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CABINET    CYCLOP>«DIA. 


London: 

Printed  by  A,  Spottiswoode. 

New-Street-Square. 


CABINET   CYCLOPEDIA. 

CONDUCTED    BY    THE 

REV.  DIONYSIUS  LARDNER,  LL.D.  F.R.S.  L.  &E. 
M.R.I.A.  F.R.A.S.  F.L.S.  F.Z.S.  Hon.  F.C.P.S.  &c.  &c. 

ASSISTED    BV 
EMINENT   LITERARY   AND  SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 


llStograpJip. 

EMINENT 

LITERARY   AND   SCIENTIFIC    MEN 

OF  FRANCE. 
VOL.  I. 


LONDON: 

PRINTED   FOR 

LONGMAN,  ORME,  BROWN,  GREEN,  &   LONGMANS, 

PATERNOSTEE-ROW  ; 

AND    JOHN    TAYLOR, 

UPPER  GOWER  STREET. 

1838. 


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CONTENTS. 


Page 

MONTAIGNE            .  -            -               -  1 

RABELAIS                 -  .             -             -  23 

CORNEILLE               -  -            -              -  ^0 

ROCHEFOUCAULD  -                 -            -  63 

MOLIERE             -  -                 .             -  97 

LA  FONTAINE              -  -             -           -  150 

PASCAL                -  -                 -             -  183 

SEVIGNE  (Madame  de)  -  '             -         -  214 

BOILEAU                 -  -                  -             -  259 

RACINE                  -  -             -              -  296 

FENELON            -             -  -                  -  329 


133064 


LIVES 


of 
EMINENT 

LITERARY  AND  SCIENTIFIC  MEN. 


"^  MONTAIGNE. 

1533—1592. 

There  is  scarcely  any  man  into  whose  character  we 
have  more  insight  than  that  of  Montaigne.  He  has  written 
four  volumes  of  "  Essays/'  which  are  principally  taken 
up  by  narrations  of  what  happened  to  himself,  or  disser- 
tations on  his  own  nature,  and  this  in  an  enlightened 
and  philosophical,  though  quaint  and  na'ive  style,  which 
renders  him  one  of  the  most  dehghtful  authors  in  the 
world.  It  were  easy  to  fabricate  a  long  biography,  by 
drawing  from  this  source,  and  placing  in  a  consecutive 
view,  the  various  information  he  affords.  We  must 
abridge,  however,  into  a  few  pages  several  volumes;  while, 
by  seizing  on  the  main  topics,  a  faithful  and  interesting 
picture  will  be  presented. 

Michel  de  Montaigne  was  born  at  his  paternal  castle  of 
that  name*,  in  Perigord,  on  the  8th  of  February,  1533. 
He  was  the  son  of  Pierre  Eyquem,  esquire — seigneur  of 
Montaigne,  and  at  one  time  elected  mayor  of  Bordeaux. 
This  portion  of  France,  Gascony  and  Guienne,  gives  birth 
to  a  race  peculiar  to  itself ;  vivacious,,  warm-hearted,  and 

*  This  chateau  was  situate  in  the  parish  of  Saint  Michael  dc  Montaigne, 
not  far  from  the  town  of  Saint  Foi,  in  the  diocese  of  Perigueux,  at  the 
distance  of  about  ten  leagues  from  the  episcrpal  city.     It  was  solidly  and 
well  built,  on  high  ground,  and  enjoyed  a  good  air. 
VOL.  IV.  B 


2  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

Tain — they  are  sometimes  boastful,  but  never  false;  often 
rash,  but  never  disloyal ;  and  Montaigne  evidently  in- 
herited much  of  tiie  disposition  peculiar  to  his  province. 
He  speaks  of  his  family  as  honourable  and  virtuous :  — 
*'  We  are  a  race  noted  as  good  parents,  good  brothers, 
good  relations,"  he  says, — and  his  father  himself  seems 
eminently  to  deserve  the  gratitude  and  praise  which  his 
son  bestows.  His  description  of  him  is  an  interest- 
ing specimen  of  a  French  noble  of  those  days:  — '^He 
spoke  little  and  well,  and  mixed  his  discourse  with  allu- 
sions to  modern  books,  mostly  Spanish  ;  his  demeanour 
was  grave,  tempered  by  gentleness,  modesty,  and  humi- 
lity ;  he  took  peculiar  care  of  the  neatness  and  cleanliness 
of  his  dress,  whether  on  horseback  or  on  foot;  singularly 
true  in  his  conversation,  and  conscientious  and  pious, 
almost  even  to  superstition.  For  a  short  slight  man  he 
was  very  strong  ;  his  figure  was  upright  and  well  propor- 
tioned; he  was  dexterous  and  graceful  in  all  noble  exer- 
cises ;  his  agility  was  almost  miraculous ;  and  I  have  seen 
him,  at  more  than  sixty  years  of  age,  throw  himself  on 
a  horse,  leap  over  the  table,  with  only  his  thumb  on  it, 
and  never  going  to  his  room  without  springing  up  three 
or  four  stairs  at  a  time."  Michel  was  the  eldest  of  five 
sons.  His  father  was  eager  to  give  him  a  good  educa- 
tion, and  even  before  his  birth  consulted  learned  and 
clever  men  on  the  subject.  On  these  consultations  and  on 
his  own  admirable  judgment  he  formed  a  system,  such  as- 
may  in  some  sort  be  considered  the  basis  of  Rousseau's ; 
and  which  shows  that,  however  we  may  consider  one 
age  more  enlightened  than  another,  the  natural  reason 
of  men  of  talent  leads  them  to  the  same  conclusions, 
whether  living  in  an  age  when  warfare,  struggle,  and 
the  concomitant  ignorance  were  rife,  or  when  philo- 
sophers set  the  fashion  of  the  day.  '^  The  good  father 
whom  God  gave  me,"  says  Montaigne,  "  sent  me,  while 
in  my  cradle,  to  one  of  his  poor  villages,  and  kept  me 
there  while  I  was  at  nurse  and  longer,  bringing  me  up 
to  the  hardest  and  commonest  habits  of  life.  He  had 
another  notion,  also,  which  was  to  ally  me  with  the 


MONTAIGNE.  3 

people^  and  that  class  of  men  who  need  our  assistance  ; 
desiring  that  I  should  rather  give  my  attention  to  those 
who  should  stretch  out  their  arms  to  me,  than  those 
who  would  turn  their  backs  ;  and  for  this  reason  he 
selected  people  of  the  lowest  condition  for  my  baptismal 
sponsors,  that  I  might  attach  myself  to  them."  He 
was  taught,  also,  in  his  infancy  directness  of  conduct,  and 
never  to  mingle  any  artifice  or  trickery  with  his  games. 
With  regard  to  learning,  his  good  father  meditated  long 
on  the  received  modes  of  initiating  his  son  in  the  rudi- 
ments of  knowledge.  He  was  struck  by  the  time  given 
to,  and  the  annoyance  a  child  suffers  in,  the  acquirement 
of  the  dead  languages ;  this  was  exaggerated  to  him  as  a 
cause  why  the  moderns  were  so  inferior  to  the  ancients  in 
greatness  of  soul  and  wisdom.  He  hit,  therefore,  on  the 
expedient  of  causing  Latin  to  be  the  first  language  that 
his  son  should  hear  and  speak.  He  engaged  the  services 
of  a  German,  well  versed  in  Latin,  and  wholly  ignorant 
of  French.  ^"^  This  man,"  continues  Montaigne,  ^'^whom 
he  sent  for  expressly,  and  who  was  liberally  paid,  had 
me  perpetually  in  his  arms.  Two  others  of  less  learn- 
ing, accompanied  to  relieve  him  ;  they  never  spoke  to 
me  except  in  Latin  ;  and  it  was  the  invariable  rule  of 
the  house,  that  neither  my  father  nor  my  mother,  nor 
domestic,  nor  maid,  should  utter  in  my  presence  any 
thing  except  the  few  Latin  phrases  they  had  learnt  for 
the  purpose  of  talking  with  me.  It  is  strange  the  pro- 
gress that  every  one  made.  My  father  and  mother  learnt 
enough  Latin  to  understand  it,  and  to  speak  it  on  occa- 
sions, as  did  also  the  other  servants  attached  to  me; — in 
short,  we  talked  so  much  Latin,  that  it  overflowed  even 
into  our  neighbouring  villages,  where  there  still  remain, 
and  have  taken  root,  several  Latin  names  for  workmen 
and  their  tools.  As  for  me,  at  the  age  of  six,  I  knew 
no  more  French  than  Arabic  ;  and,  without  study,  book, 
grammar,  or  instruction,  — without  rod  and  tears —  I 
learnt  as  pure  a  Latin  as  my  sciioolmaster  could  teach, 
for  I  could  not  mix  it  with  any  other  language.  If, 
after  the  manner  of  colleges,  1  had  a  theme  set  me, 
B  2 


4  LITERARY    ANT)    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

it  was  given,  not  in  French,  but  in  bad  Latin,  to  be 
turned  into  good  ;  and  my  early  master,  George  Bucha- 
nan and  others,  have  often  told  me  that  I  was  so  ready 
with  my  Latin  in  my  infancy,  that  they  feared  to 
address  me.  Buchanan,  whom  I  afterwards  saw  in  the 
suite  of  the  marshal  de  Brissac,  told  me  that  he  was 
about  to  write  on  education,  and  should  give  mine  as  an 
example.  As  to  Greek,  of  which  I  scarcely  know  any 
thing,  my  father  intended  that  I  should  not  learn  it  as 
a  study,  but  as  a  game  —  for  he  had  been  told  to  cause 
me  to  acquire  knowledge  of  my  own  accord  and  will, 
and  not  by  force,  and  to  nourish  my  soul  in  all  gentle- 
ness and  liberty,  without  severity  or  restraint,  and  this 
to  almost  a  superstitious  degree ;  for  having  heard  that 
it  hurts -a  child's  brain  to  be  awoke  suddenly,  and  torn 
from  sleep  with  violence,  he  caused  me  to  be  roused  in 
the  morning  by  the  sound  of  music,  and  there  was  always 
a  man  in  my  service  for  that  purpose. 

*■'  The  rest  maybe  judged  of  by  this  specimen,  which 
proves  the  prudence  and  affection  of  my  excellent  father, 
who  must  not  be  blamed  if  he  gathered  no  fruits  worthy 
of  such  exquisite  culture.  This  is  to  be  attributed  to 
two  causes  :  the  first  is  the  sterile  and  troublesome  soil ; 
for  although  my  health  was  good,  and  my  disposition 
was  docile  and  gentle,  I  was,  notwithstanding,  so  heavy, 
dull,  and  sleepy,  that  I  could  not  be  roused  from  my 
indolence  even  to  play.  I  saw  well  what  I  saw;  and 
beneath  this  dull  outside  I  nourished  a  bold  imagina- 
tion, and  opinions  beyond  my  age.  My  mind  was  slow, 
and  it  never  moved  unless  it  was  led — my  understand- 
ing tardy — my  invention  idle  —  and,  amidst  all,  an  in- 
credible want  of  memory.  With  all  this  it  is  not 
strange  that  he  succeeded  so  ill.  Secondly,  as  all  those 
who  are  furiously  eager  for  a  cure  are  swayed  by  all 
manner  of  advice,  so  the  good  man,  fearing  to  fail  in  a 
thing  he  had  so  much  at  heart,  allowed  himself  at  last 
to  be  carried  away  by  the  common  opinion ;  and,  not 
having  those  around  him  who  gave  him  the  ideas  of 
education  which  he  brought  from   Italy,  sent  me,  at 


MONTAIGNE.  5 

six  years  of  age,  to  the  public  school  of  Guienne,  which 
Avas  then  very  flourishing,  and  the  best  in  France.  It 
was  impossible  to  exceed  the  care  he  then  took  to  choose 
accomplished  private  tutors  ;  but  still  it  was  a  school : 
my  Latin  deteriorated,  and  I  have  since  lost  all  babit  of 
speaking  it;  and  my  singular  initiation  only  served  to 
place  me  at  once  in  the  first  classes ;  for  w^hen  I  left  col- 
lege, at  the  age  of  thirteen,  1  had  finished  my  course_, 
but,  truly,  without  any  fruit  at  present  useful  to  me. 

"  The  first  love  I  bad  for  books  came  to  me  through 
the  pleasure  afforded  by  the  fables  in  Ovid's  Meta- 
morphoses. For,  at  the  age  of  seven  or  eight,  I  quitted 
every  other  pleasure  to  read  them  ;  the  more  that  its 
language  was  my  maternal  one,  and  that  it  was  the  easiest 
book  I  knew,  and,  considering  the  matter,  the  best 
adapted  to  my  age.  I  was  more  careless  of  my  other 
studies,  and  in  this  was  lucky  in  having  a  clever  man 
for  my  preceptor,  who  connived  at  this  and  similar 
irregularities  of  mine ;  for  I  thus  read  through  the 
iEneid,  and  then  Terence  and  Plautus,  led  on  by  delight 
in  the  subject.  If  he  had  been  so  foolish  as  to  prevent 
me,  I  believe  I  should  have  brought  from  college  a 
hatred  of  all  books,  as  most  of  our  young  nobles  do. 
He  managed  cleverly,  pretending  not  to  see  ;  and  sharp- 
ened my  appetite  by  only  allowing  me  to  devour  these 
volumes  by  stealth,  and  being  easy  with  me  with  regard 
to  my  other  lessons  ;  for  the  principal  qualities  which 
my  father  sought  in  those  who  had  charge  of  me  were 
kindness  and  good  humour;  consequently  idleness  and 
laziness  w^ere  my  only  vices.  There  was  no  fear  that 
I  should  do  harm,  but  that  I  should  do  nothing — no 
one  expected  that  I  should  become  wicked,  but  only 
useless.  It  has  continued  the  same :  the  complaints  I 
hear  are  of  this  sort :  that  I  am  indolent,  slow  to  per- 
form acts  of  friendship,  too  scrupulous,  and  disdainful 
of  pubhc  employments.  Meanwhile  my  soul  had  its 
private  operations,  and  formed  sure  and  independent 
opinions  concerning  the  subjects  it  understood,  di- 
gesting them  alone,  without  communication ;  and  among 
B  3 


6 


LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 


Other  things,  I  believe  it  had  been  incapable  of  sub- 
mitting to  force  or  violence." 

It  would  require  a  volume  almost  to  examine  the  effect 
that  this  singular  education  had  on  Montaigne's  character. 
If  absence  of  constraint  strengthened  the  defects  of  his 
character,  at  least  it  implanted  no  extraneous  ones.  His 
defective  memory  was  not  cultivated,  and  therefore  re- 
mained defective  to  the  end.  His  indolence  continued 
through  life  :  he  became  somewhat  of  a  humourist ;  but 
his  faculties  were  not  deadened,  nor  his  heart  hardened, 
by  opposition  and  severity. 

Montaigne's  heart  was  warm;  his  temper  cheerful*, 
though  unequal ;  his  imagination  lively!;  his  affections 
exalted  to  enthusiasm  ;  and  this  ardour  of  disposition, 
joined  to  the  sort  of  personal  indolence  which  he  describes, 
renders  him  a  singular  character.  On  leaving  college  he 
studied  law,  being  destined  for  that  profession ;  but 
he  disliked  it ;  and,  though  he  was  made  counsellor  to 
the  parliament  of  Bordeaux,  he,  in  the  sequel,  gave 
up  the  employment  as  by  no  means  suited  to  him. 
He  lived  in  troubled  times.  Religious  parties  ran  high, 
and  were  so  well  balanced,  the  kingly  power  being 
diminished  through  the  minority  of  Charles  IX.,  and 
that  of  the  nobles  increasing  in  consequence,  that  the 
struggle  between  the  two  was  violent  and  deadly.  Mon- 
taigne was  a  catholic  and  a  lover  of  peace.  He  did  not 
mingle  with  the  dissensions  of  the  times,  avoided  all 
public  employments,  and  it  is  not  in  the  history  of  his 
times  that  we  must  seek  for  the  events  of  his  life. 

The  chief  event,  so  to  call  it,  that  he  himself  records 

*  "  Je  suis  des  plus  exempt  de  la  passion  de  tristesse,  et  ne  I'aime  ni 
I'estime ;  quoique  le  monde  a  entreprins,  comme  h.  prix  faist  de  I'honnorer 
de  faveur  particuli^re  :  ils  en  habillent  )a  sagesse,  la  vertu,  la  conscience  ; 
sot  et  monstreux  ornemeiit !  " 

t  "Je  suis  de  cculx  qui  sentent  tres  grand  effort  de  I'imagination;  chascun 
en  est  heurte  mais  aulcuns  en  sont  renversez.  Son  impression  me  perce ; 
et  mon  art  est  de  lui  eschapper  par  faulte  de  force  i  luy  resister.  Je 
vivroys  de  la  seule  assistance  de  personnes  saines  et  gayes ;  la  veue  des 
angoisses  d'autruy  rn'angoisses  materiellement,  et  a  'mon  sentiment 
souvent  usurpe  le  sentiment  d'un  tiers.  Je  visite  plus  mal  voluntiers  les 
malades  auxquels,  le  devoir  m'interesse  que  ceux  auxquels  je  ra'attends 
moins  et  quejeconsidereinoinsjjesaisis  le  mal  que  j'estudie  et  le  couche 


JIONTAIGNE. 


with  fondness  and  care,  is  his  friendship  for  Etienne  de  1559. 
la  Boetie.  To  judge  by  the  only  writing  we  possess  of  Mtat. 
this  friend^  composed  when  he  was  scarcely  more  than  26. 
seventeen,  his  Essay  on  "  Voluntary  Servitude/'  he 
evidently  deserved  the  high  esteem  in  which  Montaigne 
held  him,  though  apparently  very  dissimilar  from  him 
in  character.  Boldness  and  vigour  mark  the  thoughts 
and  style;  love  of  freedom,  founded  on  a  generous 
independence  of  soul,  breathes  in  every  line ;  the  bond 
between  him  and  Montaigne  rested  on  the  integrity  and 
lofty  nature  of  their  dispositions — on  their  talents — on 
the  warmth  of  heart  that  distinguished  both — and  a  fervid 
imagination,  without  which  the  affections  seldom  rise 
into  enthusiasm.  Montaigne  often  refers  to  this  beloved 
friend  in  his  essays.  "^  The^greatest  man  I  ever  knew," 
he  writes,  "  was  Etienne  de  la  Boetie.  His  was  in- 
deed a  soul  full  of  perfections,  a  soul  of  the  old  stamp, 
and  which  would  have  produced  great  effects  had  fate 
permitted,  having  by  learning  and  study  added  greatly 
to  his  rich  natural  gifts."*  In  another  essay,  which 
is  entitled  '^  Friendship,"  he  recounts  the  history  of 
their  intimacy.  "  We  sought  each  other,"  he  writes, 
"  before  we  met,  on  account  of  what  we  heard  of  each 
other,  which  influenced  our  inclinations  more  than  there 
seems  to  have  been  reason  for,  I  think  through  a  com- 
mand of  Heaven.  We,  as  it  were,  embraced  each  other's 
names ;  and  at  our  first  meeting,  which  was  by  chance, 
and  at  a  large  assembly,  we  found  ourselves  so  drawn 
together,  so  known  to  each  other,  that  nothing  hereafter 
was  nearer  than  we  were  one  to  the  other.  He  wrote 
a  beautiful  Latin  poem  to  excuse  the  precipitation  of 
our  intimacy,  which  so  promptly  arrived  at  its  per- 
fection. As  it  was  destined  to  last  so  short  a  time, 
and  began  so  late,  for  we  were  both  arrived  at  man- 
hood, and  he  was  several  years  the  elder,  it  had  no 
time  to  lose ;  it  could  not  regulate  itself  by  slow  and 
regular  friendships,  which  require  the  precaution  of  a 


•  Tom  iii.  liv.  ii.  chap.  17. 
B    4. 


8  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    BIEN. 

long  preluding  acquaintance.  Ours  had  no  idea  foreign 
to  itself  J  and  could  refer  to  itself  alone ;  it  did  not 
depend  on  one  special  cause,  nor  on  two,  nor  three,  nor 
four,  nor  a  thousand,  but  was  the  quintessence  of  all 
which  seized  on  my  will,  and  forced  it  to  merge  and 
lose  itself  in  his,  and  which,  having  seized  his  will,  led 
him  to  merge  and  lose  his  in  mine,  with  equal  desire 
and  eagerness.  I  use  the  word  lose  as  the  proper  one, 
for  we  neither  reserved  any  thing  that  was  not  common 
to  both.  Our  souls  mingled  so  entirely,  and  penetrated 
with  such  ardent  affection  into  the  very  essence  of  each 
other,  that  not  only  was  I  as  well  acquainted  with  his 
as  with  my  own,  but  certainly  I  should  have  more 
readily  trusted  him  than  myself.  This  attachment 
must  not  be  put  in  the  same  rank  with  common  friend- 
ships. I  have  known  the  most  perfect  of  a  slighter 
kind ;  and,  if  the  rules  are  confounded,  people  will 
deceive  themselves.  In  other  friendships  you  must 
proceed  bridle  in  hand ;  in  the  more  exalted  one,  the 
offices  and  benefits  w^hich  support  other  intimacies  do 
not  deserve  even  to  be  named.  The  perfect  union  of 
the  friends  causes  them  to  hate  and  banish  all  those 
words  that  imply  division  and  difference,  such  as  benefit, 
obligation,  gratitude,  entreaty,  thanks,  and  the  like.  AH 
is  in  common  with  them  ;  and,  if  in  such  a  friendship 
one  could  give  to  the  other,  it  would  be  him  who  re- 
ceived that  would  benefit  his  companion.  Menande.r 
pronounced  him  happy  who  should  meet  only  with  the 
shadow  of  such  a  friend :  he  was  right ;  for  if  I  com- 
pare the  rest  of  my  life,  though,  with  the  blessing  of 
God,  I  have  passed  it  agreeably  and  peacefully,  and, 
save  from  the  loss  of  such  a  friend,  exempt  from  any 
poignant  affliction,  with  a  tranquil  mind,  having  taken 
the  good  that  came  to  m.e  originally  and  naturally, 
without  seeking  others ;  yet,  if  1  compare  the  whole  of 
it,  I  say,  with  the  four  years  during  which  it  was  given 
me  to  enjoy  the  dear  society  of  this  person,  it  is  mere 
smoke,  —  it  is  a  dark  and  wearisome  night.  I  have 
dragged  it  out  painfully  since  I  lost  him  ;  and  the  very 


MONTAIGNE.  y 

pleasures  that  have  offered  themselves  to  me,  instead  of 
consoling,  doubled  the  sense  of  ray  loss.  We  used  to 
share  every  thing,  and  methinks  I  rob  him  of  his  por- 
tion. I  was  so  accustomed  to  be  two  in  every  thing 
that  I  seem  now  but  half  of  myself.  There  is  no 
action  nor  idea  that  does  not  present  the  thought  of  the 
good  he  would  have  done  me^  for  as  he  surpassed  me 
infinitely  in  every  talent  and  virtue,  so  did  he  in  the 
duties  of  friendship." 

A  severe  illness  of  a  few  days  carried  off  this  admir-  i5G3. 
able  friend.     Montaigne  recounts,   in  a  letter  to  his  fa-  Mtat. 
ther,  the  progress  of  the  malady,  and  his  death  bed;  and    ^^' 
nothing  can  be  more  affecting,  nor  better  prove  the  noble 
and  virtuous  qualities  of  both,  than  these  sad  hours  when 
the  one  prepared  to  die,  and  the  other  ministered  to  the 
dying.     This  loss  was  never  forgotten ;  and  we  find,  in 
the  journal  of  his  travels  in  Italy,  written  eighteen  years 
after,  an  observation,  that  he  fell  one  morning  into  so 
painful   a  reverie  concerning  M.  de  la  Boetie  that  his 
health  was  aflPected  by  it. 

Montaigne  married  at  the  age  of  thirty-three :  he  mar- 
ried neither  from  wish  nor  choice.  "  Of  my  own  will," 
he  says,  ''  I  would  have  shunned  marrying  Wisdom  her- 
self, had  she  asked  me.  But  we  strive  in  vain  ;  custom, 
and  the  uses  of  common  life,  carry  us  away :  example, 
not  choice,  leads  ma  in  almost  all  my  actions.  In  this, 
truly,  I  did  not  go  of  my  own  accord,  but  was  led,  or 
carried,  by  extraneous  circumstances  ;  and  certainly  I 
was  then  less  prepared,  and  more  averse  than  now  that  I 
have  tried  it.  But  I  have  conducted  myself  better  than 
I  expected.  One  may  keep  one's  liberty  prudently  ;  but, 
when  once  one  has  entered  on  the  obligation,  one  must 
observe  the  laws  of  a  common  duty."  Montaigne  made, 
therefore,  a  good  husband,  though  not  enthusiastically 
attached,  and  a  good  father  —  indeed,  in  all  the  duties 
of  life,  he  acted  better  than  was  expected  of  him.  At 
his  death,  his  father  *  left  him  his  estate,  fancying  that  it 

•  He  displayed  his  affectionate  gratitude  towards  his  excellent  father  by 
a  tender  veneration  for  his  memory.      He  preserved  with  care  the  furni- 


10  LITERARY    ANI>    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

would  be  wasted  through  his  indolence  and  carelessness  ; 
but  Montaigne's  faults  were  negative;  and  he  easily- 
brought  himself  to  regard  his  income  as  the  limit  of  his 
expenses,  and  even  kept  within  it.  His  hatred  of  business 
and  trouble,  joined  to  sound  common  sense,  led  him  to 
understand  that  ease  could  be  best  attained  by  limiting 
his  desires  to  his  means,  and  by  the  degree  of  order  ne- 
sary  to  know  what  these  means  were ;  and  his  practice 
accorded  with  this  conclusion. 

Montaigne's  father  lived  to  old  age.  He  married  late  in 
life,  and  we  are  ignorant  of  the  date  of  his  death  ;  from 
that  period  Montaigne  himself  seems  to  have  hved  chiefly 
at  his  paternal  castle.  It  would  appear  that  he  was  at  that 
time  under  forty  * ;  and  henceforth  his  time  was,  to  a 
great  degree,  spent  in  domestic  society,  among  the  few 
books  he  loved,  writing  his  essays,  and  attending  to  the 
cares  that  wait  upon  property.  It  is  not  to  be  supposed, 
however,  that  he  lived  a  wholly  sedentary  and  inactive 
life.  Though  he  adhered  to  no  party,  and  showed  no 
enthusiasm  in  the  maintenance  of  his  opinions,  his  dis- 
position was  inquisitive  to  eagerness,  ardent  and  fiery. 
The  troubles  that  desolated  his  country  throughout  his 
life  fostered  the  activity  of  mind  of  which  his  writings 
are  so  full.  He  often  travelled  about  France,  and,  above 
all,  was  well  acquainted  with  Paris  and  the  court.  He 
loved  the  capital,  and  calls  himself  a  Frenchman  only 
through  his  love  of  Paris,  which  he  names  the  "glory  of 


ture  of  which  he  made  personal  use  ;  and  wore,  when  on  horseback,  the 
cloak  his  father  wore,  —  "  Not  for  comfort,"' he  says,  "but  pleasure  — 
methinks  1  wrap  myself  in  him." 

*  In  one  of  his  early  essays,  he  says,  "  Exactly  fifteen  days  ago  I  com- 
pleted my  thirty-ninth  year"  (liv.  i.  chap.  19.)  ;  and  in  a  former  one  he 
says, "  Having  lately  retired  to  my  own  residence,  resolved,  as  well  as  1  can, 
to  trouble  myself  with  nothing  but  how  to  pass  in  repose  what  of  life  is  left 
to  me,  it  api>eared  to  me  that  I  could  not  do  better  than  to  allow  my  mind, 
in  full  idlene.ss,  to  discourse  with  itself,  and  repose  in  itself,  which  I  hoped 
it  would  easily  do,  having  l>ecome  slower  and  riper  with  time  ;  but  1  find, 
on  the  contrary,  that,  like  a  runaway  horse,  it  takes  a  far  swifter 
course  for  itself  than  it  would  for  another,  and  brings  forth  so  many  fan- 
tastic and  chimerical  ide;is,  one  after  the  other,  without  order  or  end, 
that,  for  the  sake  of  contemplating  their  folly  and  strangeness  at  my  ease, 
I  have  yeeolved  to  put  them  down,  hoping  in  time  to  make  it  ashamed  of 
itself."    ■' 


MONTAIGNE.  It 

France,  and  one  of  the  noblest  ornaments  of  the  world. 
He  attended  the  courts  at  the  same  time  of  the  famous 
duke  de  Guise  and  the  king  of  Navarre,  afterwards 
Henry  IV.  He  had  predicted  that  the  death  of  one  or 
the  other  of  these  princes  could  alone  put  an  end  to  the 
civil  war,  and  even  foresaw  the  likelihood  there  was  that 
Henry  of  Navarre  should  change  his  rehgion.  He  was 
at  Blois  when  the  duke  de  Guise  was  assassinated ;  but 
that  event  took  place  long  subsequent  to  the  period  of 
which  we  at  present  write. 

During  his  whole  life  civil  war  raged  between  ca- 
tholic and  huguenot.  Montaigne,  attached  to  the  kingly 
and  cathohc  party,  abstained,  however,  from  mingling  in 
the  mortal  struggles  going  on.*  Yet  sometimes  they  in- 
truded on  his  quiet,  and  he  was  made  to  feel  the  disturb- 
ances that  desolated  his  country.  It  is  a  strange  thing  to 
picture  France  divided  into  two  parties,  belonging  to  which 
were  men  who  risked  all  for  the  dearest  privilege  of  life, 
freedom  of  thought  and  faith  ;  and  were  either  forced,  or 
fancied  that  they  were  forced,  to  expose  life  and  property 
to  attain  it ;  and  to  compare  these  religionists  in  arms  with 
the  tranquil  philosopher,  who  dissected  human  nature  in 
his  study,  and  sounded  the  very  depths  of  all  our  know- 
ledge in  freedom  and  ease,  because  he  abstained  from 
certain  watchwords,  and  had  no  desire  for  proselytes  or 
popular  favour.  "  I  regard  our  king,"  he  says,  "  with  a 
mere  legitimate  and  political  affection,  neither  attracted 
nor  repelled  by  private  interest ;  and  in  this  I  am  satisfied 
with  myself.  In  the  same  way  I  am  but  moderately  and 
tranquilly  attached  to  the  general  cause,  and  am  not  sub- 
ject to  entertain  opinions  in  a  deep-felt  and  enthusiastic 
manner.  Let  Montaigne,  if  it  must,  be  swallowed  up 
in  the  pubUc  ruin ;  but,  if  there  is  no  necessity,  I  shall 
be  thankful  to  fortune  to  save  it.  I  treat  both  parties 
equally,  and  say  nothing  to  one  that  I  could  not  say  to 
the  other,  with  the  accent  only  a  little  changed ;  and 
there  is  no  motive  of  utihty  that  could  induce  me  to  lie." 

*  One  of  his  reasons  for  abstaining  from  attacking  the  huguenots, 
may  be  foiind  in  the  circumstance  that  one  of  his  brothers,  M.  de  Beaure- 
gard, had  been  converted  to  the  reformed  religion. 


12  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

This  moderation^  on  system,  of  course  led  him,  in  his 
heart,  to  be  inimical  to  the  reformers.  "  They  seek 
reformation,"  he  says,  in  the  worst  of  destructions,  and 
aim  at  salvation  by  the  exact  modes  in  which  we  are 
sure  to  reap  damnation  ;  and  think  to  aid  divine  justice 
and  humanity  by  overturning  law  and  the  rulers,  under 
whose  care  God  has  placed  them,  tearing  their  mother 
.  (the  church)  to  pieces,  to  give  portions  to  be  gnawed  by 
her  ancient  enemies,  hlling  their  country  with  paricidal 
hatreds."  This  is  no  lofty  view  of  the  great  and  holy 
work  of  reformation,  the  greatest  and  (however  stained 
by  crime,  the  effect  of  the  most  cruel  persecutions) 
the  most  beneficent  change  operated  in  modern  times 
in  human  institutions.  Montaigne  goes  on  :  —  "  The 
people  suffered  greatly  then,  both  for  the  present  and 
the  future,  from  the  devastation  of  the  country.  I 
suffered  worse,  for  I  encountered  all  those  injuries  which 
moderation  brings  during  such  troubles — I  was  pillaged 
by  all  parties.  The  situation  of  my  house,  and  my  al- 
liance with  my  neighbours,  gave  me  one  appearance,  my 
hfe  and  actions  another;  no  formal  accusations  were 
made,  for  they  could  get  no  hold  against  me  ;  but  mute 
suspicion  was  secretly  spread.  A  thousand  injuries  were 
done  me  one  after  another,  which  I  could  have  borne 
better  had  they  come  altogether." 

His  mode  of  preserving  his  castle  from  pillage  -was 
very  characteristic.  "  Defence,"  he  says,  "  attracts 
enterprise,  and  fear  instigates  injury.  I  weakened  the 
ardour  of  the  soldiery  by  taking  from  their  exploit  all 
risk  or  matter  for  military  glory,  which  usually  served 
them  as  an  excuse  :  what  is  done  with  danger  is  always 
honourable  at  those  periods  when  the  course  of  justice 
is  suspended.  I  rendered  the  conquest  of  my  house 
cowardly  and  treacherous  ;  it  was  shut  against  no  one 
who  knocked ;  a  porter  was  its  only  guard,  an  ancient 
usage  and  ceremony,  and  which  did  not  serve  so  much  to 
defend  my  abode  as  to  offer  an  easier  and  more  gracious 
entrance.  1  had  no  centinel  but  that  which  the  stars  kept 
for  me.    A  gentleman  does  wrong  to  appear  in  a  state  of 


MONTAIGNE.  13 

defence  who  is  not  perfectly  so.  My  house  was  weJl 
fortified  when  built,  but  I  have  added  nothing,  fearing 
that  such  might  be  turned  against  myself.  So  many 
garrisoned  houses  being  taken  made  me  suspect  that 
they  were  lost  through  that  very  reason.  J  t  gave  cause  and 
desire  for  assault.  Every  guarded  door  looks  like  war.  If 
God  pleased  I  might  be  attacked,  but  I  would  not  call  on 
the  assailant.  It  is  my  retreat  wherein  to  repose  myself 
from  war.  I  endeavour  to  shelter  this  corner  from  the 
pubhc  storm,  as  also  another  corner  in  my  soul.  Our 
contest  vainly  changes  its  forms,  and  multiplies  and  diver- 
sifies itself  in  various  parties — I  never  stir.  Among  so 
many  armed  houses,  I  alone,  in  France,  I  believe,  con- 
fided mine  to  the  protection  of  Heaven  only,  and  have 
never  removed  either  money,  or  plate,  or  title-deed,  or 
tapestry.  1  was  resolved  neither  to  fear  nor  to  save 
myself  by  halves.  If  an  entire  gratitude  can  acquire  di- 
vine favour,  I  shall  enjoy  it  to  the  end;  if  not,  I  have 
gone  on  long  enough  to  render  my  escape  remarkable  ;  it 
has  lasted  now  thirty  years."  And  he  preserved  his  phi- 
losophy through  all.  "  I  write  this,"  he  says,  in  one  of 
his  essays,  '^  at  a  moment  when  the  worst  of  our  troubles 
are  gathering  about  me  ;  the  enemy  is  at  my  gates,  and 
I  endure  all  sorts  of  military  outrage  at  once."  He  gives 
an  interesting  account  of  how,  on  one  occasion,  by  pre- 
sence of  mind  and  self-possession,  he  saved  his  castle. 
A  certain  leader,  bent  on  taking  it  and  him,  resolved  to 
surprise  him.  He  came  alone  to  the  gate  and  begged  to 
be  let  in.  Montaigne  knew  him,  and  thought  he  could 
rely  on  him  as  his  neighbour,  though  not  as  his  friend : 
he  caused  his  door  to  be  opened  to  him  as  to  every  one. 
The  visitant  came  in  a  hurried  manner,his  horse  panting, 
and  said  that  he  had  encountered  the  enemy,  who  pursued 
him,  and  he  being  unarmed,  and  with  fewer  men  about 
him,  he  had  taken  shelter  at  Montaigne's,  and  was  in  great 
trouble  about  his  people,  whom  he  feared  were  either 
taken  or  killed.  Montaigne  believed  the  tale  and  tried 
to  reassure  and  comfort  him.  Presently  five  or  six  of 
his  followers,  wuth  the  same  appearance  of  terror,  pre- 


f.^' 


14  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

sented  themselves  ;  and  then  more  and  more^  to  as  many 
as  thirty,  well  equipped  and  armed,  pretending  that  they 
were  pursued  by  the  enemy.  Montaigne's  suspicions 
•were  at  last  awakened ;  but  finding  that  he  must  go  on  as 
he  had  begun,  or  break  out  altogether,  he  betook  himself 
to  what  seemed  to  him  the  easiest  and  most  natural  course, 
and  ordered  all  to  be  admitted;  '^  being,"  he  says,  "a  man 
who  gladly  commits  himself  to  fortune,  and  believing  that 
we  fail  in  not  confiding  sufficiently  in  Heaven."  The 
soldiers  having  entered  remained  in  the  court  yard — their 
chief,  with  his  host,  being  in  the  hall,  he  not  having  per- 
mitted his  horse  to  be  put  up,  saying  he  should  go  the 
moment  his  people  arrived.  He  now  saw  himself  master 
of  his  enterprise,  —  the  execution  alone  remained.  He 
often  said  afterwards — for  he  did  not  fear  to  tell  the  tale 
— that  Montaigne's  frankness  and  composure  had  disarmed 
his  treachery.  He  remounted  his  horse  and  departed, 
while  his  people,  who  kept  their  eyes  continually  upon 
him  to  see  if  he  gave  the  signal,  were  astonished  to  be- 
hold him  ride  off  and  abandon  his  advantage. 

On  another  occasion,  confiding  in  some  truce,  he  under- 
took a  journey,  and  was  seized  by  about  thirty  gentlemen, 
masked,  as  was  the  custom  then,  followed  by  a  little  army 
of  arquebussiers.  Being  taken,  he  was  led  into  the 
forest  and  despoiled  of  his  effects,  which  were  valuable, 
and  high  ransom  demanded.  He  refused  any,  contending 
for  the  maintenance  of  the  truce ;  but  this  plea  was  re- 
jected, and  they  were  ordered  to  be  marched  away.  He  did 
not  know  his  enemies,  nor,  apparently,did  they  know  him; 
and  he  and  his  people  were  being  led  off  as  prisoners,  when 
suddenly  a  change  took  place:  the  chief  addressed  him  in 
mild  terms,  caused  all  his  effects  to  be  collected  and  re- 
stored, and  the  whole  party  set  at  hberty.  "  The  true 
cause  of  so  sudden  a  change,"  says  Montaigne,  ''  ope- 
rated without  any  apparent  cause,  and  of  repentance  in 
a  purpose  then  through  use  held  just,  I  do  not  even  now 
know.  The  chief  among  them  unmasked,  and  told  his 
name,  and  several  times  afterwards  said  that  I  owed  my 
deliverance  to  my  composure,  to  the  courage  and  firm- 


MONTAIGNE.  1 5 

ness  of  my  words,  which  made  me  seem  worthy  of  better 
treatment." 

As  Montaigne  advanced  in  life  he  lost  his  health. 
The  stone,  which  he  believed  he  inherited  from  his 
father,  and  painful  nephritic  colics  that  seized  him  at 
intervals,  put  his  philosophy  to  the  test.  He  would  not 
allow  his  illnesses  to  disturb  the  usual  tenor  of  his  life, 
and,  above  all,  refused  medical  aid,  having  also  inhe- 
rited, he  says,  from  his  father  a  contempt  for  physicians. 
There  was  a  natural  remedy,  however,  by  which  he 
laid  store,  one  much  in  favour  at  all  times  on  the  con- 
tinent —  mineral  and  thermal  springs.  The  desire  to 
try  these,  as  well  as  a  wish  to  quit  for  a  time  his  trou- 
bled country,  and  the  sight  of  all  the  misery  multi- 
plying around  him,  caused  him  to  make  a  journey  to 
Italy.  His  love  of  novelty  and  of  seeing  strange 
things  sharpened  his  taste  for  travelling ;  and,  as  a 
slighter  motive,  he  was  glad  to  throw  household  cares 
aside  ;  for,  though  the  pleasures  of  command  were  some- 
thing, he  received  perpetual  annoyances  from  the  in- 
digence and  sufferings  of  his  tenants,  or  the  quarrels  of 
his  neighbours  :  to  travel  was  to  get  rid  of  all  this  at 
once. 

Of  course,  his  mode  of  proceeding  was  peculiar :  he 
had  a  particular  dislike  to  coaches  or  litters,  —  even  a 
boat  was  not  quite  to  his  mind ;  and  he  only  really 
liked  travelling  on  horseback.  Then  he  let  every  whim 
sway  him  as  to  the  route :  it  gave  him  no  annoyance  to 
go  out  of  his  way  :  if  the  road  was  bad  to  the  right,  he 
took  to  the  left :  if  he  felt  too  unwell  to  mount  his 
horse,  he  remained  where  he  was  till  he  got  better:  if  he 
found  he  had  passed  by  any  thing  that  he  wished  to  see, 
he  turned  back.  On  the  present  occasion  his  mode  of 
travelling  was,  as  usual,  regulated  by  convenience : 
hired  vehicles  carried  the  luggage  while  he  proceeded 
on  horseback.  He  was  accompanied  by  several  friends, 
and,  among  others,  by  his  brother,  M.  de  Mattecoulon. 
Montaigne  had  the  direction  of  the  Journey.  We  have 
a  journal  of  it,  partly  written  in  his  own  hand,  partly 


l6  LITERARY    AND    SCiKNTIFIC    WEN. 

dictated  to  his  valet,  who,  though  he  speaks  of  his 
master  in  the  third  person,  evidently  wrote  only  the 
words  dictated.  This  work,  discovered  many  years 
after  MontaiiiMie's  death,  never  copied  nor  corrected,  is 
singularly  interesting.  It  seems  to  tell  us  more  of  Mon- 
taigne than  the  Essays  themselves  :  or,  rather,  it  contirms 
much  said  in  those,  by  relating  many  things  omitted,  and 
throws  a  new  light  on  various  portions  of  his  character. 
For  instance,  we  find  that  the  eager  curiosity  of  his 
mind  led  him  to  inquire  into  the  tenets  of  the  protestants; 
and  that,  at  the  Swiss  towns,  he  was  accustomed,  on 
arriving,  to  seek  out  with  all  speed  some  theologian, 
whom  he  invited  to  dinner,  and  from  whom  he  in- 
quired the  peculiar  tenets  of  the  various  sects.  There 
creeps  out,  also,  an  almost  unphilosophical  dislike  of  his 
own  country,  springing  from  the  miserable  state  into 
which  civil  war  had  brought  it.* 
j^gQ_  The  party  set  off  from  the  castle  of  Montaigne  on  the 
*^tat.  22d  of  June,  1580  :  they  proceeded  through  the  north- 
47.  east  of  France  to  Plombieres,  where  Montaigne  took  the 
waters,  and  then  went  on  by  Basle^  Baden,  in  the 
canton  of  Zurich,  to  Constance,  Augsburgh,  Munich, 
and  Trent.  It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  he  went  to 
these  places  in  a  right  line :  he  often  changed  his 
mind  when  half  way  to  a  town,  and  came  back  ;  so  that 
at  last  his  zigzag  mode  of  proceeding  rendered  several  of 
his  party  restive.  They  remonstrated ;  but  he  rephed, 
that,  for  his  own  part,  he  was  bound  to  no  place  but  that 
in  which  he  was;  and  that  he  could  not  go  out  of  his 
way,  since  his  only  object  was  to  wander  in  unknown 
places ;  and  so  that  he  never  followed  the  same  road 
twice,  nor  visited  the  same  place  twice,  his  scheme 
was  accomplished.     If,   indeed,    he  had    been    alone, 

*  "  M.  de  Montaigne  trouvoit  k  dire  trois  choses  en  son  voiage :  I'un  qu'il 
n'eut  raene  un  cuisinier  pour  I'instruire  de  leurs/apons,  et  en  poiivoir  un 
jour  faire  'a  jireuve  chez  lui ;  I'autre  qu'il  n'avait  mene  un  valet  Allemand, 
on  n'avait  cherclie  la  coinpagnie  de  queique  gentilhoinme  du  pais,  car 
de  vivre  a  la  merci  d'un  belitre  de  guide  il  y  sentoit  une  grande  incommo- 
dite ;  la  tierce  qu'  avant  taire  le  voyage  il  n'avait  vcu  les  livrcfi  qui  le 

r)uvoint  avertir,  des  choses  rarcs  ct  reinarquablcs  de  chaque  lieu.  11  meloli 
la  verite  a  son  jugement  un  peu  de  passion  de  mepris  de  son  pais,  qu'it 
avail  h  haine  et  a  contre-cceur  jjour  auties  considerations." 


MONTAIGNE.  17 

he  had  prohably  gone  towards  Cracovia,  or  over- 
land to  Greece,  instead  of  to  Italy;  but  he  could  not 
impart  the  pleasure  he  took  in  seeing  strange  places, 
which  was  such  as  to  cause  him  to  forget  ill  health 
and  suffering,  to  any  other  of  his  party  :  they  only 
sought  to  arrive  where  they  could  repose  ;  he,  when 
he  rose  after  a  painful  uneasy  night,  felt  gay  and 
eager  when  he  remembered  that  he  was  in  a  strange 
town  and  country ;  and  was  never  so  little  weary, 
nor  complained  so  little  of  his  sufferings,  having  his 
mind  always  on  the  stretch  to  find  novelties  and  to  con- 
verse with  strangers ;  for  nothing,  he  says,  hurt  his 
health  so  much  as  indolence  and  ennui. 

With  all  his  windings,  after  he  had  visited  Venice, 
which  ''  he  had  a  hunger  to  see,"  he  found  himself  in 
Rome  on  the  last  day  of  November,  having  the  previous 
morning  risen  at  three  hours  before  daylight  in  his 
haste  to  behold  the  eternal  city.  Here  he  had  food  in 
plenty  for  his  inquiring  mind  ;  and,  getting  tired  of  his 
guide,  rambled  about,  finding  out  remarkable  objects 
alone;  making  his  shrewd  remarks,  and  trying  to  discover 
those  ancient  spots  with  which  his  mind  was  familiar. 
For  Latin  being  his  mother-tongue,  and  Latin  books  his 
primers,  he  was  more  familiar  with  Roman  history 
than  with  that  of  France,  and  the  names  of  the  Scipios 
and  Metelli  were  less  of  strangers  to  his  ear  than  those 
of  many  Frenchmen  of  his  own  day.  He  was  well 
received  by  the  pope,  who  was  eager  to  be  courteous  to 
any  man  of  talent  and  rank  who  would  still  abide  by  the 
old  religion.  Montaigne,  before  he  set  out,  had  printed 
two  books  of  his  "  Essays  : "  these  were  taken  at  the 
custom-house  and  underwent  a  censorship  :  several 
faults  were  found  —  that  he  had  used  the  word  fortune 
improperly  ;  that  he  cited  heretical  poets ;  that  he 
found  excuses  for  the  emperor  Julian ;  that  he  had 
said  that  a  man  must  of  necessity  be  exempt  from 
vicious  inclinations  while  in  the  act  of  prayer  ;  that  he 
regarded  all  tortuous  modes  of  capital  punishment  as 
cruel ;  that  he  said  that  a  child  ought  to  be  brought  up 

VOL.  IV.  c 


18  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC   MEN. 

to   do   every  thing.      Montaigne  took  this  fault-finding 
very  quietly,  saying  that  he  had  put  these  things  down  as 
'■'being  his  opinions,  and  without  supposing  that  they  were 
errors  ;  and  that  sometimes   the   censor  had  mistaken 
his   meaning.      Accordingly,   these   censures   were   not 
insisted  upon  ;   and  when  he  left  Rome,  and  took  leav© 
of  the   prelate,  who  had  discoursed  with  him    on   the 
subject,  he  begged  him   not  to   pay  any  regard  to  the 
censure,  which  was  a  mistaken  one,  since  they  honoured 
his    intentions,   his  affection   for   the  church,   and  his 
talents ;  and  so  esteemed  his   frankness  and  conscien- 
tiousness, that  they  left  it  to  him  to  make  any  needful 
alterations  in  another  edition  :  and  they  ended  by  begging 
him   to   assist   the  church  with  his   eloquence,  and   to 
remain  at  Rome,  away  from  the  troubles   of  his  native 
15S1.  country.     Montaigne  was  much  flattered  by  this  cour- 
JEtat.  {.ggy^  g^^j  much  more  so  by  a  bull  being  issued  which 
*     conferred  on  him  the  citizenship  of  Rome,  pompous  in 
seals  and  golden  letters,  and  gracious  in  its  expressions. 
Nothing,  he   tells  us,  ever  pleased  him  more  than  this 
honour,   empty  as  it  might  seem,  and  had  employed  to 
obtain  it,  he  says,  alibis  five  senses,  for  the  sake  of  the 
ancient  glory  and  present  holiness  of  the  city. 

The  descriptions  which  he  gives  of  Rome,  of  the  pope, 
and  all  he  saw,  are  short,  but  drawn  with  a  master's  hand 
— graphic,  original,  and  just ;  and  such  is  the  unaltered 
appearance  of  the  eternal  city,  that  his  pages  describe  it  as 
it  now  is,  with  as  much  fidelity  as  they  did  when  he  saw  it 
in  the  sixteenth  century.  Its  gardens  and  pleasure- 
grounds  delighted  him  ;  the  air  seemed  to  him  the  most 
agreeable  he  had  ever  felt ;  and  the  perpetual  excitement 
of  inquiry  in  which  he  lived,  his  visits  to  antiquities,  and 
to  various  beautiful  and  memorable  spots,  delighted  him; 
and  neither  at  home  jior  abroad  was  he  once  visited  by 
gloom  or  melancholy,  which  he  calls  his  death. 

On  the  1 9th  of  April  he  left  Home,  and  passing  by  the 
eastern  road,  and  the  shores  of  the  Adriatic,  he  visited 
Loretto,  where  he  displayed  his  piety  by  presenting  a 
silver  tablet,  on  which  were  hung  four  silver  figures, — 


MONTAIGNE.  IQ 

that  of  the  vii-gin,  v/ith  those  of  himself,  his  wife,  and 
their  only  child,  Eleanor,  on  their  knees  before  her ;  and 
performed  various  religious  duties,  which  prove  the 
sincerity  of  his  catholic  faith.  In  the  month  of  May  he 
arrived  at  the  baths  of  Lucca,  where  he  repaired  for  the 
sake  of  the  waters.  He  took  up  his  abode  at  the  Bagni 
di  Villa,  and  with  the  exception  of  a  short  interval,  during 
which  he  visited  Florence  and  Pisa,  he  remained  till 
September,  when,  on  the  7th  of  that  month,  he  received 
letters  to  inform  him  that  he  had  been  elected  mayor  of 
Bordeaux, —  a  circumstance  which  forced  him  to  hasten 
his  return  ;  but  he  did  not  leave  Italy  without  again  visit- 
ing Rome.  His  journey  home  during  winter,  although 
rendered  painful  by  physical  suffering,  was  yet  tortuous 
and  wandering  among  the  northern  Italian  towns.  He 
re-entered  France  by  Mont  Cenis,  and,  visiting  Lyons, 
continued  his  route  through  Auvergne  and  Perigord,  till 
he  arrived  at  the  chateau  de  Montaigne. 

Montaigne,  though  flattered  by  the  unsought  for 
election  of  the  citizens  of  Bordeaux,  the  more  so  that 
his  father  had  formerly  been  elected  to  that  office,  yet, 
from  ill  health  and  natural  dishke  to  public  employ- 
ments, would  have  excused  himself,  had  not  the  king 
interposed  with  his  commands.  He  represented  himself 
to  his  electors  such  as  he  conceived  himself  to  be, — 
without  party-spirit,  memory,  diligence,  or  experience. 
Many,  indeed,  in  the  sequel  considered  him  too  indolent 
in  the  execution  of  the  duties  of  his  office,  while  he 
deemed  his  negative  merits  as  deserving  praise,  at  a 
period  when  France  was  distracted  by  the  dissensions 
of  contending  factions  :  the  citizens,  probably,  entertained 
the  same  opinion,  since  he  was  re-elected  at  the  end  of 
the  two  years,  when  his  office  expired,  to  serve  two 
years  more. 

Montaigne's  was  a  long-lived  family  ;  but  he  attained 
no  great  age,  and  his  latter  years  were  disturbed  by 
great  suffering.  Living  in  frequent  expectation  of  death, 
he  was  always  prepared  for  it, — his  affairs  being  ar- 
ranged, and  he  ready  to  fulfil  all  the  last  pious  catholic 
c  2 


20  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN, 

duties  as  soon  as  he  felt  himself  attacked  by  any  of  the  fre- 
quent fevers  to  which  he  was  subject.  One  of  the  last 
events  of  his  life  was  his  friendship  with  mademoiselle 
Marie  de  Gournay  le  Jars,  a  young  person  of  great  merit, 
and  afterwards  esteemed  one  of  the  most  learned  and 
excellent  ladies  of  the  day ;  and  honoured  by  the  abuse 
of  pedants,  who  attacked  her  personal  appearance  and 
her  age,  in  revenge  for  her  transcending  even  their  sex 
in  accomplishments  and  understanding :  while,  on  the 
other  hand,  she  was  regarded  with  respect  and  friend- 
1^85.  ship  by  the  first  men  of  her  time.  She  was  very 
^tat.  young  when  Montaigne  first  saw  her,  which  happened 
^^-  during  a  long  visit  he  made  to  Paris,  after  his  mayor- 
ship at  Bordeaux  was  ended.  Having  conceived  an 
enthusiastic  love  and  admiration  of  him  from  reading 
his  essays,  she  called  on  him,  and  requested  his  acquaint- 
ance. He  visited  her  and  her  mother  at  their  chateau 
de  Gournay,  and  allied  himself  to  her  by  adopting  her 
as  his  daughter,  and  entertaining  for  her  a  warm  af- 
fection and  esteem.  His  picture  of  her  is  not  only 
delightful,  as  a  testimony  of  the  merits  of  this  young 
lady*,  but  a  proof  of  the  unfaiHng  enthusiasm  and 
warmth  of  his  own  heart,  which,  even  in  suffering  and 
decay,  eagerly  allied  itself  to  kindred  merit. 

The  illness  of  which  he  died  was  a  quinsey,  that 
brought  on  a  paralysis  of  the  tongue.  His  presence  of 
mind  and  philosophy  did  not.  desert  him  at  the  end  :  he 
is  said,  as  one  of  his  last  acts,  to  have  risen  from  his 
bed,  and,  opening  his  cabinet,  to  have  paid  his  servants 

•  "  J'ai  pris  plaisir  de  publier  en  plusieurs  Jieux  I'esperance  que  j'ai  de 
Marie  de  Gournay  le  Jars,  ma  fille  d'alliance,  et  certes  aiinee  de  rnoi  beau- 
coup  plus  que  paternellement.et  eiivellopee  en  ma  retraite  et  solitude  comme 
I'une  des  meillieures  parties  de  mon  propre  estre  :  je  ne  regarde  plus 
qu'elle  au  monde.  Si  Tadolescence  peut  donner  presage,  cette  alme  sera 
quelque  jour  capable  des  plus  belles  choses,  et  enlre  autre  de  la  perfection 
de  cette  tressaiiite  amitie,  ou  nous  ne  lisons  point  que  son  sexe  ayt  peu 
monter  encores  :  la  sincerite  et  la  solidite  de  scs  mopurs  y  sont  deji  bas- 
«  tantes  ;  son  affection  vers  moi,  plus  que  surrabondante,  et  telle,  en  somme, 
qu'il  n'y  a  rien  a  souhaiter,  sinon  que  rapi)rehension  qu'elle  a  de  ma  fin 
par  les  cinquante  et  cinq  ans  auquels  elle  ma  rencontre,  la  travaillant 
moins  cruellement.  Le  jugement  qu'elle  I'ait  de  mes  premiers  Essais,  et 
femme,  et  si  jeune,  et  seule  en  son  quartier,  et  la  vehemence  t'ameuse  dont 
elle  m'aima  et  me  desira  longtemps,  sur  la  seule  estime  qu'elle  eu  prins 
do  moi,  longtemps  avant  mavoir  vue,  sout  des  accidens  de  tres  digne 
consideration." 


MONTAIGNE.  21 

and  other  legatees  the  legacies  he  had  left  them  by  will, 
foreseeing  that  his  heirs  might  raise  difficulties  on  the 
subject.  When  getting  worse,  and  unable  to  s-peak,  he 
wrote  to  his  wife  to  beg  her  to  send  for  some  gentle- 
men, his  neighbours,  to  be  with  him  at  his  last  moments. 
When  they  arrived,  he  caused  mass  to  be  celebrated  in 
his  chamber ;  at  the  moment  of  the  elevation  he  tried 
to  rise,  when  he  fell  back  fainting,  and  so  died,  on  the 
13th  of  September,  1592,  in  the  sixtieth  year  of  his  age. 
He  was  buried  at  Bordeaux,  in  a  church  of  the  com- 
mandery  of  St.  Anthony,  and  his  widow  raised  a  tomb 
to  his  memory. 

Montaigne  was  rather  short  of  stature,  strong,  and 
thick  set :  his  countenance  was  open  and  pleasing. 
He  enjoyed  good  health  till  the  age  of  forty-six,  when 
he  became  afflicted  by  the  stone.  Vivacious  as  a  Gascon, 
his  spirits  were  unequal, — but  he  hated  the  melancholy 
that  belonged  to  his  constitution,  and  his  chief  endeavour 
was  to  nourish  pleasing  sensations,  and  to  engage  his 
mind,  when  his  body  was  unemployed,  in  subjects  of 
speculation  and  inquiry. 

Of  three  daughters  who  had  been  born  to  him,  one, 
named Eleonora,  alone  survived.*  But  his  other  daughter 
by  adoption,  mademoiselle  de  Gournay,  deserved  also 
that  name,  by  the  honour  and  care  she  bestowed  on 
his  memory.  Immediately  on  his  decease,  the  widow 
and  her  daughter  invited  her  to  come  and  mourn  their 
loss  with  them  ;  and  she  crossed  all  France  to  Bor- 
deaux in  compliance  with  their  desire.  She  afterwards 
pubhshed  several  editions  of  his  "  Essays,"  which  she 
dedicated  to  the  cardinal  de  Richelieu,  and  accompanied 
by  a  preface,  in  which  she  ably  defended  the  work 
from  the  attacks  made  against  it.  This  preface,  though 
somewhat  heavy,  is  full  of  sound  reasoning,  and  dis- 
plays learning  and  acuteness,  and  completely  replies  to 
all  the  blame  ever  thrown  on  his  works. 

*  Eleonore  de  Montaigne  married  twice.  She  had  no  children  by  her 
first  marriage.  Her  second  husband  was  the  viscount  de  Gamache.  From 
this  marriage  the  counts  of  Segur  are  descended  in  the  female  line. 

c  3 


22  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

Montaigne's  "  Essays"  have  also  been  attacked  in 
modern  times.  It  requires  that  the  reader  should  possess 
some  similarity  to  the  author's  own  mind  to  enter  fully 
into  their  merits,  and  relish  their  discursive  style.  The 
profoundest  and  most  original  thinkers  have  ever  turned 
to  his  pages  with  delight.  His  skilful  anatomy  of  his  own 
mind  and  passions, —  his  enthusiasm,  clothed  as  it  is  in 
apparent  indifference,  which  only  renders  it  the  more 
striking,— his  Hvely  and  happy  descriptions  of  persons, 
— his  amusing  narratives  of  events,  —  his  happy  cita- 
tions of  ancient  authors,  —  and  the  whole  instinct  with 
individuality; —  perspicuity  of  style,  and  the  stamp  of 
good  faith  and  sincerity  that  reigns  throughout ;  —  these 
are  the  charms  and  merits  of  his  '^Essays," — a  work 
that  raises  him  to  the  rank  of  one  of  the  most  original 
and  admirable  writers  that  France  has  produced. 


23 
RABELAIS. 

1483—1553. 


Francis  Rabelais,  — "  the  great,  jester  of  France," 
as  he  is  designated  by  Lord  Bacon  ;  a  learned  scholar, 
physician,  and  philosopher,  as  he  appears  from  other 
and  eminent  testimonies,  —  was  one  of  the  most  remark- 
able persons  who  figured  in  the  revival  of  letters.  It  is 
his  fortune,  like  the  ancient  Hercules,  to  be  noted  with 
posterity  for  many  feats  to  which  he  was  a  stranger, — 
but  which  are  always  to  his  disadvantage.  The  gross 
buffooneries  amassed  by  him  in  his  nondescript  romance 
have  made  his  name  a  common  mark  for  any  extrava- 
gance or  impertinence  of  unknown  or  doubtful  parentage. 
The  purveyors  of  anecdotes  have  even  fixed  upon  him 
some  of  the  lazzi,  as  they  are  called,  which  may  be 
found  in  the  stage  directions  of  old  Italian  farce.  Those 
events  and  circumstances  of  his  life  which  are  really 
known,  or  deserving  of  behef,  may  be  given  within  a 
narrow  compass.  We,  of  course,  reject,  in  this  notice, 
all  that  would  offend  the  decencies  of  modern  and  better 
taste. 

Rabelais  was  born  at  Chinon,  a  small  town  of  Tou- 
raine.  The  date  of  his  birth  is  not  ascertained  ;  but 
the  generally  received  opinion  of  his  death,  at  the  age 
of  70,  in  1553,  would  place  his  birth  in  1483.  There 
is  the  same  uncertainty  respecting  the  condition  of  his 
father ;  whether  that  of  an  innkeeper  or  apothecary.  His 
predilection  for  the  study  of  medicine  favours  the  latter 
supposition,  whilst  the  imputed  habits  of  his  life  coun- 
tenance the  former.  If,  however,  he  was  really  aban- 
doned to  intemperance,  as  he  is  represented  by  his 
adversaries,  who  were  many  and  unscrupulous,  it  may, 
with  equal  propriety,  be  charged  to  his  monastic  educa- 
c  4 


Si  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

tion,  at  a  time  when  cloisters  were  the  chosen  seats  of 
debauchery  and  ignorance. 

He  received  his  lirst  rudiments  at  the  convent  of  Se- 
ville^  near  his  native  town,  where  his  progress  was  so 
slow  that  he  was  removed  to  another  in  Angiers.  Here 
also  his  career  seemed  mipromising ;  and  the  only  ad- 
vantage he  derived  was  that  of  becoming  known  to  the 
brothers  Du  Bellay,  one  of  whom,  afterwards  bishop  of 
Paris  and  cardinal,  Avas  his  patron  and  friend  through  life. 

From  Angiers  he  passed  to  a  convent  of  cordeliers 
at  Fontenaye-le-Compte,  in  Poitou.  He  now  applied 
himself,  for  the  first  time,  to  the  cultivation  of  his 
talents,  but  under  circumstances  the  most  unfavourable. 
The  cordeliers  of  Fontenaye-le-Compte  had  no  library, 
or  notion  of  its  use.  Rabelais  assumed  the  habit  of  St. 
Francis,  distinguished  himself  by  his  preaching,  and 
employed  what  he  received  for  his  sermons  and  masses 
in  providing  himself  with  books.  The  animosity  of  his 
brother  monks  was  excited  against  him  :  they  envied 
and  hated  him,  for  his  success  as  a  preacher,  and  for  his 
superior  attainments  ; — but  his  great  and  crying  sin  in 
their  eyes  was  his  knowledge  of  Greek,  the  study  of 
which  they  denounced  as  an  unholy  and  forbidden  art. 
This  was  perfectly  consistent :  they  were  content  with 
Latin  enough  to  give  them  an  imposing  air  with  the 
multitude  ;  some  did  not  knoAV  even  so  much,  and,  in- 
stead of  a  breviary,  carried  a  wine  flask  exactly  resem- 
bling it  in  exterior  form. 

His  brother  monks  annoyed  and  harassed  Rabelais 
by  all  the  modes  which  malice,  ignorance,  and  numbers 
can  employ  against  an  individual,  and  in  a  convent. 
The  learned  Budeus  *,  alluding  to  the  persecutions  which 
he  was  suffering,  says,  in  one  of  his  letters,  "  I  under- 
stand that  Rabelais  is  grievously  annoyed  and  persecuted, 
by  those  enemies  of  all  that  is  elegant  and  graceful,  for 
his  ardour  in  the  study  of  Greek  literature.  Oh  !  evil 
infatuation  of  men  whose  minds  are  so  dull  and  stupid ! " 
They  at  last  condemned  him  to  live  in  pace ;  that  is 

*  Guillaume  Bude. 


RABELAIS.  25 

to  linger  out  the  remainder  of  his  life,,  on  bread  and 
water^  in  the  prison  cell  of  the  convent. 

The  causCj  or  the  pretence,  of  Rabelais's  being  thus 
buried  alive,  is  described  as  ''  a  scandalous  adventure ;" 
but  differently  related.  According  to  some  the  scandal 
consisted  jn  his  disfiguring,  by  way  of  frolic,  in  concert 
with  another  young  cordelier,  the  image  of  their  patron 
saint.  Others  state,  that  on  the  festival  of  St.  Francis 
he  removed  the  image  of  the  saint,  and  took  its  place. 
Having  taken  precautions  to  bear  out  the  imposture,  he 
escaped  detection,  until  tlie  grotesque  devotions  of  the 
multitude,  and  the  rogueries  of  the  monks,  overcame  his 
gravity,  and  he  laughed.  The  simple  people,  seeing 
the  image  of  the  saint,  as  they  supposed  it,  move,  ex- 
claimed, "  A  miracle  ! "  but  the  monks,  who  knew  better, 
dismissed  the  laity,  made  their  false  brother  descend 
from  his  niche,  and  gave  him  the  disciphne,  with  their 
hempen  cords,  until  his  blood  appeared.  We  will  not 
decide  which,  or  whether  either,  of  these  versions  be 
true;  but  it  is  certain  that  he  was  condemned,  as  we 
have  said,  to  soUtary  confinement  for  life  in  the  prison 
ceU. 

Fortunately  for  him,  his  wit,  gaiety,  and  acquire- 
ments had  made  him  friends  who  were  powerful  enough 
to  obtain  his  release.  These  were  the  Du  Bellays 
already  mentioned,  and  Andre  Tiraqueau,  chief  judge  of 
the  province,  to  whom  one  of  Rabelais's  Latin  letters  is 
addressed  ;  —  a  man  of  learning,  it  would  appear,  and  an 
upright  judge.  The  letter  is  addressed,  ''  Andreo  Tira- 
quello,  equissimo  judici,  apud  Pictones,"  and  commences 
*'  Tiraquelle  doctissime."  Their  influence  obtained  not 
only  his  liberty,  but  the  pope's  (Clement  VII.)  Hcence  to 
pass  from  the  cordeliers  of  Fontenaye-le-Compte,  to  a 
convent  of  Benedictines  at  Maillezieux  in  the  same  pro- 
vince. This  latter  order  has  been  distinguished  for 
learning,  and  deserves  respectful  and  grateful  mention 
for  its  share  in  the  preservation  of  the  classic  remains  of 
antiquity.  It  was,  no  doubt,  more  agreeable,  or  less  dis- 
agreeable, to  Rabelais  than  that  which  he  had  left ;  but 


26  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

wholly  disgusted  with  the  monastic  life,  he  soon  threw 
off  the  frock  and  cowl,  left  the  convent  of  his  own  will 
and  pleasure,  without  licence  or  dispensation  from  his 
superiors,  and  for  some  time  led  a  wandering  hfe  as  a 
secular  priest. 

We  next  find  him  divested  wholly  of  the  sacerdotal 
character;  and  studying  medicine  at  MontpeHer.  The 
date  of  this  transition,  as  too  frequently  happens  in  the 
hfe  of  Rabelais,  cannot  be  determined.  He,  however, 
pursued  his  studies,  took  his  successive  degrees  of 
bachelor,  licentiate,  and  doctor,  and  was,  after  some 
time,  appointed  a  professor.  He  lectured,  it  appears 
from  his  letters  of  a  subsequent  date,  chiefly  on  the 
works  of  Hippocrates  and  Galen.  His  superior  know- 
ledge of  the  Greek  language  enabled  him  to  correct  the 
faults  of  omission,  falsification,  and  interpolation,  com- 
mitted by  former  translators  of  Hippocrates;  and  he 
executed  this  task,  he  says,  by  the  most  careful  and  minute 
collation  of  the  text  with  the  best  copies  of  the  original. 
''  If  this  be  a  fault,"  says  he,  speaking  of  preceding 
mistranslations,  "  in  other  books,  it  is  a  crime  in  books 
of  medicine  ;  for  in  these  the  addition  or  omission  of  the 
least  word,  the  misplacing  even  of  a  point,  compromises 
the  lives  of  thousands."  Accordingly,  his  edition  of 
Hippocrates,  subsequently  published  by  him  at  Lyons, 
has  been  highly  prized  by  physicians  and  scholars. 

Rabelais  had  less  difficulty  in  restoring  and  elucidat- 
ing the  text,  than  in  bringing  into  practice  the  better 
medical  system  of  the  father  of  the  art.  He  complains, 
in  his  Latin  epistle  to  Tiraqueau,  at  some  length,  but 
in  substance,  that  though  the  age  boasted  many  learned 
and  enlightened  men,  yet  the  multitude  was  in  worse 
than  Cimmerian  darkness — the  many  so  besotted  by  the 
errors,  however  gross,  which  they  had  first  imbibed,  and 
by  the  books,  however  absurd,  which  they  had  first  read, 
as  to  seem  irremediably  blind  to  reason  and  truth  — 
cUnging  to  ignorance  and  absurdity,  like  those  ship- 
wrecked persons  who  trust  to  a  beam  or  a  rag  of  the 
vessel  which  had  split,  instead  of  making  an  effort  them- 


RABELAIS.  27 

selves  to  swim,  and  finding  out  their  mistake  only  when 
they  are  hopelessly  sinking.  —  Mountebanks  and  astro- 
logers (he  adds)  were  preferred  to  learned  physicians^ 
even  by  the  great. 

But  his  capacity  and  zeal  were  held  in  just  estima- 
tion by  the  medical  faculty  of  Montpelier.  —  The  chan- 
cellor Duprat  having,  for  some  reason  now  unknown, 
deprived  that  body  of  its  privileges,  or,  according  to 
Niceron,  one  college  only  having  suffered  deprivation, 
Rabelais  was  deputed  to  solicit  their  restoration.  There 
is  a  current  anecdote  of  the  strange  mode  which  he  took 
to  introduce  himself  to  the  chancellor.  —  Arrived  at  the 
chancellor's  door,  he  spoke  Latin  to  the  porter,  who,  it 
may  be  supposed,  did  not  understand  him  ;  a  person 
who  understood  Latin  presenting  himself,  Rabelais  spoke 
to  him  in  Greek  ;  to  a  person  who  understood  Greek,  he 
spoke  Hebrew ;  and  so  on,  through  several  other  lan- 
guages and  interpreters,  until  the  singularity  of  the  cir- 
cumstance reached  the  great  man,  and  Rabelais  was 
invited  to  his  presence.  This  is  in  the  last  degree  im- 
probable. Cardinal  du  Bellay,  his  patron,  was  then 
bishop  of  Paris,  in  high  favour  at  the  court  of  Francis  I., 
and,  doubtless,  ready  to  present  him  in  a  manner  much 
more  conducive  to  the  success  of  his  mission.  The 
ridiculous  invention  was  suggested  by  a  passage  of  Ra- 
belais, in  which  Panurge  addresses  Pantagi-uel,  on  their 
first  meeting,  in  thirteen  different  languages,  dead  and 
living,  not  including  French.  Rabelais,  however,  pleaded 
the  cause  of  the  faculty  of  Montpelier  so  well,  that  its 
privileges  were  restored,  and  he  was  received  by  his  col- 
leagues on  his  return  with  unprecedented  honours.  So 
great  was  the  estimation  in  which  he  was  held  hence- 
forth, and  the  reverence  for  him  after  his  departure, 
that  every  student  put  on  Rabelais's  scarlet  gown  when 
taking  his  degree  of  doctor.  This  curious  usage  con- 
tinued from  the  time  of  Rabelais  down  to  the  Revolution, 
The  gown  latterly  used  was  not  the  identical  one  of 
Rabelais.  The  young  doctors,  in  their  enthusiasm  for 
its  first  wearer,  carried  off  each  a  piece,  by  way  of  relic. 


28  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

until,  in  process  of  time,  it  reached  only  to  the  hips, 
and  a  new  garment  was  substituted. 

Rabelais,  having  left  Montpelier,  appears  next  at 
Lyons,  where  he  practised  as  a  physician,  and  pubhshed 
his  editions  of  Hippocrates  and  Galen,  with  some  minor 
pieces,  including  almanacks,  which  prove  him  conver- 
sant with  the  science  of  astronomy.  One  almanack 
bearing  his  name  is  pronounced  spurious,  on  the  ground 
of  his  being  made  to  describe  himself  as  "  physician  and 
astrologer."  He  treated  the  pretended  science  of  astro- 
logy with  derision.  This  would  add  nothing  to  his 
reputation  in  a  later  age;  but,  considering  the  number 
of  his  coteniporaries,  otherwise  enlightened,  who  were 
not  proof  against  this  weakness,  it  proves  him  to  have 
been  one  of  those  superior  sj^irits  whose  views  are  in 
advance  of  their  generation. 

Cardinal  du  Bellay  was  sent  ambassador  by  Francis  I. 
to  the  court  of  Rome  in  1534,  and  attached  Rabelais  as 
physician  to  his  suite.  He  appears  to  have  made  two 
visits  to  Italy  with  the  cardinal  at  this  period,  but  there 
are  no  traces  by  which  they  can  be  distinguished,  nor  is 
it  very  material.  It  is  made  a  question  in  one  of  the 
most  recent  sketches  of  the  hfe  of  Rabelais,  whether  he 
attended  the  ambassador  as  physician  or  buffoon.  His 
letters,  addressed  from  Rome,  to  his  friend  the  bishop 
of  Maillezieux,  furnish  decisive  evidence  of  his  being  a 
a  person  treated  with  respect  and  confidence,  independ- 
ently of  the  known  friendship  of  the  cardinal.  They 
are  the  letters  of  a  man  of  business,  well  informed  of 
all  that  was  passing,  and  trusted  with  state  secrets.  He 
alludes,  in  one  letter,  to  the  quarrels  of  Paul  III.  (now 
pope)  and  Henry  VIII.  It  appears  that  the  cardinal 
du  Bellay  and  the  bishop  of  Macon  opposed  and  re- 
tarded, in  the  consistory,  the  bull  of  excommunication 
against  Henry,  as  an  invasion  of  the  rights  and  interests 
of  Francis  I.  Writing  of  the  pope,  and  to  a  bishop,  he 
treats  him  as  a  temporal  prince,  with  the  freedom  of  one 
man  of  sense  and  frankness  writing  to  another,  but 
without  the  least  approach  to  levity. 


RABELAIS.  QQ 

We  pass  over  the  gross  and  idle  buffooneries  which 
Rabelais  is  said  to  have  permitted  himself  at  his  first 
audience  of  the  pope,  and  towards  his  person.  They 
are  too  coarse  to  be  mentioned,  and  too  inconsistent 
with  the  probabilities  of  place  and  person  to  be  believed. 
One  anecdote  only  may  be  excepted,  as  not  altogether 
incredible.  The  pope,  it  is  said,  expressed  his  willingness 
to  grant  Rabelais  a  favour,  and  he,  in  reply,  begged  his 
holiness  to  excommunicate  him.  Being  asked  why  he 
preferred  so  strange  a  request,  he  accounted  for  it  by 
saying,  that  some  very  honest  gentlemen  of  his  acquaint- 
ance in  Touraine  had  been  burned,  and  finding  it  a 
common  saying  in  Italy,  when  a  faggot  would  not  take 
fire,  that  it  was  excommunicated  by  the  pope's  own 
mouth,  he  wished  to  be  rendered  incombustible  by  the 
same  process.  Rabelais  appears  to  have  indulged  and 
recommended  himself  by  his  wit  and  gaiety  at  Rome  ; 
and  it  is  not  absolutely  incredible  that  he  may  have 
gone  this  length  with  Paul  III.,  w^ho  was  a  bad  politi- 
cian rather  than  a  persecutor.  But  it  is  still  unlikely, 
that  whilst  he  was  soliciting  absolution  from  one  excom- 
munication, v>^hich  he  had  already  incurred  by  his  apcs- 
tacy  from  his  monastic  vows,  he  should  request  the 
favour  of  another,  even  in  jest.  It  appears  untrue  that 
he  gave  offence  by  his  buffooneries,  and  was  punished 
or  disgraced.  This  assertion  is  negatived  by  his  letters^ 
and,  more  conclusively,  by  the  pope's  granting  him  the 
bull  of  absolution,  which  he  had  been  soKciting  for  some 
time. 

Rabelais  returned  to  Lyons  after  his  first  visit  to 
Rome.  After  the  second,  he  appears  to  have  gone  to 
Paris.  No  credit  is  due  to  the  ridiculous  artifice  by 
which,  it  has  been  stated  so  often  in  print,  he  got  over 
the  payment  of  his  hotel  bill  at  Lyons,  and  travelled  on 
to  Paris  at  the  public  charge.  He  made  up,  it  is  pre- 
tended, several  small  packets,  and  employed  a  boy,  the 
son  of  his  hostess,  to  write  on  them  "  poison  for  the 
king,"  *'■  poison  for  the  queen,"  &c.  through  the  whole 
royal  family.     His  injunctions  of  secrecy  of  course  en- 


30  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

sured  the  disclosure  of  the  secret  by  the  young  amanu- 
ensis to  his  mother,  and  Rabelais  was  conveyed  a  state 
prisoner  to  the  capital.  Arrived  at  Paris,  and  at  court 
too,  he  proved  the  innocuous  quality  of  his  packets,  and 
amused  Francis  I.  by  swallowing  the  contents.  It  has 
been  justly  remarked  by  Voltaire,  that  at  a  moment  when 
the  recent  death  of  the  dauphin  liad  taken  place  under 
the  suspicion  of  poison,  this  freak  would  have  subjected 
Rabelais  to  be  questioned  upon  the  rack.  Odier  ridi- 
culous expedients,  said  to  have  been  used  by  him,  to 
extricate  himself  from  his  tavern  bills,  when  he  was 
without  money  to  pay  them,  are  undeserving  of  notice. 
There  is  no  good  evidence  of  his  having  been  at  any 
time  under  the  necessity  of  resorting  to  them.  His 
letters  from  Rome  to  the  bishop  of  Maillezieux,  of 
whom  he  was  the  pensioner,  make  it  appear  that  his 
mode  of  life  there  was  frugal  and  regular.  But  the 
common  source  of  all  these  impertinent  fictions  is  the 
mistake,  as  we  have  already  said,  of  confounding  an 
author  with  his  book.  Rabelais,  the  eulogist  of  debts 
and  drunkenness,  the  high  priest  of  "  the  oracle  of  the 
holy  bottle,"  must  of  course  have  been  reduced  to  such 
expedients  !  There  cannot  be  a  greater  error.  Doctor 
Arbuthnot,  who  approached  the  broad  humour  of  Ra- 
belais, even  nearer  than  Swift,  was  remarkable  for  the 
gravity  of  his  character  and  deportment. 

Cardinal  du  Bellay,  on  his  return  from  Rome  to  Paris, 
took  Rabelais  into  his  family,  as  his  physician,  his  libra- 
rian, his  reader,  and  his  friend.  It  is  stated,  that  he 
confided  to  him  even  the  government  of  his  household; 
which  is  itself  a  proof  that  Rabelais  was  not  the  reckless, 
dissolute  buffoon  he  is  represented.  The  cardinal's  regard 
for  him  did  not  rest  here.  He  obtained  from  the  pope  a 
bull,  which  secularized  the  abbey  of  St.  Maur-des-Fosses, 
in  his  diocese  of  Paris,  and  conferred  it  on  Rabelais. 
The  next  favour  bestowed  upon  Rabelais  by  his  patron 
was  the  cure  or  rectory  of  Meudon,  which  he  held  to 
his  death,  and  from  which  he  is  familiarly  styled  "  Le 
cure  de  Meudon." 


RABELAIS.  3 1 

It  is  not  known  at  what  periods  or  places  Rabelais 
wrote  his  "  Lives  of  the  great  Giant  Garagantua  and  his 
Son  Pantagruel ; "  to  which  he  owes,  if  not  all  his  reputa- 
tion, certainly  all  his  popularity  ;  but  he  appears  to  have 
completed  and  repubUshed  it  after  his  return  from  Italy. 
The  date  of  the  earliest  existing  edition  of  the  first  and 
second  books  is  1535  ;  but  there  were  previous  editions, 
which  have  disappeared.  The  "^  Champ  Fleury/'  of  Geof- 
froy  Tory,  quoted  by  Lacroix  du  Maine,  refers  to  them  as 
existing  before  1529.  The  royal  privilege,  dated  1545, 
granted  by  Francis  I.  to  "  our  well-beloved  Master 
Francis  Rabelais,"  for  reprinting  a  correct  and  complete 
edition  of  his  work,  sets  forth  that  many  spurious  pub- 
lications of  it  had  been  made ;  that  "  the  book  was 
useful  and  delectable;"  and  that  its  continuance  and  com- 
pletion had  been  soHcited  of  the  author  "  by  the  learned 
and  studious  of  the  kingdom." 

The  book  and  the  author  were  attacked  on  all  sides, 
and  from  opposite  quarters.  The  champions  for  and 
against  Aristotle,  who  disputed  with  a  sectarian  animo- 
sity, equalhng  in  fury  the  theological  controversies  of 
the  time,  suspended  their  warfare  to  turn  their  arms 
against  Rabelais ;  he  was  assailed,  as  a  common  enemy, 
by  the  champions  of  the  Romish  and  reformed  doctrines; 
by  the  anti-stagyrite  Peter  Ramus,  and  his  antagonist 
Peter  Gallandus ;  by  the  monk  of  Fontevrault,  Puits 
d'Herbault,  and  by  Calvin.  But  the  most  formidable 
quarter  of  attack  was  the  Sorbonne,  and  its  accusations 
against  him  the  most  perilous  to  which  he  could  be  ex- 
posed— heresy  and  atheism.  The  book  was  condemned 
by  the  Sorbonne,  and  by  the  criminal  section  of  the 
court  of  parhament. 

When  it  is  considered  that  Rabelais,  in  the  sixteenth 
century,  and  in  France,  chose  for  the  subjects  of  his 
ridicule  and  buffoonery  the  wickedness  and  vices  of 
popes,  the  lazy  luxurious  hves  and  griping  avarice  of 
the  prelates,  the  debauchery,  libertinism,  knavery,  and 
ignorance  of  the  monastic  orders,  the  barbarous  and 
absurd    theology   of   the    Sorbonne,    and    th?    no    less 


32  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN, 

barbarous  and  absurd  jurisprudence  of  the  high  tri- 
bunals of  the  kingdom,  the  wonder  is  not  that  he  was 
persecuted,  but  that  he  escaped  the  stake.  His  usual 
good  fortune  and  high  protection,  however,  once  more 
saved  him.  Francis  I.  called  for  the  obnoxious  and 
condemned  book,  had  it  read  to  him  from  the  be- 
ginning to  the  end,  pronounced  it  innocent  and  ^'  de- 
lectable," and  protected  the  author.  The  sentence  of 
condemnation  became  a  dead  letter,  the  book  was  read 
with  avidity,  and  Rabelais  admired  and  sought  as  the 
first  wit  and  scholar  of  his  age. 

Some  expositors  of  Rabelais  will  have  it,  that  his  ro- 
mance is  the  history  of  his  own  time  burlesqued.  The 
fictitious  personages  and  events  have  even  been  resolved 
into  the  real.  Nothing  can  be  more  uncertain,  or  indeed 
more  improbable.  The  simple  fact,  that  of  two  the 
most  copious  and  dihgent  commentators  of  Rabelais, — 
Motteux  and  Duchat, — one  has  identified  Rabelais's  per- 
sonages with  the  D'Albrets  of  Navarre,  Montluc  bishop 
of  Valence,  &c.,  whilst  the  other  has  discovered  in 
Grandgousier,  Garagantua,  Pantagruel,  Panurge,  friar 
John,  the  characters  of  Louis  XII.,  Francis  I.,  Henry  II., 
cardinal  Lorraine,  cardinal  du  Bellay.  This  fact  alone 
proves  the  hopeless  uncertainty  of  the  question.  Passing 
over  the  glaring  want  of  congruity,  which  any  reader 
of  history  and  of  Rabelais  must  observe  between  the 
personages  here  identified,  how  improbable  the  sup- 
position that  Rabelais  should  have  held  up  to  public 
ridicule  the  sovereign  who  protected  him,  and  the  friend 
upon  whom  he  was  mainly  dependant !  How  absurd  the 
supposition  that  neither  of  them  should  have  discovered 
it,  or  been  made  sensible  of  it  by  others !  We  more 
particularly  notice  this  baseless  hypothesis, —  for  such  it 
really  is, — because  it  is  the  most  confidently  and  fre- 
quently reproduced. 

But,  independently  of  what  we  have  said,  there  is  an 
outrageous  disregard  of  all  design  and  probability  in  the 
work,  which  defies  any  such  verification.  The  most 
reasonable  opinion,  we  think,  is,  that  Rabelais  attaxihed 


RABELAIS. 


himself  to  no  series  of  events,  and  to  no  particular  per- 
sons, but  burlesqued  classes  and  conditions  of  society, 
and  even  arts  and  sciences,  as  they  presented  themselves 
to  his  wayward  humour  and  ungoverned  or  ungovernable 
imagination.  This  view  is  borne  out  by  what  Ave  read 
in  the  memoirs  of  the  president  De  Thou,  who  describes 
the  author  and  the  book  as  follows  : — "  Rabelais  had  a 
perfect  knowledge  of  Greek  and  Latin  literature,  and  of 
medicine,  which  he  professed.  Discarding,  latterly,  all 
serious  thoughts,  he  abandoned  himself  to  a  life  of  gaiety 
and  sensuahty,  and,  to  use  his  expression,  embracing  as 
his  own  the  art  of  ridiculing  mankind,  produced  a  book 
full  of  the  mirth  of  Democritus,  sometimes  grossly  scur- 
rilous, yet  most  ingeniously  written,  in  which  he  ex- 
hibited, under  feigned  denominations,  as  on  a  public 
stage,  all  orders  of  the  community  and  of  the  state,  to 
be  laughed  at  by  the  public." 

Perhaps  the  real  secret  of  his  enigmatical  book  may  be 
found  on  the  surface,  in  his  own  declaration, — that  he 
wrote  for  the  amusement  of  his  patients,  and  of  the  sick 
and  sad  of  mankind,  "those  jovial  follies  (cez  folastreries 
joyeuses),  whilst  taking  his  bodily  refreshment,  that  is, 
eating  and  drinking,  the  proper  time  for  treating  matters 
of  such  high  import  and  profound  science." 

The  charge  of  heresy,  as  understood  by  the  church  of 
Rome,  could  be  easily  proved  against  him ;  but  there 
appears  no  good  ground  for  that  of  atheism,  or  of  infi- 
delity. He  applies  texts  of  Scripture  improperly  and 
indecently,  but  rather  from  wanton  levity  of  humour 
than  deliberate  profaneness  ;  and  he  may  have  retained 
this  part  of  his  early  habits  as  a  cordelier, — for  the  monks 
were  notorious  for  the  licence  with  which  they  applied, 
in  their  orgies,  the  texts  of  Scripture  in  their  breviaries, — 
probably  the  only  portions  of  Scripture  which  they  knew  : 
allowance  is  also  to  be  made  for  the  tone  of  manners  and 
language  in  an  age  when  the  most  zealous  preachers  and 
theologians,  Romish  and  reformed,  indulged  in  profane 
applications  and  parodies  of  Scripture  without  reproach. 
Rabelais  was  in  principle  a  reformer,  but  of  a  humour 

VOL.  IV.  D 


34  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

too  light  and  careless  to  embark  seriously  in  the  great 
cause. 

No  writer  has  had  more  contemptuous  depreciators 
and  enthusiastic  admirers  :  his  book  has  been  called  a 
farrago  of  impurity,  blasphemy,  and  trash  ;   a  master- 
piece of  wit,  pleasantry,  erudition,  and  philosophy,  com- 
posed in  a  charmiing  style.    An  unqualified  judgment  for 
or   against  him   would   mislead.      The    most   valuable 
opinions  of  him  are  those  of  his  own  countrymen,  since 
the  French  language  and  literature  have  attained  their 
highest  cultivation.    Labruyere,  after  discarding  the  idea 
of  any  historic  key  to  Rabelais,  says  of  him,  that  ''  where 
he  is  bad,  nothing  can  be  worse,  he  can  please  only  the 
rabble ;  where  good,  he  is  exquisite  and  excellent,  and 
food  for  the  most  dehcate."      Lafontaine,  who  in  his 
letters  calls  him  "  gentil  Maitre  Fran^ais,"  has  versified 
several  of  his    tales,    and    even    imitated   his   diction. 
Boileau  called  him  ''  reason  in  masquerade"  (la  raison 
en  masque).    Bayle,  however,  made  so  light  of  him,  that 
he  has  not  deigned  him  an  article  in  his  dictionary,  and 
only  names  him  once  or  twice  in  passing.     This  was 
surely  injustice  from  one  who  gives  a  separate  and  co- 
pious notice  to  the  buffoon  and  bigot.  Father  Garasse. 
Voltaire  has  treated  Rabelais  contemptuously ;  called  him 
"  a  physician  playing  the  part  of  Punch,"  ''  a  philosopher 
writing  in  hiscups,"  "a  mere  buffoon."  But  these  opinions, 
expressed  in  his  philosophical  letters,  were  recanted  by 
him,  after  some  years,  in  a  private  letter  to  Madame  du 
Deffand;  and  he  avows  in  it  that  he  knew  "  Maitre  Fran- 
^ais"  by  heart.  Voltaire  appropriated  both  the  matter  and 
manner  of  Rabelais  in  some  of  his  tales  and  "  faceties," 
and  he  has  been  accused  of  this  petty  motive  for  decry- 
ing him.       It  was  discovered,  at  the  French  revolution, 
that  Rabelais  was  another  Brutus,  counterfeiting  folly  to 
escape  the  despotism  of  which  he  meditated  the  over- 
throw ;  and  the  late  M.  Ginguene'  proved,  in  a  pamphlet 
of  two  hundred  pages,  that  Rabelais  anticipated  all  the 
reforms  of  that  period  in  the  church  and  state. 

The  detractors  of  Rabelais's  book  may  be  more  easily 


RABELAIS.  35 

justified  than  his  admirers.  The  favour  which  it  oh- 
tained  in  his  Hfetime,  and  the  popularity  which  it  has 
maintained  through  three  centuries,  may  be  ascribed  to 
other  causes  besides  its  merits.  It  had  the  attraction  of 
satire,  mahce,  and  mystery,  which  all  were  at  liberty  to 
expound  at  their  pleasure  ;  and  many,  doubtless,  read  it 
for  its  ribald  buffooneries.  There  is  in  it,  at  the  same 
time,  a  fund  of  wit,  humour,  and  invention — a  rampant^ 
resistless  gaiety,  which  gives  an  amusing  and  humorous 
turn  to  the  most  outrageous  nonsense.  There  are  touches 
of  keen  and  witty  satire,  which  bear  out  the  most  fa- 
vourable part  of  the  judgment  of  Labruyere.  The  con- 
demnation of  Panurge,  who  is  left  to  guess  his  crime,  is 
most  happily  humorous  and  satirical,  whether  applied 
to  the  Inquisition  or  to  the  barbarous  jurisprudence  of 
the  age.  Panurge  protests  his  innocence  of  all  crime : 
^'^  Ha !  there!"  exclaims  Grippe- Men  aud;  "I'll  now 
show  you  that  you  had  better  have  fallen  into  the  claws 
of  the  devil  than  into  ours.  You  are  innocent,  are  you.-^ 
Ha  !  there  !  as  if  that  was  a  reason  why  we  should  not 
put  you  through  our  tortures.  Ha  !  there  !  our  laAvs  are 
spiders'  webs  ;  the  simple  little  flies  are  caught,  but  the 
large  and  mischievous  break  through  them."  There  is  in 
Rabelais  a  variety  of  erudition,  less  curious  than  Butler's, 
but  more  elegant.  His  stock  of  learning,  it  has  been 
said,  would  be  indigence  in  later  times:  but  it  should  be 
remembered  at  how  little  cost  a  great  parade  of  erudition 
may  now  be  made  out  of  indexes  and  encyclopedias, 
whilst  Rabelais,  Erasmus,  and  the  other  scholars  of  their 
time,  had  to  purvey  for  themselves. 

Rabelais  most  frequently  quotes;  but  he  also  appro- 
priates sometimes,  without  acknowledgment,  what  he  had 
read.  Some  of  his  tales  are  to  be  found  in  the  "  Facetiae" 
of  Poggius  ; — that,  for  instance,  which  has  been  versified 
by  Lafontaine  and  Dryden  :  and  he  applied  to  himself, 
after  Lucian  (in  his  treatise  of  the  manner  of  writing 
history),  the  stcrj  of  Diogenes  rolling  his  tub  during 
the  siege  of  Corinih.  Lucian  has  been  called  his  proto- 
type. Their  essentially  distinctive  traits  may  be  seen  at 
d2 


36  LITEKARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

a  glance  in  their  respective  uses  of  this  anecdote  of  the 
cynic  philosopher :  in  the  redundant  picturesque  buf- 
foonery of  dialogue  and  description  of  the  one;  the 
fehcity,  humour_,  severer  judgment,  and  chaster  style  of 
the  other. 

It  is  impossible  to  characterise  the  fantastic  cloud  of 
words,  so  far  beyond  any  thing  understood  by  copious- 
ness or  difFuseness,  conjured  up  sometimes  by  Rabelais ; 
his  vagrant  digressions,  astounding  improbabilities,  and 
monstrous  exaggerations :  but  he  has  that  rare  endow- 
ment which  all  but  redeems  these  faults,  and  charms  the 
reader, — the  talent  of  narrating.  His  great  and  fatal 
blemish  is  his  grossness,  his  disregard  of  all  decency, 
his  sympathy  with  nastiness,  his  invasion  of  all  that  .is 
weak  and  vile  in  the  recesses  of  nature  and  the  imagin- 
ation. But  it  should  be  said  for  him,  at  the  same  time, 
that  his  is  the  coarseness  which  revolts,  rather  than  the 
depravity  which  contaminates ;  and  not  only  his  affect- 
ation of  a  diction  more  antique  than  even  his  own  age_, 
but  his  use  of  the  vulgar  provincialisms  called  in  France 
Patois,\imlt  his  popularity  in  the  original  to  readers  of  his 
own  country,  and  the  better  informed  of  other  countries. 

Rabelais  had  a  host  of  imitators  in  his  own  age,  and 
that  which  immediately  succeeded :  they  have  all  sunk 
into  utter  and  just  oblivion,  with  the  exception,  perhaps, 
of  Beroalde  de  Verville,  author  of  the  "  Moyen  de  Par- 
venir,"  Scarron  more  recently  made  Rabelais  his  model,, 
with  a  congenial  taste  for  buffoonery  and  burlesque.  Mo- 
liere  has  not  disdained  to  borrow  from  him  in  his  comedies. 
Lafontaine  has  versified  several  of  the  tales  introduced  in 
his  romance,  and  has  even  inclined  to  his  diction.  Swift 
has  condescended  to  be  indebted  to  him.  "  Gulhver's 
Travels"  and  the  '^  Tale  of  a  Tub"  both  bear  decisive 
evidence,  not  only  in  particular  passages,  but  in  their  re- 
spective designs,  of  the  author's  being  well  acquainted 
with  the  romance  of  "  Garagantua  and  Pantagruel."  But 
the  imitations  only  prove  Swift's  incomparable  superi- 
ority of  judgment  and  genius.  No  two  things  can  be  more 
different,  than  the  grave  and  governed  humour  of  Swift, 


RABELAIS.  37 

and  the  laughing  mask  of  everlasting  buffoonery  worn 
by  Rabelais:  both  employ  in  their  fictions  the  mock- 
marvellous  and  gigantic  ;  but  Swift  observes,  throughout, 
a  proportioned  scale  in  his  creations,  whilst  Rabelais 
outrages  all  proportion  and  probability :  for  instance,  in 
his  absurd  yet  laughable  fiction  of  Panurge's  six  months' 
travels,  and  his  discovery  of  mountains,  valleys,  rocks, 
cities,  in  the  mouth  of  the  great  giant  Pantagruel. 
Sterne's  ''  Tristram  Shandy"  is  more  closely  modelled 
upon  the  romance  of  Rabelais.  There  is  the  same  love  of 
farce,  whim,  and  burlesque,  even  to  the  theology  of  the 
schoolmen ;  the  same  love  of  digression  and  wandering : 
but  in  Sterne,  a  superior  finesse  of  perception  and  ex- 
pression, the  relief  of  mirth  and  pathos  intermingled, 
and,  above  all,  a  tone  of  finer  humanity. 

Rabelais  left,  besides  his  romance,  "  Certain  Books  of 
Hippocrates;"  and  "  The  Ars  Medicinalis  of  Galen,"  re- 
vised, edited,  and  commented  by  him  ;  "  The  Second 
Part  of  the  Medical  Epistles  of  Manardi,  a  physician  of 
Ferrara,"  edited  and  commented ;  "  The  Will  of  Lucius 
Cuspidius  ;"  and  "  A  Roman  Agreement  of  Sale — ve- 
nerable Remains  of  Antiquity  :"  (Rabelais  was  deceived — 
they  were  forgeries:  the  one  by  Pomponius  Laetus;  the 
other  by  Pontanus,  whom  Rabelais,  on  discovering  his 
mistake,  gibbeted  in  his  romance).  ''  Marliani's  Topo- 
graphy of  Ancient  Rome,"  merely  repubhshed  by  him; 
"  Several  Almanacks,  calculated  under  the  Meridian  of 
the  noble  City  of  Lyons;"  '^' Military  Stratagems  and 
Prowess  of  the  renowned  Chevalier  de  Langey,"  a  re- 
lative of  his  patron  cardinal  du  Bellay  (doubtful  whether 
his);  ''  Letters  from  Italy,  addressed  to  the  Bishop  of 
Maillezieux,"  with  a  historical  commentary,  far  exceed- 
ing the  bulk  of  the  text,  by  the  brothers  St.  Marthe ;  "  La 
Sciomachie"  (sham  battle)  —a  description  of  the  fete  given 
at  Rome  by  cardinal  du  Bellay,  in  honour  of  the  birth  of 
the  duke  of  Orleans,  son  of  Francis  I.;  "  Epistles,"  in 
Latin  prose  and  French  verse;  "Smaller  Pieces  "of 
French  poetry  ;  "  The  Pantagrueline  Prognostication," 
connected  with  the  romance ;  and  ''  The  Philosophical 
d3 


38  .   LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

Cream/'  a  burlesque  on  the  disputations  of  the  schoohnen 
and  the  Sorbonne. 

''  The  heroic  Lives  of  the  great  Giants  Garagantua 
and  Pantagruel"  have  gone  through  countless  editions, 
various  expurgations^,  and  endless  commentaries  ;  but  the 
most  valuable  or  curious  are  Duchat's,  with  a  historical 
and  critical  commentary,  in  French ;  Motteux's,  with 
similar  commentaries,  in  English ;  an  edition  by  the 
bookseller  Bernard,  of  Amsterdam,  in  1741,  with  the 
annotations  of  the  two  former,  revised  and  criticised,  and 
illustrations  of  the  text  engraved  from  drawings  by 
Picart;  an  edition,  in  three  volumes,  Paris,  1823,  with 
a  copious  glossary,  a  curious  and  highly  illustrative  table 
of  contents,  and  "  Rabelaesiana,"  collected  from  the 
author's  book,  not  from  his  life  ;  another  Paris  edition, 
of  the  same  date,  in  nine  volumes,  with  a  ''  variorum" 
commentary,  from  the  earliest  annotators  down  to 
Ginguene,  valuable  from  its  copiousness  rather  than 
discernment.  This  last  edition  gives  the  120  wood-cut 
Pantagruelian  caricatures,  first  published  in  1 6.55,  under 
the  title  of  "  Songes  drolatiques,"  and  ascribed,  upon 
questionable  grounds,  to  Rabelais. 

It  has  been  said,  with  every  appearance  of  truth,  that 
the  conversation  and  character  of  Rabelais  were  greatly 
superior  to  his  book.  He  knew  fourteen  languages, 
dead  and  living,  including  Plebrew  and  Arabic,  and 
wrote  Greek,  Latin,  and  Italian.  The  Greek  which  he 
puts  into  the  mouth  of  Panurge,  though  not  the  purest, 
even  for  a  modern,  is  fluent  and  correct.  We  may  re- 
mark, in  passing,  that  the  Greek  word  '^  avll,"  given 
as  part  of  the  text  in  the  common  character,  is  written 
"  afto."  He  was  conversant  with  all  the  sciences  and 
most  of  the  arts  of  his  time :  a  physician,  a  naturalist, 
a  mathematician,  an  astronomer,  a  theologian,  a  jurist, 
an  antiquary,  an  architect,  a  grammarian,  a  poet,  a  musi- 
cian, a  painter.  His  person  and  deportment  are  described 
as  noble  and  graceful,  his  countenance  engaging  and 
expressive,  his  society  agreeable,  his  disposition  generous 
and  kind.     He  was   the  physician  as  well  as  pastor  of 


RABELAIS.  39 

his  parishioners  at  Meudoii,  where  he  passed  his  time 
between  the  society  of  men  of  letters  and  his  friends, 
his  clerical  and  medical  duties,  and  teaching  the  children 
who  chanted  in  the  choir  the  elements  of  music.  He 
iied,  it  is  supposed,  in  1553,  at  the  age  of  seventy,  in 
Paris,  and  was  buried  in  the  churchyard  of  St.  Paul, 
Rue  des  Jardins,  at  the  foot  of  a  tree,  which,  out  of 
respect  to  his  memory,  was  religiously  spared,  until  it 
disappeared  by  natural  decay. 

It  is  untrue  that  he  sent  to  cardinal  du  Bellay,  from 
his  deathbed,  this  idle  message,  by  a  page  whom  the 
cardinal  had  sent  to  know  his  state  —  "  Tell  the  cardinal 
I  am  going  to  try  the  great  '  perhaps' — you  are  a  fool — 
draw  the  curtain  —  the  farce  is  done;"  or  that  he 
made  this  burlesque  will,  —  "I  have  nothing  —  I  owe 
much  —  I  leave  the  rest  to  the  poor ;"  or  that  he  put 
on  a  domino  when  he  felt  his  death  approaching,  because 
it  is  written,  "  beati  qui  moriuntur  in  Domino."  They 
are  impertinent  fictions.  Duverdier  (quoted  by  Niceron 
in  his  Literary  Memoirs,  vol.  xxxii.)  had  spoken  ill  of 
Rabelais  in  his  "  Bibliothe'que  Fran^aise,"  but  retracted 
in  his  ''  Prosographie,"  and  bore  testimony  to  the  Chris- 
tian sentiments  in  which  he  died. 

No  monument  has  been  placed  over  the  grave  of  Ra- 
belais, but  he  has  been  the  subject  of  many  epitaphs. 
We  select  two  of  them ;  one  in  Latin,  the  other  in 
French :  — 

Ille  ego  Gallorum  gallus  Demoorifus,  ill. 
Gratms  aut  siquid  gallia  progeiuiit. 
Sic  homines,  sic  et  coelestia  iiiimina  lusi, 
Vix  homines,  vix  ut  numina  laesa  putes. 


Pluton,  prince  du  sombre  empire, 
Ou  les  tiens  ne  rient  jamais, 
Reijois  aujourdhui  Rabelais, 
Et  vous  aurez,  tous,  de  quoi  rire. 


D  4 


40  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN, 


CORNEILLE. 

1606  —  1684. 

There  is  something  forcible  and  majestic  attached  to 
the  name  of  the  father  of  French  tragedy.  As  ^schy- 
lus  displayed  a  subhme  energy  before  the  beauty  of 
Sophocles,  and  the  tenderness  of  Euripides  threw 
gentler  graces  over  the  Greek  theatre,  50  (if  we  may 
compare  aught  French  to  the  mightier  Athenian),  before 
Racine  added  elegance  and  pathos,  did  Corneille,  in 
heroic  verse  and  majestic  situation,  impart  a  dignity 
and  simplicity  to  the  French  drama  afterwards  wholly 
lost.  We  know  little  of  him  —  a  sort  of  shadowy  indis- 
tinctness confounds  the  course  of  his  life;  but  in  the 
midst  of  this  obscurity  we  trace  the  progress  of  a  master 
mind  —  a  man  greater  than  his  works,  and  yet  not  so 
great ;  who  conceived  ideas  more  sublime  than  any  he 
executed,  and  who  yet  was  held  back  from  achieving  all 
of  which  he  might  have  been  capable  by  a  certain 
narrowness  of  taste.  Had  Corneille  been  English  or 
Spanish,  unfettered  by  French  dramatic  rules,  un- 
weakened  by  the  jejune  powers  of  French  verse,  his 
talent  had  shown  itself  far  more  mighty.  As  it  is, 
however  imperfect  his  plays  may  be,  we  admire  the 
genius  of  the  man  far  more  than  that  of  his  successors, 
as  displayed  in  the  same  career.  It  has  been  observed, 
that  Shakspeare  himself  never  portrayed  a  hero  —  a 
man  mastering  fate  through  the  force  of  virtue.  Cor- 
neille has  done  this  ;  and  some  of  his  verses  are  instinct 
with  an  heroic  spirit  worthy  a  language  more  capable  of 
expressing  them. 

Pierre  Corneille,  master  of  waters  and  forests  in  the 
viscounty  of  Rouen,  and  jMarthe  Le  Pesant,  a  lady  of 
noble  family,  were  the  parenls  of  the  poet,  Pierre  Cor- 


CORNEILLE.  41 

neille,  suinamed  the  great.  They  had  two  other  chil- 
dren ;  Thomas,  who  followed  his  brother's  career,  and 
was  a  dramatic  author ;  and  Marthe,  who  also  shared 
the  talents  of  this  illustrious  family.  She  was  consulted 
by  her  brother,  who  read  his  plays  to  her  before  they  were 
acted.  She  married,  and  was  the  mother  of  Fontenelle, 
the  author.  Pierre  was  a  pupil  of  the  Jesuits  of  Rouen, 
and  always  preserved  feelings  of  gratitude  towards  that 
society.  He  was  educated  for  the  bar,  but  neither  dis- 
played taste  for,  nor  obtained  any  success  in,  this  career; 
while  the  spirit  of  the  age  and  his  own  genius  pointed 
out  another,  in  which  he  acquired  high  renown. 

The  civil  dissensions  which  had  hitherto  desolated 
France  prevented  the  cultivation  of  the  refined  arts. 
Henry  IV.  bestowed  peace  on  his  country;  but  the  men 
of  his  day,  brought  up  in  the  lap  of  war,  were  rough 
and  unlettered.  It  is  generally  found  that  national  strug- 
gles develope,  in  the  first  instance,  warriors  and  states- 
men ;  and,  when  these  are  at  an  end,  intellectual  activity, 
finding  no  stage  for  practical  exertion,  turns  itself  to  the 
creation  of  works  of  the  imagination.  Thus,  at  least,  it 
was  in  Rome,  where  Virgil  and  Horace  succeeded  to 
Cato  and  Cassar  ; — thus  in  France,  where  Corneille  and 
Fenelon  replaced  Sully  and  his  hero  king.  The  influence 
of  Henry  IV.  had  been  exerted  to  raise  men  fitted  for  the 
arts  of  government  —  that  of  Richelieu,  to  depress  them. 
In  the  midst  of  the  peace  of  desolation,  bestowed  by  this 
minister  on  his  country,  which  crushed  all  generous  ar- 
dour for  liberty  or  pohtical  advancement,  the  arts  had 
birth;  and  the  cardinal  had  not  only  sufficient  discernment 
to  encourage  them  in  others,  but  entertained  the  ambi- 
tion of  shining  himself.  The  theatre  as  yet  did  not  exist 
in  France  ;  monastic  exhibitions,  mysteries  and  pageants, 
had  been  in  vogue,  which  displayed  neither  invention 
nor  talent.  By  degrees  the  French  gathered  some  know- 
ledge of  tlie  Spanish  stage — the  true  source  of  modern 
drama,  but  they  imitated  them  badly.  The  total  want 
of  merit  in  the  plays  of  Hardy  has  condemned  them  to 
entire  oblivion ;  and  the  dramas  of  Richelieu,  though 


42  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

mended  and  patched  by  the  best  authors  in  Paris,  were 
altogether  execrable :  but  the  spirit  was  born  and  spread 
abroad.  Pierre  Uorneillej  in  the  provincial  town  of 
1629.  Rouen,  imbibed  it,  and  was  incited  to  write.  His  first 
iEtat.  play  was  a  comedy  called  "  iNIelite."  The  plot  was  sim- 
23.  pie  enough,  and  suggested  by  an  incident  that  occurred 
to  himself.  A  friend  who  was  in  love,  and  met 
with  no  return,  introduced  Corneille  to  the  lady,  and 
asked  him  to  write  a  sonnet,  addressed  to  her,  in  his 
name.  The  young  poet  found  greater  favour  in  the 
lady's  eyes,  and  became  a  successful  rival;  and  this  cir- 
cumstance, which  he  mixed  up  with  others  less  credible, 
forms  the  plot  of  "  Mehte,"  "  This,"  writes  Corneille, 
"  was  my  coup  d'essai.  It  is  not  in  the  rules,  for  1  did 
not  then  know  that  such  existed.  Common  sense  was 
my  only  guide,  added  to  the  example  of  Hardy.  The 
success  of  my  piece  was  wonderful ;  it  caused  the  esta- 
blishment of  a  new  company  of  players  in  Paris  ;  it 
equalled  the  best  which  had  then  appeared,  and  made  me 
known  at  court."  The  comedy  itself  has  slight  merit,  and 
reads  dully.  Perhaps  the  spectators  felt  this,  for  it  had 
its  critics.  Corneille  made  a  journey  to  Paris  to  seeit  acted. 
He  there  heard  that  the  action  of  a  play  ought  to  be  con- 
fined within  the  space  of  twenty-four  hours;  and  he  heard 
the  meagerness  of  his  plot  and  the  familiarity  of  the  lan- 
1634.  g'^^^^gs  censured.  As  a  sort  of  bravado,  to  show  what  he 
iEtat.  could  do,  he  undertook  to  write  a  tragedy  full  of  events, 
28.  all  of  which  should  occur  during  the  space  of  twenty- 
four  hours,  and  raised  the  language  to  a  sort  of  tragic 
elevation,  while  he  took  no  pains  to  tax  his  genius  to  dc 
its  best.  At  this  time  Corneille  neither  understood  the 
basis  on  which  theatrical  interest  rests  (the  struggle  of 
the  passions),  nor  had  he  acquired  that  force  of  expres- 
sion which  elevates  him  above  all  other  French  dramatic 
writers.  He  went  on  writing  plays  whose  mediocrity 
renders  them  absolutely  unreadable,  and  produced  six 
comedies,  which  met  with  great  success,  as  being  the  best 
which  had  then  appeared,  but  which  are  now  neither 
read  nor  acted.     Thus  brought  into  notice,  he  became 


CORNEILLE. 


43 


one  among  five  authors  who  corrected  the  plays  of  car- 
dinal de  Richelieu.  His  associates  were  L'Etoile,  Bois- 
robert,  Colletet,  and  Rotrou  ;  of  whom  the  last  only 
was  a  man  of  genius^  and  he  alone  appreciated  Cor- 
neille's  merit.  The  others  envied  and  depreciated  him. 
They  were  joined  in  this  sort  of  cabal  by  men  of  greater 
talent,  and  who  ranked  as  the  first  literati  of  the  day. 
Scuderi  and  Mairet  both  attacked  him ;  and  at  last  he 
had  the  misfortune  to  awaken  the  ill  feelings  of  the  car- 
dinal-minister-author. Richelieu  had  caused  a  play  to  be  IGS.'y. 
acted  at  his  palace,  called  the  "  Comedie  des  Tuileries,"  -^"Etat. 
the  scenes  of  which  he  himself  arranged.  Corneille 
ventured,  unbidden,  to  alter  som.ething  in  the  third  act. 
Two  of  his  associates  represented  this  as  an  imperti- 
nence ;  and  the  cardinal  reproved  him,  saying,  that  it  was 
necessary  to  have  "  un  esprit  de  suite,"  or  an  orderly 
mind,  meaning  a  cringing  one.  This  circumstance  pro- 
bably disgusted  Corneille  with  his  occupation  of  corrector 
to  greatness  J  for,  under  the  pretext  that  his  presence  was 
required  at  Rouen  for  the  management  of  his  little  pro- 
perty, he  retired  from  his  subaltern  employment. 

Another  reason  may  have  induced  him  to  take  up  his 
principal  abode  at  Rouen.  The  same  lady  who  inspired 
the  first  conception  of  "  Melite"  continued  to  have 
paramount  influence  over  his  thoughts.  Her  name  was 
madame  du  Pont;  she  was  wife  of  a  maitre  des  comptes 
of  Rouen,  and  perfectly  beautiful.  This  was  the  serious 
and  enduring  passion  of  his  life.  He  addressed  many 
love  poems  to  her,  which  he  always  refused  to  publish, 
and  burnt  two  years  before  his  death.  She  first  inspired 
him  with  the  love  of  poetry ;  and  her  secret  admiration 
for  his  productions  rendered  him  eager  to  write.*  His 
genius  was  industrious  and  prolific. 

»"  J'ai  brulc  fort  longtemps  d'une  amour  assez  grande, 
Et  que  jusqu'au  tombeau  je  dois  bien  estimer, 
Puisque  ce  fut  parl^  que  j'appris  h  rimer. 
Mon  bonheur  commencja  quand  mon  ame  fut  prise. 
Je  gagnai  de  la  gloire  en  perdant  ma  franchise. 
Charme  de  deux  beaux  yeux,  mon  vers  charma  la  cour  j 
Et  ce  que  j'ai  de  nomje  le  dois  k  I'amour. 
J'adorai  done  Phylis,  et  la  secrete  estime 


44  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

We  have  few  traces  to  denote  thatCorneille  was  a  scho- 
lar.   However,  of  course,  he  read  Latin,  and  Seneca  fur- 
nished him  with  the  idea  of  a  tragedy  on  the  subject  of 
Medea.    The  ''  Sophonisba"  of  Mairet  was  the  only  re- 
gular tragedy  that  had  appeared  on  the    French  stage. 
Corneille  aspired  to  classic  correctness  in  this  new  play ; 
1635.  ^^^  ^^^  piece  met  with  little  success.  It  was  a  cold  imita_ 
JEtat.  tion  of  a  bad  original  —  the  interest  was  null.     Corneille 
29.    was  afterwards  aware  of  its  defects,  and  speaks  openly  of 
them  when  he  subsequently  printed  it.    After  "Medea" 
he  wrote  another  comedy,  in  his  old  style,  called  "  The 
Illusion."     It  is  strange  that  a  writer  whose  merit  con- 
sists in  energy  and  grandeur  should  have  spent  his  youth 
in  writing  tame  and  mediocre  comedies. 

At  length  Corneille  broke  through  the  sort  of  cloud 
which  so  long  obscured  his  genius  and  his  glory.  And 
let  not  the  French  ever  forget  that  he  owed  his  initia- 
tion into  true  tragic  interest  to  the  Spanish  drama. 
Difference  of  manners,  religion,  and  language  renders 
the  heroic  subjects,  which  are  so  sublime  and  vehement 
in  their  native  Greek  dress,  in  modern  plays  either  tame 
expositions  of  book  learning,  or  false  pictures,  in  which 
Frenchmen  take  ancient  names,  but  express  modern 
sentiments.  Spanish  poets  at  once  escaped  from  these 
trammels:  they  portrayed  men  such  as  they  knew  them 
to  be;  they  represented  events  such  as  they  witnessed; 
they  depicted  passions  such  as  they  felt  warm  in  their 
own  hearts;  and  Corneille,  by  recurring  to  these  writers, 

Que  ce  divin  eoprit  faisait  de  notrerime. 

Me  fit  devenir  poete  aussitot  qu'amoureux  : 

Elle  eut  mes  premiers  vers,  elle  eut  rnes  premiers  feux  , 

Et  bien  que  maintenant  cette  belle  inhumaiiie 

Traite  mon  souvenir  avec  un  peu  de  haine, 

Je  me  trouve  toujours  en  etat  de  I'aimer ; 

Je  me  sens  tout  emu  quand  jel'entends  nommer; 

Et  par  ledoux  effetd'une  prompte  tendresse, 

Mon  coeur,  sans  mon  aveu,  reconnait  sa  maitresse. 

Apres  beaucoup  de  voeux  et  desoumissions, 

Un  nialheur  rompt  le  cours  de  nos  affections; 

Mais  tout  mon  amour  en  elle  consommee, 

Je  ne  vois  rien  d'aimable  apres  Tavoir  aimee ; 

Aussi  n'aime-je  plus,  et  nul  objet  vainqueur 

N'a  possede  depuis  ma  veine  ni  mon  coeur." 

Corneille,  —  Poesies  Biverses. 


CORNEILLE.  45 

at  once  entered  into  the  spirit  of  stage  effect  and  interest, 
and  opened  to  his  countrymen  a  career,  which,  if  they 
and  he  had  had  discernment  to  follow,  might  have  raised 
them  far  higher  in  the  history  of  modern  drama.  The 
incongruities  of  the  Spanish  theatre  are,  it  is  true,  nume- 
rous; and,  in  following  their  example,  much  was  to  be 
avoided,  both  in  plot  and  dialogue.  Corneille  felt  this; 
but,  in  some  degree,  he  fell  into  the  opposite  extreme. 

An  Italian  secretary  of  the  queen,  Mary  d'Medici, 
named  Chalons,  having  retired  to  Rouen,  advised 
Corneille  to  learn  Spanish,  and  pointed  out  the  *'  Cid"  of 
Guillen  de  Castro  as  affording  an  admirable  subject  for 
a  drama.*  There  are  several  old  Spanish  romances 
which  narrate  the  history  of  the  blow  received  by  the 
father  of  the  Cid  from  the  Count  Lozano  —  the  death  of 
the  former  by  the  youthful  hand  of  the  avenging  son  — 
and  the  subsequent  demand  which  Ximena,  daughter  of 
Lozano,  makes  the  king  of  the  hand  of  Rodrigo.  The 
Spanish  poet  saw  that,  by  interweaving  the  idea  of  a 
prior  attachment  between  Rodrigo  and  Ximena,  the 
struggle  of  passion  that  must  ensue,  ere  she  could 
consent  to  marry  the  slayer  of  her  father,  presented  a 
grand,  deeply  moving  subject  for  a  drama.  Corneille 
followed  closely  in  Guillen  de  Castro's  steps  :  he  rejected 
certain  puerilities  adopted  by  the  Spaniard  from  the 
ancient  ballads  of  their  country,  which  were  venerable 
in  Spain,  but  might  excite  ridicule  in  France;  but  he  at 
the  same  time  injured  his  subject  by  too  much  attention 
to  French  rules.  The  senseless  notion  of  unity  of  time 
takes  away  from  the  probabihty  of  the  circumstances  ; 
and  that  which  becomes  natural  after  a  lapse  of  years, 
is  monstrous  when  crowded  into  twenty-four  hours  ;  so 
that  we  repeat  Scuderi's  exclamation,  "How  actively  his 
personages  were  employed !"  The  French  rule  of  having 
but  two  or  three  persons  on  the  stage  at  a  time  detracts 
from  the  spirited  scene,  where,  in  the  Spanish  play,  the 
nobles  quarrel,  and  the  blow  is  given  at  the  council  board 

♦See Voltaire's  preface  to  his  Commentary  on  the  Cid,  and  also  the 
admirable  account  of  Guillen  de  Castro,  by  Lord  Holland. 


46  LITKRARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

of  the  sovereign.  Corneille  mentions  one  or  two  defects 
himself,  which  show  rather  his  erroneous  notions  than 
defects  in  his  play.  Speaking  of  the  weakness  of  pur- 
pose and  want  of  power  which  the  king  displays  as  a  fault, 
he  says,  no  king  ought  to  be  introduced  but  as  powerful 
and  prudent;  though  he  gives  no  reason  why  a  dramatic 
sovereign  should  be  an  abstract  idea,  instead  of  an  his- 
toric and  real  personage.  When  the  king,  in  Guillen  de 
Castro,  shows  himself  as  he  was,  the  lord  paramount  of 
turbulent  feudal  nobles,  whom  he  was  unable  to  control, 
and  yet  to  whom  he  will  not  yield,  and  exclaims  — 

•'  Rey  soy  mal  obecido, 
Castigard  mis  vasallos!  "— 

we  see  at  once  the  various  motives  of  action  which  ren 
dered  him  eager  to  crush  a  quarrel  between  two  influ- 
ential families  by  uniting  them  in  marriage.  Corneille 
makes  the  scene  take  place  at  Seville,  a  city  not  in 
possession  of  the  Spaniards  till  many  years  after. 
Certainly,  the  countryman  of  Shakspeare  have  no  right 
to  be  severe  on  anachronisms  ;  but  the  reason  Corneille 
gives  for  his  choice  of  place  displays  slender  knowleiige 
of  the  ancient  state  of  a  neighbouring  country,  or  even 
of  its  geography.  He  says  he  does  it  to  make  the  sudden 
incursion  of  the  Moors,  and  the  unprepared  state  of  the 
king,  more  probable,  by  causing  the  attack  to  come  by 
sea ;  when,  in  fact,  in  those  days  the  boundaries  of  the 
warring  powers  were  so  uncertain,  and  the  inroads  so 
predatory,  that  nothing  was  more  frequent  than  unfore- 
seen invasions ;  and,  besides,  Seville  is  on  the  Guadal- 
quivir, and  several  miles  from  the  coast. 

The  real  interest  of  the  play,  resting  on  the  position 
of  Rodrigo,  who,  despite  his  affection  forXimena,  avenges 
his  father,  and  of  the  miserable  daughter,  who  feels  her 
attachment  for  her  lover  survive  the  death  of  her  parent, 
and  the  mutual  struggles  that  ensue,  overpowers  these  mi- 
nor defects,  aided  as  it  is  by  powerful  language  and  energy 
of  passion.  The  success  of  thetragedy  was  unprecedented . 
it  was  received  with  enthusiasm  in  Paris,  and  all  France 
re-echoed   the  praise,    till   a  sort  cf  epidemic  transport 


CORNEILLE.  47 

was  spread  through  the  country.  It  became  a  national 
phrase  to  applaud  any  thing  or  person  by  calling  them 
as  excellent  as  the  Cid  (heau  comrne  de  Cid);  the  name 
spread  through  the  world;  translations  of  the  play 
were  made  in  all  languages;  a  knowledge  of  it  became 
incorporated  with  all  minds.  "  I  knew  two  men^"  says 
Fontenelle,  in  his  life  of  CorneillCj  "  a  soldier  and  a 
mathematician,  who  had  never  heard  of  any  other  play 
that  had  ever  been  written;  but  the  name  of  the  Cid  had 
penetrated  even  the  barbarous  state  in  which  they  lived." 
So  much  renown  of  course  inspired  his  would-be 
rivals  with  rancour;  they  tried  to  detract  from  the  merit 
of  the  successful  play,  and  to  show  that  at  least  it  ought 
not  to  have  succeeded.  Scuderi  published  a  bitter  and 
elaborate  attack,  remarkable  chiefly  for  the  entire  igno- 
rance it  displays  of  all  the  real  springs  of  human  passion 
and  human  interest.  He  calls  Chimene  a  monster,  and 
speaks  of  ''  the  odious  struggle  of  love  and  honour."  He 
appealed  to  the  French  academy  to  decide  on  the 
justice  of  his  criticism.  The  academy,  not  long  before 
instituted  by  the  cardinal  de  Richelieu,  penetrated  the 
minister's  annoyance  at  Corneille's  success,  and  his  wish 
to  have  a  rival  crushed ;  so  they  by  no  means  liked  to 
come  forward  in  defence  of  the  poet ;  nor,  on  the  other 
hand,  did  they  relish  the  invidious  task  of  pronouncing 
against  him;  they  signified,  therefore,  that  they  should 
remain  silent,  unless  invited  by  the  author  himself  to 
decide  on  his  merits.  The  cardinal,  eager  for  a  blow 
against  the  young  poet,  commissioned  Corneille's  inti- 
mate friend  Boisrobert  to  write  to  him  at  Rouen  on  the 
subject.  Corneille  evaded  giving  an  assent,  on  the  score 
that  the  task  in  question  was  unworthy  to  occupy  the 
academy  ;  but,  pressed  by  reiterated  letters,  he  at  last 
rephed,  that  the  academy  could  do  as  it  liked  ;  adding, 
*'  and  as  you  say  that  his  eminence  would  be  glad  to  see 
their  decision,  and  be  diverted  by  it,  I  can  have  no 
objection."  On  this,  Richelieu  urged  the  academy  to 
its  task.  Three  of  their  number,  De  Bourzey,  Des 
Marets,  and  Chapelain,  wer^.  commissioned  to  draw  up 


4S  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

a  judgment:  each  performed  his  work  apart;  and 
Chapelain  cooked  it  into  form,  and  presented  it  to 
the  cardinal  for  his  approbation.  Richelieu  wrote  his 
observations  in  the  margin,  and  his  grudge  against  the 
poet  suggested  at  least  one  ill-natured  one.  The 
academy,  as  an  excuse  for  their  criticisms,  remarked, 
that  the  discussions  concerning  the  greatest  works,  the 
<'  Jerusalem"  of  Tasso,  and  the  "  Pastor  Fido,"  tended  to 
improve  the  art  of  poetry.  Richeheu  observed  on  this, 
"  The  praise  and  blame  of  the  '  Cid'  is  a  dispute  between 
the  learned  and  the  ignorant,  while  the  discussions  on 
the  other  works  mentioned  were  hetween  clever  men."* 
The  work  of  the  academy  was,  however,  not  over. 
The  cardinal  recommended  that  a  few  handsful  of  flowers 
should  be  scattered  over  Chapelain's  criticisin ;  but, 
when  these  flowers  were  added,  he  found  them  far  too 
fragrant  and  ornamental,  and  had  them  plucked  up  and 
,P37  thrown  away.  After  a  good  deal  of  discussion,  and 
^tat.  five  months'  labour,  the  judgment  of  the  academy  was 
31.  got  up  and  printed.  Scuderi  hailed  it  as  a  sentence  in  his 
favour:  Corneille  was  not  so  well  pleased;  but,  after 
some  indecision,  he  resolved  to  abstain  from  all  reply. 
Such  a  course  was  the  most  dignified;  and  he  excused 
the  failure  of  respect  it  might  show  to  the  academy 
on  the  score  that  it  marked  a  higher  degree  towards  the 
cardinal. 

He  never,  it  may  be  beheved,  forgot  the  cardinal's  ill 

offices  on   this  occasion,  though  his   fear  of  ofFending 

caused  him  to  dedicate  his  play  of  ''  Horace"  to  him  in  an 

1639.  adulatory  address.     This  tragedy  shows  a  considerable 

^tat.  advance  in   the  power  of  expressing  noble  and  heroic 

^3-    sentiments.      The  framework  is  too  slight,    being  the 

duel  of  the  Horatii  and  the  Curiatii,  and  the  subsequent 

murder  of  his  sister  by  the   surviving   Horatius,  when 

*  Voltaire  says  that  he  gives  the  cardinal  credit  for  good  faith  in  this 
remark,  since  he  saw  and  felt  the  defects  of  the  "  Cid."  Voltaire  was 
himself  accused  of  envy  on  account  of  the  mass  of  criticism  he  accumulated 
on  Corneille,  and  was  glad  to  show  toleration  for  that  which  he  desired  to 
be  tolerated.  Both,  probably,  were  sincere  in  their  blame.  The  question 
is,  how  far  covert  envy  (unacknowledged  even  to  themselves)  opened  their 
eyes  to  defects,  which  otherwise  had  passed  unnoticed.  . 


CORNEILLE.  4,0 

she  reproached  him  for  slaying  her  betrothed.     Such  a 
subject  in   the  hands  of  Shakspeare  had  not,    indeed 
been  threadbare.    He  would  have  brought  the  jealousies 
of  the  states  of  Rome  and  Alba  in  living  scenes  before 
our  eyes.   We  should  have  beheld  the  collision  of  turbu- 
lent, ambitious  spirits,  and  felt  that  the  world  was  notlaro-e 
enough  for  both.     The  pernicious  rule  of  unity  of  time 
and    place    prevented    this:    the    ambition    of    Rome 
could  be  displayed  only  in  the  single  person  of  Horatius. 
All    we  have,    therefore,    are   various    scenes    between 
him,    his    sister,    his    wife,    and    the    Curiatius,    be- 
trothed to  the  former,  and  brother  to  the  latter  ;   and 
these  scenes  are,  for  the  most  part,  repetitions  one  of 
another;  for  the  same  rules  confining  the  time  of  action 
restrict  the  whole  play  to  the  delineation  of  the  catas- 
trophe; variety  of  incident  and  feeling  is  excluded,  and  the 
art  of  the  French  dramatist  consists  principally  in  petty 
devices,  to  delay  the  catastrophe,  and  so  to  drag  it  through 
long  tete- a-tete  conversations,  till  the  fifth  act:   often  they 
are  unable  to  defer  it  beyond  the  fourth,  and  then  the 
fifth  is  an  appendix  of  httle  account. 

''Horace"  is,  however,  a  masterpiece.  Corneille  could 
speak  as  a  Roman,  and  the  character  of  the  hero  is  con- 
ceived with  a  simpKcity  and  severity  of  taste  worthy  of 
his  country. 

In  his  next  piece  Corneille  rose  yet  higher.  "Cinna" 
IS  usually  considered  his  chefd'teuvre.  It  contains  admi- 
rable scenes,  unsurpassed  by  any  author.  Did  the  scene 
m  which  Augustus  asks  the  advice  of  Cinna  and 
Maximus  as  to  his  meditated  abdication  pass  between 
the  personages  (Mecaenas  and  Agrippa)  who  really 
were  called  into  consultation  on  the  subject,  it  had  been 
faultless.  The  mixture  of  admirable  reasoning,  covert 
and  dehcate  flattery,  forcible  eloquence,  and  happy 
versification,  is  perhaps  unequalled  in  any  work  that 
exists.  It  is,  to  a  degree,  spoiled  as  it  stands  ;  for  the 
false  part  which  the  conspirators  act,  and  the  peculiarly 
base  conduct  of  Cinna,  deteriorate  from  the  interest  of 
the  whole  drama;  and,  although  in  subsequent  portions  of 


VOL.  IV. 


50  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

the  play  he  appears  in  the  more  interesting  light  of  a 
man  struggling  between  remorse  and  love,  we  cannot 
recover  from  the  impression,  and  thus  the  character 
wants  that  congruity  and  likelihood  necessary  for  an 
ideal  hero.  As  works  of  art,  we  may  say,  once  for  all, 
Corneille's  tragedies  are  far  from  perfect.  Very  inferior 
poets  have  attained  happier  combinations  of  plot : 
but  not  one  among  his  countrymen  —  few  of  any  nation 
—  have  equalled  him  in  scenes;  in  declamations  full  of 
energy  and  poetry ;  in  single  expressions  that  embody 
the  truth  of  passion  and  the  result  of  a  life  of  expe- 
rience ;  in  noble  sentiments,  such  as  made  the  great 
Conde  weep  from  admiration.  In  this  play  he  did 
not  happily  confine  himself  to  absolute  unity  of  place. 
Such  was  his  erroneous  notion  that  he  mentions 
this  as  a  fault;  while  Voltaire  drolly,  yet  seriously, 
observes  that  unity  of  place  had  been  preserved  had 
the  stage  represented  two  apartments  at  once.  How 
far  this  would  have  helped  the  imagination  it  is 
impossible  to  say  ;  but  in  real  life  no  spectator  com- 
mands a  view  of  the  interior  of  two  separate  rooms 
at  once,  except,  indeed,  in  a  penitentiary. 
1640.  The  tragedies  that  followed  "  Cinna  "  continued  to 
/Etat.  sustain  the  reputation  of  the  poet.  "  Polyeucte,"  which 
'  succeeded  to  it  the  following  year,  is,  perhaps,  the  most 
delightful  of  all  his  plays.  I  know  no  other  work  of 
the  imagination  in  which  a  woman,  loving  one  riian  and 
marrying  another,  preserves  at  once  dignity  and  sweet- 
ness. Pauline  loves  Severus  with  all  the  enthusiasm 
of  a  girl's  first  passion  ;  —  she  fears  to  see  him  again,  so 
well  does  she  remember  the  power  of  that  love ;  but, 
though  slie  fears,  she  does  not  lament :  we  perceive  that 
conjugal  tenderness  for  a  young  and  virtuous  husband, 
a  sense  of  duty,  hallowed  by  purity  of  feeling  and  soft- 
ened by  affection,  have  gathered  over  the  ruins  of  a 
former  attachment  for  another,  while  the  heroism  and 
generosity  of  Severus  adds  dignity  to  the  character  of 
her  who  once  loved  him  so  fondly.  The  only  fault 
that  strikes  at   all  forcibly  in  this  piece  is  a  sort  of 


CORNEILLE.  51 

brusquerie,  or  want  of  keeping,  in  the  character  of  the 
martyr.  The  tragedy  opens  with  his  wishing  to  defer 
the  sacrament  of  baptism  because  his  wife  had  had  a  bad 
dream;  and,  after  this,  we  are  not  prepared  for  his 
sudden  resolution  to  overthrow  the  aUars  of  his  country, 
and  to  devote  himself  on  the  instant  to  martyrdom. 
The  poet  meant  that  we  should  feel  this  increase  of 
fervour  as  the  effect  of  baptism  ;  but  he  has  somewhat 
failed,  by  not  making  us  expect  it :  and  to  raise  expect- 
ation, so  that  no  event  should  appear  startling,  is  the 
great  art  of  dramatic  writing.  The  real  fault  is  in  the 
senseless  notion  of  unity  of  time  :  had  the  author  given 
his  personages  space  to  breathe,  all  had  been  in  harmony. 
It  must  not  be  omitted,  that  when  Corneille  read  this  play, 
before  its  representation,  to  an  assembly  of  beaiLV  esprits, 
at  the  hotel  de  Rambouillet,  the  learned  coiiclave  came 
to  the  decision  that  it  would  not  succeed,  and  deputed 
Voiture  to  persuade  the  author  to  withdraw  it,  as 
Christianity  introduced  on  the  stage  had  offended  many. 
Corneille,  frightened  at  this  sentence,  endeavoured  to  get 
it  out  of  the  hands  of  the  actors,  but  was  persuaded  by 
one  among  them  to  let  it  take  its  chance.*  The  fine 
people  of  Paris  could  not  imagine  that  a  christian 
martyr  would  command  the  interest  and  sympathy  of 
an  audience.  Where  the  scene,  however,  is  founded  on 
truth  and  nature,  the  hearts  of  the  listeners  are  car- 
ried away  ;  and  Corneille  could  always  command  admi- 
ration for  his  heroes,  through  the  power  of  the  situ- 
ations he  conceived,  and  the  elevation  and  beauty  of  his 
language. 

Corneille  again  attempted  a  comedy.  Voltaire  justly 
observes,  that  the  French  owe  their  first  tragedy  and 
their  first  comedy  of  character  to  the  Spanish.  The 
'^'^Menteur"  of  Corneille  is  taken  from  '^'^El  Verdad  sospe- 
chosa"  of  Lope  de  Vega  ;  and  bears  marks  of  its  Spanish 
origin  in  the  intricacy  of  its  intrigue,  and  its  love- 
making  out  of  window,  so  usual  in  Spain,  and  unna- 
tural elsewhere.    This  comedy  had  the  greatest  success ; 

*  Fontenelle. 
1^    9 


52  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

many  of  the  verses  passed  into  sayings  —  the  very  situ- 
ations became  proverbs.     "  The  Liar  "  had  just  arrived 
from  Poictiers;  and  it  grew  into  a  fashion,  when  any  man 
told  an  incredible  story,  to  ask  whether  he  had  come 
from  Poictiers  ? 
1646.       "  Rodogune/'   which  succeeded,  is  (with  the  lament- 
^tat.  able  defect  of  the  unlucky  unity  of  time  and  place)  more 
^^     like  a  Spanish   or  an  English  play   than  any  other  of 
Corneille's,  except  the  "  Cid."    The  very  intricacy  and 
faults  of  the  plot,  founded,  as  it  is,  on  some  old  forgotten 
tale,  give  it  the  same  wild  romantic  interest.    Corneille, 
indeed,  says  he  took  the   story  from  Appian  and  other 
historical  sources  ;  but,   as  the  tale  existed,  perhaps  he 
saw  that  first,  and  then  consulted  the  ancient  authori- 
ties.    Voltaire,  in  his  remarks,  scarcely  knows  what  to 
say  to  it.     It  succeeded  brilliantly,  kept  possession  of 
the  stage,  and  always  ranks  as  one  of  Corneille's  best 
tragedies.     He  is  forced,  therefore,  to  acknowledge  its 
merit,    although    the  fault   in   the  conduct   and  story 
struck  him  forcibly.     He  repeats,  perpetually,  "  The  pit 
was  pleased ;  so  we  must  allow  this  play  to  have  merit, 
though  there  is  so  much  in  it  to  shock  an   enlightened 
critic."     Corneille  himself   favoured  this  tragedy  with 
particular  regard.     "  I  have  often  been  asked  at  court," 
he  says,  "^  which  of  my  poems  I  preferred  ;  and  I  found 
all  those  who  questioned  me  so  partial  either  to  '  Cinna' 
or  the  '^Cid,'  that  I  never  dared  declare  all  the  tenderness 
I  felt  for  this  one,  to  which   I  would  willingly  have 
given  my  suffrage,  had  1  not   feared   to   fail   in  some 
degree  in  the  respect  I  owed  to  those  who  inclined  the 
other  way.   My  preference  is,  perhaps,  the  result  of  one 
of  those  blind  partialities  which  fathers  sometimes  feel 
for  one  child  rather  than  another  :  perhaps  some  self- 
love  mingles  with   it,  since  this  tragedy   seems  to  me 
more  entirely  my  own  than  any  of  its  predecessors,  on 
account  of  its  surprising  incidents,  which  are  all  my  own 
invention,  and  which  had  never  before  been  witnessed 
on  the  stage ;  and,  finally,  perhaps  a   little  real  merit 
renders  this  partiality  not  entirely  unjust."     Fontenelle 


CORNEILLE. 


53 


mentions,  as  another  cause  for  it,  the  labour  he  be- 
stowed; since  he  spent  a  year  in  meditating  the  sub- 
ject. There  might  be  another  reason,  to  which  neither 
Corneille  nor  his  biographer  allude  —  that  this  play 
occasioned  him  a  triumph  over  a  rival.  Gilbert  brought 
out  a  tragedy  on  the  same  subject  a  few  months  before :  as 
it  is  acknowledged  that  Corneille's  was  written  first,  he, 
perhaps,  heard  of  the  subject,  and  took  the  details  from 
the  novel  in  question.  However  that  may  be,  Gilbert's 
play  was  never  acted  a  second  time  ;  yet  it  met  with 
powerful  patrons  in  its  fall,  and  was  published,  with  a 
flourishing  dedication  to  the  king's  brother  ;  but  nothing 
could  preserve  it  from  oblivion.  The  German  critics 
are  particularly  severe  on  "Rodogune,"  and  with  some 
justice  :  there  is  want  of  nature  in  the  situations  and 
sentiments  ;  we  are  attached  to  none  of  the  characters  ; 
and  the  heroine  herself  is  utterly  insignificant. 

Corneille  had  now  reached  the  acme  of  his  fame. 
Other  plays  succeeded,  which  did  not  deserve  the  name 
of  tragedies,  but  ought,  as  Voltaire  remarks,  to  be  entitled 
heroic  comedies.*  These  pieces  were  of  unequal  merit ; 
having  here  and  there  traces  of  the  great  master's  hand, 
but  defective  as  wholes.  Usually,  he  introduces  one 
character  of  power  and  interest  that  elevates  them,  and 
which,  when  filled  by  a  good  actor,  rendered  them  suc- 
cessful ;  but  they  were  not  hailed  with  the  enthusiasm 
that  attended  his  earher  plays.  The  great  Conde 
looked  cold  on  "  Don  Sancho,"  and  it  was  heard  of  no 
more;  while  the  fastidious  taste  of  the  French  revolted 
from  the  subject  of  "  Theodore."  Worse  overthrow  was 
in  store.  "  Pertharite,"  founded  on  a  Lombard  story, 
failed  altogether  ;  and  its  ill  fortune,  he  tells  us,  so  dis- 
gusted him  as  to  induce  him  to  retreat  entirely  from  the 
theatre.     He  turned  his  thoughts  to  other  works.     He 

*  It  is  curious  enough  that  such  pieces  often  replace  the  higher  tragedy 
with  great  effect  in  days  when  poetry  is  at  a  low  ebb,  and  an  audience 
desires  rather  to  be  amused  than  deeply  moved.  Such  at  this  time  are  the 
delightful  dramas  of  Sheridan  Knowles,  such  the  charming  "  Lady  of 
Lyons,"  which  portray  the  serious  romance  of  real  life,  and  impart  the 
interest  of  situation  and  character,  without  pretending  to  the  sublime  ter- 
rors or  pathos  of  heroic  tragedy. 

E    3 


54!  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

wrote  his  "  Essays  on  the  Theatre/'  which  contain  much 
acute  and  admirable  criticism ;  though^  hke  all  French 
writers  on  that  subject;,  he  misses  the  real  subject  of 
discussion.  He  translated,  also^,  the  ""  Imitation  of  Jesus 
Christ"  into  French  —  being  persuaded  to  this  design  by 
the  Jesuits.  He  fails,  as  our  poets  are  apt  to  fail^  when 
they  versify  the  psalms  ;  the  dignified  simplicity  of  the 
original  being  lost  in  the  frippery  of  modern  rhyme. 

It  had  been  happy  for  Corneille  had  he  adhered  to 
his  resolves  to  write  no  more  for  the  theatre.  But  M, 
Fouquet;,  the  celebrated  and  unfortunate  minister  of 
finances  to  Louis  XIV.,  caused  him  to  break  it.  Fouquet 
begged  him  to  dramatise  one  of  three  subjects  which 
he  mentioned.  Corneille  chose  (Edipus,  "  Its  suc- 
cess," he  writes,  "^  compensated  to  me  for  the  failure  of 
the  other ;  since  the  king  was  sufficiently  pleased  to 
cause  me  to  receive  solid  testimonials  of  his  satisfaction; 
and  I  took  his  liberality  as  a  tacit  order  to  consecrate  to 
the  amusement  of  his  majesty  all  the  invention  and 
power  which  age  and  former  labours  had  spared."  This 
was  a  melancholy  resolve  —  his  subsequent  plays  w^ere 
not  worthy  of  their  predecessors.  They  contain  fine 
scenes  and  eloquent  passages ;  but  a  hard  dry  spirit 
crept  over  him,  which  caused  him  to  mistake  exagge- 
rated sentiments  for  nobleness  of  soul.  The  plots,  also, 
were  bad ;  the  conduct  enfeebled  by  uninteresting 
episodes,  or  by  the  worse  expedient  of  giving  the  hero 
himself  some  under  amatory  interest  that  lowered  him 
entirely.  Voltaire  remarks,  '^  Corneille's  genius  was 
still  in  force.  He  ought  to  have  been  severe  on  himself, 
or  to  have  had  severe  friends.  A  man  capable  of  writing 
fine  scenes  might  have  written  a  good  play.  It  was  a 
great  misfortune  that  no  one  told  him  that  he  chose  his 
subjects  badly."  It  is  sad  to  be  obliged  to  make  excuses 
for  genius.  No  doubt  Corneille  failed  in  invention  as  he 
grew  older.  His  former  power  of  boldness  and  felicity  of 
expression  often  shed  rays  of  light  upon  his  feebler  works; 
but  he  could  no  longer  conceive   a  whole,  whose  parts 


CORNEILLE.  55 

should  be  harmonious,   whose  entire   effect   should  be 
sublime. 

The  bounty  of  the  king  in  bestowing  a  pension  on 
him,  it  is  probable,  was  one  cause  of  his  establishing 
himself  in  Paris,  and  his  brother's  recent  success  as  a 
dramatist  a  yet  more  urgent  one.  Hitherto  Corneille 
had  resided  at  Rouen,  visiting  the  capital  only  at  inter- 
vals, when  he  brought  out  any  new  play.  In  Ib"^^  he 
had  been  elected  member  of  the  French  academy ;  but 
that  circumstance  caused  no  change  in  his  mode  of  life. 
He  was  not  formed  to  shine  at  court,  nor  in  the  gay 
Parisian  circles.  Simple,  almost  rustic,  in  his  manners 
and  appearance,  his  genius  was  not  discernible  to  the 
casual  observer.  "  The  first  time  I  saw  him,"  says  a 
writer  of  the  day,  "  1  took  him  for  a  merchant  of 
Rouen  —  his  exterior  gave  no  token  of  his  talents,  and 
he  was  slow,  and  even  dull,  in  conversation."  Corneille 
certainly  neglected  the  refinements  of  society  too  much  ; 
or,  rather,  nature,  who  had  been  so  liberal  to  him  in  rich 
gifts,  had  withheld  minor  ones.  When  his  familiar 
friends,  who  desired  to  see  him  perfect,  spoke  to  him  of 
his  defects,  he  repKed  with  a  smile,  "  I  am  not  the  less 
Pierre  Corneille."  La  Bruyere  bears  the  same  testi- 
mony :  '^  Simple  and  timid  ;  tiresome  in  conversation 
—  he  uses  one  word  for  another  —  he  knows  not  how 
to  recite  his  own  verses."  * 

In  truth,  Corneille's  merit  did  not,  as  with  many 
Frenchmen,  he  on  the  surface.  Conscious  of  his  own 
desert,  ambitious  of  glory,  proud,  yet  shy,  he  shrunk 
from  society  where  all  excellence  is  despised  that  does 
not  sparkle  and  amuse.  We  are  inchned  to  believe 
from  these  considerations  that  his  migration  to  Paris  is 
attributable  rather  to  his  brother  than  to  himself. 

*  Corneille  gives  much  the  same  account  of  himself  in  some    verges 
written  in  his  youth,  and  which  he  calls  a  slight  picture  of  himself :  — 
"  En  matiere  d'amour  je  suis  fort  inegal ; 
J'en  ecris  assez  bien,  et  le  fais  as-ez  mal ; 
J'ai  la  plume  feconde,  et  la  bouche  sterile  : 
Bon  galant  au  theatre,  et  fort  mauvais  en  ville; 
Et  I'on  peut  rarement  m'  ecouter  sans  ennui  ; 
Que  quand  je  me  produis  par  la  bouche  d'autrui." 
E    4 


56  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    flIEN. 

Thomas  Corneille  was  twenty  years  the  junior. 
The  brothers  had  married  two  sisters  of  the  name  of 
De  Lamperiere,  between  whom  existed  the  same  differ- 
ence of  age.  The  family  was  united  by  all  the  bonds 
of  affection  and  virtue.  Their  property,  even,  Avas  in 
common  ;  and  it  was  not  until  after  Corneille's  death  that 
the  inheritance  of  their  wives  was  divided,  and  that 
each  sister  received  her  share.  The  brothers  were 
fondly  attached,  and  lived  under  the  same  roof.  We 
are  told  that  Thomas  wrote  verses  with  much  greater 
facility  than  Pierre,  and  he  well  might,  considering 
what  his  verses  are  ;  and,  when  Pierre  wanted  a  rhyme, 
he  opened  a  trap  door  communicating  with  his  brother's 
room,  and  asked  him  to  give  one.  Nor  was  Pierre 
less  attached  to  his  sister,  to  whom  he  was  accustomed 
to  read  his  pieces  when  written.  She  had  good  taste 
and  an  enlightened  judgment,  and  was  worthy  of  her 
relationship  to  the  poet. 

Thomas  Corneille  had  lately  met  with  success  in  the 
same  career  as  his  brother.  His  play  of  "  Timocrates" 
was  acted  for  six  months  together ;  and  the  king  went 
to  the  unfashionable  theatre  of  the  Marais,  at  which  it 
was  brought  out,  for  the  purpose  of  seeing  it.  Nothing 
could  be  more  dissimilar  than  the  productions  of  the 
brothers.  Thomas  Corneille  had  merit,  and  one  or  two 
of  his  plays  {"  Le  Comte  d'Essex"  in  particular)  kept 
possession  of  the  stage  :  he  had,  however,  knack  instead 
of  genius.  He  could  contrive  interesting  situations  to 
amuse  the  audience  ;  but  his  verses  are  tame,  his  dia- 
logue trivial,  his  conceptions  altogether  mediocre.  Still, 
in  its  day,  success  is  success,  and,  under  its  influence, 
the  younger  Corneille  aspired  to  the  delights  of  a  bril- 
liant career  in  the  capital. 
1662.  The  establishment  of  the  family  in  Paris  is  ascer- 
'^'^*^-  tained  by  a  procuration  or  power  of  attorney  given  by 
the  brothers,  empowering  a  cousin  to  manage  their 
affairs  at  Rouen.  Corneille  seemed  to  feel  the  change 
as  a  new  spur  to  exertion  ;  but,  unfortunately,  invention 
no  longer  waited  on  industry,  as  of  old.     Considering  it 


CORNEILLE.  57 

his  duty  to  write  for  the  stage,  he  brought  out  piece 
after  piece,  in  which  he  mistook  involved  intrigue  for 
interest,  crime  on  stilts  for  heroism,  and  declamation 
for  passion.  His  tragedies  fell  coldly  on  the  public  ear  ; 
and,  as  he  could  not  understand  why  this  should  be, 
he  always  alleges  some  trivial  circumstance  as  the  cause  of 
his  ill  success ;  for,  having  laboured  as  sedulously  as  in 
his  early  plays,  he  was  insensible  to  the  fact,  that  arid 
though  pompous  dialogues  were  substituted  for  sublime 
eloquence.  Boileau's  epigram  on  these  unfortunate  tes- 
timonies of  decayed  genius  is  well  known  :  —  when  die 
wits  of  Paris  repeated  after  him 

"  J'ai  vu  I'Agesilas ;    . 
Helas ! 
Mais  apres  Attila, 
Hola!" 

Corneille  might  well  regret  that  he  had  not  perse- 
vered in  the  silence  to  which  he  condemned  himself 
when  Pertharite  failed. 

A  young  rival  also  sprung  up  —  a  rival  whose  grace- 
ful diction,  whose  impassioned  tenderness,  and  elegant 
correctness,  are  the  delight  of  French  critics  to  this  day. 
Yet,  though  Voltaire  and  others  have  set  Racine  far 
above  Corneille,  and  though  Saint  Evremond  wrote  at  the 
time  that  the  advanced  age  of  Corneille  no  longer  alarmed 
him,  since  the  French  drama  would  not  die  with  him,  the 
younger  poet's  superiority  was  by  no  means  universally- 
acknowledged  in  his  own  time.  Corneille  had  a  party 
who  still  adhered  to  their  early  favourite,  and  called 
Racine's  elegance  feebleness,  compared  with  the  rough 
sublimity  of  the  father  of  the  art.  ^^  Racine  writes 
agreeably,"  says  madame  de  Sevigne,  in  a  letter  to  her 
daughter ;  "  but  there  is  nothing  absolutely  beautiful, 
nothing  sublime  —  none  of  those  tirades  of  Corneille 
which  thrill.  We  must  never  compare  him  with  Ra- 
cine ;  but  be  aware  of  the  difference.  We  must  excuse 
Corneille's  bad  verses  in  favour  of  those  divine  and 
subhme  beauties  which  fill  us  with  transport  —  these  are 
traits  of  genius  which  are  quite  inimitable.     Despreaux 


58  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

says  even  more  than  me,  —  in  a  word,  this  is  good  taste; 
let  us  preserve  it."  If,  therefore,  Corneille  had  ceased 
to  write,  if  he  had  let  his  nobler  tragedies  remain  as 
trophies  of  past  victory,  and  not  aimed  at  new,  he  might 
have  held  a  proud  position,  guarded  by  numerous  par- 
tisans, who  exalted  hira  far  above  his  rival.  But  he 
continued  to  write,  and  he  was  unsuccessful  —  thus  it 
became  a  Hving  struggle,  in  which  he  had  the  worst. 
He  did  not  like  to  appear  envious  :  he  felt  what  he 
said,  and  he  said  justly,  that  Racine's  Greek  or  Ma- 
hometan heroes  were  but  Frenchmen  with  ancient  or 
Turkish  names ;  but  he  was  aware  that  this  remark 
might  be  considered  invidious.  Yet  he  could  not  con- 
ceal his  opinion,  nor  the  offence  he  took,  when  Racine 
transplanted  a  verse  from  the  Cid  into  his  comedy  of 
The  ^^Plaideurs"  — 

"  Ses  rides  sur  son  front  ont  graves  ses  exploits." 

'^  It  ill  becomes  a  young  man,"  he  said,  '^  to  make  game 
of  other  people's  verses."  It  was  still  worse  when  he 
was  seduced  into  what  the  French  have  named  a  duel 
with  Racine.  Henrietta,  daughter  of  our  Charles  I.,  wife 
of  the  brother  of  Louis  XIV.,  was  a  principal  patroness 
of  men  of  genius  ;  —  her  talents,  her  taste,  her  accom- 
plishments ;  the  generosity  and  kindness  of  her  dis- 
position, made  her  respected  and  loved.  Louis  and  she 
had  been  attached  to  one  another  ;  their  mutual  position 
forced  them  to  subdue  the  passion  ;  but  their  triumph 
over  it  was  not  achieved  without  struggles,  which,  no 
doubt,  appeared  romantic  and  even  tragical  to  the  poor 
princess.  She  wished  this  combat  to  be  immortalised ; 
and,  finding  in  the  loves  and  separation  of  Titus  and 
Berenice  a  similarity  with  her  own  fate,  she  deputed  the 
marquis  de  Dangeau  to  engage  Corneille  and  Racine, 
unknown  to  one  another,  each  to  write  a  tragedy  on  this 
subject  —  not  a  very  promising  one  at  best  —  and  still 
more  difficult  on  the  French  stage,  where  the  catastrophe 
alone  forms  the  piece.  But  Racine  conquered  these  diffi- 
culties; —  tenderness  and  truth  of  passion  interested  in 


CORNEILLE.  gg 

place  of  incident— the  audience  wept— and  criticism  was 
mute.  Corneille  floundered  miserably  :  love  with  him 
is  always  an  adjunct  and  an  episode,  but  not  the  whole 
subject:  it  helps  as  a  motive  —  it  is  never  the  end. 
He  fancied  that  his  young  rival  was  angry  with  him  for 
competing  with  him ;  and  he  gave  signs  of  a  queru- 
lousness  which  he  had  no  right  to  feel*  ;  but  there  is 
something  so  naive  in  his  self  praises,  and  such  in- 
genuousness in  his  repinings,  that  we  look  on  them  as 
traits  portraying  the  simplicity  and  singleness  of  his 
character,  rather  than  as  marks  of  vanitv  or  invidious- 
ness. 

After  "Berenice,"  he  wrote  two  other  plays,  "Pulcherie" 
and  ''  Surena,"  and  then,  happily,  gave  up  composition. 
Though  he  saw  the  pieces  of  his  young  rival  hailed . 
with  dehght,  he  had  the  gratification  of  knowing  that  his 
own  chef.d'oeuvres  were  often  acted  with  applause,  that 
the  best  critics  regarded  them  with  enthusiasm,  and  that 
his  position  was  firmly  established  as  the  father  of  French 
tragedy.  He  lived  to  a  considerable  age;  and  his  mind 
became  enfeebled  during  the  last  year  of  his  life.  He 
died  on  the  1st  September,  1584,  in  the  seventy-ninth 
year  of  his  age. 

There  is  a  harmony  between  the  works  of  Corneille 
and  his  character,  which  his  contemporaries,  who  appre- 
ciated only  the  brilhant,,  mistook,  but  which  strikes 
forcibly.  He  was  proud  and  reserved.  Though  his  de- 
dications are  phrased  according  to  the  adulatory  cere, 
monial  of  the  day,  his  conduct  was  always  dignified 
and  independent.  He  seldom  appeared  at  court,  where 
his  lofty,  though  simple,  character  found  nothing  to 
attract.  He  was,  besides,  careless  of  the  gifts  of  for- 
tune :  he  detested  the  cares  of  property,  shrinking, 
with  terror,  from  such  details.  Serious,  and  even 
melancholy,  trifles  had  no  charms   for  him  :   dramatic 

*  See  his  "  Excuse  k  Ariste."     In  another  place  he  says,  — 
"Si  mes  quinze  lustres 
^ont  encore  quelque  peine  aux  modernes  illustres  : 
h  11  en  est  de  facheux  jusqu'a  se  chagriner, 
Jen  aurai  pas  Jong-temps  a  les  iniportuner. " 


60 


LITERARY    ASD    SCIENTIFIC    BIEN. 


composition  absorbed  his  whole  thoughts ;  his  studies 
tended  to  improvement  in  that  vocation  only.  Strait- 
forward  and  simple  in  manner,  —  his  person,  though 
tall,  was  heavy  —  his  face  was  strongly  marked  and  ex- 
pressive —  his  eyes  full  of  fire,  —  there  was  something 
in  the  whole  man  that  bespoke  strength,  not  grace  — 
yet  a  strength  full  of  dignity. 

His  fortunes  were  low.  The  trifling  pension  allowed 
him  by  Cardinal  Richeheu  expired  with  that  minister. 
Many  years  afterwards,  Louis  XIV.  granted  him  a 
pension  of  2000  francs  as  the  first  dramatic  poet  of  the 
world.  He  was  wholly  indifferent  to  gain  ;  the  actors 
paid  him  what  they  pleased  for  his  pieces ;  he  never 
called  them  to  account.  He  lived  frugally,  but  had 
little  to  live  on.  A  few  days  before  his  death  his  family 
were  in  considerable  straits  for  want  of  money,  and  the 
king,  hearing  of  this,  sent  him  200  louis. 

In  these  traits,  recorded  chiefly  by  his  brother  and 
his  nephew,  Fontenelle,  we  see  the  genuine  traces  of  a 
poet.  Of  a  man  whose  heart  is  set  on  the  ideal,  and 
whose  mind  is  occupied  by  conceptions  engendered 
within  itself  —  to  whom  the  outward  world  is  of  slight 
account,  except  as  it  influences  his  imagination  or  excites 
his  affections.  The  political  struggles  and  civil  wars,  in 
which  his  youth  was  spent,  gave  a  sort  of  republican 
loftiness  to  his  mind,  energy  without  fierceness,  some- 
what at  variance  with  the  French  character. 

Once,  on  entering  a  theatre  at  Paris,  after  a  longer 
retreat  than  usual  in  his  native  town,  the  actors  stopped 
short :  the  great  Condi',  the  prince  of  Conti,  together 
with  the  whole  audience,  rose  :  the  acclamation  was 
general  and  long  continued.  Such  flattering  testimo- 
nials embarrassed  a  man  modest  by  nature,  and  unused 
to  make  a  show  of  himself ;  but  they  evince  the  gene- 
rous spirit  of  his  country.  Marks  of  veneration  fol- 
lowed his  death. 

His  character  commanded  and  met  with  respect. 
He  had  long  been  the  eldest  member  of  the  academy  : 
on  his  death  his  brother  was  elected  to  succeed  him. 


CCRNEILLE.  Si 

Racine  contended  for  the  honour  of  receiving  the  new 
academician ;  on  which  occasion  it  was  the  custom  to 
make  a  speech  in  praise  of  the  late  member  whose  place 
the  new  one  took.  Racine's  eulogy  on  Corneille  met 
with  great  applause,  and  he  recited  it  a  second  time 
before  the  king.  He  spoke  with  enthusiasm  of  his 
merits,  and,  in  particular,  of  "  a  certain  strength,  a 
certain  elevation,  which  transports,  and  renders  his  very 
defects,  if  he  had  any,  more  venerable  than  the  excel- 
lence of  others."  This  testimony  was  honourable  to 
Racine,  who  had,  indeed,  so  heartfelt  an  appreciation  of 
his  best  passages,  that,  although  he  interdicted  dramas 
and  poetry  from  his  children,  he  caused  them  to  learn, 
and  taught  them  to  admire,  varioiSs  scenes  in  Corneille. 
Many  years  after  Voltaire  discovered  a  descendant  of 
the  great  poet  *  :  he  spread  the  discovery  abroad  ; 
he  invited  the  young  lady  to  Ferney  as  to  her  home ; 
and  published  for  her  benefit  his  two  volumes  of  com- 
mentary on  her  great  ancestor's  works.  This  commen- 
tary has  been  found  fault  with  for  the  degree  of  blame 
it  contains.  Voltaire  says  himself,  he  wrote  it  chiefly 
to  instruct  future  dramatic  poets,  and  he  was  sincere  in 
his  views,  even  if  he  were  mistaken.  It  is  chiefly  re- 
markable for  the  extent  of  its  verbal  criticism,  and  his 
earnest  endeavour  to  banish  all  familiar  expressions  from 
tragic  dialogue,  thus  rendering  French  tragedies  more 
factitious  than  ever.  It  is  strange  to  remark  the  dif- 
ferent genius  of  various  languages.  We  endeavour 
perpetually  to  bring  back  ours  to  the  familiar  and  antique 
Saxon.  We  regard  our  translation  of  the  Bible  as  a 
precious  treasure,  even  in  this  light,  being  a  source  to 
which  all  good  writers  resort  for  true  unadulterated 
English.  It  has  been  remarked  that  the  sublimest  pas- 
sages of  our  greatest  poets  are  written  in  short  wordSy 
that  is,  in  Anglo-Saxon,  or  pure  English.  While 
Voltaire,  on  the  contrary,  tried  to  substitute  words  un- 

*  Corneille  had  three  sons:  two  entered  the  army;  the  third  became 
an  ecclesiastic  ;  one  fell  at  the  battle  of  Grave,  in  1677;  they  all  died 
without  posterity.  He  had  one  daughter,  from  whom  descended  the  family 
of  Guenebaud. 


62  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

used  in  conversation,  strangers  to  the  real  living 
expression  of  passion,  and  which  give  a  factitious  and 
false  air,  peculiar  to  the  French  buskin,  and  alien  to  true 
elevation  of  language. 

So  much  has  been  said  of  Corneille's  tragedies  in  tlie 
preceding  pages  that  we  need  scarcely  revert  to  them. 
He  originated  the  French  theatre.  It  was  yet  in 
the  block  when  he  took  up  his  artist-tools.  We  grieve 
at  the  mistakes  he  made  —  mistakes,  as  to  the  structure 
of  the  drama,  confirmed  by  subsequent  writers,  which 
mark  classic  French  tragedy  as  an  artificial  and  con- 
tracted offspring  of  a  school,  instead  of  being  the  free 
and  genuine  child  of  nature  and  genius.  Corneille's 
originality,  however,  often  bursts  through  these  tram- 
mels :  he  has  more  truth  and  simplicity  than  any  of 
his  successors,  and,  as  well  as  being  the  father  of  the 
French  drama,  we  may  name  him  the  most  vigorous 
and  sublime  poet  that  France  has  produced. 


63 


ROCHEFOUCAULD. 

1613  — 1680. 

Grimm  J  in  his  correspondence,  records,  that  it  was  a 
saying  of  d'Alembert,  that,  in  hfe,  "  Ce  n'est  qu'heur  et 
malheur,"  that  it  was  all  luck  or  ill  luck.  The  same 
thing  may  be  said  of  many  books ;  and,  perhaps,  of 
none  more  than  that  which  has  given  literary  celebrity 
to  Francois,  duke  de  la  Rochefoucauld.  The  expe- 
rience of  a  long  life,  spent  for  the  most  part  in  the 
very  nucleus  of  the  intrigues  of  party  and  the  artifices 
of  a  court,  reduced  into  sententious  maxims,  affords 
food  for  curiosity,  while  it  flatters  our  idleness.  The 
most  indolent  person  may  read  a  maxim,  and  ponder  on 
its  truth,  and  be  led  to  meditate,  without  any  violent 
exertion  of  mind.  In  addition,  knowledge  of  the 
world,  as  it  is  called,  always  interests.  Voltaire  says 
of  the  ''  Maxims,"  "  Though  there  is  but  one  truth 
in  this  collection,  which  is  that  self-love  is  the  motive 
of  all,  yet  this  thought  is  presented  under  such  various 
aspects  that  it  is  always  impressive.  If  we  con- 
sidered the  pervading  opinion  of  the  book  theoretically^ 
we  might  be  inclined  to  parody  this  remark,  and  say, 
"  though  there  is  but  one  multiformed  falsehood  in 
this  collection,"  —  but  we  defer  our  consideration  of 
the  principles  of  this  work  till  we  have  given  an  ac- 
count of  its  author,  who  was  no  obscure  man,  meditat- 
ing the  lessons  of  wisdom  in  solitude,  but  the  leader  of 
a  party,  a  soldier,  a  man  of  gallantry  and  of  fashion; 
one  such  as  is  only  produced,  in  its  perfection,  in  a  so- 
ciety highly  cultivated  ;  yet  the  foundations  of  his  cha- 
racter were  thrown  in  times  of  ignorance  and  turbulence. 
The  family  of  La  Rochefoucauld  is  one  of  the  noblest 
in  France  :  it  ranks  equal  with  that  of  the  sovereign^ 


64  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

and  enjoyed  almost  monarchical  power  when  residing 
on  its  own  possessions ;  while  its  influence  might  give 
preponderance  to  the  party  it  espoused,  and  even  shake 
the  throne.  Francois,  the  eldest  son  of  the  duke  then 
in  possession,  was  horn  at  his  paternal  castle  of  Roche- 
foucauld, in  Angoumois,  in  l6l3,  two  years  subsequent 
.  to  the  assassination  of  Henry  IV.  He  grew  up,  there- 
fore, during  the  reign  of  Louis  XIII.,  and  first  came  to 
court  during  the  height  of  cardinal  de  Richelieu's  power. 
His  education  had  been  neglected.  Madame  de  Main- 
tenon  said  of  him,  in  after  times,  that  ''  his  physiognomy 
was  preposessing,  his  demeanour  dignified  ;  that  he  had 
great  talent,  and  little  knowledge."  We  have  no  details 
of  his  early  life  at  court.  He  was  the  friend  of  the 
duchess  de  Chevreuse,  favourite  of  the  queen,  Anne  of 
Austria ;  and,  when  this  lady  was  banished,  the  family 
of  la  Rochefoucauld  fell  into  disgrace,  and  retired  to  the 
shelter  of  their  estates. 

But  a  few  years  before  the  nobles  of  France  possessed 
greater  power  than  the  king  himself.  The  short  reign 
and  wise  administration  of  Henry  IV.  and  SuUy  had 
infused  a  somewhat  better  spirit  into  the  body  politic  of 
the  kingdom  than  that  which  for  forty  years  had  torn 
the  country  with  civil  war ;  but  the  happy  effects  of 
that  prosperous  period  were  obliterated  on  the  accession 
of  Louis  XIII.  After  a  series  of  struggles,  however, 
Richelieu  became  prime  minister ;  and  with  unflinch- 
ing courage,  and  resolute  and  merciless  policy,  he  pro- 
ceeded to  crush  the  nobility,  and  to  raise  the  mo- 
narchical power  (invested,  it  may  be  said,  in  his  own 
person,)  into  absolute  rule.  The  nobles  in  those  days 
did  not  plot  to  supplant  each  other  in  the  favour  of 
their  royal  master,  nor  to  gain  some  place  near  the 
royal  person  ;  they  aimed  at  supremacy  over  the  king 
himself:  reluctantly,  and  not  without  struggles  that 
cost  the  lives  and  fortunes  of  many  of  the  chief  among 
them,  did  the  nobles  yield  to  the  despotism  of  Riche- 
elieu.  The  mother  of  their  sovereign  was  banished ; 
his  brother  disgraced  ;  his  queen  enslaved ;  the  prisons 
filled  with   victims ;    the  provinces  with  exiles ;    the 


ROCHEFOUCAULD.  65 

blood  of  many  flowed  :  the  cardinal  reigned  secure,  and 
the  power  of  the  contending  nobles  was  reduced  to 
feudal  command  in  their  own  domains. 

At  length  Richelieu  died ;  and,  for  a  moment,  his 
vanquished  enemies  fancied  that  their  turn  was  come 
for  acquiring  dominion.  The  state  prisons  were  thrown 
open  ;  the  exiles  hastened  to  return.  The  friends  of 
the  family  of  la  Rochefoucauld  wrote  to  advise  them  to 
appear  at  court.  The  reigning  duke  and  his  sons  im- 
mediately followed  this  counsel.*  His  eldest  son  was  1642. 
called  prince  de  Marsillac  :  his  name  and  person  were  ^tat. 
well  known  as  the  friend  of  the  duchess  of  Chevreuse,  29. 
and  as  a  favourite  of  Anne  of  Austria.  He  has  left  us 
an  account  of  that  period,  in  which  he  details  the  high 
hopes  of  his  party  and  subsequent  disappointment. 
''  The  persecution  I  had  suffered,"  he  writes  -f,  "^  during 
the  power  of  the  cardinal  de  Richeheu,  having  finished 
with  his  life,  I  thought  it  right  to  return  to  court. 
The  ill  health  of  the  king,  and  the  disinclination  that 
he  manifested  to  confide  his  children  and  kingdom 
to  the  queen,  made  me  hope  that  I  might  soon  find  im- 
portant occasions  for  serving  her,  and  of  giving  her,  in 
the  present  state  of  things,  the  same  marks  of  attachment 
which  she  had  received  from  me  on  all  occasions  when 
her  interests,  and  those  of  madame  de  Chevreuse,  were 
in  opposition  to  those  of  cardinal  de  Richelieu-  I  ar- 
rived at  court  ;  and  found  it  as  submissive  to  his  will 
after  his  death  as  during  his  life.  His  relations  and 
his  creatures  continued  to  enjoy  all  the  advantages  they 
had  gained  through  him  ;  and  by  a  turn  of  fortune,  of 
which  there  are  few  examples,  the  king,  who  hated  him, 
and  desired  his  fall,  was  obliged,  not  only  to  conceal  his 
sentiments,  but  even  to  authorise  the  disposition  made 
by  the  cardinal  in  his  will  of  the  principal  employ- 
ments and  most  important  places  in  his  kingdom.  He 
chose  cardinal  Mazarin  to  succeed  him  in  the  govern- 

*  iVJemoires  de  Gourville. 

t  Memoiresde  laRegence  d'Anned'Autriche,parleducde  la  Rochefou- 
cauld. 

VOL.   IV.  F 


66  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

ment.  Nevertheless^  as  the  heahh  of  the  king  was 
deplorable,  there  Avas  a  likelihood  that  every  thing  would 
soon  change,  and  that,  the  queen  or  monsieur  (the  duke 
of  Orleans,  brother  to  Louis  XIII.)  acquiring  the  re- 
gency, they  would  revenge  on  the  followers  of  Riche- 
lieu the  outrages  they  had  received  from  himself." 

Affairs,  however,  took  a  very  different  turn.  Mazariii 
and  others,  the  creatures  of  and  successors  to  Richelieu, 
were  less  arrogant,  less  ambitious,  and  less  resolute  than 
their  master.  They  were  wilHng  to  acquire  power  by 
allying  themselves  to  the  adverse  party.  Mazarin,  in 
particular,  felt  that,  on  the  death  of  Louis  XIII.,  he 
should  not  possess  influence  enough  to  cope  with  the 
persons  who,  by  rank,  were  destined  to  the  regency  ;  and 
he  perceived,  at  once,  that  it  was  his  best  policy  to  be- 
come the  friend,  instead  of  the  rival,  of  the  queen  and 
the  duke  of  Orleans.  Anne  of  Austria  saw  safety  in 
encouraging  him  in  this  conduct.  Mazarin  grew  into 
a  favourite,  and  supplanted  those  who  had  stood 
by  her  during  her  years  of  adversity.  Thus,  while 
the  surface  of  things  appeared  the  same,  the  spirit  was 
changed.  Rochefoucauld  saw  that  the  queen  entertained 
new  views  and  new  partialities,  and  was  supported  by  the 
same  party  by  which  she  had  been  hitherto  oppressed. 
As  her  friend,  he  perceived  the  advantages  she  gained  by 
this  line  of  conduct,  and,  by  prudent  concessions,  retained 
her  regard.  When  the  king  died,  and  she  became 
regent,  Mazarin  had  made  himself  necessary  to  her,  for 
it  was  by  his  policy  that  the  other  members  of  the 
council  of  the  regency  were  reduced  to  insignificance  ; 
so  that  the  queen,  entirely  attached  to  him,  anticipated 
with  something  of  aversion  the  reappearance  of  madame 
deChevreuse,  who,  on  the  death  of  Louis  XI 1 1.,  hastened 
1643  *^  return  to  Paris.  The  prince  of  Marsillac  perceived 
^tat.  her  apprehensions,  and  asked  her  permission  to  meet 
30.  madame  de  Chevreuse  on  her  way,  which  the  queen 
readily  granted,  hoping  that  the  prince  would  dispose 
her  former  friend  to  seek  the  friendship  of  Mazarin. 
This  was,  indeed,  MarsiUac's  purpose:  he  gave  the  fallen 


ROCHEFOUCAULD.  Gj 

favourite  the  best  advice  that  prudence  could  suggest, 
and  the  duchess  promised  to  follow  it.  In  this  she 
failed.  She  fancied  that  she  could  supplant  the  cardinal 
in  the  queen's  favour ;  she  acted  with  arrogance ;  and 
her  imprudence  insured  her  ruin. 

Le  bon  temps  de  la  regence  followed.  For  five  years 
France  enjoyed  external  and  internal  prosperity.  The 
former  was  insured  by  the  battle  of  Rocroi,  and  other 
successes,  obtained  by  the  prince  of  Conde  and  Turenne, 
against  the  power  of  Spain.  The  latter  was  more  fal- 
lacious. The  intrigues,  cabals,  and  dissensions  of  the 
court  were  carried  on  with  virulence.  Manners  became 
every  day  more  and  more  corrupt — the  gulf  between 
Mazarin  and  his  antagonists  wider.  We  have  little 
trace  of  Marsillac's  conduct  during  this  interval.  He 
followed  the  campaigns,  and  served  gallantly  in  several 
actions.  He  was  present  at  the  siege  of  Mardike,  in 
which  he  was  wounded  in  the  shoulder,  which  obliged 
him  to  return  to  Paris.  He  bought  the  governorship  of 
Poitou,  and  took  up  his  residence  there.  He  visited 
Paris,  but  want  of  money  prevented  his  remaining. 
His  secretary,  Gourville,  lets  us  into  a  view  of  the 
corruption  of  the  times,  when  he  details  how  he  en- 
riched his  master  by  only  obtaining  from  Emery,  the 
comptroller  of  the  finances,  a  man  of  low  extraction, 
whose  extortion,  luxuriousness,  and  debauchery  disgusted 
the  nation,  a  passport  for  a  thousand  tons  of  wheat,  to 
be  brought  from  Poitou  to  the  capital ;  and  the  profit 
he  gained  by  this  transaction  enabled  the  prince,  to  his 
infinite  joy,  to  remain  in  Paris. 

There  can  be  little  doubt  that,  at  this  time,  he  had 
immersed  himself  in  political  intrigue-  Madame  de 
Chevreuse  was  again  banished ;  but  affairs  had  taken 
another  and  more  important  aspect  than  mere  intrigues 
and  disputes  among  courtiers  for  royal  favour.  The 
extravagance  of  the  court,  and  corruption  of  the  times, 
had  thrown  the  finances  into  disorder  ;  and  every  means 
most  subversive  of  the  prosperity  of  the  people^  and  of 
F   2 


68 


LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 


justice,,  was  resorted  to  by  Emery  to  supply  the  royal 
treasury.  The  consequence  was  universal  discontent. 
Parliament  resisted  the  court  by  its  decrees ;  the  popu- 
lace of  Paris  supported  parliament ;  and  a  regular  sys- 
tem of  resistance  to  the  regent  and  her  minister  was 
formed.  This  opposition  received  the  name  of  the 
Fronde:  the  persons  who  formed  it  were  called  Frondeurs, 
These  were  bent,  the  duke  de  la  Rochefoucauld  tells  us, 
in  his  memoirs,  on  arresting  the  course  of  the  calamities 
at  hand;  having  the  same  object,  though  urged  by  a 
different  motive,  as  those  who  were  instigated  by  hatred 
of  the  cardinal.  At  first  the  remonstrances  of  parlia- 
ment, and  the  opposition  of  the  court,  was  a  war  of 
words  only  ;  but  when  the  court,  enraged  at  any  opposi- 
1648.  tion  to  its  will,  proceeded  to  arrest  three  principal  mem- 
iEtat.  ^gj.g  jj£  parliament,  the  people  of  Paris  rose  in  a  body  ; 
the  day  of  the  barricades  ensued,  the  members  were 
set  free,  and  the  court  forced  to  yield. 

But  the  tumults  did  not  end  here :  the  celebrated  De 
Retz,  then  coadjutor  to  the  archbishop  of  Paris,  who 
saw  his  towering  ambition  crushed  by  the  distrust 
of  the  court,  resolved  to  make  himself  feared  ;  and, 
instead  of  permitting  the  spirit  of  sedition  in  the 
capital  to  subside,  he  excited  it  to  its  utmost.  It  be- 
came necessary  for  him,  in  the  system  of  opposition  that 
ensued,  to  secure  some  prince  of  the  blood  at  the  head 
of  his  party.  His  eyes  turned  towards  the  great  Conde'  ; 
but  he  continued  faithful  to  the  queen  :  the  coadjutor 
was,  therefore,  forced  to  centre  his  hopes  in  this  prince's 
younger  brother,  the  prince  of  Conti.  Rochefoucauld 
gives  an  account,  in  his  memoirs^  of  the  winning  over  of 
this  prince.  ''  The  prince  of  Conti,"  he  writes,  "■  was  ill 
satisfied  at  not  possessing  a  place  in  the  council,  and  even 
more  at  the  neglect  with  which  the  princeof  Conde  treated 
him;  and  as  he  was  entirely  influenced  by  his  sister,  the 
duchess  de  Longueville,  who  was  piqued  at  the  indiffer- 
ence her  elder  brother  displayed  towards  her,  he  aban- 
doned himself  without  reserve  to  his  resentment.     This 


ROCHEFOUCAULD.  6*9 

princess,  who  had  a  great  share  afterwards  in  these  af- 
fairs, possessed  all  the  advantages  of  talent  and  beauty  to 
so  great  a  degree,  joined  to  so  many  charms,  that  it  ap- 
peared as  if  nature  had  taken  pleasure  in  forming  a  perfect 
and  finished  work  in  her:  but  these  qualities  lost  a  part  of 
their  brilliancy  through  a  defect  which  was  never  before 
seen  in  a  person  of  this  merit;  which  was  that^  far  from 
giving  the  law  to  those  who  had  a  particular  adoration 
for  her,  she  transfused  herself  so  entirely  into  their 
sentiments  that  she  entirely  forgot  her  own.  At  this 
time  the  prince  de  Marsillac  had  a  share  in  her  heart; 
and,  as  he  joined  his  ambition  to  his  love,  he  inspired 
her  with  a  taste  for  politics,  to  which  she  had  a  natural 
aversion,  and  took  advantage  of  her  wish  to  revenge 
herself  on  the  prince  of  Conde  by  opposing  Conti  to 
him.  De  Retz  was  fortunate  in  his  project,  through  the 
sentiments  entertained  by  the  brother  and  sister,  who 
allied  themselves  to  the  Frondeurs  by  a  treaty,  into 
which  the  duke  de  Longueville  was  drawn  by  his 
hopes  of  succeeding,  through  the  help  of  parliament, 
in  his  ill-founded  pretensions  of  being  treated  like  a 
prince  of  the  blood."  * 

The  state  of  tumult  and  street  warfare  into  which 
Paris  was  plunged  by  these  intrigues  at  last  determined 
the  queen  to  the  most  desperate  measures :  she  resolved 
to  escape  from  the  capital,  with  the  young  king,  the  car- 

*  It  is  well  known  that  the  history  of  the  troubles  of  the  Fronde  is  re- 
counted by  a  variety  of  eye-witnesses,  no  two  of  which  agree  in  their  ac- 
count of  motives —  scarcely  of  facts.  Cardinal  de  Retz,  in  his  memoirs,  gives 
a  somewhat  different  account  of  the  adhesion  of  madame  de  Longueville  to 
his  party.  It  is  singular  to  remark  how  each  person  in  his  relation  makes 
himself  the  prime  mover.  Rochefoucauld  makes  us  to  almost  understand 
that  he  drew  over  the  princess  to  the  Fronde.  The  cardinal  tells  us  that, 
seeing  madame  de  Longueville  one  day  by  chance,  he  conceived  a  hope,  soon 
realised,  of  bringing  her  over  to  his  party.  He  tells  us  that  at  that  time  M. 
de  la  Rochefoucauld  was  attached  to  her.  He  was  living  at  Poitou  ;  but 
came  to  Paris  about  three  weeks  afterwards ;  and  thus  Rochefoucauld  and 
De  Retz  were  brought  together.  The  former  had  been  accused  of  deserting 
his  party,  which  rendered  De  Retz  at  first  disinclined  to  join  with  him  ;  but 
these  accusations  were  unfounded,  and  necessity  brought  them  much  to- 
gether. The  cardinal  allows  that  madame  de  Longueville  had  no  natural 
love  for  politics,  — she  was  too  indolent; — anger,  arising  from  her  elder 
brother's  treatment,  first  led  her  to  wish  to  oppose  his  party  ;  gallantry  led 
her  onward  ;  and  this  causing  party  spirit  to  be  but  the  second  of  her  mo- 
tives,  instead  of  being  a  heroine,  she  became  an  adventuress. 
F    3 


70  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

dinal,  and  the  whole  court,  and  then  to  blockade  it.  In 
this  plan  she  succeeded,  through  her  admirable  presence  of 
mind  and  fearlessness.  The  court  retreated  to  St.  Ger- 
main. Here  they  were  unprovided  even  with  necessaries. 
They  lived  in  disfurnished  apartments,  they  slept  on 
straw,  and  were  exposed  to  a  thousand  hardships.  The 
prince  of  Conti,  and  Marsillac,  and  the  duke  de  Longue- 
ville  followed  the  court.  De  Retz  was  confounded  by 
their  retreat ;  and  sent  the  marquis  de  Noirmoutier  to 
learn  the  cause  of  their  secession,  and,  if  possible,  to 
bring  them  back.  The  motive  of  these  princes  in  ap- 
parently deserting  their  party  was,  it  would  seem,  to 
further  their  own  private  interests.*  Marsillac  left  his 
secretary,  Gourville,  behind,  to  negotiate  with  the  leading 
members  of  parliament  for  the  electing  the  prince  of 
Conti  generalissimo  of  the  Parisian  troops.  When 
this  transaction  was  arranged,  the  princes  determined 
on  their  return  to  the  capital.  It  was  a  matter  of  danger 
and  difficulty  to  escape  from  St.  Germain.  'When  the 
method  of  so  doing  was  arranged,  Marsillac  held  a  long 
conversation  with  Gourville,  telling  him  what  account 
he  was  to  carry  to  Paris,  in  case  he  should  be  made 
prisoner,  in  which  case  he  felt  sure  that  he  should  be 
decapitated.  Gourville,  however,  begged  him  to  write 
his  last  instructions,  as  he  was  resolved  to  share  his 
fortunes  to  the  last.  Their  attempt,  however,  was 
attended  with  success  :  the  adventurers  made  good  their 
entrance  into  Paris  ;  and,  after  some  opposition,  gained 
their  point,  principally  through  the  appearance  of  the 
beautiful  duchesses  de  Bouillon  and  Longueville,  who 
presented  themselves  before  the  people  of  Paris  with 
their  children,  and  excited  a  commotion  in  their  favour. 
The  prince  of  Conti  was  elected  generalissimo. 

Meanwhile  Conde  blockaded  the  metropolis;  and  the 
volunteers  of  Paris,  composed  of  its  citizens,  poured  out 
to  resist  the  blockade.     The  warfare  was  of  the  most 


*  Rochefoucauld's  Memoires ;  Memoires  de   Gourville ;    James's   Life 
and  Times  of  Louis  XIV. 


ROCHEFOUCAULD.  71 

ridiculous  kind :  the  people  of  Paris  made  a  jest  of  their 
own  soldiery,  which  excelled  only  in  the  talent  of  running 
away.  These  troops  went  to  the  field  by  thousands, 
dressed  out  in  feathers  and  ribands :  they  fled  if  they  en- 
countered but  200  of  the  royal  troops :  when  they  returned, 
flying,  they  were  received  with  laughter  and  shouts  of  ridi- 
cule. Couplets  and  epigrams  were  multiplied  and  show- 
ered upon  them  and  their  leaders ;  the  populace  were 
diverted,  while  the  most  frightful  licence  prevailed;  blas- 
phemy was  added  to  licentiousness,  andthebands  of  society 
were  loosened,  its  core  poisoned.  At  length  the  middling 
classes,  most  active  at  first  in  the  work  of  sedition  and 
lawlessness,  got  tired  of  the  wickedness  they  saw  ex- 
hibited round  them,  and  of  the  dangers  to  which  they 
were  perpetually  exposed.  Blood  was  spilt,  and  they 
scarcely  knew  for  what  they  fought :  each  side  began 
to  sigh  for  peace.  De  Retz  failed  in  gaining  the  assist- 
ance of  Turenne,  for,  corrupted  by  an  emissary  of 
Mazarin,  the  army  of  Turenne  deserted  him.  The  same 
arts  were  used  to  gain  over  the  partisans  of  De  Retz. 
The  prince  de  Marsillac  was  suffering  from  a  severe 
wound.  He  had  headed  a  squadron  sent  out  with  other 
troops  for  the  purpose  of  escorting  some  convoys  of 
provisions.  The  party  was  attacked,  and  fled  on  the 
instant,  with  the  exception  of  the  party  led  by  Marsillac, 
(who,  de  Retz  observes,  had  more  valour  than  experience) 
that  kept  the  ground  till  the  prince  had  a  horse  killed 
under  him,  and  was  seriously  wounded  himself,  when 
he  returned  to  Paris.  This  circumstance  led  him,  pro- 
bably, to  listen  more  readily  to  the  representations  of 
Mazarin's  emissaries.  He  became  an  entire  convert  to  1649. 
the  desire  for  peace,  and  by  degrees,  though  with  diffi-  ^^^^' 
culty,  the  prince  of  Conti  and  the  duchess  de  Longue- 
ville  were  brought  to  acquiesce  in  its  necessity. 

A  sort  of  unsettled  tranquillity  was  thus  restored. 
After  a  time  the  court  returned  to  Paris  :  but  the  peace 
was  hollow,  and  the  bad  passions  of  men  fermented  still. 
The  capital,  with  the  exception  of  not  being  under  arms, 
w^as  in  a  state  of  perpetual  and  disgraceful  tumult.  The 
F   4 


72  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

war  of  the  Fronde  has  heen  named  a  tragic  farce ;  for  it 
was  carried  on  as  much  by  mutual  insults  and  epigrams 
as  by  the  sword.  Never  did  mankind  display  so  total  a 
disregard  for  decency  and  moral  law:  churchmen  ac- 
knowledged their  mistresses  openly ;  wives  made  no 
secret  of  favouring  their  lovers ;  and  infamy  became  too 
common  to  render  any  one  conspicuous.  As  the  nobihty 
of  the  Fronde  were  the  most  dissolute,  so,  by  degrees, 
did  it  lose  favour  with  the  people.  Each  noble  sought 
his  own  interests:  each  changed  side  as  his  hopes  changed. 
The  Fronde  lost  many  of  its  chief  partisans.  The 
prince  of  Conde  became  reconciled  to  the  prince  of 
Conti;  and  he,  and  the  duke  and  duchess  de  Longueville, 
and  the  prince  Marsillac,  now  duke  de  la  Rochefoucauld, 
through  the  recent  death  of  his  father,  fell  off  from  the 
Fronde,  at  the  same  time  that  they  continued  to  oppose 
and  insult  the  queen  and  Mazarin.  Meanwhile  De  Retz 
was  eager  to  renew  a  warfare  which  raised  him  to  the 
rank  of  leader.  He  was  still  intriguing — still,  as  it  were, 
covertly  in  arms,  —  continuing  to  exercise  unbounded 
influence  over  the  people  of  Paris,  and  to  carry  on 
intrigues  with  the  discontented  nobles.  The  court, 
meanwhile,  thoroughly  frightened  by  the  late  events,  was 
bent  on  weakening  its  enemies  by  any  means,  however 
1650.  treacherous  and  violent.  While,  therefore,  the  false 
iEtat.  security  of  peace  prevented  their  being  on  their  guard, 
^"-  suddenly  one  day  the  prince  of  Conde,  his  brother,  and 
brother,  in-law,  were  arrested,  and  sent  to  Vincennes ; 
and  the  queen  sent  to  the  duchess  de  Longueville,  re- 
quiring her  immediate  attendance.  Rochefoucauld  had 
seen  reason  to  suspect  this  piece  of  treachery,  and  had 
wished  to  warn  the  princes ;  but  the  person  he  intrusted 
with  the  commission  failed  to  execute  it.  When  the 
duke  de  Vrilliere  brought  the  order  to  the  duchess 
requiring  her  attendance,  Rochefoucauld  persuaded  her, 
instead  of  obeying,  to  quit  Paris  on  the  instant,  and 
hasten  to  Normandy,  to  raise  her  friends  in  Rouen  and 
Havre  de  Grace,  in  favour  of  her  husband  and  brothers. 
Rochefoucauld  accompanied  her ;  but  the  duchess  having 


ROCHEFOUCAULD.  73 

failed  in  her  attempt,  and  being  pressed  by  the  enemy, 
was  forced  to  embark,  and  take  refuge  in  Holland,  while 
Rochefoucauld  repaired  to  his  government  at  Poitou. 
All  was  now  prepared  for  war.  Turenne,  at  Stenay,  was 
in  revolt.  The  dukes  of  Bouillon  and  la  Rochefoucauld 
collected  troops  in  Guienne.  Rochefoucauld  was  the 
first  in  arms,  though  he  had  no  resource,  except  his 
credit  and  friends,  in  collecting  troops.  He  made  the 
ceremony  of  the  interment  of  his  father  the  pretext  for 
assembling  the  nobility  and  tenants  of  his  province,  and 
thus  raised  2000  horse  and  600  foot.*  His  first 
attempt  was  to  succour  Saumur,  besieged  by  the  king's 
troops.  But  Mazarin  had  not  been  idle  :  he  had  engaged 
what  Frederick  the  Great  called  his  yellow  hussars  in 
his  favour,  and,  by  bribery  and  corruption,  possessed  him- 
self of  the  town.  After  this  Bordeaux  became  the  seat 
of  war.  Bouillon  and  Rochefoucauld  having  entrenched 
themselves  in  that  city,  and  the  royal  troops  attacking  it. 
Ill  defended  by  fortifications,  it  soon  capitulated,  but  ob- 
tained favourable  terms.  Bouillon  and  Rochefoucauld 
were  allowed  to  retire.  Mazarin  exerted  all  his  powers 
of  persuasion  to  gain  them,  but  they  continued  faithful 
to  the  princes.  Rochefoucauld  retreated  once  again  to 
his  government  of  Poitou,  discontented  at  having  received 
no  compensation  for  his  house  of  Verteuil,  which  the 
king's  party  had  razed. 

Soon  after  the  divisions  in  France  took  somewhat  a 
new  face.  De  Retz  gained  over  the  duke  of  Orleans, 
and  united  himself  to  the  party  of  the  princes.  The 
Fronde,  thus  reinforced,  turned  all  its  force  against 
Mazarin.  He  was  forced  to  fly,  and  the  princes  were 
liberated.  It  is  not  here  that  a  detail  of  the  strange 
events  of  the  war  of  the  Fronde  can  be  given.  They 
are  introduced  only  because  Rochefoucauld  took  a  pro- 
minent part.  Changes  were  perpetually  taking  place 
in  the  state  of  parties  ;  and  a  sort  of  confusion  reigns 
throughout,   arising  from    the   want  of   any  noble  or 

*  Memoires  du  due  de  Rochefoucauld. 


74  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

disinterested  object  in  any  of  the  partisans,  that  at 
once  confuses  and  wearies  the  mind.  To  detail  the 
conduct  of  a  nobility  emancipated  from  all  legal  as 
well  as  all  moral  and  religious  restraint^  —  bent  only  on 
the  acquisition  of  power, — influenced  by  hatred  and 
selfishness^ — is  no  interesting  task.  It  may  be  in- 
structive ;  for  we  see  what  an  aristocracy  may  become, 
when  it  throws  off  the  control  of  a  court,  whose  in- 
terest it  is  to  enforce  order,  —  and  of  the  people,  who 
spontaneously  love  and  admire  virtue,  —  and  at  once 
tramples  on  religion  and  law.  The  nobles  of  the 
Fronde  had  lost  the  dignity  and  grandeur  of  feudal 
power ;  they  aimed  at  no  amelioration  for  the  state  of 
the  kingdom ;  they  neither  loved  freedom  nor  power  in 
any  way  permanently  advantageous,  even  to  their  own 
order.  Turbulent,  dissolute,  and  unprincipled,  they 
acted  the  parts  of  emancipated  slaves,  not  of  freemen 
asserting  their  rights.  We  seek  for  some  trace  of 
better  things  in  Rochefoucauld's  own  views  and  actions, 
but  do  not  find  it.  He  avows  ambition  ;  that  and  his 
love  for  the  duchess  de  Longueville  are  all  the  motives 
that  are  discernible  in  his  own  account  of  his  conduct. 
When,  however,  we  find  madam e  de  Maintenon,  who 
was  an  excellent  and  an  impartial  judge,  praise  him,  in 
the  sequel,  as  a  faithful,  true,  and  prudent  friend,  we  are 
willing  to  throw  the  blame  from  him  on  those  from 
whom  he  divided.  Madame  de  Longueville  was  cer- 
tainly guilty  of  inconstancy ;  and  we  are  told  how 
entirely  she  was  influenced  by  the  person  to  whom  she 
attached  herself.  She  drew  the  prince  of  Conti  after 
her.  Meanwhile,  the  party  in  opposition  to  Mazarin 
became  divided  into  the  new  and  old  Fronde.  No  one 
could  tell  to  which  De  Retz  would  adhere  long.  He,  for 
the  moment,  headed  the  old,  the  prince  of  Conde  the  new. 
Rochefoucauld  hated  De  Retz,  we  are  told,  with  a  hatred 
seldom  felt,  except  by  rival  men  of  talent.*      He  now, 

*  Cardinal  de  Retz  relates  a  scene  in  which  he  spoke  disparagingly  of 
Rochefoucauld.  He  supposes  that  this  was  reported  to  the  duke:  "  I  know 
not  whether  this  was  the  case,"  he  says  ;  "  but  1  could  never  discover  any 
other  cause  for  the  first  hatred  that  M.  de  la  Rochefoucauld  conceived 
against  me." 


ROCHEFOUCAULD.  75 

therefore,  sided  with  Conde',  and  endeavoured  to  ahenate 
him  entirely  from  the  coadjutor,  and  to  draw  over  his 
brother  and  sister  to  the  same  side.  He  entered  zea- 
lously into  the  plan  of  breaking  off  a  marriage  proposed 
between  the  prince  of  Conti  and  mademoiselle  de 
Chevreuse,  who  was  known  to  be  the  mistress  of  De 
Retz,  which  event  widened  the  separation  between 
the  parties.  This  led  to  more  violent  scenes  than  ever. 
Conde  was  forced  to  retreat,  and  only  appeared  strongly 
guarded ;  and  the  queen  took  advantage  of  this  show 
of  violence  to  accuse  him  of  high  treason  to  par- 
liament. This  occasioned  the  most  tumultuous  scenes. 
The  two  parties  met  in  the  Palace  of  Justice  ;  both 
Conde  and  De  Retz  surrounded  by  followers  eager  to 
draw  their  swords  on  each  other, — none  more  eager 
than  Rochefoucauld,  whom  De  Retz  detested,  and  (if 
we  believe  the  duke's  own  account)  had  several  times 
sought  to  have  assassinated.  On  this  occasion  Roche- 
foucauld was  on  the  alert  to  revenge  himself.  Mole, 
the  intrepid  and  courageous  president,  alone,  by  his 
resolution  and  firmness,  prevented  bloodshed.  He  im- 
plored the  prince  and  the  coadjutor  to  withdraw  their 
troops  from  the  palace  :  they  assented.  De  Retz  left 
the  hall  to  command  his  followers  to  retire.  Roche- 
foucauld was  sent  by  Conde  on  a  similar  mission  to  his 
partisans.  This  was  a  more  difficult  task  than  they  had 
apprehended  :  both  parties  were  on  the  point  of  coming 
to  blows ;  and  the  coadjutor  hastened  to  return  to  the 
great  chamber,  when  an  extraordinary  scene,  related  by 
the  duke  in  his  memoirs,  ensued.  He  had  returned 
before  the  coadjutor,  and  De  Retz,  pushing  the  door 
open,  got  half  in,  when  Rochefoucauld  pressed  against 
it  on  the  other  side,  and  held  his  enemy's  body  in  the 
doorway,  half  in  and  half  out  of  the  chamber.  "  This 
opportunity  might  have  tempted  the  duke  de  la  Roche- 
foucauld," writes  the  duke  himself.  ''  After  all  that 
had  passed,  both  pubhc  and  private  reasons  led  him  to 
desire  to  destroy  his  most  mortal  enemy ;  as,  besides 
the  facihty  thus  offered  of    revenging  himself,    while 


76 


LITERARY    AKD    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 


he  avenged  the  prince  for  the  shame  and  disgrace  he 
had  endured,  he  saw  also  that  the  life  of  the  coad- 
jutor ought  to  answer  for  the  disorder  he  occasioned. 
But,  on  the  other  side,  he  considered  that  no  combat 
had  been  begun  ;  that  no  one  came  against  him  to 
defend  the  coadjutor  ;  that  he  had  not  the  same  pretext 
for  attacking  him  as  if  blows  had  already  been  inter- 
changed—  the  followers  of  the  prince,  also,  who  were 
near  the  duke,  did  not  reflect  on  the  extent  of  the 
service  they  might  have  rendered  their  master  in  this 
conjuncture; — in  fine,  the  duke  would  not  commit  an 
action  that  seemed  cruel,  and  the  rest  were  irresolute 
and  unprepared  ;  and  thus  time  was  given  to  liberate 
the  coadjutor  from  the  greatest  danger  in  which  he  had 
ever  found  himself."*  Rochefoucauld  adds  the  de- 
scription of  another  incident,  not  less  characteristic  of 
the  times,  that  happened  subsequently.  After  this  scene 
in  the  Palace  of  Justice,  the  coadjutor  avoided  going 
there  or  meeting  Conde  ;  but,  one  day,  the  prince  was 
in  his  carriage  with  Rochefoucauld,  followed  by  an 
immense  crowd  of  people,  when  they  met  the  coadjutor, 
in  his  pontifical  robes,  leading  a  procession  of  relics 
and  images  of  saints.  The  prince  stopped,  out  of  respect 
to  the  church,  and  the  coadjutor  went  on  till  he  came 
opposite  to  the  prince,  whom  he  saluted  respectfully, 
giving  both  him  and  his  companion  his  benediction. 
They  received  it  with  marks  of  reverence  ;  while  the 
people  around,  excited  by  the  rencontre,  uttered  a 
thousand  imprecations  against  De  Retz,  and  would  have 
torn  him  to  pieces,  had  not  the  prince  caused  his 
followers  to  interfere  to  his  rescue.  In  all  this  we  see 
nothing  of  the  high  bearing  of  a  man  of  birth,  nor 
the  gallantry  and  generosity  of  a  soldier.  That  Roche- 
foucauld did  not  murder  De  Retz  scarcely  redeems  him, 

*  Cardinal  de  Retz,  in  describing  this  scene,  declares  that  Rochefoucauld 
called  out  to  Coligny  and  Recousse  to  kill  De  Retz,  as  he  held  him  pinned 
in  the  doorway  :  they  relused;  while  a  partizan  of  the  coadjutor  came  to 
his  aid,  and,  representing  that  it  was  a  shame  and  a  horror  to  commit  such 
an  assassination,  Rochefoucauld  allowed  the  door  to  open.  Joly  relates  the 
occurrence  in  the  same  manner ;  and,  although  a  little  softened  in  ex- 
pression, the  duke's  account  does  not  materially  differ. 


ROCHEFOUCAULD.  ^^ 

since  we  find  that  he  entertained  the  thought,  and  almost 
repented  not  having  put  it  in  execution.  In  the  heat  of 
this  quarrel  the  coadjutor  had  named  him  coward  ; 
("  I  lied/'  De  Retz  writes  in  his  memoirs,  ^''for  he  was 
assuredly  very  brave ; ")  giving  him,  at  the  same  time, 
his  nickname,  Franchise,  which  he  got  in  ridicule  of  his 
assumption  of  the  appearance  of  frankness  as  a  cloak  to 
double-dealing  and  real  astuteness  of  disposition.  We 
are  willing,  however,  to  suppose  that  he  practised  this  sort 
of  astuteness  only  with  his  enemies,  and  that  he  continued 
frank  and  true  to  his  friends.  He  had  now  become 
the  firm  partisan  and  friend  of  Conde.  This  prince,, 
a  soldier  in  heart  and  profession,  grew  impatient  of  the 
miserable  tumults  and  brawls  of  Paris,  and  resolved  to 
assert  his  authority  in  arms.  He  retreated  to  the  south 
of  France,  and  raised  Guienne,  Poitou,  and  Anjou 
against  the  court.  He  was  surrounded  by  the  prince 
of  Conti,  the  duchess  de  Longueville,  Rochefoucauld, 
Nemours,  and  many  others  of  his  boldest  and  most 
powerful  adherents.  He  was  received  in  Bordeaux 
with  joy  and  acclamations:  ten  thousand  men  were 
levied  ;  and  Spain  eagerly  lent  her  succour  to  support 
him  in  his  rebelHon.  This  was,  for  France,  the  most 
disastrous  period  of  its  civil  dissensions.  All  the  blessings 
of  civilisation  were  lost ;  commerce,  the  arts,  and  the 
sciences  were,  as  it  were,  obliterated  from  the  face  of 
society  ;  the  industrious  classes  were  reduced  to  mi- 
sery and  want ;  the  peasantry  had  degenerated  into 
bandits ;  lawlessness  and  demoralisation  were  spread 
through  the  whole  country.  The  total  disregard  for 
honour  and  virtue  that  characterised  the  higher  classes 
became  ferocity  and  dishonesty  in  the  lower. 

Conde,  into  whose  purposes  and  aims  we  have  small 
insight, —  that  he  hated  Mazarin,  and  desired  power,  is 
all  we  know, —  reaped  Uttle  advantage  from  the  state  to 
which  he  assisted,  at  least,  to  reduce  his  country.  His 
friends  and  partisans  quarrelled  with  each  other ;  sup- 
phes  fell  off;  he  saw  himself  on  the  brink  of  ruin  ;  and 
determined  to  retrieve  himself  by   a   total   change   of 


78  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

plan.  His  scheme  was  to  cross  the  whole  of  France^ 
and  to  put  himself  at  the  head  of  the  veteran  troops  of 
the  duke  de  Nemours.  The  undertaking  was  encom- 
passed with  dangers.  His  friends  at  first  dissuaded,  but, 
finding  him  resolved,  they  implored  permission  to  ac- 
company him.  He  made  such  division  as  he  considered 
advantageous  for  his  affairs  ;  leaving  Marsin  behind, 
with  the  prince  of  Conti,  to  maintain  his  interests  in 
Guienne,  and  taking  with  him  Rochefoucauld,  his  young 
son,  the  prince  de  Marsillac,  and  several  other  nobles 
and  officers.  Gourville,  Rochefoucauld's  secretary,  who 
had  made  several  journeys  to  and  fro  between  Paris 
and  Bourdeaux,andwas  a  man  of  singular  activity,  astute- 
ness, and  presence  of  mind,  was  to  serve  as  their  guide. 
Ig52.  The  party  set  out  on  Palm  Sunday,  disguised  as  sim- 
^tat.  pie  cavaliers  ;  the  servants  and  followers  being  sent 
39.  forward  by  water.  The  journey  was  continued  by  day 
and  night,  almost  with  the  same  horses.  The  adven- 
turers never  remained  for  two  hours  together  in  the 
same  place,  either  for  repose  or  refreshment.  Some- 
times they  stopped  at  the  houses  of  two  or  three  gen- 
tlemen, friends  of  one  of  the  party,  for  a  short  interval 
of  rest,  and  for  the  purpose  of  buying  horses  :  but 
these  gentlemen  were  far  from  suspecting  that  Conde 
was  among  them,  and  spoke  so  freely,  that  he  heard 
much  concerning  himself  and  his  friends  which  had 
never  before  reached  his  ears.  At  other  times  they  took 
shelter  in  outhouses,  or  poor  public-houses  by  the  way 
side,  while  Gourville  went  to  forage  in  the  towns. 
Their  fare  was  meager  enough.  In  one  little  inn  they 
found  nothing  but  eggs.  Conde  insisted  on  making 
the  omelet  himself,  piqueing  himself  on  his  skill :  the 
hostess  showed  him  how  to  turn  it ;  but  he,  using  too 
much  force  in  the  manoeuvre,  threw  the  supper  of 
himself  and  his  friends  into  the  fire.  During  the 
fatigues  of  this  journey  Rochefoucauld  was  attacked 
by  his  first  fit  of  the  gout ;  but  their  greatest  embar- 
rassment arose  from  the  young  prince  de  Marsillac, 
who  almost  sunk  under  the  fatigues  to  which  he  was 


ROCHEFOUCAULD.  >]g 

exposed.     Gourville  was  the  safeguard  of  the  party  : 
he  foraged  for  food,  answered  impertinent  questions, 
invented  subterfuges,  and  executed  a  thousand  contri- 
vances to  ensure  their  safety,  or  extricate  them  from 
danger.     When  refreshing  their  horses  in  a  large  vil- 
lage   a    peasant    recognised   Conde,   and   named    him. 
Gourville,  hearing  this,  began  to  laugh,  and   told   his 
friends  as  they  came  up,  and  they  joining  in  bantering 
the  poor  man,  he  did  not  know  what  to  believe.     All 
the  party,  except  the  prince  at  the  head  of  it,  whose 
frame  was  of  iron,   were  overcome  by  fatigue.     After 
passing  the  Loire,  they  were  nearly  discovered  by  the 
sentinels  at  La  Charite,  whom  they  encountered  through 
a  mistake  of  the  guide.      The  sentinel  demanded   who 
went  there  :    Gourville  replied  that  they  were   officers 
of  the  court,  who  desired  to  enter.      The  Conde,  pur^ 
suing  the  same  tone,  bade  the  man  go  to  the  governor 
and  ask  leave  for  them  to  be  admitted  into  the  town;  some 
soldiers,  who  were  loitering  near,  were  about  to  take  this 
message,    when    Gourville    exclaimed,    addressing    the 
prince,   "  You  have  time  to  sleep  here,  but   our  conge 
ends  to-morrow,  and  we  must  push  on ;  "  and  he  pro- 
ceeded, followed  by  the  others,  who  said  to  the  prince 
''  You  can  remain  if  you  like ;"  but  Conde,  as  if  dis- 
contented,  yet  not   liking   to  part   company,  followed, 
telling  them  that  they  were  strange  people,  and  sending 
his  compliments   to  the  governor.     After  passing   the 
river,  their  dangers  were  far  from   over.     Some  of  the 
companions  of  the  prince  were  recognised  ;   the  report 
began   to  spread  that  he  was  of  the  party.     They  left 
the  high  road,  and  continued  their  journey  to  Chatillon 
in  such  haste,  that  they  went,  according  to  Rochefou- 
cauld's  account,   the  incredible  distance   of  thirty-five 
leagues,  with  the  same  horses,  in  one  day — a  day  full  of 
dangerous  recognitions  and  misadventures  :   they  were 
surrounded  by  troops ;  and,  one  after  the  other,  Conde 
was  obliged  to  send  his  companions  on  various  missions 
to  ensure  his  safety,  till  he  was  left  at  last  with    only 
Rochefoucauld,  and  his   son,  the  prince  de  Marsillac. 


80  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

They  proceeded  guardedly,  Marsillac  an  hundred  steps 
in  advance  of,  and  Rochefoucauld  at  the  same  distance 
behind,  Conde',  so  that  he  might  receive  notice  of  any 
danger,  and  have  some  chance  of  saving  himself.  They 
had  not  proceeded  far  in  this  manner  before  they  heard 
various  reports  of  a  pistol,  and,  at  the  same  moment, 
perceived  four  cavaliers  on  their  left,  approaching  at 
full  trot.  Believing  themselves  discovered,  they  re- 
solved to  charge  these  four  men,  determined  to  die 
rather  than  be  taken ;  but,  on  their  drawing  near, 
they  found  that  it  was  one  of  their  own  number,  who 
had  returned,  accompanied  by  three  gentlemen  ;  and 
altogether  they  proceeded  to  Chatillon.  Here  Conde 
heard  of  the  situation  of  the  army  he  was  desirous  of 
joining ;  but  he  heard,  at  the  same  time,  that  he  was  in 
the  close  neighbourhood  of  danger,  several  of  the  king's 
guard  being  then  at  Chatillon.  They  set  out  again  at 
midnight ;  and  were  nearly  discovered  and  lost  at  the 
end  of  their  adventure,  being  recognised  by  many  per- 
sons. However,  as  it  turned  out,  this  served  instead 
of  injuring  them,  as  several  mounted  on  horseback,  and 
accompanied  the  party  till  they  fell  in  with  the  advanced 
guard  of  the  army,  close  to  the  forest  of  Orleans. 
They  were  hailed  .by  a  qui  vive.  The  answer,  and 
the  knowledge  that  spread,  that  Conde  had  arrived,  oc- 
casioned general  rejoicing  and  surprise  in  the  army, 
which  greatly  needed  his  presence. 

Conde  "was  opposed  by  Turenne,  who  now  adhered 
to  the  court.  These  two  great  generals  felt  that  they 
had  a  worthy  match  in  each  other.  Before  Conde's 
presence  was  generally  known,  Turenne  recognised  his 
influence  in  an  attack  that  was  made;  and  exclaimed,  as 
he  hurried  to  the  spot,  "  The  prince  of  Conde  is  ar- 
rived !  " 

Warfare  was  thus  transferred  to  the  immediate  neigh- 
bourhood of  the  capital,  and  intrigues  of  all  kinds  varied 
the  more  soldierly  manoeuvres  of  the  contending  armies. 
It  is  impossible  here  to  detail  either  the  vicissitudes  of 
minor  combats,  or  the  artifices  of  De  Retz  and  the  other 


ROCHEFOUCAULD.  81 

leaders.  Conde  found  himself  forced  at  last  to  give 
way  before  Turenne.  Finding  the  position  he  held  at 
St.  Cloud  jio  longer  tenable,  he  resolved  to  take  up  a 
new  one  at  Charenton.  For  this  purpose  he  was  obliged 
to  make  nearly  the  circuit  of  Paris,  then  held  by  the 
duke  of  Orleans,  who  considered  himself  at  the  head  of 
the  Fronde,  but  who  displayed  on  this,  as  on  every 
other  occasion,  his  timid  and  temporising  character. 
As  soon  as  Conde  began  his  march,  Turenne  became 
acquainted  with  it,  and  pursued  him.  Conde  advanced 
as  far  as  the  suburbs  of  Paris,  and,  for  a  moment, 
doubted  whether  he  would  not  ask  permission  to  pass 
through  the  city ;  but,  afraid  of  being  refused,  he  re- 
solved to  march  on.  Danger  approaching  nearer  and 
gathering  thicker,  he  determined  to  make  a  stand  in  the 
fauxbourg  St.  Antoine.  Here,  therefore,  the  battle 
commenced.  The  combat  was  hard  contested  and  fierce  : 
it  was  attended  by  various  changes  in  the  fortune  of  the 
day.  At  one  time  Conde  had  been  enabled  to  advance, 
but  he  was  again  driven  back  to  the  gates  of  St.  Antoine, 
where  he  was  not  only  assailed  in  front,  but  had  to  sus- 
tain a  tremendous  fire  carried  on  from  the  surrounding 
houses.  Rochefoucauld  was  at  his  side  :  he,  and  his  son, 
and  other  nobles  dismounted,  and  sustained  the  whole 
attack,  without  the  assistance  of  the  infantry,  who  re- 
fused to  aid  them.  The  duke  de  Nemours  received 
thirteen  wounds,  and  Rochefoucauld  was  wounded  by 
an  arquebuse,  just  above  the  eyes,  which,  in  an  instant, 
deprived  him  of  sight ;  and  he  was  carried  off  the 
field  by  the  duke  of  Beaufort  and  the  prince  of  Marsillac. 
They  were  pursued ;  but  Conde'  came  to  their  succour, 
and  gave  them  time  to  mount.  The  citizens  were  averse 
to  opening  the  gates  of  the  city  to  the  prince's  army, 
fearing  that  the  troops  of  Turenne  would  enter  with 
him :  its  safety,  however,  entirely  depended  on  taking 
refuge  in  Paris.  The  duke  of  Orleans,  vacillating  and 
dastardly,  heard  of  the  peril  of  his  friends,  and  of  the 
loss  they  had  sustained,  and  moved  no  finger  to  help 
them.      His   daughter,  mademoiselle   de    Montpensier, 

VOL.  IV.  G 


82  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

showed  a  spirit  superior  to  them  all.  She  shamed  her 
father  into  signing  an  order  for  the  opening  of  the 
gates.  She  repaired  to  the  Bastille,  and  turned  its  can- 
non on  the  royal  army :  and  then,  going  herself  to  the 
gate  St.  Antoine,  she  not  only  persuaded  the  citizens  to 
receive  the  prince  and  troops_,  but  to  sally  out,  skirmish 
with,  and  drive  back  their  pursuers.  Rochefoucauld, 
seeing  the  diversion  made  in  their  favour,  desired  to 
take  advantage  of  it ;  and,  tliough  his  eyes  were  starting 
from  his  head  through  the  effects  of  his  wound,  he  rode 
to  the  fauxbourg  St.  Germain,  and  exhorted  the  people 
to  come  to  Gondii's  aid.  Success  crowned  these  efforts  ; 
and  the  prince,  after  displaying  unexampled  conduct  and 
valour,  entered  Paris  with  flying  colours. 

This  was  the  crisis  of  the  war  of  the  Fronde.  His 
success  and  gallantry  had  raised  Gonde'  high  in  the 
affections  of  the  Parisians ;  but  popular  favour  is  pro- 
verbially short  Kved,  and,  in  a  very  short  time,  he  be- 
came the  object  of  hatred.  De  Retz  never  slept  at  the 
•work  of  intrigae.  The  court,  assisted  by  Turenne, 
rallied.  A  popular  tumult  ensued,  more  serious  than 
any  that  had  yet  occurred ;  a  massacre  was  the  conse- 
quence, and  the  odium  fell  on  Gonde'  and  his  party.  He 
lost  his  power  even  over  his  own  soldiery,  and  the  ut- 
most license  prevailed.  Several  of  the  leaders  of  the 
Fronde  died  also.  The  duke  of  Nemours  fell  in  a  duel 
with  his  brother-in-law,  the  duke  of  Beaufort:  the  dukes 
of  Ghavigni  and  Bouillon  died  of  a  typhus  fever  then 
raging  in  Paris.  Scarcity,  the  consequence  of  the  pre- 
sence of  the  soldiery  and  the  state  of  the  surrounding 
country,  became  severely  felt.  Each  party  longed  for 
repose.  The  court  acted  with  discretion.  Mazarin  was 
sacrificed  for  the  time  ;  and  the  royal  family  returned  to 
Paris,  Gonde  having  quitted  it  shortly  before.  He 
hastened  to  Holland,  eager,  like  a  true  soldier,  to  place 
himself  at  the  head  of  an  army;  but  ill  success  pursued 
him  :  he  was  declared  a  rebel ;  and,  from  that  hour,  his 
star  declined.  After  much  treaty,  much  intrigue,  and 
various  acts  of  treachery,  a  peace  was  concluded  between 


ROCHEFOUCAULD.  83 

t!ie  court  and  the  remnant  of  the  Fronde,  and  the  autho- 
rity of  the  king,  now  declared  major,  was  universally 
acknowledged. 

On  the  retreat  of  Conde  from  Paris,  Rochefoucauld  1653. 
retired  with  his  family  to  Danvilliers,  where  he  spent  ^^^^<^- 
a  year  in  retirement ;  recovering  from  his  wounds ; 
and  making  up  his  mind  to  extricate  himself  from 
the  web  of  intrigue  in  which  he  had  immeshed  him- 
self. The  Fronde  was  already  at  an  end  :  it  crumbled 
to  pieces  under  the  influence  of  fear  and  corruption. 
Roche^'oucauld  had  already  broken  with  the  prince  of 
Conti  and  the  duchess  de  Longueville  *  :  his  last  tie 
was  to  Cond'^.  He  received  representations  from  his 
friends,  and,  doubtless,  his  own  mind  suggested  the 
advantage  of  breaking  this  last  link  to  an  overthrown 
party.  One  of  the  bribes  held  out  to  him  was  the  mar- 
riage of  his  son  with  mademoiselle  de  la  Roche- Guyon, 
his  cousin  and  an  heiress.  Desirous  of  acting  honour- 
ably, he  sent  Gourville  to  Brussels,  to  disengage  him 

*  The  couplet,  written  by  Rochefoucauld  at  the  bottom  of  a  portrait  of 
the  duchess  de  Longueville  is  well  known. 

•'  Pour  meriter  son  co'ur,  pour  plaire  k  ses  beaux  j^^ux, 
J'ai  fait  la  guerre  aux  rois  :  je  i'aurois  faite  aux  dieux." 

When  be  quarrelled  with  her,  after  his  wound  in  the  combat  of  the  faux- 
bourg  de  St.  Antoine,  he  parodied  it. 

"  Pour  ce  cceur  inconstant,  qu'enfin  je  connois  mieux, 
J'ai  fait  la  guerre  aux  rois ;  j'en  ai  perdu  les  yeuic." 

It  may  here  be  mentioned,  that  the  prince  of  Conti  and  the  duchess  of 
Longueville  held  out  in  Bourdeaux  and  Guienne  against  the  royal  autho- 
rity for  several  years.  Through  the  interj)Osition  of  Gourville  they  acceded 
to  terms  in  165S.  The  conclusion  of  madame  de  I>onguevillo's  life  was  sin- 
gular. Cardinal  de  Retz  and  Rochefoucauld  both  describe  her  as  naturally 
indolent ;  but  they  both  so  inoculated  htr  with  a  love  of  party  intrigue, 
that,  when  the  war  of  the  Fronde  ceased,  she  found  it  impossible  to  re- 
concile herself  to  a  quiet  life.  She  became  jansenist.  She  built  herself  a 
dwelling  close  to  the  abbey  of  Port  Royal  aux  Champs.  She  put  herself 
forward  in  all  the  disputes,  and  was  looked  up  to  with  reverence  by  the 
leaders  of  the  party,  and  contrived,  when  everyone  else  had  failed,  to 
suspend  the  disturbances  caused  by  the  formula!  "  A  singular  woman," 
the  French  biographer  writes,  "  who  even  became  renowned  while  working 
out  her  salvation,  and  saved  herself  on  the  same  plank  from  hell  and  from 
ennui."  Her  piety  was  sincere,  for  she  submitted  to  great  personal  pri- 
vations, and  fasted  so  strictly,  that  she  died,  it  is  said,  from  inanition.  She 
died  about  a  month  after  the  duke  de  la  Rochefoucauld.  The  bishop  of 
Autun  preached  her  funeral  oration,  as  madame  de  Sevignt5  says,  with  all 
the  ability,  tact,  and  grace  that  it  was  possible  to  conceive.  The  chil- 
dren and  friends  of  Rochefoucauld  were  among  his  audience,  and  wept 
his  death  anew. 


84  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

from  all  ties  ■with  Conde.  Gourville  executed  the  task 
with  his  usual  sagacity  :  he  represented  to  the  prince 
that  the  duke  could  no  longer  be  of  any  service  to  him  ; 
and,  having  family  reasons  for  wishing  to  return  to 
France,  he  asked  his  consent  and  permission.  The 
prince  admitted  his  excuses,  and  freed  him  from  every 
bond.  Gourville  then  went  to  Paris,  to  negotiate  the  duke's 
return  with  cardinal  INIazarin.  After  some  difficulty  he 
obtained  an  interview  with  the  minister,  who  readily 
granted  leave  to  the  duke  to  return,  and  completed  his 
work  by  gaining  over  Gourville  himself. 

Thus  ended,  as  far  as  any  trace  remains  to  us,  the 
active  life  of  a  man  who  hereafter  reaped  lessons  of 
wisdom  from  the  busy  scenes  through  which  he  had 
passed.  From  various  passages  in  Gourville's  memoirs 
it  is  evident  that  he  spent  the  years  immediately  suc- 
ceeding to  the  war  on  his  own  estate  of  la  Rochefou- 
cauld. He  was  nearly  ruined  by  the  career  he  had  gone 
through;  and,  finding  his  affairs  almost  hopelessly  de- 
ranged, he  asked  Gourville,  who  had  turned  financier, 
to  receive  his  rents  and  revenues,  and  to  undertake  the 
management  of  his  estate,  household,  and  debts,  allow- 
ing him  forty  pistoles  a  month  for  dress  and  private 
expenses;  which  arrangement  lasted  till  his  death. 
Subsequently  he  lived  almost  entirely  in  Paris,  where 
he  made  a  part  of  what  may  emphatically  be  called  the 
best  society,  of  which  he  was  the  greatest  ornament; 
and  was  respected  and  beloved  by  a  circle  of  intimate 
and  dear  friends.  He  had  always  been  one  of  the  chief 
ornaments  of  the  Hotel  de  Rambouillet.  We  cannot 
tell  how  far  he  deigned  to  adopt  the  jargon  of  the  fair 
Precieuses ;  but,  as  the  society  assembled  there  was  cele- 
brated as  the  most  intellectual  and  the  most  virtuous  in 
Paris,  it  was  an  honour  for  a  man  to  belong  to  it. 

It  is  singular  also  to  remark,  that  the  most  unaf- 
fected writers  of  the  time  of  Louis  XIV,  had  once 
figured  as  Alcovistes  or  Precieuffes.  Madame  de  la 
Fayette,  who,  in  her  works,  adopted  a  simplicity  of  senti- 
ment and  expression   that  contrasts  forcibly  with  the 


ROCHEFOUCAULD. 


85 


bombast  of  the  school  of  Scuderi ;  maclarne  de  Sevigne, 
whose  style  is  the  most  delightful  and  easy  in  the  world  ; 
Rochefoucauld,  who,  first  among  moderns,  concentrated 
his  ideas,  and,  abjuring  the  difFuseness  tbat  still  reigned 
in  literature,  aimed  at  expressing  his  thoughts  in  as  few 
words  as  possible,  had  all  been  frequenters  and  favourites 
at  the  Hotel  de  Rambouillet.  It  would  seem  that  intel- 
lectual indolence  is  the  mind's  greatest  foe ;  and,  once 
incited  to  think,  persons  of  talent  can  easily  afterwards 
renounce  a  bad  school.  Platonic  gallantries,  metaphorical 
conceits,  and  ridiculous  phraseology,  were  not  the  only 
accompHshments  prized  by  the  Precieuses.  Learning 
and  wit  flourished  among  them ;  and  when  Moliere,  with 
happy  ridicule,  had  dissolved  the  charm  that  had  steeped 
them  in  folly,  these  remained,  and  shone  forth  brightly 
in  the  persons  already  named,  and  others  scarcely  less 
celebrated  —  Me'nage,  Balzac,  Voiture,  Bourdaloue,  Szc. 

To  return  to  Rochefoucauld  himself.  His  best  and 
dearest  friend  was  madame  de  la  Fayette,  the  authoress 
of  ''  La  Princesse  de  Cleves,"  and  other  works  that 
mark  her  excellent  taste  and  distinguished  talents, 
Madame  de  la  Fayette  was,  in  her  youth,  a  pupil  of 
Menage  and  Rapin.  She  learned  Latin  under  their  tui- 
tion, and  rose  above  her  masters  in  the  quickness  of 
her  comprehension.  In  general  society  she  carefully 
concealed  her  acquirements.  "  She  understood  Latin," 
Segrais  writes,  "  but  she  never  allowed  her  knowledge 
to  appear;  so  not  to  excite  the  jealousy  of  other  women." 
She  was  intimately  allied  to  all  the  clever  men  of  the 
time,  and  respected  and  loved  by  them.  She  was  a 
woman  of  a  strong  mind ;  witty  and  discerning,  frank, 
kindhearted,  and  true.  Rochefoucauld  owed  much  to 
her,  while  she  had  obligations  to  him.  Their  friendship 
was  of  mutual  benefit.  '^  He  gave  me  intellect,"  she 
said,  "  and  I  reformed  his  heart." 

This  heart  might  well  need  reform   and  cure  from 

all  of  evil  it  had  communicated  with  during  long  years 

of  intrigue  and  adventure.     The  easiness  of  his  temper, 

his  turn  for  gallantry,  the  mobile  nature  of  his  mind, 

G  3 


86 


LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 


rendered  him  susceptible  to  the  contamination  of  the  bad 
passions  then  so  active  around  him.  Ardent,  ambitious, 
subtle, — we  find  him,  in  the  time  of  the  Fronde,  busiest 
among  the  intriguers  ;  eager  in  pursuit  of  his  objects, 
yet  readily  turned  aside ;  violent  in  his  hatred,  pas- 
sionate in  his  attachments,  yet  easily  detached  from 
both,  after  the  first  fire  had  burnt  out.  His  vaccillation 
of  conduct  and  feeling  at  that  time  caused  it  to  be 
said,  that  he  always  made  a  quarrel  in  the  morning, 
and  the  employment  of  his  day  was  to  make  it  up  by 
evening.  Cardinal  de  Retz,  his  great  enemy,  accuses 
him  or  thinking  too  ill  of  human  nature.*  Thrown 
among  the  fools,  knaves,  and  demoralised  women  of  the 
Fronde,  we  cannot  wonder  that  he,  seeing  the  extent  of 

*  "  11  y  a  toujours  eut  du  je  ne  sais  quoi  en  tout  M.  de  la  Rochefoucauld. 
II  a  voulu  se  meter  d'intrigues  des  son  enfance,  et  en  un  temps  ou  11  ne 
sentait  jas  les  petits  interets,  qui  n'ont  jamais  ete  son  faible,  et  ou  il  ne 
connoissait  pas  les  grands,  qui,  d'un  autre  sens,  n'ont  pas  et^  son  Ibrt.  II 
n'a  jamais  ete  capable  d'aucune  atfaire,  et  je  ne  sais  pourquoi ;  car  il  avait 
des  qualites  qui  eussent  suplie,  en  tout  autre  celles  qu'il  n'avait  pas.  Sa 
vue  n  etait  pas  assez  etendue,  et  il  ne  voyait  pas  meme  tout  ensemble  ce 
qui  etait  ci  sa  portee;  mais  son  bon  sens,  tres  bon  dans  la  speculation,  joint 
h  sa  douceur,  k  son  insinuation,  eta  sa  facilite  de  mceurs,  qui  est  admirable, 
devait  recompenser  plus  qu'il  n'a  fait  le  defaut  de  sa  ptnttration.  II  k 
toujours  eut  une  irrtsolution  habituelle ;  mais  je  ne  sais  meme  a  quoi 
attribuer  cette  irresolution  :  elle  n'a  pu  venir  en  lui  de  la  fecondite  de  son 
imagination,  qui  est  rien  moins  que  vive.  Je  ne  puis  la  donner  a  la  steri- 
lite  de  son  jugement,  car  quoiqu'il  ne  I'ait  pas  exquis  dans  Taction,  il  k  un 
bon  fonds  de  raison.  Nous  voyons  reflects  de  cette  irresolution,  quoique 
nous  n'en  connaissons  pas  la  cause.  11  n'a  jamais  ete  guerier,  quoiqu'il 
fut  tres  soldat.  II  n'a  jamais  tte  par  luimeme  bon  courtisan,  quoiqu'il 
ait  eut  toujours  bonne  intention  de  I'etre.  II  n'a  jamais  et^  bon  homme 
de  parti,  qiioique  toute  sa  vie  il  y  ait  ele  engage.  Cet  air  de  honte  et  de 
timidite  que  vous  lui  voyez  dans  la  vie  civile  s'etait  tourne  dans  les  af- 
faires en  air  d'apologie.  II  croyait  toujours  en  avoir  besoin,  ce  qui  jointes 
a  ses  maximes,  qui  ne  marquent  pas  assez  de  foi  a  la  vertu,  et  a  sa  pratique, 
qui  k  toujours  et^  k  sortir  des  affaires  avec  autant  d'impatience  qu'il  y  est 
entre,  me  fait  conclure  qu'il  eut  beaucoup  mieux  fait  de  se  connaitre  et 
de  se  reduire  a  passer,  comme  il  eut  pu,  pour  le  courtisan  le  plus  poll  et 
pour  le  plus  honnete  homme,  a  I'egard  de  la  vie  commune,  qui  eut  paru 
dans  le  siecle." 

Such  is  the  character  de  Retz  gives  of  his  rival.  Madame  de  Sfevigne 
has  preserved  a  portrait  of  the  cardinal  by  Rochefoucauld.  He  gives  him 
high  ])raise  for  good  understanding  and  an  admirable  memory.  He  repre- 
sents him  as  high  minded,  and  yet  more  vain  than  ambitious;  an  easy 
temper,  ready  to  listen  to  the  complaints  of  his  followers  ;  indolent  to 
excess,  when  allowed  to  repose,  but  equal  to  any  exertion  when  called  into 
action  ;  and  aided  on  all  occasions  by  a  presence  of  mind  which  enabled  him 
to  turn  every  chance  so  much  to  his  advantage  that  it  seemed  as  if  each  had 
been  foreseen  and  desired  by  him.  He  relates  that  he  was  fond  of  narrating 
his  past  adventures  ;  and  his  reputation  was  founded  chiefly  on  his  ability  in 
placing  his  very  defects  in  a  good  light.  He  even  regards  his  last  retreat 
as  resulting  from  vanity,  while  his  friend,  maaame  de  Sevign^,  more  justly 
looks  upon  it  as  resulting  from  the  grandeur  of  his  mind  and  love  of  justice. 


ROCHEFOUCAULD.  87 

the  evil  of  which  human  nature  is  capable,  was  unaware 
that  these  very  passions,  regulated  by  moral  principle 
and  religion,  would  animate  men  to  virtue  as  well  as  to 
vice.  He  read  this  lesson  subsequently  in  his  own  heart, 
when,  turning  from  the  libertine  society  with  which  he 
spent  his  youth,  he  became  the  friend  of  madame  de  la 
Fayette,  madame  de  Sjvign  ',  and  the  most  distinguished 
persons  of  the  reign  of  Louis  XIV.  Yet  the  taint  could 
not  quite  be  effaced.  It  left  his  heart,  but  it  blotted  his 
understanding.  He  could  feel  generous,  noble,  and  pious 
sentiments  ;  but  having  once  experienced  emotions  the 
reverse  of  these,  and  having  found  them  deep-rooted  in 
others,  he  fancied  that  both  virtue  and  vice,  good  and 
evil,  sprang  from  the  same  causes,  and  were  based  on 
the  same  foundations.  Added  to  this,  we  may  observe 
that  his  best  friends  belonged  to  a  court.  True  and 
just  as  was  madame  de  la  Fayette, —  amiable  and  dis- 
interested as  madame  de  Ssvigne, —  brave  as  Turenne, — 
noble  asCcnde, — pious  as  Racine, — honest  as  Boilcau, 
—  devout  and  moral  as  madame  de  Maintenon  might  be, 
and  were,  the  taint  of  a  court  was  spread  over  all ; 
the  desire  of  being  well  with  the  sovereign,  and"  making 
a  monarch's  favour  the  cynosure  of  hearts  and  the  mea- 
sure of  merit.  Rochefoucauld  fancied  that  he  could 
discern  selfishness  in  all ;  yet,  had  he  turned  liis  eye  in- 
ward with  a  clearer  view,  he  had  surely  found  that  the 
impulses  that  caused  his  own  heart  to  warm  with  friend- 
ship and  virtue,  were  based  on  a  power  of  forgetting 
self  in  extraneous  objects  ;  for  he  was  a  faithful,  affec- 
tionate, and  disinterested  friend,  a  fond  father,  and  an 
honourable  man.  He  was  brave  also  ;  though  madame 
de  Maintenon  tells  us  that  he  was  accustomed  to  say 
that  he  looked  on  personal  bravery  as  folly.  This 
speech  lets  us  into  much  of  the  secret  recesses  of  his 
mind.  His  philosophy  was  epicurean  ;  and,  wanting  the 
stoic  exaltation  of  sentiment,  and  worship  of  good  for 
good's  sake,  he  mistook  the  principles  of  the  human 
mind,  and  saw  no  excellence  in  a  forgetfulness  of  self, 
G  4 


88  LITERARY    AXD    SCIKNTIFIC    MEN. 

the  capacity  for  which  he  was  thus  led  to  deny.*  INIadame 
de  Maintenon  adds,  in  her  portrait,  ''  M.  de  Roche- 
foucauld had  an  agreeable  countenance,  a  dignified  man- 
ner, much  intellect,  and  little  knowledge.  He  was  in- 
triguing, supple,  foreseeing.  I  never  knew  a  friend 
more  constant,  more  frank,  nor  more  prudent  in  his  ad- 
vice. He  loved  to  reign  :  he  was  very  brave.  He  pre- 
served the  vivacity  of  his  mind  till  his  death  ;  and  was 
ahvays  lively  and  agreeable,  though  naturally  serious." 

The  latter  part  of  his  life  was  embittered  by  the  gout, 
which  seldom  left  him  free  from  pain.  The  society  of 
madame  de  la  Fayette  and  other  friends  \vere  his  re- 
source during  the  intervals  of  his  attacks,  and  his  comfort 
throughout.  Madame  de  St^vigne  makes  frequent  men- 
tion of  him  in  her  letters,  and  always  in  a  way  that 
marks  approbation  and  respect.  She  often  speaks  of 
his  fortitude  in  suffering  bodily  pain,  and  his  sensibility 
when  domestic  misfortunes  visited  him  severely.  His 
courage  never  abandoned  him,  except  wdien  death  de- 
prived him  of  those  he  loved.  One  of  his  sons  was 
killed  and  another  wounded  in  the  passage  of  the 
Rhine,  "  I  have  seen,"  writes  madame  de  Sevigne, 
"  his  heart  laid  bare  by  this  cruel  disaster.  He  is  the 
first  among  all  the  men  I  ever  knew  for  courage,  good- 
ness, tenderness,  and  sense.  I  count  his  wit  and  agreeable 
qualities  as  nothing  in  comparison."  It  is  from  her 
letters  that  we  gather  an  account  of  his  death.  Men- 
tion is  made  of  him,  as  well  and  enjoying  society,  in  the 

*  We  doubt  thf  exact  truth  of  these  assertions  even  wliile  we  write 
them  It  is  true  that  Rochefoucauld  detects  self-love  as  inin^ling  in  many 
of  our  actions  and  feelings,  but  he  does  not  advance  the  opinion  that  no 
disinterested  virtue  can  exist,  and,  still  less,  the  Helvetian  metaphysical 
notion  that  self-love  is  the  spring  of  every  emotion,  which  it  is,  inasmuch 
as  it  is  we  that  feel,  and  that  our  emotions  cause  our  pulses  to  beat,  not 
another's ;  but  is  not,  inasmuch  as  we  do  not  consult  our!own  interest  or 
pleasure  in  all  we  feel  and  do.  Maiiame  de  Sevigne  relates  an  anecdote  of 
an  officer  who  had  his  arm  carried  oft'hy  the  same  cannon-ball  that  killed 
Turenne,  but  who,  careless  of  the  mutilation,  threw  himself  weeping  on 
the  corpse  of  the  hero.  She  adds  that  Rochefoucauld  shed  tears  when 
he  heard  this  told.  Such  tears  are  a  tribute  paid  to  disinterested  virtue; 
and  prove,  though  the  author  of  the  "  Maxims"  could  trace  dross  in  ore 
wherever  it  existed,  yet  that  he  believed  that  virtue  could  be  found  in 
entire  purity. 


ROCHEFOUCAULD.  89 

month  of  February.  On  the  13th  of  March  she  writes,  1680- 
''  M.  de  la  Rochefoucauld  has  been  and  is  seriously  ill.  ^tat. 
He  is  better  to-day  ;  but  there  is  every  appearance  of  ^^'* 
death :  he  has  a  high  fever,  an  oppression,  a  suppressed 
gout.  There  has  been  question  of  the  English  doctor 
and  other  physicians  :  he  has  chosen  his  godfather ;  and 
frere  Ange  will  kill  him,  if  God  has  thus  disposed.  M. 
de  Marsillac  is  expected:  madame  de  la  Fayette  is  deeply 
afflicted."  On  the  15th  of  the  same  month  she  writes, 
''  I  fear  that  this  time  we  shall  lose  M.  de  la  Rochefou- 
cauld :  his  fever  continues.  He  received  the  communion 
yesterday.  He  is  in  a  state  worthy  of  admiration.  He 
is  excellently  disposed  with  regard  to  his  conscience, — 
that  is  clear :  for  the  rest,  it  is  to  him  as  if  his 
neighbour  were  ill  :  he  is  neither  moved  nor  troubled. 
He  hears  the  cause  of  the  physicians  pleaded  before 
him  with  an  unembarrassed  head,  and  almost  without 
deigning  to  give  his  opinion.  It  reminded  me  of  the 
verse,  r 

Trop  dessous  de  lui,  pour  y  preter  I'esprit. 

He  did  not  see  madame  de  la  Fayette  yesterday,  because 
she  wept,  and  he  was  to  take  the  sacrament:  he  sent  at 
noon  to  inquire  after  her.  Believe  me  that  he  has  not 
made  reflections  all  his  life  to  no  purpose.  He  has  in  this 
manner  approached  so  near  to  the  last  moments  that 
their  actual  presence  has  nothing  new  nor  strange  for 
him.  M.  de  Marsillac  arrived  at  midnight,  the  day 
before  yesterday,  overwhelmed  with  grief.  He  was  long 
before  he  could  command  his  countenance  and  manner. 
He  entered  at  last,  and  found  his  father  in  his  chair^ 
little  different  from  his  usual  appearance.  As  M.  de 
Marsillac  is  his  friend  among  his  children,  there  must 
have  been  some  internal  emotion  ;  but  he  manifested 
none,  and  forgot  to  speak  to  him  of  his  illness.  I  am 
continually  with  madame  de  la  Fayette,  who  could  never 
have  experienced  the  delights  of  friendship  and  affection 
were  she  less  afflicted  than  she  is."  On  the  17th  of 
March  the  scene  closed;  and  madame  de  Sevigne  writes^ 


90  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

"  M.  de  la  Rochefoucauld  died  this  night.     My  head  is 
so  full  of  this  misfortune^  and  of  the  extreme  affliction 
of  my  poor  friend,  that  I  must   write   about  it.     On 
Saturday,  yesterday,  the  remedies  had  done  wonders ; 
victory  was  proclaimed  ;  his  fever  had  diminished.      In 
this  state,  yesterday,  at  six  o'clock,  he  turned  to  death  : 
fever  recurred  ;  and,  in  a  word,  gout  treacherously  stran- 
gled him:  and,  although  he  was  still  strong,  and  had  not 
been  weakened  by  losing  blood,  five  or  six  hours  sufficed 
to  carry  him  off.   At  midnight  he  expired  in  the  arms  of 
M.de  Condom  (Bossuet).    M.  de  Marsillac  never  quitted 
him  for  a  moment :   he  is  plunged  in  inexpressible  afflic- 
tion.   Yet  he  will  return  to  his  former  life  ;  find  the  king 
and  the  court  as  they  were  ;  and  his  family  will  still  be 
around  him.    But  where  will  madame  de  la  Fayette  find 
such  a  friend,  such  society;  a  similar  kindness,  resource, 
and  reliance,  or  equal  consideration  for  herself  and  her 
son  ?   She  is  infirm  ;    she  is  always  at  home,  and  cannot 
run  about  town.    M.  de  la  Rochefoucauld  was  sedentary. 
This  state  rendered  them  necessary  to  each  other ,;  and 
nothing  could  equal  their  mutual  confidence,  and  the 
charm  of  their  friendship."    This  grief,  this  friendship, 
is  the  most  honourable  monument  a  man   can  receive : 
who  would  not  desire  thus  to  be  sepultured  in  the  heart 
of  one  loved  and  valued?  One  might  regret  the  pain  felt ; 
but, as  madame  de  la  Sevigne  so  beautifully  observes,  this 
pain  is  the  proof  of  the  truth  and  warmth  of  the  affection 
that  united  them,  and  the  pleasure  they  mutually  im- 
parted and  received.    In  successive  letters  there  are  traces 
of  the  inconsolable  affliction  of  madame  de  la  Fayette. 
"  She  has  fallen  from  the  clouds  :    every  moment  she 
perceives  the  loss  she  has  suffered  ;"  and  again,  ''  Poor 
madame  de  la  Fayette  knows  not  what  to  do  with  her- 
self.    The  loss  of  M.  de  la  Rochefoucauld  makes   so 
terrible  a  void  in  her  life  that  she  feels  more  sensibly 
the  value  of  so  delightful  an  intimacy.     Every  one  will 
be  consoled  at  last,  except  her."     A  sadder  testimonial 
of  her  affection  is  contained  in  a  short  passage,  saying, 
*'  I  saw  madame  de  la  Fayette.     I  found  her  in  tears : 


ROCHEFOUCAULD.  91 

a  writing  of  M.  de  la  Rochefoucauld  had  fallen  into  her 
hands  which  surprised  and  afflicted  her."  We  are  not 
told  the  subject  of  this  paper,  nor  the  cause  of  her 
affliction  :  was  it  some  trace  of  past  unkindness  or  secret 
injustice?  These  are  the  stings,  this  the  poison,  of  death. 
There  is  no  recal  for  a  hasty  word  ;  no  excuse,  no  par- 
don, no  forgetfulness,  for  injustice  or  neglect ;  —  the 
grave  that  has  closed  over  the  living  form,  and  blocked 
up  the  future,  causes  the  past  to  be  indelible  ;  and,  as 
human  v.eakness  for  ever  errs,  here  it  finds  the  punish- 
ment of  its  errors.  While  we  love,  let  us  ever  remem- 
ber that  the  loved  one  may  die, —  that  we  ourselves  may 
die.  Let  all  be  true  and  open,  let  all  be  faithful  and 
single-hearted,  or  the  poison-harvest  reaped  after  death 
may  infect  with  pain  and  agony  one's  life  of  memory. 
We  may  say,  in  defence  of  Rochefoucauld,  that  Gour- 
ville,  in  his  mem.oirs,  alludes  to  a  circumstance  that 
annoyed  him  with  regard  to  madame  de  la  Fayette  : 
he  says  that,  taking  advantage  of  Gourville's  attachment 
to  his  fornr.er  master,  she  and  M.  de  Langlade  plotted 
together  to  do  him  an  ill  turn,  which  would  have  turned 
greatly  to  the  lady's  advantage ;  and  that,  at  the  time 
of  the  duke's  death,  it  was  said  that  he  was  much  hurt 
at  having  discovered  this  little  intrigue.  At  the  same 
time  madame  de  la  Fayette  may  have  been  innocent  of 
the  charge.  Gourville  disliked  her,  and  might  accuse 
her  unjustly,  and  have  deceived  Rochefoucauld  by  repre- 
sentations which  were  false,  though  he  beheved  in  them 
himself. 

We  have  entered  thus  fully  into  all  the  details  known 
of  Rochefoucauld's  life,  that  we  might  understand  better 
on  what  principles  and  feelings  the  "Maxims"  were 
founded.  We  find  a  warm  heart,  an  impetuous  temper, 
joined  to  great  ductihty,  some  insincerity,  and  no  ima- 
gination ; — we  find  a  penetrating  understanding,  joined 
to  extreme  subtlety,  that  might  well  overshoot  itself  in 
its  aim; — strong  attachments,  which  took  the  colour 
greatly  of  their  object.  Disease  tamed  his  passions;  but 
his  mind  was  still  free  to  observe,  and  to  form  opinions. 


92  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

The  result  was  an'Epicurean  philosophy^  which  answered 
the  cut  bono  by  a  perpetual  reference  to  self — to  pleasure 
and  to  pain  ;  while  he  passed  over  the  first  principle  of 
morals,  which  is,  that  it  is  not  the  pleasure  we  receive 
from  good  actions  which  actuates  us,  but  love  of  good. 
This  passion  produces  pleasure  or  pain  in  its  result ;  but 
the  latter  is  the  effect  forgotten  till  it  arrives  ;  the  former 
the  cause,  the  impelling  motive,  the  true  source,  from 
which  our  virtues  spring.  Were  we  to  praise  a  knife  for 
being  sharp,  and  a  stander-by  should  say,  "It  deserves 
no  praise.  No  wonder  that  it  is  sharp  :  it  is  made  of  the 
finest  tempered  steel,  and  infinite  labour  has  been  bestowed 
on  the  manufacture  of  it:"  should  we  not  reply,  "  There, 
fore  we  praise  it :  because  the  material  is  good,  and  has 
been  rendered  better  by  care,  we  consider  it  excellent." 
The  passions  and  the  affections,  by  their  influence  over 
the  soul,  produce  pleasure  or  pain;  but  shall  we  not  love 
and  approve  those  who  take  pleasure  in  cultivating  vir- 
tuous affections,  and  rejecting  vicious  ones  }  Thus  con- 
sidered, it  may  be  said  that  the  question  is  reduced  to  a 
mere  war  of  words ;  but  in  practice  it  is  not  so.  No 
person  could  habitually  entertain  the  idea  that  he  was 
selfish  in  all  he  did  without  weakening  his  love  of  good, 
and,  at  last,  persuading  himself  to  make  self-interest,  in 
a  confined  and  evil  sense,  the  aim  of  his  actions  ;  while 
if,  on  the  contrary,  we  recognise  and  appreciate  that 
faculty  of  the  soul,  that  permits  us  to  forget  self  in  the 
object  of  our  desire,  we  shall  be  more  eagerly  bent  to 
entertain  piety,  virtue,  and  honour,  as  objects  to  be 
attained ;  satisfied  that  thus  we  render  ourselves  better 
beings,  though,  probably,  not  happier  than  those  of 
meaner  aspirations. 

We  turn  to  Rochefoucauld's  maxims,  and  find  ample 
field  for  explanation  of  our  view  in  the  observations  that 
they  suggest.  We  cannot  turn  to  them  without  discuss- 
ing inwardly  their  truth  and  falsehood.  Some  are  true 
as  truth  :  such  as — 

"  There  is  in  the  human  heart  a  perpetual  generation 
of  passions ;  so  that  the  destruction  of  one  is  almost 
always  the  birth  of  another." 


ROCHEFOUCAULD.  O3 

'■'■  We  promise  according  to  our  hopes ;  we  perform 
according  to  our  fears." 

"  No  one  is  either  so  happy  or  so  unhappy  as  he 
imagines." 

"  Fortune  turns  every  thing  to  the  advantage  of  those 
whom  she  favours." 

'^  There  is  but  one  true  love;  but  there  are  a  thousand 
copies. 

"  It  is  more  shameful  to  distrust  our  friends  than  to 
be  deceived  by  them." 

"^  A  fool  has  not  stuff  enough  in  him  to  be  virtuous." 
^'Our  minds  are  more  indolent  than  our  bodies." 
^^  Jealousy  is  always   born   with   love,  but  does   not 
always  die  with  it." 

'^  It  would  seem  that  nature  has  concealed  talents  and 
capacities  in  the  depths  of  our  minds  of  which  we  have 
no  knowledge:  the  passions  alone  can  bring  these  into 
day,  and  give  us  more  certain  and  perfect  views  than  art 
can  afford. 

''  We  arrive  quite  new  at  the  different  ages  of  hfe  • 
and  often  want  experience  in  spite  of  the  number  of 
years  we  have  lived." 

"  It  is  being  truly  virtuous  to  be  willing  to  be  always 
exposed  to  the  view  of  the  virtuous." 

Some  maxims  are  too  subtle;  and  among  such  is  to  be 
ranked  the  celebrated  one,  -  That  we  often  find  some- 
thing  in  the  misfortunes  of  our  best  friends  that  is  not 
displeasing  to  us."  Taking  this  in  its  most  obvious 
sense  it  merely  means,  that  no  evil  is  so  great  but  that 
some  good  accompanies  it.  Our  own  personal  misfor- 
tunes even  bring,  at  times,  some  sort  of  compensation 
without  which  they  would  be  intolerable.  Regarded  more 
narrowly,  it  appears  that  Rochefoucauld  meant  that  we 
are  ready  to  look  upon  the  sorrows  of  our  friends  as 
something  advantageous  to  ourselves.  This,  in  a  precise 
sense,  is  totally  false,  where  there  is  question  of  real  affec- 
tion and  true  friendship.  There  is  an  emotion,  however 
ot  a  singular  description  that  does  often  arise  in  the  heart 
on  hearing  bad  news.  The  simple-minded  Lavater,  in  his 


94  LITERARY    AND    SCIISNTIFIC    MEX. 

journal,  was  aware  of  this.  He  mentions  that,  on  hear- 
ing that  a  friend  had  fallen  into  affliction,  he  felt  an  invo- 
luntary emotion  of  pleasure.  Examination  explains  to  us 
the  real  nature  of  this  feeling.  The  human  mind  is  adverse 
(we  talk  of  the  generality  of  instances,  not  of  exceptions,) 
to  repose :  any  thing  that  gives  it  hope  of  exercise,  and 
puts  it  in  motion,  is  pleasurable.  The  consciousness  of 
existence  is  a  pleasure;  and  any  novelty  of  sensation  that  is 
not  personally  painful  brings  this.  When  Lavater  heard 
that  his  friend  was  in  affliction  he  was  roused  from  the 
monotony  of  his  daily  life.  Novelty  had  charms :  he 
had  to  tell  his  wife  to  set  out  on  a  journey  for  the 
purpose  of  seeing  and  consoling  his  friend.  All  this 
made  him  conscious  of  existence,  pave  him  the  hope  of 
being  useful,  caused  his  blood  to  flow  more  freely,  and 
thus  even  imparted  physical  pleasure  ;  and,  indeed,  I 
should  be  apt  to  reduce  the  essence  of  this  emotion  to 
mere  physical  sensation,  occasioned  by  an  accelerated 
pulsation,  the  result  of  excitement.  It  may  be,  and  it 
is,  right  to  record  this  sensation  in  any  history  of  the 
human  mind  ;  but  it  ought  to  be  appreciated  at  its  true 
value  as  the  mere  operation  of  the  lower  part  of  our 
nature  for  the  most  part,  and,  added  to  that,  pleasure 
in  the  expectation  of  being  of  use. 

This  sort  of  anatomy  of  mind,  when  we  detect  evil 
in  the  involuntary  impulses  of  the  soul,  resembles  the 
scruples  felt  by  an  over-pious  person,  who  regards  the 
satisfying  hunger  and  receiving  pleasure  in  eating  a 
dry  crust  as  sin.  Dissecting  things  thus,  it  becomes 
difficult  to  say  what  is  a  misfortune.  It  is  a  misfortune 
to  lose  one's  child  ;  so  natural  and  instinctive  is  the 
sorrow  that  ensues  that,  perhaps,  no  other  can  be  purer. 
If  a  friend  lose  a  child,  if  we  loved  that  child  also, 
the  misfortune  becomes  our  own,  and  our  sympathy  may- 
be perfect.  If  the  child  promised  ill,  the  pain  we  feel 
from  our  friend's  grief  may  be  mitigated  by  the  sense 
that  it  is  ill-founded,  and  even  that  we  may  derive  benefit 
from  the  loss  lamented :  not  being  blinded  by  parental 
passion,  we  may  rejoice  in  the  alleviations  foresight  and 


EOCHEFOUCAULD.  Q5 

reason  present  to  us.  To  call  this  selfishness  is  to  quarrel 
with  the  structure  of  human  nature^  vvhich  is  based  on 
personal  identity  and  consciousness.  Passion  enables  us 
to  throw  off  even  these^  sometimes,  and  totally  to  amal- 
gamate our  interests  with  those  of  another.  But  this 
is,  indeed,  of  rare  occurrence. 

We  may  remark,  also,  that  even  in  those  instances  in 
which  the  mind  does  recognise  benefit  to  arise  from  the 
misfortune  of  a  friend,  and  feel  involuntary  self-gratu- 
lation,  we  regard  this  as  a  crime  or  a  vice,  and  reject 
it  as  such,  showing  the  power  of  disinterestedness  over 
selfishness  by  dismissing  and  abhorring  the  feeling. 

The  Fronde  was  the  soil  in  which  the  "^Maxims"  had 
root:  better  times  softened  their  harshness,  and  inspired 
better  and  higher  thoughts.  But  the  younger  life  of 
Rochefoucaulil  was  spent  in  a  society  demoralised  to  a  de- 
gree unknown  before  —  when  self-interest  was  acknow- 
ledged as  the  principle  of  all ;  and  the  affections  alone  kept 
a  ^'few  green  spots"  —  rare  oases  of  beauty  and  virtue — 
amidst  the  bhghted  and  barren  waste  of  ambition  and 
vice.  Usually  public  revulsions  give  birth  to  heroism 
as  well  as  crime;  and  war  and  massacre  ara  elevated 
and  redeemed  by  courage  and  self-devotion.  But,  in 
the  time  of  the  Fronde,  there  were  no  very  great 
crimes,  and  no  exalted  actions :  vice  and  folly,  restless " 
desire  of  power,  and  an  eager,  yet  aimless,  party  spirit, 
animated  society.  Hence  the  mean  opinion  Roche- 
foucauld formed  of  human  nature ;  and  the  very  sub- 
tlety and  penetration  of  his  intellect  occasioned  him 
to  err  yet  more  widely  in  his  conclusions.  To  adopt  a 
maxim  of  his  own,  he  erred,  not  by  not  reaching  the 
mark,  but  going  beyond  it.  Not  that  he  went  so  far  as 
his  followers.  Dry  Scotch  metaphysicians,  men  with- 
out souls,  reduced  to  a  system  what  he  announced  merely 
as  of  frequent  occurrence.  They  tell  us  that  self-interest 
is  the  mover  of  all  our  actions  :  Rochefoucauld  only  says 
'''self-interest  puts  to  use  every  sort  of  virtue  and  vice." 
But  he  does  not  say  that  every  sort  of  virtue,  or  even 
vice,  in  all  persons   is   impregnated  with   self-interest. 


96  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

though  with  many  it  is  ;  and  there  are  a  multitude  of 
his  remarks  which  display  a  thorough  appreciation  of 
excellence.  The  maxims  themselves  are  admirahly 
expressed ;  the  language  is  pure  and  elegant  ;  the 
thoughts  clearly  conceived,  and  forcibly  worded. 

Besides  the  maxims,  Rochefoucauld  wrote  memoirs 
of  various  periods  of  the  regency  of  Anne  of  Austria 
and  the  wars  of  the  Fronde.  Bayle  bestows  great  en- 
comium on  this  work :  "  I  am  sure/'  he  says^ 
"  there  are  few  partisans  of  antiquity  who  will  not 
set  a  higher  value  on  the  duke  de  la  Rochefoucauld's 
memoirs  than  on  Cesar's  commentaries."  *  To  which 
remark  the  only  reply  must  be,  that  Bayle  was  better 
able  to  dissect  motives,  appreciate  actions,  and  reason 
on  truth  and  falsehood,  than  to  discover  the  merit  of  a 
literary  work.  "  Rochefoucauld's  memoirs  are  still 
read:"  such  is  Voltaire's  notice,  while  he  bestows  great 
praise  on  the  maxims.  The  chief  fault  of  the  memoirs 
is  the  subject  of  them,  —  the  wars  of  the  Fronde,  —  a 
period  of  history  distinguished  by  no  men  of  exalted 
excellence;  neither  adorned  by  admirable  actions  nor 
conducing  to  any  amelioration  in  the  state  of  society  : 
it  was  a  war  of  knaves  (not  fools)  for  their  own  ad- 
vancement, ending  in  their  deserved  defeat. 

*  Bayle's  Dictionary,  article  Cresar. 


97 

MOLIERE. 

1622—1673. 

Louis  XIV.  one  day  asked  Boileau  "  Which  writer  of 
his  reign  he  considered  the  most  distinguished ; '' 
Boileau  answered,  unhesitatingly^  "  Moliere."  ''  You 
surprise  me/'  said  the  king  ;  "  but  of  course  you  know 
best."  Boileau  displayed  his  discernment  in  this  reply. 
The  more  we  learn  of  Moliere's  career,  and  inquire  into 
the  peculiarities  of  his  character,  the  more  we  are 
struck  by  the  greatness  of  his  genius  and  the  admirable 
nature  of  the  man.  Of  all  French  writers  he  is  the 
least  merely  French.  His  dramas  belong  to  all  countries 
and  ages  ;  and,  as  if  as  a  corollary  to  this  observation, 
we  find,  also,  an  earnestness  of  feelings  and  a  deep  tone 
of  passion  in  his  character,  that  raises  him  above  our 
ordinary  notions  of  Gallic  frivolity. 

Moliere  was  of  respectable  parentage.  For  several 
generations  his  family  had  been  traders  in  Paris,  and 
were  so  well  esteemed,  that  various  members  had  held 
the  places  of  juge  and  consul  in  the  city  of  Paris ; 
situations  of  sufficient  importance,  on  some  occasions,  to 
cause  those  who  filled  them  to  be  raised  to  the  rank  of 
nobles.  His  father,  Jean  Foquelin,  was  appointed 
tapestry  or  carpet -furnisher  to  the  king :  his  mother, 
Marie  Cresse*,  belonged  to  a  family  similarly  situated ; 

*  A  thousand  mistakes  were  current,  even  in  Moli^re's  own  day,  with 
regard  to  various  particulars  of  his  history,which  he  took  no  pains  to  contra- 
dict, and  which  have  heen  copied  and  recopied  by  succeeding  biographers. 
Even  the  calumny  that  he  had  incurred  the  hazard  of  marrying  his  own 
daughter,  which  he  disdained  to  confute  in  print,  aware  that  facts  known  to 
every  one  acquainted  with  him  bore  the  refutation  with  them,  was  faintly 
denied.  These  days,  however,  have  brought  forth  a  commentator,  un- 
wearied in  the  search  for  documents  on  the  subject.  M.  L.  F.  Beffara 
hunted  through  parish  registers  andother  public  records,  and,  by  means  of 
these  simple  but  irrefutable  instruments,  has  thrown  lighton  all  thedarker 
passages  of  Moliere's  history,  exonerated  him  from  every  accusation, 
and  set  his  character  in  a  higher  point  of  view  than  ever. 
VOL.  IV.  H 


98  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

her  father,  also_,  was  a  manufacturer  of  carpets  and 
tapestry.  Jean  Baptiste  Poquehn  (such  was  Mohere's 
real  name)  Avas  born  on  the  15th  January,  1622,  in 
a  house  in  Rue  Saint  Honore,  near  the  Rue  tie  la 
Tonnellerie.  He  was  the  eldest  of  a  numerous  family  of 
children,  and  destined  to  succeed  his  father  in  trade. 
The  latter  being  afterwards  appointed  valet  de  chambre 
to  the  king,  and  the  survivorship  of  the  place  being  ob- 
tained for  his  son,  his  prospects  in  life  were  sufficiently 
prosperous.  His  mother  died  when  he  was  only  ten 
years  of  age,  and  thus  a  family  of  orphans  were  left 
on  his  father's  hands. 

Brought  up  to  trade,  Poquelin's  education  during 
childhood  was  restricted  to  reading  and  writing;  and 
his  boyish  days  were  passed  in  the  warehouse  of  his 
father.  His  heart,  however,  was  set  on  other  things. 
His  paternal  grandfather  was  very  fond  of  play-going, 
and  often  took  his  grandson  to  the  theatre  of  the  Hotel 
de  Bourgogne,  where  Corneille's  plays  were  being  acted. 
From  this  old  man  the  youth  probably  inherited  his 
taste  for  the  drama,  and  he  owed  it  to  him  that  his 
genius  took  so  early  the  right  bent.  To  him  he  was 
indebted  for  another  great  obligation.  The  boy's  father 
reproached  the  grandfather  for  taking  him  so  often  to 
the  play.  "  Do  you  wish  to  make  an  actor  of  him  ?  "  he 
exclaimed.  "  Yes,  if  it  pleased  God  that  he  became 
as  good  a  one  as  Bellerose*, "  the  other  replied.  The 
prejudices  of  the  age  were  violent  against  actors.  We 
almost  all  take  our  peculiar  prejudices  from  our  parents, 
Avhom,  in  our  nonage  (unless,  through  unfortunate  cir- 
cumstances, they  lose  our  respect),  we  naturally  regard 
as  the  sources  of  truth.  To  this  speech,  to  the  admira- 
tion which  the  elder  Poquelin  felt  for  actors  and 
acting,  no  doubt  the  boy  owed  his  early  and  lasting 
emancipation    from  those  puerile   or  worse   prejudices 

*  Bellerose  ''whose  real  name  was  Pierre  Le  MesHcr)  was  the  best  tragic 
actor  of  the  reign  of  Louis  XIII.  :  he  was  the  original  China  of  Cor- 
neille's play.  He  was  elegant  in  manner,  and  his  elocution  was  easy. 
Scarron  accuses  him  of  affectation  :  and  we  are  told,  in  tiie  Memoirs  of 
the  Cardinal  de  Retz,  that- a  lady  objected  to  JM.  de  la  Rochefoucault, 
that  he  resembled  Bellerose  in  the  aS'ectation  of  gentleness. 


MOLIERE.  99 

against  the  theatre,  which  proved  quicksands  to  swallow 
up  the  genius  of  Racine. 

The  youth  grew  discontented  as  he  grew  older.  The  1^37. 
drama  enlightened  him  as  to  the  necessity  of  acquir-  ,^^^' 
ing  knowledge,  and  to  the  beauty  of  intellectual  re- 
finement :  he  became  melancholy,  and,  questioned  by 
his  father,  admitted  his  distaste  for  trade,  and  his 
earnest  desire  to  receive  a  liberal  education.  Poquelin 
thought  that  his  son's  ruin  must  inevitably  ensue  : 
the  grandfather  was  again  the  boy's  ally ;  he  gained 
his  point,  and  was  sent  as  an  out-student  to  the  college 
of  Clermont,  afterwards  of  Louis-le-Grand,  which 
was  under  the  direction  of  the  Jesuits,  and  one  of  the 
best  in  Paris.  Amand  de  Bourbon,  prince  of  Conti,  - 
brother  of  the  grand  Conde,  was  going  through  the 
classes  at  the  same  time.  After  passing  through  the 
ordinary  routine  at  this  school,  the  young  Poquelin 
enjoyed  a  greater  advantage  than  that  of  being  a  school- 
fellow of  a  prince  of  the  blood.  L'Huilier,  a  man  of 
large  fortune,  had  a  natural  son,  named  Chapelle,  whom 
he  brought  up  with  great  care.  Earnest  for  his  wel- 
fare and  good  education,  he  engaged  the  celebrated 
Gassendi  to  be  Iris  private  tutor,  and  placed  another  boy 
of  promise,  named  Bernier,  whose  parents  were  poor,  to 
study  with  him.  There  is  something  more  helpful, 
more  truly  friendly  and  liberal,  often  in  French  men  of 
letters  than  in  ours  ;  and  it  is  one  of  the  best  traits  in 
our  neighbours'  character.  Gassendi  perceived  Poque- 
lin's  superior  talents,  and  associated  him  in  the  lessons 
he  gave  to  Chapelle  and  Bernier.  He  taught  them  the 
philosophy  of  Epicurus  ;  he  enUghtened  their  minds 
by  lessons  of  morals;  and  Moliere  derived  from  him 
those  just  and  honourable  principles  from  which  he 
never  deviated  in  after  hfe. 

Another  pupil  almost,  as  it  were,  forced  himself  into 
this  little  circle  of  students.  Cyrano  de  Bergerac  was 
a  youth  of  great  talents,  but  of  a  wild  and  turbulent  dis- 
position, and  had  been  dismissed  from  the  college  of 
Beauvais  for  putting  the  master  into  a  farce.  He  was  a 
H   2 


100  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

Gascon  — lively^  insinuating,  and  ambitious.  Gassendi 
could  not  resist  his  efforts  to  get  admitted  as  his  pupil ; 
and  his  quickness  and  excellent  memory  rendered  hira 
an  apt  scholar.  Chapelle  himself,  the  friend  after- 
wards of  Boileau  and  of  all  the  literati  of  Paris,  a 
writer  of  songs,  full  of  grace,  sprightliness,  and  ease, 
displayed  talent,  but  at  the  same  time  gave  tokens  of 
that  heedless,  gay,  and  unstable  character  that  followed 
him  through  life,  and  occasioned  his  father,  instead  of 
making  him  his  heir  as  he  intended,  to  leave  him 
merely  a  slight  annuity,  over  which  he  had  no  con- 
trol. Bernier  became  afterwards  a  great  eastern  tra- 
veller. 
]g41.  Immediately  on  leaving  college  Poquelin  entered  on 
^tat.  his  service  of  royal  valet  de  chambre.  Louis  XIII. 
19*  made  a  journey  to  Narbonne ;  and  he  attended  instead 
of  his  father.*  This  journey  is  only  remarkable 
from  the  public  events  that  were  then  taking  place. 
Louis  XIII.  and  cardinal  de  Richelieu  had  marched 
into  Rousillon  to  complete  the  conquest  of  that  province 
from  the  house  of  Austria  —  both  monarch  and  minister 
were  dying.  The  latter  discovered  the  conspiracy  of  Cinq- 
Mars,  the  unfortunate  favourite  of  the  king,  and  had 
seised  on  him  and  his  innocent  friend  De  Thou  —  they 
were  condemned  to  death  ;  and  conveyed  from  Tarras- 
con  to  Lyons  in  a  boat,  which  was  towed  by  the 
cardinal's  barge  in  advance.  Terror  at  the  name  of 
the  cardinal,  contempt  for  the  king,  and  anxiety  to 
watch  the  wasting  illnesses  of  both,  occupied  the  court : 
the  passions  of  men  were  excited  to  their  height;  and 
the  young  and  ardent  youth,  fresh  from  the  schools  of 
philosophy,  witnessed  a  living  drama,  more  highly 
wrought  than  any  that  a  mimic  stage  could  represent. 

*  Biographers  are  apt  to  invent,  if  they  cannot  discover  the  causes  of 
even  trifling  events.  That  the  son  replaced  the  father  on  this  occasion, 
made  the  elder  biographers  state  that  the  latter  was  prevented  by  his  ad- 
vanced age.  Beffara  has  discovered  that  the  grandfather  of  Mohere  mar- 
ried ilth  July,  159'i,  consequently  that  the  father  could  not  be  more  than 
forty-six  years  of  age  in  lfi4I.  A  thousand  reasons  may  be  found  for  the 
substitution  of  the  son.  The  aversion  that  Parisians  have  for  travelling 
might  suffice  —  the  large  motherless  family  that  the  elder  Poquelin  must 
Jeave  behind,  or  a  wish  to  introduce  his  son  to  the  notice  of  the  king,  &c. 


MOLIERE.  101 

The  cardinal  had  a  magnificent  spirit;  he  revived 
the  arts,  or  rather  nursed  their  birth  in  France.  It 
has  been  mentioned  in  the  hfe  of  Corneille,  that  he 
patronised  the  theatre  ;  and  even  wrote  pieces  for  it. 
The  tragedy  of  the  "^  Cid/'  while  it  electrified  France, 
by  what  might  be  deemed  a  revelation  of  genius,  gave 
dignity  as  well  as  a  new  impulse  to  the  drama.  Acting 
became  a  fashion,  a  rage ;  private  theatricals  were  the 
general  amusement,  and  knots  of  young  men  formed 
themselves  into  companies  of  actors.  Poquelin,  having  iq^^^ 
renounced  his  father's  trade,  and  having  received  a  ^tat. 
liberal  education,  entered,  it  is  believed,  on  the  study  of  21. 
the  law ;  having  been  sent  to  Orleans  for  that  purpose. 
He  returned  to  Paris,  to  commence  his  career  of  advo- 
cate ;  here  he  was  led  to  associate  with  a  few  friends  of 
the  same  rank,  in  getting  up  plays  :  by  degrees  he  1645. 
became  wedded  to  the  theatre ;  and  when  the  private  ^*^t* 
company  resolved  to  become  a  public  one,  and  to 
derive  profit  from  their  representations,  he  continued 
belong  to  it;  and,  according  to  the  fashion  of  actors  in 
those  days  assumed  a  new  name  —  that  of  Moliere. 
His  father  was  displeased,  and  took  every  means  to 
dissuade  him  from  his  new  course;  but  the  enthusiasm  of 
Moliere  overcame  all  opposition.  There  is  a  story  told, 
that  one  respectable  friend,  who  was  sent  by  his 
father  to  argue  against  the  theatre,  was  seduced  by  the 
youth's  arguments  to  adopt  a  taste  for  it,  and  led 
to  turn  comedian  himself.  His  relations  did  not  the 
less  continue  their  opposition  ;  they  exiled  him  as  it 
were  from  among  them  ;  and  erased  the  most  illustrious 
name  in  France  for  their  genealogical  tree.  What 
would  their  tree  be  worth  now  did  it  not  bear  the  name 
of  Moliere  as  its  chief  bloom,  which  more  rare  than  the 
flower  of  the  aloe,  which  blossoms  once  in  a  hundred 
years,  has  never  had  its  match. 

There  were  many  admirable  actors  in  Moliere's  time, 

chiefly  however  in  comedy.  There  were  the  three,  known 

in  farce  under  the  names  of  Gauthier  Garguille,  Turlu- 

pin,  and  Gros  GuiUaume,  who  in  the  end  died  tragically, 

H  3 


10£  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

through  the  effects  of  fear.  Arlechino  (Harlequin)  and 
Scaramouche,  both  Italians^  were  however  the  favourites  : 
the  latter  is  said  to  have  been  Moliere's  master  in  the  art 
of  acting  ;  and  he  never  missed  a  representation  at  the 
Italian  theatre  when  he  could  help  it.  The  native 
comedy  of  the  Italians  gave  him  a  taste  for  the  true  hu- 
mour of  comic  situation  and  dialogue  ;  and  we  owe  to 
his  well-founded  predilection  what  we  and  the  German 
cities  (in  contradistinction  to  the  French,  -who  judge 
always  by  rule  and  measure,  and  not  by  the  amusement 
they  receive,  nor  the  genius  displayed)  prefer  to  his 
five  act  pieces.  Nor  was  this  the  only  source  whence 
he  derived  instruction.  The  bustle  and  intrigue  of  the 
Spanish  comedies  had  been  introduced  by  Corneille  in 
his  translation  of  Lope  de  Vega's  "  Verdad  Sospe- 
chosa."  Corneille,  however,  made  the  character  of  the 
Liar,  who  is  the  hero,  more  prominent.  Moliere  is  said 
to  have  declared,  that  he  owed  his  initiation  into  the 
true  spirit  of  comedy  from  this  play.  He  took  the 
better  part ;  rejecting  the  intrigue,  disguises,  and 
trap-doors,  and  discerning  the  great  eflPect  to  be  produced 
by  a  character  happily  and  truly  conceived,  and  then 
thrown  into  apposite  situations. 

There  is  much  obscurity  thrown  over  the  earlier  por- 
tion of  Moliere's  life.  We  know  the  names  of  some  of 
his  company.  There  was  Gros  Rene,  and  his  beautiful 
wife  ;  there  were  the  two  Bejarts,  brothers,  whose  ex- 
cellent characters  attached  Moliere  to  them,  and  Made- 
leine Bejart,  their  sister,  a  beautiful  girl,  the  mistress 
of  a  gentleman  of  Modena — to  whom  Moliere  was  also 
attached.  Moliere  himself  succeeded  in  the  more 
farcical  comic  characters. 

The  disorders  of  the  capital  during  the  regency  at 

the  beginning  of  Louis  XIV. 's  reign,  and  the  war  of 

the  Fronde,  replunged  France  in  barbarism ;  and  torn 

by  faction,  the  citizens  of  Paris  had  no  leisure  for  the 

1646.  theatre.     MoHere  and  his  troop  quitted  the  city  for  the 

^tat.  provinces,  and  among  other  places   visited    Bordeaux, 

24.    where  he  was  powerfully  protected  by  the  due  d'Eper- 

non,   governor  of  Guienne.     It  is  said,  that  Moliere 


MOLIERE.  103 

wrote  and  brought  out  a  tragedy,  called ''  The  Thebaid," 
in  this  town,  which  succeeded  so  ill,  that  he  gave  up 
the  idea  of  composing  tragic  dramas,  though  his  chief 
ambition  Avas  to  succeed  in  that  higher  walk  of  his  art. 
When  we  consider  the  impassioned  and  reflective  dis- 
position of  Moliere,  we  are  not  surprised  at  his  desire 
to  succeed  in  impersonating  the  nobler  passions ; 
we  wonder  rather  how  it  was  that  he  should  have 
wholly  failed  in  delineating  such,  while  his  greatest  power 
resided  in  the  talent  for  seizing  and  portraying  the 
ridiculous. 

After  a  tour  in  the  provinces  he  returned  to  Paris. 
His  former  schoolfellow,  the  prince  of  Conti,  renewed 
his  acquaintance  with  him  ;  and  caused  him  and  his 
company  to  bring  out  plays  in  his  palace :  and  when 
this  prince  went  to  preside  at  the  states  of  Languedoc, 
he  invited  them  to  visit  him  there. 

Finding  Paris  still  too  distracted  by  civil  broils  to  1653. 
encourage  the  theatre,  Moliere  and  his  company  left  it^t^t- 
for  Lyons.  Here  he  brought  out  his  first  piece,  ^^-  ■ 
"  L'Etourdi,"  which  met  with  great  and  deserved  suc- 
cess. We  have  an  English  translation,  under  the  name 
of  '-  Sir  Martin  Marplot,"  originally  written  by  the  cele- 
brated duke  of  Newcastle,  -and  adapted  for  the  stage  by 
Dryden  ;  the  French  play,  however,  is  greatly  superior. 
In  that  the  lover,  Lelie,  is  only  a  giddy  coxcomb, 
fall  of  conceit  and  gaiety  of  heart.  Sir  Martin  is  a 
heavy  plodding  fool ;  and  the  mistakes  we  sympathise 
with,  even  while  we  laugh,  when  originating  in  mere 
youthful  levity,  excite  our  contempt  when  occasioned 
by  dull  obesity.  Thus  in  the  English  play,  the  master 
appears  too  stupid  to  deserve  his  lady  at  last  —  and  she 
is  transferred  to  the  servant ;  a  catastrophe  which  must 
shock  our  manners ;  and  we  are  far  more  ready  to  re- 
joice in  the  original,  when  the  valet  at  last  presents 
Celie,  with  her  father's  consent,  to  his  master,  asking  him 
whether  he  could  find  a  way  even  then  to  destroy  his 
hopes. 

The   ''^Depit  Amoureux"  followed,  which  is  highly 
II  4 


104  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

amusing.     Although  MoUere  improved  afterwards,  these 
first  essays  are  nevertheless  worthy  his  genius. 

The  company  to  which  he  belonged  possessed  great 
merit,  both  in  public  and  private.  We  cannot  expect 
to  find  strictness  of  moral  conduct  in  French  come- 
dians, in  an  age  when  the  manners  of  the  whole  country 
was  corrupt,  and  civil  war  loosened  still  more  the  bonds 
of  society,  and  produced  a  state  characterised  as  being 
"  a  singular  mixture  of  libertinism  and  sedition,  rife 
with  wars  at  once  sanguinary  and  frivolous ;  when  the 
magistrates  girded  on  the  sword,  and  bishops  assumed 
a  uniform  ;  when  the  heroines  of  the  court  followed  at 
once  the  camp  and  church  processions,  and  factious  wits 
made  impromptus  on  rebellion,  and  composed  madrigals 
on  the  field  of  battle."  The  war  of  the  Fronde  pro- 
duced a  state  of  license  and  intrigue  :  and  of  course 
it  must  be  expected  that  such  should  be  found  in  a 
company  of  strolling  actors ;  to  detail  the  loves  of 
Moliere  at  this  time  would  excite  little  interest,  except 
inasmuch  as  it  would  seem  that  he  brought  an  affection- 
ate heart  and  generous  spirit,  to  ennoble  what  in  a  less 
elevated  character  would  have  been  mere  intrigue.  Ma- 
deleine Bejart  was  a  woman  of  talent  as  well  as  beauty  ; 
her  brothers  were  men  of  good  principles  and  conduct. 
The  sort  of  liberal,  friendly,  and  frank-hearted  spirit 
that  characterised  the  circle  of  friends,  is  well  described 
in  the  autobiography  of  a  singular  specimen  of  the 
manners  of  those  times.  D'Assou^y  was  a  sort  of  trou- 
badour ;  a  good  musician,  and  an  agreeable  poet,  who 
travelled  from  town  to  town,  lute  in  hand,  and  followed 
by  two  pages,  who  took  parts  in  his  songs ;  gaining  his 
bread,  and  squandering  what  he  gained  without  fore- 
thought. At  Lyons,  he  fell  in  with  Moliere,  and  the 
brothers  Bejart.  He  continues  :  ''  The  stage  has  charms, 
and  I  could  not  easily  quit  these  delightful  friends.  I 
remained  three  months  at  Lyons,  amidst  plays  and 
feasts,  though  I  had  better  not  have  staid  three  days, 
for  I  met  with  various  disasters  in  the  midst  of  my 
amusements    (he  was   stripped  of  all  his  money  in  a 


MOLIERE.  105 

gambling-house.)  Having  heard  that  I  should  find 
a  soprano  voice  at  Avignon,  whom  I  could  engage  to 
join  me,  I  embarked  on  the  Rhone  with  Mohere,  and 
arrived  at  Avignon  with  forty  pistoles  in  my  pocket, 
the  relics  of  my  wreck."  He  then  goes  on  to  state  how 
he  was  stripped  of  this  sum  among  gamblers  and  jews; 
and  adds,  "  But  a  man  is  never  poor  while  he  has 
friends ;  and  having  Moliere  and  all  the  family  of 
Bejart  as  allies,  I  found  myself,  despite  fortune  and 
jews,  richer  and  happier  than  ever  ;  for  these  generous 
people  were  not  satisfied  by  assisting  me  as  friends,  they 
treated  me  as  a  relation.  When  they  were  invited  to 
the  States,  I  accompanied  them  to  Pezenas,  and  I  cannot 
tell  the  kindness  I  received  from  all.  They  say  that 
the  fondest  brother  tires  of  a  brother  in  a  month ;  but 
these,,  more  generous  than  all  the  brothers  in  the  world, 
invited  me  to  their  table  during  the  whole  winter  ;  and, 
though  I  was  really  their  guest,  I  felt  myself  at  home. 
I  never  saw  so  much  kindness,  frankness,  or  goodness, 
as  among  these  people,  worthy  of  being  the  princes 
whom  they  personated  on  the  stage." 

At  Pezenas,  to  which  place  they  were  invited  by  the 
prince  of  Conti^  MoHere's  company  found  a  warm 
welcome  and  generous  pay  from  the  prince  himself. 
Moliere  got  up,  for  the  prince's  amusement,  not  only 
the  two  regular  plays  which  he  had  written,  but  other 
farcical  interludes,  which  became  afterwards  the  ground- 
work of  his  best  comedies.  Among  these  were  the  ''  Le 
Docteur  Pedant;"  "Gorgibus  dans  le  Sac"  (the  fore- 
runner of  ^^La  Fourberies  de  Scapin")  ;  '^  Le  grand 
Benet  de  Fils,"  who  afterwards  flourished  as  "  Le  Me'- 
decin  malgre  Lui ;  "  ''  Le  grand  Benet  de  fils,"  who 
appears  to  have  blossomed  hereafter  into  Thomas  Dia. 
foirus,  in  the  ''  Malade  Imaginaire."  There  were  also 
"  Le  Docteur  Amoureux,"  "  Le  Maitre  d'E'cole,"  and 
''  La  Jalousie  de  Barbouille."  All  these  farces  perished. 
Boileau,  notwithstanding  his  love  for  classical  correctness, 
lamented  their  loss  ;  as  he  said,  there  was  always  some- 
thing spirited  and  animating  in  the  slightest  of 
Moliere's  works. 


106 


LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 


These  theatrical  amusements  delighted  the  prince 
of  Conti  ;  and  their  author  became  such  a  favourite, 
that  he  offered  him  the  place  of  his  secretary,  which 
Mohere  declined.  We  are  told  that  the  prince,  with  all 
his  kindness  of  intention,  was  of  such  a  tyrannical  tem- 
per, that  his  late  secretary  had  died  in  consequence  of 
ill  treatment,  having  been  knocked  down  by  the  prince 
with  the  fire-tongs,  and  killed  by  the  blow.  We  do  not 
wonder,  therefore,  at  Moliere's  refusing  the  glittering 
bait.  And  in  addition  to  the  independence  of  his  spirit, 
he  loved  his  art,  and  no  doubt  felt  the  workings  of  that 
genius  which  hereafter  gave  such  splendid  tokens  of  its 
existence,  and  which  is  ever  obnoxious  to  the  trammels 
of  servitude. 

He  continued  for  some  time  in  Languedoc  and  Pro- 
vence, and  formed  a  friendship  at  Avignon  with  Mig- 
nard,  which  lasted  to  the  end  of  their  lives,  and  to 
which  we  owe  the  spirited  portrait  of  Moliere,  which 
represents  to  the  life  the  eager,  impassioned,  earnest 
and  honest  physiognomy  of  this  great  man.  As  Paris 
became  tranquil  Moliere  turned  his  eyes  thitherward, 
desirous  of  establishing  his  company  in  the  metropolis. 
He  went  first  to  Grenoble  and  then  to  Rouen,  where, 
after  some  negotiation  and  delay,  and  several  journeys  to 
Paris,  he  obtained  the  protection  of  monsieur,  the  king's 
brother ;  was  presented  by  him  to  the  king  and  queen- 
mother,  and  finally  obtained  permission  to  establish 
himself  in  the  capital. 

The  rival  theatre  was  at  the  Hotel  de  Bourgogne  ; 
here  Corneille's  tragedies  were  represented  by  the  best 
tragic  actors  of  the  time.  The  first  .appearance  of 
Moliere's  company  before  Louis  XIV.  and  his  mother, 
Anne  of  Austria,  took  place  at  the  Louvre.  ^'  Nicomede" 
was  the  play  selected  ;  success  attended  the  attempt,  and 
the  actresses  in  particular  met  with  great  applause.  Yet 
even  then  Moliere  felt  that  his  company  could  not  com- 

*  Moliere's  company  then  consisted  of,  in  actors,  the  two  brothers,  Re- 
jart,  Du  Pare,  De  Brie,  De  Croisal :  in  actresses,  of  the  sisters  Bejart,  Du 
Pare,  De  15rie,'and  Hervc.  Du  Croisy  and  La  Grange,  two. first-rate  actors, 
were  soon  afterwards  added. 


MOLIERE.  107 

pete  with  its  rival  in  tragedy  :  when  the  curtain  fell, 
therefore,  he  stepped  forward,  and,  after  thanking  the 
audience  for  their  kind  reception,  asked  the  king's  leave 
to  represent  a  little  divertisement  which  had  acquired  a 
reputation  in  the  provinces  :  the  king  assented ;  and  the 
performers  went  on,  to  act  "  Le  Docteur  Amoureux  "  one 
those  farces,  several  of  which  he  had  brought  out  in 
Languedoc,  conceived  in  the  Italian  taste,  full  of  buf- 
foonery and  bustle.  The  king  was  amused,  and  the  piece 
succeeded  ;  and  hence  arose  the  fashion  of  adding  a 
short  farce  after  a  long  serious  play.  The  success  also 
secured  the  establishment  of  his  company  ;  they  acted 
at  first  at  the  Theatre  du  Petit  Bourbon,  and  after- 
wards, when  that  theatre  was  taken  down  to  give  place 
to  the  new  building  of  the  colonnade  of  the  Louvre,  the 
king  gave  him  that  of  the  Palais  Royal,  and  his  com- 
pany assumed  the  name  of  Comediens  de  Monsieur. 

Parisian  society  opened  a  new  field  for  Moliere's  ta- 
lents ;  subjects  for  ridicule  multiplied  around  him.  The 
follies  which  appeared  most  ludicrous  were  so  nursed  and 
fostered  by  the  high-born  and  wealthy,  that  he  almost 
feared  to  attack  them.  But  they  were  too  tempting. 
In  addition  to  the  amusement  to  be  derived  from  ex- 
hibiting in  its  true  colours  an  affectation  the  most  laugh- 
able, he  was  urged  by  the  hope  of  vanquishing  by  the 
arms  of  wit,  a  system  of  folly,  which  had  taken  deep 
root  even  with  some  of  the  cleverest  men  in  France  ; 
—  we  allude  to  the  coterie  of  the  Hotel  de  Rambouillet ; 
and  to  the  farce  of  the  '^'^Precieuses  Ridicules,"  which  en- 
tered the  very  sanctum,  and  caused  irremediable  disorder 
and  flight  to  all  the  darling  follies  of  the  clique. 

The  society  of  the  Hotel  de  Rambouillet  had  a  lan- 
guage and  conduct  all  its  own  ;  these  were  embodied 
in  the  endless  novels  of  mademoiselle  Scuderi.  Gal- 
lantry and  love  were  the  watchwords,  and  metaphysical 
disquisitions  were  the  labours  of  the  set.  But  these  we^e 
not  allowed  to  subsist  in  homely  phrase  or  a  natural  man- 
ner. The  euphuism  of  our  Elizabethian  coxcombs 
was  tame  and  tropeless  in  comparison  with  the  high 
flights  of  the  heroes  and  heroines  of  the  Hotel  de  Ram- 


108  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

bouillet.      All  was  done    by  rule ;    all   adapted   to  a 
system.     The  lover  had  a  regular  map  laid  out,  and  he 
entered  on  his  amorous  journey,  knowing   exactly  the 
stoppages  he  must  make,  and  the  course  he  must  pass 
through  on  his  way  to  the  city  of  Tenderness,  towards 
which  he  ivas  bound.     There  was  the  village  of  Billets 
galans  ;  the  hamlet  of  Billets  doux  ;   the  castle  of  Petits 
Soins ;   and  the  Tilla  of  Jolis  Vers.     After  possessing 
himself  of  these,  he   still  had  to   fear  being  forced  to 
embark  on  the  sea  of  Dislike,  or  the  lake  of  Indifference; 
but  if,  on  the  contrary,  he  pushed  off  on  the  river  of 
Inclination,   he    floated  happily   down  to    his  bourne. 
Their  language  was  a  jargon,  which,  as  Sir  Walter  Scott 
observes,  in  his  "  Essay  on  Moliere,"  resembled  a  high- 
lander's  horse,  hard  to   catch,  and  not  worth  catching. 
They  gave  enigmatic  names  to  the  commonest  things, 
which  to  call  by  their  proper  appellations,  was,  as  Mo- 
liere terms  it,  du  dernier  bourgeois.    When  an  ''  innocent 
accomplice  of  a  falsehood"  was  mentioned,  a  Precieuse 
(they  themselves   adopted  and    gloried  in  this  name ; 
Moliere  only  added  ridicules,  to  tmn  the  blow  a  little  aside 
from  the  centre  of  the  target  at  which  he  aimed)  could, 
without  a  blush,  understand  that  a  night-cap  was   the 
subject  of  conversation  ;  water  with  them  was  too  vulgar 
unless  dignified  as  celestial  humidity  ;  a  thief  could  be 
mentioned  when   designated  as  an  inconvenient  hero  ; 
and  a  lover  won  his  mistress's  applause  when  he  com- 
plained of  her  disdainful  smile,  as  "  a  sauce  of  pride." 

Purity  of  feeling  however  was  the  soul  of  the  system. 
Authors  and  poets  were  admitted  as  admirers,  but  they 
never  got  beyond  the  villa  of  Jolis  Vers,  When  Voiture, 
who  had  glorified  Julie d'Angennes  his  life-long,  ventured 
to  kiss  her  hand,  he  was  thrown  from  the  fortifications 
of  the  castle  of  Petit  Soins,  and  soused  into  the  lake  of 
Indifference  :  even  her  noble  admirer,  the  duke  Mon- 
tauzier,  was  forced  to  paddle  on  the  river  of  Inclination, 
for  fourteen  years  *,  before  he  was  admitted  to  the  city 

*  For  him  surely  was  written  Miss  Lamb's  pretty  song  — 
"  High  born  Helen 
Round  your  dwelling 
These  twenty  years  I've  paced  in  vain. 


MOLl^RE.  109 

of  Tenderness,  and  allowed  to  make  her  his  wife.  Their 
style  of  life  was  as  eccentric  as  their  talk.  The  lady- 
rose  in  the  morning,  dressed  herself  with  elegance,  and 
then  went  to  bed.  The  French  bed,  placed  in  an  al- 
cove, had  a  passage  round  it,  called  the  ruelle  ;  to  be  at 
the  top  of  the  ruelle  was  the  post  of  honour;  and  Voi- 
ture,  under  the  title  of  Alcovist,  long  held  this  envied 
post,  beside  the  pillow  of  his  adored  Julie,  while  he 
never  was  allowed  to  touch  her  little  finger.  The  folly 
had  its  accompanying  good.  The  respect  which  the  wo- 
men exacted,  and  the  virtue  they  preserved,  exalted  them, 
and  in  spite  of  their  high-flown  sentiments,  and  meta- 
physical conceits,  wits  did  not  disdain  to  ''  put  a  soul  into 
the  body  of  "  nonsense.  Rochefoucault,  Menage,  madame 
de  Sevigne,  madame  Des  Houilleres,  Balzac,  Vaugelas, 
and  others,  frequented  the  Hotel  de  Rambouillet,  and 
lent  the  aid  of  their  talents  to  dignify  their  galimathias. 
But  it  was  too  much  for  the  honest  comic  poet  to 
bear.  He  perceived  the  whole  of  society  infected- 
nobles  and  prelates,  ladies  and  poets,  marquisses  and 
lacqueys,  all  wandered  about  the  Pays  de  Tendre,  lost 
in  a  very  labyrinth  of  inextricable  nonsense.  They  as- 
sumed fictitious    names*,   they  promulgated  fictitious 

Haughty  Beauty, 

Your  lover's  duty 

Has  been  his  pleasure  and  his  pain." 

Vide  Poet.  Works  of  Charles  Lamb. 
Moliere  in  tlie  farce  in  question  gives  a  diverting  account  of  a  Precieuse 
courtship:  11  faut  qu  un  amant,  pour  etre  agreable,  sache  debiter  les 
beaux  sentiments,  pousser  le  doux,  le  tendre,  et  le  passionne,  et  que  sa 
recherche  sou  dans  les  formes.  Premierement,  il  doit  voir  au  temple 
ou  ^  la  promenade,  ou  dans  quelque  ceiemonie  publique,  la  personne 
dont  il  devient  amoureux,  ou  bien  etre  conduit  fatalement  chez  elle  par 
un  parent  ou  un  ami,  et  sortir  de  la  tout  reveur  ou  melancholique  II 
cache,  un  temps,  sa  passion  h  I'objet  aime,  et  cependant  lui  rends  plusicnrs 
visites  ou  Ton  ne  manque  jamais  de  mettre  sur  le  tapis  une  question  galai  te 
quiexerce  les  esprits  de  I'assemblee.  Le  jour  de  la  declaration  arrive 
qui  se  doit  faire  ordinairement  dans  une  allee  de  quelque  jardin,  tandis  que 
lacompagnie  s'est  un  peu  eloignee:  et  cette  declaration  est  suivie  d'un 
prompte  courroCix,  qui  parait  a  notre  rongeur,  et  qui,  pour  un  temps 
bannit  I'amant  de  notre  presence.  Ensuite  il  trouve  moyen  de  nous 
appaiser,  de  nous  accoutumer  insensiblement  au  discours  de  sa  passion  et  de 
tirer  de  nous  cet  aveu  qui  fait  tant  de  peine.  Aprfes  cela  vienne'nt  les 
avantures,  les  rivaux  qui  se  jettent  k  traverse  d'une  inclination  etablie  les 
persecutions  des  peres,  les  jalousies  congues  sous  des  fausses  apparences 
les  plaintes,  les  dcsespoirs,  les  enlevemens,  et  ce  qui  s'ensuit  "  ' 

«  \\hen  Flechier  delivered  a  funeral  oration  on  the  death  of  madame 
de  Montauzier,  he  spoke  ot  her  mother  by  her  assumed  name  ofAthenice 


iEtat, 
37 


110  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

sentiments ;  they  admired  each  other,  according  as  they 
best  succeeded  in  being  as  unnatural  as  possible.  Mo- 
liere  stripped  the  scene  and  personages  of  their  gilding 
in  a  moment.  His  fair  Precieuses  were  the  daughters  of 
a  bourgeois  named  Gorgibus,  who  quitted  their  homely 
names  of  Cathos  and  Madelon,  for  Aminte  and 
Polixene,  dismissed  their  admirers  for  proposing'  to 
marry  them,  scolded  their  father  for  not  possessing  le 
bel  air  des  clioses,  and  are  taken  in  by  two  valets  whom 
they  believe  to  be  nobles,  who  easily  imitate  the  foppery 
and  sentimentalism,  which  these  young  ladies  so  much 
admire.* 
1659.  'pj^g  success  of  the  piece  was  complete  —  from  that 
moment  the  Hotel  de  Rambouillet  talked  sense.  Me- 
nage says :  "  I  was  at  the  first  representation  of  the 
''  Precieuses  Ridicules"  of  Moliere,  at  the  Petit  Bourbon, 
mademoiselle  de  Rambouillet,  madame  de  Grignan,  M. 
Chapelain,  and  others,  the  select  society  of  the  Hotel  de 
Rambouillet,  were  there.  The  piece  was  acted  with  ge- 
neral applause ;  and  for  my  own  part  I  was  so  delighted 
that  I  saw  at  once  the  effect  that  it  would  produce. 
Leaving  the  theatre,  I  took  M.  Chapelain  by  the  hand, 
and  said  We  have  been  used  to  approve  all  the  folhes 
so  well  and  wittily  satirised  in  this  piece ;  but  believe 

"  You  remember,  my  brothers,"  he  exclaimed,  "  those  „abinets,  which 
we  still  regard  with  so  much  veneration  ;  where  the  mind  was  purified  and 
where  virtue  was  revered  under  the  name  of  the  incomparable  Athenice; 
wliere  persons  otquality  or  talent  assembled,  and  comjiosed  a  select  court- 
numerous  without  confusion,  modest  without  constraint,  learned  without 
pride,  refined  without  affectation."  La  Bruyt're  describes  this  society  in 
somewhat  different  terms  :  "  Not  long  ago  we  witnessed  a  circle  of  per- 
sons of  either  sex,  drawn  together  by  conversation  and  the  cultivation  of 
talent.  They  left  the  art  of  speaking  intelligibly  to  the  vulgar.  One  re- 
mark, enveloped  in  mysterious  phrase,  brought  on  another  yet  more 
obscure  ;  and  they  went  on  exaggerating  till  they  spoke  in  absolute  enig- 
mas, which  were  most  applauded.  By  talking  of  delicacy,  sentiment,  and 
finesse  of  expression,  they  managed  neither  to  make  themselves  under- 
stood, nor  to  understand.  There  was  need  of  neither  good  sense,  memory, 
nor  cleverness  for  these  conversations.  Wit  was  all  in  all  —  not  true  wit, 
but  that  which  consists  ui  conceits  and  extravagant  fancies." 

*  It  has  been  frequently  asserted  this  piece  was  written  while  the  author 
was  in  the  country  ;  his  preface  favours  this  notion,  in  which  he  says  that  he 
only  ridicules  lesfaiisses  Precieuses,  that  name  being  then  held  in  esteem. 
Contemporary  notices,  however,  make  it  apparent  that  this  piece  came  out 
first  in  Paris  ;  and  it  was  impossible  that  lie  could  have  so  well  seized  the 
peculiar  tone  of  these  sentimental  pedants  any  where  except  in  their  very 
birth-place. 


MOLIERE.  Ill 

me,  as  St.  Remy  said  to  kirig  Clovis  —  ^  We  must  burn 
what  we  have  adored,  and  adore  what  we  have  burnt.' 
It  happened  as  I  predicted,  and  we  gave  up  this  bom- 
bastic nonsense  from  the  time  of  the  first  represent- 
ation." A  better  victory  could  not  have  been  gained 
by  comic  poet :  to  it  may  be  said  to  have  been  added 
another.  AFhile  the  Prccieuses  yielded  to  the  blow, 
unsophisticated  minds  enjoyed  the  wit :  in  the  midst  of 
the  piece,  an  old  man  cried  out  suddenly  from  the  pit, 
"Courage,  Moliere,  this  is  true  comedy!"  The  au- 
thor himself  felt  that  he  had  been  inspired  by  the  spirit 
of  comic  drama.  That  this  consisted  in  a  true  picture 
of  the  follies  of  society,  idealised  and  grouped  by  the 
fancy,  but  in  every  part  in  accordance  with  nature.  He 
became  aware,  that  he  had  but  to  examine  the  impres- 
sion made  on  himself,  and  to  embody  the  conceptions 
they  suggested  to  his  mind.  As  he  went  on  writing, 
he  in  each  new  piece  made  great  and  manifest  improve- 
ment. "  Sganarelle"  was  his  next  effort :  it  is,  perhaps, 
not  in  his  best  taste ;  it  is  hke  a  tale  of  the  Italian 
novelists —  that  the  husband's  misfortune  had  existence 
in  his  fancy  only  is  the  author's  best  excuse. 

Success  ought  to  have  taught  Moliere  to  abide  by  Jfiei. 
comedy,  and  to  become  aware  that  a  quick  sense  of  the  -^t^t. 
ridiculous,  and  a  happy  art  in  the  scenic  representation 
of  it,  was  the  bent  of  .lis  genius.  But  a  desire  to  suc- 
ceed in  a  more  elevated  and  tragic  style  still  pursued 
him.  He  brought  out  "  Don  Garcie  de  Navarre,"  a  very 
poor  play,  unsuccessful  in  its  debut,  and  afterwards  so 
despised  by  the  author  as  not  to  be  comprised  in  his 
edition  of  his  works.  He  quickly  dissipated  this  cloud, 
however,  by  bringing  out  ''  L'E'coIedes  Maris,"  one  of 
his  best  comedies. 

The  splendours  of  the  reign  of  Louis  XIV.  were  now 
beginning  to  shine  out  in  all  their  brilliancy.  The  first 
attempt,  however,  at  a  fete  —  superior  in  magnificence, 
originality,  and  beauty  to  any  thing  the  world  had  yet 
seen  —  was  made,  not  by  the  king  himself.  In  an  evil 
hour  for  himself,  Fouquet,  the  minister  of  finances,  got 
leave  to  entertain  royalty  at  his  villa,  or  rather  palace 


112  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

of  Vaux.  Blinded  by  prosperity,  this  unfortunate  man 
thought  to  dehght  the  king  by  the  splendor  of  his 
entertainment ;  he  awoke  indeed  a  desire  to  do  the  like 
in  Louis's  mind,  but  he  gave  the  final  blow  to  his  own 
fortunes,  already  undermined.  Fouquet  had  admired 
mademoiselle  de  la  Valliere;  he  had  expressed  his  admir- 
ation, and  sought  return  with  the  insolence  of  command 
rather  than  the  solicitations  of  tenderness  :  he  was  re- 
jected with  disdain.  His  mortification  made  him  suspect 
another  more  successful  lover  :  he  discovered  the  hidden 
and  mutual  passion  of  the  king  and  the  beautiful  girl  ; 
and,  with  the  most  unworthy  meanness,  he  threatened 
her  with  divulging  the  secret ;  and  added  the  insolence 
of  an  epigram  on  her  personal  appearance.  La  Val- 
liere informed  her  royal  lover  of  the  discovery  which 
Fouquet  had  made — and  his  fall  was  resolved  on. 

The  minister  had  lavished  wealth,  taste,  and  talent 
on  his  fete.  Le  Brun  painted  the  scenes  ;  Le  Notre 
arranged  the  architectural  decorations ;  La  Fontaine 
wrote  verses  for  the  occasion  ;  Moliere  not  only  repeated 
his  "  E^cole  des  Maris,"  but  brought  out  a  new  species  of 
entertainment :  a  ballet  was  prepared,  of  the  most  mag- 
nificent description ;  but,  as  the  principal  dancers 
had  to  vary  their  characters  and  dresses  in  the  dif- 
ferent scenes,  that  the  stage  might  not  be  left  empty 
and  the  audience  get  weary  with  waiting,  he  composed 
alight  sketch,  called  "  Les  Facheux"  (our  unclassical 
word  hore  is  the  only  translation),  in  which  a  lover, 
who  has  an  assignation  with  his  mistress,  is  perpetually 
interrupted  by  a  series  of  intruders,  who  each  call  his 
attention  to  some  subject  that  fills  their  minds,  and  is 
at  once  indifferent  and  annoying  to  him.  A  novel 
sort  of  amusement  added  therefore  charms  to  luxury 
and  feasting;  but  the  very  perfection  of  the  scene 
awoke  angry  feelings  in  Louis's  mind :  he  saw  a  por- 
trait of  La  VaUiere  in  the  minister's  cabinet,  and  was 
roused  to  jealous  rage  :  disdaining  to  express  this  feel- 
ing, he  pretended  another  cause  of  displeasure,  saying 
that  Fouquet  must  have  been  guilty  of  peculation,  to 
afford  so  vast  an  expenditure.      He  would  have  caused 


MOIilERE  113 

him  to  be  arrested  on  the  instant,  had  not  his  mother 
stopped  him,  by  exclaiming,  "  What,  in  the  midst  of  an 
entertainment  which  he  gives  you  !" 

Louis  accordingly  delayed  his  revenge.  A  glittering 
veil  was  drawn  over  the  reality.  With  courtly  ease  he 
concealedhis  resentment  by  smiles;  and,  while  meditating 
the  ruin  of  the  master  and  giver  of  the  feast,  entered 
with  an  apparently  unembarrassed  mind  on  the  enjoy- 
ment of  the  scene.  He  was  particularly  pleased  with 
"  Les  Facheux  ;"  but,  while  he  was  expressing  his  ap- 
probation to  ]\loliere,  he  saw  in  the  crowd  Grand  Veneur, 
or  great  huntsman  to  the  king,  a  Nimrod  devoted  to  the 
chase  ;  and  he  said,  pointing  to  him,  ''  You  have  omitted 
one  bore."  On  this  Mohere  went  to  work ;  he  called 
on  M.  de  Soyecourt,  slily  engaged  him  in  one  of  his 
too  ready  narrations  of  a  chase ;  and,  on  the  following 
evening,  the  lover  had  added  to  his  other  bores  a  cour- 
tier, who  insists  on  relating  the  history  of  a  long  hunting- 
match  in  which  he  was  engaged.  English  followers  of 
the  field  find  ample  scope  for  ridicule  in  this  scene, 
which  in  their  eyes  contrasts  the  rules  of  French  sport 
most  ludicrously  with  their  more  manly  mode  of  run- 
ning down  the  game.  Another  more  praiseworthy  effort 
to  please  and  flatter  the  king  in  this  piece  was  the  intro- 
ducing an  allusion  to  Louis's  efforts  to  abolish  the  prac- 
tice of  duelling. 

The  success  of  Moliere  and  his  talent  naturally  led 
to  his  favor  among  the  great.  The  great  Conde'  de- 
lighted in  his  society ;  and  with  the  delicacy  of  a  noble 
mind  told  him,  that,  as  he  feared  to  trespass  on  his 
time  inopportunely  if  he  sent  for  him ;  he  begged  Mo- 
liere when  at  leisure  to  bestow  an  hour  on  him  to  send 
him  word,  and  he  would  gladly  receive  him.  Mohere 
obeyed ;  and  the  great  Conde'  at  such  times  dismissed 
his  other  visitors  to  receive  the  poet,  with  whom  he  said 
he  never  conversed  without  learning  something  new. 
Unfortunately  this  example  was  not  followed  by  all. 
Many  little-minded  persons  regarded  with  dis((ain  a 
man  stigmatised  with  the  name  of  actor,  while  others 

VOL.  IV.  I 


114  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    BIEN. 

presumed  insolently  on  their  rank.  The  king  gene- 
rously took  his  part  on  these  occasions.  The  anecdotes 
indeed  which  displays  Louis's  sympathy  for  Mohere  are 
among  the  most  agreeable  that  we  have  of  that  monarch, 
and  are  far  more  deserving  of  record  than  the  puerilities 
which  Racine  has  commemorated.  When  brutally  as- 
saulted by  a  dukcj  the  king  reproved  the  noble  severely. 
Madame  Campan  tells  a  story  still  more  to  this  mo- 
narch's honour.  Moliere  continued  to  exercise  his 
functions  of  royal  valet  de  chambre,  but  was  the  butt  of 
many  impertinences  on  account  of  his  being  an  actor. 
Louis  heard  that  the  other  officers  of  his  chamber  re- 
fused to  eat  with  him,  which  caused  Mohere  to  abstain 
from  sitting  at  their  table.  The  king,  resolved  to  put 
an  end  to  these  insults,  said  one  morning,  "  I  am 
told  you  have  short  commons  here,  Moliere,  and  that 
the  officers  of  my  chamber  think  you  unworthy  of 
sharing  their  meals.  You  are  probably  hungry,  I  al- 
ways get  up  with  a  good  appetite  ;  sit  at  that  table  where 
they  have  placed  my  eii  cas  de  nuit  "  (refreshment, 
prepared  for  the  king  in  case  he  should  be  hungry  in 
the  night,  and  called  an  en  cas.)  The  king  cut  up  a 
fowl ;  made  Moliere  sit  down,  gave  him  a  wing,  and 
took  one  himself,  just  at  the  moment  when  the  doors 
were  thrown  open,  and  the  most  distinguished  persons 
court  entered,  '^  You  see  me,"  said  the  king,  "'  em- 
ployed in  giving  Moliere  his  breakfast,  as  my  people  do 
not  find  him  good  enough  company  for  themselves." 
From  this  time  Moliere  did  not  need  to  put  himself 
forward,  he  received  invitations  on  all  sides.  Not  less 
delicate  was  the  attention  paid  him  by  the  poet  Bellocq. 
It  was  one  of  the  functions  of  Moliere's  place,  to  make 
the  king's  bed  ;  the  other  valets  drew  back,  averse  to 
sharing  the  task  with  an  actor ;  Bellocq  stept  forward, 
saying,  "  Permit  me,  M.  Mohere,  to  assist  you  in  making 
the  king's  bed." 

It  was  however  at  court  only  that  Moliere  met 
these  rebuffs ;  elswhere  his  genius  caused  him  to  be 
admired  and  courted,  while  his  excellent  character 
secured  him  the  affection  of  many  friends.   He  brought 


MOLIERE.  115 

forward  Racine;  and  they  continued  intimate  till 
Racine  offended  him  by  not  only  transferring  a  tragedy 
to  the  theatre  of  the  Hotel  de  Bourgogne,  but  seducing 
the  best  actress  of  his  company  to  that  of  the  rival  stage. 
With  Boileau  he  continued  on  friendly  terms  all  his 
life.  His  old  schoolfellow,  '^'^  the  joyous  Chapelle/' 
was  his  constant  associate;  though  he  was  too  turbulent 
and  careless  for  the  sensitive  and  orderly  habits  of  the 
comedian. 

Moliere  indeed  was  destined  never  to  find  a  home  after 
his  own  heart.  Madeleine  Bejart  had  a  sister*  much 
younger  than  herself,  to  whom  Moliere  became  passion- 
ately attached.  She  was  beautiful,  sprightly,  clever,  an 
admirable  actress,  fond  of  admiration  and  pleasure. 
Moliere  is  said  to  describe  her  in  "  Le  Bourgeois  Gentil- 
homme,"  as  more  piquante  than  beautiful  —  fascinating 
and  graceful  —  witty  and  elegant ;  she  charmed  in 
her  very  caprices.  Another  author  speaks  of  her 
acting ;    and  remarks   on   the  judgm.ent    she   displays 

*  It  is  well  known  that  even  during  his  life-time  the  calumny  was 
spread  abroad,  that  Moliere  married  his  own  natural  daughter.  The  great 
difference  of  age  between  the  sisters,  Madeleine  and  Armande  Bejart  gave 
to  those  who  were  ignorant  of  their  true  relationship  some  foundation  for 
a  rejiort,  which  sprung  from  a  former  intimacy  between  Moliere  and  the 
elder  sister.  He  always  disdained  to  contradict  the  falsehood  ;  and  it  has 
generally  been  assumed  by  biographers,  while  they  acquitted  him  of  the 
alleged  crime,  that  his  wife  was  the  daughter  of  Madeleine.  We  owe  the 
discovery  of  this  falsehood  to  the  pains  which  M.  Beffara  took  to  discover 
the  certificate  of  Moliere's  marriage  ;  which  is  as  follows  :  —  "  Jean  Baptiste 
Poquelin,son  of  sieur  Jean  Poquelin,  and  of  the  late  Marie  Cre<se,  on  the 
one  side  :  and  Armande  Gresinde  Bejart,  daughter  of  the  late  Joseph  Be- 
jart and  of  Marie  Hervee,  on  the  other  :  both  of  this  parish,  opposite 
the  Palais  Royal,  atfianced  and  married  together,  by  permission  of  M. 
Comtes,  deacon  of  Notre-Dame,  and  grand  vicar  of  Monseigneur  the 
cardinal  de  Retz,  archbishop  of  Paris  ;  in  presence  of  the  said  Jean  Poque- 
lin, father  of  the  bridegroom,  and  of  Andre  Boudet,  brother-in-law  of  the 
bridegroom  ;  the  said  Marie  Hervee,  mother  of  the  bride,  and  Louis  Be- 
jart and  Madeleine  Bejart,  brother  and  sister  of  the  said  bride."  This  cer- 
tificate is  signed  by  J.  B.  Poquelin,  J.  Poquelin,  Boudet,  Marie  Hervee 
Armande  Gresinde  Bejart,  Louis  Bejart,  and  Bejart  (Madeleine).  Made- 
leine's daughter,  by  the  noble  Modena,  who  was  the  cause  of  this  calumny 
was  older  than  the  wife  of  Moliere  ;  her  baptismal  register  names  her  the 
daughter  of  Madeleine  Bejart  et  Messire  Esprit  de  Raymond,  noble  of 
Modena,  and  chamberlain  to  Monsieur,  brother  of  the'king,  born  11th 
July,  1638;  her  name  was  Franvoise,  and  she  is  mentioned  as  illegitimate 
in  her  baptismal  register.  It  is  singular  that  in  his  "  Essay  on  Moliere," 
Sir  Walter  Scott  slurs  over  the  complete  refutation  which  this  certifi- 
cate brings  with  it  ot  the  calumny  in  question,  and  speaks  of  the  relation, 
ship  of  Molit  re  and  his  wife  as  a  doubtful  point.  This  is  neither  just  nor 
generous ;  but  Sir  Walter  seems  to  insinuate  that  as  Molitre's  life  was  not 
entirely  exempt  from  the  stain  of  illicit  love,  a  little  more  or  less  was  of  no 
account. 

I  2 


Il6  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

both    in    dialogue    and    by-play :     "  She    never    looks 
about/'    he    says,    "^  nor   do   her    eyes  wander  to   the 
boxes ;   she  is  aware  that  the  theatre  is   full,  but  she 
speaks  and  acts  as   if  she  only    saw   those   with  whom 
she  is  acting.     She  is  elegant   and   rich  in  her   attire 
without  affectation :    she  studies    her    dress,  but  for- 
gets   it   the  moment  she  appears  on  the    stage ;    and 
if  she  ever  touches  her  hair  or  her  ornaments,  this  bye- 
play  conceals  a  judicious  and  inartificial  satire,  and  she 
thus  enters  more  entirely  into  ritlicule  of  the  women 
she    personates :    but  with    all    these    advantages,   she 
would  not   please    so  much  'but   for  her    sweet-toned 
voice.     She  is  aware  of  this,  and  changes  it  according 
to    the  character  she   fills."      With   these   attractions, 
voung  and  lovely,  and  an  actress,  madame  (or  as  she 
was  called  according  to  the  fashion  of  the  times,  which 
only  accorded  the  madame  to  women  of  rank,  made- 
moiselle) Moliere,  fancying  herself  elevated  to  a  high 
sphere  when  she  married,  giddy  and  coquettish,  disap- 
pointed the  hopes   of  her  husband,  whose    heart  was 
set   on    domestic    happiness,   and    the  interchange    of 
affectionate  sentiments  in  the  privacy  of  home.     Yet 
the  gentleness  of  his  nature  made  him  find  a  thousand 
excuses  for  her  :  —  '^'^  1  am  unhappy,"  he  said,  "  but  I 
deserve  it ;   I  ought  to  have  remembered  that  my  habits 
are  too   severe  for  domestic  life :   I   thought  that  my 
wife  ought  to  regulate  her  manners  and  practices  by  my 
wishes ;  but  I  feel  that  had  she  done  so,  she  in  her 
situation  would  be  more  unhappy  than  I  am.     She  is 
gay  and  witty,  and  open  to  the  pleasures  of  admiration. 
This  annoys  me  in  spite  of  myself.     I   find  fault  —  I 
complain.     Yet  this  woman  is  a  hundred  times  more 
reasonable  than  I  am,  and  wishes  to  enjoy  life ;  she 
goes  her  own  way,  and  secure  in  her  innocence,  she 
disdains  the  precautions   I   entreat  her  to  observe.     I 
take  this  neglect   for   contempt ;   I  wish  to  be  assured 
of  her  kindness  by  the  open  expression  of  it,  and  tliat  a 
more  regular  conduct   should   give   me  ease  of  mind. 
But  my  wife,  always  equable  and  Hvely,  who  would  be 


MOLIEBE.  117 

unsuspected  by  any  other  than  myself^  has  no  pity  for 
my  sorrows  ;  and,  occupied  by  the  desire  of  general  ad- 
miration, she  laughs  at  my  anxieties/'  His  friends  tried 
to  remonstrate  in  vain.  ''  There  is  but  one  sort  of 
love,"  he  said,  "  and  those  who  are  more  easily  satisfied 
do  not  know  what  true  love  is."  The  consequence  of 
these  dissensions  was  in  the  sequel  a  sort  of  separation  ; 
full  of  disappointment  and  regret  for  Moliere,  but  to 
which  his  young  wife  easily  reconciled  herself.  Her 
conduct  disgraced  her;  but  she  had  not  sufficient  feeling 
either  to  shrink  from  public  censure  or  the  conscious- 
ness of  rendering  her  husband  unhappy.  To  these 
domestic  discomforts  were  added  his  task  of  manager  ; 
the  difficulty  of  keeping  rival  actresses  in  good  humour, 
the  labour  of  pleasing  a  capricious  public. 

The  latter  task,  as  well  as  that  of  amusing  his  sove- 
reign, was  by  far  the  easiest;  as  in  doing  so  he  followed 
the  natural  bent  of  his  genius.  He  had  begun  the 
*''  Tartuflfe."  He  brought  out  "  L'E'cole  des  Femmes/' 
one  of  his  gayest  and  wittiest  comedies.  It  is  known  in 
England,  through  the  adaptation  of  Wycherly;  and  called 
''  The  Country  Girl."  Unfortunately,  in  his  days,  the 
decorum  of  the  English  stage  was  less  strict  than  the 
French  ;  and  ^vhat  in  Moliere's  play  was  fair  and  light 
raillery,  Wycherly  mingled  with  a  plot  of  a  licentious 
and  disagreeable  nature  The  part,  how^ever,  of  the 
Country  Girl  herself,  personated  by  Mrs.  Jordan, 
animated  by  her  bewitching  naivete,  and  graced  by 
her  frank,  joyous,  silver- toned  voice,  was  an  espe- 
cial favourite  with  the  public  in  the  days  of  our  fathers 
In  Paris,  the  critics  were  not  so  well  pleased;  truth 
of  nature  they  called  vulgarity,  familiarity  of  expres- 
sion was  a  sin  against  the  language.  Moliere  deigned 
so  far  to  notice  his  censurers  as  to  write  the  '^  Critique 
de  I'E'cole  des  Femmes,"  in  which  he  easily  throws 
additional  ridicule  on  those  who  attacked  him.  The  "  Im- 
promptu de  Versailles  "  was  written  in  the  same  spirit, 
at  the  command  of  the  king.  The  war  of  words  thus 
carried  on,  and  replied  to,  grew  more  and  more  bitter  : 
I  3 


118  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

personal  ridicule  was  exchanged  by  his  enemies  for 
calumny.  ]\Ionfleuri^  the  actor,  was  malicious  enough  to 
present  a  petition  to  the  king,  in  which  he  accused 
Moliere  of  marrying  his  own  daughter.  Moliere 
never  deigned  to  reply  to  his  accusation  ;  and  the  king 
showed  his  contempt  by,  soon  after,  standing  godfather  to 
Moliere's  eldest  child,  of  whom  the  duchess  of  Orleans 
was  godmother. 

In  those  days,  as  in  those  of  our  Elizabeth,  the  king 
and  courtiers  took  parts  in  the  ballets.*  These  comcdie- 
hallcts  v/ere  of  singular  framework ;  comedies,  in  three 
acts,  broad  almost  to  farce,  were  interspersed  with  dances: 
to  this  custom,  to  the  three  act  pieces  that  thus  came  into 
vogue,  we  owe  some  of  the  best  of  Moliere's  plays;  when, 
emancipated  from  the  necessity  of  verse  and  five  acts, 
he  could  give  full  play  to  his  sense  of  the  ridiculous, 
and  talent  for  comic  situation ;  and  when,  unshackled 
by  rhyme,  he  threw  the  whole  force  of  his  dry  comic 
humour  into  the  dialogue,  and  by  a  single  word,  a 
single  expression,  stamp  and  immortalise  a  folly,  holding 
it  up  for  ever  to  the  ridicule  it  deserved.  This  seizing 
as  it  were  on  the  bared  inner  kernel  of  some  fashion- 
able vanity,  and  giving  it  its  true  and  undisguised  name 
and  definition,  often  shocked  ears  polite.  They  called 
that  "^  vulgar,"  which  was  only  stripping  selfishness  or 
ignorance  of  its  cloak,  and  bringing  home  to  the  hearts 
of  the  lowly-born  the  fact,  that  the  folHes  of  the  great 
are  akin  to  their  own :  the  people  laughed  to  find  the 
courtier  of  the  same  flesh  and  blood  ;  but  the  courtier 
drew  up,  and  said,  that  it  was  vulgar  to  present  him 
en  dishabille  to  the  commonalty.  '^  Let  them  rail," 
said  Boileau,  to  the  poet,  whose  genius  he  so  fully  appre- 
ciated, "  let  them  exclaim  against  you  because  your 
scenes  are  agreeable  to  the  vulgar.  If  you  pleased  less 
how  much  better  pleased  would  your  censurers  be !"  '^'  Le 

*  The  king  often  danced  in  these  ballets,  till  struck  by  some  lines  in  the 
".Britannicus"  of  Racine,  in  allusion  to  Nero's  public  exhibitions  of  himself, 
he  entirely  gave  up  the  practice  ;  and  soon  after  the  appearing  in  them 
fell  into  such  discredit,  that,  when  I.ulli  took  apart  in  that  appended  to  the 
"  Bourgeois  Gentilhomr/ie,"  the  secretaries  of  the  king  refused  to  receive 
him  among  them  on  this  account,  and  the  king  was  obliged  to  interpose 
to  bring  them  to  reason. 


MOI.IERE.  1  19 

Mariage  Force  "  was  the  first  of  these  comedies  hallets.  i664. 
The  king  danced  as  an  Egyptian  in  the  interludes  .^tat. 
while  in  the  more  intellectual  part  of  the  performance  42. 
Mohere  dehghted  the  audience  as  "  Sganareile  "  — the 
unfortunate  man,  who  with  such  rough  courtesy  is 
obliged  to  take  a  lady  for  better  or  for  worse ;  a  plot, 
founded  on  the  last  English  adventure  of  the  count  de 
Grammont,  who,  when  leaving  this  country,  was  fol- 
lowed by  the  brothers  of  la  belle  Hamilton,  who,  with 
their  hands  on  the  pummels  of  their  swords,  asked  him 
if  he  had  not  forgotten  something  left  behind.  "  True," 
said  the  count,  "  I  forgot  to  marry  your  sister  ;"  and 
instantly  went  back  to  repair  his  lapse  of  memory,  by 
making  her  countess  de  Grammont.  The  dialogue  of 
this  play  is  exceedingly  amusing ;  the  metaphysical  or 
learned  pedants,  whom  Sganareile  consults,  are  admi- 
rable and  witty  specimens  of  advisers,  who  will  only  give 
counsel  in  their  own  way,  in  language  understood  only 
by  themselves.  The  "Amants  Magnifiques"  followed; 
it  was  written  in  the  course  of  a  fev/  days  :  it  is  now 
considered  the  most  feeble  of  MoHere's  plays;  but  it 
suited  the  occasion,  and  by  a  number  of  delicate  and 
witty  impersonations  of  the  manners  of  the  times,  lost 
to  us  now,  it  became  the  greatest  ornament  of  a  suc- 
cession of  festivals  ;  which  under  the  name  of  "  Plaisirs 
de  rile  enchantee,"  were  got  up  in  honour  of  mademoi- 
selle de  Valliere  ;  and,  being  prepared  by  various  men  of 
talent,  gave  the  impress  of  ideal  magnificence  to  the  plea- 
sures of  Louis  XIV.  On  this  occasion  Moliere  ven- 
tured to  bring  out  the  three  first  acts  of  the  "  Tartuffe," 
hoping  to  gain  theking's  favourable  ear  at  such  a  moment. 
But  it  was  ticklish  ground ;  and  Louis,  while  he  declared 
that  he  appreciated  the  good  intentions  of  the  author, 
forbade  its  being  acted,  under  the  fear  that  it  might 
bring  real  devotion  into  discredit.  The  "Tartuffe"  w^as  a 
favourite  with  Mohere,  who,  degraded  by  the  clergy  on 
account  of  his  profession,  and  aware  that  virtue  and  vice 
were  neither  inherent  in  priest  nor  actor  according  to 
the  garb,  was  naturally  very  inimical  to  false  devotion. 
1  4 


■]20  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

He  still  hoped  to  gain  leave  to  represent  his  satire  on 
hypocrites.  He  knew  the  king  in  his  heart  approved 
the  scope  of  his  play,  and  was  pleased  that  his  own  wit 
should  have  heen  considered  worthy  of  transfer  to  Moliere's 
scenes  —  Moliere  himself  venturing  to  remind  him  of 
the  incident,  which  occurred  during  a  journey  to  Lor- 
raine, when  Moliere  accompanied  the  monarch  as  his 
valet.  When  travelling,  Louis  was  accustomed  to  make- 
his  supper  his  best  meal,  to  which,  of  course,  he  brought 
a  good  appetite :  one  afternoon  he  invited  his  former 
preceptor,  Perefixe,  bishop  of  Rhodez,  to  join  him  ;  but 
the  prelate,  with  affected  sanctity,  declined,  as  he  had 
dined,  and  never  ate  a  second  meal  on  a  fast-day.  The 
king  saw  a  smile  on  a  bystander's  face  at  this  answer, 
and  asked  the  cause.  In  reply,  the  courtier  said,  that  it 
arose  from  his  sense  of  the  bishop's  self-denial,  con- 
sidering the  dinner  he  enjoyed.  The  detail  of  the  din- 
ner followed,  dish  after  dish  in  long  succession ;  and 
the  king,  as  each  viand  was  named,  exclaimed,  le  pauvre 
Jiom?7ie  J  with  such  comic  variety  of  voice  and  look,  that 
Moliere,  who  was  present,  felt  the  wit  conveyed,  and 
transferred  it  to  his  play,  in  which  Orgon,  in  the  sim- 
plicity of  his  heart,  repeats  this  exclamation  when  the 
creature -comforts  in  which  Tartiijfe  indulges  are  de- 
tailed to  him.  But  though  this  compliment  was  not 
lost  on  the  king,  he  did  not  yield ;  and  Moliere  was 
obhged  to  content  himself —  after  acting  it  at  Raincy, 
the  country-house  of  the  prince  of  Conde — by  reading 
it  in  society,  and  thus  giving  opportunity  for  it  to 
awaken  the  most  lively  curiosity  in  Paris.  There  is  a 
well-known  print  of  his  reading  it  to  the  celebrated 
Ninon  de  FEnclos,  whose  talents  and  wonderful  tact  for 
seizing  the  ridiculous  he  appreciated  highly  ;  and  to 
whom  he  partly  owed  the  idea  of  the  play,  from  an 
occurrence  that  befel  her.*     Yet  he  was  not  consoled 

*  The  following  is  the  story  of  Ninon  de  I'Enclos  and  the  "  Tartuff'e"  : — 
When  Gourville,  the  vissitudcs  of  whose  life  were  many  and  great,  was,  in 
1661,  in  danger  of  being  hanged,  and  was  indeed  hanged  in  effigy,  he  left 
two  caskets  full  of  nKiney,  one  with  Ninon,  the  other  with  a  priest  of  his 
acquaintance,  who  affected  great  devotion.  On  his  return,  Ninon  restored 
him  his  casket,  and  the  value  of  money  being  increased,  he  was  richer  than 


MOLIERE.  121 

by  these  private  readings  and  the  sort  of  applause  he 
thus  gained,  and  he  grew  more  bitter  against  the  devo- 
tees for  their  opposition  :  in  his  play  on  the  subject  of 
Don  Juan,  ''Le  Festin  de  Saint  Pierre_,"  brought  out  soon 
after,  he  alludes  bitterly  to  the  interdiction  laid  on  his 
favourite  work.  ''  All  other  vices,"  he  says,  ''  are  held 
up  to  public  censure  ;  but  hypocrisy  is  privileged  to 
place  the  hand  on  every  one's  mouth,  and  to  enjoy 
impunity."  The  hypocrites  revenged  themselves  by 
calhng  his  Festin  blasphemous.  The  king,  however, 
remained  his  firm  friend,  and  tried  to  compensate 
for  the  hardship  he  suffered  on  this  occasion  by  giving 
his  name  to  his  company,  and  granting  him  a  pension 
in  consequence. 

It  was  the  custom  for  the  soldiers  of  the  body  guard 
of  the  king,  and  other  privileged  troops,  to  frequent  the 
theatre  without  paying.  These  people  filled  the  pit,  to 
the  great  detriment  of  the  profits  of  the  actors.  Moliere„ 
incited  by  his  comrades,  applied  to  the  king,  who  issued 
an  order  to  abrogate  this  privilege.  The  soldiers  were 
furious ;  they  went  in  crowds  to  the  theatre,  resolved 
to  force  an  entrance ;  the  unfortunate  door-keeper  was 
killed  by  a  thousand  sword-thrusts,  and  the  rioters 
rushed  into  the  house,  resolved  to  revenge  themselves 
on  the  actors,  who  trembled  at  the  storm  they  had 
brought  on  themselves.  The  younger  Bejart  encoun- 
tered their  fury  with  a  joke,  that  somewhat  appeased 
them  :  he  was  dressed  for  the  part  of  an  old  man  ;  and 
came  tottering  forward,  imploring  them  to  spare  the  life 
of  a  poor  old  man,  seventy-five  years  of  age,  who  had 
only  a  few  days  of  hfe  left.  JMohere  made  them  a 
speech  ;  and  peace  was  restored,  with  no  greater  injury 
than  fear  to  the  actors — except  to  one,  who  in  his  terror 
tried  to  get  through  a  hole  in   the  wall  to  escape^  and 

before.  He  offered  this  surplus  to  his  friend ;  but  she  replied  by  threatening 
to  throw  the  money  out  of  window,  if  he  said  a  word  more  on  the  sub- 
ject. The  priest  acted  in  a  different  way :  he  said  he  had  employed  the 
sum  deposited  with  hiin  in  pious  works,  having  preferred  the  good  of  Gour- 
ville's  soul  to  pelf,  which  might  have  occasioned  his  perdition.  This  story 
Ninon  used  to  tell  with  such  clever  mimicry  of  the  false  devotee,  that 
Moliere  declared  he  owed  his  best  inspiration  to  her. 


122  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

stuck  SO  fast  that  he  could  neither  get  out  nor  in, 
till,  peace  being  restored,  the  hole  was  enlarged.  The 
king  was  ready  to  punish  the  soldiers  as  mutineers,  but 
Moliere  was  too  prudent  to  wish  to  make  enemies ; 
when  the  companies  were  assembled,  and  put  under 
arms,  that  the  ringleaders  might  be  punished,  he  ad- 
dressed them  in  a  speech,  in  which  he  declared  that  he 
did  not  wish  to  make  them  pay,  but  that  the  order  was 
levelled  against  those  who  assumed  their  name  and 
claimed  their  privilege  :  and  that,  in  truth,  a  gratuitous 
entrance  to  the  theatre  was  a  right  beneath  their  notice  ; 
and,  by  touching  their  pride,  he  brought  them  for  a  time 
to  submit  to  the  new  order. 

In  holding  up  follies  or  vices  to  ridicule  Moliere 
made  enemies  ;  and  by  attacking  whole  bodies  of  men, 
dangerous  ones  ;  yet,  how  much  did  the  pubhc  owe  to 
the  spirit  and  wit  with  which  he  exposed  the  delusions  to 
which  they  were  often  the  victims.  He  first  attacked  the 
faculty,  as  it  is  called  in  "  L'Amour  IVJedecin,"  in  which 
he  brings  forward  four  of  the  physicians  in  ordinary  to 
the  king,  empirics  of  the  first  order,  under  Greek  names, 
invented  by  Boileau  for  the  occasion  :  nor  can  we 
wonder,  when  we  read  the  memoires  and  letters  of  the 
times,  at  the  contempt  in  which  Moliere  held  the  me- 
dicinal art.  One  specific  came  into  fashion  after  the 
other ;  quack  succeeded  to  quack ;  and  the  more  ignorant 
the  greater  was  the  pretension,  the  greater  also  the 
number  of  dupes.  Reading  these,  and  turning  to  the 
pages  of  Moliere,  we  see  in  a  minute  that  he  by  no 
means  exaggerated,  while  he  with  his  happy  art  seized 
exactly  on  the  most  ridiculous  traits, 
^^g  It  has  been  said  that  the  "  Misanthrope,"  now  consider- 
jEtat.  ed  by  the  French  as  Moliere's  chef-d'oeuvre,  was  coldly 
44.  received  at  first  —  a  tradition  contradicted  by  the  register 
of  the  theatre  ;  it  went  through  twenty-one  consecutive 
representations,  and  excited  great  interest  in  Paris. 
Still  in  this  he  raises  his  voice  against  the  false  taste  of 
the  age  ;  and  this  with  so  little  exaggeration,  that  the 
pit  applauded  the  sonnet  introduced  in  ridicule  of  the 


MOLIERE.  123 

prevailing  poetry,  and  were  not  a  little  astonislied  when 
Alceste  proves  that  it  possesses  no  merit  whatever.  The 
audience,  seeing  that  ridicule  of  reigning  fashions  was  the 
scope  of  the  play,  fancied  that  various  persons  were  in- 
tended to  be  represented  ;  and,  among  others,  it  was 
supposed  that  the  duke  de  ^Montauzier,  the  husband  of  the 
P reck: use  Julie  d'Angennes,  was  portrayed  in  Alceste. 
It  is  said,  that  the  duke  went  to  see  the  play,  and  came 
back  quite  satisfied;  saying,  that  the  '"  Misanthrope" 
was  a  perfectly  honest  and  excellent  man,  and  that  a 
great  honour,  which  he  should  never  forget,  was  done 
him  by  assimilating  them  together.  There  is  indeed 
in  Alceste  a  sensibility,  joined  to  his  sincerity  and 
goodness  of  heart,  that  renders  him  very  attractive; 
and  thus,  as  is  often  the  case  when  genius  mirrors  na- 
ture, the  ridicule  the  author  pretends  to  wish  to  throw 
on  the  victim  recoils  on  the  apparently  triumphant  per- 
sonages :  the  time-serving  Philinthe  is  quite  contempt- 
ible; and  every  honest  heart  echoes  the  disgust  Alceste 
feels  for  the  deceits  and  selfishness  of  society.  In  truth, 
there  is  some  cause  to  suspect  that  MoHere  found  in  his 
own  sensitive  and  upright  heart  the  homefelt  traits  of 
Alceste  &  character,  as  that  that  of  his  wife  furnished  him 
with  the  coquetry  of  Celimme  ;  and  when,  in  the  end, 
the  Misanthrope  resolves  to  hide  from  the  world,  one  of 
the  natures  of  the  author  poured  itself  forth  ;  a  nature, 
checked  in  real  life  by  the  necessities  of  his  situation 
and  the  living  excitement  of  his  genius. 

During  the  same  year  the  ''  Medecin  malgre'  Lui"  was 
brought  out ;  whose  wit  and  comedy  stamps  it  as  one  of 
his  best :  other  minor  pieces,  by  command,  occupied 
his  time,  without  increasing  his  fame.  His  mind  was 
set  on  bringing  out  the  ''  Tartuffe.''  The  king  had  yielded 
to  the  outcry  against  it ;  but  in  his  heart  he  was  very 
desirous  of  having  it  acted.  On  occasion  of  a  piece  be- 
ing  played,  called  "  Scaramouche  Hermite,"  which  also 
dehneated  immorality  cloaked  by  religion  ;  the  king  said 
to  the  great  Conde',  '"  I  should  like  to  know  why  those 
who  are  so  scandalised  by  Moliere's  play,  say  nothing 


124  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    WEN. 

againhL  uiat  of  Scaramouche  9  "  The  prince  replied, 
**  The  reason  is,  that  Scaramouche  makes  game  of 
heaven  and  religion,  which  these  people  care  nothing  for  ; 
but  Moliere  satirises  them  themselves,  and  this  they 
cannot  bear."  *  Confident  in  the  king's  support,  and 
anxious  to  bring  out  his  play,  Moliere  entertained  the 
hope  of  mollifying  his  opponents  by  concessions  :  he 
altered  his  piece,  expunged  the  parts  most  disliked,  and 
changed  the  name  Tartujfe,  already  become  odious  to 
bigot  ears,  to  the  Imposteur.  In  this  new  shape  his 
comedy  was  acted  once  ;  but,  on  the  following  day  the 
first  president,  Lamoignon,  forbade  it.  Moliere  dis- 
patched two  principal  actors  to  the  king,  then  in  Flan- 
ders, to  obtain  permission;  but  Louis  only  promised  that 
the  play  should  be  re-examined  on  his  return.  Thus, 
once  more,  the  piece  was  laid  aside;  and  Moliere  forced 
to  content  himself  wdth  private  readings,  and  the  uni- 
versal interest  excited  on  the  subject.  Meanwhile  he 
brought  out  "  Amphitryon,"  "  L'Avare,"  and  "  George 
Dandin"  all  of  which  rank  among  his  best  plays.  The 
first  has  a  more  fanciful  and  playful  spirit  added  to  its 
comedy  than  any  other  of  his  productions,  and  displays 
more  elegance  and  a  more  subtle  wat. 

As  a  specimen  of  mingled  wit  and  humour,  let  us 
take  the  scene  between  Sosia  and  Mercury,  when  the 
latter,  assuming  his  name  and  appearance,  attempts  to 
deprive  him  of  his  identity  by  force  of  blows.  Sosia 
exclaims, — 

"  N'importe.    Je  ne  puis  m'aneantir  pour  toi, 
Et  soutt'rir  uti  discours  si  loin  de  I'lipparence. 
Etre  ce  que  je  suis  cst-il  en  ta  puissaiice  ? 

Et  puis-je  cesser  d'etre  moi  ^ 
S'avisa-t-on  jamais  d'une  cliose  pareille  ? 
Et  peut-on  di'mentir  cent  indices  pressants? 

Reve-je  ?    Est-ce  que  je  sommeille  ? 
Ai-je  I'esprit  trouble  par  des  transports  puissants  ? 

Ne  sensje  bien  que  je  veille  ? 

Ne  suis-je  pas  dans  men  bon  sens  ? 
Mon  maitre  Amphitryon  ne  m'a-t-i!  pas  commis 
A^  venir  en  ces  lieux  vers  Alcmene  sa  femme  ? 
Ne  lui  dois-je  pas  faire,  en  lui  vantant  sa  flamme, 
Un  recitde  ses  faits  contre  iiotre  ennemi  '■> 
Ne  suis-je  pas  du  port  arrivt'  tout  a  I'heure? 

Ne  tiens-je  pas  une  lanterne  en  main  ? 
Ne  te  trouve-je  pas  devant  notre  demeure  ? 


*  Preface  to  "  Tartuffe.' 


MOLIERE.  125 

Ne  t'y  parle  je  pas  d'un  esprit  tout  humain? 
Ne  te  tiens-tu  pas  fort  fie  ma  poltronnerie. 

Pour  m'empecher  d'eiitrer  chez  nous? 
N'as-tu  pas  surmon  dos  exerce  ta  furie  'i , 

Ne  m'as  tu  pas  roue  d    coups  ? 
Ah,  tout  cela  u'est  que  trop  veritable  ; 

Et,  pliit  au  ciel,  le  fCit-il  moins ! 
Cesse  done  d'insulter  au  sort  d'un  miserable  ; 
Et  laisse  a  mon  devoir  s'acquitter  de  ses  soins. 

jVIekcure. 
Arrete.  ou  sur  ton  dos  le  nioindre  pas  attire 
Un  assommant  eclat  de  mon  juste  courroux. 

Tout  ce  que  tu  viens  de  dire, 

Est  a  moi,  hormis  les  coups. 

SosiE. 
Ce  matin  du  vaisseau,  plein  de  frayeur  en  I'ame, 
Cette  lanterne  sait  comme  je  suis  parti. 
Amphitryon,  du  camp,  vers  Alcmfene  sa  femme, 
M'a-t-il  pas  envoye  ? 

Mercure. 
A'ous  avez  menti. 
C'est  moi  qu' Amphitryon  depute  vers  Alcmene. 
Et  qui  du  port  Persique  arrive  de  ce  pas  ; 
Moi  qui  viens  annoiicer  la  valeur  de  son  bras. 
Qui  nous  fait  remporter  une  victoire  pleine, 
Et  de  nos  ennemis  a  mis  le  chef  k  bas. 
C'est  moi  qui  suis  Sosie  ejitin,  de  certitude, 

Fils  de  Dave,  honnete  berger ; 
Frere  d'Arpage,  mort  en  pays  etranger; 

Mari  de  Cleanthis  la  prude, 

Dont  I'humeur  me  fait  enrager ;  ' 

Qui  dans  Thebes  ai  regu  mille coups  d'etriviere- 
"     Sans  en  avoir  jamais  dit  rien  ; 
Et  jadis  en  public  fus  marqut  par  derriere 

Pour  etre  trop  homme  de  bien. 

Sosie  {bas,  a  part). 
11  a  raison.     A  moins  d'etre  Sosie, 
On  ne  peut  pas  savoir  tout  ce  qu'il  dit; 
Et,  dans  I'etonnement  dont  mon  ame  est  saisie, 
Je  commence,  k  mon  tour,  a  le  croire  un  petit. 
EnJefFet,  maintenant  que  je  le  considere, 
Je  vois  qu'il  k  de  moi  taille,  mine,  action. 
Faisons-lui  quelque  question, 
Atin,  d'eclaircir  ce  mystfere. 
iHaut.) 
Parmi  tout  le  butin  fait  sur  nos  ennemis, 
Qu'est-ce  qu'Ampliitryon  obtient  pour  son  partage  ? 

Mercure. 
Cinq  fort  gros  diamants  en  noeud  proprement  mis, 
Dont  leur  chef  se  paroit  comme  d'un  rare  ouvrage. 

Sosie. 
A  qui  destine-t-'il  un  si  riche  present  ? 

Mercure. 
A  sa  femme,  et  sur  elle  il  le  veut  voir  paroitre. 

Sosie. 
Mais  oil,  pour  I'apporter,  est-il  mis  k  present  ? 

Mercure. 
Dans  un  coflret  scell^  des  armos  de  mon  maltre. 


126 


LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MES. 

SosiE  (a  part). 
II  ne  merit  pas  d'un  mot  h  chaque  repartie, 
Et  de  moi  je  commence  k  douter  tout  de  bon. 
Pes  de  moi  par  la  force,  il  estdeja  Sosie, 
II  pourroit  bien  encore  l"etre  par  la  raison; 
Pourtaut  quand  je  me  tate  et  que  je  me  rappelle, 

II  me  resemble  que  je  suis  moi. 
Oil  puis-je  rencontrer  quelque  clarte  fidcle, 

Pour  demeler  ce  que  je  voi  ? 
Ce  que  j'ai  tait  tout  seul,  et  que  n'a  vu  personne, 
A  moins  d'etre  moi-meme,  on  ne  le  i)eut  savoir  : 
Par  cette  question  il  taut  que  je  I'etonne  ; 
C'est  de  quci  le  conlbndre,  et  nous  alions  le  voir. 

(Haut.) 
Lorsqu'on  ^toit  aux  mains,  que  fis-tu  dans  nos  tentes, 

on  tu  courus  seul  te  fourrer  ? 

Mercure. 

D'un  jambon 

Sosie  {bas,  a  part). 
L'y  voila ! 
Mercure. 
Que  j'allai  deterrer, 
Je  coupai  bravement  deux  tranches  succulentes, 

Dont  je  sus  fort  bien  me  bourrer. 
Et,  joignant  u  cela  d'un  vin  que  Ton  menage, 
Et  dont,  avant  le  gout,  les  yeux  se  contentoient, 
Je  pris  un  peu  de  courage. 
Pour  nos  gens  qui  se  battoient. 

Sosie. 
Cette  prcuve  sans  pareille 
En  sa  faveur  conclut  bien, 

Et  I'on  n'y  peut  dire  rien, 

S'il  n'etoit  dans  la  bouteille." 

And  again,  when  Sosia  tries  to  explain  to  Amphitryon 
how  another  himself  prevented  him  from  entering  his 
house :  — 

"  Faut-il  le  repeter  vingt  fois  de  meme  sorte  ? 
Moi  vous  dis-je,  ce  moi,  plus  robuste  que  moi, 
Ce  moi  qui  s'est  de  force  empare  de  la  porte, 

Ce  moi  qui  m'a  fait  filer  doux  ; 

Ce  moi  qui  le  seul  moi  veui  etre, 

Ce  moi  de  moi-meme  jaloux, 

Ce  moi  vaillant,  dont  le  courroux 

Au  moi  pollron  s'est  fait  connoitre, 

Enlin  ce  moi  qui  suis  chez  nous 

Ce  moi  qui  s'est  montre  mon  maitre; 

Ce  moi  qui  m'a  roue  de  coups." 

And  his  conclusive  decision  with  regard  to  his  master :  — 

"  Je  ne  me  trompois  pas,  messieurs,  ce  mot  termine, 
Toute  I'irrtsolution  : 
Le  veritable  Ampiiitryon 
Est  I'Amphitryon  ou  I'on  dine." 


MOLIERE.  127 

The  '■•Avare"has  certainly  faults,  which  a  great  German 
critic  has  pointed  out*;  but  these  do  not  interfere  with 
the  admirable  spirit  of  the  dialogue,  and  the  humorous 
display  of  the  miser's  foibles.  "George  Dandin"was 
considered  by  his  friends  as  a  more  dangerous  experiment. 
There  were  so  many  George  Dan  dins  in  the  world. 
One  in  particular  was  pointed  out  to  him  as  being  at  the 
same  time  an  influential  person,  who,  offended  by  his 
play,  might  cause  its  ill  success.  Moliere  took  the  pru- 
dent part  of  offering  to  read  his  comedy  to  him,  pre- 
viously to  its  being  acted.  The  man  felt  himself  very 
highly  honoured  :  he  assembled  his  friends ;  the  play 
was  read,  and  applauded;  and  in  the  sequel  supported 
by  this  very  person  when  it  appeared  on  the  stage.  Poor 
George  Dandin  !  there  is  an  ingenuousness  and  direct- 
ness in  him  that  inspires  us  with  respect,  in  spite  of  the 
ridiculous  situations  in  which  he  is  placed :  and  while 
Mohere  represents  to  the  life  the  annoyances  to  arise 
to  a  bourgeois  in  allying  himself  to  nobility,  he  makes  the 
nobles  so  very  contemptible,  either  by  their  stupidity  or 
vice,  that  not  by  one  word  in  the  play  can  a  rank-struck 
spirit  be  discerned.  As,  for  instance,  which  cuts  the 
most  ridiculous  figure  in  the  following  comic  dialogue  ? 
The  nobles,  we  think.  George  Dandin  comes  with  a 
complaint  to  the  father  and  mother  of  his  wife,  with 
regard  to  her  ill-conduct.  His  father-in-law,  M.  de  Sot- 
enville  (the  very  name  is  Men  trouve, —  sot  en  ville,) 
asks  — 

"  Qu'est-ce,  mon  gendre  ?  vous  paroissez  trouble. 
Geokge  Dandin. 

Aussi  en  ai-je  du  sujet ;  et • 

Madame  de  Sotenville. 
Mon  dieu !  notre  gendre,  que  vous  avez  peu  de  civilite,  de  ne  pas  saluer 
les  gens  quand  vous  les  approchez  .' 

George  Dandin. 

Ma  foi !  ma  belle-mere,  c'est  que  j'ai  d'autres  choses  en  tete ;  et 

Madame  de  Sotenville. 
Encore !  est-il  possible,  notre  gendre,  que  vous  sachiez  si  peu  votre  monde, 
et  qu'il  n'y  ait  pas  moyen  de  vous  instruire  de  la  maniere  qu'il  faut  vivre 
paruii  les  personnes  de  qualite  ? 

George  Dandin. 
Comment  ? 

*  Schlegel. 


128  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

Madame  de  Sotenville. 

Ne  vousdeferez-vous  jamais,  avec  moi,  de  la  familiarite  de  ce  mot  de 

belle-mere,  et  ne  sauriez-vous  vous  accoutumer  a  me  dire  Madame  ? 

George  Dandin. 

Parbleu  !  si  vous  m'appelez  vctre  gendre,  11  me  semble  que  je  puis  vous 

appeler  belle-mere  ? 

Madame  de  Sotenville. 

11  y  a  fort  k  dire,  et  les  choses  ne  sont  pas  egales.  Aprenez,  s'il  vous  plait, 

que  ce  n'est  pas  k  vous  k  vous  scrvir  de  ce  mot-1^  avec  une  person  ne  de  ma 

condition  ;  que,  tout  notre  gendre  que  vous  soyez,   il  y  a  grande  difference 

de  vous  k  nous,  et  que  vous  devez  vous  connoitre. 

Mo^fsIEUR  de  Sotenville. 

C'en  est  assez,  m'amour  :  laissons  cela. 

Madame  de  Sotenville. 
Mon  dieu !  Monsieur  de  Sotenville,  vous  avez  des  indulgences  qui  n'appar- 
tiennent  qu'k  vous,  et  vous  ne  savez  pas  vous  faire  rendre  par  les  gens  ce 
qui  vous  est  du. 

Monsieur  de  Sotenville. 
Corbleu  !  pardonnez-moi;  on  ne  pent  point  me  faire  desle9ons  Ik-dessus  ; 
et  j'ai  su  montrer  en  ma  vie,  par  vingt  actions  de  vigeur,  que  je  ne  suis 
point  homme  k  demordre  jamais  d'une  partie  de  mes  pretentions  :  mais  il 
suffit  de  lui  avoir  donue  un  petit  avertissement.  Sachons  un  peu,  mon 
gendre,  ce  que  vous  avez  dans  resjirit. 

George  Dandin. 
Puisqu'il  faut  done  parler  categoriquement,  je  vousdirai,  Monsieur  de 

Sotenville,  que  j  'ai  bien  de 

Monsieur  de  Sotenville. 
Doucement,  mon  gendre.  Apprenez  qu'il  ne'st  pas  respectueux  d'appeler 
les  gens  par  leur  noni,  et  qu'k  ceux  qui  sont  au-dessus  de  nous,  il  faut 
dire  Monsieur,  tout  court. 

George  Dandin. 
He  bien !  Monsieur  tout  court,  el  non  plus  Monsieur  de  Sotenville,  j'ai  k 

vous  dire  que  ma  femme  me  donne 

Monsieur  de  Sotenville. 
Tout  beau !  Apprenez  aussi  que  vous  ne  devez  pas  dire  ma  femme,  quand 
vous  parlez  de  notre  fille.. 

George  Dandin. 
J'enrage  I  Comment,  ma  femme  n'est  pas  ma  femme  ? 

Madame  de  Sotenville. 
Oui,  notre  gendre,  elle  est  votre  femme  ;  mais  il  ne  vous  est  pas  permis  de 
I'appeler  ainsi ;  et  c'est  toutce  que  vous  pourriez  faire  si  vous  aviez  epouse 
une  de  vos  pareilles. 

George  Dandin. 
Ah  :  George  Dandin,  ou  t'es-tu  fourre  ?  " 

But  we  must  leave  off.  Sir  Walter  Scott  says  that, 
as  often  as  he  opened  the  volume  of  Moliere's  works 
during  the  composition  of  his  article  on  that  author,  he 
found  it  impossible  to  lay  it  out  of  his  hand  until  he 
had  completed  a  scene,  however  Httle  to  his  immediate 
purpose  of  consulting  it ;  and  thus  we  could  prolong 


/ 


moliere.  129 

and  multiply  extracts  to  the  amusement  of  ourselves 
and  the  reader ;  but  we  restrain  ourselves,  and,  re- 
turning to  the  subject  that  caused  this  quotation, 
we  must  say,  that  we  differ  entirely  from  Rousseau 
and  other  critics  who  adopt  his  opinions ;  and  even 
Schlegel,  who  accuses  the  author  of  being  guilty  of  cur- 
rying favour  with  rank  in  this  comedy,  and  making 
honest  mediocrity  ridiculous.  If  genius  was  to  adapt 
its  works  to  the  rules  of  philosophers,  instead  of  fol- 
lowing the  realities  of  life,  we  should  never  read  in 
books  of  honesty  duped,  and  vice  triumphant :  whether 
we  should  be  the  gainers  by  this  change  is  a  question. 
It  may  be  added,  also,  that  Moliere  did  not  represent,  in 
"  George  Dandin,"  honesty  ill-used,  so  much  as  folly 
punished ;  and,  at  any  rate,  where  vice  is  on  one  side 
and  ridicule  on  the  other,  we  must  think  that  class  worse 
used  to  whom  the  former  is  apportioned  as  properly 
belonging.  In  spite  of  philosophers,  truth,  such  as  it 
exists,  is  the  butt  at  which  all  writers  ought  to  aim.  It 
is  different,  indeed,  when  a  servile  spirit  paints  great- 
ness, virtue,  and  dignity  on  one  side  —  poverty,  igno- 
rance, and  folly,  on  the  other. 

At  length  the  time  came  when  MoHere  was  allowed 
to  bring  out  the  "Tartuffe"  in  its  original  shape,  with  its 
original  name.  Its  success  was  unequalled :  it  went 
through  forty-four  consecutive  representations.  At  a 
period  when  religious  disputes  between  molinist  and 
jansenist  ran  high  in  France — when  it  was  the  fashion 
to  be  devout,  and  each  family  had  a  confessor  and 
director  of  their  consciences,  to  whom  they  looked  up 
with  reverence,  and  whose  behests  they  obeyed — a  play 
which  showed  up  the  hypocrisy  of  those  who  cloaked 
the  worst  designs,  and  brought  discord  and  hatred  into 
families,  under  the  guise  of  piety,  was  doubtless  a  useful 
production;  yet  the  "^^Tartuffe  "  is  not  an  agreeable  play. 
Borne  away  by  his  notion  of  the  magnitude  of  the  evil 
he  attacked,  and  by  his  idea  of  the  usefulness  of  the 
lesson,  Moliere  attached  himself  greatly  to  it.  The  plot 
is  admirably  managed,  the  characters  excellently  con- 


130  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

trasted,  its  utility  probably  of  the  highest  kind  ;  but 
Moliere,  hampered  by  the  necessity  of  giving  as  Httle 
umbrage  as  possible  to  true  devotees,  was  forced  by  the 
spirit  of  the  times  to  regard  his  subject  more  seriously 
than  is  quite  accordant  with  comedy :  there  is  some- 
thing heavy  in  the  conduct  of  the  piece,  and  disgust 
is  rather  excited  than  amusement.  The  play  is  still 
popular ;  and,  through  the  excellent  acting  of  a  living 
performer,  it  has  enjoyed  great  popularity  in  these 
days  in  its  English  dress:  still  it  is  disagreeable  ;  and  the 
part  foisted  in  on  our  stage,  of  the  strolling  methodist 
preacher,  becomes,  by  its  farce,  the  most  amusing  part 
in  the  play.* 

Moliere  may  now  be  considered  as  having  risen  to 
the  height  of  his  prosperity.  Highly  favoured  by  the 
king,  the  cabals  formed  against  him,  and  the  enemies  that 
his  wit  excited,  were  powerless  to  injure.  He  was  the 
favorite  of  the  best  society  in  Paris ;  to  have  him  to 
read  a  play,  was  giving  to  any  assembly  the  stamp  of 
fashion   as  well  as   wit  and  intellect.     He  numbered 

*  There  are  some  excellent  observations  on  the  moral  of  the  "  Tartuffe"  in 
Sir  Walter  Scott's  article  on  Moliere,  published  in  the  seventeenth  vol.  of  his 
prose  works,  in  answer  to  Bourdaloue's  violent  philippic  against  this  play. 
Scott  argues  with  force  and  justice  on  the  propriety  of  affixing  the  stigma  of 
ridicule  to  the  most  hateful  vice  ever  nurtured  in  the  human  heart  —  the 
assumption  of  the  appearance  of  religion  for  worldly  and  wicked  purposes; 
and  he  represents  also  the  utility  of  the  picture  drawn  to  arrest,  in  his 
course  one  in  danger  of  incurring  the  sin  of  spiritual  pride,  by  showing 
him  that  the  fairest  professions  and  strictest  observances  may  be  consistent 
with  the  foulest  purposes.  "  I  he  case  of  the  '  Tartuffe,'  "  Sir  Walter  Scott 
thus  sums  up  in  his  argument,  "  is  that  of  a  vilely  wicked  man,  rendering 
the  profession  of  religion  hateful  by  abusing  it  for  the  worst  purposes  : 
and  if  such  characters  occurred,  as  there  is  little  reason  to  doubt,  in  the 
time  and  court  of  Louis  XIV.,  we  can  see  no  reason  against  their  being 
gibetted  in  efiigv.  The  poet  himself  is  ai  pains  to  show  that  he  draws  the 
true  line  of  distinction  between  the  hypocrite  and  the  truly  religious  man. 
When  the  duped  Organ,  astonished  at  the  discovery  of  Tartiiffe's  villainy, 
expresses  himself  doubtful  of  the  existence  of  real  worth,  Cltante  re- 
plies to  him,  with  his  usual  sense  and  moderation  : 

'  Quoi !  parce  qu'un  fripon  vous  dupe  avec  audace, 

Sous  !e  pompeux  eclat  d'une  austere  grimace, 

Vous  voulez  que  partout  on  soit  fait  comme  lui, 

Et  qu'aucun  vrai  devot  ne  se  trouve  aujourd'hui? 

Laissez  aux  libertins  ces  sottes  consequences  : 

Demelez  la  vertu  d'avec  ses  apparences  ; 

Ne  hazardez  jamais  votre  estime  trop  tot. 

Ne  sovez  pour  cela  dans  le  milieu  qu'il  faut. 

Gardez-vous,  s'il  se  pcut,  d'honorcr  I'imposture, 

Mais  au  vrai  ztile,  aussi,  n'allez  pas  faire  injure; 

El  s'il  vous  faut  tomber  dans  une  extremite, 

F^chez  plut6t  encor  de  cet  autre  cCtd.' " 


MOLIERE.  131 

among  his  chosen  and  dearest  friends  the  wits  of  the 
age.  Disappointment  and  vexation  had  followed  him 
at  home  ;  and  his  wife's  misconduct  and  heartlessness 
having  led  him  at  last  to  separate  from  her,  he  endea- 
voured to  secure  to  himself  such  peace  as  celibacy  per- 
mitted. As  much  time  as  his  avocations  as  actor  and 
manager  permitted  he  spent  at  his  country  house  at 
Auteuil :  here  he  reserved  an  apartment  for  his  old 
schoolfellow,  the  gay,  thoughtless  Chapelle ;  here  Boi- 
leau  also  had  a  house;  and  at  one  or  the  other  the 
common  friends  of  both  assembled,  and  repasts  were 
held  where  wit  and  gaiety  reigned.  Moliere  himself 
was  too  often  the  least  animated  of  the  party  :  he  was 
apt  to  be  silent  and  reserved  in  society*,  more  intent  on 
observing  and  listening  than  in  endeavouring  to  shine. 
There  was  a  vein  of  melancholy  in  his  character,  which 
his  domestic  infehcity  caused  to  increase.  He  loved 
order  in  his  household,  and  was  annoyed  by  want  of 
neatness  and  regularity:  in  this  respect  the  heedless 
Chapelle  was  ill  suited  to  be  bis  friend ;  and  often  Mo- 
liere shut  himself  up  in  solitude. 

There  are  many  anecdotes  connected  with  this  knot 
of  friends :  the  famous  supper,  which  Voltaire  tries  to 
bring  into  discredit,  but  which  Louis  Racine  vouches 
for  as  being  frequently  related  by  BoiJeau  himself 
occurred  at  Mohere's  house  at  Auteuil.  Almost  all  tiie 
wits  were  there  except  Racine,  who  was  excluded  by 
his  quarrel  with  MoHere.  There  were  LuUi,  Jonsac, 
Boileau,  Chapelle,  the  young  actor  Barron,  and  others. 
Moliere  was  indisposed — he  had  renounced  animal  food 
and  wine,  and  was  in  no  humour  to  join  his  friends,  so 
went  to  bed,  leaving  them  to  the  enjoyment  of  their 

*  Moliere  thus  describes  himself  in  one  of  his  pieces.  A  Lady  says  : 
I  remember  the  evening  when,  impelled  by  the  reputation  he  has  ac- 
quired, and  the  works  he  has  brougnt  out,  Celimene  wished  to  see  Da- 
mon. You  know  the  man,  and  his  indolence  in  kee])ing  up  conversation 
She  invited  him  as  a  wit ;  but  he  never  appeared  so  .stupid  as  in  the  midst 
of  a  dozen  persons  she  had  made  it  a  favour  to  invite  to  meet  him,  who 
looked  at  hiin  with  all  their  eyes,  fancying  that  he  would  be  different  from 
every  body  else.  Thoy  fancied  that  he  would  amuse  the  company  with 
bon  mots  ;  that  every  word  he  should  sav  would  be  wittv,  each  speech  an 
improTnptu,  that  he  must  ask  to  drink  with  a  point ;  and  they  could  make 
nothing  of  Jiis  silence." 

K    2 


132  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

supper.  No  one  was  more  ready  to  make  the  most  of 
good  cheer  than  Chapelle^  whose  too  habitual  inebriety 
was  in  vain  combatted^  and  sometimes  imitated  by 
his  associates.  On  this  occasion  they  drank  till  their 
good  spirits  turned  to  maudlin  sensibility.  Chapelle, 
the  reckless  and  the  gay,  began  to  descant  on  the 
emptiness  of  life  —  the  vain  nature  of  its  pleasures  — 
the  ennui  of  its  tedious  hours :  the  other  guests  agreed 
with  him.  Why  live  on  then,  to  endure  disappointment 
after  disappointment  ?  how  much  more  heroic  to  die  at 
once  !  The  party  had  arrived  at  a  pitch  of  excitement 
that  rendered  them  ready  to  adopt  any  ridiculous  or 
senseless  idea  ,•  they  all  agreed  that  life  was  con- 
temptible, death  desirable  :  "W^hy  then  not  die  ?  the  act 
would  be  heroic  j  and,  dying  all  together,  they  would  obtain 
the  praise  that  ancient  heroes  acquired  by  self-immola- 
tion. They  all  rose  to  walk  down  to  the  river,  and  throw 
themselves  in.  The  young  Barron,  an  actor  and  protege 
of  Moliere,  had  more  of  his  senses  about  him  :  he  ran 
to  awake  Moliere,  who,  hearing  that  they  had  already 
left  the  house,  and  were  proceeding  towards  the  river, 
hurried  after  them  :  already  the  stream  was  in  sight. 
When  he  came  up,  they  hailed  him  as  a  companion 
in  their  heroic  act,  and  he  agreed  to  join  them  :  "But 
not  to-night:"  he  said  ''' so  great  a  deed  should  not  be 
shrouded  in  darkness ;  it  deserves  dayhght  to  illustrate 
it:  let  us  wait  till  morning/'  His  friends  considered 
this  new  argument  as  conclusive :  they  returned  to 
the  house;  and,  going  to  bed,  rose  on  the  morrow  sober, 
and  content  to  live. 
1670.  Among  such  friends —wild,  gay,  and  witty — Moliere 
iEtat.  might  easily  have  his  attention  directed  to  farcical  and 
40.  amusing  subjects.  Some  say  that  "  Monsieur  Porceau- 
gnac*'  was  founded  on  the  adventure  of  a  poor  rustic,  who 
fled  from  pursuing  doctors  through  the  streets  of  Paris : 
it  is  one  of  the  most  ridiculous  as  well  as  lively  of  his 
smaller  pieces;  but  so  excellent  is  the  comic  dialogue, 
that  Diderot  well  remarks,  that  the  critic  would  be  nmch 
mistaken  who  should  think  that  there  were  more  men  ca- 


MOLIERE.  ]  33 

pable  of  writing  ''^Monsieur  Porceaugnac"  than  of  com- 
posing the  "  Misanthrope."  This  piece  has  of  course  been 
adapted  to  the  Enghsh  stage ;  and  an  Irishman  is  bur- 
dened with  all  the  follies,  blunders,  and  discomfitures  of 
the  French  provincial;  with  this  difference,  that  the 
"  brave  Irishman  "  breaks  through  all  the  evils  spread  to 
catch  him,  and,  triumphing  over  his  rival,  carries  off  the 
lady.  The  "  Bourgeois  Gentilhomme"  deserves  higher 
praise  ;  and  M.  Jourdain,  qualifying  himself  for  nobility, 
has  been  the  type  of  a  series  of  characters,  imitating,  but 
never  surpassing,  the  illustrious  original.  This  play 
was  brought  out  at  Chambord,  before  the  king.  Louis 
listened  to  it  in  silence  ;  and  no  voice  dared  applaud  :  as 
absence  of  praise  denoted  censure  to  the  courtiers,  so 
none  of  them  could  be  amused  ;  they  ridiculed  the  very 
idea  of  the  piece,  and  pronounced  the  author's  vein 
worn  out.  They  scouted  the  fanciful  nonsense  of  the 
ballet,  in  which  the  Bourgeois  is  created  Mamamouchi  by 
the  agents  of  the  grand  signor,  and  invested  with  a  fan- 
tastic order  of  knighthood.  The  truth  is,  that  Moliere 
nowhere  displayed  a  truer  sense  of  fanciful  comedy 
than  in  varying  and  animating  with  laughable  doggrel 
and  incidents  the  ballets  that  accompanied  his  comedies; 
the  very  nonsense  of  the  choruses,  being  in  accordance 
with  the  dresses  and  scenes,  becomes  wit.  The  courtiers 
found  this  on  other  occasions,  but  now  their  faces 
elongated  as  Louis  looked  grave  :  the  king  was  mute ; 
they  fancied  by  sarcasm  to  echo  a  voice  they  could  not 
hear.  Moliere  was  mortified ;  while  the  royal  lis- 
tener probably  was  not  at  all  alive  to  the  damning 
consequences  of  his  hesitation.  On  the  second  repre- 
sentation, the  reverse  of  the  medal  was  presented. 
"  I  did  not  speak  of  your  play  the  first  day,"  said 
Louis,  ''  for  I  fancied  I  was  carried  away  by  the 
admirable  acting ;  but  indeed,  Mohere,  you  never  have 
written  any  thing  that  diverted  me  so  much:  your 
piece  is  excellent."  And  now  the  courtiers  found  the 
point  of  the  dialogue,  the  wit  of  the  situations,  the 
admirable  truth  of  the  characters.  They  could  remem- 
K   3 


134«  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

ber  that  M.  Jourdains  surprise  at  the  discovery  that  he 
had  been  talking  prose  all  his  life,  was  a  witty  plagi- 
arism from  the  count  de  Soissons'  own  lips  —  they 
could  even  enjoy  the  fun  of  the  unintelligible  mum- 
mery of  the  dancing  Turks  ;  and  one  of  the  noblest 
among  them,  who  had  looked  censure  itself  on  the 
preceding  evening,  could  exclaim  in  a  smiling  ecstasy  of 
praise  :  ''  Moliere  is  inimitable  —  he  has  reached  a 
point  of  perfection  to  which  none  of  the  ancients  ever 
attained." 

The  ^' Fourberies  de  Scapin"  followed  —  the  play  that 
could  excite  Boileau's  bile ;  so  that  not  all  his  admira- 
tion of  its  author  could  prevent  his  exclaiming  :  — 

"  Dans  ce  sac  ridicule  oil  Scapin  s'envelope, 
Je  ne  reconnais  plus  I'auteur  du  Misanthrope." 

Still  the  comedy  of  tricks  and  hustle  is  still  comedy, 
and  will  amuse ;  and  there  crept  into  the  dialogue  also 
the  true  spirit  of  Moliere  ;  the  humour  of  the  father's  fre- 
quent question  :  "  Que  diahle  alla-t-il  faire  dans  cette 
galere^'  has  rendered  the  expression  a  proverb. 

The  Countess  d'Escarbagnas  is  very  amusing.  The 
old  dowager,  teaching  country  bumpkins  to  behave  like 
powdered  gold^caned  footmen ;  her  disdain  for  her 
country  neighbours,  and  glory  in  her  title,  are  truly 
French,  and  give  us  an  insight  into  the  deep-seated 
prejudices  that  separated  noble  and  ignoble,  and  Pari- 
sians from  provincials,  in  that  country  before  the  revolu- 
tion. 

The  "Femmes  Savantes"  followed,  and  was  an  addi- 
tional proof  that  his  vein  not  only  was  not  exhausted, 
but  that  it  was  richer  and  purer  than  ever ;  and  that 
while  human  nature  displayed  follies,  he  could  put  into 
the  framework  of  comedy,  pictures,  that  by  the  grouping 
and  the  vivid  colouring  showed  him  to  be  master  of  his 
art.  The  pedantic  spirit  that  had  succeeded  to  the 
sentimentality  of  les  Prccieuses,  the  authors  of  society, 
whose  impromptus  and  sonnets  were  smiled  on  in  place 
of  the  exiled  Platonists  of  the  ruellc,  lent  a  rich  harvest. 
"Les  Femme  Savantes"  echoed  the  conversations  of  the 


MOLIERE.  135 

select  coteries  of  female  pretension.  The  same  spirit 
of  pedantry  existed  some  five  and  twenty  years  ago_, 
when  the  blues  reigned ;  and  there  was  many  a 

"  Bustling  Botherby  to  show  'em 
That  charming  passage  in  the  last  new  poem." 

That  day  is  over :  whether  the  present  taste  for 
mingled  politics  and  inanity  is  to  be  preferred  is  a  ques- 
tion ;  but  we  may  imagine  how  far  posterity  will  prefer 
it,  when  we  compare  the  many  great  names  of  those  days 
with  the  '^  small  and  far  between "  of  the  present. 
Bluism  and  pedantry  may  be  the  poppies  of  a  wheat- 
field,  but  they  show  the  prodigality  of  the  Ceres  which 
produces  both.  We  are  tempted,  as  a  last  extract,  to 
quote  portions  of  the  scene  in  which  the  learned 
ladies  receive  their  favourite,  Trissotin,  with  enthusiasm, 
and  he  recites  his  poetry  for  their  delight. 

*'  Philaminte, 
Servez.nous  promptement  votre  aimable  repas. 

Trissotin. 
Pour  cette  grande  faim  qu'k  mes  yeux  on  expose, 
Un  plat  seul  de  huit  vers  me  semble  peu  de  chose  ; 
Et  je  pense  qu'  ici  je  ne  ferai  pas  mal 
De  joindre  k  I'epigramme,  ou  bien  au  madrigal, 
Le  ragout  d'un  sonnet  qui,  chez  une  princesse, 
Est  passe  pour  avoir  quelque  delicatesse. 
II  est  de  sel  attique  assaisonne  partout, 
Et  vous  le  trouverez,  je  crois,  d'assez  bon  gout. 

Armande. 
Ah  !  je  n'en  doute  point. 

Philaminte. 

Donnons  vite  audience. 
Bk'LISE    {interrompant  Trissotin  chaque  fois  qu'd  se  dispose  a  lire). 
Je  sens  d'aise  mon  cceur  tressaillir  par  avance. 
J'aime  la  poesie  avec  entetement, 
Et  surtout  quand  les  vers  sont  tournes  galamment. 

Philaminte. 
Si  nous  parlons  toujours,  il  ne  pourra  rien  dire. 

Trissotin. 
So 

Be'lise. 
Silence,  ma  niece. 

Armande. 

Ah  !  laissez-le  done  lire ! 
Trissotin. 
Sonnet  a  la  Princesse  Uranic,  sur  safilvre. 
K   4 


136  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

Votre  prudence  est  endormie, 
De  trailer  magnifiquement, 
Et  de  loger  sMperbement, 
Votre  plus  cruelle  ennemie. 
Be'lise. 
Ah  !  le  joli  debut. 

Armanoe. 

Qu'il  a  le  tour  galant ! 
Philaminte. 
Lui  seul  des  vers  aises  possfede  le  talent. 

Armande. 
A  prudence  endormie  il  faut  rendre  les  armes. 

Be'lise. 
Loger  son  ennemie  est  pour  moi  pleiu  de  ch  armes. 

Philaminte. 
J'aime  superbement  et  magnifiquement  : 
Ces  deux  adverbes  joints  font  admirablement. 

Be'lise. 
Pretons  I'oreille  au  reste. 

Trissotin. 
Faites-la  sortir,  quoi  qu'on  die, 
De  votre  riche  appartement, 
Ou  cette  ingrate  insolemment 
Attaque  votre  belle  vie. 
Be'lise. 
Ah  !  tout  doux,  laissez-moi,  de  grace,  respirer. 

Armande. 
Donnez-nous,  s'il  vous  plait,  le  loisir  d'admirer. 

Philaminte. 
On  se  sent,  ^  ces  vers,  jusqu'au  fond  de  I'ame 
Couler  je  ne  sais  quoi,  qui  fait  que  Ton  se  pame. 
Armande. 
'  Faites-la  sortir,  quoi  qu'on  die, 
De  votre  riche  appartement.' 
Que  riche  appartetnent  est  1^  joliment  dit  ! 
Et  que  la  metaphore  est  mise  avec  esprit ! 
Philaminte. 
'  Faites-la  sortir,  quoi  qu'on  die.' 
Ah !  que  ce  quoi  qu'on  die  est  d'un  gout  admirable, 
C'est,  k  mon  sentiment,  un  endroit  im payable. 

Armande. 
De  quoi  qu'on  die  aussi  mon  coeur  est  amoureux. 

Be'lise. 
Je  suis  de  votre  avis,  quoi  qu'on  die  est  heureux. 

Armande. 
Je  voudrois  I'avoir  fait. 

Be'lise. 

II  vaut  toute  une  piece. 
Philaminte. 
Mais  en  comprend-on  bien,  comme  moi,  la  finesse 

Armande  et  Be'lise. 
Oh,  oh  ! 


MOLIEHE.  137 

Philaminte 
*  Faites-la  sortir,  quoi  qu'on  die.' 
Que  de  la  fievreon  prenne  ici  les  interets ; 
Nayez  ancun  t5gard,  moquez-vous  des  caquets  : 
'  Faites-la  sortir,  quoi  qu'on  die, 
Quoi  qu'on  die,  quoi  qu'on  die.' 
Ce  quoi  qu'on  die  en  dit  beaucoup  plus  qu'il  ne  semble. 
Je  ne  sais  pas,  pour  moi,  si  chacun  me  ressemble  j 
Mais  j'entends  l^dessous  un  million  de  mots. 

Be'lise. 
II  est  vrai  qu'il  dit  plus  de  choses  qu'il  n'est  gros. 

Philaminte,  a  Trissotin. 
Mais  quand  vous  avez  fait  ce  charmant  quoi  qu'on  die, 
Avez-vous  compris,  vous,  toute  son  energie  ? 
Songiez-vous  bien  vous-meme  k  tout  ce  qu'il  nous  dit, 
Et  pensiez-vous  alors  y  mettre  tant  d'esprit? 

Trissotin. 
Hai !  hai  !  " 

This  scene  proceeds  a  long  time  ;  and  at  length  the 
pedant,  Vadius,  enters,  and  Trissotin  presents  him  to 
the  ladies. 

Trissotin. 
"  II  a  des  vieux'auteurs  la  pleine  intelligence, 

Et  sait  du  grec,  madarae,  autant  qu'homme  de  France. 

Philaminte. 
Du  grec  !  O  ciel !  du  grec  !  il  sait  du  grec,  ma  soeur. 

Be'lise. 
Ah,  my  niece,  du  grec  ! 

Armande. 

Du  grec  !  quelle  douceur  ! 
Philaminte. 
Quoi !  monsieur  sait  du  grec  ?  Ah  !  permettez,  de  grace. 
Que,  pour  I'amour  du  grec,  monsieur,  on  vous  embrasse." 

The  pedants  at  first  compliment  each  other  extrava- 
gantly, and  then  quarrel  extravagantly  ;  and  Vadius  ex- 
claims, — 

"  Oui,  oui,  je  te  renvoie  k  I'auteur  des  Satires. 
Trissotin. 
Je  t'y  renvoie  aussi. 

Vadius. 

J'ai  le  contentement 
Qu'on  voit  qu'il  m'a  traite  plus  honorablement. 

Ma  plume  t'apprendra  quel  homme  je  puis  etre. 

Trissotin. 
Et  la  mienne  saura  te  faire  voir  ton  maitre. 

Vadius. 
Je  te  defie  en  vers,  en  prose,  grec  et  latin. 

Trissotin. 
Eh  bien !  nous  nous  verrons  seul  k  seul  chez  Barbin." 


138  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

It  must  be  remarked  that^  in  the  favourite  of  these 
learned  ladies  of  the  stage,  Trissotin,  the  spectators 
perceived  the  IMagnus  Apollo  of  the  real  ones,  I'abbe 
Cotin ;  and,  as  the  epigram  Trissotin  recites  was 
really  written  by  Cotin,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that 
Moliere  held  up  the  literary  productions  of  the  man  to 
ridicule  —  but  it  is  false  that  he  made  him  personally 
laughable.  Cotin  was  a  priest ;  and^  when  MoUere 
made  Trissotin  a  layman,  who  aspired  to  the  hand  of  one 
of  the  personages,  he  might  believe  that  he  took  all 
personal  sting  from  his  satire.  The  public  fixed  the 
name  of  Vadius  on  Menage  :  the  latter  was  far  too  clever 
to  allow  that  the  cap  fitted.  "  Is  it  to  be  borne  that 
this  man  should  thus  make  game  of  us  ?  "  said  madame 
de  Rambouillet  to  Menage,  on  their  return  from  the 
first  representation  of  the  play.  ''  Madame,"  said 
Menage,  "^  the  play  is  admirable ;  there  is  not  a  word 
to  be  said  against  it." 

Moliere's  career  was  drawing  to  a  close ;  he  was 
overworked^  and  did  not  take  sufficient  care  of  his 
health :  he  despised  the  medicinal  art  such  as  it  then 
existed,  and  rejected  its  remedies.  ^'  What  do  you  do 
with  your  doctor  ?  "  asked  the  king,  when  Moliere 
applied  for  a  canonicate  for  the  son  of  M.  de  Mauvil- 
lain,  the  physician,  whose  patient  he  said  ''  he  had 
the  honour  to  be."  "  We  converse  together,"  he  replied  ; 
"^  he  writes  prescriptions  which  I  do  not  take,  and  I 
recover."  A  weak  chest  and  a  perpetual  cough  was 
indeed  best  medicated  by  the  sober  regimen  and  milk 
diet  to  which  he  long  adhered  ;  and  while  he  adhered  to 
it  his  life  seemed  safe.  Mutual  friends  had  interfered 
with  success  in  reconciling  him  and  his  wife  ;  and  the 
order  of  his  simple  table  being  altered  by  her  presence, 
he  yielded  to  her  instigations  in  adopting  a  more  gene- 
rous diet :  his  cough  became  worse,  in  consequence. 
1673.  When  he  brought  out  the  "  Malade  Imaginaire"  he 
^tat.  was  really  ill ;  but  such  was  his  sense  of  duty  towards 
his  fellow  comedians,  that  he  would  not  be  turned  from 
his  intention  of  acting  the  principal  character.     The 


MOLIERE.  139 

play  was  warmly  received.  Though  more  adverse  to  our 
taste  and  tone  than  almost  any  of  Moliere's,  it  is  im- 
possible not  to  be  highly  amused.  Sir  Walter  Scott  well 
remarks,  that  the  mixture  of  frugality  and  love  of  me- 
dicine in  the  '■'  Malade  Imaginaire  "  himself  is  truly  comic: 
his  credulity  as  to  the  efficacy  of  the  draughts,  and  his 
resolution  only  to  pay  half-price  for  them  —  his  anxious 
doubts  of  whether,  in  the  exercise  prescribed  to  him  he 
is  to  walk  across  his  room,  or  up  and  down  —  his  an- 
noyance at  having  taken  one  third  less  physic  this  month 
than  he  had  done  the  last — and  his  expostulation  at  the 
cost,  —  "C'est  se  moqiier,  il  faut  vivre  avec  les  malades — 
si  vous  en  usez  comme  cela,  on  ne  voudra  plus  etre  malade 
— metti'Z  quatre  francs,  sil  vous  plait,  — is  very  comic; 
as  is  also  the  sober  pedantry  of  Thomas  Diafoirus,  and 
his  long  orations,  when  he  addresses  his  intended  bride 
as  her  mother,  is  in  the  most  amusing  spirit  of  comedy. 
Meanwhile,  as  the  audience  laughed,  the  poet  and 
actor  was  dying.  On  the  fourth  night  he  was  evi- 
dently worse ;  Barron  and  others  tried  to  dissuade  him 
from  his  task.  "  How  can  I  ?  "  he  replied,  "  There  are 
fifty  poor  workmen  whose  bread  depends  on  the  daily 
receipt.  I  should  reproach  myself  if  I  deprived  them 
of  it."  It  was  with  great  difficulty  however  that  he 
went  through  the  part ;  and  in  the  last  entree  of  the 
ballet,  as  he  pronounced  the  word  juro,  he  was  seized 
by  a  vehement  cough  and  convulsions,  so  violent  that 
the  spectators  became  aware  that  something  was  wrong  ; 
and  the  curtain  falling  soon  after,  he  was  carried  home 
dying.  His  cough  was  so  violent  that  a  blood-vessel 
broke ;  and  he,  becoming  aware  of  his  situation,  desired 
that  a  priest  might  be  sent  for.  One  after  another  was 
sent  to,  who,  to  the  disgrace  of  their  profession,  refused 
the  consolations  of  religion  to  a  dying  fellow- creature  — 
to  the  greatest  of  their  countrymen.  It  was  long  before 
one  was  found,  willing  to  obey  the  summons;  and,  during 
this  interval,  he  was  suffi3cated  by  the  blood  that  flowed 
from  his  lungs.  He  expired,  attended  only  by  a  few 
friends,   and  by  two  sisters  of  charity,   whom  he  was 


140  LITEKARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

accustomed   to  receive    in   his  house  each  year,  when 
they  came  to  Paris  to  collect  alms  during  Lent. 

Dying  thus,  without  the  last  ceremonies  of  the 
catholic  religion,  and,  consequently,  without  having 
renounced  his  profession,  Harley,  archbishop  of  Paris, 
refused  the  rites  of  sepulture  to  the  revered  remains. 
Harley  was  a  man  of  vehement,  vindictive  temper.  His 
life  had  been  so  dissolute  that  he  died  the  victim  of  his 
debaucheries  —  this  was  the  very  man  to  presume  on 
his  station,  and  to  insult  all  France  by  staining  her  history 
with  an  act  of  intolerance.*  Moliere's  wife  was  with 
him  at  his  death  ;  and  probably  at  the  moment  was 
truly  grieved  by  his  loss  —  at  least  she  felt  bitterly  the 
clerical  outrage.  "  What,"  she  cried,  "  refuse  burial 
to  one  who  deserves  that  altars  should  be  erected  to 
him  !  "  She  hastened  to  Versailles,  accompanied  by  the 
curate  of  Auteuil,  to  throw  herself  at  the  king's  feet, 
and  implore  his  interference.  She  conducted  herself 
with  considerable  indiscretion,  by  speaking  the  truth  to 
royal  ears ;  telling  the  king,  that  if  ''  her  husband  was  a 
criminal,  his  crimes  had  been  authorised  by  his  majesty 
himself."  Louis  might  have  forgiven  the  too  great 
frankness  of  the  unhappy  widow  —  but  her  companion, 
the  curate,  rendered  him  altogether  indisposed  to  give 
ear  ;  when,  instead  of  simply  urging  the  request  for 
which  he  came,  he  seized  this  opportunity  of  trying  to 
exculpate  himself  from  a  charge  of  Jansenism.  The 
king,  irritated  by  this  malapropos,  dismissed  both  suppli- 
cants abruptly  ;  merely  saying,  that  the  affair  depended 
on  the  archbishop  of  Paris.  Nevertheless  he  at  the 
same  time  gave  private  directions  to  Harley  to  take  off 

*  Chapelle's  Epigram  on  this  insult  to  his  friond's  remains  deserves 
mention :  — 

"  Puisqu'k  Paris  on  denie 
La  terre  apres  le  tr^pas, 
A^  ceiix  qui,  pendant  leur  vie, 
Ont  joue  la  conietlie, 
Pourquoi  ne  jette-t-on  pas 
Les  bigots  k  la  voirie  ? 
lis  sont  dans  le  meme  cas." 
Boileau  also  alludes  to  the  scandalous  and  impious  treatment  of  his 
friend's  remains. 


MOLIERE.  141 

his  interdiction.  The  curate  of  the  parish,  however, 
in  a  servile  and  insolent  spirit,  refused  to  attend  the 
funeral ;  and  it  was  agreed  that  the  body  should  not  be 
presented  in  church,  but  simply  conveyed  to  the  grave, 
accompanied  by  two  ecclesiastics.  How  deeply  does 
one  mourn  the  prejudice  that  caused  the  survivors  to 
submit  to  this  series  of  outrages ;  and  the  manners  of 
the  times  that  prevented  their  choosing  some  spot  more 
holy  than  a  parish  church-yard,  since  it  would  be  con- 
secrated solely  to  Moliere  ;  and,  disdaining  clerical  into- 
lerance, bear  him  in  triumph  to  the  grave  over  which 
bigotry  could  have  no  control. 

How  far  such  an  act  was  impossible  at  that  time, 
when  religious  disputes  and  persecutions  raged  highly, 
is  demonstrated  by  the  conduct  of  the  mob  on  the 
day  of  his  funeral.  Excited  by  some  low  and  bigotted 
priests,  a  crowd  of  the  vilest  populace  assembled  before 
Moliere's  door,  ready  to  insult  the  humble  procession. 
The  widow  was  alarmed  —  she  was  advised  to  throw  a 
quantity  of  silver  among  the  crowd :  nearly  a  thou- 
sand francs,  thus  distributed,  changed  at  once  the  inten- 
tions of  the  rioters  ;  and  they  accompanied  the  funeral 
respectfully,  and  in  silence.  The  body  was  carried,  on 
the  evening  of  the  21st  of  February,  to  the  cemetery  of 
St.  Joseph,  Rue  Mont  Martre,  followed  by  two  priests, 
and  about  a  hundred  persons,  either  friends  or  acquaint- 
ances of  the  deceased,  each  bearing  a  torch.  No  fune- 
ral chaunt  or  prayer  honoured  the  interment ;  but  it 
must  have  been  dijfficult  in  the  hearts  of  attached  friends 
or  upright  men  to  suppress  the  indignation  such  a  vain 
attempt  at  contumely  naturally  excited. 

Every  one  who  knew  Moliere  loved  him.  He  was 
generous,  charitable,  and  warm-hearted.  His  sense  of 
duty  towards  his  company  induced  him  to  remain  an 
actor,  when  his  leaving  the  stage  would  have  opened  the 
door  to  honours  eagerly  sought  after  and  highly  esteemed 
by  the  first  men  of  the  day.  It  was  deliberated,  to  elect 
him  a  member  of  the  French  academy.  The  academi- 
cians felt  that  they  should  be  honoured  by  such  a  mem- 


142  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

ber,  and  wished  him  to  give  up  acting  low  comedy  ; 
without  which  they  fancied  that  the  dignity  of  the  aca- 
demy would  be  degraded.  Boileau  tried  to  persuade  his 
friend  to  renounce  the  stage,  Moliere  refused :  he  said, 
he  was  attached  to  it  by  a  point  of  honour.  •'  What  ho- 
nour ?"  cried  Boileau,  ''  that  of  painting  your  face,  and 
making  a  fool  of  yourself?"  Moliere  felt  that  by  ho- 
nour he  was  engaged  to  give  all  the  support  he  could  to 
a  company  whose  existence  (as  it  was  afterwards  proved) 
depended  on  his  exertions :  and  besides,  his  point  of 
honour  might  mean  a  steady  adherence  to  the  despised 
stage  ;  so  that  the  slur  of  his  secession  might  not  be 
added  to  the  ignominy  already  heaped  upon  it.  He  had 
a  delicacy  of  feeling  that  went  beyond  Boileau  —  that 
of  shrinking  from  insulting  his  fellow  actors  by  seced- 
ing from  among  them,  and  of  choosing  to  show  to  the 
world  that  he  thought  it  no  dishonour  to  exercise  his 
talent  for  its  amusement.  In  his  heart,  indeed,  he 
knew  the  annoyances  attached  to  his  calling  ;  when  a 
young  man  came  to  ask  him  to  facilitate  his  going  on 
the  stage,  and  Moliere,  inquiring  who  he  was,  learnt  that 
his  father  was  an  advocate  in  good  practice,  on  which  he 
represented  forcibly  the  evils  that  attend  the  life  of  an 
actor.  "  I  advise  you,"  he  continued,  '''  to  adopt  your 
father's  profession  —  ours  will  not  suit  you ;  it  is  the 
last  resource  of  those  who  have  nothing  better,  or  who 
are  too  idle  to  work.  Besides,  you  will  deeply  pain  your 
relations.  I  always  regret  the  sorrow  I  occasiorfed  mine ; 
and  would  not  do  so  could  I  begin  again.  You  think 
perhaps  that  we  have  our  pleasures ;  but  you  deceive 
yourself.  Apparently  we  are  sought  after  by  the  great; 
it  is  true,  we  are  the  ministers  of  their  amusement — but 
there  is  nothing  so  sad  as  being  the  slaves  of  their 
caprice.  The  rest  of  the  world  look  on  us  as  the  refuse 
of  mankind,  and  despise  us  accordingly."  Chapelle 
came  in  while  this  argument  was  going  on  ;  and,  taking 
the  opposite  side,  exclaimed :  "  Do  you  love  pleasure  } 
then  be  sure  you  will  have  more  in  six  months  as 
an  actor  than  in  six  years  at  the  bar."    But  Moliere's 


MOLIERE.  143 

earnest  and  well-founded  arguments  were  more  powerful 
than  the  persuasions  of  his  volatile  friend. 

In  every  point  of  view  Moliere's  disposition  and 
actions  demand  our  love  and  veneration.  He  was 
generous  to  a  high  degree— undeviating  in  his  friend- 
ship ;  charitable  to  all  in  need.  His  sense  of  Barron's 
talent  and  friendless  position  caused  him  to  adopt  him 
as  a  son  ;  and  he  taught  him  the  art  in  which  both  as 
a  comic  and  tragic  actor  Barron  afterwards  excelled. 
One  day  the  young  man  told  him  of  a  poor  stroller 
who  wanted  some  small  sum  to  assist  him  in  joining  his 
company— Mohere  learnt  that  it  was  Mondorge,  who 
had  formerly  been  a  comrade  of  his  own ;  he  asked 
Barron,  how  much  he  wished  to  give  ;  the  other  replied^ 
four  pistoles.  "  Give  him,"  said  Mohere,  ''  four  pis- 
toles from  me— and  here  are  twenty  to  give  from  your- 
self." His  charities  were  on  all  sides  very  considerable; 
and  his  hand  was  never  shut  to  the  poor.  Getting  into 
a  carriage  one  day,  he  gave  a  piece  of  money  to  a  mendi- 
cant standing  by  ;  the  man  ran  after  the  carriage,  and 
stopt  it,  "  You  have  made  a  mistake,  sir,"  he  cried  out, 
"  You  have  given  me  a  louis  d'or."  ''  And  here  is 
another,  to  reward  your  honesty,"  replied  Moliere  ;  and, 
as  the  carriage  drove  off,  he  exclaimed,  "  Where  Avill  vir- 
tue next  take  shelter"  {ou  la  vertu  va-t-elle  se  nicher!), 
showing  that  he  generalised  even  this  simple  incident, 
and  took  it  home  to  his  mind  as  characteristic  of 
human  nature.  The  biographer,  Grimarest — who  by  no 
means  favours  him,  and  dilates  oh  anecdotes  till  he  turns 
them  into  romance  —  says,  that  he  was  very  irritable, 
and  that  his  love  of  order  was  so  great  that  he  was 
exceedingly  discomposed  by  any  want  of  neatness  or 
exactitude  in  his  domestic  arrangements.  That  ill-health 
and  the  various  annoyances  he  suffered  as  manager  of  a 
theatre,  may  have  tended  to  render  him  irritable,  is  pos- 
sible ;  but  there  are  many  anecdotes  that  display  sweet- 
ness of  disposition  and  great  gentleness  of  mind  and 
manner.  Boileau,  who  was  an  excellent  mimic,  amused 
Louis  XIY.  one  day  by  taking  off  all  the  principal 


144  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

actors — the  king  insisted  that  he  should  include  Moliere, 
who  was  present ;  and  afterwards  asked  him^  What  he 
thought  of  the  imitation?  '^  We  cannot  judge  of  our 
own  likeness/'  replied  Moliere  ;  "^  but  if  he  has  suc- 
ceeded as  well  with  me  as  with  the  others,  it  nmst 
needs  be  admirable.  One  day  La  Fontaine  having 
drawn  on  himself  an  unusual  share  of  raillery  by  his 
abstraction  and  absence  of  mind,  Moliere  felt  that  the 
joke  was  being  carried  too  far — ''  Laissons-le,''  he  said, 
*^nous  n'effacerons  jamais  le  hon-homme" — the  name 
bestowed  on  La  Fontaine  by  his  friends.  We  cannot 
help  considering  also  in  the  same  light,  that  of  a  heart 
true  to  the  touch  of  a  nature,  which  "  makes  the  whole 
world  kin/'  his  habit  of  reading  his  pieces,  before  they 
were  acted,  to  his  old  housekeeper.  La  Foret.  From  the 
dullness  or  vivacity  which  her  face  expressed  as  he  read, 
he  judged  whether  the  audience  would  yawn  or  applaud 
his  scenes  as  acted.  That  she  was  a  sensible  old  woman 
cannot  be  doubted  ;  as  when  a  play,  by  another  author, 
was  read  to  her  as  written  by  her  master^  she  shook  her 
head,  and  told  Moliere  that  he  was  cheating  her. 

As  a  comic  actor  Moliere  had  great  merit :  he  played 
broad  farcical  parts ;  and  a  description  of  his  style  is 
handed  down  to  us  both  by  his  enemies  and  friends. 
Montfleuri  (the  son  of  the  actor),  in  his  satire,  says,  — • 

'•  II  vient  le  nez  au  vent, 

Les  pieds  en  parenthese,  et  I'epaule  en  avant ; 
Sa  peruque,  qui  suit  le  cote  qui  avance, 
Plus  pleine  de  lauriers  qu'un  jambon  de  Mayence  ; 
Les  mains  sur  les  cntes,  d'un  air  peu  neglige, 
La  tete  sur  le  dos,  rommo  un  mulet  charge, 
Les  yeux  fort  egares,  puis  debitant  ses  roles, 
D'un  hoquet  perpeiuel  separe  les  paroles." 

No  doubt,  though  a  caricature,  there  is  truth  in  this 
picture.  We  still  see  in  his  portraits  the  wig,  thickly 
crowned  with  laurels ;  and  theatrical  historians  have  men- 
tioned the  sort  of  catching  of  the  breath  —  exaggerated 
in  the  verses  above  quoted  into  a  hoquet,  or  hiccough,  — 
which  he  had  acquired  by  his  endeavour  to  moderate  the 
rapidity  of  his  articulation.    The  newspapers  of  the  day, 


MOLIERE.  1 45 

in  giving  an  account  of  him  when  he  died,  describe  him 
as  "  actor  from  head  to  foot :  he  seemed  to  have  many 
voices  —  for  all  spoke  in  him  ;  and  by  a  step,  a  smile, 
a  trick  of  the  eye,  or  a  motion  of  the  head,  he  said  more 
in  a  moment  than  words  could  express  in  an  hour."  '^  He 
was/'  we  find  written  in  another  newspaper,  "  neither 
too  fat  nor  too  thin  ;  he  was  rather  above  the  middle 
height,  and  carried  himself  well — he  walked  gravely, 
with  a  very  serious  manner ;  his  nose  was  thick ;  his 
mouth  large,  his  complexion  dark ;  his  eyebrows  black 
and  strongly  marked,  and  the  way  in  which  he  moved 
them  gave  great  comic  expression  to  his  countenance," 
He  acted  well  also,  because,  in  addition  to  his  genius, 
his  heart  was  in  all  he  did ;  and  he  wrote  well  from  the 
same  cause.  He  had  that  enthusiasm  for  his  art  which 
marks  the  man  of  genius.  He  did  not  begin  to  write 
till  thirty-four — but  the  style  of  his  productions,  founded 
on  a  knowledge  of  mankind  and  of  life,  necessitates  a 
longer  apprenticeship  than  any  other.  When  he  did 
write  it  was  with  faciUty  and  speed.  The  whole  of  his 
comedies  —  each  rising  in  excellence  — were  composed 
during  the  space  of  fourteen  years ;  and  Boileau  ad- 
dresses him  as  — 

"  Rare  et  fameux  esprit,  dont  la  fertile  veine 
Ignore  en  ecrivant  le  travail  et  la  peine." 

But  although  when  having  conceived  the  project  of  a 
play  his  labour  was  light,  his  life,  like  that  of  all  great 
authors,  was  spent  in  study  —  the  study  of  mankind. 
Boileau  called  him  the  contemplator.  He  was  silent 
and  abstracted  in  company  —  he  listened,  and  felt;  and 
carried  away  a  knowledge  that  displayed  itself  afterwards 
in  his  conception  of  character,  in  his  perception  of  the 
ridiculous,  in  his  portraitures  of  the  human  heart. 
Perhaps  nothing  proves  more  the  original  and  innate 
bent  of  genius  than  the  fact,  that  Moliere  was  a  comic 
writer.  His  sense  of  the  ridiculous  being  intuitive, 
forced  him  to  a  species  of  composition,  which,  by 
choice,  he  would  have  exchanged  for  tragic  and  pathetic 
dramas  :  but  he  could  only  idealise  in  one  view  of  life; 

VOL.  IV.  L 


146  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

his  imagination  was  tame  when  it  tried  to  soar  to  the 
subhme,  or  to  touch  by  tenderness.  Of  course  he  has 
not  escaped  criticism  even  in  the  pieces  in  which  his 
genius  is  most  displayed.  Voltaire  says  that  his  farce  is 
too  broadj  and  his  serious  pieces  want  interest;  and  that 
he  almost  always  failed  in  the  denouement  of  his  plots. 
The  latter  portion  of  this  remark  is  truer  than  the  for- 
mer; though  there  is  foundation  for  the  whole.  Voltaire, 
like  BoileaUj  was  bitten  by  the  then  Gallic  mania  for 
classical  (i.  e.  in  modern  literature,  imitative  instead  of 
original)  productions.  Boileau  too  often  considers  that 
Moliere  sacrificed  good  taste  to  the  multitude  when  he 
made  his  audience  laugh.  Boileau's  poetry  is  arid,  with 
all  its  wit ;  and  he  had  no  feeling  for  humour  :  his  very 
sarcasms,  full  of  point  and  epigram  as  they  are,  turn  en- 
tirely on  manner ;  he  seldom  praises  or  blames  the 
higher  portions  of  composition.  Schlegel,  in  his  bigotted 
dislike  for  all  things  French,  by  no  means  does  Moliere 
justice*  ;  and  many  of  his  criticisms  are  quite  false.  As, 
for  instance,  that  on  the  "  Avar. ;"  where  he  says,  that 
no  miser  at  once  hides  a  treasure  and  lends  money  on 
usury.  Any  one  who  consults  the  history  of  our  cele- 
brated English  misers  of  the  last  century  will  find  that 
they,  without  exception,  united  the  characters  of  misers 
and  money-lenders. 

It  has  been  mentioned  that  Mohere  did  not  succeed 
in  the  serious,  the  sentimental,  the  fanciful.  Voltaire 
mentions  his  little  one-act  piece  of  "  L'Amour  Peintre" 
as  the  only  one  of  the  sort  that  has  grace  and  spirit. 
This  slight  sketch  is  evidently  the  groundwork  of  the 
"  Barber  of  Seville;"  it  contains  the  same  characters  and 
the  same  situations  in  a  more  contracted  space. 

Similar  to  our  Shakspeare,  Moliere  held  up  a  faithful 
mirror  to  nature  ;  and  there  is  scarcely  a  trait  or  a  speech 
in  any  of  his  pieces  that  does  not  charm  the  reader  as  the  , 
echo  of  reahty.   It  is  a  question,  how  far  Mohere  indivi- 

*  He  does  less  justice  to  his  personal  character  even  than  to  his  works. ; 
Ko  one  can  read  the  biographies  of  Molifere  without  admiring  the  honour- 
able, generous,  and  kindly  nature  of  the  man;  Schlegel  slurs  over  these 
qualities,  and  endeavours  to  stump  him  as  a  mere  court  buffoon. 


MOLIERE.  1 47 

dualised  general  observcations,  or  placed  copies  of  real 
persons  in  his  canvass.  All  writers  of  fiction  must  ground 
their  pictures  on  their  knowledge  of  life ;  and  comic 
writers  (comedy  deriving  so  much  of  its  excellence  from 
slight  but  individual  traits)  are  led  more  entirely  into  pla- 
giarisms from  nature.  Sir  "W^alter  Scott  is  an  instance  of 
this,  and  could  point  out  the  original  of  almost  all  his  co- 
mic characters.  This  may  be  carried  too  far;  and  the  ques- 
tion is,  to  what  extent  Moliere  sinned  against  good 
taste  and  good  feeling  in  holding  up  well-known  persons 
to  public  ridicule.  We  have  mentioned  the  story  of  his 
having  paid  M.  de  Soyecourt  a  visit,  for  the  purpose  of 
transferring  his  conversation  to  the  stage,  for  the  amuse- 
ment of  the  king  on  the  following  day.  This  was 
hardly  fair;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  he  had  full  right 
to  the  count  de  Soissons  7ia'ive  annunciation  of  the 
discovery  that  he  had  been  speaking  prose  all  his  life, 
and  putting  it  into  ]M.  Jourdain's  mouth ;  and  also  to 
the  anecdote  we  have  related  concerning  Louis  XIV. 
and  the  bishop  of  Rhodes,  which  he  introduced  into 
the  "  TartufFe.^'  Nor  was  it  his  fault  that  the  name 
of  Tartiiffe  became  fixed  on  the  bishop  of  Autun,  as  se- 
veral allusions  in  madame  de  Sevigne's  letters  testify. 
There  is,  however,  a  difference  to  be  drawn  between  the 
cap  fitting  after  it  is  made,  and  its  being  made  to  fit. 
And  in  Trissotin,  in  the  ^'Femmes  Savantes,"  where  the 
works  of  the  abbs  Cotin  were  held  up  to  ridicule,  v/e  are 
apt  to  think  that  he  went  beyond  good  taste  in  his  per- 
sonality. The  effect  was  melancholy.  Cotin  had  long 
suffered  from  Boileau's  attacks ;  but  this  last  public  one 
from  Mohere  completely  overwhelmed  him,  and  he  fell 
into  a  state  of  melancholy  that  soon  after  caused  death. 
'^  Sad  effect,"  writes  Voltaire,  ^'  of  a  hberty  more  dan- 
gerous than  useful ;  and  which  does  not  so  much  inspire 
good  taste  as  it  flatters  the  malice  of  men.  Good 
poems  are  the  best  satires  that  can  be  levelled  against 
bad  poets  ;  and  Moliere  and  Boileau  need  not,  in  addi- 
tion, have  had  recourse  to  insult.'' 

Mohere  died  on  the  17th  of  February,  iGjS,  aged 


148  LITERARY    AND    SCIKNTIFIC    MKN. 

fifty-one.  His  friends  deeply  mourned  his  loss,  and 
many  epitaphs  were  written  in  his  honour.  By  degrees 
France  became  aware  of  the  honour  the  country  re. 
ceived  from  having  given  birth  to  such  a  man.  The 
academicians  of  the  eighteenth  century  endeavoured  to 
atone  for  the  folly  of  their  predecessors.  The  bust  of 
Moliere  was  placed  in  their  hall,  with  an  appropriate 
inscription  by  Saurin  :  — 

"  Rien  ne  manque  k  sa  gloire,  il  manquait  a  la  notre." 

In  1769,  liis  eulogy  was  made  the  subject  of  a  prize. 
It  was  gained  by  Chamfort ;  and,  on  the  day  of  its  public 
recital,  two  Poquelins  were  hunted  out  from  their 
obscurity,  and  an  honourable  place  assigned  them  among 
the  audience ;  and  there  they  sat,  living  epigrams  on 
the  bigotry  which  in  former  days  expunged  jNIoliere's 
name  from  their  genealogical  tree. 

His  remains,  unhonoured  at  first,  were  destined  to 
several  mutations  during  the  revolution.  A  stone  is  at 
present  erected  to  their  honour,  in  the  cemetery  of  Pere 
la  Chaise ;  but  it  may  be  considered  a  cenotaph,  as  there 
is  every  reason  to  doubt  the  identity  of  the  remains 
placed  beneath. 

His  troop  of  comedians  did  not  long  survive  him. 
The  theatre  had  been  shut  on  his  death,  and  not  re- 
opened till  a  fortnight  after ;  when  his  widow,  in  con- 
tempt of  decency,  filled  a  part.  She  became  manager ; 
but  was  speedily  deserted  by  the  best  actors,  and  soon 
after  the  use  of  the  theatre  was  transferred  to  Lulli. 
Madame  Mohere  applied  to  the  king,  and  obtained 
the  use  of  another ;  but  within  a  few  years  this  company 
no  longer  existed  :  amalgamated  at  first  with  that  of 
the  Marais,  and  soon  after  with  that  of  the  Hotel  de 
Bourgogne,  there  remained  only  one  company  of  actors 
in  France,  called  the  king's  troop.  JMoliere's  widow 
soon  after  married  Guerin,  an  actor  ;  her  career  was 
not  reputable :  frivolity  and  misconduct  long  deprived 
her  of  the  public  esteem.  She  continued  to  act  till  the 
14th  October,  1 694,  when  she  retired  from  the  stage  with 


MOLIERE.  Hf) 

a  pension  of  1000  livres.  From  this  time  she  partly  re- 
deemed past  errors  by  leading  a  perfectly  respectable  life 
till  she  died,  30th  November,  I7OO.  Of  Moliere's  three 
children  one  only  survived,  a  daughter.  She  was  placed 
in  a  convent  by  her  mother ;  but,  resisting  her  wish  to 
take  the  veil,  she  returned  home.  A  grown  up  daughter 
interfered  with  madame  Guerin's  arrangements  ;  and 
Moliere's  orphan  child  was  unhappy  and  neglected. 
Unable  to  induce  her  mother  to  make  any  arrangement 
for  her  marriage,  she  allowed  herself  to  be  carried  ofFby 
M.  Claude  Rachel,  sieur  de  Montalant,  a  widower  with 
four  children,  and  forty-nine  years  of  age.  Her  mother 
was  soon  reconciled  ;  and  they  all  together  went  to  live  at 
Argenton.  Madame  de  Montalant  died  in  1723,  at 
the  age  of  fifty-seven.  She  had  no  children  ;  and  not 
only  does  the  posterity  of  jMoliere  no  longer  exist,  but 
even  the  many  descendants  of  his  numerous  brothers 
and  sisters  have  left  no  trace  —  and  the  family  of  Po- 
quelin  is  extinct. 


L  3 


150  LITERARY  AND  SCIENTIFIC  MEX. 


LA  FONTAINE. 

1621—1695. 

The  life  of  this  celebrated  fabulist  is  marked  by  fewer 
incidents  than  the  generality  even  of  literary  lives. 
Unambitious,  indolent^  "'  simple,"  it  has  been  said,  "  as 
the  heroes  of  his  own  fables,"  and  subject  to  the  most 
whimsical  lapses  of  thought  and  memory,  his  habitual 
state  was  a  sort  of  abstracted  ruminating  quietism, 
roused  from  whichj  he  amused  by  his  singularities,  or 
delighted  by  his  inspirations.  He  lived  almost  a  stranger 
to  the  literary  disputes  of  his  time.  Personal  resent- 
ment or  dislike  was  a  feeling  too  uncongenial,  and  an 
effort  too  fatiguing,  for  him  to  sustain,  beyond  the 
excitement  of  the  moment,  even  on  two  occasions 
when  he  was  wantonly  ill  used.  His  designation  of 
"  bon  homme,"  first  applied  to  him  by  Boileau  and 
Racine,  then  by  the  public,  and  since  by  posterity, 
paints  him  very  happily.  The  particulars  recorded  of 
him  are  what  would  naturally  be  expected  —  traits  of 
character  rather  than  events. 

Jean  de  la  Fontaine  was  born  on  the  8th  day  of 
July,  1621,  at  Chateau  Thierry.  Some  of  his  biogra- 
phers have  maintained  his  pretensions  to  nobility  Avith 
a  silly  zeal.  His  father,  Jean  de  la  Fontaine,  was 
master  or  keeper  of  the  royal  domains  in  his  district, 
which  appears  to  have  been  an  honourable  charge.  The 
youth  of  the  poet  gave  no  promise  of  his  future  success. 
He  was  remarkable  only  for  his  dulness,  and  a  certain 
easy  tractable  good  nature.  His  teachers  pronounced 
him  a  well  disposed  but  hopeless  dunce  ;  but  his  fa- 
ther, a  very  zealous  and  still  more  undiscerning  admirer 
of  poetry,  resolved  that  he  should  cultivate  the  muses,  — 
and  poor  La  Fontaine  laboured  with  all  the  complai- 
sance of  filial  duty.     His  efforts  were  vain.     He  could 


LA    FONTAINE.  151 

not  produce  a  rhyme, — lie  who  afterwards  rhymed 
with  so  much  felicity  and  abundance,  —  and  who  alone, 
of  all  the  poets  of  his  country,  before  and  since  his 
time,  has,  by  the  disposition  of  his  rhymes  and  the 
structure  of  his  verses,  completely  vanquished  the  mo- 
notony of  French  versification. 

The  father  did  not  abandon  his  cherished  hopes  until 
he  beheld  his  son  arrived  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  when, 
disappointed  of  making  him  a  poet,  he  took  the  more 
feasible  resolution  of  making  him  a  priest.  With  no 
other  fruits  of  education  than  such  a  stock  of  Latin  as 
a  dull  boy  could  have  acquired  under  a  village  school- 
master, La  Fontaine,  now  in  his  tAventieth  year,  entered 
the  religious  order  of  the  "  oratoire," —  in  passive  com- 
pliance with  the  wishes  of  his  father,  and  the  example 
of  his  brother,  a  respectable  ecclesiastic,  who  was 
affectionately  attached  to  the  poet,  and  v/ho  subsequently 
made  over  to  him  his  share  of  their  paternal  inherit- 
ance. It  may  be  set  down  among  the  instances  of  La 
Fontaine's  characteristic  simplicity,  that  he  did  not  per- 
ceive his  utter  inaptitude  for  such  a  life.  He  renounced 
the  cloister  and  returned  to  society  after  eighteen  months. 
"  The  wonder  is  not,"  says  the  abbe  Olivet,  '^  that  La 
Fontaine  threw  off  the  fetters  of  a  monastic  life,  but 
that  he  ever  assumed  them;"  to  which  it  may  be 
added,  as  a  second  wonder,  that  after  living,  as  he  did,  in 
ease  and  freedom,  without  system  or  control,  he  was 
able  to  bear  them  so  long. 

It  seems  to  have  been  his  destiny  in  early  life  to 
have  conditions  chosen  for  him  by  others,  and  adopted 
by  himself,  with  a  curious  opposition  to  his  habits  and 
character.  Upon  his  return  to  the  paternal  roof,  his 
father  proposed  to  him  the  transfer  of  his  charge,  and 
a  marriage  with  Marie  d'Hericart,  the  daughter  of  a 
friend  of  his  family.  La  Fontaine  accepted  both,  with 
the  same  unthinking  docility.  The  duties  of  his  mas- 
tership of  the  royal  domains  were  light  and  few,  and 
his  wife  had  talents  and  beauty  ;  but  he  neglected  alike 
his  official  and  domestic  obligations,  v/ith  an  innocent 
L  4 


152  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

unconsciousness  of  both  which  disarmed  censure   and 
silenced  complaint. 

It  would  appear  that  his  father  now  thought  once 
more  of  seeing  him  a  poet^,  hopeless  as  this  appeared 
to  everybody  else^,  and  to  none  more  than  to  La  Fon- 
taine. His  perseverance  was  strangely  rewarded  at  last. 
An  accident,  or  an  incident  so  described,  called  forth 
the  latent  fire  at  the  age  of  twenty- two.  The  best 
company  of  the  neighbourhood^,  and  more  particularly 
those  who  had  any  pretensions  to  literature,  visited  the 
father  of  La  Fontaine.  Among  them  an  officer  of  the 
garrison  at  Chateau  Thierry,  a  great  admirer  and 
reciter  of  verse,  brought  with  him  the  poems  of  Mal- 
herbe,  and  read  before  young  La  Fontaine  the  ode  on  the 
assassination  of  Henry  IV.  beginning  — 

"  Quedirez  vous  races  futures." 

Between  the  lyric  spirit  of  the  poet,  and  .he  energy 
of  thedeclaimer,  La  Fontaine's  dormant  faculty  was  sud- 
denly excited.  For  some  days  he  could  think  of  no- 
thing but  the  odes  of  Malherbe.  He  read  them,  recited 
them,  spoke  of  them,  with  an  unconscious  and  comic 
disregard  of  time,  place,  and  persons.  He  commenced 
immediately  writing  odes  in  imitation  of  his  great  idol  ; 
and  the  happy  father,  on  beholding  his  first  essay, 
wept  for  joy.  But  if  La  Fontaine  had  written  nothing 
else,  or  if  he  had  always  adhered  to  the  same  model, 
he  would  have  left  only  the  proofs  of  his  own  medio- 
crity, and  of  his  father's  want  of  taste.  The  choice  of 
Malherbe  was  as  unhappy  a  mistake  of  his  peculiar 
genius  as  his  previous  destination  had  been  of  his  cha- 
racter. That  poet's  forced  thoughts  and  lofty  diction 
are  directly  opposed  to  the  simple  graces  of  expression 
and  imagination  which  characterise  La  Fontaine.  He 
fortunately  discovered  his  mistake,  and  the  secret  of  his 
strength,  chiefly  through  the  advice  of  a  judicious 
friend.  This  was  a  man  of  cultivated  mind,  named 
Pintrel,  translator  of  the  letters  of  Seneca.  His  name 
and  his  translation  would  doubtless  have  sunk  into  obli- 


LA    FONTAINE.  15S 

vion,  were  they  not  thus  associated  with  the  early  studies 
of  La  Fontaine^  who,  ever  grateful  to  the  memory  of 
his  guide  and  friend;,  repubhshed  the  forgotten  trans- 
lation. 

La  Fontaine's  modern  reading  was  hitherto  confined 
to  ]Malherbe_,  —  his  education,  to  just  as  much  or  as 
little  Latin  as  was  requisite  for  his  admission  to  a  reh- 
gious  order.  Pintrel  recommended  to  him  the  aban- 
donment of  Malherbe  and  verse-making  for  a  time, 
and  the  studious  perusal  of  Virgil,  Horace,  Terence, 
Livy,  and  Quintilian.  He  adopted  this  judicious  counsel^ 
and  improved  at  the  same  time  his  knowledge  of  the 
Latin  language  and  his  taste.  Horace,  he  long  after- 
TV^ards  declared,  in  a  letter  to  the  learned  Huet,  bishop 
of  Avranches,  saved  him  from  being  spoiled  by  Mal- 
herbe. 

It  is  a  curious  fact  that,  as  La  Fontaine  became  more 
conversant  with  those  antique  and  eternal  models  of 
true  beauty,  he  disrehshed  the  French  literature  of  his 
own  time.  He  went  back  from  the  age  of  Louis  XIVo 
to  that  of  Francis  L,  preferring  the  simple  and  undis- 
ciplined manner  of  the  one  to  the  civilised,,  fastidious, 
and  artificial  system  of  the  other.  The  mere  Enghsh 
reader  will  understand  the  nature  and  the  justice  of 
this  preference,  by  imagining  an  English  writer,  of  the 
reign  of  Charles  IL,  discarding  the  wits  of  that  reign 
for  the  redundant  and  unadulterated  literature  of  Eliza- 
beth or  Henry  VIIL  ;  and  they  who  understand  the 
ancient  classics  in  their  spirit  and  genius,  not  in  ex- 
ternal forms,  will  not  be  surprised  by  their  producing 
this  effect.  The  true  antique  is  simple  and  indulgent, 
as  well  as  elegant,  noble,  and  governed  by  rules.  It 
should  not  be  forgotten,  or  lost  sight  of,  however,  that  at 
this  period  the  French  literature  of  the  age  of  Louis 
XIV.  had  not  yet  reached  its  distinctive  character  and 
excellence.  The  Balzacs,  Voitures,  and  Cotins,  with 
their  conceits  and  mannerisms, had  not  yet  been  banished 
by  the  force  of  satire,  and  the  example  of  better  taste 
in  Boileau  and  Moliere.     Boileau  had  not  vet  written 


154  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

his  satires  and  art  of  poetry  ;  Moliere  had  not  yet 
dissected,  and  exposed  oix  the  stage,  the  verses  of  an 
admired  court  poet  of  the  day.  * 

La  Fontaine's  favourite  French  writers,  from  the 
commencement  to  the  end  of  his  literary  career,  were 
Rabelais  antl  Clement  ]\Iarot ;  the  one  for  his  humour, 
invention,  and  happy  manner  of  narrating,  in  his  epi- 
sodical and  most  eccentric  tales,  —  the  other  for  his  gaiety 
and  naivete,  —  and  both  for  the  archaic  simplicity  of 
their  diction.  He  also  read  with  delight  Ariosto,  Boc- 
caccio, and  Machiavelli,  —  the  last  named  not  only  in  his 
lighter,  but  more  serious  works.  Being  asked  why  he 
preferred  the  writers  of  Italy  to  those  of  his  own  nation, 
he  replied,  in  that  tone  of  simplicity,  bordering  on  silli- 
ness, which  obtained  him  the  name  of  '•  bon  homme," 
that  ''  they  diverted  him  more."  This  avowed  predi- 
lection for  the  great  writers  of  Italy,  at  a  time  when 
they  were  not  appreciated  in  France,  when  Boileau 
had  the  impertinence  to  speak  lightly  of  "  Messire 
Arioste,"  proves  not  only  the  instinctive  correctness  of 
his  taste,  but  the  independence  of  his  judgment. 

Wholly  ignorant  of  the  Greek  language  in  his  youth, 
he  was  too  indolent  to  acquire  it  at  a  later  period. 
Translations,  and  the  help  of  a  friend,  named  Alaucroix, 
who  aided  him  in  his  studies,  like  Pintrel,  supplied  this 
defect,  —  as  far  as  it  could  be  supplied.  La  Fontaine, 
in  return,  associated  Maucroix,  a  good  scholar,  an  indif- 
ferent poet,  and  a  true  friend,  with  his  own  immortality, 
in  his  letters  and  minor  poems.  It  may  be  observed, 
that,  when  he  resorts  to  the  Greek  writers,  he  seizes  their 
spirit  with  a  justness  which  would  imply  a  knowledge 
of  their  language.      This  is  ascribed  to  his  early  inti- 


*  Moliere,  says  Cailhava,  in  his  "  Art  de  la  Comedie,"  indignant  at  the 
false  taste  of  the  court  and  the  public,  puts  into  the  mouth  of  a  courtier,  in 
his  "Misanthrope,"  a  sonnet  of  Cotin,  the  most  fashionable  poetof  theday, 
and  a  member  of  the  academy.  Bad  taste  was  so  accredited  with  the 
public,  that  the  audience,  on  the  first  night  of  performance,  applauded  this 
nonsense  to  the  echo,  in  perfect  good  fiiith.  Moliere  expected  and  only 
waited  this  effect  to  "pulverise"  the  sonnet  and  its  admirers  by  the 
relentless  and  excellent  criticism  which  he  puts  into  the  mouth  of  his 
misanthrope,  Alceste. 


LA    FOXTAINE.  155 

macy  with  Racine,  who  was  the  most  accomplished 
Greek  scholar  of  his  country,  and  explained  as  well  as 
translated  several  portions  of  the  Greek  classics  for  the 
use  of  his  friend.  La  Fontaine  chiefly  delighted  in 
Plutarch  and  Plato.  His  partiality  to  the  former  may 
be  easily  conceived.  The  lives  of  Plutarch  were  calcu- 
lated to  charm  his  indolence  and  his  imagination.  There 
is  something  not  quite  so  obvious  in  his  choice  of  Plato. 
But  the  attentive  reader  will  discover,  in  his  fables  and 
tales,  traits  of  observation  and  ethical  philosophy  the 
most  profound,  as  well  as  ingenious, — worthy  of  Plato, 
or  of  ]\Iachiavelli,  —  yet  so  happily  disposed,  and  so 
simply  expressed,  as  to  appear  perfectly  in  their  place. 
The  abbe  Olivet  mentions  his  having  seen  a  copy  of 
Plato  once  possessed  by  La  Fontaine,  and  noted  by  him 
in  such  a  manner  as  to  betray  the  source  of  many  of  his 
maxims  and  observations. 

It  is  curious  and  instructive  to  observe  one  who  has  been 
regarded  as  essentially  the  poet  of  nature — one  supposed 
never  to  have  meditated  or  read — thus  storing  his  mind 
with  knowledge  from  the  best  sources,  and  forming  his 
taste  after  the  best  models.  His  verses  even,  indolent  as 
he  was,  and  easy  and  careless  as  they  seem,  were  slowly 
and  laboriously  produced.  He  has  declared  this  in  his 
letters  and  prefaces,  and  it  is  attested  by  some  who  knew 
him.  The  fact  cannot  be  too  strongly  impressed.  jMis- 
taken  or  misrepresented  instances  of  uncultivated  genius, 
and  of  composition  without  labour  or  length  of  time, 
too  frequently  stimulate  ignorant  and  pretending  medio- 
crity to  teaze  the  press  and  the  public  with  common- 
places, without  value  as  without  number. 

La  Fontaine  continued  some  years  at  Chateau  Thierry, 
obscure  and  indolent, — neglecting  his  charge,  his  family, 
and  his  fortune, — reading  his  favourite  authors,  writing 
verse,  and  translating  Terence.  The  preface  to  his  poem 
of  ''  Adonis,"  and  its  being  composed  in  heroic  verse, 
for  which  he  had  an  early  predilection,  would  imply 
that  it  was  written  during  this  period.  Most  of  his 
other  earlier  verses  have  been  lost  through  his  neglect 


156 


LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 


of  the  manuscripts  ;  but,  judging  by  some  early  pieces 
given  in  his  posthumous  works,  their  disappearance  is 
scarcely  to  be  regretted. 

The  monotony  of  his  rural  life  was  broken  only 
by  a  visit  to  Paris,  or  some  village  adventure.  The 
following  affair  is  truly  curious,  as  illustrating  the  cha- 
racter of  the  man  :  —  Some  self-called  friends,  either  in 
jest  or  malice,  intimated  to  him  that  the  frequent  visits 
of  an  old  military  officer,  named  Poignan,  at  his  house, 
compromised  the  reputation  of  madame  La  Fontaine, 
and  that  her  husband  was  bound  in  honour  to  challenge 
him.  La  Fontaine,  the  most  negligent  of  husbands, 
and  the  most  easy  and  credulous  of  mankind,  lis- 
tened implicitly  to  their  counsel,  made  an  extraordinary 
effort  to  rise  at  five  in  the  morning,  girded  on  his 
sword,  sallied  forth,  and  found  Poignan  in  bed.  "  My 
clear  friend,"  said  the  old  captain,  '^  what  brings  you 
out  so  early  ?  Has  any  misfortune  happened  ?  Is 
your  house  on  fire  ?  "  *'  Rise,  and  follow  me,"  said  the 
poet.  The  captain  repeated  and  reiterated  his  entreaties 
for  some  explanation,  but  in  vain.  He  was  obliged  to 
leave  his  bed,  arm  himself,  and  follow  La  Fontaine, 
without  the  remotest  idea  of  his  purpose.  After  they 
had  gone  some  short  distance.  La  Fontaine  stopped, 
drew  his  sword,  and  desired  his  companion  to  draw  and 
defend  himself. 

The  latter,  having  no  alternative,  drew  in  his  own 
defence  ;  and,  with  his  superior  address  as  a  military 
man,  disarmed  the  poet  at  the  first  pass.  He  now 
obtained  an  explanation.  '^  They  have  told  me,"  said 
La  Fontaine,  "  that  I  ought  to  fight  you,  because  you 
go  to  my  house  to  see  my  wife."  "'  My  dear  friend," 
replied  the  captain,  who  was  past  the  age  of  gallantry, 
and,  having  neither  family  nor  occupations,  sought, 
in  his  visits,  only  an  escape  from  ennui,  "  you  have 
been  abused,  and  I  slandered :  but,  to  set  your  mind 
quite  at  ease,  I  will  never  again  cross  your  threshold, 
grievous  as  the  privation  is  to  me."  "■  No,  my 
friend,"  rejoined  the  poet,  "I  have  satisfied  them. by 


LA    FONTAINE.  157 

fighting  you,  as  they  advised  me,  and  henceforth  you 
shall  come  to  my  house  more  frequently  than  ever." 
This  anecdote  is  scarce  reconcilable  with  the  maxims  of 
one  who  reduced  the  question  of  conjugal  fidelity  to  the 
following  dilemma  :  —  "  Quand  on  ne  le  scait  pas,  ce 
n'est  rien  —  quand  on  le  scait  c'est  peu  de  choses." 
But  it  has  passed  without  question  in  every  biographical 
notice  of  him. 

La  Fontaine,  according  to  some  accounts,  was  an 
unfaithful  as  well  as  negligent  husband.  But  his 
rural  gallantries,  besides  the  uncertain  evidence  of  them, 
are  too  frivolous  to  be  noticed  here. 

Opinions  and  representations  are  divided  .as  respects 
madame  La  Fontaine.  According  to  some,  her  talents 
and  beauty  were  marred  by  an  imperious  temper,  and 
she  was  the  very  original  of  ''  Madame  Honesta,"  in 
the  tale  of  Belphegor,  who  was 

"  D'une  orgueil  extreme  ; 

A  et  d'autant  plus,  que  de  quelque  vertu 
Un  tel  orgueil  paraissait  revetu." 

La  Fontaine,  they  add,  accordingly,  like  the  husband  in 
Belphegor,  took  occasion  to  absent  himself  as  often  and  as 
long  as  he  could.  Others,  again,  assert  that  the  lady  was 
gentle  as  she  was  beautiful,  and  that  her  husband  bore 
testimony  to  her  good  qualities  of  temper  expressly,  as 
well  as  to  her  taste,  by  submitting  to  her  his  poetical 
labours.  It  may  be  said,  that  the  neglect  and  absences 
of  such  a  husband  as  La  Fontaine  form  no  presump- 
tion against  the  conjugal  temper  of  his  wife.  Some 
anecdotes  related  of  his  negligence  and  distractions 
startle  belief.  Despatched  by  his  father  to  Paris,  on 
business  the  most  important  and  most  urgent,  he  met  a 
friend,  dined  with  him,  went  to  the  play  with  him, 
supped  with  him,  took  up  his  lodging  for  the  night  in 
his  house,  and  returned  to  Chateau  Thierry  next  day. 
'^'  Well,  you  have  arranged  every  thing  satisfactorily  ?  " 
said  the  father.  La  Fontaine  opened  wide  his  eyes  in  as- 
tonishment. He  had  wholly  forgotten  the  matter  till  that 
moment!   Going  to  Paris  on  anotheroccasion,  with  papers, 


158  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

upon  which  depended  his  private  fortune  and  his  pubhc 
charge,  he  was  overtaken  by  the  postman.  "  INIonsieur," 
said  the  latter,  "  has  dropped  some  papers  on  the  way." 
**  No,  no,"  repHed  the  poet.  But  the  other,  knowing 
with  whom  he  had  to  do,  or  having  discovered  from 
the  papers  to  whom  they  belonged,  requested  him  to 
examine  his  saddle-hags  ;  upon  which  he  remembered, 
for  the  first  time,  that  he  even  had  papers  to  lose.  In 
his  reveries  and  distractions,  he  Avas  unconscious  not  only 
of  the  lapse  of  time  but  of  the  inclemency  of  the  weather. 
He  loved  reading  and  musing  in  the  open  air.  The 
duchess  of  Bouillon  left  him  one  morning,  with  a  Livy 
in  his  hand,  pacing  up  and  down  between  two  rows  of 
trees.  On  her  return  in  the  evening  she  found  him 
still  pacing  and  reading  in  the  same  place.  What  made 
this  the  more  extraordinary  was  a  heavy  fall  of  rain  in 
the  interim,  and  La  Fontaine  having  all  the  time  had 
his  head  uncovered. 

He  probably  owed,  and  the  world  owes  it,  to  his  ac- 
quaintance with  the  duchess  of  Bouillon,  that  he  did 
not  pass  his  life  idly  and  obscurely  at  Chateau  Thierry. 
This  lady  was  one  of  the  celebrated  Mancinis,  nieces 
of  Cardinal  Mazarin.  She  inherited  her  uncle's  ambi- 
tion, sagacity,  and  love  of  intrigue :  she  shared  with 
her  sisters  wit,  gaiety,  and  the  graces  ;  and,  with  her 
family,  a  taste  for  Hterature.  Whilst  living  in  court 
disgrace  at  Chateau  Thierry,  some  verses  of  La  Fontaine 
happened  to  meet  her  eye.  She  immediately  had  the 
poet  introduced  to  her,  and  soon  became  his  friend. 
She  had,  it  is  said,  the  merit  of  discerning  not  only  his 
genius  but  its  pecuhar  bent.  La  Fontaine  had  yet  writ- 
ten neither  tales  nor  fables.  She  advised  him  to  devote 
himself  to  simple  and  playful  narrations  in  verse.  His 
first  tales  in  point  of  time,  and  some  of  the  first  in 
point  of  merit,  are  said  to  have  been  composed  by  him 
according  to  her  suggestions,  both  of  the  matter  and  the 
manner.  He  is  supposed  indebted  to  her  for  that  grace 
and  dehcacy  of  perception  and  expression  which  he 
combined  with  so  much  of  simplicity  and  nature.     He 


LA    FONTAINE.  159 

lived  in  her  intimate  society,  and  that  alone  must  have 
been  a  great  advantage  to  him.  The  conversation  of  a 
woman  who  knew  the  Avorld,  loved  poetry,  and  judged 
of  both  with  discernment,  must  have  been  the  best 
school  for  one  so  simple  and  inexperienced,  yet  so  in- 
genious and  inspired,  as  La  Fontaine. 

It  may  appear  strange  that  La*  Fontaine,  a  simple 
bourgeois,  and  village  poet,  was  thus  familiarly  treated  by 
a  woman  of  the  highest  rank.  His  charge  even  placed 
him  in  the  relation  of  a  servant  to  the  duke  of  Bouillon, 
her  husband,  who  held  some  superior  and  sinecure 
charge  of  the  royal  domains.  But,  strongly  as  the 
gradations  of  birth  and  title  were  marked  in  France,  it  will 
be  found  that  sense,  wit,  and  genius  conferred  privilege, 
or,  like  love  and  death,  levelled  all  degrees.  Voiture, 
the  son  of  a  vintner,  was  the  companion  of  princes,  the 
lover  of  princesses,  and  Avould  never  have  been  reminded 
of  his  birth,  had  he  not  had  the  weakness  to  be  ashamed 
of  it ;  and  even  then  only  in  pleasantries,  which  he  well 
deserved  for  his  weakness  and  vanity.  A  court  lady, 
provoked  by  his  conceit,  one  evening,  whilst  '*"  playing 
at  proverbs,"  as  it  was  called,  said  to  him,  '^'  Come,  that 
won't  do  ;  give  us  a  fresh  tap  —  (^perces  nous  en  d'un 
autre)." 

The  duchess  of  Bouillon,  on  the  expiration  or  remis- 
sion of  her  exile,  took  La  Fontaine  with  her  to  Paris.  He 
now  became  known  to  the  persons  most  distinguished 
in  the  capital  for  rank  and  genius  in  the  circles  of  his 
patroness,  and  of  her  sister,  the  celebrated  duchess  of 
Mazarin,  so  well  known  for  her  wit,  graces,  gallantries, 
and  conjugal  disputes.  Both  sisters  continued  the 
friends  of  La  Fontaine  through  life,  and  exercised 
great  influence  over  his  writings.  Their  characters  may 
be  illustrated,  in  passing,  by  a  single  anecdote.  It  is 
related  in  the  memoirs  of  the  duchess  of  Mazarin,  — 
written  by  herself,  or  under  her  immediate  direction. 

Their  breaches  of  court  discipline  subjected  them 
frequently  to  mitigated  imprisonments,  —  sometimes  at 
their  own    seats,  sometimes  in  a  convent,   where    the 


l60  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

offence  demanded  a  more  serious  lesson  of  penance  and 
reform.  Plaving  been  on  one  occasion  consigned  to 
the  same  convent  they  amused  themselves  hy  putting 
ink  into  the  holy  water.  The  nuns,  who  on  their  way 
to  matins  and  vespers  dipped  their  fingers  in  the  font, 
and  crossed  their  foreheads  with  the  sacred  lymph,  on 
meeting  in  the  chapel,  beheld  upon  each  other's  brows, 
with  surprise  and  terror,  the  dark  signs  of  reproba- 
tion. 

La  Fontaine  doubtless  owed  that  finesse  of  expression 
which  sometimes  paUiates,  if  it  does  not  redeem,  the 
freedom  of  his  pleasantries,  to  his  intercourse  with  two 
persons  so  witty,  accomphshed,  and  unconstrained. 

Soon  after  his  arrival  in  Paris  he  formed  that  union 
of  friendship  between  him,  INIohere,  Boileau,  and  Racine, 
which  death  only  interrupted.  These  celebrated  men  ap- 
preciated his  genius,  before  it  yet  received  the  stamp  of 
public  admiration,  and  always  regarded  him  with  affec- 
tion. Boileau  and  Racine,  indeed,  amused  themselves 
with  his  simplicity,  and  treated  him  sometimes  with  a 
certain  air  of  protection.  The  conversation  happening 
to  turn  one  evening,  at  a  supper  party  where  they  were, 
upon  the  dramatic  probabihty  of  what  are  called  stage 
whispers  or  "^^  asides,"  La  Fontaine  said  it  was  absurd 
to  suppose  that  what  was  heard  by  the  whole  audience 
could  escape  a  person  on  the  stage.  A  discussion 
ensued,  as  it  commonly  happened  when  any  question  of 
art  or  literature  was  started,  even  in  the  highest  circles, 

so  different  from  modern  fashionable  life.       "  Don't 

you  think  La  Fontaine  a  great  rogue  ? "  said  Boileau, 
to  his  nearest  neighbour,  aside,  but  loud  enough  to  be 
heard,  and  laughed  at  by  everybody  except  La  Fon- 
taine, who  was  thinking  of  something  else.  The  argu- 
ment, as  well  as  the  laugh,  was  immediately  turned 
against  him ;  but  most  illogically,  for  the  fact 
proved  not  the  reasonableness  of  ''asides;"  it  was 
evidence  only  of  La  Fontaine's  distractions.  "Let 
them  laugh,"  said  Moliere,  "  le  bon  homme  will  take  a 
flight    beyond    them  —  (le    bon  homme  ira  plus  loin 


LA    FONTAINE. 


161 


qu'eux)'^  This  prediction  has  heen  verified ;  La 
Fontaine's  reputation  has  been  uniformly  spreading 
and  rising,  in  spite  of  the  disposition,  even  in  France^ 
during  and  since  the  latter  half  of  the  last  century, 
to  detract  from  the  age  of  Louis  XIV.  It  is  vvrorth 
remarking,  with  reference  to  this  anecdote,  that,  of  all 
the  poets  of  that  age,  he  and  Moliere  alone  have  main- 
tained their  pre-eminence  undisputed  through  every 
change  of  taste  and  time. 

La  Fontaine  now  passed  his  life  in  the  coteries  of 
the  duchesses  of  Bouillon  and  Mazarin,  Boileau  and 
Racine^  without  giving  a  thought  to  his  home  or 
family.  Boileau  and  Racine,  both  strictly  religious 
moralists,  were  scandalised  by  his  complete  separation 
from  his  wife,  and  pointed  out  to  him  its  indecency. 
Simple  and  docile,  as  usual,  he  admitted  the  justice  of 
their  remonstrance ;  said  the  impropriety  of  his  conduct 
had  never  occurred  to  him ;  and,  to  make  amends,  he 
said  he  should  go  and  see  his  wife  without  delay.  He 
set  out  for  Chateau  Thierry  the  next  morning,  and 
can.e  back  the  succeeding  day.  His  friends  made  their 
inquiries  respecting  madame  La  Fontaine.  "  I  did 
not  see  her,"  said  he.  "  How,"  said  they,  "  not  see 
her  ?  was  she  from  home  } "  "  Yes  ;  she  was  gone 
to  prayers ;  and  the  servant,  not  knowing  me,  would 
not  let  me  stay  in  the  house  till  she  returned."  In 
this  extremity  the  poor  poet,  shut  out  of  his  own  house, 
went  to  that  of  a  friend,  where  he  dined,  supped,  and 
slept ;  and  from  which  he  started  for  Paris  next 
morning,  without  seeing  his  v/ife,  or  making  his  house 
a  second  visit. 

The  most  imperative  of  all  motives,  however,  the 
want  of  money,  sometimes  sent  him  to  Chateau  Thierry, 
for  the  purpose  of  selling  part  of  his  estate,  to  provide 
for  his  expenses  at  Paris.  His  improvident  practice, 
of  consuming  the  principal  after  the  interest  was  gone, 
"  mangant  son  fonds  aprez  son  revenu,^'  as  he  himself 
expressed  it,  together  with  his  wife's  want  of  economy 
—  for  in  this  at  least  they  perfectly  agreed,  —  v/ould 


l62  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

have  soon  left  him  destitute,  if  he  had  not  hecome 
known  to  the  celebrated  and  unfortunate  Foucquet. 
That  prodigal  financier  and  magnificent  patron,  upon 
being  made  acquainted  with  the  genius,  character,  and 
wants  of  La  Fontaine,  settled  on  him  a  liberal  pen- 
sion, to  be  paid  quarterly,  on  the  condition  of  a  quar- 
terly quittance  in  verse  ;  and  this  condition  he  religiously 
fulfilled.  His  pension,  or  rather  his  gratitude, 
dictated  to  him  some  of  the  most  beautiful  of  his 
smaller  pieces.  He  celebrated  and  ministered  to  the 
fetes  and  gallantries,  and  sang  the  groves,  gardens,  and 
fountains,  of  Faux,  —  that  princely  residence,  which 
Foucquet  adorned  with  all  that  wealth,  prodigality,  and 
the  arts  could  produce  ;  and  which,  it  has  been  sup- 
posed, contributed  not  a  little  to  his  ruin,  by  provoking 
the  jealous  or  envious  pride  of  Louis  XIV. 

Though  La  Fontaine's  acknowledgments  are  grateful, 
they  are  not  servile.  Whatever  appears  exaggerated 
at  the  present  day  fell  far  short  of  the  tone  of  his  co- 
temporaries,  and  is  moreover  nobly  borne  out  by  his 
fidelity  in  his  patron's  memorable  disgrace. 

Foucquet  provoked,  not  only  the  displeasure,  but  the 
personal  jealousy  and  vengeance  of  Louis  XIV.,  by 
rivalling  him  in  princely  magnificence  at  Vaux ;  and  in 
gallantry,  it  has  been  said,  by  making  pretensions  to 
the  royal  mistress  La  Valliere*  ;  yet  had  La  Fontaine 
not  only  the  generosity  to  adhere  to  him,  but  the 
courage,  for  such  it  was,  to  sohcit  his  pardon  of 
Louis  XIV.,  in  an  elegy  full  of  touching  pathos  and 
philosophy.  Alluding  to  the  fickleness  of  fortune  and 
court  favour,  he  says :  — 

"  On  n'y  connait  que  trop  les  jeux  de  la  fortune, 
Ses  trompeuses  faveurs,  ses  appas  inconstans, 
Mais  on  ne  les  connait  que  quand  il  n'est  plus  temps." 

To  move  Louis  he  brings  before  him  the  example  of 
Henry  IV.  — 

"  Du  magnanime  Henri  qu'il  contemple  la  vie, 
Des  qu'il  put  se  venger,  il  en  perdit  I'envie." 

*  Vie  de  La  Fontaine,  par  Walknaer. 


LA    FONTAINE. 


163 


Louis,  however,  alike  insensible  to  justice,  mercy,  and 
poetry,  changed,  by  a  mockery  of  commutation,  the 
minister's  sentence  of  banishment  into  solitary  confine- 
ment for  life.  Colbert,  the  enemy  and  successor  of 
Foucquet,  could  not  forgive  the  crime  of  fidelity  to  a 
fallen  patron  in  a  poet,  and  took  away  La  Fontaine's 
pension. 

La  Fontaine,  it  has  been  observed,  was  in  his  twenty- 
third  year  before  he  gave  the  least  indication  of  the  poetic 
faculty.  He  had  passed  his  fortieth  before  his  genius 
and  reputation  attained  their  full  height  and  splendour. 
A  small  volume,  entitled  "  Contes  et  Merveilies  en  vers," 
-published  with  his  name,  in  1664,  determined  his  place 
as  a  poet,  established  his  supremacy  over  all  fabulists, 
modern  and  ancient,  and  formed  an  epoch  in  French 
literature.  His  fortune  did  not  improve  with  his  fame. 
It  is  true  that  his  celebrity  made  him  known  to  the 
prince  of  Conde  and  the  duke  and  abbe  de  Villars, 
by  whom,  as  well  as  by  the  duchesses  of  Bouillon  and 
Mazarin,  he  was  occasionally  and  liberally  supplied ; 
but  his  want  of  all  order  and  economy  rendered  their 
liberality  unavailing,  because  it  was  irregular  and  oc- 
casional. 

He  joined  in  the  universal  paean  of  the  day  to  Louis 
XIV.  His  tale  of  "  Psyche  and  Cupid  "  is  disfigured 
by  episodic  descriptions  of  the  magnificence  of  Ver- 
sailles, with  a  due  seasoning  of  compliment  to  the  great 
king ;  but  he  continued  unpatronised,  even  after  the 
death  of  Colbert,  whose  injustice  to  La  Fontaine  is  a 
stain  upon  his  otherwise  illustrious  memory.  The  ne- 
glect, or,  it  may  be  termed,  the  exception  of  him  by 
Louis,  who  was  so  munificent  to  other  men  of  genius^, 
has  been  accounted  for.  *  That  monarch  admired  and 
rewarded  only  those  talents  which  ministered  to  his 
pride  or  his  pleasures  —  to  the  splendours  of  his  court 
or  government.  He  had  a  taste  only  for  the  grand,  the 
gorgeous,  and  the  adulatory.  Boileau  owed  the  royal 
favour  to  two  indifferent  odes  much  more  than  to  his 

*  Champfort.  —  Eloge  de  La  Fontaine. 
M    2 


164  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

satires,  epistles,  art  of  poetry,  and  Lutrin  ;  and  Moliere, 
to  those  court  ballets  in  which  Louis  danced,  rather 
than  to  his  dramatic  chefs  d'oeuvre.  Louis  XIV.  had  the 
same  distaste  for  La  Fontaine  as  a  poet  and  Teniers 
as  a  painter ;  and,  from  the  same  principle, —  he  could 
not  admire  humble  subjects,  treated  in  a  true  and  simple, 
however  charming,  style.  He  would  not  condescend  to 
understand  the  language  of  "Jean  Lapin"  and  '^  Maitre 
Corbeau."  La  Fontaine  offered  him  incense  in  his 
way ;  but  it  was  not  of  the  kind  acceptable  to  the 
idol ;  and  he  continued  neglected,  even  when,  in  an 
evil  hour,  he  sang  the  revocation  of  the  edict  of  Nantes. 
La  Fontaine  was  also  in  bad  odour  with  the  intriguing 
devotees  of  the  court ;  and  Louis,  a  weak  bigot,  with 
all  his  arrogance  and  pride,  may  have  been  indisposed 
towards  him  on  this  account,  from  their  suggestions  or 
his  own. 

The  loss  of  his  pension  thus  remained  unsupplied  ; 
and  he  continued  once  more  carelessly  spending  ''  son 
fonds  aprez  son  revenu,''  when  he  came  under  the 
notice  of  the  most  accomplished,  enlightened,  and  ami- 
able princess  of  her  time  —  Henrietta  of  England, 
daughter  of  Charles  I.,  most  unworthily  married  to  the 
duke  of  Orleans,  brother  of  Louis  XIV.  She  attached 
him  to  her  suite,  as  one  of  the  gentlemen  of  her  house- 
hold, with  a  salary  to  receive,  and  no  service,  beyond 
some  volunteer  verses,  to  perform.  But  La  Fontaine 
had  not  long  enjoyed  her  patronage  when  the  princess 
died,  under  suspicion  of  poison,  regretted  by  all  France, 
her  husband  excepted ;  and  La  Fontaine  was  once  more 
in  distress  —  if  that  to  which  he  was  wholly  insensible 
can  be  so  termed.  He  seems  to  have  derived  from 
nature  the  happy  or  unhappy  insensibility  to  the  acci- 
dents of  life,  which  some  ancient  philosophers  attained 
only  through  the  severest  exercise  of  reason  and  dis- 
cipline. 

It  appears  to  have  been  his  fortune  to  be  indebted  to 
the  discernment  and  kindness  of  women.  Among  the 
persons  uniting  high  rank  to  a  taste  for  literature,  with 


LA    FONTAINE.  l65 

whom  he  became  acquainted  at  Paris^  was  madame  de 
Ha  Sabliere.  This  accomplished  and  kind-hearted 
woman,  perceiving  La  Fontaine's  utter  inability  to 
regulate  the  economy  of  the  simplest  household,  relieved 
him  of  all  care  at  once  by  giving  him  an  apartment 
in  her  house.  Here  he  passed  twenty  (the  happiest) 
years  of  his  Hfe,  reheved  from  all  anxiety,  —  his 
wants  supphed,  and  his  humour  indulged,  with  the 
utmost  attention  and  kindness.  Some  of  his  pieces  are 
dedicated  to  his  benefactress,  and  he  has  celebrated  her 
name  in  verse,  but  with  reserve  and  delicacy.  Madame 
de  la  SabHere  had  the  good  taste  to  control  the  poet's 
expression  of  his  feehngs  in  their  particular  relation  to 
each  other. 

He  composed  during  this  period  the  most  popular  of 
his  tales,  "  Joconde,"  and  dedicated  it  to  madame 
de  la  Sabliere.  It  is  the  most  justly  admired  of  all  his 
tales  ;  and,  being  imitated  from  Ariosto,  placed  him  in  a 
state  of  rivalry  with  the  great  Italian  poet.  An  officer  in 
the  household  of  the  duke  of  Orleans,  named  Bouillon; 
gave  at  the  same  time  a  rival  version,  and  persons  were 
found  courtly  or  tasteless  enough  to  prefer  it  to  La , 
Fontaine's.  The  question  was  even  made  the  subject 
of  a  wager  ;  and  the  arbiter  appealed  to  declined  giving 
an  opinion.  Boileau  did  indignant  justice  to  genius 
and  his  friend,  and  Bouillon's  '''^  Joconde"  was  no  more 
heard  of.  ^'  La  Fontaine,"  says  Boileau,  ''■  imitated 
Ariosto  as  Virgil  imitated  Homer,  and  Tasso  Virgil ; 
Bouillon  like  a  trembling  valet,  who  dared  not  put  one 
foot  before  the  other  without  his  master's  leave."  He 
even  insinuates  that  La  Fontaine  had  treated  the  sub- 
ject in  a  manner  superior  to  Ariosto  himself.  There  is, 
it  is  true,  in  La  Fontaine's  manner,  a  simplicity,  and 
ease,  and  graceful  levity,  somewhat  more  suitable  to  the 
matter  and  to  a  mere  fabulist.  But  those  who  are 
acquainted  with  the  Italian  poet  will  consider  any  defi- 
ciency of  these  minor  graces  in  him  much  more  than 
redeemed  by  his  superior  richness,  and  variety  of  inven- 
tion, and  vigour  of  imagination.  ' 
BI  3 


l66  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

The  society  of  madame  de  la  Sabliere  comprised 
princes,  nobles,  poets,  and  philosophers.  She  cultivated 
science  as  well  as  literature,  —  but  in  secret.  Bernier, 
who  also  had  an  apartment  in  her  house,  gave  La  Fon- 
taine some  notions  in  natural  philosophy.  It  was  under 
this  influence,  whilst  his  head  was  filled  with  physical 
science,  that  he  wrote  his  poem  on  Jesuits'  bark  (Le 
Quinquina)  —  a  dull  production,  on  a  barren  subject ; 
which,  however,  was  not  then  quite  so  uninviting  as  it 
may  appear  now.  Bark  had  just  performed  what  were 
deemed  marvellous  cures  on  Louis  XIV.  and  Colbert, 
and  it  was  sold  by  the  Jesuits  at  its  weight  in  gold. 
Colbert  had  the  httleness  to  be  unjust  to  La  Fontaine  ; 
but  the  poet  had  the  magnanimity  to  be  just  to  the 
minister.  He  alludes  to  him  in  this  poem  in  a  tone  of 
manly,  independent,  and  merited  praise. 

La  Fontaine  added  considerably  to  the  number  of  his 
fables  and  tales,  and  wrote  several  dramatic  pieces, 
whilst  he  lived  under  the  roof  of  madame  de  la  Sabliere. 
His  dramas,  chiefly  operas  and  light  comedies,  with  an 
attempt  or  two  at  tragedy,  are  below  mediocrity.  He 
wanted  the  dramatic  instinct.  There  are  scenes  of  easy 
graceful  dialogue,  but  strung  together  without  art  or 
interest.  Some  were  written  by  him  in  partnership 
with  the  comedian  Champmele^  husband  of  the  cele- 
brated actress  of  that  name,  who  played  in  the  trage- 
dies and  figures  in  the  life  of  Racine,  and  in  the  letters 
of  madame  de  Sevigne.  It  is  told  of  him  that,  whilst 
sitting  in  the  pit,  during  the  first  performance  of  one 
of  his  own  operas,  he  fell  asleep  !  But  this  is  too  much, 
even  for  La  Fontaine  ;  and  it  should  not  be  forgotten, 
that  an  opera  was  the  cause  of  the  only  satire  he  ever 
wrote,  and  of  one  of  the  only  two  quarrels  he  ever  had. 
The  celebrated  Lulli  obtained  his  easy  promise  to  write 
him  an  opera  on  the  story  of  Daphne,  teased  him 
until  it  was  completed,  and  then  capriciously  adopted 
the  "  Proserpine"  of  Quinault.  La  Fontaine,  now  an 
old  man,  or,  as  he  called  himself,  "  un  enfant  a  barbe 
griscj'  a  child  with   a  grey  beard,  knew,  for  the  first 


LA    FONTAINE. 


167 


time,  what  it  was  to  feel  personal  resentment,  and 
wrote  the  satire  entitled  "  Le  Florentin."  It  is  merely 
a  narrative  of  the  affair  between  him  and  LuUi,  in 
the  manner  of  his  tales.  But  he  was  soon  and  easily 
reconciled ;  and  he  complained  afterwards  that  the  little 
gall  in  him  was  stirred  by  others  on  the  occasion. 

The  only  symptom  of  literary  ambition  ever  shown 
by  La  Fontaine  was  his  desire  to  become  a  member  of 
the  French  academy.  A  vacancy  having  occurred  in 
1683,  he  became  a  candidate.  The  devotees  at  court 
opposed  and  denounced  him  as  a  mere  writer  of  frivolous 
and  Ucentious  tales,  fit  only  to  rank  with  Clement  Ma- 
rot  and  Rabelais,  and  unworthy  of  a  place  in  that 
grave  and  learned  body.  Yet  was  he  elected  the  suc- 
cessor of  the  great  Colbert,  whose  death  had  caused  the 
vacancy,  and  in  opposition  to  Boileau,  by  a  majority 
of  sixteen  to  seven.  Louis  XIV.  never  interfered  in 
the  elections ;  but  his  sanction  was  necessary  before 
the  elected  candidate  could  be  received.  He  withheld 
his  approbation  for  several  months,  from  his  disHke  of 
La  Fontaine,  and  his  pique  at  the  rejection  of  Boileau, 
then  his  chief  eulogist  and  historiographer.  So  anxious 
was  La  Fontaine  during  the  interval,  that  he  solicited 
the  interest  of  the  royal  mistress,  madame  de  Monte- 
span,  through  her  sister,  madam.e  de  Thiars,  and  ad- 
dressed a  supplicatory  ballad  to  Louis  XIV.  Another 
vacancy  soon  occurred;  Boileau  was  elected;  and  a 
deputation  of  the  academy  waited  on  Louis  to  acquaint 
him.  His  reply  was,  "  Your  choice  of  M.  Boileau  will 
be  universally  approved,  and  you  may  now  receive  La 
Fontaine.  He  has  promised  to  be  good  —  (il  a  pro- 
mis^  d'etre  sage'). 

He  certainly  wrote  fewer  tales  henceforth  ;  but  it 
is  doubtful  whether  this  did  not  proceed  more  from 
indolence  than  the  promise  of  reformation.  The  pri- 
vate sittings  of  the  academy,  also,  '" diverted"  him,  as  he 
expressed  it,  during  those  hours  which  he  before 
consumed  in  diverting  himself  with  writing  verse.  His 
becoming  a  member  of  the  academy  led  to  his  second 
M  4 


l6S  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

ami  last  quarrel,  and  in  a  manner  truly  worthy  of  La 
Fontaine.  This  authentic  fact  goes  a  great  way  in 
establishing  the  credit  of  other  anecdotes  deemed  untrue 
or  exaggerated  from  their  improbability.  The  French 
academy  was  at  this  time  engaged  in  its  great  under- 
taking of  a  dictionary  which  should  fix  the  French 
language.  The  abbe  Furetiere,  then  a  popular  writer, 
and  one  of  '^  the  forty,"  announced  a  dictionary  of 
the  French  language  in  his  own  name.  He  was  im- 
mediately charged  with  pirating  the  common  stock.  A 
ferment  was  excited  in  the  academy,  and  throughout 
the  republic  of  letters  in  France.  Furetiere,  publicly 
arraigned,  defended  himself  with  keen  and  virulent 
personalities,  and,  after  several  discussions,  was  expelled. 
La  Fontaine  was  one  of  the  minority  in  his  favour, 
and  meant  to  give  him  his  vote;  but  unluckily,  in  one  of 
his  usual  distractions,  dropped  his  ball,  by  mistake,  in 
the  rejecting  compartment  of  the  balloting-box.  Fure- 
tiere would  not  pardon  the  blunder,  and  attacked  him 
bitterly.  After  an  exchange  of  epigrams,  which  did 
credit  to  neither.  La  Fontaine  thought  of  the  affair  no 
more ;  but  was  never  reconciled. 

Furetiere,  in  his  vengeance,  revealed  the  secrets  of  the 
learned  assembly.  If  his  account  may  be  relied  on,  the 
process  by  which  the  academy  proposed  its  famous 
dictionary  was  truly  laughable.  ''  He  only  is  right," 
says  Furetiere,  ''  who  talks  loudest :  one  makes  a  long 
speech  upon  some  trifle;  another  echoes  the  nonsense 
of  his  predecessor;  sometimes  three  or  four  talk  at  the 
same  time.  When  five  or  six  are  in  close  committee, 
one  reads,  another  delivers  his  opinion,  two  are  chatting 
together,  a  fifth  looks  over  some  dictionary  which  may 
happen  to  be  on  the  table,  and  the  sixth  is  sleeping." 
The  treachery  of  the  disclosure  was  condemned,  but 
its  truth  generally  admitted ;  and  the  private  sittings 
of  the  academy  were  the  theme  of  public  ridicule  and 
amusement,  like  the  consultations  of  physicians,  so 
pleasantly  treated  by  Moliere. 

Whatever  excuse  there  may  have  been  for  Furetiere's 


LA    FONTAINE.  I69 

bitterness  against  his  adversaries  and  the  academy,  there 
was  none  for  his  attack  on  La  Fontaine.  The  blunder 
was  provoking,  but  committed  most  innocently.  La 
Fontaine's  character  placed  his  good  faith  beyond  all 
doubt.  His  singularities  were  so  well  known  that  his 
mistakes  and  eccentricities  were  chartered  in  society,  and 
excused  even  by  Louis  XIV.  Having  been  introduced 
to  the  royal  presence  to  present  one  of  his  works,  he 
searched,  and  searched  in  vain,  for  the  votive  volume, 
and  then  frankly  told  the  king  that  he  had  forgotten  it ! 
''  Let  it  be  another  time,  M.  de  la  Fontaine,"  said  the 
monarch,  with  a  graciousness  and  good  humour  which 
did  him  honour,  and  dismissing  the  poet  with  a  purse 
of  gold.  This  misadventure  did  not  quicken  his  atten- 
tion even  for  the  moment :  he  left  his  purse  of  gold 
behind  him  in  the  carriage. 

The  stories  of  his  careless  apathy,  and  absences  of 
mind,  are  numberless.  Meeting,  at  a  large  dinner  party, 
a  young  man  with  whose  conversation  he  seemed 
pleased,  somebody  asked  his  opinion  of  him.  ''  He  is 
a  young  man  of  sense  and  promise,"  said  La  Fontaine. 
''  Why,  it  is  your  own  son,"  said  the  questioner.  "  Ah  ! 
I  am  very  glad  of  it,"  rejoined  the  father,  with  the 
utmost  indifference.  He  had  forgotten  that  he  even 
had  a  son  ;  who  fortunately  had  been  taken  charge 
of  and  educated  by  others.  La  Fontaine  treated  re- 
ligion with  the  same  indifference  as  all  other  subjects, 
however  serious.  Racine  took  him  one  tJay  to  an 
extraordinary  service,  on  one  of  the  festivals  of  the 
Roman-catholic  church.  Knowing  that  the  service 
would  be  long,  and  apprehending  the  effect  upon  La 
Fontaine,  he  gave  him  a  small  bible  to  read,  as  a  pre- 
ventative against  sleeping,  or  some  other  indecorum. 
The  book  happening  to  open  before  him  at  the  lesser 
prophets,  his  attention  soon  became  wholly  absorbed  by 
the  prayer  of  the  Jews  in  Baruch.  It  took  the  same 
possession  of  his  imagination  in  his  advanced  age  as 
the  ode  of  Malherbe  in  his  youth.  His  first  question 
to  everybody  was,  '^  Have  you  read  Baruch  }     Do  you 


170  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    3IEN. 

know  he  was  a  man  of  genius  ?"  This  was  his  com- 
mon expression  for  some  time  to  all  whom  he  met, 
without  distinction  of  persons,  from  a  buffoon  to  a 
bishop. 

It  was  one  of  his  singularities,  that,  when  anything 
took  his  fancy,  he  could  think  of  nothing  else  for  the 
time  ;  and  he  introduced  his  favourite  topic,  or  favourite 
author,  in  a  manner  at  once  unseasonable  and  comic. 
One  day,  whilst  in  company  with  the  abbe  Boileau, 
his  head  full  of  Rabelais,  whom  he  had  just  been 
reading,  he  abruptly  asked  the  grave  ecclesiastic  which 
he  thought  had  more  wit,  Rabelais  or  St.  Austin. 
Some  were  shocked,  others  laughed  ;  and  the  abbe,  when 
recovered  from  his  surprise,  replied,  ''  M.  de  la  Fon- 
taine, you  have  put  on  your  stocking  the  wrong  side 
out,"  which  was  really  the  fact.  Wishing  to  testify 
his  respect  for  the  celebrated  Arnaud,  he  proposed  de- 
dicating to  him  one  of  the  least  scrupulous  of  his  tales, 
in  which  a  monk  is  made  to  cite  scripture  in  a  manner 
far  from  edifying.  Boileau  and  Racine  had  the  utmost 
difficulty  in  making  him  comprehend  that  such  an 
offering  would  be  an  outrage  to  the  respected  and  rigid 
Jansenist.  He  was  nearly  as  absent  as  the  man  who 
forgot  in  the  evening  that  he  had  been  married  in  the 
morning.  It  occurred  to  him  one  day  to  go  and  dine 
with  a  friend.  On  his  knocking  at  the  door,  a  servant 
in  mourning  informed  him  that  his  friend  had  been 
buried  ten^days  before,  and  reminded  him  that  he  had 
himself  assisted  at  the  funeral. 

The  humour  and  fancy  which  abound  in  his  tales, 
and  his  reputation  among  the  men  of  genius  of  his 
time,  made  him  an  object  of  curiosity.  He  w^as  sought 
and  shown  in  company  as  '^  a  lion,"  if  one  may  use  that 
ephemeral  term.  A  farmer-general  invited  a  large 
party  "  to  meet  the  celebrated  La  Fontaine."  They 
came  prepared  to  hear  him  talk  like  "  Joconde,"  or  teU 
such  stories  as  ^'  The  Matron  of  Ephesus."  Poor  La 
Fontaine  eat,  drank,  never  opened  his  mouth  for  any 
other   purpose,  and  soon  rose,   to  attend,    he   said^    a 


LA    FONTAINE.  171 

meeting  of  the  academy.  ''  The  distance  is  short:  you 
will  be  too  early/'  said  the  host.  ''  I  '11  take  the  longest 
way,"  rephed  La  Fontaine.  Madame  de  la  Sabliere 
at  one  time  discharged  her  whole  establishment  whilst 
La  Fontaine  was  residing  in  her  house.  ^'  What !"  said 
somebody,  have  you  kept  none  ?"  "  None,"  replied 
the  lady, "  except  mes  trots  betes*, — my  cat,nny  dog,  and 
La  Fontaine."  Such  was  her  idea  of  his  thoughtless 
and  more  than  childish  simphcity.  It  will  hardly 
cause  surprise  that  such  a  man  never  had  a  study  or  a 
library.  He  read  and  wrote  when  and  where  he  felt 
disposed ;  and  never  thought  of  being  provided  with 
any  other  books  than  those  he  was  immediately  using. 

After  twenty  years  of  unwearied  kindness,  he  was 
deprived  of  the  society  and  care  of  his  benefactress,  and 
soon  after  of  the  home  which  he  had  enjoyed  in  her  house. 
The  circumstances  present  one  of  the  most  curious 
views  of  French  manners  and  character  at  the  time. 
Madame  de  la  Sabliere,  a  married  woman,  with  an  in- 
dependent fortune,  lived  on  terms  of  civihty  with  her 
husband,  who  scarcely  merited  even  this,  and  main- 
tained with  the  anacreontic  poet.  La  Fare,  that  ambi- 
guous but  recognised  relation  of  tender  friendship,  into 
which  no  one  looked  beyond  its  decorous  exterior,  and 
which  created  neither  scandal  nor  surprise.  La  Fare, 
after  an  attachment  of  some  years,  deserted  his  "  friend'' 
for  the  gaming  table  and  the  actress  Champmele, 
who  turned  so  many  heads  in  her  day.  This  de- 
sertion so  preyed  upon  the  mind  of  madame  de  la 
Sabliere  that  she  sought  refuge  in  devotion  and  a  con- 
vent. Her  husband,  a  rhyming  marquis,  who  passed 
his  life  in  writing  madrigals  upon  his  frivolous  amours, 
was  deserted  about  the  same  time  by  a  mistress,  and 
took  it  so  to  heart  that  he  poisoned  himself  —  at 
the  romantic  age  of  sixty-five !  This  event  had  such 
an  effect  upon  madame  de  la  Sabliere,  joined  with  her 
own  private  sorrows,  that  she  did  not  long  survive  him, 

*  The  term  "bete"  as  used  here,  and  familiarly  in  French  conversation 
is  untranslatable  into  English. 


172  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

and  La  Fontaine  was  once  more  thrown  helpless  and 
homeless  upon  the  Avorld. 

The  duchess  of  Bouillon  v/as  at  this  time  in  Eng- 
land with  her  sister,  the  duchess  of  Mazarin,  who  had 
taken  up  her  residence  there  to  avoid  breathing  the 
same  air  with  her  husband,  when  tormenting  him  had 
ceased  to  be  an  amusement  to  her.  ThepoetSt.Evremond, 
her  friend,  had,  also,  been  long  established  in  England. 
Learning  the  melancholy  state  in  which  La  Fontaine 
was  left  by  the  death  of  madame  de  la  Sabliere,  the 
three  invited  him  over  to  England,  with  an  assurance 
of  being'  well  provided  for.  Some  English  persons  of 
distinction,  who  had  known  La  Fontaine  at  Paris,  and 
admired  his  genius,  among  them  lords  Godolphin 
and  Danby,  and  lady  Hervey,  joined  in  the  invitation. 
La  Fontaine,  now  infirm  and  old,  and  at  all  times  the 
most  indolent  of  men,  could  not  bring  himself  to  make 
the  effort.  He,  however,  rather  hesitated  than  declined. 
An  opportune  present  of  fifty  louis  from  the  duke  of 
Burgundy,  or  rather  in  his  name,  for  he  was  then 
but  a  child,  decided  his  refusal. 

Notwithstanding  this  temporary  supply,  he  would 
soon  have  been  destitute,  if  he  had  not  become  indebted 
once  more  for  a  home  and  its  comforts  to  the  friend- 
ship of  a  woman.  Madame  d'Hervart,  the  wife  of  a 
rich  financier,  who  had  known  him  at  the  house  of 
madame  de  la  Sabliere,  offered  him  a  similar  asylum,  in 
her  own.  Whilst  on  her  way  to  make  the  proposal 
she  met  him  in  the  street,  and  said,  without  preface  or 
form,  "  La  Fontaine,  come  and  live  in  my  house." 
"  I  was  just  going,  madam,"  said  the  poet,  with  as 
much  indifference  as  if  his  doing  so  was  the  simplest 
thing  in  the  world ;  and  this  relation  of  kindness  and 
confidence  subsisted  without  change  to  his  death.  The 
protection  and  proofs  of  friendship  which  La  Fontaine 
received  from  the  sex  reflect  honour  upon  the  memory 
of  his  benefactresses.  But  his  is  by  no  means  a  single 
instance.  An  interesting  volume  might  be  written  upon 
the  obligations  which  unprotected  talents,  literature^  and 


LA    FONTAINE.  173 

the  arts  are  under  to  the  discerning  taste  and  generosity 
'  of  Frenchwomen. 

La  Fontaines  health  had  been  decHning  for  some 
time  ;  but  whether  from  his  having  no  immediate  ap- 
prehension of  death,  or  from  his  habitual  indolence,,  he 
manifested  no  sense  of  the  truths  and  duties  of  religion. 
The  idea  of  his  dying  impenitent  agitated  the  court  and 
the  sorbonne.  It  was  arranged  that  father  Poujet,  a 
person  of  note  as  a  controversialist  and  director  of  con- 
sciences, should  make  him  a  visit,  under  pretence  of 
mere  civility.  The  abbe  Niceron,  in  his  memoirs  of 
men  of  letters,  describes  this  interview.  The  wily  con- 
fessor, after  conversing  some  time  on  ordinary  topics, 
introduced  that  of  religion  with  an  adroitness  wholly 
superfluous  with  so  simple  a  soul  as  La  Fontaine.  They 
spoke  of  the  Bible.  "  La  Fontaine,"  says  Niceron, 
''•'who  was  never  irreligious  in  principle,  said  to  him,  with 
his  usual  naivete,  '  I  have  been  lately  reading  the  New 
Testament :  it  is  a  good  book  —  yes,  upon  my  faith !  a 
very  good  book ;  but  there  is  one  article  to  which  I  can- 
not subscribe — the  eternity  of  punishment.  I  do  not 
comprehend  how  this  can  be  consistent  with  the  good- 
ness of  God.'  Father  Poujet,"  continues  Niceron,  "  dis- 
cussed the  subject  with  him  fully  ;  and,  after  ten  or 
twelve  visits  and  discussions,  succeeded  in  convincing 
La  Fontaine  of  all  the  truths  of  religion." 

His  state  soon  became  so  alarming  that  he  was  called 
upon  to  make  a  general  confession,  preparatory  to  his 
receiving  the  sacrament.  Certain  reparations  and  expia- 
tions were  to  be  previously  made ;  and  father  Poujet, 
with  all  his  logic  and  adroitness,  had  some  difficulty  in 
obtaining  them.  The  first  sacrifice  required  of  him 
was,  that  he  should  abandon  the  proceeds  of  an  edition 
of  his  tales,  then  publishing  under  his  direction  in  Hol- 
land ;  the  publication  of  them  in  France  having  been 
prohibited  since  l677.  He  readily  consented  for  him- 
self; but  wished  to  make  over  the  profits  to  the  poor,  as 
more  consonant  with  humanity,  and  more  grateful  in 
the  eyes  of  God,  than  yielding  them  to  a  griping  rogue 


174  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

of  a  Dutch  publisher.  The  priest  convinced  him  that 
"  the  wages  of  sin  "  could  not  with  propriety  be  ap- 
plied to  the  service  of  God  and  of  charity.  He  gave  up 
the  point ;  and  such  was  the  satisfaction  caused  by  his 
conversion  at  court,  that  a  sum,  equal  to  what  he 
should  have  received  for  his  tales,  was  sent  to  him  in 
the  name  of  the  young  duke  of  Burgundy,  "  who 
thought  it  unreasonable  that  La  Fontaine  should  be  the 
poorer  for  having  done  his  duty."  According  to  some 
accounts,  this  would  appear  to  be  the  same  donation  of 
fifty  louis  already  mentioned;  and  it  is  most  probable. 
The  devotees  of  the  court  were  much  more  likely  to 
reward  the  conversion  than  relieve  the  distress  of  La 
Fontaine,  at  a  time  when  the  tone  was  given  by  pere 
la  Chaise  and  madame  de  Maintenon. 

He  was  next  required  to  consign  to  the  flames,  with 
his  own  hands,  a  manuscript  opera,  which  he  intended 
to  have  performed.  The  sacrifice  was  not  consented  to 
without  some  qualms  of  authorship,  even  by  La  Fon- 
taine. The  last  condition  was  the  hardest  of  all,  —  that 
he  should  ask  pardon  of  God  and  the  church,  publicly, 
for  having  scandahsed  both  in  the  publication  of  his 
tales.  La  Fontaine,  with  all  his  indolence  and  simph- 
city,  and  enfeebled  as  he  was  by  sickness  and  age,  re- 
sisted the  demand  of  a  pubUc  reparation,  in  spite  of  all 
the  arguments  and  artifices  of  the  confessor.  It  was 
agreed  between  them  to  appeal  to  the  sorbonne,  A  de- 
putation of  three  doctors  accordingly  waited  on  La 
Fontaine,  and  took  part,  as  might  be  anticipated,  with 
the  confessor.  They  argued  and  disputed,  but  the 
poet  still  held  out  against  making  satisfaction  publicly. 
An  old  nurse,  who  attended  him,  seeing  the  pitiless 
zeal  with  which  they  fatigued  and  teased  the  poor  poet, 
said  to  them.  "Don't  torment  him,  my  reverend 
fathers;  it  is  not  ill-will  in  him,  but  stupidity,  poor 
soul  ;  and  God  Almighty  will  not  have  the  heart  to 
damn  him  for  it."  They,  however,  did  persevere,  and 
gained  their  point.  A  deputation  from  the  academy 
was  called  in  to  witness  La  Fontaine's  public  reparation. 


LA    FONTAINE.  175 

given  as  follows  by  Niceron  :  —  '*"  It  is  but  too  public  and 
notorious  that  I  have  had  the  misfortune  to  compose  a 
book  of  infamous  tales.  In  composing  it  I  had  no  idea 
of  the  work  being  so  pernicious  as  it  proves  to  be.  My 
eyes  liave  been  opened,  and  I  confess  that  it  is  an 
abominable  book  :  I  am  most  sorry  that  I  ever  wrote 
and  published  it;  and  I  ask  pardon  of  God  and  the 
church  for  having  done  so.  I  wish  the  work  had  never 
proceeded  from  my  pen,  and  it  were  in  my  power  wholly 
to  suppress  it.  I  promise  solemnly,  in  the  presence  of 
my  God,  whom,  though  unworthy,  I  am  going  to  re- 
ceive, that  I  will  never  contribute  to  the  impression  or 
circulation  of  it :  and  I  renounce,  now  and  for  ever,  all 
profit  from  an  edition  which  I  unfortunately  consented 
should  be  given  in  Holland." 

There  appears  no  reasonable  doubt  of  a  public  repa- 
ration of  some  sort  having  been  made  by  La  Fon- 
taine ;  but  that  above  cited  differs  so  entirely  from 
his  turn  of  thought  and  style  as  to  suggest  a  suspicion 
of  its  having  been  fabricated  or  dictated  to  him.  The 
report  of  his  death  was  circulated  with  that  of  his  con- 
version ;  and  Liniere,  a  satirical  poet  of  the  day,  wrote 
the  following  epigram  upon  him  and  Pelisson,  who  had 
died  shortly  before  :  — 

"  Je  ne  jugerai  de  ma  vie 

D'un  homme  avant  qu'il  soit  eteint, 

Pelisson  est  mort  en  impie, 

Et  La  Fontaine  comme  un  saint."  ' 

There  was,  however,  nothing  very  surprising  either  in 
Pelisson  dying  Hke  a  sinner,  or  La  Fontaine  like  a 
saint.  The  former,  from  being  a  huguenot,  became 
a  convert,  and  a  maker  of  converts,  a  pensioned  abbe,  a 
courtier,  an  author  of  "  Prayers  at  Mass,"  «'  Amatory 
Verses  to  Olympia,"  ^^  a  Treatise  on  the  Eucharist;" 
there  was  nothing  extraordinary  or  inconsistent  in  such 
a  man  dying,  as  he  did,  ''unsacramented."  It  was 
equally  within  the  range  of  probability  that  La  Fontaine, 
never  an  infidel,  always  tractable  and  simple,  and  now 
beset  on  his  bed  of  sickness  by  learned  and  skilful  dis- 
putants, should  make  so  devout  and  edifying  an  end. 


176  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    BIEN. 

It  should  not  be  omitted  that  his  conversion  made  the 
fortune  of  father  Poujet:  he  immediately  became  a 
fashionable  confessor,  or  spiritual  director,  and  obtained 
church  preferment. 

The  epigrammatist  was  mistaken  in  La  Fontaine's 
death.  He  lived  about  two  years  more,  in  the  house  of 
madame  d'Hervart ;  and,  in  spite  of  his  vow,  is  supposed 
to  have  Avritten  sbme  more  tales  ;  among  them  the  tale 
entitled  '^  La  Clochette."  This  relapse  is  said  to  be  al- 
luded to  in  the  prologue  cited  by  Moreri :  — 

*'  O  combien  Thomme  est  inconstant,  divers. 
Foible,  leger,  tenant  inal  sa  parole  : 
J'aurais  jure-meme,  en  assez  beaux  vers, 
De  renoncer  h.  tout  conte  frivole, 
Et  quand  jure  —  c'est  cequi  me  confond— . 
Depuis  deux  jours  j'ai  fait  cette  promesse,  — 
Puis  fiez  vous  ^  rinieur  qui  repond 
D'un  seul  moment,"  &c. 

His  mind,  however,  seems  to  have  been  deeply  tinged 
with  devotion,  from  his  illness,  in  1693,  to  his  death,  in 
1695.  He  began  to  translate  the  church  hymns  ;  and 
read,  at  the  first  meeting  of  the  academy  which  he  at- 
tended after  his  illness,  a  translation  of  the  "Dies  Irae," 
with  more  advantage  to  his  reputation  as  a  catholic  than 
as  a  poet.  His  talent  seems  now  to  have  given  way  to 
age,  infirmity,  and  the  penances  which  he  appears  to 
have  imposed  upon  himself. 

Lulli,  who  died  a  few  years  before,  did  public  penance, 
like  La  Fontaine,  but  with  an  after-thought  worthy  of 
the  cunning  Florentine.  He  burned,  at  the  request  of 
his  confessor,  the  music  of  a  new  unperformed  opera.  A 
prince  having  asked  him,  a  few  days  after,  how  he  could 
be  so  silly  as  to  destroy  charming  music  at  the  desire 
of  a  drivelling  jansenist,  he  replied,  "  Hush,  hush, 
monseigneur ;  I  knew  what  I  did ;  I  have  another 
copy."  He,  however,  had  a  relapse,  did  penance  in  sack- 
cloth and  ashes,  and  died,  with  a  halter  round  his  neck, 
singing  the  hymn,  "Sinner,  thou  must  die,"  with  tears 
of  remorse  and  agony. 

La  Fontaine  died  in  1695,  and  in  the  seventy- fourth 
year  of  his  age.    Upon  undressing  his  body,  after  death. 


LA    FONTAINE.  177 

it  was  found  that  he  mortified  himself  in  a  shirt  of 
sackcloth.  The  apartment  in  which  he  hved  and  died, 
at  the  house  of  madame  d'Hervart,  was  visited  as  an  in- 
teresting object  for  several  years  after. 

The  chief  fault  of  La  Fontaine  is  that  he  had  but 
one  tone.  Madame  de  Sevigne,  who  judged  men  of 
genius  with  the  presumption  of  a  court  lady  dictating 
to  her  coterie,  pronounces  him  wretched  when  he  is 
anything  but  afabulist.  "  I  should  like/'  said  she,  in  one 
of  her  letters,  "  to  attempt  afable,  for  the  express  purpose 
of  showing  La  Fontaine  the  misery  of  forcing  one's 
talent  out  of  its  sphere  ;  and  what  bad  music  is  pro- 
duced by  the  foolish  wish  to  sing  in  every  tone." 

La  Fontaine  had  one  tone  in  which  he  was  pre-emi- 
nent ;  but  sang  in  more  than  one  without  producing  bad 
music.     The  poem  of  ''  Adonis  "  has  great  beauty.    It 
should  be  regarded,  he  says,  only  as  an  idyl;  and  it  will, 
undoubtedly,  be  found  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  that 
class.     But  it  had  the  further  merit  of  being  the  first 
accomplished  specimen  of  heroic  verse  in  France  ;    for 
Boileau  had  not  yet  given  his  ''  Lutrin."     The  mytho- 
logical tale  of   "  Psyche  and  Cupid,"    in  which  prose 
and  verse  alternate  and  relieve  each  other,  continues  to 
be    read,     notwithstanding    the    modern    unpopularity 
of  the  divinities  of  the  Pantheon.     He  is  indebted  to 
Apuleius,  but  only  for  the  fable  and  main  incident : 
the    episodes,    description,    and    manner    of    narrating 
(^" maniere  de  conter,"  as  he  calls  it),  are  his  own.     The 
celebrated  and  forgotten  romance  of  "Astrea"  was  one  of 
the  books  which  La  Fontaine  read  with  pleasure  ;   and 
he  is  said  to  have  derived  from  it  that  tone  of  pastoral 
sentiment  and  imagery  which  is   one  of  the  charms  of 
"  Psy  che  "  and  of  some  of  his  other  pieces.  It  is  probable, 
however,  that  he   is   under  lighter  obligations  both  to 
Apuleius  and  the    '^'Astrea'*    than   to   the  duchess  of 
Bouillon,  to  whom  he  dedicated  his  tale.     Living  at  the 
time  in  her  intimate  society,  it  was  composed  by  him, 
under  her  inspiration,  in  that  style  of  gaiety,  tenderness, 
gallantry,  and  refinement,  which  he  has  combined  with 


178  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    BIEIV. 

SO  much  of  simplicity  and  fancy.  The  faults  of  this 
mythological,  or,  according  to  some,  allegorical  tale,  as  it 
is  treated  by  La  Fontaine,  are  its  description  of  Ver- 
sailles, some  fatiguing  digressions,  and  a  certain  indolent 
voluptuary  languor.  The  result  is,  occasionally,  that 
most  fatal  of  all  wants  —  the  want  of  interest. 

La  Fontaine's  dramatic  pieces  have  a  manifest  affinity 
to  his  genius,  but  none  whatever  to  the  genius  of  the 
drama.  Some  of  his  elegies,  compliments,  anacreontics, 
and  other  lesser  pieces,  are  worthy  of  him  ;  others  so 
indifferent  as  to  render  their  genuineness  doubtful. 
His  poem  on  St.  Malch  was  approved  by  the  lyric 
poet  Rousseau  ;  and  this  is  its  highest  distinction.  His 
poem  on  Jesuit's  Bark  is  universally  condemned. 

It  is  only  in  his  fables  and  tales  that  one  is  to  look 
for  the  supremacy  of  La  Fontaine.  As  a  fabulist  he  has 
surpassed  all  who  preceded  him,  and  has  never  been 
approached  by  his  successors.  It  is  charged  upon  him 
that  he  invented  nothing ;  that  he  but  translated,  imi- 
tated, or  versified  ^sop,  Phaedrus,  Petronius,  Rabelais, 
Boccaccio,  Ariosto,  Machiavelli,  the  hundred  novels 
of  Cinthio,  the  Heptameron  of  the  queen  of  Navarre, 
&c. ;  but  it  is  justly  replied,  that  this  proceeded 
only  from  his  humble  estimate  of  himself,  joined 
with  his  indolence.  "  His  considering  himself,"  says 
Fontenelle,  "  inferior  to  iEsop  and  Phsedrus  was  only 
another  instance  of  his  anomalous  stupidity."  "  It  is 
untrue,"  says  La  Harpe,  "  that  La  Fontaine  invented 
nothing;  he  invented  his  style."  The  question  could 
not  be  placed  in  a  happier  and  truer  light.  La  Fontaine, 
from  humility  and  indolence,  took  the  materials  which 
others  had  supplied  to  his  hand  ;  but  by  his  manner  of 
using  them,  by  the  magic  of  his  original  and  unrivalled 
style,  made  them  his  own.  So  complete  is  his  mastery 
over  them,  and  so  entirely  is  the  merit  his,  that  the  pal- 
pable difference,  in  the  original,  between  the  genuine 
tales  of  ^sop  and  the  forgeries  of  the  Greek  monk 
Planudes,  vanish  beneath  his  touch. 

France  has  produced  a  host  of  writers  of  fables  and 


LA    FONTAINE.  179 

apologues  since  his  time,  but  none  worthy  of  being 
named  with  him.  England  has  produced  much  fewer 
fabulists,  yet  is  justly  proud  of  Gay.  He  had  a  striking 
resemblance  to  La  Fontaine  in  personal  character.  Pope's 
verse,  in  the  epitaph  on  him, 

"  In  wit  a  man,  simplicity  a  child," 

would  seem  to  have  been  expressly  written  for  La  Fon- 
taine. As  poets  or  fabulists  they  differ  widely  and  essen- 
tially. Gay's  fables  are  the  nearest  in  merit;  but,  in- 
stead of  resemblance,  they  present  the  opposition  of  wit, 
satire,  and  party  spirit,  in  a  neat  and  pointed  style,  to 
La  Fontaine's  universal  and  ingenious  moral,  picturesque 
simplicity,  and  easy  graceful  negligence. 

An  anonymous  volume  of  Epglish  fables,  imitated 
from  La  Fontaine,  appeared  in  1820.  It  is  attributed  to 
a  practised  and  distinguished  writer  both  in  prose  and 
verse*  ;  and  might  pass  for  a  most  successful  version^ 
if  the  original  were  not  directly  and  unluckily  con- 
trasted with  it  in  the  opposite  page.  The  reader  will 
be  more  informed  by  comparing  a  short  extract  from 
each  than  by  pages  of  dissertation. 

"  He  I  bon  jour,  monsieur  du  Corbeau  : 

Que  vous  etes  joli !  que  vous  me  semblez  beau  ! 

Sans  mentir,  si  votre  ramage, 

Se  rapporte  a  votre  plumage, 

Vous  etes  le  phoenix  des  botes  de  ces  bois." 

"  When  thus  he  began  :  '  Ah !  sir  Ralph,  a  good  morning  : 
How  charming  you  look  !  how  tastejvl  your  dress ! 
Those  bright  glossy  plumes,  yonr fine  person  adorning. 
Produce  an  effect  which  I  cannot  erpress. 
Colours  glaring  and  gaudy  were  never  my  choice  ; 
When  I  view  them  disgust  is  my  only  sensation  ; 
If  you  join  to  that  plumage  a  mellow-toned  voice. 
You  're  the  phcenix,  I  vow,  of  the  feathered  creation.'  " 

This  citation  is  made,  not  to  censure  the  English  ver- 
sion, but  to  prove  the  unattainable  charm  of  La  Fon- 
taine's manner,  — that  manner  or  style  which  he 
invented ;  his  close  adherence  to  truth  and  nature ; 
the  art  with  which  he  veils  the  wildest  improbabilities 
under  a  probable,  consistent,  or  humorous  air ;  his 
power  of  combining  levity  of  tone  with   depth  of  ob- 

*  Mr.  Croker. 
N    2 


180  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

servation^  and  the  utmost  simplicity  with  the  utmost 
finesse.  It  is  known  that  La  Fontaine  ohserved  the 
characters,  habits,  attitudes,  and  expression  of  the  brute 
creation  with  a  view  to  his  fables.  Whilst  he  endows 
his  brute  heroes  with  speech  and  thought,  one  never  loses 
the  image  of  their  kind; — whilst  the  flatterer  gulls  his 
dupe,  and  even  when  he  concludes  with  giving  hira 
the  moral  by  way  of  compensation,  one  never  loses  sight 
of  the  fox  and  raven :  but  under  the  touch  of  the 
translator,  and  indeed  of  all  other  fabulists  but  La  Fon- 
taine, they  receive  the  human  form  with  the  human 
attributes. 

La  Fontaine's  fables  are  reputed  perfect  in  every 
sense,  poetical  and  moral.  Two  faults  are  imputed  to 
his  tales;  the  one  venial  and  even  questionable,  the  other 
most  serious,  and  past  all  doubt.  His  narration,  it  is 
said,  is  sometimes  careless  and  diffuse.  This  has 
offended  the  fastidious  technical  taste  of  some  of  his 
countrymen  ;  but  to  others  his  easy,  indolent,  copious, 
rambling  effusion  is  an  additional  charm.  The  se- 
cond fault  of  his  tales,  their  hcentiousness,  is  unpardon- 
able. He  imbibed  it,  most  probably,  from  the  perusal 
and  imitation  of  Rabelais,  Clement  JMarot,  Boccaccio, 
and  Ariosto,  and  confounded  it  with  their  gaiety. 
But,  in  adopting  the  freedom  of  their  pleasantries,  he 
has  discarded  their  grossness.  His  indecorous  allu- 
sions are  conveyed  with  infinite  finesse  and  ingenuity  of 
expression,  and  he  must  be  acquitted  of  all  intention  to 
corrupt  —  of  the  consciousness  even  of  a  corrupting  ten- 
dency. No  inference  unfavourable  to  him  is  to  be 
drawn  from  their  condemnation  and  prohibition  at  the 
request  of  the  sorbonne.  The  sin  of  his  tales,  and  that 
which  he  was  called  on  to  expiate,  was  not  their  immo- 
rality, but  the  liberties  which,  Uke  his  models,  he  took 
occasionally  with  monks,  nuns,  and  confessors.  It  is 
but  justice  to  him  to  state  his  own  vindication.  He 
urged  the  example  of  the  ancients;  and  the  necessity  of 
a  certain  tone  of  gaiety  and  freedom  in  familiar  tales, 
without  which  they  would  want  their  essential  grace 


LA    FONTAINE.         ,  181 

and  charm.  ''  He  who  would  reduce, "  says  he, 
"  Ariosto  and  Boccaccio  to  the  modesty  of  Virgil  would 
assuredly  not  he  thanked  for  his  pains — (we  ferait 
assurement  rien  qui  vaille").  An  enervating  tender 
melancholy  is,  he  says,  much  more  injurious.  His 
only  object,  he  protests,  was  to  procure  the  reader  a 
passing  smile  ;  and,  for  his  part,  he  could  not  compre- 
hend how  the  reading  of  his  tales  should  have  a  bad 
effect  upon  others  when  the  composition  had  none  upon 
him." 

But  can  it  be  true,  or  possible,  that  this  enchanting 
fabuKst  Avas  not  merely  subject  to  absences  and  musings, 
but  the  dullest  of  mortals  in  conversation  ; — his  thoughts 
and  expressions  alike  clumsy  and  confused  ?  Two,  the 
most  positive  testimonies,  will  suffice,  out  of  many.  The 
daughter  of  Racine,  who  had  seen  him  frequently  at  her 
father's  table,  described  him  as  ''  slovenly,  stupid,  and 
talking  of  nothing  but  Plato."  La  Bruyere  obviously- 
meant  the  following  character  for  him  :  —  "  K  man 
appears  —  clumsy,  heavy,  stupid.  He  cannot  talk,  or 
even  tell  what  he  has  just  seen.  If  he  sits  down  to 
write,  he  produces  the  model  of  tales.  He  endows 
w^ith  speech  brutes,  trees,  stones,  —  all  to  Avhich  nature 
has  denied  speech ;  and  all  is  levity,  elegance,  beauty, 
nature,  in  his  works."  *  These  testimonies,  though  so 
positive,  are  far  from  conclusive.  The  lady  had  no 
taste  for  Plato,  and  La  Bruyere's  style  of  portraiture, 
always  overcharged,  seems  particularly  so  in  this  in- 
stance, where  his  object  was  contrast  and  effect.  La 
Fontaine  may  have  fallen  into  reveries  and  solecisms  in 
the  company  of  his  friends ;  he  may  have  been  silent 
and  dull  at  the  table  of  a  financier,  where  he  was  among 
strangers  to  be  stared  at ;  but  his  society  would  not  have 
been  sought  and  prized,  not  only  by  the  Molieres,  Boi- 
leaus,  and   Racines,  but  by   the  Condes,  Contis,  and 

*  Un  homme  parait—  grossier,  lourd,  stupide.  li  ne  S9ait  pas  parler,  ni 
raconter  ce  qu'il  vient  de  voir.  S'il  se  met  k  ecrire,  c'est  le  modele  des 
beaux  contes.  II  fait  parler  les  aniraaux,  les  arbres,  les  pierres,— tout  ce  qui 
ne  parle  pas.  Ce  n'est.que  legerete,  que  elegance,  que  beau  naturel,  dans 
ses  ouvrages. 

N   3 


]82  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    BIEN. 

Villars,  and  in  the  distinguished  circles  of  mesdames  de 
Bouillon,  ]\Iazarin;,and  La  Sabliere  were  the  charm  of  his 
■writings  wholly  wanting  in  his  conversation.  His  writings 
would  have  been  admired,  and  their  author  neglected,  as 
in  the  case  of  Corneille,  were  his  conversation  equally 
common-place  and  uninteresting.  La  Fontaine  probably 
was  dull  to  those  who  neither  understood  nor  were  un- 
derstood by  him.  He  was  La  Fontaine,  the  charming 
fabulist,  only  when  the  subjects  and  the  society  in- 
terested him ;  and  those  around  him  could,  by  mutual 
intelligence,  bring  his  genius  into  play.  Goldsmith, 
in  the  same  manner,  was  depreciated  by  persons  who 
did  not  understand  him.  Topham  Beauclerk,  a  man 
of  wit  and  fashion  about  town,  thought  his  conver- 
sation absurd  and  dull ;  but  Edmund  Burke  found  in 
it  the  poet  and  observer  of  mankind.  The  admiration 
of  Horace  and  Varus,  and  the  society  of  Maecenas  and 
Augustus,  did  not  protect  Virgil's  simplicity  of  cha- 
racter from  being  sneered  at  by  the  court  satirists  and 
petits-maitres  of  his  time.  The  well-known  descrip- 
tion of  him  by  Horace  is  not  without  resemblance  to 
La  Fontaine's  character. 

La  Fontaine  was  buried  in  the  cemetery  of  St.  Joseph, 
at  Paris,  by  the  side  of  Moliere,  who  had  died  many 
years  before.  Boileau  and  Racine  survived  him.  His 
best  epitaph  is  the  following,  written  by  himself:  it 
records  his  character  with  equal  fidelity  and  humour. 

"  Jean  s'en  alia  comme  il  etait  venu, 
Mangant  son  fonds  aprez  son  revenu, 
Croyant  le  bien  chose  peu  necessaire. 
Quanta  son  temps  bien  le  s<;ut  depenser. 
Deux  parts  en  lit  dont  il  soluoit  passer  — 
L'une  k  dormir,  et  I'autre  a  ne  nen  faire." 


183 


PASCAL. 

1623  —  1662. 

Bayle  commences  his  life  of  Pascal,  by  declaring  him  to 
be  one  of  the  sublimest  geniuses  that  the  world  ever  pro- 
duced ;  and  every  word  we  read  confirms  this  judgment. 
He  was  as  singular  as  he  was  great.  He  is,  perhaps,  the 
only  instance  of  a  man  born  with  a  natural  genius  for  the 
exact  sciences,  who  applied  the  subtlety  and  acuteness 
of  his  understanding  to  religious  subjects,  combining 
with  close  logical  reasoning  the  utmost  elegance  and 
purity  of  style,  and  crowning  all  with  so  severe  an 
adherence  to  what  he  considered  the  duties  of  a 
christian  as  materially  shortened  his  days.  His  life 
reads  as  one  miracle :  our  admiration  is  perpetually 
excited, — may  we  own  it?  —  our  pity  also.  It  is  hard 
to  say  whether  this  be  a  just  feeling.  When  we  read 
of  the  simplicity  and  singleness  of  his  character,  of  his 
sublime  powers  of  self-denial,  of  his  charity,  his 
humility,  and  his  patience,  we  feel  that  he  as  nearly 
approached  his  divine  Master,  as  any  man  on  record 
has  ever  done.  But  when  we  reflect  on  divine  goodness, 
on  the  mission  of  the  Redeemer,  on  the  blessings  with 
which  God  has  gifted  us —  we  cannot  believe  that  we  are 
sent  here  for  the  mere  purpose  of  mortifying  all  our 
natural  inclinations,  or  of  spending  our  whole  thoughts 
in  preparation  for  a  future  life,  except  as  virtue  and 
piety  are  preparations.  Man  was  born  to  be  happy 
through  the  affections  —  to  enjoy  the  beauty  and  har- 
mony of  the  visible  creation  —  to  find  delight  in  the 
exercise  of  his  faculties,  and  the  fulfilment  of  his 
social  duties  ;  and  when  to  this  is  added  a  spirit  of 
pious  resignation,  and  a  wish  to  be  acceptable  to  God  — 
we  may  rest  satisfied  :  this  state  of  mind  not  being  so 
a  4 


184  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

easy  to  attain,  and  not  exaggerate  our  duties,  till  life 
becomes  the  prison  and  burden  that  Pascal  represents 
it  to  be.  Still  it  is  with  reverence  that  we  venture  to 
criticise  a  virtue  that  transcends  the  common  nature  of 
man.  Pascal  stands  an  example  of  the  catholic  prin- 
ciples of  morality,  and  shows  the  extent  to  which  self- 
denial  can  be  carried  by  an  upholder  of  that  faith. 
Added  to  this,  is  the  interest  we  take  in  the  history  of 
one  who,  from  his  birth,  gave  token  of  talents  of  a 
very  uncommon  order.  The  wonders  recorded  of  his 
childhood  are  too  Avell  authenticated  to  admit  of  a 
doubt,  while  certainly  they  are  not  exceeded  by  any 
other  prodigy,  the  achievements  of  whose  premature 
genius  have  been  handed  down. 

The  family  of  Pascal  was  of  Auvergne  :  it  had  been 
ennobled  by  Louis  XI.  in  1478,  in  the  person  of  a 
maitre  des   requetes ;    and,  since    that  epoch,  various 
.  members  of  it  had  filled    distinguished    situations    in 
Auvergne,  and  were  respected  for  their  virtues  as  much 
as  for  their  birth.     Etienne  Pascal  was  first  president 
to  the  court  of  aids  of  Clermont-Ferrand.     He  married 
a  lady  named  Antoinette  Be'gon  ;  of  the  four  children 
born  to  him  by  her,  three  survived  —  two  were  daugh- 
ters :   the  son,    Blaise,  was  born  at   Clermont  on   the 
19th   of  June,    1623.      Etienne  was  left   a  widower 
while  his  children  were  yet  infants;  and  from  that  time 
,  „2(5    he  devoted  himself  to  their  education.     The  extraordi- 
jE.tat.  "^^y  ^"^1   premature  talents  of  Blaise  soon  displayed 
3.      themselves.      From   the  moment  he   could   speak,  his 
repartees    excited     admiration,     and    still    more,    his 
eager  questionings  on  the   causes  of  all  things,  which 
displayed  acuteness  as  well  as  curiosity.     His  excellent 
father,  perceiving  these  early  marks  of  talent,  was  eager 
to  dedicate  his  whole  time  to  his  education,  so  that  he 
resolved  to  be  his  only  master  in  the  learned  languages 
163L  and  the  sciences.     He  accordingly  gave  up  his  public 
"^'^*"  situation  to  his  brother,  and  removed  to  Paris.     His 
daughters  shared  his  paternal  cares;  he  taught  them 
Latin,  and  caused   them    to    apply  themselves  to   the 


PASCAL.  185 

acquirement  of  knowledge ;  believing  that,  by  inciting 
them  to  bestow  their  attention  early  on  subjects  worthy 
their  inquiry,  he  should  develope  their  talents,  and  give 
them  habits  of  intellectual  industry,  which  he  considered 
equally  desirable  in  woman  as  man.  With  all  this,  he 
had  no  idea  of  making  a  prodigy  of  his  son,  or  develop- 
ing his  talents  prematurely.  On  the  contrary,  it  wa-s  his 
maxim  to  keep  the  boy  above  his  work;  and  he  did  not 
teach  him  Latin  till  he  w^as  twelve  years  old.  But, 
while  he  refrained  from  exercising  his  memory  by  the 
routine  of  lessons,  he  enlarged  his  mind  by  conversa- 
tion ;  and  taught  him  the  meaning  and  aim  of  grammar 
before  he  placed  a  grammar  in  his  hands.  This  was  a 
safe  proceeding  with  a  boy  of  Pascal's  eminent  capacity 
—  it  had  probably  rendered  one  less  gifted  indolent  and 
forgetful. 

The  world  at  this  time,  awakening  from  a  long  state 
of  barbarism,  was  seized  by  a  sort  of  idolatry  and  hunger 
for  knowledge,  and  learning  was  the  fashion  of  the  day. 
Men  of  talent  devoted  their  whole  lives  to  science,  with 
an  abnegation  of  every  other  pursuit  unknown  in  the 
present  age,  and  were  honoured  by  the  great  and  fol- 
lowed by  their  disciples  with  a  reverence  merited  by 
their  enthusiasm  and  diligence,  as  well  as  by,  the 
benefits  they  conferred  on  their  fellow  creatures,  in 
enlarging  their  sphere  of  knowledge,  and  bringing  from 
the  chaos  of  ignorance,  truth,  or  the  image  of  truth,  to 
the  light  of  day.  Descartes  was  one  of  the  most  cele- 
brated of  the  Frenchmen  of  genius  of  that  time.  He 
was  not  content  with  being  the  most  eminent  mathema- 
tician of  his  age,  but  he  combined  a  system  of  philo- 
sophy, which,  though  false,  obtained  vogue,  and  secured 
to  him  a  greater  temporary  reputation  than  if  he  had 
merely  enounced  truths,  independent  of  the  magic  of  a 
theory.  The  war  of  his  partisans  and  their  anta- 
gonists spread  his  fame:  geometry  and  mathematics 
obtained  more  attention  than  they  had  ever  done;  and 
discoveries  were  made  that  excited  the  ambition  of 
every  fresh  student  to  penetrate  further  than  his  prede- 


186 


LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 


cessors  into  the  secrets  of  the  system  of  the  universe. 
Etienne  Pascal  found  men  in  Paris^  with  whom  he  aUied 
himself  in  friendship,  deeply  versed  in  physics  and 
mathematics,  and  he  also  applied  himself  to  these 
sciences.  He  associated  with  Roberval,  Carcavi,  Le 
Pailleur,  and  other  scientific  men  of  high  reputation  — 
they  met  at  each  other's  house,  and  discussed  the 
objects  of  their  labours  ;  they  detailed  their  new  observ- 
ations and  discoveries ;  they  read  the  letters  received 
from  other  learned  men,  either  foreigners,  or  residing  in 
the  provinces  :  the  ambition  of  their  lives  was  centred 
in  the  progress  of  science  ;  and  the  enthusiasm  and  eager- 
ness with  which  they  prosecuted  their  researches  gave  an 
interest  to  their  conversations  that  awoke  to  intensity  the 
curiosity  of  Pascal's  almost  infant  son.  Adding  youthful 
fervour  to  abilities  already  competent  to  the  formation 
of  scientific  combinations  and  accuracy,  the  young 
Blaise  desired  to  make  discoveries  himself  in  causes  and 
effects.  A  common  phenomenon  in  sound  obtained 
his  earliest  attention.  He  observed  that  a  plate,  if  struck 
by  a  knife,  gave  forth  a  ringing  sound,  which  he  stilled 
'1655.^7  putting  his  hand  on  the  plate.  At  the  age  of  twelve 
JEtat.  he  wrote  a  little  treatise  to  account  for  this  phenomenon, 
12.  which  was  argued  with  acuteness  and  precision.  His 
father  wished,  however,  to  turn  his  mind  from  the  pur- 
suits of  science,  considering  the  study  of  languages  as 
better  suited  to  his  age ;  and  he  resolved  that  the  boy 
should  no  longer  be  present  at  the  philosophical  meet- 
ings. Blaise  was  in  despair:  to  console  him,  he  was  told 
that  he  should  be  taught  geometry  when  he  had  acquired 
Latin  and  Greek  :  he  asked,  eagerly,  what  geometry 
was  ?  His  father  informed  him,  generally,  that  it  was  the 
science  which  teaches  the  method  of  making  exact  figures, 
and  of  finding  out  the  proportions  between  them.  He 
commanded  him  at  the  same  time  neither  to  speak  nor 
think  on  the  subject  more.  But  Blaise  was  too  inquir- 
ing and  too  earnest  to  submit  to  this  rule.  He  spent 
every  moment  of  leisure  in  meditation  upon  the  proper- 
ties of  mathematical  figures.     He  drew  triangles  and 


PASCAL.  187 

circles  with  charcoal  on  the  walls  of  his  playroom, 
giving  them  such  names  as  occurred  to  him  as 
proper,  and  thus  began  to  teach  himself  geometry, 
seeking  to  discover,  without  previous  instruction,  all  the 
combinations  of  lines  and  curves,  making  definitions 
and  axioms  for  himself,  and  then  proceeding  to  demon- 
stration :  and  thus,  alone  and  untaught,  he  compared  the 
properties  of  figures  and  the  relative  position  of  lines 
with  mathematical  precision. 

One  day  his  father  came  by  chance  into  the  room,  and 
found  his  son  busy  drawing  triangles,  parallelograms, 
and  circles :  the  boy  was  so  intent  on  his  work  that 
he  did  not  hear  his  father  enter;  and  the  latter  observed 
him  for  some  time  in  silence :  when  at  last  he  spoke, 
Blaise  felt  a  sort  of  terror  at  being  discovered  at  this 
forbidden  occupation,  which  equalled  his  father's  won- 
der at  perceiving  the  objects  of  his  attention.  But 
the  surprise  of  the  latter  increased,  when,  asking  him 
what  he  was  about,  Blaise  explained  in  language 
invented  by  himself,  but  which  showed  that  he  was 
employed  in  solving  the  thirty-second  proposition  of 
Euclid.  His  father  asked  him,  how  he  came  to  think  of 
such  a  question  :  Blaise  replied,  that  it  arose  from 
another  he  had  proposed  to  himself ;  and  so  going  back 
step  by  step  as  to  the  figures  that  had  excited  his 
inquiry,  he  showed  that  he  had  established  a  chain  of 
propositions  deduced  from  axioms  and  definitions  of  his 
own  adoption,  which  conducted  him  to  the  proposition 
in  question  (that  the  three  angles  of  every  possible 
triangle  are  equal  to  two  right  angles).  The  father 
was  struck  almost  with  fear  at  this  exhibition  of 
inborn  genius;  and,  without  speaking  to  the  boy, 
hurried  off  to  his  intimate  friend  M.  le  Pailleur ; 
but  when  he  reached  his  house  he  was  unable  to  utter 
a  single  word,  and  he  stood  with  tears  in  his  eyes, 
till  his  friend,  fancying  some  misfortune  had  oc- 
curred, questioned  him  anxiously,  and  at  length  the 
happy  parent  found  tongue  to  declare  that  he  wept  for 
joy,  not  sorrow.     M.  le  Pailleur  was  not  less  astonished 


188  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

when  the  circumstances  narrated  were  explained  to  him, 
and  of  course  advised  the  father  to  give  every  facility 
for  the  acquirement  of  knowledge  to  one  so  richly  gifted 
by  nature.  EucHd,  accordingly,  was  put  into  the  boy's 
hands  as  an  amusement  for  his  leisure  hours.  Blaise 
went  through  it  by  himself,  and  understood  it  without 
any  explanation  from  others.*  From  this  time  he  was 
allowed  to  be  present  at  all  the  scientific  meetings,  and  was 
behind  none  of  the  learned  men  present  in  bringing  new 
discoveries  and  solutions,  and  in  enouncing  satisfactory 
explanations  of  any  doubtful  and  knotty  point.  Truth 
was  the  passion  of  his  soul;  and,  added  to  this,  was  a 
love  of  the  positive,  and  a  perception  of  it,  which  in  the 
exact  sciences  led  to  the  most  useful  results.  At  the 
age  of  sixteen  he  wrote  an  "  Essay  on  Conic  Sections,"' 
which  was  regarded  as  a  work  that  would  bestow 
reputation  on  an  accomplished  mathematician ;  so  that 
Descartes,  when  he  saw  it,  was  inclined  rather  to 
believe  that  Pascal,  the  father,  had  written  it  himself, 
and  passed  it  off  as  his  son's,  than  that  a  mere  child 
should  have  shown  himself  capable  of  such  strength 
and  accuracy  of  reasoning.  The  happy  father,  hov/- 
ever,  was  innocent  of  any  such  deceit ;  and  the  boy, 
proceeding  to  investigate  yet  more  deeply  the  science 
of  numbers  and  proportions,  soon  gave  proof  that  he 
was  fully  capable  of  having  written  the  work  in 
question. 

Etienne  Pascal  was  rewarded  for  all  his  self-devotion 
by  the  genius  of  his  son.     His  daughters  also  profited 
by  his  care,  and  became  distinguished  at  once  by  their 
mental  accomplishments  and  their  personal  beauty.      A 
disaster  that  occurred,  which  at  first  disturbed  the  hap- 
piness of  the  family,  tended  in  the  end  to  establish  it, 
and  to  bring  into  greater  notice  the  talents  and  virtues 
of  the  individuals  of  which  it  was  composed. 
1638.       The  finances  of  the  government  being  at  a  low  ebb, 
^tat.  through  mismanagement  and  long  wars,   the   minister, 
i5.    cardinal  de  Richelieu,  sought  to  improve  them  by  dimi- 
*  La  Vie  de  M.  Pascal,  ecrite  par  Madame  Perier,  sa  soeur. 


PASCAL.  189 

nishing  the  rate  of    interest  towards   the  pubhc    cre- 
ditor. Of  course  this  act  excited  considerable  discontent 
among  holders  of  public  stock ;  riots  ensued^  and  some 
men,   in  consequence,  were  imprisoned  in  the  Bastile. 
Among   these  was  a  friend    of    Etienne  Pascal,   who 
openly  and  warmly  defended  him,  while  he  cast  consi- 
derable blame  on  several  government  functionaries,  and 
in  particular  the  chancellor  Seguier.      This  imprudence 
endangered  his  own  liberty;    he    heard    that    he  was 
threatened  with  arrest,  and  to  avoid  it  left  Paris,   and 
for  several  months  hid  himself  in  Auvergne.      He  had 
many  friends  however  among   noble    patrons  of  learn- 
ing, and  the  duchess  d'Aiguillon,   in   particular,  inte- 
rested   herself  in    his    favour.      Richelieu,  as    is  well 
known,  was  very  fond  of  theatrical  representations,  and 
a  tragi-comedy  by  Scuderi,  was  got  up  for  his  amuse- 
ment.    Jaqueline  Pascal,  then  only  fourteen  years   old, 
was  selected  to  fill  one  of  the  parts :  she  at  first  refused, 
saying  that  the  cardinal  gave  them  too  little  pleasure 
for  her  to  try  to  contribute  to  his  ;  but  the  duchess  saw 
hopes  for  the  father's  recal  in  the  daughter's  exertions, 
and   persuaded  Jaqueline  to  undertake  the  part.     She 
acted  charmingly,  and  at  the  end  of  the  piece  approached 
the  cardinal,   and  recited  some  verses  written  for  the 
occasion,   asserting   the    innocence   of  her  father,    and 
entreating    the  cessation  of  his   exile.      The    cardinal 
delighted,  took  her  in  his  arms,  and  kissing  her  again 
and  again,  said,   ''  Yes,  my  child,  I  grant  your  request; 
write  to  your  father,  that  he  may  safely  return."      The  1539. 
duchess  followed  up  the   impression  by  an  eulogium  on  ^^at. 
Pascal,  and  by  introducing  Blaise ;  "  He  is  but  sixteen," 
she  said,  ''■  but  he  is  already  a  great  mathematician." 
Jaqueline    saw  that   the    cardinal   was   favourably    in- 
clined ;  and  with  ready  tact,  added,  that  she  had  another 
request  to   prefer.     "  Ask  what  you   will,  my  child," 
said  the  minister,  "  I  can  refuse  you  nothing."      She 
begged  that  her  father,  on  his  return,  might  be  per- 
mitted personally  to  thank  the  cardinal.     This  also  was 
granted  ;  and  the  family  reaped  the  benefit.     The  car- 


18. 


190  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    XieN. 

dinal  received  the  exile  graciously  ;  and,  two  years  after, 
named  him  intendant  of  Normandy  at  Rouen.  Etienne 
removed  with  his  family,  in  consequence,  to  that  city.  He 
filled  the  situation  for  seven  years,  enjoying  the  highest 
reputation  for  integrity  and  ability.  About  the  same 
time,  his  daughter,  Gilberte,  formed  an  advantageous 
marriage  with  M.  Perier,  who  had  distinguished  him- 
self in  a  commission  entrusted  to  him  by  the  government 
in  Normandy,  and  who  afterwards  bought  the  situation  of 
counsellor  to  the  court  of  aids  of  Clermont-Ferrand. 
1641.  Blaise,  meanwhile,  was  absorbed  in  scientific  pur- 
^Etat,  suits.  To  the  acquisition  of  Latin  and  Greek  was  added 
the  study  of  logic  and  physics ;  every  moment  of  his 
time  was  occupied — and  even  during  meals  the  work  of 
study  went  on.  Charmed  with  the  progress  his  son 
made,  and  his  apparent  facility  in  learning,  the  father  was 
blind  to  the  ill-effects  that  such  constant  application  had 
on  his  health  :  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  Pascal  began  to 
droop ;  the  indisposition  he  suffered  was  slight,  and  he 
did  not  permit  it  to  interfere  with  his  studies  ;  but 
neglected,  and  indeed  increased,  it  at  last  entirely  dis- 
organised his  fragile  being.  From  that  hour  he  never 
passed  a  single  day  free  from  pain.  Repose,  taken  at 
intervals,  mitigated  his  sufferings  ;  but  when  better  he 
eagerly  returned  to  study  —  and  with  study  illness  re- 
curred. 
642.  jjjg  application  was  of  the  most  arduous  and  intense 
description.  At  the  age  of  nineteen  he  invented  his 
arithmetical  machine,  considered  one  of  the  most  won- 
derful discoveries  yet  put  into  practice.  A  machine 
capable  of  automatic  combinations  of  numbers  has  al- 
ways been  a  desideratum ;  and  Pascal's  was  sufficiently 
well  arranged  to  produce  exact  results — but  it  was  very 
complex,  expensive,  and  easily  put  out  of  order,  and 
therefore  of  no  general  utility,  though  hailed  by 
mathematicians  as  a  most  ingenious  and  successful  in- 
vention. It  cost  him  intense  application,  both  for  the 
mental  combinations  required,  and  the  mechanical  part 
of  the  execution  :  —  his  earnest  and  persevering  study. 


Mtat 
19. 


PASCAL.  191 

and  the  great  efforts  of  attention  to  which  he  put  his 
brain,  increased  his  ill  health  so  much  that  he  was 
obliged  for  a  time  to  suspend  his  labours. 

Soon  after  this,  a  question,  involving  very  important 
consequences  in  physics,  agitated  the  scientific  world, 
and  the  position  of  the  two  Pascals  was  such,  that  their 
attention  could  not  fail  to  be  drawn  to  the  consideration 
of  it.  The  mechanical  properties  of  the  atmosphere 
had  previously  been  inquired  into  by  Galileo,  who 
recognised  in  it  the  quality  of  weight.  This  philo- 
sopher, however,  notwithstanding  the  wonderful  saga- 
city which  his  numerous  physical  discoveries  evince, 
failed  to  perceive  that  the  weight  of  the  atmosphere, 
combined  with  its  fluidity  and  elasticity,  opposed  a 
definite  force  to  any  agent  by  which  the  removal  of 
the  atmosphere  from  any  space  was  attempted.  This 
resistance  to  the  production  of  a  vacuum  had  long  been 
recognised,  and  was  in  fact  expressed,  but  not  accounted 
for,  by  the  phrase,  '^'  nature's  abhorrence  of  a  vacuum." 
Whatever  meaning  he  may  have  attached  to  it,  Galileo 
retained  this  phrase,  but  limited  its  application,  in  order 
to  embrace  the  phenomenon,  then  well  known,  that  suc- 
tion-pumps would  not  raise  water  more  than  about 
thirty-five  feet  high  ;  and  although  "  nature's  abhor- 
rence of  a  vacuum"  raises  the  water  thirty-five  feet,  to 
fill  the  space  deserted  by  the  air,  which  had  been  drawn 
out  by  the  piston,  yet  above  that  height  a  vacuum  still 
remained  ;  which  fact  Galileo  expressed  by  saying,  that 
"  thirty-five  feet  was  the  hmit  of  nature's  abhorrence  of 
a  vacuum." 

That  Galileo  should  have  missed  a  discovery  as  im- 
portant as  it  was  obvious,  is  the  more  remarkable  from 
the  circumstance  of  its  having  been  actually  suggested 
to  him  by  one  of  his  own  pupils.  A  letter  from  Bali- 
ani  to  Galileo  is  extant,  dated  in  1630,  in  which  the 
writer  says  that  Galileo,  in  one  of  his  letters  to  him, 
having  taught  him  that  air  has  sensible  weight,  and  shown 
him  how  that  weight  might  be  measured,  he  argued 
from  thence  that  the  force  necessary  to  produce  a  vacuum. 


192  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

was  nothing  more  than  the  force  necessary  to  remove  the 
weight  of  the  mass  of  atmosphere  which  presses  round 
every  object,  just  as  water  would  press  on  any  thing  at 
the  bottom  of  the  sea.* 

Torricelli,  the  pupil  of  Galileo,  next  took  up  the 
problem.  He  argued,  that  if  the  weight  of  the  atmo- 
sphere were  the  direct  agent  by  which  the  column  of 
water  is  sustained  in  a  pump,  the  same  agent  must 
needs  exert  the  same  amount  of  force  in  sustaining  a 
column  of  any  other  liquid  ;  and,  therefore,  that  if  a 
heavier  liquid  were  used,  the  column  sustained  would 
be  less  in  height  exactly  in  the  same  proportion  as  the 
weight  of  the  liquid  forming  the  column  was  greater. 
Mercury,  tl)e  heaviest  known  liquid,  appeared  the  fittest 
for  this  purpose.  The  experiment  was  eminently  suc- 
cessful. The  weight,  bulk  for  bulk,  of  mercury  was 
fourteen  times  greater  than  that  of  water ;  and  it  was 
found  that,  instead  of  a  column  of  thirty-five  feet  being 
supported,  the  column  was  only  thirty  inches,  the  latter 
being  exactly  the  fourteenth  part  of  thirty-five  feet. 

Various  ways  of  further  testing  the  evident  infer- 
ences to  be  drawn  from  this  beautiful  experiment,  were 
so  obvious,  that  it  is  impossible  to  suppose  the  illustri- 
ous philosopher  to  whom  we  are  indebted  for  it,  would 
not  have  pursued  the  inquiry  further,  had  not  death, 
almost  immediately  after  this,  prematurely  removed  him. 
The  experiment  became  known,  and  excited  much  in- 
terest in  every  part  of  Europe  ;  and  Mersenne,  who  had 
an  extensive  scientific  correspondence,  having  received  an 
account  of  Torricelli's  investigation,  communicated  the 
particulars  to  Pascal.  Always  reluctant  to  surrender 
long  established  maxims,  the  philosophers  of  that  day 
rejected  the  solution  of  the  problem  given  by  Torricelli, 
and  still  clung  to  the  maxim  that  "  nature  abhors  a 
vacuum."  The  sagacity  of  Pascal,  however,  could  not 
be  so  enslaved  by  received  notions ;  and  he  accordingly, 
assisted  by  M.  Petit,  applied  himself  to  the  discovery 
of  some  experimental  test,  of  a  nature  so  unanswerable 
*  Life  of  Galileo,  by  Drinkwatcr,  p.  90,  91. 


PASCAL.  193 

as  to  set  the  question  at  rest.  The  result  was  the 
celebrated  experiment  on  the  Pay  de  Dome,  the  first 
and  most  beautiful  example  of  an  "  experimentum 
crucis"  recorded  in  the  history  of  physics. 

Pascal  argued,  that  if  the  weight  of  the  incumbent 
atmosphere  were  the  real  agent  which  sustained  the 
mercury  in  Torricelli's  tube,  as  it  was  inferred  to  be 
by  that  philosopher,  any  thing  which  would  diminish 
that  weight,  ought  to  diminish  in  the  same  proportion 
the  height  of  the  mercurial  column.  To  test  this,  he 
first  conceived  the  idea  of  producing  over  the  surface  of 
the  mercury  in  the  cistern  in  which  the  end  of  the 
tube  was  immersed,  a  partial  vacuum,  so  as  to  diminish 
the  pressure  of  the  air  upon  it.  But,  apprehending 
that  this  experiment  would  hardly  be  suflSciently  glar- 
ing to  overcome  the  prejudices  of  the  scientific  world, 
he  proposed  to  carry  the  tube  containing  the  mercurial 
column  upwards  in  the  atmosphere,  so  as  gradually  to 
leave  more  and  more  of  the  incumbent  weight  below 
it,  and  to  ascertain  whether  the  diminution  of  the 
column  would  be  equal  to  the  weight  of  the  air  which 
it  had  surmounted.  No  sufficient  height  being  attain- 
able in  Paris,  the  experiment  was  conducted,  under 
Pascal's  direction,  by  his  brother-in-law,  M.  Perier,  at 
Clermont,  on  the  Puy  de  Dome,  a  hill  of  considerable 
height,  near  that  place.  The  experiment  was  completely 
successful.  The  mercurial  column  gradually  fell  until 
the  tube  arrived  at  the  summit,  and  as  gradually  rose 
again  in  descending.  Bigotry  and  prejudice  could 
not  withstand  the  force  of  this,  and  immediately  gave 
way.  The  maxim  of  nature's  abhorrence  of  a  vacuum 
was  henceforth  expunged  from  the  code  of  natural 
science ;  and,  what  was  still  more  conducive  to  the  ad- 
vancement of  all  true  science,  philosophers  were  taught 
how  much  more  potent  agents  of  discovery,  observation 
and  experiment,  guided  by  reason,  are,  than  the  vain 
speculations  in  which  the  ancients  had  indulged,  and 
from  the  baneful  influence  of  which  scientific  inquirers 
had  not  yet  been  emancipated. 

VOL.  I.  o 


194!  LITERARV    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN% 

jg47       Pascal  had  hardly  escaped  from    boyhood    at   this 
^tat!  time  ;  his  invention,  his  patience,  the  admirable  system 
24.   he  pursued  of  causing  all  his  opinions  to  be  supported 
by  facts  and  actual  experiment,   deserved  the  highest 
praise  and  honour.      It  is  mortifying  to  have  to  record 
that  his  discovery  was  disputed.     The  Jesuits   accused 
him  of  plagiarism  from  the  Italians ;  and  Descartes  de- 
clared, that  he  had  first  discovered  the  effects  produced  by 
the  weight  of  the  atmosphere,  and  suggested  to  Pascal  the 
JS51.  experiment  made  on  the  Puy  de  Dome.      Pascal  treated 
-^^'^'-  these  attacks  with   the  contempt  which  his   innocence 
^^'  taught  him  that  they  deserved  ;  and  published  an  account 
of  his  experiments  without  making  the  slightest  allusion 
to  them.     Descartes  was   a  man  of  eminent  genius  — 
his  industry  and  penetration  often  led  him  to  make  the 
happiest  conjectures  ;   but,  more  intent  on  employing  his 
bold  and  often  fortunate  imagination  in  the  fabrication  of 
ingenious  theories  than  on  applying  himself  with  patience 
and  perseverance  to  the  discovering  the  secrets  of  nature, 
he  sometimes  threw  out  a  happy  idea,  which  he  did 
not  take  the  pains  to  establish  as  a  truth  and  a  law.   The 
honour  of  invention  is  due  to  those  who  seize  the  scat- 
tered threads  of  knowledge  which   former  discoverers 
have  left,  and  weave  it  into  a  continuous  and  irrefragable 
web.     Pascal   followed   up   his  experiments   with    the 
J ^^3  utmost  hesitation    and    care,  only   deciding  when   de- 
yEut.  cision  became  self-evident.     Two  Treatises,  one  "On 
so",    the  Equilibrium  of  Liquids,"  another  "  On  the  Weight 
of   the    Atmosphere,"    which    he    subsequently  wrote, 
though  they  were  not  pubUshed  till  after  his  death,  dis- 
play his  admirable  powers  of  observation,  and  the  patient 
zeal  with  which  he   followed  up  his  discoveries.     At 
the  time  that  he  wrote  these  treatises  he  was  engaged 
on  others,  on  geometrical  subjects  :   he  did   not  publish 
them  ;  and  some  have  been  irrecoverably  lost.     Every 
subject  then  interesting  to  men  of  science  employed  his 
active  mind.     His  nan^  had  become  well  known :  he 
Avas  consulted  by  all  the  philosophers  and  mathematicians 
of  the  day,  who  proposed  questions  to  him ;    and  his 


PASCAL.  195 

thoughts  were  sedulously  dedicated  to  the  solution  of 
the  most  difficult  problems.  But  a  change  meanwhile 
had  come  over  his  mind,  and  he  began  to  turn  his 
thoughts  to  other  subjects,  and  to  resolve  to  quit  his 
mathematical  pursuits,  and  to  dedicate  himself  wholly 
to  the  practice  and  study  of  religion. 

This  was  no  sudden  resolve  on  his  part  —  piety  had 
always  deep  root  in  his  heart.  He  had  never,  in  the  most 
inquisitive  days  of  his  youth,  applied  his  eager  question- 
ings and  doubts  to  matters  of  faith.  His  father  had 
carefully  instilled  principles  of  belief;  and  gave  him  for  a 
maxim,  that  the  objects  of  faith  are  not  the  objects  of 
reason,  much  less  the  subject  of  it.  This  principle  be- 
came deeply  engraven  in  his  heart.  Logical  and  pene- 
trating as  his  mind  was,  with  an  understanding  open  to 
conjecture  with  regard  to  natural  causes,  he  never  applied 
the  arts  of  reasoning  to  the  principles  of  Christianity,  but 
was  as  submissive  as  a  child  to  all  the  dicta  of  the  church. 
But  though  the  so  to  call  it  metaphysical  part  of  religion 
was  admitted  without  a  doubt  or  a  question,  its  moral 
truths  met  with  an  attention  —  always  lively,  and  at  last 
wholly  absorbing ;  so  that  he  spent  the  latter  portion  of 
his  life  in  meditating,  day  and  night,  the  law  of  God. 

This  change  began  first  to  operate  at  the  age  of  four, 
and-twenty.  His  zeal  overflowed  to,  and  was  im- 
bibed by,  all  near  him.  His  father  was  not  ashamed 
to  listen  to  his  son's  exhortations,  and  to  regulate  his 
life  hereafter  by  severer  rules.  His  unmarried  sister, 
Jaqueline  —  the  heroine  of  the  tale  previously  narrated, 
who  possessed  singular  talents  —  listened  to  her  brother 
with  still  greater  docility  and  effect :  an  effect  rather 
to  be  deplored  than  rejoiced  in,  since  it  caused  her  to 
renounce  the  cultivation  of  her  talents,  and  the  exercise 
of  active  duties,  and  to  dedicate  herself  to  the  ascetic 
practices  of  Catholicism. 

Meanwhile  the  health  of  Pascal  suffered  severer  at- 
tacks, and  his  frail  body  wasted  away  ;  so  that  before 
he  attained  the  prime  of  Ufe  he  fell  into  the  physical 
debiUty  of  age.  He  resided  at  this  time  in  Paris,  with 
o  2 


196  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

his  father  and  his  sister  Jaqueline.     To  henefit  his 
heaUh,  he  was  recommended  to   suspend  his  labours, 
to  enjoy  the  recreations  of  society,  and  to  take  more  exer- 
cise :  accordingly,  he  made  several  tours  in  Auvergne  and 
2g51  other  provinces.     The  death  of  his  father  broke  up  the 
jEtat.*  httle  family  circle.  Jaqueline  Pascal  had  long  entertained 
28.    the  desire  of  becoming  a  nun  :  on  the  death  of  her  father 
she  put  her  resolve  in  execution,  and  took  the  vows  in  the 
abbey  of  Port  Royal  aux  Champs.     The  other  sister  re- 

1653.  sided  with  her  husband  at  Clermont.  Pascal,  left  to  him- 
JEtat.  self,  devoted  his  time  more  earnestly  than  ever  to  studious 

20-  pursuits,  till  the  powers  of  nature  failed ;  and  he  was 
forced,  through  utter  inability,  to  abandon  his  studies.  He 
took  gentle  exercise,  and  frequented  society.  Though 
serious  even  to  melancholy,  his  conversation  pleased  by 
the  depth  of  understanding  and  great  knowledge  that  it 
displayed.  Pascal  himself  felt  the  softening  influence 
of  sympathy  :  he  began  to  take  pleasure  in  society 
—  he  even  contemplated  marrying.  Happy  had  it  been 
for  him  if  this  healthy  and  sound  view  of  human  duties 
had  continued :  but  an  accident  happened  which  con- 
firmed him  as  a  visionary  —  if  we  may  apply  that  term 
to  a  man  who  in  the  very  excess  of  religious  zeal  pre- 
served the  entire  use  of  his  profound  arts  of  reason- 
ing, and  an  absolute  command  over  his  will :  yet  when 
the  circumstances  of  his  exclusive  dedication  of  himself 
to  pious  exercises  are  known,  and  we  find  that  a  vision 
forms  one  of  them,  that  word  cannot  be  considered 
unjust  —  nor  is  it  possible  to  help  lamenting  that  his 
admirable  understanding  had  not  carried  him  one  step 
further,  and  taught  him  that  asceticism  has  no  real 
foundation  in  the  beneficent  plan  of  the  Creator. 

1654,  One  day,  in   the  month  of  October,  he  was   taking 
■^tat.  an  airing  in  a  carriage-and-four  towards  the  Pont  de 

^^'  NeuilH,  when  the  leaders  took  the  bit  in  their  teeth,  at 
a  spot  where  there  is  no  parapet,  and  precipitated  them- 
selves into  the  Seine :  fortunately  the  shock  broke  the 
traces,  and  the  carriage  remained  on  the  brink  of  the 
precipice.       Pascal,  a  feeble,  half-paralytic,  trembling 


PASCAL.  197 

being,  was  overwhelmed  by  the  shock.  He  fell  into  a 
succession  of  fainting  fits,  followed  by  a  nervous  agita- 
tion that  prevented  sleep,  and  brought  on  a  state  re- 
sembling delirium.  In  this  he  experienced  a  sort  of 
vision,  or  extatic  trance ;  in  commemoration  of  which 
he  wrote  a  singular  sort  of  memorandum,  which,  though 
incoherent  to  us,  doubtless  brought  to  his  memory  the  cir- 
cumstances of  his  vision.  This  paper  he  always  kept  sewn 
up  in  his  dress.  The  effect  of  the  circumstance  was  to 
make  him  look  on  his  accident  as  a  call  from  Heaven  to 
give  in  all  worldly  thoughts,  and  to  devote  himself  to  God. 
The  pious  exhortations  of  his  sister,  the  nun,  had  before 
given  him  some  notion  of  such  a  course ;  and  he  deter- 
mined to  renounce  the  world,  and  to  dedicate  himself 
exclusively  to  religious  practices. 

The  account  that  his  sister,  madame  Perier,  gives  of 
the  rules  of  life  to  which  he  adhered  is  most  deeply  inte- 
resting, as  appertaining  to  a  man  of  such  transcendent 
genius  ;  and  yet  deeply  painful,  since  we  cannot  see  that 
God  could  be  pleased  or  served  by  his  cutting  himself 
off  from  the  enjoyment  of  all  the  natural  and  innocent 
affections,  or  by  a  system  of  self-denial,  that  undermined 
his  health  and  shortened  his  life.  To  follow  up  the 
new  rules  he  had  laid  down  for  his  conduct,  he  removed 
to  another  part  of  Paris ;  and  showed  so  determined  a  re- 
solve to  renounce  the  world  that,  at  last,  the  world  re- 
nounced him.  In  this  retreat  he  disciplined  his  life 
by  certain  principles,  the  chief  of  which  was  to  abstain 
from  all  pleasures  or  superfluity  ;  in  accordance  with  this 
system,  he  allowed  himself  nothing  but  what  was  abso- 
lutely necessary  ;  he  unfurnished  his  apartment  of  all  car- 
pets and  hangings,  reserving  only  a  table  and  chairs,  of 
the  coarsest  manufacture  :  he  also,  as  much  as  possible, 
denied  himself  the  service  of  domestics :  he  made  his 
bed  himself;  and  went  to  the  kitchen  to  fetch  his  din- 
ner, and  carried  it  into  his  own  room,  and  took  back 
the  remains  when  he  had  finished  :  in  short,  his  servant 
merely  cooked  and  went  to  market  for  him.  His  time 
was  otherwise  spent  in  acts  of  charity,  in  prayer,  and 
o  3 


198  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

in  reading  the  scriptures.  At  first  the  regularity  and 
quiet  of  a  Ufe  of  retreat  recruited  somewhat  his  shat- 
tered frame  :  but  this  did  not  last.  His  mind  could  not  be 
idle,  nor  his  reasoning  powers  remain  inactive ;  and  he 
soon  found  cause  to  study  as  deeply  matters  connected 
with  religion  as  before  he  had  applied  himself  to  the 
investigation  of  mathematical  truths. 

The  abbey  of  Port  Royal  had  not  many  years  before 
been  reformed,  and  acquired  a  high  reputation.  M. 
Arnaud  (a  noble  of  Auvergne,and  a  celebrated  advocate,) 
was  the  father  of  a  numerous  family  of  children,  and  among 
them  a  daughter,  who,  at  eleven  years  of  age,  was  named 
abbess  of  Port  Royal.  Instead  of  following  the  old  track 
of  indulgence  and  indolence,  her  young  heart  became 
inflamed  with  pious  zeal ;  and,  at  the  age  of  seventeen, 
she  undertook  the  arduous  task  of  reforming  the  habits 
and  lives  of  the  nuns  under  her  jurisdiction.  By  de- 
grees she  imparted  a  large  portion  of  her  piety  to  them, 
and  succeeded  in  her  undertaking :  watching,  fasting, 
humiUty,  and  labour,  became  the  inmates  of  her  convent ; 
and  its  reputation  for  sanctity  and  purity  increased 
daily.  The  abbey  of  Port  Royal  aux  Champs  was  si- 
tuated at  the  distance  of  only  six  leagues  from  Paris  ; 
the  situation  in  itself  was  desolate,  but  some  private 
houses  appertained  to  it.  Several  men  of  eminent  learn- 
ing and  piety  were  attracted,  by  the  high  reputation 
that  the  abbey  enjoyed,  to  take  up  their  abode  in  one 
of  these  dwellings.  They  fled  the  world  to  enjoy  christian 
peace  in  solitude :  but  indolence  was  not  a  part  of  their 
practice.  Besides  the  works  of  piety  of  which  they 
were  the  authors,  they  received  pupils,  they  compiled 
books  of  instruction  ;  and  their  system  of  education  be- 
came celebrated,  both  for  the  classical  knowledge  they 
imparted,  and  the  sentiments  of  religion  they  in- 
spired. Among  these  reverend  and  illustrious  recluses 
were  numbered  two  brothers  of  mother  Angelica,  the 
abbess,  Arnaud  d'Andilli,  and  Antoine  Arnaud,  and  two 
of  her  nephews ;  in  addition  may  be  named  Saci, 
Nicole,  and  others,  well  known  as  French  theologians, 


PASCAL.  199 

and  controversialists.  Pascal's  attention  being  drawn 
to  this  retreat  by  the  circumstance  of  his  sister's  having 
taken  her  vows  in  the  abbey,  he  was  desirous  to  become 
acquainted  with  men  so  illustrious :  without  taking  up 
his  abode  absolutely  among  them,  he  cultivated  their 
society,  often  paid  visits  of  several  weeks'  duration  to 
their  retreat,  and  was  admitted  to  their  intimacy.  They 
soon  discovered  and  appreciated  his  transcendent  genius, 
while  he  was  led  by  them  to  apply  his  talents  to  rehgi- 
ous  subjects.  The  vigour  and  justness  of  his  thoughts 
inspired  them  with  admiration.  Saci  was,  in  particu- 
lar, his  friend  ;  and  the  famous  Arnaud  regarded  him 
with  wonder  for  his  youth,  and  esteem  for  his  learning 
and  penetration.  These  became  in  the  end  most  useful 
to  the  recluses ;  and  from  the  pen  of  their  young  friend 
they  derived,  not  only  their  best  defence  against  their 
enemies,  but  a  glory  for  their  cause,  founded  on  the 
admirable  "  Lettres  Provinciales,"  which  have  survived, 
for  the  purity  of  their  style,  vigour  of  expression,  and 
closeness  of  argument ;  for  their  wit,  and  their  sublime 
eloquence,  long  after  the  object  for  which  they  were 
written,  is  remembered  only  as  casting  at  once  ridicule 
and  disgrace  upon  the  cause  of  religion  in  France. 

It  is  indeed  a  melancholy  and  degrading  picture  of 
human  nature,  to  find  men  of  exalted  piety  and  pro- 
found learning,  waste  their  powers  on  controversies, 
which  can  now  only  be  regarded  with  contempt, 
though  the  same  sentiment  cannot  follow  the  virtues 
which  these  men  displayed  —  their  constancy,  their 
courage,  and  noble  contempt  of  all  selfish  considerations. 

The  foundation  of  the  dispute,  which  called  forth  at 
once  these  virtues  and  this  vain  exertion  of  intellect, 
still  subsists  between  different  sects  of  Christianity.  The 
christian  religion  is  founded  on  the  idea  of  the  free 
will  of  man,  and  the  belief  that  he  can  forsake  sin ;  and 
that,  according  as  he  does  forsake  or  cling  to  it,  he  deserves 
happiness  or  reprobation  in  the  other  world.  But  to 
this  is  added,  with  some,  the  belief  that  sanctification 
springs  from  the  especial  interference  of  God ;  that  man 
o  4< 


200  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

cannot  even  seek  salvation  without  a  call;  that  faith  and 
grace  is  an  immediate  and  gratuitous  gift  of  God  to 
each  individual  whom  the  Holy  Ghost  inspires  with  a 
vocation.  How  far  man  was  born  with  the  innate 
powerof  belief  and  faith,  or  howfar  heneeded  a  particular 
and  immediate  gift  of  grace  to  seek  these  from  God, 
divided  the  christian  world  into  sects  at  various  times, 
and  was  the  foundation  of  the  dispute  between  the 
molinists  and  jansenists.  The  first  name  was  derived 
from  Molina,  a  Jesuit,  who  endeavoured  to  establish  a 
sort  of  accord  between  the  Almighty's  prescience  and 
man's  free  will,  which  gave  the  latter  power  to  choose, 
and  sufficing  grace  to  choose  well.  The  Jesuits  were 
zealous  in  supporting  the  doctrine  of  one  of  their  order. 
They  discussed  the  points  in  question  with  so  much 
acrimony  that  they  laid  themselves  open  to  as  violent 
attacks  _;  they  were  opposed  in  particular  by  the  domi- 
nicans;  the  dispute  was  carried  on  in  Rome,  before 
assemblies  instituted  to  decide  upon  it ,  but  which  took 
care  to  decide  nothing;  and  the  pope  ended,  by  ordering 
the  two  parties  to  live  in  peace.  Meanwhile  Cornelius 
Jansen,  bishop  of  Ypres,  wrote  a  book  on  saint  Augus- 
tin,  which  was  not  published  till  after  his  death  :  this 
book,  which  supported  the  notion  of  election  by  God, 
was  taken  up  by  the  adversaries  of  the  Jesuits  (here- 
after called  jansenists,  the  name  of  the  bishop  being 
latinised  into  Jansenius),  and  they  called  attention  to 
it.  The  Jesuits  selected  five  propositions,  which  they 
said  they  found  in  it,  on  the  subject  of  grace  and 
election ;  and  these  were  condemned  as  heretical. 
Antoine  Arnaud  rose  as  their  advocate.  The  Jesuits 
detested  him  for  his  father's  sake,  who  had  pleaded  the 
cause  of  the  university  of  Paris  against  them,  and 
gained  it.  Arnaud  declared  that  he  had  read  the  work 
of  Jansenius,  and  could  not  find  the  five  condemned  pro- 
positions in  it,  but  acknowledged  that,  if  they  were  there, 
they  deserved  condemnation.  The  Sorbonne  exclaimed 
against  this  declaration  as  "  rash;"  for,  as  the  pope  had 
condemned  these  propositions  as  being  enounced  by  Jan- 


PASCAL.  201 

senius,  of  course  they  were  contained  in  his  book.*  It 
was  considered  necessary  that  Arnaud  should  reply  to  this 
attack ;  but,  though  a  learned  man,  an  eloquent  writer, 
and  a  great  theologian,  his  defence  was  addressed  to  the 
studious  rather  than  the  public,  and  it  gained  no  partisans. 
It  was  far  otherwise  when  Pascal  took  up  his  pen,  and,  1655, 
under  the  name  of  Louis  de  Montalte,  published  his  first  ,Etat. 
letter  a  un  Provincial;  it  was  written  in  a  popular,  yet  33. 
clear  and  conclusive  manner,  and  in  a  style  at  once  so  ele- 
gant, perspicuous,  and  pure,  that  a  child  might  read  and 
understand,  while  a  scholar  would  study  the  pages  as  a 
model  for  imitation.  The  success  of  this  letter  was 
prodigious  :  it  did  not  however  change  the  proceedings 
of  the  Sorbonne;  it  assembled — its  sittings  were  crowded 
with  monks  and  mendicant  friars,  ignorant  men  whose 
opinions  were  despicable,  but  whose  votes  counted. 
Arnaud's  work  was  condemned,  and  he  himself  expelled 
the  Sorbonne.  This  sentence  roused  Pascal  to  continue 
his  labours.  He  wrote  another  letter,  which  met  with 
equal  approbation  ;  but  the  success  only  served  to  irritate 
Arnaud's  enemies  ;  they  obtained  another  censure  of  the 
five  propositions  from  the  pope,  and  insisted  on  all  sus- 
pected persons  signing  a  formula  in  which  they  were 
renounced.  The  nuns  of  Port  Royal  were  called  on 
to  put  their  names,  and,  on  their  resistance,  they  were 
threatened  with  the  destruction  of  their  house,  and  dis- 
persion. 

At  this  moment,  a  singular  circumstance  occurred, 
which  to  this  day  is,  by  many,  considered  a  miracle.  A 
sacred  relic,  one  of  the  thorns  of  our  Saviour's  crown  of 
thorns,  had  been  lately  brought  to  Paris.  To  a  protest- 
ant  the  pretence  of  the  existence  of  such  a  relic  is  ri- 
diculous, but  the  catholic  church  has  always  upheld  a 
belief  in  the  miraculous  preservation  of  these  instruments 
of  our  Saviour's  passion  and  death.     The  holy  thorn 

•  Innocent  X.,  in  condemning  n-.  c  propositions,  did  not  cite  the  pas- 
sages in  which  they  were  to  be  found;  and,  in  fact,  they  are  not  quoted 
with  verbal  correctness.  Voltaire  asserts  that  they  are  to  be  found  there 
inspirit;  and  he  cites  passages  which  establish  his  assertion.  Steele  de 
Louis  XIW,  chap,  xxxvii. 


202 


LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 


"was  carried  to  many  convents^  and  among  others  to 
Port  Royal,  and  all  the  inhabitants  went  in  procession^ 
and  kissed  it.  Among  them  was  a  niece  of  Pascal, 
daughter  of  madame  Perier.  She  had  been  long  ill  of  a 
fistula  in  an  eye  :  she  touched  the  wound  with  the  relic^ 
and  it  healed  at  once.*  The  news  of  this  miracle  was 
spread  abroad  ;  it  was  believed,  and  all  Paris  flocked  to 
the  convent.  A  religious  house,  the  scene  of  an  actual 
miracle,  was  considered  too  highly  favoured  by  God  to 
be  persecuted  ;  the  nuns  and  the  jansenists  triumphed  ; 
the  Jesuits  were,  for  the  time,  silent  and  abashed.  To 
add  to  their  defeat,  Pascal  continued  to  write  his 
Letters  to  a  Provincial,  attacking  the  society  with  the 
arms  of  wit  and  eloquence.  The  Jesuitical  system  of 
morality,  full  of  mental  reservation  and  ambiguity  — 
its  truckhng  to  vice,  and  contradiction  to  the  simple 
but  sublime  principles  of  the  gospel,  afforded  him  a  wide 
field  for  censure.  He  wrote  not  a  mere  controversial 
work,  interesting  to  theologians  only,  but  a  book  ad- 
dressed to  all  classes.  It  gained  immediate  attention  ; 
and  its  eloquence  and  beauty  have  secured  its  immor- 
tality.t 

*  Madame  Perier,  in  the  life  she  has  written  of  her  brother,  mentions 
the  miraculous  cure  of  her  daughter  :  "  This  fistula,"  she  says,  "  was  of 
so  bad  a  sort,  that  the  cleverest  surgeons  of  Paris  considered  it  incurable. 
Nevertheless  she  was  cured  in  a  moment  by  the  touch  of  the  holv  thorn  ; 
and  this  miracle  was  so  authentic,  that  it  is  acknowledged  by  every  body." 
Racine,  in  his  fragment  of  a  History  of  the  Abbey  of  Port  Royal,  details 
the  whole  circumstance  with  elaborate  faith  in  the  most  miraculous  ver. 
sion  of  it.  He  says,  that  such  was  the  simplicity  of  the  nuns,  that  though 
the  cure  took  place  on  the  instant,  they  did  not  mention  the  miracle  for 
several  days,  and  some  time  elapsed  before  it  was  spread  abroad.  Voltaire 
says,  that  persons  who  had  known  mademoiselle  Perier  told  him  that  her 
cure  was  very  long.  Still  some  circumstance  must  have  made  it  appear 
short,  or  so  universal  a  belief  in  a  miracle,  sufficient  at  the  time  to  con- 
found the  Jesuits,  could  not  have  been  sjjread  abroad  ;  nor  would  her  uncle, 
Pascal,  the  most  upright  and  single-minded  of  men,  have  given  it  the  sup- 
port of  his  testimony. 

f  Boileau's  adm.i'ration  for  Pascal  was  unbounded.  He  declared  the 
*'  Lettres  Provinciales"  to  be  the  best  work  in  the  French  language.  Ma- 
dame de  Sevigne,  in  her  letters,  narrates  a  whimsical  scene  that  took  place 
between  him  and  some  Jesuits.  Their  conversation  turning  on  literary 
subjects,  Boileau  declared  that  there  was  only  one  modern  book  to  be  com- 
pared to  the  works  of  the  ancients.  Bourdaloue  begged  him  to  name  it. 
Boileau  evaded  the  request.  "  You  have  read  it  more  than  once,  I  am 
sure,"  he  said,  "  but  do  not  ask  me  its  name."  The  Jesuit  insisted  ;  and 
Boileau,  at  last,  taking  him  by  the  arm,  exclaimed,  "  You  are  determined 
to  have  it,  father  ;  well,  it  is  Pascal."  "  Morbleu  .'  Pascal !"  cried  Bour- 
daloue, astonished.  "  Yes,  certainly  Pascal  is  as  well  written  as  any  thing 
false  can  be."    "  False!"  exclaimed  Boileau,  "  False!  Know  that  he  is  as 


PASCAL.  203 

The  success  of  this  book,  the  activity  of  his  mind, 
and  his  sedulous  study  of  theology,  naturally  led 
Pascal  to  conceive  the  project  of  other  works.  The 
scope  of  that  which  principally  engaged  his  atten- 
tion was,  a  refutation  of  atheists.  He  meditated  con- 
tinually on  this  subject^  and  put  down  all  the  thoughts 
that  occurred  to  his  mind.  Illness  prevented  him  from 
giving  them  subsequently  a  more  connected  form,  but 
they  exist  as  his  '^  Pensees/'  and  many  of  them  deserve 
attention  and  veneration  ;  while  others,  founded  on  ex- 
aggerated and  false  views  of  human  duties,  are  interesting 
as  displaying  the  nature  of  his  mind.  The  acuteness 
and  severity  of  thought  which  in  early  life  led  him  to 
mathematical  discoveries,  he  now  applied  to  the  truths 
of  Christianity  ;  and  he  followed  out  all  the  consequences 
of  the  doctrine  of  the  church  of  Rome  with  an  uncom- 
promising and  severe  spirit.  Want  of  imagination, 
perhaps,  caused  his  mistakes  ;  for  mistakes  he  certainly 
made.  He  is  sublime  in  his  charity,  in  his  love  and  care 
for  the  poor,  in  his  gentleness  and  humility  ;  but  when 
we  learn  that  he,  a  suffering,  dying  man,  wore  a  girdle 
armed  with  sharp  points  as  a  punishment  for  transient 
and  involuntary  emotions  of  vanity — when  we  find  him 
reprehending  his  sister  for  caressing  her  children,  and 
denouncing  as  sinful  the  most  justifiable,  and  indeed 
virtuous  departure  from  ascetic  discipline,  we  feel  that 
the  mathematical  precision  with  which  he  treated  subjects 
of  morals  is  totally  at  war  with  the  system  of  the  Creator, 
madame  Perier  relates,  that  she  was  often  mortified  and 
hurt  by  his  cold  manner,  and  the  apparent  distaste  with 
which  he  repulsed  her  sisterly  attentions.  She  com- 
plained to  their  sister,  the  nun  ;  but  she  understood 
better  his  motives,  ana  ca.  Gained  how  he  considered  it 


true  as  he  is  inimitable."  On  another  occasion,  a  Jesuit,  father  Bouhours, 
consulted  Boileau  as  to  what  books  he  ought  to  consult  as  models  for  style. 
"  There  is  hut  one."  said  Boileau,  "  read  the  '  Lettres  Provinciales,'  and 
believe  me  that  will  suffice."  Voltaire  pronounces  the  same  opinion  :  he 
calls  Pascal  the  greatest  satirist  of  France  ;  and  says  that  Moliere's  best 
comedies  have  not  the  wit  of  the  first  of  these  Letters,  nor  had  Bossuet 
written  any  thing  so  sublime  as  the  latter  ones. 


204  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

a  virtue  to  love  without  attaching  himself,  and  also 
deemed  it  sin  to  excite  attachment ;  and  proved  that 
notwithstanding  hisapparent  coldness  his  heart  was  warm, 
by  mentioning  the  earnestness  with  which  he  served  her 
on  any  occasion  when  she  needed  his  assistance.  His 
most  active  feeling  was  charity  to  the  poor ;  he  never 
refused  alms,  and  would  borrow  money  on  interest  for 
the  sake  of  bestowing  them ;  and  when  cautioned  that  he 
might  ruin  himself,  replied,  that  he  never  found  that 
any  one  who  had  property  ever  died  so  poor  but  he  had 
something  to  leave.  It  was  a  hard  life  to  which  he 
condemned  himself ;  a  careful  avoidance  of  all  attach- 
ment—  a  continual  mortification  of  his  senses,  and  the 
labour  and  sadness  of  perpetual  association  with  the  suf- 
fering ;  added  to  this,  he  aimed  at  such  a  state  of  ab- 
straction as  not  to  receive  pleasure  from  food  ;  and  aware 
of  an  emotion  of  satisfied  vanity  when  consulted  by  the 
learned  men  of  the  day,  he,  as  has  been  said,  wore  a  girdle 
armed  with  sharp  points,  which  he  struck  into  himself, 
so  to  recal  his  wandering  thoughts.  A  sense  of  duty — 
love  of  God, — perhaps  something  of  pride,  kept  him  up 
long  ;  but  he  sunk  under  it  at  last.  He  spent  five  years 
in  a  rigid  adherence  to  all  his  rules  and  duties  ;  then  his 
fragile  body  gave  way,  and  he  fell  into  a  series  of 
sufferings  so  great,  that,  though  existence  was  prolonged 
for  four  years,  they  were  years  of  perpetual  pain. 
1658.  His  illness  began  by  violent  tooth-ach  ;  he  was  kept 
yEtat.  awake  night  after  night :  during  these  painful  vigils, 
'  '^^'  his  thoughts  recurred  to  the  studies  of  his  youth.  He 
revolved  in  his  head  problems  proposed  by  the  scientific 
men  of  the   day. 

His  attention  was  now  chiefly  engaged  with  the 
solution  of  various  questions  in  the  higher  departments 
of  geometry,  especially  those  connected  with  the  proper- 
ties of  cycloids.  He  succeeded  in  solving  many  pro- 
blems of  great  diflficulty  relating  to  the  quadrature  and 
rectification  of  segments  and  arcs  of  cycloids,  and  the 
volumes  of  solids  formed  by  their  revolutions  round 
their  axes  and  ordinates.     Except  so  far  as  they  form 


PASCAL.  205 

part  of  the  history  of  mathematical  science,  and  illus- 
trate the  powers  of  great  minds,  such  as  that  of  the 
subject  of  this  memoir,  these  problems  have  now  lost 
all  their  interest.  The  powerful  instruments  of  in- 
vestigation supplied  by  the  differential  and  integral 
calculus,  have  reduced  their  solution  to  the  mere  ele- 
ments of  transcendental  mathematics.  At  the  epoch 
when  they  engaged  the  attention  of  Pascal,  before  the 
invention  of  the  modern  methods,  they  were  questions 
presenting  the  most  formidable  difficulties.  To  Pascal, 
however,  they  were  mere  matters  of  mental  relaxation, 
resorted  to  with  a  view  to  divert  his  attention  from  his 
acute  bodily  sufferings.  He  entertained,  himself,  no 
intention  of  making  them  public.  It  was,  however, 
the  wish  of  several  of  his  companions  in  religious 
retirement  that  they  should  be  made  pubUc,  were  it 
only  to  afford  a  proof  that  the  highest  mathematical 
genius  is  not  incompatible  with  the  deepest  and  most 
sincere  christian  faith.  Pascal  yielded,  and,  according 
to  a  custom  which  was  then  usual,  however  puerile  it 
may  now  appear,  he,  in  the  first  instance,  proposed  the  l^-^S. 
several  questions  which  he  solved  as  subjects  for  a  ^^^  " 
prize  to  the  scientific  world.  Many  competitors  pre- 
sented themselves  ;  and  others,  who,  though  not  com- 
peting for  the  prize,  offered  partial  solutions.  Among 
these  were  several  who  have  since  attained  great  cele- 
brity, such  as  Wallis,  Huygens,  Fermat,  and  sir  Chris- 
topher Wren. 

The  prize,  however,  .  -  not  gained,  nor  the  problems 
solved.  In  the  beginning  of  the  year  l659,  Pascal 
published  his  complete  solutions  of  the  problems  of  the 
cycloid,  with  some  other  mathematical  tracts.  These 
admirable  investigations  cannot  fail  to  excite  in  every 
mind  a  deep  regret,  that  a  morbid  state  of  moral  and 
religious  feeling  should  ever  have  diverted  Pascal  from 
mathematical  and  physical  research. 

Meanwhile  his  debility  and  sufferings  increased ;  but 
he  did  not,  on  that  account,  yield,  but  held  fast  by  his 
system  of  self-denial,  practising  himself  in  turning  his 


S06  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

thoughts  resolutely  to  another  subject  when  any 
agreeable  sensation  was  produced^  so  that  he  might  be 
true  to  his  resolve  to  renounce  pleasure,  while  he  bore  his 
pains  with  inconceivable  fortitude  and  patience ;  yet 
they  were  sufficient  to  interrupt  his  studies.  As  the 
only  duty  he  was  capable  of  performing,  he  spent  his 
time  in  visiting  churches  where  any  relics  were  ex- 
posed or  some  solemnity  observed  ;  and  for  this  end  he 
had  a  spiritual  almanack,  which  informed  him  of  the 
places  where  there  were  particular  devotions.  "  And. 
this  he  did,"  says  his  sister,  "  with  so  much  devotion 
and  simplicity,  that  those  who  saw  him  were  surprised 
at  it ;  which  caused  men  of  great  virtue  and  ability  to 
remark,  that  the  grace  of  God  shows  itself  in  great 
minds  by  little  things,  and  in  common  ones  by  large." 
Nor  did  his  sufferings  interrupt  his  works  of  charity, 
and  the  services  he  rendered  to  the  poor.  This  last 
duty  grew  into  the  passion  of  his  heart.  He  counselled 
his  sister  to  consecrate  all  her  time,  and  that  of  her  chil- 
dren, to  the  assistance  of  those  in  want ;  he  declared  this 
to  be  the  true  vocation  of  christians,  and  that  without 
an  adherence  to  it  there  was  no  salvation.  Nor  did  he 
consider  that  the  rich  performed  their  duty  by  con- 
tributing only  to  public  charities,  but  that  each  person 
was  held  to  bestow  particular  and  unremitted  attention 
to  individual  cases.  "  I  love  poverty,"  he  wrote  down, 
'^^  because  Christ  loved  it.  I  love  property,  because  it 
affords  the  means  of  aiding  the  needy.  I  keep  faith  with 
every  one,  and  wish  no  ill  to  those  who  do  ill  to  me. 
I  endeavour  to  be  true,  sincere,  and  faithful  to  all  men. 
I  have  a  tenderness  of  heart  for  those  with  whom  God 
has  most  bound  me ;  and,  whether  I  am  alone  or  in  the 
view  of  men,  I  have  the  thought  of  God  as  the  aim  of 
all  my  actions,  who  will  judge  them,  and  to  whom  they 
are  consecrated."  Such  were  the  sentiments  of  Pascal; 
and  no  man  ever  carried  them  out  with  equal  humility, 
patience,  zeal,  and  fortitude.  His  simphcity  and  sin- 
gleness of  heart  were  admirable ;  all  who  conversed 
with  him  were  astounded  by  his  child-like  innocence 


PASCAL.  207 

and  purity  ;  he  used  no  tergiversation,  no  deceit  with 
himself;  all  was  open,  submissive,  and  humble:  if 
he  felt  himself  guilty  of  a  fault,  he  was  eager  to  repair 
it :  he  attached  himself  to  the  very  letter  and  inner 
spirit  of  the  gospel,  and  obeyed  it  with  all  the  powers 
of  his  nature.  His  memory  was  prodigious,  yet  he 
never  appeared  to  recollect  any  offence  done  to  himself; 
he  declared,  indeed,  that  he  practised  no  virtue  in  this, 
since  he  really  forgot  injuries ;  yet  he  allowed  that  he 
had  so  perfect  a  memory  that  he  never  forgot  any  thing 
that  he  wished  to  remember. 

Meanwhile  his  peace  of  mind  was  disturbed  by  a  1661. 
fresh  persecution  of  the  jansenists,  which  caused  the  -^lat. 
dispersion  of  the  nuns  of  Port  Royal,  and  proved  fatal  ^^* 
to  his  beloved  sister.  The  Jesuits  rose  from  the  over- 
throw, caused  by  the  miracle,  with  redoubled  force,  and, 
if  possible,  redoubled  malice  ;  they  got  the  parliament 
of  Provence  to  condemn  the  "'Lettres  Provinciales"  to 
be  burned  by  the  common  hangman  :  they  insisted  that 
the  nuns  of  Port  Royal  should  sign  the  formula,  and 
on  their  refusal  they  were  taken  violently  from  the 
abbey,  and  dispersed  in  various  convents.  Jaqueline 
Pascal  was  at  this  time  sub-prioress ;  her  piety  was 
extreme,  her  conscience  tender.  She  could  not  per- 
suade herself  of  the  propriety  of  signing  the  formula  ; 
but  the  anticipation  of  the  misery  that  the  unfortunate 
nuns  would  endure  through  their  refusal  broke  her 
heart :  she  fell  ill,  and  died,  as  she  called  herself,  ''  the 
first  victim  of  the  formula,"  at  the  age  of  thirty-six. 
Before  her  profession  as  a  nun,  she  had  displayed  great 
talents;  and  had  even  gained  the  prize  for  poetry  at 
Rouen,  when  only  fourteen  :  her  sensibility  was  great ; 
her  piety  extreme.  Pascal  loved  her  more  than  any 
other  creature  in  the  world ;  but  he  betrayed  no  grief 
when  he  heard  of  her  death.  ''  God  grant  us  grace  to 
die  Hke  her,"  he  exclaimed  ;  and  reproved  his  sister  for 
the  affliction  she  displayed.  It  was  this  question  of 
the  signature  of  the 'formula  that  caused  his  temporary 
dissension    with    the   recluses   of   Port  Royal,     They 


208  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

wished  the  nuns  to  temporise,  and  to  sign  the  formula, 
with  a  reservation ;  but  Pascal  saw  that  the  Jesuits 
would  not  submit  to  be  thus  balked,  and  that  they  were 
bent  on  the  destruction  of  their  enemies.  Instead 
therefore  of  approving  the  moderation  of  the  jansenists, 
he  said,  '^  You  wish  to  save  Port  Royal  —  you  may 
betray  the  truth,  but  you  cannot  save  it."  He  himself 
became  more  jansenist  than  the  jansenists  themselves  ; 
instead  of  arguing,  as  M.  Arnaud  had  done,  that  the  five 
propositions  were  not  to  be  found  in  Jansenius's  work,  he 
declared  that  they  were  in  accordance  with  St.  Paul  and 
the  fathers;  and  inferred  that  the  popes  were  deceived 
when  they  condemned  them.  He  accused  the  recluses  of 
Port  Royal  of  weakness  :  they  defended  themselves;  and, 
the  dispute  becoming  known,  it  was  reported  that  Pascal 
was  converted  ;  for  no  one  could  believe,  as  was  the 
fact,  that  he  was  more  tenacious  of  their  doctrines  than 
they  were  themselves.  His  confessor  aided,  at  first,  this 
mistake,  by  misconceiving  the  tendency  of  some  of  his 
expressions  on  his  death  bed ;  and  it  was  not  till  three 
years  after  Pascal's  death  that  the  truth  became  known. 
At  the  time  we  now  mention,  the  period  of  his  sis- 
ter's death,  his  own  end  was  near  :  decrepid  and  feeble, 
his  life  had  become  one  course  of  pain,  and  each  day 
increased  his  physical  sufferings.  He  became  at  last  so 
ill  as  to  need  the  constant  attentions  of  madame  Perier. 
He  had  given  shelter  in  his  house  to  a  poor  family,  and 
at  this  juncture  one  of  the  sons  had  fallen  ill  of  the 
small-pox.  Fearful  that,  if  his  sister  visited  him,  she 
might  carry  this  illness  to  her  children,  he  consented  to 
remove  to  her  house.  But  her  cares  availed  nothing  ; 
he  was  attacked  by  colics,  which  continued  till  his  death, 
but  which  the  physicians  did  not  believe  to  be  attended 
with  danger.  He  bore  his  sufferings  with  patience ; 
and,  true  to  his  principles,  received  no  attendance  with 
which  he  could  at  all  dispense;  and,  unsoftened  by  pain, 
he  continued  to  admit  the  sedulous  attentions  of  his 
sister  with  such  apparent  repulsion  and  indifference, 
that  she  often  feared  that  they  were  displeasing  to  him. 


PASCAL.  209 

Strange  that  he  should  see  virtue  in  checking  both  his 
own  and  her  sympathy  —  that  diviner  portion  of  our 
nature  which  takes  us  out  of  ourselves,  and  turns  our 
most  })ainful  and  arduous  duties  into  pleasures.*  In 
the  same  spirit,  when  his  sister  lamented  his  sufferings, 
he  observed,  that,  on  the  contrary,  he  rejoiced  in  them: 
he  bade  her  not  pity  him,  for  that  sickness  was  the 
natural  state  of  a  Christian  ;  as  thus  they  are,  as  they  al- 
ways ought  to  be,  suffering  sorrow,  and  the  privation  of 
all  the  blessings  of  life  —  exempt  from  passion,  from 
ambition,  and  avarice  —  ever  in  expectation  of  death. 
"  Is  it  not  thus,"  he  said,  "  that  a  Christian  should  pass 
his  life? — and  is  it  not  a  happiness  to  find  one's  self  in  the 
state  in  which  one  ought  to  place  one's  self,  so  that  all 
one  need  do  is  to  submit  humbly  and  serenely  ?  "  Self- 
denial  thus  became  a  passion  with  this  wonderful  man  ; 
and  no  doubt  he  derived  pleasure  from  the  excess  to 
which  he  carried  it. 

There  was  one  other  passion  in  which  he  indulged, 
that  was  far  more  laudable.  We  compassionate  his 
mistake  when  he  looks  on  the  uselessness  and  help- 
lessness of  sickness  as  a  good,  but  we  admire  him  when 
we  contemplate  his  sublime  charity.  In  his  last  hours 
he  lamented  that  he  had  not  done  more  for  the  poor ; 
more  wholly  devoted  time  and  means  to  their  rehef. 
He  made  his  will,  in  which  he  bestowed  all  that  he 
could,  with  any  justice,  leave  away  from  his  family  ; 

*  He  thus  expresses  his  sentiments  on  individual  attachments  :  "  It  is 
unjust  to  attach  one's  self,  even  though  one  should  do  it  voluntarily  and 
with  pleasure  :  1  should  deceive  those  in  whom  I  call  forth  affection  —  for 
I  cannot  be  the  end  of  any  one,  and  possess  not  that  by  which  they  can  be 
satisfied.  As  I  should  be  culpable  if  I  caused  a  falsehood  to  be  believed, 
alfhouf-h  I  should  persuade  gently  and  was  believed  with  pleasure,  and 
hence  derive  pleasure  myself — so  am  I  culpable  if  I  caused  myself  to 
be  loved,  and  attracted  persons  to  attach  themselves  to  me.  I  ought  to 
undeceive  those  who  are  ready  to  give  faith  to  a  falseliood  in  which  they 
ought  not  to  believe,  and  in  the  same  way  teach  them  that  they  should  not 
attach  tliemselves  to  me;  for  their  lives  ought  to  be  spent 'in  pleasing 
God,  and  seeking  him."  As  if  the  beneficent  Creator  would  not  be  pleased 
in  seeing  his  creatures  linked  by  the  bonds  of  those  very  affections  which 
he  himself  has  made  the  law  of  our  lives.  One  wonders  where  and  how 
Pascal  lived,  that  he  did  not  discover  that  the  worst  crimes  and  vices 
of  mankind  arose  from  want  of  attachment:  and  that  hardness  of  heart, 
pride,  and  selfishness,  would,  in  the  common  run  of  men,  be  the  conse- 
quences of  an  adherence  to  his  creed. 
VOL.  I.  P 


210  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

and  as  he  was  forcedj  through  the  excess  of  his  suffer- 
ings, to  accept  more  of  comfort  and  attention  than  he 
thought  consonant  with  virtue,  he  desired  either  to  be 
removed  to  an  hospital,  where  he  might  die  among  the 
poor,  or  that  a  sick  mendicant  should  be  brought  to  his 
house,  and  receive  the  same  attention  as  himself.  He 
was  with  difficulty  diverted  from  these  designs,  and 
only  gave  in  in  submission  to  the  dictates  of  his  con- 
fessor. 

He  felt  himself  dying  —  his  pains  a  little  decreased, 
when  a  weakness  and  giddiness  of  the  head  succeeded, 
precursors  of  death  :  his  physicians  did  not  perceive  his 
imminent  danger,|  and  his  last  days  were  troubled  by 
their  opposition  to  his  wish  to  take  the  sacrament.  His 
sister,  however,  perceived  that  his  illness  was  greater 
than  was  supposed,  and  prepared  for  the  last  hour, 
which  came  more  suddenly  even  than  she  expected. 
1662.  pjg  ^y^g  Q,-,g  night  seized  with  convulsions,  which  in- 
^Q^'  termitted  only  while  he  roused  himself  to  commu- 
nicate, and,  then  recurring,  they  ended  only  with  his 
life.  He  died  on  the  19th  August,  1662,  at  the  age 
of  thirty-nine. 

We  contemplate  the  career  of  this  extraordinary 
man  with  sentiments  of  mingled  pity  and  admiration. 
He  certainly  wanted  a  lively  imagination,  or  he  would 
not  have  seen  the  necessity  of  so  much  mortification 
and  suffering  in  following  the  dictates  of  the  gospel. 
His  charity,  his  fortitude,  his  resignation,  demand  our 
reverence  ;  but  the  view  he  took  of  human  duties  was 
distorted  and  exaggerated :  friendship  he  regarded  as 
unlawful  —  love  as  the  wages  of  damnation  —  marriage 
as  a  sin  disguised  ;  he  saw  impurity  in  maternal  ca- 
resses, and  impiety  in  every  sensation  of  pleasure  which 
God  has  scattered  as  flowers  over  our  thorny  path. 

A  modern  writer*  has  said,  that  he  pities  any  one  who 
pronounces  on  the  structure  and  complexion  of  a  great 
mind,  from  the  comparatively  narrow  and  scanty  raa- 

*  Lockhart,  in  his  Life  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  vol.  vii. 


PASCAL.  211 

terials  which  can,  by  possibihty,  have  been  placed  before 
him  ;  and  observes,  that  modest  understandings  will 
rest  convinced  there  remains  a  world  of  deeper  mys- 
teries, to  which  the  dignity  of  genius  refuses  to  give 
utterance.  And  thus,  in  all  humihty,  we  despair  of 
penetrating  the  recesses  of  Pascal's  mind,  while  solving 
mathematical  problems  that  baffled  all  Europe ;  writing 
works  replete  with  wit  and  wisdom,  close  reasoning  and 
suphme  eloquence;  and  the  while  believing  that  he 
pleased  the  Creator  by  renouncing  all  the  blessings  of 
life  ;  by  spending  his  time  in  the  adoration  of  relics, 
and  shortening  his  life  by  self-inflicted  privation  and 
torture.  His  works,  replete  with  energy  and  eloquence  as 
they  are,  present  many  of  the  same  difficulties.  We  have 
already  spoken  at  large  of  his  ''  Lettres  Provinciales." 
His  "  Pensees,"  or  Thoughts,  which  he  wrote  on  loose 
scraps  of  paper,  meaning  hereafter  to  collect  them  in 
the  form  of  a  work,  for  the  conversion  of  atheists, 
contain  much  that  is  admirable  and  true,  though  we 
may  be  allowed  to  object  to  some  of  his  reflections.  He 
has  been  praised  for  the  mode  in  which  he  enounces 
the  idea,  that  an  atheist  plays  a  losing  game*  ;   he  had 

*  The  following  is  Pascal's  address  to  Atheists  :  — 

"  I  will  not  certainly  make  use,  to  convince  vou,  of  the  faith  by  which 
we  ascertain  the  existence  of  God,  nor  of  all  the  other  proofs  which  we 
possess,  since  you  will  not  receive  them.  I  will  act  by  your  own  principles, 
and  I  undertake  to  show  you,  by  the  manner  in  which  you  daily  reason  on 
matters  of  less  consequence,  the  way  in  which  you  ought  to  reason  on  this, 
and  the  part  you  ought  to  take  in  deciding  the  important  question  of  the 
existence  of  God.  You  say  we  are  incapable  of  knowing  whether  there  be 
a  God.  Yet  either  God  is,  or  God  is  not  —  there  is  no  medium  :  towards 
which  side,  then,  shall  we  lean  ?  Reason,  you  say,  cannot  decide.  An  in- 
finite gulph  separates  us.  Stake,  toss  up  at  this  distance  ;  heads  or  tails  — 
on  which  will  you  bet  ?  Your  reason  does  not  affirm,  nor  can  your  reason 
deny  one  or  the  other. 

"  Do  not  blame  the  falsehood  of  those  who  have  chosen— you  cannot 
tell  whether  they  are  mistaken  :  No,  you  say  I  do  not  blame  the  choice 
they  have  made,  but  that  they  choose  at  all ;  he  who  chooses  heads  and 
he  who  chooses  tails  are  both  in  the  wrong  — the  right  thing  is  not  to 
make  the  wager. 

"  Yes  ;  but  the  wager  must  be  made.  You  have  no  choice  — you  are  em- 
barked ;  and  not  to  bet  that  God  does  exist,  is  the  same  as  betting  that  he 
does  not.  Which  side  will  you  be  on  ?  Weigh  the  gain  and  loss  of  taking 
that,  that  there  is  a  God.  If  you  win,  you  win  all  :  if  you  lose,  you  lose 
nothing.  Bet  then  that  he  does,  without  hesitation.  Yes,  you  must  wager 
But  perhaps  I  wager  too  much.  Let  us  see.  Since  there  is  equal  risk  of 
gain  or  loss,  even  if  it  were  only  that  you  gain  two  lives  for  one,  it  were 
worth  betting  J  and  if  you  had  ten  to  win,  you  would  be  imprudent  not  to 

p  2 


212  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

far  better  believe^  since  thus  he  gains  the  chance  of 
eternal  happiness^  while  by  disbelief  he  insures  eternal 
damnation.  This  thought,  however,  is  founded  on 
misapprehension,  and  a  want  of  knowledge  of  the  human 
mind.  Belief  is  not  a  voluntary  act  —  it  is  the  result  of 
conviction ;  and  we  have  it  not  in  our  choice  to  be  con- 
vinced. Besides,  love  of  truth  is  a  passion  of  the  human 
soul ;  and  there  are  men  who,  perceiving  truth  in 
disbelief,  cling  to  it  as  tenaciously  as  a  religionist  to  his 
creed.  The  method  of  convincing  infidels  by  com- 
menting on  the  beauty  of  the  morality  of  the  gospel,, 
and  its  necessity  for  the  happiness  of  man,  is  far  more 
conclusive.  On  the  excellence  of  Christianity,  and  the 
benefits  mankind  has  derived  from  its  propagation,  is 
founded  the  noblest  argument  for  its  truth ;  and  he  has 
urged  these  eloquently  and  forcibly  in  other  portions  of 
his  work.  Pascal,  indeed,  must  always  rank  among 
the  worthiest  upholders  of  the  christian  faith  ;  one  who 
taught  its  lessons  in  their  purity,  and  only  erred  by 
being  good  overmuch.     The  same  precision  and  clear- 


risk  your  life  to  gain  ten,  at  a  game  in  which  there  is  so  much  to  be  lost  or 
won.  But  here  there  is  an  infinite  number  of  lives  to  gain,  with  equal 
risk  of  losing  or  winning,  and  what  you  stake  is  so  little  and  of  so  short 
duration  that  it  is  folly  to  fear  hazarding  it  on  this  occasion." 

Pascal  reasons  better  in  the  following  article  : — 

"  We  must  not  deceive  ourselves,  we  are  as  much  body  as  soul,  and 
thus  it  is  that  persuasion  does  not  use  demonstration  only  as  its  instru- 
ment. How  few  things  are  proved  ?  Proofs  only  convince  the  understand, 
ing.  Habit  renders  our  proofs  strong  ;  that  persuades  the  senses,  and  gains 
the  understanding  without  an  exertion  of  its  own.  Who  has  demonstrated 
that  there  will  be  a  to-morrow,  or  that  we  shall  die  ?  and  yet  what  is  more 
universally  believed.  Habit,  then,  persuades  us.  Habit  makes  so  many 
Turks  and  Pagans  :  it  makes  trades,  soldiers,  &c.  We  ought  not,  indeed,  to 
begin  finding  the  truth  through  habit  —  but  we  ought  to  have  recourse  to 
it,  when- once  the 'understanding  has  discerned  the  truth,  so  to  imbibe 
it,  and  imbue  ourselves  with  a  belief  which  perpetually  escapes  from  us  — 
for  to  be  for  ever  calling  the  proofs  to  mind  would  be  too  burdensome. 
We  must  acquire  an  easy  belief — which  is  that  of  habit ;  which,  with- 
out violence,  art,  or  argument,  causes  us  to  believe,  and  inclines  all  our 
faculties  to  faith,  so  that  our  soul  naturally  falls  into  it.  It  is  not  sufficient 
to  believe  by  force  of  conviction,  if  our  senses  incline  us  to  believe  the 
contrary.  We  must  cause  both  parts  to  agree  :  the  understanding  through 
the  reason  that  it  has  once  acknowledged:  and  the  senses,  through  habit, 
by  not  allowing  them  to  incline  the  other  way. 

""  Those  to  whom  God  has  given  religion  as  a  feeling  of  the  heart  are 
happy  and  entirely  convinced.  We  can  only  desire  it  for  those,  who  have 
not  this  by  reason,  until  God  impresses  it  on  the  heart." 


PASCAL.  21S 

ness  of  mind  that  made  him  a  good  mathematician  led 
him  to  excellence  in  the  practice  of  christian  virtues ; 
but  it  also  led  an  adherence  to  the  letter  rather  than  the 
spirit,  and  to  the  taking  up  its  asceticism  in  preference 
to  the  holier  duties  which  are  an  integral  part  of  the 
plan  of  the  creation,  and  form  the  most  important  por- 
tion of  human  life. 


p  3 


214  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 


MADAME  DE  SEVIGNE. 

1626—1696. 

It  appears  ridiculous  to  include  a  woman's  name  in  the 
list  of  "^  Literary  and  Scientific  Men,"  This  blunder 
must  be  excused ;  we  could  not  omit  a  name  so  highly 
honourable  to  her  country  as  that  of  madame  de 
Sevigne,  in  a  series  of  biography  whose  intent  is  to 
give  an  account  of  the  persons  whose  genius  has 
adorned  the  world. 

The  subject  of  this  memoir  herself  would  have  'been 
very  much  surprised  to  find  her  name  included  in  the  list 
of  French  writers.  She  had  no  pretensions  to  author- 
ship ;  and  the  delightful  letters  which  have  immortalised 
her  wit,  her  sense_,  and  the  warm  affections  of  her 
heart,  were  written  without  the  slightest  idea  intruding 
that  they  would  ever  be  read,  except  by  her  to  whom 
they  were  addressed. 

Marie  de  Rabutin-Chantal  was  born  on  the  5th 
February,  1626.  The  family  of  Rabutin  was  a  dis- 
tinguished one  of  Burgundy,  and  Chantal  was  its  elder 
branch.  Her  paternal  grandmother,  Jeanne-Francoise 
Fremiot,  now  canonized,  was  a  foundress  of  a  religious 
institution,  called  the  Sisters  of  Visitation;  which  was 
the  cause  of  a  sort  of  hereditary  alliance  between  her 
grand-daughter  and  the  sisters  of  St.  Mary,  whose 
houses  she  was  in  the  habit  of  visiting  in  Paris,  and 
during  her  various  journeys.  Mademoiselle  de  Rabutin 
lost  her  father  in  her  early  infancy.  When  she  was  only 
a  year  and  a  half  old,  the  English  made  a  descent  upon 
the  isle  of  Rhe,  for  the  purpose  of  succouring  Rochelle. 
M.  de  Chantal  put  himself  at  the  head  of  a  troop  of 
gentlemen  volunteers,  and  went  out  to  oppose  them.  The 
artillery  of  the  enemy's  fleet   was  turned  upon  them. 


SEVIGNE.  215 

and  M.  de  Chantal,  together  with  the  greater  part  of 
his  followers,  were  left  dead  on  the  field.     It  has  been  1^97, 
said  that  he  fell  by  the  hand  of  Cromwell  himself.  The  July 
baron  de  Chantal  was  a  French  noble  of  the  old  feudal    22. 
times ;  when  a  cavaher  regarded  his  arms  and  military 
services  as  his  greatest  glory,  and  as  the  origin  of  his 
rank  and  privileges.      His   daughter  has  preserved   a 
curious  specimen  of  his  independence  in  his  mode  of 
treating  great  men,  and  of  the  impressive  concision  of 
his  letter  writing.      When  Schomberg  was  made  mar- 
shal of  France,  he  wrote  to  him  — 

"  Monseigneur, 
"  Rank — black  beard  —  intimacy. 

"  Chantal." 

By  which  few  words  he  conveys  his  opinion  that 
Schomberg  owed  his  advancement,  not  to  his  valour  nor 
mihtary  exploits,  but  to  his  rank,  his  having  a  black 
beard,  like  Louis  XIII.,  and  his  intimacy  with  that 
monarch.  The  mother  of  mademoiselle  de  Rabutin 
was  Marie  de  Coulanges,  who  was  of  the  class  of  no- 
bihty  distinguished  in  France  as  of  the  robe ;  that  is, 
as  being  ennobled  through  their  having  filled  high  civil 
situations  of  chancellor,  judge,  &c.  She  died  in  l636, 
when  her  daughter  was  only  ten  years  of  age,  and  the 
orphan  fell  under  the  care  of  her  maternal  grandfather, 
M.  de  Coulanges  (her  grandmother,  the  saint,  being 
too  much  occupied  by  her  religious  duties  to  attend  to 
her  grandchild's  welfare  and  education)  :  he,  also,  dying 
the  same  year,  her  guardianship  devolved  on  her  uncle, 
Christophe  de  Coulanges,  abbe  de  Livry.  Henceforth 
he  was  a  father  to  her. 

We  know  nothing,  except  by  conjecture,  of  Marie 
de  Rabutin's  education  and  early  years.  She  says  that 
she  was  educated  with  her  cousin  Coulanges,  who  was 
several  years  younger  than  herself.  He  is  known  to  us 
as  a  gay,  witty,  convivial  man,  whose  reputation  arose 
from  his  talent  for  composing  songs  and  madrigals  on  the 
events  of  the  day,  written  with  that  airiness  and  point  pe- 
p  4j 


216 


LITERARY    AST)    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 


culiar  to  French  productions  of  this  sort.  He  was  quick  and 
clever^  and  the  young  lady  must  have  enjoyed  in  him  a 
merry,  agreeable  companion.  She  tells  us,  also,  that  she 
was  brought  up  at  court ;  a  court  ruled  over  by  cardinal 
de  Richelieu,  who,  though  a  tyrant,  studied  and  loved 
letters,  was  desirous  of  advancing  civilization,  and  took 
pleasure  in  the  society  of  persons  of  talent,  even  if 
they  were  women.  She  was  always  fond  of  reading. 
The  endless  romances  of  Scuderi  were  her  earliest 
occupation  ;  but  she  aspired  to  knowledge  from  more 
serious  studies.  Under  the  care  of  Me'nage  and  Chapelle, 
who  both  admired  her,  she  learnt  Latin  and  Itahan. 
She  must  always  have  possessed  the  delicacy  and  finesse 
of  understanding  that  distinguish  her  letters  :  vivacity 
that  was  almost  wit ;  common  sense,  that  regulated  and 
harmonized  all,  and  never  left  her.  She  was  not,  per- 
haps, what  is  called  beautiful,  even  on  her  first  entrance 
into  the  world,  but  she  was  exceedingly  pretty ;  a 
quantity  of  light  hair,  a  fair  blooming  complexion, 
eyes  full  of  fire,  and  a  person  elegant,  light,  and  airy, 
1644.  rendered  her  very  attractive.  She  married,  at  the  age 
^Etat.  of  eighteen,  Henry,  marquis  de  Sevigne',  of  an  ancient 
^^'     family  in  Britany. 

The  Bretons  even  now  scarcely  consider  themselves 
French.  They  are  a  race  remarkable  for  dauntless 
courage  and  inviolable  fidehty  ;  for  reciitude  and  inde- 
pendence of  feeling,  joined  to  a  romantic  loyalty,  which, 
in  latter  years,  has  caused  them  to  have  a  distinguished 
place  in  the  internal  history  of  France.  M.  de  Se- 
vigne was  not  quite  a  man  fitted  to  secure  the  felicity 
of  a  young  girl,  full  of  abihty,  warmth  of  heart,  and 
excellent  sense.  He  was  fond  of  pleasure,  extravagant 
in  his  expenses,  heedless,  and  gay.  In  the  first  instance, 
however,  the  marriage  was  a  happy  one.  The  bori 
temps  de  la  regence  were,  probably,  the  bon  temps  of 
1647.  madame  de  Sevigne's  life.  She  bore  two  children,  a 
iEtat.  son  and  a  daughter.  Her  letters  at  this  period  are  full 
-^-  of  gaiety :  there  is  no  trace  of  any  misfortune,  nor 
any  sorrow. 


SEVIGNE.  ^17 

M.  de  Sevigne  was  related  to  the  celebrated  cardinal 
de  Retz,  in  those  days  coadjutor  to  the  archbishop  of 
Paris.  When  France  became  distracted  by  civil  broils^ 
this  connection  caused  him  to  adhere  to  the  party  of 
the  Fronde.  His  wife  partook  in  his  politics,  and  was  a 
zealous  Frondeuse.  We  have  traces  in  all  her  after 
life  of  the  intimacies  formed  during  the  vicissitudes  of 
these  troubles.  She  continued  warmly  attached  to  the 
ambitious  turbulent  coadjutor,  whose  last  years  were 
spent  so  differently  from  his  early  ones,  and  on  whom 
she  lavishes  many  encomiums  :  she  was  intimate  with 
mademoiselle  de  Montpensier,  daughter  of  Gaston,  duke 
of  Orleans ;  but  her  chief  friend  was  the  duchess  de 
Chatillon,  whom  she  called  her  sister.  Several  letters  1649. 
that  passed  between  her  and  her  cousin  Bussy-Rabutin^^tat. 
during  the  blockade  of  Paris  by  the  prince  de  Conde,  are  ^'^• 
preserved.  He  sided  with  the  court,  and  wrote  to  ask 
his  cousin  to  interfere  to  obtain  for  him  his  carriage  and 
horses,  left  behind  in  Paris  when  the  court  escaped  to 
St.  Germain  :  —  "  Pray  exert  yourself,"  he  writes  :  ''  it 
is  as  much  your  affair  as  mine  ;  as  we  shall  judge,  by 
your  success  in  this  enterprise,  in  what  consideration 
you  are  held  by  your  party  ;  that  is  to  say,  we  shall 
have  a  good  opinion  of  your  generals,  if  they  pay  the 
attention  they  ought  to  your  recommendation."  She 
failed  ;  and  Bussy-Rabutin  writes,  ''  So  much  the  worse 
for  those  who  refused  you,  my  fair  cousin.  I  do  not 
know  if  it  will  profit  them  anything,  but  I  am  sure  it 
does  them  no  honour." 

We  have  mentioned,  in  the  memoir  of  the  duke  de 
la  Rochefoucauld,  the  depraved  state  of  French  society 
during  the  wars  of  the   Fronde.      Madame  de  Sevigne 
kept  herself  far  aloof  from  even  the  suspicion  of  mis- 
conduct, but  her  husband  imbibed  the  contagion.      The 
name  of  his  mistress,  Ninon  de  I'Enclos,  gave  a  celebrity  1650. 
to  his  infidelity  infinitely  painful  to  his  wife.     Madame  -Etat. 
de  Sevigne  felt  her  misfortune,  but  bore  it  with  dignity   ^'^' 
and  patience.     Not  long  after  she  had  cause  to  congra- 
tulate herself  on  her  forbearance,  when  her  husband  was 


218  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

kiUed  in  a  duel  by  the  chevalier  d' Albret.  The  occasion 
of  the  combat  is  not  known,  but  such  were  too  frequent 
in  the  days  of  the  Fronde.  The  inconstancy  of  her 
husband  did  not  diminish  the  widow's  grief :  she  had 
lived  six  happy  years  of  a  brilliant  youth  with  him  ;  his 
gay,  social  disposition  was  exactly  such  as  to  win  affec- 
tion ;  and,  when  he  was  lost  to  her  for  ever,  she  pro- 
bably looked  on  her  jealousy  in  another  light,  and  felt 
how  trivial  such  is  when  compared  with  the  irreparable 
stroke  of  death.  Her  sorrow  was  profound.  Her  uncle, 
the  abbe  de  Coulanges,  was  her  best  friend  and  consoler. 
He  drew  her  attention  to  her  duties,  and  assisted  her  in 
the  arduous  task  of  managing  her  affairs,  embarrassed 
by  her  husband's  extravagance.  She  had  two  young 
children,  and  their  education  was  her  chief  and  dearest 
care,  and  she  was  thus  speedily  recalled  to  active  life. 

Her  widowhood  was  exemplary.  Left  at  four-and- 
twenty  without  her  husband's  protection,  in  the  midst 
of  a  society  loosened  from  all  moral  restrictions,  in 
which  the  highest  w^ere  the  most  libertine,  no  evil  breath 
ever  tainted  her  fair  fame.  Her  cousin,  Bussy-Rabu- 
tin*,  who  has  distilled,  from  a  venomous  pen,  poison 

*  Roger  de  Rabutin,  cnmte  de  Bussy,  was  one  of  those  unfortunate  men 
who,  from  some  malconformity  in  the  structure  of  their  minus,  inherit  in- 
famy from  the  use  thev  make  of  their  talents.  His  youth  was  spent  in 
gambling,  dissipation,  duels,  and  all  the  disorders  of  a  disorderly  period. 
He  was  in  the  army  during  his  early  years,  and  became  attached  to  the  great 
Conde.  He  served  under  him  when  that  prince  blockaded  Pans,  and  was  one 
of  the  faction  of  young  men  of  quality  who  attempted  to  govern  the  court  on 
its  return,  and  who  received  the  name  of  Petits-Maiires  from  the  witty  Pa- 
risians, a  name  afterwards  preserved  to  designate  young  coxcombs  of  fashion 
in  almost  all  countries.  When  Conde  was  arrested,  he  made  war  against 
the  king  in  Berri.  When  liberated,  he  abandoned  him.  Insolent  and  pre- 
sumptuous, he  made  an  enemv  of  this  great  man  as  well  as  of  Turenne. 
Bussy  attacked  the  latter  in'a  dull  epigram.  Turenne's  reply  was  far  more 
witty  :  he  wrote  to  the  king,'  that  "  Bussy  was  the  best  officer,  for  songs, 
that  he  had  in  his  troop."  In  like  manner,  he  at  first  paid  his  court  to 
Fouquet,  and  afterwards  caballed  against  him.  He  had  frequently  been  im- 
prisoned in  the  Bastile.  In  1.569  he  was  exiled.  He  amused  himself  during  his 
banishment  by  writing  his  "  Amours  des  Gaules,"  a  scandalous  history  of 
the  time,  whose  wit  cannot  redeem  the  infamy  attached  to  his  becoming  the 
betrayer  and  chronicler  of  the  faults  and  misfortunes  of  his  friends.  Allowed 
to  return  to  court,  he  entered  into  a  cabal  for  the  ruin  of  the  duchesse  de 
la  Valliere—  his  own  was  the  consequence.  Deprived  of  his  employment, 
imprisoned  in  the  Bastile,  and  afterwards  exiled,  he  drank  deep  of  the  cup 
of  disappointment  and  mortification.  Hecontinucd  his  work  in  his  retreat ; 
but  the  exercise  of  malice  and  calumny  did  not  compensate  for  being 
driven  from  the  arena  on  which  he  delighted  to  figure.  Sixteen  years  after, 
wards  he  was  allowed  to  return  to  court;  but  it  had  then  lost  its  charms, 
especially  as  the  king  did  not  regard  him  with  an  eye  of  favour,  so  he  re- 


SEVIGNE.  219 

over  the  reputation  of  almost  every  Frenchwoman  of 
that  period,  says  not  a  word  against  her,  except  that  she 
encouraged  sometimes  the  friendship  of  those  who  loved 
her.  No  hlame  can  arise  from  this.  It  was  necessary 
for  the  advancement  of  her  children  that  she  should  se- 
cure the  support  and  friendship  of  people  in  power. 
She  hved  in  a  court  surrounded  by  a  throng  of  society  : 
she  felt  safe,  since  she  could  rely  on  herself;  and 
prudery  would  only  have  made  her  enemies,  without  any 
good  accruing.  The  only  friend  she  had  who  did  not 
deserve  the  distinction  was  Bussy-Rabutin ;  but  he  be- 
ing a  near  relation,  and  she  the  head  of  their  house,  she 
showed  her  kindness  and  her  prudence  by  continuing  to 
admit  him  to  the  honour  of  her  intimacy.  In  his  letters 
he  alludes  to  the  admiration  that  Fouquet  felt  for  her  ; 
and  we  find  that  her  friendship  for  him  continued  un- 
alterable to  the  last.  Bussy  rallies  her,  also,  on  the  admi- 
ration of  the  prince  de  Conti : — ''  Take  care  of  yourself, 
my  fair  cousin,"  he  writes :  ''  a  disinterested  lady  may, 
nevertheless,  be  ambitious ;  and  she  who  refused  the 
financier  of  the  king  may  not  always  resist  his  majesty's 
cousin.  You  are  a  httle  ingrate,  and  will  have  to  pay 
one  day  or  another.  You  pursue  virtue  as  if  it  were  a 
reality,  and  you  despise  wealth  as  if  you  could  never 
feel  the  want  of  it :  we  shall  see  you  some  day  regret 
all  this."  Again  he  writes,  ''  One  must  regulate  one- 
self by  you ;  one  is  too  happy  in  being  allowed  to  be 
your  friend.  There  is  hardly  a  woman  in  the  kingdom, 
except  yourself,  who  can  induce  your  lovers  to  be  satis- 
fied with  friendship  :  we  scarcely  see  any  who,  reject- 
ing love,  are  not  in  a  state  of  enmity.  I  am  certain 
that  it  requires  a  woman  of  extraordinary  merit  to  turn 
a  lover  into  a  friend,"  And  again,  "  I  do  not  know 
any  one  so  generally  esteemed  as  yourself:  you  are  the 
dehght  of  the  human  race  ;  antiquity  would  have  raised 
altars  to  you ;  and  you  would  assuredly  have  been  the 


turned  once  again  to  his  country  retreat.  He  died  in  1693,  aged  seventy- 
one.  Ill  brought  up  and  uneducated,  wit,  sharpened  by  malice,  was  his 
chief  talent.  He  wrote  a  purestyle.but  his  letters  are  stiff  and  dull ;  and  his 
chief  work  is  remarkable  for  its  license  and  malice  rather  than  for  talent. , 


220  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

goddess  of  something.  In  our  own  times_,  not  being  so 
prodigal  of  incense,  we  content  ourselves  with  saying 
that  there  does  not  exist  a  woman  of  your  age  more 
virtuous  and  more  charming.  I  know  princes  of  the 
blood,  foreign  princes,  nobles  of  high  rank,  great  cap- 
tains, ministers  of  state,  magistrates,  and  philosopliers, 
all  ready  to  be  in  love  with  you.  What  can  you  desire 
more?  "  This  language  deserves  quoting  only  as  evidence 
of  the  sort  of  ordeal  Madame  de  Sevigne  passed  through. 
While  receiving  all  this  flattery,  she  was  never  turned 
aside  from  her  course.  To  educate  her  children,  take 
care  of  their  property,  secure  such  a  place  in  society  as 
would  be  advantageous  to  them,  and  to  render  her  uncle's 
life  happy,  were  the  objects  of  her  life.  She  was  very 
fortunate  in  her  uncle,  whose  kindness  and  care  were 
the  supports  of  her  hfe.  Her  obligations  to  him  are  ap- 
parent from  the  letter  she  wrote  many  years  after,  on 
his  death:  — "  I  am  plunged  in  sorrow:  ten  days  ago 
I  saw  my  dear  uncle  die,  and  you  know  what  he  was  to 
his  dear  niece.  He  has  conferred  on  me  every  benefit 
in  the  world,  either  by  giving  me  property  of  his  own, 
or  preserving  and  augmenting  that  of  my  children.  He 
drew  me  from  the  abyss  into  which  M.  de  Sevigne's 
death  plunged  me :  he  gained  lawsuits;  he  put  my 
affairs  into  good  order;  he  paid  our  debts;  he  has 
made  the  estate  on  which  my  son  lives  the  prettiest  and 
most  agreeable  in  the  world."  She  was  fortunate,  also, 
in  her  children,  whom  she  passionately  loved.  But  it 
must  be  remembered  that  children  do  not  entirely  oc- 
cupy a  parent's  time.  She  afterwards  regretted  that 
her  daughter  had  been  brought  up  in  a  convent;  but,  in 
sending  her  there,  she  acted  in  accordance  with  the 
manners  of  the  times.*  While  her  children  were  away, 
and  when  she  came  up  to  Paris  from  her  country  house, 
she  diversified  her  life  by  innocent  pleasures.  She  en- 
joyed good  society,  and  adorned  it.  She  was  one  of  the 
favourites  of  the  Hotel  de  Rambouillet,  where  met  a 

*  "  J'admire  comment  j'eus  le  courage  de  vous  y  mettre  (au  couvent) ;  la 
pensee  de  vous  voir  souvent,  ct  de  vous  en  retirer  me  fit  resoudre  ii  cette 
barbaric,  qui  etoit  trouvee  alors  une  bonne  conduite,  et  une  chose  neces- 
saire  k  votre  education." — Lettre  a  Mad.  de  Grignan,  6  May,  1676, 


scVIGNlS.  221 

knot  of  people_,  who,  however  they  might  err  in  affecta- 
tion and  over  refinement,  were  celebrated  for  talent  and 
virtue.  She  was  a  friend  of  Julie  d'Augennes,  after- 
wards madame  de  Montauzier  ;  and  the  Alcovistes  of 
the  set  were  her  principal  friends.  Menage  mentions 
her  with  admiration,  and  was  accustomed  to  relate 
several  anecdotes  concerning  her.  He  went  to  visit  her 
in  Britany,  a  great  undertaking  for  a  Parisian.  The 
chevaher  de  Mere,  one  of  the  most  affected  and  exag- 
gerated of  the  Precieuses,  and  also  the  count  de  Lude, 
whom  Menage  mentions  as  one  of  the  four  distinguished 
sayers  of  hon  mots  of  the  time,  were  chief  among  her 
friends  and  admirers. 

Her  cousin  Bussy-Rabutin  quarrelled  with  her.  The 
occasion  is  not  known ;  but  it  is  suspected  that  she  re- 
fused to  exert  herself  to  re-establish  him  in  the  favour 
of  Fouquet,  who  was  displeased  with  him.  The  infamy 
of  his  proceeding  is  almost  unexampled.  He  included 
mention  of  her  in  the  portion  of  his  scandalous  publica- 
tion of  the  '^  Amours  des  Gaules  "  published  I659.  In 
this  he  does  not  accuse  her  of  misconduct,  but  he  re- 
presents her  economy  as  avarice,  her  friendship  as 
coquetry  ;  and  added  to  this  the  outrage  of  raking  up 
and  publishing  the  misfortunes  of  her  married  life, 
which,  though  they  redounded  to  her  credit,  must  have 
deeply  hurt  a  woman  of  feeling  and  delicacy.  She 
never  forgave  her  cousin  ;  and,  though  afterwards  re- 
conciled to  him,  it  is  evident  that  she  never  regarded 
him  with  esteem.  In  addition  to  this  annoyance, 
her  career  was  not  entirely  sunny.  Her  warm  heart 
felt  bitterly  the  misfortunes  that  befel  her  friends. 
Her  first  sorrow  of  this  kind  was  the  imprisonment, 
banishment,  and  adversity  of  cardinal  de  Retz.  He 
deserved  his  downfal,  —  but  not  in  her  eyes.  She  only 
saw  his  talents  and  amiable  qualities ;  and  viewed  in 
him  a  powerful  friend,  now  overthrown.  His  impri- 
sonment embittered  two  years  of  her  life.  Her  hus- 
band's uncle,  the  chevalier  de  Sevigne,  took  an  active 
part  in  his  escape  from  the  citadel  of  Nantes  ;  but  this 
did  not  restore  him  to  his  friends.     He  was  obliged  to 


222  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

take  refuge  in  Spain  ;  and  did  not  return  to  France  for 
many  years,  when  he  came  back  an  altered  man. 

Her  next  misfortune  was  the  fall  and  banishment  of 
Fouquet.  It  speaks  highly  for  madame  de  Sevigne"s 
good  sense  and  superior  qualities  that,  while  refusing  a 
man  who,  in  other  instances,  showed  himself  presuming 
from  success  with  other  women,  she  should  secure  him 
as  a  friend.  The  secret  lay  in  her  own  feelings  of 
friendship,  which  being  sincere,  and  yet  strictly  limited, 
she  acquired  his  esteem  as  well  as  affection.  Fouquet 
was  a  munificent  and  generous  man,  of  a  superior  un- 
derstanding and  unbounded  ambition.  He  dissipated 
the  finances  of  the  state  as  he  spent  his  own ;  but  he 
could  bestow  as  well  as  take,  as  he  proved  when,  on 
getting  his  place  of  procureur-general  to  the  par- 
liament, he  sent  in  the  price  (14,000  francs)  to  the 
public  treasury.  The  entertainment  he  gave  Louis  XIV. 
atVaux,  which  cost  18,000,000  of  francs,  was  the  seal 
of  his  ruin,  already  suggested  to  the  king  by  Colbert. 
He  had  made  the  monarch,  already  all  powerful,  fear 
his  victim.  Louis  fancied  that  Fouquet  had  fortified 
Belle  Isle,  and  that  he  had  a  strong  party  within  and 
without  the  kingdom.  This  was  a  mere  mistake,  in- 
spired by  the  superintendent's  enemies,  to  ensure  his 
fall.  Madame  de  Sevigne,  Pelisfon,  Gourville,  and 
mademoiselle  Scuderi  were  his  chief  friends  :  joined 
to  these  was  Pelisson,  his  confidential  clerk.  He  shared 
the  fall  of  his  master,  and  was  imprisoned  in  the 
Bastile;  but,  undeterred  by  fear  from  this,  defended  him 
with  ereat  eloquence.  The  simple-minded,  true-hearted 
La  Fontaine  was  another  of  his  firm  friends  in  adver- 
sity. The  suit  against  him  was  carried  on  for  three 
years.  He  was  pursued  with  the  utmost  acrimony 
and  violence  by  Colbert,  Le  Tellier,  secretary  of  state, 
and  his  rival  in  credit,  and  Seguier,  the  chancellor. 
During  his  trial,  madame  de  Sevigne  wrote  daily  to 
M.  de  Pomponne,  afterwards  minister,  relating  its  pro- 
gress. These  letters  are  very  interesting,  both  from 
the  anecdotes  they  contain^  and  the  warmth  of  feehng 


SEVIGNE.  223 

the  writer  displays.  Fouquet  was  treated  with  the 
utmost  harshness  by  the  chancellor  Seguier,  whom  he 
answered  with  spirit,  preserving  through  all  a  pre- 
sence of  mind,  a  composure,  a  dignity,  and  resolution, 
which  is  the  more  admirable,  since,  in  those  days,  there 
was  no  humiliation  of  language  to  which  the  subjects 
of  Louis  XIV.  did  not  descend,  and  think  becoming, 
as  addressed  to  the  absolute  arbiter  of  their  destiny. 

The  sort  of  interest  and  terror  excited  about  him 
is  manifest,  by  the  fact,  that  madame  de  Sevigne 
masked  herself  when  she  went  to  see  him  return  from 
the  court,  where  he  was  tried,  to  the  Bastile,  his  pri- 
son.* His  trial  lasted  for  more  than  a  month.  The 
proceedings  against  him  were  carried  on  with  the 
utmost  irregularity;  and  this  and  other  circumstances — 
the  length  of  time  that  had  elapsed,  which  turned  the 
excitement  against  him  into  compassion;  the  earnestness 
of  the  solicitations  in  his  favour,  together  with  the  viru- 
lence with  which  he  was  persecuted,  —  all  these  things 
saved  his  life.  Madame  de  Sevigne  announces  this  news 
with  delight : — '^  Praise  God,  and  thank  him  !  Our  poor 
friend  is  saved  !  Thirteen  sided  with  M.  d'Ormesson 
(who  voted  for  hanishment),  nine  with  Sainte  Helene, 
{whose  voice  was  for  death).  I  am  beside  myself  with 
joy.      How  delightful  and  consolatory  must  this  news 

*  II  faut  que  je  vous  conte  ce  que  j'ai  fait.  Imaginez  vous  que  des 
dames  m'ont  propose  d'aller  dans  une  maison  qui  regarde  droit  dans 
I'arsenal  pour  voir  revenir  notre  pauvre  ami.  J'etais  masquee;  je  I'ai  vu 
veiiir  d'assez  loin.  M.  d'Artagnan  etoit  aupres  de  lui ;  cinquante  mous- 
quetaires  a  trente  a  quarante  pas  derniere.  II  parroissoit  assez  reveur. 
Pour  moi,  quand  je  I'ai  appergu,  les  jambes  m'ont  tremble,  et  le  coeur  m'a 
battu  si  fort,  que  je  ne  pouvois  plus.  En  s'approchant  de  nous  pour  entrer 
dans  son  trou  M.  d'Artagnan  I'a  pousse,  et  lui  a  fait  remarquer  que  nous 
etions  1^.  II  nous  a  done  saluees,  et  pris  cette  mine  riante  que  vous  lui 
connoissez.  Je  ne  croie  pas  qu'il  m'a  reconnue,  mais  je  vous  avoue  que  j'ai 
ete  etrangement  saisee  quand  je  I'ai  vu  entrer  dans  cette  petite  porte.  Si 
vous  saviez  combien  on  est  malheureux  quand  on  a  le  coeur  fait  comme  je 
I'ai,  je  suis  assuree  que  vous  auriez  pitie  de  moi ;  mais  je  pense  que  vous 
n'en  etes  pas  quitte  k  meilleur  marciiiS  de  la  maniere  dont  je  vous  connois. 
J'ai  ete  voir  votre  chere  voisine,  je  vous  plains  autant  de  ne  I'avoir  plus, 
que  nous  nous  trouvons  heureux  de  I'avoir.  Nous  avons  bien  parle  de 
notre  cher  ami :  elle  a  vu  Sapho  (mademoiselle  de  Scuderi)  qui  lui  a  re- 
doniie  du  courage.  Pour  moi,  j'irai  demain  le  reprendre  chez  elle  car  de 
temps  en  temps,  je  sens  que  j"ai  besoin  de  reconfort :  ce  n'est  pas  que,  Ton 
ne  dise  mille  choses  qui  doivent  donner  de  I'esperance ;  mais  mon  dieu, 
j'ai  I'imag'mation  si  vive,  que  tout  ce  qui  est  incertain  me  fait  mourir." 
—  Lettre  a  M.  de  Pornponne,  27  NovCDibre,  1664. 


224  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

be  to  you ;  and  what  inconceivable  pleasure  do  those 
moments  impart  which  deliver  the  heart  and  the  thoughts 
from  such  terrible  anxiety.  It  will  be  long  before  1  re- 
cover from  the  joy  I  felt  yesterday  :  it  is  really  too 
complete  ;  I  could  scarcely  bear  it.  The  poor  man  learnt 
the  news  by  air  Qjy  means  of  signals)  a  few  moments 
after;  and  I  have  no  doubt  he  felt  it  in  all  its  extent." 
The  king,  however,  abated  this  joy.  He  had  been  ta'ight 
to  believe  that  Fouquet  was  dangerous  :  fancying  this, 
he  of  course  felt,  that,  as  an  exile,  he  would  enjoy  every 
facility  for  carrying  on  his  schemes.  He  changed  the 
sentence  of  banishment  into  perpetual  imprisonment  in 
Pignerol.  Fouquet  was  separated  from  his  wife  and  fa- 
mily, and  from  his  most  faithful  servants.  At  first  his 
friends  hoped  that  his  hard  fate  would  be  softened.  "  We 
hope/'  writes  madame  de  Se'vigne',  "  for  some  mitiga- 
tion :  hope  has  used  me  too  well  for  me  to  abandon  it. 
We  must  follow  the  example  of  the  poor  prisoner :  he 
is  gay  and  tranquil ;  let  us  be  the  same."  The  king, 
however,  continued  inexorable.  He  remained  long  in 
prison  :  a  doubt  hangs  over  the  conclusion  of  his  life; 
and  it  is  not  known  whether  he  remained  a  prisoner  to 
the  end.     He  died  in  1 680.* 

When  Fouquet's  papers  were  seized,  there  were 
among  them  a  multitude  of  letters  which  compromised 
the  reputations  of  several  women  of  quality.  Madame 
de  Sevigne  had  been  in  the  habit  of  corresponding 
with  him.  The  secretary  of  state,  Tellier,  declared 
that  her  letters  were  les  plus  honnetes  du  monde ;  but 
they  were  written  unguardedly,  in  all  the  thought- 
lessness of  youth.     She  apprehended  some  annoyance 

*  On  the  3d  April,  1680,  Madame  de  Sevigne  writes  to  her  daughter,  "  My 
dear  child,  M.  Fouquet  is  dead.  1  am  grieved.  Mademoiselle  de  Scuderiis 
deeplyafflicted.  Thus  ends  a  life  which  it  cost  so  much  topreserve."Gourville, 
in  his  memoirs,  speaks  of  his  being  liberated  troni  prison  as  a  certain  thing  : 
"  M.  Fouquet,  being  some  time  after  set  at  liberty,  heard  how  1  had  acted 
towards  his  wife,  to  whom  I  had  lent  more  than  a  hundred  thousand 
livres,  for  her  subsistence,  for  the  suit,  and  even  to  gain  over  some  of  the 
judgc»s.  After  having  written  to  thank  me,"  kc.  This  seems  to  set  the  mat- 
ter at  rest.  Voltaire  says,  in  the  "Si^clede  Louis  XIV.,"  that  the  countess 
de  Vaux  (Fouquei's  daughter-in-law)  confirmed  the  fact  of  his  liberation  : 
a  portion  of  his  family,  however,  bebeved  differently  in  after  times.  His  re- 
turn, if  set  free,  was  secret,  and  did  not  take  place  long  before  his  death. 


SJEVIGNE.  225 

from  their  having  fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy, 
and  thought  it  right  to  retire  into  the  country.  Bussy- 
Rabutin  put  himself  forward  at  this  moment  to  support 
her:  a  reconciliation  ensued  between  them,  —  not  very 
cordial,  but  which,  for  some  time,  continued  unin- 
terrupted. 

Madame  de  S^vigne's  retreat  was  not  of  long  con- 
tinuance. It  took  place  when  Fouquet  was  first  ar- 
rested, and  she  returned  to  court  long  before  his  trial. 
Her  daughter  was  presented  in  l663.  The  following 
year  was  rendered  remarkable  by  the  brilliancy  of  the  1664. 
fetes  given  at  Versailles.  *  The  carousals  or  tourn-  -^tai. 
aments  were  splendid,  from  the  number  of  combatants 
and  the  magnificence  of  the  dresses  and  accoutrements. 
The  personages  that  composed  the  tournament  passed  in 
review  before  the  assembled  court.  The  king  repre-  j^g^ 
sented  Roger.  All  the  diamonds  of  the  crown  were  jEtat. 
lavished  on  his  dress  and  the  harness  of  his  horse  :  his  39. 
page  bore  his  shield,  whose  device  was  composed  by  Ben- 
serade,  who  had  a  happy  talent  for  composing  these 
slight  commemorations  of  the  feelings  and  situation  of 
the  real  person,  mingled  with  an  apt  allusion  to  the 
person  represented.  The  queen,  attended  by  three 
hundred  ladies,  witnessed  the  review  from  under  tri- 
umphal arches.  Amidst  this  crowd  of  ladies,  lost 
in  it  to  all  but  the  heart  of  Louis,  and  shrinking  from 
observation,  was  mademoiselle  de  la  Valliere,  the  real 
object  of  the  monarch's  magnificent  display.  The 
cavalcade  was  followed  by  an  immense  gilt  car,  repre- 
senting the  chariot  of  the  sun.  It  was  surrounded  by 
the  four  Ages,  the  Seasons,  and  the  Hours.  Shepherds 
arranged  the  lists,  and  other  characters  recited  verses 
written  for  the  occasion.  The  tournament  over,  the 
feast  succeeded,  and,  darkness  being  come,  the  place  was 
illuminated  by  4000  flambeaux.  Two  hundred  persons, 
dressed  as  fauns,  sylvans,  and  dryads,  together  with 
shepherds,  reapers,   and    vine-dressers,    served    at  the 

•  Voltaire,  Siicle  de  Louis  XIV.  chap.  xxv. 
VOL.  I.  Q 


22 f)  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

numerous  tables ;  a  theatre  arose^  as  if  by  magic,  behind 
the  tables ;  the  arcades  that  surrounded  the  whole 
circuit  were  ornamented  with  500  girandoles  of  green 
and  silver,  and  a  gilt  balustrade  shut  in  the  whole. 
Moiiere's  play  of  the  "  Princesse  d' Elide/'  a<?reeable  at 
the  time  from  the  allusions  it  contained,  his  comedy  of 
the  "^  Mariage  Forcee,"  and  three  acts  of  the  "  Tar- 
tufFe/'  added  the  enduring  stamp  of  genius  to  mere  out- 
ward show  and  splendour.  Mademoiselle  de  Sevigne 
appeared  in  these  fetes.  In  1663  she  represented  a 
shepherdess  in  a  ballet;  and  the  verses  which  Benserade 
wrote  for  her  to  repeat  show  that  she  was  held  in 
consideration  as  one  of  the  most  charming  beauties  of 
the  court,  and  as  the  daughter  of  one  of  its  loveliest 
and  most  respected  ornaments.  In  l664  she  appeared 
as  Cupid  disguised,  as  a  Nereid*;  and  as  Omphale  in 
1665.  We  must  not  forget  that  at  this  very  time, 
while  enjoying  her  daughter's  success,  madame  de  Se- 
vigne was  interesting  herself  warmly  for  Fouquet.  The 
favour  of  a  court  could  not  make  her  forget  her 
friends.  Her  chief  object  of  interest,  as  personally 
regarded  herself  at  this  time,  was  the  marriage  of  her 
daughter.  Her  son  was  in  the  army.  When  only 
nineteen  he  joined  the  expedition  undertaken  by  the 
dukes  of  Noailles  and  Beaufort  for  the  succour  of  Can- 
dia.  On  this,  madame  de  Sevigne  writes  to  the  comte 
de  Bussy,  — "  I  suppose  you  know  that  my  son  is 
gone  to  Candia  with  M.  de  Roannes  and  the  comte  de 
Saint  Paul.  He  mentioned  it  to  M.  de  Turenne,  to 
cardinal  de  Retz,  and  to  M.  de  la  Rochefoucauld.  These 
gentlemen  so  approved  his  design  that  it  was  resolved  on 
and  made  pubhc  before  1  knew  any  thing  of  it.      He  is 

*  In  the  verses  made  on  this  occasion  the  poet  alludes  also  to  the  beauty 
of  her  mother  :  — 

"  Vous  travestir  ainsi,  c'est  bicn  ingenu, 
Amour,  c'est  comme  si,  pour  n'etre  pas  connu, 
Avec  une  innocence  extreme 
Vous  vous  deguisez  en  vous-meme 
Elle  a  vos  traits,  vos  yeux,  votre  air  engageant, 
Et  de  ineme  que  vous,  sourit  en  egorg^ant ; 

Enfin  qui  fit  I'un  a  fait  I'autre, 
Et  jusque  a  sa  mere,  elle  est  conime  la  votre." 


SEVIGNE.  227 

gone.  I  wept  his  departure  bitterly,  and  am  deeply 
afflicted.  I  shall  not  have  a  moment's  repose  during 
this  expedition.  I  see  all  the  dangers,  and  they  destroy 
me;  but  I  am  not  the  mistress.  On  such  occasions 
mothers  have  no  voice."'  She  had  foundation  for  anxi- 
ety, for  few  among  the  officers  that  accompanied  this 
expedition  ever  returned.  The  baron  de  Sevigne  was, 
however,  among  these:  he  had  distinguished  himself; 
and,  as  the  foundation  for  his  mihtary  career,  his  mother 
bought  for  him,  at  a  large  pecuniary  sacrifice,  the  com- 
mission of  guidon,  or  ensign,  in  the  regiment  of  the 
dauphin.  The  marriage  of  her  daughter  was  a  still 
more  important  object.  La  plus  jolie  fiUe  de  France 
she  delights  in  naming  her ;  yet  it  was  long  before  she 
was  satisfied  wnth  any  of  those  who  pretended  to  her 
hand.  At  length  the  count  de  Grignan  offered  him-iegg. 
self.  He  was  a  widower  of  two  marriages :  he  was  ^tat. 
not  young,  yet  his  offer  pleased  the  young  lady,  and  43. 
possessed  many  advantages  in  the  eyes  of  the  mother, 
on  account  of  the  excellent  character  which  he  bore, 
his  rank,  and  his  wealth.  "  I  must  tell  you  a  piece 
of  news,"  madame  de  Sevigne'  writes  to  the  count  de 
Bussy,  "  which  will  doubtless  delight  you.  At  length, 
the  prettiest  woman  in  Fiance  is  about  to  marry,  not 
the  handsomest  youth,  but  the  most  excellent  man  in 
the  kingdom.  You  have  long  known  M.  de  Grignan. 
All  his  wives  are  dead  to  make  room  for  your  cousin, 
as  well  as,  through  wonderful  luck,  his  father  and  his 
son ;  so  that,  being  richer  than  he  ever  was,  and  being, 
through  his  birth,  his  position,  and  his  good  qualities, 
such  as  we  desire,  we  conclude  at  once.  The  public 
appears  satisfied,  and  that  is  much,  for  one  is  silly 
enough  to  be  greatly  influenced  by  it." 

Soon  after  this  period  the  correspondence  began 
which  contains  the  history  of  the  life  of  madame  de 
Sevigne,  —  a  life  whose  migrations  were  not  much  more 
important  than  those  of  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  "  from 
the  blue  bed  to  the  brown  ;"  her  residence  in  Paris  being 
varied  only  by  journeys  to  her  estate  in  Britany,  or  by. 
Q   2 


228  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

visits  to  her  daughter  in  Provence.  But  such  was  the 
vivacity  of  her  mind^  and  the  sensibiht'_^  of  her  heart, 
that  these  changes,  including  separations  from  and 
meetings  with  her  daughter,  assume  the  guise  of  im- 
portant events,  bringing  in  their  train  heart-breaking 
grief,  or  abundant  felicity. 

When  she  accepted  M.  de  Grignan  as  her  son-in-law, 
she  fancied  that,  by  marrying  her  daughter  to  a  courtier, 
they  would  pass  their  lives  together.  But,  soon  after, 
M.  de  Grignan,  who  was  lieutenant-general  to  the 
duke  de  Vendome,  governor  of  Provence,  received  an 
order  to  repair  to  the  government,  Avhere  he  commanded 
during  the  almost  uninterrupted  absence  of  the  duke. 
This  was  a  severe  blow.  Her  child  torn  from  her,  she 
was  as  widowed  a  second  time  :  her  only  consolation 
was  in  the  hope  of  reunion,  and  in  a  constant  and 
voluminous  correspondence.  Mother  and  daughter  in- 
terchanged letters  twice  a  week.  As  their  lives  are 
undiversified  by  events,  we  wonder  what  interest  can 
be  thrown  over  so  long  a  series,  which  is  often  a  mere 
reiteration  of  the  same  feehngs  and  the  same  thoughts. 
Here  lie  the  charm  and  talent  of  madame  de  Sevigne. 
Her  warm  heart  and  vivacious  intellect  exalted  every 
emotion,  vivified  every  slight  event,  and  gave  the  in- 
terest of  talent  and  affection  to  every  thought  and  every 
act.  Her  letters  are  the  very  reverse  of  prosy;  and 
though  she  writes  of  persons  known  to  her  daughter 
and  unknown  to  us,  and  in  such  hints  as  often  leave 
much  unexplained,  yet  her  pen  is  so  graphic,  her  style 
so  easy  and  clear,  pointed  and  finished,  even  in  its 
sketchiness,  that  we  become  acquainted  with  her  friends, 
and  take  interest  in  the  monotonous  course  of  her  life.  To 
give  an  idea  of  her  existence,  as  well  as  of  her  corre- 
spondence, we  will  touch  on  the  principal  topics. 

In  the  first  place,  we  must  give  some  account  of  the 
person  to  whom  they  were  addressed.  Madame  la 
comtesse  de  Grignan  was  a  very  different  person  from 
her  mother.  From  some  devotional  scruples  she  de- 
stroyed all  her  own  letters,  so  that  we  cannot  judge  of 


SEVIGNE.  229 

their  excellence  ;  but  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  she  was 
a  very  clever  woman.  She  studied  and  loved  the  phi- 
losophy of  Descartes ;  and  it  is  even  suspected  that  she 
was,  in  her  youth,  something  of  an  esprit  fort  in  her 
opinions.  She  conducted  herself  admirably  as  a  wife  ; 
she  was  an  anxious  but  not  a  tender  mother.  Here 
was  the  grand  difference  between  her  and  her  mother. 
The  heart  of  madame  de  Sevigne  overflowed  with 
sympathy  and  tenderness ;  her  daughter,  endowed  with 
extreme  good  sense,  wit,  and  a  heart  bent  on  the  ful- 
filment of  her  duties,  had  no  tenderness  of  disposition. 
She  left  her  eldest  child,  a  little  girl,  behind  her,  in 
Paris,  almost  from  the  date  of  its  birth.  Apparently 
this  poor  child  had  some  defect  which  determined  her 
destiny  in  a  convent  from  her  birth  j  for  her  mother 
seems  afraid  of  showing  kindness,  and  shut  her  up  at  the 
age  of  nine  in  the  religious  house  where  afterwards  she 
assumed  the  veil ;  her  vocation  to  the  state  being  very  pro- 
blematical. It  was  through  the  continual  remonstrances 
and  representations  of  madame  de  Sevigne  that  she 
kept  her  youngest  daughter  at  home.  She  v/as  more 
alive  to  maternal  affection  towards  her  son;  but  this  was 
mixed  with  the  common  feehng  of  interest  in  the  heir 
of  her  house.  There  was  something  hard  in  her  cha- 
racter that  sometimes  made  her  mother's  intense  af- 
fection a  burden.  Madame  de  Sevigne's  distinctive 
quality  was  amiability  :  we  should  say  that  her  daughter 
was  decidedly  unamiable.  These  were,  to  a  great  degree, 
the  faults  of  a  young  person,  probably  of  temper :  they 
disappeared  afterwards,  when  experience  taught  her 
feeling,  and  time  softened  the  impatience  of  youth. 
We  find  a  perfect  harmony  between  mother  and 
daughter  subsist  during  the  latter  years  of  the  life  of 
the  former,  and  repose  succeed  to  the  more  stormy 
early  intercourse.  Madame  de  Grignan,  prudent  and 
anxious  by  nature,  spent  a  life  of  considerable  care. 
The  expenses  of  her  husband's  high  situation,  and  his 
own  extravagant  tastes,  caused  him  to  spend  largely. 
Her  son  entered  hfe  early,  and  his  career  was  the  object 
Q  3 


230  ^      LITERARV    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

of  great  solicitude.  Her  health  was  precarious.  All 
this  was  excitement  for  her  mother's  sympathy  ;  and 
her  letters  are  full  of  earnest  discussion^,  intense  anxiety, 
or  lively  congratulation  on  the  objects  of  her  daughter's 
interest;,  and  her  well-being. 

The  next  object  of  her  affection,  and  subject  of  her 
pen,  was  her  son.  He  was  a  man  of  wit  and  talent ; 
but  the  thoughtlessness,  the  what  the  French  call 
legerete  of  his  character,  caused  his  mother  much 
anxiety,  at  the  same  time  that  his  good  spirits,  his 
confidence  in  her,  and  his  amiable  temper,  contributed 
to  her  happiness.  She  often  calls  him  the  best  company 
in  the  world ;  and  laments,  at  the  same  time,  his  pursuits 
and  ill  luck.  He  was  a  favoui-ite  of  the  best  society 
in  Paris,  and,  among  others,  of  the  famous  Ninon  de 
TEnclos.  Ninon  had  many  great  and  good  qualities  ; 
but  madame  de  Sevigne's  dislike  to  her  dated  far  back, 
and  was  justifiably  founded  on  the  conduct  of  her 
husband.  At  the  age  of  thirty-five  Ninon  had  been 
the  successful  rival  of  a  young  and  blooming  wife ;  at 
that  of  fifty-five  the  son  wore  her  chains.*  Madame 
de  Ssvigne  could  never  reconcile  herself  to  this  inti- 
macy. "  She  spoiled  your  father,"  she  writes  to  madame 
de  Grignan,  while  she  relates  the  methods  used  to 
attach  her  son.  Sometimes  this  son,  who  was  brave, 
and  eager  to  distinguish  himself,  was  exposed  to  the 
dangers  of  war ;  sometimes  he  spent  his  time  at  court, 
where  he  waited  on  the  dauphin,  squandering  time  and 
money  among  the  courtiers,  charming  the  circle  by  his 
vanity  and  wit,  but  gaining  no  advancement ;  sometimes 
he  accompanied  his  mother  to  Britany  ;  and  we  find 

♦  At  the  age  of  seventy-six,  madame  de  Sevigne's  grandson,  the  young 
marquis  de  Grignan,  sought  her  friendship  ;  thus,  in  some  sort,  she  reigned 
over  tliree  generations  of  the  same  family.  'I'he  one  fault  of  Ninon  so 
unsexes  her  tliat  we  must  regard  her  character  rather  as  belonging  to  a 
man  than  a  woman.  "  I  saw  the  disadvantages  women  labour  under," 
she  said,  "and  I  chose  to  .'issume  the  position  of  a  man  (et  jeme  fis  homme)." 
She  re;iulated  her  conduct  by  what  was  considered  honourable  in  a  man  — 
honourable,  not  mora!.  Her  talents  and  generous  qualities  caused  her  to 
be  respected  and  loved  by  a  large  circle  of  distinguished  friends.  Madame 
de  Mainteiion  was  her  early  and  intimate  friend  :  even  when  she  became 
devout  she  continued  to  prize  Ninon's  friendship,  and  wrote  to  her  to  give 
good  lessons  to  her  incorrigible  brother. 


SEVIGNE.  231 

him  enlivening  her  solitude,  and  bestowing  on  her  the 
tenderest  filial  attentions.  He  was  an  unlucky  man. 
He  got  no  promotion  in  the  army_,  and^  being  too  im- 
patient for  a  courtier,  soon  got  wearied  of  waiting 
for  advancement.  He  perplexed  his  mother  by  his 
earnest  wish  to  sell  his  commission  ;  and  the  failure  in 
her  projects  of  marriage  for  him  annoyed  her  still 
more.  At  length  he  chose  for  himself:  renouncing  his 
mihtary  employments,  retiring  from  the  court,  and  even 
from  Paris,  he  married  a  lady  of  his  own  province, 
and  fixed  himself  entirely  in  Britany.  His  wife  was  an 
amiable,  quiet,  unambitious  person,  with  a  turn  for  devo- 
tion, which  increased  through  the  circumstance  of  their 
having  no  children.  Madame  de  Sevigne  was  too  pious 
to  lament  this,  now  that  the  destiny  of  her  son  was 
decided  as  obscure,  and  that  she  saw  him  happy :  on 
the  contrary,  she  rejoiced  in  finding  him  adopt  religious 
principles,  which  rendered  his  life  peaceful,  and  his 
character  virtuous. 

The  principal  friends  of  madame  de  Sevigne  were 
united  in  what  she  termed  theFauxbourg,  where  the  house 
of  madame  de  la  Fayette,  then  the  resort  of  the  persons 
most  distinguished  in  Paris  for  talent,  wit,  refinement, 
and  good  moral  conduct,  was  situated.  Madame  de  la 
Fayette,  and  her  friend  the  duke  de  la  Rochefoucauld, 
have  already  been  introduced  to  the  reader  in  the  me- 
moir of  the  latter.  It  would  seem  that  the  lady  was 
not  a  favourite  with  madame  de  Grignan,  and  that,  with 
all  her  talents,  she  was  not  popular ;  but  she  had  ad- 
mirable qualities  ;  the  use  of  the  French  term  vraie  was 
invented  as  applicable  to  her;  for  Rochefoucauld  abridged 
into  this  single  word  Segrais'  description,  that  "  she 
loved  the  true  in  all  things."  This  excess  of  frankness 
gave  her,  with  some,  an  air  of  dryness ;  and  madame  de 
Sevigne's  children  did  not  share  her  affection,  which 
even  did  not  blind  her  to  her  friend's  defects.  Speaking 
of  the  Fauxbourg,  she  says,  ^'  I  am  loved  as  much  as  she 
can  love."  In  an  age  when  there  was  so  much  dis- 
quisition on  character  and  motive,  and  in  a  mind  like 
Q  4 


232  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

inadame  de  Sevigne's,  so  open  to  impression,  and  so 
penetrating,  it  is  no  wonder  that  slight  defects  were 
readily  discerned,  nor  that  they  should  be  mentioned  in  so 
open-hearted  an  intercourse  as  that  between  mother  and 
daughter.  All  liuman  beings  have  blots  and  slurs  in  their 
character,  or  they  would  not  be  human.  We  judge  by  the 
better  part — by  that  which  raises  a  circle  or  an  indi- 
vidual superior  to  the  common  run,  not  by  those  failings 
which  stamp  all  our  fellow- creatures  as  sons  of  Adam. 
Thus,  we  may  pronounce  on  madame  de  la  Fayette  as 
being  one  of  the  most  remarkable  women  of  the  age, 
for  talent,  for  wit,  and  for  the  'sincerity,  strength,  and 
uprightness  of  her  character.  She  suffered  much  from 
ill  health.  Her  society  was  confined  to  that  which  she 
assembled  at  her  own  house  ;  but  that  circumstance  only 
rendered  it  the  more  chosen  and  agreeable. 

M.  and  madame  de  Coulanges  formed  its  ornaments. 
He  was  madame  de  Sevigne's  cousin,  and  brought  up 
with  her,  though  several  years  younger.  His  lively 
thoughtless  disposition  made  him  the  charm  of  society. 
He  was  educated  for  the  bar,  but  was  far  too  vivacious 
to  make  his  way.  He  was  pleading  a  suit  concerning  a 
marsh  disputed  by  two  peasants,  one  of  whom  was 
called  Grappin  :  —  perceiving  that  he  was  getting  con- 
fused in  the  details,  and  in  the  points  of  law,  he  sud- 
denly broke  off  his  speech,  exclaiming,  '^Excuse  me, 
gentlemen,  but  I  am  drowning  myself  in  Grappin's 
marsh :  I  am  your  most  obedient ;"  and  so  threw  up 
his  brief,  and,  it  is  said,  never  took  another.*    He  was, 

*  His  song,  excusing  his  idleness,  is  very  good  :  it  is  in  dialogue  between 
himself  and  the  chief  among  those  who  blamed  him,  the  count  de  Bussy- 
Rabutin. 

"  Air.  — '  Or  nous  dites,  Maiie.' 

BUSSY. 

"  Or  nous  dites,  Coulanges, 
Magistrat  sans  pareil. 
Par  quel  destin  Strange 
Quittez-vous  le  conseil  ? 

Coulanges. 
"  Lisez,  lisez  I'histoire  : 

Vous  verrez  qu'avant  nous 
Les  heros,  las  de  gloire, 
AUaient  planter  des  choux. 


SEVIGNE.  233 

in  youth,  and  continued  to  the  end  of  his  hfe,  a  man  of 
pleasure,  singing  with  spirit  songs  which  he  made  im- 
promptu, and  which,  afterwards,  every  one  learnt  as 
apropos  of  the  events  of  the  day;  a  teller  of  good 
stories,  a  lover  of  good  dinners,  an  enjoyer  of  good  wine; 
charming  every  one  by  the  exuberance  of  his  spirits  ; 
amusing  others^  because  he  himself  was  amused.  He 
loved  books,  he  cultivated  his  taste,  and  collected  pictures, 
joining  the  refinements  and  tastes  of  a  gentleman  to  the 
hilarity  and  recklessness  of  a  boy. 


BUSSY. 

"  Le  bel  exemple  a  suivre 
Que  Dioclttien  ! 
Est-ce  ainsi  qu'il  faut  vivre  ? 
II  n'etoit  pas  chretien. 

COULANGES. 

"  Charles-Quint,  qu'on  admire. 
En  a  bien  fait  autant  : 
Quitta-t'-il  pas  I'enipire 
Pour  etre  plus  content  ? 

BussY. 
"  Oui,  mais  dans  la  retraite 

Savez-vous  ce  qu'il  fit  ? 
Chagrin  dans  sa  chambrette, 
Souvent  s'en  repentit. 

CoULANGES. 

"  La  savante  Christine 
Ne  s'en  repentit  pas ; 
Et  de  cette  heroine 
Je  veut  suivre  les  pas. 

BlISSY. 

"  Mais  d'Azolin  dans  Rome 
Ignorez-vous  les  bruits  ? 
Et  que  ce  galant  homme 
Sut  charmer  scs  ennuis  ? 

CoULANGES. 

"  Du  feu  roi  de  Pologne, 

Monsieur,  que  dites-vous? 
Tranquille  et  sans  vergogne 
II  vient  parmi  nous. 

BUSSY. 

"  Oui,  mais  son  inconstance, 

Moine,  roi,  cardinal, 

Le  fit  venir  en  France 

Mourirk  I'hopitaL 

COCLANGES. 

"  Le  diable  vous  emporte. 
Monsieur,  et  vos  raisons  ! 
Je  vivrois  de  la  sorte 
Et  ferai  des  chansons." 


234  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

His  wife,  a  relation  of  le  Tellier  and  Louvois,  en- 
joyed the  reputation  of  a  wit,  as  well  as  of  being  the 
most  charming  woman  in  Paris.  She  had  good  sense, 
and  was  often  annoyed  by  her  husband's  thoughtlessness, 
Avhich  caused  him  to  degenerate  at  times  into  buffoonery  ; 
while  her  repartees  and  letters  caused  her  to  be  univer- 
sally cited  and  esteemed  *;  and  her  easy  agreeable  con- 
versation made  her  the  delight  of  every  one  who  knew 
her.  The  airiness  of  her  mind  is  well  expressed  in  the 
names  madame  de  Sevigne  g?ves  her  in  her  correspond- 
ence :  la  Mouche,  la  Feuille,  la  Sylphide  all  denote 
a  mixture  of  lightness,  gaiety,  and  grace,  with  a  touch 
of  coquetry,  and  the  piquance  of  wit,  whose  point  was 
sharp,  but  free  from  venom.  When  madame  de  Main- 
tenon  became  the  chief  lady  in  the  kingdom,  she  was 
charmed  to  have  near  her  this  early  friend  and  amusing 
companion.  Madame  de  Coulanges  frequented  court 
assiduously,  but  she  enjoyed  no  place.  Her  species  of 
intellect  was  characteristic  of  the  times.  The  conceits, 
mystifications,  and  metaphysical  flights  of  the  Hotel  de 
Rambouillet  had  given  place  to  wit,  and  to  sententious  and 
pointed,  yet  perspicuous  and  natural,  turns  of  expression. 
Truth  and  clearness,  and  a  certain  sort  of  art,  that 
shrouded  itself  in  an  appearance  of  simplicity,  was  the 
tone  aimed  at  by  those  who  wished  to  shine.  Equivokes, 
sous-entendres,  metaphors,  and  antithesis,  all  kinds  of 
trifles,  sarcastic  or  laudatory,  were  lightly  touched  on, 
coloured  for  a  moment  with  rainbow-hues,  and  vanished 
as  fast :  these  were  the  fashion  ;  and  no  conversation 
was  more  replete  with  these,  and  yet  freer  from  obvious 
pretension,  than  that  of  madame  de  Coulanges.  It  is 
true  that  there  must  always  be  a  sort  of  pedantry  in  an 
adherence  to  a  fashion  ;  but,  when  the  manner  is  grace- 
ful, smiHng,  unaffected,  and  original,  the  pretension  is 
lost  in  the  pleasure  derived.     All  this   was  natural    to 

*  At  the  time  of  the  dauphin's  marriage,  when  madame  de  Coulanges 
was  presented  to  tlie  dauphine,  the  latter  received  her  with  a  compliment 
on  her  wit  and  letters,  of  which  she  had  heard  in  Germany.  At  this  time 
madame  de  Sevign^  writes,  —  "  Madame  de  Coulanges  is  at  St.  Germain: 
she  does  wonders  at  court:  she  is  with  her  three  friends  (mesdames  de 
Richelieu,  de  Maintenon,  and  de  Rochefort)  at  their  private  hours.  Her 
wit  is  a  qualification  of  dignity  at  court." — April  5.  1630. 


SEVIGNE.  235 

madame  de  Coulanges.  Her  confessor  said  of  her, 
"  Each  of  this  lady's  sins  is  an  epigram."  When  re- 
covering from  a  severe  illness,  madame  de  Sevigne  an- 
nounced, as  the  sign  of  her  convalescence_,  '^  Epigrams 
are  beginning  to  be  pointed;"  not  that  by  epigrams 
sarcasms  were  meant,  but  merely  novel  turns  of  ex- 
pression, words  wittily  applied,  ideas  full  of  finesse^ 
that  pleased  by  their  originality.  She  and  her  husband 
were,  perhaps,  too  much  alike  to  accord  well :  she  was 
annoyed  at  his  want  of  dignity,  and  the  heedlessness 
that,  joined  to  her  extravagance,  left  them  poor  and  him- 
self unconsidered.  He  liked  to  be  where  he  was  more 
at  his  ease  than  in  his  wife's  company.  Her  faults, 
however,  diminished  as  she  grew  old.  She  learnt  to 
appreciate  the  court  at  its  true  value.  She  ceased 
her  attendance  on  madame  de  Maintenon ;  but  her  in- 
timacy with  Ninon  de  I'Enclos  continued  to  the  end  of 
her  life.  The  ingratitude  of  her  court  friends,  the 
smallness  of  her  fortune,  her  advancing  age,  and  conse- 
quent loss  of  beauty,  and  her  weak  health,  rendered  her 
neither  crabbed  nor  sad  :  on  the  contrary,  she  became 
indulgent,  gentle,  and  contented. 

Her  husband  preserved  his  characteristics  to  the  end. 
When  exhorted  by  a  preacher  to  more  serious  habits,  he 
replied  by  an  impromptu  :  — 

"  Je  voudrois,  k  mon  age, 
II  en  seroit  le  tempi, 
Etre  moins  volage 
Que  les  jeunes  gens, 
Et  mettre  en  usage 
D'un  vieillard  bien  sage 
Tous  les  sentimens. 

"  Je  voudrois  du  viel  homme 
Etre  separe  ; 
Le  morceau  de  pomme 
N'est  pas  digere."* 

He  died  at  the  advanced  age  of  eighty. 

*  The  best  known  of  his  couplets  are  the  following  philosophic  ones:  — 
"  D'Adam  nous  sommes  tous  enfans : 
La  chose  est  tre-i-connue, 
Et  que  tous  nos  premiers  parens 

Ont  mene  la  charrue  ; 
Mais,  las  de  cultiver  enfin 

Sa  terre  labource, 
L'un  a  detele  le  matin, 
L'autre  I'apres-dinee." 


236 


LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 


During  the  earlier  portion  of  the  correspondence, 
madame  Scarron  figures  as  one  of  the  favourite  guests 
of  the  Fauxbourg.  Her  husband  was  dead,  and  she  was 
living  at  the  Hotel  d'Albret,  among  her  earliest  friends. 
The  latter  correspondence  is  full  of  anecdotes  about  her, 
as  madame  de  Maintenon,  and  indicate  her  gradual  ad- 
vancement ;  but  those  which  speak  of  her  early  days, 
when  she  was  the  charAi  and  ornament  of  her  circle, 
merely  through  her  talents,  and  agreeable  and  excellent 
qualities,  are  the  most  interesting. 

Corbinelli  was  another  chief  friend  of  madame  de 
Sevigne'.  He  was  descended  from  an  Itahan,  who  came 
into  France  on  the  marriage  of  Catherine  de'Medici  and 
Henry  II.  His  father  was  attached  to  marshal  d'Ancre, 
and  was  enveloped  in  his  ruin.  We  have  no  details  of  his 
actual  circumstances,  except  that,  although  he  was  poor, 
his  position  in  society  was  brilliant.  A  stranger,  without 
employment,  without  fortune  or  rank,  he  was  sought, 
esteemed,  and  loved  by  the  first  society ;  while  his 
character  presents  many  contradictions.  Studious  and 
accomplished,  a  man  of  learning  and  science,  he  only 
wrote  compilations.  Something  of  a  sceptic,  he  studied 
religion,  and  became  a  quietist.  Pitied  by  his  friends,  as 
neither  rich  nor  great,  he  passed  a  happy  life  ;  and, 
though  always  in  ill  health,  his  life  was  prolonged  to 
more  than  a  century.  He  was  one  of  madame  de 
Sevigne' s  most  familiar  friends.  In  early  life  he  had 
had  employments  under  cardinal  Mazarin.  He  was  a 
friend  of  the  marquis  de  Vardes,  and  shared  the  dis- 
grace he  incurred,  together  with  Bussy-Rabutin  and 
others,  on  account  of  certain  letters  fabricated,  pretending 
to  be  written  by  the  king  of  Spain,  for  the  purpose  of 
informing  his  sister,  the  queen  of  France,  of  Louis  XIV.'s 
attachment  for  mademoiselle  de  la  Valliere.  This  event 
was  fatal  to  his  fortunes  ;  but  it  developed  his  talents, 
since  he  made  use  of  the  leisure  afforded  by  his  retreat 
for  the  purpose  of  study.  He  applied  himself  to  the 
theories  of  Descartes,  and  became  deeply  versed  in  classic 
literature.  At  one  time  he  turned  his  attention  to  the 
study  of  law,  but  soon  threw  it  aside  with  disgust :  his 


SEVIGNE.  237 

clear  and  comprehensive  understanding  was  utterly  alien 
to  the  contradictions^  subterfuges,  and  confusion  of  old 
French  law.  In  reHgion,  he  sided  with  the  mystics 
and  quietists ;  hut  was  more  of  a  philosopher  than  a 
religionist ;  and  chose  his  party  for  its  being  more  allied 
to  protestant  tenets,  and  because,  M.  de  Sevigne  says_, 
his  mysticism  freed  him  from  the  necessity  of  going 
to  mass.  He  was  a  mixture  of  Stoic  and  Epicurean. 
He  would  not  go  half  a  league  on  horseback,  he  said,  to 
seek  a  throne.  And  thus  he  harmonised  his  temper 
with  his  fortunes,  for  he  was  an  unlucky  man.  "  His 
merit  brings  him  ill  luck,"  madame  de  la  Fayette  said. 
It  may  be  added  that  it  brought  also  a  contented  mind, 
a  friendly  disposition,  and  calm  studious  habits.  An 
amusing  anecdote  is  told  of  his  presence  of  mind  in  ex- 
tricating himself  from  a  dilemma  in  which  he  was  placed. 

Louis  XIV.  learnt  that  the  prince  of  Conti,  and 
other  young  and  heedless  nobles  of  high  rank,  had,  at 
a  certain  supper,  uttered  various  sarcasms  against,  and 
told  stories  to  the  discredit  of,  himself  and  madame  de 
Maintenon.  The  king  wished  to  learn  the  details,  and 
sent  D'Argenson  to  inquire  of  Corbinelli,  who  was 
supposed  to  have  been  at  the  supper.  Corbinelli  was 
by  this  time  grown  old  and  deaf.  ''■  Where  did  you 
sup  on  such  an  evening  }  "  asked  D'Argenson.  "  I  do 
not  remember,"  the  other  replied.  "  Are  you  ac- 
quainted with  such  and  such  princes?"  '*  I  forget." 
'^  Did  you  not  sup  with  them  ? "  ''  I  do  not  in  the 
least  remember.'"'  "It  seems  to  me  that  a  man  like 
you  ought  to  recollect  these  things."  "  True,  sir,  but 
before  a  man  like  you,  I  am  not  a  man  like  myself." 
Madame  de  Se'vigne's  correspondence  with  this  accom- 
plished and  valued  friend  is  lost,  but  her  letters  to  her 
daughter  are  full  of  expressions  of  esteem  and  friend- 
ship towards  him. 

Thus,  in  her  letters,  we  find  all  the  events  of  the  day 
alluded  to  in  the  tone  used  by  this  distinguished  so- 
ciety. Some  of  the  observations  are  witty  and  amusing; 
others  remarkable  for  their  truth,  founded   on  a  just 


238  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

and  delicate  knowledge  of  the  human  heart.*  These 
are  mingled  with  details  of  the  events  of  the  day.  We 
may  mention,  among  others,  the  letters  that  regard  the 
death  of  Turenne.  The  glory  that  lighted  up  that 
name  shines  with  peculiar  brilliancy  in  her  pages. 
His  heroism,  gentleness,  and  generosity  are  all  re- 
corded with  enthusiasm.t      Sometimes  her  letters  re- 

*  Turning  over  her  pages,  we  frequently  find  reflections  such  as  the  fol- 
lowing, which,  from  its  gentleness  and  feeling,  is  singularly  characteristic 
of  the  amiable  writer  : — "  Vous  savez  que  je  suis  toujours  un  peu  entetee  de 
mes  lectures  Ceux  a  qui  je  parle  ont  interet  que  je  lisedebons  livres  :  celui 
riont  il  s'agit  prfesenteinent,  c'est  cette  Morale  de  Nicole  :  il  y  a  un  traite  sur 
les  moyens  d'entretenir  la  paix  entre  les  hommes,  qui  me  ravit :  je  n'ai 
jamais  rien  vu  de  plus  utile,  ni  si  plein  d'esprit  et  de  lumieres.  Si  vous  ne 
I'avez  pas  lu,  lisez-le  ;  si  vous  i'avez  lu,  relisez-le  avec  une  iiouvelle 
attention:  je  croisque  tout  lemondes'y  troiive;  pour  moi,  je  suis  persuadee 
qu'il  a  ete  fait  k  mon  intention  ;  j'espere  aussi  d'en  profiter  ;  j'y  ferai  mes 
efforts.  Vous  savez  que  je  ne  puis  souffrir  que  les  vieilles  gens  disent, '  Je 
suis  trop  vieux  pour  me  corriger  :'  je  jardonnerois  plutot  aux  jeunes  gens  de 
dire, '  Je  suis  trop  jeune.'  La  jeunesse  est  si  aimable,  qu'il  t'audrait  I'adorer, 
si  I'ame  et  I'e.Nprit  etoient  aussi  parfaits  que  le  corps;  mais  quand  on  n'est 
plus  jeune,  c'est  alors  qu'il  faudroit  se  perfe(;tionner,  et  tacher  de  regagner 
par  les  bonnes  qualites  ce  qu'on  perd  du  cote  des  agreable.  II  y  a  long-temps 
que  j'ai  fait  ces  reflexions,  et  pour  cette  raison  je  veux  tons  les  jours  tra- 
vailler  a  mon  esprit,  ^  mon  ame,  a  mon  coeur,  k  mes  senlimens.  Voilk  de 
quoi  je  suis  pleine,  et  de  quoi  je  remplis  cette  lettre,  n'ayant  pas  beaucoup 
d'autres  sujets."  —  Aux  Rochers,  7.  Oct.  1671.  With  regard  to  the  book 
that  gave  rise  to  these  reflections,  M.  de  .Sevigne,  her  son,  who  had  a 
more  enlightened  taste  as  to  style,  by  no  means  approved  it.  He  says, 
"  Et  moi,  je  vous  dirai  que  le  premier  tome  des  Essais  de  Morale  vous 
paroitroit  tout  comme  k  moi,  si  la  Marans  et  I'abb^  Tetu  ne  vous  avoient 
accoutuinee  aux  choses  fines  et  distillees.  Ce  n'est  pas  aujourd'hui  que 
le  galimathias  vous  parois  ciair  et  aise :  de  tout  ce  qui  a  parle  de 
I'homme,  et  I'interieur  de  I'homrae.  je  n'ai  rien  vu  de  moins  agreable;  ce  ne 
sont  })oint  la  ces  portraits  oii  tout  lemonde  se  reconnoit.  Pascal,  la  logique 
de  Port  Royal,  et  Plutarque,  et  Montaigne,  parlent  autrement:  celui-ci  parle 
parce  qu'il  veut  parler,  et  souvent  il  n'a  pas  grand'  chose  k  dire." 

f  Take,  for  instance,  the  following  extracts  on  the  subject  of  his  death  :  — 
"  Ne  croyez  point,  ma  fille,  quele  souvenir  de  M  de  Turenne  soit  d^j^  finit 
dans  ce  pays-ci ;  ce  fleuve,  qui  entraine  tout,  n'entraine  pas  sitot  une  telle 
memoire  ;  elle  est  consacree  a  I'lmmortalite.  J'etois  I'aiitre  jour  chez  M. 
de  la  Rochefoucauld,  avec  madame  de  Lavardin,  madame  de  la  Fayette,  et 
M.  de  Marsillac.  M.  le  Premier  y  vint.  La  conversation  dura  deux  heures 
sur  les  divines  qualites  de  ce  veritable  heros :  tons  les  yeux  etoient  baignes 
de  larmes,  et  vous  ne  sauri^z  croire  comme  la  douleur  de  sa  perte  est 
profondement  grave  dans  les  cceurs.  Nous  remarquions  une  chose,  c'est 
quece  n'est  pas  depuis  sa  mort  que  Ton  admire  la  grandeur  de  son  coeur, 
r^tendue  de  ses  lumieres,  et  I'elevation  de  son  ame  ;  toutle  monde  en  etoit 
plein  pendant  sa  vie,  et  vous  pouvez  penser  ce  que  fait  sa  perte  par-dessus 
ce  qu'on  etoit  dfeja :  enfin,  ne  croyez  point  que  cette  mort  soit  ici  comme 
celle  des  autres.  Vous  pouvez  en  parler  tant  qu'il  vous  plaira,  sans 
croire  que  la  dose  de  votre  douleur  I'emporte  sur  la  notre.  Pour  son  ame, 
c'est  encore  un  miracle  qui  vient  de  I'estime  parfaite  qu'on  avoit  pour  lui; 
il  n'est  pas  tombe  dans  la  tete  d'aucun  devot  qu'elle  ne  fut  pas  en  bon 
etat :  on  ne  sauroit  comprendre  que  le  mal  et  le  peche  pussent  etre  dana 
son  coeur :  sa  conversion  si  sincere  nous  a  paru  coniine  un  bapteme ;  chacun 
conte  I'innocence  de  ses  mceurs,  la  purete  de  ses  intentions,  son  humilite, 
eloignee  de  toute  sorte  d'affectation;  la  solide  gloire  dont  il  etoit  plein,  sans 
faate  et  sans  ostentation  ;  aimant  la  vertu  pour  elle-meme,  sans  se  soucier 


SEVIGNE.  239 

cord  the  gossip,  sometimes  the  bon  mots,  of  the  day  ; 
and  each  finds  its  place,  and  is  told  with  grace,  sim- 
plicity, and  ease. 

From  this  scene,  full  of  life  and  interest,  at  the  call 
of  duty,  she  visited  Britany ;  and,  when  her  uncle 
desired,  or  motives  of  economy  urged,  buried  herself 
in  the  solitude  of  her  country  seat  of  Les  Rochers,  a 
chateau  belonging  to  the  family  of  Sevigne,  one  league 
from  Vitre,  and  still  further  from  Rennes.  As  far  as 
the  character  and  person  of  the  writer  are  concerned, 
we  prefer  the  letters  written  from  this  retirement  to  those 
that  record  the  changes  and  chances  of  her  Parisian 
life.  They  breathe  affection  and  peace,  the  natural 
sentiments  of  a  kind  heart,  an  enUghtened  taste,  and  an 
active  mind.  "  At  length,  my  child,"  she  writes,  on 
her  first  visit  to  her  solitude  after  her  daughter's  mar- 
riage (May  31.  I67I),  ^' here  I  am  at  these  poor 
Rochers.  Can  I  see  these  avenues,  these  devices,  my 
cabinet  and  books,  and  this  room,  without  dying  of  sor- 


de  I'approbation  des  hommes ;  une  charite  g^nereuse  et  chrfetienne.  Vous 
ai-je  dit  comme  il  I'liabilla  ce  regiment  anglois  ?  il  lui  couta  quatorze  mille 
francs,  et  il  resta  sans  argent.  Les  Anglois  ont  dit  a  M.  de  Lorges  qu'ils 
acheveroient  de  servir  cette  cainpagne,  pour  venger  la  mort  de  M.  de 
Turenne,  mais  qu'aprfes  cela  ils  se  retireroient,  ne  pouvant  obeir  a  d'autres 
que  lui.  II  y  avoit  de  jeunes  tokiats  qui  s'iinpatientoient  un  peu  dans  les 
marais,  ou  ils  etoient  dans  I'eau  jusqu'aux  genoux  ;  et  les  vieux  soldats  leur 
disoient  '  Quoi,  vous  vous  plaignez  !  '  On  volt  bien  que  vous  ne  connoissez 
pas  M.  de  Turenne:  il  est  plus  fache  que  nous  quand  nous  sommes  mal ;  il 
ne  songe,  a  I'heure  qu'il  est,  qu'h  nous  tirer  d'ici  5  il  veille  quand  nous 
dormons ;  c'est  notre  pfere :  on  voit  bien  que  vous  etes  jeunes.  Et  c'est 
ainsi  qu'ils  les  rassuroient.  Tout  ce  que  je  vous  mande  est  vrai ;  je  ne  me 
charge  point  des  fadaises  dont  on  croit  faire  plaisir  aux  gens  eloignes  :  c'est 
abuser  d'eux,  et  jechoisis  bien  plus  ce  que  jevous  ecris,  que  ce  que  je  vous 
dirois,  si  vous  etiez  ici.  Je  reviens  a  son  ame :  c'e.st  done  une  chose  k 
remarquer,  que  nul  devot  ne  s'est  avise  de  douter  que  Dieu  ne  I'eut  regue 
a  bras  ouverts,  comme  une  des  plus  belles  et  des  meilleures  qui  soient 
jamais  sorties  de  ses  mains.  Meditez  sur  cette  confiance  geni^rale  sur  son 
salut,  et  vous  trouverez  que  c'e^t  une  esptce  de  miracle  qui  n'est  que  pour 
lui.  Vous  verrez  dans  les  nouvelles  les  effets  de  cette  grande  perte."  — 
15  Aout,  lf)75. 

"  M.  de  Barillon  soupa  ici  hier  :  on  ne  parla  que  de  M.  de  Turenne,  il  en 
est  veritablement  trt^s-afflige.  II  nous  contoit  la  solidite  de  ses  vertus,  com- 
bien  il  ttoit  vrai,  combien  il  aimoit  la  vertu  pour  elle-meme,  combien  pour 
elle  seule  il  setrouvoit  recompense,  et  puis  finit  par  dire  que  I'on  ne  pouvoit 
pas  I'aimer,  ni  etre  touche  de  son  merite,  sans  en  etreplus  honnetehomme. 
Sa  societe  communiquoit  une  horreur  pour  la  friponnerie,  pour  la  duplicite, 
qui  mettoit  ses  amis  au-dessus  des  autres  hommes.  Bien  de^  siecles  n'en 
donneront  pas  un  pareil.  Je  ne  trouve  pas  qu'on  soit  tout-a-fait  aveugle 
en  celui-ci,  au  moins  les  gens  que  je  vois.  Je  crois  que  c'est  vanter  d'etre 
en  bonne  compagnie."  — 28  Aout,  1673. 


^40  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

row  ?'  There  are  many  agreeable  memories,  but  so  many 
that  are  tender  and  lively,  that  I  can  scarcely  support 
them  :  those  that  are  associated  with  you  are  of  this 
number.  Can  you  not  understand  their  effect  on  my 
heart?  My  young  tr^es  are  surprisingly  beautiful. 
Pilois  (her  gardener)  raises  them  to  the  sky  with  an 
admirable  straightness.  Really,  nothing  can  be  more 
beautiful  than  the  avenues  you  saw  planted.  You  re- 
member that  I  gave  you  an  appropriate  device  :  here 
is  one  I  carved  on  a  tree  for  my  son,  who  has  returned 
from  Candia  :  Fago  di  fama.  Is  it  not  pretty  to  say  so 
much  in  a  single  word  ?  Yesterday  I  had  carved,  in 
honour  of  the  indolent,  Bella  cosa  far  niente.  Alas, 
dear  child,  how  rustic  my  letters  are  !  Where  is  the 
time  when  1  could  speak,  as  others  do,  of  Paris  ?  You 
will  receive  only  news  of  myself;  and  such  is  my  con- 
fidence, that  I  am  persuaded  that  you  will  like  these 
letters  as  w^ell  as  my  others.  The  society  I  have  here 
pleases  me  much.  Our  abbe  (the  abbe'  de  Coulanges, 
her  uncle,  who  resided  constantly  with  her)  is  always 
delightful.  My  son  and  La  Mousse  (a  relation  of  M. 
de  Coulanges)  suit  me  extremely,  and  I  suit  them. 
We  are  always  together ;  and,  when  business  takes  me 
from  them,  they  are  in  despair,  and  think  me  very  silly 
to  prefer  a  farmer's  account  to  a  tale  of  La  Fontaine." 
—  '^  Your  brother  is  a  treasure  of  folly,  and  is  de- 
lightful here.  We  have  sometimes  serious  conversations, 
by  which  he  may  profit  ;  but  there  is  something  of 
whipped  cream  in  his  character :  with  all  that,  he  is 
amiable." — '^  We  are  reading  Tasso  with  pleasure.  I 
find  myself  an  adept,  through  the  good  masters  I  had. 
My  son  reads  ^'  Cleopatra"  (a  romance  of  Calprenede)  to 
La  Mousse  ;  and,  in  spite  of  myself,  I  listen,  and  find 
amusement.  My  son  is  setting  off  for  Lorraine  :  his 
absence  will  give  me  much  ennui.  You  know  how 
sorry  I  am  to  see  agreeable  company  depart ;  and  you 
have  been  witness,  also,  to  my  transports  of  joy  when  I 
see  a  carriage  drive  away  with  that  which  restrained 
and  annoyed  me  ;  and  how  this  caused  us  to  decide  that 


SEVIGNE.  241 

bad  company  was  better  than  good.     I  remember  all 
the  follies  we  committed  here,  and  every  thing  you  did 
or  said  :    the   recollection   never   quits    me.      All    the 
young    plantations   you    saw    are    delicious.    I  delight 
in  raising  this  young  generation  ;    and  often,  without 
thinking    of   the   injury    to    my    profit,    I    cut    down 
great  trees,  because  they  overshadow  and  inconvenienc 
my  young  children.      My  son  looks  on ;  but  I  do  not 
suffer  him  to  make  the  application  my  conduct  might 
inspire."      It  was  not,  however,  always  solitude  at  the 
Rochers.   The  duke  of  Chaulnes  was  lieutenant-governor 
of  Britany ;  and  he  and  the  duchess  were  too  happy 
to  visit  madame  de  Sevigne,  and  to  persuade  her  to  join 
them  when  they  visited  the  province,  to  hold  the  assem- 
bly of  the  states.       From  such  a  busy  scene  she  gladly 
plunges   again    into    her   avenues    and  old    halls,    her 
moonlight  walks,  and  darling  reveries.       She  returned  1672. 
to  Paris  in  December ;   and,  in  July  of  the  following  ^tat. 
year,  visited  her  daughter  in  Provence,  where  she  spent    ^6- 
fifteen  months.      These  periods,  so  full  of  happiness  to 
her,  are  blanks  to  us  ;  and  when,  with  tears  and  sighs, 
she  tears  herself  away  from   Grignan,  and  the  letters 
begin  again,  our  amusement  and  delight  recommences. 
In  1674,  madame  de  Grignan  visited   Paris,  and  re-  1674. 
mained  fourteen  months.      Parisian  society  was  invested  ^tat. 
for  the   tender  mother  wdth  a  charm   and  an   interest,    ^^• 
which  became  mingled  with  sadness  on  her  daughter's 
departure. 

The  letters  on  this  separation  are  rendered  interesting  1675. 
by    the    circumstance  of    her   intimacy   with    cardinal  -^iltat. 
de  Retz,  who  was  then  projecting  abdicating  his  car-    49. 
dinal's  hat,  which  the  pope  forbade,  and  his  retreat,  for 
the  sake  of  paying  his  debts.      This  last  was  a  measure 
founded  on  motives  of  honour  and  integrity,  whatever 
his  adversary,  M.  de  la  Rochefoucauld,  may  say  to  the 
contrary.       The  esteem,  amounting  to  respect,  which 
madame   de    Se'vigne    expresses  for   him,    raises  them 
both.     The  death  of  Turenne  happened  also  during  this 
spring,  and  the  letters  are  redeemed  from  the  only  fault 

VOL.  I.  K 


242  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEX. 

which  a  certain  sort  of  minds  might  find  with  them,  that 
of  frivoKty.  If  they  are  frivolous,  what  are  our  own 
lives  ?  Let  us  turn  our  eyes  towards  ourselves,  and 
ask,  if  we  daily  put  down  our  occupations,  the  sub- 
jects of  our  conversation,  our  pleasures  and  our  serious 
thoughts,  would  they  not  be  more  empty  of  solid  in- 
formation than  madame  de  Sevigne's  letters  ;  or,  if 
more  learned,  will  they  not  be  less  wise,  and,  above  all, 
deficient  in  the  warmth  of  heart  that  burns  in  hers? 
In  the  summer  of  this  year,  she  would  fain  have  visited 
her  daughter;  but  her  uncle  insisted  that  a  journey  to 
Britany  was  necessary  for  the  final  settlement  of 
their  mutual  affairs,  as  he  was  grown  old,  and  might 
die  any  day.  She  arrived  at  the  Rochers  at  the  end 
of  September.  Her  life  was  more  lonely  than  during 
the  previous  visit,  for  her  only  companion  was  her 
uncle.  She  had  felt  deeply  disappointed  at  giving  up 
her  journey  to  Provence,  and  the  additional  distance 
between  her  and  her  daughter,  when  in  Britany,  was 
hard  to  bear.  "  We  were  far  enough  off,"  she  writes  ; 
'^  another  hundred  leagues  added  pains  my  heart ;  and 
I  cannot  dwell  upon  the  thought  v/ithout  having  great 
need  of  your  sermons.  What  you  say  of  the  little 
profit  you  often  derive  from  them  yourself  displays  a 
tenderness  that  greatly  pleases  me.  You  wish  me,  then, 
to  speak  of  my  woods.  The  sterility  of  my  letters  does 
not  disgust  you.  Well,  dear  child  !  I  may  tell  you,  that 
I  do  honour  to  the  moon,  which  I  love,  as  you  know. 
The  good  abbe  fears  the  dew :  I  never  suffer  from  it, 
and  I  remain,  with  Beauheu  (her  dog)  and  my  ser- 
vants in  attendance,  till  eight  o'clock.  Indeed,  these 
avenues  are  of  a  beauty,  and  breathe  a  tranquillity,  a 
peace,  and  a  silence,  of  Avhich  I  can  never  have  too 
much.  When  I  think  of  you,  it  is  with  tenderness  ;  and 
I  must  leave  it  to  you  to  imagine  whether  I  feel  this 
deeply  —  I  cannot  express  it.  I  am  glad  to  feel  alone, 
and  fear  the  arrival  of  some  ladies,  that  is,  of  con- 
straint." Her  residence  in  the  province  was  painfully 
disturbed,  on  account  of  the  riots  which  had  taken  place  at 


SEVIGNE.  243 

Rennes,  on  account  of  the  taxes ;  and  the  governor  had 
brought  down  4000  soldiers  to  punish  the  inhabitants. 
Ever  fearful  that  her  letters  might  be  read  at  the  post, 
madame  de  Sevigne  never  directly  blames  any  act  of 
government,  but  her  disapprobation  and  regret  are 
plainly  expressed.  "  1  went  to  see  the  duchess  de 
Chaulnes,  at  Vitre,  yesterday/'  she  writes,  "  and  dined 
there  :  she  received  me  with  joy,  and  conversed  with 
me  for  two  hours,  with  affection  and  eagerness ;  relating 
their  conduct  for  the  last  six  months,  and  all  she 
suffered,  and  the  dangers  she  ran.  I  thanked  her  for 
her  confidence.  In  a  word,  this  province  has  been 
much  to  blame ;  but  it  is  cruelly  punished,  so  that  it 
will  never  recover.  There  are  5000  soldiers  at  Ren- 
nes,  of  which  one  half  will  pass  the  winter.  They 
have  taken,  at  hazard,  five-and-twenty  or  thirty  men, 
whom  they  are  about  to  hang.  Parliament  is  transferred 
—  this  is  the  great  blow  —  for,  without  that,  Rennes  is 
not  a  better  town  than  Vitre.  The  misfortunes  of  the 
province  delay  all  business,  and  complete  our  ruin." 
— "  They  have  laid  tax  of  100,000  crowns  on  the  citi- 
zens ;  and,  if  this  sum  be  not  forthcoming  in  twenty- 
four  hours,  it  will  be  doubled,  and  exacted  by  the 
soldiers.  They  have  driven  away  and  banished  the 
inhabitants  of  one  whole  street,  and  forbidden  any  one 
to  give  them  refuge,  on  pain  of  death ;  so  that  you  see 
these  poor  wretches  —  women  lately  brought  to  bed,  old 
men  and  children — wander  weeping  from  the  town,  not 
knowing  whither  to  go,  without  food  or  shelter.  Sixty- 
citizens  are  arrested:  to-morrow  they  begin  to  hang. 
This  province  is  an  example  to  others,  teaching  them, 
above  all,  to  respect  their  governors  and  their  wives  ; 
not  to  call  them  names,  nor  to  throw  stones  in  their  gar- 
den." Coming  back  from  these  scenes,  which  filled 
her  with  grief  and  indignation,  she  returns  to  her 
woods.  "  I  have  business  with  the  abbe  :  I  am  with 
my  dear  workmen ;  and  life  passes  so  quickly,  and,  con- 
sequently, w^e  approach  our  end  so  fast,  that  I  wonder 
how  one  can  feel  worldly  affairs  so  deeply.  My  woods 
R   2 


244  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    BIEN. 

inspire  me  with  these  reflections.  My  people  have  such 
ridiculous  care  of  me,  that  they  guard  me  in  the 
evening,  completely  armed,  while  the  only  enemy  they 
find  is  a  squirrel."  These  twilight  walks  had  a  sor- 
,^_„  rowful  conclusion.  In  January  she  was  suddenly  laid 
^tat.  prostrate  by  rheumatism  :  it  was  the  first  illness  she 
50.  ever  had  —  the  first  intimation  she  had  received,  she 
says,  that  she  was  not  immortal.  Her  son  was  with 
her :  they  were  better  friends  than  ever.  ''  There 
is  no  air  of  maternity/'  she  writes,  "  in  our  inter- 
course :  he  is  excellent  company,  and  he  finds  me  the 
same."  On  this  disaster,  his  tenderness  and  attentions 
were  warm  and  sedulous.  '■'  Your  brother,"  she  writes, 
^'  has  been  an  inexpressible  consolation  to  me."  She  at 
first  made  light  of  her  attack,  in  her  letters,  though  she 
was  obliged  to  acknowledge  that  she  could  not  move  her 
right  side,  and  was  forced  to  write  the  few  lines  she 
was  able  to  trace  with  her  left  hand ;  and  soon  she  lost 
even  the  power  of  using  this.  In  the  then  state  of 
medicine,  her  cure,  of  course,  was  long  and  painful. 

This  illness  deranged  many  of  madame  de  Sevigne's 
plans.  On  her  return  to  Paris,  she  was  ordered  to  take 
medicinal  baths,  to  complete  her  cure.  She  went  to 
Vichi,  where  her  health  mended,  and  then  returned 
to  Paris,  where  she  expected  a  speedy  visit  from  her 
daughter.  Her  letters  during  this  period  are  very  di- 
verting. She  throws  an  interest  over  every  detail.  The 
one  that  describes  her  visit  at  Versailles,  on  her  return, 
gives  us  a  lively  and  picturesque  account  of  the  eti- 
quette and  amusements  of  the  court.* 

*  "  Voici  un  changement  de  scene  qui  vous  paroitra  aussi  agreable  qu'&. 
tout  le  moude.  Je  fus  sannedi  ii.  Versailles  avec  les  Villars.  Vous  connoissez 
la  toilette  de  la  reine,  la  masse,  le  diner :  mais  il  n'est  pas  besoin  de  se  faire 
etouifer  pendant  que  leurs  majestes  sont  a  table ;  car  h.  trois  heures  le  roi, 
la  reine,  monsieur,  madame,  mademoiselle,  tout  ce  qu'il  y  a  de  princes  et 
de  princesses,  madame  de  Montespan,  toute  sa  suite,  tous  les  courtisans, 
toutes  les  dames,  enfin  ce  qui  s'appelle  la  cour  de  France,  se  trouve  dans  ce 
bel  appartcment  du  roi  que  vous  connoissez.  Tout  estmeuble  devinement — 
tout  est  magnifique.  On  ne  sail  ce  que  c'est  d'y  avoir  chaud  ;  on  passe 
d'un  lieu  h  I'autre  sans  avoir  pressc  nulle  part.  Un  jeu  de  reversi  donne 
la  forme,  et  fixe  tout.  Le  roi  est  auprcs  de  madame  de  Montespan,  qui 
ticnt  la  carte  ;  monsieur,  la  reine,  et  madame  de  Soubise,  Dangeau  et  com- 
pagnie,  Langlee  et  compagnie.  Mille  louis  sont  repandus  sur  le  tajjis.  II  n'y 
a  noint  d'autres  jetons.    Je  voyois  Dangeau,  et  j'admirois  combien  nous 


SEVIGNE.  245 

The  visit  that  matlame  de  Grignan  paid  her  mother, 
soon  after,  was  an  unlucky  one.  She  fell  into  a  bad  state 
of  health.  The  anxiety  her  mother  evinced  augmented 
her  illness.  It  was  deemed  necessary  to  separate  mother 
and  daughter.  Corbinelli  writes,  ''  It  was  a  cascade  of  1 677. 
terror;  the  reverberation  was  fatal  to  all  three;  the^tat. 
circle  was  mortal."     Madame  de  Grignan  returned  to    51. 


sommes  sots  au  jeu  aupres  de  lui.  II  ne  songe  qu'a  son  affaire,  et  gagne  oil 
les  autres  perdent :  il  ne  neglige  rien,  il  profite  de  tout ;  il  n'est  point 
distrait :  en  un  mot,  sa  bonne  conduite  defie  la  fortune  ;  aussi  les  deux  cent 
mille  francs  en  deux  jours,  les  cent  mille  ecus  en  un  mois,  tout  cela  se  met 
sur  le  livre  de  sa  recette.  11  dit  que  je  prenois  part  a  son  jeu,  de  sorte  que 
je  fus  assise  tres-agreablement  et  tres-commodement.  Je  saluai  le  roi, 
ainsi  que  vous  me  I'avez  appris  :  il  me  rendit  mon  salut,  comme  si  j'avois  tte 
jeuneetiielle.  Lareine  me  parla  aussi  long-temps  demamaladie  que  si  c'eut 
cte  une  couche.  M.  le  due  me  fit  mille  de  ces  caresses,  a  quoi  il  ne  pense 
pas.  Le  marechal  de  Lorges  m'attaqua  sous  le  nom  du  chevalier  de 
GrigmLn,en^ntutti  quanti.  Vous  savez  ce  que  c'est  que  de  recevoir  un 
mot  de  tout  ce  que  Ton  trouve  en  son  chemin.  Madame  de  Montespan  me 
parla  de  Bourbon  :  elle  me  pria  de  lui  conter  Vichi,  et  comment  je  m'en 
6tois  port^e.  Elle  me  dit  que  Bourbon,  au  lieu  de  guferir  un  genou,  lui  a 
fait  mal  aux  deux.  Je  lui  trouvai  le  dos  bien  plat,  comme  disoit  la  ma- 
rechale  de  la  Meilleraie;  mais  serieusement,  c'est  une  chose  surprenante 
que  sa  beaute  ;  sa  taille  n'est  pas  la  moitie  si  grosse  qu'elle  etoit,  sans  que 
son  teint,  ni  ses  yeux,  ni  ses  levres  en  sont  moins  bien.  Elle  etoit  habillfee 
de  point  de  France,  coiff'ee  de  mille  boucles :  les  deux  des  tempos  lui 
tombent  fort  bas  sur  les  joues ;  des  rubans  noirs  a  sa  tete,  des  perles  de  la 
marechale  d'Hopital,  embeliies  de  boucles  et  de  pendeloques  de  diamans  de 
la  dernifere  beaute,  trois  ou  quatre  poingons,  point  de  coiffe  ;  en  un  mot,  une 
triomphante  beautfe,  a  faire  admirer  tons  les  ambassadeurs.  Elle  a  su  qu'on 
se  plaignoit  qu'elle  empechoit  ^i  toute  la  France  de  voir  le  roi;  elle  I'a 
redonne,  comme  vous  voyez  ;  et  vous  ne  sauriez  croire  la  joie  que  tout  le 
monde  en  a,  ni  de  quelle  beaute  cela  rend  la  cour.  Cetteagreable  confusion, 
sans  confusion,  de  tout  ce  qu'il  y  a  de  plus  choisi,  dure  depuis  trois  heures 
jusqu'a  six.  S'il  vient  des  courriers,  le  roi  se  retire  un  moment  pour  lire 
ses  lettres,  puis  revient.  II  y  a  toujours  quelque  musique  qu'il  ccoute,  et  qui 
fait  un  tres-bon  eftet.  II  cause  avec  les  dames  qui  out  accoutume  d'avoir 
cet  honneur.  Enfin,  on  quitte  le  jeu  a  six  heures.  On  n'a  point  du  tout  de 
peine  k  faire  les  comptes— il  n'y  a  point  de  jetons  ni  de  marques.  Les  poules 
sont  au  moins  de  cinq,  six,  a  sept  cent  louis,  les  grosses  de  mille,  de  douze 
cents.  On  parle  sans  cesse,  et  rien  ne  demeure  sur  le  ccEur.  Combien  avez- 
vous  de  cceurs  ?  J'en  ai  deux,  j'en  ai  trois,  j'en  ai  un,  j'en  ai  quatre :  il  n'en 
a  done  que  trois,  que  quatre ;  et  Dangeau  est  ravi  de  tout  ce  caquet :  il 
decouvre  le  jeu,  il  tire  ses  consequences,  il  voit  ^  qui  il  a  affaire;  enfin, 
j'etois  bien  aise  de  voir  cet  exces  d'habilite  :  vraiment  c'est  bien  lui  qui  sait 
le  dessous  des  cartes.  On  monte  done  h  six  heures  en  caleches,  le  roi, 
madame  de  Montespan,  M.  et  madame  de  Thianges,  et  la  bonne  d'Hendi- 
court  sur  le  strapontin,  c'est-^-dire  comme  en  paradis,  ou  dans  la  gloire  de 
Niquee.  Vous  savez  comme  ces  caldches  sont  faites:  on  ne  se  regarde  point, 
on  est  tourne  du  meme  cute.  La  reine  etoit  dans  une  autre  avec  les  prin- 
cesses, et  ensuite  tout  le  monde  attroupe  selon  sa  fantaisie.  On  va  sur  le 
canal  dans  des  gondoles  ;  on  trouve  de  la  musique ;  on  revient  a  dix  heures, 
on  trouve  la  comedie;  minuit  sonne,  on  fait  media  noche.  Voil^.  comme  se 
passe  le  samedi.  De  vous  dire  combien  de  fois  on  me  parla  de  vous,  combien 
on  me  fit  de  questions  sans  attendre  la  rcponse,  combien  j'en  epargnai, 
com.bien  on  s'en  soucie  peu,  combien  je  m'en  souciois  encore  moins,  vous 
rcconnoitrez  au  naturel  Viniqua  corte.  Cependant  il  ne  fut  jamais  si  agreable, 
et  on  souhaite  fort  que  cela  continue." 
R    3 


246  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    3IEN. 

Provence.  This  was  a  severe  blow  to  madarae  de  Se- 
vigne.  Her  daughter  wrote  to  her,  ''  I  was  the  dis- 
order of  your  mind,  your  health,  your  house.  I  am 
good  for  nothing  to  you."  To  this,  and  to  the  re- 
proaches she  heard  that  her  sohcitude  had  augmented 
madame  de  Grignan's  illness,  madame  de  Sevigne  re- 
plies, ^'To  behold  you,  then,  perish  before  my  eyes  was 
a  trifle  unworthy  of  my  attention  ?  AFhen  you  were  in 
good  health,  did  I  disquiet  myself  about  the  future?  did  I 
think  of  it  ?  But  I  saw  you  ill,  and  of  an  illness  perilous 
to  the  young ;  and,  instead  of  trying  to  console  me  by 
a  conduct  that  would  have  restored  you  to  your  usual 
health,  absence  was  suggested.  I  kill  you  !  I  am  the 
cause  of  all  your  sufferings  !  When  I  think  of  how  I 
concealed  my  fears,  and  that  the  little  that  escaped  me 
produced  such  frightful  efl'ects,  I  conclude  that  I  am 
not  allowed  to  love  you  ;  and,  since  such  monstrous  and 
impossible  things  are  asked  of  me,  my  only  resource  is 
in  your  recovery."  For  some  years  after  this  madame 
de  Grignan  was  in  a  delicate  state  of  health.  "  Ah  !" 
writes  her  mother,  ^'  how  happy  I  was  v/hen  I  had  no 
fears  for  your  health  !  Of  what  had  I  then  to  complain^ 
compared  to  my  present  inquietude  r"  However,  though 
still  dehcate,  she  revisited  Paris  in  the  following  month 
of  November — it  being  considered  advantageous  for  her 
family  affairs, — and  remained  nearly  two  years.  Her 
mother  had  taken  a  large  mansion,  the  Hotel  de  Carna- 
valet,  and  they  resided  under  the  same  roof.  There 
was  a  numerous  family,  and  chief  among  them  was  a 
brother  of  M.  de  Grignan.  The  chevaher  de  Grignan 
enjoyed  a  great  reputation  for  bravery  and  mihtary 
conduct.  He  was  a  martyr  to  rheumatic  gout,  which 
often  stood  in  the  way  of  his  active  service  ;  but  he  was 
always  favoured  by  the  king,  and  regarded  by  every  one, 
as  a  man  of  superior  abilities,  and  of  a  resolute  and 
fearless  mind.  When  six  men  of  quality  were  selected 
to  attend  on  the  dauphin,  under  the  name^'of  Menins, 
he  was  named  one  of  them.  Two  of  M.  de  Grignan's 
daughters  also  accompanied  them.    They  were  the  chil- 


SEVIGNE.  247 

dren  of  "his  former  marriage  with  Angelique  d'Angennes, 
sister  of  the  celebrated  madame  de  Montauzier.  Cardinal 
de  Retz  died  in  the  August  of  this  year.     "Pity  me,  1679,] 
my  cousin^"  madame  de  Sevigne  writes  to  the  count  de  ^tat. 
Bussy,  "  for  having  lost  cardinal  de  Retz.     You  know    ^^' 
how  amiable  he  was,  and  worthy  the  esteem  of  all  who 
knew  him^      I  was  a  friend  of  thirty  years'  standing, 
and  ever  received  the  tenderest  marks  of  his  friendship, 
■which  was  equally  honourable   and   delightful   to   me. 
Eight  days'  uninterrupted  fever  carried  him  off.      I  am 
grieved  to  the  bottom  of  my  heart." 

At  length,  in  the  month  of  September,  madame  de 
Grignan  returned  to  Provence.  Her  mother  writes, 
^*  Do  not  tell  me  that  I  have  no  cause  to  regret  you :  I 
have,  indeed,  every  cause.  I  know  not  what  you  have 
taken  into  your  heado  For  myself,  I  remember  only  your 
friendship,  your  care,  your  kindness,  your  caresses.  I 
have  lost  all  these :  I  regret  them  ;  and  nothing  in  the 
world  can  efface  the  recollection,  nor  console  me  for  my 
loss."  M.  de  Sevigne  was  at  this  time  in  Britany,  and 
was  elected  deputy,  by  the  nobles,  to  attend  on  the  go- 
vernor. "  The  title  of  new  comer,"  writes  his  mother, 
*'  renders  him  important,  and  causes  him  to  be  mixed 
up  in  every  thing.  I  hope  he  will  marry  :  he  will  never 
again  be  so  considerable.  He  has  spent  ten  years  at  court 
and  in  the  camp.  The  first  year  of  peace  he  gives  to  his 
country.  He  can  never  be  looked  on  so  favourably  as 
this  year."  Unfortunately,  he  deranged  all  these  schemes 
by  falling  in  love  inopportunely;  and  he  lingered  in 
Britany,  grasping  all  the  money  he  could,  felling  trees, 
and  squandering  the  proceeds  without  use  or  pleasure, 
while  his  mother  awaited  his  return  anxiously,  and  bore 
the  blame  of  his  absence,  as  it  was  supposed  that  he 
was  detained  by  business  of  hers.  The  time  when  he 
could  settle  was  not  come.  He  was  of  that  disposition 
which  is  not  unfrequent  among  men.  Gifted  with 
vivacity,  wit,  and  good  humour,  agreeable  and  gay,  it 
appeared,  as  madame  de  Sevigne  said,  that  he  was  ex- 
actly fitted  for  the  situation  at  court,  which,  as  lieutenant 
It  4 


248  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

of  the  dauphin's  company  of  gendarmes,  he  naturally 
filled.  But  he  was  discontented  :  the  restraint  annoyed 
him  ;  pleasure  palled  on  him ;  he  was  eager  to  sell  out^ 
to  bury  himself  in  his  province.  One  reason  was  that 
he  was  not  regarded  with  an  eye  of  favour  by  the  king. 
Madame  de  Sevigne  herself  felt  this  disfavour,  arising 
from  her  having  been  of  the  party  of  the  fronde,  a 
friend  of  Fouquet,  and,  lastly,  a  jansenist. 
1680.  During  this  year  madame  de  Se'vigne  again,  as  she 
-^tat.  gaid^  for  the  last  time,  to  wind  up  all  accounts,  visited 
Britany.  Her  letters  become  more  agreeable  than  ever  ; 
her  affection  for  her  daughter  even  increasing :  her  ad- 
vice about  her  grandchildren*  ;  her  annoyance  with  re- 
gard to  her  son ;  is  the  interior  portion  of  the  story  to 
which  we  are  admitted.  The  news  of  the  court  is 
mentioned,  and  the  progress  of  madame  de  Maintenon's 
favour,  so  puzzling  to  the  courtiers ;  and,  lastly,  the 
picture  of  the  provincial  court  of  the  duke  and  duchess 
de  Chaulnes,  who  had  the  government  of  Britany.  She 
describes  their  guards,  their  suite  of  provincial  nobles^ 
with  their  wives  and  daughters ;  and  a  little  discontent 
creeps  out^  as  it  sometimes  does,  with  regard  to  the 
court,  that  she  had  never  risen  above  a  private  station. 
"  I  have  seen  you  in  Provence,"  she  writes  to  her  daugh- 
ter, "  surrounded  by  as  many  ladies,  and  M.  de  Grignan 
followed  by  as  many  men,  of  quality,  and  receive,  at 
Lambesc,  with  as  much  dignity,  as  M.  de  Chaulnes  can 
here.  I  reflected  that  you  held  your  court  there;  I 
come  to  pay  mine  here :  thus  has  Providence  ordered." 
She  enjoyed,  however,  the  dinners,  suppers,  and  festivals 
of  the  duke,  who  made  much  of  her  ;  and  her  anecdotes 

•  it  is  curious  to  find  her  earnestly  recommending  maternal  affection  to 
her  daughter.  One  poor  little  girl  was  wholly  sacrificed — shut  up  in  a  con. 
vent,  waiting  for  a  vocation  ;  the  other  was  saved  by  her  grandmother  from 
a  similar  fate.  She  writes,  "  Mais  parlous  do  cette  Pauline  ;  I'aimable,  la 
jolie  petite  creature  !  Ai-je  jamais  etc  si  jolie  qu'elle  ?  on  dit  que  je  I'etois 
oeaucoup.  Je  suis  ravie  qu'elle  vous  fasse  souvenir  de  moi :  je  sais  bien 
qu'il  n'est  pas  besoin  de  cela ;  mais,  enfin,  j'ai  uno  joie  sensible  :  vous  me  la 
depeignez  charmante,  et  je  crois  precist'ment  tout  ce  que  vous  me  dites  :  je 
suis  dtonnee  qu'elle  ne  soit  devenuesotte  et  ricaneusodans  ce  convent :  ah, 
que  vous  avez  fait  bien  de  Ten  retirer!  Gardez-la,  ma  fiUe,  ne  vous  i)rivez 
pas  de  ce  plaisir  ;  la  Providence  en  aura  soin." — Oct.  4. 1679.  In  another 
letter  she  says,  "A'lmez, annex  Pauline;  croyez-moi,  ta,tez,tatez  del'amour 
inaterncl." 


SEVIGNE.  249 

are  full  of  vivacity.  Her  eyes  never  rest :  they  see  all : 
sometimes  a  grace,  sometimes  a  folly ;  now  a  hon  mot, 
now  a  stupidity,  salutes  her  eyes  or  ears :  it  is  all  trans- 
mitted to  her  daughter ;  and  we,  at  this  distance  of 
time  and  place,  enjoy  the  accounts,  which,  being  true  to 
human  nature,  often  seem  as  fresh  and  a  propos  as  if  they 
had  occurred  yesterday.  And  then  she  quits  all,  and 
writes,  '^  I  am  at  length  in  the  quiet  of  my  woods,  and 
in  that  state  of  abstinence  and  silence  for  which  I  longed/' 
And  she  plunges  into  the  depths  of  Jansenism,  and  dis- 
cusses the  knotty  subject  of  the  grace  of  God.* 

On  her  return  to  the  capital,  she  was  made  perfectly 
happy  by  the  arrival  of  her  daughter,  in  better  health 
than  she  had  been  for  a  long  time,  and  who  remained 
in  Paris  for  several  years.  Her  son,  also,  whose  youth- 
ful follies  had  cost  her  many  a  pang,  made  an  advan- 
tageous marriage.  She  writes  to  the  count  de  Bussy,  j  ^g^ 
^'  After  much  trouble,  I  at  last  marry  my  poor  boy.  iEtat. 
One  must  never  despair  of  good  luck.  I  feared  that  58. 
my  son  could  no  longer  hope  for  a  good  match,  after 
so  many  storms  and  wrecks,  without  employment  or 
opening  for  fortune ;  and,  while  I  was  engaged  in  these 
sorrowful-  thoughts,  Providence  brought  about  a  mar- 
riage, so  advantageous  that  I  could  not  have  desired  a 
better  when  my  son's  hopes  were  highest.  It  is  thus 
that  we  walk  blindly,  taking  for  bad  that  which  is  good, 
and  for  good  that  which  is  bad,  and  always  in  utter 
ignorance."     M.  de  Sevigne  married  Jeanne-Marguerite 

*  It  is  in  these  letters  from  her  chateau  that  we  find  her  penetration  into 
the  human  heart,  and  her  sympathy  with  all  that  is  upright  and  good.  She 
writes  to  her  daughter,  "  Vous  verrez  comme  tous  les  vices  et  toutes  les 
vertus  sont  jetes  pele-me'.e  dans  le  fond  de  ces  provinces  ;  car  je  trouve  des 
ames  de  pavsans  plus  droites  que  les  lignes,  aimant  la  vertu  comme 
naturellement  les  chevaux  trottent."  As  to  her  Jansenism,  it  was  very 
sincere,  though  not  mingled  with  the  spirit  of  party.  She  believed  ni  the 
election  of  grace,  and  the  few  that  were  to  be  saved;  and,  though  somewhat 
puzzled  when  she  tried  to  reconcile  this  doctrine  with  the  free  will  of  man, 
she  has  recourse  to  St.  Augustin,  the  jansenian  saint,  and  says,  "  Lisez  un 
peu  le  livre  de  la  predestination  des  saints  de  St.  Augustin,  et  du  don  de 
la  perseverance :  je  ne  cherche  pas  h  etre  davantage  eclaircie  sur  ce  point ; 
et  je  vfux  me  tenir,  si  je  puis,  dans  I'humilittj  et  dans  la  dependance.  Le 
onzieme  chapitre  du  don  de  la  perseverance  me  tomba  hier  sous  la  mam  : 
lisez-le,  et  lisez  tout  le  livre:  c'est  oii  j'ai  puise  mes  erreurs  :  jc  ne  suis  pas 
seule,  cela  me  console  ;  et  en  veritc  je  suis  tente'e  ^  croire  qu'on  ne  dispute 
aujourd'hui  sur  cet  mati^re  avec  tant  de  chaleur,  que  faute  de  s'entendre." 


250  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

de  Brehaut  de  Mauron,  an  amiable  and  virtuous  woman, 
whose  gentleness,  and  common  sense,  and  turn  for  piety, 
joined  to  a  caressing  and  playful  disposition,  suited  ad- 
mirably both  mother  and  son.  In  the  autumn  of  this 
year  she  visited  the  new  married  pair  at  the  Rochers.  It 
was  a  sad  blow  to  her  to  quit  Paris,  where  her  daughter 
was  residing.  Motives  of  economy,  or,  rather,  the  juster 
motive  of  paying  her  debts,  enforced  this  exile,  which  was 
hard  to  bear.  We  read  her  letters  for  the  variety  of  amuse- 
ment and  instruction  we  find  in  them  ;  and,  as  we  read,  we 
are  struck  by  the  change  of  tone  that  creeps  over  them. 
From  the  period  of  this  long  visit  of  eight  years,  which 
madame  de  Grignan  paid  to  Paris,  we  find  the  most 
perfect  and  unreserved  friendship  subsisting  between 
mother  and  daughter.  Their  ages  agree  better  :  the  one, 
now  forty,  understands  the  other,  who  is  sixty,  better 
than  the  young  woman  of  twenty  did  her  of  forty. 
Other  interests,  also,  had  risen  for  madame  de  Grignan 
in  her  children.  Her  anxiety  for  her  son's  advance- 
ment was  fully  shared  by  madame  de  Sevigne.  A  more 
sober,  perhaps  a  less  amusing,  but  certainly  a  far  more 
interesting  (if  we  may  make  this  distinction),  tone 
pervades  the  later  letters.  Her  daughter,  before,  was 
the  affection  that  weaned  her  from  the  world;  now 
it  mingled  with  higher  and  better  thoughts.  The 
Hochers  were  more  peaceful  than  ever.  Her  son  had 
not  good  health:  his  wife  was  cheerful  only  at  intervals  : 
she  was  delicate;  she  never  went  out:  by  nine  in  the 
evening  her  strength  was  exhausted,  and  she  retired, 
leaving  madame  de  Sevigne  to  her  letters.  She  was 
gentle  and  kind  withal ;  attentive,  without  putting  her- 
self forward;  so  that  her  mother-in-law  never  felt  that 
there  was  another  mistress  in  the  house,  though  all  her 
comforts  were  attended  to  sedulously. 

We  pause  too  long  over  these  minutia.  We  turn 
over  madame  de  Sevigne''s  pages :  an  expression,  a  de- 
tail strikes  us ;  we  are  impelled  to  put  it  down  ;  but 
the  memoir  grows  too  long,  and  we  must  curtail.  She 
returned  to  Paris  in  August,  l685,  and  enjoyed  for  three 


SEVIGNE.  251 

years  more  the  society  of  her  daughter.  During  this  1687. 
period  she  lost  her  uncle,  the  abbe  de  Coulanges.  "  You  -3itat. 
know  that  I  was  under  infinite  obligations  to  him/'  she  ^^' 
writes  to  count  de  Bussy :  "  I  owed  him  the  agreeable- 
ness  and  repose  of  my  life ;  and  you  owed  to  him  the 
gladness  that  I  brought  to  your  society  :  without  him  we 
had  never  laughed  together.  You  owe  to  him  my  gaiety, 
my  good  humour,  my  vivacity  j  the  gift  I  had  of  under- 
standing you ;  the  ability  of  comprehending  what  you 
had  said,  and  of  guessing  what  you  were  going  to  say. 
In  a  word,  the  good  abbe,  by  drawing  me  from  the  gulf 
in  which  M.  de  Sevigne  had  left  me,  rendered  me  what 
I  was,  what  you  knew  me,  and  worthy  of  your  esteem 
and  friendship.  I  draw  the  curtain  before  the  wrong 
you  did  me :  it  was  great,  but  must  be  forgotten ;  and 
I  must  tell  you  that  I  have  felt  deeply  the  loss  of  this 
dear  source  of  the  peace  of  my  whole  life.  He  lived 
with  honour,  and  died  as  a  christian.  God  give  us  the 
same  grace  !  It  was  at  the  end  of  August  that  I  wept 
him  bitterly.  I  should  never  have  left  him,  had  he 
lived  as  long  as  myself." 

The  subsequent  separation  of  mother  and  daughter  1688. 
renewed  the  correspondence.  This  division  lasted  only  a  ^t^*- 
year  and  a  half,  when  madame  de  Sevigne  repaired  to 
Grignan,  which  she  did  not  quit  again.  The  letters  writ- 
ten during  these  few  months  are  very  numerous  and  long. 
The  growing  charms  and  talents  of  Pauline  de  Grignan ; 
the  debut  of  the  young  marquis  de  Grignan,  who  be- 
gan his  career  at  sixteen  in  the  siege  of  Philisburg  ; 
and  the  deep  interest  felt  by  both,  is  the  first  subject. 
The  arrival  of  James  II.  in  France,  and  the  court  news, 
which  had  the  novelty  of  the  English  royal  family 
being  established  at  St.  Germain,  fills  many  of  the 
letters.     The  account  of  the  acting  of  Esther*,  which 

*  "  Je  fis  ma  cour  I'autre  jour  k  St.  Cyr,  plus  agr^ablenient  que  je  n'eusse 
jamais  pense.  Nous  y  allames  samedi ;  inafiame  de  Coulanges,  madame  de 
Bagnols,  Tabbe  Tetu,  et  moi :  nous  trouvames  nos  places  gardees  ;  un  officier 
dit  k  madame  de  Coulanges  que  madame  de  Maintenon  lui  faisoit  garder 
un  sitge  aupres  d'elle :  vous  voyez  quel  honneur  !  '  Pour  vous,  madame,'  me 
dit-il, '  vous  pouvezchoisir.'  Je  me  mis  avec  madame  deBagnols,  au  second 
banc  derriere  les  duchesses.    Le  mari^chal  de  Bellefond  viut  se  mettre  par 


252  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

enlivened  the  royal  pleasures  ;  and  her  na'ive  delight  at 
having  been  spoken  to  by  the  king  is  one  of  her  most 
agreeable  passages.  Added  to  this  pleasure  was  that  of 
M.  de  Grignan  receiving  the  order  of  the  saint  esprit. 
Soon  after  she  repaired  to  Britany,  where  her  time  was 
spent  partly  at  Rennes,  with  the  duchess  de  Chaulnes_, 
partly  at  the  Rochers.  Her  absence  from  Paris  was 
felt  bitterly  by  her  friends  :  her  motive,  the  payment  of 
her  debts,  was,  however,  appreciated  and  applauded  ; 
and  she  was  at  once  mortified  and  gratified  by  the  offer 
of  a  loan  of  money  to  facilitate  her  return.  Madame 
de  la  Fayette  wrote  to  make  her  the  proposition  ;  but 
the  money  was  to  come  from  her  kind  friend  the  duchess 
de  Chaulnes.  The  proposal  was  made  with  some 
brusquerie  :  "  You  must  not,  my  dear,  at  any  price 
whatever,  pass  the  winter  in  Britany.  You  are  old  ; 
the  Rochers  are  thickly  wooded  ;  catarrhs  and  colds  will 
destroy  you ;  you  will  get  weary  ;  your  mind  will  be- 


choix  k  mon  cote  droit.  Nous  ecoutames,  le  marechal  et  moi,  cette  tragedie 
avec  une  attention  qui  fut  remarqu^ ;  et  de  certaines  louanges  sourdes  et 
bien  placees.  Je  ne  puis  vous  dire  I'exces  de  I'agrement  de  cette  piece. 
C'est  une  chose  qui  n'est  pas  aisee  a  representer,  et  qui  ne  sera  jamais 
imitee.  C'est 'un  rapport  de  la  musique,  des  vers,  des  chants,  et  des  per. 
sonnes  si  parfait,  qu'on  n'y  souhaite  rien.  On  est  attentif,  et  Ton  n'a.point 
d'autre  peine  que  celle  de  voir  tinir  une  si  aimable  tragedie.  Tout  y  est 
simple,  tout  y  est  innocent,  tout  y  est  sublime  et  touchant.  Cette  tid^- 
lite  h  I'histoire  sainte  donne  du  respect :  tous  les  chants  convenables  aux 
paroles  sont  Ed'utie  beaute  singulifere.  La  mesure  de  I'approbation  qu'on 
donne  a  cette  piece,  c'est  celle  du  gout  et  de  I'attention.  J'en  fiis  charm^e 
et  le  marechal  aussi,  qui  sortit  de  sa  place  pour  aller  dire  au  roi  combien 
il  etoit  content,  et  qu'il  etoit  auprfes  d'une  dame  qui  etoit  bien  digne 
d'avoirvu  Esther.  Le  roi  vint  vers  nos  places;  et  apres  avoir  tourne,  il 
s'adressa  a  moi,  et  me  dit,  '  Madame,  je  suis  assure  que  vous  avez  ^te 
contente.'  Moi,  sans  m'etonner,  je  repondis,  '  Sire,  je  suis  charmee,  ce 
que  je  sens  est  au  dessus  des  paroles.'  Le  roi  me  dit,  '  Racine  a  bien  de 
I'esprit.'  Je  lui  dit,  '  Sire,  il  en  a  beaucoup,  mais  en  verite  ces  jeunes 
personnes  en  ont  beaucoup  aussi ;  elles  entrent  dans  le  sujet,  comme  si  elles 
n'avoient  jamais  fait  autre  chose.'  '  Ah,  pour  cela,'  reprit-il,  'il  est  vrai;' 
et  puis  sa  majeste  s'en  alia,  et  me  laissa  I'objet  d'envic :  comme  il  n'y  ayoit 
quasi  que  moi  de  nouvelle  venue,  il  eut  quelque  plaisir  de  voir  mes  sinceres 
admirations,  sans  bruit  et  sans  eclat.  M.  le  prince,  madame  la  princesse,  me 
vinrent  dire  un  mot,  madame  de  Maintenon,  elle  s'en  alloit  avec  Ic  roi.  Je 
repondit  a  tout,  car  j'etois  en  fortune.  Nous  revinmes  le  soir  aux  flam- 
beaux ;  je  soupai  chez  madame  de  Coulanges,  k  qui  le  roi  avoit  parle 
aussi,  avec  un  air  d'etre  chez  lui,  qui  lui  donnoit  une  douceur  trop 
aimable.  Je  vis  le  soir  M.  le  chevalier  de  Grignan.  Je  lui  contait  tout  na'ive- 
ment  un  eclair  mes  petites  prosperites,  ne  voulant  point  les  cachoter  sans 
savoir  pourquoi,  comme  certaines  personnes.  11  en  fut  content,  et  voila 
qui  est  fait.  Je  suis  assuree  qu'il  ne  m'a  point  trouv^  dans  la  suite,  ni  une 
sotte  vanite,  ni  un  transport  de  bourgeoise.". 


SEVIGNE.  253 

come  sad  and  lose  its  tone  :  this  is  certain ;  and  all 
the  business  in  the  world  is  nothing  in  comparison.  Do 
not  speak  of  money  nor  of  debts,  I  am  to  put  an  end 
to  all  that ;"  and  then  follows  a  proposition  for  her  to 
take  up  her  abode  at  the  Hotel  de  Chaulnes,  and  of 
the  loan  of  a  thousand  crowns.  ''  No  arguments/'  the 
letter  continues,  "  no  words,  no  useless  correspond- 
ence. You  must  come.  I  will  not  even  read  what 
you  may  write.  In  a  word,  you  consent,  or  renounce  the 
affection  of  your  dearest  friends.  We  do  not  choose  that 
a  friend  shall  grow  old  and  die  through  her  own  fault." 
This  tone  of  command  gave  pleasure  to  madame  de 
Sevigne,  though  she  at  once  refused  to  lay  herself 
under  the  obligation.  But  there  was  a  sting  in  the 
letter  which  she  passed  over  ;  madame  de  Grignan  dis- 
covered it,  and  her  mother  allowed  that  she  felt  it;  and 
writes,  '*^  You  were,  then,  struck  by  m.adame  de  la  Fayette's 
expression,  mingled  with  so  much  kindness.  Although  I 
never  allow  myself  to  forget  this  truth,  I  confess  I  was 
quite  surprised,  for  as  yet  I  feel  no  decay  to  remind 
me  :  however,  I  often  reflect  and  calculate,  and  find 
the  conchtions  on  which  we  enjoy  life  very  hard.  It 
seems  to  me  that  I  was  dragged,  in  spite  of  myself,  to 
the  fatal  term  when  one  must  suffer  old  age.  I  see  it, 
—  am  there.  I  should,  at  least,  like  to  go  no  further 
in  the  road  of  decrepitude,  pain,  loss  of  memory,  and 
disfigurement,  which  are  at  hand  to  injure  me.  I  hear  a 
voice  that  says,  even  against  your  will  you  must  go  on  ; 
or,  if  you  refuse,  you  must  die  ;  which  is  another  ne- 
cessity from  which  nature  shrinks.  Such  is  the  fate  of 
those  who  go  a  little  too  far.  But  a  return  to  the  will 
of  God,  and  the  universal  law  by  which  we  are  con- 
demned, brings  one  to  reason,  and  renders  one  patient." 
As  madame  de  Sevigne  was  resolved  to  give  up  her 
Parisian  life,  for  the  admirable  motive  of  paying  her 
debts  before  she  died,  she  felt  that  the  only  compensa- 
tion she  could  receive  was  residing  at  Grignan.  Madame 
de  la  Fayette,  on  hearing  of  her  intention  of  going 
thither,  writes,   ''  Your  friends    are  content  that  you 


254}  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

should  go  to  Provence,  since  you  will  not  return  to 
Paris.  The  climate  is  better  ;  you  will  have  society, 
even  when  madaine  de  Grignan  is  away  ;  there  is  a 
good  mansion,  plenty  of  inhabitants ;  in  short,  it  is 
being  alive  to  live  there  ;  and  I  applaud  your  son  for 

1690.  consenting  to  lose  you,  for  your  own   sake."     On   the 

■^^'^i'  3d  of  October,  therefore,  she  set  off ;  and  friendship, 
^'*'  as  she  says,  rendering  so  long  a  journey  easy,  she 
arrived  on  the  24th;  when  madame  de  Grignan  received 
lier  with  open  arms,  and  with  such  joy,  affection,  and 
gratitude,  ''  that,"  she  says,  *'  I  found  I  had  not 
come  soon  enough  nor  far  enough."  From  this  time 
the  correspondence  with  her  daughter  entirely  ceases. 
The  letters  that  remain  to  her  other  friends  scarcely  fill 
up  the  gap.  She  visited  Paris  once  again  with  her 
daughter  ;  but  her  time  was  chiefly  spent  at  Grignan. 

]  694.  She  witnessed  the  establishment  of  her   grandchildren. 

.^tat.  'piig  marriage  of  the  young  marquis  de  Grignan  was,  of 

^^'    course,  a  deeply  interesting  subject ;  nor  was   she  less 

pleased  when  Pauline,  whom  she  had   served  so  well  in 

1695.  her   advice   to  her  mother,  married,  at  the  close  of  the 

-^tat.  following  year,  the  marquis  de  Simiane.  Early  in  the 
^^'  spring  of  16q6  madame  de  Grignan  was  attacked  by  a 
dangerous  and  lingering  illness.  Her  mother  attended  on 
her  with  tenderness  and  zeal;  but  she  felt  her  strength  fail 
her.  She  wrote  to  her  friends,  that,  if  her  daughter  did 
not  soon  recover,  she  must  sink  under  her  fatigues,  — 
words  that  proved  too  fatally  true.     After  a  sudden  and 

ar^.^^'  short  illness,  she  died,  in  April  of  the  same  year,  at  the 
70.  '  age  of  seventy.     The   blow  of  her  death  w^as  severely 
felt  by  her  friends,  —  a  gap  was  made  in  their  lives, 
never  to  be  filled  up. 

In  describing  her  character,  her  malicious  cousin,  count 
de  Bussy,  darkens  many  traits,  which,  in  their  natural 
colouring,  only  rendered  her  the  more  agreeable.  He 
blames  her  for  being  carried  away  by  a  love  of  the 
agreeable  rather  than  the  solid ;  but  he  allows,  at  the 
same  time,  that  there  was  not  a  cleverer  woman  in 
France  ;  that  her  manners  were  vivacious  and  divert- 


sevigne.  ^55 

ing^  though  she  was  a  httle  too  sprightly  for  a  woman 
of  quality.  Madame  de  la  Fayette  addressed  a  por- 
trait to  her,  as  was  the  fashion  of  those  times.  Madame 
de  Sevigne  was  three-and-thirty  when  it  was  written. 
It  is,  of  course,  laudatory  :  it  speaks  of  the  charms  of 
her  society,  when  all  constraint  was  banished  from 
the  conversation  ;  and  says  that  the  brilliancy  of  her 
wit  imparted  so  bright  a  tinge  to  her  cheek,  and 
sparkle  to  her  eye,  that,  while  others  pleased  the  ears, 
she  dazzled  the  eyes  of  her  listeners  ;  so  that  she  sur- 
passed, for  the  moment,  the  most  perfect  beauty.  The 
portrait  speaks  of  the  affectionate  emotions  of  her  heart, 
and  of  her  love  of  all  that  was  pleasing  and  agreeable. 
"  Joy  is  the  natural  atmosphere  of  your  soul,"  it  says; 
'^  and  annoyance  is  more  displeasing  to  you  than  to  any 
other."  It  mentions  her  obhging  disposition,  and  the 
grace  with  which  she  obliged ;  her  admirable  conduct, 
her  frankness,  her  sweetness. 

Of  course  fault  has  been  found  with  her,'  In  the 
first  place,  Voltaire  says,  after  praising  her  letters, 
'^''  It  is  a  pity  that  she  was  absolutely  devoid  of  taste  ; 
that  she  did  not  do  Racine  justice  ;  and  that  she  puts 
Mascaron's  funeral  oration  on  Turenne  on  a  par  with 
the  chef-d  'ceiivre  of  Flechier."  We  need  not  say 
much  concerning  the  first  of  these  accusations.  It  may 
be  thought  that  madame  de  Sevigne  showed  good  taste 
in  lier  criticisms  on  Racine.  The  truth  was  that,  ac- 
customed to  Corneille  in  her  youth,  she  adhered  to  his 
party,  and  was  faithful  to  tastes  associated  with  her 
happiest  days.  Of  the  second,  we  must  mention  that 
she  heard  Mascaron's  oration  delivered  :  and  the  effect 
of  delivery  is  often  to  dazzle,  and  to  inspire  a  false 
judgment.  She  wrote  to  her  daughter  on  the  spur  of 
the  moment ;  and  her  opinion  had  no  pretensions  to  a 
criticism  meant  for  posterity.  Afterwards,  when  she 
read  Flechier 's  oration  at  leisure,  she  did  not  hesitate  to 
prefer  it.  She  is  a  little  inclined  to  a  false  and  flowery 
style  in  her  choice  of  books  _;  but  her  letters  exonerate 


Q56  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

her  from  the  charge  of  too  vehement  an  admiration  for 
such,  or  they  would  not  be,  as  they  are,  models  for 
grace,  ease,  and  nature. 

Another  accusation  brought  against  her  is,  that  she 
was  a  httle  mahcious  in  her  mode  of  speaking  of  per- 
sons. It  is  strange  how  people  can  find  dark  spots  in 
the  sun :  for,  as  that  luminary  is  indeed  conspicuous 
for  its  universal  light,  and  not  for  its  partial  darkness, 
so  madame  de  Se'vigne's  letters  are  remarkable  for  their 
absence  of  ill-nature  ;  and,  when  we  reflect  with  what 
unreserve  and  pouring  out  of  the  heart  they  were 
written,  we  admire  the  more  the  gentle  and  kindly 
tone  that  pervades  the  whole.  "  There  is  a  person 
here,"  she  writes  to  her  daughter,  of  her  uncle,  the  abbe 
de  Coulanges,  ''  who  is  so  afraid  of  misdirecting  his 
letters  after  they  are  written,  that  he  folds  them  and 
puts  the  addresses  before  he  writes  them."  The  spirit 
of  hyper-criticism  alone  could  discover  ill-nature  in  the 
quick  sense  for  the  ludicrous  that  the  mention  of  this 
most  innocuous  piece  of  caution  displays.  In  a  few  of 
her  letters  we  find  her  record  with  pleasure  some  ill- 
natured  treatment  of  a  certain  lady  ;  but  this  lady  had 
calumniated  madame  de  Grignan,  and  so  drawn  on  her- 
self the  mother's  heaviest  displeasure. 

The  last  fault  brought  against  her  is  her  being 
dazzled  by  greatness: — her  saying  to  her  cousin, 
Bussy,  after  Louis  XIV.  had  danced  with  her,  "  We 
must  allow  that  he  is  a  great  king,"  which,  as  a  fronde^ 
use,  she  was  at  that  time  bound  to  deny :  but  he  was  a 
great  king,  and  posterity  may  therefore  forgive  her.  She 
made  no  sacrifices  to  greatness,  and  was  guilty  of  no 
truckling.  She  allows  she  should  ba\'e  liked  a  court  life. 
She  traces  her  exclusion  from  it  to  her  alliance  with  the 
fronde,  her  friendship  for  Fouquet,  and  her  jansenist 
opinions  ;  but  she  never  repines ;  and  this  is  the  more 
praiseworthy,  with  regard  to  her  Jansenism,  since  she 
only  adhered  to  it  from  entertaining  the  opinions 
which  received  that  name,  not  from  party  spirit ;  and 


SEVIGN]£.  257 

had  not,  therefore,  the  support  and  sympathy  of  the 
party.  She  revered  the  virtues  of  their  leaders ;  but  there 
was  nothing  either  bigotted  or  controversial  in  her  ad- 
miration or  piety. 

The  only  reproach  that  madame  de  Sevigne  at  all 
deserves  is  her  approval  of  the  revocation  of  the  edict 
of  Nantes,  the  stain  and  disgrace  of  Louis  XIV.'s  reign, 
which  banished  from  his  country  his  best  and  most 
industrious  subjects.  We  blame  Philip  III.  for  extir- 
pating the  Moriscos  from  Spain ;  but  they,  at  least,  were 
of  a  different  race,  and  a  gulf  of  separation  subsisted 
between  them  and  the  Spaniards.  The  huguenots  were 
the  undoubted  and  native  subjects  of  the  kingdom  :  the 
times,  also,  were  more  enlightened  and  refined  ;  and  our 
contempt  is  the  more  raised  when  we  find  Louis  the  dupe 
of  two  ministers,  Le  Tellier  and  Louvois,  who  were  in- 
fluenced by  their  hatred  of  Colbert,  one  of  the  greatest 
and  most  enlightened  ministers  of  France.  We  can- 
not but  believe  that  the  French  revolution  had  worn  a 
different  aspect  had  the  huguenots  remained  in  France, 
and,  as  a  consequence,  the  population  had  been  held 
in  less  ignorance  and  barbarism.  We  cannot  believe 
that  madame  de  Sevigne  really  approved  the  atrocities 
that  ensued.  As  a  good  jansenist,  she  was  bound  to 
detest  forced  conversions.  Much  of  her  praise,  no 
doubt,  was  foisted  in  from  fear  that  her  letters  might  be 
opened  at  the  post  and  read  by  officials ;  and  it  may 
be  remembered,  that  M.  de  Grignan  had  evinced  a 
suspicion  that  her  Jansenism  had  impeded  the  ad- 
vancement of  his  family,  as  it  certainly  had  of  her  own. 
She  was  at  a  distance,  too,  from  the  scene  of  action  :  still 
she  says  too  much  ;  and  cannot  be  excused,  except  on  the 
plea  that  she  knew  not  what  she  did.* 

*  "  Le  pere  Bourdaloue  s'en  va,  par  ordre  du  roi,  precher  a  Montpelier,  et 
dans  ces  provinces  ou  tant  de  gens  se  sont  convertis  sans  savoir  pourquoi. 
X/C  pere  Bourdaloue  le  leur  api)rendra,  et  en  fera  de  bons  catholiques.  Les 
dragons  out  ete  de  tres-bons  missionnaires  jusqu'ici :  les  mtdiateurs  qu'on 
envoient  presentement  rendront  I'ouvrac'e  parfait.  Voiis  aurez  vu,  sans 
doute,  I'edit  par  lequel  le  roi  revoque  celui  de  Nantes.  Rien  n'est  si  beau 
que  tout  ce  qu'il  contient,  et  jamais  aucun  roi  n'a  tait  et  ne  fera  rien  de 
plus  memorable."— Lrttre  au  comte  de  Bussy,  14  Nov.  1685.  The  count 
replies,  "  J'admire  la  conduite  du  roi  pour  ruiner  les  huguenots :  les 
VOL.  I.  S 


258  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

The  question  has  been  asked,  "In  what  does  madame 
de  Sevigne's  merit  consist  ?  Did  she  show  herself 
above  her  age?"  La  Harpe  says,  in  his  panegyric, 
''  Even  those  who  love  this  extraordinary  woman  do 
not  sufficiently  estimate  the  superiority  of  her  under- 
standing. I  find  in  her  every  species  of  talent :  argu- 
mentative or  frivolous,  witty  or  sublime,  she  adopts 
every  tone  with  wonderful  facility."  To  the  question,  . 
however,  of  whether  she  was  superior  to  her  age,  we 
answer,  at  once,  no ;  but  she  was  equal  to  the  best  and 
highest  portion  of  it.  We  pass  in  review  before  us  the 
greatest  men  of  that  day  —  the  most  profound  thinkers, 
the  most  virtuous, — Pascal,  Rochefoucauld,  Racine,  Boi- 
leau.  Her  opinions  and  sentiments  were  as  liberal  and 
enlightened  as  theirs  ;  and  that  is  surely  sufficient  praise 
for  a  woman  absolutely  without  pretensions ;  and  who, 
while  she  bares  the  innermost  depths  of  her  mind  to 
her  daughter,  had  no  thought  of  dressing  and  educating 
that  mind  for  posterity. 

The  race  of  madame  de  Sevigne  is  extinct.  Her  son 
continued  childless.  The  marquis  de  Grignan  died  also 
without  offspring.  He  died  young,  of  the  small-pox; 
and  his  broken-hearted  mother  soon  followed  him  to  the 
tomb.  Pauline,  marquise  de  Simiane,  left  children,  who 
became  allied  to  the  family  of  Crequi ;  but  that,  also, 
is  now  extinct. 


guerres  qu'on  leur  a  faites  autrefois,  et  les  Saints  Barthelemis,  ont  multiplie 
et  donne  vigeur  a  cetle  secte.  Sa  majeste  I'a  sap^e  petit  h.  petit,  et  I'edit 
qu'il  vient  de  donner,  soutenu  des  dragons  et  des  Bourdaloues,  a  ete  le 
coup  de  grace. 


259 


BOILEAU. 

1636—1711. 

One  of  the  authors  most  characteristic  of  the  better  part 
of  the  age  of  Louis  XIV.  was  Boileau.  The  activity 
and  directness  of  his  mind,  his  fastidious  taste,  his 
wit,  the  strict  propriety  of  his  writings,  and  their  useful 
aim,  were  worthy  of  a  period  which,  for  many  years, 
legislated  for  the  republic  of  letters.  Sunk  in  ignorance 
as  France  had  been,  it  required  spirits  as  resolute  and 
enlightened  as  his  to  refine  it,  and  spread  knowledge 
widely  abroad  —  while  his  disposition  and  habits  were 
honourable  to  himself,  and  to  the  society  of  which  he 
formed  a  distinguished  part. 

The  father  of  the  poet,  Giles  Boileau,  was  for  sixty 
years  greffier  to  the  great  chamber  of  the  parliament  of 
Paris.  The  simplicity  of  his  character,  his  abilities,  and 
probity,  caused  him  to  be  universally  esteemed.  He  had 
a  large  family.  Three  of  his  sons  distinguished  them- 
selves in  literature.  One,  who  took  the  name  of  Pui- 
Morin,  was  a  lawyer ;  but  his  publications  were  rather 
classic  than  legal.  Another  entered  the  church ;  he 
became  a  doctor  of  Sorbonne,  and  enjoyed  several  eccle- 
siastical preferments. 

Nicholas  Boileau  (who,  to  distinguish  him  from  his 
brothers,  was  called  by  his  contemporaries  Despre'aux, 
from  some  meadows  which  his  father  possessed  at  the 
end  of  his  garden,)  was  born  in  Paris,  on  the  5th  of 
December,  1636.*     He  lost  his  mother  when  he  was 

*  The  place  of  his  birth  and  the  date  have  been  disputed.  Critics  have 
decided  on  the  farts  above  given.  The  doubt  partly  originated  in  Boileau 
himself.  I.ouis  XIV.  one  daj'  asked  liim  his  age;  he  replied,  "I  came 
into  the  world  a  year  before  your  majesty,  that  I  might  announce  the 
glories  of  your  reign."  The  reply  pleased  the  king,  and  was  applauded 
by  the  courtiers ;  nor  did  Boileau'err  much  in  the  fact ;  for,  being  born  as 
late  in  the  year  as  December,  he  was  scarcely  more  than  a  year  older 
than  the  kii.g,  though  the  date  of  that  monarch's  birth  was  1638. 

s  2 


260  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

only  eleven  months  old  —  she  dying  at  the  early  age  of 
twenty-three.  His  childhood  was  one  of  suffering  ;  so 
that  he  said  of  himself^  in  after  times,  that  he  would  not 
accept  a  new  hfe  on  the  condition  of  passing  through  a 
similar  childhood.  We  are  not  told  what  the  evils  were 
of  which  he  complained,  but  they  were  certainly,  to  a 
great  degree,  physical ;  for  he  was  cut  for  the  stone  at 
an  early  age,  and  the  operation  being  badly  performed 
he  never  entirely  regained  his  health.  His  earliest  years 
were  spent  at  the  village  of  Crone,  in  which  his  father 
had  a  country  house,  where  he  spent  his  law  vacations, 
and  where,  indeed,  Louis  Racine  declares  that  Nicholas 
was  born.  The  house  must  have  been  small  and 
humble,  for  the  hoy  was  lodged  in  a  loft  above  a  barn, 
till  a  little  room  was  constructed  for  him  in  the  barn 
itself,  which  made  him  say  that  he  commenced  life  by 
descending  into  a  barn.  His  disposition  as  a  child 
was  marked  by  a  simplicity  and  kindliness,  that  caused 
his  father  to  say,  "  that  Cohn  was  a  good  fellow,  who 
would  never  speak  ill  of  any  one."  His  turn  for  satire 
made  this  seem  ridiculous  in  after  times  :  yet  it  was 
founded  on  truth.  Delicacy,  and  a  sort  of  irritability 
of  taste,  joined  to  wit,  caused  him  to  satirise  writers  : 
but  he  carefully  abstained  from  impugning  the  private 
character  of  any  one  ;  and,  with  his  friends,  and  in  his 
conduct  during  life,  he  was  remarkable  for  probity, 
kindness  of  heart,  and  a  cordial  forgiving  disposition. 
When  we  view  him  as  a  courtier,  also,  we  recognize  at 
once  that  independence  of  feeling,  joined  to  a  certain 
absence  of  mind,  of  which  his  father  perceived  the  germ. 
He  went  to  school  at  Beauvais  ;  and  M.  Sevin,  master 
of  one  of  the  classes,  discovered  his  taste  for  poetry,  and 
asserted  that  he  would  acquire  great  reputation  in  his 
future  life  ;  being  persuaded  that,  when  a  man  is  born  a 
poet,  nothing  can  prevent  him  from  fulfilling  his  des- 
tiny. Boileau  was  at  this  time  passionately  fond  of 
romances  and  poetry;  but  his  critical  taste  was  awakened 
by  these  very  pursuits.  "  Even  at  fifteen,"  he  says,  in 
his  ninth  satire,    "  I  detested  a  stupid  book.     Satire 


BOILEAU.  261 

opened  for  me  the  right  path,  and  supported  my  steps 
towards  the  Parnassus  where  I  ventured  to  seek  her." 
At  the  age  of  eighteen  he  wrote  an  ode  on  the  war 
"which  it  was  expected  that  Cromwell  would  declare 
against  France.  In  later  days  he  corrected  this  ode,  and 
added  to  the  force  of  its  expressions ;  but  even  in  its 
original  state  it  is  remarkable  for  the  purity  of  its  lan- 
guage, its  conciseness,  and  energy. 

At  the  age  of  sixteen  he  lost  his  father,  and  thus 
acquired  early  that  independent  position  which  is  the 
portion  of  orphans.  His  relations  wished  him  to  follow 
the  profession  of  the  law :  he  consented,  and,  applying 
himself  with  dihgence,  was  named  advocate  at  an  early 
age.  But  the  chicanery,  the  tortuousness,  and  absurdity  i^^g^ 
of  the  practice  speedily  disgusted  him,  formed  as  he  was  iEtat. 
by  nature  to  detect  and  expose  error;  so  that,  in  the  very  20. 
first  cause  entrusted  to  him,  he  showed  so  much  disgust^ 
that  the  attorney  (who  probably  was  aware  that  such  ex- 
isted), fancying  that  he  had  discovered  some  irregularity 
in  his  proceedings,  said,  on  withdrawing  his  brief, 
''  Ce  jeune  avocat  ira  loin."  Boileau,  on  the  contrary, 
was  only  eager  to  throw  off  the  burden  of  a  profession 
so  little  suited  to  him ;  and  he  quitted  the  bar  for  the 
study  of  ecclesiastical  polity,  fancying  that  rehgion  would 
purify  and  elevate  the  practice  of  the  church.  He  was 
soon  undeceived ;  and  was  shocked  and  astonished  by 
the  barbarous  language,  the  narrow  scholastic  specula- 
tions, and  polemical  spirit,  of  the  sorbonne.  He  found 
that  chicanery  had  but  changed  its  garb ;  and,  unwilhng 
to  debase  his  mind  by  such  studies,  he  gave  them  up, 
and  dedicated  himself  entirely  to  literature.  Led  by  his 
inborn  genius,  he  boldly  entered  on  the  career  of  letters 
and  poetry,  in  spite  of  the  warnings  of  his  family  *,  for 

*  Que  si  quelqu'un,  mes  Vers,  alors  vous  importune. 
Pour  savoir  mes  parens,  ma  vie,  et  ma  fortune, 
Contez  lui  qu'allie  d'assez  hauts  magistrats, 
Fils  d'un  greffier,  ne  d'ayeux  avocats, 
Des  le  ber<;eau  perdant  une  forte  jeune  mere, 
Reduit  seize  ans  apres  k  pleurer  mon  vieux  pSre, 
J'allai  d'un  pas  hardi,  par  moi-meme  guide, 
Et  de  mon  seul  genie  en  marchant  seconde, 

s  3 


262 


LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 


his  patrimony,  consisting  only  of  a  few  thousand  crowns, 
seemed  to  render  it  imperative  that  he  should  follow 
a  gainful  profession.  His  desires,  however,  were  mo- 
derate ;  and  he  contrived  to  limit  his  expenses  to  his 
slender  income. 

Literature  and  knowledge  were  at  a  low  ebb  in  France 
ivhen  Louis  XIV.  began  to  reign.  The  genius  of  the 
people  had,  previously  to  Corneille,  displayed  itself  in 
no  great  national  poem.  Its  instincts  for  poetry,  owing, 
perhaps,  to  the  faulty  nature  of  the  language,  had  con- 
fined itself  to  songs  and  ballads,  inimitable  for  a  certain 
charming  elegant  simplicity,  but  with  no  pretension  to 
the  praise  due  to  a  high  order  of  imagination.  Corneille, 
in  his  majesty  and  power,  stood  alone.  Then  had  come 
Moliere,  who  detected  and  held  up  to  ridicule  the  false 
taste  of  the  age.  Yet,  in  spite  of  his  attacks,  this  false 
taste  in  part  subsisted ;  and  there  were  several  of  the 
favourite  authors  of  the  day  whose  works  excited 
Boileau's  spleen,  and  roused  him  to  the  task  of  satire. 
Chapelain  may  be  mentioned  as  the  chief  among  them. 
Jean  Chapelain  was  a  Parisian,  and  a  member  of  the 
French  academy.  He  was  much  patronised  by  the 
minister  Colbert ;  and,  under  his  auspices,  the  king  not 
only  granted  him  a  pension,  but  entrusted  to  his  care 
the  making  out  a  list  of  the  chief  literary  men  of  Europe, 
towards  whom  Louis,  in  a  spirit  of  just  munificence, 
inspired  by  Colbert,  allowed  pensions,  in  token  that  their 
labours  deserved  assistance  or  reward.  Jean  Chapelain, 
an  upright,  a  clever,  and  a  generous  man,was  thus  exalted 
to  the  head  of  the  republic  of  letters  ;  and  was  seduced 
by  the  voice  of  praise  to  write  a  poem  on  the  subject  of 
the  Maid  of  Orleans.  The  topic  was  popular  :  while  in 
progress,  Chapelain  enjoyed  an  anticipated  reputation  on 
the  strength  of  it;  and  the  duke  deLongueville  allowed  him 
a  pension  ;  but  as  soon  as  the  ^'  Pucelle"  was  published, 


Studieux  amateur  de  Perse  et  d'Horace, 

Assez  pres  de  Kegnier  m'asseoir  siir  le  Parnasse —  Epitre  X. 

La  famille  en  palit,  et  vit  en  (remissant, 

Dans  la  poudre  du  greftier  un  poetc  naissant.  —  Epitre  V. 


BOILEAU.  263 

which  rash  act  he  did  not  venture  on  for  a  number  of 
years,  his  fame  as  a  poet  fell  to  the  ground  ;  epigrams 
rained  on  the  unfortunate  epic,  and  Boileau  brought  up 
the  rear  with  pointed  well-turned  sarcasms.  As  the 
friend  of  Colbert,  as  an  amiable  man  of  acknowledged 
talents,  Chapelain  had  many  partisans.  The  duke  de 
Montauzier*,  a  satirist  himself  in  his  youth,  was  furious, 
and  declared  that  Boileau  ought  to  be  tossed  into  the  river, 
that  he  might  rhyme  there.  Other  friends  of  Chapelain 
remonstrated ;  but  their  representations  turned  to  the 
amusement  of  the  satirist.  "  Chapelain  is  my  friend," 
said  the  abbe  de  la  Victoire,  "  and  I  grieve  that  you 
have  named  him  in  your  satires.  It  is  true,  if  he 
followed  my  advice,  he  would  not  write  poetry ;  prose 
suits  him  much  better." — "  And  what  more  do  I  say  ,-*" 
cried  Boileau :  ''  I  repeat  jn  verse  what  every  one  else 
says  in  prose :  I  am,  in  truth,  the  secretary  of  the 
public."  t 

As  such  the  public  joyfully  accepted  him.  He  be- 
came the  favourite  guest  of  the  best  society  in  Paris,  where 
genius  and  wut  were  honoured.  Joined  to  his  faculty  of 
writing  satires,  whose  every  word  was  as  a  gem  set  in 
gold,  Boileau  read  his  verses  well,  and  possessed  the 
talent  of  mimicry,  which  added  greatly  to  the  zest  of 
his  recitations.     Chapelain,    Cotin,  and  the  poetasters 

*  The  due  de  Montauzier  married  Julie  d'Angennes,  demoiselle  de 
Rambouillet — the  deity  of  the  clique  which  established  the  system  of  facti- 
tious gallantry  which  Moliere  and  Boileau  ridiculed  and  exploded.  Of 
course  the  duke  was  inimically  inclined  ;  but  time  softened  the  exaspera- 
tion, and  Boileau,  by  apt  flattery  in  his  epistle  to  Racine,  completed  the 
change.  Soon  after  the  publication  of  this  epistle,  the  peer  and  poet  met 
in  the  galleries  of  Versailles,  and  exchanged  compliments  j  the  duke  took 
the  satirist  home  to  dine  with  him,  and  was  his  friend  ever  after. 

fThe  following  is  a  specimen  of  the  poetry  of  the  "  Pucelle,"  —  the 
Maid  of  Orleans  is  addressing  the  king  :  - 

"  O  !  grand  prince,  que  grand  des  cette  heure  j'appelle, 

II  est  vrai,  le  respect  sert  de  bride  h.  mon  zele  : 

Mais  ton  illustre  aspect  me  redouble  le  cceur, 

Et  me  le  redoufclant,  me  redouble  la  peur. 

A  ton  illustre  aspect  mon  coeur  se  sollicite, 

Et  grimpant  contre  mont,  la  dure  terre  quitte. 

O  !  que  n'ai-je  le  ton  desormais  assez  fort 

Pour  aspirer  k  toi,  sans  te  faire  de  tort. 

Pour  toi  puisst5-je  avoir  une  mortelle  pointe 

Vers  oO  I'epaule  gauche  ii.  la  gorge  est  conjointe,  \ 

Que  le  coup  brisat  I'os,  et  fit  itleuvoir  le  sang 

De  la  temple,  du  dos,  de  I'epaule,  et  du  flanc. 

s  4 


264  LITERARY    AUD    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

whom  he  lashed,  passed  thus,  as  it  were,  in  living  array- 
before  his  audience  ;  and  the  enjoyment  he  created  natu- 
rally led  to  a  popularity,  which,  as  it  was  bestowed  by 
the  well-born,  the  beautiful,  and  the  rich,  spread  a  halo 
of  prosperity  round  the  poet's  steps. 

Boileau,  however,  has  not  escaped  censure  for  his 
personal  attacks.  It  was  considered  a  defilement  of 
the  elevated  spirit  of  poetical  satire  to  attack  persons; 
and,  though  Boileau  only  lashed  these  men  as  authors, 
their  blameless  private  characters  made  many  recoil 
from  seeing  their  names  held  up  to  ridicule.  Not  only 
his  contemporaries,  but  later  writers,  have  blamed  him.* 
He  has  even  been  accused  of  acting  from  base  motives. 
That  Chapelain,  when  he  made  a  list  for  Colbert  of 
literary  men  deserving  of  pensions,  did  not  include 
Boileau's  name  is  supposed  to  be  the  occasion  of  his 
enmity.  But  the  dislike  seems  to  have  had  foundation 
earlier  ;  for  we  are  told  that  the  first  satire  was  composed 
when  the  poet  was  only  four-and-twenty,  and  had  no 
pretensions  to  be  pensioned  for  unwritten  works,  and, 
indeed,  before  the  pensions  in  question  were  granted.f 
Some  ill  blood  might  have  arisen  through  a  quarrel 
between  Boileau  and  his  elder  brother  Giles,  who  was 
a  friend  of  Chapelain.  This  circumstance  rendered  him, 
perhaps,  more  willing  to  attack  the  latter;  but,  doubtless, 

*  Voltaire,  in  his  "  Memoire  sur  la  Satire,"  severely  censures  Boileau. 
Voltaire  was  peculiarly  sensitive  to  satire,  while  he  never  spared  it  in  his 
turn  ;  he  cherished  a  sort  of  reserve  in  his  mind,  that  made  it  venial  in 
him  to  attack  with  virulence,  while  no  one  was  to  censure  him  without 
the  most  cutting  return.  This  fact,  however,  does  not  alter  his  argument. 
It  is  a  difficult  question.  It  may  be  said  that  it  is  impossible  but  that  bad 
books  should  be  criticised  by  contemporary  writers,  while  all  men  of  gene- 
rous and  liberal  natures  will  be  averse  to  undertaking  the  office  of  butcher 
themselves. 

t  The  pensions  were  granted  in  1663.  Chapelain  selected  the  names; 
but  we  can  hardlv  believe  that  he  wrote  the  list,  such  as  it  has  come  down 
to  us,  wherein  the  praise  lavished  on  himself  is  ridiculous  enough  :  The 
occasion  of  the  pension  is  appended  to  the  name:  this  is  a  specimen  of 
some  among  them  :  — 

"  Au  sieur  Pierre  Corneille,  premier  poete  dramatique  du  monde,  deux 
mille  francs.  ,  .      ,.  „    • 

"  Au  sieur  Desmarets,  le  plus  fertile  auteur,  et  doue  de  la  plus  belle  ima- 
gination qui  ait  jamais  ete,  douze  cents  francs. 

"  Au  sieur  Moliere,  excellent  poete  comique,  mille  francs. 

"Au  sieur  Racine,  poete  fran^ais,  huit  cents  francs.  _        .    ,^ 

"Au  sieur  Chapelain,  le  plus  grand  poete  fran^ais  qui  ait  jamais  ete,  et 
du  plus  solide  jugement,  trois  mille  francs." 


BOILEAU. 


265 


his  ruling  motive  was  his  hatred  of  a  bad  book,  and 
his  natural  genius,  which  directed  the  scope  of  his 
labours. 

Boileau  himself  carefully  distinguishes  between  at- 
tacks made  on  authors  and  on  individuals ;  and,  apropos, 
of  his  ridicule  of  Chapelain,  he  says, 

"  En  blamant  ses  ecrits,  ai-je  d'un  style  affreux 
Distile  sur  sa  vie  un  venin  dangereux  ? 
Ma  muse  en  I'altaquant,  charitable  et  discrete, 
Scait  de  I'homme  d'honneur  distinguer  le  poete."* 

Still  he  whimsically  gives,  as  it  were,  the  lie  to  this  very 
defence  by  his  subsequent  conduct;  for,  when  any  one 
of  the  unhappy  authors  whom  he  had  held  up  to  ridicule 
showed  him  personal  kindness,  he  was  not  proof  against 
the  impulse  that  led  him  to  expunge  his  name  in  the 
next  edition  of  his  works,  and  substitute  that  of  some 
new -sprung  enemy.  Thus  in  the  seventh  satire  we  find 
the  following  persons  strung  together  : — 

"  Faut-il  d'un  froid  Rimeur  depeindre  la  manie?' 
Mes  vers,  comme  un  torrent,  coulent  sur  le  papier, 
Jerecontre  k  la  fois  Perrin  et  Pelletier, 
Bardou,  Mauroy,  Boursault,  Colletet,  Titreville." 

He  afterwards  altered  the  last  verse  to 

"  Bonnecorse,  Pradon,  Colletet,  Titreville." 

Perrin  had  translated  the  ^neid  into  French  ;  and  was 
the  first  person  who  obtained  leave  to  introduce  the 
Italian  opera  into  France.  Pelletier  was  a  sort  of 
itinerant  rhymester,  who,  when'  he  addressed  a  sonnet 
to  a  man,  carried  it  to  him,  and  contrived  to  get  paid 
for  his  pains.  Bardou  and  Mauroy  were  minor 
poets,  whose  nonsense  appeared  in  ephemeral  collections 
of  verses.  Boursault  was  more  distinguished.  He 
quarrelled  with  Moliere,  and  endeavoured  to  satirise 
him  in  a  slight  drama,  entitled  ''  Portrait  du  Peintre,  ou, 
contre  Critique  de  I'Ecole  des  Femmes."  MoUere 
showed  himself  very  indifferent  to  this  sort  of  attack;  but 
Boileau  took  up  the  cudgels  for  him.  Boursault  revenged 
himself  by  another  drama,  levelled  against  Boileau  him- 
self, called  "  Satire  des  Satires;"  and  the  latter,  with  a 

*  Satire  IX. 


^66  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    aiEN. 

sensitiveness  in  which  he  had  no  right  to  indulge,  got 
a  decree  of  parliament  to  prevent  its  representation. 
Many  years  after,  when  Boileau  was  at  the  baths  of 
Bourbon  for  his  health,  and  Boursault  was  receveur 
des  termes  at  Mont  Lu^on,  a  town  not  far  distant, 
Boileau  writes  to  Racine,  ''  M.  Boursault,  whom  I 
thought  dead,  came  to  see  me  five  or  six  days  ago,  and 
made  his  appearance  again  unexpectedly  this  evening. 
He  told  me  he  had  come  three  long  leagues  out  of  his  way 
to  Mont  Lu9on,  whither  he  was  bound,  and  where  he 
lives,  to  have  the  pleasure  of  calling  on  me.  He  offered 
me  all  sorts  of  things  —  money,  horses,  &c.  I  replied 
by  similar  civilities,  and  wished  to  keep  him  till 
to-morrow  to  dinner;  but  he  said  he  was  obhged  to  go 
away  early  in  the  morning,  and  we  separated  the  best 
possible  friends."  Racine  says,  in  reply,  "  I  am  pleased 
by  the  civilities  you  have  received  from  Boursault;  you 
are  advancing  towards  perfection  at  a  prodigious  pace; 
how  many  people  you  have  pardoned."  Boileau  repHes, 
^'  I  laughed  heartily  at  the  joke  you  make  of  the  people 
I  have  pardoned;  but  do  you  know  that  I  have  more 
merit  than  you  imagine,  if  the  Italian  proverb  be  true, 
chi  offende  non  perdona."  About  this  time  Pradon  and 
Bonnecorse  attacked  him  ;  and  he  took  occasion,  in  a  new 
edition  of  his  works,  to  substitute  their  names  for  those 
of  the  persons  with  whom  he  was  now  reconciled. 

To  return  to  his  younger  days  :  wit,  high  and  con- 
vivial spirits,  and  his  acknowledged  and  popular  talents, 
gained  him  the  favour  of  the  great.  The  great  Conde 
was  his  especial  protector ;  and  he  changed  many  ex- 
pressions in  his  poems,  and  even  altered  them  mate- 
rially, at  his  suggestion.  The  great  Conde  often 
assembled  literary  men  at  Chantilly  ;  and  he  liked  this 
society  far  better  than  that  of  people  of  rank.  One  day, 
when  Racine  and  Boileau  were  with  him,  the  arrival  of 
some  bishop  was  announced,  as  having  come  to  view  his 
palace  and  grounds.  "  Show  him  every  thing,"  said  the 
prince  impatiently,  ''  except  myself."  This  prince  often 
discussed  literary  topics  with  his  guests.     When  he  was 


BOILEAU.  267 

in  the  right,  he  argued  with  moderation  and  gentleness; 
when  in  the  wrong,  he  grew  angry  if  contradicted:  his 
eyes  sparkled  with  a  fire  that  even  intimidated  Boileau, 
who  yielded  at  once,  remarking,  at  the  same  time,  to  his 
neighbour,  "•  Henceforth  I  shall  always  agree  with  the 
prince  when  he  is  in  the  wrong." 

The  First  President  Lamoignon  also  honoured  him 
with  his  intimate  friendship;  and  Arnaud  and  Nicole, 
churchmen  distinguished  for  their  virtues  and  talents, 
were  among  his  dearest  and  most  revered  friends.  But, 
besides  these,  he  had  intimates  of  his  own  station,  of 
not  less  genius  than  himself;  authors,  yet  without  rival- 
ship,  who  enjoyed  the  zest  given  by  each  other's  wit  in 
society ;  to  whom  he  was  strongly  attached,  and  with 
whom,  in  the  heyday  of  Hfe,  he  played  many  a  prank, 
and  spent  long  hours  of  social  enjoyment.  Racine, 
La  Fontaine,  Moliere,  and  Chapelle*  were  among  these. 
Many  anecdotes  are  told  concerning  them,  which  makes 
us  the  more  regret  that  no  faithful  Boswell  was  near  to 
glean  more  amply.  The  '^  Boileana,"  which  pretended  to 
record  their  wit,  is  by  no  means  authentic.  Louis 
Racine,  in  his  valuable  life  of  his  father,  has  given  us  one 
or  two;  from  these  —  the  shadow  rather  than  the  light 
of  wit  —  marking  its  place  rather  than  displaying  its 
form  —  we  select  a  few. 

This  knot  of  friends  frequently  dined  at  a  celebrated 
traiteurSj  or  at  one  another's  houses;  in  particular,  at 
Moliere's  and  Boileau's  country  houses  at  Auteuil. 
The  conversation  on  these  occasions  w^as  brilliant ;  and, 
did  a  silly  remark  escape  from  any  among  them,  a  fine 
was  immediately  levied.  Chapelain's  poem  of  the 
"  Pucelle"  was  on  the  table,  and,  according  to  the  quality 
of  the  fault,  the  accused  was  adjudged  to  read  a  certain 
number  of  lines  from  this  poem :  twenty  lines  was  a 
heavy  punishment;  a  whole  page  was  considered  equi- 
valent to  a  sentence  of  death. 

The  famous  supper,  when  the  whole  company  resolved 
to  drown    themselves,  has  been  related  in  the  life  of 

*  For  an  account  of  Chapelle,  see  Life  of  Moliere. 


268 


LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 


Moliere,  Buoyant  spirits,  unchecked  by  age  or  sorrow, 
inspired  a  thousand  freaks,  which  were  put  in  execution 
on  the  spur  of  the  minute.  At  one  time  the  university  of 
Paris  was  going  to  present  a  petition  to  parliament  to 
desire  that  the  philosophy  of  Descartes  should  not  be 
taught  in  the  schools.  This  was  mentioned  before  the 
First  President  Lamoignon,  who  said  that,  if  the  petition 
were  presented,  the  decree  could  not  be  refused.  Boileau, 
amused  by  the  idea,  wrote  a  burlesque  decree,  which  he 
got  up  in  common  with  Racine,  and  his  nephew  added 
the  legal  terms,  and  carried  it,  together  with  several 
other  papers,  to  b^  signed  by  the  president.  Lamoignon 
was  on  the  point  of  putting  his  name,  when,  casting  his 
eyes  over  it,  he  exclaimed,  "This  is  a  trick  of  Despre'aux !" 
The  burlesque  petition  became  known,  and  the  university 
gave  up  the  notion  of  presenting  a  serious  one. 

Meanwhile,  flattered  and  courted  by  the  great,  and 
beloved  by  his  friends,  Boileau  long  abstained  from 
publishing  those  satires  which  had  gained  him  so  much 
popularity.  Many  of  his  verses  had  passed  into  pro- 
verbs from  their  appositeness  and  felicity  of  expression*  ; 
and  those  who  heard  him  recite  were  eager  to  learn 
them  by  heart,  and  repeat  them  to  others.  Becoming 
thus  the  universal  subject  of  conversation, — listened  to 
with  delight,  repeated  with  enthusiasm, — the  booksellers 
laid  hold  of  mutilated  copies,  and  printed  them.     The 

*  In  one  of  his  later  poems,  Boileau,  addressing  his  verses,  thus  speaks 
of  the  successes  of  his  youth  :  — 

•*  Vains  et  faibles  enfans  dans  ma  veillesse  nes, 
Vous  croyez  sur  les  pas  de  vos  heureiix  aines. 
Voir  bientot  vos  bons-mots,  passant  du  peuple  aux  princes, 
Charmer  egalement  la  ville  et  les  provinces; 
Et,  par  le  prompt  effet  d'un  sel  rejouissant, 
Devenir  quelqnefois  proverbes  en  naissant. 
Mais  perdez  cette  erre\)r  dont  I'appas  vous  amorce, 
Le  temps  n'est  plus,  mes  Vers,  ou  ma  plume,  en  sa  force 
Du  Parnasse  Fran^ais  formant  les  nourissons, 
De  si  riches  couieurs  habillait  ses  legons  : 
Quand  mon  Esprit,  pousse  d'un  courroux  legitime, 
Vint  devant  la  liaison  plaider  centre  la  Rime, 
A  tout  le  genre  humain  s^ut  faire  le  proems, 
Et  s'attaqua  soi-meme  avec  tant  de  succes. 
Alors  il  n'etait  point  de  lecteur  si  sauvage. 
Qui  ne  se  deridat  en  lisant  mon  ouvrage, 
Kt  qui  pour  s'egayer,  souvent  dans  ses  discours 
D'un  motpris  en  mes  vers  n'emprunt^t  le  secours." 


BOILEAU.  269 

sensitive  ear  of  the  author  was  shocked  by  the  mistakes 
that  crept  in,  the  result  of  this  loose  mode  of  publication, 
and  he  at  last  resolved  to  bring  them  out  himself.  He  1666. 
published  seven  satires,  preceded  by  an  address  to  the  ^tat. 
king,  which,  however  full  of  praise,  could  hardly  be  ^^* 
called  flattery,  since  it  echoed  the  voice  of  the  whole 
French  nation,  and  had  been  fairly  earned  by  the  sove- 
reign. Louis  then  appeared  in  the  brilliant  position  of 
a  young  monarch  labouring  for  the  prosperity  and  glory 
of  his  people.  Cardinal  Richelieu  and  cardinal  Maza- 
rin  had  disgusted  the  French  with  favourites  and 
prime  ministers.  Louis  was  his  own  minister  ;  un- 
wearied in  his  application  to  business,  and  never  suffer- 
ing his  pleasures  to  seduce  him  to  idleness.  These  very 
pleasures,  conducted  with  magnificence  and  good  taste, 
dazzled  and  fascinated  his  subjects.  He  established  his 
influence  in  foreign  countries,  forcing  them  to  acknow- 
ledge his  superiority.  He  aided  Austria  against  the 
Turks  ;  succoured  Portugal ;  protected  Holland  :  and 
while,  with  some  arrogance,  but  more  real  greatness,  he 
thus  rose  the  sun  of  the  world,  he  studied  to  make  his 
court  the  centre  of  civilisation  and  knowledge.  Such  a 
course  might  well  deserve  the  praises  Boileau  bestowed, 
who  was  also  influenced  by  Colbert  to  give  such  a  turn 
to  his  address  as  would  lead  the  mind  of  the  active  and 
ardent  sovereign  to  take  dehght  in  the  blessings  of  peace, 
instead  of  the  false  glories  of  war.  The  first  edition 
was  also  preceded  by  a  preface,  in  which  he  apologises 
for  the  publication,  to  which  he  was  solely  urged  by 
the  disfigurement  of  his  poems  as  they  were  then 
printed.  He  bids  the  authors  whom  he  criticises  re- 
member that  Parnassus  was  at  all  times  a  free  country ; 
and  that,  if  he  attacked  their  works,  they  might  revenge 
themselves  by  criticising  his;  and  to  reflect  that,  if  their 
productions  Avere  bad,  they  deserved  censure  ;  if  good, 
nothing  said  in  their  dispraise  would  injure  them. 

In  vain  he  tried  to  propitiate  authors  ;  and  it  must 
be  acknowledged  that,  though  some  might  be  found  can- 
did enough  to  admit  the  truth  of  his  strictures,  no  man 


270  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

could  be  pleased  at  being  the  mark  for  ridicule.  The 
outcry  was  prodigious,  and  he  endeavoured  to  appease 
it,  and  justify  himself,  in  his  ninth  satire,  addressed  to 
his  understanding  '  {''  a  son  esprit :  "  the  word  thus 
used  is  very  uiitranslateable  ;  in  former  times  the  term 
1667.  wit  had  very  much  the  same  signification).  About  the 
-S^tat.  same  time  he  published  his  eighth  satire  on  man,  while 
^^'  he  still  kept  the  ninth  in  manuscript.  The  king  read 
the  eighth,  and  admired  it  exceedingly.  M.  de  Saint 
Maurice,  an  officer  of  the  king's  guard,  who  had  a  fre- 
quent opportunity  of  approaching  the  monarch,  as  he 
was  teaching  him  to  shoot  flying,  observed  that  Boileau 
had  written  a  still  better  satire,  in  which  there  was 
mention  of  his  majesty.  "  Mention  of  me  !"  cried  the 
king  haughtily.  '^  Yes,  sire,"  replied  Saint  Maurice, 
^''and  he  speaks  with  all  due  respect."  Louis  showed  a 
desire  to  see  this  new  production  ;  and  Boileau  gave  a 
copy  of  it  to  his  friend  on  condition  that  he  showed  it 
only  to  the  king.  Louis  was  much  pleased  :  it  became 
known  at  court,  copies  got  abroad,  and  the  poet  found 
it  necessary  to  publish  it. 

This  was  the  period  of  his  life  when  Boileau  was 
fullest  of  energy  and  invention  j  and  his  industry 
equalled  the  fecundity  of  his  wit.  He  himself  used  in 
after  days  to  call  it  his  hon  temps,  and  alluded  to  it  at 
once  Avith  pride  and  regret.  He  wrote  several  of  his 
epistles,  his  "Art  Poetique,"  and  the  "Lutrin,"  Having 
in  his  satires  held  up  to  ridicule  the  prevalent  faults  of 
the  literature  of  his  time,  he  turned  his  thoughts  to 
giving  rules  of  taste,  and  was  desirous  of  pointing  out 
the  right  path  for  authors  to  pursue.  He  mentioned 
his  design  to  M.  Patin,  who  doubted  the  possibility  of 
adapting  such  a  subject  to  French  verse.  In  this  he 
mistook  the  genius  of  his  language.  Narrow  as  are 
the  powers  of  French  verse,  which  was  then,  indeed,  in 
its  infancy,  it  was,  under  the  master  hand  of  Boileau, 
admirably  fitted  for  pointed  epigrams  and  sententious 
maxims.  He  felt  this  ;  and,  notwithstanding  his  friend's 
counsels,  he  began  his  "  Art  Poe'tique ;"  and,  carrying  a 


BOILEAU.  271 

portion  of  it  to  his  adviser,   M.  Patin  at  once  acknow- 
ledged his  mistake,  and  exhorted  him  to  proceed. 

At  the  same  time  he  was  employed  on  the  "  Lutrin  ;  " 
a  poem  in  which  he  displayed  more  fancy  and  sportive 
wit  than  he  had  before  exhibited.  It  is  not  so  graceful 
nor  so  airy  as  ''  The  Rape  of  the  Lock*;"  but  it  is  more 
witty,  and  abounds  with  those  happy  lines,  many  of 
which  have  passed  into  proverbs,  while  others  concen- 
trate, as  it  were,  a  whole  comedy  into  a  few  lines. 

The  idea  of  the  "  Lutrin  "  was  suggested  in  conversa- 
tion. Some  friends  of  the  author  were  disputing  concern- 
ing epic  poetry,  and  Boileau  maintained  the  opinion 
advanced  in  his  '^^  Poetics,"  that  an  heroic  poem  ought  to 
have  but  a  slender  groundwork,  and  that  its  excellence 
depended  on  the  power  of  its  inventor  to  sustain  and 
enlarge  the  original  theme.  The  argument  grew  warm  ; 
but  no  one  was  convinced,  and  the  conversation  changed. 
It  turned  upon  a  ridiculous  dispute  between  the  trea- 
surer and  chanter  of  the  Chapelle  Royale  of  Paris,  con- 
cerning the  placing  of  a  reading  desk  Qutrin).-\  M.  de 
Lamoignon,  the  revered  and  excellent  friend  of  Boi- 
leau, turned  to  him,  and  asked  whether  an  heroic  poem 
could  be  written  on  such  a  subject.  '^Why  not  ?"  was 
the  reply  :  the  company  laughed  ;  but  Boileau,  excited 
to  think  on  the  subject,  found  the  burlesque  of  it  open 
upon  him.  The  spirited  opening  is  the  happiest  effort  of 
his  muse;  and,  when  he  showed  it  to  M.  de  Lamoignon, 
he  was  encouraged  to  proceed.  At  first  he  limited  the 
poem  to  four  cantos,  which  are  the  best;  for,  as  is 
usually  the  case  with  burlesque,  it  becomes  heavy  and 

*  In  an  article  in  The  Liberal,  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt  draws  a  parallel  between 
Boileau  and  Pope,  in  that  spirit  of  just  and  delcate  criticism  for  which  he 
is  remarkable:  "  As  Terence  was  called  half  Menander  so  Boileau  is 
half  Pope.  He  wants  Ariel;  he  wants  his  invisible  world;  he  wants 
that  poetical  part  of  poetry  which  consists  in  brintring a  remote  and  creative 
fancy  to  wait  on  the  more  obvious  wit  and  graces  that  lie  about  us."  ^^The 
critic, however,  bestows  great  praise  on  the  exordium  of  the  "  Lutrin  ;"  and 
it  must  be  remembered  that  Boileau  preceded  Pope,  and  that  the  English 
poet  was  in  some  sort  an  imitator  of  the  French. 

t  The  desk,  being  old  fashior.ed  and  cumbrous,  covered  the  whole  space 
before  the  chanter,  and  hid  him  entirely;  the  chanter  consequently  re- 
moved it,  which  excited  the  anger  of  his  superior,  the  treasur-^r,  who  had 
it  rei>laccd.  It  was  again  removed,  again  replaced  ;  the  whole  chapter 
being  in  a  state  of  dissension  and  enmity  on  the  subject,  till  Lamoignon 
contrived  to  pacify  the  parties. 


272  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

tedious  as  it  is  long  drawn  out.  The  first  and  second 
cantos  are,  indeed,  far  superior  to  the  remainder.  The 
wit  has  that  pleasantry  whose  point  is  sharp,  and  yet 
•without  sting ;  so  that  even  those  attacked  can  smile. 
The  poem  begins  with  an  exordium  that  at  once  opens 
the  subject ;  — 

"  Je  chante  les  combats,  ct  ce  Pr(?Iat  terrible, 
Qui  par  ses  longs  travaux,  et  sa  force  invincible, 
Dans  une  illustre  Eglise  exercant  son  grand  coeur, 
Fit  placer  h.  la  tin  un  Lutrin  dans  le  choeur. 
Cast  en  vain  que  le  Chantre  abusant  d'un  faux  titre. 
Deux  fois  Ten  fit  oter  par  les  mains  du  chapitre  ; 
Ce  Prelat  sur  le  banc  de  son  rival  altier, 
Deux  fois  le  reportant.  Ten  couvrit  tout  entier." 

It  goes  on  to  describe  the  peace  and  prosperity  enjoyed 
by  the  Sainte  Chapelle  at  Paris*  :  — 

"  Parmi  les  doux  plaisirs  d'une  paix  fraternelle, 
Paris  voyoit  flcurir  son  antique  chapelle. 
Les  chanoines  vermeils  et  brillant  de  santfe 
S'engraissoient  d'une  longue  et  sainte  oisivete. 
Sans  sortir  de  leurs  lits,  plus  doux  que  leurs  herraines, 
Ces  pieux  faineans  faisoient  chanter  matines  ; 
Veilloient  k  bien  diner,  and  laissoient  en  leur  lieu, 
A  des  chantres  gages  le  soin  de  loiier  Dieu." 

Discord  witnesses  their  repose  with  indignation: — 

"  Quand  la  Discorde,  encore  loute  noire  de  crimes, 
Sortant  des  Cordeliers  pour  aller  aux  Minimes  ; 
Avec  cet  air  hideux  qui  fait  fremir  la  paix, 
S'arreta  pres  d'un  arbre,  au  pie  de  son  palais. 
lA,  d'un  ceil  attentif  contemplant  son  empire 
A  I'aspect  du  tumulte  elle-memc  s'admire." 

But,  finding  that  the  chapter  of  the  Holy  Chapel  is  im- 
pervious to  her  influence,  her  anger  is  roused;  and, 
taking  the  form  of  an  old  chanter,  she  visits  the  trea- 
surer, a  bishop,  resolved  to  excite  him  to  strife.  The 
description  of  the  prelate,  who,  supported  by  a  breakfast, 
dozed  till  dinner,  is  full  of  wit : — 

"  Dans  le  reduit  d'une  alcove  enfon^ee, 
S'eldve  un  lit  de  plume  h.  grands  frais  amassee, 
Quatre  rideaux  pompeux,  par  un  double  contour, 
En  defendant  I'entree  a  la  clarte  du  jour. 
I.a,  parmi  les  douceurs  d'un  tranquille  silence, 
Kegne  sur  le  duvet  une  heureuse  indolence. 
C'est  la  que.le  Prelat,  muni  d'un  dejeuner. 
Dormant  d'un  leger  somme,  atteiidait  le  diner. 

•  In  the  first  edition  of  this  work  the  scene  of  the  poem  was  laid  at  the 
insignificant  village  of  Pourges,  not  far  from  Paris.  He  found  afterwards 
that  the  effect  of  the  poem  was  injured  by  this  change,  and  he  transferred 
it  to  its  right  and  proper  place. 


BOILEAU.  273 

La  jeunesse  en  sa  fleur  brille  sur  son  visage, 
Son  menton  sur  son  sein  descend  k  double  etage  ; 
Et  son  corps  ramasse  dans  sa  courte  grosseur, 
Fait  gemir  les  coussins  sous  sa  molle  epaisseur." 

Discord   enters,   and  addresses  herself  to   the  work  of 
mischief :  — 

"  La  deesse  en  entrant,  qui  voit  la  nappe  mise. 
Admire  un  si  bel  ordre,  et  reconnoit  I'eglise  j 
Et  marchant  k  grands  pas  vers  le  lieu  de  repos, 
Au  Prelat  sommeillant  elle  addresse  ces  mots  : 
'  Tu  dors,  Prelat,  tu  dors  ?  et  Ik-haut  k  ta  place, 
Le  chantre  aux  yeux  du  choeur  etale  son  audace  : 
Chante  les  oremus,  fait  des  processions, 
Et  repand  k  grands  flots  les  benedictions. 
Tu  dors  ?  attens  tu  done  que,  sans  bulle  et  sans  titre,' 
11  te  ravisse  encore  le  rochet  et  le  mitre  ? 
Sors  de  ce  lit  oiseux,  qui  les  tient  attache 

.  Et  renonce  au  repos,  ou  bien  k  I'eveche." 

This  exhortation  has  its  full  effect :  the  prelate  rises, 
full  of  wrath  and  resolution,  and  even  talks  of  assembling 
the  chapter  before  dinner.  Gilotin,  his  faithful  almoner, 
remonstrates  successfully  against  this  piece  of  heroism : 

"  Quelle  fureur,  dit-il,  quel  aveugle  caprice, 
Quand  le  diner  est  pret,  vous  appelle  k  I'office  ? 
De  votre  dignitd  soutenez  mieux  I'eclat : 
Est-ce  pour  travailler  que  vous  etes  prelat? 
A  quoi  bon  ce  degoiit  et  ce  zele  inutile ; 
Est-il  done  pour  jeuner  quatre-temps  ou  vigile  ? 
Reprenez  vos  esprits,  et  souvenez-vous  bien, 
Qu'un  diner  rechauffe  ne  valut  jamais  rien. 
Ainsi  dit  Gilotin,  et  ce  ministre  sage 
Sur  table,  au  meme  instant,  fait  servir  le  potage. 
Le  Prelat  voit  la  soupe,  et  plein  d'un  saint  respect, 
Demeure  quelque  temps  muet  k  cet  aspect. 
II  cede— il  dine  enfin." 

The  chapter  is  afterwards  assembled  ;  the  bishop,  in 
tears,  complains  of  the  presumption  of  the  chanter; 
when  Sidrac,  the  Nestor  of  the  chapter,  suggests  a 
means  of  humbling  him  ;  and  a  description  of  the  fa- 
mous reading-desk  is  introduced  :  — 

"  Vers  cet  endroit  du  chceur  oQ  le  chantre  orgueilleux, 
Montre,  assis  k  ta  gauche,  un  front  si  sourcilleux  ; 
Sur  ce  rang  d'ais  serres  qui  ferment  sa  cleture, 
Fut  jadis  un  lutrin  d'inegale  structure. 
Done  les  fiancs  elargis,  de  leur  vaste  contour 
Ombragoient  pleinement  tons  les  lieux  d'alcntour. 
Derriere  ce  lutrin,  ainsi  qu'au  fond  d'un  autre, 
A  peine  sur  son  banc,  on  discernait  le  chantre. 
Tandis  quk  I'autre  banc  le  Prelat  radieux, 
Decouvert  k  grand  jour,  attiroit  tons  les  yeux. 
Mais  un  demon,  fatal  k  cette  ample  machine, 
Soit  qu'une  main  la  nuit  k  hate  sa  ruine, 
VOL.    1.  T 


274j  literary  and  scientific  men. 

Soit  qu'ainsi  de  tout  terns  I'ordonnat  le  destin. 

Fit  tomber  k  nos  yeux  le  pulpitre  un  matin. 

J'eus  beau  prendre  le  ciel  et  le  chantre  h.  partie: 

II  fallut  remportcr  dans  notre  sacristie, 

Ou  depuis  trente  liyvers  sans  gloire  enseveli, 

II  languit  tout  poudreux  dans  un  honteux  oubli. 

Entends-nioi  done,  Prelat,  des  que  I'ombre  tranquille 

Viendra  d'un  crepe  noir  envelopper  la  ville, 

II  faut  que  trois  de  nous,  sans  tumulte  etsans  bruit, 

Partent  k  la  faveur  de  la  naissante  nuit ; 

Et  du  lutrin  roinpu  reunissant  la  masse, 

Aillent  d'un  zeie  adroit  le  remettrea  sa  place. 

Si  le  chantre  demain  ose  le  renverser, 

Alors  de  cent  arrets  tu  peux  le  terrasser. 

Pour  soutenir  tes  droits,  que  le  ciel  autorise, 

Ablme  tout  plutot,  c'est  I'esprit  de  I'eglise. 

C'est  par  1^  qu'un  prelat  signale  la  vigueur.   ', 

Ne  borne  pas  ta  gloire  k  prier  dans  le  chceur  : 

Ces  vertus  dans  Aleth  peuvent  €tre  en  usage, 

Mais  dans  Paris,  plaidons  :  c"est-l^  notre  partage." 

The  last  couplet  contains  a  compliment  to  the  bishop 
of  Aleth,  who  dedicated  his  life  to  the  instruction  and 
improvement  of  the  people  of  his  diocese.  We  are  a 
little  astonished  at  the  freedom  with  which  Boileau  rallies 
the  clergy.  At  this  period,  when  the  quarrels  of  the 
Jesuits  and  jansenists  were  dividing  and  convulsing  the 
French  church,  the  sarcasms  of  Boileau  must  have  had 
a  deep,  perhaps  a  salutary,  effect.  The  priesthood  was 
enraged;,  and  denounced  the  "  Lutrin  "  as  blasphemous  ; 
but  the  whole  laity,  with  the  king  at  their  head,  enjoyed 
the  wit,  and  acknowledged  its  appositeness. 

To  return  to  the  story  of  the  poem.  The  advice  of 
Sidrac  is  eagerly  adopted.  They  draw  lots,  and  three  are 
thus  selected  for  the  task.  Brontin  comes  first ;  then 
L'Amour,  a  hairdresser,  a  new  Adonis  with  a  blond  wig, 
only  care  of  Anne  his  wife^  so  haughty  of  mien  that  he 
is  the  terror  of  his  neighbourhood  ;  lastly,  the  name  of 
Boirude,  the  sacristan,  is  drawn.  This  choice  satisfies 
the  chapter,  and  the  first  canto  ends  with  the  notice, 
that 

"  Le  Prelat,  reste  seul,  calme  une  pcu  son  depit, 
Et  jusqu'au  souper  se  couche  et  s'assoupit." 

The  second  book  commences  with  a  description  of 
Renown,  imitated  from  Virgil's  Fame,  who  reveals  the 
wigmaker's  purpose  to  his  wife,  and  a  scene  of  remon- 
strance ensues  and  reproach,  parodied  on  the  parting  of 
wS^neas  and  Dido.    The  portions  of  the  poem  which  are 


BOILEAU.  275 

parodies  on  the  ancient  epics  are  full  of  wit ;  but  they 
are  less  amusing  than  those  passages  already  cited,  in 
which  the  poet  gives  scope  to  his  fancy,  unshackled  by 
imitation  of  what  indeed  is  inimitable.  We  are,  therefore, 
less  amused  by  the  quarrel  of  the  wigmaker  and  his 
wife  than  with  the  conclusion  of  the  second  book ;  when 
Discord  marks  the  progress  of  the  three  adventurers 
towards  the  tower  where  the  Lutrin  is  hid,  and  shout 
forth  so  joyously  as  to  awaken  Indolence.  The  de- 
scription of  Indolence  contains,  perhaps,  the  best  verses 
that  Boileau  ever  wrote :  — 

"  L'air  qui  gemit  du  cri  de  I'horrible  deesse, 
Va  jusques  dans  Citeaux*  reveiller  la  Mollesse. 
C'est  \k  qu'en  un  dortoir  elle  fait  son  sejour. 
Les  Plaisirs  nonchalans  foiatrent^  I'entour. 
L'un  paitrit  dans  un  coin  I'embonpoint  des  chanoines, 
D'autre  broye  en  riant  le  vermilion  des  moines ; 
La  Volupte  la  sert  avec  des  yeux  devots, 
Et  toujours  le  Sonimeil  lui  verse  des  pavots. 
Ce  soir  plus  que  jamais,  en  vain  il  les  redouble, 
La  Mollesse  k  ce  bruit  se  reveille,  se  trouble." 

Night  enters,  and  frightens  her  still  more  with  the 
recital  of  how,  on  the  morrow,  the  Lutrin  was  to  appear 
in  the  Sainte  Chapelle,  and  excite  mutiny  and  war. 
Indolence,  troubled  by  this  account,  lets  fall  a  tear,  and, 
opening  an  eye,  complains  in  a  feeble  and  interrupted 
voice  : — ■ 

"  O  Nuit,  que  m'as  tu  dit  ?    Quel  demon  sur  la  terra 
Souffle  dans  tous  les  cceurs  la  fatigue  et  la  guerre  ? 
Helas !  qu'est  devenu  ce  temps,  cet  heureux  temps, 
Oii  les  rois  s'honoraient  du  nom  de  faineans, 
S'endormoient  sur  le  trone,  et  me  servant  sans  honte, 
Laissoient  leur  sceptre  aux  mains  ou  d'un  maireou  d'un  comte. 
Aucun  soin  n'approchait  de  leur  paisible  cour, 
On  reposait  la  nuit,  on  dormait  tout  le  jour. 

***** 
Ce  dotix  siecle  n'est  plus  !  le  ciel  impitoyable, 
A  place  sur  le  trone  un  prince  infatigabie. 
II  brave  mes  douceurs,  il  est  sourd  a  ma  voix. 
Tous  les  jours  il  m'eveille  an  bruit  de  ses  exploits  ; 
Rien  ne  peut  arreter  sa  vigilante  audace, 
L'ete  n'a  point  de  feux,  I'hyver  n'a  point  de  glace. 
J'entens  a  son  seul  nom  mes  sujets  fremir 
En  vain  deux  fois  la  Paix  a  voulu  I'endormir: 


*  Citeaux  was  a  famous  abbey  of  Bernardins  situated  in  Burgundy.  The 
monks  of  Citeaux  had  not  conformed  to  the  reform  lately  introduced  into 
other  houses  of  their  order,  which  caused  Boileau  to  represent  Indolence 
3S  domiciled  among  them. 

T    2 


276  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    3IEN. 

Loin  de  moi  son  courage,  entraing  par  la  gloire, 
Ne  se  plait  qu'a  courir^de  victoire  en  victoire.* 

This  passage  is  remarkable  as  being  the  cause  of 
Boileau's  first  appearance  at  court,  of  which  further 
mention  will  be  made.  This  episode  is  the  jewel  of  the 
whole  poem.  Burlesque  becomes  tiresome  when  long 
drawn  :  though  there  are  verses  interspersed  throughout 
full  of  sarcasm  the  most  pointed,  and  ridicule  the  most 
happy,  we  are  fatigued  by  a  sort  of  monotony  of  tone, 
and  the  unvarying  spirit  of  parody  or  irony  that  reigns 
throughout.  The  third  canto  is  taken  up  by  the  enter- 
prise of  the  three,  who  enter  the  sacristy  to  seize  upon 
the  Lutrin.  Night  has  brought  an  owl,  and  hid  it  in 
the  desk,  whose  sudden  appearance  terrifies  the  heroes, 
who  are  about  to  fly,  till  Discord  rallies  them,  and  they 
pursue  the  adventure,  carry  the  desk  in  triumph,  and 
place  it  in  its  ancient  place  before  the  seat  of  the 
chanter.  The  book  concludes  with  an  address  to  the 
latter,  apostrophising  the  grief  that  will  seize  him  when, 
on  the  morrow,  the  insult  will  be  revealed.  The  fourth 
book  contains  the  discovery  —  the  rage  of  the  chanter 
—  his  resolution  to  destroy  the  desk  —  the  assembling 
of  the  chapter  —  their  indignation  —  and  it  concludes 
with  the  destruction  of  the  Lutrin,  and  its  being  carried 
off  piecemeal.  At  first  the  poem  consisted  only  of  these 
four  books.  Boileau  announced,  that  '^  reasons  of  great 
importance  prevented  his  publishing  the  whole  :"  but 
the  fact  was,  that  only  four  books  were  at  that  time 
written.  The  fifth  book  describes  the  meeting  of  the 
inimical  parties,  and  a  battle  that  ensued.  Both  prelate 
and  chanter,  rushing  to  the  chapelle,  encounter  each  other, 
near  the  shop   of  Barbin,  a  bookseller  :  they  eye  each 

*  The  speech  of  Indolence  breaks  off  suddenly  and  characteristically,  — 
"  La  Molle;se,  oppressee, 
Dans  sa  bouche  k  ce  mot  sent  sa  langue  glassee, 
Et  lasse  de  parler,  succombant  sous  I'effort, 
Soupire,  etend  les  bras,  ferme  rcei),  et  s'endort." 
This  last  line,  so  expressive  of  the  lassitude  it  describes,  charmed  the  bril- 
liant but  unfortunate  Henrietta  of  England,  duchess  of  Orleans.  One  day, 
in  the  chapel  at  Versailles,  while  waiting  the  arrival  of  the  king,  she 
perceived  Boileau,  and,  beckoning  him  to  approach,  whispered, 
"  Soupire,  etend  les  bras,  ferme  Toeil,  et  s'endort." 


BOILEAU.  277 

Other  with  fury,'till  a  partisan  of  the  chanter,  unable  to  sup- 
press his  rage,  seizes  a  ponderous  volume — the  ^'^  Great 
Cyrus"  of  mademoiselle  Scuderi  —  hurls  it  at  Boirude, 
who  avoids  the  blow,  and  the  vast  mass  assails  poor 
Sidrac  :  the  old  man,  "  accable  de  I'horrible  Artaraene/' 
falls,  breathless,  at  the  feet  of  the  bishop.  This  is  a 
signal  for  a  general  attack  :  they  rush  into  the  shop, 
disfurnish  the  shelves,  and  hurl  the  volumes  at  one  ano- 
ther. In  naming  the  books  thus  used,  Boileau  indulges 
in  satirical  allusions  to  contemporary  authors,  and  ex- 
claims :  — 

"  01  que  d'ecrits  obscurs,  de  livres  ignores, 
Furent  en  ce  grand  jour  de  la  poudre  tires." 

And  then  follows  the  names  of  many  now  so  entirely 
forgotten,  that  the  point  of  his  sarcasms  escapes  us. 
The  party  of  the  chanter  is  on  the  point  of  being  vic- 
torious, till  the  bishop,  by  a  happy  stratagem,  contrives 
to  escape  the  danger  :  — 

"  Au  spectacle  etonnant  de  leur  chute  imprevue, 
Le  Prelat  pousse  un  cri  qui  pendtre  la  nue. 
II  maudit  dans  son  cceur  le  demon  des  combats, 
Et  de  I'horreur  du  coup  il  recule  six  pas. 
Mais  bientot  rappelant  son  antique  proiiesse, 
11  tire  du  manteau  sa  dextre  vengeresse  ; 
II  part,  et  ses  doigts  saintement  alonges, 
Beiiit  tous  les  passans  en  deux  fils  rangts. 
II  scait  que  I'ennemi,  que  ce  coup  va  surprendre, 
Desormais  sur  ses  pies  ne  I'oseroit  I'attendre, 
Et  riejk  voit  pour  lui  tout  le  peuple  en  courroux. 
Crier  aux  combattans  :  Profanes,  k  genoux. 
Le  chantre,  qui  de  loin  voit  approcher  I'orage, 
Dans  son  cceur  eperdu  cherche  en  vain  du  courage. 
Sa  fierte  I'abandonne,  il  tremble,  il  cede,  il  fuit ; 
Le  long  des  sacres  murs  sa  brigade  le  suit. 
Tout  s'ecarte  k  I'instant,  mais  aucun  n'en  rechappe, 
Partout  le  doigt  vaiiiqueur  les  suit  et  les  ratrappe. 
Evrard  seul,  en  un  coin  prudemment  retire, 
Se  croyoit  k  convert  de  I'insulte  sacr^. 
Mais  le  Prelat  vers  lui  fait  une  marche  adroite  : 
II  observe  de  Fceil,  et  tirant  vers  la  droite. 
Tout  d'un  coup  tourne  k  gauche,  et  d'un  bras  fortune, 
Benit  subitement  le  guerrier  consterne. 
Le  chanoine,  surpris  de  la  foudre  mortelle, 
Se  dresse,  et  leve  en  vain  une  tete  rebelle : 
Sur  ses  genoux  tremblans  il  tombe  k  cet  aspect, 
Et  donnek  la  frayeur  ce  qu'il  doit  au  respect." 

Nothing  can  be  more  humorous  than  this  description. 
The  bishop   conferring  his  blessing  in  a  spirit  of  ven- 
geance, and  his  angry  enemies  forced,  unwillingly,  to  be 
T  3 


278  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

blessed,  is  truly  ludicrous.  Yet  here  Boileau  laid  himself 
open  to  attack.  In  the  remainder  of  the  poem,  while 
ridiculing  the  clergy,  no  word  escaped  him  that  treated 
sacred  things  jocosely,  and  he  was  too  pious  indeed  not  to 
have  shrunk  from  so  doing.  This  joke  made  of  a  bishop's 
blessing  intrenched  on  this  rule :  priests,  who  hitherto 
had  remained  silent,  now  ventured  to  raise  the  cry  of 
blasphemy.  However,  it  was  innocuous  :  the  excellent 
character  and  real  piety  of  Boileau  sheltered  him  from 
the  attacks  so  levelled.  The  sixth  hook  recounts  the  ar- 
rival of  Piety,  and  Faith,  and  Grace,  who  awaken  Aristus 
(the  First  President  Lamoignon,  to  whom,  he  having 
died  in  the  interval  between  the  publishing  the  com- 
mencement of  the  poem  and  its  conclusion,  Boileau 
paid  this  tribute  of  respect),  and,  through  his  mediation, 
peace  is  restored. 

We  have  given  this  detail  of  the  "  Lutrin/'  as  being 
at  once  the  best  and  the  most  successful  of  Boileau's 
poems.  We  now  return  to  the  author.  We  have  al- 
luded to  his  presentation  at  court,  occasioned  by  the 
eulogy  of  Louis  XIV.,  which  the  poet  puts  in  the  mouth 
of  Indolence.  Madame  de  Thianges,  sister  of  madame 
de  Montespan,  was  so  struck  by  this  passage,  that^  while 
the  poem  was  still  in  manuscript,  she  read  it  to  the 
king;  and  he,  flattered  and  pleased,  desired  that  the 
poet  should  be  presented  to  him.  Boileau  accordingly 
appeared  at  court.  The  king  conversed  with  him,  and 
asked  him  what  passage  in  his  poems  he  himself  es- 
teemed the  best.  It  so  happened  that  the  prince  of 
Conde  had  found  fault  with  the  conclusion  of  his  epistle 
to  the  king.  It  had  ended  with  the  fable  of  the  two 
men  quarrelling  about  an  oyster  they  had  found,  and 
referred  their  dispute  to  a  judge,  who  swallowed  the 
cause  of  it  in  a  moment.  The  prince  considered  this 
story,  however  well  told,  not  in  harmony  with  the  ele- 
vated tone  of  the  epistle ;  and  Boileau,  yielding  to  the 
criticism,  wrote  a  different  conclusion.  AVhen  asked 
by  the  king  for  his  favourite  passage,  the  little  tact  he 
had  as  a  courtier,  joined  to  an  author's  natural  partiaUty 


BOILEAU.  279 

for  his  latest  production,  made  him   cite  the  lines,  of 
which  these  are  the  concluding  ones  :  — 

"  Et  comme  tes  exploits  etonnant  les  lecteurs, 
Seront  a  peine  cms  sur  la  foi  des  auteurs, 
Si  quelque  esprit  malin  les  veut  trailer  rie  fables. 
On  dira  quelque  jour,  pour  les  reiidrccroyables. 
Boileau,  qui  dans  ses  vers,  pleins  de  sincerite, 
Jadis  a  tout  son  siecle  a  riit  la  verite, 
Qui  mit  a  tout  blamer  son  etude  et  sa  gloire, 
A  pourtant  de  ce  roi  parle  comme  I'histoire." 

The  king  was  naturally  touched  by  this  forcible  and 
eloquent  praise :  the  tears  came  into  his  eyes,  and  he 
exclaimed,  "  This  is,  indeed,  beautiful ;  and  I  would 
praise  you  more  had  you  praised  me  less."  And  at  once 
he  bestowed  a  pension  on  the  poet.  Such  applause  and 
such  tribute,  from  a  monarch  then  adored  by  his  subjects, 
might  have  elated  a  weak  man.  Boileau  afterwards 
related  that,  on  returning  home,  his  first  emotion  was 
sadness:  he  feared  that  he  had  bartered  his  liberty,  and 
he  regretted  its  loss- 
Racine  was  already  received  at  court,  and  a  favour-  1677. 
ite.  The  intimate  and  tender  friendship  between  him  ^*^*- 
and  Boileau  caused  them  often  to  be  together,  and 
together  they  conceived  many  literary  plans.  One  of 
these  was  the  institution  of  an  academy  composed  of  a 
very  small  number  of  persons,  who  were  selected  for 
the  purpose  of  writing  a  short  explanation  beneath 
every  medal  struck  by  Louis  XIV.  to  celebrate  the 
great  events  of  his  reign.  These  scanty  notices  were 
necessarily  incomplete,  and  madame  de  Montespan  ori- 
ginated the  project  of  a  regular  history  being  com- 
piled. "  Flattery  was  the  motive,"  writes  madame 
de  Caylus,  in  her  memoirs ;  "  but  it  must  be  allowed 
that  it  was  not  the  idea  of  a  common-place  woman." 
Madame  de  Maintenon  proposed  that  the  king  should 
name  Boileau  and  Racine  his  joint  historiographers, 
and  the  appointment  accordingly  took  place. 

The  poets,  gratified  by  the  distinction,  were  eager  to 

render  themselves  competent  to  the  task.     It  must  be 

remembered,  that,  though  their  inutility  and  subsequent 

loss  have   thrown    Louis's   conquests   into   the    shade, 

T  4 


280  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

they  were  then  the  object  of  all  men's  admiration,  and 
were  the  influential  events  of  the  time;  while  the 
rapidity  and  briUiancy  of  his  victories  dazzled  his 
subjects,,  and  intimidated  all  other  nations.  The  two 
friends  renounced  poetry,  and  betook  themselves  to  the 
studies  appertaining  to  their  future  work.  They  ap- 
plied themselves  to  the  past  history  of  their  country, 
and  to  the  memoirs  and  letters  concerning  the  then 
present  time,  which,  at  the  command  of  the  king,  were 
placed  in  their  hands.  Louis  was  at  war  with  Holland, 
Spain,  and  the  German  empire.  Turenne  was  dead  ; 
but  many  great  generals,  formed  under  him  and  the 
great  Conde',  remained.  Louvois,  as  minister  of  war, 
facihtated  every  undertaking  by  the  admirable  order 
which  he  established  in  his  department.  The  king 
joined  the  armies   in  person  in  the  spring,  and  town 

1677.  after  town  fell  into  his  hands.  On  his  return  from 
iEtat.  these  rapid  conquests,  he  asked  his  historiographers 
.  -il.    how  it  was  that  they  had   not  had   the  curiosity   to 

witness  a  siege  —  "  The  distance  was  so  slight,"  he 
said.  "  Very  true,"  replied  Racine,  ''  but  our  tailors 
were  too  slow  :  we  ordered  clothes  for  the  journey,  but, 
before  they  came  home,  all  the  towns  besieged  by  your 
majesty  were  taken."  The  compliment  pleased  Louis, 
who  bade  them  prepare  by  times  for  the  next  cam- 
paign, as  they  ought  to  witness  the  events  which,  as 
historians,  they  were  destined  to  relate. 

1678.  The  following  year,  accordingly,  the  two  authors 
^^^t.  accompanied  the  king  to  the  siege  of  Gand.     The  fact 

of  two  poets  following  the  army  to  be  present  at  sieges 
and  battles  was  the  source  of  a  number  of  pleasantries 
at  court.  Their  more  warlike  friends,  in  good-hu- 
moured raillery,  laid  a  thousand  traps  for  their  igno- 
rance: they  often  fell  in;  and  when  they  did  not 
they  got  the  credit  of  so  doing,  as  the  king  was  to  be 
diverted  by  their  mistakes.  The  poets  seem  to  have 
been  singularly  ignorant  of  everything  appertaining  to 
a  journey,  and  to  have  shown  the  most  amusing  cre- 
duhty.     Racine  was  told  that  he  must  take  care  to  have 


BOILEAU.  281 

his  horse  shod  by  a  bargain  of  forfeit.  "  Do  you 
imagine,"  said  his  adviser,  M.  de  Cavoie,  ''that  an 
army  always  finds  blacksmiths  ready  on  their  march  ? 
Before  you  leave  Paris,  a  bargain  is  made  with  a  smith, 
who  warrants,  on  penalty  of  a  forfeit,  that  your  horse's 
shoes  shall  remain  on  for  six  months."  "  I  never  heard 
of  that  before,"  said  Racine  ;  ''  Boileau  did  not  tell  me  ; 
but  I  do  not  wonder  —  he  never  thinks  of  anything.'* 
He  hastened  to  his  friend  to  reproach  him  for  this 
neglect  ;  Boileau  confessed  his  ignorance  ;  and  they 
hurried  out  to  seek  the  blacksmith  most  in  use  for  this 
sort  of  bargain.  The  king  was  duly  informed  of  their 
perplexity,  and,  by  his  raillery  in  the  evening,  unde- 
ceived them.  One  day,  after  a  long  march,  Boileau, 
whose  health  was  weak,  being  much  fatigued,  threw 
himself  on  his  bed,  supperless,  on  arriving.  M.  de 
Cavoie,  hearing  this,  went  to  him,  after  the  king's 
supper,  and  said,  with  an  appearance  of  great  uneasi- 
ness, that  he  had  bad  news.  ''  The  king,"  he 
said,  "  is  displeased  with  you.  He  remarked  a  very 
blameable  act  of  which  you  were  guilty  to-day." 
"  What  was  it  ?"  asked  Boileau  in  alarm.  "  I  cannot 
bring  myself  to  tell  you,"  replied  his  tormentor ;  ''  I 
cannot  make  up  my  mind  to  afflict  my  friends."  Then, 
after  teazing  him  for  some  time,  he  said,  "  Well,  if  I 
must  confess  it,  the  king  remarked  that  you  were  sitting 
awry  on  your  horse."  "  If  that  is  all,"  said  Boileau, 
"let  me  go  to  sleep."  On  one  occasion,  during  this 
campaign,  Louis  having  so  exposed  himself  that  a 
cannon  ball  passed  within  perilous  vicinity,  Boileau 
addressed  him,  saying,  "  I  beg,  sire,  in  the  character 
of  your  historian,  that  you  will  not  bring  your  history 
to  so  abrupt  a  conclusion." 

Boileau's  health  prevented  him  from  following  any 
other  campaign  ;  but  Racine  accompanied  the  king  in 
several,  and  wrote  long  narrations  to  his  brother  histo- 
rian. It  has  been  asserted  that,  though  named  his- 
toriographers, they  did  not  employ  themselves  in  ful- 
filling the  duties  of  their  office ;   and  a  fragment  of 


282  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

Racine's,  on  the  siege  of  Namur,  is  the  only  relic  that 
remains  of  their  employment.  Louis  Racine,  however, 
assures  us  that  they  were  continually  occupied  on  it. 
On  their  death,  their  joint  labours  fell  into  the  hands 
of  M.  de  Valincour,  their  successor,  and  were  consumed 
when  his  house  at  Saint-Cloud  was  burned  down. 

That  such  was  the  case  seems  certain,  from  the  fact 
that  they  were  in  the  habit,  when  they  had  written  any 
detail  of  interest,  of  reading  it  to  the  king.  These 
readings  took  place  in  the  apartments  of  madame  de 
Montespan.  Both  had  the  entree  there  at  the  hour  of 
the  king's  visit,  and  madame  de  Maintenon  was  also 
present.  Racine  was  the  favourite  of  the  latter  lady, 
Boileau  of  the  former ;  but  the  friends  were  wholly 
devoid  of  jealousy  ;  and  Boileau's  free  spirit  led  him  to 
set  little  real  store  by  court  favour.  In  these  royal 
interviews,  the  poets  could  mark  the  increasing  influ- 
ence of  madame  de  Maintenon,  and  the  decreasing 
favour  of  her  rival.  At  one  time,  however,  madame  de 
Montespan  contrived  to  get  her  friend  excluded  from 
the  readings,  much  to  the  mortification  of  the  his- 
torians. This  did  not  last  long.  One  day,  the  king 
being  indisposed,  and  keeping  his  bed,  they  were  sum- 
moned, with  an  order  to  bring  some  newly-written  por- 
tion of  their  history  with  them.  They  were  surprised 
to  find  madame  de  Maintenon  sitting  in  an  arm-chair 
near  the  king's  bed,  in  famihar  conversation  with  him. 
They  were  about  to  commence  reading  when  madame 
de  Montespan  entered.  Her  uneasy  manner  and  ex- 
aggerated civilities  showed  her  vacillating  position ; 
till  the  king,  to  put  an  end  to  her  various  demonstra- 
tions of  annoyance,  told  her  to  sit  down  and  listen,  as  it 
was  not  just  that  a  work,  commenced  under  her  direc- 
tions, should  be  read  in  her  absence. 

Such  scenes  seem  scarcely  to  enter  into  a  narration  of 
Boileau's  life;  but,  he  being  present  at  them,  they  form 
a  portion,  and  cannot  be  passed  over.  It  is  essen- 
tial to  his  character  to  show,  that,  though  admitted  to  a 
court,  the   cynosure   of  all  men's  aspirations,  the  focus 


BOILEAU.  283 

of  glory,  he  was  neither  dazzled  nor  fettered  by  its  in- 
fluence. As  a  courtier  he  maintained  a  free  and  manly 
bearing,  while  his  absence  of  mind  even  caused  him  to 
fall  into  mistakes  which  shocked  his  more  careful  friend 
Racine.  Being  in  conversation  one  day  with  madame 
de  Maintenon  on  the  subject  of  hterature,  Boileau  ex- 
claimed against  the  vulgar  burlesque  poetry  which  had 
formerly  been  in  fashion,  and  it  escaped  him  to  say, 
^'  Happily  this  vile  taste  has  passed  away,  and  Scarron 
is  no  longer  read  even  in  the  provinces."  Racine  re- 
proached him  afterwards: — "  Why  name  Scarron  before 
her  ?  "  he  said  ;  "  are  you  ignorant  of  their  near  con- 
nection."— ''  Alas!  no,"  replied  Boileau  ;  "  but  it  is  the 
first  thing  I  forget  when  I  am  in  her  company."  He  even 
forgot  himself  so  far,  on  occasions,  as  to  mention  Scarron 
before  the  king.  Racine  was  still  more  scandalised  on 
this  :  —  '^^  I  will  not  accompany  you  to  court,"  he  said, 
"  if  you  are  so  imprudent."  ''  I  am  ashamed,"  replied 
Boileau;  ''  but  what  man  is  exempt  from  saying  foolish 
things  ?"  and  he  excused  himself  by  alleging  the 
example  of  M.  Arnaud,  who  was  even  more  absent. 
Nor  did  he  Hmit  his  want  of  pliancy  to  mere  manner. 
He  did  not  disguise  more  important  differences  of  opi- 
nion. The  king  and  court  espoused  the  cause  of  the 
Jesuits :  to  be  a  jansenist  often  caused  the  entire  loss  of 
court  favour;  but  Boileau  did  not  conceal  his  adherence 
to  that  party,  and  his  partiality  to  its  chief,  M.  Arnaud  ; 
and  as  he  grew  older,  instead  of  growing  more  servile, 
he  emancipated  himself  yet  more  entirely  from  court 
influence;  and  his  "  Epistle  on  Ambiguity"  is  a  proof  of 
an  independence  of  spirit  that  commands  our  warmest 
esteem. 

His  courage  in  thus  openly  espousing  the  opinions  of 
Jansenism  surprised  Racine.  '^  You  enjoy,"  he  said  to 
him,  "  a.  privilege  I  cannot  obtain.  You  say  things  I 
dare  not  say.  You  have  praised  persons  in  your  poems 
whom  I  do  not  venture  to  mention.  You  are  the  person 
that  ought  to  be  accused  of  Jansenism ;  yet  I  am  much 
more  attacked.     What  can  be  the  reason.^''      '' It  is 


S845  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

an  obvious  one,"  replied  Boileau ;  "^  you  go  to  mass 
every  day ;   I  only  go  on  Sundays  and  festivals." 

The  honour  of  belonging  to  the  academy  was  in  those 
days  eagerly  sought  after.  Boileau  aspired  to  a  seat, 
but  never  soUcited  it,  and  was  passed  over.  It  has 
been  related  in  the  life  of  La  Fontaine  how  displeased 
the  king  was  with  this  omission,  and  how  he  refused  to 
confirm  La  Fontaine's  election  till  Boileau  was  also 
chosen.  His  speech  on  taking  possession  of  his  chair, 
in  which  it  was  the  fashion  for  the  new  member  to  hu- 
mihate  himself,  and  exalt  the  academy  with  ridiculous 
exaggerations,  was  dignified,  but  modest.  He  alluded  to 
the  attacks  he  had  made  on  authors  who  were  members 
of  the  academy  as  "  many  reasons  that  shut  its  doors 
against  him."  His  after  career  as  member  was  rather 
stormy.  Surrounded  by  writers  whom  he  had  satirised, 
and  who  conceived  themselves  injured,  he  had  to  con- 
tend with  a  numerous  party.  His  chief  antagonist  was  a 
M.  Charpentier,  on  whom  he  often  spent  the  treasures  of 
his  wit,  and  discomfited  by  his  raillery,  though  he  had  a 
host  of  members  on  his  side.  One  day,  however,  he 
gained  his  point.  "  It  is  surprising,"  he  said  :  "  every- 
body sided  with  me,  and  yet  I  was  in  the  right." 

His  life,  meanwhile,  was  easy  and  agreeable.  Undis- 
turbed by  passion,  yet  of  warm  and  affectionate  feelings, 
with  a  mind  ever  active,  and  a  temper  unruffled,  the 
society  and  pleasures  of  Paris,  the  favour  of  the  great, 
and  love  of  his  friends,  filled  and  varied  his  days.  The 
shght  annuity  he  had  purchased  with  his  inheritance  was 
seasonably  increased  by  the  pension  which  the  king  had 
bestow^ed  on  him,  and  his  salary  as  historiographer.  He 
was  careful  and  economical,  but  the  reverse  of  grasping 
or  avaricious.  He  had  an  ill-founded  scruple  as  to  an 
author's  profiting  by  his  writings,  as  if  he  had  not  a  legi- 
timate claim  on  the  price  which  the  public  were  eager  to 
pay  to  acquire  his  productions.  He  carried  this  so  far  as 
to  infect  Racine  with  the  same  notion.  In  his  own  case 
there  might  be  some  ground ;  since,  when  he  first  pub- 
lished,  his   works  consisted  of   satires,  and  a  deUcate, 


BOILEAU.  285 

feeling  man  might  shrink  from  profiting  by  the  attacks 
he  made  on  others.  Another  instance  is  given  of  his 
scrupulousness  in  money  matters.  He  enjoyed  for  some 
years  an  income  arising  from  a  benefice.  His  venerated 
friendj  M.  de  Lamoignon,  represented  to  him  that  he 
could  not  conscientiously,  as  a  layman^  enjoy  the  revenues 
of  the  church  ;  and  he  not  only  gave  up  his  benefice,  but^, 
calculating  how  much  he  had  received  during  the  years 
that  he  enjoyed  it,  he  distributed  that  sum  among  the 
poor  of  the  place.  Another  anecdote  is  told  of  his  ge- 
nerosity. M.  Patin  was  esteemed  one  of  the  cleverest 
men  of  the  times,  as  well  as  one  the  most  excellent  and 
virtuous.  His  passion  for  literature  was  such,  that  he 
neglected  his  profession  as  advocate  for  its  sake,  and  fell 
into  indigence.  He  was  forced  to  sell  his  library :  Boileau 
bought  it,  and  then  begged  his  friend  to  keep  possession 
of  it  as  long  as  he  lived.  He  was,  indeed,  generally 
kind-hearted  and  generous  to  authors,  unchecked  by  any 
ill  conduct  on  their  part.  Often  he  lent  money  to  a 
miserable  writer,  Liniere,  who  would  go  and  spend  it  at 
alehouses,  and  write  a  song  against  his  creditor.  The 
economy  that  allowed  him  to  be  thus  generous  was  in- 
deed praiseworthy,  and  did  not  arise  from  love  of  money, 
but  a  spirit  of  independence,  and  the  power  of  self- 
denial  in  matters  of  luxury. 

The  only  thing  that  seems  to  have  unpleasantly  dis-  1687. 
turbed  his   easy  yet   busy  life  was  a  delicate   state  of"^*^*' 
health,   and  he  grew  more  ailing  as  he  grew  older.     At       * 
one  time  an  affection   of  the   chest   caused   him  to  lose 
his  voice,   and  he  was  ordered  to  drink  the  waters  of  the 
baths  of  Bourbon   as   a  means   of  regaining  it.     His 
correspondence  with  Racine  on  this  occasion  is  published. 
Boileau's  letters  are  the  best,  the  most  witty,  easy,  and 
amusing.   Racine  relates  how  each  day  the  king  inquired 
after  his  health,  and  was  eager  for  his  return  to  court; 
while  Boileau  laments  over  his  continued  indisposition. 
There  was  a  dispute  among  the   physicians,  as   to   his 
bathing  in  the  waters   as  well  as  drinking  them  :   some 
of  the  learned  declaring  such  an  act  fatal,   while  others 


286  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

recommended  it  as  a  mode  of  cure.  Racine  related  to 
the  king,  while  at  dinner,  the  perplexity  of  his  friend 
between  these  contradictory  counsels.  ^'  For  my  part," 
said  the  princess  de  Conti,  who  was  sitting  near 
Louis,  ''  I  would  rather  be  mute  for  thirty  years,  than 
risk  my  life  to  regain  my  voice."  Boileau  replied,  "  I 
am  not  surprised  at  the  princess  of  Conti's  sentiment. 
If  she  lost  her  speech,  she  would  still  retain  a  million 
other  charms  to  compensate  to  her  for  her  loss,  and  she 
would  still  be  the  most  perfect  creature  that  for  a  long 
time  nature  has  produced  ;  but  a  wretch  like  me  needs 
his  voice  to  be  endured  by  men,  and  to  dispute  with 
M.  Charpentier.  If  it  were  only  on  the  latter  account 
one  ought  to  risk  something ;  and  life  is  not  of  such 
value,  but  that  one  may  hazard  it  for  the  sake  of  being 
able  to  interrupt  such  a  speaker."  These  letters  are 
very  entertaining;  they  display  the  style  of  the  times, 
and  the  vivacity  and  amiableness  of  Boileau's  disposi- 
tion, in  very  pleasing  colours.  His  vivacity  was  of 
the  head,  and  of  temper.  He  was  exempt  from  ve- 
hemence of  feeling;  and  did  not  suffer  the  internal 
struggles  to  which  those  are  subject  whose  souls  are 
impregnated  with  passion  ;  nor  was  he  satirical  in  con- 
versation :  as  madame  de  Sevigne  said  of  him,  he  was 
cruel  only  in  verse ;  and  Lord  Rochester's  expression 
was  applied  to  him  — 

"  The  best  good  man,  with  the  worst-natured  muse." 

Without  pride,  also,  and  without  pretension,  he  could 
turn  his  own  fame  and  labours  into  a  jest.  Going  one 
day  to  present  the  order  for  his  pension,  which  said  that 
it  was  granted  "  on  account  of  the  satisfaction  which 
the  king  derived  from  his  works,"  the  clerk  asked  him 
what  sort  of  works  his  were.  "^  Masonry,"  he  repUed  : 
'^^  I  am  an  architect."  At  another  time,  when,  passing 
Easter  at  a  friend's  house  in  the  country,  and  being  exact 
in  fulfilling  his  religious  duties,  he  made  his  confession 
to  a  country  curate,  to  whom  he  was  unknown,  the  con- 
fessor asked  him  what  his  usual  occupations  were  ? 
"  Writing  verses,"   replied  the  penitent.     "  So  much 


BOILEAU.  287 

the  worse,"  said  the  curate;  ''  and  what  sort  of  verses  ?" 
"  Satires."  "  Still  worse  —  and  against  whom  ?  " 
"  Against  those  who  write  bad  verses^  against  the 
vices  of  the  times,  against  pernicious  books,  romances, 
and  operas."  "  Ah  !  "  cried  the  curate,  ''  that  is  not 
so  bad,  and  I  have  nothing  to  say  against  it." 

His  spirit  of  intolerance  for  "  those  who  wrote  bad  1687. 
verses,"  or  approved  them,  was  excited  to  its  height  ^*^^* 
by  Perrault's  *   ""  Siecle   de    Louis   Quatorze."     This 
poem  was  the  origin  of  the  famous  dispute  as  to  the 
ancients  and  moderns,    which    "  Swift's  Battle  of  the 
Books  "  made   known  in  this  country.     Perrault,  with 
little   Latin,  and  no   Greek,    undertook   to   depreciate 
Homer ;  and  he  had  Fontenelle  for  his  ally,  who,  with 
more  learning  and  less  taste,  declared  that,  if  the  Greek      , 
bucolic  writers  had  now  first  produced  their   pastorals, 
they  would  be  scouted  as  wretched.     Perrault  did  not 
content  himself  with  the  exposition   of  his   opinion  in 
his  poem;*he  wrote  a  "Parallel  between  the  Ancients  and 
Moderns,"   in    which  he   not  only  praised   the    good 
writers   of    the    day,    but    even    Chapelain,  Quinault, 
Cotin,  and  others  on  whom  Boileau  had  set  the  seal  of 
his  irony.     The  satirist  could  neither  brook  this  rebel-  1692 
lion  against  his  fiat,  nor  the  sort  of  blasphemy  indulged  ^tat. 
in  against  those  great  masters  of  the  art  whom  he  was 
aware  he  but  feebly  imitated.     He  wrote  several  bitter 
epigrams  against  Perrault ;  and  then,  finding  that  by  no 
explanation  or  translation  could  he  make  a  mere  French 
reader  understand  the  sublimity  of  Pindar,  he  sought 
to  imitate  this  poet  in  his  ode  on  the  taking  of  Namur. 

*  Charles  Perrault  was  a  man  of  merit  and  imagination,  though  his  want 
of  learning  led  him  into  such  deplorable  literary  errors.  It  was  through 
his  representations  that  Colbert  founded  the  academies  of  painting,  sculp- 
ture, and  architecture;  and  he  always  exerted  his  influence  in  favour  of 
the  improvement  of  science  and  art. '  The  work  by  which  he  has,  however, 
obtained  immortality,  is  his  "  Mother  Goose's  Tales."  Perhaps  he  would 
have  disdained  a  fame  thus  founded  ;  but,  while  the  fancy  is  the  portion  of 
the  human  mind,  shared  in  common  by  young  and  old,  which  receives  the 
greatest  pleasure  from  works  of  intellect ;  while  (in  spite  of  Rousseau's 
doctrine)  children  are  singularly  quick  in  discerning  the  difference  be- 
tween a  lie  and  a  fable,  and  that  to  interest  their  imaginations  is  the 
best  method  of  enlarging  their  minds  and  cultivating  their  affections'; 
Perrault's  name  will  be  remembered  with  gratitude,  and  "  Mother  Goose's 
Tales  "  remain  the  classic  work  of  a  child's  library. 


288  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    flIEX. 

This  was  a  bold  undertaking,  and  it  cannot  be  said  that 
he  succeeded;  for  the  French  language  was  then  far  less 
capable  than  now  of  expressing  the  sublime  ;  and  Boi- 
leau's  talent  was  not  of  that  elevated  and  daring  kind 
which  could  invent  new  modes  of  expression^  and  force 
his  language  to  embody  the  ideal  and  bold  images 
that  constitute  the  sublime.  Still  we  must  honour  the 
attempt  for  the  sake  of  its  motive.  ^'  The  following 
ode,"  he  says,  in  his  preface^  "  was  written  on  occasion 
of  those  strange  dialogues,  lately  pubhshed,  in  which  all 
the  great  writers  of  antiquity  are  treated  as  authors  to 
be  compared  with  the  Chapelains  and  Cotins;  and  in 
which,  while  it  is  sought  to  do  honour  to  our  age,  it  is 
really  vilified  by  the  fact  that  there  exist  men  capable 
of  writing  such  nonsense.  Pindar  is  the  worst  treated." 
He  goes  on  to  say  that,  as  it  was  exceedingly  difficult  to 
explain  the  beauties  of  Pindar  to  those  who  did  not 
understand  Greek,  he  attempted  to  write  a  French  ode  in 
imitation  of  his  style,  as  the  best  mode  of  conveying  an 
idea  of  it.  This  war  went  on  for  some  time ;  and  va- 
rious attacks,  replies,  and  rejoinders  appeared  on  both 
sides.  At  last  a  personal  reconciliation  took  place  be- 
tween Boileau  and  Perrault ;  neither  yielded  his  opinion^ 
but  they  ceased  to  write  against  each  other, 

J  659.  At  this  time  also  he  wrote  other  satires  :  —  one  on  wo- 
^tat.  men,  which  rather  consists  of  portraits  of  various  faulty 

59-  individuals  than  a  satire  against  the  sex  in  general.  It  is 
by  no  means  one  of  the  best  of  his  works.  We  may 
say  otherwise,  however,  of  the  spirit  that  reigns  in  the 
satire  addressed  to  Ambiguity,  and  which,  from  the  bold- 
ness with  which  it  attacks  the  Jesuits,  is  at  once  one  of 
the  most  useful  of  his  works,  and  displays  the  independ- 
ence of  his  soul.  He  wrote  his  epistle  also  on  the 
Love  of  God,  another  jansenist  production.  At  this 
time  he  again  awoke  to  the  pleasures  of  composition,  at 
the  same  time  that  he  showed  such  a  love  for  his  works 
that  he  emptied  his  portfolios  of  every  scrap  of  verse  he 
had  ever  written,  and  placed  them  in  the  hands  of  the 


BOILEAU.  289 

booksellers.*  As  he  grew  older  he  became  more  recluse 
in  his  habits^  without  losing  any  of  the  pleasure  he 
always  felt  in  the  society  of  his  intimate  friends.  The 
turn  he  had  for  personal  enjoyment,  which  had  shown 
itself  in  youth_,  in  a  love  for  social  and  convivial  plea- 
sures, became  a  sort  of  happy  indolence,  enlivened  by 
the  pleasures  of  friendship.  His  correspondence  with 
Racine  displays  an  affectionate  disposition,  an  easy 
carelessness  as  to  money,  and  a  quiet  sort  of  wit,  which 
turned  to  pleasantry  the  ordinary  routine  of  life,  and 
bespeaks  a  mind  at  ease,  and  a  well-balanced  disposition. 
The  expenses  of  his  wars  caused  Louis  XIV.  to  reduce 
the  pensions  he  had  granted,  and  those  of  Boileau  and 
Racine  suffered  with  the  rest.  Racine  was  then  at 
court ;  and  he  wrote  to  his  friend  to  inform  him,  that 
their  salaries  as  historiographers  were  fixed  at  4000 
livres  a  year  for  himself  and  2000  for  Boileau  ;  the 
health  of  the  latter  not  permitting  him  to  follow  the 
army  being  the  cause  of  his  receiving  the  smaller  sum. 
Racine  adds,  ''  You  see  everything  is  arranged  as  you 
yourself  wished,  yet  I  am  truly  annoyed  that  I  appear  to 
receive  more  than  you  ;  but,  besides  the  fatigue  of  the 
journeys,  which  I  am  glad  that  you  are  spared,  I  know 
that  you  are  so  noble  and  friendly  that  I  feel  sure  you 
will  rejoice  at  my  being  the  best  paid."  Boileau  re- 
plied, "  Are  you  mad  with  your  compliments  ?  Do 
you  not  know  that  I  myself  prescribed  the  mode  in 
which  this  affair  should  be  settled ;  and  can  you  doubt 
but  that  I  am  satisfied  with  an  arrangement  by  which 
I  receive  all  I  asked  ? "  His  friendship  for  Racine 
seems  to  have  been  the  warmest  feeling  of  his  heart ; 
and  growing  deaf  as  he  grew  old,  and  leading  a  more 
and  more  retired  life,  the  tragedian,  his  family,  and  a 
few  others,  formed  all  his  society.  There  is  something 
simple  and  touching  in  the  mention  Racine  makes  of 
their  visits  in  his  letters  to  his  eldest  son.  The  bitter 
satirist  adapting  his  talk  to  the  younger  children  of  his 

*  Racine's  Letters. 
VOL.  I.  U 


290  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

friend,  while  he  was  so  deaf  that  he  could  not  hear  their 
replies,  and  his  eager  endeavours  to  amuse  them,  gives 
zest  to  Racine's  exclamation,  ''  He  is  the  best  man  in  the 
world  ! "    Sometimes  the  spirit  of  composition  revived  in 
him,  but  it  quickly  grew  cold  again* ;  yet,  while  it  lasted, 
it  furnished  occupation  and  amusement.    He  did  not  live 
wholly  at  Paris.      He  had  saved  8000  livres,  and  with 
this  sum    he   purchased  a  country   house   at    Auteuil. 
Charmed  with  his  acquisition,  he  at  first  spent  a  good  deal 
on  it ;  he  embellished  the  grounds,  and  deUghted  to  as- 
semble his  friends  together.     Racine  often  retired  there  to 
repose  from  his  attendance  at  court,  and  from  his  fatigues 
in  following  the  army  in  various  campaigns.     Boileau, 
fastidious  in  all  things,  knew  well  how  to  choose  his 
company.     The  conversations  were  either  enlivened  by 
sallies  of  wit,  or  rendered  interesting  by  his  sagacity  and 
good  taste.     He  had  long  renounced  his  more  equivocal 
modes  of  amusing,  such  as  mimicry,  as  unworthy.     In 
the  heyday  of  youth  saUies  of  this  sort  are  indulged  in 
under  the  influence  of  high  animal  spirits  ;  and  it  is 
whimsical   to  remark  how   the   slothful    spirit   of   age 
gravely  denounces  that  as  wrong  which  it  is  no  longer 
capable  of  achieving.     Boileau,  however,  had  many  other 
resources.     His  guests  delighted  to  gather  his  opinions, 
and  hung  upon  his  maxims.     He  criticised  the  works 
of  the  day,  and  the  favourite  authors.     He  admired  La 
Bruyere,  though  he  called  him  obscure,  and  justly  re- 
marked that  he  spared  himself  the  most  difficult  part  of 
a  work  when  he  omitted  the  transitions  and  hnks  of  one 
portion  with  another.    No  one  dared  praise  St.  Evremond 
before  him,  though  he  had  become   the  fashionable  au- 
thor of  the  day.  He  detested  low  pleasantry.   "  Racine," 
he   said,   ''  is    sometimes    silly   enough    to  laugh  over 
Scarron's  travestie  of  Virgil,  but  he  hides  this  from  me." 
1 698.      Thus  tranquil  and  esteemed,  surrounded  by  friends, 
^tat.  and  without  a  care,  he  lived  long,  notwithstanding  the 
^2-    weakness  of  his   constitution   and  bad  health.     A  few 
days  after  the  death  of  Racine,  he  appeared  at  court  to 

*  Lettres  a  Racine. 


BOILEAU.  291 

take  the  king's  commands  with  regard  to  the  task  of 
historiographer,  which  had  now  devolved  entirely  on 
himself.  He  spoke  to  the  king  of  the  intrepidity  with 
which  his  friend  viewed  the  approaches  of  death.  "  I 
am  aware  of  this,"  replied  Louis^  "  and  somewhat  sur- 
prised, for  he  feared  death  greatly  ;  and  I  remember 
that  at  the  siege  of  Gand  you  were  the  more  courageous 
of  the  two."  The  king  afterwards  added,  ''  Remember, 
I  have  always  an  hour  in  the  week  to  give  you  when 
you  like  to  come,"  Boileau,  however,  never  went  to 
court  again.  His  friends  often  entreated  him  to  appear 
from  time  to  time,  but  he  answered,  "■  What  should  I 
do  there?  I  cannot  flatter."  No  doubt  he  felt  admira- 
tion for  all  Louis's  great  qualities,  and  gratitude  for  the 
kindness  shown  to  himself ;  but  he  was  too  penetrating 
an  observer,  and  too  impartial  a  judge,  not  to  be  aware 
that  the  court  paid  to  a  king,  amounting  in  those  days 
almost  to  idolatry,  renders  him  a  factitious  personage, 
and  only  fit  to  be  approached  by  those  who,  either 
through  long  habit,  or  by  having  some  point  to  gain, 
accommodate  themselves  to  that  sort  of  watchful  de- 
ference and  self-immolation  which  is  intolerable  to 
persons  accustomed  to  utter  spontaneously  what  they 
think,  and  to  enjoy  society  so  far  as  they  are  un- 
shackled by  fears  of  offending  a  master. 

Boileau  survived  Racine  several  years :  this  period  was 
spent  in  retirement,  and  his  health  grew  weaker  and 
weaker.  He  lived  either  at  Paris  or  Auteuil.  There 
Louis  Racine,  the  son  of  the  poet,  from  whom  we  gather 
these  details,  often  visited  him.  He  was  a  youth  at  that 
time ;  he  and  Boileau  played  at  skittles  together ;  the 
poet  was  a  good  player,  and  often  knocked  down  all 
nine  at  one  bowling.  "^  It  must  be  confessed,"  he  said, 
"^  that  I  possess  two  talents  equally  useful  to  my 
country;  I  play  well  at  nine-pins,  and  write  verses." 
Louis  Racine  was  then  at  school  at  Beauvais.  Pie  wrote 
an  elegy  on  a  dog  ;  and  his  mother,  a  good  but  narrow- 
minded  woman,  took  it  to  Boileau,  and  begged  him  to 
dissuade  her  son  from  following  the  career  of  a  poet. 
u  2 


292  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

The  youth  went  trembling  to  hear  his  fiat ;  and  Boileau, 
who  saw  no  eminent  talent  in  the  production  of  his 
young  friend,  told  him  that  he  was  very  bold,  with  the 
name  he  bore,  to  attempt  poetry.  "  Perhaps,"  he  said, 
''  you  might  one  day  write  well ;  but  I  am  incredulous 
as  to  extraordinary  events,  and  I  never  heard  of  the  son 
of  a  great  poet  turning  out  a  great  poet.  The  younger 
Corneille  has  merit,  but  he  will  always  be  a  minor 
Corneille;  take  care  that  the  same  thing  does  not  hap- 
pen to  you."  Thus  it  is  that  in  age  we  look  back  on  the 
career  we  boldly  enter  on  in  youth ;  and  aware  of  the 
dangers  we  ran,  and  forgetting  the  enthusiasm  and 
passion  that  then  raised  us  above  fear,  and  promised  us 
success,  we  endeavour  to  impart  to  our  juniors  the  pru- 
dence and  experience  we  have  gained.  In  vain.  Life 
would  be  far  other  than  it  is,  did  the  young,  at  the 
dictum  of  the  old,  divest  themselves  of  errors  and  pas- 
sions, desires  and  anticipations,  and  see  as  plainly  as 
those  advanced  in  life  the  nothingness  of  the  objects  of 
their  wishes.  It  is  the  scheme  of  the  Creator,  for  some 
unknown  purpose,  that  each  new  generation  should  go 
over  the  same  course  ;  and  each,  reaching  the  same  point 
of  rest,  should  wonder  what  the  impulse  is  that  drives 
successors  over  the  same  dangerous  ground. 

To  return  to  Boileau  :  not  long  before  his  death  he 
somewhat  changed  his  habits.  Though  not  in  want  of 
money,  he  was  induced,  by  the  solicitations  of  a  friend, 
to  sell  him  his  house  at  Auteuil,  it  being  promised  that  a 
room  should  always  be  reserved  for  him,  and  that  he 
should  continue  as  much  its  master  as  when  he  actually 
possessed  it.  Fifteen  days  after  the  sale  he  visited  the 
place,  and,  going  into  the  garden,  looked  about  for  a  little 
grove,  beneath  whose  shade  he  was  accustomed  to  saunter 
and  indulge  in  reverie  ;  it  was  no  longer  there  :  he  called 
for  the  gardener,  and  heard  that,  by  order  of  the  new 
proprietor,  his  favourite  trees  had  been  cut  down:  he 
paused  for  a  moment,  and  then  went  back  to  his  carriage, 
saying,  "  Since  I  am  no  longer  master,  what  business  have 
I  here?"  He  returned  instantly  to  Paris,  and  never 
revisited  Auteuil. 


BOILEAU.  293 

Boileau  was  a  pious  man;  he  fulfilled  strictly  his 
religious  duties.  It  is  told  of  him  that,  dining  with  the 
duke  of  Orleans  on  a  fast-day,  nothing  hut  flesh  heing 
served  at  table,  Boileau  confined  himself  to  bread:  the 
duke,  perceiving  this,  said,  "■  The  fish  has  been  forgotten, 
so  you  must  be  content  to  forego  the  fast  as  vee  do." 
"  Yet,"  said  Boileau,  "  if  you  were  but  to  strike  the 
ground  with  your  foot,  fish  would  rise  from  the  earth.'* 
A  witty  and  happy  adaptation  of  Pompey's  boast. 
In  his  latter  years  he  congratulated  himself  on  the 
purity  of  his  poems.  "  It  is  a  great  consolation,"  he 
said,  "  to  a  poet  about  to  die,  to  feel  that  he  has  never 
written  any  thing  injurious  to  virtue." 

His  last  days  were  employed  in  correcting  a  complete 
edition  of  his  works.  This  was  to  include  his  '•'  Dialogue 
on  the  Romances,"  which  so  pleasantly  ridicules  the 
language  which  mademoiselle  Scuderi  puts  in  the  mouths 
of  Cyrus,  Horatius  Codes,  and  Clelia.  Out  of  respect 
for  the  authoress  he  had  hitherto  refrained  from  printing 
it;  but  it  had  been  read  in  private:  the  marquis  de 
Se'vigne'  had  written  it  down  from  recollection  ;  and  it 
had  been  printed  in  a  pirated  edition  of  the  works  of 
St.  Evremond.  Mademoiselle  Scuderi  being  dead,  Boi- 
leau resolved  on  publishing  it.  But  the  chief  addition  to 
his  edition  was  his  "  Epistle  to  Ambiguity."  Already  was 
the  publication  in  progress  when  the  Jesuits  took  alarm. 
They  gave  it  in  charge  to  pere  le  Tellier,  the  king's  con- 
fessor, to  speak  to  Louis,  and  to  induce  him  to  stop  the 
publication.  The  monarch  was  docile  to  the  voice  of 
his  confessor  :  he  not  only  forbade  Boileau  to  publish  the 
satire,  but  ordered  him  to  give  up  the  original  into  his 
hands,  informing  him,  at  the  same  time^  that  with  this 
omission  his  edition  might  appear.  But  Boileau, 
feeling  himself  about  to  die,  disdained  to  temporise,  and 
preferred  suppressing  the  whole  edition  rather  than 
truckle  to  the  Jesuits. 

His    death    was    christian   and  catholic,   yet  not    so  1711. 
strictly  devout  as  that  of  Racine.     To  the  last  he  main-  2F.tau 
tained   his    literary    tastes,    and    was    alive    to  critical    '^^' 
V  3 


^Q4f  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    BIEN. 

remark.  A  friend  thought  to  amuse  him  during  his 
last  illness  hy  reading  a  new  and  popular  tragedy :  "  Ah ! 
my  friend,"  he  cried,  "  am  I  not  dying  in  time?  the 
Pradons,  whom  we  laughed  at  in  our  youth,  were 
suns  in  comparison  with  these  authors."  When  he  was 
asked  how  he  felt,  he  replied  by  a  verse  from  Malherbe, 

"  Je  suis  vaincu  du  temps,  je  cede  a  ses  outrages."  • 

As  he  was  expiring,  he  saw  ]\I.  Coutard  approach ;  he 
pressed  his  hand,  saying,  "  Bon  jour,  et  adieu —  c'est  un 
long  adieu." 

He  died  of  dropsy  on  the  chest,  on  the  ISth  of  March, 
1711,  in  the  seventy-fifth  year  of  his  age.  He  was 
buried  in  the  lower  chapel  of  the  Sainte  Chapelle, 
immediately  under  the  spot  which,  in  the  upper  chapel, 
is  immortalised  by  his  "  Lutrin."  Numerous  friends 
attended  the  funeral ;  and  one  among  them  overheard 
a  woman  say,  "  He  had  many  friends,  it  seems,  yet  I 
have  heard  that  he  spoke  ill  of  everybody." 

This  is  an  exaggeration  of  what  may  be  considered 
as  the  only  flaw  in  Boileau's  character :  —  generous  and 
charitable;  simple  and  natural  in  his  manners;  full  of 
friendship,  kindness,  and  integrity;  we  almost  hesitate 
to  pronounce  severity  of  criticism  against  bad  books  a 
fault;  but  we  cannot  avoid  perceiving  that  the  ridicule 
he  has  attached  to  the  names  of  Chapelain,  Cotin,  and 
others,  however  well  deserved  by  their  writings,  might 
have  been  spared  to  the  men.  It  reminds  us  too 
strongly  of  the  anonymous  critics  of  the  present  day 
not  to  be  held  in  detestation. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  enter  at  length  on  the  subject 
of  his  works.  He  possessed  to  a  high  degree  the 
faculty  of  wit;  generally  speaking  wit  simply,  not 
humour* :  point  the  most  acute,  expressions  the  most 
happy,  embody  and  carry  home  his  meaning.  He  is  not  as 
elegant  as  Horace,  nor  as  bitter  nor  as  elevated  as  Juvenal: 

*  There  is  humour,  certainly,  in  the  description  of  the  bishop,  in  the 
"Lutrin, "  escaping  from  his  enemies  by  forcing  them  to  receive  his 
blessing. 


BOILEAU.  295 

he  indeed  resembles  the  former  more  than  the  latter; 
but  he  has  vivacity  and  truth,  and  a  high  tone  of  moral 
and  critical  feeling,  which  give  strength  to  his  epigrams; 
his  principal  defect  being  the  want  of  a  playful  fancy, 
which  caused  a  sort  of  aridity  to  be  spread  over  his 
happiest  sallies.  He  laboured  to  polish  his  verses  dili- 
gently; and  their  apparent  ease  results  from  the  justness 
of  taste  that  taught  him  to  retrench  every  superfluity 
of  expression.  The  ^^Lutrin"  rises  superior  to  his  other 
productions ;  and  in  these  days,  and  for  posterity,,  his 
fame  will  chiefly  rest  upon  that  poem. 


u  4) 


296 


RACINE. 

1639—1699. 

Born  under  not  very  dissimilar  circumstances  from 
Boileau  —  running,  without  great  variation_,  the  same 
literary  career  —  sometimes  associated  in  the  same 
labours,  always  making  a  part  of  the  same  society,  and, 
throughout,  his  dearest  friend,  yet  the  texture  of  their 
minds  caused  Racine  to  be  a  very  different  person  from 
the  subject  of  the  foregoing  sketch.  The  lives  of  both 
were  unmarked  by  events  ;  but  while  the  one  calmly 
and  philosophically  enjoyed  the  pleasures  of  life,  un- 
harmed by  its  pains^  the  more  tender  and  sensitive  na- 
ture of  Racine  laid  him  open  to  their  impression. 
Censures,  that  only  roused  Boileau  to  bitter  replies, 
saddened  and  crushed  his  friend.  The  feelings  of 
religion,  which  made  the  former  a  good  and  pious  man, 
rendered  the  other,  to  a  great  degree,  a  bigot.  The 
one  was  independent  of  soul,  the  other  sought  support:  yet, 
as  the  faults  of  Racine  were  combined  with  tenderness  and 
amiability  of  disposition,  and  as  he  possessed  the  virtues 
of  a  warm  heart,  it  is  impossible  not  to  regard  his  faults 
with  kindness,  while  we  deplore  the  mistakes  into  which 
they  betrayed  him.  To  trace  out  the  different  natures 
of  men,  to  account  for  the  variation,  either  from  innate 
difference,  or  the  influence  of  dissimilar  circumstances, 
is,  perhaps,  one  of  the  most  useful  objects  of  a  bio- 
grapher. We  all  vary  one  from  another,  yet  none  of 
us  tolerate  the  difference  in  others :  the  haughty  and 
independent  spirit  disdains  the  pliant  and  tender,  while 
this  regards  its  opposite  as  unfeeling  and  lawless.  The 
conviction,  on  the  contrary,  ought  to  be  deeply  impressed 


RACINE.  297 

of  the  harmony  of  characters  —  that  certain  defects  and 
certain  virtues  are  allied,  and  ever  go  together.  We 
should  not  ask  the  sheep  for  fleetness,  nor  wool  from  the 
horse ;  but  we  may  love  and  admire  the  gifts  that  each 
enjoy,  and  profit  by  them^  both  as  matter  of  advantage 
and  instruction. 

Raeine  was  born  of  a  respectable  family  of  Ferte- 
Milon,  a  small  town  of  Valois.  His  father  and  grand- 
father both  enjoyed  small  financial  situations  in  their 
native  town.  His  father,  Jean  Racine,  married  Jeanne 
Sconin,  whose  father  occupied  the  same  sort  of  position 
in  society.  This  pair  had  two  children,  whom  their 
deaths  left  orphans  in  infancy.  The  wife  died  in  164j1, 
and  her  husband  survived  her  only  two  years. 

The  two  children,  a  boy  and  a  girl,  were  brought  up 
by  their  maternal  grandfather.  The  daughter  passed 
her  life  at  Ferte-Milon,  and  died  there  at  the  advanced 
age  of  ninety-two.  The  son,  named  Jean,  was  born  on 
the  21st  of  December,  l639.  We  have  few  traces  of 
his  childhood.  It  was  not,  apparently,  a  happy  one;  at 
least  we  are  told  that,  when  all  the  family  of  Sconin 
assembled  at  his  house,  on  those  festive  anniversaries 
which  the  French  celebrate  with  so  much  exactitude, 
his  orphan  grandchildren  were  wholly  disregarded*;  and 
the  gentle  sensitive  heart  of  Racine  must  have  felt  this 
neglect  severely.  His  first  studies  were  made  at  Beau- 
vais.  At  this  time  the  civil  war  of  the  fronde  was 
raging  in  France.  The  scholars  at  Beauvais  were  also 
divided  into  parties  ;  and  ''  Vive  Mazarin,"  or  "^  A  has 
Mazarin,"  became  the  rallying  cries  of  their  mimic  wars  ; 
yet  not  so  mimic  but  that  the  little  combatants  encoun- 
tered perils.  Racine  himself  received  a  wound  on  his 
forehead,  of  which  he  ever  after  bore  the  mark.  The 
master  of  the  school  used  to  show  the  scar  to  everybody 
as  a  token  of  the  boy's  courage ;  a  quality  of  which,  in 
after  life,  he  made  no  great  display.     His  grandfather  1670. 

died  while  he  was  still  a  child,  and  he  fell  to  the  care  of  ■^*^*' 
'  11. 

*  Life  by  Louis  Racine.    The  authentic  accounts  of  Racine  are  chiefly 
founded  on  this  sketch,  and  on  his  correspondence. 


2,98  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

his  widowed  grandmother.  Two  of  this  lady's  daughters 
were  nuns  in  the  abbey  of  Port  Royal,  and  she  took  up 
her  abode  with  them  ;  which  was,  doubtless,  the  cause 
that,  on  leaving  the  school  at  Beauvais,  Racine  was 
received  a  pupil  in  the  seminary  of  that  convent. 
1655.  At  this  time,  in  France,  the  education  of  young  people 
uEtat.  was  chiefly  committed  to  the  clergy.  The  Jesuits  did 
^"'  all  they  could  to  engross  an  employment  full  of  promise 
of  power  —  the  great  aim  of  that  society.  Their  prin- 
cipal rivals  were  the  teachers  of  the  abbey  of  Port  Royal, 
whose  methods  were  admirable,  and  whose  enthusiasm 
led  them  to  diligence  and  patience  in  their  task.  Theo- 
retically it  seems  an  excellent  plan  to  commit  the 
bringing  up  of  youth  to  those  who  dedicate  their  hves 
to  the  strictest  practices  of  virtue,  as  the  recluses  of 
Port  Royal  at  that  time  undoubtedly  did.  But,  in  fact, 
the  monkish  spirit  is  so  alien  to  the  true  purposes  of 
life,  and  men  who  sacrifice  every  pleasure  and  affection 
to  the  maintenance  of  ascetic  vows  must  naturally  give 
so  preponderating  an  importance  to  the  objects  that  in- 
fluence them,  that  such  teachers  are  apt  rather  to  trouble 
the  conscience,  and  plunge  youth  in  extravagant  devo- 
tion ;  inspiring  rather  a  polemical  spirit,  or  a  dream  of 
idleness,  than  instilling  that  manly  and  active  morality, 
and  that  noble  desire  to  make  a  right  use  of  the  faculties 
given  us  by  God,  which  is  the  aim  of  all  liberal  educa- 
tion. The  effects  of  a  monkish  tutelage  spread  a  sinister 
influence  over  the  ductile  disposition  of  Racine  ;  the 
faults  of  his  character  were  all  fostered ;  the  independ- 
ence and  hardihood  he  wanted  were  never  instilled. 

As  a  school  for  learning  it  succeeded  admirably. 
Greek  and  Latin  were  assiduously  cultivated  by  the 
tutors,  and  Racine's  wonderful  memory  caused  him  to 
make  swift  progress.  M.  de  Sacy  took  particular  pains 
with  him :  discerning  his  talents,  and  hoping  that  he 
would  one  day  distinguish  himself,  he  took  him  into 
his  own  apartments,  and  gave  him  the  name  and  treat- 
ment of  a  son.  M.  Hannon,  who  succeeded  to  M.  de 
Sacy,  on  the  death  of  the  latter,  continued  the  same 


RACINE.  299 

attentions.  Racine  was  poor :  he  could  not  purchase 
good  copies  of  the  classics,  and  he  read  them  in  the 
Basle  editions  without  any  Latin  translation.  His  son 
tells  us  that  he  still  possessed  his  father's  Plutarch  and 
Plato,  the  margins  of  which  were  covered  with  annota- 
tions which  proved  his  application  and  learning. 

It  is  impossible  not  to  be  struck  by  the  benefit  de- 
rived from  the  Greek  writers  by  a  child  of  genius,  who 
was  indebted  to  the  respect  which  the  priests  showed 
for  ancient  authors  for  the  awakening  of  his  mind  to 
poetry  and  philosophy.  But  for  this  saving  grace  the 
monks  would  probably  have  allowed  him  to  read  only 
books  of  scholastic  piety.  Racine,  young  as  he  was, 
drank  eagerly  from  the  purest  fountains  of  intellectual 
beauty  and  grace,  opened  by  the  Greeks,  unsurpassed 
even  to  this  time.  His  imaginative  spirit  was  excited  by 
the  poetry  of  the  Greek  tragedians  ;  and  he  spent  many'a 
day  wandering  in  the  woods  of  Port  Royal  with  the  works 
of  Sophocles  and  Euripides  in  his  hands.  He  thus  ob- 
tained a  knowledge  of  these  divine  compositions  which  al- 
ways remained  ;  and  in  after  years  he  could  recite  whole 
plays.*  It  happened,  however,  that  he  got  hold  of  the 
Greek  romance  of  the  loves  of  Theagines  and  Chariclea. 
This  was  too  much  for  priestly  toleration.  The  sa- 
cristan discovered  the  book  and  devoted  it  to  the  flames  ; 
another  copy  met  the  same  fate.  Racine  bought  a  third, 
learnt  the  romance  by  heart,  and  then  took  the  volume 
to  the  monk,  and  told  him  he  might  burn  that  also. 

It  would  appear  that  Racine  was  happy  while  at  Port 
Royal.  He  was  loved  by  his  masters :  his  gentle 
amiable  nature  led  him  to  listen  docilely  to  their  lessons  ; 
and  the  tenderness  of  his  disposition  was  akin  to  that 
piety  which  they  sedulously  sought  to  inculcate.  The 
peculiar  tenets    of    the  Port  Royal,  which    fixed    the 


*  M.  de  Valincoiir  says,  "  I  remember  one  day  at  Auteuil,  when  on  a  visit 
to  Boileau,  with  M.  Nicole  and  otiier  friends  of  distinguished  merit,  that  we 
made  Kacine  talk  of  the  CEdipus  of  Sophocles,  and  he  recited  the  whole 
play  to  us,  translating  it  as  he  went  on."  Racine  often  said  that  he  treated 
subjects  adopted  by  Euripides,  but  he  never  ventured  to  follow  in  the  steps 
of  Sophocles. 


300  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

foundations  of  all  religion  in  the  love  of  God,  found  an 
echo  in  his  heart ;  but  how  deeply  is  it  be  regretted, 
that  he  imbibed  that  narrow  spirit  along  with  it  that 
restricted  the  adoration  of  the  Creator  to  the  abstract 
idea  of  himself,  rather  than  a  warm  diffusive  love  of  the 
creation.  Poetry  was  the  very  essence  of  Racine's  mind — 
the  poetry  of  sentiment  and  the  passions ;  but  poetry 
was  forbidden  by  the  jansenists,  except  on  religious  sub- 
jects, and  Racine  could  only  indulge  his  tastes  by  stealth. 
His  French  verses^  composed  at  the  Port  Royal,  are  not 
good ;  for  his  native  language,  singularly  ill-adapted  to 
verse,  had  not  yet  received  that  spirit  of  harmony  with 
which  he  was  destined  to  inspire  her.*  His  biographers 
have  preserved  some  specimens  of  his  Latin  verses,  which 
have  more  merit.  They  want  originality  and  force,  but 
they  are  smooth  and  pleasing,  and  show  the  command 
he  had  of  the  language. 

At  the  age  of  nineteen  he  left  the  Port  Royal  to  fol- 
low his  studies  in  the  college  of  Harcour,  at  Paris. 
The  logic  of  the  schools  pleased  him  little :  his  heart 
was  still  set  on  verse  ;  and  his  letters,  at  this  period,  to  a 
youthful  friend,  show  the  playfulness  of  his  mind,  and 
his  desire  to  distinguish  himself  as  a  writer.  An  occa- 
sion presented  itself.  The  marriage  of  Louis  XIV. 
j^^^j]  caused  every  versifier  in  France  to  bring  his  tribute  of 
21.  rhymes.  Racine  was  then  unknown.  He  had,  indeed, 
written  a  sonnet  to  his  aunt,  Madame  Vitart,  to  compli- 
ment her  on  the  birth  of  a  child,  which  sonnet,  becoming 
known  at  Port  Royal,  awoke  a  holy  horror  throughout  the 
community.  His  aunt,  Agnes  de  Sainte  Thecle  Racine, 
then  abbess,  who  had  been  his  instructress,  wrote  him 
letter  after  letter,  "  excommunication  after  excommu- 

•  Racine  polished  French  poetry,  and  inspired  it  with  harmony,  though, 
even  in  his  verses,  we  are  often  annoyed  by  trivialities  induced  by  the  laws 
of  rhyme.  It  was  left  for  La  Martine  to  overcome  this  difficulty  —  to  put 
music  into  his  lines,  and  bend  the  stubborn  material  to  his  thoughts. 
Some  of  the  earlier  poems,  in  i)articular,  of  this  most  graceful  and  harmoni- 
ous poet  make  you  forget  that  you  are  reading  I'rench— you  are  only  aware 
of  the  perfection  of  his  musical  pauses,  the  expressive  sweetness  of  his  Ian. 
guage,and  feel  how  entirely  his  mind  can  subdue  all  things  to  its  own  nature, 
when  French  verse,  expressing  his  ideas,  becomes  sublime,  flowing,  and 
graceful.  We  cannot  believe,  however,  that  any  poet  could  so  far  vanquish 
its  monotony  as  to  adopt  it  to  heroic  narrative ;  it  is  much  that  it  has  at- 
tained this  degree  of  excellence  in  lyrics. 


RACINE.  301 

nication,"  he  calls  it,  to  turn  his  heart  from  such  pro- 
fane works.  But  the  suggestions  of  the  demon  were 
too  strong;  and  Racine  wrote  an  ode,  entitled  "Nymphes 
de  la  Seine,"  to  celebrate  his  sovereign's  nuptials.  His 
uncle,  M.  Vitart,  showed  it  to  M.  Chapelain,  at  that 
time  ruler  of  the  French  Parnassus.  Chapelain  thought 
the  ode  showed  promise,  and  suggested  a  few  judicious 
alterations.  "  The  ode  has  been  shown  to  M.  Chape- 
lain," Racine  writes  to  a  friend :  "■  he  pointed  out 
several  alterations  I  ought  to  make,  which  I  have  exe- 
cuted, fearful  at  the  same  time  that  these  changes  would 
have  to  be  changed.  I  knew  not  to  whom  to  apply  for 
advice.  I  was  ready  to  have  recourse,  like  Malherbe, 
to  an  old  servant,  had  I  not  discovered  that  she,  like 
her  master,  was  a  jansenist,  and  might  betray  me,  which 
would  ruin  me  utterly,  considering  that  I  every  day 
receive  letters  on  letters,  or  rather  excommunication  on 
excommunication,  on  account  of  my  unlucky  sonnet." 

The  ode,  however,  and  its  alterations,  found  favour  in 
the  sight  of  Chapelain.  It  deserves  the  praise  at  least  of 
being  promising  —  it  is  neither  bombastic  nor  tedious, 
if  it  be  neither  original  nor  sublime.  The  versification 
is  harmonious,  and,  as  a  whole,  it  is  unaffected  and 
pleasing.  Chapelain  carried  his  approbation  so  far  as 
to  recommend  the  young  poet  and  his  ode  to  his  patron, 
M.  Colbert,  who  sent  him  a  hundred  louis  from  the 
king,  and  soon  after  bestowed  on  him  a  pension  of  six 
hundred  Uvres,  in  his  quahty  of  man  of  letters. 

Still,  as  time  crept  on,  both  Racine  and  his  friends 
deemed  it  necessary  to  take  some  decision  with  regard 
to  his  future  career.  His  uncle,  M.  V:  tart,  intendant 
of  Chevreux,  gave  him  employment  to  overlook  some 
repairs  at  that  place  :  he  did  not  like  the  occupation, 
and  considered  Chevreux  a  sort  of  prison.  His  friends 
at  Port  Royal  wished  him  to  apply  to  the  law ;  and, 
when  he  testified  his  disinclination,  were  eager  to  obtain 
for  him  some  petty  place  which  would  just  have  main- 
tained him.  Racine  appears  to  have  been  animated  by 
no  mighty  ambition.  His  son,  indeed,  tells  us  that, 
when  young,  he  had  an  ardent  desire  for  glory,  sup- 


302  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

pressed  afterwards  by  feelings  of  religion.  But  these 
aspirations  probably  awoke  in  their  full  force  after- 
wards, when  success  opened  the  path  to  renown.  There 
are  no  expressions  in  his  early  letters  that  denote  a 
thirst  for  fame :  probably  his  actual  necessities  pressed 
too  hardly  on  him  :  he  thought^  perhaps^  more  of  escape 
from  distasteful  studies  than  attaining  a  literary  reputa- 
tion, and  thought  that  he  might  indulge  his  poetical 
dreams  in  the  inaction  of  a  clerical  life.  Whatever  his 
motives  were,  he  showed  no  great  dislike  to  become  in 
some  sort  a  member  of  the  church ;  and,  when  an  open- 
ing presented  itself,  did  not  turn  away. 

He  had  an  uncle,  father  Sconin,  canon  of  St.  Gene- 
vieve at  Paris,  and  at  one  time  general  of  that  com- 
munity. He  was  of  a  restless,  meddling  disposition  ;  so 
that  at  last  his  superiors,  getting  tired  of  the  broils  in 
which  he  involved  them,  sent  him  into  a  sort  of  honour- 
able banishment  at  Uzes,  where  he  possessed  some  eccle- 
siastical preferments.  He  wished  to  resign  his  benefice 
to  his  nephew.  Racine  did  not  much  like  the  prospect ; 
but  he  thought  it  best,  in  the  first  place,  to  accept  his 
uncle's  invitation,  and  to  visit  him. 

Uzes  is  in  Provence.  Racine  repaired  to  Lyons,  and 
then  down  the  Rhone  to  his  destination.  In  the  spirit 
of  a  true  Parisian,  he  gives  no  token  of  delight  at  the 
beauties  of  nature :  he  talks  of  high  mountains  and 
precipitous  rocks  with  a  carelessness  ill-befitting  a  poet  ; 
and  shows  at  once  that,  though  he  could  adorn  passion 
and  sentiment  with  the  colours  of  poetry,  he  had  not  that 
higher  power  of  the  imagination  which  allies  the  emotions 
of  the  heart  with  the  glories  of  the  visible  creation,  and 
creates,  as  it  were,  "  palaces  of  nature"  for  the  habitation 
of  the  sublimer  passions.  We  have  several  of  his  letters 
written  at  this  period.  They  display  vivacity,  good  humour, 
and  a  well-regulated  mind :  scraps  of  verses  intersperse 
them  ;  but  these  are  merely  apropos  of  familiar  or  divert- 
ing events.  There  is  no  token  of  the  elevated  nor  the 
fanciful  —  nothing,  in  short,  of  the  poet  who,  if  he  did 
not,  like  his  masters  the  Greeks,  put  a  soul  into  rocks. 


RACINE.  303 

Streams,,  flowers^  and  the  winds  of  heaven,  yet  after- 
wards showed  a  spirit  true  to  the  touch  of  human  feel- 
ing, and  capable  of  giving  an  harmonious  voice  to 
sorrow  and  to  love.  One  of  his  chief  annoyances 
during  this  visit  was  the  patois  of  the  people.  He  was 
eager  to  acquire  a  pure  and  elegant  diction  ;  and  he 
feared  that  his  ear  would  be  corrupted  by  the  jargon  to 
which  he  was  forced  to  listen.  "  I  have  as  much  need  of 
an  interpreter  here,"  he  writes,  "  as  a  Muscovite  in 
Paris.  However,  as  I  begin  to  perceive  that  the  dialect  is 
a  medley  of  Spanish  mixed  with  Italian,  and  as  I  under- 
stand these  two  languages,  I  sometimes  have  recourse 
to  them  ;  yet  often  I  lose  my  pains,  asking  for  one 
thing  and  getting  another.  I  sent  a  servant  for  a  hun- 
dred small  nails,  and  he  brought  me  three  boxes  of  allu^ 
mettes."  "•  This  is  a  most  tiresome  town,"  he  writes,  in 
another  letter  :  ''  the  inhabitants  amuse  themselves  by 
kilhng  each  other,  and  getting  hanged.  There  are  always 
lawsuits  going  on,  wherefore  I  have  refused  all  acquain- 
tance ;  for  if  I  made  one  friend  I  should  draw  down  a 
hundred  enemies.  I  have  often  been  asked,  unworthy 
as  I  am,  to  frequent  the  society  of  the  place ;  for  my 
ode  having  been  seen  at  the  house  of  a  lady,  every  one 
came  to  visit  the  author  :  but  it  is  to  no  purpose  — 
mens  immota  manet.  I  never  believed  myself  capable 
of  enduring  so  much  solitude,  nor  could  you  have  ever 
hoped  so  much  from  my  virtue.  I  pass  all  my  time 
with  my  uncle,  with  St.  Thomas,  and  Virgil.  I  make 
many  notes  on  theology,  and  sometimes  on  poetry.  My 
uncle  has  all  sorts  of  kind  schemes  for  me  —  but  none 
are  yet  certain  :  however,  he  makes  me  dress  in  black 
from  head  to  foot,  and  hopes  to  get  something  for  me  ; 
when  I  shall  pay  my  debts,  if  I  can  ;  for  I  cannot 
before.  I  ought  to  think  on  all  the  dunning  you  suffer 
on  my  account —  I  blush  as  I  write;  eruhuit  puer ; 
salva  res  est." 

Obstacles,  however,  continued  to  present  themselves 
to  the  execution  of  any  of  his  uncle's  plans.  Racine,  as 
he  grew  hopeless  of  advancement,  turned  his  thoughts 


304?  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

more  entirely  to  composition.  He  wrote  a  poem  called 
"  The  Bath  of  Venus,"  and  began  a  play  on  the  sub- 
ject of  Theagines  and  Chariclea,  the  beloved  romdnce 
of  his  boyhood.  After  three  months'  residence  at  Uzes 
he  returned  to  Paris. 

He  returned  disappointed  and  uncertain.  Poetry  — » 
even  the  drama  —  occupied  his  thoughts  ;  but  the  oppo- 
sition of  his  friends,  and  the  little  confidence  in  him- 
self which  marked  his  disposition,  might  have  made  him 
tremble  to  embark  in  a  literary  career,  had  not  a 
circumstance  occurred  which  may  be  called  an  accident*, 
but  which  was,  indeed,  one  of  those  slight  threads  which 
form  the  web  of  our  lives,  and  compose  the  machinery 
by  which  Providence  directs  it.  Mohere,  having  es- 
tablished a  comic  company  in  Paris,  grew  jealous  of 
the  actors  of  the  Hotel  de  Bourgogne,  who  prided 
themselves  on  the  tragic  dignity  of  their  representations. 
Having  heard  that  a  new  piece  was  about  to  be  repre- 
sented at  that  theatre,  he  was  desirous  of  bringing  out  one 
himself,  on  the  same  day,  in  rivalship.  A  new  tragedy, 
secure  of  success,  was  not  easy  to  acquire.  Racine  had, 
on  his  return  from  Provence,  sent  his  "Theagines  and 
Chariclea"  to  Moliere.  The  latter  saw  the  defects  of 
the  piece,  but,  penetrating  the  talent  of  the  author,  gave 
him  general  encouragement  to  proceed.  At  this  crisis 
he  remembered  him.  Moliere  had  a  design  of  the 
'^Freres  Ennemis"  in  his  portfolio,  which  he  felt  incap- 
able of  filling  up  :  he  resolved  to  devolve  the  task  on 
Racine,  but  knew  not  where  to  find  him.  With  some 
difficulty  he  hunted  him  out,  and  besought  him  to  write, 
if  possible,  an  act  a  week ;  and  they  even  worked  toge- 
ther, that  greater  speed  might  be  attained.  Well  ac- 
quainted as  Moliere  was  with  the  conduct  of  a  drama, 
and  the  trickery  of  actors,  no  doubt  his  instructions  and 
aid  were  invaluable  to  the  young  author.  The  piece 
was  brought  out,  and  succeeded  —  its  faults  were  par- 
doned on  the  score  of  its  being  a  first  production.  When 
it  was  afterwards  published,   Racine  altered  and  cor- 

*  Grimarest,  Vie  de  Moliere. 


RACINE.  S05 

rected  it  materially.     It  cannot  be  said,  indeed,  that, 
as  some  authors  have  done,  he  surprised  the  world   at 
first  with  a  chef  d'oeuvre ;  elegance  and  harmony   of 
versification  being  his  characteristics,  he  continued  to 
improve  to  the  end,  and  his  first  piece  may  be  consi- 
dered as  a  coup  d'essai.     The  subject  was  not  suited  to  jgg. 
him,  whose  merit  lay  in  the  struggle  of  passion,  and  the  ^tat! 
gushing  overflowings  of  tenderness.     However,  it  went   25. 
through   fifteen   representations.     It  was   speedily  fol- 
lowed by  his  ''  Alexandre."     Neither  in  this  play  did 
he  make    any  great    progress,    or  give    the    stamp  of 'f-^^. 
excellence  which  his  dramas  afterwards  received.     It  is  ^^^^t. 
said  that  he  read  his  tragedy  to  Corneille,  who  praised  ^^' 
it  coldly,  and  advised  the  author  to  give  up  writing  for 
the  stage.  The  mediocrity  of  "  Alexandre"  prevents  any 
suspicion  that  the  great  tragedian  was  influenced  by  envy; 
and  as  Racine,  in  this  play,  again  attempted  a  subject 
requiring  an  energy  and  strength  of  virile  passion   of 
which  he  was  incapable,  and  in  which  Corneille  so  much 
excelled,  we  may  believe  that  the  old  master  of  the  art 
felt  impatient  of  the  feebleness  and   inefficiency  of  him 
who  afterwards  became  a  successful  rival. 

When  we  regard  these  first  essays  of  Racine,  we  at 
once  perceive  the  origin  of  his  defects,  while  we  feel 
aware  that  a  contrary  system  would  have  raised  him  far 
higher  as  a  dramatist.  He  was,  of  course,  famihar 
with  Corneille's  master-pieces;  and  he  founded  his 
ideas  of  the  conduct  of  a  tragedy  partly  on  these,  and 
partly  on  the  Greek.  He  did  not  read  Spanish  nor 
English,  and  was  ignorant  of  the  original  and  bold 
conceptions  of  the  poets  of  those  nations;  and  was 
hampered  by  an  observance  of  the  unities,  which  had 
become  a  law  on  the  French  stage,  and  was  recog- 
nised and  confirmed  by  himself.  He  felt  that  the 
Greek  drama  is  not  adapted  to  modern  times  : 
he  did  not  feel  that  the  Greeks,  in  taking  national 
subjects,  warmed  the  hearts  of  their  audience  ;  and  that 
the  religion,  the  scenery,  the  poetry,  the  allusions  — 
all  Greek,   and  all,  therefore,  full  of  Hving  interest  to 


306 


LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 


Greeks,  ought  to  serve  as  a  model  whereby  modern 
authors  might  form  their  own  national  history  and  tra- 
ditions into  a  dramatic  form,  not  as  ground-works  for 
cold  imitations.  Racine,  from  the  first,  fell  into  those 
deplorable  mistakes  which  render  most  of  his  plays  — 
beautiful  and  graceful  as  they  are,  and  full  of  tenderness 
and  passion  —  more  like  copies  in  fainter  colours  of  his 
sublime  masters,  than  productions  conceived  by  original 
genius,  in  a  spirit  akin  to  the  age  and  nation  to  which 
he  belonged.  Another  misfortune  attended  the  compo- 
sition of  his  tragedies,  as  it  had  also  on  those  of  his 
predecessor.  The  Greek  drama  was  held  solemn  and 
sacred  —  the  stage  a  temple  :  the  English  and  Spanish 
theatres,  wild,  as  they  might  be  termed,  were  yet  magni- 
ficent in  their  errors.  An  evil  custom  in  France  crushed 
every  possibility  of  external  pomp  waiting  on  the 
majesty  of  action.  The  nobles,  the  petit  mmtres,  all 
the  men  of  what  is  called  the  best  society  in  Paris,  were 
accustomed  to  sit  on  the  stage,  and  crowded  it  so  as  not 
to  allow  the  author  room  to  produce  more  than  two  per- 
sons at  a  time  before  the  scene.  All  possibility,  there- 
fore, of  reforming  the  dull  undramatic  expedient  of  the 
whole  action  passing  in  narration  between  a  chief  per- 
sonage and  a  confidant  was  taken  away  ;  and  thus  plays 
assumed  the  form  rather  of  narrative  poems  in  dialogue 
than  the  native  guise  of  a  moving,  stirring  picture  of 
life,  such  as  it  is  with  us  —  while  the  assembly  of  dandy 
critics,  ever  on  the  look-out  for  ridicule,  allowed  no  step 
beyond  conventional  rules,  and  termed  the  torpor  of 
their  imaginations,  good  taste.  We  only  wonder  that, 
under  such  circumstances,  tragedies  of  merit  were  pro- 
duced.     But  to  return  to  Racine's  ''  Alexandre." 

This  tragedy  was  the  cause  of  the  quarrel  between 
Racine  and  Moliere.  It  was  brought  out  at  the  theatre  of 
the  Palais  Royal  —  it  was  unsuccessful ;  and  the  author, 
attributing  his  ill  success  to  the  actors,  withdrew  it,  and 
caused  it  to  be  performed  at  the  Hotel  de  Bourgogne ; 
to  this  defalcation  he  added  the  greater  injury  of 
inducing  Champme'le,  the  best  tragic  actress  of  the 
time,  to  quit  INIoliere's  company  for  that  of  the  rival 


RACINE.  307 

theatre,  Moliere  never  forgave  him ;  and  they  ceased 
to  associate  together.  Madame  de  Sevigne  alludes 
in  her  letters  to  the  attachment  of  Racine  for  Champ- 
mele_5  but  his  son  denies  that  such  existed  ;  and  the 
mention  which  Racine  makes  in  his  letters  of  this 
actrels;  when  she  was  dying,  betray  no  trace  of  tender 
recollection ;  yet,  as  these  were  addressed  to  his  son, 
he  might  carefully  suppress  the  expressions  of  his 
regret.  He  taught  Champmele  to  recite;  and  she  owed 
her  reputation  to  his  instructions. 

The  criticism  freely  poured  on  his  two  tragedies  were 
of  use  to  the  author.  He  was  keenly  alive  to  censure_, 
and  deeply  pained  by  it ;  but,  when  accompanied  by 
such  praise  as  showed  that  correction  and  improvement 
were  expected,  he  readily  gave  ear  to  the  suggestions  of 
his  fault-finders.  Boileau  boasted  that  he  taught  Racine 
to  rhyme  with  difficulty  —  easy  verses,  he  said,  are  not 
those  written  most  easily.  Racine,  as  he  went  on,  also 
began  to  feel  the  true  bent  of  his  genius,  while  his 
desire  to  write  parts  suited  to  Champmele  induced  him 
to  give  that  preponderance  to  the  chief  female  part  that 
produced,  in  the  sequel,  his  best  plays. 

While  he  was  employing  himself  on  "  Andromaque" 
he  sustained  an  attack,  which  roused  him  to  some 
resentment.  Nicole,  in  a  letter  he  published  against  a 
nevr  sect  of  rehgionists,  asserted  that  "  a  romance 
writer  and  a  theatrical  poet  are  public  poisoners  —  not 
of  bodies,  but  of  souls — and  that  they  ought  to  look  on 
themselves  as  the  occasion  of  an  infinity  of  spiritual 
homicides,  of  which  they  are,  or  might  be,  the  cause." 
Racine  felt  this  censure  the  more  bitterly  from  his  having 
been  excluded  from  visiting  the  Port  Royal  on  account  of 
his  tragedies  *  ;  and  he  answered  it  by  a  letter,  addressed 

*  His  aunt,  a  nun  of  Port  Royal,  wrote  him  a  letter  to  intimate  this,  which 
may  well  be  called  an  excommunication  :  — "  I  have  learnt  with  grief,''  she 
says,  "tiiat  you  more  than  ever  frequent  the  society  of  persons  whose  names 
are  abominable  to  the  pious  ;  and  with  reason,  since  they  are  forbidden 
to  enter  the  church,  or  to  partake  in  the  sacraments,  even  at  the  moment  of 
death,  unless  they  repent.  Judge,  therefore,  my  dear  nephew,  of  the  state  I 
am  in,  since  you  are  not  ignorant  of  the  affection  I  have  always  felt  for  you  ; 
and  that  1  have  never  desired  any  thing  except  that  you  should  give  yourself 
up  to  God  while  fulfilling  some  respectable  employment.     I  conjure  you, 


308  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

"  To  the  author  of  imaginary  reveries."     This  letter  is 
written  with  a  good  deal  of  wit  and  pleasantry  :    we 
miss  the   high    tone  of  eloquent  feeling  that  it  might 
be  supposed  that  an  author,  warmed  with  the  dignity 
of  his  calling,  would  have  expressed.     His  letter  was 
answered,  and  he  was  excited  to   write  a  reply,  which 
he  showed  to  Boileau.       The  satirist  persuaded  him  to 
suppress  it ;    telhng  him  that  it  would  do  no  honour  to 
his  heart,  since  he  attacked,  in  attacking  the  Port  Royal, 
men  of  the  highest  integrity,  to  whom  he  was  under 
obhgations.      Racine  yielded,  declaring  that  his  letter 
should  never  see  light ;    which  it  did  not  till  after  his 
death,  when  a  stray  copy  was  found  and  printed.     The 
conduct  of  the  poets  was  honourable.     It  is  probable 
that  Racine  did  not,  in  his  heart,  believe  in  the  good- 
ness   of   his    cause;   for  he   was  deeply  imbued   with 
the  prejudices  instilled  by  the  jansenists  in  his  early 
youth.     He  was  piqued  by  the  attack,  but   his   con- 
conscience  sided  with  his  censurers  ;  and  the  degraded 
state  to  which  clerical  influence  brought  French  actors 
in    those  days  might  well  cause  a  devout   catholic  to 
doubt  the  innocence  of  the  drama.     A  higher  tone  of 
feeling  would  have  caused  Racine  to  perceive  that  the 
fault  lay  with  the  persecutors,  not  the  persecuted  ;    but 
though  an  amiable  and  upright  man,  and  a  man  of 
genius,  he  was  in  nothing  beyond  his  age. 

As  Racine  continued  to  write,  he  used  his  powers 
with  more  freedom  and  success,  "  Andromache,"  "  Bri- 
tannicus,"  and  "Berenice"  succeeded  one  to  the  other. 
The  first,  we  are  told,  had  a  striking  success  ;  and  it  was 
said  to  have  cost  the  life  of  Montfleuri,  a  celebrated  actor, 
who  put  so  much  passion  into  the  part  of  Orestes  that  befell 
a  victim  to  the  excitement.  "  Berenice"  was  written  at  the 
desire  of  Henriettaof  England,  duchessof  Orleans.  It  was 

therefore  my  dear  nephew,  to  have  pity  on  your  soul,  and  to  consider  seri- 
ously the'  gulf  into  which  you  are  throwing  yourself.  I  should  be  glad  if 
whatl  am  told  proves  untrue;  but,  if  you  are  so  unhappy  as  not  to  have  given 
UP  an  intercourse  that  dishonours  you  before  God  and  man,  you  must  not 
think  of  coming  to  see  us,  for  you  are  aware  that  I  could  not  speak  to  you, 
knowing  you  to  be  in  so  deplorable  a  state,  and  one  so  contrary  to  Chris- 
tianity.   1  shall,  moreover,  pray  to  God,"  Ike. 


RACINE.  309 

called  a  duel,  since  she  imposed  the  same  subject,  at  the 
same  time,  on  Corneille.  Racine's  was  the  better  tragedy, 
and  must  always  be  read  with  deep  interest ;  for  to  its 
own  merit  it  adds  the  interest  of  commemorating 
the  struggles  of  passion  that  Louis  XIV.  experienced, 
when,  in  his  early  days,  he  loved  that  charming 
princess.  The  subject,  however,  is  too  uniform,  and 
the  catastrophe  not  sufficiently  tragic.  Boileau  felt  its 
defects;  and  said  that,  had  he  been  by,  he  would 
have  prevented  his  friend's  accepting  the  princess's 
challenge  to  write  on  such  a  subject.  When  Cha- 
pelle  was  asked  what  he  thought  of  Berenice,  he 
summed  up  the  defects  of  the  play  in  a  few  words. 
*^^  What  I  think?"  he  said,  ''^why,  Marion  weeps; 
Marion  sobs  ;  Marion  wants  to  be  married."  That 
Racine  should  have  excelled  Corneille  on  this  subject 
is  not  to  be  wondered  ;  but  Corneille  had  still  many 
adherents  who  disdained,  and  tried  to  put  down,  his 
young  rival.  He  had  habituated  the  French  audiences 
to  a  more  heroic  cast  of  thought  than  Racine  could  portray. 
The  eager  eloquence,  the  impetuous  passions,  and  even 
the  love  of  the  elder  poet  were  totally  unlike  the  soft- 
ness and  tenderness  of  the  younger.  Racine,  therefore 
encountered  much  criticism,  which  rendered  him  very 
unhappy.  He  told  his  son,  in  after  years,  that  he  suffered 
far  more  pain  from  the  faults  found  with  his  produc- 
tions than  he  ever  experienced  pleasure  from  their 
success.  This  avowal  at  once  displays  the  innate  weak- 
ness of  the  man.*     Madame  de  Sevigne  was  among 

*  Boileau's  virile  and  independent  mind  was  far  above  the  weakness  of 
his  friend,  and  doubtless  deplored  it.  At  once  to  console,  and  to  elevate 
hiin  to  a  higher  tone  of  feeling,  he  addressed  an  epistle  to  him,  in  which  are 
the  following  lines :  — 

"  Toi  done,  qui  t'elevant  sur  la  scene  tragique, 

Suis  les  pas  de  iSophocle,  et  seul  de  tant  d'Esprits, 

De  Corneille  vielli  salt  consoler  Paris, 

Cesse  de  t'etonner,  si  I'envie  animee, 

Attachant  a  ton  nom  sa  rouille  envenimee,' 

La  calomnie  en  main,  quelquefois  te  poursuit. 

En  cela,  comme  en  tout,  leciel  qui  nous  conduit, 

Racine,  fait  briller  sa  profonde  sagesse  ; 

Le  merite  en  repos  s'endort  dans  la  paresse  : 

Mais  par  les  envieux  un  genie  excite, 

Au  comble  de  son  art  est  mille  fois  monte. 

X  3 


310  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

the  partisans  of  Corneille ;  and  her  criticism  shows  the 
impression  made  on  such  by  the  new  style  of  the  young 
poet.  ^^I  send  you  ''  Bajazet/'  she  writes  to  her  daugh- 
ter :  *^  I  wish  I  coukl  also  send  you  Champmele  to  ani- 
mate the  piece.  It  contains  agreeable  passages,  but  nothing 
perfectly  beautiful  j  nothing  that  carries  one  away;  none 
of  those  tirades  of  Corneille  that  make  one  shudder. 
Racine  can  never  be  compared  to  him.  Let  us  always 
remember  the  difference.  The  former  will  never  go 
beyond  ''^  Andromache  ;"  he  writes  parts  for  Champmele, 
and  not  for  future  ages.  When  he  is  no  longer  young, 
and  has  ceased  to  be  susceptible  of  love,  he  will  cease  to 
write  as  well  as  he  now  does."  This  opinion  is  at  least 
false.  The  tragedies  of  Racine  still  live,  or  at  least  did 
so  while  Talma  andtheclassic  theatre  survived  in  France. 
And '^'Athalie,"  written  in  his  more  advanced  years,  is 
the  best  of  his  works. 

In  the  interval  between  "Andromaque"  and  '^'^Britan- 
nicus"  his  comedy  of  "^'Les  Plaideurs"  appeared.  A  sort 
of  lay  benefice  had  been  conferred  on  him,  but  he  had 
scarcely  obtained  it  when  it  was  disputed  by  a  priest ;  and 
then  began  a  lawsuit,  which,  as  he  says,  "^  neither  he  nor 
his  judges  understood."  Tired  out  by  law  proceedings, 
weary  of  consulting  advocates  and  soliciting  judges, 
he  abandoned  his  benefice,  consoling  himself  meanwhile 
by  writing  the  comedy  of  "  Les  Plaideurs,"  which  was 
suggested  by  it.  We  have  spoken,  in  the  preceding 
pages,  of  the  suppers  where  Racine,  Boileau,  Moliere, 
and  others  met ;  in  which  they  gave  full  play  to  their 
fancy,  and  gaiety  and  wit  were  the  order  of  the  day. 
At  these  suppers  the  plot  of  the  projected  comedy  was 
talked  over.  One  guest  provided  him.  with  the  proper 
legal  terms.  Boileau  furnished  the  idea  of  the  dispute 
between  Chicaneau  and  the  countess :  he  had  witnessed 


Plus  on  veut  s'affloihlir,  plus  il  croit  et  s'elance; 
Au  Cid  persecute,  Ciiina  doit  sa  naissance  ; 
Et  pcut-etre  ta  plume  aux  censeurs  de  Pyrrhus 
Doit  les  i)lus  nobles  traits  doiit  tu  peignis  Burhus." 


RACINE.  311 

a  similar  scene  in  the  apartments  of  his  hrother,  a  scri- 
vener, between  a  well-known  lawyer  and  the  countess 
de  Crisse,  who  had  passed  her  life,  and  dissipated  her 
property,  in  lawsuits.  The  parliament  of  Paris,  wearied 
by  her  pertinacious  litigiousness,  forbade  her  to  carry 
on  any  suit  without  the  consent  of  two  advocates,  who 
were  named.  She  was  furious  at  this  sentence ;  and, 
after  wearying  judges,  barristers,  and  attorneys  by  her 
repinings,  she  visited  Boileau's  brother,  where  she  met 
the  person  in  question.  This  man,  a  Paul  Pry  by  in- 
clination^ was  eager  to  advise  her  :  she  Avas  at  first  de- 
lighted, till  he  said  something  to  annoy  her,  and  they 
quarrelled  violently.  This  character  being  introduced 
into  the  comedy,  the  actress,  who  took  the  part,  mi- 
micked the  poor  countess  to  the  life^  even  to  the  wearing 
a  faded  pink  gown,  such  as  she  usually  wore.  Many 
other  traits  of  this  comedy  were  anecdotes  actually  in 
vogue ;  and  the  exordium  of  Intime,  who,  when  pleading 
about  a  capon,  adopted  the  opening  of  Cicero's  oration, 
*'Pro  Quintio,"  —  ''^Quse  res  in  civitate  duae  plurimum 
possunt,  hse  contra  nos  amba?  faciunt  hoc  tempore,  sum- 
ma  gratia  et  eloquentia,"  had  actually  been  put  to  use 
by  an  advocate  in  a  petty  cause  between  a  baker  and  a 
pastrycook. 

The  humour  of  this  piece  shows  that  Racine  might 
have  succeeded  in  comedy  :  it  is  full  of  comic  situation, 
and  the  true  spirit  of  Aristophanic  farce.  Yet  it  did 
not  at  first  succeed,  either  because  the  audience  could 
not  at  once  enter  into  its  spirit,  or  because  it  was  op- 
posed by  a  cabal  of  persons  who  considered  themselves 
attacked ;  and  it  was  withdrawn  after  the  second  repre- 
sentation. Moliere,  however,  saw  its  merits ;  and,  though 
he  had  quarrelled  with  the  poet,  he  said  aloud,  on  quit- 
ting the  theatre,  "  This  is  an  excellent  comedy ;  and 
those  who  decry  it  deserve  tliemselves  to  be  decried." 
A  month  afterwards  the  actors  ventured  to  represent  it 
at  court.  The  king  entered  into  the  spirit  of  the  fun,  and 
laughed  so  excessively  that  the  courtiers  were  astonished. 
The  actors,  delighted  by  this  unhoped-for  piece  of  good 
X  4 


312  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

fortune,  returned  to  Paris  the  same  night,  and  hastened 
to  wake  up  the  author,  to  impart  the  news.  The  turmoil 
of  their  carriages  in  his  quiet  street,  in  the  middle  of 
the  night,  awoke  the  neighbourhood  :  windows  were 
thrown  open  ;  and,  as  it  had  been  said  that  a  counsellor 
of  state  had  expressed  great  indignation  against  "  Les 
Plaideurs,"  it  was  supposed  that  the  author  was  carried 
off  to  prison,  for  having  dared  to  ridicule  the  judges  on 
the  public  stage  ;  so  that,  while  he  was  rejoicing  at  his 
success,  the  report  in  Paris  the  next  morning  was  that 
he  had  been  carried  off  in  the  night  by  a  lettre-de' 
cachet. 

In  1673  Racine  was  elected  into  the  French  aca- 
demy. The  speech  he  made  on  taking  his  seat  was 
brief  and  courteous,  but  not  humble,  and  delivered  in  so 
low  a  voice  that  only  those  near  him  could  hear  it. 
Meanwhile  he  continued  to  add  to  his  reputation  by 
bringing  out  his  tragedies  of  "  Bajazet,"  ''  Mithridates," 
"Phaedra,"  and  "Iphigenia."  Each  improving  in  his  pe- 
cuHar  excellence,  each  found  warm  admirers  and  bitter  ene- 
mies. Pradon  brought  out  a  tragedy  on  the  subject  of 
Phaedra  on  the  same  day  as  Racine ;  and  he  had  many 
partisans.  Among  them  was  the  duke  de  Montauzier,  and 
all  the  chque  of  the  Hotel  de  Bouillon.  They  carried  their 
measures  so  far  as  to  take  the  principal  boxes,  on  the  first 
six  nights  of  each  piece,  and  thus  filled  the  theatre,  or  kept 
it  empty,  as  they  pleased.  The  chief  friend  of  Pradon  was 
madame  des  Houlieres ;  who  favoured  him,  because  she 
patronised  all  those  poets  whom  she  judged  incapable 
of  writing  as  well  as  herself.  She  witnessed  the  repre- 
sentation of  Racine's  play  ;  and  returned  afterwards  to 
a  supper  of  select  friends,  among  whom  was  Pradon. 
The  new  tragedy  was  the  subject  of  conversation,  each 
did  their  best  to  decry  it;  and  madame  des  Houlieres 
wrote  a  mediocre  sonnet  enough,  beginning  — 

"  Dans  un  fauteiiil  dore,  Phedre,  tremblante  et  bleme," 

to  turn  it  into  ridicule.  This  sonnet  had  vogue  in 
Paris.    No  one  knew  who  wrote  it :  it  was  attributed  to 


RACINE.  313 

the  duke  de  Nevers,  brother  of  the  celebrated  duchess 
de  Mazarin.  The  partisans  of  Racine  parodied  the  son- 
net, under  this  idea  ;  the  parody  beginning 

"  Dans  un  Palais  dore,  Damon  jaloux  et  bleme," 

and  even  attacked  the  duchess,  as 

"  Une  sceur  vagabonde,  aux  crins  plus  noirs  que  blonds." 

This  reply  was  attributed  to  Racine  and  Boileau.  The 
duke  de  Nevers,  highly  irritated,  threatened  personal  chas- 
tisement in  revenge.  The  report  spread  that  he  meant  to 
have  them  assassinated.  They  denied  having  written  the 
offending  sonnet;  and  the  son  of  the  great  Conde 
went  to  them,  and  said,  "  If  you  did  not  write  it,  come  to 
the  Hotel  de  Conde,  where  the  prince  can  protect  you,  as 
you  are  innocent.  If  you  did  write  it,  still  come  to  the 
Hotel  de  Conde,  and  the  prince  will  take  you  under  his 
protection,  as  the  sonnet  is  both  pleasant  and  witty."  An 
answer  was  reiterated  to  the  parody,  with  the  same 
rhymes,  beginning 

"  Racine  et  Despreaux,  I'air  triste  et  le  teint  bleme." 

The  quarrel  was  afterwards  appeased,  when  it  was  dis- 
covered that  certain  young  nobles,  and  not  the  poets, 
were  the  authors  of  the  first  parody. 

This  last  adventure,  joined  to  other  circumstances, 
caused  Racine  to  resolve  on  renouncing  the  drama.  The 
opinions  of  the  recluses  of  the  Port  Royal  concerning 
its  wickedness  were  deeply  rooted  in  his  heart.  Though 
in  the  fervour  of  youth,  composition,  and  success,  he 
had  silenced  his  scruples,  they  awoke,  after  a  suspen- 
sion, with  redoubled  violence.  He  not  only  resolved  to 
write  no  more,  but  imposed  severe  penances  on  himself 
in  expiation  for  those  he  had  already  written,  and  even 
wished  to  turn  chartreux.  Religion  with  him  took  the 
narrowest  priestly  form,  redeemed  only  by  the  native 
gentleness  and  tenderness  of  his  disposition.  These  qua- 
lities made  him  listen  to  his  confessor,  who  advised  him, 
instead  of  becoming  a  monk,  to  marry  some  woman  of  a 
pious  turn,  who  would  be  his  companion  in  working  out 
his  salvation.      He  followed  this  counsel,  and  married 


314  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

Catherine  de  Romanet,  a  lady  of  a  position  in  life  and 
1677.  fortune  similar  to  his  own.  This  marriage  decided  his 
'^^^**  future  destiny.  His  wife  had  never  read  nor  seen  his 
tragedies  ;  she  knew  their  names  but  by  hearsay  ;  she 
regarded  poetry  as  an  abomination ;  she  looked  on 
prayer  and  church-going  as  the  only  absolutely  proper 
occupations  of  life.  She  was  of  an  over-anxious  dis- 
position, and  not  a  little  narrow-minded.  But  she  was 
conscientious,  upright,  sincere,  affectionate,  and  grateful. 
She  gave  her  husband  good  advice,  and,  by  the  calmness 
of  her  temper,  smoothed  the  irritability  of  his.  His 
letters  to  his  son  give  us  pleasing  pictures  of  his  affection 
for  his  wife  and  children;  melancholy  ones  of  the  effects 
of  his  opinions.  The  young  mind  is  timid  :  it  is  easily 
led  to  fear  death,  and  to  doubt  salvation,  and  to  throw 
itself  into  religion  as  a  refuge  from  the  phantasmal 
horrors  of  another  world.  One  after  the  other  of  Racine's 
children  resolved  to  take  monastic  vows.  His  sons  lost 
their  vocation  when  thrown  into  active  life  ;  but  the 
girls,  brought  up  in  convents,  of  gentle,  pliant,  and  en- 
thusiastic dispositions,  were  more  firm,  and  either  took 
the  vows  in  early  youth  —  which  devoted  them  to  lives 
of  hardship  and  self-denial  —  or  had  their  young  hearts 
torn  by  the  struggles  between  the  world  and  (not  God) 
but  the  priests.  Racine,  on  the  whole,  acted  kindly  and 
conscientiously,  and  endeavoured  to  prove  their  vocation 
before  he  consented  to  the  final  sacrifice  ;  but  the  nature 
of  their  education,  and  his  own  feelings,  prevented  all 
fair  trial;  and  his  joy  at  their  steadiness,  his  annoyance 
in  their  vacillation,  betrays  itself  in  his  letters.  His 
income,,  derived  from  the  king's  pensions  and  the 
place  of  historiographer,  was  restricted ;  and  though 
the  king  made  him  presents,  yet  these  were  not 
more  than  commensurate  to  his  increased  expenses 
when  in  attendance  at  court.  He  had  seven  children  : 
he  found  it  difficult,  therefore,  to  give  doweries  to  all  the 
girls ;  and  worldly  reasoning  came  to  assist  and  conso- 
lidate sentiments  which  sprang  originally  from  bigotry. 
One  of  the  first  acts  of  Racine,  on  entering  on  this 


315 


Port  Royal.  He  easily  made  his  peace  with  M.  Nicole^ 
who  did  not  know  what  enmity  was^  and  who  received 
him  with  open  arms.  M.  Arnaud  was  not  so  facile : 
his  sister,  mother  Angelica,  had  been  ridiculed  by  Ra- 
cine, and  he  could  not  forgive  him.  Boileau  endeavoured 
in  vain  to  bring  about  a  reconciliation  :  he  found 
M.  Arnaud  impracticable.  At  length  he  determined 
on  a  new  mode  of  attack ;  and  he  went  to  the  doctor, 
taking  the  tragedy  of  *^  Phaedra"  with  him,  with  the 
intention  of  proving  that  a  play  may  be  innocent  in 
the  eyes  of  the  severest  jansenist.  Boileau,  as  he 
walked  towards  the  learned  and  pious  doctor's  house, 
reasoned  with  himself:  —  "  Will  this  man,"  he  thought^ 
'^  always  fancy  himself  in  the  right  ?  and  cannot  I 
prove  to  him  that  he  is  in  the  wrong  ?  I  am  quite 
sure  that  I  am  in  the  right  now ;  and,  if  he  will  not 
agree  with  me,  he  must  be  in  the  wrong."  He  found 
Arnaud  with  a  number  of  visitors  :  he  presented  the 
book,  and  read  at  the  same  time  the  passage  from 
the  preface  in  which  the  author  testifies  his  desire  to  be 
reconciled  to  persons  of  piety.  Boileau  then  went  on 
to  say  that  his  friend  had  renounced  the  theatre  ;  but  at 
the  same  time  he  maintained,  that,  if  the  drama  was  dan- 
gerous, it  was  the  fault  of  the  poets  ;  but  that  ''  Phiedra" 
contained  nothing  but  what  was  morally  virtuous.  The 
audience,  consisting  of  young  jansenist  clergymen, 
smiled  contemptuously  ;  but  M.  Arnaud  replied,  "  If 
it  be  so,  there  is  no  harm  in  this  tragedy." 

Boileau  declared  he  never  felt  so  happy  in  his  life  as  on 
hearing  this  declaration  :  he  left  the  book,  and  returned 
a  few  days  afterwards  for  the  doctor's  opinion  :  it 
was  favourable,  and  leave  was  given  him  to  bring  his 
friend  the  following  day.  Louis  Racine's  account  of 
the  interview  gives  a  singular  picture  of  manners. 
''They  (Boileau  and  Racine)  went  together;  and,  though 
a  numerous  company  was  assembled,  the  culprit  entered, 
with  humility  and  confusion  depicted  on  his  counte- 
nance, and  threw  himself  at  M.  Arnaud's  feet,  who 
followed  his  example,  and  they  embraced.     M.  Arnaud 


3l6  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

promised  to  forget  the  past,"  and  to  be  his  friend  for  the 
future  —  a  promise  which  he  faithfully  kept." 

This  same  year  Racine  was  named  historiographer  to 
the  king,  together  with  his  friend.  In  some  sort  this 
may  be  considered  fortunate ;  since,  having  renounced 
poetry,  he  might  have  neglected  literature,  had  not 
this  new  employment  given  him  a  subject  whicli  he 
deemed  exalted  in  its  nature.  How  strangely  is  human 
nature  constituted.  Racine  made  a  scruple  of  writing 
tragedies,  or,  indeed,  poetry  of  any  kind  that  was  not 
religious.  He  believed  that  it  was  impious  to  comme- 
morate in  lofty  verse  the  heroic  emotions  of  our  nature, 
or  to  dress  in  the  beautiful  colours  of  poetry  the  gentle 
sorrows  of  the  loving  heart :  from  such  motives  he  gave 
up  his  best  title  to  fame,  his  dearest  occupation ;  but 
he  had  no  scruple  in  following  his  sovereign  to  the  wars, 
and  in  beholding  the  attack  and  defence  of  towns.  "  I  was 
at  some  distance,"  he  writes  to  Boileau,  "  but  could 
see  the  whole  assault  perfectly  through  a  glass,  which,  in- 
deed, I  could  scarcely  hold  steady  enough  to  look  through 
—  my  heart  beat  so  fast  to  see  so  many  brave  men  cut 
down."  Still  there  was  no  scruple  here,  though  the  un- 
justifiable nature  of  Louis  XIV.'s  wars  afforded  no 
excuse  for  the  misery  and  desolation  he  spread  around. 

This  contradiction  strikes  us  yet  more  forcibly  in  his 
letters  to  his  son,  which  are  full  of  moral  precepts,  and 
just  and  enhghtened  advice  on  literary  subjects.  Had 
he  been  a  soldier,  it  had  made  a  natural  portion  of  the 
picture ;  but  that  a  man  at  once  of  a  lively  imagina- 
tion, tender  disposition,  and  pious  sentiments,  and  who, 
we  are  told,  evinced  particular  regard  for  his  own  person, 
should,  day  after  day,  view  the  cruelties  and  ravages  of 
war  en  amateur  shocks  our  moral  sense. 

Racine  was  servile.  This  last  worst  fault  he  owed, 
doubtless,  to  his  monkish  education,  which  gave  that 
turn  to  his  instinctive  wish  to  gain  the  sympathy  and 
approbation  of  his  associates.  His  devotion  was  servile. 
He  deserves  the  praise,  certainly,  of  preferring  his  God 
to  his  king  ;  for  he  continued  a  jansenist,  though  the 


RACINE.  317 

king  reprobated  that  sect  and  upheld  the  Jesuits,  as  his 
own  party ;  yet  he  never  blamed  Racine  for  his  adher- 
ence to  the  Port  Royal,  so  he  was  never  tempted  to 
abandon  it.  His  veneration  for  the  king — his  fear, 
his  adulation  —  were  carried  to  a  weakness.  It  is  true 
that  it  is  difficult  for  a  bold,  impossible  for  a  feeble, 
mind  to  divest  itself  of  a  certain  sort  of  worship  for  the 
first  man  of  the  age  ;  and  Louis  was  certainly  the  first  of 
his.  Racine  also  liked  the  refinements  of  a  court ;  he 
prided  himself  on  being  a  courtier.  He  succeeded  better 
than  Boileau,  who  had  no  ambition  of  the  sort ;  yet  he 
could  never  attain  that  perfect  self-possession,  joined  to 
an  insinuating  and  easy  address,  that  marks  the  man  bred 
in  a  court,  and  assured  of  his  station  in  it.  ''  Look  at  those 
two  men,"  said  the  king,  seeing  Racine  and  M.  de 
Cavoie  walking  together  ;  "  I  often  see  them  together, 
and  I  know  the  reason.  Cavoie  fancies  himself  a  wit 
while  conversing  with  Racine,  and  Racine  fancies  him- 
self a  courtier  while  talking  to  Cavoie."  It  must  not 
be  supposed,  however,  that  he  carried  his  courtier-like 
propensities  to  any  contemptible  excess.  His  affectionate 
disposition  found  its  greatest  enjoyment  at  home  ;  and 
he  often  left  the  palace  to  enjoy  the  society  of  his  wife 
and  children.  His  son  relates,  that  one  day,  having  just 
returned  from  Versailles  to  enjoy  this  pleasure,  an 
attendant  of  the  duke  came  to  invite  him  to  dine  at  the 
Hotel  de  Conde'.  "  I  cannot  go,"  said  Racine  ;  "  I  have 
returned  to  my  family  after  an  absence  of  eight  days  ; 
they  have  got  a  fine  carp  for  me,  and  would  be  much 
disappointed  if  I  did  not  share  it  with  them." 

In  the  life  of  Boileau  there  is  mention  of  the  poet's 
first  campaign,  and  the  pleasantries  that  ensued.  Boileau 
never  attended  another ;  but  Racine  followed  the  king 
in  several ;  and  his  correspondence  with  his  friend  from 
the  camp  is  very  pleasing.  Whatever  faults  might  dimi- 
nish the  brightness  of  his  character,  he  had  a  charm- 
ing simplicity,  a  warmth  of  heart,  a  turn  for  humour, 
and  a  modesty,  that  make  us  love  the  man.  His  life 
was  peaceful :  his  attendance  at  court,  domestic  peace. 


S18  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

the  open-hearted  intimacy  between  him  and  Boileau, 
were  the  chief  incidents  of  his  life.  "  The  friends  were 
very  dissimilar/'  says  Louis  Racine;  "but  they  de- 
lighted in  each  other's  society :  probity  was  the  link  of 
the  union."  He  attended  the  academy  also.  It  fell 
to  him  to  receive  Thomas  Corneille^  when  he  was 
1684.  chosen  member  in  place  of  the  great  Corneille.  Racine's 
iEtat.  address  pleased  greatly.  His  praise  of  his  great  rival 
45.  was  considered  as  generous  as  it  was  just.  To  this  he 
added  an  eulogium  on  the  king,  which  caused  Louis  to 
command  him  to  recite  his  speech  afterwards  to  him.  At 
one  time  he  was  led  to  break  his  resolution  to  write  no 
more  poetry,  by  the  request  of  the  marquis  of  Seignelay, 
who  gave  a  fete  to  the  king  at  his  house  at  Sceaux ;  and 
on  this  occasion  Racine  wrote  his  "  Idyl  on  Peace." 

In  a  biography  of  this  kind,  where  the  events  'are 
merely  the  every-day  occurrences  of  life,  anecdotes  form 
a  prominent  portion,  and  a  few  may  here  be  intro- 
duced. Racine  had  not  Boileau's  wit,  but  he  had 
more  humour,  and  a  talent  for  raillery.  Boileau 
represented  to  him  the  danger  of  yielding  to  this, 
even  among  friends.  One  day,  after  a  rather  warm 
discussion,  in  which  Racine  had  rallied  his  friend  un- 
mercifully, Boileau  said  composedly,  ''  Did  you  wish 
to  annoy  me?"  '^'^  God  forbid!"  cried  the  other. 
*'  Well,  then,"  said  Boileau,  "■  you  were  in  the  wrong, 
for  you  did  annoy  me."  On  occasion  of  another  such 
dispute,  carried  on  in  the  same  manner,  Boileau  ex- 
claimed, ^'  Well,  then,  I  am  in  the  wrong  ;  but  I  would 
rather  be  wrong  than  be  so  insolently  right."  He  lis- 
tened to  his  friend's  reprimand  with  docility.  Always 
endeavouring  to  correct  the  defects  of  his  character,  he 
never  received  a  reproof  but  he  turned  his  eyes  inward 
to  discover  whether  it  was  just,  and  to  amend  the 
fault  that  occasioned  it.  He  tells  his  son  in  a  letter, 
that  accustomed,  while  a  young  man,  to  live  among 
friends  who  rallied  each  other  freely  on  their  defects, 
he  never  took  offence,  but  profited  by  the  lessons  thus 
conveyed.     Such,  however,  is  human  blindness,  that  he 


RACINE.  319 

never  perceived  the  injurious  tendency  of  his  chief  defect 
—  weakness  of  character.  He  displays  this  amusingly 
enough  in  some  anecdotes  he  has  recorded  of  Louis  XIV., 
in  which  the  magnanimity  of  the  monarch  is  lauded  for 
the  gentleness  with  which  he  reproved  an  attendant  for 
giving  him  an  unaired  shirt. 

Much  of  Racine's  time  was  spent  at  court  —  the  king 
having  given  him  apartments  in  the  castle  and  his 
entrees.  Pie  hked  to  hear  him  read.  He  said  Ra- 
cine had  the  most  agreeable  physiognomy  of  any  one 
at  court,  and,  of  course,  was  pleased  to  see  him 
about  him.  He  was  a  great  favourite  of  madame  de 
Maintenon,  whom,  in  return,  he  admired  and  respected. 
There  was  a  good  deal  of  similarity  in  their  characters, 
and  they  could  sympathise  readily  with  each  other. 
It  is  well  known  how,  at  this  lady's  request,  he  unwil- 
lingly broke  his  resolve,  and  wrote  two  tragedies,  with 
this  extenuation  in  his  eyes,  that  they  were  on  religious 
subjects  ;  indeed,  he  had  no  pious  scruple  in  writing 
them  ;  but,  keenly  sensitive  to  criticism,  he  feared  to 
forfeit  the  fame  he  had  acquired,  and  that  a  falling 
off  should  appear  in  these  youngest  children  of  his 
genius. 

The  art  of  reciting  poetry  with  ease  and  grace  was 
considered  in  France  a  necessary  portion  of  education. 
Racine  was  remarkable  for  the  excellence  of  his  delivery. 
At  one  time  he  had  been  asked  to  give  some  instruc- 
tions in  the  art  of  declamation  to  a  young  princess  ;  but 
when  he  found  that  she  had  been  learning  portions  of 
his  tragedy  of  ''  Andromaque,"  he  retired,  and  begged 
that  he  might  not  again  be  asked  to  give  similar  lessons. 
In  the  same  way,  madame  de  Brinon,  superior  of  the 
house  of  Saint  Cyr,  was  desirous  that  her  pupils  should 
learn  to  recite ;  and,  not  daring  to  teach  them  the  tra- 
gedies of  Corneille  and  Racine,  she  wrote  some  very  bad 
pieces  herself.  Madame  de  Maintenon  was  present 
at  the  representation  of  one  of  these,  and,  finding  it 
insufferable,  she  begged  that  it  might  not  be  played 
again,  but  that  a  tragedy  of  Corneille  or  Racine  should  be 


320  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

chosen  in  which  there  was  least  love.  '^Cinna"  was 
first  got  up,  and  afterwards  '^'Andromaque."  The  latter 
was  so  well  played  that  madame  de  Maintenon  found 
it  ill  suited  for  the  instruction  of  young  ladies :  she 
■wrote  to  Racine  on  the  subject,  saying,  ''  Our  little 
girls  have  been  acting  your  "•  Andromaque/'  and  they 
performed  it  so  well  that  they  shall  never  act  either  that 
or  any  other  of  your  tragedies  again ; "  and  she  went  onto 
beg  that  he  would  write  some  sort  of  moral  or  historical 
poem  fit  for  the  recitation  of  young  ladies.  The 
request  is  certainly  what  we,  in  vulgar  language,  should 
call  cool.  Racine  was  annoyed,  but  he  was  too  good 
a  courtier  to  disobey  —  he  has  had  his  reward.  He 
feared  to  decrease  his  reputation.  In  this  he  showed 
too  great  diffidence  of  his  genius.  The  very  necessity 
of  not  dressing  some  thrice-told  heroic  fable  in  French 
attire  was  of  use ;  and  we  owe  ''  Athalie,"  the  best  of 
all  his  dramas,  to  this  demi-regal  command. 

His  first  choice,  however,  fell  naturally  upon  Esther. 
There  is  something  in  her  story  fascinating  to  the  ima- 
gination. A  young  and  gentle  girl,  saving  her  nation 
from  persecution  by  the  mere  force  of  compassion  and 
conjugal  love,  is  in  itself  a  graceful  and  poetic  idea.  Ra- 
cine found  that  it  had  other  advantages,  when  he  imaged 
the  pious  and  persuasive  Maintenon  in  the  young  bride, 
and  the  imperious  Montespan  in  the  fallen  Vashti.  When 
the  play  was  performed  applications  were  found  for 
other  personages,  and  the  haughty  Louvois  was  detected 
in  Haman.  The  piece  pleased  the  lady  who  commanded 
it ;  but  she  found  her  labours  begin  when  it  was  to  be 
acted,  especially  when  the  young  duchess  of  Burgundy 
took  a  part.  She  attributed  to  the  court  the  discontent 
about  the  distribution  of  parts,  which  flourishes  in  every 
green-room  in  the  world,  though  it  appertain  only  to  a 
barn  ;  however,  success  crowned  the  w^ork.  Esther  was 
acted  again  and  again  before  the  king;  no  favour  was  esti- 
mated so  highly  as  an  invitation  to  be  present.  Madame 
de  Caylus,  niece  of  madame  de  Maintenon,  was  the  best 
actress  ;  and  even  the  choruses,  sung  by  the  young  pure 


RACINE.  32 1 

voices   of  girls  selected  for  their  ability,  were  full  of 
beauty  and  interest. 

Charmed  by  the  success,  madame  de  IMaintenon 
asked  the  poet  for  yet  another  tragedy.  He  found  it 
very  difficult  to  select  a  subject.  Ruth  and  others  were 
considered  and  rejected,  till  he  chose  one  of  the  revo- 
lutions of  the  regal  house  of  Judah*,  which  was  at 
once  a  domestic  tragedy,  and  yet  enveloped  in  all  the 
majesty  of  royalty,  and  the  grandeur  of  the  Hebrew 
worship.  Athaliah,  on  the  death  of  her  son  Ahaziah, 
destroyed  all  the  seed  royal  of  the  house  of  Judah, 
except  one  child,  Joash,  who  v/as  saved  by  Jehosheba, 
a  princess  of  Israel,  wife  of  Jehoiada  the  priest,  and 
brought  up  by  the  latter  till  old  enough  to  be  restored 
to  his  throne,  when  he  was  brought  out  before  the 
people,  and  proclaimed  king,  and  the  usurping  queen, 
Athaliah,  slain.  The  subject  of  this  drama,  concern- 
ing which  he  hesitated  so  long  and  feared  so  much, 
he  found  afterwards  far  better  adapted  to  the  real  de- 
velopment of  passion  than  ''  Esther."  "Esther,'*  after  all, 
is  a  young  ladies'  play ;  and  the  very  notion  of  the  per- 
sonages having  allusion  to  the  ladies  of  the  court  gives 
it  a  temporary  and  factitious  interest,  ill  adapted  to  the 
dignity  of  tragedy.  Racine  put  his  whole  soul  in 
*^^Athahe."  His  piety,  his  love  of  God,  his  reverence  for 
priests,  which  caused  him  to  clothe  the  character  of 
Jehoiada  in  awful  majesty ;  his  awe  for  the  great  name 
of  Jehovah,  and  his  immediate  interference  with  the 
affairs  of  the  Jewish  nation ;  his  power  of  seizing  the 
grandeur  of  the  Hebrew^  conception  of  the  Almighty 
gave  sublimity  to  his  drama,  while  the  sorrows  and  vir- 
tues of  the  young  Joash  gave,  so  to  speak,  a  virgin  grace 
to  the  whole.  He  had  erred  hitherto  in  treading  wilh 
uneasy  steps  in  the  path  which  the  Greeks  had  trod  before; 
but  here  a  new  field  was  opened.  And,  to  enhance  the 
novelty  and  propriety  of  the  story,  he  added  a  versifi- 
cation more  perfect  than  is  to  be  found  in  any  other  of 
his  plays. 

*  Vide  2  Kings,  chap,  xi.,  2  Chronicles,  cliap.  xxiii. 
VOL.   I.  Y 


S22  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

Yet  it  was  unlucky.  It  had  been  represented  to  ma- 
dame  de  Maintenon,  that  it  was  ill  fitted  for  the  educa- 
tion of  noble  young  ladies  to  cause  them  to  act  before  a 
whole  court;  and  that  the  art  of  recitation  was  dearly  pur- 
chased by  the  vanity,  love  of  display,  and  loss  of  feminine 
timidity  thus  engendered.  "  Athalie"  was,  therefore, 
never  got  up  like  ''Esther."  It  was  performed,  before  the 
kino"  and  a  few  others^  in  madame  de  Maintenon's  private 
apartment,  by  the  young  ladies,  in  their  own  dresses. 
Afterwards  it  was  performed  at  Paris  with  ill  success. 
The  author  was  deeply  mortified,  while  Boileau  consoled 
him  by  prophesying  "  le  public  reviendra  ;  "  a  prophecy 
which,  in  the  sequel,  was  entirely  fulfilled. 

Many  letters  of  Racine  to  his  family  are  preserv- 
ed; which  show  us  the  course  of  his  latter  years.  It 
was  uniform  :  though  a  large  family  brought  with  it 
such  cares  as  sometimes  caused  him  to  regret  his  having 
given  up  his  resolution  to  turn  monk.  At  home  he  read 
books  of  piety,  instructed  his  children,  and  conversed 
with  his  friends.  Boileau  continued  the  most  intimate. 
Often  the  whole  family  repaired  to  Auteuil,  where  they 
were  received  with  kindness  and  hospitality :  at  other 
times  he  followed  the  king  to  Fontainebleau  and  Marh. 
He  had  the  place  of  gentleman  in  ordinary  to  the  king 
(of  which  he  obtained  the  survivance  for  his  son),  and 
was  respected  and  loved  by  many  of  the  chief  nobility. 

Racine,  however,  was  not  destined  to  a  long  life  ;  and, 
while  eagerly  employed  on  the  advancing  his  family,  ill- 
ness and  death  checked  his  plans.  His  son  thinks  that  he 
payshim  a  compliment  by  attributing  his  death  to  his  sen- 
sibility, and  the  mortification  he  sustained  from  the  dis- 
pleasure of  the  king.  We,  on  the  contrary,  should  be  glad 
to  exonerate  his  memory  from  the  charge  of  a  weakness 
which,  carried  so  far,  puts  him  in  a  contemptible  light ; 
and  would  rather  hope  that  the  despondency,  the  almost 
despair,  he  testified,  was  augmented  by  his  state  of  health, 
as  his  illness  was  one  that  peculiarly  affects  the  spirits. 
Like  every  person  of  quick  and  tender  feelings,  he  was, 
at  times,  inclined  to  melancholy,  and  given  to  brood  over 


RACINE.  323' 

his  anxieties  and  griefs.  He  rather  feared  evil  than 
anticipated  good ;  and  these  defects,  instead  of  lessening 
by  the  advance  of  age  and  the  increase  of  his  piety, 
were  augmented  through  the  failure  of  his  health,  and 
the  timid  and  cowardly  tendency  of  his  faith. 

The  glories  of  Louis  XIV.  were  fast  vanishing. 
Added  to  the  more  circumscribed  miseries,  resulting  to 
a  portion  of  his  subjects  from  the  revocation  of  the  edict 
of  Nantes,  was  the  universal  distress  of  the  people, 
loaded  by  taxation  for  the  purpose  of  carrying  on  the  war. 
Madame  de  Maintenon  felt  for  all  those  who  suffered. 
Her  notions  of  religion,  though  not  jansenist,  yet  ren- 
dered her  strictly  devout.  To  restore  Louis  to  the  prac- 
tice of  the  virtues  she  considered  necessary  to  his 
salvation,  she  had  thrown  him,  as  much  as  possible,  into 
the  hands  of  the  Jesuits.  When  the  question  had  been 
his  personal  pleasures,  she  had  ventured  far  to  recal  him 
to  a  sense  of  duty  ;  but  she  never  went  beyond.  If  she 
governed  in  any  thing,  it  was  with  a  hidden  influence 
which  he  could  not  detect :  she  never  appeared  to  inter- 
fere; and  her  whole  life  was  spent  in  a  sacrifice  of  almost 
every  pleasure  of  her  own  to  indulge  his  tastes  and  en- 
joyments. 

Madame  de  Maintenon  was  very  partial  to  Racine. 
His  conversation,  his  views,  his  sentiments,  all  pleased 
her.  One  day  they  conversed  on  the  distress  into  which 
the  country  was  plunged.  Racine  explained  his  ideas  of 
the  remedies  that  might  be  applied  with  so  much  clearness 
and  animation,  they  appeared  so  reasonable  and  feasible 
to  his  auditress,  that  she  begged  him  to  put  them  in 
writing,  promising  that  his  letter  should  be  seen  by  no 
eyes  but  her  own.  He,  moved  somewhat  by  a  hope  of 
doing  good,  obeyed.  Madame  de  Maintenon  was  read- 
ing his  essay  when  the  king  entered  and  took  it  up. 
After  casting  his  eyes  over  it,  he  asked  who  was  the 
author ;  and  madame  de  Maintenon,  after  a  faint  resist- 
ance, broke  her  promise — and  named  Racine.  The  king 
expressed  chspleasure  that  he  should  presume  to  put 
forth  opinions  on  questions  of  state  : — ^'  Does  he  think 
Y  2 


324  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN.^^ 

that  he  knows  every  thing,"  he  said,  "  because  he  writes 
good  verses  ?  Does  he  wish  to  be  a  minister  of  state, 
because  he  is  a  great  poet  ?"  A  monarch  never  expresses 
displeasure  without  giving  visible  marks  of  dissatisfac- 
tion. Madame  de  Maintenon  felt  this  so  much  that  she 
sent  word  to  Racine  of  what  had  passed,  telling  him,  at 
the  same  time,  not  to  appear  at  court  till  he  heard  again 
from  her.  The  poet  was  deeply  hurt.  He  feared  to 
have  displeased  a  prince  to  whom  he  owed  so  much. 
He  grew  melancholy  —  he  grew  ill:  his  malady  ap- 
peared to  be  a  fever^  which  the  doctors  treated  with 
their  favourite  bark  ;  but  an  abscess  was  formed  on  the 
liver,  which  they  regarded  lightly. 

Being  somewhat  embarrassed  in  his  means  at  this 
time,  he  was  desirous  of  being  excused  the  tax  with 
which  his  pension  was  burdened ;  he  made  the  request. 
It  had  been  granted  on  a  former  occasion  — now  it  was 
refused  ;  yet  with  a  grace  :  for  the  king,  in  saying  '■'  It 
cannot  be,"  added^  ''■  If,  however,  I  can  find  some  way 
of  compensating  him  I  shall  be  very  glad."  Heedless  of 
this  promise,  discouraged  by  the  refusal,  he  brooded  con- 
tinually over  the  loss  of  royal  favour.  He  began  to  fear 
that  his  adherence  to  the  tenets  upheld  by  the  Port  Royal 
might  have  displeased  the  king  :  in  shore,  irritated  by  ill- 
ness, depressed  by  his  enforced  absence  from  court,  he 
gave  himself  up  to  melancholy.  He  wrote  to  madame 
de  Maintenon  on  this  new  idea  of  being  accused  of  Jan- 
senism. His  letter  does  him  little  honour — it  bears 
too  deeply  the  impress  of  servility,  and  yet  of  an  irrita- 
tion which  he  ought  to  have  been  too  proud  to  express, 
"  As  for  intrigue,"  he  writes,  "  who  may  not  be  ac- 
cused, if  such  an  accusation  reaches  a  man  as  devoted 
to  the  king  as  I  am :  a  man  who  passes  his  life  in 
thinking  of  the  king ;  in  acquiring  a  knowledge  of  the 
great  actions  of  the  king  ;  and  in  inspiring  others  with 
the  sentiments  of  love  and  admiration  which  he  feels 
for  the  king.  There  are  many  living  witnesses  who 
could  tell  you  with  what  zeal  I  have  often  combatted 
the  little  discontents  w4iich  often  rise  in  the  minds  of 


RACINE.  325 

persons  whom  the  king  has  most  favoured.  But,  ma- 
dame,  with  what  conscience  can  I  tell  posterity  that  this 
great  prince  never  listened  to  false  reports  against  per- 
sons absolutely  unknown  to  him,  if  I  become  a  sad  ex- 
ample of  the  contrary  ?" 

Madame  de  Maintenon  was  touched  by  his  appeal  : 
she  wished  to,  yet  dared  not,  receive  him.  He  wandered 
sorrowfully  about  the  avenues  of  the  park  of  Versailles, 
hoping  to  encounter  her  —  and  at  last  succeeded  :  she 
perceived  him,  and  turned  into  the  path  to  meet  him. 
"  Of  what  are  you  afraid  ? "  she  said.  ''  I  am  the 
cause  of  your  disaster,  and  my  interest  and  my  honour 
are  concerned  to  repair  it.  Your  cause  is  mine.  Let 
this  cloud  pass — I  will  bring  back  fair  weather." — ''  No, 
no,  madam,"  he  cried,  "  it  will  never  return  for  me  !" 
"  Why  do  you  think  so?"  she  answered;  ''  Do  you 
doubt  my  sincerity,  or  my  credit  ?  "  —  '^  I  am  aware  of 
your  credit,  madam,"  he  said,  "^  and  of  your  goodness 
to  me ;  but  I  have  an  aunt  who  loves  me  in  a  different 
manner.  This  holy  maiden  prays  to  God  each  day 
that  I  may  suffer  disgrace,  humiUation,  and  every  other 
evil  that  may  engender  a  spirit  of  repentance  ;  and  she 
will  have  more  credit  than  you."  As  he  spoke  there 
was  the  sound  of  a  carriage  approaching.  "  It  is  the 
king  I"  cried  madame  de  Maintenon  —  "  hide  yourself:" 
and  he  hurried  to  conceal  himself  behind  the  trees. 

What  a  strange  picture  does  this  conversation  give  of 
the  contradictions  of  the  human  heart.  Here  is  a  man 
whose  ruling  passion  was  a  desire  to  attain  eternal  sal- 
vation and  a  fear  to  miss  it ;  a  man  who  behoved  that 
God  called  men  to  him  by  the  intervention  of  adversities 
and  sorrow ;  and  that  the  truly  pious  ought  to  look  on 
such,  as  marks  of  the  Saviour's  love  :  and  yet  the  visita- 
tion of  them  reduced  him  to  sickness  and  death.  He 
had  many  thoughts  of  total  retirement ;  but  he  felt  it 
necessary,  for  the  good  of  his  family  and  the  advancement 
of  his  sons,  to  continue  his  attendance  at  court :  for, 
though  not  allowed  to  see  the  king  and  madame  de 
Maintenon  privately,  he  still  appeared  at  the  public 
Y  3 


326  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

levees.  The  sadness  he  felt  at  the  new  and  humiliating 
part  he  played  there,  rendered  this,  however,  a  task  from 
which  he  would  gladly  have  been  excused. 

The  abscess  on  the  liver  closed,  and  his  depression 
and  sense  of  illness  increased.  One  day,  while  in  his 
study,  he  felt  so  overcome  that  he  was  obliged  to  give 
over  his  occupation  and  go  to  bed.  The  cause  of  his 
illness  was  not  known  :  it  was  even  suspected  that  he 
gave  way  pusillanimously  to  a  slight  indisposition — while 
death  had  already  seized  on  a  vital  part.  He  was 
visited  by  the  nobles  of  the  court,  and  the  king  sent  to 
make  inquiries. 

His  devotion  and  patience  increased  as  his  disease 
grew  painful,  and  strength  of  mind  sprang  up  as  death 
drew  near.  He  occupied  himself  by  recommending  his 
family  to  his  friends  and  patrons.  He  dictated  a  letter  to 
M.  de  Cavoie,  asking  him  to  solicit  for  the  payment  of 
the  arrears  of  his  pension  for  the  benefit  of  the  survivors. 
When  the  letter  was  finished,  he  said  to  his  son,  '^  Why 
did  you  not  include  the  arrears  due  to  Boileau  in  the 
request  }  We  must  not  be  separated.  M'rite  your  letter 
over  again  ;  and  tell  Boileau  that  I  was  his  friend  till 
death."  On  taking  leave  of  this  dear  friend  he  made 
an  effort  to  embrace  him,  saying,  "  I  look  on  it  as  a 
happiness  that  I  die  before  you." 

When  it  was  discovered  that  an  internal  abscess  was 
formed,  an  operation  was  resolved  on.  He  consented  to 
undergo  it,  but  he  had  no  hopes  of  preserving  his  life. 
''  The  physicians  try  to  give  me  hope,"  he  said,  '^  and 
God  could  restore  me;  but  the  work  of  death  is  done." 
Hitherto  he  had  feared  to  die  —  but  its  near  approach 
found  him  prepared  and  courageous.  The  operation 
was  useless  —  he  died  three  days  after  its  performance, 
on  the  21st  of  April,  1699,  in  his  sixtieth  year. 

It  will  be  perceived  that  we  have  not  said  too  much  in 
affirming,  that  the  qualities  of  his  heart  compensated  for  a 
certain  weakness  of  character,  which,  fostered  by  a  too  en- 
thusiastic piety,  and  the  gratitude  he  owed  to  him  whom 
he  considered  the  greatest  of  monarchs,  led  him  to  waste 


RACINE.  327 

at  court,  and  in  dreams  of  bigotry,  those  faculties  which 
ought  to  have  inspired  him,  even  if  the  drama  were  re- 
prehensible, with  the  conception  of  some  great  and  use- 
ful work,  redounding  more  to  the  honour  of  the  Creator 
(since  he  gifted  him  with  these  faculties)  than  the  many 
hours  he  spent  in  his  oratory.  It  is  plain  from  his  letters 
that  something  puerile  was  thus  imparted  to  his  mind, 
which,  from  the  first,  needed  strengthening.  Yet  one  sort 
of  strength  he  gained.  He  had  a  conscience  that  for  ever 
urged  him  to  do  right,  and  a  mind  open  to  conviction. 
Under  the  influence  of  his  religious  system,  he  was  led 
rather  to  avoid  faults  than  to  seek  to  attain  virtues.  He 
had  an  inclination  for  raillery,  which,  through  the  advice 
of  Boileau,  he  carefully  restrained :  he  was  fond  of  plea- 
sure ;  religion  caused  him  to  prefer  the  quiet  of  his  home  : 
and,  as  the  same  friend  said,  "^  Reason  brings  most  men 
to  faith —  faith  has  brought  Racine  to  reason."  Fearful 
of  pain  himself,  he  was  eager  to  avoid  causing  it  to 
others.  In  society  he  was  pliant;  striving  to  draw 
others  out  rather  than  endeavouring  to  shine  himself. 
^'  When  the  prince  of  Conde  passes  whole  hours  with 
me,''  he  said  to  his  son,  "  you  would  be  surprised  to  find 
that  I  perhaps  have  not  uttered  four  words  all  the  time; 
but  I  put  him  into  the  humour  to  talk,  and  he  goes 
away  even  more  satisfied  with  himself  than  with  me. 
My  talent  does  not  consist  in  proving  to  the  great  that  I 
am  clever,  but  in  teaching  them  that  they  are  so  them- 
selves." His  faithful  friendship  for  Boileau  is  one  of  the 
most  pleasing  circumstances  of  his  life.  His  letters  show 
the  kindly  nature  of  the  intimacy.  His  wife  and  family 
often  visited  Auteuil ;  and  Boileau,  grown  deaf,  yet 
always  kind,  exerted  himself  to  amuse  or  instruct,  ac- 
cording to  their  ages,  the  children  of  his  friend. 

Of  his  tragedies  the  most  contradictory  opinions 
will,  of  course,  be  expressed.  We  cannot  admire  them 
as  the  French  do.  We  cannot  admit  the  superior 
excellence  of  their  plan,  because  they  bring  the  most 
incongruous  personages  into  one  spot ;  and,  crowding 
the  events  of  years  into  a  few  hours,  call  that  unity 
y  4 


328  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

of  time  and  place :  generally  we  are  only  shocked  by 
the  improbabilities  thus  presented;  and  when  the  author 
succeeds,  it  seems  at  best  but  a  piece  of  legerdemain. 
Grandeur  of  conception  is  sacrificed  to  decorum,  and 
tragedy  resembles  a  dance  in  fetters.  To  this  defect 
is  added  that  of  the  choice  of  heroic  subjects ;  which, 
while  it  brought  the  author  into  unmeet  comparison 
with  his  masters,  the  Greeks,  rendered  his  work  a 
factitious  imitation,  leaving  small  space  for  the  ex- 
pression of  the  real  sentiments  of  his  heart ;  and  he 
either  fell  into  the  fault  of  coldness,  by  endeavour- 
ing (vainly)  to  make  his  personages  speak  and  feel  as 
Greeks  would  have  done,  or  incurred  the  censure  applied 
to  him  of  making  his  ancient  heroes  express  themselves 
like  modern  Frenchmen.  "  Phaedra"  is  the  best  of  his 
heroic  tragedies  ;  and  much  in  it  is  borrowed  from  Euri- 
pides. "Berenice"  and  "Britannicus"  must  always  please 
more,  because  the  conception  is  freer,  as  due  solely  to 
their  author.  "  Athalie  "  is  best  of  all ;  most  original  in 
its  conception,  powerful  in  its  execution,  and  correct 
and  beautiful  in  its  language.  There  is,  indeed,  a 
charm  in  Racine's  versification  that  wins  the  ear,  and 
a  grace  in  his  characters  that  interests  the  heart.  There 
is  a  propriety  thrown  over  all  he  writes,  which,  if  it 
wants  strength,  is  often  the  soul  of  grace  and  tenderness. 
Had  he,  at  the  critical  moment  when  he  threw  himself 
into  the  arms  of  the  priests,  and  indulged  the  notion  that 
to  fritter  away  his  time  at  court  was  a  more  pious  pursuit 
than  to  create  immortal  works  of  art,  had  he,  we  repeat, 
at  that  time,  dedicated  himself  to  the  strengthening  and 
elevating  his  mind,  and  to  the  composition  of  poetry  on 
a  system  at  once  pure  and  noble,  and  yet  true  to  the  real 
feelings  of  our  nature,  "Athalie"  had,  probably,  not  been 
his  chef  d' osuvre  ;  and,  on  his  death-bed,  he  might  have 
looked  back  with  more  pride  on  these  testimonies  of 
gratitude  to  God,  for  having  gifted  him  with  genius,  than 
on  the  multitudinous  times  he  had  counted  his  rosary, 
or  the  many  hours  loitered  away  in  the  royal  halls  of 
Versailles. 


329 


FENELON. 

1651  —  1715. 

There  is  no  name  more  respected  in  the  modern  history 
of  the  world,  than  that  of  Fene'lon.  In  the  ancient,  that 
of  Socrates  competes  with  him.  It  might  be  curious  and 
useful  to  compare  christian  humihty  with  pagan  forti- 
tude in  these  illustrious  men.  The  death  of  Socrates 
crowned  his  life  with  undying  fame.  Fe'nelon  suffered 
no  martyrdom  for  his  faith,  but  he  was  unchanged  by 
the  temptations  of  a  court,  and  bore  injustice  with 
cheerful  resignation.  Amidst  the  roughness  and  almost 
rusticity  of  Socrates,  there  was  something  majestic  and 
sublime,  that  inspired  awe:*  the  gentleness  and  charity 
of  Fe'ne'lon,  so  simple  and  true  in  all  its  demonstrations, 
excites  a  tender  reverence.  The  soul  of  both  was  love. 
Socrates  mingled  wisdom  with  his  worship  of  the  beau- 
tiful, which  to  him  typified  the  supreme  Being.  Fene'lon, 
in  adoring  God,  believed,  that  to  love  the  supreme  Being 
was  the  first,  and,  if  properly  accomplished,  the  only 
duty  of  human  beings. 

Fran9ois  de  Salignac  de  la  Mothe  Fenelon,  was  born 
at  the  chateau  of  Fenelon,  in  Perigord,  on  the  6th  of 
August,  l651.  His  family  was  ancient  and  illustrious. 
His  father  had  been  previously  married,  had  several 
children,  and  was  advanced  in  years ;  which  caused  his 
relations  to  oppose  his  second  marriage,  especially  as  the 
lady  of  his  choice  had  but  small  fortune.  She  was, 
however,  of  a  high  family,  being  of  the  same,  though  a 
younger  branch,  as  the  countess  of  Soissons,  wife  of  the 

*  Plato's  Symposium. 


330  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

famous  prince  Eugene's  elder  brother.  Mademoiselle  de  la 
Cropte  added  beauty  and  merit  to  her  distinguished  birth. 
As  the  child  of  his  old  age,  the  count  de  Fene'lon  edu- 
cated his  younger  son  carefully  ;  his  gentle,  affectionate 
nature  soon  displayed  itself,  and  caused  him  to  be  beloved. 
His  constitution  was  delicate,  even  to  being  weakly  ;  but 
such  care  was  taken  to  fortify  it,  that  he  became  capable 
of  great  bodily  and  mental  labour.  His  lively,  just, 
and  penetrating  mind, — his  upright,  generous,  and 
feeling  heart,  —  his  peculiarly  happy  dispositions,  w^re 
perceived  by  his  father  in  childhood,  and  cultivated  :  he 
was  early  taught  to  aspire  to  regulate  his  conduct  by 
virtuous  principles;  and  the  natural  instinct  for  justice 
which  distinguished  him,  inclined  him  to  listen  and  obey. 
His  disposition  being  flexible  and  mild,  he  soon  took 
pleasure  in  fulfilling  his  duties,  in  order,  and  in  attention. 
Anecdotes  are  told  of  his  display  of  reason  and  his 
gentleness,  during  childhood.  Religiously  and  kindly 
educated,  he  early  learnt  to  examine  his  own  motives, 
and  to  restrain  himself ;  docility  was  natural  to  him  ; 
but  added  to  this,  he  already  showed  toleration  for  the 
faults  of  others.  His  health  being  delicate,  it  was  re- 
solved not  to  send  him  to  any  school ;  a  tutor  was 
engaged,  happily  formed  for  the  task.  The  young 
Fenelon  was  treated  neither  with  severity  nor  caprice ; 
his  lessons  were  made  easy  and  agreeable,  and  his  capa- 
city rendered  the  acquisition  of  knowledge  agreeable. 
At  the  age  of  twelve  he  wrote  French  and  Latin  with 
elegance  and  facility,  and  was  well  advanced  in  Greek. 
He  had  studied  with  care,  and  even  imitated,  the  histo- 
rians, poets,  philosophers,  and  orators  of  the  ancient 
world.  His  mind  was  thus  refined  and  enriched,  and  he 
never  lost  his  taste  for  ancient  learning,  while  he  carried 
into  religious  studies  the  good  taste,  grace,  and  variety 
of  knowledge  he  acquired.  Being  early  destined  for 
the  ecclesiastical  state,  no  doubt  care  was  taken  to 
direct  his  studies  in  such  a  way  as  best  accorded  with  a 
taste  for  retirement ;  and  that  submission  and  docility 
were  inculcated  as  virtues  of  the  first  order.     Submis- 


FENELON.  .  331 

sion  and  docility  he  had,  but  they  were  based  on  nobler 
principles  than  fear  or  servility.  They  arose  from  a 
well-regulated  mind,  from  charity,  gentleness,  and  a 
piety  that  animated  rules  and  obedience  with  the  warm 
spirit  of  love  of  God. 

It  was  necessary  for  the  purposes  of  a  clerical  educa- 
tion, that  he  should  quit  his  paternal  roof.  There  was  a 
university  at  Cahors,  not  far  distant,  and  the  abbe'  de 
Fene'lon  (as  he  was  then  called)  was  sent  there,  at  the  age 
of  twelve.  He  did  not  at  first  enter  on  the  course  of 
philosophy;  although  sufficiently  advanced,  it  was  feared 
that  his  young  mind  was  not  as  yet  capable  of  the  at- 
tention that  it  required,  and  that  he  might  be  disgusted 
by  its  dryness,  and  the  difficulties  presented.  He  be- 
gan, therefore,  with  a  course  of  rhetoric,  which  forced 
him  to  retread  old  ground,  and  to  relearn  what  he 
already  knew.  Being  so  well  advanced,  he  was,  of 
course,  greatly  superior  in  knowledge  to  his  equals  in 
age :  but  this  excited  no  vanity ;  he  felt  that  he 
owed  the  distinction  to  the  cares  bestowed  on  his  early 
years.  By  the  age  of  eighteen,  he  had  finished  his 
course  of  theology ;  he  took  his  degree  in  the  univer- 
sity of  CahorSj  and  returned  to  his  family. 

The  marquis  de  Fe'nelon,  his  uncle,  invited  him  to 
his  house  in  Paris,  and  treated  him  as  his  son.  The 
marquis  was  lieutenant-general  of  the  armies  of  the  king, 
a  man  of  distinguished  valour,  and  a  friend  of  the  great 
Conde',  who  said  of  him,  that  '*  he  was  equally  qualified 
to  shine  in  society,  in  the  field,  and  in  the  cabinet."  He 
added  piety  to  his  more  worldly  qualities,  and  soon  per- 
ceived and  took  pride  in  the  admirable  dispositions  of 
his  nephew.  At  the  age  of  nineteen,  the  abbe  preached 
sermons  that  were  generally  applauded.  This  success 
alarmed  his  uncle.  He  perceived  the  pure  and  upright 
character  of  his  nephew  ;  but,  aware  of  his  sensibility, 
he  feared  that  public  applause  might  spoil  him,  and 
substitute  vanity  for  the  holy  love  of  duty  that  had 
hitherto  actuated  his  conduct.  From  these  reasons, 
he   counselled  him  to  retire  from   the  world,    and    to 


33'2  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC   3IEN. 

enter  a  seminary^,    where  in    solitude  and    silence  he 
might  cultivate  the  virtues  best  suited  to  an  ecclesiastic. 
Fenelon  yielded ;    he  entered  the   seminary  of    Saint 
Sulpice,  and  put  himself  under  the  direction  of  the  abbe 
Tronson,  who  was  its  superior -general.      The  house 
was  celebrated  for  its  piety,  its  simple  manners,  its  pure 
faith,  and,  added  to  these,  its   studious  and  laborious 
pursuits.     He  passed  five  years  in  this  retreat,  devoted 
to  his  duties  and   to  the  acquirement   of    knowledge. 
Thus  were  the  ardent  years   of  early  youth   spent  in 
religious  silence  and  obedience — in   study   and   medi- 
tation.     There  was  no  worldly  applause  to  flatter,  no 
fame  to  entice  ;  his  happiness  consisted  in  loving  his 
companions,   and  being  attached  to  his  duties.       His 
mind  became  strengthened  in  its  purposes  by  example, 
and  his  virtues   confirmed  by  habit.     At  the   age  of 
twenty-four  he  entered  holy   orders;    and  his   future 
destiny  as  a  priest  was  unalterably  fixed. 
1675.      A   catholic  priest's  duties  are  laborious  and    strict, 
^tat. Fenelon  fulfilled  them  conscientiously;  he  visited  the 
24.    sick,  he  assisted  the  poor.     He  v/as  attentive  at  the  con- 
fessional, and  in  catechismal  examinations ;  the  obscure 
labours  which,  when  sedulously  followed  up,  amount  to 
hardships,  but  which  are  the  most  meritorious  and  use- 
ful of  an  ecclesiastic's  duties,  were  so  far  from  being 
neglected,  that  Fenelon  devoted  himself  to  them  with 
zeal  and  assiduity.     He  had   an   exalted  notion  of  the 
sacred   office  which  he   had  taken   on  himself,  looking 
on  it  as    that    of  mediation  between   God    and  man. 
Humble,  gentle,  and  patient,  he  never  sought  the  rich, 
nor  disdained  the  poor;  nor  did  he  ever  refuse  his  counsel 
and  assistance  to  any  one  who  asked  them.      Content  to 
be  in  the  most  useful,  but  the  humblest  class  of  priests, 
he  neither  sought  to  rise,  nor  even  to  be  known. 

His  zeal,  however,  was  not  satisfied  by  his  exertions 
in  his  native  country.  He  resolved  to  emigrate  to 
Canada,  and  to  devote  his  life  to  the  conversion  of  the 
savages  ;  and  when  considerations  of  health  prevented 
the  fulfilment  of  this  plan,  he  turned  his  eyes  to  the 


FENELON.  335 

East.  We  read  with  interest  his  fervent  expressions 
on  this  subject,  which  show  how  deeply  he  was  imbued 
with  the  love  of  the  good  and  the  beautiful.  "  All 
Greece  opens  itself  to  me,"  he  wrote  to  a  friend ;  ^'  the 
sultan  retires  in  affright ;  the  Peloponnesus  already 
begins  to  breathe  in  freedom  ;  again  will  the  church 
of  Corinth  flourish  ;  again  will  she  hear  the  voice  of 
her  apostle.  I  feel  myself  transported  to  these  delight- 
ful regions ;  and  while  I  am  collecting  the  precious 
monuments  of  antiquity,  I  seem  to  inhale  her  true 
spirit.  When  wall  the  blood  of  the  Turks  lie  mingled 
with  the  blood  of  the  Persians  on  the  plains  of  Mara- 
thon, and  leave  Greece  to  religion,  to  philosophy,  and 
the  fine  arts,  w^hich  regard  her  as  their  native  soil !  — 

"  Arva  beata  I 
Petamus  Arva  divites  et  insula; !  " 

He  w^as  turned  from  this  project  by  objects  of  infi- 
nite importance  in  his  native  country. 

M.  de  Harlay,  archbishop  of  Paris,  heard  of  his 
merits,  and  named  him  Superior  to  the  convent  of  new 
converts  in  Paris.  The  spirit  of  proselytism  was  abroad 
in  France,  as  the  only  excuse  for  the  persecution  of  the 
Huguenots;  and  missionswere  sent  intovariousprovinces. 
It  was  important  to  select  for  missionaries  men  suited 
to  the  task,  well  versed  in  controversy,  benevolent, 
patient,  and  persuasive.  Louis  XIV.  was  informed  of 
the  peculiar  fitness  of  Fene'lon  to  the  office  through 
his  sweetness  and  sincerity,  and  appointed  him  to  the 
province  of  Poitou.  Fenelon  accepted  the  office, 
making  the  sole  request,  that  the  military  should  be 
removed  from  the  scene  of  his  mission.  With  a  heart 
penetrated  by  a  love  of  God,  and  reverence  for  the 
church,  he  devoted  himself  to  his  task  with  zeal  and 
ability,  treating  his  proselytes  with  a  gentleness  and 
charity  that  gained  their  hearts.  He  listened  to  their 
doubts  and  their  objections,  and  answered  all ;  con- 
soling and  encouraging,  and  adopting,  for  their  con- 
version, a  vigilance,  an  address,  and  a  simplicity  that 
charmed  and  persuaded.     Do  we  not  find  in  this  cccu- 


334  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN., 

pation  the  foundation  for  his  toleration  for  all  religious 
sects  ?  AVhile  hearing  the  ingenuous  and  sinless  objec- 
tions to  Catholicism  raised  by  his  young  and  artless 
converts,  he  must  have  felt  that  God  would  not  severely 
condemn  a  faith  to  vi^hich  no  blame  could  be  justly  at- 
tached, except  (as  he  believed)  that  it  was  a  heresy. 

During  the  exercise  of  this  office,  he  became  acquainted 
with  the  celebrated  Bossuet.  This  great  man  began  his 
career  by  an  engagement  of  marriage  with  mademoiselle 
des  Vieux,  a  lady  of  great  merit,  who  afterwards,  im- 
pressed with  a  sense  of  the  career  which  his  eloquence 
would  procure  him  in  the  church,  consented  to  give  up 
the  engagement.  As  a  priest,  he  became  celebrated  for 
his  sermons,  till  his  pupil  Bourdaloue  surpassing  him, 
he  yielded  his  place  to  him.  His  reputation  as  an 
orator  rests  on  his  funeral  orations :  these  bear  the 
impress  of  a  lofty  and  strong  mind,  and  are  full  of  those 
awful  truths  which  great  men  ought  to  hear  and  mark.* 
Louis  XIV.  named  him  governor  of  the  dauphin,  on 
which  he  resigned  his  bishopric  of  Condom,  that  he 
might  apply  himself  more  entirely  to  so  arduous  a  task 
as  the  education  of  the  heir  to  the  throne  of  France. 
He  wrote  his  Discourse  on  Universal  History,  which 
Voltaire  and  D'Alembert  both  pronounce  to  be  a  sketch 
bearing  the  stamp  of  a  vast  and  profound  genius.     He 

*  Among  such,  how  beautifully  is  the  following  thought  expressed  :  "  On 
voit  tous  les  dieux  de  la  terre  dt  grades  et  abimes  dans  I'eternite,  comme  les 
fleuves  demeurent  sans  nom  et  sans  gloire,  meles  dans  I'ocean  avec  les 
rivieres  les  plus  inconnues."  More  known  is  the  apostrophe  on  the  sudden 
death  of  Henrietta  of  England,  diichess  of  Orleans,  when  his  audience 
wept,  as  he  exclaimed,  "  O  nuit  desastreuse,  nuit  efFroyable,  oQ  retentit 
tout-'^-coup,  comme  un  ^clat  de  tonnerre,  cette  accablatite  nouvelle, 
madame  se  meurt,  madame  est  raorte !  "  D'Alembert  praises  yet  more  the 
conclusion  of  his  oration  on  the  great  Conde,  when  he  took  leave  for  ever 
of  the  pulpit,  and,  addressing  the  hero  whom  he  was  celebrating,  said, 
"  Prince,  vous  mettrez  fin  k  tous  ces  discours.  Au  lieu  de  deplorer  la 
mort  des  autres,  je  veux  desormais  apprendre  de  vous  a  rendre  la  mienne 
sainte  ;  heureux,  si  averti  par  ces  cheveux  blancs  du  compte  que  je  dois 
rendre  de  mon  administration,  je  reserve  au  troupeau,  que  je  dois  nourrir 
de  la  parole  de  vie,  les  restes  d'une  voix  qui  tombe,  et  d'un  ardeur  qui 
s'eteint."  "  The  touching  picture,"  says  D'Alembert,  "  which  this  address 
presents  of  a  great  man  no  more,  and  of  another  great  man  about  to  disap- 
pear, penetrates  the  soul  with  a  soft  and  profound  melancholy,  by  causing 
us  to  contemplate  the  vain  and  fugitive  splendour  of  talents  and  reputation, 
the  misery  of  human  nature,  and  the  folly  of  attaching  ourselves  to  so  sad 
and  short  a  life." 


FENELON.  335 

describes  the  manners  and  government,  the  growth  and 
fall  of  empires,  with  majestic  force,  with  a  rapid  pen, 
and  an  energetic  conception  of  truth.  When  the  edu- 
cation of  the  dauphin  was  completed,  the  king  made 
him  bishop  of  Meaux  ;  and  he  employed  himself  in 
writing  controversial  works  against  the  protestants. 

Fenelon  became  at  once  the  friend  and  pupil  of  this 
great  man.  He  listened  to  him  with  docility  :  he  ad- 
mired his  erudition  and  his  eloquence ;  he  revered  his 
character,  his  age,  his  labours.  He  visited  him  at  Ger- 
migny,  his  country  residence ;  where  they  had  stated 
hours  of  prayer,  meditation,  and  conversation ;  and 
passed  their  days  in  holy  and  instructive  intercourse. 
Fenelon  lived  also  in  society  with  the  most  distinguished 
and  excellent  men  of  the  age.  The  duke  de  Beau- 
villiers,  governor  of  the  duke  of  Burgundy,  had  begged 
him  to  write  a  treatise  on  the  education  of  girls ;  of 
w^hich  task  Fenelon  acquitted  himself  admirably.  His 
first  chapters,  which  relate  equally  to  both  sexes,  are 
the  foundation  of  much  of  Rousseau's  theory  on  the 
subject  of  education.  He  insists  on  the  importance  of 
the  female  character  in  society,  and  the  urgent  reasons 
there  are  for  cultivating  their  good  sense,  and  giving 
them  habits  of  employment.  '^  Women,"  he  says, 
"  were  designed  by  their  native  elegance  and  gra-ce  to 
endear  domestic  life  to  man  ;  to  make  virtue  lovely  to 
children,  to  spread  around  them  order  and  grace,  and 
give  to  society  its  highest  polish.  No  attainment  can  be 
above  beings  whose  aim  it  is  to  accomplish  purposes  at 
once  so  useful  and  salutary  ;  and  every  means  should 
be  used  to  invigorate,  by  principle  and  culture,  their 
native  elegance."  In  addition  to  this  treatise,  he  wrote 
one  on  the  ministry  of  pastors,  the  object  of  which  was 
to  prove  the  superiority  of  the  Roman  catholic  institution 
of  pastors  over  the  ministers  of  the  reformed  religion. 

The  duke  de  Beauvilliers  was  fully  aware  of  the 
greatness  of  his  merit.  He  was  the  governor  of  the 
sons  of  the  dauphin  ;  the  elder,  and  apparent  heir  to 
the    crown,  the  duke  of  Burgundy,    was   a    child    of 


336 


LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 


ardent  temperament  and  great  talents ;  but  impetuous, 
haughty,  capricious,  and  violent.  The  duke  was  a 
man  of  virtue ;  he  added  simplicity  of  mind  to  a  love  of 
justice,  a  gentle  temper,  and  persuasive  manners ;  he 
felt  the  importance  of  his  task,  and  was  earnest  to 
procure  the  best  assistance ;  at  his  recommendation, 
1689.  Fene'lon  was  named  preceptor  to  the  princes.*  Men 
JEiat.  of  the  first  talent  were  associated  in  the  task  of  edu- 
38.  cation ;  the  duke  de  Beauvilliers  was  governor ;  the 
abbe'  de  Langeron  reader ;  he  was  a  man  of  lively  and 
amiable  disposition,  friendly  and  kind,  with  a  mind 
enlightened  by  study.  The  abbe  de  Fleury,  under-pre- 
ceptor,  is  celebrated  by  his  works.  These  men,  and 
others,  all  united  in  a  system  which  had  the  merit  of 
success,  and  was  founded  on  a  knowledge  of  the  human 
heart,  joined  to  that  of  the  peculiar  disposition  of  their 
pupil :  pupil  we  say,  because,  though  there  were  three 
princes,  the  eldest,  who  was  just  seven  years  of  age,  was 
the  chief  object  of  their  labours.  They  excited  his 
curiosity  in  conversation^  and  awakened  a  desire  to  be- 
come acquainted  with  some  portion  of  history,  which 
led  also  to  a  geographical  knowledge  of  various  countries. 
He  was  taught  the  principal  facts  of  ancient  and  modern 
history  by  dialogues ;  the  knowledge  of  morals  was 
inculcated  by  fables.      As   at   first   the   vehemence  of 

*  D'AIembert  well  remark?,  that  the  criterion  by  which  to  judge  of 
kings,  is  the  men  in  whom  they  place  confider.ce.  He  enumerates  those 
u'ost  trusted  and  favoured  by  Louis  XIV.  The  dukes  de  Montausier  and 
Beauvilliers,  governors  to  his  son  and  grandson  ;  Bossuet  and  Fenelon, 
tl^eir  preceptors ;  with  Pluet  and  Fleury,  men  of  learning  and  rare  merit, 
under  them.  Added  to  these  selections  for  one  especial  object,  we  may 
name  Turenne,  Conde,  Luxembourg,  Colbert,  and  Louvois,  as  his  ge- 
nerals and  ministers  ;  and  when  we  also  recollect  the  appreciation  lie  dis- 
played for  Boileau,  Racine,  Moliere,  and  others,  we  may  conclude  that  this 
monarch  deserved  much  of  the  applause  bestowed  on  him.  Had  madame 
de  Maintenon  been  a  woman  of  enlightened  and  noble  mind,  and  added  to 
her  persuavive  manners  and  the  charms  of  her  intellect  a  knowledge  of 
the  true  ends  of  life,  and  have  induced  Louis  to  seek  right  in  the  study 
of  good,  instead  of  the  dicta  of  churchmen,  his  latter  days  had  been  as 
glorious  as  his  first,  and  it  would  not  have  remained  for  evermore  a  stain 
on  the  French  church,  that  his  persecutions  and  bigotry  sprung  from  his 
confidence  in  its  clergy.  We  are  told,  indeed,  that  she  exerted  herself 
meritoriously  on  occasion  of  the  choice  of  Fc-nelon.  Louis  did  not  per- 
ceive the  merit  of  this  admirable  man,  calling  him  a  mere  bel-esprit 
Madame  de  Maintenon  advocated  his  being  chosen  preceptor,  from  his 
being  the  most  virtuous  ecclesiastic  at  court  j  a  consideration  which 
persuaded  the  king. 


FENELON.  S37 

his  temper  frequently  led  him  to  deserve  punishment, 
they  contrived  that  the  privation  of  a  walk,  an  amuse- 
ment, or  even  of  his  accustomed  tasks,  should  take  that 
form  ;  added  to  these,  when  he  transgressed  flagrantly, 
was  the  silence  of  his  attendants ;  no  one  spoke  to  him; 
till  at  last  this  state  of  mute  loneliness  becanje  intoler- 
able, and  he  confessed  his  fault,  that  he  might  again 
hear  the  sound  of  voices.  Candour,  and  readiness  to 
ask  forgiveness,  were  the  only  conditions  of  pardon  ;  and 
to  bind  his  haughty  will  more  readily,  all  those  who 
presided  over  his  education  frankly  acknowledged  any 
faults  which  they  might  commit  towards  him  ;  so  that  the 
very  imperfections  of  his  masters  served  as  correctives 
of  his  own.  This  system  was  admirably  adapted  to  the 
generous  and  fervent  nature  of  the  young  prince.  He 
became  gentle,  conscientious,  and  just.  His  love  for  his 
preceptor,  under  his  wise  fosterage,  was  extended  to  a 
love  for  his  fellow-creatures.  Fenelon  had  a  deep  sense 
of  his  responsibility  to  God  and  man  in  educating  the 
future  sovereign  of  France.  He  studied  his  pupil's 
character ;  he  adapted  himself  to  it.  Nature  had  done 
even  more  in  fitting  him  :  his  enthusiasm,  joined  to 
his  angelic  goodness,  excited  at  once  the  love  and  rever- 
ence of  the  prince,  at  the  same  time  that  he  was  the 
friend  and  companion  of  his  hours  of  pastime.  He 
conquered  his  pride  by  gentleness,  by  raillery,  or  by 
a  dignified  wisdom,  which  convinced  while  it  awed. 
When  the  boy  insolently  asserted  his  superiority,  Fene- 
lon was  silent ;  he  appeared  sad  and  reserved,  till  the 
child,  annoyed  by  his  change  of  manner,  was  brought 
to  a  temper  to  listen  docilely  to  his  remonstrances.  His 
disinterestedness  and  truth  gave  him  absolute  power, 
and  the  boy  eagerly  acknowledged  his  error.  He  spared 
no  labour  or  pains.  We  owe  his  fables,  many  of  his 
dialogues,  and  his  great  work,  Telemachus,  to  his  plan  of 
forming  the  mind  and  character  of  his  pupil.*     Religion, 

*  Voltaire  asserts  that  this  idea  is  a  mistake.      He  assures  us  (Siecle  de 
Louis  XIV.,  chap.  32.)    that  the  marquis  de  Fenelon,  the  archbishop's 
nephew,  declared  the  contrary,  and  related  that  the  writing  of  Telemachus 
VOL.   I.  Z. 


338  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN.     ^ 

of  course,  formed  a  principal  portion  of  his  system.  He 
often  said  that  kings  needed  religion  more  than  their  sub- 
jects ;  that  it  might  suffice  to  the  people  to  love  God,  but 
that  the  sovereign  ought  to  fear  him.  The  duke  of  Bur- 
gundy grew  devout,  and  the  charity  that  formed  the  es- 
sence of  his  preceptor's  soul  passed  into  his.  It  is  im- 
possible to  say  what  France  would  have  become  if  this 
prince  had  reigned.  The  energy  of  his  character  gave 
hope  that  he  would  not  have  been  spoilt  by  power, 
which,  in  the  course  of  nature,  he  would  not  have  in- 
herited till  he  was  more  than  thirty ;  when  his  views 
would  have  been  enlightened  by  experience,  and  his  virtues 
confirmed  by  habit.  He  had  none  of  the  ordinary 
kingly  prejudices  in  favour  of  war  and  tyranny.  He 
was  high-minded,  yet  humble ;  full  of  talent,  of  energy, 
and  respect  for  virtue.  His  early  death  destroyed  the 
hope  of  France ;  and  hence  ensued  the  misrule  which 
the  revolution  could  alone  correct. 

Fenelon  continued  long  unrecompensed.  The  king 
bestowed  a  small  benefice  on  him ;  but  he  was  passed 
over  when  other  preferment  presented  itself.  On  the 
death   of  Harlay,  it  was  expected    that  he  would  be 

was  his  uncle's  recreation,  when  exiled  at  Cambray.  Voltaire  considers  this 
statement  supported  by  his  notion  that  no  priest  would  have  made  the 
loves  of  Calypso  and  Eucharis  the  subject  of  a  work  to  be  placed  in  a 
young  prince's  hands.  His  assertion,  however,  is  liable  to  many  objections. 
Fenelon  was  exiled  in  1697.  Telemachus  was  put  into  a  printer's  hands 
in  Paris  in  1698  ;  and  was  published  in  Holland  in  1699,  the  year  in  which 
the  brief  of  the  pope,  condemning  the  Maxims  of  the  Saints,  was  issued. 
This  interval,  which  did  not  include,  when  the  months  are  numbered, 
more  than  a  year  and  a  half,  was  employed  by  the  archbishop  in  compos- 
ing replies  to  Bossuct's  attacks ;  and  we  discover  no  moment  of  leisure  for 
Telemachus.  Nothing  can  be  more  futile  than  Voltaire's  other  objection. 
The  loves  of  Calypso  and  Eucharis  are,  indeed,  touched  with  the  tender- 
ness and  \varn)th  that  characterised  Fenelon,  but  are  such  as  he  would 
consider  exemplifying  the  temptations  and  corruptions  of  a  court,  and 
suited  both  to  warn  his  ])upil  against  them,  and  to  show  him  the  path  of 
escape.  Fenelon  was  in  the  habit  of  composing  fables  for  the  instruction 
of  the  prince,  while  a  child,  and  dialogues  for  the  same  purpose,  as  he  ad- 
vanced in  age.  There  is  every  reason  to  believe  that  he  prepared  Tele- 
machus to  be  put  into  his  hands  at  the  dawn  of  manhood.  This  idea  is 
the  great  charm  of  the  work.  It  excuses  its  monitorial  tone;  it  explains 
the  nature  of  the  instruction  it  conveys.  It  is  a  monument  of  the  prin- 
ciples of  government  and  morals  which  he  deemed  adapted  to  the  so- 
vereign  of  a  great  kingdom.  As  merely  a  work  written  to  amuse  himself, 
it  is  pedantic,  and,  in  parts,  almost  childish  ;  as  a  manual  for  the  young 
and  ardent  prince,  who  was  destined  to  succeed  Louis  XIV.,  to  consult 
when  entering  into  life,  it  is  the  best  book  that  was  ever  written. 


FENELON.  33Q 

named  archbishop  of  Paris ;  but  it  was  bestowed,  on 
the  contrary,  on  Noailles,  whose  nephew  had  married 
madame  Maintenon's  niece.  Soon  after,  however,  he 
was  named  archbishop  of  Cambray.  Madame  de  Cou- 
langes,  writing  to  madame  Sevigne,  says  that  Fenelon 
appeared  surprised  at  his  nomination ;  and,  on  thanking 
the  king,  represented  to  him  that  he  could  not  regard 
that  gift  as  a  reward,  whose  operation  was  to  separate 
him  from  his  pupil ;  as  the  council  of  Trent  had  de- 
cided that  no  bishop  could  be  absent  more  than  three 
months  in  the  year  from  his  diocese,  and  that  only 
from  affairs  important  to  the  church.  The  king  re- 
plied, by  saying  that  the  education  of  the  prince  was  of 
the  greatest  importance  to  the  church,  and  gave  him 
leave  to  reside  nine  months  of  the  year  at  Cambray, 
and  three  at  court.  Fenelon,  at  the  same  time,  gave 
up  his  two  abbeys,  having  a  scruple  of  conscience  with 
regard  to  pluralities.  *  We  have  now  arrived  at  the 
period  when  Fenelon's  career  was  marked  by  persecution 
instead  of  reward ;  and  he  himself  became  immersed 
in  controversies  and  defence,  which,  though  admirable 
in  themselves,  absorbed  a  talent  and  a  time  that  might 
have  been  far  more  usefully  employed.  We  must  go 
back  a  short  time,  to  trace  the  progress  of  circumstances 
that  led  to  his  disgrace  and  exile. 

The  characteristic  of  the  French  church  during  the 
reign  of  Louis  XIV.  was  its  spirit  of  controversy  and 
persecution.  We  do  not  speak  of  the  Huguenots ;  they 
were  out  of  the  pale  of  the  church.  But  first  came 
Jansenism,  which  declared  that  faith  and  salvation  de- 
pended on  the  immediate  operation  of  the  grace  of 
God.  This  doctrine  was  supported  by  the  sublime 
genius  of  Pascal — by  the  logic  and  virtues  of  Arnaud; 
and  boasted  of  the  first  men  of  the  kingdom,  Racine, 

*  Le  Tellier,  archbishop  of  Rheims,  remarked  on  this,  that  Fenelon  did 
right,  thinking  as  he  did  ;  and  he  did  right,  with  his  opinions.  Theworldly- 
mindedness  of  Le  Tellier  was  so  open  as  to  cause  him  to  say  good  things 
himself,  and  to  be  the  cause  of  them  in  others.  It  was  he  who  said  of 
our  James  IT.,  "  There  is  a  good  man,  who  lost  three  kingdoms  for  a 
mass."  He  said  no  man  could  be  honest  under  five  hundred  a  year. 
Inquiring  of  Boileau  concerning  a  man's  probity,  the  satirist  replied,  "  He 
wants  an  hundred  a  year  of  being  an  honest  man." 

z  2 


340  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN.    *^ 

Boileau,  Rochefoucauld,  &c.,  as  its  disciples.  The  king 
was  taught  by  the  Jesuits  to  believe  that  the  sect  was 
dano^erous,  its  supporters  intriguers,  and  the  whole  system 
subversive  of  true  piety.  Fenelon  declared  himself  the 
opposer  of  Jansenism.  He  looked  upon  the  free  will 
of  man  as  the  foundation  of  religion,  and  considered 
the  elective  grace  of  the  jansenists  as  contradictory  of 
the  first  principles  of  Christianity.  In  his  opinion, 
love  of  God  was  the  foundation  of  piety  ;  and  he  found 
in  the  writings  and  doctrines  of  madame  Guyon  the 
development  and  support  of  his  ideas.  Madame 
Guyon,  a  lady  of  irreproachable  life,  who  from  the 
period  of  an  early  widowhood  had  devoted  herself  to 
a  life  of  piety,  was  an  enthusiast.  Her  soul  was  pe- 
netrated with  a  fervent  love  of  God,  and  so  far  she 
merited  the  applause  of  christians  ;  but  by  considering 
that  this  heavenly  love  was  to  absorb  all  earthly  af- 
fection, she  impregnated  the  language,  if  not  the  sen- 
timent of  divine  love,  with  expressions  of  ecstasy  and 
transport  that  might  well  shock  the  simple-minded. 
In  exposing  this  objectionable  part  of  her  writings, 
Bossuet  apostrophises  the  seraphs,  and  entreats  them  to 
bring  burning  coals  from  the  altar  of  heaven  to  purify 
his  lips,  lest  they  should  have  been  defiled  by  the 
impurities  he  is  obhged  to  mention.  The  language  of 
love  is  fascinating  ;  and  Fe'nelon,  who  believed  the  love 
of  God  to  be  the  beginning  and  end  of  wisdom  and 
virtue,  might  well  use  expressjjons  denoting  the  dedi- 
cation of  his  whole  being  to  the  delightful  contemplation 
of  divine  perfection;  but  that  he  should  approve 
expressions  that  diverge  into  bombast  and  rhapsody,  is 
inexplicable,  except  as  a  proof  that  the  wisest  and  best 
are  liable  to  error.  It  is  true  that  the  catholic  religion 
is  open  to  such  sentiment  and  phraseology.  Nuns, 
who  are  declared  the  spouses  of  Jesus,  are  taught  to 
devote  the  softer  feelings  of  their  hearts  to  their  ce- 
lestial husband  ;  but  certainly  a  well-regulated  mind 
will  rather  avoid  mingling  questionable  emotions  and 
their  expression  with  piety,  even  in  their  own  persons ; 


FENELON.  341 

and^  above  all,  they  ought  to  be  on  their  guard  against 
misleading  others,  by  inciting  them  to  replace  a  rea- 
sonable sense  of  devotion  and  gratitude  to  the  supreme 
Being  by  ecstatic  transports,  which  defeat  the  chief  aim 
of  religion,  which  is  to  regulate  the  mind.  Madame 
Guyon  thought  far  otherwise ;  at  least,  as  regarded 
herself.  Living  in  solitude,  and  in  distant  provinces, 
she  indulged  her  enthusiastic  turn,  and  wrote  down 
effusions  dictated  by  emotions  she  believed  to  be  praise- 
worthy. She  wrote  simply,  and  without  art  ;  but  her 
works  were  full  of  ardour.  She  allowed  others  to  read 
them,  and  a  portion  was  copied  and  published.  Some 
of  her  readers  were  edified  ;  others  naturally  recoiled 
from  a  style  of  sentiment  and  expression  which,  how- 
ever we  may  love  God,  is  certainly  not  adapted  to  any 
spiritual  state  of  feeling.  Her  faith  was,  that  we  ought 
to  love  God  so  entirely  for  himself  alone,  that  our  sal- 
vation or  damnation  becomes  indifferent  to  us,  since  we 
should  be  willing  gladly  to  endure  eternal  misery,  if 
such  were  the  will  of  God.  A  notion  of  this  kind 
confounds  at  once  aU  true  religion,  since  we  ought  to 
love  God  for  his  perfection ;  and  the  infliction  of  pain 
on  the  just,  cannot  be  the  work  of  a  perfect  Being. 
However,  by  reasoning  on  our  imperfect  state  of  ig- 
norance and  error,  madame  Guyon  was  able  to  make 
some  show  of  argument,  while  her  expressions  are  in 
many  parts  incomprehensible.  She  says,  that  "  the 
soul  that  completely  abandons  itself  to  the  divine  will, 
retains  no  fear  or  hope  respecting  any  thing  either  tem- 
poral or  eternal," — a  doctrine  subversive  of  the  christian 
principle  of  repentance.  She  asserts  that  man  is  so 
utterly  worthless,  that  it  scarcely  deserves  his  own  in- 
quiry whether  he  is  to  be  everlastingly  saved  or  not ; 
that  the  soul  must  live  for  God  alone,  insensible  to  the 
turpitude  and  debasement  of  its  own  state.  Added  to 
this  heresy,  was  her  notion  of  prayer,  which  she  made 
consist,  not  in  the  preferment  of  our  requests  to  God, 
such  as  Jesus  Christ  taught,  but  in  a  state  of  mind 
z  3 


342  LITERAllY     AXD    SCIENTIFIC    xMEN.     ** 

embuecl  with  the  sense  of  God's  presence,  and  an  as- 
similation of  the  soul  with  God's  perfection. 

Her  health  suffered  from  the  constant  excitement  of 
her  mind.  It  was  considered  that  the  climate  of  the 
province  where  she  resided  was  injurious,  and  she  vi- 
sited Paris  to  recover.  She  became  acquainted  with  the 
dukes  de  Beauvilliers  and  Chevreuse  ;  her  doctrines 
became  known  and  discussed  in  Paris  ;  madame  de 
Maintenon  was  struck  and  attracted ;  Fenelon,  his  own 
heart  full  of  love,  became  almost  a  convert ;  madame 
Guy  on  herself  was  full  of  talent,  enthusiasm,  and 
goodness ;  Fenelon  became  her  friend,  and  denied  the 
odious  conclusions  which  her  enemies  drew  from  her 
doctrines. 

As  the  doctrine  gained  ground,  it  met  opposition. 
Des  Marais,  the  bishop  of  Chartres,  in  whose  diocese 
was  Saint  Cyr,  the  scene  of  these  impassioned  m.ysteries, 
became  alarmed  at  its  progress ;  and,  with  the  deceit 
which  a  priest  sometimes  thinks  he  is  justified  in  using 
in  what  he  deems  a  righteous  cause,  he  made  use  of 
two  ladies  of  great  repute  for  piety,  as  spies,  and 
from  their  accounts  of  what  passed  in  the  society  of 
Quietists,  found  sufficient  cause  of  objection  to  the 
sect.  Madame  de  Maintenon  listened  to  his  censures, 
and  withdrew  her  favour.  Fenelon  saw  the  danger 
that  threatened  madame  Guyon,  and,  steady  in  his  at- 
tachment to  one  whom  he  considered  worthy  his  friend- 
ship, he  assisted  her  by  his  counsel.  Following  his 
advice,  and  secure  in  her  own  virtue,  she  applied  to 
Bossuet.  His  manly  and  serious  mind,  strengthened 
by  age,  rejected  at  once  her  mysticism,  while  her 
personal  merits  won  his  esteem  and  condescension.  It 
is  a  singular  circumstance,  and  shows  her  candour,  that 
she  confided  her  thoughts  and  her  writings  far  more 
unreservedly  to  Bossuet  than  to  Fenelon.  Bossuet  saw 
her,  explained  his  objections ;  and  she  acquiescing  in 
every  thing  he  suggested,  he  administered  the  sacrament 
to  her ;  a  token  at  once  of  her  submission  and  his  good 
opinion. 


FENELON.  343 

Bossuet  penetrated  the  real  piety  of  the  lady,  and 
was  unwilling  to  distress  her  by  opposition,  as  long 
as  her  tenets  were  confined  to  her  own  mind.  For 
what  would  be  highly  injurious  if  spread  abroad, 
was  innocuous  while  it  related  solely  to  herself.  He 
therefore  recommended  retirement  and  quiet,  to  which 
she  for  a  time  adhered  ;  but  as  she  had  the  spirit  of 
proselytism  awake  in  her,  she  soon  grew  weary  of  ob- 
scurity, and  applied  to  madame  de  Maintenon  to  pre- 
vail on  the  king  to  appoint  commissioners  to  inquire 
into  her  doctrines  and  morals.  The  bishops  of  Meaux 
and  Chartres,  and  M.  Tronson,  were  accordingly  named. 
For  six  months  they  held  conferences,  and  discussed  the 
subject.  Bossuet  admitted  that  he  was  little  conversant 
with  the  writings  of  the  mystical  saints,  whose  doctrines 
and  expressions  were  the  model  of  those  of  madame 
Guyon  ;  and  Fenelon  made  a  variety  of  extracts,  at  his 
request,  which  were  to  serve  as  authorities  for  the  lady's 
writings.  At  the  conclusion  of  the  conferences,  thirty 
articles  were  drawn  up,  to  which  Fenelon  added  four; 
in  which,  without  direct  allusion  to  madame  Guyon,  the 
commissioners  expressed  the  doctrines  of  the  church 
of  Rome  on  the  disputed  points.  In  these  they  name 
salvation  as  the  proper  subject  of  a  christian's  desire 
and  prayer  ;  and  assert,  that  prayer  does  not  consist  in 
a  state  of  mind,  but  in  an  active  sense  of  resignation  : 
they  do  not  reprobate  passive  prayer ;  but  they  regard 
it  as  unnecessary  ;  while  they  agree  in  the  propriety 
of  direct  addresses  to  the  Deity,  and  frequent  medi- 
tation on  the  sufferings  of  the  Saviour.  Although 
these  articles  subverted  her  favourite  doctrine  of  the 
holy  state  of  mind  being  the  life  in  God  necessary  to  a 
christian,  Madame  Guyon,  as  a  dutiful  daughter  of 
the  church,  signed  the  articles  without  hesitation. 

Bossuet'smind,  however,  was  now  awakened  to  the  evils 
of  quietism ;  and  perceiving  that  it  gained  ground,  he 
wrote  his  ''  Instruction  sur  les  Etats  de  I'Oraison,"  which 
he  wished  Fenelon  to  approve.  The  latter  declined,  as 
it  denied  in  too  unqualified  a  manner  his  belief  in  the 
z  4s 


344  LITERARY    AND    SCIP:NTIFIC    MEN.    •».. 

possibility  of  a  pure  and  disinterested  love  of  God,  and 
denounced  madame  Guyon  in  too  general  and  severe  a 
manner.  His  refusal  was  not  censured  by  his  fellow 
bishops ;  but  he  was  required  to  publish  some  work 
that  should  prove  his  adhesion  to  the  thirty-four  articles 
before  mentioned.  For  this  purpose  he  wrote  his  *•  Ex- 
plication des  Maximes  des  Saints  sur  la  Vie  interieure." 
The  style  of  this  work  is  pure,  animated,  elegant,  and 
winning  ;  the  principles  Avere  expressed  carefully  and 
with  address.  But  this  very  act  occasioned  contradictions: 
he  feared  at  once  to  be  accused  of  giving  too  much  to 
charity,  too  little  to  hope  ;  of  following  Molinos,  or  of 
abandoning  St.  Theresa.  The  bishops  approved  of  his 
book  in  manuscript,  declaring  it,  in  energetic  terms,  to  be 
a  "book  of  gold :"  but  the  moment  it  was  printed,  the 
outcry  against  it  was  violent.  Bossuet  had  not  seen  it 
previous  to  publication.  Looking  on  false  mysticism  as 
injurious  to  true  religion  and  morals,  he  thought  that 
nothing  should  be  written  on  the  subject,  except  to 
condemn  it ;  and  that  the  true  mystic,  whose  state  was 
peculiar  and  unattainable  by  the  many,  should  be  left 
in  peace  with  God. 

So  far  we  consider  Bossuet  to  be  in  the  right.  Love 
of  God  being  a  duty,  all  that  exalts  and  extends  the 
sentiment  into  a  passion,  is  at  once  fascinating  and 
hurtful.  The  gentle  and  tender  soul  of  Fe'nelon  could 
see  no  evil  in  love  :  he  thought  to  soften  and  purify  the 
heart  by  spiritual  passion  ;  but  Bossuet  knew  human 
nature  better,  and  its  tendency  to  turn  all  good  to  evil, 
when  not  tempered  by  judgment  and  moderation.  He 
did  well,  therefore,  to  oppose  the  doctrines  of  madame 
Guyon ;  and,  if  possible,  to  enlighten  his  friend.  Yet, 
even  in  reasoning,  he  was  uncharitable ;  so  that  it  has 
been  said,  comparing  his  harshness  with  Fenelon's 
benignity,  that  Bossuet  was  right  most  revoltingly,  and 
Fenelon  in  the  wrong  Avith  sweetness.  This  was  the 
more  apparent,  when  his  conduct  on  the  publication  of 
the  book  showed  the  cloven  foot  of  intolerance  and 
persecution.     Henceforward,  we  love  Fe'nelon,  and  con- 


FENELON.  345 

demn  his  opponent.  The  latter  had  right  on  his  side^ 
on  the  question  of  doctrine  ;  in  conduct,  he  was  entirely 
and  deplorably  in  the  wrong.  French  writers  impute 
to  him  the  base  motives  of  envy  and  jealousy.  These 
passions  exercise  so  covert  an  influence  when  they 
spring  up  in  conscientious  minds,  that  Bossuet  might 
fancy  himself  urged  by  purer  feeUngs.  Still  he  cannot 
be  justified.  Either  from  fear  that  the  king,  who 
abhorred  novelties  in  religion,  would  blame  him  se- 
verely, or  wishing  to  make  a  deep  impression,  he 
threw  himself  at  Louis's  feet,  and  besought  "his  par- 
don for  not  having  sooner  informed  him  of  the  fana- 
ticism of  his  brother."  Louis  did  not  like  Fenelon.* 
His  elevation  of  character  appeared  to  him  pretension ; 
and  in  the  principles  he  instilled  into  his  royal  pupil 
he  saw  the  condemnation  of  himself.  These  principles 
were  so  moulded  by  the  spirit  of  Christianity,  that  he 
could  not  object;  but  he  gladly  availed  himself  of  the 
archbishop's  error,  to  destroy,  as  much  as  he  could,  the 
general  esteem  in  which  he  was  held,  and  to  visit  him 
with  heavy  penalties.  Madame  de  Maintenon  also 
became  unfriendly  :  in  matters  of  religion,  she  always 
adopted  the  views  of  Louis.  Her  good  sense  made  her 
see  the  evil  of  quietism ;  and  now  that  Fenelon  was 
accused  of  it,  she  withdrew  her  kindness  and  support. 

*  A  letter  of  F^n^lon  is  preserved,  addressed  to  Louis  XIV.,  and 
written  before  he  was  made  archbishop.  This  letter  predicts  all  the  dis- 
asters that  afterwards  befell  France  ;  it  speaks  of  the  wrongs  and  sufferings 
of  the  people,  and  the  misrule  of  the  ministers,  with  freedom,  vigour,  and 
truth.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  king  never  saw  it.  He  would  never 
have  forgiven  such  interference  with  his  measures  or  censures  of  the 
people  about  him.  The  language  of  truth  would  have  been  so  odious 
that  the  speaker  of  it  would  never  have  been  archbishop.  The  dislike  of 
the  king  arose  from  another  circumstance.  After  his  elevation  to  the  see 
of  Cambray,  Louis  heard  his  pecuhar  sentiments  discussed,  and  began  to 
fear  that  the  lessons  of  so  good  and  pious  a  man  would  form  a, prince 
whose  austere  virtue  and  contempt  for  vain-glory  would  be  a  censure  on  his 
own  reign  —  so  filled  with  useless  sanguinary  wars  —  and  magnincent  plea- 
sures, paid  for  by  the  misery  of  his  people.  That  he  might  form  a  judg- 
ment on  the  subject,  he  had  conversation  with  the  new  prelate  upon  his 
political  principles.  Fenelon,  full  of  his  own  ideas,  disclosed  to  the  king  a 
portion  of  that  theory  afterwards  detailed  in  Telemachus.  The  king,  after 
this  conversation,  said  he  had  discoursed  with  the  most  clever,  but  most 
chimerical  author  in  his  kingdom  This  story  is  told  by  Voltaire  in  his 
"Age  of  Louis  XIV."  It  was  related  to  him  by  cardinal  de  Fleury^and 
M.  Malezieux.  The  latter  taught  geometry  to  the  duke  of  Burgundy,  and 
learnt  from  his  pupil  the  judgment  of  his  royal  grandfather.  The  letter  to 
the  king,  alluded  to  above,  is  to  be  found  in  the  notes  to  D'Alembert's 
"Elogc  de  Fenelon." 


146 


LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN.  ^* 


Louis  XIV.  angrily  denounced  all  the  adherents  of 
madame  Guyon  ;  he  upheld  Bossuet  in  demanding  a 
formal  retractation  of  the  doctrines  inculcated  in  the 
Maxims  of  the  Saints ;  he  refused  to  permit  Fene'lon 
to  repair  to  Rome  ;  his  -work  having  been  referred  to 
the  pope,  for  a  decision  on  it ;  but  at  once  exiled  him; 
y  that  isj  ordered  him  to  repair  immediately  to  his  dio- 
cese, and  there  to  remain.  Fenelon  wrote  to  madame 
de  Maintenon,  to  deplore  the  king's  displeasure  ;  and 
declared  his  readiness  to  submit  to  the  decision  of  the 
holy  see  with  regard  to  his  book.  He  then  quitted 
Paris :  he  stopped  before  the  seminary  of  St.  Sulpice^ 
where  the  years  of  his  early  manhood  had  been  spent 
in  seclusion  and  peace ;  but  he  would  not  enter  the 
house,  lest  the  king  should  manifest  displeasure  towards 
its  inhabitants  for  receiving  him.  From  Paris  he 
proceeded  at  once  to  Cambray. 
1697.  Although  we  may  pronounce  Fenelon's  principles  to 
iEtat.  be  erroneous_,  his  conduct  was  in  every  respect  virtuous 
^^-  and  laudable.  Circumstances  had  engaged  him  in  the 
dispute,  and  he  believed  that  neither  honour  nor  con- 
science permitted  him  to  yield.  As  a  bishop,  it  de- 
rogated from  his  dignity  to  receive  the  law  from  his 
equals  in  rank.  He  esteemed  madame  Guyon ;  she 
was  unfortunate  and  calumniated ;  and  he  felt  that  it 
would  be  treacherous  to  abandon  her,  and  much  more 
so  to  ally  himself  to  her  enemies.  He  founded  his 
opinion  and  conduct  on  the  writings  and  actions  of  saints 
and  holy  men,  and  believed  himself  to  be  in  the  right. 
No  personal  interest  could  bend  him  ;  on  the  contrary, 
delicacy  of  feeling  and  zeal  caused  his  attachment  to  his 
cause  to  redouble  in  persecution  ;  while  at  the  same  time 
he  was  firm  in  his  resolution  to  abandon  it,  if  condemned 
by  the  church,  his  first  principle  being  obedience  to  the 
holy  see  ;  looking  upon  that  as  the  corner  stone  of  the 
Roman  catholic  religion.  His  exile  found  him  firm  and 
resigned.  The  duke  of  Burgundy  was  more  to  be 
pitied :  he  threw  himself  at  the  king's  feet,  offering  to 
justify  his  preceptor,  and  answering  for  the  principles  of 


FENELOX.  347 

religion  which  he  had  inculcated.     Louis  coldly  replied, 
that  M.  de  Meaux  understood  the  affair  better  than  either 
he  or  his  grandson ;  and  that  therefore  he  had  no  power 
to  grant  a  favour  on  the  subject.     To  pacify  the  duke, 
he  allowed  Fenelon  to  retain  for  a  time  the  title  of  pre- 
ceptor.    With  this  barren  honour  he  returned  to  Cam- 
bray.     Not  long  before  his  palace  had  been  burnt  to  the 
ground,  together  with  all  his  furniture,  books,  and  papers. . 
When  he  heard  the  news,  he  simply  remarked,  that  he 
was  glad  this  disaster  had  befallen  his  palace  rather  than 
the  cottage  of  a  peasant.     On  arriving  at  Cambray,  he 
wrote   to  his  excellent  friend  the  duke  de  Beauvilliers, 
expressing  his  submission  to  the  holy  see,  and  his  hope 
that  he  was  actuated  by  pious  and  justifiable  motives  ; 
"  I  hold  by  only  two  things,"   he   continues,    "■  which 
compose  my  entire   doctrine.      First,  that   charity  is  a 
love  of  God,  for  himself,  independent  of  the  motive  of 
beatitude  which  is  found  in  him :   secondly,  that  in  the 
life  of  the  most  perfect  souls,  charity  prevails  over  every 
other  virtue  ;  animating  them,  and   inspiring   all  their 
actions  ;   so  that  the  just  man,  elevated  to  this   state  of 
perfection,  usually  practises  hope  and  every  other  virtue 
with  all  the  disinterestedness  that  he  does  charity  itself." 
There  is  a  mysticism  in    all  this  which  it  is  dan- 
gerous to  admit  into  a  popular  religion ;  but  while  we 
read,  we  feel  wonderstruck  and  saddened  to  think  how 
a   man   so   heavenly   good  as    Fe'nelon,   and  so  noble 
minded  as  Bossuet,  could  have  drawn  matter  for  hate 
and  pain  out  of  such  materials  :   charity,  love  of  God, 
the  welfare  of  man,  —  such  were  the  missiles  levelled  at 
each  other ;  and  human  passion  could  tip  with  poison 
these  celestial-seeming  weapons.     Sir  AV^alter  Scott  has, 
with  the  wisdom  of  a  sage,  remarked,  that  it  is  matter 
of  sadness  to  reflect  how  much  easier  it  is  to  inflict  pain 
than  communicate  pleasure.*     The  controversy  of  Bos- 
suet and  Fenelon  is  a  melancholy  gloss  on  so  true  a  text. 

The  cause  was  now  carried  to  Rome.      The  tenets  of 
Fenelon  objected  to  by  Bossuet  were  two  :  —  1st,  that  a 

*  Lockhart's  Life  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  vol.  vi. 


348  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN.'  ^ 

person  may  obtain  an  habitual  state  of  divine  love,  in 
which  he  loves  God  purely  for  his  own  sake,  and  with- 
out the  slightest  regard  to  his  own  interests^  even  in 
respect  to  his  eternal  happiness.  2dly,  that  in  such  a 
state  it  is  lawful,  and  may  even  be  considered  an  heroic 
effort  of  conformity  to  the  divine  will,  to  consent  to 
eternal  reprobation,  if  God  should  require  such  a  sacri- 
fice. Certainly  no  general  good  could  arise  from  men 
entertaining  the  belief  that  God  might  eternally  punish 
those  submissive  to  his  law ;  and  if  we  add  to  these 
fundamental  objections  the  exaggerated  point  of  view  in 
which  madame  Guyon  placed  them,  and  Fenelon  in 
some  degree  approved,  maintaining  the  possibility  of  a 
state  of  divine  love  dependent  only  on  faith  and  a  kind 
of  mental  absorption  in  the  deity,  from  which  prayer 
and  meditation  on  divine  blessings  were  absent,  and 
which  confounded  resignation  with  indifference  to  sal- 
vation, and  conjoin  to  this  unnatural  supposition,  the 
high-flown  and,  we  may  almost  say,  desecrating  expres- 
sions with  which  it  was  supposed  right  to  address  the 
Deity,  we  cannot  help  siding  with  Bossuet's  opinions, 
while  we  blame  his  conduct,  and  admire  that  of 
Fenelon.  The  former  carried  on  his  cause  at  Rome 
through  his  nephew,  the  abbe  Bossuet,  and  the  abbe  de 
Phillippeaux,  both  attached  to  the  bishop  de  Meaux, 
but  both  tainted  by  all  the  violence  of  party  spirit,  which 
is  always  most  virulent  in  religious  disputes.  The  abbe 
de  Chanterac,  a  relation  of  Fenelon,  and  his  most  inti- 
mate and  confidential  friend,  a  man  of  probity,  gentle- 
ness, and  learning,  and  inspired  by  a  sincere  affection 
and  veneration  for  the  archbishop,  was  the  agent  of  the 
latter  at  Rome.  At  first  the  king  and  the  bishop  de 
Meaux  fancied  that  the  pope  would  at  once  condemn  a 
book  they  reprobated:  but  Innocent  XII. appointed  acom- 
mission.  The  commissioners  stated  objections.  Bossuet 
and  Fenelon  were  called  upon  to  deliver  answers.  These 
answers  were  printed ;  and  hence  arose  a  controversy, 
now  forgotten,  but  to  the  highest  degree  exciting  at  the 
time,   in  which  Bossuet  displayed  all  his  energy  and 


FENELON.  34.9 

eloquence,  and  Fenelon  poured  forth  the  treasures  of 
his  intellect  and  his  heart.  His  writings  on  this  occa- 
sion are  considered  his  best.*  His  heart  and  soul  were 
in  them ;  yet  they  are  now  usually  omitted  from  the 
editions  of  his  works,  as  regarding  a  question  Avhich  the 
church  has  set  at  rest  for  ever.  The  delay  of  the  pope,  and 
the  popularity  which  Fenelon  gained  by  his  candour  and 
simplicity,  enraged  the  king.  His  distaste  for  his  theories, 
which  were  founded  on  a  belief  in  virtue,  grew  into  a  posi- 
tive dislike  and  even  hatred  for  the  man, whom  he  now 
looked  on  as  dangerous.  With  his  own  hand  he  erased  his 
name,  which  had  remained  on  the  list  of  the  royal  house, 
hold  as  preceptor  to  the  princes ;  he  dismissed  his  friends, 
the  abbe's  Beaumont  and  Langeron,  from  their  employ- 
ments as  sub-preceptors ;  he  forbade  the  court  to  all 
his  relations  and  many  of  his  friends ;  and,  added  to 
these  mundane  inflictions,  was  the  clerical  insult  of  the 
Sorbonne,  when  it  condemned  twelve  propositions  drawn 
from  his  book.  Fenelon  observed  on  these  indignities, — 
"Yet,  but  a  little,  and  the  deceitful  kingdom  of  this 
world  will  be  over.  We  shall  meet  in  the  kingdom  of 
truth,  where  there  is  no  error,  no  division,  no  scandal ; 
we  shall  breathe  the  pure  love  of  God ;  and  he  will 
communicate  to  us  his  everlasting  peace.  In  the  mean 
time,  let  us  suffer,  let  us  suffer.  Let  us  be  trodden 
under  foot ;  let  us  not  refuse  disgrace :  Jesus  Christ 
was  disgraced  by  us ;  may  our  disgrace  tend  to  his 
glory  !"  Nor  would  he  hsten  to  any  advice  to  turn 
the  tables  on  Bossuet,  by  accusing  him,   in  his  turn, 

*  D'Alembert,  in  his  Eloge  de  Fenelon,  pronounces  these  works  on 
quietism  to  be  his  best.  "  Let  us  pardon  this  active  and  tender  mind,"  he 
says,  "for  havinglavished  so  much  fervour  and  eloquence  on  such  a  subject. 
He  spoke  of  the  delight  of  loving  ;  as  a  celebrated  writer  says,  'I  know  not 
if  Fenelon  were  a  heretic  in  asserting  that  God  deserved  to  be  loved  for 
himself,  but  I  know  that  Fenelon  deserves  to  be  thus  loved.'-'  Bossuet 
felt  his  power,  and  said  of  him,  as  Philip  IV.  had  said  of  Turenne,  "  That 
man  made  me  pass  many  a  wakeful  night."  And  a  lady  having  asked  him 
if  the  archbishop  of  Cambray  had  the  talents  that  were  attributed  to  him, 
Bossuet  replied,  "  Ah,  madam,  he  has  sufficient  to  make  me  tremble." 
Nettled  by  this  talent,  Bossuet>vas  driven  to  attack  his  adversary  by  abuse. 
"  Monseigneur,"  replied  Fenelon,  "  why  do  you  use  insults  for  argument  ? 
Do  you  then  consider  my  arguments  insults  ?  "  We  must  in  justice  record 
a  noble  reply  of  Bossuet  to  the  king  :  "  What  should  you  have  done,"  said 
Louis,  "  if  I  had  not  supported  you  in  your  outcry  against  Fenelon  ?  " 
"  Sire,"  replied  the  bishop,  "  my  cry  would  have  been  yet  louder." 


350  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN.,.^ 

of  error  ;  but  earnestly  replied,  '^  Moriamur  in  simpli- 
citate  nostra?" 

Great  indeed  were  the  indignities   that  were  heaped 
on  Fenelon  ;  if  the  untainted  can  be  said  to  receive  in- 
dignity from   insult.     A  miserable  maniac,    who  pre- 
tended to  an  improper  intercourse  with  madame  Guyon^ 
was  brought  forward.      She,  then  imprisoned    in  the 
castle   of  Vincennes,  heard  the   accusation   with  calm 
contempt,    and    the    confirmed    madness    of   the    poor 
wretch  soon  caused  it  to   fall  to  the  ground.     Bossuet 
then  published    his    "  Account    of   Quietism,"    which 
brought  forward  many  private  letters,  papers,  and  con- 
versations, which  tended  to  throw  light  on  the    cha- 
racters of  the  partisans,  which  entertained  all   Paris, 
and  excited  a  curiosity  which  this  great  man  ought  to 
have  despised.     The  work,  however,  is  decisive  as  to 
the  folly  and  injurious  nature  of  Quietism.      Bossuet 
said  that  he  had  long  condemned  Fenelon's  notions  con- 
cerning prayer,  and  was  glad  when  madame  Guyonreferred 
to  him,  as  this  would  afford  him  an  opportunity  to  express 
his  own  opinions.     She  confided  to  him  all  her  manu- 
scripts, and  a  history  of  her  life,  which  for  some  reason 
she  kept  back  from  Fenelon.     Bossuet  saw  much  in  her 
ecstacies  and  enthusiasm  to  disapprove,  especially  when 
rendered  public,  as  well  as  in  her  pretended  spirit  of  pro- 
phecy and  of  working  miracles.   He  saw  still  more  to  con- 
demn in  her  principles  with  regard  to  prayer,  when  she 
said  that  it  was  contrary  to  her  doctrine  to  pray  for  the 
remission  of  her  sins.      Bossuet  expressed  his  disappro- 
bation to  Fenelon,  who  defended  her  ;  and   the  writer 
remarks,  that  he  was  astonished  to  see  a  man  of  so  great 
talent  admire  a  woman  of  such  slender  knowledge  and 
small  merit,  who  was  deceived  also  by  palpable  delusions. 
Bossuet  then  goes  on  to  express  his  opinion  of  the  dan- 
gerous tendency  of  the  "  Maxims  of  the  Saints,"  against 
which   the   outcry  had  been  spontaneous  and    general. 
*'  Can  it  be  said,"  he  continues,  '^  that  we  wish  to  ruin 
M.  de  Cambray  ?   God  is  witness  !  But  without  calling 
so  great  a  testimony,  the  fact  speaks.     Before  his  book 


/  FENELON.  351 

appeared,  we  concealed  his  errors,  even  to  meriting  the 
reproaches  of  the  king.  When  his  work  came  out,  he 
had  ruined  himself.  My  silence  was  impenetrable  till 
then.  How  can  we  be  accused  of  jealousy  ?  Could  we 
envy  him  the  honour  of  painting  madame  Guyon  and 
Molinos  in  favourable  colours  ?  We  desire  and  we  hope 
to  see  M.  de  Cambray  soon  acknowledge  at  least  the  in- 
utility of  his  speculations.  It  was  not  worthy  of  him, 
nor  of  the  reputation  he  enjoys,  nor  of  his  character_, 
his  position,  nor  understanding,  to  defend  the  books  of 
a  woman  of  this  kind ;  and  we  continually  hear  his 
friends  lament  that  he  displayed  his  erudition,  and  em- 
ployed his  eloquence,  on  such  unsubstantial  subjects." 

Such  an  exposition  confounded  even  Fenelon's  friends: 
they  drooped  till  his  answer  came,  whose  gentle,  un- 
affected, yet  animated  eloquence  convinced  the  public, 
and  prevented  it  from  any  longer  confounding  his  cause 
with  that  of  madame  Guyon.  He  called  to  witness 
those  eyes  that  enlighten  earthly  darkness,  that  he  was 
attached  to  no  person  nor  book,  but  to  God  and  the 
church  only,  and  that  he  prayed  unceasingly  for  the 
return  of  peace  and  the  shortening  the  period  of  scandal, 
and  that  he  was  ready  to  bestow  on  M.  de  Meaux  as 
many  blessings  as  he  had  heaped  crosses  on  him.  He 
declared  that  he  had  long  ago  rejected  his  book,  and 
been  willing  to  be  thrown  into  the  sea  to  calm  the 
storm,  had  he  thought  that  his  work  could  foster  illusion 
or  occasion  scandal;  but  that  he  could  not  allow  him^ 
self  to  be  disgraced  for  the  sake  of  his  sacred  calling. 
He  appealed  to  Bossuet  against  himself,  and  showed 
with  dignity,  how  injuriously  he  was  treated,  on  being 
held  up  as  an  impostor  by  a  man  who  once  had  called 
him,  *'  his  dear  friend  for  life,  whom  he  carried  in  his 
heart."  He  then  proved  that  he  had  not  supported 
madame  Guyon  *,  nor  approved  her  visions,  concerning 

*  Poor  madame  Guyon,thus  thrown  over  by  both,  suffered  much  persecu- 
tion, and  was  frequently  imprisoned.  After  her  liberation  from  the  Bastile 
she  lived  in  obscurity;  but  Fenelon  always  regarded  her  with  affection 
and  resjject.  She  was  an  enthusiast,  full  of  imagination  and  talent,  and 
though  111  error,  yet  ever  declared  herself  an  obedient  daughter  of  the 
catholic  church. 


352  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

which  Bossuet  knew  much  more  than  he ;  and  asserted 
that  he  had  excused  the  intention,  not  the  text,  of  her 
works.  He  proceeds,  "  Whatever  conclusion  the  holy- 
pontiff  may  give  to  this  affair,  I  await  it  with  impa- 
tience, desirous  only  of  obeying  ;  not  fearing  to  deceive 
myself,  only  seeking  peace.  I  hope  that  my  silence, 
my  unreserved  submission,  my  horror  for  delusion,  my 
dislike  for  every  suspected  book  or  person,  will  make 
manifest  that  the  evil  you  deprecate  is  as  chimerical  as 
the  scandal  created  is  real." 

He  concludes  by  throwing  himself  upon  the  support  of 
God  alone  :  single  and  destitute  of  human  help,  oppressed 
by  the  sovereign  of  a  great  nation,  and  its  hierarchy, 
he  declared  that  he  should  stand  firm  till  the  word  should 
be  pronounced  by  which  he  promised  to  abide. 
Etat!  '^^^^  ^'^^^  came.  The  pope  condemned  his  book. 
^ 4^' W\ih  all  the  childlike  simphcity  that  he  so  earnestly 
recommended  to  others,  the  learned  and  wise  archbishop 
yielded  instant  obedience  to  a  fiat  which  it  was  a  por- 
tion of  his  faith  to  deem  infallible.  He  was  in  the  act 
of  ascending  his  pulpit  to  preach,  when  he  received  a 
letter  from  his  brother,  which  conveyed  intelligence  of 
the  pope's  brief.  Fenelon  paused  for  a  few  moments 
to  recollect  himself ;  and  then,  changing  the  plan  of  his 
sermon,  preached  on  the  duty  of  obedience  to  the  church. 
His  calm  and  gentle  manner,  the  sentiments  it  ex- 
pressed, the  knowledge  that  was  abroad  of  how  sorely 
his  adherence  to  his  doctrine  was  about  to  be  tried, 
deeply  moved  his  audience,  inspiring  it  at  once  with 
respect,  regret,  and  admiration. 

He  did  not  delay  a  formal  and  public  announcement 
of  his  obedience.  He  addressed  a  pastoral  letter  to  all 
the  faithful  of  his  district,  saying  in  it,  '^  Our  holy 
father  has  condemned  my  book,  entitled  the  '  Maxims 
of  the  Saints,'  and  has  condemned  in  a  particular  manner 
twenty-three  propositions  extracted  from  it.  We  ad- 
here to  his  brief;  and  condemn  the  book  and  the  twenty- 
three  propositions,  simply,   absolutely,   and  without  a 


FENELON.  353 

oiiadow  of  reserve."  *  He  sent  his  pastoral  letter  to  the 
pope,  and  solemnly  assured  his  holiness,  that  he  could 
never  attempt  to  elude  his  sentence,  or  to  raise  any  ob- 
jections with  regard  to  it.  To  render  his  obedience  clear 
and  universal  to  the  unlettered  and  ignorant  of  his  dio- 
cese, he  caused  to  be  made  for  the  altar  of  his  cathedral 
a  sun  borne  by  two  angels,  one  of  whom  was  trampling 
on  several  heretical  books,  among  which  was  one  in- 
scribed with  the  title  of  his  own. 

There  is  something  deeply  touching  in  this  humility 
and  obedience.  We  examine  it  carefully  to  discover  its 
real  merits ;  what  the  virtues  were  that  dictated  it,  and 
whether  it  were  clouded  by  any  human  error.  We 
must  remember  that  Fene'lon  opposed  the  jansenists, 
who  had  sought  to  elude  the  papal  decrees;  that  he 
supported  the  infallibility  of  bis  church,  and  considered 
that  the  pure  Catholicism  rested  chiefly  on  the  succession 
of  pastors  who  had  a  right  to  exact  obedience  from  all 
christians;  that  the  language  he  thought  due  to  the 
papal  authority  was,  "  God  forbid  that  I  should  ever  be 
spoken  of,  except  to  have  it  said  that  a  shepherd  thought 
it  his  duty  to  be  more  docile  than  the  last  sheep  of  his 
flock."  Supporting  these  opinions,  he  had  but  one  course 
to  pursue, — unqualified  and  instant  submission.   This  his 


*  His  pastoral  letter  js,  at  length,  as  follows :—"  Nous  nous  devons  k 
vous  sans  reserve,  mes  tres  chers  freres,  puisque  nous  ne  sornmes  plus  a 
nous,  mais  au  troupeau  qui  nous  est  confie  :  c'est  dans  cet  esprit  que  nous 
nous  sentons  obliges  de  vous  ouvrir  ici  notre  ccpur  et  de  con'tinuer  a  vous 
faire  part  de  ce  qui  nous  touche  sur  le  livre  des  Maximes  des  Saints.  En- 
fin  notre  tres  saint  pfere  le  pape  a  condamn^  ce  livre  avec  les  vingt-trois 
■propositions  qui  en  ont  ete  extraites,  par  un  bref  date  du  12  Mars.  Nous 
adherons  a  ce  bref,  mes  tres  chers  freres,  tant  pour  le  texte  du  livre  que 
pour  les  vingt-trois  propositions,  simplement,  absolument,  et  sans  ombre 
de  restriction. 

"  Nous  nous  consolerons,  mes  tres  chers  freres,  de  ce  qui  nous  humilie, 
pouvuque  le  ministere  de  la  parole  que  nous  avons  recpu  du  Seigneur  pour 
votre  sanctification  n'en  soit  point  affbbli,  et  que  non  obstant  I'humilia- 
tion  du  pasteur,  le  troupeau  croisse  en  grace  devant  Dieu. 

"  C'est  done  de  tout  notre  coeur  que  nous  vous  exhortons  a  une  sou- 
mission  sincere  et  a  une  docilite  sans  rtserve,  de  peur  qu'on  n'altere 
insensiblement  la  simplicite  de  I'obeissance,  dont  nous  voulons,  moyennant 
]a  grace  de  dieu,  vous  donner  I'exemple  jusqu'au  dernier  soupir  de  notre 
vie. 

"  A  Dieu  ne  plaise  qu'il  ne  soit  jamais  parle  de  nous,  si  ce  n'est  pour  se 
souvenir  qu'un  pasteur  a  cru  devoir  etre  plus  docile  que  la  derniere  brebis 
de  son  troupeau,  et  qu'il  n'a  mis  aucune  borne  k  son  obtissance.  Donne 
a  Cambrai,  ce  9.Avril,  1699," 

VOL.    I.  A  A 


354!  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

conduct  displayed  ;  yet  it  remains  as  a  question,  whether 
his  heart  acknowledged  the  justice  of  the  condemnation 
of  a  book  which  he  wrote  in  a  fervent  belief  in  its  uti- 
lity, and  had  defended  with  so  much  zeal.  His  meaning 
in  his  submission  was  this,  —  that  the  book  contained  no- 
thing heretical,  nothing  that  the  saints  had  not  said;  and 
that  he  might  adhere  to  the  principles  it  enounced: 
but  that  the  expression  and  effect  of  the  book  was  faulty; 
and  that  he  believed  this  in  his  heart  ever  since  the  pope's 
brief  had  so  declared  it.  His  own  account  of  his  senti- 
ments, rendered  several  years  after  to  a  friend,  gives  this 
explanation:  — "  My  submission,"  he  said,  "  was  not 
an  act  of  policy,  nor  a  respectful  silence;  but  an  internal 
act  of  obedience  rendered  to  God  alone.  According  to 
the  catholic  principle,  I  regarded  the  judgment  of  my 
superiors  as  an  echo  of  the  supreme  will.  I  did  not  con- 
sider the  passions,  the  prejudices,  the  disputes  that  pre- 
ceded my  condemnation  ;  I  heard  God  speak,  as  to  Job, 
from  the  midst  of  the  whirlwind,  saying  to  me,  Who  is 
this  that  darkeneth  counsel  by  words  without  knowledge  ? 
And  I  answered  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart.  What 
shall  I  answer  thee  ?  7  will  lay  my  hand  upon  my  mouth. 
From  that  moment  I  have  not  entrenched  myself  in 
vain  subterfuges  concerning  the  question  of  fact  and 
right ;  I  have  accepted  my  condemnation  in  its  whole 
extent.  It  is  true  that  the  propositions  and  expressions 
I  used,  and  others  much  stronger,  and  with  much  fewer 
correctives,  are  to  be  found  in  canonised  authors,  but 
they  were  not  fit  for  a  dogmatic  work.  A  different 
style  belongs  to  different  subjects  and  persons.  There 
is  a  style  of  the  heart,  and  another  of  the  understanding  ; 
a  language  of  sentiment,  another  of  reason.  What  is  a 
merit  in  one  is  an  imperfection  in  another.  The  church, 
with  infinite  wisdom,  permits  one  to  its  untaught  child- 
ren, another  to  its  teachers.  She  may,  therefore,  accord- 
ing to  the  variation  of  circumstances,  without  condemning 
the  doctrine  of  the  saints,  reject  their  fanatic  expressions, 
of  which  a  wrong  use  is  made."  * 

*  Historie  de  la  Vie  de  M.  de  Feneloii,  par  le  chevalier  Ramsay. 


FENELON.  355 

Such  was  Fenelon's  explanation  of  his  feehngs  several 
years  after.  His  letters  at  the  time  are  full  of  that 
gentle  spirit  of  peace  and  resignation  which  was  his 
strength  and  support  in  adversity.  In  general,  how- 
ever,  he  avoided  the  subject.  He  had  struggled  earnestly 
in  the  cause  of  his  book,  while  its  fate  was  problematical ; 
but  he  considered  the  question  decided,  and  he  wished 
to  dismiss  the  subject  from  his  own  thoughts  and  the 
minds  of  others. 

There  were  several  accompanying  circumstances  to 
mitigate  the  disgrace  of  defeat.  The  expressions  used 
by  the  pope  in  his  condemnation  were  very  gentle.  His 
propositions  and  expressions  were  declared  rather  as 
leading  to  error,  than  erroneous ;  they  were  pro- 
nounced to  be  rash,  ill  sounding,  and  pernicious  in 
practice ;  but  not  heretical.  While  condemning  the 
book,  the  pope  had  learned  to  respect  the  author  ;  and 
said  of  him,  to  his  opponents,  "  Peccavit  in  excessu 
amoris  divini ;  sed  vos  peccastis  defectu  amoris  proxi- 
mi;"  an  antithesis  that  caught  the  ear,  and  was  speedily 
in  every  body's  mouth.  His  enemies  were  nettled. 
They  endeavoured  to  find  flaws  in  his  pastoral  letter; 
they  tried  to  induce  the  pope  to  condemn  the  various 
writings  which  Fenelon  had  published  in  defence  of  his 
work  ;  but  this  Innocent  XII.  peremptorily  refused. 

The  king  and  the  inimical  bishops  continued  invete- 
rate. The  brief  was  received  and  registered  according 
to  form.  The  metropolitan  assemblies  applauded  Fe'ne- 
lon's  piety,  virtue,  and  talents  :  some  of  his  own 
suffragans  had  the  indecency  and  servility  to  make  ir- 
relevant objections  to  his  pastoral  letter  ;  but  these  were 
overruled.  Bossuet  drew  up  a  report  of  the  whole 
affair,  to  be  presented  at  the  next  assembly  of  the 
clergy.  Considerable  want  of  candour  is  manifest  in 
his  account.  He  does  what  he  can  to  weaken  the  effect  of 
Fenelon's  submission,  while  he  insinuates  excuses  for 
his  own  vehemence.  The  report  is  remarkable  with 
regard  to  the  testimony  it  gives  to  the  innocence  of 
madame  Guyon.     '^  As  to  the  abominations,"  it  said, 

A  A    2 


356  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

'^'^  which  seemed  the  necessary  consequences  of  her  doc- 
trine^ they  were  wholly  out  of  the  question ;  she  her- 
self always  mentioned  them  with  horror."  No  recon- 
ciliation ever  took  place  between  Fe'ne'lon  and  Bossuet, 
who  died  in  1714.* 

Louis  XIV.  was  inexorable.  Fene'lon  continued  in 
exile  and  his  friends  in  disgrace ;  such  displeasure  was 
shown,  that  the  servile  courtiers,  among  whom  we  must 
rank,  on  this  occasion,  madame  de  Maintenon,  kept  aloof 
from  him.  His  friends,  however,  were  true  and  faith- 
ful. They  took  every  opportunity  of  meeting  together; 
it  was  their  delight  to  talk  of  him,  to  regret  him,  to 
express  their  wishes  for  his  return,  and  to  contrive 
means  of  seeing  him. 

The  circumstance  that  confirmed  the  king*s  distaste 
to  the  virtuous  archbishop,  was  the  publication  of  Te- 
lemachus.  Fenelon  appears  to  have  employed  his 
leisure,  while  preceptor  to  the  princes,  on  composing  a 
work  which  hereafter  would  serve  as  a  guide  and  in- 
structor to  the  duke  of  Burgundy.  The  unfortunate 
affair  of  quietism  led  him  from  such  studies;  but 
Telemachus  was  already  finished :  he  gave  it  to  a  valet 
to  copy,  who  sold  it  to  a  bookseller  in  Paris.  The 
spies,  who  watched  every  movement  of  the  archbishop, 
gave  notice  of  the  existence  of  the  book;  and  when  the 
printing  had  advanced  to  the  208th  page,  the  whole 
was  seized,  and  every  exertion  to  annihilate  the  work  was 
made.  Fortunately,  motives  of  gain  sharpened  men's 
wits  for  its  preservation  ;  a  manuscript  copy  was  pre- 
served ;  it  was  sold  to  Adrian  Moetjens,  a  bookseller  at 

*  We  cannot  refrain  from  quoting  Bourdaloue's  remarks  on  the  disputes 
of  these  two  prelates,  which  are  quoted  by  Mr.  Butler,  in  his  life  of 
Fenelon.  "  There  is  not  a  luminary  in  the  heavens  that  does  not  some- 
times suffer  eclipse;  and  the  sun,  which  is  the  greatest  of  them,  suffers 
the  greatest  and  most  remarkable.  Two  circumstances  in  them  particu- 
larly deserve  our  consideration  ;  one,  that  in  these  eclipses,  the  sun  suffers 
no  substantial  loss  of  light,  and  preserves  its  regular  course  ;  the  other, 
that  during  the  time  of  its  eclipse,  the  universe  contemplates  it  with  most 
interest  and  watches  its  variation  with  most  attention.  The  faults  of  Fenelon 
and  Bossuet,  in  their  unfortunate  controversy,  are  entitled  to  the  same  beiiign 
consideration.  The  lustre  of  their  characters  attracted  universal  attention, 
and  made  their  errors  the  more  observable,  and  the  more  observed.  But 
the  eclipse  was  temporary,  and  the  golden  Hood  remained  unimpaired." 


FENELON. 


357 


the  Hague,  who  published  it  in  June,  l699,  —  incor- 
rectly, indeed,  as  it  remained  during  the  author's  life  ; 
but  still  it  was  printed ;  editions  were  multiplied ;  it 
was  translated  into  every  European  language,  and  uni- 
versally read  and  admired.  In  the  work  itself  there 
was  much  to  annoy  Louis  XIV.,  who,  as  he  grew  old 
and  bigoted,  lost  all  the  generosity  which  he  had  hereto- 
fore possessed,  and,  spoilt  by  the  sort  of  adoration  which 
all  writers  paid,  grasped  at  flattery  more  eagerly  than  in 
his  earher  and  more  laudable  career.  The  lessons  of 
wisdom  sounded  like  censure  in  his  ear.  The  courtiers 
increased  his  irritabihty,  by  making  particular  applica- 
tions of  the  personages  in  the  tale*;  but  without  this 
frivolous  and  unfounded  interpretation,  there  was 
enough  to  awaken  his  sense  of  being  covertly  attacked. 
The  very  virtues  fostered  in  the  duke  of  Burgundy, 
were,  to  his  haughty  mind,  proof  of  the  archbishop's 
guilt.  He  saw,  in  the  mingled  loftiness  and  humiUty 
of  his  heir,  in  his  high  sense  of  duty  and  love  of  peace, 
a  hving  criticism  of  his  reign.  From  that  moment 
Fenelon  became  odious ;  to  visit,  to  love,  to  praise  him, 
ensured  disgrace  at  court.  Telemachus  was  never  men- 
tioned, though  Louis  might  have  been  aware  that  silence 
on  such  a  subject,  was  to  acknowledge  the  justice  of  the 
lesson  which  he  beheved  that  it  conveyed. 

Meanwhile  Fene'lon  looked  upon  his  residence  in  his 
diocese  as  his  natural  and  proper  position.  To  culti- 
vate internal  calm,  and  to  spread  the  blessings  of  peace 
around,  were  the  labour  of  his  day.  On  his  first  ar- 
rival, he  had  been  received  with  transport.  "  Here 
I  am,"   he  cried,  "  among  my  children,  and  therefore 

*  Most  of  the  applications  made  of  the  personages  are  stupid  enough  , 
and  we  are  convinced,  that  though  Fenelon  m'ght  have  referred  to  the 
Dutch,  when  he  wrote  of  the  Fhenicians,  and  even  have  shadowed  forth 
an  ideal  likeness  of  Louis  XIV.  in  Sesostris,  and  perhaps  of  Louvois  m 
Protesilaus,  and  of  Pomponne  in  Philocles,— he  had  no  thought  ot  the  kmg  s 
mistresses,  Montespan  and  Fontanges,  nor  of  madame  de  Maintenon, 
when  he  wrote  of  Calypso,  Eucharis,  and  Antiope.  In  addition  to  these 
al'usions,  we  are  told  'that  Pymalion  meant  Cromwell ;  Baleazer,  Charles 
II.;  Narbal,  Monk;  and  Idomeneus,  James  II.  The  first  of  these  is 
absurd.  Still,  as  we  have  said,  without  pourtraying  mdividuals,  tenelon 
very  likely  referred  to  certain  questions  of  policy,  and  to  the  actual  state 
of  some  neighbouring  countries,  in  sketching  the  government  and  people 
of  some  of  the  lands  which  Telemachus  visited. 
A  A    3 


358  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

in  my  true  place."  And  to  the  duke  de  Beauvilliers  he 
wrote  :  "  I  work  softly  and  gently^  and  endeavour^  as 
much  as  I  can_,  to  put  myself  in  the  way  of  being  use- 
ful to  my  flock.  They  begin  to  love  me.  I  endeavour 
to  make  them  find  me  easy  of  access,  uniform  in  my 
conduct,  and  without  haughtiness,  rigour,  selfishness, 
or  deceit :  they  already  appear  to  have  some  confidence 
in  me  ;  and  let  me  assure  you,  that  even  these  good 
Fleminders,  with  their  homely  appearance,  have  more 
finesse  than  I  wish  to  put  into  my  conduct  towards 
them.  They  inquire  of  one  another,  whether  I  am 
really  banished  ;  and  they  question  my  servants  about 
it:  if  they  put  the  question  to  me,  I  shall  make  no 
mystery.  It  is  certainly  an  affliction  to  be  separated 
from  you,  and  the  good  duchess  and  my  other  friends  ; 
but  I  am  happy  to  be  at  a  distance  from  the  great 
scene,  and  sing  the  canticle  of  deliverance."  In  ac- 
cordance with  this  view,  from  this  hour  he  devoted 
himself  to  his  diocesians.  Rich  and  poor  alike  had 
easy  access  to  him.  Disappointment  and  meditation 
had  softened  every  priestly  asperity.  His  manner  was 
the  mirror  of  his  benevolent  expansive  heart.  A  curate 
wishing  to  put  an  end  to  the  fe§tive  assemblies  of  the 
peasants  on  Sundays  and  other  festivals,  Fenelon  ob- 
served, "  We  will  not  dance  ourselves,  M.  le  Cure,  but 
we  will  suffer  these  poor  people  to  enjoy  themselves." 
That  he  might  keep  watch  over  his  inferior  clergy,  he 
visited  every  portion  of  his  diocese ;  twice  a  week, 
during  lent,  he  preached  in  some  parish  church  of  his 
diocese.  On  solemn  festivals  he  preached  in  his  me- 
tropolitan church ;  visited  the  sick,  assisted  the  needy, 
and  reformed  abuses.  He  was  particularly  solicitous 
in  forming  worthy  ecclesiastics  for  the  churches  under 
his  care.  He  removed  his  seminary  from  Valenciennes 
to  Cambray,  that  it  might  be  more  immediately  under 
his  eye.  His  sermons  were  plain,  instructive,  simple  ; 
yet  burning  with  faith  and  charity.  He  lived  like  a 
brother  with  his  under-clergy,  receiving  advice ;  and 
never  used  authority  except  when  absolutely  necessary. 


FENELON.  359 

He  slept  little,  and  was  abstemious  at  table.  His 
walks  were  his  only  pleasure.  During  these,  he  con- 
versed with  his  friends,  or  entered  into  conversation 
with  the  peasants  he  might  chance  to  meet ;  sitting  on 
the  grass,  or  entering  their  cottages,  as  he  listened  to 
their  complaints.  Long  after  his  death,  old  men  showed, 
with  tears  in  their  eyes,  the  wooden  chair  which,  in 
their  boyhood,  they  had  seen  occupied  by  their  beloved 
and  revered  archbishop.  His  admirable  benevolence, 
his  unbounded  sympathy  and  calm  sense  of  justice, 
won  the  hearts  of  all.  One  man  of  high  birth,  who 
had  been  introduced  into  his  palace,  ostensibly  as  high 
vicar,  but  really  as  a  spy,  was  so  touched  by  the  un- 
blemished virtue  he  witnessed,  that  he  threw  himself 
at  Fe'ne'lon's  feet,  confessed  his  crime,  and  then,  unable 
to  meet  his  eye,  banished  himself  from  his  presence,  and 
lived  ever  after  in  exile  and  obscurity. 

The   duke  of  Burgundy  had    been    commanded   to 
hold  no  intercourse  with  his  beloved  and  unforgotten 
preceptor  ;  and  the  spies  set  over  both  were  on  the  alert 
to  discover  any  letters.     When  the  duke  of  Anjou  was 
raised  to  the   throne   of  Spain,  his  elder  brother  con- 
ducted him  to  the  frontier.     Soon  after  his  return,  he 
came  to  a  resolution  to  break    through   the  king's  re- 
striction, and  wrote  to  his  revered  teacher  through  his 
governor,  the  duke  de  BeauvilUers.     His  letter  is  un- 
affected and  sincere  ;  it  laments  the  silence  to   which 
he  had  been  condemned,   and  assures  the  archbishop 
that  his  friendship  had  been  augmented,  not  chilled, 
by   his  misfortunes.     It  speaks   of  his   own   struggles 
to  keep   in   the  paths  of  virtue;  and  relates   that  he 
loved  study  better  than  ever,  and  was  desirous  of  send- 
ing   several    of  his    writings   to    be    corrected   by  his 
preceptor,   as  he  had   formerly   corrected  his   themes. 
Fene'lon's  answer  marks  his  delight  in  finding  that  his 
pupil   adliered  to  the  lessons  he  had  taught  him.     He 
confirms  him  in  his  piety :   ''In  the  name  of  God," 
he   writes,    "let    prayer    nourish    your    soul,   as    food 
nourishes  your  body.     Do  not  make  long  prayers ;  let 

A  A    4 


360 


LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 


them  spring  more  from  the  heart  than  the  understand- 
ing; little  from  reasoning — much  from  simple  af- 
fection ;  few  ideas  in  consecutive  order^  but  many  acts 
of  faith  and  love.  Be  humble  and  little.  I  only  speak 
to  you  of  God  and  yourself.  There  need  be  no  ques- 
tion of  me  :  my  heart  is  in  peace.  My  greatest  mis- 
fortune has  been,  not  to  see  you ;  but  I  carry  you  un- 
ceasingly with  me  before  God,  into  a  presence  more 
intimate  than  that  of  the  senses.  I  would  give  a 
thousand  lives  like  a  drop  of  water,  to  see  you  such  as 
God  would  wish  you  to  be  !" 

In  all  Fene'lon's  letters  there  is  not  a  querulous  word 
concerning  his  exile,  although  we  perceive  traces  in  the 
view  he  takes  of  the  position  of  others,  and  in  the  advice 
he  gives,  of  the  pleasure  he  must  have  derived  from  the 
cultivated  society  then  collected  in  Paris ;  but  he  could 
cheerfully  bear  absence  from  the  busy  scene.  His  simple 
and  affectionate  heart  found  food  for  happiness  among  his 
flock.  To  instruct  his  seminarists  with  the  patience  and 
gentleness  that  adorned  his  character ;  to  watch  over  the 
affairs  of  his  diocese  ;  to  teach  by  sermons,  which  flowed 
from  the  abundance  of  his  heart ;  and  in  writing  letters 
of  instruction  to  various  of  the  laity,  who  placed  them- 
selves under  his  direction, — were  his  occupations ;  and  his 
time  employed  by  these  duties  and  by  writing,  was  fully 
and  worthily  employed.  He  regretted  his  absence  from 
some  of  his  friends,  with  whom  he  corresponded ;  but  he 
never  complained.  The  peace  of  heaven  was  in  his 
heart ;  and  he  breathed  an  air  purged  of  all  human 
disquietude.  It  was  his  religion  not  to  make  himself 
unhappy  about  even  his  own  errors.  He  taught  that 
we  ought  to  deliver  our  souls  into  the  hands  of  God, 
and  submit,  as  to  his  pleasure,  to  the  shame  and  annoy- 
ance brought  on  us  by  our  imperfections;  not  only  to 
feel  as  nothing  before  him,  but  not  even  to  wish  to 
feel  any  thing.  "  I  adore  you,  infant  Jesus,"  he  wrote, 
"  naked,  and  weeping,  and  stretched  upon  the  cross.  I 
love  your  infancy  and  poverty :  O  !  that  I  were  as 
childlike  and  poor  as  you.     O  Eternal  wisdom,  reduced 


FENELOrf.  361 

to  infancy,  take  away  my  vain  and  presumptuous 
wisdom  ;  make  me  a  child  like  yourself.  Be  silent,  ye 
wise  men  of  the  earth !  I  desire  to  be  nothing,  to  know 
nothing  ;  to  believe  all,  to  suffer  all,  and  to  love  all. 
The  Word,  made  flesh,  lisps,  weeps,  and  gives  forth 
infantine  cries; — and  shall  I  take  pride  in  wisdom  ;  shall 
I  take  pleasure  in  the  efforts  of  my  understanding,  and 
fear  that  the  world  should  not  entertain  a  sufficiently 
high  idea  of  my  ability.  No,  no ;  all  my  delight  will 
be  to  grow  little;  to  crush  myself;  to  become  obscure; 
to  be  silent ;  to  join  to  the  shame  of  Jesus  crucified, 
the  impotence  and  lisping  of  the  infant  Jesus." 

When  we  reflect  that  this  was  written  by  a  man  who 
sedulously  adorned  his  mind  by  the  study  of  the  an- 
cients, and  who  added  to  his  own  language,  books 
written  with  elegance  and  learning,  and  which  display 
a  comprehensive  understanding  and  delicate  taste,  we 
feel  the  extent  of  that  humility  which  could  disregard 
all  these  human  acquirements  compared  with  the  omni- 
science of  God  ;  and  that  as  Socrates  acknowledged  that 
he  knew  nothing,  and  was  therefore  pronounced  to  be 
the  wisest  of  men,  so  did  the  sense  which  Fenelon  en- 
tertained of  the  nothingness  of  human  wisdom,  stamp 
him  as  far  advanced  in  that  higher  knowledge  which 
can  look  down  on  all  human  efforts  as  the  working  of 
emmets  on  an  ant-hill. 

Fene'Ion  believed  that  man  had  no  power  to  seek 
heavenly  good  without  the  grace  of  the  Saviour.  When 
man  does  right,  he  alleged  that  he  only  assented  to  the 
impulse  of  God,  who  disposed  him  through  his  grace 
so  to  assent.  AVhen  he  did  ill,  he  only  resisted  the 
action  of  God,  which  produces  no  good  in  him  without 
the  co-operation  of  his  assent,  thus  preserving  his  free 
will.  He  considered  true  charity,  or  love  of  God,  to 
which  he  gave  this  name,  as  an  intimate  sense  of  and 
delight  in  God's  perfections,  without  any  aspiration  to 
salvation.  He  supposed  that  there  was  a  love  of  the 
beautiful,  the  perfect,  and  the  orderly,  beyond  all  taste 
and  sentiment,  which  may  influence  us  when  we  lose 


S6Z 


LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 


the  pleasurable  sense  of  the  action  of  the  grace  of  God, 
and  which  is  a  sufficing  reason  to  move  the  will  in  all 
the  pains  and  privations  which  abound  on  the  holy 
paths  of  virtue.  He  would  have  carried  this  notion 
further,  but  was  obliged  to  mould  his  particular  notion 
by  the  faith  of  the  church,  which  enforces  what  it  calls 
a  ''  chaste  hope  of  salvation/'  in  contradiction  to  the 
quietists,  who  banish  every  idea  of  beatification,  and 
profess  to  be  wilHng  to  encounter  perdition,  if  such 
were  the  Almighty's  will.  He  was  more  opposed  to 
Jansenism,  which  makes  salvation  all  in  all,  while  it 
confines  it  to  the  elect  of  God.  Jansenism,  indeed,  he 
considered  as  peculiarly  injurious,  and  destructive  to  the 
true  love  of  God.  But  as  bigotry  made  no  part  of  his 
nature,  he  tolerated  the  jansenists,  though  he  would 
gladly  have  converted  them ;  he  invited  their  chief, 
father  Quesnell,  to  his  palace,  promising  not  to  in- 
troduce any  controversy  unless  he  wished ;  but  tes- 
tifying his  desire,  at  the  same  time,  to  prove  that  he 
mistook  the  meaning  of  St.  Augustin,  on  whom  Jan- 
senius  founded  his  doctrine.  Of  Pascal's  Provincial 
Letters,  he  wrote  to  the  duke  de  Beauvilliers,  that  he 
recommended  that  his  royal  pupil  should  read  them,  as 
the  great  reputation  they  enjoyed,  would  cause  him 
certainly  to  desire  to  see  them  ;  and  sent  a  memorial  at 
the  same  time,  which  he  considered  as  a  refutation  of 
the  mistakes  into  which  he  believed  Pascal  had  fallen. 
He  was  equally  tolerant  of  protestants  ;  and  when  M. 
Brunier,  minister  of  the  protestants  dispersed  on  the 
frontiers  of  France,  came  to  Mons  to  see  him,  Fenelon 
received  him  with  his  accustomed  cordial  hospitality, 
and  begged  him  often  to  repeat  his  visit. 

During  the  war  for  the  Spanish  succession,  Fenelon's 
admirable  character  shone  forth  in  all  its  glory.  Living 
on  a  frontier  exposed  to  the  incursions  of  the  enemy, 
he  was  active  in  alleviating  the  sufferings  of  the  people. 
The  nobles  and  officers  of  the  French  armies,  who 
passed  through  Cambray,  pointedly  avoided  him,  out  of 
compUment  to  their  mistaken  sovereign ;  w^hile  a  con- 


\ 


FENELON. 


363 


trary  sentiment,  a  wish  to  annoy  Louis  XIV.,  joined 
to  sincere  admiration  of  his  genius  and  virtue,  caused  th 
enemy  to  act  very  differently.  The  Enghsh,  Germans, 
and  Dutch,  were  eager  to  display  their  veneration  of 
the  archbishop.  They  afforded  him  every  facility  for 
visiting  the  various  parts  of  his  diocese.  They  sent 
detachments  to  guard  his  fields,  and  to  escort  his  harvest 
into  the  city.  He  was  often  obhged  to  have  recourse 
to  artifice  to  avoid  the  honours  which  the  generals  of 
the  armies  of  the  enemy  were  desirous  of  paying.  He 
declined  the  visits  of  the  duke  of  Marlborough  and 
prince  Eugene,  who  were  desirous  of  rendering  homage 
to  his  excellence.  He  refused  the  military  escorts  of- 
fered to  ensure  his  safety;  and,  with  the  attendance  only 
of  a  few  ecclesiastics,  he  traversed  countries  devastated 
by  war,  carrying  peace  and  succour  in  his  train,  so  that 
his  pastoral  visits  might  be  termed  the  truce  of  God. 
The  French  biographers  delight  in  recording  one  trait 
of  his  benevolence.  During  one  of  his  journeys,  he 
met  a  peasant  in  the  utmost  affliction.  The  archbishop 
asked  the  cause  of  his  grief;  and  was  told  that  the 
enemy  had  driven  away  his  cow,  on  which  his  family 
depended  for  support,  and  that  his  hfe  was  in  danger 
if  he  went  to  seek  it.  Fenelon,  on  this,  set  off*  in 
pursuit,  found  the  cow,  and  drove  it  home  himself  to 
the  peasant's  cottage. 

Deserted  and  neglected  by  his  countrymen,  he  took 
pleasure  in  receiving  foreigners,  and  learning  from  them 
the  manners,  customs,  and  laws  of  their  various  countries. 
His  philanthropy  was  of  the  most  extensive  kind  :  '^  I 
love  my  family,"  he  said,  "  better  than  myself;  I  love 
my  country  better  than  my  family  ;  but  I  love  the 
human  race  more  than  my  country."  A  German  prince 
visited  him,  desirous  of  receiving  lessons  of  wisdom. 
Him  he  taught  toleration  ;  satisfaction  in  a  constitutional 
government ;  and  a  desire  for  the  progress  of  knowledge 
among  his  subjects.  The  duke  of  Orleans,  afterwards 
the  libertine  regent  of  France,  consulted  him  with  re- 
gard to  many  sceptical  doubts.     He  asked  him  how  the 


364 


LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 


existence  of  God  was  proved  ;  what  worship  the  Deity 
approved,  and  whether  he  was  offended  by  a  false  one. 
Fenelon  replied  by  a  treatise  on  the  existence  of  God, 
which  is  characterised^  as  his  theology  always  is,  by  a 
fervent  spirit  of  charity. 

In  1702  the  duke  of  Burgundy  headed  the  army  in 
Flanders.  He  with  difficulty  obtained  leave  to  see  the 
archbishop,  when  he  visited  Cambray  ;  his  interview, 
when  permitted^  was  restricted  to  being  a  public  one, 
Fenelon,  fearing  to  raise  a  painful  struggle  in  his  beloved 
pupil's  mind,  had  left  Cambray,  when  the  letter  came  to 
apprise  him  that  they  were  allowed  to  meet.  They 
met  at  a  public  dinner  at  the  town-house  of  Cambray. 
It  passed  in  cold  ceremony  and  painful  reserve  :  it  was 
only  at  the  close,  when  Fenelon  presented  the  napkin  to 
the  prince,  that  the  latter  marked  his  internal  feeling, 
when,  on  returning  it,  he  said  aloud,  "  I  am  aware,  my 
lord  archbishop,  of  what  I  owe  you,  and  you  know  what 
I  am."  They  corresponded  after  this,  and  Fenelon's 
letters  are  remarkable  for  the  care  he  takes  to  check  all 
bigotry,  intolerance,  and  petty  religious  observances  in 
his  pupil ;  telling  him  that  a  prince  cannot  serve  God  as 
a  hermit  or  an  obscure  individual.  He  informed  him 
that  the  public  regarded  him  as  virtuous,  but  as  stern, 
timid,  and  scrupulous.  He  endeavoured  to  raise  him 
above  these  poorer  thoughts,  to  the  lofty  height  he  him- 
self had  reached.  He  taught  him  to  regard  his  rank  in 
its  proper  light,  as  a  motive  for  goodness  and  benevolence, 
and  to  desire  to  be  the  father,  not  the  master  of  his  people. 
His  opinions  with  regard  to  the  duke  are  given  in  great 
detail  in  a  letter  of  advice  addressed  to  the  duke  Beau- 
villiers,  in  which  we  see  that  the  priest  has  no  sinister 
influence  over  the  man;  and  that  while  Fenelon  practised 
privation  in  his  own  person,  he  could  recommend  an 
opposite  course  to  an  individual  differently  placed.  This 
intercourse  was  again  renewed  in  1708,  when  the  duke 
again  made  a  campaign  in  Flanders.  The  letters  of  his 
ancient  preceptor  on  this  occasion,  are  frank  and  manly: 
he  tells  him  the  public  opinion  j  he  advises  him  how 


FENELOX.  365 

best  to  gain  general  confidence  ;  and  to  sacrifice  all  his 
narrow  and  peculiar  opinions  to  an  elevated^ unprejudiced 
view  of  humanity.  The  reply  of  the  prince^  thanking 
him  for  his  counsels,  and  assuring  him  of  his  resolution 
to  act  upon  them,  is  highly  worthy  of  a  man  of  honour 
and  virtue. 

The  effect  of  the  war  was  to  spread  famine  and  misery  1709. 
throughout  France  :  1709  was  a  year  marked  by  suffer-  ^*^*' 
ing  and  want;  the  army  in  Flanders  was  destitute  of 
depots  for  food.  Fenelon  set  the  example  of  furnishing 
the  soldiery  with  bread.  Some  narrowrainded  men 
around  him  remonstrated,  saying  that  the  king  had 
treated  him  so  ill,  that  he  did  not  deserve  that  he  should 
come  forward  to  assist  his  subjects.  Fenelon,  animated 
by  that  simple  sense  of  justice  that  characterised  him, 
replied,  "  The  king  owes  me  nothing  ;  and  in  the  evils 
that  overwhelm  the  people,  I  ought,  as  a  Frenchman  and 
a  bishop,  to  give  back  to  the  state  what  I  have  received 
from  it."  His  palace  was  open  to  the  officers  who  needed 
assistance  and  shelter;  and  after  the  battle  of  Malplaquet, 
that,  as  well  as  his  neighbouring  seminary,  was  filled  with 
the  wounded.  His  generosity  went  so  far  as  to  hire  houses 
to  receive  others,  when  his  own  apartments  were  full. 
His  prudence  and  order  afforded  him  the  means  of  meet- 
ing these  calls  on  his  liberality,  which  he  did  not  confine 
to  the  upper  classes.  Whole  villages  weie  emptied  by  the 
approach  of  the  armies,  and  the  inhabitants  took  refuge 
in  the  fortified  towns  :  to  watch  over  these  sufferers — to 
console  them,  and  prevent  the  disorders  usually  incident 
to  such  an  addition  to  the  population,  was  another  task, 
which  he  cheerfully  fulfilled,  going  about  among  them, 
and  soothing  them  with  his  gentleness  and  kindness. 

When  the  dauphin,  father  of  the  duke  of  Burgundy,  1711. 
died, — men,  supple  in  their  serviUty,  began  to  consider  ^*^'' 
that,  on  the  event  of  his  pupil's  accession  to  the  throne,     ^^* 
Fenelon  would  become  powerful  ;  and  the   nobles  and 
officers  began  to  pay  him  court,  when  passing  through 
Cambray  :   Fenelon  received  them  with  the  same  sim- 
phcity  with  which  he  regarded  their  absence.     He  was 


366  LITERARY    AND    SCIKNTXFIC    MEN. 

far  above  all  human  grandeur ;  he  only  made  use  of  the 
respect  rendered  him,  for  the  benefit  of  those  who  paid 
it.  It  was  a  miserable  reverse  to  his  hopes  for  France 
1612.  "when  his  royal  pupil  died.  Fe'nelon  received  the  intel- 
JEtat.  Hgence  of  his  death  with  that  mingled  grief  and  resig- 
61-  nation  that  belonged  to  his  character.  He  declared,  that 
though  all  his  ties  were  broken,  and  that  nothing  here- 
after would  attach  him  to  earth,  yet  that  he  would  not 
move  a  finger  to  recal  the  prince  to  life,  against  the  will 
of  God.  His  last  years  were  marked  by  the  deaths  of 
several  of  his  dearest  friends.  The  abbe  de  Langeron, 
banished  from  court  for  his  sake,  and  who  resided  with 
him  atCambray,  had  died  17 10,  and  with  his  death  began 
the  series  of  losses  afterwards  destined  to  afflict  Fene'lon 
deeply.  In  1 713  the  dukes  de  Bouvilliers  and  de  Chev- 
reuse,  both  died.  He  felt  his  losses  deeply;  knowing 
that  they  came  from  the  hand  of  God,  he  resigned 
himself,  but  grew  entirely  detached  from  the  affections 
and  interests  of  this  world. 

Louis  at  last  learnt  to  appreciate  the  merits  of  the  most 
virtuous  and  wisest  man  in  his  kingdom.  His  misfor- 
tunes, and  the  deaths,  one  after  the  other,  of  all  his  pos- 
terity, softened  his  heart;  added  to  this,  the  death  of  Fe- 
nelon's  pupil  took  away  the  sting  of  envy;  he  no  longer 
feared  that  he  should  be  surpassed  in  glory  and  good  by 
his  successor  ;  and  he  could  love  the  teacher  of  those  vir- 
tues, which  existed  no  longer  in  the  person  of  his  grandson 
to  eclipse  his  own.  That  such  unworthy  motives  might 
actuate  him,  is  proved  by  his  act  of  burning  all  the  papers 
and  letters  of  Fene'lon  which  were  found  among  the  effects 
of  the  duke  of  Burgundy  after  his  death.  Fe'ne'Ion  re- 
quested the  duke  de  Beauvilliers  to  claim  them,  who  made 
the  request  to  madame  de  Maintenon.  She  replied  : 
"  I  was  desirous  of  sending  you  back  all  the  papers 
belonging  to  you  and  M.  de  Cambray ;  but  the  king 
chose  to  burn  them  himself.  I  confess  that  I  am  truly 
sorry ;  nothing  so  beautiful  or  so  good  was  ever  written. 
If  the  prince  whom  we  lainent  had  some  faults,  it  was 
not  because  the  counsels  given  him  were  feeble,  or  be- 


FENELON.  367 

cause  he  was  too  much  flattered.  We  may  say,  that 
those  who  act  uprightly  are  never  put  to  confusion." 
But  though  the  king  indulged  a  mean  spirit  in  destroy- 
ing these  invaluable  papers,  the  reading  them  led  him  to 
esteem  the  writer.  Accordingly,  he  often  sent  to  consult 
him,  and  was  about  to  recal  him  to  court,  when  the 
fatal  event  arrived,  which  robbed  the  world  of  him. 
"VVe  'are  told  also  that  the  pope,  Clement  XI.,  had  des- 
tined for  him  a  cardinal's  hat. 

At  the  beginning  of  1 71 5  Fenelon  fell  ill  of  an  inflam- 
mation of  the  chest,  which  caused  a  continual  fever.  It 
lasted  for  six  days  and  a  half,  with  extreme  pain.  During 
this  period  he  gave  every  mark  of  patience,  gentleness, 
and  firmness.  There  were  no  unmanly  fears,  nor  un- 
christian neghgence.  On  the  fifth  day  of  his  illness  he 
dictated  a  letter  to  the  confessor  of  the  king,  de- 
claratory of  his  inviolable  attachment  to  his  sovereign, 
and  his  entire  acquiescence  in  the  condemnation  of  his 
book.  He  made  two  requests,  both  relating  to  his  dio- 
cese :  the  one,  that  a  worthy  successor,  opposed  to 
Jansenism,  should  be  given  him;  the  other  regarded  the 
establishment  of  his  seminary.  From  this  time  he 
appeared  insensible  to  what  he  quitted,  and  occupied 
only  by  the  thought  of  what  he  was  going  to  meet.  He 
passed  his  last  hours  surrounded  by  his  friends,  and 
particularly  by  his  beloved  nephew,  the  marquis  de 
Fenelon  *  ;  and  breathed  his  last  without  a  pang. 

*  The  marquis  de  Fenelon  was  tlie  archbishop's  great  nephew.  His 
uncle,  who  fir>t  brought  him  forward  in  Paris,  left  a  daughter,  who  mar- 
ried a  brother  of  Ft'nelon  by  his  father's  first  marriage.  The  marquis  in 
question  was  the  grandson  of  this  pair.  He  was  brought  up  at  Cambray 
by  his  great  uncle.  The  most  aftectiDuate  and  intimate  of  Fenelou's  letters 
are  addressed  to  him.  He  was  appointed  ambassador  to  Holland,  and 
second  plenipotentiary  under  cardinal  Flcury  at  the  congress  of  Soissons. 
He  was  killed  at  the  battle  of  Kaucoux,  October  11.  1746.  Voltaire  knew 
him  well,  and  says  on  this  occasion,  "  The  only  general  officer  France  lost 
in  this  battle  was  the  marquis  de  Fenelon,  nephew  of  the  immortal  arch- 
bishop of  Cambray.  He  had  been  brought  up  by  him,  and  had  all  his 
virtue  with  a  very  diffierent  character.  Twenty  years  employed  in  the  em- 
bassy to  Holland  had  not  extinguished  a  fire  and  rash  valour,  which  cost  him 
his  life.  Having  been  formerly  wounded  in  the  foot,  and  scarcely  able  to 
walk,  he  penetrated  the  enemy's  entrenchments  on  horseback.  He  sought 
death,  and  he  found  it.  His  extreme  devotion  augmented  his  intrepidity. 
He  believed  that  to  die  for  his  king  was  the  act  most  agreeable  to  God.  We 
must  confess  that  an  army  composed  of  men  entertaining  this  sentiment 
would  be  invincible." 


368 


LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 


Louis'XIV.  outlived  him  but  a  few  months.  The 
duke  of  Orleans  became  regent.  France  flourished  in 
peace  under  his  regency ;  while  its  aristocracy  was  cor- 
rupted by  a  state  of  libertinism  and  profligacy,  un- 
equalled except  in  the  pages  of  Suetonius.  Had  Fene- 
lon  livedj  would  he  not  have  influenced  the  regent_, 
whose  perverted  mind  was  yet  adorned  by  talents,  and 
regulated  by  a  sense  of  political  justice  ? — Would  he  not 
have  fostered  the  child  of  his  pupil,  and  engrafted 
virtue  in  the  soul  of  Louis  XV.  ?  This  is  but  con- 
jecture ;  futile,  except  as  it  may  teach  us  to  make  use 
of  the  example  and  precepts  of  the  good  and  vrise,  while 
they  are  spared  to  us.  Soon  all  but  their  memo>-y  is 
lost  in  the  obscurity  and  nothingness  of  the  tomb. 

In  person,  Fenelon  was  tail  and  well  made;  a  paleness 
of  countenance  testified  his  studious  and  abstemious 
habits ;  while  his  expressive  eyes  diffused  softness  and 
gentle  gaiety  over  his  features.  His  manners  displayed 
the  grace  and  dignity,  the  delicacy  and  propriety,  which 
belong  to  the  well-born,  when  their  understandings  are 
cultivated  by  learning,  and  their  hearts  enlarged  by  the 
practices  of  virtue.  Eloquent,  witty,  judicious,  and 
pleasing,  he  adapted  himself  to  the  time  and  person 
with  whom  he  conversed,  and  was  admired  and  beloved 
by  all. 

His  character  is  sufficiently  detailed  in  these  pages ; — 
his  benevolence,  generosity,  and  sublime  elevation  above 
all  petty  and  self-interested  views.  It  may  be  said, 
that  his  piety  was  too  softening  and  ideal ;  yet  in  practice 
it  was  not  so.  His  nephew,  brought  up  under  his  care, 
and  embued  with  his  principles  of  religion,  was  a  gal- 
lant soldier,  and  believed  that  it  was  the  duty  of  a  sub- 
ject to  die  for  his  king;  and,  acting  on  this  belief,  fell  at 
the  battle  of  Raucoux.  A  religion  that  teaches  toleration, 
active  charity,  and  resignation,  inculcates  the  lessons  to 
which  human  nature  inchnes  with  most  difficulty,  and 
which,  practised  in  a  generous,  unprejudiced  manner,  raise 
man  to  a  high  pitch  of  excellence.  "  I  know  not,"  says 
a  celebrated  writer,  ''  whether  God  ought  to  be  loved  for    ^ 


FENELON.  369 

himself,  but  1  am  sure  that  this  is  how  we  must  love 
Fenelon."  An  infidel  must  have  found  piety  amiable, 
when  it  assumed  his  shape.  The  artless  simpHcity  of  his 
character  prevented  his  taking  pride  in  his  own  vir- 
tues*: he  felt. his  weaknesses;  he  scarcely  deplored  them; 
he  laid  them  meekly  at  the  feet  of  God ;  and,  praying 
only  that  he  might  learn  to  love  him  better,  believed 
that  in  the  perfection  of  love  he  should  find  the  per- 
fection of  his  own  nature. 

The  chevalier  Ramsay,  a  Scotch  baronet,  gives  us,  in 
his  life,  a  delightful  account  of  his  intimate  intercourse. 
Ramsay  was  troubled  by  scepticism  on  religious  sub- 
jects, and  applied  to  the  archbishop  of  Cambray  for 
enhghtenment,  which  he  afforded  with  a  zeal,  patience, 
and  knowledge,  both  of  his  subject  and  human  nature, 
which  speedily  brought  his  disciple  over  to  Catholicism. 
Ramsay  delights  to  expatiate  on  the  virtues  and  genius 
of  his  admirable  friend.  He  penetrated  to  the  depths 
of  his  heart,  and  read  thos'e  internal  sentiments  which 
Fenelon  never  expressed  in  writing.  "  Had  he  been 
born  in  a  free  country,"  Ramsay  afterwards  wrote  to 
Voltaire,  *'  he  would  have  displayed  his  whole  genius, 
and  given  a  full  career  to  his  own  principles,  never 
known."  That,  of  all  men,  Fenelon  must  have  enter- 
tained feelings  too  sublime,  in  their  abnegation  of  self,  to 
please  a  despotism,  both  of  church  and  state,  we  can 
readily  believe,  f 

*  "  Fenelon  a  caracterise  lui-merae  en  peu  de  mots  cette  simplicite  qui 
lerendoit  si  chfer  a  tons  les  coeurs.  '  La  simplicite,'  disoit-il,  '  est  la  droi- 
ture  d'une  ame  qui  s'interdit  tout  retour  sur  elle  et  sur  ses  actions.  Cette 
vortu  est  different  de  la  sincerite,  et  la  surpasse.  On  voit  heaucoup  de 
gens  qui  sent  sinceres  sans  etre  simples.  lis  ne  veulent  passer  que  pour  ce 
qu'ils  sent,  mais  ils  craignent  sans  cesse  de  passer  pour  ce  qu'ils  ne 
sont  pas.  L'homme  simple  n'afFecte  ni  la  vert u,  ni  la  verite  meme;  il 
n'est  jamais  occupe  de  lui,  il  semble  avoir  perdu  ce  moi  dont  on  est  si  ja- 
loux.'  Dans  ce  portrait  Fenelon  se  peignoit  lui-meme  sans  le  vouloir.  II 
dtoit  bien  mieux  que  modeste,  car  il  ne  songeoit  pas  memo  k  I'etre  ;  il  lui 
suffisoit  pour  etre  aime  de  se  montrer  tel  qu'il  etoit,  ct  on  pouvoit  lui  dire : 

L'art  n'est  pas  fait  pour  toi,  tu  n'en  a  pas  besoin. 
— Eloge  de  Fenelon,  par  D'Alembert. 

f  There  is  reason  to  think  that  the  principles  to  wliich  Ramsay 
alludes,  regarded  government.  Bent  upon  destroying  the  power  of  the 
church,  then  at  its  height,  Voltaire  and  the  philosophers  of  that  day  re- 
garded monarchical  power  with  an  eye  of  favour.      Fi^nelon  had  much 

VOL.  I.  B  B 


370  LITERARY    AND    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

Kind  and  gentle  to  all,  lending  himself  with  facility 
to  every  call  made  on  him ;  polite,  from  the  pure  source 
of  politeness,  benevolence  of  heart ;  —  every  one  was 
welcomed,  every  one  satisfied.  A  friend  one  day  made 
excuses  for  interrupting  him  in  a  work  he  was  desirous 
of  finishing  :  ''  Do  not  distress  yourself,"  he  replied  : 
**■  you  do  more  good  to  me  by  interrupting  me,  than  I 
should  have  done  to  others  by  working."  Though  of 
a  sensitive  and  vivacious  temperament,  he  was  never 
betrayed  into  any  show  of  temper.  During  the  first 
years  of  his  exile,  when  he  severely  felt  his  estrange- 
ment from  the  refined  and  enlightened  society  of  the 
capital,  and  from  friends  dear  to  his  heart,  he  was 
still  equable  and  cheerful ;  always  alive  to  the  interests 
of  others,  never  self-engrossed.  He  had  the  art  of 
adapting  himself  to  the  capacities  and  habits  of  every 
one :  —  "I  have  seen  him,"  says  Ramsay,  "  in  a 
single  day,  mount,  and  descend  all  ranks  ;  converse  with 
the  noble  in  their  own  language,  preserving  through, 
out  his  episcopal  dignity  ;  and  then  talk  with  the  lowly, 
as  a  good  father  with  his  children,  and  this  without 
effort  or  affectation." 

If  he  were  thus  to  his  acquaintance,  to  the  friends 
whom  he  loved,  he  was  far  more.  From  the  divine  love 
which  he  cherished,  as  the  source  of  every  virtue,  sprung 
a  spirit  of  attachment  pure,  tender,  and  generous.  His 
own  sentiments  with  regard  to  friendship,  when  he  ex- 
patiates on  it,  in  a  letter  to  the  duke  of  Burgundy, 
are  conceived  in  the  noblest  and  most  disinterested 
sense.  In  practice,  he  was  forbearing  and  delicate ; 
he  bore  the  faults  of  those  around  him,  yet  seized 
the  happy  moment  to  instruct  and  amend.  He  felt 
that  self-love  rendered  us  ahve  to  the  imperfections 
of  another  ;    and  that   want  of  sympathy   arose  from 


more  enlightened  opinions.  "Every  wise  prince,"  he  said,  "ought  to 
desire  to  be  only  an  executor  of  the  laws,  and  to  have  a  supreme  council 
to  moderate  his  authority."  D'Alembert's  remarks  on  this  expression, 
show  how  totally  he  misapprehended  its  true  meaning.  Fentlon  had 
conversed  with  Ramsay  and  other  Englishmen  ;  he  knew  the  uses  of  a 
constitution  ;  he  was  fully  aware  of  the  benefit  a  nation  derived,  when  the 
legislative  power  was  above  the  executive. 


FENELON.  371 

being  too  self- engrossed.  He  knew  it  was  the  duty 
of  a  friend  to  correct  faults ;  but  he  could  wait  pa- 
tiently for  years  to  give  one  salutary  lesson.  In  the 
same  spirit,  he  begged  his  friends  not  to  be  sparing  in 
their  instructions  to  him.  His  great  principle  was,  that 
all  was  in  common  with  friends.  '^  How  delightful  it 
would  be,"  he  sometimes  said,  ''  if  every  possession 
was  a  common  one ;  if  each  man  would  no  longer  re- 
gard his  knowledge,  his  virtues,  his  enjoyments,  and  his 
wealth,  as  his  own  merely.  It  is  thus,  that  in  heaven, 
that  the  saints  have  all  things  in  God,  and  nothing  in 
themselves.  It  is  a  general  and  infinite  beatitude,  whose 
flux  and  reflux  causes  their  fulness  of  bliss.  If  our  friends 
below  would  submit  to  the  same  poverty,  and  the  same 
community  of  all  things,  temporal  and  spiritual,  we 
should  no  longer  hear  those  chilling  words  thine  and 
mine ;  we  should  aU  be  rich  and  poor  in  unity."  The 
death  of  one  he  loved  could  move  him  to  profound 
grief;  and  he  could  say  —  "Our  true  friends  are  at 
once  our  greatest  delight  and  greatest  sorrow.  One  is 
tempted  to  wish  that  all  attached  friends  should  agree 
to  die  together  on  the  same  day  :  those  v/ho  love  not, 
are  willing  to  bury  all  their  fellow-creatures,  with  dry 
eyes  and  satisfied  hearts  ;  they  are  not  worthy  to  live. 
It  costs  much  to  be  susceptible  to  friendship  ;  but  those 
who  are,  would  be  ashamed  if  they  were  not ;  they  prefer 
suffering  to  heartlessness."  Religion  alone  could  bring 
consolation  :  —  "  Let  us  unite  ourselves  in  heart,"  he 
wrote,  ''^  to  those  whom  we  regret ;  he  is  not  far  from 
us,  though  invisible  ;  he  tells  us,  in  mute  speech,  to 
hasten  to  rejoin  him.  Pure  spirits  see,  hear,  and  love 
their  friends  in  the  common  centre."  Such  are  the 
soothing  expressions  of  Fenelon  ;  and  such  as  these 
caused  d'Alembert  to  remark,  "  that  the  touching 
charm  of  his  works,  is  the  sense  of  quiescence  and  peace 
which  he  imparts  to  his  reader  ;  it  is  a  friend  who 
draws  near,  and  whose  soul  overflows  into  yours  :  he 
suspends,  at  least  for  a  time,  your  regrets  and  suffer- 
ings. We  may  pardon  many  men  who  force  us  to 
B  B  2 


372  LITERAUr    AXD    SCIENTIFIC    MEN. 

hate  humanity^  in  favour  of  Fenelon  who  makes  us 
love  it." 

Most  of  his  works  are  either  pious  or  ■\rritten  for  the 
instruction  of  his  royal  pupil.  The  duke  de  Beauvil- 
liers  had  copies  of  most  of  those  letters  and  papers^  ad- 
dressed to  the  duke  of  Burgundy^,  which  Louis  XIV, 
destroyed.  Among  these,  his  directions  with  regard 
to  the  conscience  of  a  king^  is  full  of  enlightened 
morahty. 

He  had  a  great  love  for  all  classic  learning.  His 
Telemachus  is  full  of  traits  which  show  that  he  felt  all 
the  charm  of  Greek  poetry.  He  was  made  member  of 
the  French  academy  the  31st  of  March^  l693,  in  the 
place  of  FeUsson.  His  oration  on  the  occasion  was 
simple  and  short.  He  afterwards  addressed  his  Dia- 
logues on  Eloquence  to  the  academy.  These  prove  the 
general  enlightenment  of  his  mind,  and  the  justice  of 
his  views.  His  remarks  on  language  are  admirable. 
"VVTien  he  speaks  of  tragedy,  he  rises  far  above  Corneille, 
Racine,  and  Voltaire,  in  his  conception  of  the  drama ; 
in  that,  as  in  every  other  species  of  composition,  he 
tried  to  bring  back  his  countrymen  to  simplicity  and 
nature.  He  desired  them  to  speak  more  from  the  heart, 
less  from  the  head.  He  shows  how  what  the  French 
falsely  deemed  to  be  delicacy  of  taste,  took  all  vivid 
colouring  and  truth  from  their  pictures,  gi^'ing  us  a  high 
enamel,  in  place  of  vigorous  conception  and  finished 
execution.  He  gives  just  applause  to  ]\IoUere ;  his 
only  censure  is  applied  to  the  Misanthrope  :  "  I  can- 
not pardon  him,"  he  says,  "  for  making  vice  graceful, 
and  representing  virtue  as  austere  and  odious."  All  his 
works  are  essentially  didactic  ;  and  they  have  the  charm 
which  we  must  expect  would  be  found  in  the  address 
of  one  so  virtuous  and  wise,  and  calm,  to  erring  passion- 
tost  humanity. 

His  Telemachus  has  become,  to  a  great  degree,  a 
mere  book  of  instruction  to  young  persons.  In  its 
day,  it  was  considered  a  manual  for  kings,  inculcating 
their  duties  even   too   strictly,   and  with  too  much  re- 


FEXELON.  373 

gard  for  the  liberties  of  the  subject.  In  every  despotic 
country,  where  it  is  considered  eligible  that  the  sove- 
reign should  be  instructed  and  the  people  kept  in  igno- 
rance, this  work  is  still  invaluable,  if  such  a  one  can 
be  found  ;  but,  in  a  proper  sense,  it  cannot,  except  in 
Turkey  and  Russia.  There  is  much  tyranny,  but  the 
science  of  pohtics  is  changed  :  the  welfare  of  nations  rests 
on  another  basis  than  the  virtues  and  wisdom  of  kings; — 
it  rests  on  knowledge,  and  morals  of  the  people.  The  pro- 
per task  of  the  lawgiver  and  philanthropist  is  to  enlighten 
nations,  now  that  masses  exert  so  great  an  influence 
over  governments.  A  king,  as  every  individual  placed 
in  a  conspicuous  situation,  must  be  the  source  of  much 
good  and  evil,  happiness  or  misery,  within  his  own 
circle  ;  but  in  England  and  France  the  influence  of  the 
people  is  so  direct  as  to  demand  our  most  anxious  en- 
deavours to  enhghten  them  ;  while,  in  countries  where 
yet  they  have  no  voice  in  government,  the  day  is  so 
near  at  hand  when  they  shall  obtain  it,  that  it  is  even 
more  necessary  to  render  them  fit  to  exert  it ;  so  that 
when  the  hour  comes,  they  shall  not  be  fierce  as 
emancipated  slaves,  —  but,  like  free  men,  just,  true, 
and  patient.  This  change  has  operated  to  cast 
Telemachus  into  shade ;  and  the  decay  of  Catho- 
licism has  spread  a  similar  cloud  over  Fenelon's  reli- 
gious works;  but  the  spirit  of  the  man  will  pre- 
serve them  from  perishing.  His  soul,  tempered  in 
every  virtue,  transcends  the  priestly  form  it  assumed  on 
earth ;  and  every  one  who  wishes  to  learn  the  lessons 
taught  by  that  pure,  simple,  and  entire  disinterestedness, 
which  is  the  foundation  of  the  most  enhghtened  wisdom 
and  exalted  virtue,  must  consult  the  pages  of  Fe'nelon. 
He  will  rise  from  their  perusal  a  wiser  and  a  better 
man. 

EXD    OF    THE    FIRST   VOLUiTE. 


London : 

Printed  bv  A.  Spottiswoode, 

New- Street-Square. 


CABINET  OF  BIOGRAPHY. 

CONDUCTED   BY    THE 

REV.  DIONYSIUS  LARDNER,  LL.D.  F.R.S.  L.&E. 

M.R.I.A.   F.R.A.S.   F.L.S.   F.Z.S.   Hon.  F.C.P.S.  &c.  &c. 

ASSISTED    BY 

EMINENT  LITERARY  AND  SCIENTIFIC  MEN. 


EMINENT 

LITERARY   AND   SCIENTIFIC   MEN 

OF  FRANCE. 

VOL.  I. 


LONDON: 

PRINTED   FOR 

LONGMAN,   ORME,  BROWN,   GREEN,  &   LONGMANS, 

PATERNOSTER-ROW  ; 

AND    JOHN    TAYLOR, 

UPPER  GOWER  STREET. 


1838. 


■b^ 


London  : 
Printed  by  A.  Spoitiswoode, 

New-Street-Square. 


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