Class _ 
 
 Book 
 
 GoipghtN"- 
 
 COFYRIGHT DEPOSm 
 

 FEENCH LITEEATUHE. 
 
HAND-BOOK 
 
 OF 
 
 FRENCH LITERATURE: 
 
 >"^; 
 
 (isteical, ^bgri^litiil, anb Crifiral. 
 
 REVISED AND EDITED 
 
 By JAMES B. ANGELL, 
 
 PROFESSOR OF MODERN LANGUAGES^ BROWN UNIVERSITY. 
 
 .>^- 
 
 PUBLISHED BY H. COWPERTHWAIT & CO., 
 
 No. 609 CHESTNUT STREET. 
 
 185T- 
 

 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1857, by 
 
 H. COWPERTHWAIT & CO., 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, in and for 
 the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 
 
 HEARS & DUSENBERT, SMITH & PETERS, 
 
 BTEREOTTPERS AND ELECTROTTPERS. PRINTERS. 
 
EDITOR'S PREFACE. 
 
 This Edition of Chambers's "well known Hand-book 
 of French Literature — a work which is written with 
 acknowledged care and judgment and taste — has been 
 prepared for the use of the numerous students of 
 French in our schools and colleges. With reference to 
 their wants, the following changes and additions have 
 been made by the American Editor. 
 
 An Essay on the History and Characteristics of the 
 French Language has been prefixed to the History of 
 the Literature. Certain portions of the original work, 
 which were deemed unnecessary in a text-book, have 
 been omitted. Brief notices of Christine de Pisan, 
 Alain Chartier, Le Sage, and Provost, and biographical 
 sketches of Bourdaloue, Massillon, and J. B. Rousseau, 
 have been introduced. Foot-notes have been added, 
 which give the dates of the birth and death of many 
 writers, and refer the student to English Biographies 
 and Essays, descriptive of the life and writings of the 
 1* (5) 
 
VI EDITOR S PREFACE. 
 
 inost renowned French authors. Attention has also 
 been called to some of those productions in English 
 Literature, which have been modified either in form or 
 in spirit, by the influence of French Literature. Of 
 course all have not been enumerated which might 
 serve this purpose, but only those which are to be 
 found in almost every public library. 
 
 It is hoped that this little book may awaken and 
 maintain, in the large class for whom it is designed, an 
 intelligent interest in the French Language and Lite- 
 rature. 
 
 Brown University, May, 1857. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Almost every one now learns something of French. 
 But among the many who acquire as much knowledge 
 of the language as to understand any passage they may 
 occasionally meet, there are comparatively few who 
 have any general acquaintance with the literature of 
 France — perhaps we might say there is a large propor- 
 tion who have never read a single volume of it besides 
 their school text-books. They have heard of Montaigni^^' 
 Corneille, Racine, Moliere, Boileau, Fontaine, Rousseau, 
 Voltaire ; but they have no distinct knowledge of the 
 leading characteristics of their works, or of the circum- 
 stances under which their genius developed itself. Still 
 less have they any well-defined ideas of the literature 
 as a whole, of the distinguishing features of each of its 
 ages, or of the progressive steps by which the national 
 mind of France has attained its present position. It is 
 for such, chiefly, that the present volume has been 
 written. Fain would we disarm criticism by protestinsj 
 
 (7) 
 
Vlll PREFACE. 
 
 with Malherbe, that we have not been ^' dressing meat 
 for cooks ;'' and that we pretend not to offer any addi- 
 tion to the knowledge of those who are already familiar 
 with this literature; for even had it been within the 
 compass of our talent, it would not have comported 
 with our design, nor yet with our limits, to enter upon 
 anything like minute criticism. We have collected 
 facts which are undisputed ; and embodied in a popular 
 way those general opinions which lie on the surface of 
 literary history : but the depths we have not presumed 
 to fathom. 
 
 Having designed the work, as has been intimated, 
 principally for those who have passed through the 
 usual course of education, we have deemed it unneces- 
 sary, and indeed undesirable, to furnish English ver- 
 sions of the specimens, except those of the earlier ages, 
 which, in the original, would be unintelligible to 
 ordinary French scholars in this country ; and here, as 
 matter of curiosity, we have generally added the old 
 French in foot-notes. 
 
 Margaret Foster. 
 
 Edinburgh, July, 1854. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 EAGB 
 HISTORY AND CHARACTERISTICS OF THE FRENCH LANGUAGE 13 
 
 INTRODUCTION 33 
 
 THE MIDDLE AGES. 
 
 I. THE TROUBADOURS— 
 
 THE PEOVEN9AL LANGUAGE — GENERAL CHAEACTER OP ITS 
 POETRY — EROTIC POETRY OF THE TROUBADOURS — SIR- 
 VENTES — DEVOTIONAL POETRY — POEMS ON THE CRUSADE'S 
 DECAY OF TROUBADOUR POETRY — AND OF THE PRO- 
 VENCAL LANGUAGE 35-63 
 
 n. THE TROUVERES— 
 
 RISE OF THE LANGUE D*OIL OR ROMANCE WALLON — IT 
 MERGES INTO NORMAN-FRENCH — CHIVALROUS ROMANCES 
 — LAYS — ALLEGORICAL POEMS — FABLIAUX — HISTORICAL 
 ROMANCES — LYRIC POETRY — CONCLUDING OBSERVATIONS 
 — THE UNIVERSITY OF PARIS 63-93 
 
 in. DRAMATIC POETRY- 
 DESTRUCTION OF THE ANCIENT THEATRE — THEATRICAL EX- 
 HIBITIONS IN CHRISTIAN CHURCHES — THE MYSTERIES — 
 THAT OF THE PASSION — THE MORALITIES . . . 93-100 
 
 (9) 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 IV. POETRY IN THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY- 
 STATE OF THE LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE — CHRISTINE DE 
 
 PIS AN — ALAIN CHARTIER — CHARLES D'ORLEANS — VILLON 101-104 
 
 Y. EARLY FRENCH PROSE- 
 CHRONICLERS OF PERSONAL ADVENTURES — VILLE-HARDOUIN 
 — JOINVILLE — THE PROFESSIONAL HISTORIAN PROISSART 
 — ROMANCE OF MERLIN IN PROSE — COMINES, A PHILOSO- 
 PHICAL HISTORIAN 105-113 
 
 THE AGE OF TRANSITION, 1500-1650. 
 
 VI. THE RENAISSANCE AND REFORM— 
 
 V MARGUERITE DE VALOIS — MAROT — RABELAIS — MONTAIGNE 
 
 — CHARRON — ST. FRANCOIS DE SALES — SATIRE MENIPPEE 114-138 
 
 VII. LIGHT LITERATURE— 
 
 RONSARD — HARDY — REGNIER — MALHERBE — BALZAC — VOI- 
 TURE — MALLEVILLE — SCARRON — THE HOTEL DE RAM- 
 BOUILLET — THE FRENCH ACADEMY .... 139-153 
 
 Vni. PHILOSOPHY- 
 DESCARTES — PASCAL « 153-162 
 
 IX. THE DRAMA— 
 
 CORNEILLB 162-175 
 
 AGE OF LOUIS XIV. 
 
 X. VARIOUS INFLUENCES COMBINING TO FORM THE LITERA- 
 TURE OF THIS PERIOD— DIRECT INFLUENCE OF THE KING 176-180 
 
 XI. TRAGEDY- 
 RACINE, HIS LIFE AND WORKS — ANALYSIS OF ATHALIE — 
 
 MINOR TRAGIC AUTHORS OF THIS PERIOD — THE OPERA . 180-194 
 
CONTENTS. XI 
 
 PAQB 
 Xn. COMEDY- 
 REMARKS ON FRENCH COMEDY — MOLIERE'S LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 LES PRECIEUSES RIDICULES — SCENE FROM TARTUFE 
 
 LE MISANTHROPE — DEATH OF MOLIERE — MINOR COMIC 
 DRAMATISTS OF THIS AGE 194-210 
 
 XIII. FABLES AND TALES IN VERSE— 
 
 FONTAINE, HIS LIFE AND CHARACTER — TALES — FABLES — 
 
 ANECDOTES — HIS SICKNESS, CONVERSION, AND DEATH . 210-225 
 
 XIV. SATIRICAL, MOCK-HEROIC, AND OTHER POETRY— 
 
 BOILEAU, HIS EARLY LIFE — SATIRES — ART OF POETRY — THE 
 LUTRIN — EPISTLES — ANECDOTES — HIS DEATH — NARROW 
 SPHERE OF POETRY — MADAME DESHOULIERES . . 226-246 
 
 XV. ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT AND BAR- 
 
 INFLUENCE OF LOUIS XIV. ON PULPIT ELOQUENCE — BOSSUET, 
 HIS LIFE AND WORKS — BOURDALOUE — MASSILLON — FLE- 
 CHIER — SAURIN — FORENSIC ORATORS .... 246-264 
 
 XVI. THE MORALISTS- 
 
 ROCHEFOUCAULD — LA BRUYERE — NICOLE . . . 265-271 
 
 XVII. HISTORY AND MEMOIRS— 
 
 BOSSUET, MEZERAY, ST. REAL, FLEURY, ROLLIN, DE RETZ, 
 
 ST. SIMON, COUNT HAMILTON 271-280 
 
 XVIII. ROMANCE AND LETTER-WRITING— 
 
 MADAME DE LA FAYETTE — FENELON— SEVIGNE — MAINTENON 280-295 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 XIX. THE DAWN OF SCEPTICISM- 
 CONTRAST BETWEEN THE SPIRIT OP THE SEVENTEENTH AND 
 THAT OP THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY — TRANSITION — BAYLE 
 
 — J. B. ROUSSEAU — CHAULIEU — LE SAGE — PREVOST 
 
 FONTENELLE — LA MOTTE 
 
 296-305 
 
Xll CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 XX. OPEN ATTACK ON RELIGION AND GOVERNMENT— 
 
 Montesquieu's lettres persanes — esprit des lois — 
 dialogue between sylla and eucrates — voltaire — 
 
 CHARACTER OP HIS GENIUS — HIS LIFE AND WORKS . . 305-329 
 
 XXI. THE SCEPTICAL AND REVOLUTIONARY SPIRIT TRIUMPHANT— 
 
 THE ENCYCLOPEDISTS — THEIR TENETS EXPOUNDED BY CON- 
 DILLAC — APPLICATION OP THEIR PHILOSOPHY IN DIF- 
 FERENT DEPARTMENTS OF LITERATURE— d'ALEMBERT — 
 DIDEROT — HELVETIUS — MABLY — VAUVENARGUE— BONNET 
 
 — J. J. Rousseau's life and works — buffon — marmon- 
 
 TEL — LA HARPE — HISTORY — ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT 
 AND BAR — PASTORAL TALES AND FABLES — THE REVOLU- 
 TION — POETRY OF ANDRE CHENIER .... 329-377' 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTUEY. 
 
 XXn. RISE OF THE ROMANTIC SCHOOL- 
 
 MADAME DE STAEL — MADAME DE GENLIS — M. LE VICOMTE 
 
 DE CHATEAUBRIAND 378-401 
 
 XXIII. A NEW CAREER- 
 HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY — SPECULATIVE PHILOSOPHY- 
 LITERARY CRITICISM — NEW FEATURES IN POETRY — NOV- 
 ELS AND PLAYS 402-422 
 
 XXIV. NOVELS AND DRAMAS 
 
 GENERAL CHARACTER OP THE LITERATURE WHICH FOL- 
 LOWED THE REVOLUTION OP 1830 — VICTOR HUGO — HIS 
 NOTRE DAME — ALFRED DE VIGNY — BALZAC — GEORGE 
 SAND — PAUL DE KOCK — A. DUMAS — VICTOR HUGO'S 
 MARION DELORME — CONCLUSION 422-432 
 
HISTORY AND CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 OF THE 
 
 FEENCH LANGUAGE. 
 
 Every people^ wlio have chosea France for their home, have 
 left their impress upon the national tongue. A few words of 
 the gay and graceful Iberians still linger in the French, as the 
 scattered remnants of that wonderful nation yet cling to their 
 mountain homes. The Celts were invaded by Grecian civili- 
 zation from the south, by Roman civilization from the east, 
 and by Frankish barbarism from the North; yet they left 
 behind them memorials of their existence, which were more 
 enduring than brass or stone. Fragments of their language 
 have survived all the revolutions which have ravaged their 
 land. Several of the words which were known to the fierce 
 warriors of Lutetia, are heard to-day in the streets of Paris. 
 The Greeks, who founded Marseilles, Nice, Antibes, and 
 other cities along the shores of the Mediterranean, gave to the 
 land of their adoption many of the expressions which belong 
 to a refined and commercial nation.* The very name, France, 
 
 '^^ Many French words of Greek origin were introduced at a later period, 
 but Ampere traces a number back to the ancient colonists from Greece. 
 2 (13) 
 
14 HISTORY AND CHARACTERISTICS OF 
 
 points US to the irruption of the Frankish tribes from the 
 Rhine; and such words as guerre^ hanniere^ houlevard, still 
 remain to indicate what was the art which they taught to the 
 conquered Gauls. 
 
 But the essential elements of the present language were 
 brought into France by the Eoman legions and colonists. By 
 far the greater part of its words and constructions is derived 
 from the Latin. Bom an arts always followed Eoman arms. 
 The Latin works which were written in Gaul, no less than the 
 vast amphitheatres, and aqueducts, and triumphal arches, 
 which are scattered from the Alps to the Pyrenees, tell us 
 of the days of Eoman splendor in the favorite transalpine 
 province. Gallic poets caught up the lyre of Virgil and Ho- 
 race, and sang in strains which were not despised at Eome. 
 Gallic legions fought beneath the Eoman eagles. Gallic sena- 
 tors sat between Cicero and Brutus. Gallic scholars instructed 
 Eoman citizens in medicine and in oratory. Sixty cities of 
 Gaul erected altars to Augustus. Latin was the language of 
 the cities, and of all who aspired to learning, throughout the 
 south of Gaul.* 
 
 It must not be supposed that a pure and classical Latin was 
 spoken even by the Eoman legions themselves. They were 
 drawn from all the provinces of the vast Eoman empire. The 
 common people of the cities of Gaul learned the corrupt pro- 
 vincial dialects of the colonists and soldiers, and mingled with 
 them many of the words and idioms of their own vernacular. 
 It is impossible to say how rapidly the rustic Latin, thus 
 formed, was adopted by the people in the country. Though 
 scholars have learnedly and earnestly discussed the subject, 
 their opinions are still extremely discordant. The introduc- 
 tion of Christianity of course made the language of the church 
 
 *^ See Michelet's History of France, Vol. I. p. 50. 
 
THE FRENCH LANGUAGE. 15 
 
 . familiar to the priests througliout the whole of Gaul. But 
 they seem to have been sensibly affected by their intercourse 
 with the people ; for their Latin gradually lost many of its 
 distinctive features, and assumed the coarse and irregular 
 forms of the rustic tongue. Even the learned Gregory of 
 Tours, in the sixth century, shows a most independent disre- 
 gard of all rules of agreement, whether in gender, number, or 
 case. He writes, invocato nomen dominij excepto fiUahu^, 
 and de ecclesmm. 
 
 The Frankish race never attempted to force their harsh and 
 guttural tongue upon the conquered people. They had the 
 wisdom to rule through the clergy, and the clergy were the 
 conservators of the Latin element. Even Charlemagne, with 
 all his ambition for the unity of his extended empire, gave to 
 the language of the Gauls but a very few words of German 
 origin. By assiduous study of the Frankish language, by 
 using it at his court, by wearing the Frankish dress, by col- 
 lecting the popular ballads of Germany, and by the establish- 
 ment of schools, he cultivated in the Germans a national spirit 
 and a love for their national tongue. But he suffered the 
 Gauls to speak their own language. He made liberal provi- 
 sions for their instruction in Latin. He did not encourage 
 any efforts to perfect the rustic tongue. He permitted the 
 Latin and the Teutonic to overshadow it; and perhaps he 
 hoped that, deprived of the sunlight of royal and scholastic 
 favor, it would pine and perish. But it was now too deeply 
 rooted in the affections of the people to die of neglect. Though 
 untended and unpruned by grammarians and monarchs, it had 
 all the elements of vigorous life. The priests were obliged to 
 lay aside the language of the church, and speak and preach 
 intelligibly to the people. The council of Rheims in 813 — 
 the subsequent one at Tours — and that at Mayence in 847, 
 enjoined upon the prelates to translate their sermons into the 
 
16 HISTORY AND CHARACTERISTICS OF 
 
 langue rustique romane, in order tliat all the hearers might 
 understand. 
 
 This tongue received a new impulse from the division of 
 the empire by the sons of Charlemagne, and the erection of a 
 kingdom of the Gauls. It became a written language and the 
 language of a court. The Frankish retreated across the 
 Rhine ; and the first recorded specimen of the language of 
 France is the oath, which was taken by Louis the German and 
 by the subjects of Charles the Bald, in 842."^ 
 
 But the vulgar tongue was not yet the language of learning 
 and of law. Indeed, at this very time, scholars like Adalberon 
 and Gerbert and Richer, devoted themselves to purifying their 
 Latin, and thus rendering their thoughts inaccessible to the 
 nation. All edicts and cartularies, all works of poetry, history, 
 and philosophy, were written in Latin. The great mass of the 
 inhabitants were utterly ignorant ; and so, although they had 
 cast off the supremacy of the Franks, the scholars and clergy 
 and monarchs still held them bound beneath the domination 
 of Latinity. The establishment of the Capetian Kings upon 
 the throne, seemed to promise for a time an impulse towards 
 a national feeling, and the development of a national language 
 in central France. But feudalism rendered permanent unity 
 impossible, and the minds of men were buried in hopeless 
 apathy by the fear of the approaching end of the world. The 
 year 1000, which was predicted as the time for universal 
 destruction, passed quietly by. A reaction followed this 
 torpor. France awakened into life. The clarion of war re- 
 sounded. The Normans poured themselves on to the shores 
 of FiUgland, and laid her prostrate at their feet. They seized 
 upon Naples and Sicily. The orifiamme was raised. The 
 crusades were preached, and the cry of St. Bernard, Diex el 
 volt J was heard upon the walls of Jerusalem. The spirit and 
 
 * See page 63. 
 
THE FRENCH LANGUAGE. 17 
 
 vigor of tlie invincible warriors were breathed into tbe forming 
 language. In the reign of Louis IX., the last and best of the 
 royal crusaders, it had acquired a strength, a boldness, and a 
 precision, which characterize the utterances of a daring and 
 passionate people. 
 
 We find that so early as this the language of the north of 
 France was considerably different from that of the south. The 
 first contained more of the Gaelic and Frankish elements, and 
 was, consequently, harsher and bolder than the second, which 
 resembled the Latin quite closely, and was flexible, smooth, 
 and harmonious. The former was called the langue cVoll (oui), 
 and was subsequently used by the Trouv^res, who wrote most 
 of the ancient Allegories, Legends, and Fabliaux. The latter 
 was the langue d^oCy and was the tongue of the famous Trouba- 
 dours.'^ The weaker and more beautiful language of the south 
 yielded at last to the ruder and stronger langue d'ouij and 
 therefore it is only the history of the latter which we have to 
 trace. 
 
 So rapidly did it change its form during these years of 
 transition to which we have alluded, that the children scarcely 
 understood the words of their grandparents. There were no 
 settled rules of orthography. Every generation reproduced 
 the works of the past in a modified form of spelling. For 
 instance, the version of the first verse of the first psalm stood 
 thus at the end of the twelfth century : — 
 
 " Beoneuret li horn ki ne alat el conseil de f^luns, en la veie de 
 pecheurs ne stout, et en la chaere des escharnisurs ne sist." 
 
 And at the end of the thirteenth, thus, 
 
 *'Beneit soit le bier qui ne foreie el cunseil des engr^s, et ne estuet 
 en voie de p^cheours, et ne siet en la chaiere de pestilence." 
 
 * See page 63. 
 2* 
 
18 HISTORY AND CHARACTERISTICS OF 
 
 It was natural that a manly and chivalric people should 
 make their first intellectual efforts in celebrating the praises 
 of their heroes. Accordingly we find that the earliest monu- 
 ments of the literature of France are the songs and tales, 
 which recount the deeds of Roland^ Oliver, and Charlemagne. 
 While the freshness and naivete of the language in its youth 
 fitted it to paint the scenes, and embody the spirit of a pri- 
 mitive age, the earnest labors of the earliest narratars and 
 poets hastened its development^ and prepared it for the mani- 
 fold purposes of advancing civilization. We find it at the 
 beginning of the thirteenth century capable of describing 
 with simplicity and power a great historical event, the capture 
 of Constantinople in 1204 by the French. The brave old 
 soldier, Villehardouin, tells the story with an artlessness and 
 truthfulness, which charm us even at this day. The cham- 
 pions of learning, the doctors of the famous University of 
 Paris, were frowning upon the vulgar tongue. They were 
 fiercely discussing in their choicest Latin those subtle ques- 
 tions of Nominalism and Realism, which so completely ab- 
 sorbed the loftiest minds of the whole of Europe. They 
 little dreamed that the day would com^e, when the words of 
 the unlettered chronicler would be more zealously and lovingly 
 pondered by the Parisian scholar than the profound and 
 witty discussions of John of Parma and Guillaume de St. 
 Amour. 
 
 The language soon acquired new honors from the second 
 great prose writer, Jean, Sire de Joinville. At the request 
 of Jeanne, the wife of Philip the Fair, he wrote the Life of 
 St. Louis. The language in his hands was less cautious and 
 timid in its utterances than in those of Villehardouin, and far 
 more flexile and graceful. It had something of the freedom 
 and carelessness of conscious strength. The biographer's con- 
 temporaries, Marie de France and Thibaut, Com to de Cham^ 
 
THE FRENCH LANGUAGE. 19 
 
 pagne, show us by their lai8 and chansons, and Guillaume de 
 Loris by bis famous Roman de la Rose, that their language 
 already possessed considerable richness, harmony, and rhyth- 
 mical power. During the residence of the French at Con- 
 stantinople they had borrowed many words and idioms from 
 the Greeks, and had polished and refined many of their ver- 
 nacular expressions in accordance with the principles of a 
 classical taste. They have always been peculiarly susceptible 
 to the elevating influences of Grecian culture. When the 
 Mohammedans laid waste the Eastern Empire, and scattered 
 the distinguished scholars of its capital over Western Europe, 
 nowhere were those representatives of learning more warmly 
 welcomed, and nowhere were their teachings more ardently 
 received than at the schools of philosophy in Paris. 
 
 If we pass from the earliest prose wi'iters of France to those 
 of the fourteenth century, we first meet with Froissart, the 
 chronicler of the brave old days of courtly life in the land 
 of our fathers as well as in France. His style is more studied 
 and severe, though perhaps less thoroughly infused with the 
 genuine spirit of French than that of his great predecessor, 
 Joinville. Latin was already going forth from the university, 
 and binding the language of the people in the fetters of scho- 
 lastic formality. The natural coloring, the youthful strength, 
 and the buoyant freedom of the French were now in peril. 
 The violent commotions in the reigns of Charles VI. and 
 Charles VII. seriously retarded the progress of letters. Yet 
 their Secretary was Alain Chartier, who is supposed to have 
 invented the rime redoubUe and the rondeau. 
 
 In the reign of Louis XI., so dark with many a scene of 
 cruelty, the dawn of a brighter day for the national language 
 and literature became clearly apparent. His patronage of 
 scholars, his encouragement of printing, the poetiy of Villon, 
 and the history of Comines, all foretold an approaching Re- 
 
20 HISTORY AND CHARACTERISTICS OF 
 
 vival of Letters. Villon^ wlio was a greater knave than poet, 
 and who twice escaped the hangman's cord by royal favor, 
 rendered an incalculable service to the language by daring to 
 employ in his poems the words of every-day life. These 
 always form the real riches of a language. All scholars and 
 critics from Marot to Boileau have united in acknowledging 
 their indebtedness to this singular poet of fripons. Comines 
 wrote the memoirs of his royal master, and was the first 
 French writer who rose above the work of the chronicler 
 almost to the art of the historian, and gave to the language a 
 precision and power which were not again seen till the time 
 of Montaigne. 
 
 With the accession of Francis I. to the throne the national 
 tongue attained new honors and privileges, but was also en- 
 compassed by dangers, which it was scarcely prepared to 
 resist. Then, for the first time, the laws of the realm were 
 recorded and proclaimed in French. The court was filled 
 with poets and scribblers. Authors were as highly honored 
 by the king as knights had been by Louis IX. A princess 
 was prouder of her writings than of her noble birth. In a 
 word French became fashionable ; and from that moment its 
 purity was in peril. It changed its form and character with 
 every caprice of a fickle court. The gentlemen, who had been 
 to the wars in Italy, brought home Italian expressions, with 
 which they overloaded their French. Thus originated that 
 corrupt jargon, which Henri Estienne called the courtisanes' 
 qucy and which was so long heard in all the salons of Paris. 
 
 The Italian influence was strongly opposed by the classical 
 scholars and by the first Protestant reformers. The earliest 
 opponents of the Komish faith cherished and defended the 
 language of the people; and had they continued to use it, as 
 Luther employed the popular German, who knows but France 
 would to-day be a Protestant land ? But they soon became 
 
THE FRENCH LANGUAGE. 21 
 
 ambitious to meet the scholars of tlie ancient church upon 
 their own ground, and defeat them with their own scholastic 
 weapons. They expended their power in learned discussions 
 in Latin, and employed their time in confounding doctors 
 rather than in preaching glad tidings to the multitude. The 
 impulse which they thus gave to the study of Latin was 
 warmly seconded by the classical students, whd had begun to 
 fear that their favorite studies would be entirely neglected in 
 the ardent cultivation of French. The priests and monks, 
 who had almost the entire control of public education, were 
 trembling lest the Bible should be translated and placed in 
 the hands of the laity. 
 
 But, though many of the Protestants became involved in 
 endless theological disputations in Latin, some of them left 
 an impress on the popular language, which is clearly visible 
 down to this day. There was Clement Marot, the translator 
 of the Psalms, the graceful and delicate poet, from whom 
 La Fontaine was proud to draw inspiration. There was 
 Marguerite of Navarre, the protector of the perse<3uted, the 
 patroness of French poets, a writer herself of no little merit. 
 There were also the grammarian Ramus, the renowned scho- 
 lars the Estiennes, and Theodore De Beze. There too was 
 John Calvin, whose services to the French language were 
 almost as conspicuous as those which he rendered to religion. 
 It was not till the langue d^oll became the organ of the 
 Huguenots, that it crossed the Loire, and made its conquests 
 in the southern provinces. Then, for the first time, it was 
 heard alike at La Rochelle, at Paris, at Nismes, at Lyons, at 
 Geneva, and also in Holland, that asylum of the oppressed, 
 whence for two hundred years it sent forth its boldest and 
 ablest works to the world. Thus, though the faith of the 
 Protestants has not conquered France, it is the language of 
 
22 HISTORY AND CHARACTERISTICS OF 
 
 the Protestants which is heard from Calais to Marseilles, and 
 from Bordeaux to the Rhine. 
 
 It may seem somewhat strange that no one should have 
 attempted to write a French grammar, until Francis I. had 
 been fourteen years upon the throne. It is still more strange 
 that the first French grammar should have been written by an 
 Englishman, and printed at London. John Palsgrave, an 
 eminent scholar, who had studied at Cambridge and Oxford 
 and Paris, was employed by Henry VIII. to teach French to 
 the Princess Mary, who was to marry Louis XII. in 1514. 
 After the death of the French king, the widow was married to 
 Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk; and probably at her sug- 
 gestion, the duke urged Palsgrave to prepare a French gram- 
 mar for the use of the court. Accordingly in 1530 he pub- 
 lished one with the following title, ^^ L^ Esclarcissement de la 
 Langue frangoise,^^^ He is distinguished for his simplicity, 
 clearness, and good sense. He says that French was spoken 
 most correctly between the Seine and the Loire. He alludes 
 to the influence of the courtisanesque style upon the pronun- 
 ciation at Paris. He reproaches the Parisians for calling 
 themselves Pazisiens, and for saying Mazie instead of Marie, 
 Most of the rules which he lays down, are as applicable now 
 as they were at that time. It is highly probable that he first 
 regularly used the acute accent to mark the sharp e. 
 
 The famous miser and brilliant scholar, Jacques Dubois, 
 surnamed Sylvius, equally renowned for his meanness and 
 learning, was the first Frenchman who composed a grammar 
 of his language. It was written in Latin, and published in 
 1531. His vanity prompted him to speak as a dictator. He 
 invented a new orthography, in which some of the letters of 
 the alphabet were dropped, and several new characters were 
 
 * This work is exceedingly rare. France has only one copy, and that 
 is in the Mazarin Library. 
 
THE FRENCH LANGUAGE. 23 
 
 introduced. But the only suggestion of Dubois whicli has 
 been approved by subsequent writers^ is the use of the grave 
 accent over the open e. 
 
 In 1550, Louis Meigret, a scholar from Lyons, who had 
 settled in Paris, published, a ^^ Trette de la Grammere Fran- 
 coize,^^ in which he contended that the orthography ought to 
 conform to the pronunciation. The theory was very plausible ; 
 but the difficult question at once arose, Whose pronunciation 
 should be adopted ? The courtiers from the various provinces 
 pronounced the same word very differently. Meigret^s attempt 
 to introduce a phonographic system met with many insuperable 
 objections. Yet it was he who first proposed to write noire ^ 
 hU, arreter, &c., in their present form, to substitute y for i in 
 such words as moyen^ royal, rayon, and to use the apostrophe 
 where a vowel is omitted or elided. 
 
 The vexed question of orthography was finally settled in 
 French, as it must be in every language, against the party who 
 wished to follow the pronunciation. Each generation changes 
 the sound of many words, and if the spelling were changed 
 accordingly, the books of one century would be as difficult for 
 the next to understand, as the Canterbury Tales of Chaucer 
 are for the children of our day. Besides, the history of a 
 word is contained in its form. Its resemblance to its family 
 tells us its origin, and if a glance at it carries us back to the 
 home from which it has come, it stands before us filled with 
 new life and clothed with new power. 
 
 Robert Estienne, the father of Henry, published at Geneva 
 during his exile a Traicte de la Grammaire frangoise. This 
 renowned printer and scholar followed the plan of systematic 
 works on Latin grammar. He traced the constructions and 
 words back to their original source, and clearly developed the 
 principles which ought to guide all writers in their use. 
 
 The passionate study of Greek by the French scholars of 
 
24 HISTORY AND CHARACTERISTICS OF 
 
 the sixteenth century^ produced a visible effect upon the form 
 of words in. their vernacular. They evidently aimed to give a 
 learned and classical air to their language. Since each pro- 
 posed such modifications as suited his taste, or most signally 
 displayed his scholarship, we find the most wonderful diversity 
 in the spelling of that age. It was also more complicated, 
 cumbrous, and pedantic than that of the fifteenth or that of 
 the seventeenth century. If we compare a page of Rabelais 
 with a page of Ramus or of Montaigne, and a chapter of either 
 with one of Philippe de Comines and one of Bossuet, we shall 
 be surprised to observe how great is the difference in the 
 orthography of the three contemporaries, and how much more 
 the spelling of the fifteenth century resembles that of the seven- 
 teenth, than it does that of the intervening sixteenth. It is 
 true that the language was enriched by this first contact with 
 the Greek. And the classical ardor of Henry Estienne and 
 of the group of scholars who clustered around him, probably 
 stayed the invasion of Italian corruptions which were then 
 pouring in upon France. They loved the Greek, and they 
 asserted the excellence of the French, because it resembled the 
 Greek more nearly than did the Italian. They accused the 
 Italians of having borrowed the chief beauties of their language 
 from the French. They strove to show the richness and variety 
 of the French by exhuming old words of the days of Marot, 
 and drawing the most expressive words from the various patois 
 of the provinces. But while they thus contributed to the ele- 
 vation and development of their language, they perilled its 
 purity and naturalness by their love for classical learn- 
 ing. They saved it from the Italian, but they almost sur- 
 rendered it to the Greek and the Latin. How are the style 
 of Amyot, the translator of Plutarch, and that of the genial 
 Montaigne tinged with the coloring of their ancient masters 
 and models ! Ronsard, the poet laureate of the court of Charles 
 
THE FRENCH LANGUAGE. 25 
 
 IX.j and tlie circle of poets whom lie called his PUiade, intro- 
 duced not only classical thoughts and idioms^ but sometimes 
 Greek and Latin words into their verses^ 
 
 ^' Leur muse en fran9ais parla grec et latin.'* 
 
 But, happily for the fortunes of the language, Malherhe 
 appeared, '' the tyrant of words and syllables/^ His taste, his 
 studies, and his position all fitted him for the work of reforma- 
 tion to which he was called. He hated Greek and the whole 
 classical school of poets in France. He turned with delight 
 to Villon and Marot, and studied the language of the people. 
 He declared that the porters of grain spoke the best French. 
 In the spirit of the severest criticism he scanned every meta.- 
 phor, weighed every word, and insisted on the utmost clear- 
 ness of conception and expression. While in the agonies of 
 denth he suddenly rose up in bed, and in violent terms cor- 
 rected the bad pronunciation of his attendants. His con-, 
 fessor having gently reproved him for this outburst of passion 
 at such a time, he replied, ^^I will defend the purity of the 
 French language even to the moment of my death.'' 
 
 Henry IV. was by no means reluctant to favor a man, who 
 openly combated the literary champions of his royal predeces- 
 sors and enemies. He was glad to destroy the imposing prestige 
 which the works of distinguished poets had lent to the reigns 
 of Catherine de Medicis and her sons. He desired to supplant 
 the love which his people had cherished for Italian and classi- 
 cal productions, by a national pride and enthusiasm. He 
 wished to make his subjects patriots and Frenchmen. He 
 therefore warmly seconded Malherbe by every means in his 
 power. Classical circumlocutions and allegories, and Italian 
 vices and conceits, were banished from the Louvre. The court 
 at last took pride in speaking French. 
 
 But though Italian affectation was driven from the house- 
 hold of the king, it was not without a refuge and a home. 
 
26 HISTORY AND CHARACTERISTICS OF 
 
 Almost under the shadow of the Louvre lived a brilliant lady, 
 of Italian descent, Catherine de Vivonne, Marquise de Ram- 
 bouillet. Around her was gathered a court, which, in numbers, 
 elegance, and genius, rivalled that of the monarch himself. 
 The numerous disciples of Ronsard, the polished courtiers of 
 the fallen house of Valois, aspiring poets, who feared the 
 sternness of Malherbe, and all the nobles, who were opposed to 
 the king, thronged her elegant salon. The hostile parties 
 showered satires upon each other, and the issue of the con- 
 test seemed doubtful, so long as the king was alive. But in 
 1610 he died, and his mother, Marie de Medicis, obtained the 
 regency. She graciously favored the Hotel de Rambouiliet 
 with her protection and patronage. Her administrator, Con- 
 cini, a Florentine, invited to the court Marini, a Neapolitan 
 cavalier. He joined to his Italian nature something of the 
 dignity of Castilian manners, and was as perfect a master of 
 the strained and turgid style of the Spaniards, as of the 
 learned and artificial style of his native land. This hero of 
 the world of madrigals and sonnets and flowers was chosen by 
 the circle of heaux esprits to contend with the fierce and un- 
 sparing critic, who was loved and admired by the people. 
 Marini was really the father of that school, who were called 
 the Frecieuses. He taught the art of avoiding the language 
 of every-day life, and of rhythmically and gracefully linking 
 those words, which belong to the vocabulary of compliments 
 and flattery. A critic has happily defined his talent as '' Varti- 
 fire (V eorploiter Je neantJ^ But to his influence was due the 
 appearance of the St. Amands and Benserades and Theophiles, 
 who spent their lives in writing wretched rhymes to the Phil- 
 lises, and making bouquets for the Chlorises. The most 
 brilliant period in the history of the Hotel de Bambouillet 
 •»as between the death of Malherbe in 1629, and that 
 Voiture in 1618. At that time its presiding genius was 
 
THE FRENCH LANGUAGE. 27 
 
 Julie d'Angennes, the daughter of Catherine de Vivonne. As 
 this fair ladj sat in her bed * to receive the homage of her 
 many admirers, she often saw among them Voiture, Balzac, 
 Chapelain, Thomas Corneille, Quinault, Scudery, Scarron, 
 Bussy-Rabutin, and the great Corneille ; and of the nobility 
 the La Rochefoucaulds, the Clermonts, the Duchesses of Angou- 
 leme, of Nemours, of Longueviile, of La Tremouiiie, and even 
 the Princes of Conde. 
 
 The Precieuses proposed, as they said, to devulgariser the 
 language. They aimed to accomplish this end, not by resort- 
 ing to the ancient tongues for assistance, but by developing 
 the latent powers of the French. They introduced new uses 
 of old words, new names for common things, new combina- 
 tions of terms, and a countless number of new comparisons 
 and metaphors. f 
 
 It was fortunate for the language that Boileau and Moliere 
 came forward to complete the work which Malherbe had 
 begun. The first spoke with such power and justice that he 
 became a kind of dictator in criticism. His opinions are cited 
 as law even at this day. The great father of French comedy 
 wielded more delicate and perhaps more^ effective weapons 
 than his friend and colleague. The plays called Les Precieuses 
 and Les Femmes Savantes held the mirror up to folly. Paris 
 laughed at itself, and reformed. 
 
 We must not suppose that the language gained nothing by 
 this last great struggle, through which it was compelled to 
 pass. Many metaphorical expressions, which are now so fre- 
 quently used that we are never reminded of their tropical 
 nature, then, for the first time, enriched it by their presence. 
 Three of the Precieuses, it is said, also suggested the impor- 
 tant changes in orthography, which were afterwards adopted 
 
 '^' See page 149. 
 t ^^^ pages 150-1. 
 
28 HISTORY AND CHARACTERISTICS OF 
 
 by the x\cademy in the second edition of its Dictionary. There 
 is no donbt that the hypercriticism and excessive refinement 
 of the sensitive poets at the Hotel de Rambouillet called forth 
 the lexicographers and grammarians and rhetoricians of the 
 reign of Louis XIY. 
 
 No less than three large dictionaries appeared between the 
 years 1680 and 1694. The first was written by Richelet and 
 published at Geneva. He proposed some changes in ortho- 
 graphy ^ gave the etymology of many words, and cited passages 
 and referred to authors to show what constituted good usage.* 
 Antoine Furetiere published the Dictionnaire Universel at the 
 Hague, in 1690. Four years later the Academy brought out 
 their great work, after fifty-nine years of labor, and proved 
 how well they had toiled for the end which their founder, 
 Richelieu, had proposed, ^' to establish fixed rules for the 
 French language, and to render it the most perfect of modern 
 tongues.'^ They sanctioned those words which elegant usage 
 had adopted. They sifted the common language thoroughly. 
 Their exacting taste never sacrificed correctness to expressive- 
 ness and strength. They unfortunately omitted to explain 
 etymologies, to cite passages from good authors, and to intro- 
 duce any word or expression which had not the most indisput- 
 able claim to a place in their classical vocabulary. Their work 
 
 * His work was a treasury of satire as well as of learning. la illustra- 
 ting definitions, he held up to ridicule whatever displeased his cynical 
 taste. Thus, under the word wedeein, we find " On dit que le Sieur Finot 
 est un chetif medecin.'' At the word vers we read, "Les boutiques des 
 espicicrs de Paris sont pleines des oeuvres de Colletet, tant en vers qu'cB 
 prose." Again at poetique '^he mariage de Colletet avec sa servante est 
 un mariage VTSLiment poetique." To the definition of pedant is added, " De 
 tous les animaux domestiques Ti deux pieds, qu'on appelle vulgairement 
 peduns, du Clerat est le plus miserable et le plus cancre; il sent le p6dant 
 de deux lieues a la ronde." 
 
 This dictionary was afterwards abridged, and, under the title of Din- 
 tionnaire de Wailly, was used in all the French schools and colleges. 
 
THE FRENCH LANGUAGE. 29 
 
 has almost continually been undergoing revision to meet the 
 increasing wants of the nation. Having always been under 
 the guardianship of that learned body who first gave it to the 
 world, its decisions have invariably been received with that 
 deference and respect which the opinions of the greatest 
 linguists and the ripest scholars are sure to command. 
 
 The critical works of Yaugelas, Menage, Thomas Corneille, 
 Patru, Bouhours, D' Olivet, and Boileau, helped to determine 
 with precision the laws which governed their language. The 
 literature which was formed by their distinguished contempo- 
 raries gave permanence and fixedness to those laws. The age 
 of Louis XIY. is the classical period in French literature. 
 The language then received essentially the form which it has 
 since maintained. Yoltaire, with his unsparing knife, after- 
 wards pruned it of many excrescences. The romantic school 
 of this century have made some innovations. Science and the 
 arts in their rapid progress have added many technical terms. 
 But the language of the best living writers does not materially 
 differ from that of the few great masters of the seventeenth 
 century, whom Frenchmen of every variety of opinion delight 
 to admire, revere, and imitate. 
 
 It is natural that the countrymen of Eacine and Corneille 
 and Pascal should be proud of their language. They are 
 accustomed to boast of its great superiority over all the living 
 tongues of Europe. While we acknowledge its peculiar merits, 
 we cannot perceive in it such marked pre-eminence. 
 
 It has few of the requisites of a poetical language. Although 
 not rough, it is not specially melodious. While its vowel 
 sounds lack the majesty and fullness of the Italian and Spanish, 
 it has not the combinations of consonants, which give strength 
 and expressiveness to the English and the German. It admits 
 of little change in the order of words. It does not grant the 
 poet the iiberty of inversion, and therefore it confines him too 
 3 * 
 
so HISTORY AND CHARACTERISTICS OF 
 
 near]y witliin the limits of prose. It permits very few ellipses. 
 It requires tlie writer to express all tliat lie means, and does 
 not suffer him to make sketches of pictures which the imagi- 
 nation of the reader may delight to complete. It does not 
 abound in those picturesque words, whose sound seems to 
 indicate the meaning, by imitating the trickling of the rivulet, 
 the roaring of the flood, and the howling of the wind. It has 
 scarcely any compound words, and therefore is destitute of 
 those expressive epithets which are found in many languages^ 
 and which are of such service in descriptive poetry. But it 
 does possess a delicacy, simplicity, and clearness, which are 
 admirably adapted to amatory and sentimental poetry. The 
 French ballads and popular songs are unrivalled in beauty. 
 
 It is better suited to oratory than to poetry. The short 
 periods, which it generally requires, have great directness and 
 power. Its clearness allows long periods to be used without 
 unj danger of obscurity. Its precision makes it pointed and 
 striking, while it has sufficient flexibility to be flowing, im- 
 petuous, and impassioned. It sometimes attains to a marvel- 
 lous vividness and intensity. In the hands of Massillon and 
 of Bossuet it reaches a fullness and roundness of form which 
 remind us of the tongue of the great Roman orator. 
 
 It possesses certain qualities which adapt it to the wants of 
 philosophy and science. By its numerous tenses of the verb, 
 by its change of terminations to mark differences of gender, 
 by its placing all modifying words and clauses as nearly as 
 possible to the word which they modify, and by its hostility 
 to all inversions in sentences, it gains the power of expressing 
 the nicest distinctions and shades of meaning with the greatest 
 precision and clearness. French philosophy owes much of its 
 renown to the excellence of the language. From the Encyclo- 
 pedists to Victor Cousin, the French metaphysicians have 
 been, almost without exception, eclectics; and their chief 
 
THE FRENCH LANGUAGE. 81 
 
 merit has been tlie clear exposition of the various systems 
 which have been constructed in Greece and Germany and 
 England. 
 
 As a medium for conversation the French is acknowledged 
 to be unsurpassed. It may well be questioned whether, from 
 its easy flow, its classical grace, and its charming sprightliness, 
 its greatest achievements have not been in the salon. Its 
 whole life has fitted it for colloquial power. It has long been 
 the language of almost every court in Europe. The French 
 have always especially aspired to elegance and brilliancy in 
 society. They consider conversation as a fine art, and make 
 it the study of life. The sound of many a word, to which 
 they have given a peculiar meaning in connection with some 
 witty remark or some striking event, recalls to the mind of 
 the hearer a whole train of amusing or thrilling reminiscences. 
 The spoken language thus possesses great piquancy and rich- 
 ness, and suggests a thousand ideas, which could only be 
 expressed by tedious circumlocutions in any other language. 
 Its vivacity and rapidity ofi'er great facilities for sallies of wit, 
 and for striking repartees. But it has so long been the lan- 
 guage of politeness and ceremonious life, that many of its 
 words have become hollow and unmeaning, or insincere and 
 false. 
 
 The same peculiarities which make the French a good col- 
 loquial language also fit it for tales and letters ; for these are 
 little more than written conversation. In narrative and epis- 
 tolary style the French have always been unequalled. They 
 are the best raconteurs in Europe. What language has such 
 power as theirs to '' dire des riens avec grace^^ ? In history 
 the French language has been used with marked success. It 
 seems equally suited to the profound investigations of Guizot 
 and to the brilliant descriptions of Thiers. 
 
 While then it may be less musical than the Italian, less 
 
82 HISTORY, ETC., OF THE FRENCH LANGUAGE. 
 
 majestic than tlie Spanisli^ less raanly than the English, less 
 rich and imaginative than the German, it is more delicate and 
 lucid than either. 
 
 The French have often predicted that their language would 
 become universal. More than once it has threatened to con- 
 quer the continent of Europe. It followed the victorious 
 armies of Louis XIV. beyond the boundaries of his kingdom 
 on every side. Napoleon made it the language of law from 
 Egypt to the Frozen Seas, and from Gibraltar to Moscow. 
 But at his fall it retreated to its native home. What arms 
 could not do for its propagation, fashion, refinement, and lite- 
 rature are partially accomplishing. It is now an essential 
 element in the education of every school-boy in Europe. It 
 is the language of society and of diplomacy at almost every 
 court. No one, who claims the name of a scholar, can neglect 
 the study of the rich and varied thoughts which it has 
 enshrined. But we can hardly conceive of its ever becoming 
 the spoken language of the sturdy Teutonic race. It is per- 
 fectly suited to the genius of the French ; but it does not 
 thrive as an exotic. Neither the French race nor the French 
 language possesses that aggressive and conquering tendency 
 which forms so striking a characteristic of the Anglo-Saxon 
 race and tongue. 
 
FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The literature of France lias in all ages borne a national 
 rather tlian an individual cliaracter ; it lias been tbe organ of 
 the general thought and feeling of the community, each author 
 chastening and even stifling his peculiar genius in deference 
 to prevailing tastes and' opinions. If this has its value, as 
 enabling us to read the common mind in eveiy single work, it 
 has its disadvantage, too, as not commanding that kind of 
 interest which we feel in forming an acquaintance with writers 
 who abandon themselves to their native impulses, and lead us 
 with them into regions of daring thought and impassioned 
 feeling. The Frenchman never forgets his rule and measure 
 — those of his day; and therefore in every page of his book 
 we learn how people thought and felt in the circle to which he 
 belonged ; not how he himself could have done if he durst. 
 ^^ He is the organ of all,^^ says Nisard,* ^^ rather than a privi- 
 leged person having thoughts which pertain to himself alone, 
 and which he imposes on others, in virtue of some extraordi- 
 nary prerogative. The man of genius, in France, is he who 
 
 * Histoire de la Litterature Frangaise, i. 17. 
 
 (33) 
 
34 FRENCH LITERATURE, 
 
 says wliat every one knows. He is only the intelligent echo, 
 of the multitude ; and if he wishes us to listen to him, he 
 must not seek to astonish us with his particular views, but 
 expound to us our own/^ Hence he concludes French litera- 
 ture is a living image of that empire of reason over the infe- 
 rior powers which is the glory of human nature^ and hence 
 the extent of its domain. 
 
 The history of French literature has been divided into seve- 
 ral periods of vigor, transition, and decay, more distinctly 
 marked as to their characteristics than clearly definable as to 
 their eras. To us, it is of most importance to remember that 
 France has twice been honored to lead the van in the march 
 of European letters. She furnished the first specimens of 
 modern, or rather mediasval literature in the compositions of 
 the troubadours and trouv^res, who not only awoke the spirit 
 of song among their contemporaries, but laid up treasures of 
 legendary history and romantic fiction for unborn generations. 
 The zenith of this glory was during the twelfth and thirteenth 
 centuries. It was followed by a period of decay and obscu- 
 rity, passing into one of transition, in which the revival of 
 ancient learning, the improved methods of philosophy, and 
 the introduction of free inquiry in religion, prepared the 
 nation for entering on a new career. Thus was introduced, 
 in the latter half of the seventeenth century, that brilliant 
 period generally known as the age of Louis XIV., the golden 
 age of French literature, which again took the lead in Euro- 
 pean progress. During the eighteenth century, it fell once 
 more behind, being now eclipsed, not, as before, by the lite- 
 ratures of Spain and Italy, but by those of England and Ger- 
 many, which have continued in the ascendant. 
 
THE MIDDLE AGES. 
 
 I.— THE TROUBADOUKS. 
 
 THE PROVENgAL LANGUAGE — GENERAL CHARACTER OF ITS POETRY — EROTIC 
 
 POETRY OF THE TROUBADOURS SIRVENTES DEVOTIONAL POETRY 
 
 POEMS ON THE CRUSADES — DECAY OF TROUBADOUR POETRY — AND OF THE 
 PHOVEN9AL LANGUAGE. 
 
 When the old races liad been swept from the earth, or had 
 hid themselves under the skirts of the new conquerors, merging 
 their nationality that they might be allowed to live, a new chaos 
 was generated throughout those regions which Roman domina- 
 tion had before reduced to order and stamped with uniformity. 
 Into this chaos must he penetrate who would trace the origin 
 of the modern nations of Europe, their languages, their lite- 
 ratures, and the peculiar genius which belongs to each. Suffice 
 it for the present purpose to remark, that one among the new 
 languages, that of Provence, or Southern France, was earlier 
 cultivated than the rest, and attracted greater attention by 
 becoming the organ of a school of poetry which excited the 
 emulation of the surrounding nations, and which even now 
 possesses a peculiar interest as containing the first germs of 
 modern literature in Europe. 
 
 The causes of the premature development of the Provencal 
 are to be found chiefly in the social condition of the country. 
 While Northern France^ in common with the rest of Europe, 
 
 (35) 
 
86 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 was subject to tyrannical domination and tlie frequent ravages 
 of foreign enemies, the South enjoyed peace and prosperity — 
 first under the kings of Aries, and then under the counts of 
 Provence — during a period of more than two centuries. 
 
 Feudal law reigned, indeed, here as elsewhere, but in its 
 mildest form ; and those frightful cruelties which fill the his- 
 tory of. Northern France, seem rarely to have occurred in the 
 South; while the institutions of chivalry lent their aid in 
 polishing and civilizing the once barbarous nobility. More- 
 over, the accession of the wealthy counts of Barcelona to the 
 throne in the year 1092, introduced a taste for the elegance, 
 the arts, and the sciences which Spain had learned from the 
 Moors, and communicated to the people of Southern France 
 a poetic elegance which shed its humanizing influcDce over 
 the greater part of Europe. 
 
 The multiplicity of lordly courts was eminently favorable 
 to this progress. The supremacy of the monarch was little 
 more than nominal, the higher vassals exercising absolute 
 authority in their own domains, and rivalling the sovereign 
 courts in the splendor of their retinue, and in the enjoyment 
 of all that could gratify either sense or imagination. It must 
 be added, that extreme laxity of manners prevailed, as the 
 natural consequence of wealth, leisure, and court life. What- 
 ever religious feeling existed, found expression in pilgrimages 
 and crusades ; but it was no check to licentious morals, the 
 clergy themselves not only setting the example of profligacy 
 in their own lives, but encouraging it by the easy sale of abso- 
 lutions. 
 
 It was under these circumstances that the literature flou- 
 rished which we are now briefly to scan, as introductory to that 
 which is more strictly French. So early as the ninth century, 
 we find notices of court jongleurs or minstrels ; but whatever 
 was the character of those songs with which they were wont 
 to amuse their patrons, it would seem to have been found un- 
 
PROVENCAL POETRY. 37 
 
 suitable to that more refined mode of life wliicli was established 
 in court and castle ere the end of the eleventh century. There 
 was needed a style congenial to the spirit of chivalry, and 
 tending to foster and develop its influence. The nobles them- 
 selves undertook to supply this. Their vernacular language, 
 the Provengal or Langue d^Oe,* which had been gradually 
 developing since the days of Charlemagne, had now attained 
 a certain degree of grammatical precision. So early as the 
 tenth century, its study had been a favorite recreation among 
 the higher classes of the people ; and now the art of poetry, 
 called the Gai-Saber (Joyous Art), was adopted as the elegant 
 occupation of those hours which were not spent in the ruder 
 pastimes of the field. 
 
 The style which was invented under these circumstances 
 was highly artificial — at least as compared with the early poetry 
 of other countries. The rhymes were varied in a thousand 
 ways, and the verses so interlaced, that though a single rhyme 
 was preserved throughout each stanza, it recurred at various 
 intervals, the composer relying on the harmony of the language 
 and the well-taught ear of the listener for making the expecta- 
 tion of the rhyme and its postponement equally productive of 
 pleasure. The number and accentuation of the syllables were 
 also carefully studied, and, in this school of poetry, took the 
 place of the quantity and accent which formed the basis of 
 Greek and Latin versification. In the languages of antiquity, 
 all syllables were distributed into two classes, the long and the 
 short, the relative duration of every sound being fixed by inva- 
 riable rules. Each line, or verse, as it was called, was com- 
 posed of a certain number of measures called feet, having 
 some correspondence to bars in music, as they marked the rise 
 and fall of the tune, and always comprised the same time, 
 whatever the difierence in the sound of the pronunciation. 
 
 * Oc was the Proven9al word for Yes, See page 63. 
 4 
 
38 TRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 However varied the kind of verse, according to the number 
 and species of feet employed; it was indispensable so to arrange 
 the words that the ear might be struck by the equality of the 
 time and the uniform cadence of the sounds. In the modern 
 languages of Europe, emphasis seems to have assumed the 
 place of quantity, the Provengal poets having set the example. 
 We stop not to inquire whether our syllables can or cannot be 
 distinguished into long and short, or whether they would not 
 have been thus distinguished, and their quantities strictly pre- 
 served, if the ancient classics had been the earliest models of 
 our versification. The fact is, that the troubadours, being 
 probably unacquainted with Latin prosody, and relying only 
 on the ear as their guide to harmony, organized their verses 
 in a more simple manner by the alternation of accented with 
 unaccented syllables; and the laws of measure and rhyme 
 established by these first of modern poets have been generally 
 adopted throughout Europe. We say the laws of versifica- 
 tion established by the troubadours, but not with the intention 
 of conveying that they were formally laid down as an art of 
 poetry ; for it is very doubtful whether these rhymers ever 
 explained, or indeed were capable of explaining, those inge- 
 nious forms which their exquisite sensibility to musical impres- 
 sions led them to adopt as the most agreeable. As to the 
 matter, their compositions exhibit little play of imagination, 
 little depth of emotion, and very slight traces of learning. No 
 historical or mythological allusions, no comparisons drawn from 
 foreign manners, no reference to the learning or the science of 
 the schools, lead the reader to suspect their authors of any 
 book lore whatever. In fact, some of the most ingenious of 
 the troubadours were knights and princes innocent even of the 
 art of reading their mother-tongue. Their themes were such 
 as might be expected from a set of idle and profligate nobles — 
 the all-prevailing one being love, or rather gallantry, as under- 
 stood and practised in those lawless ages. And as there was 
 
PROVENCAL POETRY. 39 
 
 no sucli thing tlien as the multiplication of copies by printing, 
 the only mode in which an author could give circulation to his 
 effusions was by having them sung from chateau to chateau. 
 This he might either do in his own person^ attended by his 
 jongleur, or he might commit his verses to the memory of 
 some itinerant minstrel, who would chant them through the 
 country. Every house was open for the entertainment of these 
 professors of music and song. 
 
 Scarcely had the Gai-Saber been established in Southern 
 France, when it became the rage throughout the neighboring 
 countries. Half the sovereigns of Europe adopted the Pro- 
 vengal language, and enlisted themselves among the poets ; 
 and these having led the way, there was soon neither baron 
 nor knight but deemed himself bound to add to his fame as a 
 gallant warrior the reputation of a gentle troubadour.* It was 
 not then, as in after-times, that monarchs deigned to patronize 
 the humble professor : the great ones of the earth were now 
 themselves the professors, and the only patrons were the ladies. 
 In the early days of chivalry, women had ceased to be beau- 
 tiful ciphers, and had acquired complete liberty of action : the 
 homage paid to them was mingled with religious sentiment, 
 and amounted almost to worship. The oath taken by every 
 knight was the apotheosis of his lady-love. Nor was this only 
 ideal. No sooner had Provence become an independent sove- 
 reignty (879 A. D.), than the nobles had repudiated the Salic 
 law, by which hereditary fiefs might not pass to their daugh- 
 ters ; and now they might inherit in default of male heirs, or 
 even by testamentary bequest. The counts of both Provence 
 and Toulouse had derived their titles through female rights, 
 and woman was in the ascendant. The part allotted to them 
 in the poetical world, was that of being the sovereign arbiters 
 
 * From trohar, to find or invent; poetry being then regarded rather as 
 an art than an inspiration. 
 
40 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 of merit — as absolute in their decrees as the barons in tbeir 
 lordly edicts. Not more regular and solemn were tbe courts 
 of the feudal lords than were the diets^ popularly known as 
 Courts of Love,* or^ as they would be called in modern days, 
 meetings of the Academy for the promotion of Poetry and 
 Gallantry. These courts forbade the admission of vulgar can- 
 didates for poetic fame. They polished the language and pre- 
 served its purity; they dictated subjects for verse; decided 
 the merits of the tensons, as the poetical dialogues were called ; 
 recompensed the deserving, and punished with degradation 
 those who infringed the laws. In the twelfth century, when 
 they were in the zenith of their glory, grammars of the Pro- 
 vencal language were written, probably at the express desire 
 of the courts to which their authors belonged ; and the trouba- 
 dours discussed in verse questions of the most scrupulous 
 delicacy and the most disinterested gallantry. It must not be 
 concealed, however, that there are shadows as well as lights in 
 this picture. The songs of the troubadours abound with im- 
 pious allusions, extravagant hyperboles, and trivial conceits — 
 above all, with such licentiousness of expression as renders a 
 large number of them unfit for perusal. The ladies, who never 
 appeared in society till after marriage, were proud of the cele- 
 brity which accrued to their charms from the number and des- 
 peration of their lovers, and the songs of their troubadours ; 
 nor were they offended if licentiousness mingled with gallantry 
 in the poems composed in their praise. 
 
 At first sight, it seems strange that the same authors yielded 
 an implicit belief in abstract theology, and advocated the most 
 hideous immorality ; that they addressed prayers to saints, and 
 even to the Saviour himself; yet not to implore their media- 
 tion with offended Deity, but to aid some amorous intrigue;':, 
 
 * For a brief description of the Courts of Love, and of some amusing 
 cases which were tried in them, see Longfellow's Poets and Poetry of 
 Europe, p. 408, and Retrospective Review, vol. v., pp. 70-86. 
 
PROVENCAL POETRY. 41 
 
 that married women of tlie highest rank publicly gave their 
 sanction to the violation of conjugal fidelity; and men^ seem- 
 ingly rational, resigned themselves to the wildest transports of 
 passion for individuals whom, in some cases, they had never 
 seen. This religious enthusiasm, martial bravery, and licen- 
 tious love, mingled in strange grotesque, was the very life of 
 the middle age; and impossible as it is to transfuse into a 
 translation the harmony of Provencal verse, or to find in it, 
 when stripped of this harmony, any idea worth entertaining 
 as poetical, the value of these remains consists mainly in this 
 — that they present us with a living, breathing picture of life 
 and manners as they then prevailed. The poets were profane, 
 because, from their tenderest infancy, they had been familiar- 
 ized with the abuse of sacred names and sacred emblems; 
 they gave free scope to their passions, because their spiritual 
 guides sanctioned it by their example, and encouraged it by 
 their venality. The institutions of chivalry, the fascination 
 of tourneys, and the fanaticism of crusades, had turned their 
 . heads, and caused them to live in an ideal world. From the 
 false direction of the intellect to the abandonment of moral 
 duty, the transition is easy and inevitable. It existed, doubt- 
 less, before the institution of the Courts of Love ; but so far 
 as we know, it had never been either openly proclaimed or 
 formally justified. It was reserved for them to institute the 
 charter, the decalogue, the statutes of libertinage. Assuming 
 the form and exercising the power of ordinary tribunals, they 
 defined and prescribed the mutual duties of the sexes, and 
 taught the arts of love and song according to the most de- 
 praved moral principles, mingled, however, with an afi'ected 
 display of refined sentimentality. Whatever their utility in 
 the advancement of the language and the cultivation of lite, 
 rary taste, it must be admitted that these institutions extended 
 a legal sanction to vice, and inculcated maxims of shameful 
 profligacy. 
 4* 
 
42 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 Thus much we have deemed it necessary to premise con- 
 cerning the moral character of the troubadour poetry, that the 
 reader may not form a false conception of it from our selec- 
 tionS; which are to be from among the least exceptionable. 
 
 The earliest of the troubadour poets whose songs are still 
 extant, was William Earl of Poictiers and Duke of Acqui- 
 taine,* a powerful nobleman and gay libertine of the eleventh 
 century. His compositions, remarkable for the harmony of 
 their versification, and for the elegant mixture of their mea- 
 sures and rhymes, are considered the best studies for those who 
 would understand the construction of the Proven gal poetry. 
 The following is his description of two favorite horses : — 
 
 ** Dos cavals ai a ma selha ben e gen ; 
 Ben son et ardit per armas e valen, 
 
 E no'ls puesc amdos tener, que I'us I'autre no cossen. 
 
 Si'ls pogues adomesgar a mon talen, 
 
 Ja non volgr' alhors mudar mon garnimen, 
 
 Que miels fora cavalguatz de nul home viven. 
 L'uns fon dels montaniers lo plus corren, 
 Mas tan fera estranheza ha longuamen, 
 
 Et es tan fers e salvatges que del ballar se defen. 
 
 L'autre fon noyritz sa jos pres Colofen, 
 
 Et auc no vis bellazor, mon escien ; 
 
 Aquest non er ja comjatz per aur ni per argen." 
 
 The reader may compare it with the following close, though 
 not elegant translation : — 
 
 Two well-bred coursers in my stable are, 
 Fiery and fit for tournaments and war. 
 I cannot manage both—they madden in the car. 
 
 Could I subdue them, or by force or fear, 
 I would not barter them for monarchs' gear. 
 I should be better horsed than any cavalier. 
 
 *Born 1071, died 1122. 
 
WILLIAM OF POICTIERS. 43 
 
 The one is fleetest of the mountaineers, 
 And so untamable, so fierce appears, 
 The boldest cavalier may tremble when he rears. 
 
 His mate was nourished close by Colophine — 
 A nobler animal was never seen ; 
 His worth may not be told in gold or brass, I ween. 
 
 In the sequel, we find our man of pleasure suddenly re- 
 nouncing love, cliivalry, tlie world and its follies, and devoting 
 himself to the monastic life. He announces his resolution in 
 terms too clear to be misunderstood, and too pathetic to be 
 suspected of insincerity — 
 
 Once more I am disposed to sing, 
 And I will touch a mournful string, 
 For never more shall I be king 
 Of Poictiers, of Limousi. 
 
 In exile 1 shall pass my life ; 
 I leave my son to civil strife. 
 Where fearful accidents are rife — 
 Each vassal will his foeman be. 
 
 Since I must part, though much I grieve, 
 To Falcon of Anjou I leave 
 My lands in trust : he will receive 
 His cousin and them in custody. 
 
 Feats of valor were my pride ; 
 But now those feats I lay aside. 
 In him alone my hopes abide 
 Whom pilgrims pray for clemency. 
 
 I pardon crave from my companion 
 If wrong to him or his I've done ; 
 And succor ask from God's own Son 
 In Latin and in Romanzy. 
 
44 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 I leave my sports and pleasures gay, 
 My lordly trappings, rich array, 
 The sembelin, the vair, the gray— 
 The monkish costume now for me. 
 
 We have said that a lordly troubadour was generally attended 
 by a jongleur, who sang his verses for him, or accompanied 
 his voice with an instrument. There seem also to have been, 
 especially after the intercourse of Christendom with the East, 
 a set of musicians who travelled on their own account, and 
 varied the entertainment by the recitation of tales in prose, 
 and the performance of feats of jugglery and sleight of hand. 
 In the following fragment, the accomplishments of such a 
 functionary are catalogued : — 
 
 All the minstrel art I know — 
 
 I the viol well can play, 
 I the pipe and syrinx blow, 
 
 Harp and gigue my hand obey ; 
 Psaltery, symphony, and rote, 
 
 Help to charm the listening throng ; 
 And Armonia lends its note 
 
 While I warble forth my song. 
 
 I have tales and fables plenty, 
 
 Satires, pastorals, full of sport ; 
 Songs to Vielle, I've more than twenty, 
 
 Ditties too of every sort. 
 I from lovers tokens bear, 
 
 I can flowery chaplets weave ; 
 Amorous belts can well prepare. 
 
 And with courteous speech deceive. 
 
 A jongleur, by repeating verses, not unfrequently learned to 
 compose them ; and if he was so happy as to produce what 
 pleased the celebrated beauties of the day, some duke or count 
 made him a knight; and a knight who was master of the Gai- 
 Saber became rightfully a troubadour. It happened, therefore, 
 
VENTADOUR. 45 
 
 even in tlie palmy days of Proven gal poetry, that a troubadour 
 was one raised by bis talents and tbe favor of bis master to 
 tbe position wbicb be beld. Bernard de Ventadour,* for 
 instance, tbe most tender, and; at tbe same time, tbe most 
 profane and licentious of tbe Provencal poets, was originally 
 an obscure vassal, born in tbe cbateau of tbe Count de Venta- 
 dour, bis fatber being tbe man wbose business it was to beat tbe 
 oven. But Bernard bad a natural talent for poetry, and a fine 
 voice : be ventured to compose verses, dedicated tbem to bis 
 mistress, and succeeded. After some time, tbe count com- 
 mitted bis lady to a dungeon of tbe cbateau, and banisbed tbe 
 troubadour, wbo quietly transferred bimself and bis verses to 
 tbe court of Eleonore of Guienne, wbo, after ber separation 
 from Louis VII. of France, was married to Henry of Anjou, 
 Duke of Normandy, wbo acceded to tbe Englisb tbrone. Not 
 being permitted to follow ber to England, be transferred bim- 
 self to tbe court of Raymond, Count of Toulouse ; and after a 
 life passed in tbe sunshine of royal favor, finished, like his 
 betters, by secluding bimself in a cloister. In the following 
 strophes of bis, tbe variations in the metres of the original 
 have been strictly preserved : — 
 
 AVhen zephyr's gently sailing 
 
 From mansion of my love, 
 Methinks I am inhaling 
 
 The sweets of Eden's grove. 
 'Tis she the illusion causes 
 
 To whom my hopes aspire, 
 Where my fond heart reposes 
 
 Its confidence entire. 
 For her I have relinquished 
 
 All others once so dear, 
 One passion hath extinguished 
 
 A thousand kindled here. 
 
 - Lived in the last half of the twelfth century. 
 
46 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 With her and her affection, 
 
 Her eyes and face divine ; 
 The sum of all perfection, 
 
 I deemed God's self was mine! 
 Yet why of this remind thee ? 
 
 I'm not of kings' descent ; 
 'Twas hard to have resigned thee, 
 
 'Tis harder to repent. 
 For once — 'twas when we parted — 
 
 Thou saidst the good are strong ; 
 They struggle broken-hearted, 
 
 The bad resist not long. 
 
 What meditates my fair 
 
 'Gainst one so fond as I ? 
 Why doom me to despair, 
 
 Or yearning doom to die 
 thou so debonnair. 
 
 Vouchsafe one kind regard, 
 One smile that may repair 
 
 The wrongs that weigh so hard. 
 More ills I could not bear — 
 
 Why overwhelm thy bard ? 
 
 Arnaud de Marveil, esteemed the most elegant of the 
 Provengals, was also born in a humble rank of life, from which 
 he was elevated by his talents. He was attached to the court 
 of Koger II., Viscount of Beziers; and the love which he con- 
 ceived for the countess is said to have been the means of 
 developing his talents, and directing the destiny of his life. 
 The remains of his poetry are considerable, and exhibit easy 
 versification, with much tenderness of sentiment. The follow- 
 ing is a short specimen of his style : — 
 
 All I behold recalls the memory 
 
 Of her I love. The freshness of the hour, 
 The enamelled fields, the many-colored flower, 
 
 Speaking of her, move me to melody. 
 
PIERRE VIDAL. 47 
 
 Had not the poets with their courtly phrase 
 
 Saluted many a fair of meaner worth, 
 I could not now have rendered thee the praise 
 
 So justly due, of "Fairest of the earth." 
 To name thee thus had been to speak thy name, 
 And waken o'er thy cheek the blush of modest shame. 
 
 Pierre Vidal* has been called tlie Don Quixote of tlie 
 troubadours. Love and vanity appear to have turned his brain, 
 and persuaded him that he was the beloved of every lady, and 
 the bravest of knights. He followed King Richard to the 
 third Crusade, during which he was induced to marry a Greek 
 lady, who gave herself out for a descendant of one of the 
 families which had filled the throne of Constantinople. This 
 circumstance afi'orded Vidal sufficient ground for believing 
 that he was himself entitled to the imperial purple ; and he 
 forthwith assumed the title of emperor, and bestowed that of 
 empress upon his wife. He had a throne carried before him, 
 and determined to devote the produce of his professional labors 
 as a troubadour to provide the means of conquering his domi- 
 nions. On his return to Provence, a new attachment led him 
 into a still wilder piece of extravagance. He imagined him- 
 self adored by a lady of Carcassonne, whose name was Loba , 
 on which account he assumed the surname of Lop, the Pro- 
 vengal for wolf; and to secure his title to the appellation, he 
 clothed himself in a wolf ^s skin, and excited the shepherds to 
 chase him with dogs over the mountains. It is said that he 
 persevered in submitting to be the object of this sport, till he 
 was carried half dead to the feet of his mistress, and that she 
 was cruel enough not to be so greatly moved as he expected 
 by this singular demonstration of his devoted affection. 
 
 In perusing these snatches from the erotic poems of this 
 school, the reader must be struck with the perpetual recurrence 
 
 * Died in 1229. 
 
48 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 of the same ideas, the perfect monotony which prevails through- 
 out, and the absence of everything like natural sentiment. 
 But we should form a false estimate if we supposed this was 
 their only style. True, the earliest effusions of the Provengal 
 muse were chiefly of this character ; but it gradually assumed 
 a wider range, and became a sort of liberty of the press in 
 opposition to feudal despotism and clerical intolerance. Some 
 of the troubadours were men inspired with what we will ven- 
 ture to call popular feeling ; and these, animated by a musical 
 taste, and favored by a sonorous language, though perhaps 
 inspired with little poetic genius, composed verses in which 
 they praised or reviled the neighboring lord of the manor 
 according to his merit, the ingenious vivacity of their produc- 
 tions procuring them a ready reception. Such men diffused 
 mirth, satire, and insult together ; and, through their instru- 
 mentality, mind obtained a certain degree of ascendancy over 
 physical force, even in an age when the latter was so power- 
 ful. We should ill understand those stirring times, if we had 
 no representation of them but what is furnished by the monk- 
 ish historians, who clothed their facts in the stateliness of court 
 etiquette, and added the falsely quiet colors which had no 
 existence but in their own cells. The popular poetry of the 
 day shows the other side, and reveals to us what treatment was 
 sometimes dealt by the humble minstrel to the proud baron, 
 or by him, in his turn, to the German emperor, or the kings 
 of Aragon, Castile, or France, whom history depicts only as 
 despots at the head of their numerous devoted vassals, and in 
 the pomp of their stately courts. If any one supposes that 
 none but the popes assumed the right of anathematizing and 
 insulting the monarchs of Europe, and that every other knee 
 was bent before them, he has but to consult the troubadours 
 to form a very different judgment. 
 
 As an example of this liberty, we may refer to the cele- 
 
SORDELLO. 49 
 
 brated poem of Sordello of Mantua^ in wliicli lie deplores 
 tlie fate of Blacas^ his patron, wliose hearty lie says, ought to 
 be divided among the pusilianimons princes of Europe, to 
 stimulate them to maintain their rights, and avenge the injus- 
 tice to which they so patiently submitted. 
 
 In this sad verse I Blacas' death lament, 
 
 With heart oppressed, and too just cause of grief; 
 
 For I have lost in him a friend and chiefs 
 And worth and valor fill his monument. 
 So vast a loss may never be replaced, 
 
 Or only thus : let's parcel out his heart, 
 
 Let every quaking baron eat his part, 
 And he will feel his lagging courage braced. 
 
 First, let the Roman emperor partake — 
 
 For, faith, he needs it much — yes, let him eat. 
 
 If Milan's saucy varlets he would beat, 
 Who boast they made his German boors to quake. 
 And next, let Louis taste : he may regain 
 
 Castile, whose crown he lost through want of wit ; 
 
 But then his mother ! — he'll not taste a bit 
 Lest he should cause his gentle mammy pain. 
 
 Thy monarch, England, cowardly and dull. 
 Should of the dish a copious dinner make ; 
 And thus inspired, he might the lands retake 
 
 The French kings cribbed, well knowing he was null. 
 
 Thy prince, Castile, should eat of it for twain. 
 Since he two kingdoms holds, not fit for one ; 
 
 But if he tastes, let it by stealth be done. 
 For if his mother knew, she'd beat him with a cane. 
 
 I wish that Aragon would taste it too. 
 And from the foul dishonor be relieved 
 Which at Versailles and Milan he received ; 
 
 No remedy but this, whate'er he do. 
 6 
 
50 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 Next, let Navarre of the brave heart partake, 
 More valued as a count than king, I've heard. 
 When man by God to such high state's preferred, 
 
 'Tis pity that faint heart should make him quail and quake. 
 
 Thy count, Toulouse, hath also need of it: 
 
 Let him remember what he was and is ; 
 
 If he no stouter heart acquire than his, 
 Of all he lost he'll ne'er regain a whit. 
 Avignon's count should vindicate his share ; 
 
 A lackland count in small esteem is held ; 
 
 For though by native courage he's impelled, 
 He needs an ample slice such sad reverse to bear. 
 
 Few of the wratliful effusions of the troubadours, usually 
 called Sirventes, are so delicate in their raillery as this. They 
 are, for the most part, bitter and virulent in the extreme, and 
 without any regular train of thought. Their language, also, 
 is so elliptical that it is often difficult to gather the meaning. 
 The poet seems to have given rein to the passion of the mo- 
 ment, and to have used the words that came first to hand, as 
 though he scorned to select his expressions. Here is no mark 
 of the study which characterizes the chansons : what is gained 
 in vigor is lost in harmony. 
 
 One of the great masters of this style was Bertrand de 
 Born,* a belligerent knight, whose turbulent passions kept 
 the provinces of Guienne in arms during the latter half of the 
 twelfth century, and distracted the royal family of England, 
 setting the sons of Henry II. against each other, and both 
 against their father. Bertrand was Viscount of Hautfort, a 
 small domain which he inherited conjointly with his brother 
 Constantino. But not content with his own share, he endea- 
 
 * Born between 1140 and 1160. Died in 1199. He paid poetical ho- 
 mage to Eleanor Plantagenet, sister of Richard Coeur-de-Lion. — See Mrs, 
 Jameson's Lives of the Poets, pp. 30-32. 
 
BERTRAND DE BORN. 51 
 
 vored to despoil his brother, in doing which he was obliged 
 to contend with a number of princes and nobles, who zealously 
 espoused the cause of Constantine, and among whom was 
 Kichard, son of the king of England. Whenever Bertrand 
 was overcome, he made the best treaty he could, and imme- 
 diately formed new alliances to renew the war, giving vent to 
 his passions, at the same time, in a sirvente, which sustained 
 his own hopes, animated his vassals, and encouraged his allies. 
 The following piece, which is ascribed to him, is considered a 
 fine specimen of the martial ode : — ? 
 
 I love thy genial season, Spring, 
 
 That renovates the leaves and flowers; 
 I love to hear the sweet birds sing, 
 And their wild notes re-echoing 
 
 Through woods and copse, their native bowers ; 
 It joys me on the meads to see 
 
 Tents and pavilions glittering ; 
 My heart is filled with ecstasy, 
 
 "When I behold midst ranged battalions 
 
 Bold cavaliers on fiery stallions. 
 
 It joys me when the light-armed troop 
 
 Make shepherds and their flocks decamp ; 
 It joys me when behind the group 
 
 I hear the soldiers swear and stamp ; 
 And, more than all, it charms me, too, 
 When I beleaguered castles view ; 
 
 Their strong walls tumbling, 
 
 Splintered, rumbling; 
 
 The host in serried ranks 
 
 Marshalled on the banks 
 Of ditches palisaded round, 
 With stakes thick planted in the ground. 
 
 I could embrace the valiant peer, 
 
 Who, nothing slack, 
 
 Leads the attack, 
 On his armed steed, unblanched with fear; 
 
52 TRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 For thus he doth inspire 
 
 His men -with kindred fire. 
 When in the camp he sets his foot, 
 Each should with shouts the chief salute ; 
 With heart and hand his word obey, 
 And follow where he leads the way ; 
 For none in glory^s record lives, 
 Till many a blow he takes and gives. 
 
 When the stour begins to thicken, 
 
 Blades, lances, helms of various hue, 
 
 And shivered bucklers we shall view ; 
 Serfs together, striking, stricken, 
 Men and steeds confusedly lying. 
 Panting, gasping, dead, and dying ; 
 For when the hurly-burly warms, 
 No other thought high barons have 
 But splitting skulls and slashing arms : 
 Death, not inglorious life, befits the brave. 
 
 Meat, drink, and sleep are not, I swear, 
 
 To me so welcome or so sweet, 
 As when from either side I hear — 
 
 ** Charge! charge! my boys!" As when I meet 
 Dismounted steeds in forests neighing. 
 Or scattered squadrons succour praying ; 
 Or when I view the great and small, 
 On sward or moat promiscuous fall ; 
 Or mangled corpses that appear 
 With flanks transpierced by sword and spear. 
 
 The most interesting incident of Bertrand's career, was bis 
 alliance with the young Prince Henry, whose premature death 
 he mourns in two poems. One of these is especially distin- 
 guished, as exhibiting the ingenuous grief of a soldier who 
 blushes for the tears he sheds ^ while it presents a lively 
 description of the characteristics of the friend whom he 
 deplores. The following is part of it : — 
 
BERTRAND DE BORN. 53 
 
 I terminate my lays ia deep despair, 
 Which time nor circumstance can e'er allay ; 
 My reason and my joys have passed away 
 
 With him, the noblest king e'er mother bare. 
 
 ^ v^ * * 
 
 Halbert and blade, 
 
 August brocade, 
 
 Pourpoint and pennon, 
 
 Helm and gonfalon. 
 
 Love and revelry, 
 Who will now your rights maintain ? 
 Who your dignity sustain ? 
 These are gone for ever with thee. 
 Yes ! with thee they're passed away, 
 And wealthy recreants bless the day. 
 
 Gracious he was, and ready to oblige ; 
 ** God speed you, sir !" to eveyy guest he said. 
 His palace was well kept ; his serfs well paid. 
 Were all polite, but never wronged a liege. 
 
 The viol and song 
 
 Did the feast prolong, 
 
 And round the board, 
 
 With dainties stored, 
 
 A noble company. 
 The best of all the world was there. 
 Where are they vanished ? Tell me where ? 
 In this vile age of penury, 
 Where scarce one generous soul we meet, 
 Who can with Henry's fame compete ? 
 
 * i-r iiJ * 
 
 It is said, tliat being afterwards defeated by the forces of 
 tlie English king, and brought as a prisoner before him, he 
 was asked : ^^ Is this you who boasted of having so much 
 spirit?'^ upon which Bertrand replied: ^^I could do so once, 
 but in losing your son, I have lost all that I had both of spirit 
 and dexterity.^' The king burst into tears, and restored to 
 the fallen warrior his liberty and his chateau. 
 
54 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 Nor was tMs turbulent soul less susceptible of love tLan of 
 fnendsbip. One of the objects of Ms attacbment was Maenz 
 de MontagnaC; tbe wife of Talleyrand de Perigord^ to wbom be 
 addressed a song, wbicb appears to possess considerable ori- 
 ginality. It exhibits the knigbt of those days busied in war 
 and in the chase, yet esteeming everything light in compari- 
 son of his love — 
 
 I cannot hide from thee how much I fear 
 
 The whispers breathed by flatterers in thine ear 
 
 Against my faith. But turn not, oh, I pray ! 
 That heart so true, so faithful, so sincere, 
 So humble and so frank, to me so dear, 
 
 Oh, lady ! turn it not from me away. 
 
 So may I lose my hawk, ere he can spring. 
 Borne from my hand by some bold falcon's wing, 
 
 Mangled and torn before my very eye, 
 If every word thou utterest does not bring 
 More joy to me than Fortune's favoring. 
 
 Or all the bliss another's love might buy. 
 
 So, with my shield on neck, 'mid storm and rain, 
 With vizor blinding me, and shortened rein, 
 
 And stirrups far too long, so may I ride, 
 So may my trotting charger give me pain, 
 So may the hostler treat me with disdain. 
 
 As they who tell those tales have grossly lied. 
 
 When I approach the gaming-board to play, 
 May I not turn a penny all the day ; 
 
 Or may the board be shut, the dice untrue. 
 If the truth dwell not in me when I say, 
 No other fair e'er wiled my heart away 
 
 From her I've long desired and loved — from you ! 
 
 Or, prisoner to some noble, may I fill. 
 Together with three more my dungeon chill. 
 Unto each other odious company; 
 
BERTRAND DE BORN. 55 
 
 Let master, servants, porters, try their skill, 
 And use me for their target if they will, 
 If ever I have loved aught else but thee. 
 
 So may another knight make love to you, 
 And so may I be puzzled what to do ; 
 So may I be becalmed 'mid oceans wide ; 
 
 May the king's porter beat me black and blue, 
 And may I fly ere I the battle view. 
 
 As they that slander me have grossly lied ! 
 
 Bertrand also ended his days in a monastery ; but if we are 
 to believe Dante^ this epilogue of his turbulent life did not 
 suflQce to atone for the crime he had committed in embroiling 
 the royal family of England. The Italian poet met him in 
 the infernal regions more than a hundred years after his 
 stormy career on earth was ended; and heard him sing — 
 
 *' Now, behold 
 This grievous torment, thou who, breathing, goest 
 To spy the dead : behold, if any else 
 Be terrible as this. And that on earth 
 Thou may'st bear tidings of me, know that I 
 Am Bertrand, he of Born, who gave King John 
 The counsel mischievous. Father and son 
 I set at mutual war. For Absalom 
 And David, more did not Ahitophel, 
 Spurring them on maliciously to strife. 
 For parting those so closely knit, my brain 
 Parted, alas ! I carry from its source 
 That in this trunk inhabits. Thus the law 
 Of retribution fiercely works in me." 
 
 Inferno^ Canto xxviii. 
 
 That bold and free character of the Provengal muse — that 
 prerogative of reproof and satire which it exercised against 
 the temporal powers of the middle age, is equally conspicuous 
 in its opposition to a stronger than all — the theological and 
 monastic influence. It is singular to observe the temerity with 
 which, in those times which we figure to ourselves as so submis- 
 
56 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 sive, so respectful; and so superstitious, not only abuses, but 
 even boly tMngs are turned to ridicule ; and this not merely 
 in pleasantry, but with downright malice. In the earliest 
 rudiments of the Romance languages may be discovered the 
 first indications of a feeling of religious independence ; and we 
 could hail it with delight, were it not so intimately associated 
 with profanity. The sirventes are filled with invectives against 
 the clergy and the court of Rome ; and if but a tenth part of 
 their reproaches are well founded, this era must have been the 
 culmination of moral depravity. Very few of these pieces are 
 fit for perusal. 
 
 The following is by William Figueiras : — 
 
 Our pastors, well I know, 
 Like wolves, our spoils divide. 
 
 Semblance of peace they show, 
 Yet rob on every side. 
 With fawning smiles 
 They, night and day, 
 Their simple flock entice ; 
 But when inveigled in their wiles, 
 They throw the mask away, 
 And hurl them down the precipice. 
 ^ «- ^e- 
 
 Shouldst thou the truth relate, 
 They will impugn thy zeal ; 
 
 Cursed and excommunicate. 
 Their vengeance thou wilt feel. 
 If thou hast nought to give, 
 Hope not with them to live 
 
 In love or amity. 
 
 Holy Maria ! I appeal to thee ; 
 Blessed Virgin, grant, I pray, 
 That I may see the day 
 May terminate their wickedness. 
 And men and women fear them less. 
 
 It would appear, however, that some of the poets knew how 
 
VAQUEIRAS. 57 
 
 to draw a line of distinction between religion itself and its nn- 
 wortliy ministers ; and had religions feeling, bnt of a character 
 too like that which belonged to their ancient heathenism. A 
 few of the numerous orisons which remain are veritable curi- 
 osities, in which it is not unusual to find invocations to the 
 Virgin and the saints, backed by formidable threatenings^ or 
 urged with protestations of devoted love, no less ardent and 
 free than those which the authors addressed to their mistresses ; 
 a melange of phrases familiar and respectful, a confession of 
 private vices at once shocking and ridiculous, betraying rather 
 the callousness of men accustomed to profligacy, than the con- 
 trition of the genuine penitent. 
 
 The Crusades formed another favorite theme of Provencal 
 poetry. While the zeal of the faithful was aroused by the 
 Christian pulpit, while kings and chiefs were summoned by 
 letters from Rome, the voice of the troubadours — sometimes in 
 irony and malice, sometimes in a style of devotion approaching 
 the hymnology of the Hebrews — lent its inspiration to the 
 adventure ; and it may be doubted whether the following, by 
 Raimbaud de Vaqueiras, was not worth all the bulls of 
 Urban II., and all the homilies of Peter the Hermit : — 
 
 He who created heaven, earth, sea, and air, 
 
 Heat, cold, wind, rain — who bade the thunder roll, 
 
 Wills that we cross the main 'neath the control 
 
 Of this brave chieftain, as the magi were 
 
 Star-led to Bethlehem. For the Paynim sword 
 
 Lays waste the mount and plain ; yet God is mute. 
 
 We, we the sacred birthplace must dispute — 
 
 We for whose sake he on the cross was gored. 
 
 He who remains behind and spurns our suit, 
 
 Wills vile existence at his soul's expense. 
 
 Our sins condemn us — dread the consequence : 
 
 Who bathes in Jordan's flood is purged of his offence. 
 
58 FRENCH XITERATURE. 
 
 Heartless is he who without deep dismay 
 Can brook the Moslem's wrongs, the Moslem's pride, 
 Who keeps the land where Jesus lived and died. 
 St. Nicholas be our guide ! Do thou, Champagne, 
 Unfurl thy banners. Let the marquis cry, 
 Montferrat ! let the Flemish count reply, 
 Flanders ! and strike their bucklers till they strain. 
 Shivered at every blow be lance and sword. 
 Thus shall the vaunting Moslems be o'erthrown, 
 Jerusalem and the cross be yet our own — 
 The cross so vilely lost ! Let Spain's brave lord. 
 Now firmly seated on his ancient throne, 
 Assault, expel the Moors ! Thou, Boniface, 
 Attack the sultan in Byzantium's place. 
 'Hark! from the heaven of heavens the Saviour's voice! 
 *' Arm, arm, my sons! my tomb and cross redeem !" 
 He who would commune in the skies with Him 
 Fears not to die, assured he will rejoice 
 In Paradise. Let each his means employ 
 To pass the seas — the Moslem dogs destroy. 
 
 Some of tlie troubadours themselves assumed the cross ; 
 others were detained in Europe by the bonds of love ; and 
 the conflict between passion and religious enthusiasm lent its 
 interest to the poems which they composed to animate their 
 brethren. 
 
 But it is impossible to speak of the Holy War in connexion 
 with troubadour poetry^ without remembering Eichard I., the 
 darling of all the Crusaders, and the story told of him, that 
 when he was detained a prisoner in Germany, Blondel, his 
 minstrel, discovered the place of his captivity by singing 
 beneath the fortress one stanza of a tenson which he and 
 Richard had composed in common, and to which Richard now 
 at once answered by commencing the second. If this poem 
 had been preserved, the story would probably not have been 
 considered apocryphal, as it is by many historians. That 
 
RICHARD I. 59 
 
 Richard was a troubadour^ however, is certain, as there re- 
 main some songs of his, one of which was written in prison : — 
 
 No wretched captive of his prison speaks, 
 
 Unless with pain and bitterness of soul ; 
 Yet consolation from the Muse he seeks, 
 
 Whose voice alone misfortune can control. 
 Where now is each ally, each baron, friend, 
 
 Whose face I ne'er beheld without a smile ? 
 Will none, his sovereign to redeem, expend 
 
 The smallest portion of his treasures vile ? 
 
 Though none may blush that, near two tedious years. 
 
 Without relief, my bondage has endured — 
 Yet know, my English, Norman, Gascon peers, 
 
 Not one of you should thus remain immured : 
 The meanest subject of my wide domains, 
 
 Had I been free, a ransom should have found; 
 I mean not to reproach you with my chains. 
 
 Yet still I wear them on a foreign ground ! 
 
 Too true it is — so selfish human race ! 
 
 *' Nor dead nor captive, friend or kindred find;" 
 Since here I pine in bondage and disgrace, 
 
 For lack of gold my fetters to unbind : 
 Much for myself I feel, yet, ah ! still more 
 
 That no compassion from my subjects flows ; 
 What can from infamy their names restore. 
 
 If, while a prisoner, death my eyes should close ? 
 
 But small is my surprise, though great my grief, 
 
 To find, in spite of all his former vows. 
 My lands are ravaged by the Gallic chief, 
 
 While none my cause has courage to espouse. 
 Though lofty towers obscure the cheerful day, 
 
 Yet through the dungeon's melancholy gloom 
 Kind Hope, in gentle whispers, seems to say : 
 
 *' Perpetual thraldom is not yet thy doom." 
 
60 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 Ye dear companions of my happy days, 
 
 Of Chail and Pensavin, aloud declare 
 Throughout the earth, in everlasting lays, 
 
 My foes against me wage inglorious war. 
 tell them too, that ne'er, among my crimes, 
 
 Did breach of faith, deceit, or fraud appear ; 
 That infamy will brand to latest times 
 
 The insults I receive while captive here. 
 
 Know, all ye men of Anjou and Touraine, 
 
 And every bachelor knight, robust and brave, 
 That duty, now, and love, alike are vain. 
 
 From bonds your sovereign and your friend to save ; 
 Remote from consolation, here I lie, 
 
 The wretched captive of a powerful foe, 
 Who all your zeal and ardor can defy. 
 
 Nor leaves you aught but pity to bestow. 
 
 This song is preserved in the dialect of the trouveres, of which 
 we are presently to speak, as well as in that of the troubadours; 
 and it is not known in which it was originally composed. 
 
 The language of Provence having been, as we have said, 
 adopted in several of the courts of Europe, was considerably 
 enriched by locutions from other dialects ; and before the end 
 of the twelfth century, was the most eclectic and polished in 
 Europe. From this time, however, its poetry began to decline. 
 The troubadours had few resources within themselves, and 
 none of a foreign character; and their profession having 
 become, to a certain extent, a mercenary and vulgar one — a 
 means of subsistence instead of an elegant pastime — fell into 
 disesteem. It is difficult to say what would have been the 
 fate of the language under these circumstances, whether it 
 would have frittered itself away, or have lent inspiration to 
 some one whose genius would have endowed it with immor- 
 tality, had not public events occurred which hastened its 
 downfall, and reduced it to the condition of a mere provincial 
 dialect. 
 
THE ALBIGENSES. 61 
 
 Among the numerous sects wliich sprang up in Christendom 
 during the first ages, there was one which, though bearing 
 difi'erent nam^s at different times, bore the same general 
 features, and more or less resembled what is now known as 
 Protestantism, but, in the sixth century, ^^Paulicienne;^^ and 
 in the twelfth and thirteenth, the " Faith of the Albigenses,'' 
 as it prevailed most widely in the district of Albi. It easily 
 came to be identified with the Proven§al language, as this was 
 the chosen vehicle of its religious services. After the oaths 
 of 842 A. D., of which we are presently to speak, one of the 
 most ancient specimens of romance language is a simple and 
 pious paraphrase of Gospel maxims, entitled The Noble Lesson 
 of the Vaudois. It contains no heretical doctrine, but betrays 
 a spirit of free inquiry, and sense of individual responsibility. 
 
 This sect was tolerated, and even protected, by the Count 
 of Toulouse ; it augmented its members ; it devoted itself to 
 commerce and the arts, and added much to the wealth and 
 prosperity which had long distinguished the south of France 
 from the military rudeness of the north. The sanctuaries of 
 the Albigenses were frequented, their hymns in the vulgar 
 tongue resounded through the country, and their faith long 
 lived peaceably side by side with the Catholic in the same 
 cities and villages. But Innocent III. having ascended the 
 papal throne and cast his eyes abroad, espied this little people 
 in a corner of southern France, attending lay-preachers, pray- 
 ing in the vulgar tongue, and appearing thus to renounce the 
 supremacy of the old language, and of religious and political 
 Rome. He sent legates to Provence, who preached, discussed, 
 threatened, and met in freedom of thought a resistance of mere 
 authority which Rome was* not accustomed to brook. Bitter 
 controversy was now substituted for the amiable frivolity of 
 tensons, and theological disputes superseded those on points 
 of gallantry. At the palace of Raymond of Toulouse, the 
 legates found troubadours, musicians, jongleurs, and hymn- 
 6 
 
62 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 singing heretics, mingled together under his generous patron- 
 age. They demanded of him the punishment of his noncon- 
 forming subjects ; and while he hesitated, the assassination of 
 a legate at an inn on the banks of the Rhone furnished 
 occasion for the preaching of a new crusade. Kaymond him- 
 self was forced to take part in it; the long struggle between 
 the poetry of the troubadours and the preaching of the monks 
 now came to a crisis ; the bitter satires which the disorderly 
 lives of the clergy had called forth became more bitter still ; 
 and the songs of the troubadours wounded the pride and power 
 of Rome more deeply than ever, while they stimulated the 
 Albigenses to a valiant resistance or a glorious death. But 
 poetry was no match for the sword and lance when matters 
 came to an extremity; and the result of the conflict was the 
 annexation of Toulouse to the crown of France.* 
 
 In this chaos of events, what became of the songs and the 
 sighings of love ? It was impossible for the enamored knight 
 any longer to travel from chateau to chateau singing his ela- 
 borate verses, and dedicating them to the noble ladies whom 
 they celebrated. With the circumstances of the times, the 
 imagination of the people had seemed to undergo a change; 
 it submerged in those waves of blood; and even when the 
 dreadful strife was over, Provencal poetry never again dis- 
 played its graceful vivacity. 
 
 The language of Provence was destined to share the same 
 fate with its poetry. It became identified in the minds of the 
 orthodox with heresy and rebellion. About the middle of the 
 thirteenth century, Charles of Anjou, having acquired the 
 kingdom of Naples, drew thither in his train the principal 
 families of the Proven gal nobility, and thus drained the king- 
 dom of those who had formerly maintained its chivalrous 
 manners. The Courts of Love were consequently done away, 
 
 '* See Sisinondi's Literature of Southern Europe, chap. vi. 
 
THE LANGUE d'oIL. 63 
 
 and the tourneys became few and unattractive. A still more 
 deadly blow to the Provencal was the removal of the court of 
 Rome to Avignon at the beginning of the fourteenth century ; 
 for though the successive popes who resided there for seventy 
 years^ were all natives of Southern France, yet their retinues 
 were composed of Italians, and the Tuscan superseded the 
 Provencal in the circles of fashion. 
 
 II.— THE TROUVERES.* 
 
 RISE OF THE LANGUE D'OIL OR ROMANCE WALLON — IT MERGES INTO NORMAN- 
 FRENCH— CHIVALROUS ROMANCES— LAYS— ALLEGORICAL POEMS— FABLIAUX 
 — HISTORICAL ROMANCES — LYRIC POETRY — CONCLUDING OBSERVATIONS — 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF PARIS. 
 
 While the Provencal, after a brilliant career of three cen- 
 turies, was relapsing into the position of a mere dialect, the 
 north of France was maturing a new language, and giving 
 birth to literature of a different character. 
 
 The name of Waelchs or Walloons, which was given by the 
 Germans to the inhabitants of this region, was essentially the 
 same as that of Galli (Gauls), which they had received from 
 the Latins, and of Kelti (or Celts), which they themselves 
 acknowledged. Their language was called after them the 
 llomance Wallon — that is, the vulgar tongue of the Walloons — 
 and we hav^e notices of its existence so early as the eighth 
 century; but the most ancient specimen of it is the oath of 
 Louis-le-Germanique,'{" and that of the subjects of Charles the 
 Bald, in the year 842 A. D. 
 
 * Trouvere is simply a translation of the Provencal troubadour, 
 f " Pro Deo amor, et pro christian poblo, et nostro comun salvamento 
 (salvament) dist di en avant, in quant Deus savir et podir me dunat, si 
 
64 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 The language of these celebrated oaths is almost as much 
 like the Provencal as the Walloon of later times, leading to the 
 conclusion that at this period the vulgar tongue was pretty 
 nearly the same throughout the whole of France. But from 
 the time that the formation of the kingdom of Aries divided the 
 country into two independent and rival states, their languages 
 became more and more dissimilar. When the Provengal re- 
 ceived the designation of the Langue d^ Oc, the Walloon was 
 called the Langue cV Oil or d' Out, just as the Italian was the 
 Langue de Si, and the German the Langue de Ja.^ 
 
 The invasion of the Northmen, or Normans, in the tenth 
 century, supplied the last, and perhaps the best element of 
 this dialect. The victors adopted the language of the van- 
 quished, but modified it by the addition of Teutonic locutions, 
 and stamped on it the impress of their own genius. It thus 
 became the Norman-Erench, which formed the basis of the 
 language whose literature we are briefly to survey. 
 
 A century and a half after Northern France had submitted 
 to Kollo, one of his descendants effected the conquest of Eng- 
 land, and imposed this language on our forefathers, command- 
 ing that it should be taught before Latin in all the conventual 
 schools, and should be the organ of civil administration 
 throughout the country. In England, therefore, the popular 
 French acquired by the sword of William a position which it 
 did not enjoy at Paris : in the French capital, it was the dia- 
 
 salvarejo cist meon frade Karlo, et in adjudha, et in cadhuna cosa si cum 
 om per droit son fradre (fradra) salvar dist (legendum dust) in o quid il mi 
 altre si fazet (qui id un altre si fazet), et ab Ludher nul plaid nunquam 
 prindrai, qui meon vol cist meon fradre Karlo in damno sit." 
 
 The oath of the French people runs thus : — " Si Loduuigs sagrament, 
 que son fradre Karlo jurat, consertat; et Karlus, meos sendra, de suo part 
 non lo stanit; si io returnar non I'int pois, ne io, ne ceuls cui eo returnar 
 int pois, in nulla ajudha contra Lodhuwig nun li iver." 
 
 * Oc, Oil or Oui, Si, and Ya, arc the Provencal, Walloon, Italian, and 
 German, respectively for yes. 
 
THE LANGUE D OIL. 65 
 
 lect of tlie vulgar ; while in the English, it was what Latin 
 had long been on the Continent — the language of the court, 
 of the government, and of course, therefore, of the educated 
 classes generally. It is thus accounted for that England was 
 the cradle of French literature. The first complete work in 
 the French language, posterior only to the oaths above referred 
 to, was the code of laws which William the Conqueror im- 
 posed on his English subjects in the latter half of the eleventh 
 century.* 
 
 As soon as poetry appeared in this dress, it displayed a novel 
 and interesting character, widely different from the Provencal. 
 It was not now an idle baron sighing for his lady-love, or an 
 oppressed vassal venting his indignation at the tyranny of his 
 master, but it was a nation of hardy warriors celebrating the 
 prowess of their ancestors, with all the exaggeration that their 
 fancy could supply. Here first we meet with those legends 
 and romances of mediaeval chivalry which have furnished the 
 elements of the marvellous to the poets and romancers of suc- 
 ceeding ages. 
 
 The earliest, probably, of these, giving its own date in the 
 
 * The following extract is from a manuscript of about the same date : — 
 *'Un horn estoit en la terre Us ki out nom Job. Parce est dit u li sainz 
 horn demoroit ke li merites de sa vertut soit expresseiz. Quar ki ne sachet 
 que Us est terre de paiens, et la paienie fut en tant plus enloie {inligaUis) 
 de visces, ke de n'eout la conissance de son faiteor {criateur). Dunkes 
 diet lorn u il demorat par ke ses loi {louange) creisset; cant il fut bon entre 
 les malvais." 
 
 The following is from St. Bernard, who died in 1153 : — Nos faisons vi, 
 chier freire, Tencommencement de Tavent, cui nous est asseiz renomeiz et 
 connis al munde, si come sunt li nom des altres solemnpniteiz. Mais li 
 raison del nom nen est mies par aventure si conue. Car li chaitif fil d'Adam 
 nen ont cure de veriteit ne de celes chores ka lor saluteit appartienent, anz 
 quierent icil les choses defaillans et trespessaules {trespessantes ?). A quel 
 gent ferons nos semblans les homes de ceste generation, ou a quel gent 
 ewerons nous ceos cui nos veons estre si ahers et si enracineiz ens terriens 
 solas et ens corporiens, kil de partir ne s'en puyent." 
 
66 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 text as tlie year 1155 A. d., is the Booh of the Britons, or the 
 Romance of Brutus, a fabulous history of the early kings of 
 England, beginning with Brutus, the grandson of ^neas. 
 This Brutus, after making many a long journey, and lighting; 
 on many an enchanted isle and gorgeous fairy palace, at length 
 discovers England, establishes his family in it, and reigns glo- 
 riously. Here he finds King Arthur, the chivalric institution 
 of the Round Table, and the enchanter Merlin, one of the 
 most popular personages of the middle ages. Out of this 
 legend arose a series of myths, includin g some of the boldest 
 creations of the human fancy. The court of King Arthur was 
 peopled with valiant knights, whose names became '' familiar 
 as househ'old words^' in the thirteenth and fourteenth centu- 
 ries. For instance, the Romance of Merlinj who was said to 
 be the son of the devil by a Breton lady, describes the wars 
 of Uther and Pendragon against the Saxon invaders of Eng- 
 land, the birth and early life of Arthur, the miracles by which 
 the prophet of chivalry consecrated the institution of the Round 
 Table, and his predictions, which have served as well as the 
 gravest chronicles for materials to the romance writers. The 
 Romance of Saint Graal{^ by Christian de Troyes, mingles 
 the records of sacred history with legends of British chi- 
 valry. It tells how the saint-graal, or holy cup, was carried 
 to England, and came into the possession of Lancelot of the 
 Lake, Galaar his son, Percival of Wales, and Boort, knights 
 of the Round Table, of each of whom the history is given ; 
 and so of the rest, in which the adventures of the different 
 heroes of this illustrious court are recounted with a curious 
 mixture of simplicity and extravagance, gallantry and super- 
 stition. 
 
 Another family of romances are those which relate to the 
 
 * Poets have drawn nothing more beautiful from this legend than The 
 Vision of Sir Launfal, by James Russell Lowell, and Sir Galahad by 
 Tennyson. 
 
ROMANCES OF CHIVALRY. 67 
 
 wonderful exploits of Charlemagne and his twelve paladins. 
 Many of these, also, have been rendered familiar to the mo- 
 dern reader by the works of later authors, especially Ariosto 
 in the Orlando Furioso.'^ We shall, therefore, here intro- 
 duce a very ancient one which is little known, having been 
 first published within the last twenty years from a manuscript 
 in the British Museum. It is entitled The Journey of Cliarle- 
 magne to Jerusalem and, Constantinople. Every one knows 
 that this monarch was never at either place ; but the imagina- 
 tion of the twelfth century having endowed him with all the 
 characteristics of greatness, and knowing none more signal 
 than those connected with Eastern travel, made no difficulty 
 as to the fact that these adventures were not known in the age 
 of Charlemagne. The journey was occasioned, says the story, 
 by a dispute between the monarch and his queen^ which thus 
 arose : — 
 
 Charles to Saint Denis' minster hastened now 
 To be re-crowned ; first on his ample brow 
 He signed the cross, then on his thigh he bound 
 His golden-hilted sword ; assembled round 
 Dukes, lords, knights, barons in, attendance stood. 
 The monarch with delight his champions viewed, 
 Then turned elated to his youthful queen, 
 Resplendent with her crown and regal sheen. 
 He pressed her snow-white hand, and courteously 
 Conducting her beneath an olive-tree, 
 Thus gaily questioned her: ^'Now, lady, say. 
 Hast thou e'er seen beneath the solar ray 
 A monarch whom the crown so well became. 
 Or sword so just an emblem of his fame ? 
 With this, I warrant, many a town I'll take!" 
 The dame was reckless, and thus reckless spake: 
 "In sooth, my liege, thou dost assume too much. 
 Certes I have beheld, and often, such ; 
 
 * See Mrs. Marsh's ^'Sung of Kolarid, as chanted before the Battle of 
 Hastings by Taillefor." 
 
68 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 A king who when at court his crown he wears, 
 
 More graceful and more dignified appears." 
 
 Charlemagne, enraged, the simple queen surveyed ; 
 
 The peers stood mute, the multitude dismayed. 
 
 ** Ha ! say'st thou ? And this monarch, where bides he ? 
 
 Reveal his name — reveal it instantly ! 
 
 We'll see whose merit bears the palm away, 
 
 Or his or mine ; let mutual umpires say. 
 
 Hie to his palace, with thy friends combine ; 
 
 My knights and faithful Franks to them I'll join : 
 
 To their decision I will freely bow. 
 
 But if thou liest, 'twill cost thee dear, I trow ; 
 
 I'll doff thy head with this well-tempered blade !" 
 
 The queen, now regretting her ill-timed banter, would fain 
 have dropped the argument. She pretended she had forgot 
 the name and country of the hero; but the king would take 
 no denial. At length she mentioned Hugo, King of Byzan- 
 tium ; whereupon Charles summoned his peers, and told them 
 that he required their attendance, with that of their vassals, 
 in the performance of a long-resolved pilgrimage to the Holy 
 Land ; and that, after fulfilling this duty, he intended to seek 
 out a king of whose wealth and prowess wonderful things had 
 been told him. 
 
 The adventurers travelled by land through Burgundy, Ba- 
 varia, Hungary, Turkey, and Persia. Reaching Jerusalem at 
 length, they visited the minster, where the officials took them 
 for celestial visitants, till Charles explained : — 
 
 *' Sire, I am Charles ycleped, in Gallia bred, 
 My knights and I twelve kings have vanquished ; 
 The thirteenth now I seek, but known by fame. 
 Hither, by God inspired, I lately came, 
 The cross and holy sepulchre t'adore." 
 
 The king now asked and obtained a number of sacred relics, 
 and in due time the party returned homewards by Constanti- 
 nople. 
 
ROMANCES OF CHIVALRY. 69 
 
 Byzantium's far-famed city they behold, 
 Its mosques and pinnacles bedecked with gold. 
 On the right hand, upon a mountain's side. 
 Groves of green laurels and of pines they spied ; 
 There the arbutus and the sweet rose bloomed, 
 And fragrant aloes the pare air perfumed. 
 Thousands of knights in silken robes they found. 
 With ermine furred that trailed upon the ground. 
 At chess and trictrac some of them were playing, 
 Others with falcons and tame goshawks straying. 
 
 Ctarles, advancing on his mule^ questioned Roland as to 
 wtether he had yet seen the king ; and then^ turning to a man 
 who stood near him^ he inquired where Hugo lived. Being 
 directed to go forward to a tent which was pointed out, he 
 spurred his beast, and presently, to his great surprise, disco- 
 vered the monarch engaged in ploughing. The instrument 
 was worthy of a king. 
 
 The shares, the coulters, wheels, were all of gold. 
 
 With skill unerring he the ploughshare ruled. 
 
 Two powerful mules a rich pavilion bore, 
 
 Where, on a cushion, sat the emperor ; 
 
 Of eider-down the pillow was composed. 
 
 Mantled with scarlet where his head reposed ; 
 
 A silver footstool on the carpet placed. 
 
 With flowers and rich enamel was incased. 
 
 A golden verge the valiant Hugo held, 
 
 And so unerringly the share impelled. 
 
 Each furrow was as straight as joiner's rule. 
 
 Charlemagne, astonished, viewed him from his mule ; 
 
 Still Hugo urged the plough, for fain was he 
 
 To finish his day's work, and speedil 
 
 Charles doffs his cap, and greets him heartily. 
 
 Hugh, lost in wonder, marks his warlike mien, 
 
 His sinewy arms, and body lank and lean. 
 
 ** God save thee, sir ! what favor dost thou claim ?" 
 
 *' From France I come, and Charlemagne is my name. 
 
70 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 My nephew Roland. From the Holy Land 
 Returning home with my victorious band, 
 Thee and thy chivalry I fain would know." 
 **In sooth," cries Hugo, **'tis seven years ago 
 Reports have reached me of a Frankish host 
 And knights well mounted, who approached our coast. 
 If such thy pleasure, here a twelvemonth bide, 
 Gold in abundance shall thy wants provide. 
 Now I'll unyoke my mules, that I may prove 
 How much I long to cultivate thy love." 
 * -x- ^ ^j 
 
 The palace and its splendor Charles surveyed ; 
 Chairs, tables, sofas — all of gold were made ; 
 Its walls, with azure silk and pictures graced. 
 Where serpents, beasts of prey, and birds were traced. 
 A well-proportioned dome surmounted all. 
 And shed soft radiance o'er the gorgeous hall. 
 One hundred columns, glorious to behold, 
 Girt the saloon ; two statues of pure gold, 
 Or polished brass, in front of each were seen. 
 Children they seemed in body and in mien ; 
 An ivory horn protruded from each mouth, 
 Which, when the breeze, or from the north or south, 
 Entered the palace, like a wheel turned round, 
 When down a hill it hurries to the ground. 
 then the horns a mighty voice would yield, 
 Like drums or thunder, or loud chimes when pealed. 
 Each statue with a smile surveyed the other, 
 Alike in form, as brother to a brother. 
 
 Just then a gentle breeze began to blow 
 Right from the port, and at that moment, lo ! 
 The horns revolved like axle of a mill, 
 And breathed sweet airs, the statues smiling still. 
 Some in high octaves, others soft and clear, 
 Thrilled in melodious accents on the ear. 
 In paradise the listeners seemed to be. 
 Where angels sing in joyous company. 
 Anon the gale increased ; it stormed, it hailed ; 
 The winds in vain the palace walls assailed. 
 
ROMANCES OF CHIVALRY. 71 
 
 Its lattices, of foreign crystal pure, 
 With curtains well protected stood secure ; 
 "Within 'twas tranquil as the month of May 
 When summer suns their genial beams display. 
 
 After a plentiful supper, in which 
 
 Nought was refused the Franks might please their taste: 
 Wild boars and yen'son on the board were placed ; 
 Gees^, herons, peacocks, seasoned well with spice, 
 Provoked their appetites, not overnice ; 
 Claret in capious jugs their thirst allayed, 
 And minstrels sung or on the rota played — 
 
 the guests prepared for rest. 
 
 But the wilj Hugo had taken the precaution of hiding in 
 the chamber a spy, who overheard when the guests, heated 
 with wine, conversed {gahbed) freely among themselves, and 
 boasted their superior strength, while they poured contempt 
 on their wealthy entertainers. Next day, Hugo challenged 
 them to verify their bravadoes, vowing that they should die 
 unless each boaster performed the feat which he had vaunted. 
 They venture all; and partly by miraculous aid, partly by 
 cunning and opportune accidents, each contrives to perform, 
 or to appear to have performed, his feat : whereupon the 
 Byzantine monarch acknowledges Charles for his superior, 
 and does him homage. Many of the details in this, as in 
 most other tales of chivalry, are quite unfit for perusal. 
 
 It would not comport with the limits of the present work to 
 enter on an inquiry into the origin of these wild romances, 
 but it is easy to see how they may have arisen. The popular 
 mind was struck, in the first instance, with the actual view of 
 great men and great actions, as those of Charlemagne, and 
 Alexander the Great, another favorite hero of chivalrous 
 poetry. The history of these being traditionally handed down 
 from one generation of story-tellers to another, during ages in 
 
72 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 which there were no books^ became exaggerated as the dis- 
 tance in point of time increased, and these fabrications came 
 to occupy the place of historic record. It is worth remarking, 
 that though an attempt was made to render the prowess of 
 Rollo and his followers the subject of romantic narrative in 
 the poem called the Romance of the Roux, yet it gave birth 
 to no following imitations or amplifications. The events, pro- 
 bably, were too near and too familiar to be accepted as matter 
 for poetical embellishment. But Charlemagne was a fine sub- 
 ject: his long reign; his prodigious activity; his splendid 
 conquests ; his wars with the Saracens ; his influence in Ger- 
 many, Italy, and Spain ; and his re-establishment of a western 
 empire — naturally rendered him an object of wonder and admi- 
 ration to succeeding generations, who connected his name with 
 all that was brilliant in achievement, even after the precise 
 facts were forgotten. Anachronisms might be expected under 
 the circumstances, and errors in geography occurred almost as 
 matters of course. The feats of this hero were probably con- 
 founded with the earlier ones of Charles Martel, and supple- 
 mented, perhaps, with some Eastern lore and a few classic 
 reminiscences of the west. Then the institutions of chivalry, 
 when they appeared, formed a beautiful ideal amidst the hard- 
 ness of feudal despotism; and the Crusades aff'orded such 
 splendid examples of knightly devotion, that even as Alex- 
 ander the Great was dubbed a knight, so the redoubtable 
 Charlemagne made a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. The super- 
 natural was easily added under these circumstances. In the 
 infancy of nations, as of individuals, the love of the marvellous 
 seems to be inherent, and Divine or Satanic interference 
 affords the easiest and most agreeable explanation of every 
 difiiculty. This disposition had been fostered in the dark 
 ages by the monkish legends of miracles and visions, and it 
 would seem as though the charm of fiction and the habit of 
 believing it had incapacitated the popular mind for relishing 
 
ROMANCES OF CHIVALRY. 73 
 
 sober and unadorned truth. Such, indeed, was the power 
 and prevalence of these myths for ages afterwards, that Mil- 
 ton's first idea was to devote an epic to Arthur,* as Ariosto 
 had done to Charlemagne, till a happier thought induced him 
 to relinquish the enchanter Merlin for the Evil One, and the 
 conquest of Britain for Paradise Lost. 
 
 We are not to suppose that these fictions were the inven- 
 tions of some master-minds of singular ingenuity. The poets 
 seem only to have versified what every one believed, and 
 hence, perhaps, it is that their biographies are obscure as 
 compared with those of the troubadours. For it is to be ob- 
 served, that though we now use the word romance as synony- 
 mous with a fictitious composition, yet originally it only meant 
 a work in the Romance or modern dialect, as distinguished 
 from the scholastic Latin ; and there is little doubt that the 
 knights who listened to the songs of the minstrel, '' held each 
 strange tale devoutly true.^' 
 
 And doubtless there is much verity amidst this mass of 
 fiction. The mind of man invents very little incident in an 
 absolute sense, even when it frames the most chimerical 
 fables; and fiction is but composed of fragments of truth 
 fancifully put together. There is no doubt that chivalry was 
 a real institution, and that the moral features, the details of 
 costume, the social usages, even the adventures so far as they 
 are human and natural, are a faithful and exact expression of 
 the age. This literature would not be worthy to occupy so 
 much attention, did it not present the only picture of life 
 in those days that it is now possible for us to attain. We 
 could form no adequate conception of the hardness of feudalism 
 but in viewing this cortege of warriors which supported it ; 
 these restless and ungovernable passions which were its very 
 
 * See an allusion to this in. his Epitaphium Damonis, 
 7 
 
74 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 life; and this sense of honor, this gallantry and religious 
 enthusiasm, which were its highest ornament. 
 
 In the north of France, as in the south, princes and nobles 
 lent their patronage to the minstrels or jongleurs, who, espe- 
 cially after the intercourse with the East, united the functions 
 of musician and story-teller, mountebank and conjuror. Ac- 
 cording to a custom which may be traced to the highest anti- 
 quity, these professors of the art of pleasing were invited to 
 table even in the kingly palace, and largely rewarded for the 
 amusement they afforded. But whatever the charm which an 
 extended romance was calculated to lend to the private cham- 
 ber, the festive meeting required still lighter compositions, 
 whose sallies of wit were rendered more piquant by brevity 
 of style. Hence the fabliaux — which seem to have owed 
 their origin to the patronage of the great — and the laysy 
 which occupy an intermediate position between these and the 
 romances. 
 
 Marie of France, who flourished in the middle of the 
 thirteenth century, bears the palm in this species of composi- 
 tion. She was a classical scholar, and had spent some time 
 in Britain, where she had conversed in their own language 
 with the Welsh bards, to whom she confesses herself indebted 
 for the matter of her lays. They are embodied in an easy, 
 graceful, conversational style, without the tedious episodes 
 and digressions which occur in the romances.* The following 
 will give some idea of her Lay of Lanval: — 
 
 I will another lay recite, 
 
 Which oft I've heard in bower and hall; 
 The hero is a wealthy knight. 
 
 In Britanny ycleped Lanval. 
 
 •* See in Costello's Early French Poetry, or in Longfellow's Poets and 
 Poetry of Europe, the renowned Lny of Bisclaveret, 
 
LAY OF LANVAL. ro 
 
 King Arthur was at Cardiff suppressing an irruption of the 
 Picts and Scots ; after whicli he rewarded the other knights 
 of the Round Table with lands and honors, but Lanval re- 
 mained unguerdoned ; and as his private property was limited, 
 while his chivalrous expenses were considerable, he found him- 
 self reduced to straits. He scorned to complain, however, 
 and resolved to seek his fortune in other lands. Mounting 
 his steed, and leaving the town, he reached a verdant meadow, 
 watered by a streamlet clear as crystal : — 
 
 Here he ungirt his panting steed, 
 
 And left to pasture on the grass; 
 A pillow of his cloak he made, 
 
 For wearied nature claimed repose, 
 But sad reflections sleep forbade — 
 
 Sleep flies a breast o'ercharged with woes. 
 He marked the stream ; and as he gazed, 
 
 Beheld two beauteous maids advance; 
 He saw, and at their charms amazed, 
 
 Stole many a longing, lingering glance. 
 Richly attired the damsels seemed ; 
 
 Close to their shapes each bodice laced ; 
 Their vermil scarfs at distance gleamed. 
 
 And well displayed the forms they graced. 
 The elder bore a golden ewer. 
 
 Richly enamelled, quaintly wrought — 
 I merely tell the truth, be sure — 
 
 The younger a fair napkin brought. 
 Directly towards the knight they sped ; 
 
 And he, well versed in courtesy. 
 Sprang from the sward and bent his head ; 
 
 They smiled and curtsied graciously. 
 **Sir knight," they cried, "our lady fair 
 
 Hath sent us with a message hither: 
 So please you to her bower repair — 
 
 We safely will conduct you thither.** 
 
 Following his guides, he was led to a splendid pavilion, in 
 
76 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 wHch was a beautiful lady, who professed her love for him. 
 After they had plighted their mutual faith, she bestowed on 
 him a talisman, by virtue of which he should be able to pro- 
 cure wealth at pleasure. Only one condition she imposed upon 
 him — he was never to reveal the secret of their attachment ; 
 if he did, he was to lose the wealth-giving power. Trusting 
 him to find some spot where they might meet without obser- 
 vation, she dismissed him for the present, and he returned 
 straight to Cardiff, where he freely indulged his taste for gene- 
 rous profusion, making presents to his friends, assisting the 
 necessitous, and still finding his purse always replenished. 
 
 That year — 'twas past the Baptist's day — 
 
 The barons, in pure idleness, 
 Repaired to where an orchard lay 
 
 Skirting a tower, a lone recess, 
 Where Queen Genevra took delight. 
 
 The queen, escorted by thirty of her maidens, left the tower 
 to join them ; and perceiving Lanval standing pensively apart 
 from the rest — he was thinking of his absent love — she ap- 
 proached and accosted him, avowing a long- cherished attach- 
 ment, and soliciting its return. That was refused. The queen, 
 enraged, declared to her lord that she had been insulted by 
 Lanval. He was accordingly apprehended by order of the 
 monarch, and brought to trial. We pass by the preparations 
 for this solemnity, and the distress of Lanval at finding that 
 his indiscretion in revealing the secret had deprived him of 
 the fairy's assistance. The critical moment arrives, and while 
 the barons are considering their verdict, two beautiful dam- 
 sels, on white palfreys, closely followed by two more, announce 
 to the king a visit from their mistress : — 
 
 Anon, just as the court prepare 
 
 To render judgment, through the town 
 
 A lady, most surpassing fair — 
 
 In Christendom no such was known — 
 
LAY OF LANVAL. 77 
 
 On a white palfrey speeds apace. 
 
 The beast was of the noblest breed : 
 His head and neck he bears with grace, 
 
 Rich are the trappings of the steed ; 
 A king who would the like acquire, 
 
 Must sell or pledge his lands, I ween. 
 Now mark her beauty and attire : 
 
 A tissue of transparent sheen. 
 On either side by clasps confined, 
 
 Did partly veil and partly show 
 A form unmatched in womankind. 
 
 Whiter her neck than new-fallen snow ; 
 Her eyes were blue, complexion fair. 
 
 Her mouth and nose in symmetry, 
 Her eyebrows dark thou mightst compare 
 
 To bows just bent for archery ; 
 Light auburn locks her shoulder graced, 
 
 Her purple mantle loosely flowed, 
 A falcon on her hand was placed, 
 
 A greyhound followed where she rode 
 
 In all the city was not one, 
 
 Master or valet, young or old. 
 But left his wonted task undone, 
 
 Her wondrous beauty to behold. 
 «- * * 
 
 The lady to the palace wends, 
 
 Where^ever yet such beauty came ; 
 In Arthur's presence she descends. 
 
 And all who view admire the dame. 
 Her mantle she lets fall behind. 
 
 Her form the better to display. 
 The king in courtesy refined, 
 
 Rises to greet her sans delay ; 
 The courtiers make obeisance due, 
 
 Eager to serve her to their best. 
 From lip to lip her praises flew. 
 
 And every heart her power confessed. 
 At length she spake : " I here resort 
 
 To plead for one I love, Lanval. 
 
78 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 He was neglected at tby court, 
 
 Alone forgot when guerdoned all ; 
 His innocence I come to prove ; 
 
 The queen hath wronged thy best in arms 
 He never sought nor wished her love. 
 
 Touching his boast — compare our charms. 
 If mine deserve the preference, 
 
 Then, barons, ye're in duty bound 
 To judge him guiltless of offence." 
 
 Lanval was forth with absolved; and when the lady rode 
 awaj; he closely followed her. 
 
 To Avalon, 'tis said, they went — 
 
 So sing the Britons in their lays ; 
 There in each other's love content, 
 
 Remote from strife, they passed their days. 
 
 Besides lays, France owes to Marie a collection of fables, 
 not indeed original as to the invention, but new in the mode 
 of exhibition. They are in substance the same which have 
 been repeated in all ages, from Esop to La Fontaine.* Marie 
 had few imitators in this species of composition ; but perhaps 
 her fables suggested the idea of those interminable allegories 
 which fed the fancy and stimulated the curiosity of the French 
 nation for three centuries. Unlike as they are to the fables 
 both in form and extent, they are analogous in their object — 
 
 * LA MORS ET LI BOSQUILLON. 
 
 Tant de loin que de prez n'est laide 
 La mors. La clamoit a son ayde 
 Tosjors ung povre hosquillon 
 Que n'ot chevance ne sillon : 
 " Que ne viens, disoit, 6 ma mie. 
 Finer ma dolorouse vie V 
 Tant brama qu'advint ; et de voix 
 Terrible : " Que veux-tu ?" " Ce bois 
 Que m'aydiez a carguer, madame \" 
 Peur et labeur n'ont raesme game. 
 
ROMANCE OF THE ROSE. 79 
 
 whicli was to clothe dangerous truth in a disguise which should 
 secure its circulation. There is a personification, not of the 
 lower animals, but of virtues, vices, political and religious 
 principles, concealing bitter sarcasm, and generally a good 
 moral inference. 
 
 The most celebrated, and probably the most ancient of these, 
 is the Romance of the Rose^ — a work of 20,000 lines, com- 
 menced in the thirteenth century by GtUILLAUME de Lorris, 
 and continued fifty years later by Jean de Meun. It is a 
 dream, in which a host of allegorical personages appear to 
 conduct the incidents of a tedious love affair. The object of 
 attraction is the rose ; Dame Oiseuse inspires the lover with a 
 desire of finding it; Male-Bouche and Dangler mislead his 
 search; while Felonie, Bassesse, Haine, and Avarice, throw 
 obstacles in the way. The imagination is invited to wander 
 thus among crowds of fictitious beings, the representatives of 
 abstract ideas, in whom it is impossible to feel the interest that 
 would have been excited by the most trivial display of human 
 feeling and action. Then, unlike any previous poetry that we 
 know of, the Romance of the Rose contains a great deal of 
 learned lore ; scholastic subtleties and scraps of ancient his- 
 tory mingle freely with abstractions and allegories : we meet, 
 for instance, with the cruelties of Nero and the death of Se- 
 neca, as well as that of Lucretia; here a passage on alchemy; 
 there a digression on Boethius and his book ; now a chivalrous 
 episode ; and again a eulogium on St. Augustine. A few lines 
 will give an idea of the state of the language at this time.f 
 
 * An account of Chaucer's translation of this poem may be found in God- 
 win's Life of Chaucer, vol. ii. p. 230. 
 
 t Le temps qui s'en va nuyt et jour 
 Sans repos prendre et sans sejour, 
 Et qui de nous se part et emble 
 Si celeement, qu'il nous semble 
 
80 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 This poem excited unbounded admiration in its day ; it was 
 considered as a master-piece of wit, a splendid moral concep- 
 tion, a fine display of philosophy in the garb of poetry. The 
 most general belief was, that it veiled the deepest theological 
 mysteries from the merely sensuous reader, and, accordingly, 
 learned commentaries were written to supply the key to these 
 treasures of divine wisdom. Truth is, that every class of 
 visionaries might find its own prototype in one or other of 
 these allegorical personages ; and the mystic Rose might be 
 either the golden dream of the alchemist, the occult science 
 of the astrologer, or the beatific vision of the fanatic. The 
 preachers of the day seem, in the first instance, to have been 
 divided in their opinions as to its merits : some fulminated 
 their censures of it as a corrupting volume ; others mingled 
 quotations from it with those of holy writ. This amorous 
 dream of De Lorris being afterwards used by Jean de Meun 
 as the framework for a satire on all classes of society, and the 
 clergy coming in for a large share, they made it the object of 
 persecution enough to render it immortal. 
 
 The imitations of this poem were almost endless. One of 
 the earliest was that of the Trois Pelerinages — a dream of 
 most appalling length, as each pilgrimage occupies 10,000 or 
 12,000 verses. The first is the pilgrimage of man, or human 
 life on earth ; the second, the pilgrimage of the soul, or the 
 life to come ; the third, the pilgrimage of Jesus Christ, or the 
 life of our Lord. 
 
 Qu'il nous soit ades en un point, 
 Et s'il ne s'y arreste point, 
 Ains ne fine de trespasser. 
 Si que Ten {Von) no pourroit penser 
 Lequel temps c'est qui est present ^ 
 Ce le {ne?) demand-je au clerc lysant, 
 Car ain^ois {avant)^ qu'il eust ce pensez, 
 Seroit-il ja oultre passez. 
 
ALLEGORIES. 81 
 
 About the same time appeared tlie Bible Guyot (Book of 
 Guyot) — a bitterly satirical work of tbe same kind, containing 
 the Booh of Mandevie (Amendment of Life), the Book of 
 Clergie (The Sciences), and many others of similar kind.* 
 
 If we feel astonished at the patience of those who could 
 , peruse these long and stupid works, it may suffice to remem- 
 ber, that books were remarkably scarce in those days, and that 
 a single volume was often the sole literary treasure of a large 
 family circle, to whom it was read over and over, as often as 
 reading was required to pass the long evening in court or 
 hall. These allegories, then, served as riddles to stimulate 
 the wit of the company, who speculated on the author's pri- 
 mary design, and ever and anon discovered new applications 
 of his symbolic details. The scraps of ancient histor}' and 
 
 * The following are some of the introductory verses: — 
 Dou si^cle puant et orrible 
 M'estuet coinmencier une bible {livre), 
 Por poindre (piquer) et por aiguilloner, 
 Et pour grant essample doner. 
 Ce n'iert (sera) pas bible losengiere (loiiangeuse), 
 , Mes fine et voire {vraie) et droituriere; 
 
 Mireor iert a toutes gens : 
 Ceste bible, or ne argenz 
 Esloingner de rien ne me puet, 
 Qar de Dieu et de raison muet [se meut, provient) ; 
 Ce que je veux center et dire 
 Est sanz felonie et sanz ire. 
 Voldrai le siecle molt reprendre, 
 Et assaillir et reson rendre, 
 Et diz et essamples mostrer 
 0^ tuit cil {tons ceux) se porront mirer 
 Qui entendue et creance ont : 
 Que toutes les ordres qui sont 
 Se porront mirer es biaux diz, 
 Et es biaux moz que j'ai escriz. 
 Se mirent cil qui bien entendent, 
 E il prodome {les sages) s'i amendent. 
 
82 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 scholastic philosophy, too, must have been highly acceptable 
 to those who had no access to the books in which such matters 
 were more exclusively contained. 
 
 Among the larger satirical works of this poriod, none has 
 obtained a more lasting reputation than the cycle of poems 
 called The Adventures of Reynard the Fox^ — a much more 
 extensive work than the popular story which a later age has 
 received from the Germans. It consists of a series of rambling 
 and unconnected episodes, each of which is a satire upon some 
 class of individuals, or some point in the political system which 
 was a subject of popular complaint. Traces of the story are 
 met with as early as the twelfth century ; and it is difficult to 
 assign it a particular date. It would appear that the cunning 
 and unscrupulous character of the fox had been from a very 
 early period employed in fables of political satire 3 and this is 
 perhaps a collection of such productions thrown into the form of 
 a regular narrative. Some of the adventures of Keynard exhibit 
 the general rapacity and injustice of the times — every man 
 watching an opportunity to cheat his fellow; others satirize 
 particular classes and orders of general society ; others, again, 
 describe the disorders of the ecclesiastics, and expose the hypo- 
 crisy of religious professors ; while the confession and pilgrim- 
 age are bitter enough satires on the two great instruments of 
 the clergy for abusing the credulous confidence of the laity, 
 and turning it to their own advantage. 
 
 We come now to notice the Fahliaux of the trouv^res; and 
 without affecting a very exact or logical definition, we may 
 characterize a fabliau as a jeu d' esprit, generally based on 
 some well known proverb, anecdote, or adventure, strongly 
 marked with satire, dramatic in its form, and moral in its 
 tendency. Some of these compositions, indeed, are so emi- 
 nently dramatic, that it is a wonder they did not give rise to 
 
 * See one version of this famous Apologue by S. Naylor, London, 1845. 
 
FABLIAUX. 83 
 
 regular comedy. But nearly all are so coarse in their details 
 — the most spirited being the worst in this respect — that it 
 is diflScult to give a resume of any without conveying a false 
 impression. 
 
 As in our own day, some works are better known by the 
 Dame of the publishers than of the authors, so these seem to 
 have been recognised as the property of such a jongleur, 
 rather than the invention of such a trouv^re ; many of them 
 are of Eastern origin, and have been only slightly modified to 
 suit the audience to be entertained by them. The jongleurs, 
 like Shakspeare's fools, had license to say anything with impu- 
 nity : no class either of men or of women escaped their satire 
 monarchs and nobles, bishops and priests, monks, philosophers 
 and dancers, even saints and devils, were castigated in turn 
 and while we cannot forgive their impiety, we must award 
 them the palm for being the monopolists of truth. Certainly 
 their satire does not generally present, as in the case of the trou- 
 badours, the interesting character of mental and literary free- 
 dom in individual opposition to feudal oppression ; and yet it 
 were gross injustice to consider the fabliers as mere retailers 
 of scandal. Some of them, at least, had a higher mission. In 
 an age when the crown and the commons were alike held in 
 subjection by an insolent and powerful aristocracy, when the 
 king was but the puppet, and the people the chattels of the 
 barons, while both were the dupes of the clergy, the fabliers 
 had the courage to combat the arrogance of the one and expose 
 the vices of the other. They were the first, so far as appears, 
 to give the sovereign the hint that he might deliver himself 
 from his shackles by making common cause with the people. 
 
 One of the least exceptionable of these fabliaux is the battle 
 between Carnage and Careme (flesh-days and fast-days), of 
 which the ostensible object is to record how milk, cheese, and 
 eggs came to be permitted on fast-days ; while it embodies the 
 political lesson we have referred to, by representing the de- 
 
84 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 feated Careme as tlie favorite of the nobles^ and the victorious 
 Carnage as the darling of the king and people. Though 
 abounding with puerilities and ill-assorted metaphors, this 
 fabliau is so good a specimen of the literature of the thirteenth 
 century, that we venture to introduce it more particularly by 
 analysis and translation : — 
 
 At Whitsunday, I chanced to be 
 At court, and heard the history 
 Of war between two potentates, 
 Which for your mirth my Muse relates. 
 Equal in wealth and lands were they, 
 And numerous vassals owned their sway. 
 One of the twain was Carnage hight, 
 Esteemed a valiant, generous knight 
 By king and people. T' other's name, 
 Dear to the barons, was Careme ; 
 A felon, as all those can tell, 
 Who 'neath his sordid empire dwell. 
 Poor folks he loathed, the rich adored, 
 And gave them freely of his board. 
 Many rich castles he possessed, 
 Abbeys and convents, and the rest ; 
 Whence he enormous tribute drew; 
 The sea was *neath his empire too ; 
 Seigneur he was of bays and strands, 
 Of rivers, streams, and lakes, and ponds. 
 I'll tell you how the battle rose 
 T'wixt these exasperated foes ; 
 The day they called their levies out ; 
 The issue of the deadly rout. 
 
 As King Louis was holding his court at Paris, this Careme 
 appeared with proud distinction, attended by Salmon, Plaice, 
 and other knights of the ocean ] while Carnage, finding him- 
 self scorned and neglected, vowed vengeance against his rival. 
 Whereupon Careme thus addressed him : — 
 
FABLIAUX. 85 
 
 *' What mean thy threats, vile Carnage, say? 
 
 Wouldst thou with me provoke the fray ? 
 
 Hence ! in this palace, by the rood, 
 
 No right thou hast, but dost intrude. 
 
 Unsought thou com'st : I, I alone 
 
 •Am welcomed with a benison; 
 
 Ladies and knights their homage bring, 
 
 Ladies and knights salute me king !" 
 
 *' Thou liest ! Nor thou, nor all thy race 
 
 Can rival me in right or place. 
 
 Hence from the palace with thy rabble ! 
 
 We'll soon appease thy senseless gabble.'' 
 
 After some further squabbling^ both heroes summon their 
 vassals and prepare for war. Sir Herring, the herald on one 
 side, commands the attendance of the fish from the whale 
 downward — 
 
 E'en to the minnows news he brings 
 Of war between the rival kings. 
 
 Carnaore also assembles his armies : — 
 
 ■■*& 
 
 First came a host of potent soups, 
 Then chops and steaks in various groups ; 
 Then pork well seasoned ct la vert, 
 Came at the monarch's special prayer ; 
 Eoast joints regaled his royal eyes, 
 Pigeons and conies in huge pies ; 
 Fat haunches with delight he views, 
 CoUops of beef in savory stews ; 
 Goslings with giblets he discovers, 
 Roast peacocks, curlews, widgeons, plovers, 
 Storks, wild-ducks, herons, bitterns, doves, 
 And the small tenants of the groves. 
 Cock-swans came last, a precious race, 
 Worthy a monarch's board to grace. 
 Then well-spiced sausages, that told 
 Of chitterlings, in cauls enrolled, 
 
86 rR:eNCH literature. 
 
 And mustard, keen provocative ! 
 How could Careme behold and live? 
 
 ^ -x- -x- 
 
 Now Carnage, glancing on the rear, 
 Levies of milk discovers near, 
 From valleys bound right merrily, 
 With butter leagued in amity. 
 Hot tarts and custard in round dishes, 
 Came menacing the saucy fishes, 
 Squadrons of cream were seen to sally 
 "With lance in rest, from hill and valley ; 
 Fresh cheeses from another part 
 Advanced, each brandishing a dart ; 
 Curds followed close ; but who can tell 
 What hosts of milk the legions swell ! 
 Behold a chief of high degree, 
 A solid cheese, no coward he ! 
 To succor Carnage at his need 
 He comes well mounted on a steed. 
 
 Vainly warned tliat lie is about to wage an unequal and 
 disastrous war^ Careme dons his armor. 
 
 Not steel the visor; it was made 
 Of tench, without the smithy's aid; 
 Of a fresh salmon his cuirass ; 
 His coat-of-mail a lamprey was ; 
 Two flat impenetrable skates 
 Composed his ample shoulder-plates ; 
 His casque, a pike to guard his head, 
 With roasted eels encompassed ; 
 A long broad sole composed his blade; 
 His spurs of pointed fishbones made; 
 The grooms a huge gray mullet bring, 
 No common courier suits the king. 
 Carnage an ample stag bestrode, 
 In beef and mutton mailed he rode ; 
 No need had he to dread a blow 
 From mackerel or aquatic foe ; 
 
FABLIAUX. 87 
 
 Hauberk of partridges and quails, 
 
 And lesser game supplied the nails ; 
 
 The head of an enormous boar. 
 
 With polished tusks, for helm he wore; 
 
 A peacock on the helmet beamed, 
 
 In sooth, the king of kings he seemed. 
 
 An eagle's beak his spurs supplied ; 
 
 He wore them with a knightly pride ; 
 
 Girt on his thigh a spit was seen, 
 
 Which erst a butcher had made clean; 
 
 It had been sharpened by a cook ; 
 
 A large round tart for shield he took ; 
 
 Hot cheese-cakes, pasties, omelets, bound it; 
 
 The whole with rim of paste surrounded. 
 
 But of the stag which he had mounted, 
 
 'Tis meet a little be recounted. 
 
 With larks, that fair Aurora greet, 
 
 With nightingales and linnets sweet 
 
 His horns were garnished high and low. 
 
 Sprightly he was, and nothing slow, 
 
 His feet were shod before, behind, 
 
 On every shoe were birds designed ; 
 
 The nails were pepper-corns ; the seat 
 
 Was of blanc-manger, soft and sweet, 
 
 To ladies dear, and men of taste ; 
 
 The pannels were of solid paste ; 
 
 His banner was a new-made cheese. 
 
 Or milk just curdled, if you please. 
 
 ♦'Let's on!" he cried; and on they go, 
 
 Steed facing steed, and foe to foe. 
 
 ^f * * 
 
 Just as the furious champions closed, 
 A troop of capons interposed, 
 Thirsting for blood. Not less elate. 
 Whitings and haddocks, urged by fate, 
 The battle waged. Astounding sight, 
 When fish and fowl for honor fight ! 
 
 * * «SJ 
 
88 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 Mackerel and flounders, nothing quailed. 
 Huge sirloins of roast-beef assailed ; 
 And eggs, a formidable levy, 
 Quickly dispersed the herring bevy. 
 Just then a salmon, fresh and strong, 
 Spurring his steed the ranks among, 
 Fiercely attacked a roasted chief, 
 The noblest of the race of beef, 
 And mauled him so, that consternation 
 Had spread a panic o'er the nation. 
 Had not undaunted Carnage seen, 
 And rushed the combatants between ; 
 Spurring his stag, he dealt a blow 
 So vigorous on the exulting foe, 
 It soon composed the salmon's mettle ; 
 Down popped the champion in a kettle 
 That hissed beneath unhappy fish — 
 There lacked but pepper for a dish. 
 O then 'twas wondrous to behold 
 Beans, peas, and lentils rushing bold 
 T' avenge their comrade in the caldron. 
 Yes, beans and peas advanced in squadron. 
 Ci)ld, hot^ green, dry, all, all ahoop 
 in porridge some, and some in soup. 
 Pepper had raised their courage high ; 
 The king had rued his victory, 
 But that a host of sausages 
 Arrived and checked their ravages. 
 Both beans and peas had routed been, 
 But new assailants intervene ; 
 Eels just emerging from the mud 
 Compel the sausages to scud ; 
 Carnage remains in jeopardy. 
 Skate, haddocks, monsters of the sea, 
 Dabs, oysters, congers, pilchards, bream, 
 Flukes, sauced with fennel, join Carcme. 
 Sudden a knight, his surname Jack, 
 Well mounted on a mullet's back, 
 
FABLIAUX. Oy 
 
 Assails a pasty ; stuffing, crust, 
 And gravy welter in the dust. 
 Fierce raged the battle far and wide, 
 And fish and fowl promiscuous died ; 
 'Twas terrible to either host, 
 But thine, Careme, had suffered most. 
 Carnage, of his achievements proud, 
 Sounded a horn so dire and loud, 
 That hill and dale re-echoed round ; 
 His vassals heard and knew the sound. 
 'Twas night; each army went to quarters, 
 Tired with fatigue and mutual slaughters. 
 
 The morning brings reinforcements to Carnage; the fol- 
 lowers of Careme clamor for peace^ and — 
 
 A herring bears Careme's submission, 
 Without reserve, without condition. 
 
 While Carnage is considering the terms, Christmas comes for- 
 ward, and insists on dictating them — 
 
 ** Careme must quit the kingdom straight; 
 Nor longer tarry in the state 
 Than six weeks, and three days beside ; 
 In other country he must bide. 
 On these conditions we agree 
 To cease our just hostility.'* 
 *'Sir Christmas, be not so severe, 
 Exclaimed the king: " no danger fear ; 
 Let him and all the host at will 
 Establish here their domicile ; 
 Let others, if their taste it suits, 
 Do penance on salt fish and roots." 
 The knotty point thus Carnage carried; 
 And all who in his empire tarried. 
 Eggs, milk, and cheese might eat on Fridays, 
 As freely as on feasts and high days. 
 8* 
 
90 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 Thus was Careme declared to be 
 Liegeman to Carnage' seigneury. 
 
 Satan and satanic agents were often introduced into tte fab- 
 liaux. They were always made subjects of burlesque, and held 
 up to ridicule in the same manner as were the priests, barons, 
 and other hated tyrants^ against whom the trouvere minstrelsy 
 was directed. It was the merit of the Italian poets first to invest 
 Satan with a lofty spirit, and render him an object of respect- 
 ful terror instead of ridicule and disgust ; while to Milton it 
 was reserved to complete the splendors of satanic majesty. 
 
 The poetry of the trouveres is a mine of gold, though so 
 largely mixed with alloy that it is difficult to extract the pure 
 metal. Its romances, apologues, lays, fabliaux, and chronicles 
 contributed to every species of subsequent literature, unless 
 tragedy be excepted. They contained the germs of most of 
 those rich productions of genius, which gradually matured and 
 attained their highest perfection in the age of Louis XIY. 
 Nor in France alone. It was to the troubadours and trouveres 
 that Italy owed a large part of the materials which Dante, 
 Petrarch, and Boccaccio clothed with new forms ; while Eng- 
 land, somewhat later, gathered largely from both. 
 
 Lyric poetry, in the style of the troubadours, received some 
 cultivation at this time, but chiefly among the sovereign princes 
 and more powerful barons. Thibaud III.,'^ Count of Cham- 
 pagne, and afterwards King of Navarre, was the most eminent 
 of these ; but whatever his merits, the style did not fall in 
 with the prevailing taste; and his love ditties excited no such 
 admiration as the lays of Marie his contemporary. Posterity 
 would perhaps never have heard of them, but for the author's 
 supposed attachment to Blanche of Castile, the mother of St. 
 
 * Born 1201. Died 1258. An account of liis attachment to Blanche of 
 Castile may bo found in Mrs. Bush's Lives of the Queens of France, vol. L 
 pp. 152-4. ' ' . 
 
MEDIAEVAL MYTHOLOGIES. 91 
 
 Louis, and the influence which this exercised upon the affairs 
 of the kingdom.* 
 
 '^ After the troubadours of Provence and the trouveres of 
 Northern France, our poetry by small degrees/^ says Pasquier, 
 ^^ lost its credit, and was neglected for a considerable time.^' 
 
 The thirteenth century saw the completion of the three 
 great mythologies of the middle age, which may be designated 
 the religious, the chivalrous, and the allegorical. These were 
 not, as we have already said, the invention of single indivi- 
 duals, but a collective imagination like that which created the 
 beautiful fables of antiquity. 
 
 Religion, no less than feudality, had its chivalry, for igno- 
 rance had rendered the worship of saints a species of pagan- 
 ism, full of fabulous stories, such as the Golden Legend of 
 Pierre de Voragine; and on the other hand, they had coun- 
 terparts of the profane fabliaux in comic tales of an edifying 
 character, in which the outwitting of the devil formed the 
 burlesque of the Christian marvellous. 
 
 Chivalrous mythology, when complete, had borrowed fairy- 
 land from the North, and sorcery from the East ; it had laid 
 Scandinavian traditions, Arab fables, and Christian legends, 
 
 ^ Here is one of his songs : — 
 
 Une chanson encor voil 
 Faire, pour moi conforter, 
 Pour celi dont je me cloil 
 Voeil mon chant renoveler ; 
 Por ce ai talant de chanter : 
 Car quant je ne chant, mi oil 
 Tornent sovent en plorer. 
 SimjDle et franco sans orgoil 
 Quidai ma dame trover : 
 Molt me fut de bel acoil, 
 Mes ce fut pour moi grever; 
 Si sont a. li mi penser, 
 Ke la nuit, quant je somoil, 
 Va mes cuer mcrci crier. 
 
92 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 under contribution, to form its company of genii, enchanters, 
 fairies, giants, dwarfs, and griffins, to help or hinder the fan- 
 tastic enterprises of adventurous knights. 
 
 The personification of virtues, vices, and abstract ideas, 
 formed the allegorical, which, as we have seen, appeared first 
 with the Romance of the Rose, and was perpetuated through 
 a long series of similar works. This is the class of mytho- 
 logical personages that caught the fancy of our earliest English 
 poets. It mingles in the tales of Chaucer, who treated chival- 
 rous poetry with contempt, and almost entirely fills the tedious 
 poem of Spenser's Faery Queene. 
 
 Lyric poetry, as we have seen, had not been sufficient to 
 perpetuate the Provencal, but north of the Loire the epic fur- 
 nished a broad and solid base for a national language, as had 
 been the case in ancient Greece and Italy. Nor only so ; the 
 inexhaustible repertory of trouvere poetry has supplied to an 
 almost unknown extent the bards of other countries through- 
 out Europe. The sublime imaginings of Dante were evidently 
 suggested by their allegories. The tales of Boccaccio are little 
 more than a repetition of their fabliaux ; Ariosto's materials 
 were their romances of chivalry; the Portuguese Amadis da 
 Gaula probably originated in the same school ; and as for our 
 own country, to say nothing of Chaucer and Spenser, our minor 
 poets have been more indebted in this direction than they have 
 had the candor to acknowledge. Parnell, for instance, does 
 not tell, but it has been discovered, that his celebrated poem 
 of The Hermit is almost a literal translation of one from the 
 trouveres, entitled The Hermit and the Aiigel.^ 
 
 Nor only did France in the middle age give birth to a cycle 
 of literature, which from the thirteenth century was used as a 
 
 * Milton says, "I will tell you whither ray younger feet wandered; I 
 betook me among those lofty fables and romances, which recount in solemn 
 cantos the deeds of knighthood." 
 
THEATRICALS. 93 
 
 model by other nations ; it also became a scientific rendezvous. 
 The University of Paris was a fortress raised in the twelfth 
 century by intellect against ecclesiastical dogmatism; and 
 hither resorted from all parts of Europe men greedy of know- 
 ledge, and aspiring after intellectual independence. Here 
 Brunetto, Latini, and Dante improved themselves. Here 
 Roger Bacon passed many years in deep seclusion and 
 study — the reason of the preference^ perhaps, being found 
 chiefly in the good order and equal administration of justice 
 which the metropolis of France enjoyed under Louis IX., while 
 the other capitals of Europe were subject to confusion and 
 violence. Here the scholastic system of dialectics was culti- 
 vated, and through its influence the literature took such a turn 
 as ever after to incline more to eloquence than poetry. From 
 this stronghold, too, there issued, contemporaneously with the 
 fabliaux, a host of satires in Latin verse, directed against the 
 usurpations of the ecclesiastical body, and so much to its an- 
 noyance as to render it little matter of wonder that churchmen 
 found no rest till they obtained a footing in this establishment 
 themselves, and kept its wit and learning under their own 
 influence.* 
 
 1 1 1.~D R A M A T I C POETRY. 
 
 DESTRUCTION OF THE ANCIENT THEATRE — THEATRICAL EXHIBITIONS IN 
 CHRISTIAN CHURCHES — THE MYSTERIES — THAT OP THE PASSION — THE 
 MORALITIES. 
 
 It is among this people, and during this period, that we are 
 to trace the first rude efforts for the revival of the most difii- 
 cult of the arts ; that which had been carried to such perfec- 
 tion in ancient Greece, and which was destined to appear with 
 renewed splendor in modern Europe. 
 
 *- For fuller details upon the subject of ihia chapter, see Dunlop's History 
 of Fiction. 
 
94: FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 The aneieut theatre had received its death-blow from Ohris- 
 tianity. It had, indeed, too well deserved the anathemas which 
 were hurled at it by the early Christian preachers, having 
 become so indecorous as even to be reckoned by Julian, the 
 apostate, unlit for the attendance of his pagan priests. The 
 histrionic profession, which had been so honored in Greece, 
 had been placed under the ban of both church and state, and 
 its ruin was completed by the invasion of the northern barba- 
 rians, some feeble remains only lingering at Constantinople. 
 
 But it would seem to be the natural tendency of the human 
 mind to demand the excitement inspired by spectacles of this 
 nature, especially at a certain stage of its progress towards 
 maturity ; and so it happened that a new theatre arose in the 
 very midst of the church which had annihilated the ancient 
 one. The ceremonies of religion became themselves dramatic 
 exhibitions, and that of the most profane and licentious cha- 
 racter. It was not enough to commemorate the solemn recol- 
 lections of Christianity by reading, and prayer, and medita- 
 tion ; they were acted, made plays of, in short ; and to relieve 
 the tragic feeling and solemn impression which such exhibi- 
 tions were calculated to awaken^ a mixture of the comic was 
 introduced. 
 
 ^^ Theophylactes, of Constantinople, was the author of the 
 still continued practice of offending God in the memory of the 
 saints on holy days, by indecent jokes, laughing and shouting 
 in the midst of holy hymns, which we ought to offer to God 
 with contrition of heart for our salvation. He had collected 
 a company of disreputable characters, and had placed at their 
 head one Euthymes, whom he also appointed over the choir. 
 And he instructed them to mingle with the divine service 
 Satanic dances, vulgar cries, and songs taken from the streets 
 and the lowest haunts of vice.'' So we have it in Cedrene, 
 a Byzantine author of the eleventh century, that a bishop 
 attached a theatrical company to his church. Little did the 
 
MYSTERIES. 95 
 
 anthoi'S of sucli exhibitions dream that they were gropiug the 
 way to the drama, and that they were seeking it by the same 
 path as were the Greeks of old, when they celebrated the mys- 
 teries of Eleusis. 
 
 It is to be noted, at the same time, that the mediaeval Latin 
 which served as a link between the ancient classics and the 
 literature of modern nations^ had furnished some essays to pre- 
 pare for the revival of the drama in the language of the people. 
 Hroswithe, for instance, a German nun of the eleventh cen- 
 tury, having read Terence, conceived the idea of writing little 
 dramas in the same language on religious themes. She pro- 
 duced six, which were acted by the young sisters of the con- 
 vent, and probably often repeated. Of course such efforts in 
 a dead language, in the seclusion of a cloister, and on subjects 
 remote from modern interest, could exercise but little influence 
 on the world without. 
 
 The popular theatricals of the middle age are traced to the 
 religious pilgrims of the twelfth or thirteenth century, who, 
 on their return from the Holy Land — ^possibly borrowing a 
 hint from the spectacles to which we have alluded as existing 
 in Constantinople — attempted to convey an idea of the scenes 
 they had witnessed in Palestine, by acting them over at home, 
 with the aid of some rude paintings. It is certain that, about 
 the end of the fourteenth century, a company of pilgrims re- 
 presented such a spectacle at the nuptials of Charles VL and 
 Isabella of Bavaria ; and that they soon afterwards formed an 
 establishment in Paris for the regular performance of dramatic 
 entertainments. They acted over the whole public life of the 
 Saviour from his baptism to his death, but their chef-d'oeuvre 
 was that of his last sufferings, and hence they were denomi- 
 nated the Fraternity of the Passion. 
 
 Familiar as we all are by name with the Mysteries and 
 Moralities'^ of the middle age, it may not be amiss here to 
 
 *A Miracle Play is introduced into Longfellow's Golden Legend. In 
 the notes appended to that work may be found'descriptlons of recent repre- 
 sentations of Miracle Plays. 
 
06 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 notice more particularly this earliest specimen of them. It 
 introduces eighty-seven characters, among whom are the three 
 persons of the Trinity, six angelic beings, six devils, the twelve 
 apostles, Herod and his court, Pilate and his soldiers, besides 
 a number more, the offspring of the poet's fancy. Some of 
 these characters are well drawn, and the scenes occasionally 
 display no small degree of tragic power. Extravagant ma- 
 chinery appears to have been employed, and many parts to 
 have been sung in recitative to music. The following is part 
 of the scene in which John the Baptist is interrogated by the 
 messens-ers of the Pharisees : — 
 
 Though fallen be man's sinful line, 
 Holy prophet ! it is writ, 
 Christ shall come to ransom it, 
 And by doctrine, and by sign, 
 Bring them to his grace divine. 
 Wherefore, seeing now the force 
 Of thy high deeds, thy grave discourse. 
 And virtues shown of great esteem, 
 That thou art he we surely deem. 
 
 ^S'^. John. I am not Messiah ! — No ! 
 At the feet of Christ I bow. 
 
 Elyachim. Why, then, wildly wanderest thou 
 Naked in this wilderness ? 
 Say ! what faith dost thou profess ? 
 And to whom thy service paid ? 
 
 Bannanyas. Thou assemblest, it is said. 
 In these lonely woods a crowd 
 To hear thy voice proclaiming loud, 
 Like that of our most holy men. 
 Art thou a king in Israel, then ? 
 Know'st thou the laws and prophecies ? 
 Who art thou ? say ! 
 
 Nathan. Thou dost advise 
 Messiah is come down below. 
 Hast seen him ? say, how dost thou know ? 
 Or art thou he ? 
 
 ^S"^. John. I answer : No ! 
 
MYSTERIES. 97 
 
 Nachor. Who art thou ? Art Elias, then ? 
 Perhaps Elias ? 
 
 St. John. No ! 
 
 Bannanyas. Again ! 
 Who art thou ? what thy name ? Express ! 
 For never surely shall we guess. 
 Thou art the Prophet? 
 
 St. John. I am not. 
 
 Elyachim. Who and what art thou ? Tell us what ! 
 That a true answer we may bear 
 Unto our lords, who sent us here 
 To learn thy name and mission. 
 
 St. John. Ego 
 Vox clamantis in deserto. 
 A voice, a solitary cry 
 In the desert paths am I ! 
 Smooth the paths, and make them meet 
 For the great Redeemer's feet — 
 Him, who, brought by our misdoing, 
 Comes for this foul world's renewing. 
 
 The result is fhe conversion and baptism of tlie messengers. 
 In the baptism of the Saviour, the stage-directions are re- 
 markable, and afford a graphic view of these Gothic enter- 
 tainments : — 
 
 '' Here Jesus enters the waters of Jordan all naked, and 
 St. John takes some of the water in his hand, and throws it 
 on the head of Jesus : — 
 
 St. John. Sir, you now baptized are, 
 As it suits my simple skill, 
 Not the lofty rank you fill ; 
 Unmeet for such great service I ; 
 Yet my God, so debonair. 
 All that's wanting will supply. 
 
 ^^ Here Jesus comes out of the river Jordan, and throws 
 himself on his knees, all naked, before Paradise. Then God 
 the Father speaks, and the Holy Ghost descends in the form 
 9 
 
98 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 of a wliite dove upon the head of Jesus, and then returns into 
 Paradise ; and note, that the words of G od the Father be very 
 audibly pronounced, and well sounded, in three voices — that 
 is to say, a treble, a counter- treble, and a counter-bass, all in 
 tune; and in this way must the following lines be repeated: — 
 
 Hie est filius mens delectus^ 
 
 In quo mihi bene complacui. 
 
 C'estui-ci est mon fils am6 Jesus, 
 
 Que bien me plaist, ma plaisance est en lui." 
 
 Good taste had not then suggested that tragedy and comedy 
 should appear in separate dramas ; it was enough to produce 
 them in different scenes. In this composition, the comic parts 
 are filled by the devils, whose eagerness to give one another a 
 wipe (se torchonner) occasioned great mirth in the assembly. 
 Here is part of their dialogue : — 
 
 Berith. Who he is, I cannot tell — 
 This Jesus ; but I know full well, 
 That in all the worlds that be, 
 There is not such a one as he. 
 Who is it that gave him birth 
 I know not, nor from whence on earth 
 He came, or what great devil taught him, 
 But in no evil have I caught him ; 
 Nor know I any vice he hath. 
 
 Satan. Haro ! but you make me wroth, 
 When such dismal news I hear. 
 
 Berith. Wherefore so? 
 
 Satan. Because I fear 
 He will make my kingdom less. 
 Leave him in the wilderness. 
 And let us return to hell, 
 To Lucifer our tale to tell, 
 And to ask his sound advice. 
 
 Berith. The imps are ready in a trice ; 
 Better escort cannot be. 
 
MYSTERIES AND MORALITIES. 99 
 
 Lucifer. Is it Satan that I see, 
 And Berith, coming in a passion ? 
 
 Ashtaroth. Master ! let me lay the lash on ; 
 Here^s the thing to do the deed. 
 
 Lucifer. Please to moderate your speed, 
 To lash behind and lash before ye, 
 Ere you hear them tell their story, 
 "Whether shame they bring or glory. 
 
 They relate tlie failure of their efforts to tempt the Holy One ; 
 whereupon Ashtaroth falls upon them with his imps, and 
 scourges them back to earth. 
 
 This work is of immense extent^ filling a large folio volume, 
 printed in close double columns. It was not — could not be — 
 represented all at once, but was divided into sections, called 
 journees or ^^days,^' a name which was retained in the Spanish 
 drama, though its origin was forgotton. 
 
 The Mystery of the Passion was soon followed by that of 
 The Conception, The Nativity, and The Resurrection ; after- 
 wards, the legends of the saints, as well as the whole of the 
 Old Testament history, were dramatized and brought on the 
 stage; and when the subject in hand was anyway deficient in 
 authentic details, it only gave larger scope for the exercise of 
 the poet's invention. 
 
 The stage on which these pieces were represented consisted 
 of three scaffolds rising above each other. The centre or ter- 
 restrial one represented Jerusalem, or the native country of 
 whatever saint or patriarch was in question. The stages above 
 and below were for heaven and hell, where the proceed- 
 ings of Deity and Satan were respectively displayed, and 
 whence angels descended and devils ascended, as their inter- 
 ference in mundane affairs demanded. 
 
 At length the Clercs de la Bezoche (clerks of the revels) j 
 a society of laymen incorporated for the regulation of public 
 festivities, determined then" selves to get up dramas for the 
 
100 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 public amusement ; and as tlie Fraternity of tlie Passion en- 
 joyed by royal charter a monopoly of the Mysteries, they 
 invented the 3IoraUties. These differed little substantially 
 from the former, some of them being the parables dramatized ; 
 others, purely allegorical compositions, in which the virtues 
 and vices were dramatis personce. But the company gradu- 
 ally widening their sphere, ceased to restrict themselves to 
 matters of edification, and, before the end of the fifteenth cen- 
 tury, had produced veritable farces on subjects of modern 
 interest. One of the most successful of these was that of the 
 Avocat Pathelin, which appeared first in 1480, and has been 
 remodelled and introduced again in the present age. It is to 
 this work that we trace the expression, Eevenons a nos moutons^ 
 which has become a proverb. 
 
 No French Shakspeare arose to consecrate, ennoble, and 
 perpetuate this truly national species of drama; and on the 
 revival of classic tastes, the Mysteries and Moralities were put 
 under interdict by Francis I., after a career of two centuries. 
 Some of the best French critics of our own day consider it to 
 have been seriously detrimental to the dramatic art, that the 
 national genius was thus stifled under the influence of a more 
 learned literature. So says one of them : ^^ The Mysteries were 
 barbarous entertainments, no doubt, the infancy of the dramatic 
 art, in which music, dancing, allegory, comedy, and tragedy 
 were mingled and confounded ; but still they were scenes full 
 of life and activity, from which we might have elicited a lite- 
 rature much more original and more fertile, if our genius had 
 not become Latin and Greek under Louis XIV/' 
 
STATE OF THE LANGUAGE. 101 
 
 IV.— POETRY IN THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 STATE OP THE LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE — CHRISTINE DE PISAN — ALAIN 
 CHARTIER — CHARLES d'ORLEANS — VILLON. 
 
 French had been as yet merely a popular language ; tlie 
 vehicle of a literature which did but play on the surface of 
 society; unequal to lofty themes, and destitute of the fixity 
 requisite for serious composition. It varied from province to 
 province, and from author to author, because no masterpiece 
 had inaugurated any one of its numerous dialects. It was 
 consequently disdained by the more serious writers, who of 
 necessity continued to employ the learned Latin. 
 / In the fifteenth century, literature assumed a somewhat 
 wider range, and the language began to take precision and 
 force. It was an age of much general improvement in intel- 
 ligence and taste for intellectual pursuits : there was a good 
 deal of literary industry, and even some talent, but still there 
 was nothing great or original : no one commanding genius ; 
 nothing to mark an epoch in the history of letters. 
 
 Christine de Pisan, a woman " of rare intellect and ex- 
 quisite beauty,^^ left some verses, which entitle her to an 
 honorable place among the poets of this age. She was born 
 in 1367. The time of her death is unknown. She wrote 
 several prose works. The following touching lines are from 
 her pen : — 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF HER FATHER. 
 
 A mourning dove, whose mate is dead, 
 A lamb, whose shepherd is no more, 
 Even such am I, since he is fled. 
 
 Whose loss I cease not to deplore : 
 Alas ! since to the grave they bore 
 
 My sire, for whom these tears are shed, 
 What is there left for me to love, — 
 A mourning dove ? 
 9* 
 
102 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 0, that his grave for me had room, 
 Where I at length might calmly rest ! 
 
 For all to me is saddest gloom, 
 All scenes to me appear unblest ; 
 
 And all my hope is in his tomb, 
 To lay my head on his cold breast, 
 
 Who left his child nought else to love ! 
 A mourning dove ! 
 
 Alain Chartier, who was born at Bayeux in 1386, and 
 wlio died, as some say, in 1438, but according to others in 
 1447, was renowned as a writer. He was secretary of Cbarles 
 VI. and of Charles VII. The language was greatly indebted 
 to him. His admirers have given him the title of the Father 
 of French Eloquence. One of the best of his poems, '' La 
 Belle Dame sans Mercy,'' is especially interesting to us, be- 
 cause we have an old English translation of it, attributed to 
 Chaucer.''^ 
 
 Charles Duke of Orleans was the son of an Italian 
 princess, which may account for the fact that while he adopted 
 the allegorical style which had been the rage in France since 
 the Romance of the Rose, he borrowed many of his ideas and 
 expressions from Petrarch. Charles was made a prisoner at the 
 battle of Agincourt, in 1415, and taken to England, where 
 he was detained for twenty-five years. It is to this captivity 
 that we owe the volume now referred to; yet, strange to say, 
 it contains no expression of the poet's own veritable feelings. 
 That series of misfortunes of which his history is made up — 
 the assassination of his father, the death of his amiable mother 
 in consequence, his own captivity, his double widowhood, from 
 the death of two wives within nine years — not one of these 
 themes drew from him a single couplet. No event, whether 
 
 * An extract from this translation may be found in Longfellow's Poets 
 and Poetry of Europe, p. 439. 
 
VILLON. 103 
 
 public or personal; led him to the depths of his own heart for 
 the poetry which might have embalmed it. He seems to have 
 written to divert himself from his own thoughts, not to em- 
 body them. Accordingly, we have here the whole cycle of 
 Love's mythology; Amour and Venus are the sovereigns of a 
 mighty empire ; Beauts, their prime-minister ; Bonne-Foi, their 
 secretary ; Loyaute, the keeper of the seals. Bel-Acueil and 
 Plaisance are the guardians of their palace ; Bonne-Nouvelle 
 and Loyal-Kapport are their messengers; les Plaisirs-Mondains, 
 their courtiers. Their subjects are various in name and cha- 
 racter; the localities of the empire are such as T Hermitage 
 de Pensees, le Bois de Melancholic, la Foret de Tristesse. 
 Then there are humors now sad, now gay, imitated from the 
 sonnets of Petrarch, and added to these already stereotyped 
 characters. Charles d' Orleans was the last who imitated the 
 Romance of the Rose, and the first who drew upon the Italian 
 models.* 
 
 The verses of Villon, a low ruffian of Paris,f were inspired 
 by the events of his not very creditable life, and the difficul- 
 
 '^^ The following verses on Spring are considered among the most grace- 
 ful of Charles's minor pieces : — 
 
 Le temps a laiss^ son manteau 
 
 De vent, de froidure et de pluye, 
 
 II s'est vestu de broderie, 
 
 De soleil luisant, clair et beau. 
 
 II n'y a beste, ni oiseau 
 
 Qu'en son jargon ne chante ou crie : 
 
 Le temps a laiss6 son manteau 
 
 De vent, de froidure et de pluye. 
 
 Riviere, fontaine, et ruisseau 
 
 Portent en livree jolie 
 
 Gouttes d'argent d'orfavrerie ; 
 
 Chacun s'habille de nouveau : 
 
 Le temps a laisse son manteau 
 
 De vent, de froidure et de pluye. 
 t Born 1431. Died about 1500. 
 
104 TRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 ties and dangers to which his vices exposed him. ' His lan- 
 guage is not that of the court, but of the people; and his 
 Repues Franches are the grotesque Iliad of his lawless career, f 
 Again and again he suffered imprisonment for petty larcenies, 
 and at the age of twenty-five was condemned to be hanged 
 with five of his companions. On the evening before his anti- 
 cipated fate, he composed a ballad,'^ in which he laughs at the 
 disgraceful exposure^ — his body washed by the rain, dried in 
 the sun, driven hither and thither by the winds; and yet there 
 is melancholy in the gaiety; a tear is on the poet's eyelid, 
 though the broad grin is about the mouth. The honor of Vil- 
 lon's poetry is that of marking the first sensible progress after 
 the Romance of the Rose. If any credit were due in this 
 respect to the royal poet who preceded him, it is to be remem- 
 bered that Charles had little or no influence over the literature 
 of his day; the echo of those notes with which his prison 
 resounded were not caught by the public ear till the eighteenth 
 century; the volume to which we have referred remained un- 
 known till it was discovered, in manuscript, in the British 
 Museum, and published by the Abbe Sallier in 1734. 
 
 '^'' La pluye nous a debuez et lavez, 
 Et le soleil dessechez et noirciz, 
 Pies, corbeaux, nous ont les yeux cavez, 
 Et arrach^ la barbe et les sourcilz, 
 Jamais nul temps nous ne sommes rassiz. 
 Puis 9a, puis la, comme le vent varie, 
 A son plaisir sans cesse nous charie, 
 Plus becquetez d'oyseaulx que dez ^ couldre : 
 Hommes, ici n'usez de mocquerie, 
 Mais priez Dieu que tous nous veuille absouldre. 
 
HARDOUIN. 105 
 
 v.— EARLY FKENCH PROSE. 
 
 CHRONICLERS OF PERSONAL ADYENTrRES — TILLE-HARDOriX — JOINTILLE — 
 THE PROFESSIONAL HISTORIAN FROISSART — ROMANCE OF ilERLIN IN 
 PROSE — COiriNES, A PHILOSOPHICAL HISTORIAN. 
 
 It has been well said; that ^^ literature begins witk poetry, 
 but it is established by prose, which fixes the language/' 
 
 The work usually referred to as the earliest effort in French 
 prose is the Chronicle of Yille-Hardouin/'^ a production of 
 the thirteenth century, interesting, indeed, in a philological 
 point of view, but still more so as affording a lively picture of 
 the middle age in one of its most singular enterprises. It is 
 a personal nan-ative of chivalrous adventure, and relates with 
 graphic particularity the conquest of Constantinople by the 
 knights of Christendom. 
 
 At a splendid tourney which was held at Champagne, a 
 number of knights resolved to embrace the Crusade. They 
 made all the preparations in their power ; but furnished though 
 they were with horses, lances, and swords, they were obliged 
 to apply to a city of merchants for vessels to transport them 
 to the Holy Land. Six of their number, among whom was 
 Ville-Hardouin himself, were sent for this purpose as deputies 
 to Venice. The historian describes their introduction to the 
 palace of the doge ; to the council ; and, finally, to a full assem- 
 bly of the people in the Church of St. Mark ; for as Venice 
 was now a democracy, these haughty barons of France ^^ must 
 humbly supplicate the people.'^ It was Ville-Hardouin him- 
 self who made the speech, f ^^ My lords, the highest and 
 
 * Born 1167. Died 1213. 
 
 t Jeflfroy de Ville-Hardoin li mareschaust de Champaigne monstra la 
 parole pour Taccort, et par la volente as autres messages, et lor dist: Seig- 
 nor, li baron de France li plus halt et plus poestez, nos ont a vos envoiez, 
 
106 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 most powerful barons of France have sent us to you, and im- 
 plore you to take pity on Jerusalem, which is in the power of 
 the Turks, and that you will, in the name of God, accompany 
 them to avenge the dishonor of Jesus Christ ; and they have 
 chosen you, because they know no nation is so powerful on the 
 sea, and they have commanded us to fall at your feet, and not 
 to rise till you have granted the promise of taking pity upon 
 the Holy Land beyond the sea/^ The deputies continued 
 weeping on their knees, till the whole assembly lifted their 
 hands and cried : ^' \Ve agree ! we agree V' The historian 
 next describes the slow preparations for the voyage, the death 
 of the Count of Champagne, who was to have taken the com- 
 mand, and the appointment of the Marquis of Montferrat in 
 his stead. The intended pilgrims having collected at Venice, 
 the aged doge, blind, and bending under the weight of four- 
 score years, assembles the people again in the Church of St. 
 Mark, and announces his own determination to join the enter- 
 prise. At length the adventurers set sail for Corfu. The 
 difficulties of the voyage, the jealousies and dissensions of the 
 chiefs, are depicted with great simplicity, the historian seldom 
 referring to his own deeds, and then with singular modesty. 
 ^^Thus witness I, Geoffrey,'^ he says, ^^ Marshal of Cham- 
 pagne, who indited this work.^' Now we have an account of 
 their arrival at Constantinople, and a picture of this Greek 
 people, this petrified fragment of the Eastern Empire, brought 
 
 si vos erient mercy que il vos preigne piti6 de Hierusalem, qui est en ser- 
 vage de Turs, que vos por Dieu voilliez lor compaignier a la honte Jesu- 
 Christ vengier, et por ce vos i ont eslis que il sevent que nuUes gens n'ont 
 si grand pooir qui sor mer soient, comme vos, a la vostre genz, et nos com- 
 manderent que nos vos enchaissions as piez et que nos n'en leveissions des 
 que vos oriez octroye que vos ariez pitie de la Terre Salute d'outreraer. 
 Main tenant li six messages s'agenoillent a lor piez mult plorant: li Dux et 
 tuit liautre s'escrierent tuit h une voiz, et tendent lor mains en halt, et 
 distrent: Nos I'otrions, nos I'otrions. Enki ot si grant bruit et si grant 
 noise que il sembla que terre fondist. 
 
JOINVILLE. 107 
 
 into collision with tlie young race of French warriors 3 the 
 cunning and timidity of the Byzantine Court, teeming with 
 plots; and the rude and ardent ambition of the Crusaders. 
 Then we have their change of purpose, and the events which 
 led them to take possession of Constantinople for themselves, 
 and establish French seignories in Greece, with the mode in 
 which they justify themselves for having diverted an army 
 destined to subdue the infidels, and employed it in the con- 
 quest of a Christian state. The chronicle ends with the events 
 of the year 1207; and it is from the Byzantine historians 
 that we learn how ephemeral was the influence of these con- 
 querors, and how few traces they left on the language, reli- 
 gion, or manners of the Greeks. The chivalrous romances of 
 France, however, were received by these people for veritable 
 histories; and fifty years afterwards, when all traces of the 
 conquerors had disappeared, several noble families of Constan- 
 tinople boasted their descent from the paladins Boland and 
 Rinaldo. 
 
 This ancient chronicle traces out for us some of the realities 
 of that chivalry of which the mediaeval romances were the 
 ideal ; and thus furnishes, in some sort, a guide whereby we 
 may at least in part judge how far to understand those romances 
 as embodying substantial truth. 
 
 A great improvement in point of simplicity and perspicuity 
 of style is apparent in Joinville,* the amiable and light- 
 hearted ecclesiastic who wrote La Vie de St. Louis, whom he 
 had accompanied to the Holy Land, and whose pious adven- 
 tures he affectionately records. He has much more freedom 
 and animation than Yille-Hardouin, mingling his narration of 
 facts with records of his own feelings and opinions, and with 
 descriptions of the persons and places that he saw.f 
 
 *Born 1223. Died 1317. 
 
 f Thus, for instance, he describes the Nile : — Ce flum (fleuye) est divers 
 
108 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 During the fourteenth century, France was involved in 
 anarchy through misgovernment, civil war, and foreign inva- 
 sion : nevertheless, it was not without symptoms of social pro- 
 gress. In 1355, John II. being threatened with a new war 
 against England, convoked the three estates of the realm — 
 that is to say, the deputies of the nobles, the clergy, and the 
 towns — when each, we are told, answered his appeal through 
 a single speaker, and it was determined that the concurrence 
 of the three orders should be necessary for carrying any poli- 
 tical measure. The subsequent debates of this stormy period, 
 if they have been faithfully transmitted, show what rapid ad- 
 vances had been made by the commons during the two centu- 
 ries to place them now on a level with those who had formerly 
 enjoyed the monopoly of both politics and science. 
 
 The third estate does not appear, however, to have made 
 the same advance in the literary that they had in the political 
 arena. The clergy continued to compose theological disquisi- 
 tions, the nobles to make chivalrous poems and descriptions 
 of tourneys and battle-fields, while the people wrote nothing 
 but satires on the vices of the one class and the insolence of 
 the other. 
 
 But the public events, which were somewhat inimical to the 
 
 de toutes autres rivieres ; car quant viennent les autres rivieres aval, e*; 
 plus J chieent (tombent) de petites rivieres et de petitz ruissiaus, et en ce 
 flum n'en chiet nulles : aingois avient ainsi que il vient tout en un chanel 
 jusques en Egypte, etlors gete (jette) deli ses branches qui s'espandent parmi 
 Egypte. Et quant ce vient apres la saint Remy, les sept rivieres s'espendent 
 par le pais, et cuevrent les terres pleinnes; et quant elles se retroient, 
 les gaugneurs (laboureurs) vont chascun labourer en sa terre a une charrue 
 sans rouelles (roues) ; de quoy ils treuvent dedans la terre les fourmens, 
 les orges, les comrainz, le riz, et vivent si bien que nulz n'i sauroit qua- 
 mender (rien faire plus) ; ne se scet Ten dont celle treuve (trouvaille) vient 
 mez que de la volont6 Dieu. . . . L'yaue (Feau) du flum est de tel nature, 
 que, quant nous la pendions en poz de terre blans que Ton fait au pais, aus 
 cordes de nos paveillons, Tyaue devenoit ou (au) chaut du jour aussi froide 
 comme de fonteinne 
 
FROisSART. 109 
 
 poetic Muse, gave inspiration to the historic ; and about the 
 same time that Villani appeared in Italy, and that Ayala in- 
 troduced some degree of simple eloquence into the chronicles 
 of Spain, Froissart arose in France to impart vivacity of color- 
 ing to historical narration. 
 
 Froissart* was an ecclesiastic of the day — in plain terms, 
 a jolly churchman — who certainly had at one time a cure of 
 souls, but exhibited little either in his life or writings to be- 
 speak the sacred profession. We must take the age as we find 
 it. It was nothing strange in those days for a tonsured eccle- 
 siastic to write a volume of erotic poetry, and to be found a 
 constant guest at the festive-hall and nuptial-banquet. Frois- 
 sart took holy orders in early life, but having little taste for 
 the duties of his vocation, he presented himself to Robert de 
 Namur, Lord of Montfort, who, perceiving in him a natural 
 curiosity, the bent of which was to inquire concerning military 
 achievements, engaged him to compose a chronicle of the wars 
 of the time. Froissart forthwith assumed the title of a histo- 
 rian, and used it as his introduction wherever he desired to 
 inquire into matters which he wished to record. It is not 
 easy for us to appreciate the difficulty of being a historian in 
 that age. What could he relate ? There were no books to 
 tell him of the past, no regular communication between nations 
 to inform him of the present, for all was profound secrecy in 
 the councils of princes. There was no help for him but to 
 follow the fashion of knights-errant, and set out on horseback 
 — not, indeed, to seek chivalrous adventures like the hidalgo 
 de la Mancha, but as an itinerant historian, to hunt up talka- 
 tive ancient chevaliers, ecuyers, et heraults d'armes, to furnish 
 materials for his chronicle. He must wander from town to 
 town, and from castle to castle, to see the places of which he 
 
 * Born 1333. Died 1401. 
 10 
 
110 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 would write, and learn the events on the spot. Such a roving 
 commission exactly suited the temper of Froissart; and per- 
 haps it would be hard to say whether he travelled in order to 
 write, more certainly than he first undertook to write as an 
 excuse for travelling. 
 
 His first journey was to England, where he was cordially re- 
 ceived and employed as clerk by Queen Philippa of Hainault. 
 He accompanied the Duke of Clarence when he went to Milan 
 for his bride, and here there met three of the choicest spirits 
 of the age — Boccaccio and Chaucer with Froissart. After the 
 death of Philippa, our historian passed successively into the 
 service of several of the princes of Europe, for whom he acted 
 as secretary and poet, always keeping his eyes and ears open 
 to glean matters for historic record. A long life was spent 
 thus in quest of facts ; sometimes he met as by good chance 
 some one who volunteered to supply him with details from 
 personal knowledge; sometimes he had long journeys here 
 and there in search of eye witnesses of the events he desired 
 to record. It is not well known where or how he wrote ; but 
 that he compiled his chronicle in the midst of this restless 
 kind of life, doubtless often altering, enlarging, or abridging, 
 in England what he had written in France, and in France 
 what he had done in England. 
 
 The book thus composed is an almost universal history of 
 the difi"erent states of Europe, from 1322 till the end of the 
 fourteenth century. We say almost universal, for England 
 and France are certainly predominant — the conquests of the 
 one, the alternate misfortunes and successes of the other. But 
 the author winds other stories about the main thread of his 
 narrative, and always, like Herodotus, tells how, where, and 
 from whom he received his information. His great events, 
 battles, and fetes, he reserves to himself, and describes as 
 though he had seen them ; but in minor details he introduces 
 his informant, and repeats the dialogue that took place. He 
 
FROISSART. Ill 
 
 troubles himself witli no explanations or theories of cause and 
 effect, nor yet with dry statistics of ways and means, or with 
 the philosophy of state-policy — he is simply a story-teller, and 
 a graphic one. On the whole, he is considered impartial, 
 though he has obviously a leaning towards England. We may 
 think he seems less shocked than he ought to be at some of 
 the outrages he relates ; but he would have been untrue to 
 the spirit of the times had he made more of them. 
 
 Sir Walter Scott called Froissart his master ; and there is 
 more than one English translation of his chronicle. 
 
 It is to him that we owe the well-known details of the siege 
 of Calais by Edward III. ; the heroism of Eustace St. Pierre,* 
 and his companions, who devoted themselves as victims to the 
 king's displeasure that the other citizens might be spared; 
 
 ^ The following may prove as a specimen of tlie language at this period. 
 . . , . Lors messire Jean de Vienne vint au marche, et fit sonner la cloche 
 pour assembler toutes manieres de gens a la halle. Au son de la cloche, 
 virirent hommes et femmes; car moult desiraient a ouir nouvelles. Quand 
 ils furent tous venus et assembles en la halle, hommes et femmes, messire 
 Jean de Vienne leur demontra moult doucement les paroles toutes telles 
 que ci-devant sont recitees, et leur dit que autrement ne pouvait etre, et 
 eussent sur ce avis et breve reponse. Quand ils ouirent ce rapport, ils 
 commencerent tous h crier et pleurer, et n'eurent pour Theure pouvoir de 
 repondre ni de parler, et m^mement messire Jean de Vienne larmoyait 
 moult tendrement. 
 
 Une espace apres se leva en pied le plus ricbe bourgeois de la ville, que 
 on appelait sire Eustache de Saint-Pierre, et dit devant tous ainsi : " Seig- 
 neurs, grand'pitie et grand mechef serait de laisser mourir un tel peuple, 
 que ici a, par famine ou autrement, quand on y pent trouver aucun moyen. 
 .... J'ai si grand'esp^rance d'avoir grace et pardon envers notre Seig- 
 neur, si je meurs pour ce peuple sauver, que je veuil etre le premier; et me 
 mettrait volontiers en ma chemise, a nud chef, et la hart au col, en la merci 
 du roi d'Angleterre.^' Quand sire Eustache de Saint-Pierre eut dit cette 
 parole, chacun Talla adorer de pitie ; et plusieurs hommes et femmes se 
 jetaient h ses pieds, pleurants tendrement; et etait grand'pitie de la etre, 
 et eux ouir, ecouter et regarder. 
 
112 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 and the intercession of Queen Philippa, by whicli they were 
 saved.* 
 
 Philip de Co mine sf was a man of his age, but in advance 
 of it, combining the simplicity of the fifteenth century with 
 the sagacity of a later period ; an annalist, like Froissart, but 
 not a mere describer of battles and tourneys; he was a states- 
 man, unfolding the secrets of government, and the arts of 
 negotiation; a political philosopher, embracing, like Mac- 
 chiavelli and Montesquieu, the remoter consequences which 
 flowed from the events he narrated and the principles he 
 unfolded. 
 
 Comines learned the profession of a historian in making his 
 own fortune as a politician. He was born a subject of the 
 Duke of Burgundy, but perceiving it would not be advan- 
 tageous to be the minister of so rash a prince, he secretly 
 aided his enemy, Louis XI., and afterwards found it easy to 
 transfer himself to his service. He conducted negotiations for 
 him with England, Florence, Venice, Savoy; and if it was 
 necessary to buy a minister in the course of such treaties, he 
 undertook it cheerfully, and performed it prudently. It is to 
 be regretted that the first French historian who was capable 
 of treating his subject philosophically was so unscrupulous a 
 diplomatist ; but such was the morality of the day. Comines 
 had good sense enough to consider tyranny a bad speculation, 
 but he had not virtuous feeling enough to hate the tyrant; he 
 so admired skilful politics, that he could excuse a bad action 
 if it was cleverly performed. 
 
 His description of the last years of Louis XI. is a striking 
 piece of history, whence poets and novelists have borrowed 
 
 * Froissart also wrote poetry. There is a fine edition of a translation of 
 his works by Johnes, London, 1806. A cheap reprint of it has also appeared 
 in New York. 
 
 t Born 1415. Died 1509. 
 
COMINES. 113 
 
 themes in later times ; but neither the romance of Sir Walter 
 Scott* nor the song of Berangerf does justice to the reality 
 as presented by the pen of the curious, faithful, and attentive 
 Comines. The details of misery at once royal and human, 
 coming from a witness who never quitted the chamber, and 
 who describes what he saw without aim at dramatic eJBfect, 
 render this part of the history a singularly graphic picture. 
 
 At the death of his master, Comines was compelled to sur- 
 render the spoils of the innocent by which he had been 
 enriched. His political fortune never flourished again, but 
 his years of obscurity have given his country a great historian, 
 and secured his own immortality. J 
 
 * Quentin Durward. 
 
 f The song is entitled Louis XL 
 
 i A translation of his Memoirs is published in Bohn's Library. 
 
 10^ 
 
THE AGE OF TRANSITION, 1500-1650. 
 
 VI.— THE RENAISSANCE AND REFORM. 
 
 MARGUERITE DE VALOIS — MAROT — RABELAIS — MONTAIGNE — CHARRON — ST. 
 FRANCOIS DE SALES — SATIRE MENIPPEE. 
 
 During the ages we have hitherto surveyed, the intelligence 
 of France and the neighboring countries seems to have been 
 divided into two great sections. On the one hand, there was 
 the bold, chivalric mind of young Europe speaking with 
 tongues of yesterday ; while, on the other, was the ecclesiastical 
 mind, professional and dominant, delivering itself in the cor- 
 rupted Latin. Erudition and civilization did not then go hand 
 in hand. Here was one life of gayety and rude disorder, the 
 life of the court and castle, as depicted in the literature we 
 have been scanning ; but all this time there had been a life of 
 solitude and reminiscence, the lot of men who, separated from 
 the world and protected from violence, had not only been 
 conning the lives of saints and singing the Gregorian chant, 
 but studying the literary remains of antiquity, and transcribing 
 and treasuring them for unborn generations. Hitherto these 
 two sections had held on their respective courses apart, or they 
 had encountered as deadly foes ; now they were to meet and 
 blend in harmony; the vernacular poets, on the one hand, 
 borrowing both thought and expression from the classics; and 
 the clergy, on the other, becoming purveyors of light literature 
 to the court circles : while deadly feuds on religious points 
 
 (114) 
 
STUDY OF LANGUAGES. 115 
 
 were to open a more serious career to the French language. 
 We are briefly to remark the steps of this process. 
 
 The fifteenth century, though somewhat barren, had pre- 
 pared for the fecundity of succeeding ages. The revival of 
 the study of ancient literature, promoted as it was by the down- 
 fall of Constantinople, chasing the heirs of classic antiquity 
 into France ; printing occurring at this juncture to multiply 
 copies of recovered master-pieces ; the discovery of a new world 
 in the west; the depression of feudalism; the triumph of 
 monarchy; and the consequent elevation of the middle classes 
 of the people : all these circumstances concurred in the promo- 
 tion of good taste and the rapid improvement of the human 
 intellect. 
 
 During the early part of the sixteenth century, all the ardor 
 of the French mind was turned to the study of languages ; the 
 men of genius had no higher ambition than to be grammarians, 
 no study but to think, to feel, to love, and to hate in the dead 
 languages. Men who had attained to celebrity in the sphere 
 of knowledge which belonged to the day, began their studies 
 over again in their declining years, and went in their gray 
 hairs to the schools where the languages of Homer and of 
 Cicero were taught. Some, in their zeal to facilitate the 
 general possession of the ancient classics, undertook them- 
 selves to direct the printing-presses which they supplied by 
 their writings. Erasmus and Bude wrote with one hand, and 
 printed with the other. In civil and political society, the same 
 enthusiasm manifested itself in the imitation of antique man- 
 ners : people dressed in Greek and Roman fashion, borrowed 
 from them the usages of life, and even made a point of dying 
 like the heroes of Plutarch, delivering grave discourses, which 
 they appeared to recite from memory. 
 
 This impulse came first from Italy, whence the French wars 
 had been the means of bringing the Greek and Latin books 
 which, it would seem, the Itah'ans would never otherwise 
 
116 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 have shared with their Gallic neighbors^ whom they heartily 
 despised. 
 
 The religious reformation came soon afterwards, to restore 
 the Christian, as the revival of letters had brought back the 
 pagan antiquity. Ignorance was now dissipated; religion was 
 disengaged from philosophy, and the scolastics forced to dis- 
 appear. The Renaissance, as the revival of antique learning 
 was called, and the Reformation at first made common cause, 
 having for their enemies all the abettors of ignorance and 
 superstition. The monks, for instance, used to say in their 
 sermons : " There has lately been discovered a new language, 
 which is called Greek. It must be carefully guarded against. 
 This language teems with every kind of heresy.'' 
 
 One of those who most greedily imbibed the spirit both 
 of La Reforme and La Renaissance, was Marguerite de 
 Valois,* the elder sister of Francis I. She studied in the 
 original the works of Erasmus, whose views of moderate reform 
 wxre those she embraced; knew enough of Greek to read 
 Sophocles ; and learned Hebrew from Paul Paradis, for whom 
 she procured a professor's chair in the College of France. 
 Though Marguerite was favorable to religious reform, she con- 
 trived to continue a most faithful subject of her brother; and 
 through his steady regard for her, he obtained the credit of 
 many generous actions which were truly hers. It would seem 
 that the protection which he accorded to literature, and which 
 obtained for him the title of Pere des Lettres, was really the 
 work of his sister, which, however, was with some justice 
 attributed to him, since he did not disavow it. But Francis 
 himself was a man of superficial education and narrow views, 
 more fond of arts than of letters, or, as it was said in the 
 seventeenth century, of buildings than of writings. 
 
 * See her Life by Martha Walker Freer, London, and Miss Pardee's 
 Francis I. 
 
MAROT. 117 
 
 To us it seems strange that tlie chef d'oeuvre of this learned 
 and religious lady was U Heipiamiron^ ou Vhistoire des Amants 
 fortunes, a work on the plan and in the spirit of the Deca- 
 meron of Boccaccio^ which a lady of our times would bo 
 ashamed to own acquaintance with, much more to adopt as a 
 model. But it would appear that the gravity and propriety 
 of the remarks with which the virtuous widow Oysille inter- 
 sperses the tales, was, and in the eyes of some critics is still, 
 deemed a sufficiently redeeming feature. The rest of her 
 apology must be found in the manners of the times. Let us 
 not forget that the Spectator, a work of comparative recency 
 and in our own country, was deemed a perfect oracle of religion 
 and morals, yet few of us would like to place it entire in the 
 hands of our daughters. 
 
 This was not the first essay that the French had made in 
 borrowing from Italian story-tellers what these had originally 
 drawn from the fabliaux. About the middle of the fifteenth 
 century, the dauphin of France, afterwards Louis XL, had 
 been entertained at the court of the Duke of Burgundy with 
 tales imitated from Boccaccio ; and these had been afterwards 
 collected by some unknown editor under the title of Cents 
 nouvelles du Roi Louis XL They are, however, both in mat- 
 ter and style, very inferior to the Heptameron, which is to be 
 remarked as the earliest French prose that can be read without 
 a glossary. 
 
 In the year 1518, when Marguerite was twenty-six years 
 of age, she received from her brother a gifted poet as a valet- 
 de-chambre. This was Clement Marot,* between whom and 
 the learned princess a poetical commerce was commenced and 
 actively maintained. If she permitted him to address her in 
 verses of gallantry, such was the right of every poet, however 
 
 * Born 1505 — died 1544. In connexion with Beza he translated the 
 Psalms. His brilliant, epigrammatic style is called the style marotique. 
 
118 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 humble, towards ladies of the highest rank and strictest virtue; 
 it was a relic of the chivalrous manners which the reigning 
 king was seeking to restore. And thus he sang : — 
 
 A gentleness spread over a fair face 
 
 Passing in beauty the most beautiful ; 
 
 A chaste eye, in whose light there lies no stain j 
 
 A frank discourse, so simple and so true 
 
 That who should hear it through an hundred years 
 
 Would never weary in that century ; 
 
 A lively wit ; a learning which makes marvel ; 
 
 And such sweet gracefulness diffused o'er all, 
 
 And ever present in her speech or silence ; 
 
 That fain I would my power did suffice 
 
 To pen her merit on this paper down, 
 
 Even as it is written in my heart. 
 
 And all these precious gifts, and thousand more, 
 
 Cling to a body of high parentage ; 
 
 And tall, and straight; and formed in its fair. stature 
 
 As if it were to be at once adored 
 
 By men and gods. Oh ! would I were a prince ! 
 
 That I might proffer to thee my poor service. 
 
 Yet why a prince ? Is not the gentle mountain 
 
 Often of aspect fairer than the crag ? 
 
 Do not low olive-tree and humble rose 
 
 Charm rather than the oak ? Is't not less peril 
 
 To swim the streamlet than to stem the river ? 
 
 I know I levy and defray no armies, 
 
 I launch no fleets, whose prize might be a Helen's. 
 
 But if my fortune had endowed me so, 
 
 I would have died, or else have conquered thee. 
 
 And if I am in fact no conqueror. 
 
 Yet do my will and spirit make me one. 
 
 My fame, like that of kings, fills provinces. 
 
 If they o'ercome men in fair feat of arms, 
 
 In my fair verse I overcome in turn. 
 
 If they have treasure, I have treasure also, 
 
 And of such things as lie not in their coffers. 
 
 If they are powerful, I hold more power, 
 
MAROT. 119 
 
 For I have that to make my love immortal. 
 Nor this I say in vaunt, but strong desire 
 That thou shouldst understand how never yet 
 I saw thy match in this life of this world : 
 Nor breathing being who the power owned 
 Thus to make subject mine obedience. 
 
 Marot went somewliat further than his mistress in his reli- 
 gious views : he imbibed the principles of Calvin, whose credit, 
 it is said, saved him from capital punishment, merited by 
 some grave offence. He had drunk deeply also into the spirit 
 of the Renaissance, and translated parts of Virgil and Ovid; 
 but the general opinion is, that he displayed the poet more 
 truly before he became either a theologian or a classic scholar. 
 Marot is considered the last type of the old French-school, of 
 that combination of grace and archness, of elegance and sim- 
 plicity, of familiarity and propriety, ^^ which,'' says Guizot, 
 ^^has not been entirely lost among us, and which perhaps 
 forms the most truly national characteristic of our poetic litera- 
 ture ; the only one for which we are indebted to ourselves 
 alone, and in which we have never been imitated.''* 
 
 *Here is a specimen of Marot's French : — 
 
 MAROT AU ROT. POUR AVOIR ESTE DESROB:^. 
 
 Voila comment depuis neuf mois en 9a 
 
 Je suis traicte. Or ce que me laissa 
 
 Men laronneau, longtemps a, Fay vendu, 
 
 Et en sirops et juleps despendu; 
 
 Ce neantmoins, ce que je vous en mande 
 
 N'est pour vous faire ou requeste ou deraande; 
 
 Je ne veux point tant de gens ressembler 
 
 Qui n^ont soucy autre que d'assembler : 
 
 Tant qu'ils vivront, ils demanderont eux; 
 
 Mais je commence a devenir honteux, 
 
 Et ne veux plus a vos dons m'arrestcr. 
 
 Je ne dis pas, si voulez rien prester, 
 
 Que ne le prenne. II n'est point de presteur, 
 
 S'il veut prester, qui ne face uu debteur; 
 
120 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 1483-1553. 
 
 Francis Rabelais* was one of the most remarkable per- 
 sons that figured in the Renaissance to which we have referred ; 
 a learned scholar, physician, and philosopher, though known 
 to posterity chiefly as a profane humorist. He is designated 
 by Lord Bacon ^Hhe great jester of France ;'' and the gross 
 bufiboneries amassed in his nondescript romance have rendered 
 his name a common mark for any or every extravagance of 
 unknown or doubtful parentage ; so that, like the ancient Her- 
 cules, he is noted with posterity for many feats which he never 
 performed, and these by no means to his credit. 
 
 Rabelais was born at Chinon, a small town of Touraine, 
 about the year 1483, though the precise date is unknown, as 
 well as the character of his parentage. He received the first 
 rudiments of education at the convent of Seville, but made so 
 little progress that he was removed to another, where his career 
 seemed also unpromising, and where the greatest advantage 
 he derived was that of becoming known to Du Bellay, who 
 afterwards became bishop of Paris, and continued his steady 
 friend. From school, Rabelais passed into a convent of the 
 order of St. Francis in Poitou, and now began to devote him- 
 
 Et syavez-vous, sire, comment je paye? 
 Nul ne le sgait, si premier ne Tessaye. 
 Vous me devrez, si je puis, de retour; 
 Et vous feray encores un bon tour; 
 A celle fin qu'il n'y ait faute nulle, 
 Je vous feray une belle sedulle, 
 A vous payer (sans usure il s'entend) 
 Quand on verra tout le monde content; 
 Ou, si voulez, a payer ce sera 
 Quand vostre los et renom cessera. 
 
 * His Biography is also given in Lardner*s Cabinet Cyclopedia, in the 
 volume on Eminent Literary and Scientific Men of France. A valuable 
 article on bis works may bo found in the Foreign Quarterly Review, vol. 31. 
 
RABELAIS. 121 
 
 self to study^ though under most unfavorable circumstances. 
 The brethren among whom his lot was cast^ had no library, 
 nor did they understand the use of one. Only some of them 
 knew a little Latin ; while others, instead of a breviary, car- 
 ried about a wine-flask which exactly resembled one. Rabe- 
 lais became a distinguished preacher, and devoted the proceeds 
 of his sermons and masses to provide himself with books. The 
 animosity of the brethren was excited; they were jealous of 
 his superior attainments and his success as a pulpit orator; but 
 his crying sin was the study of Greek literature, which they 
 denounced as unholy and profane. After annoying and 
 harassing him in various ways, they condemned him to live 
 in pace — that is, to linger out the remainder of his life in one 
 of the prison-cells of the convent, with bread and water for 
 his only sustenance, and himself as his sole companion. The 
 immediate occasion of his being thus buried alive is variously 
 stated. According to some, the young priest had, by way of 
 frolic, disfigured the image of St. Francis ; while others have 
 it, that, on the festival of this saint, he removed the image, 
 and himself took its place ; that he escaped detection till the 
 grotesque devotions of the multitude and the rogueries of the 
 monks overcame his gravity; and the simple people, seeing 
 the muscles of the face relaxing, cried out '' A miracle V^ while 
 the monks, who perceived the real state of the case, dismissed 
 the laity, made their false brother descend from his niche, 
 scourged him severely, and doomed him to solitary confinement 
 for life. Fortunately for the poor wretch, his talents and 
 attainments had gained for him friends who were powerful 
 enough not only to procure his release, but a license from the 
 pope to pass from the outraged order of St. Francis to that of 
 the Benedictines, which was distinguished for learning, and 
 which merits the gratitude of posterity for its labors in pre- 
 serving the classic remains of antiquity. Doubtless it was to 
 poor Rabelais a change for the better ; but being entirely di?- 
 11 
 
122 FRENCH Lll'ERATURE. 
 
 gusted witli monastic life, lie presently cast off the frock and 
 cowl, without license or dispensation, forsook the convent, and 
 took to a wandering life as a secular priest. Next, he wholly 
 divested himself of the sacerdotal character, and studied medi- 
 cine at Montpellier, where he took the successive degrees of 
 bachelor, licentiate, and doctor. After some time, he was 
 appointed a professor, and lectured on the works of Hippo- 
 crates and Gsilen ; his superior knowlege of Greek enabling 
 him to correct the omissions, falsifications, and interpolations 
 of former translators, while he carefully collated the best copies 
 of the original. Speaking of mistranslation, he says : '' If this 
 be a fault in other books, it is a crime in books of medicine ; 
 for in these the addition or omission of the smallest word, even 
 the misplacing of a point, may endanger the lives of thou- 
 sands.^' Accordingly his edition of Hippocrates has always 
 been in high repute among physicians and scholars. 
 
 It was a still more formidable difficulty to introduce the 
 better medical system of the Greek into actual use. Mounte- 
 banks and astrologers, he avers, were preferred to well-informed 
 physicians, even by the great; while the multitude was plunged 
 in worse than Cimmerian darkness, clinging to ignorance and 
 absurdity, like those shipwrecked mariners who hold on by a 
 beam or a rag of the shattered vessel, instead of making an 
 effort to swim, and find out their mistake only when they are 
 sinking without hope. 
 
 From about the year 1534, Rabelais was in the immediate 
 service of Cardinal du Bellay, and a prime favorite in the court 
 circles of Paris and Rome, to which he was thus introduced. 
 It was probably during this period, including seventeen or 
 eighteen years, that he published, at various times, the suc- 
 cessive parts of the work on which his popular fame has rested 
 — the lives of Gar<janfua and Pantagrucl. It consists of 
 the life and adventures of these two gigantic heroes, who were 
 father and son, with the waggeries and practical jokes of 
 
RABELAIS. 123 
 
 Panurge their jongleur, and the blasphemies and obscenities 
 of the redoubtable Friar John — a fighting, swaggering, drink- 
 ing monk. With these are mingled dissertations, argumenta- 
 tions, sophistries, and allegorical satires in abundance. That 
 peculiar state of mind which was undermining institutions and 
 creeds in all parts of Europe; that zeal for antique study, 
 which looked on Gothic traditions with contempt, and viewed 
 the revival of Greek and Roman literature as the dawn of a 
 new and glorious day ; that disgust at prejudice, and that thirst 
 for something that would satisfy reason — all are reflected here, 
 but refracted too, by the fantasy of the author, into a thousand 
 grotesque apparitions, distorted, indeed, but significant. 
 
 The publication of the work created a perfect uproar at the 
 Sorbonne, and among the monks, who were its principal vic- 
 tims. But the cardinals enjoyed its humor, and contrived to 
 protect the author; while the king himself (Francis I.) being 
 applied to, to seal its condemnation, had it read through to him, 
 and pronounced it innocent and ^'' delectable.'^ It became the 
 book of the day; no one making any pretensions to be a gen- 
 tleman could be ignorant of it; it passed through countless 
 editions, numerous purgations, and endless commentaries ; 
 more than one translation was made into English, and an allu- 
 sion in Shakspeare leads us to believe it was familiar in Eng- 
 land. And yet it is agreed on all hands, that there exists 
 not another work, admitted as literature, that will bear a mo- 
 ment's comparison with it for indecency and profanity; while, 
 at the same time, its coarseness is sheerly disgusting and repul- 
 sive, rather than of a nature to stimulate the passions, or gratify 
 the vicious tastes of the voluptuary. Few can now study it 
 in the original, on account of its antique and provincial lan- 
 gu ge r^ none have any excuse for reading a translation. In- 
 
 * The following is a specimen : — " Epitherses, navigant de Grece .en 
 Italie, dedans une nauf chargee de diverses marchandises et plusieiirs voy- 
 agers, sur le soir cessant le vent aupres des Isles Echinades, lesquelles sont 
 
124 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 deed, it would appear tliere is no great temptation ; he whose 
 taste for the humorous has been formed by the London Cha- 
 rivari School of the present day, has not patience to wade 
 through the heavy dissertations, and search through the filth 
 of Rabelais, to enjoy here and there a dash of humor of a 
 species quite out of date. His work is now only a curiosity 
 and a collection of historical symbols for the student of antique 
 literature. '^ Time was,'' says an eminent critic, " when all 
 Europe could roar lustily at the drolleries of Rabelais ; now, 
 it is a labor to read him, and the roar has dwindled down to 
 the smile of the scholar. It is well that it is so. The name 
 of Rabelais does not perish, but the book recedes from the 
 gaze of all but those who have a right to peruse it.'' 
 
 The satires of Rabelais, unlike those of preceding ages, 
 bore hard on the ecclesiastical system itself, and not merely on 
 the vices of those who maintained it. Hence the religious 
 reformers of the day hoped for a time that he would prove a 
 powerful agent in the great work which they had undertaken. 
 Calvin, especially, calculated on drawing largely upon this 
 treasury of learning, and wit, and sarcasm, for the overthrow 
 of the Romish Church. But it was ere long discovered that 
 Rabelais was a mere scoffer, not a reformer ; that he could aim 
 a sly blow at the hypocritical Calvinists, as he chose to call 
 
 entre la Moree et Tunis, fut leur nanf portee pres de Paxes. Estant la 
 abbordee, aucuns des voyagers dormans, autres Teillans, autres bevans et 
 souppans, fut de Flsle de Paxes ouie une voix de quelqu*un qui hautement 
 appelloit Tharaous : auquel cri tous furent espouvantes. Cettui Thamoua 
 estoit leur pilot natif d'Egypte, mais non connu de nom, fors a quelques 
 uns des voyagers. Fut secondement ouie cette voix : laquelle appelloit 
 Thamous en oris horrifiques. Personne ne respondant, mais tous restant 
 en silence et trepidation, en tierce fois cette voix fut ouie plus terrible que 
 devant. Dont avint que Thamous respondit : Je suis ici, que me demandes 
 tu? que veux tu que je fasse ? Lors fut icelle voix plus hautement ouie, lui 
 disant et commandant, quand il seroit en Palodes, publier et dire que Pan 
 le grand dieu estoit mort." 
 
CALVIN. 125 
 
 them ; and that lie was content to revel on the temporal things 
 of the church whose spmtual things he exposed to ridicule. 
 
 It is undoubted that Rabelais was not only a humorist on 
 paper, but a bon-vivant and a practical joker, like our own 
 Dean Swift, who has been largely indebted to him. Yet it 
 does not appear that his personal habits were more than usually 
 profligate. His kind patron procured for him in his old age 
 the ciire or rectory of Meudon,. where he is said to have lived 
 in a most exemplary manner, spending much of his time in 
 teaching the poor to read and the children to sing. He is 
 believed to have been about seventy years of age when he died 
 in 1553. 
 
 As Rabelais was the leading type of La Renaissanqe, so was 
 Calvin* of La Reforme. 
 
 This celebrated reformer, born at Noyon, in Picardy (1509- 
 1564), was the son of a cooper, and educated for the priest- 
 hood of the Romish Church ; which career, however, he early 
 abandoned for jurisprudence, and studied at Bourges under 
 the famous Alciati.t Having connexions among the followers 
 of Luther, he became acquainted with his principles of reli- 
 gious reform, and not only embraced them, but went consider- 
 ably further in his views. In 1532, he began to propagate 
 his doctrines in Paris, but finding himself in danger of impri- 
 sonment, he quitted France, and passed the remainder of his 
 life at Geneva, where he organized a church according to his 
 own views, and ruled with a rod of iron in matters of faith 
 and church government. Here, in 1535, he published in Latin 
 his Institutes of the Christian Religion, which is an exposi- 
 tion of the reformed faith as held by him, and which being 
 afterwards translated by himself into French, became the 
 standard of Protestantism in this lanouas^e. This well-known 
 
 * See Henry's Life of Calvin. 
 t See Italian Literature^ page 232. 
 11* 
 
126 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 work is distinguished for great severity of doctrine, embracing 
 especially that of the absolute election of a certain number of 
 individuals to eternal salvation, and the equally unconditional 
 reprobation of the remainder of the human race. The epistle 
 dedicatory to Francis I., with which this work is prefaced, is 
 considered a model of eloquence."^ After the Institutes, the 
 most celebrated work of Calvin, also written by himself in 
 French as well as Latin, is a Commentary on the Scriptures^ 
 which is highly valued by many who do not fully subscribe to 
 the doctrines of the Institutes. 
 
 Intellect continued to struggle with its fetters ; and while 
 the reformers, resting on the written word, pursued their 
 perilous labors, and Kamus, with great circumspection, elevated 
 the statue of Plato beside that of Aristotle, the note which 
 Rabelais had sounded did not fall to the ground. Many there 
 were who saw like him through the corruptions of the Romish 
 Church, and mistrusted the whole system of ecclesiastical 
 
 * Here is a part of it ; — ^' Au commencement que je m'appliquay ^ escrire 
 ce present livre, je ne pensoye rien'moins, Sire {Francois I^^), que d^escriro 
 choses qui fussent pr6sentees a vostre Majeste. Seulement mon propos 
 estoit cVenseigner quelques rudiments, par lesquels ceux qui seroient touchez 
 d'aucune bonne affection de Dieu, fussent instruits a vraye piet6. . . . 
 Laquelle mienne deliberation on pourra facilement appercevoir du livre ; 
 en tant que Tay accommode a la plus simple forme d*enseigner qu'il m'a 
 este possible. Mais voyant que la fureur d'aucuns iniques s'estoit tant 
 elevee en vostre royaume, qu'elle n'avoit laisse lieu aucun a toute saine 
 doctrine : il m'a semble estre expedient de faire servir ce present livre tant 
 d'instruction a ceux que premierement j*avoye delibere d'enseigner, que 
 aussi de confession de foy envers vous: dont vous cognoissiez quelle est la 
 doctrine centre laquelle, d'une telle rage, furieusement sont enflambez ceux 
 qui par feu et par glaive troublent aujourd'hui votre roj^aume. 
 
 "Or, c'est vostre oflSce, Sire, de ne destourner ne voz oreilles, ne vostre 
 courage {coeur) d'une si juste defense, principalement quand il est question 
 do si grande chose. C'est a savoir comment la gloire de Dieu sera main- 
 tenuo sur torre, comment sa veritc retiendra son honneur et dignite; com- 
 ment le regno du Christ demeurera en son entier. matiere digne de voz 
 oreilles, digne de vostre jurisdiction, digne de vostre throsne royal?" 
 
MONTAIGNE. 127 
 
 polity as by law establislied, yet did not pin tbeir faith on the 
 dicta of the austere and haughty Calvin. The almost inevita- 
 ble consequence was the no-creed of the freethinker — a wide 
 and universal scepticism replacing the former implicit subjec- 
 tion to rampant dogmatism. 
 
 The most eminent type of this school was Montaigne^ who, 
 in those confessions and conversations which he was pleased 
 to call Essays, shook the foundations of all the creeds of his 
 day, without offering anything to replace them. 
 
 Montaigne is considered the earliest philosophical writer in 
 French prose ; the first of those who contributed^ in the be- 
 ginning of the seventeenth century, to direct the minds of 
 their countrymen to the study of human nature. In doing 
 so, he takes himself as his subject; he dissects all his feelings, 
 emotions, and tendencies, with the coolness and unconcern of 
 an operating surgeon, and treats his readers to a lecture there- 
 upon. Here is nothing fantastic, as in Eabelais, or polemic, 
 as in Calvin; but a calm and serious analysis of his own early 
 education, and the subsequent development of his intellectual 
 and moral character. The consequence is, that nobody can read 
 his works without becoming his most familiar acquaintance. 
 And to a singular power of self-investigation, and an acute 
 observation of the actions of men, he added great afi^uence of 
 thought and excursiveness of fancy, so as to be commonly con- 
 sidered a most attractive writer, notwithstanding the egotism 
 which is so generally offensive in an essayist. It must be 
 added, that as he would have considered it unmanly and dis- 
 honest to conceal anything about himself, he has told much 
 that our modern ideas of decorum would deem better untold, 
 and thus rendered his works unfit for a family library. It has 
 been thought that they might be purified from these blemishes, 
 and that a well-executed Spirit of Montaigne would be a most 
 fascinating book. An attemnt of the kind in French was not 
 
128 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 successful ; and in tlie absence of even an attempt at it in Eng- 
 lish, we offer the reader a cursory glance of the least excep- 
 tionable parts, premising, however, that nothing but the veri- 
 table language of the old confabulator can convey an adequate 
 idea of his vivacity, energy, and pleasing simplicity. 
 
 Montaigne's four volumes of Essays are, as we have inti- 
 mated, principally occupied with personal narrative, and dis- 
 quisitions on his own character, which run thus : — He was the 
 eldest of the five sons of the Seigneur de Montaigne, and born 
 at the family castle in 1533. The father's anxiety to bestow 
 upon him the best possible education, induced him, even before 
 the birth of the child, to study the subject, and call in to his 
 help the most learned men to whom he had access. He was 
 thus led to frame a system, which has been considered in some 
 sort the basis of Rousseau's ; its leading principle being, that 
 the soul is to be nourished in gentleness and liberty, without 
 severity or restraint, and that knowledge is to be acquired by 
 free-will, and not forced upon the youthful student. '' Accord- 
 ingly, the good father whom God gave me,'^ says Montaigne, 
 ^' sent me, while in my cradle, to one of his poor villages, and 
 kept me there while I was at nurse, and longer, to inure me 
 to the hardest and most ordinary habits of life. He had 
 another idea, also, which was, that I should early form alliance 
 with that class of men who need our assistance, and should 
 rather cultivate the affections of those who should stretch out 
 their arms to me, than of those who would turn their backs. 
 He therefore selected people of the lowest condition for my 
 baptismal sponsors, that I might attach myself to them." 
 Another principle was, that from his infancy he should never 
 be allowed to play at anything in which trickery or artifice 
 was employed, in order that he might learn perfect uprightness 
 of conduct. Having understood that a child's brain is apt to 
 be injured by awaking suddenly, the father employed a musi- 
 cian constantly to attend upon the infant with the soft sounds 
 
MONTAIGNE. 129 
 
 of music as he awoke. Desiring tliat his son should not suffer 
 the usual harassment incident to the learning of ancient 
 languages, the elder Montaigne determined that Latin should 
 be as his son^s mother-tongue — that which he should first learn 
 instead of the vernacular; and, accordingly, he engaged the 
 services of a German who was a good Latin scholar, and under- 
 stood no French. This man, assisted by two others of some- 
 what less erudition, performed all the functions usually allotted n 
 to a nursery-maid, carrying the child about, and talking to him 
 in the language of Cicero. It was the rule of the house that 
 nothing else should be spoken in his hearing; ^^and it was 
 strange,^^ says our author, ^^what progress every one made. 
 My father and mother acquired enough of Latin to speak it 
 occasionally, as did also the other servants, who were fond of 
 me. In short, we talked so much Latin, that it overflowed 
 from the castle into the villages around, where there still 
 remain firmly rooted several Latin names for workmen and 
 their tools. At the age of six I knew no more French than 
 Arabic ; and without study, book, grammar, or tuition, without 
 a rod, and without a tear, I had learned as pure a Latin as the 
 schoolmaster could teach, for I had no other language to cor- 
 rupt it with/^ It was intended that he should learn Greek as 
 a game ; and the rest may be judged from this specimen. But 
 according to his own account, the young Montaigne was an 
 unlikely subject, ^^for,'^ says he, ^' though my health was good, 
 and my disposition docile and gentle, I was, at the same time, 
 so heavy and dull and sleepy, that I could not be aroused, even 
 to play. Beneath this dull exterior, however, I nourished a 
 bold imagination ; I saw well what I saw, and formed opinions 
 beyond my age.* My mind was slow, never moving unless it 
 was led ; my understanding tardy, my inventive faculties in- 
 
 ■* He here gives the first hint of that scepticism which is more fully 
 developed in the sequel of the work. 
 
130 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 dolent ; and, above all^ I had an incredible want of memory. 
 Now the good old man began to fear lest the scheme he had so 
 carefully projected was going to prove a failure in practice; 
 and as all those who are furiously eager for a cure allow them- 
 selves to be swayed by all manner of advice, he thought it 
 safest to yield to the prevailing opinion, and sent me at six 
 years of age to a public school, selecting that of Guienne, as 
 the best in France, and sparing no pains to procure the most 
 accomplished private tutors. Here my Latin deteriorated, and 
 I lost the habit of speaking it ; but I read Ovid's Metamor- 
 piloses, and other Latin classics, with avidity, at seven or eight 
 years of age, my master conniving at it, and being perfectly 
 easy as to the preparation of the other lessons that were pre- 
 scribed to me. No one feared that I should do any harm, but 
 only that I should do nothing ; no one anticipated that I should 
 become wicked, but it was apprehended that I might be use- 
 less. Meanwhile, my mind continued its private operations, 
 and formed independent opinions on various subjects, digesting 
 them alone, and without participation.^' 
 
 The most obvious results of this education seem to have been, 
 that the defective memory continued defective throughout life. 
 His personal indolence remained, but in connexion with much 
 ardor of mind, a lively imagination, an inquiring disposition, a 
 cheerful, though somewhat unequal temper, and great enthu- 
 siasm of affection where he formed an attachment. Though 
 he lived at a time when party-spirit ran high, he kept himself 
 aloof from the dissensions that were abroad, and -his life was a 
 thing singularly apart from the events of the age in which he 
 lived. The event to which he himself gives most prominence 
 is his friendship for Etienne de la Boetie, whom he considered 
 the greatest man he had ever known.* Though in some re- 
 
 - En ramitie de quoy ic parle, elles (Ics dmes) se meslent et confondent 
 Tune en Taultre d'un meslange si universel, qu'elles effacent et ne retrou- 
 
MONTAIGNE. 131 
 
 spects very dissimilar characters^ they formed an attachment 
 for each other upon mere hearsay, before they had an oppor- 
 tunity of meeting. '' We, as it were, embraced each other's 
 names, and at our first meeting, which was by chance and in a 
 large asseiiibly, we found ourselves so drawn together, and so 
 known to each other, that hereafter nothing was nearer than 
 we were to one another/^ After the lapse of four ^^ears, a 
 short severe illness deprived Montaigne of his beloved friend^ 
 and he seems never to have forgotten the loss. " If I com- 
 pare the rest of my life/' he says, " though, with the blessing 
 of God, I have passed it agreeably and peacefully, having taken 
 the good things that came to me spontaneously and naturally, 
 without seeking others; yet if I compare the whole of it, I 
 say, with the four years during which it was given me to enjoy 
 the dear society of this person, it is mere smoke — it is a dark 
 and wearisome night. I have dragged it out painfully since I 
 lost him, and the very pleasures that have presented themselves 
 have doubled the sense of my loss instead of proving any con- 
 solation. We used to share everything, and me thinks I rob 
 him of his portion. I was so accustomed to be two in every- 
 thing, that I now seem but half of myself.^' 
 
 A few years afterwards — that is, at the age of thirty-three — 
 Montaigne married, but not, as it appears, from any decided 
 wish to do so, or choice of a partner from particular attach- 
 
 vent plus la coustiire qui les a ioinctes. Si on me presse de dire pourquoy 
 je Taymoys {La Boetie), ie sens que cela ne se peult exprimer qu'en respon- 
 dant: '^Parce que c'estoit luy, parce que c'estoit moy." II y a, au dela de 
 tout men discours et de tout ce que i'en puis dire particulierement, ie ne 
 SQais quelle force inexplicable et fatale, mediatrice de cette union. Nous 
 nous cherchions avant que de nous estre veus, et par des rapports que nous 
 oyions I'un de Taultre, qui faisoyent en notre affection plus d'effort que ne 
 porte la raison des rapports ; ie croys par quelque ordonnance du ciel. 
 Nous nous embrassions par nos noms : et a nostre premiere rencontre, qui 
 feust par hazard en une grande feste et compaignie de ville, nous nous trou- 
 vasmes si prins, si cogneus, si obligez entre nous, que rien dez lors ne nous 
 feut si proche que I'un a I'auUre. 
 
132 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 ment. He was simply led by the common usage of the world 
 around him^ his easy temper borne along by extraneous cir- 
 cumstances. On trial^ he became noway reconciled to wedded 
 life, but he says he conducted himself better than he expected. 
 '' A man may, with prudence, retain his liberty ) but when he 
 has once entered on the obligation, he must observe the laws 
 of a common duty." Montaigne seems to have made a good, 
 though not remarkably fond husband and father ; and while 
 he did his duty in these relations, it appears that he mani- 
 fested his superior predilection for ties of his own formation, 
 by adopting as a daughter a young lady of great merit, who 
 was afterwards esteemed one of the most learned and estimable 
 women of the age. 
 
 Montaigne had been intended for the bar, and had studied 
 law after leaving college ; but he disliked and abandoned it, 
 as he did the office of counsellor to the parliament of Bor- 
 deaux, which he found unsuitable to his tastes. He inherited 
 the estates of Montaigne at his father's death, and lived scru- 
 pulously within his patrimonial income, as the surest way of 
 enjoying the ease which he loved, and freedom from distract- 
 ing care. 
 
 During his whole life, France was distracted with the strug- 
 gles between the Roman Catholics and the Huguenots. Mon- 
 taigne, though attached to the kingly and Catholic party, 
 avoided taking any active share in the conflict ; and almost 
 the only apparent connexion between his life and his times, 
 is found in the comparative tranquillity which he enjoyed 
 while most others of similar rank were compelled, or believed 
 themselves compelled, to expose both life and property for the 
 creed which they avowed. ^^ I regard our king," he says, 
 ^' with a mere legitimate and political affection, neither attracted 
 nor repelled by private interest, and in this I am satisfied with 
 myself. In the same way, I am but moderately attached to 
 the popular cause, and am not apt to surrender myself in a 
 
MONTAIGNE. 133 
 
 deep-felt and enthusiastic manner to matters of opinion. Let 
 Montaigne^ if it must, be swallowed up in the public ruin; 
 yet, if there is no necessity, I shall be thankful to fortune to 
 save it. I treat both parties equally, and say nothing to one 
 that I could not say to the other ; only with the accent a little 
 changed, for there is no consideration of expediency that could 
 induce me to tell a falsehood. '^ Of course he had to suffer the 
 usual inconvenience of moderation during such troubles — that 
 of being considered fair game to both parties. Yet his philo- 
 sophy did something for him here. His mode of preserving 
 his castle from pillage was highly characteristic. ^^ Defence/' 
 he says, '^ stimulates to enterprise, and intimidation to injury. 
 I damped the ardor of the soldiery by making the conquest of 
 my house a thing that might be achieved without risk or mili- 
 tary glory, for what is done with danger is always honorable 
 during a time when the course of justice is suspended. My 
 door was shut against no one who knocked ; it had no guard 
 but a porter, according to ancient usage — a ceremony not 
 serving so much to defend my abode, as to offer an easier and 
 more courteous entrance. I had no sentinel but that which 
 the stars kept for me. A gentleman does wrong to appear in 
 a state of defence if he is not perfectly so. I was resolved 
 neither to fear nor to save myself by halves. Among so many 
 armed houses, I alone, in France, I believe, confided mine to 
 the protection of Heaven only, and have never removed either 
 money or plate, or title-deed or tapestry. If unreserved grati- 
 tude can secure the divine favor, I shall enjoy it to the end; 
 if not, I have gone on long enough to render my escape re- 
 markable : it has lasted now thirty years. ^' He gives an inte- 
 resting account of an instance in which he was saved by this 
 philosophy. A certain gentleman, who was his neighbor, but 
 a leader of the opposite party, had laid a plan of taking Mon- 
 taigne Castle by surprise; he rode up to the gate in apparent 
 hurry and dismay, and implored admission, saying that he was 
 12 
 
134 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 pursued by enemies, and incapable of defence, having been 
 separated from bis party, who, he apprehended, had been 
 either slain or taken prisoners. Montaigne received and 
 endeavored to comfort him. Presently five or six more pre- 
 sented themselves, with the same appearance of terror; and 
 soon more and more, till there were about thirty, well armed 
 and equipped, but pretending that they were in imminent 
 danger, and required shelter. When Montaigne's suspicions 
 were awakened, he deemed it best to go on as he had begun, 
 and ordered them all to be admitted, ^' being,'' says he, '' a man 
 who gladly commits himself to fortune, and believing that we 
 err in not fully confiding in Heaven." His frankness and 
 composure disarmed the treachery of the leader, as he himself 
 afterwards confessed ; he remounted his horse, and departed, 
 to the no small astonishment of his followers, who were watch- 
 ing for the signal to fall upon the host and take possession of 
 the place. 
 
 As he advanced in years, Montaigne became the subject of 
 a painful disease, which put his philosophy to the test ] and 
 having derived from his father a sovereign contempt for phy- 
 sicians, he would use no remedy except that which nature had 
 provided in the mineral and thermal springs found in various 
 parts of the continent. He accordingly undertook a tour 
 through Switzerland, Germany, and Italy, performing it chiefly 
 on horseback, in company with a few friends, while the lug- 
 gage was carried in hired vehicles. His mode of travelling 
 was of a piece with all the rest that he tells of himself. If 
 the road to the right hand was bad, he took that to the left; 
 if he felt too ill to ride, he remained where he was until he 
 recovered; if he found that he had passed anything that he 
 wished to see, he turned back. His friends, it is true, did 
 not altogether relish these zigzag proceedings, but his only 
 reply to their remonstrances was, that he was bound to no place 
 but that which now held him ; that 4ie could not go out of his 
 
MONTAIGNE. 135 
 
 way, since his only object was to visit new scenes; and that, 
 so long as lie never travelled the same road or visited the same 
 spot twice, his design was fulfilled. His mind was ever on 
 the stretch to discover novelties and converse with strangers ; 
 and this excitement enabled him to a great extent to forget 
 his sufferings. After above five months^ travelling, the party 
 found themselves in Rome, where Montaigne rambled about 
 without a guide, endeavoring to discover the localities with 
 which his early studies had rendered him familiar. He was 
 cordially received by the pope, who was glad to have a man 
 of rank and talent on the side of the old religion in those days 
 of defalcation. The censors of the press had found several 
 faults in the two books of Montaigne's Essays that were 
 already published — such as, his citations from heretical poets; 
 his improper use of the word '^ fortune f^ his disapproval of 
 torture and capital punishments. And Montaigne, being taken 
 to account, simply replied that he had put these things down 
 as his own opinions, not supposing them to be erroneous ; and 
 that he apprehended the censor had not always rightly under- 
 stood what he meant to convey. The pope now begged that 
 he would not make himself uneasy about the matter, assured 
 him there was no doubt of the goodness of his intentions, and 
 his attachment to the true church; and that he could make 
 any needful alterations in a future edition. The citizenship 
 of Rome was conferred upon him by a papal bull, resplendent 
 with seals and golden letters, and he was implored to exert his 
 eloquence on the side of the holy apostolic church against its 
 numerous and powerful foes. 
 
 Montaigne's return home was hastened by the intelligence 
 that he had been elected mayor of Bordeaux ; an office which 
 he would gladly have declined, being, as he declared, without 
 memory, without industry, without experience, and without 
 vigor; without party-spirit, also, or ambition, or avarice, or 
 capability of violence. But the king interposing his command, 
 
136 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 he felt obliged to undertake tlie office ; and tlie laissez-faire 
 system, which was the result of his negative merits, seems to 
 have worked well, as he was re-elected when the first term of 
 his office expired. 
 
 Towards the close of life he was a great sufferer ; but his 
 calm philosophy and presence of mind never forsook him. He 
 is said to have risen from his bed during his last illness, and 
 opening his cabinet, to have paid his servants and other lega- 
 tees the sums specified in his will, apprehending that his heirs 
 might raise difficulties on the subject. Feeliug his end ap- 
 proaching, he sent for some gentlemen in the neighborhood to 
 be with him in his last moments. On their arrival, he caused 
 mass to be celebrated in his chamber ; at the moment of the 
 elevation, he attempted to raise himself, but fell back fainting, 
 and thus expired, on the 13th of September, 1592, in the six- 
 tieth year of his age.* 
 
 Charron, who was the friend and disciple of Montaigne, 
 was at least as bold a thinker, but inferior as a writer. In his 
 book, De la Sagesse, he endeavored to show that human nature 
 contains within itself the means of curing its own evils with- 
 out the help of religion, which he treats as though it were a 
 matter of mere speculation — a system of dogmas without 
 practical influence. Others followed in the same steps, and 
 affected, like him, to place scepticism at the service of good 
 morals, if not of religion itself. ^^ License,'^ says Vinet, ^^had 
 to come before liberty; scepticism before philosophic inquiry; 
 the school of Montaigne before that of Descartes.^' On the 
 other hand, St. Francois de Sales., in his Introduction a la 
 Vie Devote J taught that Christianity was a practical thing, and 
 that the only cure for all the evils of human nature was to be 
 found in the grace which it reveals. Entering into details 
 
 * Sco Emerson's Rcprcscntativo Men, and Lardner's Cabinet Cyclopediar 
 
SATIRE MENIPPEE. 137 
 
 with a delicacy unknown to Montaigne and Cliarron, he teaches 
 how this remedy is to be sought and applied; what each indi- 
 vidual, in short, ought to observe, in order to lead a Christian 
 life in his own sphere. 
 
 In these struggles of thought, in this conflict of creeds, the 
 language acquired vigor and precision, so that the functions 
 of the Latin were gradually transferred to the vernacular. In 
 the works of Calvin, it had appeared in a seriousness of tone 
 and severe purity of style which commanded general respect. 
 In the Satire Menippee,'^ it had exhibited both vigor and 
 flexibility, proving here, as in the writings of the stern 
 reformer, how much a language gains by plunging into the 
 solemnities of religious conviction, laboring in the sphere of 
 tangible interests, and mingling in the dust of public contro- 
 
 * An anonymous political satire, in which the leading personages in the 
 state are represented as meeting for consultation, and confidentially avowing 
 the motives which have induced them to support the league. The follow- 
 ing is a specimen of its style : — '* II faut confesser que nous sommes pris a 
 ce coup, plus serfs et plus esclaves que les chrestiens en Turquie et les juifs 
 en Avignon. Nous n'avons plus de volont6, ni de voix au chapitre. Nous 
 n'avons plus rien de propre que nous puissions dire cela est mien ; tout est 
 a vous, Messieurs, qui nous tenez le pied sur la gorge et qui remplissez nos 
 maisons de garnisons. Nos privileges et franchises anciennes sont a 
 vauFeau : notre hostel de ville que j*ai veu estre Fasseur6 refuge du secours 
 des roys en leurs urgentes affaires, est a la boucherie : nostre cour de par- 
 lement est nulle : nostre Sorbonne est au bourdel, et Funiversite devenue 
 sauvage. Mais Fextremite de nos miseres est, qu'entre tant de malheurs et 
 de necessitez, il ne nous est pas permis de nous plaindre, ny demander 
 secours: et faut qu'ayants la mort entre les dents, nous disions que nous 
 nous portons bien, et que sommes trop heureux d'estre malheureux pour si 
 bonne cause. Paris qui n'est plus Paris, mais une spelunque de betes 
 farouches, une citadelle d'Espagnols, Wallons, et Neapolitains, un asyle et 
 seure rotraicte de voleurs, meurtriers et assassinateurs, ne veux-tu jamais 
 te ressentir de ta dignite et te souvenir qui tu as este, au prix de ce que tu 
 es? ne veux-tu jamais te guarir de ceste frenesie qui pour un legitime et 
 gratieux roy, t'a engendre cinquante roytelets et cinquante tyrans ?" 
 
138 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 ■versy. An easy and natural tone was imparted to it about 
 the same time by Amyot,* professor of Greek and Latin at 
 the University of Paris. He enriched the literature of France 
 with elegant translations from Plutarch, Longus, and Helio- 
 dorus, in which he taught his vernacular to mingle Hellenic 
 graces with those strictly French. But the poets led it away 
 from this happy vein, and we must glance at their labors. 
 
 '^- Born 1513, died 1593. The followiDg passage is extracted from his 
 works : "II estoit ia sur le seoir quand il (Coriolan) y arriva {d Antium), 
 et y eut plusieurs gens qui le rencontrerent par les rues, mais personne 
 ne le recogneut. Ainsi s'en alia il droit a la maison de Tullus, la oil 
 de primsault il entra iusques au fouyer, et illec s*asseit sans dire mot 
 a personne, aiant le uisage couuert et la teste affublee : de quoy ceulx 
 de la maison f urent bien esbahis, et neantmoins ne I'ozerent faire leuer ; car 
 encore qu'il se cachast, si recognoissoit on ne sgays quoy de dignite en sa 
 contenance et en son silence, et s'en allerent dire ^ Tullus qui souppoit, 
 ceste estrange fa§on de faire. Tullus se leua incontinent de table, et s'en 
 allant deuers luy, luy demanda qui il estoit, et quelle chose il demandoit. 
 Alors Martins se debouscha, et apres auoir demoure un peu de temps sans 
 respondre, luy dit : " Si tu ne me cognois point encore, Tullus, et ne crois 
 point a me veoir, que ie sois celuy que ie suis, il est force que ie me decelle, 
 et me descouure moy mesme. Je suis Gaius Martins, qui ay fait et a toy en 
 particulier, et a tons les Volsques en general, beaucoup de maulx, lesquelz ie 
 ne puis nier pour le surnom de Coriolanus que i'en porte : car ie n'ay recueilly 
 autre fruict, ny autre recompense de tant de trauaux que i'ay endure z, ny de 
 tant de dangers ausquelz ie me suis expos6, que ce surnom, lequel tesmoigne 
 la malueillance que uous deuez auoir encontre moy : il ne m'est demoure que 
 cela seulement; tout le reste m'a este oste par Tenuie et Toultrage du 
 peuple romain, et par la laschete de la noblesse et des magistrats, qui m'ont 
 abandonne, et m'ont souffert de chasser en exil, de maniere que i'ay est6 
 contraint de recourir comme humble suppliant a ton fouyer, non ia pour 
 sauuer et asseurer ma uie, mais pour le desir que i'ay de me venger de ceulx 
 qui m'ont ainsi chasse, ce que ie commence desia a faire, en mettant ma 
 personne cntre tes mains." 
 
RONSARD. 139 
 
 YII._LIGHT LITEEATUUE. 
 
 RONSARD — HARDY — REGXIER — MALHERBE — BALZAC — YOITURE — MALLE- 
 VILLE — SCARRON — THE HOTEL DE RAMBOUILLET — THE FRENCH ACADEMY. 
 
 RoNSARD (1524-1585), the favorite poet of Maiy* Queen 
 of Scots, flourished during the time that the rage for ancient 
 literature was at its height. He traced the first outlines of 
 modern French poetry, filling it with mythological allusions, 
 and a higher style of poetical thought and feeling than had 
 hitherto been known. This revolution cannot be so well un- 
 derstood by any explanation, as by a comparison of a few verses 
 of his with some of Marot's on a similar subject. 
 
 Marot sang thus : — 
 
 Sur le prin temps de ma jeunesse folle, 
 Je ressemblois I'arondelle qui vole 
 Puis ca, puis la : I'aage me conduisoit 
 Sans peur ne soin, oil le coeur me disoit, 
 En la forest, sans la crainte des loups, 
 Je m'en allois souvent cueillir le houx, 
 Pour faire glus a prendre oyseaux ramages 
 Tous differents de chantz et de plumages ; 
 Ou me souloys, pour les prendre, entremettre 
 A faire bries ou caiges pour les mettre : 
 Ou transnouois les rivieres profondes, 
 Ou renfor9ois sur le genouil les fondes ; 
 Puis d'en tirer droict et loin j'apprenois 
 Pour chasser loups et abattre des noix. 
 
 * Mary found his poems a great solace during her imprisonment, and 
 sent him a silver Parnassus with this inscription, 
 
 *^ A Ronsard, TApollon de la source des Muses." 
 Several of his poems are addressed to her. See one in Longfellow's Poets 
 and Poetry of Europe, p. 447. Queen Elizabeth of England sent him a 
 very valuable diamond in token of her admiration of his genius. Tasso 
 felt honored by his acquaintance, and Montaigne thought him fully equal 
 to the best ancient poets. 
 
140 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 But Ronsard thus : — 
 
 Quand j'estois jeune, ains qu'une amour nouvelle 
 Ne se fust prise en ma tendre moelle, 
 
 Je vivois bien heureux. 
 Comme a I'envy les plus accortes filles 
 Se travailloient par leurs flammes gentilles, 
 
 De me rendre amoureux. 
 
 Mais tout ainsy qu'un beau poulain farouche 
 Qui n'a mascbe le frein dedans sa boucbe, 
 
 Va seulet, escarte, 
 N'ayant soucy, sinon d'un pied superbe, 
 A mille bonds, fouler les fleurs et I'herbe, 
 
 Vivant en liberte ; 
 
 Ores il court le long d'un beau rivage ; 
 Ores il erre en quelque bois sauvage, 
 
 Fuyant de saut en saut : 
 De toutes part les poutres hennissantes 
 Luy font I'amour, pour neant blandissantes, 
 
 A luy qui ne s'en chaut. 
 
 Ainsy j'allois desdaignant les pucelles 
 Qu'on estimoit en beautes les plus belles, 
 
 Sans repondre a leur vueil : 
 Lors je vivois, amoureux de moi-meme, 
 Content et gai, sans porter face blesme, 
 
 Ny les larmes a I'oeiL 
 
 J'avois escrite au plus haut de la face, 
 Avecq' I'honneur une agreable audace, 
 
 Pleine d'un franc desir : 
 Avecq' le pied marchoit ma fantaisie 
 Oil je voulois, sans peur ni jalousie, 
 
 Seigneur de mon plaisir, etc. 
 
 It is believed tliat France owes to Eonsard the first attempt 
 at the ode and the heroic epic. In the former, notwithstand- 
 ing many defects, he is considered as the herald of the Lyric 
 Muse, having prepared the way for Malherbe, who is still 
 
RONSARD — HARDY. 141 
 
 regarded as a model in this style. In the Franciad^ he was 
 less happy, even as the precursor of abler writers; for no 
 Frenchman has ever been deemed worthy of a place among 
 the epic poets of Europe, in the category with Homer, Virgil, 
 Tasso, Camoens, and Milton. 
 
 But Ronsard, and the numerous school which he formed, 
 were not content with imitating the spirit and form of the 
 ancients— they wanted to have the language too. Proud of 
 their discoveries in the field of ancient poetry, they would have 
 them transplanted wholly into French verse ; and to this end 
 they desired to have their own language subjected to combina- 
 tions and inversions like those of G-reek and Latin. Foreign 
 roots and locutions began to overpower the reviving flexibility 
 of the French idiom ; and even Rabelais, the greatest enemy 
 of this abuse, did not wholly escape the infection. ^^The 
 riches of antiquity,^ ^ says Guizot, '' were heaped upon it (the 
 French language) like the heterogeneous spoils of a pillaged 
 province, rather than as the products of a friendly country, 
 disposed to furnish us with whatever our necessities required. '' 
 
 Under the same influence the drama was restored by Jo- 
 DELLE and others, in the shape of translations and imitations. 
 Towards the end of the century, however, there appeared a 
 sort of reaction against this learned tragedy, led by Alexan- 
 der Hardy, who, with little or no original genius, produced 
 about 1200 plays. He borrowed in every possible direction ; 
 imitated the Italian pastorals and the Spanish dramas ; mingled 
 the choirs and messengers of the antique with the pantalons 
 of the Italian and the metamores of the Spanish stage; but 
 he awakened interest by a certain skill in conducting the plot. 
 After twenty years, however, the general taste returned to the 
 Greek and Roman school, and this rude miscellany of Hardy's 
 was abandoned. 
 
142 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 Poetry hardly returned to anything like freedom before 
 Mathurin Regnier,* whose lively and original satiresf are 
 among the finest monuments of that Gallic French which was 
 too lightly esteemed by the precise school which followed. 
 
 The glorious reign of Henry IV. had been succeeded by 
 the stormy minority of Louis XIII., and shortly before tran- 
 quillity was restored to the nation under the iron sceptre of 
 Richelieu, Malherbe,J a tyrant of words and syllables, ap- 
 
 ^^ Born 1573, died 1613. 
 
 f As the following : — 
 
 Jadis un loup, dit-on, que la fain espoingonne, 
 Sortant hors de son fort rencontre une lionno, 
 Rugissante a Fabort, et qui monstroit aux dents 
 L'insatiable faim qu'elle avoit au dedans, 
 Furieuse elle approche ; et le loup qui Tadvise 
 D'un langage flateur luy parle et la courtise ; 
 Car ce fut de tout temps que, ployant sous Teffort, 
 Le petit cede au grand, et le foible au plus fort, 
 Luy dis-je, qui craignoit que, faute d'autre proye, 
 La beste Fattaquast, ses ruses il employe. 
 Mais enfin le hazard si bien le secourut, 
 Qu'un mulct gros et gras a leurs j^eux apparut. 
 lis cheminent dispos, croyant la table preste, 
 Ut s'approchent tous deux assez pres de la beste. 
 Le loup qui la cognoist, malin et deffiant, 
 Luy regardant aux pieds, luy parloit en riant : 
 D'o^ es-tu? Qui es-tu? quelle est ta nourriture, 
 Ta race, ta maison, ton maistre, ta nature ? 
 Le mulet, estonnne de ce nouveau discours, 
 De peur ingenieux aux ruses eut recours; 
 Et, comme les Normands, sans luy respondit: Voire! 
 Compere, ce dit-il, je n'ay point de memoire; 
 Et comme sans esprit ma grand'mere me vit, 
 Sans m'cn dire autre chose, au pied me Tescrivit. 
 Lors il leve la jambe au jarret ramassee, 
 Et d'un oeil innocent il couvroit sa pens^e. 
 
 J Born 1565, died 1628; having lived under six kings. 
 
MALHERBE — BALZAC. 143 
 
 peared as the reformer of poetry. The court, now compara- 
 tively undisturbed by political agitation, sought to fill the void 
 which had long been occupied by public business, and became 
 the arbiter of taste, to the superseding of a coterie of literary 
 men, isolated from the world, and abandoned to the caprices 
 of their own genius. Malherbe, a private gentleman of Rouen, 
 attracted its attention by ridiculing the style of Ronsard ; he 
 was at once invited to Paris, constituted its laureate, and con- 
 tinually employed in furnishing for it that literature in which 
 it was beginning to take delight. He exploded the affectation 
 of Latin and Greek French, but inaugurated the extreme of 
 formality in its stead. Everything in the matter of his verses 
 was made subordinate to the manner. In striving after pre- 
 cision, he sacrificed energy ; he forgot that the satisfaction of 
 the ear is not the enlargement of the mind ; and that, in the 
 exactitude of his language, he was risking the substitution of 
 polish for native beauty, of mere effect for genuine feeling. 
 "When he was reproached for not rendering accurately the 
 sense of those authors whom he translated or paraphrased — 
 for he had no invention of his own — he used to say, that he 
 was not dressing meat for cooks. If he found a passage, 
 either in an ancient Roman or modern Italian author, which 
 he could throw into the shape of a pretty ode or sonnet to the 
 satisfaction of the fashionables whom it was his business to 
 please, it was little to him whether those who could read the 
 originals were pleased or displeased. 
 
 Balzac,* in his pompously frivolous epistles, used prose as 
 Malherbe did verse, and a numerous school of the same cha- 
 racter was speedily formed. Not only odes and sonnets, but 
 rondos, ballads, and epigrams came into favor; and perhaps 
 the finest compositions of a superior kind would not have done 
 
 ^' Born 1594, dkd 1654. 
 
144 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 SO mucli to diffuse a taste for books as this piecemeal literature 
 — tliis small -cliange of wit and learning adapted for circulation 
 imong a frivolous and slenderly-informed set of fashionable 
 people. The works of Voiture* abound in the pleasantries 
 and affected simplicity which best befit such compositions : the 
 most trifling adventure^ the death of a cat or dog, was trans- 
 formed into a poem, in which truly there was no spirit of poetry, 
 but a certain graceful facility, which was considered perfectly 
 charming. Then, as though native affectation were not enough, 
 the borrowed wit of Italian Marinism, which had been eagerly 
 adopted in Spain, made its way thence into France, with 
 Spanish exaggeration superadded. A disciple of this school 
 declares, that the eyes of his mistress are '' large as his grief, 
 and black as his fate;'' while another relates an adventure 
 which happened one evening, ^^ which, however, was not even- 
 ing, but morning, since Auroraj smiled, and displayed white 
 pearls in the midst of brilliant carnation'' — hyperboles these, 
 which are scarcely tolerable as the offspring of the semi- 
 oriental imagination of a Spaniard, and clothed in his sonorous 
 language, bub surpassingly ridiculous when adopted by a 
 Frenchman. However, they became familiar in the erotic 
 poetry of the school at present under notice, and a large circle 
 of fashionable critics was divided by serious disputes on the 
 respective merits of the following sonnets by Voiture and 
 Malleyille upon La Belle Matineuse : — 
 
 VOITUKE. 
 
 Des portes du matin Tamante de Cdpliale, 
 Les roses epandoit par le milieu des airs, 
 Et jetoit dans les cieux nouvellement ouverts 
 Ces traits d'or et d'azur qu'en naissant elle ^tale, 
 
 * Born 1598, died 1648. Both Balzac and Voiture were distinguished 
 as letter writers. 
 
 f Aurora was the assumed name of the young lady, according to a prac- 
 tice explained, p. 197. 
 
VOITURE — MALLBVILLE. 145 
 
 Quand la nymphe divine, a moa repos fatale, 
 Apparut et brilla de tant de feux divers 
 Qu'il sembloit qu'elle seule esclairoit Tunivers, 
 Et remplissoit de feu la rive orientale. 
 
 Le soleil, se hastant pour la gloire des cieux, 
 Vint opposer sa flamme a I'^clat de ses yeux, 
 Et prit tous les rayons dont I'Olympe se dore ; 
 
 L'onde, la terre et Fair s'allumoient a Fentour, 
 Mais aupres de Philis on le prit pour FAurore, 
 Et Fon crut que Pkilis etoit Fastre du jour. 
 
 MALLEVILLE. 
 
 Le silence r^gnoit sur la terre et sur Fonde ; 
 L'air devenoit serein et FOlympe vermeil, 
 Et Famoureux Zephir, affranchi du somm^il, 
 Ressuscitoit les fleurs d'une haleine feconde. 
 
 L'Aurore d^ployoit For de sa tresse blonde, 
 Et semoit de rubis le chemin du soleil ; 
 Enfin ce Dieu venoit au plus grand appareil 
 Qu'il soit jamais venu pour ^clairer le monde; 
 
 Quand la jeune Philis, au visage riant, 
 Sortant de son palais plus elair que F Orient, 
 Fit voir une lumi^re et plus vive et plus bolle. 
 
 Sacr^ flambeau du jour ! n'en soyez pas jaloux ; 
 
 Vous parutes alors aussi peu devant elle 
 
 Que les feus de la nuit avoient fait devant vous. 
 
 But now tlie ladies and gentlemen of the court were not 
 satisfied witli being amused by the professional poets : they 
 were persuaded they could write poetry themselves. ^^ Here- 
 by we learn ail the novelties of gallantry," says Moli^re, ^^ and 
 the pretty exchanges ^of prose and verse that occur from day 
 to day. We are told, as the news of the hour, that such a 
 one has composed the prettiest piece in the world on such a 
 subject; that such another has written words to such an air j 
 13 
 
146 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 that this person has penned a madrigal upon an enjoyment, 
 and that one, some stanzas on an infidelity ; that Mr. Such-a- 
 one sent last night a sixain to Miss Such-a-one, and received 
 an answer this morning- that one author has formed such a 
 plan; that another is at the. third part of his romance; while 
 a third is putting his work through the press. ^' '' This tend- 
 ency/' says Guizot, ^^ was not the fermentation produced by 
 the presence of any one superior genius of paramount and 
 universal influence, nor did it result from the equal and natu- 
 ral development of all the faculties of a free and ardent peo- 
 ple. It was an intense but uncertain movement towards the 
 light — an irresistible impulse to action without any determinate 
 object.^^ 
 
 Malherbe, and the school which he formed, fell afterwards 
 into neglect, for fashionable caprice had turned its attention to 
 burlesque, and every one believed himself capable of writing 
 in this style, from the lords and ladies of the court down to 
 the valets and maid-servants. The booksellers would publish 
 none but burlesque poems, and there was actually printed a 
 Passion de Noire Seigneur en vers hurlesques — a piece ^^bad 
 enough,^' says Pelisson, ^^ and one whose title justly horrified 
 those who read no more of it.^^ 
 
 It may seem strange that an extravagant taste for burlesque 
 should grow and flourish both in court and city side by side 
 with the hyperbolic magnificence of Marinism. But, as Grui- 
 zot has remarked, burlesque poetry, like bacchanalian, does 
 not so usually originate among the lower classes of society, 
 who are not familiar enough with lofty themes to know how 
 to render them ridiculous. It was, in the first instance, the 
 professional poets who were glad to escape from the restraints 
 of elegant society, and to get together at the cabaret, to enjoy 
 in excess that liberty which was not permitted elsewhere. It 
 was such as Scarron, a man familiar with literary study — 
 familiar, too, from choice with the lowest society, though ad- 
 
SCARRON. 147 
 
 mitted to the liighest — it was he^ and such as he^ that intro- 
 duced a style of which the pleasantry was increased by contrast 
 with the delicate and finical taste that had been in vogue. 
 Had men of taste been the arbiters of literary merit, Virgil 
 Travestied might have been relished as an ephemeral farce, 
 instead of becoming a standard work. But burlesque was 
 adopted by the court circle with all the fervor of a new fash- 
 ion, which, as long as it lasts, carries all before it. 
 
 Such were the principal fashions that prevailed in light 
 literature during the first half of the seventeenth century. 
 Notwithstanding their diversity, we may recognise in them one 
 general characteristic — the only one which belongs to them 
 all ; and that is, the absence of true and serious feeling, and 
 of that inspiration which is drawn from realities. Religious 
 enthusiasm did not inspire the numerous versifiers who then 
 translated or paraphrased the psalms ; love did not dictate one 
 of the ten thousand sonnets, ballads, and madrigals which con- 
 tinually repeated its name ; admiration of nature did not pro- 
 duce a single piece that treated of natural objects. Whatever 
 subject was chosen for verse, it was regarded merely as a jeu 
 d' esprit — an occasion for combining more or less ingeniously 
 words which were more or less harmonious, and ideas more or 
 less pleasing. No one dreamed of looking into himself for his 
 true feelings or desires, his hopes or his fears ; no one thought 
 of examining the emotions of his heart, or the recollections of 
 his life ; no one, in short, aimed at being a poet ; it was enough 
 to be capable of making verses. In the productions of half a 
 century, we find not a single piece truly elevated, energetic, or 
 pathetic ; whence we may judge what were the views enter- 
 tained at this time of the nature of poetry. Truth is, it was 
 the age of artists in language, entirely occupied with polishing 
 the instrument they employed, and regarding the diff'erent 
 subjects which they treated as little more than so many varie- 
 ties of experiment upon its capabilities. Doubtless it owes 
 
148 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 them something, and their labor was not wholly superfluous ; 
 but it is to be remarked, that a language generally receives its 
 highest improvement from those who use it only as means to an 
 end— from men of genius who, discussing interesting subjects, 
 and seeking to express great ideas, have almost involuntarily 
 framed for themselves a style proportioned to the exigencies of 
 their thoughts. It is from thought that language gains true 
 elevation. 
 
 It is during this time — that is, between the death of Henry 
 IV. in 1610, and that of Richelieu in 1642^ — that we mark the 
 beginnings of literary societies in France. Two of these de- 
 mand our notice.* 
 
 The earliest in point of date was that of the blue-stockings, 
 headed by Madame de Rambouillet, whose hotel (town-house) 
 became a seminary of female authors and factious politicians. 
 The hostess was a lady of Italian origin, of fine taste and elegant 
 education. She had been married at twelve years of age, and 
 introduced to the world ; but she had turned away with disgust 
 from the rude manners of the court of Henry IV., and devoted 
 herself to classic studies in as much seclusion as she could 
 easily command ; and after the death of the king, when the 
 court presented few attractions, she gathered a distinguished 
 circle round herself, combining the elegant intercourse of high 
 life with the cultivation of literary tastes. Madame de Ram- 
 bouillet was only five-and-thirty years of age when she was 
 attacked with a peculiar malady, of which, we are told, the 
 physicians of the day could neither determine the nature nor 
 alleviate the suffering. She was, for the greater part of every 
 year, obliged to keep her bed, yet not too ill to receive company, 
 or too recluse in her tastes to renounce it. She therefore had 
 an elegant alcove formed in the great salon of her house. Here 
 her bed was placed, occasionally concealed by a screen ; and 
 
 * See Miss Pardee's Louis XIV, 
 
THE HOTEL DE HAMBOUILLET. 149 
 
 here, in the ruelle^ as the space round the bed was called, she 
 received intimate friends in turns ; or the screen being with- 
 drawn, she enjoyed the general company. The choicest wits 
 of Paris flocked to her levees ; the Hotel de Rambouiiiet 
 became another name for the fashionable rendezvous of litera- 
 ture and taste, and has-hleiasm was the rage. Even the in- 
 firmities of this accomplished lady were imitated : an alcove 
 was essential to the happiness of every fashionable belle, who, 
 attired in a coquettish deshabille, and recliniag on satin pillows 
 fringed with lace, gave audience to whispered gossip in the 
 ruelle. Literary ladies, in those days, were alcovists, and the 
 news of the club was that of the rueiles. The hotel itself was 
 deemed such a model of good taste, that Mary de Medicis com- 
 manded the architect of the Luxemburg to follow its designs. 
 
 M. de Walckenaer has given us a view of the interior on an 
 occasion of general reunion, in the year 1644, when the society 
 was in the height of its glory. It had met to hear a tragedy 
 read by the great Corneille. 
 
 Among many other personages renowned in their day, but"" 
 now forgotten, were Mademoiselle de Scudery, then in the 
 zenith of her fame ; Madame de Sevigne,"^ and Mademoiselle 
 de la Vergne, afterwards Madame Lafayette, eminent as literary 
 characters ; the Duchess de Longueville, the Duchess de Che- 
 vreuse, and Madame Deshoulieres, afterwards distinguished 
 for their political activity. At the feet of these noble ladies 
 reclined a number of young seigneurs, dangling about their 
 little hats surcharged with plumes, while their mantles of silk 
 and gold were spread loosely on the floor ; and there, in more 
 grave attire, were the professional litterateurs, such as Balzac, 
 Yoiture, Menage, Scudery, Chaplain, Costart, Conrart, and the 
 Abbe Bossuet. 
 
 ^ See Madame de Sevigne and her Contemporaries, Philadelphia, Lea 
 &, Blanchard, 1342. - 
 13* 
 
150 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 The hostess had so framed her invitations as to assemble all 
 the rest of the company half an hour before the poet, that the 
 reading might not be interrupted by entrees ; but they got 
 tired of waiting, and the Marquis de Varde proposes to fill 
 up the time agreeably by binding the eyes of Madame de Se- 
 vign^ for a game at blind-man's buff. Madame de Rambou- 
 illet implores ; but the prospect of fun is so tempting, that 
 she has to yield assent. The excitement is at the highest : 
 Mademoiselle de la Vergne, then twelve years of age, has on 
 the ribbon, and is standing alone in the midst of the salon, 
 her arms outstretched, and her feet cautiously advancing, when 
 the poet appears, attended by his brother and Benserade. The 
 game is relinquished for the more elevated entertainment of 
 tragic poetry. Corneille was a bad reader of his own compo- 
 sitions ; but the young Abbe Bossuet was called upon to repeat 
 some of the most striking passages, which he did with that 
 oratorical power for which he was so remarkable in the pulpit. 
 Then sundry individuals of the company recited the verses 
 which pleased them most, and with emphasis suited to the 
 feeling they had awakened. Thus passed a morning at the 
 H5tel de Rambouillet. 
 
 The Cupid of the hotel was strictly Platonic. The romances 
 of Mademoiselle de Scudery were long-spun disquisitions 
 on love, in which the passion was sublimated to an essence as 
 pure and as cold as the atmosphere twenty miles above the 
 height of Mont Blanc. Her map of the Land of Love, which 
 was considered a masterpiece of esprit, traced the progress of 
 a lover from the village of Petits-soins to the hamlet of Billets- 
 doux. Before he arrives even at the outposts of Propos-galants, 
 he must cross the three broad rivers, and gain the points of 
 Tendre-sur-Estime, Tendre-sur-Inclination, and Tendre-sur- 
 Reconnaissance ; and so on. The characters in this lady's 
 novels were understood to represent the living individuals by 
 whom she was surrounded ; and it not only became a high 
 
MADEMOISELLE DE SCUDERY. 151 
 
 honor to sit for this literary portrait-painter, but a kind of obli- 
 gation to sustain the ideal character as it was drawn, and adopt 
 the language as it was suggested in Mademoiselle de Scudery's 
 books. Hence a world of affectation ; and one folly leading 
 to another in this pursuit of refinement, the vocabulary of the 
 salon became at length so artificial, that none but the initiated 
 could understand it.* 
 
 As for Mademoiselle de Scudery herself, though she was 
 not without eligible enough suitors, yet applying, as it would 
 seem in her own case, the impracticable tests she had invented 
 for sounding the depth and sincerity of the tender passion, 
 she died an old maid at the advanced age of ninety-four. 
 
 The first and second of her interminable romances were 
 published under her brother's name ; but the fame they ac- 
 quired drew too much attention upon the reputed author to 
 admit of his strutting long in borrowed plumage. As soon as 
 the real author was known, her popularity became unbounded. 
 She opened her own salon as a literary lady, and on Saturdays 
 received the company of the Hotel de Rambouiliet, but with- 
 out occasioning the least jealousy in its accomplished mis- 
 tress. 
 
 The civil wars of the Fronde, which broke out in 1649, and 
 were not wholly over before 1654, were unfavorable to literary 
 meetings ; but it is to be remarked, that the women who took 
 the most distinguished part in these troubles, had graduated, 
 if we may so speak, in the college of Rambouiliet. Also, 
 when the extravagant but magnificent Fouquet, in whose 
 
 * Perhaps no one has carried this style to a more ridiculous excess than 
 Cyrano de Bergerac. Describing the aqueduct of Arcueil, he says that the 
 water in it " est si delicate, qu'ello passe par-dessus les ponts, de peur de 
 se mouiller ; qu^elle monte sur des 6chasses pour voir de plus loin ; que, 
 pour s'etre vuo cajoler au village, elle devient si glorieuse, qu^elle ne veut 
 plus marcher, si on ne la porte; qu'elle est un pate de poisson, qui a trc^ 
 de sauce; un arc-en-ciel solide, une naiade au lit, qui revolt un clystere; 
 le trou par ou elle s'echappe de son chenal est un ooil de terre, qui pleure." 
 
152 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 hands were tlie finances of tte kingdom, was thrown into the 
 Bastille as a public defaulter, the ladies Scudery, Sevigne, and 
 Lafayette, remained his unfailing friends. It was perhaps for 
 these reasons that the Hotel de Rambouillet declined with the 
 ascendancy of Louis Quatorze. The agitations of the Fronde 
 had taught him to distrust clever women; and he always 
 showed a marked dislike for female authorship. The come- 
 dies of Moliere, as we shall see, gave the finishing stroke to 
 the pedantry, at least, of the bas-bleus. 
 
 The taste for literature which had become so generally dif- 
 fused, rendered the men whose province it was to define its 
 laws the chiefs of a brilliant empire, and grammar became an 
 object of primary importance* Men of letters, therefore, fre- 
 quently met together for the discussion of critical points of 
 language ; and the literary meetings which multiplied in every 
 direction were chiefly occupied with discussing the difficulties 
 of grammar, and expressing opinions upon new works. About 
 the year 1629, Chapelain, Gombaud, Godeau, Malleville, and 
 some others, agreed to assemble on a certain day in each week 
 at the house of Conrart, which was most conveniently situated 
 for them all. It was not exclusively a literary meeting, for it 
 appears they conversed familiarly on matters of business and 
 public interest, as well as those of literature ; and confiden- 
 tially sought and received advice with respect to the works in 
 which they were engaged. It was a union of friendship, a 
 companionship of men of kindred tastes and similar occupa- 
 tions ; and to prevent the intrusion of unwelcome visiters, the 
 meeting was kept secret, and continued so for nearly four 
 years. As soon as it was divulged, one and another solicited 
 admission, and Kichelieu came to hear of the existence of the 
 society. This eminent minister partook of the fashionable 
 taste for mental amusements, but at the same time rendered 
 Ihem subservient to his political glory. He patronized litera- 
 ture both as a minister and an amateur, the taste of the ama- 
 
THE FRENCH ACADEMY — DESCARTES. 153 
 
 teur being supported by the authority of the minister. Again 
 and again he desired to know whether these gentlemen would 
 not like to form themselves into a corporation established by 
 letters-patent, and thus to meet under public authority ; but 
 nothing could have been less agreeable to them than such an 
 honor. It was then hinted that, as by the laws of the realm 
 no meetings might be held without royal permission, the car- 
 dinal could put a stop to theirs if he were so disposed. This 
 argument was irresistible ; and the little society consented to 
 receive from his highness the title of the French Academy"^ 
 (1635), and letters-patent, which were registered by the par- 
 liament on condition that the members of the said academy 
 shall occupy themselves in establishing certain rules for the 
 French language, and rendering it not only elegant, but capa- 
 ble of treating all matters of art and science. It was also to 
 take cognisance of whatever books were written by its mem- 
 bers, or by others who desired its opinions. 
 
 VIIL— PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 DESCARTES — PASCAL. 
 
 During this very period, in a region far above that of court 
 favor, and in a kind of exile which appears to have torn him 
 from France only to give him to Europe, DESCARTEsf elabo- 
 rated a system of philosophy in creating a method of philoso- 
 phizing. He was born at La Haye, in Touraine (1596), of a 
 noble family, and educated by the Jesuits at the college of La 
 
 * A good outline of its history may be found in the Encyclopedia Bri- 
 tannica, Art. Academy. 
 
 t A sketch of his life is given in Lardner's Cabinet Cyclopedia, in the 
 volume on Eminent Literary and Scientific Men of France. 
 
154 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 FlecKe, where lie was early distinguished by a passionate de- 
 votion to study. As soon as he left college, his first care, as 
 he himself records, was to renounce all his books, and to en- 
 deavor to divest his mind of all the uncertain theories with 
 which it had been furnished, and henceforth to admit into it 
 nothing but what was demonstrable. Unless we could trans- 
 port ourselves back to the age of Descartes, in which every 
 mind was imbued with the ancient scholastic philosophy, and 
 no other was known, or at least recognised as orthodox, we 
 can scarcely form any adequate idea of the effort it demanded 
 to begin, like Descartes, to take nothing upon trust. But at 
 nineteen years of age it was too early to elaborate a system, 
 much more to propound his thoughts to the world. In con- 
 formity with the fashion of his rank, and in order to gain a 
 more extensive acquaintance with men and things, he embraced 
 the profession of arms, which led him into Holland, Germany, 
 and Hungary; after which, renouncing the military life, he 
 continued to travel as a private individual, and at thirty-three 
 years of age retired into Holland, in order to devote himself 
 entirely to study without fear of distraction. Here he com- 
 posed and published his principal works, from which he reaped 
 immense renown, though he at the same time encountered a 
 fearful storm of persecution. The leading peculiarity of his 
 metaphysical system was the attempt to deduce all moral and 
 religious truth from self-consciousness : '^ Cogito, ergo sum^' 
 (I think, therefore, I am) was the famous axiom on which the 
 whole was built. From this he was led to infer the existence 
 of two distinct natures in man — the mental and the physical ; 
 and having traced with a firm hand the line of demarcation 
 between mind and matter, he proceeded to infer the existence 
 of certain ideas, which he called innate in the mind, underived 
 from the outward world, and serving to connect it with the 
 spiritual and invisible. Among these, he said, was the notion 
 of infinity ; and hence he concluded the knowledge of Deity 
 
DESCARTES. 155 
 
 to be implanted in man's very nature. Besides these new 
 views in metaphysics^ Descartes made valuable contributions to 
 mathematical and physical science ; and though his philosophy 
 is now generally discarded even in his own country, yet it is 
 not forgotten that he opened the way for Locke, Newton, and 
 Leibnitz, and that his system, which continued dominant in 
 France till the time of Condillac, was in reality the base of all 
 those which have superseded it. There is scarcely a name on 
 record the bearer of which has given a greater impulse to 
 mathematical and philosophical inquiry than Descartes ; and 
 what is more to our present purpose, he embodied his most 
 important lucubrations — his Discom^s sur la Methode, for in- 
 stance — in the vernacular language, which he used in so mas- 
 terly a way that it has justly been said his fame as a writer 
 would have been greater if his celebrity as a thinker had been 
 less. 
 
 Finding himself exposed to persecution on account of his 
 novel principles, he accepted the invitation of the king of 
 Sweden to repair to Stockholm (1649), where, however, his 
 naturally delicate constitution sunk under the rigor of the cli- 
 mate in the fifty- fourth j^ear of his age (1650). He was buried 
 at St. Genevieve, but no funeral oration was allowed over his 
 remains. 
 
 It is worth remarking here, that Malherbe, the severe re- 
 former of French poetry, died (1628) two years after Lord 
 Bacon, the English reformer of science, and about the same 
 time that Descartes was preparing a similar revolution in 
 France. It was the peculiar mission of these two great men 
 to dethrone the ipse dixit of the schoolmen, and establish in 
 mental and natural philosophy that great principle of free 
 examination which Luther had already enforced in theology. 
 But it must be mentioned, as detracting much from the merit 
 and usefulness of Descartes, that the vivacity and dogmatism 
 of his temper led him to behave superciliously towards the 
 
156 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 greatest men among his contemporaries^ while his jealousy 
 prevented him from entering into friendly intercourse with 
 GalileO; or encouraging the rising genius of Pascal. 
 
 In a letter which Mersenne addressed to Descartes, dated 
 November 12, 1639, he mentions a young man sixteen years 
 of age, who had composed a treatise on conic sections, and who 
 gave promise of eclipsing all the mathematicians of the day. 
 Descartes received the intelligence coldly, and without any 
 appearance of interest. Eight years afterwards, the youthful 
 and the matured philosopher were personally introduced ; they 
 conversed on their experiments on the vacuum, on the weight 
 of the air, and what Descartes had called the subtile matter. 
 This young man, whose precocious intellect and early attain- 
 ments almost displeased Descartes, was Blaise Pascal.* 
 
 This amazing genius was born in the province of Auvergne, 
 in 1623. At the death of his mother, which happened when 
 he was three years of age, his father determined to devote 
 himself entirely to the education of this his only son and two 
 daughters ; and for this purpose disposed of a public appoint- 
 ment which he held at Clermont, and removed to Paris. It 
 was an interesting era in the annals of the human mind. The 
 darkness of scholastic philosophy was gradually clearing away 
 before the light which an improved method of study was 
 shedding over the natural sciences. A system of philosophy 
 founded on observation was preparing the downfall of those 
 traditional errors which had long held the mastery in the 
 schools. Geometricians, physicians, and astronomers taught 
 by their example the severe process of reasoning which was to 
 regenerate all the sciences ; and minds of the first order, scat- 
 tered in various parts of Europe, communicated to each other 
 the results of their labors, and stimulated each other to new 
 
 * See Lardner*s Cabinet Cyclopedia. 
 
PASCAL. 157 
 
 exertion. The elder Pascal, himself a man of considerable 
 attainments, and connected with the best informed men in 
 ^aris, took an active part in those conferences which proved 
 he cradle of the Royal Academy of Science, and in the cor- 
 •espondence which was maintained with foreign savans. His 
 )wn tastes were mathematical, but he did not intend to initiate 
 iiis son in the exact sciences till after his memory and imagina- 
 tion had been duly cultivated by literary studies. The boy, 
 however, by the force of his own unaided intellect, dived deep 
 into mathematical science, and at twelve years of age had made 
 such singular progress, that his father allowed him to follow 
 the bent of his genius. At sixteen, he produced a treatise on 
 conic sections, which was followed at short intervals by several 
 important discoveries in arithmetic and geometry. In 1647, 
 his experiments on the vacuum and the pressure of the atmo- 
 sphere completed the researches of Torricelli; and in 1653, he 
 put the top-stone on his scientific labors by his treatise on the 
 equilibrium of fluids, and his observations on the mechanical 
 powers. Thus far he was known to the public only as one of 
 the most eminent geometricians of modern times. But about 
 this time he formed the design of abandoning science for pur- 
 suits exclusively religious ; and circumstances arose which be- 
 came the occasion of those Lettres Provinciales, which, with 
 the Pensees de la Religion^ are considered among the finest 
 specimens of French literature. 
 
 The abbey of Port Royal aux Champs* occupied a lonely 
 situation about six leagues from Paris. A short time before 
 that of which we now speak, its internal discipline had under- 
 gone a thorough reformation under the pious care of Angelica 
 Arnaud, the daughter of a noble of Auvergne; and the abbey 
 rose to such high reputation, that several men of eminent 
 
 * For a Sketch of the Port Royalists see James Stephen's Essay, also 
 Quarterly Review, October, 1856. 
 14 
 
1 58 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 piety and learning, among the rest two brothers of the abbess 
 Angelica, were attracted to the spot, and took up their abode 
 in one of the private houses that pertain to the establishment, 
 there to enjoy literary leisure and religious privileges. Besides 
 works strictly devotional, they compiled books of secular instruc- 
 tion, known under the title of Les Methodes de Port Royal, 
 some of which, as the Logic and Grammar, gained a lasting 
 and extensive reputation. They likewise received pupils, and 
 their system of education became celebrated, both in a religious 
 and an intellectual point of view. Their great rivals were the 
 Jesuits, who at that time enjoyed almost a monopoly in the 
 work of classical education, having colleges for this purpose 
 in most of the larger towns. Pascal, though not himself a 
 member of the Port Eoyal establishment, was a frequent 
 visitor, and united in the bonds of friendship with its gifted 
 recluses, whose severe principles and serious conversation 
 accorded well with his own predilections. Antoine Arnaud 
 having been drawn into a controversy with the Sorbonne on 
 the doctrines of the Jansenists,* had recourse to the aid of 
 Pascal, who, as if by inspiration, adopted a mode of reply at 
 once novel and happy. He published at short intervals a 
 series of letters, purporting to be from one Louis de Montalte 
 to a provincial friend; and giving these letters a dramatic 
 form, he brought his adversaries on the stage with himself, 
 and fairly cut them up for the public amusement. This expo- 
 sure of the doctrines and policy of the Jesuits is allowed on 
 all hands to combine the comic pleasantry of Moliere with the 
 
 *• The Jansenists corresponded to the ultra-Calvinists of Protestantism, 
 contending for the necessity of a peculiar inward vocation, or effectual call, 
 in order to repentance and salvation. They were so called from Jansen, 
 bishop of Ypres, in whose works the five points were said to be embodied. 
 The doctrine of their opponents — that every man receives grace sufficient 
 to choose between sin and holiness — was called Molinist, after Molina, a 
 Jesuit who wrote on the subject. 
 
PASCAL. 159 
 
 vehement eloquence of Demosthenes. The style, so clear and 
 popular that a child might understand it, and at the same time 
 so elegant and attractive, gained immediate attention. But 
 notwithstanding the sensation thus produced in favor of the 
 Port Royalists, and the still more astounding effect of a 
 miraculous cure declared to have been wrought at the con- 
 vent, which for a time silenced their adversaries, the Jesuits 
 renewed their efforts; induced the parliament of Provence to 
 condemn the Letters to be burned by the common hangman ; 
 and the Port Eoyalists, refusing to sign a formula condemnatory 
 of their famous doctrines, were driven from their retreat, and 
 the establishment broken up. Jaqueline Pascal* died of grief 
 for this misfortune ; and Blaise Pascal's forcible repression of 
 his natural feelings on the occasion, too truly indicated the 
 unnatural discipline to which he had subjugated himself. 
 
 The work which is considered Pascal's master-piece, is his 
 Pensees de la Religion. It consists of fragments of thought, 
 appearing as if thrown together at hap-hazard on the paper 
 without apparent connexion or unity of design; scattered 
 materials, requiring that arrangement which could have been 
 supplied only by the hand of the writer. It has been often 
 lamented that he never constructed the edifice which it is 
 believed he had designed, and of which these Thoughts were 
 the splendid materials in course of collection. Several of his 
 editors have endeavored to reduce them to order and classifi- 
 cation ; but it is doubtful whether they have discovered any- 
 thing like the sequence which was in the author's mind. Some 
 of his admirers think they can trace the outline of a complete 
 system of religious philosophy, unfolding the nature and desti- 
 nies of man, defining the limits of his moral and physical 
 powers, exposing his weakness and poverty, but displaying, at 
 the same time, the remains of his fallen greatness, and its pros- 
 
 *■ See Life of Jaqueline Pascal, New York, 1S54. 
 
160 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 pects of restoration through the principles and powers revealed 
 in the Christian religion. These Though ts^ however, are in 
 some places obscure ; there are frequent repetitions, and even 
 glaring contradictions, concerning which the admirers of Pas- 
 cal say, that the obscurities and repetitions are necessarily in- 
 cident to a collection of detached notes, which must not be 
 judged by the ordinary rules of literary composition ; while 
 the contradictory passages are accounted for by supposing 
 them to be notes of objections which the author intended to 
 answer. On the other hand, the enemies of Pascal say, that 
 during the few last years of his life his mind was decidedly 
 unsound, and veered most painfully between philosophic doubt 
 and religious belief; sometimes hopelessly sceptical, sometimes 
 superstitiously credulous. It is known that from his eighteenth 
 year, he was a great sufferer ; that his mental labors, which he 
 could not be prevailed upon to relax, were too much for his 
 delicate frame ; and that, after an accident by which his car- 
 riage was nearly overturned into the Seine, he was subject to 
 severe headaches, and a sensation as though he were falling 
 over a precipice. From the time of this occurrence, which 
 took place in his thirty-fifth year, he believed his days were 
 numbered, and devoted himself with assiduity, and after a 
 fashion not deemed superstitious in that age, to prepare for 
 another world. His self-inflicted tortures probably hastened 
 his death, which took place in 1662, shortly after he had com- 
 pleted his thirty-ninth year. A posthumous examination of 
 his body displayed the liver and intestines dried up, and the 
 brain almost of a solid consistence. 
 
 After being obliged to advert to so much that is frivolous 
 and profane in French literature, it is quite refreshing to meet 
 an author like Pascal ; and we gladly present a specimen of 
 his Thoughts : — 
 
 BE jfiSUS-CHRIST. 
 
 La distance infinie des corps aux esprits figure la distance infini- 
 ment plus infinie des esprits ti la charity ; car elle est surnaturelle. 
 
PASCAL. 161 
 
 Tout I'eclat des grandeurs n'a point de lustre pour les gens qui sont 
 dans les recherches de I'esprit. La grandeur des gens d'esprit est 
 invisible aux riches, aux rois, aux conqu^rants et a tons ces grands 
 de chair. La grandeur de la sagesse qui vient de Dieu est invisible 
 aux charnels et aux gens d'esprit. Ce sont trois ordres de differents 
 genres. 
 
 Les grands genies ont leur empire, leur eclat, leur grandeur, leurs 
 victoires, et n'ont nul besoin des grandeurs charnelles, qui n'ont nul 
 rapport avec celles qu'ils cherchent. lis sont vus des esprits, non 
 des yeux ; mais c'est assez. Les saints ont leur empire, leur eclat, 
 leurs grandeurs, leurs victoires, et n'ont nul besoin des grandeurs 
 charnelles ou spirituelles, qui ne sont pas de leur ordre, et qui 
 n'ajoutent ni n'otent a la grandeur qu'ils desirent. lis sont vus de 
 Dieu et des anges, et non des corps ni des esprits curieux : Dieu leur 
 Buffit. 
 
 Archimbde, sans aucun eclat de naissance, serait en meme v^n^ra- 
 tion. II n'a pas donne des batailles, mais il a laiss^ a tout I'univers 
 des inventions admirables. Oh! qu'il est grand et eclatant aux yeux 
 de I'esprit! Jesus-Christ, sans bien et sans aucune production de 
 science au dehors, est dans son ordre de saintete. II n'a point donne 
 d'inventions, il n'a point regn^; mais il est humble, patient, saint devant 
 Dieu, terrible aux demons, sans aucun peche. Oh ! qu'il est venu en 
 grande pompe et en une prodigieuse magnificence aux yeux du coeur, 
 et qui voient la sagesse ! 
 
 II eut ete inutile a -Archimfede de faire le prince dans ses livres de 
 g^ometrie, quoiqu'il le fut. II eut ete inutile a notre Seigneur Jesus- 
 Christ, pour eclater dans son regne de saintete, de venir en roi. Mais 
 qu'il est bien venu avec I'eclat de son ordre ! 
 
 II est ridicule de se scandaliser de la bassesse de Jesus-Christ, 
 comme si cette bassesse ^tait du meme ordre que la grandeur qu'il 
 venait faire paraitre. Qu'on considere cette grandeur-la dans sa vie, 
 dans sa passion, dans son obscurite, dans sa mort, dans I'election des 
 siens, dans leur fuite, dans sa secrete resurrection, et dans le reste ; 
 on la verra si grande, qu'on n'aura pas sujet de se scandaliser d'une 
 bassesse qui n'y est pas. Mais il y en a qui ne peuvent admirer que 
 les grandeurs charnelles, comme s'il n'y en avait pas de spirituelles, 
 et d'autres qui n'admirent, que les spirituelles, comme s'il n'y en avait 
 pas d'infiniment plus hautes dans la sagesse. 
 
 Tons les corps, le firmament, les etoiles, la terre, et les royaumes, 
 14*- 
 
162 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 ne valent pas le moindre des esprits ; car il connait tout cela, et 
 soi-meme ; et le corps, rien. Et tous les corps- et tous les esprits 
 ensemble, et toutes leurs productions, ne valent pas le moindre mouve- 
 ment de charite ; car elle est d'un ordre infiniment plus eleve. 
 
 De tous les corps ensemble on ne saurait tirer la moindre pensee : 
 cela est impossible et d'un autre ordre. Tous les corps et les esprits 
 ensemble ne sauraient produire un mouvement de vraie charity : cela 
 est impossible, et d'un autre ordre tout surnaturel. 
 
 IX.— THE DRAMA. 
 
 CORNEILLE. 
 
 The same year in wliicli the French Academy received its 
 mission to watch over the purity of the language^ and in which 
 Descartes published his Discours sur la Methode, a new era in 
 the drama was ushered in by Corneille,* the father of French 
 tragedy. 
 
 Corneille waS; it has been remarked, a man greater in him- 
 self than even in his works, conceiving ideas more .sublime 
 than he executed ; possessing a mighty genius, but restrained 
 from achieving all that he was capable of, being fettered by 
 the rules of the French drama, and the conventional state of 
 French verse. We know little of his personal history ; a sort 
 of shadowy indistinctness hangs over the course of his life, 
 and only here and there we catch a glimpse of his career. 
 His father was master of waters and forests in the viscounty 
 of Rouen, where the poet was born in 1606. The lad was 
 destined for the legal profession, and trained in the severe 
 studies which were necessary to prepare him for it ; but the 
 dictates of his genius early prompted him to a different voca- 
 
 * See Life of Corneille by Guizot ; also Lardner's Cabinet Cyclopedia, 
 Eminent Literary and Scientific Men of France. 
 
CORNEILLE. " 163 
 
 tion, and tlie tastes of tlie age were calculated to stimulate 
 and encourage him. The day of the Mysteries and the ilio- 
 ralities was past; the comedies of Hardy, the court poet of 
 Henry IV., had been in turn consigned to oblivion ; Riche- 
 lieu^ s, though revised and patched up by the best authors in 
 Paris, were contemptible, yet the taste for the drama spread 
 and prevail. It is said that a friend of Corneille's, who loved 
 but without return, introduced the poet to the lady, and begged 
 him to write a sonnet in his name to propitiate the cruel fair. 
 She was propitiated, indeed, but it was towards the poet, not 
 the lover ; and the adventure formed the groundwork of 
 3Ielite, the first comedy of Corneille. " This,'' he says, '^ was 
 my coup d'essai. It is not in the rules, for I did not know 
 of their existence ; common-sense was my only guide, with the 
 example of Hardy. The success of my piece was wonderful ; 
 it caused the formation of a new company of players in Paris ; 
 and being equal to the best which had as yet appeared, it 
 brought me under the notice of the court.'' Melite was fol- 
 lowed by several other pieces, which, though now considered 
 unreadable, were better than anything then known; and Cor- 
 neille had the honor of being appointed one of the five authors 
 who filled up the plays sketched by Richelieu. Having ven- 
 tured, however, to make some alteration which the cardinal 
 disapproved, he was informed that it was necessary to have tin 
 esprit de suite; whereupon he abjured his subaltern employ- 
 ment, and found a pretext for returning to Rouen. Here he 
 continued to write, stimulated, as he himself intimates, by the 
 secret admiration of the lady whose love, we are told, was the 
 dominant passion of his life. 
 
 J'ai brule fort longtemps cVune amour assez grande, 
 Et que jusqu'au tombeau je dois bien estimer, 
 Puisque ce fut par-la que j'appris a rimer. 
 Mon bonheur commen^a quand moii ame fut prise, 
 Je gagnni de la gloire en perdant ma franchise. 
 
164 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 Charme de deux beaux yeux, mon vers charma la cour ; 
 
 Et ce que j'ai de nom je le dois a I'amour. 
 
 J'adorai done Phylis, et la secrete estime 
 
 Que ce divin esprit faisait de notre rime 
 
 Me fit devenir poete aussitot qu'amoureux : 
 
 Elle eut mes premiers vers, elle eut mes premiers feux, 
 
 Et bien que maintenant cette belle inhuraaine 
 
 Traite mon souvenir avec un peu de haine, 
 
 Je me trouve toujours en etat de I'airaer; 
 
 Je me sens tout emu quand je I'entends nommer, 
 
 Et par le doux efFet d'une prompte tendresse, 
 
 Mon coeur, sans mon aveu, reconnait sa maitresse. 
 
 Apres beaucoup de voeux et de soumissions 
 
 Un malheur rompt le cours de nos affections; 
 
 Mais tout mon amour en elle consommee, 
 
 Je ne vols rien d'aimable apres I'avoir aimee ; 
 
 Aussi n'aime-je plus, et nul objet vainqueur 
 
 N'a possede depuis ma veine ni mon coeur. 
 
 An attempt at tragedy on a classical theme having met with 
 little success, Corneille persevered in comedy, till a new field 
 opened to his view. The Spanish drama having arisen, not 
 among the learned, but the people, had been essentially popu- 
 lar from its commencement. Here was no attempt to exhibit 
 the heroes of classic antiquity speaking modern languages and 
 expressing modern feelings. The Spanish poets depicted men 
 such as they knew, narrated events such as they had witnessed, 
 and embodied passions such as they had felt. Chalons, the 
 Italian secretary of Marie de Medici, retiring to Rouen in his 
 declining years, and meeting with Corneille, advised him to 
 abandon comedy, and turn his attention to the Spanish lan- 
 guage, in which he would find subjects suited to his genius. 
 The result was the production of the Cidy which is allowed to 
 constitute an era in the dramatic history of France (1635). 
 In this work, Corneille followed pretty closely in the steps of 
 Guilhen de Castro, who had constructed a drama on the 
 foundation of the old Spanish romances which narrate the 
 
OORNEILLE. 165 
 
 history of this famous hero. Only he rejected certain puerili- 
 ties, which, however venerable in Spain, would have excited 
 ridicule in France. 
 
 Rodrigo, afterwards called the Cid, son of the venerable Don 
 Diego, is attached to Ximena,* the daughter of Gomez, Count 
 of Gormas, with the approval of the parents on both sides. 
 But ere the arrival of the nuptial-day, Diego informs his son 
 that he has received an insult from a powerful warrior, and his 
 own feeble arm being unable to sway the sword, he commits 
 the vengeance to him. Rodrigo is shocked and staggered to 
 learn that the offender is no other than the father of his be- 
 trothed. But Diego will listen to no objection : 
 
 Ne replique point, je connois ton amour ; 
 
 Mais qui pent vivre infame est indigne du jour; 
 
 Plus I'offenseur est cher, et plus grande est I'offense; 
 
 Enfin tu sais 1' affront, et tu tiens la vengeance. 
 
 Je ne te dis plus rien ; venge-moi, venge-toi ; 
 
 Montre-toi digne fils d'un pere tel que moi: 
 
 Accable des malheurs ou le destin me range, 
 
 Je m'en vais les pleurer. Va, cours, vole, et nous venge. 
 
 The dutiful son, accordingly, challenges and slays the count, 
 who has refused even the king's desire that he should humble 
 himself and seek reconciliation. Ximena hastens into the 
 royal presence, and demands vengeance on her lover for the 
 death of her father, while Diego pleads for his son, as having 
 done what was right, while he offers to die in his stead, if 
 need be : 
 
 Sire, ainsi ces cheveux blancliis sous le harnois, 
 Ce sang pour vous servir prodigu^ tant de fois, 
 Ce bras, jadis I'effroi d'une armee ennemie, 
 Descendoient au tombeau tous charges d'infamie, 
 Si je n'eusse produit un fils digne de moi, 
 Digne de son pays, et digne de son roi. 
 
 * Chimene, according to French orthography. 
 
166 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 II m'a prete sa main, il a tue le comte, 
 
 II m'a rendu I'honneur, il a lave ma honte. 
 
 Si montrer du courage et du ressentiment, 
 
 Si venger un soufflet merite un chatiment, 
 
 Sur moi seul doit tomber I'eclat de la tempete : 
 
 Quand le bras a failli, Ton en punit la tete. 
 
 Qu'on nomme crime, ou nou, ce qui fait nos debats, 
 
 Sire, j'en suis la tete, il n'en est que le bras. 
 
 Si Chimene se plaint qu'il a tue son p^re, 
 
 II ne I'eut jamais fait, si je I'eusse pu faire. 
 
 Immolez done ce chef que les ans vont ravir, 
 
 Et conservez pour vous le bras qui pent servir ; 
 
 Aux depens de mon sang satisfaites Chimene, 
 
 Je n'y resiste point, je consens a ma peine ; 
 
 Et, loin de murmurer d'un rigoureux decret, 
 
 Mourant sans deshonneur, je mourrai sans regret. 
 
 Meanwhile^ Rodrigo lias souglifc the dwelling of Ximena, 
 and, on her return, presents lier with tlie sword still stained 
 "witli her father's blood, and implores her to take her own 
 vengeance with it : 
 
 CMmlne. Ote-moi cet objet odieux, 
 Qui reproche ton crime et ta vie a mes yeux. 
 
 Don Rodrigue. Regarde-le plutot pour exciter ta haine, 
 Pour croltre ta colere, et pour hater ma peine. 
 Chim. II est teint de mon sang. 
 
 D. Rod. Plonge-le dans le mien, 
 Et fais-lui perdre ainsi la teinture du tien. 
 
 She refuses, and mutual explanations follow, in which she 
 admits that she loves him still, and does not blame him for 
 avenging his father's honor ^ but that a similar feeling on 
 her own part stimulates and obliges her to seek vengeance 
 upon him: 
 
 D.Rod. Rigoureux point d'honneur! Helas! quoi que jefasse, 
 Ne pourrai-je a la fin obtenir cette grace ? 
 Au nom d'un pere mort, ou de notre amitie, 
 Punis-moi par vengeance, ou du moins par pitie ; 
 
CORNEILLE. 167 
 
 Ton malheureux amant aura bien moins de peine 
 A mourir par ta main, qu'a vivre avec ta haine. 
 Chim. Va, je ne te hais point. 
 
 D. Rod. Tu le dois. 
 
 Chim. Je ne puis. 
 
 Again she says ; 
 
 Malgre des feux si beaux qui troublent ma colere 
 Je ferai mon possible a bien venger mon pere ; 
 Mais, malgr^ la rigueur d'un si cruel devoir, 
 Mon unique souhait est de ne rien pouvoir. 
 D. Rod. miracle d' amour ! 
 
 Chim. comble de misferes ! 
 D. Rod. Que de maux et de pleurs nous couterent nos p^res I 
 Chim. Rodrigue, qui Teiit cru ! . . . 
 
 D. Rod. Chimbne, qui I'eut dit ! . . . 
 Chim. Que notre heur fut si proche, et sitot se perdit ! . . . 
 D, Rod. Et que, si pres du port, contre toute apparence, 
 Un orage si prompt brisat notre esperance ! 
 Chim. Ah, mortelles douleurs ! 
 
 D. Rod. Ah, regrets superflus ! 
 
 And with sucli sentiments they part. 
 
 Don Diego now meeting his son, applauds his valor : 
 
 Ne mele point de soupirs a ma joie; 
 
 Laisse-moi prendre haleine, afin de te louer. 
 
 Ma valeur n'a point lieu de te desavouer, 
 
 Tu I'as bien imitee ; et ton illustre audace 
 
 Fait bien revivre en toi les heros de ma race. 
 
 C'est d'eux que tu descends, c'est de moi que tu viens. 
 
 Ton premier coup d'epee egale tons les miens ; 
 
 Et d'une belle ardeur ta jeunesse animee 
 
 Par cette grande epreuve atteint ma renommee. 
 
 Appui de ma vieillesse, et comble de mon heur, 
 
 Touche ces cheveux blancs a qui tu rends I'honneur ; 
 
 Viens baiser cette joue, et reconnois la place 
 
 Oil fut empreint I'affront que ton courage efface. 
 
 He would induce him also to renounce his attachment to 
 
168 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 Ximena ; but Rodrigo pleads that honor binds him to her as 
 much as it bound him to fight with her father : 
 
 Mon honneur offense sur moi-meme se venge, 
 
 Et vous m'osez pousser a la honte du change ! 
 
 L'infamie est pareille, et suit egalement 
 
 Le guerrier sans courage, et le perfide amant. 
 
 A ma fidelite ne faites point d'injare, 
 
 Souffrez-moi genereux sans me rendre parjure : 
 
 Mes liens sont trop forts pour etre ainsi rompus ; 
 
 Ma foi m'engage encor si je n'espere plus ; 
 
 Et, ne pouvant quitter ni posseder Chimene, 
 
 Le trepas que je cherche est ma plus douce peine. 
 
 The father answers, that an opportunity now occurs for atoning 
 for the blood he has spilt, and proving to the king that he 
 may find in him a worthy successor of the count. Five hun- 
 dred of his friends had assembled, and offered their services 
 to avenge his wrong; and just at this juncture, the Moors 
 have made a sudden descent upon the city. '' Gro,'^ says he 
 to his son, ^^ march at their head against these enemies of 
 Spain.^' Rodrigo obeys, performs prodigies of valor, brings 
 home two royal prisoners, and obtains leave to enter the king^s 
 presence, and give an account of the battle. This he does in 
 a truly graphic manner ; and the passage is much admired : 
 the following is a part of it : — 
 
 Cette obscure clarte qui tombe des ^toiles 
 Enfin avec le flux nous fait voir trente voiles ; 
 L'onde s'enfle dessous, et d'un comraun effort 
 Les Maures et la mer montent jusques au port. 
 On les laisse passer; tout leur paroit tranquille ; 
 Point de soldats au port, point aux murs de la ville. 
 Notre profond silence abusant leurs esprits, 
 lis n'osent plus douter de nous avoir surpris ; 
 Us abordent sans peur, ils ancrent, ils descendent, 
 Et courent se livrer aux mains qui les attendent. 
 Nous nous levons alors, et tous en meme temps 
 Poussons jusques au cicl mille cris cclatants. 
 
CORNEILLE. 169 
 
 But now Ximena demands an audience ; and Rodrigo is dis* 
 missed, wliile she enters, and anew requires the promise^ 
 justice. The king, for a moment, deceives her into the idea 
 that Rodrigo has fallen in the conflict : 
 
 D. Ferd, Enfin, soyez contente, 
 Chimene ; le succ^s r^pond a votre attente. 
 Si de nos ennemis Rodrigue a le dessus, 
 n est mort a nos yeux des coups qu'il a re9us ; 
 Eendez graces au del qui vous en a vengee. 
 
 And now, having observed the deadly pallor which the intelli- 
 gence has spread over her cheek, he corrects the impression, 
 and pleads for her lover. She pretends that her momentary 
 grief was for the loss of the expected vengeance — was to hear 
 that Rodrigo had fallen gloriously in the field, instead of 
 ignominiously on the scaffold ; and when the king persists in 
 pleading the case with her, she demands that it may be pro- 
 claimed among the cavaliers, that she desires a champion to 
 meet her adversary, and her hand shall be his reward if he 
 slays him. The king disapproves of renewing these barbarous 
 old customs, confesses his desire to spare Rodrigo, believes 
 that the flying Moors have borne his crime along with them, 
 and objects to make him a butt for a host of warriors. How- 
 ever, he allows her to select one champion, under promise of 
 bestowing her hand on whoever proves the victor : 
 
 Choisis qui tu voudras, Chimene, et choisis bien : 
 Mais apr^s ce combat ne demande plus rien. 
 
 Sancho offers himself, and is accepted. In the interim, Rod- 
 rigo seeks Ximena, and assures her that he will not attempt to 
 defend himself against the hand which she has chosen to slay 
 him: 
 
 Maintenant qu'il s'agit de mon seul int^ret, 
 Vous demandez ma mort, j'en accepte I'arrSt j 
 15 
 
170 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 Votre ressentiment choisit la main d'un autre, 
 Je ne m^ritois pas de mourir de la voire : 
 On ne me verra point en repousser les coups ; 
 Je dois plus de respect a qui combat pour vous ; 
 Et, ravi de penser que c'est de vous qu'ils viennent, 
 Puisque c'est votre honneur que ses armes soutiennent, 
 Je vais lui presenter mon estomac ouvert, 
 Adorant en sa main la votre qui me perd. 
 
 She would fain persuade him otherwise ; and when all other 
 arguments fail, she begs him to fight manfully, were it only to 
 deliver her from the necessity of marrying a man she hates. 
 Rodrigo completely defeats his adversary, but spares his life ; 
 and the king insists that the lady shall give her hand to the 
 man she loves : 
 
 Ma fille, il ne faut point rougir d'un si beau feu, 
 
 Ni chercher les moyens d'en faire un d^saveu ; 
 
 Une louable honte en vain t'en soUicite ; 
 
 Ta gloire est degag^e, et ton devoir est quitte ; 
 
 Ton pere est satisfait ; et c'^toit le venger 
 
 Que mettre tant de fois ton Rodrigue en danger. 
 
 Tu vois comme le ciel autrement en dispose ; 
 
 Ayant tant faiC pour lui, fais pour toi quelque chose, 
 
 Et ne sois point rebelle a mon commandement. 
 
 Qui te donne un epoux aim^ si ch^rement. 
 
 It were easy to point out serious defects in this much-lauded 
 work ; the senseless notion of unity of time crowding into 
 twenty-four hours events which could be probable and natural 
 only after a lapse of years; the anachronism of placing the 
 scene in Seville, which was not in the possession of the Spanish 
 people till long after the time of the Cid ; with other faults 
 resulting from adherence to what the countrymen of Corneille 
 had laid down as indispensable rules of the drama. But, on 
 the other hand, it was the first time that the depths of passion 
 had been stirred on the stage ; that love and duty, tenderness 
 and magnanimity, had been exhibited in direful conflict and 
 
CORNEILLE. 171 
 
 With tragic effect. Tlie success was unprecedented. It was 
 received with enthusiasm in Paris, and all France resounded 
 with its praise, till a sort of epidemic transport pervaded the 
 country. Nothing else was talked of; the people were never 
 tired of seeing it ; every one knew some part of it by heart ; 
 and it became usual to praise any person or thing by calling 
 them Beau comme It Old. 
 
 Such high renown proved, of course, a signal for envy and 
 detraction. A fierce controversy ensued; and Richelieu, 
 secretly desirous of humbling a man whose triumph he con- 
 sidered as rebellion against himself, desired that the merits of 
 the Cid should be referred to the French Academy. In vain 
 did this body allege its well-grounded fear of making its young 
 existence odious by exercising a power which it did not right- 
 fully possess : the cardinal said their arguments appeared to 
 him to have very little weight. The Academy urged that, 
 according to their statutes, they could not sit in judgment on 
 any work without the author's concurrence ; and the cardinal 
 employed Bois-Eobert to remove this obstacle. In vain were 
 all the efforts of a court friendship enlisted in the cause ; Cor- 
 neille maintained a most complimentary and deferential tone, 
 and with polite formalities evaded a direct refusal. When at 
 length it was clearly announced as the desire of a minister with 
 whom to desire was to command, Corneille was induced to 
 reply : ^^ The gentlemen of the Academy may do as they 
 please ; as you write that monseigneur would like to have their 
 opinion, and that it would divert his highness, I have nothing 
 more to say.^' The Academy would still have held back, and 
 authority had to use its last resource. '' Tell those gentlemen 
 that I desire it, and that I shall love them as they love me,'' 
 said the minister; and the Academy, like Corneille, ^^had 
 nothing more to say." 
 
 Again and again was the report of this body laid before his 
 highness and objected to; and not till after five months' labor 
 to frame such a judgment as should satisfy him without insult- 
 
172 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 ing the public; were these gentlemen relieved and their report 
 given to the world. The task forced upon them had been a 
 singularly difficult as well as invidious one. There had as yet 
 been no modelS; and consequently no rules, by which the 
 intrinsic merits of such a work could be tried ; the only tests 
 which were or could be applied were those of verbal criticism, 
 with some derived from the ancient classics. While pointing 
 out several defects, accordingly, the judges added, that '' even 
 learned men must extend some indulgence to the irregularities 
 of a work which would not have had the good fortune to please 
 the public so much if it had not possessed uncommon beauties ; 
 and that the naturalness and vehemence of its passions, the 
 energy and delicacy of many of its thoughts, and a certain 
 indescribable charm which mingles with all its defects, have 
 obtained for it a high rank among French poems of the same 
 nature.^^ 
 
 To complete the absurdity of this affair, Scudery, the great 
 adversary of Corneille in this matter, returned thanks to the 
 Academy for what he considered a triumph, while the poet 
 complained bitterly of the treatment he had received. These 
 were not the days of high and independent feeling, however; 
 and notwithstanding the literary jealousy that existed between 
 the minister and the dramatist, we find patronage graciously 
 extended by the one, and humbly accepted by the other. 
 Fontenelle, the nephew of Corneille, relates that the cardinal, 
 on one occasion, observing Corneille to be more thoughtful 
 than usual, asked whether he had any composition on hand ; 
 to which the poet replied, that he was in no state for literary 
 labor, his head being turned by a tender attachment. Coming 
 to particulars, he informed his highness that he was passionately 
 fond of a daughter of the lieutenant-general of Andely, who 
 refused to give her in marriage. Richelieu at once despatched 
 a peremptory summons to the father, who forthwith repaired 
 to Paris in the utmost alarm, and was relieved to find that no 
 
CORNEILLE. 178 
 
 worse fate awaited him than that of being obliged to surrender 
 his daughter to Corneille. 
 
 It was natural, however, for the poet to remember what the 
 minister had forgotten, and Corneille found it difficult to 
 believe in the sincerity of a reconciliation on the other side 
 which was not complete on his own. He continued to go for- 
 ward relying on his own powers, and confident of his own 
 resources, firmly awaiting the renewed attacks of envy and 
 malignity. None, however, appeared; at least no cry has 
 reached us but that of universal admiration. For years his 
 pieces followed each other in rapid succession without opposi- 
 tion, and almost without interruption, enjoying such a monopoly 
 that the history of the stage was that of Corneille's works. 
 Meanwhile the author had retired to Rouen, withdrawing into 
 that personal obscurity which was congenial to the simplicity 
 of his manners, and his life can be traced only in his works. 
 The Old had given occasion for scandal by the triumph of love 
 which it exhibited — a triumph long resisted, however, and at 
 last but imperfectly achieved ; in Les Horaces love was repre- 
 sented as punished for its rebellion against the laws of honor ; 
 in Cinnay as though in expiation of Chimene's weakness, all 
 more tender considerations are sacrificed to the implacable duty 
 of avenging a father; while in Polyeuctej duty triumphs alone, 
 and the sacrifices of the leading characters do not cost them a 
 single virtue. And now Corneille would try comedy again, 
 borrowing, as in tragedy, from the Spanish. Le Menteur was 
 the result ; but tragedy resumed possession of his genius. ^' It 
 is impossible,^' says Guizot, ^' to imagine what that genius 
 would have become, or to divine either the extraordinary 
 beauties which it might have unfolded, or the vagaries of 
 which it might have been guilty, if he had boldly abandoned 
 himself to its guidance. But Corneille feared criticism, though 
 he defied it ; he was angry at being obliged to fight his way, 
 
 and therefore withdrew from the path in which he was likely 
 
 15* 
 
174 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 to meet with enemies — a prndence which perhaps saved him 
 from some dangerous quicksands, but undoubtedly hindered 
 him from some valuable discoveries/' Pertharite was the first 
 of his pieces which appeared a failure, and was met with severe 
 criticism. Thenceforth his decline was as rapid as his success 
 had been brilliant. " The fall of the greai Comeille/' says 
 Pontenelle, ^^may be reckoned among the most remarkable 
 examples of the vicissitudes of human affairs ; even Belisarius 
 asking alms is not more striking.'' To the poet himself, it 
 came as an unexpected blow ; and the bitterness it produced 
 appears in his preface to Pertharite, ^'li is just/' he says, 
 ^^ that after twenty years of labor, I should be made conscious 
 of 'growing too old to continue in vogue." Being determined 
 to take leave of the public before they entirely took leave of 
 him, he spent six years in entire seclusion, during which he 
 composed a metrical version of the Imitation of Jesus Christy 
 as well as three discourses on dramatic poetry, and some 
 criticisms upon his own works. Again he was induced, in 
 1659, to revert to tragedy, and (Edipe, with some other pieces, 
 appeared. As his years increased, he became apparently more 
 and more anxious for popularity, the grief of his failures having 
 made him forget his earlier successes. The following lines, 
 in which he implores the favor of Louis XIV. for his last 
 works, depict his feeling of desertion in such wise as must excite 
 our sympathy for the old age of a great man, who cannot let 
 go his hold of the popularity which cheered his better days. 
 
 Ach^ve : les derniers n'ont rien qui d^gen^re, 
 Rien qui les fasse croire enfans d'un autre pere ; 
 Ce sont des malheureux etouff^s au berceau 
 Qu'un seul de tes regards tireroit du tombeau. 
 
 ¥: "k ^ 
 
 **Ag^silas" en foule auroit des spectateiirs, 
 Et " B^rdnice" enfin trouveroit des acteurs, 
 Le peuple, je I'avoue, et la cour les degradent, 
 Je foiblis, ou du moin.s i]s se le persuadent 
 
CORNEILLE. 175 
 
 Pour bien ^crire encor j'ai trop long-temps ^crit, 
 Et les rides du front passent jusqu'a I'esprit. 
 Mais contra cet abus, que j'aurois de suffrages 
 Si tu donnois les tiens a mes derniers ouvrages ! 
 Que de tant de bonte Timp^rieuse loi 
 Rameneroit bientot et peuple et cour vers moi ! 
 Tel Sophocle k cent ans charmoit encore Ath^nes, 
 Tel bouillonoit encor son vieux sang dans ses veines ! 
 Diroient-ils a I'envi. * « * 
 
 It must be told, too, that having been so long in possession 
 of undisputed superiority, he could not behold without dis- 
 satisfaction the rising glory of his successors. His jealousy 
 was like that of a child who requires a smile for himself 
 whenever caresses are bestowed upon his brother. Towards 
 the close of his life, this weakness was greatly increased by 
 the successive decay of his bodily organs; he survived the 
 loss of his faculties for a year, and died on the 1st of October, 
 1684, in the seventy-ninth year of his age. 
 
AGE OF LOUIS XIV. 
 
 X.— VARIOUS INFLUENCES COMBINING TO FORM THE LITE- 
 RATURE OF THIS PERIOD— DIRECT INFLUENCE OF THE 
 KING 
 
 When Louis XIV. assumed the reins of government, 
 France had received those various elements which were calcu- 
 lated to prepare her for a brilliant period in literature. She 
 had been brought into close relations with the countries then 
 most advanced in this career — namely, Spain and Italy ; and 
 she had received from the study of the ancient masters the 
 best correctives of whatever might have been extravagant in 
 national genius, whether her own or that of her contempora- 
 ries. The polemical distractions of the sixteenth century had 
 gradually issued in the triumph of the old religion, which had 
 learned some useful lessons in the conflict. It had been dis- 
 covered that an ignorant priesthood could not retain its hold 
 on the people, and that they must support their faith by argu- 
 ment, and not merely by a display of ecclesiastical authority. 
 The religious earnestness which had been excited by contro- 
 versy still subsisted, and preachers of high endowments grati- 
 fied it by their prelections. The nation retained also the 
 energy which had been elicited by civil commotion, though 
 its troubles were over; and the political ascendancy of France 
 among the kingdoms of Europe imparted buoyancy and free- 
 dom to every spirit. 
 
 But of all the influences which contributed to perfect the 
 
 (176) 
 
LOUIS XIV. 177 
 
 literature of France in the latter half of the seventeenth 
 century, none appeared to be so general and powerful as that 
 of the monarch himself;, whether by his immediate influence 
 rendering his court the centre of knowledge, or that of his 
 government imparting a general feeling of security to those 
 who lived under it. ^^ A single genius/' says Nisard, ^' may 
 arise in the midst of a stormy period, but only a good govern- 
 ment gives birth to numbers of eminent men in various walks, 
 and impresses on the most diversified works a common charac- 
 ter of greatness, order, and unity.'' 
 
 On the other hand, those who little admire so absolute a 
 sway as that of Louis, remind us — and not without truth — 
 that the men who gave eclat to this period were formed in the 
 more troublous times that preceded it. Their genius had 
 taken root and sprung up in the storm of civil and religious 
 war, but opened and bloomed in the sunshine of a powerful 
 and peaceful monarchy. 
 
 It must be remembered what was the condition of France 
 when Louis XIV. assumed the government. The supreme 
 power had been swayed by prime-ministers, before whom men 
 of high birth and superior talent found it hard to bend in 
 servitude, and the only alternative was revolt. But now the 
 sovereign had announced his resolution to reign himself, and 
 every one felt his master. A powerful king had been the 
 common want : the bourgeoisie wanted it against the nobility ; 
 the inferior nobility against the higher; the people against 
 oppression and civil war. Royalty was the ideal of the 
 seventeenth century ; and if the disorders of the Fronde had 
 disposed the nation to entertain it with fondness, the magnifi- 
 cence of Le Grand Monarque rendered it perfectly intoxica- 
 ting. The predominance of the sovereign became the most 
 prominent feature in the social character of the age, and the 
 whole circle of the literature bears its impress. The univer- 
 sal admiration of litterateurs for Louis XIV. was not a con« 
 
178 FRENCH LITERATURE, 
 
 spiracy of flattery, but the strong impression whicli tKe great 
 writers of the age received, in common with the whole body 
 of the people, of the greatness of their king and country; 
 " since, under this king,'' as Bossuet says, " France learned 
 to know herself/' Racine, one of the most upright of these 
 litterateurs, depicts himself as '^a man spending his life in 
 thinking of the king, in learning the great actions of the 
 king; a man to whom God has given grace not to blush 
 either for the king or the gospel/' No wonder that the appre- 
 hension of having lost the favor of his sovereign hastened 
 his death. If a man lost the royal favor in those days, he 
 lost his function in the state, and his place in society; for 
 there was no rank then but what was held from the prince. 
 We smile at the weakness of Racine; but if there is one 
 among us who has passed his days in thinking of a great 
 man, and who, after having all his life admired an ideal in a 
 person beloved, has now lost the good graces of that person 
 without losing his faith in the ideal, let him judge whether 
 the desperation of Racine was unworthy of him. 
 
 But this was not all : Louis raised and improved in no mean 
 degree the position of literary men. By granting them regu- 
 lar pensions, he delivered them from servitude ; the regularity 
 of the bounty making it appear as a right attached to merit, 
 and not, as hitherto, the capricious recompense of well-turned 
 flattery. Through the general taste, however, which the mo- 
 narch contributed to difi*use, some writers were rendered abso- 
 lutely independent of state reward by the public. Others 
 attained this independence through the operation of the laws 
 which raised them to the high offices of the state, and thus 
 secured them a competence. 
 
 It is to be remarked, that this was an age of order and spe- 
 cialty in literature, in this respect strikingly unlike that which 
 followed it. Each writer had his own sphere, and seldom 
 quitted it for any other ; the only remarkable exceptions being 
 
DIRECT INFLUENCE OF THE KING. 179 
 
 Bossuet and Fenelon, who, from their peculiar position, were 
 led to exercise some variety of talent. 
 
 It is convenient, that in displaying the literary riches of 
 this age, we should classify them according to their subjects, 
 and treat successively of tragedy, comedy, satirical and other 
 poetry; of pulpit and forensic eloquence; of history, biogra- 
 phy, philosophy, romance, and letter- writing. But then we 
 shall find that the principal authors present themselves each 
 under one of these heads : Racine with tragedy; Moli^re with 
 comedy; Boileau with satirical and mock-heroic poetry; La 
 Fontaine with narrative poetry; Bossuet, Bourdaloue, and 
 Massillon, with pulpit eloquence; Patru, Pelisson, and some 
 others, with that of the bar; Bossuet, De Retz, and St. Simon, 
 with history and memoirs; Rochefoucauld and La Bruyere 
 with moral philosophy; Fenelon and Madame de Lafayette 
 with romance; and Madame de Sevigne with letter- writing. 
 
 The personal influence of the king was most marked on pul- 
 pit eloquence and dramatie poetry, both of which he assidu- 
 ously attended. Other branches found less favor, from the 
 king's dislike to those who chiefly treated them. The recol- 
 lections of the Fronde had left in his mind a distrust of 
 Rochefoucauld. A similar feeling of political jealousy, with 
 a thorough hatred of hel esprit^ especially in a woman, pre- 
 vented him from appreciating Madame de Sevigne ; and he 
 seems not even to have observed La Bruyere in his modest 
 functions as teacher of history to the Duke of Burgundy. He 
 had no taste for the pure mental speculations of Malebranche 
 or Fenelon ; and in metaphysics, as in religion, had little pa- 
 tience for what was beyond the ordinary good sense of ordinary 
 individuals. The same hatred of excess rendered him equally 
 the enemy of refiners and freethinkers ; so that the like exile 
 fell to the lot of Arnauld and Bayle, the one carrying to the 
 extreme the doctrines of grace, and the other those of sceptical 
 inquiry. Nor did he relish the excessive simplicity of La 
 
180 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 Fontaine, or deem that his talent was a sufficient ^mpen«**- 
 tion for his slovenly manners and inaptitude for court-life. 
 Concerning all these it may be said, that they flourished with 
 and by, as well as in the age of Louis XIV., but rather in 
 spite of his personal influence than under its favor. 
 
 XL— TRAGEDY. 
 
 RACINE, HIS LIFE AND WORKS — ANALYSIS OP ATHALIB — MINOR TRAGIC 
 AUTHORS OF THIS PERIOD — THE OPERA. 
 
 In introducing the most classic of French tragedians* to the 
 English reader, we would bespeak his indulgence by some ob- 
 servations of an eminent modern critic on the difierence between 
 the French drama and our own. 
 
 " It will be universally admitted, that in tragic perform- 
 ances nothing can be more distinctly different than the laws 
 which regulate the French and English stage. The dissimi- 
 larity is so great that a native of either country, however can- 
 did or liberal, must have studied with some attention the lite- 
 rature of the other, to enable him not merely to relish, but 
 even to endure the tragedies of the neighboring kingdom. A 
 Parisian critic would be shocked at the representation of Ham- 
 let au naturel ; and the most patient spectator in the Drury 
 Lane audience would incur some risk of dislocating his jaws 
 with yawning during the representation of a chef-d'oeuvre of 
 Racine or Corneille. This difference betwixt the taste of two 
 highly civilized nations is not surprising, when we consider 
 that the English tragedy existed a hundred years at least . 
 
 * The fullest and most authentic biography of Racine is from the pen of 
 his son, Louis Racine. A brief sketch of his life is to be found in Lardoer's 
 Cabinet Cyclopedia. 
 
FRENCH AND ENGLISH DRAMA. 181 
 
 before the French, and is therefore censured by them as 
 partaking, to a certain extent, of the barbarity and gross- 
 ness of the age of Queen Elizabeth. The two great tragedians 
 of France, on the contrary, had the task of entertaining a 
 polished and highly ceremonious court, whose judgment was at 
 least as fastidious as it was correct, and in whose eyes a breach 
 of etiquette was a more formidable crime than any deficiency 
 in spirit or genius. 
 
 "Thus the English stage exhibited in word and in action 
 ^ every change of many-colored life,' mingled the tragic with 
 the comic, the ludicrous with the horrible, seized by storm on 
 the applause of the half-startled, half-affrighted audience, and 
 presented to the judgment, like Salvator's landscapes to the 
 eye, a chaos of the wonderful mixed with the grotesque, agi- 
 tating the passions too strongly to leave time to inquire whether 
 the rules of critical taste were not frequently violated. The 
 French stage, on the other hand, is carefully and exactly 
 limited by a sense of decorum, which, exercised in its rigor, 
 may be called the tyranny of taste. It is not lawful to please, 
 says this dramatic code, unless by observance of certain arbi- 
 trary rules ; or to create a deeper or more intense interest than 
 a strict obedience to the precepts of Aristotle and his modern 
 commentators will permit. The English authors have, there- 
 fore, preferred exhibiting striking incidents and extraordinary 
 characters, placed in violent contrast, at the risk of shocking 
 probability ; and their keenest partisans must own that they 
 have been often absurd when they aimed at being sublime. 
 The French, on the other hand, limiting themselves in gene- 
 ral to long dramatic dialogues, in which passion is rather 
 analyzed than displayed, have sometimes become tedious by a 
 display of ingenuity where the spectator expected touches of 
 feeling. It follows, as a matter of course, that each country, 
 partial to the merits of its own style of amusement, and struck 
 with the faults which belong to a cast of composition so ex- 
 16 
 
182 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 tremely different, is as severe in censuring the foreign stage as 
 it is indulgent of judging of its own.*' 
 
 Jean Racine, born at Ferte-Milon in 1639, was left an 
 orphan in his childhood, and educated at the celebrated insti- 
 tution of Port Royal, where he imbibed not only a taste for 
 literature and serious study, but that deeply religious feeling 
 which characterized without exception every great author of 
 the great age. The docility of the young Racine wa5 equalled 
 only by his ardor for study. Lancelot, who had specially un- 
 dertaken to teach him Greek, caught him one day reading the 
 romance of Theagenes and Charicles^ took it from him, and 
 burned it. The lad procured another copy, and after a short 
 time surrendered it to his tutor, telling him that he might 
 burn that one too, for he had learned it by heart. His first 
 essay in poetry — an ode composed for the nuptials of Louis 
 XIV. — brought him under the notice of Chapelain, the king^s 
 adviser in these matters, and procured for him a pension of 
 600 livres. A second ode introduced him to the acquaint- 
 ance of Boileau, which proved highly useful as well as honor- 
 able, and gave him advantages which had never fallen to the 
 lot of Corneille. A little before, he had made the acquaint- 
 ance of Moliere, who suggested the plan of the Theha'ule, his 
 first drama. That of Alexandre followed, and both obtained 
 some success. They were, however, but feeble imitations of 
 the works of Corneille, who advised the young author to at- 
 tempt no more tragedy. Racine replied by producing Andro^ 
 maque, which, though not the most perfect of his works, was 
 that which produced the most powerful effect on the stage. 
 The poet had discovered a new vein ; he had found out that 
 sympathy was a more powerful and durable source of tragic 
 effect than admiration ; and he had, accordingly, exercised all 
 the powers of his genius in a truthful expression of feeling 
 and character, and in thrilling alternations of hope and fear. 
 
RACINE. 1B3 
 
 of anger and pity. Andromaque was followed almost every 
 year by a new work of similar character. But now Racine 
 surprised the public by an excursion into the domain of Mo- 
 li^re. Les Plaid eurs, a comedy imitated from the Wasps of 
 Aristophanes, is slender in the plot, but natural, truthful, 
 and pleasing. It was coldly received at Paris, but it proved 
 highly successful at Versailles, which so delighted the players, 
 that on their return to the city, they came to awake Racine at 
 midnight, and communicate the welcome tidings. The noise 
 of the carriages, and the tumult of the visiters in the Rue des 
 Marais, made the neighbors believe that public justice had 
 avenged itself on the author of Les Plaidexirs, and that he 
 was taken to the Bastille. All Paris rung with the news the 
 following day, and the mistake being discovered, gave addi- 
 tional effect to the intelligence that the comedy had found 
 acceptance at court. Of course it was afterwards completely 
 successful in the city. Sometime afterwards, the celebrated 
 Henrietta of England induced Racine and Corneille, unknown 
 to each other, to produce a tragedy on Berenice, in order to 
 test the comparative powers of these illustrious rivals. The 
 two pieces were represented towards the end of the year 1670; 
 that of Corneille at the Palais-Royal by Moli^^re^s company; 
 that of Racine at the Hotel de Bourgogne. Corneille's proved 
 a failure, but Racine's enjoyed thirty representations in suc- 
 cession, honored by the tears of both court and city. 
 
 In 1677, partly disgusted at seeing his Phedre hissed 
 through the influence of a cabal, and partly from religious 
 principle, Racine abandoned this career while yet in the full 
 vigor both of his life and his genius. At first, he thought 
 of devoting himself to monastic seclusion; but on maturer 
 consideration, decided in favor of lighter bonds, and married 
 Catherine Romanet, with whom he lived happily, and had 
 seven children. In the same year he was appointed historio- 
 grapher to the king, conjointly with Boileau ; and for twelve 
 
IM FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 years tlie dramatic muse remained silent. Kacine was then 
 induced by Madame de Maintenon to compose a piece, not to 
 be acted on tbe Frencli boards, but in the Maison de St. Cyr, 
 and by the pupils of that establishment. Madame de Main- 
 tenon was of opinion that theatricals are highly useful to 
 young people, not only as an exercise of memory, but as con- 
 ducive to a graceful deportment and correct pronunciation. 
 But after having seen the young ladies act Andromaque, she 
 apprehended that such pieces were calculated to inspire them 
 with improper feelings, and wrote to Racine a request that he 
 would compose a moral or historical drama which should 
 entirely exclude the passion of love. Esther was the result, 
 and its success was prodigious. Athalie, which is considered 
 the most perfect of all Racine's compositions, was composed 
 with similar views, but it was destined to a widely different 
 fate. Madame de Maintenon had been advised to allow no 
 more theatricals at St. Cyr, and the only representation 
 granted to Athalie was, that the young ladies recited it in the 
 presence of the king, in a chamber of the palace at Versailles, 
 without any stage, or costume other than their everyday 
 dresses. The only resource of the poet was to print his work, 
 but it found no readers; and Racine, discouraged by this 
 second injustice, finally abandoned the drama. He continued 
 to be loaded with favors by the king, who gave him a public 
 office, and admitted him to his familiar society. An unfore- 
 seen circumstance, however, deprived him of the royal favor. 
 He was induced, by Madame de Maintenon, under promise of 
 secrecy, to put on paper, in the form of a Memoire^ some views 
 which he had expressed to her upon the misery that had been 
 entailed on the people by the protracted war. The king got 
 his hands upon the paper, and was highly offended. ^^ What !'' 
 said he, ^' because he can make verses, does he think he knows 
 everything ? And because he is a great poet, does he pretend 
 to be a minister too?'' It seems not well agreed how far the 
 
RACINE. 185 
 
 king gave practical effect to his displeasure. Racine was at 
 the time laboring under a dangerous malady, and his distress 
 at learning the fate of his Memoire so aggravated the disease, 
 that he sank under it, and never recovered. He lingered for 
 two years, and died in 1699, so fully occupied with his im- 
 mortal hopes in a future world as to be careless of his earthly 
 renown. He refused to revise the editions of his works which 
 the booksellers were publishing, and expressed no earthly wish 
 except that he might be buried at Port Royal among his early 
 instructors, and at the feet of Dr. Hamon. After the destruc- 
 tion of this monastery, his remains were transferred to Paris, 
 and placed beside those of Pascal, in the church of St. Etienne- 
 du-Mont. 
 
 Besides numerous tragedies, Racine composed odes, epi- 
 grams, and spiritual songs. By a singular combination of 
 talent, he wrote almost as well in prose as in verse. His His- 
 toire de la Regne de Louis XIV. ^ which remained unfinished at 
 his death, was almost entirely destroyed in a conflagration at 
 the house of his successor \ but there remain the Ahrege de 
 V Histoire de Port Royaly some pleasing letters, and some 
 Discours Academiques, among which is a eulogium on Cor- 
 neille. 
 
 The TJiedtre of Racine has had several learned commenta- 
 tors, and has passed through innumerable editions. We have 
 said that Athalie is the most perfect of his works. It was 
 little known or appreciated till the year 1716, since which its 
 reputation has continually augmented. Voltaire has pro- 
 nounced it ^'Vouvrage le plus approchant de la perfection qui 
 soit jamais sorti de la main des hommes.^^ Recommending 
 the reader to make its acquaintance in the original, we sub- 
 join an analysis, for the sake of those to whom this may be 
 inconvenient. 
 
 The subject is taken from the twenty-second and twenty- 
 third chapters of the second book of Chronicles, where it is 
 16* 
 
186 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 written, that Athaliali, to avenge the death of her son, de- 
 stroyed all the seed-royal of the house of Judah; but that 
 the young Joash was stolen from among the rest by his aunt, 
 Jehosheba (or Josabeth), the wife of the high-priest, and hid 
 with his nurse for six years in the temple. 
 
 The first act opens in the temple, where Abner, the chief 
 captain of the hosts of Judah, comes to worship, and intimates 
 to Joad the high-priest, his fear that Athaliah will not long 
 suffer him to minister before the altar in peace. The venera- 
 ble man replies : 
 
 Celui qui met un frein a la fureur des flots, 
 
 Salt aussi des m^chants arreter les complots. 
 
 Soumis avec respect a sa volonte sainte, 
 
 Je crains Dieu, cher Abner, et n'ai point d*autre crainte. 
 
 He then sounds Abner, who is not in the secret of the child^s 
 safety, as to what he would do supposing it should turn out 
 that a drop of the royal blood has escaped ; and being satisfied 
 of his loyalty, desires him to return in three days, at the third 
 hour of the day, and with the same ardent zeal that he now 
 expresses. He then privately tells his wife that the time is 
 come when the youthful king, who goes by the name of Elia- 
 cin, and believes himself but a foundling, should be apprised 
 of his condition, and presented to the people. Josabeth fears 
 to expose her protege to the danger that would thus be incurred. 
 She recalls the scene of the slaughter — 
 
 De princes ^gorg^s la chambre etoit remplie ; 
 Un poignard a la main, I'implacable Athalie 
 Au carnage animoit ses barbares soldats, 
 Et poursuivoit le cours de ses assassinats. 
 Joas, laiss^ pour mort, frappa soudain ma vue. 
 Je me figure encor sa nourrice 6perdue, 
 Qui devant les bourreaux s'^toit jett^e en vain, 
 Et foible le tenoit renvers^ sur son sein. 
 
RACINE. 187 
 
 Je le pris tout sanglant ; et, baignant son visage, 
 Mes pleurs du sentiment lui rendirent I'usage. 
 Et, soit frajeur encore, ou pour me caresser, 
 De ses bras innocents je me sentis presser. 
 
 But Joad confides in Divine succor — 
 
 Et comptez-vous pour rien Dieu qui combat pour nous ? 
 Dieu, qui de I'orphelin protege I'innocence, 
 Et fait dans la foiblesse ^clater sa puissance ? 
 
 In tlie second act, Athaliah, despite the expostulations of 
 Abner, Joad, and even of his own attendants, enters the holy 
 place where the priests are ministering, attended by Zachariah, 
 the son of Joad, and Eliacin (Joash), in the garb of acolytes. 
 Being persuaded to retire, she relates to Abner and Mathan, 
 who follow her, the fearful dream which prompted her visit — 
 
 Ma m^re Jezabel devant moi s'est montr^e, 
 Comme au jour de sa mort pompeusement par^e. 
 Ses malheurs n'avoient point abattu sa fiert4 ; 
 Meme elle avoit encor cet ^clat emprunt^, 
 Dont elle eut soin de peindre et d'orner son visage, 
 Pour r^parer des ans I'irreparable outrage. 
 Tremble, m'a-t-elle dit, fille digne de moi ; 
 Le cruel Dieu des Juifs I'emporte aussi sur toi ; 
 Je te plains de tomber dans ses mains redoutables. 
 Ma fille. En achevant ces mots ^pouvantables, 
 Son ombre vers mon lit a paru se baisser ; 
 Et moi, je lui tendois les mains pour I'embrasser. 
 Mais je n'ai plus trouv^ qu'un horrible melange 
 D'os et de chair meurtris et train^s dans la fange, 
 Des lambeaux pleins de sang et des membres affreux, 
 Que des chiens d^vorants se disputoient entre eux. 
 
 She adds, that in the confusion of her ideas she saw a child in 
 the vestments of the Hebrew priests, aiming a sword at her 
 bosom 'j that having vainly sought tranquillity by supplicating 
 the priests of Baal, she had thought of visiting the temple 
 
188 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 and appeasing the God of the Jews, when, lo ! the very child 
 she had seen in her dream was there ; she saw him distinctly, 
 but he was hastily hidden away. She desires counsel as to 
 what is to be done. Abner does not know who the other little 
 boy may be, who, with Zachariah, attends the priests; and 
 Mathan, the apostate, recommends, as the only safeguard, to 
 destroy both, while Abner expostulates : — 
 
 H^ quoi, Mathan! d'un pretre est-ce la le langage ? 
 Moi, nourri dans la guerre aux horreurs du carnage, 
 Des vengeances des rois ministre rigoureux, 
 C'est moi qui prete ici ma voix aux malheureux. 
 Et vous, qui leur devez des entrailles de pere, 
 Vous, ministre de paix dans les temps de colore, 
 Couvrant d'un zele faux votre ressentiment, 
 Le sang a votre gre coule trop lentement ! 
 
 Mathan suggests the possibility that this child may be edu- 
 cating in the temple to personate a prince of the house of 
 Judah; and Athaliah determines to see him again, and con- 
 verse with him alone. 
 
 Laissez-moi, cher Mathan, le voir, Tinterroger. 
 Vous, cependant, allez ; et, sans jeter d'alarmes, 
 A tous mes Tyriens faites prendre les arnies. 
 
 Returning to the temple, she examines the children, and recog- 
 nises him whom she fears. 
 
 Athaliah {Pointing to Joash). Epouse de Joad, est-ce la votre fils? 
 Josaheth [Pointing to Zachariah). Qui ? Lui, Madame ? 
 
 Athal. Lui? 
 
 Josab. Je ne suis point sa m^re. 
 (^Pointing to Zachariah), Voila mon fils. 
 
 Athal. (To Joash). Et vous, quel est done votre p^re ? 
 Jeune enfant, ropondez. 
 
 Josab. Le ciel jusqu'aujourd'hui . . . 
 Athal. {To Josab.) Pourquoi vous pressez-vous de r^pondre pour lui? 
 C*est ^ lui de parler. 
 
^^/*i^?f RACINE. 189 
 
 Josah. Dans un age si tendre 
 Quel ^claircissement en pouvez-vous attendre ? 
 
 Athal. Get age est innocent. Son ingenuite 
 N'altere point encor la simple v^rit^. 
 Laissez-le s'expliquer sur tout ce qui le touche. 
 
 Josah. (Aside). Daigne mettre, grand Dieu ! ta sagesse en sa bouche. 
 
 Athal. Comment vous nommez-vous ? 
 
 Joash. J'ai nom Eliacin. 
 
 Athal, Votre p^re ? 
 
 Joash. Je suis, dit-on, un orphelin, 
 Entre les bras de Dieu jet^ d^s ma naissance, 
 Et qui de mes parents n'eus jamais connaissance. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Athal. Mais de vos premiers ans quelles mains ont pris soin ? 
 
 Joash. Dieu laissa-t-il jamais ses enfants au besoin ? 
 Aux petits des oiseaux il donne leur pature, 
 Et sa bont^ s'etend sur toute la nature. 
 Tons les jours je I'invoque ; et d'un soin paternel, 
 II me nourrit des dons offerts sur son autel. 
 
 Athal. Quel prodige nouveau me trouble et m'embarrasse ! 
 La douceur de sa voix, son enfance, sa grace, 
 Font insensiblement a mon inimitie 
 Succ6der Je serois sensible a la piti^ ! 
 
 She further questions him as to his employments and recrea- 
 tions, which he describes as consisting in aiding in the temple 
 worship, and learning the Divine law. She invites him to 
 quit such sombre occupations, and share the pleasures of her 
 palace as her adopted son; but he refuses, and she retires 
 timid, irresolute, not knowing what course to take. 
 
 Meanwhile, Joad has determined to reveal the secret ; but 
 first entering the temple to seek a blessing, the spirit of pro- 
 phecy comes upon him. 
 
 Mais d'oii vient que mon coeur fr^mit d'un saint effroi ? 
 Est-ce I'Esprit divin qui s'empare de moi ? 
 C'est lui-meme : il m'echauffe; il parle ; mes yeux s'ouvrent, 
 Et les siecles obscurs devant moi se d^couvrent. 
 
190 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 Ldvites, de vos sons pretez-moi les accords, 
 
 Et de vos mouvements secondez mes transports. 
 
 The whole of this prophecy is in the highest style of poetry. 
 It is doubtful if there is any lyric in the language to compare 
 with these lines — 
 
 Quelle Jerusalem nouvelle 
 Sort du fond du desert, brillante de clart^s, 
 Et porte sur le front une marque immortelle ? 
 
 Peuples de la terre, chantez : 
 Jerusalem renait plus charmante et plus belle. 
 
 B'ou lui viennent de tous cotes 
 Ces enfants qu'en son sein elle n'a point port^s ? 
 L^ve, Jerusalem, l^ve ta tete alti^re. 
 Regarde tous ces rois de ta gloire ^tonn^s. 
 Les rois des nations, devant toi prostern^s, 
 
 De tes pieds baisent la poussiere. 
 Les peuples a I'envi marchent a ta lumiere. 
 Heureux qui, pour Sion, d'une sainte ferveur 
 
 Sentira son ame embras^e ! 
 
 Cieux, r^pandez votre ros^e, 
 Et que la terre enfante son sauveur. 
 
 In the next act, the royal diadem, the sword of David, and 
 the book of the law, are solemnly brought out, to the amaze- 
 ment of the little Joash. 
 
 Joash. Princesse, quel est done ce spectacle nouveau ? 
 Pourquoi ce livre saint, ce glaive, ce bandeau ? 
 Depuis que le Seigneur m'a re9U dans son temple, 
 D'un semblable appareil je n'ai point vu d'exemple. 
 
 Josabeth evades the question, and tries the crown on his head, 
 
 Joash. Vous voulez essayer ce bandeau sur mon front? 
 Ah, Princesse! gardez d'en profaner la gloire; 
 Du roi qui I'a port6 respectez la meraoire. 
 Un malheureux enfant, aux ours abandonn^ .... 
 
 Josab. Laissez, mon fils, je fais ce qui m'est ordonn^. 
 
RACINE. 191 
 
 Joash. Mais j'entends les sanglots sortir de votre bouche. 
 Princesse, vous pleurez ! quelle piti^ vous touche ? 
 
 Josabeth, overcome by her feelings, leaves him alone with 
 Joad, who questions him as to the duties of a king, and if he 
 were one, which king he would like to resemble. The child 
 names David, the man after God's own heart, as his beau-ideal. 
 Whereupon the high-priest prostrates himself at his feet. 
 
 Joash. Mon pere, en quel ^tat vous vois-je devant moi ? 
 Joad. Je vous rends le respect que je dois a mon roi ; 
 De votre aieul David, Joas, rendez-vous digne. 
 Joash. Joas ! Moi ? 
 
 Joad now presents the young king to the priests and Levites ; 
 he takes the oath on the sacred book, and is anointed with the 
 holy oil. 
 
 But Abner comes to the temple, charged with a demand 
 from the queen, that this mysterious child be surrendered as a 
 hostage, with some treasure of gold said to be concealed in the 
 holy place. He advises that this be conceded, as the only 
 means of saving the temple and all that belong to it from fire 
 and sword. Joad admits that he has charge of a secret trea- 
 sure, and promises that if it must be discovered to the queen, 
 the doors shall be opened to her, rather than any carnage or 
 pillage take place; and then Abner shall be judge whether 
 this treasure shall be put in her power. While Abner departs 
 to bring the queen, Joab places the Levites in ambuscade 
 about the temple, and addresses the youthful Joash : — 
 
 Roi, je crois qu'a vos voeux cet espoir est permis, 
 
 Venez voir a vos pieds tomber vos ennemis. 
 
 Celie dont la fureur poursuivit votre enfance, 
 
 Vers ces lieux a grands pas pour vous perdre s'avance. 
 
 Mais ne la craignez point. Songez qu'autour de vous 
 
 L'ange exterminateur est debout avec nous. 
 
 He places him on his throne, draws a curtain before him, and 
 
192 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 waits the event. Presently Athaliah comes to demand the 
 promised price of safety — the child and the treasure. Where- 
 upon Joad draws the curtain, and reveals Joash on the throne ; 
 the nurse kneeling on his right, Azarias standing with a drawn 
 eword on his left, the children of the high-priest kneeling on 
 the steps, and a body of armed Levites surrounding. Joad 
 challenges the queen to recognise the youthful sovereign by 
 the scars of her own poniard. 
 
 Joad. Connais-tu I'heritier du plus saint des monarques, 
 Reine ? De ton poignard connais du moins ces marques. 
 Voila ton roi, ton fils, le fils d'Okosias. 
 Peuples, et vous, Abner, reconnaissez Joas. 
 
 Ahner, Ciel ! 
 
 Athal. {To Joad). Perfide ! 
 
 Joad. Vois-tu cette Juive fidele, 
 Dont tu sais bien qu'alors il su9oit la mamelle ? 
 II fut par Josabeth a ta rage enleve. 
 Ce temple le reyut, et Dieu I'a conserve. 
 Des tresors de David voila ce qui me reste. 
 
 Athaliah calls on her soldiers to deliver her from this odious 
 phantom, and Joad cries aloud : 
 
 Soldats du Dieu vivant, defendez votre roi ! 
 Immediately the temple appears filled with armed Levites. 
 
 Athal. Oil suis-je? trahison! 6 reine infortun^e ! 
 D'armes et d'ennemis je suis environnde ! 
 
 Joad. Tes yeux cherchent en vain ; tu ne peux echapper, 
 Et Dieu de toutes parts a su fenvelopper. 
 Ce Dieu, que tu bravois, en nos mains t'a livree. 
 Rends-lui compte du sang dont tu t'es enivrde. 
 
 Athal Quoi ! la peur a glacd mes indignes soldats ? 
 Lache Abner, dans quel pidge as-tu conduit mes pas ? 
 
 Ahner. Reine, Dieu m'est t<3moin. . . . 
 
 Athal. Laisse-la ton Dieu, traitre, 
 Et venge-moi. 
 
 Abner (Casting himself at the feet of Joash). Sur qui? Sur 
 Joas! Kur mon maitre! 
 
RACINE. 193 
 
 As Athaliali departs, she exciaims : 
 
 Dieu des Juifs, tu I'emportes ! 
 Oui, c'est Joas, je cherche en vain a me tromper ; 
 Je reconnais I'endroit oil je le fis frapper. 
 Je vols d'Ochosias etleport et le geste ; 
 Tout me retrace enfin un sang que je deteste. 
 
 The Levites follow^ and slay her as soon as she gets beyond the 
 precincts of the holy place. The whole is wound up by the 
 lesson which Joad impresses on the youthful monarch : — • 
 
 Par cette fin terrible, et due a ses forfaits, 
 Apprenez, roi des Juifs, et n'oubiiez jamais 
 Que les rois dans le ciel ont un juge severe, 
 L'innocence un vengeur, et I'orphelin un pere. 
 
 The choruses which Racine employed in imitation of his 
 Greek models are not only beautiful, but introduced with sin- 
 gular skill, and made to express such fears or hopes or prayers 
 as naturally connect each act with that which follows. Thus 
 the chorus which closes the first act, celebrates the greatness 
 and goodness of the God of Israel; recalls some striking 
 examples of his interference, and thus aids the work of Joad 
 in strengthening the faith of Abner, and raising the courage 
 of Josabeth. At the end of the second act, the choir sing of the 
 iniquity of the queen, the profanity of the adherents of Baal, 
 and their certain destruction. At the end of the third act, 
 they chant the hopes and fears of Sion in connexion with the 
 prophetic strains of the high-priest. And at the close of the 
 fourth act, when all the preparations are made, a battle-hymn 
 comes in appropriately to invoke divine assistance. 
 
 The tragedies of Racine are more elegant than those of 
 
 Corneille, though less bold and striking. Corneille's principal 
 
 characters are all heroes and heroines, thrown into situations 
 
 of extremity, and displaying strength of mind superior to their 
 
 17 
 
194 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 position. Racine's characters are men, not heroes — men such 
 as they are^ not such as they might possibly be. 
 
 France produced no other tragic dramatists of the first class 
 in this age. Among those of secondary merit, Thomas Cor- 
 NEILLE (1623-1709), brother of the great poet; Campistron 
 (1656-1723), a feeble imitator of Racine; and Lafosse 
 (1653-1708), are the only names worthy of mention. 
 
 Somewhat later, Crebillon (1674-1752) found a place in 
 the same succession, by such wild tragedies as Atree, Electre, 
 and Rhadamisfey which introduced a new element — that of 
 terror — as a source of tragic effect. This author had passed 
 his days in retirement at a distance from Paris, and being 
 unacquainted with the ancient models, drew chiefly on modern 
 authors. 
 
 Cardinal Mazarin had brought from Italy the Opera, or 
 lyric tragedy, which was cultivated with success by Quinault 
 (1635-1688). He is said to have ^Haken the bones out of 
 the French language,^' by cultivating an art in which thought, 
 incident, and dialogue are made secondary to the development 
 of tender and voluptuous feeling ; and having prosecuted his 
 work in a spirit which renders it as dangerous as it is attractive. 
 
 X I L— C M E D Y. 
 
 REMARKS ON FRENCH COMEDY — MOLIERE S LIFE AND WORKS — LES PRE- 
 CIEUSES RIDICULES — SCENE FROM TARTUFE — LE MISANTHROPE — DEATH 
 OF MOLIERE — MINOR COMIC DRAMATISTS OF THIS AGE, 
 
 *' The difference in the national tastes of France and Eng- 
 land, '' says the writer formerly quoted, '^ so very remarkable 
 when we compare the tragedies of the two covintries, is much 
 less conspicuous in their comic dramas; where, setting aside 
 
FRENCH COMEDY. 195 
 
 tlieir emancipation from the tenets of tte Stagyrite, the Eng- 
 lish comic writers do or ought to propose to themselves the 
 same object with the French of the same class. As a proof 
 of this, we may remark, that very few French tragedies have 
 ever been translated, and of these still fewer have become per- 
 manently popular, or have been reckoned stock-plays ; whereas 
 the English authors, from the age of the great man of whom 
 we are about to speak, down to the present day, have been in 
 the habit of transferring to the British stage almost all the 
 comedies that have been well received in France.'' 
 
 The comedy of intrigue, borrowed from Spain, and turning 
 upon disguises, scaling-ladders, dark-lanterns, and trap- doors, 
 to help or hinder the designs of personages who were types, 
 not of individual character, but of certain classes — as lawyers, 
 doctors, lovers, confidants — such was the comic drama which 
 occupied the French stage till the middle of the seventeenth 
 century, relieved occasionally by the lively absurdity of the 
 Italian farce. The great Corneille, "the father of modern 
 tragedy,^' had made some approach to true comedy also in Le 
 Menteur, His brother Thomas, however, had returned to the 
 old school, which 
 
 *^ Filled tlie stage with all the crowd 
 Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursued, 
 Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses, 
 Whose deepest plot is how to break folks' noses." 
 
 It was reserved for Moliere to demolish all this childishness, 
 and enthrone the true Thalia on the French stage. 
 
 Six years had elapsed since the departure of Shakspeare, 
 who had opened genuine sources of comedy, and Cervantes, 
 who had withal withered and scattered from the field the 
 flowers of chivalry, when this brother genius was born in 
 1622, at once the Terence and the Shakspeare of France. 
 Like Shakspeare, he was both an author and an actor, and his 
 celebrity demands that we briefly trace his progress. 
 
196 FRENCH LITERATUKE. 
 
 Moliere's real name was Jean Baptiste Poquelin; Lis 
 progenitors on both sides, a race of respectable burghers, who 
 dealt in tapestry and carpets. The father of our poet enjoyed 
 the privilege of being purveyor of these articles to the king — 
 Louis XIII. — and also of serving him as valet-de-chambre. 
 To succeed to such honor was the destination of Jean Baptiste; 
 but his tastes being utterly averse to business, he pleaded, and 
 with success, for a more liberal education, and was sent, accord- 
 ingly, to the Jesuits' College at Clermont, now known as the 
 College of Louis le Griand. It is believed that on the comple- 
 tion of this course he began the study of law, and that he was 
 actually admitted to the bar ; but instead of frequenting the 
 legal courts, he assiduously attended such theatricals as then 
 amused the metropolis. Finally, he placed himself at the 
 head of a group of young men, who began by acting plays for 
 mere amusement, and ended by performing with a view to 
 emolument. 
 
 Moliere had now embraced a profession infamous in the eye 
 of the law, involving excommunication from the church, and 
 deeply degrading in the view of society. His relatives disowned 
 him, and erased his name from the family-tree : he adopted 
 that of Moliere, and set out with his company to travel 
 through the provinces. Little is known of him during the 
 years thus spent, from 1646 till 1658, when he returned to 
 Paris, and through the influence of the Prince of Gonti ob- 
 tained royal license to open a theatre in emulation of that of 
 the H5tel de Bourgogne. The pieces he had already composed 
 for his company and acted in the provinces, were here received 
 with considerable favor ; but all were eclipsed in the following 
 year by the appearance of Les Pr4cieuses Ridicules, the first 
 of those numerous comedies in which the gifted poet assailed 
 the follies of his age, and, according to the precept of Horace, 
 castigat ridendo mores. The object of this satire was the 
 system of solemn sentimentality which at this time was consi- 
 
MOLIERE. 197 
 
 dered tlie perfection of elegance. It will be remembered tbat 
 there existed at Paris a coterie of fashionable women, who 
 pretended to the most exalted refinement both of feeling and 
 expression, and that these were waited upon and worshipped 
 by a set of nobles and litterateurs, who used towards them a 
 peculiar strain of high-flown pedantic gallantry, like that which 
 was formerly the mode in England, when every maid of honor 
 spoke the affected jargon called euphuism.* 
 
 These ladies adopted fictitious names for themselves, and 
 gave enigmatical ones to the commonest things. A night-cap 
 was called le complice innocent de mensonge ; a chaplet, une 
 chaine spiritueUe; water, VJiumeur celeste ; thieves, les braves 
 incommodes; and a disdainful smile, un houillon d'orgeuiL 
 The ladies lavished upon each other the most tender appella- 
 tions, as though in contrast to the frigid tone in which the 
 platonism of the Hotel required them to address the gentle- 
 men of their circle. Ma chere, ma precieuscj were the terms 
 most frequently used by the leaders of this world of folly ; 
 and a precieuse came to be synonymous with a lady of the 
 clique; hence the title of Moliere's comedy. In this cele- 
 brated piece, two females, the daughter and niece of a worthy 
 burgess called Gorgibus, are represented as having become in- 
 fected with this false wit and sentimentality, and having 
 adopted the sonorous names of Aminte and Polixene, with all 
 the jargon belonging to the school we have described. Setting 
 themselves up as precieuses of the highest order, they enter- 
 tain, of course, a sovereign contempt for honest Grorgibus, 
 whose distress, perplexity, and resentment are exti^eme when 
 he finds the young ladies habitually talking in a style which 
 he cannot comprehend, and acting in a manner that leads him 
 to doubt their sanity of mind. And now two gentlemen, 
 approved by Gorgibus as suitable matches for his damsels, are 
 rejected by them with such extremity of scorn, that they de- 
 termine to avenge themselves. This they do by causing their 
 
 * See pp. 150-2. 
 17 '^ 
 
198 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 two valets — impudent, conceited coxcombs, of course — to be 
 introduced to Aminte and Polixene as men of rank and 
 fasliion. The precieuses mistake tbe extravagant finery, tbe 
 second-hand airs, and the vulgar impudence of the Marquis 
 de Mascarille, and the Vicomte de Jodelet, for the acme of 
 wit and gallantry. The discovery of the mistake, and the 
 shame and confusion with which the unfortunate sentimen- 
 talists are overwhelmed, form the diverting conclusion of the 
 drama. 
 
 The piece was received with unanimous applause. An old 
 man starting up in the parterre, exclaimed : ^^ Courage, 
 Moliere ; this is true comedy V^ The precieuses themselves 
 yielded to the rebuke. '' Leaving the theatre,'^ says Menage, 
 a poetical member of the circle, '' I took Monsieur Chapelain 
 by the hand, and said : ^ We have been used to approve of all 
 the follies so wittily satirized in this piece ; but believe me, as 
 St. Remi said to King Clovis, " We must burn what we have 
 adored, and adore what we have burned/ ^' It happened as I 
 predicted ; and we gave up this bombastic nonsense from the 
 time of the first representation. '' A more signal victory could 
 not have been gained by a comic poet ; and the author per- 
 ceiving that he had found the true vein, declared himself re- 
 solved henceforth to study human society more, and Terence 
 and Plautus less. 
 
 In pursuance of this resolution, he composed comedy after 
 comedy, consisting of true pictures of the follies of society, 
 idealized and grouped by the fancy, but faithful to nature 
 throughout. 
 
 The splendors of the reign of Louis XIV. were now (1661) 
 beginning to shine out in all their brilliancy. The first attempt, 
 however, at a fete superior in splendor, originality, and beauty, 
 to anything that modern Europe had yet seen, was made, not 
 by the king himself, but by Fouquet, the financial minister. 
 Jn an evil hour for himself, this man obtained permission to 
 
MOLIERE. 199 
 
 entertain royalty at his chateau of Vaux, laid under contribu- 
 tion all tlie taste and talent within his reach, and exhausted 
 every species of incense which could be offered to a royal idol. 
 The beautiful Bejart, whom Moliere afterwards married, ap- 
 peared as a Naiad, and delivered an elegant compliment, com- 
 posed by Pelisson ; while Moliere, besides repeating his Ecole 
 des Maris, composed and performed pieces which none but 
 himself could have invented. Among other things, was a 
 magnificent ballet, and a slight sketch, called Les Fdcheux, 
 consisting of a series of detached scenes, to be acted during 
 the intervals while the dancers were changing their dresses 
 and characters for the different scenes of the ballet. In Les 
 Fdcheux, a lover, who has an interview with his mistress, is re- 
 presented as interrupted by a succession of fdcheux (^^ bores,'') 
 who come intruding their company and their follies upon him. 
 A novel kind of amusement thus added intellectual pleasures 
 to those of luxury and feasting ; and it is recorded, as an in- 
 stance of Moli^re's readiness, that the king having suggested 
 an addition to the Fdcheux in the character of a devoted 
 sportsman relating the details of a hunting-match, Moliere 
 contrived to have this supplement ready for the following eve- 
 ning, by inducing the king^s grand veneur to furnish suitable 
 details. While we are on the subject of this entertainment, 
 we remind the reader, as there will be more than one occasion 
 to advert to it again, that it sealed the doom of Fouquet. 
 The king's resentment and jealousy, already roused by the 
 ingenious magnificence of his host, was raised to the highest 
 pitch by seeing, in the private cabinet of the financier, a por- 
 trait of Mademoiselle la Valliere, his own favorite mistress. 
 Disdaining to express his real feeling, he pretended another 
 cause of displeasure, alleging that Fouquet could not have 
 afforded such an expenditure unless he had been guilty of 
 peculation. The queen-mother's expostulations alone pre- 
 
200 FRENCH LITERATURE. ~ 
 
 vented his being arrested on tlie spot, and the punishment was 
 delayed till it could appear less scandalous. 
 
 More than one of Moliere's pieces were directed against the 
 ignorance of the medical faculty, which, in truth, was at this 
 time deplorable. In one, he represented the doctors as ambling 
 on mules through the streets, attired in an antique dress ; con- 
 ducting their consultations in a barbarous Latinity, or in the 
 vernacular, rendered unintelligible by scholastic formulas and 
 technical terms ; each threatening the instant death of the 
 patient if any but his treatment were followed ; so that the 
 audience was inclined to agree with Lisette, that a man should 
 not be said to have died of such or such a disease, but of so 
 many apothecaries and physicians. 
 
 The comedy of Le I'artufe, again, is directed against 
 religious hypocrisy; and the scruples of the king, infused 
 chiefly by the celebrated preachers of the day, kept it long 
 suppressed, which perhaps tended to render it more perfect. 
 It represents a religious professor, under the name of Tartufe, 
 attracting the notice of Orgon by his singular piety ; insinuat- 
 ing himself into the family, of which he sets all the members 
 by the ears, and nearly succeeding in turning them all out of 
 doors, when his villany is discovered, and a sovereign act of 
 Le Grand Monarque sets everything right. The following is 
 a good scene. Orgon, returning from the country, meets 
 Cleante, his brother-in-law, in whose presence he inquires of 
 Dorine, the nurse, how it has fared with the family in his 
 absence : — 
 
 Orgon. Ah I mon fr^re, bon jour ! 
 
 Cleante. Je sortais, et j'ai joie a vous voir de retour. 
 La campagne a present n'est pas beaucoup fleurie.* 
 
 Orgon (d Cliante). Dorine. Mon beau-fr^re, atteudez, je vous prie. 
 Vous voulez bien souflfrir, pour m'oter de souci, 
 Que je m'informe un peu des nouvelles d'ici. 
 
 * Tres-fleurie. 
 
MOLIERE. 201 
 
 (^ Dorine.) 
 Tout s'est-il, ces deux jours, pass^ de bonne sorte ? 
 Qu'est-ce qu'on fait ceans, comme'* est-ce qu'on s'y porte ? 
 Dorine. Madame eut, avant-hier, la fievre jusqu'au soir, 
 Avec un mal de tete etrange a concevoir. 
 Orgon, Et Tartufe ? 
 
 Dorine. Tartufe ? II se porte a merveille, 
 Gros et gras, le teint frais, et la bouclie vermeille. 
 Orgon. Le pauvre homme ! 
 
 Dorine. Le soir, elle eut un grand dugout, 
 Et ne put, au souper, toucher a rien du tout, 
 Tant sa douleur de tete etait encor cruelle. 
 Organ. Et Tartufe ? 
 
 Dorine. II soupa, lui tout seul, devant elle ; 
 Et fort devotement il mangea deux perdrix, 
 Avec une moitie de gigot en. hachis. 
 Orgon. Le pauvre homme ! 
 
 Dorine. La nuit se passa tout enti^re, 
 Sans qu*elle put fermer un moment la paupi^re ; 
 Des chaleurs I'empechaient de pouvoir sommeiller, 
 Et jusqu'au jour pr^s d'elle il nous fallut veiller. 
 Orgon. Et Tartufe ? 
 
 Dorine. Press^ d'un sommeil agreable, 
 II passa dans sa chambre au sortir de la table ; 
 Et dans son lit bien chaud il se mit tout soudain, 
 Oil, sans trouble, il dormit jusqu'au lendemain. 
 Orgon. Le pauvre homme ! 
 
 Dorine. A la fin, par nos raisons gagn^e, 
 Elle se resolut a souflfrir la saign^e, 
 Et le soulagement suivit tout aussitot. 
 Orgon. Et Tartufe ? 
 
 Dorine. II reprit courage comme il faut ; 
 Et, contre tons Ics maux fortifiant son ame. 
 Pour r^parer le sang qu'avait perdu madame. 
 But, a son dejeuner, quatre grands coups de vin. 
 Orgon. Le pauvre homme !f 
 
 * Comment. 
 
 f This was borrowed from the king himself. His majesty having one 
 
202 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 Dorine. Tous deux se portent bien enfin, 
 Et je vais a madame annoncer par avance 
 La part que vous prenez a sa convalescence. (Elk sort.) 
 
 Cleante. A votre nez, mon frere, elle se rit de vous; 
 Et, sans avoir dessein de vous mettre en courroux, 
 Je vous dirai, tout franc, que c'est avec justice. 
 A-t-on jamais parle d'un semblable caprice ? 
 Et se peut-il qu'un homme ait un charme aujourd'hui 
 A vous faire oublier toutes choses pour lui ? 
 Qu'apres avoir chez vous r^pare sa misere, 
 
 Vous en veniez au point 
 
 Orgon. Halte-la, mon beau-fr^re ; 
 Vous ne connaissez pas celui dont vous parlez. 
 
 Cleante. Je ne le connais pas, puisque vous le voulez ; 
 Mais enfin, pour savoir quel homme ce pent etre .... 
 
 Orgon. Mon frere, vous seriez charme de le connaitre, 
 Et vos ravissements ne prendraient point de fin. 
 C'est un homme . . . qui . . . ah ! . . . un homme . . . un homme 
 
 enfin 
 Qui suit bien ses lemons, goftte une paix profonde, 
 Et comme du fumier regarde tout le monde. 
 Oui, je deviens tout autre avec son entretient 
 II m'enseigne a n'avoir affection pour rien ; 
 De toutes amities il detache mon ame ; 
 Et je verrais mourir fr^re, enfants, m^re et femme, 
 Que je m'en soucierais, autant que de cela. 
 
 Cleante. Les sentiments humains, mon fr^re, que voil^ ! 
 
 Orgon. Ah! si vous aviez vu comme j 'en fis rencontre, 
 Vous auriez pris pour lui I'amiti^ que je montre. 
 Chaque jour a I'^^glise il venait, d'un air doux, 
 Tout vis-a-vis de mol se mettre a deux genoux. 
 
 day invited a bishop to join in the dinner of which he was about to partake, 
 the prelate declined, alleging that he had already eaten the only meal 
 which he allowed himself on a fast-day. When he had withdrawn, a 
 courtier, who had scarcely suppressed .a smile, gave Louis a particular 
 account of his reverence's dinner, dish after dish, in long succession, and 
 all done ample justice to. As each viand was named, the king exclaimed 
 Le pauvre homme with such comic variety of voice and countenance, that 
 Moliere, who was present, took the hint, and transferred it to his play. 
 
MOLIERE. 203 
 
 II attirait les yeux de I'assemblee entiere. 
 
 Par Tardeur dont au ciel il poussait sa priere : 
 
 II fiiisait des soupirs, de grands elancements, 
 
 Et baisait humblement la terre a tous moments; 
 
 Et, lorsque je sortais, il me devan9ait vite, 
 
 Pour m'aller a la porte offrir de Teau benite. 
 
 Instruit par son gar9on, qui dans tout Timitait, 
 
 Et de son indigence, et de ce qu'il ^tait, 
 
 Je lui faisais des dons ; mais, avec modestie, 
 
 II me voulait toujours en rendre une partie : 
 
 C^est trop, me disait-il, (fest trop de la moitie ; 
 
 Je ne merite pas de vous faire pitie ; 
 
 Et quand je refusais de le vouloir reprendre. 
 
 Aux pauvres, a mes yeux, il allait le repandre. 
 
 Enfin le ciel chez moi me le fit retirer, 
 
 Et, depuis ce temps-la, tout semble y prosperer : 
 
 Je vois qu*il reprend tout, et qu'a ma femme meme 
 
 II prend pour mon bonneur un interet extreme ; 
 
 II m'avertit des gens qui lui front les yeux doux, 
 
 Et plus que moi six fois il s^en montre jaloux. 
 
 Mais vous ne croiriez point jusqa*oii monte son zele : 
 
 II s'impute a pech^ la moindre bagatelle ; 
 
 Un rien presque suffit pour le scandaliser ; 
 
 Jusque-la qu'il se vint I'autre jour accuser 
 
 B'avoir pris une puce en faisant sa priere, 
 
 Et de I'avoir tuee avec trop de colere. 
 
 Thus wrote Moliere; and whether it was the absurdities of 
 L'Etourdiy the seRtimental jargon of the Precieiises, the foolish 
 quarrels of lovers in the Depit Amoureux, the jealousy of hus- 
 bands in L^ Ecole des Maris j the fopperies of men of fashion 
 in Les Fdcheux, the exposure of hypocrisy in Tartufe, the 
 picture at once of dissimulation and of untractable virtue in 
 the Misanthrope J the effects of mesalliances in Georges Dan din, 
 the tricks of domestics in Les Fourheries de Scapin, the affec- 
 tation of learning in Les Femmes Savantes, the dupes who 
 take physic, and the knaves who administer it, in Le Malade 
 Imaginaire — all went to prove that he possessed a falcon's eye 
 
204 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 for the detectioD of vice and folly in every shape, and talons 
 for pouncing upon all as the natural prey of the satirist. 
 
 Next to the truth of these pictures, the simplicity of their 
 handling is considered the greatest merit; and so sensible was 
 the author of this, that, as a check upon any deviation from 
 it, he used to read his comedies in manuscript to his house- 
 keeper, La Foret, before producing them in public. On the 
 boards, he always undertook the principal character himself; 
 and he was a comedian, we are told, from top to toe : by a 
 step, a smile, a wink, a nod, he said more in a moment than 
 words could have expressed in an hour. 
 
 Moliere may now be considered as having attained the zenith 
 of his prosperity. He was highly distinguished by the king, 
 and the prime favorite of the best society in Paris ; to have 
 him to read a play was sufficient to give any reunion the stamp 
 of fashion as well as intellect. Fifteen years of continued 
 triumph attended his literary career; years, not indeed of 
 peace, for Moliere was surrounded by enemies his satires had 
 made- — but years of victorious war with adversaries whom he 
 despised, defied, and conquered. Notwithstanding the pro- 
 verbial fickleness of kingly courts and popular audiences, 
 Moliere appears never to have lost ground for a moment; his 
 praise was the theme of every tongue, from that of the Grand 
 Monarque to the meanest of his subjects. His income arising 
 from profits as manager, actor, and author, together with his 
 pension, amounted to a handsome sum; he not only enjoyed 
 everything necessary for himself, but had something to spare, 
 and was even profuse in his charities, especially towards silent 
 and modest sufi*erers. The Great Conde used to say that he 
 never conversed with him without learning something new; 
 but fearing to trespass on his time by sending for him inoppor- 
 tunely, he begged that Moliere would visit him when most con- 
 venient to himself, simply announcing his intention beforehand. 
 A few, however, in the court circle were shocked at the king's 
 
MOLIERE. 205 
 
 familiarity with his valet-de-cliambre ; and some of the officers 
 of the royal household deemed themselves likely to be sullied 
 by the society of a comedian. It is related by Madame de 
 Campan, that the king having heard of their refusing to admit 
 Moliere to their table^ said to him one morning : ^^ Moliere, I'm 
 told you make but bad cheer here^ and I myself feel something 
 of an appetite ; let us have the en cas de nuit.^^ (This was a 
 fowl which was kept in constant readiness during the night, 
 lest his majesty should awake hungry.) " See/' said the 
 monarch to some noblemen who entered while they were eat- 
 ing, '^ I am obliged to help Moliere to eat, as my people do 
 not think him good enough company for them.'' 
 
 It was taken into consideration to elect Moliere a member 
 of the French Academy, but it was judged indispensable that 
 he should consent to give up acting low comedy. Boileau, 
 who was charged with the negotiation, endeavored to per- 
 sirade him to this ; but he refused, saying that he was attached 
 to the stage by a point of honor. ^^What honor?" said 
 Boileau — ^' that of painting your face and assuming the dis- 
 guise of a buffoon in order to be cudgelled on a public stage?'' 
 ^' The point of honor," answered Moliere, '' is not to desert a 
 hundred or more persons who depend upon my exertions for 
 support." In his heart, indeed, he knew and felt the vexa- 
 tions attached to his calling. He said to one who wished to 
 follow it : ^^ It is the last resource of those who have nothing 
 better. You think, perhaps, that we have our pleasures; but 
 you are mistaken. Apparently, we are sought after by the 
 great, and truly we minister to their amusement ; but there is 
 nothing so sad as being the slaves of their caprice. The rest 
 of the world look on us as the refuse of mankind, and despise 
 us accordingly." Moliere, then, was not without his com- 
 punctions. There was a touch of melancholy beneath his 
 humor; he always regretted the sorrow he had occasioned his 
 relations, and this was no way compensated by the results of 
 18 
 
206 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 his marriage, wliicli proved as unhappy as it had been impru- 
 dent. Poor man ! he thought he could have enjoyed a well- 
 regulated home ; but he was unable either to fix the affections 
 of his wife, or reform her morals, or even induce her to main- 
 tain in the house that neatness and order without which he 
 could not feel it a comfortable resort. 
 
 Le Malade Imaginaire was the last of Moliere's works. 
 The hypochondriacal victim of Esculapian roguery is, in this 
 case, endowed no less with a love of medicine than with a 
 spirit of frugality, and seeks to diminish in every possible way 
 the cost of his fancied indisposition. The expenses of a sick- 
 bed are anxiously discussed, and Argan, after taxing his 
 apothecary's bill, discovers that it is no wonder he has not 
 been so well for the last month, as he has swallowed fewer 
 drugs by one-third than he had done the month before ; yet 
 he concludes that if the apothecary does not become more 
 reasonable in his charges, he cannot afford to be sick any 
 longer. The determination, Je le dirai a Monsieur Pargorij 
 afin qu^il mette ordre a cela, has been pronounced irresistibly 
 comic. The hypochondriac next resolves to give his daughter 
 in marriage to a young cub of a medical student, about to take 
 his degree, so that he may have in his own family the advice 
 he has hitherto paid so much for. The match is successfully 
 opposed by the inclinations of the daughter, and the manoeuvres 
 of her favored lover, seconded by a lively fille-de-chambre ; so 
 that the pedantic young candidate for the privilege of killing 
 or curing is finally dismissed. Argan is at last advised that 
 the surest and cheapest way of battling with disease and its 
 attendant expenses, will be to become a physician himself. At 
 first he modestly suggests his want of preparatory study, and 
 even of the necessary knowledge of the Latin language. But 
 this is overruled by the assurance, that on putting on the robe 
 and cap of a physician, he will find himself at once endowed 
 with all the learning requisite for exercising the profession ; 
 
MOLIERE. 207 
 
 because, say his advisers, under this garb gibberish becomes 
 learning, and folly wisdom. His determination to follow their 
 advice leads to the concluding interlude, which represents the 
 mock-ceremony of receiving him into the Esculapian fraternity. 
 It is couched in macaronic Latin, and includes an oath, by 
 which the candidate pledges himself to administer the reme- 
 dies prescribed by the ancients, whether right or wrong, and 
 never to use any but those approved by the college. 
 
 When the poet brought out the Malade Imaginairej he was 
 himself really ill. On the fourth night, his friends would fain 
 have persuaded him not to go on the boards. ^^ I must,^^ he 
 replied; ^Hhere are fifty people whose daily bread depends on 
 the daily receipts.'^ He acted accordingly, stifling his real 
 agonies to give utterance and interest to the complaints of 
 feigned or fancied sickness in the person of Argan ; repressing 
 the voice of mortal suffering to affect that of a hypochondriac 
 for public amusement. At length, when the closing scene 
 arrived, and as a candidate for medical honors he had to 
 assent to the oath administered — 
 
 Maladus dut il crevare 
 Et mori de suo malo — 
 
 As he pronounced the word/wro (I swear), he was seized with 
 a convulsive cough ; the falling of the curtain was hurried, for 
 it was evident something was wrong ; and Moliere was carried 
 home dying. Becoming aware of his situation, he desired that 
 a priest might be sent for; and one after another was applied 
 to, but refused to attend. A third came too late, for Moliere 
 was insensible, and soon after expired, supported by two sisters 
 of charity, who had often experienced his bounty. 
 
 Dying thus in a state of excommunication, Moliere was not 
 entitled to Christian burial according to the canons ; and the 
 archbishop of Paris gave directions accordingly. The widow 
 hastened to Versailles, and threw herself at the feet of the 
 
208 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 king, arguing, that if her husband had been guilty of crime 
 in composing and acting comedies, his majesty, who had com- 
 manded and witnessed his performances, must have been a 
 partaker in the guilt. The king dismissed her somewhat 
 abruptly, but gave private instructions to the prelate to remove 
 the interdict. The funeral took place, accordingly, but with 
 " maimed rites'' — that is, the body was not presented in the 
 church, or honored with any funeral-chant, but was conveyed 
 to a grave in the church-yard, followed by two priests in 
 silence, and about a hundred friends bearing torches. An 
 excited mob threatened to interrupt the humble procession ; 
 but their religious misgivings were not proof against the money 
 which the widow threw from the windows to appease them, 
 and they quietly joined the company. 
 
 Those who have written upon this passage of Moliere's his- 
 tory, whether in French or in English, have been loud and 
 wrathful in their censures of the bigotry which attempted to 
 deny Christian burial to Moliere. But there was no canon-law 
 more explicit, or more generally approved, than that which de- 
 nied Christian burial to comedians ; and it would have been 
 a singular stretch of the right of private judgment, for the 
 administrators of that law to make an exception on the mere 
 ground of Moliere' s superior talent — a consideration, it might 
 have been argued, which only aggravated his guilt. On the 
 other hand, how little the admirers of Moliere have themselves 
 made of him by grumbling on the subject ! If such were his 
 talents, such the excellent use he made of them, such his 
 social virtues, as to hallow his profession, and entitle him to 
 smile at church censure while he lived, they might surely have 
 sufficed to consecrate a spot of ground for his tomb, and his 
 lifeless remains need not have come begging the church's par- 
 don, and craving admission within her precincts. But Moliere 
 would thus have humbled himself in his latest hour had the 
 opportunity been afforded. The age of Louis XIV. was not 
 
MOLIERE. 209 " 
 
 tliat of haughty infidelity. It was an age of religious feeling, 
 however mistaken. 
 
 It was far otherwise in the following century. The aca- 
 demicians then placed Moliere's bust in their hall, with this 
 inscription — 
 
 *'Rien ne manque a sa gloire; il manquait a la noire." 
 
 In 1769, his eulogy was made the subject of a prize, which 
 was gained by Chamfort ; and on the occasion of its recital, 
 two Poquelins were hunted out from their obscurity, to fill con- 
 spicuous places in the audience as kinsmen of the poet. During 
 the revolution, his remains were removed from place to place, 
 and it is doubtful whether they now actually repose under the 
 stone erected to their honor in the cemetery of Pere la 
 Chaise.* 
 
 Le Misanthrope J Les Femmes Savanfes, and Tartufe^ are 
 considered models of high comedy, and the best of Moliere's. 
 Among these, some award the palm to he Misanthrope as the 
 most perfect ; but Tartufe is certainly the most powerful, and 
 has best sustained its popularity. 
 
 The English drama has been enriched by versions of many 
 of Moli^re^s best pieces ; but we are ashamed to say, too often 
 with the gratuitous addition of a coarseness not found in the 
 original. 
 
 At a great distance from Moliere in point of merit, but the 
 first after him, was the frivolous Regnard (1647-1709), 
 author of Le Joueur and Le Legataire^ which exhibit a happy 
 dramatic structure, and a light, free, and foolish gaiete^ but not 
 the true comic of Moliere. Dancourt (1661-1726) is still 
 less celebrated than Kegnard; but he exhibited one of the 
 
 *" An interesting account of the ceremonies at the erection of a statue 
 of Moliere in Paris on January 15, 1844, may be found in the Edinburgh 
 Review, vol. 82. For a sketch of his life see Lardner's Cabinet Cyclopedia. 
 18* 
 
210 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 gifts of MolierG; in depicting the follies and vices of his age, 
 not always, however, with due regard to decorum. The come- 
 dies of DuFRESNY (1648-1724) are considered witty sketches, 
 animated by delicate comic humor. Brueys (1640-1723) 
 made a happy rifacimento of the old farce of 1! Avocat 
 PatJielin. 
 
 XIIL— FABLES AND TALES IN VERSE. 
 
 LA FONTAINE, HIS LIFE AND CHARACTER — TALES — FABLES — ANECDOTES — 
 HIS SICKNESS, CONVERSION, AND DEATH. 
 
 Jean de la Fontaine,* the prince of fabalists, was born 
 at Chateau-Thierry in 1621, where his father was keeper of 
 the royal domains. He seems to have received little regular 
 education in early life, and to have read at hap-hazard what- 
 ever fell in his way. Some religious books, which had been 
 lent him by a canon of Soissons, put it into his head that he 
 had tastes which would suit a life of religious retirement ; and 
 in 1641, he was received into the order of the Oratoire, and 
 sent to the seminary of St. Magloire at Paris. But the worthy 
 ecclesiastic whose books had suggested this step, had the pene- 
 tration to see that his young protege had mistaken his vocation, 
 and he assisted him to escape from it. On his return to the 
 paternal roof, his father desired him to assume the charge of 
 the domain, and to unite himself in marriage with a family 
 relative. With unthinking docility. La Fontaine consented 
 to both, but neglected alike his official duties and domestic 
 obligations, with an innocent unconsciousness of there being 
 any harm in his conduct. He was a mere child of nature — 
 indolent, easy, led by the whim of the moment rather than 
 governed by any ruling passion, or guided by any fixed prin 
 
 * Sec Lardner's Cabinet Cyclopedia. 
 
FONTAINE. 211 
 
 ciple. In his person he was tall, and would have been hand- 
 some, but for his slouching gait and awkward carriage, while 
 his well-marked features expressed that perfection of simplicity 
 and good-humor which were manifest in all his actions. 
 
 It was hearing an ode of Malherbe's recited that first re- 
 vealed to La Fontaine his poetic talent, and determined him 
 to cultivate it. He studied the classics of antiquity, and the 
 old authors of his own country, as Rabelais, Marot, and Eacan, 
 who were throughout life his favorites, as well as Ariosto, 
 Boccaccio, and Macchiavelli, utterly disrelishing the fastidious 
 and artificial style of the Balzacs, Voitures, and Cotins. This, 
 however, was the effect of mere natural taste : Boileau had 
 not yet written his art of poetry, nor Moliere exposed to ridi- 
 cule the conceits and mannerisms of the Precieuses. 
 
 The Duchess of Bouillon, happening to be spending some 
 time at Chateau-Thierry, first discerned, it would seem, the 
 poetical talents of La Fontaine, and advised him to cultivate 
 simple and playful narration in verse. She afterwards brought 
 him to Paris, and thenceforth he passed his days in her cote- 
 ries, with those of Boileau and Racine, utterly forgetful of his 
 home and his family, except when his pecuniary necessities 
 obliged him to visit Chateau-Thierry, to sell portions of his 
 property for the supply of his wants. This practice of con- 
 suming the principal after the interest was gone, ' 3Ia7igeant 
 son fonds apres son revenu^ as he himself expressed it, would 
 soon have left him destitute, had he not become known to the 
 prodigal financier Fouquet, who settled on him a liberal pen- 
 sion, on condition of a quarterly quittance in verse. Such 
 was the occasion of some of the most beautiful of his minor 
 pieces. The disgrace of Fouquet afterwards elicited an elegy 
 full of pathos, addressed to Louis XIV. on behalf of his 
 fallen patron. 
 
 Colbert, the enemy and successor of Fouquet, took away 
 the pension, and La Fontaine was, during the rest of his life, 
 
212 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 dependent on the kindness of female discerners of merit. 
 First, Henrietta of England, the daughter of Charles I., 
 attached him to her suite, with a salary for which no service 
 was expected. At her death, Madame de la Sabliere, per- 
 ceiving his inability to manage the simplest housekeeping, 
 gave him an apartment in her dwelling, supplied his wants, 
 and indulged his humors for twenty years, which seem to 
 have been the happiest of his life. His patroness then retir- 
 ing to a convent. La Fontaine was again in danger of desti- 
 tution, when Madame d'Hervart, the wife of a rich financier, 
 offered him a similar asylum. Whilst on her way to make 
 the proposal, she met him in the street, and said : ^^ La Fon- 
 taine, will you come and live in my house ?'' — ^^ I was just 
 going, madame,'' he replied, as if his doing so had been the 
 simplest and most natural thing in the world. And here he 
 remained the rest of his days. 
 
 In the year 1654 — that is, several years before his emer- 
 gence from the seclusion of Chateau-Thierry — he had pub- 
 lished a translation of the Eunuch of Terence ] but his first 
 original work was a collection of tales, undertaken to please 
 the Duchess of Bouillon, and published about the year 1665. 
 The sources of these tales were various. The old literature 
 of France furnished abundance of materials, more even than 
 was known at the time. It does not appear that La Fontaine 
 had perused the fabliaux and allegorical tales of the middle 
 ages, which still remained in manuscript; but he had met 
 them, here and there, at second hand, in the Italian authors 
 of the sixteenth century. It must be added, that these tales 
 betray the licentiousness of the originals on which they were 
 founded ; and there is none of them we can desire to intro- 
 duce to the reader except the story of the Falcon^ which is 
 in substance the same as one in the Decameron of Boccaccio. 
 
 The story tells, that there once lived at Florence a wealthy 
 noble, who loved a certain lady — loved so passionately, that 
 
LA FONTAINE. 213 
 
 for her lie would have bartered his soul ; so foolishly, that he 
 spent almost his all in entertainments^ of which the sole object 
 was to please her. No return, however, could he obtain but 
 haughty indifference. At length, his prodigal expenditure 
 left him neither money nor lands, but a little farm, to which 
 he retired to hide the shame of his poverty and the failure of 
 his suit. Here he had only one domestic, a toothless old 
 woman ; one pretty good horse in the stable, and a falcon on 
 the perch. The quondam marquis wandered about the little 
 spot, sacrificing to his melancholy many a partridge that was 
 not to blame for the cruelty of his mistress ; while the friends 
 of his prosperity said it was a pity, a great pity, but none held 
 out a hand to help him. 
 
 Meanwhile the lady had been married, and her husband 
 dying, left her a sickly child, and a large estate, which she 
 should inherit in case of his death. As is usually the case 
 where there is a delicate nursling, the mother thought she 
 never could do enough to please him, and spent her life in 
 studying his humors, which only increased with the indul- 
 gence. Every day, and all day, she would ask if he liked 
 what he had got ; if he could fancy this thing to eat, or that 
 to play with, till the boy did not know what whim to take 
 next. Being mistress of a chateau, which happened to be 
 within five hundred steps of Federic's retreat, the widow took 
 the child there for change. He heard the fame of the falcon, 
 and its wonderful achievements in capturing game ; and now 
 he would have this wonderful bird ; and the more ill he be- 
 came, the more the desire of possessing it increased. What 
 could the fond mother do ? How could she deprive Federic 
 of his only remaining treasure ? Or how, indeed, could she 
 hope to obtain it ? She had shown nothing but ingratitude 
 for his endeavors to win her regard. With what face could 
 she go to see him, and speak to him, after being the cause of 
 ^.^s ruin? But, on the other hand, the child was pining 
 
214 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 away ; lie refused his food ; and the only way in which he 
 could be beguiled into eatings was for some one to talk to him 
 about the falcon. Maternal feeling at length prevailed over 
 every other consideration. But we must allow the poet to tell 
 the rest himself : — 
 
 Chez Federic la dame un beau matin 
 
 S'en va sans suite et sans nul Equipage. 
 
 Federic prend pour un ange des cieux 
 
 Celle qui vient d'apparaitre a ses yeux. 
 
 Mais cependant 11 a honte, il enrage 
 
 De n'avoir pas chez soi pour lui donner 
 
 Tant seulement un malheureux diner. 
 
 Le pauvre ^tat oti sa dame le treuve 
 
 Le rend confus. II dit done a la veuve : 
 
 " Quoi ! venir voir le plus humble de ceux 
 
 Que vos beautes ont rendus amoureux ! 
 
 Un villageois, un h^re, un miserable ! 
 
 C'est trop d'honneur ; votre bont^ m'accable. 
 
 Assurement vous alliez autre part." 
 
 A ce propos notre veuve repart : 
 
 **Non, non, seigneur, c'est pour vous la visite; 
 
 Je viens manger avec vous ce matin." 
 
 ** Je n'ai," dit-il, *'cuisinier ni marmite; 
 
 Que vous donner ?" *' N'avez-vous pas du pain ?'* 
 
 Reprit la dame. Incontinent lui-meme 
 
 II va chercher quelque oeuf au poulailler, 
 
 Quelque morceau de lard en son grenier. 
 
 Le pauvre amant, en ce besoin extreme, 
 
 Voit son faueon, sans raisonner le prend, 
 
 Lui tord le cou, le plume, le fricasse, 
 
 Et I'assaisonne, et court de place en place. 
 
 Tandis la vieille a soin du demeurant, 
 
 Fouille au bahut, choisit pour cette fete 
 
 Ce qu'ils avaient de linge plus honnete, 
 
 Met le convert, va cueillir au jardin 
 
 Du serpolet, un pen de romarin. 
 
 Cinq ou six fleurs dont la table est jonch^e. 
 
 Pour abr6ger, on sert la fricassee ; 
 
LA FONTAINE. 215 
 
 La dame en mange, et feint d'y prendre goiit. 
 
 Le repas fait, cette femme r^sout 
 
 De hasarder I'incivile requete, 
 
 Et parle ainsi : ** Je suis folle, seigneur, 
 
 De m'en venir vous arracher le coeur. 
 
 Encore un coup, il ne m'est guere honnete 
 
 De demander a mon defunt amant 
 
 L'oiseau qui fait son seul contentement ; 
 
 Doit-il pour moi s'en priver un moment ? 
 
 Mais excusez une mere affligee : 
 
 Mon fils se meurt: il veut votre faucon. 
 
 Mon precede ne merite un tel don ; 
 
 La raison veut que je sois refusee ; 
 
 Je ne vous ai jamais accorde rien : 
 
 Votre repos, votre honneur, votre bien 
 
 S'en sont alles aux plaisirs de Clitie ; 
 
 Vous m'aimiez plus que votre propre vie. 
 
 A cet amour j'ai tres-mal repondu ; 
 
 Et je m'en viens, pour comble d'injustice, 
 
 Vous demander et quoi ? c'est temps perdu: 
 
 Votre faucon. Mais non, plutot p^risse 
 
 L'enfant, la mfere, avec le demeurant, 
 
 Que de vous faire un deplaisir si grand. 
 
 Souffrez, sans plus, que cette triste m^re, 
 
 Aimant d' amour la chose la plus ch^re 
 
 Que jamais femme au monde puisse avoir, 
 
 Un fils unique, une unique esperance, 
 
 S'en vienne au moins s'acquitter du devoir 
 
 De la nature, et pour toute allegeance 
 
 En votre sein decharger sa douleur. 
 
 Vous savez bien par votre experience 
 
 Que c'est d'aimer ; vous le savez, seigneur ; 
 
 Ainsi je crois trouver chez vous excuse." 
 
 ** H^Ias !" reprit I'amant infortune, 
 
 ** L'oiseau n'est plus ; vous en avez dine.'* / 
 
 *• L'oiseau n'est plus !" dit la veuve confuse. 
 
 **Non," reprit-il, "plut au ciel vous avoir 
 
 Servi mon coeur, et qu'il eut pris la place 
 
 De ce faucon ! n^is le sort me fait voir 
 
216 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 Qu'il ne sera jamais en mon pouvoir 
 De meriter de vous aucune grace. 
 En mon pailler rien ne m'etait rest^ ; 
 Depuis deux jours la bete a tout mang€. 
 J'ai vu I'oiseau ; je I'ai tu^ sans peine : 
 Rien coute-t-il quand on re9oit sa reine ? 
 Ce que je puis pour vous est de chercher 
 Un bon fau9on : ce n'est chose si rare 
 Que des demain nous n'en puissions trouver." 
 **Non, Fed^ric," dit-elle, "je declare 
 Que c'est assez ; vous ne m'avez jamais 
 De votre amour donne plus grande marque. 
 Que mon fils soit enlev^ par la Parque, 
 Ou que le ciel le rende a mes soubaits, 
 J'aurai pour vous de la reconnaissance. 
 Venez me voir, donnez m'en I'esperance: 
 Encore un coup, venez nous visiter.'* 
 Elle partit, non sans lui presenter 
 Une main blancbe, unique temoignage 
 Qu' Amour avait amolli son courage. 
 Le pauvre amant prit la main, la baisa, 
 Et de ses pleurs quelque temps I'arrosa. 
 Deux jours aprfes, I'enfant suivit son p^re. 
 Le deuil fut grand : la trop dolente m^re 
 Fit dans I'abord force larmes couler. 
 Mais comme il n'est peine d'ame si forte, 
 Qu'il ne s'en faille ^ la fin consoler, 
 Deux medecins la traiterent de sorte 
 Que sa douleur eut un terme assez court ; 
 L'un fut le temps, et I'autre fut I'amour. 
 On ^pousa Federic en grand' pompe ; 
 Non-seulement par obligation, 
 Mais, qui plus est, par inclination. 
 -» * * 
 
 But tlie fame of La Fontaine mainly rests, as every one 
 knows, on his Fahles^ whicli appeared successively in three 
 collections. The first was published in 1668 ; the second, 
 in 1678; while the third, which it considered of unequal 
 
LA FONTAINE. 
 
 2ir 
 
 power, consists almost entirely of pieces written for the young 
 Duke of Burgundy, wliicli were not collected till 1694. The 
 happiest efforts of La Fontaine's genius are considered to be 
 embodied in the second book. In endeavoring to versify the 
 subjects of the fables furnished by tradition, the poet did not 
 at first venture beyond the limits of the species as exemplified 
 in Esop. In the first book, we find the Grasshopper and the 
 Anty the Fox and the Croio^ &c. Each fable is a short story, 
 wound up with a distich or quatrain, containing a moral. At 
 the end of the first book, he has attained the perfection of 
 fable, properly so called, and has succeeded in introducing a 
 high style of poetry, without exceeding the established bounds 
 of this species. In The Old Man and his Ass, he is supposed 
 to satirize Malherbe and Racan. 
 
 In the second collection, at the seventh book, which opens 
 with the fable of The Animal Sick of the Plague^ the author 
 confesses that he has departed somewhat from Esop, and ex- 
 tended the circumstances. Here we have Le Berger et le Roij 
 Le Paysan du DanuhcyMid others, considered the most beau- 
 tiful creations of this kind that have ever appeared. Though 
 the subjects of the fables, as of the tales, are borrowed, the 
 dress is entirely new, and show La Fontaine to have possessed 
 in an eminent degree the talent for inventing details. 
 
 LE BERGER ET LE ROL 
 
 Deux demons a leur gre partagent notre vie, 
 Et de son patrimoine ont chasse la raison ; 
 Je ne vols point de coeur qui ne leur sacrifie : 
 Si vous me demandez leur etat et leur nom, 
 J'appelle Tun Amour, et I'autre, Ambition. 
 Cette derni^re etend le plus loin son empire ; 
 
 Car meme elle entre dans I'amour. 
 Je le ferois bien voir ; mais mon but est de dire 
 Comme un roi fit venir un berger a sa cour. 
 Le conte est du bon temps, non du siecle oil nous sommes. 
 19 
 
2il8 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 Ce roi vit un troupeau qui couvroit tous les champs, 
 
 Bien broutant, en bon corps, rapportant tous les ans, 
 
 Grace aux soins du berger, de tr^s notables sommes. 
 
 Le berger plut au roi par ces soins diligents. 
 
 Tu merites, dit-il, d'etre pasteur de gens: 
 
 Laisse la tes moutons, viens conduire des hommes ; 
 
 Je te fais juge souverain. 
 Voila notre berger la balance a la main. 
 Quoiqu'il n'eut guere vu d'autres gens qu'un ermite, 
 Son troupeau, ses matins, le loup, et puis c'est tout, 
 II avoit du bon sens ; le reste vient ensuite : 
 
 Bref, il en vint fort bien a bout. 
 X'ermite son voisin accourut pour lui dire : 
 Veille-je? et n'est-ce point un songe que je vols? 
 Vous, favori ! vous, grand ! Defiez-vous des rois ; 
 Leur faveur est glissante : on s'y trompe, et le pire 
 C'est qu'il en coute cher : de pareilles erreurs 
 Ne produisent jamais que d'illustres malheurs. 
 Vous ne connoissez pas I'attrait qui vous engage : 
 Je vous parle en ami ; craignez tout. L'autre rit ; 
 
 Et notre ermite poursuivit : 
 Voyez combien dej^ la cour vous rend peu sage. 
 Je crois voir cet aveugle a qui, dans un voyage, 
 
 Un serpent engourdi de froid 
 Vient s'offrir sous la main : il le prit pour un fouet ; 
 Le sien s'etoit perdu, tombant de sa ceinture. 
 II rendoit grace au ciel de I'heureuse aventure, 
 Quand un passant cria : Que tenez-vous ? 6 dieux ! 
 Jetez cet animal traitre et pernicieux, 
 
 Ce serpent ! — C'est un fouet. — C'est un serpent ! vous dis-je 
 A me tant tourmenter quel int^ret m'oblige? 
 Pr^tendez-vous garder ce tresor ? — Pourquoi non ? 
 Mon fouet ^toit us^ ; j'en retrouve un fort bon: 
 
 Vous n'en parlez que par envie. — 
 
 L' aveugle enfin ne le crut pas ; 
 
 II en perdit bientot la vie : 
 L'animal d^gourdi piqua son homme au bras. 
 
 Quant a vous, j'ose vous pr^dire 
 Qu'il vous arrivera quelque chose de pire. 
 
LA FONTAINE. 2l^ 
 
 —Eh ! que me sauroit-il arriver que la mort ? 
 — Mille dugouts viendront, dit le prophete ermite. 
 n en vint en effet : Termite n'eut pas tort. 
 Mainte peste de €Our fit tant, par maint ressort, 
 Que la candeur du juge, ainsi que son merite, 
 Furent suspects au prince. On cabale, on suscite 
 Accusateurs, et gens greves par ses arrets. 
 De nos biens, dirent-ils, 11 s'est fait un palais. 
 Le prince voulut voir ces richesses immenses. 
 II ne trouva partout que mediocrite, 
 Louanges du desert et de la pauvrete : 
 
 C'etoient la ses magnificences. * 
 
 Son fait, dit-on, consiste en des pierres de prix : 
 Un grand cofi're en est plein, ferme de dix serrures. 
 Lui-meme ouvrit ce coffre, et rendit bien surpris 
 
 Tons les machineurs d'impostures. 
 Le coflfre ^tant ouvert, on y vit des lambeaux, 
 
 L'habit d'un gardeur de troupeaux, 
 Petit chapeau, jupon, panetiere, houlette, 
 
 Et, je pense, aussi sa musette. 
 Doux tresors, ce dit-il, chers gages, qui jamais 
 N'attirates sur yous I'envie et le mensonge, 
 Je vous reprends : sortons de ces riches palais 
 
 Comme Ton sortiroit d'un songe ! 
 Sire, pardonnez-moi cette exclamation: 
 J'avois prevu ma chute en montant sur le faite. 
 Je m'y suis trop complu : mais qui n'a dans la tete 
 
 Un petit grain d'ambition ? 
 
 The versification of La Fontaine constitutes one of the 
 greatest charms of his poetry; the lines are longer or shorter, 
 not according to any established rule of sequence, but corre- 
 sponding to the tone of the narrative. In description, or a 
 recital of events which do not rapidly succeed each other, he 
 generally uses the long line of twelve syllables ; but in dia- 
 logue, or rapid narration, or when some reflection is thrown in, 
 he employs all metres successively, and without confusion : 
 the Alexandrine, in general, for important matters; short 
 
220 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 verses, for things indifferent; and lines of two syllables, to 
 complete the sense. It does not appear, however, that the 
 poet measured with any degree of nicety the proportion be- 
 tween the thought and the length of the metre. The arrange- 
 ment seems to have been the result of an instinctive sense of 
 harmony, a delicate taste, and rapidity of invention; some- 
 times mere caprice ; everything except idleness, for it is known, 
 that for a man so fond of sleeping and doing nothing, he really 
 did exert himself when he was at work. 
 
 The fables are not liable to the grave objections which Kq 
 against the tales of La Fontaine : there is neither indecorum 
 nor immorality about them ; though it may be said that the 
 morality he teaches is without any foundation in principle — 
 La morale mains la vertu, as the French express it. La Fon- 
 taine has been reckoned among the dramatists from his own 
 idea of his fables — ^^ a drama in a hundred acts.^^ Viewing 
 them thus, we should say his little TTiedtre has been more 
 fortunate than that of his friends : it has never gone out of 
 fashion. There are authors in France more admired, but few 
 more popular; perhaps none so much the familiar genius of 
 every fireside. 
 
 He received, less powerfully than any of his contempora- 
 ries, the impress of Le Grand Monarque. His morals, though 
 perhaps no worse than those of his neighbors, yet less decently 
 veiled, his neglected toilet and awkward manners, were the 
 ostensible causes of his exclusion from court; and though he 
 joined in the universal psean of the day to Louis XIV., he 
 received neither invitation nor pension, even after the death 
 of Colbert, to whom the neglect of his merit was at first attri- 
 buted. Besides the ladies already mentioned, Boileau and 
 Racine were his steady and attached friends ; but being both 
 of them men of severe moral and religious principle, they 
 highly disapproved of his complete separation from his wife, 
 and remonstrated with him on its impropriety. With his usual 
 
LA FONTAINE. 
 
 221 
 
 docility, he admitted tliat what they said was veiy true, and 
 declared he would go directly and see her; he would have 
 done it before if he had thought of it. He set out, accord- 
 ingly, next morning, and returned to Paris the day after. His 
 friends begged to know how he found Madame la Fontaine. 
 ^' I did not see her/' replied the poet. ^' Not see her ! — was 
 she from home V^ " Yes, she was gone to prayers, and the 
 servant not knowing me, would not let me stay in the house 
 till she returned. '^ So it proved that the poor poet, shut out 
 of his own house, had repaired to that of a friend, where he 
 had dined, supped, and slept, and from which he started for 
 Paris next morning, without thinking of paying a second visit 
 at home^ 
 
 It is told, too, that meeting one day at a large dinner-party 
 a young man whose conversation pleased him much, he ob- 
 served to another of the company that he was a lad of sense 
 and promise. " Why, he is your own son,'' was the reply. 
 ^^ Ah, I am very glad of it," rejoined the father, with the most 
 perfect indifference. He seems to have been remarkably easy 
 about everything that most nearly concerned him — ^^ a child 
 with a gray beard." The only symptom of literary ambition 
 that he is known to have manifested, was an anxious desire to 
 become a member of the French Academy. A vacancy hav- 
 ing occurred by the death of Colbert, he became a candidate ; 
 and though the sycophants of the court opposed and denounced 
 him as a mere scribbler of frivolous and licentious tales, yet 
 he was elected in preference to Boileau, the king's historiogra- 
 pher. The royal sanction was necessary to the reception of 
 every candidate elected by the members ; and Louis, piqued 
 at the rejection of Boileau for a man whom he disliked, with- 
 held his approval for some months, during which La Fontaine 
 addressed to him a supplicatory ballad, and moreover engaged 
 the interest of Madame de Montespan, the royal mistress, to 
 urge his suit. His majesty did not yield, however, till, on the 
 19* 
 
222 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 occurrence of another vacancy, Boileau was chosen. Wheo 
 this was intimated to the king by a deputation of the members, 
 he replied that every one must approve of this election, and 
 that La Fontaine might now be received. '^ He has promised 
 to be good/' added the monarch. 
 
 La Fontaine did indeed write fewer tales after this ; but 
 whether because he had '^ promised to be good" was doubtful. 
 He said himself that the meetings of the Academy amused 
 the hours he had been wont to while away in writing verses. 
 
 The humor of his tales, and the singularity of his charac- 
 ter, rendered him an object of no small curiosity in his day. 
 It is related that a financier once invited a large party '^ to 
 meet the celebrated La Fontaine," and the guests came ex- 
 pecting to hear him talk like Joconde, and tell stories like the 
 matron of Ephesus. But the poet ate and drank, and never 
 opened his mouth for any other purpose. At an early hour he 
 rose to go, saying he had to attend a meeting of the Academy. 
 ^^ You will be tpo early," said the host; " it is not far." '^ FU 
 take the longest way," replied La Fontaine. 
 
 Some have alleged that he was habitually dreamy, absent^ 
 and stupid in company; and a number of exaggerated anec- 
 dotes have been told as exemplifications. But it seems unlikely 
 that his society would have been sought and prized by such 
 men as Moliere, Boileau, and Racine, the Princes Conde and 
 Conti, the Marquis de Villars ; as well as in the distinguished 
 circles of the Ladies Bouillon, Mazarin, and La Sabliere — if 
 there had not been a considerable charm in his conversation 
 as well as his writings. He might have been silent and dull 
 when he found himself brought among strangers to be stared 
 at ; but probably in familiar society his peculiarity was nothing 
 more than that extreme simplicity and even childishness for 
 which he was so remarkable, and which, doubtless, had a 
 charm of its own, and occasionally afi"orded considerable amuse 
 ment 
 
rONTAINE. 223 
 
 If anything took his fancy, he could think of nothing else 
 for the time, and introduced the favorite topic in season and 
 out of season, sometimes comically enough. Racine induced 
 him one day to go to church on the occasion of a high festi- 
 val ; but knowing that the service would be long, and fearing 
 that the poet would fall asleep, or commit some other solecism 
 in church manners, he gave him a small Bible to read. The 
 volume happened to open on the prayer of the Jews in the 
 apocryphal book of Baruk the prophet, and the poet's fancy 
 was riveted. For some time after, his first question to every 
 one he met, from a bishop to a buffoon, was : ^^ Have you read 
 Baruk ? Do you know what a genius he was V^ Another time, 
 when his head happened to be full of Rabelais, he was in com- 
 pany with the Abbe Boileau, and abruptly asked the grave 
 ecclesiastic whether he thought Rabelais or St. Augustine the 
 cleverest man. His friends Boileau and Racine had the utmost 
 difficulty in dissuading him from dedicating one of the least 
 scrupulous of his tales to M. Arnaud, as a testimony of respect : 
 he could hardly be made to understand that such a tribute 
 would be an insult to the pious Jansenist. No one will be 
 surprised to learn that such a man had neither study nor 
 library. He read and wrote according to opportunity and the 
 whim of the moment; and never dreamed of being provided 
 with any books but those he was immediately using. 
 
 La Fontaine's health had been declining for some time : he 
 had never manifested any sense of religion, and the idea of 
 his dying impenitent so appalled the court and the Sorbonne, 
 that Father Poujet, a man of note as a controversialist, was 
 sent to visit him under color of mere civility, and to endea- 
 vor to gain his attention to the concerns of eternity. The 
 wily priest conversed for some time on ordinary topics, and 
 then introduced that of religion, with an adroitness quite 
 superfluous in dealing with such a simple soul as La Fontaine. 
 He engaged him in argument, solved his difficulties, silenced 
 
224 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 his objections, and, after ten or twelve visits, had him fully 
 persuaded of all the truths deemed essential to his salvation. 
 
 But now the poet^s condition was becoming alarming, and 
 somewhat more than a mere assent to religious dogmas was 
 necessary to his receiving the rites of the church. Certain 
 reparations and expiations must be made ; and the first was, 
 that he should abandon the profits of the edition of his tales 
 then publishing in Holland. This he was ready to concede, 
 but wished to give the proceeds to the poor rather than leave 
 them in the hands of a grasping Dutch bookseller. The 
 priest, however, demonstrated that the wages of iniquity could 
 not be thus offered a sacrifice to Heaven, and the poet meekly 
 yielded this point also. He was next required to burn with 
 his own hands a manuscript opera which he had intended to 
 bring out. This, too, after some hesitation was done. The 
 last and hardest condition, long resisted and disputed, was 
 that he should publicly ask pardon of God and of the church 
 for having scandalized both by the publication of his tales. 
 In vain the attendant nurse begged of the reverend fathers 
 not to torment him, and pleaded that it was '^ not perverseness 
 in him, but stupidity, poor soul V^ They persevered, gained 
 their point, and called in a deputation of the Academy to wit- 
 ness the declaration that the volume of tales '' was an abomi- 
 nable book, which he was sorry for having written, and of 
 which he would never countenance or promote the further 
 circulation.^' 
 
 The conversion of La Fontaine produced the highest satis- 
 faction at court. Father Poujet's fortune was made; he im- 
 mediately obtained church preferment, and became a fashion- 
 able confessor. Moreover, as it was deemed ^^unreasonable 
 that La Fontaine should be the poorer for having done his 
 duty,'' a sum equal to what he would probably have received 
 for his tales was sent to him in the name of the young Duke 
 of Burgundy. He lived about two years longer, began to trans- 
 
LA FONTAINE. 225 
 
 late the cliurcli hymns, and, it is believed, wrote some more 
 tales in spite of his vow. He died in 1695, in the seventy- 
 fourth year of his age; and it was found, upon undressing 
 the lifeless body, that he had been mortifying himself in a 
 shirt of sackcloth. He was buried by the side of Moliere, in 
 the cemetery of St. Joseph, at Paris. The apartment in 
 which he spent his last days, at the house of Madame d'Her- 
 vart, was visited as an object of interest for many years. 
 
 La Fontaine's best epitaph is the following, written by him- 
 self:— 
 
 Jean s'en alia comme il ^tait venu, 
 Mangeant son fonds apres son revenu, 
 Croyant le bien chose pen necessaire. 
 Quant a son temps bien le sut depenser, 
 Deux parts en fit, dont il voulait passer— 
 L'une a dormir, et I'autre a ne rien faire. 
 
 France has produced numerous writers of fables and apo- 
 logues since the time of La Fontaine, but none worthy of 
 comparison with him. Gay, the English fabulist, 
 
 *< In wit, a man — simplicity, a child," 
 
 as Pope says, appears to have borne a striking resemblance to 
 him in personal character, and his fables are reckoned the 
 nearest to his in merit ; but the wit, satire, party-spirit, and 
 pointed style of Gay, impressed on his works a very different 
 character from the easy, graceful negligence of the French 
 poet.* 
 
 * Critics have applied to the style of La Fontaine the words which he 
 uses in speaking of Venus, 
 
 " Sa grace encor plus belle que la beaute.^^ 
 They have also found in his description of Night a beautiful picture of 
 his intellectual life. 
 
 " Pas de calmes vapeurs mollement soutenue, 
 La tete sur son bras, et son bras sur la nue, 
 Laissant tomber des fleurs, et ne les semant pas." 
 
226 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 XIV. —SATIRICAL, MOCK-HEROIC, AND OTHER POETRY. 
 
 BOILEAU, HIS EARLY LIFE— SATIRES — ART OP POETRY — THE LUTRIN — EPIS- 
 TLES — ANECDOTES — HIS DEATH— NARROW SPHERE OF POETRY — MADAME 
 DESHOULIERES. 
 
 The writings of Descartes and Pascal, witli tlie precepts of 
 tlie Prencli Academy and the Port Eoyalists, had established 
 the art of prose composition ; but the destiny of poetry con- 
 tinued doubtful, even after the appearance of Corneille's mas- 
 ter-pieces; for though these afforded models in one depart- 
 ment, they were too peculiar to convey any definite idea of 
 what poetry ought to be. There was no specific doctrine on 
 the subject. To supply this was the mission of Boileau, and 
 he fulfilled it, first by satirizing the existing fashions in poetry, 
 and then by composing an Art of Poetry after the manner of 
 Horace. 
 
 Nicholas Boileau,* called by his contemporaries Des- 
 PREAUX, to distinguish him from his brothers, was born in or 
 near Paris in 1636, the son of Giles Boileau, who was for 
 sixty years greffier (clerk or recorder) to the great chamber 
 of the parliament of Paris. There was a large family, of 
 whom thre^ distinguished themselves in literature. The 
 mother died during the infancy of Despreaux, and the father 
 when he was sixteen. His childhood was one of great phy- 
 sical suffering ; but it seems not then to have produced that 
 irritability which was afterwards attributed to it ; his disposi- 
 tion as a child was simple and kindly, so that the elder Boileau 
 used to say : '^ Colin was a good fellow, who would never speak 
 ill of anybody.^' 
 
 After the death of his father, his relations induced him to 
 study the law, and he was admitted to the bar at an early 
 
 * See Lardner*s Cabinet Cyclopedia. 
 
BOILEAU. 227 
 
 age ; but the chicanery and tortuosity of the profession speedily 
 disgusted him, and, besides, the books of Accursius and Alciati 
 were little likely to interest the disciple of Horace and Juvenal. 
 He therefore deserted what his biographers call Ventre de la 
 chicane, and determined to study theology. But finding that 
 scholastic divinity had its tricks and quirks as well as law, and 
 declaring that chicanery had only changed her garb to allure 
 him more cunningly, he renounced the Sorbonne^ and applied 
 himself entirely to the study of the belles-lettres. 
 
 We have already alluded (sec. vii.) to the various styles of 
 poetry cultivated by Voiture, Menage^ Chapelain, Scudery, 
 Benserade, and others^ for the amusement of the court circle. 
 Nothing had as yet appeared effectually to counteract the false 
 taste which relished such compositions, except the tragedies 
 of Corneille and the comedies of Moliere. These had, indeed, 
 commanded a high reputation, but Chapelain was still the 
 oracle of light literature, and not only enjoyed a royal pension, 
 but was intrusted by Colbert with the task of furnishing a list 
 of the names of those who ought to be deemed worthy of re- 
 ceiving literary rewards from Louis XIV. Most of the poets 
 who then enjoyed the highest celebrity, however now for- 
 gotten, belonged to the same school, for such as Baciae and 
 La Fontaine were at this time but debutants in the literary 
 world. " In the midst of men who made verses for the sake 
 of making them, and composed languishing love-songs upon 
 the perfections of mistresses who never existed except in their 
 own imaginations, Boileau determined to write nothing but 
 what interested his feelings ; to break with this affected gal- 
 lantry, and draw poetry only from the depths of his own heart.^' 
 It would seem as if searching there for thoughts and feelings 
 to express in verse, what he chiefly found was burning indig- 
 nation that men, who ought to be the standards of correct 
 taste, persisted in writing such trash. His own debut, accord- 
 ingly, was made in unmerciful satires on the works of these 
 
228 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 poetasters. Every Frenclimaii is familiar with tlie verses in 
 which he ridicules the fictitious gallantries which occupied 
 most of the poetry of his time. 
 
 Faudra-t-il, de sang-froid et sans etre amoureux 
 Pour quelque Iris en I'air faire le langoureux, 
 Lui prodiguer les noms de Soleil et d'Aurore, 
 Et toujours bien mangeant, mourir par metaphore ? 
 
 The Pucelle of Chapelain also came in for its share. In an 
 evil hour, this worthy man had believed himself capable of 
 writing an heroic epic, and had chosen the Maid of Orleans as 
 the theme. During the twenty years he was composing it, he 
 had enjoyed a high degree of anticipated reputation from the 
 popularity of the subject, and the merit of some detached 
 passages which obtained publicity. But when it appeared 
 entire, the general disappointment was severe in proportion. 
 Its style may be judged from the following lines. The Maid 
 is represented as thus addressing the king : — 
 
 ! grand prince, que grand des cette heure j'appelle, 
 
 II est vrai, le respect sert de bride a mon zMe : 
 
 Mais ton illustre aspect me redouble le coeur, 
 
 Et me le redoublant, me redouble la peur. 
 
 A ton illustre aspect mon coeur se sollicite, 
 
 Et grimpant centre mont, la dure terre quitte. 
 
 O ! que n'ai-je le ton desormais assez fort 
 
 Pour aspirer a toi, sans te faire de tort. 
 
 Pour toi puisse-je avoir une mortelle pointe 
 
 Vers ou I'epaule gaucbe a la gorge est conjointe, 
 
 Que le coup brisat I'os, et fit pleuvoir le sang 
 
 De la temple, du dos, de I'epaule, et du flanc. 
 
 Boileau was not the first to ridicule this unfortunate epic : a 
 host of epigrams had already appeared against it ] but his well- 
 pointed sarcasms brought up the rear, and completed the ruin 
 of Chapelain's poetical reputation, so that one of his best 
 
BOILEAU. 229 
 
 friends was obliged to say : ^' If lie followed my advice^ lie 
 would never write poetry/^ 
 
 Boileau continued to plead the cause of reason against 
 rhyme^ of true poetry against false^ and maintained that he 
 was only the mouthpiece of the wise public who said nothing, 
 against the fashionable public who had many voices. But the 
 thing was not to be borne^ that the son of a greffier, a young 
 man having no claims to be a public censor, except his four- 
 and-twenty years, and his mortal hatred of whatever he was 
 pleased to call a foolish book, should dare to asperse the poets 
 of the court of Louis XIV., and cast an imputation on those 
 who distributed the king's bounty. The Duke of Montauzier, 
 the son-in-law of the celebrated Madame de Eambouillet, who, 
 it will be remembered, was the goddess of the clique which 
 established the system of factitious gallantry ridiculed by 
 Boileau — took upon himself to be furious, and declared that 
 Boileau ought to be tossed into the river, and allowed to rhyme 
 there. Some of the poets answered in verse, and received 
 versified answers to their complaints. Meanwhile, despite the 
 anger both of the poets and their patrons, Boileau's satires, 
 which, however, were still unpublished, enjoyed immense 
 favor, and he became the welcome guest of the best society 
 in Paris. To the talent for writing verse with singular ele- 
 gance, he added that of reading it well, and possessed, besides, 
 considerable power of mimicry, which contributed much to 
 the zest of his recitations. The great Prince Conde, who 
 greatly preferred literary to merely aristocratic society, became 
 his special protector, and invited him to his reunions at Chan- 
 tilly. Arnaud and Nicole, the Port Royalists, were among his 
 most revered friends; while Racine, La Fontaine, Moliere, 
 and Chapelle, were his intimate companions. The personal 
 character of Boileau reflected unfavorably on the contemptible 
 morals of the poetasters, as his satires had rendered their 
 works ridiculous. In the midst of buffoons and libertines, he 
 20 
 
230 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 maintained the correct manners of the recluses of Port Royal, 
 with the easy enjoyment of social life. 
 
 Notwithstanding the high ground on which he thus stood, 
 he refrained for a considerable time from publishing those 
 satires which had gained him so much popularity. But indi- 
 viduals who had heard him recite his verses, repeated them 
 to others, and many of them, from their appositeness and 
 felicity of expression, had passed into proverbs; and now the 
 booksellers had got hold of imperfect copies, transcribed from 
 memory, and had printed them for their own advantage. The 
 sensitive ear of the author was shocked at the inaccuracies 
 which had crept in as the result of this loose mode of publica- 
 tion ; and he was thus induced to bring them out himself. He 
 accordingly published seven satires (1666), preceded by an 
 address to the king, and a preface to the public. The former, 
 however full of praise, was, it would seem, but the echo of the 
 general voice of the French nation, and had been, it is even 
 now admitted, fairly earned by the sovereign. In the latter, 
 he apologizes for the publication as a measure of self-defence ; 
 bids the authors whom he criticises remember that Parnassus 
 was at all times a free country; invites them to criticise his 
 works in their turn ; and comforts them with the reflection, 
 that if their compositions are bad, they deserve his censure, 
 and if good, they will not be injured by it. 
 
 About the same time, he used to recite his Dialogues des 
 Heros de Roman — a little work in the style of Lucian's Dia- 
 logues, in which he turned into ridicule the loves of Cyrus and 
 Clelie in the novels of Mademoiselle de Scudery. This satire 
 was the more lively, as these romances had in his youth 
 appeared to him, as to all the rest of the world, among the 
 finest productions in the language. But he absolutely refused 
 even to put this work on paper during the lifetime of the lady, 
 for whose personal character he had the highest respect; and 
 here be it told, that Boileau knew well how to distinguish 
 
BOILEAU. 231 
 
 between authors and their works, and was ready to meet them 
 with cordiality when he found them willing so far to pardon 
 him. In such case he used to say he had the greater merit, 
 according to the proverb, that ^^ the injured may forgive, but 
 the injurer never/' Madame de Sevigne used to say of him, 
 that he was " cruel only in verse ;'' and not a few of those who 
 had read his satires were surprised to find him frank and gentle 
 in company, his conversation being, as he himself expressed it, 
 without either claws or nails. Two more satires appeared in 
 the following year. 
 
 The battle was now gained : the king had declared himself 
 for the new poets against the old ; and Boileau sheathed the 
 sword for five years, and consolidated his victory by writing 
 the Art of Poetry, Having held up to ridicule the prevalent 
 faults of the literature of his time, he applied himself to the 
 less ungracious task of laying down rules to restrain the 
 vo grant imaginations of the poets, to restore poetry to its true 
 dignity, and raise the condition of the poet. His fundamental 
 doctrine was, that ^' reason is the soul of writing, and truth its 
 only object/' 
 
 Aimez-vous la raison ; que toujours vos Merits 
 Empruntent d'elle seule et leur lustre et leur prix ; 
 Rien n'est beau que le vrai ; le vrai seul est aimable. 
 
 The various rules which he lays down are but particular appli- 
 cations of this great principle in the various kinds of compo- 
 sition. It was thus that Boileau fulfilled the mission of the 
 '^ Legislator of Parnassus,'' a title which was accorded to him 
 by the unanimous voice of his age. 
 
 The doctrines thus established were somewhat more than 
 the work of one superior genius. They were the literary creed 
 of the greatest poets then living, and had been, it is believed, 
 carefully discussed with Moliere, Racine, La Fontaine, and 
 Chapelle, who used to sup together two or three times a week 
 
232 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 at the lodgings of Boileau. At these literary meetings, there 
 was an infliction attached to every breach of the rules which 
 its members had laid down for themselves. It consisted of 
 reading so many lines of the Pucelle of Chapelain : to read a 
 whole page of it was the extreme penalty of the law. 
 
 The labor connected with the Art of Poetry was relieved 
 by the ingenious pleasantry of the Lutriiij which originated 
 in the following manner : — 
 
 An argument having turned upon epic poetry, Boileau had 
 maintained that the excellence of a heroic depended on the 
 power of its inventor to sustain and enlarge upon a slender 
 groundwork. A frivolous dispute afterwards arising between 
 the treasurer and the chanter of the cathedral concerning the 
 placing of a reading desk (lutriri), M. de Lamoignon, the 
 reverend friend of Boileau, playfully challenged him to write 
 a heroic poem on the subject if he would verify his own theory. 
 Such was the occasion of this mock-heroic, considered the 
 happiest effort of his muse, though admitted even by his own 
 countrymen to be inferior to Pope's Rape of the Loch^ which 
 is a composition of similar kind. 
 
 The slender groundwork was, that the cumbrous old-fashioned 
 desk entirely hid the chanter, who therefore removed it; and 
 this excited the wrath of the treasurer, his superior, who 
 replaced it; whereupon the whole chapter entered into the 
 quarrel, which was appeased only by ih.Q interference of the 
 president, M. de Lamoignon. The poem begins with a spirited 
 exordium : — 
 
 Je chante les combats, et ce Pr<^lat terrible, 
 Qui par ses longs travaux, et sa force invincible, 
 Dans une illustre Eglise exerQant son grand ca3ur, 
 Fit placer a la fin un Lutrin dans le choeur. 
 C'est en vain que le chantre abusant d'un faux titre, 
 Deux fois I'en fit oter par les mains du chapitre ; 
 Ce Prclat sur le banc de son rival altier, 
 Deux fois le reportant, Ten couvrit tout entier. 
 
BOILEAU. 233 
 
 It proceeds to describe the peace and prosperity of the Chapel- 
 Royal at Paris : — 
 
 Parmi les doux plaisirs d'une paix fraternelle, 
 Paris voyoit flieurir son antique chapelle. 
 Ses chanoines vermeils et brillant de sant^ 
 S'engraissoient d'une longue et sainte oisivete. 
 Sans sortir de leurs lits, plus doux que leurs hermines, 
 Ces pieux faineans faisoient chanter matines ; 
 Veilloient a bien diner, et laissoient en leur lieu, 
 A des chantres gag^s le soin de louer Dieu. 
 
 But Discord is indignant at witnessing this repose : — 
 
 Quand la Discorde, encore toute noire de crimes, 
 Sortant des Cordeliers pour aller aux Minimes ; 
 Avec cet air hideux qui fait fremir la paix, 
 S'arreta pr^s d'un arbre, au pied de son palais. 
 La, d'un ceil attentif contemplant son empire, 
 A Taspect du tumulte elle-meme s'admire. 
 
 And now, taking the form of an old chanter, she goes to the 
 treasurer, who is a bishop, resolved to excite him to conten- 
 tion. The prelate is thus described : — 
 
 Dans le reduit d'une alcove enfong^e, 
 S'^l^ve un lit de plume a grands frais amassee, 
 Quatre rideaux pompeux, par un double contour, 
 En defend ent 1' entree a la clarte du jour. 
 La, parmi les douceurs d'un tranquille silence, 
 R^gne sur le duvet une heureuse indolence. 
 C'est la que le Prelat, muni d'un dejeuner, 
 Dormant d'un leger somme, attendait le diner. 
 La jeunesse en sa fleur brille sur son visage, 
 Son menton sur son sein descend a double etage ; 
 Et son corps ramass6 dans sa courte grosseur. 
 Fait gemir les coussins sous sa moUe epaisseur. 
 
 Discord now applies himself to the work of mischief : — 
 20* 
 
234 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 La deesse en entrant, qui voit la nappe mise, 
 
 Admire un si bel ordre, et reconnoit T^glise ; 
 
 Et marchant a grands pas vers le lieu de repos, 
 
 Au Prelat sommeillant elle adresse ces mots : 
 
 ** Tu dors, Prelat, tu dors ? et la-haut a ta place, 
 
 Le chantre aux yeux du choeur etale son audace : 
 
 Chante les oremus, fait des processions, 
 
 Et r^pand a grands flots les benedictions. 
 
 Tu dors ? attends-tu done que, sans bulle et sans titre, 
 
 II te ravisse encore le rochet et la mitre ? 
 
 Sors de ce lit oiseux, qui te tient attach^ 
 
 Et renonce au repos, ou bien h, I'^veche." 
 
 The prelate rises full of wrath and resolution, and would have 
 summoned the chapter even before dinner, but Gilotin, his 
 almoner, remonstrates against this display of heroism : — 
 
 Quelle fureur, dit-il, quel aveugle caprice, 
 
 Quand le diner est pret, vous appelle a I'ofEce ? 
 
 De votre dignite soutenez mieux I'eclat : 
 
 Est-ce pour travailler que vous etes prelat ? 
 
 A quoi bon ce dugout et ce z^le inutile ; 
 
 Est-il done pour jeuner quatre temps ou vigile ? 
 
 Reprenez vos esprits, et souvenez-vous bien, 
 
 Qu'un diner rechauffe ne valut jamais rien. 
 
 Ainsi dit Gilotin, et ce ministre sage 
 
 Sur table, au meme instant, fait servir le potage. 
 
 Le Prelat voit la soupe, et plein d'un saint respect, 
 
 Demeure quelque temps muet a cet aspect. 
 
 II c^de^ — il dine enfin. 
 
 The chapter being afterwards assembled, the bishop complains, 
 in tears, of the presumption of the chanter; and Sidrac, the 
 Nestor of the chapter, suggests a mode of humbling him. 
 Here a description of this famous reading-desk is introduced : — 
 
 Vers cet endroit du choeur oil le chantre orgueilleux, 
 Montre, assis a ta gauche, un front si sourcilleux; 
 Sur ce rang d'ais serr6s qui forment sa cloture, 
 Fut jadis un lutrin d'in^galc structure. 
 
BOiLEAU. 235 
 
 Dont les flancs ^largis, de leur vastc contour 
 
 Ombragoient pleinement tous les lieux d'alentour. 
 
 Derriere ce lutrin, ainsi qu'au fond d'un antre, 
 
 A peine sur son banc, on discernait le chantre. 
 
 Tandis qu'a I'autre banc le Prelat radieux, 
 
 D^couvert a grand jour, attiroit tous les yeux. 
 
 Mais un demon, fatal a cette ample machine, 
 
 Soit qu'une main la nuit eut liat6 sa ruine, 
 
 Soit qu'ainsi de tout tems Tordonnat le destin, 
 
 Fit tomber a nos yeux le pupitre un matin. 
 
 J'eus beau prendre le ciel et le chantre a partie : 
 
 II fallut I'emporter dans notre sacristie. 
 
 Oil depuis trente hivers sans gloire enseveli, 
 
 II languit tout poudreux dans un honteux oubli. 
 
 Entends-moi done, Prelat. Des que I'ombre tranquille 
 
 Viendra d'un crepe noir envelopper la ville, 
 
 II faut que trois de nous, sans tumulte et sans bruit, 
 
 Partent a la faveur de la naissante nuit ; 
 
 Et du lutrin rompu reunissant la masse, 
 
 Aillent d'un zele adroit le remettre a sa place. 
 
 Si le chantre demain ose le renverser, 
 
 Alors de cent arrets tu peux le terrasser. 
 
 Pour soutenir tes droits, que le ciel autorise, 
 
 Abime tout plutot, c'est I'esprit de I'eglise. 
 
 C'est par la qu'un prelat signale la vigueur. 
 
 Ne borne pas ta gloire a prier dans le choeur: 
 
 Ces vertus dans Aleth peuvent etre en usage, 
 
 Mais dans Paris, plaidons: c'est-la notre partage. 
 
 This advice is eagerly adopted; and lots having been cast, 
 three are selected for its performance. Brontin comes first; 
 then L' Amour, a hair-dresser; and lastly, Boirude, the sacris- 
 tan. The chapter is satisfied with the choice, and 
 
 Le Prelat, reste seul, calme un peu son depit, 
 Et jusqu'au souper se couche et s'assoupit. 
 
 In the commencement of the second book, is a scene of 
 remonstrance and reproach between the wigmaker and his 
 wife, travestied on the parting of ^neas and Dido. But 
 
236 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 thougli tliose portions of the poem which, are parodies on the 
 ancient epics are replete with wit, yet they are less pleasing 
 than those strictly original. Towards the end of the second 
 book, Discord observes the three adventurers hastening towards 
 the tower where the lutrin is hid. Their joyful shout awakens 
 Indolence : — 
 
 L'air qui gemit du cri de Thorrible deesse, 
 
 Va jusques dans Citeaux reveiller la Mollesse. 
 
 C'est la qu'en un dortoir elle fait son sejour. 
 
 Les Plaisirs noncbalans folatrent a I'entour. 
 
 L'un paitrit dans un coin I'embonpoint des chanoines, 
 
 L'autre broie en riant le vermilion des moines ; 
 
 La Volupte la sert avec des yeux devots, 
 
 Et toujours le Sommeil lui verse des pavots. 
 
 Ce soir plus que jamais, en vain il les redouble, 
 
 La Mollesse a ce bruit se reveille, se trouble. 
 
 Night enters, and alarms her still more by announcing, that 
 on the morrow the lutrin is to appear in the chapel, a signal 
 for mutiny and war. Indolence drops a tear, opens one eye, 
 and utters a feeble complaint : — 
 
 Nuit, que m'as tu dit ? Quel demon sur la terre 
 Souffle dans tons les coeurs la fatigue et la guerre ? 
 Helas ! qu'est devenu ce temps, cet heureux temps, 
 Oil les rois s'honoraient du nom de fain^ans, 
 S'endormoient sur le trone, et me servant sans honte, 
 Laissoient leur sceptre aux mains ou d'un maire ou d'un comte. 
 Aucun soin n'approchait de leur paisible cour, 
 On reposait la nuit, on dormait tout le jour. 
 
 * * -X- ei:- 
 
 Ce doux sifecle n'est plus ! le ciel impitoyable, 
 A plac^ sur le trone un prince infatigable. 
 II brave mes douceurs, il est sourd a ma voix. 
 Tous les jours il m'eveille au bruit de ses exploits ; 
 Rien ne pent arreter sa vigilante audace, 
 L'^t^ n'a point de feux, I'hiver n'a point de glace. 
 J'entends a son seul nom mes sujets fremir. 
 En vain deux fois la Paix a voulu I'endormir: 
 
BOILEAU. 237 
 
 Loin de moi son courage, entraine par la gloire, 
 Ne se plait qu'a courir de victoire en victoire. 
 
 This episode is considered the jewel of the whole poem. In 
 the third canto, the adYenturous trio enter the sacristy to seize 
 the lutrin, but Night has brought and hid in it an owl, whose 
 sudden appearance terrifies the heroes, and they are about to 
 fly. Discord rallies them ; they pursue the adventure, carry 
 off the desk in triumph, and reinstate it before the seat of the 
 chanter. The fourth book relates the discovery, the resolution 
 of the enraged chanter to destroy the desk, the indignation of 
 the whole chapter; and finally, the destruction of the lutrin, 
 which is carried off piecemeal. The poem at first consisted 
 only of these four books ; but the author was induced to con- 
 tinue it. The fifth book describes the meeting of the hostile 
 parties. The prelate and chanter, each rushing to the chapel, 
 meet near the shop of Barbin, the bookseller. They eye each 
 other with mutual rage ; a friend of the chanter seizes a pon- 
 derous volume — the Great Cijrus of Mademoiselle de Scudery — 
 and hurls it at Boirude, who avoids the blow, and the tremen- 
 dous tome strikes poor old Sidrac to the ground. A general 
 battle ensues ; they rush into the shop, dismantle the shelves, 
 and fling the volumes at each other. The naming of these 
 books affords opportunity for satirical allusions to contemporary 
 authors, many of whom are so entirely forgotten that the point 
 of the sarcasms cannot be appreciated. The party of the 
 chanter gains the ascendant, but the bishop, by a happy strat- 
 agem, escapes personal danger : — 
 
 Au spectacle ^tonnant de leur chute impr^vue, 
 Le Prelat pousse un cri qui pen^tre la nue. 
 II maudit dans son coeur le demon des combats, 
 Et de I'horreur du coup il recule six pas. 
 Mais bientot rappelant son antique prouesse, 
 II tire du manteau sa dextre vengeresse ; 
 II part, et ses doigts saintement along^s, 
 Benit tous les passans en deux files ranges. 
 
238 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 II salt que I'ennemi, que ce coup va surprendre, 
 
 Desormais sur ses pieds ne I'oseroit attendre, 
 
 Et deja voit pour lui tout le peuple en courroux, 
 
 Crier aux combattans : Profanes, a genoux. 
 
 Le chantre, qui de loin voit approcher I'orage, 
 
 Dans son coeur eperdu cherche en vain du courage. 
 
 Sa fierte I'abandonne, il tremble, il cede, il fuit ; 
 
 Le long des sacres raurs sa brigade le suit. 
 
 Tout s'ecarte a I'instant, mais aucun n'en rechappe, 
 
 Partout le doigt vainqueur les suit et les ratrappe. 
 
 Evrard seul, en un coin pruderament retire, 
 
 Se croyoit a convert de I'insulte sacre. 
 
 Mais le Prelat vers lui fait une marclie adroite : 
 
 II observe de Toeil, et tirant vers la droite, 
 
 Tout d'un coup tourne a gauche, et d'un bras fortune, 
 
 Benit subitement le guerrier consterne. 
 
 Le chanoine, surpris de la foudre mortelle, 
 
 Se dresse, et leve en vain une tete rebelle : 
 
 Sur ses genoux tremblans il tombe a cet aspect, 
 
 Et donne a la frayeur ce qu'il doit au respect. 
 
 The sixth book describes the arrival of Piety, Faith, and 
 Grace, who awaken Aristus (M. de Lamoignon), and through 
 his interference, peace is restored. 
 
 Madame de Thianges, sister of Madame de Montespan, was 
 so struck with the eulogy of Louis XIV., which the poet puts 
 in the mouth of Indolence, that she read it to the king while 
 it was still in manuscript. Boileau was invited to court, and 
 at once received a pension. 
 
 Among the literary plans concocted between Boileau and 
 Racine, was the institution of an academy, composed of a very 
 few individuals, who were to write short inscriptions for the 
 medals struck by Louis XIV. to celebrate the great events of 
 his reign. Madame de Montespan suggested that such records 
 must be very inadequate, and that a regular history should be 
 compiled. Madame de Maintenon added the proposal, that 
 Boileau and Bacine should be appointed joint historiographers. 
 
BOILEAU. 239 
 
 and the two friends renounced poetry for a time, to prosecute 
 the studies necessary to qualify them for the work before them. 
 The following year, they accompanied the king to the siege of 
 Gand, to the no small amusement of the court circle, and dis- 
 played the expected amount of ignorance as to all the arrange- 
 ments necessary for such an expedition, with a docile credu- 
 lousness, of which their military friends availed themselves to 
 enjoy a little mirth at their expense. Boileau's health pre- 
 vented him from following any other campaign; and as there 
 remains but a fragmentary relic of their work, it is not known 
 to what extent it proceeded. When they had written any 
 details they thought likely to interest their royal master, they 
 used to read them to him in the apartments of Madame de 
 Montespan, Madame de Maintenon also being generally present. 
 
 The best of Boileau's epistles were written about this time ; 
 and French critics maintain, that though he must be confessed 
 inferior to Horace in his satires, he has surpassed him in many 
 of his epistles. He afterwards returned to satire, but his later 
 pieces of this kind are reckoned very inferior to his earlier 
 ones. Nor is he considered to have equalled himself in his 
 Ode sur la Prise de Namur^ occasioned by a controversy on 
 the merits of the ancient poets. Pity an author should not 
 know when to stop. 
 
 Boileau had entertained some fear that by receiving the 
 bounty of the king he might be bartering the privilege of tell- 
 ing him the truth ; but it would seem not to have proved so. 
 It is well known that when Louis was making search for 
 Arnaud to commit him to the Bastille, "" Le roi est trop heu- 
 reux pour le trouver,'^ said the poet to one of the oflficers. 
 Nor only did he with design maintain a free and manly bear- 
 ing, but sometimes, through absence of mind, made blunders 
 which shocked even Bacine. Conversing one day with Madame 
 de Maintenon on the now subsiding rage for vulgar burlesque 
 poetry, he said that " happily this vile taste had passed away, 
 
240 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 and Scarron was no longer read even in the provinces." Ra- 
 cine afterwards asked him whether he did not know of the 
 lady's near relationship to Scarron.* '^ Alas, no !" replied 
 Boileau ; '' but it is the first thing I forget when I am in her 
 company.^' 
 
 Two anecdotes mentioned by all the biographers of Boileau 
 prove that the inexorable satirist had a generous heart. Patru, 
 the celebrated advocate, had ruined himself by his passion for 
 literature, and was reduced to the necessity of selling his valua- 
 ble library. He had almost agreed to part with it for a mode- 
 rate sum, when Boileau offered a higher, and after paying the 
 money, added this condition to the purchase, that Patru should 
 retain possession of it for his life. Again : when it was rumored 
 at court that the king intended to retrench the pension of Cor- 
 neille, Boileau hastened to Madame Montespan, and represented 
 that it would be most unjust to grant a pension to an author 
 like himself just ascending the Mount Parnassus, and with- 
 draw it from Corneille, who had been so long seated on the 
 summit; he entreated, therefore, for the honor of the king, 
 that his own name should be struck off the pension-list rather 
 than that of Corneille. This magnanimous intercession was 
 crowned with the success it deserved. 
 
 As Boileau advanced in years, he became more recluse in 
 his habits. The taste which he had had in earlier life for 
 social and convivial pleasures, subsided into a sort of easy 
 indolence, enlivened by the pleasures of intimate friendship. 
 His attachment to Racine seems to have been the warmest and 
 most enduring of his feelings, and the dying farewell of the 
 tragedian is the most expressive eulogy of the private charac- 
 ter of the satirist. ^^ Je regarde comme mon bonheur pour 
 moi de mourir avant vous." A few days after Racine's death, 
 Boileau appeared at court for the last time, to take the king's 
 
 * Sec page 294. 
 
BOILEAU. 241 
 
 commands witli regard to the prosecution of the history. When 
 urged by his friends not to withdraw himself entirely^ he said : 
 ^^ What should I do there ? I cannot flatter/^ By this time, 
 then (1698), it would seem that Louis, intoxicated with the 
 praise which had formerly been the willing tribute of a grati- 
 fied nation, had begun to require it even where it was not con- 
 sidered due. Louis Racine, the son of the poet, to whom we 
 are chiefly indebted for what we know of Boiieau's declining 
 years, used to visit him frequently, and play with him at nine- 
 pins. The old man said one day, that it must be confessed he 
 possessed two talents equally useful to his country — he could 
 play well at nine-pins and make verses. At this time he con- 
 gratulated himself on the purity of his works. ^^ It is,'' he 
 said, ^^ a great consolation to a poet who must die soon, to 
 think that he has never written anything injurious to virtue.'' 
 
 His last days were employed in correcting a complete edition 
 of his works, which were now to include the Dialogue on the 
 Romances, as well as the Satires, Epistles, and Epigrams; the 
 Art of Poetry ; A Dialogue on Poetry and Music ; and a trans- 
 lation of Longinus's Treatise on the Sublime, with critical 
 remarks. An Epistle to Amhiguity, which embodied an expo- 
 sure of the Jesuits, was also to have been added ^ but the 
 king, at the instance of his confessor, forbade its appearance, 
 and required that the manuscript should be delivered to him. 
 Boileau disdained to temporize, and chose to suppress the whole 
 edition rather than exclude this to satisfy the Jesuits. 
 
 He retained his literary tastes to the last. "When he was 
 asked how he felt, he replied by a line from Malherbe — 
 
 ** Je suis vaiucu du temps, je cede a ses outrages." 
 
 As he was expiring, he grasped the hand of M. Coutard, 
 and said : ^^ Bon jour, et adieu — c'est un long adieu." He 
 died of dropsy in the chest (1711), in his seventy -fifth year, 
 the last of the great poets of the golden age. His remains 
 
 21 
 
242 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 were interred in tlie vault of the Sainte-Cliapelle, immediately 
 under the spot where stood the lutrin which he had immor- 
 talized. 
 
 The following is the opening of the Art of Poetry : — 
 
 PREMIER CHANT DE L'ART POI^TIQUE. 
 
 C*est en vain qu'au Parnasse un temeraire auteur 
 Pense de I'art des vers atteindre la hauteur : 
 S'il ne sent point du ciel I'influence secrete, 
 Si son astre en naissant ne I'a forme poete, 
 Dans son genie etroit il est toujours captif ; 
 Pour lui Phebus est sourd, et Pegase est retif. 
 
 vous done qui, brulant d'une ardeur perilleuse, 
 Courez du bel esprit la carriere epineuse, 
 N'allez pas sur des vers sans fruit vous consumer, 
 Ni prendre pour genie un amour de rimer. 
 Craignez d'un vain plaisir les trompeuses amorces, 
 Et consultez longtemps votre esprit et vos forces. 
 
 La nature, fertile en esprits excellents, 
 Sait entre les auteurs partager les talents : 
 L'un pent tracer en vers une amoureuse flamme, 
 L' autre d'un trait plaisant aiguiser I'epigramme. 
 Malherbe d'un heros pent vanter les exploits ; 
 Racan chanter Philis, les bergers et les bois. 
 Mais souvent un esprit qui se flatte et qui s'aime, 
 Meconnait son genie, et s'ignore soi-meme. 
 Ainsi tel autrefois qu'on vit avec Faret 
 Charbonner de ses vers les murs d'un cabaret, 
 S'en va mal a propos, d'une voix insolente. 
 Chanter du peuple h^breu la fuite triomphante, 
 Et, poursuivant Moise au travers des deserts, 
 Court avec Pharaon se noyer dans les mers. 
 
 Quelque sujet qu'on traite, ou plaisant ou sublime, 
 Que toujours le bon sens s'accorde avec la rime. 
 L'un I'autre vainement ils semblent se hair; 
 La rime est une esclave et ne doit qu'obeir. 
 Lorsque a la bien chercher d'abord on s'^vertue, 
 L'esprit a la trouver ais^ment s'habitue ; 
 
BOILEAU. 243 
 
 Au joug de la raison sans peine elle flecliit, 
 Et, loin de la gener, la sert et Fenrichit. 
 Mais, lorsqu'on la neglige, elle devient rebelle, 
 Et pour la rattraper le sens court apres elle. 
 Aimez done la raison. Que toujours vos ecrits 
 Empruntent d'elle seule et leur lustre et leur prix. 
 
 La plupart, emport^s d'une fougue insensee, 
 Toujours loin du droit sens vont chercher leur pens^e. 
 lis croiraient s'abaisser, dans leurs vers monstrueux, 
 S'ils pensaient ce qu'un autre a pu penser comme eux, 
 Evitons ces exc^s. Laissons a I'ltalie 
 De tons ces faux brillants Feclatante folie. 
 Tout doit tendre au bon sens ; mais pour j parvenir, 
 Le chemin est glissant et penible a tenir ; 
 Pour peu qu'on s'en ecarte, aussitot on se noie. 
 Le raison pour marcher n'a souvent qu'une voie. 
 
 Un auteurquelquefois, trop plein de son objet, 
 Jamais sans I'^puiser n'abandonne un sujet. 
 S'il rencontre un palais, il m'en depeint la face ; 
 II me prom^ne apres de terrasse en terrasse ; 
 Ici s'offre un perron; la regne un corridor; 
 La ce balcon s'enferme en un balustre d'or. 
 II compte des plafonds les ronds et les ovales ; 
 ** Ce ne sont que festons, ce ne sont qu'astragales." 
 Je saute vingt feuillets pour en trouver la fin, 
 Et je me sauve a peine au travers du jardin. 
 Fuyez de ces auteurs I'abondance sterile, 
 Et ne vous cliargez point d'un detail inutile. 
 Tout ce qu'on dit de trop est fade et rebutant ; 
 L'esprit rassasi^ le rejette a Finstant. 
 Qui ne salt se borner ne sut jamais ecrire. 
 « « ^ 
 
 Durant les premiers ans du Parnasse fran^ois, 
 Le caprice tout seul faisait toutes les lois. 
 La rime, au bout des mots assembles sans mesure, 
 Tenait lieu d'ornements, de nombre et de ensure. 
 Villon sut le premier, dans ces siecles grossiers, 
 B^brouiller Fart confus de nos vieux romanciers. 
 
244 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 Marot bientot apr^s fit fleurir les ballades, 
 
 Tourna des triolets, rima des mascarades, 
 
 A des refrains regies asservit les rondeaux, 
 
 Et montra pour rimer des chemins tout nouveaux. 
 
 Konsard, qui le suivit, par nne autre methode, 
 
 Reglant tout, brouilla tout, fit un art a sa mode^ 
 
 Et toutefois longtemps eut un lieureux destin. 
 
 Mais sa muse, en fran9ais parlant grec et latin, 
 
 Vit dans Page suivant, par un retour grotesque^ 
 
 Tomber de ses grands mots le faste pedantesque, 
 
 Ce poete orgueilleux, trebuch^ de si haut, 
 
 Rendit plus retenus Desportes et Bertaut. 
 
 Enfin Malherbe vint ; et, le premier en France^ 
 
 Fit sentir dans les vers une juste cadence, 
 
 D'un mot mis en sa place enseigna le pouvoir^ 
 
 Et reduisit la muse aux rfegles du devoir. 
 
 Par ee sage 4crivain la langue reparee 
 
 N'ofi^rit plus rien de rude a Foreille epuree. 
 
 Les stances avec grace apprirent a tomber ; 
 
 Et le vers sur le vers n'osa plus enjamber. 
 
 Tout reconnut ses lois ; et ce guide fidele 
 
 Aux auteurs de ce temps sert encor de modele. 
 
 Marchez done sur ses pas ; aimez sa purete, 
 
 Et de son tour heureux imitez la clarte. 
 
 Si le sens de vos vers tarde a se faire entendre^ 
 
 Mon esprit aussitot commence a se detendre, 
 
 Et, de vos vains discours prompt a se detacher, 
 
 Ne suit point un auteur qu'il faut toujours ehercher. 
 
 There is no other poetry of this period worthy to detain hb. 
 If we inquire for the lyric muse, it is to be found in the cho- 
 ruses of Hacine's Esther and Athaliej and in some of La 
 Fontaine's minor pieces, especially the touching elegy Aux 
 Nymphes de Vaux, occasioned by the disgrace of Fouquet. 
 
 The horizon of the poets, it must be observed, was some- 
 what circumscribed. Attracted to the capital, and confined to 
 the conventional life of the court and city, they enjoyed little 
 opportunity for the contemplation of nature] while, on the 
 
MADAME DESHOULIERES. 245 
 
 other hand; tlie policy of Louis XIV. proscribed national re- 
 collections; so that social life, and that of their own time 
 alone, was open to them. Poetry thus became either abstract 
 and ideal, or limited to the delineation of those passions which 
 belong to a highly artificial state of society. 
 
 Madame Deshoulieres, indeed, wrote some graceful idyls, 
 but she by no means entered into the spirit of rural life and 
 manners like La Fontaine, or even old Kacan (1589 — 1670), 
 who scarcely belonged to this generation. There are before 
 us two of Madame Deshoulieres' pieces,* in which she shows 
 herself much more at home than among shepherds and shep- 
 herdesses.f In the first, she is depicting the annoyances of 
 a literary lion. 
 
 Ah ! think, my friend, how onerous is fame ! 
 You call to pay a visit — at your name 
 The whole assembly changes tone and looks : 
 "Here comes an author," now they cry; 
 ** Let language take a lofty range :" 
 And in a manner, stiff and strange, 
 Their precious syllables they try. 
 They bore you all the while about new books^^ 
 Ask your opinion, too, about your own, 
 
 And beg the favor of a recitation : 
 When, if you give the first in simple tone. 
 Or speak the other with shy hesitation,^ 
 The whisper will run round : " A 5eZ esprit f 
 Why, she talks like another — you or me ! 
 Calls herself an author, and none grander, 
 While any one with ears can understand her!" 
 
 In the second, she is addressing Pere la Chaise, the king's 
 confessor, on the hypocrisy which had become fashionable 
 
 *" Translated in the Foreign Quarterly Review. 
 
 f She was so fascinated with pastoral life, that, as it is said, she expressed 
 the wish that she had been a sheep, instead of a woman. 
 21 * 
 
246 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 through the piety of Madame de Maintenon and other conrt 
 devotees. Supposing herself invited to assume this mask in 
 order to engage the regard of the king, she indignantly ex- 
 claims : — 
 
 Devotion ! No ! Hypocrisy is made 
 
 By beggared debauchees their safest trade ; 
 
 By women from whom Time hath stolen all charm, 
 
 Or scandal on their name breathed fatal harm : 
 
 Let these alone, bereft of merit, try 
 
 To put on Bigotry's deceitful eye : 
 
 All is forgotten — all is varnished o'er — 
 
 And taint, or crime, or folly seen no more. 
 
 Oh, that I could some deep dark colors find 
 
 To paint the blackness of the treacherous mind ! 
 
 How I, who hate all falsehood, e'en the streak 
 
 Of simulated red rouged o'er the cheek, 
 
 Must more detest the gloss o'er manners thrown, 
 
 And hate all forms that are not Nature's own ! 
 
 XV.— ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT AND BAR. 
 
 INFLUENCE OP LOUIS XIV. ON PULPIT ELOQUENCE — BOSSUET, HIS LIFE AND 
 WORKS — BOURDALOUE — MASSILLON — FLECIIIER — SAURIN — FORENSIC 
 ORATORS. 
 
 Louis XIY. afforded to religious eloquence the most effica- 
 cious of all kinds of encouragement — that of personal attend- 
 ance. The court-preachers had no more attentive auditor than 
 their royal master, who was singularly gifted with that tender- 
 ness of conscience which leads a man to condemn himself for 
 his sins, yet indulge in their commission ; to feel a certain 
 pleasure in self-accusation, and to enjoy that reaction of mind 
 which consists in occasionally holding his passions in abeyance, 
 and yielding to the better feelings which ought to have per- 
 
ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 247 
 
 manently controlled them. He suffered tlie greatest evangeli- 
 cal liberty to those who thus ministered to him : they were 
 free to inculcate the highest style of morality, and even to 
 portray and denounce the very vices in which the king most 
 freely indulged. They were not, indeed, permitted to make 
 the personal application ; but he made no scruple of showing 
 that he made it himself, and felt for the time the severity of 
 the admonitions that were conveyed. This kind of attention 
 on the part of a great monarch ; the liberty of saying every- 
 thing, tempered with the obHgation to speak respectfully and 
 to the purpose ; the refined taste of an audience who could on 
 the same day attend a sermon of Bourdaloue and a tragedy 
 of Eacine ; all these circumstances tended to lead pulpit elo- 
 quence to the highest degree of perfection, and accordingly 
 we find the function of court-preacher exercised successively 
 by Bossuet, Bourdaloue, and Massillon, the greatest names 
 that the Roman Catholic Church has boasted in any age or 
 country; and in every page of whose sermons we recognise 
 sources from which our own divines have drawn most abun- 
 dantly. No marvel that attendance on sermons in those days 
 was not merely a religious duty, but one of the highest intel- 
 lectual gratifications. 
 
 Briefly to characterize the respective merits of these preach- 
 ers, we should say that Bossuet addressed the conscience 
 through the imagination, Bourdaloue through the judgment, 
 and Massillon through the feelings : the first was the graphic 
 painter; the second the convincing reasoner; and the third, 
 the moving pleader. Flechier, another court-preacher, re- 
 nowned chiefly in funeral oration, was a rhetorician more 
 showy than solid, and by no means free from the affectation 
 of the Precieuses. The monarch himself said : ^' Father 
 Massillon, I have heard several great orators in my chapel, 
 and I have been very much pleased with them ; but whenever 
 I have heard you, I have been very much displeased with my- 
 
248 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 self/' Sucli testimoDy might decide the palm, were it not for 
 the consideration, that ere Massillon ascended the pulpit, Louis 
 XIV. had seen somewhat of the vanity of human greatness, 
 the failure of human calculations, and the limits which there 
 are to the power of gratification, even in passions laid under 
 no restraint. His own experience had gone far to prove that 
 all is vanity and vexation of spirit; and he was thus better 
 prepared than in earlier years to listen to the dictates of evan- 
 gelical truth. Bossuet is generally allowed to stand at the 
 head of the list of French preachers. He was, besides, per- 
 haps of all men of his day, the one who received most deeply 
 the impress of the great monarch, and was the most distin- 
 guished type of the age of Louis XIV., in all save its vices. 
 It is for these reasons that we introduce him first to the reader. 
 
 Bossuet, afterwards bishop of M^aux, was born at Dijon in 
 1627, of a family of some repute in the legal profession, and 
 educated at a school of the Jesuits, where he early gave indi- 
 cations of that serious and studious disposition which charac- 
 terized his maturer years.* He was but a child, when there 
 fell into his hands a Latin Bible, the reading of which made 
 an impression that remained with him through life. He 
 always adverted to it with the liveliest interest. When re- 
 moved for higher improvement to the College of Navarre, he 
 studied Greek with enthusiasm, and made himself acquainted 
 with the master-pieces of antiquity ; but the Holy Scriptures 
 formed his principal reading. The philosophy of Descartes 
 was beginning to attract attention ; but Bossuet had no know- 
 ledge either of the exact or natural sciences, and drank deeply 
 into nothing that was not immediately connected with religion. 
 After his first public essay, when he was sixteen years of age, 
 he was declared a prodigy; whereupon he was invited to the 
 
 * He was so distinguished for his assiduity at school, that his associates, 
 punning upon his name, used to say that he was a "Boa auetua aratro," 
 
BOSSUET. 249 
 
 Hotel de Rambouillet, and was requested to give an impromptu 
 sermon^ as a test of tliat fertility of tliouglit and facility of 
 expression with wliicli he was so highly gifted. After a few 
 moments' thought^ the young orator delivered a discourse 
 which excited general admiration, and completely established 
 his character as a preacher. On another occasion — that of 
 his admission into the corporation of the college — ^his theme 
 was a comparison of the glory of the present world with that 
 of the just in the life to come. It was immediately after the 
 peace of Westphalia, when the country rang with the heroic 
 deeds of the Prince of Conde. In the midst of the discourse, 
 the warrior himself entered the assembly, surrounded by an 
 escort of his companions in arms. On the instant, Bossuet, 
 without hesitation or appearance of interruption, addressed 
 the young conqueror, and offered him, in the name of France, 
 the just tribute of a nation's gratitude and admiration ; but, 
 as with a prophet's authority, told him how vain and perish- 
 able were the laurel-wreaths on his brow; how little to com- 
 pare with the '^ crown of glory that fadeth not away.^^ The 
 prince was deeply affected, and contracted a lasting friendship 
 for the preacher, who, forty years afterwards, repeated the same 
 truths over his tomb. 
 
 The reputation of Bossuet grew and spread, but he seemed 
 never to perceive his own success ; the Bible and the Christian 
 Fathers were his constant companions ; and he declined pro- 
 motion to the grand-mastership of Navarre, choosing rather 
 to devote himself wholly to clerical duties. At the solicita- 
 tion of the bishop of Metz, he entered into the controversy 
 against the Protestants, and inspired even his opponents with 
 respect for his talents, while he succeeded in making several 
 distinguished converts to the old religion. At this time he 
 was obliged frequently to visit Paris, where he preached before 
 the royal family, and gained a high reputation as a pulpit 
 orator; but he uniformly declined a permanent cure in the 
 
250 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 capital, preferring the retirement of Metz. His religious in- 
 fluence became so great, tliat wlien tlie recluses of Port Royal 
 refused to subscribe the required formulary with respect to 
 the Jansenist doctrine, Bossuet was the man employed to 
 bring them to reason. In the prosecution of this task, he 
 treated them with great gentleness and forbearance ; invited 
 them to submit to the church ; and set before them the blessed- 
 ness of believing without examining, the privilege of not hav- 
 ing to pilot themselves through the difficulties connected with 
 religious truth, but possessing an infallible guide in the autho- 
 rity of the church. The Port Royalists courted criticism and 
 controversy at his hands, though remaining persuaded of the 
 soundness of their own views. 
 
 In 1669, Bossuet was elevated to the episcopate, after which 
 lie gave place to Bourdaloue as a preacher, but still delivered 
 funeral orations on great occasions. These are considered the 
 choicest specimens of his eloquence. In 1670, he was ap- 
 pointed preceptor to the dauphin, now nine years of age ; and 
 it was for his instruction that he wrote the Discours sur V His- 
 toire Universellej by which he is chiefly known to us ; and La 
 Politique de V Ecriture JSainte, The latter is a series of Scrip- 
 ture quotations, connected by appropriate reflections, which 
 serve for connexion and transition. It treats not of govern- 
 ment or political constitutions, or the balance of power; but it 
 shows how sovereigns should be pious and just; and how their 
 subjects should be -obedient and faithful; and what divine 
 chastisements are reserved for a tyrannical monarch on the one 
 hand, and for a corrupt and rebellious nation on the other. 
 Here is no disquisition on the best mode of government, or the 
 wisest code of laws ; all this Bossuet was content to leave to 
 Divine Providence to establish in the course of events, while 
 he taught sovereigns to administer, and subjects to obey, the 
 laws and government as they found them. A letter which he 
 addressed to Innocent XI., rendering, according to the pontiff*'s 
 
BOSSUET. 251 
 
 desire, an account of his mode of education, possesses consi- 
 derable interest, especially as showing the difference between 
 his views and those of Fenelon on the same subject. In Bos- 
 suet, there appears an upright and elevated mind, a correct 
 idea of the end to be obtained, but an inflexibility which could 
 never accommodate itself to the temper of his pupil, or adapt 
 his language and manners to suit his age, or clothe his didac- 
 tics in an attractive form. '' He knew man, but not men^'' 
 says one ; he possessed a simple power of persuasion^ and an 
 almost prophetic authority, which served him well in the 
 pulpit to point out the path of duty, and insist on its being 
 fulfilled ; but he had no power of individual adaptation, and 
 therefore failed as a tutor, notwithstanding his success as a 
 preacher. 
 
 The Protestant controversy occupied Bossuet still more fully 
 after the completion of the prince's education, and his own 
 elevation to the bishopric of Meaux. It was this that elicited 
 his famous Exposition de la Doctrine Catholique, in which the 
 Protestants aver that he has not set forth the true dogmas of 
 his church, but has modified them in such wise as to render 
 them reasonable and attractive. A still more celebrated work 
 is the Histoire des Variations y of which the leading principle 
 is, that to forsake the authority of the church, leads one knows 
 not whither ; that there can be no new religious views except 
 false ones ; and that there is no escape from that faith which 
 has been transmitted from age to age, except into the wide 
 wastes of scepticism. " La veritable simplicite de la doctrine 
 chretienne consiste essentiellement a toujours se determiner en 
 ce qui regarde la foi, par ce fait certain : hier on croyait ainsi, 
 done aujourd'hui il faut croire encore de m^me.^' The famous 
 historian Gribbon is said to have been converted by this book. 
 Bossuet' s calm, self-possessed, and courteous manner, gave him 
 a great advantage in controversy; his tone was that of full 
 persuasion in his own mind, with somewhat that conveyed the 
 
252 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 impression tliat the opponents of the apostolic church were 
 giddy, fickle, and rebellious spirits, wandering hither and 
 thither, seeking but never finding any firm footing. Yet there 
 was no bitterness or haughtiness in the manner of announcing 
 this. Bossuet thus became the great champion of the Romish 
 
 ^ faith in France ; and when some hope was entertained of 
 r reuniting the Lutherans to the church, he was appointed to 
 
 ' negotiate with Leibnitz, whom the court of Brunswick had 
 named on the part of the Lutherans. The correspondence 
 between these two great men is still extant, and possesses con- 
 siderable interest. 
 
 Another controversy occupied the old age of Bossuet, and 
 showed him to much less advantage. The mysticism of Ma- 
 dame Guyon's"^ piety had proved very infectious among the 
 higher circles, and the contagion had reached the court. 
 Madame de Maintenon had introduced it at St. Cyr; and every 
 day added to the number of Madame Guy on' s disciples. Her 
 works were referred to Bossuet for examination ; and Fenelon, 
 who had himself embraced her views, attended, not indeed as 
 their defender, but as the modest interpreter of the lady's 
 somewhat grotesque and incoherent language, which might 
 have been taken for that of a maniac. He endeavored to show 
 that she entertained no doctrine but that which had been held 
 by St. Francis de Sales, St. Theresa, and other Mystics ap- 
 proved by the church. But Bossuet regarded as highly dan- 
 gerous this depreciation of good works and outward forms, 
 and this search for undefinable frames and feelings. Guyon 
 and Fenelon, indeed, maintained that a holy practice would be 
 the inevitable consequence of their beatific contemplations and 
 holy raptures ; but Bossuet could not believe that one should 
 profess to himself as an end a thing so intangible as a frame 
 of mind into which one might get in and out without exactly 
 
 * See Upham's Life of Madame Guyon, 2 vols., Now York, 1847. 
 
BOSSUET. 253 
 
 knowing how. Not tliat he denied the reality and blessedness 
 of a high degree of religious feeling. He had himself said : 
 '^ Lti s'entendrait la derniere consolation de Famour divin, dans 
 un endroit de Fame si profond et si retire^ que les sens n^en 
 soup§onnent rien, tant il est eloigne de leur region ; mais^ pour 
 s^expliquer sur cette matiere, il faudrait un langage que le 
 monde n^entendrait pas.'' 
 
 Some new extravagances of the Mystics determined Bossuet 
 to proceed to extremities against this system : Madame Guyon 
 was arrested ; the bishops were directed to prohibit the circu- 
 lation of her works in their respective dioceses ; and Bossuet 
 wrote a refutation of her doctrines. Fenelon would not lend 
 himself to the persecution of a lady whom he greatly admired, 
 and whom he believed to be as blameless in life as she was reli- 
 gious in heart. He thought they had taken occasion from her 
 mode of expressing herself, and that her words rather than 
 her sentiments were objectionable. Bossuet was angry at this 
 modifying, manoeuvring, and refining; this insinuation, that 
 only certain minds were capable of comprehending Madame 
 Guyon ; in short, this attempt to clear mysticism of all that 
 could be deemed reprehensible. While he was composing his 
 book against the Mystics, Fenelon wrote his 31aximes des 
 SainteSj in which he endeavored to show, that the views of 
 the Quietists were those of others whom the church had even 
 canonized and honored with public worship. Louis XIV., 
 through Bossuet's influence, banished Fenelon from the court, 
 disgraced his friends, and sent the Maximes to Rome for con- 
 demnation. The quarrel became warmer every day. Bossuet, 
 irritated at the moderate and submissive tone of his opponent, 
 forgot his former character, and became perfectly furious. Per- 
 haps there has never been a religious controversy more warm 
 and more sincere; in which there was less appearance of selfish 
 rivalry, or more pure zeal for what each believed to be the 
 truth. It was for the same creed, and within the same church ; 
 22 
 
254 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 the combatants differing only as to the most acceptable mode 
 of loving and serving the Supreme Being. The pope was 
 induced to pass a censure on the Maximes, but one which his 
 holiness deemed hardly necessary ; and Bossuet was dissatisfied 
 that he had not gone deeper into the matter of the contro- 
 versy. Meanwhile, the gentleness of Fenelon gained over 
 many who had not subtilty enough to enter into the merits 
 of his opinions ; and if Bossuet had been capable of attaching 
 any importance to the popular voice, he must have been grieved 
 at the universal veneration with which Fenelon was regarded. 
 
 The last labors of Bossuet were devoted to the discipline of 
 the clergy, whom he wished to restore to a scrupulous observ- 
 ance of their duties and fulfilment of their vows. He had 
 nearly attained his seventy-sixth year, his mind preserving its 
 wonted vigor, when he was attacked by a painful disease, and 
 fever supervened. He died at Paris, April 12, 1704, and was 
 buried in the cathedral at Meaux. 
 
 It has been said, that French eloquence never appeared with 
 so little art, so little study of effect, as in Bossuet. It was a 
 great mind discovering itself without a veil, and carrying all 
 along with it. The choice of words, the art of arrangement, 
 the harmony of sounds, the elevated or the familiar — all were 
 nothing to him ; everything was good that served to express 
 his thoughts. There is even a rudeness in his simplicity, 
 which seems to disdain every attempt to gratify or seduce the 
 reader. His familiarity with the language of inspiration im- 
 parted to his prelections a tone of almost prophetic authority. 
 His eloquence appeared as a native instinct — a gift direct from 
 Heaven, neither marred nor improved by the study of human 
 rules. His works — controversial, historical, devotional — have 
 passed through numerous editions, and the most celebrated of 
 them have been translated into our own language. 
 
 His sermons were paternal and familiar exhortations : he 
 seldom prepared them, but, abandoning himself to the inspira- 
 
BOSSUET. 255 
 
 tion of the moment, was now simple and touching, now ener- 
 getic and sublime. An admiring recollection of them has 
 been handed down from generation to generation among the 
 people of his charge at Meaux. 
 
 The following is the concluding passage of his funeral ora- 
 tion over the Prince of Conde, already alluded to ; and the 
 more interesting, as with this discourse Bossuet terminated his 
 career as an orator. Having briefly alluded to the splendid 
 deeds of the hero, and then to the qualities of his mind and 
 heart, he proceeded to consider him as a Christian, traced the 
 progress of truth in his soul, and leading the hearers to the 
 death-bed scene, described the last victory of the prince, that 
 of faith over unbelief, and exclaimed : — 
 
 Que se faisait-il dans cette ame ? quelle nouvelle lumiere lui appa- 
 raissait ? quel soudain rayon per9ait la nue, et faisait comme evanouir 
 en ce moment avec toutes les ignorances des sens les tenebres memes, 
 si je I'ose dire, et les saintes obscurites de la foi ? Que devinrent alors 
 ces beaux titres dont notre orgueil est flatte ? Dans I'approclie d'un 
 si beau jour, et des la premiere atteinte d'une si vive lumiere, combien 
 promptement disparaissent tons les fantomes du monde ! que I'eclat 
 de la plus belle victoire parait sombre ! qu'on en meprise la gloire, et 
 qu'on veut de mal a ces faibles yeux qui s'y sont laisse eblouir ! Venez, 
 peuples, venez maintenant ; mais venez plutot, princes et seigneurs, 
 et vous qui jugez la terre, et vous qui ouvrez aux hommes les portes 
 du ciel, et vous plus que tous les autres, princes et princesses, nobles 
 rejetons de tant de rois, lumi^res de la France, mais aujourd'hui 
 obscurcies et couvertes de votre douleur comme d'un nuage ; venez 
 voir le peu qui nous reste d'une si auguste naissance, de tant de gran- 
 deur, de tant de gloire. Jetez les yeux de toutes parts : voila tout ce 
 qu'a pu faire la magnificence et la pi^te pour honorer un heros ; des 
 titres, des inscriptions, vaines marques de ce qui n'est plus ; des 
 figures qui semblent pleurer autour d'un tombeau et des fragiles 
 images d'une douleur que le temps emporte avec tout le reste ; des 
 colonnes qui semblent vouloir porter jusqu'au ciel le magnifique 
 temoignage de notre n^ant ; et rien enfin ne manque dans tous ces 
 bonneurs que celui a qui on les rend. Pleurez done sur ces faibles 
 restes de la vie bumaine, pleurez sur cette triste immortalitd que nous 
 
256 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 donnons aux h^ros ; mais approchez en particulier, 6 vous qui courez 
 avec tant d'ardeur dans la carriere de la gloire, ames guerrieres et 
 intr^pides ; quel autre fut plus digne de vous commander ? mais dans 
 quel autre avez-vous trouve le commandement plus honnete ? pleurez 
 done ce grand capitaine, et dites en gemissant: Voila celui qui nous 
 menait dans les hasards ; sous lui se sont formes tant de renommes 
 capitaines que ses exemples ont eleves aux premiers honneurs de la 
 guerre : son ombre eut pu encore gagner des batailles, et voila que 
 dans son silence son nom meme nous anime, et ensemble il nous aver- 
 tit que pour trouver a la mort quelque reste de nos travaux, et n'arriver 
 pas sans ressource a notre eternelle demeure, avec le roi de la terre il 
 faut encore servir le roi du ciel. Servez done ce roi immortel et si 
 plein de misericorde, qui vous comptera un soupir et un verre d'eau 
 donn^ en son nom plus que tons les autres ne feront jamais tout votre 
 .sang repandu ; et commencez a compter le temps de vos utiles services 
 du jour que vous vous serez donnes a un maitre si bienfaisant. Et 
 vous, ne viendrez-vous pas a ce triste monument, vous, dis-je, qu'il a 
 bien voulu mettre au rang de ses amis ? tons ensemble, en quelque 
 degr^ de sa confiance qu'il vous ait reyus, environnez ce tombeau, ver- 
 sez des larmes avec des pri^res, et, admirant dans un si grand prince 
 une amitie si commode et un commerce si doux, conservez le souvenir 
 d'un heros dont la bont4 avait egale le courage. Ainsi puisse-t-il 
 toujours vous etre un cber entretien ! ainsi puissiez-vous proliter de 
 ses vertus ! et que sa mort, que vous deplorez, vous serve a la fois de 
 consolation et d'exemple ! Pour moi, s'il m'est permis, apres tons les 
 autres, de venir rendre les derniers devoirs a ce tombeau, 6 prince, le 
 digne sujet de nos louanges et de nos regrets, vous vivrez eternelle- 
 ment dans ma mtooire ; votre image y sera trac^e, n6n point avec 
 cette audace qui promettait la victoire, non, je ne veux rien voir en 
 vous de ce que la mort y efface ; vous aurez dans cette image des traits 
 immortels ; je vous y verrai tel que vous etiez a ce dernier jour sous 
 la main de Dieu, lorsque sa gloire sembla commencer a vous appa- 
 raitre. C'est \k que je vous verrai plus triomphant qu'a Fribourg et a 
 Rocroi ; et, ravi d'un si beau triomphe, je dirai en action de graces 
 ces belles paroles du bien-aim6 disciple : Et hcec est victoria quce 
 vincit mundum, fides nostra: *' La veritable victoire, celle qui met sous 
 nos pieds le monde entier, c'est notre foi," Jouissez, prince, de cette 
 victoire, jouissez-en (jternellement par I'immortelle vertu de ce sacri- 
 fice ; agrdez ces derniers efforts d'une voix qui vous fut connue : vous 
 
BOURDALOUE. 257 
 
 mettrez fin a tous ces discours. Au lieu de deplorer la mort des autres, 
 grand prince, dorenavant je veux apprendre de vous a rendre la mienne 
 sainte : heureux si, averti par ces cheveux blancs du compte que je 
 dois rendre de mon administration, je reserve au troupeau que je dois 
 nourrir de la parole de vie les restes d'une voix qui tombe et d'une 
 ardeur qui s'eteint ! 
 
 BouRDALOUE was born at Bourges^ August 20^ 1632. 
 At the age of sixteen he joined the society of Jesuits. He 
 began to preach when he was twenty-four years old. In 1670 
 he appeared at court. The king was so pleased with his elo- 
 quence that he required him to preach ten series of sermons 
 in the royal chapel. He used to say that he had rather hear 
 Bourdaloue's old sermons than the new ones of any one else. 
 Bourdaloue had little of the fervor and grandeur of Bossuet. 
 He was logical and accurate. He reached the heart through 
 the reason, rather than through the emotions. He committed 
 his sermons to memory, and recited them. When asked which 
 of them he liked best, he answered, ^Uhe one that I know 
 best/^ He has been styled ''le predicateur des rois, et le roi 
 des predicateursJ^ He died about a month after Bossuet, 
 May 13, 1704.* 
 
 In the following passage from his sermon on The Last Judg- 
 ment, we have a fair specimen of the court style of preaching 
 we have referred to as combining the high tone of evangelical 
 faithfulness with a due admixture of respect, and even, as it 
 seems to us, of flattery towards the royal auditor : — 
 
 Aussi est-ce proprement aux Monarques et aux Souverains, qu'il 
 appartient de juger ; et jamais la majeste d'un Roi n'est plus auguste, 
 que quand il tient son lit de justice, et qu'il paroit sur le tribunal. 
 Encore plus venerable, quand c'est un Roi qui ajoute a 1' eclat de la 
 couronne les lumieres d'une sagesse toute royale : un Roi qui sait faire 
 le discernement de ses sujets, et peser le merite dans une juste 
 
 * See Bungener's Preacher and tbo King, or Bourdaloue in the Court of 
 Louis XIV. 
 
 22 * 
 
258 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 balance ; qui n'a pour le crime que des chatimens, tandis que toutes 
 ses recompenses sont pour la vertu ; qui non seulement fait etat de 
 venger les injustices et les yiolences, mais qui s'applique a reformer 
 la justice meme ; qui en corrige les abus, qui en r^tablit le bon 
 ordre ; qui, sans eloigner personne de son trone, prete I'oreille aux 
 humbles supplications des petits, ^coute les plaintes des particuliers, 
 et par-la tient les juges et les magistrats dans le devoir : enfin qui se 
 voyant au dessus de tons, n'a rien plus a coeur que d'etre equitable 
 envers tons. Car qu'y a-t-il qui nous represente mieux sur la terre 
 le jugement de Dieu, et qui en soit une image plus sensible et une 
 preuve plus authentique ? 
 
 Mais, sire, si c'est le propre des Rois de juger les peuples, il n'est 
 pas moins Trai que c'est le propre de Dieu de juger les Rois; et 
 comme le grand privilege de la souverainet^ est de ne pouvoir etre 
 juge que de Dieu seul, on pent dire que la grande marque de I'auto- 
 rite supreme de Dieu est d'etre lui seul le Juge de tons les souve- 
 rains. II nous I'a lui-meme marqu^ en cent endroits de I'Ecriture; 
 et si son jugement doit etre terrible pour toutes les conditions des 
 hommes, il semble n^anmoins qu'il aflPecte de la faire paroitre plus 
 redoutable pour les Grands et pour les Rois de la terre : Terribili apud 
 Reges terrce. 
 
 C'est de ce jugement, Sire, oil les Rois seront appeles, aussi bien 
 que les peuples, que j'ai a parler aujourd'hui. Autrefois saint Paul 
 prechant cette matiere en presence meme des infideles et des paiens, 
 la traitoit avec tant de force et tant d'energie, qu'ils en etoient emus, 
 saisis, efifrayes : Disputante autem illo de justitia et castiiate, et de judi- 
 cio futuro, tremef actus Felix, Je n'ai ni le zble, ni I'eloquence de saint 
 Paul : mais aussi j'ai I'avantage de parler devant un Roi Chretien et 
 tr^s-Chretien ; devant un Roi docile aux v^rit^s de la religion, et 
 dispose non seulement a les ^couter, mais a en profiter. Ainsi j'ai 
 droit d'esperer de mon minist^re, tout indigne que j'en suis, un suc- 
 ces beaucoup plus heureux. J'ai besoin pour cela des lumieres du 
 Saint-E sprit. 
 
 Massillon was born iu 1663, June 24tli, at Hieres, in 
 Provence. At an early age he gave promise of future emi- 
 nence. But, finding bis ambition too strong, he retired to an 
 obscure monastery, and devoted himself to penitence and study. 
 
MASSILLON. 259 
 
 He was, however, soon summoned to Paris to take charge of 
 a seminary. He there had an opportunity to hear the cele- 
 brated pulpit orators of the capital. He said that he should 
 not imitate them, if he preached. He resolved that he 
 would persuade and win by the appeals of love, rather 
 than conquer by argumentation, and by presenting merely 
 the terrors of the law. His superiors in the order of the 
 Oratory, to which he belonged, required him to preach, and 
 in 1699 he gave the course of sermons for Lent at Paris. 
 Everybody was fascinated by his style. The streets which 
 led to his church were crowded with carriages. The great 
 cathedral of Notre Dame was filled to overflowing, whenever 
 he preached there. The enthusiasm of the king and the 
 court was equally great, when he appeared in the royal chapel 
 at Versailles. 
 
 It was his fortune to deliver the funeral oration of the 
 Prince of Conti in 1709, of the Dauphin in 1710, and finally 
 of the King in 1715. Few scenes could be more impressive 
 than that, which was witnessed in the royal chapel at Ver- 
 sailles, when the last rites were paid to the Grand Monarque. 
 Massillon took for his text the words of Solomon, '' Void que 
 je suis devenu grand.'* He solemnly pronounced the words, 
 paused, looked fixedly upon the assembly, turned slowly towards 
 the symbols of mourning with which the chapel was hung, then 
 towards the dark mausoleum in the centre of the chapel, and 
 exclaimed, " Dieu seid est grand ^ mes freres.'* 
 
 The regent called him to preach a Car erne before the young 
 king. He composed the ten sermons, which are known by the 
 name of the Petit Careme, in six weeks. He was afterwards 
 made bishop of Clermont. In 1719 he was received by the 
 Academy. He spent the closing years of his life in deeds of 
 charity and devotion to the labors of his diocese. As he passed 
 along the streets of the town in which he lived; it is said that 
 
260 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 the grateful people used to kneel down, crying ^' Vive notre 
 PereJ^ He died of apoplexy, September 28, 1742, 
 
 His style is ricli, almost to verbosity. It is exceedingly 
 flowing and easy, tender and earnest. Voltaire was accus- 
 tomed to have tbe Petit Careme lying on bis table, as one of 
 tbe best models of eloquence. It won for its author the title 
 of tbe Racine of tbe pulpit. 
 
 We give an extract from bis sermon on ^^ Tbe Small Num- 
 ber of the Elect.'' It is said that when this passage was deli- 
 vered, the vast audience arose from their seats, thrilled with 
 admiration; or stricken with terror. 
 
 II n'est peut-etre personne ici, qui ne puisse dire de soi: ** Je vis 
 comme le grand nombre, comme ceux de mon rang, de mon age, de 
 mon ^tat; je suis perdu, si je meurs dans cette voie." Or, quo! de 
 plus propre a eflfrayer une ame a qui il reste encore quelque soin de 
 son salut ? Cependant c'est la multitude, qui ne tremble point ; il n'est 
 qu'un petit nombre de justes, qui opbrent a I'ecart leur salut avec 
 crainte; tout le reste estcalme: on salt en general que le grande 
 nombre se damne ; mais on se flatte qu'apr^s avoir vecu avec la mul- 
 titude, ou sera discern^ a la mort; chacun se met dans le cas d'une 
 exception chim^rique; chacun augure favorablement pour soi. 
 
 Et c'est pour cela que je m'arrete a vous, mes freres, qui etes ici 
 assembles: je ne parle plus du reste des hommes ; je vous regarde 
 comme si vous etiez seuls sur la terre : et voici la pensee qui m'occupe 
 et qui m'epouvante. Je suppose que c'est ici votre derniere heure et la 
 fm de Funivers; que les cieux vont s'ouvrir sur vos tetes ; Jesus- 
 Christ paraitre dans sa gloire au milieu de ce temple, et que vous n'y 
 etes assembles que pour I'attendre, et comme des criminels tremblants, 
 a qui Ton va prononcer, ou une sentence de grace, ou un arret de 
 mort (iternelle: car vous avez beau vous flatter, vous mourrez tels que 
 vous etes aujourd'hui; tons ces desirs de changements, qui vous amu- 
 sent, vous amuseront jusqu'au lit de la mort ; c'est I'experience de tons 
 les sicicles: tout ce que vous trouverez alors en vous de nouveau sera 
 peut-etre un corapte un pcu plus grand que ce que vous auriez 
 aujourd'hui a rendre ; et sur ce que vous ser!ez, si Ton venait vous 
 juger dans le moment, vous pouvez presque decider de ce qui vouf 
 arrivera au sortir de la vie. 
 
MASSILLON — SAURIN. 261 
 
 Or, je vous demande, et je vous le demande frapp^ de terreur, ne 
 s^parant pas en ce point mon sort du votre, et me mettant dans la 
 meme disposition ou je souliaite que vous entriez ; je vous demande 
 done : si J^sus-Christ paraissait dans ce temple, au milieu de cette 
 assembl^e, la plus auguste de I'univers, pour nous juger, pour faire le 
 terrible discernement des boucs et des brebis, croyez-vous que le plus 
 grand nombre de tout ce que nous sommes ici fut place a la droite ? 
 Croyez-vous que les choses du moins fussent egales? Croyez-vous 
 qu'il s'y trouvat seulement dix justes, que le Seigneur ne put trouver 
 autrefois en cinq villes tout enti^res ? Je vous le demande ; vous 
 I'ignorez, et je I'ignore moi-meme ; vous seul, o mon Dieu ! connaissez 
 ceux, qui vous appartiennent ; mais si nous ne connaissons pas ceux 
 qui lui appartiennent, nous savons du moins que les p^cheurs ne lui 
 appartiennent pas. Or, qui sont les fideles ici assembles ? Les titres 
 et les dignites ne doivent etre comptes pour rien ; vous en serez 
 d^pouilles devant J^sus-Christ : qui sont-ils ? beaucoup de pecheurs 
 qui ne veulent pas se convertir ; encore plus qui le voudraient, mais 
 qui different leur conversion ; plusieurs autres qui ne se convertissent 
 jamais que pour retomber ; enfin un grand nombre qui croient n' avoir 
 pas besoin de conversion : voila le parti des r^prouves. Retranchez ces 
 quatre sortes de pecheurs de cette assemblee sainte ; car ils en seront 
 retranches au grand jour; paraissez maintenant, justes; oil etes- 
 vous ? Restes d'Israel, passez a la droite : froment de Jesus-Christ, 
 demelez-vous de cette paille destinee au feu : 6 Dieu ! oii sont vos 
 ^lus ? et que reste-t-il pour votre partage ? 
 
 France does not acknowledge tlie Protestant Saurin (1677- 
 1730), as the revocation of the Edict of Nantes expatriated 
 him in childhood ; but his sermons, characterized by powerful, 
 manly, vehement, and often touching eloquence, original con- 
 ception, and forcible argument, occupy a distinguished place 
 in the theological literature of the French language. 
 
 Sacred eloquence was not the only kind exercised in France 
 at this time. It is true that political or parliamentary oratory 
 was as yet unknown ; for the parliaments, which were mere 
 corporate judicatures, no sooner touched on matters of state 
 and government, than Louis XIV. entered, booted and spurred, 
 with whip in hand, and not figuratively but literally lashed the 
 
262 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 refractory deliberation into silence and obedience. There was 
 another species, however, though of less celebrity and later 
 growth than that of the pulpit — the judiciary, or eloquence 
 of the bar — which enjoyed a considerable degree of freedom. 
 The advocates even then claimed a sort of immunity from the 
 curious eye of the Jesuits and of the police, both as regarded 
 their opinions and their libraries ; and the bar long cherished 
 and vindicated whatever of constitutional and legal right existed 
 in France. 
 
 Forensic eloquence, however, had not wholly escaped the 
 affected jargon of euphuism. Law and reason were too often 
 overlaid by a fantastic abuse of classic and Scripture citations; 
 worthless conceits, and impertinent erudition ; and Lemaitre, 
 the earliest orator of this period that demands our attention, 
 was by no means free from these vices ; yet he had fire and 
 feeling, and was more imaginative, ardent, and brilliant than 
 those of his followers, who are considered the reformers of 
 French eloquence in this respect. 
 
 Patru, Pellisson, Terrasson, Cochin, D'Aguesseau, were the 
 men who successfully purified and elevated the language of 
 the tribunals. Patru cultivated ancient literature, and was 
 the first, says Voltaire, who introduced a pure style at the 
 bar. ^^ His pleadings,'^ says Hume, '' are very elegant, and 
 give us room to imagine what so fine a genius could have per- 
 formed in questions concerning public liberty or slavery, peace 
 or war, who exerts himself with such success in debates con- 
 cerning the price of an old horse, or the gossipping story of a 
 quarrel betwixt an abbess and her nuns.'' 
 
 Patru was followed and greatly surpassed by Pellisson, the 
 confidential secretary of Fouquet. His pleadings, which Vol- 
 taire has pronounced equal to Cicero's Oration for Ligarius, 
 were composed during the time that he was incarcerated in 
 
PELLISSON. 263 
 
 the Bastille as tlie accomplice of his fallen patron. They were 
 not intended for personal delivery, but they possess an interest 
 of their own, as the offspring of a disinterested and fearless 
 friendship supplicating for mercy without abandoning the high 
 ground of innocence and justice; stating hardships without 
 seeming to complain ; working upon the feelings and minister- 
 ing to the vanity of the judge, without exciting in the bosom 
 of the jealous tyrant the apprehension that his weakness was 
 played upon, or his understanding slighted. We give in his 
 own language a few sentences from his first pleading, addressed 
 directly to Louis XIV. He is deprecating the mode of trial 
 by special commissioners, instead of before the ordinary tri- 
 bunals. 
 
 S'il faut enfin entendre la voix du peuple, cette voix, sire, qui est si 
 souvent celle de Dieu, cette voix qui fait, a vrai dire, la gloire des rois, 
 qui parle si magnifi quern en t aujourd'hui, par toute la terre, des vertus 
 deV. M.,* elle dira a V. M. que tout ce qui n'est point naturel et 
 ordinaire, lui est suspect — qu'un innocent meme, condamne par notre 
 parlement, passe toujours pour coupable — qu'un coupable meme con- 
 damne par des commissaires, laisse toujours au public et a la posterity 
 quelque soup9on d'innocence — qu'enfin le general du monde regarde 
 ces deux sortes de juges comme deux choses tout a fait differentes — 
 temoin la reponse de ce bon religieux, que I'histoire n'a pas trouvee 
 indigne d'etre rapportee, quand le roi rran9ois I. regardant a Mar- 
 coussy le tombeau d'un surintendant immol^, sous un des rois prec^- 
 dens, aux jalousies de la cour, et a la passion d'un due de Bourgogne, 
 et ce grand prince disant que c'etait dommage qu'on elit fait mourir 
 un tel homme par justice — " ce n'est pas par justice, sire," repondit 
 iDgenument le religieux, "c'est par commissaires." 
 
 Towards the close, he afi'ects a sudden transition from the 
 justice of the king to his mercy — affects, we say, because he 
 had been covertly appealing to it before. 
 
 Jusqu'ici, sire, je n'ai parle qu'a la justice de V. M. — Que cette 
 justice meme me permette maintenant de m'adresser a ses autres 
 vertus, a sa bonte, a sa clemence, a sa sagesse; si j'ai defendu M. 
 
 * Votre Majeste. 
 
264 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 Fouquet comme innocent, que je parle encore pour lui comme cou- 
 pable, en faisant faire a V. M. certaines reflexions generales, mais 
 importantes, qui le supposant meme coupable, demandent son salut 
 et sa grace a un prince tel que V. M. Que V. M. me pardonne, s'il 
 lui plait, cette longueur en un sujet important ; je vais finir, je ne lui 
 dirai rien de commun, rien que de grand, rien que d'illustre, rien que 
 de digne d'un roi. 
 
 In his concluding peroration, lie anticipates tlie judgment 
 of posterity upon Louis XIV. ; but this passage, though 
 highly extolled by French critics, is too exaggerated for modern 
 and British taste. The subsequent career of Pellisson did not 
 realize the expectation that might have been formed either 
 of his superior talents or disinterested character. Being re- 
 leased from the Bastille, after a captivity of nearly five years, 
 he employed his talents in composing panegyrics upon the 
 king from whom he had suffered such treatment. Moreover, 
 he abandoned the religion of a Huguenot, and embraced the 
 Romish faith ; became an abbe and a courtier ; made his for- 
 tune; and composed Prayers during Mass, Pieces of Gal- 
 lantry, A Treatise on the Eucharist, and Amatory Verses to 
 Olympia, It is agreed, however, that he died unsacramented, 
 and, as some say, sceptical and indiiferent on the subject of 
 religion. 
 
 The most accomplished judicial orator, however, of this age, 
 if he does not more properly belong to the eighteenth century, 
 was D'Aguesseau, afterwards chancellor of France. He 
 never practised as a mere advocate, having commenced his 
 career at an early age with a function in the magistracy, which, 
 unlike that of England, afforded frequent and favorable occa- 
 dons for eloquence in the distribution of justice. 
 
ROCHEFOUCAULD. 265 
 
 XVL— THE MORALISTS. 
 
 ROCHEFOUCAULD — LA BRUYERE — NICOLE. 
 
 Francis, Duke of Rochefoucauld,* was the representa- 
 tive of one of those noble families wliose power had often mea- 
 sured itself with that of the sovereign, but had for some time 
 been forced, by the vigorous policy of Richelieu, to restrain 
 itself within its own feudal domains. He was born at the 
 paternal castle of Rochefoucauld, in Angoumois, in 1613, two 
 years after the assassination of Henry IV. ; and first came to 
 court during the height of the cardinal's power, ^^ a young man 
 of prepossessing appearance and dignified carriage,' ' as Madame 
 Maintenon describes him; ^^of considerable talent, too, but 
 little knowledge, his education having been neglected. '^ 
 
 When, on the death of Cardinal Richelieu, the nobles 
 deemed it their turn to lift their heads again^ Rochefoucauld, 
 in common with other nobles, was drawn into those conflicts 
 known as the Wars of the Fronde, as the party was called that 
 opposed the queen-regent and her minister. Cardinal Mazarin. 
 Yet it would seem that he scarcely knew what he desired, 
 and had no motive for either fighting or intriguing except the 
 mere restlessness of his spirit, and his attachment to the 
 Duchess of Longueville ; according to the well-known couplet 
 which he wrote at the bottom of her portrait: — 
 
 Pour meriter son coeur, pour plaire a ses beaux yeux, 
 J'ai fait la guerre aux rois : je Paurois faite aux dieux. 
 
 Truth is, he was hurried into a course of action by passions 
 stronger than his reason, and events yet stronger than his pas- 
 sions. A serious wound, however, which he received in the 
 battle of the Faubourg of St. Antoine, disabled him from con- 
 
 * A translation of his Maxims was published at New York in 1S51. For 
 a sketch of his life see Lardner's Cabinet Cyclopedia. 
 23 
 
266 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 tinuiDg in the struggle. He wisely, therefore, resolved to 
 extricate himself from the web in which he was entangled : 
 quarrelled with the duchess; received permission from the 
 Prince of Conde to dissolve his alliance with him ; committed 
 his estate to his steward, to endeavor to retrieve it from the 
 utter ruin which the war had nearly involved ; restricted him- 
 self to a small yearly sum to live upon ; and being afterwards 
 included in the amnesty, took up his residence at Paris, and 
 turned moralist. He was one of the brightest ornaments of 
 the court circle of Louis XIV., whose confidence, however, 
 he never entirely regained. His chosen friends in his declin- 
 ing years were Madame de Sevigne, one of the most accom- 
 plished women of the age, and Madame de Lafayette, who 
 says of him : '^ He gave me intellect, and I reformed his 
 heart.'' It would seem that it had much need of reformation, 
 after the life he had spent among the fools, knaves, and de- 
 moralized women of the Fronde ; and, moreover, that if the 
 lady succeeded in removing the taint from his heart, it con- 
 tinued to stain his understanding. It was at this time that 
 he composed his famous Reflexions et Sentences, ou Maximes 
 Morales, which being pablished in 1665, gained for ih.e author 
 a lasting reputation, no less from the perfection of his style 
 than the boldness of his paradoxes. The leading peculiarity 
 of this work is the principle, that self-interest is the ruling 
 motive in corrupt human nature, placing every virtue as well 
 as vice under contribution to itself. Some of the maxims are 
 obvious enough truths, as the following : — 
 
 There is in the human heart a perpetual generation of passions ; so 
 that the destruction of one is almost always the birth of another. 
 
 We promise according to our hopes ; we perform according to our 
 fears. 
 
 No one is either so happy or so unhappy as he imagines. 
 
 Fortune turns everything to the advantage of those whom she 
 favors. 
 
ROCHEFOUCAULD. 267 
 
 There is but one true love, but there are a thousand copies. 
 
 It is more shameful to distrust our friends than to be deceived by 
 them. 
 
 A fool has not stuff enough in him to be virtuous. 
 
 Our minds are more indolent than our bodies. 
 
 Jealousy is always born with love, but does not always die with it. 
 
 It would seem that nature has concealed talents and capacities in 
 the depths of our minds of which we have no knowledge : that pas- 
 sion alone can bring these into day, and give us more certain and per- 
 fect views than art can afford. 
 
 We arrive quite new at the different ages of life, and often want 
 experience in spite of the number of years we have lived. 
 
 It is being truly virtuous to be willing to be always exposed to the 
 view of the virtuous. 
 
 Others are somewhat subtle, as the celebrated one, ^^ that we 
 often find something in the misfortunes of our best friends that 
 is not displeasing to us.^' 
 
 It is generally agreed that Rochefoucauld^ s views of human 
 nature were perverted by the specimens of it which he had 
 first and most intimately known. The Fronde was the soil in 
 which his Maximes had root, though better times softened 
 their harshness, and inspired better and higher thoughts. It 
 usually happens that public convulsions give birth to heroism 
 as well as crime, and that the cruelties of war and massacre 
 are partly redeemed by courage and self-sacrifice ; but, in the 
 wars of the Fronde, there were neither any splendid actions 
 nor any signal crimes. Vice and folly, a restless desire of 
 power and an eager yet aimless party-spirit, animated the 
 Frondeurs ; their war was a contest of knaves, each fighting 
 for his own private ends, under color of patriotism, and receiv- 
 ing defeat as his well-merited punishment. Hence the low 
 opinion which Eochefoucauld formed of human nature. His 
 Memoires sur le Regne cV Anne d^AutricJie, embody the story 
 of the Fronde ; and his Maximes j the moral philosophy he 
 
268 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 deduced from it. He died in 1680, in the arms of Bossuet, 
 leaving poor Madame de Lafayette lonely and inconsolable. 
 
 While Rochefoucauld was taking so deep and so melancholy 
 a view of human nature, through the medium of an age which 
 had forced every character into unnatural extremes, the young 
 Bruyere was serving his apprenticeship as an observer, in aj 
 comparatively disciplined society, and at a time when both! 
 virtues and vices had regained their natural proportions. 
 
 The fame of his writings contrasts singularly with the ob- 
 scurity of his life. He was exercising a kind of clerkship in 
 a provincial town, when Bossuet brought him to Paris, it is 
 not known on what recommendation, to teach history to the 
 young prince, Louis de Bourbon. After the education of the 
 prince was completed, La Bruyere continued a member of the 
 household. Being naturally an observer and a moralist, he 
 published a translation of the Characters of Theophrastus ; 
 and afterwards, in 1687, appended to it a similar work of his 
 own, Les Oaracteres de Notre Siecle, in which he excelled his 
 model in the exactness and variety of the portraits, as well as 
 in the excellence of the style. It was read with avidity, not 
 only on account of its intrinsic merit, but because it was be- 
 lieved that a living name might be written under every one 
 of the portraits, though they were professedly delineations, not 
 of individuals, but of characters. 
 
 As the PensSes of Pascal and the Maximes of Rochefoucauld 
 were then in every one's hands, La Bruyere deemed it neces- 
 sary to anticipate the charge of imitation ; and to this we owe 
 the following characteristic remarks on his predecessors : — 
 
 L'un [the Thoughts'], par Fengagement de son auteur, fait servir 
 la metaphysique ^ la religion, fait connaitre Tame, ses passions, sea 
 vices, traite les grands et les serieux motifs pour eonduire a la vertu, 
 et veut rendre rhomme chroticn. 
 
 L'autre [the Maxiim'], qui est la production d'un esprit instruit 
 
BRUYERE. 269 
 
 par le commerce du monde, et dont la d^licatesse ^tait ^gale a la 
 penetration, observant que I'amour-propre est dans Thomme la cause 
 de tous ses faibles, I'attaque sans relache, quelque part oh il le 
 trouve ; et cette unique pensee, comme multipliee en mille autres, a 
 toujours, par le choix des mots et la vari6t6 de I'expression, la grace 
 de la nouveaute. 
 
 After whicli La Bruyere thus cliaracterizes Hmself : — 
 
 L'on ne suit aucune de ces routes dans I'ouvrage qui est joint a la 
 traduction des Car adores [of Theophrastus] ; il est tout different des 
 deux autres que je viens de toucher; moins sublime que le premier 
 et moins delicat que le second, il ne tend qu'a rendre I'liomme raison- 
 nable, mais par des voies simples et communes. 
 
 Pascal liad pronounced upon the imperfection of human 
 nature with his natural energy, rather than exposed it by care- 
 ful analysis. He had declared the depths of its evils, and the 
 powerlessness of its remedies ; he had thrown a blasting light 
 on those things which men are wont to call the guarantees of 
 civil society; and bj proving all natural virtue and all human 
 remedies unworthy of confidence, had sought to drive them 
 upon faith by pursuing them with despair. Rochefoucauld, 
 prosecuting his pitiless analysis of the disguises of the human 
 heart, and leading his readers to suspect their most natural 
 emotions, had well-nigh taken away the desire of ingenuous 
 virtue, by proving its impossibility. But La Bruyere endea- 
 vored to make the most of our nature, such as it is ; to render 
 men better, even with their imperfections ; and to assist them 
 by a moral code proportioned to their strength, or rather to 
 their weakness. However his philosophy might and must 
 have been elevated and purified by the genius of Christianity, 
 it is unquestionably based professedly on reason, and not on 
 revelation. Yet such was the predominance of the religious 
 feeling in the age of Louis XIV., that this author, in his last 
 edition of the OaractereSj offered the following explanation, 
 which, it must be admitted, is more prudent than true : — 
 23* 
 
270 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 Les hommes de gout, pieux et ^clair^s, dit-il, n'ont-ils pas observe 
 que de seize chapitres qui composent le livre des CaracthreSy il y en 
 a quinze qui, s'attachant a decouvrir le faux et le ridicule qui se ren- 
 contrent dans les objets des passions et des attachements humains, ne 
 tendent qu'a miner les obstacles qui affaiblis&ent d'abord, et qui 
 eteignent ensuite dans tous les hommes, la connaissance de Bieu ; 
 qu'ainsi ils ne sont que des preparations au seizieme et dernier 
 chapitre, oiiTatheisme est attaque et peut-etre confondu, otiles preuves 
 de Dieu, une partie du moins de celles que les faibles hommes sont 
 capables de recevoir dans leur esprit, sont apportees, ou la providence 
 de Dieu est defendu centre I'insulte et les plaintes des libertins ? 
 
 Such an explanation speaks volumes of tlie necessity that there 
 was in those days for recognising Christianity as the basis of 
 virtue, and of the difficulties which an author had to encounter 
 in setting up a system of godless philosophy; but it ought not 
 to deceive any one as to the real character and tendency of 
 La Bruyere's work. It is in the Essai sur les Moyens de 
 Gonserver la Paix avec les Hommes, by NicOLE the Port 
 Eoyalist, that we must look for a system of truly Christian 
 ethics, derived from the precepts of revelation, and elegant as 
 to their style, though displaying little original talent. 
 
 The only speculative philosopher worthy of mention in this 
 age is Malebranche. He was a disciple of Descartes, and 
 maintained the doctrines of his great master on the method 
 of reasoning, on the nature of the soul, and on the automatism 
 of the lower animals. But instead of admitting innate ideas, 
 he held that we see all in Deity, and that it is only by our 
 spiritual union with the Being who knows all things that we 
 know anything. He proved the existence of the body from 
 revelation, denied the action of the soul on the body, and even 
 the action of corporeal substances on each other, attributing 
 their reciprocal influences entirely to divine intervention. He 
 professed optimism, explained the existence of evil by saying 
 that Deity nets only as a universal cause, and founded all 
 
EOSSUET — MEZERAY. 271 
 
 morality on the idea of order. Such are the leading doctrines 
 of Malebranche's Eeclierclie a la Veritej and such his effort 
 to reconcile philosophy with revelation ; a task which would 
 have been deemed superfluous either in the preceding or the 
 following age. His paradoxical opinions on several points of 
 philosophy and theology, met with lively opposition. Arnaud 
 disputed his views on the nature of grace ; Regis, those on 
 motion ; and Laing, those on divine love. His philosophy is 
 now exploded, and his works little read ; though they are re- 
 ferred to as models of style in this department of authorship.. 
 
 XVII.—HISTORY AND MEMOIRS. 
 
 BOSSUET, MEZERAY, ST. REAL, FLEURY, ROLLIN, DE RETZ, ST. SIMON, COUNT 
 
 HAMILTON. 
 
 History attained no very high degree of excellence during 
 this period. We have already alluded to the Discours sur 
 V Histoire Universelle of Bossuet, which is not so much a 
 history as a religious commentary on the designs of the 
 Supreme Being respecting the world — a sermon, with general 
 history for the text. At a somewhat earlier date, Mezeray 
 (1610-1683) was led from the publication of political pamph- 
 lets to those studies which suggested the compilation of a his- 
 tory of France. His work, which brings the history down to 
 the reign of Louis XIII., appeared in three folio volumes be- 
 tween 1643 and 1651, and obtained for him a high reputation ] 
 the style is clear, facile, and nervous, and the spirit which per- 
 vades it bold and independent ; but the author either had not 
 access to authentic records, or did not carefully consult them, 
 and hence the facts are not to be depended upon. In like 
 manner, St. Real's Histoire de la Conjuration des E^pagnoU 
 contre Venise, is little else than a historical romance. 
 
272 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 The epithet of ^^ judicious'' has become inseparably connected 
 with the name of the Abbe Fleury (1640-1723), tutor under 
 Fenelon to the grandchildren of Louis XIV. His ecclesiastical 
 history, reaching from the first establishment of Christianity to 
 the year 1414, was pronounced by Voltaire the best work of the 
 kind that had ever appeared. 
 
 An author of similar stamp was the good Rollin (1661- 
 1741), who being forced to quit the professor's chair from a 
 suspicion of being infected with Jansenism, devoted his de- 
 clining years to the composition of works, chiefly historical, 
 for the instruction of young people. His Ancient History is 
 familiar in our language, and was long the first, if not the only 
 book on the subject that was put into the hands of English 
 youth. In point of date, it scarcely belongs to the age under 
 review ; but it does completely in style and spirit, being a work 
 of the same class as Bossuet's universal and Fleury' s ecclesias- 
 tical history — more remarkable for the excellence of its inten- 
 tions, than for the display of strictly historical talent. 
 
 The truth is, that the writers of this period having no know- 
 ledge of political science, viewed history chiefly as a vehicle 
 for fine composition, and knew no higher ambition than that 
 of imitating the ancients, to which some, as in the examples 
 adduced, added the desire to derive from it illustrations of 
 moral and religious truth. They may, therefore, be said to 
 have marked rather than filled a void in French literature. 
 
 The writers of Memoirs were more happy. At an earlier 
 period — that is, in the sixteenth century — Brantome, a 
 gentleman attached to the suite of Charles IX. and Henry III., 
 having met with all the great people of his day in France, and 
 also many of those in other countries, employed his declining 
 years in describing the men and manners he had observed. 
 His Memoires are classified as Vies des Ilommes Illvstres et 
 
SULLY — CARDINAL DE RETZ. 273 
 
 Grands Capitaines Frangais ; des Grands Capitaines Etran^ 
 gers ; des Dames lllustres ; des Dames Galantes ; and Bot- 
 withstanding some anecdotes wliicli are considered apocryphal, 
 they are admitted to embody but too faithful a representation 
 of that singular mixture of elegance and grossness, of super- 
 stition and impiety, of chivalrous feelings and licentious 
 morals, which characterized the sixteenth century. 
 
 Then there had been the Duke of Sully, the skilful 
 financier of Henry IV., in the earlier half of the seventeenth 
 century. He left valuable memoirs of the stirring events of 
 his day, but in a somewhat singular form, as under the suppo- 
 sition that his secretaries were relating to him the history of 
 his own life. 
 
 In the period now under review, appears the Cardinal de 
 Retz (1614-1679), who took so active a part in the agitations 
 of the Fronde, and left Memoiresj which were published for 
 the first time in 1717. They embody the enlarged views of 
 the true historian, as well as the details of the narrator, and 
 breathe the impetuous spirit of a man whose native element is 
 civil commotion, and who looks on the chieftainship of a party 
 as worthy to engage the best powers both of his head and 
 heart. 
 
 Before introducing a specimen of his work, it is proper to 
 say something about its style. The classical language of 
 French literature had been formed by the professional authors, 
 who had confined it within somewhat narrow bounds, and 
 guarded its purity with the most jealous care. But parallel to 
 the limpid stream which flowed through their works, there 
 rolled another, which arose from a difi'erent source — rough and 
 headlong, it is true, but abundant and powerful. It was the 
 language of those practical people — men of camps and courts 
 — who were too much out of the sphere of literary interests 
 
274 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 to make a conscience of classical forms of speecli : men who 
 lived near enough the masses to borrow what was picturesque 
 in their phraseology ; distant enough not to adopt what was 
 vulgar; and high enough to affect more or less independence 
 of the ipse dixit of literary legislators. Many of these aris- 
 tocratic writers availed themselves of such a position only to 
 revel in grotesque inaccuracies, and ^^ to defy the grammar to 
 which even kings yielded subjection.'^ In glancing over their 
 works, we easily detect this feudal pride assuming the privi- 
 lege of framing its own locutions, and even orthography, and 
 appearing to glory in slovenliness and barbarism. But when 
 this somewhat irregular style is employed by men of real 
 talent, as the Cardinal de Retz and the Due de St. Simon, it 
 appears as a superior dialect, and exhibits phases of the lan- 
 guage no less distinct than those furnished by a different era. 
 
 In introducing, therefore, some passages from Cardinal de 
 Retz, we apprise the reader that his is not classical French ; 
 that it abounds with negligences and irregularities which 
 would have shocked the litterateurs of the day; but it affords 
 a fine specimen of this bold and independent mode of taking 
 the shortest way to the end in view ; employing whatever locu- 
 tions are most expressive, or most at hand, and trampling on 
 conventionalities whenever they were found inconvenient. 
 
 The following graphic sketches of Richelieu and Mazarin 
 are from his account of the war of the Fronde. 
 
 Le cardinal de Richelieu avait de la naissance. Sa jeunesse jeta 
 des etincelles de son merite. II se distingiia en Sorbonne ; on remar- 
 qua de fort bonne heure qu'il avait de la force et de la vivacite dans 
 I'esprit. II prenait d'ordinaire tr^s-bien son parti. II ^tait homme 
 de parole oil un grand interet ne Tobligeait pas au contraire ; et en 
 cela il n'oubliait rien pour sauver les apparences de la bonne foi. II 
 n'(jtait pas liberal, mais il donnait plus qu'il ne promettait, et il assai- 
 Bonnait admirablement ses bienfaits. II aimait la gloire beaucoup 
 plus que la morale ne le permet ; mais il faut avouer qu'il n'abusait 
 qu'a proportion do son m6rite de la dispense qu'il avait prise sur le 
 
CARDINAL DE RETZ. 275 
 
 point de I'exces de son ambition. II n'avait ni I'esprit ni le coeur au- 
 dessus des perils ; il n'avait ni I'un ni Fautre au-dessous ; et Ton pent 
 dire qu'il en prevint davantage par sa sagacite qu'il n'en snrmonta 
 par sa fermete. II etait bon ami ; il eut meme souhaite d'etre aime 
 du public ; mais quoiqu^il eut la civilite, I'exterieur et d'autres parties 
 propres a cet effet, il n'en eut jamais je ne sais quo! qui est encore en 
 cette matiere plus requis qu'en toute autres. II an^antissait par son 
 pouvoir et par son faste royal la majeste personnelle du roi ; mais il 
 remplit avec tant de dignite les fonctions de la rojaute, qu'il fall ait 
 n'etre pas du vulgaire pour ne pas confondre le bien et le mal de ce 
 fait. II distinguait plus judicieusement qu'homme du monde entre le 
 mal et le pis, entre le bien et le mieux ; ce qui est une grande qualite 
 a un ministre. II s'impatientait trop facilement dans les petites 
 choses qui etaient les prealables des grandes ; mais ce defaut, qui 
 vient de la sublimite de I'esprit, est toujours joint gt des lumieres qui 
 le suppleent. II avait assez de religion pour ce monde ; il allait au 
 bien, ou par inclination, ou par bon sens, toutes les fois que son in- 
 teret ne le portait point au mal, qu^il connaissait parfaitement quand 
 il le faisait. II ne considerait Tetat que pour sa vie ; mais jamais 
 ministre n'a eu plus d'application a faire croire qu'il en menageait 
 Favenir. Enfin il faut confesser que tons ses vices out ete de ceux 
 qui ne peuvent avoir pour instruments que de grandes vertus. 
 
 •X- -x- 4«- ^ 
 
 Le cardinal Mazarin etait d'un caractbre tout contraire. Sa nais- 
 sance etait basse, et son enfance honteuse. Au sortir du Colis^e il 
 apprit a piper, ce qui lui attira des coups de baton d'un orfevre de 
 Rome, appele Moretto. II fut capitaine d'infanterie en Valteline ; et 
 Bagni, qui ^tait son general, m'a dit qu'il ne passa dans sa guerre, 
 qui ne fut que de trois mois, que pour un escroc. II eut la nonciature 
 extraordinaire en France par la faveur du cardinal Antoine Bar- 
 berini, qui ne s'acquerait pas dans ce temps-la par de bons raoyens. 
 II plut a Cbavigny par les contes libertins d'ltalie, et par Cbavigny a 
 Richelieu, qui le fit cardinal, par le meme esprit, a ce qu'an a cru, 
 qui obligca Auguste a laisser a Tibere la succession de I'empire. La 
 pourpre ne I'empeelia pas de demeurer valet sous Richelieu. La reine 
 I'ayant choisi, faute d'autre, ce qui est vrai, quoi qu'on en dise, il 
 parut d'abord I'original de Trivelino principe. La fortune I'ayant ebloui 
 et tons les autres, il s'^rigea et on I'erigea en Richelieu ; mais il n'en 
 eut que I'impudence de I'imitation. II se fit de la honte de tout ce 
 dont I'autre s'etait fait de I'honneur. II se moqua de la religion. II 
 
276 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 promit tout parce qu'il ne voulut rien tenir. II ne fut ni doux ni 
 cruel, parce qu'il ne se souvenait ni des bienfaits, ni des injures. II 
 s'aimait trop, ce qui est le naturel des ames laches ; il se craignait 
 trop peu, ce qui est le caract^re de ceux qui n'ont pas le soin de leur 
 reputation. II prevoyait assez bien le mal, parce qu'il avait souvent 
 peur, mais il n'y remediait pas a proportion, parce qu'il n'avait pas 
 tant de prudence que de peur. II avait de I'esprit, de I'insinuation, 
 de I'enjouement, des manieres; mais le vilain coeur paraissait toujours 
 au travers, et au point que ces qualites eurent dans I'adversite tout 
 Fair du ridicule, et ne perdirent pas dans la prosperity celui de la 
 fourberie. II porta le filoutage dans le ministere, ce qui n'est arrive 
 qu'a lui, et le filoutage faisait que le ministere, meme heureux et 
 absolu, ne lui seyait pas bien, et que le m^pris s'y glissa, qui est la 
 maladie la plus dangereuse d'un etat, et dont la contagion se repand 
 le plus aisement et le plus promptement du chef dans les membres. 
 ■X- ^ ^ ^ 
 
 Comme il marchait sur les pas du cardinal de Richelieu, qui avait 
 acheve de detruire toutes les anciennes maximes de I'etat, il suivait 
 son chemin, qui etait de tons cotes borde de precipices, que le cardi- 
 nal de Richelieu n'avait pas ignores : mais il ne se servait pas des 
 appuis par lesquels le cardinal de Richelieu avait assure sa marche. 
 J'expliquerai ce peu de paroles, qui comprend beaucoup de choses, par 
 un exemple. Le cardinal de Richelieu avait affecte d'abaisser les corps, 
 mais il n'avait pas oublie de manager les particuliers. Cette idee 
 suffit pour vous faire concevoir tout le reste. 
 
 The Due DE St. Simon was another of those who made no 
 pretensions to classical writing, and would have disdained to 
 be '^ an academic subject/^ as he himself expressed it. He 
 valued himself on being one of the last of the great lords of 
 France, but did not dream of being esteemed one of the 
 greatest writers of the seventeenth century. Such, however, 
 he was in his own way. However far his style may be from 
 classical, it is that of a man of genius. If the form in which 
 he begins a sentence does not suit the thought he would bring 
 out, he forces the rule, or bends or extends it, but scorns to 
 go back; makes his beginning nolens-volens agree with the 
 end ; and ^^ hence,'' say French critics, ^^ some errors more or 
 
ST. SIMON. 277 
 
 less grating to the ear, but hence also some happy discoveries 
 and veritable graces of style/^ St. Simon himself felt that 
 he ought to have composed more correctly ; but this would 
 have involved rewriting the whole — a task to which he was 
 unequal, he said, and which he feared might prove a thankless 
 one after all. 
 
 This improvisatore talent the Duke de St. Simon shared in 
 common with another remarkable writer of the same period — 
 Madame de Sevigne; though the latter, from greater cultiva- 
 tion and less impetuosity, was more correct with the same 
 rapidity. Both avowed their incorrigibility. ^^I never had 
 the courage to read over my letters,^' said Madame de Sevigne, 
 " for I never altered them except for the worse.'' And so St. 
 Simon, in his conclusion : ^^ I have never been able to cure 
 myself of writing rapidly." Great vivacity seems scarcely 
 compatible with the labor of accuracy; and writers of this 
 sort, in trying to examine their thoughts too closely, either dis- 
 sipate them altogether, or lose confidence in themselves. In 
 seeking the perfection of deep thinkers, they lose those impro- 
 visatore beauties which Moliere so poetically expresses as con- 
 stituting the superiority of fresco over oil painting : — 
 
 La paresse de rhuile, allant avec lenteur, 
 
 Du plus tardif genie attend la pesanteur ; * * « 
 
 Et sur cette peinture on peut, pour faire mieux, 
 
 Revenir, quand on veut, avec de nouveaux yeux. 
 
 Mais la fresque est pressante, et veut, sans complaisance, 
 
 Qu'un peintre s'accommode a son impatience. 
 
 Avec elle il n'est point de retour a tenter, 
 
 Et tout, au premier coup, se doit executer. 
 
 All the styles of the seventeenth century are found in St. 
 Simon. Here is the long period of Descartes loaded with inci- 
 dents, but made clear by repetition ; the boldness and emphasis 
 of Bossuet; the high coloring of Bruyere; and the easy 
 familiar gossip of Madame de Sevigne. His language has 
 24 
 
278 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 been compared to a torrent^ wWcli appears somewhat encum- 
 bered by the debris which it carries, yet makes its way with 
 no less rapidity. It seems to pertain more to the reign of 
 Lonis XIII., than to the middle of the eighteenth century, 
 which is nearly its date. 
 
 But if the language of this author is that of the seven- 
 teenth century, with the shades we have marked, his spirit is 
 widely different. When St. Simon appeared at court, the 
 splendors of the reign of Louis XIV. were waning ; the great 
 generals and the great ministers had passed away ; the king 
 remained still majestic in himself, but without his cortege of 
 superior men ; now surrounded by upstarts chosen by caprice, 
 or thrown upon him by chance, flattering him in his passion 
 for absolute rule, and in the greatest fault of his life — his mar- 
 riage with Madame de Maintenon. St. Simon received im- 
 pressions of the decline no less strongly than the men of the 
 first half of this reign had received those of the greatness of 
 the monarchy. He was in political opinion a reformer ; and 
 in this respect resembled Fenelon, from whom he differs so 
 much in style. Like the venerable ecclesiastic, too, he was 
 warmly attached to the Duke of Burgundy, and conceived 
 high hopes of the advantages likely to accrue to France when 
 this prince should hold the reins of government. 
 
 Our extract is from his portrait of this prince : — 
 
 Ce prince, heritier n^cessaire, puis presomptif de la couronne, 
 naquit terrible, et sa premiere jeunesse fit trembler; dur et colore 
 jusqu'aux derniers emportements, et jusque centre les choses inani- 
 mees ; imp^tueux avec fureur ; incapable de souffrir la moindre 
 resistance, meme des heures et des ^l^ments, sans entrer dans des 
 fougues a faire craindre que tout ne se rompit dans son corps; 
 opiniatre a I'exc^s; passion^ pour toute esp^ce de volupt^ ; il aimait 
 le vin, la bonne chere, la chasse avec fureur, la musique avec une 
 Borte de ravissement, et le jeu encore, oti il ne pouvait supporter 
 d'etre vaincu et oil le danger avec lui etait extreme ; enfin, livr^ a 
 toutes les passions et transport^ de tons les plaisirs ; souvent farouche. 
 
ST. SIMON— COUNT HAMILTON. 279 
 
 naiurellement port^ a la cruaut^ ; barbare en railleries et h produire 
 les ridicules avec une justesse qui assommait. De la liauteur des 
 cieux il ne regardait les hommes que comme des atomes avec qui il 
 n'avait aucune ressemblance quels qu'ils fussent. A peine MM. ses 
 freres lui paraissaient-ils intermediaires entre lui et le genre humain, 
 quoiqu'on eut toujours affects de les Clever tons trois ensemble dans 
 une egalite parfaite. L'esprit, la penetration brillaient en lui de 
 toutes parts. Jusque dans ses furies, ses reponses etonnaient; ses 
 raisonnements tendaient toujours au juste et au profond, meme dans 
 ses emportements. II se jouait des connaissances les plus abstraites. 
 L'etendue et la vivacite de son esprit ^taient prodigieuses, et I'em- 
 pechaient de s'appliquer a une seule chose a la fois, jusqu'^ Ten rendre 
 incapable. La necessite de le laisser dessiner en etudiant, a quoi il 
 avait beaucoup de gout et d'adresse, et sans quoi son etude etait in- 
 fructueuse, a peut-etre beaucoup nui a sa taille. 
 
 * « -» * 
 
 Place we now in contrast witli these thorouglily serious men, 
 the frivolous Count Hamilton (1646-1720), narrating the 
 rough adventures of his brother-in-law, the Chevalier de Gra- 
 mont, and the gallantries of Charles II, of England. This 
 Hamilton, a scion of the noble family of the same name in 
 Scotland, and attached to the cause of the royal Stuarts, spent 
 his childhood in France, where his father was sharing the exile 
 of Charles II. He returned, however, to England with this 
 monarch at the Restoration (1660), and it was about two years 
 afterwards that the Chevalier de Gramont went to London as an 
 exile from the court of France, and formed an attachment to Miss 
 Hamilton, whom he afterward married.'^ Hamilton filled some 
 offices in Ireland under James II., accompanied him to France 
 
 * This was believed to be the original of Moliere's comedy of Le Jlariage 
 Force. Gramont was leaving the court of England without bringing to a 
 consummation the matrimony he had pledged with Miss Hamilton. The 
 young lady's brothers pursued him, and overtaking him near Dover, called 
 out, '^ Count Gramont, have you forgotten nothing in London ?'' " Oh, I beg 
 your pardon,'* said the count, "I forgot to marry your sister!" Whereupon 
 he returned with them, and the nuptials took place. This anecdote does 
 not appear in the JJemoires. 
 
280 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 on his abdication, and became one of the ornaments of his little 
 court at St. Germain. It was here that he amused himself 
 with writing his recollections of the court of Charles II., to 
 which it is believed he has added some inventions of his own. 
 Though under the title of the Memoires du Comte de Gramont^ 
 it embraces a number of scandalous adventures, by no means 
 connected with the hero. " Of all frivolous books," says La 
 Harpe, ^^ this is the most pleasing and the most ingenious ; it 
 is the work of a lightsome spirit, accustomed, in the corruption 
 of court-life, to recognise no vice but the ridiculous ; to cover 
 the most depraved morals with an elegant gloss ; and relate all 
 in a mirthful and pleasant tone. The art of narrating little 
 things, so as to make them appear of consequence, is here 
 found in perfection.^' 
 
 XVIIL—KOMANCE AND LETTER-WRITING. 
 
 MADAME DE LA FAYETTE — FENELON — SEVIGNE — MAINTENON. 
 
 The growth of kingly power, the external order which it 
 established, and the civilization which followed in its train, 
 restrained the development of public life, and increased the 
 interest of social relations. From this new state of things, 
 combined with a remaining taste for heroic adventure, arose a 
 modified kind of romance, in which elevated sentiments re- 
 placed the impossible achievements we have adverted to as 
 characteristic of mediaeval fiction, and the military exploits 
 of Madame de Scudery's tales. Madame de la Fayette 
 introduced that kind of romance, in which the absorbing 
 interest is that of conflicting passion, and the events of 
 the external history are but the occasions for developing the 
 inward life of thought and feeling. Hers, too, was the first 
 
PENELON. 281 
 
 attempt at depicting manners as they really were, and relating 
 natural events with gracefulness, instead of inventing such as 
 never had or could have an existence. Like her predecessor, 
 she published her first romance under the name of a male 
 friend, and ventured not to appear as an author till her work 
 had been favorably received. The experiment was completely 
 successful, and this more natural style of novel-writing became 
 highly popular. When we say popular, we mean only, of course, 
 that it was relished in the high-born circles for which novels 
 were then written; for Madame de la Fayette would have 
 shrunk with horror from the idea of one of her pages being 
 turned over by a citizen's thumb. The same aristocratic feel- 
 ing ascended the pulpit with the clergy, the higher places in 
 the church being filled with scions of noble families. 
 
 We are thus led to mention the illustrious Fenelon,* one 
 of the few authors of this age who pertained exclusively to no 
 one class. He appeared as a divine in his Sermons ou (Euvres 
 Spirituelles, and Maximes des Saints ; as a rhetorician in Dia- 
 logues sur V Eloquence; as a moralist in L^ Education des FiUes; 
 as a politician in Examen de la Conscience d^un Roi ; and it 
 may be said that all these characters are combined in Tele- 
 maque, which has procured for him a widely spread fame, and 
 which obliges us therefore to place him^ despite his well-main- 
 tained piety, among the romancers. 
 
 He was the son of an ancient and noble family, and born at 
 the chateau of Fenelon in Perigord, in the year 1651. Edu- 
 cated in retirement, under the eye of a virtuous father, and 
 amidst models of ancient Greece, his naturally fine taste had 
 the most favorable opportunity for development. Being de- 
 signed for the church, and summoned to Paris by his uncle, 
 the Marquis of Fenelon, in order to prosecute his theological 
 
 * See Lardner's Cabinet Cyclopedia. 
 24* 
 
282 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 studies, lie underwent, at fifteen years of age, a similar trial to 
 tliat of Bossuet in extempore preaching, thougli before a less 
 distinquished auditory than that at the Hotel de Eambouillet. 
 The eclat of premature fame, which had gathered round him 
 before his nineteenth year, alarmed the marquis, who, to save 
 his protege from the seductions to which he might be exposed, 
 placed him in the Seminary of St. Sulpice, where he spent 
 five years in religious silence and obedience, in study and 
 meditation. Here he took holy orders; and in the fervor of 
 his religious zeal, formed the design of consecrating his life to 
 foreign missions, but was afterwards induced to embrace one 
 which was deemed no less useful — that of the instruction of 
 the new converts from Protestantism. His labors in this sphere 
 prepared him for writing his treatise De V Education des Filles 
 for the Duchess of Beauvilliers, the pious mother of a nume- 
 rous family. In this work he insists on the importance of 
 the female character, and the urgent reasons there are for 
 cultivating female understanding. ^^ Women,'' he says, ^^were 
 designed, by their native elegance and gentleness, to render 
 domestic life endeared to man ; to render virtue attractive to 
 children ; to difiiise order and grace around them, and impart 
 to society its highest polish. No attainment can be too ele- 
 vated for beings designed to accomplish purposes at once so 
 useful and salutary, and every means should be used to invigo- 
 rate their native elegance by principle and culture.'' 
 
 About this time, Fenelon formed an intimate acquaintance 
 with Bossuet, whom he regarded with great veneration, and 
 whose steps in religious controversy he endeavored to follow, 
 though with greater moderation. The talent which he dis- 
 played in this respect induced Louis XIV., at the recom- 
 mendation of Bossuet, to appoint him to a new mission for the 
 conversion of Protestants in Poitou. Fenelon accepted the 
 charge, but on condition that he should have no soldiery as his 
 auxiliaries; and, moreover, that his colleagues should be men 
 
FENELON. 283 
 
 of his own selection — men wlio would gain converts only by 
 persuasion and entreaty. The importance which was attached 
 to such missions, and the success which attended Fenelon's 
 labors, brought him into considerable notice, and now a new 
 sphere was opened for his talents. The grandson of Louis 
 XIV. was emerging from childhood, and the high reputation 
 of Fenelon, seconded by the interest of Madame de Mainte- 
 non, obtained for him the important situation of preceptor to 
 the young prince, to whom M. de Beauvilliers was guardian. 
 The two friends entered with enthusiasm on the task allotted 
 to them : they saw eye to eye, and history scarcely records 
 such another instance of harmonious effort in a similar cause. 
 They looked upon the happiness of France as bound up in the 
 education of its future sovereign, and believed that all this was 
 now in their hands ; their beau-ideal of a virtuous monarch 
 and a happy people should now be realized. Alas for human 
 hopes ! 
 
 Fenelon studied his pupil's peculiar disposition, and adapted 
 himself to it : he conquered his pride by gentleness, and his 
 vehemence by silence : excited his desire for knowledge by 
 conversation, and satisfied it by information conveyed in the 
 most pleasing manner. We owe his fables, many of his dia- 
 logues, and his great work, TiUmaqiie^ to the plan he had laid 
 for forming the mind and character of this young prince, as 
 the expectant sovereign of France. 
 
 Five years passed thus without the amiable preceptor either 
 asking or receiving any distinguishing mark of the royal 
 favor. The king now bestowed on him the archbishopric 
 of Cambray, for which he offered thanks; but at the same 
 time he represented to his majesty, that he could not regard 
 that gift as a reward, whose operation must be to separate him 
 from his pupil ; whereupon the king gave him leave to reside 
 at court three months in the year, which was the utmost ab- 
 senteeism that the canons of the church allowed. 
 
284 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 It was shortly after this arrangement that Fenelon became 
 involved in controversy about the doctrines of Madame Guyon, 
 to which we have referred in our notice of Bossuet, and that 
 he was entirely banished to Cambray. His modest submission 
 and truly apostolic virtues would probably have procured his 
 restoration ; but an unforeseen event occurred more than ever 
 to irritate against him the mind of Louis. The TeUmaque, 
 which he had composed, as it is believed, with the intention 
 of its becoming a manual for the young prince on his entrance 
 upon manhood, was printed by a bookseller of Paris, through 
 the unfaithfulness of the man who had been directed to 
 transcribe the manuscript. Before it was ready for publica- 
 tion, it was seized and interdicted ; but it found its way into 
 Holland, went through numerous editions, and was translated 
 into every language of Europe. Louis XIV., who had never 
 greatly liked Fenelon, and had long designated him as un hel 
 esprit chimerique, considered the spirit of the book as a re- 
 proach to the spirit of his reign ; while the courtiers increased 
 his anger by discovering particular applications of the per- 
 sonages in the tale. Meanwhile Fenelon devoted himself with 
 zealous assiduity to the care of his diocese. His extensive 
 benevolence, his unbounded sympathy, his calm sense of 
 justice, and his easy accessibility to the poor as well as the 
 rich, won the hearts of all ; and long after his death, there 
 were old men who would point, with tears in their eyes, to the 
 wooden chair in the cottage, which, in their boyhood, they had 
 seen occupied by the venerable archbishop. One man of high 
 birth, who had been introduced into his palace, ostensibly as 
 high vicar, but really as a spy, was so touched by the blame- 
 less life he witnessed, that he threw himself at Fenelon' s feet, 
 confessed all, and then, unable to meet his eye, withdrew in 
 shame, and lived ever after in exile and obscurity. 
 
 The Duke of Burgundy had been forbidden to hold any 
 intercourse with his beloved preceptor ; but it would seem that 
 
FENELON. 285 
 
 he found means of breaking througli the restriction, and of 
 assuring him of his continued friendship, and his desire to be 
 under his instruction. lu his reply, Fenelon says : ^^ In the 
 name of God, let prayer nourish your soul, as food nourishes 
 your body. Do not make long prayers ; let them spring from 
 the heart, rather than from the understanding; little from 
 reasoning, much from simple affection ; few ideas in consecu- 
 tive order, but many acts of faith and love. . . . My greatest 
 sorrow has been not to see you ', but I carry you continually 
 before God into a presence more intimate than that of the 
 senses. I would give a thousand lives, like a drop of water, 
 to see you such as God would have you to be.^' 
 
 During the war of the Spanish Succession, Fenelon, living 
 on a frontier exposed to the incursions of the enemy, devoted 
 himself to alleviating the sufferings of the people. In one of 
 his journeys, he met a peasant in deep affliction : the enemy 
 had driven away his cow, on which his family was dependent 
 for support, and his life was in danger if he went to seek it. 
 On hearing this, the archbishop set off in pursuit, found the 
 cow, and drove it home himself to the peasant's cottage. The 
 enemy — that is, the English, Germans, and Dutch — were as 
 eager to display their veneration for him as the officers of the 
 French army pointedly avoided him, out of compliment to 
 their wrathful sovereign. They sent detachments to guard his 
 fields, and to escort his harvest into the city ; but he refused 
 military protection for his own person, and, with no other 
 attendants than a few ecclesiastics, he traversed regions de- 
 vastated by war, carrying peace and succor in his pastoral 
 visits. 
 
 When the Duke of Burgundy headed the army in Flanders 
 in 1702, and again in 1708, he renewed his personal inter- 
 course with the archbishop, and during the interval they cor- 
 responded with freedom. Then, when the dauphin, the father 
 of the Duke of Burgundy, died, the supple nobles began to 
 
286 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 pay court to Fenelon, concluding that lie would be all-powerful 
 in tlie event of his pupil's accession to the throne. But Fene- 
 lon heeded their attentions as little as he had done their 
 neglect. Their expectations were not to be realized; the 
 young dauphin died in 1712, and in the following year the 
 Duke of Beauvilliers. Fenelon received the intelligence with 
 mingled grief and resignation ; declaring, that though all his 
 ties were broken, and that nothing hereafter would attach him 
 to earth, yet he would not move a finger to recall the prince to 
 life against the will of God. After this event the king's 
 heart appeared to be softened ; the sting of envy was in part, 
 at least, removed, when there was no fear of the impersonation 
 in a successor of the precepts of Fenelon. After burning with 
 his own hands all the papers and letters of his which were 
 found among the efi'ects of the Duke of Burgundy, he was 
 about to recall the venerable ecclesiastic to court, when death 
 removed him from witnessing the late repentance of the 
 monarch (1715 A. D.) Louis outlived him but a few months. 
 Two years after the death of Fenelon, his heirs published 
 the TeUmaque^ complete in two volumes. Our quotation is 
 from one of its most admired passages. 
 
 LES CHAMPS £lYS1^:ES. 
 
 C'est dans ce lieu qu'habitaient tous les bons rois qui avaient jus- 
 qu'alors gouverne sagemeDt les hommes ; ils etaient separes du reste 
 des justes. Comme les mechants princes souffraient dans le Tartare 
 des supplices infiniment plus rigoureux que les autres coupables d'une 
 condition privee, aussi les bons rois jouissaient dans les Champs Ely- 
 sees d'un bonheur infiniment plus grand que celui du reste des hommes 
 qui avaient aime la vertu sur la terre. 
 
 Tdleraaque s'avan9a vers ces rois, qui dtaient dans des bocages odori- 
 ferants, sur des gazons toujours renaissants et fleuris : mille petits 
 ruisseaux d'une onde pure arrosaient ces beaux lieux, et y faisaient 
 sentir une delicieuse fraicheur : un nombre infini d'oiseaux faisaient 
 resonner ces bocages de leurs doux chants. On voyait tout ensemble 
 les fleurs du printemps qui naissaient sous les pas, avec les plus riches 
 
FENELON. 287 
 
 fruits de Tautomne qui pendaient des arbres. La jamais on ne res- 
 sentit les ardeurs de la furieuse canicule : la jamais les noirs aquilons 
 n'oserent souffler, ni faire sentir les rigueurs de I'Liver. Ni la guerre 
 alt^ree de sang, ni la cruelle envie qui mord d'une dent venimeuse, et 
 qui porte des viperes entortillees dans son sein et autour de ses bras, 
 ni les jalousies, ni les defiances, ni la crainte, ni les vains desirs, 
 n'approchent jamais de cet heureux sejour de la paix. Le jour n'y 
 finit point ; et la nuit, avec ses sombres voiles, y est inconnue ; une 
 lumiere pure et douce se repand autour des corps de ces hommes 
 justes, et les environne de ses rayons comme d'un vetement. Cette 
 lumiere n'est point semblable a la lumiere sombre qui eclaire les 
 yeux des miserables mortels, et qui n'est que tenebres ; c'est plutot 
 une gloire celeste qu'une lumiere : elle penetre plus subtilement les 
 corps les plus epais que les rayons du soleil ne penetrent le plus pur 
 cristal : elle n'eblouit jamais ; au contraire, elle fortifie les yeux et 
 porte dans le fond de I'arae je ne sais quelle serenite : c'est d'elle seule 
 que les hommes bienheureux sont nourris ; elle sort d'eux et elle y 
 entre ; elle les penetre et s'incorpore a eux comme les aliments s'in- 
 corporent a nous. lis la voient, ils la sentent, ils la respirent ; elle 
 fait naitre en eux une source intarissable de paix et de joie : ils sont 
 plonges dans cet abime de delices comme les poissons dans la mer ; ils 
 ne veulent plus rien ; ils ont tout sans rien avoir, car ce gout de lumiere 
 pure apaise la faim de leur coeur ; tons leurs desirs sont rassasies, et leur 
 plenitude les eleve au-dessus de tout ce que les hommes vides et affames 
 cherchent sur la terre : toutes les delices qui les environnent ne leur 
 Bont rien, parce que le comble de leur felicite, qui vient du dedans, ne 
 leur laisse aucun sentiment pour tout ce qu'ils voient de delicieux au 
 dehors ; ils sont tels que les dieux, qui, rassasies de nectar et d'am- 
 broisie, ne daigneraient pas se nourrir des viandes grossieres qu'on 
 leur presenterait a la table la plus exquise des hommes mortels. Tons 
 les maux s'enfuient loin de ces lieux tranquilles : la mort, la maladie, 
 la pauvret^, la douleur, les regrets, les remords, les craintes, les 
 esperances meme, qui coutent souvent autant de peines que les 
 craintes, les divisions, les degoiits, les depits, ne peuvent y avoir 
 aucune entree. 
 
 After a further description of tlie moral beauties of this 
 abode, in harmony with the external, Telemachus is repre- 
 sented as searchiDg in vain for his father, and being accosted 
 
288 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 by an old man^ wlio reveals himself as the grandfather of 
 Ulysses, and announces that the object of his search is still 
 alive. The old man concludes with this solemn reflection and 
 admonition : 
 
 Ainsi les hommes passent comme les fleurs qui s'epanouissent le 
 matin, et qui le soir sont fletries et foulees aux pieds. Les genera- 
 tions des hommes s'ecoulent comme les ondes d'un fleuve rapide ; 
 rien ne peut arreter le temps, qui entraine apres lui tout ce qui 
 parait le plus immobile. Toi-meme, 6 mon fils! mon cher fils! toi- 
 meme, qui jouis maintenant d'une jeunesse si vive et si feconde en 
 plaisirs, souviens-toi que ce bel age n'est qu'une fleur qui sera pres- 
 que aussitot secliee qu'eclose; tu te verras change insensiblement : 
 les graces riantes, les doux plaisirs qui t'accompagnent, la force, la 
 sante, la joie, s'evanouiront comme un beau songe ; il ne t'en restera 
 qu'un triste souvenir : la vieillesse languissante et ennemie des 
 plaisirs viendra rider ton visage, courber ton corps, affaiblir tes mem- 
 bres, faire tarir dans ton coeur la source de la joie, te degouter du 
 present, te faire craindre I'avenir, te rendre insensible a tout, except6 
 a la douleur. 
 
 Ce temps te parait eloign^ : lielas! tu te trompes, mon fils; il se 
 hate ; le voila qui arrive : ce qui vient avec tant de rapidite n'est pas 
 loin de toi ; et 16 present qui s'enfuit est deja bien loin, puisqu'il 
 s'aneantit dans le moment que nous parlous, et ne peut plus se rap- 
 procher. Ne compte done jamais, mon fils, sur le present ; mais 
 soutiens-toi dans le sentier rude et apre de la vertu par la vue de 
 I'avenir. Prepare-toi, par des mceurs pures et par I'amour de la jus- 
 tice, une place dans I'heureux sejour de la paix. 
 
 TiUmaque was, in its day, considered a manual for kings, 
 and it became a standard school-book on account of the ele- 
 gance of its style, the purity of its morality, and the classic 
 tastes it was likely to foster in the youthful mind. Forty or 
 fifty years ago, every boy that learned French in this country 
 had it put into his hand as his first reading-book. But the 
 revolutions of political and religious opinion have cast it into 
 the shade. It is now believed that the welfare of a nation is 
 not to be hoped from a wise and virtuous sovereign managing 
 
MADAME DE SEVIGNE. 289 
 
 an ignorant people as he would a family of helpless children, 
 but from a virtuous and well-instructed people regulating and 
 controlling the operations of the government under which 
 they live. 
 
 Madame de Sevigne* made no pretensions to authorship. 
 Her letters were written without the slightest idea that they 
 would ever be read except by those to whom they were ad- 
 dressed ; but they have immortalized their gifted author^ and 
 have been pronounced worthy to occupy an eminent place 
 among the classics of French literature. 
 
 Madame de Sevigne was the daughter of the Baron Chantel, 
 a noble of the old feudal times, who fell, it is said, by the hand 
 of Cromwell himself, while defending the Isle of Re (Rlie) 
 against the English in 1628, The little Marie was then only 
 a year and a half old ; and her mother also dying whilo she 
 was yet a child, her education devolved on her maternal uncle, 
 the Abbe de Coulanges, for whom she ever entertained a truly 
 filial affection. We know little of her youthful life, but that 
 her earliest reading was in the interminable romances of Ma- 
 dame de Scudery ; that she pursued more serious studies under 
 Menage and Chapelle ; that she was early introduced to court ; 
 and that she was married at eighteen to Henry, Marquis of 
 Sevigne, a gay, extravagant, and dissipated man, of an ancient 
 family in Brittany. Being related to the celebrated Cardinal 
 de BetZj the marquis joined the party of the Fronde in the 
 civil war; madame also became a zealous Frondeuse, and in 
 all her after-life we find traces of the intimacies which were 
 contracted during this stormy period. Her husband was 
 killed in a duel by the Chevalier d'Albret — it is not known 
 on what provocation; and Madame de Sevigne was left a 
 widow at four-and-twenty years of age, with a son and daugh- 
 
 ■* See Lardner's Cabinet Cyclopedia. 
 25 
 
290 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 ter, who now engrossed all her anxieties. Deeming it neces- 
 sary for their advancement that she should cultivate the 
 friendship of people in power, and determined, perhaps, still 
 more by her own natural tastes, she continued to live closely 
 surrounded by the court circle of Louis XIV. — a demoralized 
 atmosphere enough, yet no evil breath ever tainted her fair 
 fame. Her cousin, Bussy Kabutin, who dealt abundantly in 
 scandal, rallied her as the only woman in France that could 
 induce her admirers to be satisfied with friendship. Among 
 these was the unfortunate financier Fouquet, whose hand she 
 had refused, but whose fall excited her deepest sympathy. 
 During his trial, Madame de Sevigne reported its progress in 
 letters to M. de Pomponne, who afterwards became minister. 
 The interest and terror which was excited about him appears 
 from the fact, that she masked herself when she went to see 
 him return from the court to the prison of the Bastille, as she 
 herself relates. 
 
 II faut que je vous conte ce que j'ai fait. Imaginez vous que des 
 dames m'ont propose d'aller dans une maison qui regarde droit dans 
 I'arsenal pour voir revenir notre pauvre ami. J'etais masquee; je 
 I'ai vu venir d'assez loin. M. d'Artagnan etoit aupres de lui ; cin- 
 quante mousquetaires a trente a quarante pas derniere. II paroissoit 
 assez reveur. Pour moi, quand je I'ai aper9u, les jambes m'ont 
 tremble, et le coeur m'a battu si fort, que je ne pouvois plus. En 
 s'approchant de nous pour entrer dans son trou M. d'Artagnan I'a 
 pousse, et lui a fait remarquer que nous etions la. II nous a done 
 Baluees, et pris cette mine riante que vous lui connoissez. Je ne crc/ii- 
 pas qu'il m'a reconnue, mais je vous avoue que j'ai et6 etrangement 
 sais^e quand je I'ai vu entrer dans cette petite porte. Si vous saviez 
 combien on est malheureux quand on a le coeur fait comme je I'ai, je 
 Fuis assuree que vous auriez pitie de moi ; mais je pense que vous n'en 
 etes pas quitte a meilleur raarche de la maniere dont je vous connois. 
 J'ai 6te voir votre cb^re voisine, je vous plains autant de ne I'avoir 
 plus, que nous nous trouvons heureux de I'avoir. Nous avons bien 
 parl6 de notre cher ami: elle a vu Sappho (Mademoiselle de Scud^ry) 
 qui lui a redonne du courage. Pour moi, j'irai demain le reprendre 
 
MADAME DE 6EVIGNE. 291 
 
 cliez elle, car de temps en temps, je sens que j'ai besoin de r^confort: 
 ce n'est pas que Ton ne dise niille choses qui doivent donner de I'es- 
 perance ; mais, mon Dieu, j'ai rimagination si vive, que tout ce qui 
 est incertain me fait mourir. 
 
 In 1669, Madame de Sevigne gave her beautiful daughter 
 in marriage to the Count de Grignan, who was obliged soon 
 after to repair to Provence, of which he was lieutenant-go- 
 vernor. The mother deeply felt the separation thus involved, 
 and the only consolation, besides the hope of meeting again, 
 was found in the maintenance of a close and voluminous cor- 
 respondence with Madame de Grignan. Hence the greater 
 part of the letters which have rendered her name so celebrated. 
 
 As for the matter they contain, it is abundantly multifari- 
 ous. Here we have not only a mother's expostulations with 
 her daughter for her somewhat unmaternal management of 
 her children, and notices of her son — from which we learn 
 that he was cheerful, amiable, a favorite of the best society in 
 Paris, and the best company in the world at home ; sometimes 
 exposed to the dangers of war; sometimes squandering time 
 and money at court, but always unlucky 3 getting no promo- 
 tion in the army, and having no patience to wait for advance- 
 ment by court-favor ; at length retiring into the country, 
 obscure, but happy with a quiet, unambitious, but religious 
 wife — but besides, we have sketches of Madame de Sevigne' s 
 principal friends — as Madame de la Fayette, M. and Madame 
 de Coulanges, Madame Scarron, and all the principal person- 
 ages of that brilliant age, who seem to have cultivated her 
 acquaintance although she lived in a kind of disgrace, being 
 excluded from court in consequence, as she supposed, of her 
 early alliance with the Fronde, her friendship for Fouquet, 
 and her Jansenist opinions. All the occurrences, as well as 
 the characters of the day, are touched in these maternal let- 
 ters; and so graphic is the pen, and so clear and easy the 
 style, that we seem to live in those brilliant days, and to see 
 
292 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 and hear all that was going on. Be it remembered, that these 
 were not the times of newspapers, by which a friend might, 
 as now, with infinitely less labor, transmit such information. 
 Here are great events detailed in the same tone as court-gossip, 
 and court-gossip made as much of as great events — Louis XI Y., 
 Turenne, Conde, the wars of France and of the Empire, freely 
 mingled with details of housewifery, projects of marriage, and 
 bills of fare for the official dinners of the gouvernante of Pro- 
 vence ; the seventeenth century, in short, depicted in the cor- 
 respondence of two women who knew nothing so important as 
 their own affairs. This ease and versatility — abandon^ as the 
 French call it— is considered the highest charm of these letters. 
 The death of the Marquis do Turenne, for instance, is thus 
 referred to :— - 
 
 Ne croyez point, ma fille, que le souvenir de M. de Turenne soit 
 deja fini dans ce pays-ci: ce fleuve, qui entraine tout, n'entraine pas 
 sitot une telle memoire; elle est consacree a rimniortalite. J'etois 
 I'autre jour cbez M. de la Rochefoucauld, avec Madame de Lavardin, 
 Madame de la Fayette, et M. de Marsillac. M. le Premier y vint. 
 La conversation dura deux heures sur les divines qualites de ce veri- 
 table heros : tons les yeux etoient baignes de larmes, et vous ne sauriez 
 croire comme la douleur de sa perte est profondement grave dans lea 
 coeurs. Nous remarquions une chose, c'est que ce n'est pas depuis sa 
 mort que Ton admire la grandeur de son cceur, Fetendue de ses 
 lumi^res, et rclcvation de son ame ; tout le monde en etoit plein pen- 
 dant sa vie, et vous pouvez penser ce que fait sa perte par-dessus ce 
 qu'on etoit deja: enfin, ne croyez point que cette mort soit ici comme 
 celle des autres. Vous pouvez en parler tant qu'il vous plaira, sans 
 croire que la dose de votre douleur I'emporte sur la noire. Pour son 
 ame, c'est encore un miracle qui vient de I'estime parfaite qu'on avoit 
 pour lui ; il n'est pas tomb6 dans la tete d'aucun devot qu'elle ne fut 
 pas en bon 6tat : on ne sauroit comprendre que le mal et le peche pus- 
 sent etre dans son coeur : sa conversion si sincere nous a paru comme 
 un bapteme ; chacun conte Finnocence de ses moeurs, la puret^ de ses 
 intentions, son humility, ^loignde de toute sorte d'affeetation ; la solide 
 gloire dont il <3toit plein, sans faste et sans ostentation; aimant la 
 
MADAME DE SEVIGNE. 293 
 
 vertu pour elle-meme, sans se soucier de rapprobation des horames ; 
 une charity genereuse et chretienne. Vous ai-je dit comme il I'liabilla 
 ce regiment anglois ? il lui couta quatorze mille francs, et il resta sans 
 argent. Les Anglois ont dit a M. de Lorges qu'ils achbveroient de 
 servir cette campagne, pour venger la mort de M. de Turenne, mais 
 qu'apr^s cela ils se retireroient, ne pouvant cbeir a d'autres que lui. 
 II y avoit de jeunes soldats qui s'impatientoient un peu dans les marais, 
 oil ils etoient dans I'eau jusqu'aux genoux ; et les vieux soldats leur 
 disoient ^' Quoi, vous vous plaignez ! On voit bien que vous ne con- 
 noissez pas M. de Turenne : il est plus fache que nous quand nous 
 sommes mal ; il ne songe, a I'heure qu'il est, qu'a nous tirer d'ici ; il 
 veille quand nous dormons ; c'est notre pere : on voit bien que vous 
 ^tes jeunes.'* Et c'est ainsi qu'ils les rassuroient. Tout ce que je vous 
 mande est vrai ; je ne me charge point des fadaises dont on croit faire 
 plaisir aux gens eloignes: c'est abuser d'eux, et je choisis bien plus 
 ce que je vous ecris, que ce que je vous dirois, si vous ^tiez ici. Je 
 reviens a son ame : c'est done une chose a remarquer, que nui devot 
 ne s'est avise de douter que Dieu ne I'eut re9uea bras ouverts, comme 
 une des plus belles et des meilleures qui soient jamais sorties de ses 
 mains. Meditez sur cette confiance generale sur son salut, et vous 
 trouverez que c'est une espece de miracle qui n'est que pour lui. 
 Vous verrez dans les nouvelles les effets de cette grande perte. 
 
 Here is anotlier cliaracteristic passage : — 
 
 Yous savez que je suis toujours un peu entetee de mes lectures. 
 Ceux a qui je parle ont interet que je lise de bons livres : celui dont 
 il s'agit presentement, c'est cette Morale de Nicole : il y a un traite 
 sur les moyens d'entretenir la paix entre les hommes, qui me ravit: 
 je n'ai jamais rien vu de plus utile, ni si plein d' esprit et de lumieres. 
 Si vous ne I'avez pas lu, lisez-le ; si vous I'avez lu, relisez-le avec une 
 nouvelle attention : je crois que tout le monde s'y trouve ; pour moi, 
 je suis persuadee qu'il a ete fait a mon intention ; j'esp^re aussi d'en 
 profiter; j'y ferai mes efforts. Vous savez que je ne puis souffrir que 
 les vieilles gens disent, *' Je suis trop vieux pour me corriger:" je 
 pardonnerois plutot aux jeunes gens de dire, *' Je suis trop jeune." 
 La jeunesse est si aimable, qu'il faudrait I'adorer, si I'ame et I'esprit 
 etoient aussi parfaits que le corps ; mais quand on n'est plus jeune, 
 c'est alors qu'il faudroit se perfectionner, et tacher de regagner par 
 les bonnes qualites ce qu'on perd du cotd desagrdable. II y a long- 
 25* 
 
294 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 temps que j'ai fait ces reflexions, et pour cette raison je veux tous Tes 
 jours travailler a mon esprit, a mon ame, a mon coeur, k mes senti- 
 mens. Voila de quoi je suis pleine, et de qnoi je remplis cette lettre, 
 n'ayant pas beaucoup d'autres sujets. 
 
 A long life seems to liave been thus spent by this gifted lady 
 in observing and describing the characters and occurrences of 
 the age of Louis XIV. , with the occasional variety of a journey 
 to her estate in Brittany^ or a visit to her daughter in Pro- 
 vence^ marked only by a blank space in her correspondence. 
 She died after a short illness at the age of seventy, leaving, in 
 the circle of friendship, a gap which could not easily be filled. 
 
 Considerable interest attaches, likewise, to the letters of 
 Madame de Maintenon, a lady whose life presents singular 
 contrasts, worthy of the times. She was born (1635) in the 
 prison of Mirt, where her parents were incarcerated for their 
 adherence to the Protestant religion, and was early left an 
 orphan. After having been herself first a Catholic and then 
 a Calvinist, she finally attached herself to the former persua- 
 sion, and became distinguished for a devotional character. 
 She lived in deep poverty till the poet Scarron, though aged 
 and infirm, united himself to her in marriage for the sake of 
 ajBfording her support and protection. Her house was for some 
 time the rendezvous of all that was most intellectual in Parisian 
 society ; and on Scarron' s death she was saved from relapsing 
 into destitution by the continuance of his pension of 2000 
 francs to her as his widow. Being afterwards intrusted by 
 Louis XIV. privately to educate the children of Madame de 
 Montespan, she gradually superseded that lady in his afi*ec- 
 tions; he bestowed on her the estate of Maintenon (1674), 
 and secretly married her after the death of the queen, as she 
 declined, on religious grounds, to sustain any relation uncon- 
 secrated by the church's blessing. The archbishop of Paris, 
 and the minister who witnessed the ceremony, solemnly 
 
MADAME DE MAINTENON. 295 
 
 pledged the monarcli never to avow it, and, it is said, had no 
 small difficulty in keeping him to his promise. To the influ- 
 ence of this lady is attributed much that was inauspicious in 
 the latter part of Louis's reign — the combination of ascetic 
 devotion and religious bigotry with flagrant immorality; the 
 appointment of unskilful generals and weak-minded ministers; 
 the persecution of the Jansenists ; and, above all, the revoca- 
 tion of the Edict of Nantes, which had secured religious free- 
 dom to the Protestants. 
 
 Here ended what French critics call their purely literary 
 literature. Thus far it had been its own end, rather than a 
 means for the accomplishment of ulterior objects — the master, 
 not the servant ; henceforth it was to sustain a new vocation. 
 
THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 XIX.— THE DAWN OF SCEPTICISM. 
 
 CONTRAST BETWEEN THE SPIRIT OF THE SEVENTEENTH AND THAT OF THE 
 
 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY — TRANSITION BAYLE — J. B. ROUSSEAU — CHAU- 
 
 LIEU — LE SAGE — PREVOST — FONTENELLE — LA MOTTE. 
 
 In tlie age wMcli lias just passed under review, we have 
 vseen religion, antiquity, and the monarchy of Louis XIV., 
 each exercising a distinct and powerful influence over the 
 youthful buoyancy of French genius, which cheerfully sub- 
 mitted to their chastening and restraining power. Under 
 these circumstances, a school of taste and eloquence had been 
 formed, which gave law to the rest of Europe, and constituted 
 France the leading spirit of the age. On the other hand, the 
 dominant influences of the eighteenth century were a sceptical 
 philosophy, a preference for modern literatures, and a rage 
 for political reform. 
 
 The transition, however, was not sudden or immediate. 
 Even as in the order of the material universe changes the 
 most complete are brought about by insensible degrees, so this 
 revolution in the world of mind was at first gradual ; a thou- 
 sand symptoms had announced its approach, and it darkened 
 on the world by successive shades. The two eras, however 
 unlike each other, meet at certain points, and there are certain 
 works which exhibit the characteristics of both. It is this 
 
 (296) 
 
TRANSITION. 297 
 
 transition period whicli we are now more particularly to notice, 
 or rather those transition works whicli occupy the midway posi- 
 tion between the submissive and religious age of Louis XIV.;, 
 and the daring infidelity and republicanism of the eighteenth 
 century. 
 
 According to this moral chronology, the eighteenth century 
 began with the first timid protestation against the splendid 
 monarchy of Louis XIV. , or the domination of the Romish 
 Church, or the classical authority of antiquity; and it ended 
 when words came to deeds in the sanguinary Eevolution of 
 1789. It is too easy to mark the steps of this progress. 
 
 When the first generation of great men who sunned them- 
 selves under the glance of Louis XIV. had passed away, there 
 were found none to succeed them. The same influence gave 
 birth to no rising genius of similar kind, and the glory of the 
 monarch began to fade as the noble cortege disappeared. The 
 obedience and respect around him continued the same as ever, 
 but the admiration and enthusiasm were no more. At the 
 commencement of his reign he had dazzled all who approached 
 him ; and the feelings of those who immediately surrounded 
 the throne spread throughout the whole country. Towards 
 the close, the courtiers first abated their adoration. It would 
 have been difficult, indeed, for young princes and nobles to 
 maintain their veneration for a king who, while exacting regu- 
 larity of morals from them, did himself, in the face of the 
 country, and despite the most sacred laws, bring forward as 
 his children the offspring of a double adultery ; a king who 
 evinced his religious zeal by banishing the Protestants, and 
 persecuting the last remnants of the Port Royalists, and who 
 blushed not to wear in the most public manner the yoke of a 
 woman whose character might have fitted her to govern a con- 
 vent, but not to reign over an empire. Though these incon- 
 sistencies were somewhat veiled under imposing appearances 
 of rigorous devotion, and though the misfortunes which resulted 
 
298 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 from tliese errors were borne with resignation, it is easy to see 
 that the new generation, which had not shared the glory and 
 prosperity of the old monarch, and was not subjugated by the 
 recollections of his early splendor, was not proud of the yoke, 
 like its fathers. 
 
 In presence of the king, and beneath his majestic aspect, no 
 one dared to infringe the order he had prescribed ; but even 
 in his own palace, his children, with their favorites and com- 
 panions, indulged in disorders which were easily hidden from 
 the now dimming sight of the august old man ; religion and 
 morality became objects of ridicule ; their authority was 
 deemed nugatory, since they daily lent themselves to serve 
 the caprices of the sovereign, who persuaded himself that he 
 observed their laws, and desired that others also should strictly 
 conform. A certain indifference for principles began to prevail; 
 men ventured to doubt opinions once unquestioned ; a habit of 
 jesting with everything, and unblushing cynicism, did all but 
 appear beneath the royal eyes, and afflict the declining years 
 of the aged Louis. Even in the men who appeared most 
 scrupulously attached to the traditions of his best days, a 
 change of feeling was apparent. Massillon, for instance, 
 preached in a very different tone from Bossuet; he indeed 
 exhorted the people to obedience, but at the same time re- 
 minded the king that it was necessary to merit it by respect- 
 ing their rights. 
 
 The spirit and principles of the court had undergone this 
 change before the literature took any other direction than that 
 which had been impressed upon it by the illustrious authors 
 who had one by one disappeared. 
 
 Meanwhile, beyond the bounds of France were several 
 writers who had a mind of their own. These were the Pro- 
 testants, exiled by the revocation of the Edict of Nantes. 
 They avenged themselves for the persecution to which they 
 bad been subjected, by inveighing against the monarch and 
 
BAYLE. 299 
 
 the Roman Catliolic religion. Their works found their way 
 into France, and found spirits inclined to discontent, and 
 ready to imbibe from them a contempt for the authority of 
 the government. 
 
 Among these refugees was a man whose works must live, 
 though the obscure libels of the rest are almc^t forgotten. We 
 allude to Bayle, the coolest and boldest of doubters, the 
 Montaigne of the seventeenth century. He had been edu- 
 cated in Protestantism, which the Jesuits forced him to abjure 
 in his youth, but to which he speedily returned. In 1675 he 
 obtained a professorship of philosophy at Sedan, and occupied 
 it with distinction till the suppression of the universities in 
 1681, when he received a similar appointment at Rotterdam. 
 In the same year he published his Pensees sur la Comete, in 
 which he attacked the vulgar prejudice which regarded this 
 meteor as a certain presage of evil. Such was his first step. 
 In 1684 he began the literary journal known under the title 
 of Nouvelles de la Repiiblique des Lettre^'^ and, from the time 
 of the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, wrote boldly against 
 the intolerance of Louis XIV. In his Bictionnaire His- 
 torique et Critique^ he exhumed the most paradoxical opinions, 
 and adduced new arguments in support of them, but without 
 avowing them as his own. '^ Circumspect towards power, '^ 
 says Yillemain, '^ but with the utmost temerity against dogmas; 
 cool about political independence, but resolved upon philosophic 
 liberty — Bayle affords the first announcement and' character- 
 istic of the earliest school of the eighteenth century. At 
 once a compiler and dialectician, the most thoughtful of erudite 
 men, and the retailer of anecdotes of a world-wide history, 
 his book — a vast magazine of knowledge and incredulity — was 
 calculated to supersede the necessity of study to a lively and 
 thoughtless age/' But the innovations of Bayle, sheltered as 
 he was in a foreign and hostile country, do not seem to have 
 
300 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 had any very immediate or powerful influence on the mind of 
 France. He has been called the Montaigne of the seven- 
 teenth century, because he employs scepticism to destroy 
 existing opinions, but without substituting any of his own. 
 In the mind of Bayle, doubt is the end, not the means ; he 
 maintains a perfect balance of opinions, which nothing has 
 power to swerve either to this side or that. Uncertainty seems 
 to be his delight, his spirit being in no way depressed by 
 ignorance on questions of the most vital importance to man. 
 But his is learned and philosophic scepticism, and he ridicules 
 those who lightly reject without examination, still more than 
 those who believe with docile credulity. The pleasantry of 
 Bayle is generally coarse and vulgar, though mingled with the 
 pedantry of the critic ; and this might have gone far to 
 diminish the influence of his works, had there not since arisen 
 at various times men who have equipped themselves in his 
 armory, adding elegance to his pleasantries, polishing them for 
 the frivolous, and thus procuring for them a universal cur- 
 rency. 
 
 About the same time appeared, in the person of Jean 
 Baptiste Rousseau, what had been wanting in the literary 
 glory of Louis XIV. — a lyric poet. Malherbe had found no 
 successor as Corneille had done. The sphere of lyric poetry, 
 indeed, presents singular difificulties from the structure of the 
 French language, and these have been rendered greater by the 
 passion for imitating the ancients. ^' If lyric poetry,^' says 
 Barante, ^^ had not received foreign and antique importations 
 — if she had remained the daughter of our old fabliaux, of our 
 chivalrous romances, of our mediaeval mysteries, of our Gothic 
 superstitions — she might perhaps have vegetated long in in- 
 fancy; but she would have retained a true and national cha- 
 racter, an intimate connexion with our manners, our religion, 
 and the annals of our country. It has not been so. About 
 
J. B. ROUSSEAU. 301 
 
 the sixteentli century, our authors, instead of perfecting the 
 Gallic literature, took upon them to be the heirs of Greece and 
 Rome. They adopted gods which we never worshipped, and 
 customs which we never practised, repudiating all the recol- 
 lections of France to transport themselves into those of anti- 
 quity. They began to copy or to travesty the ancient models, 
 and repel the impressions and inspirations of daily life. 
 Poetry, once the charm of palace and chateau — poetry, which 
 our kings and chevaliers, illiterate as they were, traced with 
 the points of their swords, to express their loves and their 
 griefs — became the exclusive patrimony of pedants who were 
 versed in Horace and Pindar, but who knew nothing of 
 nature.'' 
 
 It was especially in lyric poetry, which ought to be the 
 expression of the author's own thoughts and feelings, that this 
 vice was most sensibly manifest. The man who will travel to 
 Rome or to Greece to describe what he feels, may have some 
 enthusiasm himself, but it will rarely affect his readers. 
 Hence the fine odes of Rousseau, though confessedly displaying 
 considerable energy, and a kind of pompous harmony which 
 no other has imparted to the language, yet fails to excite the 
 sympathy. It pleases the ear, perhaps commends itself to the 
 fancy, but fails to reach the heart. We remark, too, the 
 spirit which we have described as hanging about the last years 
 of Louis XIV. ; the free comminglement of licentious morals, 
 with a taste for religious sublimities. Rousseau translated the 
 Psalms, as well as composed epigrams on the clergy, and odes 
 of a sufficiently profane character.* 
 
 * He was born at Paris in 1670. His father was a shoemaker. The boy 
 was indebted to the Jesuits for his education. After his first dramatic suc- 
 cess, he refused to recognise his father. Lamotte, also of humble origin, 
 wrote him the following lines : 
 
 ^' On ne se choisit point son pere. 
 Par un reproche populaire 
 26 
 
302 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 The Abbe Chaulieu (1689-1720) devoted Ms verse to 
 tlie service of voluptuous pleasure, and earned the appel- 
 lation of the Anacreon of the Temple ; but he did not, like 
 Rousseau, prostitute poetry in strains of low debauchery. His 
 Louanges de la vie Champetre is considered the earliest good 
 specimen of pastoral poetry in the language. Voltaire calls 
 him '' Le premier des poetes negliges J' 
 
 The tragedians followed closely in the footsteps of Eacine 
 with more or less success. Comedy continued with some vigor 
 to represent the corrupt manners of the age ; and Le Sage, 
 the rival of Regnard and Dancourt, applied the same talent to 
 romance, which thus assumed a new character in his hands. 
 He was a student of Spanish literature, and was imbued with 
 its spirit. He was renowned for his humorous and witty plays 
 and novels. He is best known by his Gil Bias, Diahle Box- 
 
 Le sage n'est point abattu ; 
 Oui, quoiquo le vulgaire pense, 
 Rousseau, la plus vile naissance 
 Donne du lustre a la vertu." 
 
 He was banished from France on account of certain verses, which were 
 attributed to him. He attached himself to M. de Luc, French ambassador 
 in Switzerland. He afterwards received permission to return to his native 
 land. He went to Paris, however, only once, and then in disguise. He 
 died at Brussels in 1741. Piron wrote the following famous Epitaph upon 
 him: 
 
 " Ci-git Tillustre et malheureux Rousseau; 
 
 La Brabante fut sa tombo et Paris son berceau. 
 
 Voici Tabrege de sa vie, 
 
 Qui fut trop longue de moiti^ ; 
 
 II fut trente ans digne d'envie, 
 
 Et trente ans digne de pitie." 
 
 Voltaire and he were bitter enemies. Their hostility was occasioned 
 by criticisms, which each made upon the other. Voltaire visited Rousseau, 
 and read a poem, in which the latter found great impiety. Rousseau then 
 read his Ode d la Poaterite. "Voila," said Voltaire, "une lettre, qui 
 n'arrivera jamais il son adresse." This, their first interview, was their last. 
 
PREVOST — FONTENELLE. 303 
 
 fpMXj and BacTielier de Salamanca^ whicli have been translated 
 into almost every European language. Gil Bias is a picture 
 of tlie human heart under the aspect at once of the vicious and 
 the ridiculous. Le Sage, like Moliere, appreciated human folly 
 without analyzing it, and is one of the last authors who de- 
 lineated character, instead of defining it. 
 
 The Abbe Prevost (1697-1763) was also a prolific writer 
 of romances. Manon Lescaut is his most noted work. 
 
 FoNTENELLE (1657-1757), a nephew of the great Cor- 
 neille, is not only regarded as the great link between the seven- 
 teenth and the eighteenth centuries, having been born early 
 enough to witness the splendors of the best days of Louis 
 XIV., and lived long enough to see the greatest men of the 
 eighteenth century; but he is considered to have coquetted 
 with both, and, as it has been expressed, to have used one-half 
 of his understanding to hide the other. He made his d^but 
 in tragedy, in which, however, he found no encouragement. 
 An ardent zeal for the honor of his uncle, as well as some feel- 
 ings of personal pique, induced him to set himself against the 
 reigning tastes in literature, and in common with La Motte 
 and Perrault, he vigorously disputed the authority of classic 
 antiquity. The gentleness and indolence of his disposition, 
 however, prevented him from embracing any opinion with 
 great warmth : he attached to his views neither so much cer- 
 tainty nor so much importance as to induce others to adopt 
 them. He had early imbibed the Cartesian philosophy, and 
 retained his regard for it, but without either zealously defend- 
 ing it, or attacking the new school, which was gaining ground. 
 This indolence appears in his works, which are remarkable 
 rather for delicacy and impartiality, than for striking origi- 
 nality. His Lettres Galantes display frivolous wit, and little 
 else; but the man of science appears in his Dialogues des 
 
804 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 Morts, and his PluralitS des Mondes. And there is much 
 appreciation of virtue as well as of science, though half hidden 
 under the coldness and precision of the language, in his 
 Histoire des Oracles and his Eloges des Academiciens, 
 
 La Motte (1672-1731) bore some resemblance to Fonte- 
 nelle, both in his character and opinions. Cold and factitious 
 in his lyrics, sometimes graceful in the Anacreontic ode, a 
 fabulist without simplicity, though with some ingenuity, he 
 was happier in the dramatic career, but more distinguished in 
 criticism than in any other sphere of authorship. He defended 
 with subtlety the cause which Perrault had maintained without 
 either wit or learning against the poetical creed of Racine and 
 Boileau. Together they raised the standard of revolt against 
 the worship of antiquity, and would have dethroned pdetry 
 itself on the ground of its inutility. Thus scepticism com- 
 menced by established literary doctrines becoming matters of 
 doubt and controversy. Before attacking more serious creeds, 
 it fastened on literary ones — a kind of skirmish before serious 
 action. 
 
 Such is the picture presented by the earlier part of the 
 eighteenth century. Part of the generation had remained 
 attached to the traditions of the great age ; others opened the 
 path into which the whole country was about to throw itself. 
 The faith of the nation in its political institutions, its religion, 
 and its literary creed, was shaken to its foundation, the positive 
 and the palpable began to engross every interest hitherto occu- 
 pied with the ideal ; and this disposition, so favorable to the 
 cultivation of science, brought with it a universal spirit of 
 criticism. The habit of reflecting was generally diffused; 
 people were not afraid to exercise their own judgment; every 
 man had begun to form a higher estimate of himself and of 
 his own opinion, and to care less for those hitherto received as 
 of undoubted authority. Still, literature had not taken any 
 
MONTESQUIEU. 805 
 
 very positive direction : there had not appeared men of suffi- 
 ciently powerful genius to give it a decisive impulse. 
 
 XX.— OPEN ATTACK ON RELIGION AND GOVERNMENT. 
 
 Montesquieu's lettres persanes — esprit des lois — dialogue between 
 
 SYLLA AND EUCRATES — VOLTAIRE — CHARACTER OP HIS GENIUS — HIS LIFE 
 AND WORKS. 
 
 The first powerful attack on the manners, institutions, and 
 establishments of France, and indeed of Europe in general, is 
 that conveyed in the Lettres Persanes of the Baron de Mon- 
 tesquieu, a work on the same plan as Goldsmith's Citizen of 
 the World. Under the transparent veil of pleasantries aimed 
 at the Moslem religion, and even by more direct attacks, Mon- 
 tesquieu sought to consign to ridicule the mode of theological 
 reasoning in general, and the belief in every species of dogma. 
 Notwithstanding the immense success which attended this 
 effort of his youth, Montesquieu did not follow up this course, 
 but abandoned light literature, to devote himself to the serious 
 study of the philosophy of those laws with which he was 
 already, as a magistrate, well acquainted. He withdrew also 
 from the parliament (Court of Justice) of Bordeaux, of which 
 he was president ; travelled through Italy, Switzerland, Hol- 
 land, and afterwards accompanied Lord Chesterfield to Eng- 
 land. On his return to the continent, he published his Con- 
 siderations SUV les Causes de la Grandeur et de la Decadence 
 des RomainSj which is said to be written as with the pen of 
 Tacitus. Fourteen years afterwards appeared his Esprit des 
 Lois, an extraordinary specimen of argument, erudition, and 
 terseness of style. The work commences with this broad 
 definition : — 
 26* 
 
306 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 Les lois, dans leur signification la plus ^tendue, ont les rapports 
 n^cessaires qui d^rivent de la nature des choses, et dans ce sens 
 tons les etres ont leurs lois ; La Divinite a ses lois, les intelligences 
 superieures a rhomme ont leurs lois, les betes ont leurs lois, rhomme 
 a ses lois. 
 
 He then inquires into the facts which give birth to the different 
 systems of legislation, and reasons from the circumstances of 
 the case on the kind of legislation most suitable. It will not 
 be denied that he places the mind too much under the dominion 
 of matter, and argues for necessity rather than liberty, thus 
 depriving moral obligation of much of its absolute character; 
 yet the book is, on the whole, inspired with a spirit of justice 
 and humanity. Montesquieu incited no one to rebel against 
 any constituted authority: he taught respect for the laws 
 more than love of liberty; and however he hated despotism, 
 he hinted not that it should be violently overthrown. Here is 
 an imaginary dialogue between Sylla and Eucrates. It may 
 be doubted whether it is a true representation of the Sylla 
 of history ; but it is as interesting a fragment as we can easily 
 detach from the works of this author : — 
 
 Quelques jours aprbs que Sylla se fut demis de la dictature, j'appris 
 que la reputation que j'avais parmi les philosophes lui faisait souhaiter 
 de me voir. II ^tait a sa maison de Tibur, oil il jouissait des premiers 
 moments tranquilles de sa vie. Je ne sentis point devant lui le d^s- 
 ordre oh. nous jette ordinairement la presence des grands hommes, et, 
 dhs que nous fumes seuls : Sylla, lui dis-je, vous vous etes done mis 
 vous-meme dans cet ^tat de mediocrite qui afiiige presque tons les 
 humains ; vous avez renonc^ a cet empire naturel que votre gloire et 
 vos vertus vous donnaient sur tons les hommes ! la fortune semble etre 
 gen^e de ne plus vous Clever aux honneurs. 
 
 Eucrate, me dit-il, si je ne suis plus en spectacle a I'univers, c'est 
 la faute des choses humaines, qui ont des bornes, et non pas la mienne. 
 J'ai cru avoir rempli ma destin(^e, d^s que je n'ai plus eu a faire de 
 grandes choses. Je n'etais point fait pour gouverner tranquillement 
 un peuple esclave. J'aime a remporter des victoires, a fonder ou 
 
MONTESQUIEU. 807 
 
 d^truire des ^tats, h> faire des ligues, a punir un usurpateur ; mais pour 
 ces minces details de gouvernement ou les genies mediocres ont tant 
 d'avantages, cette lente execution des lois, cette discipline d'une milice 
 tranquille, mon ame ne saurait s'en occuper. 
 
 II est singulier, lui dis-je, que vous ayez port^ tant de delicatesse 
 dans I'ambition ; nous avons bien vu de grands hommes peu touches 
 du vain eclat et de la pompe qui entourent ceux qui gouvernent; 
 mais il y en a bien peu qui n'aient ^t^ sensibles au plaisir de gou- 
 verner, et de faire rendre h leurs fantaisies le respect qui n'est du, 
 qu'aux lois. 
 
 Et moi, me dit-il, Eucrate, je n'ai jamais ^te si peu content que lors- 
 que je me suis vu maitre absolu dans Kome, que j'ai regarde autour 
 de moi, et que je n'ai trouv^ ni rivaux ni ennemis. 
 
 J'ai cru qu'on dirait quelque jour que je n'avais chatie que des 
 esclaves. Veux-tu, me suis-je dit, que dans ta patrie il n'y ait plus 
 d'hommes qui puissent etre touches de ta gloire ? et, puisque tu etablis 
 la tyrannic, ne vois-tu pas bien qu'il n'y aura point apres toi de prince 
 que la flatterie ne t'egale et ne pare de ton nom, de tes titres, et de 
 tes vertus meme ? ^ 
 
 Seigneur, vous changez toutes mes idees. De la fa9on dont je vous 
 voyais agir, je croyais que vous aviez de I'ambition, mais aucun amour 
 pour la gloire: je voyais bien que votre ame etait haute; mais je ne 
 soupyonnais pas qu'elle fut grande : tout, dans votre vie, semblait me 
 montrer un homme d^vore du desir de commander, et qui, plein de 
 funestes passions, se chargeait avec plaisir de la honte, des remords, 
 et de la bassesse meme, attaches a la tyrannic. Car enfin, vous avez 
 tout sacrifie a votre puissance ; vous vous etes rendu redoutable a tons 
 les Romains ; vous avez exerce sans pitie les fonctions de la plus ter- 
 rible magistrature qui fut jamais. Le s^nat ne vit qu'en tremblant 
 un defenseur si impitoyable. Quelqu'un vous dit: Sylla, jusqu'a 
 quand repandras-tu le sang remain ? veux-tu ne commander qu'a des 
 murailles ? Pour lors vous publiates ces tables qui deciderent de la 
 vie et de la mort de chaque citoyen. 
 
 Et c'est tout le sang que j'ai verse qui m'a mis en etat de faire la 
 plus grande de toutes mes actions. Si j'avais gouverne les Remains 
 avec douceur, quelle merveille que I'ennui, que le degout, qu'un 
 caprice, m'eussent fait quitter le gouvernement? Mais je me suis 
 demis de la dictature dans le temps qu'il n'y avait pas un seul homme 
 dans runivers qui ne crut que la dictature etait mon seul asile ; j'ai 
 
808 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 paru devant les Romains, citoyen au milieu de mes concitoyens, et 
 j'ai ose leur dire : Je suis pret a rendre compte de tout le sang que 
 j'ai verse pour la republique ; je repondrai a tous ceux qui viendront 
 me demander leur p^re, leur fils ou leur fr^re. Tous les Romains se 
 sont tus devant moi. 
 
 Cette belle action dont vous me parlez me parait bien imprudente. 
 II est vrai que vous avez eu pour vous le nouvel etonnement dans 
 lequel vous avez mis les Romains. Mais comment osates-vous leur 
 parler de vous justifier, et prendre pour juges des gens qui vous 
 devaient tant de vengeances ? 
 
 Quand toutes vos actions n'auraient ^t^ que sev^res pendant que 
 vous etiez le maitre, elles devenaient des crimes affreux des que vous 
 ne I'etiez plus. 
 
 Vous appelez des crimes, me dit-il, ce qui a fait le salut de la 
 republique. Vouliez-vous que je visse tranquillement des senateurs 
 trahir le senat pour ce peuple qui, s'imaginant que la liberte doit etre 
 aussi extreme que le pent etre I'esclavage, cherchait a abolir la magis- 
 trature meme ? 
 
 te peuple, gen^ par les lois et par la gravite du senat, a toujours 
 travaille a renverser Tun et I'autre. Mais celui qui est assez ambi- 
 tieux pour le servir contre le senat et les lois, le fut toujours assez 
 pour devenir son maitre. C'est ainsi que nous avons vu finir tant de 
 republiques dans la Gr^ce et dans I'ltalie. 
 
 Pour prdvenir un pareil malheur, le senat a toujours ^te oblig^ 
 d'occuper a la guerre ce peuple indocile. II a ete forc^, malgre lui, 
 a ravager la terre et k soumettre tant de nations dont I'ob^issance 
 nous pese. A present que I'univers n'a plus d'ennemis a nous donner, 
 quel serait le destin de la republique ? et sans moi, le sdnat aurait-il 
 pu empecher que le peuple, dans sa fureur aveugle pour la liberty, ne 
 se livrat lui-meme a Marius, ou au premier tyran qui lui aurait fait 
 esp^rer I'independance ? 
 
 Les dieux, qui ont donne a la plupart des hommes une lache ambi- 
 tion, ont attach^ a la liberte presque autant de malheurs qu'a la 
 servitude ; mais quel que doive etre le prix de cette noble liberty, il 
 faut bien le payer aux dieux. 
 
 La mer engloutit les vaisseaux, elle submerge des pays entiers, et 
 elle est pourtant utile aux humains. 
 
 La posterity jugera ce que Rome n'a pas encore os^ examiner ; elle 
 
MONTESQUIEU. 309 
 
 trouvera peut-etre que je n'ai pas assez vers^ de sang et que tous les 
 partisans de Marius n'ont pas ete proscrits. 
 
 II faut que je I'avoue, Sylla, vous m'etonnez. Quoi ! c'est pour le 
 bien de votre patrie que vous avez vers6 tant de sang ! et vous avez 
 eu de I'attachement pour elle I 
 
 Eucrate, me dit-il, je n'eus jamais cet amour dominant pour la 
 patrie dont nous trouvons tant d'exemples dans les premiers temps de 
 la republique, et j'aime autant Coriolan, qui porte la flamme et le 
 fer jusqu'aux murailles de sa ville ingrate, qui fait repentir chaque 
 citoyen de I'affront que lui a fait chaque citoyen, que celui qui chassa 
 les Gaulois du Capitole. Je ne me suis jamais pique d'etre I'esclave 
 ni I'idolatre de la soci^t^ de mes pareils ; et cet amour tant vante est 
 une passion trop populaire pour etre compatible avec la hauteur de 
 mon ame. Je me suis uniquement conduit par mes reflexions, et sur- 
 tout par le mepris que j'ai eu pour les hommes. On pent juger, par 
 la mani^re dont j'ai traite le seul grand peuple de I'univers, de I'exc^s 
 de ce mepris pour tous les autres. 
 
 J'ai cru qu'etant sur la terre il fallait que j'y fusse libre. Si j'etais 
 n^ chez les barbares, j'aurais moins cherche a usurper le trone pour 
 commander que pour ne pas obeir. Ne dans une republique, j'ai 
 obtenu la gloire des conquerants en ne cherchant que celle des hom- 
 mes libres. 
 
 Lorsque avec mes soldats je suis entre dans Rome, je ne respirais 
 ni la fureur ni la vengeance. J'ai juge sans haine, mais aussi sans 
 pitie, les Remains etonn^s. Vous etiez libres, ai-je dit, et vous voulez 
 vivre esclaves ! non, mais mourez, at vous aurez I'avantage de mourir 
 citoyens d'une ville libre. 
 
 J'ai cru qu'oter la liberte dans une ville dont j'etais citoyen etait 
 le plus grand crime. J'ai puni ce crime-la; et je ne me suis point 
 embarrasse si je serais le bon ou le mauvais g^nie de la republique. 
 Cependant le gouvernement de nos peres a ete retabli ; le peuple a 
 expie tous les affronts qu'il avait faits aux nobles : la crainte a suspen- 
 du les jalousies ; et Rome n'a jamais ete si tranquille. 
 
 Vous voila instruit de ce qui m'a ddtermin^ a toutes les sanglantes 
 tragedies que vous avez vues. Si j'avais v^cu dans ces jours heureux 
 de la republique oil les citoyens, tranquilles dans leurs maisons, y 
 rendaient aux dieux une ame libre, vous m'auriez vu passer ma vie 
 dans cette retraite, que je n'ai obtenue que par tant de sang et de 
 Bueur. 
 
310 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 Seigneur, lui dis-je, il est heureux que le ciel ait epargne au genre 
 bumain le nombre des hommes tels que vous. Nes pour la medio- 
 crite, nous sommes accables par les esprits sublimes ; pour qu'un 
 liomme soit au-dessus de I'liumanite, il en coute trop cher a tons les 
 autres. 
 
 Vous avez regarde I'ambition des heros comme une passion commune, 
 et vous n'avez fait cas que de I'ambition qui raisonne ; le desir insa- 
 tiable de dominer, que vous avez trouve dans le coeur de quelques 
 citoyens, vous a fait prendre la resolution d'etre un homme extraor- 
 dinaire : I'amour de votre liberte vous a fait prendre celle d'etre ter- 
 rible et cruel. Qui dirait qu'un heroisme de principe eut ^te plus 
 funeste qu'un heroisme d'impetuosite ? Mais si, pour vous empecher 
 d'etre esclave, il vous a fallu usurper la dictature, comment avez-vous 
 ose la rendre ? Le peuple romain, dites-vous, vous a vu desarm^, et 
 n'a point attente sur votre vie. C'est un danger auquel vous avez 
 echappe, un plus grand danger pent vous attendre. II pent vous 
 arriver de voir quelque jour un grand criminel jouir de votre modera- 
 tion, et vous confondre dans la foule d'un peuple soumis. 
 
 J'ai un nom, me dit-il, et il me suffit pour ma surete et celle du 
 peuple romain. Ce nom arrete toutes les entreprises ; et il n'y a 
 point d'ambition qui n'en soit dpouvantee. Sylla respire, et son genie 
 est plus puissant que celui de tons les Komains. Sylla a autour de lui 
 Cheronee, Orchomene et Signion. Sylla a donne a chaque famille de 
 Rome un exemple domestique et terrible : chaque Romain m'aura 
 toujours devant les yeux; et, dans ses songes memes, je lui apparaitre 
 convert de sang ; il croira voir les funestes tables et lire son nom a la 
 tete des proscrits. On murmure en secret centre mes lois ; mais elles 
 ne seront pas effacees par des flots meme de sang romain. Ne suis-je 
 pas au milieu de Rome? Vous trouverez encore chez moi le javelot 
 que j'avais a Orchomene, et le bouclier que je portai sur les murailles 
 d'Atbenes. Parce que je n'ai point de licteurs,. en suis-je moins Sylla ? 
 j'ai pour moi le senat avec la justice et les lois ; le senat a pour lui 
 mon genie, ma fortune et ma gloire. 
 
 J'avoue, lui dis-je, que, quand on a une fois fait trembler quel- 
 qu'un, on conserve presque toujours quelque chose de I'avantagc 
 qu'on a pris. 
 
 Sans doute, me dit-il. J'ai etonne les hommes, et c'est beaucoup, 
 Repassez dans votre memoire I'histoire de ma vie : vous verrez que 
 j'ai tout tir^ de ce principe, et qu'il a 6te I'ame de toutes mes actions. 
 
MONTESQUIEU. 311 
 
 Ressouvenez-vous de mes demeles avec Marius: je fus indign^ de voir 
 un homme sans nora, fier de la bassesse de sa uaissance, entreprendre 
 de ramener les premieres families de Rome dans la foule du peuple ; 
 et dans cette situation, je portais tout le poids d'une grande ame. 
 J'^tais jeune, et je me resolus de me mettre en ^tat de demander 
 compte a Marius de ses mepris. Pour cela je I'attaquai avec ses 
 propres armes, c'est-a-dire par des victoires contre les ennemis de la 
 r^publique. 
 
 Lorsque, par le caprice du sort, je fus oblig^ de sortir de Rome, ^ 
 je me eonduisis de meme : j'allai faire la guerre a Mithridate; et je 
 crus detruire Marius a force de vaincre I'ennemi de Marius. Pen- 
 dant que je laissais ce Remain jouir de son pouvoir sur la populace, 
 je multipliais ses mortifications ; et je le for9ais tous les jours d'aller 
 au Capitole rendre graces aux dieux des succes dont je le deses- 
 p^rais. Je lui faisais une guerre de reputation, plus cruelle cent fois 
 que celle que mes legions faisaient au roi barbare ; il ne sortait pas 
 un seul mot de ma bouche qui ne marquat mon audace ; et mes moin- 
 dres actions, toujours superbes, ^taient pour Marius de funestes 
 presages. Enfin Mithridate demanda la paix : les conditions etaient 
 raisonnables ; et si Rome eut ^t^ tranquille, ou si ma fortune n'avait 
 pas ^te chancelante, je les aurais acceptees. Mais le mauvais ^tat de 
 mes affaires m'obligea de les rendre plus dures ; j'exigeai qu'il detrui- 
 Bit sa flotte, et qu'il rendit aux rois ses voisins tous les etats dont il 
 les avait depouilles. Je te laisse, lui dis-je, le royaume de tes peres, 
 a toi qui devrais me remercier de ce que je te laisse la main avec 
 laquelle tu as signe Tordre de faire mourir en un jour cent mille 
 Romains. Mithridate resta immobile ; et Marius, au milieu de Rome, 
 en trembla. 
 
 Cette meme audace qui m'a si bien servi contre Mithridate, contre 
 Marius, contre son fils, contre Thelesinus, contre le peuple, qui a 
 soutenu toute ma dictature, a aussi d^fendu ma vie le jour que je I'ai 
 quittee, et ce jour assure ma liberte pour jamais. 
 
 Seigneur, lui dis-je, Marius raisonnait comme vous, lorsque, con- 
 vert du sang de ses ennemis et de celui des Romains, il montrait cette 
 audace que vous avez punie. Vous avez bien pour vous quelques 
 victoires de plus et de plus grands exc^s. Mais, en prenant la dicta- 
 ture, vous avez donne I'exemple du crime que vous avez puni. Voila 
 I'exemple qui sera suivi, et non pas celui d'une moderation qu'on ne 
 fera qu'admirer. 
 
312 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 Quand les dieux ont souffert que Sylla se soit impunement fait dic- 
 tateur dans Rome, ils j ont proscrit la liberie pour jamais. II faudrait 
 qu'ils fissent trop de miracles pour arracher a present du coeur de tous 
 les capitaines romains I'ambition de regner. Vous leur avez appris 
 qu'il y avait une voie bien plus sure pour aller a la tyrannie et la 
 garder sans peril. Yous avez divulgue ce fatal secret, et ote ce qui 
 fait seul les bons citoyens d'une republique trop riche et trop grande, 
 le desespoir de pouvoir I'opprimer. 
 
 II changea de visage, et se tut un moment. Je ne crains, me 
 dit-il avec Amotion, qu'un homme dans lequel je crois voir plusieurs 
 Marius. Le hasard, on bien un destin plus fort, me I'a fait epargner. 
 Je le regarde sans cesse, j'etudie son ame : il y cache des desseins 
 profonds. Mais, s'il ose jamais former cclui de commander a des 
 hommes que j'ai faits mes egaux, je jure par les dieux que je punirai 
 son insolence. 
 
 The maturity of the eighteentli century is found in Vol- 
 taire. He was the personification of its temerity, its spirit 
 of derision, its zeal, its ardor, and its universality. Nor only 
 of his own age. He embodied in himself whatever is most 
 inborn and characteristic in the whole French nation. The 
 Gallic spirit, which the trouveres faithfully transmitted to the 
 authors of the Romance of the Rose, and which reappeared in 
 Villon, in Comines, in Montaigne ; the spirit of freezing and 
 biting irony; the spirit of analysis and annihilation; that spirit 
 at once positive and passionate, fond of the palpable, averse to 
 the marvellous ; that spirit which, even in the excesses to which 
 it is driven by passion, preserves an instinctive sense of the 
 just medium, and finds its way back again; that spirit, in 
 short, which, by its versatility, is ready by turns and equally 
 for custom and for novelty, found in Voltaire its most brilliant 
 form and its most perfect type. In him nature had, so to 
 speak, identified the individual with the nation, bestowing on 
 him a character in the highest degree elastic, having no depth 
 of passion, but abundance of lively sensibility ; little system 
 either of principle or conduct, but that promptitude of self- 
 
VOLTAIRE. 313 
 
 direction which, supplies its place ; a quickness of perception 
 amounting almost to intuition, which, to a certain extent, 
 justifies presumption; and an almost unexampled degree of 
 activity, by which he was in some sort many men at once. No 
 writer, even in the eighteenth century, knew so many things, 
 or treated so many subjects. That which is the ruin of many 
 minds, was the strength of his. He was the Briareus of 
 literature, with his hundred arms, stretching in every direc- 
 tion. True, he wanted some of the intellectual endowments 
 necessary to universality of genius ; a few of them^ and these 
 highly important. In every great man, some shades of char- 
 acter are wanting, or are false: in Voltaire, the deficiency 
 was that of the graver tones. 
 
 Rich in diversified talent, and in the gifts of fortune, he 
 proceeded to the conquest of his age with the combined 
 power of the highest endowments, under the most favorable 
 circumstances. 
 
 The events of his life include little that is interesting, except 
 as we see in them the progress of this victory. Voltaire, hunted 
 again and again as a moral pest from the capital of France by 
 the powers that would fain have preserved the people from his 
 opinions ; yet ever gaining ground ; finding his wit always 
 welcome, and his opinions gradually prevailing ; one audacious 
 sentiment after another broached and branded with infamy, 
 yet secretly entertained ; till the struggle was at length given 
 up, and the nation, as with one voice, avowed itself to be h la 
 Voltaire. 
 
 This singular genius was the youngest son of Francis Arouet, 
 notary of the Chatelet, and afterwards treasurer of the Chamber 
 of Accounts, and was born at Chatenay, on the 20th of Feb- 
 ruary, 1694. He was so weakly that he received the hasty 
 and informal private baptism which is permitted in extreme 
 cases, and not till ten months afterwards was he presented 
 in the church for the more regular administration of the rite. 
 27 
 
314 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 It was with reference to this that his godfather, the Abbe de 
 Chateauneuf, said to the celebrated Ninon de TEnclos : '' He 
 had a double baptism ] but it does not appear upon him, for 
 he repeats the Mosalde by heart, though only three years of 
 age/' This was an impious poem, attributed to J. B. Rous- 
 seau, so that it has been said Voltaire showed symptoms of 
 infidelity from infancy. The lady desired to hear him, and 
 was so much pleased with his display of precocious talent, that 
 by her will she left him 2000 livres, with which to purchase a 
 library. The boy received his earliest education in the Jesuit's 
 College of Louis XIY., under Paree and Le Jay; and here, 
 amid the common routine of study and amusement, he gave 
 way to sallies of wit, and mirth, and profanity, which astonished 
 his companions and terrified his preceptors. Father Jay even 
 then predicted with sorrow that he would raise the standard 
 of deism in France. 
 
 His father, desiring him to follow the legal profession, sent 
 him to study law ; but he turned from it in disgust, and de- 
 voted himself to literature. The Abbe de Chateauneuf, who 
 seems to have been his earliest master in infidelity, now intro- 
 duced him to a coterie of men distinguished for rank and 
 talent, but claiming exemption from creeds and prejudices, with 
 liberty to deride in secret all that they were obliged to appear 
 to respect in the religion, the government, and the good morals, 
 upheld, in theory at least, by Louis XIV. They were such as 
 the Prince of Conti, the Duke and the Grand Prior of Ven- 
 dome, the Marquis de la Fare, the Abb6 de Chaulieu, with 
 the Abb^ de Chateauneuf himself, men destined by their birth 
 to be the pillars of church and state, but secretly inclined to 
 pour contempt upon both. Here the young Voltaire acquired 
 that taste for aristocratic society, and ease in mingling with 
 persons of rank, which formed a distinguishing trait in his 
 character and manners. His father was grieved with his mode 
 of life ; and with a view to withdraw him from it, induced the 
 
VOLTAIRE. 315 
 
 Marquis of Chateauneuf, the French ambassador at the Hague, 
 to take him with him as a page. But here he fell in love with the 
 daughter of Madame du Noyer, a Protestant refugee, who made 
 such a noise about the affair, that the poet was forced to return 
 home. The poor father was broken-hearted between the poetry 
 and profligacy of his youngest son, and the obstinate Jansenism 
 of the eldest. He declared he had as sons two madmen — one 
 in prose, the other in verse ; and he positively refused to for- 
 give the latter, but on condition of his resuming the study of 
 jurisprudence. He was, however, released from this by the 
 kind interference of M. Caumartin, a friend of the family, 
 who invited him to spend some time at his chateau of St. 
 Ange, promising the father that he should not return to Paris 
 till he had chosen a profession. It was not to be so, however. 
 In this chateau lived M. Caumartin's father, an old man, who 
 had known the court of Henry IV., as well as the earlier days 
 of Louis XIV., and whose recollections furnished Voltaire with 
 the materials of two of his most celebrated works. Louis XIV. 
 was dying, and his hoary head was heaped with coarse and 
 cowardly satires, instead of the eulogiums which had flattered 
 his earlier years. One of these, which concluded with '^ J'ai 
 vu ces maux, et je n'ai pas vingt ans,^^ was easily attributed, 
 but unjustly, to the young Arouet, and he was thrown into 
 the Bastille, where he projected the Henriadey and finished 
 the tragedy of (Edipe. The regent receiving proofs of his 
 innocence in the matter of the satire, about a year afterwards 
 released him, allowed him to be presented at court, and pro- 
 mised, that if he would be good, he would take care of him. 
 
 ^^ I thank your royal highness,'^ said the poet, '^ for your 
 design of providing for my maintenance ; but I beg you will 
 not again undertake the care of my lodging/^ It was at this 
 time he assumed the name of Voltaire, saying that he hoped 
 it would prove more auspicious than that of Arouet had been. 
 The tragedy of (Edipe was played in 1718, and proved so sue- 
 
816 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 cessful, that even M. Arouet was conquered ; he embraced his 
 son with tears of joy, and gave him leave to follow the bent 
 of his genius. Another love affair, and another disgrace on 
 political suspicions, diversified his career as a dramatist; but 
 now he was to appear as an epic poet. He had resolved on 
 publishing the Henriade, a heroic poem on the reign of Hesrj 
 IV. y but first he would submit it, canto by canto, to the judg- 
 ment of some literary friends. On one occasion he lost patience 
 under their criticisms, and threw his work into the fire. The 
 president, Henault, rescued it with difficulty, and at a future 
 time reminded him of this service. ^^ Remember,'^ said he, 
 ^^ it was I that saved the Heiiriade, and it cost me a handsome 
 pair of lace rufHes.'' Meanwhile, an imperfect edition of the 
 work had been circulated surreptitiously in London, under the 
 title of The League, and awakened against the author the zeal 
 of the clergy, who averred its principles were semipelagian, 
 and of the courtiers, who maintained they were seditious. He 
 was refused license to print it ; and the young king declined 
 accepting the dedication. Nevertheless, the reputation of the 
 author spread and prevailed. He continued to frequent the 
 company of the great; but a cruel incident now occurred, 
 which taught him that their society had its dangers to balance 
 against its fascinations. Dining one day with the Duke of 
 Sully, he said something which offended the Chevalier de 
 Rohan, a haughty young nobleman, who, a few days after- 
 wards, had him soundly fiogged by his servant, while he 
 stood by. Voltaire, burning with rage, begged, but in vain, 
 that the duke would assist him to avenge the outrage ; then 
 determining to take his cause into his own hands, he secluded 
 himself to learn fencing and English ; the one to fight his 
 adversary, the other to live out of France if the result of the 
 combat should render it necessary. When he deemed himself 
 expert enough to measure swords with De Rohan, he sent him 
 a scornful challenge, which was accepted for the following 
 
VOLTAIRE. 317 
 
 day; but the relatives, meanwhile, procured an order for his 
 imprisonment. A second time, therefore, he was lodged in the 
 Bastille, where he remained six months, and then obtained his 
 release, only on condition of quitting the kingdom. He passed 
 over into England, where he published the Henriade by sub- 
 scription, and obtained leave to dedicate it to George I. At 
 the same time he became acquainted with Bolingbroke and 
 others, the most distinguished men of the time, and learned 
 to use argument as well as ridicule in his war with religion. 
 Hitherto, say his biographers, his hatred to its mysteries and 
 its dogmas had inspired only bon-mots ; but in the school of 
 English philosophy, he fortified himself with the facts and 
 arguments which he afterwards used, without, however, re- 
 nouncing the raillery which was best suited to his own genius, 
 and most likely to find acceptance with his giddy countrymen. 
 Here, also, he gathered from a man who had passed many 
 years with Charles XII. of Sweden, most of the materials of 
 which he afterwards composed the history of that adventurous 
 monarch ; here, also, he sketched those Lettres Philosopliiqucs 
 which drew down upon him more persecution than anything 
 else he had written. 
 
 Meanwhile, the lapse of three years had somewhat abated 
 his wrath, and his own inclination seconded the invitation of 
 his friends for his return to Paris. He lived for some time in 
 a retired and obscure faubourg, occupying himself by turns 
 with literary labors and financial speculations. He realized a 
 considerable sum in a lottery, imported corn from Barbary, 
 lent money to needy noblemen ; and afterwards coming into 
 the possession of the paternal estate, found himself the pos- 
 sessor of considerable wealth, of which he was always ready to 
 employ a part in works of charity, and especially in aiding 
 youthful literary talent. 
 
 The comedian Lecouvreur having died and been refused 
 the rites of sepulture, the poet composed some verses of so 
 27* 
 
318 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 bold a character, that lie was in danger of another lodgment 
 in the Bastille ; and to avoid it, feigned a second flight to 
 England, while in truth he only retired to Rouen. Here he 
 assumed the name of an English nobleman, and with the ut- 
 most secrecy effected the printing of his Histoire de Charles 
 XILy which had been forbidden, and his Lettres Philoso- 
 phiquesy which he durst not even have asked leave to publish. 
 Again, when the storm was over, he returned to Paris, but 
 again was obliged to fly. The Lettres which he had got 
 printed, but withheld from publication, were circulated through 
 the treachery of a bookseller, who was imprisoned ; but the 
 author not being forthcoming, the only further vengeance was 
 that of burning the work by the hands of the hangman. This 
 time his flight was not solitary. He had formed a liaison with 
 the Marchioness du Chatelet — a strange compound of savante 
 and mere woman. She studied geometry and metaphysics, 
 translated Newton, and analyzed Leibnitz ; while she passion- 
 ately loved dress, play, theatricals, and other more sensual 
 pleasures. She retired with Voltaire from the frivolous circles, 
 in which they had lost much time ; the gaming-tables, where 
 they had lost much money ; and the suppers, where they had 
 contracted many a fit of indigestion ; and the two took up 
 their abode at Cirey, on the confines of Champagne and Lor- 
 raine. Here they shared and partly exchanged intellectual 
 pursuits. The lady, despite her taste for geometry, learned to 
 love poetry ; and the poet, the better to understand and 
 admire la sublime Umilie, entered with ardor on the study of 
 the sciences, and wrote the Ulemens de la Philosophie de 
 Newton, Madame du Chatelet, more prudent than he, and 
 less under the power of imagination, watched over him with 
 assiduity, strove to save him from others and from himself, 
 to keep him out of scandalous quarrels, and dissuade him from 
 compromising himself by improper productions. Their inter- 
 course, however, was not without occasional storms, nor was 
 
VOLTAIRE. 319 
 
 the poet's residence at Cirey by any means constant. Some- 
 times business called him to Paris ; sometimes fear drove him 
 abroad. Now the publication of a scandalous work forced him 
 to repair to Holland ; now he escapes to Brussels ; and in 
 1740, we find him assisting Frederic the Great to prepare a 
 refutation of Macchiavelli. Now he becomes a favorite at 
 court ; is appointed historiographer of France, a gentleman of 
 the bed-chamber, and a member of the French Academy : but 
 now Crebillon, his rival, is patronized ; he finds himself in 
 bad savor, and retires with Madame du Chatelet to Luneville, 
 in the neighborhood of King Stanislaus. Then he loses his 
 mistress by death under singularly painful circumstances ; 
 returns to Paris, and soon after accepts an invitation to reside 
 at the court of Prussia. Here he was presented with the 
 Order of Merit, the key of the chamberlain, and a pension of 
 20,000 livres. He had apartments under those of the king, 
 whom he was permitted to visit at stated hours to read with 
 him, and assist in those literary occupations in which his 
 majesty was wont to find recreation from the cares of govern- 
 ment. But now he embroiled himself with Maupertuis, 
 president of the Berlin Academy, and wrote a satire upon him, 
 which the king ordered to be burned in presence of the writer. 
 The royal litterateur himself did not escape the pitiless raillery 
 of the poet, and a deadly quarrel was the consequence, on 
 which he left Berlin. He would fain have taken up his resi- 
 dence at Paris, but his Pucelle d^ Orleans had excited so much 
 displeasure, that he was not allowed to remain in the capital. 
 After residing some years at Colmar, he purchased a country- 
 house in the neighborhood of Geneva ; but presently taking 
 part in its political contentions, he found himself involved in 
 disputes with many of the principal people of the place, and 
 thought it prudent to leave it. He therefore purchased the 
 estate of Ferney, in France, about three miles from the Lake 
 of Geneva, where he resided during the rest of his days with 
 
820 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 his niece, Madame Denis. He induced manufacturers and 
 others to settle around him, obtained for them important 
 advantages, erected a church for them — made, in short, a 
 pretty town of a wretched hamlet — and reigned like a petty 
 prince among his subjects. From this retreat he poured 
 out an exhaustless variety of works, which were extensively 
 circulated and eagerly perused. They generally breathed a 
 spirit of hostility to everything which contravened his ideas of 
 freedom and independence ; but his war with ecclesiastical 
 tyranny often degenerated into attacks on revealed religion 
 itself and the morality it inculcates. Despite his faults, he 
 was the admiration of all the wits and philosophers of Europe, 
 and numbered among his correspondents and pupils some of 
 the greatest sovereigns of the age. The king of Prussia 
 renewed his intercourse with him, and Catherine II. of Russia 
 sent him valuable presents. Meanwhile his principles made 
 daily progress in Paris, and the importunities of his friends, 
 combined with his own weariness of a quiet life, induced him, 
 even at the advanced age of eighty-four, to revisit Paris. It 
 is recorded, that when the officers of the customs stopped him 
 with the usual inquiry, if he had any contraband goods with 
 him, he replied, '' No, no ! nothing contraband except my- 
 self.^' The king, hearing of his arrival, inquired if the decree 
 of the parliament was still in force against him ; but nothing 
 further was done to molest him. The intelligence circulated 
 throughout Paris, and scarcely could the arrival of Kien'long 
 or the Grand Lama of Tibet have produced greater excitement. 
 His levees and his couchees were more crowded than those of 
 any emperor; princes and peers thronged his ante-chamber; 
 and when he rode through the streets, his carriage was as the 
 nucleus of a comet whose train stretched far over the city. A 
 hostile journalist of the day says : — 
 
 " M. de Voltaire appeared in full-dress on Tuesday for the 
 first time since his arrival in Paris. He had on a red coat 
 
VOLTAIRE. 321 
 
 lined with ermine; a large black unpowdered pernke, d la 
 Louis XIV., in wliicli liis withered face was so buried that one 
 saw only bis two eyes shining like carbuncles. His head was 
 surmounted by a square red cap in the form of a crown, which 
 seemed only laid on, and he carried in his hand a small nibbed 
 cane. The public of Paris laughed a good deal at his strange 
 accoutrement. Doubtless this personage, always singular, is 
 determined to have nothing in common with ordinary men.'' 
 
 From the same hand we give an account of the coronation- 
 ceremony, which is confirmed by other contemporaries : — 
 • " On Monday, M. de Voltaire, resolving to enjoy the triumph 
 which had been so long promised him, mounted his carriage, 
 an azure-colored vehicle, bespangled with gold stars, which a 
 wag called the chariot of the empyrean, and thus he repaired 
 to the Academic Frangaise. Twenty-two members were pre- 
 sent. The prelates, abbes, and other ecclesiastics who be- 
 longed to it, declined attending, with the exception of the 
 Abbe de Boismont, a court roidy with nought of his profession 
 but its vestments ; and the Abbe Millot, a cinsire, who has no 
 favor to look for either from the court or the church. 
 
 ^^The Academic went out to meet M. de Voltaire. He was 
 led to the director's seat, over which his portrait had been 
 hung; and the assembly, without drawing lots, as is the cus- 
 tom, named him by acclamation director for the April quarter. 
 The old man, once set agoing, would have made a long speech; 
 but they told him they valued his health too much to hear 
 him, and M. d'Alembert occupied the seance by reading his 
 Eloge de Bespreaux, in which he had inserted various matters 
 flattering to the new President. 
 
 '' On leaving the Academic, Voltaire set out for the Comedie 
 Frangaise. The immense court of the Louvre was full of 
 people waiting for him, and as soon as his notable vehicle 
 appeared in sight, the cry of ' Le voildr arose, and the 
 acclamations of ' Vive Voltaire F resounded as if they would 
 
S22 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 never end. The Marquis de Vilette came to hand him out of 
 his carriage^ the Procureur Clos also lent his arm, but the two 
 could scarcely get him through the crowd. On his entering 
 the theatre, a more elegant throng, seized with true enthusiasm 
 for genius, surrounded him ; the ladies especially stopped his 
 way, that they might have a better view of him. Some were 
 seen pressing forward to touch his clothes, some plucking small 
 tufts from his fur. 
 
 '' The deity of the evening was to occupy the box belonging 
 to the gentlemen of the bed-chamber, in which Madame Denis 
 and Madamo de Vilette were already seated. The pit was in 
 a perfect uproar, till the poet placed himself on the front seat 
 beside the ladies, when the cry was ' La couronne F and 
 Brizard, the actor, advancing, placed the garland on his head. 
 * Ah, Heaven ! will you kill me then V cried M. de Voltaire, 
 weeping with joy, and resisting the honor. He took the crown 
 in his hand, and presented it to the Marchioness de Vilette ; 
 she refused, and the Prince de Beauvau, seizing the laurel, 
 replaced it on the head of our Sophocles, who could resist no 
 longer. 
 
 '' The piece — Irene — was acted, and with more applause 
 than usual, though scarcely sufficient to correspond with this 
 triumph of the author. At the end of the tragedy, the cur- 
 tain fell, and the tumult of the people was extreme till it rose 
 again, disclosing a spectacle like that of the Centenaire. M. 
 de Voltaire's bust had been brought upon the stage, crowned, 
 and elevated on a pedestal ; the whole body of players stood 
 round it in a circle, with palms and garlands in their hands ; 
 the pealing of drums and trumpets had announced the cere- 
 mony; and Madame Vestris recited the following verses with 
 an emphasis proportioned to the extravagance of the scene : — 
 
 Aux yeux de Paris enchant^, 
 Re9ois en ce jour un homraage, 
 Que confirmera d'age en age, 
 La S(Sv^re postdrite ! 
 
VOLTAIRE. 323 
 
 Non, tu n'as pas besoin d'atteindre au noir rivage 
 Pour jouir des honneurs de Fimmortalit^ ; 
 
 Voltaire, regois la couronne 
 
 Que Ton vient de te presenter ; 
 
 II est beau de la m^riter, 
 
 Quand c'est la France qui la donne I 
 
 After an encore of this not very poetical effusion^ all the actors 
 went forward, and laid their garlands round the bust. More- 
 over, Mademoiselle Fanier having kissed it in a moment of 
 ecstasy, all the others followed her example. This long cere- 
 mony being over, the curtain again dropped, and when it rose 
 for Naniney one of M. de Voltaire's comedies, the bust was 
 seen on the right-hand side of the stage, where it remained 
 during the whole play. 
 
 ^' Nanine finished, comes a new hurley-burley — a new trial 
 for the modesty of our philosopher ! He had got into his car- 
 riage, but the people would not let him go. They threw 
 themselves on the horses ; they kissed them ; some young 
 poets even cried to unyoke the animals, and draw the modern 
 Apollo home with their own arms ; but unfortunately there 
 were not enthusiasts enough to volunteer this service, and he 
 was at length allowed to depart, not without vivats, which he 
 might have heard on the Pont Royal, or even in his own 
 house. 
 
 '' M. de Voltaire wept anew on reaching home, and modestly 
 protested, that if he had known the people were to play so 
 many fooleries, he would not have gone.'^ 
 
 He did not long survive this farce ; for having overexcited 
 himself by receiving visits, and exhausted his spirits to supply 
 a perpetual fund of conversation, he was seized with a spitting 
 of blood; and afterwards becoming restless in the night-time, 
 he had recourse to soporific medicine, of which he one night 
 took so large a dose that he slept thirty-six hours, and expired 
 a very short time after awaking. The Marquis de Vilette, 
 
324 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 with whom he resided at Paris, had sent for the rector of St. 
 Sulpice when he perceived his end approaching ; and of this 
 interview various and very contradictory accounts have been 
 published ; but it is certain that he died without the rites of 
 the church ; and being refused Christian burial, was secretly 
 interred at a Benedictine abbey between Nogent and Troyes, 
 whence his remains were removed in 1791 by order of the 
 National Assembly, and interred in St. Genevieve. 
 
 Glance we now for a moment at the works of Voltaire. The 
 national enthusiasm which decreed him, as he descended to the 
 tomb, such a triumph as might have honored a benefactor of 
 his race, gave place to doubt and disputation as to his merits ; 
 and now enough of time has elapsed for us to consider the 
 judgment of posterity as pronounced. In tragedy, he is 
 admitted to rank after Corneille and Racine. In (Edipej and 
 other early productions of this kind, he showed a spirit of 
 obedience to received ideas and models. In Zaire ^ which is 
 his master-piece, there is neither the perfect versification of 
 Racine nor the lofty conception of Corneille ; but a warmth of 
 passion, an enthusiasm of feeling, and a gracefulness of ex- 
 pression which fascinates and subdues. In his later dramas he 
 assumes the prerogative of instructing as well as moving his au- 
 dience ; and being now somewhat more than a poet, would ren- 
 der his plays subservient to the same ends as all his other works. 
 Hence the declamation which mars some of his best scenes. 
 
 It is as an epic poet that Voltaire has least sustained his 
 renown. In vain he flattered himself that he could give 
 France a heroic poem. It was a thing unsuitable to his genius, 
 and still more to the character of his age. The machinery, 
 consisting of personifications of such abstractions as Discord, 
 Silence, and the Soul of Louis XI., is tame in the extreme, 
 and the want of poetic illusion is severely felt. Nevertheless, 
 the Henriade has unquestionably some great beauties : its 
 poetry is not epic, but it is sometimes lofty and pathetic. 
 
VOLTAIRE. 325 
 
 The merit of Voltaire's fugitive pieces has rarely been dis- 
 puted. One of their principal attractions is the insight they 
 give into the thoughts and feelings of the author. One can 
 follow here the progress of the author's mind from childhood 
 to old age — his muse now celebrating the light and voluptuous 
 enjoyments of his youth^ the pleasures of friendship, the suc- 
 cess of self-intererst ; afterwards, it has conversed with science, 
 and enlivened it; at a later date, it is in correspondence with 
 kings, and lends to flattery the mask of familiarity ; then it 
 describes the luxury of retirement, liberty, and the decline of 
 life ; and finally, when old age has certainly arrived, it ex- 
 presses that vacillation of principle, that uncertainty of opinion, 
 that carelessness with respect to all that is most important to 
 man, and that restlessness of feeling which age had not been 
 able to overcome. His poetry, especially that of his later 
 years, is by no means so disgraceful to the author as the wit- 
 ticisms in prose, the clandestine brochures consisting of tales, 
 romances, dialogues, and pasquinades, which his friends eagerly 
 sought for, and which he was always ready to furnish. These 
 are, with little exception, totally unworthy of an honorable man. 
 
 It was scarcely possible for a man of so little reflection and 
 so little patience for investigation to attain the true character 
 of a historian. His history of Charles XII., however, which 
 was his first essay, was successful, and deserved to be so ; the 
 reason being, that he chose for his hero the most romantic and 
 the most adventurous of sovereigns, to describe whom there 
 was more need of rapid narrative and brilliant coloring than 
 profound knowledge and a just appreciation of human nature. 
 There were no great conceptions to judge of, or secret motives 
 to unravel, for Charles XII. was all in the facts of his history. 
 To depict the reign of Louis XIV. was a much more arduous 
 undertaking ; and notwithstanding its eclat, this work is far 
 from afi'ording the same interest as the history of the king of 
 Sweden. The more a nation becomes civilized, the more its 
 
326 TKENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 history loses the striking and picturesque forms of the older 
 times, and the task of the historian becomes more diflficult. 
 We require him to be impartial, and then we blame him for 
 the want of warmth and interest ; we want details respecting 
 commerce, the arts, the spirit of the government, and then we 
 complain that the narration of facts is buried under philo- 
 sophical dissertations. The elder historians had none of these 
 trammels : they wrote with all their prejudices, and never 
 dreamed of impartiality; they related the victories of their 
 country without thinking it necessary to unfold the history of 
 the vanquished ; and it was left* to the reader to judge of the 
 value that ought to be attached to the narrative, and the con- 
 fidence that was due to the narrator. It was Voltaire that 
 gave the first example of the new mode of writing history : he 
 sought not only to present a picture, but a series of researches 
 destined to instruct the memory and exercise the judgment. 
 After him the English historians, imitating his mode, sur- 
 passed him in erudition and philosophic impartiality. Still 
 later, his own countrymen have carried this species of writing 
 to a high degree of perfection ; but in admitting their supe- 
 riority, it would be unfair to forget what they owe to his 
 example. The faults which have been found in L^ Histoire 
 du Steele de Louis XIV. belong also to L'Ussai sur les Mmurs 
 des Nations ; and the latter work has a yet deeper stain. We 
 find in it throughout the traces of that hatred of religion which 
 Voltaire unblushingly adopted in the latter part of his life, 
 and which often hurried him into offences against both good 
 taste and good faith. The style, however, is easy and pleas- 
 ing ; the facts well arranged ; the pictures of some eras, and 
 the portraits of some great men, traced with energy and vivacity. 
 As a literary critic, Voltaire was long reverted to as the 
 great authority ; but since a more enlightened mode has been 
 cultivated by Villemain and others in the present age, Vol- 
 taire's is seen to be narrow and partial ; too much occupied 
 
VOLTAIRE. 827 
 
 witli matters of style and conventional usage ; too little appre- 
 ciating the spirit and design of the various authors on whose 
 works he passes judgment. 
 
 It remains to say something of Voltaire's opinions with 
 reference to religion, morality, and civil government. Some 
 have attributed to him a serious design of overturning these 
 three great bases of the honor and happiness of society. But 
 whoever would discover in his works anything like a system 
 of philosophy, would have a good deal of trouble, for nothing 
 could be further from the ideas we form of a philosopher than 
 the genius of Voltaire. That he had a design to amuse his 
 age, to exercise an influence over it, and to avenge himself of 
 his enemies, is obvious enough. He lived at a time when 
 morals were depraved, at least in the higher classes of society; 
 and he showed no respect for morality. Envy and hatred 
 employed against him the weapons of religion, which was not 
 respected even by its own partisans, and he viewed it only as 
 an instrument of persecution. His country had a government 
 which commanded no esteem, and did nothing to obtain it, 
 and he assumed the attitude of independence and opposition. 
 Such seem to have been the true sources of those opinions 
 which he continually promulgated, without anticipating the 
 consequences to which they might lead. It is easy to see how 
 they arose, but impossible to excuse them. 
 
 Doubtless, Voltaire was naturally gifted with astonishing 
 talents ; doubtless, his power of mind was not purely the 
 result of education or of circumstances : but take his life and 
 his writings together, and it is obvious that the employment 
 of his faculties was continually directed by the opinions of the 
 times, and that the desire of popularity was the ruling motive 
 throughout the whole of his course. There was a tacit contract 
 between him and the public, which obliged him to serve it, in 
 order to reign over it. The character of his earlier writings 
 shows that he did not bring into the world a very independent 
 
328 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 spirit ; they display that lightness and frivolity for which his 
 contemporaries were so remarkable^ with the submission of a 
 courtier for every kind of authority. But when the young 
 author, intoxicated with the plaudits of the theatre, and still 
 more with the flattering familiarity of the nobility, saw that 
 he had imposed upon himself unnecessary restraints, and that 
 the more he sported with everything, the better he succeeded 
 in pleasing ; then he lost by degrees the reserve which he had 
 at first maintained, and ventured to speak of everything with 
 irreverence. Meanwhile, his success increasing, and his im- 
 portance growing continually, everything encouraged him to 
 imbue his works with that spirit which found so general a 
 welcome in its more private manifestations. In vain the 
 authority of the civil government endeavored to arrest the im- 
 pulse which was gaining strength from day to day ; in vain 
 this expounder and director of the public mind was imprisoned 
 and exiled. He who attacks what every one respects, may be 
 punished, and with universal approbation ; but he who announces 
 opinions which are generally entertained, or at least towards 
 which every one is beginning to lean, finds support on every 
 hand. Even those who sway the authority, and are obliged 
 to punish him, think in some measure as he does, and some 
 among them will be found to protect him. It was thus that 
 Voltaire was only exasperated by exile, and by the condemna- 
 tion of his books, and that he became a power whose influence 
 was continually on the increase. The further he advanced in 
 his career, and the more audaciously he propagated his views 
 in opposition to religion and government, the more he was 
 rewarded with the renown which he sought. Monarchs became 
 his friends, and almost his flatterers. Opposition only increased 
 his energy, and often made him forget moderation and good 
 taste. Such was the career which conducted him to that old 
 age which might have been so honorable, encircled as he was 
 with glory ; a king in the realm of literature, which itself had 
 
VOLTAIRE. 829 
 
 taken the highest rank among all the objects of attention 
 among men. Still he was but a constitutional sovereign, and 
 Ferney the council-hall of sceptics. It was only on the brink 
 of the tomb; that, seated on a mount of slowly accumulated 
 popularity, the hitherto limited monarch became absolute ; 
 and while the old man shook his hoary locks in defiance of the 
 Deity, before whom he was so soon to appear, the vivats which 
 resounded at his coronation announced that the people had 
 surrendered to their idol the last treasure of a nation — a sense 
 of shame. 
 
 Yet frequently in the midst of this intoxication, Voltaire 
 had his misgivings ; sometimes he would have resisted the im- 
 pulse which he had at once received and imparted. In his 
 later works, in the midst of conflicting opinions and contra- 
 dictory assertions, there are here and there traces of regret, 
 and of a just appreciation of the unhappy spirit which was 
 gaining ground in his country. He alone could have some- 
 what retarded the course of opinion, which was hurrying on 
 towards devastation and ruin ; but he was too thoughtless, too 
 inconstant, too fond of praise and of fashion, to offer it any 
 effectual resistance. 
 
 XXI.— THE SCEPTICAL AND REVOLUTIONARY SPIRIT 
 TRIUMPHANT. 
 
 THE ENCYCLOPEDISTS — THEIR TENETS EXPOUNDED BY CONDILLAC — APPLICA- 
 TION OF THEIR PHILOSOPHY IN DIFFERENT DEPARTMENTS OF LITERATURE 
 D'ALEMBERT — DIDEROT — HELVETIUS — MABLY VAUVENARGUE— BONNET 
 
 — J. J. Rousseau's life and works — buffon — marmontel — la harpe— 
 
 HISTORY — ELOQUENCE OP THE PULPIT AND BAR — PASTORAL TALES AND 
 FABLES — THE REVOLUTION — POETRY OF ANDRE CHENIER. 
 
 The names of Voltaire and Montesquieu eclipse all others 
 in the first half of the eighteenth century ; but the influence 
 
 28* 
 
830 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 of Voltaire was by far the most immediate and extensive. His 
 talent seemed to correspond with every phase of the national 
 mind, to answer all its longings ; and, accordingly, he kept it 
 constantly occupied with his own effusions. The few other 
 writers whose names were heard, engaged but a part of the 
 public, those of one opinion or one coterie; while Voltaire 
 fascinated all. But after he had reached the zenith of his 
 glory — that is, about the middle of the century — there 
 appeared in France a display of various talent, evoked by his 
 example and trained by his instructions, yet boasting an inde- 
 pendent existence, and displaying a character in which Vol- 
 taire would not fully have recognised that either of his per- 
 sonal opinions or the impulse of his writings. In the works 
 of these men was consummated the literary revolution of 
 which we have marked the beginnings: a revolution more 
 striking than any, perhaps, that any country has witnessed in 
 the same space of time. It was the reaction of freedom too 
 long repressed ; and one expects little moderation from a slave 
 who has just broken his chains. 
 
 It was no longer a few eminent men that surrendered them- 
 selves boldly to the sceptical philosophy which is the grand 
 characteristic of the eighteenth century; writers of inferior 
 note followed in the same path ; the new opinions took entire 
 possession of the whole of the literature, and by this means 
 subjugated France, and, as is too well known, co-operated with 
 the state of morals and of government to bring about a fearful 
 revolution. 
 
 The influence of the minister. Cardinal Fleury, contributed 
 in some degree to arrest this movement for a time. The old 
 man had talent enough to maintain tranquillity while he lived; 
 but he had neither strength nor foresight to give permanence 
 to his policy. As soon as he was gone, the new opinions ob- 
 tained absolute empire. 
 
 The whole strength of the literature of this age being 
 
ENCYCLOPEDISTS. 331 
 
 directed towards tlie same end — namely, the subversion of the 
 national institutions, and especially of the national religion — 
 formed, for the first time, a homogeneous body of Science, 
 Literature, and the Arts, and a compact phalanx of all writers 
 under the common name of philosophers. There existed 
 among these men an esprit de corps, notwithstanding a good 
 deal of diversity, and even some discord. The women had j 
 their share in the maintenance of this league. The salons of 
 Mesdames Geoffrin, Du Defant, and De I'Espinasse, were its 
 favorite resorts; but the great rendezvous was that of the 
 Baron d'Holbach, whence, as from a centre, its doctrines 
 spread far and wide, blasting, like the malaria, whatever it met 
 with on its way that had any connexion with religion, morals, 
 or venerable social customs. Besides Voltaire, who presided 
 over this coterie more in spirit than by his bodily presence, the 
 daily company included Diderot, an enthusiast by nature, a 
 cynic and sophist by profession ; D' Alembert, a genius of the 
 first order in mathematics, and distinguished also, though in a 
 less degree, in literature ; the malicious Marmontel ] the phi- 
 losopher Helvetius ; Eaynal, the furious enemy of all modern 
 institutions; the would-be sentimentalist Grimm; and the 
 Baron d'Holbach himself, the host of La Raison Encydo- 
 pedique. Secondary parts were sustained by affiliated mem- 
 bers, such as Hume, Gibbon, Bolingbroke, Walpole, and 
 others. Their plan was to write a book which would, in some 
 sense, supersede all others, itself forming a library containing 
 the most recent discoveries in philosophy^ and the best expla- 
 nations and details on every topic, literary and scientific. 
 
 The depositaries of power perceived with distrust the cha- 
 racter and tendency of the philosophers. They were not aware 
 that the real evil was in the nation ; and they thought to sup- 
 ply a remedy by checking the outward symptoms of its mani- 
 festation. When, therefore, they saw the philosophical coterie 
 projecting the great enterprise of an encyclopaedia as an im- 
 
332 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 mense vehicle for the development of their opinions, the govern- 
 ment took the alarm. The parliament and the clergy pro- 
 nounced its condemnation, and succeeded so far, that the 
 editors were obliged to continue it clandestinely. The conse- 
 quence was a literary war, which raged furiously; and the 
 obstacles thrown in the way of the publication in part diverted 
 it from its first destination, rendering it a controversial work, 
 instead of an embodiment of the knowledge of the age. Doubt- 
 less, this philosophy did carry presages of disorder and destruc- 
 tion ; but these were not the most alarming, or most irremedia- 
 ble symptoms. An indolent and selfish monarch, abandoned 
 to pleasure with low courtesans ; nobles, who professed immo- 
 rality without shame ; ministers, who occupied themselves 
 only with intrigues; generals, whose military-school had been 
 the salons; every right disputed, and therefore every duty 
 disputable : here, indeed, were more dreadful earnests of a 
 revolution than any set of haughty and audacious philoso- 
 phers ; and the war of the seven years hastened the catastrophe 
 more than the Encyclopedie. 
 
 To explain more distinctly the philosophy which was the 
 distinguishing characteristic of the eighteenth century. There 
 are two modes of investigating metaphysical science — the one 
 assumes the soul of man as the starting-point, examines its 
 faculties, its operations, the nature of its activities, the mode 
 of its existence. It will be remembered that such was the 
 philosophy of Descartes, and after him of all the eminent 
 thinkers of the seventeenth century; and that this route con 
 ducted them to the noblest of sciences — that of religion and 
 moral obligation; but it never led them to the relations of 
 this moral and intellectual being with the external world, oi 
 explained the influences received through the organs of sense. 
 These philosophers, not finding anything in the organization 
 of the senses to resolve the problem of man's moral nature, 
 paid little attention to the direct action of external influences, 
 
ENCYCLOPEDISTS. 333 
 
 and gave no satisfactory account of the mutual relations exist- 
 ing between the physical and the intellectual part of human 
 nature. 
 
 The men of the eighteenth century had become tired of fol- 
 lowing out the sublimities and abstractions of the Cartesians, 
 and they took an opposite course. They assumed the reality 
 of external objects as their starting-point, studied their influ- 
 ence on the senses, examined the sensations thus produced 
 with their immediate results, and groped their way as they 
 could in this direction, endeavoring to reach that central point 
 which constitutes the human self. They established as the 
 basis of metaphysics, that it was useless to study the mind, 
 because they did not know its nature ; they made of it a sort 
 of vital principle — a neutral or passive faculty, attached by 
 unknown bonds to a certain collection of matter, and they gave 
 all their attention to the relations between man and external 
 objects, or the result of his physical organization. This school 
 of metaphysics was of course always gravitating lower and 
 lower towards the earth, till it had denied the existence of the 
 soul, as the Cartesian philosophy had done that of external 
 objects. Locke, it may be remembered, was the first to open 
 up this path by maintaining that all ideas are primarily derived 
 from without through the organs of sense. Hume undertook 
 thence to prove that there exist no principles of certain know- 
 ledge. He saw nothing to determine the succession of the 
 mind's impressions; denied, therefore, that there was any such 
 thing as cause and effect; and inferred that sensation no more 
 proved the reality of the external world than of the internal. 
 He went no further, being content to repose in this ruin of 
 the human intelligence. But his reasoning gave rise to that 
 school of Scotch philosophy, which concluded that since the 
 premises of Locke had led to an absurdity, they must be wrong, 
 and that it was needful, therefore, to construct a system, which 
 did not proceed on the inert and passive nature of the soul 
 
334 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 but acknowledged its peculiar properties and modes of opera- 
 tion. About the same time^ German philosophy labored to 
 construct the edifice which had crumbled to pieces before the 
 severe reasonings of Hume. But while the neighboring na- 
 tions thus became the heirs of the labors of Descartes in high 
 philosophy, his own countrymen turned from them with dis- 
 dain, and followed with confidence the path opened by the 
 science of sensation, nor stopped short of the grossest mate- 
 rialism and positive atheism. Such were the principles of the 
 Encydopediej explicitly professed in the preliminary discourse. 
 They were not, however, fully developed or clearly explained 
 in this work, but in the writings of Condillac (1715-1780), 
 the head of this school of philosophy. 
 
 Condillac^s first work, L^Ussai sur V Origine des Connais- 
 sances Humalnes (1746), contains the germ of all that he 
 afterwards published. In the TraitS des Sensations, he sup* 
 posed a statue endowed successively with all the senses, in 
 order to show in what manner ideas had their origin. He 
 endeavored sincerely, but in vain, to derive the notion of duty 
 from sensation ; and expert as he was in logic, he could not 
 conceal from the most inexperienced eyes the great gulf which 
 his theory left between these two terms. 
 
 Few writers have enjoyed more success. He brought the 
 science of thought within reach of the vulgar, by stripping it 
 of everything elevated or complicated ; and every one was sur- 
 prised and delighted to find that philosophy was so easy a 
 thing. It was not perceived that he had lowered his subject, 
 instead of raising his disciples to the comprehension of it. 
 
 This new philosophy of mind gave rise to new modes of in- 
 vestigation in almost every department of knowledge, and sepa- 
 rated France at once from the foreign schools of the moderns 
 and those of antiquity. 
 
 The exact and the natural sciences received a powerful im- 
 
CONDILLAC. ^ 335 
 
 pulse, and made rapid progress. But the principles of reli- 
 gion, morals, politics, eloquence, poetry, and the fine arts, 
 depending as they do on faculties essentially immaterial, could 
 hardly find an existence under the condition of being solely 
 derived by inductions drawn from the attributes of external 
 objects. Having determined not to establish morality on any 
 innate principles of the soul, these philosophers founded it on 
 a fact common to all animated nature — the necessity of being 
 and well-being, whence arises the feeling of self-interest. As 
 for religion, nothing in the physical circumstances of man could 
 afibrd any direct clue to it. It was impossible to connect it by 
 any line of argument with the ideas derived from sensation, 
 and it was therefore denied a place in their system. Already 
 had deism rejected the evidence of a divine revelation, and 
 abjured the recollections of Christianity, with the peculiar 
 duties arising out of them. Now atheism raised a more auda- 
 cious front, and proclaimed that all religious sentiment was 
 but the reverie of a disordered mind. The works in which 
 this opinion is most expressly announced, date from the period 
 of the Encyclopedie. True, it was not very extensively adopted 
 in its positive form, for impiety more usually wrapped itself in 
 vague incredulity than in dogmatic atheism ; yet the atheistic 
 writers did abundance of harm, much more than is generally 
 imagined. They contributed powerfully to demoralize the 
 lower classes of the people ; and the effect was all the greater, 
 because extracts from their works were inserted in a number 
 of infamously immoral productions, which were circulated 
 clandestinely, and poisoned the minds of the masses; obscenity 
 thus borrowing a philosophic coloring, and mingling its turpi- 
 tudes with the principles of irreligion. 
 
 Political government could now no longer rest on historical 
 traditions, on positive rights, on ancient laws, or the customs 
 of nations ) such considerations furnished no basis in the eyes 
 of a precise and universal science. Society was regarded as a 
 
336 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 collection of individuals united for the mutual defence of their 
 interests ; and the whole theory of government was to rest on 
 this primary fact. The constitution of a people was the en- 
 semble of its customs^ its laws, and all its external and internal 
 circumstances, in the same way that the constitution of an 
 individual is made up of all the circumstances which consti- 
 tute his life. The manner in which this word was insensibly 
 diverted from its original acceptation proves more than any 
 details what was the course of reasoning with reference to poli- 
 tical government. 
 
 A new science now originated, under the name of Politici^l 
 Economy. The philosophers inquired what was the source of 
 the wealth of citizens and communities, and how the life of a 
 people and its greater or less prosperity depend on the private 
 and commercial relations of individuals and of the whole 
 country. The theory of this circulation of public and private 
 wealth was ingeniously and perspicuously established, and it 
 obtained immense popularity. Almost all Europe welcomed 
 with enthusiasm the systems of public prosperity propounded 
 by the economists ; and monarchs did honor to these new legis- 
 lators. They were really persuaded that these friends of man- 
 kind would subjugate both rulers and people by the power of 
 reason, and induce them, by an enlightened calculation of their 
 own interests, to maintain the duties of their respective posi- 
 tions, with justice on the one hand, and subordination on the 
 other. The calculations were all scientific, and no account was 
 made of the diversity of human opinion, or the perversity of 
 human passion. 
 
 Language and grammar were still more boldly dealt with. 
 The philosophers, especially Condillac and Dnclos, having con- 
 cluded that thought is the faithful image of external objects, 
 would have language a similarly exact transcript of thought, 
 and every word the invariable expression of the same idea. 
 33ut as language had been gradually formed by the habits and 
 
CONDILLAC — d'ALEMBERT. 337 
 
 necessities of men^ and not originally constructed on philoso- 
 phical principles, it was deemed in want of entire remodelling. 
 It was proclaimed that a perfect idiom would be a collection 
 of signs, each invariably attached to the same idea, and bound 
 to every other by invariable relations. Algebra was declared 
 to be the true model of all language ; there was to be no ac- 
 count made of impressions differing in different individuals, 
 or at different times ; and no provision for a flexibility which 
 eould accommodate speech to the feelings of the speaker. 
 Ideas, according to this theory, were precisely the same in all 
 minds, and it was a matter of indifference that men enter- 
 tained them differently. 
 
 Poetry and eloquence of course found little quarter from 
 such theorists. 
 
 Having thus briefly explained the principles generally 
 adopted about the middle of the eighteenth century, and their 
 application to the different branches of human knowledge 
 treated in the Encydop^diej return we to the leading authors 
 of this great work. 
 
 D'Ali^mbert had gained, as we have said, deserved renown 
 by his mathematical works ; and with this he would doubtless 
 have been content, had he lived in any other age ) but the de- 
 sire of proving himself a universal genius, of which Voltaire had 
 set the example, made him a litterateur, and a somewhat frigid 
 one. He is now known chiefly as the author of the Discours 
 PrSUminavre (1751) of the Encyclopediey which is ranked 
 among the chefs-d'oeuvre of the age. Here the author traces 
 the genealogical order of the various branches of human 
 knowledge, marks out the limits of each and its connexion 
 with the rest, with the characters which distinguish them in 
 our minds ; he thus raises the encyclopedic tree of the sciences 
 distinct from the historic order of their development; after 
 which he details the history of intellectual culture in Europe 
 29 
 
338 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 from the revival of letters. This discourse is written in a 
 severe and simple style, adhering closely to the language proper 
 to philosophy, yet rendering clear and palpable the most 
 abstract ideas. 
 
 If D'Alembert was somewhat stiff in literature, Diderot 
 (1714-1784) was quite the reverse. He had an ardent and 
 irregular sort of mind, like a fire without fuel. The talent of 
 which he gave unquestionable indications had never received 
 any particular application. If he had devoted himself to any 
 one sphere, instead of wandering about in the chaos of contra- 
 dictory opinions which rose and perished around him, he might 
 have left a lasting reputation, and posterity, instead of merely 
 repeating his name, would have spoken of his works. He 
 tried to remodel the drama, protested against the established 
 rules, and demanded a more exact imitation of nature ; but 
 the attempt to become the chief of a new dramatic school led 
 him further from nature than those whom he opposed. He 
 wrote upon morals, as in his Essai sur le Merite et la Yertu ; 
 and while showing that he was capable of some warmth of 
 feeling and elevation of thought, he made an obscure and inco- 
 herent melange of this animated tone with the analytic and de- 
 structive philosophy of his school. His romances also exhibit 
 a burlesque combination of the love of virtue with shameful 
 cynicism, and low vulgar language. In his Lettres sur les 
 Aveugles, he maintains that all our moral ideas are produced 
 by our physical organization. In the Supplement an Voyage 
 de Bougainville y he proscribes marriage, and invites social 
 man to assume the freedom of the brute creation. On the 
 whole, Diderot may be regarded as a writer injurious at once 
 to literature and to morals. 
 
 The most faithful disciple of the philosophy of this age was 
 Helvetius (1715-1771), known chiefly by his work De 
 
HELYETIUS. S39 
 
 V Esprit J of wUcli tlie object is to prove tliat physical sensi- 
 bility is the origin of all our thoughts. Of all the writers who 
 entertained this opinion^ none has presented it in so gross a 
 manner. He maintains, as a necessary consequence, that self- 
 interest is the principle of all our judgments and all our 
 actions ; that the intellectual powers are the same among all 
 men equally well organized j and that the passions are the only 
 mode of all development, so that to educate a man is to culti- 
 vate his passions. The work was an attempt to combine into 
 a system the principles which he heard professed around him, 
 but his talents were not equal to the task. It would seem 
 that he had been in the habit of hearing, from day to day, 
 contradictory opinions lightly hazarded without object or con- 
 sistency, though tending always in the same direction. L^ Es- 
 prit is a book composed of such dialogues, and it would seem 
 that the friends of Helvetius had no idea of any reputation 
 arising from the work of their disciple; but a fruitless perse- 
 cution gave it unexpected celebrity. It was condemned at 
 once by the Sorbonne, the pope, and the parliament. It was 
 burned by the hands of the hangman, and the author was com- 
 pelled to retract it ; after which he travelled in England and 
 Germany, and wrote no more books. 
 
 The philosophers have been represented by the most eminent 
 French writers, as generally disinterested and really desirous 
 of the weal of their country and of the human speeies. 
 Granted that they did not sacrifice their opinions to the lust 
 of gain, and that they showed themselves indifferent to the 
 favor of princes, it is not denied that they were accessible to 
 the seductions of vanity, and that their hearts were not closed 
 against motives of jealousy and hatred. They seem, in short, 
 to have been men of passion rather than of self-interest, too 
 much so even to enter into harmonious co-operation among 
 themselves, or form anything like a sect having a definite 
 object and recognised principles. Their Encydo-pidie was an 
 
B40 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 immense depot, not only of the doctrines, but of the passions of 
 the eighteenth century, and they themselves were but the mouth- 
 pieces of a reckless people, avenging itself of the bonds in 
 which it had been held. Perhaps there never was a time when 
 books were more intensely the transcript of the national feel- 
 ing, and in which authors obeyed rather than directed the im- 
 pulses that surrounded them. 
 
 Meanwhile, there were some writers who held themselves 
 aloof from this school of philosophy, and disapproved of it, but 
 who yet drank deeply into the spirit of the times. 
 
 The Abbe Mably, for instance, refused to identify himself 
 with the Encyclopedists ; but though pursuing apparently a 
 different course, his labors tended to a similar end. He de- 
 voted his life, and that with more industry and seriousness 
 than most of his contemporaries, to study the relations of 
 politics and morals with public order. In his Principes de 
 3IoraIe (1774), he investigates the moral constitution of 
 man ; seeks to arrive at the true principle of morality, whicL, 
 according to him, is an enlightened desire of happiness ; an(J 
 gives precepts for the best mode of strengthening this princi- 
 ple in the human heart. His object in the Entretiens de 
 Phocion, is to determine the object and lay the basis of 
 healthy policy, which appears to him to be founded upon 
 morality. Far from applauding, he condemned and abhorred 
 the new ideas, the frivolous character, the depraved manners 
 of his compatriots, nor had he much greater esteem for any- 
 thing else that was either modern or French. Neither the 
 religion, the government, nor the annals of his country com- 
 manded his admiration ; ancient Greece and Rome were his 
 only models. This spirit is especially displayed in his Obser- 
 vations sitr V Ilistoire de France, in which he refuses to see 
 anything to admire in the earlier days of France, any more 
 than in the present. 
 
MABLY — YAUVExNARGUE. 841 
 
 It was tlius tliat wliile the Encyclopedists were seeking pri- 
 mary and unheard-of principles as the foundation of a new 
 political economy, Mably and others recommended forms which 
 were quite as impracticable : not that the abbe desired European 
 constitutions to be remodelled after the ancient fashions ; he 
 did not deem modern nations fit for the experiment. He thus, 
 without being aware of it, was making common cause with 
 those he despised, in hurrying the institutions of the country 
 to destruction, and loosening the already slender bonds which 
 united the members of an old community. 
 
 The Marquis de Vauvenargue was a man of a different 
 spirit. He had learned in the school of Pascal to fathom the 
 depths of the human heart ; in that of Fenelon, to instruct 
 and entourage it ; his admiration for the writers of the pre- 
 ceding age preserving him from many of the errors that were 
 so rife around him. But while Vauvenargue appreciated with 
 Pascal and Bossuet the weakness of human nature, he had no 
 such firm persuasion of the power of religion to prove its 
 remedy; he turned, accordingly, to whatever is noble and 
 elevated in man's nature, independent of a positive creed ; he 
 had hope in the human heart from its own resources. Such is 
 the spirit of his Introduction a la Connaissance de V Esprit 
 Humain (1746). ^' La Vertu,^' says he, ^' n'est pas tant 
 Fadhesion k une loi qu'une inclination genereuse, une certaine 
 bonte et vigueur de Tame ; la vertu est un amour. Les prin- 
 cipes de la vertu sont dans la nature, non dans la coutume ni 
 dans la raison. Consideree dans son essence, la vertu est le 
 sacrifice de I'interet particulier a I'interet general ; jamais ce 
 dernier interet ne saurait etre servi par les vices ; jamais non 
 plus la vertu n^aboutit au mal de celui qui la pratique. La 
 vertu consiste dans Faction, que rien supplie, dont rien ne 
 dispense. L'action n'aurait point lieu sans les passions. La 
 
 plus feconde de toutes, la plus analogue h la vertu, e'est 
 
 29 -* 
 
342 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 Famour de la gloire. C'est cet amour, et non la pensee de la 
 mort, qu'il faut proposer h rhomme : la pensee de la mort fait 
 oublier de vivre." Yet more than once there transpires aa 
 agonizing peradventure ; the candor of the author would not 
 suppress it : ^^ Si pourtant, comme il est possible, la religion 
 etait vraie, tout cet edifice ebranle demanderait a grands cris 
 d'autres bases/' A fearful if, it must be admitted. 
 
 We turn aside for a moment to notice a metaphysician of 
 this school, who affords a striking example of the close 
 connexion between literature and moral character. A little 
 people living on the French frontier, speaking the same lan- 
 guage, reading the same books, and maintaining daily inter- 
 course with its literary metropolis, had the same thirst for 
 knowledge, the same zeal for the progress of the humap mind, 
 the same taste for the exact and natural sciences. All, in short, 
 that the eighteenth century had impressed upon France, was 
 felt with at least as much interest in the republic of Geneva. 
 But her morality was strict; religion was respected; the 
 operation of the laws was constant and regular ; the power of 
 hereditary custom was strong ; and the intellectual movement 
 did not here imbue society with the spirit of doubt and irrev- 
 erence ; neither did .it attempt to sever the bonds of civil 
 society. Charles Bonnet (1720-1793), a Genevese of dis- 
 tinguished family, had cultivated natural history in his earlier 
 days J but having injured his sight by the constant use of the 
 microscope, he abandoned the observation of insects and plants 
 for the analysis of the human mind. He set out from the 
 same point as Condillac. He, too, in his Essai Analyti^ue 
 snr les FacuMs de VAme (1760), had supposed man as a 
 statue, gifted with an unknown principle, which he concluded 
 to possess no peculiar properties, but whose faculties were 
 originated and developed by the action of external objects. 
 Bonnet brought more impartiality into the process of this 
 
BONNET J. J. ROUSSEAU. S43 
 
 creation than any otlier metaplijsician, and avoided many 
 errors of detail wliicli Condillac had committed. But here 
 was the great difference : he labored all his life to reconcile 
 this theory with the moral nature of man and his religious 
 obligations. His own inward persuasion, his habits, the circle 
 in which he lived, kept him firmly attached to these ; and in 
 his efforts to reconcile them with his metaphysical speculations, 
 we see better, perhaps, than anywhere else, the impossibility 
 of discovering the duties and destinies of man through the 
 teaching of the senses. Bonnet, not doubting the divine 
 origin of the soul, appears in one of his later works to inti- 
 mate that all his researches applied not to that immaterial 
 principle, but to a certain physical soul of delicate, mysterious, 
 and subtle formation, by the intervention of which the soul, 
 properly so called, communicates with the body. In his Palin- 
 genhie, he endeavors to establish the necessity of a future 
 state, not only for the human race, but for the lower animals. 
 
 Another writer, who marched under none of the recognised 
 banners of the day, was Jean Jacques Rousseau, of whom 
 it has been said, that if there was a writer of this age who 
 enjoyed an influence peculiar to himself, not yielding to the 
 common movement of the time, it was he. 
 
 There need be no scruple in characterizing him as one of the 
 most visionary of mortals ; driven by his circumstances to seek 
 virtue and happiness in a world of his own imagining, and 
 contriving, as it would seem, to derive the most exquisite 
 enjoyment from living thus in thought away from the realities 
 of his own life. Without family, without friends, without 
 home, wandering from place to place, from one condition in 
 life to another, he conceived a species of revolt against society, 
 and cherished an inward pride which sometimes became a 
 perfect delirium, with a feeling of bitterness against those 
 civil organizations in which himself could never find a suitable 
 
344 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 place. The Encyclopedists liad flattered themselves that they 
 had tuned the opinion of all Europe to their philosophical 
 strain, when suddenly they heard his discordant note. He 
 combated their atheism, and materialism, and contempt for 
 moral virtue, for pure deism was his creed. He believed in a 
 Supreme Being, a future state, and the excellence of virtue ; 
 but denying all revealed religion, he would have man advance 
 in the paths of virtue freely, proudly, and independently, from 
 love of the thing itself, and not from any sense of duty or 
 obligation. 
 
 Rousseau was somewhat late in making his debut as an 
 author. He was about thirty-eight years of age when his eye 
 was caught by the advertisement of a prize offered by the 
 Academy of Dijon for the best essay in answer to the question : 
 ^^ Has the progress of arts and sciences tended to the corrup- 
 tion or the purification of morals T' The words, as he him- 
 self declares, touched a chord that awaked a power latent in his 
 heart, undreamed of before. The picture of society, such as 
 he knew it, in the city which, of all others, boasted the greatest 
 advancement in the cultivation of the arts and sciences, 
 unrolled itself as a scroll before him, blotted and disfigured. 
 And beside it his imagination placed a picture of pristine 
 innocence — of man enjoying the full development of his phy- 
 sical powers, living for each day as it rose, undisturbed by 
 care, by intellectual speculations, by vanity, by emulation — 
 man free from the control of opinion and the tyranny of fac- 
 titious desires. Words to describe such a condition poured 
 into his mind, clustered on his lips, and demanded a voice. 
 Much had escaped ere he could transfer his thoughts to paper, 
 bnt enough remained to win for him the reputation of being 
 one of the most eloquent authors that ever lived. The public 
 was delighted with this fascinating representation of the evils 
 of civilization, and the blessedness of a state of pure nature. 
 The freshness and energy of his style, the earnestness with 
 
J. J. ROUSSEAU. 345 
 
 wliich he pursued his argument^ served instead of sound 
 reason ; and the opponents of his views were sufficiently in the 
 wrong to make him appear absolutely right. A new intel- 
 lectual world opened before him, and the Academy of Dijon 
 proposing another question, afforded the opportunity of further 
 asserting the superiority of the natural man over the nurslings 
 of civilization. He wrote, in short, the romance of nature 
 and the caricature of society. Property, distinction of ranks, 
 mutual duties, the obligations of labor, were boldly attacked ; 
 and seeking in imagination a time in which man had no such 
 evils to fear, he went back through all the degrees of civilization 
 to search out the principles which first imposed on the human 
 species the desire and the necessity of living in society. In 
 a future work, The Social Contract, he traced the principles 
 of government and laws in the nature of man, and endeavored 
 to show the end which they proposed to themselves by living 
 in communities, and the best means of attaining to this end. 
 
 But the two most notable works of Rousseau are his Julie, 
 or Nouvelle Helo'ise, and Emile. The former is a kind of 
 romance, owing its interest entirely to the development of 
 character, and not to incident or plot. Its moral object was to 
 demonstrate a principle the reverse of that which regulated 
 French society in those days. Up to the time of marriage, 
 girls were denied the most innocent freedom ; but the mar- 
 riage-ceremony was the proclamation of license which no one 
 thought of questioning within certain bounds. Eousseau's 
 Julie, on the other hand, was a young lady who, by the strictest 
 fidelity to the respectable old gentleman to whom she was 
 united in wedlock, made the most ample atonement for a pre- 
 vious error, and established to the author's satisfaction the 
 superior value of conjugal to maidenly virtue, as it is taken 
 for granted that both would be too much to expect from human 
 nature. We are disgusted to find a writer of our own language 
 characterizing this as a work ^^full of noble sentiments and 
 
846 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 elevated morality ; of true and admirable views of life ; and 
 an eloquence burning and absorbing/' 
 
 Emile is a book professedly embodying a system of educa- 
 tion in wbicb tlie thougbts wbicb lie scattered elsewhere are 
 digested and arranged. The author gives himself an imagi- 
 nary pupil, whom he calls Emilius, the representative of that 
 life of spontaneous development which was Rousseau's beau 
 ideal. The system is that of letting nature perform the 
 greater part of the work ; only as Emilius is not to live in a 
 savage but in a civilized state, he has to be educated in a pe- 
 culiar manner. The savage learns the use of his various 
 faculties by feeling the wants which call them into exercise : 
 but then his wants are few and simple ; and in order to train 
 Emilius, his tutors must produce artificial wants, to elicit the 
 higher faculties. The teacher inculcates no precept, prescribes 
 no task ; but he is constantly preparing such circumstances to 
 surround the pupil as must infallibly guide him to the desired 
 point. The education is so far natural, that the pupil is led 
 on by his own desires; but it is artificial, inasmuch as these 
 desires are artificially awakened. What is called learning, is 
 deferred till that comparatively mature age when the boy can 
 be made to feel uneasy at the want of it ; but all crowding of 
 a child's memory with words which he cannot possibly under- 
 stand is expressly prohibited. So also are fables denounced in 
 which beasts and birds hold converse, as conveying false im- 
 pressions."^ Every occasion of sorrow is to be carefully 
 removed or avoided ; the life of youth is to be happy. In 
 due time, Emilius learns something of the classics and of 
 modern languages; but he is to consider these as trivial 
 accomplishments, and to regard the mechanic who pursues a 
 
 * Hence those lines of Cowper ; — 
 
 I will not ask Jean Jacques Rousseau, 
 Whether birds can speak or no, &g. 
 
J. J. ROUSSEAU. 347 
 
 useful calling as superior to a poet or a pliilosoplier. Though 
 rich, yet in order to be independent of the freaks of fortune, 
 he must learn a trade, and is regularly bound as apprentice to 
 a carpenter. Thus he became Eousseau^s ideal of a man; one 
 capable of mixing in any society, yet independent of all. 
 Such was the man belieyed in at the time of the Revolution, 
 which Kousseau foresaw, and which so shortly followed. 
 
 There appears as an episode in this work, the vicar of 
 Savoy's confession of faith, which is a declaration of pure 
 deism, but levelled especially against the various errors of 
 Catholicism. It raised a perfect tempest against the author, 
 and that from every quarter. The Koman Catholics, of course, 
 were incensed ; the Calvinistic Genevese joined in the abhor- 
 rence; and the material philosophers, displeased with Rous- 
 seau's advocacy of a future state, took no pains to shelter him. 
 The Council of Geneva caused his book to be burned by the 
 executioner ; the parliament of Paris threatened him with im- 
 prisonment, and he was obliged to flee. While vainly seeking 
 shelter in various parts of Switzerland, he wrote his Letters 
 from the Mountain, as a sort of defence to the objectionable 
 part of his Emile. It displays considerable polemic talent, 
 but it only served to increase the storm. Finding safety 
 nowhere on the continent, he took refuge in England, where 
 he found himself most provokingly in perfect safety — an 
 object of pity and ridicule, not of abhorrence and persecution. 
 Living in obscurity and neglect — not, however, in want, for 
 he was honorably and delicately provided for — ^in a countiy 
 whose language he did not understand, he imagined that his 
 enemies had entered into a combination to keep him there, and 
 thus to gain opportunity for calumniating his character and 
 falsifying his writings. It would seem that these thoughts 
 fermented in his brain till a high degree of excitement ensued; 
 and it was under these circumstances that he prepared those 
 
348 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 Confessions whicli he believed would prove his vindication 
 before all the world. 
 
 Nor only in this life. '' Let the trumpet of the last judg- 
 ment sound when it will/' says he in the commencement, ^^I 
 will present myself before the sovereign Judge with this book 
 in my hand, and I will say aloud : ^ Here is what I did, what 
 I thought, and what I was/ '' The reader who has heard of 
 Rousseau only through writers of a certain school, representing 
 him as the enthusiastic lover of virtue for its own sake, " the 
 father of the church to come," expects to find a life abounding 
 with as much virtue at least as a man may possess without 
 Christian principle. No such thing. Here is a life in which 
 there is not a single feature of greatness ; and here is a pro- 
 clamation of faults — ugly, disagreeable faults — ^just the sort 
 that, above all others, we should keep to ourselves ; and yet 
 the autobigrapher would almost persuade us he was virtuous, 
 while giving the clearest proofs that he was not. There is 
 either a dexterous tinselling over of what is wrong, or the 
 putting forward of an accounting cause, or an interesting 
 repentance, to counterbalance the guilt. And then there is 
 in a true and living portraiture such power to establish sym- 
 pathies between the writer and the reader, that the latter is in 
 danger of pitying and excusing what he ought to abhor. 
 
 '' Who,'' says Barante, '' has not felt affected and delighted 
 in reading the animated description of those vague reveries ; 
 of those hopes continually disappointed, yet continually rising 
 afresh; of those imaginary joys; of those romances of virtue 
 and happiness, always belied, yet always renewed; of those 
 storms which rose in the depths of the heart — in short, of the 
 entire history of this visionary and solitary being ? After 
 having thus placed us, by the magic of truth, in his every 
 situation, Rousseau makes us sharers in his every thought, 
 and, so to speak, in his every action. We fall with him into 
 error by an irresistible impuls'^ ; we assume his foolish pride ; 
 
J. J. ROUSSEAU. 349 
 
 we see nothing but outrage and injustice ; we become the 
 enemies of all men, and prefer him to all/^ 
 
 Such is confessedly the fascination of this man for his own 
 countrymen ; and perhaps we shall be accused of a most cruel, 
 unpoetic virtue, for presenting the reader with the bare facts, 
 as stated by the autobiographer, divested of the magic which 
 his own pen throws around them. 
 
 According to his own account, J. J. Rousseau was a citizen 
 of Geneva, where he was born in the year 1712. His mother 
 died at his birth : his infancy was exceedingly delicate, and 
 he became the idol of his father, a Geneva watchmaker, to 
 whom, as soon as he was able, he used to read while he 
 worked. Ecclesiastical history, Moliere, La Bruyere, Ovid^s 
 Metamorphoses, and the old ponderous romances, formed his 
 early library ; but Plutarch became the favorite. Himself the 
 citizen of a republic, Rousseau easily fancied himself a Greek 
 or Roman while he read ; and his father gazed with admiring 
 horror when he advanced and held his hand over a brasier 
 while reading the history of Scsevola. Childhood passed hap- 
 pily away, while all caressed and none opposed. But when 
 the family circle was broken up, and it became necessary for 
 the youth to adopt some mode of earning a livelihood, it was 
 another thing. The business of an attorney proved unconge- 
 nial in itself, and that of an engraver from the vulgarity and 
 violence of the master. Beaten and hard-worked, he became 
 idle, timid, and deceitful. The day-dreams founded on the 
 books which he stole time to peruse, filled his heart in soli- 
 tude ; and while his real life was replete with indignity and 
 suffering, he was enterprising, noble, and free in his reveries. 
 Having, for the third or fourth time, prolonged his Sunday 
 ramble till after the city-gates were shut, and dreading the 
 certain punishment which awaited him on the morrow, he ran 
 away altogether; turned his steps from his native city, a 
 vagrant and a beggar according to the received opinions of 
 30 
 
350 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 society, but in his own eyes a hero in search of adventures. 
 He presently fell in with one of those Catholic priests, who, 
 living in the vicinity, were ever on the watch to draw Swiss 
 heretics into the pale of the church. It was easy to persuade 
 the homeless boy to turn the wants of his body to the benefit 
 of his soul, by professing himself a candidate for admission 
 into the Church of Rome. The cure who began the good 
 work, sent him with an introductory letter to a recently con- 
 verted lady at Annecy. The Countess de Warens, who had 
 thrown herself into the bosom of the church, and under the 
 protection of Savoy, to escape from a disagreeable husband, was 
 beautiful, benevolent, and, as Rousseau will have it, virtuous 
 in heart — that is, we suppose, in imagination, like himself — 
 for the facts as stated by him would prove her a perfect Mes- 
 salina in a small way. He was sent by her to an institution at 
 Turin for the instruction of proselytes, where he was to remain 
 till his abjuration, when it was supposed some charitable person 
 more wealthy than Madame de Warens would take him by the 
 hand. 
 
 Brought up in a Calvinist city, he had a perfect horror of 
 popish ceremonies ; yet, believing there was now no escape — 
 starvation staring him in the face — he delayed the fatal act, 
 but at length yielded ; was formally received into the church, 
 and absolved of the crime of heresy by a father inquisitor. 
 Twenty francs, collected at the church door, were put into his 
 hands ; he was recommended to be faithful to his profession ; 
 and being thus dismissed, he found himself alone and friend- 
 less in the streets of Turin. Liberty, hope, and the twenty 
 francs were very good company for each other, and for him ; 
 but when the money was gone, he was obliged to hire himself 
 as a servant. He became the attendant of an aged countess, 
 who died three months afterwards; and it was during her 
 illness that he committed a fault, the memory of which haunted 
 all his future days, and caused every suffering of his life to 
 
J. J. ROUSSEAU. 851 
 
 appear as just retribution. During his mistress's illness, lie 
 abstracted a ribbon from her wardrobe, intending it as a 
 present to tbe maid-servant. When it was missed, sought for, 
 and found on him, he declared he had received it from the 
 girl. The two were confronted ; the innocent servant im- 
 plored him with tears to retract the falsehood ; but he adhered 
 to his story, and was believed. There was reason to fear she 
 was driven to want and infamy by this affair. 
 
 When the death of the countess threw Rousseau again upon 
 the world, his acquaintance with the Abbe Gaime, whom he 
 afterwards immortalized as the vicar of Savoy, introduced him 
 to the service of the Count de Gouvon, who, presently discern- 
 ing his superiority to the station which he held, treated him 
 accordingly, and permitted a young member of the family to 
 instruct him in Latin and Italian. But it was impossible for 
 Jean Jacques to pursue any career with steadiness. Taking 
 a capricious fancy to a merry fellow, who had been his ap- 
 prentice-companion in Geneva, and was about to return to 
 that city, our hero threw up his situation with a careless show 
 of ingratitude that disgusted his patrons, and set out again, a 
 wildly happy vagrant, delighted with the prospect of roaming on 
 foot among the mountains and valleys of Savoy. His hope of 
 obtaining food and shelter by the way was built on a toy 
 fountain, which the abbe had given him, and the exhibition 
 of which would, he believed, secure hospitality for himself 
 and his friend. When the fountain was broken by an acci- 
 dent, the two adventurers, instead of breaking their hearts, 
 congratulated themselves on the incident, for they were tired 
 of carrying it. 
 
 Eousseau's only resource now was to cast himself on tho 
 kindness of Madame de Warens, at Annecy, who received 
 him with compassion ; and perceiving he had a taste for 
 music, placed him under the tuition of the master of the 
 cathedral choir. About a year afterwards, the professor quar- 
 
852 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 relied witli tlie chapter, and determined to abscond witli his 
 case of music on the eve of the holy-week, when his services 
 would be most needed. Madame' s expostulations proving vain, 
 she yielded permission to Rousseau to accompany his flight ; 
 but they had only got as far as Lyon, when poor Le Maitre 
 fell down in an epileptic fit. A crowd collected; and Rous- 
 seau, not knowing what to do, left the helpless musician in 
 their hands, scampered back to Annecy, and found to his 
 horror that Madame de Warens had left it. He now entered 
 upon vagabond-life in earnest, and to the characteristics which 
 had already distinguished him, began to add those of a charla- 
 tan. At Lausanne, for instance, he made an anagram of his 
 name ; and calling himself Vaussore, instead of Rousseau, set 
 up as a singing-master, though he scarcely knew anything 
 about music by his own confession. But the crowning piece 
 of impudence was his composing a cantata, for a full orchestra, 
 copying out the different parts, distributing them to the musi- 
 cians who were to perform at a private concert, attending the 
 brilliant scene in person to explain the style and character of 
 his piece, and beating time with a fine roll of paper. When 
 the grand crash began, '' never,'^ says Jean Jacques himself, 
 ^^was such a charivari heard ;'^ and then came the ironical 
 compliments and the assurances of a lasting immortality. 
 Looking back upon the scene in after-years, he marvels at his 
 own audacity, and declares he can explain it only as a temporary 
 delirium. The notable achievement rendered the town too hot 
 to contain him ; and after various wandering adventures, and 
 many privations and sufferings, he again found shelter with 
 Madame de Warens, who had invited him to join her at Cham- 
 beri. She obtained for him the situation of clerk or secretary, 
 in an ofiice for the valuation of estates, and he actually fulfilled 
 its duties for two years ; but a treatise on harmony falling into 
 his hands at the time when an illness confined him to his cham- 
 ber, he felt his former tastes revive, gave up his situation, and 
 
J. J. ROUSSEAU. 853 
 
 turned music-master. He was thus thrown into the best society 
 of the town, and found it much more pleasant to spend his time 
 in teaching young ladies, than in making calculations in a close 
 dark office, with low-bred and unkempt clerks. 
 
 We may not follow him in detail concerning the nature of 
 the promotion he now received in the domestic establishment 
 of his mistress; suffice it to mention, that having dabbled a 
 little in anatomy, and persuaded himself that he had a polypus 
 on his heart, our hero went to Montpellier for medical advice, 
 and after being laughed at by the doctors, returned to find his 
 place had been supplied in his absence. How did he feel ? 
 ^^ Reduced,'^ he says, ^ Ho form a fate for myself independent 
 of her, and not being able even to imagine such, I sought it 
 wholly in herself. The desire of seeing her happy engrossed 
 all my feelings. In vain did she separate her happiness from 
 mine : I saw it in hers, in vspite of her. Thus the virtues 
 whose seeds were in my soul, and which had been matured by 
 study, began to germinate with my misfortunes, and only waited 
 for the operation of adversity to bud forth. '^ Strange notions 
 of virtue these ! 
 
 He tells us that, among other fancies that occurred to him 
 at Chamberi, he had a short fit of uneasiness as to his fate in 
 a future life ; and that he resolved the mighty problem after a 
 fashion not recognised by any church. He placed himself 
 opposite a tree, and taking up a stone, said : ^^ If I hit, sign 
 of salvation ; if I miss, sign of damnation.'^ He did hit ; for 
 he had chosen a tree both very large and very near. " From 
 that time,'' said he at an advanced period of his life, ^^I never 
 had a doubt of my salvation/' 
 
 Finding after some time that he had not only irretrievably 
 lost the lady's affection, but that his rival was unworthy of his 
 attempts to improve him, and that his mistress's afi^airs, more- 
 over, were going to ruin, he hurried from the scene. Paris 
 was now his destination ; and as he travelled thither, he felt 
 30* 
 
354 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 as certain of making a fortune by a new method of musical 
 notation which he had invented, as he had once been of travel- 
 ling over Europe by the exhibition of a Hiero's fountain. His 
 visit did not answer the purpose for which it was undertaken, 
 for his invention was not approved ; but it procured him some 
 influential friends, through whom he obtained an appointment 
 as secretary to the French ambassador at Venice. Like every 
 other situation, however, which promised comfort in connexion 
 with steady occupation, this lasted but a short time. Eous- 
 seau returned to Paris, formed an acquaintance with Diderot 
 and Grimm, and was well-nigh becoming one of the clique of 
 philosophers, when the discrepancy of his sentiments was dis- 
 covered, and he became a martyr for the theory of virtue for 
 its own sake, in opposition to virtue only so far as founded in 
 self-interest. About the same time, he took under his protec- 
 tion Therese Levasseur, a young girl whom he met at a sort of 
 tavern. He declares he never loved her, and that she was so 
 stupid, he never could hammer a solitary idea into her head ; 
 yet she and her mother — a low, ignorant, cunning woman, 
 hung upon him as a drag to the end of his life, towards the 
 close of which he made Therese his wife. His children, five 
 in number, were consigned in succession to the foundling hos- 
 pital, which rendered their after recognition impossible, even 
 had he desired it, which he did not. Such, in practice, was the 
 man who spun a theory of education for the admiration of all 
 France, protested even against a child being given out to be 
 nursed, and demanded that from its earliest infancy it should 
 be surrounded by a parent's watchful care, with everything to 
 render it happy, to make sorrow a feeling unknown, and to lead 
 it by the gentlest arts in the paths of virtue ! 
 
 These events bring us to the epoch of Rousseau's receiving 
 a new inspiration, and becoming a literary character, as we 
 have already described. Not only did a new world of thought 
 open to him in connexion with his first essay, but the favor 
 
J. J, ROUSSEATT, 355 
 
 of tlie public prepared for him a new scene of life ; for, little 
 as we may think of it now, the sensation it created was pro- 
 digious, and Eousseau, like Byron, awoke and found himself 
 famous. He had now to sustain, in the habits of his life, the 
 character attached to him as an enemy to the embellishments 
 of civilized humanity; and accordingly he remodelled his 
 dress, clapped an outre wig on his head, gave up wearing a 
 watch, and was petted by the fine ladies of his acquaintance 
 as a bear. Everything he did seemed to increase his reputa- 
 tion : his opera of Le Devhi du Village was completely suc- 
 cessful, and he might have been presented to Louis XV. had 
 he not declined the honor. He visited Geneva, abjured 
 popery, and was invited to remain among his compatriots ; but 
 he shrunk from living under the shadow of his mortal enemy, 
 Voltaire, who, it will be remembered, was now living in the 
 neighborhood, and intermeddling in the politics of the repub- 
 lic. While he hesitated, Madame d'Epinay oiFered him awing 
 of her chateau, on the borders of the forest of Montmorency, 
 where he might copy music — which was his professional 
 occupation — might meditate, and write tirades against society; 
 in short, do what he pleased, without being disturbed by 
 Parisian bustle^ nor yet lost sight of in the metropolis. But 
 here he was imprudent enough to disturb the peace of the 
 family circle, by falling desperately in love with the sister of 
 his patroness, notwithstanding her having already a professed 
 amant as well as a husband, according to the usao:e of that 
 virtuous age. And now Rousseau believed that Grimm and 
 Diderot, hitherto his friends, were striving to demolish his 
 reputation and destroy his peace, because these philosophers 
 of expediency, being at the same time warm friends of the 
 family, thought it expedient that Rousseau should give up his 
 fancy; and he, ^^a lover of virtae for its own sake/^ could not 
 find it in his heart to love virtue so much as Madame d'Hou- 
 detot. Our philosopher seems actually to have had the notion 
 
35G FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 — and what is stranger still, ttere are writers of the present 
 day who sustain it — that he was a solitary lover of truth and 
 hater of faction, existing apart from the corruption of the 
 world, a sort of living reproach to the fashionable litterateurs 
 who ruled the day, and shone in the eyes of all Paris. 
 
 The Confessions of Rousseau end with his literary career, 
 which we have already noticed, the date of both being his 
 residence in England. We touch but lightly on the rest of 
 his life, as we have no longer his own voice to guide us, and 
 we would not be accused of vilifying the idol of France by 
 following any biography which might be hostile. He was 
 permitted to return to Paris, on condition that he should 
 abandon his Armenian dress, and not publish any more. He 
 was received in the most flattering manner; but he was a prey 
 to the most poignant mental anguish, and seemed even to 
 luxuriate in his horrors, frequently repeating a stanza of Tasso, 
 which described his own situation. It is even said that his 
 countenance was so changed as to be unrecognisable by those 
 who were most familiar with it. On the 3d of July, 1778, he 
 died suddenly at the chateau of a friend, and not without sus- 
 picion of suicide. 
 
 As an apostate from the church, he could not be buried in 
 consecrated ground, and was therefore quietly interred by 
 moonlight in the gardens of the chateau. On his tomb was 
 inscribed : — 
 
 ici repose 
 l'homme de la nature 
 
 ET DE LA VERITi. 
 VITAM IMPENDERE VERO. 
 
 With what truth, let the reader judge. 
 
 Such was in Eousseau^s case the discrepancy between theory 
 and fjict, between dreaming of virtue and living virtuously. 
 
 The following is a description from his own pen of his mode 
 of day-dreaming: — 
 
J. J. ROUSSEAU. 357 
 
 JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU A MALESH^RBES. 
 
 Apres vous avoir expose, monsieur, les vrais motifs de ma conduite, 
 je voudrais vous parler de mon etat moral dans ma retraite ; mais je 
 sens qu'il est bien tard ; mon ame alienee d'elle-meme est toute a mon 
 corps. Le delabrement de ma pauvre machine I'y tient de jour en 
 jour plus attachee et jusqu'a ce qu'elle s'en separe enfin tout a coup. 
 C'est de mon bonheur que je voudrais vous parler, et Ton parle mal 
 du bonheur quand on soufifre. 
 
 Mes maux sont I'ouvrage de la nature, mais mon bonheur est le 
 mien. Quoi qu'on en puisse dire, j'ai ete sage, puisque j'ai ^t^ 
 heureux autant que ma nature m'a permis de I'etre : je n'ai point 
 ^te chercher ma felicite au loin ; je I'ai cherchee aupres de moi, et 
 I'y ai trouvee. Spartien dit que Similis, courtisan de Trajan, ay ant 
 sans aucun mecontentement personnel quitte la cour et tons ses 
 emplois, pour aller vivre paisiblement a la campagne, fit mettre ces 
 mots sur sa tombe : J'ai demeure soixante et seize ans sur la terre, et 
 fen ai vecu sept. Voila ce que je puis dire, a quelque egard, quoique 
 mon sacrifice ait 6t6 moindre ; je n'ai commence a vivre que le 9 
 mai 1756. 
 
 Je ne saurais vous dire, monsieur, combien j'ai et^ touche de voir 
 comme vous m'estimiez le plus malheureux des hommes. Le public 
 sans doute en jugera comme vous, et c'est encore ce qui m'afflige. 
 Oh ! que le sort dont j'ai joui n'est-il connu de tout I'univers ! chacun 
 voudrait s'en faire un semblable ; la paix regnerait sur la terre : les 
 homme^ ne songeraient plus a se nuire ; et il n'y aurait plus de 
 m^chants quand nul n'aurait d'interet a I'etre. Mais de quoi jouissais-je 
 enfin quand j'etais seul ? De moi, de I'univers entier, de tout ce qui 
 est, de tout ce qui pent etre, de tout ce qu'a de beau le monde sen- 
 sible, et d'imaginable le monde intellectuel ; je rassemblais autour 
 de moi tout ce qui pouvait flatter mon coeur; mes desirs etaient la 
 mesure de mes plaisirs. Non, jamais les plus voluptueux n'ont connu 
 de pareilles delices, et j'ai cent fois plus joui des chimeres qu'ils ne 
 font des realites. 
 
 After describing the beauties of his country residence (at 
 the Hermitage), he goes on : — 
 
 Mon imagination ne laissait pas longtemps deserte cette terre ainsi 
 paree. Je la peuplais bientot d'etres selon mon coeur, et chassant 
 bien loin I'opinion, les prejuges, toutes les passions factices, je trans- 
 
858 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 portals dans les asiles de la nature des ^tres dignes de les habiter, 
 Je m'en formais une society charmante, dont je ne me sentais pas 
 indigne ; je me faisais un siecle d'or a ma fantaisie, et remplissant 
 ces beaux jours de toutes les scenes de ma vie qui m'avaient laisse de 
 doux souvenirs, et de toutes celles que mon coeur pouvait desirer 
 encore, je m'attendrissais jusqu'aux larmes sur les vrais plaisirs de 
 I'humanite; plaisirs si delicieux, si purs, et qui sont desormais si loin 
 des hommes. Oh ! si dans ces moments quelque idee de Paris, de 
 mon siecle et de ma petite gloriole d'auteur, venait troubler mes 
 reveries, avec quel dedain je la chassais a I'instant, pour me livrer 
 sans distraction aux sentiments exquis dont mon ame etait pleine ! 
 Cependant au milieu de tout cela, je I'avoue, le neant de mes chime- 
 res venait quelquefois la contrister tout a coup. Quand tons mes 
 reves se seraient tournes en realites, ils ne m auraient pas suffi ; 
 j'aurais imagine, reve, desire encore. Je trouvais en moi un vide 
 inexplicable, que rien n'aurait pu remplir ; un certain elancement de 
 coeur vers une autre sorte de jouissance dont je n' avals pas d'idee, et 
 dont pourtant je sentais le besoin. Eh bien, monsieur, cela memo 
 etait jouissance, puisque j'en etais penetre d'un sentiment tres-vif et 
 d'une tristesse attirante, que je n'aurais pas voulu ne pas avoir. 
 
 Bientot, de la surface de la terre, j'elevais mes idees a tons les 
 etres de la nature, au systeme universel des choses, a I'etre incompre- 
 hensible qui embrasse tout. Alors, I'esprit perdu dans cette immen- 
 site, je ne pensais pas, je ne raisonnais pas, je ne philosophais pas ; 
 je me sentais avec une sorte de volupt^ accable du poids de cet 
 univers ; je me livrais avec ravissement a la confusion de ces grandes 
 idees ; j'aimais a me perdre en imagination dans I'espace ; mon coeur 
 resserr^ dans les bornes des etres s'y trouvait trop a I'etroit, j'^toufifais 
 dans I'univers, j'aurais voulu m'elancer dans I'lnfini. Je crois que si 
 j'eusse devoile tous les myst^res de la nature, je me serais senti dans 
 une situation moins delicieuse que cette etourdissante extase a laquelle 
 mon esprit se livrait sans retenue, et qui, dans I'agitation de mes 
 transports, me faisait eerier quelquefois, grand Etre ! sans pouvoir 
 dire ni penser rien de plus. 
 
 Ainsi s'ecoulaient, dans un delire continuel, les journees les plus 
 charmantes que jamais creature humaine ait passives : et quand le 
 coucher du soleil me faisait songer a la retraite ! ^tonne de la rapidity 
 du temps, je croyais ne pas avoir assez mis a profit ma journee, je 
 pensais pouvoir en jouir davantage encore ; et pour reparer le temps 
 perdu, je me disais : Je reviendrai demain. 
 
BurroN. 359 
 
 Less happy than Pygmalion^ who^ having made an ivory 
 image of a maiden, and fallen in love with it, prayed that life 
 might be breathed into it, and was blest in the realization of 
 his fancy — Eonsseau '' created an ideal; but he saw the impos- 
 sibility of its realization in the world, gnashed his teeth at 
 actualities, and sunk in despair and madness/' 
 
 To Montesquieu, Voltaire, and Rousseau, must be added 
 Buffon, and then we have named four writers of this age who 
 left all their contemporaries far behind. 
 
 Georges Louis Leclerc, afterwards Comte de Buffon, 
 was born at Montbar, in Burgundy, in the year 1707. His 
 father, who was counsellor to the parliament of I^ijon, gave 
 him every advantage of fortune and education, and allowed 
 him to choose his own career. It is believed that he imbibed 
 his love of the study of nature from an English gentleman 
 travelling with his pupil, the Duke of Kingston, whom he 
 joined, and with whom he visited various parts of France, 
 Italy, and England. He first attracted notice by some experi- 
 ments in rural economy, and communications to the Academy 
 of Sciences, of which he was admitted a member in 1739. 
 About the same time, he was appointed superintendent of the 
 Jardin du Boi, first formed by Louis XIII., and now by suc- 
 cessive improvements become an important establishment. 
 From this time, devoting himself entirely to the study of 
 natural history, he made it his pride to extend and enrich the 
 fine establishment of which he had the charge ; to gather into 
 it from all parts of the world the various productions of 
 nature, he built in it a museum, galleries, conservatories; and, 
 proudly happy in the midst of these treasures, conceived the 
 project of composing a natural history which should embrace 
 the whole immensity of being, animate and inanimate. He 
 first laid down a theory of the earth ; then treated the natural 
 history of man ; afterwards that of viviparous quadrupeds and 
 
860 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 birds. The first volumes of liis work appeared in 1749 ; and 
 in the course of subsequent years, supplementary matter was 
 added at various intervals, the most important of these later 
 treatises being Les Epoques de la Nature, 
 
 Buffon was an indefatigable student; and his industrious 
 disposition was favored by a robust and healthy constitution. 
 It is said that a domestic had orders to awake him every morn- 
 ing at dawn, in the name of science ; and that he sometimes 
 studied fourteen hours without intermission. Yet even thus 
 he could not have overtaken all the details of the work before 
 him, and was therefore happy in finding several talented coad- 
 jutors. He gave incredible attention to his style; and is 
 considered one of the most brilliant writers of the eighteenth 
 century. No naturalist has surpassed, or even nearly equalled 
 him, in the magnificence of his theories, hypothetical though 
 they are ; or the animation of his description of the manners 
 and habits of animals. Perhaps there never has been a writer 
 more difficult to please in the choice of his expressions, and 
 the harmony of his periods. It is said that he wrote the 
 Epochs of Nature eleven times over. He not only recited his 
 compositions aloud, in order to judge of the rhythm and 
 cadence, but he made a point of being in full-dress before he 
 sat down to write, believing that the splendor of his habili- 
 ments had an eff'ect upon his mind, and impressed his language 
 with that pomp and elegance which he so much admired, and 
 which, rather than flexibility or pathos, is his distinguishing 
 characteristic. This love of dress, with his dignified carriage 
 and air of superiority, procured for him the sobriquet of the 
 Comte de Tufiere. 
 
 Few writers have enjoyed such a long career, apparently so 
 happy, attended with so much renown, and checkered with so 
 little hostility. He was received at court by Louis XV., who 
 created him Comte de Bufi'on ; Frederic the Great, King of 
 Prussia, and Catherine 11. , empress of Russia, in common 
 
BUEFON. 361 
 
 with several other distinguished individuals in foreign coun- 
 tries, used to send him objects of interest in connexion with 
 his favorite pursuits; and during the war with America, 
 even the English corsairs respected and spared the bearers of 
 specimens from th^ New World addressed to the great na- 
 turalist. He was elected a member of the French Academy 
 in 1758, on which occasion he delivered the discourse on 
 Style, of which some passages are given below. While main- 
 taining friendship with the celebrated men of his age, he did 
 not identify himself with the party of the Encyclopedists, 
 Economists, and Philosophers, or the sects into which they 
 were divided ; he espoused none of their quarrels, nor enter- 
 tained their animosities, nor shared their humiliations. He said 
 the path of fame was broad enough for all without any jost- 
 ling. Keeping thus out of literary and political cabals, he had 
 no persecutors; and he even managed to appease the Sor- 
 bonne, by declaring that he would be happy to subject his 
 opinions to the laws of religion. His great rival was Lin- 
 nseus, whose attention was directed to similar objects, but in a 
 totally different manner, Buffon was the man of large general 
 views ; Linnseus, of close observation : the one, a telescopic — 
 the other, a microscopic naturalist. Buffon would write a 
 splendid description, Linnaeus, a careful definition; Buffon 
 hated the classification for which Linnaeus was so celebrated; 
 he had no patience for making natural history a mere nomen- 
 clature — a collection of naked facts, held together by artificial 
 ties; he would at once penetrate the secrets of Nature, and 
 present her under her most picturesque aspects; and he 
 treated with some degree of levity and contempt the labors 
 of the gifted Swede. Linnaeus made no direct reply, but 
 took an immortal revenge, by naming after him (^Biiffonid) a 
 marsh-plant which affords shelter to toads.* 
 
 '^'Bujo is the Latin of ToacL 
 Si 
 
862 TRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 It was the custom of Buifon to spend the summer on his 
 own estate of Montbar, and the winter at the royal gardens. 
 He married late in life, and had only one son, who fell a victim 
 to the revolutionary tribunal in 1793, five years after the old 
 man had died at Paris, in 1788, at the age of eighty-one. 
 
 No one now thinks of maintaining Bufibn's theory of the 
 earth : that a comet dashed against the sun, and struck off 
 fragments, which presently formed themselves into planets, at 
 first hot, vitrified masses, but afterwards cooling by degrees, 
 some more quickly than others; that organized beings suc- 
 cessively sprung into life on their surfaces as the temperature 
 abated ; and that these organic beings are all compounded of 
 certain uniform and indestructible molecules, which only pass 
 through different processes, and arrange themselves in different 
 forms to produce the varieties of vegetable and animal nature. 
 But while we smile at the splendid but now exploded hypo- 
 theses of Buffon, be it remembered that the fascination of his 
 eloquent pages served to awaken that interest in the subject 
 which has given the world a host of intelligent naturalists, and 
 among them the great Cuvier himself. The desire of explain- 
 ing — a disposition to search into causes — a passion for theo- 
 rizing and generalization — are the early and necessary aliment 
 of every science. It is the expectation of discovering some 
 great secret of nature that has inspired, in the first instance, 
 the wish to search into its details ; and hope has kept emula- 
 tion alive till more solid and useful results have been attained 
 than those which were sought. It behoves us to honor a 
 noble genius even in its mistakes, if it gives an impulse which 
 leads others into the right path. 
 
 We must do this, however, in Buffon's case with qualifica- 
 tion, and remark with disapproval the atheism which pervades 
 his system. The writings of this author exhibit distinctly the 
 general features of the eighteenth century. In the previous 
 age, Descartes, like him, had desired to become acquainted 
 
BUFFON. 363 
 
 witli nature, but his curiosity was directed to the union of the 
 moral and the physical in man ; and Pascal reproached him 
 with having done what he could to dispense with the Supreme 
 Being in his speculations. Buffon lived among men who 
 deemed physical nature alone worthy of study, and the wits 
 of the age had succeeded in discovering how a Supreme Being 
 might be dispensed with. Buffon evaded the subject entirely; 
 ignored a creator in his universe ; and, amid all his lofty soar- 
 ings, showed no disposition to rise to the Great First Cause. 
 
 Few authors attempted to imitate Buffon. After his time, 
 natural science be^-an to follow other methods. It was brouoht 
 entirely into the domain of experience, and lost at once its 
 contemplative and poetical character to acquire that of intelli- 
 gent observation. It became a practical thing, and entered 
 into close alliance with the arts. The arts and sciences thus 
 combined became the glory of France, as literature had been 
 in the preceding age. 
 
 SUR LE STYLE: DISCOURS DE R]6CEPTI0N A L'AOAD^MIE FRAXgAISE. 
 
 II s'est trouv^ dans tous les temps des hommes qui ont su com- 
 mander aux autres par la puissance de la parole. Ce n'est neanmoins 
 que dans les siecles eclair^s que Ton a bien ecrit et bien parle. La 
 veritable eloquence suppose I'exercice du genie et la culture de 
 I'esprit. EUe est bien differente de cette facilite naturelle de parler, 
 qui n'est qu'un talent, une qualite accordee a tous ceux dont les pas- 
 sions sont fortes, les organes souples et I'lmagination prompte. Ces 
 hommes sentent vivement, s'affectont de meme, le marquent fortement 
 au dehors, et, par une impression purement mecanique, ils transmet- 
 tent aux autres leur enthousiasme et leurs affections. C'est le corps 
 qui parle au corps ; tous les mouvements, tous les signes concourent 
 et servent <Sgalement. Que faut-il pour emouvoir la multitude et 
 Fentrainer ? Que faut-il pour ebranler la plupart meme des autres 
 homme et les persuader ? un ton vehement et pathetique, des gestes 
 expressifs et frequents, des paroles rapides et sonnantes. Mais pour 
 le petit nombre de ceux dont la tete est ferme, le gout delicat et le 
 sens exquis, et qui, comme vous. messieurs, comptent pour peu le 
 ton, les gestes et le vain son des mots, il faut des choses, des pensees, 
 
864 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 des raisons ; il faut savoir les presenter, les nuancer, les ordonner : il 
 ne suffit pas de frapper I'oreille et d'occuper les yeux ; il faut agir 
 sur Tame et toucher le coeur en parlant a Fesprit. 
 
 Le style n'est que I'ordre et le mouvement qu'on met dans ses pen- 
 sees. Si on les enchaine etroitement, si on les serre, le style devient 
 fort, nerveux et concis ; si on les laisse se succ^der lentement, et ne 
 se joindre qu'a la faveur des mots, quelque elegants qu'ils soient, le 
 style sera diffus, lache et trainant, 
 
 -if * ^- * * 
 
 Pourquoi les ouvrages de la nature sont-ils si parfaite ? C^est que 
 chaque ouvrage est un tout, et qu'^Ue travaille sur un plan ^ternel, 
 dont elle ne s'ecarte jamais ; elle prepare en silence le germe de ses 
 productions ; elle ebauche par un acte unique la forme primitive de 
 tout Stre vivant ; elle la developpe, elle la perfectionne par un mouve- 
 ment continu et dans un temps prescrit. L'ouvrage etonne, mais c'est 
 Fempreinte divine dont il porte les traits qui doit nous frapper. 
 L'esprit humain ne pent rien creer ; il ne produira qu'apr^s avoir ete 
 f^cond^ par Fexperience et la meditation. Ses connaissances sont les 
 germes de ses productions ; mais s'il imite la nature dans sa marche 
 et dans son travail, s'il s'eleve par la contemplation aux verites les 
 plus sublimes, s'il les reunit, s'il les enchaine, s'il en forme un tout^ 
 un systeme par la reflexion, il etablira sur des fondementsin^branlables 
 des monuments immortels. 
 
 C'est faute de plan, c'est pour n'avoir pas assez r^flechi sur son 
 objet, qu'un homme d'esprit se trouve embarrass^, et ne sait par oil 
 commencer a ecrire ; il aper9oit a la fois un grand nombre d'idees ; 
 et comme il ne les a ni comparees, ni subordonnees, rien ne le deter- 
 mine a preferer les unes aux autres. II demeure done dans la per- 
 plexite ; mais lorsqu'il se sera fait un plan, lorsqu'une fois il aura 
 rassemble et mis en ordre toutes les pensees essentielles a son sujet, 
 il s'apercevra aisement de Finstant auquel il doit prendre la plume, il 
 sentira le point de maturite de la production de Fesprit, il sera press6 
 de la faire eclore, il n'aura meme que du plaisir a Ecrire ; les id^es 
 se suGcederont aisement, et le style sera naturel et facile ; la chaleur 
 naitra de ce plaisir, se repandra partout, et donnera de la vie a 
 chaque expression ; tout s'animera de plus en plus, le ton s'el^vera, 
 les objets prendront de la couleur, et le sentiment, se joignant a la 
 lumi^re, Faugmentera, la portera plus loin, la fera passer de ce que 
 
BUFFON. 865 
 
 Ton dit a ce que Ton va dire, et le style deviendra int^ressant et 
 
 lumiaeux. 
 
 * ^ ^ * ^ 
 
 Pour bien ^crire il faut done posseder pleinement son sujet, il faut 
 y reflechir assez pour voir clairement I'ordre de ses pensees, et en 
 former une suite, une chaine continue, dont chaque point represente 
 une idee ; et lorsqu'on aura pris la plume, il faudra la conduire suc- 
 cessivement sur ce premier trait, sans lui permettre de s'en ecarter, 
 sans I'appuyer trop inegalement, sans lui donner d'autre mouvement 
 que celui qui sera determine par I'espace qu'elle doit parcourir. 
 C'est en cela que consiste la severite du style ; c'est aussi ce qui en 
 fera I'unite et ce qui en reglera la rapidite ; et cela seul aussi suffira 
 pour le rendre precis et simple, ^gal et clair, vif et suivi. A cette 
 premiM^e regie dictee par le g^nie, si Ton joint de la delicatesse et 
 du gout, du scrupule sur le choix des expressions, de Tattention a ne 
 nommer les choses que par les termes les plus generaux, le style 
 aura de la noblesse. Si Ton y joint encore de la defiance pour son 
 premier mouvement, du mepris pour ce qui n'est que brillant, et une 
 repugnance constante pour I'equivoque et la plaisanterie, le style 
 aura de la gravite, il aura meme de la majeste. Enfin, si Ton ecrit 
 comme I'on pense, si Ton est convaincu de ce que Ton veut persuader, 
 cette bonne foi avec soi-meme, qui fait la biens^ance pour les autres 
 et la verite du style, lui fera produire tout son effet, pourvu que cette 
 persuasion interieure ne se marque pas par un enthousiasme trop 
 fort, et qu'il y ait partout plus de candeur que de confiance, plus de 
 raison que de chaleur. 
 
 ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 
 
 Ici, messieurs, I'application serait plus que la r^gle, les exemples 
 instruiraient mieux que les preceptes ; mais comme il ne m'est pas 
 permis de citer les morceaux sublimes qui m'ont si souvent transporte 
 en lisant vos ouvrages, je suis contraint de me borner a des reflexions. 
 Les ouvrages bien Merits seront les seuls qui passeront k la posterite. 
 La quantite des connaissances, la singularity des faits, la nouveaute 
 meme des decouvertes ne sont pas de surs garants de I'immortalite ; 
 si les ouvrages qui les contiennent ne roulent que sur de petits objets, 
 s'ils sont Merits sans gout, sans noblesse et sans genie, ils periront ; 
 parce que les connaissances, les faits et les decouvertes s'enlevent 
 aisdment, se transportent, et gagnent meme a etre mises en oeuvre 
 par des mains plus iiabiles. Ces cboses sont hors de I'liomme, le 
 81 * 
 
366 ^ FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 Style est rhomme meme. Le style ne peut done ni s'enlever, ni se 
 transporter, ni s'alterer; s'il est eleve, noble, sublime, I'auteur sera 
 ^galement admire dans tous les temps; car il n'y a que la verit6 
 qui soit durable et meme ^ternelle. Or, un beau style n'est tel, 
 en effet, que par le nombre infini des verites qu'il pr^sente. Toutes 
 les beautes intellectuelles qui s'y trouvent, tous les rapports dont 
 il est compose sont autant de verites aussi utiles, et peut-etre plus 
 precieuses pour I'esprit humain, que celles qui peuvent faire le fond 
 du sujet. 
 
 Le sublime ne peut etre que dans les grands sujets. La po^sie, 
 Phistoire et la philosophie ont toutes le meme objet, et un tr^s-grand 
 objet: I'homme et la nature. La philosophie d^crit et d^peint la 
 nature ; la poesie la peint et Fembellit ; elle point aussi les hommes, 
 elle les agrandit, elle les exag^re, elle cr^e les h^ros et les dieux; 
 I'histoire ne peint que I'homme, et le peint tel qu'il est ; ainsi le ton de 
 I'historien ne deviendra sublime que quand il fera le portrait des plus 
 grands hommes, quand il exposera les plus grandes actions, les plus 
 grands mouvements, les plus grandes revolutions ; et partout ailleurs, 
 il suflSra qu'il soit majestueux et grave. Le ton du philosophe pourra 
 devenir sublime toutes les fois qu'il parlera des lois de la nature, des 
 etres en general, de I'espace, de la matifere, du mouvement et du 
 temps, de Fame, de I'esprit humain, des sentiments, des passions; 
 dans le reste, il suffira qu'il soit noble et 61eve; mais le ton de 
 I'orateur ou du poete, d^s que le sujet est grand, doit toujours etre 
 sublime, parce qu'ils sont les maitres de joindre a la grandeur des 
 sujets autant de couleur, autaut de mouvement, autant d'illusion qu'il 
 leur plait ; et que, devant toujours peindre et toujours agrandir les 
 objets, ils doivent aussi partout employer toute la force et d^ployer 
 toute I'etendue de leur g(5nie. 
 
 The declining years of Voltaire, Buffon, and Kousseau, wit- 
 nessed no rising genius of similar power ; but a secondary rank 
 was occupied by some authors that deserve mention. 
 
 The rage for philosophy had left little room for poetry, and 
 the drama was that branch of literature that most sensibly felt 
 the decay, resulting from the preponderance of the new studies. 
 A few tragedies were written in imitation of those already in 
 existence — works of art, not fruits of inspiration; some come- 
 
THOMAS — MARMONTEL. 367 
 
 dies, full of exaggerated feeling and pompons language, besides 
 tlie dramas of Lemierre and Dubelloy, whicli had some native 
 merits, but not sufficient to detain the reader in a treatise like 
 the present. 
 
 The only eminent successor of the great pulpit orators of the 
 seventeenth century seems to have been Thomas, who culti- 
 tivated funeral oration in a pompous and often affected style, 
 as though he forgot that the secret of eloquence lies in the 
 thought, and not in an artificial arrangement of words. In 
 his Eloge de Marc-Aurele, however, which is his best, he has 
 attained to strains at once elevated and pathetic. 
 
 J. F. Marmontel* is distinguished as the writer of Beli- 
 saire, a historico-philosophical romance, of which the first few 
 chapters remind us of the style of TeUmaque. In his Conies 
 MorauXj he exhibits with considerable charm the life and 
 manners with which he was surrounded, but displays too little 
 taste in the selection of his language, and probably as little 
 fidelity, for there is no reason to believe that the general cor- 
 ruption of manners had induced so great depravation of speech 
 as these stories would convey. He appears to greater advan- 
 tage in his Elemens de Litter aturej which include the articles 
 he had furnished to the Encyclopedia. The desire of distin- 
 guishing himself by a sort of revolt against received opinions,. 
 had led him at first into some paradoxes, which he defended in- 
 differently, and gradually renounced. In this work he follows 
 the route opened by Fenelon in the Dialogues and Les Lettres 
 sur r Eloquence J and by Montesquieu in his Essai sur le Gout : 
 he analyzes with considerable delicacy the kind of feeling 
 which characterizes the different forms of literary composi- 
 tion ; inquires into the causes which may influence and modify 
 this feeling ; and abandoning rules which can never give birth 
 
 * See Marmonters Autobiography, London, 1827. 
 
368 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 to real talent, he teaches how works of imagination ought to 
 be felt, instead of being coldly compared with prescribed 
 models, and judged according to their greater or less con- 
 formity with received precedents. Marmontel endeavors to 
 lead his readers to the enjoyment of literature, instead of de- 
 taining them with frigid criticism. 
 
 The same was the forte of M. de la Harpe, who had even 
 in a greater measure than Marmontel this feeling of literature. 
 Some of his works still maintain their place, though they have 
 little claim to originality. He was sometimes graceful in minor 
 poetry ; but his reputation rests entirely on his success as a 
 critic. During the whole of his life he was scattering in the 
 periodicals the materials which he afterwards collected under 
 the title of Oours de Litterature, He did not occupy himself 
 as Marmontel had done, with general principles, but examined 
 how these had been applied in the composition of such and 
 such particular works, and endeavored especially to awaken in 
 his readers the feelings which these works had elicited in his 
 own mind. No one has shown greater enthusiasm than La 
 Harpe in this kind of writing ] but he is dogmatic in his opi- 
 nions ; carries no reserve or hesitation in his decisions ; and 
 seems not to suspect that his friendships and his animosities 
 have often guided his criticisms more than pure literary taste. 
 It is to be observed, also, that he pays too much attention to 
 the mere art of composition, neglecting to observe the feeling 
 which dictated it, the circumstances which influenced the 
 author, and the peculiar character of his talent. He had, 
 besides, a very superficial appreciation of ancient and foreign 
 literature. Few have displayed greater eloquence than M. de 
 La Harpe in literary criticism ; but subsequent writers have 
 shown greater penetration and more careful analyzation. 
 
 Numerous writers devoted themselves to history in the 
 eighteenth century ; but the spirit of French philosophy was 
 
LA HARPE. 369 
 
 uncongenial to this species of composition, and this age does 
 not afford one remarkable historian. There were, however, 
 elegant translations made of the best works of the English 
 historians, which were considered models of the methods to be 
 followed in this study. But they had no rivals in France. 
 It would have been almost too much to expect of a French 
 litterateur that he should divest himself of the spirit of his 
 own age to transport himself into the past, and make himself 
 contemporaneous with it. In his eyes, the present was too far 
 above all those that had preceded it, to allow him to descend 
 from it for a moment. He would have considered himself to 
 be falsifying his judgment, if he had endeavored to sympathize 
 with, or even to imagine the sentiments of his predecessors. 
 People had begun to have such a high estimation of human 
 reason, and of the degree of perfection to which it had attained^ 
 that in every kind of study they sought for positive notions. 
 They cared little to know what others had thought or felt upon, 
 certain facts ; every one wished to have them at his own dis- 
 posal, in order to deduce from these premises an entirely new 
 series of deductions. To facilitate this work, it was necessary 
 to reduce as much as possible the number of primary notions, 
 and especially to rid them of all particular coloring. It was 
 thus that historical works became dry narrations of facts, with- 
 out any bond of union, or anything like consecutive reasoning, 
 and history was deprived of all that which imparts a lively 
 and well-sustained interest to its recitals. No one could com- 
 pose a tableau traced with conscience and feeling, but some 
 made abridgments or extracts divested of all the charm of 
 details. Their brevity appeared intended to aid the memory, 
 but must have failed in this respect; for one cannot retain 
 easily what has excited no interest. The president, Henault, 
 gave the first model of these skeletons of history. His talent 
 was worthy of better occupation. 
 
870 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 Others gave more extent to their works, but it was employed 
 in arguing and developing tlieir theories. With them, facts 
 'were valuable chiefly as arguments, and the opinions of a his- 
 torian were of more importance than his narrative. Condillac 
 was the most voluminous writer in this style, and no one more 
 fully displayed its defects. The Abb§ Eaynal was the most 
 renownedj his fame resting chiefly on his Hutory of the Two 
 Indies. It is difficult to conceive how a sober man could have 
 arrived at such delirium of opinion, and how he could exhibit 
 with such complaisance a set of principles which tended to 
 the overthrow of the whole system of society. Scarcely a 
 crime was committed during the Revolution with which this 
 century closed, but could find its advocate in this declaimer. 
 It is to be remarked however, that when Raynal found himself 
 actually in the midst of the turmoils he had suggested, he be- 
 haved with justice, moderation, and courage ; so dangerous is 
 it to place confidence in opinions which are not the fruit of 
 experience. An author immured in his study, ignorant of 
 men and of public afi"airs, gets inflamed by his own discourses ; 
 war, revolution, the effusion of torrents of blood, the destruc- 
 tion of entire races of men, appear to him only a grand per- 
 formance to celebrate the triumph of his opinions. It would 
 be cowardly to change his course of thought in the midst of 
 the imaginary fracas. But he lays down his pen, and again 
 becomes what he really is — a lover of peace, and gentleness, 
 and humanity ; himself would detest in the mouth of another 
 the words he has put on paper. Such an author was Eaynal. 
 
 The Recueil de V Acad6mie des Inscriptions deserves men- 
 tion here, as embodying the learned labors of a society which 
 preserved somewhat of the spirit of the old authors. They 
 were engrossed with researches, which they prosecuted for 
 love of the study, and not of public approval. They thus 
 acquired a spirit of healthy criticism, and gradually emanci- 
 pated themselves from the superstition which the writers of 
 
RAYNAL. 871 
 
 tte precediDg age had mingled with all their antique studies. 
 Instead of judging antiquity by modern principles, or invest- 
 ing it with modern habiliments, they strove to reproduce its 
 own color and character in their purity, and classic translations 
 became more faithful. These savans devoted themselves to a 
 still more interesting branch of antiquarian study in the 
 examination of the old romances of their own country ; and 
 they brought to light much that was valuable in connexion 
 with its early chivalrous institutions and manners. 
 
 The days of true religious eloquence were past ; both the 
 orators and the auditors were changed. Faith was extinct in 
 the greater part of the community, cold and timid among the 
 rest. People no longer resorted to the churches to hear the 
 announcement of truths venerated in every heart ; nor entered 
 the sacred precincts with feelings attuned to sympathy with 
 what they were to hear and see. The churches were attended 
 from curiosity to criticise the word^ not to receive it ; to see 
 whether the preacher got skilfully out of the difficulty of 
 treating matters which were neither believed nor reverenced 
 by his hearers ; and a sermon was listened to with the same 
 dispositions as an academic discourse on a disputed theory. 
 To grapple with this unhappy tendency would have needed a 
 set of bold and fervid orators, deeply read in the science of 
 theology, and animated with a faith, grieved, but not shaken 
 by the infidelity of the age. Unfortunately, however, the 
 people generally have greater influence on their orators than 
 their orators have on them. The preachers of the time now 
 under review fulfilled their office with a sort of timidity and 
 reserve; they were afraid of offending against the fashion, and 
 seemed ever begging its pardon, both for their vocation and 
 their discourses. In deference to the taste of their auditors, 
 they kept out of view whatever was purely religious, and 
 enlarged on those topics which coincided with merely human 
 morality. Religion was introduced only as an accessory which 
 
372 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 it was necessary to disguise as skilfully as possible, in order to 
 escape derision. Genuine pulpit eloquence was out of the 
 question under these circumstances. 
 
 Forensic eloquence had been improving in simplicity and 
 seriousness from the commencement of the eighteenth century ; 
 but now a concurrence of circumstances led the men of the 
 law to turn their attention to general views ; to trace out uni- 
 versal principles, rather than discuss isolated facts. The 
 eloquence of the bar thus acquired more extensive interest, 
 though perhaps it departed somewhat from its true vocation ; 
 the factums of advocates, and the addresses of magistrates, 
 began to take a place in general literature. The government 
 contributed to give this new spirit to forensic eloquence, and 
 unconsciously to render it a hostile power. Whether tyran- 
 nical in practice or not, it professed the principles of absolute 
 despotism, and acknowledged no rights but its own ; while the 
 magistrates charged with defending the privileges of the 
 citizen opposed these pretensions, and argued the case before 
 the world. Throughout the kingdom, the advocates and the 
 tribunals discussed questions of liberty, the limits of au- 
 thority, the constitution of the Christian republic. Resist- 
 ance on the one hand led to extremities on the other ; and 
 the controversy, which is now almost forgotten, had a powerful 
 effect on the minds of the lawyers, giving them habits of 
 treating general questions, and furnishing them with weapons 
 both of reason and erudition, which had not been thought of 
 before. 
 
 We are thus brought close upon the epoch of the dreadful 
 denouement — the time when the national spirit was not to be 
 traced in books but in actions. The reign of Louis XV. had 
 been marked with general disorder; the king had become 
 more and more degraded in his own way of life ; and while he 
 was sinking into the grave amid the scorn of the people, the 
 
BEAUMARCHAIS. 373 
 
 magistrates were punished for opposing the royal authority, 
 and the public were indignant at the arbitrary proceeding. 
 Beaumarchais became the organ of this feeling, and his 
 memoirs, like his comedies, are replete with enthusiasm, cyni- 
 cism, and buffoonery. Their hardihood, however, was at least 
 equalled by their success. Literature was now regarded as 
 the universal and powerful instrument which it behooved every 
 man to possess ; every class was anxious to adopt the ideas 
 of the superior class; literature was never so popular; the 
 theatres, almanacs, and romances of the lowest class, were filled 
 with the fashionable opinions, and diffused them among the 
 masses. A traveller, who visited France at this time after an 
 absence of some years, declared that the most remarkable 
 change he observed, was that what used to be said in the 
 salons was now heard in the streets. It was thus that all 
 grades of society were filled with authors and philosophers ; 
 some of them, of course, being satisfied with mere verbiage 
 instead of well-digested thoughts. The journals lent their aid 
 to this disposition ; they had ceased to be depositories of seri- 
 ous opinions on matters of science and literature ; they were 
 now published at shorter intervals, got up with greater facility, 
 and perused with less reflection. 
 
 In short, the public mind was tending towards some change 
 without exactly knowing what it would have. From the mon- 
 arch on the throne — Louis XVI. — to the lowest of the people, 
 all were eager for a new order of things ; for all perceived the 
 utter discordance that prevailed between existing institutions 
 and existing opinions. 
 
 In the midst of the dull murmur which announced the 
 approaching storm, literature, as though its work of agitation 
 had been accomplished, took up the shepherd^s reed for public 
 amusement. " Posterity will scarcely believe,'^ says an emi- 
 nent historian, ^^that Paul and Virginia^ and the Indian 
 82 
 
374 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 Cottage, were composed at this juncture by Bernardin de 
 St. Pierre ; as also the Fables of Florian, which are the 
 only ones that have ever been considered readable since those 
 by La Fontaine/' 
 
 About the same time appeared Le Voyage d' Anacliarsis, in 
 which the Abbe Barthelemy embodied his erudition in an 
 attractive form, presenting a living picture of ancient Greece 
 in the time of Pericles. 
 
 A number of other writers appeared, less strange to the 
 general spirit that was abroad. One of the most virtuous of 
 these was M. Necker, the financial minister of Louis XVI., 
 who not only again and again stemmed the tide of ruin that 
 was rushing upon the nation, but maintained the cause of 
 religion against the torrent of public opinion in works distin- 
 guished by delicacy and elevation, seriousness and gentleness. 
 We allude particularly to his Cours de Morale Religieuse. The 
 final withdrawal of this worthy man from the administration 
 of the finances was the too certain indication that the affairs 
 of the government were irretrievable. 
 
 When the storm at length burst, the country was exposed 
 to every kind of revolutionary tyranny — such is the conse- 
 quence of insurrectionary enterprises, undertaken without any 
 certain object, but merely for the satisfaction of a vague sen- 
 timent. It is not our intention to trace the steps of this fearful 
 progress, except so far as it is intimately connected with the 
 literature under review. 
 
 The first actors in the work of destruction were, for the 
 most part, actuated by good intentions and a sincere desire for 
 the public weal, however misled by illusory notions. The 
 61ite of the nation collected from all quarters of its territory to 
 discuss the dearest of its interests, doubtless brought all their 
 best talents to their work, and knew no better than to labor 
 for the establishment of theories, instead of studying their 
 
ANDRE CHENIER. 375 
 
 practical application. But these men were soon superseded 
 by a new set of politicians — men of a lower class, envious of 
 all distinctions of rank, and deeply imbued with the principles 
 of the philosophers whose works we have referred to in the 
 preceding pages. Some were full of Rousseau, and derived 
 from his writings a hatred of everything above them ; others 
 had taken from Mably his admiration of the ancient republics 
 of Greece and Rome, and would have reproduced their forms 
 in modern France ; others had borrowed from Raynal the 
 revolutionary torch which he had lighted for the destruction 
 of all institutions ; others, educated in the atheistic fanaticism 
 of Diderot, trembled with rage at the very name of priest or 
 religion; and some of these theorists would coolly try, at least, 
 the working of their opinions, whatever the experiment might 
 cost. After their time of power, the Revolution had little 
 moral relation to the history of opinions ; it was handed over 
 to the guidance of passion and personal interest. 
 
 In hurrying past these years of anarchy and bloodshed, we 
 cast a passing glance on a poet, Andre Chenier, who dared 
 to write in the Journal de Paris against the excesses of his 
 countrymen ; in consequence of which he was cited before the 
 revolutionary tribunal, condemned, and executed (1794). In 
 the prison from which he was led to death, he composed the 
 following : — 
 
 lAMBES. 
 
 Quand au mouton belant la sombre boucherie 
 
 Ouvre ses cavernes de mort, 
 Pauvres chiens et moutons, toute la bergerle 
 
 Ne s'informe plus de son sort. 
 Les enfants qui suivaient ses ebats dans la plaine, 
 
 Les vierges aux belles couleurs 
 Qui le baisaient en foule, et sur sa blanche laine 
 
 Entrela9aient rubans et fleurs, 
 Sans plus penser a lui le mangent s'il est tendre. 
 
 Dans cet abxme enseveli, 
 
876 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 J'ai le meme destin. Je m'y devais attendre. 
 
 Accoutumons-nous a I'oubli. 
 Oublies comme moi dans cet affreux repaire, 
 
 Mille autres moutons comme moi, 
 Pendus au croc sanglant du charnier populaire, 
 
 Seront servis au peuple-roi. 
 Que pouvaient mes amis ? Oui, de lour main cherie 
 
 Un mot a travers ces barreaux 
 A verse quelque baume en mon ame fl^trie, 
 
 De Tor peut-etre a mes bourreaux. 
 Mais tout est precipice. lis ont eu droit de vivre. 
 
 Vivez, amis ; vivez contents. 
 ' En depit de Bavus soyez lents a me suivre. 
 
 Peut-etre en de plus heureux temps 
 J'ai moi-meme, a I'aspect des pleurs de I'infortune, 
 
 Detourne mes regards distraits ; 
 A mon tour aujourd'hui mon malheur importune; 
 
 Vivez, amis ; vivez en paix. 
 
 LA JEUNE CAPTIVE. 
 
 L'epi naissant murit de la faux respects ; 
 Sans crainte du pressoir le pampre tout I'et^ 
 
 Boit les doux presents de FAurore; 
 Et moi, comme lui belle, et jeune comme lui, 
 Quoi que I'heure presente ait de trouble et d'ennui, 
 
 Je ne veux point mourir encore. 
 
 Qu'un stoi'que aux yeux sees vole embrasser la Mort ; 
 Moi je pleure et j'espere. Au noir souffle du nord 
 
 Je plie et releve ma tete. 
 S'il est des jours amers, il en est de si doux! 
 Helas I quel miel jamais n'a laisse de dugouts ? 
 
 Quelle mer n'a point de tempete ? 
 
 L'illusion feconde liabite dans mon sein. 
 D'une prison sur moi les murs pbsent en vain, 
 
 J'ai les ailes de TEsperance. 
 Echappee aux r^seaux de I'oiseleur cruel, 
 Plus vive, plus heureuse, aux campagnes du ciel 
 
 PhilomMe chante et s'^lance. 
 
ANBRE CHENIER. 377 
 
 Est-ce a moi de mourir ? Tranquille je m'endors, 
 Et tranquille je veille ; et ma veille aux remords 
 
 Ni mon sommeil ne sont en proie. 
 Ma bienvenue au jour me rit dans tous les yeux ; 
 Sur des fronts abattus mon aspect dans ces lieux 
 
 Ranime presque de la joie. 
 
 Mon beau voyage encore est si loin de sa fin ! 
 Je pars, et des ormeaux qui bordent le chemia 
 
 J'ai pass^ les premiers a peine. 
 Au banquet de la vie a peine commence, 
 Un instant seulement mes levres ont press6 
 
 La coupe en mes mains encor pleine. 
 
 Je ne suis qu'au printemps ; je veux voir la moisson, 
 Et, comme le soleil, de saison en saison 
 
 Je veux achever mon annee. 
 Brillante sur ma tige et I'honneur du jardin, 
 Je n'ai vu luire encor que les feux du matin ; 
 
 Je veux achever ma journee. 
 
 Mort ! tu peux attendre ; eloigne, ^loigne-toi ; 
 Va consoler les coeurs que la honte, I'efi'roi, 
 
 Le pale desespoir devore : 
 Pour moi Pales encore a des asiles verts, 
 Les Amours, des baisers ; les Muses, des concerts : 
 
 Je ne veux point mourir encore. 
 
 — Ainsi, triste et captif, ma lyre toutefois 
 S'eveillait, ecoutant ces plaintes, cette voix, 
 
 Ces voeux d'une jeune captive ; 
 Et secouant le faix de mes jours languissants, 
 Aux douces lois des vers je pliais les accents 
 
 De sa bouche aimable et naive. 
 
 Ces chants, de ma prison temoins harmonieux, 
 Feront a quelque amant des loisirs studieux 
 
 Chercher quelle fut cette belle. 
 La grace decorait son front et ses discours : 
 Et, comme elle, craindront de voir finir leurs jours 
 
 Ceux qui les passeront pr^s d'elle. 
 32* 
 
THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 XXII.— RISE OF THE ROMANTIC SCHOOL. 
 
 MADAME DE STAEL — MADAME DE GENLIS — M. LE VICOMTE DE CHATEAUBRIAND. 
 
 When Napoleon found himself firmly seated on tlie throne 
 of the Empire, he gave abundant encouragement to the arts, 
 but little or none to literature. His reign is characterized by 
 the fact, that books were little in request ; old editions of the 
 best authors were sold for a mere fraction of their original 
 price ; but new works were dear, because the demand for them 
 was so limited, that publishers durst not print a large number 
 of copies. 
 
 When literature ventured to lift up its head again, it ap- 
 peared that a new order of thought had been generated in the 
 chaos of events. In vain the Journal des Dehats undertook 
 to lead the taste of the nation back to the ancient classics, and 
 the French models of the seventeenth century; the feelings 
 of the people were all for the freer forms of other modern 
 literatures introduced to their acquaintance by Madame de 
 Stael and M. Chateaubriand. The powerful impress left by 
 these two authors requires that we introduce them more par- 
 ticularly. 
 
 Madame de Stael,"^ whom the general voice has pro- 
 
 * See Mrs. Child's Madame de Stael, New York, 1847. 
 
 (378) 
 
MADAME DE STAEL. 379 
 
 nounced tlie greatest of all female authors, was the only 
 daughter of the celebrated financier Necker, and born in Paris 
 in 1766. Though possessing an exuberance of childish 
 buoyancy, she seems never to have been a child in intellect. 
 She was early introduced to the society of the cleverest men in 
 Paris, with whom her father's house was a favorite resort ; and 
 before she was twelve years of age, such men as Raynal, 
 Grimm, and Marmontel, used to converse with her as though 
 she had been twenty, either sparring with her to elicit her 
 ready eloquence, or inquiring into her studies, and recommend- 
 ing new books. She thus early imbibed a taste for society and 
 distinction, for interchanging ideas with intelligent men, and 
 bearing her part in the brilliant conversation of the salon. 
 Her mind was familiar from childhood with notions of success 
 in society, and of literary reputation ; and it is little wonder 
 they became necessary to her as daily food in after-life. 
 
 Her mother, a pedantic disciplinarian, began by cramming 
 her with learning to the injury of her health, so that at the 
 age of fourteen she was obliged to forego serious study for a 
 time, and had leave to surrender herself to the pleasures of 
 imagination. Being sent into the country, in company with a 
 congenial young friend, she amused herself with writing pas- 
 toral dramas, and acting them. As she grew up, her affection 
 for her father, her admiration of his talents and virtues, with 
 an enthusiastic appreciation of his importance to his country, 
 in connexion with literary ambition on her own account, be-* 
 came the strongest passions of her life, and probably gave her 
 mind that bent towards politics which afterwards distinguished 
 her. '' Oh ! nothing,^' she wrote on one occasion, '' can equal 
 the emotion that a woman feels when she hears the name of 
 one beloved repeated by a whole people. All those faces which 
 appear for the time animated by the same feeling as one's own; 
 those innumerable voices which echo to the heart the name 
 that rises in the air, and which appears to return from heaven 
 
880 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 after having received the homage of earth ; the inconceivable 
 electric sympathy which runs from man to man when all share 
 the same emotions, all those mysteries of nature and social 
 feeling are added to the greatest mystery of all — love ; and 
 the soul sinks under emotions altogether overmastering. When 
 I came to myself, I felt that I had reached the extreme 
 boundary of happiness.'' 
 
 When Mademoiselle Necker was scarcely sixteen, she wrote 
 her father a long anonymous letter on his Compte Renduj a 
 statement of the past and present condition of the public 
 finances — the first work of the kind which had ever appeared 
 in France, and which naturally elicited a good deal of discus- 
 sion. The father recognised the style, and appreciated at once 
 the talent and the filial affection of his daughter. They became 
 more attached than ever. 
 
 At the age of twenty, Mademoiselle Necker gave her hand 
 to the Baron de Stael, the Swedish ambassador at Paris ; not, 
 it would seem, with a view of enjoying friendship, or com- 
 panionship, to say nothing of love, but to gain a convenient 
 position for the exercise of her talents, and the enjoyment of 
 society. She now appeared at court, and about the same time 
 made her debut in literature by publishing her letters on 
 Rousseau's works. After the fashion in which friends used 
 to write about friends at that time, we have the following por- 
 trait of Madame de Stael soon after her marriage : — ^^ Zulma 
 advances; her large dark eyes sparkle with genius; her hair, 
 '^lack as ebony, falls on her shoulders in waving ringlets ; her 
 features are more marked than delicate, and express something 
 superior to the destiny of her sex. Every one cried, ^La 
 voila !' when she appeared, and there was breathless silence. 
 When she sang, she extemporized the words of her song ; her 
 face kindled with more than natural ardor; she held the audi- 
 ence in serious attention, at once astonished and delighted, 
 and not knowing which most to admire — the facility or the 
 
MADAME DE STAEL. 381 
 
 perfection of tlie performance. After the music, she spoke 
 of the great truths of nature, the immortality of the soul, the 
 love of liberty, the allurements and dangers of the passions : 
 her features, meanwhile, assuming an expression superior to 
 beauty; her countenance continually varying, her voice exhi- 
 biting a thousand modulations, and a perfect harmony appear- 
 ing between her thoughts and their expression. Even if her 
 words were not heard, her meaning might have been gathered 
 from her look, her gestures, and the inflections of her voice. 
 When she ceased, a murmur of approbation ran round the 
 room ; she looked down modestly, her long eyelashes covered 
 her flashing eyes, and the sun was overcast V' 
 
 Thus brilliantly and joyously did Madame de Stael launch 
 into life. No marvel that when public events, already a 
 swelling stream, became a tempestuous flood that wrecked her 
 fondest hopes, and consigned her to a quiet retirement, she 
 found it not a haven of repose and enjoyment, but a dead sea 
 in which she could only struggle in despondency. 
 
 The enthusiastic, sanguine, and imaginative mind of Madame 
 de Stael was captivated by the promising harbingers of liberty, 
 the first dawnings of the French Revolution, when nothing was 
 sought but exemption from oppression, and none of the subse- 
 quent excesses were foreseen. She witnessed nearly all its 
 important events : she was present when the furious multitude 
 forced the palace of Versailles, and brought the royal family 
 to Paris ; she heard the forty-eight tocsins of Paris sound the 
 alarm on the fatal 9th of August, and continue all night their 
 monotonous and lugubrious tolling, while no one knew what 
 the morrow would bring forth; and when the scene of tumult 
 and bloodshed began, she scarcely escaped the dreadful carnage, 
 and obtained leave to pass in safety and join her parents in 
 Switzerland. Ardently as she had embraced the revolutionary 
 cause, she was not blind to the change which it underwent, 
 nor did she stubbornly adhere to it in its altered character* 
 She not only abhorred, but courageously opposed the course 
 
382 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 which France was running towards regicide ; she drew up a 
 written plan for the monarch's escape from the Tuileries — but 
 it was never communicated to him; and she heroically incurred 
 a still greater risk in publishing a defence of the queen at the 
 commencement of the Keign of Terror. After the fall of the 
 terrorists^ Madame de Stael wished to return to Paris. She 
 loved French society, hated Genevese preciseness, and hoped 
 to assist in the re-establishment of order. Her arrival in the 
 capital (1795) was regarded as an epoch in public affairs. 
 Passionately loving eclat, and eager to bear a part in the busy 
 scenes of life, she made her house the rendezvous of all par- 
 ties, and sought her own distinction in endeavoring to recon- 
 cile them all, and to diffuse a spirit of mutual toleration. Her 
 exertions in this respect were not without risk; but she looked 
 upon danger as a crown of laurel, and, as far as she was per- 
 sonally concerned, preferred the excitement of struggle to the 
 repose of success. Her drawing-rooms became the resort of 
 distinguished foreigners, ambassadors, and authors; and her- 
 self a centre of a political society. She lent the aid of her 
 talents in support of the Directory, being comparatively easy 
 about the materials of the new government, if it would only 
 prevent a recurrence of anarchy and bloodshed. But the 
 people were eyeing with delight the brilliant spectacle of 
 foreign conquests, under the direction of Bonaparte ; and the 
 weakness and unpopularity of the Directory became the step- 
 ping-stone for the military domination which he succeeded in 
 establishing at home. 
 
 Madame de Stael and Bonaparte early evinced a thorough 
 dislike of each other ; she saw the anti-liberal tendency of his 
 mind, the inherent germ of despotism, and refused to be 
 dazzled by those achievements which had turned the heads of 
 her countrymen. On the other hand, Bonaparte regarded her 
 as an unwelcome phenomenon; his aversion probably being 
 composed of jealousy of the admiration which her talents 
 
MADAME DE STAEL. 383 
 
 created, with his preconceived contempt for the intellect of 
 her sex. The hostility which originated in prejudice was 
 steadily continued. A woman of her calibre was unmanage- 
 able ; a man of eminent talents might be put into office and 
 rendered subservient to his policy ; but Napoleon could offer 
 her no boon which would induce her to forego the liberty of 
 free discussion. She carried the double shield of strength 
 and weakness, availing herself of the privileges which Eu- 
 ropean chivalry extends to a lady, while wielding the powerful 
 weapons of a masculine understanding. To save himself from 
 the terrors of her tongue, Bonaparte banished her from Paris. 
 He next directed his vengeance against her works ; and it has 
 been said that the annals of literary persecution contain nothing 
 more extraordinary than that to which Madame de StaeFs 
 writings were exposed by his watchful tyranny. Though her 
 work on Germany was almost wholly literary, to the exclusion 
 of politics, it was submitted to the censors, in obedience to a 
 decree against the liberty of the press. They authorized its 
 publication, but demanded the erasure of several passages, which 
 were considered to be anti-despotic in their tendency. The 
 exceptionable passages having been expunged, 10,000 copies 
 were printed ; but gendarmes were sent to seize the impres- 
 sions 3 the print was obliterated by a chemical process, and 
 the restoration of the blank paper was the only indemnification 
 afforded to the publisher. The manuscript was demanded j 
 the authoress ordered to quit France in twenty-four hours ; 
 and before all was over, she was forbidden to stir more than 
 ten leagues in any direction from her house at Coppefc. M. 
 de Stael, who had been recalled to Sweden in 1799, died three 
 years afterwards at this retreat, attended by his lady, to whom 
 he had just been reconciled after some years of separation. 
 
 In 1810, a young Spaniard of the name of Rocca, an officer 
 in the French army, visited Geneva in a state of great weak- 
 ness, and suffering from wounds received in Spain. He was 
 
384 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 seized with an entliusiastic admiration for Madame de Stael, 
 tliougli she was twenty years older than himself, and he in- 
 duced her to marry him; but she never acknowledged the 
 tie, or consented to change her name. Her situation becoming 
 disconsolate and irksome in consequence of her being precluded 
 even from receiving visits at Coppet, through the tyranny of 
 Bonaparte, she escaped by secret flight into Russia, and thence 
 passed through Sweden into England. Here she was courted 
 by the most distinguished society, and effected the publication 
 of her Germany, 
 
 The abdication of Napoleon in 1814 enabled her to return 
 to the continent, but she retreated to Coppet as soon as he re- 
 appeared in Paris after his temporary residence at Elba. He 
 now invited her to repair to the capital, in order to assist him 
 in modelling a constitution ; but she replied : '' He did with- 
 out either me or a constitution for twelve years, and has no 
 liking for either of us.'^ However pleased with his final over- 
 throw, her patriotism was deeply wounded by the allies entering 
 La Belle France ; and she again retired to Coppet, to avoid 
 witnessing the humiliating spectacle. E[ere she was visited 
 in 1816 by Lord Byron, whose acquaintance she had made in 
 England, and to whom she now addressed some lessons of 
 worldly wisdom, especially with reference to his lady. When 
 he quoted to her in reply a motto of her own, that ^^ a man 
 ought to be able to brave public opinion, but a woman to 
 submit to it" — she replied, that she feared both sexes would 
 reap only evil from resistance. 
 
 Madame de Stael's character softened as she advanced in 
 years. Domestic affection, which was amply gratified in her 
 husband and children, gradually supplanted the love of pablic 
 activity and distinction, while religion lent its support as her 
 health declined. She wasted gradually away, and died at 
 Paris in 1817, in her fifty-second year. Eocca, whose chival- 
 
MADAME DE STAEL. 385 
 
 rous attachment to her had continued in all its vigor, survived 
 her but a few months. 
 
 Madame de Stael, like other authors of that age, wrote on a 
 great variety of subjects. Her Dix Annees d^ Exile is the most 
 simple and interesting of her works. Her Considerations de 
 la Revolution Frangaise, which was not published till after 
 her death, is considered the most valuable of her political 
 pieces, from its affording a description of the personal impres- 
 sions made by that convulsion ; but the great preponderance 
 of praise which she gives to her father (Necker), takes much 
 from its impartiality. Among her works of fiction, Delpliine 
 and Corinne have had the highest popularity; but, however 
 admirable for subtle remark, vivid detail, and, above all, for 
 singular power in the delineation of character, they are objec- 
 tionable in a moral point of view, and her minor tales are still 
 more faulty in this respect. Of all h^r works, L' AUemagne 
 is considered worthy of the highest rank, and is that which 
 was calculated most beneficially to influence the literature of 
 her country. It is a treatise on the spirit, manners, and liter- 
 ature of the Germans, a nation previously little appreciated 
 in France, but with which this authoress made a personal 
 acquaintance during the years of her exile. As a literary 
 oritic, she extended her views to the essentials of excellence, 
 disdaining the narrow-mindedness which makes criticism to 
 consist in the detection of minute blemishes, and rising above 
 that attention to mere forms which had always been the bane 
 of this department of French authorship. There was perhaps 
 no other country the picture of whose literature was calculated 
 to be so useful to France ; and that, not because it afforded 
 the best models for it to follow, but because it was so unlike 
 French literature in its general characteristics, that the display 
 of its riches tended to convey to a narrow-minded community 
 a better idea of the extensive range which literature might 
 embrace, than that of a country more congenial with their 
 
obb rEENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 own could possibly have done. She thus encouraged the 
 abandonment of the models to which the taste of France still 
 adhered^ despite the shock of its political revolution. She 
 taught her countrymen to blush for the pedantic exclusiveness 
 with which they had circumscribed themselves; and her 
 writings have perhaps, beyond all others, vanquished and 
 subdued the derisive spirit of depreciating illiberality, which 
 had tended to cripple genius more than to repel the encroach- 
 ments of bad taste. She promoted enthusiasm to the place 
 hitherto occupied by fastidiousness, and aided the man of 
 genius in daring to be himself. Writers like Delavigne, La- 
 martine, Beranger, De Vigny, and Victor Hugo, though in no 
 respect imitators of Madame de Stael, are probably much in- 
 debted to her for the stimulus to originality which her writings 
 afforded. 
 
 It is to be remarked, at the same time, that while Madame 
 de Stael was liberal and enlightened, she was not wholly dis- 
 passionate, and in her abhorrence of trivial criticism she some- 
 times indulged in sweeping assertions, and broad classifications 
 in defiance of facts. It must also be admitted, that too many 
 rank and noxious weeds, as well as fair flowers and wholesome 
 fruits, have resulted from her endeavors to fertilize the literary 
 soil of her country ; that the demand for novelty and excite- 
 ment has been carried to a vicious extreme; and that the lite- 
 rary freedom which this lady promoted has degenerated into 
 licentiousness. This we shall presently have occasion to notice 
 in La Litterature Extravogaiiie. 
 
 Madame de Stael was one of those great poets who are 
 poetical only in prose. The mechanical difficulties of versifi- 
 cation fettered her imagination, and in none of her professedly 
 poetical compositions does she rise above mediocrity. But her 
 prose writings abound with poetic ornaments of the most bril- 
 liant kind. Corinney for instance, presents perhaps a greater 
 abundance of examples of poetry in prose than any other single 
 
MADAME DE STAEL. 887 
 
 work in tlie language. We have such a passage in the impro- 
 visation of Corinne in the Capitol. This Corinne^ the most 
 celebrated woman in Italy^ was to be crowned^ and according 
 to the usage she must extemporize or recite some verses before 
 she rec-eived on her head the destined laurels. '' She asks for 
 her lyre/' tells the story, " which she prefers as resembling 
 the harp, but being more antique in its form, and more simple 
 in its music. And now, in a trembling voice, she inquires 
 what her subject must be. ^The glory and the happiness of 
 Italy !' was the unanimous response. ' Well, yes,' replied 
 she, already kindling with the subject — Hhe glory and the 
 happiness of Italy / and after this manner she sang in verses 
 of which prose can afford but an imperfect idea : 
 
 ** Italie, empire du soleil ! Italie, maitresse du monde ! Italie, 
 berceau des lettres, je te salue. Combien de fois la race humaine te 
 fut soumise, tributaire de tes armes, de tes beaux-arts et de ton ciel ! 
 
 Un dieu quitta rOlympe pour se refugier en Ausonie ; Taspect de 
 ce pays fit rever les vertus de Page d'or, et rhomme y parut trop 
 heureux pour I'y supposer coupable. 
 
 Kome conquit I'univers par son genie, et fut reine par la liberty. 
 Le caract^re romain s'imprima surle monde, et I'invasion des barbares, 
 en detruisant I'ltalie, obscurcit I'univers entier. 
 
 L' Italie reparut avec les divins tresors que les Grecs fugitifs 
 rapportferent dans son sein ; le ciel lui revela ses lois ; I'audace de 
 ses enfants decouvrit un nouvel hemisphere : elle fut reine encore 
 par le sceptre de la pensee, mais ce sceptre de lauriers ne fit que des 
 ingrats. 
 
 L'imagination lui rendit Tunivers qu'elle avait perdu. Les peintres, 
 les poetes, enfanterent pour elle une terre, un Olympe, des enfers et 
 des cieux ; et le feu qui I'anime, mieux garde par son g^nie que par 
 le dieu des paiens, ne trouva point dans I'Europe un Promethee qui 
 le ravit. 
 
 Pourquoi suis-je au Capitole ? pourquoi mon humble front va-t-il 
 recevoir la couronne que Petrarque a portee, et qui reste suspendue 
 au cypres funfebre du Tasse? pourquoi ... si vous n'aimiez assez la 
 gloire, 6 mes concitoyensi pour recompenser son culte autant que 
 ses succes ? 
 
388 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 Eh bien, si vous I'aimez, cette gloire qui cboisife trop souvent ses 
 victimes parmi les vainqueurs qu'elle a eouronnes, pensez avec 
 orgueil a ces siecles qui virent la renaissance des arts ! Le Dante, 
 THomere des temps modernes, poete sacre de nos mysteres religieux, 
 heros de la pensee, plongea son genie dans le Styx pour aborder a 
 I'enfer, et son ame fut profonde comme les abimes qu'il a decrits. 
 
 L'ltalie, au temps de sa puissance, revit tout enti^i-e dans le Dante. 
 Anime par I'esprit des republiques, guerrier aussi bien que poete, il 
 souffle la flamme des actions parmi les morts, et ses ombres ont une 
 vie plus forte que les vivants d'aujourd'hui. 
 
 Les souvenirs de la terre les poursuivent encore ; leurs passions sans 
 but s'acharnent a leur coeur; elles s^agitent sur le pass(!, qui leur 
 semble encore moins irrevocable que leur eternel avenir. 
 
 On dirait que le Dante, banni de son pays, a transports dans les 
 regions imaginaires les peines qui le devoraient. Ses ombres deman- 
 dent sans cesse des nouvelles de I'exlstence, comme le poete lui- 
 meme s'informe de sa patrie, et I'enfer s'offi^ a lui sous les eouleurs 
 de rexil. 
 
 Tout, a ses yeux, se revet du costume de Florence. Les morts qu'i! 
 evoque semblent renaitre aussi Tosoans que lui ; ce ne sont point les 
 bornes de son esprit, c'est la force de son 4ime qui fnYt entrer Tunivers 
 dans le cercle de sa pensee. 
 
 Un encbainement mystique de cercles et de spheres le conduit de 
 I'enfer au purgatoire, du purgatoire an paradis ; historien fidMe de 
 sa vision, il inonde de clarte les regions les plus obscures, et le monde 
 qu'il cree dans son triple poeme est complet, animS, brillant comme 
 nne plan^te nouvelle, aper9ue dans le firmament. 
 
 A sa voix, tout sur la terre se change en poesie : les objcts, les idees, 
 les lois, les phSnom^nes, semblent un nouvel Olympe, de nouvelles 
 divinites ; mais cette mythologie de Timo^gination s'anSantit comme le 
 paganisme a I'aspect du paradis, de cet ocean de lumiere, etincelant 
 de rayons et d'etoiles, de vcrtus et d'amour. 
 
 Les magiques paroles de notre plus grand poete sont le prismc de 
 I'univers ; toutes ses merveilles s'y refl(5chissent, s'y divisent, s'y 
 recomposent; les sons imitent les eouleurs, les eouleurs se fondent 
 en harmonic ; la rime, sonore ou bizarre, rapide ou prolongee, est 
 inspiree par cette divination poetique, bcaute supreme de Fart, 
 triomphe du gSnie, qui docouvre dans la nature tons les secrets en 
 relation avec le coeur de Thomme. 
 
MADAME DE STAEL. 389 
 
 Le Dante esperait de son poeme la fin de son exil ; il comptait sur 
 la renommee pour m<^diatrice ; mais il mourut trop tot pour recueillir 
 les palmes de la patrie. Souvent la vie passagere de Thomrae 
 s'use dans les revers ; et si la gloire triomphe, si Ton aborde enfin 
 sur une plage plus heureuse, la tombe s'ouvre derriere le port, et le 
 destin a mille formes annonce souvent la fin de la vie par le retour du 
 bonheur. 
 
 Ainsi le Tasse infortune, que vos hommages, Eomains, devaient 
 consoler de tant d'injustices, beau, sensible, chevaleresque, revant les 
 exploits, eprouvant I'amour qu'il cbantait, s'approcha de ces murs, 
 comme ses heros de Jerusalem, avec respect et reconnaissance. Mais 
 la veille du jour choisi pour le couronner, la mort I'a reclame pour sa 
 terrible fete : le ciel est jaloux de la terre, et rappelle ses favoris des 
 rives trompeuses du temps. 
 
 Dans un si^cle plus fier et plus libre que celui du Tasse, Petrarque 
 fut aussi, comme le Dante, le poete valeureux de I'independance 
 italienne. Ailleurs on ne connait de lui que ses amours ; ici des 
 souvenirs plus severes honorent a jamais son nom ; et la patrie I'in- 
 spira mieux que Laure elle-meme. 
 
 II ranima I'antiquite par ses veilles, et, loin que son imagination 
 mit obstacle aux etudes les plus profondes, cette puissance creatrice, 
 en lui soumettant I'avenir, lui revela les secrets des siecles passes. 
 II eprouva que connaitre sert beaucoup pour inventer, et son g^nie 
 fut d'autant plus original, que, semblable aux forces eternelles, il fut 
 present a tons les temps. 
 
 Notre air serein, notre climat riant, ont inspire I'Arioste. C'est 
 I'arc-en-ciel qui parut apres nos longues guerres : brillant et vari^ 
 comme ce messager du beau temps, il semble se jouer familierement 
 avec la vie, et sa gaiete legere et douce est le sourire de la nature, et 
 non pas I'ironie de I'homme. 
 
 Michel-Ange, Raphael, Pergol^se, Galilee, et vous, intr^pides voya- 
 geurs avides de nouvelles contrees, bien que leur nature ne put vous 
 ofi'rir rien de plus beau que la votre, joignez aussi votre gloire a celle 
 des poetes! Artistes, savants, philosophes, vous etes comme eux 
 enfants de ce soleil qui, tour a tour, developpe I'imagination, anime 
 la pensee, excite le courage, endort dans le bonheur, et semble tout 
 promettre ou tout faire oublier. 
 
 Connaissez-vous cette terre oii les orangers fleurissent, que les 
 rayons des cieux fecondeut avec amour ? Avez-vous entendu les sons 
 33 * 
 
S90 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 m^lodieux qui c^lebrent la douceur des nuits ? Avez-vous respir^ ces 
 parfums, luxe de I'air deja si pur et si doux ? Kepondez, strangers ! 
 la nature est-elle chez vous belle et bienfaisante ? 
 
 Ailleurs, quand les calamit6s sociales affligent un pays, les peuples 
 doivent s'y croire abandonnes par la Bivinite ; mais ici nous sentons 
 toujours la protection du ciel, nous voyons qu'il s'interesse a Fhomme, 
 et qu'il a daigne le traiter comme une noble creature. 
 
 Ce n'est pas seulement de pampres et d'epis que notre nature est 
 paree ; mais elle prodigue sous les pas de I'homme, comme a la fete 
 d'un souverain, une abondance de fleurs et de plantes inutiles, qui, 
 destinees a plaire, ne s'abaissent point a servir. 
 
 Les plaisirs delicats, soignes par la nature, sont gout6s par une 
 nation digne de les sentir; les mets les plus simples lui suffisent; 
 elle ne s'enivre point aux fontaines de vin que Fabondance lui pre- 
 pare : elle aime son soleil, ses beaux-arts, ses monuments, sa contree 
 tout ^ la fois antique et printaniere ; les plaisirs rafiSnes d'une society 
 brillante, les plaisirs grossiers d'un peuple aTide, ne sont pas fails 
 pour elle. 
 
 Ici, les sensations se confondent avec les idees, la vie se puise tout 
 cnti^re a la meme source, et Tame, comme Fair, occupe les confins de 
 la terre et du ciel. Ici le genie se sent a False parce que la reverie 
 y est douce ; s'il agite, elle calrae ; s'il regrette un but, elle lui fait 
 don de mille chimeres ; si les hommes Foppriment, la nature est 1^ 
 pour Faccueillir. 
 
 Ainsi toujours elle repare, et sa main secourable guerit toutes les 
 blessures. Ici Fon se console des peines meme du coeur, en admirant 
 un Dieu de bont6, en penetrant le secret de son amour ; les revers 
 passagers de notre vie ^phem^re se perdent dans le sein fecond et 
 majestueux de Firamortel uoivers.' 
 
 Corinne fut interrompue pendant quelques moments par les applau- 
 dissements les plus imp6tueux. Le seul Oswald ne se mela point 
 aux transports br.uyants qui Fentouraient. II avait pench^ sa tete 
 sur sa main, lorsque Corinne avait dit : Ici Von se console des peines 
 m&me du coeur ; et depuis lors il ne Favait point relevee. Corinne le 
 I'cmarqua, et bientot a ses traits, a la couleur de ses cheveux, a son 
 costume, a sa taille elev^e, a toutes ses manit;res enfin, elle le recon- 
 nut pour un Anglais. Le deuil qu'il portait et sa physionomie pleino 
 de tristesse la frapp^rent. Son regard, alors attach^ sur elle, semblait 
 Ini faire dovicement dos re'^roches ; ollc dcvina les pens^es qui FoccU' 
 
MADAME DE STAEL. 391 
 
 paient, et se sentit le besoin de le satisfaire, en parlant du bonlieur 
 avec moins d'assurance, en consacrant a la mort quelques vers au 
 milieu d'une fete. EUe reprit done sa lyre dans ce dessein, fit rentrer 
 dans le silence toute I'assembl^e par les sons touchants et prolonges 
 qu'elle tira de son instrument, et recommen^a ainsi : 
 
 * II est des peines cependant que notre ciel consolateur ne saurait 
 efi*acer; mais dans quel sejour les regrets peuvent-ils porter a I'ame 
 une impression plus douce et plus noble que dans ces lieux ? 
 
 Ailleurs, les vivants trouvent a peine assez de place pour leurs 
 rapides courses et leurs ardents d^sirs ; ici, les mines, les deserts, les 
 palais inhabites, laissent aux ombres un vaste espace. Pvome main- 
 tenant n'est-elle pas la patrie des tombeaux ? 
 
 Le Colisee, les obelisques, toutes les merveilles qui, du fond de 
 TEgypte et de la Grece, de I'extremite des siecles, depuis Romulus 
 jusqu'a Leon X., se sont reunies ici, comme si la grandeur attirait la 
 grandeur, et qu'un meme lieu dut renfermer tout ce que rhomme a 
 pu mettre a I'abri du temps ; toutes ces merveilles sont consacrees 
 aux monuments fun^bres; notre indolente vie est a peine aperyue; 
 le silence des vivants est un hommage pour les morts : ils durent, et 
 nous passons. 
 
 Eux seuls sont honoris, eux seuls sont encore celebres ; nos 
 destinees obscures relevent I'eclat de nos ancetres ; notre existence 
 actuelle ne laisse debout que le pass^ ; il ne se fait aucun bruit 
 autour des souvenirs. Tons nos chefs-d'oeuvre sont I'ouvrage de 
 ceux qui ne sont plus, et le genie lui-meme est compte parmi les 
 illustres morts. 
 
 Peut-etre un des charmes de Rome est-il de reconcilier I'imagination 
 avec le long sommeil. On s'y resigne pour soi, Ton en souflfre moins 
 pour ce qu'on aime. Les peuples du Midi se representent la fin de la 
 vie sous des couleurs moins sombres que les habitants du Nord. Le 
 Boleil, comme la gloire, rechaufi'e meme la tombe. 
 
 Le froid et I'isolement du sepulcre sous ce beau ciel, a cdt6 de tant 
 d'urnes funeraires, poursuivent moins les esprits efi*ray^s ; on se croit 
 attendu par la foule des ombres ; et, de notre ville solitaire a la ville 
 souterraine, la transition semble assez douce. 
 
 Ainsi la pointe de la douleur semble emouss^e ; non que le coeur 
 soit blase, non que Fame soit aride ; mais une harmonic plus parfaite, 
 un air plus odoriferant, se melent a I'existence. On s'abandonne a 
 la nature avec moins de crainte, a cette nature dont le Cr^ateur a 
 
392 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 dit : Les lis ne travaillent ni ne filent ; et cependant quels vetements 
 des rois pourraient ^galer la magnificence dont j'ai revetu ces 
 fleurs ?' '' 
 
 Another female author — not, indeed, worthy of comparison 
 with Madame de Stael in respect of talent, but who lived, like 
 her, through the Revolution, and exercised an influence on pub- 
 lic events — was Madame de Genlis (1746-1830), a ladj of 
 poor but noble family, and niece to Madame de Montesson, 
 whom the Duke of Orleans had privately married. Through 
 the influence of her aunt, this lady obtained the appointment 
 of maid of honor to the Duchess de Chartres, and afterwards 
 of governess to her children, of whom one, it will be recollected, 
 was the late Louis-Philippe. 
 
 The political power of this lady did not depend on her pen, 
 but on her private influence in the Orleans family, which she 
 used against the Bourbons. She was, consequently, forced to 
 emigrate in 1792; found favor under Napoleon; but sunk 
 into obscurity again at the restoration of the Bourbon family, 
 though saved from want by a pension from the house of 
 Orleans. Her works, which extend to at least eighty volumes, 
 are chiefly educational treatises, moral tales, and historical 
 romances, furnishing what was certainly a desideratum in those 
 days — a supply of safe reading, in a moral point of view, for 
 young people. * 
 
 M. LE VicOMTE DE CHATEAUBRIAND must be placed side 
 by side with Madame de Stael, as another of those brilliant and 
 versatile geniuses who have dazzled the eyes of their country- 
 men, and exerted a permanent influence on French literature. 
 In each of his capacities as minister, diplomatist, orator, poet, 
 traveller, theologian, novelist, journalist, pamphleteer, he en- 
 gaged attention, and frequently commanded admiration ; in all 
 there was a combination of unity with variety; in all he was 
 the same rash, ardent, imaginative, and eloquent Chateau- 
 
CHATEAUBRIAND. 393 
 
 briand. He was born in 1769; the youngest of ten cliildren ; 
 passed his childhood amidst the woods that suiTounded his 
 paternal mansion ; was well instructed in theology, with a view 
 to his becoming an ecclesiastic ; but entered the army at an 
 early age, as he manifested no predilection for the sacred voca- 
 tion. He quitted the service, however, at the commencement 
 of the French Revolution ; and after indulging somewhat in 
 pastoral poetry, passed over to America, in whose civilized 
 communities he hoped to find the liberty for which his coun- 
 trymen were panting, and in whose boundless forests, a veri- 
 fication of those rhapsodies of Rousseau which had taken a 
 powerful hold of his youthful imagination. He returned on 
 hearing of the arrest of Louis XVI. at Varennes, and chival- 
 rously determined to devote himself to the royal cause. But 
 the struggle was hopeless ; and after being wounded at Thion- 
 ville, he fled to England, where he remained several years. 
 In 1801, he returned to France, determined to raise a literary 
 monument to the faith which had consoled him during the 
 reverses of his life. 
 
 The terrors of the French Revolution, the disastrous extrava- 
 gances which had accompanied that worst of all fanaticisms — 
 the bigotry of infidelity — had produced a strong reaction on 
 the more refined and imaginative circles of France. Never, 
 perhaps, were the consolations arising from a belief in a future 
 state so ardently longed for as among the generation that sur- 
 vived the Reign of Terror. The guillotine, the wars, the con- 
 scriptions, had left few without some to mourn, and the hope 
 of a better world indicated a greater blessing than any that 
 earth could aifford ; but deism kept its stronghold among the 
 leading intellects of the day, and no one dared to advocate 
 what every one wished. At this juncture, Chateaubriand 
 stepped forward, an author whose talents no critic could call in 
 question, and whose eloquence all men could understand, to 
 cherish these ^^ longings after immortality,^' and to verify the 
 
S94 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 saying, that when the many desire a leader, the voice of 
 Heaven sometimes directs them to a poet. Before publishing 
 the Genie du Christianisme, he sent forth several religious 
 novels, of which the most celebrated is Atala, to which he 
 prefixed a recital of the circumstances which had led himself 
 to seek peace of mind in the Christian faith. He made his 
 appeal, not to the wisdom of the savans^ but to the feelings 
 of an excitable people; he did not argue the evidences of 
 Christianity, but he rushed in a tide of passion and poetry 
 into hearts ready to receive him, and into these bleeding hearts 
 he carried the consolations of Christianity. ^^ Je n'ai point 
 cede,'' he says, ^' a de grandes lumieres surnaturelles, ma con- 
 viction est sorti du cosur — ^j'ai pleure, et j'ai cru.'' The popu- 
 lar feeling echoed the egotism ; the people too, had wept, and 
 were therefore willing to believe. 
 
 Madame de Stael, who had many qualities in common with 
 Chateaubriand, had also a strong a poetic feeling of religion ; 
 but her writings only implied and hoped what Chateaubriand 
 asserted and promised. It was by advancing one step further 
 than she had done, that he gained the heart of the French 
 nation. 
 
 Atala elicited a burst of astonishment and admiration, and 
 seldom has public sympathy arisen to the same degree of deli- 
 rium. Innumerable editions and translations into difi'erent 
 languages spread the fame of the author in a few months from 
 Lisbon to St. Petersburg; the Greek read it on the Propylaea; 
 and it is said even that the sultanas of the East wept over the 
 misfortunes of the daughter of Simaghan in the solitude of 
 the harems. This much lauded work is a short tale of simple 
 structure, bearing, in common with Rene and Les NatcfieZy on 
 savage life in the forests of North America. Atala is a Chris 
 tian, the daughter of a European ; she liberates the Indian, 
 Chactas; flies with him, and labors with some success for his 
 conversion. A mutual attachment springs up; but Atala has 
 
CHATEAUBRIAND. 395 
 
 taken a vow of celibacy ; and not knowing that the Roman 
 Catholic missionary has the power as well as the will, to pro- 
 cure her release, she swallows poison to end her miserable 
 existence. The tale, it seems to ns, defeats its own end. The 
 priest's laudation of the virtue of celibacy does not tell so well 
 in favor of it, as the unhappy consequence of the vow tells 
 against it. 
 
 Les MarfyrSj a prose epic on the theme of the sufferings of 
 Christians in the reigns of Diocletian and Galerius, is con- 
 sidered the best of Chateaubriand's fictions ; ill constructed as 
 a story, but abounding in eloquent passages and fine displays 
 of descriptive talent. 
 
 The Genie du Christianisme was the crowning work of a 
 series in which the religious views of the author are prominent 
 and pervading. It has been characterized as '' a work of emi- 
 nent eloquence and much research, yet one of the most 
 unequal and unsatisfactory productions of genius that have 
 been witnessed in modern times. Full of brilliant beauties 
 and glaring defects — passages which all must admire, and 
 errors that might be detected by a child— excellent in inten- 
 tion, yet so executed as to draw down the reprobation even of 
 those who are most zealous in the cause the writer has under- 
 taken to defend.'' The author thus announces the object he 
 had in view. '' It had been maintained," he says, " that 
 Christianity was a religion sprung from barbarism, absurd in 
 its doctrines, ridiculous in its ceremonies, and hostile to the 
 progress of arts and literature.'^ Accordingly, he undertakes 
 to prove, that of all religions that have ever existed, Chris- 
 tianity is the most poetical, the most favorable to liberty, to 
 the arts, and to literature , that the modern world owes every- 
 thing to this religion, from agriculture to abstract science, 
 from the humblest refuge of the unfortunate, to the temples 
 embellished by Michael Angelo ; that it fosters talent, purifies 
 taste, and invigorates thought ; that it supplies noble images 
 
396 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 to the writer, and perfect models to the artist; and that it is 
 desirable to summon all the enchantments of imagination, and 
 all the interests of the heart, to aid that religion which they 
 have hitherto been employed to oppose. The intention was 
 certainly good ; the author saw that both in literature and in 
 the fine arts no models were recognised except those of Greece 
 and Rome ; and that this invariable use of classic symbols, and 
 this incessant appeal to classical models among a people on 
 whom outward forms have so great an influence, was tending 
 to confirm them in the prevailing anti-Christian feeling. 
 While deism was thus captivating its proselytes with the 
 classic beauties of heathen fable, he strove to counteract the 
 poison by displaying the beauties of Christian truth, hoping 
 that if he did not convince their reason, at least he might 
 captivate their tastes. It was by such means that he expected 
 to silence the ablest opponents that ever directed the weapons 
 of perverted reason against the evidences of religion ; and it 
 seems never to have occurred to him, that he was condescend- 
 ing to occupy very humble ground in the controversy, and 
 that such a line of defence might be derogatory to the great 
 cause he had undertaken to advocate. He seems never to 
 have questioned whether it was advantageous to religion to 
 treat it as if it were one of the fine arts. Nevertheless, the 
 work succeeded to admiration; at least in securing readers. 
 Six editions were printed in one year in France alone ; and it 
 is believed that, with all its weakness, as it appears to us, it 
 really did prove the commencement of a religious reaction, 
 which has continued under various forms, though not so 
 extensively as could be desired, to the present day. Fain 
 would we hope and believe that if this writer, or any other of 
 equal power, had grasped the great truths of the Christian 
 revelation, and displayed them in their saving and sanctifying 
 influence, instead of spending the strength of his genius in 
 the cause of monastic vows, prayers to saints, and such like. 
 
CHATEAUBRIAND. 897 
 
 there might have been a truly national return to this religious 
 feeling, with a spirit of enlightened freedom. But, unfortu- 
 nately, while in government, literature, and everything else, it 
 had been deemed necessary to re-establish matters on a footing 
 corresponding to the views of freedom which had taken posses- 
 sion of the public mind, no one seemed to think of any resto- 
 ration of religion other than a return to the bonds which were 
 so cheerfully worn in the seventeenth century. 
 
 The genius of M. Chateaubriand has unquestionably been 
 very inaccurately estimated by those who measure the height 
 of an author by the shadow of his celebrity. Some of his 
 characteristics have doubtless produced a seriously injurious 
 effect on French literature ; and of these, one of the most con- 
 tagious, and the most corrupting, is his passion for the glitter 
 of words, and the pageantry of high-sounding phrases. His 
 maxim was, that an ^^ author survives only by style ;'^ and 
 accordingly, his own is in the highest degree artificial and 
 theatrical. The expression always excites more attention than 
 the thought; and even as the sculptors in the later days of 
 Rome deteriorated in grace and vigor, in proportion as they 
 lavished their attention upon the draperies rather than the 
 figures, so M. Chateaubriand appears feeble in proportion as 
 he labors to be effective. Nothing is more destructive to a 
 quick intuition and a firm grasp of truth, than an overfastidi- 
 ous selection of phrases. But this influence on the reader is 
 not the worst. In striving to say fine things, he often says 
 false ones ; anxious chiefly to astonish his readers, he is little 
 scrupulous about the means, and is not seldom guilty of sacri- 
 ficing a truth to a prettiness. 
 
 This author, however, is not to be blamed as a leader of the 
 modern Litterature Extravagante. As we shall presently see, 
 the exaggeration of the latter is that of character and passion, 
 not of style and phrase ; the vivid fancy and glowing declama- 
 tion of Chateaubriand were never prostrated in the cause of 
 34 
 
398 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 vice. Above all, lie is always a gentlemen ; and thougli often 
 in the clouds, he is never in the mire. Yet he seems to be 
 answerable for having set the fashion of stringing together de- 
 clamations upon feeling and sentiment, instead of exhibiting 
 the play of great passions; rendering subjects which ought to 
 be gravely examined and deeply felt, the lay-figures for tawdry 
 and ill-placed rhetoric. The false system which he commenced 
 for virtuous objects has been pressed into the service of vice, 
 by writers who have neither his heart nor his intellect. 
 
 Chateaubriand has no great merit as a literary critic. He is 
 a very Frenchman in his estimate of the productions of other 
 nations. '' Si nous jugeons avec impartialite/' says he, ^^ les 
 ouvrages etrangers et les notres, nous trouverons toujours une 
 immense superiorite du cote de la litterature Frangaise.'' And 
 so he views with horror the progress of a taste for Shakspeare 
 among his countrymen. 
 
 "Le penchant pour Shakspeare est bien plus dangereux en France 
 qu'en Angleterre. Chez les Anglois il n'y a qu'ignorance, chez nous 
 il y a depravation. Celui qui aime la laideur n'est pas fort loin 
 d' aimer le vice: quiconque est insensible a la beaute peut bien 
 meconnoitre la vertu. Le mauvais gout et le vice marchent presque 
 toujours ensemble : le premier n'est que I'expression du second, comme 
 la parole rend la pensee." 
 
 Few Englishmen will thank him for such strictures. 
 
 It has been remarked of his History of English Literature^ 
 that its plan is radically erroneous ; but many of its episodes 
 are admirable. Its faults are those of the whole ; its beauties 
 those of detail. His remarks on the characteristics of the 
 middle ages, upon the intellectual calibre of Luther, upon the 
 life and genius of Milton, and upon Mirabeau, contain passages 
 of graphic conciseness which redeem a thousand faults. Even 
 his egotisms are not unpleasing ; he is a man whose account 
 of himself posterity will not disdain to hear. He excels, too, 
 
CHATEAUBRIAND. 899 
 
 in local description^ wliicli constitutes a large part of the merit 
 of his novels, and renders his travels agreeable in spite of their 
 inaccuracy. The following picture of Jerusalem may be quoted 
 as an example : — 
 
 Vue de la montagne des Oliviers, de I'autre cote de la vallee de 
 Josaphat, Jerusalem presente un plan incline sur un sol qui descend 
 du couchant au levant. Une muraille crenelee, fortifiee par des tours 
 et par un chateau gothique, enferme la ville dans son entier, laissant 
 toutefois au dehors une partie de la montagne de Sion, qu'elle em- 
 brassait autrefois. 
 
 Dans la region du couchant et au centre de la ville, vers le Cal- 
 vaire, les maisons se serrent d'assez pr^s ; mais au levant, le long de 
 la vallee de Cedron, on aper9oit des espaces vides, entre autres I'en- 
 ceinte qui r^gne autour de la mosquee batie sur les debris du Temple, 
 et le terrain presque abandonn^ ou s'elevaient le chateau Antonia et 
 le second palais d'Herode. 
 
 Les maisons de Jerusalem sont de lourdes masses carrees, fort 
 basses, sans cherainees et sans fenetres ; elles se terminent en ter- 
 rasses aplaties ou en domes, et elles ressemblent a des prisons ou a des 
 sepulcres. Tout seroit a I'oeil d'un niveau egal, si les clochers des 
 eglises, les minarets des mosquees, les cimes de quelques cypres et 
 les buissons de nopals ne rompaient I'uniformite du plan. A la vue 
 de ces maisons de pierres, renfermees dans un paysage de pierres, on 
 se demande si ce ne sont pas la les monuments confus d'un cimetiere 
 au milieu d'un desert ? 
 
 Entrez dans la ville, rien ne vous consolera de la tristesse exte- 
 rieure : vous vous egarez dans de petites rues non pavees, qui montent 
 et descendent sur un sol in^gal, et vous marchez dans des flots de 
 poussiere, ou parmi des cailloux roulants. Des toiles jetees d'une 
 maison a I'autre augmentent I'obscurit^ de ce labyrinthe ; des bazars 
 voutes et infects achevent d'oter la lumiere a la ville desolee ; quel- 
 ques chetives boutiques n'etalent aux yeux que la misere ; et souvent 
 ces boutiques meme sont fermees, dans la crainte du passage d'ur 
 cadi. Personne dans les rues, personne aux portes de la ville ; quel- 
 quefois seulement un paysan se glisse dans I'ombre, cachant sous ses 
 habits les fruits de son labeur, dans la crainte d'etre depouille par le 
 soldat ; dans un coin a I'ecart, le boucher arabe ^gorge quelque bete 
 Buspendue par les pieds a un mur en ruine : a Fair hagard et f^roco 
 
400 
 
 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 de cet homme, a ses bras ensanglant^s, vous croiriez qu'il vient plutot 
 de tuer son semblable, que d'immoler un agneau. Pour tout bruit 
 dans la cite deicide, on entend par intervalles le galop de la cavale du 
 desert : c'est le janissaire qui apporte la tete du Bedouin, ou qui va 
 piller le Fellah. 
 
 Here is a night-scene in the forests of America : — 
 
 Un soir je m'etais ^gare dans une foret, a quelque distance de la 
 cataracte de Niagara; bientot je vis le jour s'eteindre autour de moi, 1 
 et je goiitai, dans toute sa solitude, le beau spectacle d'une nuit dans 
 les deserts du Nouveau-Monde. 
 
 Une heure apr^s le coucher du soleil, la lune se montra au-dessus 
 des arbres, a I'horizon oppose. Une brise embaumee, que cette reine 
 des nuits amenait de I'orient avec elle, semblait la preceder dans les 
 forets comme sa fraiche haleine. L'astre solitaire monta pen a peu 
 dans le ciel : tantot il suivait paisiblement sa course azuree ; tantot 
 il reposait sur des groupes de nues qui ressemblaient a la cime de 
 hautes montagnes couronnes de neige. Ces nues, ployant et d^ployant 
 leurs voiles, se deroulaient en zones diaphanes de satin blanc, se dis- 
 persaient en legers flocons d'^cume, ou formaient dans les cieux des 
 bancs d'une ouate eblouissante, si doux, a I'oeil, qu'on croyait ressen- 
 tir leur mollesse et leur elasticite. 
 
 La scene sur la terre n'^tait pas moins ravissante : le jour bleuatre 
 et veloute de la lune descendait dans les intervalles des arbres, et 
 poussait des gerbes de lumiere jusque dans I'epaisseur des plus pro- 
 fondes tenebres. La riviere qui coulait a mes pieds, tour ^ tour se 
 perdait dans le bois, tour a tour reparaissait brillante des constel- 
 lations de la nuit, qu'elle rep^tait dans son sein. Dans une savane, 
 de I'autre cote de la riviere, la clart^ de la lune dormait sans mouve- 
 ment sur les gazons : des bouleaux agit^s par les brises, et disperses 
 9a, et la, formaient des iles d'ombres flottantes sur cette mer immobile 
 de lumifere. Aupr^s, tout aurait ^t^ silence et repos, sans la chute 
 de quelques feuilles, le passage d'un vent subit, le g^missement 
 de la hulotte ; au loin par intervalles, on entendait les sourds mugis- 
 scment de la cataracte de Niagara, qui, dans le calme de la nuit, se 
 prolongeaient de d6sert en d6sert, et expiraient a travers les forets 
 solitaires. 
 
 Napoleon was not slow to perceive the importance of attach- 
 ing to his government a man who wielded so powerful an influ- 
 
CHATEAUBRIAND. 401 
 
 ence; and after tlie signature of the Concordat^ Chateaubriand 
 was appointed first-secretary of the French embassy to Rome. 
 During his sojourn in Italy, he sent, in the shape of letters to 
 M. de Fontanes, some rich contributions of anecdote and classic 
 recollection, most of which appeared in the Mercury of France, 
 Napoleon's assumption of the crown, and the murder of the 
 Due d'Enghien, decided Chateaubriand not to remain in his 
 service; he sent in his resignation on the same day that he 
 heard of the tragedy, and Napoleon had the wisdom not only to 
 abstain from persecuting him, but to make new advances. They 
 were rejected, however; and our author soon afterwards began 
 that tour through Italy, Greece, Egypt, and the Holy Land, 
 which he afterwards so eloquently narrated. On his return to 
 his native country, he ventured to become a journalist, not- 
 withstanding the thraldom under which the press then labored; 
 but some of his expressions having excited the displeasure of 
 Napoleon, the work was suppressed. Meanwhile, he was grow- 
 ing in the estimation of French litterateurs, and a vacancy 
 having occurred in the Institute by the death of Chenier, he 
 was elected a member. But a condition attached to every 
 election was a panegyric on the predecessor, and Chenier the 
 revolutionist being an uncongenial subject to Chateaubriand, 
 he reversed the disobedience of Balaam, produced an anathema 
 instead of a eulogium, and consequently found his election an- 
 nulled, and himself ordered to quit Paris. On the restoration 
 of the Bourbons in 1814, he was appointed ambassador to 
 Sweden, and continued at various intervals to fill official situa- 
 tions in the ministry or diplomacy down to the Revolution of 
 1830, when, vowing eternal fidelity to the elder branch of the 
 Bourbon family, he refused to take the oath of allegiance to 
 Louis-Philippe, and renounced his seat in the Chamber of 
 Peers. The remainder of his life was chiefly occupied in 
 literary labor; and he died in 1848, in the eightieth year of 
 his age. 
 
 34* 
 
402 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 XXIIL— A NEW CAREER. 
 
 HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY — SPECULATIVE PHILOSOPHY — LITERARY CRITICISM 
 — NEW FEATURES IN POETRY — NOVELS AND PLAYS. 
 
 Since tlie peace of 1814^ all the great questions which 
 agitate the human mind have been studied over again — reli- 
 gion, morality, theories of psychology, metaphysics, esthetics, 
 political economy, legislation, and government; yet, it must 
 be confessed, with no very definite or satisfactory result. The 
 general character of the literature which has prevailed during 
 this period, is thus described in the Edinburgh Revieio, which 
 we prefer quoting, to embodying any views of our own : — 
 
 ^^We perceive in the whole literature of the restoration, 
 when we look back on it calmly, a literature of contention and 
 indecision, an oscillation between two opinions, or an awkward 
 and unsatisfying compromise between both. The same strife 
 which in politics prevails between the partisans of things as 
 they were, of things as they are, and of things as the sanguine 
 and inexperienced think they should be, which in religion 
 shows itself in the contests between the Jesuits, the moderate 
 religious reformers^ and those who, like the St. Simonians, are 
 determined to have at once a new heaven as well as a new 
 earth, indicates itself also in literature, in the combats of 
 classicism and romanticism, the liberalism and legitimatism of 
 thought, and in the juste milieu system which would blend 
 these heterogeneous elements with each other. Now one 
 appears to be in the ascendant, now the other ; and as in the 
 case of the rival popes, fulminating bulls against each other 
 from Rome and Avignon, none knows where the successorship 
 of St. Peter is truly vested : the principles of taste, nay, the 
 foundations of morals from which those principles flow, are 
 left to the arbitration of conflicting tribunals, each claiming 
 
HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY. 403 
 
 supreme authority^ and reversing without ceremony tlie deci- 
 sions of the other/' 
 
 Under these circumstances, combined with the immense 
 number of authors and their appalling fecundity, it would be a 
 puzzling task to attempt anything like a satisfactory examina- 
 tion of the literature of this period. It must suffice to single 
 out a few of its more prominent features."^ 
 
 The first we notice is the immense advances which have 
 been made in history and biography. It may be sufficient to 
 point out among the earlier specimens of enlightened industry 
 in this field, the voluminous works of Sismondi, and the 
 Biogropliie Universelle, in fifty-two closely printed volumes, 
 undoubtedly the most valuable body of biography that any 
 modern literature can boast. 
 
 It may afford some idea of the organization of this great 
 work, to mention that it was set on foot in 1810 by a numer- 
 ous association of booksellers and capitalists ; but after some 
 years fell into the hands of a single editor, and was brought 
 to a conclusion in 1828. During this interval, more than 300 
 collaborateurs, whose names are placed at the end of their 
 respective articles, were employed on it. Few of the celebra- 
 ted names of the age but appear in this way ; and yet, by a 
 wise endeavor to suppress or amalgamate individual opinions, 
 there has been attained, perhaps, as much homogeneity as 
 could fairly be demanded. 
 
 Since the Revolution of 1830, historians and literary critics 
 have occupied the foreground in French literature. The 
 
 * It has been deemed the less necessary to enlarge here, as the Messrs. 
 Chambers have published a People's Edition of the excellent little treatise 
 of M. Vericour on Modern French Literature, occupied chiefly with that 
 of the present age. 
 
 [An edition of this work, revised by W. S. Chace, was published by 
 Gould, Kendall & Lincoln, at Boston, in 18^8.] 
 
404 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 historians have divided themselves into two schools, which they 
 designate the descriptive and the philosophic ; the former 
 attaching themselves to graphic narrative, the latter to philo- 
 sophic analysis. With the one class, history consists of a 
 narration of facts in connexion with a picture of manners in 
 such wise as to bring the scenes of the past vividly before the 
 mind of the reader^ leaving him to form his own conclusions, 
 and to deduce general truths from the particular ones thus 
 laid before him. The style of these writers is simple, naif, 
 and manly ; there is no straining after effect, no use of mere- 
 tricious ornament, no opinions of the writer shining through 
 his statements. The most eminent professed authors of this 
 class are Monsieur Thierry, in his Letters on the History of 
 France J and the Conquest of England hy the Normans; 
 Bar ANTE in his Litter ature Frangaise au dix-huitibme Siecle, 
 and Les Dues de Bourgogne ; Villemain's Cromwell; and 
 the Historical Sketches of Alexandre Dumas; De Vigny's 
 historical novels of Cinq Mars and Stello. They look upon 
 Sir Walter Scott as their great master. 
 
 The philosophical school, on the other hand, consider this 
 scenic kind of narrative as of very inferior value. They relate 
 the events of the past chiefly in order to arrive at general 
 conclusions which may serve to direct the conduct of men in 
 the future. They discuss while they narrate, and history in 
 their hands is more a lesson than a pastime. At the head of 
 this school is M. GuizOT, who has displayed the philosophic 
 mode in his History of the Civilization of Europe, Essays on 
 the History of France , and the English Revolution. Thiers 
 and Mignet, both of whom have written on the French Kevo- 
 lution, are the most eminent of Guizot's school; while all of 
 them resemble the celebrated German Niebuhr, and the En- 
 glish Gibbon and Mill. The philosophical historians have been 
 again divided according to their different theories, but the 
 most eminent of them are those whom M. Chateaubriand calls 
 
MTCHELET — QUINET. 405 
 
 fatalists ; men who, having surveyed the course of public 
 events, have come to the conclusion, that individual character 
 has had little influence on the political destinies of mankind ; 
 that there is a general, active, continuous, and inevitable 
 series of events which regularly succeed each other, with the 
 certainty of cause and effect, and that it is as easy to trace as 
 it is impossible to resist or divert it from its course. A ten- 
 dency to these views is more or less visible in almost every 
 French historian or philosopher of the present time ; but some 
 carry them much further than others. Guizot says of himself, 
 that, '^ in the individual he finds the species, and in the nation 
 the whole of humanity.^' The philosophy of history, grounded 
 on such views, as distinguished from the philosophy of man^s 
 individual nature, has assumed the aspect of a science in the 
 hands of recent French historians. But it has too often hap- 
 pened, that when they would point out an important truth, 
 they have enunciated it in such mystified expressions, have 
 attached to it so many wild hypotheses, and have been so little 
 careful to examine rather than declaim, that very little real 
 progress has been made towards a truly scientific exposition of 
 history. Meanwhile, they have displayed admirable patience 
 in searching after their evidence ; and if they have done little 
 to advance the philosophy of history beyond the accumulation 
 of facts, this at least is a valuable result of their labors. 
 
 MiCHELET and Quinet call themselves the symbolical school 
 of historians, and profess to combine the descriptive with the 
 philosophic. The leading peculiarity of their works appears 
 in their opposition to Jesuitism, which, they maintain, has 
 betrayed the Roman Catholic Church, and may betray Chris- 
 tianity itself, into the hands of its enemies. Michelefs 
 principal works are — the Life of Luther ; the Life of Vico; 
 a Histori/ of France ; a Roman History ; a Compendium of 
 3Iodern Histori/ ; besides FriestSj Women and Families ; the 
 
406 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 People; and several smaller works, wliich are well known 
 among us through the medium of translations. Quinet has 
 written the Genius of Religions; Germany and Italy; 
 Discourses on the Literatures of the South of Europe; My 
 Holidays in Spain ; Ultramontanism — a work which electri- 
 fied France, and roused bitter opposition; which, however, 
 did not prevent the gifted author from adding Christianity 
 and the French Revolution, an inquiry into the operations of 
 the Almighty in the progress of society. 
 
 Literary criticism in connexion with history has recently 
 occupied a large space in the field of French literature. Not 
 to dwell on Sismondi^s Literature of Southern Europe, which 
 appeared as one of the first fruits of the peace of 1815, with 
 the almost contemporary work of Ginguene on Italian litera- 
 ture, and Renouard on Provencal poetry, there have been 
 and still are in the field a host of authors, whose chief study 
 has been the literature of their own country — such as Guizot, 
 St. Beuve, Villemain, Nisard, Vinet,* and Barante, to whose 
 pages our own have been highly indebted. 
 
 If to the historians and literary critics we add the investiga- 
 tors of science — such as Cuvier, Arago, Dupin, Raoul-Rochette, 
 Royer-Collard, Segur, Biot, and others of similar stamp — we 
 have before us the men who form the intellectual glory of their 
 age and nation. 
 
 As it regards speculative philosophy, M. Damiron has ranged 
 the various authors whose opinions he has analyzed under three 
 schools — the Sensualistic, the Theological, and the Eclectic. 
 The first of these embraces the disciples of Locke and Con- 
 • dillac, whose opinions we more particularly noticed as the pre- 
 vailing ones in the eighteenth century. The men of the nine- 
 teenth who have been most eminent in this class are Cabanis, 
 Dustutt Tracy, Volney, Laromiguiere, and Azais. Damiron's 
 
 *- An English translation of Vinet's History of French Literature in the 
 Eighteenth Century has been published by T. <fe T. Clark, Edinburgh, 1854. 
 
LAMENNAIS — COUSIN. 407 
 
 account of the opinions of tlie theological philosophers — that 
 is, of those who assume the dogmas of the Roman Catholic 
 religion as the data of a philosophical system — is briefly ex- 
 pressed thus : ^^ In general human nature is not good, and it 
 therefore has need of coercion. If those who govern do not rule 
 according to this principle, it is to be feared that disorder and 
 anarchy will ensue. It requires a master to constrain, to sub- 
 ject, and to force it to fulfil the conditions of its destiny. Elle 
 se perdrait 'par la liberte^ car certainement elle ne V employ erait 
 pas dans un hut d^ expiation et n^en user ait pas pour son salut. 
 Rulers ought not to be considered tutors or guardians, but 
 judges and correctors. It is the wicked they have to do with^ 
 for human nature is wicked; they must not yield to the people^ 
 but they must govern them imperially and treat them souve- 
 rainement.^^ Such, however, were assuredly not the political 
 opinions of the recently deceased Abbe de Lamennais, the 
 most ardent and powerful of those writers who have maintained 
 during the present age that the ancient faith of France is what 
 is lacking to its national prosperity. He took up his pen when 
 the crown was about to be placed on the head of the first Napo- 
 leon ; and when the concordat was signed assuring the Romish 
 clergy of protection, he published a pamphlet, in which he 
 denounced the hollowness of the Emperor's profession. It is 
 believed that the Church of Rome has never had so courageous 
 and so intelligent an advocate since the days of Luther's per- 
 sonal opponents. The reputation af Lamennais has its best 
 foundation in his Essai sur V Indifference en 31atiere de Reli- 
 gion, in which he develops all his opinions, and declares that 
 la societe n^est plus qu^un doute immense. '' The community,'' 
 he says, ^^ is atheistic ; the political aggregate of the nations 
 of Europe is only a corpse ; give it faith, and you will give it 
 life ao^ain.'^ 
 
 lAj_.C* 
 
 M. Cousin is the leader of the eclectic philosophy of France, 
 which appears to be a modification of that of Schelling in Ger- 
 
408 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 many. It is impossible to read his Fragments Philosopliig^ues 
 without perceiving his conclusion to be^ that God and matter 
 are one, and that individual existences are only parts and por- 
 tions of the absolute, the ens realissimwn, even as an individual 
 space is a portion of space infinite. Not only are all forms of 
 religion contemned under this theory, but a divine revelation 
 is depreciated, if not utterly repudiated. ^' Revelation is acces- 
 sible only through tradition. But revelation, even when it is 
 faithful, cannot in itself be clear or precise, because it treats 
 of a vague and obscure subject. It wants light — true, naive, 
 and inspired — full of simplicity and greatness, abounding in 
 poetry. It is throughout, as it were, a popular song, or rather 
 a metaphysical hymn ; but there is no theory, for all is sensi- 
 ble. Thus traversing ages and countries, translated and re- 
 translated, variously interpreted, modified in a thousand ways, 
 incomplete and altered : in this state it reaches generations 
 little fitted either by their position or habits of thought to 
 comprehend it; and, far from enlightening, it serves but to 
 perplex their understanding, to harass and disgust their 
 genius.'^ 
 
 And again : ^^ Philosophy is the worship of ideas, and of 
 ideas alone ; it is the last victory of thought over every form 
 and element foreign to itself; it is the highest rank of the 
 freedom of the understanding. Industry was one enfranchise- 
 ment of nature; the state, a still further enfranchisement; 
 art, a new progress ; religion, a progress still more sublime : 
 philosophy is the last enfranchisement, the last progress of 
 thought/' Not repudiating, as it will be perceived, but under- 
 valuing religion as an inferior step in civilization. Here is his 
 final declaration on this subject : — 
 
 ^^ In my opinion, all truths are contained in Christianity; 
 but these eternal truths may, and ought to be, at this day, ap- 
 proached, unravelled, and illustrated by philosophy. There is 
 but one truth at bottom ; but truth has two forms — that of 
 
COUSIN— BERANGER. 409 
 
 mystery, and that of scientific exposition. I revere tlie one; 
 I am here the organ, the interpreter of the other/^ 
 
 It would be a task as vain as ungrateful, to present in detail 
 the principles of a philosophy which is likely to be as much in 
 vogue in France as in Germany — abounding in daring thought 
 and generalization, undermining revelation by exalting reason 
 as all-sufficient in its stead ; but in this superior to the infidelity 
 of the last century — that its tendency is to elevate the mind 
 and develop the moral principle, instead of leaving man gro- 
 velling in mere matter, and destitute of any moral obligation 
 but what is deducible from his bodily organization. It is inci- 
 pient pantheism instead of atheism,* 
 
 The present century has exhibited some new features in 
 poetry. The humble position of France on the fall of Bona- 
 parte — invaded and garrisoned by her enemies — awoke the 
 patriotism of Beranger, and inspired his heart-stirring songs. 
 Hitherto, France had had no popular ballad-literature ; all the 
 previous poetry we have noticed was intended to be sung in 
 courtly halls, in the ears of royalty, or in the circles of fashion, 
 and it consequently partook more or less of courtly afi'ectation, 
 disdaining popular truth ; but Beranger was the poet of the 
 people. 
 
 Most of his earlier compositions were political, either extol- 
 ling the greatness of the fallen empire, or bewailing the low 
 estate of France under the restored dynasty of the Bourbons. 
 They were received with enthusiasm, and sung from one end 
 of the country to the other. For a time, the government 
 
 "*■ Many differ from the author in the estimate of Cousin's Philosophy. 
 The lectures on the True, the Beautiful, and the Good, have recently been 
 translated into English and published. M. Cousin has rendered valuable 
 service to literature in late years by his Studies on Pascal, and the 
 renowned French women of the seventeenth century. 
 35 
 
410 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 seemed to feel that it would not be prudent to interfere ; so 
 that the patriotic muse of Beranger had full scope, his themes 
 becoming graver and his language bolder in each succeeding 
 publication. When, however, in 1820, 10,000 subscription 
 names were put down for a new edition of his effusions, a 
 prosecution was set on foot, the poet convicted of libel, and 
 committed to prison for twelve months. And now, under 
 color of reporting the trial, the whole of the condemned songs 
 were republished as part of the proceedings, uniform with a 
 reissue of those admitted to be innocent; and the government 
 being defeated in an attempt to suppress this supplement, the 
 songs obtained authorized circulation throughout the kingdom. 
 The later songs of Beranger, which appeared in 1833, exhibit 
 a not unnatural or unpleasing change from the audacious and 
 too often licentious tone of his earlier days. His gayety is 
 tempered with seriousness, and his purer taste has discarded 
 much that was offensive to decorum. His political mission, as 
 he himself says, being terminated, the tumult of political strife 
 at an end, and the giddy fervor of youth tempered by the sor- 
 rowful experience of age, his mind turns with a livelier and 
 closer sympathy to the contemplation of those sufferings which 
 he daily witnessed in the annals of the poor. These he depicts 
 with a truth and vigor which have seldom been equalled. 
 Here, for instance, are the plaints of an actress reduced from 
 a life of extravagant gayety to utter destitution — not a rare 
 character, it is to be feared : — 
 
 It snows, it snows, but on the pavement still 
 
 She kneels and prays, nor lifts her head ; 
 Beneath these rags through which the blast blows shrill, 
 
 Shivering she kneels, and waits for bread. 
 Hither each morn she gropes her weary way, 
 
 Winter and summer there is she. 
 Blind is the wretched creature I well-a-day ! 
 
 Ah ! give the blind one charity 1 
 
BERANGER. 411 
 
 Ah ! once far different did that form appear ; 
 
 That sunken cheek, that color wan, 
 The pride of thronged theatres, to hear 
 
 Her voice, enraptured Paris ran : 
 In smiles or tears before her beauty's shrine, 
 
 Which of us has not bowed the knee ? — 
 Who owes not to her charms some dreams divine ? 
 
 Ah ! give the blind one charity ! 
 
 How oft when from the crowded spectacle, 
 
 Homeward her rapid coursers flew, 
 Adoring crowds would on her footsteps dwell, 
 
 And loud huzzas her path pursue. 
 To hand her from the glittering car, that bore 
 
 Her home to scenes of mirth and glee, 
 How many rivals thronged around her door — 
 
 Ah ! give the blind one charity i 
 
 When all the arts to her their homage paid, 
 
 How splendid was her gay abode ! 
 What mirrors, marbles, bronzes were displayed, 
 
 Tributes by love on love bestowed: 
 How duly did the Muse her banquets gild. 
 
 Faithful to her prosperity : 
 In every palace will the swallow build ! — 
 
 Ah ! give the poor one charity ! 
 
 But sad reverse — sudden disease appears; 
 
 Her eyes are quenched, her voice is gone ; 
 And here, forlorn and poor, for twenty years, 
 
 The blind one kneels and begs alone. 
 Who once so prompt her generous aid to lend? 
 
 What hand more liberal, frank, and free. 
 Than that she scarcely ventures to extend ? — 
 
 Ah ! give the poor one charity ! 
 
 Alas for her ! for faster falls the snow. 
 
 And every limb grows stiff with cold ; 
 That rosary once woke her smile, which now 
 
 Her frozen fingers hardly hold. 
 
412 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 If bruised beneath so many woes, .her heart 
 
 By pity still sustained may be, 
 Lest even her faith in Heaven itself depart, 
 
 Ah! give the blind one charity!^" 
 
 Le Juif Errant is considered one of the best of Berange/s 
 pieces. 
 
 LE JUIF ERRANT. 
 
 Chretien, au voyageur souffrant 
 Tends un verre d'eau sur ta porte. 
 Je suis, je suis le juif errant 
 Qu'un tourbillon toujours eraporte. 
 Sans vieillir, accable de jours, 
 La fin du monde est mon seul reve, 
 Chaque soir j'esp^re toujours, 
 Mais toujours le soleil se leve. 
 
 Toujours, toujours 
 Tourne la terre oil moi je cours, 
 Toujours, toujours, toujours, toujours. 
 
 Depuis dix-huit slides, helas ! 
 Sur la cendre grecque et romaine, 
 Sur les debris de mille Etats, 
 L'affreux tourbillon me prom^ne. 
 J'ai vu sans fruit germer le bien, 
 Yu des calamites fecondes, 
 Et pour survivre au monde aneien 
 Des flots j^'ai vu sortir deux mondes* 
 Toujours, etc. 
 
 Dieu m'a change pour me punir : 
 A tout ce qui meurt je m' attache. 
 Mais du toit pret a me benir 
 Le tourbillon soudain m'arrache. 
 Plus d'un pauvre vient implorer 
 Le denier que je puis repandre, 
 Qui n'a pas le temps de serrer 
 La main qu'en passant j'aime a tendre. 
 Toujours, etc. 
 
 * Edinburgh Review, vol. Ivii. p. 495. 
 
35* 
 
 BERANGER. 413 
 
 Seul, au pied d'arbustes en fleurs, 
 Sur le gazon, au bord de I'onde, 
 Si je repose mes douleurs, 
 J'entends le tourbillon qui gronde. 
 Ell ! qu'importe au ciel irrite 
 Get instant passe sous I'ombrage ? 
 Faut-il moins que Teternite 
 Pour delasser d'un tel voyage ? 
 ToujourSj etc. 
 
 Que des enfants vifs et joyeux 
 Des miens me retracent I'image ; 
 Si j'en veux repaitre mes yeux, 
 Le tourbillon souffle avec rage. 
 Vieillards, osez-vous a tout prix 
 M'envier la longue carri^re ? 
 Ces enfants a qui je souris, 
 Mon pied balaira leur poussi^re. 
 Toujours, etc. 
 
 Des murs ou je suis ne jadis 
 E.etrouve-je encor quelque trace, 
 Pour m'arreter je me roidis. 
 Mais le tourbillon me dit : *' Passe ! 
 Passe !" et la voix me crie aussi : 
 "Eeste debout quand tout succombe; 
 Tes aieux ne font point ici 
 Garde de place dans leur tombe." 
 Toujours, etc. 
 
 J'outrageai d'un rire inhumain 
 L'homme-Dieu respirant a peine .... 
 Mais sous mes pieds fuit le cbemin. 
 Adieu, le tourbillon m'entraine. 
 Yous qui manquez de cbarite, 
 Tremblez a ce supplice etrange. 
 Ce n'est point sa divinite, 
 C'est I'humanite que Dieu venge. 
 
 Toujours, toujours 
 Tourne la terre ou moi je cours, 
 Toujours, toujours, toujours, toujours. 
 
414 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 It has been remarked, as a striking ctaracteristic of Be- 
 ranger's songs, that they have a carefully arranged plan, each 
 ballad forming a complete whole, from which no verse can 
 easily be taken without injuring the general effect; whereas, 
 English songs seldom appear to have any plan at all, and they 
 might often be turned upside down, or deprived of half-a-dozen 
 verses, without materially affecting the connexion of ideas. 
 
 The patriotism of Casimir Delavigne* took a more serious 
 tone than that of Beranger, which was for the most part gay, 
 sportive, and, it must be added, licentious. While the allied 
 armies yet remained in France, and her pride, so long fed by 
 a course of brilliant conquest, was feeling the sting of being 
 thus occupied, Delavigne sang her misfortunes with power and 
 pathos, giving his poems an elegaic form, and styling them 
 Messeniennes. '' I have borrowed this title from Barthelemi,^^ 
 said he, '^ to characterize a species of national poetry which no 
 one has yet endeavored to introduce into our literature.'' The 
 exaggerations of these poems were very suitable to the feeling 
 which pervaded the country just at that time; and they were 
 repeated at all the patriotic meetings, as the true expression of 
 a nation's sorrow; but as these emotions gradually subsided, 
 and the people became more reconciled to the new regime, the 
 celebrity of Delavigne's elegies diminished in proportion. 
 
 Lamartine and Victor Hugo are confessedly the most 
 eminent lyric poets of this century. In the hands of the for- 
 mer, the language, softened and harmonized, loses that clear, 
 glancing, epigrammatic expression, which before him had 
 appeared inseparable from French poetry. f Moreover, his 
 
 * Born 1793, died 1843. 
 
 f Lamartine's prose works should not be forgotten. Among them we 
 maj' specially notice his History of the Girondists, History of the French 
 Kevolution of 1848, and History of the Restoration of Monarchy in France, 
 
LAMARTINE. 415 
 
 works are pervaded by an earnest religious feeling, with a 
 chasteness and delicacy wliich render them the familiar favor- 
 ites of the domestic hearth. The best collection of Lamartine's 
 lyrics are his Meditations, which appeared in 1820, just at 
 the time when that pensive religious feeling which settled over 
 France after the Restoration, had been fostered by the works 
 of Chateaubriand; and nothing could have given it more 
 perfect expression. The Harmonies, likewise, chimed in for- 
 tuitously with a passion for mysticism, which very generally 
 prevailed a short time previous to the political and literary 
 revolution of 1830. They are of unequal merit ; some rising 
 to loftier notes than those in the Meditations, while few, if 
 any, are so perfect throughout. 
 
 A brief specimen of the tender, imaginative, and dreamy 
 style of Lamartine, may be presented in an English dress. 
 It is an 
 
 ODE TO THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 What time thy heavenly voice preludes 
 
 Unto the fair and silent night, 
 Winged minstrel of my solitudes, 
 
 Unknown to thee I trace its flight. 
 
 Thou knowest not that one remains 
 
 Beneath the trees, hour after hour. 
 Whose ear drinks in thy wondrous strains, 
 
 Intoxicated by their power; 
 
 Nor that the while a breath of air 
 
 Escapes but from my lips with grief; 
 And that my foot avoids with care 
 
 The rustling of a single leaf; 
 
 Thou deemest not that one, whose art 
 
 Is like thine own, but known to day, 
 Repeats and envies in his heart 
 
 Thy forest-born nocturnal lay ! 
 
416 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 If but the star of night reclines 
 Upon the hills thy song to hear, 
 
 Amid the branches of the pines 
 
 Thou couchest from the ray in fear. 
 
 Or if the rivulet, which chides 
 
 The stone that in its way doth come, 
 
 Should speak from 'neath its mossy sides, 
 The sound affrights and strikes thee dumb. 
 
 Thy voice, so touching and sublime, 
 Is far too pure for this gross earth: 
 
 Surely we well may deem the chime 
 An instinct which from God has birth ! 
 
 Thy warblings and thy murmurs sweet 
 
 Into melodious union bring 
 All fair sounds that in nature meet, 
 
 Or float from heaven on wandering wing. 
 
 Thy voice, though thou mayst know it not, 
 Is but the voice of the blue sky — 
 
 Of forest glade, and sounding grot. 
 And vale where sleeping shadows lie : 
 
 It blends the tones which it receives 
 From prattlings of the summer rills, 
 
 From trembling rustlings of the leaves, 
 From echoes dying on the hills ; 
 
 From waters filtering drop by drop 
 Down naked crag to basin cool, 
 
 And sounding ever without stop, 
 
 While wrinkling all the rock-arched pool ; 
 
 From the rich breeze-born plaints that flow 
 From out the branchy night of trees ; 
 
 From whispering reeds and waves that go 
 To die upon the shores of seas ; 
 
 Of these sweet voices, which contain 
 The instinct that instructeth thee, 
 
LAMARTINE. 417 
 
 God made, nightingale, the strain 
 Thou givest unto night and me ! 
 
 Ah ! these so soft nocturnal scenes, 
 
 These pious mysteries of the eve, 
 And these fair flowers, of which each leans 
 
 Above its urn, and seems to grieve ; 
 
 These leaves, on which the dew-tears lie, 
 These freshest breathings of the trees — 
 
 All things, nature, loudly cry, 
 
 ** A voice must be for sweets like these !" 
 
 And that mysterious voice — that sound. 
 
 Which angels listen to with me. 
 That sigh of pious night — is found 
 
 In thee, melodious bird, in thee ! 
 
 The following, wMcli we give in tlie original^ is considered 
 one of his best pieces : — 
 
 LE LAC. 
 
 Ainsi, toujours pouss^s vers de nouveaux rivages, 
 Dans la nuit eternelle emportes sans retour, 
 Ne pourrons-nous jamais sur I'ocean des ages 
 Jeter I'ancre un seul jour ? 
 
 lac ! I'ann^e a peine a fini sa carri^re, 
 Et pr^s des flots cheris qu'elle devait revoir, 
 Regarde ! je viens seul m'asseoir sur cette pierre 
 Oil tu la vis s'asseoir ! 
 
 Tu mugissais ainsi sous ses roches profondes, 
 Ainsi tu te brisais sur leurs flancs dechirees, 
 Ainsi le vent jetait I'ecume de tes ondes 
 Sur ses pieds adores. 
 
 Un soir, t'en souvient-il ? nous voguions en silence ; 
 On n'entendait au loin, sur I'onde et sous les cieux, 
 Que le bruit des rameurs qui frappaient en cadence 
 Tes flots harmonieux. 
 
418 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 Tout k coup des accents inconnus ^ la terre 
 Du rivage charme frapperent les echos : 
 Le flot fut attentif, et la voix qui m'est chere 
 Laissa tomber ces mots : 
 
 << temps ! suspends ton vol ; et vous, heures propices ! 
 
 Suspendez votre cours : 
 Laissez-nous savourer les rapides delices 
 
 Des plus beaux de nos jours ! 
 
 Assez de malheureux ici-bas vous implorent ; 
 
 Coulez, coulez pour eux : 
 Prenez avec leurs jours les soins qui les devorent; 
 
 Oubliez les heureux. 
 
 Mais je demande en vain quelques moments encore : 
 
 Le temps m'echappe et fuit ; 
 Je dis a cette nuit : Sois plus lente ; et I'aurore 
 
 Va dissiper la nuit. 
 
 Aimons done, aimons done ! de I'heure fugitive, 
 
 Hatons-nous, jouissons ! 
 L'homme n'a point de port, le temps n'a point de rive; 
 
 11 coule, et nous passons !" 
 
 Temps jaloux, se peut-il que ces moments d'ivresse, 
 Ou I'amour a longs flots nous verse le bonheur, 
 S'envolent loin de nous de la meme vitesse 
 Que les jours du malheur? 
 
 Eh quoi ! n'en pourrons-nous fixer au moins la trace ? 
 Quoi ! passes pour jamais! quoi! tons entiers perdus ! 
 Ce temps qui les donna, ce temps qui les efface, 
 Ne nous les rendra plus ! 
 
 O lac ! rochers muets ! grottes ! foret obscure I 
 ♦ Vous, que le temps epargne ou qu'il pent rajeunir, 
 Gardez de cette nuit, gardez, belle nature, 
 Au moins le souvenir ! 
 
 Qu'il soit dans ton repos, qu'il soit dans tes orages, 
 Beau lac, et dans I'aspect de tes riants coteaux, 
 Et dans ces noirs sapins, et dans ces rocs sauvages 
 Qui pendent sur tes eaux. 
 
LAMARTINE — VICTOR HUGO. 419 
 
 Qu'il soit dans le zephyr qui fremit et qui passe, 
 Dans les bruits de tes bords par des bords repetes, 
 Dans I'astre au front d'argent qui blanchit ta surface 
 De ses molles clartes. 
 
 Que le vent qui gemit, le roseau qui soupire, 
 Que les parfums legers de ton air embaume, 
 Que tout ce qu'on entend, Ton voit ou Ton respire, 
 Tout dise : lis ont aime ! 
 
 The fame of Lamartine rests cMefiy on the Meditations, 
 Harmonies, and Jocelyn, a kind of religious romance in verse, 
 turning on the sorrows of an attached pair, who are separated 
 by the hero being induced to take holy orders. His later works 
 are inferior; and from a concurrence of circumstances not 
 necessary to particularize, his once unbounded popularity has 
 greatly declined. 
 
 The quiet and simple strains of Victor Hugo* — ^tender, 
 domestic, chastened both in their mournfulness and in their 
 mirth, charged with unstudied expressions of youthful hopes, 
 recollections, sorrows, friendships, and loves — are in singular 
 contrast with some of his productions in drama and romance. 
 We have met with a pleasing translation of one of his pictures 
 of infancy; yet we would deem it unfair to withhold the 
 original : — 
 
 Dans I'alcove sombre, 
 Prfes d'un bumble autel, 
 L'enfant dort a I'ombre 
 
 Du lit maternel. 
 Tandis qu'il repose, 
 Sa paupiere rose, 
 Pour la terre close, 
 
 S'ouvre pour le ciel. 
 
 In the dusky court, 
 Near the altar laid, 
 Sleeps the child in shadow 
 
 Of his mother's bed : 
 Softly he reposes, 
 And his lids of roses, 
 Closed to earth, uncloses 
 
 On the heaven o'erhead. 
 
 * His poetical works consist of: 1. Odes et Ballades. 2. Les Orien tales. 
 3. Les Feuilles d'Automne. 4. Chants du Crepuscule. 5. Les Voix In- 
 t^rieurs. 6. Chatiments. 7. Les Contemplations. 8. Dramas. 
 
420 
 
 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 II fait bien des reves. 
 11 voit par momens 
 Le sable des graves 
 
 Plein de diamans, 
 Des soleils de flammes, 
 Et de belles dames, 
 Qui portent des ames 
 
 Dans leurs bras charmans. 
 
 Songe qui renchante ! 
 II voit des ruisseaux. 
 Une voix qui chante 
 
 Sort du fond des eaux. 
 Ses soeurs sont plus belles. 
 Son p^re est pres d'elles. 
 Sa mere a des ailes 
 
 Comme les oiseaux. 
 
 II voit mille choses 
 Plus belles encor ; 
 Des lis et des roses 
 
 Plein le corridor ; 
 Des lacs de delice 
 Ou le poisson glisse, 
 Oil I'onde se plisse 
 
 A des roseaux d'or ! 
 
 Enfant, reve encore ! 
 Dors, 6 mes amours ! 
 Ta jeune ame ignore 
 
 Oil s'en vont tes jours. 
 Comme une algue morte 
 Tu vas, que t'importe ! 
 Le courant t'emporte, 
 
 Mais tu dors toujours ! 
 
 Sans soin, sans etude, 
 Tu dors en cbemin ; 
 Et I'inquidtude 
 A la froide main, 
 
 Many a dream is with him. 
 Fresh from fairy-land, 
 Spangled o'er with diamonds 
 
 Seems the ocean-sand ; 
 Suns are gleaming there, 
 Troops of ladies fair 
 Souls of infants bear 
 
 In their charming hand. 
 
 ! enchanting vision I 
 Lo, a rill up-springs. 
 And from out its bosom 
 
 Comes a voice that sings. 
 Lovelier there appear 
 Sire and sisters dear, 
 While his mother near, 
 
 Plumes her new-born wings. 
 
 But a brighter vision 
 Yet his eyes behold ; 
 Roses all, and lilies, 
 
 Every path infold ; 
 Lakes in shadow sleeping. 
 Silver fishes leaping, 
 And the waters creeping. 
 
 Through the reeds of gold. 
 
 Slumber on, sweet infant, 
 
 Slumber peacefully ; 
 
 Thy young soul yet knows not 
 
 What thy lot may be. 
 Like dead leaves that sweep 
 Down the stormy deep. 
 Thou art borne in sleep. 
 
 What is all to thee ? 
 
 Thou canst slumber by the way; 
 Thou hast learnt to borrow [care ; 
 Nought from study, nought from 
 The cold hand of sorrow, 
 
BaRBIER. 
 
 421 
 
 De son ongle aride, 
 Sur ton front candide 
 Qui n'a point de ride, 
 N'ecrit pas : Demain ! 
 
 II dort, innocence ! 
 Les anges sereins 
 Qui savent d'avance 
 
 Le sort des humains, 
 Le voyant sans armes, 
 Sans peur, sans alarmes, 
 Baisent avec larmes 
 
 Ses petites mains. 
 
 Leurs levres effleurent 
 
 Ses levres de miel. 
 
 L' enfant voit qu'ils pleurent, 
 
 Et dit : Gabriel ! 
 Mais range le touche, 
 Et ber9ant sa couche, 
 Un doigt sur sa bouche 
 
 Leve I'autre au ciel ! 
 
 On thy brow unwrinkled yet, 
 Where young truth and candor sit, 
 Ne'er with rugged nail hath writ 
 That sad word : ** To-morrow !" 
 
 Innocent ! thou sleepest — 
 See the heavenly band, 
 Who foreknow the trials 
 
 That for man are planned ; 
 Seeing him unarmed, 
 Unfearing, unalarmed. 
 With their tears have warmed 
 
 His unconscious hand. 
 
 Angels, hovering o'er him, 
 Kiss him where he lies. 
 Hark ! he sees them weeping, 
 
 *' Gabriel!" he cries; 
 <*Hush!" the angel says, 
 On his lip he lays 
 One finger, one displays 
 
 His native skies. 
 
 Shortly after the Revolution of July, 1830, Barbier, tlien 
 a very young man, attracted considerable attention by a new 
 style of poetry, characterized by boldness and manly vigor, 
 instead of the polish and regularity which we have remarked 
 in earlier authors, especially those styled classic. A volume 
 of sonnets, bearing the title of Rimes Herolques, are introduced 
 by the following explanation : — ^ 
 
 *' < Selecting such as treated of names known in history, and group- 
 ing them according to their date, I have composed a kind of portrait- 
 gallery, and decorated it with this title. I have not always sung 
 the most brilliant and applauded, but rather the least happy and most 
 pure, and those with whom my own views and feelings most led me 
 to sympathize.' Monsieur Barbier's sonnets more than fulfil the pro- 
 mise held out by a preface, whose modesty but makes their merit 
 more apparent. *The sonnet,' he says, 'accustomed to give forth 
 86 
 
422 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 a sigh, is susceptible of other tones ;' and these indeed ascend to 
 proud notes, and give forth manly accents. Here is Arnold of Winkel- 
 ried at Sempach, before the archduke's impenetrable army, embracing 
 a sheaf of lances, and as they are buried in his breast, bidding * Vic- 
 tory and Liberty pass through the space he has opened ;' here Madame 
 Roland in the fatal cart, in white robes, and calm, with insult around 
 her and the scaffold before, speaking her last words to the misused 
 form of Liberty ; here Egmont, his blood flowing over the pavement 
 of Brussels ; here Leopold of Brunswick, sinking beneath the waters 
 of the Oder; and Barra, the republican boy of thirteen, already a 
 soldier in the Blues, is here alone on the heath of La Vendee. He 
 has met some stragglers of the royal army, who offer him life, and 
 bid him cry, * Vive le Roi!' He is *pale and silent, till, the angel 
 of the people soaring before his eyes, he shouts, Vive la Republique V 
 and dies." 
 
 It is not to be concealed, however, that the poems of Barbier 
 are often disfigured by what is vulgar, impious, and licentious. 
 
 XXIV.— NOVELS AND DRAMAS. 
 
 GENERAL CHARACTER OF THE LITERATURE WHICH FOLLOWED THE REVOLU- 
 TION OF 1830 — VICTOR HUGO — HIS NOTRE DAME — ALFRED DE VIGNY — 
 BALZAC — GEORGE SAND — A. DUMAS — VICTOR HUGO'S MARION DELORME — 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 The period to which we are referring — that is, the years 
 which immediately succeeded the Revolution of 1830 — was 
 distinguished by immense fecundity in light literature, con- 
 sisting chiefly of dramas and romances, and bearing strongly 
 the stamp of the prevailing excitement, suspense, conflict, and 
 fear of change. Nothing calm, majestic, simple, or classical 
 about it; everything hurried with the coarse rapidity of 
 scenes for the stage, as though the watchword of literature 
 
LITTERATTJRE EXTRA VAGANTE. 423 
 
 was : ^^ Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die/^ It bears 
 evident traces of a chaos of opinion, as well as political uncer- 
 tainty. It is not professedly an infidel literature, like tliat of 
 the eighteenth century, any more than one of general faith 
 and positive conviction, like that of the seventeenth. It seems 
 to have no general aim ; the efforts, like the opinions of the 
 authors, contradicting one another, and even seldom being 
 consistent with themselves for any length of time. 
 
 Not to dwell on the poetry, exhibiting monstrous exaggera- 
 tion of coloring, audacity of speculation, extravagance of diction, 
 the contortions of Sibyl without her inspiration — we must 
 give the reader some idea of the novels and romances. 
 
 The elder fictions of France have been succeeded by a host 
 of new ones, justly styled La Litter ature Extravagante — as it 
 has created an unreal world, emancipated from all the laws and 
 exigencies of the actual, and even from the conventional rules 
 which preside over the ordinary world of fiction. It delights 
 in speculations upon '^ all fearful, all unutterable things '^ — 
 in details of the most frightful atrocities, in the most singular 
 alliances between the ludicrous and the terrible, the voluptuous 
 and the horrific ; in the prevalence of a fatalism, on the one 
 hand, inducing man to live and die like the beasts that perish ; 
 and on the other, a desperation which vents itself in impiety, 
 or evaporates in sarcasm. In reading these romances, we pass 
 from the splendid palace to the miserable hovel, the loathsome 
 dungeon, the infected hospital; thence to drunken revels, 
 or licentious orgies, and infallibly to the guillotine or the 
 Morgue."^ We are perpetually treading on the very confines 
 
 * The Morgue is the establishment for the reception of persons found 
 dead, that an opportunity may be given for them to be claimed by their 
 friends. It is, of course, a grand receptacle for those who have perished 
 by suicide, which is a fashionable termination for the heroes and heroines 
 of French romance. 
 
424 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 of decency, and not seldom hurried into scenes of undisguised 
 licentiousness. 
 
 The style of these works partakes a good deal of the wild 
 incongruous character of the incidents. Metaphors, similes, 
 illustrations drawn from the most revolting departments of the 
 physical world on the one hand, or the most sacred precincts 
 of the spiritual on the other; paradoxical maxims of morality 
 dazzling for a moment and bewildering the mind; these 
 mingled with occasional passages of great brilliancy and 
 beauty; episodes introduced with skill and pathos, and a dash 
 of humor enhancing the pathos, and giving an insight into 
 the structure of society, which has been compared to the 
 singularly acute perceptions which at times occur amidst the 
 hazy visions of intoxication. 
 
 Doubtless many examples might be adduced of a more sub- 
 dued and natural cast. But what we mean is, that the lead- 
 ing talent of the day, about the time referred to, took the 
 direction we have indicated; that the dissection of the body 
 social and the body politic sometimes by the coarsest instru- 
 ments, and with the most needless display of its morbid 
 anatomy in the shape of philosophical romances, almost super- 
 seded those more indulgent, and, probably, more true pictures 
 of life which presented themselves to such men as Le Sage, 
 Cervantes, and Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 No one denies to this literature the credit of engaging the 
 reader's most intense interest, by the seductive vivacity of the 
 movement, the variety of incident, and the perfect command 
 which the authors seem to have of all those appliances which, 
 coarse as they are, are the most calculated to affect minds 
 which have been rendered callous to slighter emotions. 
 
 The names in this convulsive school are numerous, and their 
 fecundity appalling : we can notice only the most prominent. 
 
 The first place is by general consent allotted to Victor 
 
VICTOR HUGO. 425 
 
 IIuGO^ whose Notre Dame de Paris has excited greater 
 interest than any other fiction since those of Chateaubriand 
 and Madame de Stael, Several of the characters appear to 
 have been suggested by previous writers ; but the descriptive 
 portion introduces a striking novelty, the scene lying chiefly in 
 a cathedral, and all the incidents passing either in or about it. 
 The age is that of Louis XI., and the manners and customs 
 of the fifteenth century are considered as faithfully portrayed. 
 The story is that of a foundling, exposed under the roof of 
 the cathedral of Notre Dame, and adopted by one of the 
 priests. The infant is represented as a complete monster of 
 deformity, of gigantic form and herculean strength, bow- 
 legged, blind of an eye, his face frightfully pitted with small- 
 pox, a huge tusk protruding from his lips, which lie by no 
 means horizontally in his face, his hair composed of red 
 bristles, and an enormous wen hanging over his right eye. 
 Brought up in the cathedral, he succeeded to the office of bell- 
 ringer, and gained a livelihood by its towers. 
 
 " In process of time, a union of the most intimate descrip- 
 tion was formed between the bellman and the church. Sepa- 
 rated from the world by the double misfortune of his unknown 
 birth and his ungainly form, imprisoned from childhood within 
 these impassable boundaries, the unfortunate creature was ac- 
 customed to see no object in the world beyond the religious 
 walls which had afi'orded him shelter. Notre Dame had been 
 successively, as his growth proceeded, his egg, his nest, his 
 house, his country — all the world to him. 
 
 ^^ A sort of mysterious and pre-existent harmony had grown 
 up between this creature and the edifice. While yet a child, 
 creeping along, twisting and jumping under its shadowy 
 arches, he appeared with his human face and scarcely human 
 limbs, mingling with the grotesque shadows projected by the 
 capitals of the Gothic pillars, as the native reptile of the dark 
 dank pavement. The first time that he mechanically laid hold 
 36* 
 
426 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 of the rope hanging from the tower, clung to it, and put the 
 bell in motion, the effect produced on his mind was like that a 
 parent feels at the first articulate sounds of his child. As he 
 grew up, his spirit expanded in harmony with his cathedral — 
 there he lived, there he slept, and under the perpetual influ- 
 ence of its presence, he came at last to resemble it, to be in- 
 crusted with it, to be, as it were, an integral part of it. His 
 salient angles seemed to fit into the corners of the edifice, so 
 that he appeared not only the inhabitant, but as if nature had 
 intended it for his shell, and that, like the snail, he had taken 
 its form.^' 
 
 The charm of the romance lies in the conception of this 
 character, and in the singular art by which this monster, who 
 at first awakens terror and disgust, comes at length to be an 
 object of our pity and admiration, his mind expanding and 
 refining under the influence of love. The archdeacon, Claude 
 Frollo, by whom the monster Quasimodo was adopted, is a per- 
 son of extraordinary sanctity and learning. Having exhausted 
 the limited science of his age, he has betaken himself to the 
 dark studies of alchemy and astrology; but neither these 
 absorbing pursuits, nor the mortifications of his cloistered soli- 
 tude, have extinguished the passions of the man. He chances 
 to see a gipsy-girl of singular grace and beauty, dancing in the 
 streets, amidst an admiring throng of gazers ; and he becomes 
 enamored of her charms. This passion of the priest for Es- 
 meralda, his jealousy, his mixture of persecution and adora- 
 tion, form the main plot to which the rest of the action is 
 subservient. At one time, he betrays her into the hands of 
 justice; at another, he risks his life, and even his reputation 
 for sanctity, in order to save her ; but a most unexpected 
 rival appears in the person of his own slave, Quasimodo, whom 
 an act of kindness and sympathy has converted into the 
 humblest and most delicate, as well as the most ardent of the 
 elegant gipsy^s admirers. He performs incredible feats of 
 
VICTOR HUGO — ALFRED DE VIGNY. 427 
 
 heroism in her service^ but she is alike indifferent to the fer- 
 vent passion of the archdeacon and the faithful services of the 
 muscular hunchback. Fascinated by a brilliant uniform and a 
 handsome face^ she has fixed her simple affection on a vain 
 young officer of gendarmerie^ and she loves to the death. The 
 priest, at a critical moment^ plunges a dagger into the side of 
 his rival ; the poor gipsy is accused of the act, tortured, per- 
 secuted, and eventually gibbeted. This catastrophe it was in 
 the power of the priest to avert, but he hoped by working on 
 her fears, to obtain her consent to his proposals. Even at the 
 foot of the scaffold, however, she rejects his advances with 
 loathing and scorn. Thus baffled by the scorn and firmness 
 of the lovely outcast, he ascends the tower of Notre Dame to 
 feast his eyes with the spectacle of her death; and as he 
 leans over the parapet gazing on the fatal Place de Greve, 
 Quasimodo hurls him from the giddy height, two hundred feet 
 '^ plumb down,'^ upon the pavement below. This description 
 is terrible beyond conception. Every motion, every struggle 
 of the wretched priest, every clutch of his nails, every heave 
 of the breast, as he clings to the projecting spout which has 
 arrested his fall; then the gradual bending of the spout be- 
 neath his weight, the crowd shouting beneath, the monster 
 weeping above — for he had loved the priest, though urged to 
 this deed by the fury of disappointed attachment — the victim 
 balancing himself over the depth below ; his last convulsive 
 effort ere he quits his hold, even the turns of his body as he 
 descends, and then the final crash and rebound upon the pave- 
 ment — all are portrayed with dreadful minuteness, and convey 
 the faithful reality. 
 
 We need scarcely remark, that there are extravagances not 
 a few, both of style and sentiment, in this work ; yet it remains 
 a standing monument to the fame of Victor Plugo. 
 
 M. Alfred de Vigny is, like Victor Hugo^ a lyric poet 
 
428 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 and a dramatist as well as a novelist. His historical romance 
 of Cinq-Mars, or a conspiracy under Kichelieu^ has obtained 
 a lasting reputation ; and it is to be remarked that his 
 novels are composed with great care, highly polished, and dis- 
 figured with comparatively few deviations from good taste and 
 propriety. 
 
 Not so M. Balzac, one of the most popular and copious of 
 modern writers, some of whose works are in the highest degree 
 vicious and immoral ; while the style is in some places pure 
 and beautiful, in others extravagant, and even grossly inde- 
 corous. His intellect has been characterized as a heterogene- 
 ous mine, containing ore of every description ; and his works, 
 as forming a collection as singular and diversified as may be 
 found in the literature of any country. 
 
 The novels of the celebrated George Sand (Madame Dude- 
 vant) afford a lamentable proof of the aberrations into which a 
 highly gifted mind may be led under the influence of unsancti- 
 fied sorrow. Unfortunate in her marriage, and stung by the 
 treatment of a heartless, corrupt, and hypocritical society, she 
 seems to have been goaded to exasperation by a sense of wrong, 
 and to have sought retaliation by depicting society in the most 
 revolting colors. Her earlier novels are highly wrought pic- 
 tures of the wretchedness of married life, the heroines being 
 women of warm affections and fine sensibilities, chained by 
 Mariages de Convenance to men of gross and uncongenial 
 habits, and escaping a premature grave only by repudiating 
 the duty of conjugal fidelity, which is of course made to appear 
 a most venial error, if an error at all. It is right to add, that 
 this lady's mind has undergone a signal change since the pub- 
 lication of these works, and her more recent ones are what may 
 be termed religious novels. 
 
 Eugene Sue was the first to introduce the maritime novel 
 
EUGENE SUE. 429 
 
 into France, and his works of this kind evince great fertility 
 of fancy and power of description. Most of Hs scenes and 
 characters, however, are overwrought and exaggerated; and 
 his reflections too often crude, sententious, and distorted. But 
 the chief fault appears to be, that this writer undertakes to 
 uphold the fatal paradox, that virtue is always unfortunate in 
 this world, and crime always triumphant; the villains who figure 
 as the heroes of his novels are ever prosperous in their lives, 
 *ind honored in their deaths. The later labors of this author 
 have been devoted to pictures of society on terra firma. His 
 Mysteries of Paris is perhaps the best known in this country, 
 admitted to command absorbing interest, though crowded, like 
 most of his works, with atrocities and extravagances. 
 
 It is too true, and deeply to be regretted, that those writers 
 who keep within the bounds of sense and decorum, and en- 
 deavor to combine instruction with amusement, have not 
 commanded the same degree of interest that has generally 
 attended every new production of the Litterature Extrava- 
 gante. Public opinion has, indeed, greatly changed, and a 
 general note of disapproval is now attached to these wild and 
 revolting fictions ; yet they are extensively read, if only to be 
 condemned, while such authors as Prosper Merimee are slowly 
 appreciated. 
 
 The remarks we have made on the unnatural and depraved 
 state of fictitious narrative in France, apply still more forcibly 
 to the theatre. The dramatists form a numerous body, who 
 seem to spurn all traditionary canons and established rules, to 
 indulge in the strangest conceits and the wildest innovations, 
 vying with each other in the delineation of vice and wretched-. 
 ness in their most disgusting forms. These aberrations are 
 attributed by native critics chiefly to an egregious misconcep- 
 tion of Shakspeare, who, with Schiller and Goethe, is all the 
 rage. Among the best of the works that mark the transition 
 
430 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 from tlie old formal classic drama to the modern style intro- 
 duced from England and Germany, are the Henri III. of M. 
 Alexandre Dumas, the Marechale d'Ancre of M. Alfred 
 DE ViGNY, and some of Victor Hugo's plays, especially his 
 Marion Delorme, 
 
 Marion is no less a personage than the celebrated beauty 
 and courtesan who flourished in the time of Louis XIII. But 
 her soul becomes purified by a strong and abiding affection; 
 she e:xecrates her past life ; and at the opening of the drama, 
 is introduced as having quitted the brilliant court of Paris, 
 to meet Didier in retirement at Blois. When he arrives, 
 he falls at her feet, and tells the story of his life : that he is 
 a foundling, whose life has been spent in struggling with a 
 heartless world; the hypocrisy, injustice, and selfishness of 
 his fellow-creatures had reduced his too sensitive mind to a 
 state of misanthropy, or rather a silent, corroding melancholy ; 
 a poor, unloved, unknown wanderer upon earth, he had met 
 with her, and her beauty had been the first sunbeam that had 
 gladdened the desolation of his spirit. When he has finished 
 his narration, she playfully replies : ^^ You are singular; but 
 I love you thus.'^ He hails the avowal with rapture, and 
 implores her to seal it by marriage, while she is tortured by 
 the contending feelings which forbid her either to accept his 
 proposal, or explain the reasons of her refusaL In this scene, 
 as in those which follow, in the duel for which Didier is sen- 
 tenced to death, in the efforts which Marion vainly makes to 
 save him, there is much that is unfit for the eye of modesty. 
 But the closing scene of mutual pardon and farewell is con- 
 sidered a fine burst of poetry and passion, true to the sensi- 
 bilities of nature in a high state of excitement. 
 
 Viens, pauvre femme ! 
 
 ei:- eiJ -» *- 
 
 Oh! viens, que je te dise! Entre toutes les femmes, 
 Et ceux qui sont ici m'approuvent dans leurs ames, 
 
CONCLUSION. 431 
 
 Celle que j'aime, celle a qui reste ma foi, 
 
 Celle que je venere enfin c'est encore toi ! 
 
 Car tu fus bonne, douce, aimante, devouee ! 
 
 Ecoute moi : ma vie est deja denouee, 
 
 Je vais mourir, la mort fait tout voir au vrai jour. 
 
 Va, si tu m'as trompe, c'est par exces d'amour ! 
 
 Et ta chute d'ailleurs, Fas tu pas expiee ? 
 
 Ta mere en ton berceau t'a peut-etre oubliee 
 
 Comme moi. Pauvre enfant! tout jeune, ils auront 
 
 Vendu ton innocence ! -5^ -h- * 
 
 Ah ! relive ton front ! 
 — Ecoutez tons ! A I'heure oil je suis, cette terre 
 S'efface comme une ombre, et la bouche est sincere ! 
 He bien, en ce moment, du haut de I'echafaud, 
 Quand I'innocent y meurt, il n'est rien de plus haut ! 
 Marie, ange du ciel que la terre a fletrie, 
 Mon amour, mon epouse ! ecoute moi, Marie — 
 Au nom du Dieu, vers qui la mort va m'entrainant, 
 Je te pardonne. 
 
 llarion (etoujfee de larmes). Ciel! 
 Didier. A ton tour maintenant. 
 
 \_Il s* agenouille devant elle. 
 Pardonne moi ! 
 
 3Iario7i. Didier! 
 
 Didier {toujour s ct genoux). Pardonne moi, te dis-je ! 
 C'est moi qui fus mechant. Dieu te frappe et t'afiflige 
 Par moi ! Tu daigneras encor pleurer ma mort. 
 Avoir fait ton malheur — va, c'est un grand remord ! 
 Ne me laisse pas — pardonne moi, Marie ! 
 
 If sucli is one of tlie best of modern French dramas^ considered 
 highly moral in its conception and tendency, it may be inferred 
 what those are that have proceeded from the pen of Balzac, 
 Eugene Sue^ and George Sand. 
 
 We cannot better conclude this rapid sketch than in the 
 language of an eminent French litterateur : — ^^ Modern French 
 literature is a strange, fantastic, wild medley of light and 
 
432 FRENCH LITERATURE. 
 
 gloom ; tlie consequence of tlie state of society itself, wMcli is 
 yet unsettled, tumultuous, and febrile, as we have already 
 observed, after a great political but ill-directed movement. 
 Nevertbeless, from out this vortex many powerful, noble, and 
 gifted intellects will undoubtedly arise. The labors of divers 
 contemporaries are in harmony with the epoch, it is true ; but 
 taste will be purified by experience ; others will be hailed at a 
 future period who are known to be devoted to the highest 
 subjects of human interest; and as art is multiform, and as 
 none of its expressions are to be suppressed when they emanate 
 from nature, others again will rise, but isolated in their 
 thoughts, and devoted to that calm and measured beauty, to 
 the perfection of thought, and the excellency of language. . . 
 ^^ France is advancing towards her final destiny through an 
 era of trials — a period of expiation, perhaps, during which 
 human ideas and general intellect are wavering in uncer- 
 tainty. Her literature is the perfect image of the national 
 anxiety and anarchy. We see in it individual thought reacb- 
 ing its utmost limits, accompanied by various excesses, owing 
 to the absence of a recognised barrier, of a social bar and 
 spirit of unity, that would keep it in its proper and befitting 
 confines ; but times of unity, of prosperous fertility and per- 
 fection, will follow.''* 
 
 * For a truthful picture of some of tlie recent changes in the literary 
 spirit of France, see North American Review, January, 1857. 
 
INDEX. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Abr6g6 de I'Histoire de Port Royal, 
 
 by Rapine, 185 
 
 Academie des Inscriptions, Recueil 
 
 de 1', 370 
 
 Adventures of Reynard the Fox, . ♦ 82 
 Alcovists, or literary ladies, .... 149 
 Alexandre, a drama, by Racine, . . 182 
 
 Allegorical mythology, 91 
 
 AUemagne, L', by Madame de Stael, . 385 
 Amadis de Gaula, probable origin of, 92 
 Amatory Verses to Olympia, by Pel- 
 
 lisson, 264 
 
 Amyot, professor of Greek and Latin 
 
 at Paris, 138 
 
 Ancient History, by Rollin, . . . .272 
 
 Andromaque, by Racine, 182 
 
 Aeago, the savant, 406 
 
 Ariosto's materials, whence derived, . 92 
 Arnand, Angelica, reformer of the 
 
 abbey of Port Royal, 157 
 
 Arnaud, Antoine, controversialist . . 158 
 
 Arnaud de Marveil 46 
 
 Arouet. Francis, Toltaire's father, . 313 
 Art of Poetry, by Boileau, . . 227, 230 
 Atala, a religious novel, by Chateau- 
 briand, 394 
 
 Athalie, analysis of, 184, 186 
 
 Athalie, Toltaire's high opinion of, . 185 
 Atree. a wild tragedy, by Crebillon, . 194 
 Avocat Pethelin, a farce of 1480, . . 100 
 Azais, as a philosopher, 406 
 
 Bacon, Roger, at the university of 
 
 Paris, 93 
 
 Balzac, as a novelist, 428 
 
 Character of his epistles, .... 143 
 
 Barante, a literary historian, . . . 406 
 
 His Litterature Frangaise, .... 404 
 
 Barrier, a poet, 421 
 
 Ba.«-bleuism in Paris, 149 
 
 Bayle the sceptic, 299 
 
 Beaumarchais 373 
 
 Belisaife, by Marmontel, 367 
 
 Stranger's songs, 409 
 
 37 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Bergerac, his description of the aque- 
 duct of Arcueil {note), 151 
 
 Berenice, a tragedy by Racine, . . . 183 
 
 Bernard de Ventadour, 45 
 
 Bertrand de Born, 60 
 
 Bible Guyot, 81 
 
 Biographie IJniverselle, 403 
 
 BiOT (the final t is pronounced), . . 406 
 Blondel, the minstrel of Richard I., . 58 
 Blue-stockings' literary society takes 
 
 its rise, 148 
 
 Boccaccio's sources of his tales, ... 92 
 Boileau, life and satires of, .... 226 
 
 His Epistles, 239 
 
 Bolingbroke, 331 
 
 Bonnet, Charles, philosopher, . . . 342 
 
 Book of Clergie, 81 
 
 Book of Mandevie, 81 
 
 Book of the Britons, or the Romance 
 
 of Brutus, 66 
 
 Born, Bertrand de, 50 
 
 BossuET, as a historian, 271 
 
 His life and works, .... 247, 248 
 His last oratorical effort, .... 255 
 Bouillon, Duchess of, Fontaine's pa- 
 troness 212 
 
 BOURDALOUE, 247 
 
 Quotation from his sermon on the 
 
 Last Judgment, 257 
 
 Brantome, writer of Memoires, . . .272 
 
 Brueys the dramatist, 210 
 
 Brunetto at the university of Paris, . 93 
 
 Brutus, Romance of, 66 
 
 Bruyere, La, 268 
 
 Burlesque style prevails, 146 
 
 Cabanis, as a philosopher, .... 406 
 Calais, siege of, by Edward IIT., . . Ill 
 Calvin, the leading type of La Reforme, 125 
 His Commentary on the Scriptures, 126 
 His Institutes of the Christian Re- 
 ligion 125 
 
 His style 137 
 
 Campistron. imitator of Racine . . 194 
 
 (433) 
 
434 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Caractdres de Notre SiScle, Les, by 
 
 Bruyere, 268 
 
 Carnage and Careme, battle of, . . . 83 
 Cents Nouvelles du Koi Louis XI., . 117 
 
 Century, the nineteenth, 378 
 
 Characters of Theophrastus, trans- 
 lated by Bruyere, 268 
 
 Charlemagne and his paladins, ... 67 
 Charron, friend and disciple of Mon- 
 taigne, 136 
 
 Ch ARTIER, Alain, 102 
 
 Chateaubriand, M. le Vicomte de, . 392 
 Chatelet, Marchioness du, . . . .318 
 Chaucer's sources of fable, .... 92 
 
 Chaulieu, ABBic, 302 
 
 Chenier, Andr£, 375 
 
 Chevreuse, Duchess de, 149 
 
 Chivalry, mythology of, 91 
 
 Chivalry, romances of, 66, 67 
 
 Christian de Troyes, 66 
 
 Christianity and the French Revolu- 
 tion, by Quinet, 405 
 
 Cid, The, by Corneille, analysis of, . 165 
 
 Cinna, by Corneille, 173 
 
 Cinq-Mars, by De Yigny, 428 
 
 Civilization of Europe, Guizot's His- 
 tory of the, 404 
 
 Clement Marot, valet-de-chambre to 
 
 Marguerite de Valois, 117 
 
 Clercs de la Bezoche — Moralities 99, 100 
 
 Comedy 194 
 
 CoMiNES, Philip de, 112 
 
 Compte Rendu, by Necker, .... 380 
 Conception, Blystery of the, .... 99 
 Conde, Prince of, funeral oration over, 255 
 Conde, Prince of, patronizes Boileau, 229 
 Condillac and Locke, disciples of, . . 406 
 
 Condillac's first work, 334 
 
 Confessions, by Rousseau, .... 348 
 Conquest of England by the Normans, 
 
 by Thierry, 404 
 
 Considerations de la Revolution Fran- 
 
 9aise, by Madame de Stael, . . . 385 
 Considerations sur les Causes de la 
 Grandeur et de la Decadence des 
 Remains, by Montesquieu, . . . 305 
 Contes Moraux, by Marmontel, . . 367 
 Corinne, by Madame de Stael, . . . 385 
 Corneille and the drama, .... 162 
 Corneille, Thomas, brother of the 
 
 great Corneille, 194 
 
 Cours de Litterature, by La Harpe, . 368 
 Cours de Morale Religieuse, by Necker, 374 
 Courts of Love done away with, . . 62 
 
 Their influence, 40 
 
 Cousin, 407 
 
 CiiJiiBiLLON the dramatist, 104 
 
 Cromwell, by Yillemain, 404 
 
 CuvitiR the naturalist, 400 
 
 D'Aguesseau, a judicial orator and 
 chancellor, 264 
 
 D'Alemckrt, an encyclopedist, . . . 338 
 His character, 331 
 
 Damiron, 406 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Dancourt, a dramatist, 209 
 
 Dante at the Paris university, ... 93 
 Dante meets Bertrand de Born in hell, 55 
 Dante, sources of his imaginings, . . 92 
 De la Sagesse, by Charron, .... 136 
 De I'Espinasse, Madame, her salon, . 331 
 De I'Esprit, by Helvetius, .... 339 
 De Vigny's Cinq-Mars and Stello, . . 404 
 Defant, Madame du, her salon, . . . 331 
 Delavigne, Casimir, the patriot, . .414 
 Delphine, by Madame de Stael, . . . 385 
 Depit Amoureux, by Moliere, . . . 203 
 Descartes, Bacon, and Luther com- 
 pared, 155 
 
 Descartes the philosopher, his great 
 
 influence 153 
 
 Deshoulieres, Madame, 149 
 
 Her Idyls, 245 
 
 Despreaux, a name of Nicholas Boi- 
 
 leau, 226 
 
 Dialogue on Poetry and Music, by 
 
 Boileau, 241 
 
 Dialogues des Heros de Roman, by 
 
 Boileau, 230 
 
 Dialogues des Morts, by Fontenelle, . 304 
 Dialogues sur I'Eloquence, by Fenelon, 281 
 Dictionnaire Historique et Critique, 
 
 by Bayle, 299 
 
 Diderot, 331, 338 
 
 Discours Academiques, by Racine, . 185 
 Discours Preliminaire, by D'Alembert, 837 
 Discours sur la Methode, by Descartes, 155 
 Discours sur I'llistoire Universelle, by 
 
 Bossuet, 250 
 
 Dix Annees d'Exile, by Madame de 
 
 Stael, 385 
 
 D'Orleans, Charles, Due, a poet, . . 102 
 
 Dramatic poetry, 93 
 
 Du Defant, Madame, her salon, . . 331 
 DuFRESNY, writer of comedy, .... 210 
 Dumas, Alexandre, Historical Sketches 
 
 by, 404 
 
 Dumas the novelist, 4o0 
 
 DupiN, 406 
 
 Dustutt Tracy, as a philosopher, . . 406 
 
 Ecclesiastical History, by Fleury, . . 272 
 Eclectic school of philosophy, . . .406 
 Education des Filles, 1', by Fenelon, . 281 
 
 Eighteenth century, 296 
 
 Electre, a wild tragedy, by Crebillon, 194 
 Elemens de la Philosophie de Newton, 
 
 by Yoltaire, 318 
 
 Elemens de Litterature, by Mar- 
 montel, 367 
 
 Eleonora of Guienne, her court, . . 45 
 Eloge de Despreaux, by Voltaire, . . 321 
 Eloge de Marc-Aurele, by Thomas, . 367 
 Eloges dos Academiciens, by Fon- 
 tenelle, 304 
 
 Eloquence of the pulpit and the bar, 246 
 Emile, by Rousseau, his educational 
 
 views, 345, 346 
 
 Encyclopedie, 331 
 
 Encyclopedists, 331, 337 
 
INDEX. 
 
 435 
 
 PAGE 
 
 England, the cradle of French litera- 
 ture, 65 
 
 English Literature, History of, by 
 
 Chateaubriand, 398 
 
 English Reyolution, Guizot's History 
 
 of the, 404 
 
 Entretiens de Phocion, by Blably, . 340 
 Epic, heroic, first attempt at, due to 
 
 Ronsard, 140 
 
 Epic poets of Europe, no Frenchman 
 
 among the first-class, 141 
 
 Epistle to Ambiguity, by Boileau, . . 241 
 Esprit des Lois, by Montesquieu, . . 305 
 Essai Analytique sur les Facultes de 
 
 I'Ame, by Bonnet, 342 
 
 Essai sur le Merite et la Vertu, by 
 
 Diderot, 338 
 
 Essai sur les Moyens de conserver la 
 
 Faix avec les Hommes, by Nicole, . 270 
 Essai sur I'lndifference en Matiere de 
 
 Religion, by Lamennais. .... 407 
 
 Esther, by Racine, . 184 
 
 Eug:&ne Sue, the maritime novelist, . 428 
 Eunuch of Terence, translated by La 
 
 Fontaine, 212 
 
 Examen de la Conscience d'un Roi, by 
 
 Fenelon, 281 
 
 Exposition de la Doctrine Catholique, 
 
 by Bossuet, 251 
 
 Fables and tales in verse, .... 210 
 
 Fables, by Florian, 374 
 
 Fables of Fontaine, ....... 217 
 
 Fabliaux of the trouveres, .... 82 
 
 Fabliaux, origin of the, 74 
 
 Facheux, Les, by Moliere, . . . .199 
 
 Faery Queene, Spenser's, 92 
 
 Falcon, Story of the, by La Fontaine, 212 
 Fayette, Madame de la, romance- 
 writer, 280 
 
 Femmes Savantes, Les, by Moliere, . 203 
 
 Fenelon, as an author, 281 
 
 Figueiras, William, ....... 56 
 
 Flechier, 247 
 
 Fleury, Abb^, historian, 272 
 
 Fleury, Cardinal, influence of, . . . 330 
 
 Fontaine, Jean de la, 210 
 
 His epitaph, 225 
 
 Morality of his Fables, 220 
 
 FONTENELLE, 303 
 
 Forensic eloquence, 262 
 
 Forensic eloquence and orators, 246, 247 
 Fourberies de Scapin, Les, by Moliere, 203 
 Fragments Philosophiques, by Cousin, 408 
 France, Guizot's Essays on the History 
 
 of, 404 
 
 France, History of, by Mezeray, . .271 
 France, History of, by Michelet, . . 405 
 
 Franciad, by Ronsard, 141 
 
 Francis I., attainments of, .... 116 
 Francis I., Calvin's Epistle Dedicatory 
 
 to, 126 
 
 Francis I. interdicts the Mysteries and 
 
 Moralities, 100 
 
 Fraternity of the Passion 69 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Frederic the Great, Voltaire assists, . 319 
 
 French Academy named by Richelieu 
 (1635), 153 
 
 French idiom overloaded with foreign 
 roots and locutions, 141 
 
 French Language, History and charac- 
 teristics of the, 13 
 
 French literature, modern, character- 
 istics of, 431, 432 
 
 French, the language of the English 
 court, 65 
 
 Froissart, 109 
 
 Gai-Saber 37 
 
 Garagantua and Pantagruel, by Ra- 
 belais, 122 
 
 Geneva, morality of, 342 
 
 Genie du Christianisme, by Chateau- 
 briand 394 
 
 Genius of Religions, The, by Quinet . 406 
 
 Genlis, Madame de, 392 
 
 Geoffrin, Madame, her salon, . . . 331 
 George Dandin, by Moliere, .... 203 
 Germany, a work of Madame de 
 
 Stael, 384 
 
 Germany and Italy, by Quinet, . . 406 
 
 Gibbon, 331 
 
 Gil Bias, by Le Sage 302 
 
 GiNGUENE. historian of the Italian Lit- 
 erature, 406 
 
 Golden Legend of Pierre de Yoragine, 91 
 Gramont, Comte, Memoirs of, ... 280 
 Grimm, 331 
 
 GUILLAUME DE LORRIS, 79 
 
 GuizoT, as a historian, 404 
 
 Guyon's, Madame, piety, spread of, . 252 
 
 HAmLTON, Count, Memoirs by, . . . 280 
 Hardy, Alexander, wrote 1200 plays, 141 
 Harmonies, by Lamartine, .... 415 
 Helyetius the philosopher, . . 331, 338 
 Henri III., a drama by Dumas, . . 430 
 Henriade, a poem by Yoltaire, . . . 315 
 Heptameron, L', by Marguerite de 
 
 Valois, 117 
 
 Hermit and the Angel, The, .... 92 
 Heroic epic, first attempt at, due to 
 
 Ronsard, 140 
 
 Hippocrates and Galen, lectured on by 
 
 Rabelais, 122 
 
 Hippocrates, valuable edition of, by 
 
 Rabelais, 122 
 
 Histoire de Charles XII., by Voltaire, 318 
 Histoire de la Conj uration des Espag- 
 
 nols contre Venise, by St. Real, , . 271 
 Histoire de la Regne de Louis XIV., 
 
 by Racine, 185 
 
 Histoire des Oracles, by Fontenelle, . 304 
 Histoire des Variations, by Bossuet, . 251 
 Historians of the philosophical school, 404 
 Historians of the symbolical school, . 405 
 Historians, schools of, since 1830, 403, 404 
 Historical Sketches, by Alexandre 
 
 Dumas, 404 
 
 History and biography, . , . . . 402 
 
436 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 History and characteristics of the 
 
 French Language, 13 
 
 History and Memoirs — Bossuet, &c., . 271 
 History of France, by Mezeray, . . 271 
 History of France, Letters on the, by 
 
 Thierry, 404 
 
 Holbach, Baron d', salon of, .... 331 
 Horaces, Les, by Corneille, . . . .173 
 
 Hugo, Victor, 414 
 
 As a dramatist, 430 
 
 As a noTelist, 424, 425 
 
 Imitation of Jesus Christ, metrical 
 
 version of the, by Corneille, . . . 174 
 Indian Cottage, The, by St. Pierre, 373, 374 
 Indies, History of the Two, by Raynal, 370 
 
 Innocent III., Pope, 61 
 
 Institutes of the Christian Religion, 
 
 by Calvin, 125 
 
 Introduction k la Connaissance de 
 
 I'Esprit H amain, by Vauvenargue, 341 
 Introduction h la Vie Devote, by St. 
 
 Frangois de Sales, 136 
 
 Irene, a piece by Voltaire, .... 322 
 
 Jansenists, peculiar doctrines of (note), 158 
 
 Jean de Meun, 79 
 
 Jocelyn, a romance, by Lamartine, . 419 
 JoDELLE, restorer of the drama, . . .141 
 John II., political progress in his reign, 108 
 Joinville's Vie de St. Louis, .... 107 
 
 Jonglour, the office of a, 44 
 
 Journey of Charlemagne to Jerusalem 
 
 and Constantinople, The, .... 67 
 Julie, by Rousseau, 345 
 
 La Harpe, M. be, 368 
 
 La Motte, lyric poet, 304 
 
 La Raison Encyclopedique, . . . .331 
 L'Abb:^ Mably, the moral politician, . 340 
 
 Lafayette, Madame, 149 
 
 Lafosse the dramatist, 194 
 
 Lamartine, 414 
 
 Lamennais, AbbjS de, 407 
 
 Langue d'Oc, 37 
 
 Langue d'Oil, or Romance Wallon, . 64 
 Laromiguiere, as a philosopher, . . 406 
 Latin infuses vigor into French, , .137 
 Latini at the university of Paris, . . 93 
 L'Avocat Pathelin, by Brueys, . . .210 
 Lay of Lanval, by Marie of France, . 74 
 Lays, origin and nature of, .... 74 
 Le Bergeret le Roi, fable by Fontaine, 217 
 Le Devin du Village, an opera by J. J. 
 
 Rousseau, 355 
 
 Le Joueur, by Regnard, 209 
 
 Le Legataire, by Regnard, .... 209 
 Le Mariage Force, by Moli^re, origin 
 
 of (note), 279 
 
 Le Sage, author of Gil Bias, . . . .302 
 Le Tartufe, a comedy by Moliere, . . 200 
 League. The, an imperfect edition of 
 
 the Henriade, 315 
 
 Leclerc, Georges Louis, or Comte de 
 
 BuFFON, 359 
 
 PAGE 
 
 L'Ecole des Maris, by Molidre, . . . 199 
 Lkmaitre, extract from his first plead- 
 ing, 262 
 
 Les Dues de Bourgogne, by Barante, 404 
 Les £poques de la Nature, by Buffon, 300 
 
 Les Facheux, by Moliere, 11)9 
 
 Les Martyrs, by Chateaubriand, . . 395 
 Les Methodes de Port Royal, . . . 158 
 Les Natchez, by Chateaubriand, . . 394 
 Les Precieuses Ridicules, a comedy, 
 
 by Moliere, 196 
 
 L'Essai sur les Moeurs des Nations, by 
 
 Voltaire, 326 
 
 L'Essai sur I'Origine des Connaissances 
 Humaines, by Condillac, .... 334 
 
 L'Etourdi, by Moliere, 203 
 
 Letters from the Mountain, by Rous- 
 seau, 347 
 
 Lettres Galantes, by Fontenelle, . . 303 
 Lettres Persanes, by Montesquieu, . 305 
 Lettres Philosophiques, by Voltaire, . 317 
 Lettres Provinciales, by Pascal, . . 157 
 Lettres sur les Aveugles, by Diderot, 338 
 L'Heptameron, ou I'histoire des Am- 
 ants Fortunes, by Marguerite de 
 
 Valois, 117 
 
 L'Histoire du Siecle de Louis XIV., by 
 
 Voltaire, 326 
 
 Literary criticism in connexion with 
 
 history, 406 
 
 Literary societies take their rise in 
 
 France (1610-1642), 148 
 
 Literature after the revolution of 1830, 422 
 Literatures of the South of Europe, by 
 
 Quinet, 406 
 
 Litterature Extravagante, La, . . . 423 
 Litterature Frangaise au dix-huiti^me 
 
 Siecle, by Barante, 404 
 
 Locke and Condillac, disciples of, . . 406 
 Longinus, translated with critical 
 notes by Boileau, 241 
 
 LONGUEVILLE, DUCHESS DE, . . . . . 149 
 
 Louis-le-Germanique, Oath of, . . . 63 
 Louis XL, Comines best depicts the 
 
 last days of, 113 
 
 Louis XIV., age of 176 
 
 Luther, Life of, by Michelet, . . . .405 
 Lutrin, mock-heroic poem of Boileau, 
 
 origin of, 232 
 
 Lyric Muse, Ronsard herald of the, . 140 
 Lyric Poetry cultivated, 90 
 
 Maintenon, Madame de, letters of, . 294 
 Malade Imaginaire, Le, by Moliere, . 206 
 Malebranche, the speculative philo- 
 sopher, 270 
 
 Malherbe, reformer of poetry, . 142, 143 
 
 Malleville the poet 144 
 
 Marechale d'Ancre, by De Vigny, . . 430 
 
 Marguerite de Valois, 116 
 
 Marie of France, 74 
 
 Marinism in French, 144 
 
 Marion Delorme, by Victor Hugo, . . 430 
 
 Marmontel, character of 331 
 
 Marmontel, J. F., author of Belisaire, 367 
 
INDEX. 
 
 437 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Marot and Ronsard compared, . . . 139 
 Marot, Clement, the poet, .... 117 
 
 A specimen of his French .... 119 
 Martyrs, Les, by Chateaubriand, . . 395 
 
 Marveil, Arnaud de, 46 
 
 Massillon, 247, 258 
 
 Massillon, on the small number of the 
 
 elect, quotation, 260 
 
 Mathurin Regnier, satires of, . . . 142 
 Maximes des Saintes, by Fenelon, 253, 281 
 Maximes Morales, by Rochefoucauld, 266 
 Mazarin, Cardinal, introduces the 
 
 Italian Opera, 194 
 
 Mazarin, portrait of, 275 
 
 Meditations, by Lamartine, .... 415 
 Melite, the first comedy of Corneille, . 163 
 Memoire, by Racine, its fate, . . .184 
 
 Memoires, by Bran tome, 272 
 
 Jlemoires, by Cardinal de Retz, . . 273 
 Memoires du Comte de Gramont, . . 280 
 Memoires sur le Regne d'Anne d'Aut- 
 
 riche, by Rochefoucauld, . . . .26' 
 
 M6moires, writers of, 272 
 
 Menteur, Le, by Corneille, . . . .173 
 
 Merim£e, Prosper, 429 
 
 Merlin, Romance of, 66 
 
 Messeniennes, the elegiacs of Dela- 
 
 vigue, 414 
 
 Mezeray, the historian, 271 
 
 Michelet and Quinet, as historians, . 405 
 
 Middle Ages, 35 
 
 Mignet, as a historian, 404 
 
 Milton, his first idea, an epic on 
 
 Arthur, 73 
 
 Misanthrope. Le, by Moliere, . . , 203 
 
 Mock-heroic poetry, 226 
 
 Modern History, Compendium of, by 
 
 Michelet, 405 
 
 Moliere's life, works, and real name, 195 
 Montaigne, death of, 1592, .... 136 
 
 The most eminent type of scepticism, 126 
 
 His Essays, 126 
 
 Montesquieu, Baron de, 305 
 
 Moralists, the — Rochefoucauld, La 
 
 Bruyere, Nicole, 265 
 
 Moralities, invention of the, . . . .100 
 Morgue, the dead-house {note), . . . 423 
 My Holidays in Spain, by Quinet, . 406 
 Mysteries and Moralities of the middle 
 
 ages, earliest specimen of, . . . 95, 96 
 Mysteries, character of the stages on 
 
 which they were acted, 100 
 
 Mysteries of Paris, by Eugene Sue, . 429 
 Mythologies, the three great, ... 91 
 
 Namur, Robert de. Lord of Montfort, 109 
 Nanine, a comedy by Voltaire, . . . 323 
 Natchez, Les. by Chateaubriand, . . 394 
 
 Nativity, mystery of the, 99 
 
 Necker, Monsieur, 374 
 
 Nineteenth century, 378 
 
 Nisard, a literary historian, .... 406 
 Nisard, Histoire de la Litterature 
 
 Frangai.^e, par 33 
 
 Noble Lesson of the Vaudois, The, . 61 
 37* 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Norman-French language, .... 64 
 Normans, invasion of the, .... 64 
 Notre Dame de Paris, by Victor Hugo, 425 
 Nouvelle Heloise, a romance, by Rous- 
 seau, 345 
 
 Nouvelles de la Republique des Let- 
 
 tres, by Bayle, 299 
 
 Novels and dramas, 422 
 
 Observations sur I'Histoire de France, 
 
 by Mably, 340 
 
 Ode, first attempt at, due to Ronsard, 140 
 Ode sur la Prise de Namur, by Boileau, 239 
 (Edipe, a tragedy, by Voltaire, . . . 315 
 Orleans, Charles, Duke of, ... . 102 
 
 Pantagruel, Gargantua and, by Ra- 
 belais, 122 
 
 Parnell's Hermit, source of, ... . 92 
 
 Pascal, Blaise, 156 
 
 Passion, Mystery of the, . . . . 95, 96 
 Patru, an improver of forensic style, . 262 
 Paul and Virginia, by St. Pierre, . . 373 
 Pellisson, secretary of Fouquet, . .262 
 Pensees de la Religion, Pascal's master- 
 piece, 157 
 
 Pensees sur la Comete, by Bayle, . . 299 
 
 People, The, by Michelet, 406 
 
 Periods of French literature, ... 34 
 
 Pertharite, by Corneille, 174 
 
 Phedre, by Racine, 183 
 
 Philippa of Hainault, Queen, employs 
 
 Froissart, 110 
 
 Philosophers of the eighteenth cen- 
 tury, 330 
 
 Philosophical school of historians, . . 404 
 Philosophy — Descartes and Pascal, . 153 
 
 Philosophy, speculative, 406 
 
 Pieces of Gallantry, by Pellisson, . . 264 
 Pierre Vidal, the troubadour, ... 47 
 
 PiSAN, Christine de, 101 
 
 Ode on the death of her father, . . 101 
 Plaideurs, Les, by Racine, .... 183 
 Pluralite des Mondes, by Fontenelle, 304 
 Poetry in the fifteenth century, . . 101 
 
 Poetry, new features in, 409 
 
 Poictiers, William, Earl of .... 42 
 Politique de i'jficriture Sainte, La, by 
 
 Bossuet, 250 
 
 Polyeucte, by Corneille, 173 
 
 Poquelin, Jean Baptiste, Moliere's 
 
 real name, 196 
 
 Port Royal aux Champs, the abbey of, 157 
 Prayers during Mass, by Pellisson, . 264 
 Precieuses Ridicules, Les, by Moliere, 
 
 196, 197 
 Premier Chant de I'Art Poetique, by 
 
 Boileau, 242 
 
 Prevost, Abbe, 303 
 
 Priests, Women, and Families, by 
 
 Michelet, 405 
 
 Principes de Morale, by the Abbe 
 
 Mably, ,340 
 
 Prose, early French, 105 
 
 Provengal grammars, 40 
 
438 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Provengal language and poetry, . 35, 36 
 Provence, independent sovereignty of, 39 
 Pucelle d'Orleans, by Voltaire, . . . 319 
 
 Pucelle, La, by Chapelle, 228 
 
 Pulpit eloq[uence, 246 
 
 QuiNAULT, the lyric tragedian, . . . 194 
 QuiNET, as a historian, 405 
 
 Rabelais, Francis, 
 
 Character of his satires, 
 
 The tvpe of La Renaissance, . . , 
 
 Racan (1589-1670), . 
 
 Racine, life and works of, 
 
 His Odes, Epigrams, &c., . . . . 
 
 Raimbaud de Vaqueiras, 
 
 Rambouillet, Madame de, hStel of, 
 
 Raoul-Rochette, 
 
 Raynal, l'Abbe, 331, 
 
 Recherche a la Yerite, by Malebranche, 
 Recueil de I'Academie des Inscriptions, 
 Reflexions et Sentences, ou Maximes 
 
 Morales, by Rochefoucauld, . . . 
 
 Regnard the dramatist, 
 
 Regnier, Mathurin, 
 
 Religion, mythology of, 
 
 Renaissance and Reform, 
 
 Rene, by Chateaubriand, 
 
 Renouard's Provencal Poetry, . . . 
 Repues Franches, by Yillon, .... 
 Resurrection, Mystery of the, . . . 
 Retz, Cardinal de, Memoirs by, 
 Revenons k nos moutons, origin of this 
 
 proverb, 
 
 Revolutionary spirit, effects of, . 330, 
 Reynard the Fox, Adventures of, . . 
 Rhadamiste, a wild tragedy by Crebil- 
 
 lon, 
 
 Richard I., a troubadour, .... 
 
 Richelieu, portrait of, 
 
 Rimes Heroiques, by Barbier, . . . 
 Rochefoucauld, Francis, Duke of, 
 
 Rollin the historian, 
 
 Romance and letter-writing, . . . , 
 
 Romance of Brutus, 
 
 Romance of Merlin, 
 
 Romance of Roux, 
 
 Romance of Saint-Graal, 
 
 Romance of the Rose, 
 
 Romance, original application of the 
 
 word, 
 
 Romantic scbool of the nineteenth 
 
 century, 
 
 Ronsard and Marot compared, . . . 
 Rousseau, Jean Baptiste, a lyric poet, 
 Rousseau, Jean Jacques, 
 
 Epitaph on his tomb 
 
 Roux, Romance of, 
 
 Royer-Collard, 
 
 Rue He — space round the bed of Ma- 
 dame de Rambouillet, ..... 
 
 120 
 124 
 125 
 
 245 
 180 
 185 
 57 
 149 
 406 
 370 
 271 
 370 
 
 266 
 209 
 142 
 
 91 
 114 
 394 
 406 
 104 
 
 99 
 . 273 
 
 100 
 331 
 
 82 
 
 194 
 
 58 
 
 274 
 
 421 
 
 265 
 272 
 280 
 66 
 66 
 72 
 66 
 79 
 
 72 
 
 Saint-Graal, Romance of, 66 
 
 Sand, George (Madame Dudevant), 
 the novelist, 428 
 
 page 
 Satan, a personage in poetry, ... 90 
 Satire Menippee, an anonymous politi- 
 cal satire, 137 
 
 Satires in Latin verse against the 
 
 clergy, 93 
 
 Satirical poetry, 226 
 
 Saurin, a's a Protestant divine, . . . 261 
 Sceptical and revolutionary spirit tri- . 
 
 umphant, 329 
 
 Scepticism, dawn of, 296 
 
 Scott, Sir Walter, a model to the 
 French descriptive school of novel- 
 ists, 
 
 404 
 
 126 
 
 160 
 406 
 406 
 
 Scriptures, Calvin's Commentary on 
 
 the 
 
 ScuDERY, Mademoiselle de, .... 
 
 S^GUR, 
 
 Sensualistic school of philosophy, . . 
 Sermons ou (Euvres Spirituelles, by 
 
 Fenelon, 281 
 
 SiiviGNE, Madame de, ...... 149 
 
 Her letters, 289 
 
 Sirventes, character of the, .... 50 
 Sismondi's Literature of Southern 
 
 Europe, 406 
 
 Social Contract, The, by Rousseau, . 345 
 
 Sordello of Mantua, 49 
 
 Speculative philosophers, schools of, . 406 
 Spenser's sources of the Faery Queene, 92 
 St. Beuve, a literary historian, . . . 406 
 
 St. Franqois de Sales, 136 
 
 St. R^al the historian, 271 
 
 St. Simon, Due de. Memoirs by, . .276 
 
 Stael, Madame de, 373 
 
 Sue, Eugene, the maritime novelist, . 428 
 Sully, Duke of, writer of Memoirs, . 273 
 Supplement au Voyage de Bougain- 
 ville, by Diderot, 338 
 
 Swift, Dean, indebted to Rabelais, . .125 
 Symbolical school of historians, . . . 405 
 
 Tales, collection of, by Fontaine, . .212 
 
 Telemaque, by Fenelon, 281 
 
 Tensons, or poetic dialogues, ... 40 
 Theatre, ancient, described, .... 94 
 
 Theatre of Racine, 185 
 
 Theatricals, 94 
 
 Theba'ide, first drama of Bacine, . .182 
 Theological school of philosophy, . . 406 
 
 Thibaud III. a lyric poet, 90 
 
 Thierry the historian, 404 
 
 Thiers, as a historian, 404 
 
 Thomas, an orator, 367 
 
 Tragedy, 180 
 
 Traito des Sensations, by Condillac, . 334 
 Transition, age of, 1500-1650, . . .114 
 
 Trois Pclerinages, 80 
 
 Troubadour songs, character of, . . 40 
 
 Troubadours, the, 35 
 
 Trouvere Poetry, 91, 92 
 
 Trouveres, the, . 63 
 
 TJltramontanism, by Quinet, . . . 406 
 University of Paris, importance of 
 the, 93 
 
INDEX. 
 
 439 
 
 PAOE 
 
 Valois, Marguerite de, 116 
 
 Vaqueiras, Raimbaud de, 57 
 
 Vaudois, the Xoble Lesson of the. . . 61 
 Yaiidois, toleration and persecutions 
 
 of the, 61 
 
 Vauvenargue, Marquis de, . . . . 341 
 
 Vextadour, Bernard ds, 45 
 
 Vergne, Mademoiselle de la, . . . 149 
 Vericour, author of Modern French 
 
 Literature {note), 403 
 
 Tico, Life of, hy Michelet, .... 405 
 Victor Hugo, 414 
 
 As a novelist, 424, 425 
 
 As a poet, 419 
 
 Tidal, Pierre, 47 
 
 A^ies des Dames Galantes, by Brantome, 273 
 Vies des Dames Illustres, by Brantome, 272 
 Ties des Grands Capitaines Strangers, 
 
 by Brantome, 273 
 
 Vies des Hommes Illustres et Grands 
 
 Capitaines Francais, by Brantome, 
 
 272, 273 I 
 
 PAGE 
 
 YiGNT, Alfred de, a lyric poet, . . . 427 
 
 As a dramatist, . 430 
 
 Ville-Hardouin, Chronicle of, the 
 
 earliest French prose, 105 
 
 Villemain, a literary historian, . '. . 406 
 
 Author of Cromwell, 404 
 
 Villon, a poet, 103 
 
 ViNET, a literary historian, .... 406 
 
 Virgil Travestied, 147 
 
 VoiTURE, works of, 144 
 
 Volney, as a philosopher, 406 
 
 Voltaire, .■ . . 312 
 
 As a critic, 326 
 
 His death, 323 
 
 Voyage (le) d'Anacharsis, by Barthe- 
 lemy, 374 
 
 Walloons or Waelchs, their language, 63 
 Walpole, 331 
 
 William Earl oe Poictiers, .... 42 
 William the Conqueror's code, ... 65 
 Women in the chivalrous times, . . 39 
 
 THE END. 
 
16 N TZ 
 
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