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«T^ILE«¥]MH¥E]^Sira'¥«

MEMOIES

OF

CELEBEATED CHAEACTEES.

ALPH&NSE DE LAMARTINE
AUTEOa OF " HISTOKY OF THE feUEONDlSlS," ETC., BTO.

IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.

NEW YORK,-
HARPEE & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
FRANKLIN. SQUAEE.
1856.

Entered, aocording to Act of Congress, in the year one thousand
eight hundred and fifty-six, by
Hakpeh <t Bbotiiers,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Southern District
of New York.

2

CONTENTS OF VOL. IIL

¦VrrLUAM TELI,  _,  5
MADAME DE SEVIGNE  '. .  38
MILTON  129
ANTAK  i  160
BOSSUET  214

I

0% *
CELEBRATED CHARACTERS.

WILLIAM TELL,
THE EESTOEER ,0F THE LIBERTY OF HELVETIA.
A.D. 1300.
We are about . tp relate what the Swiss have handed
down as the poetic origin of their freedom ; but let us first
refer to history and geography fox. such information as they
afford respecting Switzerland (or Helvetia) and its inhabit
ants. ^
ThHllm. resembling a strong and prominent knot of
the musi^^T>f the earth's granite, constitute a chain of
mountains which extdfS3^^j^a space of three hundred
leagues, from the mouth oH^Kbone toward Marseilles,
to the plains of Hungary. TEeTyiks of this chain become
deprqpsed toward each extremity, and gradually lose them
selves in the level country. In the centre they rise to an
enormous elevation, inaccessible to the steps, and scarcely
perceptible to the eyes, of men. Their summits, crenulated
as the battlements of a natural fortress, stand out in bold
relief from the deep azure of the heavens — ^brilliant in daz
zling whiteness under the first light of morning, warmly
colored like the rose at mid-day, and softening down into
the hue of the violet as evening declines : these varying
tints are produced by the reflection (more or less powerful)
of the sun on the sheets of eternal snow, with which the
ridges of the mountains are clothed. When we first look

6 . '., WILLLAM TELL.
upon them from the valleys of Italy or France, at a dis
tance of sixty or eighty leagues," they inspire the same sen
timent, ari^ng from infinitj^of height, which is produced
by the sea or tljftjSrmament-'a^ regards irqmensity of extent.
It is a &PS(!tafcle*\vhich paijalyzes the Ve&ofSkr, and from
fear to terror, from astonishSient to admiration, carries the
* thoughts of mortal man up to the Creator, for whom alone
nothing is elevated or boundless; but man feels himself
reduced to npnentity under the stupendous architecture of
these elevated regions, and utters an involuntary cry : that
cry is a confes.sion of his own insignificance, and a hymn
to tlje omnipotent 'power of the Architect. It is from this
cause that the heart is usually more impressed with piety
on the sea or on the tops of mountains, than on the level
plains. The mirror of His works, in which the Divinity
is represetlted, bdng on a grander scale. He is there re-
trfieed and revealed with more distinct and impressive feat
ures. Toward the southern or Italian side the slopes of the hills
are abrupt and steep, as an artificial rampart rajs^go pro
tect and shelter that fertile country, the gard||BRiurope.
On the north, stretching injthe dijnption of France, Savoy,
and Germany, the Alps ^^^mt^om the clouds to the bor
ers of t^e lakes and the T^tTOthe plains by the most grad
ual and gentle declivities : these may be described as immense
ladders, with steps proportioned to the faculties of man. As
soon as you quit the inaccessible region of snow, frost, and
eternal ice, formed by the domes of Mont Blanc, and the
Jungfrau, the slopes become gradual ; the roots of these gi
gantic pinnacles seem to swell the soil which covers them ;
and they become clothed with earth, teeming with vegeta
tion, with greensward, shrubs, flowers, and pasture-land,
moistened by the incessant filtration of melting glaciers,
which dissolve under the heat of the sun. The eminences
diverge widely on all sides as they gradually decrease in al
titude ; like buttresses, the foundations of which are deeply
and extensively sunk, to capacitate them for bearing the in-

WILLIAM TELL. 7
calculable weight they are' constructed to carry. Thus they
form. and hollow out between each separate ridge narrow-
beds, which soon becomii formidable ravines, expanding rap
idly into valleys, basins, and extensive plains, at the extrem
ities of wjiich we perceive from the heights the -sparkling
of transparent lakes, from whence foamin^'rivers take their
course, to seek a distant and a, still lower level.
rfpon the flanks of these diminishing Alps the traveler
encounters here and there a scattered cottage or insulated
habitation^ resembling a tent constructed o^ wood, built
solely for the summer season, to which the shepherds in
following their flocks ascend with the spring, and from
whence ,thcy depart on the approach of autumn. Below
this oleVation, villages are found grouped together at the
foot of a cascade, and sheltered from the fury of the ava
lanche by forests of pine. The beams and planks which
form tlie houses of these villages are furnished by the same
tree which protects them from the melting snows. These
houses, covered by a wooden roof, which overhangs the
walls, like the brim of a hat widened to protect the face
from tho rain, seem as if they were shaped and sculptured
by the knife with curious and patient skill ; they resemble
the toys of white wood which the shepherds, carve for their
children wliile they are watching tho cattle. External'
staircases, ornamented by balusters carved in aralsesque,
lead from the ground-floor to the higher etory. Doors,
surmounted by hollow niches, containing statues of vir
gins, heroes, or saints, give admission to the upper apart
ments, which are lighted by windows in lattice-work, with
lozenge-shaped panes of glass set in leaden frames. Long
galleries with G-othic balustrades surround the entire build
ing, under the open air, like a festooned girdle encircling
the waist of a bride. Stems of May-trees or sprigs of nu
tritious plants, suspended from tho roof by their roots, hang
over the exterior gallery, and form a ceiling of colored mo
saics. Through the windoi^^s' of tho kitchen wo perceive
tho reflection of a large fire-place, which emits a perpetual

8 WILLIAM TELL.
blaze. Branches and splinters of pine, artistically cleft and
piled under the gallery (a certain sign of opulence), consti
tute a wood-house, well supplied to meet the exigencies of
the winter. At the side of this pile are placed folding-doors,
which open intp extensive stables, floored with planks of
pine, cleansed and shining, like the table of a careful house
keeper. The lukewarm and perfumed breath of heifers is
sues from these doors, mingled with the piteous lowing of
young bulls, caUing for their absent mothers. A movable
wooden bridge, thrown over the entrance to the stables,
with a long and gradual descent, conducts the carts loaded
with hay to the granary for fodder. Dry forage and yel
low straw issue from all the windows of this vegetable
magazine ; abundance is every where mingled with simplic
ity. In the middle of the court, a hollow trunk of pine
drains through an iron pipe water from the mountain-
streams into an enormous wooden trough, to satisfy the
thirst of the cattle.
On whatever side you regard the flanks of the Alpine
region, whether on the nearest eminences, the slope of the
glacier, the roof of the dwelling-place^ the walls of the
building, the store of wood, the stable, or the fountain, the
eye encounters nothing but pine, alive or dead. The Switz-
er and the pine-tree are brethren. It seems as if Providence
had assigned to every distinct race of human beings a spe
cial tree, which accompanies them, or which they follow
throughout their terrestrial peregrinations: a tree which
affords them nourishment, heat, drink, shelter; which gath
ers them together under its branches, forms as it were a
member of the domestic circle, and becomes in fact a house
hold god, attached to every individual hearthstone. It is
thus with the mjilberry in China, the date in Africa, the
fig in India, the oak in France, the orange in Italy, the
vine in Spain and Burgundy, the pine in Switzeriand,' and
the palm in Oceania.* The animal and vegetable world
* The fifth division of the habitable globe, comprising the islands
of the Pacific, Australasia, the PhiUppine Islands, etc.  Transi,

WILLIAM TELL. 9
are bound together by invisible ties : annihilate trees, and
man must perish.
After having traversed the villages on the declivities of
the Alps, the towns present themselves at a distance, either
on advanced promontories, or in hollow creeks on the -bor
ders of the great lakes. They are easily recognized by their
dark walls, pointed roofe, and pewter balls,* which faintly
reflect a dim svm on the tops of the cathedrals and gmld-
haUs; and also by the multitude of white sails crowded
round the outlets or mouths of their small harbors, which
hurry on to the blue waters of the lake, like sea-guUs driven
by night to the rocks. These towns, with the exception of
Gteneva (which resembles a Hanseatic rather than a Hel
vetian cit}^ and may be considered a. sort of universal hotel
in this western vaUey of Cashmere), are of small extent,
and contain none of the monuments which mf^k the luxury
of great nations. Municipalities rather than capitals, they
present the ruins of an extinct feudality, or the limbs of pas
toral communities, to whom the nature of the coimtry and
the smaUness of the population have denied the power of
increase, or the faculty of absorbing other cantons. We
are struck only by the majestic, simple, and patriarchal
character of the human race. The men there are of a lofty .
stature, strongly framed, standing erect on their feet, calm
in countenance, &a^ and open in expression, tiieir mouths
nnwrinkled by ^deceit, their foreheads wide, high, and smooth,
but without those prominences and fdrro'WB which the ac
tivity of thought raises or impresses on the fronts of races
^fted with more cultivated intelligence. The women, light
and active in figure, with expanded shoulders, supple arms,
clastic limbs, bronzed hair, blue eyes, healthy complexions,
oval cheeks, curved lips, and with the tones of their voices
at once sonorous and tender, resemble Grecian statues placed
upon pedestals of snow, and animated by the fresh, shivering
" air of the mountains. A mixture of manly dignity with
feminine modesty is harmoniously blended in their physi
ognomy. We perceive at once by their aspect and habitual
A2

10 WILLIAM TELL.
familiarity, restrained and decent before strangers, that they
inhabit a cold and chaste, country, where they have no oc
casion to -fear thw own hearts : their innocence protects
them ; their costume enhances their beauty without expos
ing it to danger. Long tresses of hair, twined with black
velvet ribbons, descend on each side of the neck, almost to
their heels ; a broad hat of felt or straw covers the head ; a
narrow bodice of wool restrains the waist ; the bosom is cov
ered by a chemise, plaited in a thousand folds, and whiter
than the snow ; a short and ample woolen under-petticoat
leaves the leg exposed considerably above the ankle.
Whether they are employed in spreading the litter on the
floor of the stables, in carrying the paUs of maple-wood
foaming with the rich freshly-drawn milk of their cows, or
in turning up with long wooden rakes the newly-mown hay
of the hanging meadows on the borders of the pine-forests
to windward of the cascades — all their different labors re
semble festivals. From one hill to another, above the bed
of the mountain torrents, they reply to the songs of the
young reapers by chanting national airs. These airs resem
ble modulated cries emitted by a superabundance of life and
joy : their last vibrations are prolonged like the echoes of
the mountain; musicians note them down without being
able to imitate them : they are indigenous only on the wa
ters, or on the green slopes of the Alps. Nature does not
here suffer herself to be counterfeited by art. To sing thus,
it is necessary to have acquired in infancy, and to have re
tained with indelible impression on the ear, the rippling of
the waves against the sides of the vessel on the lakes, the
murmur of the running streams, passing drop by drop
through the resounding trough ; the mournful sweep of
the wind sighing through the dentated leaves of the pine-
trees ; the lowing of the heifers calling to their young from
the lull-tops ; the shrill or heavy-toned tinkling of the beUs
suspended to their necks in the grassy fields; the joyous
cries of the infants who sport in the sun upon the haystacks
under the eyes of their mothers ; the gentle converse of the

WILLIAM TELL. 11
betrothed who walk hand-in-hand before the elders, whis
pering to each other of future happiness ; the adieu of the
young soldier who quits his native mountains for a long'
absence, venting his grief in sighs as he pursues Tiis marcli,
or hie shout of joy on returning from foreign service, when
h^ reaches the last cottage from whence he can once more
behold the steeple of his own village. The name given to
these songs is Ram. The sons and daughters of the Alps
weep . and pine whenever they accidentally hear them at a
distance from their native country ; a thousand apparitions
rise up before them with a single infiexion of the voice.
Thus their hearts are constructed, and thus is formed the
heart of man in every clime and country : a voice brings
back a memory, a moment retraces a life, a tear gushes to
the, eyelids, and in that single tear a whole universe is com
prised. In proportion as man retains his natural simplicity,
his inward thoughts revert more frequently to the source
and origin of his being. It is with the human heart as with
a building : the most empty repeats with intense distinct
ness the echo of a single sound.
The national character of these people has continued an
cient in modern days. The Swiss always remains a peas
ant. He is religious, unaffected, laborious ; a shepherd, an
agriculturist, a patriot, a soldier, an artisan, and above all,
a freeman, he is ever ready to stake life against slavery.
The limited size of his country reduces each canton to a
single family. He has no ambition to make conquests, but
he is ever apprehensive of being conquered. This suspicious
jealousy lest one district should seek to assume undue au
thority over another, scarcely permits him to form an im
perfect alliance or confederation with other branches of his
own rate ; an alliance in which the union is wanting that
constitutes force. A king would appear to him a tyrant ;
even a republic with too much federal power he would con
sider insupportable. Municipal government is the only au
thority that he recognizes. He wishes to be ruled by habits
rather than laws. Traditional customs form his code of

12 WILLIAM TELL.
legislature. Every village, and almost every family, adopts
its own independent system. The republicanism of a Swiss
is individual j-ather than national: from this som-ce springs
his liberty, and at the same time his weakness. Were he
not protected by nature and the barrenness of his country,
he would long since have ceased to exist. Heaven grant
that he may continue for ages, a living remmiscepce of a
primitive people in the heart of the' old civilizations of Eu
rope — a neutral race among the stormy combatants who
surround the foot of his Alps, and offering by turns a safe
asylum to the proscribed victims of the endless revolutions
and counter-revolutions of the nations of the West !
His virtues are tarnished by one vice alone — a vice in
herent to poverty — covetousness ; avarice contracts his hand
and his heart. He is ready to sell any thing, even his
blood, to introduce a little gold into his country, which pro
duces none. Naturally brave and faithful, he trafiics with
his children, and lets them out for a vile stipend to any
prince or nation who engages to pay them. Indifferent as
to the cause for which he pledges his life, he becomes the
acknowledged mercenary of courts and camps. War, which
ought to be an act of devotion, he degrades to a trade ; he
takes away the life of another, or exposes his own, for hire.
Free at home, abroad he lends his arm to sovereigns that
they may subjugate their people. No sooner has his period
of service expired than he passes to another, with the indif
ference of a gladiator of the circus, or of elephants trained
to combats, who fight with equal valor for the Persians or
the Bomans. The elevated valleys of the Alps, overwhelm
ed by torrents, lakes, and swamps, darkened by thick for
ests, overrun with bears and fallow beasts, were the, last
conquests of the Western nations over the barren desert.
At the period of the great migrations from the North, which
issued in swarms from the plains of Tartaiy to inundate
Europe, and drove before them the settled population, it
has been said that fugitive colonies of Cimbri, and particu
larly Swedes — a race already hardened by the frosts of po-

WnOLlAM TELL. 13
lar regions — were drawn to these high valleys by the anal
ogy of situation — forests, pines, lakes, torrents, and snow —
which reminded them of the country they had left. The
lofty stature, light hair, blue eyes, fair complexion, and
calm demeanor of the Swiss in the smaller cantons, and
even .j;be similitude of names in families and places, attest
their remote relationship with the Swedes. These barba
rians imported with themselves their northern idolatries.
^Missionaiy hermits from Gaul and Italy introduced the
light of Christianity ; the race, natural, simple, and imag
inative, readily acknowledged the influence of miracles;
their sober habits, chastity, and natural piety — their lives,
in continual struggle with the elements, the visible power
of the Deity — all predisposed them to believe and adopt the
virtues of the new doctrine ; the Gospel easily obtained do
minion over their faith and feelings. These green Thebaids,
like the Thebaids of Egypt, soon became fllled with chap
els, hermitages, and monasteries, objects of veneration to
a people more governed by their belief than their laws.
Speedily the Franks and Germans, whose descendants are
equally found in Switzerland, inundated the valleys with
hordes from Gaul and Germany. The chiefs of these dif
ferent tribes built strong fortresses, reduced the earlier in
habitants to subjection, and founded petty independent sov
ereignties, constantly at variance with each other. These
states, duchies, counties, baronies, and fiefs, were bounded
by a glacier, a lake, a precipice, or a mountain — a feudal
systepi generated by the patriarchal government, which
ruled the several races while they were yet wandering and
unsettled. ' The hereditary lord was no more than an'elder,
¦whose tent had been transformed into a fortified castle.
Charlemagne, whose hand extended over the entire West,
incorporated all these seigniories and townships of Switzer
land with his single empire: the master of Germany be
came the sovefeign of Helvetia. The cities placed them
selves under his protection to escape from new invasions of
barbarous nations, particulai-ly the Hungarians, who en-

14 WICLUM TELL.
croached upon their valleys. They constructed ramparts
and citadel^ and compelled the inhabitants to become at
the same time citizens and warriors. Thus they erected
themselves into independent communities, rivaling the great
lords and ^bbots, who had hitherto domineered over the
people with exclusive supremacy. The German emperor
maintained a viceroy in Switzerland under the title of bail
iff, who administered justice upon all, and in the name of
his master exercised equal tyranny over the towns, the con
vents, and the castles.
The Counts of Hapsburg, a powerful family of the can
ton of Aargau, the Counts of Kapperschwyl, rulers of the
Lake of Zurich, the Counts of Toggenburg, rivals of both
these houses, in their impregnable stronghold of Fischingen,
and several other infiuential chieftains, disputed among them
selves the dominion of these groups of mountains, lakes, and
forests. Their nominal subordination to the empire of
Germany was regulated exclusively by their interest ; in
dividual caprice was the only law they acknowledged ; they
were, in fact, the thirty tyrants of Athens become heredita
ry, and dwelling in so many citadels at the entrances of the
valleys. Their manners were as wild and savage as their
locality ; their traditions teemed with blood — ^those of the
Counts of Toggenburg in particular bore ample testimony
to the arbitrary ferocity of their judgments: the castle of
this family, erected on the summit of a rock overhanging
the lake, was totally inaccessible to an enemy. One of the
lords of this house, Henry of Toggenburg, had married a
lady named Ida, whose beauty became the miracle and theme
of the entire laud. The count was as jealous as he was
affectionately attached to his lovely helpmate. Chance gave
an apparent substance to this deadly shadow which imbit-
tered his happiness. One day, while the countess was con
templating from a window in her tower the lake and the
valleys which lay expanded before her eyes, in the abstrac
tion of the moment she suffered her wedding-ring, which
had slipped accidentally from her finger, to remain on the

"WILLIAM TELL. 15
ledge of the window, and returned without noticing the
loss. A crow, flying round the battlements, observed the
ring glittering under a ray of the sun. Attracted, as all
birds are, by the brilliancy of the gold, the crow alighted
on the tower, and thrusting its neck between the bars, car
ried off the ring to its nest. Discovering afterward that
the gbl4 was of less value than an earth-worm to feed her
young, she pushed the ring over the edge of the nest, and
allowed it to "fell upon the beach. A page belongingito
the castle, hunting in that neighborhood some days after,
foflnd the ring, and not knowing to whom to restore it,
placed it upon his finger, without dreaming of future mis
chief. Count Henry seeing the ring upon the finger of his
page, immediately persuaded himself that it was a gift from
his wife to her paramour, and the evidence of a criminal
intercourse. Without listening to any counsel or argument
beyond the impulse of vengeance, he caused the young page
to be bound to the tail of an untamed horse, who 'dragged
his dislocated members, in mad career, across the rocks and
precipices ; then taking his innocent wife in his arms, he
precipitated her from the top of the battlements into the
chasm below ; but the gulf rejected the victim. The rocks,
covered with thorny shrubs, retained the beautiful Ida sus
pended by her garments and long tresses over the brink of
the abyss. She contrived to escape under the shadow of
night, and demanded sanctuary at the convent of Fischin
gen. Her innocence, discovered and acknowledged too late,
brought her repentant husband to her feet; but although
she pardoned the action, she steadily refused ever again to
live with him as his wife, and passed the remainder of her
days in a cell of the monastery, praying for the guilty count
and the unfortunate page who had been so cruelly immola
ted to an unfounded suspicion.
Such were the manners of these barbarous knights who
at that time tj'ranni?,ed over Lower Helvetia. But the ele
vated and barren site of their habitations had procured the
- liberty of some families of peasants, situated at the bottom

16 WILLIAM TELL.
of the Lake of the Four Cantons, at Schwytz, Uri, and Un-
terwalden. Defended on the north by the stormy waves of
the lakes, on the south by inaccessible peaks and glaciers,
and on the side of Germany by precipices and forests, these
mountaineers acknowledged no supremacy but that of the
Emperor. They governed themselves under the form of a
republic. Their freedom excited the envy of the inhabitants
of the lower valleys, who were subjected to the caprices of
a thousand petty tyrants. The <aty of Zurich, and other
neighboring places, such as Lucerne, united with them from
time to time, to throw off the yoke of the nobles and their
allies. Count Eudolph of Hapsburg, who had ascended the Im
perial throne by election, remembered that he was by birth
a native of Switzerland, and for a time protected his coun
trymen from oppression. But his son, Albert of Austria,
jealous of the remnant of independence which the snows
and rocks had left to the inhabitants of Upper Helvetia,
undertook to subjugate them, and to reduce even these
humble villages to the level of the common slavery. The
inhabitants of Schwytz, TJri, and Unterwalden, confedera
ted together in a mutual league to preserve their customs,
laws, and liberties. Finding it impossible to seduce them
either by diplomacy or pretended kindness, the Emperor dis
patched lieutenants or proconsuls to reside in the midst of
their mountains, sustained by military power, and charged
to impress on all the weight of his anger and the disgrace
of his yoke. These governors bore the title of Bailifis of
the Emperor; they exercised in every district the most
intolerable and unbounded, of aU tyrannies — the despotism
which is distant and delegated. The land groaned under
their capricious violence, but the Sovereign was too far re
moved to hear the universal lamentation. They pillaged
private property, imprisoned the husbands, carried off the
wives, and dishonored the daughters. The crimes which
drove the Tarquins from Bome raised the cries of these
unhappy victims, but the perpetrators escaped without "

WILLIAM TELL. I7
punishment. Possessed (either through themselves or by
the alliance of the nobles who espoused the Austrian in
terest) of the ports, the lakes, the passes of the mountains,
the valleys and the fortresses which commanded the country,
the bailiffs disregarded the murmured indignation of the
peasantry, whose hearts alone escaped, while their land and
arms were fettered. The most cruel and insolent of these
Imperial deputies was the bailiff Gessler, one of those mon
sters who despise his fellow-men, and who render oppres
sion so intolerable that the very chains themselves shake
and burst under their hands. Every hiU re-echoed with his
outrages against the honor of the women and the lives of
the peasants ; his name foimed at once the terror, the scan
dal, and the humiliation of the land. He neither disguised
his hatred nor his contempt for the people he had convert-
ted into abject slaves. His presence in a village became a
certain scourge to the inhabitants. The slightest semblance
of prosperity or superiority in any particular family he at
once construed into an undue license of liberty.
On one occasion, while traversing the canton of Schwytz
with his escort of armed followers, he perceived a new dwell
ing, constructed with a certain degree of rustic luxury, and
belonging to the head of a family, named Werner Stauffa-
cher. " Is it not shameful," cried he to his satellites, " that
miserable serfs like these should be permitted to build such
houses, when huts would be too good for them?" "Let
this be finished," answered his esquire; "we shall then
sculpture over tho gate the arms of the Emperor, and a lit
tle time will show whether the builder has the audacity to
dispute possession with us." "Thou art right," rejoined
Gessler, and continued his journey, smiling inwardly at the
trap laid for the peasant by his insidious counselor.
But the wife of Stauffacher happened to be standing in
the entry while Gessler passed before the house, and over
heard the conversation befween the bailiff and his attend
ant. She trembled with .apprehension, and dismissed the
workmen before the close of the day, lest she should offend

18 WILLIAM TELL.
the tyrant by continuing to build a house, the sight of
which provoked his rage. In the evening, when her hus
band returned to the village, he inquired of his wife why
the workmen were no longer at their labor. "Because a
hut is too good for slaves like us," she replied, using the
words which Gessler had uttered. Stauffacher sat down in
a melancholy mood, and called for his supper. His wife
placed before him bread and water. He asked if there was
no longer a chamois on the mountains or a fish in the lake.
" Bread and water," again answered his wife, " are sufficient
for slaves." Stauffacher ate in silence, but deeply felt the
truth of the parable. When night fell, he retired to the
conjugal bed where he usually reposed by the side of the
wife whom he tenderly loved. She refused any longer to
share his couch. " Why," said he, " do you separate your
self from the husband assigned to you by Heaven f " Be
cause," she replied, " such miserable serfs as we are, ought
not to propagate a race more unfortunate than ourselves."
She then related to her husband the words she heard pass .
between Gessler and his attendants. Stauffacher rose in
dignantly, without speaking took down his sword which
was han^ng on the wall, descended toward the borders of
the Lake of the Four Cantons, threw himself into a fishing-
boat, crossed the water, and before the night had expired
reached the village of Attinghausen, and stood at the gate
of his father-in-law, Walter Fiirst.
Walter Fiirst, instead of questioning his son-in-law as to
the cause of this unexpected visit, placed before him, ac
cording to patriarchal custom, the wine and meat which
were always held in readiness for guests. Stauffacher
pushed back with his hand the offered refreshment. " I
have made a vow," said he to his father-in-law, "never
again to taste wine or swallow meat until we cease to be
slaves." They then sat down together and conversed in a
low tone on the outrages of their tyrants, and the indigna
tion of their own hearts. They endeavored to recall the
names of their compatriots who had received the most gall-

WILUAM TELL. 19
ing insults from Gressler, and who would be the most read
ily excited by vengeance to strike for liberty : the case of a
young peasant named Melchthal immediately occurred to
them. One day this laborer had yoked to his plow two
handsome oxen, which formed the riches, strength, and
pride of his teams. '"While tracing a furrow in his field,
and admiring the vigorous limbs and glo^ hides of his cat
tle, an officer of the bailiff happened to pass by ; he looked
on the oxen with envy, declared them too valuable for a
serf, and cutting the traces with his two-edged knife, pre
pared to unfasten the yoke that he might carry them to his
master. The young peasant, driven to desperation, tore off
a branch from a pine that grew on the border of the field,
and, in endeavoring to rescue his oxen, broke the arm of
the plunderer. After such an offense, nothing remained
for him but instant flight. He took refuge in the neigh
boring forests, where he was secretly supplied with food by
the compassion of his brother peasants. Here seemed to
Fiirst and Stauffacher to be an associate supplied to them
by persecution ; they sought him in his retreat, and confid
ed to him the plot which despair had suggested to them
under the shades of a sleepless night. Each of the three
belonged to a different canton : the first was of Schwytz,
the second of Uri, and the third of Unterwalden. ¦ They
were well acquainted with the most injured, the most in
trepid, and the most implacable of their fellow-countrymen.
Each engaged to select ten, and bring them to a chosen ren
dezvous at the Griitli, to conceal the insurrection and in
terchange a mutual oath of Ubert}r or death.
The Griitli, a smaU promontory standing out from the
mount^ns, surrounded on three sides by the waters of the
lake, and shaded by thickets of pine, was a spot admirably
chosen for the council-chamber of a nocturnal conspiracy.
A single sentinel stationed on the point where the peninsu
la joins the continent, CQuld protect them fiwm aU danger
of surprise by giving notice of the approach of any of Gess-
ler's spies ; and even if they were unluckily surprised, their

20 WILLIAM TELL.
boats, concealed under the shades of the high banks, could
by a few strokes of the oar convey them beyond the reach
of-<all pursuit.
On the night of the 17th of November, 1307, the thirty
confederates, descending one by one from their mountains,
or singly crossing the lake in small fishing-boats, met, as
they had concerted, on the promontory of Griitli. Heaven
and earth, the stars, and the silent waves, were the wit
nesses of that momentous assembly. Never had a holier
or more lawful conspiracy been attested- by these heavenly
evidences in the midst of the Creator's noblest works.
It was Nature conspiring in innocence, and in the
presence of Nature : the human heart revealing itself in its
most inalienable instincts, and speaking thus by the mouths
of a few unsophisticated rustics : ^'I also am one of God's
works, and in claiming Iny liberty I vindicate and, at the
same time, defend the Creator in His most sublime attri
bute, the gift of freedom, ravished from His creatures by
unholy tyranny." These untutored men wasted no energy'
in empty harangues ; nature inspired them with one com
mon langua^. Their whole eloquence was comprised in
a few brief ^ntences uttered in a low tone, in two or three
significant gestures, and the mutual pressure of honest,
hardy hands. They met to interchange oaths, and not to
_ utter exciting speeches. What could they have said equal
in value to the fact of that premeditated meeting of so many
oppressed spirits, bleeding in their liberty, their self-dignity,
and their affections? Words could not weigh in the bal
ance with that decisive night, brooding under cover of its
darkness the resurrection of a nation, with those mountains,
stars, rocks, and waves, and with the sword ready to be
drawn in the most sacred of causes. Demosthenes, Cicero,
Catiline, and Mirabeau, would have been overwhelmed ifi
such a hall of legislature. "When a feeling is innate, pro
found, and deeply rooted, words can not add strength to
conviction; silence is the only eloquence of conspiracies
which spring neither from politics nor crime, but are en-

WILLIAM TELL. 21
gendered by Nature alone. Such was the eloquence of
Grutli. "We swear," exclaimed Walter Fiirst, Stauffacher, Melch
thal, and Werner, extending their arms — " we swear, in the
presence of God, before whom kings and people are equal,
to live or die for our fellow-countrymen ; to undertake and
sustain all in common ; neither to suffer injustice nor to
commit injury ; to respect the rights and property of the
Coimt of Hapsburg ; to do no violence to the imperial bail
iffs, but to put an end to their tyranny." The day of ris
ing was fixed for the 1st of the January following, 1308.
The traditions of Switzerland speak of three springs, which
gushed miraculously forth as these words were uttered, at
the feet of the three leaders of the confederacy, and which
still continue to flow to the present day ; but the tradition
in this case falls below the event. The true miracle existed
in the hearts of the thirty patriots, from whom arose the
source of the liberty of Switzerland, and not from the sand
which crumbled under their feet.
On the following day, a fresh enormity, perpetrated by
one of the feudal chieftains, protected by the bailiffs, spread
consternation throughout the three cantons. This noble
had been dazzled by the beauty of the wife of one of the
serfs on his domain. During the absence of her husband,
he entered the house, ordered her instantly to prepare a
bath for him, and addressed her with dishonorable propos
itions. The modest female escaped, and taking refuge in
the forest where her husband was pursuing his daily labor,
related to him what had occurred. He instantly seized his
hatchet, returned to the house, found the tyrant in the bath,
cleaved his skull, and fled with his wife to the shelter of the
woods. A general cry of indignation burst from the depths
of the valleys to the highest peaks of the Alps ; from that
moment none could expect to possess in safety the dearest
of earthly goods, the virtue of their wives. The conspiracy
of the thirty heroes of the Griitli was at once augmented
by every husband and brother throughout the land. But

22 "WILLIAM TELL.
the entire heart of the nation did not yet overflow ; a crown
ing outrage threw into the measure the fathers, mothers,
and their children : it seemed as if the tyranny of the bail
iffs had resolved to accumulate in one hostile mass every
resentment of which human nature was capable. And now
for the first time William Tell appeared upon the scene, to
act a prominent part in the liberation of his country.
The half-stifled murmurs which arose throughout the
hamlets and cottages against the severity of the bailiff Gess
ler, far from softening his oppression, tended only to irri
tate and excite him ; he determined to put down by force
the first symptoms of disaffection which showed themselves
in the countenances of the peasants, defied their patience,
and invented a crime that he might have victims to punish.
In the public squarfe of Altdorf he ordered a pole to bo
erected, on the top of which he placed his hat, surmounted
by the Austrian crown. Every citizen or peasant who
passed by was ordered to uncover his head, and bow sub
missively before this symbol of the Imperial sovereignty ;
guards posted round the foot of the pole were ordered to
make prisoners of all who proclaimed themselves rebels by
refusing this act of servile homage to the cap of the gov
ernor. The obedient mass submitted to this caprice of tyranny
either through contempt or terror. One alone refused com
pliance : this bold exception was a simple peasant of Uri,
a fisher of the lake, and a hunter of the chamois ; his name
was William Tell. He was supposed to take so little in
terest in- the poUtics which agitated the country, that he
had not been included in the thirty chosen spirits summoned
to the rendezvous of the Griitli ; his heart and conscience
were his only incentives to conspiracy. Tho act of uncov
ering and bending before a material object, which seemed
to transpose the divinity of the Supreme into a frail mor
tal, appeared to him a mark of adoration forbidden to Chris
tian men, who are taught to worship God alone. On his
refusal the governor's guards seized, disarmed, and bound

WILXIAM TELL. 23
him with cords to the pole on which the hat was placed.
As soon as Gessler was informed of this, he rejoiced to
have found a criminal, in whose person he might strike
the entire race of mountaineers ; accordingly he hastened
to Altdorf, attended by a numerous escort. But here the
history of Switzerland, embarrassed by vague and contra
dictory traditions, resigns the recital to poetry, as being
alone capable of immortalizing the grand original scenes
which give birth to the liberty of nations. The great poet
of Germany and Switzerland,* following the reminiscences
of the Alps, relates in the following manner, the simple but
terrible interview between William Tell and the tyrant of
his country.
The scene is in a meadow, before the town of Altdorf;
in the centre stands the pole, surmounted by the hat of the
governor; the archers of Gessler are marshaled round ia
a circle. The inhabitants of Altdorf and the neighboring
villages are scattered here and there in terrified groups;
the snowy chain of the Alps of the Bannberg rises in the
background, reaching toward the cloudless sky, as if Na
ture were exclaiming against the tyranny which sought to
enchain the free earth. The soldiers converse together in
a low tone.
Feiesshaedt and Letithold, two Soldiers movmting puard.
Ebiesshakdt. We wait in vain : no one will pass this way to make
obeisance to the hat. There are usually people enough here for a
fair, but since this scarecrow has been suspended on the pole, the
meadow has become deserted.
Leuthom). We shall see none but miserable caitiffs come here to
doff their tattered bonnets. All honest people will rather make a
long circuit than bow before the hat.
Feiesshakdt. They must take this road at mid-day, in returning
from the guildhall. I expected to have made a good capture just
now, for no one thought of saluting the hat ; the Curate, who had
been visitang the sick, peiceived this, and placed himself with the
Holy Sacraments close to the foot of the pole. The sacristan rang
the bell, when all fell on their knees, and I with the rest. But it
was the Host they saluted, and not -the hat.
: * Schiller.

24 WILLLyH TELL.
Leuthold. Listen to me, comrade : I begin to feel that we are in
the pillory here. It is a disgrace to a soldier to be placed on sentry
over a hat, and every honorable man will hold us in contempt. Bow
to an empty hat ! Truly a most ridiculous idea !
Eriesshaedt. Why not to a hat? You often bow to an empty
skull ! (Hildegarde, Matilda, and EUzaheth enter with their children,
and pass round the pole.)
Leuthold. You are so zealous in your duty, that you seek to in
jure these honest people. Eor my part, let them bow or not, I shall
shut my eyes and see nothing.
Matilda. Children, this is the governor's hat; pay all due respect
to it.
Elizabeth. I wish he would go away, and leave us his hat as a
sole legacy ; things would get on none the worse in the country.
Fhiesshardt. {Driving them off.) Begone, ivretched troop of
women ! You are not wanted here. Send your husbands, and we
shall soon see whether they are bold enough to treat our countersign
with contempt. (27ie women go out. Tell enters with his cross-bow,
holding his son by the hand. They pass be/ore the hat without perceiv
ing it.)
Walter. {Pointing to the Bannherg.) Father, is it true that the
trees on that mountain shed blood whenever they are stricken by the
ax? Tell. Who has told you that, my child ?
Walter. The master shepherd. He says there is magic in those
trees, and that if any one injures them, his hand wi* stretch forth
from his grave after he is dead.
Tell. Undoubtedly those trees are sacred. Look yonder ; do you
see those high white mountains, the summits of which seem to be lost
in the heavens ?
Walter. Yes, those are the glaciers, which resound like thunder
during the night, and from whence the avalanches fall.
Tell. They are, my child ; and those avalanches would long since
have swallowed up the town of Altdorf, if the forest, which stands
above like a faithful guard, had not preseiTcd it.
Walter. {Having reflected for a moment.) Father, are there any
.| countries where there are no mountains ?
Tell. If we were to leave our hills, and follow the course of the
rivers, we should arrive at a vast open plain, where there are no foam
ing torrents, and where the streams flow gently and without noise.
There, on every side, the corn grows in extensive fields, and the
whole land resembles a garden.
Walter. Why then do we not go and live in that beautiful coun
try, instead of confining ourselves to this narrow steep ?
Tell. The country, it is true, is lovely as Heaven itself; but those

¦WILLIAM TELL. 26
who dwell there are not permitted to gather the harvest they have
sown. Walter. Are they not free as you are, in their inheritance ?
Tell. Their fields belong to the Bishop or the King.
Walter. But surely they can hunt in the forests ?
Tell. The game and the birds belong to the lord of the soil.
Walter. At least they are allowed to fish in the rivers ?
Tell. The rivers, the sea, even to the salt, are the property of the
King. Walter. Who and what is this King, of whom they all stand in
such dread?
Tell. He is a man like themselves, but he protects and feeds them.
Walter. Are they not able to protect themselves ?
Tell. In that country no neighbor can trust another.
Walter. Father, I should be very unhappy there. I would rather
remain with the avalanches.
Tell. You are right, my child. It is better to dwell with the gla
ciers than with wicked men. ( They are about to pass on.)
Walter. Father, do you see that hat placed upon a pole ?
Tell. What is that to us ? Come, follow me. {As they are going
out, Friesshardt stops them with his pike.)
Friesshardt. Halt ! In the name of the Emperor ! Go no far
ther! Tell. {Seizing the pike.) AVhat do you want ? "Why do you de
tain me ?
Friesshardt. You have disobeyed the order. Follow us.
Leuthold. You have not saluted the hat.
Tell. My friend, let me pass.
Friesshardt. Come, come, to prison.
Walter. My father to prison! Help! help! {The people enter
on all sides. This way, brave citizens ! Assist us ! To the rescue !
( Tell is seized. The Curate, the Sacristan, and three other inhabitants
of the town enter.)
Sacristan. "What has happened here ? ^
Curate. Why do you lay hands upon that man ?
Friesshardt. He is an enemy to the Emperor, a traitor.
Tell. {Shaking them off violently.) I a traitor !
Curate. You are deceived, my friend. It is Tell, an honest man
and a true citizen.
Walter. {Perceiving Walter Fiirst, and running to him.) Help,
grandsire ! My father is seized.
Friesshardt. On to the prison. March !
Walter Furst. {Stepping forward.) Stay ; I will be his security.
In the name of Heaven, what has occurred ? {Melchthal and Stauf
facher enter). B .

26 WILLIAM TELL.
Friesshardt. He contemns the supreme authority of the Govern
or, and refuses to acknowledge it.
Stauffacher. Is it possible that Tell can have acted thus ?
Melchthal. Thou liest, rascal. {To Friesshardt.)
Leuthold. He has neglected to salute the hat.
Walter Furst. And for this he is to be dragged to prison. My
friends, accept my security, and set him free.
Friesshardt. Keep your security for yourself; we do but our duty.
Bring along the prisoner.
Melchthal. This is an outrageous act of violence. Shall we suf
fer him to be carried off under our eyes ?
Sacristan. Friends we are the strongest party. Do not let us
submit to this. We ought to stand by each other.
kFKiEssHAEDT. Who amoug you dares to resist the orders of the
Governor ?
Three Peasants. {Advancing together.) {To Tell.) We wiU res
cue you. Why pause ? Cast them to the earth at once ! {Hilde-
gard, Elizabeth, and Matilda re-enter.)
Tell. I will rescue myself. Go, my brave friends ; do you think
if I wished to employ force I should fear their halberds ?
Melchthal. {To Friesshardt.) Dost thou dare to carry him to
prison in the midst of his fellow-citizens ?
Walter Furst and Stauffacher. {To Melchthal.) Be calm and
patient. Friesshardt. (TTtJA a fot«f cry.) Revolt! Rebellion! {Hunting-
horns areJieard without.)
The Women. Here comes the Governor.
Friesshardt. {In a still louder tone.) Treason ! Sedition !
Stauffacher. Shout, scoundrel, until you burst !
The Curate and Melchthal. Wilt thou be silent ?
Friesshardt. Help ! succor ! Protect the agents of the law !
Walter Fubst. It is the Governor himself! Unhappy event!
What wiU occur next. {Gessler enters on horseback, with his falam
on his wrist, attended by Rudolph de Harras, Berths, Rudenz, and
a troop of armed followers, who form an extensive circle round the
stage.) Rudolph. Room for the Governor !
Gessler. Disperse the crowd ! AVherefore is this assembly of peo
ple ? Who called for help ? What does all this mean ? {A general
silence.) I demand to know the cause of this? {To Friesshardt.)
Stand forward ! Who art thou, and why dost thou hold that man a
prisoner ? {Gessler gives his falcon to one of the attendants.)
Fribbbhardt. Most mighty Lord, I am one of your soldiers placed
here as a sentinel over that hat. I seized this man in the act of dis
obedience, for refusing to salute it. I was about to carry him to pris-

WILLIAM TELL. 27
on in compliance with your orders, and the populace were preparing
to rescue him by force.
Gessler. {After a moment of silence.) Tell, dost thou then despise
the Emperor and myself, who am his deputy, by refusing to pay hon
or to the hat which I have caused to be suspended there, to test thy
obedience ? Therein I perceive thy disloyal spirit.
Tell. Noble Lord, forgive me. I eiTed through inadvertence,
and not by intention or contempt for your decrees. As truly as my
name is William Tell, I committed the mistake from want of reflec
tion. Gessler. {After another pause.) Tell, thou bearest the reputation
of a most accomplished archer. They say that thou never knowest
what it is to miss thy mark.
Walter. It is true, My Lord. My father can hit an apple at the
distance of one hundred paces.
Gessler. Tell, is yonder boy thy child?
Tell. He is, my Lord.
Gessler. Hast thou many children ?
Tell. My Lord, I have only two sons.
Gessler. And which of them dost thou love the best ?
Tell. My Lord, they are both equally dear to me.
Gessler. It is well. Since thou canst hit an apple at a hundred
paces, thou shalt instantly prove thy skill, here in our presence.
Take thy cross-bow. Happily thou boldest it in thy hand already.
Prepare to strike an apple placed on the head of thy son. But I
counsel thee to take good aim, and transfix the mark at the first at
tempt, for if thou failest thou shalt lose thy head.
Tell. My Lord, what horrible command is this which you lay upon
me ? "What ! aim at a mark placed on the head of my dear child ?
No, no, it is impossible that such a thought could enter your imagina
tion ! In the name of the God of mercy, you can not seriously im
pose that trial on a father !
Gessler. Thou shalt aim at an apple placed on the head of thy
son. I will, and I command it.
Tell. I ! William Tell ! aim with my own cross-bow at the head
of my own offspring ! I would rather die a thousand deaths.
Gessler. Thou shalt shoot, or assuredly thou diest with thy son !
Tell. Become the mm-derer of my child ! My Lord, you have no
son — you can not have the feelings of a fa&er's heart !
Gessler. Tell, thou' art become suddenly very prudent. They say
thou art a dreamer, a worshiper of solitude, a lover of the wonderful.
For these reasons X have chosen for thee a hazardous enterprise. An
other man, less firm, would hesitate, but thou wilt at once and reso
lutely undertake the trial.
Bertha. My Lord, do not, I pray you, banter with these wretched

28 "WILLIAM TELL.
people. You see them pale and trembling in your presence. They
are not accustomed to take your words for jests.
Gessler. Who told you that I was in a jesting mood at present?
{He approaches one of the trees andphaks an apple.) Here is the apple.
Make room. Let him measure his distance according to rule. I al
low him eighty paces, neither more nor less. He boasts that he would
notWss a man at one hundred ; let him shoot now, and take heed
that he hits the mark.
Rudolph. By Heaven! this becomes serious. Boy, throw yourself
on your knees before the Governor, and implore his mercy.
Walter Furst. {To Melchthal, who can scarcely contain himself^
Restrain your impatience. I implore you to be calm.
Bertha. {To Gessler.) My Lord, there has been enough of this.
It is inhuman to trifle thus Vrith the agony of a father. Even if the
unhappy man had merited death for his slight fault, has he not already,
suffered ten executions? Permit him to return to his hut; he has
learned to know ydu, and he and his children will never forget this
hour. " Gessler. Give way, I say. Make room ! "Why dost thou hesi
tate? {To fell.) Thou hast deserved death, and I could compel thee
to undergo the punishment ; but in my clemency I place thy fate in thy
own skillful hands. He who is the master of his destiny can not com
plain that his sentence is a severe one. Thou art proud of thy steady
eye and unerring aim ; now, hunter, is the moment to prove thy skill.
The object is worthy of thee — the prize is worth contending for. To
strike the centre of a target is an ordinary achievement ; but the true
master of his art is he who is always "certain, and whose heartj hand,
and eye are firm and steady under every trial.
Walter Furst. {Falling on his knees before Gessler.) My Lord,
you know your power ; but let mercy supersede justice. Take half
my possessions ; nay, take all, but spare a father this horrible experi
ment. Walter Tell. Grandfather, do not kneel to that wicked man.
Tell me where I am to stand. ' I have no fear for myself; my father
can shoot a bird upon the wing : he will never hit the heart of his
own child.
Staupfacheb. My Lord, does not the fearless innocence of the boy
soften you?
Curate. Reflect, my Lord, that there is a Power.above to whom
you must render an account of your actions. *
GBSSijEB..^Pointing to the boy.) Let him be tied to yonder lime-
tree. ¦* *'
Walter. Tied? No, I will not be tied! I will stand quiet as a
lamb ; I will not even draw a single breath ; but if you confine me
I will not bear it : I vrill struggle in my bonds.

WILLIAM TELL. 29
Rudolph. We are only going to bind your eyes, my brave child.
Walter. Wherefore ? Do you think I fear an arrow lanched by
the hand of my own dear father ? I will wait for it steadily, and with
out flinching. Now, father, show them that you are a true huntsman ;
they do not believe it, and think we are lost : in defiance of that cru
el man, aim at the apple, and assuredly you will hit it. {He places
himself under the lime-tree: the apple is put on his heg.d.)
Melchthaia {To his companions.) What! shall we suffer this crime
to be c?immitted under our very eyes ? Why have wo bound ourselves
by an oath?
Staotpaohbr. It would be hopeless to interfere. We are with
out arms, and you see the forest of lances by which We are sur
rounded. Melchthal.' Alas ! if we had struck at once ; but Heav.en pardon
those who advised delay ! . '' ¦ :^, ^
_ Gessler. {To Tell.) To yodr work I Aims are not borne withoBt
using tliem. It is dangerous to walk about with an instrument of
death, and the arrow recoils upon him who lanches it. This right of
beaijng weapons assumed by the peasants is an offense to the lord of
the' country : arms belong to the Governor alone. If thus you choose
to carry a bow and arrows, bS it so : I will select the object of your
aim. Tell. {Bending his cross-Sow andjixing the arrow.) Stand aside, and
give me room !
Stauffacher. How, Tell! You will really make tho attempt!
You shudder ; your hand trembles ; your knees bend under you.
Tell. {Dropping the bow.) My sight wavers ! a cloud obscures the
objects before me I •
The Women. May Heaven assist him !
Tell. {To the Governor.) Sparc me this trial. Behold my uncov
ered heart I command your soldiers to kill me.
Gessler. I do not desire thy life : I only command thee to shoot.
Thou canst accomplish every thing, Tell : no danger nor difficulty
daunts thee. Thou art as skillful with the oar as with the how. In
tho fiercest storm thou canst rescue whom thOu wilt. Now, thou
preserver of others, save thyself. {Tell appears violentlytlgitated : his
hands tremble .• alternately he raises his eyef to heaven, 'and turns them
on the Governor. Suddenly he takei a second arrow from the qidver,
and conceals it' imdemeath his vest. Gessler narrowly watches all Ids
Jiiovements.) " , *
Walter. {Standing under the li/i^e-tree.) Aim, dear father: I am
not afraid.
Tell. It must be done. {Recovers himself, pnd prepares to shoet.)
> RuDENz. {Having during this time endeavored to restrain himself ^now
advances.) My Lord Governor, you surely wiH not carry this to ex-

30 "WILLIAM TELL.
tremity! It can only have been an experiment. Your object' is
achieved. Rigor, carried too far, departs from prudence, and the
bow will break under too much straining.
Gesslek. Be silent until you are consulted.
RuDENz. No, I wiU speak : it is my duty to do so. The honor of
the Emperor I hold most sacred. Such conduct will inspire universal
detestation, and such, I dare afBrm, is not the pleasure of our master.
My fellow-citizens deserve not to be treated with this cruelty, which
exceeds your power.
Gess;.er. How ! Dost thou dare —
RuDENz. I have hitherto preserved silence under the evil deeds of
which I have been a witness ; I have closed my eyes to what was pass
ing round me ; I have restrained the indignation I felt within my
own bosom ; but to cohtinue longer -without speaking would be to be
tray at the same time my country and my honor.
Berthold. {Interposing.) Merciful Heaven ! you will but irritate
him the more.
RuDENZ. I have abandoned my fellow-countrymen; I have re
nounced my family ; I have broken all the ties of nature to attach
myself to you. I thought I acted for the best in endeavoring-'to
strengthen the Emperor's government. The bandage has fallen from
my eyes : I see that I have been dragged into a fatal abyss : you have
bewildered my erroneous thoughts and deceived my confiding heart.
With the best and noblest intentions, I have assisted to destroy my
country. Gessler. Rash madman ! darest thou to use this language to thy
liege lord ?
RuDEHz. The Emperor is my liege lord, not thou. I am born free
as thou art, and thy equal in every thing. If thou wert not here as
the representative of the Emperor, whom I honor even while his
power is thus abused, I would throw down my gauntlet before thee,
and according to the law of knighthood, thou shouldst give me satis
faction. Ay; make signals to your guards : I am not unarmed like the
•wretched peasants. I hold a sword, and he who first approaches me —
Stauffacher. ( With a loud shout.) The apple has fallen ! ( While
all were engaged in listening to the Governor and Rudenz, Tell lias shot
the arrow.)
Curate. The boy lives !
Several Peasants. The apple has fallen! {Walter Furst reels,
and is near fainting. Berthold supports him.)
Gessler. {Astonished.) He has shot then ! Can it be possible ?
' Bertha. The child is unhurt. Recover yourself, good father.
Walter. {Running on with the apple in his hand.) Father ! Here
is the apple. I well knew you would never harm your own child.
{Tell, as soon as he lias lanched the arrow, has remained with his head

"Wn^LIAM TELL. 31
and body stretched forward, as if following its flight. Tlie bow falls
from his grasp. When he sees his son approach, he rushes toward him
with open arms, and presses him to his heart ; his strength then fails
him, and he is on the point of fainting. All gaze on him with the deep
est emotion.)
Bertha. Heaven has interposed to save them.
Walter Furst. My children ! my beloved children !
Stauffacher. May Heaven be praised for this !
1/Euthold. Such a shot was never made before ! It will be re
corded to the most remote ages.
Rudolph. "While these mountains stand upon their base, the name
of the archer. Tell, will resound among them.
Gesslee. By Heaven ! he has clove the apple exactly in the cen
tre. Let us do him justice ; it is indeed a master-piece of skill.
Curate. The skill is wonderful ! But woe to him who forced him
thus to tempt Providence !
Stauffacher. Tell, recover yourself, and rise. You have done
bravely, and can now return home in freedom.
Curate. Go, my friend, and restore your son to his mother. {They
are-leading Tell away.)
Gessler. Stay, TeU, and listen to me.
Tell. ' {Returning.) 'NVhat do you require, my Lord ?
Gesslee. Thou hast concealed a second arrow in thy bosom.
"What didst thou intend to do with it ?
Tell. {Embarrassed.) My Lord, such is the custom of aU hunters.
Gesslee. The answer does not satisfy me : something more was
in thy thoughts. Speak truly and frankly; say what thou wilt, I
promise thee thy life. To what purpose didst thou destine the sec
ond arrow ?
Tell. Well then, my Lord, since you assure my life, I will speak
the truth without reserve. {He draws the arrow from his bosom, and
fixes on the Governor a terrible glance.) If I had strucl^ my beloved
child, with the second arrow I would have transpierced thy heart.
' Assuredly that time I should not have missed my mark.
Gessler. Villain ! I have promised thee life upon my knightly
word ; I will keep my pledge. But since I know thee now, and thy
rebellious heart; I will remove thee to a place where thou shalt never
¦ more behold the light of sun or moon. Thus only I shall be shel
tered from thy arrows. Seize and bind him! {Tell is seized and
bound.) Stauffacher. How, my Lord ! Can you treat -mth this injustice
a man -whom Heaven so visibly protects ?
Gessler! We shall now see if Heaven will deliver him a second
time. Carry him to a boat. I will pyself at once conduct him to
Kussnacht.

32 , WILLIAM TELL.
Curate. You dare not commit this outrage : the Ehiperor himself
dares not : it is contraiy to our letters of franchise !
Gessler. "Where are they ? Has the Emperor confirmed them ?
He has not, and you will only secure them by implicit obedience..,.
You pse up against the justice of the Emperor, and. pe nourishing
audacious projects of rebellion. To-day I seize Ihis man in the
midst of you, but you are all equally guilty. Let those who are wise,
keep silence and submit. {He goes out. Bertha, Rudenz, Rudolph,
and some of the Soldiers accompany him. Friesshardt and Leuthold re
main.) Walter Furst. {Overpowered by grief.) He is gone, determined to
work my ruin, and that of all my family. '..
Stauffacher. {To Tell.) "WJiy did you excite anew the fuiy of
that madman ?
Tell. Can a man command himself under such agony ?
Stauffachek. Alas ! our cause is ridned ! With you we are all
enchained and enslaved. With you our last hope is extinguished.
{All thejpeasants surround WHHoim Tell.) •¦
Leuthold. {Approaching Tell.) Tell, I pity thee, but I must obey
my orders.
Tell. Farewell, my friends.
Walter. {Clinging to his father in despair^) My father! my dear,-
dear father ! ' ; '
Tell. {Raising his arms to Heaven.) Boy, thy father is yonder : ap
peal to him !
Stauffacher. Tell, shall I bear no message from thee to thy
wife ?
ISe,13^.^ {Tenderly embrticing his son.) The boy is safe and sound.
For me,Heaven will lend me aid. {He goes put, attended by guards.)
Let us now leave poetry and return to tradition, the
second poetry of truth. Gessleri.,master of William Tell,
,but apprehensive that the example of this hero of the peas
ants of Uri might lead to an insurrection, tending to de- '
prive him of his prisoner, determined to conVey him that
same night to a fortress belonging to the emperor, situated
at Kiissnacht, on the summit of Mount -Righi. To reach
Kiissnacht it was necessary to traverse the lake4 Gessler
not choosing to confide to any one else the custody of a
rebel reserved for exemplary punishment, embarked at Flue-
len, a small fishing harbor on the western shore of the Lake
of the Four Cantons. A few rowers, a small body of
guards, and an inexperienced pilot, formed the entire crew.

WILLIAM TELL. 33
William Tell, lieavily ironed, was thrown under their feet,
as" an ignominious burden, at the bottom of the boat. They
hoisted sail, and half the passage was accomplished with
out accident or difiiculty; when suddenly the stars disap
peared, the waves began to rise, the wind thundered -^ith
the noiser and fury of an avalanche, and a fearful storm
burst forth from St. Gothard, near the mouth of the Eeuss.
The boat was on the point of being overturned by the vio
lence of this sudden tempest ; the rowers endeavored in
vain to reach a creek at the foot of tjie Eighi, where they
hoped to find shelter ; the raging billows dashed them back
into the middle of the lake ; they were tossed to and fro,
unable to find a certain course, at the mercy of the hurri
cane, which hurried them from bank to bank, throughout
an apparently endless night. " There is but one man in'aU
Switzerland," cried they, "who can save us from certain
deathr ""VVho is he?" demanded 'Gessler. "William
Tell !" was the unanimous answer of the peasants of Uri.
"Cut the cords that bind Hm," exclaimed the governor;
"his life shall be 'security for ours! Eesign the helm to
his direction." The cords were cut on the instant, and the
BkiUful pilot rushed to his post. Tell, with the rudder in
his grasp, struggled like a conqueror -with the tempest. ' H«
approached the shore near Altdorf, where the foaming wa
ters' of the lake^ dashing- amidst sunken rocks, resounded
ominously through the darkness of the night. ^- At that spot
he sought entrance to a small cove known to himself alone,
where the hills, gradually shelving to the beach, rehdered
it practicable to moor a light skiff in calm weather : the
noise of the waves beating , furiously against the sides of the
rocks directed his course. Suddenly he tacked round to
ward a mountain o£.foam, which, as it fell and evaporated,
disclosed a reef, over which there was sufficient water for
the boat to pass in safety : at one bound he gain^ the land,
and with his foot pushed back the frail vessel into the deep.
The waves once more obtained the mastery, and sported
with'it at their pleasure. With the first dawn of light, be-
B2

34 WILLIAM TELL.
fore Gessler and his companions could recognize the coast
of Altdorf and the little harbor of Fluelen, TeU, having
saved himself from death, ascended the mountains, reached
his own dwelling-place, embraced his wife and child, and
armed himself with his cross-bow and a single arrow.
The governor, who "also disembarked when day broke,
dispatched a messenger to Altdorf for his equerries, horses,
and guards. The escort speedily joined him. He advanced
through a deep pass, foUowing on the track of Tell, and pro
claiming loudly that if the escaped fugitive did not volun
tarily surrender himself, every day that passed by should
cost him the life of his wife or that of one of his chil
dren. A man concealed among the trees of the forest list
ened to these savage menaces : an arrow whistled through
the branches, and pierced the heart of Gessler ; he fell from
his horse without being able to finish the oath that quivered
on his Ups : when his attendants raised him he was dead.
None discovered the invisible archer, who struck Uke divine
wrath, and was seen only in the blow. Whether it was that
TeU, ha^ving performed the act to save his wife and children,
over whose heads death was suspended, felt that the secret
vengeance resembled more that of an assassin than a war
rior *; whether he sought no glory from a deed which bore
the outward feature of a crime ; or whether, in truth, the
arrow was lanched by some other hand, it is certain that
he never claimed the death of Gessler for himself ; he left
the ambiguous transaction involved in mystery, and, satis
fied with having preserved his family, resigned to others the
honor of reconquering the political liberty of his country ;
he joined in no revolt beyond that to which he had been im-
peUed by nature. This holy and most legitimate exciting
cause has made him, in spite of himself, the hero, of Switzer
land. A wife, Lucretia, liberated Eome ; a father, William
Tell, disenthralled Helvetia.
This last attempt of Gessler upon the tenderest feelings
of human nature — ^this drama of the apple, this moral pun
ishment of a father, this execrable murder of a child by the

WILLIAM TELL. 35
hand of him who gave him life, if that hand had trembled
for a moment ; the agonizing cries of horror which burst
from every mother in the land ; the immolation of the ty
rant, saved first by his victim, and then struck down by an
invisible hand while hurrying on to the commission of fresh
crimes — all 'these causes combined, hastened the execution
of the plot formed by the confederates of GriitU for the liber
ation of their mountains. Each peasant discovered an as
sociate in his neighbor ; they understood each other 'without
conversation, and pledged mutual faith 'with no oath beyond
a glance, the expression of the eye, and the pressure of the
hands : the soul of WiUiam Tell at the moment when he
elevated his bow, hesitating between the apple placed on the
head of his child and the heart of Gessler, transfused itself
into aU S'witzerland. ''"
On the 31st of December, the three chiefs of the league
of GriitU raised their banners, and called their countrymen
to arms. The standard of Uri represented a bull's head with
the broken Unks of the yoke hanging round the neck ; that
of Sch-wytz was a cross, the double symbol of suffering and
deliverance ; the banner adopted by Unterwalden consisted
of two keys, symboUcal of the keys of the Apostle St. Peter,
and" destined to open the iron gates of their long slavery.
At midnight, Stauffacher, followed by the chosen.j'outh
jpf yri, climbed in sHence the steep ascent of the castle of
Eosberg, one of the strongest fortresses of the Austrians,
when all slept save only love and patriotism. A young girl
of the race of serfs, who filled through constraint a servile
situation in the castle, happened to be betrothed to one of
•¦the conspirators ; apprised by him of the day and hour when
the attempt would be made, she flung to him to the bottom
of "the precipice 'a knotted cord fastened to the bars of the
¦window. Thus gaining entrance into the interior with Wen-
ty of his companions, he surprised the German governor in
bed, disarmed and confined him in the dungeon of the castle.
The victors aUowed the Austrian flag to continue waving
over the ramparts as a snare. On the foUowing day a band

36 WILLIAM TELL.
of nobles flying from the insurrection in the open country en
tered, and found themselves hostages in the hands Qf foes.
At Sarnem, the peasants, conceaUng their arms under
their" vestments, came in as usual, loaded with lambs, kids,
chamoia, and fowls, as if to present to the lord of the district
the customary offerings on New-year's Day : the nobleman,
who was proceeding on his way to the church, saluted them
as he passed, and ordered them to wait his return. No
sooner had he cleared the portculUs, than they lowered it,
drew forth their hidden weapons, made prisoners of the gar
rison, and, sounding from the top of the keep the horn of
the mountain shepherds, called the whole country to liberty.
During these surprises and assaults by the companions of
Stauffacher, Walter Fiirst and William Tell escaladed the
castle of Uri, hitherto reputed to be impregnable ; Melchthal
and his associate heroes at the same time obtained posses
sion of all the other citadels. When evening arrived, bon
fires, lit. by the conquerors on the ramparts they had won,
refiected from mountain-top to valley, and from wave to
wave, the first gUmmering of Helvetian independence, which
eight successive ages have failed to extinguish. This date
is incorporated 'with the name of Tell, who, if not the actual
agent, was at least the originator of his country's freedom.
Happy are they who are thus identified with their country !
posterity seeks not to inquire minutely into their title to
fame, but associates them with the greatness, the 'virtue, the
durability of their race, and invokes blessings on them, down
to their latest descendants. It is thus in the case of the
unpretending peasant, WiUiam Tell : the simple honesty of
his character bears a striking analogy to the primitive and'
pastoral people who commemorate forever his name and ac
tions in their national traditions. His image, with those
of his 'wife and children, are inseparably connected with the
majestic, rural, and smiling landscapes of Helvetia, the mod
em Arcadia of Europe. As often as the traveler 'visits these
peculiar regions ; as often as the unconquered summits of
Mont Blanc, St. Gothard, and the Eighi, present themselves

WILLIAM TELL. 37
to his, eyes in the vast firmament as the ever-enduring sym
bols of liberty ; whenever the lake of the Four Cantons pre
sents' a vessel wavering on the blue surface of its waters ;
whenever the cascade. bursts in thunder from the heights of
the Spliigen, and shivers itself upon the rocks like tyranny
against free hearts ; whenever the ruins of an Austrian fort
ress darken with the remains of frowning walls the round
eminences of Uri or Glaris ; and whenever a calm sunbeam
gilds on the declivity of a village the green velvet of the
meadows where the herds are feeding to the tinkling of bells
and the echo of the Ranz des Vaches — so often the imagina
tion traces in all these' varied scenes the hat on the summit
of the pole — the archer condemned to aim at the apple
placed on the head of his own child — the mark hurled to
the ground, transfixed by the unerring arrow--— the father
chained to the bottom of the boat, subduing night, the storm,
and his own indignation, to save his executioner — and final
ly, the outraged husband, threatened with the loss of all he
holds most dear, yielding to the impulse of nature, and in
his turn striking the murderer with a death-blow. The art-
lessness of this history resembles a poem : it is a pastoral
song in which a single drop of blood is' mingled with the
dew upon a leaf or a tuft of grass. Providence seems thus
to delight in providing for every free community, as the
founder of their independence, a fabulous or actual hero,
conformable' to the local situation, manners, and character
of each particular race. To a rustic, pastoral people like
the S-wisSj'is given for their liberator a noble peasant ; to a
proud, aspiring race such as the Americans, an honest sol
dier. Two distinct .symbols, standing erect by the cradles
of the two modern liberties, of the world, to personify their
opposite natures : on the one hand Tell, with his arrow and
the apple; on the other, Washington, with his sword and
the law.

mTbMe^de sevigne.
'- ^ SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.
Glokt has its chances, or rather its mysteries, for there
is a plan and purpose in all thmgs. We inappropriately de
nominate a mystery, that secret logic which directs earthly
events, and which our want of reflection has been unable to
penetrate, and thus, instead of attributing effects to their true
causes, we consider them as the caprices of chance.
Let us first explain what is the pecuUar chance that pre
sents itself to our minds at the mention of the name of Ma
dame de Sevigne. We shall afterward seek to discover
whether the reputation attached' to this name is in truth a
matter of accident, and we shaU then endeavor to interpret
the mystery through which mere idle gossip has gained im
mortality, and ranks among the most valuable records of
one of the most memorable of ages.
An obscure female, a poor widow, the mother of two
young children, possessed of no personal consequence in her
own land and no rank at courfc; "without a name Ukely to
attract the attention of her country, without the prestige of
any dignity that she might have inherited from father or
husband, owning no large fortune, and no distinguished rel
atives among those who were active in the political affairs
of her time ; 'without the favor, and even unknown to the
reigning monarch ; sometimes dwelling concealed in a street
of one of the obscure quarters of Paris, at others in the re
tirement of a farm-house in Burgundy or Lower Brittany
— this indigent widow sat during the summer evenings be
neath the shadow of her tree at " Les Eochers," and in win
ter returned to her fireside at Paris, where she listened to
the voice of her own heart, and gazed from her window upon
the world passing 'without. She seized the pen : her writing

MADAME DE SE"VIGNE. 39
flowed without prearrangement, guided only by the impulse
of the" moment : she poured forth her soul to her daughter,
she talked familiarly with her friends, she whispered messa
ges to the absent, she discoursed with herself or with. Heav
en ; day after day she cast notes and letters into the post,
thinking Uttle of the public, of the art of writing, of posteri
ty or of fame ; and found all at' once that she had created a
literary monument, not only the most original, varied, and
national of her own age, but also a record of the deepest and
most pathetic emotions of the human heart in every century.
The march of time has advanced ; the inquiring have drawn
forth these letters from their concealment ; their conversa
tions are transfigured into genius, their gossip has become
history, and their softest whisperings have reverberated in
permanent echoes to aU posterity. Such is the chance!
And now let us examine the mystery.
"What is this mystery? Its explanation Ues in a few
words. It is that the interest created by human occurren
ces is not found in the greatness of situations or events, but
•in the emotions of the mind by which they are re-echoed,
and which is to them, be they great or smaU, what air is to
sound — ^the medium of resonance. You may strike power
ful blows upon the most sonorous metal, but if air is want
ing, or even too rarefied, silence alone will be your answer,
the echo is mute : without air there can not be sound, 'with
out sensibility there can be no impression ; thus there is also
no interest and no glory : it is the secret of the human heart,
that it can only be moved by coincidence with something
that has been mo^^ed before.
There are many minds concealed from the world far in
advance of their period, and possessing deeper tones than
the age in which Providence has placed tiiem, as it casts
echoes into the profound recesses of forests and caves ; they
are never seen, and only heard when the woodcutter feUs
the trees and time crumbles the rocks into dust. These
speaking souls, vehicles which convey to us the impression.s
of their own hearts and of their period, interpose themselves

40 MADAME DE SEVIGNE.
irresistibly by their fine and vibrating nature between us
and the world, and compel us to think and feel in them and
through them, while we vainly struggle to escape from their
influence. They form the sensible element, the sympathetic
centre (if we may be permitted to use a material simile), re
flected by which we behold all the past, the present, and
often our own selves. Thus it is that by the sport of for
tune, reputation and literary glory are attained ; they reach
beings unappreciated by their contemporaries, men dwelling
in retirement, women concealed by obscurity. Many anon
ymous 'writers, such as the author of the "Imitation of
Jesus Christ," are in reaUty greater and more immortal
than their entire age; and while other men who deeply
fathom humanity, who overturn empires, who control scep
tres, who lead great assembUes, and who administer public
affairs, endeavor to create a grand and enduring halo round
the name they leave behind them, they are surpassed in
fame by an individual upon whom they would not have
deigned to cast a glance amidst the crowd at their feet —
by a poor dreamer like St. Augustine, by an insignificant*
monk such as the anonymous writer of the " Imitation," or
by an Obscure female such as Madame de Sevigne. Pos
terity can with difficulty remember the names of the pre
tended great ppliticians, poets, orators, and authors, who
monopolized the renown of their age ; but after the lapse
of centuries it listens with avidity to the most secret palpi
tations of the hearts of these unlearned beings, as though
their emotions comprised the sublimest events in the his
tory of human nature ; and this in truth they are, for cir
cumstance is nothing: the human heart is every thing in
man. Fame herself knows this, therefore she selects her
dearest and most immortal favorites not from those who
seek to shine ¦with commanding briUiancy, but amidst such
as have poured forth the most pathetic confessions of the soul.
In this, according to our notion, consists the mystery of
that increasing reputation which has ever been attached to
the name of Madame de Sevign^.

MADAME DE S]fi"VTGN:fi. 41
We shajll now proceed to examine her life. But no, let
us yet pause a moment longer. Before we enter on her
history, in order that it may be well understood, a few
words are required upon a species of literature which has
won for her the notice of the world; which did not exist
before her time, which she created, and which we can only
characterize by one phrase — domestic literature — the genius
of the fireside, the heart of the family.
There are two different centres toward which the thoughts,
acts, and writings of men in modern society, and even in
the society of aU ages, have tended — the public at large, and
the family circle. By the latter is understood the restricted
and limited public contained within the walls of the domes
tic dwelling, aiid twined more immediately round the heart
by close and intimate ties.
It is not true, as has been pretended in our own" days,
to authorize the destruction of family ties by an impossible
individuality or a barbarous communism, that polftical so
ciety has created the domestic circle : its instructor is Na
ture herself. Fortunately for the human species, whose
safety is placed above the influence of our aberrations and
dreams, it is from no earthly institute that family ties are
derived, but from the law of God, in the form of an inter
nal instinct. Instincts are the right divine of the human
constitution ; we do not discuss, we only submit to them.
The truly philosophical mind rebels not against instincts,
but, on the contrary, buries itself in the contemplation of
that infinite wisdom and supreme goodness which has charged
Nature herself with the office of instructing us in the first
article of our inherent constitution.
Providence, by a law equally mysterious and merciful,
has appointed that the human species shall be created and
preserved only by love. At the sources of life it has placed
a sympathetic desire to give birth to offspring, and a gen
eral wish in the heads of families to perpetuate their gener
ation ; J)y a mystery of our creation, which is at the same
time a revelation of our destiny, an isolated being can ex-

42 MADAME DE s:6vIGN:6.
ist, but two are necessary to perpetuate their race : unity
is unproductive, but a pair can multiply forever. From
this pair proceeds a third, the offspring and completion of
love. The infant is the fruit of affection ; union exists be
fore its birth, but not until after that event is there a fam
ily. The desire of family, or love of perpetuation, increases
with the new existence by which it is created and enter
tained ; born, as it were, with the first infant in the bosoms
of both parents, and springing by an instinctive reciprocity
back from the heart of the child toward father and mother,
the former loves because it is beloved by them : this com
pletes the group, and forms the trinity of nature from whence
flows and reflows the holiest sentiment of humanity — ^fam
ily affection !
Along with the development and multipUcation of a race
in numerous children and grandchUdren, increases and varies
in many new forms, and in a thousand unequal or gradu
ated proportions, that love which is imbibed at its first
fountain, the maternal bosom, and from whence each bears
a portion that it communicates to the common group of
which it forms a component. The sympathies existing be
tween the different members of this circle, unceasingly ex
panding, changing, and binding one individual to another,
connecting the one 'with the many, and the many with the
one, form what is denominated relationship — ^relationship
of blood and spirit — which is near or remote in the same
"proportion as the blood running through the veins of the sci
ons of a family approaches or recedes from its source, and
as it preserves in strength or weakness the love which flows
through the heart in the same stream, simultaneously with
this constantly-supplied sap of the human tree.
Thus there is a love paraUel to that of the father for the
mother, and that of the mother for the father ; this love de
scending from the parents to the first-bom, returns from the
first-born to the parents : the same love extends from broth
er to brother, from sister to mother, to father, brother un
cles, aunts, nephews, nieces; from nephews and nieces to

MADAME DE s£"^GN:6. 43
uncles and aunts ; from the grandchild to the grandmother ;
from the grandmother to the grandchildren, down to the
latest generation which the briefness or longevity of Ufe per
mits us to reach with the eye, the heart, or the imagination.
This love reflects again, in a fainter degree, upon the de
scendants of these brothers, sisters, and grandchildren, and
stiU preserves between them a natural attachment and a sym
pathetic reciprocity ; as the sap, the name, and the memo
ry of one common root perpetuates itself in all the diversi
fied branches of a single tree.
Family ties are formed of the innumerable ramifications
composing all the direct and indirect affinities between heart
and heart, and these become weakened in proportion as they
diverge from their three first sources, but stiU preserve, even
to the 'widest circumference of the increasing circle, a smaU
portion of the temperature which warmed and iUumined the
first fireside.
The same blood, drawn from the same veins ; the same
milk, imbibed at the same breast ; the same name, borne by
each, and of which each is bound to maintain the honor
(whether obscure or illustrious signifies nothing), and which
can not be tarnished or exalted in one 'without reflecting on
the rest ; the common fortune, which bestows affluent or nar
row means, as it is amassed or subdivided amidst the inheri
tors according to the number of children ; the same pater
nal mansion, whether in town or country, whose roof has
sheltered their cradles during infancy, and the shadowy re
membrance of which is impressed on the mind fo the last
moment of existence ; the same traditions, that common
consent of mind which binds together the religion, customs,
manners, and innate sentiments of the hereditary group ;
finally, the same remembrances of lessons, conversations,
labors, localities, friendships, enjoyments, hospitalities, ease,
weariness, happiness, tears, births, deaths, hopes, and disap
pointments — sad and joyous secrets of the domestic hearth
— all these form, unknown to ourselves, around our hearts
an atmosphere of ineffaceable impressions, which pervades

44 MADAME DE s:6VIGN^.
equaUy our moral and physical senses ;• from the influence
of which escape is impossible, and which, though it does
not bear the cold sternness of legislation, displays the irre
sistible force of nature.
It was thus, in those primitive ages when every motion
of new-bom society was regulated by the impulse of nature
and by no 'written edict, and when laws were the inspira
tion of instinct, that the sovereign was no more than the
father, the tribe the family, and the nation a collection of
tribes, connected by the common link of fratef nity in blood.
A patriarch may be dethroned, legitimate paternal authori
ty may be circumscribed, the distinction of tribe may be dis
solved and absorbed in the general commonwealth, but the
family bond can never be annihUated ; it will endure forever,
unbroken as Nature's eternal protest against the engrossing
absorption of state government, as it wiU equally remain by
the force of hereditary proprietorship, its divine foundation,
a bulwark against the mischievous doctrine of Communism,
that impotent assault of Utopian theories against the strong
est instincts of man's nature.
We can imagine that a race of beings so distinct, and so
closely bound to each other in the midst of a great national
group, should have not only their peculiar laws, habits, sen
timents, duties, and relations, but also their particular liter
ature. It is of this kind of composition, which we have pre-
'viously denominated domestic or familiar literature, that Ma
dame de Sevigne has given us the most beautiful and perfect
specimen. This literature is essentiaUy of a confidential nature : the
hopse is encircled with a waU as inaccessible as the private
life of its inmates. We speak there in a low voice, for we
desfre only the attention of parents and relations around the
fireside, and what is written is exclusively intended for their
perusal. Domestic tones never resound through pubUc
haunts : those which we utter to the world bear a different
accent from those we confide to the bosom of private affec
tion. Poems, histories, philosophical essays, oratorical ha-

MADAME DE S^VIGN^. • 45
rangues, romances, and books, are written for the public and*
posterity ; but letters alone are transcribed for the family
circle. The family circle, therefore, a type of love and friend
ship, has but one species of literature — correspondence ; and
when this correspondence possesses the gift of fascination, so
eminently displayed in that of Madame de Sevigne, her re
lations, after her death, suffer the mysterious leaves to es
cape one by one ; the age acknowledges their value ; suc
ceeding generations read them, and the whispered dialogue
of a mother and daughter becomes the theme of conversa
tion to all posterity.
Such is the history of Madame de Sevigne. In laying
open her letters, the seal has been removed from her heart ;
but it is not only the seal of her own heart which has been
broken by this violation of confidence, but also that of the
age in which she Uved.
This woman, speaking from the soUtude of her insignifi
cant habitation at " Les Eochers," has become the echo of
a reign. It is this fact which renders the cop-espondence
of Madame de Sevigne, no matter how famiUar the style, es
sentially historical ; it is this which renders her book, writ
ten by one ever Ustening at the gates of a court, eminently
aristocratic ; and the peruser, in order to be pleased 'with it,
must have been born in, or associated 'with, the highest ranks
of the elevated circle to which it makes so many allusions —
allusions which would be incompi;4hensible save to those
who have some knowledge of the language, half-uttered
phrases, and mysterious peculiarities of the court. For this
reason, therefore, this book, although eminently national,
wUl never bw;ome generally popular. If Madame de Ser
vigne, instead of being a woman of high birth, 'writing for
courtiers, had been a tender mother, subsisting in an ordina
ry condition of life, and 'writing for a family of humble rank,
her work, more intelligible, accessible, and sympathetic to
all classes endowed with feeling, would form not only the
delight of the more refined world, but would become the
manual of every family, the diapason of the human heart.

46 MADAME DE SfiVIGNfi.
Wo trust the reader will pardon us a childish digi-ossion,
suggested by these reflections. It was in this identical book
that wo first learned to read. A mother, educated amidst
the elegant refinements of a court, but banished after early
youth by mediocrity of fortune into a country retirement
similar to tho " Eochers" of Madame do Snvignf, found in
that authoress, besides many unalogios of thought and feeling,
all tho recollections of the aristocratic world mIic had frequent
ed — a fund of contemplation applicable to tho rural solitude
she inhabited with her children, and to all tlio pious emo
tions of hor own maternal heart seeking to shelter its nest
from the storms of life. This volume, every page of which
was so continually studied, always reposed on the time-worn
stone mantle-piccc ; and when our attention to tho lessons
which we studied beneath tho shade of our garden-trees and
repeated at our mother's knee incrited approbation, wo wore
rewarded by having read aloud to us a few of tho Ictlcrs
most suited to our ago and comprehension. Tho chief fa
vorites were those in which tho mother speaks to her daugh
ter of her woods, her avenue, her dog, her niglitingales, her
religion, her pious meditations upon tho sunset beheld from
the terrace of Livry, of her kind uncle the Abbe do Coukn-
ges, and of her friends and neighbors, whoso visits inter
rupted her evening reveries and hor gardening occupations.
Wo wore as intimately actiuaintcd with the foolpaths of
Les Eochers and the parterres of IJviy as with those of our
own little domain. Thus these places and these impressions
fixed themselves indeUbly in our imaginations at ten years
of ago ; and wo behold in tho mother wo heard of but tho
counterpart of our own, and in the children, little more
than a reflection of ourselves. Since that period tho book
ceased to command my attention ; it contained a tenderness
of feeling sufficient for any age, but not enough of passion
ate warmth to satisfy the ardor of my youth.
Many years afterward, while hunting one day in the for
ests of Upper Burgundy, the chase led mo accidentally to
the edge of a wooded hill, from whence, appearing through

MADAME DE SifiVIGNifi. 47
the yellow leaves and transparent haze of autumn, I beheld
an extensive valley spread under my feet : the basin was
formed by smiling meadows, through which flowed a narrow
river, bordered on either side by large willows, while nu
merous herds of red and white horned cattle were crossing
at the ford ; the breeze from the surface of the water, as it
turned the leaves, gave them a power of reflection as if they
had been plates of silver ; the murmuring stream, apparent
ly without current, seemed to issue from the vast shadow of
an extensive forest, as if produced by the droppings of the
mist from its innumerable branches : on the northern side
it sparkled with the rays of the setting sun as far as the eye
could follow its course between high wooded banks, at one
moment seeming to meet and inclose it, and again opening
to afford it a passage.
Excepting the grassy basin of the valley, nothing was
visible but one unbroken forest, bounded by the horizon ;
the scene was canopied by a dark and cloudy sky. Its stiU-
ness was interrupted from time to time by the soft lowings
<tf a cow, which called back its adventurous offspring from
the muddy banks of the river; and by the strokes of the
wood-cutter's axe, felling large oaks at various distances upon
the outskirts of the forest, and heaping the peeled logs into
heaps red as blood, from the rays of the declining sun,
upon the borders of the stream ; smoke ascended from the
fire of some charcoal-burners in a distant glade, and rose to
the clouds in a thick blue column, like the vapor of a fire
watered by heavy dew.
It was the season and the hour when the misty exhala
tions which proceed from the woods hang about the green
sward, rising and falling 'with the slightest motion of the air,
separating, gathering, and glistening with the sun's rays,
and resembling in their convulsive undulations the huge
waves of some tempestuous but voiceless sea.
All at once I beheld emerging from this restless bed of
fog, like the liull of a wreck struggling into port, the sum
mit of a black tower, around which hovered a flight of rooks,

48 MADAME DE s:^VIGN£.
uttering their hoarse cries ; two additional turrets gradually
pierced 'the obscurity, and seemed to rend away and cast to
the ground every shred of the misty winding-sheet which en
veloped them ; next followed the red square roof of the keep ;
then the long gray fagade of a dismantled chateau, pierced
irregularly with windows of unequal height, around the iron
gratings of which the ivy, climbing up from the ditch, had
attached itself closely in separate tufts. The parapet sur
rounding the moat was crumbling into ruin, and in many
places had fallen into the stagnant water, which nevertheless
served still as a reservoir for oxen and other cattle. The
drawbridge, the broken and useless chains of which hung
above the door like the arms of a gibbet, was replaced by a
stone cause'way ; the ground-floor was covered with un
yoked carts and scattered sheaves of straw, while a peasant-
girl in wooden shoes threw corn to some fowls on the steps
of an arched gateway, the armorial bearings of which, mu
tilated by the hammer of popular revolution, resembled the
marks left by a bullet upon a rampart-wall. A single
chimney sent forth thick volumes of black smoke through
out the vast edifice ; the windows, instead of reflecting the
rays of the setting sun from glass panes, were stuffed with
the hay and straw of the last harvest, which protruded from
their empty frames, and threshing-flails resounded through
the lofty guard-room. It was evident that the chateau had
been transformed into a farm, and by one of the vicissitudes
to which such vast edifices, too vast for their rightful pos
sessors, were subject during the past century, the farm had
once more become the chateau.
At a short distance from the chief building stood a small
house, backed by stables and barns, resembling an EngKsh
cottage in the parks of Windsor or Eichmond. It had aU
the freshness, cleanliness, and elegance of recent construc
tion. It stood in the centre of a lawn, encircled with paint
ed palings, over which were trained autumn roses and sweet-
smelling jasmines. Its plate-glass windows dazzled the eyes
with the reflection of the ^ast light of day ; the almost im-

MADAME DE S:fi"VIGN:^. 4i>
perceptible smoke of dry wood proceeded from several chim
ney-pots, and seemed to invite the approach of guests. Sev
eral grooms in yellow liveries led saddled horses up and
down the 'graveled path in front of the entrance. The pro
prietors or their visitors were constantly appearing and .dis
appearing on the threshold : all around proclaimed the life,
animation, and wealth of an autumnal residence, occupied
by a hospitable family. Every thing was unknown to me —
the chateau, the farm, the cottage, their ancient possessors
and their present owners, even the name of the valley into
which I had been drawn by the voices of the stag-hounds on
the track of the deer. • '
While I remained immovably contemplating this un
known spot, and to me nameless ruin, I heard behind me
the galloping of a horse, and I was joined in a moment more
by one of my companions of the chase, Monsieur de Capmas.
He had Uved for many years in the small town of Semur,
the picturesque capital of this district of forest, rock, and
torrent. He was a man of middle-age, but still essentiaUy
young : his passion for the chase, and his amiable cordiality
of manner, had rendered him intimate and welcome in all
the family circles of Upper Burgundy. He equally loved
poetry, literature, the baying of the hounds in the forest, and
a rapid gallop beneath its leafy arches ; this reciprocity of
tastes formed a bond of sympathy between us, and long after
that period he became one of the companions of my tent
amidst the deserts of Mesopotamia and the rocks of Pales
tine. Alas! he no longer lives, save in my affection, but
he belongs to the departed of whom we preserve an unfaded
recollection, and whose memory is accompanied by a smile
even in death. "Do you know where we are?" said he to
me with the low, earnestly interrogative accent of a ma^
anxious to impart an agreeable surprise. " No," I replied^
" but it is one of the most romantic landscapes; and the most
melancholy ruin I have encountered in our wanderings."
" They are so, indeed," he answered ; " but the valley and
chateau would gain a deeper interest in your eyes did yon
C

50 MADAME DE s£VIGN]S.
know their name, and were I to inform you whom these
ruins cradled." "Where then are we I" I asked. "At
Bourbilly," was his response, " the chateau of Madame de
Sevigne." At this name, the landscape, tiU now lifeless and
indifferent, became suddenly illuminated, as though its mag
netic sound had kindled watch-Ughts on every turret of the
chateau and on the summit of each hill beneath the melan
choly horizon. The lazy waters, extravasated puddles of the
Serin in the meadows, seemed to multiply reflections of the
infant with the fair hair, who became the idoUzed child of
her own century. I thought I heard her name murmured
by the river, the leaves of the trees, the echoes of the old
walls, and in the cries of the rooks fluttering round the bat
tlements of the keep. Such was the power of a name, not
only living itself, but capable of reanimating the dead scene
'with which it had once been identified.
Every page of the book so valued by my mother, and so
long closed, seemed to re-open, and call forth a thousand
emotions from the inexhaustible fountain of memory ; but
not a line possessed the same value as that which accident
had led me to gaze upon, 'written and painted in the vaUey
beneath my eyes.
Another accidental occurrence tended to feed my pious
regard for a memory associated in my heart with that of
my own mother. The proprietor of the chateau and woods
of Bourbilly was acquainted with my companion, and re
ceived us -with the most cordial hospitality. He gladly
seized an opportunity of brushing the dust from that monu
ment which his idolatry for Madame de Sevigne had induced
him to purchase, and of guiding us, step by step, to each
trace left by a family whose genius had connected them
'with the whole world — in the haUs and corridors, in the
escutcheons, the lanes, the avenues, and in tho smoke-dried
curtains hanging on the castle walls. We passed two days
and nights in this shrine of recollection and sentiment. The
history of Madame de Sevigne began there as a child of ten
years old, and returned to the same spot in advanced age :

MADAME DE StVlGK&. 51
it formed the cycle of her life. We had only to gaze around
us and read what we had read before, to live again with her
throughout that long existence.
In that place she was born, or rather there was she
nursed, and cradled, in the spring of 1626, at which period
her mother, who had given birth to her during a visit to
Paris, carried her infant daughter back to the family nest ;
there her eyes first opened to the light ; on that soil she
essayed her earliest footsteps; beneath those leafy shades
she learned to utter the first imperfect accents of childhood ;
there, during the years in which the inteUect expands, she
imbibed her earliest impressions of nature ; in those fields
she played as unconstrainedly as the deer of the forest, and
breathed with the elastic and invigorating air of Upper Bur
gundy, the healthy constitution which bestowed upon her
complexion the roses that have been so celebrated ; and gave
to her soul that intense sensibility which is always the pre
lude of genius when not the forerunner of passion.
I studied with interest the mysterious analogy between
this serene landscape, backed by a sombre horizon, and the
woman of variable temperament, whose smile brightened
on a concealed foundation of deep sadness. The Persian
proverb says, " To know the plant, you must know the spot
where it grows." Man up to a certain age resembles a
plant, and his soul is rooted in the soU of that locality the
atmosphere of which has nourished his mental and physical
organization. The father of Madame de Se-vigne, a gentleman of high
descent in Charolais, but residing in Upper Burgundy, was
the son of Christophe de Eabutin, Baron of Chantal, which
fief was situated near Autun, and Lord of Bourbilly, an
estate in the neighborhood of Semur. Christophe de Ea
butin had married MademoiseUe de Chantal, daughter of
the president of the ParUament of Dijon. Upon the death
of her husband, who was killed while hunting, at the age of
thirty-six, his widow, seized by an unaccountable venera
tion for St. Francois de Sales, a gentleman of Savoy and

52 MADAME DE SfiVIGN:^.
Bishop of Geneva, abandoned her children, and the house
of her father-in-law, in order to follow, in the character of
a Magdalen, the doctrines of a Christian perfection, so re
fined that it commanded the desertion of all the ordinary
duties of life. She ceased to be a mother according to na
ture, in order to become one according to grace, in a mo
nastic female order, known by the denomination of " Sisters
of the "Visitation." St. Fran9ois de Sales, whose natural
sense of what was right and wrong would not permit him
to require a virtue beyond the power of nature, endeavored
to dissuade his proselyte from a resolution which, though
highly edifying, was attended with much difficulty. The
Baroness de Chantal was obstinately bent on her project,
and she literally passed over the body of her son, who flung
himself across the threshold of the door in order to prevent
his mother from quitting her home to enter a convent. She
attached herself exclusively to the saint ; she entered into a
spiritual correspondence 'with him ; she founded an order,
and was gradually transformed into a saint herself, and un
der that title she is venerated by her disciples to the pres
ent day, who look upon her as their patroness; but de
cidedly she can not be denominated that of either mothers
or orphans.
The son who endeavored to deter Madame de Chantal
from quitting the world was the father of Madame de Se
vigne ; he married Marie de Coulanges, the daughter of a
state councilor distinguished at court for his wit, among
soldiers for his courage, and by many incidental duels for
his ready skiU with the sword ; he died contending against
the English on the battle-field of Eochelle. Gregorio Le'ti,
the historian of that period, states that he fell by the sword
of Cromwell himself* Three horses killed under him, and
twenty-seven lance-thrusts on his body, attested his hero
ism. His widow survived him but a short time, and left their
* Leti is perhaps the greatest fabulist that has ever perverted his
tory. — Transl.

MADAME DE SfiVIGNfi. 53
only chUd an orphan at six years of age. Marie de Eabu-
tin-Qhantal, who was destined at a future date to become
the prodigy of mothers, was thus in her own person de
prived of maternal tenderness: she created the passion in
her own heart, and imbibed it from no example. Her
grandmother, the Baroness de Chantal, completely absorbed
in a project of building eighty convents, surrendered the
guardianship of the orphan girl to her mother's family.
They selected her uncle, the old Abb6 de Coulanges, and
possessor of the priory of Livry, in the vicinity of Paris,
for her tutor. This relative became a father to the orphan,
and it is difficult to comprehend how the venerable abbe,
firm without severity, and tender without weakness, could
educate this motherless child ; but at fifteen years of age a
young girl, endowed 'with beauty, grace, precocious talents,
and a mind cultivated by serious studies, quitted the soli
tude of Livry, and dazzled the world from the first moment
of her appearance.
What was then called the world consisted of the aristo
cratic quarter of the Place Eoyale at Paris, a square plant
ed with Ume-trees and inclosed by four rows of dark col
onnades ; but this spot was inhabited by the elite of the no-
biUty and literature of France ; it was the vestibule of the
Tuileries, the portico of the court ; aspirants to honors,
consideration, respect, renown, and reputation entered by
that avenue. There ai"e pavements which ennoble those
who tread them. Pride, vanity, and pre-eminence of race
or profession are so inherent in human nature, that they
consider the arcade or window of the street they inhabit as
exclusive as the throne in a palace. The family of Cou
langes presented their youthful relative at court; her ap-
peai-ance, as described by. Madame de la Fayette, the vari
ous records of her illustrious contemporaries, such as Me
nage, Chapelain, Bussy-Eabutin, and the numerous portraits
painted by the best artists of her day, account for and ex
plain the universal admiration she attracted. She was sur
rounded by enthusiasm and love ; her first experience of

54 MADAME DE S]6"VIGK^.
the world showed her only kindness in every glance that
fell upon her ; and this, which she owed to her own person
al attractions, opened her heart to gentle emotions. It is
the pri'vilege of beauty to bloom in an atmosphere of its
own creation, to respire the same air, and to begin life un
der the influence of gratitude. The first regard bestowed
by the public is a mirror, in which life either smUes or
frowns in the eyes of a young female ; and it has a lasting
infiuence upon her existence, rendering the future either
joyous or sad ; she sees the shade of her destiny revealed
at a glance. The countenance of the world which beamed
upon the beautiful orphan displayed only affection ; she felt
that Nature had created her to be the happy favorite not of
a king, but of an age, and she from the first moment loved
that world in return which had voluntarily bestowed its af
fection upon her.
Madame de la Fayette, whose wit and fashion had made
her an authority in the aristocratic and literary circles of
the seventeenth century, ¦wrote to her upon her debut: "I
do not desire to overpower you with flattery, neither do I
seek to amuse myself by teUing you that your figure is ad
mirable, your complexion has the tint of a rose ; that your
lips, teeth, and hair are all incomparable — your glass can
tell you this better than I can ; but as you do not speak to
your glass, it can not show you what you are while talk
ing. Know then, if by chance you are stiU in ignorance,
that your varying expression so brightens and adorns your
beauty, that when engaged in unconstrained conversation
there is nothing on earth so brilliant as yourself. Every
word you utter becomes you so well that the sparkle of
your ¦wit adds to the brightness of your eyes, and though it
is said language impresses only the ear, it is quite certain
that yours, beaming from such a face, enchants the vision ;
and while listening to it, all acknowledge you to be the
most beautiful creature in the world !"
Some years after this written description, the pencil of
Mignard portrayed for us her rich locks of fair hair, crowned

MADAME DE Sfi"^GNfl. 55
with a branch of orange-blossom, and rippling above her
forehead, like waves stirred by the breath of inspiration ;
her oval countenance, the roundness of the cheeks somewhat
subdued by an expression of melancholy as they approach
the mouth ; a firm but delicately-shaped chin ; a gently-
rounded fiarehead, reflecting the Ught like a transparent
thought ; palpitating temples ; dreamy blue eyes, fine fold
ing eyeUds of alabaster veined with azure, which half con
cealed the eyeball ; a Grecian-shaped nose in a line with
the forehead, its extremity terminated by the rising of the
muscle between the rose-colored wings of the nostrils ; the
lips closed, as though after a smile, and gradually resuming
their usual expression of gravity ; a fine delicate skin ; a
complexion in the fresh fiower, which she had brought from
her native hills, and which, according to the testimony of
her contemporaries, neither time nor sorrow ever faded ; an
expression so varying that it possessed as many shades as
the sentiments of the female soul ; the bust worthy of sup
porting such a head, the wide, faUing shoulders, the full
bosom, the slender waist — every thing that contributes to
the dignity and harmony of motion or attitude, and gives to
the female figure, when standing erect, an illimitable loveU-
ness — making her image seem in our eyes to fill all space,
and reach even to heaven. It is this imaginative illusion
which gives to Madame de Sevigne in her portraits some
thing beyond the ordinary standard of nature. We feel
that the painter, enthusiastic as a lover, has spread an at
mosphere of irradiation about her form ; he has not deline
ated bounded outlines, but has given us an infinitely poet
ical and intangible impression of beauty.
Such was the physiognomy whose varying attractions at
eighteen, and even after forty years of age, stamped them
selves imperishably upon the memory of those who had once
seen Madame de Sevigne, were it only for an hour. There
was but one opinion at court as regarded this wonder of
the house of Coulanges. The adulation of the world pro
duced no change in the young girl's modest deportment :

56 MADAME DE S:fi"vaGNfi.
in the solitude of her early days at Livry, in the study of
serious books, and in the society of philosophers and Jan-
senists, who were her uncle's friends and neighbors, she had
contracted a precocious pOwer of reflection, a solid piety, a
taste for intellectual pursuits and grave reflection, which
were more likely to render her a second Helo'ise in the house
of Fulbert than an evanescent favorite in a fickle court.
Her name, her personal beauty, her fortune of three hun
dred thousand francs (a considerable sum at that epoch),
her title of only daughter, which permitted the candidates
for her hand to hope for her preference only through her
heart, induced the sons of many of the noblest houses in
France to seek her alUance ; but her choice fell upon Henri
de Sevigne, or Sevigny, a young gentleman of Brittany, the
relative and protggi of Cardinal de Eetz. The Abbe' de
Coulanges, although a man of severe life, was united by the
law of subordination and obedience to the coadjutor of the
Archbishop of Paris. The giddy, debauched, and factious
Cardinal de Eetz, ever wavering between petty intrigue,
great ambition, and the voluptuous licentiousness of his age,
was the mitred Alcibiades of the Fronde ; it was impossible
not to love him, but at the same time he was despised as a
child to whom fortune for his amusement had assigned the
nation, the ParUament, the Court, and the Church, and all
of which he treated as a plaything. Nevertheless, a certain
popularity attached to his name by the Fronde, and a por
tion of respect paid by the Church to his ecclesiastical title,
gave him at that time some consideration in the world ; his
sportive and fascinating wit covered the inconsistencies in
his character ; his fortune was believed in after it was dissi
pated. The Abbe de Coulanges entertained sanguine hopes
for a young soldier patronized by the future Archbishop of
Paris. Cardinal de Eetz possessed genius sufficient to have
raised himself to the rank of EicheUeu or Mazarin, if he
had not ruined his great expectations by engaging in smaU
intrigues. MademoiseUe de Chantal saw only m the Mar
quis Henri de S6viga6 a handsome face, a romantic cour-

MADAME DE S^VIGNfi. g'J
age, a martial elegance, a distinguished name at court, and
an admiration for herself, ¦with which she inspired aU the
youth of her time, but which she herself only felt toward
him. But these attractions of the Marquis de Se^vigne con
cealed, if not vices, unstable qualities of heart, habits, and
character which could settle down to nothing, not even to
happiness. The first experience of this young female, so
worthy of constancy in a husband, exposed her to the trial
of an affection ardent on her side, but light and fleeting on
that of Monsieur de Sevigne. Bussy says in his Memoirs :
" He carried on amours in every direction, and never with
any one to be compared with his wife ; he respected with- 1
out lo^ving her ; and she, on the contrary, loved him without
the power to respect."
Marriage launched her into a new world. Factions, de
capitated by the axe of Cardinal EicheUeu, had, after his
death, reunited and resuscitated their bleeding fragments in
civU war. EicheUeu had so^wn vengeance ¦with blood : such
is the natural consequence of terror. His executions are
thought to have extinguished parties by means of punish
ment ; on the contrary, he rendered them desperate, and
therefore more implacable and more national : princes, no
bles, the Parliament, and the people flew to civil seditions,
and took refiige in rebel armies from the scaffold and tyran
ny, with which this SyUa of the scarlet robe had long ter
rified and overwhelmed them.
Mazarin, a thousand times an abler poUtician, because
more inclined to peace and more humane, is considered by
¦vulgar estimation a man of less colossal proportions than
EicheUeu, because the rule of policy makes less noise than
the domination of terror, and the shallow-minded feel more
reverence for force than ¦wisdom ; but in the judgment of
philosophers and statesmen, Mazarin was the great minis
ter, while EicheUeu was the great avenger. The constant
attachment of Anne of Austria to this counselor of her re
gency, the dictatorship with which she invested him in the
government as weU as over Jjer heart — the alternately firm
C2

58 MADAME DE S&VIGNfi.
and supple ability of this Italian himself, adopting no party,
but acting as the neutraUzer of aU — the art with which he
balanced one against the other, and concluded, after not
only vanquishing, but binding them hand and foot, by car
rying them repentant, submissive, and obedient to the feet
of a king but fourteen years of age, is a consummate mas-
¦ ter-piece in the art of government.
It is precisely because this deep diplomacy, profound in
telligence, accuracy of aim, power of negotiation, modera
tion, firmness, and patience, form such a compUcated char
acter, that it is not yet understood ; but it will be thor
oughly appreciated : the name of Mazarin wiU rule the age
of Louis XrV.,for he equaUy made the king and the reign;
and when he died in his bed at "Vincennes, still holding the
reins of empire in his hands, he surrendered France to the
pupil of his genius as a father gives' up to his son his office
of guardian : factions were dissipated, the disaffected had
become changed into courtiers, and thus closed the account
of his guardianship with the kingdom of France. How
blind to their own interest are the people, who esteem Eich
eUeu and do not understand Mazarin !
Let opinion be as it may on this point, when Madame de
Sevigne entered the world, Mazarin, who still reigned, had
so pacified the country, that all civil, feudal, or parUa-
mentary cabals had merged into simple factions of ¦wit, let
ters, and taste. The literary genius of the age sprang from
the general security; talent had time and freedom to in
crease and multiply beneath so mild a rule. That the reign
of intellect should recommence at the close of each long in
terval or impediment produced by war or revolution, is a
law incidental to the human faculties. Civil agitations give
to the ideas and ima^nations of men repercussion, exercise,
and impetuosity. The democratic convulsions of Athens
were followed by the age of Pericles ; the Eoman proscrip
tions and the useless murder of Caesar were succeeded by
the reign of Augustus ; the convulsions of the Italian re-
pubUcs by the rule of the Medjci; after the League and the

MADAME DE S^'VTCGNfi. 69
Fronde (the feudal wars of France) came the age of Louis
XIV. ; and finally, in our o^wn days, the struggles of Ub-
erty, the overthrow of Europe, and the restoration (so sal
utary to literature) of the Bourbons, have caused an intel
lectual revival throughout the Continent — a revival short
as the Eestoration, but one which will bequeath great
names to posterity. Let us examine the birth of this Ut-»
erary age of Louis XI"V., and inquire from whence sprang
the glory that shone around his cradle.
The men and women recently bom or verging on the
close of life, who from the commencement of the century
formed the chosen band of intellectual giants, were — Mal-
herbe, CorneUle, Voiture, the first Balzac, Saint-Evremond,
Sarrazin, Chapelain, Pelisson, Pascal, Bossuet, Moliere, La
Fontaine, Fenelon, Boileau, Eacine, Flechier, Bourdaloue,
La Eochefoucauld, La Bruyere, ChauUeu, Madame de la
Fayette, the Marchioness de Sable, the Duchess de Lon-
gueville, Madame de Comuel, and, lastly, Madame de Se
vigne herself — stiU in the freshness of early youth, dazzled
by all the brilUancy that shone around her, and never imag
ining that her undistinguished name, apparently lost amidst
the crowd, should at a future date survive almost all the
great illustrators of the age we have here enumerated.
A young female of ItaUan origin, belonging to the Flor
entine house of SavelU, related to the Medici, the allies of
our kings, had introduced into France the sentiment, deU-
cacy, and refinement of ItaUan poetry ; this lady was the
wife of the Marquis de EambouUlet, a nobleman of high
rank, an embassador, and a courtier. Madame de Eam-
bouiUet married at sixteen, and stiU young and beautiftil,
possessed a daughter of fifteen, who resembled much more
her sister than her child. The mother had inspired her
with the same passion for letters and imaginative poetry
that she herself had inhaled 'with the breezes of the Amo
and amidst the hills of Tuscany: the young lady's name
was Julie d'Angennes, an appeUation since then ent'wined
'with garlands of verse. The memories and thoughts of

60 MADAME. DE s:&"VIGKfi.
these two women were deeply imbued with the stanzas of
Tasso and Ariosto, the triplets of Dante, and the sonnets
of Petrarch ; they sought to prolong on this side of the Alps,
in a language till that moment incomplete, the echoes of
these divine poets, themselves the echoes of diviner originals
who sang in the Augustan age. A simUarity of leisure and
.taste, in reading and eonversation on intellectual subjects,
attracted to their house all the men and women of the court
and city who desired to cultivate their imaginations. These
two ladies held their court of wit at the Hotel de Eam-
bouillet, in the Place du Carrousel, side by side with the
palace where Louis XIV. held his court of politics, ambi
tion, and favor. The house of Madame de EambourUet
became the academy for the delicate and inquisitive; such
was the denomination at that time bestowed upon those
who, without following letters as a profession, drew around
them assemblies of all that 'was most eminent among" the
poets, prose writers, and official graduates of the day.* Up
to the present date these assemblies are to be found in Paris
as they were of old in Eome, Athens, and Florence, presided
over by women of superior cultivation and refined grace,
and in which fashion and literature meet for mutual im
provement and information.
There, in the noble emulation of mental enjoyments, and
in an agreeable uniformity of worship for every thing con
nected with inteUect, are equally mixed those who admire
with those who cultivate ; some are attracted by the love of
approbation, others by the desire to applaud, and not a few
by the vanity of criticism. They form as a whole a preUm-
inary focus, the precursor of the great centre of the age — a
foretaste of public opinion and the vestibule of fame. Thus
the much-calumniated Lucretia Borgia, in Eome ; Eleonora
d'Este, at Ferrara ; Vittoria Colonna, at Naples ; Madame
* The Blue-stocldng reunions at Mrs. Montague's, in London, of a
later date, appear to have been suggested by, and to form something
like imitations of, these literaiy coteries at the hotel of Madame de
Eambouillet.— Transl.

MADAME DE SfiVIGNifi. 61
de EambouiUet, at Paris, during the minority of Louis XTV. ;
Madame de Maintenon, in the old age of the same king;
Madame du Deffant and Madame Geoffrin, under the reign
of Louis XV. ; the Duchess d'Anville, during that of Louis
X"VI. ; Madame de Stael, in her exile during the Empire ;
Madame de Montcalm, Madame the Duchess de Broglie,
Madame de Saint- Aulaire, Madame de Duras,, under the
Eestoration ; Madame Eecamier, beneath the sway of the
Directory, and afterward under the three following reigns,
up to our own days ; and many others whose names we are
interdicted by friendship from mentioning, have formed an
elective female dynasty who have drawn the choicest spirits
of their epoch around them by the sole attraction of their
superiority and fascination. In this manner they have- per
petuated their Une from century to century without inter
ruption, save by the recurrence of great civil convulsions
and those abject periods when the world seems possessed by
the frenzy of gold, and all the nobler passions' of the soul
are banished into shadow and silence. Such epochs have
had but short duration, the eclipse of thought upon earth
resembling the eclipse of light in the heavens. We can
enumerate but three in France : the regency of the Duke of
Orleans after the reign of Louis XIV. ; the rule of the Di
rectory after the Eeign of Terror in 1793 ; and the present
period, which hurries to enjoy itself in the fear of being sur
prised between two speculations, by a recurrence of the over
throws which have shaken the world to its foundations.
Madame de Sevigne, introduced by her husband to the
drawing-room of Madame de Eambouillet, carried thither
all that could prove seductive to herself, while it charmed
the society into which she was welcomed : youth, overflow
ing with life and beaming with the freshness of morning ;
resplendent beauty, without the least wish to dazzle or
eclipse others ; finally, an education beyond her age and sex,
imbibed in the studious solitude of Livry : a tincture of the
dead languages sufficient for the enjoyment of Homer arid
Virgil ; a memory stored 'with the most exquisite master-

62 MADAME DE SfiVIGNlS.
pieces of Tasso and Ariosto, and a premature taste which,
without taming her enthusiasm, soon gave her a power of
discrimination which is generally the fruit of gradual ex
perience. So many personal charms, and so much intel
lectual capacity, rendered her in a short space of time an
object of general admiration to the circle in which she moved ;
she inspired friendship in the women, a sentiment of protec
tion in the old men, and a warm passion of love in the
younger and more inflammable portion of the community.
The license of manners encouraged-by the publicity of the
King's amours, and the still Uving traditions of the Fronde,
when princesses were the Seductive implements of factions ;
even the example of the Marquis de Sevigne, a fickle lover
and inconstant husband, would have excused his young wife
in forming any of the liaisons then countenanced by the lax
regulations of society; but from -these she was preserved
equaUy by virtue and the faithful love she bore her husband :
her name, so often loudly sung as the theme of poets, was
never uttered in the secret whisperings of the amorous
chronicle of the court. In the passionate accents of her
adorers she heard only agreeable speeches, which fiattered
her ear without reaching her heart. Equally uninfluenced
by pride or ostentation, she remained pure in the midst of
corruption ; all the poets of her time attest the absence of
feelings which would have been so natural in her position
when they accuse her of coldness. Such chastity was a rare
exception in that voluptuous age ; but she was unyielding
without austerity ; she seemed to solicit pardon rather than
homage for her superior virtue ; she played with the passions
she inspired, without suffering herself to be even slightly
grazed by them, and inhaled only the vapor of aU the idola
try that lighted incense at her feet.
La Fontaine, Montreuil, Menage, Segrais, Saint-Pavin,
Benserade, and Eacan have lauded her in emulative rivalry.
The first addressed the following epigram to her upon the
occasion of her appearing in some game 'with her eyes cov
ered :

MADAME DE s:6VIGN]6. 63
" In every way the power to please you prove :
Each changing aspect adds another grace.
With bandaged eyes you seem the God of Love ;
His mother, when those eyes illume the face."
The Count du Lude and the Count de Bussy-Eabutin, the
two most seductive men of the court, professed an adora
tion which flattered her, but which her love for her hus
band at once deprived of every hope of success. The Count
du Lude, a noble and generous spirit, estimated her more
highly for her virtue; Bussy-Eabutin, who was her cousin,
never forgave such indifference. Possessed of all the vain
weaknesses which overpower the better feelings, his rejected
love changed into bitter and implacable hatred ; from the
pubUc adorer of his cousin he became an anonymous pam
phleteer in his " Histoire Amoureuse des Gaules,'' and en
deavored in the most despicable manner to tarnish the 'virtue
over which he was unable to triumph.
Madame de Sevigne's fondest aspiration, in the midst of
this atmosphere of praise, was to retire 'with the husband of
her choice to a solitary and peaceful country life, far removed
from the vanitie's and temptations of Paris. She succeed
ed in the spring of 1645 in enticing the Marquis de Sevigne
to one of his estates in Brittany, in the neighborhood of
Vitre. This property, which had long been neglected, was
called " Les Eochers." The old chateau became the home
of her short-Uved happiness, as BourbUly had been that of
her cradle. The spot recaUed the abode of her infancy ; its
entangled gardens and crumbUng walls attested the long ab
sence of the owners, and the horizon bounded alike the view,
the thoughts, and desires. The chateau was raised upon an
eminence, at the base of which murmured a smaU river,
following its course between blocks of granite rendered ver
dant by shrubs; the few openings were darkened by the
sleeping shadows of chestnuts, oaks, and beeches ; cultivated
fields and green lawns dyed 'with the golden blossoms of the
broom were bordered by hedges of hoUy and thorn ; 'wide
plains lay to the left, bounded by a cvurtain of fog, through

64 MADAME DE SflVIGN^.
which occasionally glistened the rays of the sun or the sur
face of some pond : the melancholy of the spot communi
cated itself to the mind ; vestiges of former magnificence
gave the house, notwithstanding, a stamp of antiquity and
nobility. On the side of Vitre were long avenues, planted
'with rows of old trees and paved -with large blocks of bro
ken and mouldering stone ;. the building was and is still com
posed of a low keep, flanked by two towers, the cornices of
which were ornamented with heads of monsters roughly
sculptured in stone ; a third tower contained the -winding
staircase, which was traversed at intervals by a ray of
Ught falling obliquely through loop-holes in the massive
walls ; large bare haUs, whose vaulted ceilings were support
ed by black beams, welcomed the young couple. Here they
live^ for several years, in a retirement which Madame de
Sevigne occupied in the cares of affection, and her husband
in seeking to re-establish his fortune, and to attain the dis
tinctions which his native province could offer to a gentle
man of high military rank.
In the month of March, 1647, Madame de Sevigne gave
birth to a son at "the Eocks," who inherited his mother's
heart and genius, and who, though not the passion, formed
at least the amusement and consolation of her Ufe. The
foUowing year bestowed upon her a daughter, who afterward
became Madame de Grignan, and who has been immortal
ized by her mother's tenderness. M. de Sevign^, having
been recaUed to the army by the last war of the Fronde,
induced his -wife to return to Paris, which she reached, with
her two children, at the same moment that the regent, Anne
of Austria, made her triumphal entry with the young king
under the protection of Mazarin.
Civil war had contaminated cities with the miUtary licen
tiousness of camps. The Marquis de Sevign^ formed an
attachment for a celebrated beauty, whose existence at Paris
recalled that of the renowned historical courtesans of Athens
and Eome. Their profession, with all its shameful condi
tions, was admissible to pagan civilization, but quite incom-

MADAME DE S:6vlGN:fi. 65
patible with the Christianity which a little later assumed
such austere habits. The open outrage to public propriety
committed by two women almost contemporaries, Marion
de Lorme and Ninon de'Lenclos, can only be accounted for
by the consideration of two historical points — the introduc
tion of Italian Ucense at court by the Medici and their at
tendants, and the depraved habits which the French aris
tocracy had contracted by association with the camp, and
from the camp had transplanted to the city. Ninon was
the daughter of a gentleman . of Touraine named Lenclos ;
her early developed beauty was brought to perfection by the
education of a depraved father, who taught her that all ex
cellence consisted in the art of seduction ; he introduced her
to the noblest and most refined circles of Paris, among which
she exhibited herself from very early infancy as a musician
and dancer. Her uncontrolled spirit, inconstant affections,
and unchecked philosophy, rendered her an object of attrac
tion to every unprincipled Ubertine of the time. She never
sold herself, but bestowed her favors voluntarily on many ;
thus boldly casting aside modesty to maintain her Uberty.
This reserve of independence in vice, and affectation of sen
timent in license, gained her admission into the unscrupulous
circles of men of letters, and the less particular society of
women who valued wit and beauty more than virtue. She
constantly frequented the house of the poet Scarron, which
then formed the centre of Ught Uterature; and the young
and beautiful orphan of the house of Aubigne, espoused to
Scarron, became her friend. This strange bond continued
to exist even after the death of Scarron ; and the historian
is overwhelmed 'with astonishment when he discovers the
young, pious, and irreproachable 'widow, destined a few years
later to ascend the couch of Louis XIV. as his wedded ¦wife,
sharing the lodging, the society, and sometimes the bed of
Ninon the courtesan.
The Count of Bussy-Eabutin, in order to detach his
cousin's heart from her husband, that he himself might be
come her consoler and seducer, informed Madame de Sevigne

66 MADAME DE SifiVIGN^.
of M. de Sevigne's passion for Ninon. The grief of the
faithful wife ahnost broke her heart, but did not incUne it
to yield to the seductive artifices of De Bussy ; she indig
nantly closed her doors against him, and feigned disbeUef
of her husband's infideUty. The memoirs of that period
say, " Sevigne is not an honest man ; he destroys the hap
piness of his 'wife, who is the best and most forgiving woman
in Paris."
In order to save the 'wreck of his niece's fortune, and to
secure something for her children, the Abbe de Coulanges
induced her to make an arrangement for separate mainte
nance ; but, while she took this precaution, she became se
curity for a large sum, comprising the entire debts of her
husband at that period, and then retired to " the Eocks''
with her two children, leaving the marquis to the free en
joyment of his irregular Ufe.
This volatile sensuaUst had attached himself to another
celebrated beauty, the rival of Ninon, Madame de Gondran,
but better known by the more familiar appeUation of Lolo.
The Chevalier d' Albret, a younger son of the house of Mios-
sens, disputed his conquest. Sevigne triumphed by the com
bined power of prodigality and passion. This rivalship ex
cited much conversation in Paris ; a duel was predicted,
and some friends wrote prematurely to Madame de Sevigne
at " the Eocks,'' informing her that her husband had been
wounded by his opponent. She addressed him in a letter
of grief, despair, and pardon. Eeport had anticipated mat
ters; the duel was put off, and through this accident De
Sevigne received the tender reproaches and last fareweU of
the being whose happiness he had betrayed for a caprice.
The day appointed for the duel arrived ; the proceedings
were courtly and chivalrous ; the two combatants explained
aqd embraced, before dra'wing their swords to satisfy a bar
barous usage which France calls honor.
Sevigne received a mortal wound, and died in the twenty-
seventh year of his age and the flower of his life.
His wife, who admitted his youth, his gay temperament,

MADAME DE SifiVIGNlfi. 67
and the customs of the time, as an excuse for all his con
duct, with difficulty survived the intelligence of this stid ca
tastrophe, and flew to Paris in order to gain possession of
every beloved relic ; but nothing of her husband remained
to her save proofs of his inconstancy. She was compelled
to demand the portrait and hair of him she had so loved
from Madame de Gondran (other^wise Lolo), the cause of
her affliction. Madame de Gondran remitted to her the
hair and the portrait : they were a cruel consolation ; and
whenever the unfortunate ¦widow gazed on the likeness of
him she had adored, his image recalled the bitter memory
of his ingratitude and abandonment. The grief of Madame
de Sevigne was so deep and lasting, that she never after
ward could bear, the sight of the Chevaliei* d' Albret or of
either of the seconds, if by accident she saw them at a dis
tance, without faUing into a swoon.
Sevigne had been her first love, and was destined to be
her last. From the moment of his death she shrouded her
heart, and interred it, as we may say, still in the full bloom
of youth and Ufe, with the ashes of her husband.
Madame de Sevigne's soul was already fiUed ¦with an
other emotion — the affection she bore her children, and
pre-eminently her daughter. She forever renounced all
idea of a second marriage, which would have bestowed on
them another father, and shrank ¦with horror from contem
plating that the cherished fruits of her only love should be
rivaled in her affection by the offspring of a' future union.
She devoted herself exclusively to their happiness, welfare,
and education: the wife existed no longer; nothing re
mained but the mother. She wrote thus in old age : " I
have effaced from my memory every date of my life save
those of my marriage and widowhood." Beneath the pro
tection of her uncle, the kin4 Abbe de Coulanges, she oc
cupied many long years in endeavoring to retrieve the mod
erate fortune which her husband's extravagance had nearly
ruined, and in the rural management of the estates of Bour
bUly and " the Eocks." She passed half the year with the

68 MADAME DE s:fi"SnGN:e.
Abbe de Coulanges at his own country residence ; the rest
in Paris or at Livry, the cherished home of her youth. She
had relaxed without severing the ties which united her with-
the world. She foresaw that her son would require patrons
at court, and her daughter a husband suited to her birth ;
she therefore continued to cultivate every friendship likely
to prove advantageous to her children. Her sound judg
ment induced her to form no connection with those who
belonged to extreme parties. She beUeved herself possessed
of no right to dispose of her own destiny while that of her
son and daughter was unfixed. She remained in the world
from a sense of duty, and continued amiable from virtue
and natural inclination. Society, which had received her
with such universal enthusiasm, passionately regretted her
absence ; she enjoyed and retained a large amount of popu
larity in the court and drawing-room, inasmuch as she had
entered them with a disengaged heart, and had asked only
for friendship.
It was during this epoch that she reckoned among her
friends the most celebrated men and remarkable women of
a period abounding with illustrious names. In the address
es of her letters may be found a catalogue of aU the high
reputations, the most exalted merit, and the most elevated
greatness of her time : the Prince de Conde ; the Duke de
Eohan ; the Count du Lude, ever in love, though always
repulsed ; Menage ; Marigny ; the Cardinal de Eetz ; Mont
morency; Brissac; BelUevre; Montresor; Chateaubriand;
DeChaulnes; Caumartin; D'HacqueviUe ; Corbinelli; the
two Arnaults, the fathers of Jansenism ; Pascal, their apos
tle; D'Humieres; D' Argenteuil ; Bussy, ever amorous, ever
importunate, and often pei-fidious through resentment ; Sa-
blonniere ; the Scotchman Montrose, the heroic martyr of
his proscribed king ; the Duchess de Longue'viUe, the dis
heartened spirit of the Fronde, which had been extinguished
in spite of aU her efforts to revive it ; the Duchess de Les-
diguieres ; the Duchess de Montbazon ; the Princess Pala
tine, for whom Cinq-Mars had died upon the scaffold ; Ma-

MADAME DE s£VIGN£. 69
dame Henriette de Coulanges, the sister of the Abbe ; Ma
dame de Lavardin ; Madame de Maintenon ; MademoiseUe
de la VaUiere ; Madame de Montespan ; Mademoiselle de
Lavergne ; Henriette d'Angennes, who had become the
Countess d'Olonne, and was then celebrated for her beauty
and afterward for her irregularities ; Madame de la Fayette,
the friend of the great Duke de la Eochefoucauld, the author
of the " Maxims ;" Eochefoucauld himself, the fastidious
judge and sovereign arbiter of pretension and elegance ; De
Vardes ; Turenne ; Bossuet ; Comeille ; Fenelon ; Eacine ;
Moliere ; La Fontaine ; BoUeau — all of whom appeared
and disappeared by turns on the horizon of this stupendous
age. Such was the society in which Madame de Sevigne
passed her entire life ; such were her friends and correspond
ents, or the subjects of her epistolary compositions. If a
past century, revivified in her letters, owes much to the
charm which her pen has shed over it, it can not be denied
that her letters are indebted to the unparaUeled interest of
the period to which they refer.
Several of the men we have named, who were still young
and had already become illustrious, earnestly endeavored to
efface the memory of her husband from the heart of the
beautiful ¦widow ; among others, the Prince de Conti and
the Superintendent-General of Finances, the all-powerful
Fouquet, besieged her with their addresses ; but Fouquet
appears to be the only exception who ever produced the
slightest impression upon her heart. Young, handsome, re
spectfully observant of forms, aspiring in mind, with the
treasures of France as completely at his disposal as they had
ever been under EicheUeu or Mazarin, holding the reins of
government in his o^wn hands, sufficiently powerful to be
come an object of well-founded suspicion to his young sov
ereign, audacious enough to rival the king in love — Fouquet
professed himself openly the ardent adorer of Madame de
Sevigne. If she did not reciprocate, she at least felt grate
ful for a homage, the eclat of which obliterated so many
others. To be the ruling passion of a man who was the

70 MADAME DE StVlGNt.
object of the thoughts, love, and ambition of every lady of
the court, induced Madame de Sevigne to pardon the bold
ness both of his puMic and private worship. This is the
only instance during her long widowhood in which we can
discover the sUghtest return of feeling for all the tender sen
timents she inspired without rewarding them with encour
agement ; it forms also the peculiar misfortune of Fouquet,
that he only should have been able to penetrate the surface
of the tender sentiments which lay buried in the depths of
Madame.de Sevigne's soul. If she had ever really loved
him, her preference only revealed itself in the tears she shed
for the subsequent calamities of a man whom she had never
acknowledged by any title more warm than that of friend.
The blow which fell upon the ambitious minister was for
a long time suspended over his head ; the dissimulation nec
essary to kings, inculcated by Mazarin in his last words on
his death-bed, upon Louis XIV., slowly and secretly pre
pared every thing to prevent the rebound of the coming
shock from shaking the throne. Colbert, a man of honest
and firm intentions, but also servile, ungrateful, and envious,
was the king's sole confidant. During the last months of
Mazarin' s existence, Colbert, although the creature of Fou
quet, and intimately acquainted with his aff"airs, betrayed,
in a secret letter to Mazarin, the embezzlements and alter
ation of figures in his accounts, by means of which Fouquet
concealed the true state of the public exchequer. This de
nunciation by Colbert aroused the attention of Mazarin, but
his death prevented the examination of the offense. Louis
XrV., instructed by Mazarin, suspected Fouquet of pecula
tion ¦without daring to accuse him ; the urgent necessities
of the public finance withheld him from examining too close
ly the conduct of his superintendent, whose able specula
tions had alone supplied at the beginning of his reign the
resources that were absolutely required for the administra
tion of the kingdom and the luxuries of the court.
But Louis XIV. doubted more than Fouquet's honesty
in pecuniary matters : he disbelieved his political fideUty,

MADAME DE SfiVlGNifi. 71
and thought him capable of exciting fresh factions against
his master, in order that he might gain undisputed posses
sion of the administration of affairs, and become another
EicheUeu under a second Louis XIII. ; or a leader of fac
tion against a court of which he was no longer the prime
minister. Every thing indicates that these suspicions were
well founded ; and if there was not sufficient evidence
to warrant Fouquet's downfall, his conduct was doubtful
enough to place the king upon his guard, and to justify
Louis in anticipating one blow by another. Ladies and
poets in the pay of the minister wept his disgrace; but
judges and statesmen have absolved the king from the
charge of ingratitude. Fouquet displayed riches and mag
nificence drawn from a source too inexhaustible to be a
pure one ; by gifts, pensions, and regal donations, he bought
every man and woman who could gain for him dominion
over the thoughts and even the amours of his master ; he
organized a party ready at any time to form itself into a
league against the State. The papers and boxes found
after his imprisonment m his house at Vaux inclosed the
tariff of his corruptions, and the scale by which he had
purchased his culpable popularity. Not content with the
possession of several fortresses in the kingdom, he fortified
Belle-Isle, on the coast of Brittany, to form a solid basis
of operations, and an impregnable retreat in which to carry
out his designs; he even had the audacity to tempt the
ambition of Anne of Austria", the young king's mother, and
made a proposition to her that they should mutually con
trol the cabinet. He also negotiated with Cardinal de Eetz
the price of his resignation of the Archbishopric of Paris,
that he might obtain the entire control of the cler^, as he
already domineered over the court. His post of Attorney
General to the Parliament of Paris, which he had the pre
caution to retain, bestowed on him the privilege of being
judged only by the Parliament, whose favor, ever to be ob
tained by sedition and intrigue, he was certain of possess
ing. Therefore, to secure his downfall, it became necessary

72 MADAME DE SifiVIGNfi.
to deceive him, and, by holding out the bait of a still higher
honor, to obtain his abandonment of his parUamentary of
fice. The king succeeded, by overwhelming him -with ex
pectations, and leading him to consider his inferior functions
incompatible -with those to which he was about to be ap
pointed. It was likewise requisite to use against him, in
the form of an accusation, the means by which, at a remote
period, he had gained and placed in the treasury the miU-
ions required for the public expenses, and which his unprin
cipled speculation in the funds and on the exchange had
alone enabled him to accumulate. A particular circum
stance, without being the actual cause, hurried on the ca
tastrophe. At a, fete given to Louis XIV. by his superintendent at
the Chateau de Vaux, while the young king was traversing
the private apartments of this magnificent dwelling, he en
tered a cabinet of pictures, and his eye fell upon a portrait
of Mademoiselle de la VaUiere, the well-known object of
his first passion. Fouquet had been bold enough to love
her, and had dared to have her portrait taken. The king,
insulted by this profanation of his own attachment, in the
mean time concealed his anger; the fitting hour for it to
burst forth had not yet arrived. Fouquet was warned by
his mother, through the Duchess de Chevreuse, to distrust
the feigned security which surrounded him. The king re
doubled his favor and his false professions, in order to luU
the minister's alarms. Fouquet, not knowing whether to
believe, or suspect, was undecided as to taking refuge in
Italy, or seeking security in Belle-Isle. In this perplexity
he set out for Nantes, and there, beyond the reach of the
Parliament and far from Paris, the king resolved to have
him arrested. Scarcely had Fouquet set out, before. Louis
(suspicious of all the instruments of his authority, who might
perhaps be in the pay of the superintendent) summoned to
his presence an obscure officer of his guard, and gave him
an order to arrest Fouquet upon his arrival at Nantes. The
officer departed with six trusty companions, reached Nantes

MADAME DE s:fiVIGN:6. 73
before the minister, and carried him back as a prisoner to
Paris. His .papers, seized and brought to the king, were
examined by him alone, and revealed at full the plots, in
trigues, and unbounded ambition of Fouquet. It has been
said that the name of Madame de Sevigne appeared among
those of the ladies whom he enumerated as friends, and
upon whom he intended to lavish all the favor of his per
sonal attachment and political power. It is to this discov
ery, of which Madame de Sevigne remained in utter igno
rance, that we attribute the coldness which Louis always
displayed toward her, the most eminent woman of his age.
There were two things which he never freely forgave in
those who constituted his immediate circle, of either sex;
the sin of having been connected with the Fronde, and the'
crime of possessing, brilliant superiority of mind. All ce
lebrity which was not employed to elevate his own, obscured
it. He encouraged talent only when he could encase it as
an ornament in his crown, and he considered flattejy the
first obligation of genius.
Though Madame de Sevigne was a courtier, her heart
was not servile, and the misfortunes of Fouquet only tend
ed to increase her feeUngs of attachment and gratitude; nor
did she sacrifice any portion of her sorrow and pity from
complacency for the opinions of the king. The disgrace
of the superintendent excited so tender and bold an interest
in her breast, that she Ventured to murmur, and even to op
pose his persecutors. She joined the league of fidelity and
misfortune which followed Fouquet into the presence of his
judges, and even to his perpetual imprisonment. It was
the warmth of this sentiment which first brought forth her
epistolary powers in her daily correspondence with the friends
of her friend. Friendship revealed her talent to herself^
every thing, even fame, came from a pure source, in a heari>
formed only for gentle emotions. Her expressions concern
ing Fouquet exhibit a tone of tenderness and natural feeling
which we seek in vain in the rest of her correspondence.
The accents of such tender pity for the unfortunate are so
D

74 MADAME DE S^"VaGN:fi.
Strongly conveyed, that we may almost imagine them the
voice of subdued love.
At this period Louis XTV. had not attained the tyran
nical despotism which afterward induced him to proscribe
many without trial. He caused the conduct of his minister
to be examined by men who, if not independent judges,
were at least commissioners reputed to exercise freedom of
opinion. The trial was long, difficult, and fuU of turnings
and 'windings, revelations, hope, and alternations of terror
and .despair. ^Madame de Sevign^ followed all its phases
with the anxiety of a friend sincerely attached to the ac
cused, and seeking to support and encourage him with her
presence, her influence, and attachment, wheii before his
. judges. The private papers found at his house contained
an intimate but 'perfectly innocent correspondence between
the attractive woman and the tender-hearted minister. This
discovery, which made known many important secrets and
alarmed a host who were implicated, surprised without dis
concerting Madame de Sevigne. With the security of an
innocent conscience, she braved the public murmur raised
against her upon the reading of her letters, and wrote as
foUows to M. de Pomponne, a member of the pious family
of the Arnaulds, and a friend and neighbor of her uncle, the
Abbe de Coulanges. "There is nothing truer than that
friendship increases where the feeling of interest is mutual.
You have -written to me so kindly upon this topic, that I
can not reply more appropriately than by assuring you that
I entertain toward you the same sentiments that you ex
press for me. But what do you say to the contents of these
boxes'? could you have thought that my poor letters would
have been found in such a mysterious place ? I assure you,
no matter how much credit I may gain from those who do
me the justice of believing that I have had no other inter
course 'with him than this, 1 can not help feeUng deeply dis
tressed at being compelled to justify myself, and very prob
ably -without success, in the estimation of a thousand people
who wUl never beUeve the simple truth. I know you wiU

MADAME DE S:fiVIGN:fi. 75
fully understand the grief this causes to a heart like mine.
I conjure of you to say all you feel ; at this moment I can
not have too many friends. I impatiently expect the arrival
of your brother [the Abbe Arnauld d'AndiUy], that I may
obtain some consolation fronr him under these untoward
circumstances. In the mean time, I ceaselessly desire, with
my whole heart, aUeviation for the unfortunate, and I en
treat of you always to bestow upon me the solace of your
friendship." Some days later she -wrote to Menage : "Thank
Mademoiselle de Scudery for remaining so courageously
faithful in her friendship for Fouquet, and for having de
fended me against all calumnious insinuations upon this
subject. I wish with all my heart they would forget the
existence of the superintendent himself"
In the letters which she -wrote afterward from her re
treat at " the Eocks," to the two Amaulds, who were exiled
on account of Fouquet, she never caUs the accused any
thing but our dear friend. She knew that her letters would
be unsealed by the enemies of Fouquet, and she ventured to
brave them ; she shed courageous tears for his fate, and fol
lowed with eye and ear his position and repUes during the
examinations. She -wrote to M. de Pomponne : " Our dear
and unfortunate friend has spoken this morning for two
hours, but so admirably that many can not help admiring
him ; among others, M. Eenard, who remarked, ' It must
be confessed that this is an incomparable man.' He has
never spoken so well in ParUament ; he has more self-pos
session now than he has ever shown before. He spoke upon
the six millions and upon his own expenses ; nothing can
be compared with the manner in which he treated this sub
ject. I wiU write to you on Thursday or Friday, and
Heaven grant that my letter may convey to you what I so
ardently desire! Entreat our solitary [Amauld] to pray
foi- our poor friend. . . . Our dear friend has again been
summoned to the bar. The Abbe d'Effiat saluted him in
passing; he returned his salute with that bright, steady
glance we are all so weU acquainted with. The Abbs

76 MADAME DE SflVIGNE
d'Effiat was so touched that he became quite overpow
ered. " This trial will continue throughout the whole of next
week. During the interval, the life we endure is scarcely
existence : as for me, I am so altered that I am scarcely
recognizable, and I. doubt if T shall be able to bear up so
long. ¦
" At the bottom of my heart there is a little gleam of
hope; I know not whence it comes, nor whither it wJU
lead. It is not even enough to enable me to sleep in peace.
I only see those to whom I can speaks of it, ^nd who enter
tain the same feelings with myselfi * She (Madame du Pies-
sis) hopes as I do, but without being able to assign any
reason. But why do you hope? Because I hope. Such
are our mutual answers. Are they not very reasonable
ones 1 If we should obtain such a verdict as we wish for,
the completion of my joy wiU be to send a messenger at fuU
speed on horseback to convey the agreeable intelligence to
you ; and the delight of imagining your happiness will
drown my own." Again she -writes: "I do not know
what I shall dp if this affair does not terminate as I wish ;
J can not tell what wiU become of me."
She proudly repeats all that was worthy, and affection
ately blames every imprudent word in the replies of thp
accused. She deplores some impatience displayed by Fou
quet towarff his judges; " Such a deportment is not well-
timed," she said to Amauld; "he must correct it; but in
truth his patience is exhausted, and I think I should act
precisely as he does, were I in the same situation." She
returned to Paris at the moment when the fate of her friend
was about to be decided ; she gave herself up exclusively to
this single thought ; she lived alternately upon hope and
fear;' she wished to behold him for the last time when he
appeared before the tribunal ; she,, disguised herself, con
cealed her face beneath the mask then in ordinary use, to
hide the paleness and agitation of bev features. " My limbs
trembled, and my heart beat so fast whfen he appeared," said

MADAME DE S:fi"VaGN]e. 77
she, " that I felt ready to faint." She -wrote in the even
ing : " I do not think he recognized me ; but I confess to
you I was quite overcome when he entered through the
small door. If you knew the misery of ha-ving such a heart
as mine, you would pity me. I have been to see our dear
neighbor, Madame de Guen^gaud ; we talked incessantly of
the" dear prisoner. She has seen ^Sa/jpAo- (MademoiseUe de
Scudery), who has inspired her with courage. As for me,
to-morrow I shall agailt visit this beloved friend, for I feel
in want of comfort. A thousand things are said which
ought to create hope, but I possess such a lively imagina
tion that uncertainty is death to me." Afterward, indig
nant almost to rebeUion against the government, she said,
" Sympathy is great, but severity is greater still." She per
sonally solicited D'Oririesson, the reporter of the process, as
though it had been in her own cause.
"Fouquet is a dangerous man /" said the king at his levee,
a few days before judgment was to be pronounced. This-
observation contained his sentence ; nevertheless, Madame de
Sevigne would not yet despair of justice and mercy. She
wrote: "Air the world are interested in this momentous
affair ; people can speak of nothing else. They arguej they
speculate on the result, they count opinions upon their fin
gers. Some are confident ; othersfear, wish, hate, admire,
are miserable or despondent. In truth, my dear su", we are
all in a most extraordinary state of excitement. The resig
nation and firmness of our beloved prisoner are divine ! He
knows each day every thing that occurs, and volumes might
be written in his praise." • *
"Who can not reet)gnize in these expressions a sentiment
beyond the desire of justice and the sympathy of friendship 1
Madame de Sevignd was more to Fouquet than lover or
friend ; she was an invisible Providence, attached to the
same chains by which he was bound, and ready to live the
same life or die the same death. On the evening of the
19th of December, 1664, she wrote: "Praise, God, sir,
and thank Him! our poor friend is saved. I am so happy

78 MADAME DE Si&VIGN:^.
that I am almost beside myself ... I am ready to expire
with the fear that any other than myself should give you the
pleasure of learning the good news. It will be a long time
before the joy of yesterday can fade away."
When Madame de Sevigne learned that the king had in
creased the sentence of exile into perpetual imprisonment at
Eignerol, she wrote : " No ! this can not spring from such
a lofty source : this unrelenting and despicable vengeance
could never proceed from the heart of our master. They
belie and profane his name, as you wiU see. I wiU com
municate to you the result."
On Monday, the 23d, she wrote in another tone : " Many
hope that the sentence may be mitigated: I hope so too.
Hope has been too long my support for me to abandon it
now ; nevertheless, every time that I behold our royal mas
ter at the court ballets, these two .Jines of Tasso recur to my
mind: " ' Goffredo ascolta, e in rigida sembianza
Porge piu di timor che di speranza.'
Mfeanwhile I endeavor not to be discouraged ; we must fol
low the example of our poor prisoner : he is gay and tran
quil, let us be so Ukewise."
Despite the sentence uttered by Louis, the conscience of
his judges could not sacrifice the head of Fouquet, and they
therefore condemned him to perpetual exile. The king,
considering the punishment too mild, and Fouquet at Ub
erty, too dangerous, even though removed from the kingdom,
exerted his despotic authority, and changed the sentence
. into one of imprisonment for life in the fortress of Pignerol. :'
There he lingered through fifteen years, dying by degrees,
forgotten by all but Madame de Se'vigne ; and not an echo
from the world, which had once resounded with his name,
ever pierced the waUs of his dungeon. From the severity
of the chastisement, we may judge of the fear with wliich
the minister had inspired his master. The only tender
sentiment which Madame de Sevigne entertained after her
widowhood was buried forever in the ceU of her unfortu-

MADAME DE Sfi"VlGN^. 79
nate friend. Her heart, ever afterward void of woman's
affection, was exclusively devoted to her children. She no
longer held intercourse with the world on her own account,
but merely that she might transmit its impressions to her
daughter and her friends, through the medium of her qui
escent sensibilities — like an unconcerned spectator of the
drama of Ufe, who, gazing from the amphitheatre upon the
passing scene, describes it in a subdued tone to those who
remain outside. '
From this period the whole of Louis XIV.'s reign is re
flected in the written conversation of a woman. Her cor
respondence, unknown to herself, became the whisperings of
history behind the scenes on which the great drama of the
world was acting. This was also the date from which her
style, flowed from her heart, warm and unaffected; and nat
ural simplicity became unconscious talent. Let us add a
few. words on this subject.
Buffon'says, " The style shows tJie man" Buffon has said
; in this what the style ought to do rather than what it does,
for generaUy the'style embodies the -writer more than the
individual man. Art interposes itself between the com
poser and that which he executes : it is not the man you
behold, but his talent, and the highest achievement of truly
great 'writers is to lay aside acquired talent, and express
their owh notiohs ; but to possess the power of doing this,
their sensibilities must be more periect than their art: in
fact, they must be proved great fkther by the heart than by
the abiUty. How many books are there in each century, or
indeed in all centuries, which bear this character, and convey
a more powerful impression of soul than of genius ? Three
or four, perhaps. "The book almost always masks its au
thor. Wherefore ? Because the book is an effort of com
position and intellect, in which the author proposes some
particular aim, and in which he portrays himself, not as he
is, but as he wishes to appear. We must not search in
books for true expression ; it is not to be found in them :
yet I mistake — it is there, but only in those books which

so MADAME DE S:fiVIGN]S.
men have written without considering them as such ; to
speak plainly, in letters. Letters contain natural ideas,
books those which are derived from education: clothing
veils the shape. In composition, as in sculpture, nothing is
really beautiful except nudity. Nature created flesh ; man
has added the artificial drapery. If you would look upon
the master-piece, you must strip the statue : this equally
appUes to the mind and the body. That which we like in
good 'writers is not their work, but their individuality; those
efforts in which they most reflect themselves we consider
their best. Who would not a thousand times prefer one of
Cicero's letters to one of his orations? or a familiar epistle
of Voltaire to one of his labored tragedies? or a letter of
Madame de Sevign^ to all the romances of Mademoiselle de
Scudery — she whom the former denominated Sappho, and
whose fame she gazed upon from a distance, -without ven
turing to raise her own ambition to a simUar height?
These superior minds have displayed great artistic talent in
their premeditated effusions, but genuine and natural style
is found only in their correspondence. We again ask, why
is this? The answer is, because in that they composed
without either the desire or effort to excel. Like Madame
de Sevigne, their emotions were the result of circumstance ;
they did not write, they conversed. Their style ceased to
be composition, and became the genuine effusion of their
thoughts. Of all mental quaUties, the one which appears to us the
most inexplicable is style of expression ; and if we sought
to define it, we should endeavor to do so by its analogy -with
a thing in itself as yet undefinable — the human physiogno
my. We ought, therefore, to denominate mode of expression
the physiognomy of the thoughts.
Examine closely any particular countenance, and try to
comprehend why it charms, repulses, or produces indiffer
ence. Does the secret of this indifierence, charm, or repul
sion Ue in such or such a feature ? — in the regular or irreg
ular oval of its contour ? — ^in the outline, more or less Gre-

MADAME DE SfiVIGNfi. 81
cian? — ^in the prominent or sunken eyeball, its color or its
brightness ? — ^in the perfect or imperfect shape of the lips,
or in the shade of the complexion ? You can not tell ; you
-will never be able to explain it. The general impression is
a mystery, and this mystery is denominated physiognomy ;
it is the counter-stamp of the character upon the visage ; it
is the combined and animated assemblage of all the features,
dispersed and floating like an atmosphere of soul over the
face. This atmosphere is composed of so many hues that
the man who feels can not disunite them. He likes or he
dislikes : herein lies the entire analysis. Opinion is not so
much a rapid impression as an instinct, infallible as the sen
sation we experience in plunging our hand into hot, cold, or
tepid water : while we gaze on the countenance, we feel the
soul to be either warm or cold, and this is the only conclu
sion we are permitted to reach.
The same conclusion applies to writing. We know
whether it charms or wearies, warms or freezes us ; but
it is composed of so many indefinable elements of inteUi-
gence, thought, and feeling, that it is as great a mystery to
us as the physiognomy ; and as it resembles it in effect, so
do we find it equally impossible to analyze the cause : rhet
oricians have no more been able to teach or grapple with
it, than chemists have been permitted to seize the principle
of life pervading the elements they elaborate ; they know
what it produces, but not what it is. And how should
they obtain that knowledge ? The writer does not compre
hend it himself; it is as much a gift of nature as the color
of his hair or the sensibility of his feeUng. Let us only
enumerate a few of the many conditions of what is caUed
style of expression, and then judge if it be in the power of
rhetoric to create such a union of different qualities in man
or woman.
Its first requisite is truth, and language should be shaped
by internal impression, other'wise it is false in spirit, and
resembles more the performance of an artificial actor than
the discourse of a man expressing what he really feels. It
D2

82 MADAME DE S:fiVIGN:6.
must possess perspicuity, without which meaning wiU be
lost in the multiplication of words, and sense embarrassed
in obscurity. It must also fiow 'with ease, or the evident
labor of the writer will oppress the mind of the reader, and
the fatigue experienced by the one will be communicated to
the other. It must have transparency, or its depth of
thought can not be penetrated. It must be simple, or the
understanding will be surprised and overtasked in an effort
to follow the refinements of expression ; and, while admir
ing the phraseology, the sense will evaporate. It should
possess coloring, or it will seem opaque though accurate,
and the subject will be a simple outline without light or
shadow. It requires imagery, or the subject merely de
scribed can not be illustrated and become palpable to the
senses. It must be restrained, or redundancy will satiate ;
it must be rich, for poverty of expression demonstrates ab
sence of imagination; it must be unassuming, for undue
brilliancy dazzles; it must be copious, for meagreness de
presses; it must be natural, for thought is disfigured by
the contortions of artifice ; the current of ideas must be
rapid, for motion alone entrains and carries us along. It
must glow, for gentle heat is the temperature of the soul ;
it must be without effort, for that which is achieved with
difficulty becomes wearisome ; it must change from simple
to sublime, for uniformity tires ; it must appeal to the rea
son, because man is an argumentative being ; it must touch
the passions, for the heart is passion itself; it must con
verse, for reading is intercourse 'with the absent and the
dead ; it must have the stamp of identity and the mark of
individual mind, for no man bears exact resemblance to an
other ; it must be lyrical, for the soul has its music as weU
as the voice ; it must weep, for human nature has its sighs
and tears; it must — but pages would not suffice to enu
merate aU the elements which compose style. No one has
ever united them in written language and with such har
mony as Madame de Se-vign^; she ceases, then, to be a
mere writer, and becomes an embodiment of style.

MADAME DE SJ^-yiGNfi. 83
Let us now return to her life, which she has read to aU
who desire to find themselves in the history of others. "WhUe
listening to her recital, we feel as though we repeated our
own existence, because her book is not merely a volume, but
a Ufe in itself A single passion replaced in her heart the
absorbing affection she had felt for her husband: this pas
sion was her daughter. No other woman ever was so com
pletely a mother. If we detach her daughter from the soul
and from the letters of Madame de Se-vigne, nothing wiU re
main but a wide vacuum, -without motion, warmth, or echo,
in which there is no palpitation, not even that of the heart.
By a phenomenon of maternal extinct, which bears al
most as strong a resemblance to a natural miracle as to a
prodigy of affection, the mother, who had given birth to her
daughter fifteen years before, seemed to carry this fruit of
her womb still attached to the fibres of her being: she
warmed it -with her own heat, vivified it -with her own life,
and lived only in its existence ; vanity, ambition, society,
friendship, the world, nature, even Deity itself she only knew
and felt but in this chUd. Her daughter was the Unk be
tween her and the universe ; but if the latter had vanished,
and her daughter alone had remained to her, she Would not
have been sensible of the absence of the whole creation.
We are bound to admit this extravagance of maternal in
stinct in Madame de Sevigne, which must be designated a
species of madness, before we can thoroughly comprehend
such an absolute connection of existence -with another, and
the utter annihUation of her o-wn personal individuaUty in
that of her daughter.
The fables of antiquity present no parallel case ; neither
the " Inferno" nor the " Paradiso" of Dante contain such a
total identification of one being with another, such a con
stant alternation of happiness and punishment, sometimes
joy and as frequently sorrow, as we shall presently find
when we examine this extraordinary instance, which we
know to have occurred in living reaUty.
After having adored and educated her daughter during

84 MADAME DE S&YIG^.
childhood in the privacy of her solitude, Madame de Se
vigne introduced her to the society of Paris and the court ;
and if she felt it a sacrifice to part with her 'treasure, her
maternal pride, the holiest of all vanities, intoxicated her
beforehand with the anticipated rapture inspired by the ad
miration which she felt con-vinced would foUow her daugh
ter's appearance in the great world. The unselfish expecta
tion was reaUzed to the full extent, and indeed merited such
a result. The poetry and private memoirs of the time ex
press the same opinion that the mother entertained of her
daughter's charms. Menage denominates her " the miracle
of our days ;" even the satirist Bussy always speaks of her
as "the prettiest girl in France." She outshone the daz
zling group of celebrated beauties who figured in the ballets
of Louis XIV., during the rejoicing and festivities given at
Fohtainebleau. It was generaUy supposed that, to the envy
of her fair contemporaries, she would fascinate the young
king himself, and become the favorite of the opening reign.
But whether it was that Louis stiU entertained too much of
his early resentment against the name of Sevign^, which had
been so prominently mixed up with the Fronde — ^whether
Mademoiselle de Sevigne, so exclusively the object of her
mother's worship, felt herself placed above even a king's
addresses— or whether she possessed more of the briUiancy
which gains admiration than the charm which creates love,
the king, though courteous, remained quite insensible to such
an array of attractions.
Mademoiselle de Se'vigne, who possessed a mind equal to,
but of a different mould from that of her mother, was her
self sensible that her beauty was more surprising than se
ductive. She wrote thus to her mother : " At first sight
people think me adorable, but upon farther acquaintance
. they love me no longer." Madame de Sevign^, whose am
bition centred entirely in her daughter, aspired to the hope
that she would connect herself by marriage 'with one of the
most exalted names of the court. Birth, beauty, and for
tune justified this presumption, but the daughter's coldne^.

MADAME DE SfiVIGN^. 85
and probably the secret dislike entertained by the kmg for
her mother, banished aU pretenders.
" The prettiest girl in France presents her compliments
to you" (she wrote to her cousin Bussy): "this appears a
most alluring title ; nevertheless, I am getting tired of en
joying the honor so long." Bussy replied, "I recognize
the caprice of destiny in the difficulty of obtaining a suit
able match for the prettiest girl in France." "The pretti
est girl in France," rejoined her mother, "is more than
ever worthy of your homage, notwithstanding her destiny
is so difficult to understand that it quite confounds me."
The explanation of that which was such a source of grief
and humiliation to the mother, lay exclusively in the fear
entertained by all the noble families at court of participa
ting in the disgrace of a woman whose youth had been con
nected with poUtical factions now dead, and whose present
intimacy with the Arnaulds, who were tainted with Jansen
ism, allied her to the new religious sects which were begin
ning to spring up.
She describes these recluses with an infinite charm : " I
returned yesterday," she says, "from Meni, where I had
gone to see M. d'Andilly. I remained 'with him six hours,
during which time I participated in all the delight afforded
by the conversation of a superior man. I also met there
my uncle De Sevign6, but only for a moinent. The Port-
Eoyal is a Thebais, a paradise, and a soUtude where all the
devotion of Christianity is assembled : its sanctity embraces
the circumference of a league. There are five or six re
cluses, with whom no one holds intercourse, and who live
like the penitents of Saint Jean Climaque ; the nuns are
angels upon earth ; Mademoiselle de Vertus passes her life
here in the midst of inconceivable sufferings and unmur
muring resignation ; every thing connected with the estab
lishment, even to the shepherds, wagoners, and work-peo
ple, is of the same modest and rfestrained character. I de
clare to you I was enchanted at an opportunity of behold
ing this divine solitude, of which I had heard so much : it

86 MADAME DE Sfi"VIGNi.
is a frightful valley, from which the world is excluded, and
the minds of the inmates are occupied 'with the care of sal
vation alone. I returned to Meni to sleep, and yesterday
came back here, after having again embraced M. d'Andilly
as I passed by."
Madame de Sevigne deemed it advisable to conceal her
self and daughter for a time in the solitude of her country
seat, that the unlucky star might pass away, and Paris be
left to regret that which it no longer possessed. She re
tired to Brittany, and passed an entire winter at the Eocks.
This absence, in fact, awoke the regrets upon which her
vexation had counted ; she was assailed by prose and verse,
in which friends, admirers, and poets lamented her depart
ure, and entreated her return to the centre of wit and pleas
ure, which had been obscured by the withdrawal of her
light. Saint Savin, in a famiUar epistle, presented himself
as the commissioned interpreter of these regrets, and in the
expression of his passion he thus flattered her :
"Nature ne'er her task completed,
But when she thy fair daughter framed;
AU other forms her power defeated,
As though she dreamily had aim'd :
Too small the earth's all-boundless sphere,
To find the matchless maid a peer."
The offended mother was deaf to the repentance of Paris,
and prolonged her sojourn at the Eocks until the spring;
during which time she taught herself, in the enjoyment of
reading and reflection, to do without the world, and also
occupied her leisure in nursing her fortune for her chUdren,
and in embellishing her residence.
" I have had a number of small trees planted," she -wrote
in one of her letters, "and a labyrinth which no one can
find their way out of unless they possess the clew of Ari
adne. I have also bought several pieces of land, to which
I have said as usual, / shall make you into parks, and I have
managed to extend my gardens and walks without laying
out too much money."

MADAME DE S:fiVIGN:6. 87
Upon her return to Paris, after the short campaign of
Louis XIV. in Franche-Comte, Madame de Se'vigne found
the king making a scandalous display both at Compiegne
and at Paris. Without respect for the young queen, he
scarcely concealed his amours with Mademoiselle de la Val-
liere, Madame de Monaco, and Madame de Montespan ;
legitimatizing by public acts the children .born to him by
his favorites, audaciously forcing the Parliament to register
the title of duchess which he conferred upon one, carrying
off another from her husband, and ridding himself of the
murmurs of M. de Montespan by banishing him from the
capital. But the king's right divine had become a dogma
so incrusted 'with the servUity of courtiers, that even his
defiance of laws, manners, reUgion, and marriage, appeared
royal, and the court adored and submitted while it blushed.
Although Madame de Sevigne was the personification of
two ItaUan lines of Menage :
"Donna bella, gentil, cortese e saggia,
Di castitk, di fede e d'amor tempio ;"
that is to say, "a woman of perfect beauty, amiability, and
virtue, whose soul was the sanctuary of chastity, faith, and
pure love," the corruption of example proceeded from such
a high source, and vice was so confounded with majesty,
that though her letters demonstrate her own purity,' she _
does not appear sufficiently shocked by the royal proceed
ings. During these lOng years of public depravity, she con^
tinned to foUow her daughter most anxiously through aU
the court festivities, and by her influence summoned around
her a smaU circle of men and women whose strict propriety
of conduct was an exception to the time, and who formed
a rampart against the universal license of mind and man
ners. Her most intimate friends at this epoch were Madame
de Scudery, aunt of Mademoiselle de Scudery, and, like Ma
dame de Sevigne, a widow at thirty years of age ; she had
married an old man, whom she had loved notwithstanding
the disparity of years, and, following the example of her
friend, had refused to form new ties ; Madame de la il^ay-

88 MADAME DE S:&V1GN:6.
ette, whose attachment for the Duke de la Eochefoucauld,
like a sort of tacit imputation, kept her at a distance from
court ; Madame de Guenegaud, a relative and neighbor of
the Amaulds, at the chateau of Fresnes, near Livry ; and,
lastly, the Arnaulds themselves, the faithful friends of Fou
quet, and the patrons of Pascal.
She passed the summer of 1667 in the pure and healthy
atmosphere of Fresnes.
" I must teU you how I am situated," she -wrote to M.
de Pomponne, a member of the Amauld family, and at that
time embassador in Sweden : " M. d'Andilly is on my left
hand, that is to say, on the side next my heart; on my
right is Madame de la Fayette; before me Madame de
Guenegaud, who is amusing herself with trifling topics ; a
little farther off, Madame de Motteville (authoress of the
' Memoires'), in a profound reverie ; our uncle De Cessac,
whom I fear because I do not thoroughly know him ; Ma
dame de Caderousse; her unmarried sister, a new flower
that you are not yet acquainted with ; and, to crovsm all.
Mademoiselle de Sevigne : they run in and out of the study
like a swarm of bees ; I am certain you would be as much
pleased with their society as I am."
The various portraits of this family group united the
past century 'with the present. D'Andilly, the head of the
family of Arnauld, almost eighty years of age, had seen
EicheUeu and Mazarin, and witnessed the storms and
changes of the preceding reigns. The memoirs which he
¦wrote in his green old age have afforded us the materials
for our own history.
She 'wrote from Livry on the 29th of April : " I have
had a delightful journey : I set out yesterday -eafly in the
morning from Paris ; I dined at Pomponne, where I found
our good friend Amauld expecting me ; I would not for the
world have lost this opportunity of bidding him farewell.
I found him in a state of increased sanctity that was quite
marvelous ; the nearer he approaches death the more puri
fied he becomes. He lectured me very seriously ; and, car-

MADAME DE SlllVIGN^. 89
ried away by zeal and friendship, told me that I must be
mad not to seek after conversion ; that I was an amiable
pagan ; that I made you my heart's idol ; that this sort of
idolatry was as dangerous as any other, although it ap
peared less criminal in my eyes ; and, lastly, that I should
turn my thoughts to myself and my own condition : he said
all this so forcibly that I could not 'find a word in reply,
and at length, after a very agreeable though very serious
conversation of six hours, I quitted him and came here,
where I was greeted by all the triumph of the month of
May : the nightingale, the cuckoo, and the linnet have
opened the spring in the forest. I have strolled about in
soUtude all the evening. My thoughts have been melan
choly ; but I will not dweU on this subject. I have de
voted a portion of my time after dinner to 'writing to you
in the garden, and I am quite bewildered by the song of
three or four nightingales immediately over my head. This
evening I return to Paris to make up a packet and send it
to you."
Madame de la Fayette, who possessed an erudite knowl
edge of classical languages, and commented upon Virgil and
Horace, wrote at the same time her first French romances,
palpitating with the emanations of a heart which reposes
after having experienced . the passion of love ; and while
thus occupied she was filled with regret for the absence of
her friend, the Duke de la Eochefoucauld, who, despite his
infirmities, had volunteered his services at the siege of Lille.
Madame de Motteville, the confidential friend of Anne of
Austria, and a great annoyance to the king, whose vices
she too openly blamed, retired into privacy after the death
of the Queen-Mother, and silently 'wrote her memoirs -with
the authority of one who had been an eye-witness of all she
described, but with the discretion of a confidante, knowing
when to be silent. -
Madame de Guenegaud possessed a talent for painting
which rivaled that of the best masters of her time ; her pic
tures, placed beside those of Poussin, decorated the waUs

90 MADAME DE SifiVIGNifi.
of the chapel and galleries of the Chateau de Fresnes.
The conversations of the circle touched upon all subjects,
from the conquests of the king in Flanders to those mas
ter-pieces of composition, the "Misanthrope," the " Cid,"
and the " Andromaque," produced by Moliere, CorneiUe,
and Eacine : the judges were worthy of the flights of genius
on which they sat in judgment.
The Peace of Aix-la-Chapelle, the building of Versailles,
and the files given there by the king in honor of Madame
de Montespan — who, though, still concealed in twUight, was
already queen of his heart — recalled Madame de Sevigne
and her daughter to Paris. They appeared at these festiv
ities of 1688, the description of which transports the imag
ination to the fancied enjoyments of fairy-land. Mademoi
selle de Sevigne occupied a place at the king's table, and
in the midst of three hundred fair rivals, equally eager to
attract a single glance of royalty, she ecUpsed all compet
itors. The king was apparently dazzled ; the courtiers,
divining the preference of their master, overfiowed 'with
adniiratioij of the new idol ; the Duke de la FeuiUade, the
king's favorite and the o'hject of Madame de Montespan' s
enmity, endeavored to foment the inclination which he be
lieved he had discovered in his master's heart for Mademoi
selle de Sevigne. The rumor circulated that she had made
a conquest of_the king, and the manners of the age were so
accommodating that no one anticipated the slightest resist
ance on her part. Bussy, the relative and friend of the
mother, and the natural protector of her daughter, a gentle
man proud of his birth and distinguished position, loudly
congratulated himself in his letters upon the dishonorable
preference shown to his young cousin. He was mistaken :
beneath a feigned attention to Mademoiselle de Sevigne, the
king concealed his true passion for Madame de Montespan,
The deception had a fortunate influence upon the prospects
of Madame de Sevigne's son.
This young man, endowed 'with all his father's courage
and his mother's accompUshments, occupied in Madame de

MADAME DE S^VIGNJS. 91
Se'vigne's heart only the small portion unclaimed by her
daughter. Great passions must be concentrated : the moth
er loved her son, but with the carelessness of a heart already
too full of another absorbing sentiment. The Baron de Se
vigne, who was of a light, thoughtless temperament, en
dured without jealousy the coldness of his mother's affection,
and voluntarily occupied a secondary place in her regard :
whether it was that he loved his mother even in her injus
tice, or whether the habit, so early acquired, of feeUng him
self a secondary object of affection in the family ; whether,
as is most probable, he was governed by that admiration
for his sister which had been enthusiasticaUy inculcated
upon him froni, the cradle by all Madame de Sevigne's inti
mate friends — it is. certain that he complacently accommo
dated himself to the second position. He was more of the
courtier than of the son or brother, and rather an object of
amusement and interest to his surviving parent than the
possessor of her passionate love. Nevertheless she carefully
provided for his miUtary career. The sound literary educa
tion which had been bestowed by such a superior mother
placed him above the ordinary youth of his own age. He
had attained his twentieth year, and was waiting for an op
portunity of attracting the notice of the king. This oppor
tunity soon presented itself.
The Turks had been engaged for four-and-twenty years
in the siege of Candia, the capital of Crete, which was de
fended by the Venetians. . • ^
The old alliance which had been entered into by France
and Turk^ to counterbalance the power of the house of
Austria, prevented. Louis XIV. from sending succor to the
Venetians i, VUUe, on the other hand, the reUgious animosity
which Christians entertained against the foUowers of Mo
hammed, made his most Christian majesty blush at leaving
the last strong-hold of Christianity in the Mediterranean to
succumb -without lifting an arm in defense of the Cross,
about to be cast down almost in his presence. He sought
to reconcile his deference for the Pope with his poUtical ex-

92 MADAME DE S^VIGNfi.
pediency, and could only effect this by a subterfuge alike
unworthy of the legislator and the Christian ; but the em
barrassment of his conscience induced him to adopt it. At
the same time that he avowed amity to the Turks, he au
thorized his favorite, the Duke de la FeuiUade, to -raise a
corps of gentlemen volunteers, and lead them to battle
against the Ottoman, under the single standard of the Cross.
The nobility of France rushed impetuously to join this ex
pedition of disavowed yet authorized adventurers.
The D'Aubussons, relatives of the hero of Ehodes, the
Langerons, the Beauvaus, the Fenelons, the Crequis, the
La Eochejacqueleins, the Xaintrailles, the Saint Pauls, the
Grammonts, the Chateau-Thierrys, the Chamborants — aU
enrolled themselves in this new crusade. Turenne, a friend
and admirer of Madame de Sevigne, advised her son to com
mence his military career in a campaign where religion and
distance would add an additional halo to the illusion always
accompanying enterprises in the East. The Duke de la
Eochefoucauld gave Madame de Sevigne the same counsel.
The young Count de Saint Paul, the son of the beautiful
and fascinating Duchess de Longueville, and whose father
was reputed to be the Duke de la Eochefoucauld, raised a
squadron of a hundred and fifty young cavaliers, all eager
for action and renown. The Baron de Sevigne departed
with the Count de Saint Paul. The French displayed ' a
valor which did honor to their nation, but conducted them
selves also with a degree of insubordination and impetuosity
which lost the town. Thejj nearly all perished in sorties
against the Turkish army. The Venetians reproached them
with rashness, and they in turn reproached the Venetians
with an excess of prudence. Decimated by the sabres of
the Ottomans, they abandoned on the shores of Candia the
dead bodies of their leaders : the survivors re-embarked be
fore the place feU, and left Crete to deplore the fatal succor
which they had brought, and which their unsteadiness had
converted into ruin.
The departure of her. son for an expedition so suddenly

MADAME DE S£"\r[GN]fi. 93
planned and so untowardly terminated cost Madame de
Sevigne some tears ; but they were quickly dried by a smile
from her daughter : the depths of her heart could feel no
want while this beloved child was still with her ; even her
regrets take an accent of unconcern when she writes to her
friends respecting the absence of her son. " I believe you
are ignorant," she says, ^' of my son's departure for Candia
-with the Duke de la FeuiUade and the Count de Saint Paul.
This phantasy has taken unconquerable possession of his
mind ; he spoke of it to the Cardinal de Eetz, to M. de
Turenne, to M. de la Eochefoucauld. You see what great
people have been hia counselors ! I have wept bitterly ; I
am deeply afflicted, and shall not know a moment's repose
during this voyage : I see all its perUs. I am ready to ex
pire -with apprehension ; but I have had no control in the
matter ; on such occasions the voice of a mother carries lit
tle weight."
When we compare this slight mention of her son's depart
ure for a campaign in which the heroic representative of the
Sevignes was about to encounter sword, fire, water, and oth
er many chances against his ever returning, with the bursts
of tears, anxiety, and despair which' emanated from the
same woman whenever her daughter undertook the smallest
excursion at home on a rainy day — we can easily estimate
the affection entertained by the mother for this daughter,
compared -with, that she felt toward her son. The son,
however, merited more from such a parent: upon his de
parture for Crete, he gave with his o'wn hand to his mother
a blank paper containing only his signature, as a full con
sent to the increased fortune it was in his power to bestow
upon his sistfer in furtherance of any matrimonial alliance
which might take place during his absence.
The desired yet dreaded hour which was to separate
mother and daughter at length arrived. The Count de
Grignan, one of the king's lieutenants general in Langue-
doc, a provincial nobleman of high descent and reputation,
about forty years of age, already twice widowed, possessed

94 MADAME DE S]&"VIGN]6.
of an understanding more solid than enlarged, a counte
nance heavy rather than pleasing, and a disposition more
ambitious than attractive, on the 29th of January, 1669, *
married MademoiseUe de Sevigne. The mother, in select
ing M. de Grignan, in preference to a younger man whose
heart had not already borne the impress of two unions and
"been shadowed with the grief of two losses, could have had
only one aim, that of retaining her daughter in Paris. She ,
flattered herself that M. de Grignan, a favorite of the king
in high estimation, would quit his .residence in Languedoc
and accept a place at court which had been long promised
to him.
MademoiseUe de Sevign^ consented, rather from obedi
ence and the weaiiness of waiting, than from any decided
inclination on her own part.
Her natural lukewarmness required no love as an accom
paniment to marriage. Her mother had satiated her with
adoration, and her union was exclusively one of reason and
calculation. We can easily see through the diplomacy of natural in
stinct with which Madame de Sevigne endeavored to smooth
away, in her letters to her friends, all the inconsistencies of
this aUiance :
" I must inform you that the prettiest girl in France has
married, not the handsomest, but one of the most upright
men in the kingdom. His former wives have died in order
to leave a place for my daughter, and destiny, in a moment
of unusual kindness, has also taken away his father and his
son ; so that, possessing greater riches than he ever did be
fore, and uniting by birth, connection, and excellent quali
ties all we could desire, we made no hesitating terms, as it
is usually the custom to do, and we feel ourselves much in
debted to the two families which have passed away before
us. The world appears satisfied, which is much. . . . He
has fortune, rank, office, esteem, and consideration in socie
ty — what more should we require ? I think we have come
well out of the scrape."

MADAME DE SifiVIGNE. 95
We perceive by these' jesting and almost heartless allu
sions to M. de Grignan's double ¦widowhood, and to the for
tunate decease of both his father and only son, that her joy
at finding a husband for her daughter suited to her wishes
carried her almost beyond decency of expression. We dis
cover more and more, in the perusal of her correspondence,
ithat the wit of her nature predominated over its sentiment,!
pud that her affections, 'with the exception of that which
she felt for her daughter, had no real depth of character.
The first months of. Madame de Grignan's married life
realized her mother's hopes of not being separated from her
darling — they were passed in the sweet retirement of Livry,
which recalled to Madame de Sevigne the happiest days of
her own youth, while it stiU afforded a shelter to the most
felicitous period of her maturity. AU that she wrote of
Livry during and after this sojourn breathes the peace
which expanded beneath the shade of its woods. A solita
ry cause of annoyance tempered this enjoyment : the Count
de Grignan's youngest brother was thrown from a restive
horse in the presence of the young countess, who, being
enceinte, the shock caused her to faint, and she was severely
hurt by the fall. This proved an unfortunate accident, for
the evidence of emotion, so natural upon witnessing the ac
cident of a brother-in-law to whom she was attached, scan
dal interpreted as a proof of criminal preference for the
handsonjiest, youngest, and most amiable of the two Grig-
nans. The world circulated these reports, poets perpetua
ted them in their epigrams, and the ladies of the court, jeal
ous of the beauty and virtue of one of their own coterie, con
veyed them to the ears of the king.
Madame de Sevigne, wounded where she was most vul
nerable — in her daughter's good name — complained to the
Duke de la Eochefoucauld and the Prince de Conde, who
from their high position had infiuence enough to hush the
voice of calumny ; but the scar on Madame de Sevigne's
heart remained indelible, and she cherished an undying re
sentment against thos6 who had propagated the injurious

96 MADAME DE Si&VIGN:^.
rumor : this indignation, which was produced by her love,
was unappeasable.
" Yesterday I went to visit Madame de la Fayette," .she
wrote to her daughter, " where I met Monsieur de la Eoche
foucauld. The conversation related entirely to you — the
just reason that I had to feel myself deeply wounded, and
I the propriety of speaking to Mellusine (Madame de Marans).
I can assure you she will be well repaid ; D'Hacquevill^
will give you an account of the whole inatter. . . . The af
fair of Mellusine is in the hands of Langlade, after having
passed through those of Messieurs de la Eochefoucauld and
D'HacqueviUe. I promise you she has been well rebuked,
and is thoroughly despised by those who have the honor of
knowing her."
A more real misfortune threatened Madame de"Se'vign^.
After completely sacrificing so many desirable points for the
sole object of retaining her son-in-la'w at Paris, he failed in
his solicitations for an office at court, and was nominated
lieutenant general to the king or Vice-governor of Pro
vence. This post compeUed M. de Grignan to reside at the
seat of his administration; and Madame de Sevigne with
much difficulty induced him to leave his -wife behind for her
confinement. Madame de Grignan gave birth to a daughter,
who was called Mademoiselle d' Adhemar, and who bore the
promise of all her mother's beauty and her grandmother's
talent ; but the cruel ambition of her family condemned her
to a convent in the flower of her loveliness. We discover
later that Madame de Sevigne had no power to preserve
this eldest daughter from the cloister ; but she saved Pauline,
who became afterward Madame de Simiane, from a similar
fate. Upon examination we find her using every effort and
persuasion to avert this doom.
"I am fiUed with pity for the fate of your Uttle girl
[Marie Blanche, MademoiseUe d' Adhemar], destined to pass
her life in a convent, where she will be lost to you com
pletely. As a preparative, you of course dare not allow her
to be removed for any interval of amusement, lest it should

MADAME DE SlfeVIGNi^. 97
unfit her for such a vocation. Truly the child ought to pos
sess a sad and downcast spirit who is to be thus buried alive.
.... I have replied to my de^r Uttle Adhemar (Marie
Blanche) with sincere affection, and told her that she may
be happy if she is contented : the poor child ! This is un
doubtedly true ; but you understand me well."
Some years afterward, on the subject of the second daugh
ter, Pauline, she -wrote thus : •
" Love, love Pauline ! give yourself up to this enjoyment,
and do not submit to voluntary martyrdom by separatioiL.
from this little creature. What do you fear ? You do not
deprive yourself of the power of placing her in a convent
some years hence, should you then judge such a step neces
sary. Indulge a little in maternal love, which ought indeed
to be strong where it is the instinct of the heart, and claim
ed by such a sweet candidate. In imagination I behold our
little one here before me ; she will resemble you despite the
stamp of the workman, who has left her' nose truly a strange
affair ; but that will alter for the better, and I prophesy that
Pauline will be beautiful. . . .
" I have heard of the reception which M. de Grignan met
with in Provence. I recommend Pauline to him, and im
plore him to preserve her in defiance of your philosophy.
Do not deprive yourself of this charming source of enjoy
ment. Alas ! have we then so many pleasures to choose
from ? When one that is innocent and natural is placed in
our possession, I can not think we are called upon to perpe
trate such an act of craelty toward ourselves as voluntarily
to part with it. I stiU sing the same tune over again —
Love, love Pauline I love her for all her excellent graces.
. . . But let us speak of Pauline, that amiable, that beauti
ful Uttle being ! I am surprised that she has not become stu
pid and siUy in the convent. Ah ! you have done weU in
withdrdwing her from it. Cherish her, my daughter ; do
not deprive yourself of this happiness ; Providence will take
care of her. I counsel you to give your love for her full
scope, even after you have married her in Beam. Let me
E

98 MADAME DE SfiVIGNjfi.
know if you intend to part with Pauline : she is a little
prodigy ; her wit will be her dowry. I should, if I were
you, keep her always with me, and preserve her from her
aster's fate [in a. convent]; and, lastly, as she is so extra-
Ofdinary herself, I should treat her in an extraordinary
manner. . . . You wiU never find this child an embarrass
ment 5 on the contrary, she will be of the greatest assistance
to you ; in fine, she affords me the highest enjoyment ; there
fore do not, I pray you, impose on me the martyrdom of de
priving me of this consolation."
We have thought this digression necessary, in order to
show how Madame de Se-signe protested against the barbar
ous custom of sacrificing daughters to the fortunes of sons.
We shall now resume our recital from the first separation
of Madame de Se'vigne and Madame de Grignan. Madame
de Sevigne's distress, as the moment approached which was
to witness her daughter's departure to join her husband, de
monstrated itself upon the day following the birth of her
daughter's infant. Grief rendered her eloquent ; her letters
to M. de Grignan no longer contain conversation and anec
dote ; they consist of pleadings and supplications. One by
one she disputes with him weeks, days, hours — every pretext
gives a reason for postponing the dreaded departure: she
feels that her soul is about to be torn from her ; she experi
ences agony at the thought of such a separation. Her let
ters alternately bum, palpitate, tremble, hope, and despair ;
their very puerility becomes pathetic ; like one in the act
of drowning, she catches at every thing, even at the rain
which falls and at the wind which blows.
" I assure you it is the excessive and unusual severity of
the weather which induces me to oppose her departure for a
few days longen . I do not expect she wiU entirely escape
the fatigue, cold,' and mud of the journey ; but I do not 'wish
her to be drowned. This reason, though an excellent one,
would not be sufficient to retain her, but for the expecta
tion of a companion who is to accompany her, and who is
engaged to marry her cousin. Mademoiselle d'Harcourt ; the

MADAME DE S:fi"VIGNfi. 99
ceremony is to be performed at the Louvre ; M. de Lyonne
is to be the proctor ; the king has spoken to him. ... It
'would seem so strange for her to go alone, and it will be so
much better for her to have the society of her brothcE-in-law,
that I shall use all my endeavors to carry out this plan. In
the mean time the weather may improve. I must farther
tell you that her being with me at present affords me no en
joyment. I know that she must leave me ; and our only
occupations are those of duty and business. We go into
no society, and take no pleasure;. we are in an unceasing
state of anxiety ; we talk only of roads, rain, and the tragic
al adventures of those who encounter such hazards. In a
word, though I love her, as you know, our present condition
is so distressing and wearisome, that for several days we
have ceased to enjoy ourselves. Many thanks for the sym
pathy you bestow on me ; you can understand better than
any other what my present sufferings are, and what they are
likely to be !"
The following day a fresh obstacle was discovered : " The
rain still continues so heavy that to encounter it would be
madness. All the rivers have overfiowed their banks, the
high roads are inundated, and the ruts concealed; travel
ers would in all probability be carried away at the fords.
Things are in such a state that Madame de Eochefort, who
is at her country residence, and is most anxious to return
to Paris, where her husband desires her presence and her
mother expects her 'with inconceivable impatience;^ can not
venture upon the road, because there is no safety iri doing
so. "What a terrible winter this is ! there has not been a
moment's frost, and it rains incessantly jv^ith thOi violence
of a tempest ; not a single boat can pass under the bridges ;
the arches of the Pont-Neuf are almost buried in water.
Such a state of the weather is truly unprecedented."
At length the day arrived ; ithe parting was consumma
ted: she must seek support in her own heart alone during
these terrible moments ; the depth of her grief, immediately
before and after the separation, was known only to herself.

100 MADAMi; DE SifiVIGNA
Her daughter's carriage had scarcely reached the barriers
of Paris, when the mother was seated at her desk, and
hoping at least to rejoin her daughter in thought. We can
perceive that she stifled her sobs in order not to distress the
being she loved. This first letter after the separation be
trays all the disorder of a soul in which grief, as in a dis
mantled chamber, has not yet arranged the scattered traces
of a removal.
"Ah! my sorrow would be weak indeed if.it were pos
sible for me to depict it, therefore I shall not try. I seek
every where for my daughter, but I no longer find her, and
each step she advances bears her farther from me 
Still weeping and suffering the pangs of death, I went to
the chapel of Sainte Marie. I felt as though my heart and
soul had been torn from me ; in truth, it is a cruel separa
tion. I entreated only to be left alone ; they, conducted me
to the chamber of Madame de Houssuit, and lighted a fire
for me. Agnes gazed at me without speaking ; this was
our contract. I passed five hours there, and sobbed"inces-
santly during the whole time ; my thoughts seemed to kill
me. I 'wrote to M. de Grignan, in what tone you can
judge ; afterward I went to the house of Madame de la
Fayette, who added to my grief by the interest she evinced.
She was alone, iU, and afflicted by the death of a sister.
She was all that I could 'wish. M. de la Eochefoucauld
entered; they spoke only of you and my distress. . . . The
hours of night passed sadly, and the Ught of moming.has
brought no peace to my spirit. After dinner I passed my
time with Madame de la Troche and at the Arsenal. In
the evening I received your letter, and this again plunged
me back into the intensity of my first sorrow."
Every thing that reminded the mother of the daughter
served- only to feed and renew her grief A month after,
the house, the staircase, the room where the separation
took place, reopened all her wounds. At that date she
wrote to her daughter: "Believe me, my dear child, you
are ever in my thoughts, and every day I feel more deeply

MADAME DE . gfiVIGN:^. 101
the truth of what you once said to me, that we ought not
to suffer our minds to dwell perpetually npon certain sub
jects : if we can not throw off the burden^ we shall be for
ever in tears. Such is my fate. There is not a spot in
this house which does not wound my heart. The whole of
your chamber is deat.h to me. I have had a screen placed
in the centre to intercept the view; the window on the
staircase, from whence I beheld you enter D'Hacqueville's
carriage, and called you back to me, makes me shudder at
myself, when I remember the incUnation of that moment
to throw myself out of it, for sometimes I am almost insane.
The cabinet, where I embraced you without knowing what
I did ; the Church of the Capuchins, where I attended mass ;
the tears which, falling from my eyes, watered the ground ;
Sainte Marie ; Madame de la Fayette ; my return to this
house, your apartment, the night, the morrow, your first
letter, those which foUOwed it, the succession of each day,
every interview with those who entered into my feelings,
poor D'HacqueviUe above all — I shall never forget the com
miseration he evinced toward me. All these reflections in
cessantly remind me of the past, but I must subdue them
all. How carefuUy we should refrain from gi'ving the rein
to our thoughts, and to the emotions of our hearts ! I wiU
endeavor to occupy myself in speculating upon your present
mode of life, which will amuse without separating my mind
from the object of its love. I shall stiU dream of you, and
anxiously expect your letters. When one reaches me, I
shall look forward to the next ; I am expecting one at the
present moment, and shall resume my o-wn letter when I
• have heard from you. Dearest, I tire you ; to-day I have
allowed myself to write this letter in advance : my heart
needed it, but it shall not become a habit."
This vivid recollection of an absent being never faded,
but followed her daughter through the whole journey. She
sometimes feared she might become importunate, and often
endeavored to smile through her tears ; the slightest evi
dence of her child's affection intoxicated her — drew from

102 MADAME DE SiVIGNjS.
her exclamations of delight, or a fond and caressing reply,
in which she sought forgiveness for the excess of her love
from her whom she wearied with such' overflowing affec
tion. " You well know, my beautiful girl, that, from the
way in which you wrote, your letter would draw forth my
tears. Join to my tenderness and natural affection for you
the little addition of knowing that you return my love, and
judge of the excess of my feeUngs ! Wicked child ! why
da you at times hide this precious treasure from my view?
You are afraid that I shall die with joy. You should know,
on the contrary, that I am more likely to be killed by grief.
I caU upon your friend D'HacqueviUe to bear witness of
the state in which he has sometimes found me. . . . But
let us quit these sad recollections, whUe I abandon myself
to the joy of that without which Ufe would be barren and
miserable. These are no't* merely words, they are solemn
truths. Madame de Guenegaud has spoken to me of the
interest she takes in you for my sake. I beg of you to
prize such sentiments, but there shall be no more tears;
they are not as beneficial to you as to me. At present I
am somewhat reasonable, and able to control myself; oc
casionally for four or five hours I resemble others, but the
slightest occurrence destroys my tranquillity — a recollec
tion, a word, a place, a half-developed thought ; above all,
your letters — even my own while writing them ; the men
tion of your name by another; these are the rocks upon
which my fortitude is wrecked, and which I am perpetual
ly encountering. I often see Madame de Villars, and feel
much pleasure at our interviews, as she enters into my feel
ings. Madame de la Fayette is also acquainted with the
tenderness I entertain for you ; she was deeply touched by
that which you evince toward me. I have seen poor Ma
dame Amyot ; she wept to such a degree that I seemed in
her to behold myself Alas ! what does not awake my rec
ollection? I cherish the most trifling reminiscences."
At the date of this separation began Madame de Se'-
'vigne's true work — the development of her life in her letters

MADAME DE Sll"VlGN]S. 103
to her daughter. The (Correspondence of her mind gave
place to that of her heart.^^Up to this period she had pos
sessed only the power of charming ; the genius of tender
ness burst forth with her tears ; she Uved only for the sake
of writing to her daughter ; and in order that the agreeable
and incessant employment of her letters, which afforded the
nourishment daily required by her heart, might not lead her
pen into a fatiguing repetition of maternal love, she sought
to blend with her domestic detaUs, her conversations, her
opinions, the books she read, the court, the city, the army,
k even the scandal of the day — all that could 'afford her an
^xcuse for writing. She compelled herself to be interesting
and entertaining, that she might obtain pardon for demand
ing so much sympathy. At this date also commences the
epistolary record of the reign of Louis XTV. A woman
dweUing concealed in the Eue des ToumeUes, or in her re
tirement of " the Eocks," writes unconsciously with tte pen
of a fashionable secretary, whUe Saint Simon holds that of
a court Tacitus in the ante-chamber of the dauphin. Sin
gular destiny of a reign, fortunate in aU points, to have
been recorded more minutely in private communications
than in its public annals ; first by a mother endeavoring to
amuse her daughter, and afterward by a courtier seeking to
stigmatize his rivals. Voltaire, in his " History of the Age
of Louis XTV.," is less circumstantial than either of these
echoes. We may affirm that the propitious circumstance
of possessing two such involuntary historians as an impas
sioned mother like Madame de Sevigne, and a violent satir
ist like Saint Simon, has contributed much to the fame 'knd
interest of this illustrious epoch. The private correspond
ence of Madame de S6vigne became at once a chronicle of
France, surpassing all others in its sketches, its varied im
pressions, its anecdotes, its portraits, its private informa
tion, its significant phrases, its reserves and revelations, its
approbation and censure. It also depicts with the 'vivid
pencil of reality the events, the men, the women, the glo-
• ries, the disgraces, and the reverses of the age ; each page

104 MADAME DE S:fi"VIGN^.
contains an ineffaceable impression of the period, executed /
by the hand of a woman. It is a family picture of the sev
enteenth century, drawn forth from the dust of the Chateau
de Grignan, and bestowed upon posterity to the latest gen
eration. We can neither reduce, analyze, nor engrave such a pic
ture: we must follow it, feature by feature, through the
space of two thousand letters, in which the painter is so
closely mingled with the design, that, in studying the cen
tury, we are compelled to connect ourselves with the writer.
It •would be impossible to erase Madame de Sevigne from
tlie picture without tearing the canvas and destroying its
most natural expression and its most vivid coloring.
The absence of Madame de Grignan produced only a ,
physical separation between Madame de Sevigne and her
daughter; in mind they never were more closely united.
Henceforth her thoughts were solely occupied with the in
terests of M. and Madame de Grignan ; she became more
ambitious than nature had created her; she bestowed her
attention upon every thing likely to increase or decrease her
son-in-law's advancement at court ; she made herself per
petual embassadress from the new governor of Provence to
those men upon whom his fortune and office depended ; and
while she 'wrote exceUent political advice to M. de Grignan,
counseling him how to desd with parties, interests, and pre
tensions at Aix and at Marseilles, she mingled more than
ever with the infiuential circles of Paris, in order to estab
lish the value of his services ; and assiduously revived all
the friendships of her youth that they might be continued
in reversion to her daughter. Up to this period she had
carelessly enjoyed the privilege of being loved ; but now she
exerted herself to please. Her success was not a matter of
uncertainty; such attractions as she possessed commanded
it: her unimpaired beauty, her inteUectual resources, her
wit, more variable and fascinating than ever, were the chief
weapons of her diplomacy ; she neglected nothing that could
render her name agreeable to the king and his favorites.

MADAME DE Si^VIGSlfi. 105
Her son, who had returned from the unfortunate campaign
of Candia, wanted interest to advance him in the army.
At this period the court began to imbibe the Spanish devo
tion which Anne of Austria had transmitted with the blood
of Philip II. to her son. Madame de Sevigne involuntarily
followed the general current, which led at the same time to
royal favor and to heaven. Her disposition received the
bent, her letters took the accent ; and her thoughts, beneath
their superficial gayety, contracted a certain unction of easy
piety. It is easy to imagine that the grief of living apart
from the sole object of her love would naturaUy lead her to
the source of supernatural consolation ; it is, however, du§
to her to state that the devotion, which had become a sort
of court costume, never in her degenerated into a base adu
lation of those who held the reins of the king's conscience.
She continued, though in secret, faithful to her first friend
ships, and constant in her veneration for the Arnaulds —
the Puritans and Independents of Catholicism. Her sighs
and affectionate soUcitude for the persecuted recluses of Port-
Eoyal break forth in all her letters with an accent of holy
indignation which absolves her devotion from servility. She
constantly read the " Essays" of Nicole. That stoical phi
losopher, who inculcated separation from all earthly pur
suits, persuaded her to adopt his opinions.
"I am perusing this moral system of Nicole, and find it
deUghtful. It has not yet taught me any lesson against
rain, but I expect it will do so, for it contains every thing;
and conformity to the will of God would suffice, did I not
desire a more specific remedy. The work is truly admira
ble. No one has yet 'written like these men ; for I consider
that Pascal lias only half achieved the truly beautiful. All
people love so to discuss themselves and their own feeUngs,
that, even where the argument takes an unfavorable turn,
the charm still continues. I have pardoned the inflation of
heart for the sake of the rest: I contend there is no other
word -Hrhicl^ so truly conveys the emptiness of pride and
vanity — I challenge you to find one ; and in the mean time
E3

106 MADAME DE ^^VIGN^.
I shall pursue my book with much pleasure. ... I read M.
Nicole with a delight that elevates my mind. I am most
of aU charmed by the third treatise, on the means of pre
serving peace among men : read it, I pray, with attention.
Every one must find there a knowledge of himself — the phi
losopher, the Jansenist, the Molinist, and, in fact, all the
world. This is what may be caUed searching the depths
of the heart with a lantern, which it actually does. It re
veals to us what we daily feel, and have not the courage to
declare or the sincerity to avow ; in a word, I have never
perused such writing as that which emanates from the pens
of these genflemen."' * * * « You know that I am al
ways somewhat enthusiastic in my reading. Those with
whom I converse are anxious that I should peruse good and
profitable books : the one which at present engages my at
tention is {his ' Essay on Morals,' by Nicole ; it contains a
treatise upon the methoel of preserving peace upon earth,
-with which I am ravished. I have never seen any thing
so useful, nor so fuU of mind and information : if you have
not read it, do so without delay ; if you should have read
it, read it again vyith renewed attention. I believe all the
world 'will find themselves depicted here : for myself, I am
persuaded it has looked into my thoughts ; I hope to profit
by it, and shall endeavor to do so. You know I can not
bear to hear aged people say, I am too old to improve; I
would rather pardon the youthful for saying, I am too
young. Youth is so charming, that we should be compeUed
to adore it if the soul and the mind were as unblemished as
the form ; but when we are no longer young, we must en
deavor to perfect ourselves, and seek to gain by our good
qualities all that we lose in external attraction. It is a long
time dnce I have made these reflections, and for this reason
I wish daily to exercise my intellect, my soul, my heart,
and my sentiments ; this is what I am now full of, and
what I fill this letter with, having little to say on other
topics. . . . These are the turns which my imagination every
moment takes : it always seems to me that all I love, all

MADAME DE s:6"VIGN^. 107
that is dear to me, is about to leave me ; and this so afflicts
my heart, that, were the feeling as lasting as it is vivid, ,1
could not bear up against it. This calls for submission to
the dispensations and will of God. Is not M. Nicole ad
mirable on this theme? I am charmed; I have seen no
thing like it before ; in truth, it is a perfection somewhat
beyond human nature, and I am less capable than many of
attaining the indifference he -wishes us to feel for the ap
plause and esteem of the world. But though I am feeble
in execution, it is nevertheless a pleasute to meditate -with
him, and to make reflections upon the joy, vanity, and sor
row which we experience from such a vapor; and it is not
impossible that we may derive some benefit by foUowing
the course of true and forcible argument. In a word, the
possession of such a faithful mirror of the weakness of our
hearts is always a treasure that we can turn to profit. M.
d'Andilly is as much delighted with this beautiful book as
we are. ... It is quite impossible for M. Nicole's work to
produce as good an effect upon me as it has upon M. de
Grignan ; I have ties upon all sides, but, above aU, one
which is in the marrow of my bones, and how can M.
Nicole deal with that ? Heaven knows I admire him pro
foundly ; but I am a King way from the happy state of in
difference which he wishes us to attain."
To her daughter she accused herself of appreciating the
subUmity of this moral code -without possessing the power
to sever her heart from the affection which fUled it. " Alas !
my words are good enough. I arrange them like those who
talk well, but I am vanquished by the tendemess of my
feelings ; for instance, imagination did not ex^gerate the
grief I should experience at my separation from you ; I feel
it, as I foresaw I should. I have always been convinced
that nothing could fiU your place, that your memory would
be ever impressed upon my heart, that I should weary of
your absence, and night and day think only of you. Yes !
in all this I have fulfilled my presentiment. There are
several spots I have not courage to look upon ; doing so

108 MADAME DE Slfi'VIGNll.
would overwhelm my fortitude, as you used to remark ; but
I have never been able to apply to myself the proverb which
says. Wear a dress suited to the cold. I have no dress suited
to such cold as this."
She went to seek her consolation in the churches, and
her reminiscences at Livry. " My chUd," she wrote a few-
days afterward, " three hours have elapsed since I quitted
Paris with the Abbe [de Coulanges], Helene [her maid],
H^ert £her footman], and Marphise [her dog], and -with
the intention of excluding myself from the world and its
noise until Thursday evening. I imagine myself in soUtude,
and seek to estabUsh a little La Trappe : I wish to meditate
and pray, I have resolved to fast often during my stay
here, for many reasons, to -walk during the time I usuaUy
remained in my chamber, and, above all, to deprive myself
of amusement or pastime from motives of piety ; but that
which I shall do much better and more incessantly than all
this, vrill be to think of you. My daughter, I have not
ceased to do so since my arrival ; and being unable to con
tinue the train of my reflections, I have begun writing to
you at the end of the Uttle dark walk which you were so
fond of, and I am placed upon the moSsy Seat where I have
sometimes seen you recUning; but what spot here is not
associated 'with your image ? My heart is distracted •with
all these thoughts ; there is not a single place in the house,
the garden, the church, or the surrounding country, where
I have not been 'with you. ... I still see you : you are
ever present with me, I think and think of you again and
again ; my head and mind are both on the rack ; but vainly
at every turn do I seek the dear child whom I so passion
ately love. She is at a distance of two hundred leagues
from me, I hold her no longer in my arms. At this sad
thought I have no power to restrain my tears. My beloved,
this is indeed a terrible indulgence ; I can not fortify myself
against such a justifiable and natural tendemess. The state
of mind this place has thrown me into is almost incredible.
I entreat of you not to talk of my weakness ; you ought to

MADAME DE SiiVIGN:^. 109
respect the tears which fiow from a heart so entirely de
voted to you. If I had wept for my sins as much as I have
wept for you since I have been here, I should be well pre
pared to enter upon the rejoicings of Easter. I have staid
here during the time I intended, and have passed it in the
way I proposed. It is a strange thing to possess so lively
an imagination, which presents the past as vividly as though
it still existed, while the present glides away in a dream.
It is death to have such a heart as mine. I know not how
to escape from you. Our house in Paris daUy overwhelms
me with sorrow, and Livry is the climax of my affliction ;
as for you, it is only by an effort of memory that you can
think of me in retm-n. Provence has none of the power of
bringing me before you that these spots possess of present
ing you to me. I have found "something soothing in the
sadness I have endured here — a wide solitude, an unbroken
silence ; a melancholy occupation — the Tenebroe* chanted
with devotion, a canonical fast, and a tranquil beauty in
the gardens, with which you would be charmed — all this I
have found very pleasing, as I have never before resided at
Livry during the holy week. Alas ! how I have wished
for you ! Much as you disUke solitude, you would be con
tented here. But urgent affairs compel my return to Paris."
The king's absence from the capital, the fluctuation of
Madame de Sevigne's life in the unoccupied interval, and
the necessity of retracing the spots consecrated by her hap
piest hours of intercourse with her daughter, brought her
back to " the Eocks," in the heart of Brittany, during the
session of the States of the province, in which her son rep
resented the nobUity. WhUe she continued there, all the
natural lightness of her character disappeared, and the soli
tude, for which she seemed so little formed, developed the
only source of happiness still remaining to her, the indul
gence of recollection and melancholy. The loss of her
daughter's society completely altered her disposition ; it im-
* A ritual of the Boman Catholic Church applicable to Passion-
week. — Teansl,

no MADAME DE S:fi"7IGN]6.
bued her 'with, the poetry of tears, opened an inexhaustible
source of regret, and led her to discover those delightful
sympathies existing between inanimate nature and the living
soul, which at a later period have immortalized the genius
of Jean Jacques Eousseau, Bernardin de Saint Pierre, and
Chateaubriand ; and which were profound mysteries to the
writers of a court so completely devoted to the worid as that
of Louis XIV. " " At length, my daughter, I am once more
afthe.se poorliocks. Can I again look upon these walks,
these inscriptions, this little cabinet, these books, this room,
without 'dying of grief? There are many pleasurable recol
lections, but some are so vivid and so tender that we can
scarcely endure them. All those associated with you are
of this nature. Can not you easily imagine the effect they
produce upon such a heart as mine? In these woods I
sometimes indulge 'In such sombre reveries that I emerge
from them more altered than by an attack of fever. There
I can dream uninterruptedly. I find both time and place,
and am free to do as I Uke upon the lawn of my garden. I
delight in walking upon it every evening until eight o'clock ;
my son's absence creates % silence, tranquillity, and soUtude
which are not to be found elsewhere. I will not tell you
who I think of, nor with how deep a tenderness. "Where
our thoughts can be divined, there is no necessity to utter
them. We stiU read together Tasso, the admirable morality
of Nicole, and the Cleopatra of MademoiseUe de Scudery,
to the late hours of night, and I generaUy sleep over this
reading." "Ah! my child," she continued at another period, "I
have just returned from walking in the Humeur de mafille"
(a name she had bestowed upon a walk in the woods, where
Madame de Grignan had loved to sit and meditate alone
during her childhood) ; " I have come from this wood ; truly
its glades possess a charm of which I am never weary ; there
are six you are quite unacquainted 'with,^ but those you do
know are improved by the growth of the trees ; the walks
now are dry and beautiful. I dweU there until twiUght,

MADAME DE Si^YIGNlfi. m
and there I find leisure to love you. I thank you, my child,
for having preserved some memory of the patrio nido (the
paternal nest, or native country), and why should it be im
possible for me to behold you once more in these beautiful
alleys?" She drained the depths of her soul to find something
which might render her letters interesting to her daughter ;
.she touched upon aU the daUy occurrences pf.a country .jlife,
its domestic employments, its simple recreations ; she de
scribed her walks, her visits to her neighbors, her parterres,
her autumnal evenings by the fireside, her studies, her badr
inage with her son, whom she never treated seriously ; even
her regret for having left her dog Marphise at Paris, and
her remorse for adopting and cherishing another fouiP-footed
favorite. "You are surprised at my having a little dog. Thus it
happened. From mere want of company, I called to me a
small greyhound belonging to a lady who Uves at the bot
tom of this park. Madame de Tarente, knowing this, ob
served, ' What ! do you care for dogs ? I will send you one,
and the prettiest in the world.' I thanked her, and told her
I had formed a re'solution never again to indulge in this
folly. Here our conversation ended, and I thought no more
of the matter. Two days after I beheld a footman entering
with a little dog-kennel, ornamented 'with ribbons, and out
of this pretty house came a small dog, perfumed all over,
and wonderfully beautiful, with long silky hair and ears, a
sweet breath, no larger than a sylph, and white as driven
snow. I never felt more surprise or embarrassment; I
wished to return it, but they would not hear of such a
thing. The lady's-maid who brought it up has nearly died
of grief at its loss. Marie has conceived the greatest affec
tion for this little pet. It sleeps in her house, in Beaulieu's
chamber, and eats nothing but bread. I do not care for it,
but it begins to attach itself to me, and I am afraid I shaU be
conquered. This is the history which I entreat of you not to
communicate to Marphise, for I fear his reproaches. Fur-

112 MADAME DE S]6"VT:GN:fi.
thermore, this little beauty is cleanliness itself: his name is
Fidele, an appellation which the lovers of the princess have
never been worthy to bear, though their manners are suffi
ciently fashionable ; some day or other I will recount his
adventures to you. , . . What you say to me respecting
Fidele is most charming and agreeable ; truly my conduct
has been that of a perfect coquette. I am ashamed of it,
and I endeavor to excuse myself, as you see, for it is certain
I aspired to the perfection of never having been attached to
more than one dog, in defiance of the maxims of M. de la
Eochefoucauld. And now I am embarrassed with regard
to Marphise. I know not what to do in this matter, or
what reason to assign. I shall insensibly be led into false
hood, unless I detaU to him every circumstance connected
with my new engagement. My final resolution is never
again to place myself in such a difficult position ; it is a
grand instance of the 'wretchedness of humanity. This
misfortune has entirely occurred from my being in the vi
cinity of Vitre."
Her son's folUes, amours, and repentances form the usual
text of her confidential communications with her daughter ;
but he is merely the subject of her humor, which invariably
sacrifices him to the smiles of his sister.
" Upon returning from my walk the day before yesterday,
I encountered the frater at the end of the mall. The mo
ment he perceived me he threw himself upon his knees, feel
ing himself so guilty for having passed three weeks in sing
ing his matins underground, that he only dared to approach
me in this position. I had made a resolute determination ,
of "scolding him soundly, but I knew not where to seek for
anger, I was so rejoiced to see him. You know how amus
ing he is ; he embraced me a thousand times, and tried to
satisfy me by the worst reasons in the world, which I re
ceived for good ones. We converse a great deal, we read,
we walk, and thus we pass the year, or at least the remain
der of it."
She varied her solitude by visiting M. and Madame de

MADAME DE Sfi"VlGN:fi. 113
Chaulnes ; we must repeat some of those inimitable descrip
tions of country state, which transport us to Brittany in the
seventeenth century. In June, 1671, she writes to her
daughter :
" I do not yet know what will be the result of all these
expenses ; I think I shall run away to keep myself from
being ruined. It is a delightful thing to spend a thousand
crowns in dinners and fricassees for the honor of being the
country house of entertainment for M. and Madame de
Chaulnes, Madame de Eohan, M. de Lavardin, and. all Brit
tany, who, without knowing or caring for me, for the mere
pleasure of imitating others will not fail to come here. "We
shall see.
" On Monday I dined at M. de Chaulnes', who holds state
twice daily for fear people should not see me. I dare not
tell you the compliments and honors they pay me at these
entertainments, which are truly ridiculous. Nevertheless, I
have not yet slept from'^home, and I can not consent to give
up my woods and my walks, no matter how they entreat
me. "August, 1671.— At length, my dear child, I am in full
state, or rather Eochers is full of state. Last Sunday, just
as I had sealed my letters, I saw four carriages-and-six
enter the court-yard, with fifty out-riders, many saddle-
horses, and several mounted judges. They were M. de
Chaulnes, M. de Eohan, M. de Lavardin, Messieurs de Co-
etlogon and Locmarie, the Barons de Guais, the Bishops of
Eennes and Saint Malo, the Messieurs d'Argouges, and eight
or ten more with whom I was unacquainted. I have omit
ted M. d'Harouis, but he is not worth mentioning. I re
ceived the whole company : they asked and answered many
things. After a stroll, with which they seemed much pleased,
an excellent and" well-appointed collation appeared at one
end of the mall, in which Burgundy reigned pre-eminent,
and flowed like the water of Forges : all were persuaded
that it was produced by the stroke of an enchanter's wand.
M. de Chaulnes entreated me to go at once to Vitre. I

114 MADAME DE StVIG'Nt:.
went there on Monday evening; M. de Chaulnes enter
tained me with a supper and the comedy of ' Tartuffe,' by
no means badly acted, and a ball, in which the minuet and
the jig irresistibly drew forth my tears by vividly bringing
you to my remembrance ; but I quickly dissipated my emo
tion. They constantly speak to me of you, and I make no
pause in my reply, for you are ever in my thoughts; I really
think they must be visible through the body of my petticoat.
Yesterday I received all Brittany at my tower of Sevigne.
I went again to the play, which was ' Andromaque,' and
made me shed more than six tears ; that was sufficient for
a troop of country actors. You are now, thank Heaven, in
formed of every thing connected with your own deUghtful
country. " If you ask me how I find myself at the Eocks after so
much excitement, I will teU you that I am transported with
joy. I intend to remain here for eight days longer at least,
no matter how I am tormented to return. I can not de
scribe the desire I feel for repose : I am in need of sleep and
.food, for I should die of hunger at these feasts; I feel the
necessity of recruiting myself and of indulging in silence,
for I have talked to every body till my lungs are exhausted.
In conclusion, my dear child, I have regained my Abbe, my
mossy bench, my dog, my avenue, Pilois, my bricklayers —
all that is most agreeable to my present frame of mind, and
when I begin to feel tired I can again seek variety."
Upon returning to Paris her letters change subjects, and
resume a style of seriousness with the same ease with which
they had for a' time adopted a tone of gayety. In the me
tropolis her topics were the court, with its vicissitudes of
favor and disgrace, and an account of opinions more or less
sound upon the great poets, writers, and sacred orators of
the day. The correspondence becomes a sort of controversy
between faith and philosophy, in which the mother upholds
blind and passive belief, while the daughter advocates an in
dependent and reasonable religion : it contains their mutual
discussions upon Uterary preferences, and their reflections

MAIJAME DE SfiVIGNfe 115*
upon the books which they read at the same time at Li-vry
and at Q-rignan. M. de Sevigne adopted his mother's side
of^ the argument, and jested with his sister in a strain of
exquisite humor and good taste combined.
" Ah ! poor circumscribed inteUect," he writes, " you do
not Uke Homer ; the most perfect works appear to you
worthy of contempt ; you have no feeling for natural beau
ties ; you require tinsel or petits corps [in allusion to Des
cartes, who was Madame de Grignan's chief study]. If
you wish to be at peace -with me, do not read Virgil ; I
never could forgive you for abusing him as you would be
capable of doing. If, however, you will have construed to
you the sixth and ninth books, which latter contains the
episode of Nisus andEuryalus, also the eleventh and twelfth,
I am sure they wrU afford yon much pleasure. Turnus you
will consider worthy of your esteem and friendship, and, to
speak candidly, knowing you as I do, I should tremble for
M. de Grignan if such an individual were about to visit
Provence; but I, being a good brother, desire this event
from the bottom of my heart solely for your advantage ;
and since it is decreed that your head shall be turned, it
had better be in this way than by the indefectibility of matter
and non^conversible negations (Cartesian doctrines). It is sad
to be forever occupied with trifles and arguments so subtle
that it is impossible to understand them. ... No matter
wha^t happens, I assure you I shall ever entertain the same
warm remembrance and affection for you, my beautiful little
sistor." Madame de Sevigne's favorite authors were — Comeille,.
La Fontaine, Bourdaloue, Bossuet, Fenelon, Ariqsto, Tasso,
Petrarch, Montaigne, Boileau, Cervantes, Nicole, Pascal,
and Moliere ; the Koran also formed a portion of her stud
ies : she never discovered or foresaw the greatness of Ea
cine, whiclT was somewhat concealed by the uniform perfec
tion of style in a young poet who was destined soon to
ecUpse all the objects of her early admiration. Eacine,
who was in love with La Champmele, a celebrated actress

116 MADAME DE Sl&yiGNfi.
and beauty, happened to be the fortupate rival of the Baron
de Sevigne, her son, who was also enamored of the same
siren, and lavished upon her his heart and fortune. Ma
dame de Sevigne's prejudice against Eacine may be consid
ered a sort of family antipathy. In every other case her
sound judgment only forestalled the opinion of posterity.
Her opposition to the Jesuits and her predUection for the
Jansenists did not prevent her from declaring Bossuet and
Bourdaloue the masters of the pulpit, nor did it interfere
with her warm admiration of their clerical oratory. Her
devotion, nevertheless, conforming to the other sentiments
of her soul, sacrificed itself to her controlling passion for
her daughter ; her reUgion was, in fact, more a studied sci
ence than a natural inspiration — a duty of life rather than
an impulse of the heart ; acquired faith was its basis, piety
from innate tender feeling formed no ingredient. Her be
lief was stronger than her adoration.
"I have just finished classifying my little library, and
have accomplished the task in a single morning," she says.
" I have brought a quantity of books here, and have ar
ranged them to-day ; no one can lay their hand on any par
ticular volume, no matter what its subject may be, without
wishing to read it entirely through. The first shelf consists
exclusively of devotional works. What a prominent posi-,
tion for the honor of religion ! The next shelf is entirely
devoted to history ; the third to morality ; the last to poet
ry, tales, and memoirs. Eomances are excluded with con
tempt, and have therefore obtained undisputed possession
of the small closets. When I re-enter this cabinet, I can
not understand why I ever leave it : it would be worthy of
you, my daughter."
Her pen dealt with the profoundest questions of sacred
metaphysics with as much ease as it did with the playful
motions of her ordinary thoughts ; her exquisite reason up
held while it modified the theory of the grace and action of
God in his creatures — a sort of Christian fataUsm, inculca
ted in the doctrines of her friends at Port-Eoyal. A wo-

MADAME DE SfiVIGNfi. 117
man, simply a disciple, corrects while she explains the ten
ets of the Apostles. " You are, then, reading St. Paul and
St. Augustine ? Their works thoroughly establish the will
of God ; they dO not hesitate to assert that God disposes of
his creatures : like the potter, some he chooses, some he re
jects. They need not plead for justice, for there is no other
justice than his wUl, which is justice itself, and an estab-
Ushed law. After all, what does he owe to men? what
right can they claim ? None.> He therefore renders them
justice when he leaves them in their original sinful condi
tion, which is the natural inheritance of all, and he shows
mercy to the small number of those whom he saves for his
Son's sake. Jesus Christ has said this himself: 'I know
my sheep ; I will lead them to the pasture myself: not one
of them shall be lost ; I know them, and they know me.'
He said to his Apostles, ' I have chosen you ; it is not you
who have chosen me.' I find many similar passages; I
search them all, and when I meet with one apparently con
tradictory, I say it arises simply from the endeavor to speak
in general terms applicable to aU understandings ; for in
stance, when it is stated, ' God repented,' and that he was
angry, the terms are addressed to men, and are used that
men may comprehend them.. I hold to this first great truth,
which is altogether divine, and represents God like God, the
master, author, and sovereign Creator of the universe ; and,
finally, to quote a reflection of your spiritual father, Des
cartes, a perfect and infinite being,
" Such are my humble and insignificant thoughts, which
lead me to no absurd conclusions, and do not deprive me
of the hope that I shall be one of the number phosen and
elected by so many acts of grace, which are the pre-judg
ments and foundations of my confidence. I have the great-*
est dislike to enter into all- this .discussion. "Why do you
introduce the, subject ? My pen runs on as if I were beside
myself." She passes from the sublimity of metaphysics to the gay
est and most immaterial jesting upon the amours of her son,

118 MADAME DE Si&VIGN^.
which she holds up to the somewhat sarcastic derision of
his sister. By an hereditary fatality, the same Ninon de
Lenclos, who at twenty had stolen the love of .Madame de
Sevigne's husband, at fifty-four carried off the heart of her
son. The bloom of this celebrated courtesan's beauty sur
vived the inroad of years ; the reputation of her wit, taste,
and philosophy, added to the number of her admirers, com
pleted the seduction of the Baron de Sevigne. .J^inon was
not only attractive, but she was the fashion, and men prided
themselves upon being enslaved by her charms ; those of
most iUustrious talent, and some who even professed the
severest principles, did not deem themselves dishonored in
frequenting her assembUes. Madame de Sevigne's com
plaints to her daughter inform us that Eacine and Boileau
supped at the expense of her son at Ninon's house, after '
having in the morning r^d, their verses to the king and
Madame de Maintenon. This second seduction in the same
family, after a lapse of thirty years, reopened the wound ^
Madame de Sevigne's heart. Her feelings revolted against
Ninon, and she compelled her son to blush for a passion op
posed to nature.
" "What a dangerous being this Ninon is !" she -wrote to
her daughter ; " if you only knew how she dogmatizes upoi^
reUgion, you would be fiUed with hoiTor. Her zeal for the
perversion of young men resembles that of a certain M. de
Saint-Germain, whom we have sometimes seen at Livry.
She says your brother has the simpUcity of a dove, that he
resembles his mother, that Madame de Grignan has all the
spirit of the family, and is not -silly enough to copy his do
cility. Soine one present, endeavoring to take your part,
sought to change her opinion.; -she silenced him by saying
she knew more about it than he did. "What depra-\T'ty!
and for what reason ? Simply because^ kno-wing you to be
beautiful and clever, she seeks to bestow upon you, in addi
tion, the liberal quality, witliout which, according to her
maxims, no oneisperfect^^,. I am .deeply wounded by the
injury she does my son in this matter ; do not say any thing

MADAME DE 'Si£"VnGNfi. 119
to him on the subject. I and Madame de la Fayette are
doing all we can to separate him from such a dangerous
connection." A little later she adds : " I fancy the chapter on your
brother has a^orded you much amusement. He is now in
an interval of repose ; not-withstanding which, he daily vis
its Ninon, but only as a friend. I am going to take him
into Brittany, where I' hope he will regain health both of
mind and body."
Separ^ion, the tender reproaches of his mother — who
was more intimately the confidante of his intrigues than the
maternal propriety of the present day would permit — and
at length the war, tore De Se-vigne from the love of Ninon.
Madame de Sevigne carried her son to Brittany, where she
sought to banish his regret by the charm of her conversa
tion and the most indulgent kindpess.
Madame de Sevigne -went afterward to pass fifteen months
in Provence -with Madame de Grignan, and regained all
the hearts which her daughter's coldness had alienated.
She -wrote to, Bussy from thence : " I have been here for
eight months, my dear cousin. You see I have had cour
age to travel aU the way from Brittany ; I do not repent
of it. My daughter is amiable, as you know, and she loves
me fondly ; M. de Grignan possesses aU the qualities which
render society agreeable. Their chateau is very beautiful,
and equaUy magnificent ; this house has a grand appear
ance ; they entertain in first-rate style, and a thousand peo
ple come to meet us. We nave passed the winter here
without any other annoyance than the master of the house
. being attacked by fever, which repeated doses of quinine
have had much difficulty ia subduing, strong as he is. At
length he is better, and has gone to Aix, where they were
enchanted to see him again. In addition, my son has again
come from Brittany to take the waters here, and the agree
able company, to which his presence is such an addition,
has done him more good than any thing else. The whole
famUy, then, are here altogether. There is a young Uttle

120 MADAME DE SfiVIGN^.
Grignan whom you are not acquainted with, who fiUs her
place very weU ; she is sixteen years of age, pretty, and
inteUigent, and promises to become more so. AU these at
tractions combined are most agreeable, indeed too agreeable,
for I find days, months, and years pass by so rapidly that I
scarcely know how they escape : time flie^ and bears me
-with it against my will ; I seek to retard it in vain ; it
draws me along in spite of myself, and the thought terrifies
me. The younger Grignan, the heir, has passed the winter
along ¦with us ; he had the fever in the spring, and rejoined
his regiment a fortnight since. "When we shaU revisit Paris
is a secret as yet known to Providence alone."
From Provence, Madame de Sevigne returned to Paris,
and thence she proceeded to the Eocks. Brittany was agi
tated at that time by risings of the peasantry, the result of
public want.
The terms in which Madame de Sevigne expresses her
self upon the punishments infiicted en masse upon the unfor-
timate Bretons are more than cruel, they are volatile and
thoughtless ; the air of the court had hardened h'er'.lieart to
the sufferings of those beneath her in rank. This woman,
sensitive to the crumpUng of a rose-leaf in ha: daughter's
destiny, laughs at the gibbets on which the king's troops
suspended the bodies of the unfortunate peasants who knelt
in suppUcation before their executioners, and who were ig
norant even of the language in which their tyrants address
ed them. To put faith in Madame de Se'vigne's sensibility,
we must tear these leaves from the volumes of her corre
spondence : the woman who could seek ornaments of style
to amuse her daughter in the spectacle of these horrors
may be a mother, but she ceases to be a female. Let us
glide quickly over this stain, which casts a shadow upon
her letters, and saddens the heart of the reader.
The good fortune of being reunited to her daughter for
a space of five years, interrupted the occupation and labor
of her life — 'writing letters and lamenting over the past.
Her son married a young heiress of Brittany, who enticed

MADAME DE Sfi'VIGN^. 121
the Baron de Sevign^ from the follies of youth to the at
tractions of a quiet life, retired in its enjoyinents, and al
most ascetic in practice. He became one of the most fer
vent and austere disciples of his mother's friends at Port-
Eoyal. Madame de Sevigne, henceforth alone, passed her
time between Paris, Livry, and the Eocks. In these varied
scenes she refreshed her sensibilities and the mournful graces
of her style.
At this epoch she wrote : " We have had the most beau
tiful weather in the world here until Christmas-eve. I was
at the end of the grand avenue admiring the beauty of the
sun, when all of a sudden I beheld a thick black cloud arise,
into which the sun plunged, and at the same moment I was
surrounded by a frightful fog ; I ran home, and I have not
since quitted my chamber or the chapel till to-day, when
the dove returned with the olive-branch. The earth has
resumed its color, and the sun, again emerging, has induced
me to take a walk ; for you, who are anxious for my health,
my beloved one, can imagine that when the weather is so
discouraging I am seated by the fireside, reading and chat
ting with my son and his wife."
In her solitary mode of life at this period, she lost little
of her interest in existence ; her soul was of that lukewarm
temperature, upon which age bestows tranquillity without
steaUng from its warmth. The sole passion, or, rather, the
only instinct in which she had ever indulged, was maternal
affection, and that in woman increases instead of diminish
ing with years. The less they live in themselves, the more
they live in their children. She did not exhaust her being,
but poured it continually into that of another.
Such dispositions are not sensible of a void ; for the heart
which has never overflowed is always sufficiently full.
Friendship satisfies the temperament of these souls. Ma
dame de Sevigne had many friends, with whom she held in
tercourse through the charming medium of a pen which dis
coursed brilHantly upon all subjects. With the exception
of her daughter, her seventy years of life were only a long
F

122 MADAME DE S:6VIGN]6.
conversation. One man alone from the entire"' list of her
correspondents seems to have warmed her feelings to the
true heat of friendship; this man was Corbinelli, and his
name is more constantly repeated in her letters than any
other. Corbinelli was one of the rare exceptions who seem
created by nature to be the benevolent spectators of human
events, without taking any part in them beyond that of ob
servation and interest for the actors. These unpresuming
but necessary appendages to society resemble the confidants
of the stage, who Usten, who are there to fill empty spaces,
and to give answers when required : they need the art and
judgment, 'without the passion of those who perform the
principal characters, and none of the applause bestowed is
directed to them. , CorbinelU had nothing of the French
vanity which insists on being distinguished; he was satis
fied 'with enjoying himself. Italian by birth, with the in
difference of a foreigner, and the learning of a Florentine
of the great philosophical and poetical epoch of Leo X. ;
introduced into France by Cardinal Mazarin, eriiployed by
that minister for some years at Eome in negotiations of
secondary importance, where his address had unraveled the
secret of great poUtical schemes, 'without his desert being
recognized or rewarded — CorbinelU remained at Paris, liv
ing upon a moderate pension, and desiring only the enjoy
ment of perfect leisure. For his own gratification, he cul
tivated letters, antiquity, philosophy, history, and the intel
lectual society of his time. He was an Italian Saint Evre-
mond— able to compete 'with the greatest minds, but shrink
ing from an encounter 'with the difficulties which lie in the
path of fame, and assuming, as much through idleness as
want of ambition, the character of an amateur. He was
one of the first to discover Madame de Sevigne's exquisite
superiority of Attic grace, and he made her his Beatrice.
His admiration and attention, his worship, which sought
no return, gained him admittance to her house, where he
was regarded as one of the family, and became a necessary
appendage. Madame de Sevigne, at first charmed by his

MADAME DE SlSviGN^. 123
wit, afterward touched by his disinterested attachment,- con
cluded by making him the confidant of her most secret emo
tions. Every heart that beats warmly beneath its own bo
som seeks to hear itself repeated in that of another. Cor
binelli became the echo of Madame de Sevigne's mind, soul,
and existence. Either from predilection or complaisance,
he participated in her maternal adoration of her daughter.
At Paris, CorbineUi -visited Madame de Sevigne' every day ;
he sometimes followed her to Livry and the Eocks, and,
when absent, corresponded -with her frequently. The do
minion which his friend exercised over him was so gentle
that he experienced no feeUng of slavery, while he submit
ted impUcitly to the rule of her tastes. Her empire was so
absolute, that when Madame de Sevigne became a devotee,
CorbinelU adopted the character of a mystic ; he followed
her, as the satellite accompanies the planet, from the world
ly dissipations of her youth even to the foot of the altar and
the ascetic self-denial of Port-Eoyal.
Such was Madame de Sevigne's principal friend. If his
name were erased from her letters, the monument would be
mutilated ; he is enshrined there in the inmost heart, and
merits his exalted position. We must not deprive such de
votion of its sole glory, the glory of having loved. Corbi
nelU, whose easy philosophy and amiable indifference with
regard to himself, immeasurably prolonged his existence,
survived his friend as though he had survived himself, and
lived to the extraordinary age of one hundred and four : the
man was animated by unusual Ufe liirough his gentle and
amiable feeUngs.
Madame de Sevigne's emotions wei-e too vivid not to con
sume her existence : the dominating influence of one feeling
grew stronger and stronger in her retirement. The Ufe of
her daughter, who in her turn became a mother, disturbed
by the ambition and harassed by the extravagance of M. de
Grignan, reflected itself painfully in her o-wn. She enjoyed
from time to time some short intervals of happiness ; but
they evaporated in melancholy reflections and tears, as often

124 MADAME DE s:6viGN^.
as she revisited the localities which called up and fUled her
mind with the image of her daughter.
"I am here, my daughter," she wrote in a letter fi-om
La Silleraie during her latter years, " here in a spot where
you once accompanied me ; but it is no longer recognizable ;
there is not one stone left upon another as they -were at
that time,"
And upon returning to the Eocks: "I have fojnd the
woods," she said, " looking beautiful, but strangely sad ; all
the trees which you remember so small have become large
and tall, and have attained the perfection of their beauty ;
their height throws an agreeable shade, and must be from
forty to fifty feet. There is a slight feeling of parental af
fection in this detail : consider that I planted them all, and
that I have seen them, as M, de Montbazon used to say,
not taller than t/iat [M. de Montbazon had a habit of making
this remark upon his own children]. This is a solitude
formed expressly for indulging in contemplation. Here I
incessantly think of you ; I regret your absence ; I wish for
your presence ; your health, your affairs, your banishment,
occupy my mind at twilight, and these lines come into my *
head: " 'What adverse star thy dawning being marr'd,
Thou hapless object of such deep regard ?'
" We must bow with the most unreserved submission to
the wUl of God, or it would be impossible to contemplate
without despair all I look forward to, and which assuredly
I shall not occupy your attention by recapitulating. ... I
met the other day with a letter of youi-s, in which you
called me ' My good mamma ;' you were then ten years
old, and were staying at Sainte-Marie. You recounted to
me the downfall of Madame Amelot, who, from the draw
ing-room, found herself in the cellar. The letter already
displays a good style. I have found a thousand others
which were written at that period to Mademoiselle de S6-
vign^. All these accidental discoveries are most happy in
bringing back remembrances of you ; for without them," she

MADAME DE SirVTEGNE. 125
adds, with a sad smile, " whence should I derive that con
solation ?"
"We lead such a regular life," she continues, "that it
would be impossible to be ill. We rise at eight o'clock,
and generally until nine, when the bell rings for mass, I
enjoy the freshness of the woods ; after mass we dress our
selves, we exchange the courtesies of the morning, we go
and gather fiowers from the orange-trees ; we dine, we read
or work until five. Since my son has been absent, I read
to save the weak chest of his wife : at five o'clock I leave
her ; I go to the deUghtful avenues ; I take my books, I
change my seat, and vary the direction of my walks : a vol
ume of devotion and a volume of history — I go from one
to the other ; this gives variety to my occupation. I re
flect for a time upon God and his providence, I think of
my soul, dream of the future, and at eight o'clock I hear
the bell which summons us to supper. Sometimes, per
haps, I have sauntered to a considerable distance ; I rejoin
my daughter-in-law in her pretty parterre, we form a Uttle
society in ourselves, we sup while the twilight lasts. ... I
return with her to the Place Coulanges, in the midst of her
orange-trees ; and I look with a longing eye upon the holy
solemnity of the woods appearing through the bars of the
beautiful iron gate which you have never seen. There is
an echo, ' a little voice which whispers in my ear.' "
We know she meant to say, ""Which penetrates to my
heart." M. de Walsh, the author of a highly character
istic biography of Madame de Se'vigne, says the echo stiU
exists : a marble slab in the parterre indicates to the pU-
grims of the Eocks the spot where the name is to be pro
nounced which the mother taught the echo to repeat.
Such were the closing hours of the calm evening of Ma
dame de Sevigne's life ; they were prolonged during sixteen
months ; at the expiration of which death arrived — a death
true and natural after such a Ufe ; the death of a mother
who had sacrificed herself for her daughter, and died in her
place.

126 * MADAME DE SfiVIGNie.
Madame de Sevigne le&med at the Eocks that her daugh
ter was attacked at the Chateau de Grignan, in Provence,
by one of those inward and lingering maladies which con
stitute the hidden snares of life. She set out for Grignan
during a severe season, and, forgetful of herself, she ex
hausted her strength in three months' incessant attendance
by the bedside of her daughter, just as she had formerly
watched over her cradle. After a quarter of a year of fa
tigue and sleeplessness, Madame de Sevigne had the joy of
seeing her daughter return to life, but she had given her
own in exchange. Intense affection alone seemed to have
enabled her to retain existence until the convalescence of
Madame de Grignan, when it fled, having fulfilled its Ikst
object upon earth. She expired on the 16th of April, 1696,
in the arms of her daughter, and surrounded by her weep
ing grandchildren. Her last glance feU upon the being
enshrined in her soul, and restored to health by her care.
She was interred in the chapel of the Chateau de Grignan ;
but her letters are her true and living sepulchre-^rignan
holds her body, but her correspondence contains her soul.
Not far from her tomb, travelers are shown her favorite
grotto of Eoche-Courbierre, upon the sides of which a fig-
tree is trained, which, bears some branches contemporaneous
with her visit to Grignan. It was at the entrance of this
grottOj and beneath the shade of this fig-tree, that she de
lighted to seat herself to compose her letters. This spot is
in the neighborhood of the grottoes of Vaucluse, immortal
ized by Petrarch, the poet she worshiped, because, like her,
. his existence had been absorbed by a single emotion. Ma-
M dame de Se'vigne, almost a poetess, was in fact the Petrarch
(\ of French prose. Like him, her life was comprised in a
ssingle name, and awoke a thousand hearts by the beatings
^f her own. Like him, she owes her glory to one exclu
sive sentiment.
Such was the uneventful life of a woman who has no
other history than the feelings that emanated from the
heart and mind of a mother, while pondering in her cham-

MADAME DE Si&VIGN^. 127
ber upon an absent daughter. Eegrets, fears, tendemess;
apprehended departures, hoped-for returns ; impassioned
though silent meetings; family communications, the inter
est of which does not pass beyond the threshold ; descrip
tions of places and sites sanctified by recollection; con
versations with friends and neighbors, often the echo of
some distant court rumor, the gossiping, •with closed doors,
of an immortal century ; finally, a gentle death, concluding
a life without a dream.
This comprises her whole existence : it is monotonous as
the song of a nurse who rocks her infant in the cradle tiU
death, and nevertheless the world never wearies of listening
to it. The renown of the warriors, ministers, poets, and
sacred orators of this period has undergone the vicissitudes
of posterity, and is partly concealed by the obscurity of
distance — the person and letters of Madame de Sevigne
have not sacrificed a palpitation or a page to the lapse of
time. We search for the most trifling notes amidst the
archives of the families with which this memorable woman
was connected, as we seek for hidden treasures ; and the
discovery of a communication from the solitary gossip of
the Eocks causes no less excitement among the erudite than
would the disinterment of a mutilated book of Tacitus.
Why is this? It is that the human hfeart is even more
sympathetic than curious ; and that the secrets of a moth
er's tenderness for her child, when surprised in their natural
simplicity, and stamped by the genius of sentiment, possess
as deep an interest for us as the destinies of an empire.
Enter the interior of all dwellings, select from the volumes
lying on the mantel-piece the one oftenest perused, and
bearing the marks of most constant opening, nineteen times
out of twenty it -will prove to be the correspondence of Ma
dame de Sevigne ; the master-pieces of human genius yield
the first place to this immortal conversation. It is the clas
sic of closed doors.
Above all, it is a book more suited to old a§e than to the
budding years of existence : it does not possess enough of

128 MADAME DE SSVIGN]6.
passion to satisfy youth. Before it can afford us pleasure,
the first heat of Ufe must be tamed or deadened by the prog
ress of time. It is the book for the evening, and not for the
early dawn. It has a subdued light ; it abounds in shadows,
reveries, a sort of vague repose, arid the calmness of the set
ting sun. It suits the period when men, ceasing all desire
to advance or to act, seat themselves before the door or at
the fireside, to discourse in a low tone of the events and
crowds that occupy the world, without being tempted to
mingle with them again. It is less life than a conversation
upon life. This book refreshes after the heart has been
exhausted by the emotions of the day — it is the volume of
repose. There is, however, an important lesson conveyed by these
pages, and the Ufe of Madame de Sevigne. In reverting to
them, mothers may learn to love as much, while daughters
may be taught to love stiU more.

MILTON.
> A.D. 1627.
Milton is one of the three great Christian poets who
were to the theogony of the Middle Ages what Homer was
to the Olympus of paganism. The triumvirate consists of
Dante, Tasso, and Milton. The "Divine Comedy" of
Dante, the " Jerusalem Delivered" of Tasso, the "Paradise
Lost" of Milton, are the Iliads and Odysseys of om* theo
logical systeni- These poems are nearly of the same date ;
they faU •within the epoch when mysteries, stiU considered
sacred, were beginning nevertheless to be freely discussed,
and occasionally with a tendency to imaginative conclu
sions : a period dangerous for those dogmas or tenets -with
which the mind becomes rapidly familiarized, when they
pass from the close sanctuary to the open world of let
ters. Severe reUgion should, vrith Plato, exclude poets :
when deities are comiriemorated in verse, we verge on prof
anation. But theology reigned with such undisputed and
predominant influence in the time of Dante, Tasso, and
Milton, that no danger was foreseen ; poets were allowed
to blend indiscriminately truth -with fiction; every offered
incense was acceptable, although compounded from the most
suspicious ingredients of antiquity : religion desired that even
her dreams should be the dreams of Christians.
Of these three eminent poetical theologists just named,
one alone may be truly called original; that is, bom of
himself, of his own creed, of his own country, of his own
age — this exception is Dante. We can find none who re
semble him in the Ust of ancient bards. He is a monk of
some gloomy Christian monastery of the barbarous ages,
who, shut up in his cloister, imagines a paradise, a purga
tory, and a hell, monastic as his own fency ; and who, when
F2

130 MILTON.
roused from his reveries, relates to his simple brotherhood
strange, unaccountable, fantastic, trivial, appalling, and
sometimes sublime events, which have never been disclosed
before. Dante's work is the apocalypse of poetry; obscure
in meaning, exalted and almost antediluvian in imagery,
isolated and absolutely monumental in expression. Tasso
copies Homer and Virgil, assimilating them at. the same
time -with the religion, manners, language, tastes, and even
vices of his own age : reUgiOn is the pretext of his poem ;
chivalry, war, and love are the real bases. He is more of
a lover than a theologian ; his recitals are as graceful as the
pastorals of Theocritus, as melancholy as the elegies of
TibuUus, and as extravagant as the adventures of Amadis.
We have here the romance of chivalry transplanted with the
Arabs of Bagdad to Ferrara, and elevated by the accom
plished genius o^ Tasso to the dignity and immortality of
an epic poem.
Milton is the least original of the three great Christian
poets. At first he imitates Homer, then Virgil, and lastly
Dante -and Tasso ; but his real model is Dante. He im
presses the same supernatural subject on the Christian the*
ogony ; he sings to England what Italy had already heard —
the strife of created angels in revolt against their Maker —
the blissful loves of Eden — the seduction of woman — the
fall of man — the intercession of the Son of God with the
Father — the mercy obtained by his o-wn sacrifice, and the re
demption partially gleaming through the distance, as the
denouement of this sublime tragedy. Finally, he embraces
the entire series of mysteries which the philosopher pene
trates with his conjectures, the theologian explains, and the
poet describes, -without demanding of them other compo
nents than miracles, images, and emotions.
Why, then, did Milton select this overpowering, theolog
ical subject, and transplant it to England, so rich in Saxon
and Celtic traditions, already popular, and admirably adapt
ed for the text of a grand national and original northern
epic ? The answer is to be found in his character and his

MILTON". 131
life. By nature he was theological, and the youngest half
of his existence had been passed in Italy. The first voyage
of a youth is a second birth ; from it he imbibes new sen
sations and ideas, which produce a species of personal trans
formation. The phenomenon of petrifaction is not confined
to the effect of water upon a plant ; it operates upon man
through the air that he breathes. Milton, at Eome and
Naples, in the society of the leading ItaUan spirits of the
age, had drawn in deep draughts of poetry and liberty, the
two vivifying spirits of his soul. He had sought the ac
quaintance of the most eminent learned men of the,diffeFent
courts and nations he had visited ; he had become an Ital
ian in language, ear, taste, and heart ; he had been himself
prematurely appreciated, and as we may say, foretold, by
the leading politicians and Uterary celebrities of Florence,
Eome, aijd Naples.
In the present day, when we examine the archives and
visit the libraries of the ItaUan sovereigns, it is curious to
observe how frequently, in the correspondence of the most
eminent -writers of that age, we find the name of this young
Englishman mentioned — the friend of the Muses, who speaks,
and even writes in verse the language of Torquato, and who
promises to his native land a great orator, a great politician, and
a great poet. Strangers, with superior impartiaUty, recog
nized genius before his o-wn countrymen were able to discov
er it. Milton was not destined to falsify the auguries, or
deceive the good opinion which the Italians had formed of
him. Let us briefly recapitulate his life.
It is a characteristic of the age in which we live, to take
more interest in the -writer than in his works ; we turn to
the page for a history of the man. "What would Tasso be
without his fatal attachment and his dungeon? What
would Jean- Jacques Eousseau be -without his Confessions ?
"Wliat would Voltaire himself be without his Correspond
ence ? Human nature seems to have become entirely his
torical ; it studies, analyzes, and contemplates itself in all
the prominent individuals who collectively constitute the

132 MILTON.
age. The book falsifies,, but the man can not ; his Ufe re
veals him in spite of himself For this reasbn, biographies
in the style of Plutarch have become, in our estimation,
the most valuable portion of historic records : one remark
able character Ughts up to us an entire age. A presenti
ment of this bias of the public mind in the present day, im
pressed on the author the idea of the series he is now writ-
,ing, under the title of the Civilizer, in which he purposes to
depict universal history from the single lives of iUustrious
men. Milton, bom of noble parents,* living on their estate in
the neighborhood of London, after having formed his liter
ary taste at the University of Cambridge, and having given
evidences of his superior powers in various Latin poems,
much admired by the- erudite, was sent to Italy by his fa
ther, to become acquainted with the world and the existing
state of learning on the Continent, before the age when it
was intended he should devote himself to business and poli
tics. He continued to reside there for a series of years, at
tracted by the charms of the climate, the graces of the wom
en, the poetical associations of the places and people, the
friendships he contracted with many distinguished patrons
of genius, and by the softness of the air of Naples, which in
filtrated itself through his veins, and made him'lose sight of
every thing, even his glory and his native country. He con
fesses this himself, in verses written in the language of Tasso.
" I have forgotten the Thames for the voluptuous Amo.
Love has so wiUed it, who never wills in vain !" From this
we may collect that either Florence or PiSa contained a
second Leonora for this new Torquato. Love alone solves
many secrets which appear otherwise inexpUcable in the
Uves of men, and particularly of poets. And how did this
* It seems strange that Lamartine should fall into this error. Mil
ton's parentage, although gentle, was far from noble : his father prac
ticed as a scrivener, and retired on a competent estate. Foreign 'writ
ers do not readily comprehend the distinctions between the gentry
and aristocracy of England. — Transl.

MILTON. 133 «
passion eventuate ? Herein lies tlie mystery of that period
of the life of MiUon.
On his return to England he found the Parliament at war
with the king, hostile arms in every hand, and every soul
bursting with the flames of religious and political contro
versy. During three years he pondered in soUtude, without
seeming to incUne either toward the Eoyalists or the Puri
tans, entirely absorbed in the studies preparatory to his future
poem, the plan of which he had conceived while yet on his
travels. In a letter to a confidential friend, written about
this period, he thus expresses himself: " Some day I shall
address a work to posterity which will perpetuate my name,
at least in the land in which I was bom." All great minds
thus anticipate their future glory ; this feeling, which the
vulgar mistake for pride, is in fact the inwardly-speaking
consciousness of their genius. When these three years had
passed over his head, Milton postponed his poem until times
more favorable to literature, should they ever arrive, and de
clared for the cause of Uberty. Poets had long followed in
the train of courts and monarchs ; he was tempted by the
glory of being the first of his nation to espouse the side of
God and the people ; but neither the people nor the Puri
tans had any ears to spare for poetry. Milton threw him
self into the quarrel, armed with speeches, controversies, and
pamphlets, those daily weapons of revolution. His genius,
transformed, but not debased, soon distinguished his name
from among the crowd. It bore the manly republican im
press of ancient Eome, emanating from the soul of an En-
gUsh enthusiast.
Cromwell, who at that time personified in himself the
citizens, the people, the army, the fervor of reUgious zeal,
the national pride and privileges, became the Maccabasus of
Milton's imagination. The poet attached himself to the for
tunes of the Protector, as to his own and his country's des-
• tiny ; he saw in him the champion of the people, the up-
rooter of monarchs, and a new judge of Israel : we find these
exact impressions in his political writings of the period —

134 MILTON.
*
Cromwell was the sworfl, while Milton wished to be the
tongue of independence. Cromwell, who spoke much, but
always badly, and had neither time nor leisure to write,
hailed with eagerness the vigorous, eloquent, and imagina
tive talent which sought to place itself at his service. It
was not enough for the experienced leader, the conquering
soldier, to triumph on the battle-fields of Scotland and Ire
land ; he wished equally to despotize over public opinion.
The Eoyalists, the Eoman CathoUcs, the partisans of the
Eeformed Church, waged against him an incessant war of
pamphlets, which disturbed his rest and threatened to under
mine his power. Milton was employed to reply to their ar
guments or invectives. He placed him near his own person,
in the position of private secretary, and confided to him the
' revision and pubUcation of the acts of government. That
government concentrated itself in the single head of the Pro
tector. This confidential member of Cromwell's cabinet
was, in reality, the minister of the Protectorate ; his name
became synonymous with power, and his fortune increased
'with the importance of his functions. His brothers left the
country, and came to reside with him in a handsome man
sion-house in London.
At the age of thirty-five Milton married his first wife,
Mary Powell, a royaUst by connection and principles. Po
litical dissensions soon poisoned their connubial happiness.
Mary Powell, in a few months, blushed to find herself the
wife of a republican, who had given up his pen to the enemy
of the monarch she had been educated to revere. Under the
pretense of visiting her family, she quitted the house of her
husband, and refused to enter it again. Milton, deeply of
fended at her desertion, 'wrote a treatise on divorces. " It
is not God," he says, " who has forbidden divorce, but the
priesthood. Love and harmony are the objects of marriage ;
where they are absent between the wedded, marriage resolves
into a union of antipathy and hatred." He obtained his di
vorce, and was ready to marry a second time, when the re
membrance of her first affection, excited perhaps by jealousy.

MILTON. 133
woke up in the heart of his fugitive wife. He himself rec-
oUected how fondly he had once loved her, and felt that the
passion was not yet extinguished. A meeting, contrived by
others without their own knowledge, led to their reunion.
One day, the poet, being invited by, a neighbor to the coun
try, was discoursing in a melancholy strain with his friend
on the solitude and sadness of his life, and regretting the
happy days he had passed with Mary Powell, whom he had
formerly loved, and whose loss he deplored — suddenly the
door of an adjoining chamber, behind which she had listened
to the conversation, opened, and the wife of Milton fell at
his feet, and in a moment afterward was raised to his arms.
Tears, repentance, and embraces completed the reconcilia
tion, and left on the mind of Milton such an impression of
delight, that in his old age it furnished him with the material
of one of the most pathetic scenes in his great poem, the for
giveness Of Adam after the offense of Eve : '
" He added not, and from her turn'd. But Eve
Not so repulsed, with tears that ceased not flowing
And tresses all disorder'd, at his feet
Fell humble ; and, embracing them, besought
His peace, and thus proceeded in her plaint :
' Forsake me not thus, Adam ! witness, Heaven,
"What love sincere and reverence in my heart
I bear thee, and unweeting have offended,
Unhappily deceived ! . . .
Forlorn of thee
"Whither shall I betake me, where subsist ?
"While yet we live, scarce one short hour perhaps.
Between us two let there be peace.' . . .
She ended weeping ; and her lowly plight.
Immovable, till peace obtain'd from fault
Acknowledged and deplored, in Adam wrought
Commiseration : soon his heart relented
Toward her, his life so late, and sole delight.
Now at his feet submissive in distress :
Creature so fair his reconcilement seeking,
His counsel, whom she had displeased, his aid ;
As one disarm'd, his anger all he lost ;
And thus -with peaceful words, upraised her soon :

136 MILTON.
' . . . Rise, let us no more contend, nor blame
Each other, blamed enough elsewhere.' "
Eve repents in her turn, and devotes herself to the con
solation of her husband :
" She ended here, or vehement despair
Broke off the rest ; so much of death her thoughts
Had entertain'd, as dyed her cheek -with pale."
Paradise Lost, Book X.
The happy reunion of Milton and his spouse was followed
by years of domestic peace and love, during which three
daughters were bom, destined to console, at a late.r period,
the declining years of their father. While tranquillity reign
ed at his hearth, consternation prevailed in the palace of
Whitehall. Cromwell had either permitted or gratuitously
incited the murder of the vanquished and captive king.
Miltony who had attended the Protector through the war,
participated with him in the consequent crime. He might
either have implored the pardon of Charles I., or have
washed his hands of his blood, by separating himself with a
sigh from the cause which thus became criminal in the eyes
of God and men. Whether it was devoted attachment to
his patron, even to the shedding of blood, or overpowering
fanaticism, he exhibited neither hesitation, nor pity, nor hor
ror. He did more than assist in the regicide ; he endeavor
ed to justify it, after the axe had separated the head of the
imprisoned monarch. But his arguments are all based on
fallacy : he might support the opinion that kings, being only
men, Uke other magistrates invested with conditional and
responsible power, are not privileged to commit crimes with
impunity ; but beyond that hypothesis, he had three things
to prove which he has not attempted to substantiate.
First, that Charles I., attacked and deposed by his rebell
ious Parliament, was guilty of a crime in defending the con
stitution, his throne, and people, at the head of an army,
against the opposing army of Cromwell. Secondly, that the
crime (if it was one) merited death. And, lastly, that it was
just, equitable, humane, and religious, in a victorious party.

MILTON. 137
to execute their sovereign, vanquished, disarmed, and a pris
oner. It was impossible for Milton to prove either of these three
propositions in his discourse on regicide. He established
but one point — the hardening even of a poet's heart through
the extravagance of party feeling, or the complaisance of
genius for success. Either of these two conclusions equally
inculpates his memory. If pity had been universaUy pro
scribed from society, it should have found a shelter in the
heart of a poet — that living summary of all the pathetic vi
brations of human affairs. If genius is to be considered —
so far from an apology it becomes an aggravation ; for if it
abases itself before power, to the depth of bathing in the
blood of the scaffold, genius is more culpable in this san
guinary adulation than commonplace intellect, for it descends
from a loftier height to a lower depth in infamy. Milton
himself has labored to attach the eternal stain of this royal
martyrdom to his name, and it is but just that it should re
main there; These are the blots which, glory renders more
deep and dark on an iUustrkius reputation, because they are
surrounded by a brilUant light.
In reward for this cruel enthusiasm, or servile complai
sance, Milton was elevated by Cromwell to the post of Sec
retary of State for the EepubUc, and private Latin secre
tary to himself His eloquence was wanting to refute an
important publication. This volume, coming, as it were,
from the tomb of Charles I., filled the nation -with remorse,
which it became necessary to appease at any cost. It ex
cited in London an effect similar to that produced in Paris
and in Europe by the -will of Louis X"V3., made public after
the death of that monarch. It was the voice of blood, the
appeal of conscience succeeding to the cry of passion. This
posthumous work was attributed to King Charles, who was
very capable of having 'written it in prison, when in hourly
expectation of death.
Milton replied to the EiKuv BaaiXiKTj in another volume,
entitled the " Iconoclast," in which he had recourse to both

138 MILTON.
argument and insult ; but insults addressed to a. decapitated
corpse assumed the character of sacrilege, and what effect
could reasoning produce when weighed against tears ?
The posthumous work of Charles I. asked only pardon
from God, pity from his people, and meekness from his son.
It was the confession of a captive king, who reviewed in
prison the errors of his life ; and sought not to extenuate the
heaviest of which he had been guilty — the consent to the
death of his faithful minister, the Earl of Strafford, in the
hope of regaining the ParUament by that costly sacrifice.
" Alas !" says he, " to allay a popular storm, I have raised
an eternal tempest in my own bosom. Since the events of
war are always uncertain, and those of civil war invariably
deplorable, whatever may be my fate, I am destined to en
dure almost as much from victory as from defeat. O God,
bestow on me the gift of knowing how to suffer ! My ene
mies have left me nothing in my prison but the outward
bark of Ufe. Oh, my son, thou wilt never again look on
the face of thy father ! It is the will of God that I should
be buried forever in this dark ahd desolate dungeon ! Ee-
ceive, then, my last farewell. I commend your mother to
your care when I am gone. Eemember that in coming back
from France, in spite of my entreaties to the contrary, she
came to share my dangers and privations ; to suffer with me
and for me, with you and for you, with a steadfast magna
nimity which the heart of a wife and mother rendered easy
and delightful ! When they have put me to death, my
children, I shall implore God not to pour out the vials of
his 'wrath upon this unhappy nation. Let my memory and
my affection live in your thoughts. Farewell, "then, until
we meet in heaven, for on earth we shall meet no more!
May a happier age approach with your advancing years !"
Such pages as these, discovered in a coffin, recalled the
psalms of a David among kings. The people read them, as
a celestial plea which justified, after punishment, the inten
tions and heart of the condemned. Milton ridiculed them
as a studied declamation to attest merely the poetical talent

MILTON. 139
of the victim. " Truly," said he, seeking to extract a jest
from ithe tears and blood of the immolated monarch,
" Charles was deeply read in the poets, and we may be
Ueve that his object was to leave in these chapters imagin
ative essays calculated to impress on posterity his ability as
a writer !" ¦•
In a short time, the invectives with which the people of
England were assailed from France and the whole continent
of Europe, reproaching them with the murder they had com
mitted, compelled Milton to vindicate his country. Patri
otism inspired him more effectively than the advocacy of
regicide. He pubUshed his defense of the people of England
against the French writer Salmasius. The attack and re
tort were equally venal. Salmasius had received one hun
dred pieces of gold from the King of France for blackening
the murderers of the King of England. Milton received
from Cromwell one thousand pieces for justifying the act.
" Salmasius," said Voltaire, when speaking of that polemic,
" wrote like a pedant ; Milton replied like a wild beast."
The judgment, though coarse, was just. Every phrase of
Salmasius sraeUed of the lamp ; every sentence of MUton
perspired blood.
Nevertheless, at the winding up of these voluminous pro
cesses against the dead body of a king, Milton seems to have
been the first among his countrymen who caught a glimpse
of the future bearing of the English Eevolution on the Ub
erty of the world. " We shall teach nations tO be free,"
exclaimed he ; " and our example wiU, on some future day,
carry to the enslaved Continent a new plant more beneficial
to the human race than the grain of Triptolemus — the seed
of reason, civilization, and freedom !" Milton proved a true
prophet ; but he forgot that this grain, to become fruitful,
should only be moistened 'with blood by the warriors and
martyrs. The scaffolds of Charles I. and Louis XVI. have
cast a gloomy shadow over the brightness of liberty — death
proves nothing, and remorse, instead of imparting strength,
weakens and disquiets the soul of a nation.

140 MILTON.
We have seen how the Commonwealth of England was
changed into a military dictatorship by Cromwell, and how
both expired together when he closed his eyes in death.
Eepublicanism was not yet suited either to the Engfish or
the people of the Continent. The fore-calculated treason
of an egotistical and treacherous commander. Monk, sec
onded by an army who desired a master; the longings of
avarice and ambition— -surrendered England back to the son
of the late king, the voluptuous Charles II.
Let us render justice to Milton. During the short inter
val that elapsed between the death of Cromwell and the
treason of Monk and the army, whUe the nation yet hesi
tated, he raised his voice courageously to recommend con
stancy and dignity to the people, " If we quaU," wrote he,
" we shall verify the predictions of our enemies ; we shaU
become the gibe and mockery of history : aU our victories
over tyranny will be vain ; all the blood that has been shed
will be lost. The sons will annihUate the value of the lives
which their fathers sacrificed in the cause of liberty!" He
proposed to preserve at least parUamentary freedom by ex
tending the elective franchise, so as to estabUsh a counter
poise, through the representation of every class of the people,
against the despotic tendencies of the aristocracy, the clergy,
and the court, all of whom he saw would speedily be re
stored ; but he wished, at the same time, that this universal
suffrage should be purified from the influence of demagogues,
enUghtened by the inteUigence of the voters, and kept in
subordination by a regulated scale of electoral privileges.
The true substance of election in his eyes, as in ours, con
sisted in numbers. All rights, according to his ideas, pre
supposed morality and capacity as the claims on which they
rested. In poUtical government, as in liberty itself, reg
ulated conditions were equally essential. His last 'writings
as a statesman evince profound experience in the exercise
of legislation, and sound practical sense which repudiated
chimeras even in the cause to which he had so enthusias
tically devoted himself

MILTON. 141
The restoration of Charles II. surprised him in tho midst
of his labors, rendered nugatory by the treason of the army,
which first conquered, and then sold their country; Charles
was not by nature vindictive ; he was only thoughtless. He
¦ extended amnesty to aU, even to the regicides ; but his re
turn called back the EoyaUsts to ParUament, and they, like
aU partisans, were implacable. They outraged the natural
gentleness of the young king, and demanded from him heads
and proscriptions, Milton, who had steeped, if not his
hands, at least his pen in the blood of the late monarch and
the massacres of Ireland, more atrocious than those of Sep
tember, 1792, hastened to hide himself, in the hope of being
forgotten. He resigned his office, and retired into an ob
scure suburb of London, to allow time for the vengeance of
his enemies to pass away. After a short interval, to efface
his name effectuaUy from the remembrance of the EoyaUsts,
he gave out that he was dead ; and, while still in existence,
superintended the ceremony of his own funeral. To this
subterfuge he was indebted for his Ufe. He was not discov
ered until the first fury of reaction had become satiated, and
in some measure exhausted by indulgence. From his own
'windows he had beheld the body of Cromwell, dug up by
the common executioner, paraded through the streets of
London, and exposed to the insults of the populace.
Charles II. heard of the retreat of Milton, and pretended
to believe in the reality of his death. He had no desire to
stain the commencement of his reign 'with the execution of
one of those men destined to immortaUty, whose blood would
cry loudly for vengeance through future' ages. He even of
fered to reinstate him in his office of government advocate,
if he would devote his talents to the cause of monarchy.
His second 'wife entreated him to comply with this pro
posal." "You are a woman," repUed Milton, "and your
thoughts dwell on the domestic interests of our house; I
think only of posterity, and I will die consistently with my
character."- By this time his affairs had declined into pov
erty, approaching to indigence. His eyes, ever weak, had

142 MILTON.
almost entirely lost their sight. When he ventured out, he
was supported by the arm of one of his daughters. Charles
II., one day when taking a ride, met him in St. James's
Park, and inquired who was that handsome bUnd old man.
He was told that it was Milton. He approached, and, ad
dressing the ancient secretary of Cromwell in a tone of
bitter irony, said, " Heaven, sir, has inflicted this chastise
ment on you for having participated in the murder of my
father!" "Sire," replied the aged sufferer with manly
boldness, " if the calamities which befall us here are the
punishment of our faults, or of the sins of our parents, your
Own father must have been very culpable, for you yourself
have endured much misfortune."* The king passed on si'
lently, and expressed no offense at the answer. Slilton was
now approaching his sixtieth year; but he stiU retained the
freshness of mind and beauty of countenance which belong
to youth, Genius consumes the weak, and preserves the
strong. His involuntary idleness had driven him back to
poetry, formerly the pastime, but now the consolation of his
life. The idea of the great epic which he had conceived in
Italy, and postponed to the age of leisure, occupied his im^
."igination more intensel/than ever. He resumed his studies
in Hebrew, Greek, Latin, and Italian, with the enthusiasm
of a youth. The realms of fancy carried him away deUght-
fully from the actual world. His second wife being dead,
he married a third, still young and handsome, who became
the soul of his house, and the mother of his children. She
loved him too, despite his poverty and blindness. He wrote
several treatises, and among others a history of England, to
earn bread for his famUy and a dowry for his daughters ;
but his name injured the popularity of his works, and his
poem encroached on his history. The EoyaUsts were indig
nant that a regicide should be permitted to write and live,
and pamphleteers of the court inveighed against him with-
* This conversation, ynth some variety, has been reported by other
historians to have taken place in Milton's own house, between him
and James, Duke of York. — Tbabsl.

MILTON. 143
out fear of a reply. "-They charge me," thus he -wrote to
one of his friends, a foreigner, in a letter recovered long
after, " they charge me with poverty because I have never
desired to become rich dishonestly; they accuse me of
blindness because I have lost my eyes in the service of lib
erty ; they tax me with cowardice, and while I had the use
of my eyes and my sword I never feared the boldest among
them ; iinaUy, I am upbraided with deformity, while no one
was more handsome in the age of beauty.- I do not even
complain of my want of sight ; in the night with which I
am surrounded the light of the Divine presence shines with
a more brilliant lustre. God looks down upon me with
more tendemess and compassion because I can now see
none but himself Misfortune should protect me from in
sult, and render me sacred, not because I am deprived of the
light, of heaven, but because I am under the shadow of the
Divine wingS, which have enveloped me with this darkness.
To that alone I attribute the assiduous kindness of my
friends, their consoUng attentions, their frequent, cordial
-visits, and their respectful complaisance." — "My devotion
to my country," he again writes, in another letter to the
same friend, " has scarcely rewarded me, and yet that sweet
name of country charms me still. Adieu! I pray you to
excuse the inaccurate Latin of this letter. ' The chUd to
whom I am compeUed to dictate it is ignorant of that lan-
•guage, and I speU every syllable over to him, that you may
be enabled to read my inmost soul."
His last wife, EUzaheth Minshull, and his three daugh
ters, were constantly with him, copying, repeating, and cor
recting the cantos of his great poem, as his genius pro
gressively inspired them. He composed verses during the
night, and repeated them at early dawn, before the noise
of the city, awakening in the streets, called back his thoughts
to things terrestrial. While he listened to the sound of his
daughters' pens as they traced the paper, it seemed to him
as if he was dictating the daily testament of his genius, and
depositing in a safe sanctuary the treasure which he had

144 MILTON.
hitherto carried in his imagination. During the remainder
of the day he read, Scripture, poetry, and history; or, con
ducted by one of his daughters, sauntered in the solitary
fields of the neighborhood to breathe the pure air, or to feel
at least upon his eyelids the rays of that sun which he no
longer recognized but through its heat.
At the foot of an oak, looking toward the south, on
Hampstead Hill, Milton one day dictated that beautiful
apostrophe to Ught which opens the third book of " Para
dise Lost," and has been so admirably imitated by Voltaire
and Delille. We there recognize the agony of regret for
the loss of a faculty gone never to return. The present
pain doubles the memory of the past enjoyment.
" Hail, holy Light ! offspring of Heaven first-bom,
Or of the Eternal co-eternal beam,
May I express thee unblamed ? since God is lighf^
And never but in unapproached light
Dwelt from eternity ; dwelt then in thee.
Bright effluence of bright essence uncreate.
Or hear'st thou rather, pure ethereal stream,
"Whose fountain who shall tell ? Before the sun,
Before the heavens thou wert ; and at the voice
Of God, as with a mantle, didst invest
The rising world of waters dark and deep,
Won from the void and formless infinite.
Thee I revisit now with bolder wing.
Escaped the Stygian pool, though long detain'd
In that obscure sojourn ; while in my flight
Through utter and through middle darkness bome,
"With other notes than to the Orphean lyre
I sang of chaos and eternal night ;
Taught by the heavenly muse to venture down
The dark descent, and up to re-ascend,
Though hard and rare. Thee I revisit safe,
And feel thy sovran vital lamp ; but thou
Eevisit'st not these eyes, that roll in vain
To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn ;
So thick a drop serene hath quench'd their orbs,
Or dim suffusion veil'd. Yet not the more
Cease I to wander where the Muses haunt.
Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny hill,

MILTON. 145-
Smit with the love of sacred song ; but chief,
Thee, Sion, and the flowery brooks beneath,
That wash thy hallow'd feet, and warbling flow,
Nightly I visit : nor, sometimes, forget
Those other two, equal' d with me in fate,
So were I equal'd with them in renown.
Blind Thamyris, and bUnd Mseonides,
And Tiresias and Phineus, prophets old ;
Then feed on thoughts, that voluntary move
Hai'monious numbers, as the wakeful bird
Sings darkling, and in shadiest covert hid.
Tunes her nocturnal note. Thus with the year
Seasons return, but not to me returns
Day, or the sweet approach of even or mom,
Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose,
Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine ;
But cloud instead, and ever-during dark
Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men
Cut off; and for the book of knowledge fair,
Presented with a universal blank
Of Nature's works, to be expunged and razed ;
And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out.
So much the rather thou, celestial Light,
Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers
Irradiate ;. there plant eyes ; all mist from thence
Purge and disperse, that I may see, and teU
Of things invisible to mortal sight." Paradise Lost, Book HI.
This invocation to Ught is one of the most beautiful pas
sages in the work, because the poet becomes the man him
self, and feels reality instead of imagining fiction. AU who
read are well acquainted 'with this poem. It is the narra
tive of the Bible mixed up with fables, adventures, and long
dialogues. Except the apostrophe we have quoted, some
descriptions of Eden, and the loves of Adam and Eve in
Paradise, the book owes its immortality to its style. A
wearisome theology, partly scriptural and partly imaginary,
weighs down the fiight of the poet, and fatigues the reader.
The Supreme Being and his Son speak like men, and unlike
divinities. They have friends and enemies among their own
creatures ; factions are stirred up in heaven and hell to de-
G

146 MILTON.
throne the "Uncreated. Angels and detnons combat in the
realms of space with mechanical arms, and kill each other
without dying, to dispute the possession of an insect called
man, upon a grain of dust, indistinguishable in the im
mensity of chaos, and denominated the globe of the earth.
Debates are held in the divine council as in a human par
liament. There are orators of the celestial government,
and tribunes of the condemned angels, who demand the
head of the Most High as Milton clamored for that of
Charles the First. All this, despite the genius of the poet,
is void of philosophy and full of tediousness. It is, in fact,
tho dream of a Puritan who has fallen asleep over the first
pages of his Bible.
The versification alone redeems the inanity of the fable.
It recaUs, even to the rhythm, Homer, Virgil, and Eacine.
But Milton, notwithstanding his posthumous renown as the
first epic writer of England, remains even in that position
at an immeasurable distance from Shakspeare, who reminds
us of no one, but who translates nature instead of foUowing
sacred legends. Yet Shakspeare was bom, lived, and died,
before Milton appeared, and hfe ungrateful country hesi
tated to acknowledge in him a supreme and universal poet.
Milton, though very inferior to Shakspeare, was destined for
a long series of years to take precedence of him in the ranks
of glory. Why was this ? The answer must be found in
the subject of his work. England had become theological
and bibUcal, and the man who had versified Jehovah and
Holy Writ was rewarded as a sacred poet. This occurred,
biit long after Milton cpuld be sensible of his renown ; his
name and unpopularity had injured the circulation of his
work ; the regicide predominated over the poet. " Paradise
Lost" being finished and copied by his daughters, who alone
had read it, he carried it to the royal censor to obtain a li
cense for publication. A bookseller named Symons pur
chased it ior five pounds steirling ! The author handed the
money over to his wife and daughters, to provide for their
poor housekeepmg, and. to reward them, as far as he was

MILTON. ^ 147
able, for the pains they had bestowed in taking down from
his dictation, and recopying this immortal production. We
have no evidence that his Ups uttered any murmur against
the smaUness of the sum, or that his family complained.
He had tuned his verse with higher objects than pecuniary
reward. The morsel of bread obtained from the hands of a
tradesman, and added to their daily pittance, carried joy arid
contentment to the domestic hearth of Milton.
Subsequent and reiterated editions of "Paradise Lost,"
in England, and throughout Europe, have produced more
millions than there were pence in the original five pounds
of the bookseller Symons.
According to some authorities, the poem remained for
ten years buried in the office of the printer, without being
mentioned or read. Others relate that it obtained a cir
cumscribed but rapid notoriety, and shed a twilight of glory
over the last years of the author. It is impossible to read
without overpowering admiration the tender and pathetic
scenes of the first appearance of Eve to Adam, and of Adam
to Eve, in the garden of innocence : neither can we peruse
without a thrill of chaste enjoyment the pure but impas
sioned conversations between the two earliest lovers of the
human race. The historian who accuses Milton of never
having regarded women but as domestic drudges, calumni
ates human nature. No heart but one teeming with enthu
siasm for beauty, and overflo'wing with respect and tender
ness for female worth, could ever have composed such verses
as the following.
Adam, says the poet, in lines as harmoniously blended as
the fugitive tints of morning — Adam, who on awaking
sought hie companion, and expected to find her wandering
in the groves of Eden, her feet pressing the early dew — was
astonished to behold her still sleeping by his side : ,
" 'With tresses discomposed and glowing cheek.
As through unquiet rest : he, on his side
Leaning half-raised, with looks of cordial love
Hung over her enamor'd, and beheld

148 MILTON.
Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep,
Shot forth peculiar graces ; then with voice
Mild as when Zephyrus on Flora breathes.
Her hand soft touching, whisper'd thus : ' Awake,
My fairest, my espoused, my latest found.
Heaven's last best gift, my ever new delight !
Awake : the morning shines, and the fresh field
CaUs us ; we lose the prime, to mark how spring
Our tended plants, how hlows the citron-grove,
¦What drops the myrrh, and what the balmy reed.
How Nature paints her colors, how the bee
Sits on the bloom, extracting liquid sweet.'
Such whispering waked her, — ^but with startled eye
On Adam, whom embracing, thus she spake :
' O sole in whom my thoughts find all repose,
My glory, my perfection ! glad I see
Thy face, and mom retum'd ; for I this night
(Such night till this I never pass'd) have dream'd — ' "
She then proceeds to relate the appearance in her dream
of the serpent tempter, and his seductive arguments. The
poet then continues : " Thus Eve her night
Related ; and thus Adam answer'd sad :
' Best image of myself, and dearer half,
The trouble of thy thoughts this night in sleep
Affects me equally ; nor can I like ¦•
This uncouth dream, of evil sprung, I fear :
Yet evil whence ? In thee can harbor none.
Created pure ....
Be not dishearten'd then ; nor cloud those looks,
That wont to be more cheerful and serene
Than when fair morning first smiles on the world ;
And let us to our fresh employments rise
Among the groves, the fountains, and the flowers,
That open now their choicest bosom 'd smells,
Eeserved from night, and kept for thee in store.'
So cheer'd he his fair spouse, and she was cheer'd ;
But silently a gentle tear let fall
From either eye, and wiped them with her hair ;
Two other precious drops that ready stood.
Each in their crystal sluice„he, ere they fell,
Kiss'd, as the gracious signs of sweet remorse
And pious awe, that fear'd to have offended."
Paradise Lost, Book "V.

MILTON. 149
They rose, wandered through the thickets, and rapt in
pious enthusiasm for the Creator of all the wonders that
surrounded them, poured forth <a prayer of blended adora
tion, gratitude, and bliss.
In a subsequent passage the poet continues thus :
" Now, when as sacred light began to dawn
In Eden on the humid flowerS;, that breathed
Their morning incense, when all things that breathe
From the earth's great altar send up silent praise
To the Creator, and his nostrils fill
"With grateful smell, forth came the human pair,
And join'd their vocal worship to the choir
Of creatures wanting voice ; . . . .
• . . Eve first to her husband thus began : . . .
' Let us divide our labors ; thou, where choice
Leads thee, or where most needs ; whether to wind
The woodbine round this arbor, or direct
The clasping i\'y where to climb ; while I
In yonder spring of roses intermix'd
"With myrtle, find what -to redress till noon :
For while so near each other thus all day
Our task we choose, what wonder, if, so near,
Looks intervene and smiles, or object new
Casual discourse draw on ? which intermits
Our day's work, brought to little, though begun
Early ; and the hour of supper comes uneam'd ?' "
Paradise Lost, Book IX.
Adam replies :
" 'Yet not so strictly hath our Lord imposed
Labor, as to debar us when we need
Eefreshment, whether food, or talk between,
Food of the mind, or this sweet intercourse
Of looks and smiles ; for smiles from reason flow,
To brute denied, and are of love the food ....
, . . But if much converse perhaps
Thee satiate, to short absence I could yield :
For solitude sometimes is but society.
And short retirement urges swift return.
But other doubt possesses me, lest harm
Befall thee sever'd from me 
. . . Nor think superfluous others' aid :
I, from the influence of thy looks, receive

150 MILTON.
Access in every virtue ; in thy sight
More wise, more watchful, stronger, if need were
Of outward strength.' "
Eve resists, and resolves to foUow her caprice :
" Thus saying, from her husband's hand, her hand
Soft she withdrew ; and, like a wood-nymph light.
Betook her to the groves ....
Her long with ardent look his eye pursued.
Delighted, but desiring more her stay." Paradise Lost, Book IX.
When Eve has yielded to temptation, and the sin is com
mitted, Adam withdraws from her society, and laments in
solitude :
" 'Whom thus afflicted when sad Eve beheld,
Desolate where she sat, approaching nigh,
Soft words to his fierce passion she assay"'d ;
But her with stern regard he thus repell'd — "
She Ustens in agonized grief, and then replies :
" Thy suppliant,
I beg, and clasp thy knees ; bereave me not,
'Whereon I live ; thy gentle looks, thy aid,
Thy counsel in this uttermost distress
My only strength and stay .....
.... Both have sinn'd, but thou
Against God only, I against God and thee.' "
Then follow the lines we have quoted before, in which
Adam pardons the wife who has destroyed his happiness.
We -can not doubt that the heart by which they were con
ceived, had felt and acknowledged the tendemess they ex
press. These are the most beautiful passages in the poem, and
the only ones which appear to spring from sympathetic feel
ing ; the rest is imaginary, fanatical, and cold as theology
itself A true epic is not to be constructed from poetical
machinery, but from natural sentiments. The leading fault
of " Paradise Lost" is, that it represents the Bible in verse
rather than a human dream, with the exception of those
portions we have already pointed out. M. de Chateaubri-

MILTON. 151
and, who translated Milton, places "Paradise Lost" on a
level with Homer, and the primitive epic's of India, Greece,
and Eome. The eminent translator wished to illustrate by
instance the theory he had laid down in " The Genius of
Christianity," his noblest work ; namely, that the Christian
reUgion is the most pathetic and most sublime example of
poetry the world has yet seen. In this conclusion is com
prised the paradox of a reaction that advances beyond the
truth. Christianity is the philosophy of grief; therein lies
its exclusive beauty. It severs man rudely from his dreams,
presents before him the never-fading image of his faU, his
misery, and his redemption through penitence. Its tenets
are delivered in groans rather than songs ; its moral obUga-
tions proscribe all pleasures, even those of imagination. A
drama is a profanation, a picture almost a crime, in the
eyes of a creed exclusively spiritual, which abases the senses
to exalt the mind. No poets surround its cradle ; the only
attendants are apostles, beUevers, and martyrs. The genius
of Christianity is austere truth; the genius of poetry is
fiction. These two antagonistic qualities never unite with
out becoming mutually perverted.
Epic Christian poets are only poets when they are pagan
ized by the adoption of posthumous fictions ; as in the cases
of Camoens, Dante, Tasso, and Milton ; either in convert-,
ing the metaphysical heaven of Christianity to a Homerian
Olympus, or in descending to the infernal regions on the
footsteps of Virgil. This Olympus, instead of the gods and
goddesses, the loves and graces — personifying under the
form of Deity the human passions — contains only a Calvary
and a cross, where the blood of a divine martyr washes
away the corruptions of the earth.
Klopstock alone has endeavored to poetize the tragic
majesty of this great drama in his "Messiah;" but the
" Messiah" can not be viewed as a poem ; it is only a sigh
from humanity poured forth at the foot of the cross of a
Eedeemer. Milton has not been able in "Paradise Lost"
to escape from this inherent gravity of the Christian code.

152 MILTON.
He has given us rhythmical metaphysics rather than gen
uine verse. He only becomes a poet when he celebrates
the love of the first man for the first woman ; because then,
instead of inventing, he recalled his own feelings : that part
of his inspiration he sought not in theology, but in his
heart. For this reason those particular pages will never be
forgotten. The limited success which attended " Paradise Lost" on
its first publication in no way discouraged the author.
Famine pressed on his family, and he was compeUed to la
bor for their daily sustenance. His wife and daughters
implored him to write either prose or verse, that they
might be enabled to five. Thus, like Homer, his ancient
model, he composed his best and latest works in poverty
and blindness. Old age appeared to give a more pathetic
tone to his accents. His soul resembled those stringed in
struments which are weak when they issue from the hands
of the maker, but become sonorous with age, and breathe
more powerful melody when the wood of which they are
composed is worm-eaten.
It has been related that Milton's daughters, when they
required the simple apparel suited to their humble medioc
rity, took from their father's papers manuscripts, 'without
his knowledge, and sold them for a guinea or two to im
poverished booksellers. In the same manner, his library,
now become useless, gradually disappeared, to supply the
wants of his declining years. His 'wife, the innocent Eve
of this poor domestic Eden, whose beauty, love, and fidelity
he had commemorated under the type of the first espoused
of man, proved herself a model of devotion and patience
under his adversities. She gloried in suffering for and with
her husband. We can not tell what presentiment may
have penetrated her heart, that this blind and aged man,
half proscribed and almost entirely forgotten by his con
temporaries, carried within him some divine virtue which
would expand over his memory, and sanctify to the future
all who bore his name and shared in his distresses. The

Il

/^ • ' MILTON. 153
/ very infirmity of her husband was dear to her. She re-
l joiced in being herself the eyes, the hands, the feet of a
Nman who had loved her intensely in her first youth, and be
tween whom and the world she was the only remaining
link. The few friends and neighbors of Milton admired
this noble woman, still young and handsome, who dedicated
herself solely to his service and consolation ; and the more so
that old age, persecution, and indigence, had exiled him from
society, and almost from compassion. Providence has thus
pro-rided, in the tendemess of woman, a sweet and holy
compensation for the neglect and ingratitude of the world.
Milton, in his blindness and destitution, realized some of
the pathetic conversations he had imagined in Eden, be
tween the proscribed husband and the faithful wife when
standing before the closed gates of Paradise. He composed
prayers in prose and verse, which his wife and daughters
repeated On holy days, either in his chamber or in the gar
den. Imagination and piety, the two eternal springs of
youth in man, removed from him the ordinary moroseness
of old age. He was grave, but not melancholy, resembling
Bemardin de St. Pierre, the Theocritus of France, and the
author, still young at eighty, of "Paul and Virginia."
Milton preserved under his white locks that beauty of
feature which is the second flower of Ufe, and more dura
ble than youth. His forehead was without wrinkles ; his
complexion florid ; his mouth calm and smiling ; his eyes,
though sightless, azure and deep, as if the light that touched
them on the surface illumined them to his inmost soul.
His voice was measured and melodious as a song. He was
fond of walking when the sun was bright and the flowers
were in season; and when supported by the arm of his
'wife or of one of his daughters, he moved with an erect
and steady carriage through the paths of the hUls surround
ing London, listening to the sounds of the country, and,
above all, to the carols of the birds.
OccasionaUy, his old associates of the time of CromweU
raised the poUtical discussions of former days, and the name
G2

154 MILTON.
of Charles I. intermingled with their conversation ; then,
and then only, a cloud obscured his expressive physiognomy.
Ever true to repubUcan principles, he deplored the dissipa
tion of the dream, which the fickleness of the English peo
ple and the treason of the army had rendered so evanescent;
and above all, he lamented that the blood of an unfortunate
and innocent monarch had been sacrificed to this dazzling
chimera. This remorse, the only painftil reminiscence of
his life, poisoned his recoUections of the past, and of his
own noble efforts to support the system he beUeved to be
the best.
Happy are those theories which vanish altogether, or are
indefinitely adjourned without leaving sanguinary traces be
hind them. Milton was not permitted to enjoy this feUcity,
Amidst the slumbers of his old age, a severed head dropping
blood from a lofty scaffold presented itself before the min-or
of his mind. The stubborn soldier, Cromwell, had confessed
similar imaginings to his family when lying on his death
bed ; how then could the more gentle and reUgious poet of
the republic abstain from a similar avowal to his children?
Every thing in his later productions indicates this melan
choly and regret. If he did not publicly declare his feel
ings, it was because Charles H. sat upon the throne, and
the repentance, honorable before God, would have appeared
base and cringing in the eyes of man.
Few details have reached us respecting his last moments.
We only know that his existence was slowly extinguished
in the gradual approaches which mark the almost insensible
twilight of protracted Uves — a last benefit conferred by
Heaven on its selected favorites in the gentle transition
which removes them from life to death.
A friend who visited Milton a short time before his de
cease, states that he inhabited a small and soUtary house at
the extremity of a suburb of London, near the meadows
which join the city. The staircase which led to his cham
ber was covered with an old carpet, that the noise of those
ascending and descending might not disturb his broken

IVOLTON. 155
slumbers. He found him clothed in a short, sombre-col
ored cloak, seated near the Window, his elbows resting on
the arms of a wooden chair. At that time his remaining
days on earth were few in number. He expired, without
pain or suffering, during the night of the I6th of November,
1674, He was interred, through the care. of his wife and
daughters, by the side of his father's grave, in the smaU
church of St, Giles (Cripplegate). The fear- of saying too
much or too little in an epitaph on an enemy of the reign
ing house of Stuart prevented any inscription on the stone
which covers his remains, and which continues unmarked
even by his initials. It was only identified and preserved by
a parish tradition, as his widow and daughters often came
to visit and kneel over it. The tomb of Tasso at St, Ono-
frio is distinguished at least by his name; but the bard who
sang of Clorinda left behind him tears and regard unmin-
gled with political resentments. He was only a lover and
a poet ; Milton, in addition, had been a statesman, and was
doomed to undergo the penalty of his double genius.
Milton's 'widow languished in obscurity and poverty, and
died neglected a few years after him. His daughters mar
ried poor artisans of the suburb in which they had resided
with their father. Two of these tradesmen were weavers.
The children of the poet labored at the employment of their
husbands. Thirty years after their fether's death, when
"Paradise Lost," long unheard of, had become famous —
when Milton's countrymen, by one of those revolutions in
opinion which exhumes books or men, had disinterred the
poem, and crowned the author (like Inez of Portugal) after
his death — some few, from curiosity, sought out the descend
ants of one to whom they rendered this tardy and unavail
ing compliment. Deborah, his favorite daughter, was still
Uving in the house of the weaver of Spitalfields who had
married her. The portrait of Milton, crowned 'with laurel,
was presented to her. "Oh, my father! my beloved fa-.
ther!" she exclaimed, recognizing and embracing the resem
blance, " why can you not issue from the tomb to see your

156 MILTON.
glory, so long delayed, refiected back in the joyful counte
nance of your beloved child !"
Addison, the celebrated English critic, who at the same
time was Secretary of State to Queen Anne, obtained from
that princess a present of fifty guineas for tne unfortunate
Deborah. Dryden, the grand lyric poet of his nation, when
he read " Paradige Lost," exclaimed, " This man surpasses
us all, and the ancients too !" His enthusiasm misled his
judgment. There was more of infatuation and of patriot
ism than of truth in the opinion which exalts Milton over
all the poets of Great Britain, that land of true poetry.
The English were proud of an indigenous epic, which was
then considered the noblest effort of human genius ; the
French, at a later period, fell into the same illusion as re
garded the "Henriade:" the " Henriade" is dead, but the
" Paradise Lost" lives, and deserves immortality for certain
passages. But as ages roU on, Milton wiU decline and
Shakspeare advance, because the former imitated, while the
latter created. A single scene of "Borneo and JuUet" re
veals more soul, and draws more tears, than the whole of
"Paradise Lost."
Tasso had composed the last epic poem ; a sort of apo
theosis, compounded of fabulous heroes and imaginary gods,
unsuited to the modem world, which looks for man in his
tory and for Deity in reason. The poetry of illustrious
characters is in their acts, the poetry of heaven is in relig
ion, while aU that is miraculous in nature is rigidly com
mented on by science ; fiction, instead of aggrandizing he
roes, nature, and divinity, diminishes and lowers the stand
ard of all.
If any future poet is seized with the ambition of 'writing
an epic poem, he must look for his subject in the recesses
of the human heart. A vast scheme, which would take
man from his cradle and conduct him to the tomb through
the countless vicissitudes of misery and happiness which oc
cur in ordinary existence; which would paint the birth,
generations, famUies, domestic hearths, affections, home en-

MILTON. 157
joyments, reUgion, travels, professions, unions, separations,
loves, obstacles, disappointments, joys, agonies, resignations,
and deaths of the human race ; and which would cause to
spring forth from these commonplace scenes all the senti
ments, sufferings, and tears of which humanity is suscepti
ble — such a poem, framed by a truthful and pathetic hand,
in the magnificence and sadness of material creation, would
produce the epic of exalted feeUng — a versified embodiment
of man, the " Fasti" of the Ovid of modem advancement.
The poet who would thus sing to the present race would
require no supernatural agency beyond creation, nothing
more marvelous than the infinite, no fable but truth, and
no lyre but his own heart. Such a work would be read in
the palace and the cottage, in the camp and the work -shop,
by the opulent and the necessitous, until a new order of
society transformed the existing conditions of humanity, and
of worldly affairs, into, another and an unknown civiliza
tion, which, in its turn, would inaugurate a new epoch.
Neither MUton nor Voltaire have conceived any thing re
sembling this ; and for this reason, the " Henriade" is super
annuated, and the " Paradise Lost" has become the monu
ment of a library. True poetry runs through the streets,
but poets seek it in the clouds. He will be fortunate who
finds it where it is, in truth and in the universe ; but the
discoverer is not yet bom. Under any circumstances, the
name of Milton has continued and will continue memorable
on two distinct grounds, in the history of those leading spir
its who serve as landmarks for ages. He was great, both
as a poet and a politician. As regards his poetry, we have
characterized it by quotations : he often copies ; but in Mil
ton the plagiarist is worthy of the antiquity from which he
borrows. With respect to his poUtics, we have condemned
them in his defense of regicide; but if his pen was at one
time cruel, his character as a citizen was never base. He _
scorned to abandon the republic, conquered and martyrized,
when bel^rayed at the same time by Monk and by fortune ;
he neither demeaned himself to cringing excuses nor cow-

158 MILTON. „
ardly recantations before the triumphant Stuarts ; he did
not fly like a criminal afraid of punishment, or blushing for
his crime ; he remained boldly in England, to face the re
sponsibility of his opinions and his acts, ready to surrender
up his blood for liberty, as he had unfortunately pledged it
when he advocated the death of Charles the First. In mis
fortune he exhibited constancy, the" rarest of aU human vir
tues. He resembled Marius in the sanguinary proscriptions
of the repubUc, in which he had been aji accomplice ; but
he followed Cato of Utica in his p^Severing opposition to
absolute power, and would.jhave emulated Lucan in his
death, if the Stuarts had desired the blood of the EngUsh
poet as the tyrant of Eome thirsted for that Qf his predeces
sor. Men, from whatever cause, have placed the virtue of
constancy on an exclusive pedestal. It seems to raise them
above fortune, that vulgar idol of our fragile humanity.
There were besides, in the Ufe of MUton, the BeUsarius of
poets, three incidental peculiarities which will perpetuate
and endear his memory in the minds of all those with whom
pity enhances admiration— his old age, his poverty, and his
blindness. Homer, laboring under the same calamities, was
led from door to door, to sing his verses, by a child hired
at the price of a few pence to guide him through the rude
paths of the Isle of Scio. The children who conducted
" Milton along the neighboring hills of London were his own
daughters, the offspring of his union with his first 'wife,
whom he never ceased to regret. FiUal affection and pa
ternal gratitude thus added an additional tenderness and
morality to the bUndness, misery, and infirmity of the En
glish poet.
The best portraits of Milton represent him seated at the
foot of an oak at sunset, his face turned toward the beams
of the departing luminary, and dictating his verses to his
well-beloved Deborah, listening attentively to the voice of
her father ; while his 'wife Elizabeth looks on him as Eve
regarded her husband after her fault and punishment. His
two younger daughters meanwhile gather flowers from the

MILTON. ' 159
meadows, that he may inhale some of the odors of the Eden
which perfumed his dreams. Our thoughts turn involun
tarily to the lot of that wife and daughters, after the death
of the illustrious old man on whom they were attending ;
and the poet, thus brought back to our eyes again, becomes
more interesting than the poem. Happy are they whose
glory is watered with tears ! Such reputation penetrates to
the heart, and in the heart alone the poet's name becomes
immortal.

ARABIA.

ANTAR;
OE, PASTORAL CIVILIZATION.
A.D. 600. THE CENTURY BEFORE MOHAMMED.
CrviLiZATiON assumes forms as numerous and contrasted
as the plans which the thoughts of the Creator have devised
for the government of the human family. Providence has
assigned to each distinct race, by the situation in which
they are placed, and the peculiar instincts with- which they
are endowed, parts to perform neither better nor worse than
those allotted to others, but differing only according to the
manners and attributes of each. Among these separate
nations some are sedentary by incUnation ; they build towns,
and cultivate the fields that surround them. The land, un
equally divided among the famiUes, and inclosed by walls
or ditches, becomes an hereditary possession, transmitted from
father to son. These communities are supported by the
produce of the earth, rendered fruitful through their labor.
Others live by commerce ; which means, by the benefit
derived, not from cultivation and amassing store, but by
exchanging the produce of one country with that of anoth
er ; by seUing their own superfluity and buying that of their
neighbors, and by carrying on a mutual traffic of all that is
marketable upon the globe. Certain races become, by nat
ural bent and geographical position, manufacturers, artisans,
and fabricators of all the different implements or objects of
necessity or luxury, which supply the wants or pleasures of
their fellow-creatures. They delve in mines, extracting from
thence iron, copper, and all the useful metals, which they

ANTAI?. 161
fashion according to the demands of varied trades ; they
weave hemp, wool, and silk, from whence are formed the
materials which produce the clothing of the rich and poor.
They constitute the mechanical classes, who supply the fur
niture and movables used throughout the world.
Others, again, Uve by the sea, and may be called citizens
of the ocean ; they are carried from place to place by its
waters, and the winds are their servants. They fish ; they
sail from shore to shore; they construct floating palaces,
they equip fleets, they dispute with other maritime nations
the dominion of the waves, as agriculturists contend for the
possession of the plains and valleys ; they form distant set
tlements on unknown coasts ; they plant their colonies in
swarms wherever they find a landing-place. Bom upon
the sea-shore or in islands, their adventurous and roving in
stinct carries them on in search of endless novelty. These
are the classes who discover and people new continents.
Peasants are the sowers of corn, but navigators are the
planters of men.
Finally, there are primitive races, who are prevented by
an innate and insurmountable love of movement, of change,
and of liberty, from ever settling in one particular spot.
Among these perpetual wanderers a house appears as a
prison ; they fancy that they yield up a portion of their
natural independence by dwelling within walls, or in ac
knowledging a fixed home. They look with utter confempt",
pity, and horror upon cities as mere sinks of impyirity,
where man disputes with man for space, air, and sunshine.
They shun them as snares set by slavery to entrap freedom.
Their flocks and herds form their whole riches ; for these
animal droves, unsettled and erratic like themselves, accom
pany them at their slightest caprice, and transport across
the boundless desert, according to the seasons, the climate,
the springs, and the fertile spots, the simple possessions and
movable habitations of the nomadic tribes : thus the shep
herd-life has been denominated pastoral civilization. The
distinctive sign is a tent instead of a house. From this

162 ANTAR.
single contrariety in the mode of dwelUng arise innumera
ble organic differences in the habits and customs of the in
habitants. With a house a man takes root, as a plant in
the earth: he gains in security, in poUcy, in number, in
country, in intelUgence, and in government ; but he loses in
Uberty. Every settled community abdicates, by the act of
fixed residence, the faculty of indefinite removal, which gives
to the roving tribes of shepherds the sovereignty of space,
the absolute dominion over sites, climates, mountains, plains,
and rivers — the illimitable boundary of their peregrinations.
Tyranny is easily estabUshed over people congregated in
large towns ; they faU under servitude as natural depend
encies of the country. Their churches, their palaces, their
cities, their houses, their furniture, their estates, improved
through succeeding generations by culture — their arts, their
luxuries, are so many securities which they pledge to the
land they inhabit. They can not carry them away when
the evil hour falls upon them ; and when the tyrant or the
conqueror exclaims, with the sword or torch in his hand,
" Submit, or lose your dweUings, your fields, and your rich
es," they yield up independence to preserve the hearths of
their fathers and their children.
On the other hand, with the dwellers in tents neither tyr
anny nor conquest can be permanently established. Their
country is as unbounded as space itself; every man becomes
a denizen of the tribe among which he plants his flag. If
he loses his rights of community with one, he recovers them
with another. Internal despotism is never to be dreaded
under a form of civilization which permits every individu
al who fancies that he is wounded, either in his personal
dignity or liberty, to remove his tent, his family, and his
possessions, and to seek a milder government and a less ab
solute head. Thus, although the paternal rule is acknowl
edged as the natural sovereignty of every encampment, au
tocracy and absolute dictatorship are unknown among the
pastoral races. They acknowledge chiefs, but obey no
masters. Every thing is transacted by common consent,

ANTAR. 163
an5 after pubUc deliberation. Cities are frequently mo
narchical, but the desert is invariably a republic. These
people, living in tents, and scarcely known in Europe, oc
cupy in the present day, and probably wiU continue to pos
sess for many future generations, the largest portions of
Asia, Tartary, Mongolia, and the vast regions of Central
Africa. Such is the immeasurable domain they have over
spread from the earliest' ages. A few scattered towns have
been erected from time to time on the borders of the des
erts, or even in the centre of their exclusive soUtude ; such,
for instance, as Cairo in' Egypt, Palmyra in Mesopotamia,
Baalbec in Syria, Samarcand, and the great cities of Tarta
ry and the plains, at the foot of the mountains of Thibet.
But these towns, like the advanced capes of a civilization
with which the nature of these wanderers refuses to coalesce,
are little more than extensive store-houses for commerce —
central stations for the meeting of caravans — distant fairs,
established from a very remote period, on the frontiers of
the pastoral nations, for the convenience of buying the wool
of their flocks, or of selling to them in return the few man
ufactures which their habits require. Continually assailed
by the mshing tide of invasion, and circumscribed by the
desert, these capitals, often overrun and soon destroyed un
der hostile incursions, leave only on the ground they once
occupied magnificent ruins, such as those of Thebes, Heli-
opolis, Palmyra, Babylon, Persepolis, and Utica— enigmat
ical vestiges, which cause the traveler who contemplates
them to wonder how such grandeur could ever have sprung
up in the desert, and buried itself in the sand ! The sed
entary population of these ant-hills of the tribes has dried
up and withered away, while the roving shepherds still plant
their tents on the spots where imperial residences once ex
isted. The camel, which is to the animal wojld what the
cypress is to the vegetable kingdom, a symbol of mourning
and eternity, browses on the brambles and thistles between
the prostrate columns of Baalbec and Palmyra.
We do not propose here to confine our observations to the

164 ANTAR.
pastoral tribes who approach the nearest to us on the side
of Asia Minor. These latter have beheld passing around
and amidst them the Medes, the Persians, the Egyptians,
the Eomans, the Crusaders of Europe, without being in
gulfed in the current of opposing civilizations, or in the de
struction of successive empires. These tribes gave birth to
Mohammed, the restorer of the unity of God throughout a
quarter of the globe. They were the first who acknowl
edged his moral code, his earliest followers in the campaigns
against idolatry ; and having subjected all the capitals of
the East and the Indies to the religion of their Prophet,
they returned peaceably and unambitiously to their pas
toral avocations and their enduring encampment in the
desert. Such are the peasants, and sometimes the warri
ors, of the three Arabias.
This widely-spread territory, anciently divided into three
distinct regions, the Happy, the Stony, and the Deserted, oc
cupies the 'wide tract which extends from Egypt and Syria,
between the mountains of Libanus and Palestine, the Eed
Sea and the Indian Ocean. Damascus and Bagdad are in
the present day the two most important capitals which ad
vance the farthest within the boundless domain of the Ara
bian shepherds, and carry on the greatest intercourse with
their different tribes. Mecca, the metropolis of Islamism ;
Medina, the burial-place of the Prophet ; and Djidda, the
principal sea-port, rear aloft their holy structures, peopled
by stationary Arabs, and separated from each other by vast
intervals, entirely abandoned to the nomadic races. With
the exception of the immediate neighborhood of these towns,
and some few spots of productive land in Yemen — the cul
tivated portion of Arabia Felix — the desert extends over all
the remaining part. During the forty days' march between
Damascus and Bagdad, as in the sixty between Bagdad
and Medina, the caravans encounter no dwelling-places but
tents, and no vegetation beyond the scant and thorny herb
age which stains with blood the lips of the camel.
This desert, which I have myself traversed throughout

ANTAR. 165
the plains of which Damascus seems the border, and across
the sandy valleys which extend between the Libanus and
Anti-Libanus, present a succession of downs which undu
late Uke waves, from Jerusalem to Egypt. It impresses on
the senses and the soul the same perception of infinity which
we derive from the ocean. It is, in fact, a sea without mo
tion, and appears, like the real one, to be bounded only by
the horizon. In proportion as you advance, the summits
of the lofty chains of the Taurus and Lebanon diminish to
the view, and are finally lost in a distant haze. The fir
mament seems to constitute the sole limit. The road or
track lies alternately along a barren or rocky surface,
¦which resounds, as if it were hollow, under the pressure of
the caravan ; sometimes it passes over a yielding earth, from
whence spring up stalks of dry grass, and large onions of
coloquintida. More frequently your steps sink deep in fine
sand, perpetually disturbed by the 'wind, and whirled into
movable hillocks or deep hollows, through which the cam
el-driver endeavors to discover- a passage by a thousand
tortuous windings.
When the -road is entirely closed up by one of these bar
riers of sand, the whole caravan is obliged to surmount it,
and you suddenly behold the leading camel of the fUe emerge
from the desert on the top of one of these moving eminences,
like a vessel hidden from vi'ew by the depth of the waves,
which shows itself one moment on the summit of a mass
of foam, and disappears again when hurled down into the
hollow trough of the sea.
Occasionally at certain distances, between sunrise and sun
rise, and sometimes with an interval of four days' march, a
well or a cistern is encountered, the approach to which is
indicated to the eye by tall reeds, which form a green spot
in the distance on the yellow surface ; or by a large spread
ing sycamore, whose bare and blackened roots retain the
traces of fires kindled by shepherds and passing caravans.
The camp is usually pitched in the close vicinity of these
weUs. All wait patiently until the horses, the camels, the

166 ANTAE.
goats, and the sheep, wearied by a toilsome march, or col
lected in from some scanty pasture-ground in the neighbor
hood, have slowly slaked their thirst in the troughs, inces
santly replenished from the water-skins carried by half-na
ked black slaves. The tents are elevated ; some of the wom
en and children disperse themselves around to gather up the
dead branches of shrubs, or the dried dung of the camels,
the sole combustibles which supply the evening fire. Oth
ers are occupied in bruising grains of doura, or jvheat, be
tween two stones, to knead thp bread. The slaves ungirth
the leathern bags, which during the day cover up the teats
of the camels to prevent them from suckling their young ;
they bring vessels filled with milk into the tents — they give
the superfiuity to the horses : they attend to aU the neces
sities of the family, and leave the mothers free to adminis
ter to the wants of the children.
During these halts, the men; who are disposed to idleness,
or who hold in contempt all active occupations except war
and the chase, group themselves in a circle round the tent
of the sheik. They .smoke their narghilies in silent compos
ure, or discourse confidentially on the affairs of the tribe.
Orators, endowed with the inborn and practiced eloquence
which free discussion strengthens, even among wandering
communities, speak in rotation ; some with sententious and
monotonous gravity, others in occasional bursts of deep gut
tural energy, accompanied by gesticulations and attitudes,
and with a passionate vehemence which invests the direc
tion of a march through the sand with as much importance
as it would bestow upon the government of a mighty em
pire. "Whatever may be the , reputation of a warrior for
valor, he can never hope to exercise a commanding influ
ence in the camp, if nature has not endowed him richly
'with the gift of words. The pastoral Arab has no respect
for courage unless directed by superior intelligence; he
trusts only to those whom he feels to be his superiors in
mind as in strength. He resists force, but yields to per-

ANTAE. 167
Poetry in the desert is equally honored 'with eloquence.
The Arabs, at the same time warriors, talkers, and dream
ers, exalt to equal eminence among the illustrious orna
ments of their nation, whether living or dead, those only
who have been distinguished as orators in the debate, heroes
in the battle-field, and bards in the leisure of peace. Their
sports and recreations strongly mark the passion of the rov
ing Arab for poetry associated with music. A stringed in
strument, resembling a rustic guitar, often resounds under
his fiiigers through the sUence of the night. With this he
accompanies his verses, sustains his recitations, and regu
lates the steps of his young wives and daughters in the mys
terious nocturnal dances which form the spectacular exhi
bitions of the tribes. These dances, compounded of poetry
and music, and denominated Mazamen, bear the impress of
the imaginative, self-contained, and impassioned genius
which marks the character of this singular race. They are
exhibited under the modesty of the veU and the shadow of
darkness. The presence of the whole tribe, and the distance
severely maintained between the sexes, impart a character
of reserve and gravity to these festivals, which serves to
sanctify love, while provoking and restraining, at the same
time, the ardent feelings of youth.
At a late hour, arranged beforehand between the famiUes
of the same tribe, the 'wives and daughters assemble in a
row behind the tents, and sing in chorus an in-vitation to
the youths to join them in their sports. The young men
issue forth at the sound of- their voices ; they place them
selves in a single line, like spectators, in front of and oppo
site to the line of female dancers. A sufficient space is left
between for the necessary evolutions. "When the two bands
are thus ranged face to face, not far from the tents, and un
der the canopy of a heaven half lit by the stars of that
beautiful and briUiant sky, one of the young men extempor
rizes a warlike lay in slow and melancholy measure. He
repeats the same verse several times, whUe his companions
reiterate alternately the last word as a burden. Then the

168 AJSfTAE.
singer proceeds with the subject, repeating constantly the
line which finishes each verse, and accompanying the words
with expressive attitudes, which associate the movements
of the body with the thought or sentiment expressed in the
different stanzas. These gesticulations are copied by his
male companions while they listen. On hearing the voices
and observing the measured attitudes of the men, two or
three young damsels issue from the group, half concealed
by blue veils, the skirts of which, raised gently by their
arms, fall again upon their naked feet. They advance soft
ly into the vacant space, always following the cadence of
the song, until within two or three paces of the line of men,
who, excited by admiration, poetry, music, and mystery, ap
plaud most vehemently the steps of the dancers, and encour
age them by flattering exclamations, borrowed from the pas
toral vocabulary with wliich they caress the young camels.
Some, carried away by the enthusiasm of the moment, or
happening to recognize under the veils the selected objects
of affection they have coveted, from infancy, tear off their
white turbans, disengage the folds, and extend them at the
distance of some paces upon the sand, to serve as a carpet
under the feet of the dancers. If any one of the young
girls, in gliding over this covering, happens to raise it
adroitly upon the point of her toe, and to throw it behind
her toward the line of women, loud shouts of approbation
are instantly raised ; the turban, the shawl, the necklaces,
the trinkets which the men have thus thrown down as a
challenge, belong to the dancer : they must be ransomed on
the following day by a present to the family. As soon as
one o{ the figurantes has retired, a fresh one takes her place.
The music, the poetry, the transports of the spectators, con
tinue to excite the dancing of the females until the latest
hours of night. We may readily conceive what the triple
intoxication of voice, sound, and motion adds to the effect
of these desert festivals, carried on under a dim twiUght in
a balmy atmosphere, as if by intangible phantoms, beneath
whose veils every enamored youth fancies that he descries

ANTAR. 169
the chosen partner of his dreams, the sharer of his future
happiness. The most reUgious decency is here mingled
'with an utterly absorbing Ulusion ; the praises of the Di
vine Being are sung by poets, and pleasure is consecrated by
prayer. These nocturnal fetes, at which the occupiers of
many different encampments, scattered through the desert,
coUect together from vast distances, are denominated in the
tents the Mazamen, or the Song of the Psalms.
The tent itself — the house of the wandering Arab — is a
species of religious and civil institution, and of uniform con
struction. Tradition has fixed, measured, named, and con
secrated all its separate divisions. No arbitrary caprice
has for many centuries effected the slightest change in any
compartment ; it is, in fact, a domicile of wood and canvas,
the dimensions of which are regulated by the strength of
the camel by which it is carried.
This equal palace of the rich and poor is raised and re
moved throughout the desert upon one uniform plan. Ev
ery part has its place, particular use, and distribution, reg
ularly assigned and limited. There is a style of architect
ure for this mass of linen, as for the Parthenon. The Arabs
caU the whole the house ; the poles by which il is supported
they name the columns ; of these, there are nine — three in
the centre, and three on each side. The nine columns form
three naves, or di'visions, separated by hangings of felt, and
reserved for distinct purposes. The tissue of black goat's
hair which surmounts the columns, and rests on a trans
versal pole fitted to the centre, is called the roof. This is
again doubled by a second and thicker covering of the same
material, impervious to rain. The apartment in the middle
of the tent is the common hall, destined for the reception of
guests. That on the left is occupied by the men, whUe the
corresponding one on the right is reserved for the women.
Many ropes of camel's hair, fastened to the different hang
ings on the summit of the -tent, and tightly stretched, like
the raging of a mast, are secured by iron rings to pickets
fixed aU round in the earth, to secure the stabiUty of the
H

170 ANTAR.
edifice against the power of the wind. According to the
season and the hour, they raise or let fall the linen door,
called rouhok, which closes or opens the bottom of the tent.
The curtain, of white wool, made at Damascus, which sep
arates the apartment of the women, or the harem, from the
central portion of the habitation, is embroidered with color
ed flowers. The floor is covered with mats of straw, over
which are spread rich carpets of Bagdad. A pile of sacks,
caparisons of horses, pack-saddles of camels, provisions, or
arms, is heaped in a pyramid round the central column.
The slaves and dogs have their assigned position at the foot
of the column which supports the vestibule. A slight piece
of cloth, added to the covering of the tent, floating loosely
in the breeze, and resembling a pent-house, affords them a
scanty shelter from the inclemency of the weather r this is
the servile compartment — the refuge of the mendicant.
This dwelling-place is raised and removed in a few mo
ments, according to the wealth of the master, and the num
ber of his family or of the slaves, whenever the tribe shifts
its place of encampment, A file of camels, more or less ex
tended, is loaded with the columns, the clothes, the bags, the
furniture, and the provisions of the removing establishment ;
the men mount their horses, the women and children are
carried on the beasts of burden, A sort of broad and flat
throne is stretched like a platform over the pack-saddles of
the camels, and serves as a post of honor for the wives and
daughters of the sheiks. This seat, covered with scarlet
leather and rich carpets, forms the chief pride of the women:
they decorate the black camel, which they always select in
preference, with housings and trappings of different-colored
stuffs, the fringes of which trail on the ground or flutter in
the breeze. The halter, which serves as a bridle for the ani
mal, is ornamented 'with beads and ostrich feathers, SmaU
bells are suspended from the necks of the milch-camels, to
retain the young near their mothers. The men gallop in the
front or on the flank of the caravan, reconnoitre the desert,
watch the flocks on the Une of march, and anxiously ex-

ANTAR. 171
amine the horizon. The family, and sometimes the entire
tribe, generally composed of fifteen or twenty tents, advance
in this order toward a fresh well or a new pasturage. They
find their country again wherever the sheik or the elders give
the signal to unload the camels, and pitch their temporary
residences. These eternal na-vigators of the sea of sand have contract
ed, by similarity of manners, by contemplation of the same
scenes, by inhabiting the same spaces, and by the constant
movement of the same steps over similar sites, a personal
character analogous to the character of the desert : religious
as the infinity that surrounds them, free as the expanse open
to their view ; roving as the horse, the camel, or the herd
of cattle, which carries or follows them ; hospitable as the
open tent to the traveler bewildered in those vast solitudes ;
intrepid, as becomes men who owe their safety to the strength
of their cwn arms, and who are ever compeUed to be on the
watch to defend their 'wives, their children, their springs of
fresh water, and their pasture-lands from the sudden incur
sions of other tribes, fierce, unsettled, and wandering like
themselves. They are habitually grave arid silent as the
waste that surrounds them, but sometimes loquacious and
communicative as men who meet with men in a hurried,
casual interview, and who hasten to exchange mutual in
quiries and to impart reciprocal information. They are as
contemplative and poetical as the' nights, the days, the stans,
the boundless horizons which are invariably before them.
Finally, they are relators of stories, long as the slowly-pro-
gressiug, unemployed hours, which can only be filled up by
marvelous recitations, while they sit under the shelter of the
tent or round the margin of the weU or spring, to beguile
the heavy march of time.
He who has never gazed upon the sun sinking in the haze
of a red furnace reflected by the sand from the distant ho
rizon of Mesopotamia or Chaldea ; who has never beheld
the consteUations rise and decline slowly during the summer
nights in that ocean of ethereal blue, -deeper than the thought

172 ANTAR.
which penetrates it, and more transparent than the motion
less sea under the shadow of a cape which checks the glitter
ing undulation of the waves ; he who has not listened to the
intermittent sighing of the wind drowsily bome across the
desert, and carried gradually to the ear over downs of sand
and through scattered patches of herbage; he who has not
with early dawn gazed upon the boundless expanse stretched
before him on every side, until distance is lost in infinity;
or who has never at mid-day contemplated the shadowy pro-
fUe of the crouching camel, delineated distinctly on the back
ground of the clear firmament, immovable as the sculptured
sphinx upon the burning sand of Egypt — such a man can
form no adequate idea of the true character of the Arabian
shepherd, or of the charm which attaches and reconcUes him
to his lot.
The impressions, the sensations, the emotions of feeUng
— the sounds, the stiUness, the thoughts of the desert, come
from such a distance that they seem to proceed from the
Eternal himself That Ught which falls in a shower of fire
upon the hUls or naked plains has never been reflected from
the roof of a city, and has received no contamination from
the smoke of human chimneys. Throughout the day, no
thing interposes between the soul and its author. We feel
the hand of the Creator, in-visible yet palpable, upon the ob
jects of his creation : we expect at every moment to see him
manifest himself in the midst of that ocean of light which
veUs him, or upon the Umits of that indefinite horizon which
seems to verge on the unkno-wn.
During the night, our eyes wander among the stars, fol
lowing or preceding them in their various courses, and we
become, as it were, agents and assistants in that developed
mechanism of the universe, which is in truth the act of faith
of the heavens. Eeligion, the act of faith of the earth, is
bom of astronomy in the deserts of Chaldea. The letters
which compose the Divine name are read there in most re
splendent characters upon the pages of the firmament. Im
agination is fed by visions and illusions ; supernatural ap-

ANTAR. 173
pearances, the incarnations of truth in a dream, have pre
vailed there ever since the commencement of the world.
Man, oppressed by the mysteries of piety and faith, longs
passionately for the only inspiration worthy of his nature —
that of infinity and eternity.
All the prevailing forms of worship have sprung from
these solitudes, from the Star-defty who governs the worlds
of Zoroaster, to the Allah of Mohammed ; from the legisla
tive Jehovah of Moses, to the True Word sought for amidst
the obscurity of night by the shepherds of Bethlehem. The
Arab — mysterious as sUence, meditative as darkness, con
centrated as solitude, thirsting after miracles as an eternal
calling forth of the secrets of heaven — has a keener sense
than we can ever attain of the presence of God in the des
ert : his life is one unvarying and uninterrupted adoration,
which nothing distracts from his Creator. Boundless space
is the most imposing of aU temples. There can be no
atheism face to face -with Nature. Take an avowed atheist
from the West, and place him for a few years in the East,
and he wiU return completely cured of that infirmity of
mind. Atheism can only spring up in the shade, in the
thoughtlessness and whirl of western cities. The sun kUls
unbeUef, which resembles the cold poisons that can not
fructify except under the mantle of darkness.
SUent and interminable space impresses upon the Arab
a more exalted and more uncontrolled perception of his
personal dignity. Man feds depressed and crushed in a
crowd, but elevated and expanded in solitude. He who is
alone, feels that he is important ; for he measures himself
by his natural standard, and not by the undistinguishable
numerical value which his single existence represents in a
populous city or nation. This conviction of his individual
greatness renders him incapable of debasement, rebeUious
against tyranny, and indisposed to servitude : he obeys his
reUgion, the divine sovereignty of family ties, the customs
and manners which habit has sanctified ; but he never sub
mits to force unsupported by right: he possesses his horse

174 ANTAR.
to fly from oppression, his weapon to struggle -with it, and
space in which to bury his freedom. His faults are those
of kings, not slaves. He is generous and compassionate :
, he spares the conquered, protects the infant, and deifies the
female sex ; he affords shelter to all who throw themselves
upon his protection, even to his enemy ; he treats his slaves
Uke adopted brothers bestowed upon him by Providence as
a second family, of which he is the guardian, but never be
comes the tyrant. Such are the leading characteristics of
the wandering tribes of the three districts of Arabia from
the time of Abraham to the present day. It was necessary
to describe them before relating the adventures of Antar,
the modern David of the desert. His Ufe comprises at once
a poem and a history, in which the poet, the lover, and the
hero are blended in one and the same person, and are thus
combined to encourage and strengthen the Arabs in the
three iUusions which exercise unbounded empire over their
imaginations — .heroism, love, and poetry.
The birth of Antar is as romantic as his Ufe. We can
fancy that we are pemsing a simple yet strange narrative
of the patriarchal age. Thus it is handed down to us.
Zobeir, chief or king of the tribe of .46s, a numerous and
warlike community of Yemen, came to perform the pilgrim
age to Mecca. Both wandering and settled Arabs, before
Mohammed, were in the habit of visiting that holy place,
to worship in the first temple erected by Abraham, and
sanctified by tradition. Zobeir, with his attendants, estab
lished himself in the environs of the city. Young, power
ful, and acknowledged also as chief by other tribes less
populous than his own, he sought a 'wife among the damsels
of his race. The report of the miraculous beauty of the
daughter of an independent sheik caUed Amrou inflamed
him with the desire of caUing her his own. The name of
this celebrated virgin was Themadour. Zobeir hesitated to
demand the hand of Themadour from Amrou, fearing a re
fusal in consequence of an hereditary feud between the
families : under this apprehension he had recourse to arti-

ANTAR. 175
fice. He invited Amrou to a festival in his encampment ;
and while his guest, in the confidence and enjoyment of hos
pitality, laid aside all mistrust, Zobeir issued secret orders
to a chosen band of warriors, selected from a neighboring
tribe, to attack the tents of Amrou under cover of the night,
to disperse his flocks, and terrify his unprotected family ; but
at the same time he strictly forbade them to be guilty of the
slightest outrage against the wife or daughter of Amrou.
These secret orders were executed with implicit obedi
ence. The appointed horsemen assailed the encampment
of Amrou, scattered his slaves before them, carried off the
cattle, and drove them into a defile of the mountains. The
result of this_ premeditated attack speedily reached the
knowledge of Zobeir. He dissimulated his joy, and rushed
forth into the desert at the head of his bravest warriors,
as if flying to the succor of his guest. He arri'ved first on
the threshold of the tent of Amrou, who, receiving the in
telligence later, followed at some distance. The beautiful
Themadour, his daughter, stood bathed in tears at the en
trance of her father's dwelling ; she cast her eyes upon the
scattered flocks, and raised her arms to Heaven, imploring
succor or revenge. " Her cheeks," says the poet Antar,
" were flushed as the peony, her locks black and thick as the
darkness of night ; the tears which gathered 'without faU
ing, in her eyelids, augmented the brilUancy of her eyes."
Zobeir, transported and bewildered by her beauty, order
ed an old follower who accompanied him to cover the
young damsel respectfully with a veU ; he then started off
with his horsemen in pursuit of the pretended robbers, and
soon returned 'with the thousand camels and slaves of Am
rou, which he delivered up in safety and uninjured at the
tents of his friend. During this imitation of combat and
deliverance, Amrou had hastened in person to the succor
of his family and tribe. He saw with, his own eyes the
zeal and ardent generosity of Zobeir, and prayed him to ac
cept in turn the hospitaUty he had proffered. "Zobeir!"
exclaimed Amrou, during the festival given in honor of the

176 ANTAR.
liberator of his daughter, " if my heart can not pour itself
out in gratitude, it will burst : I have nothing more pre
cious to offer than my child Themadour : I bestow her upon
thee as thy slave !" " I accept her," repUed Zobeir, " not
as a slave, but as my wife." At. these words the damsels
of the tribe conducted Themadour, veiled, into the presence
of Zobeir, and, removing the curtain, disclosed her radiant
beauty to the eyes of her future husband. Zobeir carried
his lovely conquest back to his o-wn tribe, and yielded him
self up to the intoxication of unalloyed happiness.
Meanwhile Themadour, although rejoicing in the love
•with which she had inspired Zobier, and which she ardent
ly returned, felt her pride mortified that she had been van
quished as a slave, and not purchased -with rich gifts to her
father, like a free-bom maiden, and in compliance -with the
manners of her nation. The incautious Zobeir, glorying in
the success of his scheme, had, in the delirium of affection,
confessed it to his bride. Themadour vowed secretly to
herself to punish the subterfuge of Zobeir by another subter
fuge, and to compel him to pay to her father the value of
her dowry.
One night, while she was famiUarly reproaching him
-with the stratagem he had practiced to obtain possession of
her without disbursing the la'wful purchase, Zobeir became
infiamed with anger, and rising up suddenly from the couch,
replied that she was fool-hardy to speak thus to her hus
band and her master. " It is well !" rejoined Themadour,
smiling ; " know then that your trick has been counteract
ed by one more subtle and more skillfully executed. I am
not that Themadour whose charms you so insatiably covet
ed ; I am only her sister and shadow ; the matchless beau
ty for which I have been substituted to satisfy you reposes
under the tent of my father, Amrou, inaccessible to your
arms and desires.'-'
Zobeir at these words became troubled and suspicious.
" If you do not credit what I say," continued Themadour,
" send some aged female to my mother with a message ; she

ANTAR. 177
'wUl be admitted 'without difficulty into the presence of the
women in their private apartments, and my sister's veil wUl
be removed before her." "No !" answered Zobeir, " I shall
adopt a better plan ; I wUl go myself. I wiU assume the
garb of a seUer of aromatics, and 'with my box of perfumes
in my hand I shall obtain free access into the tent, and shall
behold the countenance of your sister." Immediately after
this conversation, Zobeir ordered his slaves to keep his tent
closed for three days, that none might discover or suspect
his absence ; he dressed himself as an itinerant merchant,
took under his arm a small case of aromatics, and, barefoot
ed, his loins girt 'with a large leathern belt, he issued unper-
ceived from his tent before sunrise, and bent his course to
ward the encampment of Amrou. Scarcely had he depart
ed in this disguise, when Themadour, concealing herself in
her turn from the drowsy slaves, under the garb of a war
rior, issued from the tent, untied the swiftest courser belong
ing to her husband, and, galloping at fuU speed in the di
rection of her father's camp, passed, without being recog
nized, the pretended trader ia perfumes, and arrived before
him at the tent of her mother. Without losing a moment,
she imparted to her father and brethren the plan she had
conceived for vindicating the honor of the family. She
placed them in ambuscade under the shadow of a wood of
date-trees in the close -vicinity of the camp ; told them to
hasten at her call, and surprise Zobeir unarmed in the tent ;
to chain him to the piUar in the centre, and not to restore
him to Uberty until he bound himself by oath to pay to her
father, Amrou, the value of his daughter. Then, laying
aside her male attire, Themadour covered herself -with the
-virgin veU, and waited the arrival of the false merchant.
" Enter, seller of perfumes !" cried aloud the mother, as
soon as she perceived him hovering Uke a fox round the
tents ; " thou shalt set forth thy stores before my daughter
Themadour, who deUghts in the sweet scents of Yemen."
At this name of Themadour, Zobeir began to beUeve firmly
that he had been deceived by Amrou. " Have you, then,
H2

178 ANTAR.
another daughter ?" demanded he of the mother, " Yes,"
she replied, " we had a second, called lOida, much less beau
tiful than Themadour, We changed her name, and gave
her, under the pretended denomination of Themadour, to
Zobeir, to revenge ourselves for the insult he had offered to
our family by accepting from us a wife without offering in
return her value. We have kept with us the true Thema-
' dour, the wonder of all our tribes, to bestow her at the
highest possible price on a warrior of Yemen.
Zobeir, at this avowal, blushed with indignation and
shame. Forgetting his assumed character of a merchant,
he began to think of carrying off by violence the beauty of
which he had been deprived ; when suddenly Amrou, his
sons, and brothers, rushing forth from the wood of dates "to
ward the camp, fell like a herd of lions upon Zobeir, bound
him hand and foot, and stretched him, but 'without wounds,
on the carpet of the tent. Themadour, his avenged -wife,
dropping then the veil to her feet, smiled with pride min
gled with tenderness on the captive Zobeir, and gloried in
ha'ving beaten stratagem by stratagem. Zobeir, humilia
ted, but at the same time happy that he had been conquered
by his wife alone, agreed to bestow upon his father-in-law,
Amrou, one thousand camels, twenty thorough-bred horses
— bearing round their necks the genealogy of the races they
were descended from — fifty male slaves, and an equal num
ber of young girls to wait upon his 'wife. On these terms
he was set at Uberty, and reconducted 'with aU honor by the
famUy of Amrou to his o'wn encampment.
Six sons, endowed with the strength and courage of lions,
and a single daughter, beautiful as her mother, were the
produce of this union. The sons became chieftains of the
tribe of Abs, of which Antar was the hero.
Schedad, one of the relations of this family, called more
commonly " the master of Sivvet," from the name of a cel
ebrated mare in his possession, happened on one particular
occasion to engage in a predatory excursion 'with two cava-
Uers, as adventurous and as well mounted as himself, to

ANTAE. 179
carry off the slaves and flocks of the Arabs of Caihan. But
the aggressors found the opposing tribe so numerous that
they dared not to attack them during the day, but waited
the approach of night, and withdrew into the desert, that
they might find pasturage for their horses. A black slave of
incomparable beauty, accompanied by two smaU children,
kept guard over the camels of the tribe of Cathan. The
companions of Schedad hastened to bridle their chargers,
drove the camels before them, and carried off the two chil
dren and the beautiful black slave. On the report of this
abduction, a thousand mounted warriors poured forth from
the tents of Cathan in pursuit of the plunderers. Schedad,
regardless of the number of his enemies, caused his compan-^
ions, the troop of camels, the black slave, arid the chUdren,
to plunge into a narrow defile. He placed himself at the
entrance, with four of his chosen band, defended the pass
until the approach of night, and. strewed the earth at his
feet 'with piles of dead and wounded assailants. During
this contest, his associates conducted their spoil in safety
to the sea-shore. Schedad having rejoined them, disdained
to claim any share of the booty acquired by his O'wn arm,
but, smitten by the charms of the black slave, he demanded
that she should be given up ta him as his sole reward.
The passion of the Arabs for the dark beauties of Abys
sinia, whose features exhibit the perfection of Grecian stat
ues, is commemorated by all the poets of the East. " Black
amber," say they in their verses, " above all other perfumes,
intoxicates the senses •with its odor." This fascinating slave,
already the mother of two children, carried off 'with her,
was called Zebedeha. Schedad conducted her to his tent,
loved her 'with a constant affection, and became through
her the father of a son. This offspring of the warrior Sche
dad and the dark slave Zebedeha was named Antar.
The strength and precocious intelUgence of the young
black were remarked by the comrades of Schedad from his
earliest years. They demanded as their right the posses
sion of a child, born, as they said, of a female slave whom

180 ANTAR.
they had consented to yield up to Schedad, but- 'without re
signing their claim to her posterity, Schedad refused to
deUver up his own blood to servitude. The case was re
ferred to Zobeir himself "Let the child be brought before
me," said he, " that I may judge with my own eyes of the
object in dispute. At these words Schedad went out, and
returned holding his son by the hand. At the moment
when the boy entered the tent of the sheik, an enormous
dog had seized an antelope, and was rushing forth with the
captive between his teeth. No one present dared to deprive
him of his prey. The child Antar, without order or prompt
ing, disengaged himself from the gr^p of his father, feU fu
riously upon the dog, grappled him by the throat, compelled
him to release the trembling victim, and seizing the jaws
of the animal 'with each hand, and with irresistible force,
'wrenched them asunder, even to the back of his neck. The
dog feU dead at the feet of the infant.* " I can readily be
lieve," said Zobeir, " that many may desire to obtain pos
session of such a son, but the law awards him to Schedad.
Is it not 'written, ' He who has sown the seed should gather
the harvest ; he who has planted the tree has a right to the
fruit f " Schedad carried back his boy, and replaced him
in the arms of Zebedeha, his mother.
The child, retaining the attributes of his double origin,
as the son of a free chieftain by a favorite slave, was treat
ed by his father sometimes as. his son, and occasionaUy a%
his serf He was appointed to watch the flocks in the
desert, but he deUghted in combats with the wild animals.
One evening, on returning to the tent, he cast his waUet,
stained with blood, at the feet of Zebedeha, his mother.
She opened it, and trembled 'with apprehension when she
found within the head of a Uon severed by the hand of
Antar. Full of generous feeling as of undaunted courage, he one
'* There seems to be some resemblance between this tradition and
the stoiy of Hercules strangling serpents in his cradle. The earlier
fable may have suggested the latter one. — Transl.

ANTAR. 181
day killed, vdth a single blow of his iron arm, the principal
shepherd of Zobeir, who disputed possession of the well with
a poor old woman whose goats were expiring with thirst.
At this aU the other slaves of Zobeir feU upon Antar in a
body to revenge their chief Antar, snatching up a knotty
staff which lay upon the sand, defended himself singly
against a multitude, and stretched many of his assailants
dead at his feet. Hearing the noise of the strife, the young
Melik, son of Zobeir, who was hunting in the plain, gal
loped toward the well, and beheld Antar surrounded by a
thousand foes. He contemplated 'with wonder the prodig
ious strength and gaUant intrepidity of the young negro,
and, moved by pity and admiration, flew to his assistance,
vo'wing toward him an eternal friendship. He scattered
the slaves, covered Antar 'with his sabre, caused him to
walk by the side of his horse, protected him from the anger
of his master, obtained his pardon, and restored him to the
tent of Schedad. The wives and daughters of the tribe of
Schedad pressed forth from behind the curtains that con
cealed them to greet the triumph of the young dark-colored
slave, the prodigy of men, the champion of the helpless, and
the protector of the weaker sex.
Among the lovely throng Antar beheld only Abla, the
idol of his soul. Abla, the most beautiful virgin of the
tribe of Abs, was the daughter of Malek, brother of Sche
dad, and thus the cousin of her adorer. Owing to this re
lationship, and the close intimacy that existed between the
tents of Schedad and Malek, they had lived from infancy in
that familiar intercourse which the manners of Arabia per
mit between children of the same blood. From infancy,
also, the love which was destined to form the misfortune,
the glory, and" the happiness of Antar, seemed to have sprung
up, and to strengthen between them as they grew to ma
turity. They had not as yet made any mutual avowal of
this early attachment, but the passion breathed in aU their
thoughts. Antar began to compose and sing in Arabic verses while

182 ANTAR,
tending the camels of his father Schedad in solitude : the
unvarying theme of his song was his cousin Abla, All the
poetic imagery of the desert, the day, the night, the sun,
the stars, the shadow, the dew, the palm-trees, the eyes of
the gazelle, were borrowed by the shepherd-bard from the
nature with which he was . acquainted, to conjure up and
place before the eyes of his imagination the image of Abla,
and to convey the impression which her presence, the sound
of her voice, or even the remembrance of her charms, pro
duced upon his soul.
But although these first verses of Antar, retained by the'
memory of his companions, and repeated by the young dam
sels within the tents, had already rendered his name famous
among the children of Abs, an accent of melancholy and
depression accompanied the close of every song. Born of a
mother who was a black slave, and a black slave himself,
although cherished as legitimate by his father, Antar did
not conceal from himself that his love for Abla was, in the
eyes of the Arabs, a species of sacrilege, and that Malek,
her father, would never, unless through a miracle, bestow
his daughter upon a man stamped 'with the color of servi
tude. It was, then, this all-controUing passion for Abla
which happily inspired him with the idea or the dream of
attempting prodigies of heroism which should overcome des
tiny, and conquer the hand of her who had so completely
subdued his heart. " I 'wiU hurl myself," he exclaimed, in
impassioned verse, " into the dust of the battle ; I 'wiU raise
myself to the topmost pinnacle of glory, O Abla, or I ¦wiU
faU under the arrows of thy father's enemies ! then thou
wilt either weep over my body, extended at thy feet and
covered ¦with wounds, or thy father wiU bestow thee upon
my deUvering hand."
The uncles of Abla, feeUng irritated and humiUated that
a vUe slave of Negro skin should dare to lift his eyes to
their niece, contrived a thousand snares to entrap the young,
aspiring lover, and to procure his destruction, either in con
test with warriors, or in a struggle with the savage Arabs

ANTAR. 183
of the desert. His strength and courage enabled him to
defeat any ambush that was formed to entrap him to ruin
or death. One day his uncles, having sent him, unarmed,
to seek their camels by the margin of the sea, at a place
mclosed by lofty rocks, the haunt of an enormous lion, in
the hope of thus getting rid of his unwelcome presence for
ever, found him on the foUowihg morning, to their utter
astonishment, asleep upon the body of the Uon, which he
had contrived to kiU. Admiration arid respect for the co
lossal stature and supernatural strength of Antar straggled
within them against the hatred by which they were ani
mated toward their nephew. They fancied that they read
once more the history of Joseph, envied and persecuted by
his brethren.
During the absence of aU the warriors of the tribe of
Abs, who had departed on a distant expedition, the women,
the children, the old men, the flocks, the treasure, and the
tents, were confided to the charge of Antar alone. The
horsemen of Cathan profited by this opportunity to surprise
the encampment.
Antar, who had posted himself at some distance on the
summit of a hUl, beheld a cloud of armed men burst like a
thunder-storm over the residence of Abla. One of these
cavaUers bound her on his horse behind him, and was al
ready flying •with his prey ; Antar darted after him ¦with
the speed of an antelope, outstripped his courser, kiUed the
robber, delivered Abla, and placed her upon the grass stain
ed with his blood. He then threw himself upon the horse
of the warrior he had slain, pursued the band of depreda
tors, overtook them one by one, and marked the Jpack of
the desert by the bodies of the enemies he kiUed. He then
returned, an avenged conqueror, delivered Abla to her moth
er, and was haUed by the benedictions and applause of the
entire tribe.
The bard of his own exploits, Antar extols, 'with the in
nate, simple pride of an Arab, the incomparable strength
of his arm. "Behold me in my proper element," he cries.

184 ANTAR.
whUe apostrophizmg his opponents lying scattered and Ufe-
less at his feet ; " I breathe blood : my force is irresistible ;
my sabre cleaves like the thunder-bolt ; no warrior can escape
from its blow ; the bow and the sword have been my play
things from the cradle. I quench my thirst with wine, old
as the world ! I hear the voice, which I prefer alone to
the sound of clashing iron in the combat, when men encoun
ter and fall together in the death-struggle— the voice of my
adored Abla! Oh, Abla! Abla! thou art the only dream
of my soul, and I seek renown for no other motive than the
hope that the day may yet arrive when I shaU cease to be
the object of thy contempt ! I am black, it is true, but I
feel confident that I shaU subdue envy, and annihilate aU
that opposes me ! I fight for Abla alone ! I am her slave
forever!" After having thus chanted his triumph, and brought back
aU the women and children in safety under the shelter of the
tents, Antar departed anew upon one of the horses captured
in the pursuit, and led into the camp of Schedad the cours
ers of the Foes he had slain. It was unanimously agreed,i
out of respect to the women, and particularly on account of
Semeha, the legitimate spouse of Schedad, to conceal from
him this incursion of enemies into his camp ; but Schedad,
on his return, having gone to inspect the fiocks, was lost in
astonishment to find superb war-horses grazing 'with his
own under the guard of Antar. "Wretch!" exclaimed he
to his son, " it is therefore to carry off the chosen coursers
of our brethren of the desert that thou art accustomed to
wander far from the precincts of the camp, and that thou
hidest like a brigand among inaccessible rocks. It is im
possible to expect good from such as thou; robbery and
murder are mingled •with thy blood ; thou wilt bring shame
and dishonor on the name of the tribe which has given an
asylum to thy mother."
So saying, Schedad struck his innocent son fiercely and
frequently •with the handle of the whip which he carried in
his hand, and, binding him •with cords to the trunk of a

ANTAR. 185
sycamore, left him exposed to the prowling animals of the
night. But Semeha, his •wife, perceiving from a distance
the uplifted arm of her husband, and hearing the suppressed
groans of Antar under the discipline of his father, ran,
bathed in tears, to cover him with her own body, and con
fessed to Schedad the invasion of the horsemen of Cathan,
and the achievements of the youthful black, so crueUy pun
ished for his valor. Schedad embraced his son, wept over
him with mingled joy and pride on hearing this recital of
his exploits, and carried him into the presence of the king
Zobeir, who from that moment admitted him into the ranks
of his warriors. Thenceforward Antar ceased to be en
rolled among the slaves of Schedad his father, and signal
ized his prowess in the many wars of Zobeir against the
other tribes of Yemen.
On their return "fr-om battle, Zobeir iu'vited him to sit at
the festivals. Antar, Uke Achilles relaxing himself •with
his lyre, sang at the royal table the victories of the tribe,
and his O'wn personal achievements. He never failed to
mingle the name of Abla with his songs of war and love,
demanding of glory to be elevated to a sufficient height in
the esteem of his countrymen, to merit, with the hand of
Abla, the sole reward of his valor and genius.
Many cantos of the poem of Antar are dedicated to the
recital of these prodigies of his arm throughout the long
years of trial during which Schedad and Malek refused to
bestow on him the gift of his mistress. In a doubtful posi
tion, always undetermined between slavery and Uberty, he
several times, but in vain, preserved the honor of the tribe
and the Ufe of Abla ; but stiU Arab pride revolted against
the idea of a union between a free-bom damsel and a black
slave. His verses at this epoch consist of plaintive, and
sometimes menacing, lamentations on his hard destiny.
Overwhelmed 'with distinctions and regard by the king
Zobeir, Antar was unable to obtain the only title he cov
eted, that of the recognized and legitimate son of his father
Schedad. "Vile bastard!" exclaimed his sire in answer to

186 ANTAR.
his urgent remonstrances, " darest thou pretend to the rank
of my other children ; thou, the offspring of a slave ; thou
who bearest the infamy of thy birth written upon thy skin ?"
Antar, driven to despair by these harsh words, bent his
head, and plunging alone into the desert, -with the reins
abandoned on his horse's neck, thus gave vent to his mis
fortunes :
" In vain I struggle with my evil lot ! I have saved my
fellow-men ; I expected to find protectors in my own kin
dred; they have proved themselves more injurious than
serpents under my footsteps. They say that on the field
of battle I am equal to the sons of kings ; but when peace
returns, I am no more than the son of Zebedeha, the Negro
slave ! How should I be able to endure these insults, were
I not supported by the love that infiames me ? O Abla,
may thy image continue to console and animate me! If
thy abode were in the heavens to-morrow, this arm should
invade the stars to merit and complete thy conquest !"
Once, after a long march through the desert, Antar, ac
companied by a few horsemen of Zobeir, attacked the tribe
of Cathan, the hereditaiy enemies of the tribe of Abs. He
slew their bravest warriors, overthrew their tents, and drove
before him, as prizes, their slaves and fiocks, constituting al
together a rich plunder, which raised his fortune to an equal
ity with that of the most opulent among the shepherds of
Arabia. But the instinct of the hero overpowered in his
lofty soul the desire and pride of wealth. He exchanged this
entire spoil for a famous Persian xjharger, known throughout
the desert by the name of Abjer. In vain his associates
reproached him with ha-ving deprived them of their lawful
share of the booty for a horse, which might be their prop
erty as well as his. Antar, treating their murmurs with
contemplt, braced up the girths of Abjer, and defied them
all to battle. His majestic height, the steadiness of his
deportment, the muscles of his arms resembling the knots
on the handle of the mace, caused them to reflect and hesi
tate. They surrendered to him without contest the exclu-

ANTAR. ' 187
siv? S^ht over Abjer, who became, from that day forward,
associated in history with aU the dangers and triumphs of
his rider and possessor. The anger of Schedad yielded en
tirely to this new proof of the unrivaled prowess of his son.
He never wearied of gazing on him, and continually repeated
his merits to his kindred. " Oh, my brother !" one day ex
claimed Schedad to Malek, the father of Abla, " our ene
mies detest my son, because they have none who resemble
him ! No, by the God of Moses and Abraham, neither in
the east nor the west can a warrior be found to compare -with
Antar when mounted on Abjer !" Thus speaking, Schedad
kissed the eyes of Antar. " If thou lovest me," he con
tinued, addressing his "brother Malek, "love also my son
Antar." " Brother," cunningly replied Malek, the father
of Abla, but the secret enemy of Antar, because he disap
proved of and dreaded his pretensions to his daughter —
" brother, what thou sayest is true : thou art the column
of our tents, and Antar is our sword!"
A festival took place in the tent of Malek, at which Abla
and her brothers were present. Antar rejoiced in the par
don of his father, the praises of his uncle, the friendship of
his cousins, and the love of Abla, who was a witness of his
glory. He was clothed in a vest of gold brocade, and a
peUsse of honor, which the king Zobeir had presented to
him as a reward for his service in the field. There was no
garment comparable to his in all the tribe. Amrou, the
brother of Abla, looked on it with enwy, and, pledging
Antar in many mutual cups of wine, Antar disrobed him
self of his rich covering, and gave it to his cousin, to render
him favorable to his love. " Nephew," said the father of
Abla, while thanking Antar for- the present he had bestowed
upon his son, " Abla is thy slave, I am thy slave, and Am
rou is the slave of thy sandals !"
The credulous Antar, transported with joy at these words,
stripped himself forthwith of all his arms and remaining
vestments, even of his shirt, retaining only his ample trow-
sers, and, prostrating his naked bust before the feet of his

188 ANTAR.
uncle, kissed his knees, and prayed him to accept all that
he possessed, in grateftil return for the promise he had made
him. Antar then raised himself majestically. "Abla,"
says the poet, "seeing Antar thus standing before her, black
and shining as a mass of ebony, and looking on the scars
and cicatrices with which repeated blows of lance and sabre
had furrowed his body and arms, was struck 'with astonish
ment, and laughed with joy as she contemplated the strength
and lofty stature of her cousin." Antar, feeling wounded
by the unseemly mirth of his mistress, refiected for a mo
ment, and then repUed in these extemporaneous verses :
" The fair and deUcate Abla smiles as she surveys my dark
hue, and observes the traces of the lance-heads on my body.
Thou wouldst cease to laugh, O Abla, if thou couldst be
hold me surrounded by a host of enemies ; if thou couldst
perceive my lance piercing their hearts, and the flowing of
the purple blood which invariably follows ! I am then the
Uon of the desert, and I marvel that any enemy should be
able to endure the aspect of my features and survive his
terror." Fresh garments were then suppUed to Antar, in
which he clothed himself; and thus he remained nine days
in the tent of his uncle, feasting, drinking, and discoursing
with his beloved Abla. On the tenth day, his uncle Malek
having called Antar into his presence, demanded of him
what were his intentions with regard to his daughter, and
what dowry he proposed to give him in exchange for Abla.
" Oh, my uncle," replied the young lover, " far be from me
the shame of fixing the value of that countenance radiant
'with light ; of that shape which excels the palm-tree ; of that
pearl of the ocean ; of that immaculate 'virgin, enveloped in
her modesty ! Name yourself what you desire, and let it
be a portion exceeding that which aU the kings and aU the
warriors of Arabia and Persia combined would he unable to
bestow!" Malek demanded of him one thousand camels
of the race of Acefyr, the most rare and highly esteemed
among all the tribes. Antar promised them to him, loaded
moreover with aU the riches of their masters. He then

ANTAR. 189
departed in a thoughtful mood from the tent of his uncle,
to proceed on the accomplishment of his promise, and thus
to pay the purchase-money of Abla,
The same evening, accompanied only by his brother Chei-
oub, he arrived in front of a solitary tent of black goat's
hair, round which a few meagre camels were grazing here
arid there. "An old man came forth, attracted by the sound
of their horses' feet. His form was bent beneath the weight
of many days ; time and misery had wasted him to a skel
eton. " This aged man," said the poet, in describing their
meeting, " walked with his face incUning toward the ground,
and his beard descended to his knees. '"Why dost thou
stoop thus as thou goest along?' said I, addressing him.
He replied, extending one hand toward me, ' My youth has
been lost on the earth, and I bend downward as ever seek
ing to recover it there.' "
Antar dismounted at the door of the tent. His horse
Abjer was loaded with the game which he had kiUed as he
passed along. The old man kindled a fire, and prepared a
repast. They continued eating and drinking until night
fell. The hermit having demanded of the young warrior
the object of his expedition, Antar related the promise he
had given to his uncle. " May Heaven confound thy un
cle !" exclaimed the ancient recluse, " for he has compassed
thy death in exacting from thee such a dowry for his daugh
ter. These camels are only to be found within the territo
ries of the king Moundhir, which are situated between Ara
bia and Persia, and his power is equally dreaded by Persians
and Arabians. Thou art about to cast thyself into a fire,
the flame of which will never be extinguished." "There is
neither force nor power but in God alone, who knows every
thing," repUed Antar, somewhat alarmed,' but stiU determ
ined to persevere in his design. " Have I said yes to my
uncle, and shall I now retract my promise, and tell him no?
That shall never be, even though I am destined to become
as a pasture to the savage animals of the wilderness !"
Antar slept under the tent of the hermit, and on the fol-

190 ANTAR.
lowing morning, •with the first gleam of light, he pursued the
road to Irak, a province of Persia subject to King Mound
hir. The description which he has given in his verses of the
land of Irak reveals the power of a poet who paints with a
glo'wing pencil. " There," he says, " were presented to my
eyes many houses, filled like bee-hives, vast meadows, gar
dens briUiant •with flowers, and watered by gushing fount
ains ; Arabian chargers of different colors bounding across
the plains like the waves of the sea agitated by the morning
breeze : they gladdened the surrounding country, and made
the leaves of the trees tremble at their neighing. There
were also young camels vrith their mothers, dromedaries rap
id as the dust flying before the wind, slaves, young lads, and
black damsels -with curling hair. There we discovered a val
ley, the most fertile and smiling that had ever been embel
lished by friendly Genii ; water flowed through it in all di
rections, pure and translucent as liquid sUver ; the perfumes
of the grass spread abroad the odor of musk ; thousands of
feathered songsters, nightingales, thrushes, blackbirds, ring
doves, pdrtridges, quails, and turtle-doves, sang in the plains
or perched upon the boughs ; the peahens exhibited the splen
dor of their trains, as if the Creator had exhausted on them
his most brilUant colors, and had poured over them the coral
and the hyacinth."*
Antar recognized, by these evidences of power and wealth,
that the old recluse had told him the truth, and that to bear
away the flocks and treasures of a kingdom so well defend
ed, was an enterprise above the strength of a single warrior.
Nevertheless, he retained his usual hardihood, and, wilUng
to combine stratagem with force, he dismounted, unbridled
Abjer, and sent his brother Cheioub, the Ulysses of Arabia,
under the disguise of a slave, to mingle ¦with the serfs who
watched the flocks, and to obtain from them, in frank con
versation, such particulars as he required touching the far-
famed camels of the race of Acefyr, which Antar desired to
carry off as the dowry of Abla.
¦* Translation of M. Dugat.

ANTAR. 191
Cheioub acquitted himself of his mission with his natural
dexterity. WeU received by the slaves of King Moundhir,
he ate and drank 'with them, and induced them to point out
to him the camels of which he was in search. He recog
nized without difficulty, by the whiteness of their hair, the
graceful undulation of their humps, and the rounded smooth
ness of their hind-quarters, that they were the pride and
wonder of the entire herd. Escaping while the slaves were
asleep, he rejoined Antar, and related what he had beheld.
" Never," said he, " were droves of cattle so carefully de
fended, and thy uncle has doomed us to certain death in
putting this enterprise upon us." " It signifies not," re
pUed Antar; "brace up the girths of Abjer, and give me
mine armor of iron mail." "Mounted on his charger," says
the poet, "he resembled a strong tower."
The hour arrived when the slaves brought back the herds
to graze in the vaUey. _Each troop of one thousand camels
was guarded by ten attendants. These, as they passed by,
scarcely bestowed a glance on Antar and his brother, so
much were they accustomed to see strangers -without fear,
in a land into which no plunderer had ever entered with
impunity. But Antar, drawing his sabre from the scab
bard, and impeUing his courser as a thunder-bolt bursts from
the cloud upon the unsuspecting group, dispersed them in
astonishment and terror, seized a thousand camels of the
race of Acefyr from among the ten thousand of meaner
worth belonging to the king, and commanded ten slaves
who had cast themselves prostrate upon the earth to rise
and drive the spoil before him.
But the chief of the slaves, having ralUed one hundred
of these terror-stricken guardians, who had in some meas
ure recovered their self-possession, endeavored to protect
the royal fiocks, and advanced at the head of his compan
ions toward the ravisher. Antar struck him with his na
ked sword upon the nape of the neck, and the blade issued
forth at his throat. " Shame be to thy mother and to the
mother of thy king, Moundhir!" exclaimed the infuriated

192 ANTAE.
hero. Antar and Cheioub wearied themselves -with the
slaughter of these faithful slaves, and then drove the herd
of plundered camels before them into the desert.
Meanwhile Homan, the son of King Moundhir, an in
trepid warrior, apprised of what had happened by the cries
of the shepherds, collected a thousand horsemen, and dart
ed off in pursuit, to obtain vengeance. Antar turned and
paused, on hearing the noise of their approach at full gallop
behind him. " Eaising himself fiercely in his saddle," says
the poem, " with a smile of pride and defiance on his lips,
he waited their approach as the parched earth thirsts for
the rain." The terrible war-shout that he uttered astound
ed the advancing foe, and compelled their coursers to halt
in trepidation. " How !" exclaimed the indignant Homan,
observing the hesitation of his companions, " do ye tremble
thus before a miserable Negro slave?" A desperate com
bat foUowed, which lasted until darkness fell. Antar, ex
hausted by a struggle incessantly renewed, loads the earth
in vain with the bodies of men and horses ; his arm begins
to fail. Abjer reels and sinks beneath his master, and final
ly extricating himself, and forcing a passage through his
enemies, flies off to the remote desert, -and leaves his mas
ter on foot, overthrown, helpless, surrounded, and covered
'with blood. Cheioub, who looked on from a distance, see
ing his brother Antar fall, gaUoped off -with his utmost
speed toward the desert, outstripped his pursuers, and ar
rived alone at the entrance of a cavern hollowed out on the
side of a mountain. Here he found a young man of a
tawny and sunburned complexion, who tended sheep and
goats while they were browsing. A small fire burned be
fore him, on which he was roasting a morsel of kid.
" Youth !" exclaimed Cheioub, addressing him, " protect
me ; I surrender myself up to thee ; I claim thy hospitality.
My death is imminent, and those who have slain my brother
are close in pursuit." "By heaven!" answered the young
shepherd, " I vrill protect thee against aU who eat bread and
drmk water. Enter the cavern, for they shaU slay me be-

l^ ', ANTAR. lOa
-. . - . **
fore I deliver thee up to them." Scafcely had the shepherd
uttered his generous oath, when the horsemen of Bang
Moundhir, who follQ^ed Cheioub, and had perceived from a
distance how he hid himself in the'cavefri, arrived, and de
manded of the shepherd to deUver up his guest, whom by the
customs of the country they were forbidden to kill under the
roof of his protector. "Make him come forth," exclaimed
they, " or we will slay thee in his place !" "_ Noble Arabs !"
replied the shepherd, " do not, I beseech you, violate the faith
I have sworn to this fugitive^ Eemove to a distance of
forty paces from the door of the cavern, that I may assume
the right of withdrawing my protection, and you shall then
be free to work your 'wiU upon him." " Let it be so," an
swered the warriors, and immediately they drew off to the
¦ pregcribed. dista'nce.
" Stranger !" said the shepherd to Cheioub, returning to
the cavern, " thou hast heard all ; nothing can redeem thy
life but mine, but I prefer sacrificing myself to faiUng in the
hospitality which I have vowed to thee. Put off thy gar
ments, assume mine, go forth, and say to the cavaUers, ' The
stranger refuses to quit hia asylum, do as you desire with
him ; I yield him up to you.' Then, when thou seest them
dismotmt from their horses to enter the cavern, fly with thy
utmost speed among the rocks, and leave them to revenge
thy escape at my expense ! Here are my provisions and
a bag ; take this staff, and inay the darkness of night be
propitious unto thee !" Cheioub clothed himself in the vest
ments of the shepherd, took the staff in his hand, and issued
from the cavern. The shadows of approaching night con
cealed his face. He said to the surrounding horsemen what
had been determined on, pretended to coUect his sheep to
drive theiri, before him, and disappeared among the rocks.
The horsemen of King Mpundhir dismounted, entered the
cavern, and dragged forth the young shepherd. They
brought'him forward to examine his features by the light of
the fire, and recognized, with rage and disappointment, that
he was the shepherd disguised under the garments of Chei-
I

194 ANTAR.
oub. " Evil be to thee !" they cried aloud as th^ drew theii'
sabres, " why hast thou deceived us, and exposed thyself to
death to save a stranger, the vilest mfecreant in Arabia^""
" I preferred," answered the shepherd, vrith unshaken reso
lution, "to purchase with my own Ufe the safety of his
which I had sworn to defend. Do with me as you 'WiU."
The warriors, struck with admir^jiion of his virtue, pardon
ed and overwhelmed himt'with praises. They theg suffe^d-
him to depart, covered with glory, and worthy of immortal
honor. During the flight of his brother, Antar continued to com
bat on foot against the cloud of enemies thjit surrounded him.
Exhaustion, and not wounds, finally subdued him, aiid cast
him fainting on the earth, with his face downward. Seized
and tightly bound with cords, he was dragged in the dust to
the feet of Homan, the king's son. The manly and un
daunted bearing of the hero, his terrible aspect, the loftiness
of his stature, and the breadth of his chest, astonished the
young prince. "Bind him more closelj^" sai^ he to the
guards ; " fasten him upon the back of a horse, and bring
him to the presence of the king, that he himself may decide
upon his fate!" *'"
"Who art thou?" demanded the monarch, who at that
moment returned from the chase, surrounded by his court
iers. " I am an Arab of the tribe of Abs," replied Antar.
" Art thou of the race of their noUes, or of their slaves ?"
continued the king. ,.
"Prince!" rejoined Antar, "among men of generous
minds, true nobiUty consists in the shock of lances, the
whistling of arrows, the blows of sharp satoes upon tem
pered breast-plates, and in patience on the battle-field. I am
the physician of the tribe of Abs when they are sick, their
protector when they are in danger, the defender of their
women when they are in flight, their champion when they
are proud of their glory, and their sabre when they liurry to
the battle."

ANTAR. ^ 195
The kmg, astonished' by this poetic eloquence from the
mouth of a black slave, demanded of Antar who had incited
him to invade his territories and carry off his camels ? An
tar Confessed that he was instigated, by his love for his
cousin Abla, and the cunning demand of his uncle Malek,
who had named tins achievement as the price of his daugh
ter's hand. The king marveled how, 'with all this courage,
eloquence, poetry^and elevation of sentiment, he should thus
expose liimself to destructipn for a Ji^tle Arab girl. "6
mighty sovereign !" repUed Antar, "it is Love which urges
the warrior to mount his charger and rush into the foremost
pOTil ; Love causes the heads of the bravest to roll in the
dust : he only rewards those of his votaries who have tasted
. the bitterness of absence after the deUghts of a return, and
who have 'watched without impatience or interval through
the longest nights ! Misfortune occurs every where from the
glance which issues from behind the folds of a female veU."
, A sudden noise and tumult interrupted the conversation.
'Messerigers announoed to King Moundhir that a lion larger
ttian a buU, provoked by the hunters, had fallen furiously
upon -his attendants, £U]d was scattering death and carnage
wherever he approached. "King!" exclaimed Antar, "or
der ybur people to leave me alone to combat with this Uon :
if he kills me, you 'will be avenged, for I have already slain
many of your warriors and slaves i. but if I vanquish him,
give me m reward my Ufe and Uberty. Unbind only my
hands, and leave my feet in their shackles, for then I shaU
either kill the wild animal, or I shaU be unable to fly into
the desert before him."
The lion was suBdued. Antar, in hurling him to the
ground, uttered but a single cry of triumph : " I am always
the "lover of Abla !'*" Then striking up a song of 'victory,
mingled 'with complaints of his evil fortune, he detailed in
heroic measure his misfortunes, hig defeat, and his captivity.
" I have been brought into the presence of a generOus mon
arch," thus ran the last verses of the song ; " I have fought
with a Uon fierce to look on and terrible to engage ; his

196 ANTAR.
visage was as broad as a buckler, and his-eyebaUs darted
forth sparks brUliant and fierce as the lights of heaven ; I
have cloven him with a single blow of my sabre, and with
my feet confined by bonds. I hope, therefore, that the king
¦wiU grant me in recompense the dowry of Abla demanded
by my uncle, the camels of Acefyr !"
" By the sacred firmament !" exclaimed the king, listen
ing -with admiration to the words of Antar, " this black
slave is the wonder of the age and the paragon of the world ;
he unites heroism with eloquence, and boldness to constancy
in great difficulties, such as appall and subdue the spirits of
ordinary men. If I can attach him to myself, I shall then,
through his prowess, demonstrate the superiorityof the Arabs
of my race over the Persians of King Chosroes, whose tribu
tary I am." Then turning to the guards, he added, "retain
this negro as a prisoner in my court, for the earth contains
not his equal, and he may one day glorify the hand thaf '
spares him." From that moment Antar was treated with
aU the respect and indulgence compatible with captivity.
A short time after, Moundhir having brought his tribute
to Chosroes, the great King of Persia, was invited by that
monarch to a grand festival. The courtiers of Chosroes,
wishing to ridicule the simplicity of the shepherd-monarch,
set upon his table two baskets of dates exactly similar, in
appearance ; but the dates served up to Chosroes and the
Persian courtiers were scooped out, and the stone replaced
by pistachio-nuts and honey ; those placed before Moundhir
were veritable dates, with the fruit surrounding the kertiel.
King Moundhir observing that Chosroes and his nobles ate
of these pretended dates 'without rejecting the stone, felt
himself bound, through respect, to imitate his sovereign ; he
therefore swaUowed the kernel with the dates. Chosroes
and his attendants burst out into immoderate laughter.
Moundhir inquired the cause, and they confessed the trick
which had'been put upon him. The offended guest affected
to join in the mirth at his own expense ; but he retired
deeply stung by the trick practiced on his simple credulity,

ANTAR. 197
and meditating plans of revenge. On returning to his mount
ainous sovereignty, he addressed a letter of complaint and
defiance to the King of Persia, reproaching him with his
inhospitable conduct. The king upon this dispatched an
army to reduce Moundhir to subjection. On the approach
of the Persian forces, Moundhir began to feel that he had
gone too far. " I perceive," said he, " that my letter has
offended . jChosroes ; my words were out of season. The
Ughtriess'of the tongue produces the calamities of man."
A satrap named Kosrouan, an enemy of King Moundhir,
and who aspired to l^e possession of his lands, commanded
the army of the Persian monarch; having won the first
battle, he laid,giege to the city of Hera, the metropolis and
refuge of the vanquished. Moundhir, reduced to extremity,
called together his sons and warriors to a grand military
council. It was determined to make a desperate sortie,
sabre in hand; to surround their women, children, and
treasures witji a rampart of steel; to seek refuge in the
. desert, and to demand an asylum, with succor and the
means of vengeance, from the wandering Arabs who dwelt
and ruled there. When the king's slaves who guarded
Antar were apprised of this resolution to expatriate him
self and people, they threw themselves at the feet of their
master. " Father !" they cried, " the captive warrior of the
tribe of Abs who is consigned to our care, hearing the
tumult in the city this morning, and ha'ving questioned us
as to the cause, we informed him of what was passing round
the waUs. ' Lead me to the king !' he replied ; ' I will re
veal to him a plan by which he shall destroy his enemies,
even though they were as numerous as the grains of sand in
the desert.' " Antar was forthvrith conducted to the royal
presence. " By heaven !" he exclaimed, " my liver was ready
to burst with rage and shame when I heard l^at Arabs had
fled before those dogs of Persians! The Arabs," he con
tinued, " are enduring in combat, and die under their horses'
hoofs, but they can not bear the disgrace of saving them
selves by flight. Promise me the dowry demanded by my

198 ANTAR.
uncle: give me back my sabre, my horse Abjer, and my
cuirass ; lend me one thousand warriors of the army to ex
ecute the mancBUvre which I shaU point out to them, and
you shall soon see what •will become of your enemies."
The king, confiding in the strength and courage of his
prisoner, consented toaU he desired, and caUed his warriors
to arms. Antar then raised his battle-song : " I will plunge,"
said he, " into the cloud of dust until I encounter this sa
trap Kosrouan, and speedily ¦will I compel him to drink the
draught of death ! He shall taste upon the blade of my
sabre a beverage after which water shall never again pass
vrithin his lips." Having finished his verses, " For thy
eyes, O Abla !" exclaimed he, and he feU upon the Persians.
"His lance," says the poet, "was like destiny, and cut
asunder the thread of many lives." Such an example re-
»stored courage to the thousand horsemen of Moundhir, who,
under such irresistible leaderslup, drove back the Persians
far from the walls of the city. Kosrouan, who had stationed
himself vrith the rear-guard, ascertained from the scattered
fugitives the flight of his army before a black warrior, more
impetuous and sweeping, as they declared, than the simoom.
He vowed to engage this formidable champion himself on
the following day, and to wash out in his blood the shame
of defeat. King Moundhir, on the other hand, hastened to
meet Antar, conducted him to his tent, and invited him to
feast in his company. " If I could think," said he to the
young conqueror of the Persians, " that it would be agree
able to thee to remain in our country, I would send and
induce Abla to come hither, either of her own free wiU or
by force ; but I fear that thy heart breathes only for thy
own country, and the tents in which thou wert bom !"
" Master," repUed Antar, " I have not sufficient courage
to remain here. Every day passes over me with the weight
of a thousand years ; nevertheless, though I should die of
my love, and melt in the fierce heat of my remembrances
and regrets, I wUl not depart untU thou hast taken ample
vengeance upon Kosrouan." They passed the night under

ANTAR. lyy
the tent in discoursing of the battle of the foUowing morn,
while the king's sons watched over the security of the
Arabian camp.
Kosrouan, on his part, vowed to his chiefs that on the
following morning he would slay this invincible genie dis
guised under the figure of a negro, and he slept tranquilly
in the confidence of his approaching triumph. "At the
first dawn of day," says the poem, " a warrior issued from
the Arabian ranks, and advanced into the open space which
divided them from the Persians. He was enveloped in his
coat of mail ; a sabre hung suspended from his belt ; in his
hand he carried a long lance ; he was mounted on a mare
of yellow color, glittering as gold exposed to the sun, and
of a rare perfection, such as had never before been looked
upon ; her sinews were strong, her long tail imprinted a
furrow as it trailed in the dust ; she was the pride of aU thl^
coursers of Arabia, rapid as the wind that flies, brilliant as
the Ughtning that degtroys, terrible as the storm that over
throws. The warrior she carried made her bound and curvet
on either side in the plain, to calm down her fire and
temper her impatience. The Persians of the night-watch
recognized him, and trembled at the sight. It was Antar,
the son of Schedad. His mare belonged to the stud of King
Moundhir, who had lent her to him because Abjer, worn out
and wounded on the preceding day, required tending and
repose. Antar, finding his mare to be valiant in spirit and
eager for the combat, galloped forward, and defied Kosrouan
in extemporaneous verses.
" Kosrouan, stung by the insult, threw himself upon a
Persian horse with a mouth so deUcate that by the sUght
est touch of the hand he penetrated the thought of his mas
ter. His breast was covered by a cuirass of mailed plates,
small and deUcate as the eyes of grasshoppers ; javeUns
hung suspended upon his thigh, his quiver was filled with
arrows, and a mace, pointed with iron, balanced Ughtly as
a feather in his right liand. The two warriors fell upon
each other ; a cloud of dust, "raised by the hoofs of their

200 ANTAR.
encountering chargers, concealed them from the 'view of
both armies. Their blows were heard, while the combat
ants were hidden like a double thunder-storm under a sin
gle cloud. Kosrouan, after some time, broke forth from
this whirlpool, attacking Antar with javelins, which the
Arab parried and cast aside with his lance. At length, the
Persian, profiting by a movement of Antar which left his
head exposed, lanched his enormous mace, the weight of
which already, in his imagination, crushed to the earth both
man and horse ; but Antar, anticipating the blow, received
the mace in his wide grasp, grappled it firmly by the chain,
caused it to whirl round as a child manages a sling, and,
casting it back 'with aU his strength upon Kosrouan, ex
tended him upon the dust, crushed and lifeless. He was
dead without being sensible to the taste of death I"
On the faU of their most renowned warrior and satrap,
the Persians fled, pursued and slaughtered by the 'victorious
Arabs. A single arm had decided the contest. The name
of Antar resounded from the lipS of all. He returned in
triumph at the liead of the warriors of Moundhir, his ar
mor clotted with blood. Moundhir received him as his pre
server, gave him the thousand Acefjrr camels, and dispatched
an embassador to the tribe of Abs to conduct Abla to her
hero, and to celebrate their nuptials in the capital. He re
quired only that Antar should not leave his territories un
til he had reconciled himself 'with Chosroes, his liege lord, •
to whom he repented of having given offense. An oppor
tunity of making up the quarrel soon presented itself
A Eoman warrior, to whom the Arabian poet has as
signed the barbarous name of Bathramouth, had recently
arrived at the court of Chosroes, with the view of convert
ing the Persian empire to the Christian faith, which at
that time began to spread throughout the East. This Bath
ramouth, half apostle and half soldier, had performed prod
igies of strength and address which humiliated the follow
ers of the great king. Sixty times had he vanquished the
most celebrated cavaliers of Persia in single combats in the

ANTAR. 201
royal presence ; and now, inflamed by pride and success,
defied to fresh trials all the chosen heroes of Iran and Ara
bia. A wise vizier, more than one hundred years of age,
counseled Chosroes to seek renewed amity with his former
ally, Mo'undhir, and to invite him to his court with a select
band of the most intrepid horsemen of the desert, among
whom perchance Bathramouth might discover a worthy ri
val, and the honor of the crown a suitable avenger.
Moundhir arrived, accompanied by Antar mounted upon
Abjer. After a desperate combat of five hours in the Usts,
Antar slew Bathramouth in presence of both the kings.
Persia triumphed over Eome by the arm of a black slave.
Chosroes presented to Antar the spoUs of the vanquished
champion, and admitted him to his most costly banquet be-
ibre he dismissed Moundhir. The effeminate luxury of the
Persian table astonished the sobw Arab of the desert. " Oh,
master!". he exclaimed to King Moundhir, "are these nu
merous and different viands those which the kings of Per
sia partake of daily, or are they the deUcacies reserved for
the fixed annual festivals ? I do not perceive among them
the flesh of the camel, and these light aUments are fit only
for children !"
Moundhir, in explanation, made his champion blush at
his simplicity and ignorance. He partook freely of what
was served up to the guests, and drank of cups filled with
wine as old as the world itself. Beautiful Greek slaves of
the household of Bathramouth poured out the liquor and
presented the goblets ; they were clqthed in robes of many
colors, and resembled the rising moon. Having been in»
formed that Antar was thenceforth their master, they ap^
proached respectfully to wait upon him, arid to anticipate
his slightest 'wishes, whether he rose or sat, and to discover
his thoughts in his eyes ; but Antar turqed away from these
tempting damsels : the love of Abla alone reigned in his heart,
" Why," said King Moundhir, addressing hini when the
fumes of wine had began to unsettle his imagination, and
repeated UbatiQus had invaded his reason^ — ** why dost thou
13

2D2" ANTAR.
not take delight in these beautiful slaves, and why is thy
heaj:t not filled 'with thy exaltation and glory ! Dost thou
covet a rank even more exalted, and canst thou conceive in
thy O'wn land aught that can surpass this night of splendor ?
Cast aside all sad reflections, and seize the moment of en
joyment. To-day thou hast placed thyself on a level with
the kings of the earth ; and if the most powerful of thy
tribe beheld 'thee, they would envy thy lot."
Antar, on listening to these words, sighed hea'vily, and
iU-restrained tears trickled down his cheeks as his thoughts
reverted to his own country. " By thy head, which I ven
erate so much," replied he to the king, "these favors and
distinctions have neither value nor charm for me ; my feel
ings and my thoughts are in another country, and thou
knowest that our native land is the jewel of our hearts, and
above all when we have left there the mistress of our choice.
Separated from her, I dream that her phantom visits me in
my sleep, and that the soft breezes of Arabia blow toward
me." Then, rising into enthusiasm at the image of Abla thus
conjured up before him, he burst into the foUo'wing verses :
" The freshness of the morning air which breathes from
Yemen, when I inhale its aromatic odor, affords me more
pleasm-e than aU these pearls, these wonders and treasures
heaped together under my hand. The empire of King
Chosroes has no temptation for me when the image of my
weU-beloved is no longer present to my eyes !" " Demand
of me what thou wilt," said King Chosroes, "and that
which appears the most valuable in thy sight of all the
treasures of my empire, I swear to grant it to thee in rec
ompense of the service thou hast rendered me in ¦vindicating
the honor of Arabia and Persia against this champion of the
Eomans." Antar requested of Chosroes to bestow upon him the cor
onet of jewels which gUttered upon his forehead, that he
might place it upon the brow of Abla on the day of their
nuptials ; and that night he slept ¦with the diadem by his

. •• ANTAR. 203
side. The king added to his gift a stool, or portable throne,
on which the Arabian females of high rank were accus
tomed to place their feet on dismounting from their camels.
The f§tes, the hunting parties, and the ¦wrestlings, continued
for "several days, at the close of which Antar took leave of
the sovereign of Persia, and departed with the good King
Moundhir to take possession of the thousand A.cefyT camels
which that faithful protector had presented to him, to con
vey them to his uncle Malek. Upon these animals were
heaped the trophies conquered by Antar from his adversa
ries in fight, ¦with the crown, and also with the throne des
tined by Chosroes for Abla. King Moundhir added fifty
saddle-horses, magnificently caparisoned, a hundred female
slaves of exquisite beauty, and fifty male slaves, selgcted
from among the most robust and most elegantly-formed of
the inhabitants of the mountains.
Antar set out for the desert attended by his escort, the
slaves dri^ving before him the long train of camels, loaded
with treasure. He felt intoxicated ¦with joy at his happi
ness and triumph ; but the excess of his impatience to see
Abla again, and the fervor of his love, threw him into a fit
of sickness. He inhaled powerfully the breeze which came
from the high lands of Yemen, thinking only of the happi-^
ness of reappearing in presence of his tribe in such a fiow
of prosperity, of dazzUng Abla with his splendor, his glory,
and the recital of his unparalleled exploits. The report of
his death, spread abroad by his brother Cheioub, had mor
tally wounded the heart of his beloved : she recovered life
and beauty on beholding the features of Antar.
Malek, his uncle,, vanquished by this triumphant return,
yielded up to him his daughter. The black slave, enriched
by the presents of Moundhir and Chosroes, became the most
powerful and the richest chieftain of the tribe of Abs. Years
roUed on in alternations of peace and war, in new acts of
heroism, and in an unvarying flow of happiness in the soci
ety of the lovely Abla, the envy of all the matrons of Hed-
jaz and Yemen. We pass over this monotonous portion of

204 ANTAE.
the life of the hero, to arrive at his death, as described in
one of the most exquisite lyric poems of any language. In
the progress of his exploits as chief of his tribe, Antar had
vanquished an enemy named Djezzar, and, to punish him
for his unprovoked aggressions, had deprived him of sight
by passing a red-hot sabre close to his eyes. After this
punishment, he gave him his Ufe and liberty, and suffered
him even to retain the supreme rank over his people.
"Evei- since that time," says the writer, who continues
the poem, which relates with the same tongue the fiineral
song and heroic death of Antar (we borrow for the occasion^
the learned and picturesque translation of M. Caussin de
Perceval) — " ever since that time, Djezzar, the son of Dja-
ber, brooded over his vengeance in silence. Although the
light of his eyes was quenched, he had lost nothing of his
skill in archery ; his ear, accustomed to follow the move
ments of wild animals by the sound of their steps, was suf
ficiently acute to guide his hand ; his arrow never missed
the mark. His hatred, ever alive, Ustened greedily ^o the
inteUigence which rumor spread abroad as to the proceed
ings of his enemy. He ascertained that Antar, after a dis
tant and successful expedition against the frontiers of Per
sia, was on his return to Yemen, loaded with as much glory
and treasure as he had formerfy carried home from the court
of Chosroes, and that he intended to pass near his encamp
ment. On receiving this news, Djezzar shed tears of envy
and rage. He caUed to him Nedjim, his Faithful slave. ' Ten
years have rolled on,' he said, ' since the burning iron order
ed by Antar has deprived me of sight, and I am not yet
¦ avenged ! but the moment has at length arrived to extin
guish in his blood the fire which consumes my heart. An
tar is encamped, they say, on the banks of the Euphrates ;
thither wUl I go to seek him. ' I ¦wUl conceal myself in the
rushes of the river until Heaven shaU deUver his Ufe intq
my hands.' "
Djezzar ordered his slave to lead forth a camel which
outstripped the ostrich in its speed ; he then armed him-

ANTAR. 205
self ¦with his quiver filled with poisoned arrows. Nedjim
compeUed the camel to kneel, assisted his master to mount,
and took the halter of the camel to direct its steps toward
the distant bed of the Euphrates. The bUnd warrior filled
the: desert Mth his menaces and complaints.
After a long day's march over a plain ¦without water,
Djezzar and his attendant arrived at the banks of the Eu
phrates, the course of which •was marked by a line of state
ly trees and briUiant verdure. " What dost thou perceive
on the opposite bank?" demanded Djezzar of his slave.
Nedjim cast a glance on the other side : he saw a camp
richly adorned, numerous herds of cattle, camels wandering
in groups over the plain, lances 'planted in the earth at the
entrances of the tents, and caparisoned horses fastened by
their feet to the habitations of their masters. A tent more
brilliant and lofty than the rest was erected at a smaU dis
tance from the river ; before the entrance a long steel lance
was planted Uke a mast, and near it stood a courser more
shining and black than ebony itself. Nedjim recognized at
once the noble war-horse of Antar, the far-famed Abjer,
and the formidable lance of the hero : he halted the camel
of his master behind the shrubs and canes which concealed
them from human observation, and waited the approach of
darkness. No sooner had night covered •with her shadow the banks
of the Euphrates, than the blind Djezzar said to his slave :
"Let us quit thjs spot; the voices which I hear. seem too
distant for the range of my arrows. Bring me nearer to
the brink of the stream: my heart tells me that a great
blow wiU speedily immortaUze my name and ¦vengeance."
Nedjim took the blind chieftain by the hand, placed him
close to the water's edge, and handed to him his bow and
quiver. Djezzar selected the sharpest of his arrows, fixed
it in the string, and with attentive ear waited the hour of
retribution. MeanwhUe Antar, reclining in the arms of
Abla, his beloved spouse, his love for whom had suffered no
abatement after ten years of possession, forgot beneath his

206 ANTAR.
tent the fatigues and exploits of the day ; when suddenly
the mournful barking of the dogs, the faithful guardians of
the camp, impressed his mind with prophetic inquietude.
He rose and went forth from the tent ; the heavens were
sombre and cloudy ; he wandered in the darkness ¦with un
certain steps ; the noise of the dogs led him toward the Eu
phrates. Carried on by his destiny, he advanced even to
the bed of the river, and suspecting the presence of a stran
ger on the opposite bank, called loudly to his brother to rise
and reconnoitre. Scarcely had the sound of his deep voice,
issuing from the hollow valley in which he stood, been re
peated by the mountain echoes, when an arrow pietced his
right side and penetrated to his entraUs. No cry, no groan
unworthy of a hero escaped him in his agony, as he endeav
ored to ¦wrench away the iron with a strong hand. "Trai
tor! who hast not dared to attack me in open dayUght," ex
claimed he with a firm tone, addressed to his invisible ene
my, " thou shalt not escape from my arm ; thou shalt reap
the fruit of thy treachery." Hearing these words, which
induced him to think that his arrow had missed its mark,
the bUnd Djezzar, struck •with terror at the apprehended
vengeance of Antar, fainted upon the shore ; and his slave,
beUeving that he was dead, mounted the camel to save
himself by flight, and abandoned his inanimate master to
his fkte. The brother of Antar swam across the river,
stumbled against a body which he took for a corpse, and
carried it back to the camp on his shoulders, together •with
the bow and arrows.
Antar, stretched in his tent in the midst of his astounded
friends, suffered the most horrible tortures. The tender
Abla staunched his blood, and bathed the wound ¦with her
tears. The body of the murderer and his weapons were
brought in ; Antar recognized the mutilated countenance
of his enemy, and at once felt convinced that an arrow
launched from that hand must be a poisoned one. Hope
fled from his heart, and inevitable death presented itself
before his eyes. " Son of my uncle !" said Abla to him in

ANTAR. 207
a tone of soft affection, " why abandon hope ? Should a
slight hurt from an arrow cause alarm to a warrior who
has bome without shrinking so many wounds from sabres
and lances, the marks of which entirely cover his body ?"
"Abla," repUed Antar, "my days are numbered. Behold
these features ! — they are those of Djezzar. The arrow of
the traitor is poisoned!" At these words the sighs of Abla
pierced the darkness of the night ; she tore her garments
and her long tresses, and gathered the dust to heap it upon
her head. All her women joined in these sad demonstra
tions of woe. "Beloved partner!" said Antar to Abla,
" who wiU defend thy honor and thy life after the death of
Ajitar, throughout the long journey thou hast stiU to ac
complish before thou canst reach the territory of thy father ?
A second husband, another Antar, can alone enable thee to
escape the horrors of impending slavery. Of all the war
riors of the desert, Zeid and Amrem are the two whose
courage wUl the most effectuaUy secure thy Ufe and Uberty.
Choose one of these, and promise him thy hand." Abla
replied only by tears to a thought which drove her to de
spair. " To reach the land inhabited by the children of Abs, to
secure thy passage across the intervening desert, clothe thee
in my garments and armor, and mount mj war-horse Abjer.
Under this disguise, which wiU lead our enemies to beUeve
that I Uve still, thou needest not dread attack. Answer
not those who salute thee on the march ; the sight of the
arms and courser of Antar ¦wiU suffice to intimidate the
most intrepid." After these words, Antar ordered the de
parture of his camp. The tents were struck, folded, and
placed upon the camels. Abla, inundated by her tears,
suffered herself, in passive obedience, to be arrayed in the
mighty armor of Antar. Girt with his sabre, and carrying
his lance' in her right hand, she mounted his war-horse
Abjer, while the slaves carried the expiring Antar in the
Utter used by Abla in happier times, when she crossed the
desert with the state of a queen. Scarcely had they quitted

208 ANTAR.
the verdant banks of the Euphrates to 'plunge into the im
mensity of the desert, when they perceived at a distance
tents resembUng dark spots on the horizon, or a black
fiinge on the azure mantle of the heavens : it was the en
campment of a numerous, powerful, and hostile tribe. Three
hundred horsemen detached themselves from it to fall on
the caravan ; but as they approached, they recognized the
litter and the horse. " It is Antar and Abla," they ex
claimed in a low voice to each other. ." Behold his armor,
his horse Abjer, and the magnificent litter of his wife. Let
-us return to our tents, and not expose ourselves to the anger
of these invincible ¦ warriors." Already had they turned
their bridles, when an aged sheik, more refiective and pene
trating than his younger companions, thus addressed them :
"My cousins, it is indeed the lance of Antar, -his casque,
his armor, and his war-horse, whose color resembles the
blackest night ; but the rider has neither his lofty figure
nor his manly attitude. It is the stature and deportment
of a timid woman bending under the weight of the iron
¦which bruises her tender limbs. Trust to my suspicions ;
Antar is either dead, or a mortal sickness prevents him
from mounting his horse : it is Abla, who has assumed the
arms of her husband to intimidate us, while the real Antar
is in all probabiUty lying on a bed of death in the Utter of
the females."
The horsemen, perceiving that there was a semblance of
probabiUty in the words of the old sheik, retraced their
steps, and followed the caravan at a distance, but stUl not
venturing on an open attack. Meanwhile the deUcate hand
of Abla bent under the weight of the iron lance, which at
length she was obliged to yield up to the brother of her
husband, who rode by her side. Speedily the sun, reaching
his middle course, so scorched the sand of the desert, that
Abla, exhausted ¦with agony of mind and fatigue of body,
" raised the vizor of her helmet to ¦wipe away the perspira
tion which bathed her forehead. The eyes of the watchful
enemies saw at once the fairness of her complexion. " It

ANTAR.. 209
is not the black !" they exclaimed, and immediately spurred
their horses at full speed in pursuit of the small escort of
Antar. At the sound of galloping behind him, at the
neighing of the advancing steeds, at Jhe voice of Abla, who
called upon his name, Antar, who lay half dead in the litter,
raised himself, showed his head between the curtains, and
uttered for the last time his terrible war-cry, which made
the boldest hearts tremble and shrink within themselves.
At this shout, known throughout the desert, the manes of
the horses bristled with ten-or, and they fled with their
riders in uncontroUed dismay. "Woe! woe!" exclaimed
the Arabs, the enemies of the tribe of Abs, " Antar still
lives ! This is a snare which he has laid for us, to ascer
tain who would be hardy enough after his decease to aspire
to the possession of his wife and property." A small num
ber only, still relying on the words of their sheik, continued
to follow the caravan at a respectful distance.
Antar, notwithstanding his increasing weakness, replaced
Abla in the litter, and remounting Abjer, assumed his
armor once more, and marched slowly by her side. At
the close- of day, they arrived at the entrance of a valley
bordering on the territory of the tribe of Abs : this defile
was called the Valley of the Gazelles. Sun'ounded by in
accessible mountains, it could only be reached on the side
of the desert by a narrow, winding path, through which
three horsemen could with difficulty pass iibreast. Antar,
halting at the entrance of this pass, ordered the droves of
cattle to enter first, and then the slaves with the camel that
carried the Utter of his beloved Abla. As soon as the
whole caravan was placed in safety within the valley, he
assumed his post alone as sentinel at the extremity of the
defile, exactly opposite to the plain and the hostile Arabs,
who foUowed his movements afar off. At this moment the
agony of his wound became insupportable, and every step
of his horse occasioned sufferings equal to the flames of
hell. Death ' assumed dominion over his limbs, but still
respected his intrepid soul. He turned his face toward his

210 ANTAR.
enemies, reined up his horse, plantfed his lance in the earth
¦with the point downward, and resting against the staff Uke
a warrior in repose who is ''giving rest to his exhausted
steed, he stood motionless at the mouth of the ravine. At
this sight, the thirty warriors, who had until then pursued
the track of his caravan, paused in hesitation at a distance
of more than a hundred paces from the hero. "Antar,"'
they whispered to each other, "has paerceived that we fol
low his march ; he waits there to 'destroy us. Let us
profit by the approaching darkness to .escape from his sabre,
and rejoin our brethren !" • But the" old sheik, persisting in
his first idea, again restrained them. " My cousins," uttered
he in a low tone, " listen not to the dictates of fear. The
immobility of Antar is the sleep of death. Can it be possi
ble that you forget his impetuous courage? Did Antar
ever wait the attack of an enemy ? If he lived, would he
not faU upon us as the ¦vulture pounces on its prey ? Ad
vance boldly; or, if you still fear to ventui;e your Uves
against his sword, wait here at least untU the morning
breaks to enlighten your suspicions."
Half persuaded by the old man, the thirty cavaliers de
termined to remain where they were; but anxious and
alarmed at the smallest cloud of dust which the •wind raised
round the feet of Abjer, they passed the entire night in the
saddle, ¦without suffering their eyes to close under the influ
ence of slumbSr. At length the day began to Ught up the
heavens, and to disperse the .shadows which covered the
desert. Antar still stood motionless, in tjie same attitude,
at the entrance of the deiUe ; his courser, obedient to his
thoughts, even when he was no longer there in life, re
mained stationary by the side of his master.
The Persian warriors, astonished at this strange appari
tion, consulted together for a considerable time ¦without
coming to a decision. AU outward appearances seemed to
indicate that Antar had ceased to live ; nevertheless no one
had sufficient boldness to advance and satisfy himself of the
fact, such was the habitual terror which the presence of

ANTAR. 211
that hero had stamped upon their fe^ings. The old sheik
determined to ascertain the truth by an experiment before
he retired or advanced. He dismounted from his mare,
and pricking her -with the point of his lance, drove her to
ward the entrance of the pass. , Scarcely had she reached
the edge of the desert, when the fiery Abjer, scenting the
odor of a female, ran neighing toward the mare, which he
perceived was without a rider. At the first bound of the
horse, Antar, who had been retained in an erect position
solely by the shaft of his lance, which gave way under his
weight, feU like a tower, and the clash of his axmor re
sounded through the defile. At this fall, and at the sound
of a lifeless corpse sinking upon the earth, the thirty cava
Uers flew round the body stretched at the feet of their horses.
They saw with be-wildered astonishment the dreaded war
rior, who had made Arabia tremble, Ue motionless and help
less in the dust, and gazed with insatiable glances on his
gigantic Umbs and colossal stature. Abandoning the idea
of an attack on the caravan of Abla, which, by the .strata
gem of the Spiring Antar, had gained an entire night to
reach the encampment of the tribe of Abs, the warriors
contented themselves •with despoiUng the Mien chieftain of
his arms, to bear them to their own people as a trophy con
quered from the dead. Vainly they attempted to obtain
possession of his horse. The faithful and proud Abjer, aft
er having snuffed his dead master to satisfy Himself that he
was no more, felt that never. again would he find a rider
worthy of crossing his back. With the rapidity of Ught
ning he evaded all attempts to catch him, disappeared from
the eyes of his intended but baffled captors, and buried him
self forever in the unbounded freedom of the desert. It was
recorded that the old sheik, overpowered by the calamitous
end of a hero who had signalized himself by such illustrious
deeds, wept over his inanimate remains, and buried them in
,^,the sand •with this funeral encomium: "Glory to thee, un
daunted warrior ! who throughout thy life wert the pillar
of thy tribe, and even after death hast saved thy brethren

212 ¦ ¦ . ANTAR.
by the aspect 'of thy corpse and the ten'or of thy name !
May thy soul fiourish in eternal bliss, and may refreshing
dews moisten the earth which •witnessed thy last exploit !"
Such is the history of Antar; and such is the poem of
' which this renowned Arab — a shepherd, a warrior, and a
bard — was at the same time the author and the hero.*
This noble composition, often rising to an equality with
Homer, VirgU, and Tasso, in many of its essential compo
nents, is recited to this day under the tents of the wander
ing tribes in the deserts of Damascus, Aleppo, and Bagdad,
throughout the long night-watches of the camel-drivers, or
during the halts of the caravans. Let us not despise or
undervalue any thing. If the literary poetry of a people is
one of the national monuments by which posterity meas
ures ¦with a correct estimate the degree of moral and intel
lectual civilization to which that people as a body have ar
rived, let us admit also that these simple and pastoral races,
who embellish their memories and beguile their leisure by
the reading or recital of a traditional epic as pure and he
roic as the poem of Antar, are at least equal in deUcacy of
taste and nobiUty of sentiment to the sedentary populations
of the West, who combine pride •with •vulgarism, and whose
highest poetic effusions consist of elegiac lamentations oyer
illustrious criminals, or some cynical strophes iUustratiVff
of debauched habits, immorality, and intemperance. Be
tween this poetry of the tavern and the desert, no honest
heart or chaste imagination can hesitate as to which the
palm of superiority belongs : the tent civilizes, while the
wine-shop degrades. ' '
The fact is, there are two classes of civilization, wl}ich
must not be confounded: the material and mechanical,
which acts upon matter and produces wealth; and the
moral, which operates upon the soul, and deals with ideas,
* Antar is not entirely new to the English reader. The celebrated
romance entitled " Antar," by Asmai, has been translated by Terrick
Hamilton, Esq., and was published some years since in four volumes.
— Teansl.

ANTAR. 213
manners, heroism, and exalted virtue. We calculate the
value of the first by what it produces — worldly possessions;
we appreciate the latter by what it inspires — noble senti
ments. The nations who are most truly civiUzed unite
both ; and to attain this end requires and demands the .
combined efforts of" governments, legislators, poUtical econ
omists, moralists, •writers, and poets. But if we were com
pelled to choose betweert these two conditions of civiliza
tion, often opposed to each other, we should not hesitate to
pronounce for that of the, mind in preference to that of the
body. We feel that there is more actual civiUzation in a
verse of the Gospel, an axiom of philosophy, or a stanza of^' '
poetry imprinted eternally on the memory or manners of a
nation, than in the Crystal Palace of London, or in an In
dustrial Exhibition of aU the mechanical arts in the uni
verse. Your work-shops, wares, manufactures," and ma
chines, produce marvels of weaving and carving ; but all
the machinery in the world wiU never create an idea or a
sentiment. In mechanism is comprised the hands, but not
the soul, of humanity. But^t is not the hand which makes
the man. Some of the most despised bein'gs in the creation
have a hand as complete and as delicately cuticled as your
o-wn, and neyertlieless they are thrust down contemptuous
ly to the lowest step of the ladder. Why is this? Because
they, are not endowed -with the faculty of words ; and that
speech, the animated engine '.qf truth, contains within itself
light, religion, moraUty, beauty, and goodness ; in fine, all
the lofty attributes of the soul. High praise, then, to na
tional eloquence, the true standard of comparative civUiza-
tion ! From this Divine source the poor shepherds of Ara
bia possess an epic poem in their deserts ; while we in our
. industrial capitals have nothing for our nations of laborers
i/beyond taverns and drinking-songs !

BOSSTJET.
A.D. 1627.
If, after having studied, in aU their details, the actions,"
works, opinions, faults, 'virtues, style, and language of so
eminent a person as Bossuet, we desire to sum up, in one
word, his general character, the word which presents itself
to our minds as descriptive of the man is — ^Priest.
The priest, in aU his majesty, his authority, his inteUect
ual pride, could not be better represented than in the per
son of Bossuet.
Bossuet, to exhibit himself as he was — to develop, in aU
their extent and grandeur, the high qualities of soul, genius,
diplomacy, energy, and eloquence, with which Nature had
endowed him, could not have been any thing but a priest.
This eminent person was made for the priesthood, the
pontificate, the altar, the vestibule of the cathedral, the pul
pit, the trailing robe, and the tiara ; any other place, office,
or habiliment would be inconsistent with such a nature.
The mind could not picture Bossuet to itself in the habit
of a layman. He was bom a high-priest ; his nature and
profession are so indissolubly bound up and blended together,
that even thought itself can not separate them ; he is not a
man, but an oracle.
We do not propose here either to fiatter or disparage the
ministry ; we desire only to speak of the minister with the
tone of a philosopher and historian. Theology, like con
science, belongs to the private property of each communion ;
we shall not invade its precincts, but, putting aside the doc
trine of the priest, and only considering the sacerdotal call
ing in its relations to the world, we must acknowledge the
moral superiority and exalted privileges which this profes-

BOSSUET, 215
sion offers to the man of genius and virtue 'who devotes
himself to its exercise.
In the first place, a prejudgment of piety, power, and
virtue is spread over the priest from the moment when he
assumes his office ; the hoUness of the sanctuary, follows
him in some degree, even when he is at a distance from the
consecrated locality. This prejudice is not purely imagin
ary : we know the weaknesses, the vices, the ambitious as
pirations, the pride, the state hypocrisy which are mixed
up with the bureau or the gown ; the Gospel itself raises the
stone from the whitened sepulchres, in order to expose false
assumptions of sanctity ; the robe can not change the de
formities of the body. There are vices in the priesthood,
and these vices are even worse than in other professions, be
cause thej. jar more -with the hoUness of God and the purity
of morals.
But without according on this account any peculiar privi
leges to the ministers of religion, it is impossible not to ad
mit that the vocation has an influence upon the life of the
votary; and that the sacred profession is that in which,
taking equal numbers, the impartial observation of the phi
losopher and the moraUst discovers the greatest amount of
piety and virtue.
We need not search for any supernatural agency to ac
count for this ; independent of any other reason, the cause
may be found in the vocation itself In the first place (not
in every case, but in the greater number), dispositions which
devote themselves to this thankless, harsh, and contempla
tive life of self-denial upon earth, in anticipation of a celes
tial home, are naturaUy grave, melancholy, chastened in
heart ; uninfluenced by those strong passions which agitate
life ; disposed to obedience, reflection, worship, prayer, and
the sacrifice of earthly goods to heavenly expectations. The
vocation is not virtue itself, but it is the road to -virtue. It
is much more probable that a man, placed by his own natu
ral disposition in this path, will rise to hoUness rather than
faU into depravity. Fmally, the sacred profession produces

216 BOSSUET.
a constant and habitual exercise of certain of man's moral
faculties to the exclusion of others. Such exercise, carried
on from infancy to the grave, fortifies good inclinations, and
weakens evil propensities. Virtue is strength, and this is
increased a hundred-fold, like other strength, by constant
practice. Who wUl venture to assert that wrestling does
not make the athlete, the battle-field the warrior, the trib
une the orator, and reflection the philosopher? Why, then,
should not study, prayer, meditation, and a continued strug
gle against the natural inclinations of the body, be also the
foundation-stones of piety and -virtue ? The simple habit
of thinking, preaching, and practicing truth outwardly, is
enough to inspire a taste and a desire to simulate, if it does
not create, the actual reality in the soul. The office of the
priest must, therefore, be considered generally as X fair pre
sumption of the integrity of the man.
When we desire gold, we seek it at the goldsmith's ; when
we -wish for incense, we look for it in the censer ; and when
we are anxious to find holiness, we expect to discover it in
those who are sanctified by their profession.
There is yet another reason why virtue should be more
frequently seen and more purely exercised in the sacerdotal
calUng than in any other, and this consists in that sunple-
ment to honesty known as the dread of pubUc shame. The
world narrowly scrutinizes the conduct of the priest, to see
if his life conforms to his profession ; the -vice which is
scarcely distinguishable as a blemish in general society, be
comes a glaring scandal in the sanctuary. This fear of
worldly disgrace is a .profane, but at the same time a vigi
lant, custodian of the lives of the ministers of the altar : he
who wears a white robe fears much more the contamination
of a spot, than one who dresses in the less conspicuous gar
ments of the crowd.
That instinctive holiness which surrounds the priest 'with
a prestige of virtue superior to the rest of mankind, is not
entirely a chimera ; respect for the priesthood is but an
outward sign of that inward veneration which every pious

BOSSUET. 217
mind feels toward the Creator. The ministers of reUgion
pass their lives in more intimate communion with the Deity
than mere men of the world are accustomed to seek ; they
have holy names stamped upon their bosoms; they wear
the Uvery of the King of kings, and when we salute them
we pay homage "to the Master through his servants.
Moreover, they speak from the tribune of the soul ; they
are the orators of moral feeling ; the pulpit is their throne ;
this throne, to the occupier who has genius to wield his
power and opportunity, is greater than that of kings : it is
fi'om thence the consciences of men are governed. Of all
the eminences which a mortal may reach on earth, the
highest to a man of talent in incontestably the sacred pul
pit. If this individual happens to be Bossuet; that is to sayj
if he unites in his person conviction to inspire the command-V
ing attitude, purity of Ufe to enhance the power of truth/
untiring zeal, an air of imposing authority, celebrity which
commands respectful attention, episcopal rank which consef
crates, age which gives hoUness of appearance, genius which
constitutes the divinity of speech, reflective power which)
marks the mastery of inteUigence, sudden bursts of elo
quence which carry the minds of listeners by assault, po-
etic imagery 'which -adds lustre to truth — a deep, sonorous
voice, which reflects the tone of the thoughts — silvery locks,
the paleness of strong emotion, the penetrating glance, the
expressive mouth — ^in a word, all the animated and well-|
varied gestures which indicate the emotions of the soul — ¦'
if such a man issues slowly from his self-concentrated re
flection, as from some inward sanctuary ; if he suffers him
self to be raised gradually by excitement, Uke the eagle,!
the first heavy flapping of whose' wings can scarcely pro
duce air enough to carry him aloft ; if he at length re
spires freely, and takes flight ; if he no longer feels the pul
pit beneath his feet ; if he draws in a full breath of the
Dvine Spirit, and pours forth unceasingly from this lofty
height, to his hearers, the inspiration which comes to them
as the word of God— this being is no longer individual
K

218 BOSSUET.
man, he becomes an organ of the Divine -wiU, a prophetic
voice. And what a voice! A voice which is never hoarse,
broken, soured, irritated, or troubled by the worldly and
passionate struggles of interest peculiar to the time ; a voice
which, Uke that of the thunder in the clouds, or the organ
in the cathedral, has never been any thing but the medium
of power and Divine persuasion to the soul ; a voice which
only speaks to kneeUng auditors ; a voice which is listened
to in profound silence, to which none reply save by an in
clination of the head or by faUing tears — those mute ap
plauses of the soul ! — ^a voice which is never refuted or con
tradicted, even when it astonishes or wounds ; a voice, in
fine, wiich does not speak in the name of opinion, which is ¦
variable ; nor in the name of philosophy, which is open to
discussion ; nor in the name of country, which is local ; nor
in the name of regal supremacy, which is temporal ; nor in
the name of the speaker himself, who is an agent trans
formed for the occasion ; but which speaks in the name of
God, an authority of language unequaled upon earth, and
against which the lowest murmur is impious and the small
est opposition a blasphemy.
Such is the tribune of the priesthood, the tripod of the
prophet, the pulpit of the sacred orator. We can only be
hold therein Bossuet, and we can not recognize Bossuet in
any other place. His Ufe is but the history of his pulpit
eloquence. The man is worthy of the rostrum from which
he preached ; no other oratory has ever equaled his. Great
names have been selected and preserved, but Bossuet, whose
genius equals theirs, excels them in the range and elevation
of his subject ; they speak of earth, while he discourses of
heaven. Cicero does not surpass him in a careful selection
and ample supply of words ; Demosthenes possesses not su
perior energy of persuasion ; Chatham is not more richly
endowed with poetic oratory ; the periods of Mirabeau do
not flow more easily ; Vergniaud is not more redundant of
imagery and illustration. All have less elevation, extent.

BOSSUET. 219
and majesty in their language ; they were human orators,
but Bossuet alone was di-vine ! To understand him fully,
we must first mount to his own level and encounter him in
the heavens. ¦
If we are to relate his Ufe, we can but speak of his preach
ing. He was born, he lived, and died in the temple; his
existence was one continued, never-ending sermon ; in him
the man disappears entirely in the priest. It is in his pro
fession that we must seek the source of his genius, his vir
tues, and his self-denial. An honest man and an inflexible
doctrinist, in vindicating his o-wn dogmas he firmly believed
that he was enhancing the honor of God.
Bossuet was born at Dijon, the capital of Burgundy, on
the 28th of September, 1627. He was carried on the fol
lowing day to the Gothic church of St. John by a religious
family, as if it had been intended that his first cries should
be heard in one of those cathedrals of the old worship,
which he was afterward destined to fill until his death
¦with the tones of his powerful voice. He was christened
by the name of Jacques-Benigne. His grandfather, who
kept a register of dates and events relating to the family,
inscribed propheticaUy after the baptismal appellations of
his grandson this verse from the Bible : " The Lord led him
about: he instructed him: he kept him as the apple of his eye."
His father was caUed Benigne Bossuet ; his mother,
Madeleine Mochette. She had already brought her hus
band six children ; Bossuet was the seventh ; and she sub
sequently added three more to the number.
The family of the Bossuets, who became, through this in-
fant,the glory of Burgundy, was of ancient origin. The ety
mology of the name, derived from the Latin, appears to de
note, in its origin, the rural, laborious, and patient charac
ter of some ancestor who was a tiller of the hard-yielding
field : " Bos suetus aratro" — an ox accustomed to the plow.
The indefatigable and well-discipluied genius of the newly-
born infant was not destined to falsify this characteristic of
the race.

220 BOSSUET.
The family had not been long established at Dijon.
They had removed thither from another small to-wn of the
same province, caUed Seurre, a place of agriculture and
pasturage, situated in the ' nSeadows at the mouth of the
SaSne. The natural and progressive movement which in
duces famUies who are in easy circumstances, according as
they form distant or more elevated alUances, to remove from
the country to small cities, and from smaU cities to the cap
itals of the provinces, had induced the grandfather of Bos
suet to settle at Dijon. Dijon might be caUed a federal
city, which preserved the remains of its national independ
ence. Bossuet's grandfather, his brothers, sons, and neph
ews, had filled there small but important posts in the Par
Uament and the court of Exchequer ; steps by which the
principal citizens ascended from the hereditary magistral
to nobility itself Bossuet had connections and relatives
among the proudest aristocracy of the exclusive and haughty
town of Dijon.
The innate contempt that Bossuet seemed to have adopt
ed from the hour of his birth for the doctrine of equality ;
the instiYictive love of hierarchy, high caste, and authority ;
the peremptory tone and haughty glance, are the natural
and distinctive traits of this patrician breed of Upper Bur
gundy, where the blood, warm at the head, but coldly stim
ulates the heart. The character of a race is to be retraced
in each of its descendants ; the exceptions are only acci
dental. The pecuUar genius of an individual will not belie
the genius of a city ; Dijon is an intellectual capital, but
not one that overflows with enthusiasm or feeling. St. Ber
nard, Bossuet, Buffon, natives of this tovsm, were men com
pounded rather of bronze and marble than of flesh : the first
had Ab^lard for his victim, the second Fenelon, and the
third dissected aU nature without finding a tear, a single
hymn of praise, or a Deity !
About the time of Bossuet's birth his father was appoint
ed one of the council of the Parliament of Metz. He left.
his wife and family at Dijon. One of his brothers, Claude

BOSSUET. 221
Bo3Suet,4dso a member of the parliamentary council of Bur
gundy', undertook the charge of them. He was as severe
and learned as his profession. • He soon discovered the trans
cendent talents of his nephew, and labored at their cultiva
tion for the honor of the family. The boy was brought up
at home, but going every day to receive reUgious and clas
sical instruction at the Jesuits' CoUege, he soon exceUed,
by a natural quickness, aU students of his own age and
standing ; masters and school-feUows were thus obliged to
place him in a class by himself. We only en-vy^ what we
can hope to equal. The superiority of his abUities discon
certed every feeUng, even admiration. He had none of the
characteristics of childhood except his face ; his mind was
mature from his birth. The books in his uncle's Ubrary
scarcely sufficed to satisfy his love of reading. His passion
for ideal beauty, for the imagery and harmony of languages,
n^e him devote the greater portion of his thoughts to the
poets, those divine musicians of the soul ! He became in
toxicated with poetry. Homer, above all others, who re
flects nature as a limpid stream reflects the objects on its
banks, became the uninspired bible of his imagination : it
was from those immortal pages that he gained his sympUci-
ty, dignity, and pathos ; from the prophets he acquired the
power of language and rhythmical inspiration. We can
less understand the strong admiration which he entertained
throughout his whole life for the productions of the Latin
poet Horace — a -writer -with a genius, exquisite, it is true,
but so subtile and refined, that his harp is only strung -with
the softer fibres of the heart — a careless voluptuary, who
amuses himself by Ustening to the stream of life fiowing
gently -within him, through flowers, to death. There is no
thing in Horace to justify this strong predilection of Bossuet,
except indeed it be the simple grace of thought — that first
expression springing from an inspired impulse, the perilous
and always happy play of free versification which the poet
lanches at the risk of being broken in its fall, but -which
ever alights in exact cadence and harmony -with the idea in-

222 BOSSUET.
tended to be conveyed. Bossuet, like all fortunate men, de
lighted in a bold hazard.
Perhaps, -too, this unaccountable preference for Horace,
the least inspired of all poets, owed its origin to the impres
sion that poetry had first made upon him in his childhood
through the pages of this author. This delightful feeling
continued pre-eminent, and gradually changed to gratitude
in his soul. There are in libraries, as well as in the world,
Ul-assorted meetings which grow into old friendships.
But the Bible effaced aU except this sUght remembrance
of Horace : the Bible, and above all the poetical portions of
Holy Writ, struck as if with lightning, and dazzled the eyes
of the chUd ; he fancied that he saw the living fire of Sinai,-
and heard the voice of Omnipotence re-echoed by the rocks
of Horeb. His God was Jehovah ; his lawgiver, Moses ;
his high-priest, Aaron ; his poet, Isaiah ; his country, Judea.
The vivacity of his imagination, the poetical bent of his
genius, the analogy of his disposition to that of the Ori
entals^'— the fervid nature of the people and ages described,
the subUmity of the language, the everlasting novelty of the
history, the grandeur of the laws — the piercing eloquence of
the hymns; and, finally, the ancient, consecrated, and tra
ditionally reverential character of the book, transformed
Bossuet at once into a_bibUcal enthusiast. The metal was
malleable; the impression was received, and remained in
deUbly stamped. This child became a prophet; such he
was born, such he was as he grew to manhood, lived, and
died-!-the Bible transfused into a man.
We can not read, in the history of his childhood, of the
effect produced upon Bossuet by this study, without being
reminded of those enduring and gigantic traces of the feet
of Adam and Buddha which the credulous inhabitants of
India and Arabia show to travelers imprinted in the granite
of the Libanus or Thibet ; the rock, hardened by ages, has
preserved the deep impression received by the clay ; flesh
has petrified itself to stone. It was so with the Bible on
the infant mind of Bossuet.

BOSSUET. 223
,He was only nine years old when he received the tonsure,
as a sign that he was devoted to the ser-vice of the altar.
At thirteen he was appointed canon of Metz by. an antici
pated dotation on the revenues of the Church, in which he
became enrolled and paid before he reached the age of com
mencing duty.
This tonsure and dress assimilated well -with his coun
tenance and deportment : the future priest was shadowed in
the youth. He was tall for his age, but afterward increased
greatly in stature ; his Umbs were delicate and flexible, like
those of a man intended to bear no other burden than the
weight of thought ; who glides, buried in reflection, with
noiseless steps between the columns of the cathedral, and
who, accustomed to genuflection and prostration, is continu
ally bowed down before the majesty of God. His hair was
bro.wn and silky, and one or two natural curls upon his fore
head resembled the crown of Moses, or the horns of the pro
phetic ram. These curls, thus arranged, of which we still
see the traces in his portraits at an advanced age, gave an
air of inspiration to his head. His eyes were black and
piercing, but sweet. On his face there shone a serene and
perpetual light, a light which was never obscured by flashes,
and which attracted without dazzUng the eye. His high
and open forehead showed the small vejns which interlaced
his temples ; his nose was almost straight, fine and delicate
ly chiseled, between the soft Grecian and energetic Eoman,
and was neither raised by insolence nor depressed by stu
pidity. His mouth was large, with thin lips, which often
moved •without speaking, as if employed in the utterance of
some inward reflection, with modesty repressed in the pres
ence of older men than himself; a half smUe, full of grace
and thought, was their most frequent expression, and they
bore the impress of a disposition naturally incUned to sin
cerity, and adverse to rudeness or contempt. In his face,
taken altogether, the sweetness of expression softened so
completely the strength of intellect, and the gentleness of
each feature agreed so harmoniously -with the manUness of

224 BOSSUET.
the whole, that the extent of his genius was only discernible
in the delicate tracery of the veins and nerves of thought,
and admiration was subdued by affection. No reader of the
works or life of this celebrated theologian wojild inscribe
the name of Bossuet beneath the mild face that painters
have handed down to us. It is evident that the soul of this
great man was of one stamp, and his genius of another.
Nature made him tender ; dogmatism rendered him hard ;
but still he was ever calm and self-collected. The pre
cocious thinness and pallid hue of Ms cheeks proceeded from
the asceticism of the temple and the severity of midnight
studies, which drained the sap of life.
Such was Bossuet in his youth, and such we find him in
old age; deUneated either by the pencil of the painter or
chisel of the sculptor ; the personification of a moral beauty
which knows no infancy and feels no decay.
This aspect and character caused him to be respected as
well as loved. There is not a single error to be found in
his boyish career, nor any light indiscretion as he advanced
to manhood. He appeared to escape •without a struggle
from the frailties of nature, and to be passionately attracted
only by the good and beautiful.
It might have been said that he himself respected before
hand the future authority of his name and ministry, and
that he did not •wish one single stain of humanity to attach
itself to the servant of God when he should enter the taber
nacle. "When he was fourteen years of age, his father, at that
time dean of the Parliament of Metz, recalled him to that
city, that he might benefit by his appointment as canon,
and complete his theological and other studies. A short
time only elapsed before he was sent to Paris, to set him
more •visibly before the eyes of the Church, of which he was
already considered the brightest hope.
He arrived in Paris on the day when Cardinal EicheUeu,
dpng, entered the city, as Tiberius entered Eome, in the
midst of sUence produced by terror and empurpled with the

BOSSUET. 225
blood of Cinq-Mars and De Thou, which he had just shed
at Lyons. Bossuet was at the funeral of this prime minis
ter, priest, and executioner, who dragged his master as a
vassal in his train. The spectacle recaUed the lower em
pire of Eome in all its degenerate baseness and ferocity.
The jealous minister tore the king's dearest friends from
him, and insolently threw their dead bodies at his feet,
under the pretext that they were sacrificed to the aggrand
izement of the monarchy. The king wept, trembled, and
was silent. The people gazed in stupor on these arbitrary
proceedings, •without understanding them. History has been
cowardly enough to imitate the people, and to accord to this
capricious, cruel, and sanguinary. Sejanus a merit for his
audacity and an immortality for his executions. This repu
tation ¦will become infamy when impartial posterity shaU
judge of actions by the standard of moral rectitude, and
not by the measure of success.
The hand of Providence interfered to deliver the throne
and nation from this Cromwell of France. Cardinal Eiche
Ueu died of exhaustion, produced by his ambition and tyr
anny. He tried to disguise from himself and from the peor
pie the agony he suffered beneath rouged cheeks and gaudy
apparel. In order to secure him from any inconvenience
arising from the jarring of wheeled carriages, relays of
twenty of his personal lictprs, with uncovered heads always
exposed to heat or rain, carried him in a litter on their
shoulders from one end of the kingdom to the other. This '
litter was a moving chamber, in which was placed his bed,
his cabinet, his domestic officers, and his secretaries, that
he might, even when journeying, issue his orders for the
government of the kingdom, and thus divert his thoughts
from his natural want of rest. As the gates of many cities
were neither •wide nor high enough for this portable palace,
they were thrown do^wn to aUow the aged invalid to enter ;
those of Paris had already been destroyed : chains were ex
tended on each side of the streets through which he passed
on his road to the Lou-vre, to restrain the curiosity of the
K2

226 BOSSUET.
crowding gazers, who beheld with astonishment through
their windows, the cardinal half reclining upon a purple
couch, and dictating to his secretary, seated before a table,
ostentatious orders to the different ministers. The people
bowed before the priest, while they trembled in the presence
of the tyrant.
This triumphal progress established a deep and lasting
impression upon the mind of Bossuet. It was a living per
sonification of Egyptian theocracy and monarchy joined to
gether by an indissoluble unity of govemment, in which the
king bowed before the priest, and the people prostrated
themselves before both. This first accidental apparition
on the day of his arrival in Paris raised up indescribable
dreams of antiquity in the imagination of the young ob
server ; it was the purple of a pruice of the Church and the
unbounded power of a minister, presented in palpable per
spective, and united in the same person. Bossuet from his
profession might aspire to the one, and from his genius to
the other : it will soon be seen that, if not his destiny, it
was at least his aim until the hour of his death.
The young man was admitted, through the influence of
his family, into one of those estabUshments, half lay and
half religious, where the Church, in that age mistress of
the University, prepared its neophytes. This house was
caUed the College of Navarre, oi. which Bossuet was at the
same time a member and a disciple. He therefore enjoyed
liberty restrained by discipline — the promoter of good man
ners and youthful studies. He was soon recognized at
Paris, as at Dijon, as a youth whose eloquence would here
after render him celebrated. He was selected for his talent,
by the University, to deliver the public speeches on days of
solemn festivals. The bishops and ministers whom he ad
dressed on these occasions were charmed ¦with the ease,
dignity, and powerful elocution of this richly-endowed nov
ice; his fame spread like the report of a miracle. In
spite of himself, he was dragged from his obscurity, and his
presence contended for at reUgious ceremonies or literary

BOSSUET. 227
meetings. He was eagerly sought after in the palaces of
those princes and princesses who were passionately devoted
to intellectual pursuits. It was the epoch of a similar re-
¦vival of letters at Paris, to that of Leo X. at Eome, or of
the Medici at Florence. The profane and the sacred, truth
and fable, preachers and orators, were alike confounded in
the taste or enthusiasm for literature. A relation of the
young student, Francis Bossuet, secretary to the council of
finance at the court, presented his nephew to the Marquis
du Plessis-Guenegaud, a friend of the minister Fouquet and
a patron of letters, in the confidence of that M%cenas. The
Marquis de Feuquieres, governor of Versailles, who had
known Bossuet's father when he commanded at Metz, re
ceived the son with all the favor that old friendship reflects
upon the young. He spoke of him to Madame de Eam
bouillet and to her ultra-refined circle, who desired to see
and hear him. He was called upon to extemporize a ser
mon in the drawing-room of M. de Feuquieres before these
fastidious judges ; Voiture, the sovereign critic of the day,
was present : they took Bossuet by surprise, and gave him
the text, the subject, and the time. He had the weakness
to con.sent, either from deference or vanity, to this play of
genius upon sacred subjects. He was happy and sublime.
The cry of admiration uttered by Voiture and Madame de
EambouiUet in the saloons of M. de Feuquieres re-echoed
throughout all Paris. Fashion, sometimes the presage, but
more frequently the parody of fame, seized upon the name
of Bossuet and carried it to the ears of royalty. The great
Conde, upon whose tomb Bossuet in his old age was des
tined to shed such memorable tears, was delighted to be
present one day at a trial-lecture of this young orator,
which promised to shed glory upon his government of Bur
gundy, The Princes of Conde were hereditary presidents
of these States, or rather of the council that ruled over the
administrative interests of the province : they went every
year to hold their court for several weeks at Dijon, and
were acquainted vrith all the families of note in the city.

228 BOSSUET.
They had their cUents in Dijon, of whom they became the
natural patrons in Paris ; from thence arose that paternal
protection bestowed by the elder Conde upon the represent
ative of the Bossuets.
During the time that the rising orator was occupied in
forming his taste for letters and courtly manners by an in
timacy •with the most Ulustrious families of the kingdom, he
was improving in the highest virtues of his profession, in the
society and under the discipUne of the most venerated ec
clesiastics of his day.
One aged man, whose genius was identical with charity,
and who might be called the St. John of modern Christian
ity, was about to close his days in Paris when Bossuet com
menced his career. This man was St. Vincent de Paul.
Shattered by time, tired of controversy, and disgusted
•with reUgious quarrels, which had produced nothing but
victims and scaffolds, this holy man had only found the true
pro^vince of the priest in the clemency and charity which
soothes instead of irritating. He had latterly assumed the
functions of Providence, and had become a universal bless
ing and benefactor. Active virtue appeared to him the
brightest ornament of the priesthood. Doctrines may be
disputed, but actions estabUsh themselves. Eetired to a
half-open cloister, a small number of pupils came to hear
and receive his last precepts, which were all summed up,
like those of St. John, in one single instruction, "Love God,
and love one another." St. Vincent de Paul frequently
called his pupils to conferences, in which he exercised the
famUiar language rather than the oratorical powers of his
young disciples. The heart never declaims, St. Vincent
did not teach grandiloquent phraseology, but he inculcated
persuasion and tendemess.
He distinguished Bossuet among his disciples, and tried
to form his conscience rather than his genius : he selected
for him a confessor who was more anxious for his piety than
his fame. Eeligious con-victions, it must be admitted, were
dearer to Bossuet than the possession of unrivaled talent.

BOSSUET. 229
He conformed •with humility, and even •with inclination, to
the austere ordinances of his faith ; he loved prayer, medi
tation, exercises of the soul, ceremonies, the Church, the
altar : his punctiUous assiduity edified those who were burn
ing to emulate his example.
. He found in the study of sacred mysteries a depth of
wisdom and a profundity of revelation in which he delight
ed to bury himself His vivid imagination thought that it
could thus grasp the secrets of the Deity at their source ;
his enthusiasm expelled doubt ; his mind was convinced by
the strength of his wUl. It is not inconsistent for such a
genius to attempt to rule the world by the same despotic
tyranny with which it governs itself.
To believe, with such a conviction, was to repress all de
liberation of thought upon supernatural subjects. When a
mind has become so completely subjugated, it feels a right
of compelling all others to adopt the same unbounded, fixed,
and impUcit faith. From this innate fanaticism, sincere, and
admitting of no argument, proceeded all the acts of intoler
ance, and conversions for the glory of religion, so zealously
and actively persevered in by Bossuet. Nevertheless, he al
ways preserved a deep impression of the Christian benevo
lence and mild virtues of St, Vincent de Paul, which con
trasted so strongly with the harshness of his proselytism.
"When the Church sought to trace the Ufe of this good man
after his death, to consecrate and sanctify his memory, Bos
suet, upon being consulted, thus deUvered his written testi
mony :
" There were assemblies," said he, " at his house on the
Tuesday in every week ; even eminent bishops were at
tracted by the pious reputation of this exceUent man, and
they there learned to preach the Gospel as much by exam
ples as by discourses. FuU of gratitude for the memory of
this pious individual (for we knew him personally in our
youth, and he inculcated in us principles of piety and self-
discipline), we now to-day, as we approach our own old age,
recall with singular pleasure his tender lessons. With what

230 BOSSUET.
edification have we not, at our leisure, contemplated his
virtues, his admirable character, the gravity of his manners,
and his rare prudence, united ¦with the most perfect sim
plicity ; his application to business, his zeal for the welfare
of souls, and his charitable institutions, in which his mem
ory is perpetuated in each of the saintly women who con
tinue his good works !"
;f ions exercises did not deter Bossuet from devoting him
self with the same ardor to eloquence — a vocation insep
arably characteristic of his life. He cultivated this talent
equally ¦with his religious duties : the transcendent powers
of the orator were developed beneath the robe of the priest.
He studied poetry and eloquence in all branches of Utera
ture ; he even devoted himself to the improvement of his
diction. To modulate his voice, to study his attitudes, to
regulate his gesticulation, he went frequently to the theatres,
to hear the great tragic actors who recited upon the stage
the dialogues and speeches of Eotrou, ComeUle, and Eacine.
He did not consider it any desecration to the word of God
in his mouth to devote to it all the energy and excellence
of human organs : he borrowed all he could from profane
art, that he might embeUish and add strength to his sacred
calling. What he sought from the drama was not the idle
pleasure of hearing a speech beautifuUy declaimed in a mu
sical cadence ; he looked for examples by which to reach
the perfection of oratory. He did not hide from others his
frequent -risits to the theatre, the only forum where he could
learn to imitate the ancient orators, and the most ascetic
did not blame him.*
Voice, attitude, and gesture are common to preachers,
senators, and tragedians ; each arrives at eminence by mu
tually observing the others. Bossuet desired to be a great
actor in the temple of God ; he studied declamation as he
had studied language, but he was mistaken in the idea that
the stage could supply him -with models ; artificial diction
• * Yet Bossuet is the author of a most violent philippic against the
stage, written in 1697. — Tbansl.

BOSSUET. 231
could only injure him. Nature, faith, piety, had done aU
that he required. He was born a master ; it was for actors
to study the apostle.
He tore himself from his studies and his friendships at
Paris, to return to Metz to his father, to take possession of
his canonry, and to wait for the age when he should be able
to fulfill those high ecclesiastical duties to which his reputa
tion would ine^vitably call him. He lived there, during six
years, the life of a cenobite. This period comprised one long
meditation upon the Bible, the Gospel, and the writings of
the first founders of Christianity : St. John Chrysostom, the
Demosthenes of Holy Writ ; TertuUian, the Tacitus of the
persecutions ; Origen, the poet of doctrine ; and, above aU,
St. Augustine, the Plato of the faith — were his favorite au
thors. The natural severity of his taste must have been
well founded not to have been corrupted, exaggerated, in
flated, or weakened by the writers and orators of an age of
literary decline, who forced language and imagery, by de
scending into declamation instead of rising into eloquence.
But the oratorical style of Bossuet was not to be corrupted
even by his masters. From his intercourse •with them he
adopted their faith, but repudiated their faults. He indulged
in no society, to distract his thoughts from study, but that
of the Marechal de Schomberg, Governor of Metz. The
Marechale, a woman celebrated for her beauty and wit, who
had formerly entertained a pure and subdued passion for
Louis XIH., loved and protected the young orator. In her
letters to the court she incessantly spoke of the merit and '
talent of the canon of Metz. She urged him to gratify the
king by applying his zeal to the conversion of the Protest
ants in his canonry. Bossuet acquired, in these controversies
•with several ministers of the reformed faith of the province,
a habit of haughty fulmination against what he considered
errors in orthodoxy ; and of considering as state crimes all
differences of opinion on established dogmas of the Church
— a habit which became the weakness, and, at a later pe
riod, the stain of his life.

232 BOSSUET.
Zeal for unity of faith burned fiercely at this period
within the breasts of all classes. Political unity did not
appear firmly established either to EicheUeu, Mazarin, the
young king, Louis XIV., or to his mother, the pious and
gentle Anne of Austria herself, as long as Catholicism did
not control every conscience throughout the kingdom, either
from conviction, corruption, or power.
Anne of Austria happened to visit Metz, saw Bossuet,
and admired his eloquence and zeal. She employed him to
form a missionary society for the conversion of famiUes of
the reformed faith. This mission was the germ of all those
acts of compulsion and proscription which, at a later period,
inflicted on the kingdom bloodshed and depopulation. Bos
suet adopted the habit of making political power a holy
adjunct to his sacerdotal authority, and of threatening those
with the king whom he wished to reconcUe to God. He
received from the court the reward, unsought no doubt, but
stiU direct, of labors achieved for the sake of heaven.
His efforts at making proselytes, though most religious
in principle, became a moral constraint upon the soul, and
soon an armed force against the conscience. He confound
ed under the same robe his clerical and political ministry.
It was this original confusion between the priest and court
ier which often warped the direct path of his Ufe. The re
nunciations of Protestantism that Bossuet received, either
from the force of real or pretended conviction, were so many
acts of homage that this conqueror of souls presented to his
king. The court did not yet venture to persecute "openly, but
employed seduction and intimidation in every quarter. Bos
suet, through his youth, his piety, his zeal, and his eagerness
to advance the prevailing opinions of the royal circle, proved
himself the most useful and brUliant instrument of this con
quest of the entire kingdom to the reUgion of the monarch.
The conversion of a courtier, the Abb6 de Dangeau, and,
soon after, the more illustrious example of the Marechal de
Turenne, formed valuable additions to the celebrity of Bos
suet.

BOSSUET. 233
Turenne was a man of the world, who, throughout a long
life, had been broken in to all the usual artifices of courts,
and was as much a politician as a warrior. Halving changed
sides, during the minority of Louis XIV., from the revolu
tionary party to that of the king, he felt he had much to
do to regain the favor of the prince, now firmly seated upon
the throne. He could not, therefore, give a better proof of
his allegiance than the adoption, though somewhat tardy,
of the reUgion of his sovereign. Whether he thought that
heaven could be purchased at such a price, or calculated
that the tenure of his rank in the army and state depended
upon this act, he hesitated long enough to give an air of
decency to the change. He wished to be instructed by Bos
suet, who had been recaUed to Paris, and nominated to a
bishopric. It gave Bossuet Uttle trouble to convince an old
soldier, who came determined to be a convert. Turenne,
sufficiently persuaded, repaired to court at an hour when
the satellites of royalty filled the palace. The king was at
table. Turenne besought a speedy and private interview.
The king rose and conducted the general with deference to
the embrasure of one of the windows. " Sire," said Tu
renne, " I have something to teU you in confidence, which
I beg of you not yet to divulge. I wish to change my re
Ugion." "Ah! how glad I am!" cried the king, opening
his arms to press him to his heart, but restraining himself
lest he should betray, by this embrace, to the courtiers —
who could see without hearing them — the joy that he felt.
He led the proselyte into his cabinet ; there he embraced
and congratulated him, and told him that he should instant
ly send a messenger to the Pope, that the happiness he
would feel at such an iUustrious conquest might not be de
layed. "Sire," said Turenne, "do not do so, I beseech
you ; for if I thought that this spontaneous conversion
would gain me even the glove that your majesty carries in
your hand, I would not change my faith." The king, in
the confidential familiarity of his triumph, •wished to ap
point Turenne's confessdr. They both entered a carriage.

234 BOSSXraiT.
without attendants or armorial bearings, that they might
seek together, without being recognized, a fitting keeper
of the conscience for the Marechal in the monasteries of
Paris. This conversion proved the means of advancing Bossuet
still nearer to the episcopal bench. The conquest of the
old general was attributed to the perusal of a book which
Bossuet had just published, called "Exposition of the Doc
trines of the Church of Eome." This work, written during
his residence at Metz, spoke more for his faith than his
talent. Clearness in controversy, uniformity in style, and
the application of reason to aU subjects of mystery, are the
only characteristics of this first of his writings. Bossuet
showed himself in it rather a great catechist than a pro
found theologian ; but this was what the time required.
This book at its birth became the text, and remains so stUl,
for all Eoman CathoUcs, Bossuet's fame, great already as
an orator, increased as a controversiaUst. He was sum
moned to preach at Paris, and then his reputation reached
its climax.
Crowds, such as had not been seen since the days of
Abelard, fUled the aisles of the churches in which the young
minister preached. They had heard, and they might stUl
hear, more finished and more literary discourses ; but_ they
never did and never could expect to Usten to any thing of
a more exalted character : at once he rose to the sublime.
Bossuet drew his auditors from their habitual thoughts,
and transported them through new regions into the presence
and contemplation of the Creator. It was the orator above
the clouds reaching heaven with his hand, seeing earth afar
off and below his feet, playing •with thunder and lightning,
and filling with contempt for sublunary matters ; the abyss
of high, great, and eternal thoughts, over which he caused
his listeners to totter by dazzling them with his mighty
elevation. His style, conformable ¦with this majesty of position, rose
to an equality with the infinite. It was simple as the ora-

BOSSUET. 235
de which disdains to please; unpremeditated as the word
uttered, without selection, in the rapidity of thought ; slow
as meditation, which forgets the lapse of time ; rapid as the
inspiration which fears to escape from itself; unaimed as
the shaft which is hurled at random, and which the eye
does not even foUow to witness the effect; naked as the
truth from which every veil is torn, and trampled under
foot in the eagerness to display its natural purity ; collected
and refiective as the temple; sometimes as unpolished as
the people ; always guided by nature, and not by art, to the
idea or sentiment it desires to express; poetical above aU
other considerations, or, rather, losing sight of the auditory
and the chain of reasoning to utter an unexpected ebullition
of joy or grief; and giving vent to involuntary feeling in
direct communion with Deity, either in dialogues or hymns
which have had no paraUel since the days of Moses and the
prophets. Such are the sermons of Bossuet, of which we only pos
sess notes and rough sketches. They are landmarks in
space, between heaven and earth, by which to trace the
windings and intricades of inspiration. But these notes
and rough sketches are so connected by logical reasoning,
that the chain which is occasionaUy broken can be easily
replaced, and the voids fiUed up by imagination. A few
words explain the entire discourse ; and the impression
made upon the Usteners may be estimated less by the text
itself than by the blanks. We feel that each of these gaps
suppUes an abyss of reflections, thoughts, and exclamations,
into which the orator plunged •with his hearers; and we
conceive a more expanded idea of the whole from these in
cidental deficiencies.
Who can not thus reconstruct, by the aid of a few vesti
ges, buildings as perfect and gigantic as those of Palmyra
or Baalbec, even though the original foundations, plans, and
materials are with difficulty distinguishable from the sur
rounding dust?
Tradition tells us that the elocution of Bossuet conformed

236 BOSSUET.
to his genius. Lofty stature, an imposing attitude, collect
ed features, refined action, a deeply-toned voice, regulated by
the soul and not by art ; a dignified bearing, derived as much
from nature as from professional habitude, and a deep feel
ing of superiority — not as a man, but as the medium select
ed to convey the Divine word to attentive hearers; and,
finaUy, that indescribable confidence which the presentiment
of future glory gives at the commencement of their career
to the chosen band destined for immortaUty ; such were the
leading characteristics of Bossuet in the pulpit. The man
was forgotten in the inspired missionary. The auditors felt
that they were not Ustening to a measured discourse, but to
a torrent of rushing eloquence. They retired more excited
than charmed ; they had no time to think of admiration,
which the orator had no thought of producing. Of aU the
feelings of contempt which he felt for the world, none were
more sincere than those he expressed for human approba
tion, and this sincerity quickened his natural eloquence :
his words came from such a height that they crushed all in
their descent, even the orator himself; hence it was that
they carried such weight, and resounded so loudly as they
feU. The queen, Anne of Austria, recollected the young theo
logian whom she had seen at Metz, and •wished to hear him
preach. This princess, who had abdicated empire, was en
dued with piety as tender as her heart. Her long intimacy
with Mazarin — an Italian of the school of Leo X., as also
of that of MachiavelU — had fostered her taste for the fine
arts and for eloquence. Bossuet preached before her in the
chapel of a convent of nuns. He soothed her feeUngs as a
mother, by making rather a fiattering comparison between
the queen, who had educated a king for the throne, and the
Virgin, who had brought up a Divinity for the Cross. Adu
lation, ennobled by feelings of maternal respect, took nothing
from the sanctity of the discourse ; the orator was rather
the consoler of a woman in disgrace than the courtier of a
powerful queen. Anne of Austria wept tears of gratitude

BOSSUET. 237
and admiration. She desired that the young preacher would
write down the different thoughts and heads of this sermon,
that she might hear it again in a larger assembly. The re
Ugious poet Santeuil, who had been admitted into the circle
of privileged auditors in the queen's suite, was so enthusiast
ic in his admiration of the poetical language of the preacher,
that, from what he remembered of the sermon, he composed
a hymn which is sung to this day in the churches, as an
echo, in verse, of the subUme periods of Bossuet.
This success induced all the monasteries who desired to
render their chapels celebrated to request Bossuet to preach
the series of pious discourses caUed " Lent Lectures," which
took place annually on the same mysteries, varied only by
the fortuity of imagination or talent of the preachers.
The first lecture which Bossuet delivered was in the
church of the CarmeUtes, at Mount St. Gene^vieve, the most
monastical and literary quarter of Paris. It is related that
the masters and pupils of the neighboring colleges, the acad
emicians and theologians of the different factions which di
vided the Church between the Jesuits and Jansenists, strug
gled from dawn to secure places near the pulpit of the
preacher. When he descended, at the conclusion of his
discourse, groups — at first calm, but agitated by degrees
from discussion — formed themselves in the vast court of the
monastery to gaze on the man of such unrivaled eloquence
as he passed by. Some interpreted his words in favor of
their own opinions ; others claimed him as a partisan of
their pecuUar sect ; but all agreed in declaring him to be a
perfect prodigy in the pulpit. This unanimity of enthusi
asm produced a' momentary peace between the contending
parties. Bossuet had in fact placed himself above them aU
by the high impartiaUty of disdain. He sought to elevate
the Church above sectarianism, and to raise God higher
than disputes. For a moment he compelled these fierce
disputants to follow him into eternity.
It was in one of these convents that he gave way to a
burst of eloquence in a eulogium upon St. Paul, the in-

238 BOSSUET.
spired Plato of Judea, which, from the scraps of the dis
course that have been preserved, we are enabled to quote.
We here clearly see Bossuet himself transfigured into the
apostle, as Michael Angelo imparted with his powerful chis
el his own features and his own air of inspiration to the face
of his statue of Moses.
" Christians," said he, " do not expect that the apostle
will fiatter your ears by harmonious cadences, or charm
them by gratifying your vain curiosity : listen to what he
says of himself We preach hidden wisdom — we preach a
crucified God. Do not let us seek to add vain ornaments
to-that God who rejects the things of this world. If our
lowliness is displeasing to the great, let them know that we
covet their disdain, for Jesus Christ despises their ostenta
tious insolence, and desires only to be known to the humble.
Let us bow, then, before the despised, and preach to them
sermons in which meekness bears something of the humiUa-
tion of the cross, and which are worthy of that God who
only desires to conquer by gentleness.
" It is for these well-grounded reasons that St. Paul re
jects all the arts of rhetoric. His discourses, far from flow
ing with that agreeable sweetness, that calm equality which
we admire in other orators, appear unequal and unfinished
to those who do not study them deeply ; and the deUcate
ones of this earth, whose ears, as they say, are so refined,
are often offended by his irregular style. But, brethren, do
not let us blush for this. The words of the apostle are
simple, but his thoughts are divine. If he is ignorant of
rhetoric and despises philosophy, Jesus Christ takes the
place of aU, and his name, which is ever in his mouth, and
his mysteries, which he describes in such a tone of inspira- .
tion, render his simplicity all-powerful. This man, unac
quainted with fine language, whose elocution was rude, and
who spoke like a stranger, goes into polished Greece, the
mother of philosophy and oratory ; and not-withstanding the
opposition of the people, he there estabUshed more churches
than Plato had acquired disciples, by an eloquence which

BOSSUET. 239
was thought di'vine. He preached Jesus at Athens ; and
tho most learned of the senators passed from the Areopagus
to the school of this barbarian stranger. 'He pushed his
conquests still farther : he brought the majesty of the Eo
man fasces to the feet of Jesus, in the person of a procon
sul, and caused the judges,* before whom he was cited, to
tremble on their judgment-seats. Eome even listened to
his voice ; and the day will yet arrive when this ancient
mistress of the world will deem herself more honored by an
epistle from St. Paul, addressed to her citizens, than by all
the far-famed harangues delivered in the forum by Cicero.
"And from whence. Christians, is this? It is that St.
Paul had sources of persuasion that Greece could not teach,
and Eome had not yet acquired — ^an inspired power which
deUghts in extoUing what the great despise, and which is
spread over and mingled with the august simpUcity of his
words. It is this that causes us to admire, in his epistles,
a sentiment of superhuman virtue which prevails above or
dinary rules, or rather, does not persuade, as much as it
captivates, the understanding — which does not flatter the
ear, but goes direct to the heart — just as we see a great
river retain, when flo^wing through the plain, that violent
and impetuous force which it had acquired in the mountains
from whence it derived its source. Thus the holy virtue
which is contained in the ¦writings of St. Paul, even in the
simpUcity of his style, preserves all the vigor which it brings
from the heaven from whence it has descended."
The fame of the preacher rose and increased after each
discourse. The great Condd desired to hear him at Dijon,
in what we may call his native pulpit, and in which anoth
er orator of our own days has appeared to remind his coun
trymen of Bossuet. He there showed himself to be, as he
always contrived to appear at the same time — a politician
and theologian — ^inspired, overwhelming, and adroit, never
forgetful of the court in speaking of heaven, or regardless
of heaven when addressing the court.
After an oratorical eulogium upon the great Conde, who

240 BOSSUET.
was present, Bossuet in this discourse suddenly resumed his
apostolic dignity after his courtier-like prostration.
"But no," cried he; "in recalUng the name of which I
speak, I would rather cast the grandeur of this world be
neath the feet of God, than admire it longer even in a
hero." The king, prepossessed in favor of Bossuet, by his moth
er and the court, at length commanded that he should preach
before him in the chapel of the Louvre.
This prince, who was almost iUiterate at that time, pos
sessed more than the science of admiring the beautiful in
art ; he reaUy felt it as a revelation. The gift of apprecia
tion, more than that of criticism, was the greatest faculty
of mind possessed by Louis XTV., and it was to this gift
that he owed the grandeur of his reign. The glory which
he admired and discovered, even in the profundity of his ig
norance, rebounded back through gratitude upon himself.
He possessed an unusual power of reflection : the light
which he Idndled iUuminated his own person.
The noble voice of Bossuet touched him as soon as he
Ustened to it, and he pronounced him at once the prophet of
the, age. He also discerned, at the first glance, the strong
vein of sound sense, consistency, and tempered discipUne
which ran through all his eloquence — as the massive tim
bers may be discerned beneath the magnificence and orna
ments of the edifice they support. He augured that this
orator would become a politician : he remembered EicheUeu
and Mazarin, who had been the tyrants or tutors of his in
fancy. The vigor of the one and the cleverness of the oth
er appeared to him to have again revived, ¦with combined
and increased force, in the person of this young candidate
for public honor, who, Uke them, was bom much more for
the government of an empire than for the direction of a
community or a diocese. He reserved hinj, in his o^wn
mind, rather for his worldly than for his spiritual adviser.
He thought, by conferring dignities, to prepare him for the
management of the French Church under himself This

BOSSUET. 241
had become ' one of the most pressing necessities of his
reign. Eeligious faith was divided into, many factions. The
king •wished to subjugate all to the common yoke of the
Boman Catholic Church, while he himself remained the
only, individual throughout the kingdom independent of the
authority to which he would ¦wilUngly submit as a man, but
not as a sovereign. To effect this, he required the assist
ance of one who should be more, than a bishop, less than a
schismatic, and almost a patriarch : he felt that in Bossuet
he should find the' man he looked for, and he was not mis
taken. Upon his return to the Louvre, after the sermon, the
king charged his private secretary, Eose, to compose a let
ter in his name, addressed to the father of the preacher to
whom he had just listened.
Eose indited one of those laconic but memorable letters,
proper for a king to write who condescends to admire a sub
ject. The king copied it -with his own hand. " A father,"
said he, addressing himself to the counselor of the Parlia
ment of Metz, " ought to rejoice in such a son."
This epistle was a promise of future favor, and a stimu
lant to ambition. The father understood it in that double
sense, and the king was not long in justifying his expecta
tions. He summoned Bossuet on every occasion to preach
befijre him ; henceforth no language appeared worthy of
God and the king except his.
The father of Bossuet having traveled to Paris to hear
his son, he •was pointed out to Louis XIV. among the con
gregation, his eyes wet with tears. " Ah !" exclaimed the
king, "behold a father who is truly happy thus to be a
spectator of the sanctity and glory of his child!" A few
days aftei-, to complete the joy of the father, he himself
conferred the bishopric of Condom on the son. At that
time ten years had passed since his name had resounded
from the pulpits of Paris.
This new dignity did not entirely interfere with his ser-
L

242 BOSSUET. •
mons, it only added additional authority to the preacher,
and gave more respect to public attention. Another orator
took possession of the pulpit at the very moment when Bos
suet abandoned it for the episcopal throne.
This orator was Bourdaloue. -Eager comparisons were
made between these two rivals in eloquence. To the shame
of the time, it must be confessed that the number of Bour-
daloue's admirers exceeded, in a short time, those of Bos
suet. The reason of this preference for cold argument over
impassioned eloquence must be sought in the nature of aU
human events. Men of moderate measure have more anal
ogy with their contemporaries, are better understood and
liked, than the giants who soar beyond comparisons. Cold
argumentative reasoners are more intelligible to the crowd
than the ardent spirits who kindle and blaze into enthusi
asm. Wings are required to follow the poetical orator,
while a little logic suffices to keep pace ¦with him who ar
gues and explains ; and logic is more commonly found in
an audience than inspiration. All the world do not possess
pinions to raise and sustain them in the wide expanse of
imagination : this is the reason why, in the tribune of the
National Assembly, Bamave was more admired than Mira
beau. These infatuations, which are the proofs of genius
and the triumphs of emulation, can not be considered as
the decrees of posterity. Men of high pre-eminence can
only be estimated by their peers. Equality of judgment
and genius is too scantily bestowed in any living generation
to insure a correct decision, to settle the scale of preten- '
sion, to arrange the gradations of favor, or the definitive
title which each is to occupy in the ranks of glory. The
gifted few are smothered by the ignorant multitude, who
pronounce that to be the greatest which approaches the
nearest to themselves, and which they look on with the dis
tinctness of close proximity.
Several generations, and often many centuries, elapse be
fore compeers and mates of these mighty exceptions arise,
in sufficient number, to judge and form a tribunal compe-

BOSSUET. 243
tent to award the true meed of reputation. Until that time
the crowd deceives itself, and thus produces the mystery
of posterity, that its judgments destroy those of time. To
wait is the condition of fame.
Bourdaloue and Massillon have been pronounced by con
temporary authorities greater orators in the pulpit than
Bossuet ; but the lapse of years has rectified this mistake.
Bourdaloue was only a powerful reasoner ; MassiUon a me
lodious flatterer of the ear ; Bossuet alone possessed all the
combined attributes of eloquence, because he was at once
poetical and pathetic, with the wings and shriek of an
eagle ; but he flew and cried too near to heaven to be heard
by those below.
Madame de Sevigne, who has transmitted with so much
grace the whisperings of one age to another, and whose
work may be regarded as the ever-enduring gossip of pos
terity, speaks incessantly, in her Letters, of the harangues
of Bourdaloue, but never in a single instance aUudes to
the discourses of Bossuet.
Up to the time when Bossuet was appointed Bishop of
Condom by the king, his life at Paris had been of the same
character as at Dijon or Metz — solitary, studious, and ex
emplary. He Uved with the .Abbe de Lameth, dean of the
church of St. Thomas of the Lou^vre, whose house was a
sort of half-way retreat between the monastery and the
" world, which prevented perfect asceticism of manners, by
allowing the frequent visits of friends. The deportment of
this great man was marked by that air of evangelical seri
ousness which, according to Bruyere, constitutes the soul
of Christian eloquence. He aUowed none of his thoughts
to escape carelessly. Several ecclesiastics of high birth,
consummate learning, and irreproachable conduct, the e'lite
of the novitiates of the episcopacy, were his most frequent
companions. The attraction of fame and virtue already
made them gather round a man so prematurely celebrated.
They appeared to foresee his coming renown, and to be
honored by the title of his disciples.

244 bossuet:
In these scholars Bossuet only recognized friends; among
them were the Abbe d'Hoquincourt, afterward Bishop of
Verdun, and. the Abbe de St. Laurent, preceptor to the
Duke of Orleans, the future regent. This ecclesiastic in
culcated principles of piety in the' mind of the young prince
before he became perverted by the infamous Dubois, whose
vices raised him to a cardinal's hat, in utter contempt of all
decency. "nie younger Eacine relates pathetically, in one of his
letters, the death of the Abbe de St. Laurent, who was torn
from the arms of Bdssuet. The circle of friends and pupils
included M. de Bedacier, also Bishop of Auguste, who de
sired, when dying, to be consoled by the exhortations of
Bossuet, and who' lefthini'a priory which he possessed at
Mantes ; the Abbe LetelUer, son of the chancellor of the
same name, who loaded the young preacher •with benefices
and dignities, which he held in his gift as Bishop of Eheims;
the AbbQ .de Choisy, at first celebrated for Ught and scan
dalous conduct in his, profession, but afterward converted
by Bossuet to a proper coilrse of life and correct religious
faith, and directed by him to the historical studies, which
might be useful to the Church ; HardOuin de Perefixe, for
merly preceptor to the king, then Archbishop of Paris;
Fenelon, at first pupil and afterward rival of Bossuet, -but
who always :retained toward him a kind and cordial feel
ing ; all the young companions of Fenelon, drawn by him
toithat same warm worship of the heart which he rendered
to Bossuet; and, above' all, the Abbe Ledieu, who ate at
his own table and became his confidant, secretary, and fa
miliar during twenty years, and who noted down day by
day, for the advantage of posterity, the actions and words
of his master.
This assembly of faith, philosophy, eloquence, conversa
tion, and friendship, recalled the schools of the Athenian
philosophers, rendered purer and more religious by the
strictness of the Christian discipline which bound its mem
bers together. Bossuet never left it but to ascend the pul-

bossuet. 245
pit, or to cultivate some distinguished court favors which
appertained to his dignity. After becoming a bishop, he
preached less frequently on ordinary occasions, but reserved
himself for those startling solemnities which his voice ren
dered epochs of eloquence.
He was tempted to try his powers in a new line of ora-*
tory, which recalled the panegyrics of the ancients — in fu
neral sermons, a species of discourses well adapted, from
their pecuUar characteristics, to his genius; sermons of
which the tribune was the tomb ; the text, a memorable Ufe;
either tragic or saintly, terminated by a recent death — and
the ornamental- appendages, a coffin.
While dealing with such subjects, all the accessories sft-
sistedthe eloquence of the preacher — sighs, external accom
paniments, groans, consolations^ cries, hymns worthy of his
voice. The temple i hung with black, the uncovered altar,
the funeral torches, the priests clothedin sombre vestments;
the bier surrounded by the family, friends, chUdren, and
servants of the deceased, overwhelmed vrith grief; the tears
of nearest relations ; the contrast between the greatness,
power, and fame of the dead, and the inanimate corpse
which had suddenly descended from the splendor of this
life to take its. place in a wooden coffin, to be for a moment
the subject of a sermon, and then forever after the prey of
the earth, already open to receive it ; this daily change, sud
den, but always impressive, from active life to the silent
tomb ; the reflections made aloud, as in ancient Egypt, upon
the still warm memory of the dead, on the threshold of his
sepulchre ; the presumptuous foretelling of what the judg
ment of God may be at the moment when the fate of the
departed has already been pronounced by an infallible
Judge; the majestic or touching recital of the great events
of this life ; the accounts of history in the annals of one of
the actors ; the constant recurrence to religion, the only ap
parent object of the discourse ; the sadness of the last mo
ments, and recent farewells recounted amidst the sobs, of
those- who felt the blank which the separation had left in

246 BOSSUET.
their hearts ; and, finally, the tranquil and unchangeable
voice of the priest, which rises superior to all these fieeting
honors, vanities, and tears, which advises some to indulge
in grief, others to" Seek consolation, and aU to bow to the
mysterious wiU of Omnipotence and the sovereign power
of death. Such is the scene, at the same time tragic, the
atrical, and holy, which fascinated Bossuet, and made him
resolve never thenceforth to place his foot, during these ha
rangues, except upon a tomb, and only to address his audi
ence when standing on the gulf which divides time from
eternity. This resolution was a proof of talent; for the literary,
historical, pathetic, and religious tone of these discourses
enabled the orator to show himself a great artist without
relinquishing the title of a great apostle. He executed,
with inimitable superiority of language, what he had con-
:.ceived with such consummate sagacity. He lived in an
age in which opportunities of praising, lamenting, and sur
prising were frequently afforded. The times abounded in
great events and iUustrious men : the eloquence of Bossuet,
like the mourners of antiquity, followed them to the portals
of the grave.
The friendship or personal gratitude which he bore to
the memory of these great men gave, in general, a more
pathetic tone to his eulogiums. His heart mounted to his
lips, and they felt that the orator experienced the same
melancholy feelings with which he touched the souls of
others. It was in this manner that he delivered, in 1667,
the funeral sermon of Anne of Austria, the mother of Louis
XrV. This queen, who was at once beautiful, sensible,
politic, tender, and pious, had been alternately the sport of
all the fortunes and calamities of a court. Married to a
husband who was cold, whimsical, and scrupulous, and
who trembled before his minister, Cardinal EicheUeu, she
had been acquainted with nothing of the appurtenances
of queenly dignity beyond the suspicions and humUia-
tions 'with which this haughty viceroy environed her, to

BOSSUET. 247
fortify himself against the ascendency of her youth and
beauty. A 'widow at an early age, and the mother of chUdren
whose tender years removed them far from the throne, the
minority of her sons had proved a long and continued
tempest, from which the manoeuvres of Mazarin had with
difficulty rescued their cradles. Attached from motives of
policy, and perhaps of personal preference, to that agree
able and skillful minister, she had so mixed up her O'wn for
tunes 'with his, that she preferred exUe in his company to
a throne •without him. Factions and the Fronde had tossed
her to and fro, from insult to adoration, and from adora
tion to ingratitude. The king having attained his majority,
and Mazarin being dead, all that remained to her in this
Ufe were grief and resignation. A Ungering and severe
disease had long brought her to the brink of the grave, into
which she had then recently descended. A wife, deprived
of the love of an imbecUe husband — the disowned queen of
a turbulent people — the friend of a minister hated by her
subjects — the mother of a king whose reign she had prepared
by her constancy — Anne of Austria had stiU to encounter
the injustice of posterity in not being permitted, up to this
time, to take that place in history which France is bound
to accord to her among the most accompUshed of her women,
and the greatest of her queens. Bossuet himself did not
even render her the justice or pay her the homage to which
she was entitled ; but he at least remembered that she had
been among the first of his patrons and admirers. He
therefore owed her the earliest tribute of that commanding
voice which she had recommended to the notice of her son.
This sermon was not printed at the time. Tears shed over
her misfortunes, and admiration of her piety, were the only
eloquence in which the preacher indulged. Bossuet, in re
membering virtue, forgot for the moment to be poUtic, but
he was too much and too actively involved in the reign of
the son to do justice to the mother.
On descending from the pulpit, he was made acquainted

248 BOSSUET.
with the illness of his father : he flew to Metz. to receive, his
last farewell. ..^r-.
The father of Bossuet had for some years past resigned
his situation in the Parliament to enter the Church, imder
the auspices of his son. Bossuet, by his influence ¦with the
distributor of ecclesiastical benefices, had procured for his
father a canonry at Metz. He looked upon the gifts of the
Church as a family patrimony, and he did not scruple to
make use of them largely for the benefit of his own-rda^
fives. This arose less fr6m cupidity than from the custom
of the times. The altar, according to his notions, was
bound to bestow honors upon, and largely remunerate the
priest ; he avowed repeatedly in letters to his friends-^let-
ters that we have at this instant under our eye — his strong
conviction of the necessity that the preacher of the sacred
word should Uve in easy circumstances.
"As for me," said he, "my mind would not have free
scope if it were trammeled by the cares of a narrow and
uncertain income. He. ¦who .is called upon t6 thin'k for
others should not be obUged, from personal embarrassments,
to narrow his sphere and mind by dwelUng incessantly upon
the abject necessities of life." Such is the sense, and al
most the Uteral interpretation of his letters, written with
the frankness of a man who feels himself superior to for
tune, but who appreciates her benefits, not as a conditional
enjoyment, but as an inheritance of liberty.
Bossuet himself administered' the. last sacraments to his
father, mingUng tears with his prayers, unitingthe charac
ter of son and priest, and thus guiding to immortaUty the
author of his own existence.
Upon his return to Paris, after this domestic falamity,
he became involved, with passionate zeal, in the violent
controversies of the day between the Protestants and Jan
senists. These new apostles, inspired by Arnau'd," Nicole,
and Pascal, in fighting against a schism, threatened the
Church •with a sect. Men of cenobitic piety,"rigid virtue,
infiexible reason, and resistless eloquence, they carried virtue

BOSSUET. 249
tO;an exaggerated excess : they were the Lacedemonians of
Christianity, and frightened others by their overpowering
sanctity. It was pretended that texts had been found in
the works of the founder, Jansenius, contrary, to orthodoxy,
texts which some affirmed to exist in the writings of the
Dutch doctor, but which his followers totally denied. From
thence arose innumerable quarrels, which were, fomented by
the interference of the government.
Bossuet, to his own misfortune, began from this time to
take part in these scholastic quarrels, and to devote his
genius and character to polemical disputes. At first he in
clined toward the Jansenists, from analogy of disposition
and virtue; but soon the t^wo predominant feelings of his
nature — ^belief in the supreme authority of the Church and
the king^ — rose above all discrepancies of doctrine, and rer
moved him from the men of his heart and .choice, to render
him an extreme partisan of the established authorities.
We shall allude but Uttle to these controversies, in which
his great talent was lost in the nothingness of the disputes :
his eloquence recalled him to the pulpit, his true pedestal.
He reascepded it to lament the 'Queen of England, the
wido^vy of Charles I., who had been exiled to France by the
murder of her husband. " The daughter, wife, sister, and
mother of kings, her life," said Bossuet, " exhibited every
phase of human existence." The king charged him to suf
fer his eloquence to ascend to the grandeur and misfortunes
of her peculiar destiny.
Louis XIV., having treated this proscribed queen ¦with
royal hospitality at St. Germain during her Ufe, could not,
at her death, employ a more worthy instrument in her com
memoration than the voice of Bossuet. This, funeral ser
mon was the first in which he fully developed all the grand
eur of soul, aU the knowledge of character, and aU the rich
variety of. language, with which nature, study, and his pro
fession, had endowed him. It comprised an entire course
of history and poUtics deUvered with the majestic flight of
an eagle.
L2

250 BOSSUET.
Bossuet, in referring back the causes of the regicide of
Charles I, to the schism of Henry VIIL, put forth, upon
the fatal union of priesthood and empire, of Church and
State, truths which he was soon himself to deny in serving
the Church, by the king's sword, and in strengthening the
king, by compelUng the Church to submit to regal authority.
""Wiiat," said he, "is the episcopacy, when it separates
itself from the Church, which is its aU, and from Eome,
which is its centre, to attach itself, contrary to its nature,
to royalty? These two powers, of so different an order,
never agree, but mutually embarrass each other when they
become mixed together, EeUgion is weakened when it is
changed and deprived of a certain weight, which alone is
able to control nations. People feel in the recesses of their
hearts an indescribable uneasiness if this curb is taken from
them ; and there is nothing left by which they can be gov
erned, when they are permitted to be masters of their own
religion. Every thing combines to produce revolt and se
ditious feelings when the supreme authority of the Church
is annihilated." The entire religious and political character of Bossuet is
exhibited in these sentences, of which the first agrees so lit
tle with the last. As a priest, he commences by declaring
with truth, that reUgion has nothing to receive from the
civil power, and that these two dominant principles change
their nature when they combine. As a poUtician, he de
clares, in the second sentehce, that governments can not
allow the people full liberty of conscience without weaken
ing their own temporal authority: he invested these two
contradictions with the same majesty of eloquence. They
could already see the man who would soon ad^vise the king
io rise in respectful but infiexible rebellion against Eome,
and to found a Galilean Church, or rather to establish in
dependence in submission and disruption in unity.
The servant of God disappeared from this time in the
servant of the prince ; and, finaUy, the man of discipline be
came absorbed in the man of power. This worldly view

BOSSUET. 251
of reUgious ascendency, as alone able to command the al- .
legiance of the people — this necessary curb — this attempt
at despotic rule over the consciences in order to secure the
state from revolutions and seditions — are maxims which
savor more of the impiety of Machiavel than of the faith
of Bossuet.
We again find this political fatalism in the portrait of
Cromwell, in whom Bossuet, foUo^wing the example of his
time, could see only a hypocrite. He feared to praise him
too much, from respect to the memory of the queen, his
victim ; and he also restrained his censure,, lest he should
offend the king, who had treated ¦with the dictator. He
plunged into the theocracy which ex^ains, excuses, and
legitimatizes every thing, and exclaimed aloud ¦with the
despotic.enthusiasm of the prophet, "When God has chosen
any one to be the instrument of. his purposes, nothing can
arrest his course. He bUnds, enchains, and subjugates aU
that is capable of offering resistance."
It is from this description of CromweU, this sophistical
argument that Pro-ridence'is the accomplice of -rictory, that
modem theocrats, such as M. de Maistre and his followers,
have derived their immoral admiration for power — an im
piety under the guise of religion, which induces man to
bow before success instead of relying upon justice. These
mistaken interpreters of the decrees of Providence place
the design of God in the event, and not in the moral recti
tude of the act. The danger of a superior mind, such as
that of Bossuet, promulgating a maxim so false to the
world, consists in this, that inferior inteUigences adopt it as
an authority, and the judgment of the million is governed
by a mistaken '|)rinciple. It is thus that theocracy destroys,
in the name of God, his most noble work, the knowledge
of good and evil in the human race.
This discourse, in its pathetic portions, overflowed with
dignity, feeling, and sublime regrets and exhortations. Bos
suet appeared to paint his own portrait in speaking of the
melancholy poet Jeremiah, " who alone," said he, " could

252 BOSSUET.
raise his lamentations to .the height of the calamities he. be-?
wailed." A cry of admiration' rose from the entire cotu<
and Church at the delivery of this sermon. No modem
preacher had hitherto spoken with the tone and authority
of a prophet : they besought .Bossuet to publish such amas-
ter-piece of eloquence. AU Europe was moved, and wept.
Six days later, a young arid fascinating' princess, daugh
ter of her whose- memory had just been commemorated by
Bossuet, and of the unfortunate Charles I., summoned the
orator- to another coffin, that of this' princess- herself Hen
rietta of England had married the Duke of Orleans, the
king's brother, a prince of a mean mind and depraved hab
its, who was incapable of appreciating so much grace and
beauty in the person of his •wife: -he. had aU the vices of
the race of ! Valois. Henrietta died suddenly at St. Cloud,
without proof, but not without suspicion, of poison. The
instruments of the duke's vicious .tastes were accused of
having caused the death of his wife that they might rule
•without a rival over the senses and heart of their master.
The king had felt for Henrietta, of England one of those
warm friendships that relationship alone deterred from be
coming love. This passion, thus curbed, had- softened into
tendemess. The death of the Duchess of Orleans struck
the king to the heart ; she was the sunbeam of the court,
and the light qf the firmament was obscur'ed when this star
disappeared in the darkness of a single night. Bossuet
loved her for her genius and misfortunes; and she admired
Bossuet as the Uving miracle of Europe. She had often
said to him, when half jesting with serious reflections, "If I
die, speak of me to God and men ; I desire no other praise
than your friendship — ^no other apotheosis than your tears."
The king sent to entreat Bossuet to preach .^er funeral
sermon. His heart was as much softened as his voice : it
was the most touching of all iiis discourses ; antiquity has
not left us its equal. "I am about to show you. Chris
tians," said he, " in a single death the decease and anni
hilation of aU human grandeur."

BOSSUET.. 253.
To move the feelings of his auditory, Bossuet had only
to recollect ; he needed not to draw upon his imstgination.
Henrietta, feeling that she was about to die, had repeat
edly asked for him,, that his presence might support her in
her passage from earth to heaven. Bossuet, who was found
rather late at Paris, flew. to her in the middle of the night;
he threw himself on his knees at the foot of the princess's
bed, and wept,, prayed with, and consoled her until day.
He received her last .confession and expiring sigh.
The moment before she died, Henrietta beckoned, one of
her women to her, and addressing her in EngUsh, so as not
to be understood by Bossuet, said, " When I am dead, take
this emerald from my finger and give it to this holy bishop,
as a token of remembrance." This scene of agony, which
was one of terror and pity, to others, furnished to Bossuet
a sweet and tender recollection. He repeated what he had '
already seen ; he again felt what, he had felt before, and
admired what he had previously looked on with admira
tion. His words brought before the listeners the tumult
of a palace awakened by the approach, of death, the sur
prise of the servants, the eagerness of friends, the sobs of
the women, the "astonishment of the unconcerned. The cry
re-echoed from the court to the city, " She is dying / she is
dead!" — a cry, the suddenness of which left no time to
avert the blow, nor room to indulge hope : all felt as if
they were present at this oveiyhelming removal of a wom
an to whom Heaven had only accorded a few minutes to
ripen for eternity. "These brief hours," said Bossuet,
" piously spent amidst the -hardest trials, are of as miich
importance as if they embraced an age. The time was
short, I admit, but. the woj^ of grace was strong, and the
co-operation of the soul was complete. Grace sometimes
chooses' to bring to perfection in a single day that which
itoften.takes a lifetime to accomplish."
" No," resumed he, after several bursts of reflection upon
the advantages of birth, rank", beauty, and charms, and of
such a death — " no, after what we have just seen, we must

254 BOSSUET.
feel that health exists only in name, that life is a dream,
glory a deception, favors and pleasures dangerous amuse
ments, every thing about us vanity. She was as gentle
toward death as she had been to all the world. I beheld
her feeble hand, after having fallen to her side, trying, with
renewed strength, once more to make upon her Ups the sign
of our redemption.
"Behold, notwithstanding this great heart," continued
he, " behold her such as death has made her. There still
remains to us what -will soon fade away, and we shaU see
her deprived even of this sad ornament (he alluded to the
funeral canopy). She is about to descend to sombre places
and subterranean abodes, where she will sleep with the great
ones of the earth, with princes and kings, whose power is at
an end, among whom there is hardly room to be found, so
closely do they lie together, and so prompt is death to fUl
the vacant places. Can we build our hopes on ruins such as

Then,' passing from elegy to Christian reflection, " Gran
deur and glory!" cried he, "can we still pronounce such
names in the presence of triumphant death ? No ; I can no
longer endure these high words by which human arrogance
seeks to blind itself to its own nonentity ! What is birth,
grandeur, mind, when death equalizes aU, governs aU, and
when, •with a prompt and sovereign power, it overturns the
mightiest heads ? "What ! ¦wiU nothing enable us to foresee
that which is so near? Will the worshipers of human
greatness be satisfied with their fortune, when in an instant
they may see their glory pass with their names, their titles
descend to the tomb, their wealth to the ungrateful, and
their dignities perhaps to those who envied them ?"
These thoughts carried him beyond the earth, and made
him look upon all vanities and all griefs with an eye of pity,
compassion, and contempt. He commended that dust to
God which yesterday was moved by pride and vanity, and
called upon them to pray for the soul of the departed, as
the greatest proof of friendship which survivors can show to

BOSSUET. 255
the deceased. At length he concluded, leaving his auditors
in that state of reflection and silence in which we fear to
aUow the sound of our footsteps to echo through the open
sepulchre, or to breathe too loud lest the dead should hear us.
Where else can we fiftd this scene, actor, pulpit, or voice,
in the annals of human genius ? Bossuet had embodied the
cold shudder of death and the eloquence of eternity.
The orator himself felt the impression that his own feel
ings had made upon the feeUngs of others.
The Abbe de Eance, his old feUow-student, whose mind,
like every volatile disposition, was ardent and extreme, had
changed from a voluptuary to an ascetic, and had buried
himself m the living tomb of the Monastery of La Trappe.
There this soUtary, like St. Jerome, fostered his lugubrious
piety by the contemplation of human skuUs, which had been
emptied by the worms of the sepulchre. Bossuet, making
an animated allusion to this furniture of the convert's cell,
wrote thus: "I send you two funeral sermons, which, as
they show the nothingness of the world, may take their
place among the books of an anchorite ; at any rate, they
may be looked upon as two skulls of the dead, equally affect
ing and instructive."
We discover the artist, in this solemn jocularity, judging
himself 'with partial complaisance as a Christian panegyrist.
This insignificance of worldly things was not only with him
a subject of meditation, but a text on which he could dis
play his powers of eloquence ; in fact, he followed with the
same even step his double vocation — of th? saint, who was
pursuing the path to heaven, and of the politician, who was
traveling on the road to power. Louis XIV., who was re
minded of Bossuet by these numerous oratorical triumphs,
appointed him, after this sermon, preceptor to his son. The
Archbishop of Paris, Perefixe, and the ChanceUor LeteUier,
had recommended him- for the office. The Duke de Mon-
tausier, the young prince's governor, a man jealous of fa
vors, but more devoted to piety, seconded the ambition of
Bossuet. The king received him gradously ; for, although

256 BOSSUET.,
he did not Uke genius to be too close to him, lest his royal
greatness should be compared with that natural digiiity
which might readily evince its superiority, he loved to see
talent devoted to his service as a power, which, being sub
ordinate to his own, wfluld extend ahd strengthen sovereign
authority. The court was anxious that this young heir to the throne
should be moulded by the hands of the bishops, that another
reign might thus be, secured to the Church. Louis XIV.
entered into this plan as iriuchfr:Qm conviction as from poU
cy. Brought up in the Italian and Spanish school of piety
by his mother, he disputed no form of faith that left him
free Ucense to foUow his own inclinations. This was the
moment when Madame de Montespan, his idol, rdgned, after
her three sisters, over the heart and court of the king. No
thing has ever, .equ^ed the scandal of these open intrigues,
which audaciously substituted, before the eyes of the nation,
army, and people, and even in the queen's carriage,. concu
bines in the place of the king's 'wife. ^
Louis XIV. wished to be adored even in the indulgence of
his vices. - No. individual has ever done. so much to corrupt
the manners of the people by his example as this monarch,
because no man ever before mixed up Ucentiousness with re
Ugion, and by his royal authority caused the most scandal
ous ^cts to be received as respectable. The favorite sultana,
upon" being consulted, also declared herself for the selection
of Bossuet. Almost a queen, she thought with the impres
sions <rf. a sovereign, and the acquisition of so iUustrious a
partisan fiattered her pride.
Who would dare to breathe a whisper against a court
whose proceedings the most saintly orator of the age author
ized by his presence and silence ? The king, to indemnify
the new preceptor of his son for the loss of the bishopric of
Condom, gave hini' the Abbey of Saint Lucien, near Beau-
vais, a benefice 'with an annual income of twenty thousand
livres, inherited from Cardinal Mancini.
A murmur against this addition of fortune was raised

BOSSUET. 257
even among the. friends of Bossuet. He fdtthat he was
called on to explain it in a letter to the Mareclial de Belle-
fonds, before whorri he thought aloud with rare sincerity. .
" I do not expect," said Bossuet, " any congratulations
upon my woridly prosperity ; and the abbey which the king*
has bestowed upon me reUevesme from embarrassments' and
cares which would soon disagree with the thoughts that I
ought to entertain. Do not fear that I shall increase jny
expenses; those of the. table neither suit my position nor
incUnation. I shaU pay my debts as soon as I can. Bene-
¦fijces are imdoubtedly intended for those who serve .the
Church. As Igng as I have only what is. necessary to keep
up my position, I do not see that I ought to have any scru
ples ; and as for what is needful to maintain this station, it
is difficult exactly to determine, because there are so many
unforeseen expenses. I do not care for riches, butl am not
sufiiciently clever yet io find that I have every thing T re
quire when I have only bare necessaries, and I should Jose
more than half of my intellectual power if I were straitiened
in my domestic affairs. I shall endeavor to make every ac
tion of my life redound to the edification of the Curch. I
know in several things I have been blamed. I love regular
ity ; but there are certain situations in 'which it is far from
desirable to observe it strictly."
Although his life was irreproachable, sober, and exempt
from vulgar cupidity, we see that Bossuet sought in the
world the space, liberty, and grandeur which he felt in his
own soul. Liberalof his personal efforts to serve the Church
and the monarch, he thought that these powers should -bo
liberal to him in return. He did not sell his services, but
he felt their value.
This new office at court, by pladng him at the source of
favor, StiU farther raised his fortune and credit. This did
not cause.' him to, neglect his duties as- the preceptor of a
prince whose age, character, and inaptitude responded so
little to his tutor's sublimity. The labors of Bossuet to
prepare for his pupil well-digested elements of human

258 BOSSUET.
knowledge, though immense, were fruitless. From forty-
five to fifty-five years of age, Bossuet retraced the studies
of his whole life that he might impart them to a child.
He put forth all these lessons in a single treatise called "A
•Discourse on Universal History," just as Fenelon afterward
displayed his imagination and feeling for the benefit of an
other child in another book, entitled " Telemachus." These
two instructors of princes, thus showing what they were
themselves, the one in history, the other in poetry, displayed
the true characteristics of their separate minds. The " Dis
course upon Universal History," notwithstanding the ad
vantage that reality possesses over romance, and the supe
riority of the essayist over the poet, 'will be a less lasting
monument of the education of the dauphin, than " Telema
chus" will continue to be of that of the Duke of Burgundy.
The " Discourse" is only a theory of the brain, while " Tel
emachus" is a picture of nature : theories pass away, but
nature remains immutable.
The well-founded impression of his great genius as an or
ator has, according to our ideas, up to the present time, giv
en too favorable an opinion of the work of Bossuet as to his
pretensions as a historian. History narrates, but does not
refiect. Bossuet always reflects, and never narrates. He
generalizes too much to enter into detail, and looks from
too great a height and distance to paint events otherwise
than collectively and in the mass. He could design histor
ical charts of the world ; but he was unable to 'write that
truthful drama which is called history — a drama in which
nations, men, and circumstances trace their real character,
their souls, and true forms on nature, and imprint in admi
ration, pity, tears, and blood, a Uving reflex on the memory
through the emotions of the heart. Thus, where the feel
ing of the reader is not strongly excited, there will be no
memory, and without memory there can be no history and
no instruction.
The " Discourse on Universal History" is not, therefore,
a recital, but a catalogue Of nations, names of persons, and

BOSSUET. 259
events, grouped undoubtedly 'with an admirable mechanism
of system in some pages, but passing across the mind like
confused shadows, without leaving a more durable impres
sion than that caused by- their multitude, rapidity, and daz
zling brilUancy. In reading it, we may arrive at a confused
general idea of universal history, but we can never attain
profound knowledge, much less a clear and distinct percep
tion. This book resembles Michael Angdo's painting of
"The Last Judgment," on the cupola of the Vatican, in
which there are positions, attitudes, muscles, busts, faces,
and limbs of men, thrown together, by a gigantic pencil, in
a confused mass on the waU. Angels, gods, the devil-pos
sessed, even heU itself, are there, but there is no iUustration
of human nature. The mind experiences a similar sensa
tion on reading the recital which Bossuet has called history.
Every thing is seen, but nothing is distinguished, and stiU
less felt. What, then, can be recoUected? It may be a
geographical map, but it is not the earth. Bossuet is a ge
ographer, he is not a historian. But if this book, hitherto
too highly esteemed, is of no value in teaching history, it is
not inferior to its reputation for the philosophy of its pages.
By philosophy we mean that true moral and ci'viUzing de
duction which ought to emanate from such a sublime and
diversified narrative, to enlighten the intellect and improve
the mind ; as light arose from chaos at the voice of the sov
ereign Creator of all things, or as the catastrophe springs
from the drama to convey a moral to the spectator. This
profound philosophy almost invariably fails in the picture
drawn by Bossuet, as it appears also to be foreign to the
nature of the historian.
"Why is this philosophy so completely wanting in the
"Discourse- upon Universal History?" It is because Bos
suet, in composing it, instead of writing as a man, endeav
ored to render himself the organ of Divinity. This book is
the offspring of a superhuman pride. Universal history is a
mystery ; but Bossuet has attempted to reduce it to a sys
tem. He wished to tear the veil from the countenance and

2C0 BOSSUET..
thoughts of God, which are incomprehensible, to our limited
inteUigence. Instead of this, he should have bowed before;
the Divine incomprehensibility, which becomes the more
subUme as it demonstrates our insignificance ; he should
have retraced with holy respect all the vestiges that time-
has left us; he should have shown on the one hand the era-.
dies, and on the 'other the tombs of nations, the different
races, reUgious institutions, virtues, errors, and crimes of.
mankind, and should thus have said to us, "Behold what'
I know I am, ignorant of all else : these are the beginnings
and boundaries of that horizon from whence I am trying to
collect some steps of humanity on the route of ages ; the^
more distant traces escape beyond my feeble vision : tp dc;
scribe aUj'we must see aU. God alone can accomplish this,'
and he alone knows from whence we come and whither we
go. Blind under his all-seardiing eye, our anterior state of
being is his secret ; our future destination is his mystery.
He has given us a light to guide us in the dark windings of
our path — conscience ! This Ught is brief, but our existence
is also short, and it suffices to Ulumine our few steps in this
world of mud. As for the universal and eternal Ught of
history, which ought to enUghten successive centuries, and
guide mankind where it will and as it 'wiU, he has not or
dained nor given it to us — ^it belongs to himself alone : we
should be bUnded by its effulgence, and any attempt to bor
row it from Him Would be presumption, while to use it
would be impiety. We are but atoms : He alone is infi
nite!" This, according to our ideas^ is the language which Bos
suet ought to have adopted, had he written his " Discourses
upon Universal History" in the character of a man. But,
we repeat 'with grief, he did not compose 'with- the feelings
of a human being : he sought to write under the inspiration
of a prophet. Far from placing himself for the purposes
of examination and recital in the position of the mere insect,
which can only grasp a single point of time, space, and
matter — he has endeavored to ascend to the immeasurable

BOSSUET. 261
height of the Infinite, whose eye embraces and sees every
thing : this pride has obscured his sight. He forgets that
for God, "who is unUmited, the centre is every where, and
the circumference becomes a centre. Instead of causing
stars, worlds, creations, events, and.. things, to circulate.
round the eternal and ineffable axis of the universe — which
is as ever-enduring and unbounded as the Creator himself —
he has made all history revolve round a single people, whose
destinies, great in faith and futurity, are limited in events
that ha've actually taken place, and occupy but a small space
in the record. Bossuet has endeavored to invent a plan for
the Creator, and to: compel, by the force of his own human
will, heaven and earth, empires and kingdoms, the past and
the future, to enter together into his historical frame, ad
mirably executed, but conceived with Uttle philosophy:
heaven, earth, empires, men, 'things, probability, reason,
history, truth, have resisted this coercive impulse of human
pride : - the Deity has remained omnipotent, and Bossuet has
continued a man. This Titanic dream has left only a beau
tiful vestige.
Another ingenious sophism has been added to history, but
the Divine scheme remains hid behind that holy shadow un
der which God conceals his thoughts.
Such is the "Discourse upon Universal History," the
plaything of a powerful imagination, but still a plaything,
which occupied the mature age of a great mind in 'writing,
'with. mortal -fingefs," upon sand, the immutable and eternal
plan of creation;
One point alone is worthy of Bossuet in this catalogue of
nations, bound together by an imaginary thread, and that
exception is the style. Never has the enduring text of the
fickleness of human vanities been expounded with superior
majesty or more expressive regret. No other human hand
has turned with a louder report or more rapid evolution,
that wheel of fortune, which raises or humbles, supports or
abandons, crowns 'with success or overthrows men, races,
empires, and nations. Bossuet is the great interpreter of

262 BOSSUET.
the insignificance of humanity. He appears to delight, like
a chUd upon the edge of a well, in precipitating religious
institutions, dynasties, and all that is usually considered
fixed and immutable, to the bottom of the abyss, that he
may hear the noise of their fall, and cause the echoes of
eternity to ascend from thence to the ears of men.
Bossuet wished to complete this work by dra'wing also
from the Bible, for the instruction of his pupil, a poUtical
theory adapted to the use of kings, which he entitled " Sa
cred Policy." This treatise is Uttle more than a learned ¦
and dogmatical commentary upon Holy Writ, to justify the
absolute authority of princes over the people, in their own
eyes — a theory of the right of force, in which the law of
violence and conquest is- rendered justifijible, provided it be
comes legitimized by the undisturbed possession of what has
been originally acquired by robbery, Bossuet, in this essay;-
allows no other judge to kings than God, interpreted through
the priesthood. His reUgious poUcy is merely theocracy,
without appeal to the conscience, reason, or consent of sub
jects. AU human liberty is there annihilated by the unques
tionable power assigned to earthly monarchs by the King
of kings. Alternately a prophet and a poUtidan, Bossuet, it
is true, professes now and then, in this work, some of the
brotherly doctrines of the Gospel — that code .of justice,
clemency, and freedom, so directly opposed to his own. He
advises kings to convert tyranny into a paternal but abso
lute authority — which bestows aU as a gift, but owes no
thing as a debt, to humanity.
These two books, "Sacred PoUcy" and "Universal His
tory," added to instructions of the same nature, by which
the preceptor of the heir of Louis XTV. accompanied his
texts, were not, as we may readily observe, calculated to
form a king according to the heart of Christ, or even after
¦ the heart of Fdnelon : moreover, every defect in this mode
of education ran contrary to nature. The pupil, tired of
his masters, neglected by his parent, and kept thus zealous
ly within s, waU of etiquette, fears, and formaUties, which

BOSSUET. 263
gave no scope for the play of his natural faculties, remained
the first slave in his father's dominions, without taste for
literature, ambition, or glory, without the desire of mount
ing the throne, or a leading object in life. Banished from
early youth to perfect retirement at Meudon, the dauphin
only cultivated his animal passions, resigned himself to in
feriority, and died young, already tired of having lived too
long. Bossuet, in some of his confidential letters, complained
bitterly of this apathy in his pupil ; but he himself may be
accused of an error in his system of education, for the dau-
.phin was neither defident in intelUgence nor feeUng. A
Fenelon might perhaps have made him a second Marcellus ;
but Bossuet, in bringing up the son, occupied himself much
more with the father: the youth and health of the king
promised the tutor long years of personal influence.
This- power was already confirmed by frequent private
intercourse with the king, and recognized by the clergy who
surrounded him. Bossuet, at Versailles, held more the rank
of a minister than that of a preceptor. His table was well
regulated, and splendid. All were eager to crowd his
apartments, as the source from whence favors fiowed ; and
when he walkei^in the gardens, a select cohort of prelates
and ecclesiastics formed an escort around him, which re
sembled a court. The alley in the small park, in which he
conversed with them while taking exercise, was called the
"Philosophers' Walk." These philosophers, disciples, and
courtiers of the modem Plato (among whom was a second
founder of the Academics), were Fenelon, Pdlison, the Abbe
de Langeroft, the most tender of friends, who died of grief
at the death of his master ; Bruyere, the Moliere of didactic
and epigrammatic character; the Abbe de Longuerue, a
studious orator and writer; Fleury, the historian of the
Church, and many other priests and laymen, who grouped
round Bossuet as their centre, and constituted with him the
charm, the might, the freedom, and the influence of these
deUghtful associations. ""What true pleasure there is in

264 BOSSUET.
the' society of so great a man !" wrote the Abbe de Choisy,
who had abjured the frivolities of youth for the. purer en
joyments of riper age; "what equanimity in his tempera
ment ! what fascination -in his words ! If the superiority
of his genius had "not commanded notoriety, his modesty
and simpUdty of character would have caused him to be
forgotten." These conversations often gUded from holy to profane
subjects, and the verses of Homer, Virgil,' arid Horace
echoed from the lips of Bossuet in the aUeys of Versailles.
Dissertations and commentaries on the Bible, the prophets,
and the sacred poets, were included in the subjects discussed
in these promenades. Bossuet was soon drawn from them
by polemical disputes -with a celebrated Protestant minister
named Claude. He maintained, in argument with Claude,
¦his doctrine of rigorous obedience to authority. "No in
dividual," said he,- " has ever the right of separating him
self from the Church." " But," repUed the Protestant min
ister, " when Jesus Christ appeared at Jerusalem, the syna
gogue was the Church, and the synagogue did not recognize
the truth in Christ. If one person, therefore, separating
himself from the synagogue, had then declared that Jesus
was the Messiah, would he not have pj^ced himself in
opposition to the Church?" Bossuet demolished the argu
ment by declaring that " from the moment when Jesus ap
peared, he himself alone became the synagogue and the
Church!!' ; These conferences, in which each arrogated to himself the
victory, were useless encounters of argumentative abUity.
The king's authority assigned the triumph beforehand to
his pontiff, ; and power established principle. They were
subsequently published by Bossuet.
It was not long before the vicissitudes of the king's at
tachments called Bossuet- to more delicate mediations be
tween the ardor, coldness, reUgious repentance, and returns
of passion in the hearts of the prince and the two jealous
favorites. The king, after having long adored Mademoi-

BOSSUET. 265
selle de la VaUiere, the most interesting victim of his fasci
nation, began to devote himself ^o Madame de Montespan,
the most imperious of all his mistresses. MademoiseUe de
la VaUiere, alternately hoping and despairing to recover the
heart of Louis XIV., fluctuated between the court and the
cloister : the king retained her more from pride than ten
derness. He felt humiliated at the scandal which the flight
of his favorite to a convent might attach to his inconstancy ;
he refused to grant his permission to MademoiseUe de la
VaUiere, still young and beautiftil, to bury herself in a liv
ing tomb ; he felt that the indignation of the world would
be loudly expressed at this cruel sacrifice. On the other
hand, he was too much enamored of Madame de Montespan
to sacrifice her to a propriety or a scruple. These domestic
mysteries, which the modesty of history scarcely ventures
to investigate and lay open in the present day, formed at
that time the common topic of conversation in the court.
Changes in the king's tastes were revolutions in the State.
Louis XTV., as we have seen in the life of Fenelon, felt
nothing of the personal shame of vice : there was so great a
distance between the monarch and his subjects, that the
morality and reUgion of the people scarcely dared to utter
complaints at the feet of the king ; they respected every
thing connected with him, even to his intrigues, which in
their estimation formed a portion of the right divine. The
people lamented and complained, but did not presume to pro
nounce a judgment. The strictest ministers of the Church
lived in this atmosphere of criminal indulgence : they drew
a veil over their eyes that they might not behold such glar
ing violations of the sanctity of their order. The king em
ployed them, sometimes to discuss, and more frequently to
extenuate, his transgressions. To Bossuet was assigned the
task of reUeving him of MademoiseUe de la VaUiere, who
began to be troublesome, and to force this forsaken mis
tress, with the energy of his infiexible piety, into a convent ;
thus, without being aware of it, leaving the king to the as
cendant infiuence of another goddess, Madame de Monte-
M

266 BOSSUET.
span, unimpeded-by a dangerous rival. He thus gained the
gratitude of all three : the king owed him his liberty, Ma
dame de Montespan her undisputed sway, and to Made
moiselle de la VaUiere he had opened the road to heaven.
The details of this negotiation, in which the apostle, con
trary to his own desire, proved himself the most consummate
of courtiers, are too long to be inserted here. The bishop
himself settled with Madame de Montespan the conditions
of her rival's retirement. But the new favorite refused to
consent to the rigorous incarceration of her predecessor ;
she considered the example dangerous for herself, in case
her own turn should subsequently arrive.
" Mademoiselle de la ValUere," wrote Bossuet, " has com
pelled me to arrange her future position with Madame de
Montespan. Her retirement is little thought of, but some
objection has been raised to the place. The Convent of the
Carmelites sounds terrible, and the extreme choice has even
been made a subject .of ridicule. The king is well aware
that I have been spoken to on the subject, but as he has
said nothing, I have held my peace. My advice to Made
moiselle de la VaUiere is to complete the sacrifice speedily."
He then ^^ulogizes, in the following exclamations, the
courage of the victim : " Her strength and tranquillity,"
thus he wrote to the pious Marechal de Bellefonds, "in
crease in proportion as the moment draws near. I can not
think of it without beholding the wonderful workings of
grace ! I trace the finger of Heaven in the composure and
humility which pervade all her thoughts, and with which I
am equally delighted and astonished. I speak, but she acts;
I have exhortations to produce, but she has works ! When I
think of these, I feel incUned to hide myself and be silent.
Miserable channel, through which heavenly waters flow,
while it scarcely retains a few drops !"
He then set the seal upon the tomb of Mademoiselle de
la ValUere, by an admirable homily, a funeral sermon upon
a living beauty.
This discourse of Bossuet was a scene rather than a

BOSSUET. 267
simple oration, and so thoroughly dramatic, that Madame
de Sevigne, in the light gossiping style of the time, wrote
that mere words could not sufficiently characterize it. The
listeners thought more of the palpitations of the victim's
heart than of the studied periods of the preacher i_ for no
language can so deeply touch the soul, or resound so loudly,
as the sobs of unrestrained affliction. This beautiful being,
still in the flower of her age, torn and consumed in the
spring-time of life by that fire which she had herself created,
and which she could not extinguish in her own bosom, tar
nished by enjo3Tnent won at the sacrifice of moral principle,
which degraded while it raised her — ^betrayed by the incon
stancy of her lover, and thro'wn by his ingratitude into a
tomb with a stUl fervent heart — covered by the queen her
self, whom she had injured, with the mortuary veil which
enveloped her with shame and pardon in the presence of
that court, yesterday the witnesses of her triumph, and to
day the spectators of her interment ;' and, finally, Bossuet
in the pulpit, to give the weight of oratory to all the-
wounds and silent sufferings of her heart. What more
could Madame de Sevigne desire? Did she not feel that
eloquence must be suspended and paralyzed on the Ups,
when the faculties of feeling and expression^ so thoroughly
absorb the hearts of an auditory? Nothwithstanding which,
the eloquence of Bossuet was not even then arrested.
"The silence," said he, with a visible effort, that seemed
to tear the words from his soul, " which has lasted for many
years, must be broken, and a voice, which the pulpit no
longer recognizes, must be heard. What have we beheld,
and what do we now behold? What a change between
that which has been and that which is ! I need not speak,
facts declare themselves," and he pointed to the kneeling
female, clothed in a shroud, Uke a corpse. Then, as if in
terrupting his own train of thought, he turned toward the
queen, and said, "Msfflam, look there! behold an object
worthy the eyes of so pious and gracious a sovereign !"
Then resuming his'^bject, he called the attention of his

268 BOSbUET.
deeply-affected listeners from the scene before them, and
transferred it to those exalted considerations which embody
the morality of human tears. " Eeligious sentiments," said
he, " are the last to be effaced from the heart of man ; no
thing is more commonly excited, and, at the same time, no
thing is so seldom changed. Is this a prodigy or an enig
ma in human nature? or is it not rather, if I may so speak,
a remnant of what man once was, a vestige of his origin, a
ruined edifice, which, even in its destroyed and crumbling
waUs, retains some of the beauty and grandeur of its first
form? Man has been overthrown by his own depraved
wiU, the roof has fallen upon the walls, and the walls upon
the foundations ; but when the ruins are removed, they find
in the remains of the upturned edifice the plan of the orig
inal design, and the hand of the architect. The impress
of Divinity is so strong that man can not lose it entirely,
whUe at the same time it is so feeble that he can not fol
low it: it appears to be permitted to remain, only to con-
'vdnce him of his fall, and to render him sensible of the pun
ishment !"
What more majestic or more pathetic philosophy could
be deduced from such a scene, thus commented upon by a
lofty ecclesiastic; and what emotion could surpass his ad
dress to the guilty penitent, already half buried before his
eyes: "And you, victim of remorse, descend — go to the
altar; finish your sacrifice. The fire is lighted, the incense
is ready, the sword is dra'wn ! the sword is the vow which
you are about to pronounce — the vow which separates your
soul from this world, and unites it indissolubly and exclu
sively to God !"
"What superhuman efforts were expected of Bossuet, if
words such as these did not reach the measure of pubUc
expectation !
MademoiseUe de la VaUiere entered her li-ring sepulchre
as he spoke, and passed there nearly forty years in a melan
choly period of transition between two deaths.
But Bossuet had not accomplished his work by placin"

BOSSUET. 269
the first favorite on the road to heaven by means of the
second. He -wished, in addition, to purify the court, and
to tear Madame de Montespan also from the king's em
braces. Louis XTV. struggled between the passion which he had
long felt for this woman and the scruples of conscience ex-
dted by Bossuet, and made, or feigned to make, efforts
which ended in throwing him back more firmly than ever
under the yoke of his idoL
Already several children, raised to the rank of legiti
mate princes, attested the constancy, and almost the inso
lence, of this passion. The queen was dead, but Madame
de Montespan' s husband stiU lived. No union, not even a
secret one, could paUiate the crime. The king tried sev
eral times to excuse the residence of his mistress at Ver
sailles by affirming that love, repressed or extinguished, re;
moved aU impropriety from his plataiic attachment, to her.
Sometimes, on reUgious anniversaries, he sent her away for
a few days, that her presence in the palace might not pro
voke the clergy to interdict him from participating in the
sacraments. On another side, a woman, whose character has remained
an enigma, so much self-interest is mingled -with her virtue,
and such true piety -with her ambition, Madame de Main
tenon, insinuated herself, by the most feminine art, into the
presence, mind, and habits of the king. This exceedingly
clever woman bore stiU, in her name of the -widow of Scar
ron, and friend of the courtesan Ninon, the stigma of her
obscurity and recent narrow circumstances. Madame de
Montespan, unsuspecting the ambitious views of her pro
tegee, but charmed by her -wit and touched by. her misfor
tunes/ had placed her close to her own person and that of
the king by intrusting to her the care of her children.
From the situation of confidante, Madame Scarron became
a rival; her matured beauty, calm sense, retiring graces,
and apparently involuntary attractions ; her placarded pi
ety, although indulgent to the weaknesses of her master

270 BOSSUET.
and protectress ; and, lastly, that unaccountable caprice of
passion which seizes men in the satiety of gratified attach
ment, and which makes them perceive unexpected charms
in the discovery of beauty hitherto unacknowledged by
themselves and others : all this began to create vague in-
cUnations in the heart of the king toward this female,
whose position placed her so far below the throne. Ma
dame de Maintenon appeared to him like a delicious repose
of the heart after the tumult of excited passions. Her very
reserve and severity were acceptable to him ; he loved to be
respectfully reprimanded by her upon the irregular emo
tions of his soul. She caUed religion to her aid in urging
him, unknown to Madame de Montespan, to break off for
ever this connection, criminal in the eyes of God, although
of daily recurrence in the ways of men. She gained ground
upon his feeUng through his conscience. Eetained at court
by the charge of the king's children, during the compulsory
absences of the mother, the governess possessed the royal ear
at all hours. She was well acquainted with the vexatious
bitternesses which accompanied the stormy intercourse of
the king and Madame de Montespan, and she united with
the clergy in urging the monarch to take refuge in devo
tion ; he would thus be delivered up to her -without a rival.
She knew the influence that Bossuet possessed over the con
science of Louis XrV., through the part he had taken in
the seclusion of MademoiseUe de la ValUere. She disliked
his superior genius, of which, by instinct, she dreaded the
haughty severity and imperious control. She was too
acute a poUtician to admit a second Cardinal EicheUeu for
a single day between her and the king. She secretly and
indirectly opposed the presentation of a man to the Pope
who was so worthy of the cardinal's robe ; but for the ac
complishment of the scheme she had woven, to separate
Madame de Montespan from the king, she united herself
to Bossuet. She wrote at this time to a confidential cor
respondent : " Bossuet has not a genius for poUtics ; he ia
ever destined to be the dupe of the court."

BOSSUET. 271
This judgment was erroneous, as are aU interested opin
ions. The genius of Bossuet was supremely, political, but
his character was not that of an intriguer. Intrigue is the
policy of weakness. Madame de Maintenon herself fell into
that error, but posterity is not to be deceived. At any rate,
Bossuet, the dupe of his own virtue, and of the interested
motives of a woman who was ambitious but not hypocrit-
' ical, took the same part in the banishment of Madame de
Montespan for the benefit of Madame de Maintenon, which
he had already played in the removal of MademoiseUe de
la ValUere for the advantage of Madame de Montespan.
He spoke, wrote, and acted as an apostle ; he did not fear
to offend the king by pointing out the infiexible rules of
the Church ; he caused the sacramental rights to be refused
to Madame de Montespan, and obtained a pledge from the
king that he would never allow her to return to Versailles.
A look, a word, a tender reproach from Madame de
Montespan, often triumphed over the minister of religion ;
love tore the royal promises to atoms. Madame de Mon
tespan regained her empire. Bossuet saw her by the king's
order ; he endeavored to move her conscience, but he only
succeeded in obtaining outward respect and secret hate.
Madame de Montespan sought every where for some weak
point in the character of the bishop, that she might under
value his rigid virtue in the king's estimation, but she could
find none. His life was irreproachable, his piety had no
fault but excess. Bossuet felt humiliated by his failure
with the haughty favorite, but he drew consolation from
universal respect.
Meanwhile nature, tiriie, satiety, the storms of passion,
and, above aU, the slow, assiduous, underhand working of
Madame de Maintenon, who every hour kept watch over
the king's heart and the transient revivals of his affection ;
all these cabined agencies effected what religion alone
was unable to accomplish. Madame de Montespan was
finally subdued, and driven away by one who owed every
thing to her, even the opportunity of achieving the con-

272 BOSSUET.
quest. It seemed outwardly as if her place in the king's
heart had been only occupied by reUgion ; but she herself was
not deceived — she felt that she was supplanted by a new
favorite. Madame de Montespan died of grief and mortifi
cation. The silent passion of the king for Madame de Main
tenon increased more and more every day. By opposing it
with inflexible -virtue, she raised this love to deUrium.
The -widow of Scarron became the wife of Louis XIV.
Address and piety united placed her almost on the throne ;
her superior intellect retained her there, where she ruled for
nearly half a century. Her reign was the sovereignty of
the priesthood, through the agency of a woman : the Sequel
is weU known. It was necessary to enter into these detaUs
to render clearly intelligible the part taken by Bossuet in
the court intrigues, which brought on and foUowed the do
minion of a favorite chosen by the eyes, but elevated to the
rank of a queen through scruples of conscience.
After the education of the dauphin, whose death did not
much distress his father, the king wished to recompense
Bossuet for his labor, and perhaps for his unsuccessful en
deavors in preparing an heir to the throne. Louis XTV.
desired nothing beyond mediocrity in those who came near
est to himself, not even in the persons of his sons. The
young prince had asked for the bishopric of Beauvais,
which had recently become vacant, for his preceptor ; Louis
refiised it, because this bishopric would confer upon its pos
sessor the title and rank of duke and peer, which his pride
could not bear to behold associated with a plebeian name.
Genius, in his eyes, might lead men to greatness, but could
never render them noble. This want of exalted birth in
Bossuet was the invincible obstacle to his elevation to the
most valuable dioceses and highest honors of his profession.
His family, though distinguished in the magist»acy, had not
the eclat of the hereditary races of soldiers and courtiers :
his was the rank from which the king selected his minis
ters, but not his peers.

BOSSUET. 273
The archbishopric of Paris, to which he had always se
cretly aspired as the French patriarchal throne, and for
which nature seemed to have destined him, was bestowed
on M. de Harlay, a prelate of a servile mind and of doubt
ful life, who had no other title than his name.
To Bossuet was given the inferior bishopric of Meaux,
upon which he reflected the rays of his own glory. He had
a mind too ambitious not to feel his iU-treatment, and the
preference which the court showed for their o-wn class ; but,
at the same time, he possessed sufficient grandeur of soul
and soUdity of faith, to trample such weakness under foot :
he therefore devoted himself to his church at Meaux as to
a duty assigned by Heaven.
Before taking possession of his episcopal palace, he went
to prepare and strengthen himself -with his friend the Abbe
de Eance, at the monastery of La Trappe — in that abode
of self-denial and humUiation, The examples which he
there beheld of voluntary mortification, hardened him to
the disappointments of the world. The Abbe de Eance
spoke to him as if from beyond the grave; all worldly
thoughts and prospects faded from their view while en
gaged in these conversations. Bossuet, during the time of
that visit, and often afterward in the same soUtude, subject
ed himself to all the macerations, interruptions of rest,
abandonment of the avocations of Ufe, or rather to the en
durance of lingering death, which the rigid observances of
these cenobites imposed. We can not doubt the sincerity
of the piety which laid aside the habitual indulgences of
the court and the splendors of the episcopacy, to cover him
self with ashes and hairdoth.
From this moment, he passed his time between his palace
of Meaux, his country seat at Germigny, and the royal pal
ace at VersaUles. He was a pontiff at Meaux, a phUoso-
pher at Germigny, and a poUtician at court.
We arrive now at that period of his life when his char
acters of philosopher and pontiff began to be more exclu
sively absorbed in that of politician. We shall not judge
M2

274 BOSSUET
of his conduct in the great quarrel which he maintained for
the emancipation of the royal power, either in a Gallican
or Eoman Catholic point of view, but merely as a question
of 'histpry. A stranger to these disputes of the Church with herself
we can easily judge with impartiality, -as we stand neuter
between the two parties. Let us recapitulate in a few words
this important struggle, which made Bossuet appear to some
as the emancipator of the royal authority from the power
of the Pope ; to others, as a tribune of the Church, and al
most a schismatical patriarch of the French clergy.
Like aU great quarrels, which grow more bitter the lon
ger they last, this commenced with a trifie, and ended by di
viding and shaking to the very foundations the b"asis/of the
Established Church in Eome and prance. A legal dispute
had been raised between Pope Jnnocent XI. and the king's
govemment on a question of finance. Gold is invariably
mixed up with every human transaction ; reUgions com
mence by a discussion of opinions, and end by a clash of
interests: creeds are compromised in a budget of supply.
The point under argument was whether the king had a
right, in the interior of his States, to claim for the public
treasury the revenues of the bishoprics in his kingdom, or
those of the abbeys and benefices which might faU vacant
by death. The Church said, " This is ecclesiastical prop
erty belonging to the Church, to which it is granted by leg
acies or pious bequests ; of this the Church alone can dis
pose, and on no pretext can it be diverted from its sacred
destination." The king said, "It forms part of my domin
ions, the use of which undoubtedly belongs to the Church ;
but the ground is mine, and I alone have the right to dis
pose of it when the Church and I do not agree in naming
the same incumbent."
This quarrel, already one of long standing, had been ad
judicated many centuries before by the Council of Lyons
under Pope Gregory X. The germ of discord had been
stified by giving satisfaction to both parties, according to

BOSSUET. 275
the places under discussion and the established custom, by
declaring that the Pope should have possession of those
provinces which he had been in the habit of enjoying, while
the king, should retain those in which the Pope had not
habitually exercised his right.
This contest, revived during several years by the court
of Eome, had obliged Louis XIV. to convoke an extraordi
nary assembly of the French clergy in 1682, to settle the
dispute even by authority of the bishops themselves. It
was a very extreme measure, and an act of fearful temerity
in a monarch who was so much attached to the Church, to
order the convocation of a national and jealous assembly,
armed with authority and language, in the face of the Eo
man pontificate and the CathoUc clergy of the whole uni
verse, to discuss the limits of a temporal and a spiritual
power, which had been for so long a time so indistinctly
but intimately confounded. The entire Church might then
divide itself into great factions, of which some components
would remain in the hands of the popes, others in those .of
the kings. The very faith of the people, attacked hf their
own pastor, might become weakened in the course of these
debates. We can hardly understand at the present time
how Louis XrV. ventured to draw these questions from the
mysterious depths of the diplomacy which had discussed,
postponed, or unraveled them secretly in the chanceries of
Home, to revive them in open display, and, as we may say,
under the full tide of public excitement, in an assembly
where the most minute proceedings are loudly promulgated.
Confident in his clergy, whose feelings of independence,
whether national or episcopal, identified themselves -with
his cause, he ventured on this bold measure, and approached
as near, by this unprecedented audacity, to schism as it is
possible to approach with so prudent a court as that of
Eome, which could not precipitate him into the gulf he had
prepared without injury to itself.
He preceded this convocation by a peremptory announce
ment which claimed for himself alone the royal right over

276 BOSSUET.
the li-vings of France, and the exclusive privilege of nomin
ating all bishops and pastors throughout the entire king
dom. In this prodamation he also exacted an oath of per
sonal fidelity from aU his "bishops: this oath, unanimously
taken, guaranteed him the unanimous votes of the whole as
sembly. The Pope repUed by threats, which, although they
did not yet actually take the form of excommunication,
caused the report of that thunder of the Vatican to be
heard approaching from the distance.
" We shaU no longer deal -with this affair by letters," ex
claimed the Pope; "but we shaU not neglect the more con
vincing arms placed in our bands by that Divine Power
¦with which we are invested. Neither dangers nor tempests
can shake us. We do not hold our o-wn Ufe dearer than
our salvation, and that of yourself and your fiocks."
The bishops repUed to these menaces of Eome in a gen
eral letter to the .king, in which they took his part against
the sovereign pontiff in language which stiU acknowledged
faith, whUe it stepped beyond the bounds of respect. The
Pope, being thus defied, excommunicated several dioceses.
The clergy assembled in a body at Paris. Bossuet was
chosen by the king as the exponent of his thoughts before
these representatives of the national Church, and the cham
pion of his rights against the encroachments of Eome. On
this occasion the orator, more in the character of a poUtician
than a bishop, opened the sittings by a speech such as an
embassador would deUver in presence of a congress. He
began by naming the GalUcan Church — a word which, to
him alone, signified at least a threat of destruction in the
unity hitherto universally acknowledged. He pronounced
a eulogium upon this Church, thus nationalized by the ap
peUation, which flattered the pride of its members. Then,
having sho-wn the reciprocal dangers of a rupture -with
Eome, he finished by an invocation to unity, and by a
hymn of allegiance to the Church of Eome, which iU
agreed -with the spirit of contention of which he was at
that moment the organ, and with the revolt of the royal

BOSSUET. 277
power which he had just signified to the sovereign pon
tiff. We are weU acquainted 'with this dithyrambic on Catho
Uc unity :
" Oh, Church of Bome ! mother' of all churches and of
all believers. Church chosen by God to unite her children
in one faith and one charity, we cUng to thy unity with
every fibre of our hearts! If I forget thee, holy Church
of Eome, may I forget myself! May my tongue become
dry, and remain immovable in my mouth, if thou art not
always my first and hoUest consideration, and if I do not
ever place thee at the commencement of my songs of re
joicing!" , ;.,^
Such was, from the first day of this assembly to the last)
the contradictory language of Bossuet — ^language which cut
with a double edge, like that of a man who wished to "im
ply that he was stiU an apostle after he had become en
tirely a politician : it seemed as if he wished to deafen the
CathoUc world by his declamations upon unity, and as if,
at the same time, he sought to stifle, by the noise of his
hymns on the Eomish orthodoxy, the report of those blows
which he dealt against Eome and against the sovereign au
thority of the Pope.
The members of the assembly, -without exception, decided
upon the king's side. The sovereign pontiff reproached
them for their defection in a voice in which complaint was
mingled vrith objurgation. " Which of you," said he to the
bishops, " has dared to speak before the king in so holy a
cause ? Who among you has descended into the arena and
opposed himself as a wall for Israel ? "Who has had the
courage to do this? "Who has even uttered a word that
savors of ancient Uberty ? "Why have you not even deigned
to speak for the honor and interest of Christ? We sJiall
annul all thai you have done /"
Bossuet repUed tartly, and almost seditiously, in the name
of the assembly, in a letter to the bishops of France. Words
rose agmnst words, and hearts against hearts, untU finally

278 BOSSUET.
it. came to action. Bossuet proposed to draw up a series
of propositions, accepted and signed by the members of the
assembly, to serve for the future as an immutable code of
maxims and independent opinions of aXJallican Church, a
Church conformable to that of Eome in faith, but opposed
to it in its interior regulations; thus establishing an ir
revocable formula of what she wished to*^ believe and what
she wished to deny. It has been generaUy believed that
Bossuet was the author of these propositions, but he was
only the transcriber. The government stood behind the
bishop,* and slipped these maxims into his hand. The
politics of the council prompted the orator of the proposed
Church. Bossuet was nothing more than the instrument
of Colbert.
One day, in one of those conversations of old age, in
which confidence escapes from the hearts of men as life ebbs
away, "I demanded of Bossuet," says the depositary of his
most intimate thoughtSj the Abbe Ledieu, " who it was that
had suggested to him the plan of the propositions of the
clergy with regard to the power of the Church. He told
me that M. Colbert, then riiinisterial secretary of State, was
the true author, and thatlt was he alone who had persuaded
the king." M. Colbert, added Bossuet, pretended that it
was the right opportunity to remodel the French doctrine
as regarded the power and interference of the sovereign
pontiff; that in a time of peace and concord it could not be
attempted, and that it was necessary to take advantage of
open war. The Chancellor LetelUer rejected this idea of
Colbert, as did the Archbishop of Eheims, son of the Chan
cellor and a friend of Bossuet : they dreaded the conse
quences. The king took part with Colbert, and Bossuet
coincided with the king.
Louis XrV., in his eyes, was invested •with the divine
and supernatural power of the throne. He drew up the
propositions in such diplomatic and circumspect terms that
they took from the form aU the hidden energy of the text.
He preceded the four propositions by a preamble which re-

BOSSUET. . 279
doubled his genuflections before the unity of the Eomish
Church, at the very moment when he was about to strike it
with a mortal blow. Then followed the propositions them
selves. The first proclaimed the independence, already universally
allowed, of the temporal power of kings and princes, and
of the spiritual jurisdiction of the popes.
The second contained only the confirmation of this tem
poral independence by the GalUcan Church. '
The third recommended the clergy to respect the limits
of this mutual independence.
The fourth, which alone in its spirit infringed upon the
spiritual power of the sovereign pontiff, declared that, " al
though the Pope had the principal voice in matters of faith,
his'decrees were nevertheless not irrevocable, at least if they
were not confirmed by the consent of the Church."
We see that the last line of the last maxim contained in
itself the entire revolution, couched in a few words : the au
thority of the pontifical government, even in matters of
faith, was no longer acknowledged by the Gallican Church,
unless this authority was confirmed by the consent of the
Church. Now where was this Church? was it at Eome?
was it at Paris? It could only exist in the united coun
cils of the Pope : the Pope convoked no councils ; the
Church then held no 'risible part in his authority or govern
ment. It was anarchy, under the name of the Gallican Church
to-day, the Spanish Church to-morrow, and the Italian or
German Church on the day after: unity vrithout doubt
existed, but only in theory: differences existed in fact.
Faith and discipline floated at the mercy of national exi
gencies or opinions, until arrested by the purely metaphysi
cal solution of a future council. In two words, unity was
the principle, division the consequence. The universal
Church lost itself in these different interpretations of gov
ernment and discipline, with the chance of being again
found at the expiration of centuries.

280 BOSSUET.
The dvil constitution of the French clergy in 1791, which
dedared the "Assemblee Constituante" to be schismatic,
did not go the length of Bossuet in the doctrine of the in
dependence of churches.
The "Assemblee Constituante" confined itself to claiming
for the nation that which belonged to the nation — admin
istration, property, and discipline ; in fact, all that related
to temporal possessions. Bossuet went so far as to claim
independence in matters of fe,ith: the schism was deeper,
though it was not expressly fulminated against by Eome.
The circumspection of Louis XIV. in the appUcation of
the new code, and the patience of the Pope in the impend
ing punishment, deadened the blows that these two temporal
and spiritual powers endeavored to infiict on each other by
the hand of Innocent XI. and that of the Bishop of Meaux.
Both were prompt to threaten, but neither desired to come
to open rupture. The Church stood in need of Louis to
check the advances of Protestantism by the sword of the
King of France ; Louis wanted the court of Eome, that il
might authorize, in the name of Heaven, the compulsion,
war, and proscriptions, that he meditated in his states in
order to bring them, by unity of faith, to undirided sub
mission to his royal wiU,' After mutual menaces, they be
gan to negotiate. There were perpetual dissensions, 'with
out absolute schism ; but though the schism was not openly
declared in words, it did not the less exist in thought.
This holy and siibUme factionary, Bossuet, who had been
proclaimed the father of the Church at Paris, was caUed at
Eome the father of error and revolt. He is stiU so con
sidered in the eyes of the true monarchical CathoUcs of the
Vatican. The severer advocates of orthodoxy, Bellarmine
and De Maistre, deal heavily 'with his memory; the "As
semblee Constituante" invokes it ;. every where except in
France he is denominated the great agitator of the Church ;
and whenever a prince desires to negotiate with Bome
through violence, or that an assembly of the people wishes
to throw off the yoke of its spiritual govemment, the name

BOSSUET. 281
of Bossuet is ever found at the bottom of these reUgious
seditions, disturbances, and discussions.
"What is there just, and what unjust, in the glorification
on the part of some, and in the secret maledictions of others,
toward this great man? According to our conviction, all
have reason : love and hatred to his memory may both find
room in the estimation of true Christians,
He retrenched with a bold hand~and a powerful stroke
of religious policy, the theocratical pretensions which in the
Dark Ages made the temporal power of the people subordi
nate to the spiritual domination of the Popes : he rendered
unto Caesar the things that were Caesar's, and for this he
deserves well both of conscience and government. But,
speaking in a Christian sense, did he render unto God the
things that were God's? or, rather, did he respect as the
head, centre, and unity of the spiritual authority of the
Church, that dogmatical, indefectible, unceasing, and uni
versal authority which constitutes the foundation of Chiis-
tian govemment ? No ; he infficted on it, respectfully but
fearlessly, the severest blow that this unity has received
since the great heresiarchs. He caused the French clergy
to sign, at the dictation of the king, a maxim which trans
ferred authority in matters of faith from the head to the
members. He federalized the CathoUc monarchy ; and he
substituted in the place of a visible, sovereign, overruling
arbiter of the faith at Bome, an ideal, invisible, mute, and
expectant Church, to which every national and subordinate
Church might appeal if she 'wished to refuse obedience to
the apparent headi — an expectant Church, which could never
assemble, speak, or act, 'without the incipient and concur
rent influence of the Pope, against whom it was convoked
in idea, without being assembled in fact ; and during the
absence of which convocation, every separate state could
regulate at pleasure its own distinct faith, which Bossuet
vainly denominated one. It was, in fact, a summons to a
future councU, the real Greek kalends of Christianity ; and
during the interval of this indefinite appeal, faith and gov-

282 BOSSUET.
ernment devolved in the name of unity On each national
Church. Such, in conclusive analysis, was the work of
Bossuet at the assembly of 1682 — a high-priest against
kings and people as regarded liberty of conscience, and a
grand tribune on their side against the spiritual power of
the sovereign pontiffs : such was the double part he played
during and after this assembly, proving himself entirely a
poUtician, while he ceased for the time to be an apostle.
Bossuet had rashly raised this never-ending question, Is
the Catholic Church a monarchy, or is it a repubUc ? If a
repubUc, it is no longer one, but many, and engaged in per
petual deUberation. It forms and reforms its system inces
santly, according to the majority of votes. This becomes
a government of numbers, and in this case there is no occa
sion for a head at Eome — the head is every where.
If, on the other hand, it is a monarchy, it must have a
head, and this head can only be one : it must neither be ab
sent, mute, adjourned, nor carried from place to place, as
Bossuet in his last maxim declares.
In either case, Bossuet, as a Christian, a Catholic, and,
-above all, as a bishop holding his authority from Bome,
was standing on the slippery brink of many errors.
But the Catholic Church, according to us, is neither a
monarchy nor a repubUc ; it is a theocracy, or rather a gov
ernment derived from God, which means the inspiration of
the Holy Spirit bestowed by him on his Church. To whom
does this inspired spirit speak, according to the CathoUc
theory? To the General Councils. But where are these
CouncUs? Nowhere, until the supreme pontiff, the execu
tive vicar of the Divine Legislator, convokes them. To
whom then did Bossuet propose to assign the interpretation
of faith and the government of the Church ? • To future
times — to the councils which were expected to assemble,
and in the interval to anarchy. Every ambitious, daring,
and eloquent bishop, upheld by the prince or by the people,
might render himself in his own nation, during this inter
regnum of the councils, more a pope than the Pope, and

BOSSUET. 283
more a church than the Church. It was the institution of
a patriarch in every Christian state. The patriarch of
France was already designated in the person of Bossuet, by
genius, piety, and the favor of the sovereign.
Bossuet, in fact, came forth from this assepbly not with
the title, but with the position and authority, of a patriarch
of the Gallican Church ; it owed its name to him, and de
creed to him the supremacy. The gratefid king sanctioned
by his deference the magisterial ascendency over opinions
and consciences which Bossuet had assumed. The Bishop
of Meaux became the oracle of aU ecclesiastical matters.
The custody and care of consciences — the most important
of all ministries — at the close of a religious war and on the
eve of reUgious proscriptions, then devolved, by universal
admission, upon Bossuet.
We shall now see him play a very different part to that
which he had just taken against the Church of Eome. The
upholder of independence in kings was about to declare
himself opposed to independence of conscience in the people:
this comprises the dark stain on his life. For the honor of
humanity and Christian piety, we wish we could bury it in
oblivion ; but history is the judge of eminent men, and to
that tribunal they must bow, however holy they may be —
the conscience of the human race is hoUer stiU. Bossuet be
gan by resuming his humble profession of catechist, preach
er, and commentator upon sacred subjects. He •wrote " A
treatise on the Communion," and "Aspirations on the Mys
teries." In these tracts, his mind embraced the different
points of faith, interpreted and colored them according to
the bias of his own powerful imagination. The poet is
again -revealed under the guise of the theologian. We per
ceive Pindar standing upon the Christian Calvary.
" Let us not blush for our opinions" — thus he expresses
himself to more timid preachers, who began by passing over
in silence the mysteries of faith, that they might confine
themselves to immutable moraUty — "silence upon points
of faith would be positive cowardice."

284 BOSSUET.
He summoned Fenelon, his young and dear disciple, to
preach in his church at Meaux, and in the country districts
of his diocese. Fenelon was at that period the child after
his own heart. Bossuet, in the eyes of this gentle and pi
ous spirit, possessed aU the charms and authority of a fa
ther. This Homeric and Platonic attachment, softened by
Christian love, carried the Bishop of Meaux back to those
recreations of profane and sacred antiquity, in which he in
dulged when his time was not occupied in the sanctuary.
He took Fenelon with him to Germigny, his country resi
dence and haven of repose, where he rested from theologic
al controversy, and sought relaxation in the society of a
few select disciples. Friendship held over this firm mind a
powerful and softening infiuence. Already arrived at the
summit of Ufe, he looked beneath him •with' benevolence,
and held out his hand to younger men who mounted after
him. He resumed at the same time his conferences with
the Protestant ministers, but these meetings only bore the
semblance of discussion. Bossuet submitted impatiently to
that Uberty of speech toward the reUgion of the king, which
he had himself indulged in as regarded the Pope, and he
constantly interposed the royal authority in the cause of
God. " Sir," said he, rising in indignation from his seat,
to a minister who argued against him with too much free
dom, "if you continue this tone, I shall compel you to leave
the pulpit and the assembly. Learn to speak •with proper
respect of the reUgion your sovereign professes." He in
sulted the new converts in liis diocese by recalling to their
minds, without himself remembering the apostles of the
Savior, the humble condition of their ministers. " Do you
recollect," said he to them, " Pierre Leclerc, the wool-card
er, a man who dared, aU on a sudden, to leave his shop and
preside in the temple? Behold the founder of your pre
tended reformed Church of Meaux!'*
His friend and panegyrist, the Abbe Ledieu, confesses
that the severity of his expressions toward Protestants ali
enated them more and more from his faith. He was too

BOSSUET. 285
much convinced of the truth of his own beUef, not to be
imperious; he required obedience, or he exercised the pow
er of proscription ; he was only gentle toward those whom
he considered the true believers ; his meditations and his
letters to his nuns are worthy of a pastor of souls ; his po
lemics are those of a dictator of dogmas. We omit the
greater part of these disputes, now fallen into oblivion, and
confine ourselves to those which form an era in his Ufe.
To understand perfectly his sacerdotal gravity, and to dis
entangle it from politics, two different components always
associated in the- life of this priest, who was both oracle
and minister, we must here dilate a Uttle on the closing
mysteries of this reign. These mysteries aU verged toward
and terminated in the chamber of a woman of fifty years of
age, the governess "bf the illegitimate children of a king old
er even in heart than in years : this female was Madame
de Maintenon, who lived in secrecy under the roof of the
palace of Versailles.
Madame de Maintenon, assisted by Bossuet, had succeed
ed in removing her benefactress, Madame de Montespan.
The principal charm of Madame de Maintenon-'-=mature
beauty, preserved by the retirement and chaste regularity of
her life from the wasting evaporations of the world, which
soon cause incautious indulgence to fade — had given addi
tional weight to the king's scruples. In attaching himself
to Madame de Maintenon, he thought he was reconciUng
himself to •rirtue : the charms of confidential and pious com
munication, the intercourse -with a mind as delicate as just,
the pride of raising to his own rank a being whom he truly
loved ; and, finally, as must be admitted to the king's hon
or, the secure reliance which he placed on the advice of
this superior woman, the idea of possessing in her a prime
minister who would never o^vershadow his glory, and whose
fortune, identified solely •with himself, would assure him a
fideUty almost conjugal ; all these endowments and attrac
tions — aU this solicitude for the pubUc good — aU this jeal
ousy of the ruling ministers, who unceasingly.reminded him

286 BOSSUET.
of EicheUeu and Mazarin — all this combined pride and ten
demess, had increased to an absolute dominion the feminine
and, at the same time, manly empire of Madame de Main
tenon. To "step from this controUing influence to the royal
couch required but a moment of weakness in the virtue of
the woman ; to enable her to mount the throne, there need
ed only a single forgetfulness of dignity on the part of the
king. The woman was inflexible, and the monarch yielded.
Bossuet, cherishing the ambition of giving an Esther to
the Church, flattered by the respect which the favorite lav
ished on him, and secretly consulted by the king as to a
private marriage, which would at the same time secure his
safety and his honor, advised the step which Louis suggested.
The Archbishop of Paris, De Harlay, a bishop without
scruples, but not destitute of regard for -the dignity of the
throne, consented to the marriage, on condition that it
should never be made public. Louvois, son of the Chan
cellor, who had for some years past exerdsed the office of
Minister of War with almost absolute power, and who for
this reason had become necessary to the king's glory, en
deavored to make his master blush at the intended abase
ment of his rank. The minister could obtain nothing from
the enslaved sovereign but an oath that he would never
raise to the throne the woman he was about to elevate to
his bed.
The marriage was celebrated at night by the Archbishop
of Paris, in the presence of Bossuet, Louvois, and several
intimate friends, as 'witnesses ; some of whom were weU
satisfied, and others deeply humiUated, at this miraculous
example of love.
Every evidence implies that Bossuet, who saw in all that
occurred a means of advancing the interests of reUgion, did
not here check the ambition or hopes of Madame de Main
tenon, and that the steps of the altar at which this union
was consecrated appeared to him as the steps of the throne
which the 'wife of the modem Ahasuerus would speedily
ascend. However this may be, Madame de Maintenon re-

BOSSUET. 287
turned from the ceremony, if not a queen in name, at least
an absolute ruler in effect. The king gave pubUcity enough
to his marriage to prevent scandal, and surrounded it with
sufficient mystery to preserve the honor of the throne. A
suite of royal apartments, on the same floor with those of
Louis, at VersaUles, received the unacknowledged wife.
The royal family and courtiers attended there to offer re
spectful homage to the woman, whom the caprice of the
king had almost crowned ; and- the king held his councils
of state in her chamber. The furniture alone bore evi
dence of the actual elevation of the favorite to the rank of
queen, in the heart of the sovereign and the privacy of his
palace. This room contained only two arm-chairs, of the
same fashion, placed on each side of the fire-place— one for
Louis XIV., the other for Madame de Maintenon ; a table
and two low stools occupied the centre of the apartment ;
upon one of these stools the minister, who came to transact
business with the king, seated himself; on the other Ma
dame de Maintenon laid her book or her needle-work. She
was present, mute and apparently inattentive, at all these
conferences, usually preserving a modest and deferential si
lence before the mystery of government, but, being often
urged by the king to give her opinion, she delivered it 'with
the clear sense, sound reason, and propriety of language,
which characterized her thoughts and elocution.
The natural instinct of the court, the readiest and most
servUe of aU instincts under an imperious master, soon felt
that neglect or favor, elevation or disgrace, empire or fall,
depended upon her voice. Madame de Maintenon held a
court in fact; but happier than an acknowledged queen,
who must receive that court- according to established eti
quette, she enjoyed the rare privilege of choosing her own :
she confined it to a learned, pious, and intimate society,
among whom were included all that were most illustrious
or most respected in France, from Bacine and Nicole to
Fenelon and Bossuet.
Fenelon, younger, more beloved, and a more constant at-

288 BOSSUET.
tendant at court than Bossuet,' from the office he held as
preceptor to the Duke of Burgundy, the king's grandson,
was not long before he won to himself, as he conquered ev
ery thing, the mind, piety, and admiration of Madame de
Maintenon. The imagination of this poet, deeply colored with reUg
ious tints — his inborn nobility of manners and mind — ^his
refinement, at the same time clear, delicate, and sustained
'with dignity — his eloquence, flo'wing and persuasive 'with
out effort — ^his natural elegance, revealed externally in the
graceful regularity of his features ; and, finaUy, his piety,
which was gentle rather than dogmatic, and resembled a
transfiguration of evangelical sweetness into a disciple of
the Greek Plato — all these combined attributes completely
fascinated Madame de Maintenon ; she soon began to pre
fer him to Bossuet, for whom she felt more fear than at
tachment; but she could never make the king participate
in this predUection for Fenelon. Something warned the
confused but certain intelUgence of this prince that so many
graces might hide some snares, that this 'rivid ima^ation
might feed itself on chimeras, and that boldness in religion,
or fanciful schemes of politics, might be conceived and
brought to light in the mind of this phUosopher, who ap
peared to believe in, and to be ambitious of attaining per
fectibility. Nevertheless, the attraction felt by Madame de
Maintenon for Fenelon was so powerful, that it even pre-
vaUed over her apprehension of offending the king by this
preference. She hid her admiration in her secret heart,
and admitted Fenelon into the select and Umited circle of
pious men and mystified women who discoursed in her
apartments at Versailles or St. Cyr on the Platonic refine
ments of transcendental devotion. She listened to him with
delight during these edifying conversations. Her mind,
naturally clear and solid, but long severed from the asso
ciation of human tenderness, gratified itself in suffering her
ever-youthful imagination to indulge in the ecstasies of di
vine love.

BOSSUET. 28.9
A woman of enigmatical pretensions, stUl young and
beautiful, devout and eloquent, and surrounded -with an in
describable cloud of supernatural mystery, had obtained in
troduction into Madame de Maintenon's circle at St. Cyr,
as a subject of edification. This woman was named Ma
dame Guyon. We can not understand how Madame de
Maintenon so lightly admitted among the young neophytes
of her oratory, in the royal monastery of St. Cyr, such an
equivocal personage as Madame Guyon, whose character
floated between the adventuress and the inspired devotee.
Devotion has its infatuations and irregularities, Uke every
other passion.
Madame Giiyon, the 'widow of a rich citizen of Paris,
and endowed with an ardent imagination, had, after the
death of her husband, although stiU young, rushed precipi
tately into the exercise of excessive piety. She foUowed
from to'wn to tcwn, and even to Turin and Lausanne, the
director of her conscience, a visionary monk, who appeared
to exercise ftver her a supernatural influence. She founded
in several places female convents, of which she appointed
her confessor the head. Expelled by more than one bishop,
on account of this mysterious connection, Madame Guyon
returned to Paris, to propagate, by concealed preaching,
theories of the pure love of God, and strange inspirations,
in which the miracle of the visions authorized the peril of
the doctrines. She had pubUshed, under the title of " Tor
rents," the effusions of a sensual piety, in which the thoughts
were pure, but the expressions were scandalous. Her beau
ty, adventures, mystery, and inspirations ; her eloquence,
which lost and dissolved itself in ecstasies and tears ; and
the persecutions she had suffered for the cause of God, oc
casioned her to be sought after by aU those who were curi
ous in the search of perfection. She possessed the charm
that pity infuses into generous minds ; thus she obtained
impassioned friends and bitter enemies.
Fenelon became acquainted with her at the house of
Madame de Maintenon. He believed that he had at last
N

290 BOSSUET.
discovered one of those sybils invested by antiquity with the
gift of inspiration on the tripod, and that Calvary might
inspire more divinely than Dodona. Above all, he was se
duced by the subUme doctrine of the disinterested love of
God, which only borrows its Ught from the passionate con
templation of supreme beauty, and demands from adoration
no other recompense than adoration in return ; but he ap
peared to gUde with Madame Guyon, his oracle, into one
of the many consequences dangerous to the morality of this
principle. These were his expressions : " Once arrived at
this state of perfect and disinterested love, the soul, com
pletely raised by God above the infirmities of being, be
comes exempt from sin, and can no longer be sulUed by the
actions committed under the influence of the senses, during
its absence in the vUe sphere of matter and unrighteous
ness." " The world," said Bossuet, in speaking of this woman
and her doctrines, " appears as if it desired to be delivered
of some strange novelty !" This novelty was Srooded over
for a long time by Madame de Maintenon, Madame Guyon,
Fenelon, and the pious female coterie of St. Cjt and Ver
saUles, without bursting into birth. The education of the
Duke of Burgundy was drawing to a close, and Fenelon,
through Madame de Maintenon, had been appointed Arch
bishop of Cambray before the new doctrine broke upon the
world. Bossuet, up to this period, had been silent, in spite of the
strange rumors which from time to time reached his ears :
he loved his pupil Fenelon too much, and had too firm a
beUef in his 'virtue to suspect him of any aberration of
heart or mind in the track of a visionary and suspected
woman. He was grieved, but he did not yet thunder forth
in indignation. Madame de Maintenon also enjoined him
to silence and reserve. The Bishop of Meaux feared that
his Ughtnings .might rebound from the head of this PrisciUa
upon that of her powerful protectress ; his conduct, during
these unsettled years, was fuU of prudence toward the

BOSSUET. 291
Church, of circumspection toward Madame de Maintenon,
and of enduring patience toward Fe'nelon. Controversy
alone excited the zeal of Bossuet to religious anger, and
holy rage was the only impulse that_ could drive him to in
jury and persecution. ,
The publication of the book of "Maxims of Saints," by
Fenelon, changed a polemical discussion, which untU then
had been domestic, into a theological dispute : this book
was a skillful temerity on the part of the author.
Faithful to his friendship for Madame Guyon, and en
chained by her errors, Fenelon wished to avow this attach
ment in misfortune, and endeavored to prove, by quotations
from the fathers of the Church, that the denounced doctrine
of this woman was in fact the venerated doctrine of the
saints. The book was dangerous to faith, and more dangerous
still to moraUty. The shadow even of a schism was re
pulsive to the king; his idea of religion consisted in obe
dience; he feared every thing that 'deviated from the letter
of prescriptive ordinances ; his dry, barren, and cold imag
ination never ascended to contemplation; he reproached
Madame de Maintenon for her tenderness of heart toward
Fenelon, and her mystical regard for a woman who dis
turbed consciences and unsettled faith. Madame de Main
tenon did not suffer either of her personal friendships to
weigh against the pleasure of the king. She abandoned
Madame Guyon to her persecutors, and Fenelon to his an
tagonist. Bossuet now, openly acknowledged by her, broke
silence with regret, but with determined energy ; war be
gan between the defender of estabUshed doctrine and the
young innovator.
The contest was long, bitter, and inveterate f and ended
by the irremediable disgrace of Fenelon at court, and by
his signal condemnation at Eome. Theologians and court
iers ranged themselves on the side of Bossuet; men of sens
ibility, independence, and imagination, on that of Fenelon.
This breaking up of an old friendship between two pontiffs,

292 BOSSUET.
one of whom had been the spiritual father of the other —
the denunciations of the Pope, the anathemas of Eome, the
insinuations against the orthodoxy, and almost against the
Ufe of the young archbishop— the diplomatic intrigues, sup
porting at Eome the priestly intrigues of the Abbe Bossuet,
an unworthy nephew of a great man, and the medium of
conveying his uncle's anger to the Pope, thus promoting re
ligion by calumny ; and, finally, the implacable triumph of
Bossuet himself, who scarcely treated his victim 'with com
mon delicacy or respect : all these considerations have cast
a just and indelible stain on the character of Bossuet in the
eyes of posterity. But let us speak the truth, even though
against our inclination : posterity has hitherto been gov
erned by undue partiality, a tendency which it was unable
to resist toward such a gentle and attractive spirit as Fe'n
elon. Posterity has its favorites as well as princes. l§lo
one merited this predilection of heart in opposition to judg
ment more than Fenelon ; but in the present day, when the
ashes of his pamphlets are cold, and when time has given to
the winds the heavy or light leaves of his polemical lucubra
tions, there is no reason why the truth should not be openly
declared ; and after having placed ourselves on the side of
leniency in excusing the errors of Fenelon, let us assume
the tone of severity in our estimate of Bossuet, that we may
pronounce an equitable judgment between these two emi
nent personages.
Here, then, we see the two greatest omaments of the
Church, of politics and govemment, of the episcopacy and
of t^e sacred pulpit, united up to this period by the most
paternal attachment on the part of Bossuet, and by the most
fiUal respect on that of Fenelon ; the one already old, the
other StiU young; the one gUding down, and the other
mounting up the ascent of life, honor, and professional dis
tinction ; the one, arrived at the apex of existence, crowned
with white hair, strong in the authority of his elder birth
right in the jcpiscopacy and his antiquity in the faith, as he
himself designates his august pretensions, stretching forth

BOSSUET. 293
his hand to the other, to raise him as a successor to that
species of grand pontificate which- he himself had long ex
ercised in the Church of France. Bossuet prepared, like
Elijah, while ascending to heaven, to let his mantle fell upon
this second Elisha, He personally consecrated him Arch
bishop of Cambray, with prophetic words, which marked
him out to the world as his natural inheritor in the supreme
magistracy of faith, doctrine, and example. He deUghted
to exhibit pubUcly,.in the person of this young and eloquent
disciple, the torch without a shadow, by the Ught of which
the faithful should walk in a sure and straight path after
God had been pleased to remove his tutor from his earthly
labors. But this was little. The aged Churchman was
equally a politician and a pontiff. He had much to redeem,
by his zeal, in the opinion of that court of Eome from which
he had wrested so much by violent opposition. He ow^d to
it the superintending control of men's minds, and the extir
pation of rising heresies ; he owed to the king, of whom he
was the eye and mouth in ecclesiastical matters, the calm
ing down of religious troubles, hardly suppressed, and ready
to break out .Jigain throughout the kingdom ; he owed to the
heir presumptive of the throne, the Duke of Burgundy, who
was confided to teachers chosen by him, not to permit any
exaggeration, corruption, or alteration in his faith (destined
to represent that of a great empire), by infatuations, insani
ties, or haUucinations, for which he was responsible to the
kingdom ; and, finally, he owed to God, whose minister he
was by the episcopacy and by inspiration, not to betray,
through feebleness of heart or a cowardly complaisance of
friendship, what he considered in the Ught of divine tenth— ,
a trust confided by apostolic succession to the last of the
apostles, represented by himself.
Suddenly, this- father of the Church, this mstructor of
doctrine, this guardian of the faith, this chief of the episco
pacy, this minister of the king, this exterminator of beresy,
this viceroy of Bome, this reUgious tutor of the soul of the
heir to the throne, this sentmel of the kingdom's peace, this

294 ' BOSSUET. .
custodian of the purity of the national rdigion, awoke up
at the report of the strange rumors spread around him.
He heard that his disciple, his son, his predestined suc
cessor, the preceptor of the heir of the throne, the Arch
bishop of a great diocese — Fenelon, in fact-:— had given him
self up to poUtical dreams and ecstatic visions, more ap
proaching empty chimeras than rational sanctity. He as
certained that, in a book still unpublished, but which had
already transpired in the court and in the city, "Telema
chus," Fenelon had written, under the shadow of the palace
of Louis XIV., for the instruction of his grandson, a most
deadly satire upon the reign, and had dra'wn a most odious
portrait, of the grandfather of his pupil. '
He learned that this book, instead of giving to the inherit
or of the throne sound lessons in practical government, point
ed out to him, in clouds and false coloring, a course of poli
tics which exhibited no knowledge of mankind as they are
— without reaUty, body, or muscles ; which caUed all nec
essary authority tyranny ; which shook the faith of kings
in themselves ; which condemned aU the traditions hitherto
handed down by experience, and replaced them with his
Utopia of Salentum ; with puerilities, or empty, high-sound
ing absurdities, which extol equality instead of hierarchy,
and the multiplicity instead of the unity of power ; 'which
praises labor and proscribes luxury ; to sum up aU, a book,
or rather a dream, in which the phantasies destroy each
other, and the publication of which, according to Bossuet,
could have no other effect than that of enfeebling the mind
of the future king, and of misleading the people by inco
herent iUusions. ^
Satisfied at the first glance he bestowed upon the pages
of this Utopia, the mind of Bossuet, so imbued with the
spirit of government, was more saddened than irritated ; and
when "Telemachus" was brought to him, accompanied by
an account of the great sensation that his pupil's book had
produced in the world, " No," said he, " I shall not read it :
at my age, I have no longei: time for fables!"

BOSSUET. 205
From that day, Bossuet did not even speak of Fenelon,
from the fear of ha^ring too much to say ; he only lamented
privately that love adventures and voluptuous images should
be described with e^vident self-enjoyment by the pen of a
Christian archbishop,, and placed before the delicate imagin
ation of a young man who was soon to become a king.
But other reports, more alarming, and still more incred
ible, reached the ears of Bossuet. He learned that his dis
ciple, fascinated by the ecstasies, and convinced by the vis
ions of a young enthusiast, had abandoned the august and
holy established authorities of the faith, to seek doctrine
and salvation in the revelations of a female adventurer,
whose mind and judgment were the sport of every change
of feeling ; and whose moral conduct even, although perhaps
chaste, was not exempt from suspicion. He imposed on
himself the task of perusing the shameful effusions of piety
of this St. Theresa of the drawing-rooms. He felt as under
the influence of a dream, when he read the " Torrents ;" an
undeniable impulse of delirium, written upon the tripod of
the sibyls.' He listened to a repetition of those strange
scenes of pretended possession by the Divine spirit — scenes
in which, even in the presence of Fenelon, Madame Guyon
gave herself up to heavenly guidance, and which caused Bos
suet to exclaim, while he blushed for the episcopacy :
" And thou, O Lord ! if I durst, I would ask thee to send
one of thy seraphim, with the hottest of all thy coals, to
purify my lips from this recital, however necessary it has
been !"
It was at these mysterious meetings, sometimes authorized
by the presence of Fenelon, that Madame Guyon assumed
the name of the spouse of Christ — announced her superiori
ty in the heart of her heavenly husband, even over the Vir
gin herself, and declared " that, in the state of perfect purifi
cation to which she was raised by this union, she should re
fuse to pray, considering that it. was for servants to pray,
but that the wife shoulH; confine herself to asking favors."
Bossuet, in his charitable increduUty of such an excess of

296 BOSSUET.
mysticism in his disciple, was for a long time sUent. At
length he interrogated Ffinelon with mild anxiety upon the
fact of his mental participation in such extravagances of in
teUect, propriety, and doctrine.
Fenelon vowed to him that he went no farther than to ad
mire the piety of Madame Guyon, and to endeavor to ascer
tain- if her inspirations were real ; but that he held his judg
ment in suspense, his faith protected ; and that he was ready
to ratify •with closed eyes every sentence that Bossuet himself
should pronounce against these suspicious innovations.
This solemn promise, unceasingly renewed in writing and
in conversation, reassured Bossuet, and induced him pa
tiently to reserve his impending explosion.
At the:request of the Archbishop of Paris, M. de NoaUles,
a commission of the most venerable theologians and bishops
of the Church of France was appointed to examine into this
delicate affair.
Bossuet desired that Fenelon himself should be invited to
attend, from personal respect and a due regard to impartial
judgment. Fenelon decUned being present, but he promised to sign
the decree of his coUeagues in the episcopacy.
The examination was long, and interrupted by circum
stances foreign to the matter in question. Madame Guyon,
during these delays, sought to propitiate Bossuet himself by
an apparent deference to his authority. She came to reside
at Meaux, in a convent under his direction. She submitted
to his examination ; she confessed her rashness ; she prom
ised him to be governed in aU respects by the decision of
the bishops, and to await their sentence at Meaux under his
supervision. Suddenly, Bossuet ascertained that his •wUy penitent had
deceived him ; that she had secretly departed from Meaux,
and that, concealed in Paris, undoubtedly by the supposed
connivance of Fenelon, she there continued her inspired as
semblies and preachings. The rage of Bossuet did not yet
burst forth, but it began to murmur.

BOSSUET. 297
The decree of the. bishops was at length pronounced.
Fenelon, who had promised to ratify it, refused to af&x his
signature : he did more ; he •wrote in favor of Madame
Guyon, who had been condemned by his coUeagues. He
published his book, called " The Maxims of Saints," followed
by reiterated letters against Bossuet — letters fuU of insub-
ordmation and complaint under the appearance of deferen
tial submission. Opinion resolved itself into distinct par
ties ; religious factions were formed, which divided the court
and the empire.
Bossuet, who had long maintained silence, from grief and
regard for the episcopacy, felt himself obliged to reply on
behalf of the menaced Church and himself He answered
in a single letter the four accusatory epistles of Fenelon, and
reasoned with the doubts of public opinion in a treatise en
titled " A Belation of Quietism." ' He refuted, but stiU with
circumspection and respect, the arguments set forth by his
old pupil ; he remembered his former friendship for Fenelon,
the possible return to truth of the wanderer, the episcopal
character, the favor of Madame de Maintenon, and, finally,
the virtue of which he had no suspicion, although he de
nounced error. It was only at insulated moments, and when
driven by the excess of injustice, that he suffered the cry of
his ulcerated heart to escape — a cry which was not with
out a last accent of hope, and an echo of gentleness and ten
derness toward his former friend and pupil.
"I have read, monseigneur," said he at the commence
ment of his reply, " the four letters that you have addressed
to me ; and I have, ia common with aU the world, admired
the facility of your genius, the delicacy of your style of rea
soning, the vivacity and gentle persuasiveness of your elo
quence." He was grieved, and felt himself called upon to
justify the necessity of speaking.
" If the author of these innovations," said he, " already
condemned by the Church before we can pronounce our
opinion, conceals, disguises, and mitigates them, and by so
doing only renders them more current, more insinuating,
N2

298 BOSSUET.
and more dangerous, should they be suffei^ed, for the wel
fare of humanity, to gUde under the grass and escape the
holy severity of theological censure? If I have exceeded
this, let it. be manifested to me ; if I have done no more,
God will be my protector against the weakness and vain
complaisance of the world."
Bossuet ended by resenting, perhaps too keenly, human
injury under the appearance of vindicating faith; and he
himself, in return, hurled the powerS of oratorical insult
against his adversary, formerly his son.
• ¦"* " After this, monseigneur," continued he, " I have no
thing more to say, and in reply to your four letters I shall
confine myself to this single answer. If there can be found
in all yOu have written any important point which I have
not here refuted, I shall reply to it by other means. [He
alluded to the pontifical authority of Eome. J As to letters,
you "may ¦write as many as you please ; you may divide the
opinions of the court and city; you may cause your wit
and eloquence to be admired, and recall the graces of the
'Provincial Letters' (recent publications of Pascal, which
had charmed the laity and highly displeased the Church) ;
I no longer desire to take part in the spectacle that you
seem determined to exhibit to the world." " A new proph
etess," exclaimed he dsewhere, "has undertaken in our day
to resuscitate heresy : this is the chUd she wishes to bring
forth ; the work of this woman is not yet completed. The
Archbishop of Cambray, a man of such an elevated posi
tion, has suffered himself to be enticed into this unhappy
mystery : he ¦will not say that he is ignorant of this ridicu
lous communication of heavenly grace to an insane female,
nor of her prophecies, nor of her pretended state of apostol
ical sinlessness. According to his own confession, he has
allowed her to retain the esteem of many iUustrious per
sona who were guided by his judgment ; he has thus suffered
an impostor to be respected, who has only uttered as proph
ecy the iUusions of her own heart. I have never spoken
untU after charity and gentleness had made their last effort.

BOSSUET. 299
As to what relates to M. de Cambray, I am only too much
jristified by facts, and by the letters he has written. To
what do they attribute this jealousy of which I and my
colleagues are accused? And if it is necessary to justify
ourselves from so base a passion, what is there to cause
jealousy in the new work of this archbishop ? Should we
envy him the glory of paintmg in glowing colors a woman
Uke Madame Guyon? If God has vriUed that the Church
should possess in the person of one of her bishops this liring
victim of seduction, and if this PrisciUa has found her Mon-
tanus to defend her, may he overrule — ^for there is still time
— the judgments of the Church ! As for the king, who from
respect leaves to the Church fuU liberty of investigation in
points of faith, what is there to be astonished at, if he sup
ports by his authority those ecclesiastics who walk in the
right path?"
We observe that Bossuet in every instance appeals to
force too quickly after an appeal to reason : such is ever
the vice of predominant convictions and despotic charac
ters. In this polemical discussion upon Madame Guyon, ¦with
the exception of some severe words which escaped in the
ardor of his faith and the desire to vindicate his o^wn char
acter, 'words too much provoked by the more indirect, but
more wounding apostrophes of Fenelon, Bossuet had hither
to conducted himself as a man of calm sense and patience,
who desired only to discharge a painful duty. Fenelon, on
the other hand, appears throughout as one under the in
fluence of an iUusion, without experience, and imbued with
a desire to promote discord: he dreams like a visionary,
distresses his instructor, elevates a few female enthusiasts
into a sect, avoids judgment of the .disputes, retracts, and,
finaUy, abuses the patience and sUence of the oracle of the
Church — to drag him, against his own inclination, into the
lists, and to pubUsh, under the semblance of self-justifica
tion, charges against Bossuet that were equaUy unjust and
imtrue.

300 BOSSUET.
Bossuet thinks as an apostle and a poUtician. He is
patient as a inend, and compassionate as a man older than
his antagonist; he makes superhuman efforts to soften the
reports and confine the scandal to the walls of the sanctu
ary ; and he does not publicly declare his feelings — and
even then with tears — untU his silence might have been
construed into a dereUction of his episcopal duties, a treason
against his ministerial office, and a dishonorable submission
to the insult offered to his character.
Up to this point, superiority in reason, circumspection,
respect, tolerance, and in the mode of carrying on the
quarrel, must unquestionably be accorded to Bossuet. A
perusal of the reciprocal replies of the two disputants ele
vates his position, whUe it materiaUy lowers that of his
rival. These distinguished antagonists no longer appeared on
-.the same level. Something of feminine inconsistency showed
itself in the attitude and accent of Fe'nelon, while Bossuet
maintained the deportment of a man, and an honest one.
We can collect this from the foUowing fragments of his last
reply to Fenelon; his repressed indignation doubles the
force of his words, and his reserve is more powerful than
speech. "Monseigneur, I have perused four letters which you
have addressed to me, and, in common with the rest of the
world, I admire the fertiUty of your genius, the delicacy
of your style, the vivacity and gentle insinuations of your
eloquence. With what a variety of beautiful expressions
do you maintain that people represent you as dreaming •with
your eyes open, and that it is neither reasonable nor just
to accuse you of such gross contradictions, •without ha^ring
legally proved in a competent court that you have lost the
use of your reason !
"You urge your complMnt so far as to say, 'If I am
capable of such folly, of which an example could not be
found, even among madmen who are under restraint and
confinement, I am not in a condition to which blame can

BOSSUET. 301
be attached, and it is you who are in fault fol^ having
written in so serious and energetic a manner against a lu- '
natic.' What elegance is there in these expressions, what
beauty in these images ! But after all, we feel that argu
ments of this nature, in a matter-of-fact view, in which the
question is to discover whether you have contradicted your
self or not, can only dazzle for a moment, and that we must
finaUy return to truth 
" It would have been much more satisfactory if you had
entered into a precise explanation, and exerdsed your abil
ities in the employment of words which convey a consistent
meaning, rather than in distorting them at this late period,
to escape by any means from the dilemma in which you
have plunged yourself.
"But, however, these contradictions are inseparable in-
gredient-s of the disease caUed error, as also of that denom
inated false and fruitless subtlety; prejudice receives one
representation, but truth presents another. Artful and re
fined arguments are brought forward, incapable of influencing
impartial judgment, which naturally rejects them. Whoever
is attacked by these maladies, whatever else he may do, can
never fail to contradict himself; for he who is in error must
necessarily arrive at a certain point, from which he is inev
itably plunged into this inconsistent course of reasoning and
action. "Wlien St. Paul told the pretended doctors that they
did not understand either what they spoke of, or affirmed so
positively ; when he said that erroneous doctrine was full of
contradictions, which is one definition of the words in which.
he proves the incongruities of falsely-named science ; when
he dedared that the heretic (without intending to give this
name to him who submits, but applies it solely to him who
suffers his faith to be deceived) is condemned by his O'wn
judgment ; and, finally, that all those who oppose themselves
to the truth, after having for some time, by an unhappy per
severance, erred, and caused others to err — that is to say,
after having dazzled the world by specious reasoning and
seductive eloquence, should cease to advance farther, be-

302 BOSSUET.
cause their folly would then become manifest to all — the
apostle did not wish to coerce them in bonds, or prove by
law that they had lost their reason ; he only desired to point
out to us that there is a light of truth, which makes itself
felt even in error 
" But this reputation of high inteUectual endowments, far
from excusing those great minds who rush into error, and
drag others with them, is, on the contrary, the direct ground
and source of their condemnation. ' Exalted minds,' says
St. Augustine, ' subtle geniuses, magna et acuta ingenia, have
faUen into the greatest mistakes ; because, trusting in their
own powers, they have walked with superior boldness : In
tanto majores errores ierunt, quanta prcefidentius tanquam suis
viribtis cucurrerent. They must neither be confined nor shut
up, as you propose. Such remedies are only suggested by
a false light : generaUy speaking, we need only allow them
to write freely and display the brilliancy of their vrit, in or
der to see them soon lose and bewilder themselves in their
own intricacies, or become entangled in the meshes of their
mistaken dialectics.
" I say it ¦with grief, as Heaven can 'witness, you have
endeavored to refine upon true piety ; you have found no
thing worthy of you but God, beautiful and perfect in him
self. The goodness by which he descends to us, and causes
us to ascend again to him, has appeared to you a mode of
proceeding unsuitable to the perfect ; and you have de
nounced even hope, since, under the name of pure love,
•you have established despair as the most complete of aU
sacrifices : at any rate, it is of this error that you are ac
cused. "Whoever 'wishes to maintain this, can not do it
himself^ for he must run against himself in a hundred
places, either in endeavoring to find defense, or to cover
and conceal his weakness ; and yet you have just said,
' Prove that I< am a madman ;' and sometimes you say,
'Prove that I am insincere — otherwise my reputation
places me beyond suspicion.' No, monseigneur, truth 'wiU
not permit this : you may be in heart whatever you please

BOSSUET: 303
to assert, but we can only judge by your words," etc.,
etc. The severity of the Bishop of Meaux, in the sequel of this
affair, only showed that he carried right to an extreme point :
he pushed justice to the extent of vengeance. But it must
be admitted, in his defense, that this error was less his fault
than that of his advanced age. Led away, overruled, and
governed by his nephew, the Abbe Bossuet — a man of Um
ited intellect, vulgar soul, spiteful disposition, and a charac
ter degraded by serviUty — ^the great bishop appeared dra-wn
down by this relative to the level of the inquisitors of faith
and the persecutors of genius. It was this same nephew
who besought Eome to hurl the thunders of the Church
upon the head of the Archbishop of Cambray, with as much
ardor as a saint could display in praying for heaven. It
was he who spread abroad the calumnies against the disci
ple of his uncle — who pressed the ministers and the king's
embassadors to extort a condemnation and branding from
the Pope, which struck at all innocence of manners, purity
of morals, the episcopacy itself, talent, friendship, and vir
tue — and who 'wrote to several of his correspondents at
Paris, in speaking of Fenelon, "At length we have chained
this ferocious beast !" A true type of those mistaken zeal
ots of the faith, who strive to add to the thunders of heaven
insult and defamation, the miserable substitutes suppUed by
human anger. But the character of a great man ought not
to suffer for the degeneracy of a relation who disgraced his
name. In this instance there is congeniality of blood only,
but none of mind, genius, or disposition.
We should truly rejoice if the character of Bossuet was
stained by no blemish more indelible than the unmerited one
which has been cast upon it from partiality to Fe'nelon in
the affair of "Telemachus," and of the treatise on Quietism.
But there is unfortunately another, which indulgence can not
remove, neither can time efface. He became the oppressor
of consciences ; he vrished to establish by the sword, in the

304 BOSSUET.
souls of men, that dogmatic principle which governed his own
mind — the uniformity of faith 'i*hich prevailed throughout
the kingdom. He was not contented to be the high-priest
of the reUgion of his God — he desired also to be, and by his
practice became, the high-priest of the reUgion of his king.
We have seen him, in his arguments with the Eeformed
ministers, profess the impious principle that the rdigion of
the subject must of necessity conform to that of the prince
— a principle which places God subordinate to man, and en
ables tyranny to extend its infiuence even over the inaccessi
ble dominions of conscience. It must, however, be admitted
that this opinion, delivered and entertained by Bossuet, was
not 'with him the adulation of a monarch ; it was the deifi
cation of a dogma : dogma, in his theological mind, became
deity itself. His whole philosophy was embodied in his cat
echism. Liberty of thought had never penetrated his soul, and, as
a natural consequence, toleration had no entrance there.
He was so convinced of the evident reaUty of his principles,
that he did not admit a doubt of this e'ridence striking the
convictions of other men as powerfully as it had impressed
his own. He attributed, in perfect conviction, to obstinacy,
revolt, and impiety, aU resistance to the authority of the
Church : a doubter 'with him was not merely a free-thinker,
he was a positive rebel.
Devoted to theocracy from the bottom of his heart, he be
Ueved firmly that the duty of kings was to cause his God
and their God to reign upon earth by the same laws and
the same exercise of power which is given to them to main
tain the laws of the kingdom. He had dra'wn this implaca
ble theory from the Old Testament : ' conversion or exterm
ination was his traditional motto. Forgetting entirely his
invectives against the persecutors of the oppressed Gospel,
he admitted that, once triumphant, the Gospel should, in its
turn, persecute. Martyrs for any other faith than his own
were not martyrs, in his estimation ; they were merely fac
tious and vanquished opponents.

BOSSUET. 305
We analyze this pious injustice of Bossuet, not to excite
admiration, but to demand censure. It takes from the hu
man mind, however exalted it may be, its first instinct —
justice; it deprives Christianity of its leading virtue —
charity ; and religion of its highest dignity — ^independence.
It is the bondage most degrading both to master and slave,
transferred from the body to the soul ; it is the man, deUv
ered up bound to God and the Church, instead of the un
fettered spirit raising his soul •with freedom to heaven, and
walking by himself to his deity and his altar.
Such was the doctrine of Louis XIV., whose mind, when
fathomed to the bottom, was as docUe as it was imperious.
Louis was great exclusively by his own •wiU ; beyond him
self, he knew nothing ; his personal and royal egotism con
stituted his entire genius. All Uberty was offensive to him,
even Uberty in religious beUef ; uniformity of faith and
worship appeared to him as one of the prerogatives of mon
archy. Policy strengthened these opinions in his mind.
He did not feel himself sufficiently a king, when the liberal
creed of one portion of his subjects protested insolently
against the belief of the monarch. Independence as to es
tabUshed tenets was •with him a conspiracy against Heaven ;
as he considered Uberty a faction against earthly authority.
The long civil and religious war of the League had term
inated by the recantation of Henry IV. This prince, hav
ing conquered with the aid of the Eeformers, was about to
reign against them. His faith gave way to his ambition,
and he bartered, with impious jests, his reUgion for a throne.
We remember his words, which have since passed into a
proverb •with the ambitious, "Paris is well worth a mass."
Nevertheless, to cement a peace between his old friends, the
Protestants, and his new subjects, the Catholics, this king,
tolerant from policy, had published the Edict of Nantes,
which promised perfect liberty and equality to the two dif
ferent modes of worship. This edict was irksome to the
CathoUcs, for equality was not victory ; it was equaUy dis
tasteful to Louis XIV., for ha^ring become a Catholic by

306 BOSSUET.
the defection of Henry IV. to the Protestant party, this
party could only see enemies upon the throne in the suc
cessors of the apostate monarch. However, neither Cardi
nal EicheUeu, who was such an exterminator of the aristoc
racy, nor Cardinal Mazarin, the pacificator of civil troubles,
had dared to revoke the Edict of Nantes : it was the grand
charter of liberty of feith — one half of the kingdom Uved
under its shadow.
During the regency of Anne of Austria, the govemment
confined itself to converting, by means of undue favor, the
influential families of the court and provinces. They bought
consciences one by one ; and it must be said, to the shame
of the really reUgious convictions of France at this period,
that they were not sold at a very high price. The example
of Henry IV. had made a change in religion a mere matter
of traffic. None felt themselves guilty in abjuring for an es
tate or title that which the king had forsaken for a throne.
But no sooner had Louis XIV., surrounded by his moth
er, Anne of Austria, and by fervid Catholics and bishops
imbued with Spanish traditions, assumed the reins of power
into his own hands, than the plan of rendering the faith of
the kingdom uniform, either by bribery, constraint, or even,
if necessary, by extreme violence, became the soul of the
government : every thing converged by degrees and inces
sant efforts to this great end.
It was not difficult for poUticians to persuade the young
monarch that the last leaven of revolt existed in the hetero-
dox worship, and that he would never be reaUy king until
he held the right of governing his people in the name of a
God, who, properly speaking, could only be represented by
royalty. The bishops easily made him look upon this great
service performed for the Church as an expiation for the
thoughtlessness and scandalous proceedings of his youth.
He persuaded himself that God would pardon every irregu
larity in a prince who brought back an entire nation to his
service. Love and war suspended for a considerable time these

BOSSUET. 307
ideas ; but. when Louis became satiated at once •with gloiy
and pleasure, and when Madame de Maintenon, the Duke
de Beauvilliers, the Duke de Montausier, Bossuet, the Arch
bishop of Eheims, the Chancellor LeteUier, and aU the relig
ious portion of the court, began to direct his now unoccupied
and scrupulous mind to the interests of reUgion, Louis XIV.
returned to his plans with renewed ardor.
From bribery they proceeded to compulsion. Missionaries,
escorted by dragoons, spread themselves, at the instigation
of Bossuet, and even of Fenelon, over the western, southern,
¦and eastern provinces, and particularly in those districts
throughout which Protestantism, more firmly rooted among
a more tenacious people, had as yet resisted all attempts at
conversion by preaching. The repetition of these facts is
terrible, but indispensable ; to pass over in silence what is
¦wrong, is to encourage, strengthen, and flatter evil.
Children from above seven years of age were authorized
to abjure legaUy the religion of their fathers. The houses
of those parents who refused to deliver up their sons and
daughters were invaded and laid under contributions by the
royal troops. The expropriation of their homes, and the
tearing asunder of famiUes, compelled the people to fly from
open persecution. The king, uneasy at this growing depop
ulation, pronounced the punishment of the gaUeys against
those who sought liberty in flight : he also ordered the con
fiscation of all the lands and houses which were sold by those
proprietors who were preparing to quit the kingdom.
He placed under one category the consciences of the na
tion, excluding from neariy every office, and soon from ev-
eiy trade, those who persisted in following the proscribed
faith, in order that the people might be reduced to choose
between life and abjuration.
Perpetual banishment was pronounced against those cler
gymen who maintained and propagated.their creed by their
words. This harsh treatment caused the people to murmur,
and seditions to arise in the provinces thus crueUy treated,
which were punished by torture.

308 BOSSUET.
The grandson of the state counselor of Henry IV., who
had drawn up the text of the Edict of Nantes, was broken
on the wheel at Grenoble for having claimed the privUege
of the royal act. Many other indi'riduals were also similar
ly executed, or hanged at Toulouse. " France resembles a
sick man, whose legs and arms are cut off to cure him,"
wrote Queen Christina of Sweden, who happened to visit
the kingdom at this period. Very soon the proscription
was organized en masse : aU the cavalry in the kingdom,
who on account of the peace were unemployed, were placed
at the disposal of the preachers and bishops, to uphold their
missions 'with the sabre.
" The king ¦wishes," thus ¦wrote the minister Louvois, son
of LetelUer, the friend of Bossuet, " that the utmost sever
ity should be sho'wn to all who refuse to embrace his reUg
ion, and this severity must be pushed to extremity against
those who desire the foolish glory of being the last to be
converted." Bossuet approved of these persecutions. Eeligious and
poUtical faith, in his eyes, justified their necessity. His cor
respondence is fuU of evidence, whUe his actions prove that
he was an accompUce : even his eloquence, as we shall see,
overfiowed with approbation of, and enthusiasm for these
oppressions of the soul and terrors of heresy. At length,
when the proscriptions had left scarcely any surviving voices
to murmur, the king ventured upon the great coup d'etat
against Uberty of conscience. The formal revocation of the
Edict of Nantes was pronounced by a counter-edict emana
ting from the royal authority.
Bossuet's party and that of the court, blending mutually
in the same satisfaction, had only one common cry ¦with
which to applaud the triumph of violence. Persecution,
which up to this time had been iUegal and disguised, now
became the open law of the state. The country was all at
once deprived of nearly a quarter of her children. It be
came necessary to abandon either the name of Frenchman,
or to abjure the faith dictated by conscience.

BOSSUET. 309
"You have doubtless seen," wrote Madame de Sevigne
on the 31st of October, " the new decree by which the king
revokes the Edict of Nantes. Nothing is to be compared
to this exercise of royal authority ; and no monaijch has
ever done, or ¦will ever do, any thing so truly memorable."
Thus, according to place and time, there -will ever be
found approbation and praise for persecutors as weU as for
the oppressed. Party spirit extinguishes the instincts of
justice and pity even in the hearts of women ; history alone
espouses, without any difference of opinion, the side of the
victims. The legalized persecutions which foUowed the revocation
of the Edict of Nantes recalled the most celebrated pro
scriptions that had occurred in the annals of the human
race. It was even proposed to imprison in a body, and
¦without exception, all who declared themselves opposed to
the reUgion of the king. The clergymen of the Eeformed
faith were aUowed fifteen days, during which they were
either to abjure their creed or expatriate themselves from
the kingdom.
Thousands of famUies who had been rooted out and ex
pelled from their residences, fled by every frontier and every
sea-port. Colonies of these proscribed people spread over
Germany, England, Piedmorit, the mountains of the Vau-
dois, and even to the extremities of Africa and America.
"The orders of the king, who condemned them to banish
ment, at the same time forbade flight : the prisons were not
large enough to contain the people, and the galleys were
filled to overflowing with those criminals who preferred
martyrdom to apostasy.
Every thing was considered a crime in those who were
allowed to remain in France : they were forbidden to em
ploy Catholic servants or workmen, lest the religion of the
master should corrupt the household ; they were not per
mitted to have Protestant servants, lest their houses should
become asylums for those who secretly professed the same
faith ; they were compeUed to be present at the ceremonies,

310 BOSSUET.
and to partake of the sacraments of a worship which in their
hearts they repudiated. We have befote our eyes the let
ters of Bossuet, in which these measures are gravely dis
cussed, and which dedde by what signs they might discov
er the sincerity and punish the hypocrisy of these compul
sory attendances at the ceremonies of the Church. Those
who, when dying, refused to fulfill the Catholic rites, were
dragged upon a hurdle and thrown upon the dunghill, like
some denounced and unclean animal.
Terror kindled fanaticism. The Cevennes, a rade and
religious district in the south, broke out into open insurrec
tion : this rebeUion was stifled in blood. Beciprocal assas
sinations threw the provinces into consternation. A priest
of frenzied zeal, the Abbe du Chaila, after having been him
self mutUated when a missionary in India, returned to in-
ffict torture upon his Protestant countrymen in the Ceven
nes. A martyr himself before long, he was immolated on
the dead bodies of those he had sacrificed. Each was by
turns, or at once, the executioner and the victim. Catholic
priests and Protestant ministers were, according to the vi
cissitudes of the contest, followed, tracked, and shot down
without mercy or distinction in the caverns of the rocks
and mountains. Three of the king's armies, commanded by
marshals of France, could hardly extinguish this La Ven
dee in its O'wn blood : every body died, took ffight, or ab
jured their faith. The eye and hand of govemment were
only occupied under the sometimes paternal, but more fre
quently barbarous directions of theologians, in perpetuating
a domestic purification which tore children from fathers and
mothers who were suspected or obstinate, in order to sever
them from their faith, and shut them up in convents under
the institutions of a different creed. Fdnelon himself was
only distinguished in this poUtical apostleship by more gen
tle means of persuasion ; but he approves, in two letters, of
the employment of troops and salutary intimidation to en
force change of faith by fear.
-As for Bossuet, he triumphed openly, and boldly assumed

BOSSUET. 311
the responsibiFty of the proscription over the coffin of the
ChanceUor LeteUier, the minister, contriver, author, and
executor of these barbarities. In the funeral sermon which
he preached on his friend, he dismissed him to the presence
of his Creator vrith his proscriptions as a title to salvation
and glory.
" Our fathers," said he in this panegyric, "did not see,
as we see, an inveterate heresy fell suddenly upon the uni
verse, astonished at witnessing in such a novel event the
most assured proof of the noblest use of authority ; and the
personal merit of the prince more recognized and revered
than even his power."
Then bursting into lyric poetry, he began a song of tri
umph upon France, which had been purged of mUUons of
proscribed heretics by the hand of these purifiers of the
faith. " Do not let us, however," cries he, " pass lightly over
this miracle of our days : let us hand down the recital to
future ages ! Take your sacred pens, you who compose the
annals of the Church. . . . Nimble instruments of a prompt
writer and a diligent hand I Hasten to place Louis XIV. in
the position of Constantino or Theodosius. Before the'reign
of these emperors, whose laws forbade assemblies of here
tics, sects remained united and linked together for a long
series of years. But since God has stirred up Christian
princes to interdict these erroneous forms of worship to
heretics, and that the clergy who watched over them have
prevented their being exercised in private, these inveterate
enthusiasts have died -without posterity, because they could
not freely propagate their mischievous dogrhas. Thus fell
heresy, -with its venom."
And after having celebrated a more recent, and, accord
ing to him, a more marvelous persecution, he continues :
" Let our acclamations resound to heaven, and let us pro
claim to this new Constantine, this new Theodosius, this
new Marcian, this new Charlemagne, what the six hundred
fathers of the Church declared of old in the council of Chal-

31}? BOSSUET.
cedon. You have established the faith; you have exterm
inated heresy : behold a work worthy of your reign ! King
of heaven, preserve the king of the earth ! Such is the
prayer of the Church, and the invocation of her bishops."
" "When the pious chanceUor affLsed his seal to the revo
cation of the celebrated Edict of Nantes, he exclaimed, after
-witnessing this triumph of faith, this magnificent monu
ment of the king's piety, that nothing now remained for
him but to die ! These were the last words that he uttered
in his office as minister."
After such expressions, it is impossible to think that
Bossuet was not implicated in this foul blot upon the reign
of Louis XIV. His theological implacabiUty changed in
his' own mouth oppression of conscience into virtue. We
lament this false conviction of right, which compels the
historian to inscribe after the name of such an exalted gen
ius and such a zealous partisan the title of proscriber.
But truth renders this inevitable. "When zeal becomes
a passion, it readily merges into -violence; and when it
guides the hand of political power, the apostle becomes re
sponsible for the executioner. Let us hasten to throw a
veil over this portion of Bossuet's ecclesiastical ministry.
It was n(5t his soul, but his logic that was cruel. He did
not seek to avenge himself, but his excessive pride bUnded
him until he believed that he was the avenger of God: a
terrible lesson to every excess of zeal, to every extreme opin
ion, and to aU future times.
The death of the Prince de Conde recalled the bishop to
an eloquence more worthy of himself It appeared as if
his genius acquired added .solemnity from his own near ap
proach to the tomb : the decease of his first protector and
most constant admirer told him that all fame must perish.
These two pre-eminent glories of the age, the one in war,
and the other in literature and religion, appeared as if they
were mutually drawn toward each other. Bossuet felt the
warning in his heart, and he reflected it in his voice. The
peroration of this discourse reaches the apex of modern do-

BOSSUET. 313 •
quence — the ancients possessed not such power of language.
The simUarity in advanced age, the contemporaneous ca
reer and equality of position between the orator and the
hero who reposed in the sleep of death at his feet, carried
his flow of words to the loftiest elevation : the scene was
worthy of the discourse.
" Cast your eyes around on every side," said Bossuet ;
"behold all that magnificence and piety could do to pay
honor to a hero ! Titles, inscriptions — vain marks of what
exist no longer — figures which seem to weep round a tomb,
and fragile images of a grief which, Uke every thing else, ia
obUterated by time ; columns which appear as if they •wished
to bear to heaven a mighty -witness of our insignificance ;
and nothing is wanting in all these honors except the object
to whom they are paid.
" Weep then over these feeble remains of human life !
Weep over this sad immortality which we assign to our he
roes ! But, above all things, be impressed, O you warlike
and undaunted spirits, who race -with so much ardor in the
career of glory ! "Who was ever more worthy to command
you, and where have you found a more honest leader ?
" Weep then for this great captain, and say amidst your
sighs, ' This is he who led us in danger, under whom so
many reno-wned chieftains have been found, who by his ex
ample have risen to the highest honors of the miUtary pro
fession. His shadow may stiU gain battles, and even in
silence his name animates us, and at the same time warns
us, that in order to find in death some rest from our labors,
and not to reach our eternal abode without some sure reli
ance or resource, we must serve the Kmg in heaven as faith-
fuUy as our king on earth.
"Serve, then, this immortal Sovereign who overflows
•with mercy, and who wUl estimate more highly a sigh or a
glass of water offered in his name, than all other monarchs
would deem of aU your blood spiUed in their cause ; and be-
- gin to date your useful services from that day when you de
vote yourselves to a Master of such unbounded beneficence.
O

314 BOSSUET.
" And you, -will you not approach this monument ? you,
I say, whom he fondly classed in the rank of his friends ?
All of you, in whatever degree of confidential intercourse
you have stood with him, surround this tomb together,
mingle tears -with your prayers, and while admiring in so
great a prince a friendship so disinterested, and an inter
course so sweet, preserve the remembrance of a hero whose
virtue equaled his courage. Thus may he always be to
you a dear subject of conversation ; thus may you profit by
his perfections, and thus may his death that you deplore
be to you at the same time a consolation and an example.
" As for me, if I may be permitted after all others to ren
der the last services at this tomb, O prince, worthy object
of our praises and regrets, you wUl live eternally in my
memory ; your image wiU be traced there, not representing
that commanding image which promised victory, for I wish
to behold nothing in' you that death can efface. But it
wiU be stan^ed with imtnortality. I shaU there look upon
you such' as you were at that l^t day under the hand of
God, when his glory had already begun to shine upon you.
It is there that I see you more triumphant than at Fribourg
and Eocroi; and 'transported by so great a -rictory, I shall
say in returning thanks, in the words of the beloved disci
ple, Et hcBC est victoria quce vincit mundum, fides nostra — The
true victory which conquers the whole "world, and places it
under our feet,, is the victory of faith.
"Enjoy, prince, this Sjiblime cont[uest; enjoy it eternal
ly by the immortal -virtue of this sacrifice. Accept the last
efforts of a voice which was known \o you, and whose last
discourse will be dedicated to your memory. Instead of
deploring the death of others henceforth, great prince, I
shall learn from you to render my own holy. • Happy if
warned by these white hairs of the account that I inust
shortly give of my ministry, I shall reserve for the flock
that I ought to nourish with the word of life, the remains
of a voice -which is broken, and an ardor that wiU soon be
extinguished."

BOSSUET. 315,
Bossuet retired from pubUc life, looking upon death with
the same calm majesty of demeanor which he had exhibited
in withdrawing from the pulpit. He entered more and
more into the solitude of his twiUght, as a priest who buries
himself in the shadow of the cloisters. His appearance at
court became much more rare, his -risits to Meaux and his
country retreat longer and more frequent ; he had finished
his task ; he had by the word, and, unfortunately for him
self, by the sword, achieved the unity of faith, which,
with the despotic unity of the throne, subservient only
to the Church, had constituted the Utopian dream of his
life. As a pontiff, he had no longer any thing to desire ; as a
man, he resigned himself to the disappointment of not hav
ing attained the double end of his ecclesiastical being— the
archbishopric of Paris and the dignity of cardinal : the king
had found him too plebeian, the Pope too much of a Ffench-
man, to aggrandize still more in his person the great tribune
of the Gallican Church.
It can^not be doubtea that he often felt a secret bitter
ness of heart at this ingratitude of the' king and resentment
on the part of Bome. His was one of those minds which
can not separate moral grandeur from the grandeur of situ
ation: an inferior bishopric appeared to him to contrast
unjustly with the eminence of his services and the superior
ity of his genius.
We see, from time to time, a certain air of humility and
indistinct reproach run through his letters. The archbish
opric of Paris and the cardinal's robe were wanting, in his
eyes, to complete the lustre of his name.
But these two regrets, softened by so.'much 'respect from
the court and the Church, never palpably escaped his lips.
If he murmured" to himself respecting services ill requited
the. words of Strafford — " Nolite fidem principibus et filiis
hominis, quia non est solus in illis" — ^Put not your trust in
princes nor in any chUd of man, for there is no ^ help in
them — at least he never uttered these sentiments in the

316 * BOSSUET.
hearing of others : faith and piety dosed silently and hoUly
these wounds of his heart.
He placed his glory in his faith, and his faith jn, his
glory. He did not sadden his old age. or his friends by
dweUing upon the ingratitude of man and his deceived
hopes, which form a leading consolation of Uttle minds,
whUe they excite the contempt of great ones. He grew old
¦with God, as he -had. lived in constant intercourse ¦with him.
These vexations detached him from the world, yirhich
had perhaps exercised too great a hold upon his thoughts.
Study, and, above aU, sacred poetry, became more and more
the occupation and charm of his leisure. Poetry is the elo
quence of ease and contemplation.
He composed many verses, which he aUowed- his friends
to read, but which he destroyed as soon almost as they were
¦written, either because he looked upon them as inferior to
his prose, or that he considered them as a play of words too
Ught for his sacred character. But private prayer, the
perusal of his breviary, his presence at the cathedral cere
monies, polemical discussions upon theological questions of
the day, the correction of his Uterary works and his already
pubUshed harangues, and the preparation of some familiar
sermons for his humble auditory at Meaux^^r-^pmpletdy
occupied the residue of his Ufe. ^
His soul reposed itself in a continual but regular acti^yity
of ihiagination. He slept little, Uke those old men whose
vigils appear as if they wished to gain a few hours more of
thought from the eternal sleep which- rapidly approaches.
A lampliumed continually in Ms chamber ; it could be seen
from a distance shining through the -windows of his apart
ment, between the trees of the garden, at the side of the
hill commanded by his palace, and by the massive shadows
of his cathedral. - This lamp was a symbol of his refiections
to the inhabitants of Meaux. The poor workmen pf the
suburb, and tKe^rdeners, whose cottages were spread over
the opposite eminence, recognized this morning Ught, and
called it the star of my lord the bishop. ¦^'.\.

. ^ -BOSSUET. 317
He rose several times during the night to write down the
thoughts which visited his wakeful hours.
" Enveloped," says his secretary, " in the skin of a bear,
-with the hair turned inside, his feet often uncovered, his
head" whitened by the snows of age, and his tall and meagre
figure, he resembled the prophets whose verses he was con-
tinuaUy employed in commenting on and repeating.
" He chanted before daybreak, in a low voice, those old
Liturgies which the Church has called ' Matins,' in allusion
to the divisions of the night during which its ministers are
compelled to recite them. He labored afterward for two
or three hours at his historical compositions, at the prepa
ration of his sermons, and in writing poetry. The s-wiftness
of his hand in writing, which was hardly perceptible whUe
crossing the paper with a continual and regular movement,
recalled 'those nimble pens, the rapid instruments of the
mind,' which he had invoked in the funeral sermon of the
chancellor. Like all writers who suffer from a long exer
cise of thought, he threw down thg i;Dplement as soon as it
no longer moved quickly between his fingers : he knew that
genius consisted in a youthfulness and freshness of ideas,
and that inspiration stops when lassitude begins. He re
turned to his couch at the break of da-w^n, and reposed his
mind in a second and short sleep. The rest of the day was
given to the world, to business, to his cathedral, to a frugal
table, to leisflre, to conversation, to reading, and to familiar
intercourse with his friends."
His opulence permitted him to neglect entirely aU domes
tic affairs. He himself confessed his inaptitude for the eco
nomical management of a large establishment. The Church
and the king had taken these cares upon thems,elves. He
suffered the overplus of his savings to flow in mpderate in-'
dulgence, in relieving the poor, and in assisting his jfriends
and relations. He held quite a court of intimate assodates,
composed of the leading men of the age. *"¦
Besides Fenelon, whose regard he had lost — not without
waiting seven years m the hope of jts return — he reckoned

318 BOSSUET.
among his acknowledged friends the great Conde, the min
ister; M. de Malezieu; M.de VaUncourt, whose reputation,
in general esteem, stood above that of all their contempora
ries; M. D'Ormesson, ah eminent administratqr ; D'Her-
belotjthe OrientaUst, who taught him, at seventy-two years
of age, the Hebrew language ; PelUsson, the immediate pred
ecessor of Boileau ; La Bruyere, the forerunner of Moliere ;
Boileau himself, who dedicated to him his " Epistle upon
the love of God;" iEtacine, who submitted "AthaUe" for
his approbation; Santeuil, who allowed him fo correct
his hymns, and who denominated him, " Per quem religio
manet incgncussa, sacerdos .f'^A priest through whose firm
hand the immutable faith resists all the convulsions of the
times !
The Ust included others of less celebrity : the Abbe de
Fleury, who -wrote history under his inspection and super
intendence with the modesty of a disciple ; the Abbe Ledieu,
who was his select table-companion, secretary, and chosen
confidant at every period of life ; Bourdaloue and the young
Massillon, who came to Germigny and Meaux to repeat
their sermons before the great master of elocution.
His conversation was calm, gentle, indulgent to the ins
fiuence of natural -feeling, and eqiiaUy removed from pru
dery and Ucense : he loved the ease, but never the indecrai-
cy, of familiar conversation. "Be cheerful, but do not
descend to facetiousness," said he in a letter to one of his
intimate friends ; " light jests, when they are personal, ap
proach too near to raillery, and raiUery is oft^ either in
sipid or offensive."
¦ • He did not approve of laughter, which almost invariably
outrages either dignity or charity ; a mind fuU of solemn
thought could not give utterance to such" a hollow sound.
Jesus Christ, his master, had never laughed during his life :
but Bossuet loved a smile, which indicates only the relaxa
tion of the higher faculties and the kind participation of the
heart. . *
For a long time inwyd suffering, produced by his unre-

BOSSUET. . 31!)
mitting sedentary occupations, induced his friends '^o fear
that he was threatened with the stone
He did not attempt to disguise his increasing weakness
to himself: he had a presentiment that his end was ap
proaching, and took leave of his clergy in 1702, in a -dis
course addressed to the ecclesiastical synod of the diocese — >
a sermon in which he involuntarily .^called his pathetic
peroration at the funeral oration of the Prince de Conde.
" These white hairs, my dear brethren," said he ,to them,
" warn me that soon I must render an account to God of
my ministry, and that to-day wiU perhaps be the last time
that I shall be permitted to address you."
He employed his closing days in translating the Psalms
into French verse, the only poetry which he considered wor
thy of his pen, and which, as he said, " he hoped to hear
sung in heaven, and with the prospect of which consum
mation he consoled himself beforehand on earth." Never
theless, he still doubted whether his malady was incurable ;
and the positive assurance of this, that he recdved from the
mouth of Fagon, the great physician of the day, accelerated
the stroke of death even more than the disease itself.
The dread of an operation, which it became necessary for
him to submit to, prevailed over the firmness of the philos
opher and the virtue of the Christian : a fever of terror
seized him, his voice became inaudible, his pen fell from
his hand — he could not himself write the note which sum
moned his confessor to prepare his soul for the doubtful re
sult of this dangerous operation : he faltered at the idea of
the torture to which art was about to submit him under the
vague chance of recovery. His robust health and continual
good fortune had ill prepared him for this punishment. He
compassionated, his own body— ^he who had felt too little
pity for the tears and tortures endured by so many pro
scribed Protestants : he wept not at the thought of death,
but he shed tears at the anticipation of physical pain.
His nephew, the Abbe Bossuet, profited by this weakness
to induce him to soUcit the king to bestow upon him the

320 BOSSUET.
reversion of the bishopric of Meaux, an inheritance which
would thus be consigned to an ,unworthy heir. •'
Madame de Maintenon and the Catrdinal'de j^^oailles, who
had no -wish to comply with this blamable nepotism in Bos
suet, or to sadden Ijis last days by a denial, advised the king'
to defer the favor, and' neither to grant or refuse it to this
Ulustrious supplicant. Bossuet, during an interval of hi&
malady, dragged himself to the court to solicit the king
personally on his nephew's behalf Louis XTV. received
him as his spiritual father, but told him that the hour had
not come for the disposal of his benefices. • Fatigue and
fever detained him several days at Versailles ; and he there
received the sacraments of the Church, and dictated his wiU.
The enormous amount of debt which he. had contracted
by his negligence of domestic affairs and.' his prodigality
threw hini into consternation. A mortal Wt slow lan
guor succeeded to this increase of his disease ; advantage
was taken of this to convey him back to Paris. His sleep
during the night was broken by deep sighs and delirious
wanderings ; he was heard to lament and resign himself in
a loud voice. During the day he constantly directed the
Gospels to be read to him, as the promises of which he -had
need to fortify himself against the dread of death. " I Frfe-
quently read, at his request, the same Gospel five or six
times over," says the friend who watched beside his couch.
A train, perpetually renewed, of courtiers, friends, and
ecclesi|istics, besieged his door. They felt that the resplen
dent glory of the age was about to be extinguished, and
were desirous of gathering the last beams. The closing
hours of great men present a spectacle which the .world
loves to witness and remember. Bossuet had regained his
serenity and hope of prolonged existence. " I can pgrceive
plainly," said he, "that God has determined to preserve
me." The ardor of sacred controversy again lit up •within him.
He looked over his treatises against the Jansenists, and dic
tated corrections in his " Sacred Polio/." His genius had

BOSSUET. 321
not faded : he still wrote •with the nerve of his most vigor
ous days. ' "Faith," said he, «'is a torch, but a torch shin
ing in an obscure place, the darkness of which it can not
wholly dissipate. If all was obscure, we should grope in
profound night,,in danger at each step, and without the
power of ever ' arriving at con^riction. But at the same
. time, if aU was too clear, we should fancy ourselves already
in the country and Ught of truth. Every thing. estabUshes
our want of teaching and guidance, inwardly by the Di^rine
Spirit, outwardly by the authority of the Church. He oft
en repeated this passage in the Gospel, which he doubtless
intended as an epitaph for himself, ' This chUd is set for the
fall and rising, of many.' "*
The fire of a mortal fever rapidly consumed him. " Cease
to deceive me," said he to his friends ; "may the •wiU of God
•with regard to me be done ; I feel my insignificance. Let
us pray together ; I feel that the machine is worn out. Let
us pray but Uttle at a time, on account of the great pain I
suffer." The week had arrived during which the Church com
memorates, by prayer, lamentation, and rejoicing, the cruci
fixion and resurrection of Christ. He joined in heart •with
the sacred ceremonies. His friends spoke to him of his mis
sion so magnificently accompUshed, of his •writings, his vir
tues, his sanctity, and his glory ; at this last word glory,
which perhaps had been his besetting weakness, he felt an
gry •with himself. " Cease such discourse," cried he ; " spe^
of pardon alone, the only word that man ought to use!"
Cold shiverings ascended from his Umbs to his heart, but
he was stUl sensible, and continued to pray. He was heard
to murmur in Latin, " Vim potior, sed scio cut credidi/" — ^I
suffer the violence of pain and death, but I know in whom
I have believed ! >
His faith outlived his mortal existence. After these
words he became drowsy, and slept tranquiUy until morn
ing : at hresk of day the attendants heard a breath more
* St. Lnke, ii., 34.
02

322 BOSSUET.
deeply drawn than "usual; it proved to be the last. Bos
suet was no more ; judgment was about to be pronounced
on him from above ; his memory was aU that remained to
us below..
That memory is august, but not •without reproach. There
were two distinct elements in the composition of Bossuet,
the man and his talent. The latter was incomparable, but
the mortal was inferior to his endowments': he had a cor
rect J)ut .violent will, a great but tyrannic genius ; his ab
solute, imperious character was not only that of an exalted
apostle, but also of an inexorable judge. There are tears in
history which bear eternal witness against him ; he brought
war into the world, and not peace ; a never-ending contest
is linked with his memory, and will disturb it even in the
tomb. He did some good to religion, none to humanity;
but he reflected immeasurable glory on his country : the
reputation of his talent foUowed and increased among the
admirers of human inteUect : it belongs not to his works,
but to the man himself
Hia, natural philosophy was Umited by the dogmatic
spirit with which he systematically contemplated the uni-
ver^. . He was more of a theologian than a philosopher.
The reUgious quarrels in which he consumed his life have
grown old, and distance makes them gradually fade from
the eyes of posterity. His " Universal History" is only a
play of genius ; his conteoversies nothing but an outburst
of language, of which, after the lapse of two centuries, we
can no longer understand the meaning. Quietism and
Jansenism, those subtleties of the maxims of the Gallican
Church, are reduced to cold ashes, which no words of the
prophet can ever again rekindle.
The letters to his nuns, the conferences with the synods
of Meaux, the sermons preached upon retirements to the
cloister, the funeral orations of several queens, princesses,
or of courtly fiiends — more or less worthy of this overpow
ering voice — are no longer, from their subject, any thing be
yond high-sounding vritnesses of the insignificance of those

BOSSUET. 323
names which have died with their panegyrist. .All is mo
mentary and accidental in the occupations of this long Ufe,
and nothing except the eloquence is bom of nature, and
calculated to survive as an enduring monument to future

But Bossuet is, in fact, his own monument. His nature
was so exalted that it has sumved, and will eternaUy sur-
•vive, his works : it was the reflected grandeur of God, not
his own. His was the most flowing, the most imamnative,
the loftiest, and the most persuasive eloquence •with which
Providence has ever gifted the lips of man.
The glory of Bossuet is so incorporated ¦with that of his
country, that to diminish it would" be to deduct something
from the majjesty of French genius.
His name resembles the summits of the Alps or the
Himalaya, enveloped with snows or storms, uninhabitable
by man, but •which constitute the reno^wn and pride of the
countries overshadowed by these lofty ridges, and which
serve to demonstrate how nearly earth can approach to the
elevation of heaven.

YALE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY

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