i5- 
 
 
\ <-lt4l 
 
 GIRLHOOD OF MADAME ROLAND. 
 
HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST 
 FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 SHORT PASSAGES 
 
 FROM SOME OF THE MOST CELEBRATED 
 
 PROSE WRITERS. 
 
 TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH., 
 
 WITH TWENTY-FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS FROM DESIGNS 
 BY EMILE BA YARD.. 
 
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 ESTABLISHED !8?5. 
 
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 CONTENTS 
 
 FIRST PART. 
 
 EARLY WRITERS, TO THE END OF THE SIXTEENTH 
 CENTURY. 
 
 JOINVILLE. ■ PAGE 
 
 SAINT LOUIS AND THE SARACENS - - - I 
 
 FROISSART. 
 
 PHILIP d'arteville - - - - - 8 
 
 PHILIPPE DE COMMINES. 
 
 THE IMPRISONMENT OF LOUIS XL AT PERONNE - 25 
 
 DESPERRIERS. 
 
 THE STORY OF BLONDEAU, THE COBBLER - "33 
 
 LE LOYAL SERVITEUR. 
 
 HOW THE CHEVALIER SANS PEUR LEFT HIS HOME - 36 
 
 RABELAIS. 
 
 THE WISDOM OF FOOLS ----- 40 
 
 BLAISE DE MONTLUC 
 
 THE ASSAULT OF RABASTEINS - - - - 42 
 
 PASQUIER. 
 
 THE DEATH OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS - - 46 
 
 MONTAIGNE. 
 
 OF THE INSTITUTION AND EDUCATION OF CHILDREN 5 1 
 
IV CONTENTS. 
 
 SECOND PART. 
 
 WRITERS OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. 
 MALHERBE. page 
 
 THE ASSASSINATION OF HENRY IV. - - -SI 
 
 SULLY. 
 
 QUEEN ELIZABETH AND SULLY - - - - 62 
 
 THE BATTLE OF IVRY - - - - - 69 
 
 ST. FRANgOIS DE SALES. 
 
 ON PASTIMES AND RECREATIONS - - ~ 77 
 
 BALLS AND PASTIMES LAWFUL, BUT DANGEROUS - 79 
 
 BALZAC. 
 
 ON RETIREMENT ------ 82 
 
 ]\L\ROLLES. 
 
 THE COUNTRY UNDER HENRY IV. - - - 86 
 
 LENET. 
 
 THE FLIGHT OF THE PRINCESS OF CONDE AND HER 
 
 SON TO MONTROND ----- 89 
 
 GUY PATIN. 
 
 THE KING OF THE MARKETS - - - - loo 
 
 THE RETURN OF THE QUEEN, ANNE OF AUSTRIA, TO 
 
 PARIS ------- 102 
 
 MADEMOISELLE SCUDERY. 
 
 A FETE ON THE LAKE OF GENEVA - - - I05 
 
 LA ROCHEFOUCAULD. 
 
 MAXIMS - - - - - - ~ 106 
 
 PAUL SCARRON. 
 
 INTRODUCTION TO THE " COMIC ROMANCE" - - HO 
 
 CARDINAL DE RETZ. 
 
 RICHELIEU AND INLA.ZARIN - - - - I 13 
 
CONTENTS. V 
 
 PASCAL. PACK 
 
 CALUMNY - - ~ - - - - Il6 
 
 MADAME DE SEVIGNE. 
 
 TO 5IADAME DE GRIGNAN - - - - 1 23 
 
 TO M. DE COULANGES - - - - 1 26, 1 28 
 
 TO THE COUNT DE GRIGNAN - ' - - - J 29 
 
 BOSSUET. 
 
 THE ANCIENT EGYPTIANS - - - " I3I 
 
 FLECHIER. 
 
 A PANEGYRIC ON ST. LOUIS - - - "137 
 
 BOILEAU. 
 
 THE PRESIDENT DE LAMOIGNON - - - 145 
 
 LA BRUYERE. 
 
 CHARACTERS - - - - - - I 47 
 
 BAYLE. 
 
 HOW THE HOUSE OF AUSTRIA HAS GREATLY \YEAKENED 
 
 ITSELF BY RELIGIOUS PERSECUTIONS - - 152 
 
 FENELON. 
 
 INSTRUCTION OF WOMEN IN THEIR DUTIES - - 1 54 
 
 REGNARD. 
 
 TRAVELS IN LAPLAND - - - - "159 
 
 TRAVELS IN SWEDEN - - - - - 1 63 
 
 THIRD PART. 
 
 WRITERS OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 
 LESAGE. 
 
 GIL BLAS TO THE READER ' - - - - 168 
 
 THE COUNT AND HIS MONKEY - - - - 1 69 
 
 THE INDIANS OF GUATEMALA - - - - 1 70 
 
 SAINT-SIMON. 
 
 LAST MOMENTS OF LOUIS XIV. - - - - '^lo 
 
VI CONTENTS. 
 
 MONTESQUIEU. . page 
 
 TWO CAUSES OF THE DOWNFALL OF ROME - - 1 78 
 
 VOLTAIRE. 
 
 JEANNOT AND COLIN - - - - _ jS/^ 
 
 BUFFON. 
 
 THE FIRST MAN ------ 193 
 
 ROUSSEAU. 
 
 - REMEMBRANCES OF THE ISLE OF ST. PIERRE - - 200 
 
 THE MARQUIS DE MIRABEAU. 
 
 THE YOUTH OF COUNT MIRABEAU - - - - 203. 
 
 BARTHELEMY. 
 
 THE TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES - - - 2o6- 
 
 SAINT LAMBERT. 
 
 THE ABENAKI - - - - - - 21 6' 
 
 MARMONTEL. 
 
 VOLTAIRE AND ROUSSEAU - - - - 219. 
 
 BEAUMARCHAIS. 
 
 ADVENTURE WITH ROBBERS - - - - 225. 
 
 PRINCE DE EIGNE. 
 
 TO THE MARCHIONESS OF C - - - 23 1 
 
 REMEMBRANCES ------ 234 
 
 SAINT PIERRE. 
 
 THE PILGRIMAGE TO THE BLACK RIVER - - 235 
 
 BERTRAND DE MOLEVILLE. 
 
 LOUIS XVI. AT THE HOTEL DE VILLE - - - 243. 
 
 MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 MADAIVIE ROLAND'S EDUCATION - - ^ - 250 
 
 THE FIRST ARREST OF MADAME ROLAND - - 252 
 
 HOCHE. 
 
 LETTERS OF GENERAL HOCHE - - - - 258- 
 
 
CONTENTS. VU 
 
 FOURTH PART. 
 
 WRITERS OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 MADAME DE STAEL. page 
 
 THE FETE OF INTERLAKEN ' - - - - ^3 
 
 CHATEAUBRIAND. 
 
 A NIGHT AMONG THE SAVAGES OF AMERICA - - 269 
 
 FOURIER. 
 
 THE MONUMENTS OF ANCIENT EGYPT - - - 276 
 
 SISMONDI. 
 
 THE SIEGE OF MONS AND THE DEATH OF LOUVOIS - 279 
 
 BARANTE. 
 
 LAST HOURS OF LOUIS XVL - - - _ 288 
 
 GUIZOT. 
 
 LITERATURE IN GAUL, FROM THE SIXTH TO THE 
 
 EIGHTH CENTURY -_---_ 295 
 
 LAMARTINE. 
 
 NADIR-SHAH - - - _ - » _ 30I 
 
 AUGUSTIN THIERRY. 
 
 HAROLD IN NORMANDY ----- 305 
 
 COUSIN. 
 
 MADAME DE SABLE AT PORT ROYAL - - - 3IO 
 
 THIERS. 
 
 THE BURNING OF MOSCOV/ - - - " 3^5 
 
 MICHELET. 
 
 THE FEAST OF REASON - _ _ _ 324 
 
 VINET. 
 
 RACINE - - - - - - -331 
 
 VIGNY. 
 
 CARDINAL RICHELIEU ----- 335 
 
Vlll CONTENTS. 
 
 VITET. PAGE 
 
 EUSTACHE LE SUEUR - "- - - "343 
 
 MERY. 
 
 THE ARREST OF ANDRE CHjENIER . - - 345 
 
 THE PONT DU CARD ----- 348 
 
 MERIMEE. 
 
 • THE STORMING OF THE REDOUBT - _ _ 350 
 
 SAINTE-BEUVE. 
 
 LA HARPE -__--. 356 
 
 GEORGE SAND. 
 
 EARLY READINGS - - - - - 359 
 
 KARR. 
 
 TO DR. MARCHESSAUX - - - - - 36 1 
 
 VICTOR HUGO. 
 
 PARIS IN THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY - - - 369 
 
 THE FIELD OF WATERLOO . _ - _ 372 
 
 SPRINGTIME IN THE CHANNEL ISLANDS - - 374, 
 
ESTABLISHED 187 
 
 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 FIRST PART. 
 
 EARLY WRITERS, TO THE END OF THE SIXTEENTH 
 CENTURY. 
 
 JOINVILLE, 
 
 Sire Jean de Joinville, the celebrated French historian, was born 
 in 1224, and was descended in a direct line from Godefroy de Bouillon. 
 Several of his ancestors also distinguished themselves in the Crusades. 
 He was educated in the court of Thibaut IV., King of Navarre and 
 Count of Champagne, who was both a poet and a musician, and there 
 he acquired the power of giving graceful and lively expression to his 
 thoughts. In 1245, King Louis proclaimed a crusade against the 
 Saracens, and Joinville determined to lead a band of his followers to 
 the Holy Land. He remained with the crusaders for six years, and 
 became the devoted servant and friend of the king. He returned to 
 France in 1254, and though he spent much of his time at court, devoted 
 himself chiefly to the management of his estates, and to the erection 
 and improvement of churches. He died in 13 19, at the age of ninety- 
 five, having witnessed the reigns of no less than six kings, those of 
 Louis VIII., Louis IX., Philippe le Hardi, PhiKppe le Bel, Louis le 
 Hutin, "and Philippe VL, surnamed the Long. He wrote the Life of 
 St. Loins, at the request of Jeanne of Navarre, the wife of Philippe le 
 Bel. 
 
 SAINT LOUIS AND THE SARACENS. 
 
 It may be well that I should now speak of the river that 
 flows through Egypt, and comes from the terrestrial para- 
 dise ; and I recall these things to your memory, that you 
 
 I 
 
2 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 may be able to understand some circumstances which have 
 to do with my subject. This river is different from all other 
 rivers, for the more streams a river receives, the greater 
 number of little streams and brooks does it discharge ; and 
 this river sends out none, but flows in one channel into 
 Egypt, and there divides and spreads over the country. 
 About the time of St. Remy's day, the seven rivers overflow 
 the country, and cover the plains ; and when the waters 
 retire, the labourers go out to work on their land with 
 ploughs, without wheels : then they sow wheat, barley, rice, 
 and cummin, which succeed so well, that one could not wish 
 for better crops. Nobody can tell the cause of this overflow, 
 except that it is the will of God ; and, were it not to take 
 place, nothing could grow, for the great heat of the sun 
 burns up everything, as it never rains in that country. 
 
 The river is always disturbed, for the country people go 
 there to drink; towards evening they take some of the water, 
 and grate four almonds or beans into it, and on the morrow 
 it is perfectly fit to drink. Before the river enters Egypt, 
 men, used to the work, cast their nets into the stream in the 
 evening, and when morning comes, they find in them many 
 spices, which they sell by weight in that country, namely, 
 ginger, rhubarb, lign-aloes, and cinnamon ; and they say 
 that these things come from the terrestrial paradise, and 
 that the wind blows them down from the trees there, as it 
 does the dry wood in the forests of this land ; and whatever 
 the river brings down, the merchants sell there by weight. 
 The water of the river is of such a nature, that when we put 
 some of it into a kind of white earthen pot that is made in 
 that country, and hung it to the cords of our tents, it became 
 in the heat of the day as cold as at the spring. 
 
 In the country they say that the sultan has tried many 
 times to discover the source of the river, and has sent out 
 men for that purpose, who took with them a kind of bread 
 called biscuit, because it was twice baked, and lived on this 
 bread till they returned to the sultan. They reported that 
 they had followed the course of the river, and had come to 
 
JOINVILLE. 3 
 
 a large hill of sharp rocks, that it was impossible to climb, 
 and over these rocks fell the river. There appeared to be 
 many trees on the top of the hill, and they said they had 
 found marvellous wild beasts of many kinds, lions, elephants, 
 serpents, which came and looked at them on the bank of the 
 stream as they went up. 
 
 Now to return to our original subject. When the river 
 enters Egypt, it spreads out its branches as I said before. 
 One of its branches goes to Damietta, another to Alexan- 
 dria, the third to Tennis, and the fourth to Rexi. To this 
 branch that flows by Rexi, the King of France marched 
 with all his host, and encamped between the Damietta 
 branch and that of Rexi, and all the army of the sultan 
 encamped on the other side opposite our army, to prevent 
 our passage. 
 
 One night they brought out an engine, that they called 
 La Perriere, which they had not yet used, and while we 
 were guarding the chas-chateils"^ by night, they put Greek 
 fire into the sling of the engine. When Sir Walter de Curel, 
 the good knight who was with me, saw this, he cried out, 
 " Gentlemen, we are in greater peril than ever, for if they 
 set fire to <5ur chas-chateils, we shall be burnt and destroyed ; 
 and if we leave the posts we have been appointed to keep 
 Ave shall be disgraced. None but God can deliver us from 
 this peril. I counsel and advise you, whenever they throw 
 the fire at us, cast yourselves on your hands and knees, and 
 pray God to guard you in this danger." 
 
 As soon therefore as they threw the first shower, we 
 threw ourselves on our hands and knees as he said, and it 
 fell between our two chas-chateils, into the place in front of 
 us, which the army had made to stop up the river. In ap- 
 pearance the Greek fire w^as like a tun of verjuice, and the 
 tail of fire which issued from it was of the length of a long 
 spear ; it made such a noise as it came, that it sounded like 
 the thunder of heaven ; it seemed a very dragon flying 
 
 * A kind of movable shed, under cover of which soldiers attacked a 
 fortification. 
 
 I — 2 
 
4 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 through the air ; so bright was its light, that we could see 
 the army as clearly as in broad daylight. 
 
 Thrice this night did they throw the Greek fire from 
 La Perriere, and four times from cross-bows. Each time 
 that our good king, St. Louis, heard these explosions, he 
 threw himself on his bed, and, with outstretched hands and 
 bitter tears, cried to God, " Good Lord God, preserve thou 
 me and all this people ;" and I truly believe that his prayers 
 served us well in our need. 
 
 I will now relate to you how the king was taken prisoner, 
 as he described it to me himself He had left his own bat- 
 talion, and, with Sir Geoffrey de Sergines, had joined that 
 of Sir Gautier de Chasteillon, who commanded the rear ; 
 and the kiag told me that he was mounted on a small 
 courser, with a housing of silk, and said that of all his men- 
 at-arms there only remained with him Sir Geoffrey de Ser- 
 gines, who led him to Casel, the place where he was taken 
 prisoner. In like manner, said the king, did Sir Geoffrey 
 de Sergines defend him from the Saracens, as a faithful 
 servant defends the cup of his master from flies, for every 
 time the Saracens approached him, he took his sword, 
 which he had placed on his saddle-bow, and drove them 
 away from the king's person ! and thus he led the king to 
 Casel, where, having dismounted at a house, he laid him, 
 almost lifeless, in the lap of a citizen's wife from Paris, 
 fearing that he would not live to the evening. 
 
 Shortly after arrived Sir Philip de Montfort, and told 
 the king that he had seen the admiral, with whom he had 
 treated for a truce ; that if it were his good pleasure he 
 would return to him, and conclude it in the way the Sara- 
 cens wished. The king entreated him to do so, for he 
 earnestly wished it. 
 
 He went to the Saracen, who had removed his turban 
 from his head, and his ring from his finger, as tokens that 
 he would keep the peace. Just at this moment a great 
 calamity happened to our people, for a sergeant, a traitor 
 named Marcel, began to cry to our men, " Sir knights, the 
 
JOINVILLE. 5 
 
 king orders you to surrender ; be not the cause of the 
 king's death." They all thought that the king had com- 
 manded them to do so, and yielded up their swords to the 
 Saracens, . The admiral, seeing the Saracens leading away 
 our men, told Sir PhiHp that it was not expedient that he 
 should grant a truce, for he saw they were taken prisoners. 
 Now it happened that all our people were taken prisoners, 
 and Sir Philip was not, because he was an ambassador. 
 But there is a very bad custom in pagan countries, that 
 when the king sends ambassadors to the sultan, or the 
 sultan to the king, and the king or the sultan dies before 
 the ambassadors' return, they are made slaves and prisoners 
 by either side, whether they are sent by the Christians or 
 Saracens. The council of the sultan tried the king in the 
 same way they had tried us, to see if he would promise to 
 deliver to them any of the castles belonging to the Knights 
 Templars, or to the Hospital of Rhodes, or any of the 
 castles belonging to the barons of the land ; but it pleased 
 God that the king answered them as w^e had done, and 
 they threatened him, and told him if he would not do so, 
 they would put him in the bernicles, which is the greatest 
 torture anv one can suffer. The bernicles are formed of 
 two pieces of wood bent, indented at the ends, and fit one 
 into the other, and are fastened with strong straps of leather 
 at the top, and when they want to put a person in them, 
 they lay him on his side, placing his legs among the pegs 
 inside ; and then they make a man sit on the planks, and 
 thus not half a foot of the bones remains unbroken ; and to 
 make it as bad as they can, at the end of three days, when 
 the legs are swollen, they replace them in the bernicles, 
 and break them again. 
 
 To all these threats the king replied that he was their 
 prisoner, and that they could do what they would with 
 him. When they saw that they could not conquer the 
 king by threats, they returned to him, and asked him how 
 much money he would give the sultan, and if he would also 
 surrender Damietta. And the king answered, that if the 
 
D HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 sultan would take a reasonable sum of money, he would 
 write to the queen to pay for their deliverance. And they 
 said, How is it that you cannot say that you will do these 
 things ? And the king answered, that he did not know that 
 the queen would do it, for that she was his wife. Then the 
 council went and spoke to the sultan, and brought back 
 w^ord to the king, that if the queen would pay a million 
 bezants of gold, equal to about five hundred thousand 
 pounds, he would set the king free. And the king made 
 them swear that the sultan would give them their liberty, 
 if the queen did so. They went to speak to the sultan, 
 and on their return gave the king an oath that they would 
 set him free on these terms. And now they had sworn, 
 the king promised cheerfully that he would willingly pay 
 five hundred thousand pounds for the ransom of his men, 
 and would give Damietta for his own ; for no ransom could 
 be paid for a man of his rank. 
 
 You have had related the great persecutions and miseries 
 that the good king St. Louis and we all suffered and 
 endured in Egypt. You should know also that the good 
 lady, the queen, did not escape without her share, and very 
 bitter it was to her heart, as you shall soon hear. Three 
 days before the birth of her child, the news reached her 
 that her good husband, the king, had been taken prisoner. 
 This nevv's affected her so much, both in mind and body, 
 that incessantly in her sleep the room seemed filled with 
 Saracens, ready to slay her, and she kept crying out con- 
 stantly, " Help, help," when there was not a soul near her. 
 She made a knight watch at the foot of her bed all night 
 without sleeping. This knight was very old, not less than 
 eighty or more, and every time she screamed, he held her 
 hands and said, '' Madam, do not be thus alarmed ; I am 
 with you, do not be afraid." Before the birth of her child, 
 the good lady ordered every one to leave her chamber, 
 except this ancient knight, and threw herself on her knees 
 before him, and requested that he would grant her one 
 favour. The knight promised it with an oath. The queen 
 
JOINVILLE. 7 
 
 then said, "Sir knight, I request, on the oath you have 
 sworn, that should the Saracens storm this town and take 
 it, you will cut off my head before they seize me." The 
 knight replied that he would do so very willingly, and that 
 he had before thought of it, in case such an event should 
 happen. 
 
 In this same town of Damietta the queen shortly after 
 gave birth to a son, who was named John, and surnamed 
 Tristan, because he had been born in misery and poverty. 
 On the very day of his birth it was told the queen that the 
 Pisans, the Genoese, and all the poorer people in the town, 
 were about to fly and leave the king. The queen sent for 
 them, and thus spoke : " Gentlemen, I beg of you, for the 
 love of God, that you will not think of quitting this town ; 
 for you well know that my lord the king, and all who are 
 with him, will be ruined. At least, if such be your in- 
 tention, have pity on this wretched person who lies here, 
 and wait until she be recovered." They all answered, that 
 it was impossible, and that they should die of hunger in 
 that town. She replied that they should never die of 
 hunger, for that she would buy up all the provision that 
 could be found in the place, and retain it henceforward in 
 the name of the king. This she was obliged to do, and all 
 the food that could be found was bought up. And in the 
 little time before her recovery, it cost her three hundred 
 and sixty pounds and more to feed these people. Not- 
 withstanding, the good lady was forced to rise before she 
 was perfectly well, and set out for the town of Acre, for 
 Damietta was to be delivered to the Turks and Saracens. 
 
FROISSART. 
 
 Jean Froissart was born at Valenciennes in 1337, and died at 
 Chimay, in 1410. His CliTonigiLc de Fi'ance, d'Angleterre^ d'Ecosse, ef 
 d'Espagne is a brilliant though somewhat superficial picture of the 
 fourteenth century. He was not a man of deep research, but was 
 endowed with a powerful memory, and a lively disposition, which made 
 him delight in relating strange incidents and deeds of war. Thus he 
 was well fitted to become the amusing chronicler, though not the strictly 
 accurate historian, of his times. He was an ecclesiastic by profession^ 
 but spent a considerable part of his life in travelling about to collect 
 materials for his great work, and visited successively the countries of 
 France, Italy, Spain, Holland, England, and Scotland. An English 
 translation was published by Lord Berners, in the sixteenth century, 
 at the command of Henry VHI., from which the following extract is for 
 the most part taken, 
 
 PHILIP D'ARTEVILLE. 
 
 When Peter du Bois saw that the town of Ghent was 
 daily impoverished, both in their captains and men, and he 
 saw well that the rich men began to grow w^eary, and were 
 inclined to leave the war, wherefore he feared greatly : then 
 he remembered there was a man, of whom no great notice 
 was taken in the town of Ghent ; he was a wise man, but 
 his wisdom was not known, nor was he taken any heed of 
 till that day ; he was called Philip d'Arteville, son to Jaques 
 d'Arteville, Avho in his time, seven j^ears together, had the 
 governance of all the country of Flanders ; and Peter du 
 Bois had heard John Lyon, his master, and many other old 
 men of Ghent, often say that the country of Flanders was 
 never more loved, honoured, and feared than it was in the 
 time of Jaques d'Arteville. 
 Peter du Bois well remembered these words within himself. 
 
' FROISSART. 9 
 
 and saw that Jaques d'Arteville had a son called Philip, a 
 very good and gracious man ; and the Queen of England, 
 while she resided at Ghent, during the siege of Tournay, 
 was his godmother, and so for the love of her, he was named 
 Philip. 
 
 Then Peter du Bois, in an evening, came to this Philip, 
 who resided in his mother's house, and lived honestly on 
 their rents ; and Peter du Bois began to reason with him, 
 and to open the matter for which he had come to him, and 
 said thus : " Philip, if you will take good heed to my words, 
 and believe my counsel, I will make you the greatest man in 
 all the country of Flanders." " How can that be, sir .^" said 
 Philip. " I will show you," said Peter : " you shall have the 
 governing and administration of all them in the town of 
 Ghent ; for we have now great need of a chief commander 
 of high liame and renown ; and so by this means, your 
 father, Jaques d'Arteville, shall rise again in this town, by 
 the remembrance of you ; for every man says, that since his 
 days the country of Flanders hath not been so loved, 
 honoured, or feared as it was while he lived ; and if you 
 please, I can easily set you in his stead ; and when you are 
 in that authority, then you shall be governed by my counsel, 
 till you fully understand every case, which you will soon 
 learn." When Philip — who was at man's estate, and natu- 
 rally desired to be advanced, honoured, and to have more 
 than he had — answered, " Peter du Bois, you offer me a 
 great thing, and I believe you ; and if I were in the state 
 that you speak of, I swear to you by my faith, that I would 
 do nothing without your counsel." Then Peter said, " How 
 say you ? Can you bear yourself high, and be cruel among 
 the commons, and especially in such things as we shall have 
 to do ? A man is worth nothing unless he be feared, and 
 sometimes renowned for cruelty ; thus must the Flemings 
 be governed ; a man must set no more store by the lives of 
 men, nor have mxore pity, than of the lives of swallows or 
 larks, which are taken in season to eat." " By my faith," 
 said Philip, '' all this I can do well." " That is well said," 
 
10 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 quoth Peter, " and I will soon raise you above all others/' 
 and then he took leave of him and departed. 
 
 Next day Peter du Bois came into a place where there 
 were assembled more than four thousand of his sect, and 
 others, to hear some tidings, and to know how they should 
 be governed, and who should be chief captain of Ghent. 
 So there among them were named many persons of Ghent, 
 and Peter du Bois stood still and heard them fully, and then 
 he said openly : " Sirs, I believe well all you have said ; you 
 speak from the interest you take in the welfare of this town ; 
 and also those you have named are very fit and deserving to 
 have part of the governing of Ghent ; but, sirs, I know one, 
 who, if he will accept the command, is fully competent, and 
 of a good name." Then Peter was desired to tell his name, 
 and he said, " Sirs, it is Philip d'Arteville, who was chris- 
 tened at St. Peter's, in this town of Ghent, and by the 
 noble Queen of England called Philip, at the time Jaques 
 d'Arteville, father to this Philip, was before Tournay with 
 the King of England : which Jaques d'Arteville, father to 
 this Philip, governed the. town of Ghent and the country of 
 Flanders so well, that, as I have heard, it was never ruled so 
 Avell since, as the old men say ; for when Flanders was in 
 great danger, he by his wisdom recovered it. Sirs, be 
 assured we ought to love the offspring of so valiant a man 
 better than any other." And as soon as Peter du Bois had 
 said those words, every one was so anxious to have Philip 
 d'Arteville, that they all said^ as with one voice, " Let us 
 have him, we will have none other ; send for him." "Nay, 
 not so," quoth Peter du Bois, '' let him not be sent for ; it 
 were better we went to him, we know not as yet how he 
 will conduct himself; let him first be examined." So with 
 these words of Peter du Bois, all they that were there, and 
 many who followed them, came to the house where Philip 
 d'Arteville was, who knew their intention before they came. 
 There were the Lord of Harsell, Peter du Bois, Peter le 
 Nuit, and ten or twelve of the chief aldermen of the crafts ; 
 and there they told Philip d'Arteville that the good town of 
 
FROISSART. 1 1 
 
 Ghent was in great danger, unless they had a captain who 
 could manage all its affairs ; wherefore they all chose him 
 as their chief captain^ for the great renown of his name and 
 for the love.of his good father. Thus Philip was made chief 
 captain of all Ghent, and at first he was in great favour, for 
 he spoke kindly to all with whom he had to do, and dealt 
 so wisely that every man loved him. 
 
 The sage men and wise councillors of Hainault, of Bra- 
 bant, and of Liege, appointed a day of council to be 
 holden at Harlebeck, near Courtray, at which place they 
 met accordingly. And they of Ghent sent thither twelve 
 of the most notable men of the town ; and there they de- 
 clared that the inhabitants of Ghent, except such riotous 
 and unruly people as desired nothing but disturbance and 
 contention, were desirous of having rest and peace, what- 
 soever should be the consequence. And the matters were 
 there so well debated, that the inhabitants of Ghent re- 
 turned to their town, upon receiving certain articles of 
 peace. And all such of the people of Ghent as were 
 desirous of having rest and peace, assembled at the houses 
 of two rich men of Ghent, who had been engaged in this 
 treaty, the one named Sir Guisebert Gent, and the other 
 Sir Simon Bette. 
 
 The next morning, about the hour of nine, the mayor 
 and aldermen, and rich men of the town, came into the 
 market-place, and entered the hall ; and thither also came 
 those who had been at the treaty of Harlebeck. Then 
 there came Peter du Bois and Philip d'Arteville, and such 
 other of their sect, well accompanied. Then there rose up 
 two of the most notable men of the company, Guisebert 
 Gent and Simon Bette, and one of them said : " Lords of 
 Ghent, we have been at the parliament at Harlebeck, and 
 have had much fatigue and trouble, as had likewise the 
 good men of Brabant, Liege, and of Hainault, to make 
 accord and agreement between our lord the Earl of Flan- 
 ders and us of Ghent. Finally at their requests, and by 
 the help of my lady of Brabant, who sent thither her 
 
12 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 counsel, and the Duke Aubert his, so that by their means 
 the good town of Ghent has obtained a peace and agree- 
 ment with our lord the earl, in this manner, that 200 men 
 of ours, such as he shall send us their names in writing 
 within fifteen days, we must send into the earl's prison at 
 Lisle, to surrender them clearly to his mercy and pleasure. 
 He is so free and generous, that there is no doubt he will 
 hav e mercy on them." With those words Peter du Bois 
 stepped^ forward, and said : " Guisebert Gent, how durst 
 you be so bold as to make such an agreement, as to send 
 200 of our men of Ghent into the town of our enemy, in 
 great disgrace and shame to all the town of Ghent ? It 
 were better that the city should be razed to the founda- 
 tions, than they of Ghent should come under such disgrace^ 
 as to make war and end it so shamefully. We that have 
 heard you may well know that you will be none of the 200 
 prisoners, and neither will Simon Bette ; ye have chosen 
 for yourselves, and now we will decide for ourselves." On 
 this Philip d'Arteville laid hold of these traitors, that 
 Avould betray and dishonour the town of Ghent. There- 
 upon Peter du Bois drew forth his dagger, and coming close 
 up to Guisebert Gent, struck him in the belly, so that he 
 fell down dead. And Philip d'Arteville drew out his dag- 
 ger, and struck Simon Bette, and slew him in like manner, 
 and then they cried, " Treason, treason !" And they that 
 were slain had numerous friends, for they Avere men of 
 great lineage, and the richest men of the town ; but they 
 fled out of the town to save themselves, so that there were 
 no more slain but these two. 
 
 All this winter the earl and they of Flanders so op- 
 pressed them of Ghent that they could have nothing come 
 to them by land or water. The sage men said it could 
 not last long, but that they must shortly die by famine,, 
 for all their barns were empty, and the people could get 
 no bread for money. Every day increased the complaints, 
 weepings, and cries made to Philip d'Arteville, their chief 
 commander, who pitied them much, and made many good 
 
FROISSART. 13 
 
 orders, for which he was greatly praised ; for he caused 
 the storehouses of the abbeys to be opened, and those of 
 the rich men, and set a reasonable price on the corn, where- 
 by the town was greatly comforted. 
 
 For all the summons the Earl of Flanders made, yet the 
 Duchess of Brabant, the Duke Aubert, and the Bishop of 
 Liege prevailed on him to appoint a day when their coun- 
 cils should meet to treat for a peace ; though the earl was 
 unwilling, yet at the desire of these lords he agreed to call 
 a council for that purpose, in the city of Tournay, the 
 week after Easter, in the year of our Lord, 1382, and to 
 be there himself. And they of Ghent sent thither twelve 
 notable persons, of whom Philip d'Arteville was chief. 
 When they of Liege, of Hainault, and of Brabant, had been 
 in Tournay for three days after the day appointed, and 
 saw that the earl came not, nor was coming, they had great 
 astonishment, and then took counsel together, and deter- 
 mined to send to Brussels to him, and so they did ; and 
 they sent to him Sir Lambert of Perney^ and the Lord 
 Compelant of Brabant, Sir William Herman of Hainault, 
 and six burgesses of the three countries. And when the 
 earl saw these three knights he made them good cheer, 
 and said he was willing to send hastily to Tournay a final 
 answer, by some of his council. And in six days after, 
 the Lord of Raseflez, the Lord of Gountris, Sir John Vi- 
 lame, and the Provost of Harlebeck, came to Tournay 
 from the earl, and they made an excuse for his not coming; 
 and then they declared the earl's full intent respecting the 
 peace ; saying that they of Ghent could have no peace 
 with the earl, unless all the men in Ghent, between the 
 ages of fifteen and sixty, came out of the town of Ghent 
 in their shirts, bare-headed, with halters about their necks, 
 and so meet the earl between Bruges and Ghent, and the 
 earl to do with them as he pleased, either to let them live, 
 or to put them all to death. And so then they of Ghent 
 took leave of the councils of these three countries, and 
 
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 showed well that they could not agree to this, and so re- 
 turned to Ghent through Brabant. 
 
 You may well know and believe that when the day was 
 come which was appointed by Philip d'Arteville to report 
 publicly the effect of the council holden at Tournay, all 
 the people drew together to the market-place, on a Wed- 
 nesday in the morning ; and about the hour of nine Philip 
 d'Arteville, Peter du Bois^ and the other captains came 
 thither, and entered into the common hall. Then Philip 
 leaned out at a window, and began to speak and said : — 
 
 *' O, all ye good people, the earl requireth that every 
 man in the town of Ghent, except prelates of churches and 
 religious men, such as are above the age of fifteen, and 
 under the age of sixty, that they all, in their shirts, bare- 
 headed and bare-footed, with halters about their necks, 
 issue out of the town of Ghent, and proceed tAvelve miles 
 thence into the plain of Burlesquans, and there they shall 
 meet the Earl of Flanders, accompanied by such as it shall 
 please him ; and so when he sees us in that state, holding 
 up our hands and crying for mercy, then he shall have 
 compassion on us, if it please him ; but, sirs, I apprehend, 
 according to the relation of his council, that the greatest 
 part of the people who shall appear there that day will, by 
 a shameful infliction of justice, suffer death. Now, sirs, 
 consider Avhether you choose to procure peace by this 
 means, or not." When Philip d'Arteville had thus spoken, 
 men, women, and children, began to weep and to wring 
 their hands, for love of their fathers, brethren, husbands, 
 and neighbours. And after the tumult was over, Philip 
 d'Arteville began again to speak, and said — "Peace, sirs, 
 peace," and immediately every one was still. Then he 
 began to speak, and said — '' Sirs, of three things we must, 
 of necessity, do one. The first is, that we inclose ourselves 
 in this town, and stop up all our gates, and then offer up 
 our prayers to God, and let us enter into the churches and 
 minsters, and there die of famine, repentant of our sins, 
 like martyrs ; or, secondly, let us all, men, women, and 
 
FROISSART. 1 5 
 
 children, go with halters about our necks in our shirts, and 
 cry for mercy to my lord, the Earl of Flanders ; I think 
 his heart will not be so obdurate, but that he will relent, 
 and take mercy of his people ; or, thirdly, let us choose 
 out of this town five or six thousand of the most able and 
 expert men, and go hastily and assail the earl at Bruges, 
 and fight with him. And in this battle, if God will aid us, 
 then shall we be accounted the most honourable people 
 that have reigned since the days of the Romans. Now, 
 sirs, consider which of these three ways you will take, for 
 one of them you must needs take." Then such as were 
 next him, and heard him best, said — " Ah, sir, we all trust 
 in you for advice ; and, sir, we will follow your counsel." 
 " By my faith," quoth Philip, " then I counsel you, let us 
 go forth with an army against the earl." 
 
 Thus these 5,000 departed from Ghent, and lodged seven 
 miles from Bruges, and there rested, and chose a piece of 
 ground, abiding for their enemies ; and before them was a 
 great standing pool, wherewith they fortified themselves on 
 the one part, and on the other with their carriages. 
 
 And when it came to the Saturday, in the morning, the 
 weather was fair and clear, and a holiday called in Bruges, 
 for that day it was their custom to have a procession. 
 Then tidings came to them, that they of Ghent had come 
 thither. 
 
 It was amazing to see the great murmurings in Bruges 
 then, so that at last it came to the knowledge of the earl 
 and his company ; and the earl was much surprised, and 
 said, '' Now is the time come to have an end of this war." 
 And so then his knights and squires came to him, and he 
 received them graciously, and said to them — " We shall go 
 and fight with yonder unhappy people of Ghent. It ap- 
 pears they had rather die by the sword than by famine." 
 
 And so then they of Bruges began to fire at them. Then 
 they of Ghent discharged at once 300 guns, and wheeling 
 about the piece of water, caused the sun to be in the eyes 
 of their enemies, which grieved them much, and then fell in 
 
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 among them, crying, " Ghent !" On seeing this, they of 
 Bruges, in a dastardly manner, gave back, abandoned their 
 arms, and fled. Then they of Ghent, seeing their enemies 
 were defeated, kept close together, and beat down on both 
 sides and before them, and advanced, crying, "Ghent!" 
 saying also, " Follow, follow ! Our enemies are defeated, 
 and let us enter Bruges with them. God hath regarded us 
 this evening with pity." And as they said, so they did, for 
 they pursued them of Bruges sharply; and as they overtook 
 them they slew them, and tarried not, but kept up the 
 pursuit, in which many were slain and beaten down, for they 
 of Bruges made no stand. 
 
 When Philip d'Arteville and the captains of Ghent saw 
 that they vv^ere lords of Bruges, and all. was at their command, 
 then they made proclamation, that every man, on pain of 
 death, should draw to his lodging, and not plunder or make 
 any disturbance unless they were commanded. Then Philip 
 d'Arteville and Peter du Bois remembered, that when they 
 departed from Ghent, they left no victuals nor other neces- 
 saries in the town ; therefore they sent a certain number of 
 men to Damme and to Sluys to take possession thereof, and 
 of the victuals in them. And when they came to Damme, 
 the people opened the gates to them, and all that was in the 
 town was put into their hands, and everything at their 
 command. Then they took out of the cellars the good 
 wines of Poictou, of Gascony, of Rochelle, and other countries, 
 five or six thousand tuns, and it was conveyed, by land and 
 by water, to Ghent. And then they proceeded to Sluys, 
 which town was immediately opened to them and put under 
 their obeisance ; and there they found great quantity of corn 
 and meal in the shops and cellars, of foreign merchants : so 
 all was bought and paid for_, and conveyed to Ghent by land 
 and by water. 
 
 In the same season, while these captains were at Bruges, 
 beating down gates and walls, and filling of dykes, they sent 
 to Ypres, to Courtray, to Bergues, to Cassel, to Poperinguen, 
 to Bergarac, and to all the towns and castles on the sea- 
 
FROISSART. 17 
 
 coast of Flanders, that they should be all under the obeisance 
 of them, and send them the keys of their towns and castles, 
 submitting themselves to their obeisance and service : and 
 so they all obeyed, none durst say against it, but all came 
 to Bruges, putting themselves under the obeisance of Philip 
 d'Arteville and Peter du Bois ; for these two named and 
 wrote themselves sovereign captains of all the others ; and, 
 especially, Philip d'Arteville was he that busied himself 
 most with the charge of all Flanders. And as long as he 
 abode in Bruges he kept the estate of a prince, for every 
 day he had minstrels playing at the door of his lodgings 
 while he was at dinner and supper, and was served in vessels 
 of silver, as if he had been the Earl of Flanders ; and well 
 he might then keep that estate, for he had all the earl's 
 vessels, gold and silver, and all the jewels found in his house 
 at Bruges : there was nothing saved. For the space of 
 fifteen days there were carriages continually going and 
 coming from Bruges to Ghent with the plunder which they 
 had taken in the course of that expedition. 
 
 And Philip d'Arteville departed with 4000 men, and 
 went to Ypres, and there all manner of people came out to 
 meet him, and received him honourably, as though he had 
 been their own natural lord, and had then first come to his 
 land ; and there they all put themselves under his obeisance, 
 and there he made new mayors and aldermen, and made 
 new laws : and to him came thither them of Cassel, of 
 Bergues, of Bergarac, and of Poperinguen ; they submitted 
 themselves to his obeisance, and swore to him faith and 
 truth, and to hold of him as of their lord the Earl of Flanders. 
 And when he had thus done, and taken assurance of them, 
 and had tarried at Ypres the space of eight days, then he 
 departed and came to Courtray, where he was also received 
 with great joy, and there he tarried three days. And then 
 he sent messengers and letters to Oudenard, commanding 
 them to come to him and be under his obeisance, saying 
 that they were backward, and did not as others did ; where- 
 fore he sent them word, that those of Ghent would certainly 
 
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 lay siege to them, and not depart till they had taken the 
 town and slain all them within. When these tidings and 
 message came to Oudenard, sent from Philip d'Arteville, 
 then the three knights answered hotly, and said, that they 
 but little regarded the menacing of a son of a trier of honey, 
 nor that the heritage of the earl their lord should be so soon 
 given to him, nor to any such, saying that they would de- 
 fend it and die in the quarrel. When Philip d'Arteville 
 heard his messenger report that the garrison of Oudenard 
 disregarded him, he swore he would do nothing else till he 
 had taken that town and destroyed it, whatever expense it 
 might be, so much was he displeased : he thought he was 
 strong enough to do this, as all Flanders was inclined to 
 him. 
 
 Philip d'Arteville, notwithstanding his good fortune in 
 having defeated the earl and them of Bruges, was by no 
 means an expert general, either in assaulting or besieging, 
 for he had not been brought up therein in his youth ; he 
 had been more accustomed to angle with a rod and line in 
 the river Scheldt ; which well appeared during his siege of 
 Oudenard, for he could not take the town. He presump- 
 tuously thought that the sight of him would have made 
 them of Oudenard surrender; but they were not so disposed, 
 for they conducted themselves like valiant men, and often 
 made skirmishes at the barriers, and slew and hurt many of 
 the Flemings, and then returned to their town without any 
 damage. 
 
 Philip d'Arteville, while at siege before Oudenard, was 
 well aw^are that the French king was coming against him 
 w^ith an army ; then he said to his men — "Sirs, why does 
 this young restless king enter Flanders ? he is a year too 
 young yet to assail. I shall cause the passes to be so kept 
 that it shall not be in his power to pass the river Lis this 
 year." 
 
 Now, let us leave Philip d'Arteville, and return to the 
 young King Charles of France, who was at Arras, having 
 great will and desire to enter Flanders, to abate the pride 
 
FROISSART. 19 
 
 of the Flemings ; and daily there repaired to him men of 
 war from all parts, and on the third day of November he de- 
 parted, and went to Seclin, and there rested. And there the 
 Chief Constable of France, and the marshals of France, of 
 Burgundy, and of Flanders were in council respecting the 
 manner in which they should proceed, for it was the general 
 opinion in the army that it was impossible to enter into 
 Flanders, the passages were so well defended ; and also it 
 rained so hard every day that people could scarcely go 
 abroad ; and some of the wise men of France said that it 
 was a great folly to undertake such an expedition in that 
 season of the year ; and also they said that the river Lis 
 was too difficult to pass. Then the marshals demanded 
 from whence the river came, and they were told it came 
 from Aymer and St. Omers. " Well," quoth the Constable, 
 " as it has a source, we shall pass it well enough ; let us call 
 out the army, and take the way to St. Omers, and there we 
 shall pass the river with ease, and so enter into Flanders, 
 and go along the country ; and the Flemings are so hasty, 
 that they will come and fight with us, either before Ypres, 
 or in some other place ;" and so to this purpose all the 
 marshals agreed. 
 
 News, we know, will spread quickly abroad. The same 
 Tuesday word came to Philip d'Arteville, while he lay at 
 the seige of Oudenard, that the French had passed the river 
 Lis by barks on the Monday ; and that 6,000 of his men 
 were killed at Comines, amongst whom, it was reported, 
 was Peter du Bois. This intelligence greatly alarmed 
 Philip, and he began to wonder, and demanded of the Lord 
 of Harsels how they had better act. He answered, " Go to 
 Ghent, and muster all the men you can get in the town, and 
 then return here, and with all your army go towards Cour- 
 tray ; and when the king learns what a large army you 
 have, he will be advised before he comes much farther into 
 the country." 
 
 Now let us relate how the French king proceeded. When 
 he heard that the passage of Comines was conquered, and 
 
 2 — 2 
 
20 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 the bridge repaired, he departed from the Abbey of Mar- 
 quettes, and rode forth towards Comines, in good order, 
 every man in his degree ; and the king came the same 
 Tuesday to Comines, and he and his uncles lodged in the 
 town, and the van of the army dislodged and went and 
 lodged on the Mount of Ypres. 
 
 Now let us return to Philip d'Arteville, and show how he 
 persevered. He had a great desire to fight with the king, 
 and that he showed plainly, for he went to Ghent and there 
 he ordained that every man who was able to bear arms, 
 except a sufficient number who should be left to guard the 
 town, should follow him. Every man obeyed him, for he 
 led them to believe that by the grace of God they should 
 defeat the Frenchmen, and should still be lords of Ghent 
 and of many other countries . . . and so he raised among 
 them a body of 30,000 men, with whom he lodged one night 
 before Oudenard, and on the following day he departed 
 and went before Courtray, when he had in his company 
 50,000 men in armour. 
 
 On the Wednesday night (the day preceding the battle) 
 Philip d'Arteville, with all his army, came and lodged in a 
 strong position between a dyke and a grove of wood, with 
 a strong hedge, so that no man could easily come at them : 
 and this was between the hill and Rosebeque, where the 
 king lay. 
 
 Thus, when the Flemings were at rest in their lodgings 
 (howbeit they knew well their enemies were on the hill, not 
 more than a league from them), Philip d'Arteville had 
 brought a damsel with him out of Ghent ; and as Philip lay 
 and slept on a couch by the side of a little fire of coals in a 
 pavilion, this said damsel, about midnight, went out of the 
 pavilion to take the air, and to see what time it appeared 
 to be, for she could not sleep. She looked towards Rose- 
 beque, and saw in the sky smoke and fire (it was the reflec- 
 tion of the fires the Frenchmen made under hedges and 
 bushes) ; this damsel hearkened, and thought she heard 
 much noise between the two armies, and the French crying, 
 
FROISSART. 21 
 
 " Mountjoy !" " St. Denys !" and other cries ; and this, she 
 thought, was on Mount Dorre, between them and Rosebeque. 
 Of this thing she was much afraid, and so entered the 
 pavihon and suddenly awaked PhiHp, and said — " Sir, rise 
 and arm yourself quickly, for I have heard a great noise on 
 the Mount Dorre ; I believe it is the French coming to 
 attack you/" With those words he rose and cast on a gown, 
 took his axe in his hand, and issued out of the pavilion to 
 see what it was ; and he heard the same noise the damsel 
 had told him ; and it seemed to him that there was a great 
 tournament on the said hill : then he immediately entered 
 his pavilion, and caused his trumpet to be blown, when every 
 man rose and armed himself They of the watch went 
 immediately to Philip d'Arteville, to know why he stirred 
 up the host, seeing there was no cause, for that they had 
 sent to the enemies' host and there was no stirring. "What, 
 then," said Philip, " was that noise on Mount Dorre ?" 
 " Sir," said they, " we heard the same, and sent to know 
 what it was, but they that went said that when they went 
 they heard nor saw nothing ; therefore, sir, we did not rouse 
 the army, for we should have been blamed if we had done 
 so without a cause." And when those of the watch had 
 told Philip this, he appeased himself and all the host ; but 
 yet he was astonished at this phenomenon. Some said it 
 was fiends of hell, who played there where the battle was to 
 be the next day, for joy of the great prey they were likely 
 to have there. 
 
 Ever after this Philip d'Arteville and the Flemings feared 
 a surprise; so they armed themselves leisurely, made great 
 fires, and ate meat and drank, whereof they had sufficient. 
 And an hour before day, Philip said — *' Sirs, we had better 
 take the field, and set the army in order, so that, if the 
 F'rench come on us at daybreak, we may be ready to re- 
 ceive them." They all agreed to this, and so issued out of 
 their lodgings and came unto a heath without the wood ; 
 and before was a large new-made dyke, and behind them 
 abundance of bushes. The same morning there arose a 
 
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 great mist, so that one could not see an acre of land dis- 
 tant, whereof the great lords were very much displeased, 
 but they could not help it. And after mass, the king, and 
 the constables, and other great lords, went to counsel and 
 to determine what they should do ; and there it was or- 
 dained that Sir Oliver of Clisson, Constable of France, Sir 
 John of Vien, Admiral of France, and Sir William of Poic- 
 tiers, bastard of Langres, should observe the demeanour of 
 the Flemings, as near as they could, and then return and 
 make report to the king and his uncles of the truth of 
 everything. 
 
 The same morning, in the great mist, the Flemings rose 
 and drew together, in the same strong place they had forti- 
 fied, and so they stood together, all in a body, till it was 
 eight o'clock, and could hear nothing of the Frenchmen. 
 Then the captains with great pride said to each other, 
 " What do we here, thus standing still on our feet, to take 
 cold ? We tarry here for no purpose ; the Frenchmen will 
 never seek us here : let us, at least, go to the Mount Dorre, 
 and take advantage of the hill." So then, to escape from 
 the dyke that was before them, they went about the little 
 wood that was behind them, and took the open fields ; and 
 as they came about this wood, the aforesaid three knights 
 observed them very leisurely, and rode by the side of their 
 army within a bowshot of them ; and when they were 
 passed on the left side, then they rode again on their right 
 side, so that they had a good view of all their army. So 
 these three aforesaid knights returned to the king and to 
 his army. The Lord Clisson spoke first : inclining his 
 body towards the king, and taking off his hat, he said, 
 *' Sir, I wish you joy ; yonder people are all yours, our 
 varlets might beat them." " Constable," quoth the king, 
 " God grant it ; let us go forward then, in the name of God 
 and St. Denys." 
 
 And so then the three knights departed from the king, 
 and went into the van, where their places were. Then im- 
 
FROISSART. 23 
 
 mediately the royal standard was displayed, that Sir Peter 
 of Villers did bear, and some say, as they have found 
 written, that it was never before displayed against Chris- 
 tians. Thus the battle began, which was at first very des- 
 perate, for the Flemings attacked boldly, thrusting with 
 their spears and shoulders, like wild boars, and they kept 
 so close that they could not be separated. But the van and 
 the rear pressed forward, and enclosed and pressed on the 
 Flemings, in this manner. On these two wings the men of 
 arms attacked fiercely, with their strong spears well headed 
 with fine steel, wherewith they pierced the Flemings' coats 
 of mail, into the hard bones, so that they were glad to re- 
 tire from the strokes. So these men of arms pressed so 
 close upon the Flemings that they could not defend them- 
 selves, so that there were many who lost their strength and 
 breath, and fell upon each other, and were pressed to death 
 without striking any stroke ; and there was Philip d'Arte- 
 ville wounded and beaten down amongst his men of Ghent; 
 and when his page, with his horse, saw that his master was 
 defeated, he departed, and left his master, for he could not 
 render him any assistance, and so rode to Courtray, on the 
 way to Ghent. Thus the Flemings were defeated on the 
 Mount Dorre, their pride abated, and Philip d'Arteville 
 slain. 
 
 Then the king said to them that were about him, " Sirs, 
 I wish to see Philip d'Arteville, whether he be alive or 
 dead." They answered that they would do their best to 
 gratify him. And then it was proclaimed through the 
 host, that whoever could find Philip d'Arteville should have 
 100 francs for his labour. Then many went among the 
 dead bodies, who were most all stripped of their clothes ; 
 at last there was such search made, that he was found and 
 known by a varlet who had served him long before, and he 
 recognised him by many tokens ; so he was brought before 
 the king's pavilion, and the king and all the lords beheld 
 him for some time, and the body was examined, to see 
 
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 what wounds he had, but they could see none that appeared 
 to be mortal; but it was judged that he fell in a little dyke, 
 and many of them of Ghent upon him, and was so pressed 
 to death. When they had looked enough at the body, it 
 was taken from thence and hanged upon a tree. Thus 
 ended Philip d'Arteville. 
 
PHILIPPE DE COMMINES. 
 
 Philippe de Coimmines was born in 1445, and during his earlier life 
 was attached to the service of Charles the Bold, of Burgundy, upon 
 whom he exercised some influence in favour of Louis XL, at the time 
 when that king was held prisoner by Charles at Peronne. This ser- 
 vice was not forgotten by Louis, who after a time induced Commines 
 to leave Burgundy, and accept the office of Chamberlain at his Court. 
 Here he became his devoted servant, and his instrument in the execu- 
 tion of many of his designs. After the death of Louis, Commines 
 attached himself to the party of the Duke of Orleans, in whose cause 
 he suffered confiscation and imprisonment. His services were not, 
 however, recognised by the duke on his accession to the throne as 
 Louis XI L, and Commines, retiring to the country, devoted his later 
 years to the composition of his Memoirs, unquestionably the first 
 authority for the history of his times. His writings are characterised 
 by great ability and acuteness of observation, but his standard of 
 morality is such as might be expected in a servant of Louis XL 
 
 THE LMPRISONAIENT OF LOUIS XL AT PERONNE. 
 
 Thus the winter passed away, and the king was constantly 
 endeavouring to make the Duke of Burgundy consent to 
 allow him to act according to his own pleasure in Brittany, 
 offering him certain things as a recompense. This consent 
 he would not %\y^, to the great displeasure of the king, 
 whose anger was still more increased when he thought of 
 what had happened to his allies, the Liegeois ; and at last, 
 as soon as summer was come, his patience being exhausted, 
 he, or his army for him, entered Brittany, and took two 
 little castles, one called Chantosse, and the other Anceny, 
 These news were immediately carried to the Duke of Bur- 
 gundy, who, being strongly pressed and solicited by the 
 dukes of Normandy and Brittany, raised an army with all 
 
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 diligence and wrote to the king, begging him to abandon 
 the enterprise, for they were all included in the treaty and 
 were his allies ; but, not being pleased with the king's an- 
 swer, he took the field with a considerable force near the 
 town of Peronne. The king was at Compiegne, but his 
 army in Brittany. So the duke remained there for three 
 or four days, during which time came an ambassador from 
 the king. Cardinal Balue, who stayed but a short time, and 
 made certain overtures to the duke, telling him that the 
 Bretons might make their peace very well without him, for 
 it was always the king's way to try and separate them. 
 The cardinal was honourably entertained and sent back 
 with this answer, that the duke had neither taken the field, 
 nor made war to annoy the king, but only to succour his 
 allies ; and so they parted with fair words on both sides. 
 
 Immediately after the departure of the said cardinal 
 came a herald, called Bretaigne, to the duke, bringing 
 letters from the dukes of Normandy and Brittany, saying 
 that they had made peace with the king and had given up 
 all alliances, and particularly his ; and that for his share 
 the Duke of Normandy was to receive sixty thousand livres 
 a year, and was to relinquish that part of Normandy which 
 had been lately given to him. This did not please my 
 Lord Charles of France too well, but he was obliged to dis- 
 semble. Very much astonished was the Duke of Burgundy 
 at these news, seeing that he had taken the field on pur- 
 pose to help the said dukes ; and the herald was in great 
 danger, for having passed through the king's quarters the 
 duke feared that the king had forged them ; yet he had 
 received similar letters from other places. The king now 
 thought that he had succeeded in his design, and that he 
 should easily manage to persuade the said duke to abandon 
 the before-mentioned dukes. Secret messengers began to 
 pass to and fro between them, and at last the king gave 
 the Duke of Burgundy six score thousand crowns of gold 
 for the expenses he had incurred in raising the army, half of 
 which was paid before he left the camp. The duke sent to 
 
PHILIPPE DE COMMINES. 2/ 
 
 the king a gentleman of his bed-chamber, called Jean 
 Vobrisset, a man whom he admitted to his confidence. The 
 king took it very kindly, and expressed his wish to have a 
 meeting with the duke, hoping to gain him over to his will 
 on all points, seeing how badly he had been treated by the 
 two dukes, and considering also the great sum of money he 
 had paid him ; and he gave some intimation of this to the 
 duke by the said Vobrisset, with whom he sent Cardinal 
 Balue, and the Lord Tanneguy du Chastel, Governor of 
 Roussillon, who represented to him the great desire the 
 king had to see him. They found the duke at Peronne, 
 but he said he had no great desire for the meeting, for the 
 Liegeois showed symptoms of rebellion again, being insti- 
 gated by the two ambassadors whom the king had sent to 
 them (to beg them to do so) before the truce made for a 
 few days between the king, the duke, and all their allies. 
 To which Balue and others of his company replied that the 
 Liegeois dared not, seeing that the Duke of Burgundy had 
 ruined them last year, and had thrown down their walls ; 
 and that if they had any such intention, they would give it 
 up when they heard of this league. So it was concluded 
 that the king should come to Peronne (for such was his 
 pleasure), and the duke wrote a letter with his own hand, 
 giving ample security for his going and coming. So the 
 ambassadors set out to go to the king, who was at Noyon ; 
 but to make all sure at Liege, the duke sent the bishop 
 thither, upon whose account these tumults had happened, 
 and with him, the Lord of Hymbercourt, his heutenant in 
 that country, with a considerable body of forces. 
 
 You have heard how it was agreed that the king should 
 come to Peronne. So he went, and took no guard with 
 him, wishing to place himself entirely under the guardian- 
 ship and security of the duke ; and he desired that the 
 duke's archers, under the command of the Lord des Cordes, 
 who was then in the duke's service, might meet and 
 conduct him in ; and so it was done, very few of his own 
 train accompanying him. 
 
2S HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 The king, when he came to Peronne, had quite forgotten 
 that he had sent two messengers to Liege to stir up the 
 people against the duke ; and nevertheless these two 
 ambassadors had acted with so much diligence, that they 
 had collected a considerable number of men, and the 
 Liegeois came secretly to take the town of Tongres, where 
 were the Bishop of Liege and the Lord of Hymbercourt, 
 with a force of 2000 men and more ; and they took the 
 said Bishop and Hymbercourt ; but few men were killed, 
 and none were taken prisoners but these two and some of 
 the bishop's servants. The rest fled, and left all they had 
 behind them, as men escaping for their lives. After this 
 the Liegeois took the road to Liege, which is not far from 
 Tongres. On the road to Liege the Lord of Hymbercourt 
 made an agreement for his ransom with one Monsieur 
 Guillaume de Ville, surnamed " Le Sauvage " by the 
 French ; which knight, fearing the people might kill him, 
 suffered him to escape, but was killed himself not long 
 after. The people were greatly rejoiced at the taking of 
 their bishop ; they detested several canons whom they had 
 seized that day, and, as their first treat, killed Ave or six of 
 them. Among others there was one called Monsieur Robert^ 
 an intimate friend of the bishop, whom I have seen several 
 times attending his master, armed from head to foot ac- 
 cording to the custom of the bishops in Germany. This 
 Robert they killed in the bishop's presence, and cut him 
 into several pieces, which they threw at one another's heads 
 by way of diversion. Before they had reached the end of 
 the seven or eight leagues which they had to go, they 
 killed about sixteen persons, canons or men of wealth, 
 almost all being the bishop's servants. Having finished 
 this work, they released some of the Burgundians, for they 
 had heard that a treaty of peace had been made, and had 
 been constrained to say that they fought only against the 
 bishop, whom they led as a prisoner to their city. Those 
 who fled, as I said before, gave the alarm to the whole 
 country through which they passed, and the news soon 
 
PHILIPPE DE COMMINES. 29 
 
 reached the duke. Some said that all of them had been 
 killed, others affirmed the contrary (for in things of this kind 
 a messenger seldom comes alone) ; but others arrived who 
 had seen the clothes of the canons, and believed the bishop 
 and the Lord of Hymbercourt to have been of the number, 
 and that all the rest were dead ; and declared that they 
 had seen the ambassadors of the king among the Liegeois, 
 and gave their very names. And all this was told to the 
 duke, who gave credit to it at once, and fell into a violent 
 rage, saying that the king had come thither to deceive 
 him; and ordered the gates of the town and castle to be 
 closed immediately, and gave out by way of pretext that 
 it was done, that a casket containing valuable jewels and 
 money which was lost might be found. The king was not 
 altogether easy when he saw himself shut up in this castle 
 (which was small) and many guards posted at the doors, 
 and found that he was near a large tower where a Count 
 de Vermandoys had caused one of his predecessors, a king 
 of France, to be put to death. 
 
 At that time I was still with the duke and served him as 
 chamberlain, and slept in his room when I liked, for such 
 was the custom of that house. The duke, when he saw" 
 the gates were shut, ordered the men to leave the room, 
 and told us who remained that the king had come there to 
 betray him, and that he had tried to prevent his coming 
 with all his power, and that it was done contrary to his 
 wishes ; and he went on to relate the news from Liege, and 
 how the king had done it all through his ambassadors, and 
 how alHhe men had been killed. He was terribly angry 
 with the king, and uttered great threats against him ; and 
 I really believe that, if at that time he had had with him 
 those who were disposed to foment his wrath, or to counsel 
 him to do violence to the king, he would have done it, and 
 at least would have cast him into the great tower. During 
 the time he was speaking, there was no one present but 
 myself and two valets, one named Charles de Visin, a 
 native of Dijon, an honest man and highly thought of by 
 
30 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 his master. We said not a word to increase his anger, but 
 tried to soften him as much as we could. Soon after he 
 said the same things to several other people, and his words 
 being repeated in the town, reached the king's ear, who 
 was greatly alarmed ; and so was every one, foreseeing a 
 great deal of mischief; and considering the number of 
 points to be taken into account in order to reconcile so 
 great princes when a difference has occurred between them, 
 and the error of which they had both been guilty, in not 
 giving notice to their servants, who were employed at a 
 distance in their affairs, and which must needs produce 
 some extraordinary event. 
 
 The gates being shut and guarded by those appointed 
 to keep them, remained so for two or three days, and yet 
 the Duke of Burgundy did not see the king, and would 
 allow only a few of the king's servants to enter the castle, 
 and those only by the wicket ; yet none of them were 
 exactly forbidden, and none of the dukes were allowed to 
 speak to him or come into his room ; or, at least, none 
 that had any authority with their master. 
 
 The first day there was great murmuring and consterna- 
 tion in the town. The second day the duke had calmed 
 down a little. He held a council which lasted the greater 
 part of the day and part of the night. The king applied 
 to all whom he thought could help him, making them large 
 promises, and ordering 15,000 crowns to be distributed ; but 
 the person who was appointed to do this acquitted himself 
 very ill, and kept back part of the money, as the king 
 learned afterwards. The king was much afraid of those 
 who had formerly served him, who, as I said before, had 
 come with the Burgundian army, and had declared them- 
 selves for his brother, the Duke of Normandy. In the 
 council mentioned above several opinions prevailed. The 
 greater part approved, and advised that the safe conduct 
 that the duke had given to the king should be observed if 
 he would grant the peace in the form in which it had been 
 drawn up. Others wished to keep him as he was, without 
 
PHILIPPE DE COMMINES. 3 1 
 
 any ceremony. Some said that they should send with all 
 speed for my Lord of Normandy, and that a very advan- 
 tageous peace for all the French princes should be made ; 
 and it seemed well to those who made this proposal that it 
 should be settled that the king be kept under restraint and 
 strongly guarded, because a great prince should never, or 
 with great caution, be set free after such an affront. This 
 was so nearly agreed upon, that I saw a man booted and 
 ready to set out with several letters addressed to the Duke 
 of Normandy, then in Brittany, and waiting only for the 
 duke's letter ; and yet this advice was not followed, after 
 all. The king caused overtures to be made, and offered to 
 give as hostages the Duke of Bourbon and the cardinal, 
 his brother, the constable, and several others ; and said 
 that after the peace was concluded he would return to 
 Compiegne, and that he would oblige the Liegeois to make 
 reparation, or would declare himself against them. 
 
 That night, which was the third, the duke did not take 
 off his clothes. He only lay down two or three times on 
 his bed, and then started up again and walked about, as 
 his custom was when anything troubled him. I went to 
 bed that night in his room, and walked up and down with 
 him several times. The next morning he was more angry 
 than ever, uttering threats and being quite ready to do 
 some great thing ; but at last he came down to this, that if 
 the king would swear to the peace and would go with him 
 to Liege, to help him to avenge himself and his kinsman, 
 he would be satisfied ; and he set off at once for the king's 
 room to. carry this message to him. The king had some 
 friend or other who had given him notice, and assured him 
 that no harm would happen if he granted these two points ; 
 but if he refused, he would incur the greatest possible 
 danger. When the duke came into his presence his voice 
 trembled, so much was he moved, and so ready to be angry 
 again. He made a low reverence with his body, but his 
 gesture and words were sharp, demanding of the king if 
 he would keep the treaty of peace which had been written 
 
32 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 and agreed to, and if he would swear to it ; and the king 
 answered that he would. Then the duke asked him if he 
 would come to Liege, to help to revenge the treachery 
 which the Liegeois had practised at his instigation and by 
 means of that interview ; and also he reminded him of the 
 nearness of relationship between the king and the Bishop 
 of Liege, for he was of the house of Bourbon. To these 
 words the king replied, that when peace had been svv^orn 
 (which he desired), he would go with him to Liege, and 
 lead there an army, large or small, as might seem good to 
 the duke. These words pleased the duke greatly, and the 
 treaty of peace was brought out immediately, and the true 
 cross that Saint Charlemagne had carried was taken out of 
 the king's chest, and peace was sworn ; and the bells of 
 the town began to ring, and the people rejoiced greatly. 
 
DESPERRIERS. 
 
 BONAVEIMTURE DESPERRIERS was born at Array-le-Duc, towards the 
 end of the fifteenth century, and died about 1544. He was born of a 
 good family, and was appointed page to Margaret of Navarre, the 
 sister of Francis I. A man of pleasure, and with little respect for re- 
 ligion, he indulged without scruple in attacks on revelation. He pub- 
 lished his sentiments in an allegorical work, called Cyvibalhun Miindi^ 
 which was condemned, on account of its doctrine, by the Sorbonne. 
 Notruelles Recreations et Joyeitx Devis was another of his works. 
 
 THE STORY OF BLONDEAU, THE COBBLER, WHO WAS 
 
 NEVER MELANCHOLY BUT TWICE IN HIS LIFE, 
 
 AND WHAT HE DID FOR IT. 
 
 *' At Paris on the Seine three boats there be ;" but there 
 was also a cobbler called Blondeau, who lodged near the 
 Croix du Tiroir ; there he earned his living- merrily by 
 mending shoes. He loved good wine above all things, and 
 willingly taught those who went there to do so too ; for, if 
 there was any in all that quarter, it was thought necessary 
 that he should taste it ; and he was very well content to 
 take a little more if it proved good. 
 
 All day long he sang and made the neighbourhood lively. 
 He was never seen vexed in his life but twice, once, when 
 he had found in an old wall a pot containing a great 
 quantity of old coins, some of silver, some of alloy, of 
 which he did not know the value. Then he began to grow 
 thoughtful. He left off singing, and could think of no- 
 thing but the tin pot. He said to himself, "This sort of 
 money is not used now ; I shall not be able to buy any 
 bread or wine with it. If I show it to the silversmiths, 
 they will betray me, or they will want to get their share, 
 
 3 
 
34 
 
 HALF-HOURS ^YITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 and will not give me half its value." Sometimes he was 
 afraid he had not hidden the pot securely enough, and that 
 somebody would rob him of it. He would leave his shed 
 at all hours of the day to go and change its place. He 
 was in the greatest possible trouble • about it ; but, in the 
 end, he came to a better mind, saying to himself, " How 
 now .? I do nothing but think of this pot. Everybody 
 knows well, by my manner, that there's something singular 
 in my condition. Bah ! bad luck to the pot ! it brings me 
 misfortune." The end of it was, that he proceeded to take 
 it quietly, and threw it into the river, and so drowned all 
 his melancholy along with the pot. 
 
 At another time, he was much annoyed by a gentleman 
 who lived just opposite his little shop — or rather, his shop 
 was opposite the gentleman. The said gentleman had a 
 monkey, who played a thousand tricks on poor Blondeau, 
 for he watched him from a high window, when he was cut- 
 ting his leather, and noticed how he did it ; and directly 
 Blondeau went out to dinner, or anywhere on business, 
 down would come the monkey, and go into Blondeau's 
 shop, and take his knife, and cut up his leather, as he had 
 seen Blondeau do ; and this he was in the habit of doing 
 every time Blondeau was out of the way : so that, for a 
 time, the poor man could not leave his shop, even for his 
 meals, without putting away his leather ; and if sometimes 
 he forgot to lock it up, the monkey never forgot to cut it 
 to bits, a proceeding that annoyed him greatly ; and yet he 
 was afraid to hurt the monkey for fear of his master. 
 When, however, he grew thoroughly tired of this, he con- 
 sidered how he could pay him out. After having noticed 
 particularly the way in which the monkey imitated exactly 
 everything he sav/ done, — for if Blondeau sharpened his 
 knife, the monkey sharpened it too ; if he waxed his thread, 
 so too did the monkey ; if he sewed some new soles, the 
 monkey set about moving his elbows as he had seen him 
 do, — Blondeau one day sharpened his knife and made it 
 cut like a razor, and then, when he saw the monkey watch- 
 
THE COBBLER AND THE MONKEV. 
 
DESPERRIERS. 35 
 
 ing, he began to put his knife to his throat, and move it 
 backwards and forwards, as if he wished to kill himself ; 
 and when he had done this long enough to make the 
 monkey notice it, he left his shop and went to get his din- 
 ner. The monkey was not slow in coming down, for he 
 wished to try this new pastime, which he had never seen 
 before. He took the knife, and put it immediately to his 
 throat, moving it backwards and forwards. But he put it 
 too near, and not being very careful as he rubbed it agamst 
 the skin, he cut his throat with this well-sharpened knife, 
 and died of the wound within an hour. Thus did Blondeau 
 punish the monkey without danger to himself 
 
 3—2 
 
LE LOYAL SERVITEUR. 
 
 The author of the Chronicle of Bayard is only known under the name 
 of Le Loyal Serviteur. It is supposed by some that he was secretary to 
 the Chevalier Sans Peur. His work was printed in 1527, three years 
 after the death of Bayard. 
 
 HOW THE CHEVALIER SANS PEUR LEFT HIS HOME. 
 
 Mass having been heard, it was agreed to wash one's hands 
 and sit down to table, where, first of all, every one enjoyed 
 the excellent cheer ; and the good knight served wisely 
 and bountifully, as every one said. Dinner done and grace 
 said, the good old Lord of Bayard thus began his speech to 
 the company : — " My lord, and my lords : the occasion 
 wherefore I have sent for you it is time now to declare, for 
 you are all my relations and friends ; and already you see 
 that I am so oppressed by old age, that it is hardly possible 
 that I should live two years. God has given me four sons, 
 of each of whom I have inquired what path they mean to 
 follow ; and among others my son Pierre has told me that 
 he wishes to follow the profession of arms, by which he has 
 given me singular pleasure, for in every respect he perfectly 
 resembles my late lord and father your relation ; and if in 
 conditions he intends also fully to resemble him, it is im- 
 possible that he should not become, in the course of his 
 life, a great man of wealth, of which I believe that each 
 one of you, as my good relatives and friends, will be very 
 glad. It is necessary, as a beginning, to place him in the 
 house of some prince or lord, in order that he may learn to 
 behave himself properly ; and when he is a little older, he 
 shall learn the art of war. I pray you, as earnestly as pos- 
 
LE LOYAL SERVITEUR. 37 
 
 sible, give me advice, each in your turn, as to the place 
 where I can best lodge him." 
 
 " Then," said one of the most venerable knights, " he 
 should be sent to the King of France." Another said that 
 he would do very well in the house of Bourbon ; and thus 
 there was not one that did not give his opinion. But the 
 Bishop of Grenoble spake, and said, *' My brother, you 
 know that we are in close fellowship with the Duke Charles 
 of Savoy^ and he reckons us of the number of his good ser- 
 vants. I believe that he will receive him willingly as one 
 of his pages. He is at Chambery, near here. If it seem 
 good to you and to this company, I will take him to him 
 to-morrow morning, after I have made him ready and pro- 
 vided him with a good little horse which I got back three 
 or four days ago from the Lord Du Riage." 
 
 So the proposal of the Bishop of Grenoble was approved 
 of by all the company, and also by the said Lord of Bayard, 
 who delivered his son to him, saying, " Take him, my lord ; 
 I pray God, that if you are able to bestow such a good 
 gift upon him, he may do you honour by his life." 
 
 Then immediately sent the said bishop to the town, to 
 fetch his tailor, whom he ordered to bring velvet, satin, and 
 other things necessary for the attire of a good knight. He 
 came, and worked all night, so that everything was ready 
 on the morrow. And after having breakfasted, he (the 
 Chevalier Sans Peur) mounted his horse, and presented 
 himself to all the company in the back-court of the castle, 
 just as if they had intended to present him at that instant 
 to the Duke of Savoy. When the horse felt the little 
 weight he had to carry, and, added to this, the child pricked 
 him with his spurs, he began to plunge two or three times, 
 and the people feared that he might throw the child. But, 
 instead of crying out for help, as one would have thought, 
 when he felt the horse moving so violently under him, with 
 a brave heart, and bold as a lion, he touched him with his 
 spurs three or four times, and let him run into the said 
 court ; in this way he calmed the horse, as if he had been 
 
38 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 thirty years old. It is not necessary to ask if the good 
 old man was pleased ; and smiling with pleasure, he asked 
 his son, if he was not frightened, for he had not left school 
 a year. He replied, with a confident look : " My lord, I 
 hope, with the help of God, before the end of six years, to 
 lead on another into more dangerous places, for here I am 
 among friends, and then I may be among the enemies of 
 the master whom I shall serve." 
 
 " Now then," said the good Bishop of Grenoble, who was 
 ready to set out, " my nephew, my dear boy, do not dis- 
 mount, but take leave of the company." Then the young- 
 child, with a joyful countenance, addressed his father, say- 
 ing, "My lord, I pray God that He may grant you long life 
 and happiness, and me His grace, that you may hear good 
 tidings of me before He takes you from this world." " My 
 dear boy," said the father, " I beseech Him to grant it." 
 And then he gave him his blessing. And after that, he 
 took leave of all the knights there, one after another, who 
 were greatly pleased with his noble bearing. 
 
 The poor lady his mother was in a tower of the castle, 
 weeping softly, for, however glad she was to think what her 
 son was in the way to become, her mother's love taught 
 her to weep. However, when they came to tell her, 
 *' Madam, if you want to come and see your son, he is on 
 horseback, and ready to set out ;" the good lady went out 
 behind the tower, and sent for her son to come to her, to 
 whom she spoke these words : " Pierre, my boy, you are 
 going into the service of a noble prince. As far as a 
 mother may command her child, I command you three 
 things, as strictly as I can ; and if you do them, be sure 
 that you will live triumphantly in this world. The first is, 
 that above all things you love, serve, and obey God, with- 
 out ofiending Him at all, if it is possible, for it is He who 
 has made us. He who preserves us. He who will save us, 
 and without Him we cannot do a single good work in this 
 world. Every morning and evening commend yourself to 
 Him, and He will help you. The second is, that you be 
 
LE LOYAL SERVITEUR. 39 
 
 gentle and courteous to all men, laying aside all pride. Be 
 humble, and ready to help everybody ; be not a slanderer or 
 liar, be sober and temperate ; avoid envy, for it is an ugly 
 vice ; be neither a flatterer nor talebearer, for such manner of 
 people seldom attain great perfection ; be upright in word 
 and deed, keep your promises, help the poor widows and 
 orphans, and God will reward you. The third is, that with 
 the good things God will give you, you be charitable to the 
 needy, for to give for His honour impoverishes no man ; 
 and believe me, my child, such alms as you will be able to 
 give, will profit you greatly in body and soul. Attend to 
 all this that I recommend you. I believe certainly that 
 your father and I shall not live long. God grant us this 
 mercy at least, that while we do live, we may always have 
 good tidings of you !" Then the good knight, young as he 
 was, answered : " Mother, for your good instruction, I 
 thank you as humbly as I can, and hope so to follow it, 
 that, through the mercy of Him to whose care you com- 
 mend me, you may be content ; and now, after recommend- 
 ing myself very humbly to your good favour, I take leave 
 of you." Then the good lady drew from her sleeve a little 
 purse, in which there were not more than six crowns in gold 
 and one in change, which she gave her son ; and she called 
 one of the servants of the Bishop of Grenoble, her brother, 
 to whom she gave a little trunk containing some linen for 
 her son's use, begging him that, when he was presented to 
 my Lord of Savoy, he would ask the servant of the squire 
 under whose charge he would be, to take a little care of 
 him till he was somewhat older, and she gave him two 
 crowns to give him. By this time the Bishop of Grenoble 
 had taken leave of the company, and now called his nephew, 
 who, finding himself on his beautiful horse, thought he was 
 in Paradise. So they set out on the road which led straight 
 to Chambery, where the Duke of Savoy was then. 
 
RABELAIS. 
 
 Francois Rabelais was born at Chinon in 1495. At his father's 
 desire he joined the order of the Grey Friars, in the monastery of 
 Fontenay le Comte, v/here, it has been said, the monks made a more 
 strict vow of ignorance than of rehgion. Here, however, two sentiments 
 became deeply rooted in the mind of Rabelais, — love of letters, and 
 hatred of monks. He set himself diligently to the study of the Greek 
 and Latin authors, and thus awakened the violent hatred and persecu- 
 tion of the monks. He left their order, and devoted himself to the 
 study and practice of medicine. It is said that he wrote the tales of 
 Gargantua and Pantagruel to amuse his patients. He also published 
 a Latin version of the Aphorisms of Hippocrates, besides other works. 
 Sir Wilham Temple says of him, " Rabelais seems to have been the 
 father of ridicule, a man of excellent and universal learning, as well as 
 wit ; and though he had too much game given him for satire in that 
 age, by the customs of courts and convents, of processes and of wars,- 
 of schools and of camps, of romances and legends, yet he must be con- 
 fessed to have kept up his vein of ridicule by saying many things so 
 smutty and profane, that a pious man could not have afforded, though 
 he had never so much coin about him." 
 
 THE WISDOM OF FOOLS. 
 
 I HAVE often heard it said as a common proverb, that a 
 wise man may be taught by a fool. If you are not perfectly 
 satisfied with the replies of the wise man, take counsel of a 
 fool ; it may be that, by so doing, you will get an answer 
 more to your mind. 
 
 At Paris, in the house of the Petit-Chastelet, before the 
 cookshop of one of the roast-meat sellers, a certain hungry 
 porter was eating his bread in the steam of the roast meat, 
 and found it, so seasoned, extremely savoury. The cook 
 took no notice. At last, Avhen all the bread was devoured, 
 the cook seized him by the collar, and wanted him to pay 
 for the smell of the meat. The porter said that he had 
 sustained no loss at all, that he had taken nothing of his, 
 
THE FOOL'S DECISION. 
 
RABELAIS, 41 
 
 and that he owed him nothing. As for the smell in question,, 
 it had been steaming out into the street, and in this way 
 was wasted ; such a thing as selling the smell of roast meat 
 in the street had never been heard of in Paris. The cook 
 replied that the smell of his meat was not meant to feed 
 porters, and swore, that if he did not pay, he would take 
 away his truck. The porter seized his cudgel, and prepared 
 to defend himself. 
 
 The altercation became serious. The idle people of Paris 
 ran together from all parts to witness the dispute. Thither, 
 apropos, came Seigni Joan, the fool, a citizen of Paris. 
 Seeing him, the cook said to the porter, " Shall we refer our 
 difference to the noble Seigni Joan .^" "Agreed," replied 
 the porter. Then Seigni Joan having heard the cause of 
 their quarrel, commanded the porter to take a piece of 
 money from his belt. The porter put a Philippus in his 
 hand. Seigni Joan took it and put it on his left shoulder, as 
 if to try its weight ; then made it ring on the palm of his 
 left hand, as if to hear if it was good ; then placed it close 
 to his right eye, as if to see if it was properly stamped. 
 While all this was done, the idle people waited in profound 
 silence, the master in steady expectation, and the porter in 
 despair. At last he made it ring on the counter several 
 times. Then with presidential majesty, holding his bauble 
 in his hand as if it were a sceptre, and muffling his head in 
 a hood of martin skins, each side of which resembled an 
 ape's face, with ears of paper plaited in points, first cough- 
 ing two or three times, he said in a loud voice, " The court 
 decides that the porter who has eaten his bread in the fumes 
 of the roast meat, has paid the cook according to law, with 
 the sound of his money. The said court ordains that each 
 retire to his own house without costs." And this sentence 
 of the Parisian fool appeared so equitable, in fact so admir- 
 able to the above-named doctors, that they doubted, if the 
 matter had been brought before the Parliament of the said 
 place, even before the Areopagites, to be decided, if it would 
 have been settled more legally. So, consider, if you will 
 take counsel from a fool. 
 
BLAISE DE MONTLUC. 
 
 Blaise de Montllx, Marshal of France, was born in 1501, and died 
 in 1577. He was deeply versed in the science of war, and his Co7n- 
 Jiientaries^ or memoirs of his military life, written at the age of seventy- 
 five, were called by Henry IV. '" the soldiers breviary." He fought in 
 many battles, and in many lands, but he considered the defence of 
 Sienna his crowning exploit. His whole career was a brilliant one, 
 though tarnished by deeds of cruelty, which he relates with a frankness 
 and unconcern shocking to modern feelings. The wound which he 
 received at Rabasteins left his face so hideously disfigured, that for the 
 rest of his life he wore a mask. The following passage is from a 
 translation by Charles Cotton, published in 1674. 
 
 THE ASSAULT OF RABASTEINS. 
 
 Our order being set down, I went and placed myself at the 
 gate of the town near unto the breach, where I had all the 
 gentlemen with me, of which there might be six or seven 
 score, and still more came up to us ; for ]\I. de la Chapelle 
 Lauzieres, who camiC from Ouercy, brought a great troop of 
 gentlemen along with him. I shall here relate one thing of 
 my presage, wdiich is perfectly true, that it was impossible 
 for all the' friends I had to dispossess me of an opinion I 
 had, that I should in this assault be killed or w^ounded by a 
 shot in some part of my head ; and out of that conceit was 
 once half in a mind not to go to the assault, knowing very 
 W'cll that my death Avould at this time be of evil consequence. 
 
 I have no familiar spirit, but few misfortunes have befallen 
 me in the whole course of my life, that my mind has not 
 first presaged. I still endeavoured to put it out of my fancy, 
 resigning all things to the good-will of Him, who disposes 
 of us as seems best to His own wisdom. 
 
 As soon as two of the clock, the hour prefixed for the 
 assault, was come, I caused eight or ten bottles of wine that 
 
THE ASSAULT ON RABASTEINS. 
 
BLAISE DE MONTLUC. 43 
 
 Madame de Panjas had sent me, to be brought out, which I 
 gave the gentlemen, saying, " Let us drink, comrades : for 
 it must now soon be seen which of us has been nursed with 
 the best milk. God grant, that another day we may drink 
 together ; but if our last hour be come, we cannot frustrate 
 the decrees of Fate." So soon as they had all drunk and 
 encouraged one another, I made them a short remonstrance 
 in these words, saying— " Friends and companions, we are 
 now ready to fall on to the assault, and every one is to show 
 the best he can do. The men who are in this place, are of 
 those who, with the Count of Montgomery, destroyed your 
 churches, and ruined your houses ; you must make them 
 disgorge what they have swallowed of your estates. If we 
 carry the place and put them all to the sword, you will have 
 a good bargain of the rest of Beam. Believe me, they will 
 never dare to stand against you. Go on then, and I will 
 immediately follow." Which being said, I caused the 
 assault to be sounded, and the two captains immediately 
 fell on ; where some of their soldiers and ensigns did not 
 behave themselves very well. Seeing then that those were 
 not very likely to enter, M. de Sainctorens marched up with 
 four ensigns more, and brought them up to the breach, 
 which did no better than the former, for they stopped four 
 or five paces short of the counterscarp, by which means our 
 cannon was nothing hindered from playing into the breach, 
 which made those within duck down behind it. I then 
 presently perceived that somebody else, and other kind of 
 men than the foot, must put their hands to the work ; which 
 made me presently forget the conceit I had of being killed 
 or wounded, and said to the gentlemen these words : " Com- 
 rades, nobody knows how to fight but the nobles, and we 
 are to expect no victory but by our own hands ; let us go 
 then, I will lead you the way, and let you see that a good 
 horse is never resty. Follow boldly, and go on without fear, 
 for we cannot wish for a more honourable death ; we defer 
 the time too long, let us fall on." I then took M. de Goas 
 by the hand, to whom I said, " M. de Goas, I will that you 
 
44 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 and I fight together. I pray, therefore, let us not part ; 
 and if I be killed or wounded, never take notice of me, but 
 leave me there, and push forward, that the victory however 
 may remain to the king ;" and so we went on as cheerfully 
 as ever I saw men go on to an assault in my life, and look- 
 ing twice behind me, saw that the gentlemen almost touched 
 one another, they came up so close. There was a great 
 plain of a hundred and fifty paces, or more, all open, over 
 which we were to march to come up to the breach, which, 
 as we passed over, the enemy fired with great fury upon us 
 all the way, and I had six gentlemen shot close by me. 
 There were two little chambers about a pike height or more 
 from the ground, which chambers the enemy so defended 
 both above and below, that not a man of ours could put up 
 his head without being seen ; however, our people began to 
 assault them with a great shower of stones which they poured 
 in upon them, and they also shot at us, but ours, throwing 
 downwards, had the advantage of this kind of fight. Now,, 
 I had caused three or four ladders to be brought to the edge 
 of the grass ; and as I turned about to cause two of them 
 to be brought to me, a harquebuse-shot clapped into my face 
 from the corner of a barricado joining to the tower. In an 
 instant, I was covered with blood, for it gushed out of my 
 mouth, nose, and eyes ; whereupon, M. de Goas would have 
 caught me in his arms, thinking I would fall, but I said — 
 "Let me alone, I shall not fall, follow your point." Then 
 almost all the soldiers and gentlemen began to lose courage 
 and to retire, which made me cry out to them, though I 
 could scarcely speak, by reason of the torrent of blood that 
 pasht out at my mouth and nose, "Whither will you go,, 
 gentlemen, whither will you go, will ye be terrified for me ? 
 Do not flinch, nor forsake the fight, for I have no hurt, and 
 let every one return to his place." In the meantime, hiding 
 the blood in the best manner I could, to M. de Goas I said: 
 '' M. de Goas, take care, I beseech you, that the soldiers be 
 not discouraged for me, and renew the assault." I could no 
 longer stay there, for I began to faint, and therefore said to 
 
BLAISE DE MONTLUC. 45 
 
 the gentlemen, " I will go get myself dressed, but if you 
 love me, let no one follow, but avenge me :" which having 
 said, I took a gentleman by the hand, I cannot tell his 
 name, for I could scarce see him, and returned by the same 
 way I came, where by the way I found a little horse of a 
 soldier's, upon which, by the gentleman's assistance, I 
 mounted as well as 1 could, and after that manner was con- 
 ducted to my lodging ; where I found a chirurgeon of M. 
 de Goas, called Master Simon, who dressed me, and with 
 his fingers (so wide were the orifices of the wound) pulled 
 out the bones from my two cheeks, and cut away a great 
 deal of flesh from my face, which was all bruised and torn. 
 
 M. de Madaillan, my lieutenant, who had marched on the 
 one hand of me when I went to the assault as M. de Goas 
 did on the other, came to see if I was dead, and said to me, 
 "'Sir, cheer up your spirits, and rejoice, we have entered 
 the Castle, and the soldiers .are laying about them, who put 
 all to the sword, and assure yourself we will avenge your 
 wound." I then said to him : " Praised be God that I see 
 the victory ours before I die. I now care not for death. I 
 beseech you return back, and, as you have ever been my 
 friend, so now do me that act of friendship, not to suffer so 
 much as one man to escape with life." 
 
 Do not think, you who shall read this book, that I 
 caused this slaughter to be made so much out of revenge 
 for the wound I had received, as to strike terror into the 
 country, that they might not dare to make head against our 
 army ; and in my opinion all soldiers, in the beginning of 
 a conquest, ought to proceed in that manner, with such as 
 are so impudent as to abide cannon. He must bar his 
 ears to all capitulation and composition, if he do not see 
 great difficulties in his enterprise, and that his enemy have 
 put him to great difficulties in making a breach. And as 
 severity (call it cruelty, if you please) is requisite in case of 
 a resolute opposition, so on the other side mercy is very 
 commendable, and fit, if you see that they in good time 
 surrender to your discretion. 
 
PASQUIER. 
 
 Etienne Pasquier was born in 1529 at Paris, where he died in 161 5. 
 He wrote Monophile, the Colloques d'A7no7ir, and La Jeiinesse de 
 Pasquier^ but his most famous work was Les Rechej'ches de la France. 
 He was a barrister, and held the office of Advocate- General for some 
 time. 
 
 THE DEATH OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. 
 
 As if she were going to her wedding, she put on the attire 
 she was accustomed to wear when, by the queen^s per- 
 mission, she received any nobles of distinction, or as she 
 was wont to adorn herself on solemn feast days ; and she 
 ordered them to bring her a handkerchief embroidered with 
 gold, to bind her eyes. Having arranged some trifling 
 matters alone, she summoned all her servants, officers, and 
 maidens, and caused her will to be read before them, pray- 
 ing them to be content, though she was very grieved that 
 she had so little to bestow upon them ; still she hoped that 
 for her sake, they would find friends after her death. This 
 done, she turned her thoughts to God, knelt down in her 
 oratory and made her orisons and prayers. But not being 
 able to kneel long on account of bodily weakness, her 
 physician prayed her to take a little bread and wine to 
 support her. This she did, thanking him for this last 
 repast, and immediately returned to her prayers. While 
 thus engaged, some one knocked at the door, and begged 
 her to come out. '^ Let them have a little patience," said 
 she ; " I shall soon satisfy them." They were not long in 
 returning to the charge, so long seemed to them the little 
 portion of life left her. " Open the door," she said ; " it is 
 
THE LAST MOMENTS OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. 
 
PASQUIER. 47 
 
 now time that I should quit. this earthly prison." Then 
 the provost, commonly called a sheriff, entered and found 
 her still on her knees. She rose and took in her hand a 
 little cross with an ivory crucifix, from the altar : she kissed 
 it, and gave it to one of her servants to carry before her. 
 Her physician, Bourgoigne, gave her his arm to lead her 
 forth ; but was seized with remorse at the thought of lead- 
 ing her forth to place her in the hands of her enemies ; so 
 he entreated her with tears in his eyes, that it might please 
 her to dispense with this last service. This request she 
 willingly granted, and two of Paulet's servants came for- 
 ward to support her. She descended as well as she could, 
 entered the hall, and found her steward at the lower end of 
 it, in tears. " This is another unhoped-for act of courtesy," 
 she said, " that I receive from my enemies." Then she 
 talked for a little time to this poor man, who could not 
 utter a word, bidding him go to the king, her son, and to 
 serve him, as she was sure he would, with the same fidelity 
 that he had served her. In conclusion, she said that she 
 had never desired anything so much, during her imprison- 
 ment, as the peace of the kingdoms of England and Scot- 
 land, and that in time they might be united ; that this was 
 the general import of all her prayers to God. With these 
 words, she was silent, and the poor gentleman bearing her 
 train, conducted her to the scaffold, having mounted which, 
 she sat down on a low seat covered with black cloth ; but 
 when the sentence and commission had been read, she 
 stood up and, in the presence of the earls and of two or 
 three hundred people who were in the room, with bold and 
 steady voice, she called to account those who had tried her. 
 " My Lords, I am a queen by birth, and am not subject 
 to your laws, the Queen Dowager of France, and the pre- 
 sumptive heir of England ; whom, after being detained 
 nineteen years a prisoner, contrary to all human and divine 
 right, by her with whom I had taken refuge, as the anchor 
 of my safety, without having any jurisdiction over me, and 
 without hearing my defence, they have condemned to 
 
48 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 death for having intended to make an attempt on her life. 
 For this cause I will give an account of my actions. And 
 when I shall have so done, tell me, I pray you, if I have 
 not reason for so doing. I will follow the order of time, 
 and begin with my imprisonment. By what right did you 
 detain me prisoner } Was it as your subject } Not a man 
 among you dares say so. Was I a prisoner of war .^ Truly, 
 when have I ever made my people take up arms against 
 you ? When have I not shown respect to you during my 
 prosperity .'' I would say to your queen, as to her whose 
 heir I was, Grant that T had taken up arms, and by a dis- 
 aster of war I had fallen into your hands, what would 
 follow from this capture "^ Taking things at their worst, I 
 ought to have been set free on a ransom, which you would 
 never allow. I was neither your subject nor your prisoner 
 of war ; why then did you choose to condemn me to per- 
 petual imprisonment } If I had committed any crime, was 
 I bound to give an account of it to you .? And in any case, 
 whatever fault there might have been, for which I was 
 answerable only to God, certainly an imprisonment of 
 nineteen years was more than sufficient to expiate the sin 
 against God by a long repentance, and to merit pardon 
 from man, who should consider the rank that I have held ; 
 and that a single day in my prison has been more painful 
 to me than the criminal death which I am now to suffer. 
 And not having satisfied your cruelty with this prison, you 
 have pursued me to the death, which you esteem my 
 shame, and I my glory ; if, in the pitiful condition to 
 which I am reduced, so much vanity ought to lodge in my 
 soul. And since, of all my grandeur, nothing remains to 
 me but my speech, I shall oblige you, in spite of yourselves, 
 to hear me. I have conspired, say you, against your 
 queen. I have told you, most solemnly, that that is not 
 true. But I wished to conspire. In the first place, where 
 will you find that this word conspiracy can be used between 
 sovereign and sovereign } It is only used of a subject, 
 when he forms a faction against his prince. What more 
 
PASQUIER. 49 
 
 have you accused me of, except that, in self-defence, I have 
 intended to attack you ? You wanted, not only to keep 
 me captive, but also, by a barbarous cruelty, to render 
 captive in me and to imprison a natural instinct of liberty, 
 that is comm.on to all other animals, I have several times 
 made supplication to your queen for the deliverance of my 
 person. To all my prayers she has turned a deaf ear. 
 And truly, I do not think that you have had any other 
 information against me, except the strong presumption 
 that it was utterly impossible that the desire of vengeance 
 should not have entered my head, for the lawless wrong 
 that has been done me. What if,, when in perfect liberty, 
 I had openly contrived some enterprise against your king- 
 dom, and that in this I had failed and had even fallen into 
 your hands, could you have gone to law with me, or put 
 me to death ? Was my condition made worse by having, 
 through your perfidy, been cast into your prisons ? But I 
 have repeated the same offence, say you, since the decision 
 given against me. Some letters of mine, intercepted since, 
 have hastened my death contrary to the will of your queen. 
 Oh, astonishing impudence ! Can it enter the head of man, 
 that I, who was guarded and watched more strictly than 
 before, — 'from whom they had taken aw^ay pen, ink, and 
 paper ; had watched night and day, surrounded by the 
 most faithful creatures of the queen, — that I should have 
 had means to write, or in any way plot against her again ^ 
 All this is a game played expressly to give occasion for the 
 cruelty that you intend to commit on an innocent princess. 
 My death, then, has been eagerly sought, not in the 
 ordinary way of justice, whatever states may have been 
 assembled for that purpose, but so as to show that you 
 reckon my death really necessary for the State. For this 
 miserable and damnable proposition is imprinted on the 
 minds of the greatest, that in such matters everything 
 should be allowed, by which we think to profit, however 
 unjust it may be. Now you have what you desire ; you 
 sacrifice my innocence at the footstool of Almighty God, 
 
 4 
 
50 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 whom I entreat of His mercy to repay to my dear son the 
 wrong that has been done me by you, whom I also pardon 
 as freely as I pray my Creator to pardon my sins." 
 
 She could not restrain the course of her natural grief, 
 and so the Earl of Kent interrupted her, telling her that it 
 was not the time to call the past to remembrance, and that 
 she ought to look only at the life to come. Therefore he 
 presented to her at the foot of the scaffold, the Dean of 
 Peterborough, to counsel and console her ; but she turned 
 her face away instantly, praying those gentlemen, that, 
 during the little portion of life that remained to her, they 
 would not unduly trouble her against her conscience, which 
 was to her an impregnable rampart against all their snares. 
 And then clasping her hands and raising her eyes to 
 heaven, she repeated several prayers to God, some in 
 French, and some in Latin. 
 
 At length she ordered one of her maidens (it was between 
 nine and ten in the morning) to bind her eyes with the 
 handkerchief that she had set apart expressly for that pur- 
 pose. This being done, she knelt down, resting her arms 
 on the block, thinking that she would be executed with a 
 French sword ; but the executioner, assisted by his satel- 
 lites, made her place her head on the block, and beheaded 
 her with an axe. The same day, Henry Talbot, son of the 
 Earl of Shrewsbury, was sent to carry news to the queen of 
 all that had taken place, who arrived the next day at 
 Richmond, where she was. The news was not long kept 
 secret. For at three o'clock in the afternoon, all the bells 
 of London began to ring, and bonfires were lighted in all 
 the streets, and public banquets given in token of rejoicing. 
 
MONTAIGNE. 
 
 Michel Eyquem de Montaigne, the celebrated essayist, was born 
 at the Castle of Montaigne, in Perigord, in 1533. To please his father, 
 he studied law, and became a magistrate ; but being dissatisfied with 
 the state of French law at that time, and objecting strongly to the use 
 of torture, he resigned his office. In 1571, Charles IX. created him 
 Knight of the Order of St. Michael, and at a later period gave him an 
 appointment at Court, and employed him on more than one occasion 
 in important business. He died in 1592. His Essays are the most 
 widely known of his writings. He also published a translation of Se- 
 boude's Natural Philosophy, and an edition of the works of his friend 
 La Boetie. 
 
 [The following passage is taken from John Florio's translation of 
 the Essays, published in 1 603 .] 
 
 OF THE INSTITUTION AND EDUCATION OF CHILDREN. 
 
 To the Lady Diana of Foix, Countess of Gurson. 
 
 Madam, — Learning joined with true knowledge is an espe- 
 cial and graceful ornament, and an Implement of wonderful 
 use and consequence,, namely, In persons raised to that 
 degree of fortune wherein you are. And, In good truth, 
 Learning hath not her own true form, nor can she make 
 show of her beauteous lineaments, if she fall into the hands 
 of base and vile persons. For, as famous Torquato Tasso 
 sayeth : Philosophy being a rich and noble queen, and 
 knowing her own w^orth, graciously smileth upon, and 
 lov^ingly embraceth princes and noble men, if they become 
 suitors to her, admitting them as her minions, and gently 
 affording them all the favours she can ; whereas, upon the 
 contrary, if she be wooed and sued unto by clowns, 
 mechanical fellows, and such base kind of people, she holds 
 
 4—2 
 
52 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 herself disparaged and disgraced, as holding no proportion 
 with them. So, noble Lady, forasmuch as I cannot per- 
 suade myself, that you will either forget or neglect this 
 point, concerning the institution of yours, especially having 
 tasted the sweetness thereof, and being descended of so 
 noble and learned a race — for we yet possess the learned 
 compositions of the ancient and noble Earls of Foix, from 
 whose heroic loins your husband and you take your off- 
 spring : and Francis, Lord of Cardale, your worthy uncle, 
 doth daily bring forth such fruits thereof, as the knowledge 
 of the matchless quality of your house shall hereafter ex- 
 tend itself to many ages ; — I will therefore make you ac- 
 quainted with one conceit of mine, which, contrary to the 
 common use, I hold, and that is all I am able to afford you 
 concerning that matter. 
 
 The charge of the tutor which you shall appoint your 
 son, in the choice of whom consisteth the whole substance 
 of his education, and bringing up, on which are many 
 branches depending, which (forasmuch as I can add nothing 
 of any moment to it) I will not touch at all ; and for that 
 point, wherein I presume to advise him, he may so far give 
 credit unto it, as he shall see just cause. \ To a gentleman 
 born of noble parentage, and heir of a house, that aimeth 
 at true learning and in it would be disciplined, not so much 
 for gain or commodity to himself (because so abject an end 
 is far unworthy the grace and favour of the Muses, and 
 besides, hath a regard or dependency of others), nor for 
 external show and ornament, but to adorn and enrich his 
 inward mind, desiring rather to shape and institute an 
 able and sufficient man, than a bare learned man. My 
 desire is, therefore, that the parents and overseers of such a 
 gentleman be very circumspect, and careful in choosing his 
 director, whom I would rather commend for having a well- 
 composed and temperate brain, than a full-stuffed head, 
 yet both will do well. And I would rather prefer wisdom, 
 judgment, civil customs, modest behaviour, than bare and 
 mere literal learning ; and that in his charge he hold a 
 
MONTAIGNE. 53 
 
 new course. Some never cease brawling in their scholars* 
 ears (as if they were still pouring in a tonell) to follow their 
 book, yet is their charge nothing else, but to repeat what 
 hath been told them before. I would have a tutor to cor- 
 rect this part, and that at first entrance, according to the 
 capacity of the wit he hath in hand, he should begin to 
 make show of it, making him to have a smack of all things, 
 and how to choose and distinguish them, without help of 
 others, sometimes opening him the way, other times allow- 
 ing him to open it by himself I would not have him to 
 invent and speak alone, but suffer his disciple to speak 
 when his turn cometh. Socrates, and after him, Arcesilaus, 
 made their scholars speak first, and then would speak them- 
 selves. " Obest plerumque lis qui discere volunt, auctoritas 
 eorum, qui decent." " Most commonly the authority of 
 them that teach, hinders them that would learn." 
 
 It is therefore meet, that he make him first trot on before 
 him, whereby he may the better judge of his pace, and so 
 guess how long he will hold out, that, accordingly, he may 
 fit his strength : for want of which proportion we often mar 
 all. And to know how to make a good choice, and how 
 far forth one may proceed (still keeping a due measure), is 
 one of the hardest labours I know. It is a sign of a noble, 
 and effect of an undaunted spirit to know how to second, 
 and how far he shall condescend to his childish proceedings, 
 and how to guide them. As for myself, I can better, and 
 with more strength, walk up than down a hill. Those 
 which, according to our common fashion, undertake with 
 one self-same lesson, and like manner of education, to direct 
 many spirits of diverse forms and different humours, it is 
 no marvel if, among a multitude of children, they scarce 
 meet with two or three that reap any good fruit by their 
 discipline, or that come to any perfection. I would not 
 only have him to demand an account of the words con- 
 tained in his lesson, but of the sense and substance thereof, 
 and judge of the profit he hath made of it, not by the testi- 
 mony of his memory, but by the witness of his life. For if, 
 
54 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 by his own discourse, he embrace the opinions of Xenophon, 
 or of Plato, they shall be no longer theirs, but his. Truth 
 and reason are common to all, and are no more proper unto 
 him that spake them heretofore, than unto him that shall 
 speak them hereafter. And it is no more according to 
 Plato's opinion than to mine, since both he and I understand 
 and see alike. The bees do here and there suck this, and 
 cull that flower, but afterward they produce the honey 
 which is peculiarly their own ; then is it no more thyme or 
 marjoram. So of pieces borrowed of others, he may law- 
 fully alter, transform, and confound them, to shape out of 
 them a perfect piece of work, altogether his own ; always 
 provided his judgment, his travail, study, and institution, 
 tend to nothing but to frame the same perfect. Let him 
 hardly conceal, where or whence he hath had any help, and 
 make no show of anything but of that which he hath himself 
 made. Pirates and borrowers make a show of their pur- 
 chases and buildings, but not of that which they have taken 
 from others : you see not the secret fees or bribes lawyers 
 take of their clients, but you shall manifestly discover the 
 alliances they make, the honours they get for their children, 
 and the goodly houses they build. No man makes open 
 show of his receipts, but every one of his gettings. The 
 good that comes of study (or at least should come), is to 
 prove better, wiser, and honester. 
 
 Moreover, we see it received, as a common opinion of 
 the wiser sort, that it agreeth not with reason, that a child 
 be always nuzzled, cockered, and dandled, and brought up 
 in his parent's lap or sight ; forsomuch as their natural 
 kindness, or, as I may call it, tender fondness, causeth often, 
 even the wisest, to prove so idle, so over-nice, and so base- 
 minded. For parents are not capable, neither can they 
 find in their hearts to see them checked, corrected, or chas- 
 tised, nor endure to see them brought up so meanly, and 
 so far from daintiness, and many times so dangerously, as 
 they must needs be. And it would grieve them to see 
 their children come home from those exercises that a 
 
MONTAIGNE. 55 
 
 gentleman must needs acquaint himself with, sometimes 
 all wet and bemired, other times sweaty and full of dust, 
 and to drink, being either extreme hot or exceeding cold ; 
 and it would trouble them to see him ride a rough, un- 
 tamed horse, or with his weapon furiously encounter a 
 skilful fencer, or to handle and shoot off a harquebuse ; 
 against which there is no remedy, if he will make him 
 prove a sufficient, complete, or honest man : he must not 
 be spared in his youth ; and it will often come to pass that 
 he will have to shock the rules of physic. 
 
 " Vitamque sub dio et trepidis agat in rebus." 
 
 " Lead he his life in open air, 
 And in affairs full of despair." 
 
 It is not sufficient to make his mind strong, his muscles 
 must also be strengthened : the mind is overborne if it be 
 not seconded; and it is too much for her alone to discharge 
 two offices. I would have the exterior demeanour, or de- 
 cency, and the disposition of his person, to be fashioned 
 together with his mind : for it is not a mind, it is not a 
 body, we erect, but it is a man, and we must not make two 
 parts of him. And as Plato saith, they must not be erected 
 one without another, but equally be directed, no otherwise 
 than a couple of horses matched to draw in one self-same 
 team. And to hear him, doth he not seem to employ 
 more time and care in the exercises of his body, and to 
 think that the mind is together with the same exercised, 
 and not the contrary ? As for other matters, this institu- 
 tion ought to be directed by a sweet severe mildness. Not 
 as some do who, in lieu of gently bidding children to the 
 banquet of letters, present them with nothing but horror 
 and cruelty. Let me have this violence and compulsion 
 removed ; there is nothing that, in me seeming, doth more 
 bastardize and dizzy a well-born and gentle nature. 
 
 If you would have him stand in awe of shame and 
 punishment, do not so much inure him to it ; accustom 
 
56 HALF-HOURS WITH FRl^CH AUTHORS. 
 
 him patiently to endure sweat and cold, the sharpness of 
 the wind and heat of the . sun, and how to despise all 
 hazards. Remove from him all niceness and quaintness in 
 clothing-, in lying, in eating, and in drinking ; fashion him 
 to all things, that he prove not a fair and puling boy, but 
 a lusty and vigorous boy. When I was a child, being a 
 man, and now I am old, I have ever judged and believed 
 the same. But amongst other things, I could never away 
 with this kind of discipline used in most of our colleges. 
 It had peradventure been less hurtful, if they had some- 
 what inclined to mildness or gentle entreaties. It is a very 
 prison of captivated youth, and proves dissolute in punish- 
 ing it before it be so. Come upon them when they are 
 going to their lesson, and you hear nothing but whipping 
 and brawling, both of children tormented and masters be- 
 sotted with anger and chasing. How wide are they which 
 go about to allure a child's mind to go to his book, being 
 yet but tender and fearful, with a stern frowning counte- 
 nance and with hands full of rods ! Oh, wicked and per- 
 nicious manner of teaching ! which Ouintilian hath ver}^ 
 well noted: that this imperious kind of authority — namely, 
 this vv^ay of punishing children — draws many dangerous 
 inconveniences with it. How much more decent Avere it, 
 to see their school-houses and forms strewed with green 
 boughs and flowers than with bloody birchen twigs ? If 
 it lay in me, I would do as the philosopher Speusippus did, 
 who caused the pictures of gladness and joy, of Flora and 
 the Graces, to be set up round about his school- house. Where 
 their profit lieth, there should also be 'their recreation. 
 Those meats ought to be sugared over that are healthful 
 to children's stomachs, and those made bitter that are 
 hurtful for' them. 
 
SECOND PART. 
 
 WRITERS OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 MALHERBE. 
 
 Francois Malherbe was descended, as he loved to boast, from a 
 family of noble extraction. He was born in 1555, at Caen, and was 
 sent to school at Paris. In 1576 he took service under Henry of 
 Angouleme, Governor of Provence, and remained with him for some 
 years, but in 1586 he lost his protector by death, and returned to his 
 native town. At this time he had already made himself known by the 
 publication of his Bouq^cet de Fleurs de Seneqite. These poems were 
 written during the first years of the reign of Henry III., when he 
 seems to have been deeply saddened by the misery caused by the civil 
 wars. This volume was followed by the Larmes de Saint Pierre^ and 
 other poems. His fame had now reached the ears of the king, Henry 
 IV., and Malherbe, having been presented to him, was desired to take 
 up his abode at Paris, and to remain near the court. Here he was 
 soon recognised as the first poet and prose writer of his time, and 
 assumed the position of leader and reformer in the literary world. It 
 was about 1606 that he began to write the series of Lettei^s to M. de 
 Peiresc, from which the following extract is taken. On the occasion 
 of the king's assassination, he composed some of his best and most 
 touching verses, and was rewarded by a liberal pension from the queen. 
 He died at Paris in 1628. 
 
 THE ASSASSINATION OF HENRY IV. 
 
 Paris, Wednesday, May i()th, 1610. 
 
 On Thursday evening, on returning from the queen's coro- 
 nation, a man named La Brosse, who had been physician 
 to M. de Soissons, told M. de Vendome that he might warn 
 
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 the king that he would be exposed to a great danger next 
 day ; that If he escaped he would go on for five-and- 
 twenty years more. This warning was given to the 
 king by M. de Vendome, but he only laughed at it, 
 and thought it was like an infinite number of others that 
 he had received on the same subject. His reply was, " He 
 is a fool, and you are another." The next morning, 
 whether he thought of this warning or not, he prayed mpst 
 earnestly, and even had his missal brought to him in bed ; 
 then he went to the Tuileries as he was used to do, and 
 heard mass at the Feuillants. After dinner he was in the 
 queen's cabinet for some time, and played a thousand jokes 
 with Madame de Guise and Madame de la Chastre. 
 Madame de Guise went out to see about some law busi- 
 ness, and he, a little time after, to go to the arsenal. He 
 considered for a long time if he should go out, and several 
 times said to the queen, " My dear, shall I go or not V 
 He even went out two or three times, and then all at once 
 returned and said to the queen, "My dear, shall I still go?" 
 and still hesitated whether to go or stay. At last he de- 
 termined to go, and having kissed the queen several times, 
 bade her farewell ; and among other things, they noticed 
 that he said to her, ". I shall only go there and back, and 
 shall be here again in less than an hour." 
 
 When he reached the bottom of the staircase, where his 
 carriage was waiting for him, M. de Praslin, the captain of 
 his guards, intended to follow him. He said, ''Go away, I 
 do not want anybody, go to your business." So, having 
 only a few gentlemen and lackeys around him, he entered 
 his carriage, took the left-hand place on the back seat, and 
 made M. d'Espernon take the right ; at his side, by the 
 door, were M. de Montbazon and M. de la Force ; by the 
 door on M. d''Espernon's side, M. le Marechal de Lavardin 
 and M. de Crequi ; in front, M. le Marquis de Mirebeau 
 and the principal equerry. When he reached the Croix du 
 Tiroir, they asked him where he wished to go, and he gave 
 the order to drive towards Saint Innocent. Having arrived 
 
IHi^ ^oo/ySSINATION of henry IV. 
 
MALHERBE. 59 
 
 at the Rue de la Ferronnerie at the end of the Rue Saint 
 Honore, to get to that of Saint Denys, before the Sala- 
 mandre, they met a cart, and this obliged the king's car- 
 riage to pass nearer the ironmongers' shops on the Saint 
 Innocent side, and even to go rather more slowly, without 
 stopping however, whatever one, who was in a hurry to 
 print a description of it, may have written to this effect. 
 There it was that an abominable assassin, who had stationed 
 himself up against the next shop, that of the Crowned 
 Heart pierced by an arrow, threw himself on the king, and 
 struck two blows with a knife, one after another. One stroke 
 between the armpit and breast, went upwards, and glided 
 off without doing any harm ; the other entered between 
 the fifth and sixth ribs, and going downwards, divided one 
 of the great arteries. The king unfortunately, and as if to 
 offer every opportunity to this monster, had his left hand 
 on the shoulder of M. de Montbazon, and with the other 
 was leaning on M. d'Espernon, whom he was speaking to. 
 He uttered some little exclamation and moved once or 
 twice, M. de Montbazon having asked him, " What is it, 
 sire ?'' he answered, " Nothing, nothing," twice, but the last 
 time he spoke so low that they could not hear him. These 
 are the only words he uttered after he was wounded. The 
 carriage turned directly towards the Louvre. They gave 
 him some wine when he came to the foot of the staircase 
 where he had entered the carriage, namely, that which led 
 to the queen's apartment. Probably some one had run on 
 to carry the news. The Sieur de Cerisy, lieutenant of M. 
 de Praslin's company, having raised his head, he opened 
 his e-yes a little, then closed them immediately, and never 
 opened them again. He was carried upstairs by M. de 
 Montbazon, Count de Curson en Ouercy, and placed on the 
 bed in his cabinet, and about two he was laid on the bed in 
 his room, where he was left all the next day and Sunday, 
 and every one went and sprinkled him with holy water. I 
 need not describe the grief of the queen ; that may be 
 imagined. As for the people of Paris, I think they never 
 shed so many tears as they did on that occasion. 
 
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 The rascal is a native of Angouleme, named Francois de 
 Ravaillac, about thirty-five years of age, with a red beard 
 and black hair ; he is extremely determined, and till now, 
 except this morning, has said nothing. They do not say 
 what he has said. People speak so differently of him, that 
 I hardly know what to say. M. d'Aix has seen him, to 
 whom he replied in such a way that they say he did not 
 think it well to make him talk too much. He was seized 
 with certain papers upon him, full of crosses and unknown 
 characters. M. de Vitri, who had him in charge at first, says 
 that he had one such, at the top of which was written 
 " Verses that prevent the pains of torture being felt." He 
 says that he could not have ventured any other day than 
 Friday, but that he thought the opportunity too good to be 
 lost. He says that for a very long time he had determined 
 to do it, and had changed his mind several times, but that 
 the idea had always returned to him. According to what 
 he says, he has several times confessed that he intended to 
 commit murder, although he never told his confessors that 
 it was the king, forasmuch as he knew that, in a matter of 
 high treason, they would disclose it He has named 
 among his confessors a Jesuit named Father d'Aubigny. 
 He was a monk of the order of St. Bernard for three years, 
 but having had some vision^ which he revealed to the 
 monks, they expelled him from their monastery. 
 
 Preparations are being made for the king's funeral. I 
 think the efhgy will be laid in state next Friday. This 
 ceremony will be performed at the Tuiieries, to prevent 
 the crowd from coming to the Louvre ; and besides, it is 
 better that it should not take place where the new king is. 
 For the present, the body of the king is laid upon a leaden 
 bier, in the room between the cabinets and the gallery, on 
 a bed covered with a cloth of gold, with a cross of white 
 satin ; two archers in white coats, one on one side and the 
 other on the other, are at the bed's head ; and at the foot 
 two heralds with their coats of arms, which are the same as 
 they bore at the coronation. On the right side of the bed 
 
MALHERBL. 6 1 
 
 is an altar, at which mass is said every day, and on both 
 sides of the bed there are always some monks praying. 
 
 The king, Henry III., will be buried four or five days 
 before;* it-was proposed that they should both be buried 
 at the same time, but the queen would not have it. I 
 believe, when it is all over, the king will make his entry. 
 All the arches that had been put up remain, only the 
 pictures had been taken out of them. 
 
 I am tired of writing, but nevertheless I will tell you that 
 M. de Guise has protested to the queen that he will no 
 longer allow M. de Vendome to take precedence of him, 
 and that he only allowed it before out of respect to the 
 king. This also reminds me of one of the points in the 
 harangue made by the first president when the queen was 
 made regent, namely, that the age and experience of the 
 late king, the good that he had done to France in extricat- 
 ing her from much misery, had been the reason why they 
 had passed many acts in Parliament opposed to the good 
 of the people ; but in future, if such acts were presented to 
 them, they prayed the king and queen to excuse them if 
 they treated them in a different manner. M. de Sully has 
 been advised to resign his offices : he says he wishes to do 
 so ; his friends urge him, and it is believed that he will, 
 although the queen has confirmed him in them. 
 
 ■^ The body of Henry III. had been kept unburied by Henry IV., 
 in consequence of a prophecy to the effect that his own funeral would ' 
 follow that of his predecessor within a few days. 
 
SULLY. 
 
 Maximilian de Bethune, Duke of Sully, the famous minister of 
 Henry IV., was the son of the Baron de Rosny, whose family belonged 
 to a younger branch of the house of Flanders. He was educated in 
 the doctrines of the Reformed faith, and at an early age went to Paris 
 in the train of the Queen of Navarre, when she repaired to that town 
 in 1572, to be present at the marriage of her son with the sister of 
 Charles IX. He narrowly escaped death on the terrible day of St. 
 Bartholomew, and attended the King of Navarre in his escape from 
 the French court. From that time he served him in the double 
 capacity of soldier and statesman as the circumstances of the king 
 required. After Henry's accession to the throne of France he con- 
 tinued in his service, and held the office of Minister of Finance during 
 the last twelve years of his reign. After the assassination of Henry 
 IV., he quitted public life and spent the remainder of his days in ease 
 and tranquillity. He died at the Castle of Villebon, in 1641, at the 
 age of eighty-two. The Memoires of Sully rank among the most 
 interesting and authentic books of French history, and contain an 
 account of the events that o'ccurred in France betv/een 1570 — 1610. 
 The following passages are taken from the translations by Mrs. 
 Lennox, published in 1756. 
 
 QUEEN ELIZABETH AND SULLY. 
 
 The Queen of England hearing the king was at Calais,, 
 thought it a favourable opportunity to satisfy her im- 
 patience of seeing and embracing her best friend. Henry 
 was not less desirous of this interview, that he might confer 
 Avith the queen upon the affairs of Europe in general, as 
 well as on their own in particular, especially those which 
 had been hinted to him by the English and the Dutch am- 
 bassadors when he was at Nantz. EHzabeth first wrote 
 him a letter equally polite and full of offers of service ; she 
 afterwards made the usual compliments, and repeated those 
 
SULLY. 63 
 
 assurances by the Lord Edmondes,"^ whom she despatched 
 to Calais, till she herself could arrive at Dover, from 
 whence she sent M, de Stafford, Lord Sidney,-!* with other 
 letters. 
 
 Henry, resolving not to be outdone in complaisance, 
 answered these advances in a manner that showed at once 
 his respect for Elizabeth, and his esteem and admiration of 
 her character. This intercourse continued a long time, to 
 the great mortification of the Spaniards, whose jealousy was 
 strongly excited by the proximity and close correspondence 
 of the two sovereigns. Of all the letters written by them, 
 on this occasion, I possess only one of those which Elizabeth 
 wrote to the king ; this, because it was the occasion of the 
 voyage I made to this princess, I have kept in my hands ; 
 it was as follows : — 
 
 " My very dear and well-beloved Brother, — I had always 
 considered the conditions of sovereigns to be the most 
 happy, and that they were the least subject to meet with 
 obstacles in the way of their just and legitimate desires ; 
 but our residence in two places so near each other makes 
 me begin to think, that those of high as well as of middle 
 rank often meet with thorns and difficulties, since, from 
 certain causes and considerations, rather to satisfy others 
 than ourselves, we are both prevented from crossing the 
 sea ; for I had promised myself the happiness of embracing 
 you, as being your very loyal sister and faithful ally, and 
 you my very dear brother whom I love and honour above 
 everything in this world, whose incomparable virtues (to 
 tell you my real sentiments) I admire, and particularly 
 your valour in arms, and politeness and gallantry amongst 
 the fair sex. I have something of consequence to com- 
 municate to you, which I can neither write nor confide to 
 any of your ministers, nor my own at present, so that, in 
 
 * He means Sir Thomas Edmondes. 
 
 + The person here styled " Stafford, Lord Sidney," was Sir Robert 
 Sidney, the younger brother of the illustrious Sir Philip. 
 
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 expectation of a more convenient opportunity, I shall 
 return to London in a few days. That God may continue 
 to you, my very dear, and well-beloved brother, His holy 
 favours and blessing, is the prayer of your most affection- 
 ate sister and loyal ally, 
 
 " Elizabeth." 
 
 When the king received this letter, he read it over two 
 or three times with great satisfaction^ and took particular 
 notice of the latter part of it ; but being at a loss how to 
 interpret it, he sent Secretary Feret for me, and as soon as 
 I wxnt to him, he said to me, " I have just received a letter 
 from my good sister, the Queen of England, whom you 
 esteem so highly, more full of cajoleries than ever; pray 
 see if, from your knowledge of her character, you can com- 
 prehend better than me what she means by the conclusion 
 of this letter." Having read it over several times, but being 
 obliged to confess I could not comprehend it, " Well, my 
 friend," said his Majesty, "I will not conceal from you, 
 that I am very anxious to know what this princess has in 
 view by these expressions ; for, in my opinion, she has not 
 erriployed them without very particular reasons. I have, 
 therefore, thought of an expedient by which, perhaps, we 
 may come to a knowledge of her meaning, without doing 
 anything that can give offence to either party : this is, for 
 you to set out to-morrow morning for Dover, as if by your 
 own inclination, and on your arrival there to make a show 
 of not wishing to stop, but of passing on to London, for the 
 purpose of seeing the country ; so that should you meet 
 with any person of your acquaintance, the queen may be 
 informed that you are in Dover, to watch what she will do ; 
 and should she send for you, it is probable you may dis- 
 cover some part of her sentiments in the course of your 
 conversation together." 
 
 I accordingly embarked early next morning, in a small 
 boat with very few attendants, without mentioning my 
 journey to any one, and reached Dover about ten o'clock. 
 
SULLY. 65 
 
 where I saw a great number of people, some embarking, 
 others landing, and many walking upon th& beach ; six or 
 seven of the latter advanced towards me, one of whom was 
 Lord Sidney^ who, having five or six days before seen me 
 at Calais, immediately recognised me, and ran to embrace 
 me ; with him were Cobham, Raleigh, and Griffin, and they 
 were soon after joined by the Earls of Devonshire and 
 Pembroke, who, after mutual civilities and compliments, 
 asked me if I were come to see the queen on the part of my 
 master. I told them I was not, and even assured them 
 that the king knew nothing of my voyage ; I likewise 
 entreated them not to mention it to the queen, for not 
 having had any intention of paying my respects to her I 
 had no letter to present, my design being only to make a 
 short tour incognito to London. These gentlemen replied 
 smiling, that I had taken a useless precaution, for that 
 probably the guard-ship had already given a signal of my 
 arrival, and that I might quickly expect to see a messenger 
 from the queen, Avho would not suffer me to pass in this 
 manner, she having but three days ago spoken of me 
 publicly and in very obliging terms. I affected to be 
 extremely concerned at this unlucky accident, but to hope 
 nevertheless, that I might still pass undiscovered, pro- 
 vided that these gentlemen would be secret as to the place 
 where I was to lodge ; from whence I assured them, I 
 w^ould immediately depart as soon as I had taken a little 
 refreshment. 
 
 Saying this I left them abruptly, and had but just 
 entered my apartment, and spoken a few words to one of 
 my secretaries, when I heard some one behind me tell me 
 that he arrested me as a prisoner to the queen. This was 
 the captain of her Majesty's guards, whom I embraced, 
 and answered smiling, that I should esteem such imprison- 
 ment a great honour. He had orders to conduct me directly 
 to the queen ; I therefore followed him. As soon as Eliza- 
 beth perceived me, she exclaimed, "Well, Monsieur de 
 Rosny, and do you thus break our fences, and pass on with- 
 
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 out coming to see me ? I am greatly surprised at it, for I 
 thought you bore me more affection than any of my own 
 servants, and I am persuaded that I have given you no 
 cause to change those sentiments." I replied that her 
 Majesty had always so highly honoured me, and testified 
 so much good-will towards me, that I loved and honoured 
 her for her excellent virtues, and would always serve her 
 most humbly, not merely from my own inclination, but also 
 from knowing that, in doing so, I was rendering an accept- 
 able service to my king. After many more expressions of 
 this sort, the queen replied, '' Well, Monsieur de Rosny, to 
 give you a proof that I believe all you have told me of the 
 good-will of the king, my brother, and of your own, I will 
 speak with you on the subj ect of the last letter I wrote to 
 him, though perhaps you have seen it, for Stafford and Ed- 
 mondes tell me, that the king conceals few of his secrets 
 from you." On telling her I was not ignorant of the letter, 
 she immediately answered that she was glad of it, and also 
 that I had crossed the sea, because she had no difficulty to 
 tell m_e freely what she had hinted at in the conclusion of 
 her letter. 
 
 She then drew me aside, and conversed with me a long 
 time on the greater part of the events which had happened 
 since the peace of Vervins (too long to be repeated here), 
 and concluded with asking if her good brother the king's 
 affairs were now in a better state than in 1598, and if he 
 were in a condition to begin, in good earnest, the great de- 
 sign which she had proposed from that time } To this I 
 replied, that although, since that period, the king had had 
 many weighty affairs to settle, as well in relation to the war 
 in Savoy, as to several plots in the heart of the kingdom, 
 which were not yet entirely destroyed, all which had occa- 
 sioned very heavy expenses, yet I had nevertheless so 
 managed the revenue, and other departments of the state, 
 that a numerous artillery had been provided, as well as 
 abundance of stores and provisions and even of money ; but 
 that all this, however, was not sufficient to advise him to 
 
SULLY. ^y 
 
 bear alone the burden of an open war against the whole 
 house of Austria, who was so powerful, that it would be in 
 vain to attack her partially : that it even appeared to me, 
 that the assistance of England and the States only was by 
 no means sufficient for the commencement of so great a 
 work, but that it was absolutely necessary to endeavour to 
 form a coalition of all the other kings, princes, republics, 
 and people who dreaded the tyranny of that house, or would 
 profit by its humiliation. The queen here told me she was 
 very happy she had heard my sentiments on this subject, 
 and the more so as she believed that I had not said so much 
 without knowing something of the intentions of the king her 
 brother, with which in this case hers would perfectly agree, 
 by only adding certain conditions which she considered as 
 absolutely necessary to prevent misunderstanding and dis- 
 trust among the coalesced Powers ; these in her opinion 
 would be, to proportion so well the desires of each that none 
 might be entertained either prejudicial or disagreeable to 
 any of the rest, which would inevitably happen if the more 
 powerful wished to take the greatest share of the conquests 
 and the distribution of them ; and that, above all things, it 
 was necessary that neither her brother, the King of France, 
 nor the King of Scotland, who would certainly inherit her 
 crown, nor those of Denmark and Sweden, who might be- 
 come very powerful both by land and sea, nor herself, con- 
 sequently, should pretend to claim any portion of the 
 seventeen provinces of the Low Countries, nor any place in 
 their neighbourhood. " For, to conceal nothing from you," 
 continued the queen, " if my brother the King of France 
 should think of making himself proprietor, or even only 
 feudal Lord of the United Provinces, I should never con- 
 sent to it, but entertain a most violent jealousy of him ; nor 
 should I blame him, if, giving him the same occasion, he 
 should have the same fears of me ; and so of all the other 
 States and dignities of which the ambitious house of Austria 
 may be deprived." 
 
 These were not the only reflections made by the Queen 
 
 5—2 ^ 
 
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 of England ; she said many other things, which appeared 
 to me so wise and sensible, that I was filled with astonish- 
 ment and admiration. 
 
 The queen observing my eyes attentively fixed on her 
 without speaking, imagined she had expressed herself so 
 confusedly in something she had said, that I was unable to 
 comprehend her meaning. But when I ingenuously con- 
 fessed to her the true cause of my silence and surprise, she 
 then, without scruple, entered into the most minute parts of 
 the design. But as I shall have ample occasion to treat of 
 this in relating the great schemes which were prevented by 
 the untimely death of Henry IV., I shall not trouble the 
 reader with useless repetitions ; but in this place just show 
 the five principal points to which her Majesty reduced so 
 extensive a scheme, as from the sequel of these Memoirs 
 this will appear to have been. The first was, to restore 
 Germany to its ancient liberty, in respect to the election of 
 its emperors, and the nomination of a King of the Romans. 
 The second, to render the United Provinces absolutely in- 
 dependent of Spain ; and to form them into a republic, by 
 annexing to them, if necessary, some provinces dismembered 
 from Germany. The third, to do the same in regard to 
 Switzerland, by incorporating with it some of the adjacent 
 provinces, particularly Alsace and Tranche Comte. The 
 fourth, to divide all Christendom into a certain number of 
 Powers, as equal as might be. The fifth, to reduce all the 
 various religions in it under those three which should 
 appear to be most numerous and considerable in Europe. 
 
 Our conference was very long ; I cannot bestow praises 
 upon the Queen of England that would be equal to the 
 merit which I discovered in her in this short time, both as 
 to the qualities of the heart and the understanding. I gave 
 an exact relation of everything that passed between us to 
 the king, who very highly approved of all she had said to 
 me. Their majesties corresponded by letters during the 
 rest of the time they stayed at Dover and Calais. All pre- 
 liminaries were agreed on ; measures were taken even on 
 
SULLY. 69 
 
 the grand object of the design, but with such secrecy, that 
 the whole of this affair remained to the death of the king, 
 and even much longer, among the number of those on which 
 only various and uncertain conjectures are formed. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF IVRY. 
 
 What gave the victory to the weaker party (in the battle 
 of Ivry), was the valour of the Marshal d'Aumont, who pre- 
 vented the entire defeat of the light horse ; the great differ- 
 ence between the enemy's manner of using their artillery 
 and ours ; and, above all, the uncommon abilities of the 
 king (which were never so perfectly known as in the day of 
 battle), in the disposition of his troops, rallying them, their 
 discipline, and their prompt and entire obedience. 
 
 It is certain the Duke of Mayenne and the Count of 
 Egmont, who were at the head of the Spaniards, imagined 
 that if the king ventured to wait for them, the victory would 
 be theirs ; and that if he yielded or gave ground before them 
 as they expected, they depended upon nothing less than 
 forcing him out of whatever place he should retreat to, and 
 thus finish the war by a single blow. With such disposi- 
 tions, what must be the consequence ? I say nothing of the 
 generals, who alone are worth many thousand men. The 
 stronger party never makes use of those precautions that 
 are necessary against an enemy of equal strength ; and the 
 weaker never forms a resolution to defend itself against a 
 more numerous army, without determining likewise to sup- 
 ply, by valour and address, the deficiency of numbers. 
 Danger, which inspires a courage animated by glory and 
 difficulties, reduces both sides to a kind of equality. 
 
 The king's squadron in which I was had the attacks of 
 the Count of Egmont to sustain, who fell upon us with his 
 own squadron, and another of a thousand or twelve hundred 
 German horse. It is true, the Germans, who professed the 
 same religion as our soldiers, fired their pieces in the air ; 
 but the Count of Egmont behaved like a man who was re- 
 
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 solved to conquer. He charged us with such fury, that^ 
 notwithstanding the desertion of the Germans, after a 
 terrible fire, and an encounter which lasted a full quarter of 
 an hour, in which the ground was covered with dead bodies, 
 the left of our squadron fled, and the right was broken and 
 gave ground. At the first onset my horse was wounded by 
 a musket-shot, which passed through his nostrils, and struck 
 his shoulder, and soon after a thrust of a spear carried away 
 a large piece of the skin of his belly, and part of the thick 
 of my leg. I received another wound in my hand ; a pistol 
 shot gave me a third, more considerable : the ball entered 
 my hip, and came out near my groin. While I was in this 
 condition, I was relieved by the kindness of my equerry, 
 who brought me another horse, upon which I mounted, 
 though with great difficulty. At a second charge, this horse 
 was likewise slain, and in the same moment I received a 
 pistol-shot in the thigh, and a cut with a sword on the head. 
 I fell to the earth, and with my senses lost all the remaining 
 part of the action, which, from the advantage the Count of 
 Egmont had already gained, boded no good to us. All I 
 know is, that a long time after, recovering my senses, I saw 
 neither enemies, nor any of my domestics near me, whom 
 terror and the disorder had dispersed ; another presage 
 which appeared to me no less unfavourable. I retired with- 
 out a head-piece, and almost without armour, for mine had 
 been battered to pieces. In this condition I saw a trooper 
 of the enemy's running towards me, with an intention to 
 take away my life. By good fortune, I found myself near 
 a pear tree, to which I crept, and with that little motion I 
 was still able to exert, made such good use of the branches, 
 which were extremely low, that I evaded all my adversary's 
 attempts and kept him at a distance, till, being weary with 
 turning round the tree, he at last quitted me. Feuquieres 
 had not the like good fortune : he was killed that moment 
 before my eyes. Just then La Rocheforet (who has since 
 become one of my attendants) passing by, I asked him for 
 a little nag which he was leading, and paid him for it on 
 
SULLY. 71 
 
 the spot, thirty crowns ; for it was always my opinion that on 
 such occasions it is proper to carry a little money about one. 
 
 Thus mounted, I was going to learn news of the battle, 
 when I saw seven of the enemy approach, one of whom 
 carried the white standard belonging to the Duke of 
 Mayenne. I thought it impossible to escape this new dan- 
 ger, and upon their crying out " Qid vive V I told my 
 name, as being ready to surrender myself a prisoner ; but 
 how was I astonished when, instead of attacking me, I 
 found four of these persons entreating me to receive them 
 as prisoners, and to save their lives ; and while they ranged 
 themselves about me, appeared rejoiced at the meeting ! I 
 granted their request ; and it seemed so surprising to me 
 that four men unhurt, and well armed, should surrender 
 themselves to a single man, disarmed, covered with his 
 own blood, mounted upon a little paltry nag, and scarce 
 able to support himself, that I was tempted to take all I 
 saw for an illusion. But I was soon convinced of the truth 
 of it. My prisoners (since they would be so) made them- 
 selves known to be Messieurs de Chdtaigneraie, de Sigogne, 
 de Chanteloup, and d'Anfreville. They told me that the 
 Duke of Mayenne had lost the battle ; that the king was 
 that instant in pursuit of the vanquished, which had obliged 
 them to surrender for fear of falling into worse hands, their 
 horses not being in a condition to carry them out of dan- 
 ger : at the same time Sigogne, in token of surrender, pre- 
 sented me with the white standard. The three others, who 
 were the Duke of Nemours, the Chevalier d'Aumale, and 
 Tremont, not seeming inclined to surrender, I endeavoured 
 to persuade them to do so, but in vain. After recommend- 
 ing their companions to me, seeing a body of the king's 
 troops advance, they rode away, and showed me that their 
 horses were still vigorous enough to bear them from their 
 enemies. 
 
 I advanced with my prisoners towards a battalion of 
 Swiss, and meeting one of the king's chief pages, I gave 
 him the standard, as I was not able to carry it any longer 
 
72 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 on account of my wounds. I now saw more plainly the 
 marks of our victory : the field was full of the fugitive 
 leaguers and Spaniards, and the victorious army of the 
 king pursuing and scattering the remains of the larger 
 bodies, which had dispersed, and were again drawing to- 
 gether. The Swiss soldiers of the two armies meeting, 
 bullied each other, with their pikes lowered, without striking 
 a blow or making any other motion. 
 
 The white standard embroidered with black flowers de 
 luce, was known by every one to be that of the Guises, 
 which they bore in memory and through horror of the as- 
 sassination of Blois, and drew great numbers to it as a prey 
 equally rich and honourable. The black velvet coats of my 
 prisoners, which were covered with silver crosses, glittered 
 from afar in the field. The first who flew to seize them, 
 were Messieurs de Cambrai, de I'Archant, du Rollet, de 
 Crevecoeur, de Palcheux, and de Brasseuse, who were joined 
 by the Count de Torigny. I advanced towards them, and, 
 supposing they would not know my face, disfigured by 
 blood and dust, I named myself The Count de Torigny 
 no sooner knew La Chataigneraie, who was his relation, 
 than, judging that, in the condition he saw me, I should 
 not be able to preserve my prisoners from insult, he en- 
 treated me to give Chataigneraie to his care, for whom, he 
 said, he would be answerable. I readily granted his re- 
 quest, yet it was with regret that I saw him go away. 
 What Torigny did through a principle of friendship had a 
 fatal consequence for the unhappy Chataigneraie : some 
 moments after he was known by three men belonging to 
 d'O's company, who had been guard to Henry III., who, 
 levelling their pieces at him, shot him dead, crying out, 
 " 'Sdeath ! thou traitor to thy king, whom thou didst mur- 
 der, and triumphed in the deed." This I learned from the 
 Count de Torigny himself, when I inquired of him respect- 
 ing my prisoner, whose ransom, many persons said, he was 
 bound to pay me, and even advised me to demand it of 
 him ; but I did not choose to do this, as well from Cha- 
 
SULLY. 73 
 
 taigneraie having been my particular friend, as from the 
 affliction I knew Torigny felt at his unhappy fate. 
 
 I soon saw myself surrounded by many persons, amongst 
 whom there was not one that did not envy my good for- 
 tune. D'Andelot came after the rest, and, passing through 
 the crowd, perceived Sigogne, and the page who carried 
 the standard. He was preparing to seize it, believing his 
 good fortune had preserved this prize for him, when a 
 report that the enemy had rallied obliged him to depart 
 abruptly. I had not time to undeceive him ; for after he 
 had bid the page keep the standard for him, he suddenly 
 disappeared. The news was found to be false, and had no 
 other foundation than the arrival of two hundred soldiers 
 from Picardy, which Messieurs de Mouy and de la Boissiere 
 had brought to the Duke of Mayenne. 
 
 Being now disengaged from the crowd, and finding my- 
 self in need of help, especially for the wound in my hip, by 
 which I lost a great deal of blood, I advanced with my 
 prize to the head of Vignole's regiment, which had behaved 
 bravely in the battle. Here, fearing no further surprise, I 
 asked for a surgeon to bind up my wound, and desired 
 some wine to prevent fainting, which I found coming upon 
 me. My strength being a little renewed, I got to Anet, 
 the keeper of which gave me an apartment, where I caused 
 the first dressing to be put on my wounds, in the presence 
 of the Marshal Biron, who spent a few moments there after 
 my arrival, and took some refreshment in my chamber ; he 
 was conducting the corps de reserve, which he commanded, 
 to the king, who, without stopping after his victory, had 
 passed the river Eure, in pursuit of the enemy, and, as I 
 was told, took the road at last to Rosny, where he lay the 
 same night. 
 
 After the Marshal Biron was gone, d'Andelot arrived at 
 Anet, full of resentment against me for taking away his 
 prize, for so he thought it. He entered my chamber at- 
 tended by five or six armed men, and, with an air equally 
 fierce and insulting, demanded an explanation, or rather, 
 
74 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 sought to do himself justice ; for, perceiving the white 
 standard, which with that belonging to my company had 
 been placed at the head of my bed, he would have takea 
 possession of it by force, without attending to what I said- 
 I changed my tone immediately, and high words passed 
 between us. In the condition in which I was, I could do 
 no more. But he, speaking with fury and making use of 
 threats, the noise drew fifteen or twenty of my troopers 
 into the chamber, at the sight of whom d'Andelot, restrain- 
 ing his rage, went out, commanding Sigogne to follow him, 
 which he refused, and endeavoured, but in vain, to make 
 him comprehend the injustice of his pretensions. 
 
 The next morning I was carried by water to Passy, in- 
 tending to go to Rosny, to finish my cure. On my arrival 
 at Passy I learned that part of the soldiers of my train, 
 and my valets, with all my baggage, had retired thither, 
 not knowing what was become of me, and intimidated by 
 a report which was spread, that the king had lost the 
 battle. Being apprehensive of the reproaches I might 
 make them, they kept themselves concealed. I caused 
 them to be sought for, but they were so ashamed of their 
 cowardice, that the following night they fled away on foot, 
 leaving in a stable four of their own horses, which, after all 
 search had been made for their owners, but in vain, I 
 ordered to be sold, and distributed the money among such 
 of their wounded companions as were least able to pay for 
 medical aid. 
 
 As I was not in a condition to mount a horse, I ordered 
 a kind of litter, composed of the branches of trees, with the 
 bark on, fastened together by the hoops of some casks, to 
 be made for me in haste, as I learned that Mantes (to the 
 government of which I had a claim) had capitulated, and 
 travelled by Beurons, to avoid the ascents and declivities 
 of Rougevoie and Chatillon. 
 
 Maignan, who was a youth of a lively imagination,, 
 thought proper to give this journey the air of a little 
 triumph : two of the grooms of my stable were at the head 
 
SULLY. 7S 
 
 of this train, each leading two of my finest horses ; they 
 were followed by two of my pages, one of whom rode my 
 horse which was first wounded in the battle^ as already 
 mentioned,- and which, running about the field of battle, 
 was fortunately known by three of my arquebusiers. This 
 page carried my cuirass and the Duke of Mayenne's stan- 
 dard ; the other bore my bracelets and my helmet, so 
 bruised that it was no longer of any use. My equerry, the 
 contriver of this diverting scene, marched next, with his 
 head bound up, and his arm in a scarf ; he was followed by 
 Moreines, my valet de chambre, dressed in my coat of 
 orange-coloured velvet, spangled with silver, and mounted 
 upon my English nag, holding in his hand, as a trophy, a 
 bundle of the shivers of my pistols, the broken pieces of 
 my swords, and the tattered remains of my plume of 
 feathers. The litter on which I lay came next, covered 
 only with a cloth, upon which they had hung the black 
 velvet coats of my prisoners, with their plumes, and pieces 
 of their pistols and swords at the four corners. The priso- 
 ners themselves followed my litter, and preceded the rest 
 of my domestics ; after whom, ranged in order, came my 
 own company of soldiers, and the march was closed with 
 James and Badet's two companies of arquebusiers. They 
 had suffered so much in the battle, that there was not one 
 of them who had not his head bound up, and his arm in a 
 scarf ; and some of these brave soldiers were even obliged 
 to be carried by their companions. 
 
 When we came near Beurons, we perceived all the plain 
 covered with horses and dogs, and presently the king him- 
 self, who, after a slight repast, had returned from Rosny to 
 Mantes, and was hunting there in my chase. This little 
 ovation seemed to please him ; he thought it very happily 
 disposed, and smiled at the vanity of Maignan, who had 
 the honour of being known to the king, ever since his 
 father, who was a very brave man, had made himself re- 
 markable at the taking of Eause. The king approached 
 my litter, and in the sight of his whole train disdained not 
 
y^ HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 to give me such proofs of tenderness and concern, as (if I 
 may be allowed the expression) one friend would do to 
 another. I could not express my gratitude by throwing 
 myself at his feet, but I assured him, and with truth, that 
 I would gladly suffer a thousand times more for his service. 
 He inquired, with an obliging solicitude, whether all my 
 wounds were of such a nature that I might hope to be 
 cured without mutilating any part of my body, which he 
 thought almost impossible, knowing that I had been thrown 
 down senseless, and trampled under the horses' feet. When 
 he was convinced that I had nothing to fear, he cast him- 
 self on my neck, and turning to the princes and noblemen 
 who followed him, he said aloud, that he honoured me with 
 the title of a true and honest knight, a title which, he said, 
 he thought superior to that of a knight-companion of his 
 orders. Being apprehensive that I should hurt myself by 
 speaking too much, he put an end to this agreeable con- 
 versation, with his usual protestation, that I should share 
 in whatever good fortune Heaven should send him ; and 
 concluded by saying, " Farewell, my friend, take care of 
 yourself, and, depend upon it, you have a good master ;" 
 and without suffering me to reply, galloped off to pursue 
 the chase about Mantes. 
 
ST. FRANCOIS DE SALES. 
 
 Saint Francois de Sales was born at the castle of Sales, in the 
 diocese of Geneva, in 1567. He studied theology, philosophy, and 
 Hebrew, at the college of the Jesuits, and then proceeded to Padua, to 
 study law. He was appointed advocate to the Senate of Chambery, but 
 when the dignity of senator was offered him he refused it, and in 1 593 
 gave up the profession of the law and took orders. He soon became 
 known as an eloquent and persuasive preacher, and was sent forth as a 
 missionary to the Zvvinglians and Calvinists, to try and win them back 
 to the Church of Rome. In 1602 he was made Bishop of Geneva. He 
 set himself diligently to work to improve the Condition of his diocese, 
 and refused the honours that were offered him by Henry IV. and Louis 
 XIII., that he might devote himself entirely to his episcopal duties. He 
 established the Order of the Visitation, and wrote many religious books. 
 The two that are the best known are the TraiU de l'A7nour de Dieu 
 and the Inti'odziciioii a la Vie Devote. He died at Lyons in 1622. The 
 following extracts are taken from the Introductio7i. 
 
 ON PASTIMES AND RECREATIONS. 
 
 It is necessary, sometimes, to relax our mind and also our 
 body by some kind of recreation. St. John the Evangelist, 
 says Cassian, was found one day by a hunter, holding a 
 partridge on his wrist, which he amused himself by caressing. 
 The hunter asked him why, being a man of such worth, he 
 passed his time in things so low and contemptible. St. John 
 said to him, *'Why do you not carry your, bow always 
 strung ?" "For fear," replied the hunter, "that being always 
 stretched, it should lose the power of being bent when it is 
 wanted." " Do not be astonished, then," replied the apostle, 
 "if I sometimes relax a little of the fixedness and applica- 
 tion of my mind, to take a little recreation, in order that I 
 may afterwards give myself with greater energy to contem- 
 plation." 
 
78 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 It is doubtless a mistake to be so harsh, wild, and savage, 
 that one will neither take care of oneself, nor permit others 
 any kind of recreation. 
 
 To take the air, to walk, to converse with pleasant and 
 amiable familiarity, to play on the lute, or any other instru- 
 ment — to sing, to hunt. — these are such innocent amusements 
 that, to use them well, one has need only of common pru- 
 dence, which gives to everything order, time, place, and 
 measure. 
 
 The games which serve to renew the powers and industry 
 of the body and mind — as the games of raquets, ball, pell- 
 mell, running at the ring, chess, and tables — are recreations 
 in themselves good and permissible. It is only necessary 
 to guard against excess, whether as to the time which one 
 spends on them, or in the price which they cost us ; for if 
 one spends too much time on them, it is no longer recreation, 
 but occupation : one neither strengthens the mind nor body ; 
 on the contrary, one weakens and exhausts them. Having 
 played for five or six hours at chess, on going out one is 
 quite spent, and weary in mind. To play for a long time 
 at raquets, is not to recreate the body, but to exhaust it ; 
 and if the prize, that is to say what one plays for, is too 
 high, the affection of the players becomes weakened ; and 
 besides that, it is unjust to put a high prize on talents and 
 industry of so little importance and so little use, as are 
 talents for games. But above all, take care, Philotheus, not 
 to fix your attention on all these things ; because, however 
 innocent a recreation may be, it is an error to set your heart 
 and affections on it. I do not say that one ought not to 
 take pleasure in playing while one plays ; for otherwise one 
 would not refresh oneself by it ; but I say, that one ought 
 not to set one's affections on it, as an object of desire, or 
 solace, or anxiety. 
 
 Games of dominoes, of cards, and such like, in which the 
 gain depends chiefly on hazard, are not, like dancing, only 
 dangerous recreations, but they are simply and naturally 
 bad and blameable ; that is why they are forbidden as well 
 
ST. FRANCOIS DE SALES. 79 
 
 by the civil as ecclesiastical laws. But what is the great 
 harm in them, do you say to me ? The gain is not made in 
 these games according"^ to right, but according to the luck, 
 which often falls on those who have deserved nothing for 
 talents or industry. But we have agreed to that, you will 
 say to me ? That is sufficient to show that he who gains, 
 does no wrong to the other ; but it does not follow that the 
 agreement was not wrong, and the game also ; for the gain 
 which ought to be the prize of industry, is made the prize 
 of a luck which deserves no reward, since it in no way de- 
 pends upon ourselves. 
 
 Besides that, these games bear the name of recreations, 
 and are made for that, and nevertheless they are violent 
 occupations. For is it not like business, to keep the mind 
 bound and stretched by a constant attention, and agitated 
 by perpetual anxieties, fears, and apprehensions } 
 
 Can there be attention more sad, more gloomy, and 
 melancholy than that of gamesters ? That is why one must 
 not speak over the game, one must not laugh, one must not 
 cough, or they are exceedingly angry. 
 
 Lastly, there is no joy in gaming unless one gains ; and 
 this joy — is it not unrighteous, since it cannot be, but by the 
 loss and grief of a companion ? This rejoicing is certainly 
 infamous. For these three reasons gaming is forbidden. 
 The great king, St. Louis, knowing that the Count of Anjou, 
 his brother, and Messire Gautier de Nemours were gambling, 
 got up, ill as he was, and went all tottering to their room, 
 and there took the cards, the dominoes, and some of the 
 money, and threw them out of window into the sea, blaming 
 them severely. 
 
 BALLS AND PASTIMES LAWFUL, BUT DANGEROUS. 
 
 Dances and balls are things indifferent in their nature, but, 
 according to the ordinary way in which this exercise is 
 managed, it greatly disposes people and inclines them to 
 the side of evil, and, in consequence, is full of danger and 
 
So HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 peril. They are held at night ; and in the darkness and 
 obscurity, it is easy to introduce many dark and vicious 
 circumstances into an amusement that is very capable of 
 evil. They make people sit up very late, and then the 
 mornings of the following days are lost, and, in consequence^ 
 the means of serving God in the same. In a word, it is 
 always folly to change day into night, light into darkness, 
 good works into wanton action^. Everybody goes to the 
 ball full of vanity and envy, and vanity has so great a tendency 
 to bad passions, and to hurtful and improper affections, that 
 dances easily produce everything of that kind. 
 
 I talk of dances to you, Philotheus, as the doctors talk of 
 mushrooms and toadstools ; the best are not worth anything, 
 they say, and I say that the best balls are worth very little ; 
 if, however, you must eat mushrooms, take care they are 
 well prepared. If it happen that you cannot well excuse 
 yourself, and are obliged to go to a ball, take care that you 
 are well prepared for your dance. But how must it be done ? 
 With modesty, dignity, and good resolves. Eat little of 
 them and eat seldom (say the doctors of mushrooms) ; for, 
 however well prepared they may be, any quantity may act as 
 poison. Dance little and dance seldom, Philotheus; for if you 
 do otherwise, you put yourself in danger of getting to like it. 
 
 Mushrooms, according to Pliny, being spongy and porous, 
 as they are, easily attract all the poison around them ; 
 so that, when near serpents, they imbibe their venom r 
 balls, dances, and such dark assemblies, attract generally 
 the vices and sins that prevail in a place ; the quarrels, 
 envyings, the follies, the foolish loves. And as these ex- 
 ercises open the pores of the body in those who use them, 
 so they open the pores of the heart. By means of which, if 
 some serpent comes to whisper in the ear some wanton 
 word — some foolish, coaxing word — or that some basilisk 
 comes and casts immodest looks and glances of love, hearts 
 are very easily possessed with them, and poisoned. 
 
 O Philotheus, these silly recreations are generally danger- 
 ous; they destroy the spirit of devotion, weaken the strength. 
 
ST. FRANCOIS DE SALES. 8 1 
 
 chill the love, and awaken in the soul a thousand kinds of 
 evil affections : that is why they must be used with great 
 prudence. 
 
 But, especially, they say that, after mushrooms, you must 
 drink precious wine. And I say that, after dances, you 
 need holy and good thoughts, to counteract the dangerous 
 impressions that the vain pleasure you have received may 
 have given to your mind. But what thoughts ? 
 
 1. While you were at the ball, many souls were burning 
 in the fire of hell, for sins committed at the dance, or be- 
 cause of dancing. 
 
 2. Many devout men were at the same hour before God, 
 singing His praises, and contemplating His glory. Oh, 
 how much more happily their time has been employed than 
 yours ! 
 
 3. While you have been dancing, many people have died 
 in great agony ; thousands and thousands of men and 
 women have been suffering great pain in their beds, in hos- 
 pitals, and streets. Alas ! they have had no rest : will you 
 not have pity on them ? And do you not think that one 
 day you will be groaning as they are, whilst others will 
 be dancing as you have been doing } 
 
 4. Our Lord, the saints, and angels have seen you at the 
 ball : ah ! how they have pitied you, seeing your heart 
 amused with so great a folly, and caring for such trifling. 
 
 5. Alas! while you were there, time has been passing, 
 Death approaching ; see how she mocks you, and how she 
 calls you to her dance, at which the groans of your neigh- 
 bours will serve for a violin, and in which you will make 
 but one turn from life to death. This dance is the true 
 pastime for mortals ; since by it we pass, in a moment, from 
 time into an eternity, either of blessedness or woe. I men- 
 tion these few considerations, but God will teach you many 
 more, if you fear Him. 
 
BALZAC. 
 
 Jean Louis Guez de Balzac was born at Angouleme in 1594. 
 His father was a knight, in the service of the Duke of Epernon, and 
 the promise of the protection of this powerful nobleman seemed to open 
 to Balzac the prospect of a brilliant future. At the age of sixteen he 
 was sent to Holland to complete his education under the learned 
 Baudius, but, during the greater part of his sojourn in that country, he 
 seems to have studied pleasure rather than books. While there, how- 
 ever, he published his first work, a declamation in favour of independ- 
 ence and reform, entitled Disco^ws Politique cPun Ge7itiniovime Fra?icais. 
 In 161 8 he returned to France, and in the following year took part in 
 the chivalrous enterprise that delivered Marie de Medicis from her 
 prison at Loches. Two years after he went to Rome, and remained 
 there long enough to write the greater number of the letters that were 
 afterwards published and made his name so famous. He was one of 
 the first members of the French Academy. He wrote Le Prince^ 
 LJAristipe, Le Socrate Clwetien^ and Dissertations Morales et Chre- 
 tiennes, besides several volumes of Letters. The following passage is 
 taken from the Dissertations. 
 
 ON RETIREMENT. 
 
 He does me too much honour, the excellent man and 
 noble lord of whom you speak, to put my company among 
 the number of his desires, and to wish that Balzac were 
 nearer Orleans. If it were, I should be a great gainer. I 
 should draw from the society that you propose to me, on 
 his part, not only advice and example, but also strength 
 and courage. In the place where I am, reverend father, I 
 am reduced to feed on my own juices. I have no converse 
 but with our old friends, the classics. It is true, they are 
 very good company ; but they are always the same, and 
 only say this year what they said last. To make my studies 
 lively, I should want a very lively library ; and conversation 
 
BALZAC. 83 
 
 fails me here as leisure fails me elsewhere. I think I have 
 written this before, and there is no harm in repeating it to- 
 day. Solitude is certainly a fine thing ; but there is plea- 
 sure in having some one who can answer, from time to 
 time, that it is a good thing. You guess very well the de- 
 sign of my preface. You see what I am coming to ; my 
 mind seeks you, reverend father ; my solitude has need of 
 you. Not feeling myself worthy of the advantages that this 
 excellent man, and altogether great lord, offers me, I have 
 not cared to accept them. It is enough that he speaks good 
 of me ; it would be too much if he did good to me ; and 
 the wealth at his disposal not being of any use to me, I look 
 to you only for what I want. In truth, in conscience, the 
 voyage to St. Mesmin is the sweetest of my hopes. I sigh 
 after the possession of that lodging on the river, the plan of 
 which you have sent me, and which you may build for me. 
 But let us understand each other well, I pray you. I give 
 you warning, that while I am between the Loire and the 
 Loiret, I shall call myself, if you please, in that country, 
 neither Balzac, nor Narcissus, nor Aminto. I shall neither 
 take nor receive any other nom de guerre that might make 
 me known. My intention is not to give reputation to my 
 retreat ; that would be to wish to be hidden with eclat. I 
 shall not hide myself in order that I may be sought aften 
 While with you, I must be a secret between you and me, 
 and an enigma for the rest of the world. Do you remember 
 this article of our treaty, for it is essential. I willingly re- 
 nounce the reputation that the world gives, for the rest that 
 the world disturbs. "Oblitus vivorum, obliviscendus et 
 illis." That is to say, in common language, that being of 
 those who are dead to the world, I wish to be dead out and 
 out, and that visits and letters, couriers and the newspapers, 
 should not come to resuscitate me. 
 
 The ambassador Justinian has spoken to you, in former 
 times, of that enchanted castle, where the poet Bernia, and 
 the cook, Master Peter, were such good company for each 
 other. He has told you about their exercises and their 
 
 6—2 
 
84 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 occupations. He has not forgotten the description of that 
 admirable bed, twelve yards broad, in which the poet bathed, 
 as in the open sea. 
 
 This castle was one day noticed with envy by the greatest 
 courtier of France, and it had been shown to him and to 
 me by the Marquis de Frangipane. There, as you know, 
 the calendar was not received : they recognised neither 
 work-days nor festivals ; they had neither beginning nor 
 end of weeks ; no bell nor clock was heard ; the valets had 
 express orders never to bring good or bad news. As for 
 the bells, it would not be very easy to impose silence on 
 them, since their sound has its use in the Church, and forms 
 part of the external worship of religion. Besides, to tell 
 you the truth, I do not get on badly with them ; for when 
 men are asleep, and nobody awake but me and the stars, 
 they serve as company for me, as well as my lamp and 
 portfolio. Let us allow your bells to ring then as much as 
 they like, and do not let us spoil your belfry by a change 
 that Avould be noticed, and might be suspected of heresy. 
 
 Really, if you wish to please me, you will put under a 
 ban everything that calls itself an account, gazette, an ordi- 
 nary, or an extraordinary, &c. I esteem M. Renaudot 
 greatly, and I made a eulogy on him a long time ago ; but, 
 since Plato has chased Homer from his republic, after having 
 crowned him with flowers and watered him with perfumes, 
 M. Renaudot ought not to think it too bad if, for considera- 
 tions that are favourable to our repose, and are not disad- 
 vantageous to his eloquence, we shut our doors upon him, 
 with every kind of civility — I mean, after having said of 
 him that he is the most eloquent historian of all modern 
 writers, that France owes to him in part her great reputa- 
 tion ; that if she lost him, she would have much trouble in 
 filling his place. 
 
 You have written some admirable things on this subject. 
 Our friend from Poitou would say, that the god Mercury, 
 or the goddess Pytho, had dictated them to you. As for 
 me, I will only say, that if your discourses are more eloquent 
 
BALZAC. 85 
 
 than mine, my words come no less from the heart than 
 yours do. I am persuaded of all the dogmas of your doc- 
 trine ; my soul is full of your maxims ; and, consequently, 
 you ought- not to believe that, when I preach after you, I 
 do not declaim about the contempt of the world, the vanity 
 of earthly things, on the excellent text, " Hide your life." 
 
 When I have any people and any auditors about me, I 
 cry with all my might, " Let us leave the towns, let us go 
 and live in the country ; not only to make sure of rest, but 
 also to make sure of our salvation. Let us seek Jesus 
 Christ in the way that He Himself has directed us. He did 
 not say that He was the gold of the palace and the purple 
 of the court ; He said that He was the flower of the field 
 and the lily of the valley. Happy are those who gather 
 that divine flower in the fields of Saint Mesmin, who make 
 bouquets and garlands of it, who crown themselves with 
 Jesus Christ, whom the Litanies of His Name call the crown 
 of all the saints." 
 
MAROLLES. 
 
 Michel de Marolles was born at Marolles in Touraine, in 1600, 
 and died at Paris in 1681. His father was captain of the Swiss body- 
 guard and a determined Leaguer ; but he was early destined for the 
 Church, and the Abbey of Baugerais was obtained for him before he 
 had cornpleted his ninth year. He studied at Paris, where, in course 
 of time, the extent of his learning and the amiability of his character 
 caused his friendship to be sought by many of the most learned men 
 of that period. He was a most prolific writer, but the greater number 
 of his works have fallen into oblivion. His Memoir es contain many 
 curious and interesting facts about his contemporaries, and are still 
 worthy of being read. He obtained the Abbey of Villeloin in 1626 
 with a rich endowment. 
 
 THE COUNTRY UNDER HENRY IV. 
 
 I RECALL with singular pleasure the beauty of the country 
 at that time ; it seems to me that it was more fertile then, 
 than it has ever been since ; that the meadows were more 
 verdant then than they are now, and that our trees had 
 more fruit. There was nothing so sweet as to hear the 
 warbHng of the birds, the lowing of the oxen, and the 
 songs of the shepherds. The cattle were led safely to the 
 fields, and the labourers ploughed the fields to cast in the corn 
 that the tax-gatherer and soldiers had not ravaged. They 
 had their pieces of furniture and their needful food, and 
 slept in their beds. When the time of harvest came, it was 
 pleasant to see the numbers of reapers bending down side 
 by side, laying bare the fields, and in return heaping up the 
 bundles of corn which afterwards the strongest among 
 them tied up, whilst others loaded carts with the sheaves, 
 and the children who were guarding the flocks at a little 
 distance gleaned the ears^that a ^pretended forgetfulness 
 
MAROLLES. Sy 
 
 had left to please them. The strong village girls reaped as 
 well as the boys ; and the work of all was interrupted from 
 time to time by a rustic repast under the shade of a service- 
 tree or a pear-tree, the branches of which, loaded, with fruit, 
 hung down within their reach. When, about six o'clock in 
 the evening, the heat of the sun's rays began to grow less, 
 we were taken out to walk in the harvest fields, and very 
 often my mother came there herself, having always my 
 sisters and some of my aunts with her. 
 
 They all went to sit down in some pretty spot, whence 
 they liked to watch the reaping, whilst we children, having 
 no need of rest, went to join the reapers, and, taking their 
 sickles, tried even to cut the wheat as they did. 
 
 After the harvest, the peasants fixed a day to meet 
 together, and have a little feast, the oison de wdtire (a pro- 
 vincial expression) ; to this they invited not only their 
 friends but even their masters, who delighted them ex- 
 tremely if they took the trouble to go. 
 
 When the good people gave a wedding feast to their 
 children, it was a pleasure to notice the preparations, for, 
 besides the fine clothes of the bride, which were no less than 
 a red gown and a head-dress of embroidery of tinsel and 
 glass pearls, the relatives would be dressed in their well- 
 plaited blue gowns which they had taken from their chests, 
 perfumed with lavender, dried roses, and rosemary ; I say 
 men as well as women, for so they called the full cloak 
 that they put on their shoulders, having a high straight 
 collar, like that of the cloak worn by some orders of monks ; 
 and the peasant women, their hair well dressed, appeared in 
 their bodices of two colours. The wedding favours were 
 not forgotten ; each would wear one in his belt, or on the 
 top of his sleeve. There would be a concert of bag-pipes, 
 flutes, and hautboys, and after a sumptuous banquet the 
 rustic dance would last till the evening. No one complained 
 of excessive imposts ; every one paid the tax with cheer- 
 fulness, and I never remember having heard it said then 
 that soldiers, in passing through a parish, had been guilty 
 
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 of pillaging, much less had laid entire provinces waste, as 
 has been seen only too often since, thanks to the violence 
 of the enemy. 
 
 Such was the end of the reign of the good Henry IV. — 
 the end of much good, and the beginning of an infinite 
 number of evils, when an enraged fury took away the life of 
 this great prince. 
 
LENET. 
 
 Pierre Lenet, the French historian and diplomatist, was born at 
 Dijon, and became Attorney-general to the Parliament of that place in 
 1 641. For many years his family had been devoted to the house of 
 Conde ; and when the war of the Fronde broke out and the Prince of 
 Conde declared for the Queen and Mazarin, Lenet followed in his 
 steps, and held an important office at Paris during the siege of that 
 city. He withdrew from public life, however, when the rupture be- 
 tween his patron and Mazarin took place, as he did not wish to join 
 any of the factions formed against the royal authority ; but when he 
 heard that the Prince of Conde, his brother the Prince of Conti, and 
 the Duke of Longueville had been arrested, he went to Paris and find- 
 ing the prince's party there utterly discouraged, repaired to Chantilly in 
 time to manage the flight of the Princess of Conde and her son to 
 Montrond. From thence they went to Bordeaux, which, after consi- 
 derable resistance and in spite of all his efforts, submitted to the royal 
 army in 1653. Lenet represented the Prince of Conde at the Con- 
 ference of the Pyrenees, and defended the interests of his patron with 
 much ability. After the peace, he returned to Paris, and was received 
 at Court and sent on an embassy to Switzerland. He died in 1671. 
 He wrote the Memoir es contenant VHistoire des Guerres Civiles des 
 Annees 1649 et stnvantes, principalemejit celles de Guienne. These 
 Memoirs are diffuse and badly arranged, but they are valuable docu- 
 ments for the historian, as the writings of a man who was an eye-wit- 
 ness of all the events that he described. 
 
 THE FLIGHT OF THE PRINCESS OF CONDE AND HER 
 SON TO MONTROND. 
 
 On Monday, April the nth, 1650, the princess dowager 
 received notice from different places that six companies of 
 the Swiss guard had set out with two others of light horse 
 belonging to the regiment of Mespas, which had left Sois- 
 sons to come and occupy the passages of the river Oise, 
 Le Presy, Creil, Pont-Sainte-Maxence, and also the posts 
 
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 of Senlis and Luzarches. Each one reasoned in his way 
 about this march ; some said that the affection Mespas 
 had shown to the Prince of Conde had caused him to be 
 distrusted, and obHged the Cardinal Mazarin to send him 
 to Anjou, and that they sent the Swiss towards the fron- 
 tier, on the movement of a corps of the Spanish army 
 which was appearing in Artois, and was threatening Arras 
 with a surprise. The others thought, and with reason, that 
 these troops, which were crossing each other, and coming into 
 the same country from different sides, could not be for any 
 other purpose than to invest Chantilly, or to hinder the 
 communication that the princesses could have with the 
 duchess of Longueville and the Viscount of Turenne ; or 
 to deprive them of the means of giving and receiving 
 news from Paris, whence they obtained the advice of their 
 servants and friends about their mode of proceedings. 
 At last, after having heard both sides speak, ^he princess 
 dowager sent to discover the truth of this warning on the 
 very spot ; which having been confirmed to her about 
 mid-day, she assembled, after dinner, in the room of the 
 Duchess of Chatillon, all those in whom she had any 
 confidence, to decide, according to their advice, upon 
 measures that she would put into execution when and how 
 she judged proper. Opinions were divided on the reason 
 of the prompt arrival of these troops, but all agreed in 
 saying that there was no longer any safety in that place 
 for the princesses, and less still for the Duke of Enghien, 
 who was the only one who might one day avenge the un- 
 just detention of the prince, his father, on those who had 
 recommended that measure to the queen ; that they might 
 even from that time make him the head of a party, to 
 render the warlike preparations of Turenne more plausible, 
 and to put him at the head of those Avho might form it in 
 the kingdom in order to give a more specious name, and 
 even to do away with the jealousy that might arise, be- 
 tween the great lords who would join it, about the com- 
 mand ; and that the sooner they could make him cross 
 
LENET. 91 
 
 into Berri the better. I supported this opinion strongly, 
 with the knowledge I had of what was projected between 
 the Dukes of Bouillon and La Rochefoucauld ; and I 
 thought that the young prince and the princesses could 
 not be better than at Montrond, which is a strong place, 
 and could be only taken by a long siege ; which we did 
 not apprehend at a season so near the opening of the cam- 
 paign. 
 
 Montrond, which is situated in the heart of the kingdom, 
 has always seemed to me the best adapted to influence 
 the movements of Poitou and Guienne ; and when I was 
 talking about it, the young princess interupted me, and 
 said that she had neither the age nor experience necessary 
 to give an opinion ; that she would like in everything to 
 defer to the opinion of her mother-in-law ; that she would 
 beg her very humbly not to separate her from her son, 
 whatever might happen; that she would follow him joy- 
 fully everywhere, to whatever danger he might be exposed, 
 and that she would risk anything for the service of the 
 prince, her husband. The princess dowager praised her 
 very much for her zeal, thanking her for it, and told her, 
 with tears in her eyes, that they would put into execution, 
 at the right time and place, all that had just been proposed 
 about the journey to Montrond; and as they both had 
 only one and the same design of saving, in the person of 
 the young prince, all that remained of the ruins of their 
 house, and the relics of their wreck, so both would share 
 the same fate ; that both would try to shelter themselves 
 from the oppression of their persecutor, and to educate 
 their son in the fear of God, and in the service of the 
 king. 
 
 Soon after, about five o'clock in the evening, Blanchefort, 
 a gentleman of virtue and known fidelity, came to assure 
 the princess dowager that the Marquis of Montespan, who 
 has since had himself called the Duke of Bellegarde, had 
 assured him that he was quite disposed to pass into Guienne 
 to serve the princes, and had confirmed all that the Arch- 
 
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 bishop of Sens, brother of this marquis, had said to me 
 several times at Paris. Blanchefort added, that some days 
 before he had seen a gentleman courier of the king's pass 
 through Sens to go to Dijon ; that he did not know his 
 name, and that he had just met him on the high road 
 through the forest, and had told him that he was coming to 
 see the princesses, without choosing to explain to him the 
 cause of his journey ; that this made him rather suspicious, 
 and the more so as he had found troops at Luzarches. This 
 new warning revived the suspicions that we had had all day ; 
 and when the dowager princess informed the Duchess of 
 Chatillon and myself what Blanchefort had told her, we 
 neither of us doubted that this man was the bearer of some 
 order from the king to remove, put under guard, or arrest 
 the princesses and the duke. And when at the same instant 
 Dalmas came to tell her that this unknown gentleman, 
 who was a king's courier, was named Du Vouldy, and had 
 letters from his Majesty for both the princesses, we advised 
 the dowager to throw herself on her bed, to feign illness, 
 and to say to this envoy whatever she thought was likely 
 to retard the execution of the order that he brought her. 
 I went quickly to the apartment of the young princess, who 
 was in bed with a bad feverish cold. I made her get up 
 quickly, and put in her place Mademoiselle Gerbier, a young 
 English girl, and one of her maids of honour, as I shall tell 
 more at length, and took her into the room of the princess, 
 her mother-in-law ; where, being hidden behind the bed 
 with the Duchess of Chatillon, Du Vouldy having been 
 introduced, we heard her, after having read the letter of 
 which he was the bearer, tell him that she was neither 
 young enough nor well enough to set out so hastily on such 
 a journey as that which the king, or he who persecuted her 
 under the name of his Majesty, ordered her to make ; that 
 she would write to my lord the Duke of Orleans, who was 
 at Paris, to obtain a little time to get equipped : and that, 
 as for himself, he might go and give to the princess, her 
 daughter-in-law, the letter Avith which he was charged. 
 
LENET. 93 
 
 might walk about or rest himself ; in a word, do whatever 
 he liked best. 
 
 He passed then to the room of the young princess ; he 
 was admitted and introduced to Mademoiselle Gerbier, who 
 had taken her mistress's place, as I have just said, and 
 imitated her so perfectly, that her tone, ■ her manner of 
 speaking, the reproaches and the complaints that she made 
 against the queen and cardinal, and her feigned tears, 
 deceived Du Vouldy very well, not only on that day, but 
 for all the rest of the week, so that, as some report was 
 going about at Paris of the flight of the princess, he wrote 
 every day to Paris, and to the Cardinal in Burgundy, that 
 lie could answer for the contrary, and that he saw her at 
 every hour of the day. They took him afterwards to pay 
 his respects to the Duke of Enghien, whom he asked to 
 see, or rather I should say to the gardener's son, a boy 
 seven years old, of the same age as the duke, whom I had 
 ordered to wear the duke's dress from the moment Blanche- 
 fort arrived ; and as Du Vouldy found this little boy with 
 his governess and the women, and all those who were 
 appointed to wait on the duke, he did not doubt that it was 
 he. They conducted him then to the fine walks of Chantilly, 
 and then to his room ; they kept him entertained while the 
 princesses took counsel with the ladies of Chatillon, de 
 Tourville, de Bourgnen, with the Lords Dalliez, Abbe 
 Roquette, Girard, La Roussiere, de Tury, Dalmas, Vialard, 
 and myself 
 
 They began by putting the king's letters into my hand. 
 I read them twice ; their substance was, that his Majesty, 
 judging their sojourn at Chantilly prejudicial to his affairs, 
 had resolved that they should go into the province of Berri 
 with the Duke of Enghien and the children of the Duke 
 de Longueville, the care and management of whom his 
 Majesty left to the princess dowager ; that Sieur Du Vouldy 
 would conduct them by the road he had appointed, with 
 orders not to leave them. As I saw that all the company 
 were prepared with long speeches, I interrupted the second 
 
94 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 Speaker, and said that the circumstances which had preceded 
 and accompanied this despatch made me believe that the 
 design of the Cardinal Mazarin was not only to seize the 
 persons of the duke and the princesses, jDut also the fortress 
 of Montrond, which was regarded with jealousy on account 
 of its situation on the confines of Berri, Bourbonois, Niver- 
 nois. La Marche, Limousin, and Poitou, as being a place 
 suited to keep all the provinces in check, by exacting large 
 contributions, by means of which the tallage and gabel 
 might be lost to the king, and enough money obtained to 
 support any party that might be formed, and also suited 
 to command the passages into Burgundy and into Guienne^ 
 a province in which the disposition of men's minds and 
 diverse interest threatened great storms : and that by 
 having the princes and princesses escorted by the troops 
 that surrounded Chantilly, they might make themselves 
 masters with greater facility of that important place, well 
 fortified by art and nature, and furnished for the most part 
 with everything necessary for its preservation ; that there 
 they might preserve the remnant of that oppressed house^ 
 and that thus I could see nothing to be done in such a con- 
 juncture, but to rescue with all speed the persons of the 
 Duke of Enghien and the princess, his mother, which had 
 been proposed a few hours before. The princess dowager 
 interrupted me, and asked me in a harsh tone, whither I 
 was going to lead them. "To Montrond, Madam," I 
 replied : " and I undertake to conduct them there in all 
 safety, if it pleases Messieurs de Tury and La Roussiere, 
 who know the country, to be of the party." For which 
 duty they offered themselves with a very good grace. The 
 princess replied with anger, that I wanted to have them all 
 taken prisoners. "We are so now. Madam," I replied; 
 " and if they stop us on the way, nothing worse can happen 
 to us than has happened." 
 
 Everybody applauded what I said ; and the princess 
 having ordered me to continue my discourse, I added, that 
 if we did not execute this design under shelter of the 
 
LENET. 95 
 
 night, we should lose the opportunity,^ and might never 
 have another ; that my lady the princess, her mother, not 
 being, as she had expressed very strongly to Du Vouldy a 
 little time before, of a constitution to perform the journey 
 the king had ordered her to make, much less would she be 
 fit for one so precipitate and unforeseen as the one that I 
 proposed ; that she should entertain Du Vouldy all the next 
 day to give time for the enterprise ; that it was greatly to 
 be desired that all -the house should have but one common 
 lot, as she had said that same day, and that it might be 
 possible not to separate hef daughter-in-law and her grand- 
 son from her ; but that no man of good sense could advise 
 them to expose a princess of her age and of such import- 
 ance to her house, to the accidents of such an unforeseen 
 march, for that in trying to save everybody, they might 
 ruin everybody ; and that at least, if she did not remain 
 to do her part while her daughter-in-law and her servants 
 did theirs, she would run the risk of seeing all her house 
 make shipwreck in the vessel she wished to guide. Then I 
 made her remember that in the plan I had persuaded her 
 to consent to of going to Montrond in the proper time 
 and place, she knew very well that it was resolved that she 
 should, before undertaking this journey, hurry to Paris to 
 present to parliament the petition that I had drawn up ; 
 that after our flight she might execute this same design ; 
 and that with the assistance of the friends of her house, 
 and the compassion that this redoubled persecution would 
 excite, she might move the people, and the parliament even, 
 not to allow the declaration of 1648, which had been 
 obtained^ with so much difficulty, to be violated any more. 
 I added, that there were a number of negotiations con- 
 nected with the court, the parliament, and the provinces, 
 among the people and with the Frondeurs, from which we 
 could hope for no result if this princess did not remain to 
 conduct them. At last, she suddenly allowed herself to be 
 persuaded, made up her mind to do what was proposed, 
 and told us that she would willingly expose herself not only 
 
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 to be confined in her own house, or to be carried off with 
 violence by the men-at-arms who surrounded her, but even 
 to the rigours of the strictest imprisonment, to contribute 
 in any way to the liberty of her children ; that she would 
 determine, with the help of God and her friends, on what 
 she should do for the safety of her house. I doubted, how- 
 ever, very much, knowing her disposition, if she would do 
 it. However, each one followed his own idea ; and after 
 having given his opinion as to the way of executing it, 
 some advised to take the mother and son by different roads, 
 others were of opinion that it should be on horseback, others 
 in a carriage, some through one country and others through 
 another. It was at last resolved to set out all together for 
 Montrond. 
 
 The princess had prepared a chest, filled with a gold 
 
 service, to fasten behind the carriage ; but those who 
 
 managed the equipage thought they had a more precious 
 
 treasure to save, and that it would not do to risk losing 
 
 this through the w^eight of that. She gave us some jewels 
 
 of little value, and to me a watch that she drew from her 
 
 side, where she wore it, saying to me, in a ^ very obliging 
 
 way, that she begged me to remember her, and that she 
 
 confided to me, in the person of the young duke, what was 
 
 dearest to her on earth. The young princess gave all her 
 
 jewels into the care of the Lady of Jourville, and those of 
 
 the Marshal de Breze, her father, who had died a short 
 
 time before, in the castle of Saumur ; and after the ladies 
 
 had embraced each other, and shed many tears at parting — 
 
 after the young prince had received all the flattering 
 
 words, blessings, and caresses that his tender age, the sad 
 
 journey he was going to make, his gentle temper, and the 
 
 agreeable way in which they had dressed him up like a 
 
 girl, drew upon him, — and when all those who were present 
 
 had embraced those who were going with exceeding tears 
 
 and lamentations, the journey w^as begun and continued 
 
 in this manner. 
 
 We sent a carriage and two horses, with harness for four 
 
LENET. 97 
 
 other horses in it, to the entrance of the forest, and four 
 horses we had sent out as if they were being taken to water ; 
 and they passed on towards the carriage. The princess and 
 the duke, with the ladies de Tourville, de Gouville, and de 
 Changrand, came out by the gardens, and went on foot to 
 the appointed place. Bourdelot, now Abbe du Masse, a 
 celebrated physician, to whom, on account of his knowledge 
 and good qualities, the prince had entrusted the care of his 
 son's early studies, followed him everywhere in this journey. 
 La Roussi^re went also with Fleury and Vialard to the 
 place where the carriage was. The latter carried the young 
 prince in his arms to save him, in case of an attack in the 
 forest. The ladies got into the carriage. Girard, Chapizeaux, 
 and I, in order not to raise suspicion by too great an escort, 
 took the road to the right that I have spoken of, with all 
 the valets. We set out about eleven o'clock in the evening, 
 and reached Paris, by the Saint Denis gate, at the same 
 time as the princess at that of St. Martin ; and we all met 
 again, at four o'clock in the morning, at the Saint Victor 
 gate. We sent to get a set of the princess's horses at the 
 Hotel de Conde, which joined us at Juvisy, and served us 
 for relays. We walked always two and two, in sight of 
 one another, at the necessary distance to observe the 
 carriage. We lodged at different hotels, as if we did not 
 know each other. Madame de Tourville called herself 
 Madame de la Vallee, and all that were in the carriage 
 seemed to be her family. We arrived, at four o'clock in 
 the evening, at Augerville la Riviere, the house of the 
 President Perrault, who was a prisoner with the princes. 
 I thought I should find his horses there, and then pass on 
 ten leagues further ; but I found they had been sold, con- 
 trary to the orders that I had given at the time that I first 
 conceived the idea of taking the princesses from Chantilly 
 to Montrond. We were then constrained to spend a 
 night there, and set out again the next day, the 13th of the 
 month. 
 
 We went to Choisy-aux-Loges, a house belonging to 
 
 7 
 
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 Bellegarde, of whom we have spoken, and he was not 
 there. I went to see his wife, whom I would not allow to 
 receive the princess at her house, in order not to injure her 
 husband ; but we agreed that she should go and pay her 
 respects to her at a hermitage on the road, where she 
 offered everything, and even to follow her. She gave her 
 a relay of horses, which helped us much. We crossed the 
 Loire at Sully ; and as the princess crossed in a little boat, 
 it was necessary to w^ait some time till the carriage and 
 horses were got across. The people collected together on the 
 bank, at the sight of such a great equipage. We all sat down 
 on the rocks there, as if we were all equal ; and in order to 
 remove all suspicion of the princess's rank, she even sat on 
 my knee. When all at once, a valet of the Duke of Sully 
 calHng me by name, I could not help turning my head ; 
 and having told him that he took me for another person, 
 he said that he knew me very well, and wished to say a 
 word to me ; and having drawn me aside, told me that he 
 knew the princess very well, although she wore a mask, and 
 was dressed in a common gown. He named all the suite 
 to me, and added, that he saw very well we were making 
 our escape ; that he offered me, on behalf of his master, 
 who was a very humble sei-vant of the prince and of all 
 his house, a retreat in his castle, and 18,000 francs that he 
 had received from his lands. I told the princess about it 
 directly, who thanked him warmly, and drew from her 
 finger a ring, which she gave him, without accepting any 
 of his offers. I had, however, rather a wish to take some 
 money, of which we had great need, for all our finances 
 were reduced to about 500 pistoles that the princess had, 
 and 20,000 francs that I had partly borrowed, and partly 
 obtained by selling some plate. This day we got as far 
 as Argent, in Berri, belonging to the Sieur de Clermont, 
 an old servant of the prince, and father-in-law to Mautour, 
 Governor of Montrond. This knight, who gave the 
 princess and all her suite a good reception, sent his carriage 
 horses four leagues for relays, to a castle in sight of 
 
LENET. 99 
 
 Bourges, belonging to the Sieur de Rhodes, where she 
 dined, changed horses, and sent the horses back to Madame 
 de Bellegarde, with a letter of thanks ; then went on and 
 reached Montrond that same day, the 14th of the month, 
 about midnight. 
 
 7—2 
 
GUY PATIN. 
 
 from Beauvais. It was his parents' wish that he should go to the 
 bar, or enter the Church, but he resolved to follow out the preference 
 that the nature of his mind led him to give to the study of medicine ; 
 and as his father's circumstances did not allow him to afford his son 
 much assistance during the years in which he was preparing for his 
 chosen profession, he sought and obtained work in a printer's office. 
 In 1627, he received the degree of doctor, and in the following year 
 married a lady whose fortune made him independent, and set him 
 free to continue his studies without interruption. In 1654, he was 
 made professor at the College of France. He soon began to be con- 
 sidered one of the first physicians of the capital, and his fame spread, 
 not only throughout France, but into foreign lands. It is not, however, 
 so much for his acquirements as a physician that he is now cele- 
 brated, as for his Letters, which he never intended should be published. 
 These Letters furnish a picture of the history of medicine for fifty- 
 six years, and give the reader some insight into the state of literature 
 and society during that period. He died in 1672. " Guy Patin," says 
 Vigneul Marvelle, " was satirical from head to foot. His great memory 
 supplied him with subjects to talk about, and he talked much. He 
 was bold, rash, and inconsiderate, but simple and naif in his ex- 
 pressions." 
 
 THE KING OF THE MARKETS. 
 
 They talk of nothing here but the Duke of Beaufort, to 
 whom the Parisians, and especially all the women, are 
 extremely devoted. When he was playing at tennis four 
 days ago in a tennis-court of the Marais du Temple, the 
 greater number of the market women went in groups to 
 watch him play, and to wish him success. As they made 
 a noise in coming in, and the people of the house com- 
 

 THE DUKE OF BEAUFORT AND THE MARKET WOMEN. 
 
1! ESTABLISHED 1875. | 
 
GUY PATIN. 10 1 
 
 plained of it, he was obliged to leave the game, and come 
 himself to the door to put an end to the affray, which he 
 was not able to do without allowing these women to enter 
 in small -parties, a few at a time, to see him play ; and 
 perceiving that one of these women looked at him kindly, 
 he said to her, " Well, my good woman, you wanted to 
 come in : what pleasure can you have in seeing me play 
 and lose my money ?" She answered immediately, " Lord 
 Beaufort, play boldly ; you shall not be in want of money. 
 Here am I and my gossip ; we have brought two hundred 
 crowns, and, if more is wanted, I am ready to go back and 
 fetch as much again." All the other women began to cry 
 out, too, that they had money at his service, for which he 
 thanked them. He was visited that day by more than two 
 thousand women. Two days after, passing near Saint 
 Eustache, a group of women began to call out to him, ''Sir, 
 do not consent to a marriage with Mazarin's niece, whatever 
 M. de Vendome may do or say. If he abandon you, you 
 shall want for nothing ; we will give you every year a 
 pension of 60,000 livres in the market." He has said 
 plainly, that if they persecuted him at court he would go 
 for safety and lodge in the middle of the markets, w^here 
 more than 20,000 men would guard him. 
 
 This assemblage has caused more amusement than fear ; 
 but something much worse occurred. This prince, thirty- 
 two years old, being overheated, drank some wine and 
 beer, and suffered great pain in his back, and while it 
 lasted, he vomited several times. As soon as this was 
 known in Paris, the people thought he had been poisoned 
 by order of Mazarin. His house was filled immediately with 
 an immense number of men and women : even his father, 
 M. de Vendome, who was sitting by, thought there was 
 poison in the case ; and upon the doctors assuring him 
 there was not, warned them that they ought to look more 
 closely into it ; that this poison was Italian, and that the 
 Italians were finer poisoners than the French. But at last 
 he was cured, and the Italians were cleared from suspicion. 
 
102 HALF-HOURS WltH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 THE RETURN OF THE QUEEN, ANNE OF AUSTRIA, 
 TO PARIS. 
 
 At last the queen has returned to Paris, and has brought 
 back the king, at the instigation of the two princes of the 
 blood, who have obliged her to do so, although she did not 
 at all approve of it, and Mazarin still less. The king 
 arrived here on Wednesday, the i8th of this month, in a 
 large carriage that was very full. There were with him, 
 among others, the Duke of Anjou, the Duke of Orleans, 
 the Prince of Conde, and Mazarin, who was so ashamed 
 that he hid himself, and you could hardly see him. There 
 were also the queen, the Duchess of Orleans, Mademoiselle 
 and the Princess Dowager of Conde, and, some say. Marshal 
 Villeroi. Several of the town companies went before him, 
 and he made his entrance by the Rue St. Denis, went all 
 along the street as far as Les Innocents, then entered the 
 Rue de la Ferronnerie (where the late King Henry IV. 
 was killed), and passing all down the Rue St. Honore, 
 entered the Palais Cardinal ; and all this journey was made 
 amid the loudest acclamations of the people, and the 
 greatest rejoicing possible. I, who am speaking to you, 
 and who naturally hate ceremonies and great assemblies, 
 noticing the great noise there was in the town, and that 
 every one took part in the rejoicings, went too, and saw the 
 greatest number of all sorts of people that I ever beheld. 
 The queen said in the evening, at the supper in the Palais 
 Cardinal, that she could never have thought that the people 
 of Paris had loved the king so much. 
 
 That same evening, the Duke of Beaufort went to salute 
 the king and queen, whom he had not seen since he left the 
 wood of Vincennes ; but he did not see Mazarin. Never- 
 theless, by the agreement that M. de Vendome, his father, 
 had made for him with the queen, he has agreed and pro- 
 mised that he will go and see Mazarin when the queen 
 chooses to command him. 
 
GUY PATIN. 103 
 
 On the next day, Thursday, August 19th, all the orders 
 and companies of the town came to salute and compliment 
 the queen on her return, and for having brought the king 
 back to Paris. The coadjutor (who had made his peace a 
 month before, and had travelled to Compiegne expressly 
 for that purpose) delivered an address to her in the name 
 of the clergy ; the first president for the parliament ; M. de 
 Nicolai, first president of the chamber of accounts, for his 
 company; M. Amelot, first president of the courts of excise, 
 for his ; the civic lieutenant, for the Chatelet ; the provost 
 of the merchants and sheriffs, for the town-hall. The speech 
 of this last has been much praised ; but has been especially 
 noticed and greatly admired by all who heard it. M. de 
 Nicolai made a very good speech to the queen, about her 
 regency, and the laws of good government ; he showed her 
 how, at all times, the troubles of kings have only been in 
 consequence of the bad counsels that ignorant and interested 
 advisers have given them. 
 
 The same man that heard all the speeches, said that 
 Mazarin was only present at some of them, and that he is 
 very sad, pale, and thin. Whatever he may be, it is a cer- 
 tain thing that it was quite in spite of him that the king 
 and queen have returned to Paris, and that he would have 
 hindered it if he could. He is the object of public hatred, 
 and is in the way to become as miserable as the Marquis of 
 Ancre could ever have been. Three days before his arrival 
 he tried again all he could at Compiegne to hinder the return, 
 and had gained over the queen ; but the two princes over- 
 threw all his designs, and he was only too happy to have a 
 place in the king's carriage, in quo uno he was safe. Varia 
 de illo circumferentur de qidbus dies diem docebit. They say 
 the princes only keep him in order to devour him shortly, 
 and that they bear with him, as God bears with sin, only in 
 order to punish him. Whatever it may be, the gallows are 
 waiting for the poor wretch, and he believes he will not 
 escape ; sooner or later it will happen to him. I would 
 rather be the poor master of arts that I am — yes, even if 
 
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 condemned to bread and water, provided I might be in my 
 study, than be Mazarin, and the author of as many evils as"* 
 this unhappy minister. — Pari-S, August 20tk, 1649. 
 
 I wrote to you on the 20th of August, to tell you about 
 the king's return to this town ; about which there was, and 
 still is, great rejoicing. I will tell you that, since his arrival, 
 the king has been on horseback through the Rue de Saint 
 Honore and Saint Antoine, to the Jesuits, on St. Louis's 
 day, accompanied by several nobles of the court, all on 
 horseback, and, among others, the princes of Conde and 
 Conti, Chevreuse and d'Elbeuf. There was more shouting 
 and rejoicing at the king showing himself thus than I can 
 describe. The queen begins to go to mass again on Satur- 
 day at Notre Dame, taking the king in her carriage, to 
 make the people continue their rejoicings. The cardinal, 
 Mazarin, is here hidden in the king and queen's house, shut 
 up as usual in the cabinet, and less in danger of being sur- 
 prised or seized by the great number of enemies that he 
 has, both at court and elsewhere, than he would be at Fon- 
 tainebleau ; where he would be obliged to go out for a walk 
 or to hunt sometimes, for company and amusement, when 
 he would be always compelled to trust himself to the fidelity 
 of the courtiers, which is a bad security, so long as the king 
 is here. A general peace is not talked of any more, but 
 only with Aix and Bordeaux, where the poor people suffer 
 greatly, and get no help, through the tyranny of the gover- 
 nors of these two provinces,, which yet Mazarin does not 
 put a stop to ; and this makes me doubt the worth and 
 sincerity of his intentions, and it is what he ought to do in 
 order to make himself liked ; since he neither has nor will 
 have, for a long^ time, the means of making himself feared, 
 as he has been able to do hitherto. — PARIS, September '^dy 
 1649. 
 
MADEMOISELLE SCUDERY. 
 
 Madeleine de Scudery was bom at Havre, in the year 1607. As 
 soon as her education was finished, she went to Paris, where her ac- 
 quaintance was sought by many illustrious persons and distinguished 
 writers. The Marchioness of Rambouillet admitted her to a circle 
 whose decisions on matters of taste were regarded, for a long time, as 
 sovereign decrees. The lengthy novels of Gomberville were then in 
 fashion, and, in the hope of repairing her shattered fortune. Made- 
 moiselle Scudery began to write her many-volumed romances ; and, 
 though neither the matter nor manner of these novels possesses much 
 attraction for the modern reader, they were greatly admired at the time 
 when they first appeared, and obtained for their author the title of 
 " The Tenth Muse." She died at the age of ninety-four, in 1701. She 
 wrote Cyrus, Ibrahim^ Clelie, Conversations de Morale, and other 
 works. 
 
 A FETE ON THE LAKE OF GENEVA. 
 
 Picture to yourself a lake of such vast extent that it seems 
 almost a little sea, but a peaceful sea which has neither 
 waves nor motion, and where the wind only forms the little 
 curling ripples which never threaten shipwreck : and then 
 imagine that you see a grand and beautiful landscape by 
 the Tigre (the Rhone), which, coming impetuously to throw 
 itself into this lake, crosses it as I have already said, pre- 
 serving at the same time all its natural pride, so that, in the 
 middle of this peaceful and sleeping water, you see this 
 gushing and leaping river, whose waves, rolling one over 
 another precipitately, issue from the lake into a meadow 
 near the spot where the town of Alfine (Geneva) is built. 
 The colour even of these two waters is so different that it 
 is plain they do not mix. But what renders this object 
 more beautiful is, that at the two points where the river 
 
I06 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 enters and leaves the lake two magnificent pavilions have 
 been built, in order that the wonderful passage of this river 
 may be seen more conveniently — that so beautiful an object 
 may be viewed more agreeably. But to return to where I 
 was : I shall tell you that when the company arrived at the 
 border of the lake, on the side of Alfine, they found thirty 
 little barks painted and gilded, with magnificent awnings 
 to shelter the ladies from the sun, and carpets and cushions 
 to sit upon. So that, as each boat could hold seven or eight 
 persons besides those who managed it, there would be in 
 each a large number enough to prevent ennui. When these 
 thirty little barks were filled, and this pretty, pleasant, and 
 agreeable fleet had begun to row over this beautiful lake, 
 which had hardly any motion but that raised by the oars, 
 it formed the most agreeable sight in the world. But be- 
 sides these thirty little barks intended for the guests, there 
 were others in which there were only musicians, who with a 
 half-rural and half-maritime melody banished silence from 
 this peaceful lake, mingling their voices with the pleasant 
 murmur that the oars made as they struck the water, and 
 with the sound of a little fresh wind, that tempered the heat 
 and fluttered the awning. 
 
 Besides these there were others intended for fishing in 
 the river, and others, too, intended for fishing in the lake, 
 in order that it might be really seen that the fish that are 
 caught in the one are not caught in the other, although the 
 river goes through the lake. In fact, we noticed this wonder 
 without being able to question it ; for our little fleet going 
 sometimes on the lake, and sometimes on the Tigre, we saw 
 nets full of difi"erent fish drawn in, more than twenty tipies, 
 without ever finding one of the lake fish in the nets they 
 had cast into the river, or those of the river fish in the nets 
 they had thrown into the lake ; although it was done at 
 such a very little distance that it was almost incredible that 
 the thing could be as we saw it. 
 
 But what was very pleasant was, that we could be as we 
 wished, sometimes in the calm, and sometimes in the storm ; 
 
-. mi* 
 
 
 fJ^j<V\^^' 
 
 
 
 A FETE ON THE LAKE OF GENEVA. 
 
MADEMOISELLE SCUDERY. 10/ 
 
 for when we sailed about on the lake, the motion was so 
 imperceptible, that it was rather gliding than sailing, but, 
 when we passed from the lake into the current of the river, 
 we felt the same tossing agitation as if we had been on the 
 sea, so nobody remained there so long as on the lake, where 
 sailing was safer and pleasanter. However, there was no 
 one who had not the curiosity to go on both, and who did 
 not wish to try the calmness of the one, and the agitation 
 of the other. But at last, after all the boats had passed 
 and repassed one another, so that they had crossed one an- 
 other's paths in hundreds of ways, and had talked from 
 bark to bark, they began to row towards the magnificent 
 pavilion which had been built at the spot where the Tigre 
 throws itself into the lake of Arethuse. 
 
LA ROCHEFOUCAULD. 
 
 Francois VL, Duke of La Rochefoucauld and Prince de Marsillac, 
 was born in 1613, and died in 1680. In 1632, his father, having been 
 concerned in the revolt of Gaston d'Orleans, was banished to Blois, 
 and, as he was himself suspected of forming designs against Richelieu, 
 he was included in his father's disgrace. He took an active part in the 
 war of the Fronde, and in many of the plots and intrigues of that time. 
 During the latter part of his life he enjoyed the favour of Louis XIV. 
 He wrote Mejnoires siir les Brigues a la Mori de Louis XIII., Les 
 Guerre s de Paris et de Guyenne, et la Guerre des Princes^ and Les Re- 
 flexions, ou Sentences et Maximes Morales. 
 
 MAXIMS. 
 
 We cannot answer for our courage when we have never 
 been in danger. 
 
 Self-love is cleverer than the cleverest of men. 
 
 We all have strength enough to bear another's ills. 
 
 Greater virtues are needed to bear good fortune than bad. 
 
 If we had no faults, we should not take so much pleasure 
 in noticing the faults of other people. 
 
 Whatever discoveries we may have made in the regions 
 of self-love, there still remain many unknown lands. 
 
 Philosophy triumphs easily over past evils and evils to 
 come, but present evils triumph over philosophy. 
 
 Interest, which blinds some, gives light to others. 
 
LA ROCHEFOUCAULD. IO9 
 
 One is never so happy nor so unhappy as one imagines. 
 
 Everybody complains of his memory, nobody of his 
 judgment. . 
 
 Great names lower instead of elevate those who know 
 not how to sustain them. 
 
 There is nothing men give so liberally as their advice. 
 
 It is easier to be wise for other people than for oneself 
 
 As it is the characteristic of great minds to say much in 
 few words, so, on the contrary, little minds have the gift of 
 speaking much and saying little. 
 
 If we do not flatter ourselves, the flattery of others will 
 not hurt us. 
 
 The defects of the soul are like wounds in the body : 
 however much care we may take to cure them, the scar 
 always shows, and they are in danger of opening again at 
 any moment. 
 
 Hypocrisy is the homage that vice pays to virtue. 
 
 True eloquence consists in saying all that is needed, and 
 nothing more. 
 
 Aflected simplicity is a delicate imposture. 
 
 Few people know how to be old. 
 
 There's no fool like the old fool. 
 
 A man whom nobody pleases is much more unhappy 
 than one who pleases nobody. 
 
 We easily forget our faults when they are known only to 
 ourselves. 
 
PAUL SCARRON. 
 
 Paul Scarron was descended from a noble family ; but left his home 
 in early life in consequence of disputes with his step-mother, who 
 seems to have endeavoured to get the greater share of the property 
 settled on her own children. He travelled about France and Italy, and 
 gave himself up so madly to the pursuit of pleasure, that he utterly 
 ruined his health, and became, as he says himself, " an epitome of 
 human misery." After his father's death, he became entangled in a 
 lawsuit about the inheritance with his step-mother, who gained the 
 cause, and he was reduced to the necessity of writing for a livelihood. 
 It was Httle trouble to him to compose verses and witty tales, and his 
 burlesque comedies very soon made him popular ; his house became 
 the resort of men of wit, who were diverted by his bon-mots. He ob- 
 tained an introduction to the Queen, Anne of Austria, and asked per- 
 mission to be appointed " her sick man {inalade) in right of office." 
 This novel request was granted, and a pension was attached to the 
 place. In 1652, he became acquainted with Mademoiselle d'Aubigny, 
 afterwards Madame de Maintenon, and finally wife to Louis XIV., who 
 was at this time in circumstances of great poverty and distress. Scarron 
 pitied her ; and although at this time he was such a cripple that it is 
 said the only movements he could make were with his hands, tongue, 
 and eyes, offered to marry her or to pay her dower if she liked to be- 
 come a nun. She chose the former lot, and became his wife. Scarron 
 died in 1660. He wrote VEcolier de Salamaiigue, VEneide iravestie, 
 and Le Roman Comique. 
 
 INTRODUCTION TO THE "COMIC ROMANCE." 
 
 Reader, you who have never seen me, and who perhaps 
 trouble yourself very little about me — for there is not much 
 to be gained by seeing a person made like me — know that 
 I should not be anxious that you should see me, if I had 
 not learned that some facetious wits make themselves merry 
 at the expense of my misfortunes, and depict me as quite 
 different from what I am. Some say that I am a cripple in 
 
SCARRON. 
 
PAUL SCARRON. Ill 
 
 a bowl ; others, that I have no thighs, and that I am put on 
 the table in a box, where I chatter like a winking magpie ; 
 and others, that my hat is fastened to a cord that's attached 
 to a pulley, and that I raise and lower it to salute those who 
 come to see me. I think I ought in conscience to prevent 
 them from telling any more lies .... without pretending 
 to make a present to the public (for as to their ladyships, 
 the Nine Muses, I have never hoped that my head would 
 be the original for a medal). I would have had myself well 
 painted, if any painter had dared to undertake it. In de- 
 fault of the painting, I intend to tell you as nearly as I can 
 what sort of a fellow I am. 
 
 I have left thirty years behind me. If I get to forty, I 
 shall add many pains to those I have already suffered for 
 eight or nine years. I have had a good figure, though short. 
 My illness has shortened it by a good foot. My head is 
 rather large for my height. I have a pretty full face for my 
 very meagre' body ; hair enough not to need a wig ; I have 
 many white ones in spite of the proverb ; pretty good 
 sight, though my eyes are rather large : they are blue ; one 
 is more deeply set than the other, on the side that I bend 
 my head. I have a nose of tolerably good shape. My 
 teeth, which used to be squares of pearl, are of the colour 
 of wood, and will soon be the colour of slate. I have lost 
 one and a half on the left side, and two and a half on the 
 right, and two are a little chipped. My legs and my thighs 
 formed at first an obtuse angle, and then a right angle, and 
 at last an acute angle. My thighs and my body made 
 another ; and my head bending down on my chest, I am 
 pretty much like a Z. My arms are shortened as well as 
 my legs, and my fingers as well as my arms. In fact, I am 
 an epitome of human misery. That's pretty nearly how I 
 look. 
 
 Since I am in such a fair way, I will tell you something 
 of my temper. Besides, this introduction is written just to 
 make the book bigger, at the request of the bookseller, who 
 is afraid he will not get back the expenses of printing, but 
 
112 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 for that it would be of no use, just like a good many others. 
 But it is no new thing to commit folly out of good nature, 
 besides those that one does on one's own account. 
 
 I have always been rather passionate, rather fond of good 
 things, and rather idle. I often call my valet a fool, and 
 soon after, Sir. I hate nobody ; God send they may treat 
 me the same. I am very comfortable when I have any 
 money, and should be still more comfortable if I had my 
 health. I enjoy myself very well in company. I am very 
 well content when I am alone. I bear my troubles pretty 
 patiently. 
 
 But it seems to me that my introduction is long enough, 
 and that it is time to make an end. 
 
CARDINAL DE RETZ. 
 
 Jean Francois Paul de Gondi, Cardinal de Retz, was born in 
 Montmirail in 1614, and in 1643 was appointed coadjutor to his uncle, 
 the Archbishop of Paris. For this position he was utterly unfitted, 
 being a man of unscrupulous character, and of a turbulent and in- 
 triguing disposition. He took a conspicuous part in the wars of the 
 Fronde, but at length made his peace with Mazarin, by whose 
 influence he was created a cardinal. Continuing, however, to cabal 
 against the government, he was imprisoned first at Vincennes and 
 afterwards at Nantes. From the latter place he contrived to escape ; 
 and, after wandering through Italy, Holland, Flanders, and England, 
 he returned to France in 1661. Becoming again reconciled to the 
 Court, he was appointed to the Abbey of St. Denis, where he spent 
 the last years of his life in quietness. 
 
 The following passage is taken from his Memoirs. He wrote also a 
 Histo7y of the Co7ispiracy of Count Fiesco. 
 
 RICHELIEU AND MAZARIN. 
 
 Cardinal de Richelieu was of good birth. In his 
 youth he showed signs of future merit. He distinguished 
 himself at the Sorbonne, and it was early remarked that he 
 possessed strength and vivacity of mind. Fie generally 
 chose his side. very well. He was a man of his word, when 
 any great interest did not force him to be otherwise ; and, 
 in that case, he never forgot anything by which he might 
 preserve the appearance of good faith. He was not Hberal, 
 but he gave more than he promised, and he seasoned his 
 gifts admirably. He loved glory much more than is con- 
 sistent with morality, but it must be admitted that he did 
 not abuse the licence which he gave to his excessive am- 
 bition, beyond the proportion of his merit. He had neither 
 mind nor heart above danger, nor yet did they sink beneath 
 
 8 
 
114 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 it ; and it may be said, that he prevented more danger by 
 hi^ wisdom than he surmounted by his firmness. 
 
 He was a good friend — he even wished to be loved by 
 the pubhc ; but, although he had good manners, a pleasing 
 exterior, and other qualities likely to produce that effect, 
 he never had that indescribable* something which is more 
 necessary than anything else. He eclipsed by his power 
 and royal pomp the personal majesty of the king ; but he 
 performed all the functions of royalty with so much dignity, 
 that it was only those who were above the vulgar that 
 could see what was good and what evil in this case. He 
 distinguished more judiciously than the mere man of the 
 world between bad and worse, between good and better ; 
 which is a great quality in a minister. He became too 
 easily impatient about the little things which were steps to 
 great things ; but this defect, which arises from elevation 
 of mind, is always united to a clearness of understanding 
 which makes up for it. 
 
 He had enough religion for this world. He did right 
 either from inclination or from good sense, except when his 
 interest led him to do wrong ; and then he knew perfectly 
 that he was doing wrong, even while he did it. He only 
 considered the good of the state for his own lifetime ; and 
 yet no minister ever took more pains to have it believed 
 that he was ruling for the future. Lastly it must be con- 
 fessed that all his vices were those which can only be 
 brought into use by means of great virtues. 
 
 You can easily imagine, that a man who had such great 
 qualities, and so much appearance, too, of those which he 
 did not possess, easily preserved for himself in the world 
 that sort of respect which separates contempt from hatred, 
 and which in a state that has no longer any laws, makes up 
 for the want of them — at least, for a time. 
 
 The character of Cardinal Mazarin was just the reverse. 
 His birth was low, and his childhood one of shame. On 
 leaving the Coliseum, he learnt to cheat, by which he 
 earned a beating from a goldsmith of Rome, named Moreto. 
 He became a captain of infantry at Velteline; and Bagni, 
 
CARDINAL DE RETZ. II5 
 
 who was his general, has told me, that he passed, in the war, 
 which only lasted three months, for nothing better than a 
 sharper. He gained the office of nuncio extraordinary in 
 France through the favour of Cardinal Antonio Barberini, 
 which office was never gained at that time by fair means. 
 He pleased Chavigni by his licentious Italian stories, and 
 through Chavigni he pleased Richelieu, who made him 
 Cardinal in the same spirit as that which impelled Augustus 
 to leave the succession to the empire to Tiberius. The 
 purple did not hinder him from remaining a servant under 
 Richelieu. The queen having chosen him — for want of 
 another, it is true, let people say what they will — he 
 appeared, at first, as the original of Trivelino principe. 
 Fortune having dazzled him and every one else, he set 
 himself up, and was set up by others, for a Richelieu, but 
 he gained by it only the impudence of imitation. He pro- 
 cured to himself by shame all that the latter had procured 
 by honour. He laughed at religion. He promised every- 
 thing, because he never meant to keep his word. He was 
 neither gentle nor cruel, because he remembered neither 
 benefits nor injuries. He loved himself too much, which is 
 natural to cowardly souls : he feared himself too little, 
 which is the character of those who do not care about thfeir 
 reputation. He foresaw evil well enough, because he was 
 often frightened ; but he did not as readily supply a 
 remedy, because he was not so prudent as fearful. He 
 possessed wit, insinuation, gaiety, and good manners, but 
 his base heart appeared through everything, and to that 
 degree,^ that these qualities seemed in adversity quite 
 ridiculous ; and even in prosperity did not quite lose an 
 appearance of imposture. He carried the tricks of a 
 sharper into the ministry, w^hich he alone has ever done, 
 and these tricks made the ministry, even when it was happy 
 and prosperous, to appear unbecoming, and caused con- 
 tempt to step in, which is the most dangerous malady of a, 
 state, and the contagion of which spreads most easily and 
 quickly from the head to the members. 
 
 8—2 
 
PASCAL. 
 
 Blaise Pascal, one of the greatest writers of the seventeenth century, 
 was born at Clermont Ferrand in 1623, and from his very infancy 
 showed remarkable capacity. His father having forbidden him to 
 study mathematics till he knew Latin and Greek, was astonished one 
 day to find that his son, then only twelve years old, had discovered 
 many of the propositions of Euchd for himself, though he had never 
 seen the book and was unacquainted with mathematical terms. At 
 the age of sixteen he wrote a Ti^aite des Coniqiies^ which astonished 
 Descartes himself; but it was never printed. He continued these 
 studies till the age of twenty-three, when he determined to renounce 
 them that he might devote himself entirely to the service of God, He 
 spent the latter years of his life in the retirement of Port Royal, and 
 during this period wrote his Pensees and Lettres Provinciales. These 
 famous letters contain a satirical exposure of the system of the Jesuits, 
 as exhibited in their controversy with the Jansenists, whose cause 
 Pascal had espoused. 
 
 During nearly the whole of his life he suffered from almost constant 
 illness ; and from the age of eighteen never passed a day without pain. 
 He died in 1662, at the age of thirty-nine. 
 
 His two treatises on L! Eqiiilib7'e des Lzgiieurs and on La Pesanteur 
 de la Masse de VAir were printed after his death. 
 
 The following passage is taken from the Lettres Provinciales. 
 
 CALUMNY. 
 
 I WILL not only show that your writings are full of 
 calumnies, I will do more. One may say many false 
 things, believing them to be true, but the character of a 
 liar presupposes the intention of lying. I will make it 
 clear then, fathers, that your intention is to lie and calum- 
 niate, and that it is knowingly and with design that you 
 charge your enemies with crimes of which you know them 
 
PASCAL. 117 
 
 to be innocent, because you think you can do it without 
 falHng from a state of grace. And although you know, as 
 well as I do, this point of your morality, I will not omit 
 speaking of it to you, in order that none may have any 
 doubt about it when they see that I address myself to you, 
 in order to bring the charge home to your very selves, 
 while you cannot have the assurance to deny it, without, by 
 that very denial, confirming the charge that I bring against 
 you ; for it is a doctrine so common in your schools, that 
 you have maintained it, not only in your books, but also in 
 your public theses (the greatest audacity) ; as, among 
 others, in your theses of Louvain, of the year 1645, in these 
 terms : — " It is only a venial sin to calumniate and charge 
 with false crimes, in order to ruin the credit of those who 
 speak evil of us." " Quidni non nisi veniale sit detrahentis 
 auctoritatem magnam, tibi noxiam, falso crimine elidere." 
 And this doctrine is so common among you, that whoever 
 dares attack it, you treat as ignorant and rash. 
 
 This has recently been proved by Father Ouiroga, a 
 German Capuchin, when he opposed it ; for your Father 
 Dicastillus took it up at once, and he speaks of this dispute 
 in these terms, De Just, i, 2, tr. 2, dispute 12, n. 404 : — "A 
 certain grave monk, barefooted and cowled — cucidlattts gym- 
 nopoda — whom I do not name — had the boldness to cry 
 down this opinion among women and ignorant people, and 
 to say that it was pernicious and scandalous, contrary to 
 the peace of states and of society, and, in fact, not only 
 contrary to all orthodox doctors, but to all who are ortho- 
 dox ; but I have maintained, and I still maintain, that 
 calumny, when employed against a calumniator, although it 
 may be a lie, is not a mortal sin, neither is it contrary to 
 justice or charity; and to prove it, I furnished him with our 
 fathers, en masse, and with whole universities composed of 
 them, whom I have consulted ; and among others, the reve- 
 rend Father Jean Gans, confessor to the Emperor ; the 
 reverend Father Daniel Bastele, confessor to the Archduke 
 Leopold ; Father Henry, who was the preceptor of these 
 
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 two princes ; all the public and ordinary professors of the 
 University of Vienna (all composed of Jesuits) ; all the 
 professors of the University of Gratz (all Jesuits) ; all the 
 professors of the University of Prague (of which the mas- 
 ters are Jesuits) ; of all of whom I have in my hand the 
 approbation of m}^ opinion, written and signed with their 
 own hands ; besides which, I have also, on my side the 
 Father de Pennalossa, a Jesuit and preacher to the Emperor 
 and to the King of Spain ; Father Pillicerolli, a Jesuit ; 
 and many others, who judged this opinion probable before 
 our dispute." You see clearly, fathers, that there are few 
 opinions which you have taken so much trouble to establish,, 
 as there are few of which you stand in so much need. And 
 this is the reason why you have so thoroughly authorized 
 it, that your casuists make use of it as an indubitable 
 principle. 
 
 O abominable theology ! a theology so corrupt that, if ac- 
 cording to its maxims, it were not probable and safe in con- 
 science to calumniate without crime,, in order to preserve 
 one's honour, there would be hardly one of its decisions 
 that is sure ! How probable it seems, fathers, that those 
 who hold the principle should sometimes put it into prac- 
 tice ! The corrupt inclination of men leads to it with so 
 much impetuosity, that it is incredible that when the ob- 
 stacle of conscience is taken away it will not spread itself 
 with all its natural vehemence. Do you wish for an 
 example of it } Caramuel shall give it. " This maxim," 
 says he, " of Father Dicastillus having been taught by the 
 Countess of Germany to the daughters of the Empress, the 
 belief that they would only sin venially by making use of 
 calumny gave rise to so much in a few days, and to so 
 many slanders and false reports, that it set all the Court in 
 a blaze and in alarm ; so that they were obliged to call for 
 a good Capuchin friar of exemplary life, named Father 
 Quiroga (it was about this that Father Dicastillus quar- 
 relled so much), who declared that this maxim was very 
 pernicious, especially among women, and he took particular 
 
PASCAL. 119 
 
 care to get the Empress to abolish the use of it altogether." 
 One ought not to be surprised at the bad effects that this 
 doctrine caused. It would be marvellous, indeed, if it did 
 not produce that licence. Self-love persuades us easily 
 enough that we are attacked unjustly, and you particularly, 
 fathers, whom vanity blinds in such a way that you v/ould 
 have it believed in all your writings, that to injure the 
 honour of your Society is to injure that of the Church. 
 And thus, fathers, it would seem strange if you did not 
 put this maxim into practice, for we can no longer say as 
 those do, who do not know you : How could these good 
 fathers wish to calumniate their enemies, since they could 
 only do it by the loss of their salvation ? But we must 
 rather say : How could these good fathers be willing to 
 lose the advantage of crying down their enemies, since they 
 can do it without risking their salvation ? Let no one then 
 be astonished to see Jesuits calumniators, since they are so 
 with a safe conscience ; and nothing can prevent their being 
 so, since from the credit which they have in the world they 
 can calumniate without fearing the justice of men, and, ac- 
 cording to that which they have put forth on cases of con- 
 science, they have established maxims to enable them to 
 do it without fearing the justice of God. 
 
 This, fathers, is the source whence so many black impos- 
 tures spring. This it is that has made your Father Brisa- 
 cier circulate so many, until at last he has brought down 
 upon himself the censure of the late Archbishop of Paris. 
 ... It was on this same principle that your Father Crasset 
 preached so many impostures in Orleans, that the Bishop 
 of Orleans was obliged to interdict him as a public im- 
 postor, by his injunction of the 9th of last September, in 
 which he declares, " that he forbids brother John Crasset, 
 a priest of the Society of Jesus, to preach in his diocese, 
 and forbids his people to listen to him, on pain of being 
 held guilty of mortal disobedience ; since he has learnt 
 that the said John Crasset had delivered a sermon from 
 he pulpit full of falsehoods and calumnies against the 
 
120 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 ecclesiastics of that town, stating maliciously that they 
 maintain these heretical and impious propositions- — that the 
 commandments of God are impossible ; that no one ever 
 resists inward grace ; that Jesus Christ did not die for all 
 men ; and other like propositions, which have been con- 
 demned by Innocent X." This, fathers, is your usual im- 
 posture, and the first with which you reproach those whom 
 you wish to cry down. And, although it may be as im- 
 possible for you to prove that this is so, as for Father 
 Crasset to prove his point about the ecclesiastics of Orleans, 
 your conscience nevertheless rests at ease ; " because you 
 believe that this manner of calumniating those who attack 
 you is so certainly allowed," that you do not fear to de- 
 clare it publicly, and in face of the whole town. 
 
 The quarrel that you had with M. Puys, cure of St. 
 Nisier at Lyons, is a signal proof of this ; and as this 
 story is a good illustration of your spirit, I will relate the 
 principal circumstances of it. You know, fathers, that in 
 1649, M. Puys translated into French an excellent book by 
 another Capuchin father, " about the duty of Christians to 
 their parish, and against those who dissuade them from it," 
 without making use of any invective, and without designa- 
 ting any monk or any particular order. Your fathers, how- 
 ever, took it to themselves, and, without any respect for an 
 old pastor, a judge in the Primacy of France, and honoured 
 by the whole town, your Father Alby put forth a furious 
 book against him, which you yourselves sold in your own 
 church on the day of the Assumption, in which he accused 
 him of several things, and, among others, of having made 
 himself scandalous by his gallantries ; of being suspected 
 of impiety, of being a heretic, excommunicated, and in fact 
 only fit for the flames. M. Puys replied to the charge, and 
 Father Alby sustained his first accusations by a second 
 book. Is it not true, then, that you are either calumniators, 
 or else that you believed all that of the good priest ; and 
 thus it behoved you to clear him of these errors before you 
 could judge him worthy of your friendship ? Listen then to 
 
PASCAL. 121 
 
 what passed in the reconciliation that was made in the 
 presence of a large number of the principal persons in the 
 town. . . . M. Puys did nothing but declare " that what 
 he had written was not addressed to the Jesuit fathers, 
 that he had spoken in general terms against those who draw 
 away the faithful from their own parishes, without having 
 thought of attacking the Society, and that on the contrary 
 he honoured and loved it." By these words alone he cleared 
 himself of his apostasy, of his scandals, and of his excom- 
 munication, without retracting and without absolution, and 
 Father Alby then said to him these precise words : " Sir, 
 the belief which I had, that you were attacking the Society 
 to which I have the honour to belong, made me take up my 
 pen to reply, and I believed that the way I have made use 
 of it was allowable. But knowing your intention better, I 
 I rise to declare to you, that there is now nothing which can 
 hinder me from considering you a man of talent, highly 
 enlightened, of profound and orthodox doctrines, and of 
 irreproachable morals. This is a declaration that I most 
 joyfully make, and I beg these gentlemen to remember 
 it." 
 
 They have remembered it, fathers, and they were more 
 scandalised by the reconciliation than by the quarrel, for 
 who could help admiring this speech of Father Alby ? He 
 did not say he came to retract, because he had discovered 
 a change in the manners and doctrine of M. Puys, but 
 merely, "because, knowing that his intention was not to 
 attack your Society, there was no longer anything to pre- 
 vent him from reckoning him orthodox." He did not really 
 then think he was a heretic. And nevertheless, after having 
 accused him against his own conscience, he does not declare 
 that he was wrong, but, on the contrary, dares to say, that 
 he believed that the manner that he has made use of was 
 allowable. 
 
 What are you thinking of, fathers, to testify thus publicly 
 that you only measure the faith and virtue of men by the 
 feelings which they may have for your Society ? How is 
 
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 it that you do not apprehend being counted, from your 
 own confession, as impostors and calumniators ? What ! 
 fathers, is the same man, "pious or impious, irreproach- 
 able or excommunicated, a worthy pastor of the Church, 
 or fit for the flames, orthodox or heretical," merely accord- 
 ing to whether you believe he honours your Society or 
 attacks it, without any change taking place in the man 
 himself? This is an amusing kind of heresy, fathers ; and 
 so, when one sees in your writings so many orthodox 
 persons called heretics, it only means "that you believe 
 them to be attacking you." It is good to understand this 
 strange language, according to which, without doubt, I am 
 a great heretic. It is in this sense that you give me the 
 name so often. You cut me off from the Church only be- 
 cause you think my letters do you harm, and there is, 
 therefore, no w^ay for me to become orthodox, except by 
 my approving the excesses of your morality, which I could 
 not do without giving up all feeling of piety, or else by 
 persuading 3'-ou that I only seek your true good ; and you 
 must have returned considerably from your errors before 
 yon could see that. Thus I find myself strangely involved 
 in heresy : since the purity of my faith being useless to get 
 me out of this kind of error, I only become orthodox either 
 by betraying my conscience or reforming yours. There- 
 fore I shall always remain a wicked man and an impostor ; 
 and, however faithful I may have been in quoting passages 
 from your authors, you will cry out everywhere, " That he 
 must be an instrument of the devil to impute to you things of 
 which there is no trace or vestige in your books ;" and you 
 will in that be doing nothing but what is quite conformable 
 to your maxim and to your ordinary practice, so extensive 
 is the privilege which you possess for lying. 
 
MADAME DE SEVIGNE. 
 
 Marie de Rabutin-Chantal, daughter of the Baron de Chantal^ 
 was born at Paris in 1626. Having been left an orphan at an early 
 age, she was brought up with great care by her uncle, the Abbe de 
 Coulanges. At the age of eighteen she married the Marquis de 
 Sevigne, who was killed in a duel, and from the time of his death 
 Madame de Sevigne devoted herself entirely to the education of her 
 two children. In 1669 her daughter, having married the Count de 
 Grignan, Governor of Provence, was obliged to leave her mother, and 
 it is to her that the greater number of Madame de Sevigne's admirable 
 Letters are addressed. She died in i6q6. 
 
 TO MADAME DE GRIGNAN. 
 
 Paris, Wednesday, Nov. 22d, 1679. 
 
 You will be much surprised and much vexed, my dear 
 child. M. de Pomponne is disgraced : on Saturday evening, 
 as he was returning from Pomponne, he received the order 
 to give up his office. The king had settled that he should 
 have seven hundred thousand francs, and that the pension 
 of twenty thousand francs that he had as minister should 
 be continued to him. His Majesty wished to show by this 
 arrangement that he was satisfied about his fidelity. It 
 was M. Colbert who paid him this compliment, assuring 
 him that he was " in despair at being obliged," &c. M. de 
 Pomponne asked if he could not have the honour of 
 speaking with the king, and learning from his mouth the 
 fault that had drawn down this thunder-clap. He was told 
 that he could not ; so he wrote to the king to express his 
 great grief, and his ignorance of anything that could have 
 
124 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 contributed to his disgrace : he spoke of his numerous 
 family, and begged him to consider his eight children. He 
 ordered horses to be put to his carriage at once ; he re- 
 turned to Paris, where he arrived at midnight. M. de 
 Pomponne was not one of those ministers on whom a dis- 
 grace falls very seasonably, to teach them what they have 
 almost all forgotten, that they are human : fortune had only 
 employed his virtues for the happiness of others ; he was 
 loved, for this reason above all, that he was infinitely 
 honoured. We had been to Pomponne, as I told you, on 
 Friday — M. de Chaulnes, Caumartin, and I : we saw him 
 and the ladies, who received us very gaily. We chatted all 
 the evening, we played at chess ; oh ! what a check-mate 
 was preparing for him at Saint Germain ! He went from 
 there the next morning because a courier was waiting 
 for him : so that M. Colbert, who thought he should find 
 him on Saturday evening as usual, learning that he had 
 gone straight to Saint Germain, retraced his steps, and 
 thought he should over-ride his horses. As for us^ we did 
 did not set out from Pomponne till after dinner ; we left 
 the ladies there, Madame de Vins having charged me with 
 a thousand messages for you. It was necessary, then, to 
 tell them these sad news : this was done by one of M. de 
 Pomponne's valets, who went into Madame de Vins's 
 room at nine o'clock on Sunday : this was such an extraor- 
 dinary thing for him to do, and he looked so excessively 
 altered, that Madame de Vins absolutely thought that he 
 was going to tell her that M. de Pomponne was dead, so 
 that, when she knew he was only disgraced, she began to 
 breathe again ; but she was very sensible of her trouble 
 when she recovered herself; she went to tell her sister. 
 They set out at once, leaving all their little boys in tears ; 
 and, overwhelmed with grief, they arrived at Paris at two 
 o'clock in the afternoon. 
 
 You can picture to yourself their interview with M. de 
 Pomponne, and what they felt at meeting again in circum- 
 stances so different from what they had expected the even- 
 
MADAME DE SEVIGNE. 1 25 
 
 ing before. As for me, I learned these news through the 
 Abbe de Grlgnan : I confess it went to my very heart. I 
 went to their door in the evening ; they do not appear in 
 public at all. I went in ; I found them all three. M. de 
 Pomponne embraced me, without being able to say a word ; 
 the ladies could not restrain their tears, nor I mine : my 
 dear, you would not have restrained yours ; it was a griev- 
 ous spectacle : the fact that v/e had just separated at Pom- 
 ponne in such a different way increased our sadness. 
 Indeed, I cannot describe to you our condition. Poor 
 Madame de Vins, whom I had left so flourishing, was not 
 to be recognised ; I say not to be recognised, — a fortnight's 
 fever could not have changed her so much : she talks about 
 you, and tells me she is sure you will feel for her in her 
 grief, and for the condition of M. de Pomponne. I assured 
 her you would. We talked of the blow she felt from this 
 disgrace ; it is terrible in her life and home, and her hus- 
 band's fortune. She feels all this very bitterly. M. de 
 Pomponne was not a favourite, but he was in a condition to 
 obtain certain ordinary things, which make nevertheless the 
 fortune of other people : there are many degrees below the 
 favour that others attain, that make the fortune of private 
 people. It is a very nice thing, too, to find oneself naturally 
 settled at court. Oh, what a change ! what retrenching, 
 what economy in that house ! Eight children, and not to 
 have had time to obtain the least favour ! They owe thirty 
 thousand pounds ; see what they will have left. They are 
 going to reduce their expenses sadly at Paris and Pom- 
 ponne. It is said that so many journeys, and sometimes 
 couriers who attended them, even the one from Bavaria 
 that came on Friday, and whom the king waited for im- 
 patiently, have helped to draw on this misfortune. But 
 you will easily understand in this the ways of Providence, 
 when you learn that it is the President Colbert who has his 
 place : as he is in Bavaria, his brother holds it for him, and 
 to surprise him has put on the letter as if by mistake, " To 
 Monsieur, Monsieur Colbert, Minister and Secretary of 
 
126 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 State." I have ofifered my sympathy to the afflicted family; 
 there was nothing better to be done. Reflect a Httle on all 
 the power of this family, both at home and abroad ; and 
 you will see it far exceeds that of the other house where the 
 wedding is going on. My poor child, I have given you de- 
 tails and circumstances enough, but it seems to me that, on 
 such occasions as these, they are not unpleasant : it seems 
 to me that you always want some one to talk to you ; I 
 have only talked too much. When your courier comes, I 
 shall have nowhere to send him ; it is still one of my griefs 
 that henceforth I shall be entirely useless to you : it is true 
 that I Avas so already through Madame de Vins : but that 
 was joking. So, my child, this is what has happened ; this 
 is the way of the world. M. de Pomponne is better quali- 
 fied than any man to sustain this misfortune with courage 
 and resignation, and much Christian feeling. Besides, those 
 who have used prosperity as he has done have no need of 
 pity in times of adversity. 
 
 Still I must, dearest child, say a word or two about your 
 own little letter ; it gave me great comfort : I see the little 
 one is quite recovered, and about your own health, dear 
 child, you tell me wonders: you assure me that I should be 
 very well pleased if I saw you. You are quite right. Oh, 
 what a charming sight it would be to see you taking care 
 of your health, resting yourself, recovering your strength ! 
 That is a pleasure you have never given me. You see that 
 this care is not useless, its success is visible ; and when I 
 torment myself here with trying to inspire you with the 
 same attention, you know very well that I am right. 
 
 TO M. DE COULANGES. 
 
 Paris, Monday, i5th]December, 1670. 
 I AM going to announce to you the most astonishing, the 
 most surprising, the most marvellous, the most miraculous, 
 the most triumphant, the most astounding, the most unex- 
 ampled, the most unique, the most extraordinary, the most 
 
MADAME DE SEVIGNE. 12/ 
 
 incredible, the most unexpected, the most great, the most 
 small, the most rare, the most common, the most celebrated, 
 the most secret till to-day, the most brilliant, the most envi- 
 able thing. in the world ; in short, a thing for which one 
 only finds one precedent in past history, and that precedent 
 does not apply ; a thing we could not believe at Paris, and 
 how will it be possible to believe it at Lyons ? a thing that 
 made everybody cry, " Mercy !" a thing which overjoys 
 Madame de Rohan and Madame de Hauterive : a thing, in 
 short, which is to happen on Sunday, when those who see 
 it will fancy something the matter with their eyes — a thing 
 which is to take place on Sunday, and perhaps will not have 
 taken place on Monday. I cannot bring myself to tell it 
 Guess ! I will give you three trials. Do you give it up ? 
 Very well ! then I must tell you. M. de Lauzun marries 
 on Sunday, at the Louvre — guess who ? I will give you 
 four trials, I will give you ten, I will give you a hundred. I 
 hear Madame de Coulanges say : " What a difficult thing 
 to guess ! Why, it is Madame de Valliere." Not at all, 
 Madame. " Then it is Mademoiselle de Retz." Not at all; 
 you are extremely provincial. " Really, how silly we are," 
 say you; *'it is Mademoiselle Colbert." Still less. ''Of 
 course, it is Mademoiselle de Crequi." You are out again. 
 So I have to tell you after all : he marries ... on Sunday 
 ... at the Louvre . . . with the king's permission . . . 
 Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle de . . . Mademoiselle . . . 
 Guess ! Why ! he marries Mademoiselle — upon my word, 
 upon my word, upon my sacred word — MADEMOISELLE, 
 the great Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle, the daughter of 
 Monsieur that is dead, Mademoiselle, grand-daughter of 
 Henri IV., Mademoiselle d'Eu, Mademoiselle de Dombes, 
 Mademoiselle de Montpensier, Mademoiselle d'Orleans, 
 Mademoiselle, cousin to the king, Mademoiselle, intended 
 for the throne : Mademoiselle, the only match in France 
 worthy of Monsieur. Here is a fine topic for conversation. 
 If you cry out, if you go out of your senses, if you charge 
 us with lying, if you say it is false, that we are laughing at 
 
J 28 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 you, that it is a fine hoax, that it is a very dull invention ; 
 if, in short, you call us names, we shall say you arc quite 
 right, we have done the same as you. Farewell, the letters 
 that arrive by this post will let you know whether we tell 
 the truth or not. 
 
 TO M. DE COULANGES. 
 
 Paris, Friday, December 19th, 1670. 
 
 What is called falling from the clouds is what happened 
 yesterday evening at the Tuileries ; but I must take up 
 matters a little further back. I left you at the joy, the 
 transports, the ravishments of the princess and her fortunate 
 lover. It was on Monday then that the thing was announced, 
 as I told you. Tuesday was passed in talking, in astonish- 
 ment, in compliments ; Wednesday, Mademoiselle made a 
 present to M. de Lauzun, with the view of conferring upon 
 him the titles, names, and ornaments proper to be named 
 in the marriage contract, which was drawn the same day. 
 She gave him then, as a first instalment, four duchies : the 
 first is the county of Eu, which is the first peerage of France, 
 and confers the highest rank ; the duchy of Montpensier, 
 of which he carried the name all yesterday ; the duchy of 
 St. Fargeau, the duchy of Chatellerault : all these reckoned 
 at twenty-two millions. Then the contract was drawn, in 
 which he took the name of Montpensier. On Thursday 
 morning, which was yesterday, Mademoiselle hoped the 
 king would sign the contract, as he had said ; but about 7 
 o'clock in the evening, the queen, Monsieur, and a number 
 of greybeards made his Majesty understand that the affair 
 would damage his reputation ; so that, after sending for 
 Mademoiselle and M. de Lauzun, the king announced to 
 them, before the prince, that he absolutely forbade them to 
 dream of the marriage. M. de Lauzun received the com- 
 mand with all the respect, all the submission, all the firm- 
 ness, and all the despair which so great a fall demanded. 
 As for Mademoiselle, giving way to her feelings, she burst 
 
MADAME DE SEVIGNE. 1 29 
 
 into tears, cries, violent anguish, extravagant complaints, 
 and all day she has kept her bed, and swallowed nothing 
 but broth. What a fine dream ! What a fine subject for 
 a romance,-or a tragedy ; but, above all, what a fine subject 
 to discuss and talk about eternally, which is what we do 
 day and night, evening and morning, without end or inter- 
 mission, and we hope you will do the same. E fra tanto vi 
 bacio le mani. 
 
 TO THE COUNT DE GRIGNAN. 
 
 Paris, July 31st, 1675. 
 I ADDRESS myself to you, my dear Count, to tell you of 
 one of the most lamentable losses which could happen in 
 France, the death of M. de Turenne, at which I am sure 
 you v/ill be as much concerned and afflicted as we are 
 here. The news arrived at Versailles on Monday; the 
 king was distressed by it, as one must needs be by the 
 death of the greatest captain and the best man in the world ; 
 all the court was in tears, and M. de Condour was on the 
 point of fainting. Everything was ready for a trip to Fon- 
 tainebleau, but it was all broken off. Never has a man 
 been so sincerely regretted ; all the quarter where he re- 
 sided, all Paris, and all the people were in trouble and 
 emotion ; people were talking and gathering in groups to 
 deplore the hero. I send you a very good narrative of 
 what he did some days before his death. It was after 
 three months of strategy, quite miraculous, which military 
 men are^ never tired of admiring, that the last day of his 
 glory and his life arrived. He had the pleasure of seeing 
 the enemy's army decamp before him, and on the 27th, 
 which was Saturday, he ascended a rising ground to 
 observe their march ; his design was to take them in the 
 rear, and at noon he wrote a despatch to the king to say 
 that, having this plan, he had sent to tell Brissac to have 
 the prayers of forty hours performed. He announced the 
 
 9 
 
130 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 death of the young D'Hocquincourt, and that he would 
 send a courier to acquaint the king with the result of this 
 enterprise ; he sealed his letter and sent it at 2 o'clock. 
 Then he ascended the little hill with eight or ten persons ; 
 from a distance came an unfortunate cannon-shot, fired at 
 hazard, which struck him in the middle of the body, and 
 you can conceive the cries and tears of the army. The 
 courier started at once ; he arrived on Monday, as I told 
 you ; so that within the interval of an hour the king had a 
 letter from M. de Turenne and the news of his death. 
 There has arrived since a member of M. de Turenne's staff, 
 who says that the armies are pretty close to each other ; 
 that M. de Lorges commands in his uncle's place, and that 
 nothing can be comparable to the violent affliction of the 
 whole army. 
 
BOSSUET. 
 
 Jacques Benigne Bossuet was the son of a magistrate at Dijon, 
 and from his infancy was destined for the Church by his parents. He 
 was made successively Bishop of Condom, preceptor to the Dauphin, 
 the son of Louis XIV., member of the French Academy, Bishop of 
 Meaux, and Councillor of State. He vehemently opposed the doctrines 
 of the Reformed Church, and carried on controversies with the Jan- 
 senists, the Ouietists, and the Ultramontanes. 
 
 His principal works are the Orations fiinebres^ and his Discours siir 
 l^Histoire Universelle. He wrote besides an Exposition de la Doctrine 
 CatJwliqne, the Histoire des Variatioiis des Eglises Protestantes, Eleva- 
 tions siir les Mysteres, and Meditations snr PEvangile. The powder 
 and eloquence of his style place him in the first rank among the 
 writers of France, and gained for him the title of " The Eagle of 
 Meaux." 
 
 THE ANCIENT ECxYPTIANS. 
 
 The Egyptians were the first among whom the laws of 
 government were known. These grave and serious people 
 perceived at once the true end of politics, viz., to make life 
 comfortable, and people happy. The unvarying tempera- 
 ture of the country produced strong and steadfast minds. As 
 virtue is the basis of all society, they carefully cultivated It. 
 Their principal virtue was gratitude. The praise that has 
 been bestowed upon them of being the most grateful of all 
 men, shows that they were also the most sociable. Kind 
 actions are the bond of public and private peace. He who 
 acknowledges favours loves to do them, and, by banishing 
 ingratitude, the pleasure of doing good remains so pure, that 
 it is Impossible to be Insensible to It any longer. Their 
 laws were simple, equitable, and calculated to bind the 
 citizens together. He who being able to save a man that 
 
 9—2 
 
132 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 was attacked, and did not do it, was punished with death as 
 rigorously as an assassin. If he could not help the un- 
 happy man, he was obliged at least to denounce the author 
 of the violence, and there were fixed penalties for those 
 who failed in this duty. Thus the citizens were protected 
 from one another, and the whole body of the state was 
 united against the wicked. 
 
 No one Avas allowed to be useless to the state ; the law 
 assigned to each his employment, and it was handed down 
 from father to son. No one could have two, or change his 
 profession ; but then all professions were honoured. It was 
 necessary that there should be some more important em- 
 ployments and persons, as it is necessary that there should 
 be eyes in the body ; their brightness does not cause the 
 feet to be despised, nor the lower parts. So among the 
 Egyptians, the priests and the soldiers had marks of par- 
 ticular honour ; but all trades, down to the lowest, were 
 held in esteem, and one could not without crime despise 
 citizens whose Avorks, Avhatever they might be, contributed 
 to the public good. By this means all the arts were brought 
 to perfection ; the honour that supported them mingled 
 with them everyAvhere ; men improved on the old models, 
 and on the Avorks in which they had been exclusively en- 
 gaged from their childhood. 
 
 But there was one occupation common to all, — the 
 study of the laws and of Avisdom. Ignorance of the religion 
 and politics of the country Avas not excused in any rank. 
 For the rest, each profession had a certain quarter assigned 
 to it. This caused no inconvenience in a country the size 
 of which Avas not large ; under such a good arrangement, 
 idle people did not knoAv Avhere to hide themselves. 
 
 Added to such good laAA^s, Avhat was still better, AA^as that 
 everybody Avas brought up to keep them. A ncAv custom 
 Avas a prodigy in Egypt ; everything was always done in 
 the same Avay ; and the exactness Avith AA^hich little things 
 were observed preserved the greater. 
 
 The judicial administration served to keep up this spirit. 
 
BOSSUET. 133 
 
 Thirty judges were chosen from the chief towns to com- 
 pose the tribunal that judged the whole kingdom. People 
 were accustomed to see in these offices none but the most 
 upright and grave men of the land. The prince assigned 
 them certain revenues, in order that, freed from domestic 
 cares, they might give all their time to promoting the ob- 
 servance of the laws. They gained nothing by lawsuits, 
 for it was not thought right then to make a trade of justice. 
 To avoid mistakes, all matters were transacted in writing in 
 this assembly. The false eloquence that dazzles the mind 
 and moves the passions was feared ; the truth could not be 
 expressed in too dry a manner. The president of the 
 senate wore a necklace of gold and precious stones, from 
 which hung a figure without eyes, called Truth. When he 
 put it on, it Avas the signal to begin the sitting. He turned 
 it to the person that gained the cause, and this was the 
 form of pronouncing sentence. 
 
 One of the finest devices of the Egyptians to preserve 
 their ancient maxims, was to clothe them in certain cere- 
 monies which impressed them on the mind. These cere- 
 monies were thoughtfully observed, and the grave temper 
 of the Egyptians did not permit them to become mere 
 forms. Those who had no lawsuits, and whose life was 
 free from blame, could avoid the examination of this 
 severe tribunal. But there was in Egypt one kind of 
 very strange judgment, quite extraordinary, which no one 
 could escape. When a man dies, it is a comfort to him 
 to leave his name in esteem among men, and, of all earthly 
 wealth, this is the only thing that death cannot take from 
 us. But it was not allowed in Egj^pt to praise all the dead 
 indiscriminately : this honour must be obtained by a public 
 sentence. Directly a man was dead they brought him to 
 trial. The public accuser was heard. If he proved that 
 the conduct of the dead man had been bad, his memory 
 was condemned, and he w^as deprived of burial. The people 
 admired the power of the laws, which lasted even after 
 death, and each one, touched by the example, feared to dis- 
 
134 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 honour his memory or his family. But if the dead man- 
 was not convicted of any crime, they buried him honourably^ 
 delivered a panegyric on him, but without saying anything 
 about the circumstances of his birth. All the Egyptians 
 were noble, and besides, they cared for no praises but those 
 earned by merit. 
 
 Ever}^ one knows how carefully the Egyptians preserved 
 the dead bodies : their mummies may still be seen. Thus 
 their gratitude to their parents was never ending ; children, 
 seeing the bodies of their ancestors, remembered their 
 virtues acknowledged by the public, and were stirred up ta 
 love the laws that they had bequeathed to them. 
 
 To hinder borrowing, from which laziness, fraud, and 
 chicanery arise, the decree of the King Asychis did not 
 allow any one to borrow except on condition of pledging 
 his father's body to the lender. It was thought an impious 
 and shameful action not to redeem without delay so 
 precious a pledge ; and he who died without having ac- 
 quitted himself of this duty, was deprived of burial. 
 
 The Egyptians had an inventive genius, but they turned 
 it to useful things. Their Mercuries have filled Egypt with 
 marvellous inventions, and have left hardly anything un- 
 known that renders life quiet and comfortable. I cannot 
 allow to the Egyptians the glory that they have given to 
 their Osiris, of having invented husbandry, for it is found at 
 all times, in the neighbouring countries of the earth, wher- 
 ever the human race has spread itself, and one cannot 
 doubt that it was known from the beginning of the world. 
 But if the Egyptians did not invent agriculture, nor the 
 other arts that we read of before the Deluge, they brought 
 them to such perfection, and took such great pains ia 
 establishing them among nations where barbarism had 
 caused them to be forgotten, that their glory is no less 
 great than if they had been the inventors of them. There 
 are even very important arts, the invention of which cannot 
 be disputed with them. As their country was flat, and 
 their sky always pure and cloudless, they were the first to 
 
BOSSUET. 135 
 
 observe the course of the stars ; they were also the first 
 to regulate the year. These observations drew them 
 naturally into arithmetic ; and it is true, as Plato says, 
 that the sun and the moon have taught men the science 
 of numbers ; that is to say, regular reckoning has been 
 begun with that of the days, months, and years ; the 
 Egyptians were the first who listened to these wonderful 
 masters. The planets and other stars were not less known 
 to them, and they discovered that great year which brings 
 back the whole heavens to its first point. 
 
 To know their own lands, which were covered every year 
 by the overflowing of the Nile, they were obliged to have 
 recourse to surveying, which soon taught them geometry ; 
 they were great observers of nature, which, in so calm an 
 atmosphere, and beneath so burning a sun, was vigorous 
 and fertile among them. This it is, also, that made them 
 invent or improve medicine. 
 
 Thus all the sciences were held in high honour among 
 them. The inventors of useful things received during their 
 life, or after their death, the worthy rewards of their labours. 
 It is this that has hallowed the books of their two Mercuries, 
 and has caused them to be looked upon as divine books. 
 Libraries were seen in Egypt earlier than in any other 
 country. 
 
 One thing that was impressed most strongly on the minds 
 of the Egyptians, was esteem and love for their native 
 country. She was, they said, the abode of the gods ; they 
 had reigned there for thousands and thousands of years. 
 It was the mother of men and animals, which the land of 
 Egypt watered by the Nile had brought forth while the rest 
 of Egypt was barren. The priests who composed the 
 history of Egypt during the immense series of centuries, 
 which they filled with nothing but fables of genealogies of 
 their gods, did so to impress on the minds of the people the 
 antiquity and nobility of their country. As to the rest, 
 their true history was included within reasonable limits, but 
 they thought it a fine thing to lose oneself in an infinite 
 
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 abyss of time, that seemed to bring one near to eternity. 
 However, the love of their country had many solid founda- 
 tions. Egypt was really the most beautiful country of the 
 whole world ; the most fruitful by nature, the best cultivated 
 by art, and the most adorned by the care and magnificence 
 of her kings. 
 
FLECHIER. 
 
 Esprit Flechier was born at Pernes, in the county of Avignon, in 
 1632, and was educated for the Church. He belonged to a poor family ; 
 and when he went to Paris had neither money nor friends. He 
 obtained, however, a situation as tutor in a family of some importance, 
 and thus became acquainted with many persons of distinction. His 
 great talents soon became known, and he was invited to join the 
 literary circle at the Hotel de Rambouillet. From that time he began 
 to be considered one of the greatest preachers of the age, and his 
 Funeral Orations are reckoned only inferior to those of Bossuet. He 
 was appointed Bishop of Lavaur, and afterwards of Nimes. He died 
 at Montpellier in 1710. 
 
 A PANEGYRIC ON SAINT LOUIS. 
 
 Royalty, according to St. Paul, is not simply a dignity 
 which raises a man above his fellows ; it is also a ministry 
 of religion to God, of justice to the people, of love to the 
 miserable, severity to the wicked, gentleness to the good. 
 Such were the principles on which St. Louis founded the 
 ^lory and the holiness of his reign. He felt the weight of 
 his crown from the first moment that he wore it ; he recog- 
 nised . the difficulty of his work, and, like Solomon, he 
 prayed for wisdom to aid him. The first truths which he 
 learned, were, what he owed to God as a man, what he owed 
 to his people as a king. His first thoughts were, to make 
 his kingdom happy, and to make himself holy ; his first 
 actions were actions of clemency and justice ; and when he 
 began to reign, he sacrificed his repose, and jeopardied his 
 own life to put an end to the civil wars. Shall I sketch out 
 to you the sad picture of a minority and a troubled regency } 
 Shall I represent to you that fatal division which jealousy 
 and the desire of command excited in the first years of his 
 
 J 
 
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 reign ? Princes appeared in arms under the common 
 pretext of the pubhc good ; the EngHsh had penetrated to 
 the very centre of France ; the authority of the king was 
 violated, good subjects oppressed ; and this flourishing 
 kingdom ready to fall a prey to enemies both foreign and 
 domestic. Sirs, what desolation ! Louis, without consult- 
 ing flesh and blood, Avithout excusing himself on the score 
 of youth, fearing neither the hardships of the seasons, nor 
 the dangers of war, set out on the campaign, implored the 
 help of the God of armies, went to meet and fight his 
 enemies : — I am wrong, went to comfort his subjects, and 
 to restore them peace by gaining a battle. It was then 
 that, assisted b}^ Heaven, and moved more by the justice 
 of his cause than by his own interests — in spite of the terror 
 of foreign lands and foreign troops — he showed that true 
 piety is not contrary to true valour, and that the most 
 difficult victories are only the first attempts of those whom 
 God himself trains to war. It was then that he was seen 
 to make up, by his own courage, for the inequality of 
 numbers ; to sustain, alone, the whole weight of the army ; 
 to defend the bridge of Jaillebourg with a firmness more 
 wonderful than that of which ancient Rome has so boasted ; 
 and to perform actions which might be called rash, were it 
 not that the Spirit of God sometimes elevates above the 
 rules of common virtue and prudence those great minds 
 which He has destined to combat the pride and the rebellion 
 of men. 
 
 It was neither the desire to conquer, nor the desire of 
 revenge, which kindled his youthful courage ; it was the 
 desire of peace and of public safety. Besides, the end of 
 the rebellion was the repentance, not the ruin, of the rebels. 
 He did not beat down those proud heads, he contented 
 himself with having humbled them ; he granted them his 
 friendship as soon as he had restored them to order ; and 
 it might be said, that God had prepared these wars for him, 
 and placed arms in his hands, in order to give him the glory 
 of conquering and the pleasure of pardoning. Never was 
 
FLECHIER. 139 
 
 peace signed in better faith. Having preserved to them 
 hfe, he did not make it miserable by eternal coldness and 
 distrust ; he looked upon them as friends acquired, not as 
 enemies reconciled ; and, employing them in his pious 
 expeditions, he only demanded, as satisfaction for rebellion 
 against their own country, that they should go with him to 
 fight for the faith and for religion. 
 
 When God had granted him such happy success in his 
 first war, St. Louis applied himself entirely to regulate his 
 dominions. One of the most noble and most essential 
 functions of the sovereign is to render justice to his people. 
 The prophet-king prayed to God for nothing so earnestly 
 as for His judgment. Solomon asked only for docility of 
 heart, and a just discernment to know good and evil, and 
 to judge his people by this knowledge ; and St. Louis made 
 it one of the principal occupations of his reign. He listened 
 to the differences of his people, he examined them himself 
 by his own equity. The entrance of the Louvre was free 
 to all who sought his protection. Around him were seen 
 no frightful ranks of guards, like a hedge, to terrify the 
 timid and repulse the importunate. It was not necessary 
 to gain by presents, or to soften by prayers, self-interested 
 or inexorable ushers ; there was no barrier between the 
 king and his subjects which the least among them could 
 not penetrate. None ever awaited his fate without those 
 proud gates, which are half-opened from time to time to 
 exclude, not to receive, those who present themselves. 
 There needed no other recommendation, no other influence, 
 than that of justice ; and it was title enough to an intro- 
 duction to the prince, that one was in want of his protection. 
 
 How I delight to fancy this good king, as history repre- 
 sents him, in the wood of Vincennes, under those trees which 
 time has respected, stopping in the midst of his innocent 
 pleasures to listen to the complaints and to receive the 
 requests of his subjects. Great and small, rich and poor,, 
 all alike could reach him in the pleasantest time of his 
 walk. There was no difference between his leisure hours 
 
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 and his hours of business ; his tribunal followed him 
 wherever he went. Under a dais of foliage, on a throne of 
 grass, just as on the gilded marble of his palace and on his 
 bed of justice ; without solicitation, without favour, without 
 regard to rank or fortune, he gave his judgments without 
 delay, and his oracles with authority, equity, and tender- 
 ness ; a king, a judge, and a father, all in one. 
 
 St Louis never shrank from work, and, however weary 
 he might be from the multiplicity of his duties, it was 
 always relaxation to him to benefit his subjects. But 
 although he thought he owed somewhat to every one, and 
 would often say with the apostle, " I am a debtor to all 
 men," yet he thought himself specially bound to care for 
 the poor. Though he had established judges of recognised 
 probity and of irreproachable reputation, he reserved to 
 himself the judgment of the poor as his favourite function. 
 He knew that Justice is not so well veiled but that she can 
 get a glimpse of those who seek her ; that he who has no 
 credit may easily be without succour, and that a poor man's 
 solicitation is almost always importunate. Experience 
 shows this only too clearly^ how^ever good may be their 
 plea, one grows tired of hearing them. If they are not 
 harshly repulsed, they are spoken to haughtily and proudly; 
 and even when justice is done them, it is generally with a 
 bad grace. Louis wished to prevent this corruption_, or to 
 provide against this danger, by taking upon himself this 
 part of justice, and gave them twice a week long and easy 
 audiences, in which, as the splendour of royalty w^as 
 tempered by an air of goodness and of Christian simplicity, 
 he removed from them the fear which majesty impresses, 
 and which poverty and timidity cause. It was then that, 
 as a common father, he sustained the weak against the 
 powerful, and punished injustice, by what authority soever 
 supported. It was then that he made clear, by the light 
 of his own spirit, that which malice or calumny had tried 
 to perplex. It w^as then that he dissipated, by a look, the 
 clouds which gathered in that lower part of the kingdom. 
 
FLECHIER. 141 
 
 It was then that he pronounced decrees of mercy, and, 
 entering into judgment between himself and his people, re- 
 trenched his own rights, and renounced his ovv^n interests, 
 and gave those grand examples of equity and disinterested- 
 ness that his successors make it their glory to follow. 
 
 It was in order to satisfy this paternal love that he pre- 
 served peace with his neighbours, and that he maintained 
 it among his subjects. He had learned those great maxims, 
 that kings ought to love peace by inclination, and to make 
 war from necessity ; that their true greatness does not con- 
 sist in putting armies on foot ; and that public tranquillity 
 maintained is worth more than those victories which gene- 
 rally cost so much blood and so many tears. It was in the 
 same spirit that he contented himself with the revenue of 
 his royal domain, and with certain almost voluntary tri- 
 butes. He never made use of the goods or money of the 
 poor. To be a good courtier, it was not necessary to study 
 means of filling the treasury of the prince. He did not 
 consider it necessary to make his subjects wretched in 
 order to make them obedient. Though there has never 
 been perhaps a prince more noble or more magnificent, did 
 he not know how to regulate his expenses so as to do 
 honour to his own dignity without being a burden to any 
 one.'* When he made a progress through the provinces, did 
 he not leave behind him just and faithful men, to examine 
 into, and liberally to repair the damage sometimes caused 
 by the tumultuous march of a large and numerous court, 
 both to the public and to private individuals ? Thus his 
 road was marked by the traces of his bounty and his jus- 
 tice. He traversed the country, not like a torrent which 
 ravages, but like a slow and peaceful river, which carries 
 riches and abundance everywhere. On the point of setting 
 out for the Crusade, did he not publish abroad that he was 
 ready to satisfy, before his departure, those who had aught 
 to complain of in his justice ? And what did he carefully 
 recommend to his successors, but love and piety toward the 
 people ? 
 
142 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 But let us see the depths of this pious and compassionate 
 heart on one sorrowful occasion in his reign. God, to punish 
 the sins of his people, or to exercise the charity of the king, 
 permitted both pestilence and famine to desolate this great 
 kingdom. This double calamity spread everywhere. The 
 earth did not produce her fruits, the air was full of un- 
 healthy influences, life was failing in some, death over- 
 took others ; the elements seemed to be in league against 
 men, who found themselves reduced to the sad necessity of 
 perishing either by the anger of heaven, or by the sterility 
 of the earth. Then it was that this holy king displayed all 
 his charity. He spread abroad, with a liberal hand, those 
 treasures which he had so carefully amassed. He regarded 
 himself as the father of a family, responsible for the life 
 and salvation of his children. He sent to some the help 
 needful for life, to others the consolations for death. He 
 was sick with the sick. In spite of the seasons, he caused 
 abundance by his care. Not only did he charge himself 
 with the comfort of the public misery, he even wished to 
 take the penitence upon himself He wept in secret ; he 
 offered himself up to God ; he afflicted himself How 
 many times did he in sackcloth offer to God the sacrifice 
 which is most pleasing to Him, of a humble and contrite 
 lieart ? How many times, emaciated by fasts and absti- 
 nence, in public processions, did he present to God and to 
 men the great and rare spectacle of a king innocent and 
 penitent at the same time ? How many times, regarding 
 liimself as the subject of Divine vengeance, just and holy 
 as he was, did he say, as a royal sinner in a similar posi- 
 tion : — " Behold, I have sinned ; turn Thy anger upon me, 
 O Lord God." You see, sirs, the tender heart which God 
 had given him for his people. Princes take pride in ambi- 
 tious titles, and in names taken from their estates, or from 
 their victories. St. Louis renounced all these earthly honours, 
 and desired no other title than that of Louis de Paissy, 
 which was the place of his baptism. 
 
 But thoroughly to know his humiility, let us see him in 
 
FLECHIER. 143 
 
 those happy times of unexpected prosperity, in which the 
 heart generally dilates, and is taken up with its own happi- 
 ness. Recall to your memory the design which he con- 
 ceived of going to fight the infidels, and to carry the cross 
 of Christ to its original place. The fleet reached Damietta. 
 At the sight of that superb town, and of the 20,000 barba- 
 rians who defended it, the courage of the Crusaders was 
 excited. Louis, at their head, burning with impatience, the 
 sword in one hand, the shield in the other, and leaping from 
 Ms vessel, reached the shore through the waves and a hail 
 of arrows which fell on him from the bank. The enemy was 
 astonished ; the Christians gained the land, the crosses were 
 planted on the walls ; all yielded ; and in a day he made 
 himself master of the place, and opened the road to others. 
 What do you think was his robe of victory next day ? 
 Did he go in a chariot of triumph to receive the praises 
 and the acclamations of an army rendered victorious by the 
 example of his valour ? Did he gather the spoils of his 
 enemy to make of them trophies to his own glory .? Sirs, 
 learn to know a new kind of triumph. He entered in the 
 posture of a penitent, and not with the pride of a conqueror. 
 The songs which were sung were not in honour of him who 
 had conquered, but of Him who had made him to conquer. 
 He desired that Religion should reap the fruits of a war 
 which he had undertaken for her. As for himself, he hum- 
 bled himself, he confounded himself, and he only contri- 
 buted to his triumph by the sacrifice which he made of his 
 grandeur and of his glory. 
 
 St. Louis was often, in good faith, the arbiter of the 
 differences of his neighbours, and, by his disinterested 
 friendship, took from them every cause or pretext for break- 
 ing the peace. The wise men of the world often showed 
 him, but in vain, that dexterity consisted, not in uniting 
 them, but in dividing them, and profiting by their divisions ; 
 that he must let them employ against each other the forces 
 which they might turn against him ; that, if it was honest 
 to prevent their destroying each other, it was advantageous 
 
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 to let them weaken each other. He rejected this policy ; 
 he sacrificed all his interests to his charity ; and, as he was 
 the love and delight of his people, he made himself the ad- 
 miration of foreigners. 
 
 But what was his moderation when Rome, provoked with 
 the Empire, proposed to place him on the emperor's throne 
 by a right which did not seem to him legitimate ? With 
 Avhat wise pride did he reply, that it belongs to God alone 
 to dispose of sceptres and crowns ; that the perfection of 
 a king consists in governing his own states well, and not in 
 taking possession of those of others ; and that as temporal 
 power ought not to touch the altar, so spiritual power ought 
 not to touch the throne ! Thus he always regarded the 
 emperor as a brother ; he submitted his ambition to his 
 justice, and he showed his grandeur of soul in refusing a 
 crown, however brilliant it might be, however sacred the 
 hand which offered it. 
 
BOILEAU. 
 
 Nicolas Boileau Despreaux was born at Crosne, near Paris, in 
 1636, and, after having tried the study of theology and law, determined 
 to devote himself entirely to letters. He achieved a great reputation as 
 a satirist and reformer of taste, and holds high rank among French 
 poets. His principal works are the Satires^ Epitres^ LArt Poetiquc 
 and the Z?^/rz;/. He died in 171 1. 
 The following passage is taken from his preface to the Littrin. 
 
 THE PRESIDENT DE LAMOIGNON. 
 
 I SHALL not say how I was pledged to work at this little 
 trifle, in consequence of a kind of challenge that the late 
 first president, De Lamoignon, gave me in fun ; he it is that 
 I have described there under the name of Ariosto. This 
 particular, in my opinion, is not very necessary. But I 
 think I should do myself great wrong, if I lost this oppor- 
 tunity of telling those who are ignorant of it that, during 
 his life, this great personage honoured me with his friend- 
 ship. I first knew him at the time that my Satires were 
 making the greatest noise m the world, and the access 
 that he kindly gave me to his noble house furnished me 
 with a good defence against those who wished, at that 
 time, to accuse me of debauchery and immorality. He was 
 a man of astonishing learning, and a passionate admirer of 
 all the good works of antiquity, and it was this that 
 enabled him to tolerate my writings more easily when he 
 thought he perceived a slight touch of the ancients. His 
 piety was as sincere as it was at the same time very cheer- 
 ful, and had nothing repulsive about it. He was not at all 
 
 10 
 
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 alarmed at the name of Satires, which these works bore, 
 when he saw that really only verses and authors were 
 attacked. He even praised me several times for having, so 
 to speak, purged that kind of poetry from the impurity 
 that had been almost affected till then. 
 
 I had, therefore, the good fortune of not being disagree- 
 able to him. He invited me to share all his pleasures and 
 amusements, — that is to say, his reading and his walks. 
 He honoured me sometimes with his greatest confidence, 
 and let me see into the very bottom of his soul. And 
 what did I not see there ! What a surprising treasure of 
 probity and justice ! What inexhaustible depths of piety 
 and zeal ! Although his goodness shed forth very great 
 light without, it was quite another thing within him ; and 
 it was easy to see that he took care to temper its rays, that 
 it might not hurt the eyes of a century so corrupt as ours. 
 I was truly enamoured with so many admirable qualities ; 
 and, if he treated me with great good-will, I was devoted 
 to him. The attentions that I paid him had nothing to 
 do with any motive of mercenary interest, and I thought 
 much more of gaining profit from his conversation than 
 from his name. He died at the time when this friendship 
 was at its height, and I still mourn for him daily. Why 
 are men, so worthy of living, removed from the world so 
 soon ; while the miserable, and people of no importance, 
 reach an extreme old age ? I will not enlarge further on 
 so sad a subject ; for I am sure that, if I continue to speak 
 about it, I shall not be able to prevent myself from mois- 
 tening with tears the preface to a work of mere pleasantry. 
 
LA BRUYERE. 
 
 We know hardly anything of the life of Jean de Bruyere. He was 
 born near Dourdan, in Normandy, in 1644, and was appointed by 
 Bossuet to teach history to the grandson of the great Conde, and he 
 spent all his life at the Hotel de Conde and at Versailles. He also 
 became a member of the French Academy, His volume of Caractercs 
 gives him rank among the first writers of his time. He died in i6q6. 
 
 CHARACTERS. ' 
 
 RUFFIN is beginning to grow grey ; but he is healthy, and 
 his fresh complexion and lively eye promise him still some 
 twenty years of life : he is gay, jovial, familiar, indifferent ; 
 he laughs with all his heart, and he laughs all alone, with- 
 out any reason ; he is pleased with himself, his family, his 
 little fortune ; he says he is happy. He loses his only 
 son, a very hopeful young man, and who might have been 
 one day the honour of his family ; he surrenders to others 
 the trouble of lamenting for him, saying, " My son is dead ; 
 it Avill kill his mother :" and he is comforted. He has no 
 passions, he has neither friends nor foes, he dislikes nobody, 
 everybody pleases him ; everything suits him : he speaks 
 to any one whom he sees for the first time with the same 
 freedom and confidence as he does to those whom he calls 
 his old friends, and he soon imparts to him his puns and 
 his little stories. You may come up to him, and you may 
 leave him without his paying any attention to the fact, and 
 the same story that he has begun to tell to one person he 
 will finish to the person who takes his place. 
 
 10 — 2 
 
148 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 N is less weakened by age than by illness, for he is 
 
 not more than sixty-eight ; but he has gout, and nephritic 
 colic, his face is thin, his complexion is greenish and 
 betokens decay. He has his land marled, and he reckons 
 that for fifteen years he will be obliged to manure it : he 
 plants a young wood that, in less than twenty years, he hopes 
 will give him pleasant shade. He has a freestone house built 
 
 in Street, made firm at the corners with iron bands, 
 
 and of which he affirms, coughing, in a faint weak voice, 
 that we shall never see the end. He walks every day about 
 his workshops, leaning on the arm of a valet, who helps 
 him along : he shows his friends what he has done, and 
 tells them what he intends to do. It is not for his children 
 that he builds, for he has none, nor for his heirs, vile persons 
 that they are, quarrelling among themselves and with him ; 
 it is for himself, and he will die to-morrow. 
 
 Menalque comes down stairs, opens the door to go out, 
 and shuts it again, for he perceives that he is in his night- 
 cap. On examining himself closer, he finds that he has 
 only half shaved, that his sword hangs on his right side, 
 and his stockings are turned down over his heels. If he 
 walks abroad, he feels all at once a violent blow on his 
 chest or face ; he does not guess Avhat it can be, till, arous- 
 ing himself and opening his eyes, he finds himself before 
 the shaft of a cart, or behind a carpenter's long plank, that 
 a workman is carrying on his shoulders. 
 
 He has been seen to knock his forehead against that of a 
 blind man ; he gets entangled in his legs, they both tumble 
 down, one on one side, and the other on the other ; and 
 several times he has happened to find himself face to face 
 with a prince, and just in his way ; he recollects himself 
 with difficulty, and has only time to squeeze close against a 
 wall to make room for him. 
 
 He enters a room and passes under a lustre, on which 
 his wig is caught and remains hanging ; all the courtiers 
 look and laugh. Menalque looks, too, and laughs louder 
 
LA BRUYERE. I49 
 
 than any. He looks all round the assembly to see who is 
 showing his ears, and wants a wig. If he goes into the 
 town, after having proceeded some little distance, he thinks 
 he has gone wrong, and is vexed ; he asks the passers-by 
 where he is, and they tell him precisely the name of his 
 own street ; then he enters his house, but comes out again 
 in a hurry, thinking he has made a mistake. He writes a 
 long letter, and thinks he has sanded it several times, but 
 always throws the sand into the inkstand. This is not all ; 
 he writes a second letter, and, after having sealed them, he 
 makes a mistake in the addresses. A duke receives one of 
 these two letters, and on opening it reads these words : 
 *' M. Olivier, do not fail, as soon as you receive this, to send 
 me my supply of hay." His farmer receives the other ; he 
 opens it, and gets it read : they find, " My lord, I have 
 received, with blind submission, the orders that it has 
 pleased your highness," &c. He meets a young widow by 
 chance — he speaks to her of her late husband, and asks how 
 he died : at these words the woman's grief is renewed ; she 
 weeps and sobs, and does not forget to go over all the 
 details of her husband^s illness from the time that he v/as 
 quite well just before his fever till his last moments. 
 ^' Madam," asks Menalque, who had apparently listened 
 with emotion, " is that all that is the matter with you ?" 
 
 He is never really with those with whom he seems to be. 
 He calls his lackey very gravely, " Sir," and his friend " La 
 Verdure :" he says " Your Reverence " to a prince of the 
 blood, and " Your Highness " to a Jesuit. He finds him- 
 self with a magistrate ; this gentleman, grave by character, 
 venerable from age and dignity, questions him on an event, 
 and asks him if it is so, Menalque answers, " Yes, Miss." 
 Once he was returning from the country ; his own footmen 
 undertook to rob him, and succeeded ; they got down 
 from his carriage, put the end of a torch to his throat, 
 and demanded his purse, and he gave it up to them. 
 Arrived at home, he related his adventure to a friend, 
 who did not fail to question him about all the circum- 
 
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 stances ; he said to them, " Ask my people ; they were 
 there." 
 
 Arrias has read everything and seen everything, and 
 he intends every one to know it ; he is a universal genius, 
 and he gives himself out as such ; he would rather tell a 
 falsehood than be silent, or appear ignorant of anything. 
 A nobleman from a northern court is mentioned at table ; 
 he begins to speak, and interrupt those who are to tell what 
 they know about him. He discusses this distant country 
 as if it were his native land ; he discourses about the man- 
 ners of the court, about the women of the country, of its 
 laws and customs ; he tells little anecdotes about it, and 
 laughs till he is ready to burst. Some one ventures to 
 contradict him, and clearly proves that what he says is not 
 true. Arrias does not trouble himself about that ; on the 
 contrary, he fires up at the interruption. " I advance 
 nothing," he says ; '' I relate nothing that I do not know 
 on good authority ; I heard this from Sethon, the French 
 ambassador at this court, who returned to Paris some days 
 ago, whom I know well, whom T have asked a great many 
 questions, and who has hidden nothing from me." He 
 resumes his narrative with greater confidence than he began 
 it, till one of the company says to him, " It is Sethon him- 
 self to whom you are speaking, and who has just arrived 
 from his embassy." 
 
 '' Would you like to see my prints .^" adds Democedus ; 
 and then he brings them out and shows them to you. You 
 come upon one which is neither black, nor clean, nor well 
 drawn, and less fit to be kept in a cabinet than to adorn 
 the Petit Pont, or the Rue Neuve, on a festival day. He 
 grants that it is badly engraved, and still worse drawn ; 
 but he assures you that it is by an Italian whose works are 
 scarce, that very few impressions of it have been taken, and 
 that this is the only copy in France, that he bought it at a 
 
LA BRUYERE. 15I 
 
 high price, and that he would not exchange it for anything. 
 " A great trouble has come upon me," continues he, ''which 
 will oblige me to give up prints for the rest of my days ; I 
 have all the engravings of Calot, except one, which is not, 
 in truth, one of his best works, on the contrary it is one of 
 his most insignificant, but it would complete Calot for me. 
 I have laboured twenty years to procure this print, and at 
 last I despair of success ; it is very hard." 
 
BAYLE. 
 
 Pierre Bayle, the philosopher and critic, was the son of a Protes- 
 tant minister, and was born in the year 1647. At an early age he 
 showed a remarkable love for reading and inquiry. Plutarch's Lives 
 and ]\Iontaigne's Essays were his favourite books, and had perhaps 
 the greatest influence on his subsequent career. His greatest ambition 
 was to obtain quiet and leisure for study, but, as it was necessary to 
 earn a livelihood, he became a tutor in a private family. In 1675 he 
 was appointed to the chair of philosophy in the Protestant Academy 
 at Sedan, which he occupied till the academy was suppressed by Louis 
 XIV. The latter years of his life he spent at Rotterdam, where he 
 died in 1706. His great work was the Dictio7maire Historiqiie et 
 Critique, famous for the erudition and ability displayed in it, but with 
 little pretensions to style or method, and pervaded by its author's un- 
 happy scepticism. The following passages are taken from his Peiisecs 
 Diverses. 
 
 HOW THE HOUSE OF AUSTRIA HAS GREATLY 
 WEAKENED ITSELF BY RELIGIOUS PERSECUTIONS. 
 
 If It Is true, as they say, that the height to which this house 
 has arisen is the due reward of the marvellous piety of the 
 Emperor Randolph, who one day met a priest on foot 
 carrying the holy sacrament, and made him get on his 
 horse, and then, with much devotion, followed him walking, 
 we must say that his descendants have not had the same 
 success in the invincible eagerness they have shown in 
 exterminating heresies by fire and sword. And we need 
 not be astonished at It ; the action of Randolph was that 
 of a soul really animated by zeal ; but persecutions, galleys, 
 and gallows, and In general all the violent actions they 
 have committed In behalf of the good religion, are only a 
 
BAYLE. 153 
 
 criminal transport that God does not care to bless. '' Fallit 
 te incauturn pietas tua," might be said to anybody who is 
 seized with a zeal so monstrous, and so likely to confirm in 
 Atheism those who laugh at religion in general, with their 
 " Tantum religio potuit suadere malorum." 
 
 I should not speak so freely, if I did not remember 
 having heard you condemn those who ):ounsel princes to 
 employ bad means for the extirpation of heresies. What- 
 ever it may be, if the house of Austria has been recom- 
 pensed for her zeal against false religions, it has not been 
 in temporal blessings, for it has cost her the brightest gem 
 in her crowns : I do not mean to say, the countries she has 
 lost on this occasion — that would be a small thing ; I mean 
 that repute, that glory, that formidable name that she pos- 
 sessed for some time. She is so weak that she makes to 
 all Europe a greater amends in the way of honour than 
 one would have wished, for all the pride that made her so 
 troublesome formerly ; and it is to the victories of France 
 that Europe owes principally the satisfaction of having 
 been avenged, and of seeing the pride of Spain trodden 
 under foot : "calco Platonis fastum" — you know the rest; 
 and you will not deny, that the unmeasured ambition of 
 Austria, joined to her zeal for estabhshing by any means 
 the cruelty and slavery of the Inquisition ; her power, 
 added to the deliberate style of her policy, — made it easy, 
 when a comet appeared in the year 16 18, to foresee a long 
 and bloody war between the princes of Europe. 
 
FENELON. 
 
 Feanxois de Saligxac de la Mothe Fenelox was born at the 
 castle of Fenelon, in Ouercy, in 165 1. In 1689 he was appointed 
 preceptor to the Duke of Burgundy, the grandson of Louis XIV., and 
 five years later he was made Archbishop of Cambray. 
 
 His principal works are the Aventiires de Telemaqiie^ the Traite de 
 V Existence de Dieii^ the T?'aite de V Education des Filles^ the Dialogiies 
 des Moi'ts, and some fables. 
 
 The following passage is taken from the Traite de V Education des 
 Filles. 
 
 INSTRUCTION OF WOMEN IN THEIR DUTIES. 
 
 Let us notice now in detail the things that a woman 
 ought to know. What are her employments t She is 
 charged with the education of her children — of the boys up 
 to a certain age, and of the girls till they marry ; with the 
 management of servants, of their morals and work ; with 
 the details of the expenditure ; with the means of doing 
 everything economically and honourably ; generally, even, 
 with managing farms and receiving rents. 
 
 The knowledge of women, like that of men, ought to be 
 limited to that learning appropriate to their occupations ; 
 the difference of their employments ought to affect their 
 studies. It is necessary, then, to limit the instruction of 
 women to the subjects we have just mentioned. But an 
 inquisitive woman will think that this is to set too narrow 
 limits to her curiosity : she deceives herself; it is that she 
 does not know the importance and extent of the things I 
 propose to teach her. 
 
 What discernment is necessaiy to know the dispositions 
 and genius of each of her children, to discover the way of 
 
FEXELON. 155 
 
 treating- them the most suited to find out their dispositions, 
 their indinations, their talent — to check their rising passions, 
 to make them believe good maxims and to cure their errors I 
 What prudence ought she not to have to acquire and 
 preserve authority over them, without losing their love and 
 confidence ! But has she not need to observe and to know 
 thoroughly the people she puts about them ? Daubtless 
 she has. The mother of a family, then, has need to be fully 
 instructed in religion, and to have a mature mind ; one 
 earnest and experienced in the art of governing. Can we 
 question whether women may be charged w^ith all these 
 cares, since they fall naturally on them even during the 
 lifetime of their husbands, who are engaged away from 
 home .? They concern them still more closely if they become 
 widows. 
 
 I do not explain here all that a woman ought to know to 
 educate her children, because this little paper will make 
 them feel quite enough the extent of knowledge that it will 
 be necessary they should have. 
 
 Add to this power of ruling economy. The greater 
 number of women neglect it as a low employment, which 
 only suits peasants or farmers ; or, at most, an hotel master, 
 or some housekeeper ; especially women brought up in 
 luxury, abundance, and idleness : they think there is little 
 difference between rural life and that of the savages of 
 Canada. If you speak to them of the sale of corn, of the 
 cultivation of land, of different kinds of revenue, of collect- 
 ing rents, and other seignorial rights — of the best way of 
 farming them, or appointing receivers — they think you want 
 to reduce them to occupations unworthy of them. 
 
 It is only, however, through ignorance that this science 
 of economy is despised. The ancient Greeks and Romans, 
 so clever and so polished, were instructed in it very carefully : 
 the greatest minds among them have written, from their 
 own experience, books that we have still, and in which they 
 have noticed even the smallest detail in agriculture. We 
 know that their conquerors did not disdain to labour and to 
 
156 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 return to the plough after gaining a great victory. This 
 is so diffe|pnt from our ways that we can hardly 
 believe it, little reason as there is in history to doubt it. 
 But is it not natural that people should only dream of de- 
 fending or increasing their country, in order to cultivate it 
 peaceably } What is the use of victory, if not to gather the 
 fruits of peace ? The strength and happiness of a state 
 consist, not in having many lands badly cultivated, but in 
 drawing from the land that it possesses all that is necessary 
 to feed a numerous people easily. 
 
 Doubtless a much more elevated and extensive genius is 
 necessary to learn all the arts connected with economy, and 
 to be in a condition to manage well a whole family, which 
 is a little republic, than to play, to talk about the fashions, 
 and to practise the little conceits of conversation. It is a 
 very contemptible kind of mind that can only talk well. 
 One sees, on every side, women whose conversation is full 
 of solid maxims, and who, for want of having been made to 
 apply early, are very frivolous in their conduct. 
 
 But take care of the opposite fault : women run a risk of 
 being extreme in everything. It is a good thing to accustom 
 them from their infancy to manage something ; to cast 
 accounts, to see the way to strike a bargain for everything 
 that is to be bought, and to know how everything must be 
 made to be of good service. But take care that economy 
 does not run into avarice in them ; show them in detail all 
 the absurdities of this passion ; then say to them, " Mind, 
 avarice gains little, and brings much shame. A sensible 
 mind ought only to try, in a frugal and laborious life, to 
 avoid the shame and injustice connected with a wasteful 
 and ruinous conduct." We must only retrench in super- 
 fluous expenses, that we may be in a condition to meet 
 more liberally those that decorum, or friendship, or charity 
 inspire. Do not fail to represent the gross error of those 
 women who know how to husband a candle, while they let 
 themselves be deceived by a steward in the general man- 
 agement of their affairs. 
 
FENELON. 157 
 
 Act in the same way about neatness as about economy. 
 Accustom the girls not to bear anything dirty or disar- 
 ranged ; let them notice the least disorder in a house. Make 
 them even notice that nothing contributes more to economy 
 and cleanliness than to keep everything in its place. This 
 rule seems very unimportant. Nevertheless, it will go far 
 if it is carefully observed. Do you want anything ? You 
 do not lose a minute in looking for it ; there is neither 
 trouble, nor dispute, nor worry, when you want it ; you put 
 your hand on it at once ; and, when you have done with it, 
 you put it back at once into the place you took it from. 
 Good order forms one of the greatest parts of neatness ; it 
 is that which strikes the eye most, just to see this exact 
 arrangement. Besides, the place that is given to each thing 
 being that which suits it best, not only for gracefulness and 
 to please the eye, but also for its preservation, it is worn out 
 less there than elsewhere ; it is not in general spoilt there 
 by any accident ; it is even kept nicely ; for, for example, 
 a cup will neither be dusty, nor in danger of being broken, 
 when it is put in its place immediately after it has been used. 
 The spirit of exactness that tends to arranging, leads also 
 to cleaning. Add to these advantages that of banishing, by 
 habit, from the servants, the disposition to laziness and 
 muddling. Besides, it does much to render their service 
 prompt and easy, and to remove from oneself the temptation 
 of getting often impatient at the delays caused by things 
 being out of order and a trouble to find. But at the same 
 time avoid an excess of politeness and neatness. Neatness, in 
 moderation, is a virtue ; but when it is carried to excess, it 
 shows littleness of mind. Good taste rejects excessive 
 nicety ; it treats little things as little things, and is not hurt 
 by them. Ridicule, then, before the children, the trifles of 
 which certain women are so passionately fond, and which 
 lead them insensibly into such imprudent expenses. 
 Accustom them to a neatness that is simple and easy to put 
 into practice ; show them the best way of doing things, but 
 show them still more how to do without them. Tell them 
 
158 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 what littleness of mind, and what meanness, there is in 
 grumbling about badly seasoned soup, about a badly folded 
 curtain, or a chair that is too high or two low. 
 
 It is, doubtless, better to be willingly unpolished than to 
 be over nice about such unimportant things. This false 
 nicety, if it is not repressed in women who have some wit, 
 is more dangerous in com.pany than anything else. The 
 greater number of people seem insipid and tiresome to them; 
 the least want of politeness appears monstrous to them. 
 They are always mocking or being disgusted. They must 
 be made to understand early that there is nothing so injudi- 
 cious as to judge superficially of a person by his manners, 
 instead of thoroughly examining the depth of his mind, his 
 opinions, and his useful qualities. Make them see, by differ- 
 ent experiences, how much a countryman, with rough, or, if 
 you like, ridiculous manners, with his tiresome compliments, 
 if he is sincere and has a well-regulated mind, is more esti- 
 mable than a courtier who, under an accomphshed polite- 
 ness, conceals an ungrateful heart, is unjust, and capable of 
 all sorts of dissimulation and baseness. Add that there is 
 always some weakness in minds that have a great inclina- 
 tion to enmd and disgust. There are no people whose con- 
 versation is so poor, that we cannot draw something good 
 from it : although we ought to choose better if we are free 
 to choose, we have something to console us when we are re- 
 duced to it, since we can make them, talk about what they 
 know, and men of wit can also get some instruction from 
 people less educated. 
 
REGNARD. 
 
 Jean Francois Regnard, the celebrated comic poet, was born in 
 1655, and died in 1709. His father was a rich merchant of Paris, and 
 afforded his son every opportunity of gaining a good education ; but 
 his incHnation was towards the Hghter branches of hterature, and he 
 began to write verses at an early age. On leaving college, he entered 
 the academy ; but before he had finished his course there, his father 
 died, and left him a considerable fortune. He then determined to 
 spend some time in travelling, and visited Italy, Flanders, Holland, 
 and Sweden. At Stockholm he was introduced to the king, by whose 
 advice he made a journey into Lapland ; he afterwards travelled through 
 Poland, Turkey, Hungary, and Germany. At last he returned to 
 France, and settled at Paris, where his house soon became the resort 
 of the most distinguished men then living in the capital. After some 
 time, he bought the estate of Grillon, near Dourdan, and it was while 
 living there that he wrote the greater number of his poems and travels. 
 As a writer of comic poetry, he is considered by some as second only 
 to Mohere. 
 
 TRAVELS IN LAPLAND. 
 
 At the end of two hours we arrived opposite his cabin, 
 which was still very distant ; and having landed and taken 
 with us some tobacco and a bottle of brandy, we followed 
 our Lapp, who led us all the night through the wood. This 
 man, who did not know exactly where his father-in-law 
 lived, as he had removed lately, was as puzzled as we were. 
 Sometimes he bent his ear to the ground to listen for any 
 noise ; sometimes he examined the traces of the animals 
 which we met with, to discover whether the reindeer which 
 had passed that way were wild or tame ; sometimes he 
 climbed, like a cat, to the tops of the fir-trees to see if he 
 could discover any smoke ; and continually shouted with 
 
l6o HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 all the strength of his terrific voice, which echoed through 
 the woods. At last after having turned many times, we 
 heard a dog bark ; never had any voice seemed to us so 
 charming as that of this dog, which came to comfort us in 
 the desert. We turned towards the side where we had 
 heard the noise, and, after having walked for some time, we 
 met a great troop of reindeer, and gradually we approached 
 the cabin of our Lapp, who only reached it in the same way 
 that Ave did. 
 
 This cabin was in the middle of the woods, built like all 
 the others, and covered with its " valdemar." It was sur- 
 rounded with moss enough to feed about eighty animals 
 that he had. These reindeer form the entire wealth of these 
 people. There are some among them who have from a 
 thousand to twelve hundred. The occupation of the women 
 is to take care of them, and at certain hours they tie them 
 up and milk them. They count them twice every day, and 
 if one has strayed away, the Lapp seeks it in the woods 
 until he finds it. They may be seen running for a long 
 time after these strayed animals, and even following their 
 traces in the snow for three weeks. The women, as I have 
 said, have the special care of the reindeer and their fawns ; 
 they watch over them constantly, and guard them day and 
 nisfht from the wolves and wild animals. The surest means 
 of protecting them from the wolves is to tie them to a tree, 
 and this animal, which is extremely suspicious and appre- 
 hensive of being taken, fears that there may be a trick, and 
 that near the animal there may be some snare into which 
 he may fall. The wolves of this country are extremely 
 strong, and all grey ; they are nearly all white in winter, 
 and are the most mortal enemies of the reindeer, which de- 
 fend themselves with their forefeet when they cannot do so 
 by flight. There is also a greyish-brown animal, about the 
 height of a dog, which the Swedes call "jsert," and the 
 Latins "gulo," which also carries on a bloody war with the 
 reindeer. This beast climbs the highest trees, that it may 
 see and not be seen, and surprises its enemy. When he 
 
REGNARD. l6l 
 
 sees a reindeer, whether wild or tame, passing under the 
 tree where he is, he springs on his back, and, placing his 
 hind-paws on the neck and fore-paws towards the tail, he 
 stretches and stiffens himself with so much violence as to 
 tear the back of the reindeer; and forcing his muzzle, which 
 is extremely pointed, into the animal, he drinks his blood. 
 The skin of the " jsert " is very fine and beautiful ; it is even 
 compared to sable. There are also birds which wage a 
 cruel war on the reindeer ; above all, the eagle is extremely 
 fond of the flesh of this animal. There are numbers of 
 eagles in this country, and of a size so astonishing, that they 
 carry off in their talons the fawns of reindeer from two to 
 three months old, and bear them to their nests in the tops of 
 the highest trees. This peculiarity appeared to me at first, 
 as I think it will seem to you, difficult to believe ; but it is 
 nevertheless so true, that this is the reason of the watch 
 kept over the young fawns. All the Lapps told me the 
 same thing, and the Frenchman who was our interpreter in 
 Lapland assured me that he had seen several such instances, 
 and that one day, having followed an eagle which had car- 
 ried the fawn of one of the reindeer to its nest, he cut the 
 tree down at the roots, and found that half the beast had 
 already been used for food for the little ones. He took the 
 eaglets and did with them what they had done with his 
 fawn : that is to say, sir, he ate them. 
 
 All the harness of the reindeer is also made by the 
 women. The breast leather is ornamented with a quantity 
 of figures, made with worsted, from which hang little pieces 
 of serge -of all kinds of colours, which make a kind of fringe. 
 The bell is in the middle, and there is nothing which gives 
 vigour to the animal and pleases it more than the noise 
 which it makes with this bell in running. 
 
 As I have begun to tell you about the employments of 
 women in this country, it will give me an opportunity of 
 speaking to you of the work of the men. I must tell you 
 first, speaking in general, that all the inhabitants of this 
 country are naturally cowardly and lazy, and it is only 
 
 II 
 
162 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 hunger and want which drive them from their cabin and 
 force them to work. I should have said that this common 
 vice might have been produced by the cHmate, which is so 
 severe that one would not willingly expose oneself to the 
 air, if I had not found them as lazy in the summer as in the 
 winter. But, in fact, as they are always obliged to seek 
 their livelihood, hunting and fishing form their almost con- 
 stant occupation. They hunt in the winter, and fish in the 
 summer, and make all the utensils necessary for both these 
 employments themselves. They use for their boats fir wood, 
 which they fasten together with the reindeer thread, and 
 make them so light that a single man can carry one on his 
 shoulders. They have need of many of these boats, because 
 of the currents which they often encounter, and, as they 
 cannot ascend them, they have some others in several places 
 on either side. They leave them on the banks, after having 
 drawn them ashore, and put three or four large stones in- 
 side, for fear the wind should carry them away. It is they 
 who make the nets and the cords to fasten them. These 
 nets are made of hemp, which they buy of merchants. 
 They rub them often with a certain red paste, which they 
 make from the scales of fish dried in the air, in order to 
 make them stronger and less likely to rot. The cords they 
 make from the bark of the birch-tree, or from the roots of 
 the fir-tree. They are extremely strong when they are in 
 the water. The men employ themselves also in making 
 sledges of all kinds, some to carry themselves, which they 
 Q2S^ pomes, and others for baggage. The latter are called 
 racdakeres, and are shut up like chests. They make also 
 bows and arrows. The bows are formed of two pieces of 
 wood placed one above the other. That below is dried fir 
 wood, and the other is birch. These pieces of wood are 
 glued together, and covered all along with the thin bark of 
 the birch-tree, so that one cannot see what it encloses. 
 Their arrows are difi"erent : some are only of wood, very 
 thick at the end, and they are used to kill (or rather, to 
 knock down) the minevers, the ermines, the martens, and 
 
REGNARD. 163 
 
 other animals whose skins they wish to preserve. There 
 are others, tipped with reindeer bones, made in the shape 
 of harpoons, and large at the end : this arrow is thick and 
 heavy. These are used against birds, and do not fall from 
 the wound when they have once struck ; by their weight, 
 too, they hinder the bird from flying away, and thus carry- 
 ing with it the arrow and the hope of the hunter. The third 
 kind are pointed like lancets, and are used against large 
 animals, as bears and wild reindeer ; and all these arrows 
 are carried in a little quiver made of birch bark, which the 
 hunter wears at his belt. As for the rest, the Lapps are 
 extremely clever in using the bow, and they make their 
 children practise, as other warlike nations in olden times 
 obliged them to do, for they will not give them anything to 
 eat until they have hit a given mark, or brought down some 
 object from the tops of the highest fir-trees. 
 
 All the utensils which are used in the household are 
 made by the men ; the spoons of reindeer bone, orna- 
 mented with figures, into which they put a certain black 
 composition. They make the fastenings of bags out of 
 reindeer-bone, little baskets of bark and rushes, and those 
 boards which they use to run on the snow, and with which 
 they pursue and catch the fleetest animal. 
 
 TRAVELS IN SWEDEN. 
 
 The mine of Kopparberg is the most curious place in 
 Sweden, and furnishes all the wealth of the country. Al- 
 though there are many mines, this one has always been 
 the most highly valued ; and they do not remember when 
 it was opened : it is four days' journey from Stockholm. 
 The smoke which ascends from all sides points out where 
 the town is, long before it is reached ; and this makes it 
 seem more like the workshop of Vulcan than the dwelling 
 of men. On all sides one sees nothing but ovens, fires, 
 coal, sulphur, and miners, who complete to perfection this 
 
 II — 2 
 
164 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 horrible picture. But let us descend into the abyss, in order 
 the better to conceive the horror of it. They led us first to 
 a room, where we changed our clothes, and took, each of us, 
 a spiked stick, to support ourselves in the most dangerous 
 places. From thence we entered the mine by a mouth of 
 frightful length and depth, which prevented one from seeing 
 the people who worked at the bottom ; some of whom were 
 carrying up the stones ; others undermining the earth ; 
 . some blasting the rock by fire prepared for that purpose : 
 in short, all had their different employments. We de- 
 scended into this abyss by a number of steps which led to 
 it, and we then began to understand that we had as yet 
 done nothing, and that it was only, a preparation for greater 
 labours. In fact, our guides then lit their pine-wood 
 torches, the light of which hardly pierced the thick darkness 
 which reigned in these subterranean places, and only gave 
 light enough to enable one to distinguish the frightful 
 objects which presented themselves to one's sight. The 
 smell of sulphur stifles you, the smoke blinds you, the heat 
 kills you ; add to that the noise of the hammers which 
 resounds through these caverns ; the sight of these spectres, 
 as naked as one's hand, and as black as demons — and you 
 will confess, with me, that there is nothing which gives a 
 stronger idea of hell than this living picture, painted in 
 the blackest and most sombre colours that one can im- 
 agine. 
 
 We descended more than two leagues under ground by 
 these frightful roads, sometimes on shaking ladders, sometimes 
 on light planks, and always in continual apprehension. We 
 saw on our way a number of pumps and curious machines 
 for drawing up water, but we could not examine them 
 because of the extreme fatigue which Ave felt ; we only saw 
 a number of unfortunate beings who worked these pumps. 
 We went right to the bottom with a great deal of trouble ; 
 but when we wished to reascend, super asqtie evader e ad 
 auras, it was with incomparable trouble that we reached 
 the first height, where we were obliged to throw ourselves 
 
REGNARD. 1 65 
 
 on the ground, in order to regain our breath, which the 
 sulphur had stifled. We arrived with the help of some 
 men who held us up by our arms, at the mouth of the 
 mine: There we began to breathe with as much pleasure 
 as a soul escaped from purgatory ; and we began to regain 
 our strength in some degree, when a pitiable object pre- 
 sented itself before us. They were carrying up a poor un- 
 happy creature who had just been crushed by a stone 
 falling on him. This happens every day ; and the smallest 
 stones, falling from an extraordinary height, produce the 
 same effect as the largest. There are always seven or 
 eight hundred men who work in this abyss ; they receive 
 eight pence a day ; and there are nearly as many over- 
 seers, who carry an axe in their hands in sign of authority. 
 I do not know whether we ought to have more compassion 
 for the fate of these unfortunates, or for the blindness of 
 men who to maintain their ease and to satiate their avarice, 
 tear the bowels of the earth, confound the elements, and 
 upset all nature. 
 
 In reality, can there be anything more inhuman than to 
 expose so many people to such extreme peril ? Pliny 
 says, that the Romans, who wanted men more than gold, 
 would not permit the mines which they had discovered in 
 Italy to be opened, in order that the lives of the people 
 might not be exposed to danger ; and the unfortunate 
 beings who had deserved death could not be more severely 
 punished than by being allowed to live, and forced every 
 day to dig their own tombs. In this mine there is found 
 native sylphur, blue and green vitriol, and octahedrons ; the 
 latter are stones naturally cut into a pyramidical form on 
 both sides. 
 
 From Kopparberg we came to a silver mine, which is to 
 be seen at Sahlberg, a little -town two days' journey from 
 Stockholm, the aspect of which is one of the pleasantest in 
 these parts. We went the next day to the mine, which is 
 a quarter of a mile distant from it. This mine has three 
 large mouths, from which one cannot see the bottom. The 
 
1 66 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 half of a cask, fastened to a rope, serves instead of a stair- 
 case to descend into this depth ; it ascends and descends 
 by a rather curious machine, which the water turns on both 
 sides. The greatness of the danger is easily to be con- 
 ceived, when one finds oneself thus descending, having 
 only one foot in the cask, and knowing that one's life 
 depends on the strength or weakness of the rope. An 
 attendant as black as a demon, holding in his hand a torch 
 of pitch and resin, descends with you, and dolefully sings a 
 song, the mournful tune of which seems exactly made for 
 this infernal descent. When we were about the middle, we 
 were seized with a great chill, which added to the torrents 
 which fell on us from all sides, roused us from the heavy 
 drowsiness in which we seemed to be while descending 
 into these subterraneous regions. At last we arrived, after 
 half an hour's journey, at the bottom of this first gulf: there 
 our fears began to subside ; we no longer saw anything 
 frightful ; on the contrary, everything shone in these deep 
 regions. We descended still very deep under ground, on 
 extremely long ladders, to reach a room Avhich is in the 
 centre of the cavern, supported by several pillars of the 
 precious metal with which everything is overlaid. Four 
 spacious galleries join there, and the light of the fires which 
 burn on all sides, and which are reflected on the silver of 
 the archways, and on a clear stream which flows at the 
 side, does not serve so much to give light to the workmen, 
 as to render this dwelling as magnificent as that of Plutus, 
 which is said to be in the centre of the earth, where the 
 God of riches has displayed all his treasures. One sees 
 constantly in these galleries men of all nations, who seek 
 with so much trouble for that which gives pleasure to other 
 men. Some drag the carts, others roll the stones, and 
 others divide rock from rock. It is a town under another 
 town ; there are houses, inns, stables, and horses there, 
 and, what is still more charming, is a mill, which turns 
 constantly, at the bottom of this gulf, and which serves 
 to throw up the water which is in the mine. The same 
 
REGNARD. 1 6/ 
 
 machine carries one up again to go and see the different 
 processes by which the silver is made. 
 
 The first stones which are drawn up from the mine they 
 call 'stitf ; they dry them in an oven, which burns slowly, 
 and which separates the antimony, arsenic, and sulphur 
 from the stone, lead, and silver, which stick together. This 
 first process is followed by another, and these dried stones 
 are thrown into holes, to be there ground and reduced to 
 dust, by means of a number of great hammers worked by 
 the water : this mud is diluted by a stream flowing inces- 
 santly over a great varnished cloth, which, carrying away 
 everything earthy and coarse, retains the lead and the 
 silver at the bottom, from whence they are drawn out to be 
 thrown, for the third time, into the furnaces which separate 
 the silver from the lead, which rises in a scum. 
 
THIRD PART. 
 
 WRITERS OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 LESAGE. 
 
 Alain Rene Lesage was born at Sarzeau, a small town in Lower 
 Brittany, in 1668. He was sent to the college of the Jesuits at 
 Vannes, where he displayed considerable talent, and then proceeded to 
 study law and philosophy at Paris. He began life as a lawyer, but was 
 induced by his friends to abandon that profession and devote himself 
 entirely to letters. He wrote a number of romances and plays, which 
 furnish us with a faithful representation of the dissolute manners and 
 corrupt principles which prevailed during the latter part of the reign of 
 Louis XIV., and during the Regency. His most famous works are 
 Turcaret, and the well-known tale oiGil Bias. He died in 1747, at the 
 age of seventy-nine. 
 
 GIL BLAS TO THE READER. 
 
 Before hearing the history' of my life, listen, dear reader, 
 to a story that I am going to tell you. 
 
 Two schoolboys were going from Pennafiel to Salamanca 
 together. Being tired and thirsty, they stopped at the side 
 of a spring that they found on their way. While they were 
 resting there, after having quenched their thirst, by chance 
 they noticed near them some words written on a stone close 
 to the ground, a little rubbed out by time and by the feet 
 of the flocks brought to the spring to drink. They threw 
 som.e water over the stone to wash it, and they read these 
 Castilian words : " Aqui esta encerrada el alma del licenci- 
 
THE SCHOLAR OF SALAMANCA. 
 
LESAGE. 169 
 
 ado Pedro Garcias " — '^ Here is confined the soul of the 
 licentiate Peter Garcias." 
 
 The youngest of these two schoolboys, a lively, giddy 
 boy, had not finished reading the inscription, when he said, 
 laughing with all his might : "What a good joke ! Here 
 is confined the soul — a soul imprisoned ; I should like to 
 know what queer fellow could have composed such a ridi- 
 culous epitaph." So saying, he got up to go aw^ay. His 
 companion, being more thoughtful, said to himself, " There's 
 some mystery here ; I shall stay and try to make it out." 
 Then letting the other one go, and without losing any time, 
 he began to dig all around the stone with his knife. He 
 did this so well that he raised it up. He found beneath it 
 a leathern purse, which he opened. There were two hun- 
 dred ducats in it, with a card on which these words were 
 written in Latin : " Be thou mine heir, who hast had wit 
 enough to discover the sense of the inscription, and make a 
 better use than I have done of my money." 
 
 The boy, charmed with the discovery, replaced the stone 
 as it was before, and went on his way to Salamanca with 
 the soul of the licentiate. 
 
 Whoever you may be, dear reader, you will resemble one 
 or other of these schoolboys. If you read my adventures 
 without taking heed to the moral instructions they contain, 
 you will reap no fruit from this work ; but, if you read it 
 with attention, you will find, according to the precept of 
 Horace, the useful mixed with the agreeable. 
 
 THE COUNT AND HIS MONKEY. 
 
 At the end of that time, the quiet which pervaded the 
 hotel was strangely disturbed by an accident, which, though 
 it will appear quite a trifle to the reader, became neverthe- 
 less a very serious thing for the servants, and, above all, for 
 me. Cupid, the monkey I have spoken of, his master's 
 particular pet, wishing to jum.p one day from one window 
 
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 to another, managed it so badly, that he fell into the court, 
 and dislocated his leg. The count no sooner heard of the 
 accident, than he began to cry like a woman, and in the 
 violence of his grief, blaming all his attendants without 
 distinction, he was not far from clearing the house of them 
 altogether. However, he contented himself with cursing 
 our negligence, and apostrophizing us without sparing re- 
 proaches. He sent immediately to summon the surgeons 
 who were the most celebrated in Madrid for fractures and 
 dislocations of the bones. They examined the leg of the 
 patient, set it, and bandaged it up. But, although they as- 
 sured him that it was nothing, that did not prevent my 
 master from keeping one of them to stay with the animal 
 until it was perfectly cured. 
 
 It would be wrong for me to pass over in silence the 
 troubles and anxiety that the Sicilian noble had during 
 this time. Can you believe it, that during the day he did 
 not leave his dear Cupid ? He was present when they 
 bathed him, and in the night he got up two or three 
 times to see him. What was more tiresome was, that all 
 the servants, and myself especially, were obliged to be 
 always on foot, to run wherever they thought it convenient 
 to send us on the service of the monkey. In a word, we 
 had no peace in the hotel until the troublesome animal, 
 feeling nothing more of his fall, resumed his usual pranks 
 and somersaults. After this, shall we refuse to credit the 
 account of Suetonius, when he says that Caligula was so 
 fond of his horse, that he gave him a house richly fur- 
 nished, with officers to wait upon him, and that he even 
 wished to make him consul ? My patron was not less en- 
 chanted with his monkey ; he would willingly have made 
 him a corregidor. 
 
 THE INDIANS OF GUATEMALA. 
 
 The Indians living on the borders of Guatemala are a mild 
 and amiable people. They desire nothing better than to 
 
LESAGE. 171 
 
 live In peace. They would love even the Spaniards them- 
 selves, if the latter would treat them with a little more 
 humanity. We must, however, except a race of negro 
 slaves who live on the indigo plantations. They are fero- 
 cious and audacious men. Although they have no arms 
 but small spears, they have the boldness to provoke a wild 
 bull in a rage, or assemble in the rivers among the crocodiles, 
 which they do not leave till they have killed them. Such 
 slaves make their masters tremble. As for the Indians of 
 Petapa, I assure you they are the best in America : as re- 
 fined as the others are coarse, they form among themselves 
 an agreeable society, pervaded by a spirit of concord and 
 brotherly love. But what is more worthy of admiration, is 
 their good faith and integrity. I will give you an example 
 of it. 
 
 A noble and rich Indian of Petapa died, and left a con- 
 siderable inheritance to his two sons and his daughter. 
 The elder of the two brothers undertook to divide it into 
 three equal portions. When he had done this, he said to 
 his younger brother and sister, " Choose." " You are the 
 eldest," replied they ; " it is your place to choose." " No," 
 replied he ; " as I divided it, it is fair that you should take 
 what you like." The younger brother and the sister then 
 chose their portions, and the third was the share of the 
 eldest. 
 
 There was in the lot of the latter a strong box, at the 
 bottom of which a secret drawer had been made, in which 
 there chanced to be a thousand pieces of gold. The elder 
 brothe,r, having discovered it, invited his brother and sister 
 to a feast, at the end of which he served up to them in a 
 dish, all the pieces, saying, " Here is what was hidden, 
 without my knowing it, in a chest belonging to my 
 .share ; we must divide it : justice demands that it should 
 be so." 
 
 I lived in perfect agreement with these Indians, who 
 loved me, Spaniard though I was. I shared in their recrea- 
 tions every day. I conversed freely, and played at cards 
 
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 with their women, of whom they are not jealous, and who, 
 for the most part, are so Hvely, that it is a pleasure to hear 
 them talk proconchi. Moreover, the academicians of Petapa 
 consult them not unfrequently ; and when, in their counsels, 
 the gentlemen differ in opinion as to a word, they say, *' We 
 must consult the women about it," which proves that the 
 Academy is very gallant. 
 
SAINT-SIMON. 
 
 Louis de Rouvroy, Due de Saint-Simon, was bom in 1675. His 
 mother was the niece of Chateauneuf, Keeper of the Seals, and at his 
 baptism Louis XIV. and Maria Theresa of Austria stood sponsors to 
 him. After having finished his studies, he entered the army, and fought 
 in the battle of Fleurus, and at the siege of Namur. After the peace of 
 1697 he left the army, and resided chiefly at court. He was appointed 
 a member of the council of regency during the minority of Louis XV., 
 and in 1721 was sent as ambassador extraordinary to the court of 
 Spain, to negotiate a marriage between the Infanta and Louis XV. 
 After the death of the Duke of Orleans, he retired to his estate of La 
 Ferte, and occupied himself in revising his Memoires. He died in 
 1755, at the age of eighty. He possessed a remarkable power of 
 delineating character, and, though his Meuioii'-es abound in idle 
 gossip, yet they give a lively, and, in general, an accurate picture of 
 the court of Louis XIV. 
 
 LAST MOMENTS OF LOUIS XIV. 
 
 On Wednesday, August 28tli, the king paid a compliment 
 to Madame de Maintenon, which pleased her but little, and 
 to which she did not answer a word. He told her that what 
 comforted him in leaving her was the hope that, from the 
 age she had attained, they would soon meet again. To- 
 wards seven o'clock in the morning he ordered that Father 
 Tellier should be called, and while he was talking to him 
 of God, he saw in the mirror over his mantelshelf two of 
 the pages of his bedchamber, who were seated at the foot 
 of his bed, weeping. He said to them, "Why do you 
 weep .-* Did you think me immortal } As for me, I have 
 never thought myself so, and, at my age, you ought to 
 have been prepared to lose me." 
 
 A kind of Provencal peasant, a very rough fellow, heard 
 of the king's danger as he was on his way from Marseilles 
 
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 to Paris, and came this morning to Versailles with a remedy 
 which, he said, would cure gangrene. The king was so ill, 
 and the physicians were so completely at their wits' end, 
 that they consented to it without difficulty, in the presence 
 of Madame de Maintenon and the Due de Maine. Fagon 
 wished to say something ; this peasant, who was named Le 
 Brun, treated him so brutally that Fagon, who was accus- 
 tomed to illtreat other people, and to be treated by them 
 with the greatest awe, was quite abashed. They then gave 
 the king ten drops of this elixir in some wine of Alicante, 
 at eleven o'clock in the morning. Some time afterwards 
 lie felt stronger, but his pulse falling again, they gave him 
 another dose at the end of four hours, telling him that it 
 was to call him back to life. He replied, as he took the 
 glass in which it was, " Life or death, whichever God 
 pleases." 
 
 Madame de Maintenon went out of the king's room with 
 her hood down, and was conducted by Marshal Villeroy 
 towards her own apartments, which she did not enter ; 
 when at the bottom of the grand staircase she raised her 
 veil. She embraced the marshal with very dry eyes, say- 
 ing to him, " Good-bye, Marshal," and got into a royal 
 carriage that she always used in which Madame de Quailus 
 was waiting for her alone, and went to Saint Cyr, followed 
 by her own carriage, in which were her women. That even- 
 ing the Due de Maine made great fun at his house of the 
 adventure of Fagon with Le Brun. The medicine of Le 
 Brun was continued as he wished, and he always saw the 
 king take it. When they proposed to the king to take 
 some soup, he replied that they must not speak to him as 
 they would to any other man : that it was not soup he 
 wanted, but a confessor, and he ordered him to be called. 
 One day, when he was recovering from a state of uncon- 
 sciousness, he asked for a general absolution of all his sins 
 from Father Tellier, who asked him if he suffered much. 
 " Ah, no," replied the king ; " I should like to suffer much 
 more, for the expiation of my sins." 
 
SAINT-SIMON. 175 
 
 On Thursday, the 29th, the day and night preceding 
 which had been so bad, the absence of the attendants, who 
 had no longer any work to do beyond what they had 
 already done, left the entrance of the room much more free 
 to the great officers who had always been excluded from it. 
 There had been no mass the evening before, and no one 
 thought of having it any more. The Duke of Charost, 
 captain of the guard, who had also slipped Into the room, 
 justly considered this wrong, and made one of the privileged 
 valets ask the king if he would not be glad to hear it. The 
 king said he wished It ; upon which they went in quest of 
 the people and necessary things, and continued to have it 
 the following days. The morning of Thursday he seemed 
 stronger, and some symptoms of Improvement appeared, 
 which continually Increased, and the rumour of which 
 spread in all directions. The king even ate two small bis- 
 cuits in some wine of Alicante, with a kind of appetite. 
 
 I went that day, two hours after mid-day, to the house 
 of the Duke of Orleans, where only eight days ago the 
 rooms were so crowded at all hours, that, without exag- 
 geration, a pin could not have fallen to the ground. I did 
 not find any one whatever. When he saw me he began to 
 laugh, and told me that I was the first man whom he had 
 yet seen that day in his house, which, till the evening, was 
 quite deserted. Such Is the world. 
 
 Very late In the evening the case vv^as not so encoura- 
 ging as it had been In the day, during which the king had 
 said to the priest of Versailles, who had taken advantage 
 of the opportunity to come In, that there was no question 
 about his life, as, from what he was told, everybody was 
 praying for It, but for his salvation It was very necessary 
 to pray. He chanced that day, in giving his orders, to 
 call the Dauphin, the young king. He saw a movement 
 among those around him. '' Why .?" he asked, " that does 
 not give me any pain." At eight o''clock in the evening he 
 took the elixir of the man from Provence. His head ap- 
 peared confused ; he said himself that he felt very ill. 
 
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 Towards eleven o^clock in the evening his leg was ex- 
 amined. The gangrene was all over the foot, and in the 
 knee, and the thigh was much swollen. He fainted during 
 this examination. He perceived, with pain, the absence of 
 Madame de Maintenon, who did not intend to return. He 
 asked for her several times in the day : they could not 
 hide from him that she was gone. He sent to Saint Cyr 
 to fetch her, and she came back in the evening. 
 
 On Friday, the 30th of August, the day was as sad as 
 the night had been : a heavy lethargy, and, at intervals^ 
 his head confused. From time to time he took a little jelly 
 and some pure water, not being able to bear wine. In his 
 room there were only the servants that were really wanted, 
 Madame de Maintenon, and now and then Father Tellier, 
 whom Bloin or Marechal had sent to summon. There were 
 also very few in the anterooms ; no one but M. de Maine. 
 The king turned easily to thoughts of religion, whenever 
 Madame de Maintenon or Father Tellier found moments 
 when his head was less confused, but they were few and 
 short. About six o^'clock in the evening Madame de Main- 
 tenon went to her room, gave what furniture she had there to 
 her servant, and departed for Saint Cyr, never to return. 
 
 Saturday, the 31st of August, the day and night were 
 terrible. There were only a few short moments of con- 
 sciousness. The gangrene had reached the knee and the 
 thigh. They gave him the medicine of the late Abbe 
 Aignan, which the Duchess of Maine had sent to propose, 
 which was an excellent cure for small-pox. The physicians 
 consented to everything, because they had no hope. About 
 eleven o'clock in the evening they thought him so ill that 
 they read the prayer for the dying. The ceremony recalled 
 him to himself He repeated the prayer in such a strong 
 voice, that it was heard above those of a great number of 
 ecclesiastics, and of all those who had entered. At the end 
 of the prayer he recognised the Cardinal de Rohan, and 
 said to him, "These are the last favours of the Church." 
 He was the last man to whom he spoke. He repeated 
 
SAINT-SIMON. 177 
 
 several times, " Nunc et in hora mortis ;" then he said, 
 " Oh, my God, be not far from me ; make haste to help 
 me." These were his last words. All the night he was 
 insensible, and in one long agony, which terminated at a 
 quarter past eight on Sunday morning, September ist, 
 171 5, three days before he completed his seventy-seventh 
 year, in the seventy-second year of his reign. 
 
 12 
 
MONTESQUIEU. 
 
 Charles de Secondat, Baron de la Brede et de Montesquieu, was 
 born at the Castle of Brede, near Bordeaux, in 1689. As soon as he 
 left college he began to study law, and in 1714 was appointed counsel 
 to the parliament of Bordeaux. Two years later he succeeded his 
 uncle as president. Montesquieu, however, had but little taste for the 
 active duties of his profession, and was more of a philosopher than a 
 practical lawyer. Among his earlier writings are his Dissertation siir 
 la Politique des Romains dans la Religion, his Eloge dn Due de la 
 Force, and his Vie dit- MarecJial de Berwick j but the work which 
 brought him into reputation was the Lettres Persanes, published in 
 1 72 1. He was now elected a member of the French Academy, and, 
 having a great wish to study the governments of other countries, he 
 went first to Vienna, afterwards visited Hungary, Italy, Switzerland, 
 and Holland, and then spent two years in England, where he was 
 treated with great distinction by Queen Caroline, and made a member 
 of the Royal Society of London. After his return to France he wrote 
 Les Causes de la Grandeur et de la Decade?ice des Romains, from which 
 an extract is given below ; and in 1748 appeared the greatest of all his 
 works, D Esprit des Lois, on which he had spent nearly twenty years. 
 Its success was such, that in a year and a half it passed through 
 twenty-two editions. Montesquieu died at Paris in 1755- 
 
 TWO CAUSES OF THE DOWNFALL OF ROME. 
 
 When the dominion of Rome was confined to Italy, the 
 Republic could easily hold its ground. Every soldier was 
 also a citizen ; every consul levied an army ; and other 
 citizens Avent to war under him who succeeded. The num- 
 ber of troops not being excessive, care was taken to receive 
 into the army only men who had sufficient wealth to make 
 them feel an interest in the preservation of the town. 
 Lastly, the senate w^atched closely the conduct of the gene- 
 rals, and prevented their indulging a thought of doing any- 
 thing contrary to their duty. 
 
MONTESQUIEU. 1/9 
 
 But when the legions passed beyond the Alps and the 
 sea, the soldiers, whom it was necessary to leave for several 
 campaigns in the countries which they were subjugating, 
 lost little by little the spirit of citizens ; and the generals, 
 who disposed of armies and kingdoms, felt their own 
 strength, and would no longer obey. 
 
 The soldiers began then to acknowledge only their gene- 
 ral — to found on him all their hopes, and to think less of 
 the city. They were no longer soldiers of the Republic, but 
 of Sulla, Marius, Pompey, or Caesar. Rome could no longer 
 tell whether he who was at the head of an army in a pro- 
 vince was her general or her enemy. 
 
 Whilst the people of Rome were only corrupted by their 
 tribunes, to whom they could only grant their own power, 
 the senate could easily defend itself, because it acted with 
 constancy, whilst the populace passed incessantly from 
 the extreme of wrath to the extreme of weakness. But 
 when the people could give to their favourites a formidable 
 authority abroad, all the wisdom of the senate became use- 
 less, and the Republic was ruined. 
 
 The reason why free states are less lasting than others 
 is, that the misfortunes which happen to them, and the 
 successes which they enjoy, almost always cause them to 
 lose their liberty ; whereas the successes and misfortunes 
 of a state where the people are in subjection alike confirm 
 their servitude. A wise Republic ought to risk nothing 
 which exposes it to good or bad fortune ; the only good to 
 which it ought to aspire is the perpetuity of its state. 
 
 If the greatness of the empire ruined the Republic, the 
 greatness of the city ruined it no less. 
 
 Rome had subdued all the world with the help of the 
 people of Italy, to whom she had given at various times 
 different privileges. The greater part of these people had 
 not at first cared about the right of Roman citizenship, and 
 some preferred to retain their own customs. But when this 
 right was that of universal sovereignty — when a man was 
 nobody in the world if he were not a Roman citizen, and 
 
 12 — 2 
 
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 when with this title he was everybody, the people of Italy 
 resolved to perish or to become Romans. Not being able 
 to attain their end by their solicitations and prayers, they 
 had recourse to arms. They revolted on all that coast 
 which looks towards the Ionian sea : the other allies were 
 ready to follow them. Rome, obliged to fight against those 
 who were, so to speak, the hands with which she enchained 
 the universe, was ruined ; she was about to be confined 
 within her own walls ; she granted this much-desired right 
 to the allies who had not as yet ceased to be faithful, and, 
 little by little, she granted it to all. 
 
 Henceforth Rome was no longer the same city, the people 
 of which had had only one and the same spirit — the same 
 love of liberty, the same hatred of tyranny, where jealousy 
 of the power of the senate and of the prerogatives of the 
 great, always mingled with respect, was only a love of 
 equality. The people of Italy having become its citizens, 
 each town brought to it its own peculiar talents, its own pe- 
 culiar interests, and its dependence on some great protector. 
 The mutilated city formed no longer a whole ; and as peo- 
 ple were only citizens of it by a kind of fiction, as they 
 had no longer the same magistrates, the same walls, the same 
 gods, the same temples, the same sepulchres, th^y no longer 
 viewed Rome with the same eyes, they had no longer the 
 same love for their country, and Roman sentiments no 
 longer existed. Ambitious men caused whole towns and 
 nations to come to Rome to disturb the elections, or to get 
 the votes given to themselves. Their assembhes were really 
 conspiracies ; a troop of seditious men was called Comitia ; 
 the authority of the people, their laws, they themselves be- 
 came chimeras ; and the anarchy was such that one could 
 no longer tell whether the people had made an ordinance, 
 or whether they had not. 
 
 Historians only speak of the divisions which ruined 
 Rome, but one cannot see that these divisions were neces- 
 sary, that they had always been, or that they would always 
 be. It was merely the size of the Republic which did the 
 
MONTESQUIEU. l8l 
 
 harm, and which changed popular tumults into civil v/ars, 
 Rome necessarily had divisions; and her warriors, so proud, 
 so terrible beyond the walls, could not be very moderate 
 within. To require in a free state men bold in war and timid 
 in peace is to desire impossible things ; and, as a general 
 rule, whenever one sees everything tranquil in a state which 
 calls itself a repubHc, one may be assured that liberty is not 
 there. 
 
 That which is called union in the body politic is a very 
 equivocal thing ; the true union is a union of harmony, 
 which causes all the parts, however opposed they may ap- 
 pear to us, to concur in the general good of society, as some 
 discords in music tend to a complete harmony. There may 
 be union in a state where there only seems trouble — that is 
 to say, a harmony whence results happiness, which alone is 
 true peace. It is like some parts of this universe, eternally 
 bound together by the action of some and the reaction of 
 others. 
 
 But in the harmony of Asiatic despotism — that is to say, 
 of every government which is not limited — there is always 
 a real division. The labourer, the soldier, the merchant, the 
 magistrate, the noble, are only united because some oppress 
 the others without resistance ; and if one does see union, it 
 is not that of united citizens, but that of dead bodies buried 
 near one another. 
 
 It is true that the laws of Rome became powerless to 
 govern the Republic ; but it is a thing which has been 
 always seen, that good laws which have made a little re- 
 public great, become a burden to it when it has* increased, 
 because they were such that their natural effect was to form 
 a great people, and not to govern them. There is a great 
 difference between good laws and suitable laws — those 
 which make a people become masters of others, and those 
 which maintain its power when once acquired. 
 
 There is at present in the world a republic which scarcely 
 any one knows, and which, in secret and in silence, increases 
 in strength each day. It is certain that, if it ever arrive at 
 
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 the state of greatness for which its wisdom destines it, it 
 will necessarily change its laws ; and this will not be the 
 work of a legislator, but that of corruption itself 
 
 Rome was made to grow great, and its laws were admir- 
 ably suited for that purpose. Thus, under whatever govern- 
 ment she may have been — under the power of the kings, 
 under the aristocracy, or under the rule of the people — she 
 never ceased to undertake enterprises which demanded skil- 
 ful management, and succeeded in them. We do not find 
 her become wiser than all the other states of the earth at 
 once, but gradually. She bore a little, a middling, a great 
 fortune with the same superiority, and had no prosperity by 
 which she did not profit, and no misfortunes of which she 
 did not make use. 
 
 She lost her liberty because she finished her work too 
 soon. 
 
VOLTAIRE. 
 
 Francois Marie Arouet de Voltaire was born at Paris in 1694. 
 The celebrated Ninon de I'Enclos, to whom he was introduced in his 
 fourteenth year, and the Jesuit professors of the College of Louis le 
 Grand, where he received his education, were equally struck with his 
 keen and bold intelligence, and foretold, though with very different 
 feelings, the tenor of his future career. Entering life under the Regency, 
 he at once distinguished himself among the espriis forts of the day by 
 the keen edge of his satire, and the boldness with which he denounced 
 the hypocritical intolerance of that corrupt age. Thrown into the 
 Bastille, he there completed his CEdipe, a tragedy abounding in reHec- 
 tions on priestcraft and superstition. This piece, which was performed 
 with immense success on his liberation, is remarkable, as being at 
 once the earliest triumph of his pen, and the first blow struck in his 
 long war against the clergy. Some years later, after undergoing a 
 second confinement in the Bastille, he was ordered to quit Paris. The 
 apostle of Epicurean deism, for such he had now become, chose to leave 
 France altogether, and retired to England. This hegira forms an 
 epoch in his life. Now he witnessed the working of free institutions ; 
 was introduced to the poetry of Shakespeare and Milton, the physical 
 discoveries of Newton, the philosophy of Locke ; and made acquaint- 
 ance with the English free-thinkers, a school of doubters far more 
 learned and sober than the libertine esprits forts of the Continent. 
 Recalled to France, he returned full of new ideas, which he proceeded 
 to develop in a work entitled Lett^^es Philosophiqites sicr Ics Anglais. 
 This book raised a loud outcry by its attacks on religion. The Parlia- 
 ment of Paris condemned it to be burnt, and proceedings were taken 
 against its author. These, however, were stopped by the influence of 
 the minister, Fleury, and the philosopher was suffered to retire un- 
 molested to a chateau in Lorraine, where for a time he gave himself 
 up to the study of natural science, in the society of Madame du Chatelet, 
 an accomplished lady, to whgm he had become attached. Fortunately 
 for himself "he had given no fresh offence to the Government. He ad- 
 mired the religious rather than the civil freedom of England, and did 
 
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 not include in his mission the part of a poHtical reformer. By flatter- 
 ing Louis XV., his mistresses, and his ministers, he gradually gained 
 court favour, was pensioned, and became gentleman of the Bed- 
 chamber, Historiographer Royal, and Member of the Academy. Mean- 
 while, the production of a series of tragedies, and other works, served 
 the double purpose of enhancing his hterary fame, and of furnishing 
 him with the means of propagating his doctrines. In 1750, he visited 
 Berlin, on the invitation of Frederick the Great, but, at the end of 
 three years, quarrelling with his new patron, he quitted Prussia, and 
 after an interval of wandering settled at Ferney, in the Pays de Gex, 
 where he passed the remaining twenty years of his life. In 1778, he 
 was persuaded to leave his retreat, but died almost immediately on his 
 arrival at Paris. The collected works of Voltaire fill seventy volumes. 
 His most famous tragedies are BnUus, Zaire, Alzwe, Mahomet, Tanered, 
 and Merope. In narrative poetry, he produced two works, which form 
 a curious contrast : his Henriade is but a frigid epic, though it has for 
 its hero a sovereign after Voltaire's own heart, the tolerant author of 
 the Edict of Nantes ; while in the infamous JPitcelle all the resources 
 of wit and genius are employed to pollute the story of the Maid of 
 Orleans. Besides plays and poems, Voltaire wrote romances, of which 
 the best known are Candide and Zadig. His prose works include in- 
 numerable letters, witty pamphlets, philosophical treatises, and several 
 excellent histories. It is sufficient to name his Philosophical Dictionary, 
 his Histories of Chai'les XII. and Peter the Gi^eat, and his Age of 
 Louis XIV. 
 
 JEANNOT AND COLIN. 
 
 Several persons worthy of credit have seen Jeannot and 
 CoHn at school in the town of Issoire, in Auvergne, a 
 town famous throughout the universe for its college and 
 its kettles. Jeannot was the son of a renowned dealer in 
 mules, and Colin owed his birth to a brave labourer of the 
 neighbourhood, who cultivated the land with four mules, 
 and who, after having paid tallage and tax, duties and 
 gabels, did not find himself mightily rich at the end of 
 the year. 
 
 Jeannot and Colin were very good-looking for inhabitants 
 of Auvergne ; and were very fond of each other. 
 
 Their time for study was nearly ended when a tailor 
 brought a velvet coat of three colours for Jeannot, with a 
 
JEANNOT AND COLIN. 
 
ESTABLISHED 1875 
 
VOLTAIRE. 185 
 
 Lyons vest in very good taste. The whole was accompanied 
 by a letter to Monsieur de la Jeannotiere. Colin admired 
 the coat, and was not jealous ; but Jeannot assumed an air 
 of superiority which grieved Colin. From that moment 
 Jeannot studied no more, looked at himself in the glass, 
 and despised everybody. Some time after a footman arrived 
 post haste, and brought a second letter to the Marquis de 
 la Jeannotiere ; it was an order from his father to send his 
 son to Paris. Jeannot got into the chaise, extending his 
 hand to Colin with a very noble smile of patronage. Colin 
 felt his nothingness, and wept. Jeannot set out in all the 
 splendour of his glory. 
 
 Readers who like to get information ought to know that 
 M. Jeannot, the father, had acquired immense wealth in 
 business pretty rapidly. You ask, how do people make 
 these great fortunes ? Is it that they are lucky ? .... 
 
 From the moment you get into the current of the water 
 you have only to let yourself go ; you make an immense 
 fortune without any trouble. The beggars on the beach, 
 who see you sailing along with full sails, open their astonished 
 eyes ; they do not know how you could have succeeded ; 
 they envy you ignorantly, and write pamphlets against you 
 which you do not read. Thus it happened to Jeannot the 
 father, who soon became M. de la Jeannotiere, and who, 
 having bought a marquisate at the end of six months, 
 took the marquis, his son, away from school to introduce 
 him to the dean monde of Paris. 
 
 Colin, always loving, wrote a letter of compliment to his 
 old companion. The little marquis made him no answer. 
 Colin was ill with grief about it. 
 
 The father and mother at once engaged a tutor for the 
 young marquis. This tutor, who was a man with a fine 
 air, and who knew nothing, could teach his pupil nothing. 
 The gentleman wished his son to learn Latin ; the lady 
 did not. They referred the m.atter to an author, who was 
 celebrated at that time as the writer of some charming 
 works. He was asked to dinner. The master of the house 
 
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 began by saying at once, " Sir, as you know Latin, and as 
 you are a man at court — " 
 
 " Me, sir ! Latin ! I don't know a word," replied the 
 man of letters, " and I have done very well. It is clear that 
 one speaks one's own language much better when one does 
 not divide one's attention between it and foreign languages. 
 Look at all our ladies, they have more agreeable wit than 
 men ; their letters are written with a hundred times more 
 grace. They have this superiority over us only because 
 they do not know Latin." 
 
 " Ah, well, was I not right .?" said the lady. " I want 
 my son to be a man of spirit, that he may get on in the 
 world, and you see very well that if he knew Latin he would 
 be ruined. Do they act comedy and opera in Latin, if you 
 please .'' Does one plead in Latin in a lawsuit .''" 
 
 The gentleman, dazzled by these reasons, passed sentence 
 of condemnation, and it was decided that the young marquis 
 should not lose his time in making the acquaintance of 
 Cicero, Horace, and Virgil. " But what shall he learn, 
 then ? for still he must know something. Should they 
 teach him a little geography ?" 
 
 "What would be the use of that.'*" answered the tutor. 
 ^' When the marquis goes about his lands, will not the pos- 
 tilions know the roads ? Of course they will not lead him 
 astray. One has no need of a quadrant to travel, and one 
 can go from Paris to Auvergne very comfortably without 
 wanting to know in what latitude you are." 
 
 " You are right," replied the father ; " but I have heard 
 speak of a fine science, that is called, I think, astronomy." 
 
 " What a pity !" answered the tutor. " We are not 
 guided by the stars in this world, and is it necessary that 
 the marquis should kill himself by making calculations 
 about an eclipse, when he can find it settled to a nicety in 
 the almanac, which tells him, besides the movable feasts, 
 the age of the moon and that of all the princesses of 
 Europe r 
 
 Madame was quite of the tutor's opinion ; the little 
 
VOLTAIRE. 187 
 
 marquis was in ecstasies ; the father was undecided. " What 
 should my son be taught, then .?" said he, " To be agree- 
 able," replied the friend whom they consulted ; " and if he 
 knows how to please, he will know everything. It is an 
 art that he will learn from his lady mother without any 
 trouble to either of them." 
 
 At this speech the lady embraced the charming ignoramus, 
 and said, " One can see, sir, that you are the most learned 
 man in the world ; my son will owe all his education to 
 you ; I do not imagine, however, that it would do him any 
 harm to know a little history." 
 
 " Ah, madam, what is the good of- it .?" he replied. 
 ** Surely the only useful and agreeable history is that of the 
 present day. All ancient histories, as one of our clever 
 men said, are only unacknowledged fables ; and as to the 
 modern ones, they are a chaos that cannot be cleared up. 
 What does it matter to your son that Charlemagne may 
 have instituted the twelve peers of France, and that his 
 successor stammered .''" 
 
 " Nothing could have been better said," cried the tutor. 
 ^* The minds of children are stifled under a mass of useless 
 knowledge ; but of all the sciences, the most absurd, in 
 my opinion, and that which is most sure to suppress every 
 kind of genius, is that of geometry. That ridiculous science 
 has for its object surfaces, lines, and points, which do not 
 exist in nature. A hundred thousand curved lines are made 
 to pass in your mind between a circle and a straight line 
 which touches it, although in reality a straw cannot pass. 
 Geometry, in truth, is nothing but a bad joke." 
 
 The gentleman and lady did not well understand 
 what the tutor meant to say, but they were quite of his 
 opinion. 
 
 " A gentleman like the marquis," continued he, " ought 
 not to spoil his brains over these vain trifles. If some day 
 he wants a grand geometrician to take a plan of his lands, 
 he can have them surveyed for money. If he wishes to make 
 the antiquity of his nobility clear, which goes back to the 
 
l88 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 most remote times, he will send for a Benedictine, It is 
 the same with all the arts. A young lord in good circum- 
 stances, is neither a painter, a musician, an architect, nor a 
 sculptor, but he makes all these arts flourish by encouraging 
 them by his magnificence. It is better undoubtedly to 
 patronize than to practise them. It is enough that the 
 marquis should have taste ; it is for the artist to work for 
 him ; and this is why it is perfectly right to say that 
 people of quality (I mean those who are very rich) know 
 everything without learning, because really, in the long run, 
 they know what to think of everything that they order and 
 pay for." 
 
 The amiable ignoramus then began to speak, and said^ 
 *' You have very well remarked, madam, that the great 
 object of man is to succeed in society. In good faith, is it 
 with the help of the sciences that this success is obtained ? 
 Does one ever think of talking about geometry in good 
 company ? Do we ever ask a man of fashion what star 
 rises with the sun to-day ? Do we inquire at supper if 
 Clodion the long-haired crossed the Rhine ?" 
 
 "No, certainly," cried the marchioness, whose charms 
 had sometimes gained admittance for her into the great 
 world, " and my son ought not to stifle his genius by the 
 study of all this rubbish ; but now what shall we teach him ? 
 for it is well that a young lord should be able to shine on 
 occasion, as my husband says. I remember hearing an 
 abbe say that the most agreeable of the sciences was a thing 
 the name of which I have forgotten, but it begins with a B." 
 
 "With a B, madam ? Would not that be botany .?" 
 
 " No, it was not botany that he spoke to me about ; it 
 began, I tell you, v/ith a B, and ended with 07i." 
 
 " Ah, I understand, madam ; it is blazon, or heraldry ; 
 that is, in truth, a very deep science, but it has gone out of 
 fashion, since the habit of painting one's arms on the carriage 
 doors has been given up ; it was the most useful thing in 
 the world in a civilized state. Besides, this study would be 
 infinite ; there is not a barber now who has not his coat of 
 
VOLTAIRE. 189 
 
 arms, and you know that everything that gets common 
 becomes unfashionable." 
 
 At last, after having thoroughly examined the strong and 
 the weak sides of the sciences, it was decided that the mar- 
 quis should learn to dance. 
 
 Nature, who does everything, had given him one talent, 
 which soon developed itself with prodigious success : it was 
 that of singing ballads agreeably. The graces of youth, 
 added to this superlative gift, caused him to be looked upon 
 as a most hopeful young man. Then the marchioness 
 thought herself the mother of a wit, and gave suppers to the 
 wits of Paris. The young man's head was soon turned. He 
 acquired the art of speaking without knowing what he was 
 talking about, and became perfect in the habit of being fit 
 for nothing. When his father saw him so eloquent, he 
 greatly regretted that he had not made him learn Latin, for 
 he would have bought him a great post in the law. The 
 mother, who had more noble sentiments, took upon herself 
 to solicit a regiment for her son. 
 
 A young widow of quality, their neighbour, Vv^ho had only 
 a moderate fortune, determined to place the great wealth of 
 M. and Madame de la Jeannotiere in security by appro- 
 priating it herself, and by marrying the young marquis. 
 She enticed him to her house. Sometimes she bestowed 
 praises upon him, and sometimes counsels ; she became his 
 father's and mother's best friend. An old neighbour sug- 
 gested the marriage. The parents, dazzled by the splendour 
 of this alliance, accepted the proposal with pleasure. They 
 gave their only son to their intimate friend. The young 
 marquis was going to marry a woman whom he adored and 
 by whom he was loved ; the friends of the house congratu- 
 lated him. The marriage contract was going to be drawn 
 up while they worked at the wedding clothes and at the 
 epithalamium. 
 
 He was one morning at the feet of the charming bride, 
 whom love, esteem, and friendship were on the point of 
 giving him ; they were settling how they should lead a 
 
IQO HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 delightful life, when one of his mother's footmen came in^ 
 looking quite scared. 
 
 "Here's some very different news for you," said he; "the 
 sheriff's officers are stripping the house of my master and 
 .mistress ; everything is seized by the creditors ; they talk 
 of arrest, and I am going to be quick and get my wages." 
 
 "Let us see," said the marquis, "what it all is, what 
 has happened." 
 
 " Yes," said the Avidow, " go and punish those rogues ; 
 go quickly." 
 
 He ran there ; he reached the house ; his father was 
 already thrown into prison. All the servants had fled ; each 
 one had gone his own way, carrying with them all they 
 could. His mother was alone, without help, without com- 
 fort, bathed in tears : there only remained to her the 
 remembrance of her fortune, of her beauty, of her faults, and 
 of her extravagance. After the son had wept with his 
 mother for a long time, he said to her at last, " Do not let 
 us despair. That young widow loves me desperately ; she 
 is even more generous than rich. I can answer for her. I 
 will fly to her, and bring her to you," Then he returned to 
 his betrothed. 
 
 " What ! is that you, M. de la Jeannotiere ? What do 
 you want here ? Do you thus abandon your mother ? Go 
 to the poor woman, and tell that I still wish her well. I am 
 in want of a lady's maid, and I will give her the preference." 
 
 The marquis, stupefied and enraged, went to find his old 
 tutor, poured his griefs into his bosom, and asked him for 
 advice. The latter proposed that he should become a tutor 
 like himself "Alas ! I know nothing; you have taught 
 me nothing, and you are the first cause of my misfortune," 
 and he sobbed as he spoke to him thus. 
 
 "Write some novels," said a wit who was there ; "that 
 is an excellent resource in Paris." 
 
 The marquis was ready to faint. He was treated much 
 the same by his friends, and in half a day he learned to 
 know the world better than in all the rest of his life. 
 
VOLTAIRE. 191 
 
 While he was plunged in this depth of despair, he saw a 
 chaise of an antique fashion coming up, a kind of covered 
 cart, fitted up with leather curtains, followed by four enor- 
 mous wagons, all loaded. There was a young man in the 
 chaise, in coarse clothes, with a round fresh face full of 
 kindness and gaiety. His little wife, dark and, in a rough 
 way, pleasing enough, was jolting by his side. The carriage 
 did not go at the rate of a dandy's curricle. The traveller 
 had plenty of time to contemplate the motionless marquis, 
 buried in his grief 
 
 "Eh !" he cried, *'I do believe that's Jeannot there.". At 
 this name the marquis raised his eyes, the chaise stopped, 
 " It is Jeannot himself, it is." The little fat man made but 
 one spring, and ran to embrace his old comrade. Jeannot 
 recognised Colin ; shame and tears covered his face. 
 "You've given me up," said Colin, "but you make a fine 
 lord. I shall always like you." Jeannot, touched and con- 
 fused, told him part of his story with many sighs. " Come 
 to the inn where I am staying and tell me the rest," said 
 Colin ; " say ' How do you do .?' to my little wife, and let 
 us go and have dinner together." 
 
 They went all three on foot, followed by the baggage. 
 " What's all this luggage then .? Does it belong to you ?" 
 
 " Yes, it's all mine and my wife's. We are coming from 
 the country. I am at the head of a good factory of tinned 
 iron and copper. I have married the daughter of a rich 
 dealer in necessary utensils, great and small. We work 
 hard, God blesses us, we ^have not changed our condition ; 
 we will help our friend Jeannot. Don't be marquis any 
 more. All the grandeurs of this world are not worth one 
 good friend. You will go back into the country with me. 
 I will teach you my trade, it's not very difficult ; I will give 
 you a share, and we will live merrily in the corner of the 
 earth where we were born." 
 
 Jeannot, in a state of distraction, felt himself divided 
 between grief and joy, love and shame, and said to himself 
 in a low voice, " All my fine friends have betrayed me, and 
 
192 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 Colin alone, whom I have despised, comes to my help." 
 What a lesson ! The kindness in Colin's heart developed 
 in the heart of Jeannot the germ of a good disposition which 
 the world had not yet stifled. He felt that he could not 
 abandon his father and mother. 
 
 "We will take care of your mother," said Colin; "and 
 as to the good man your father, who is in prison, I under- 
 stand a little about business. His creditors, seeing he has 
 nothing left, will come to terms for a trifle. I will manage 
 all that." 
 
 Colin managed so well that he got the father out of prison. 
 Jeannot returned to his native place with his parents, who 
 took up their first calling again. He married a sister of 
 Colin, who, being of the same temper as her brother, made 
 him very happy ; and Jeannot, the father, and Jeannette, 
 the mother, and Jeannot, the son, saw that happiness does 
 not consist in vanity. 
 
BUFFON. 
 
 George Louis le Clerc, Comte de Buffon, the celebrated naturalist, 
 was born at Montbard, in the department of Cote d'Or, in 1707. He 
 was the son of Benjamin le Clerc, a counsellor of the Parhament of 
 Dijon, and inherited a considerable fortune from his mother. He re- 
 ceived a careful education, and his school career was brilliant. Having 
 made the acquaintance of a young English nobleman, the Duke of 
 Kingston, who was travelling with his tutor, he obtained his father's 
 leave to accompany him on his tour, and visited various parts of France, 
 Switzerland, and Italy. During eighteen months of travel he acquired 
 a strong taste for the study of nature, and from that time determined 
 to devote himself to science. His first publication consisted of some 
 remarkable papers on the cultivation of trees, the result of observations 
 among the woods on his estate ; he also wrote a pamphlet on the laws 
 of attraction, and made many experiments on light. In 1739 he was 
 elected a member of the Academic des Sciences ; in the same year he 
 was appointed superintendent of the king's garden, and from that time 
 devoted himself to the investigations which have made his name 
 famous. After ten years of study and preparation, he published the 
 first three volumes of his Natural History, which were followed in 
 course of time by twelve others. The History of Birds, the History 
 of Minerals, and the Epochs of Nature appeared subsequently. He 
 also wrote a Dissertation sur le Style. Buffon died at Paris in 1 788. 
 Condorcet says of the Natural History, " The success of this work was 
 a revolutionary epoch in the minds of men ; no one could read it with- 
 out wishing to cast a glance, at least, on nature, and natural history 
 became almost a common acquirement ; it was an amusement or 
 occupation for all classes of society." 
 
 THE FIRST MAN. 
 
 I WILL imagine, then, a man, such as one would believe the 
 first man to have been, at the moment of his creation : that 
 is to say, a man whose body and organs are perfectly 
 
 13 
 
194 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 formed, but who wakes up quite new to himself and to 
 evetything around him. What would be his first move- 
 ments, his first sensations, his first impressions ? If this 
 man were to give us an account of his first thoughts, what 
 would he have to tell us ? What would the story be ? I 
 must make him s.peak himself, in order that the facts may- 
 be more apparent. This philosophical account, which will 
 be short, will not be a useless digression. 
 
 " I remember that moment, so full both of joy and pain, 
 when I felt, for the first time, my singular existence. I did 
 not know what I was, zvhere I was, or zvhence I came. I 
 opened my eyes, when an increase of feeling, the light, the 
 canopy of heaven, the green earth, the crystal waters, all 
 engaged my attention, animated me, and gave me an inde- 
 scribable feeling of pleasure. I thought at first that all 
 these objects were in me, and formed part of myself 
 
 " I was strengthened in this new idea, when I turned my 
 eyes towards the sun ; its light hurt me. I involuntarily 
 closed my eyes, and I experienced a passing sorrow. In 
 that moment of darkness I thought I had lost almost all my 
 being. Troubled, seized with astonishment, I was thinking 
 about this great change, when all at once I heard sounds — 
 the song of the birds, the murmur of the winds, formed a 
 concert, the sweet impression of which touched my heart. 
 I listened for a long time, and soon persuaded myself that 
 this harmony was part of myself 
 
 '' Attentive, occupied altogether with this new kind of 
 existence, I had already forgotten the light, that part of my 
 being which I had first discovered, when I opened my eyes 
 again. What joy to find myself in possession of so many 
 brilliant objects ! My pleasure surpassed all that I had felt 
 at first, and suspended, for a time, the charming effect of 
 sound. 
 
 " I fixed my eyes on a thousand different objects ; I soon 
 discovered that I could lose objects and find them again, 
 and that I had the power of destroying and reproducing at 
 my will this beautiful part of myself; and although it 
 
BUFFON. • 195 
 
 seemed to me immense in size on account of the numerous 
 effects of light and the variety of colour, I thought I could 
 distinguish that all was contained in a portion of my being. 
 
 " I began to see without emotion and to hear without 
 pain, when a light wind, whose freshness I felt, wafted to 
 me sweet smells, which made my heart rejoice, and gave 
 me a feeling of love for myself 
 
 "Agitated by all these sensations, stimulated by the 
 pleasures of such a delightful and great existence, I raised 
 myself all at once, and felt myself carried onward by an un- 
 known power. I only took one step ; the novelty of my 
 situation rendered me motionless, my surprise was extreme. 
 I thought that my existence was departing ; the movement 
 I had made confused everything ; I thought everything was 
 in disorder. 
 
 " I raised my hand to my head, I touched my forehead 
 and my eyes, I examined my body ; my hand appeared to 
 me then the principal organ of my existence ; what I felt in 
 this limb was so distinct and complete, my enjoyment of it 
 seemed so perfect compared to the pleasure which light and 
 sound had given me, that I gave myself up entirely to the 
 solid part of my existence, and felt that my ideas assumed 
 depth and reality. 
 
 " Every part of myself that I touched seemed to give feel- 
 ing for feeling, and every touch produced a double idea. 
 
 " I was not long in discovering that this sense of feeling 
 was spread through all the parts of my being ; I soon re- 
 <:ognised the limits of my existence, which had at first 
 seemed immense in extent. 
 
 '' I had cast my eyes on my body ; I considered it of an 
 enormous size, — so great, that all the objects which met my 
 eyes seemed in comparison nothing but points of light. 
 
 " I examined myself for a long time. I looked at myself 
 with pleasure. I watched my hand, and observed its move- 
 ments. I had the strangest ideas about it. I thought that 
 the movement of my hand was only a kind of flying exist- 
 ence, a succession of similar things ; I put it close to my 
 
 13—2 
 
196 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 eyes, it then seemed larger than all the rest of my body, and 
 hid from my sight an infinite number of objects. 
 
 " I began to suspect that there was some illusion in this 
 sensation which came through my eyes. I had seen dis- 
 tinctly that my hand was only a small part of my body, and 
 I could not understand how it could be increased to such a 
 degree as to appear of an immeasurable size ; I resolved 
 then only to trust my touch, Avhich had not yet deceived 
 me, and to be on my guard against all other ways of feeling 
 and being. This precaution was useful to me. I began to 
 move again, and walked with my head erect and raised to- 
 ward the sky. I knocked myself slightly against a palm- 
 tree ; seized with fright, I touched this strange body, for so 
 I thought it, because it did not return feeling for feeling ; I 
 turned away with a kind of horror, and perceived for the 
 first time that there was something outside me. 
 
 " More agitated by this discovery than I had been by all 
 the others, I had some trouble to reassure myself, and, 
 after having meditated over this event, I concluded that I 
 should judge of external objects as I had judged of the 
 parts of my body, and that I could only be sure of their 
 existence by touching them. Thereupon I tried to touch 
 everything I saw. I wanted to touch the sun. I stretched 
 out my arms to enclose the horizon, and I felt nothing but 
 the empty air. 
 
 "At each experiment that I tried, I passed from one 
 surprise to another, for everything seemed equally near me, 
 and it was only after numberless attempts that I learned to 
 use my eyes to guide my hand ; and as it gave me quite 
 different ideas from the impressions produced by my sight, 
 my senses being no longer in unison, my conclusions only 
 became more imperfect, and the whole of my being was 
 still nothing but a confused existence. 
 
 " Deeply occupied with myself, with what I was, with 
 what I might be, the contradictions which I had discovered 
 humbled me ; the more I reflected, the more doubts pre- 
 sented themselves ; tired of uncertainties, wearied with the 
 
BUFFON. 197 
 
 emotions of my mind, my knees bent under me, and I found 
 myself in a posture of repose. This state of tranquillity 
 gave fresh power to my senses. I was seated under the 
 shadow of a beautiful tree : bunches of bright red fruit 
 hung within reach of my hand ; I touched them gently, 
 and they dropped from the branch as the fig falls when it is 
 ripe. 
 
 " I had seized upon one of these fruits. I thought I had 
 obtained a victory, and I gloried in being able to hold in my 
 hand another whole being ; its weight, although small, ap- 
 peared to me an animated resistance, which I was pleased 
 to have vanquished. 
 
 " I had looked at this fruit ; I had considered its shape 
 and colour ; a delicious smell made me draw it nearer ; it 
 was close to my lips ; I drew in long draughts of perfume, 
 and quaffed the pleasure of the sense of smell. I was filled 
 with this embalmed air : my mouth opened to exhale it, it 
 opened again to draw it in. I felt that I possessed an in- 
 ternal sense of smell, finer, more delicate still than the first; 
 lastly, I tasted it. 
 
 " What a flavour, what a new sensation ! Until then I 
 had only had pleasure ; taste gave me a sense of luxury. 
 The intimate nature of the enjoyment produced the idea of 
 possession ; I thought that the substance of this fruit had 
 become mine, and that I had the power of transforming 
 creatures. 
 
 " Flattered by this idea of power, stimulated by the plea- 
 sure I had felt, I gathered a second and third fruit, and I 
 did, not weary of using my hand to satisfy my taste. But 
 an agreeable languor by degrees took possession of all my 
 senses, made my limbs feel heavy, and suspended the 
 activity of my mind. I judged of its inaction by the feeble- 
 ness of my thoughts ; my dull senses rounded every object, 
 and presented to me nothing but weak and badly-defined 
 representations. At that moment my eyes, which had be- 
 come useless, closed, and my head, no longer supported by 
 the muscles, sank down to find rest upon the grass. 
 
198 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 " All was effaced, everything disappeared, the course of 
 my thoughts Avas interrupted ; I lost the sense of my exist- 
 ence. The sleep was deep, but I do not know if it lasted 
 long, having still no idea of time, and not being able to 
 measure it ; my awakening was only a second birth, and I 
 felt only that I had ceased to be. 
 
 "The annihilation which I had just experienced gave me 
 some feeHng of fear, and made me feel that I should not 
 always exist. 
 
 " I had another anxiety ; I did not know if I had not 
 left behind in my sleep some part of myself I tried my 
 senses. I sought to recognise myself But while I ex- 
 amined my body to make sure that the whole of my exist- 
 ence remained, what was my surprise to see at my side a 
 form like mine! I took her for another myself; far from 
 having lost anything while I had ceased to be, I thought I 
 had been doubled. 
 
 " I touched this new being ; what a shock ! It was not 
 myself, but it was more than myself, better than myself. I 
 thought that my existence was going to change places, and 
 pass altogether into this second half of myself 
 
 " I felt her come to life under my hand ; I saw her de- 
 riving thought from my eyes ; hers made a new source of 
 life flow in my veins ; I would have willingly given her all 
 my being. This lively desire completed my existence ; I 
 felt a sixth sense born. 
 
 " At that moment, the orb of day extinguished its light 
 at the end of its course ; I hardly perceived that I had lost 
 the sense of sight. I lived too intensely to fear ceasing to 
 be, and it was nothing that the darkness around me re- 
 minded me of my first sleep." 
 
ROUSSEAU. 
 
 Jean Jacques Rousseau, one of the most celebrated writers of the 
 eighteenth century, was born at Geneva in 1712. From his father, 
 who was a watchmaker by trade, and a man of some information, he 
 early derived a taste for literature. Being compelled to leave his native 
 city in consequence of certain youthful misdemeanours, he wandered 
 from place to place, supported partly by the assistance of various per- 
 sons whose notice he attracted, and partly by the exercise of his talent 
 for music. In 1750 he wrote a discourse on a subject proposed by the 
 Academy of Dijon — " The Influence of the Revival of Arts and 
 Sciences on the Refinement of Manners." This essay was the be- 
 ginning of his literary career, and brought him into considerable repu- 
 tation. It was followed by a Discourse on the Cattses of Inequality 
 among Mankind, and in 1761 by the Noiruelle Heloise, a work of un- 
 questionable genius, but of the most immoral tendency. In the follow- 
 ing year appeared his romance of Emile, in which the educational 
 systems of the day were discussed, and a more natural and humane 
 method eloquently advocated. In this work, while professing to eulo- 
 gize Christianity, he attacks its character as a supernatural revelation 
 without reserve. The book made a great sensation, and was con- 
 demned by the Parliament. Proceedings having been taken against 
 the author, Rousseau was compelled to leave Paris and did not return 
 till the year 1765. Shortly afterwards he came to England on a visit 
 to David Hume, with whom, however, he soon quarrelled, and return- 
 ing to France, lived at Ermenonville in quiet seclusion till the year 
 1778, when a fit of apoplexy, or, as some say, his own act, terminated 
 his unhappy life. It is impossible in this brief notice to dwell upon his 
 straiige character, his morbid sensibility, his insane vanity, his shame- 
 less depravity, the singular genius and extensive influence of his 
 writings. In early life he became a convert to Romanism, but subse- 
 quently professed to return to the Protestantism in which he had been 
 brought up. He was much under the control of his wife, a mean and 
 vulgar woman, by whose influence he was much secluded from society, 
 and confirmed in his eccentric and vicious habits. Several of his works 
 were published posthumously ; among them are his Cojifessions, and 
 his Reveries of a Solitary Wanderer. The following passage is taken 
 from the latter. 
 
200 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 REMEMBRANCES OF THE ISLE OF ST. PIERRE. 
 
 I UNDERTOOK to compile the Flora petrinsidaris, and to de- 
 scribe all the plants in the island, without omitting a single 
 one, with sufficient detail to occupy me for the rest of my 
 days. They say that a German has written a book on a 
 bit of lemon-peel. I would have made one on each blade 
 of the meadows, on each moss of the woods, on each lichen 
 which covered the rocks — in short, I did not intend to leave 
 a blade of grass, not a vegetable atom, that was not fully 
 described. In consequence of this fine project, every morn- 
 ing after breakfast, which we had all together, I went, with a 
 magnifying-glass in myhand^ and ray Sy sterna Natures under 
 my arm, to visit one part of the island, which I had divided 
 for this purpose into little squares, intending to go over 
 them, one after another, every season. 
 
 Nothing is more singular than the delight, the ecstasy 
 that I experienced at each observation that I made on 
 vegetable structure and organization. . . . The distinction 
 of generic characters, of which I had not the least idea 
 before, enchanted me, as I verified them among the com- 
 mon kinds while I was waiting till rarer ones offered them- 
 selves. The two long forked stamens of the self-heal, the 
 elastic ones of the nettle and the wallwort, the bursting of 
 the fruit of the balsam and of the capsule of the box-tree — 
 a thousand little sports of fructification that I noticed for 
 the first time, filled me with joy, and I went about asking 
 people if they had seen the horns of the self-heal, as La 
 Fontaine asked if they had read Habakkuk. At the end 
 of two or three hours I returned loaded with an ample 
 harvest — a store of provision for the afternoon at home in 
 case of rain. The exercise that I had taken in the morn- 
 ing, and the good humour that is inseparable from it, made 
 the repose of dinner very agreeable to me ; but when it 
 lasted too long, and the fine weather looked inviting, I 
 
ROUSSEAU IN THE ISLAND OF ST. PIERRE. 
 
ROUSSEAU, 201 
 
 could not wait, and while the rest were still at table, I 
 slipped away, and went off and got into a boat by myself, 
 which I steered into the middle of the lake when the water 
 was calm ; and there, stretched at full length in the boat, 
 looking up to the sky, I would let myself go and drift 
 about slowly, sometimes for hours, plunged in a thousand 
 confused but delicious memories : and this, to my taste, 
 was a hundred times preferable to all that I had thought 
 the most agreeable in what are called the pleasures of life. 
 Often warned by the setting of the sun that it was time to 
 retreat, I found myself so far from the isle that I was forced 
 to work with all my might to get in before night closed. 
 At other times, instead of wandering about the middle of 
 the lake, I pleased myself by coasting along the verdant 
 banks of the island, the limpid waters and fresh shades of 
 which often tempted me to bathe. But one of my most 
 frequent voyages was to go from the great to the little 
 island, to get out and to spend the afternoon there, some- 
 times in very circumscribed walks in the midst of osiers, 
 brambles, buckwheat, shrubs of all kinds, and sometimes 
 establishing myself on the top of a little sandy hill, covered 
 with grass, thyme^ flowers, even with sainfoin and clover, 
 that had been probably sown there some time or other, 
 and afforded very good cover for rabbits, which might 
 multiply there in peace, without fearing anything and with- 
 out injuring anything. I imparted this idea to the receiver, 
 who sent to Neufchatel for some male and female rabbits, 
 and we went in great state — his wife, one of his sisters, and 
 I — to establish them in the little isle, which they began to 
 people before my departure, and where they will have pros- 
 pered without doubt, if they have been able to sustain the 
 severity of the winters. The foundation of this little colony 
 was a feast-day. The pilot of the Argonauts was not more 
 proud than I was, leading in triumph the company and the 
 rabbits from the large island to the little one ; and I noticed 
 proudly that the wife of the receiver, who was excessively 
 afraid of the water, and was always ill on it, embarked 
 
202 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 under my guidance with confidence, and showed no fear at 
 all while we were crossing. 
 
 When the lake was too rough for sailing, I spent my 
 afternoon in going through the island, botanizing on the 
 right and left, seating myself sometimes in the most plea- 
 sant and solitary places to dream at my ease, sometimes on 
 terraces and little hills, that I might get a splendid ' and 
 charming view of the lake and its banks, crowned on one 
 side by near mountains, and on the other spread out into 
 rich and fertile plains, over which the eye ranged to the 
 distant blue mountains which shut it in. 
 
 When evening drew on I came down from the hills of the 
 island, and went and sat down very willingly on the strand 
 at the edge of the lake, in some hidden nook. There the 
 noise of the waves and the motion of the waters, fixing my 
 senses and chasing all other agitation from my soul, plunged 
 it in a delicious reverie, in which the night often surprised 
 me without my perceiving it. 
 
 After supper, when the evening was fine, we went out all 
 together again to take a little turn on the terrace and 
 breathe the cool air of the lake. We rested in the tent, we 
 laughed, we chatted, we sang some old song, which was 
 quite as good as the modern stuff; and, lastly, we went to 
 bed, pleased with our day, and only wishing to have one 
 like it on the morrow. 
 
THE MARQUIS DE MIRABEAU. 
 
 Victor Riquetti, Marquis de Mirabeau, one of the sect of the econo- 
 mists, was born at Perthuis, in 1715. He lived chiefly at Paris, and 
 published various political works, which gained him considerable cele- 
 brity, and one of which, the Theorie de Phnpot, procured him a short 
 imprisonment in the Bastille. From his admirers he received the 
 sobriquet of " L'Ami des Hommes," the title of one of his best-known 
 works. He was a man of violent passions and vicious habits, engaged 
 in interminable quarrels with his family, and jealous of his son, the 
 more famous Comte de Mirabeau, by whose superior ability his own 
 fame was eclipsed. The following passages are taken from various 
 Letters addressed chiefly to his brother, the Bailh de Mirabeau. His 
 works are very numerous, and form more than twenty volumes, prin- 
 cipally on questions of pohtical economy. He died in 1789. 
 
 THE YOUTH OF COUNT MIRABEAU. 
 
 February, 1771. — Yesterday morning I took him to see the 
 Chevalier de Viomenil, the Marquis de Lambert, and Sigrais, 
 We used to think him rough, and so he really was ; but 
 now I am only afraid of his becoming too ready to take the 
 complexion of those with whom he lives, and therefore I 
 shall keep him pretty much with you and me. Happily 
 his commission does not involve any military service. 
 
 I have already presented him to Marshal de Broglie, ac- 
 cording to his wish. He will be presented to every one at 
 Versailles. Our good friend Laqueille, told him that he 
 ought to be presented at the Prince of Conde s, since all 
 the young nobles of the army go there ; beiie sit, but in that 
 case he will be introduced to everybody. 
 
 Here he is, then, in the thick of his presentations, and 
 nobody knows how he will get through them. Be sure that 
 
204 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 he will clear me of the suspicion of intending to make a 
 philosopher of him, more especially as he is as affable as I 
 was the reverse. 
 
 March, 1771. — Your nephew has made a favourable 
 impression at Versailles ; he goes to-day to the Duke of 
 Orleans', the Prince of Conde's, thence to dinners, suppers, 
 and to the other princes', &c. Society has changed since 
 our time ; people seek each other's company ; they meet 
 together ; he is well fitted for it, his behaviour being re- 
 spectful and not obsequious, easy and not familiar. He 
 has been invited to hunts, carriage drives, suppers, &c. I 
 shall let him run his course, costly at first, but a fashionable 
 necessity, which is quite a trouble to some wise people, but 
 this queer fellow will carry all before him. 
 
 Your nephew is three days a week at Versailles ; he 
 usurps nothing and attains everything, gains entrance 
 everywhere. And really, as he is a man who must be 
 doing something, it is better he bestir himself there than 
 here. Everybody is related to him — the Guemenees, the 
 Carignans, the Noailles, and I do not know how many 
 others are intimate with him ; he astonishes even those who 
 have grown old in flirtation at Versailles. They all think 
 him as mad as a young dog. Madame de Durfort says 
 that he would take down the dignity of every court in 
 existence, or that ever will exist ; but they find out that he 
 has more wit than all of them, which does not show much 
 tact on his part. I do not at all intend that he should live 
 there and follow with the rest the trade of pilfering the 
 king, dabbling in the mire of intrigue, skating on the ice of 
 favour ; but even for my own purposes, he must see what is 
 going on there ; and as for the rest, when they ask me how 
 I, who never wished to have anything to do with Versailles, 
 let him go there so young, I reply that he is made of dif- 
 ferent stuff from me, a wild bird born between four turrets ; 
 that he will only play the fool there in what calls itself 
 
MIRABEAU AT VERSAILLES. 
 
THE MARQUIS DE MIRABEAU. 20$ 
 
 good company ; that as long as I saw him to be gauche I 
 left him out of sight, but that as soon as I find him to be 
 adroit, I give him his rights. For the rest, since for five 
 hundred years they have always put up with Mirabeaus, 
 who have never been like other people, they will put up 
 with one more who, I promise them, will not disgrace the 
 name. 
 
 May, 1 77 1. — Providence has mocked me by making me 
 the progenitor of a youngster, who was at first, and for a 
 long time, a bird of prey, and who now turns himself into a 
 tame duck of the poultry-yard, that dabbles and chatters, 
 screams and swims after flies. This animal has constituted 
 himself a contriver of feasts. This very day he has led me 
 to high mass through a discharge of musketry to hear a 
 Te Deum, then to see fireworks and illuminations ; and 
 now, while I am writing, all the parish is eating in the 
 court without forks. Note that these are not coarse pea- 
 sants, nor paupers, and my parish is the only one of its 
 kind in the country. Just now, though I do not say so, I 
 feel this joke a little too strong, but it shows a good dispo- 
 sition. So I entreat you to be so good on your part as to 
 take this young rattlebrain under your protection, whom I 
 do not spoil, but who gets spoiled somehow, nevertheless, 
 and takes advantage of my easiness. 
 
BARTHELEMY. 
 
 Jean Jacques Barthelemy was born at Cassis, near Aubagne, in Pro- 
 vence, in 1 716, He was a great linguist and archseologist, and for 
 many years held the office of Keeper of the Royal Medals. At the 
 time of the Revolution, being then eighty years of age, he was deprived 
 of this appointment and thrown into prison. On his release, after a 
 very brief imprisonment, he obtained from Pare, Minister of the Inte- 
 rior, the post of Librarian, which he retained till his death, in 1795. 
 Le Voyage du Jen lie Anacharsis en Grece was the work which made 
 his reputation ; and it is still greatly admired on account of its style, 
 though it cannot be wholly relied on as a work of history. The follow- 
 ing passage is taken from this book. 
 
 THE TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. 
 
 Since the representation of the Clouds four-and-twenty 
 years had passed away. It appeared that the time of his 
 persecution had gone by, when suddenly he learned that a 
 young man had just presented to the second of the Archons, 
 an indictment drawn up in these terms : — Meletus, son of 
 Meletus, of the town of Pithos, brings a criminal accusation 
 against Socrates, son of Sophroniscus, of the town of Alo- 
 pece. Socrates is guilty of crime for not worshipping our 
 gods, but introducing among us new divinities under the 
 name of genii. Socrates is guilty of corrupting the youth 
 of Athens. The penalty, death. 
 
 Meletus was a dull, frigid poet ; he composed tragedies, 
 the remembrance of which will only be perpetuated by the 
 jokes of Aristophanes. Two more powerful accusers, 
 Anytus and Lycon, used him as the instrument of their 
 hate. This latter was one of those public orators who, in 
 the assembly of the senate and people, discuss the interests 
 of the country, and influence the opinion of the multitude. 
 
BARTHELEMY. 20/ 
 
 just as the multitude influence everything. It was he who 
 directed the proceedings. 
 
 Considerable riches and signal services rendered to the 
 state placed Anytus among the citizens who had the 
 greatest credit. He filled successively the first dignities of 
 the republic. A zealous partisan of liberty, persecuted by 
 the Thirty Tyrants, he was one of those who contributed 
 most to their expulsion and to the re-establishment of 
 libferty. 
 
 Anytus had lived for a long time on good terms with So- 
 crates. He even begged him once to give some instruction 
 to his son, whom he had entrusted with the details of a 
 manufacture from which he drew a great revenue. But So- 
 crates, having represented to him that these mechanical em- 
 ployments neither suited the dignity of the father nor the 
 inclinations of the son, Anytus, hurt at this advice, forbad 
 the young man to have any further intercourse with his 
 master. 
 
 To these personal grievances were joined others which 
 irritated Anytus, and which were common to him and the 
 greater part of the nation. These must be unfolded in order 
 that the chief cause of the accusation against Socrates may 
 be made clear. 
 
 There have always existed two factions among the Athe- 
 nians, the partisans of the aristocracy and those of the 
 democracy. The first, almost always kept under, were 
 content in happy times with murmuring in secret ; during 
 the misfortunes of the state, and especially towards the end 
 of the Peloponnesian war, they made some attempts to 
 destroy the excessive power of the people. After the 
 taking of Athens, the Lacedaemonians confided its govern- 
 ment to thirty magistrates, the greater part taken from this 
 class. Critias, one of the disciples of Socrates, was at their 
 head. In the space of eight months they perpetrated more 
 cruelties than the people had exercised during many centu- 
 ries. The oligarchy was destroyed, the ancient form of 
 government re-established ; and, to prevent all dissension 
 
208 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 henceforth, an almost universal amnesty was proclaimed, 
 and it was ordered that the past should be forgotten. This 
 was published and confirmed with an oath three years be- 
 fore the death of Socrates. 
 
 The people gave the oath, but remembered with terror 
 that they had been stripped of their authority ; that they 
 might lose it again at any moment ; that they were in de- 
 pendence on that Lacedsemon which was so desirous of esta- 
 blishing oligarchy everywhere ; that the principal citizens of 
 Athens kept up communications with her and were animated 
 by the same sentiments. And what would this cruel faction 
 do in other circumstances, since, in the midst of the ruins 
 of the republic, so much blood was needed to satiate their 
 fury ? 
 
 The flatterers of the people redoubled their alarms by 
 representing to them that some violent men were express- 
 ing themselves every day with a revolting temerity against 
 the nature of popular government ; that Socrates, the most 
 dangerous of all, because he was the most enlightened, did 
 not cease to infect the youth of Athens by maxims opposed 
 to the established constitution ; that he had been heard to 
 say more than once that any one must be mad to trust the 
 employments and the conduct of the state to magistrates 
 chosen by a blind fate from among the greatest number of 
 the citizens ; that, obedient to his lessons, Alcibiades, be- 
 sides the evils he had heaped on the republic, had in the 
 last place conspired against her liberty ; that, at the same 
 time, Critias and Theramenes, two others of his disciples, 
 had not blushed to place themselves at the head of the 
 Thirty Tyrants ; that, in short, it was necessary to repress a 
 licence of which the consequences, difficult to be foreseen, 
 would be impossible to avoid. 
 
 During the first proceedings Socrates kept himself quiet. 
 His disciples in terror hastened to appease the storm. The 
 celebrated Lysias made a touching speech on his behalf, 
 and one calculated to move the judges. Socrates ac- 
 knowledged in it the talents of the orator, but not the 
 
BARTHELEMY. 209 
 
 vigorous language of innocence. One of his friends, Hermo- 
 genes, prayed him one day to work at his defence. '' I have 
 been busy about it ever since I was born," repHed Socrates. 
 " Let my whole life be examined ; that is my apology." 
 Such was his disposition when he was summoned to appear 
 before the tribunal of the Heliasts, to which the archon- 
 basileus had referred the matter, and which on this occasion 
 was composed of about five hundred judges. 
 
 Meletus and the other accusers had concerted their 
 attacks at leisure. In their speeches, supported by all 
 the prestige of eloquence, they had gathered together 
 many circumstances likely to prejudice the judges. I will 
 relate some of their allegations, and the replies they occa- 
 sioned. 
 
 The first offence of Socrates : He did not acknowledge 
 the divinites of Athens, although, according to the law of 
 Draco, each citizen was obliged to honour them. 
 
 The answer was easy : Socrates often ofi'ered sacrifices 
 before his house ; he often offered them during feasts, on 
 the public altars ; everybody had seen him, and Meletus 
 himself, if he had deigned to pay any attention to it. But, 
 as the accused had rebelled against the superstitious practices 
 that had been introduced into religion, and as he could not 
 endure the hatred and all the shameful passions that had 
 been attributed to the gods, it was easy to blacken him in 
 the eyes of those by whom an enlightened piety is always 
 regarded with suspicion. Meletus added that, under the 
 name of Genii, Socrates pretended to introduce among the 
 Athenians foreign divinities, and that such an audacity 
 deserved to be punished according to the laws. On this 
 point the orator allowed himself to jest about that spirit of 
 whose secret inspiration the philosopher professed himself 
 conscious. 
 
 " This voice," replied Socrates, " is not that of a new 
 divinity ; it is that of the gods whom we adore. You all 
 agree that they predict the future, and that they can teach 
 us about it. It is explained to some by the mouth of the 
 
 14 
 
2IO HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 Pythia ; to others, by different signs ; to me, by an inter- 
 preter whose oracles are preferable to the indications that 
 can be drawn from the flight of birds ; for my disciples will 
 testify that I have never predicted anything that has not 
 happened." 
 
 The second crime of Socrates : He corrupted the youth 
 of Athens. The question was not about the morals of 
 the accused, but about his doctrine ; it was said that his 
 disciples would only learn by his example to break the ties 
 of blood and friendship. This reproach, founded simply on 
 some expressions, maliciously interpreted, only served to 
 betray the bad faith of the accuser. But Meletus gained an 
 advantage again, when he insinuated that Socrates was 
 the enemy of the people ; he spoke of the connexions that 
 this philosopher had with Alcibiades and Critias. It was 
 answered that they showed some virtue while under his 
 guidance ; that their master had at all times condemned the 
 excesses of the first, and that, during the tyranny of the 
 second, he was the only one who dared oppose his will. 
 Several of the friends of Socrates took up his defence 
 boldly ; others wrote in his favour, and Meletus would have 
 yielded if Anytus and Lycon had not come to his help. It 
 is remembered that the^ first dared to represent to the 
 judges, either that they should not have had the accused 
 brought before their tribunal, or that they ought to put 
 him to death, seeing that if he was acquitted their 
 children w^ould become only the m.ore attached to his 
 doctrines. 
 
 Socrates defended himself, that he might obey the law, 
 but it was with the firmness of innocence, and the dignity of 
 virtue. 
 
 The judges of Socrates were for the most part taken from 
 the people, without learning and without principle ; some 
 considered his firmness an insult ; others were offended at 
 the praises that he bestowed on himself A sentence that 
 declared him attainted and convicted was passed. His 
 enemies only carried it by a fev/ voices ; they might have 
 
BARTPIELEMY. 2 1 1 
 
 had Still fewer, and have been punished themselves, if he 
 had made the least effort to move his judges. 
 
 According to the law of Athens, a second sentence was 
 necessary to fix the punishment. Meletus, in his accusation, 
 proposed death. Socrates might choose between a fine, 
 banishment, or perpetual imprisonment. He answered and 
 said that he should avow himself guilty, if he imposed any 
 punishment on himself; but that having rendered great 
 services to the republic, he merited being fed at the Pry- 
 taneum at the public cost. At these words eighty of his 
 judges, who had at first voted in his favour, gave in their 
 adhesion to the opinion of the accuser, and sentence of 
 death was pronounced ; it was decided that the accused 
 should end his days by poison. Socrates received the 
 sentence w^ith the tranquillity of a man, who during his w^iole 
 life had been learning how" to die. 
 
 When he left the palace to go to the prison, no change in 
 liis countenance or walk was perceptible. He said to his 
 disciples, who were weeping at his side : " Ah, why do you 
 only weep to-day } Do you not know that when granting 
 me life, nature condemned me to lose it." " What makes 
 me desperate," cried the young Apollodorus, in the wild- 
 ness of his grief, " is that you die innocent." " Would you 
 prefer," replied Socrates, " that I should die guilty .^" He 
 saw Anytus pass, and said to his friends, " See how proud 
 he is of his triumph ; he does not know that victory always 
 remains with the virtuous man." 
 
 The day after his sentence, the priest of Apollo placed a 
 crown on the poop of the vessel that carried the offerings 
 of the Athenians every year to Delos. Betvreen that cere- 
 mony and the return of the vessel, the law forbad sentences 
 of death to be executed. 
 
 Socrates passed thirty days in prison, surrounded by his 
 disciples, who came constantly to console themselves by re- 
 ceiving his looks and words, and who constantly thought 
 that they were receiving them for the last time. 
 
 One day, on awakening he perceived Crito seated near 
 
 14 — 2 
 
212 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 his bed : he was one of those whom he loved most. " You 
 are here earher than usual," he said ; " it is not quite light 
 yet." " Yes," answered Crito, " the day has hardly begun 
 to dawn." Socrates : " I wonder the keeper of the prison, 
 should have allowed you to enter." Crito : " He knows 
 me ; I made him a little present." Socrates : " Is it long 
 since you came .'*" Crito: "Sometime." Socrates :*' Why 
 did you not awaken me }" Crito : "You were enjoying so 
 peaceful a sleep, I took care not to disturb it ; I have 
 always admired the calmness of your soul : I was still more 
 struck Avith it then." Socrates : " It would be a shame that 
 a man of my age should make himself uneasy at the ap- 
 proach of death. But what makes you come so soon .?" 
 " Heavy news, not for you, but for me and for your friends, 
 the most cruel and the most frightful news !" Socrates : 
 " Has the vessel come ?" Crito : " It was seen yesterday 
 at Sunium; it will arrive to-day without doubt, and to-mor- 
 row will be the day of your death." Socrates : " In good 
 time, since such is the will of the gods." 
 
 Then Crito represented to him, that not being able to 
 endure the idea of losing him, he and some friends had 
 taken the resolution of getting him out of prison ; that the 
 measures had been concerted for the following night ; that 
 a small sum would be sufficient to corrupt their guards and 
 impose silence on their accusers ; that an honourable re- 
 treat and a quiet life would be procured for him in Thes- 
 saly ; that he could not refuse their prayers without be- 
 traying himself, without betraying his children, whom he 
 would leave in want, without betraying his friends, who 
 would be for ever reproached for not having sacrificed all 
 their goods to save his life. 
 
 " Oh my dear Crito," replied Socrates, "your zeal is not 
 in conformity to the principles that I have always professed 
 to follow, and which the most rigorous torments will never 
 force me to abandon." 
 
 Two days after this conversation, the eleven magistrates 
 who superintended the executions, went early to the prison 
 
BARTHELEMY. 21 3 
 
 to release him from his chains, and to announce to him the 
 hour of death. Several of his disciples then entered ; 
 they were about seventy in number. They found Xantippe, 
 his wife, with him, with the youngest of her children in her 
 arms. As soon as she perceived them she cried out in a 
 voice broken with sobs : " Ah, here are your friends, and it 
 is for the last time!" Socrates having begged Crito to have 
 her taken home, they led her from the place, uttering sor- 
 rowful cries and tearing her face. 
 
 Never did he show himself to his disciples with so much 
 patience and courage ; they could not look at him without 
 being oppressed with grief, or listen to him without being 
 filled with pleasure. In his last conversation he told them 
 that no one ought to attempt his own life because being 
 placed on earth, as at a post, we ought not to quit it with- 
 out the permission of the gods ; that as for himself, resigned 
 to their will, he sighed after a moment that would put him 
 in possession of a happiness that he had tried to merit by 
 his conduct. Passing from that to the doctrine of the im- 
 mortality of the soul, he established it by a host of proofs 
 that justified his hopes. ''And if even," he said, ''these 
 hopes have no foundation, notwithstanding the sacrifices 
 they require, they have not hindered me from being the 
 happiest of men ; they drive far from me the bitterness of 
 death, and shed a pure and delicious joy over my last 
 moments." " Have you no directions to give us about your 
 children and your affairs .?" asked Crito. " I repeat the 
 advice I have often given you," replied Socrates, " that of 
 making yourself rich in virtue. If you follow it, I have no 
 need of your promises ; if you neglect it, they will be use- 
 less to my family." He went afterwards into a little room 
 to bathe : Crito followed ; his other friends talked together 
 about the conversation they had just heard, and the state 
 to which his death would reduce them ; they looked upon 
 themselves already as orphans deprived of the best of 
 fathers, and wept, less for him than for themselves. They 
 
214 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 brought his three children to him ; two were still very- 
 young; he gave some orders to the women that had brought 
 them, and after having sent them away, he came to rejoin 
 his friends. 
 
 One moment after the keeper of the prison entered. 
 " Socrates," he said, " I do not expect the curses with 
 which I am loaded by those to whom I come to give notice 
 that it is time to take the poison. As I have never seen 
 any one here with so much strength and gentleness as you 
 have, I am sure you are not angry with me, and that you do 
 not attribute your misfortune to me; you know the authors 
 only too well. Farewell; endeavour to submit to necessity.'^ 
 " Farewell," answered Socrates ; " I will follow your ad- 
 vice ;" and turning to his friends, "How kind that man is!" 
 he said ; " while I have been here he has been to talk with 
 
 me sometimes See how he weeps ! . . . . Crito, I 
 
 must obey him : let the poison be brought if it is ready,, 
 and if not, let it be mixed at once." 
 
 Crito wished to point out that the sun was not yet set ;. 
 that others had had the liberty of prolonging their lives for 
 some hours. " They have had their reasons, and I have 
 mine for acting differently," said Socrates. Crito gave the 
 orders, and when they were executed, a servant brought 
 the fatal cup. Socrates having asked what he was to do : 
 "Walk about after you have taken the potion," answered 
 the man, " and lie down on your back when your legs 
 begin to grow heavy." Then, without changing coun- 
 tenance, and with a steady hand, he took the cup, and 
 after having addressed his prayers to the gods, put it to his 
 lips. 
 
 He continued to walk about ; as soon as he felt a heavi- 
 ness in his legs he lay down on his bed and wrapped him- 
 self up in his cloak. The servant pointed out the gradual 
 progress of the poison to those present. Already the death 
 chill had frozen his feet and legs ; it had nearly penetrated 
 to the heart, when Socrates, raising his mantle, said to 
 
BARTHELEMY. 21 5 
 
 Crito, " We owe a cock to ^Esculaplus ; do not forget to 
 pay this vow." " It shall be done," answered Crito ; " but 
 have you no other order to give ?" He did not answer ; a 
 moment after he made a little movement ; the servant 
 having uncovered his face, received his last look, and Crito 
 closed his eyes. 
 
SAINT LAMBERT. 
 
 Jean Francois de Saint La^^ibert was born at Nancy, in 1716. 
 After having received his education at the Jesuits' College at Pont a 
 Mousson, he entered the army, and served for some time in the Lor- 
 raine Guards. After the peace of Aix-la-Chapelle in 1748, he attached 
 himself to the gay court which Stanislaus, the ex-king of Poland, held 
 in Lorraine, w'here his verses began to gain him some reputation. On 
 the death of Stanislaus he obtained a colonelcy in the French army, 
 and served in the Hanover campaigns of 1756-7 ; after which he 
 abandoned the military profession, and devoted himself to literary pur- 
 suits. He died at Paris in 1803. His principal poem, Les Saisons, 
 was published in 1769, and gained him admission to the Academy, of 
 which he became a member in the following 3^ear. It is, however, but 
 little read in the present day, and his reputation rests mainly on his 
 minor poems. He published also La Catechisme Unive7'sel^ CEtivres 
 Philosophiqites^ and some short tales, of which the Abenaki is one. 
 
 THE ABENAKI. 
 
 During the late wars in America, a troop of wild Abenakis 
 defeated an English detachment. The conquered could 
 not escape from enemies more nimble than they in run- 
 ning, and mad to pursue them ; they were treated with a 
 barbarity of which there are few examples, even in those 
 countries. A young English officer, pressed by two savages, 
 who approached him with their axes raised, had no hope of 
 escaping death. He only dreamed of selling his life dearly. 
 At the same time an old savage armed with a bow came up, 
 and prepared to pierce him through with an arrow, but, 
 after having taken aim, he suddenly lowered his bow, and 
 ran and threw himself between the young officer and the 
 two savages who were going to murder him. The latter 
 retired respectfully. 
 
SAINT LAMBERT. 21/ 
 
 The old man took the EngHshman by the hand, removed 
 •all his apprehensions by his kind manner, and led- him to 
 his c-abin, where he continued to treat him with unfailing 
 kindness. He made more of a companion than a slave of 
 him ; he taught him the language of the Abenakis, and the 
 rude arts in use among those people. They lived very well 
 contented with one another. One thing only caused the 
 young Englishman uneasiness ; sometimes the old man 
 would fix his eyes on him, and, after having gazed on him, 
 shed tears. 
 
 However, at the return of spring the savages took up 
 arms again, and went forth to fight. The old man, who 
 was still strong enough to bear the fatigues of war, set out 
 with them, accompanied by his prisoner. 
 
 The Abenakis made a march of more than two hundred 
 leagues through the forests ; at last they arrived at a plain 
 where they discovered an English camp. The old man 
 pointed it out to the young man, observing his countenance 
 at the same time. 
 
 "There are your brethren," he said, "there they are, 
 waiting to fight with us. Listen. I have saved your life, 
 I have taught you how to make a boat, a bow and arrows, 
 to surprise the elk in the forest, to handle the hatchet, and 
 to scalp your enemy. What were you when I brought you 
 to my cabin ? Your hands were those of a child ; they 
 were of no use to get yourself food, or to defend yourself, 
 your soul was in darkness, you knew nothing ; you owe me 
 everything. Would you be so ungrateful as to rejoin your 
 brethren, and raise the battle-axe against us .?" 
 
 The Englishman protested that he w^ould rather die a 
 thousand times than shed the blood of an Abenaki. 
 
 The savage bent his head, and covered his face with his 
 hands, and, after having remained for some time in this 
 attitude, he looked at the young Englishman, and said, in a 
 tone of tenderness and grief, — 
 
 " Have you a father .?" 
 
 "He was living," said the young man, "when I left my 
 native country." 
 
21 8 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 " Oh, how unhappy he is !" cried the savage ; and, after 
 a moment's silence, he added, " Do you know that I have- 
 been a father ? I am one no longer. I have seen my son 
 fall in battle ; he was at my side ; I saw him die like a man ;, 
 he was covered with wounds, my son, when he fell. But I 
 have avenged him ! Yes, I have avenged him !" 
 
 He pronounced these words with energy. His whole 
 body trembled. He was almost stifled by the groans that 
 he would not allow to escape. His eyes were wild, his tears 
 flowed not. He became gradually calm, and, turning 
 towards the east, where the sun was about to rise, he said 
 to the young Englishman, — 
 
 " Do you see that beautiful sky, brilliant with light ? Da 
 you like to look at it ?" 
 
 " Yes/' said the Englishman, '^ I do like to look at that 
 beautiful sky." 
 
 "Ah, well ! I care about it no longer,^' said the savage, 
 shedding a torrent of tears. 
 
 The next minute he shov/ed the youth a mangrove tree 
 in blossom. 
 
 " Do you see that fine tree r said he. '' Do you like 
 to look at it r 
 
 "Yes, I Hke to look at it." 
 
 " I do not any longer," replied the savage hastily ; and he 
 he added immediately, " Go, go to your country, that your 
 father may yet have pleasure in seeing the sun rise, and the 
 flowers of spring." 
 
MARMONTEL. 
 
 Jean Francois Marmontel was the child of poor parents, and was 
 born in 1 723, at the httle town of Bort, in Limousin. His parents sent 
 him at the age of eighteen to Paris, where he obtained a situation as 
 private tutor; but after a time became one of the editors oi La Meraire,, 
 and was subsequently appointed to the office of Historiographer of 
 France. He was a friend of Voltaire, and was employed by D'Alembert 
 and Diderot to write articles on poetry and literature in the Encyclo- 
 pedie. His principal works are Belisaire^ Les Incas\ Elements dc 
 Litter-ature, and Memoires, from the last of which the following piece is- 
 taken. He died at Abloville, near Gaillon, in 1799. 
 
 VOLTAIRE AND ROUSSEAU. 
 
 My wife, in order to keep the nurse with her, and to pro- 
 vide pure air for her baby, wished to have a house in the 
 country ; and a friend of M. Morellet lent us his at Saint- 
 Brice. Our family and some of our friends used to come 
 and see us on holidays. The Abbe Maury was of this 
 number, and it was worth hearing how he boasted of having, 
 foretold our happiness. 
 
 We also sometimes met our neighbours, the Rector of 
 Saint-Brice, the good Latour and his worthy wife, who was 
 fond of mine. We frequently took solitary walks, and these 
 walks generally ended in that wood of chestnut trees at 
 Montmorency which Rousseau has rendered famous. 
 
 " It was here," I used to say to my wife, " that he thought 
 out that romance of Helo'ise into which he threw so much 
 power and eloquence in order to paint vice with the colours 
 and tints of honesty and virtue." My wife had a weakness 
 for Rousseau ; she was infinitely pleased with him for having 
 
220 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 persuaded women to nurse their own children, and for 
 having taken pains to render the early period of life happy. 
 ^' We must forgive something in him," she said, "who has 
 taught us to be mothers." 
 
 But I, who had seen both in the conduct and the writings 
 of Rousseau nothing but a perpetual contrast of fine language 
 and vile morality — I, who had seen him proclaiming him- 
 self the apostle and martyr of truth, and yet incessantly 
 trifling with it by clever sophistry ; relieving himself of the 
 weight of gratitude by calumny ; making use, in his fierce 
 humour and dark visions, of the falsest colours to blacken 
 his friends ; defaming those men of letters whom he ought 
 most to have praised, that he might make himself famous 
 and degrade all others — I showed my wife, even by the 
 good that Rousseau had done, all the evil that he might have 
 abstained from doing, if, instead of employing his talent 
 to serve his passions, to colour his hatred, his vengeance, 
 his cruel ingratitude, to give specious appearances to his 
 calumnies, he had laboured with himself to subdue his 
 pride, his irascible temper, his dark distrust, his wretched 
 animosity, and to become once more what nature had made 
 him — innocently sensible, just, sincere, and good. 
 
 My wife listened sadly. One day she said to me : " My 
 love, I am sorry to hear you often speak evil of Rousseau. 
 People will accuse you of being excited against him by 
 personal dislike, and perhaps rather by envy." "As for 
 anything personal in my aversion," I said to her, " it would 
 be very unjust ; for he has never offended me, nor done me 
 any harm. It might more possibly be envy, for I admire 
 his writings sufficiently to be envious of him, and I should 
 accuse myself of being so, if I found myself defaming 
 him ; but, on the contrary, in speaking to you of the 
 infirmities of his mind, I feel the same bitter sadness 
 as you do when you hear me." " Why, then," she 
 answered, " do you treat him so severely in your writings, 
 in your conversation ? Why insist upon his vices ? Is 
 there nothing wicked in thus troubling the ashes of the 
 
MARMONTEL. 221 
 
 dead ?" " Yes," I answered, " the ashes of those who have 
 left no example, no pernicious remembrance to the living ; 
 but the well-seasoned poisons in the writings of an eloquent 
 sophist and a seducing corrupter, the dark impressions 
 which he has made upon other minds by his specious calum- 
 nies, all the contagion which a wondrous talent has left 
 behind, ought all this to be allowed to pass under cover of 
 the respect we owe to the dead, and thus be perpetuated 
 from age to age ? Certainly I should oppose to it, either 
 as preservative or as antidote, all the means in my power ; 
 and were it but to wash from the memory of my friends the 
 stains with which he has defiled them, I would leave, if I 
 could, to the proselytes and enthusiasts who adhere to him 
 the sole choice of thinking Rousseau either wicked or mad. 
 They will accuse me of being envious, but many illus- 
 trious men to whom I have rendered the purest and most 
 just homage will bear witness that envy has not obscured 
 either justice or truth in my writings. I spared Rousseau 
 while he lived, because he had need of me, and I would not 
 injure him. He is no more: I owe no indulgence to the 
 reputation of a man who showed none to others, and who, 
 in his memoirs, abused those who loved him most." 
 
 With regard to the Helo'ise, my wife agreed with me in 
 the danger of reading it ; and what I had said of it in my 
 Essai SILT les Romans needed no apology. But had I my- 
 self judged severely enough the art with which Rousseau 
 has made the crimes of Saint-Preux and of Julie so inter- 
 esting — the one seducing his pupil, the other abusing the 
 good faith, the probity of Wolmar } No, I confess it ; and 
 my principles in my new position savoured of the influence 
 which our personal interests have on our opinions and 
 sentiments. 
 
 Living in a world, the morality of which is corrupt, it is 
 difficult not to contract at least an indulgence for certain 
 fashionable vices. Public opinion, example, the seductions 
 of vanity, and especially the attractions of pleasure, impair 
 the rectitude of genuine feeling in young minds ; the light 
 
2.22 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 air and tone with which old Hbertines turn into joke the 
 scruples of virtue, and ridicule the rules of delicate honesty, 
 accustom one to attach small importance to them. It was 
 especially of those softnesses of conscience that my new 
 condition cured me. 
 
 So I blamed Rousseau, but while I blamed him, I regretted 
 that such sad passions, dark pride and vainglory, had spoiled 
 the source of so fine a disposition. 
 
 If I had had a passion for renown, two great examples 
 would have cured me, those of Voltaire and Rousseau ; 
 very different examples, opposite in many respects, but 
 alike in this point, that the same thirst for praise and cele- 
 brity had been the torment of their lives. Voltaire, whose 
 death I had just witnessed, had sought for glory by all, 
 the roads open to genius, and had earned it by immense 
 labour and by startling success ; but in all these roads he 
 had met envy and all the furies by which she is accom- 
 panied. Never did a man of letters suffer so much violence 
 without any other crime than that of great talents and zeal 
 in displaying them. People thought themselves his rivals 
 because they appeared as his enemies ; those whom he 
 trod under foot as he passed, insulted him from the mud. 
 His whole life was a struggle, and he was indefatigable in 
 it. The combat was not always worthy of him ; he had 
 more insects to crush than serpents to stifle. But he never 
 either scorned or provoked the offence ; the vilest of his 
 aggressors were branded by his hand : ridicule was the 
 weapon of his vengeance, and he wielded it in cruel and 
 formidable play. But the best wealth, repose, was unknown 
 to him. It is true that envy seemed weary of pursuing 
 him, and spared him at least on the edge of the grave. In 
 the journey he was allowed to make to Paris after a long 
 exile, he enjoyed his renown and the enthusiasm of the whole 
 people, grateful for the pleasure which he had given them. 
 The last weak effort which he made to please them, Irene, 
 met with the same applause as Zaire ; and this representa- 
 tion at which he was crowned was his most splendid 
 
MARMONTEL. 223 
 
 triumph. But at what a moment did this consolation reach 
 him, the price of so much watching ? Next day I saw him 
 in bed : " Well," I said, " are you satisfied with your glory 
 now ?'- " Ah, my friend," he cried, " you talk to me of glory, 
 and I am in agony, and I am dying in frightful tortures." 
 
 So died one of the most illustrious men of letters, and 
 one of the most amiable men in society. He was sensitive 
 to injury, but to friendship likewise. That with which he 
 honoured me in my youth, continued unchanged up to his 
 death ; and the last token of it which he accorded me, was 
 the kind and graceful reception he gave my wife when I 
 presented her to him. His house was never clear of the 
 crowds who came to see him, and we witnessed the fatigue 
 it cost him to answer every one suitably. This constant 
 attention exhausted his strength, and to his real friends it 
 was a painful spectacle. But we attended his suppers, and 
 there we enjoyed the last flashes of the mind so soon to be 
 extinguished. 
 
 Rousseau was as wretched as he, and from the same pas- 
 sion ; but the ambition of Voltaire had a foundation of 
 modesty : you can see it in his letters ; instead of which, 
 that of Rousseau was made up of pride ; this is proved by 
 his writings. 
 
 I have seen him in the society of the most estimable, 
 select, and noted men of letters ; it was not enough for 
 him : their celebrity threw him into the shade ; he thought 
 them jealous of his. Their kindness was suspicious to him. 
 He began by suspecting them, and ended by maligning 
 them. He had many friends in spite of himself; these 
 friends did him good : their kindness was irksome to him. 
 He received their favours, but accused them of wishing to 
 humble him, to dishonour him, to defame him ; and the 
 most odious calumnies were the reward of their kindness. 
 
 He was never spoken of in society without a lively in- 
 terest. Criticism itself was very gentle with him, and 
 always tempered with praises. In the m.ost quiet repose 
 he would always either think or call himself persecuted. 
 
224 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 It was his weakness to imagine, in the most fortuitous cir- 
 cumstances, in the most ordinary meetings, some intention 
 to injure him, as if all the envious eyes in the world were 
 fixed upon him. If the Duke of Choiseul had brought 
 about the conquest of Corsica, it was in order to rob him 
 of the glory of being its legislator. If the same duke went 
 to supper at Montmorency with the Duchess of Luxem- 
 bourg, it was to usurp the place which he was accustomed 
 to occupy at her table. According to him, Hume had 
 been envious of the reception which the Prince of Conti 
 had given him. He never pardoned Grimm his having 
 taken precedence of him at Madame D'Epinay's, and his 
 memoirs relate the revenge which he took for this offence. 
 
 Thus both to Voltaire and to him life was a constant 
 agitation, though in different ways. For the one it had 
 often the sharpest pains, but with very real enjoyments : 
 for the other it brought waves of bitterness, with hardly 
 any mixture of joy or sweetness. Assuredly, at no price 
 would I have desired the condition of Rousseau ; he could 
 not endure it himself, and having poisoned all his days^ I 
 do not wonder that he voluntarily shortened their sad 
 length. As for Voltaire, I confess that his glory seems to 
 me too dearly bought by all the troubles it cost him, and 
 I say once more, " Less ec/al and more repose." 
 
 Restrained in my ambition, first by the necessity of mea- 
 suring my flight by the weakness of my wings, and then 
 again by the love of that quiet of mind and soul which 
 accompanies peaceful labour, and which I believe to be the 
 lot of humble mediocrity, I should have been content with 
 this humble position. Thus renouncing early all presump- 
 tuous attempts, I had, so to say, made a capitulation with 
 envy, and had restricted myself to that kind of writing, the 
 success of which may be easily pardoned. I was not 
 spared ; I found that little things still stir up an envious 
 malignity in little minds. 
 
BEAUMARCHAIS. 
 
 Pierre Augustin Caron de Beaumarchais was born at Paris in 
 1732. He was the son of a clockmaker,andwas brought up to his father's 
 business ; but from an early age showed considerable taste for both 
 literature and music. Being employed to give lessons on the guitar 
 to the daughters of Louis XV., he made the acquaintance of the 
 banker Duverney, whom he met at their concerts, and by whom he 
 was patronized and placed in business. On the death of Duverney, 
 he became involved in a series of lawsuits, originating in a claim 
 made by him. against his patron's representatives. During the pro- 
 gress of these causes he published a series of Fadums or Memoirs^ 
 ridiculing the administration of justice, and full of wit, sarcasm, and 
 raillery. He made a considerable fortune by supplying arms and 
 ammunition to the American colonies during their war with England, 
 and lived in great style and expense until the outbreak of the Revo- 
 lution, when his property was confiscated, and he himself proscribed. 
 He passed some time in exile, but returned to France after the Reign 
 of Terror, and died at Paris in 1799. He is chiefly celebrated for his 
 comedies, the most famous of which are the Barber of Seville^ and the 
 Marriage of Figaro. The following piece is taken from one of his 
 Letters. 
 
 ADVENTURE WITH ROBBERS. 
 
 In a boat on the Danube, near Ratisbon, 
 August 15 th, 1774. 
 
 Before entering into the matter with you, my friend, I 
 ought to warn you that, being in a six-oared boat on a 
 river which hurries me along, the shake of each stroke of 
 the oar gives my body, and especially my arm, a compound 
 movement, which disturbs my pen, and will give my 
 writing in a moment the uncertain character which you will 
 
 15 
 
226 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 find In it : for I have made the rowing cease that I might 
 write this preamble, in order that the difference between it 
 .and that which follows may convince you that the badness 
 of my writing arises from an external cause, and not from 
 any internal disorder caused by my sufferings. 
 
 This settled, try to read me, and pay attention. 
 
 My situation recalls to my mind the state in which a 
 philosopher, whose genius both you and I admire, once 
 found himself in the same place. Descartes relates that, 
 descending the Danube in a bark, and reading quietly, 
 seated on the prow, he heard the sailors, who did not sup- 
 pose he understood German, distinctly plan to assassinate 
 him. He put on a bold face, he says, looked to see if his 
 arms were in a good state, — in a word, looked so coura- 
 geous, that these people, all whose movements he followed, 
 did not dare to execute their evil design. 
 
 I who do not possess in such a high degree as he did the 
 perfection of philosophy, but who pique myself also on 
 method and courage in my actions, find myself in a boat 
 on the Danube, absolutely not being able to bear the 
 movement of my post-chaise, because they dared to exe- 
 cute on me yesterday what they did not dare a century ago 
 to do to him. 
 
 Yesterday, then, at three o'clock in the afternoon, near 
 JSFeuschtat, some five leagues from Nuremberg, passing in 
 ■a chaise, with a single postilion and my English servant, 
 through a forest of fir-trees, I got down for a moment, and 
 my chaise went on slowly, as it had often done when I had 
 got out. After a §hort time I began to try and overtake 
 it, when a man on horseback, stopping my way, jumped 
 down and came in front of me. He said some German 
 words that I did not understand, but as he had a long 
 knife or poniard in his hand I judged that he wished for 
 my purse or my life. I felt in my front pocket, and this 
 made him think that I had heard him, and that he was 
 already master of my gold. He was alone ; instead of my 
 purse I drew out my pistol, which I presented at him with- 
 
BEAUMARCHAIS. 22/ 
 
 out Speaking, raising my stick with the other hand to parry 
 a blow if he tried to strike me ; then drawing back against 
 a great fir-tree, and going behind it slowly, I placed the 
 tree between him and me. There, not being any longer 
 afraid of him, I looked to see if my pistol was primed. 
 This confident behaviour had positively stopped him short. 
 I had already gained a second and a third fir-tree back- 
 ward, always going behind them as I reached them, my 
 stick held up in one hand and my pistol in the other, 
 pointed at him. I was performing a pretty safe manoeuvre, 
 which would soon lead me out into the road, when a man's 
 voice made me turn my head ; it was a great rascal in a 
 blue waistcoat without sleeves, carrying his coat on his arm, 
 who was running towards me behind. The increasing 
 danger made me collect all my wits quickly ; I considered 
 that, the danger being greater of allowing myself to be 
 seized behind, I must get before the tree again and get 
 rid of the man with the dagger, and then go immediately 
 after the other brigand. All this was considered and exe- 
 cuted like lightning. Running, then, to within my arm's 
 length of the first robber, I fired at him with my pistol, 
 which unfortunately did not go off. I was lost : the man, 
 feeling his advantage, came up to me. I kept him off, 
 however, with my stick, retreating to my tree and feeling 
 for my other pistol in my left pocket, when the second 
 robber, having come up to me behind, in spite of my 
 having my back against a fir-tree, seized me by the shoulder, 
 and threw me down backwards ; the first then struck me 
 with his long knife with all his might in the middle of my 
 chest. It was all over with me ; but to give you an idea 
 of the combination of incidents to which, my friend, I owe 
 the joy of being able to write to you again, you must 
 know that I wear on my chest an oval box of gold, pretty 
 large and very flat, in the shape of a lozenge, hung round 
 my neck by a little chain of gold : a box that I had had 
 made in London, and containing a paper so precious to me 
 that I never travel without it. In passing through Frank- 
 
 15-2 
 
228 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 fort I had had a pad of silk fixed to this box, because, 
 when I was very hot, if the metal touched the skin sud- 
 denly it hurt me a little. 
 
 Now by accident, or rather by a good fortune that never 
 abandons me in the midst of the greatest evils, the blow of 
 the dagger aimed violently at my chest had fallen on this 
 box, which is pretty large, at the moment that, dragged 
 from the side of the tree by the violence of the second rob- 
 ber, which made me lose my footing, I fell backwards. All 
 this combined caused the knife, instead of cutting open my 
 heart, to slip on the metal, cutting the cushion of it, burst- 
 ing the box, and cutting deep furrows in it ; then scratching 
 the upper part of my chest slightly, it pierced my chin 
 underneath, and came out at the lower part of my right 
 cheek. 
 
 If I had lost my senses in that extreme peril, it is certain, 
 my friend, that I should have also lost my life. " I am not 
 dead," I said, springing up again with all my might ; and 
 seeing that the man who had struck me was the only one 
 armed, I sprang on him like a tiger, at all risks, and seizing 
 his wrist, tried to snatch his long knife from him, which he 
 drew back violently, cutting the whole palm of my left 
 hand to the bone, in the thick part of the thumb. But the 
 effort that he made in drawing back his arm, added to that 
 which I made myself on him in front, knocked him over in 
 his turn ; a great kick with my boot, directed against his 
 wrist, made him drop the dagger, which I picked up, 
 springing on him with both knees on his chest. The second 
 bandit, more cowardly still than the first, seeing me ready 
 to kill his comrade, instead of helping him, sprang on the 
 horse that Avas grazing ten paces off, and fled as fast as 
 possible. The villain that I held under me, and whom I 
 was blinding with the blood that streamed from my face, 
 seeing himself abandoned, made an effort that turned him 
 over just when I was going to strike him, and raising him- 
 self up on his two knees, with clasped hands, cried to me 
 lamentably, " Monsier ! mon omi !" and many German 
 
BEAUMARCHAIS. 229 
 
 words, by which I comprehend that he was begging for his 
 life. " Infamous scoundrel !" I said, and my first impulse 
 still remaining, I was going to kill him. A second contrary 
 but very rapid feeling made me think that to cut the throat 
 of a man on his knees, with clasped hands, was a kind of 
 assassination, — a cowardly action, unworthy of a man of 
 honour. However, that he might remember it wxll, I in- 
 tended, at least, to wound him severely ; he threw himself 
 on the ground, crying out, '' Mein Gott !" 
 
 Try to follow my mind through all these impulses, that 
 were as rapid as they were opposite to one another, my 
 friend, and you will perhaps be able to imagine how, from 
 the greatest danger from which I had ever saved myself, I 
 became, in the twinkling of an eye, bold enough to hope to 
 tie this man's hands behind his back, and to lead him thus 
 bound to my chaise : all this was but as a flash of lightning. 
 My resolution taken, with one blow I quickly cut his strong 
 chamois belt behind with his knife, which I held in my 
 right hand, an act that his lying flat on the ground made 
 very easy. But as I did it with as much violence as speed, 
 I hurt his back very much : this made him utter a great 
 cry as he raised himself from his knees, clasping his hands 
 again. In spite of the excessive pain that I felt in my face, 
 and especially in my left hand, I am convinced that I should 
 have dragged him away, for he made no resistance ; when 
 having pulled out my handkerchief, and thrown thirty feet 
 off the knife, which was in my way, for I had my second 
 pistol in my left hand, I was getting ready to bind him. 
 But this hope did not last long. I saw in the distance the 
 other robber, accompanied by some rascals of his own 
 species. I was obliged to think of my own safety again. 
 I confess I felt then the fault I had committed in throwing 
 away the knife ; I should have killed the man without 
 scruple, at that moment, and he would have been one 
 enemy less. But not washing to empty my second pistol, 
 the only means of offence that remained to me against 
 those who attacked me, for my stick was at most defensive. 
 
230 HALF-HOURS WITIi FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 in the fury that seized me afresh, I violently struck the 
 mouth of the kneeling man with the end of my pistol, and 
 knocked in his jaw and broke several of the front teeth, 
 which made him bleed like a bull ; he thought he was 
 killed, and fell down. At that instant, the postilion, uneasy 
 at my delay, and thinking I had lost my way, came inta 
 the wood to seek me. He had sounded the little horn that 
 the German postilions all carry slung across their shoulder; 
 this noise, and the sight of him, stopped the course of the 
 villains, and gave me time to retreat, holding my stick up 
 and my pistol in front, without having been robbed. When 
 they saw me on the road, they dispersed, and my lackey 
 saw, as well as the postilion, the rogue in the blue waistcoat,, 
 with his coat on his arm, passing close to them and my 
 chaise, and crossing the road quickly ; it was he who- 
 knocked me down ; perhaps he hoped to examine my 
 carriage since he had missed my pockets. I went at once 
 to Nuremberg, where I learned that a few da^^s before these 
 same robbers, in the same place, had stopped the post-cart, 
 and had robbed different travellers of 40,000 florins. 
 
 This accident has made so much noise in the country, 
 that probably some of the newspapers Avill mention it. But 
 as they apparently will only give an abridgment of the 
 affair, I take advantage of the leisure of a quiet passage on 
 a very beautiful river, whose winding course, changing at 
 each moment the aspect of the shores, rejoices my eyes and 
 calms my ideas enough to enable me to give you these 
 details. If they are rather disconnected, you will be in- 
 dulgent, when you think that I am stifled in breathing, and 
 that I am in pain all over, without counting the shootings 
 of my wounds, which would not allow me to bear any longer 
 the shaking of the chaise ; and this has made me gain the 
 Danube by the shortest road. 
 
PRINCE DE EIGNE. 
 
 Charles Joseph, Prince de Ligne, was born at Brussels in 1735 . He 
 was descended from Mary Stuart, and reckoned among his ancestors 
 two who had served as Field Marshals in the Austrian army ; and, 
 while still very young, he determined to become a distinguished general. 
 He made his first campaign in 1757, and had attained the rank of 
 major-general at the time that Joseph II. was crowned King of the 
 Romans. That prince admitted him into his favour and confidence, 
 and allowed him the honour of being present at the interview which he 
 held with Frederick II. in 1770. In the following year he was made 
 lieutenant-general, and colonel of a regiment of infantry, and added 
 greatly to his military reputation during the War of the Succession. 
 After the proclamation of peace he visited Italy, Switzerland, and 
 France. He was sent to announce the victory of Moxen to Louis XV.y 
 and in 1782 was entrusted with an embassy to the Empress Catherine, 
 Avho gave him the title of Field Marshal. In 1789 he greatly dis- 
 tinguished himself in the taking of Belgrade. The death of Joseph put 
 an end to his military career, for Leopold dismissed nearly all of those 
 whom his predecessor had favoured. After the suppression of the 
 Revolt in the Netherlands, the Prince de Ligne went to preside over 
 the States of Flainault, but, during the French invasion, he lost nearly 
 all his property. He died at Vienna in 18 14. His works have been 
 collected and published under the title of Melanges viilitaires^ litte- 
 raires^ sentimentaires. 
 
 TO THE MARCHIONESS OF C . 
 
 I HAVE quitted meditation and entered upon an active life. 
 I have found in so doing new objects of admiration. But, 
 Madam, before telling you about them, let me say a word 
 to you about fidelity. Do not be alarmed at that v/ord, it 
 has nothing to do with you or with me : it concerns a bar- 
 barous Tartar to whose care I have been confided, in spite 
 of the bad character and the savage appearance of these 
 
232 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 people ; he would perhaps have robbed me or thrashed me 
 if he had met me, but, as I had trusted myself to him, he 
 would have sacrificed his life to defend me. I have escaped 
 from him for a minute to go and cut on a rock, thirty paces 
 from the sea, a name dear to my heart ; he looked for me 
 everywhere, and, believing me to have been killed, he was 
 ready to set fire to the neighbouring village while waiting 
 to know for certain what had become of me. When I re- 
 turned under the guidance of my constable, I thought my eyes 
 were deceiving me, when I saw a house in the middle of the 
 desert, which is odoriferous indeed, but flat and green as a 
 billiard-table. I might well have thought myself still more 
 deceived on finding it white, clean, surrounded with a culti- 
 vated plot of ground, half of which was an orchard, and the 
 other half a kitchen garden, which was crossed by the purest 
 and most rapid of brooks ; but I was still more surprised 
 to see two celestial figures dressed in white go out of it, 
 who invited me to seat myself at a table covered v/ith flowers, 
 on which there was butter and cream. It reminded me of 
 the breakfasts in English novels. They were the daughters 
 of a rich farmer whom the Russian minister in London had 
 sent to Prince Potemkin, to make experiments in agriculture 
 in Taurida. I return to wonderful and marvellous things. 
 
 We found the ports, armies, and fleets in the most bril- 
 liant state. Cherson and Sebastopol surpass all description. 
 Every day is marked by some great event ; sometimes a 
 multitude of Cossacks from the banks of the Tanais 
 manoeuvre around us after their fashion ; sometimes the 
 Tartars of the Crimea, who deserted their Khan Selim 
 Gheray because he wished to divide them into regiments, 
 form themselves into a body to meet the Empress. We 
 have been crossing for several days immense tracts of 
 desert, from whence her Majesty has driven out the Zapo- 
 rogue, Budjack and Nogay Tartars, who, ten years ago, 
 threatened or ravaged the empire. These places were 
 ornamented with magnificent tents for breakfasts, luncheons, 
 suppers, dinners, and sleeping-places, and these encamp- 
 
PRINCE DE EIGNE. 233 
 
 iiients, decorated with Asiatic pomp^ presented a most 
 military spectacle. These same deserts will soon be trans- 
 formed into fields, woods, and villages ; they are already 
 inhabited by several regiments, and they will soon become 
 the property of peasants, who will establish themselves 
 there on account of the fertility of the soil. The Empress 
 has left in every government town presents to the value of 
 a hundred thousand roubles. Every day she stayed was 
 marked by a gift of diamonds, by balls, by fireworks, and 
 illuminations for ten leagues round. At first forests on fire 
 appeared on the mountains, then burning bushes, drawing 
 nearer, became immense flaming piles. 
 
 One more little remark on the countries we pass through. 
 The subjects of this empire, whom people so often kindly 
 compassionate, would not care for your States-General ; 
 they would entreat philosophers not to enlighten them, and 
 the great nobles not to allow hunting on their lands. As 
 for the rest, they are only slaves so far as to prevent their 
 doing harm either to themselves or others ; but they are 
 free to enrich themselves, which they often do, as one may 
 see from the magnificence of the different costumes in the 
 provinces. The Empress, who is not afraid of appearing 
 to be governed, gives to those whom she employs all pos- 
 sible authority and confidence. It is only to those who 
 do wrong that she does not grant authority. She justifies 
 her magnificence by saying that to give away money brings 
 her in a great deal, and that her duty is to reward and 
 encourage. She justifies herself for having made a great 
 number of offices in the provinces because by that means 
 money is circulated, fortunes are made, and gentlemen are 
 obliged to live on their own lands, instead of at St. Peters- 
 burg and Moscow. If she has built two hundred and 
 thirty-seven towns of stone, it is, she says, because villages 
 of wood, which are so often burnt, cost so much. If she 
 lias made a superb fleet in the Black Sea, it is because 
 Peter I. was so fond of navigation. She has always some 
 modest excuse for all the great things she has done. 
 
234 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 REMEMBRANCES. 
 
 Remembrances : they call them sweet and tender ; but 1, 
 whatever shape they take, pronounce them hard and bitter. 
 The image of the innocent pleasures of infancy recalls a 
 time which draws us closer to that when we shall be na 
 more. War, love, the successes of past years, the places 
 where we have met with them, ah ! you poison our present. 
 "What a difference ! we say, how time has passed ! I was 
 victorious, beloved, young ! We find ourselves so far, sa 
 far from those rich moments that have fled so quickly, and 
 that a song we heard then, a tree at the foot of which we 
 were seated, brings back with floods of tears. I was there, 
 we say, the evening of that famous battle. Here my hand 
 was pressed. Thence I set out for delightful wanter quar- 
 ters. I had a good opinion of men. The court, the town, 
 men of business had not deceived me. My soldiers (a set 
 of men with more purity of feeling than the men of the 
 world) adored me. The peasants blessed me. My trees^ 
 grew ; what I loved was still in the world, existed for me ! 
 Oh memory, memory ! you came back at times to the 
 Duke of Marlborough in his second childishness, playing 
 with his pages ; and one day when one of his portraits 
 before which he passed brought you back to him, he 
 watered with tears the hands with which he covered his. 
 face. 
 
THE DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH. 
 
SAINT PIERRE. 
 
 Jacques Henri Bernardin de Saint Pierre was born at 
 Havre in 1737, and early displayed that strong disposition to rebel 
 against authority which was his bane through life. In order to gratify 
 his wish to travel, his parents sent him to sea, but the discipline of a 
 sailor's life was intolerable to him, and he was sent back to France. 
 He completed his studies at Rouen, and obtained a commission in the 
 corps of engineers at Diisseldorf ; but as he offended all his officers, 
 and made himself disagreeable to his companions, he was deprived of 
 it, and compelled to seek another appointment. After failing in one 
 or two attempts, he determined to leave his native land. He visited 
 Holland, and then proceeded to St. Petersburg, where he was presented 
 by the Master of the Ordnance to the Empress Catherine ; but still 
 his morose and rebellious spirit stood in his way, and he lost all the 
 opportunities of advancement that were afforded to him at the Russian 
 court, and was on the point of returning to France, when General 
 Dubosquet sent him to Finland to examine the military positions 
 there, and to establish a system of defence. After an absence of six 
 years he returned to France, and then obtained a commission to go as 
 engineer to the Isle of France. On his return he published his Voyage 
 a Vile de France ; this work was followed by the Etudes de la Natiire^ 
 the success of which surpassed all his expectations. His fame was 
 now established, and in 1792 Louis XVI. appointed him superintendent 
 of the Jardin des Plantes. He died in 18 14. The following passage is 
 taken from Paul and Vi7'ginia. He also published La Chau77iierc 
 iudienne, the Vceux d^un Solitaire^ the Harmonies de la Nature, and 
 other works. 
 
 THE PILGRIMAGE TO THE BLACK RIVER. 
 
 One Sunday, at sunrise, their mothers having gone to early- 
 mass at the church of Pamplemousses, a runaway slave 
 presented herself under the banana-trees which surrounded 
 their dwelling. She was as thin as a skeleton, and for 
 clothing had only a strip of coarse cloth round her waist. 
 
236 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 She threw herself at the feet of Virginia, who was preparing 
 breakfast for the family, and said to her : " Young lady, 
 pity a poor fugitive slave ; I have been wandering in these 
 mountains for a month, half-dead with hunger, and often 
 pursued by the hunters and their dogs. I am running 
 away from my master, who is a rich settler on the Black 
 River. He has treated me as you see." At the same time 
 she showed her body furrowed with deep scars from the 
 blows of a whip which she had received. She added : " I 
 was going to drown myself, but knowing that you lived 
 here, I said. As there are still some good whites in the 
 country, I need not die yet." 
 
 Deeply touched, Virginia answered : " Do not be uneasy, 
 unhappy creature ! eat, eat ;" and she gave her all the 
 breakfast which she had prepared. The slave in a few 
 moments devoured the whole. Virginia, when she saw she 
 had had enough, said to her : '^ Poor creature ! I should 
 like to go and ask your master to pardon you. When he 
 sees you, he will be touched with pity. Will you lead me 
 to him .?" "Angel of God," answered the negress, " I will 
 follow you wherever you wish." Virginia called her 
 brother, and begged him to accompany her. The runaway 
 slave led them along paths into the middle of woods, across 
 high mountains, which they climbed with difficulty, and 
 wide rivers which they forded. At last, towards the middle 
 of the day, they arrived at the foot of a mountain, on the 
 borders of the Black River. They perceived there a well- 
 built house, considerable plantations, and a great number 
 of slaves occupied with all sorts of work. Their master 
 was walking among them with a pipe in his mouth and a 
 cane in his hand. He was a tall, sharp-looking man, olive- 
 coloured, with sunken eyes, and black eyebrows meeting 
 each other. Virginia, much agitated, holding Paul by the 
 arm, approached the settler, who did not take much notice 
 of these two poorly-dressed children ; but, when he had 
 remarked Virginia's elegant form, her beautiful fair head 
 under a blue hood, and when he heard the sweet tone of 
 
SAINT PIERRE. 23/ 
 
 her voice, which trembled as well as her whole body, as 
 she begged his mercy, he took his pipe from his mouth, 
 and, raising his stick to heaven, he swore, with a frightful 
 oatH, that he pardoned his slave, not for love of God, but 
 for love of her. Virginia made a sign immediately to the 
 slave to advance towards her master ; then she ran away, 
 and Paul ran after her. 
 
 They climbed together the back side of the little moun- 
 tain where they had descended, and, arrived at the top, 
 they sat down under a tree, overwhelmed with fatigue, 
 hunger, and thirst. They had walked fasting more than 
 five leagues since sunrise. Paul said to Virginia : *' Sister, 
 it is more than twelve o'clock ; you are hungry and thirsty, 
 we shall not find any dinner here ; let us descend the 
 mountain again, and go and ask the slave's master for some- 
 thing to eat." "Oh! no," replied Virginia, "he frightens 
 me too much. Do you remember what mamma says 
 sometimes : ' The bread of the wicked fills the mouth with 
 gravel V " 
 
 " What shall we do then V said Paul ; " these trees bear 
 only bad fruits. There is not even a tamarind or a citron 
 here to refresh you." " God will have pity on us," replied 
 Virginia ; " He hears the voice of the little birds who cry 
 unto Him for food." Plardly had she said these words, 
 when they heard the noise of a stream falling from a neigh- 
 bouring rock. They ran thither, and, after quenching their 
 thirst with its clearer than crystal waters, they gathered 
 and ate a little cress which was growing on its banks. As 
 they looked around to see if they could find any more 
 solid food, Virginia perceived a young palm-tree among 
 the trees of the forest. The cabbage which the top of this 
 tree contains in the middle of its leaves, is very good to 
 eat ; but, although its trunk is not thicker than a man's leg, 
 it is more than sixty feet high. In truth the wood of this 
 tree is nothing but a mass of filaments ; but its sapwood is 
 so tough that it turns the edge of the best hatchets, and Paul 
 had not even a knife. The idea occurred to him to set fire 
 
238 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 to the foot of the palm. Another puzzle : he had no tinder- 
 box, and besides, in this island, so covered with rocks, I do 
 not think a single flint could be found. Necessity leads to 
 industry, and often the most useful inventions have been 
 owing to men in the most miserable plight. Paul deter- 
 mined to light the fire after the fashion of the blacks. 
 With the corner of a stone he made a little hole in a very 
 dry branch, which he miade fast under his feet ; then, with 
 the sharp edge of this stone, he made a point to another 
 piece of ,branch, as dry, but of a different kind of wood. 
 He then placed this bit of pointed wood in the little hole 
 of the branch which was under his feet, and turning it 
 rapidly in his hands, as you turn a mill where you intend 
 to froth chocolate, in a few moments he saw smoke and 
 sparks coming out at the point of contact. He gathered 
 some dry shrubs together and a few more branches, and 
 set fire to the foot of the palm-tree, which fell very soon 
 with a great crash. The fire was of use to him again in 
 stripping the cabbage of its covering of long woody and 
 prickly leaves. Virginia and he ate part of this cabbage 
 raw, and the rest cooked in the ashes, and thought them 
 equally good. After dinner they found themselves in a 
 great dilemma, for they had no guide to show them the way 
 home. Paul, who was never at a loss, said to Virginia : " Our 
 house is towards the sun at mid-day ; we must cross over 
 that mountain, which you see below with its three peaks, 
 as we did this morning. Come, let us set off, dear." They 
 then descended the hill of the Black River, on the north 
 side, and arrived, after an hour's walk, on the banks of a 
 wide river which barred their road. That great part of the 
 island, all covered with forests, is so little known, even now, 
 that several of its rivers and mountains have not been 
 named yet. 
 
 The river, on the bank of which they were, flowed 
 bubbling on over a bed of rocks. The noise of its waters 
 frightened Virginia ; she dared not put her feet into it to 
 ford it. Then Paul took Virginia on his back, and thus 
 
SAINT PIERRE. 239 
 
 loaded crossed over the slippery rocks of the river, In spite 
 of the tumult of its waters. " Do not be afraid," he said ; 
 " I am quite strong enough for you. If the settler at the 
 Black River had refused to pardon his slave for you, I should 
 have fought with him." "What?" said Virginia, ''with 
 that man, so big and so wicked ? What have I exposed 
 you to ! Oh, how difficult it is to do right ! It is only easy 
 to do wrong." 
 
 When Paul reached the shore, he wished to continue his 
 road, carrying his sister. . . . But soon his strength 
 failed, and he was obliged to put her down, and rest by her 
 side. Then Virginia said to him : " Brother, it is getting 
 dark ; you have some strength left, and I have not ; leave 
 me here and return to our house alone to tell our mothers 
 not to fidget." " Oh ! no," said Paul, " I will not leave 
 you ; if night comes upon us in these woods, I will light a 
 fire, and will knock down some palms, you shall eat the 
 cabbage, and with its leaves I will make you a hut to 
 shelter you." 
 
 However, Virginia, having rested a little, gathered on the 
 trunk of an old tree, hanging over the brink of the river, 
 some long leaves of hart's tongue which hung from its 
 trunk. She made a kind of boot of them, and put them on 
 her feet, which the stones in the road had made bleed ; for 
 in her haste to be useful she had forgotten to put on her 
 shoes. Feeling herself relieved by the freshness of these 
 leaves, she broke off a branch of bamboo, and began to 
 walk, leaning on this reed with one hand, and with the 
 other on her brother. 
 
 They walked slowly through the woods in this way ; but 
 the height of the trees and the thickness of their foliage 
 made them soon lose sight of the mountain by which they 
 guided themselves, and even of the sun, which was already 
 near setting. At the end of some time, without perceiving 
 it, they left the beaten road in which they had walked till 
 then ; and found themselves in a labyrinth of trees, creepers, 
 and rocks which had no outlet. Paul made Virginia sit 
 
240 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 down, and, quite at his wits^ end, began to run hither and 
 thither to look for a way out of this thick wood, but he 
 tired himself in vain. He climbed a high tree that he might 
 discover at least the mountain ; but he perceived nothing 
 around him but the tops of trees, some of which were 
 lighted up by the last rays of the setting sun. Neverthe- 
 less, the shadow of the mountains already covered the forests 
 in the valleys ; the wind went down, as it does at sunset ; 
 a deep silence reigned in these solitudes, and nothing was 
 heard but the noise of deer, who came to seek their sleeping- 
 places in these lonely spots. Then Paul, in the hope that 
 some hunter might hear him, cried out as loud as he could,. 
 " Come, come, to the help of Virginia !" But only the 
 echoes of the forest answered him, and repeated several 
 times, " Virginia, Virginia !" 
 
 Paul then came down from the tree, overwhelmed with 
 fatigue and trouble ; he sought some means of passing the 
 night in this place, but there was neither stream, nor palm- 
 tree, nor even any branches of dry wood to light a fire with ; 
 he felt then, by experience, all the weakness of his resources, 
 and began to cry. 
 
 Virginia said to him : " Do not cry, brother, if you do not 
 wish to make me, too, sorry ; it is I who am the cause of 
 all your troubles, and of our mothers'. We ought not to do 
 anything, not even good, without consulting our parents. 
 Oh ! I have been very imprudent." And she began to shed 
 tears. However, she said to Paul : " Let us pray to God, 
 brother; He will have pity on us." Hardly had they 
 finished their prayer, when they heard a dog bark. " It is," 
 said Paul, " some hunter's dog, who comes in the evening to 
 lie in wait for the deer, and to kill them." Soon after, the 
 barking of the dog was redoubled. " It seems to me," said 
 Virginia, '' that it is Fidele, our house dog. Yes, I know his 
 voice ; can we be so near home, and at the foot of our moun- 
 tain .?" In fact, a moment after. Fiddle was at their feet, 
 barking, yelling, whining, and overwhelming them with 
 caresses. Before they could recover from their surprise 
 
PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 
 
ESTABLISH 
 
SAINT PIERRE. 24 1 
 
 they saw Domingo running towards them. On the arrival 
 of this good black, who was weeping for joy, they began to 
 cry too, and could not sa}^ a word to him. 
 
 When Domingo recovered himself, he said, *' Oh, my 
 young master and mistress, your mothers are so anxious. 
 They were so astonished when they did not find you on re- 
 turning from church, to which I had been too. Marie, who 
 was working in one corner of the house, could not tell us 
 where you were gone. I went up and down the house, not 
 k:nowing myself where to look for you. At last I took your 
 old clothes one after another ; I made Fidele smell them, 
 and immediately, as if the poor animal had understood me, 
 he set himself to search out your footsteps. He led- me, 
 wagging his tail all the time, to the Black River. It was 
 there that I learned from a settler that you had brought him 
 a runaway negress, and that he had granted you her pardon. 
 But what a pardon ! He showed her to me, fastened with 
 a chain on her foot to a block of wood, and with a three- 
 hooked iron collar round her neck. From there, Fidele, 
 tracking all the time, led me to the little Black River Moun- 
 tain, where he stopped again, barking with all his might ; 
 it was on the edge of a spring near a felled palm-tree and a 
 still smoking fire ; at last he led me here. We are at the 
 foot of the mountain, and there are still four good leagues 
 between us and home. Let us be going ; eat, and get some 
 strength." He at once gave them a cake, some fruits, and 
 a large calabash full of a liquor composed of water, wine, the 
 juice of the citron, sugar, and nutmeg, which their mothers 
 had prepared to strengthen and refresh them. Virginia 
 sighed at the remembrance of the poor slave and the anxiety 
 of their mothers. She repeated several times : " Oh, how 
 dif^cult it is to do right !" Whilst Paul and she were re- 
 freshing themselves, Domingo lighted a fire, and after 
 having looked among the rocks for a crooked kind of wood 
 which is called bois de ronde, and which, when quite green, 
 burns with a great blaze, he made a torch of it, which he 
 lighted, for it was already dark. But he experienced a 
 
 16 
 
242 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 much greater perplexity when it came to starting. Paul 
 and Virginia could not walk at all ; their feet were swollen 
 and quite red. Domingo could not decide whether he 
 should go very far from there to seek help, or pass the 
 night in that place with them. "Where is the time," 
 said he, " when I carried you both at once in my arms ? 
 But now you are big and I am old." 
 
 While he was in this perplexity, a number of runaway 
 blacks were seen twenty paces off. The leader of this 
 troop, approaching Paul and Virginia, said to them, " Good 
 little whites, do not be afraid ; we saw you pass this morn- 
 ing with a negress from the Black River ; you were going 
 to ask her bad master to pardon her ; out of gratitude 
 we will carry you home on our shoulders." Then he gave 
 a sign, and four of the strongest runaway blacks imme- 
 diately made a litter with the branches of trees and 
 creepers, and placed Paul and Virginia in it, put them 
 on their shoulders, and Domingo walking before them 
 with his torch, they set out amid the joyful shouts of 
 the whole band, who loaded them with blessings. Vir- 
 ginia, much touched, said to Paul : " Oh, my brother ! 
 God never leaves a kindness unrewarded." 
 
BERTRAND DE MOLEVILLE. 
 
 Antoine Francois, Marquis de Bertrand de Moleville, was 
 born at Toulouse in 1744, and died at Paris in 181 8. He was Master 
 of Requests under the minister Maupeou, and was afterwards made 
 Governor of the province of Bretagne, and as such was charged with 
 the perilous commission of dissolving the parliament of Rennes. In 
 1 791 he was appointed Minister of Naval Affairs, but, being accused 
 of having caused the loss of Saint Domingo, he resigned his office. He 
 was entrusted by Louis XVI. with the management of his secret, 
 police, and was charged to keep a watch on the proceedings of the 
 revolutionary party. In the performance of these duties, he drew upon 
 himself the vengeance of the Republicans, and was compelled to escape 
 to England, where he spent many years in exile, but returned to PYance 
 after the Restoration. He wrote nHistoi7-e de la Revolution Fi'anqaise, 
 from which the following extract is taken ; HHistoire d'An^leferre, 
 depiiis la premiere Invasion des Romains jusqit^a la Paix de 1 763 ; 
 and MemoiresparticidierspourserviraVHistoi^'ede lajindu Regne 
 de Louis XVI. 
 
 LOUIS XVI. AT THE HOTEL DE VILLE. 
 
 The joyof the Parisians was still mixed with some uneasiness, 
 and the most absurd suspicions ; they were, for all that, full 
 of confidence in the intentions and promises of the king ; 
 but the troops who, as they had been told, were to be sent 
 away, were still in the environs of Paris, and they imagined 
 that the ministers had only deferred their departure that 
 they might employ them against the capital. It was use- 
 less to tell them that it was impossible to make 30,000 men 
 march at once, before the necessary measures had been 
 taken to secure provisions for them on the different roads ; 
 The best reasons were powerless against fear, and fear was 
 always the sentiment that ruled them ; it was kept up by 
 
 16 — 2 
 
244 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 the disorder that still prevailed among the patrols, whose 
 number, confusion, and hasty movements sanctioned the 
 most alarming impostures. From time to time, too, they 
 surprised false patrols, composed of that kind of ruffians 
 who haunt all great towns, and whose object is always 
 robbery : they were disarmed, and taken to the Hotel de 
 Ville. 
 
 People fortified and barricaded their houses more than 
 on the preceding days. The tocsin incessantly called every- 
 body to arms who could manage to get any ; they were 
 seen running to their appointed place, to the Hotel de Ville, 
 with as much ardour as if the siege or the blockade, which 
 was supposed to be the intention of the ministers, had 
 already commenced. 
 
 The electors having in vain exhausted every means of 
 calming this fermentation, imagined that the presence of 
 some members of the National Assembly might produce 
 this effect, and sent a deputation there to beg that they 
 would send a certain number as soon as possible. This 
 deputation had already set out, when they learned that the 
 king had announced to the Assembly the retirement of the 
 nevv^ ministers, the recall of Necker, and his majesty's in- 
 tention of coming to Paris next day. But, as this news 
 was not officially announced, people were less disposed to 
 believe it than to look on it as a snare laid for the Parisians 
 by a treacherous ministry, to put them off their guard. 
 Consequently all the posts were strengthened, and the 
 streets more illuminated than they had ever been. 
 
 The deputation from the Assembly, commissioned to in- 
 form the capital of the king's intentions, did not arrive at 
 the Hotel de Ville till two o^clock, and the news was sent 
 immediately into all the districts, and before seven o'clock 
 in the morning, more than a hundred thousand men were 
 under arms to go before his majesty. 
 
 On Friday, July 17th, the king set out from Versailles, at 
 nine o'clock in the morning. His guard was only composed 
 of the bourgeois militia of Versailles. The National 
 
BERTRAND DE MOLEVILLE. 245 
 
 Assembly went to meet his majesty before the hall, and 
 the deputation appointed to accompany him prepared to 
 follow. A very considerable number of the members of 
 the Assembly, only consulting their zeal and fidelity, came to 
 increase still more the cortege, and weakened a little the 
 lively alarm with which the queen and the royal family 
 were tormented. This alarm was, doubtless, very natural ; 
 no one could think without shuddering of the dangers the 
 king ran, carried by his confidence and love for his people 
 into the midst of a mad multitude, stained with so many 
 crimes, and already accustomed to blood : even its joy was 
 so ferocious ! The most fatal catastrophe depended only on 
 a paid rascal, or a fanatic, — only a moment was needed. 
 Alas! the fatal destiny of Louis XVI. did but postpone 
 that moment, to render it still more disastrous. 
 
 The bourgeois militia of Paris, who had come to wait for 
 the king at Sevres, relieved that of Versailles, which never- 
 theless continued to accompany his majesty. 
 
 The Horse-guards led the way ; they were followed by 
 the French guards, preceded by the cannons and the flag 
 of the Bastille ; the members of the Assembly, filing off 
 two and two, and forming a double column, followed, and 
 after them the infantry of the bourgeois militia. A numerous 
 detachment of volunteer cavalry preceded M. de la Fayette, 
 who, as commander, was on horseback in the middle of the 
 cortege, with a naked sword in his harid. The Paris guards, 
 the band of the town guard, the fishwomen, clothed in 
 white, adorned with ribbons of the colours of the national 
 cockade, and carrying in their hands flowers and branches 
 of laurel, took part in this escort up to the king's carriage, 
 in which were the Dukes of Villequier and Villeroi, the 
 Marshal de Beauveau, and the Count d'Estaing. It was 
 surrounded by some yeomen of the guard, without uniforms, 
 unarmed, and mixed up in the crowd. 
 
 The king was received at the barrier of the Conference 
 by the municipal body. M. Bailly, as mayor, performing 
 
246 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 the functions of provost, presented the keys of the town to 
 his majesty in a silver bason, and addressed this speech to 
 him : — 
 
 '* Sire, — I bring your majesty the keys of your good town 
 of Paris ; they are the same that were presented to 
 Henry IV. : he had reconquered his people ; here, it is the 
 people who have reconquered their king. Your Majesty 
 comes to rejoice in the peace that you have re-established 
 in your capital ; you come to rejoice in the love of your 
 faithful subjects : it is for their happiness that your majesty 
 has assembled around you the representatives of the nation, 
 and that, with them, you are about to occupy yourself in 
 laying the foundations of liberty and public prosperity. 
 What a memorable day is this, when your majesty has 
 come to preside in person in the midst of this united 
 family, when you have been led back to your palace by the 
 whole National Assembly, guarded by the representatives 
 of the nation, thronged by an immense multitude ! 
 
 " Sire, neither your people, nor your majesty, will ever 
 forget this great day : it is the grandest of the monarchy : 
 it is the epoch of an august and eternal alliance between 
 the monarch and the people. I have seen this grand day ; 
 and, as if all happiness were made for me, the first duty of 
 the office to which the vote of my fellow-citizens has 
 appointed me is to bear to you the expression of their 
 respect and love." 
 
 The king, after having heard this speech, continued his 
 way towards the Hotel de Ville, between a triple line of 
 armed men, shouting at the full pitch of their voices, " Vive 
 la Nation !" and mixing incessantly with these stupid ac- 
 clamations that ferocious cry which one cannot repeat 
 without horror, " Ne criez pas Vive le Roi." 
 
 Such was the first homage that the good Parisians, that 
 the good town of Paris offered to Louis XVI. in acknow- 
 ledgment of his goodness, of his trust, and of all his sacri- 
 fices ; such were the expressions of their respect, of their 
 
BERTRAND DE MOLEVILLE. 24/ 
 
 love, and the generosity with which this people who had 
 conquered their king used its victory. 
 
 The sadness that so revolting a reception produced in 
 the heart of this unhappy monarch was depicted on his 
 countenance in so touching a manner, that no one could 
 look at him without emotion. 
 
 At the moment that the king reached the height of the 
 Champs Elys^es, three or four shots were fired at once ; it 
 has never been known where they came from : this is certain, 
 however, that an unfortunate woman who was in the crowd, 
 and in the same direction as his majesty's carriage, was 
 struck, and fell dead on the spot. All the journalists have 
 attested this fact ; some have considered it an artifice of 
 the enemies of the public interests to excite a tumult, and 
 to occasion some accident ; others have attributed it to the 
 awkwardness and inexperience of so many men who were 
 handling fire-arms for the first time. 
 
 The king noticed near the Pont Neuf several cannons, the 
 mouth and touch-hole of which were adorned with great 
 bunches of flowers and scrolls. These words were written 
 on them : " Your presence has disarmed us ; at the sight 
 of you, flowers spring up on the murderous thunderbolts 
 with which your enemies and ours have forced us to arm 
 ourselves." 
 
 It was twenty minutes past four when the king arrived 
 at the Place de Greve, and descended to the foot of that 
 flight of steps that had been stained by so many assassina- 
 tions on the preceding days. Thousands of pikes and naked 
 swords (:rossed each other at the same instant over his 
 august head, and it was beneath this iron archway that his 
 majesty was conducted to the great hall of the Hotel de 
 Ville, where a throne was prepared for him. 
 
 The sitting being ended, the king showed himself on one 
 of the balconies of the Hotel de Ville, to satisfy the wish 
 and extreme impatience that an immense crowd assembled 
 in the Place de Greve, at all the windows, and even on the 
 roofs of the houses, had to see him ; then the universal cry 
 
248 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 of "Vive le Roi!" echoed from all sides. The enthusiasm 
 Avas at its height, when the insurrectionary cockade was seen 
 in his majesty's hat. Whether they regarded it as a sign of 
 approbation, or as a sign of pardon for all the crimes with 
 which it was stained, the cries of " Vive le Roi !" increased 
 to greater vehemence ; the sound of drums and the firing 
 of cannon mingled with these acclamations, and soon spread 
 through the town the joy that was breaking forth in such a 
 noisy way in the Place de Greve. 
 
 The departure of Louis XVI. presented a very different 
 spectacle from that of his entry ; the Parisians, beside 
 themselves with gratitude and love, were not contented 
 with surrounding the king's carriage ; they climbed up in 
 crowds behind, on the coachman's seat, on the steps, and 
 even on the top. Still some cries of " Vive la Nation, et la 
 Liberte !" were heard. But the cries of " Vive notre Roi, 
 notre Ami, notre Pere !" were a thousand times more nu- 
 merous. The armed citizens reversed their arms in sign of 
 peace ; the king smiled with favour at their transports, and 
 with his own hand, and amid the great applause of the 
 people, reversed the gun of one of the men who formed 
 the line, and who having his eyes fixed on the carriage, had 
 not noticed the way in which his comrades were carrying 
 their arms. 
 
 At the barrier, the king found the same cortege that had 
 accompanied him to Paris, and on arriving at Sevres, saw 
 all his guards running down from the mountain, where they 
 had been waiting for his return, to take their usual place 
 around his person. Several among them started off first to 
 go to announce the king's arrival to the royal family, who 
 had endured the greatest anxiety during the prolonged 
 absence of his majesty. The queen, especially, was in a 
 state of grief and despair ; it would be as difficult to de- 
 scribe her heartrending anguish, as to paint the transports 
 of joy that followed when her majesty heard the king's 
 carriage enter the royal court : she ran to him, holding the 
 dauphin in her arms, and threw herself, breathless and 
 
BERTRAND DE MOLEVILLE. 249 
 
 almost unconscious, into those of her august husband, who 
 was no less deeply moved. The scene that followed was 
 perhaps still more touching. What more interesting pic- 
 ture to feeling minds could there be than that which this 
 delightful moment presented, when Louis XVI., given back 
 to his disconsolate family, surrounded by the beings most 
 dear to him, let one of his children caress one of his hands, 
 while, with the other, he dried the tears of the queen, and 
 Madame Elizabeth, and sweetened the bitterness of them 
 by mingling his own with theirs } His replies to all their 
 questions, and the particulars that he related to them of his 
 journey, filled their agitated hearts with joy and happiness, 
 but, above all, with hope. 
 
MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 Manon Jeanne Roland was the daughter of an engraver of no note, 
 named Phlipon, and was born at Paris in 1 754. She received a care- 
 ful education, and was a remarkably energetic and precocious child. 
 In 1 780 she married M. Roland, then inspector-general of the factories 
 at Amiens, over whom during the rest of her life she exercised an un- 
 bounded influence. In the early years of her married life she travelled 
 with her husband in Italy, Switzerland, and England. On their return 
 to France M. Roland was transferred to Lyons, and, being sent to Paris 
 in 1 791 on municipal business, became in the following year a member 
 of the popular administration summoned in the last days of Louis XVI. 
 When the Revolution broke out, she and her husband took an active 
 lead in the party of the Girondins, and were involved in its fall. 
 Madame Roland was beheaded on the 15th of November, 1793, and 
 her husband, who had escaped from Paris, committed suicide on re- 
 ceiving the news. During her imprisonment, which lasted more than 
 four months, she composed her Mhnoires^ a work of great interest, 
 though unpleasantly tinged with the vanity which was a prominent 
 part of her character. 
 
 MADAME ROLAND'S EDUCATION. 
 
 Lively, without being noisy, and naturally self-collected, 
 I asked for nothing but to be busy, and I readily seized 
 the ideas that were presented to me. This talent was 
 turned to profit so well, that I never remember having 
 learned to read ; I have heard it said that it was a thing 
 done at four years old, and that the trouble of teaching me 
 was, so to speak, at an end then, because after that time 
 all that was necessary was to keep me well supplied with 
 books. Whatever kind these might be which they gave me, 
 or that I could get possession of, they absorbed my atten- 
 tion completely, and nothing but flowers could divert me. 
 Under the quiet shelter of my father's roof, I was happy 
 
MADAME ROLAND. 2$ I 
 
 with flowers and books ; within the narrow confines of a 
 prison, in the midst of chains imposed by a most revolting 
 tyranny, I forget the injustice of men, their follies and my 
 ills, with books and flowers. 
 
 More than one contrast might have been noticed in my 
 education. The little personage who appeared at church 
 on Sundays, or on the promenade, in a costume that one 
 might have thought came out of a carriage, and whose ap- 
 pearance was matched by her deportment and way of 
 speaking, would go — very properly, too — in the week in a 
 cotton frock to market with her mother ; she even went 
 alone a few steps from the door, to buy some parsley or a 
 salad that the servant had forgotten. It must be owned 
 that this did not please me much, but I never showed it ; 
 and 1 had the art of acquitting myself of my commis- 
 sion in such a way as to derive some pleasure from it. I 
 bore myself with such politeness, mixed with a certain dig- 
 nity, that the fruitwomen or any other person of that kind, 
 thought it a pleasure to serve me first, and the earher 
 comers were quite contented. I always received some com- 
 pliment on my way, and I was only more civil for it. The 
 child who would read grave books, could explain the circles 
 of the heavenly sphere very well, handled the pen and 
 pencil, and, at eight years old, was the best dancer in an 
 assembly of young persons, older than she was, gathered 
 together for a little family fete, — this child was often called 
 into the kitchen to make an omelet, to pick herbs, or to 
 skim the soup. This mixture of grave studies, agreeable 
 exercise^ and domestic duties regulated, tempered by a 
 mother's wisdom, has made me fit for anything, has seemed 
 to anticipate the vicissitudes of misfortune, and has helped 
 me to bear them. I am never at a loss. I can make a 
 soup as dexterously as Philopoemen cut wood ; but no one 
 would think, to look at me, that this was at all a proper 
 occupation for me. 
 
252 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 THE FIRST ARREST OF MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 I WAS hardly seated, Avhen I heard a knock at the door ; it 
 was about midnight ; a numerous deputation from the 
 Commune presented themselves and asked for Roland. 
 
 " He is not at home." 
 
 " But," said the personage, who wore an officer's collar,, 
 " where can he be — when will he come back .^ You ought 
 to know his habits, and be able to guess when he will come 
 back." 
 
 '' I do not know," I answered, '' if your orders authorize 
 you to ask me such questions, but I know that nothing can 
 oblige me to answer them. Roland left his house while I 
 was at the Convention ; he could not tell me his secrets, 
 and I have nothing more to say." 
 
 The party retired very much dissatisfied ; I noticed that 
 they left a sentinel at my door, and a guard at the door of 
 the house. I presumed that there was nothing more I 
 could do but collect all my strength to sustain whatever 
 might happen. I was overcome with fatigue. I made them 
 give me some supper. I finished my note, and gave it to my 
 faithful servant, and went to bed. I slept soundly for an 
 hour, when my servant entered my room to tell me that 
 some members of the Section begged me to go into the 
 study. 
 
 " I understand what that means," I answered. " Go, my 
 child ; I will not keep them waiting." 
 
 I jumped out of bed; I dressed myself; my servant 
 came, and w^as astonished that I took the trouble to put on 
 anything but a dressing-gown. *' One must be decent to 
 go out," I observed. The poor girl looked at me with 
 eyes that were full of tears. I passed into the apartment. 
 
 " We are come, Citoyenne, to put you under arrest, and 
 to seal your things." 
 
 " Where is your authority .^" 
 
 ** Here it is," said a man, drawing from his pocket an 
 
MADAME ROLAND. 253 
 
 order from the Revolutionary Committee, without any 
 reason for arrest, to conduct me to the Abbaye. 
 
 " Like Roland, I can teil you that I do not acknowledge 
 these committees, that I do not submit to these orders, and 
 that you will only take me from here by violence." 
 
 "Here is another order," a little man, with a disagreeable 
 face, hastened to say, in a conceited tone ; and he read me 
 one from the Commune, which ordered the arrest of Roland 
 and his wife, without mentioning the cause. 
 
 I considered, while he was reading, whether I should 
 carry my resistance as far as possible, or if I should act 
 with resignation. I might avail myself of the law that 
 forbids arrests by night ; and, if they insisted on the law 
 that authorizes the municipality to seize suspected persons, 
 answer, that the municipality itself was illegal, having been 
 suppressed and re-created by an arbitrary power. But this 
 power the citizens of Paris had, in a manner, sanctioned ; 
 and the law is no longer anything but a name used to 
 insult the most thoroughly acknowledged rights ; and force 
 reigns, and if I oblige them to exert it, these brutes know 
 no bounds ; resistance is useless, and might endanger me. 
 
 " How do you mean to proceed, gentlemen .?" 
 
 "We have sent for a justice of the peace from the Sec- 
 tion, and you see a detachment of his armed force." 
 
 The justice of peace arrived ; they put seals on every- 
 thing — on the windows, on the linen cupboards ; one man 
 wanted to have them put on the pianoforte; they remarked 
 to him that it was an instrument. He drew a foot-rule 
 from his pocket ; he measured its dimensions as if he would 
 fix its destination. I asked to be allowed to take out some 
 things composing my daughter's wardrobe, and I made a 
 little packet of night-things for myself. Nevertheless, fifty 
 — a hundred — people went in and out continually ; filled 
 the two rooms, surrounded everything, and might have con- 
 cealed ill-intentioned persons who intended to take up or 
 put down anything. The air was loaded with pestilential 
 exhalations ; T was obliged to go near the window of the 
 
254 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 anteroom to breathe. The officer did not dare to command 
 this crowd to retire ; he only ventured a gentle entreaty 
 now and then, which only increased it. Seated at my desk, 
 I wrote to tell a friend of my situation and to commend 
 my daughter to her care. As I was folding the letter, 
 " Madam," cried M. Nicaud (the bearer of the order of the 
 Commune), " you must read your letter and name the per- 
 son that you have written to." 
 
 " I consent to read it, if that is enough for you !" 
 ^' It would be better to say to whom you have written." 
 *' I shall not do so; to be called my friend just now is 
 not such an agreeable thing that I should wish to name 
 those in whom I trust ;" and I tore up my letter. As I 
 turned my back, they picked up the bits to place them 
 under seal. I could have laughed at this stupid persist- 
 ence ; there was no address. 
 
 At last, at seven o'clock in the morning, I left my 
 daughter and all my servants, after having exhorted them 
 to be calm and patient. 1 felt that their tears honoured 
 me more than oppression could terrify me. 
 
 "You have people there who love you," said one of 
 these commissioners. 
 
 " I have never had any others about me," I replied, and 
 went down. I found two rows of armed men, reaching 
 from the bottom of the staircase to a carriage which 
 stopped on the other side of the street, and a crowd of 
 curious people. I went on gravely and slowly, noticing 
 this cowardly or deluded mob. The armed force followed 
 the carriage in two lines ; the unhappy people who are 
 deceived, and whose throats are cut in the persons of their 
 best friends, attracted by the sight, stopped in my way, 
 and some women cried out, " To the guillotine !" 
 
 '* Would you like the curtains drawn .?" said the com- 
 missioners, obligingly. 
 
 " No, sirs ; innocence, however oppressed it may be, 
 never assumes the appearance of guilt. I fear nobody's 
 
MADAME ROLAND. 255 
 
 looks ; I do not wish to withdraw myself from them, who- 
 ever they may be." 
 
 " You have more spirit than many men ; you are waiting- 
 calmly for justice." 
 
 *' Justice ! If there were such a thing as justice, I should 
 not be in your power at this very time. Should an ini- 
 quitous proceeding lead me to the scaffold, I should mount 
 it as firmly and quietly as I am now going to prison. I 
 groan for my country. I regret the mistakes which made 
 me think her fit for liberty and happiness ; but I value 
 life : I fear nothing but crime ; I despise injustice and 
 death." 
 
 These poor commissioners did not understand much of 
 this language, and probably thought it very aristocratic. 
 
 We arrived at the Abbaye, that theatre of the bloody 
 scenes the repetition of which the Jacobins have advocated, 
 for some time, with so much fervour. Five or six camp- 
 beds, occupied by as many men, in a dark room, were the 
 first objects that attracted my notice. After we had 
 passed the grating, they got up and began to move, and 
 my guides made me mount a narrow and dirty staircase. 
 We reached the keeper's room, a kind of little drawing- 
 room, pretty clean, where he offered me a couch. 
 
 " Where is my room V I asked his wife, a fat person, 
 with a kind face. 
 
 " Madam, I did not expect you ; I have nothing ready, 
 but you can stay here while you are waiting." 
 
 The commissioners entered the next room, had their 
 orders entered, and gave their verbal instructions. I learnt 
 afterwards that they were very strict, and that they had 
 them renewed several times afterwards, but without daring 
 to put them on paper. The keeper knew his trade too 
 well to fulfil to the very letter what was not obligatory : 
 he is an honest, active, obliging man, who mingles with the 
 exercise of his functions ail that justice and moderation 
 could desire. 
 
 " What would you like for your breakfast ?" 
 
2^6 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 " Some tea." 
 
 The commissioners withdrew, telling me, that if Roland 
 were not guilty he would not have absented himself. 
 
 *' It is exceedingly strange that they can suspect such a 
 man ; one who has rendered such great services to liberty. 
 It is extremely odious to see a minister calumniated and 
 persecuted with such rancour, whose conduct is so open, 
 whose accounts are so clear, that he ought not to have 
 been obliged to save himself from the extreme excesses of 
 envy. Just as Aristides, severe as Cato : these are the 
 virtues that have made him enemies. Their rage knows 
 no bounds ; let it practise all its cruelty on me ; I brave it 
 and I sacrifice myself; he, he ought to preserve himself 
 for his country, to which he can still render great services." 
 
 An embarrassed bow was the answer of these gentle- 
 men. They went away. I breakfasted while the bedroom 
 that I was to have was hastily prepared. 
 
 " You will be able, madam, to remain here all day ; and 
 if I cannot get a place ready for you this evening — for 
 there are a great many people here — a bed will be put up 
 in the drawing-room." 
 
 The wife of the keeper, who spoke to me thus, added 
 some kind remarks on the regret she always felt when she 
 saw people of her own sex come in ; " for," she added, 
 "they do not all look so calm as madam does." 
 
 I thanked her, smiling ; she shut me in. " Here I am, 
 then, in prison," I said to myself. 
 
 The agitation in which I had passed the preceding even- 
 ing made me feel extremely tired ; I longed to have a 
 room. That very night I obtained one, and took posses- 
 sion of it at ten o'clock. When I found myself between 
 four tolerably dirty walls, in the middle of which was a 
 common bedstead without curtains ; when I perceived a 
 double-grated window ; and when I was struck with that 
 smell that a person accustomed to a very clean room always 
 finds in those that are not, I was very sensible that it was 
 a prison I was going to inhabit, and that it was not a place 
 
MADAME ROLAND. 257 
 
 where I must expect anything agreeable. However, the 
 space was pretty large, and there was a chimney; the 
 counterpane was tolerable ; they gave me a pillow ; and 
 by considering these things, without making any compari- 
 son, I came to the conclusion that I was not badly off. I 
 went to bed, quite resolved to remain there as long as I 
 was comfortable. 
 
 17 
 
HOCHE. 
 
 Lazare Hoche, the celebrated French general, was the son of a 
 working man, and was born at Montreuil, a suburb of Versailles, in 
 1768. First a printer's boy, then a chorister at Saint Germain, then a 
 groom in the stables of Versailles, he entered the army at sixteen years 
 of age, and, when the Revolution broke out, had risen to the rank of 
 sergeant. The energy of his character, and the ardour with which he 
 pursued his military studies, m.arked him out for rapid promotion, and 
 at the battle of Neerwinde, in 1793, he acted as aide-de-camp to 
 General Le Veneur. Shortly after he was arrested on a charge of in- 
 civismej but the plan of a campaign which he had drawn up and 
 sent to the Committee of Public Safety, attracted the attention of 
 Carnot, and procured him his liberation and the rank of Brigadier- 
 General. The defence of Dunkerque, and the defeat of the Prussians 
 at Wissembourg, were the commencement of his short but victorious 
 career, interrupted only by the intrigues of the revolutionary chiefs, 
 and closed in 1797 by his sudden death, not without suspicion of 
 poison, at the early age of twenty-nine. A memoir of his life, with a 
 large selection from his correspondence, was published by Rousselin 
 in 1798. The following passage, containing two of his modest, sol- 
 dier-like letters, is taken from an Essay of M. Bergounioux, published 
 in 1852. 
 
 GENERAL HOCHE. 
 
 Like Saint Just and Lebas, the committee, in presence of 
 the dangers to which the army was still exposed, were 
 forced, in spite of themselves, to accept the nomination of 
 Hoche as an act irrevocably settled for a few days at least; 
 but, like those two representatives, they promised them- 
 selves to punish Hoche, if Hoche failed, and doubtless to 
 punish him still, if his success answered the expectations of 
 Lacoste and Baudot. 
 
 Whichever it might be, Hoche turned to profit the sole 
 
GENERAL HOCHE. 
 
HOCHE. 259 
 
 power with which he found himself Invested, without 
 having asked it. In one day the face of everything was 
 changed ; he showed that he understood the duties, the 
 rights, and the resources of an undivided authority. It 
 must be said that the confidence and transports of the sol- 
 diers redoubled when this appointment was made known. 
 The army of the Rhine shared the enthusiasm of the army 
 of the Moselle, and Pichegru could see that his lieutenants 
 approved the decision, which, from being Hoche's equal, 
 made him his subordinate. But if this enthusiasm, if these 
 unanimous acclamations were the happy presages of vic- 
 tory, these signs of popularity gave Hoche an authority 
 that the Government, jealous of his power, could not wit- 
 ness without terror. Besides, being very young and inex- 
 perienced at that time, Hoche yielded perhaps to some 
 impulse of very lawful pride, and did not dream of getting 
 pardon for the greatness of the mission that he had to 
 fulfil, by professions of a studied modesty. At that time 
 a general might incur the responsibility of a reverse, but 
 was never allowed to take to himself the honour of success. 
 His glory must always be blended with that of the army. 
 No head could be raised above the humblest without being 
 condemned to fall on the scaffold. Entirely absorbed in 
 the dangers that threatened the frontier, Hoche was far 
 from thinking at that time of the dangers that threatened 
 himself 
 
 My intention is not to enter here into the details of the 
 plan that he executed ; it will be found entire in the history 
 of the r^evolutionary campaigns. I take Hoche a few hours 
 before the battle that was to decide the success of the cam- 
 paign, give us the lines of Wissembourg, or confirm the 
 possession of them to the Prussians. Warned that the 
 enemies were about to attack him, he intended to be 
 beforehand with them. People have greatly praised the 
 verses of the Great Frederick, addressed to the Marquis of 
 Argens, composed on the eve of the battle of Rosbach, and 
 in which occurs the determination, nobly expressed, more- 
 
 17 — 2 
 
26o HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 over, not to survive a defeat. I prefer this simple letter of 
 General Hoche, written from the bivouac at Wissembourg 
 to General Le Veneur. 
 
 " Once more, those sounds of exultation that in old times 
 we heard bursting forth In the presence of the enemy, are 
 heard. Discouragement and terror have fled far from us ; 
 I am surrounded by none but brave men, who will march 
 against the enemy without taking one step backwards. 
 Around the fires that are lighted all along the line, I have 
 discovered In every group that security and audacity which 
 are the harbingers of victory. Not a murmur about this 
 cold and boisterous wind : not a longing word for those 
 tents that I have been one of the first to do aAvay with. 
 There are few who pique themselves on Imitating the 
 conqueror of Rocroy, and whom It will be necessary to 
 awake for the battle ; but the air is Icy, and I prefer leading 
 them against the enemy in a bad temper produced by want 
 of sleep, than when rested by a sleep, which is always fatal 
 to energy in this temperature. This being acknowledged 
 by the greater number, I have been greeted on every side 
 with this cry : * Landau shall be free !' Yes, General, 
 Landau shall be free ; but It is not enough now to stop the 
 enemy, we must drive him away before us ; the question Is 
 no longer about defending our territory, we must Invade his. 
 The days of grief and shame are over. With soldiers so 
 well prepared, an authority unfettered now, with the support 
 of the representatives, I ought to conquer or die. This Is 
 the alternative that I have accepted. So, my General, if 
 this letter is only the too presumptuous announcement of a 
 success that I think positively certain, It will bring you my 
 last adieus. I am on the eve of the greatest or the last of 
 my days, and I wish to assure you that If I shall never see 
 you again, I have always cherished the remembrance of 
 your kindness In the very bottom of my heart, and that 
 General Hoche has preserved, undiminished, the respectful 
 attachment that your old aide-de-camp had vowed to you." 
 
 The anticipations of Hoche were not disappointed. At 
 
HOCHE. 261 
 
 dawn the army got under arms In order, and trembling with 
 impatience, but obeying the rein that guided them. They 
 began to move with the shouts of ''Landau or death!" 
 '' The French burnt little powder ; they had but one game, 
 that of the bayonet. You have ordered us to distribute 
 rew^ards to those who performed brilliant actions, but when 
 an army of 40,000 men fights for six hours, attacking with- 
 out intermission, which Is he that has deserved most ? which 
 shall have the least ? Happy uncertainty that invites us to 
 reward them all.""^ Happy uncertainty indeed ! Never- 
 theless, under the command of Hoche were then fighting 
 both Lefebvre and Desalx, Andreossy and Championnet, 
 Moreau and he who has since been made Duke of Dalmatia ,* 
 and not one of them is named ! What grandeur and what 
 glory In this forgetfulness of the army and its commander- 
 in-chief ! 
 
 We must listen to Hoche's account of this affair given to 
 his friend Privat, who had asked him. for particulars. 
 
 ''At last arrived the representatives of the people, Lacoste 
 and Baudot, who obliged me to take the command of the 
 two armies. I cared little about it, but the voice of my 
 country trium.phed. I accepted It on the 3d, at mid-day. 
 There was no time to be lost ; the enemy, in full force, were 
 to attack on the 6th at ten o'clock. During the evening 
 and night [it was the same night that he wrote the letter to 
 General Le Veneur that has just been given], I despatched 
 orders to assemble the next day, the 6th, at least 35,000 
 men from the two armies on the plain in front of the lines 
 of W^issembourg. I do not know, my dear Privat, at what 
 hour they set out, but the next day each arrived at the 
 appointed hour, and on the spot Indicated, In presence of 
 the enemy. No hesitation. From the first moment the 
 army advanced, continually the enemy drew back as far as 
 the camp of Gastelberg, a considerable height, on which 
 seven batteries were placed. A great mistake, they made, 
 my dear Privat ; for they were shut In at once, being placed 
 * Report of Lacoste and Baudot to the Convention. 
 
26.2 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 as in the centre of two-thirds of a circle, a form that I had 
 made the army take. Between them and us, an enclosure 
 of hollows, thick hedges, and deep ditches. This was to be 
 climbed, exposed to a hot fire. To the charge, friends ! and 
 off we go. Their cannons, their equipages are ours ; to- 
 morrow Lauterbourg and more cannon ; everywhere maga- 
 zines of arms and fodder, and Landau is free, and we are 
 before Worms." 
 
 Does not this style recall that well-known saying of 
 Hoche, " Reflection should prepare, thunder execute .?" 
 Here it seems that it is thunder that is writing. You have 
 noticed the magnanimous simplicity of these words : " I do 
 not knoAv at what hour they started, but each arrived at the 
 appointed hour, and on the spot indicated." I shall not 
 give here the whole of the report that Hoche wrote from 
 Landau to the Committee, but I must quote the conclusion 
 word for word. 
 
 ''I shall await the orders of the Committee. I shall 
 proceed further, if it is wished, slowly it is true, on account 
 of the distance from our magazines, and the difficulty of the 
 roads. I shall halt, if I am ordered to do so, and put the 
 
 troops into cantonments One request remains for me 
 
 to make to the Committee : now that the end is attained, I 
 wish to be only charged with the command of the army of 
 the Moselle. The two together are a too heavy burden for 
 a head of twenty-six." 
 
FOURTH PART. 
 
 WRITERS OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 MADAME DE STAEL. 
 
 Anne Louise Germaine, Baroness de Stael, was the daughter of 
 Necker, Minister of Finance to Louis XVI., and was born at Paris in 
 1 766. Her education was carefully superintended by her mother, and 
 she gave early evidence of possessing unusual force of intellect. In 
 1786 she married the Baron de Stael Holstein, Swedish Ambassador at 
 Paris ; whose diplomatic character enabled her to remain there during 
 the first years of the Revolution, and to interest herself on behalf of the 
 royal family. After the Reign of Terror had subsided, she returned to 
 France, which she had quitted for a time ; and her salon, which was 
 frequented by the leading men in politics and literature, became a centre 
 of intrigues against the rising power of Buonaparte. She speedily 
 received an order to quit Paris, and spent some time in travelling 
 through Switzerland and Italy, In 1807 she published her novel of 
 Coritme, the materials of which she had collected during her rambles. 
 Her work on Germany, from which the following extract is taken, was 
 printed in 18 10, but the whole impression was seized by the Emperor's 
 order, and Madame de Stael herself expelled from France. She then 
 took up her abode in Geneva, but subsequently visited Russia and 
 England. Her Bix Annees d^Exil gives an account of these years of 
 wandering. After Napoleon's abdication she returned to France, and 
 died there in 181 7. Her Considerations sur la Revohdion Franqaise 
 was published after her death. 
 
 THE FETE OF INTERLAKEN. 
 
 We must attribute to the German character a great part of 
 the virtues of German Switzerland. Nevertheless, there is 
 
264 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 more public spirit in Switzerland than in Germany ; more 
 patriotism, more energy, more agreement in opinions and 
 sentiments ; but at the same time, the smallness of the 
 states and the poverty of the country do not call forth genius 
 in any way ; there are much fewer learned men and thinkers 
 there than in the north of Germany, where the very laxity 
 of political bonds gives wing to all the noble musings, to all 
 the bold systems which are not subject to the nature of 
 things. The Swiss are not a poetical nation, and people 
 are astonished, with reason, that the glorious aspect of their 
 country has not more inflamed their imagination. Yet a 
 religious and free people are always susceptible of a kind of 
 enthusiasm, and the material occupations of life cannot 
 entirely stifle it. If this could have been questioned, any 
 one would have been convinced of it by the shepherds' fete, 
 which was celebrated last year in the midst of the lakes, in 
 memory of the founder of Berne. 
 
 This town of Berne deserves more than ever the respect 
 and interest of travellers ; it seems that since its last 
 troubles all its virtues have revived with new vigour, and 
 that while it has lost its own treasures, it has redoubled its 
 gifts to the unfortunate. Its charitable establishments are, 
 perhaps, the best looked after in Europe ; the hospital is 
 the finest, the only magnificerit building in the town. Over 
 the door is written this inscription, '' Christo in Pauperibus " 
 — "to Christ in the poor." There is nothing more worthy 
 of admiration. Has not the Christian religion told us that 
 it was for those who suffer that Christ came down upon 
 earth ? and which of us, in some period of his life, is 
 not poor in happiness, in hopes ; one of those unhappy 
 ones, in short, that we ought to comfort in the name of 
 God.? 
 
 Everything in the town and canton of Berne bears the 
 impress of a calm grave order, of a worthy and paternal 
 government. 
 
 To go to the feast, it was necessary to embark on one 
 of these lakes in which the beauties of nature are re- 
 
MADAME DE STAEL. 265 
 
 fleeted, and which seemed placed at the foot of the Alps 
 in order to multiply their delightful views. Stormy weather 
 deprived us of a distinct view of the mountains, but, blended 
 with the clouds, they were only more formidable. The 
 storm increased, and although a feeling of terror seized my 
 soul, I loved that thunder of heaven which confounds the 
 pride of men. We rested for a little time in a kind of 
 grotto, before we ventured to cross that part of the lake 
 of Thun which is surrounded with inaccessible rocks. It 
 was in such a place that William Tell braved the abyss, 
 and clung to the cliffs to escape from his tyrants. We then 
 perceived in the distance that mountain which bears the 
 name of the Jungfrau, because no traveller has ever been 
 able to climb to its summit. It is not so high as Mont 
 Blanc, and yet it inspires more awe, because it is known to 
 to be inaccessible. 
 
 We arrived at Unterseen, and the noise of the Aar, v/hich 
 falls in cascades round this little town, disposed our minds 
 to dreamy impressions. The strangers, in great numbers, 
 were lodged in the peasants' houses, which were very clean, 
 but rustic. It was curious enough to see young Parisians 
 suddenly transported into the valleys of Switzerland, walk- 
 ing in the street of Unterseen ; they heard nothing but the 
 sound of torrents ; they saw nothing but mountains, and 
 they tried if they could tire themselves enough in these 
 solitary places to return with more pleasure to the world 
 again. 
 
 People have talked much of an air played by the Alpine 
 horns, and which makes so lively an impression on the 
 Swiss, that when they hear it, they leave their regiments 
 to return to their native land. You may conceive the effect 
 that this air may produce when the mountain echo repeats 
 it ; but it ought to sound in the distance ; near, it does not 
 produce a very agreeable sensation. If it were sung by 
 Italian voices, the imagination would be perfectly intoxi- 
 cated with it, but perhaps this pleasure would give rise to 
 
266 HALF-HOURS AVITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 ideas foreign to the simplicity of the country. One would 
 be wishing for the arts, poetry, and love, while it was neces- 
 sary to be content with repose and rural life. On the evening 
 that preceded the fete, fires were lighted on the mountains ; 
 it was thus that formerly the liberators of Switzerland gave 
 the signal of their holy conspiracy. These fires, placed on 
 the summits, looked like the moon when she rises behind 
 the mountains and shows herself at once fiery and peace- 
 able. One might have said that new stars came to be 
 present at the most touching spectacle that our world could 
 yet offer. One of these flaming signals seemed placed in 
 the sky, whence it lighted up the ruins of the castle of 
 Unspunnen, formerly the possession of Berthold, the founder 
 of Berne, in memory of w^hom the fete was given. Deep 
 shadows surrounded this luminous point, and the mountains, 
 which during the night resemble great phantoms, appeared 
 like the gigantic shade of the dead whom we were going to 
 celebrate. On the day of the feast the weather was mild, 
 but cloudy ; it was necessary that nature should respond to 
 the softening of all hearts. The enclosure chosen for the 
 games was surrounded with hills dotted with trees, and the 
 mountains behind these hills reach as far as you can see. 
 All the spectators, to the number of almost six thousand, 
 were seated on the slope of the hills, and the varied colours 
 of the dresses in the distance looked like flowers scattered 
 over the meadow. Never could a more pleasant scene usher 
 in a feast ; but when you looked up, the hanging rocks, like 
 fate, seemed to threaten human beings in the middle of 
 their pleasure. 
 
 When the crowd of spectators had met, the festal proces- 
 sion was heard coming from a distance, a solemn procession 
 indeed, since it was consecrated to the commemoration of 
 the past. Agreeable music accompanied it; the magistrates 
 appeared at the head of the peasants. The young peasant 
 women were dressed in the old and picturesque costume of 
 each canton. The halberds and banners of each valley 
 were carried in front of the procession by white-haired men. 
 
MADAME DE STAEL. > 26/ 
 
 dressed exactly as people were five centuries ago, at the 
 time of the conspiracy of Rutli. Deep emotion took pos- 
 session of the soul at seeing these peaceful standards under 
 the guardianship of old men. The past was represented by 
 these men, who seemed so aged to us, but so young in the 
 presence of centuries. 
 
 At last the games began, and the men of the valley and 
 the mountaineers showed very remarkable agility and bodily 
 strength, in raising enormous weights, and in wrestling with 
 each other. In old times this strength made nations more 
 warlike ; now that tactics and artillery decide the fate of 
 armies, one sees nothing in these exercises beyond rural 
 games. The land is better cultivated by such robust men, 
 but war is only made by the help of discipline and numbers; 
 and the movements even of the soul have less power on 
 human destiny, since individuals have disappeared in the 
 masses, and the human race seems guided, like inanimate 
 nature, by mechanical laws. 
 
 After the games were ended and the good bailiff of the 
 place had distributed the prizes to the victors, the people 
 dined under tents, and sang verses in honour of the peaceful 
 happiness of Switzerland. During the repast, wooden cups 
 were passed round, on which William Tell and the three 
 founders of Helvetic liberty were carved. People drank 
 with ecstasy to peace, order, and independence, and the 
 patriotism of happiness expressed itself with a cordiality 
 that touched every heart. 
 
 ^* The meadows are as flowery as of old, the mountains 
 as verdant ; when all nature smiles, shall the heart of man 
 alone be a desert .?"* 
 
 No, doubtless, it was not ; it opened itself confidently in 
 the midst of this beautiful country, in the presence of these 
 estimable men, who Avere all animated by the purest senti- 
 
 * These words are the burden of a song composed for this fete by 
 Madame Harmes, known in Germany by her writings under the name 
 of Madame de Berlepsch. 
 
26^ HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 ments. A poor country of a very limited extent, without 
 luxury, glory, or power, is cherished by its inhabitants as a 
 friend who hides his virtues in the shade, and consecrates 
 them all to the happiness of those who love him. During 
 the five centuries that the prosperity of Switzerland has 
 lasted, one reckons rather wise generations than great men. 
 There is no room for exception when the whole is so happy. 
 It might be said that the ancestors of this nation still reign 
 in the midst of her ; she always respects them, imitates and 
 repeats them. Simplicity of manners and attachment to 
 ancient customs, wisdom and uniformity in the way of living, 
 unite us with the past, and make the future present to us. 
 A history that is always the same, seems one single moment, 
 the duration of which is several centuries. 
 
 Life flows on in these valleys like the rivers that run 
 through them ; there "are new waves, but they follow the 
 same course : may it never be interrupted ! may the same 
 feast be often celebrated at the foot of these same moun- 
 tains ! The stranger admires them as a wonder, the Helve- 
 tian cherishes them as an asylum where magistrates and 
 fathers take care alike of citizens and children. 
 
CHATEAUBRIAND. 
 
 FrancoiS-Auguste, Viscount of Chateaubriand, was bom at Saint 
 Malo, in 1768. When the Revolution broke out he determined to 
 leave France for a time, and started for America, with the intention 
 of trying to discover the North-west passage ; but when he had spent 
 some time in the United States, and had paid a visit to General Wash- 
 ington, news reached him of the flight of Louis XVI. to Varennes, and 
 he thought himself bound in honour to return to France to fight for 
 his king. He was severely wounded at the siege of Thionville, and 
 after encountering great dangers in France, took refuge in England. 
 He remained in this country for eight years, earning a scanty sub- 
 sistence by teaching French and making translations. After the 
 Restoration he was appointed one of the Ministers of State by Louis 
 XVI IL, and at a later period was sent as ambassador, first to Berlin 
 and then to London, but retired from office after the Revolution of 
 1830, refusing to acknovvledge Louis-Philippe. He died at Paris in 
 1848. His great works are Le Genie dii Christianisme, Atala, Les 
 Ma7'ty7's^ Les Natchez, and the Itiiieraire de Paris a Jemsalem. The 
 followingpassage is taken from his Essai Histo?'ique siir les Revohttions. 
 
 A NIGHT AMONG THE SAVAGES OF AMERICA. 
 
 It is a natural instinct of the unhappy to seek to recall 
 visions of happiness by the remembrance of their past 
 pleasures. When I feel tired of my life, when I feel my 
 heart dried up by intercourse with other men, I involun- 
 tarily turn my head away, and heave a sigh of regret over 
 the past. It is in the midst of the immense forests of 
 America that I have tasted to the full these enchanting 
 meditations, these secret and ineffable delights of a mind 
 rejoicing in itself People boast of loving liberty, and 
 hardly any one has a true idea of it. When in my journeys 
 among the Indian tribes of Canada, I left European dwell- 
 
270 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 ings, and found myself, for the first time, alone in the 
 midst of an ocean of forests, having, so to speak, all nature 
 prostrate at my feet, a strange change took place within 
 me. In the kind of delirium which seized me, I followed 
 no road ; I went from tree to tree, now to the right, now to 
 the left, saying to myself, " Here there are no more roads 
 to follow, no more towns, no rnore narrow houses, no more 
 presidents, republics, or kings — above all, no more laws, 
 and no more men." Men ! Yes, some good savages, who 
 cared nothing for me, nor I for them ; who, like me, wandered 
 freely wherever their fancy led them, eating when they 
 felt inclined, sleeping when and where they pleased. And, 
 in order to see if I were really established in my original 
 rights I gave myself up to a thousand acts of eccentricity, 
 which enraged the tall Dutchman who was my guide, and 
 who, in his heart, thought I was mad. 
 
 Escaped from the tyrannous yoke of society, I under- 
 stood then the charms of that independence of nature, 
 which far surpasses all the pleasures of which civilized man 
 can form any idea. I understood why not one savage has 
 become a European, and why many Europeans have be- 
 come savages : why the sublime '' Discourse on the In- 
 equality of Rank " is so little understood by the most part 
 of our philosophers. It is incredible how small and dimin- 
 ished the nations and their most boasted institutions 
 appeared in my eyes ; it seemed to me as if I saw the 
 kingdoms of the earth through an inverted spy-glass ; or 
 rather that, being myself grown and elevated, I looked 
 down on the rest of my degenerate race with the eye of 
 a giant. 
 
 You who wish to write about men, go into the deserts, 
 •become for a moment the child of nature, and then — and 
 then only — take up the pen. 
 
 Among the innumerable enjoyments of this journey, one, 
 especially, made a vivid impression on my mind. 
 
 I was going then to see the famous cataract of Niagara, 
 and I had taken my way through the Indian tribes who 
 
CHATEAUBRIAND. 2/1 
 
 inhabit the deserts to the west of the American plantations. 
 My guides were — the sun, a pocket compass, and the 
 Dutchman of whom I have spoken : the latter understood 
 perfectly five dialects of the Huron language. Our train 
 consisted of two horses, which we let loose in the forests at 
 night, after fastening a bell to their necks. I was at first 
 a little afraid of losing them, but my guide reassured me 
 by pointing out that by a wonderful instinct, these good 
 animals never wandered out of sight of our fire. 
 
 One evening when, as we calculated that we were only 
 about eight or nine leagues from the cataract, we were pre- 
 paring to dismount before sunset, in order to build our hut 
 and light our watch-fire after the Indian fashion, we per- 
 ceived in the wood the fires of some savages, who were 
 encamped a little lower down, on the shores of the same 
 stream as we were. We went to them. The Dutchman, 
 having by my orders asked their permission for us to pass 
 the night with them, which was granted immediately, we 
 set to work with our hosts. After having cut down some 
 branches, planted some stakes, torn ofi* some bark to cover 
 our palace, and perform^ed some other public offices, each 
 of us attended to his own afi"airs. I brought my saddle, 
 which served me well for a pillow all through my travels ; 
 the guide rubbed down the horses ; and as to his night 
 accommodation, since he was not so particular as I am, he 
 generally made use of the dry trunk of a tree. Work being 
 done, we seated ourselves in a circle, with our legs crossed 
 like tailors, around the immense fire, to roast our heads of 
 maize, and to prepare supper. I had still a flask of brandy, 
 which served to enliven our savages not a little. They 
 found out that they had some bear hams, and we began a 
 royal feast. 
 
 The family consisted of two women, with infants at their 
 breasts, and three warriors ; two of them might be from 
 forty to forty-five years of age, although they appeared 
 much older, and the third was a young man. . 
 
 The conversation soon became general, — that is to say. 
 
2/2 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 on my side it consisted of broken words and many ges- 
 tures : an expressive language, which these nations under- 
 stand remarkably well, and that I had learned among 
 them. The young man alone preserved an obstinate 
 silence ; he kept his eyes constantly fixed on me. In spite 
 of the black, red, and blue stripes, cut ears, and the pearl 
 hanging from his nose, with which he was disfigured, it was 
 easy to see the nobility and sensibility which animated his 
 conntenance. How well I knew he was inclined not to 
 love me. It seemed to me as if he were reading in his 
 heart the history of all the wrongs which Europeans have 
 inflicted on his native country. The two children, quite 
 naked, were asleep at our feet before the fire ; the women 
 took them quietly into their arms and put them to bed 
 among the skins, with a mother's tenderness so delightful 
 to witness in these so-called savages : the conversation 
 died away by degrees, and each fell asleep in the place 
 where he was. 
 
 I alone could not close my eyts, hearing on all sides the 
 deep breathing of my hosts. I raised my head, and sup- 
 porting myself on my elbow, Avatched by the red light of 
 the expiring fire the Indians stretched around me, and 
 plunged in sleep. I confess that I could hardly refrain 
 from tears. Brave youth, how your peaceful sleep affects 
 me ! You, who seemed so sensible of the woes of your 
 native land, you were too great, too high-minded to mis- 
 trust the foreigner ! Europeans, what a lesson for you 1 
 These same savages whom we have pursued with fire and 
 sword, to whom our avarice would not leave a spadeful of 
 earth to cover their corpses in all this world, formerly their 
 vast patrimony — these same savages, receiving their enemy 
 into their hospitable hut, sharing with him their miserable 
 meal, and their couch undisturbed by remorse, sleeping 
 close to him the calm sleep of the innocent. These virtues 
 are as much above the virtues of conventional life, as the 
 soul of the man in his natural state is above that of the 
 man in society. 
 
CHATEAUBRIAND. 2/3 
 
 It was moonlight. Feverish with thinking, I got up and 
 seated myself at a little distance on a root which ran along 
 the edge of the streamlet ; it was one of those American 
 nights which the pencil of man can never represent, and 
 the remembrance of which I have a hundred times recalled 
 with delight. 
 
 The moon was at the highest point of the heavens ; here 
 and there at wide, clear intervals twinkled a thousand stars. 
 Sometimes the moon rested on a group of clouds, which 
 looked like the summit of high mountains crowned with 
 snow : little by little these clouds grew longer, and rolled 
 out into transparent and waving zones of white satin, or 
 transformed themselves into light flakes of froth, into in- 
 numerable wandering flocks in the blue plains of the firma- 
 ment. Another time, the arch of heaven seemed changed 
 into a shore on which one could discover horizontal rows, 
 parallel lines such as are made by the regular ebb and flow 
 of the sea ; a gust of wind tore this veil again, and every- 
 where appeared in the sky great banks of dazzlingly white 
 down, so soft to the eye that one seemed to feel their soft- 
 ness and elasticity. The scene on the earth was not less 
 delightful: the silvery and velvety light of the moon floated 
 silently over the top of the forests, and at intervals went 
 down among the trees, casting rays of light even through 
 the deepest shadows. The narrow brook which flowed at 
 my feet, burying itself from time to time among the 
 thickets of oak, willow, and sugar trees, and reappearing a 
 little further off in the glades, all sparkling with the con- 
 stellations of the night, seemed like a ribbon of azure silk 
 spotted with diamond stars, and striped with black bands. 
 On the other side of the river, in a wide, natural meadow, 
 the moonlight rested quietly on the pastures, where it was 
 spread out like a sheet. Some birch-trees scattered here 
 and there over the savannahs, sometimes blending, accord- 
 ing to the caprice of the winds, with the background, 
 seemed to surround themselves with a pale gauze — some- 
 times rising up again from their chalky foundations, hidden 
 
 i8 
 
2/4 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 in the darkness, formed as it were islands of floating 
 shadows on an immovable sea of light. Near, all was 
 silence and repose, except the falling of the leaves, the 
 rough passing of a sudden wind, the^ rare and interrupted 
 whooping of the grey owl ; but in the distance at intervals, 
 one heard the solemn rolling of the cataract of Niagara, 
 which in the calm of the night echoed from desert to 
 desert, and died away in solitary forests. 
 
 The grandeur, the astonishing melancholy of this picture 
 cannot be expressed in human language : the most beau- 
 tiful nights in Europe can give no idea of it. In the midst 
 of our cultivated fields, the imagination vainly seeks to 
 expand itself — everywhere it meets with the dwellings of 
 man ; but, in these desert countries, the soul delights in 
 penetrating and losing itself in these eternal forests ; it 
 loves to wander by the light of the moon on the borders of 
 immense lakes, to hover over the roaring gulf of terrible 
 cataracts, to fall with the mass of waters, and, so to speak, 
 mix and blend itself with a sublime and savage nature. 
 These enjoyments are too keen ; such is our weakness, that 
 exquisite pleasures become griefs, as if nature feared that 
 we should forget that we are men. Absorbed in my exist- 
 ence, or rather drawn quite out of myself, having neither 
 feeling nor distinct thought, but an indescribable I know 
 not what, which was like that happiness which they say we 
 shall enjoy in the other lif6, I was all at once recalled to 
 this. I felt unwell, and perceived that I must not linger. 
 I returned to our encampment, where, lying down by the 
 savages, I soon fell into a deep sleep. The next day, 
 when I awoke, I found the party already prepared for de- 
 parture. My guide had saddled the horses, the warriors 
 were armed, and the women were busy collecting the bag- 
 gage, consisting of skins, maize, and smoked bear. I got 
 up, and taking from my portmanteau a little powder and 
 some balls, some tobacco, and a box of coarse rouge, I 
 distributed these presents among our hosts, who seemed 
 well satisfied with my generosity. We then separated, not 
 
CHATEAUBRIAND. 2/5 
 
 without marks of afifectionate regret, touching our fore- 
 heads and chests, after the custom of these uncivilized 
 men, which seemed to me worth much more than our cere- 
 monies.' We all of us parted with full hearts, even the 
 young Indian, who received cordially the hand which I 
 held out to him. Our friends took the road to the north, 
 guiding themselves by the mosses, and we to the west, by 
 my compass. The warriors set out in front, giving the 
 order to march ; the women walked behind, loaded with 
 the baggage and the children, who, hanging in the furs on 
 their mothers' shoulders, turned round, smiling, to watch 
 us. I followed their gentle, motherly walk for a long time 
 with my eyes, until the whole troop had slowly disappeared 
 among the trees of the forest. 
 
 Kind savages, who have showed me hospitality, whom I 
 shall doubtless never see again, I may be allowed to pay 
 you here a tribute of gratitude. May you long enjoy 
 your precious independence, in your beautiful solitudes, 
 where my wishes for your happiness do not cease to follow 
 you ! Inseparable friends ! in what corner of your im- 
 mense deserts do you dwell now ? Are you always to- 
 gether, always happy .'' Do you talk sometimes of the 
 stranger of the forest ? Do you picture to yourselves the 
 place where he lives ? Do you form wishes for his happi- 
 ness on the banks of your solitary rivers ^ Generous 
 family ! his lot is much changed since the night that he 
 passed with you ; but at least it is a consolation for him, if, 
 while he lives across the sea, persecuted by men of his 
 country, his name, at the other side of the world, in the 
 depths of some unknown solitude, is still pronounced with 
 emotion by some poor Indians. 
 
 18—2 
 
FOURIER. 
 
 Jean Baptiste Joseph, Baron Fourier, was born at Auxerre, in 1768. 
 He was educated at the military school, and early devoted himself to 
 the study of mathematics. His first professorship was at Auxerre, but 
 he subsequently received an appointment in the Ecole Centrale des 
 Travaux Publics, now known as the Ecole Polytechnique ; and as one 
 of the savants who were chosen to accompany Napoleon to Egypt, he 
 rendered such important services to the Emperor that on his return to 
 France he was made a baron, prefect of Grenoble, and member of the 
 Legion of Honour. He died at Paris, in 1830. He was secretary of 
 the Institut d'Egypte, and of the Academie des Sciences, and member 
 of the Academie Francaise. His principal works are La Theorie 
 Analytiqiie de la Chaleiir, and the historical preface to the Description 
 de VEgypte^ published by order of Napoleon I. 
 
 THE MONUMENTS OF ANCIENT EGYPT. 
 
 Egypt, who aspired to render her institutions immortal, 
 and who bears the indelible impress of all the arts, will 
 long oppose the severe and even excessive gravity of the 
 most ancient models to the mobility and inconstancy 
 natural to the human mind. In fact, the people the most 
 anxious to produce durable works inhabited the country 
 the most suited in the world to preserve them. These 
 monuments were constructed several centuries before the 
 foundation of the cities of Greece. They saw the grandeur 
 of Tyre, Carthage, and Athens rise and fall. They bore 
 already the name of the Egyptian antiquities in the time 
 of Plato, and our successors will still admire them at a 
 time when in all other parts of the globe there will remain 
 no vestige of the buildings which now exist. 
 
 Put the long continuance of these monuments is not 
 
MONUMENTS OF ANCIENT EGYPT. 
 
FOURIER. 277 
 
 only due to the properties of the climate ; it results, above 
 all, from the efforts of those who raised them : for the ruins 
 of the Roman buildings on the banks of the Nile can hardly 
 be discovered. 
 
 The early Egyptians only acknowledged as beautiful and 
 truly worthy of attention that which is durable and hal- 
 lowed by the sentiment of public utility. The object of 
 their great works was at first to render their territory more 
 salubrious, more fertile, and more extensive. They suc- 
 ceeded in drying up marshes and lakes, in reclaiming entire 
 provinces of the Libyan desert, in compensating for the 
 inequality of the inundations by a happy foresight, and by 
 marvellous deeds of art. They founded their towns on 
 immense embankments : turning aside at their will the 
 course of the river, or dividing it into numerous channels, 
 they saw rising from the midst of the waters, and created, 
 so to speak, themselves, those beautiful plains of the Delta, 
 which were soon to become so rich. The uniformity of the 
 climate, the invariable order of the physical phenomena, 
 concurred in impressing on these people that profound 
 character of gravity and constancy which distinguishes 
 their institutions. Not content with adorning the banks of 
 the Nile with so many immortal monuments, they undertook 
 prodigious works in the interior of the rocks which bounded 
 their territory ; and this subterranean Egypt equalled in 
 magnificence that which they inhabited, and which had 
 been enriched by all the arts. They considered as in some 
 sort eternal whatever belonged to their religion and govern- 
 ment ; they were strengthened in this opinion by the con- 
 tinual sight of the great public monuments, which remained 
 always the same, and which did not appear subject to the 
 action of time. Their legislators had judged that this 
 moral impression would contribute to the stability of their 
 empire. It was for this reason that the people engraved on 
 their temples and tombs the pictures of their gods and kings, 
 their astronomical observations, their sacred precepts, the 
 representation of their worship, and that of civil society. 
 
2"]% HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 These sculptures are the most ancient traces that man 
 has left on the earth ; they belong to that ancient Asiatic 
 civilization which preceded all the historical times of 
 Greece ; they give us a glimpse of the spirit and manners 
 of nations at that period. One cannot admire the works of 
 Egypt, nor recall the periods of her glory, without thinking 
 of the miseries that the loss of her laws, learning, and 
 independence has caused her. We shall appreciate her 
 institutions better ; we shall regard them as a moral source 
 of prosperity, which was no less necessary to this country 
 than the river which waters it ; we shall compare, above 
 all, the miserable condition into which she has fallen, with 
 the opulence that a wiser administration would procure for 
 her in a few years. 
 
 Thus the study of Egypt, so fruitful in great remem- 
 brances, warns us still that the development of intellect 
 and industry is connected with the maintenance of public 
 order ; it makes us know better the value of laws, and of a 
 steady and enlightened government ; it suggests to us new 
 reasons for loving them. This study can only inspire just 
 and elevated ideas, turn us away from seeking after vain 
 ornaments, and lead us back to unity and simplicity of 
 purpose. It will make us see that solid and durable objects 
 have a majesty which is peculiar to them, and that, if the 
 ingenious elegance of form contributes to perfection, the 
 idea of the truly beautiful necessarily includes those of 
 stability and grandeur. It will show this principle in all 
 its light, and ought to have a useful influence on the taste 
 and works of the century. 
 
SISMONDI. 
 
 Jean Charles Leonard Simonde de Sismondi was born in 
 Geneva in 1773. His father, a Protestant minister, and a man of 
 good fortune, having, through his confidence in the abihty of his 
 countryman Necker, invested a large part of his property in the 
 French funds, sustained heavy losses by the Revolution. With his 
 wife and his son, who previously had been placed in a house of busi- 
 ness, he visited England in 1793, ^'^^ remained a year and a half. 
 Here the future historian acquired the English language, and a strong 
 taste for English institutions. He then returned to Geneva, and 
 afterwards lived for some time at Pescia, in Tuscany, where, during 
 the stormy years that followed, he was thrice thrown into prison. 
 In 1797 he returned to Geneva, and being undisturbed during the 
 remainder of his life, devoted himself to the study of history and poli- 
 tical economy. He died at Geneva in 1842. His principal works 
 are L! Histoire des Reptibliqties Italiennes^ L! Histoire des jFran^ais^ 
 HHistoire de la Chute de V Empire Romain^ and De la Richesse Com- 
 merciale. The following passage is taken from L' Histoire des Fran- 
 ^ais. 
 
 THE SIEGE OF MONS AND THE DEATH OF LOUVOIS. 
 
 France felt secure at the conclusion of the campaign 
 which had just terminated that she had still two great 
 generals — Luxembourg, who was approaching the end of 
 his career, and Catinat, who was beginning his. Louis 
 XIV. kept them both at the head of the same armies for 
 the campaign of 1691 ; but he was desirous to share in 
 person the glory of Luxembourg. This monarch was 
 already fifty-three years old, and in this new war he had 
 seemed to wish to resign to his son the command of the 
 army. But on the 21st of March, 1691, he arrived at the 
 head-quarters of Marshal Luxembourg, before Mons, with 
 
280 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 his brother, the Duke of Orleans, his son, the dauphin, and 
 his nephew, the Duke of Chartres. The Marquis of Bouf- 
 flers and the Marquis of Villars had invested this chief city 
 of Hainault on the 15th of the same month. The royal 
 army was nearly 100,000 strong, and 20,000 pioneers had 
 been ordered to work in the trenches. 
 
 All these troops, starting from different points, had con- 
 verged with so much precision and promptitude, that the 
 enemy had not guessed the intentions of the king. It was 
 for this perfect harmony in all the measures which he took 
 that Louvois Avas so remarkable. The artillery, the ammu- 
 nition, the ferry-boats, the provisions, everything had ar- 
 rived at the given time at the place where the king would 
 require them. 
 
 The attack was to be made under the eyes of William 
 III., who had arrived in Holland on the 30th January, and 
 who soon saw himself surrounded at the Hague by a great 
 number of German princes, among whom were the Electors 
 of Brandenburg and Bavaria, the Landgrave of Hesse, the 
 Dukes of Brunswick and Luneburg, all the princes of 
 Nassau, and the Marquis of Castanage, governor of the 
 Low Countries, with twenty-five ambassadors or envoys, 
 and the principal allied generals. Their assembly formed 
 in a manner the states-general of the league of Augsburg. 
 William represented to them with energy the necessity of 
 taking measures in concert for the common defence ; he 
 promised to spare neither his credit, his forces, nor his per- 
 son, in order to save Europe from the slavery with which 
 France threatened her. The allies engaged to send 222,000 
 men into the field ; the emperor, the King of Spain, and 
 the King of England, each promised to furnish 20,000 
 soldiers. But while they were still forming these projects, 
 they learned with as much surprise as terror that Mons was 
 invested. With great difficulty they assembled between 
 35,000 and 40,000 men, with whom William III. advanced 
 as far as Halle, in order to encourage the garrison ; but he 
 was not strong enough to venture upon a general action, 
 
SISMONDI. 281 
 
 and he had the grief of seeing the town fall without being 
 able to succour it. 
 
 -This siege, which was directed by Vauban with that 
 superiority of talent in which he has never been equalled, 
 was signalized by acts of heroic valour, but often also of 
 rash courage. The king and the princes braved the fire in 
 trenches, and the young nobles, who pressed around them, 
 strove to win their notice by risking their lives. The king s 
 household, the musketeers, the gendarmerie persisted in 
 carrying fascines not only when running, but when march- 
 ing slowly in broad daylight within range of the place ; so 
 they lost many men. On the other hand, they constantly 
 employed the most cruel means to reduce the place. It 
 was the Elector of Brandenburg who, in the war against 
 the Swedes before the peace of Nimeguen, had first begun 
 to set fire to towns, instead of making breaches in their 
 fortifications. Louis had adopted this practice, and no 
 sovereign made more use of these fire-balls. One cannot 
 without repugnance see him assisting in person at this 
 odious sight, and posting himself on the borders of the 
 marshes of Mons to contemplate this unfortunate town, 
 where the fire broke out in ten places at once under a 
 shower of bombs and red hot balls. Its commander, the 
 Prince de Bergues, was obliged to capitulate on the 7th of 
 April, after fifteen days' fighting in the open trenches. 
 The outer works had been carried by assault ; the citizens 
 rose against the garrison. Bergues went out with 4500 
 soldiers and 280 officers. The king left the army as soon 
 as Mons had surrendered ; on the 14th of April he rejoined 
 Madame de Maintenon and the other ladies at Compiegne. 
 Grave affairs recalled him to Versailles : Pope Alexander 
 VIII. had died on the 2d of February ; and three days be- 
 fore his death he had condemned the four propositions 
 which Bossuet, in 1682, had induced the clergy of France 
 to adopt. At the moment when all Europe had united 
 against the king, it was of consequence to him that he 
 should not have to count among his enemies the head of 
 
282 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 the Church. All the French cardinals were sent in haste 
 to Rome, in order to support the interests of France, in 
 concert with the Due de Chaulnes, his ambassador. It was 
 not till the I2th of July that their suffrages were united in 
 favour of Cardinal Antonio Pignatelli, who took the name 
 of Innocent XII. 
 
 After the taking of Mons, and. the departure of the king,. 
 Marshal Luxembourg gave his troops some rest ; Louvois 
 had obliged him to furnish several detachments, which had 
 weakened him so much that he contented himself with watch- 
 ing the army of King William without dreaming of attack- 
 ing it. He took up his quarters on the side of Ninove ; 
 Villars gives us to understand that he chose the position 
 more as an epicurean than a general. " The army," he 
 says, " was well encamped, grain and forage in abundance,, 
 all his troops in barracks, the general in a position to have 
 the best cheer in the world, fowls from Campine, veal from 
 Gand, oysters from England, nothing was wanting." But he 
 narrowly escaped a surprise. The allies having advanced 
 on the side of Ath, he was obliged to retire suddenly to- 
 wards L'Escaut. He took his revenge two days after ; he 
 charged them with part of his cavalry when, on the retreat, 
 they were busy crossing the little stream of Cattoire. This 
 was the battle of Leuze, glorious for the royal troops, since 
 eighteen squadrons vanquished nearly fifty of the enemy. 
 The losses were, however, pretty equal ; and the glory was 
 the only advantage reaped by the victor. 
 
 Marshal Boufflers, who had been detached from the 
 army of Villars with 15,000 men, began on the 4th of June 
 to bombard Liege ; he burned all the merchants' quarter 
 of this unfortunate town, and thus destroyed immense 
 riches, but he could not make himself master of it. On 
 the Rhine the campaign presented nothing of interest. 
 Marshal de Lorges defended the passage of that river ; the 
 Duke of Saxony, who commanded the Imperialists, wished 
 to cross it in order to levy contributions in Alsace. At 
 the beginning of July he actually carried his army over to 
 
SISMONDI. 283 
 
 the left bank of the river, but he was soon forced to retire 
 without having gained his end. The French, who in their 
 tu-rn made a stand on the right bank of the river, were not 
 more fortunate. 
 
 The campaign in Piedmont was rendered especially 
 famous by the quarrel of Cantinat and Feuquieres ; the 
 former was one of the cleverest generals that France had in 
 the held ; the latter was superior in tactics : but only in 
 theory, in his reflections on the art of war, and in his criti- 
 cisms of the operations of other generals, for in action he 
 was never successful. Catinat had taken Vegliana, then 
 Carmagnola ; at last, according to the order of Louvois, he 
 charged Feuquieres and BuUonde, in the month of June, to 
 invest Coni. The great theorician, Feuquieres, experienced 
 again some new checks at this siege, and owing to his own 
 fault ; then Bullonde, a creature of Louvois, allowed himself 
 to be frightened by a letter which Prince Eugene had pur- 
 posely allowed to fall into his hands, in which he announced 
 to the commander of the place that he was approaching 
 with 11,000 men ; the two generals made a precipitate re- 
 treat, in which they lost many men. Bullonde was then 
 arrested by order of Louvois, and sent prisoner to Pignerol. 
 
 This arrest was the last act of Louvois' administration,, 
 and the grief which he felt at the reverse at Coni was con- 
 sidered by some persons as the cause of his death, or as the 
 secret of the decline of his health. No man had before 
 possessed, in an equal measure with Louvois, the genius 
 which belongs to a minister of war. It was he who had re- 
 stored discipline and obedience in the army, order in the 
 supply of provisions, honesty among the purveyors, regu- 
 larity in the payment of the wages, and in the execution of 
 all the bargains. He knew, by a rigorous system of 
 espionage, the manners, opinions, and talents, as well as 
 the actions of all the officers of the army. He had clearly 
 present to his mind all the details of the geography and 
 topography of France and the countries into which his 
 armies penetrated. Therefore, during his long ministry, we 
 
284 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 must attribute to him — at least, as much as to the generals 
 — all the successes of the war. It was he who suppressed 
 the pillaging of the troops in France on their marches and 
 cantonments, who lodged them in barracks, to the great re- 
 lief of the citizens and peasants, who made the body of 
 engineers so formidable by its skill, and the troops of the 
 king's household by the emulation with which they inspired 
 all the others. But the more one is constrained to admire 
 the powers of his intellect, the more one must detest the 
 perverseness of his heart. Without principles, without pity, 
 without love for France, he had dragged the king continu- 
 ally into new wars, solely for his own aggrandisement ; he 
 wished for universal wars in order that he might be the 
 more necessary. It is stated that Madame de Maintenon 
 showed the king two memorandums, the notes of which he 
 had written with his own hand, on the means of obliging 
 the Duke of Savoy and the Swiss to declare themselves 
 against France, in order that the armies on the two frontiers 
 might live in the enemy's country. 
 
 Louvois sported with the misery of other nations as much 
 as Avith that of the French ; it was always he who proposed 
 bombardments, burnings, massacres, and who made the 
 king turn a deaf ear to the voice of humanity and pity. 
 For some time he had been jealous of Madame de Main- 
 tenon, who often secretly opposed his views, and made the 
 king reject the counsels which he had given. Naturally 
 haughty, proud of the favour which he had formerly pos- 
 sessed, and of the great services which all alone he could 
 still render, he bore all contradictions impatiently. His 
 rudeness had made the king conceive a dislike to him, 
 which almost grew into repugnance. Louis, who imagined 
 he could do everything by himself, and who boasted of 
 having- made Louvois, was scandalized that this minister 
 should seem to think he knew as much as he did. At the 
 sieffe of Mons, Louvois took it into his head to remove 
 twice a sentinel whom the king had himself placed. Louis 
 was very much provoked, but he contented himself with 
 
SISMONDI. 285 
 
 saying, "Do you not admire Louvois ? He thinks he under- 
 stands war better than I do." Louis was also well persuaded 
 that he understood architecture better than his superinten- 
 dent of buildings. He kept his temper at the moment of 
 contradiction, but resentment was brooding in the depth of 
 his heart, 
 
 Louvois feared everything, and he had everything to fear. 
 " He was," says St. Simon, " so utterly ruined when he 
 died, that he was to have been arrested the next day, and 
 sent to the Bastille. What the sequel might have been his 
 death has hidden in obscurity. The fact of this resolution 
 is certain : the king himself told it to Chamillart, who told 
 it to me." 
 
 On the 15th of July, when the news had already been re- 
 ceived of the repulse before Coni, there was a new dispute 
 in the apartments of Madame de Maintenon. Louvois was 
 so ill-treated by the king, that he threw down his papers in 
 a passion, saying that he was in such a bad temper that he 
 could bear it no longer. Madame de Maintenon soothed 
 the king, and told the minister to come and work as usual 
 the next day, without thinking of what had passed. Ac- 
 cordingly he went at three o'clock to Madame de Main- 
 tenon's ; the king, who received him coldly, soon perceived 
 that his minister was on the point of fainting, and sent him 
 home again. Although Louvois could hardly stand, he 
 was able to walk to his own house ; but his malady suddenly 
 increased, and he died after vomiting some medicine which 
 they had just given him, asking for his son Barbezieux, who 
 was not in time to see him, though he ran to his room. 
 
 The suddenness of the illness and death of Louvois caused 
 it to be universally believed that he had been poisoned ; it 
 was known that he was a great water-drinker, and that he 
 always had a pitcher on his mantelpiece, from v/hich he had 
 drunk just before going to work with the king ; that a little 
 while before a man had entered the room to clean it, and 
 remained there some minutes alone. 
 
 This man was arrested and thrown into prison, but he 
 
286 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 had hardly been there four days when he was set at liberty 
 by order of the king. The proceedings which had been 
 commenced were thrown into the fire, and all further in- 
 quiry was forbidden. The body of Louvois was opened ; 
 the doctors and surgeons were unanimous in declaring that 
 they discovered traces of poison, but their science was then 
 very uncertain. It became dangerous to speak on the sub- 
 ject, and the family of Louvois stifled all these reports in a 
 way which left no doubt that very decided orders had been 
 given to them. 
 
 Not only did the people of that time credit with marvellous 
 facility the report of poisoning in all cases of sudden death, 
 but we cannot 'be mistaken about the person against whom 
 their suspicions were raised, even though they did not con- 
 fess it. It is due to the memory of Louis XIV. to say that 
 these suspicions were not in their eyes what they would be 
 in ours. They regarded the king as the absolute master of 
 the life and substance of his subjects; they looked upon 
 tribunals as only acting according to the authority which 
 he had delegated them ; they did not consider him in any 
 way obliged to make use of them if the interest of the State 
 had otherwise ordained. 
 
 It is probable that Louis XIV. himself would not have 
 thought he was committing a crime if he had given orders 
 to make away secretly with one of his subjects, any more 
 than when he caused them to be thrown into prison without 
 trial by his lettres de cachet. It was more from inclination 
 than principle that he was incapable of it. In the use of 
 poison there is a cowardice which is inconsistent with every- 
 thing that we know of his character. 
 
 Some accused the enemies of France, among others the 
 Duke of Savoy ; others thought that private enemies of the 
 minister had taken advantage of his disgrace to get rid of 
 him ; General Grimoard imagines he committed suicide, 
 which was scarcely in accord with the manners of that time. 
 Voltaire, disgusted at the suspicions of poison so wantonly 
 spread abroad, denies once and for ever all idea of poison, 
 
SISMONDI. 287 
 
 and declares that Louvois died because he had continued to 
 work while taking the waters of Balaruc, in spite of the ad- 
 vice of his physician. Madame de Genlis, who however 
 alters the text of Dangeau, enumerates seven members of 
 Louvois's family who died of apoplexy, and supposed that 
 this was the disease to which he succumbed. In our opinion 
 this is the most probable conjecture. 
 
 The Abbe de Choisy relates that when they congratu- 
 lated the king on the great things he had done : *' It is 
 true," he replied, " that this year has been a happy one for 
 me ; I have got rid of three men whom I could not tolerate, 
 MM. De Louvois, Seignelay, and La Feuillade." Madame, 
 who is lively, said to him, " But how, sir, how did you get 
 rid of them ?'' His Majesty cast down his eyes, and looked 
 at his plate. 
 
 A few hours after the death of Louvois, as the king was 
 walking on the terrace, an officer from the King of England 
 came to condole with him on the loss he had sustained. 
 " Sir," replied the king, with an air and tone more than 
 easy, " my compliments and thanks to the King and Queen 
 of England, and tell them from me that my affairs and 
 theirs will go on none the worse for it." On returning from 
 his walk the king sent to fetch Chamlay, the first assistant, 
 the confidential clerk of Louvois, and the only man, in fact, 
 who could replace him. He wished to give him the office 
 of secretary of state and minister of war. Chamlay thanked 
 him, and refused perseveringly. He told the king that he 
 owed too much to Louvois, to his friendship and his confi- 
 dence, to deck himself with his spoils to the prejudice of his 
 son, who had the reversion of them. He spoke with all his 
 might in favour of the third son of Louvois, Barbezieux, who 
 for six years had been working with his father, and who was 
 now twenty-four. He offered to work under him in what- 
 ever way they liked, in order to communicate to him every- 
 thing that he had learned by experience ; in short, he ob- 
 tained his nomination. 
 
BARANTE. 
 
 Amable Guillaume Prosper Brugiere, Baron de Barante, was 
 born at Riom, in Auvergne, in 1782 ; and in 1802 was placed in the 
 office of the Minister of the Interior. In 1806 he was appointed 
 Auditor to the Council of State, and in 1813 Prefect of Nantes. After 
 the second return of Louis XVIII. he became a Councillor of State,, 
 .and Secretary to the Minister of the Interior. Under Louis-Philippe 
 he was sent as ambassador to the court of Turin, and subsequently to 
 the court of St. Petersburg, At the Revolution of 1848 he retired 
 from public life. In the intervals of offixial business M. de Barante 
 has published various works, among which may be mentioned L'His- 
 toire dcs Dues de Bourgogne, Melanges Litteraires^ and LHistoire de 
 la Convention Nationale. 
 
 LAST HOURS OF LOUIS XVL 
 
 They came to announce to him that the queen and his 
 family were coming down. The king went hastily into the 
 dining-room. His composure was so perfect that, seeing 
 they had put a bottle of iced water on the table, he said, 
 *' The queen does not drink it ; it does not agree with her ; 
 bring another bottle." 
 
 About eight o'clock, the door opened ; the queen held 
 her son by the hand ; Madame Royale and Madame 
 EHzabeth foUoAved her ; all of them rushed into the arms 
 of the king. For some minutes, the silence was only in- 
 terrupted by sobs. The king sat down with, the queen on 
 his left hand, Madame Elizabeth on his right, Madame 
 Royale before him. The young prince was at the king^s 
 knees. Every moment they got up to embrace him. 
 
 This melancholy conversation was constantly interrupted 
 by bursts of tears. Such a story can have no other histo- 
 
BARANTE. 289 
 
 rian than the only witness who has survived for a long suc- 
 cession of miseries. " We found my father much changed ; 
 he wept over us from grief, but not from fear of death ; he 
 described his trial to my mother, excusing the ruffians who 
 were causing his death. He repeated that they had wished 
 to have recourse to the primary assemblies ; but that had 
 not been his advice, because it would cause disturbance in 
 the State. He then gave some religious admonitions to my 
 brother: recommended him espeically to pardon those who 
 had caused his death, and gave him his blessing as well as 
 to me. My mother earnestly wished that we might be per- 
 mitted to pass the night with my father. He refused, tell- 
 ing her that he needed quiet ; she asked him at least to let 
 her come the next day, and he consented." 
 
 At a quarter-past ten, the king rose. The queen, the 
 children, and Madame Elizabeth advanced towards the 
 door, uttering disconsolate moans. " Yes," said the king, 
 " I will see you to-morrow at eight o^clock." ** You pro- 
 mise," said they all together. "Yes." "Why not at 
 seven .?" said the queen. " Well, yes, at seven," he replied; 
 " farewell !" He pronounced this farewell in such a touch- 
 ing tone that the sobs increased. Madame Royale fainted 
 at the king's feet. He pressed them again to his heart, and 
 tore himself from their embraces. " Farewell ! farewell !" 
 he said, as he returned to his room. " Ah, Monsieur, what 
 an interview,"-' said he, as he met the Abbe Edgeworth 
 again : " Why must I love so much, and be so tenderly- 
 loved .? But it is o^er ; let us forget all the rest, and think 
 only of the one matter of salvation." 
 
 It was late in the night, when the king and Abbe Edge- 
 worth separated. The confessor went into the cabinet, and 
 the king went to bed. " You will wake me at five o'clock 
 to-morrow," he said to Clery ; then he fell asleep. 
 
 He was awakened by the noise which Clery made in 
 lighting the fire. " Is it five o'clock .?" said he : "I have 
 slept ; I needed it, my day yesterday tired me. Where is 
 M. de Firmont .?" " On my bed." "And you, where did 
 
 19 
 
290 HALF-HOURS WITH FRE:NCH AUTHORS. 
 
 you pass the night ?" " On this chair." " I am sorry for 
 that," and he held out his hand to him. 
 
 He dressed himself in the dressing-room, while they 
 were preparing an altar to celebrate mass ; he listened to 
 it kneeling. He received the communion, and then re- 
 mained some time in prayer. A moment after. Abbe Edge- 
 worth, who had left the room, returned and found him in 
 the dressing-room near the stove, having some difficulty in 
 warming himself " Nature suffers," said he ; then he 
 added, " My God, how happ}^ I am in having preserved 
 my religion. What should I be now without it } With 
 it death seems sweet to me. Yes, there is an incorruptible 
 Judge on high, who will grant me the justice that men refuse 
 me here below." 
 
 The day began to dawn ; they heard the drums beat 
 to call the men to arms in the streets around the Temple. 
 " It is doubtless the National Guard assembling," said the 
 king. Soon he distinguished the feet of horses in the 
 court. " They are coming near," he said with the same 
 composure. 
 
 The Abbe Edgeworth entreated him to spare the queen 
 the anguish of a last farewell. " You are right, it would be 
 her deathblow ; I will deprive myself of this consolation ; 
 she will hope some moments longer." 
 
 The commissioners entered the room. The king requested 
 that they would give Clery some scissors to cut off his hair. 
 They refused. One of the municipal authorities had pro- 
 posed that Clery should accompany Louis in order to 
 undress him on the scaffold. " The executioner is good 
 enough for him," replied another commissioner. The king 
 insisted upon it. " All that was very well when you were 
 king, but you are so no longer." " See how these men 
 treat me," said he to the Abbe Edgeworth ; " but I must 
 learn to bear everything." 
 
 At nine o'clock, the doors were opened with a great noise ; 
 Santerre entered, followed by a numerous train. The king 
 was in the dressing-room with his confessor. He went out. 
 
BAR ANTE. 29 1 
 
 " You come for me ?" " Yes," replied Santerre. " I am 
 engaged ; wait for me ; I shall be with you in a minute." 
 H-e pronounced these words simply, but with a tone of 
 royal authority, and returned to the Abbe Edgeworth. 
 
 He knelt down. *'A11 is finished, sir; give me your 
 blessing, and pray God to support me to the end." 
 
 He then returned to the room, holding a paper in his 
 hand. It was his will. '' I beg you," he said to one of the 
 municipal authorities, " to deliver this paper to the queen- 
 to my wife," he said, correcting himself This man was a 
 priest, named Roux, so violent and gross in his revolution- 
 ary ardour, that he was often disowned by the Jacobins and 
 the Montagnards ; it was he whom the Commune had 
 commissioned to preside at the execution. " That is not 
 my business," replied he. " I am here to conduct you to 
 the scaffold." 
 
 The king delivered his will to another member of the 
 municipality. '' You can read it ; there are some arrange- 
 ments which I wished to make known to the Commune. 
 Gentlemen,^' said he, addressing all the commissioners, 
 ^' I should wish Clery to stay with my son, who is accus- 
 tomed to his attendance. I hope that the municipality will 
 grant my request." He pressed Clary's hand, and turning 
 to Santerre, said, " Let us go " 
 
 On the staircase he met his jailor, with whom two days 
 before he had had a rather sharp altercation. " I was a 
 little too hot the day before yesterday ; do not bear a 
 grudge against me for it." 
 
 He crossed the first court on foot, turning round some- 
 times to look at the tower, as if to say farewell to those 
 dearest to him in the world. A carriage was waiting for 
 him in the second court. He got into it with the confessor ; 
 two gendarmes placed themselves on the seat in front. 
 
 Measures had been taken to prevent all attempts at a 
 rescue : a great display of armed men secured quiet. The 
 Commune had ordered all the National Guard to meet in 
 their sections ; the absent were considered conspirators. 
 
 19 — 2 
 
292 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 Silence and stillness were commanded in all the streets 
 where the procession passed. The public markets were not 
 to be held that day. Cannons were pointed before the 
 streets which joined the Boulevards ; others were fastened 
 and drawn with a great noise behind the carriage. 
 
 The day was foggy, dark, and cold ; a gloomy silence 
 reigned as the carriage passed along. The shops were 
 closed ; nobody appeared at the windows. 
 
 The king had taken the breviary from Abbe Edgeworth, 
 and was reading the prayers for the dying. 
 
 Just as the carriage passed the St. Denis gate, some 
 young men crossed the road of the boulevard, crying, 
 ^' Those who wish to save the king, follow us !" Nobody 
 followed them ; the soldiers charged on them ; they escaped. 
 by the cross-roads. Their attempt was unobserved. Con- 
 temporar}^ witnesses say nothing about it. It is attested 
 by the documents of the revolutionary tribunal, which a 
 year after condemned a young man named Devaux for this 
 act. 
 
 The drive lasted an hour ; at ten minutes past ten the 
 carriage stopped on the Place Louis XV., which was then 
 called the Place de la Revolution. The scaffold had been 
 placed near to the entrance to the Champs Elysees, in the 
 middle of a wide open space, surrounded by rows of troops 
 and cannons. The executioner came to open the door. 
 " Gentlemen," said the king in a firm voice, pointing to the 
 Abbe Edgeworth before he got out, " I commend this 
 gentleman to you. Take care that after my death he 
 receives no insult ; I charge you to watch over him." "Yes, 
 yes, we will take care of him, let us alone," replied they 
 brutally. 
 
 When the king had got out of the carriage, the execu- 
 tioners surrounded him, and wished to take off his coat ; 
 he pushed them away, and undressed himself; he unfastened 
 his collar, and turned back his shirt. They wished to tie 
 his hands. 
 
 " What do you mean to do .''" he said vehemently. " To 
 
BARANTE. 293 
 
 tie your hands," they said. " I will not consent to it," 
 replied the king. The executioners seemed determined to 
 use violence. He looked at his confessor as if to consult 
 him. " Sire," said the Abbe Edgeworth to him, " it will be 
 one more resemblance to the divine Saviour !" 
 
 He raised his eyes to heaven with a look of bitter grief. 
 
 " Nothing but His example would induce me to submit 
 to this insult. Do what you will," said he to the exe- 
 cutioners ; " I will drink the cup to the dregs." 
 
 The steps to the scaffold were difficult to ascend ; he 
 leaned on the arm of M. Edgeworth, crossed the scaffold 
 with a firm step, and asked if the drums were going to beat 
 all the time. Just as they were about to bind him to the 
 fatal plank, he advanced, and looked with an air of authority 
 on the drummers below him. They stopped for a moment, 
 and he cried in a loud voice, " People, I die innocent." 
 
 Santerre, who was looking on near at hand, immediately 
 commanded the drums not to stop. Then turning towards 
 the men who surrounded him on the scaffold, the king said, 
 " Gentlemen, I am innocent of the crimes with which they 
 charge me, and I pray God that my blood may not be 
 visited on France." 
 
 The report which the executioner gave to his superiors 
 corresponds with the account of the confessor. It ter- 
 minates thus : — 
 
 " To speak the truth, he bore all this with a calmness and 
 firmness which astonished us all. I am convinced that he 
 derived this firmness from the principles of religion, of 
 which no one appeared more persuaded than he." 
 
 The crowd which filled that vast place remained silent. 
 At a sitting of the Jacobins the evening before, Robespierre 
 had recommended that from each section some safe men 
 should be sent to be present at the execution, and to pre- 
 serve order and tranquillity. When the king's head fell, 
 these men, who formed the front ranks around the scaffold, 
 cried out, " Vive la Republique !" The second ranks 
 repeated it more feebly ; the further off the spectators were, 
 
294 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 the more feeble became the acclamations, and the voices 
 became hesitating, so that towards the middle of the Place, 
 and in the Rue Royale, this thronging crowd w^as mute and 
 terrified ; every one returned to his home slowly, and as if 
 overwhelmed with a melancholy terror. 
 
 Meanwhile the executioner had held up the head of the 
 king, and showed it to the eager Jacobins, some of whom 
 dipped their handkerchiefs in the blood of the tyrant, others 
 consecrated in the same way the point of their pike or 
 sword : they were rejoicing in their triumph. 
 
 The members of the Convention had assembled in great 
 numbers at nine o'clock in the morning waiting for this 
 news ; they were troubled by the liveliest apprehension ; 
 they had just heard that Lepelletier de Saint Fargeau had 
 been stabbed the night before in a cafe of the Palais 
 Royal in revenge for his vote of death. Several of them 
 had been threatened or insulted ; they exaggerated the 
 feeling of grief and indignation that had been manifested 
 by some few isolated persons more enlightened and more 
 imprudent than the generahty of honest men ; they were 
 afraid that the execution of their sentence would not be 
 accomplished without disorder. It was therefore a real 
 satisfaction to them when an assistant of Santerre soon 
 after entered the hall of the Committee of Legislation, where 
 they were assembled, to announce to them that all was 
 over, and that the public tranquillity had not been dis- 
 turbed. Thus reassured, they testified great satisfaction, 
 and many of them cried, " Vive la Republique !" 
 
GUIZOT. 
 
 Francois Pierre Guillaume Guizot, the celebrated statesman 
 and historian, was born at Nimes in 1787. His father, who was a 
 barrister of considerable reputation, was guillotined in 1794, and his 
 mother retiring with her son to Geneva, devoted herself to the care of 
 his education, and remained there until 1805. He then came to Paris, 
 where he sedulously pursued his studies, and where he was introduced 
 to Mdlle. de Meulan, a lady of considerable literary talent, whom he 
 married in 181 2. His earlier works were Le Dictionnaire des 
 Synonyines ; a new edition, with notes, of Gibbon's Decline and Fall; 
 and Les Annales de V Education. The learning displayed in these 
 works gained for him the professorship of Modern History in the 
 Faculte des Lettres which he held until 1823. In 18 14 M. Guizot was 
 appointed Secretary to the Minister of the Interior, and then com- 
 menced the political career which was terminated by the Revolution 
 of 1848. His principal works are LHistoire Genh'ale de la Civilisa- 
 tion en Europe ; L Histoire de la Civilisation en France; L'Histoire 
 de la Revolution d"" Angleterre ; and Memoires pour servir a l' Histoire 
 de inon Temps. The following passage is taken from Hazlitt's trans- 
 lation of E Histoire de la Civilisation en France. 
 
 LITERATURE IN GAUL, FROM THE SIXTH TO THE 
 EIGHTH CENTURY. 
 
 In studying the state of Gaul at the fourth and fifth 
 centuries, we found two literatures, the one sacred, the 
 other profane. The distinction was marked in persons and 
 in things ; the laity and the ecclesiastics studied, medi- 
 tated, wrote ; and they studied, they wrote, they meditated, 
 upon lay subjects, and upon religious subjects. Sacred 
 literature dominated more and more, but it was not alone, 
 — profane literature still existed. 
 
 From the sixth to the eighth century there is no longer 
 
296 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 any profane literature ; sacred literature stands alone ; 
 priests only study or write ; and they only study, they 
 only write, save some rare exceptions, upon religious sub- 
 jects. The general character of the epoch is the concentra- 
 tion of intellectual development in the religious sphere. 
 The fact is evident, whether we regard the state of the 
 schools which still existed, or the works which have come 
 down to us. 
 
 The fourth and fifth centuries, you will remember, were 
 in no want of civil schools, of civil professors, instituted by 
 the temporal power, and teaching the profane sciences. 
 All those great schools of Gaul, the organization and names 
 of which I have mentioned to you, were of this description. 
 I have even pointed out to you, that as yet there were no 
 ecclesiastical schools, and that religious doctrines, which 
 daily became more powerful over minds, were not regularly 
 taught, had no legal and official organ. Towards the end 
 of the sixth century everything is changed : there are no 
 longer civil schools ; ecclesiastical schools alone subsist. 
 Those great municipal schools of Treves, of Poictiers, of 
 Vienna, of Bordeaux, &c., have disappeared ; and in their 
 place have arisen schools called cathedral or episcopal 
 schools, because each episcopal see had its own. The 
 cathedral school was not always alone ; we find in certain 
 dioceses other schools, of an uncertain nature and origin, — 
 wrecks, perhaps, of some ancient civil school, which, in 
 becoming metamorphosed, had perpetuated itself In the 
 diocese of Rheims, for example, there existed the school of 
 Mouzon, some distance from the chief place of the diocese, 
 and in high credit, although Rheims had a cathedral school. 
 The clergy began also, about the same epoch, to create 
 other schools in the country, also ecclesiastical, destined to 
 form young readers who should one day become priests. 
 In 529, the Council of Vaison strongly recommended the 
 propagation of country schools ; they were, indeed, multi- 
 plied very irregularly, numerous in some dioceses, scarcely 
 any in others. Finally, there were schools in the great 
 
GUIZOT. 297 
 
 monasteries : the Intellectual exercises were of two kinds ; 
 some of the most distinguished monks gave direct instruc- 
 tion to the members of the congregation, and to the young 
 people who were being brought up at the monastery ; it 
 was, moreover, the custom, in a large number of monas- 
 teries, that after the lectures, at which the monks were 
 bound to attend, they should have conferences among 
 themselves upon whatever had been made the subject of 
 the lecture ; and these conferences became a powerful 
 means of intellectual development and instruction. 
 
 Even in nunneries study was not neglected ; that which 
 Saint Cesaire founded at Aries contained, at the com- 
 mencement of the sixth century, two hundred nuns, for the 
 most part occupied in copying books, sometimes religious 
 books, sometimes, probably, even the works of the ancients. 
 The metamorphosis of civil schools into ecclesiastical 
 schools was complete. Let us see what was taught in 
 them. We shall often find in them the names of sciences 
 formerly professed in the civil schools — rhetoric, logic, 
 grammar, geometry, astrology, &c. ; but these were evi- 
 dently no longer taught except in their relations to 
 theology. This is the foundation of the instruction : all 
 was turned into commentary of the Scriptures, — historical, 
 philosophical, allegorical, moral commentary. They de- 
 sired only to form priests ; all studies, whatsoever their 
 nature, were directed towards this result. 
 
 Sometimes they went even further : they rejected the 
 profane sciences themselves, whatever might be the use 
 made of them. At the end of the sixth century. Saint 
 Dizier, Bishop of Vienne, taught grammar in his cathedral 
 school. Saint Gregory the Great sharply blamed him for 
 it. *' It is not fit," he writes to him, " that a mouth sacred 
 to the praises of God, should be opened for those of 
 Jupiter." I do not know exactly what the praises of God 
 or of Jupiter had to do with grammar ; but what is evi- 
 dent, is the crying down of the profane studies, although cul- 
 tivated by the priests. 
 
298 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 The same fact is visible, and far more plainly, in the 
 written literature. No more philosophical meditations, no 
 more learned jurisprudence, no more literary criticism ; 
 save some chronicles, some occasional poems, of which I 
 shall speak at a later period, we have nothing belonging to 
 this time except religious works. Intellectual activity ap- 
 pears only under this form, displays itself only in this direc- 
 tion. 
 
 A still more important revolution, and less perceived, is 
 manifested : not only did literature become entirely reli- 
 gious, but, religious, it ceased to be literary ; there was no 
 longer any literature, properly so called. In the finest 
 times of Greece and Rome, and in Gaul, up to the fall of 
 the Roman empire, people studied, they wrote, for the 
 mere pleasure of studying, of knowing, in order to procure 
 for themselves and for others intellectual enjoyment. The 
 influence of letters over society, over real life, was only in- 
 direct ; it was not the immediate end of the writers ; in a 
 word, science and literature were essentially disinterested, 
 devoted to the research for the true and the beautiful, satis- 
 fied with finding them, with enjoying them, and pretending 
 to nothing more. 
 
 At the epoch which now occupies us it was otherwise ; 
 people no longer studied in order to know ; they no longer 
 wrote for the sake of writing. Writings and studies took a 
 practical character and aim. Whoever abandoned himself 
 thereto, aspired to immediate action upon men, to regulate 
 their actions, to govern their life, to convert those who did 
 not believe, to reform those who believed and did not prac- 
 tise. Science and eloquence were means of action, of 
 government. There is no longer a disinterested literature,, 
 no longer any true literature. The purely speculative cha- 
 racter of philosophy, of poetry, of letters, of the arts, has 
 vanished ; it is no longer the beautiful that men seek ;, 
 when they meet with it, it no longer serves merely for en- 
 joyment ; positive application, influence over men, autho-^ 
 
GUIZOT. 299 
 
 rity, is now the end, the triumphs of all works of mind, of 
 all intellectual development 
 
 Jt is from not having taken proper heed to this charac- 
 teristic of the epoch upon which we are occupied that, in 
 my opinion, a false idea has been formed of it. We find 
 there scarcely any works, no literature, properly so called, 
 no disinterested intellectual activity distinct from positive 
 life. It has been thence concluded, and you have surely 
 heard it said, you may everywhere read, that this was a 
 time of apathy and moral sterility, — a time abandoned to 
 the disorderly struggle of material forces, in which intellect 
 was without development and without power. 
 
 It was not so. Doubtless nothing remains belonging to 
 this age, either of philosophy, poetry, or literature, properly 
 speaking ; but it does not follow that there was no intellec- 
 tual activity. It was in an eminent degree otherwise ; only 
 it was not produced under the same forms as at other 
 epochs ; it did not lead to the same results. It was an ac- 
 tivity entirely of application, of circumstance, which did not 
 address itself to the future, which had no design to be- 
 queath literary monuments to it, calculated to charm or to 
 instruct ; the present, its wants, its destinies, contempora- 
 neous interests, and life, — that was the circle to which it 
 confined itself, wherein the literature of this epoch spent 
 itself It produced few books, and yet it was fertile and 
 powerful over minds. 
 
 One is therefore highly astonished when, after having 
 heard it said, and having oneself thought, that this time 
 was sterile and without intellectual activity, we find in it, 
 upon looking nearer, a world, as it were, of writings ; not 
 very considerable, it is true, and often little remarkable, 
 but which, from their number and the ardour which reigns 
 in them, attest a rare movement of mind and fertility. They 
 are sermons, instructions, exhortations, homilies, and con- 
 ferences upon religious matters. Never has any political 
 revolution, never has the liberty of the press, produced 
 more pamphlets. Three-fourths, nay, perhaps ninety-nine 
 
300 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 in a hundred, of these little works have been lost : destined 
 to act at the very moment, almost all improvised, rarely- 
 collected by their authors or by others, they have not come 
 down to us ; and yet an"^ immense number remains to us ; 
 they form a true and rich literature. 
 
LAMARTINE. 
 
 Alphonse de Lamartine, one of the most celebrated writers of the 
 present century, was born at Macon in 1792. His first volume, Medi- 
 tations Poetiqties, for which he had some difficulty in] finding a pub- 
 lisher, appeared in 1820, and had a great and immediate success. In 
 the same year, M. de Lamartine was appointed Secretary of Legation 
 at Naples, where he married an English lady of good fortune, and is- 
 sued several other volumes of poems. In 1824 he was transferred to 
 Florence, and returning to Paris after five years of service there, was 
 elected a member of the Academy, and published his Harmonies Poe- 
 tiques et Religieuses. In 1832, M. de Lamartine, who had retired from 
 the diplomatic service on the fall of the Bourbons, set off on his travels 
 in the East, which he described in his Voyage en Orient, published 
 three years later. He was returned to the Chamber of Deputies in 
 1834, and took a prominent part in political affairs during the reign of 
 Louis-Philippe, At the Revolution of 1848 he was nominated a mem- 
 ber of the Provisional Government ; but practically retired from public 
 life when the dictatorship fell into the hands of General Cavaignac, 
 though he continued a member of the Assembly, and for two or three 
 years edited the Pays. M. de Lamartine's works are very numerous. 
 Among them may Idc named, L'Histoire des Girondifis, L'Histoire de 
 la Revolution de 1848, Les Confiderices^ JJ Histoire de la Restanration, 
 and L'Histoire de Turquie, from which the following passage is 
 taken. 
 
 NADIR-SHAH. 
 
 The nation, assembled at his call in the immense and fer- 
 tile plain of Ardebil, capable of containing and feeding a 
 multitude as numerous as the hordes of Timour, was in- 
 vited to choose a king worthy of holding the sceptre and 
 the sword. 
 
 " All the chiefs of your great tribes are before you," 
 said Nadir-Shah to the representatives of Persia ; " choose 
 
302 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 freely the most worthy among you to rule over you ; it Is 
 enough for me to have delivered my country from the 
 Afghans, the Turks, and the Russians." 
 
 Three times they awarded the crown to him ; three times 
 he feigned, like Caesar, to put it aside. He accepted it at 
 last, but on condition that Persia should abjure the schism 
 of" Ali, which had, he said, brought evil on the country ; 
 and should form, under the Imam Djafar al Sadik, a new 
 sect in Islamism, a sect which would unite them again in a 
 common orthodoxy with the Mussulmans, the followers of 
 Omar, for the union and power of the faith. 
 
 He informed the Ottoman Porte and the Mahommedan 
 sovereigns of India, by means of proclamations and am- 
 bassadors, of this religious revolution in Persia, which 
 gained him the good-will of the populations beforehand, 
 whose conquest he was meditating. Some have attributed 
 this national conversion to the piety of Nadir, others to his 
 ambition ; these two incentives were blended in him. Re- 
 ligion, the soul of the men of the East, is at the bottom of 
 everything, even of crime, in those lands of enthusiasm and 
 adoration. Hardly crowned, he took the road towards the 
 Indies, the same as that formerly pursued by Timour, but 
 in an opposite direction. He built, near Candahar, the 
 town of Nadirabad, or town of Nadir, after the example of 
 Alexander, who marked his halting-places by capitals. 
 Mohammed-Shah, a prince rendered effemiinate by his 
 rank, was reigning at that time at Delhi. It was an Indian- 
 saying, that he was never without a glass in his hand, or a 
 favourite in his arms. Conquered and captive in his capital, 
 Mohammed-Shah received pardon from the conqueror, and 
 the sceptre, on condition of ceding to Nadir the most 
 populous provinces, and the fabulous treasures of the em- 
 pire. A massacre of a hundred and twenty thousand in- 
 habitants of Delhi, who had risen against Nadir while he 
 occupied the town, confirmed by terror the subjection of 
 India. 
 
 His return to Persia, with an army loaded with two 
 
FAMINE IN AN EASTERN CITY. 
 
LAMARTINE. 303 
 
 billions of spoils, and followed by a million of slaves, recalls 
 the triumphs of Sapor, of Timour, and of Akbar. Innu- 
 merable elephants accompanied the conqueror, and carried 
 to Ispahan the wonderful treasures of India. The golden 
 throne of the Mongols, called \h^ peacock, because it repre- 
 sented the form of that bird, the tail of which was sparkling 
 with precious stones, was displayed by Nadir before the 
 populations of Tartary, whom he intended to dazzle and 
 intimidate on his return. 
 
 He returned by Khelat to Persia, and rested three 
 months at Mesched, which he made the new capital of the 
 kingdom. As he was marching against the Lesghis, an un- 
 subdued colony of Afghans, an assassin, hidden behind the 
 trees of the forest, killed his horse, and wounded his hand. 
 His son, Riza-Kouli, who was riding at his side, dashed into 
 the forest to punish the Afghan ; he could not overtake 
 him. The suspicious Nadir saw In this attempt at assassi- 
 nation, and In the affected zeal of Riza-Kouli, the intention 
 of a parricide : the glory and popularity of this young hero 
 eclipsed his father. Without pity, he caused his eyes to be 
 put out. " It is not my eyes that you have burnt," said the 
 young prince ; " it is those of Persia." 
 
 Remorse made him mad, and in his madness he thirsted 
 for blood. Each halt of his army left a train of corpses 
 put to death at his order. His own lieutenants conspired 
 at last against him, to save their lives. Whilst he slept, 
 four of his officers, among whom was the captain of his 
 guards, Saleh-beg, entered his tent under pretext of having 
 urgent news to give to the Shah. Awakened at the sound 
 of their voices^ Nadir, who was lying down armed, sprang 
 up, defended himself like a lion against the four assassins, 
 stretched two of them at his feet, and only sank at last 
 beneath the dagger of Saleh-beg. 
 
 His great projects of conquests in the north, of navigating 
 the Caspian sea, and of fusing all the systems of India, 
 Persia, and Turkey into one universal religion, purified and 
 founded on the general laws of morality, perished with him. 
 
304 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 Timour had had the same thought, too elevated for his 
 time. After the example of Timour, Nadir had the gospels 
 translated, as moral codes only, rejecting the miracles as 
 fables. Christians were treated by him with as much 
 favour as Mussulmans ; his reason aspired to found a 
 system of natural theology ; but the sword which destroys 
 temples, does not found ideas. 
 
 Before his alienation of mind, caused by remorse for the 
 torture of his son, Nadir did not give himself out for a 
 supernatural being, nor for the founder of an empire, but 
 for a blind minister of fate. There fell one day into his 
 camp an arrow, to which a writing was attached with these 
 words : " If thou art a king, protect and make happy thy 
 people : if thou art a prophet, show us the way of salvation : 
 if thou art a god, have pity in thy mercy on those whom 
 thou hast created." 
 
 He made vain researches to discover the author of the 
 writing, and caused copies of this paper, with the following 
 reply, to be distributed through the camp : — 
 
 " I am neither a king who ought to protect his subjects, 
 nor a prophet who ought to show the way of salvation, nor 
 a god who ought to do acts of mercy ; I am he whom the 
 Almighty has sent, in His anger to punish a guilty world." 
 
AUGUSTIN THIERRY, 
 
 Jacques Nicolas Augustin Thierry, the celebrated historian, was 
 born at Blois in 1795, ^^^ received his education first at the college of 
 his native town, and afterwards at the Ecole Normale. His first 
 occupation was that of a master in the small college of Compiegne, 
 but, coming to Paris during the invasion of 1814, he attached himself 
 to Saint Simon, and for three years acted as his secretary. He then 
 devoted himself to historical studies, which he pursued with such ardour 
 that his health failed, and he suffered during the remainder of his life 
 from premature old age. His principal works are Lettres sur VHistoire 
 de France^ Essai sur V Histoire dit Tiers 'jj]iaf, and JOHistoire de la 
 Conqiietc de VAngleterre. The following passage is taken from Hazlitt's 
 translation of the last-named work. During M. Guizot's administration 
 he entrusted to Augustin Thierry a great national work — the collection 
 of materials for a History of the Third Estate. The historian died at 
 Paris in 1856. 
 
 HAROLD IN NORMANDY. 
 
 For two years internal peace had reigned m England 
 without interruption. The animosity of King Edward to 
 the sons of Godwin disappeared from want of aliment, and 
 from the habit of constantly being with them. Harold, the 
 new chief of this popular family, fully rendered to the king 
 that respcet and deferential submission of which he was so 
 tenacious. Some ancient histories tell us that Edward 
 loved and treated him as his own son, but, at all events, he 
 did not feel towards him that aversion mingled with fear 
 with which Godwin had ever inspired him ; and he had now 
 no longer any pretext for retaining, as guarantees against 
 the son, the two hostages whom he had received from the 
 father. It will be remembered that these hostages had 
 been confided by the suspicious Edward to the care of the 
 
 20 
 
306 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 Duke of Normandy. They had for more than ten j^ears 
 been far from their country, in a sort of captivity. Towards 
 the end of the year 1065, Harold their brother and their 
 uncle, deeming the moment favourable for obtaining their 
 deliverance, asked permission of the king to go and demand 
 them in his name, and bring them out of exile. Without 
 showing any repugnance to release the hostages, Edward 
 appeared greatly alarmed at the project which Harold had 
 formed of going in person to Normandy. " I will not 
 compel you to stay," said he; ''but if you go, it will be 
 without my consent ; for your journey will certainly bring 
 some evil upon yourself and upon your country. I know 
 Duke William and his crafty mind ; he hates you, and will 
 grant you nothing unless he gain greatly by it ; the only 
 way safely to obtain the hostages from him were to send 
 some one else." 
 
 The brave and confiding Saxon did not adopt this 
 advice ; he departed on his journey, as on a party of 
 pleasure, surrounded by gay companions, with his falcon on 
 his wrist, and his hounds running before him. He sailed 
 from one of the ports of Sussex. Contrary winds drove his 
 two vessels from their track towards the mouth of the 
 Somme, upon the territory of Guy, Count de Ponthieu. It 
 was the custom of this maritime district, as of many others 
 in the Middle Ages, that every stranger thrown on the 
 coast by tempest, instead of being humanely succoured, 
 was imprisoned and put to ransom. Harold and his com- 
 panions were subjected to this rigorous law : after being 
 despoiled of all their more valuable property, they were 
 thrown by the lord of the territory into his fortress of 
 Belrain, now Beaurain, near Montreuil, 
 
 To escape the wearisomeness of a protracted captivity, 
 the Saxon declared himself the bearer of a message from 
 the King of England to the Duke of Normandy, and sent 
 to require William to obtain his release, that he might 
 come to him. WiUiam did not hesitate, and demanded 
 from his neighbour, the Count de Ponthieu, the liberty of 
 
AUGUSTIN THIERRY. 30/ 
 
 the captive, at first menacingly, and with no mention of 
 ransom. The Count de Ponthieu was deaf to the threats 
 and only yielded to the offer of a large sum of money and 
 a fine estate upon the river Eaume. Harold proceeded to 
 Rouen, and the bastard of Normandy had the satisfaction 
 •of having in his power the son of the greatest enemy of the 
 Normans, one of the chiefs of the national league which 
 had banished from England the friends and relations of 
 William, the upholders of his pretensions to the English 
 crown. Duke William received the Saxon chief with great 
 honours, and an appearance of frank cordiality ; he told 
 him that the two hostages were free on his request alone, 
 that he could immediately return with them ; but that as a 
 courteous guest he ought not to depart so abruptly, but at 
 least remain some days to see the towns and festivals of 
 the country. 
 
 He and William had but one tent and one table, riding 
 side by side, enlivening the way with friendly conversation, 
 which one day the duke turned upon his youthful friend- 
 ship with king Edward. " Edward and I," said he to the 
 Saxon, *' lived under the same roof, like two brothers ; he 
 promised me, if ever he became King of England, to make 
 me heir to his kingdom. Harold, if thou wouldst aid me 
 in realising this promise, be sure that, if I obtain the king- 
 dom, whatever thou askest thou shalt have." Harold, 
 taken by surprise at the excess of this unexpected con- 
 fidence, could not help answering it by some vague words 
 of compliance, whereupon William continued : '' Since thou 
 consentest to serve me, thou must engage to fortify Dover 
 Castle, to dig a well there of fresh water, and deliver it up, 
 when the time comes, to my people ; thou must also give 
 thy sister in marriage to one of my barons, and thyself 
 marry my daughter Adeliza ; moreover, on thy departure, 
 thou must leave me, as guarantee for thy promise, one of 
 the two hostages thou reclaimest, and I will restore him to 
 thee in England when I come there as king." Harold felt 
 at these words all the peril in which he himself stood, and 
 
 20 — 2 
 
308 HALF-HOURS ,WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 in which he had unconsciously involved his two young 
 relations. To escape from the more pressing embarrass- 
 ment he acquiesced in word to all the demands of the 
 Norman ; and he who had twice taken up arms to drive 
 foreigners from his country, promise'd to deliver to a 
 foreigner the principal fortress of that country, with no 
 intention, indeed, of fulfilling this unworthy engagement, 
 thinking to purchase by a falsehood his safety and his 
 repose. William did not pursue the conversation further, 
 but he did not long leave the Saxon at rest on this point. 
 
 On arriving at the Castle of Bayeux, Duke William held 
 his court, and thither convoked the great council of the 
 barons of Normandy. According to the old histories, on 
 the eve of the day fixed for the assem.bly William collected 
 from the churches of the town and neighbourhood all the 
 relics they possessed. Bones taken from their shrines, and 
 the entire bodies of saints, were laid, by his order, in a 
 large tub or trough, which was placed, covered with rich 
 cloth of gold, in the council hall. When the duke was 
 seated on his throne of ceremony, crowned with a worked 
 circlet, holding in his hand a drawn sword, and surrounded 
 by a crowd of Norman lords, amongst whom was the 
 Saxon, two small reliquaries were brought, and placed upon 
 the golden cloth which covered and concealed the larger 
 box of relics. William then said : *' Harold, I require thee, 
 before this noble assembly, to confirm, by oath, the promises 
 thou hast made to me ; namely, to aid me to obtain the 
 kingdom of England after the death of King Edward, to 
 marry my daughter Adeliza, and to send thy sister that I 
 may wed her to one of my people." The Englishman, 
 thus a second time taken by surprise, and not venturing to 
 deny his own words, approached the two reliquaries, ex- 
 tended his hand over them, and swore to execute, as far as 
 lay in his power, his agreement with the duke, if he lived 
 and God aided him. All the assembly repeated, " God aid 
 him !" Then William made a sign ; the cloth of gold was 
 raised, and the bones and sacred bodies revealed which 
 
AUGUSTIN THIERRY. 309 
 
 filled the box to the brim, and upon which the son of 
 Godwin had sworn, without suspecting their presence. It 
 is said that at this sight he shuddered and changed counte- 
 dance, terrified at having made so formidable an oath. 
 Shortly afterwards Harold departed, taking his nephew 
 with him, but, much against his inclination, leaving his 
 younger brother Ulfnoth in the hands of the Duke of 
 Normandy. William accompanied him to the seaside, and 
 made him fresh presents, delighted at having surprised the 
 man the most capable of impeding his projects into a 
 solemn promise, backed by a terrible oath, to serve and 
 aid him. 
 
 When Harold on his return home, presented himself to 
 King Edward, and recounted all that had passed between 
 himself and Duke William, the king became pensive, and 
 said : " Did I not warn thee that I knew this William, and 
 that thy journey would bring great evils upon thyself and 
 upon thy nation ? Heaven grant that these evils happen 
 not in my time!" These words and this mournful ex- 
 pression would seem to prove that Edward had really, in 
 the days of his youth and heedlessness, made the rash 
 promise to a foreigner of a royalty that did not belong to 
 him. 
 
COUSIN. 
 
 ViCTOE. Cousin was born at Paris in 1 792, and was educated at the 
 Lyc^e Charlemagne, and the Ecole Normale. At twenty years of age 
 he was appointed teacher of ancient literature in the £cole Normale, 
 In 1 81 5 he became one of the professors of the Sorbonne, where he 
 lectured for six years, his course being then suspended by the govern- 
 ment of the day. He took advantage of this leisure to travel in 
 Germany, but being suspected of liberalism was closely watched by 
 the police, and underwent a short imprisonment at Berlin in 1824. 
 He shortly after returned to France, and in 1828 resumed his labours 
 at the Sorbonne. After the Revolution of 1830 he was made a member 
 of the Council of Public Instruction and a peer of France. He after- 
 wards held the office of Minister of Public Instruction under the pre- 
 miership of M. Thiers. Among M. Cousin's works, which are very 
 numerous, may be named his Manuel de VHistoire de la Philosophic^ 
 Cow's de Philosophic Morale, and Mtiides S7tr les Fem7nes II lustres 
 du XVJP Siecle, from which last the following passage is taken. 
 
 MADAME DE SABLE AT PORT ROYAL. 
 
 Pass through the Faubourg Saint Jacques, along a very- 
 narrow street which bears the unpleasant name of Rue de 
 la Bourbe, thence to the new street called the Val-de- 
 Grace, and stop before a building of very modest appear- 
 ance, which is now called the Hospice de la Maternite. 
 There was Port Royal. Enter the court ; facing you was 
 the church, the choir of which alone remains ; to the right, 
 and round the church, extended the monastery ; behind, 
 vast gardens were spread out between the Rue d'Enfer and 
 the Rue Saint Jacques, as far as the street which has since 
 been named the Rue de Cassini ; to the left, at a very 
 short distance from the church, is a group of houses, half- 
 ancient and half-modern. It was on this side that Madame 
 
COUSIN. 311 
 
 de Sabl^ added new buildings, separate from the mon- 
 astery, and yet at the same time contained within its en- 
 closure. Her rooms were close to the choir of the church, 
 and the parlour of the nuns was not two paces off. Her 
 establishment, greatly reduced, consisted of her physician 
 and man of business, Dr. Valant, Mademoiselle de Chalais, 
 her old companion, whom she treated as a friend, an excel- 
 lent cook, a few servants, and for some time she had a 
 coachman and a carriage. She could receive a numerous 
 company without at all disturbing the order of the convent. 
 Her dearest friends were in her immediate neighbourhood, 
 and almost at her door. She had carried off from the 
 Place Royale and brought to her quarter the Countess 
 de Maure, who could not pass a moment without seeing 
 her, or writing to her. Near her were the Carmelites, 
 where she had more than one friend : the beautiful Lancry 
 de Bains, once maid-of-honour to Queen Marie de Medicis, 
 now the great and pious prioress, Marie Madeleine ; Sister 
 Martha, formerly the charming Mademoiselle de Vegean, 
 the only person who ever inspired Conde with a genuine 
 attachment, and who met him so often at the Louvre and 
 Chantilly ; Mademoiselle d'Epernon, who had fled to a 
 convent to escape the crown of Poland ; above all, the 
 amiable, clever, and prudent Mademoiselle de Bellefond, so 
 well known under the name of La Mere Agnes. She, had 
 not far to go to pay her respects to Queen Anne, in her 
 frequent retreats in the Val-de-Grace, or to Mademoiselle 
 at the Luxembourg. One may say, then, that Madame de 
 Sable, although retired to the farther end of the Faubourg 
 Saint Jacques, had still all her friends around her. 
 
 Sometimes the spirit of the place in which she lived took 
 hold of her, and she buried herself in a solitude, on which 
 she allowed no one to intrude. She disappeared from the 
 world so completely, that the Abbe of La Victoire, annoyed 
 at not having been admitted, spoke of her one day as the 
 late Marchioness of Sable. She seems to have behaved in 
 the same way to La Rochefoucauld himself; for he writes to 
 
312 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 her : " I can contrive no new devices to gain access to you : 
 I am denied admission day after day." She even avoided 
 Madame de la Fayette; and we find among Valant's papers 
 a scrap of an unpublished letter, half of which has been 
 spared by time and autograph collectors, in which Madame 
 de la Fayette complains rather bitterly of not having been 
 admitted. " I feel exceedingly grieved about it," she says, 
 *' and find myself to be even more attached to you than I 
 thought, for certainly there are very few people who would 
 cause me any annoyance by refusing to see me. I do not 
 tell you this to make you change your resolution, but to 
 make you a little ashamed of having ever taken it, by 
 making you see that I deserved to be a little distinguished 
 from other people, for the affection which I bear to you, 
 and not in the manner that you have thought fit to distin- 
 tinguish me." If Madame de Longueville was not abso- 
 lutely included in the general disgrace, she was at least a 
 little neglected. She says, gently and gracefully, " If 
 people could leave you alone there, you would be very 
 glad, for you never invite any one. I hope, however, that 
 this only comes from a taste for solitude, and a fear of en- 
 ticing some one into your desert ; for though I claim to be 
 an.exception to the rule that you adopt, I should be better 
 satisfied with this reason than with any other." 
 
 It is certain, though rather strange, that Madame de 
 Sable kept up at Port Royal the delicate cookery, the ex- 
 traordinary care of her health, and the multiplicity of 
 medical appliances, which Mademoiselle makes such plea- 
 sant fun of in the Priiicesse de PapJilagoiiie. We will say 
 nothing of the first point, for that, indeed, is nothing but 
 an excess in delicacy which is intelligible, and a sort of 
 fidelity to the character of -^ precieuse. As 2.precieitse must 
 not do anything in the ordinary way, she could not, of 
 course, dine like other people. We have quoted a passage 
 of Madame de Motteville, in \t7hich Madame de Sable is 
 described in her early youth, at the Hotel de Rambouillet, 
 maintaining that woman is born to adorn the world and to 
 
COUSIN. 313 
 
 receive the adoration of men. A woman worthy of the 
 name ought always to seem superior to material wants, and 
 to preserve even in the commonest details of life a kind of 
 distinction and refinement. Eating is a very necessary 
 operation, but the sight of it is not particularly agreeable. 
 Madame de Sable wished it to be managed with the most 
 singular delicacy. According to her, it was wrong for a 
 lady to sit down to table with her lover on their first ac- 
 quaintance. The slightest grimace, she said, might spoil 
 all. One ought to leave heavy repasts to the lower classes 
 and to appear just to take a little nourishment simply to 
 support oneself, or even to amuse oneself, as we take re- 
 freshments and ices. Few dishes, but those exquisite and 
 dressed after a certain fashion. Money could not do it, 
 it required a peculiar art. Madame de Sable was a mis- 
 tress of this art. She had carried her aristocratic and 
 literary esprit, her boii ton and good taste, even into the 
 kitchen. Her dinners, without any display of opulence, 
 were famous and admired. She taught her friends to cul- 
 tivate a taste for good things, and founded a school of 
 gourmands. La Rouchefoucauld was one of her best pupils. 
 He was continually asking for instructions : *' You cannot 
 do me a greater charity," he says, " than to allow the 
 bearer of this letter to enter into the mysteries of your 
 marmalade and of your true sweetmeats ; and I beg you 
 most humbly to do for him all you can." 
 
 But, when we consider, it was not Madame de Sable's 
 table, still less the medical learning which she had brought 
 to Port Royal, which drew around her so many people of 
 the greatest merit and the highest rank : it was her plea- 
 sant and equable demeanour ; her inexhaustible good 
 nature, already ready to render services, or give advice ; her 
 kindly good sense, fine taste, and happy art of displaying 
 to advantage the talents of others, skill in carrying on 
 lively conversation, and finding elegant employments. 
 Thus by degrees she gathered round her a choice society, 
 which quickly took a distinguished place in the fashionable 
 
314 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 world of that day, and was not soon broken up. If we 
 were to give a name to this society, we would call it the 
 " worldly society of Port Royal ;" for Port Royal and its 
 friends were the nucleus of it, and from thence it drew its 
 most distinguishing characteristic : seriousness reigned in 
 it ; but the agreeable was not shut out. 
 
THIERS. 
 
 Louis Adolphe Thiers was born in 1797 at Marseilles, where his 
 father was a working locksmith. He studied law at Aix, under M. 
 Arnaud, and in course of time made his appearance at the bar ; but, 
 finding that he was not likely to meet with any great success, he 
 turned his attention to literature. In 1823 appeared the first volume of 
 his History of ike French Revolution, which was finished in 1832, 
 After the Revolution of 1830 he held various minor official posts, till 
 at last he was made Under-Secretary of State in Lafitte's administra- 
 tion. In 1832 he was appointed Minister of the Interior, and in 1836, 
 and again in 1840, he held the office of President of the Council and 
 Minister of Foreign Affairs. After the Revolution of 1848, his talents 
 and caution secured him a position in the National Assembly, but he 
 was banished after the coup d'etat of December 1851. He then spent 
 some time in Switzerland, but was at last allowed to return to Paris, 
 In 1863 he was appointed Deputy for the Department of the Seine by 
 the Liberal Opposition. He has written, besides his Histo7y of the 
 F?-ejich Revohition, a History of the Consulate and Empire, from 
 which the following passage is taken. 
 
 THE BURNING OF MOSCOW. 
 
 At last, having reached the summit of a hill, the army sud- 
 denly discovered below them, and at no great distance, an 
 immense city shining with a thousand colours, surmounted 
 by a host of gilded domes, resplendent with light ; a sin- 
 gular mixture of woods, lakes, cottages, palaces, churches, 
 bell towers, a town both Gothic and Byzantine, realizing 
 all that the Eastern stories relate of the marvels of Asia. 
 While the monasteries, flanked with towers, formed the 
 girdle of this great city, in the centre, raised on an emi- 
 nence, was a strong citadel ; a kind of capitol, whence were 
 
3l6 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 seen at the same time the temples of the deity and the 
 palaces of the emperors, where above embattled walls rose 
 majestic domes, bearing the emblem that represents the 
 whole history of Russia and her ambition, the cross over 
 the reversed crescent. This citadel was the Kremlin, the 
 ancient abode of the czars. 
 
 The imagination, and the idea of glory, being both ex- 
 cited by this magical spectacle, the soldiers raised one 
 shout of " Moscow ! Moscow !" Those who had remained 
 at the foot of the hill hastened to reach the top ; for a 
 moment all ranks mingled, and everybody wished to con- 
 template the great capital, towards which we had made 
 such an adventurous march. One could not have enough 
 of this dazzling spectacle, calculated to awaken so . many 
 different feelings. Napoleon arrived in his turn, and struck 
 with what he saw, he — who, like the oldest soldiers in the 
 army, had successively visited Cairo, Memphis, the Jordan, 
 Milan, Vienna, Berlin, and Madrid — could not help ex- 
 periencing deep emotion. 
 
 Arrived at this summit of his glory, from which he was 
 to descend with such a rapid step towards the abyss, he 
 experienced a sort of intoxication ; forgot all the reproaches 
 that his good sense, the only conscience of conquerors, had 
 addressed to him for two months ; and for a moment 
 believed still that his enterprise was a great and marvellous 
 one, — that to have dared to march from Paris to Smolensk, 
 from Smolensk to Moscow, was a great and happy rash- 
 ness, justified by the event. Certain of his glory, he still 
 believed in his good fortune, and his lieutenants, as amazed 
 as he, remembering no more their frequent discontents 
 during this campaign, gave vent to those victorious demon- 
 strations in which they had not indulged at the termination 
 of the bloody day of Borodino. This moment of satisfac- 
 tion, lively and short, was one of the most deeply felt in 
 his life. Alas ! it was to be the last ! 
 
 Murat received the injunction to march quickly to avoid 
 all disorder. General Durosnel was sent forward to hold 
 
NAPOLEON AT THE BURNING OF MOSCOW. 
 
THIERS. 317 
 
 communication with the authorities, and lead them to the 
 conqueror's feet who desired to receive their homage and 
 calm their fears. M. Denniee was charged to go and pre- 
 pare food and lodging for the army. Murat, galloping at 
 the head of the light cavalry, arrived, at length, across the 
 faubourg of Drogomilow, at the bridge of the Moskowa. 
 There he found a Russian rear-guard, who were retreating, 
 and inquired if there was no officer there who knew 
 French. A young Russian who spoke our language cor- 
 rectly, presented himself immediately before this king, 
 whom hostile nations knew so well, and asked what he 
 wanted. Murat having expressed a wish to know which 
 was the commander of this rear-guard, the young Russian 
 pointed out an officer with white hair, clothed in a bivouac 
 cloak of long fur. Murat, with his accustomed grace, held 
 out his hand to the old officer, who took it eagerly. Thus 
 national hatred was silenced before valour. Murat asked 
 the commander of the enemy's rear-guard if they knew 
 him. ''Yes," replied the latter, "we have seen enough of 
 you under fire to know you." Murat seeming struck with 
 the long fur mantle, which looked as if it would be very 
 comfortable for a bivouac, the old officer unfastened it from 
 his shoulders to make him a present of it. Murat receiving 
 it with as much courtesy as it was offered, took a beautiful 
 watch and presented it to the enemy's officer, who received 
 this present in the same way as his had been accepted. 
 After these acts of courtesy, the Russian rear-guard filed 
 off rapidly to give ground to our vanguard. The king of 
 Naples, followed by his staff and a detachment of cavalry, 
 went down into the streets of Moscow, traversed alternately 
 the poorest and the richest quarters, rows of wooden houses 
 crowded together, and a succession of splendid palaces 
 rising from amidst vast gardens : he found everywhere the 
 most profound silence. It seemed as if they were pene- 
 trating into a dead city, whose inhabitants had suddenly 
 disappeared. The first sight of it, surprising as it was, did 
 not remind us of our entry into Berlin or Vienna. Never- 
 
3l8 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 theless, the first feeling of terror experienced by the inhabi- 
 tants might explain this solitude. Suddenly some dis- 
 tracted individuals appeared : they were some French 
 people, belonging to the foreign families settled at Moscow, 
 and asked us in the name of Heaven to save them from 
 the robbers who had become masters of the town. They 
 were well received, but we tried in vain to remove their 
 fears ; we were conducted to the Kremlin, and had hardly 
 arrived in sight of these old walls, than we were exposed 
 to a discharge of shot. It came from bandits let loose on 
 Moscow by the ferocious patriotism of the Count of 
 Rostopchin. These wretched beings had invaded the 
 sacred citadel, had seized the guns in the arsenal, and were 
 firing on the French who came to disturb them after their 
 few hours' reign of anarchy. Several were sabred, and the 
 Kremlin was relieved of their presence. But on making 
 inquiry, we learned that the whole population had fled, 
 except a small number of strangers, or of Russians, 
 acquainted with the ways of the French, and not fearing 
 their presence. This news vexed the leaders of our van- 
 guard, who were flattering themselves that they would see 
 a v/hole population coming before them, whom they would 
 take pleasure in comforting, and filling with surprise and 
 gratitude. They made haste to restore some order to the 
 different quarters of the town, and to pursue the thieves, 
 who thought they should much longer enjoy the prey that 
 the Count of Rostopchin had given up to them. 
 
 The next morning, September 15, Napoleon made his 
 entry into Moscow, at the head of his invincible legions, 
 but he crossed a deserted town, and for the first time his 
 soldiers, on entering a capital, found none but themselves 
 to be witnesses of their glory. The impression that they 
 experienced was sad. Napoleon, arrived at the Kremlin, 
 hastened to mount the high tower of the great Ivan, and to 
 contemplate from that height his magnificent conquest, 
 across which the Moskowa was slowly pursuing its winding 
 course. Thousands of black birds, ravens and crows, as 
 
THIERS. 319 
 
 numerous here as the pigeons at Venice, flying around the 
 tops of the palaces and churches, gave a singular aspect to 
 this great city, which contrasted strangely with the bright- 
 ness of its brilliant colours. A mournful silence, disturbed 
 only by the tramp of the cavalry, had taken the place of 
 life in this city, which till the evening before had been one 
 of the most busy in the world. In spite of the sadness of 
 this solitude, Napoleon, on finding Moscow abandoned like 
 the other Russian towns, thought himself happy neverthe- 
 less in not finding it burned up, and did not despair of 
 softening little by little the hatred which the presence of 
 his flags had inspired since Witebsk. 
 
 The army hoped then to enjoy Moscow, to find peace 
 there, and, in any case, good winter cantonments if the war 
 was prolonged. However, on the morrow after the day on 
 which the entry had been made, columns of flame arose 
 from a very large building, which contained the spirits that 
 the government sold on its own account to the people of 
 the capital. People ran there, without astonishment or 
 terror, for they attributed the cause of this partial fire to 
 the nature of the materials contained in this building, or to 
 some imprudence committed by our soldiers. In fact, the 
 fire was mastered, and we had time to reassure ourselves. 
 
 But all at once, the fire burst out at almost the same 
 instant with extreme violence in a collection of buildings 
 that was called the Bazaar. This Bazaar, situated to the 
 north-east of the Kremlin, comprised the richest shops, 
 those in which were sold the beautiful stuffs of India and 
 Persia," the rarities of Europe, the colonial commodities, 
 sugar, cofi"ee, tea, and, lastly, precious wines. In a few 
 minutes, the fire had spread through the bazaar, and the 
 soldiers of the guard ran in crowds, and made the greatest 
 efforts to arrest its progress. Unhappily they could not 
 succeed, and soon the immense riches of this establishment 
 fell a prey to the flames. Eager to dispute with the fire 
 the possession of these, riches belonging to no one at this 
 time, and to secure them for themselves, our soldiers, not 
 
320 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 having been able to save them, tried to drag out some 
 fragments. 
 
 They might be seen coming out of the bazaar, carrying 
 furs, silks, wines of great value, without any one dreaming 
 of reproaching them for so doing, for they wronged no one 
 but the fire, the sole master of these treasures. One might 
 regret it on the score of discipline, but could not cast a re- 
 proach on their honour on that account. Besides, those 
 who remained of the people set them an example, and took 
 their large share of these spoils of the commerce of Moscow. 
 Yet it was only one large building — an extremely rich one, 
 it is true — that was attacked by the fire, and there was no 
 fear for the town itself These first disasters, of little conse- 
 quence so far, were attributed to a very natural and very 
 ordinary accident, which might be more easily explained 
 still, in the bustle of evacuating the town. 
 
 During the night of the 15th of September, the scene 
 suddenly changed. As if every misfortune was to fall at 
 once on the old Muscovite capital, the equinoctial wind 
 arose all at once with the double violence natural to the 
 season and to level countries where nothing stops the 
 storm. This wind, blowing at first from the east, carried 
 the fire westward, along the streets situated between the 
 roads from Tver and Smolensk, and which are known as 
 the richest and most beautiful in Moscow, those of Tver- 
 skaia, Nikitskaia, and Povorskaia. In a few hours the fire, 
 having spread fiercely among the wooden buildings, com- 
 municated itself from one to another with frightful rapidity. 
 Shooting forth in long tongues of flame, it was seen in- 
 vading other quarters situated to the west. 
 
 Rockets were noticed in the air, and soon wretches were 
 seized carrying combustibles at the end of long poles. They 
 were taken up ; they were questioned with threats of death, 
 and they revealed the frightful secret, the order given by the 
 Count of Rostopchin to set fire to the city of Moscow, as if 
 it had been the smallest village on the road from Smolensk. 
 This news spread consternation through the army in an 
 
THIERS. 321 
 
 instant. To doubt was no longer possible, after the arrests 
 made, and the depositions collected from different parts of 
 the -town. Napoleon ordered that in each quarter of the 
 corps fixed there should form military commissions, to try, 
 shoot, and hang on gibbets the incendiaries taken in the act. 
 He ordered likewise, that they should employ all the troops 
 there were in the town to extinguish the fire. They ran to 
 the pumps, but there were none to be found. This last cir- 
 cumstance would have left no doubt, if there had remained 
 any, of the frightful design that delivered Moscow to the 
 flames. 
 
 In addition to the fact that the means for extinguishing 
 the fire were wanting, the wind, which every moment in- 
 creased in fury, would have defied the efforts of the whole 
 army. With the violence of the equinox, from the east it 
 passed to the north-west, and the stream of fire changing its 
 ■direction immediately, went to spread its ravages where the 
 hand of incendiaries had not yet been able to carry it. 
 This immense column of fire, beaten down by the wind on 
 the roofs of buildings, surrounding them as soon as it touched 
 them, increased every instant the conquests it made, spread 
 the flames with frightful roaring, interrupted by terrible ex- 
 plosions, and hurled burning beams into the distance, which 
 spread the scourge where it was not, or fell like bombs into 
 the middle of the streets. After having blown for some 
 hours from the north-west, the wind, changing its di- 
 rection again, and blowing from the south-west, carried 
 the fire into new quarters, as if nature took a cruel pleasure 
 in shaking out by turns ruin and death of every kind over 
 this unhappy city, or rather on our army, which was only 
 guilty, alas ! of heroism, at least if Providence did not in- 
 tend to visit on it the lawless designs of which it had been 
 the unwilling instrument ! Under this new impulse, given 
 from the south-west, the Kremlin, till then spared, was sud- 
 denly endangered. Fiery sparks fell into the midst of the 
 ammunition of the artillery spread on the ground, and 
 threatened to set it on fire. More than four hundred 
 
 21 
 
322 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 waggons of ammunition were in the court of the Kremlin, 
 and the arsenal contained some hundred thousand pounds 
 of powder. A disaster was imminent, and Napoleon, with 
 his guard and the palace of the Czars, might be blown into 
 the air. 
 
 The officers who were with him, the soldiers of the 
 artillery, knowing that his death would be theirs, sur- 
 rounded him, and pressed him with earnest entreaties to 
 come away from the burning crater. The danger was most 
 threatening ; the old artillerymen of the guard, although 
 used to cannonades like those of Borodino, almost lost 
 their presence of mind. General Lariboisere, approaching 
 Napoleon, pointed out to him the anxiety of which he was 
 the cause, and, with the authority of his age and devotion, 
 told him that it was a duty to let them save themselves 
 alone, without increasing their perplexity by the uneasi- 
 ness that his presence excited. Besides, several officers 
 sent to the neighbouring quarters, reported that the fire, 
 rapidly increasing, hardly allowed one to cross the streets 
 or breathe, and that they must leave at once if they did 
 not wish to be buried under the ruins of this ill-fated town. 
 
 Napoleon, followed by some of his lieutenants, went 
 out of that Kremlin which the Russian army had not 
 been able to prevent him from entering, but from which 
 the fire expelled him after four-and-twenty hours of pos- 
 session, descended to the quay of the Moskowa, found 
 his horses ready there, and had much difficulty in cross- 
 ing the town, which towards the north-west, whither he 
 directed his course, was already in flames. The wind, 
 which constantly increased in violence, sometimes caused 
 columns of fire to bend to the ground, and drove before it 
 torrents of sparks, smoke, and stifling cinders. The horrible 
 appearance of the sky answered to the no less horrible 
 spectacle of the earth. The terrified army went out of 
 Moscow. The divisions of Prince Eugene and Marshal 
 Ney, w^iich had entered the evening before, turned back 
 again on the roads of Zwenigorod and St. Petersburg ; 
 
THIERS. 323 
 
 those of Marshal Davoust returned by the road of Smo- 
 lensk, and, except the guard left around the Kremlin, to 
 dispute its possession with the flames, our troops retired in 
 haste, struck with horror before this fire, which, after dart- 
 ing up towards the sky, seemed to bend down again over 
 them as if it wished to devour them. A small number of 
 the inhabitants who had remained in Moscow, and had 
 hidden at first in their houses without daring to come out, 
 now escaped from them, carrying away what was most dear 
 to them — women their children, men their infirm parents, 
 saving, if they could, their clothes, uttering sad groans, and 
 often stopped by the robbers that Rostopchin had let loose 
 upon us, and who made merry in the midst of the confla- 
 gration like the spirit of evil in the midst of chaos. 
 
 21- 
 
MICHELET. 
 
 Jules Michelet was bom at Paris in 1798. At the age of twenty- 
 three he obtained a professorship in the College Charlemagne ; and 
 after the Revolution of 1830 an appointment in the Archives du 
 Royaume. In 1838 he was nominated to the Chair of History and 
 Moral Philosophy in the College de France ; and elected a Member 
 of the Academic des Sciences in the same year. In 1851, having 
 refused to take the oath of allegiance to the Emperor, he was deprived 
 of both his appointments. His principal works are LHistoire de la 
 Revolution, L'Histoire Romaine, Memoires de Luther, and HHistoire 
 de France. 
 
 THE FEAST OF REASON. 
 
 The time for striking great blows seemed come. The 
 Convention received marvellous consignments of saints, 
 shrines, ecclesiastical spoils, forwarded to them by Fouche, 
 Dumont, Bo, Rulh, &c. 
 
 The Convention had voted the destruction of the tombs 
 ■of Saint Denis. The ashes of kings had been mingled 
 with those of the obscure dead. Cruel insult to the latter 
 to be placed side by side with Charles IX., to receive near 
 them the rottenness of Louis XV., or the infamous 
 Henry III. ! 
 
 The Convention had thought it very good that old Rulh, 
 an ardent and rigid patriot (humane at bottom, and com- 
 promised by his humanity), should have broken the vial, 
 called the Sainte Ampoule, with his own hand. 
 
 It can be believed after this that they would order or 
 accept the abolition of the ancient worship. The obstacle 
 was a personal one. What was to be done with the con- 
 stitutional Church t For, having taken an oath of fidelity 
 
MICHELET. 325 
 
 to the Republic, it preserved no less all its anti-republican 
 dogmas. Intolerant, persecuting like other priests, they 
 starved the married priests to death in '95 and '96. Even 
 in '93 they were persecuting ; they removed the unhappy 
 men from their profession, deprived them of food. On the 
 15th of July, on the ist of September, on the 17th again, 
 the Convention echoed with dolorous complaints from 
 married priests that their lords, the republican bishops, 
 wished to hinder them from being men. The Assembly, 
 in a bad temper, reduced the bishops to an income of 6,000 
 francs, and threatened the persecutors with transportation. 
 
 A more tolerant party in the constitutional Church was 
 that of the philosophic priests ; such was Gobel, Bishop of 
 Paris ; such, Thomas Lindet ; such I have known M. 
 Daunou. Moralists above everything, and of reputable 
 lives, they accepted Christianity as a vehicle of morality. 
 They themselves, however, honest and loyal, suffered from 
 the double position, and only desired to leave it. Daunou 
 quitted it early, and of his own accord. The others fell 
 into the error of waiting for the pressure of events. 
 
 Gobel had Anacharsis Clootz and Chaumette with him 
 every evening. Both showed him that his philosophic 
 Christianity was quite powerless, useless ; they urged him 
 to leave this deserted altar, and resign the functions of the 
 Catholic ministry. 
 
 He yielded on the evening of the 6th, and his clergy 
 followed his example. It was agreed that the next day 
 they should give in their resignations in a body into the 
 hands of the Assembly. The fact was made known at the 
 same moment to the Committees of Public Safety and 
 Security. Violent was their irritation against these auda- 
 cious innovations, against the bold initiative of the Com- 
 mune, against the secret encouragement that it met with 
 from the Mountain. A device was got up to destroy all 
 the effect of the scene that was being prepared. 
 
 The sitting was opened by the letter of a married priest 
 who coarsely abjured, said that he and his brethren were 
 
326 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 only cheats, then asked for a pejision for himself, his wife, 
 and children — a letter cleverly arranged to cast discredit 
 beforehand upon the resignation of Gobel, to show that the 
 suppression of the clergy would only increase the public 
 burdens. 
 
 Gobel, with his clergy, introduced by the Convention, 
 spoke to the purpose, abjured no doctrine, and resigned his 
 functions. His example was followed by several priests 
 and bishops of the Convention, especially by the brother of 
 Lindet, who spoke with much nobleness and gravity. " To 
 destroy is not everything," said he ; " it is necessary to 
 rebuild. Prevent the murmur, that the weariness of soli- 
 tude, the uniformity of labour, the cessation of assemblies 
 will give rise to in the country districts. I demand a 
 speedy report on the national holidays." 
 
 Chaumette prayed the Assembly to give the Feast of 
 Reason a place in the calendar. 
 
 It was in the name of Reason that two representatives of 
 the people, one a Catholic bishop and the other a Protest- 
 ant minister, met at the tribune, gave in their resignation 
 together, and shook hands. They did not abjure (whatever 
 the Journal of the Mountain, edited at the time by one of 
 Robespierre's men, may say). 
 
 At this moment, which was not without solemnity in the 
 agitation of the Assembly, Amar, with the soft voice that 
 was usual with him, began to speak, in the name of the 
 Committee of Public Safety. He asked that the doors of 
 the hall might be shut. No one objected. It was decreed. 
 All hearts shrank. They knew, since October 3d, what this 
 sinister preliminary would lead to ; human victims were 
 needed. Amar then read a letter addressed from Rouen 
 to a member little known in the Assembly ; it contained 
 the news that Rouen was going en masse to the help of La 
 Vendee. The reverse was true ; the Committees knew 
 perfectly that the Normans were on their march against La 
 Vendee. The invention appeared such a miserable one, 
 that the Assembly, taking courage, asked with one voice 
 
MICHELET. 327 
 
 whose was the signature to such a letter. Amar confessed 
 that it was anonymous. "What!" said Basire, "does our 
 liberty depend on an anonymous letter ? If that is enough 
 to arrest a representative, the counter-revolution is ready !" 
 Amar descended from the tribune, and went and hid himself. 
 
 They had reserved for the last act, Gregory, Bishop of 
 Blois. He came at last in the very nick of time for the 
 Committees, sick with this fall. Absent till the last mo- 
 ment of the sitting, he came at their prayer, I have no 
 doubt. Their policy, sadly unmasked by the attempt of 
 Amar to intimidate the Assembly, had great need of help. 
 They put forward the Galilean. Gregory, courageous him- 
 self, sanguine, choleric, strong besides in feeling himself the 
 defender of the Government, was chiefly valiant against the 
 Mountain. " I hold my authority neither from you, nor 
 from the people. I am a bishop, I remain a bishop." The 
 Mountain uttered furious cries. But from that time the 
 Galileans could brave them, sheltered as they were under 
 the protection of the Committees and Robespierre. 
 
 The irritation was extreme against the outrageous act of 
 the Committees. It even spread to the Jacobins. The 
 agent of Robespierre was attacked there — one Laveaux, 
 manager of the JoiLvnal de la Montague, who had just 
 written a religious article for him. The Jacobins took away 
 from him the management of' the paper, and they named 
 Anacharsis Clootz President of the Society. 
 
 The very evening of the great sitting, Clootz had been 
 to the Committees to try Robespierre. He found him ex- 
 asperated, but restraining himself. Robespierre, without 
 going into the matter or causing his approaching denuncia- 
 tion to be felt, only said these few words : " You wish to 
 gain us Catholic Belgium, and you set it against us !" 
 
 Whilst Clootz was speaking to Robespierre, Chaumette, 
 returning to the Commune, then sitting in general council, 
 made the bold request that the Feast of Reason, which was 
 to have been held in the circus of the Palais-Royal, should 
 
328 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 be held in the very CJiurcJi of Notre Davie^ in the very place 
 of the suppressed worship, and on its altar. 
 
 He thus assumed an aggressive attitude against the 
 Committees. They resolved to reply by striking terror 
 into the Convention. Intimidated, it would be of use itself 
 as a weapon to crush the Commune. They had in hand a 
 serious business, to make the Mountain tremble, to make 
 each one anxious for himself. There was not a Montagnard 
 who had not saved some proscribed persons. The most 
 terrible in speech were often the most humane. There was 
 a proof that one of the stanchest, one of those who carried 
 the mask of the terror best, was hiding in his house a young 
 female emigrant. This woman, wild with terror, had fled 
 into the lion's den, had taken shelter with the Committee 
 of General Security, in the house of Osselin, who was a 
 member of it. Did he love her, or was he seized, as the 
 firmest are sometimes, with a violent fit of pity 1 We do 
 not know. She was discovered in Paris. He saved her, 
 hid her in his uncle's house, the curate of a village in the 
 woods of Versailles. Osselin, full of his danger, in order to 
 remove suspicion, became an implacable terrorist in the 
 Convention. In September he did not wish that the accused 
 Perrin should be heard. In October he carried the decree 
 which decapitated the Gironde. In November he had 
 Soules arrested, the friend of Chalier, manager of police, for 
 having released suspected persons without due consideration. 
 
 And the same day, November 9th, the Committee of 
 Public Security came to the Convention, and tore off 
 Ossclin's mask : this terrible puritan had hidden Madame 
 C harry. 
 
 The whole Convention cast down their eyes, and trembled. 
 Many others felt themselves guilty. 
 
 The event immediatelycaused a reaction in the Commune. 
 On the occasion of a request from Henriot's section that 
 the Girondist electors might be prosecuted, who had 
 formerly given their votes for another captain instead of 
 Henriot, Chaumette expressed himself boldly. He stood 
 
MICHELET. 329 
 
 up with a very unexpected freedom against this universal 
 system of impeachments. " Those who denounce," he said, 
 " only wish most frequently to draw attention away from 
 themselves and turn the danger on others. The impeached 
 is arrested ; the false accuser ought to be arrested as much." 
 
 It was beneath this banner of moderation and justice 
 that the new religion was inaugurated next day, Novem- 
 ber loth. Gossec had composed the tunes, Chenier the 
 words. They had, after some sort of fashion, built in two 
 days in the very narrow choir of Notre Dame, a temple of 
 Philosophy, which was adorned with effigies of the wise 
 men, the fathers of the Revolution. This temple was on a 
 mountain ; on a rock burned the torch of truth. The 
 magistrates were seated under the pillars. No weapons, no 
 soldiers. Two rows of young girls, mere children, were 
 all the ornament of the feast ; they were dressed in white 
 crowned with oak, and not, as it has been said, with roses. 
 
 What should the symbol, the figure of reason be } On 
 the 7th, some still wished to have a statue. It was objected 
 that a fixed representation might recall the Virgin and 
 create another idolatjy„ A moving representation, animated 
 and living, which, being changed each feast, could not 
 become an object of superstition, was preferred. The 
 founders of the new worship, who never dreamt of degrad- 
 ing it, recommended expressly in their newspapers, to those 
 who wished to have the feast in other towns, to choose per- 
 sons whose character renders beauty respectable to fill so 
 aiLgust a party whose strictness of morals and demeanon^r 
 might repel licence, and fill hearts with pure and honourable 
 feelings. This was followed to the letter. They were in 
 general the young ladies of respected families, who, either 
 of their own will or by constraint, represented Reason. I 
 have known one in her old age, who had never been beau- 
 tiful except in figure and height ; she was a grave woman 
 and of irreproachable life. Reason was represented at 
 Saint Sulpice by the wife of one of the first magistrates of 
 
jy 
 
 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 Paris ; at Notre Dame by a famous artist, loved and re- 
 spected, Mademoiselle Maillard. 
 
 Reason, clothed in white with an azure mantle, came out 
 of the Temple of Philosophy, and placed herself on a seat 
 of simple grass. The young girls sang a hymn to her ; she 
 crossed to the foot of the Mountain, casting a gentle look, 
 a gentle smile on the assembly. She re-enters, and they 
 sing again . . . They wait . . . That is all. 
 
 Chaste ceremony, sad, dry, wearisome. 
 
VINET. 
 
 Alexandre Rodolphe Vinet was born at Ouchy, near Lausanne, 
 in 1 797. His father, who held office in the Swiss Government, edu- 
 cated him with a view to his becoming a pastor of the Reformed 
 Church. His Hterary tastes were early developed, and at the age of 
 twenty he was appointed Professor of French Literature in the Univer- 
 sity of Bale. In 181 9 he was ordained, and in 1837, after having 
 laboured at Bale for twenty years, he was nominated to the chair of 
 Practical Theology at Lausanne. Here he took a leading part in the 
 controversies that then agitated the Reformed Church ; from which in 
 the end he seceded, resigning at the same tim.e his professorship. His 
 health, which had always been delicate, gave way under the excite- 
 m,ent of these debates, and he died in 1847, at the age of fifty. 
 Among his works, which are numerous and highly esteemed, may be 
 mentioned V Histoire de la Litterature Franqaise aiL XVIIIe Steele ; 
 Revue des Prmcipaiix Prosateicrs et Poetes Fraiicais ; Theologic Pasto- 
 rale et Homiletique ; n ^dit cation^ la Famille et la Societe ; Chresto- 
 mathie Francaise, a collection of passages from French authors ; and 
 Les Poetes dii Steele de Louis XIV., from which the following passage 
 is taken. 
 
 RACINE. 
 
 Born in 1639, of a respectable family, Racine belongs 
 entirely to the best period of the age of Louis XIV. 
 Brought up, like Eliakim, beneath the shadow of the 
 sanctuary, he was sent to Port Royal ; he grew up there 
 under a training, kind in reality, but austere in forms and 
 practices, and in which affection laboured incessantly to 
 veil itself We know that learning was united to piety 
 there. The young Racine became early acquainted with 
 antiquity, and this literary tradition was, perhaps, the 
 part of his instruction that he preserved best. Witty and 
 
332 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 worldly by the natural inclination of his character, his sup- 
 posed vocation for the ecclesiastical profession soon disap- 
 peared, — either on account of the nature of his abilities, or 
 in consequence of a lawsuit that he had to undergo in^ 
 reference to a living. He was early inflamed by ambition ; 
 he tried to secure interest at court ; his nature was a little 
 like that which his friend Boileau has depicted in these 
 lines : — 
 
 " Se pousse anpres des grands, s'intrigue, se menage, 
 Centre les coups du sort cherche a se maintenir, 
 Et loin dans le present regarde i'avenir."* 
 
 We must add to this an irritable self-love and a caustic 
 spirit. His conduct was not always noble and generous ; 
 prosperity had puffed him up ; floating on a quiet sea, he 
 forgot the shore which had sheltered him. He considered 
 himself involved in the violent reproofs hurled by his old 
 master Nicole against the writers of novels and tragedies, 
 and he wrote a letter against him and the whole of Port 
 Royal, in which animosity was much more manifest than 
 wit. It was followed by a second, which Boileau, they say, 
 prevented him from publishing. This is how Louis Racine 
 expresses himself concerning these writings of his father : 
 — " The pubhc neither expected them from a young man 
 busy with tragedies, nor from a pupil of Port Royal. The 
 vivacity of the poet, who considered that his talent, the 
 dearest thing he had, had been insulted, made him forget 
 what he owed to his first masters, and induced him to 
 enter, without reflection, on a quarrel which did not con- 
 cern him." 
 
 I do not take pleasure in lowering the character of men 
 of talent, to whom, with all the rest of the world, I am 
 indebted for so much enjoyment ; I feel myself impelled, 
 rather, like everybody else, to make one single whole of 
 their character and genius, and to suppose that eVery part 
 
 * L'Art Poetique, Chant III. 
 
VINET. 333 
 
 of them has been in harmony. It is not my fault if the 
 man and the writer are, generally, two beings, so different 
 — sometimes, even, so opposite ; and if the saying of 
 Buffon cannot be taken in an absolute sense : " Style is the 
 man himself" But, in short, talent is talent, and nothing 
 else ; and there is not always more connection between 
 character and talent than between delicacy of mind and 
 delicacy of ear. The foundation of talent is imagination, 
 which is not, if I understand aright, anything else than 
 sensibility of mind ; just as sensibility, perhaps, is nothing 
 else than the imagination of the heart. Without pausing 
 over these distinctions, I will willingly grant that sensibility 
 is the source of talent, and that a person has talent — ^I 
 mean literary talent — in proportion to his sensibility; but 
 I deny that sensibility is the same thing as moral principle, 
 and that a man is more moral in proportion to his sensi- 
 bility. Of two men, one of whom has much sensibility, 
 and the other very little, it is frequently the second who is 
 the best ; but the first is the nearest to talent. The sensi- 
 bility that forms talent is a sympathy with all human sen- 
 timents, and the man of talent might have for his motto, 
 " Homo sum, humani nihil a me alienum puto." "Nihil," 
 do you see — that is to say, evil as well as good ; both laid 
 hold of by the same lively, secret intelligence. Shall I 
 conclude that Shakspeare was a rogue because he could 
 identify himself so well with Lady Macbeth, with lago ? 
 Certainly not. The man of talent will then be, in turns, 
 all that it is possible to be. 
 
 This power of sympathy, or, if you Hke, of intelligence, 
 has something terrifying. It is frightful to think that 
 everything can be imitated. The heart sometimes imitates 
 talent, and it is a beautiful phenomenon; but how much 
 more often, and with how much more success, does talent 
 imitate the heart ! I find myself sometimes doubting if 
 the exercise of this faculty is not one of the greatest 
 dangers ; if talent is a benefit or a temptation ; if the pro- 
 fession of the poet, who lives less among things than 
 
334 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 among ideas of things — who has to do with appearances — - 
 is not one of the most demoralizing, and if the heart does 
 not lose that with which the imagination fills itself To be 
 sensible to everything, is to be indifferent to everything. 
 " I am a light thing," said the poet, speaking of himself. 
 Those who escape this danger, those who even, a rare 
 thing, become great as men while they become great as 
 poets, are monuments of the divine protection ; but I re- 
 mark, with alarm, that some of the greatest among poets 
 have been hardly men. Is this to say that nothing but 
 talent is required in art and poetry ? Certainly not. 
 
VIGNY. 
 
 Count Alfred de Vigny, the son of a cavalry officer, who had dis- 
 tinguished himself in the Seven Years'" War, was born at Loches, in 
 Touraine, in 1797. He entered the army at a very early age, and 
 passed some years in military service. In 1822 he published a volume 
 of poems ; two years after appeared his poem of Eloa, and in i826^his 
 historical romance of Cmq-Mats, which brought him at once into 
 reputation. Among his other works are R'eflexiojis sur la Verite da7is 
 rArt, La Marechale cPAiicrc^ and the tragedy of Chatterton. M. de 
 Vigny was elected a Member of the Academy in 1846, and holds a 
 high place among the writers of the romantic school. He died in 
 1863. 
 
 CARDINAL RICHELIEU. 
 
 See the Mediterranean, which, not far off, stretches its 
 blue waves over sandy shores. Penetrate into this city of 
 Narbonne, somewhat resembling Athens ; but to find him 
 who reigns there follow that dark uneven street, mount the 
 steps of the old archbishop's palace, and let us enter the 
 first and largest of the halls. 
 
 It was very long, but lighted by rows of high-arched 
 windows, of which the upper line alone had preserved the 
 blue, yellow, and red panes, which spread a faint and 
 mysterious ■ light into the apartment. A very large round 
 table filled the whole width of it on the side of the fire- 
 place ; around this table, covered with a spotted cloth, and 
 loaded with papers and portfolios, eight secretaries were 
 seated, bending down to their writing, and busy in copying 
 letters that were handed to them from a smaller table. 
 Other men standing were arranging papers in the shelves 
 of a bookcase, which the books bound in tjlack did not 
 
336 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 quite fill, and they stepped cautiously on the carpet with 
 which the room was furnished. 
 
 In spite of the number of persons assembled, one might 
 have heard the buzzing of a fly. The only noise which 
 arose was that of the pens which ran rapidly over the paper, 
 and a harsh voice which dictated stopping every now and 
 then to cough. It came from an immense chair with great 
 arms placed beside the fire, which was burning in spite of 
 the heat of the season and of the country. It was one of 
 those arm-chairs that are still seen in some old houses, and 
 which seem made to send one to sleep while reading, what- 
 ever the book may be, so carefully is every part stuffed ; a 
 cushion of feathers sustains the back ; if the head droops, 
 it finds its cheeks supported by pillows covered with silk, 
 and the cushion of the seat extends so far beyond the 
 elbows that one cannot help thinking that our forefathers' 
 careful upholsterers intended to prevent the book making 
 any noise, and waking them when it fell. 
 
 But to leave this digression, and speak of the man who was 
 sitting there, and was not asleep. He had a broad forehead, 
 and a few very white hairs, large and soft eyes, pale and 
 thin face, to which a small and pointed white beard gave 
 that air of refinement that one notices in all the portraits 
 of the time of Louis XIII. A mouth almost without lips, 
 and we must confess that Lavater considers this sign to 
 indicate wickedness with the utmost certainty ; a pinched 
 up mouth, so to say, was fringed by two small grey mou- 
 staches and by a " r^j/^^/.?," an ornament then in fashion, 
 and in form very like a comma. This old man had on his 
 head a red skull cap, and was wrapped in a very large dress- 
 ing gown, and wore stockings of purple silk, and was no less 
 a person than Armand Duplessis, Cardinal de Richeheu. 
 
 He had very near him, around the smaller table before 
 mentioned, four youths from fifteen to twenty years of age. 
 They were pages,- or, according to the expression of the 
 time, domestics, which then meant friends of the house. 
 This custom was a relic of feudal patronage lingering in our 
 
VIGNY. 337 
 
 manners. The younger sons of the highest famihes 
 received wages from great lords, and were devoted to them 
 in all circumstances, ready to challenge the first comer at 
 the slightest hint from their patron. The pages of whom 
 we are speaking were writing letters of which the Cardinal 
 had given them the substance, and after a glance from their 
 master, passed them on to the secretaries, who made fair 
 copies. The old Duke, on his side, was writing on his knee 
 private notes on small pieces of paper, which he slipped 
 into almost all the packets before closing them with his own 
 hand. 
 
 He had been writing for some moments, when he ob- 
 served, in a looking glass placed in front of him, the 
 youngest of his pages tracing interruptedly certain lines on 
 a sheet of a smaller size than the official paper ; he was 
 hurriedly writing a few words, then slipping it hastily under 
 the large sheet which, to his great annoyance, he was desired 
 to fill ; but, placed behind the Cardinal, he was in hopes 
 that the difficulty which he had in turning would prevent 
 him from noticing the little manoeuvre, which he seemed 
 to manage with considerable skill.' Suddenly Richelieu, 
 addressing him drily, said, " Come here, M. Oliver," 
 
 These two words were like a clap of thunder to the poor 
 boy, who seemed to be not more than sixteen years old. 
 He rose, however, very quickly, and came and stood before 
 the minister, his arms hanging down and his head droop- 
 ing. The other pages and secretaries stirred no more than 
 soldiers, when one of them falls struck by a ball, they were 
 so much accustomed to summonses of this sort. This one, 
 however, was of a more lively kind than usual. 
 
 " What are you writing there .?" 
 
 " Monseigneur, what your eminence dictated to me." 
 
 '' What r 
 
 " Monseigneur, the letter to Don Juan of Braganza." 
 
 " No equivocation, sir ; you are doing something else." 
 
 " Monseigneur," then said the page, with tears in his 
 eyes ; " it was a letter to a lady, one of my cousins." 
 
 22 
 
338 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 '^ Let us see it." 
 
 Then he trembled all over, and was obliged to lean 
 against the chimney-piece, saying, in a low voice, " It is 
 impossible." 
 
 " Viscount Olivier d'Entraigues," said the minister, with- 
 out showing the slightest emotion, '' you are no longer in 
 my service." And the page left the room ; he knew that 
 no answer was to be made ; he slipped his letter into his 
 pocket, and, opening the folding-door just wide enough to 
 pass through, he glided out like a bird that escapes from 
 its cage. The minister went on with the notes, which he 
 was writing on his knee. 
 
 The secretaries worked on with redoubled ardour and 
 silence, when the door opening suddenly on both sides, 
 there appeared standing between the two leaves a Capuchin, 
 who, bowing with his arms crossed upon his breast, seemed 
 to expect alms, or an order to withdraw. He had a sun- 
 burnt complexion, deeply scarred with small-pox ; eyes soft 
 enough, but a little asquint, and covered always with the 
 eye-brows which met in the middle of his forehead ; a 
 mouth the smile of which was sly, malevolent, and sinister ; 
 a beard straight and red at the end, and the costume of the 
 order of St. Francis in all its horror, with sandals and bare 
 feet which seemed very unworthy to wipe themselves on a 
 carpet. 
 
 Such as he was, this person seemed to make a great 
 sensation in the room, for without finishing the phrase, the 
 line, or the word which he had begun, each writer rose and 
 went out by the door, where he still stood ; some saluting 
 him as they passed, others turning their heads aside, the 
 young pages holding their noses, but not till they were 
 behind him, for they seemed secretly to stand in fear of 
 him. When everybody had gone out, he came in at last, 
 making a profound reverence, because the door was still 
 open ; but as soon as it was shut, he seated himself without 
 ceremony at the side of the Cardinal, who, having recog- 
 nised him by the disturbance, made him a dry and silent 
 
VIGNY. 339 
 
 bow, looking at him fixedly, as if expecting news, and not 
 able to help frowning, as if at the sight of a spider, or some 
 other disagreeable creature. 
 
 The Cardinal had not been able to resist this sign of 
 annoyance, because he felt himself obliged by the presence 
 of his agent to enter again into those deep and vexatious 
 discussions from which he had been resting for some days, 
 in a country where the pure air was favourable to him, and 
 the quiet had a little relieved the pains of his malady ; it 
 had passed into a slow fever, but its intermissions were 
 long enough to let him forget, while he was free from it, 
 that it was sure to return. Giving then a little repose to 
 his hitherto untiring imagination, he was waiting without 
 impatience, perhaps for the first time in his life, the return 
 of the couriers whom he had sent in all directions, like the 
 rays of a sun which alone gave life and movement to 
 France. The visit which he was then receiving was unex- 
 pected, and the sight of one of those men whom he steeped 
 in crime, according to his own expression, made all the 
 habitual anxieties of his life more pressing, without alto- 
 gether dissipating the cloud of melancholy which had 
 recently shaded his thoughts. 
 
 The commencement of his conversation was tinged with 
 the gloomy colour of his recent reveries, but he soon 
 emerged stronger and more lively than ever, when his 
 vigorous mind came back of necessity to the realities of 
 life. 
 
 His confidant, seeing that he must be the first to break 
 the silence, said, somewhat abruptly, — 
 
 " Well, Monseigneur, what are you thinking about .?" 
 
 '' Alas ! Joseph, what ought we all to be thinking about, 
 if not of our future happiness in a better life than this ? 
 I have been thinking for some days past that human 
 interests have too much diverted my attention from this 
 one sole thought, and I repent of having employed some 
 moments of leisure on profane works, such as my tragedies 
 of Eiirope and Miranie, in spite of the glory which I have 
 
 22 — 2 
 
340 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 already derived from them among our beaux esprits, glory 
 which will increase in the future." 
 
 Father Joseph, full of things which he had to say, was at 
 first surprised at this commencement ; but he was too well 
 acquainted with his master to let it be seen, and well- 
 knowing how to lead him back to other ideas, took up his 
 without hesitation. 
 
 "Their merit is however very great," said he, with an air 
 of regret, " and France will sigh to think that these immortal 
 works have not been followed by similar productions." 
 
 " Yes, my dear Joseph, it is in vain that such men as 
 Boisrobert, Claveret, CoUetet, Corneille, and, above all, the 
 celebrated Mairet, have proclaimed these tragedies the finest 
 of all that times present or past have seen produced ; I re- 
 proach myself with them, I swear to you, as a real mortal 
 sin, and I employ myself only in my hours of repose with 
 my Method of Controversies, and my book on Christian 
 Perfection. I consider that I am fifty-six years old, and 
 am afflicted with a malady that rarely reprieves its victims." 
 
 " These are calculations that your enemies make as care- 
 fully as your Eminence," said the father, whom this conver- 
 sation began to put out of temper, and who wished to put a 
 stop to it as soon as possible. 
 
 The Cardinal's face grew red. 
 
 " I know it," he said, " I know it well, I know all their 
 villany, and I am prepared for it all ; but what news is 
 there .''" 
 
 " The king has ideas that he never had before." 
 
 " Indeed, and that do not come from me ! That is well," 
 said the minister, ironically. 
 
 " He has spoken of recalling the Queen-mother," said the 
 Capuchin, in a low voice, '^ of recalling her from Cologne." 
 
 "Marie de Medicis !" cried the Cardinal, striking both his 
 hands on the arms of his chair. " No, as I live, she shall 
 not re-enter the land of France, whence I have driven her 
 foot by foot. England did not dare to shelter her, exiled 
 by me ! Holland feared to sink beneath her ! and my king- 
 
VIGNY. 341 
 
 dom would receive her back ? No, no ; such an idea could 
 not have come from himself. To recall my enemy, recall 
 his mother. What treachery ! No, he would never have 
 dared to think of it." Then, after having pondered an in- 
 stant, he went on, with a piercing and angry look at Father 
 Joseph, " But in what terms did he express this desire ? tell 
 me the exact words." 
 
 " He said publicly and in the presence of Monsieur, ' I 
 know well that to be a good son is one of the first duties of 
 a Christian, and I will no longer stifle the murmurs of my 
 conscience. ' " 
 
 '' Christian ! conscience ! these are not his expressions : 
 it is Father Caussin, his confessor, who has betrayed me," 
 cried the Cardinal. "Traitorous Jesuit, I pardoned you 
 your intrigue with La Fayette, but I will not overlook 
 these secret suggestions. I will send this confessor about 
 his business ; Joseph, it is clear he is the enemy of the 
 State ; but I also have been negligent for several days past. 
 I have not hastened the arrival of young D'Effiat as I should 
 have done : he is sure to succeed ; a good-looking, witty 
 fellow, they say ; what a blunder I have made ! I deserve 
 to get into trouble myself To leave near the king this fox 
 of a Jesuit, without having given him my secret instructions, 
 without having taken a hostage, a pledge of his fidelity to 
 my orders ; how could I have been so careless ! Joseph, 
 take a pen and write down quickly this for the new con- 
 fessor, whom we will choose with more care. I am thinking 
 of Father Sirmond." 
 
 Father Joseph seated himself at the large table ready to 
 write, and the Cardinal dictated to him these novel maxims, 
 which, not long after, he had the courage to place in the 
 king's hands, who received them, respected them, and 
 learned them by heart, as if they had been ordinances of 
 the Church. They have come down to us as a frightful 
 monument of the empire that a man may seize by dint of 
 patience, intrigue, and audacity : — 
 
342 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 I. A prince ought to have a first minister, and this 
 minister, three qualities : — 
 
 1. That he should have no other "attachment than to 
 
 his prince. 
 
 2. That he should be prudent and faithful. 
 
 3. That he should be an ecclesiastic. 
 
 II. A prince ought to be entirely attached to his minister. 
 
 III. Ought never to change his minister. 
 
 IV. Ought to tell him everything. 
 
 V. Ought to give him free access to his person. 
 
 VI. Ought to give him sovereign authority over his 
 people. 
 
 VII. Great honours and great wealth. 
 
 VIII. A prince has no more precious treasure than his 
 minister. 
 
 IX. A prince ought not to believe anything that may 
 be said against his minister, nor take pleasure in hearing 
 him slandered. 
 
 X. A prince ought to communicate to his minister every- 
 thing that may be said against him, even when he has been 
 made to promise that he will keep the secret. 
 
 XL A prince ought to prefer, not only the good of the 
 State, but also his minister to all his relatives. 
 
 Such were the commands of the supreme ruler of France, 
 less astonishing than the frightful naivete which made him 
 bequeath his orders to posterity, as if we also were bound 
 to beheve in him. 
 
VITET. 
 
 Louis Vitet was born at Paris in 1802. At the age of twenty-four he 
 pubhshed anonymously Les Baj'ricades, an historical study thrown into 
 a dramatic form. This was followed by two other compositions of the 
 same kind, Les 'Etats de Blois and La Mort de Henri III. These 
 three works were printed in 1844, under the general title of La Ligue. 
 M. Vitet, who is a learned archseologist and an eminent critic, was 
 elected a member of the Academic des Inscriptions in 1839, and a 
 member of the Academic Frangais in 1845. Among other works he 
 has published an Mtudc sur Eiistache Ic Siteur, from which the follow- 
 ing passage is taken : — 
 
 EUSTACHE LE SUEUR. 
 
 Le Sueur was perhaps the only one ofVouet's pupils who 
 refused to fire up for his master, and to take part in the 
 system of disparagement and sarcasm that was formed 
 against Poussin, from the day of his arrival at Paris. What 
 he respected in the great artist was not the royal favour, it 
 was the earnest character of his works, the nobility of his 
 ideas, the boldness and novelty of his style. 
 
 Poussin learned by chance that this young man was 
 breaking lances on his behalf; he wished to know him, 
 and was so charmed with his candour, with the elevation of 
 his sentiments, with the distinguished character of his mind, 
 that he received him with affectionate kindness, and pro- 
 mised him his advice and friendship. 
 
 From that day, Le Sueur never quitted the steps of his 
 new master ; he fed on his fruitful and powerful words ; as 
 he listened to him, he felt his doubts vanish, his presenti- 
 ments and his dreams realized and made clear. Poussin's 
 freedom of mind, his downright and sturdy attacks on the 
 quackery of the trade, his firm opinions about everything. 
 
344 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 developed in his young friend a native 'independence and 
 pride, that long restraint had only repressed. Le Sueur 
 felt himself living again ; he took possession of himself; his 
 nature burst the bonds of his education. 
 
 It was almost always on the ancient art that they were 
 accustomed to talk. Le Sueur penetrated with delight into 
 this world, so perfectly new to him. Without ceasing, he 
 turned over, he devoured, the books of sketches after the 
 antique that Poussin had brought back, and his memory 
 was filled with notions and remembrances, that even in the 
 midst of the ruins of Rome, nobody then had any idea of 
 obtaining. 
 
 For more than a year he was thus able to become im- 
 pregnated by the lessons of Poussin, and, better still, by his 
 works. He helped him in his labours ; he saw him paint 
 first a great picture of the Last Supper for the high altar of 
 the church of St. Germain en Laye ; then for the house of 
 the Jesuit novices at Paris, that admirable picture of the 
 young girl recalled to life by the miracle of St. Frangois 
 Xavier. 
 
 His practical teaching set him free from many hackneyed 
 ways, and revealed many secrets to him. 
 
 He not only saw Poussin paint, but he painted before him : 
 it was under his inspiration, and almost in his presence, that 
 he executed his diploma picture, for the ancient Academy 
 of St. Luke, This picture, of a grave and noble character,, 
 represented St. Paul laying his hands on the sick people. 
 The composition of it has been preserved to us by the en- 
 srravins". It seems written under the dictation of Poussin. 
 
LE SUEUR AND NICHOLAS POUSSIN. 
 
MERY. 
 
 Joseph Mery was born near Marseilles in 1798, and devoted himself 
 to literary pursuits from an early age. In 1820 he started a daily 
 newspaper at Marseilles, which he called Le Phoceen^ and in which he 
 wrote political articles of such bitterness that he was involved in con- 
 stant prosecutions. He also commenced another journal called La 
 Meditei'ranee, and the two were subsequently united under the name 
 of Le Semaphore. In 1824 he came to Paris, and continuing his 
 attacks on the Government, published in the following year two 
 satirical Epitres, which made a great sensation. After the Revolu- 
 tion of 1830, in which he took part both with sword and pen, he gave 
 up politics, and devoted himself to writing romances and comedies. 
 Among his works, which are very numerous, may be mentioned, La 
 Floride, Heva, La Guerre du Nizam ^ and Andre Chmier. 
 
 THE ARREST OF ANDRE CHENIER. 
 
 On arriving, the friend found the friend no more. Doubt 
 even was impossible ; Andre Chenier understood that the 
 poet of the Months, that the editor of the Journal de Paris^ 
 that his accomplice in innocence, was already thrown into 
 the depths of one of those dungeons whence no one issued 
 but to die. 
 
 Therefore it was not to clear up a doubt, but to weep 
 with another friend over a grievous reality, that he went off 
 to Passy, to M. de Pastoret ; and never did inspiration 
 better second the fatal destiny of a man. The house of 
 M. de Pastoret was suffering a domiciliary visitation at 
 that moment, under the direction of the citizen Guenot. 
 This intelligent commissioner had orders to arrest, as he 
 went, all suspicious persons. 
 
 So willed it Fouquier-Tuiville and CoUot d'Herbois, 
 those enemies of everybody and of themselves — those two 
 
34^ HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 dictators seated on the throne of the executioner, and ruh'ng 
 Robespierre himself. Collot d'Herbois had constituted 
 himself purveyor to the guillotine, and he would grant to 
 nobody the right of joining him in this work. It is easily 
 understood : this man had old wrongs to revenge, and 
 numerous crimes against his person to punish : having 
 never discovered his enemies, he discovered the secret of 
 exterminating them all by exterminating everybody. 
 Collot d'Herbois had been hissed at the theatre for a long 
 time, at first as a bad author, afterwards as a bad actor, 
 they say. This long and double series of public affront was 
 fixed in his memory, and the snakes of the dramatic furies 
 unceasingly rent with their hissing the ears of this Orestes 
 of the Terror ; for him, all men were suspected, and above 
 all, suspected of having hissed him from the pit of some 
 theatre before '89. History has never given sufficient 
 weight to the secret causes that impel certain political men 
 to long insatiably for vengeance, In passing, we have ex- 
 plained the character of Collot d'Herbois, that tyrant of 
 Robespierre and the Convention. 
 
 The citizen Guenot, the spy of Collot d'Herbois,_saw a 
 young man arrive suddenly at M. de Pastoret^s house, with 
 a nervous complexion, a resolute air, a flaming eye, and he 
 recognised immediately an incontestable enemy of the 
 actor, Collot d'Herbois. 
 
 " Your name .?" he said. 
 
 " What do you want to do with it ?" asked Chenier, in- 
 stead of answering. 
 
 " Answer, or I arrest you." 
 
 " Well," said Chenier, " out of respect to myself, I will 
 tell you my name ; for I am not in the habit of hiding it, 
 as it is an honourable one ; I am Andre Chenier." 
 
 "The journalist r 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " The writer .?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " The enemy of liberty ?'' 
 
ANDRE CHENIER. 
 
MERY. 347 
 
 " No ; it is false." 
 
 " Have you not written the supplement of No. 13 ?" 
 
 '-'Yes ; I do not retract it ?" 
 
 " Have you not written against Collot d'Herbois and 
 Fouquier-Tuiville ?" 
 
 " Not enough." 
 
 " I arrest you in the name of the Revolutionary Tri- 
 bunal. You are suspected." 
 
 " I fear nothing ; I am innocent." 
 
 " The Revolutionary Tribunal and the citizen Collot 
 d'Herbois acknowledge no one innocent among all those 
 who are suspected." 
 
 Guenot wrote an order, sent it to an agent ; two armed 
 men who were not soldiers, to the honour of the republican 
 uniform, seized the illustrious poet violently ; they made 
 him get into a little carriage, and he was conducted to the 
 Luxembourg prison. The jailor of the prison received the 
 order, murmuring, like an innkeeper who is overdone with 
 people, and gave back the paper, saying that it was not 
 right. The agent insisted, sounded out the name of citizen 
 Guenot three times ; but the jailor, who had his pride too, 
 and the conviction of his civic importance, shut the door 
 of his jail and bolted it noisily, without appearing to care 
 for the orders of citizen Guenot. 
 
 During this scene, Andre Chenier remained perfectly 
 unmoved. 
 
 From the Luxembourg, the carriage went towards the 
 prison of Saint Lazare. Here there was no difficulty. 
 The jailor did not know how to read, but at the names of 
 Guenot and Collot d'Herbois, who largely supplied him 
 with means of subsistence, he made a respectful bow, and 
 opened to the poet the frightful entrance to a dungeon. 
 Andre found then, in the depth of his soul, those bound- 
 less resources which great men possess in the deepest mis- 
 fortunes. He had left hope on the threshold of the dun- 
 geon, but his courage followed him through the gloomy 
 gratings, and simple courage took the place of lost hope. 
 
34^ HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 THE PONT DU GARD. 
 
 In visiting ancient cities, one meets with ancient monu- 
 ments ; it is in the order of things ; one expects to see 
 them there. The Romans, those great poHticians, built 
 amphitheatres to amuse the conquered nations — these 
 nations exchanged their liberty for the games of the circus, 
 and they thought that they gained by this traffic. One 
 sees also temples in these same towns : the Romans built 
 them everywhere. It is then without astonishment, that 
 one finds in the midst of our modern streets, and among 
 our little pasteboard edifices, these magnificent venerable 
 ruins, the immortal works of a dead people. 
 
 But there, before the Pont du Gard, one is struck dumb 
 with astonishment ; you are walking in a desert where no- 
 thing reminds you of man ; cultivation has disappeared ; 
 there are ravines, heaths, blocks of rock, clusters of rushes, 
 oaks, massed together, a stream which flows by a melan- 
 choly strand, wild mountains, a silence like that of Thebes, 
 and in the midst of this landscape springs up the most 
 magnificent object that civilization has created for the glory 
 of the fine arts. The apparent futility of the end even 
 enhances the prodigy of the means ; it is simply to give 
 an additional supply of water to a town, where water 
 abounds already. Well ! to provide a conduit through the 
 air for a tiny stream, the Romans have taken a mountain, 
 they have melted it down with the sweat of their brows ; 
 they have fashioned it into three rows of arches, with a 
 kind of architecture, which is a mixture of incomparable 
 grace with majestic solidity. What bridge was used as a 
 model for this bridge ? None ; it was a creation. Rome 
 imitated the Greeks in ornamental work ; but when she 
 gave herself the trouble to create, she impressed on her 
 work a special character, like the impress of eternity. 
 Just this she did with the Pont du Gard. Not knowing 
 where to copy, she invented ; without a plan previously 
 
MfiRY. 349 
 
 submitted to the aediles, without hesitation. Had she time 
 to hesitate ? Her painstaking genius improvised marvels ; 
 in going about her provinces, there was not a mountain 
 from which she did not demand the half of its stone to 
 improve a high road, to bestow on herself triumphal arches, 
 to build for herself resting-places. And with what hearti- 
 ness did the noble sons of Rome set themselves to the 
 work ! A poet has revealed to us in three words the whole 
 secret of that obstinate constancy of the Roman legion- 
 aries, of their matchless ardour in the heat of the work 
 yard : " Vincit amor Patriae." 
 
 Each soldier sacrificed to Rome that contingent of glory 
 which a work completed brought to him ; it was a universal 
 self-denial, a modest patriotism concentrated in that single 
 word — Rome. They brought each his block of stone to 
 the monument, thinking of the honour which would be 
 reflected on the Capitoline city ; they enjoyed the admira- 
 tion that the wonderful building excited among the con- 
 quered nations. The construction of a colossal edifice was 
 as profitable to Rome as the magic of a victory ; there 
 was not one of her soldiers who did not bethink himself in 
 his toil of that cry of amazement that the future age would 
 utter before the works of Rome ; and this remote praise 
 sweetened their labours, and the numbers of the legions 
 were not engraved on the slabs they quarried ; it was 
 Rome that was the doer of it all. The Pont du Gard has 
 no signature ; tell us the name of the architect } It was 
 Rome that built it. 
 
merim"E:e. 
 
 Prosper MSriimee was born at Paris in 1803. From his father^ 
 who was an artist, he inherited property which placed him in indepen- 
 dent circumstances. In 1825 he pubhshed a volume of plays, under 
 an assumed name, and in the guise of a translation from an imaginary- 
 Spanish dramatist, whom he called Clara Gazul. La Gtizla, an imita- 
 tation of the poetry of the Slavonic races, was similarly brought out 
 under the pseudonym of Hyacinthe Maglanowich. These were fol- 
 lowed \yY La Jacquerie and La Famille de Carvajal ; SiBdhyMatUo 
 Falcone, and LJ Enlevement de la Redoute, two short tales published in 
 the Revue de Paris . After the Revolution of 1830, M. Merimee be- 
 came a member of the government ; and in 1834 was appointed In- 
 spector-General of Historic Monuments, In this capacity he visited 
 the south of France, Auvergne, and Corsica ; and produced, besides, 
 his best-known work, the romance of Coloi7tba, several volumes on 
 archceological subjects, as results of his travels. 
 
 THE STORMING OF THE REDOUBT. 
 
 One of my military friends, who died of fever in Greece 
 some years ago, gave me an account one day of the first 
 affair in which he had been engaged. I was so struck, that 
 I wrote it dou-n from memory as soon as I had leisure. 
 Here it is : — 
 
 I rejoined the regiment on the evening of the 4th of Sep- 
 tember. I found the colonel in bivouac. He received me 
 at first roughly enough ; but when he had read the letter 
 
 of recommendation from General B , he changed his 
 
 tone, and addressed some kind words to me. 
 
 He presented me to my captain, who returned at that 
 instant from reconnoitring. This captain, whom I did not 
 have much time to know, was a tall dark man, with a hard. 
 
MERIMI^E. 351 
 
 repulsive physiognomy. He had been a common soldier, 
 and had gained his epaulets and his cross on the field of 
 battle. His voice, which was hoarse and weak, contrasted 
 strangely with his almost gigantic stature. They told me 
 that this odd voice was owing to a ball which had pierced 
 him through and through at the battle of Jena. Learning 
 that I came from the school of Fontainebleau, he made a 
 grimace, and said, " My lieutenant died yesterday." .... 
 I understood that he meant to say, "You ought to take his 
 place, and you are not capable of it." A sharp word came 
 to my lips, but I restrained myself. 
 
 The moon rose behind the redoubt of Cheverino, situated 
 within two cannon-shot of our bivouac. It was large and 
 red, as it usually is when it rises. But this evening it ap- 
 peared to me of an extraordinary size. For an instant the 
 redoubt stood out in shadow on the shining disk of the 
 moon. It resembled the cone of a volcano at the moment 
 of eruption. 
 
 An old soldier, near whom I was standing, remarked the 
 colour of the moon. " It's very red," said he ; " that's a 
 sign that we shall have to pay dear to get it, this famous 
 redoubt !" I have always been superstitious, and this au- 
 gury, at that moment especially, affected me. I lay down, 
 but I could not sleep. I got up and walked for some time, 
 looking at the immense lines of fires which covered the 
 heights beyond the village of Cheverino. 
 
 When I thought that the fresh and keen night air had 
 cooled my blood enough, I returned to the fire ; I wrapped 
 myself "carefully in my cloak, and shut my eyes, hoping not 
 to open them before day. But sleep would not come. In- 
 sensibly my thoughts assumed a gloomy colouring. I said 
 to myself that I had not a friend among the 100,000 men 
 that covered the plain. If I were wounded I should be in 
 a hospital, treated without consideration by ignorant sur- 
 geons. All I had heard of surgical operations came into 
 my mind. My heart beat violently, and mechanically I 
 placed my handkerchief and pocket-book on my chest, as 
 
352 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 a kind of cuirass. Fatigue overwhelmed me, and I dozed 
 every minute, and every minute some sinister thought re- 
 produced itself with renewed force, and woke me with a 
 start. However, fatigue got the best of it, and when the 
 reveil sounded I was fast asleep. We drew up in order of 
 battle, the muster was called, then we piled arms, and 
 everything announced that we were going to spend a quiet 
 day. 
 
 About three o'clock an aide-de-camp arrived, bringing 
 an order. We were commanded to take our arms again ; 
 our sharpshooters spread themselves over the plain ; we 
 followed them slowly, and at the end of twenty minutes 
 we saw all the advanced guard of the Russians fall back 
 and enter the redoubt. A battery of artillery came and 
 established itself on our right, and another on our left, but 
 both much in advance of us. They began a very lively 
 fire on the enemy, who replied energetically, and soon the 
 redoubt of Cheverino disappeared under thick clouds of 
 smoke. 
 
 Our regiment was almost sheltered from the fire of the 
 Russians by a bend in the ground. Their bullets, rare 
 moreover among us (for they fired, in preference, on our 
 gunners), passed over our heads, or at most sent a little 
 earth and small stones down upon us. 
 
 Directly the order to march forward had been given us, 
 my captain looked at me so fixedly, that I was forced to 
 pass my hand over my young moustache with as easy an 
 air as possible. 
 
 As to the rest, I was not afraid, and the only fear I had 
 was, that they should fancy I was frightened. These harm- 
 less bullets contributed besides to keep up my heroic calm- 
 ness. My self-love told me that I was running into great 
 danger, for at last I was under the fire of a battery. I was 
 highly gratified at being so much at my ease, and I thought 
 of the pleasure of relating the taking of the redoubt of 
 
 Cheverino in Madame B 's drawing-room in the Rue 
 
 de Provence. 
 
STORMING THE REDOUBT. 
 
MERIMgE. 353 
 
 The colonel passed before our company. He addressed 
 me : "Well, you will see some sharp work, for a beginning." 
 
 I smiled with a perfectly martial air, and brushed the 
 sleeve of my coat, on which a bullet, falling thirty paces 
 off, had sent a little dust. 
 
 It seems that the Russians perceived the bad success of 
 their bullets, for they began to use shells instead, which 
 could reach us more easily in the hollow where we were 
 posted. A rather considerable explosion carried off my 
 shako, and killed a man near me. 
 
 " I congratulate you," said the captain, as I came back 
 from picking up my shako ; "you are quit for the day." I 
 knew this military superstition, that the axiom non bis in 
 idem finds its application as much on a field of battle as in 
 a court of justice. I put on my shako proudly. "That's 
 an unceremonious way of saluting people," said I, as gaily 
 as I could. This bad joke, under the circumstances, seemed 
 excellent. " I congratulate you," answered the captain ; 
 "you will have nothing more, and this evening you will 
 command a company ; for I know the oven is getting hot 
 for me. Every time I have been wounded, the officer next 
 to me has received some spent ball ; and," he added in a 
 lower and almost bashful tone, " their names always began 
 with P." 
 
 I tried to be strong-minded ; many people would have done 
 as I did ; many people would have been as much struck as 
 I was by these prophetic words. Conscript that I was, I 
 felt that I could not confide my feelings to any one, and 
 that I ought to appear always coldly intrepid. 
 
 At the end of half an hour the Russian fire diminished 
 sensibly ; then we left our covert, and marched on the 
 redoubt. Our regiment was composed of three battalions. 
 The second was ordered to turn the flank of the redoubt on 
 the side of the gorge ; the two others were to assault it. I 
 was in the third battalion. Coming out from behind the 
 kind of breastwork that had protected us, we were received 
 with several discharges of musket-shot, which did little 
 
 23 
 
354 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 mischief in our ranks. The whistling of the balls surprised 
 me : I often turned my head, and thus drew some jokes 
 upon myself from my comrades, who were more used to the 
 noise. On the whole, I said to myself, a battle is not such 
 a terrible thing. 
 
 We advanced at a running pace, preceded by sharp- 
 shooters. All at once the Russians uttered three hurrahs, 
 three distinct hurrahs, then remained silent, and did not 
 fire. **I don't like this silence," said my captain ; "that 
 augurs nothing good for us." I found that our men were 
 rather too noisy, and I could not help drawing a compari- 
 son, in my own mind, between their tumultuous clamours 
 and the imposing silence of the enemy. 
 
 We quickly reached the foot of the redoubt : the palisades 
 had been broken down, and the earth torn up by our bul- 
 lets. The soldiers threw themselves on these new ruins, 
 with cries of " Vive I'Empereur !" louder than could have 
 been expected from men who had already shouted so much. 
 
 I looked up, and I never shall forget the sight I saw. 
 The greater part of the smoke had risen, and remained 
 suspended like a canopy twenty feet above the redoubt. 
 Through a bluish vapour you saw the Russian grenadiers 
 (behind their half-destroyed breastwork), their arms raised, 
 motionless as statues. I think I can still see each soldier, 
 Avith his left eye looking at us, and his right hidden by his 
 raised musket. In an embrasure, a few feet from us, near a 
 cannon, was a man holding a match. 
 
 I shuddered, and thought that my last hour was come. 
 
 "Now the dance is going to begin," cried my captain. 
 "Good night." These were the last words I ever heard 
 him utter. 
 
 A rolling of drums was heard in the redoubt. I saw all 
 the guns lowered. I shut my eyes, and I heard a frightful 
 crash, followed by cries and groans. I opened my eyes, 
 surprised to find myself still in the world. The redoubt 
 was anew enveloped in smoke. I was surrounded by 
 wounded and dead. My captain was stretched at my feet ; 
 
MERIMfiE. 355 
 
 his head had been smashed by a bullet, and I was covered 
 with his blood and brains. Of all my company there only 
 remained standing six men and myself. 
 
 To this carnage succeeded a moment of stupor. The 
 colonel, putting his hat on the end of his sword, was the 
 first to climb the breastwork, shouting "Vive I'Empereur!" 
 He was followed immediately by all the survivors. I have 
 hardly any farther clear remembrance of what followed. 
 We entered the redoubt, I do not know how. We fought 
 hand to ^ hand, in the midst of a smoke so thick that we 
 could not see one another. I believe I struck, for my 
 sword was all bloody. 
 
 At last I heard the cry of victory, and the smoke clearing 
 off, I perceived that the ground of the redoubt was quite 
 hidden by dead bodies and blood. The cannon, particu- 
 larly, were buried under a heap of corpses. About two 
 hundred men in French uniforms were grouped without 
 any order ; some were loading their guns, others wiping 
 their bayonets. Eleven Russian prisoners were with them. 
 The colonel was lying bleeding on a broken cannon near 
 the gorge. A few soldiers pressed round him : I approached. 
 ^' Where is the oldest captain .''" he asked a sergeant. The 
 sergeant shrugged his shoulders in a very expressive 
 manner. " And the oldest lieutenant ?'' "This gentleman 
 who came yesterday," said the sergeant in a perfectly calm 
 tone. The colonel smiled bitterly. " Come, sir," he said 
 to me, "you command in chief; have the gorge of the 
 redoubt quickly fortified with these waggons, for the enemy 
 is in force ; but General C ^ will support you." " Colo- 
 nel," I said, you are badly wounded .''" "Done for, my 
 good fellow, but the redoubt is taken." 
 
 23- 
 
SAINTE-BEUVE. 
 
 Charles Augustin Sainte-Beuve was born at Boulogne-sur-Mer 
 in 1804. He was educated for the medical profession, but commenced 
 at an early age those contributions to the Globe, the Revue de Paris, 
 the Revue des DetixMo?ides, the National, the Moniteur, the Constitu- 
 iiofuiel, and other newspapers and periodicals, which have gained him 
 so high a reputation as a critic and essayist. M. Sainte-Beuve also 
 enjoys a considerable estimation as a poet. Amongst his works are, 
 L'Histoire de Port Royal, Et7ide sur Virgile, Poesies Completes, Pensees 
 d^Aoiit; and many of his newspaper articles have been republished 
 nder the titles of Portraits and Causeries de Lundi. 
 
 LA HARPE. 
 
 DUCLOS has ended his history of Louis XL by saying : 
 " Considering everything, he was a king." Gaillard, re- 
 membering this expression, has tried to apply it to La 
 Harpe, and he says that, " Putting everything together, he 
 was a man." Certainly, taking everything into account, 
 and especially in relation to his contemporaries, he was 
 somebody, this M. de La Harpe, and I think I have made 
 this pretty evident in my first critique. However, several 
 of the essential qualities of a manly character — moderation, 
 judgment, a power of stopping at the right time, of retracing 
 his steps wisely, of remembering the past— were wanting in 
 him, and his last eleven or twelve years show that impos- 
 sibility of ripening which is the character of some lively 
 organizations. 
 
 Voltaire, among all the praises that he lavished on his 
 disciple, has let drop a terrible saying, in which he fathoms 
 La Harpe, going to the very bottom of the man himself, — 
 '' He is an oven that is always hot, and cooks nothing." 
 
*Fr 
 
 
 \'l { ' ii' 
 
 f.A HARPE: MEDITATION ON THO.MAS A KEMPIS. 
 
SAINTE-BEUVE. 357 
 
 The fact is, that with La Harpe there was at all times an 
 expenditure of heat perfectly unproductive, and out of pro- 
 portion with the result. 
 
 At first, he let himself be carried away by the Revo- 
 lution ; nothing was more simple, or even more legitimate 
 and excusable, for the beginning. But La Harpe did not 
 stop at the 'great days, or what might pass for such : his 
 enthusiasm lived on to the loth of August, to the 2nd of 
 September, to the 21st of January. A series of extracts 
 have been made from his articles in the Mercure, from 
 which it is evident that till 1793, and even to the beginning 
 of 1794, he came up to all that could then be desired of 
 him in extravagant declamation. He did not cease to 
 denounce in terms worthy of the old and fiery Raynal, 
 "the superstition which," he would say^ ^Uransforms man 
 into a beast ;'' the fanaticism which ^^ makes a wild beast of 
 him ;'' the despotism that ''makes him a beast of burdenr 
 But once thrown into prison, detained at the Luxembourg, 
 La Harpe, with that excessive self-love which one recognises 
 in him, was more astonished than any other would have 
 been at being impeached ; the idea of death appeared to 
 him ; his imagination pictured it ; he became the prey of a 
 great tumult ; and, in this overthrow of his whole being, he 
 felt a change take place within him — he received the 
 thunderclap, that which is called the touch of mercy, which 
 subdued him, and turned him round. 
 
 " I was in my prison, alone in a little room, and deeply 
 sad. Fgr some days I had been reading the Psalms, the 
 Gospels, and some good books. Their effect had been 
 rapid, .though gradual. Already I was returning to the 
 faith ; I saw a new light, but it terrified and alarmed me 
 by showing me an abyss, that of forty years' wandering. I 
 saw all the evil and no remedy. There was nothing about 
 me that offered me the help of religion. On one side, my 
 life was put before my eyes, so that I saw it in the light of 
 divine truth ; and, on the other, death — the death I was 
 expecting every day, such a death as one then received. 
 
35 B HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 The priest no longer appeared on the scaffold to comfort 
 him who was going to die : he only mounted it to die him- 
 self Full of these afflicting thoughts, my heart was sub- 
 dued and made supplication to God, whom I had just 
 found again, and whom I hardly knew as yet. I said to 
 Him, ' What must I do ? What will become of me ?' I 
 had the ' Imitation ' on my table, and I had been told that, 
 in this excellent book, I should often find the answer to my 
 thoughts. I opened it at hazard, and in so doing my eye 
 fell upon these words : * Here I am My son ! I come to thee 
 because thou hast called upon Me.' I read no more ; the 
 sudden impression that I experienced is beyond all ex- 
 pression, and it is no more possible for me to describe than 
 to forget it. I fell on my face on the ground, bathed in 
 tears, choked with sobs, uttering cries and broken words. 
 My heart was comforted and enlarged, and at the same 
 time it felt ready to break. Assailed by a crowd of ideas 
 and feelings, T wept for some time without retaining any 
 remembrance of my situation, except that beyond all com- 
 parison it was the most powerful and delicious that my 
 heart ever felt. ' Here am I, My son,' did not cease to 
 echo in my soul, and to shake powerfully all my faculties." 
 
GEORGE SAND. 
 
 Madame Armandine Lucile Aurore Dudevant, better known 
 under the non de phime of George Sand, is the daughter of the 
 Marquis Maurice Dupin de Franceuil, and was born at Paris in 1804. 
 She was brought up by her grandmother, the Comtesse de Horn, a 
 woman distinguished rather for wit than judgment, and whose re- 
 ligion was comprised in the philosophy of Rousseau. She was sent at 
 the age of fifteen to the Convent of the Dames Anglaises, at Paris, for 
 the purpose of receiving religious instruction, and was induced to em- 
 brace the Roman Catholic faith. After the death of her grandmother 
 she married the Baron Dudevant. She has published a large number 
 ■of novels and plays, among others La Petite Mauprat, Andre^ and Le 
 Marquis de Villemer. 
 
 EARLY READINGS. 
 
 I AM one of those to whom the making acqaintance with a 
 book may become a real moral event. The few good 
 books which have made a deep impression upon me in the 
 course of my life have developed the few good qualities 
 that I possess. A book has always been to me a friend, 
 an adviser, a calm and eloquent comforter, whose resources 
 I would not exhaust too quickly, and kept for the right 
 occasions. Oh, who is there among us who does not recall 
 with tenderness the first books that he devoured or tasted ? 
 The dusty leather binding which you find on the shelves of 
 an old cupboard, has it never brought back to you the 
 ' sweet scenes of your early years } Have you not seemed 
 to see before you the wide meadow bathed in the ruddy 
 light of evening, where you read it for the first time, the old 
 beech and the hedge which shaded you, the bank which 
 served you for couch and table, while the thrush was sing- 
 
360 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 ing- an evening song to his fellows, and the pipe of the cow- 
 herd died away in the distance ? Oh, how soon night fell 
 on the enchanting volume ! how unkindly the twilight 
 made the letters waver on the fading page ! It is over ; 
 the lambs bleat, the sheep have returned to the fold, the 
 cricket takes possession of the plain. The forms of the 
 trees are lost in the gathering darkness, as were just now 
 the letters on the book. It is time to go ; the road is stony, 
 the path is narrow and slippery, the hill is steep, the per- 
 spiration stands upon your forehead, but you must quicken 
 your steps ; you will be too late, supper will be begun. 
 
 It is in vain that the old servant who loves you will have 
 put back the clock as much as possible ; you will have the 
 humiliation of coming in last, and the grandmother, inex- 
 orable on the subject of etiquette, even here far away in 
 the country, will give you, in a sweet sad voice, a little re- 
 proof, very gentle, very tender, which will touch you more 
 than a severe punishment. But, when she asks you at night 
 Avhat you have been doing all day, and you confess, blush- 
 ing, that you forgot the time while reading in a meadow, 
 and are desired to show the book ; with some hesitation,, 
 and no little fear of seeing it confiscated before you have 
 finished it, you will draw tremblingly from your pocket,, 
 what ^ Estelle et Nemorin, or RobiiisoiL CrtLSoe ! Oh ! 
 then the grandmother smiles. Take courage, you shall 
 have your treasure back ; but do not forget your supper in 
 future. Happy days ! oh, my shady valley ! oh, Corinne / 
 oh, Bernardin de St. Pierre! oh, the Iliad! oh, MUlevoye ! 
 oh, Atala ! oh, the willows of the river ! oh, my departed 
 youth! oh, my old dog who did not forget supper-time, and 
 who answered at the distant sound of the bell by a doleful 
 howl of appetite and regret ! 
 
EARLY READIiNGS. 
 
KARR. 
 
 Jean Baftiste Alphonse Karr was born at Paris in 1808. In 
 1839 he became Editor of the satirical journal Le Figa?o, and in the 
 same year founded Les Guepes, a monthly journal which met with 
 great success. After the Revolution of 1848, for a short time he took 
 part in public affairs, and wrote some bitter pamphlets against Prince 
 Louis Napoleon, but he soon became disgusted with political life, and 
 retiring to Nice, devoted himself to the cultivation of flowers. He 
 still writes occasionally in the Revite des Deux Mondes, and other pe- 
 riodicals. He is well known as the author of a large number of popu- 
 lar novels ; we may mention Une Hem'-e trop Tard ; Vendredi Soirj 
 Voyage autoicr de mon Jardin ; Pro7nenades hors de mon Jardin, 
 The following extract is from Les FleiLi^s. 
 
 TO DR. MARCHESSAUX. 
 
 I KNOW a little old man who is always neatly dressed in a 
 black coat, with very white ruffles, and a shirt-frill plaited 
 in the most perfect way. Never have I heard him complain; 
 never have I caught him desiring anything. 
 
 There is only one thing in the world which seems to me 
 to demand respect more than misfortune ; it is happiness^ 
 on account of its rarity, and, above all, its perishableness. 
 
 I do hot think I have ever thoughtlessly meddled with 
 the happiness of another, however small it may be, how- 
 ever strange it may appear to me. Sometimes it happens 
 that I do not understand it, or even think that, if I should 
 try it, it would not suit me, but that has never been a rea- 
 son why I should treat it lightly or with disdain. It is so 
 often a brilliant bubble, that in the presence of happiness 
 of whatever description, I hold my breath respectfully. 
 
 I liked very much to meet my little old man, because he 
 
362 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 seemed perfectly happy ; but I had never thought of asking 
 him about it : when one day I found on his face the first 
 cloud I had seen there since chance had brought us in con- 
 tact. 
 
 I was more curious this time, and I wanted to know 
 what thorn he had found amongst the roses of his life. 
 He seemed only waiting for an opportunity of speaking 
 of what had so sadly engaged his thoughts and said to 
 me : — 
 
 " I have just been visiting an old friend, and I have seen 
 some things which grieve me." 
 " Is he ill r I enquired. 
 '' Not at all," he replied. 
 
 " Has he then lost a lawsuit, or a large sum of money .^" 
 " Still less : he has come in for a fortune, and this fortune 
 has thrown him into the deepest misery. It is the sight of 
 this misery which has gnawed into my heart." 
 
 Having once entered on the subject, he told me the 
 whole story. 
 Here it is — 
 
 " I have known him for a long time," he said ; " I had 
 often noticed him at ' la Petite Provence,' in the Tuileries. 
 From having looked at each other, we proceeded to bow. 
 One day, I had asked him what time it was, because my 
 watch had stopped ; the next day, in return for the courtesy 
 with which he had answered me, I offered him a pinch of 
 snuff. Some time after that we concluded by having a little 
 chat, and finally we told each other everything. 
 
 " Since then, we have talked together for ten years. Our 
 mode of life was so similar, that we could vegetate admirably 
 in the same soil and the same atmosphere. He was a 
 widower, and I a bachelor. I have upwards of eleven hun- 
 dred francs income : he had then twelve hundred ; but as 
 he lived near the Tuileries, where the apartments are dear, 
 this expense absorbed the surplus, and made our fortunes 
 equal. 
 
 " You have never met with two men so rich and happy 
 
KARR. 363 
 
 as we were. When It was fine, he received me at the 
 Tuileries. The Tuileries was his garden. Never was there 
 a property more complete and more free from care. 
 
 " What is having a garden, if the Tuileries did not be- 
 long to my friend ? 
 
 " Every morning he found his paths well rolled, and even 
 watered, if the heat occasioned too much dust. He walked 
 up and down under the thick shade of chestnut-trees, or 
 rested on a white marble seat, 
 
 " Numerous gardeners kept in good order immense beds 
 of flowers, and constantly replaced those which were faded, 
 and had cast their seed to the wind when their season of 
 bloom and perfume was over, by others belonging to the 
 following season. He breathed the spring perfume of the 
 lilacs, and the airy and mysterious odour of the lime-trees. 
 He had, at last, made acquaintance with the gardeners, and 
 he was not without influence in the arrangement of the 
 flower-beds. For myself, I had the Luxembourg ; our 
 position was the same in the two gardens. I often gave 
 him the seeds of the flower which he liked in my garden, in 
 exchange for those which I admired in his. The gardener 
 who gave me them for him always willingly accepted those 
 which I received from my friend. 
 
 " At the Luxembourg the swans in the water knew me. 
 I thought less of the familiarity which existed between my 
 friend and the swans of the Tuileries, because their affection 
 is commoner, and one can, without injustice, accuse them of 
 treating everybody with equal distinction. I repeat it, our 
 gardens were altogether ours. The only difference that can 
 be discovered between us and the people who pretend to 
 have gardens, and to be more truly proprietors of them, is, 
 that we had each one of the richest and most beautiful 
 gardens in Europe, and we had nothing to pay for gardeners, 
 improvements, or repairs. 
 
 " ' My friend,' said he, on leaving me in the evening, after 
 a walk in my garden, 'jotir crocuses are beautiful and 
 varied ; but I invite you to come and see 7nj/ double peach 
 
364 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 blossoms, and in a fortnight my lilacs. You will find me at 
 the foot of my statue of the " Carrying away of Orithyia." ' 
 Another time, it was I who invited him to come and walk 
 on my terrace at the Luxembourg, where there are such fine 
 service trees, and such old hawthorns with pink blossoms. 
 
 " Sometimes, however, we had disputes. He was, I must 
 say, rather too proud of the beautiful ladies who came to 
 drive in his garden ; he even took it into his head one day 
 to be proud, because, from time to time, he saw the king on 
 the balcony of the castle. I proved to him, as clear as day, 
 that my plants were the m.ost carefully cultivated, that his 
 flower-beds were full of the most vulgar flowers. I men- 
 tioned, to proved the superiority of my garden, the collec- 
 tion of roses, which is unquestionably the finest in Europe. 
 It is true that he had at the Tuileries more statues and more 
 precious bronzes ; but in a garden, I think much more of 
 the trees and the fl.owers than of bronze and marble. When 
 it rained, we went to see his museum of antiquities on the 
 Place du Louvre ; or, in the time of the Exhibition, to the 
 galleries, where the modern painters submitted the products 
 of their labour to his inspection. 
 
 '* Sometimes it was I who invited him to come and visit 
 my galleries at the Luxembourg, and this, again, occasioned 
 some little disputes on the respective value of <??/r museums, 
 or only because he regulated his Avatch by Jiis dial at his 
 palace of the Tuileries, which he pretended was infallible ; 
 while I often wished to set it right by my sun-dial at my 
 palace of the Luxembourg. 
 
 " But it was seldom that these discussions became bitten 
 Besides, if our little manias of proprietorship sometimes 
 exasperated us against each other, we had also many un- 
 divided possessions in common, on account of which we 
 were liable to no such difl'erences of opinion ; our menagerie,. 
 otLr museum, and oilv greenhouses in the Jardin des Plantes, 
 for example. 
 
 " I will not talk to you about our friendships with some 
 of the animals in ottr menagerie, of the interest we felt in the 
 
KARR. 365 
 
 precarious health of the gu'affe and of a black bear. We 
 were highly delighted when they made us our famous 
 monkey palace, and this was not without some influence 
 in adding to our good opinion of the minister who then 
 presided in the council. 
 
 "When they made so much noise about the paidozvnia 
 imperialis, which, like too clever children, turned out to be 
 nothing but a catalpa, we had known it for a long time, and 
 had seen it growing in otw Jardin des Plantes, while nobody 
 in Europe knew of its existence. We may be pardoned if 
 we were a little too proud of our paidozvnia, which, after all, 
 is a tree of an admirable growth while it is young, and pre- 
 serves in its old age the honour of being still like one of 
 the finest trees in the open field. 
 
 " We had lived like this for ten years, when one day my 
 friend did not come to a rendezvous that I had appointed 
 in my path to the observatory. It was the first time that 
 one of us had missed a meeting, except once, five years 
 before, when I let him wait for me at his Petite Provence, 
 because I had nearly given myself a sprain on my staircase. 
 I could only attribute his absence to an accident of this 
 kind, or, perhaps, worse, and I went to his house. I found 
 him quite well, but strangely aff'ected. He had that morn- 
 ing received a letter Vv^hich informed him that his cousin had 
 just died two leagues from Paris, and had left him an income 
 of rather more than 3,000 livres. 
 
 " He wept as he embraced me, and assured me that his 
 fortune could never make him indifferent to his friends ; that 
 I should always find him the same, &c. Nevertheless, it was 
 necessary that he should set out immediately to take 
 possession. It is four months ago, and I had no news of 
 him. I began already to think of him with a kind of 
 bitterness, and the newspaper-seller at the Tuileries having 
 asked news of him, I replied sharply, * I do not know — he 
 has made his fortune — I see nothing of him now ;' when the 
 day before yesterday I received a letter from him. 
 
 " Here it is. 
 
366 half-hours with french authors. 
 
 " ' My dear old Friend, 
 
 " ^ I flatter myself that you have not attributed my silence 
 to indifference or forgetfulness — still less to the increase of 
 my fortune. Many different cares have occupied all my 
 leisure since our last interview. First, I have decided to 
 to stay here in my house. I must have some repairs and 
 alterations made. 
 
 " ' As I do not think you have conceived a bad opinion 
 of me, so I like to think of you as I knew you. If it 
 would be foolish on my part to be unmindful of you because 
 I have become rich, it would be but little better if you 
 neglected me in future for the same reason ; it would spoil 
 my happiness, and you would not wish it. 
 
 " ' I expect you then to-morrow to breakfast with me. 
 
 '' ' Your Friend.' 
 
 " Man is a miserable creature. I felt a little envious, and 
 I tried to find some disagreeable phrase in my old friend's 
 letter, some sign of vanity, at which I might be angry. I 
 found nothing, and set out this morning. 
 
 *' My friend lives in a dirty, little, ill-built country town. 
 His house, which they readily pointed out to me, is small, 
 white, with green blinds. You go in by a narrow gate, 
 which was far from making such an impression upon me 
 as the iron bars of his garden at the Tuileries. I had from 
 the first a presentiment that my friend was ruined, while he 
 fancied he was making his fortune. 
 
 " No one could have received me better, but everything 
 that I saw, added to his kind reception, was not long in 
 changing the envy with which I had started into a feeling 
 of pity. 
 
 " I shall never forget the pride with which he took me 
 round a garden which could easily have been contained in 
 one of the flower-beds at the Tuileries. Some sticks here 
 and there, some broomsticks which he called trees, and 
 which stood in need of shade themselves, instead of giving 
 any. In the middle of the garden a great cask buried in 
 
KARR. 367 
 
 the ground, was called the fountain. It was half full of 
 green and stagnant water, because they only bring it every 
 other day, and the cask leaks a little. 
 
 " You can never imagine what joy he felt at having 
 changed the great marble fountains at the Tuileries for 
 this cask, without considering that the said cask gives him 
 all manner of trouble when the sun dries it and loosens the 
 hoops, while formerly they cleaned and mended his marble 
 fountains without his disturbing himself in the least about 
 it. 
 
 "What secret joy is there then in the sense of posses- 
 sion ! With my friend, to have this garden with its broom- 
 sticks, was to have the great chestnuts of the Tuileries no 
 longer. To possess the square surrounded with walls white 
 enough to blind one, was to be exiled from all the rest of 
 the earth, from all the beautiful country, from all the lovely 
 landscapes. 
 
 " In the house, he showed me two or three bad pictures, 
 with which he had ornamented his drawing-room. It was 
 necessary for him to inherit and become rich, that he might 
 be condemned to see nothing but these frightful daubs. 
 When he was poor, he looked at the most beautiful paint- 
 ings of all countries and all masters, accumulated in our 
 museums. 
 
 " I came back sad, and I wished to see again his old 
 garden, which he is so pleased to have left. A great terror 
 has seized me in consequence ; it is that I may, in my turn 
 by chance become rich, — that I may become a proprietor, 
 — may^ lose iny beautiful garden of the Luxembourg, — ■ 
 may be forced to live in a square surrounded by walls, — 
 and, what is still worse, may be happy and proud of it. 
 
 " I have thought over all my relations, and especially 
 those who are rich, and, among the latter, those whose heir 
 I am. 
 
 " There is only one Avho makes me anxious ; he went to 
 America twenty years ago, and since then, nothing has 
 been heard of him. If the bell rings at home, I shall 
 
S68 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 tremble lest I should hear that he has died a millionnaire, 
 and that I am his heir. I have seen a letter that we re- 
 ceived two months after his departure, nearly twenty years 
 ago. This letter tells us that several vessels had perished, 
 crew and cargo, in a gale of wind. The vessel which bore 
 my uncle was of the number, but as the long-boat has not 
 been seen since, they think that part of the crew at least 
 tried to save themselves. 
 
 " If only my uncle be not saved !" 
 
VICTOR HUGO. 
 
 Marie Victor, Viscount Hugo, was born at Besangon in 1802, his 
 father being then a colonel in the French army. In 1822 appeared the 
 iirst volume of his Odes and Ballads, which was followed by several 
 ■dramatic pieces. He soon attaciced the so-called classical style of 
 French dramatic poetry, and thus awakened the wrath of the French 
 Academy, which laid a complaint against his attempted innovations 
 before the King, Charles X,, but received the answer " that in matters 
 of art he was no more than a private person." In 1841 he became a 
 member of the Academy. M. Hugo was created a peer of France by 
 Louis-Philippe, and in 1849 "^^^s chosen President of the Peace Con- 
 gress. Since 1852, he has lived as an exile in Jersey and Guernsey, 
 whence he has issued his Napoleon le Petit and Les Chdtivieiis. He 
 has also published, during his residence there, his Contemplations^ and 
 Les Miserables, a work that has been translated into most of the Euro- 
 pean languages. Among his earlier works may be named Herna?ii, 
 Marion Delornie, and Ruy Bias. The following passages are from 
 JSIotre Dame^ Les Miserables, and M. Hugo's last published work, Les 
 Lravaillenj's de la Mer. 
 
 PARIS IN THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 Admirable as Paris seems to you at present, rear again 
 the Paris of the fifteenth century, reconstruct it in thought; 
 watch the day break through this wonderful range of spires, 
 towers, and belfries ; stretch through the midst of the im- 
 mense city, rent by the point of the islands, bent under 
 the arches of the bridges, the Seine with its broad, green, 
 and yellow pools, more changing than a serpent's skin ; 
 •outline clearly on a blue horizon the Gothic profile of this 
 old Paris, make the forms of it float on the winter's mist 
 which clings to its innumerable chimneys, drown it in pro- 
 found darkness, and look at the strange play of shadows 
 .and lights in this dark labyrinth of buildings ; throw a ray 
 
 24 
 
3/0 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 of moonlight ^vlilch may give it a vague outline, and bring 
 out from the mists the great heads of the towers ; or take 
 again the black silhouette, bring out of the shade again, 
 the thousand sharp angles of the spires and gables and 
 make it project, more jagged than the jaw-bone of a shark, 
 on the copper-coloured sky at sunset. And then com- 
 pare. 
 
 And if you wish to receive an impression of the old 
 town that the modern can give no longer, you climb, on a 
 high feast day, at the dawn of Easter or Whitsunday, to 
 some high point whence you may command the whole 
 capital, and attend at the waking of the chimes. See, at a 
 signal from the heavens — for it is the sun that gives it — 
 the thousand churches startle at once. There are first 
 stray tinklings, passing from one church to another, as 
 Avhen musicians give warning that they are about to begin. 
 Then, on a sudden, see — for at certain moments it seems 
 as if the ear also had sight — see, arise at the same moment 
 from each belfry, as it were a column of sound, as it were 
 a cloud of harmony. At first, the vibration of each bell 
 rises straight, pure, and so to speak, isolated from the 
 others, in the glowing sky of morning ; then, little by little, 
 growing louder, they melt, they mingle, they are lost, one 
 in another, they blend in glorious union. It is now but 
 one mass of sonorous vibration, which issues without ceas- 
 ing from innumerable belfries, which floats, undulates, 
 bounds, thunders over the town, and prolongs far beyond 
 the horizon, the deafening circle of its pulsations. Never- 
 theless, this sea of harmony is not a chaos. Vast and 
 profound as it is, it has not lost its transparency ; you see 
 each cluster of notes which issues from the bells, circling 
 apart ; you can follow the dialogue, now deep and now 
 shrill, of the treble and the bass: you see the octaves leap- 
 ing from one belfry to another ; you see them spring, 
 winged, light, and thrilling from the silver bell ; falling, 
 broken and lame, from the bell of wood : you admire in 
 the midst of them the rich scale which the seven bells of 
 
VICTOR HUGO. 371 
 
 Saint Eustache run ceaselessly up and down, and across 
 them fly clear and rapid notes, which make three or four 
 luminous zigzags and vanish like lightning. Yonder is 
 Saint 'Martin's abbey, a sharp and broken songstress, here 
 the stern and ill-omened voice of the Bastille, on the other 
 side the great tower of the Louvre with its deep bass. 
 The royal chime of the palace flings incessantly on all 
 sides, glittering trills, on which fall, at regular intervals, the 
 heavy strokes from the belfry of Notre Dame, which makes 
 them sparkle like the anvil under the hammer. At inter- 
 vals you see pass sounds of every form, which come from 
 the triple peal of Saint Germain des Pres. Then again, 
 from time to time, this mass of lofty sounds opens and 
 makes way for the strains of the Ave Maria, which shine 
 and glitter like a diadem of stars. Lowest of all, you dis- 
 tinguish confusedly the chanting within the churches, issu- 
 ing from every pore in their vaulted roofs. Truly it is a 
 concert worth listening to. Commonly, when the murmur 
 of Paris arises by day, the city is speaking ; at night the 
 city is breathing ; now, the city is singing. Listen, then, 
 to this full chorus of bells ; blend with it the hum of half 
 a million of men, the eternal murmur of the stream, the 
 countless whisperings of the winds, the deep and distant 
 quartette of the four forests stationed on the hills of the 
 horizon, like mighty organs ; tone down, as with a half 
 tint, whatever may be too harsh or jarring in the central 
 chime — and say if you know anything in the world more 
 rich, more joyous, more dazzling than this tumult of the 
 bells, than this fiery flood of music, than these ten thou- 
 sand brazen voices sounding at once in organ-pipes of 
 stone three hundred feet in height ; than this city, which 
 is one vast orchestra ; than this symphony which thunders 
 like a tempest. 
 
 24- 
 
Z72 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. 
 
 On the i8th of June, 1815, there was a full moon. Its 
 brightness fav^oured Bluchers fierce pursuit, betrayed the 
 course of the fugitives, delivered up the deplorable throng 
 to the infuriated Prussian cavalry, and looked on at the 
 massacre. Catastrophes are sometimes marked by these 
 tragic graces of the night. 
 
 After the last cannon-shot had been fired, the plain of 
 Mont Saint Jean was deserted. The English occupied the 
 French encampment ; it is the customary token of victory, 
 to sleep on the bed of the vanquished. They made their 
 bivouac beyond Rossomime. The Prussians, let loose upon 
 the flying rout, pushed forward. Wellington went to the 
 village of Waterloo to Avrite his dispatch to Lord Bathurst. 
 
 If ever the sic vos non vohis has been applicable, it sureljr 
 was to this village of Waterloo. Waterloo had no part in 
 the action, which never reached within half a league of it. 
 Mont Saint Jean was cannonaded, Hougomont was burnt,. 
 Papelotte was burnt, Placenoit was burnt, La Haye Sainte 
 Avas taken by storm, La Belle Alliance saw the meeting of 
 the two conquerors ; these names are scarcely known, and 
 W^aterloo, Avhich took no share in the battle, has all the 
 honour of it. 
 
 We are not of the number of those who flatter war ; when 
 occasion serves we speak the truth about it. War has ter- 
 rible beauties which we have not concealed ; it has also, we 
 admit, some ugly aspects. One of the most astonishing is 
 the rapid despoiling of the dead after a victory. The dawn 
 which follows a battle always breaks upon naked corpses. 
 
 Who does this } Who thus stains the triumph .^ Whose 
 is the hideous stealthy hand that slides into the pocket of 
 victory. Who are the robbers that strike their blow behind 
 the back of Glory } Certain philosophers, Voltaire among 
 others, affirm that it is precisely those who have won the 
 glory. The very same, say they ; there is no change. 
 
VICTOR HUGO. 373 
 
 Those who are up pillage those who are down. The hero 
 •of the day is the vampire of the night. After all, one has 
 a soft of right to rifle a corpse that one has made. For 
 ourselves, we have no such belief For the same hand to 
 gather a dead man's laurels and to steal his shoes seems to 
 us impossible. 
 
 Certain it is, however, that commonly after the victors 
 come the thieves. But let us put the soldier, especially the 
 soldier of our day, out of the question. Every army has a 
 following ; and it is here that the blame rests. Birds of 
 the night, half brigand and half valet, every species of ves- 
 pertilio engendered by the twilight that we call war, fellows 
 who wear uniforms but do not fight ; pretended invalids, 
 truculent cripples, unlicensed dram-sellers, driving along, 
 sometimes with their wives, on little carts, and stealing 
 what they sell ; beggars offering themselves as guides to 
 the officers ; cadgers, marauders ; — armies on the march 
 formerly — we are not speaking of the present time — drew 
 all these after them, and so universally that they were com- 
 monly called camp-followers. No army, and no nation was 
 responsible for these creatures ; they spoke Italian and 
 followed the Germans ; they spoke French and followed 
 the English. It was by one of these wretches, a Spanish 
 camp-follower who spoke French, that the Marquis of Fer- 
 vacques, deceived by his Picard dialect, and taking him for 
 one of our own men, was treacherously killed and plundered 
 on the very field of battle, in the night which followed the 
 victory^ of Cerisoles. Marauding led to th^ieving. The 
 detestable maxim, " Live upon the enemy's country," pro- 
 duced this leprosy, which nothing but a stern discipline, 
 could cure. There are some reputations that are deceptive ; 
 one does not always knovv^ why some generals, great ones 
 too, have been so popular. Turenne was adored by his 
 soldiers because he permitted pillage ; to tolerate wrong- 
 doing is a piece of good nature. Turenne was so good- 
 natured that he let the Palatinate be ravaged with fire and 
 sword. More or less maa'auding was to be found in an 
 
374 HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 army, according as the general was less or more severe. 
 Hoche and Marceau had no camp-followers ; Wellington, 
 we willingly render him this justice, had but few. 
 
 Nevertheless, on the night of the i8th of June, the pil- 
 lagers were busy. Wellington showed them no mercy ; 
 orders were given for the summary execution of any one 
 taken in the act. But rapine is tenacious. The pillagers 
 went on stealing at one corner of the battle-field, while 
 they vv^ere being shot at the other. 
 
 The night was still. Not a cloud in the sky. What 
 matters it that the earth is red ? the moon remains white. 
 Such is the indifference of the heavens. In the fields, 
 branches of trees broken by the musketry, but not fallen, 
 and held on by the bark, swung gently in the night air. 
 A breeze, one might almost call it a breath, stirred the 
 bushes. There were shivers among the grasses that seemed 
 like the parting of souls. 
 
 Indistinctly in the distance were heard, coming and 
 going, the sentinels and patrols of the English camp. 
 
 Hougomont and La Haye Sainte were burning still, 
 sending up, one at the west, and the other at the east, two 
 great flames ; to which were joined, like a necklace of 
 rubies, unclasped, having a carbuncle at each end, the line 
 of the English camp-fires, stretched in an immense semi- 
 circle on the hills of the horizon. 
 
 SPRINGTIME IN THE CHANNEL ISLANDS. 
 
 The day was beautiful ; more beautiful than any that had 
 yet been seen that year. It was one of those spring days 
 when May suddenly pours forth all its beauty, and when 
 Nature seems to have no thought but to rejoice and be 
 happy. Amidst the many murmurs from forest and village, 
 from the sea and the air, a sound of cooing could be dis- 
 tinguished. The first butterflies of the year were resting on 
 the early roses. Everything in nature seemed new — the 
 grass, the mosses, the leaves, the perfumes, the rays of light. 
 
VICTOR HUGO. 375 
 
 The sun shone as if it had never shone before. The 
 ■pebbles seemed bathed in coohiess. Birds but lately fledged 
 sang'out their deep notes from the trees, or fluttered among 
 the boughs in their attempts to use the new-found wings. 
 There was a chattering altogether of goldfinches, pewits, 
 tomtits, woodpeckers, bullfinches, and thrushes. The 
 blossoms of lilacs. May lilies, daphnes, and melilots, 
 mingled their various hues in the thickets. A beautiful 
 kind of water-weed, peculiar to Guernsey, covered the 
 pools with an emerald green ; where the king-fishers and 
 the water- wagtails, which make such graceful little nests, 
 came down to bathe their wings. Through every opening 
 in the branches appeared the deep blue sky. A few lazy 
 clouds followed each other in the azure depths. The 
 ear seemed to catch the sound of kisses sent from invisible 
 lips. Every old wall had its tuft of wall-flowers. The 
 plum-trees and laburnums were in blossom ; their white 
 and yellow masses gleamed through the interlacing boughs. 
 Spring showered all her gold and silver on the woods. 
 The new shoots and leaves were green and fresh. Calls of 
 welcome were in the air ; the approaching Summer opened 
 her hospitable doors for birds coming from afar. It was 
 the time of the arrival of the swallows. The clusters of 
 furze-bushes bordered the steep sides of hollow roads in 
 anticipation of the clusters of the hawthorn. The pretty 
 and the beautiful reigned side by side ; the magnificent 
 and the graceful, the great and the little, had each their 
 place. .No note in the great concert of nature was lost. 
 Gre^n microscopic beauties took their place in the vast 
 universal plan, in which all seemed distiguishable as in 
 limpid water. Everywhere a divine fulness, a mysterious 
 sense of expansion, suggested the unseen effort of the sap 
 in movement. Glittering things glittered more than ever ; 
 loving natures became more tender. There was a hymn in 
 the flowers, and a radiance in the sounds of the air. The 
 wide diffused army of nature burst forth on every side. All 
 things which felt the dawn of life invited others to put 
 
^^-J^ HALF-HOURS WITH FRENCH AUTHORS. 
 
 forth shoots. A movement coming from below, and also 
 from above, stirred vaguely all hearts susceptible to the 
 scattered and subterranean influence of germination. The 
 flower shadowed forth the fruit ; young maidens dreamed 
 of love. It was Nature's universal bridal. It was fine, 
 bright, and warm ; through the hedges in the meadov/s 
 children were seen laughing and playing at their games. 
 The fruit-trees filled the orchards with their heaps of white 
 and pink blossom. In the fields were primroses, cowslips, 
 milfoil, daffodils, daisies, speedwell, jacinths, and violets. 
 Blue borage and yellow irises swarmed with those beautiful 
 little pink stars which flower always in groups, and are 
 hence called " companions." Creatures with golden scales 
 glided between the stones. The flowering houseleek 
 covered the thatched roofs with purple patches. Women 
 w^ere plaiting hives in the open air, and the bees were 
 abroad mingling their humming with the murmurs from 
 the sea. 
 
 FINIS. 
 
 OCT 13 154:" 
 
 BILLING, PRINTER, GUILDFORD, SURREY.