> +agonies of his closing years for the indulgences of an unregulated +life. The tender-hearted, really affectionate, and +loyal friend came at length to live in a world of his own +imagination, full of treachery to himself. David Hume, the +Scotchman, tried to befriend him; but the monomaniac was +incapable of being befriended. Nothing could be more +pitiful than were the decline and the extinction that occurred +of so much brilliant genius, and so much lovable character. It +is even doubtful whether Rousseau did not at last take his +own life. The voice of accusation is silenced in the presence +of an earthly retribution so dreadful. One may not indeed +approve, but one may at least be free to pity, more than he +blames, in judging Rousseau.</p> + +<p>Accompanying, and in some sort complementing the “Confessions,” +are often published several detached pieces called +“Reveries,” or “Walks.” These are very peculiar compositions, +and very characteristic of the author. They are +dreamy meditations or reveries, sad, even somber, in spirit, +but “beautiful exceedingly,” in form of expression. Such +works as the “René” of Chateaubriand, works but too abundant +since in French literature, must all trace their pedigree +to Rousseau’s “Walks.”</p> + +<p>This author’s books in general are now little read. They +worked their work and ceased. But there are in some of +them passages that continue to live. Of these, perhaps quite +the most famous is the “Savoyard Curate’s Confession of +Faith,” a document of some length, incorporated into the +“Émile.” This, taken as a whole, is the most seductively +eloquent argument against Christianity that perhaps ever was +written. It contains, however, concessions to the sublime +elevation of Scripture and to the unique virtue and majesty +of Jesus, which are often quoted, and which will bear quoting +here. The Savoyard Curate is represented speaking to a +young friend as follows:—</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>I will confess to you further, that the majesty of the Scriptures strikes +me with admiration, as the purity of the gospel hath its influence on my +heart. Peruse the works of our philosophers with all their pomp of diction; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page227" id="page227"></a>227</span> +how mean, how contemptible, are they, compared with the Scripture! +Is it possible that a book at once so simple and sublime should be merely +the work of man? Is it possible that the Sacred Personage, whose history +it contains, should be himself a mere man? Do we find that he +assumed the tone of an enthusiast or ambitious sectary? What sweetness, +what purity, in his manners! What an affecting gracefulness in +his delivery! What sublimity in his maxims! What profound wisdom in +his discourses! What presence of mind, what subtilty, what truth, in +his replies! How great the command over his passions! Where is the +man, where the philosopher, who could so live and die, without weakness +and without ostentation? When Plato described his imaginary good man +loaded with all the shame of guilt, yet meriting the highest reward of +virtue, he described exactly the character of Jesus Christ: the resemblance +was so striking that all the Fathers perceived it.</p> + +<p>What prepossession, what blindness, must it be to compare the son of +Sophroniscus to the Son of Mary! What an infinite disproportion +there is between them! Socrates, dying without pain or ignominy, +easily supported his character to the last; and if his death, however +easy, had not crowned his life, it might have been doubted whether +Socrates, with all his wisdom, was anything more than a vain sophist. +He invented, it is said, the theory of morals. Others, however, had before +put them in practice; he had only to say what they had done, and +reduce their examples to precepts. Aristides had been <i>just</i> before Socrates +defined justice; Leonidas gave up his life for his country before +Socrates declared patriotism to be a duty; the Spartans were a sober people +before Socrates recommended sobriety; before he had even defined +virtue Greece abounded in virtuous men. But where could Jesus learn, +among his compatriots, that pure and sublime morality of which he only +has given us both precept and example? The greatest wisdom was made +known amidst the most bigoted fanaticism, and the simplicity of the most +heroic virtues did honor to the vilest people on the earth. The death of +Socrates, peaceably philosophizing with his friends, appears the most +agreeable that could be wished for; that of Jesus, expiring in the midst +of agonizing pains, abused, insulted, cursed by a whole nation, is the most +horrible that could be feared. Socrates, in receiving the cup of poison, +blessed indeed the weeping executioner who administered it; but Jesus, +in the midst of excruciating tortures, prayed for his merciless tormentors. +Yes, if the life and death of Socrates are those of a sage, the life and death +of Jesus are those of a God. Shall we suppose the evangelic history a +mere fiction? Indeed, my friend, it bears not the marks of fiction; on the +contrary, the history of Socrates, which nobody presumes to doubt, is not +so well attested as that of Jesus Christ. Such a supposition, in fact, only +shifts the difficulty without removing it; it is more inconceivable that a +number of persons should agree to write such a history, than that one +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page228" id="page228"></a>228</span> +only should furnish the subject of it. The Jewish authors were incapable +of the diction, and strangers to the morality contained in the Gospel, +the marks of whose truth are so striking and inimitable that the inventor +would be a more astonishing character than the hero.</p> +</div> + +<p>So far in eloquent ascription of incomparable excellence to +the Bible and to the Founder of Christianity. But then immediately +Rousseau’s Curate proceeds:—</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>And yet, with all this, the same Gospel abounds with incredible relations, +with circumstances repugnant to reason, and which it is impossible +for a man of sense either to conceive or admit.</p> +</div> + +<p>The compliment to Christianity almost convinces you—until +suddenly you are apprised that the author of the compliment +was not convinced himself!</p> + +<p>Jean Jacques Rousseau, in the preface to his “Confessions,” +appealed from the judgment of men to the judgment of God. +This judgment it was his habit, to the end of his days, thanks +to the effect of his early Genevan education, always to think +of as certainly impending. Let us adjourn our final sentence +upon him until we hear that Omniscient award.</p> + +<p class="pt1">In pendant to what we have said and have shown of Rousseau, +some notice may here properly be given of another celebrated +writer, or writer perhaps we should say of a celebrated +book, who stands to Rousseau in the relation of sequel and echo. +We mean <span class="sc">St. Pierre</span>, the author of “Paul and Virginia.”</p> + +<p>This is a very famous little classic. It is a kind of prose +idyll, a pastoral of lowly and simple life, a life lived by the +subjects of it in the spirit of return to the conditions of nature, +such as Jean Jacques Rousseau idealized the conditions +of nature to be. The author’s own personal experience furnished +him the hint, the ground, and the material, of his bucolic +romance. It had happened to St. Pierre, in the course +of a somewhat fruitless and vagabond life, to be sent in an +official capacity to Mauritius, or the Isle of France. In this +remote island, as in a kind of Utopia, the scene of the story +of “Paul and Virginia” is laid.</p> + +<p>St. Pierre was already thirty-one years old when he took +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page229" id="page229"></a>229</span> +his distant voyage; he stayed three years in Mauritius, and +then he waited sixteen years, becoming therefore, fifty years +old, before he made use of what he had experienced in publishing +his romance of “Paul and Virginia.” He had meantime +seen a great deal of Rousseau during the latter’s +declining years, and from him had learned that art of writing +by virtue of which he was destined to constitute the second +of succession in a literary line to be continued after him in +Chateaubriand and Lamartine, in Madame de Stael and George +Sand.</p> + +<p>It is the historical importance thus attaching to St. Pierre’s +name, even more perhaps than it is the merit and the fame +of his books, or of his book—for of his books other than +“Paul and Virginia,” we need not trouble our readers with +even the titles—that warrants us in listing him, as we do, among +the select “immortals” of French literature. St. Pierre’s distinguishing +note was the supposed return to nature and to natural +unsophisticated sentiment accomplished in his writings.</p> + +<p>But the return, with him, was by no means completely satisfactory. +There was always something unreal in St. Pierre’s +passion for nature; and the feeling with which he wrote +seems, to us of to-day, to have been neither very deep nor very +sincere. Still, all was accepted and was highly effective in +its time; Europe was flooded with tears in reading “Paul and +Virginia,” much as afterward it was flooded with tears in +reading an equally notable, but far less wholesome book, that +prose masterpiece of the youthful Goethe, “The Sorrows of +Werther.” The “Corinne” of Madame de Stael afterward, +later the “Jocelyn” of Lamartine, later again the passionate +earlier novels of George Sand, served to their respective fresh +generations of readers a somewhat similar office, that of stimulating +and of expressing the vague longing and aspiration of +youth.</p> + +<p>The plot of “Paul and Virginia” is simplicity itself. Two +young French widows—widows we may euphemistically call +the women both, though the mother of Paul had never +been married—meet, strangers to each other, in Mauritius, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page230" id="page230"></a>230</span> +and their children, Paul and Virginia respectively, grow up +from babyhood together, as if brother and sister, in a state +of nature such as never was anywhere in the world outside +of a romance, until at last, Virginia undertaking a vain voyage +to France to bring round a rich alienated aunt of her +mother’s, perishes by shipwreck on her return; in prompt +sequel of which calamity, all the remaining personages of the +tale, down to the very dog, naturally and sentimentally, one +after another, die. The story is represented as told to a +traveler in the Isle of France by a sympathetic old man who +had been an eye-witness of all.</p> + +<p>Two extracts, one from the beginning, and one from the +end, of the romance, will sufficiently indicate its quality.</p> + +<p>Paul and Virginia being now about twelve years of age, +Virginia goes, accompanied by Paul, to restore to the master +a runaway female slave to whom he had been cruel, and to +intercede with him on the sufferer’s behalf. She has accomplished +her purpose, and the two have set out to return. +They lose their way. This is the state of the case at the +point at which our first extract begins, as follows:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>“God will have pity on us,” replied Virginia; “he listens to the voice of +the little birds which ask him for food.” She had scarcely uttered these +words when they heard the noise of water falling from a neighboring rock. +They hastened to it, and, after having quenched their thirst at this spring +clearer than crystal, they gathered and ate a few cresses which grew on +its banks. As they were looking around them to find some more substantial +nourishment, Virginia descried a young palm-tree among the trees +of the wood. The cabbage which is found at the top of this tree, inclosed +within its leaves, is an excellent food; but although its stalk is not thicker +than a man’s leg it was more than sixty feet high. The wood of this tree +is indeed composed only of a collection of filaments; but its internal bark +is so hard that it blunts the sharpest hatchets, and Paul had not even a +knife. He thought of setting fire to this palm-tree at its foot. Another +difficulty—he had no steel to strike fire with, and besides, in this island +so covered with rocks, I do not believe it would be possible to find a +single flint. Necessity inspires industry, and often the most useful inventions +have come from men reduced to extremity. Paul resolved to +light a fire after the manner of the negroes. With the sharp end of a stone +he made a small hole in the branch of a tree that was very dry, which he +placed under his feet; he then with the edge of the stone made a point +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page231" id="page231"></a>231</span> +to another branch equally dry, but of a different kind of wood. He next +placed the piece of pointed wood in the small hole of the branch which +was under his feet, and turning it rapidly round in his hands, as one +turns a mill to froth chocolate, he in a few moments perceived smoke and +sparks arise from the point of contact. He collected together dry herbs +and other branches of trees, and set fire to the foot of the palm-tree, +which soon afterward fell with a violent noise. The fire served him also +in stripping the cabbage of the long woody and prickly leaves which enclosed +it. Virginia and he ate a part of this cabbage raw, and the rest +cooked in the ashes, and they found them equally agreeable to the taste.... After +their meal ... an hour of walking brought them to the banks of a +large river, which barred their way.... The noise of its waters terrified +Virginia; she dared not try to ford it. Paul accordingly took Virginia +on his back, and passed thus laden over the slippery rocks of the river, +regardless of the turbulence of the waters. “Fear not,” said he to her; +“I feel myself very strong with you.” ... When Paul had passed over, +and was on the bank, he wished to continue his journey laden with his +sister, flattering himself that he could ascend in that manner the mountain +of the Three Peaks, which he saw before him at the distance of half a +league; but his strength soon began to fail, and he was obliged to set her +on the ground and to throw himself down beside her.... Virginia +plucked from an old tree, which hung over the banks of the river, some +long leaves of hart’s tongue which hung down from its trunk. She made +of these a kind of buskins with which she bound her feet, which the +stones of the way had caused to bleed, for in her hurry to do good she +had forgotten to put on her shoes. Feeling herself relieved by the freshness +of the leaves she broke off a branch of bamboo and began to walk, +leaning with one hand on the cane and with the other on her brother.</p> + +<p>In this manner they walked on slowly through the woods; but the +height of the trees and the thickness of their foliage made them soon lose +sight of the mountain of the Three Peaks, by which they had directed +themselves, and even of the sun, which was already setting. After some +time they quitted, without perceiving it, the beaten path which they had +till then followed, and found themselves in a labyrinth of trees, shrubs, and +rocks, which had no farther outlet. Paul made Virginia sit down, and +ran almost distracted in search of a path out of this thick wood; but he +wearied himself in vain. He climbed to the top of a lofty tree, to discover +at least the mountain of the Three Peaks, but he could perceive nothing +around him but tops of trees, some of which were illuminated by the +last rays of the setting sun. Already the shadow of the mountains +covered the forests in the valleys; the wind was going down, as is usual +at sunset; a profound silence reigned in these solitudes, and no noise was +heard but the cry of the stags who came to seek repose in these unfrequented +recesses. Paul, in the hope that some hunter might hear him, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page232" id="page232"></a>232</span> +cried out as loud as he could: “Come! Come! and help Virginia!” But +only the echoes of the forest answered to his voice and repeated several +times successively: “Virginia! Virginia!”</p> + +<p>Paul now descended from the tree, overcome with fatigue and disappointment; +... he began to weep. Virginia said to him: “Do not weep, my +dear, unless you wish to overwhelm me with grief.... O! I have been +very imprudent.” And she began to shed tears. Nevertheless, she said +to Paul, “Let us pray to God, my brother, and he will have pity on us.” +Scarcely had they finished their prayer when they heard the barking of +a dog.... “I believe,” said Virginia, “it is Fidèle, our house-dog.”</p> +</div> + +<p>Of course all turned out happily. A rescue party had come +in search of the estray, and they were soon brought with +rejoicing home.</p> + +<p>Such as the foregoing passage will have served to show +is the charm of unfallen simplicity and innocence represented +by St. Pierre to have been cast, forming as if an Eden in +the wilderness, about these happy children of nature on +whom society had had no chance to exercise its baneful +power. True, they suffered, though in Eden. True, others +sinned, as well as suffered, about them, for there was slavery +and there was cruelty; but that was in the wilderness outside; +in Eden they did not sin. It was all Rousseauism in experiment +and reduced to absurdity. By Rousseauism we +indicate the doctrinal dream of that dreamer; by no means +the actual waking practice of the man that dreamed.</p> + +<p>It may seem a strange marring of the idea of a sufficiency +in nature, let nature but be unhindered by society, to renew +the world in the purity of paradise, that the end of the idyll +of Paul and Virginia should have come about through an +effort on the part of Virginia’s mother, made quite in the +spirit of the present artificial order of things, to secure a bequest +from an aunt of hers in France, whom the niece had +offended by marrying as she did; but so it was. Virginia +undertakes the necessary voyage, and, as we have already +said, perishes by shipwreck on the coast of Mauritius in +returning. The heart-rending agony of the final catastrophe +we have no space to exhibit. The author seems to hint that +Virginia might have been saved, could she have brought +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page233" id="page233"></a>233</span> +herself to assent to the desire of an entreating honest stalwart +seaman that she should disembarrass her person of her +clothes. It is almost the step taken from the sublime to the +ridiculous for the author to make his heroine perish thus as a +martyr to her own invincible modesty.</p> + +<p>The bereaved mother has visions of her departed daughter’s +accomplished felicity in the world unseen. These she describes +to the neighbor, who, a venerable old man, tells the traveler the +tale. Now for the final extract from the text of the book:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>“O my worthy neighbor!” said she [Paul’s mother] to me [the old +man who tells the whole story]: “I thought last night I beheld Virginia +clothed in white, in the midst of groves and delicious gardens. She +said to me: ‘I enjoy the most desirable happiness.’ Then she approached +Paul with a smiling air and bore him away with her. As I +endeavored to retain my son I felt that I myself was quitting the earth, +and that I was following him with inexpressible pleasure. I then wished +to bid my friend farewell, when I perceived her following us with Mary +and Domingo. [These are negro slaves of the two mothers.] But what +seems still more strange is, that Madame de la Tour [Virginia’s mother] +had the same night a dream attended with similar circumstances.”</p> + +<p>I replied to her, “My friend, I believe that nothing happens in the world +without the permission of God. Dreams do sometimes foretell the truth.”</p> + +<p>Madame de la Tour related to me that the same night she had also had +a dream entirely similar. I had never observed in these two ladies the +least propensity to superstition; I was therefore struck with the resemblance +of their dreams, and I had no doubt but that they would be soon +realized. This opinion, that truth sometimes presents itself to us during +our sleep, is generally spread among all the nations of the earth. The +most illustrious men of antiquity have entertained it, amongst others, +Alexander, Cæsar, the Scipios, the two Catos, and Brutus, who were by +no means inclined to superstition. The Old and the New Testament supply +us with a variety of examples of dreams that have been realized....</p> + +<p>But whether this opinion concerning dreams be true or not, those of +my unfortunate friends were speedily realized. Paul died two months +after the death of his dear Virginia, whose name he incessantly pronounced. +Margaret [Paul’s mother] beheld her end approach a week +after that of her son with a joy which virtue only can feel. She bade +Madame de la Tour the most tender farewell, “in the hope,” she said, “of +a sweet and eternal reunion. Death is the greatest of all blessings,” +added she; “we ought to desire it. If life be a punishment we ought to +wish for its end; if it be a trial, we should wish it short.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page234" id="page234"></a>234</span></p> + +<p>The governor took care of Domingo and Mary, who were no longer able +to labor, and who did not long survive their mistresses. As for poor +Fidèle, he pined away about the same time as he lost his master.</p> + +<p>I conducted Madame de la Tour to my house. She bore up under these +heavy afflictions with an incredible fortitude of mind. She had comforted +Paul and Margaret up to their last moments, as if she had only their +misfortune to support. When she no longer beheld them, she spoke of +them every day as of beloved friends who were in the neighborhood. +She survived them, however, but a month....</p> + +<p>The body of Paul was placed by the side of Virginia, at the foot +of the same bamboos; and near the same spot the remains of their +tender mothers and their faithful servants were laid. No marble was +raised over their humble turf, no inscription engraved to celebrate their +virtues; but their memory remains indelible in the hearts of those whom +they have assisted.</p> +</div> + +<p>If we have treated somewhat lightly this romance of sentimentalism +and of naturalism it is because of the taint of +ungenuineness—that is, of unreality more or less conscious on +the author’s part—that we seem to ourselves to discover in its +pages. But the masterpiece of Bernardin de St. Pierre is after +all a serious literary fact. For instance, if “Paul and Virginia” +had never been written it is doubtful if we should +ever have had that series of romantico-realistic little pieces +of fiction from the pen of George Sand, out of one of which +we shall presently exemplify this woman of genius to our +readers. A production in literature is to be judged not only +by its own inherent quality, but also, perhaps not less by +its entail of influence.</p> + +<p>“Paul and Virginia,” in becoming a school-book for the +learning of French, may be said to have bought increase of +celebrity at the price of some diminution in fame. In our +own opinion, however, which, after all that we have said, +hardly needs to be thus expressly stated, the book still remains +quite as famous as its intrinsic merits entitle it to be. Its +chief security of renown in the future lies, and will continue +more and more to lie, in the striking fact of its renown in +the past.</p> + +<p>We formally part with Rousseau and with his first literary +foster-child. But we shall trace their features still, again +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page235" id="page235"></a>235</span> +and again, persisting in authors to follow who could not escape +a tell-tale impress, open to all to see, stamped from that +singularly fecund, and singularly potent, literary paternity.</p> + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="center f120">XVIII.</p> + +<p class="chap2 center">THE ENCYCLOPÆDISTS.</p> + +<p><span class="sc chap1">A cenotaph</span> is a monument erected to the memory of one +dead, but not marking the spot in which his remains rest. +The present chapter is a cenotaph to the French Encyclopædists. +It is in the nature of a memorial of their literary work, +but it will be found to contain no specimen extracts from +their writings.</p> + +<p>Everybody has heard of the Encyclopædists of France. +Who are they? They are a group of men who, during the +eighteenth century, associated themselves together for the production +of a great work to be the repository of all human +knowledge,—in one word, of an encyclopædia. The project +was a laudable one; and the motive to it was laudable—in +part. For there was mixture of motive in the case. In part, +the motive was simple desire to advance the cause of human +enlightenment; in part, however, the motive was desire to +undermine Christianity. This latter end the encyclopædist +collaborators may have thought to be an indispensable +means subsidiary to the former end. They probably did +think so—with such imperfect sincerity as is possible to +those who set themselves, consciously or unconsciously, +against God. The fact is, that the Encyclopædists came at +length to be nearly as much occupied in extinguishing Christianity +as in promoting public enlightenment. They went +about this their task of destroying in a way as effective as +has ever been devised for accomplishing a similar work. +They gave a vicious turn of insinuation against Christianity +to as many articles as possible. In the most unexpected +places, throughout the entire work, pitfalls were laid of anti-Christian +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page236" id="page236"></a>236</span> +implication, awaiting the unwary feet of the explorer +of its pages. You were nowhere sure of your ground. +The world has never before seen, it has never seen since, an +example of propagandism altogether so adroit and so alert. +It is not too much to say further that history can supply few +instances of propagandism so successful. The Encyclopædists +might almost be said to have given the human mind a +fresh start and a new orbit. The fresh start is, perhaps, +spent; the new orbit has at length, to a great extent, returned +upon the old; but it holds true, nevertheless, that the +Encyclopædists of France were for a time, and that not a +short time, a prodigious force of impulsion and direction to +the Occidental mind. It ought to be added that the aim of +the Encyclopædists was political also, not less than religious. +In truth, religion and politics, Church and State, in their day, +and in France, were much the same thing. The “Encyclopædia” +was as revolutionary in politics as it was atheistic in +religion.</p> + +<p>The leader in this movement of insurrectionary thought +was Denis <span class="sc">Diderot</span>. Diderot (1713-1784) was born to be an +encyclopædist, and a captain of encyclopædists. Force inexhaustible, +and inexhaustible willingness to give out force; +unappeasable curiosity to know; irresistible impulse to impart +knowledge; versatile capacity to do every thing, carried +to the verge, if not carried beyond the verge, of incapacity +to do anything thoroughly well; quenchless zeal and +quenchless hope; levity enough of temper to keep its subject +free from those depressions of spirit and those cares of conscience +which weigh and wear on the overearnest man; +abundant physical health—gifts such as these made up the +manifold equipment of Diderot for rowing and steering the +gigantic enterprise of the “Encyclopædia” triumphantly to +the port of final completion, through many and many a zone of +stormy adverse wind and sea, traversed on the way. Diderot +produced no signal independent and original work of his +own; probably he could not have produced such a work. +On the other hand, it is simply just to say that hardly anybody +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page237" id="page237"></a>237</span> +but Diderot could have achieved the “Encyclopædia.” +That, indeed, may be considered an achievement not more to +the glory than to the shame of its author; but whatever its +true moral character, in whatever proportion shameful or +glorious, it is inalienably and peculiarly Diderot’s achievement—at +least in this sense, that without Diderot the “Encyclopædia” +would never have been achieved.</p> + +<p>We have already, in discussing Voltaire, adverted sufficiently +to Mr. John Morley’s volumes in honor of Diderot +and his compeers. Diderot is therein ably presented in the +best possible light to the reader; and we are bound to say +that, despite Mr. Morley’s friendly endeavors, Diderot therein +appears very ill. He married a young woman whose simple +and touching self-sacrifice on her husband’s behalf he presently +requited by giving himself away, body and soul, to a +rival. In his writings he is so easily insincere that not unfrequently +it is a problem, even for his biographer, to decide +when he is expressing his sentiments truly and when not, +insomuch that, once and again, Mr. Morley himself is obliged +to say, “This is probably hypocritical on Diderot’s part,” or +something to that effect. As for filthy communication out +of his mouth and from his pen—not, of course, habitual, but +occasional—the subject will not bear more than this mention. +These be thy gods, O Atheism! one, in reading Mr. Morley +on Diderot, is tempted again and again to exclaim. To offset +such lowness of character in the man it must in justice +be added that Diderot was, notwithstanding, of a generous, +uncalculating turn of mind, not grudging, especially in intellectual +relations, to give of his best to others, expecting +nothing again. Diderot, too, as well as Voltaire, had his royal +or imperial friends, in the notorious Empress Catherine of +Russia, and in King Stanislaus of Poland. He visited Catherine +once in her capital, and was there munificently entertained +by her. She was regally pleased to humor this gentleman +of France, permitting him to bring down his fist in +gesture violently on the redoubtable royal knee, according to +a pleasant way Diderot had of emphasizing a point in familiar +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page238" id="page238"></a>238</span> +conversation. His truest claim to praise for intellectual superiority +is, perhaps, that he was a prolific begetter of wit in +other men.</p> + +<p><span class="sc">D’Alembert</span> (Jean le Rond, 1717-1783) was an eminent +mathematician. He wrote especially, though not at first exclusively, +on mathematical subjects for the “Encyclopædia.” +He was, indeed, at the outset, published as mathematical editor +of the work. His European reputation in science made +his name a tower of strength to the “Encyclopædia,”—even +after he ceased to be an <span class="correction" title="amended from editoral">editorial</span> coadjutor in the enterprise. +For there came a time when D’Alembert abdicated responsibility +as editor and left the undertaking to fall heavily on +the single shoulder, Atlantean shoulder it proved to be, of +Diderot. The celebrated “Preliminary Discourse,” prefixed +to the “Encyclopædia,” proceeded from the hand of D’Alembert. +This has always been esteemed a masterpiece of comprehensive +grasp and lucid exposition. A less creditable contribution +of D’Alembert’s to the “Encyclopædia” was his +article on “Geneva,” in the course of which, at the instance +of Voltaire, who wanted a chance to have his plays represented +in that city, he went out of his way to recommend to the +Genevans that they establish for themselves a theater. This +brought out Rousseau in an eloquent harangue against the +theater as exerting influence to debauch public morals. +D’Alembert, in the contest, did not carry off the honors of +the day. D’Alembert’s “Éloges,” so called, a series of characterizations +and appreciations written by the author in his +old age, of members of the French Academy, enjoy deserved +reputation for sagacious intellectual estimate, and for clear, +though not supremely elegant, style of composition.</p> + +<p>Diderot and D’Alembert are the only men whose names +appear on the title-page of the “Encyclopædia;” but Voltaire, +Rousseau, Turgot, Helvétius, Duclos, Condillac, Buffon, +Grimm, Holbach, with many besides whom we must not stay +even to mention, contributed to the work.</p> + +<p>The influence of the “Encyclopædia,” great during its day, +is by no means yet exhausted. But it is an influence indirectly +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page239" id="page239"></a>239</span> +exerted, for the “Encyclopædia” itself has long been +an obsolete work.</p> + +<p>There is a legal maxim that the laws are silent when a +state of war exists. Certainly, amid the madness of a revolution +such as, during the closing years of the eighteenth century, +the influence of Voltaire, Rousseau, and the Encyclopædists, +with Beaumarchais, reacting against the accumulated +political and ecclesiastical oppressions of ages, precipitated +upon France, it might safely be assumed that letters would +be silent. But the nation meantime was portentously preparing +material for a literature which many wondering centuries +to follow would occupy themselves with writing.</p> + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="center f120">XIX.</p> + +<p class="chap2 center">MADAME DE STAEL.</p> + +<p class="center">1766-1817.</p> + +<p><span class="sc chap1">In</span> Madame de Stael we encounter a truly redoubtable figure +in literature.</p> + +<p>But Madame de Stael in her day seemed more than a writer, +more even than a writer of what the Germans would call +world-importance; she was, or she seemed, a prodigious living +personal force. For her tongue was not less formidable than +her pen. In truth, the fame of Madame de Stael is due to +the twofold power which, during her life-time, she exercised, +and exercised in very uncertain proportions, first perhaps as +a talker and second as a writer. She is generally allowed, +and that upon the most incontestable authority, to have been +one of the most brilliant and most effective talkers in the history +of the human race.</p> + +<p>This power in Madame de Stael of personal impression you +are not free to ascribe to any charm that she owned of +physical beauty; for Madame de Stael was not a beautiful +woman. By her friend, Madame Récamier, that charm was +exercised to the full, and that charm Madame de Stael, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page240" id="page240"></a>240</span> +did not despise. So far from it, she is said once (thus +at least the present writer seems to remember, but he has +been unable to verify his impression) passionately to have +exclaimed that she would give all her genius for one evening +of Madame Récamier’s beauty. This was not the vanity +on her part of wish to be admired. It was the pathos +of longing to be loved. “Never, never,” she cried out in +anguish, “I shall never be loved as I love.” She was +true woman after all; and it would be inexpiable wrong +against her not to say this also, and say it with emphasis, +however sharply we may be just in pronouncing the masculine +strength of her character. The contrast was so +obvious between Madame de Stael and Madame Récamier in +point of mere personal charm that, in a moment evil for him, +a gentleman once seated between them permitted himself the +awkwardness of saying, in ill-advised intention of compliment +to both, but with most unhappy chief effect to the contrary, +alike on this side and on that, “How fortunate! I sit between +Wit and Beauty.” “Yes, and without possessing either the +one or the other,” retorted Wit, amply avenging herself for +being reminded that she was not also Beauty. Madame de +Stael had certainly justified one half of the gentleman’s compliment; +and Madame Récamier, with her serene ineffable +charm, did not need to speak in order to justify the other.</p> + +<p>It was, then, by the pure dry light of her intellect and her +wit that Madame de Stael dazzled so in conversation—dazzled +so, and so attracted. Wherever she was, there was the +center. She made a <i>salon</i> anywhere, by simply being there. +And Madame de Stael’s <i>salon</i> was felt by the ruler of Europe +to be a formidable political power implacably hostile +to himself. “Somehow,” said Napoleon, “I observe that, +whatever is talked about at Madame de Stael’s, those who +go there come away thinking less favorably of me.” It +seems to have been in part because she said nothing, and +would say nothing, of Napoleon in her “Germany,” that +he finally suppressed that book. “You will speak ill of me +when you get back to your academy,” said to Plato the tyrant +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page241" id="page241"></a>241</span> +of Syracuse. “In the academy we shall not have time +to speak of you at all,” was the philosopher’s reply.</p> + +<p>Madame de Stael was singularly fortunate in heredity on +both sides of her parentage. Her father was an eminent +banker and minister of finance, who enjoyed the noblest and +clearest renown as a man both of talent and of character. +Her mother was that beautiful and gifted daughter of a Swiss +pastor whom the historian Gibbon once thought he loved, +but whom he dutifully gave up at the will of his father. +“I sighed as a lover and obeyed as a son,” Gibbon says in +his “Autobiography.” This was after years had passed with +him—“years that bring the philosophic mind!” The obese +but famous English historian, still a bachelor, was a frequent +guest at the house of M. Necker, where he had the opportunity +gallantly to admire the brilliant daughter of the woman +who might have been his wife.</p> + +<p>We have said enough to show that, with the exception of +personal beauty, Madame de Stael enjoyed every external advantage +that could help to give her a shining career. Her +wealth was something more than a mere accessory advantage; +she needed it to sustain her in the waste of money made +necessary by her wanderings through Europe to escape the +tyrannous hand of Napoleon. Her exile was agony to her, for +she loved France, and she loved Paris with inextinguishable +affection. It is impossible to deny to the obstinacy that refused +to burn even a pinch of incense to the god of her nation’s +idolatry, for the sake of permission to return to every thing +that she loved—it is impossible, we say, to deny to this obstinacy +in Madame de Stael the title of a true and heroic virtue.</p> + +<p>How costly-brave was the attitude that Madame de Stael +steadfastly kept toward Napoleon, during the fifteen years of +his unparalleled sway, may be guessed from the account that +she gives of the unnerving, the prostrating effect upon her +of the presence, the character, and the genius of that extraordinary +man. In her “Reflections on the French Revolution” +she has the following passage, almost equally striking +whether taken as a description or as a confession:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page242" id="page242"></a>242</span></p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Far from gaining re-assurance in meeting Buonaparte oftener, he intimidated +me daily more and more. I confusedly felt that no emotion of the +heart could possibly take effect upon him. He looks upon a human being +as a fact or as a thing, but not as a fellow-creature. He does not hate +any more than he loves; there is nothing for him but himself; all other +beings are so many ciphers. The force of his will lies in the imperturbable +calculation of his selfishness.... His successes are as much to be +credited to the qualities which he lacks as to the talents which he possesses. +Neither pity, nor attraction, nor religion, nor attachment to any idea whatsoever, +could make him swerve from the main path he had chosen. Every +time I heard him talk I was struck with his superiority; this, however, +had no resemblance to the superiority of men trained and cultivated by +study or by society, a class of which England and France can offer examples. +But his courses of remark indicated a tact for seizing upon circumstances +like that which the hunter has for seizing upon his prey. +Sometimes he recounted the political and military incidents of his life in a +manner to interest greatly; he had even, in narrations that admitted +gayety, a trace of Italian imagination. Still, nothing could get the better +of my revulsion for what I perceived in him. I felt, in his soul, a sword, +cold and cutting, that froze while it wounded; I felt, in his mind, a fundamental +irony from which nothing great, nothing beautiful, not his own glory +even, could escape; for he despised the nation whose suffrages he sought; +and no single spark of enthusiasm mixed with his wish to astonish mankind.</p> + +<p>It was during the interval between the return of Buonaparte (from Italy), +and his setting out for Egypt toward the end of 1787, that I several times +saw him in Paris; and never could I overcome the difficulty which I experienced +in breathing in his presence. I was one day seated at table between +him and the Abbé Sieyès; singular situation, could I have foreseen +the future! [Sieyès, two years later, became one in a triumvirate of “consuls,” +of whom Napoleon was another.] I scrutinized carefully the face +of Napoleon; but every time he detected my observing glances he had +the art to rob his eyes of all expression, as if they were changed to marble. +His countenance was then immobile, save a vague smile that he +brought upon his lips at a venture, in order to throw out any one who +might wish to mark the external signs of his thought.</p> +</div> + +<p>It was not a light thing, and Madame de Stael did not feel +it a light thing, to hold out as she did, never once dipping +her colors, against the will and the power of the man whom +she thus describes.</p> + +<p>This passionate woman of genius, twice linked by marriage +in a union marked by violent and opposite disparities +of age—for the second husband was as much younger as the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page243" id="page243"></a>243</span> +first was older than she—sought satisfaction for her hungry desire +of love in “relations,” if not ambiguous, at least apparently +ambiguous, with men other than her husbands. One of these +men was Benjamin Constant, whose conversational powers, +exercised in partnership, never in rivalship, with Madame de +Stael, helped make the society in which they shone as twin +stars together, the admiration, the envy, the despair, of cultivated +Europe. Benjamin Constant, as Madame de Stael’s +companion of travel in Germany, was no doubt part, though +August Wilhelm Schlegel was part still greater, of the vitalizing +intellectual influence that helped her produce her work +on that country. Schlegel, by the way, had previously accompanied +Madame de Stael in that Italian tour and sojourn +of hers, the fruit of which was the novel, or the book of travels, +or both in one, entitled “Corinne.” This book was the +first of her books to give its author a European fame. Besides +being studied as a text-book in the schools, “Corinne” is still +read as a production important in literary history.</p> + +<p>The “De l’Allemagne” (literally “Concerning Germany”) +is generally esteemed the masterpiece of its author. From +this we draw our illustrations by specimen of the literary +quality of Madame de Stael. The “Germany” may be said +to have first introduced that country to France, almost to +Europe in general. Its scope is comprehensive. It describes +Germany in a great variety of aspects; but it is on the literature +of Germany that it expends its strength.</p> + +<p>Madame de Stael’s “Preface” to her “Germany,” written +in England, where, after its arbitrary suppression in France, +the volume was finally published, is an interesting bit of +reading. Witness one or two extracts:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>My bookseller took upon himself the responsibility of the publication +of my book, after submitting it to the censors....</p> + +<p>At the moment when the work was about to appear, and when the +10,000 copies of the first edition had been actually printed off, the minister +of the police, known under the name of General Savary, sent his +officers to the bookseller’s, with orders to tear the whole edition in +pieces, and to place sentinels at the different entrances to the warehouse, +for fear a single copy of this dangerous writing should escape.</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page244" id="page244"></a>244</span></p> + +<p>What a glimpse is there incidentally afforded of the intolerable +despotism of Napoleon!</p> + +<p>Madame de Stael thinks silently of her lovely and beloved +friend Madame Récamier, who had suffered from Napoleon by +her relation with the exiled woman of letters, when still in her +preface she writes:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Some of my friends were banished, because they had had the generosity +to come and see me; this was too much: to carry with us the contagion +of misfortune, not to dare to associate with those we love, to be afraid to +write to them, or pronounce their names, to be the object by turns, +either of affectionate attentions which make us tremble for those who +show them, or of those refinements of baseness which terror inspires, is +a situation from which every one, who still values life, would withdraw!</p> +</div> + +<p>We advance into the body of the work.</p> + +<p>The German Lessing had himself found in his literary +countrymen the same fault that Madame de Stael, near the +beginning of her book, points out as follows:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>In literature, as in politics, the Germans have too much respect for +foreigners, and not enough of national prejudices. In individuals it is a +virtue, this denial of self, and this esteem of others; but the patriotism +of nations ought to be selfish.</p> +</div> + +<p>Bismarck and Moltke in politics and in war, Herman +Grimm, for example, in literature, with his appalling claim +for Goethe’s “Faust,” as the “greatest work of the greatest +poet of all nations and times,” have lately “changed all +that.” The fault of Germany now is not over-modesty.</p> + +<p>The boundless freedom, nay, audacity, of speculative +thought indulged by the Germans is stimulantly contrasted +with their strangely contented subserviency (which then was) +in more material matters. The sentence we italicize below +was canceled by Napoleon’s censors, before their master took +the shorter method of canceling the book:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>The enlightened men of Germany dispute vehemently among themselves +the dominion of speculations, and will suffer no shackles in this +department; but they give up, without difficulty, all that is real in life to +the powerful of the earth. <i>This real in life, so disdained by them, finds, +however, those who make themselves possessors of it, and these, in the end, carry +trouble and constraint even into the empire of the imagination.</i></p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page245" id="page245"></a>245</span></p> + +<p>The following passage concerning Voltaire and a particular +production of his pen is one of the most trenchantly critical +expressions that the reader would find in the whole course of +the “Germany.” The German name of Leibnitz occurring +in it will suggest the association of contrast by which such a +criticism of a Frenchman found its way into a book treating +of things German. Leibnitz had propounded a metaphysical +theory of universal optimism, which—like all philosophic +hypotheses, even those apparently least practical, let them +once become widely entertained—was having its influence on +national thought and national character. With Voltaire’s +“Candide” the readers of this volume will already have +acquired sufficient acquaintance to make Madame de Stael’s +remarks upon it here presented additionally interesting:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Voltaire so well perceived the influence that metaphysics exercise over +the general bias of men’s minds that to combat Leibnitz he wrote <i>Candide</i>. +He took up a curious whim against final causes, optimism, free will, in short, +against all the philosophical opinions that exalt the dignity of man; and +he composed <i>Candide</i>, that work of a diabolical gayety, for it appears to be +written by a being of a different nature from ourselves, insensible to our +condition, well pleased with our sufferings, and laughing like a demon or +an ape at the miseries of that human species with which he has nothing +in common....</p> + +<p><i>Candide</i> brings into action that scoffing philosophy, so indulgent in +appearance, in reality so ferocious; it presents human nature under the +most lamentable point of view, and offers us, in the room of every consolation, +the sardonic grin which frees us from all compassion for others by +making us renounce it for ourselves.</p> +</div> + +<p>When Madame de Stael comes in due course to speak of +the masterpiece of Goethe, his “Faust,” she prepares her +French readers to be shocked with a first disappointment. +She says:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Certainly we must not expect to find in it either taste, or measure, or +the art that selects and terminates, but if the imagination could figure to +itself an intellectual chaos, such as the material chaos has often been described, +the <i>Faust</i> of Goethe should in propriety have been composed at +that epoch.... The drama of <i>Faust</i> certainly is not a good model. Whether +it be considered as an offspring of the delirium of the mind, or of the +satiety of reason, it is to be wished that such productions may not be +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page246" id="page246"></a>246</span> +multiplied; but when such a genius as that of Goethe sets itself free from +all restrictions the crowd of thoughts is so great that on every side they +break through and trample down the barriers of art.</p> +</div> + +<p>We close our series of extracts by giving what this most +brilliant among the French women that have been at the same +time great talkers and great writers found to say of that high +art of conversation in which her countrymen surpass the +world and in which she surpassed her countrymen:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>The <i>bon-mots</i> of the French have been quoted from one end of Europe +to the other. Always they have displayed the brilliancy of their merit +and solaced their griefs in a lively and agreeable manner; always they have +stood in need of one another, as listeners taking turns in mutual encouragement; +always they have excelled in the art of knowing under what +circumstances to speak, and even under what circumstances to keep +still, when any commanding interest triumphs over their natural liveliness; +always they have possessed the talent of living a quick life, of cutting +short long discourses, of giving way to their successors who are desirous +of speaking in their turn; always, in short, they have known how to take +from thought and feeling no more than is necessary to animate conversation +without overstaking the feeble interest which men generally feel for +one another.</p> + +<p>The French are in the habit of treating their own misfortunes lightly +from the fear of fatiguing their friends; they guess the weariness which +they would occasion by that which they would experience.... The +desire of appearing amiable induces men to assume an expression of +gayety, whatever may be the inward disposition of the soul; the physiognomy +by degrees influences the feelings, and that which we do for the +purpose of pleasing others soon takes off the edge of our own individual +sufferings.</p> + +<p><i>A sensible woman has said that Paris is, of all the world, the place where +men can most easily dispense with being happy.</i> [The foregoing italicized +passage was, Madame de Stael says, “suppressed by the literary censorship +under the pretext that there was so much happiness in Paris now +that there was no need of doing without it.”] ... But nothing can +metamorphose a city of Germany into Paris.</p> + +<p>... To succeed in conversation one must be able clearly to observe +the impression produced at each moment on people, that which they wish +to conceal, that which they seek to exaggerate, the inward satisfaction of +some, the forced smile of others; one may see passing over the countenances +of those who listen half formed censures which may be evaded by +hastening to dissipate them before self-love is engaged on their side. One +may also behold there the first birth of approbation, which may be +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page247" id="page247"></a>247</span> +strengthened without, however, exacting from it more than it is willing to +bestow. There is no arena in which vanity displays itself in such a variety +of forms as in conversation.</p> + +<p>I once knew a man who was agitated by praise to such a degree that +whenever it was bestowed upon him he exaggerated what he had just +said and took such pains to add to his success that he always ended in +losing it. I never dared to applaud him from the fear of leading him to +affectation and of his making himself ridiculous by the heartiness of his +self-love. Another was so afraid of the appearance of wishing to display +himself that he let fall words negligently and contemptuously; his assumed +indolence only betrayed one more affectation, that of pretending to have +none. When vanity displays herself, she is good-natured; when she hides +herself, the fear of being discovered renders her sour, and she affects +indifference, satiety, in short, whatever may persuade other men that she +has no need of them. These different combinations are amusing for the +observers, and one is always astonished that self-love does not take the +course, which is so simple, of naturally avowing its desire to please, and +making the utmost possible use of grace and truth to attain the object.</p> +</div> + +<p>There is something in the foregoing strain of ascription +from Madame de Stael to the social virtues of the French +which recalls that remarkable character given by Pericles, in +his noble funeral oration reported by Thucydides, to the +national spirit and habit of the Athenians in contrast with +those of their Spartan neighbors and enemies.</p> + +<p>If of Madame de Stael the woman we shall in any respect +have failed to give a just idea, it will be by not having +adequately represented the generosity of her character. Her +desire and her ability to shine should not be permitted, in any +one’s conception of her, to obscure her fondness and her fitness +for loving and for being loved. Those who knew her +intimately bear touching testimony to this quality of womanliness +in the personal character of Madame de Stael. She was +fundamentally an amiable, as she was conspicuously a strenuous, +spirit, and no mutations in fashion or in taste will ever +reduce her to less than a great tradition in literature.</p> + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page248" id="page248"></a>248</span></p> + +<p class="center f120">XX.</p> + +<p class="chap2 center">CHATEAUBRIAND.</p> + +<p class="center">1768-1848.</p> + +<p><span class="sc chap1">Chateaubriand</span>—his is a faded fame. He was a false +brilliant from the first, but he glittered during his time like +a veritable Mountain of Light. Men hardly found out till +he died that instead of being precious stone he was nothing +but paste.</p> + +<p>Our figure misrepresents the fact. Chateaubriand was <i>not</i> +thus spurious through and through. He had streaks of +genuine in him. His true symbol perhaps would be a common +rubble-stone flawed splendidly with diamond.</p> + +<p>The reaction of disparagement, which is now the critical +vogue as to Chateaubriand’s personal and literary value, +meets occasional stout challenge from redoubtable voices. +Mr. Matthew Arnold, for instance, protests against it, triumphantly +citing out of the author for whom he stands up +what certainly would read like the utterance of a mind both +large and noble, could one rid one’s self of the feeling that +Chateaubriand in writing it had his own case chiefly in view, +as follows:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>It is a dangerous mistake, sanctioned, like so many other dangerous +mistakes, by Voltaire, to suppose that the best works of imagination are +those which draw the most tears.... The true tears are those which are +called forth by the beauty of poetry; there must be as much admiration +in them as sorrow.</p> +</div> + +<p>The author of the foregoing, assuredly, excites with his +pathos quite as much admiration as sorrow.</p> + +<p>Chateaubriand forms an essential link in the chain of +literary history for France. He constitutes almost the sole +representative of French literature for the period of the +First Empire, so-called—that is, the time of the supreme +ascendency of Napoleon Bonaparte. Madame de Stael alone +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page249" id="page249"></a>249</span> +needs to be named as his rival and peer. Chateaubriand, in +his day—and his day was a long one, for he outlived the +empire, the restoration, and the reign of Louis Philippe—was +well-nigh an equal power with Napoleon himself. In +his own opinion, he was fully such; for his self-complacency +was unbounded.</p> + +<p>Never in the history of letters did it twice happen to an +author to be better served by opportunity than in two cases +was Chateaubriand. The Encyclopædists, with Voltaire and +Rousseau, had had their hour, and a reaction had set in, when +Chateaubriand’s “Genius of Christianity” appeared. It was +the exact moment for such a book. It seemed to create the +reactionary movement with which it coincided, and it rendered +its author not merely famous, but powerful. Napoleon +saw his account in making use of a writer who had the secret +of such popularity. Besides, the Napoleonic sagacity was +equal to perceiving that return to religious belief was needful +for France. Napoleon made overtures to Chateaubriand, +which Chateaubriand accepted. The author took office at the +gift of the dictator.</p> + +<p>But Chateaubriand was himself too supremely an egotist +to be securely attached to another egotist’s interest by any +flattery that could be bestowed upon him. When, at the +word of Napoleon, the Duke d’Enghien was murdered, +Chateaubriand—let him have the credit of his high spirit—resigned +his office and separated himself from the tyrant who +had conferred it. Chateaubriand’s first happy synchronism +with the course of events was his publishing the “Genius of +Christianity” when he did. His second was his publishing +the pamphlet “Bonaparte and the Bourbons” at the very +moment when that restoration impended which raised Louis +XVIII. to the throne of France. The new monarch acknowledged +that Chateaubriand’s book had been worth an +army to his cause.</p> + +<p>Chateaubriand prolonged his literary career to a great age, +enjoying almost to the end an undisputed supremacy among +the authors of France. There has seldom been a more +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page250" id="page250"></a>250</span> +uncloudedly, more dazzlingly, brilliant contemporary success +achieved by any writer of any age or any nation. The renown +continues, but the splendor of the renown has passed +away. Why? Our answer is, Chateaubriand’s writing is +vitiated by a vein of unreality, of falseness, running through +it. This character in his writing but reflected, we fear, a +character in the writer. There is ground for suspecting that +Chateaubriand was at heart lacking in genuineness. It was +inseparable defect in the man that gave that hollow ring to +the words. It is but a just reprisal upon Chateaubriand that +his literary fame should suffer by the fault detected in his +personal character. A man’s words are seldom in the long +run more weighty than the man.</p> + +<p>Chateaubriand was a kind of continuer and modifier of a +celebrated French writer that preceded him. He was a +better-bred, a much purified, an aristocratic Rousseau. He +may be pronounced second greatest in the succession of the +literary sentimentalists of France.</p> + +<p>René François Augustus, Viscount de Chateaubriand, to +give him now his full name and title, lived a life replete with +adventure and vicissitude. At twenty-three years of age he +fled from the horrors of the French Revolution to travel in +America and to find a north-west passage to the Polar Sea. +He called, with a letter of introduction, on President Washington, +to whose prudent dissuasion of the young man from +his project of arctic exploration, founded on the difficulty of +the task, Chateaubriand had the French readiness, together +with the necessary egotism, to make the complimentary reply: +“But, sir, my task is not so difficult as yours was, that +of creating a state.” In his posthumous biography, the +“<i>Memoirs d’Outre Tombe</i>” [Memoirs from Beyond the +Tomb], Chateaubriand, alluding to this interview of his with +Washington, said, sententiously and loftily, “There is a +virtue in the look of a great man.”</p> + +<p>Our adventurer never found that north-west passage which +he came to seek, but he took impressions of a strange new +world, impressions that he afterward turned to various literary +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page251" id="page251"></a>251</span> +account. His “René” was one fruit of these experiences +of his. The “René” is a romantic and sentimental tale, the +main interest of which, where it possessed interest, lay in the +seductive style of the composition, the idealizing descriptions +occurring in it of American landscape, and the tone of +melancholy reflection that pervaded it. The “noble red +man” is made in it to talk like a Socrates come again, or like +a French Christian philosopher born “the heir of all the ages.” +Such absurd inconsistency with the truth of things well illustrates +that taint of lurking falseness which to such a degree +vitiates all Chateaubriand’s work.</p> + +<p>The French Revolution had made great strides while Chateaubriand +was discovering the north-west passage by musing +and dreaming in the woods and by the streams of the +New World. Learning that many members of his social class, +the aristocracy of France, had fled from their homes and +were rallying in other lands to make a stand against their +enemies, Chateaubriand resolved to join them. He was nigh +to shipwreck on his way. In a siege, after his arrival, he +was saved from death by the chance of his having the manuscript +of his “Atala” in the right spot on his person to intercept +a ball from the enemy. But he was severely wounded +nevertheless, and, worse still, was attacked with the small-pox. +Thus disabled, he started on foot to make a journey of +hundreds of miles. He, of course, suffered many hardships, +and one night gave up to die in a ditch in which he lay +down to rest. He was picked up and carried to Namur. +Here, as he crawled on hands and knees through the streets, +he was befriended by some women who saw his condition. +After many adventures, he found himself in London, where +he lived squalidly on what he could earn by hack-work with +his pen.</p> + +<p>His family meantime were suffering in France. Some of +them had actually been guillotined, and some were imprisoned, +among them his wife, his sister, and his mother. The +mother died praying for her son’s conversion from infidel +error. The sister wrote to her brother the pathetic story, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page252" id="page252"></a>252</span> +but she too had died before her letter reached that brother’s +hand. “These two voices,” Chateaubriand says, “coming +up from the grave, ... struck me with peculiar force.... I +wept and believed.” The “Genius of Christianity” was +written in the spirit of this sentimental conversion of the +author.</p> + +<p>We pass over, with mere mention of some principal titles, +his other books, not previously named, as his “Itinerary,” a +volume of travels; his “Moses,” his “Martyrs,” his “Essay +on English Literature,” his “Translation of the Paradise +Lost,” to make the brief extracts for which we have room +from the “Genius of Christianity.”</p> + +<p>This work is designed as a manual of Christian evidence, +an argument for the truth of the Christian religion. It is +written, of course, from a Roman Catholic point of view, +but it may be described as liberal and literary, rather than +strict and ecclesiastical. It is far from being closely reasoned. +There is, in fact, a great deal of digression and discussion in +it. The aim of the author was evidently more to make a readable +book suited to the times than to produce an apologetic +work that would stand four-square against all hostile attack. +The author’s question with himself as he wrote seemed to +have been, not, Is this valid, and necessary to the demonstration? +but, Will this be interesting? The consequence is that +the “Genius of Christianity” is now worthy of note rather +as a book that has had a history than as a book that possesses +permanent value. It contains, however, writing that +will satisfactorily exhibit the style of Chateaubriand—a clear, +pure, brilliant, harmonious poetic prose.</p> + +<p>Chateaubriand raises and answers the question why the +ancients failed in feeling for the beauties and sublimities of +nature, thus:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>It can scarcely be supposed that men endued with such sensibility as +the ancients could have wanted eyes to perceive the charms of nature +and talents for depicting them, had they not been blinded by some powerful +cause. Now, this cause was their established mythology, which, +peopling the universe with elegant phantoms, banished from the creation +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page253" id="page253"></a>253</span> +its solemnity, its grandeur, and its solitude. It was necessary that Christianity +should expel the whole hosts of fauns, of satyrs, and of nymphs, +to restore to the grottoes their silence, and to the woods their scope for +uninterrupted contemplation. Under our religion the deserts have assumed +a character more pensive, more vague, and more sublime; the forests +have attained a loftier pitch; the rivers have broken their petty urns, +that in future they may only pour the waters of the abyss from the summit +of the mountains; and the true God, in returning to his work, has imparted +his immensity to nature.</p> +</div> + +<p>The foregoing, paradoxical perhaps, is certainly a sharp +turning of the tables upon modern paganizers who mourn +the dead Greek and Roman divinities of grove and stream.</p> + +<p>Here is a passage in description of nature that every reader +must acknowledge to be charming. It is throughout thoroughly +characteristic of the author. The closing sentence is +certainly French rather than Hebrew in spirit—Chateaubriand +rather than David:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Penetrate into those forests of America coeval with the world. What +profound silence pervades these retreats when the winds are hushed! +What unknown voices when they begin to rise! Stand still, and everything +is mute; take but a step, and all nature sighs. Night approaches; +the shades thicken; you hear herds of wild beasts passing in the dark; +the ground murmurs under your feet; the pealing thunder roars in the +deserts; the forest bows; the trees fall; an unknown river rolls before +you. The moon at length bursts forth in the east; as you proceed at +the foot of the trees she seems to move before you at their tops and +solemnly to accompany your steps. The wanderer seats himself on the +trunk of an oak to await the return of day; he looks alternately at the +nocturnal luminary, the darkness, and the river: he feels restless, agitated, +and in expectation of something extraordinary. A pleasure never felt +before, an unusual fear, cause his heart to throb as if he were about to be +admitted to some secret of the Divinity; he is alone in the depths of the +forest, but the mind of man is equal to the expanse of nature, and all +the solitudes of the earth are less vast than one single thought of his +heart. Even did he reject the idea of a deity, the intellectual being, alone +and unbeheld, would be more august in the midst of a solitary world than +if surrounded by the ridiculous divinities of fabulous times. The barren +desert itself would have some congeniality with his discursive thoughts, +his melancholy feelings, and even his disgust for a life equally devoid of +illusion and of hope.</p> + +<p>There is in man an instinctive melancholy which makes him harmonize +with the scenery of nature. Who has not spent whole hours seated +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page254" id="page254"></a>254</span> +on the bank of a river contemplating its passing waves? Who has not +found pleasure on the sea-shore in viewing the distant rock whitened by +the billows? How much are the ancients to be pitied, who discovered in +the ocean naught but the palace of Neptune and the cavern of Proteus! +It was hard that they should perceive only the adventures of the Tritons +and the Nereids in the immensity of the seas, which seems to give an +indistinct measure of the greatness of our souls, and which excites a vague +desire to quit this life, that we may embrace all nature and taste the fullness +of joy in the presence of its author.</p> +</div> + +<p>How Roman Catholic, rather than catholic, in tone, is the +“Genius of Christianity,” the following deliciously written +sentiment about the Virgin Mary will sufficiently show:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>They who see nothing in the chaste queen of angels but an obscure +mystery are much to be pitied. What touching thoughts are suggested +by that mortal woman, become the immortal mother of a Saviour-God! +What might not be said of Mary, who is at once a virgin and a mother, +the two most glorious characters of woman!—of that youthful daughter of +ancient Israel, who presents herself for the relief of human suffering, and +sacrifices a son for the salvation of her paternal race! This tender mediatrix +between us and the Eternal, with a heart full of compassion for +our miseries, forces us to confide in her maternal aid, and disarms the +vengeance of Heaven. What an enchanting dogma, that allays the terror +of a God by causing beauty to intervene between our nothingness and +his Infinite Majesty.</p> + +<p>The anthems of the Church represent the Blessed Mary seated upon a +pure-white throne more dazzling than the snow. We there behold her +arrayed in splendor, as a mystical rose, or as the morning star, harbinger +of the Sun of grace; the brightest angels wait upon her, while celestial +harps and voices form a ravishing concert around her. In that daughter +of humanity we behold the refuge of sinners, the comforter of the afflicted, +who, all good, all compassionate, all indulgent, averts from us the anger +of the Lord.</p> + +<p>Mary is the refuge of innocence, of weakness, and of misfortune. The +faithful clients that crowd our churches to lay their homage at her feet +are poor mariners who have escaped shipwreck under her protection, aged +soldiers whom she has saved from death in the fierce hour of battle, young +women whose bitter griefs she has assuaged. The mother carries her +babe before her image, and this little one, though it knows not as yet the +God of heaven, already knows that divine mother who holds an infant in +her arms.</p> +</div> + +<p>Finally, to illustrate the amusing real lack of logic, masking +in logical form, of which Chateaubriand was capable, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page255" id="page255"></a>255</span> +we give the syllogistic-looking conclusion that sums up the +book:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Christianity is perfect; men are imperfect.</p> + +<p>Now, a perfect consequence cannot spring from an imperfect principle.</p> + +<p>Christianity, therefore, is not the work of men.</p> + +<p>If Christianity is not the work of men, it can have come from none but +God.</p> + +<p>If it came from God, men cannot have acquired a knowledge of it but +by revelation.</p> + +<p>Therefore, Christianity is a revealed religion.</p> +</div> + +<p>Chateaubriand was long a venerated figure, central in the +pure and brilliant <i>salon</i> of Madame Récamier, that later +Marchioness Rambouillet at Paris. His easy airs of patriarchal +condescension toward the younger generation of +authors who drew around him there naturally engaged them +to prolong the long days of his triumphs. But his triumphs +may be said to have come to an end when Sainte-Beuve was +ready to pronounce, as he did, that this defender of Christianity +was a skeptic at heart, this preacher and praiser of purity +was a libertine in life. We will not say that we accept this +destructive view of Chateaubriand’s character. But we are +bound to confess that we wish there were more internal evidence +contained in his writings to throw doubt on the justice +of a sentence so severe.</p> + +<p class="pt1"><span class="sc">De Maistre</span> (Joseph Marie, 1753-1821), is another author +who, like Chateaubriand, a little earlier than he, took up a +polemic for Christianity as represented in Roman Catholicism. +A truly high and nobly earnest spirit was De Maistre, +as such contrasting with Chateaubriand, a far deeper and +far more philosophical thinker than his brilliant compeer, but +wanting in that grace and seductiveness of style which gave +to Chateaubriand his life-long wide supremacy in the empire +of French letters. It would be not incongruous, if there were +room for it in our volume, to prolong this chapter with some +brief notice and exemplification of De Maistre’s literary work. +We must content ourselves with this respectful bare mention +of his name.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page256" id="page256"></a>256</span></p> + +<p>The proportionately small space in these pages that, in here +ending our notice of him, we allot to Chateaubriand, fails +indeed to represent by symbol to the eye the proportionate +space that he occupies in the literature of his country. But +it has afforded us fairly adequate opportunity to exhibit in +description and specimen the characteristic quality of his +literary production.</p> + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="center f120">XXI.</p> + +<p class="chap2 center">BÉRANGER.</p> + +<p class="center">1780-1857.</p> + +<p><span class="sc chap1">Béranger</span> was a song-writer, the whole of him. He was +a song-writer and nothing else. It is his own word, “My +songs, they are myself.”</p> + +<p>Béranger was not the rose-crowned lyrist of love and +wine; he was not Anacreon. Béranger was not the hymner +of heroes and kings, a maker of odes; he was not Pindar. +Béranger was not the poet of the world, the gay world +and the wise; he was not Horace. Béranger was not by +chance the lowly melodist, who might by chance as well +have been a lofty bard; he was not Robert Burns. Béranger +was the song-singer of the people; he himself elected +to be such, and he was by the people elected to be such; +he said himself, “My muse is the people.” In one word, +Béranger was—Béranger. There was none like him before, +there has been none like him since; Béranger is alone. We +do not thus praise him, we simply describe him.</p> + +<p>But it is possible to describe him better. We do so by +borrowing from Victor Hugo through Sainte-Beuve.</p> + +<p>Sainte-Beuve, not in his essay on Béranger (which, in appreciating, +somewhat depreciates the poet), but among the +interesting things that, under the title “Chateaubriana,” he +prints at the close of his monograph in two volumes on +Chateaubriand, has the following personal recollection of his +own, which, given here, will serve a threefold purpose; that +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page257" id="page257"></a>257</span> +of hinting incidentally the relation of four celebrated French +authors to one another, that of illustrating the ready fecundity +and plasticity of Victor Hugo’s genius, and that of +setting forth in concrete example Béranger’s master method +in his songs, which master method is essentially Béranger, +the song-writer, himself. Sainte-Beuve says—of course we +translate:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Victor Hugo, returning one morning from the garden of the Luxembourg +(1828 or 1829) said to me: “If I should see Béranger, I would +give him the subject of a pretty song. I just now met M. de Chateaubriand +in the Luxembourg; he did not see me; he was wrapt in thought, +intently observing some children who, seated on the ground, were playing +and tracing figures in the sand. If I were Béranger I would make a song +on the subject: ‘I have been minister, I have been ambassador, etc., I wear +the decoration of the Order of the Holy Ghost, that of the Order of the +Golden Fleece, that of the order of St. Andrew, etc.; and one sole thing at +last amuses me: it is to watch children playing in the sand. I wrote +“René,” I wrote the “Genius of Christianity,” I stood up against Napoleon, +I opened the poetic era of the century, etc.; and I know only one +thing that amuses me: to watch children at play upon the sand. I have +seen America, I have seen Greece and Rome, I have seen Jerusalem, etc.’ +And after each enumeration of various experiences, forms of greatness or +of honor, all kept returning still to this: to watch children playing and +tracing circles in the sand.” The plan sketched by Victor Hugo was perfect, +far better than I have given it here; but the motive is plain, the +idea of the refrain. Never have I had better defined to me the difference +that separates the song, even the most elevated in character, from the +ode properly so-called.</p> +</div> + +<p>There is Béranger, his whole secret, summed up in small +by a masterhand. What Béranger, then, did was to choose +wisely, with long heed, some single, simple, obvious sentiment, +appealing to every body’s experience, shut that +sentiment up into a short, neat, striking, rememberable form +of words suited to be sung, make of that form of words +a refrain to recur at intervals, and finally on that refrain +build up, one after another to the end, the stanzas of his +song. He worked slowly and painfully. His genius was +never very prolific. The time of his chief fruitfulness was +short, covering only fifteen years, the fifteen years between +Waterloo (1815) and the elevation of Louis Philippe to the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page258" id="page258"></a>258</span> +throne of France (1830). During this time his largest product +hardly exceeded a dozen songs a year.</p> + +<p>Béranger’s first discipline to his art may be considered to +have been a certain favorite diversion of his childhood, the +carving of cherry-stones. This exercise of skill he practiced +sedulously with delight when a boy, and in it learned the long, +minute patience of art. The man’s songs were cut gems +laboriously finished, like the boy’s carvings in cherry-stones.</p> + +<p>Béranger became immensely popular. He remained so to +the end. When he died, and it was after prolonged silence +on his part—if one can call silence a period marked, indeed, +by non-production, but filled with the singing, from land’s +end to land’s end, of his songs in every mouth—when he died +the empire buried him and the nation attended his funeral. +He had been born poor, and he was reared in poverty. Rich +he would not be, when a man. He took infinite pains to be +of the people, and he succeeded. The people were loving +and honoring themselves in loving and honoring Béranger. +Sainte-Beuve, with that critical incredulity of his, thought +that Béranger carried his demonstrative cultivation of the +“people” to the point of something like affectation. Perhaps; +but the affectation, if it was such, had a sound basis in +it of real instinctive popular sympathy. Still, Béranger’s +emphasized identification of himself with the people was not +all a matter of instinct with him. It was in part a matter +of deliberately adopted policy. He said:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>The people wanted a man to speak to them the language they love and +understand, and to create imitators to vary and multiply versions of the +same text. <i>I have been that man.</i></p> +</div> + +<p>Béranger was quite willing to make any moral descent +that might seem to him necessary in order to reach his audience. +He may have been instinctively, but he was also deliberately, +low and lewd in some of his songs.</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Without their help [said he, that is without the help of such immoral +songs] I am disposed to think that the others would not have been able +to go so far, or so low, or even so high; no offense in this last word to +the virtues of good society.</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page259" id="page259"></a>259</span></p> + +<p>Even the best of Béranger’s songs lack any thing like lift +and aspiration. They are conceived in a comparatively low +tone. The noblest leaven in them is love of France and of +liberty. Béranger hated the Bourbons; they persecuted him, +but that only helped him sing them off the throne of France. +Béranger’s songs did more than any other one individual +influence, perhaps they did more than all other individual influences +combined, first to overturn the restored Bourbon +dynasty after Waterloo, and, second, to bring about the elevation +of Louis Napoleon to power.</p> + +<p>For Béranger was a passionate admirer of the great +Napoleon. True, he deprecated the exhaustions visited on +France by the wars of glory which Napoleon waged. But +that famous piece of his, “The King of Yvetot,” in which +this deprecation found voice, was a protest so lightly conceived +and at bottom so genial, that the jealousy of Napoleon +himself could afford to laugh at it. The pieces in which, on +the contrary, he celebrated the praises of the emperor were +written with an emotion contagiously vivid. Let us now have +before us “The King of Yvetot,” with an appropriate contrast +to it afterward supplied in one of these encomiastic pieces.</p> + +<p>“Yvetot” is the name of an ancient French town, situated in +a seignory the lord of which once enjoyed the nominal rank +of king. The effect of Béranger’s title to his song is of +course humorous. The song-writer’s purpose was to draw, +in the king whom he describes, a whimsical contrast to the +restless Napoleon. Thackeray furnishes us with a happily +sympathetic rendering of Béranger’s “King of Yvetot,” as +follows; for brevity’s sake we omit one stanza:</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>There was a king of Yvetot,</p> + <p class="i1">Of whom renown hath little said,</p> +<p>Who let all thoughts of glory go,</p> + <p class="i1">And dawdled half his days a-bed;</p> +<p>And every night, as night came round,</p> +<p>By Jenny with a night-cap crowned,</p> + <p class="i6">Slept very sound.</p> +<p>Sing, ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!</p> +<p>That’s the kind of king for me. + <span class="pagenum"><a name="page260" id="page260"></a>260</span></p> + +<p class="s">And every day it came to pass</p> + <p class="i1">That four lusty meals made he,</p> +<p>And step by step, upon an ass,</p> + <p class="i1">Rode abroad his realms to see;</p> +<p>And wherever he did stir,</p> +<p>What think you was his escort, sir?</p> + <p class="i6">Why, an old cur.</p> +<p>Sing, ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!</p> +<p>That’s the kind of king for me.</p> + +<p class="s">If e’er he went into excess,</p> + <p class="i1">’Twas from a somewhat lively thirst,</p> +<p>But he who would his subjects bless,</p> + <p class="i1">Odd’s fish!—must wet his whistle first,</p> +<p>And so from every cask they got,</p> +<p>Our king did to himself allot</p> + <p class="i6">At least a pot.</p> +<p>Sing, ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!</p> +<p>That’s the kind of king for me.</p> + +<p class="s">To all the ladies of the land</p> + <p class="i1">A courteous king, and kind, was he;</p> +<p>The reason why you’ll understand,</p> + <p class="i1">They named him <i>Pater Patriæ.</i></p> +<p>Each year he called his fighting-men,</p> +<p>And marched a league from home, and then,</p> + <p class="i6">Marched back again.</p> +<p>Sing, ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!</p> +<p>That’s the kind of king for me.</p> + +<p class="s i1" style="letter-spacing: 2em;">*****</p> + +<p class="s">The portrait of this best of kings</p> + <p class="i1">Is extant still, upon a sign</p> +<p>That on a village tavern swings,</p> + <p class="i1">Famed in the country for good wine.</p> +<p>The people in their Sunday trim,</p> +<p>Filling their glasses to the brim,</p> + <p class="i6">Look up to him.</p> +<p>Singing, ha, ha, ha! and he, he, he!</p> +<p>That’s the sort of king for me.</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>In his autobiography, an interesting book, Béranger says +that hardly any other writer equally with himself could have +dispensed with the help of the printer. His songs traveled +of themselves from mouth to mouth without the intervention +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page261" id="page261"></a>261</span> +of printed copies. In fact, Béranger was already famous +before his works went into print. It was this oral currency +of his songs that made them such engines of power. That +brilliant Bohemian wit among Frenchmen, Chamfort, defined, +it is said, before Béranger’s time, the government of France +to be absolute monarchy tempered by songs. This celebrated +saying does not overstate the degree, though it may +misstate the kind, of influence that Béranger exercised with +his lyre. He was, by conviction and in sympathy, a determined +and ardent republican, and yet, in fact, he founded, or +played the chief part in founding, the imperial usurpation of +Louis Napoleon. This he did by getting the glories of the +great emperor sung by Frenchmen throughout France, until +the very name of Napoleon became an irresistible spell to +conjure by. We now give the most celebrated of these +Bonaparte songs. Mr. William Young, an American, has +a volume of translations from Béranger. Of this particular +song, Mr. Young’s version is so felicitous that we unhesitatingly +choose it for our readers. The title of the song is, +“The Recollections of the People.” It was, we believe, +founded on an incident of Béranger’s own observation; we +shorten again by a stanza:</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>Aye, many a day the straw-thatched cot</p> + <p class="i1">Shall echo with his glory!</p> +<p>The humblest shed, these fifty years,</p> + <p class="i1">Shall know no other story.</p> +<p>There shall the idle villagers</p> + <p class="i1">To some old dame resort,</p> +<p>And beg her with those good old tales</p> + <p class="i1">To make their evenings short.</p> +<p>“What though they say he did us harm</p> + <p class="i1">Our love this cannot dim;</p> +<p>Come, Granny, talk of him to us;</p> + <p class="i1">Come, Granny, talk of him.”</p> + +<p class="s">“Well, children—with a train of kings</p> + <p class="i1">Once he passed by this spot;</p> +<p>’Twas long ago; I had but just</p> + <p class="i1">Begun to boil the pot. + <span class="pagenum"><a name="page262" id="page262"></a>262</span></p> +<p>On foot he climbed the hill, whereon</p> + <p class="i1">I watched him on his way;</p> +<p>He wore a small three-cornered hat;</p> + <p class="i1">His overcoat was gray.</p> +<p>I was half frightened till he spoke;</p> + <p class="i1">‘My dear,’ says he, ‘how do?’”</p> +<p>“O, Granny, Granny, did he speak?</p> + <p class="i1">What, Granny! speak to you?”</p> + +<p class="s i1" style="letter-spacing: 2em;">*****</p> + +<p class="s">“But when at length our poor Champagne</p> + <p class="i1">By foes was overrun,</p> +<p>He seemed alone to hold his ground;</p> + <p class="i1">Nor dangers would he shun.</p> +<p>One night—as might be now—I heard</p> + <p class="i1">A knock—the door unbarred—</p> +<p>And saw—good God! ’twas he, himself,</p> + <p class="i1">With but a scanty guard.</p> +<p>‘O what a war is this!’ he cried,</p> + <p class="i1">Taking this very chair.”</p> +<p>“What! Granny, Granny, there he sat?</p> + <p class="i1">What! Granny, he sat there?”</p> + +<p class="s">“’I’m hungry,’ said he: quick I served</p> + <p class="i1">Thin wine and hard brown bread;</p> +<p>He dried his clothes, and by the fire</p> + <p class="i1">In sleep drooped down his head.</p> +<p>Waking, he saw my tears—’Cheer up,</p> + <p class="i1">Good dame!’ says he, ‘I go</p> +<p>‘Neath Paris’ walls to strike for France</p> + <p class="i1">One last avenging blow.’</p> +<p>He went; but on the cup he used</p> + <p class="i1">Such value did I set—</p> +<p>It has been treasured.” “What! till now?</p> + <p class="i1">You have it, Granny, yet?”</p> + +<p class="s">“Here ’tis; but ’twas the hero’s fate</p> + <p class="i1">To ruin to be led;</p> +<p>He, whom a pope had crowned, alas!</p> + <p class="i1">In a lone isle lies dead.</p> +<p>’Twas long denied: ‘No, no,’ said they,</p> + <p class="i1">‘Soon shall he re-appear;</p> +<p>O’er ocean comes he, and the foe</p> + <p class="i1">Shall find his master here.’ + <span class="pagenum"><a name="page263" id="page263"></a>263</span></p> +<p>Ah, what a bitter pang I felt,</p> + <p class="i1">When forced to own ’twas true!”</p> +<p>“Poor Granny! Heaven for this will look,</p> + <p class="i1">Will kindly look on you.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>There was not in Béranger’s genius much innate and irrepressible +buoyancy toward poetry, as we English-speakers +conceive poetry. But he practiced a severely self-tasking art +of verse, which at last yielded a product sufficiently consummate +in form to command the admiration of qualified critics. +He became unquestionably first among the song-writers of +France; he even elevated song-writing, popular song-writing, +to the rank of acknowledged literature. His fashion, and, +with his fashion, his currency, are rapidly becoming things +of the past; but the real merit of his achievement, and, more +than that, the fact of his extraordinary influence make his +name securely immortal in the literary history, and in the +literature, of France.</p> + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="center f120">XXII.</p> + +<p class="chap2 center">LAMARTINE.</p> + +<p class="center">1791-1869.</p> + +<p><span class="sc chap1">Lamartine,</span> the man, was an image incongruously molded +of gold and of clay. Take him at his best, and what is +there better? Take him at his worst, and you would not wish +worse.</p> + +<p>The same contrast holds, but not in the same degree, in +Lamartine the author. He is at once one of the most admirable, +and one of the least admirable, of writers.</p> + +<p>There are few figures in history worthier to command the +homage of generous hearts than the figure of Lamartine in +1848, calming and quelling the mob of Paris by the simple +ascendant of genius and of bravery. There are few figures +in history more abject than the figure of Lamartine, toward +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page264" id="page264"></a>264</span> +the close of his life, in the garb of a beggar holding out his +hat to mankind for the pence and half-pence of wonder, of +sympathy, and of sympathetic shame.</p> + +<p>Perhaps we instinctively fall into some contagious conformity +to Lamartine’s own exaggerating rhetoric in expressing +ourselves as we do.</p> + +<p>The chief facts of the life of Alphonse Marie Louis de +Prat de Lamartine are briefly these. Well-born, having for +mother a woman of more than Cornelian, of Christian, virtue, +who herself mainly educated her son, he traveled, loved, lost, +wept “melodious tears”—mixed much in Parisian society, +until, at thirty, he published under the title “Meditations,” +a volume of verse which made him instantly, brilliantly, triumphantly, +famous. Every thing desirable was easy to him +now. He married an Englishwoman of wealth, he wrote and +published more poetry, amusing himself meantime with various +diplomatic service, was made member of the French +Academy, and in 1832 went traveling in the East, like an +Eastern prince for lavish splendor of equipage and outlay. +His book, “Memories of the Orient,” published three years +after, was the fruit of what he saw and felt and dreamed +during this luxurious experience of travel. Dreamed, we +say, for Lamartine drew freely on his imagination to expand +and embellish his memories of the East. Other volumes of +verse, his “Jocelyn,” his “Fall of an Angel,” and his “Recollections” +followed speedily.</p> + +<p>The Revolution of 1830 had seated Louis Philippe on the +throne. Lamartine under him had been elected to the legislature +of France and had been making reputation as an +orator. The poet and orator would now be historian. Lamartine +wrote his celebrated “History of the Girondists,” +which, after first appearing in numbers, was issued in volume +in 1847. This book had in it the fermenting principle of a +fresh revolution. In 1848 that revolution came, and Louis +Philippe fled from Paris and from France, in precipitate abdication +of his throne.</p> + +<p>Now was the moment of glory and of opportunity for +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page265" id="page265"></a>265</span> +Lamartine. During the three months following, he may be +said to have ruled France. Eloquence and bravery together +never won triumphs more resplendent than were Lamartine’s +during this swift interval of his dizzy elevation to power. He +was in title simply minister for foreign affairs, in a provisional +government which he had had himself the decision and +the intrepidity among the first to propose. But his personal +popularity, his serene courage, his magical eloquence, gave +him much the authority of dictator. It cannot be asserted +that Lamartine, in this crisis, proved himself a statesman +able to cope with the stern exactions of the hour. The candidate +for such distinction success only can crown, and Lamartine +did not succeed. He fell, as suddenly and as swiftly +as he had risen. Yesterday omnipotent, he was absolutely +impotent to-day.</p> + +<p>But nothing can deprive Lamartine of the pacific glory his +due from several extraordinary feats of eloquence achieved +by him, at imminent risk to himself, on behalf of mankind. +A mob of forty thousand Parisian fanatics roared into the +street before the Hôtel de Ville to compel the Provisional +Government sitting there to adopt the red flag as the ensign +of the republic. This meant nothing less than a new reign +of terror for France. Lamartine, single-handed, met the +wild beast to its teeth, and with one stroke of the sword that +went forth from his mouth laid it tamed at his feet. “The +red flag you bring us,” cried the orator to the mob, he shining +the while resplendent in a personal beauty touched with +the gleam of genius and glorified with the consecration +of courage—like a descended Apollo, the rattling quiver +borne on his shoulder—“The red flag you bring us,” +said he, “has only gone round the Champ de Mars, +trailed in the blood of the people—in 1791 and in 1793; +while the tricolor has gone round the world, with the name, +the glory, and the liberty of our country.” This eloquent +condensation of history, untremblingly shot, at close quarters, +full in the face of those wild-eyed insurgents, felled them, as +if it had been a ball from a cannon. But ranks from behind +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page266" id="page266"></a>266</span> +still pressed forward with menacing cries. “Down with +Lamartine!” “Down with the time-server!” “Off with +his head! His head! His head! Lamartine’s head!”</p> + +<p>The brandished weapons were in Lamartine’s very face. +But that gentle blood never blenched. “My head, citizens? +You want my head? Indeed, but I wish you had it, every +one of you. If Lamartine’s head were now on each pair of +shoulders among you, you would be wiser than you are, and +the revolution would go on more prosperously.” The mob +was in Lamartine’s hand again, taken captive with a jest.</p> + +<p>It is generally granted that Lamartine saved the nation +from a new reign of terror. But eloquence is not statesmanship; +and Lamartine, weighed in the balance, was found +wanting. He served at last only to hand over the state to +Louis Napoleon, first president, and then emperor.</p> + +<p>Under Napoleon, Lamartine, now and henceforward simply +a private citizen, found his affairs embarrassed. He had been +a prodigal spender of money. He toiled at letters to mend +his broken fortunes. But his sun was past its meridian, and +it settled hopelessly in cloud toward its west. He wrote a +pseudo-biography of himself and published it as a serial in +one of the Paris daily newspapers. He almost literally with +his own hands performed the profaneness execrated by the +poet, and “tare his heart before the crowd”—or would have +done so, if his production, the “Confidences,” so called, had +really been what it purported to be, the actual story of his +life. It was in fact as much imagination as revelation. But +the once overwhelmingly popular author now cheapened himself +before the public in almost every practicable way. He +brought his own personal dignity to market in his works—and +did this over and over again. The public bought their +former idol at his own cheapened price, and he still remained +poor. In 1850 a public subscription was opened for his +relief. As a last humiliation, the proud patrician submitted +to accept a pension from the empire of Louis Napoleon. +This he enjoyed but two years, for in two years after he +died. A further space of two years, and the empire itself +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page267" id="page267"></a>267</span> +that granted Lamartine his pension had met its Sedan and +ceased to be.</p> + +<p>Fresh from admiring the radiant pages of Lamartine’s +rhetoric in prose, from admiring the iridescent play in color, +the deliquescent melody in sound, of his verse, we feel it painful +to admit to ourselves that so much indisputably fine effect +goes for little or nothing, now that the fashion of that world +of taste and feeling for which this writer wrote has passed +returnlessly away. But so it is. Lamartine, like Chateaubriand, +and for substantially the same reason, namely, lack of +fundamental genuineness, has already reached that last pathetic +phase, well-nigh worse than total eclipse, of literary +fame, the condition of an author important in the history of +literature, rather than in literature.</p> + +<p>Poet, orator, historian, statesman, this munificently gifted +nature was most profoundly, most controllingly, poet. But +he was French poet, which is to say that his poetry is removed, +if not quite from access to the English mind, at least +from access to the English mind through translation. He, +however, enjoyed at first high English reputation as poet, and +the publication of “Jocelyn,” his masterpiece in verse, may be +said to have been even a European event in literary history.</p> + +<p>The story of “Jocelyn” is avouched by the author to be +almost a series of actual occurrences. This assertion, to those +familiar with Lamartine’s style in asserting, will not be quite +so conclusive as on its face it appears. At any rate, if +“Jocelyn” be truth, Lamartine has made truth read like +fiction, and fiction of a highly improbable sort. The story, +true or fictitious—and which it is, as nobody now knows, so +nobody now cares—we need not detain our readers to report.</p> + +<p>The poet staggered his public by printing on the title-page +to his “Jocelyn” the words, “An Episode,” as much +as to say that a certain “Epic of Humanity,” which he might +finally (but which, as a matter of fact, he never did) produce, +would be large enough to make shrink into the +dimensions of a mere episode this poem of ten thousand lines +more or less!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page268" id="page268"></a>268</span></p> + +<p>Now for an extract or two. In the “Edinburgh Review,” +of a date not far from fifty years past now, we find our +translation. A day of festival, followed by a long evening of +out-door dancing to music, has just closed. The breaking-up +is described, with the sequel of young Jocelyn’s pensive +and yearning emotions:</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>Then later, when the fife and hautboy’s voice</p> +<p>Began to languish like a failing voice,</p> +<p>And moistened ringlets, by the dance unstrung,</p> +<p>Close to the cheek in drooping tresses clung,</p> +<p>And wearied groups along the darkening green</p> +<p>Gliding, in converse soft and low, were seen,</p> +<p>What sounds enchanting to the ear are muttered!</p> +<p>Adieus, regrets, the kiss, the word half uttered—</p> +<p>My soul was stirred; my ear with sweet sounds rife</p> +<p>Drank languidly the luscious draught of life;</p> +<p>I followed with my step, my heart, my eye,</p> +<p>Each maiden that with wearied eyes went by,</p> +<p>Thrilled at the rustle of each silken dress,</p> +<p>And felt that each that passed still left a joy the less.</p> +<p>At last the dance is hushed, the din at rest,</p> +<p>The moon is risen above the mountain’s crest;</p> +<p>Only some lover, heedless of the hour,</p> +<p>Wends homeward, dreaming, to his distant bower;</p> +<p>Or, where the village paths divide, there stand</p> +<p>Some loitering couples, lingering hand in hand,</p> +<p>Who start to hear the clock’s unwelcome knell,</p> +<p>Then dive and vanish in the forest dell.</p> + +<p class="s">And now I am at home alone. ’Tis night.</p> +<p>All still within the house, no fire, no light.</p> +<p>Let me, too, sleep. Alas! no sleep is there!</p> +<p>Pray then. My spirit will not hear my prayer.</p> +<p>My ear is still with dancing measures ringing,</p> +<p>Echoes which memory back to sense is bringing;</p> +<p>I close my eyes: before my inward glance</p> +<p>Still swims the <i>fête</i>, still whirls the giddy dance;</p> +<p>The graceful phantoms of the vanished ball</p> +<p>Come flitting by in beauty each and all;</p> +<p>A glance still haunts my couch; a soft hand seems</p> +<p>To press my hand, that trembles in my dreams,</p> +<p>Fair tresses in the dance’s flight brought nigh,</p> +<p>Just touch my cheek, and like the wind flow by, + <span class="pagenum"><a name="page269" id="page269"></a>269</span></p> +<p>I see from maiden brows the roses falling,</p> +<p>I hear beloved lips my name recalling—</p> +<p>Anne, Lucy, Blanche!—Where am I—What is this?</p> +<p>What must love be, when even love’s dream is bliss!</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>There is an indefinable French difference, but, that apart, +the foregoing is somewhat like Goldsmith in his “Deserted +Village.” Or is it the resemblance of meter that produces +the impression?</p> + +<p>“Jocelyn,” though certainly intended by the author to be +pure, wavers at points on the edge of the exceptionably ambiguous. +The following spring song, however, put by the +poet into the mouth of his Laurence, is an inspiration as +innocent as it is sweet:</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>See, in her nest, the nightingale’s mute mate,</p> + <p class="i1">Hatching her young, her patient vigil hold.</p> +<p>See how with love her fostering wings dilate,</p> + <p class="i1">As if to screen her nurslings from the cold.</p> + +<p class="s">Her neck alone, in restlessness upraised,</p> + <p class="i1">O’ertops the nest in which her brood reposes,</p> +<p>And her bright eye, with weary watching glazed,</p> + <p class="i1">Closing to sleep, with every sound uncloses.</p> + +<p class="s">Care for her callow young consumes her rest,</p> + <p class="i1">My very voice her downy bosom shakes,</p> +<p>And her heart pants beneath its plumy vest,</p> + <p class="i1">And the nest trembles with each breath she takes.</p> + +<p class="s">What spell enchains her to this gentle care?</p> + <p class="i1">Her mate’s sweet melody the groves among,</p> +<p>Who, from some branching oak, high poised in air</p> + <p class="i1">Sends down the flowing river of his song.</p> + +<p class="s">Hark! dost thou hear him, drop by drop distilling</p> + <p class="i1">The sighs that sweetest after transport be,</p> +<p>Then suddenly the vault above us filling</p> + <p class="i1">With foaming cataracts of harmony?</p> + +<p class="s">What spell enchains him in his turn—what makes</p> + <p class="i1">His very being thus in languor melt—</p> +<p>But that his voice a living echo wakes,</p> + <p class="i1">His lay within one loving heart is felt! + <span class="pagenum"><a name="page270" id="page270"></a>270</span></p> + +<p class="s">And, ravished by the note, his mate still holds</p> + <p class="i1">Her watch attentive through the weary time;</p> +<p>The season comes, the bursting shell unfolds,</p> + <p class="i1">And life is music all, and love, and prime.</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>Passing now from Lamartine’s poetry, expressly such, we +go to his prose, which, however, is scarcely, if at all, less +poetical. Poetry, or at least, the presence in power, and in +great proportionate excess of power, of imagination, lording +it over every thing else, over memory, judgment, taste, +good sense, veracity—characterizes all that proceeded from +Lamartine’s pen. His history is valueless, almost valueless, +as history. His travels are utterly untrustworthy as records +of fact. Lamartine cannot tell the simple truth. Persons, +things, events, suffer a sea-change, always to something +rich and strange seen by him looming in the luminous +haze of atmosphere with which his imagination perpetually +invests them. His men are ennobled, like Ulysses transfigured +by Pallas-Athene. His women are beautiful as houris +fresh from paradise. The aspects of ocean and shore and +wood and stream and mountain and sky, are all, to Lamartine, +washed with a light that never was on sea or land or in +heaven overhead, the consecration and the poet’s dream. This +quality in Lamartine’s style does not prevent his being very +fine. He is very fine; but you feel, Oh, if this all were also +true!</p> + +<p>On the whole, large, splendid, scenic, admirable in instinct +for choosing his point of view, as Lamartine is in his histories, +brilliant even, and fecund in suggestion, we turn from +the ostensibly historical in our author to the ostensibly autobiographical, +in order to find our prose specimens of his quality +in the “Confidences.” Lamartine never perhaps did any +thing finer, any thing more characteristic, than in telling his +story of “Graziella” in that work. This story is an “episode” +where it appears; or rather—for it is hardly so much +as let into the continuous warp and woof of the “Confidences”—it +is a separable device of ornament embroidered +upon the surface of the fabric. It is probably, indeed, to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page271" id="page271"></a>271</span> +some extent autobiographic; but the imagination had as much +part in it as the memory. For instance, the actual girl that +is transfigured into the “Graziella” of the story was not a +coral-grinder, as she is represented by Lamartine, but an operative +in a tobacco factory. The real beauty of the tale is, +by a kind of just retribution on the author, inseparably bound +up with unconscious revelation on his part of heartless vanity +and egotism in his own character. You admire, but while +you admire you wonder, you reprobate, you contemn. A +man such as this, you instinctively feel, was not worthy to +live immortally as an author. You are reconciled to let +Lamartine pass.</p> + +<p>“Graziella” is a story of love and death, on one side, of +desertion and expiation—expiation through sentimental tears—on +the other. One would gladly trust, if one could, that +the reality veiled under the fiction was as free in fact from +outward guilt as it is idealized to have been by the writer’s +fancy. But neither this supposition, nor any other charitable +supposition whatever, can redeem “Graziella” from the condemnation +of being steeped in egregious vanity, egotism, and +false sentiment, from the heart of the author.</p> + +<p>We strike into the midst of the narrative, toward the end. +There has been described the growth of relation between the +author and the heroine of the idyll, a fisherman’s daughter. +And now this heroine, Graziella, is desired in marriage by a +worthy young countryman of hers. Such a suitor—for she +loves, though secretly, the author (this by the way is a thing +almost of course with Lamartine)—the girl cannot bring herself +to accept. In despair she flees to make herself a nun. +She is found by the autobiographer alone in a deserted house. +He ministers to her in her exhausted state—and this to the +following result:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>“I feel well,” said she to me, speaking in a tone of voice that was low, +soft, even, and monotonous, as if her breast had completely lost its vibration +and its accent at the same time, and as if her voice had only retained +one single note. “I have in vain sought to hide it from myself—I have +in vain sought to hide it forever from thee. I may die, but thou art the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page272" id="page272"></a>272</span> +only one that I can ever love. They wished to betroth me to another; +thou art the one to whom my soul is betrothed. I will never give +myself to another on earth, for I have already secretly given myself to +thee. To thee on earth, or to God in heaven! that is the vow I made the +first day I discovered that my heart was sick for thee! I well know that +I am only a poor girl, unworthy to touch thy feet even in thought; therefore, +have I never asked thee to love me. I never will ask thee if thou dost +love me. But I—I love thee, I love thee, I love thee!” And she seemed +to concentrate her whole soul in those three words. “Now despise me, +mock me, spurn me with thy feet! Laugh at me if thou wilt, as a mad +thing who fancies she is a queen in the midst of her tatters. Hold me up +to the scorn of the whole world! Yes, I will tell them with my own lips—’Yes, +I love him. And had you been in my place you would have +done as I have—you would have loved him or have died.’”</p> +</div> + +<p>The man thus wooed by the maid assures her of his reciprocal +affection. But the author explains to his readers:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Alas! it was not real love, it was but its shadow in my heart. But I +was too young and too ingenuous not to be deceived by it myself. I +thought that I adored her as so much innocence, beauty, and love deserved +to be adored by a lover. I told her so, with that accent of sincerity +which emotion imparts; with that impassioned restraint which is imparted +by solitude, darkness, despair, and tears. She believed it because +she required that belief to live, and because she had enough passion in +her own heart to make up for its insufficiency in a thousand other hearts.</p> +</div> + +<p>The autobiographer is summoned away by his mother, and +he goes, lacerating Graziella’s heart, but swearing a thousand +oaths of fealty to his beloved. Alas! the “treacherous air of +absence” undid all—with him, though not with her. He +blames himself in retrospect—gently—and pities himself lamentably, +as follows:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>I was at that ungrateful period of life when frivolity and imitation make +a young man feel a false shame in the best feelings of his nature ... I +would not have dared to confess ... the name and station of the object +of my regret and sadness.... How I blush now for having blushed then! +and how much more precious was one of the joy-beams or one of the tear-drops +of her chaste eyes than all the glances, all the allurements, all the +smiles for which I was about to sacrifice her image! Ah! man, when he +is too young, cannot love! He knows not the value of any thing! He +only knows what real happiness is after he has lost it.... True love is +the ripe fruit of life. At twenty, it is not known, it is imagined.</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page273" id="page273"></a>273</span></p> + +<p>A farewell letter from Graziella dying:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>“The doctor says that I shall die in less than three days. I wish to +say farewell to thee ere I lose all my strength. Oh! if I had thee near +me, I would live! But it is God’s will. I will soon speak to thee, and +forever, from on high. Love my soul! It shall be with thee as long as +thou livest. I leave thee my tresses, which were cut off for thy sake one +night. Consecrate them to God in some chapel in thy own land, that +something belonging to me may be near thee!”</p> +</div> + +<p>The autobiographer “complied with the order contained +in her dying behest.” He says: “From that day forward, a +shadow of her death spread itself over my features and over +my youth.” He apostrophizes the remembered Graziella as +follows:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>“Poor Graziella! Many days have flown by since those days. I have +loved, I have been loved. Other rays of beauty and affection have illumined +my gloomy path. Other souls have opened themselves for me, to reveal +to me in the hearts of women the most mysterious treasures of beauty, +sanctity, and purity that God ever animated on earth, to make us understand, +foretaste, and desire heaven; but nothing has dimmed thy first apparition +in my heart.... Thy real sepulcher is in my soul. There every +part of thee is gathered and entombed. Thy name never strikes my ear +in vain. I love the language in which it is uttered. At the bottom of +my heart there is always a warm tear which filters, drop by drop, and +secretly falls upon my memory, to refresh it and embalm it within me.”</p> +</div> + +<p>The pensive poet even makes poetry on the subject, twenty +years afterward, poetry which, in his customary triplets of +expression, he calls “the balm of a wound, the dew of a heart, +the perfume of a sepulchral flower.” He wrote it, he says, +“with streaming eyes.” He prints his stanzas—for Lamartine +is eminently of those who, as it has been said, weep in +print and wipe their eyes with the public—and with a sigh, +says:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Thus did I expiate by these written tears the cruelty and ingratitude +of my heart of nineteen. I have never been able to reperuse these verses +without adoring that youthful image which the transparent and plaintive +waves of the Gulf of Naples will roll eternally before my eyes ... and +without detesting myself! But souls forgive on high. Hers has forgiven +me. Forgive me also, you!—I have wept.</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page274" id="page274"></a>274</span></p> + +<p>We ought not to disturb, with any further words of our +own, the impression of himself which Lamartine has now +made on the reader. He has given us here his own true image. +He is the weeping poet. It is fit—let him dissolve, let him +exhale, from view in tears.</p> + +<p>Lachrymose Lamartine, farewell!</p> + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="center f120">XXIII.</p> + +<p class="center f120">THE GROUP OF 1830.</p> + +<p class="center"><span class="chap2">VICTOR HUGO</span>: 1802-1885; <span class="chap2">SAINTE-BEUVE</span>: 1804-1869; +<span class="chap2">BALZAC</span>: 1799-1850; <span class="chap2">GEORGE SAND</span>: 1804-1876; <span class="chap2">DE MUSSET</span>: +1810-1857.</p> + +<p><span class="sc chap1">As</span> a convenient method of inclusion and condensation for +a number of authors who must by no means be omitted, but +for whom there is left little room in these pages, we adopt the +plan of making a cluster of important names to be treated in +a single chapter. The political and the literary history of +France join a sort of synchronism with one another at a certain +point of time, which makes this arrangement not only +feasible but natural.</p> + +<p>The accession of Louis Philippe to the throne of France +and the first representation of Victor Hugo’s “Hernani” in +Paris both occurred in the year 1830. The Bourbon or +absolutist tradition in French politics and the classic tradition +in French letters were thus at one and the same moment +decisively interrupted. For, as in the commencing reign of +Louis Philippe, the “Citizen King” of France, the French +people became for the first time, under monarchical rule, a +recognized estate in the realm, so, with the triumph of Victor +Hugo’s “Hernani” on the stage, the hour may be said to have +struck of culmination in splendor and in influence for the +romantic movement in French literature. The dominance of +the ideas indicated in the expression “the Romantic Movement” +was then suddenly for the moment so overwhelming +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page275" id="page275"></a>275</span> +and so wide that it amounted almost to a usurpation of letters +in France. We might indeed have written “The French +Romanticists” as a fairly good alternative title to the present +chapter.</p> + +<p class="pt2 center sc">1. Victor Hugo.</p> + +<p>The men of 1830—we thus use a designation which has +come to be established in French literary history—began each +man his career in letters as a fighting romanticist. Victor +Hugo was the acknowledged Achilles of the fight. Whoever +wavered backward, Victor Hugo clamped his feet for his lifetime +on the bridge of war, where his plume nodded defiance, +seeming still to say for its wearer standing with a cliff of +adamant at his back,</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>Come one, come all, this rock shall fly</p> +<p>From its firm base as soon as I.</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>Around Victor Hugo, as the towering central figure among +them all, were mustered, though some of them not to remain +in this comradeship with him, Sainte-Beuve, Balzac, George +Sand, De Musset. There were others than these, but these +shall for us here constitute the group of 1830.</p> + +<p>We shall be in yet better accord with Victor Hugo’s estimate +of himself, if we take for his symbol a being mightier even +than a demigod like Achilles. Let us do so and call him a +Titan. But the past tense half seems an anachronism in speaking +of Victor Hugo. The earth still trembles to his retiring +footsteps and to the portentous reaction of his wrestle in war +with the gods. This is his glory—he fought against Olympus, +and, if he did not overthrow, at least he was not overthrown. +Olympus in our parable was classicism in power; Victor Hugo +was the genius of insurgent romanticism.</p> + +<p>We thus repeat yet again terms which it would be difficult +precisely to define. Classicism and romanticism are two forces +in literature, seemingly opposed to each other, which, however, +need to be compounded and reconciled in a single +resultant, in order to the true highest effect from either. For +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page276" id="page276"></a>276</span> +neither classicism nor romanticism alone concludes the ultimate +theory of literature.</p> + +<p>Classicism criticises; romanticism creates. Classicism +enjoins self-control; romanticism encourages self-indulgence. +Classicism is mold; romanticism is matter. Classicism is art; +romanticism is nature. Classicism is law; romanticism is +life. Romanticism is undoubtedly first and indispensable; +but so, not less, classicism is indispensable, though second. +Neither, in short, can get along without the other. But Victor +Hugo represents romanticism.</p> + +<p>Victor Hugo’s personality seems to have been a literary +force almost as much as was his genius. As his quantity was +immense, so his quality was vivific. Such a man was certain +to be not only the master of a school but the center of a +worship. Mr. Swinburne’s late volume on Victor Hugo may +be cited in extreme example of the deific ascription rendered +by many at the shrine of this idolatry. Mr. Matthew Arnold, +on the other hand, lost no opportunity to flout with indignity +the claims of Victor Hugo to his supreme literary godship.</p> + +<p>This great French writer has so recently died that, for the +purposes of this book, he might almost be considered still +living. At any rate, he has of late been so much talked about +in current periodicals; he is, in some of his books, so freshly +familiar to all, and, if we must say it, he offers a subject so +perplexing to treat at this moment judicially, that we shall +in some measure avoid responsibility by presenting him here +with the utmost brevity—brevity, however, to be taken rather +as a homage, than as a slight, to the unmanageable greatness +by imminency of his merit and his fame.</p> + +<p>Victor-Marie Hugo wrote verse very early, beginning as a +classicist. In later youth he was royalist and religious in +spirit. At twenty he acquired the title of “the sublime boy.” +How he acquired this title seems a matter of doubt. It is +generally supposed to have been given by Chateaubriand, in +his quality of patriarch of French letters. But this origin of +the sobriquet the present writer has seen seriously suggested +to be, along with the sobriquet itself, the pure invention of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page277" id="page277"></a>277</span> +Victor Hugo’s own imaginative egotism; which fruitful source +of autobiography is said also to have yielded the poet’s noble +pedigree—the process of production employed on his part +being, in the latter case, the extremely simple one of adopting +for ancestry the ancient line of a family, bearing the same +name indeed with himself, but otherwise utterly unrelated to +his own humble house. The really extraordinary independence +of fact with which Victor Hugo undoubtedly made his +assertions respecting himself renders any testimony that he +bears on this point interesting as imagination rather than +instructive as history. For three or four years now he was +an irrepressible producer and publisher of verse. At twenty-five +he put out his “Cromwell,” a drama, with a belligerent +preface in favor of romanticism. After this each play of his +was a battle for that literary cause. His “Hernani” (1830) +was at last more than a battle—it was a victory.</p> + +<p>The royalist in due time became republican. When Louis +Napoleon was president, Victor Hugo opposed him. When +Louis Napoleon made himself emperor, Victor Hugo denounced +him. Banished for this from France, the poet betook +himself to Belgium. Repelled from Belgium, he found +refuge in England. Here, or, more exactly, in the island of +Jersey first, and longer, afterward, in the island of Guernsey, +he remained till the second empire fell. He then returned to +Paris, and shared the melancholy fortunes of that beleaguered +capital during the Prussian siege and during the anarchy of +the Commune. Here, finally, he died, and, by his own will +and testament, in a quite other than the original meaning of +that pregnant Scripture phrase, “was buried”—for his +funeral was to be attended with peculiar obsequies. He +signified his wish to be treated in burial exactly as one of +those paupers of whose cause he had been in his works the +life-long champion.</p> + +<p>During his long exile, which, notwithstanding his passionate +love of Paris, he refused to shorten by any understanding +arrived at with the emperor, he kept persecuting that usurper +with printed diatribes, both in prose and in verse, which for +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page278" id="page278"></a>278</span> +mordant bitterness have probably never been surpassed in +the literature of invective. One of these diatribes was a +book entitled “The History of a Crime.” To this he prefixed +a kind of <i>imprimatur</i> of his own, which may be quoted here +as well exemplifying the high oracular style of expression +characterized by short sentences and short paragraphs—these +often of a single sentence only—that he habitually affected:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p class="center">This work is more than opportune. It is imperative. I publish it.</p> + +<p class="rgt">V. H.</p> + +</div> + +<p>Victor Hugo’s egotism was so vast that it was insane if it +was not sublime. To exemplify adequately this statement +by extracts would ask pages of room. The four lines about +to follow, from one of his longer poems, present a modest +and moderate example. The poet has been supposing the +impossible case that the Supreme Being should take different +views, in a certain matter, from his, the poet’s, own—that +he should outrage his, the poet’s, sense of moral propriety. +Here is how, in that case, Victor Hugo would, he declares, +deal with offending Deity (we translate literally the original +Alexandrines, line for line, without attempting to reproduce +either meter or rhyme):</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>I would go, I would see him, and I would seize him,</p> +<p>Amid the heavens, as one takes a wolf amid the woods,</p> +<p>And, terrible, indignant, calm, extraordinary,</p> +<p>I would denounce him with his own thunder.</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p class="noind">To Victor Hugo himself, the foregoing was not blasphemy; +it was simply sublimity of a sort suitable to the character of +the poet. There was, it is said, fully developed mental +unsoundness in his father’s family and in his own. Victor +Hugo’s own genius had, we suspect, some trace of a real, +though noble, insanity in it.</p> + +<p>In 1862, appeared “Les Miserables,” which must be +accounted, if not the greatest, at least the most popular work +of its author. This book was issued simultaneously in eight +different cities and in nine different languages—a circumstance +probably not paralleled in the history of literature. The fame +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page279" id="page279"></a>279</span> +of “Les Miserables” does not fade, and it hardly will fade. +It is a book of truly prodigious elemental power. That, +however, Victor Hugo’s genius in producing it worked with +some disturbing consciousness of a theory of literary art to +be exemplified and defended, the following curious note, inserted +in the midst of the text, at a point of interest in the +story, may serve to show:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Then the poor old man began sobbing and soliloquizing; <i>for it is a mistake +to suppose that there is no soliloquy in nature. Powerful agitations often +talk aloud.</i></p> +</div> + +<p>“Les Miserables” is justly open to many strictures, both +on literary grounds and on ethical; but it must be pronounced, +notwithstanding, a great, and, on the whole, a +noble work.</p> + +<p>Victor Hugo made this approach to the illimitable in power, +that he was well-nigh equally able to do great things and to +do small. To exhibit by specimen his achievement in verse +we shall offer here a few of his small things, in the impossibility +of representing his great. The small things that +we offer may acquire a value extrinsic to themselves if +thought of as the gentle play of a giant who could with the +same ease have astonished you by exhibitions of strength.</p> + +<p>Victor Hugo went a second time, having once failed, to +intercede with King Louis Philippe on behalf of a political +offender condemned to death. It was late at night, and the +monarch could not be seen. The intercessor would not be +baffled, and, bethinking himself to appeal by the tenderness +of birth and of death to the king, wrote four lines of verse +which he left on the table. The allusions in them are to a +lovely daughter of the royal house just lost and to a little son +just born. We give the French text, and follow it with a +close English translation:</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>Par votre ange envolée ainsi qu’une colombe,</p> + <p class="i1">Par ce royal enfant doux et frèle roseau,</p> +<p>Grace encore une fois! grace au nom de la tombe!</p> + <p class="i1">Grace au nom du berceau! + <span class="pagenum"><a name="page280" id="page280"></a>280</span></p> + +<p class="s">By your lost angel, dove-like from you flown,</p> + <p class="i1">By this sweet royal babe, fair, fragile reed,</p> +<p>Mercy once more! Be mercy, mercy shown,</p> + <p class="i1">In the tomb’s name, and cradle’s, both, I plead.</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>The poet’s plea availed.</p> + +<p>Another little gem of Victor Hugo’s is the following +quatrain, which, though it may have had at first some +particular occasion, is capable of the most general application. +Again we give the French, for the French here almost +translates itself:</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>Soyons comme l’oiseau posé pour un instant</p> + <p class="i1">Sur des rameaux trop frêles;</p> +<p>Qui sent trembler la branche, mais qui chant pourtant,</p> + <p class="i1">Sachant qu’il a des ailes.</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>This may be thus rendered, almost word for word:</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>Like the bird let us be, for one moment alight</p> + <p class="i1">Upon branches too frail to uphold,</p> +<p>Who feels tremble the bough, but who sings in despite,</p> + <p class="i1">Knowing well she has wings to unfold.</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>One more little gem from Victor Hugo’s treasury of such +we are happily able to present in a version whose authorship +will commend it; Mr. Andrew Lang translates “The Grave +and the Rose.” The poet here affirms, as he is very fond of +doing, that capital article in his creed, the immortality of the +soul:</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>The Grave said to the Rose,</p> + <p class="i1">“What of the dews of morn,</p> +<p>Love’s flower, what end is theirs?”</p> + <p class="i1">“And what of souls outworn,</p> +<p>Of them whereon doth close</p> + <p class="i1">The tomb’s mouth unawares?”</p> +<p>The Rose said to the Grave.</p> + +<p class="s">The Rose said, “In the shade</p> + <p class="i1">From the dawn’s tears is made</p> +<p>A perfume faint and strange,</p> + <p class="i1">Amber and honey sweet.”</p> + <p class="i1">“And all the spirits fleet</p> +<p>Do suffer a sky-change + <span class="pagenum"><a name="page281" id="page281"></a>281</span></p> + <p class="i1">More strangely than the dew—</p> + <p class="i1">To God’s own angels new,”</p> +<p>The Grave said to the Rose.</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>The majesty with which this great Frenchman would +sometimes, in prose, condescend to be an acrobat walking +the tight-rope of grandiloquence stretched over a bottomless +abyss of the ridiculous, is well shown in his monograph on +Shakespeare. This is accessible in a scholarlike English +translation (A. C. McClurg & Co., Chicago, publishers) by +Melville B. Anderson. The following sentences will indicate +what it is. No one familiar with Victor Hugo can doubt that +the great presence of <span class="sc">HIMSELF</span>, the writer, was really the +chief thing in his musing eye, when, in the latter part of this +extract, he was ostensibly describing and vindicating romanticist +Shakespeare:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Shakespeare, shuddering, has within himself winds, spirits, magic +potions, vibrations; he sways in the passing breeze, obscure effluences +pervade him, he is filled with the unknown sap of life. Thence +his agitation, at the core of which is peace. It is this agitation which is +lacking in Goethe, wrongly praised for his impassiveness, which is inferiority. +All minds of the first order have this agitation. It is in Job, +in Æschylus, in Alighieri. This agitation is humanity.... It +seems at times as if Shakespeare terrified Shakespeare. He shudders +at his own depth. This is the sign of supreme intelligence. It is his own +vastness which shakes him and imparts to him strange and mighty oscillations. +There is no genius without billows. An intoxicated savage, it +may be. He has the savagery of the virgin forest; he has the intoxication +of the high sea.</p> +</div> + +<p>“He shudders at his own depth”—hardly could we resist +the temptation to bracket in “[Victor Hugo]” after the pronoun +“he.” Every reader should do this mentally for himself; +he otherwise will miss that important part of the true sense, +which here is written between the lines. There never was +genius with more inseparable, unescapable, tyrannizing consciousness +of itself. You feel the personality even more than +you feel the genius in reading Victor Hugo.</p> + +<p>A considerable part of Victor Hugo’s prose production, +mostly fiction, has been translated into English. Messrs. T. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page282" id="page282"></a>282</span> +Y. Crowell & Co. publish six portly volumes in a uniform +edition. From “Les Miserables” in this series we make +extracts which will briefly represent Victor Hugo’s prose at +its very best, alike in style, in thought, and in spirit. In +the first, the writer gives utterance to reflections inspired +by the final event of the battle of Waterloo:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>This vertigo, this terror, this downfall into ruin of the loftiest bravery +which ever astounded history—is that causeless? No. The shadow of +an enormous right is projected athwart Waterloo. It is the day of +destiny. The force which is mightier than man produced that day. Hence +the terrified wrinkle of those brows; hence all those great souls surrendering +their swords. Those who have conquered Europe have fallen +prone on the earth, with nothing left to say or to do, feeling the present +shadow of a terrible presence. <i>Hoc erat in fatis.</i> That day the perspective +of the human race underwent a change. Waterloo is the hinge of the +nineteenth century. The disappearance of the great man was necessary +to the advent of the great century. Some one, a person to whom one replies +not, took the responsibility on himself. The panic of heroes can be +explained. In the battle of Waterloo there is something more than a +cloud, there is something of the meteor. God has passed by.</p> +</div> + +<p>In the second, Victor Hugo contrasts the two leaders, the +conqueror and the conquered, of that momentous day:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Waterloo is the strangest encounter in history. Napoleon and Wellington. +They are not enemies; they are opposites. Never did God, who +is fond of antitheses, make a more striking contrast, a more extraordinary +comparison. On one side, precision, foresight, geometry, prudence, an +assured retreat, reserves spared, with an obstinate coolness, an imperturbable +method, strategy, which takes advantage of the ground, tactics, +which preserve the equilibrium of batallions, carnage, executed according +to rule, war regulated, watch in hand, nothing voluntarily left to +chance, the ancient classic courage, absolute regularity; on the other +intuition, divination, military oddity, superhuman instinct, a flaming +glance, an indescribable something which gazes like an eagle, and which +strikes like the lightning, a prodigious art in disdainful impetuosity, all the +mysteries of a profound soul, association with destiny; the stream, the +plain, the forest, the hill, summoned, and in a manner, forced to obey, the +despot going even so far as to tyrannize over the field of battle; faith in +a star mingled with strategic science, elevating but perturbing it. Wellington +was the Barême of war; Napoleon was its Michael Angelo; and +on this occasion genius was vanquished by calculation. On both sides +some one was awaited. It was the exact calculator who succeeded. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page283" id="page283"></a>283</span> +Napoleon was waiting for Grouchy; he did not come. Wellington expected +Blücher; he came.</p> +</div> + +<p>It remains only to exemplify, as best in small space we +can, Victor Hugo’s portentous, his terrific, power in working +up a tragic situation, and displaying it as in a calcium-light +of intense imaginative description or narration. We shall then +feel that this Titanic figure in French literature is at least by +suggestive partial glimpses fairly before our readers. From +“Les Miserables,” we take the following passage, introduced +by the original author as a first step only in the climax by +which he represents the supreme agony of his hero in a great +crisis of his life:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>It sometimes happens that on certain shores of Bretagne or Scotland +a man, traveler or fisherman, while walking at low tide on the beach, far +from shore, suddenly notices that for several minutes past he has been +walking with some difficulty. The beach under foot is like pitch; his +soles stick fast to it; it is no longer sand, it is bird-lime....</p> + +<p>The man pursues his way, he walks on, turns toward the land, endeavors +to approach the shore. He is not uneasy. Uneasy about what? +Only he is conscious that the heaviness of his feet seems to be increasing +at every step that he takes. All at once he sinks in. He sinks in two or +three inches. Decidedly, he is not on the right road: he halts to get his +bearings. Suddenly he glances at his feet; his feet have disappeared. +The sand has covered them. He draws his feet out of the sand, he tries +to retrace his steps, he turns back, he sinks in more deeply than before. +The sand is up to his ankles, he tears himself free from it and flings himself +to the left, the sand reaches to mid-leg, he flings himself to the right, +the sand comes up to his knees. Then, with indescribable terror, he +recognizes the fact that he is caught in a quicksand....</p> + +<p>He shouts, he waves his hat, or his handkerchief, the sand continually +gains on him.... He is condemned to that terrible interment, long, +infallible, implacable, which it is impossible to either retard or hasten, +which lasts for hours, which will not come to an end, which seizes +you erect, free, in the flush of health, which drags you down by the +feet, which, at every effort that you attempt, at every shout that you +utter, draws you a little lower, which has the air of punishing you for +your resistance by a redoubled grasp, which forces a man to return +slowly to earth, while leaving him time to survey the horizon, the trees, +the verdant country, the smoke of the villages on the plain, the sails of +the ships on the sea, the birds which fly and sing, the sun and the +sky.... The wretched man ... shrieks, implores, cries to the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page284" id="page284"></a>284</span> +clouds, wrings his hands, grows desperate. Behold him in sand +up to his belly, the sand reaches to his breast, he is only a bust now. +He uplifts his hands, utters furious groans, clenches his nails on the +beach, tries to cling fast to that ashes, supports himself on his elbows in +order to raise himself from that soft sheath, and sobs frantically; the +sand mounts higher. The sand has reached his shoulders, the sand +reaches to his throat; only his face is visible now. His mouth cries +aloud, the sand fills it; silence. His eyes still gaze forth, the sand closes +them; night. Then his brow decreases, a little hair quivers above the +sand; a hand projects, pierces the surface of the beach, waves, and disappears. +Sinister obliteration of a man!</p> +</div> + +<p>Victor Hugo’s hero was involved thus in a quicksand—but +the quicksand in his case was underground, and dark as +Erebus; it was a quicksand composed of the unspeakable +foulness and fetor of a cess-pool—he was wading up to his +very chin in the noisome Styx of the great Paris sewer. All +this to rescue, upborne in his arms above his head, a man +unconscious, perhaps already dead from wounds received, and +a man whom he, the rescuer, hated. There is Victor Hugo for +you, Victor Hugo in his glory. For the glory of Victor +Hugo as novelist is in climaxes of agony, lashed together and +reared like an endless ladder reaching to heaven. This his +strength is his weakness. All is said that need be said in +hostile criticism of Victor Hugo’s writings, when it is said +that he is always to the last degree egotistic and to the last +degree theatric. Effect is every thing, truth nothing, with +him.</p> + +<p>That Victor Hugo willed to be buried exactly like a pauper +did not prevent the occurrence of certain very important +contrasts between his obsequies and the rites of an ordinary +pauper funeral; perhaps, indeed, such a will on his part contributed +to create the difference which at all events existed. +The funeral attendance was said to be the most numerous +ever seen in France. A million spectators were present. +Three large wagons headed the procession filled with floral +gifts. A beautiful diadem of Irish lilies was contributed by +Tennyson, inscribed “To the World’s Greatest Poet.”</p> + +<p>The French apotheosis of a national idol would not be +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page285" id="page285"></a>285</span> +complete without tribute from the theater. Accordingly, +the Theâtre Français produced a drama by M. Rénan entitled +“<i>Mort</i>,” in which the shades of Corneille, Racine, +Boileau, Voltaire, and Diderot hold a dialogue about human +progress in the century to follow them, and, Corneille asking, +“What poet will sing in that era, as sweet and tender as +Racine, as logical as Boileau, as clear in style as Voltaire,” +the genius of the age lyrically answers, “Hugo,” at the same +time placing a crown on Hugo’s bust.</p> + +<p>Victor Hugo the man, especially as he mellowed with old +age, was a sunny, sweet, benignant nature. He was a +hearty, one might almost say a partisan, believer in God—atheism +was so offensive to him. Unfortunately, however, +Victor Hugo’s theism was not such as to enforce departure, +in his own personal practice, from that deplorable tradition +of his country which has rendered so many distinguished +French authors, from the earliest to the latest, offenders +against the laws of marriage and of chastity.</p> + +<p class="pt2 center sc">2. Sainte-Beuve.</p> + +<p>Sainte-Beuve is an instance of the half-malicious sportiveness +of nature or of fortune. What he chiefly desired +was the fame of a poet. What he chiefly got was +the fame of a critic. But Sainte-Beuve’s fame as a critic +was far more in fact, if far less to his mind, than any fame +that he could have achieved as a poet. In poetry, he never +could have risen higher than to be a poet of the second +or of the third rank. He is admitted to be a critic of the +first rank. Nay, in the opinion of many, Sainte-Beuve constitutes +a rank by himself, having no peers.</p> + +<p>Sainte-Beuve’s range of subjects was very wide. He exercised +himself to be equally open and fair toward all schools +of taste and of opinion alike. At the outset, he was of the +coterie of the romanticists. But he soon broke with these, +either personally repelled by antipathies, or else unconsciously +attracted by a secret sympathy of his own, too strong for +his contrary will to resist, toward the classical standards +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page286" id="page286"></a>286</span> +respesented in the seventeenth-century writers. He never +seems to feel himself more entirely in his element than when +he is appreciating the literature of the French golden age.</p> + +<p>As to religion, Sainte-Beuve, having had his phase of +pietism even, ended by becoming a blank unbeliever. But +his own antipathetic personal attitude of intellect and of +heart toward Christianity he would not in the least allow to +disturb the urbanity and serenity of his tolerance for the +most orthodox Christian writers. Such, at any rate, was his +standard and ideal.</p> + +<p>But at this point, as at all points, the complaisance of +Sainte-Beuve’s writing is a manner with him, rather than a +spirit. It does not penetrate deeply. He loves his “insinuations.” +That is his own word. He is willing to write a +whole essay in criticism for the sake of the “insinuations” +which his deceitful blandness will sheathe. Or, rather, he +would sooner give up the whole essay than forego a phrase, +or perhaps a single word, containing his insinuation. It was +partly his critical conscience, no doubt, instinctively nice +about shades of opinion and of expression; but then a something +very like malice was mingled with his critical conscience. +With all that must be conceded to the value of +Sainte-Beuve’s critical work, readers are conscious, in concluding +the perusal of almost any one of his essays, that the +result to them is a sapor remaining on their literary palate, +rather than substance of nutriment entered into their mental +digestion. Their food has been refined into a flavor.</p> + +<p>For our illustration of Sainte-Beuve, we go to a paper of +his on Bossuet. But we need to prepare our readers. Sainte-Beuve +is a writer for the few, instead of for the many. To +profit from him requires some effort of attention. One must +study a little, as well as simply read. Sainte-Beuve does not +deal in heavy strokes. His lines are most of them fine, +many of them hair-lines vanishing almost into invisibility. +He escapes you like Proteus. Very different is he, by this +elusive quality of his, from his countryman, M. Taine, +whose bold crayon sketches are at once appreciable to all.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page287" id="page287"></a>287</span></p> + +<p>In the choice indicated of specimen, we draw from a series +of short criticisms which the author called <i>Causeries du +Lundi</i>; “Monday-Chats,” Mr. William Matthews, who has a +volume of select translations from them, not unhappily renders +the title. These were originally published as Monday +articles in the columns of two Paris journals, the <i>Constitutionel</i> +and the <i>Moniteur</i>. Mr. Matthews’s volume is introduced +by a most readable biographical sketch and literary appreciation +of Sainte-Beuve himself from the pen of the translator. +M. Sainte-Beuve, we ought to say, in addition to his +very considerable body of criticism, ranging, as we have intimated, +over a wide field of literature, wrote an extended +historical monograph on Port Royal, which is constantly referred +to by writers as an authority on its subject.</p> + +<p>The critic characterizes his subject broadly by his most +commanding traits:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>The simple idea of order, of authority, of unity, of the continual government +of Providence, Bossuet, among the moderns, has grasped more +completely than any other man, and he applies it on all occasions without +effort, and, as it were, by an irrefutable deduction. Bossuet is the Hebrew +genius, expanded, fecundated by Christianity, and open to all the +gains of the human intelligence, but acknowledging something of sovereign +interdiction, and closing its vast horizon precisely at the point where its +light ceases. In mien and in tone he resembles a Moses; there are +mingled in his speech traits characteristic of the Prophet-King, touches +of a pathos ardent and sublime; there sounds the voice eloquent by eminence, +the simplest, the strongest, the most abrupt, the most familiar, the +most suddenly outbursting in thunder. Even where he holds his course +unbending, in an imperious flood, he bears along with him treasures +of eternal human morality. And it is by all these qualities that he is for +us a unique man, and that, whatever may be the employment he makes +of his speech, he remains the model of eloquence the most exalted, and +of language the most beautiful.</p> +</div> + +<p>Sainte-Beuve is so much a critic that he cannot help criticising +by the way, or even sometimes perhaps a little out of +the way. But it will be quite to our purpose if we admit +here what Sainte-Beuve incidentally says of Lamartine:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>[Bossuet] was early distinguished for surprising gifts of memory and +of understanding. He knew Virgil by heart, as, a little later, he knew +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page288" id="page288"></a>288</span> +Homer. “Less easy to understand is it,” says M. de Lamartine, “<i>how he +was infatuated all his life</i> with the Latin poet, Horace, spirit exquisite, +but the reverse of spontaneous and natural, who strings his lyre with +only the softest fibers of the heart; a careless voluptuary,” etc. M. de +Lamartine, who has so well discerned the great features of the eloquence +and of the talent of Bossuet, has studied a little too lightly his life, and he +has here proposed to himself a difficulty which does not exist; there is nowhere +mention made in fact of that <i>inexplicable predilection</i> of Bossuet for +Horace, <i>the least divine of all the poets</i>. M. de Lamartine must have inadvertently +read “Horace” instead of “Homer.” ... It was Fénelon (and not +Bossuet) who read and relished Horace more than any other poet, who +knew him by heart.... The great pagan preference of Bossuet (if one +may use such an expression) was quite naturally for Homer; after him +for Virgil; Horace, in his judgment and in his liking, came far behind +them. But the book by eminence which gave early direction to the +genius and to the entire career of Bossuet, and which dominated all +within him, was the Bible; it is said that the first time he read it he was +illuminated and transported by it. He had found in it the source whence +his own genius was destined to flow, like one of the four great rivers in +Genesis.</p> +</div> + +<p>Sainte-Beuve speaks of the relation of the Hotel de Rambouillet +to the future great man:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>The young Bossuet was conducted thither one evening to preach there +an improvised sermon. In lending himself to these singular exercises +and to these tournaments where his person and his gifts were challenged, +treated as an intellectual virtuoso in the salons of the Hôtel de Rambouillet +and the Hôtel de Nevers, it does not appear that Bossuet was in +consequence subjected to the slightest charge of vanity, and there is no +example of a precocious genius so praised, caressed by the world, and +remaining so perfectly exempt from all self-love and from all coquetry.</p> +</div> + +<p>In the following passage, Sainte-Beuve appreciates, not +without insinuated criticism, the younger eloquence of Bossuet +the preacher. Conceive this atheist critic, for such in +effect Sainte-Beuve was, entering into the spirit of the +orthodox Christian, exclusively for the purpose of justly +judging and enjoying a strain of pulpit eloquence! But that +is Sainte-Beuve:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>When he portrays to us Jesus purposing to clothe himself with a flesh +like our own, and when he sets forth the motives for this according to +the Scriptures, with what bold relief and what saliency he does it! He +exhibits that Saviour who above all seeks out misery and distress, shunning +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page289" id="page289"></a>289</span> +to take on the angelic nature which would have exempted him from +this, leaping over, in some sense, and tasking himself to pursue, to +<i>apprehend</i> wretched human nature, precisely because it is wretched, clinging +to it and running after it, although it flies from him, although it recoils +from being assumed by him; aiming to secure for himself real +human flesh, real human blood, with the qualities and the weaknesses of +our own, and that for what reason? <i>In order to be compassionate.</i> Although +in all this Bossuet only makes use of the terms of the Apostle +and perhaps of those of Chrysostom, he employs them with a delight, a +luxury, a gust for reduplication, which bespeaks vivacious youth: “He +has,” says the apostle, “<i>apprehended</i> human nature; it flew away, it +would have nothing of the Saviour; what did he do? He ran after it +with headlong speed, leaping over the mountains, that is to say, the ranks +of the angels.... He ran like a giant, with great strides and immeasurable, +passing in a moment from heaven to earth.... There he overtook +that fugitive nature; he seized it, he apprehended it, body and soul.” +Let us study the youthful eloquence of Bossuet, even in his risks of +taste, as one studies the youthful poetry of the great Corneille.</p> +</div> + +<p>Sainte-Beuve cannot let Lamartine alone. In the clause +following, italicized by us, our readers are to recognize an +irony on the part of the critic:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>M. de Lamartine, who, <i>with that second sight which is granted to poets</i>, +knew how to see Bossuet distinctly as he was when young, etc.</p> +</div> + +<p>Having quoted, with significant italics disposed here and +there, a highly realistic imaginary picture of the youthful +Bossuet from the hand of Lamartine, Sainte-Beuve says:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Here is a primitive Bossuet much toned down and mollified, so it seems +to me, a Bossuet drawn very much at will, to resemble Jocelyn and Fénelon, +in order that it may be said afterward [by Lamartine]: “The soul +evidently in this great man was of one temper, and the genius of another. +Nature had made him tender; dogma had made him hard.” I do +not believe in this contradiction in Bossuet, a nature having the most +perfect harmony, and the least at war with itself, that we know. But +what for me is not less certain is, that the illustrious biographer [Lamartine] +here treats literary history absolutely as history is treated in an +historical romance; there you lightly invent your character, where your +information fails, or where dramatic interest demands it. And without +refusing the praise which certain ingenious and delicate touches of this +portrait merit, I will permit myself to ask more seriously: Is it proper, +is it becoming, thus to paint Bossuet as a youth, to fondle thus with the +brush, as one would a Greek dancing-woman or a beautiful child of the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page290" id="page290"></a>290</span> +English aristocracy, him who never ceased to grow under the shadow of +the temple, that serious youth who gave promise of the simple great man, +all genius and all eloquence? Far, far from him [Bossuet] these fondlings +and these physiological feats of a brush which amuses itself with +carmine and with veins....</p> +</div> + +<p>You feel, with regard to the foregoing criticism, that it is +as just as it is penetrative. Lamartine fairly provoked it.</p> + +<p>Here is a trait of Bossuet’s that pertained remarkably also +to Daniel Webster:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Bossuet is not one of those ingenious men of talent who have the art +of treating commonplace subjects excellently, and of introducing into +them foreign materials; but let the subject presented to him be vast, lofty, +majestic, he is at his ease, and, the higher the theme, the more is he equal +to its demands, on his proper plane, and in his element.</p> +</div> + +<p>The Abbé Maury is a critic belonging to the classical school +of French literature. His best-known work is a treatise on +pulpit eloquence. La Harpe is another critic of the same +class with Maury, who has a considerable work, historical and +critical, devoted to French literature in general. To these +two writers Sainte-Beuve makes instructive allusion in the +following passage:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Two opinions found expression when the Sermons of Bossuet were +first published, in 1772; I have already indicated that of the Abbé +Maury, who placed these sermons above everything else of that kind +which the French pulpit had produced; the other opinion, which was +that of La Harpe, and which I have known to be shared since by other +sensible men, was less enthusiastic and showed itself more sensitive to +the inequalities and to the discordances of tone. It would be possible to +justify both of these opinions, with the understanding that the first should +triumph in the end, and that the genius of Bossuet, there as elsewhere, +should keep the first rank. It is very true that, read continuously, without +any notice of the age of the writer, and of the place and circumstances +of their composition, some of these discourses of Bossuet may +offend or surprise minds that love to dwell upon the more uniform and +more exact continuity of Bourdaloue or of Massillon.</p> +</div> + +<p>Victor Cousin is one among the somewhat numerous +writers who, within the bounds of this same paper on Bossuet, +fall under the touch of Sainte-Beauve’s critical lance, +that weapon borne ever in rest and ready for any encounter:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page291" id="page291"></a>291</span></p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>A great writer of our days, M. Cousin ... has been disposed once +more to despoil Louis XIV. of his highest glory in order to carry it all back +to the epoch preceding. M. Cousin has a convenient method of exaggerating +and aggrandizing the objects of his admiration: he degrades or depresses +their surroundings. It is thus that, to exalt Corneille, in whom he +sees Æschylus, Sophocles, all the Greek tragic poets united, he sacrifices +and diminishes Racine; it is thus that, in order the better to celebrate +the epoch of Louis XIII. and of the regency which followed, he depresses +the reign of Louis XIV.</p> +</div> + +<p>It is Sainte-Beuve’s specialty—in aim, whether in achievement +or not—to be without the tendency thus charged upon +M. Cousin, to violate proportion in his criticism. The insinuating +delicacy of his adverse, or at least disparaging, critical +judgment toward a distinguished contemporary author is +well exemplified in the following passage, in which the critic, +by his instinct as critic, is irresistibly drawn to make a return +to Cousin. The wise reader familiar with Mr. Matthew Arnold +will see how exactly the latter caught from his French +master the trick of method here displayed:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Ah, I cannot refrain from expressing another thought. When M. +Cousin speaks so at his ease of Louis XIV., of Louis XIII., and of Richelieu, +confidently attributing superiority to that which he prefers and +which he thinks resembles him, I am astonished that he has never once +asked himself this question: “What would have been the gain, what the +loss to my own talent, this talent which is daily compared with that of +the writers of the great age—what would have been gained or lost to that +admirable talent” (I forget that it is he that is speaking) “if I had had to +write or to discourse, were it but for a few years, in the very presence of +Louis XIV., that is to say, of that royal good sense, calm, sober, and august? +And that which I should have thus gained or lost, in my vivacity +and my eloquence, would it not have been precisely that which it lacks +in the way of gravity, of proportion, of propriety, of perfect justice, and, +consequently, of true authority?”</p> +</div> + +<p>Lamartine does not escape still another light thrust from +this dangerous delicate lance, aimed yet again, with exquisite +accuracy, through an unquestionable joint in the victim’s +harness:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>“These two rivals in eloquence,” says M. de Lamartine, speaking of Bossuet +and of Bourdaloue, “were passionately compared. <i>To the shame of the +time</i>, the number of Bourdaloue’s admirers surpassed in a short time that +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page292" id="page292"></a>292</span> +of the enthusiastic devotees of Bossuet. The reason of this preference +for a cold argumentation above a sublime eloquence lies in the nature of +human things. The men of middling stature have more resemblance to +their age than the giants have to their contemporaries. The orators who +deal in argument are more easily comprehended by the multitude than +the orators who are fired with enthusiasm; one must have wings to follow +the lyric orator.” ... This theory, invented expressly to give the greatest +glory to the <i>lyric orators</i> and to the giants, is here at fault. M. de Bausset, +author of a work on Bossuet, has remarked, on the contrary, as a +kind of singularity, that it never entered any man’s head at that time +to consider Bossuet and Bourdaloue as subject of comparison, and to +weigh in the balance their merit and their genius, as was so often done +in the case of Corneille and of Racine; or, at least, if they were compared, +it was but very seldom. To the honor and not to the shame +of the time, the public taste and sentiment took note of the difference. +Bossuet, in the higher sphere of the episcopate, remained the +oracle, the doctor, a modern Father of the Church, the great orator, who +appeared on funeral and majestic occasions; who sometimes re-appeared +in the pulpit at the monarch’s request, or to solemnize the assemblies of +the clergy, leaving on each occasion an overpowering and ineffaceable +recollection of his eloquence. Meanwhile Bourdaloue continued to be for +the age the usual preacher by eminence, the one who gave a connected +course of lectures on moral and practical Christianity, and who distributed +the daily bread in its most wholesome form to all the faithful. Bossuet +has said somewhere, in one of his sermons: “If it were not better +suited to the dignity of this pulpit to regard the maxims of the Gospel as +indubitable than to prove them by reasoning, how easily could I show +you,” etc. There, where Bossuet would have suffered from stooping and +subjecting himself to too long a course of proof and to a continuous argumentation, +Bourdaloue, who had not the same impatience of genius, was, +beyond doubt, an apostolic workman who was more efficient in the long +run, and better fitted for his task by his constancy. The age in which +both appeared had the merit to make this distinction, and to appreciate +each of them without opposing one to the other; and to-day those who +glory in this opposition, and who so easily crush Bourdaloue with Bossuet, +the man of talent with the man of genius, because they think they are +conscious themselves of belonging to the family of geniuses, too easily +forget that this Christian eloquence was designed to edify and to nourish +still more than to please or to subdue.</p> +</div> + +<p>The “bright consummate flower” of Bossuet’s eloquence +is to be found in his Funeral Discourses. Of one of these, +Sainte-Beuve, with a sudden sympathetic swell of kindred +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page293" id="page293"></a>293</span> +eloquence in description, speaks, in a passage with quotation +from which we close our exemplifications of this famous +critic:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>The death of the Queen of England came to offer him (1669) the grandest +and most majestic of themes. He needed the fall and the restoration +of thrones, the revolution of empires, all the varied fortunes assembled +in a single life, and weighing upon one and the same head; the eagle +needed the vast depth of the heavens, and, below, all the abysses and the +storms of the ocean.</p> +</div> + +<p>It has been to us some satisfaction that the wrong of distortion +by reduction in scale done to the majestic figure of +Bossuet in our own treatment of him, and unavoidable there, +could thus in a measure be redressed by return to the subject +in effective quotation from Sainte-Beuve. Looking back on +the extracts preceding, we feel that enough is expressed, or +suggested, in them, to justify us in saying, There is Bossuet.</p> + +<p>But at any rate we have great confidence in saying, There +is Sainte-Beuve.</p> + +<p class="pt2 center sc">3. Balzac.</p> + +<p>Honoré de Balzac is one of the heroes of literature. He +set himself labors of Hercules in literary production, and he +toiled at his tasks of will with a tireless tenacity little less +than sublime. The moral spectacle of such courageous industry +in Balzac, the present writer admires, not the less, but +the more, that the intellectual achievement resulting seems to +him not commensurately great. Balzac’s long “toil and endeavor” +was not leavened and lightened and turned into play +by that “reflex of unimpeded energy” in him which a lofty +philosopher has defined happiness to be. He did his work +hardly—with profuse sweat of his brow. His mind did not +answer to that definition of genius which makes it a faculty +of lighting its own fires. His fires Balzac lighted with late +hours, artificial illumination, strong stimulant drinks. He +burned himself out early in life—comparatively early, that is +to say; he died at fifty-one.</p> + +<p>The moral triumph of Balzac we have but half suggested. +Not only did he lack the spontaneous joy of genius at work; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page294" id="page294"></a>294</span> +he lacked also, for many and many a doubtful year, the encouragement +of recognition and success. Book after book of +his failed, and still he toiled on. The world was fairly conquered +at last. The reverse of Tulliver’s experience happened +with Balzac. One man, in his case, proved “too many” +for the world.</p> + +<p>For his own part, he freely confesses, the present writer +not only admires; he wonders. Balzac’s novels do not please +him, either as products of genius or as works of art. They +please him solely as monuments of victorious labor. They +have to his mind exactly the quality that was to have been +expected from the history of their production. They smell +of oil, they smack of sweat. They are full of stimulated, +rather than stimulating, thought. So much as one passage in +which imagination played its magnificent play in easy and +easily perfect creation, one passage in which the words flowed +of themselves, and did not come each pumped with a several +stroke of author’s will, he cannot remember ever to have found +in Balzac. He wonders, therefore, and helplessly wonders, +that Balzac should be esteemed, as he is, and that by some +good judges, one of the greatest writers in the world.</p> + +<p>What Balzac undertook was to write the whole “human +tale of this wide world”—that is, to represent in fiction all the +manifold phases and aspects of human life and character. +He calls the entire series of his novels “The Human Comedy.” +This title, we have seen it stated, was not original with Balzac, +but was adopted by him at the suggestion of a friend +who hit upon it as a kind of balance and contrast to Dante’s +expression, “Divine Comedy.” It is not quite a cynic conception +of human character and human destiny that Balzac +intended thus to express. Still, on the other hand, his view +of human nature and human life cannot be said to be genial. +The disagreeable preponderates in his fiction—the disagreeable +one must call it, rather than the tragic. For true +tragedy there is not height enough. In reading Balzac, you +breathe for the most part an atmosphere of the not merely +common, but—vulgar. Of course, the novelist himself would +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page295" id="page295"></a>295</span> +have said, Very well, such is man, and such is life. This one +need not deny, but one can say, It was at least not desirable that +readers should be obliged to feel the novelist to be himself +vulgar, along with his characters. There is such a thing as +refined dealing with people not refined.</p> + +<p>Realism was Balzac’s aim, and realism was the rock on +which Balzac suffered double shipwreck. In seeking to be +realistic, he became vulgar; and in seeking to be realistic, he +became unreal. For there is an air of unreality diffused everywhere +over the pages, meant to be realistic or nothing, of this +voluminous writer. Balzac evolved the personages of his fiction +out of his own consciousness. They are none of them +human beings, such as you meet in the real world. They are +<i>simulacra</i>, images, bodiless projections, of the author’s own +mind. They move over his canvas like the specters thrown +by the magic-lantern on its screen.</p> + +<p>Balzac and Dickens are sometimes paralleled. There certainly +is in a number of particulars a superficial resemblance +between them. Both undertake to be realists. Both concern +themselves chiefly with people of the average sort—sort, perhaps, +even tending toward the vulgar. Both exaggerate to a +degree that makes them at times almost caricaturists. Both +deal abundantly in minute detail of description. But the +contrast too between them is great. Balzac is far less spontaneous +than Dickens. You feel that Dickens improvises. +You never feel this about Balzac. You can hear Balzac drive +his Pegasus with shout and with lash. Dickens’s Pegasus often +flies with his bit <span class="correction" title="amended from beween">between</span> his teeth. Dickens was an observer +of men and of things—of books, a student never; there is perhaps +scarcely another instance in nineteenth-century literature +of an author who owed so little as did Dickens to study +of books. From books, on the other hand, Balzac purveyed +a large share of his material. Dickens writes as if unconscious +that a race of men like the critics existed. Balzac +writes in view of the critics. These in fact seem to be his +audience quite as much as do the general public. Balzac, beginning +that novel of his from which we are presently to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page296" id="page296"></a>296</span> +draw our sole brief extract to exhibit his manner, enters, according +to a fashion of his, upon an elaborate unnecessary description +of the house in which the scene of his action is laid. +But he prefaces thus:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Before describing this house, it may be well, in the interest of other +writers, to explain the necessity for such didactic preliminaries, since +they have raised a protest from certain ignorant and voracious readers +who want emotions without undergoing the generating process, the flower +without the seed, the child without gestation. Is Art supposed to have +higher powers than Nature?</p> +</div> + +<p>Such a sentence as that—prefatory, but in the body of +the text, and not in a formal preface—would have been impossible +to Dickens. In Balzac, it is the most natural thing in +the world. And it discloses the secret of the character everywhere +stamped on his production. He wrote as a professional +writer. He conformed to a law that he himself imposed +upon his genius, instead of leaving his genius free to +be a law to itself. A real realist, a realist, that is to say, such +by nature, and not merely by profession, a realist like De Foe, +for example, could never have committed the offense against +art of disturbing thus that very illusion of reality which he +sought to produce, by exhibiting and defending the method +adopted by him to produce it. There could not be a case +imposing more obligation on the artist to conceal his art. +But Balzac, instead, forces upon his reader the thought of +art by calling its very name.</p> + +<p>Balzac paints with a big brush and puts on plenty of color. +No one need fear in reading him that he will miss delicate +shades. There are none such to miss. Balzac does not suggest. +He speaks right out. Nay, he insists. You shall by +no means fail of understanding him.</p> + +<p>But, over against everything that can thus justly be said in +diminution of his worth, there remain the unalterable facts, of +Balzac’s great reputation, just now looming larger than ever, +of his voluminous literary achievement, of his population +of imaginary personages projected into the world of thought, +by actual count more, we believe, than two thousand poll. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page297" id="page297"></a>297</span> +There is published a portly biographical dictionary exclusively +devoted to the characters of Balzac’s fiction.</p> + +<p>Paralyzed to choose, even to think of choosing, out of the +enormous volume of this writer’s laborious production, a single +page for exemplifying his quality, we pitch desperately +upon the conclusion of that story of his called by the accomplished +American translator of it, Miss Katharine Prescott +Wormeley, “The Alkahest,” “The Search for the Absolute” +is the author’s own title. This work, belonging in +the endless series of volumes dedicated to the display of the +“comedy of human life” in all its phases, is a novel which +undertakes to illustrate the effect on character and destiny +of an exclusive supreme absorption in scientific pursuits. The +hero has at length reached the catastrophe of his career. He +is an old man who has wrecked fortune after fortune in chemical +quest of a scientific chimera, The Absolute. A monomaniac +before, he is paralytic now, and the last night of his +life is slowly passing. Balzac:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>The old man made incredible efforts to shake off the bonds of his +paralysis; he tried to speak and moved his tongue, unable to make a +sound; his flaming eyes emitted thoughts; his drawn features expressed +an untold agony; his fingers writhed in desperation; the sweat stood in +drops upon his brow. In the morning, when his children came to his bed-side +and kissed him with an affection which the sense of coming death +made day by day more ardent and more eager, he showed none of his +usual satisfaction at these signs of their tenderness. Emmanuel [the +dying man’s son-in-law], instigated by the doctor, hastened to open the +newspaper, to try if the usual reading might not relieve the inward crisis +in which Balthazar was evidently struggling. As he unfolded the sheet +he saw the words, “<span class="sc">Discovery of the Absolute</span>,” which startled him +and he read a paragraph to Marguerite [the daughter] concerning a sale +made by a celebrated Polish mathematician of the secret of the Absolute. +Though Emmanuel read in a low voice, and Marguerite signed to him to +omit the passage, Balthazar heard it.</p> + +<p>Suddenly the dying man raised himself by his wrists and cast on his +frightened children a look which struck like lightning; the hairs that +fringed the bald head stirred, the wrinkles quivered, the features were +illumined with spiritual fires, a breath passed across that face and rendered +it sublime; he raised a hand, clenched in fury, and uttered with a piercing +cry the famous words of Archimedes, “<span class="sc">Eureka!</span>”—“I have found.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page298" id="page298"></a>298</span></p> + +<p>He fell back upon his bed with the dull sound of an inert body, and +died, uttering an awful moan, his convulsed eyes expressing to the last, +when the doctor closed them, the regret of not bequeathing to science the +secret of an enigma whose veil was rent away—too late—by the fleshless +fingers of death.</p> +</div> + +<p>The reader there has Balzac at his highest and best.</p> + +<p>Those desirous of acquainting themselves with some integral +work of this author’s will choose wisely if they choose +any one of these four: “Père Goriot,” “César Birotteau,” +“Modeste Mignon,” “The Alkahest” (“The Search for the +Absolute”). Mr. Saintsbury, a competent hand, edits a +series of translations from Balzac, including the novels just +named, together with everything else worth possessing from +his industrious pen.</p> + +<p class="pt2 center sc">4. George Sand.</p> + +<p>In virile quality, Madame de Stael seemed <i>rediviva</i>, or +should we keep the more familiar masculine gender, and say +<i>redivivus</i>? in George Sand. “It only happened that she was +a woman,” said some one, of the latter personage; and indeed +the chance that made her such seemed half on the point +of being reversed by the choice of the subject herself. For, +besides that she has her fame permanently under a pseudonym +naturally betokening a man as its owner, it is a fact +that she did, at one time, in order to greater freedom of +the world, wear man’s clothes and otherwise play the man +among her Parisian fellows. This episode in her experience +doubtless helped give her that great advantage over other +women, which her genius enabled her to use to effect so +surpassing, in describing the male human being such as he +himself recognizes himself to be.</p> + +<p>The episode, however, was short, and George Sand is +thought by her admirers—and her admirers include some +very grave and self-respecting persons, the late Mr. Matthew +Arnold being one example—never to have parted with a certain +paradoxical womanly reserve and delicacy which ought +logically to have been quite lost out of her nature through +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page299" id="page299"></a>299</span> +the coarse and soiled contacts to which she herself willingly, +and even willfully, subjected it.</p> + +<p>But, poor George Sand! Let us never, in judging her, forget +how ill-bestead a childhood was hers, and how unhappy +a marriage was provided for her warm and passionate youth. +Her life began in protest, and protest was the early strength +of her genius and her endeavor. She protested against things +as they were, and, according to her light—a light sadly confused +with misguiding cross-lights from many quarters besides +her own eager self-will—fought, and pleaded, and wept, +aspiring, hoping, believing, for an ideal world in which love +should be law; or rather an ideal world in which law should +have ceased, and love should be all. From one of the last +of her innumerable books, perhaps from the very last, Mr. +Matthew Arnold translates this expression, which he repeats +as summing up the motive of her work—“the sentiment of the +ideal life, which is none other than man’s normal life as we +shall one day know it.”</p> + +<p>The word “love” does not occur in this expression, but +that word and that thought make the luminous legend over +everything hers by the light of which everything hers is to +be read and interpreted.</p> + +<p>Of course, George Sand’s “love” is not the sentiment +which the apostle Paul sings in that prose canticle of his +found in the thirteenth chapter of First Corinthians. But +neither is it the purely animal passion that base souls might +understand it. The peculiar affection natural between the +sexes it indeed includes, but it includes much more. It includes +all domestic, all social affections. In short, it is love +in the largest sense. The largest sense, but not the highest. +For it is love, the indulgence, the appetite; not love, +the duty, the principle. George Sand’s gospel is that you +may love and indulge yourself; Paul’s gospel is that you +must love and deny yourself. Paul says love is the fulfilling +of the law; George Sand virtually says love is the annulling +of the law.</p> + +<p>Because in many passionate and powerful novels, read +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page300" id="page300"></a>300</span> +everywhere in Europe and not only in France, read also in +America, George Sand has preached this gospel of love as +the virtual solvent of existing society, Mr. Justin Macarthy +pronounces the opinion that she is on the whole incomparably +the greatest force in literature of her generation. He probably +would attribute to her as a chief motor the portentous +movements in human society which we of to-day feel, +like tides of the sea, bearing us on, no one knows whither. +It is no doubt true that George Sand has contributed what +mechanicians call a “moment,” not sufficiently considered, to +make up the urgency that is pushing us all in the direction +toward uncalculated social solutions and social reconstructions. +This constitutes her a notable social force working by +literature; a force, however, that has already chiefly spent +itself, or that persists, so far as it does persist, translated indistinguishably +into other forms.</p> + +<p>For George Sand is no longer read as she formerly was, +her fashion having already to a great extent passed away. +It is a common testimony that, as she wrote like one improvising, +so her writing is to be read once and not returned to. +Her “Consuelo,” in its time such a rage, and still often spoken +of as her masterpiece, is now even a little hard to get through. +You yawn, you feel like skipping, you do skip, and you finally +shut up the book wondering why such bright writing should +make such dull reading.</p> + +<p>There occurred a sharp, decisive change, a change, however, +not consistently maintained, in George Sand’s quality of production. +From producing novels of social ferment, she +turned to producing the quietest, most quieting, idyllic little +stories in the world. There is a long list of such. “La +Petite Fadette,” “François le Champi,” “Les Maîtres Sonneurs,” +are among the best of them. From this last, consummately +well translated by our countrywoman, Miss +Katharine Prescott Wormeley, who has Messrs. Roberts +Brothers for her publishers, we shall offer a very short extract +in specimen. But first a short passage from one of her +earlier books, in order that our readers may get a sense of the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page301" id="page301"></a>301</span> +change that she underwent, or rather—for no doubt the +change was voluntary and calculated on her part—the +change that she chose to make, in her manner. It is simply +her two contrasted manners that we aim to illustrate—not at +all, in either case, the matter or doctrine set forth. To illustrate +this last we should have no room, had we the inclination.</p> + +<p>From “Lélia,” we translate a passage descriptive of Alpine +scenery, or rather of the effect on the mind of Alpine +scenery. After lighting upon this passage for our choice +we found that Mr. Saintsbury too, in his “Specimens of +French Literature,” had made the same selection, at double +length, for his sole exemplification of George Sand. We are +thus confirmed in trusting that we shall show our author, if +far too briefly, still at her best:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>“Look where we are; is it not sublime, and can you think of aught else than +God? Sit down upon this moss, virgin of human steps, and see at your +feet the desert unrolling its mighty depths. Did ever you contemplate +anything more wild and yet more full of life? See what vigor in this free +and vagabond vegetation; what movement in those woods which the wind +bows and sways, in those great flocks of eagles hovering incessantly +around the misty summits and passing in moving circles like great black +rings over the sheet, white and watery, of the glacier. Do you hear the +noise that rises and falls on every side? The torrents weeping and sobbing +like unhappy souls; the stags moaning with voices plaintive and passionate, +the breeze singing and laughing among the heather, the vultures +screaming like frightened women; and those other noises, strange, mysterious, +indescribable, rumbling muffled in the mountains; those colossal +icebergs cracking in their very heart; those snows, sucking and drawing +down the sand; those great roots of trees grappling incessantly with the +entrails of the earth and toiling to heave the rock and to rive the shale; +those unknown voices, those vague sighs, which the soil, always a prey +to the pains of travail, here expires through her gaping loins; do you not +find all this more splendid, more harmonious, than the church or the +theater?”</p> +</div> + +<p>With our utmost effort to convey, through close fidelity, +the feeling of George Sand’s style, the delicious music of it, +its sweet opulence of diction, its warmth of color, its easy +spontaneity, its lubricity, its flow, we must ask our readers +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page302" id="page302"></a>302</span> +to imagine all twice as charming as they could possibly find +it in any translation. As to the substance of what is said in +the foregoing sentences? Other travelers may have been +more fortunate, but the present writer is obliged to admit +that he never saw “great flocks,” or any flocks at all, of +eagles “incessantly hovering around the summits” of the +Alps. Indeed, the eagle is generally supposed to be a solitary +bird, not inclined to fly in flocks. Also, he has never +happened to meet with “stags” in the Alps, much less to +hear them moan passionately or otherwise. “The vultures +screaming,” etc.? In short, he would be quite unable to verify +in its details George Sand’s beautiful description, which +he thinks must have been written from the heart of the +writer, much more than from either her eye or her ear.</p> + +<p>Successive generations of readers are not apt to be satisfied +with merely subjective truth in what is offered them to +read. There must be fact of some sort to correspond with +statement, in order permanently to secure the future for an +author. But feeling, rather than fact, at least in her +earlier work, is the substance to which George Sand’s magical +style gave such exquisite form.</p> + +<p>Now for a specimen passage done in her later manner.</p> + +<p>This we take from “Les Maîtres Sonneurs,” or “The Bagpipers,” +as Miss Wormeley renders the title. Brulette is a +charming peasant girl, who, brought up in the same house +with José, has known him only as a shy, recluse, silent, sullen, +even downright stupid boy, if not indeed almost a “natural.” +He has cultivated music secretly, and he now makes trial of +his art for the first time before Brulette. She turns away, +and he is in despair, till he sees that she turned away to hide +her fast-coming tears. He then demands to know what she +thought of while he was playing. Brulette replies, and José +in his turn expresses his mind:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>“I did not think of any thing,” said Brulette, “but a thousand recollections +of old times came into my mind. I seemed not to see you playing, +though I heard you clearly enough; you appeared to be no older than +when we lived together, and I felt as if you and I were driven by a strong +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page303" id="page303"></a>303</span> +wind, sometimes through the ripe wheat, sometimes into the long grass, +at other times upon the running streams; and I saw the fields, the +woods, the springs, the flowery meadows, and the birds in the sky +among the clouds. I saw, too, in my dream, your mother and my +grandfather sitting before the fire, and talking of things I could not +understand; and all the while you were in the corner on your knees +saying your prayers, and I thought I was asleep in my little bed. +Then again I saw the ground covered with snow, and the willows full of +larks, and the night full of falling stars; and we looked at each other, +sitting on a hillock, while the sheep made their little noise of nibbling the +grass. In short I dreamed so many things that they are all jumbled up +in my head; and if they made me cry it was not for grief, but because +my mind was shaken in a way I can’t at all explain to you.”</p> + +<p>“It is all right,” said José. “What I saw and what I dreamed as I +played, you saw too! Thank you, Brulette; through you I know now +that I am not crazy, and that there is a truth in what we hear within us, +as there is in what we see. Yes, yes,” he said, taking long strides up +and down the room, and holding his flute above his head, “it speaks!—that +miserable bit of reed! It says what we think; it shows what we see; +it tells a tale as if with words; it loves like the heart; it lives; it has a +being! And now, José, the mad man; José, the idiot; José, the starer, +go back to your imbecility; you can afford to do so, for you are as +powerful, and as wise, and as happy as others.”</p> + +<p>So saying, he sat down and paid no further attention to any thing +about him.</p> +</div> + +<p>Little speeches like the foregoing make up what, throughout +the whole story of “The Bagpipers” does duty for +dialogue between the characters. Charming, but in no +proper sense of the word natural or verisimilar.</p> + +<p>George Sand and Balzac are often set in antithesis to each +other as respectively idealistic and realistic writers. Different +enough, indeed, they are, but the difference is that of +temperament, of genius, and not that of method. Balzac +is all conscience (his sort of conscience), will, work; George +Sand is all freedom, improvisation, play—around her everywhere +a nameless exquisite charm.</p> + +<p class="pt2 center sc">5. Musset.</p> + +<p>Alfred de Musset makes a melancholy figure in literary +history. Few men ever had a more brilliant morning than +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page304" id="page304"></a>304</span> +he; few men ever had an evening more somber. And Musset’s +evening fell at mid-day. Heine, with that bitterness +which was his, could say of the still youthful poet, “A young +man with a very fine future—behind him!”</p> + +<p>What this writer accomplished, he accomplished by the +pure felicity of genius—genius, flushed and quickened with +the warm blood of youth. He did nothing in the way of +self-tasking, but all in the way of self-indulging. He obeyed +whim, and not will. When the whim failed, he failed. +Will indeed he seemed not to have, but only willfulness. +He died at forty-seven, but he had already ceased living at +forty.</p> + +<p>It is generally agreed that in what makes genius for the +poet, namely, capacity of poetic feeling, propensity to poetic +rhythm, command of poetic phrase, and power to see with +the imagination, Musset belongs among the foremost singers +of France. What he lacked was moral equipment to +match. We mean not moral goodness, though this, too, he +missed, but moral strength. He might have soared like the +eagle, for he had eagle’s pinions; but he had not the eagle’s +heart, and after a few daring upward flights he fluttered +ignobly downward, and thereafter, except at intervals too +rare, kept the ground. Some charge this lamentable failure +on Musset’s part to the ill influence over him of George +Sand, with whom in the fresh splendor of his young fame he +entered into an unhappy “relation”—a “relation” sought +by the woman in the case, who of the two was the older. +She, as some think, sucked Musset’s heart out of him like +a vampire. But what a confession to make on the man’s behalf +of flaccid moral fiber in him! Such a man, one would +say, was certain to fall in due time prey to some one; in default +of other hunter, then prey to himself. It is one of the +things least consistent with a favorable view of George +Sand’s fundamental character that, two years after Musset’s +death, and some twenty years after the time of her “relation” +with him, she should publish, thinly veiled under the +form of fiction, a story of that relation, in which she herself +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page305" id="page305"></a>305</span> +appeared vindicated, and the unhappy dead was held up to +the laughter and contempt of Europe. Paul de Musset, +Alfred’s brother, replied in a book which claimed to set the +facts in their true light before the world. Wretched +wrangle! A little more of dull conformity on her part to +things as she found them, and a little less of passionate protest +against them in literature and in life, would have helped +George Sand shun scandals that happily limit her influence +as they deservedly darken her fame. There is too much reason +to fear that this woman, in whom genius was certainly +greater than was conscience, made, after the manner of +Goethe, a deliberate study of Musset in quest of material to +be worked up in literary product.</p> + +<p>Musset was greatest as poet, but he wrote admirable prose +in novels and in comedies. He singularly combined capacity +of hard and brilliant wit in prose dialogue with capacity +of the softest, most dewy sentiment in musical verse. Some +of his comedies are established classics of the French stage.</p> + +<p>We confine ourselves here to brief exhibition by specimen +of what Musset accomplished in that species of literary +work in which he was greatest, namely, poetry. A quaternion +of pieces called “The Nights” will supply us perhaps +with our best single extract, at once practicable and characteristic. +These pieces are entitled respectively “Night +of May,” “Night of August,” “Night of October,” “Night +of December.” They are couched in the form of dialogue +between the poet and his muse. Of course they are highly +charged with autobiographic quality. The poet poses in +them very pensively before the public. The Byronic melancholy, +without the Byronic passion, pervades them. Our +extract we take, condensing it, from the “Night of December.” +In it, the poet’s muse talks to the poet in what +might easily pass for an almost pious vein. We could make +extracts in which the piety would be far, very far, less edifying, +would in fact take on the characteristic dissolute French +type of moral sentiment. His muse’s talk to the poet is +somewhat such as might be imagined to be a confidential +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page306" id="page306"></a>306</span> +consolatory strain of condescension from the goddess-mother +Venus to her son, the Virgilian “pious” Æneas. We make our +translation closely line for line, almost word for word. The +rhyme we sacrifice for the sake of what we trust may seem +to wise judges a fairly good approximation, otherwise impossible +in a literal rendering, to the spirit and rhythm of the +original:</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>Is it aimlessly, then, that Providence works,</p> +<p>And absent, then, deem’st thou the God that thee smote?</p> +<p>The stroke thou complainest of saved thee perchance,</p> +<p>My poor child, for ’twas then that was opened thy heart.</p> +<p>An apprentice is man, and his master is pain,</p> +<p>And none knows himself until he has grieved.</p> +<p>It is a stern law, but a law that’s supreme,</p> +<p>As old as the world and as ancient as doom,</p> +<p>That the baptism we of misfortune must take,</p> +<p>And that all at this sorrowful price must be bought.</p> +<p>The harvest to ripen has need of the dew,</p> +<p>To live and to feel man has need of his tears,</p> +<p>Joy has for its symbol a plant that is bruised</p> +<p>Yet is wet with the rain and covered with flowers.</p> +<p>Wast not saying that thou of thy folly wast cured?</p> +<p>Art not young, art not happy, and everywhere hailed?</p> +<p>And those airy-light pleasures which make life beloved,</p> +<p>If thou never hadst wept, what worth to thee they?</p> + +<p class="i1 s" style="letter-spacing: 2em;">*******</p> + +<p class="s">Wouldst thou feel the ineffable peace of the skies,</p> +<p>The hush of the nights, the moan of the waves,</p> +<p>If somewhere down here fret and failure of sleep</p> +<p>Had not brought to thy dream the eternal repose?</p> + +<p class="i1 s" style="letter-spacing: 2em;">*******</p> + +<p class="s">Of what then complainest? The unquenchable hope</p> +<p>Is rekindled in thee ’neath the hand of mischance.</p> +<p>Why choose to abhor thy vanished young years,</p> +<p>And an evil detest that thee better has made?</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>Imagine the foregoing in its own original music, and invested +with that hovering, wavering atmosphere of pathos +which Musset knew so well how to throw over his verse, +and you will partly understand what the charm is of this +French poet to his countrymen.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page307" id="page307"></a>307</span></p> + +<p>Musset exhibits something of the wit that he was, in the +following bit of rhymed epigram, which, breaking up two +stanzas for the purpose, we take from his poem entitled +“Namouna.” The rhymes were necessary here to convey the +effect of smartness belonging to the original, and we accordingly +preserve them:</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>Lord Byron for model has served me, say you,</p> +<p>You know not then Byron set Pulci in view?</p> +<p>Read up the Italians, you’ll see if he stole.</p> +<p>Nothing is any one’s, every one’s all.</p> +<p>Dunce deep as a schoolmaster surely were he</p> +<p>Who should dream left for him one word there could be</p> +<p>That no man before him had hit upon yet;</p> +<p>They somebody copy who cabbage-plants set.</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>This self-vindicating epigram of Musset’s may be pronounced +clever rather than satisfactory.</p> + +<p>Musset—the juxtaposition and contrast of the two men +irresistibly provokes the reflection—was as much less than +Balzac by inferiority of will as he was greater by superiority +of genius.</p> + +<p class="pt1">Already, such is the pace of progress in these last days of +the nineteenth century, the “men of 1830” are beginning +to seem a generation long gone by. The future will see +whether their successors of the present time enjoy a more +protracted supremacy.</p> + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="center f120">XXIV.</p> + +<p class="center"><span class="chap2">JOUBERT</span>: 1754-1824; <span class="chap2">Madame Swetchine</span>: 1782-1859; <span class="chap2">Amiel</span>: +1821-1881.</p> + +<p><span class="sc chap1">We</span> come now to that nineteenth-century group, foreshadowed +on an earlier page, of French <i>pensée</i>-writers.</p> + +<p>The longer lapse of time in <span class="sc">Joubert’s</span> case, constantly +confirming his claim to be a true classic, justifies us in placing, +as we do, his name not only first but principal in the title to +the present chapter.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page308" id="page308"></a>308</span></p> + +<p>Joseph Joubert presents the singular case of a man of letters +living to a good old age, whose published literary work, +and, therefore, whose literary fame, are wholly posthumous. +He left behind him more than two hundred blank books filled +with notes of thoughts which were to constitute after he died +his title to enduring remembrance.</p> + +<p>Everything important surviving from his pen exists in the +form of what the French call <i>pensées</i>. The sense of this word +one of Joubert’s own <i>pensées</i> very well expresses:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>I should like to convert wisdom into coin, that is, mint it into <i>maxims</i>, +into <i>proverbs</i>, into <i>sentences</i>, easy to keep and to circulate.</p> +</div> + +<p>Another of his <i>pensées</i> confesses, perhaps we should say +rather, professes, what the ambition was that this most patient +of writers indulged with reference to the literary form of his +work:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>If there exists a man tormented by the accursed ambition of putting a +whole book into a page, a whole page into a phrase, and that phrase into +a word, that man is myself.</p> +</div> + +<p>Joubert was a natural unchangeable classicist in taste and +spirit. The Periclean age of Greece, the Augustan age of +Rome, the “great age” of France, that of Louis XIV., supplied +Joubert with most of the books that fed his mind. He +remained distinctively Christian in creed, though not nicely +orthodox according to any accepted standard. Like so many +of his literary compatriots, Joubert owed a great debt, for +intellectual quickening, shaping, and refining, to brilliant and +beautiful women.</p> + +<p>We show a few, too few, specimens that may indicate this +gifted Frenchman’s rare and precious quality:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Religion is a fire to which example furnishes fuel, and which goes out if +it does not spread.</p> + +<p>The Bible is to the religions [of mankind], what the Iliad is to poetry.</p> +</div> + +<p>A comparison, the latter foregoing, however faulty by defect +we may justly esteem it, loyally designed, of course, by the +author to render profound homage to the Bible.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page309" id="page309"></a>309</span></p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Only just the right proportion of wit should be put into a book; in +conversation a little too much is allowable.</p> + +<p>We may convince others by our arguments; but we can persuade them +only by their own.</p> + +<p>Frankness is a natural quality; constant veracity is a virtue.</p> +</div> + +<p>In pondering such golden sentences, one is constantly incited +to make maxims one’s self; which, indeed, is a part of +the value of this kind of literature.</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Gravity is but the rind of wisdom; but it is a preservative rind.</p> +</div> + +<p>The foregoing happy English rendering of the French +maxim we borrow from Mr. Henry Attwell, who has published +a selection of Joubert’s <i>pensées</i> translated, the translation +being accompanied with the original text.</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Children have more need of patterns than of critics.</p> + +<p>Children should be made reasonable, but they should not be made +reasoners. The first thing to teach them is that it is reasonable for them +to obey and unreasonable for them to dispute. Without that, education +would waste itself in bandying arguments, and every thing would be lost +if all teachers were not clever cavillers.</p> + +<p>In a poem there should be not only poetry of images, but poetry of +ideas.</p> + +<p>Words, like lenses, darken whatever they do not help us see.</p> + +<p>Buffon says that genius is but the aptitude for being patient. The +aptitude for a long-continued and unwearying effort of attention is +indeed, the genius of observation; but there is another genius, that of +invention, which is aptitude for a quick, prompt, and ever-active energy +of penetration.</p> +</div> + +<p>Buffon’s is a good working definition, to say the least—for +genius of any sort.</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>The end of a production should always call to mind its beginning.</p> +</div> + +<p>This may be compared to the law in musical composition +requiring that a piece end in the key in which it began.</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Taste is the literary conscience of the soul.</p> +</div> + +<p>“Artistic,” instead of “literary,” Joubert might have +widened his “thought” by saying.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page310" id="page310"></a>310</span></p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>When there is born in a nation a man capable of producing a great +thought, another is born there capable of understanding it and of admiring +it.</p> + +<p>That which astonishes, astonishes once; but that which is admirable +is more and more admired.</p> + +<p>Fully to understand a great and beautiful thought requires, perhaps, +as much time as to conceive it.</p> +</div> + +<p>A few individual literary judgments now, and we shall have +shown from Joubert all that our room will admit:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Seek in Plato forms and ideas only. These are what he himself +sought. There is in him more light to see by than objects to see, more +form than substance. We should breathe him and not feed on him.</p> + +<p>Homer wrote to be sung, Sophocles to be declaimed, Herodotus to be +recited, and Xenophon to be read. From these different destinations of +their works, there could not but spring a multitude of differences in their +style.</p> + +<p>Xenophon wrote with a swan’s quill, Plato with a pen of gold, and +Thucydides with a stylus of bronze.</p> + +<p>In Plato the spirit of poetry gives life to the languors of dialectics.</p> + +<p>Plato loses himself in the void; but one sees the play of his wings; one +hears the noise of their motion.</p> + +<p>Cicero is, in philosophy, a kind of moon. His teaching sheds a light, +very soft, but borrowed, a light altogether Greek, which the Roman has +softened and enfeebled.</p> + +<p>Horace pleases the intellect, but he does not charm the taste. Virgil +satisfies the taste no less than the reflective faculty. It is as delightful +to remember his verses as to read them.</p> + +<p>There is not in Horace a single turn, one might almost say a single +word, that Virgil would have used, so different are their styles.</p> + +<p>Behind the thought of Pascal, we see the attitude of that firm and +passionless intellect. This it is, more than all else, which makes him so +imposing.</p> + +<p>Fénelon knows how to pray, but he does not know how to instruct +We have in him a philosopher almost divine, and a theologian almost +without knowledge.</p> + +<p>M. de Bausset says of Fénelon: “He loved men better than he knew +them.” Charmingly spoken; it is impossible to praise more wittily what +one blames, or better to praise in the very act of blaming.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page311" id="page311"></a>311</span></p> + +<p>The plan of Massillon’s sermons is insignificant, but their bas-reliefs +are superb.</p> + +<p>Montesquieu appears to teach the art of making empires; you seem to +yourself to be learning it when you listen to him, and every time you +read him you are tempted to go to work and construct one.</p> + +<p>Voltaire’s judgment was correct, his imagination rich, his intellect +agile, his taste lively, and his moral sense ruined.</p> + +<p>It is impossible for Voltaire to satisfy, and impossible for him not to +please.</p> + +<p>In Voltaire, as in the monkey, the movements are charming and the +features hideous. One always sees in him, at the end of a clever hand, +an ugly face.</p> + +<p>That oratorical “authority” [weight of personal character] of which +the ancients speak—you feel it in Bossuet more than in any other man; +after him, in Pascal, in La Bruyère, in J. J. Rousseau even, but never in +Voltaire.</p> + +<p>The style of Rousseau makes upon the soul the impression which the +flesh of a lovely woman would make in touching us. There is something +of the woman in his style.</p> + +<p>Racine and Boileau are not fountain-heads. A fine choice in imitation +constitutes their merit. It is their books that imitate books, not their +souls that imitate souls. Racine is the Virgil of the unlettered.</p> + +<p>Molière is comic in cold blood. He provokes laughter and does not +laugh. Herein lies his excellence.</p> + +<p>Bernardin [St. Pierre] writes by moonlight, Chateaubriand by sunlight.</p> +</div> + +<p>The quality of both writers is such that we seem simply +to be making the transition from masculine to feminine in +going, as now we do, from Joubert to Madame Swetchine.</p> + +<p class="pt1">Madame <span class="sc">Swetchine</span> lives, and deserves to live, in French +literature—for, though Russian, she wrote in French—by +the incomparable exquisiteness of her personal, expressing +itself in her literary, quality. Purest of pure was she, as in +what she wrote, so in what she was. Through sympathetic +contemporary description she makes an impression as of +one of Fra Angelico’s female saints released for a life from +the fixed canonization of the canvas.</p> + +<p>Madame Swetchine’s life was chiefly spent in Paris, where +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page312" id="page312"></a>312</span> +the French language, already long before, in St. Petersburg, +grown easy and tripping on her tongue, became to her a +second, perhaps more familiar, vernacular. She was a high-born, +high-bred, refined, and elegant woman of the world—woman +in the world we should rather say, for, in the truest +sense, <i>of</i> it she never was—who held brilliant, choicely-frequented +<i>salons</i>, but who, without ostentation and without +affectation, would go from her oratory, which indeed seems +to have been a private “chapel,” in the full ecclesiastic sense +of that word, to her drawing-room; who had even, as Sainte-Beuve +indulgently, but with something of his inseparable +irony, intimates, the effect of vibrating from the one to the +other in the course of the same evening. Madame Swetchine +was married young very unequally to a man twenty-five +years her senior; but she set the edifying example of half a +century’s wifely devotion to that husband whom, at the wish +of her father, well beloved, she had dutifully accepted in +place of a noble young suitor, the choice of her own affections.</p> + +<p>Two volumes—both of “Thoughts,” though one of them +bears the title “Airelles”—shut up within themselves the +fragrance that was Madame Swetchine. We cull a few +specimens:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Often one is prophet for others only because one is historian for one’s +self.</p> + +<p>The chains which bind us the closest are those which weigh on us the +least.</p> + +<p>The best of lessons for many persons would be to listen at key-holes; +it is a pity for their sake that this is not honorable.</p> + +<p>Go always beyond designated duties, and remain within permitted +pleasures.</p> + +<p>Upon the whole, there is in life only what we put there.</p> + +<p>I love knowledge; I love intellect; I love faith—simple faith—yet more, +I love God’s shadow better than man’s light.</p> + +<p>He who has ceased to enjoy his friend’s superiority has ceased to love +him.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page313" id="page313"></a>313</span></p> + +<p>Since there must be chimeras, why is not perfection the chimera of all +men?</p> + +<p>“Woman is in some sort divine,” said the ancient German. “Woman,” +says the follower of Mahomet, “is an amiable creature who only needs a +cage.” “Woman,” says the European, “is a being nearly our equal in +intelligence, and perhaps our superior in fidelity.” Everywhere something +detracted from our dignity!</p> + +<p>No two persons ever read the same book or saw the same picture.</p> + +<p>Strength alone knows conflict. Weakness is below even defeat, and is +born vanquished.</p> + +<p>We are rich only through what we give, and poor only through what +we refuse.</p> +</div> + +<p>Madame Swetchine was a woman of wealth and of leisure +so-called; but it may be doubted whether any poor woman +in Paris worked harder. She carried with her when she +went hence what, through all her conscientious activity, outward +and inward, she had in her own being become; and she +found besides that ample further reward, unknown, which +she had thus grown capable of receiving.</p> + +<p class="pt1">Henri Fréderic <span class="sc">Amiel</span>, who lived an almost silent life of +sixty years—not quite silent, for he piped a volume or two +of ineffectual verse—became a bruit of marvel and of praise +soon after his death, through the publication from his +“Journal Intime” [“Private Journal”] of a select number +of his “Thoughts” found recorded there. How permanent +a glow may prove to be the brightness of fame for Amiel +thus suddenly outbursting, time only will decide. Already +two very opposite opinions find expression concerning his +merit—one applausive to the point almost of veneration, the +other very freely irreverent.</p> + +<p>Both these two contradictory opinions admit of being +apparently justified from the text of his “Journal.” Take +the following for an example on one side:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Is not mind simply that which enables us to merge finite reality in the +infinite possibility around it? Or, to put it differently, is not mind the +universal virtuality, the universe latent? If so, its zero would be the germ +of the infinite, which is expressed mathematically by the double zero (00).</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page314" id="page314"></a>314</span></p> + +<p>The foregoing sentence is unintelligible enough to make, +probably, the impression of pretty pure jargon on most minds. +But in truth the amount of such writing in Amiel’s “Journal” +is proportionally very small.</p> + +<p>Another line of entries in the “Journal” tending to reflect +disparagement upon the writer consists of reiterated confessions +on Amiel’s part of morbid weakness of will, with +habits of helpless morbid introspection, which, disappointing +the hopes of his friends, practically shut him up his whole +life long in a well-nigh total sterility of genius. On this +count of the indictment against Amiel it is quite impossible +to defend him. He was inexcusably non-productive. His +“Journal” itself shows that its author should have done +more than that.</p> + +<p>This book, admirably translated into English by Mrs. +Humphrey Ward, exhibits Amiel in the character of +a man who always thought and felt and spoke and wrote on +the side of what was pure and good and noble. He was a profoundly +religious soul. As the years went on with him, and +he became more and more the passive prey of his own eternally +active thought, there appear to be registered some decline +from the simplicity, and some corruption from the +wholesomeness, of his earlier religious experience. In fact, +he at last seems to let go historical Christianity altogether, +still clinging, however, pathetically to God, as Father, all the +time that he regards God’s fatherly providence over the world +as only a subjective beautiful illusion of faith existing in his +own imaginative mind!</p> + +<p>Amiel judges the present age and the current tendency of +things:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>The age of great men is going.... By continual leveling and division +of labor society will become everything and man nothing.... A plateau +with fewer and fewer undulations, without contrasts and without oppositions—such +will be the aspect of human society. The statistician will +register a growing progress, and the moralist a gradual decline: on the +one hand, a progress of things; on the other, a decline of souls. The +useful will take the place of the beautiful, industry of art, political +economy of religion, and arithmetic of poetry.</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page315" id="page315"></a>315</span></p> + +<p>He writes to himself a sort of “spiritual letter” that +might almost have been Fénelon’s (the date is 1852, he was +therefore now thirty-one years old):</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>We receive everything, both life and happiness; but the <i>manner</i> in +which we receive, this is what is still ours. Let us, then, receive trustfully +without shame or anxiety. Let us humbly accept from God even +our own nature, and treat it charitably, firmly, intelligently. Not that +we are called upon to accept the evil and the disease in us, but let us accept +ourselves in spite of the evil and the disease.</p> +</div> + +<p>The first following “thought” is a deep intuition:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>There are two states or conditions of pride. The first is one of self-approval, +the second one of self-contempt. Pride is seen probably at its +purest in the last.</p> + +<p>To do easily what is difficult for others is the mark of talent. To do +what is impossible for talent is the mark of genius.</p> + +<p>Chateaubriand posed all his life as the wearied Colossus, smiling pitifully +upon a pigmy world, and contemptuously affecting to desire nothing +from it, though at the same time wishing it to be believed that he could +if he pleased possess himself of every thing by mere force of genius.</p> + +<p>We are never more discontented with others than when we are discontented +with ourselves.</p> + +<p>To grow old is more difficult than to die, because to renounce a good +once and for all costs less than to renew the sacrifice day by day and in +detail.</p> +</div> + +<p>From entries fourteen years apart in date, we bring together, +abridging them, two expressions of Amiel about +Victor Hugo:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>His ideal is the extraordinary, the gigantic, the overwhelming, the incommensurable. +His most characteristic words are immense, colossal, +enormous, huge, monstrous. He finds a way of making even child-nature +extravagant and bizarre. The only thing which seems impossible to him +is to be natural.</p> + +<p>He does not see that pride is a limitation of the mind, and that a pride +without limitations is a littleness of soul. If he could but learn to compare +himself with other men, and France with other nations, he would +see things more truly, and would not fall into these mad exaggerations, +these extravagant judgments. But proportion and fairness will never be +among the strings at his command. He is vowed to the Titanic; his +gold is always mixed with lead, his insight with childishness, his reason +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page316" id="page316"></a>316</span> +with madness. He cannot be simple; the only light he has to give +blinds you like that of a fire. He astonishes a reader and provokes him, +he moves him and annoys him. There is always some falsity of note in +him, which accounts for the <i>malaise</i> he so constantly excites in me. The +great poet in him cannot shake off the charlatan. A few shafts of +Voltairean irony would have shriveled the inflation of his genius and +made it stronger by making it saner. It is a public misfortune that the +most powerful poet of a nation should not have better understood his +<i>rôle</i>, and that, unlike those Hebrew prophets who scourged because they +loved, he should devote himself proudly and systematically to the flattery +of his countrymen. France is the world; Paris is France; Hugo is Paris; +peoples, bow down!</p> +</div> + +<p>Amiel had a just perception of the immense healing virtue +lodged in happiness:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>What doctor possesses such curative resources as those latent in a +spark of happiness or a single ray of hope?</p> +</div> + +<p>A vent of frank French distaste for the German type of +book. Amiel had been reading the great nineteenth-century +philosopher Lotze:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>The noise of a mill-wheel sends one to sleep, and these pages without +paragraphs, these interminable chapters, and this incessant dialectical +clatter, affect me as though I were listening to a word-mill. I end by +yawning like any simple non-philosophical mortal in the face of all this +heaviness and pedantry. Erudition and even thought are not everything. +An occasional touch of <i>esprit</i>, a little sharpness of phrase, a little +vivacity, imagination, and grace, would spoil neither.</p> + +<p>He who is too much afraid of being duped has lost the power of being +magnanimous.</p> +</div> + +<p>The following shows a good heart as well as a wise head:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>The errand-woman has just brought me my letters. Poor little woman, +what a life! She spends her nights in going backwards and forwards +from her invalid husband to her sister, who is scarcely less helpless, and +her days are passed in labor. Resigned and indefatigable, she goes on +without complaining, till she drops.</p> + +<p>Lives such as hers prove something.... The kingdom of God belongs +not to the most enlightened but to the best; and the best man is +the most unselfish man. Humble, constant, voluntary self-sacrifice—this +is what constitutes the true dignity of man.... Society rests upon +conscience and not upon science. Civilization is, first and foremost, a +moral thing.</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page317" id="page317"></a>317</span></p> + +<p>He first passes judgment on Goethe, and then afterward +checks himself:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>He [Goethe] has so little soul. His way of understanding love, religion, +duty, and patriotism has something mean and repulsive in it. There +is no ardor, no generosity, in him. A secret barrenness, an ill-concealed +egotism, makes itself felt through all the wealth and flexibility of his +talent.</p> + +<p>One must never be too hasty in judging these complex natures. Completely +lacking as he is in the sense of obligation and of sin, Goethe +nevertheless finds his way to seriousness through dignity. Greek sculpture +has been his school of virtue.</p> +</div> + +<p>Under date 1874, Amiel asks a question and answers it. +He had before said, “My creed has melted away”:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p><i>Is</i> there a particular Providence directing all the circumstances of our +life, and therefore imposing all our trials upon us for educational ends? +Is this heroic faith compatible with our actual knowledge of the laws of +nature? Scarcely. But what this faith makes objective we may hold as +subjective truth.... What he [the moral being] cannot change he calls +the will of God, and to will what God wills brings him peace.</p> +</div> + +<p>A melancholy fall from his earlier state! A whole sky between +such conscious false motions toward self-deceiving and +the victory which overcomes the world, even our faith. Amiel +had now definitely lost his health.</p> + +<p>Toward the end, occurs this striking and illuminating word +about one of the worst of human passions:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Jealousy is a terrible thing. It resembles love, only it is precisely +love’s contrary. Instead of wishing for the welfare of the object loved, +it desires the dependence of that object upon itself, and its own triumph. +Love is the forgetfulness of self; jealousy is the most passionate form of +egotism, the glorification of a despotic, exacting, and vain ego, which can +neither forget nor subordinate itself. The contrast is perfect.</p> +</div> + +<p>Doubting Amiel still thinks that Christ is better than +Buddha:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Sorrow is the most tremendous of all realities in the sensible world, +but the transfiguration of sorrow, after the manner of Christ, is a more +beautiful solution of the problem than the extirpation of sorrow, after the +method of Cakyamouni [Buddha].</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page318" id="page318"></a>318</span></p> + +<p>Amiel was a naturally noble spirit, not equal to making for +himself the career that he needed. But the right career, +made for him, would have left to history and to literature a +very different man from the writer of Amiel’s “Journal.”</p> + +<p class="pt1">The very latest conspicuous French candidate for renown +as a writer of <i>pensées</i> is Joseph <span class="sc">Roux</span>, a rural Roman Catholic +priest, and a man still living. Out of a volume of his +“Thoughts” lately translated and published in America under +the title of “Meditations of a Parish Priest,” we show +the following specimen of literary criticism peculiarly pertinent +to the subject of the present chapter:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Pascal is somber, La Rochefoucauld bitter, La Bruyère malicious, +Vauvenargues melancholy, Chamfort acrimonious, Joubert benevolent, +Swetchine gentle.</p> + +<p>Pascal seeks, La Rochefoucauld suspects, La Bruyère spies, Vauvenargues +sympathizes, Chamfort condemns, Joubert excuses, Swetchine +mourns.</p> + +<p>Pascal is profound, La Rochefoucauld penetrating, La Bruyère sagacious, +Vauvenargues delicate, Chamfort paradoxical, Joubert ingenious, +Swetchine contemplative.</p> +</div> + +<p><i>Pensée</i>-writing has gained such headway in France, there +is so much literary history behind it there, and it is in itself +so fascinating a form of literary activity, that, in that country +at least, the fashion will probably never pass away.</p> + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="center f120">XXV.</p> + +<p class="chap2 center">EPILOGUE.</p> + +<p><span class="sc chap1">How</span> much author’s anguish of self-tasking and of self-denial, +in exploration, study, selection, rejection, condensation, +retrenchment, to say nothing of the anxiety to be clear +in expression, to be true, to be proportionate, to be just, +finally, too, to be entertaining as well as instructive—this +little book has cost the producer of it, no one is likely ever +to guess that has not tried a similar task with similar application +of conscience himself.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page319" id="page319"></a>319</span></p> + +<p>For instance, to name Ronsard, the brilliant, the once sovereign +Ronsard—lately, after so long occultation of his orb, +come, through the romanticists of to-day, or shall we write +“of yesterday”? almost to brightness again—to name this +poet, without at least giving in specimen the following celebrated +sonnet from his hand, which, for the sake of making +our present point the clearer, we may now show in a neat +version by Mr. Andrew Lang (but why should Mr. Lang, in +his fourth line, change Ronsard’s “fair” to “young”?):</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>When you are very old, at evening</p> + <p class="i1">You’ll sit and spin beside the fire, and say,</p> + <p class="i1">Humming my songs, “Ah well, ah well-a-day!</p> +<p>When I was young, of me did Ronsard sing.”</p> +<p>None of your maidens that doth hear the thing,</p> + <p class="i1">Albeit with her weary task foredone,</p> + <p class="i1">But wakens at my name, and calls you one</p> +<p>Blest, to be held in long remembering.</p> + +<p class="s">I shall be low beneath the earth, and laid</p> +<p>On sleep, a phantom in the myrtle shade,</p> + <p class="i1">While you beside the fire, a grandame gray,</p> +<p>My love, your pride, remember and regret;</p> +<p>Ah, love me, love! we may be happy yet,</p> + <p class="i1">And gather roses while ’tis called to-day:</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p class="noind">—then, for another instance, to pass over Boileau and not +bring forward from him even so much as the following characteristic +epigram, wherein this wit and satirist pays his sarcastic +respects to that same poet Cotin whom (pp. 81 ff.) we +showed Molière mocking under the name of “Trissotin” +(here we must do our own translating):</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>In vain, with thousandfold abuse,</p> +<p>My foes, through all their works diffuse,</p> + <p class="i1">Have thought to make me shocking to mankind;</p> +<p>Cotin, to bring my style to shame,</p> +<p>Has played a much more easy game,</p> + <p class="i1">He has his verses to my pen assigned—</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p class="noind">to achieve, we say, these abstinences, and abstinences such +as these, was a problem hard indeed to solve.</p> + +<p>The result of all is before the reader; and, good or bad, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page320" id="page320"></a>320</span> +it is, we are bound to confess, the very best that, within the +given limits, we could do. Such students of our subject as +we may fortunately have succeeded in making hungry for +still more knowledge than we ourselves supply, we can conscientiously +send, for further partial satisfaction of their desire, +to that series of books, already once named by us, which +has lately been published at Chicago, under the title, “The +Great French Writers.” Messrs. A. C. McClurg & Co. have +done a true service to the cause of letters in general, and in +particular to the cause of what may be called international +letters, in reproducing this series of books. They are good +books, they are well translated, and they appear in handsome +form. Madame de Sévigné, Montesquieu, Bernardin de St. +Pierre, and three names that, together with all of their several +kinds, economists, philosophers, historians, we here have +been obliged to omit, Turgot, Victor Cousin, Thiers, are in +the list of authors treated in the volumes thus far issued.</p> + +<p class="pt1">An interesting doubt may, in retrospect of all, be submitted, +without author’s solution supplied, to entertain the speculation +of the wisely considerate reader. Let the earlier still +living French literature, that part of the whole body, we +mean, ending, say, with the date of Montesquieu, which, in +a rough approximate way, may be described as dominated by +the spirit of classicism—let this be compared with the later +French literature, that section in which the leaven of romanticism +has strongly worked, and do you find existing an important +fundamental difference in intimate quality between +the one and the other? Is the later literature of a certain +softer fiber, a more yielding consistence, than characterizes +the earlier? Does the earlier present a harder, more quartz-like +structure, a substance better fitted to resist yet for ages +to come the slow but tireless tooth of time?</p> + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page321" id="page321"></a>321</span></p> + +<p class="chap center">INDEX.</p> + +<p>The merest approximation only can be attempted in hinting here the pronunciation +of French names. In general, the French distribute the accent pretty evenly +among all the syllables of their words. We mark an accent on the final syllable +chiefly in order to correct a natural English tendency to slight that syllable in +pronunciation. In a few cases we let a well-established English pronunciation +stand. <span class="scs">N</span> notes a peculiar nasal sound, ü, a peculiar vowel sound, having no +equivalent in English.</p> + +<div class="condensed list"> +<p>Ab´é-lard, Pierre (1079-1142), <a href="#page13">13</a>.</p> + +<p>Academy, French, <a href="#page16">16</a>, <a href="#page62">62</a>, <a href="#page119">119</a>, <a href="#page238">238</a>, <a href="#page264">264</a>.</p> + +<p>Æs´chy-lus, <a href="#page77">77</a>, <a href="#page118">118</a>, <a href="#page127">127</a>, <a href="#page128">128</a>.</p> + +<p>Æsop, <a href="#page69">69</a>.</p> + +<p>Alembert. <i>See</i> D’Alembert.</p> + +<p>Al-ex-an´der (the Great), <a href="#page12">12</a>, <a href="#page103">103</a>.</p> + +<p><b>AM’I-EL</b>, Henri Frédéric, <a href="#page313">313</a>-318.</p> + +<p>Am-y-ot´ (am-e-o´), Jacques (1513-1593), <a href="#page14">14</a>.</p> + +<p>An-ac´re-on, <a href="#page256">256</a>.</p> + +<p>Anderson, Melville B., <a href="#page281">281</a>.</p> + +<p>An´ge-lo, Michael, <a href="#page120">120</a>, <a href="#page282">282</a>.</p> + +<p>Ariosto, <a href="#page208">208</a>.</p> + +<p>Ar-is-toph´a-nes, <a href="#page32">32</a>.</p> + +<p>Ar-nauld´ (ar-no´), Antoine (1612-1694), <a href="#page94">94</a>.</p> + +<p>Arnold, Matthew, <a href="#page248">248</a>, <a href="#page276">276</a>, <a href="#page291">291</a>, <a href="#page298">298</a>, <a href="#page299">299</a>.</p> + +<p>Arthur (King), <a href="#page12">12</a>.</p> + +<p>Attwell, Henry, <a href="#page309">309</a>.</p> + +<p>Au´-gus-tine, St., Latin Christian Father, <a href="#page67">67</a>.</p> + +<p>Au-gus´tus (the emperor), <a href="#page103">103</a>.</p> + +<p class="pt2">Bacon, Francis, <a href="#page43">43</a>, <a href="#page53">53</a>.</p> + +<p>Baker, Jehu, <a href="#page185">185</a>.</p> + +<p><b>BAL´ZAC</b>, Honoré de (1799-1850), <a href="#page174">174</a>, <a href="#page275">275</a>, <a href="#page293">293</a>-298, <a href="#page303">303</a>.</p> + +<p>Bal´zac, Jean Louis Guez de (1594-1654), <a href="#page15">15</a>, <a href="#page16">16</a>.</p> + +<p>Beau-mar-chais´ (bō-mar-sh´ā), Pierre Augustin Caron de (1732-1799), <a href="#page239">239</a>.</p> + +<p><b>BÉ-RAN-GER</b> (ba-roN-zhā´), Pierre Jean de (1780-1857), <a href="#page13">13</a>, <a href="#page256">256</a>-263.</p> + +<p>Ber-si-er´ (bêr-see-ā´), Eugène, <a href="#page157">157</a></p> + +<p>Bismarck, <a href="#page244">244</a>.</p> + +<p>Boi-leau´-Des-pré-aux´(bwä-lō-dā-prā-o´), Nicolas (1636-1711), <a href="#page14">14</a>, <a href="#page17">17</a>, <a href="#page18">18</a>, <a href="#page67">67</a>, <a href="#page68">68</a>, <a href="#page127">127</a>, <a href="#page128">128</a>, <a href="#page130">130</a>, <a href="#page285">285</a>, <a href="#page311">311</a>, <a href="#page319">319</a>.</p> + +<p>Bolton, A. S., <a href="#page57">57</a>.</p> + +<p><b>BOS-SU-ET</b>´ (bo-sü-ā´), Jacques Bénigne (1627-1704), <a href="#page16">16</a>, <a href="#page17">17</a>, <a href="#page62">62</a>, <a href="#page63">63</a>, <a href="#page100">100</a>, <a href="#page127">127</a>, <a href="#page129">129</a>, <a href="#page137">137</a>-142, <a href="#page153">153</a>, <a href="#page154">154</a>, <a href="#page157">157</a>, <a href="#page158">158</a>, <a href="#page161">161</a>, <a href="#page162">162</a>, <a href="#page184">184</a>, <a href="#page286">286</a>-293, <a href="#page311">311</a>.</p> + +<p><b>BOUR-DA-LOUE</b>´, Louis (1632-1704), <a href="#page10">10</a>, <a href="#page17">17</a>, <a href="#page63">63</a>, <a href="#page111">111</a>, <a href="#page115">115</a>, <a href="#page137">137</a>, <a href="#page140">140</a>, <a href="#page142">142</a>-148, <a href="#page150">150</a>, <a href="#page151">151</a>, <a href="#page291">291</a>, <a href="#page292">292</a>.</p> + +<p>Bryant, William Cullen, <a href="#page69">69</a>, <a href="#page70">70</a>.</p> + +<p>Bryce, James, <a href="#page192">192</a>.</p> + +<p>Buckle, Henry Thomas, <a href="#page189">189</a>.</p> + +<p>Buffon (bü-foN), Georges Louis Leclerc de (1707-1788), <a href="#page238">238</a>, <a href="#page309">309</a>.</p> + +<p>Bur´gun-dy, Duke of (1682-1712), <a href="#page133">133</a>, <a href="#page136">136</a>, <a href="#page159">159</a>, <a href="#page160">160</a>, <a href="#page161">161</a>, <a href="#page164">164</a>, <a href="#page165">165</a>.</p> + +<p>Burke, Edmund, <a href="#page43">43</a>, <a href="#page61">61</a>, <a href="#page192">192</a>.</p> + +<p>Burns, Robert, <a href="#page256">256</a>.</p> + +<p>Bussy (büs-se´), Count, <a href="#page106">106</a>.</p> + +<p>By´ron, Lord, <a href="#page43">43</a>, <a href="#page307">307</a>.</p> + +<p class="pt2">Cæsar, Julius, <a href="#page48">48</a>, <a href="#page103">103</a>.</p> + +<p>Calas (cä-lä´), Jean, <a href="#page211">211</a>.</p> + +<p>Calvin, John (1509-1564), <a href="#page13">13</a>.</p> + +<p>Carlyle, Thomas, <a href="#page209">209</a>, <a href="#page212">212</a>.</p> + +<p>Catherine (Empress of Russia), <a href="#page237">237</a>.</p> + +<p>Cham-fort´ (shäN-for´), Sebastien Nicolas (1741-1794), <a href="#page69">69</a>, <a href="#page261">261</a>, <a href="#page318">318</a>.</p> + +<p>Char-le-magne (shar-le-mān), <a href="#page12">12</a>.</p> + +<p>Charles I. (of England), <a href="#page129">129</a>, <a href="#page139">139</a>.</p> + +<p>Charles IX. (of France), <a href="#page53">53</a>.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page322" id="page322"></a>322</span></p> + +<p><b>CHA-TEAU-BRI-AND</b>´(shä-tō-bre-ä<span class="scs">N</span>´) François Auguste de (1768-1848), <a href="#page10">10</a>, <a href="#page18">18</a>, <a href="#page159">159</a>, <a href="#page175">175</a>, <a href="#page226">226</a>, <a href="#page229">229</a>, <a href="#page248">248</a>-255, <a href="#page276">276</a>, <a href="#page311">311</a>, <a href="#page315">315</a>.</p> + +<p>Cicero, <a href="#page63">63</a>, <a href="#page310">310</a>.</p> + +<p>“Classicism,” 15, <a href="#page18">18</a>, <a href="#page275">275</a>, <a href="#page276">276</a>.</p> + +<p>Claude (klōd), Jean (1619-1687), <a href="#page137">137</a>.</p> + +<p>Coleridge, S. T., <a href="#page13">13</a>, <a href="#page33">33</a>, <a href="#page38">38</a>, <a href="#page39">39</a>.</p> + +<p>Comines (ko-meen´), Philippe de (1445-1509), <a href="#page13">13</a>, <a href="#page26">26</a>, <a href="#page29">29</a>.</p> + +<p>Condé (ko<span class="scs">N</span>-dä´), Prince of, “The Great Condé” (1621-1686), <a href="#page112">112</a>.</p> + +<p>Condillac (ko<span class="scs">N</span>-de-yäk), Etienne Bonnot de (1715-1780), <a href="#page238">238</a>.</p> + +<p>Condorcet (ko<span class="scs">N</span>-dor-sā´), Marie Jean Antoine Nicolas Caritat de (1743-1794), <a href="#page100">100</a>, <a href="#page101">101</a>.</p> + +<p>Constant (ko<span class="scs">N</span>-sto´<span class="scs">N</span>), Benjamin (1767-1830), <a href="#page243">243</a>.</p> + +<p>Coquerel (kok-rel´), Athanase Laurent Charles (1795-1868), <a href="#page157">157</a>.</p> + +<p><b>CORNEILLE</b> (kor-nāl´), Pierre (1606-1684), <a href="#page10">10</a>, <a href="#page16">16</a>, <a href="#page17">17</a>, <a href="#page19">19</a>, <a href="#page64">64</a>, <a href="#page65">65</a>, <a href="#page117">117</a>-127, <a href="#page129">129</a>, <a href="#page137">137</a>, <a href="#page138">138</a>, <a href="#page200">200</a>, <a href="#page285">285</a>, <a href="#page291">291</a>, <a href="#page292">292</a>.</p> + +<p>Cotin (ko-tă<span class="scs">N</span>´) Abbé (17th century), <a href="#page81">81</a>, <a href="#page319">319</a>.</p> + +<p>Cotton, Charles (1630-1687), <a href="#page40">40</a>, <a href="#page43">43</a>, <a href="#page45">45</a>.</p> + +<p>Cousin (koo-ză<span class="scs">N</span>´), Victor (1792-1867), <a href="#page101">101</a>, <a href="#page290">290</a>, <a href="#page291">291</a>, <a href="#page320">320</a>.</p> + +<p>Cowper, William, <a href="#page173">173</a>.</p> + +<p class="pt2">D’Alembert (dä-lä<span class="scs">N</span>-bêr´), Jean le Rond (1717-1783), <a href="#page17">17</a>, <a href="#page219">219</a>, <a href="#page238">238</a>.</p> + +<p>Dante, Alighieri, <a href="#page76">76</a>, <a href="#page77">77</a>, <a href="#page91">91</a>, <a href="#page281">281</a>.</p> + +<p>Demosthenes, <a href="#page63">63</a>.</p> + +<p>Descartes (dā-kärt´), René (1596-1650), <a href="#page16">16</a>, <a href="#page86">86</a>, <a href="#page92">92</a>.</p> + +<p>D’Holbach (dol-băk´), properly, Holbach, Paul Henri Thyry, (1723-1789), <a href="#page238">238</a>.</p> + +<p>Dickens, Charles, <a href="#page33">33</a>, <a href="#page116">116</a>, <a href="#page295">295</a>, <a href="#page296">296</a>.</p> + +<p><b>DIDEROT</b> (de-drō), Denis (1713-1784), <a href="#page17">17</a>, <a href="#page191">191</a>, <a href="#page209">209</a>, <a href="#page236">236</a>, <a href="#page237">237</a>, <a href="#page238">238</a>, <a href="#page285">285</a>.</p> + +<p>Dryden, John, <a href="#page43">43</a>, <a href="#page127">127</a>.</p> + +<p>Duclos (dü-klō´), Charles Pineau (1704-1772), <a href="#page238">238</a>.</p> + +<p class="pt2">“<i>Écrasez l’Infâme</i>,” 210.</p> + +<p>Edward (the Black Prince), <a href="#page24">24</a>, <a href="#page26">26</a>.</p> + +<p>Edwards, President Jonathan, <a href="#page145">145</a>.</p> + +<p>Emerson, Ralph Waldo, <a href="#page43">43</a>, <a href="#page45">45</a>, <a href="#page52">52</a>.</p> + +<p>Encyclopædists, <a href="#page17">17</a>, <a href="#page167">167</a>, <a href="#page209">209</a>, <a href="#page235">235</a>-239, <a href="#page249">249</a>.</p> + +<p>Epictetus, <a href="#page54">54</a>.</p> + +<p>Erasmus, <a href="#page39">39</a>, <a href="#page99">99</a>.</p> + +<p>Euripides, <a href="#page64">64</a>, <a href="#page118">118</a>, <a href="#page127">127</a>, <a href="#page129">129</a>.</p> + +<p class="pt2"><i>Fabliaux</i> (fab´le-ō´), <a href="#page12">12</a>.</p> + +<p>Faugère (fo-zhér´), Armand Prosper (1810), <a href="#page101">101</a>.</p> + +<p>Félix, Père, <a href="#page157">157</a>.</p> + +<p>Fénelon (fān-lo<span class="scs">N</span>´), François de Salignac de la Mothe (1651-1715), <a href="#page17">17</a>, <a href="#page134">134</a>, <a href="#page137">137</a>, <a href="#page153">153</a>, <a href="#page158">158</a>-173, <a href="#page310">310</a>, <a href="#page315">315</a>.</p> + +<p>Fléchier (flāche-ā´), Esprit (1632-1710), <a href="#page137">137</a>.</p> + +<p>Foix (fwä), Count of, <a href="#page27">27</a>, <a href="#page28">28</a>.</p> + +<p><b>FROISSART</b> (frwä-sar´), Jean (1337-1410?), <a href="#page13">13</a>, <a href="#page22">22</a>-29.</p> + +<p class="pt2">Gaillard (gā-yar´), Gabriel Henri (1726-1806), <a href="#page119">119</a>.</p> + +<p>Gargant´ua, <a href="#page29">29</a>, <a href="#page34">34</a>-37.</p> + +<p>Gibbon, Edward, <a href="#page118">118</a>, <a href="#page241">241</a>.</p> + +<p>Goethe, Johann Wolfgang, <a href="#page184">184</a>, <a href="#page229">229</a>, <a href="#page244">244</a>, <a href="#page245">245</a>, <a href="#page281">281</a>, <a href="#page305">305</a>, <a href="#page317">317</a>.</p> + +<p>Goldsmith, Oliver, <a href="#page67">67</a>, <a href="#page184">184</a>, <a href="#page269">269</a>.</p> + +<p>Grignan (green-yä<span class="scs">N</span>´), Madame de, <a href="#page108">108</a>.</p> + +<p>Grimm, Friedrich Melchior (1723-1807), <a href="#page238">238</a>.</p> + +<p>Grimm, Herman, <a href="#page244">244</a>.</p> + +<p>Guizot, François Pierre Guillaume (1787-1874), <a href="#page199">199</a>, <a href="#page320">320</a>.</p> + +<p>Guyon (ğe-yo<span class="scs">N</span>´) Madame (1648-1717), <a href="#page161">161</a>, <a href="#page172">172</a>, <a href="#page173">173</a>.</p> + +<p class="pt2">Hallam, Henry, <a href="#page21">21</a>, <a href="#page33">33</a>.</p> + +<p>Havet (ä-vā´) (editor of Pascal’s works), <a href="#page101">101</a>.</p> + +<p>Hawkesworth, Doctor, <a href="#page169">169</a>.</p> + +<p>Hazlitt, William Carew, <a href="#page43">43</a>.</p> + +<p>Helvétius (el-vā-se-üss´), Claude Adrien (1715-1771), <a href="#page238">238</a>.</p> + +<p>Henriette, Princess, <a href="#page129">129</a>, <a href="#page139">139</a>.</p> + +<p>Henry of Navarre (Henri IV. of France), <a href="#page53">53</a>, <a href="#page202">202</a>.</p> + +<p>Herodotus, <a href="#page13">13</a>, <a href="#page22">22</a>, <a href="#page310">310</a>.</p> + +<p>Holbach. See D’Holbach.</p> + +<p>Homer, <a href="#page14">14</a>, <a href="#page31">31</a>, <a href="#page32">32</a>, <a href="#page77">77</a>, <a href="#page206">206</a>, <a href="#page208">208</a>, <a href="#page310">310</a>.</p> + +<p>Hooker (“The Judicious”), <a href="#page158">158</a>.</p> + +<p>Horace, <a href="#page32">32</a>, <a href="#page206">206</a>, <a href="#page256">256</a>, <a href="#page310">310</a>.</p> + +<p><b>HUGO</b> (ü-go´), <b>VICTOR</b> Marie (1802-1885), <a href="#page18">18</a>, <a href="#page19">19</a>, <a href="#page77">77</a>, <a href="#page256">256</a>, <a href="#page257">257</a>, <a href="#page274">274</a>, <a href="#page275">275</a>-285, <a href="#page315">315</a>, <a href="#page316">316</a>.</p> + +<p>Hume, David, <a href="#page43">43</a>, <a href="#page226">226</a>.</p> + +<p>Hutson, Charles W., <a href="#page21">21</a>.</p> + +<p>Hyacinthe (e´ä´sa<span class="scs">N</span>), Père (1827-), <a href="#page157">157</a>.</p> + +<p class="pt2">Job, <a href="#page77">77</a>, <a href="#page161">161</a>, <a href="#page281">281</a>.</p> + +<p>Johnes, Thomas, <a href="#page22">22</a>.</p> + +<p>Joinville (zhwă<span class="scs">N</span>-veel´), Jean de (1224?-1319?), <a href="#page13">13</a>.</p> + +<p><b>JOUBERT</b> (zhoo´bār), Joseph (1754-1824), <a href="#page65">65</a>, <a href="#page307">307</a>-311.</p> + +<p>Julian (The Apostate), <a href="#page135">135</a>.</p> + +<p>Juvenal, <a href="#page62">62</a>.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page323" id="page323"></a>323</span></p> + +<p class="pt2">La Boëtie (lä-bo-ā-tē´), <a href="#page49">49</a>, <a href="#page50">50</a>.</p> + +<p>Laboulaye (lā´boo-lā´), Edouard René Lefebvre, <a href="#page196">196</a>.</p> + +<p><b>LA BRUYÈRE</b> (lä-brü-e-yêr´), Jean (1646?-1696), <a href="#page17">17</a>, <a href="#page62">62</a>-64, <a href="#page118">118</a>, <a href="#page138">138</a>, <a href="#page311">311</a>, <a href="#page318">318</a>.</p> + +<p>Lacordaire (la-kor-dêr´), Jean Baptiste Henri (1802-1861), <a href="#page157">157</a>.</p> + +<p><b>LA FONTAINE</b> (lä-fo<span class="scs">N</span>-tān´) Jean de (1621-1695), <a href="#page17">17</a>, <a href="#page66">66</a>-75.</p> + +<p>La Harpe (lä-arp), Jean François de, <a href="#page290">290</a>.</p> + +<p><b>LAMARTINE</b> (lä-mar-tēn´), Alphonse Marie Louis de (1790-1869), <a href="#page18">18</a>, <a href="#page159">159</a>, <a href="#page175">175</a>, <a href="#page229">229</a>, <a href="#page263">263</a>-274, <a href="#page287">287</a>, <a href="#page289">289</a>, <a href="#page290">290</a>, <a href="#page291">291</a>.</p> + +<p>Lang, Andrew, <a href="#page280">280</a>, <a href="#page319">319</a>.</p> + +<p><b>Langue d’oc</b>, <a href="#page11">11</a>.</p> + +<p><b>Langue d’oïl</b>, <a href="#page11">11</a>.</p> + +<p>Lanier, Sidney, <a href="#page27">27</a>.</p> + +<p><b>LA ROCHEFOUCAULD</b> (lä-rōsh-foo-kō´), François, Duc de (1613-1680), <a href="#page17">17</a>, <a href="#page43">43</a>, <a href="#page55">55</a>-62, <a href="#page103">103</a>, <a href="#page106">106</a>, <a href="#page114">114</a>.</p> + +<p>Longfellow, Henry W., <a href="#page44">44</a>.</p> + +<p>Lotze, Rudolf Hermann, <a href="#page316">316</a>.</p> + +<p>Louis IX. (1215-1270) (St. Louis), <a href="#page12">12</a>, <a href="#page13">13</a>.</p> + +<p>Louis XI. (1423-1483), <a href="#page13">13</a>.</p> + +<p>Louis XIII. (1601-1643), <a href="#page15">15</a>, <a href="#page77">77</a>, <a href="#page291">291</a>.</p> + +<p>Louis XIV. (1638-1715) (Quatorze), <a href="#page15">15</a>, <a href="#page17">17</a>, <a href="#page106">106</a>, <a href="#page130">130</a>, <a href="#page133">133</a>, <a href="#page136">136</a>, <a href="#page137">137</a>, <a href="#page138">138</a>, <a href="#page142">142</a>, <a href="#page143">143</a>, <a href="#page148">148</a>, <a href="#page149">149</a>, <a href="#page157">157</a>, <a href="#page159">159</a>, <a href="#page166">166</a>, <a href="#page167">167</a>, <a href="#page170">170</a>, <a href="#page291">291</a>.</p> + +<p>Louis XV. (1710-1774), <a href="#page149">149</a>, <a href="#page212">212</a>.</p> + +<p>Louis XVIII. (1755-1824), <a href="#page249">249</a>.</p> + +<p>Louis Napoleon (1808-1873), <a href="#page193">193</a>, <a href="#page259">259</a>, <a href="#page261">261</a>, <a href="#page266">266</a>, <a href="#page277">277</a>.</p> + +<p>Louis Philippe (1773-1850), <a href="#page192">192</a>, <a href="#page199">199</a>, <a href="#page249">249</a>, <a href="#page257">257</a>, <a href="#page264">264</a>.</p> + +<p>Lucan, <a href="#page117">117</a>, <a href="#page118">118</a>, <a href="#page201">201</a>.</p> + +<p>Lucretius, <a href="#page77">77</a>, <a href="#page127">127</a>.</p> + +<p>Luther, Martin, <a href="#page13">13</a>, <a href="#page37">37</a>.</p> + +<p class="pt2">Machiavelli, <a href="#page192">192</a>.</p> + +<p>Maintenon (mä<span class="scs">N</span>-teh-no<span class="scs">N</span>´), Madame de (1635-1719), <a href="#page130">130</a>, <a href="#page136">136</a>, <a href="#page142">142</a>, <a href="#page161">161</a>, <a href="#page162">162</a>.</p> + +<p>Maistre (mêtr), Joseph Marie de (1753-1821), <a href="#page255">255</a>.</p> + +<p>Malherbe (mäl-êrb´), François (1555-1628), <a href="#page15">15</a>, <a href="#page18">18</a>.</p> + +<p>Martin (mar tä<span class="scs">N</span>´), Henri (1810- ), <a href="#page138">138</a>.</p> + +<p><b>MASSILLON</b> (mäs-se-yŏ<span class="scs">N</span>´), Jean Baptiste (1663-1742), <a href="#page10">10</a>, <a href="#page17">17</a>, <a href="#page115">115</a>, <a href="#page137">137</a>, <a href="#page142">142</a>, <a href="#page147">147</a>, <a href="#page148">148</a>-153, <a href="#page157">157</a>, <a href="#page311">311</a>.</p> + +<p>Matthews, William, <a href="#page287">287</a>.</p> + +<p>Maury, the Abbé, <a href="#page290">290</a>.</p> + +<p>McCarthy, Justin, <a href="#page300">300</a>.</p> + +<p>M’Crie, Thomas, <a href="#page94">94</a>.</p> + +<p>Menander, <a href="#page75">75</a>.</p> + +<p>Milton, John, <a href="#page75">75</a>, <a href="#page137">137</a>, <a href="#page158">158</a>, <a href="#page207">207</a>, <a href="#page208">208</a>.</p> + +<p><b>MOLIÈRE</b> (mo lei-êr´) (real name, Jean-Baptiste Poquelin, 1622-1673) 17, <a href="#page19">19</a>, <a href="#page67">67</a>, <a href="#page75">75</a>-91, <a href="#page100">100</a>, <a href="#page119">119</a>, <a href="#page126">126</a>, <a href="#page127">127</a>, <a href="#page176">176</a>, <a href="#page201">201</a>, <a href="#page311">311</a>, <a href="#page319">319</a>.</p> + +<p>Moltke, Count von, <a href="#page194">194</a>, <a href="#page244">244</a>.</p> + +<p>Monod (mo´no´), Adolphe, <a href="#page157">157</a>.</p> + +<p>Monod, Frédéric, <a href="#page157">157</a>.</p> + +<p>Montagu, Lady Mary Wortley, <a href="#page116">116</a>.</p> + +<p><b>MONTAIGNE</b> (mon-tän´), Michel Eyquem de (1533-1592), <a href="#page10">10</a>, <a href="#page13">13</a>, <a href="#page14">14</a>, <a href="#page40">40</a>-54, <a href="#page56">56</a>, <a href="#page61">61</a>, <a href="#page103">103</a>, <a href="#page190">190</a>, <a href="#page214">214</a>.</p> + +<p>Montespan (moN-těss-pâ<span class="scs">N</span>’), Madame de (1641-1707), <a href="#page109">109</a>.</p> + +<p><b>MONTESQUIEU</b> (mo<span class="scs">N</span>-těs-ke-uh´), Charles de Secondat de (1689-1755,), <a href="#page17">17</a>, <a href="#page167">167</a>, <a href="#page184">184</a>-191, <a href="#page192">192</a>, <a href="#page199">199</a>, <a href="#page311">311</a>, <a href="#page320">320</a>.</p> + +<p>Morley, John, <a href="#page118">118</a>, <a href="#page203">203</a>, <a href="#page209">209</a>, <a href="#page237">237</a>.</p> + +<p>Motteux, Peter Anthony (1660-1718), <a href="#page30">30</a>.</p> + +<p><b>MUSSET</b> (mü-sá´), (1810-1857), Alfred de, <a href="#page275">275</a>, <a href="#page303">303</a>-307.</p> + +<p>Musset, Paul de, <a href="#page305">305</a>.</p> + +<p class="pt2">Napoleon Bonaparte, <a href="#page18">18</a>, <a href="#page153">153</a>, <a href="#page240">240</a>, <a href="#page241">241</a>, <a href="#page242">242</a>, <a href="#page244">244</a>, <a href="#page248">248</a>, <a href="#page249">249</a>, <a href="#page259">259</a>, <a href="#page282">282</a>.</p> + +<p>Nettleton, W. A., <a href="#page91">91</a>.</p> + +<p>Newton, Sir Isaac, <a href="#page92">92</a>.</p> + +<p>Nicole (ne-kol´), Pierre (1625-1695), <a href="#page10">10</a>, <a href="#page114">114</a>, <a href="#page128">128</a>.</p> + +<p class="pt2">“Obscurantism” (disposition in the sphere of the intellect to love darkness rather than light), <a href="#page210">210</a>.</p> + +<p class="pt2">Pan-tag´ru-el, <a href="#page29">29</a>, <a href="#page35">35</a>, <a href="#page37">37</a>, <a href="#page38">38</a>.</p> + +<p>Panurge (pä-nürzh´), <a href="#page37">37</a>, <a href="#page38">38</a>.</p> + +<p><b>PASCAL</b>, Blaise (1623-1662), <a href="#page10">10</a>, <a href="#page16">16</a>, <a href="#page17">17</a>, <a href="#page43">43</a>, <a href="#page52">52</a>, <a href="#page54">54</a>, <a href="#page65">65</a>, <a href="#page91">91</a>-104, <a href="#page115">115</a>, <a href="#page145">145</a>, <a href="#page310">310</a>, <a href="#page311">311</a>, <a href="#page318">318</a>.</p> + +<p>Pascal, Jacqueline, <a href="#page92">92</a>.</p> + +<p>Pericles, <a href="#page247">247</a>.</p> + +<p>Petrarch, Francesco, <a href="#page23">23</a>.</p> + +<p>Phædrus, <a href="#page69">69</a>.</p> + +<p>Pindar, <a href="#page256">256</a>.</p> + +<p>Plato, <a href="#page30">30</a>, <a href="#page45">45</a>, <a href="#page188">188</a>, <a href="#page208">208</a>, <a href="#page240">240</a>, <a href="#page318">318</a>.</p> + +<p>“Pleiades” (ple´ya-dez), <a href="#page14">14</a>, <a href="#page15">15</a>, <a href="#page18">18</a>.</p> + +<p>Plutarch, <a href="#page14">14</a>, <a href="#page31">31</a>, <a href="#page42">42</a>, <a href="#page48">48</a>, <a href="#page215">215</a>.</p> + +<p>“Pó-co-cu´rant-ism,” 208.</p> + +<p>Pompadour, Madame de (1721-1764), <a href="#page212">212</a>.</p> + +<p>Pompey, <a href="#page48">48</a>.</p> + +<p>Pope, Alexander, <a href="#page43">43</a>, <a href="#page127">127</a>.</p> + +<p>Poquelin (po-ke-lâ<span class="scs">N</span>´). See Molière.</p> + +<p>Port Royal, <a href="#page94">94</a>, <a href="#page100">100</a>, <a href="#page128">128</a>, <a href="#page287">287</a>.</p> + +<p>Pradon (prä-do<span class="scs">N</span>’), <a href="#page129">129</a>, <a href="#page130">130</a>.</p> + +<p>Provençal (pro-va<span class="scs">N</span>-sal), <a href="#page11">11</a>.</p> + +<p>Ptolemy Philadelphus, <a href="#page14">14</a>.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page324" id="page324"></a>324</span></p> + +<p class="pt2"><b>RABELAIS</b> (rä-blā), François (1495?-1553?), <a href="#page10">10</a>, <a href="#page13">13</a>, <a href="#page29">29</a>-39, <a href="#page50">50</a>, <a href="#page54">54</a>, <a href="#page67">67</a>, <a href="#page113">113</a>, <a href="#page114">114</a>.</p> + +<p><b>RACINE</b> (rä-seen´), Jean (1639-1699), <a href="#page17">17</a>, <a href="#page64">64</a>, <a href="#page65">65</a>, <a href="#page67">67</a>, <a href="#page117">117</a>, <a href="#page118">118</a>, <a href="#page127">127</a>-137, <a href="#page153">153</a>, <a href="#page285">285</a>, <a href="#page291">291</a>, <a href="#page292">292</a>, <a href="#page311">311</a>.</p> + +<p>Rambouillet (rŏ<span class="scs">N</span>-boo-yā), Hôtel de, <a href="#page15">15</a>, <a href="#page16">16</a>, <a href="#page81">81</a>, <a href="#page84">84</a>, <a href="#page120">120</a>, <a href="#page138">138</a>, <a href="#page288">288</a>.</p> + +<p>Récamier (rā-kā-me-ā´) Madame (1777-1849), <a href="#page16">16</a>, <a href="#page239">239</a>, <a href="#page240">240</a>, <a href="#page244">244</a>, <a href="#page255">255</a>.</p> + +<p>Renan (reh-nŏ<span class="scs">N</span>´), Joseph Ernest (1823), <a href="#page285">285</a>.</p> + +<p>Richelieu (rēsh-le-uh´), Cardinal, (1585-1642), <a href="#page15">15</a>, <a href="#page16">16</a>, <a href="#page77">77</a>, <a href="#page119">119</a>, <a href="#page291">291</a>.</p> + +<p>“Romanticism,” 18, <a href="#page275">275</a>, <a href="#page276">276</a>.</p> + +<p>Ronsard (ro<span class="scs">N</span>-sar´), Pierre de, (1524-1585), <a href="#page14">14</a>, <a href="#page15">15</a>, <a href="#page319">319</a>.</p> + +<p>Rousseau (roo-sō´), Jean Baptiste (1670-1741), <a href="#page212">212</a>.</p> + +<p><b>ROUSSEAU</b>, Jean Jacques (1712-1778), <a href="#page10">10</a>, <a href="#page17">17</a>, <a href="#page18">18</a>, <a href="#page48">48</a>, <a href="#page159">159</a>, <a href="#page167">167</a>, <a href="#page175">175</a>, <a href="#page209">209</a>, <a href="#page212">212</a>-228, <a href="#page229">229</a>, <a href="#page234">234</a>, <a href="#page238">238</a>, <a href="#page239">239</a>, <a href="#page249">249</a>, <a href="#page311">311</a>.</p> + +<p>Roux (roo), Joseph (living), <a href="#page318">318</a>.</p> + +<p>Ruskin, John, <a href="#page60">60</a>.</p> + +<p>Rutebeuf (rü-te-buf´) (b. 1230), <i>trouvère</i>, <a href="#page12">12</a>.</p> + +<p class="pt2">Sablière (sä-bli-êr´), Madame de la, <a href="#page67">67</a>, <a href="#page68">68</a>.</p> + +<p>Saci (sä-se´), M. de, <a href="#page54">54</a>.</p> + +<p>Saintsbury, George, <a href="#page20">20</a>, <a href="#page49">49</a>, <a href="#page298">298</a>, <a href="#page301">301</a>.</p> + +<p><b>SAINTE-BEUVE</b> (să<span class="scs">N</span>t-buv´), Charles Augustin (1804-1869), <a href="#page15">15</a>, <a href="#page18">18</a>, <a href="#page142">142</a>, <a href="#page145">145</a>, <a href="#page148">148</a>, <a href="#page190">190</a>, <a href="#page255">255</a>, <a href="#page256">256</a>, <a href="#page275">275</a>, <a href="#page285">285</a>-293.</p> + +<p><b>SAND</b> (sä<span class="scs">N</span>d), <b>GEORGE</b> (Madame Dudevant, 1804-1876), <a href="#page10">10</a>, <a href="#page18">18</a>, <a href="#page175">175</a>, <a href="#page229">229</a>, <a href="#page234">234</a>, <a href="#page275">275</a>, <a href="#page298">298</a>-303, <a href="#page304">304</a>.</p> + +<p><b>SAURIN</b> (sō-ră<span class="scs">N</span>´), Jacques (1677-1730), <a href="#page137">137</a>, <a href="#page153">153</a>-157.</p> + +<p>Scott, Sir Walter, <a href="#page13">13</a>, <a href="#page22">22</a>, <a href="#page26">26</a>, <a href="#page85">85</a>.</p> + +<p>Schlegel, August Wilhelm, <a href="#page243">243</a>.</p> + +<p>Selden, John (“The learned”), <a href="#page158">158</a>.</p> + +<p>Seneca, <a href="#page42">42</a>.</p> + +<p><b>SÉVIGNÉ</b> (sā-vēn-yā´), Madame de, Marie de Rabutin-Chantal (1626-1696), <a href="#page16">16</a>, <a href="#page85">85</a>, <a href="#page105">105</a>-117, <a href="#page129">129</a>, <a href="#page320">320</a>.</p> + +<p>Shakespeare, <a href="#page19">19</a>, <a href="#page43">43</a>, <a href="#page53">53</a>, <a href="#page75">75</a>, <a href="#page77">77</a>, <a href="#page91">91</a>, <a href="#page174">174</a>, <a href="#page201">201</a>, <a href="#page281">281</a>.</p> + +<p>Smollett, Tobias George, <a href="#page176">176</a>.</p> + +<p>Socrates, <a href="#page30">30</a>, <a href="#page227">227</a>, <a href="#page251">251</a>.</p> + +<p>Sophocles, <a href="#page64">64</a>, <a href="#page118">118</a>, <a href="#page127">127</a>, <a href="#page128">128</a>, <a href="#page291">291</a>, <a href="#page310">310</a>.</p> + +<p><b>STAEL</b>(-Holstein) (stä-ěl-ol-stă<span class="scs">N</span>´), Anne Louise Germanie de (1766-1817), <a href="#page18">18</a>, <a href="#page229">229</a>, <a href="#page239">239</a>-247, <a href="#page248">248</a>.</p> + +<p>Stanislaus (King of Poland), <a href="#page237">237</a>.</p> + +<p>St. John, Bayle, <a href="#page48">48</a>, <a href="#page49">49</a>, <a href="#page50">50</a>.</p> + +<p><b>ST. PIERRE</b>, Jacques Henri Bernardin de (1737-1814), <a href="#page228">228</a>-235, <a href="#page311">311</a>, <a href="#page320">320</a>,</p> + +<p>St. Simon, <a href="#page159">159</a>, <a href="#page160">160</a>.</p> + +<p><b>SWETCHINE</b> (svetch-een´), Anne Sophie, (1782-1857), <a href="#page311">311</a>, <a href="#page313">313</a>, <a href="#page318">318</a>.</p> + +<p>Swift, Dean, <a href="#page35">35</a>.</p> + +<p>Swinburne, Algernon Charles, <a href="#page77">77</a>, <a href="#page276">276</a>.</p> + +<p class="pt2">Tacitus, <a href="#page13">13</a>, <a href="#page129">129</a>.</p> + +<p>Taine, H. (1828), <a href="#page188">188</a>, <a href="#page286">286</a>.</p> + +<p>Tasso, <a href="#page208">208</a>.</p> + +<p>Thibaud (tē bŏ´), <i>troubadour</i> (1201-1253), <a href="#page12">12</a>, <a href="#page13">13</a>.</p> + +<p>Thiers (te êr´), Louis Adolphe (1797-1877), <a href="#page320">320</a>.</p> + +<p>Thucydides, <a href="#page247">247</a>.</p> + +<p><b>TOCQUEVILLE</b> (tŏk-veel´), Alexis Charles Henri Clerel de (1805-1859), <a href="#page191">191</a>-199.</p> + +<p><i>Troubadour</i>, <a href="#page11">11</a>.</p> + +<p><i>Trouvère</i>, <a href="#page11">11</a>, <a href="#page12">12</a>.</p> + +<p>Turgot (tür-gö´), Anne Robert Jacques (1727-1781), <a href="#page238">238</a>, <a href="#page320">320</a>.</p> + +<p class="pt2">Urquhart, Sir Thomas, <a href="#page30">30</a>.</p> + +<p class="pt2">Van Laun, H., <a href="#page20">20</a>.</p> + +<p><b>VAUVENARGUES</b> (vō-ve-narg´), Luc de Clapiers, Marquis de (1715-1747), <a href="#page64">64</a>-66, <a href="#page318">318</a>.</p> + +<p>Villehardouin (vēl-ar-doo-ă<span class="scs">N</span>´), Geoffroy (1165?-1213?), <a href="#page13">13</a>.</p> + +<p>Villemain (věl-mă<span class="scs">N</span>´), Abel François (1790-1870), <a href="#page93">93</a>.</p> + +<p>Virgil, <a href="#page11">11</a>, <a href="#page14">14</a>, <a href="#page65">65</a>, <a href="#page127">127</a>, <a href="#page130">130</a>, <a href="#page206">206</a>, <a href="#page310">310</a>, <a href="#page311">311</a>.</p> + +<p>Voiture (vwä-tŭr´), Vincent (1598-1648), <a href="#page16">16</a>.</p> + +<p><b>VOLTAIRE</b> (vol-têr´), François Marie Arouet de (1694-1778), <a href="#page10">10</a>, <a href="#page17">17</a>, <a href="#page35">35</a>, <a href="#page43">43</a>, <a href="#page56">56</a>, <a href="#page65">65</a>, <a href="#page100">100</a>, <a href="#page118">118</a>, <a href="#page124">124</a>, <a href="#page125">125</a>, <a href="#page126">126</a>, <a href="#page128">128</a>, <a href="#page152">152</a>, <a href="#page167">167</a>, <a href="#page190">190</a>, <a href="#page199">199</a>-212, <a href="#page238">238</a>, <a href="#page239">239</a>, <a href="#page245">245</a>, <a href="#page248">248</a>, <a href="#page249">249</a>, <a href="#page285">285</a>, <a href="#page311">311</a>.</p> + +<p class="pt2">Wall, C. H., <a href="#page85">85</a>.</p> + +<p>Walpole, Horace, <a href="#page116">116</a>.</p> + +<p>Warens (vä-ra<span class="scs">N</span>), Madame de, <a href="#page217">217</a>, <a href="#page218">218</a>, <a href="#page220">220</a>, <a href="#page225">225</a>.</p> + +<p>Washington, George, <a href="#page250">250</a>.</p> + +<p>Webster, Daniel, <a href="#page141">141</a>, <a href="#page290">290</a>.</p> + +<p>Wormeley, Katharine Prescott, <a href="#page297">297</a>, <a href="#page298">298</a>, <a href="#page302">302</a>.</p> + +<p>Wright, Elizur, <a href="#page69">69</a>.</p> + +<p class="pt2">Xenophon, <a href="#page310">310</a>.</p> + +<p class="pt2">Young, William, <a href="#page261">261</a>.</p> +</div> + +<hr class="art" /> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's French Classics, by William Cleaver Wilkinson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FRENCH CLASSICS *** + +***** This file should be named 36174-h.htm or 36174-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/6/1/7/36174/ + +Produced by Marius Masi, Juliet Sutherland and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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