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 LIBRARY OF 
 
 LEWIS BINGLEY WYNNE 
 
 A.B.A.M.. COLUMBIAN COLLEGE, -71. '73 
 WASHINGTON. D. C. 
 
 THE GIFT OF 
 
 MRS. MARY A. WYNNE 
 
 AND 
 
 JOHN H. WYNNE 
 
 CORNELL '9B 
 1922 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PQ 243.A81 1855 
 
 Louis Fourteenth, and the writers of his 
 
 3 1924 027 156 243 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924027156243 
 
LOUIS FOURTEENTH, 
 
 WRITERS OF HIS AGE; 
 
 A COURSE OF LECTURES 
 
 DELIVERED (IN FRENCH) TO A SELECT AUDIENCE 
 IN NEW YORK, 
 
 REV. J. F. ASTIE. 
 
 INTRODUCTION AND TRANSLATION 
 
 BY THE 
 
 REV. E. N. KIRK. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 PUBLISHED BY JOHN P. JEWETT AND COMPANY. 
 
 CLEVELAND, OHIO: 
 
 JEWETT, PROCTOR AND WORTIIINQTON. 
 
 NEW YORK: SHELDON, LAMPORT AND BLAKEMAN. 
 
 1855. 
 

 A _, 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, by 
 
 JOHN P. JEWETT & CO. 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 
 
 w y n n c- 
 
 O AMBRIDG E : 
 ALLEN AND FAENHAM, STEREOTYPERS AND PRINTERS. 
 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAOE 
 
 Intboduction vii 
 
 LECTURE I. 
 The Age op Louis XIV 3 
 
 / LECTURE II. 
 
 Pascal's Pbovincial Letteks 39 
 
 NCoi 
 
 LECTURE in. 
 
 ORNEILLE 83 
 
 LECTURE IV. 
 Fenelon 151 
 
 LECTURE V. 
 La Fontaine 189 
 
 LECTURE VI. 
 
 Boileatj 235 
 
 LECTURE VII. 
 /Racine 289 
 
 A* (v) 
 
VI CONTENTS. 
 
 LECTURE VIII. 
 
 OLIEEE 325 
 
 LECTURE IX. 
 Pascal's Thoughts .... ■>■* 387 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Our native artists have produced several truly national 
 statues. Among them is " the dying Indian ; " emblem of a 
 noble, simple race of savage chiefs, over whose undefined 
 empires another dominion is now extended ; into whose inheri- 
 tance the stranger has entered; and on whose sepulchre the 
 white man now rears his dwelling. Another introduces us to 
 the pioneer settler; tall and brawny; of frank and generous 
 countenance ; altogether pervaded with the dignity of conscious 
 manhood. Yet another is " California," with smiling face, 
 holding before her, in one hand, the divining-rod which points 
 to the golden loadstone at her feet, and concealing behind her 
 figure, in the other hand, a scourge. Perhaps still another 
 emblematic statue might be made, representing the Genius of 
 America, young, bold, elastic; rather firm and nervous than 
 graceful ; with an earnest, forward gaze, indicating the attrac- 
 tive influence of those brilliant prospects of wealth and power 
 which the future presents ; while he scarcely notices the vener- 
 able figure of Wisdom, who holds to his view a mirror reflecting 
 the Past. 
 
 The wise will welcome every judicious effort to create 
 among us a taste for history ; for they well know that " Young 
 America " cannot dispense with it ; since he cannot thoroughly 
 
 (7) 
 
Viii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 understand the present, without a perception of its relations to 
 the past. Among the most undesirable developments of our 
 national character, is our self-confident, reckless adoption of 
 new political theories ; our habit of settling great principles of 
 policy by a few commonplace deductions from the fundamental 
 doctrine of personal equality. We aspire to be rulers, before 
 we have qualified ourselves for the momentous task. We 
 venture to lead a nation into the future, without securing for 
 our guidance the concentrated light of the world's political 
 experience. Indeed it may be said with truth, that while no 
 civilized people on earth have more need of historical knowl- 
 edge than we, none are moving forward to the future more 
 regardless of its lessons. 
 
 Our progress in science has been very respectable, and our 
 progress in the material arts wonderful. The Schools are ele- 
 vating the standard of literature ; but our unconscious deficiency 
 is in historical scienpe, Too little zeal seems to be manifested 
 for that knowledge of man, of humanity as a unit, which in- 
 cludes the entire history of civilization, and which is supremely 
 important to us. 
 
 It was not so, however, at the beginning ; and well for us 
 that it was not. The Constitution of the Republic was framed 
 by men who had a thorough mastery of political science ; which 
 is only a knowledge of what has been done in previous ages, for 
 the government of society. 
 
 The following course of lectures makes no large pretensions. 
 It is a small contribution to our stock of knowledge, by a genial 
 and generous Frenchman. He invites us to review with him 
 a very important period of his nation's history ; partially in its 
 political, chiefly in its literary features. And it makes its 
 appearance opportunely, when present circumstances are tend- 
 ing to increase our respect for his country, and to awaken in us 
 
INTRODUCTION. IX 
 
 higher expectations of its future influence on the progress of 
 human affairs. 
 
 The internal history of France, since the days of Louis XIV., 
 has, on the whole, greatly abated that degree of admiration 
 which had been inspired by his reign ; or rather, by the early 
 part of that reign. Yet it is very manifest from her connection 
 with the affairs of Europe since that period, that the Gallic race 
 still stands among the dominant powers of +, -3 Christian world. 
 And the present war is giving her a moral triumph over Great 
 Britain, which is even more impressive than their united gal- 
 lant achievements at Alma and Inkerman. How can a nation 
 with a commerce so inferior to that of England ; with no vast 
 colonial market for her industrial products ; just emerging from 
 a series of political revolutions that shook the foundations of 
 society ; how can such a nation appear at the head of that great 
 defensive league of Southern Europe, and modern civilization, 
 against Northern despotism, and Cimmerian barbarism, unless 
 that nation contains great moral resources within itself? France 
 was prompt in meeting the aggressive movements of the Czar, 
 and in comprehending his policy, while England was still lin- 
 gering; either duped, or doubting what she ought to have 
 known with certainty. Amid the horrid scenes of the Crimea 
 the French have proved themselves masters of that practical 
 sense, which we have generally supposed to be monopolized in 
 Britain. France has as judiciously defended her troops against 
 the tempestuous climate of the Black Sea, as they have bravely 
 defended her cause against the Russians ; while England has 
 left her. troops to fight her enemies, unfed, unsheltered, unsup- 
 plied with medicines or munitions of war. The explanation 
 of this shameful treatment of her army is obvious. But it 
 involves the conclusion, either that despotism is a better defence . 
 of a nation than freedom ; or that France, in practical sense, is 
 
X INTRODUCTION. 
 
 in advance of Britain. Her present position is, therefore, giving 
 a peculiar interest to every judicious effort to increase our 
 acquaintance with her history. 
 
 A Frenchman is, then, inviting us, citizens of the American 
 
 Protestant Republic, to go back with him, and look again upon 
 
 the age of the mighty Catholic despot of France, whose will 
 
 was the strongest human element in the seventeenth century, 
 
 after Richelieu's will had ceased to act on earthly events. He 
 
 invites us to imagine ourselves transported back in time, to the 
 
 year 1638; and over in space, to the capital of France. We 
 
 shall find it, however, a very different city from the Paris of 
 
 the present day. There are no asphaltic pavements ; no Rue 
 
 Rivoli ; no gaudy Magdalen Church, in which the elder babies 
 
 of Paris amuse themselves ; no Place de la Concorde, as seen 
 
 at this day. The garden of Plants, the Tuilleries, the Louvre, 
 
 the Invalides, the Pantheon, all unfinished ; and the Boulevards, 
 
 and streets, hereafter to be the most elegant in the world, are 
 
 yet in a very primitive condition. Louis Xni. is on the 
 
 throne; his mother, Maria de Medici, in banishment; the 
 
 Huguenots are subdued ; the Montmorenci party crushed ; 
 
 Richelieu, all-powerful, and hated alike by the king and the 
 
 king's enemies, is still ascendant, because Louis cannot govern 
 
 without him. The French queen, daughter of Spain, named 
 
 Anne of Austria, has now for twenty years hoped, as with the 
 
 longings of a Jewish matron, to become the mother, as she was 
 
 the daughter and the wife of a king. At length her prayer is 
 
 heard, and on the 5th of September, 1638, she gives birth to 
 
 an infant. The palace is now full of joy ; and the nation, not 
 
 so wise as La Fontaine's frogs, who shall yet be introduced to 
 
 us, are rejoicing with the court. Looking back to that day 
 
 with our republican predilections, we can enter but partially 
 
 into the joy that a man-child is there born into the world. 
 
INTRODUCTION. xi 
 
 For he is to become the man who shall say : " I am the 
 State ; " and who shall carry out to its extreme that monarchi- 
 cal principle, which makes the nation's life a pulsation from the 
 sovereign's heart ; its political action, an expression of his will. 
 This man is to sit in the place of God ; making law even for 
 the conscience. 
 
 This course of lectures is mainly literary ; yet as their author 
 has justly shown, the political affairs of a country greatly 
 modify its intellectual development. The inquiry is then 
 natural, when we see how prominent a feature of the age 
 absolute monarchy was ; how shall we account for the fact that 
 the theory of absolutism, in its modern form, then came to its 
 maturity, and that it was so thoroughly reduced to practice; and 
 how, likewise, came society to receive it so unresistingly ? The 
 answer to those inquiries involves an interesting view of the 
 growth of political principles, and of the advance of Society in 
 France. *" 
 
 Beginning with the reign of Charles the Bald, a. d. 843, we 
 
 find the Barons retaining their feudal independence of the 
 
 throne ; being bound to the king merely as their military chief, 
 
 whose summons they must obey only in case of invasion by 
 
 foreign enemies. Royalty was then a very limited power. 
 
 When Hugh Capet (987) assumed the crown, he found it 
 
 necessary to reconquer its prerogatives from the nobility. The 
 
 policy of the Capetian line was, to divide and conquer, by 
 
 attaching part of the nobility to the king, against the others, 
 
 and enlisting the church against the lay vassals generally. A 
 
 series of causes then intervened to lessen the power of the 
 
 nobility, and increase that of the crown. Among the most 
 
 prominent, perhaps, was the gradual growth of the communes 
 
 and cities ; leading finally, in the eleventh century, to those 
 
 simultaneous insurrections by which their charters were secured. 
 
xii iivTiioir'JCTiON. 
 
 And as the communes gain a position and political power, vvii 
 see society resolving itself more distinctly into those two ele- 
 ments: the sovereign and the people. That sentiment -which 
 we are so accustomed to witness, and which we call nationality, 
 public spirit, patriotism, was scarcely known in France until 
 the fourteenth century. And it is singular to observe how the 
 two great elements of modern society, nationality and royalty, 
 then grew together ; those two elements whose collision has given 
 to modern revolutions their terrible character. This nationality 
 of France finds one of its first, as well as its most romantic 
 expressions, in the character and history of the Maid of Or- 
 leans ; while the modern conception of a sovereign begins to be 
 realized in Louis XI. For in him we find no longer a ruler 
 governing, as his barbarian predecessors did, by the right 
 derived from popular election ; not as a monarch of the old 
 imperial type ; nor even as a theocratic king ; but simply as a 
 hereditary chief magistrate, governing by intellectual power 
 instead of physical force. It is true, his intellectual power was 
 rather cunning than wisdom ; yet it was a new exercise of 
 royalty, and, on the whole, a change for the better. Chateau- 
 briand says of him, with great beauty of expression, but with 
 less profound analysis than Guizot employs, " Louis XI. 
 appeared on earth to plant the throne of absolute monarchy on 
 the yet palpitating corpse of feudalism. This prince, standing 
 alone between the dying middle ages and the modern times just 
 emerging into existence, with one hand consigned to the scaffold 
 the old freedom of the nobles, while with the other he sub- 
 merged the young civic freedom ; shrewdly conciliating the 
 people, whose rising liberties he was crushing, by sacrificing 
 the aristocracy, and thus flattering the democratic passion for 
 equality." 
 
 Absolute monarchy was then a gradual growth. And in the 
 
INTRODUCTION. Xlii 
 
 person of Louis XIV. it found the qualities needed, both for its. 
 full development, and to make it welcome to his subjects. So 
 that although the theory of absolutism by no means originated 
 with him ; Louis XI. having acted upon it ; it having flourished 
 in Spain under Charles V. and Philip II.; yet to Louis XIV. 
 must be attributed its more definite establishment, and its popu- 
 larity in the other States of Europe. And while we must 
 deprecate this absorption by one man, of all the powers needed 
 to govern society, we, at the same time, must acknowledge that 
 it was just the remedy France then needed ; as it has recently 
 again proved itself to be the only effective remedy for her social 
 disorders. He found the nation humbled to the lowest degree 
 by the maladministration of the Cardinals, and he raised it to the 
 highest position among the States of Europe. Though it must 
 be remembered that another view of the case presents itself 
 as we approach the end of his long and brilliant reign. Yet he 
 accomplished, by means of an absolute power, the political 
 regeneration of France. And no man was ever better suited to 
 be a representative of despotism. His natural endowments 
 were of a high order ; though his education was deeply defec- 
 tive. What palliation this makes for his terrible faults and 
 crimes, is known fully only to One. His person was noble and 
 full of physical vigor ; his figure being tall, and his features 
 elegant. A peculiar dignity of language and manner was com- 
 bined with grace of attitude and of movement. The Spanish 
 gravity of his mother, rendered graceful by the polished suavity 
 of his French father, made him just the king that people would 
 have chosen. When Mazarin died, Louis was but twenty-two 
 years old, and entirely devoted to the pleasures of the court 
 and of hunting. On the decease of this crafty Italian minister, 
 the Secretary of State came to the young king and inquired : 
 " To whom, Sire, shall we now apply for directions ? " " To 
 
 B 
 
xiv INTRODUCTION. 
 
 me," was his prompt reply, uttered with a dignity of manner 
 and a majesty of tone, which gave the inquirer to understand 
 that France had now found a king ; one worthy to call Henry 
 IV. his grandfather. The sceptre once in his hand, he really 
 ruled as well as reigned. Although he had grown up in entire 
 ignorance of manly affairs, and especially of kingcraft, his 
 thoughts and time having been devoted, to gallantry and pleas- 
 ure, yet he entered at once upon the business of his office with 
 a tact and skill which were surprising. Yet we must not ex- 
 aggerate; he was a popular sovereign, but not a truly great 
 man. His actions never justified, at the bar of history, his 
 French title : " Louis le Grand." To that age and people, 
 indeed, he was the great monarch ; but not to the discriminating 
 eye of history. He possessed, says Grouvelle, "justness, 
 solidity, constancy, and application. He united thereto habit- 
 ual discretion, and the seriousness which conceals deficiencies. 
 He could inspire an awe that amounted to worship." So great 
 in fact was that power, as almost to justify the reply of Cardi- 
 nal de Retz. "When this restless ecclesiastic, long banished 
 from the Court, was at length restored to favor, the king, on 
 meeting him, remarked : " Cardinal, you have grown gray." 
 " Sire," replied the courtier, " one grows gray quickly, who is 
 under the displeasure of your majesty." But what most ex- 
 alted him with the French was, that he was thoroughly a 
 Frenchman ; concentrating in himself the good and the bad 
 national qualities to a high degree. He was chivalrous in his 
 love of arms and woman ; though, in reality, neither a warrior 
 nor a husband ; for, the value and the nature of domestic life he 
 did not comprehend. Polish of manner, etiquette, theatrical 
 display of qualities, he was master of, to an extraordinary 
 degree. He was not a hero ; but he played the hero. He was 
 not learned ; but he acted the character of Augustus, the patron 
 
INTRODUCTION. X V 
 
 of learning. He loved the glory of France, which he regarded 
 as identical with the glory of Louis XIV. This fell in with 
 the national taste; and the people and the king were thus 
 united in the chief object of their mutual desires. He was, also, 
 eminently pious, in the Catholic way ; being at once supersti- 
 tious and immoral ; devout, but living in the violation of the 
 laws of God. That is, to this day, characteristic, by no means 
 of every Frenchman, but to a great extent, of the so-called 
 higher classes of France; nay, of every Roman Catholic 
 people, where the priests are patronized by the government. 
 
 Yet we must admit that even a monarch in some meas- 
 ure shares the glory of his court, his army, and his country. 
 The power to call great minds into action, and the ability to 
 select them, and set them in their appropriate spheres, has cer- 
 tainly always distinguished great rulers. And such we find 
 under Louis, in every department. We may cite as a promi- 
 nent instance, Colbert, whose financial genius saved the nation 
 from threatening bankruptcy; whose organizing spirit devel- 
 oped the material resources and industrial power of France ; 
 who gave her a share in the vast profits of that traffic from 
 which England, Holland, Flanders, Germany, Venice, Genoa, 
 and the Levant, had hitherto reaped so rich a harvest. 
 
 It must, then, be conceded that Louis had qualities which 
 secured the respect of judicious and able men ; that he raised 
 his country from a very low condition, to which she had been 
 brought by the Cardinals ; and placed her in the first rank of 
 nations. Spain had been permitted either to ravage the land, 
 or to keep a menacing army on the frontier. Civil war had 
 dried up the resources, and paralyzed the power of the people 
 and government. France was sinking among the rising nations 
 of Europe. But Louis at once commenced a course of war and 
 diplomacy, which preserved her territorial integrity, and gave 
 
Xvi INTRODUCTION. 
 
 her a standing among the first. Nor was his internal adminis- 
 tration less beneficial. Louis XL had given centralization to 
 the country; but Louis XIV. devised and established the 
 instruments it needed for its own permanence, and its efficient 
 operation. He invented new methods and improved old ones, 
 until he secured a very complete system of communication 
 between the Court and the country ; making the sovereign will 
 to be promptly felt at the extremities, and securing an equally 
 prompt return of service and taxes. The civil and military 
 branches of the administration were put on a new and efficient 
 footing by his energy and skill. 
 
 He, in fact, changed the very character of war. It had thus 
 far been a mere adventurous game. Men had hunted men, as 
 they did beasts ; not for their carcasses indeed, but for their 
 possessions. But Louis certainly lifted the terrible art one 
 stage above that. As Mr. Guizot has characterized his con- 
 flicts, "they were the wars of a regular government; of a 
 government fixed in the centre of its dominions, endeavoring 
 to extend its conquests around, to increase or consolidate its 
 territory ; in short, they were political wars. They may have 
 been just or unjust ; they may have cost France too dear ; they 
 may be objected to, on many grounds — on the score of moral- 
 ity, or excess ; but, in fact, they were of a much more rational 
 character than the wars which preceded them ; they were no 
 longer fanciful adventures; they were dictated by serious 
 motives ; their objects were, to reach some natural boundary, 
 to incorporate with France, some population who spoke the 
 same language, or to secure some point of defence against a 
 neighboring power.'' 
 
 Indeed, the whole military art was greatly advanced during 
 this reign. If the world were as it ought to be, this would not 
 constitute a recommendation. But war is international police 
 
INTRODUCTION. Xvii 
 
 in action ; a providential medicine ; though generally adminis- 
 tered by selfish practitioners ; cruelly, and for their own benefit. 
 We may complain of it, organize against it, and even essentially 
 modify it by our efforts ; but war must needs be, while sin 
 remains ascendant. However modified it may become under 
 the influence of Christian principle, it is to go on, like civil, 
 political, and criminal jurisprudence and punishment ; advanc- 
 ing to perfection ; as a dreadful defence of society against sin. 
 The mighty generals of Louis' army, his admirable military 
 engineers, his great prime-minister, gave a new impulse to 
 the military art. 
 
 Mr. Guizot likewise attributes much of his country's progress 
 in the career of civilization, to the enlightened legislation intro- 
 duced in that age. He also regards this reign as distinguished 
 for putting the science and art of diplomacy on a new footing. 
 " It became systematic and regular, and was always directed to- 
 wards a certain object, according to permanent principles. And 
 among other important changes, the regular birth of the system 
 of the balance of power in Europe took place at this period." 
 
 So that we find in the antecedents of that reign, and in the 
 person and administration of that monarch, the solution of the 
 inquiries we have imagined some of our readers to propose : 
 how came this monarch to conceive the idea of an absolute gov- 
 ernment, and to execute it so thoroughly; and, how came 
 society to receive it so unhesitatingly ?. 
 
 It must occur to every intelligent reader of the history of 
 France, that the age of Louis XIV. was one of peculiar 
 promise ; and he will naturally inquire whether that promise 
 has been fulfilled. The Protestant reader, especially, will look 
 to this reign for the legitimate social effects of Popery ; for, in 
 this reign, Popery and monarchy had uncontrolled sway; an 
 open field, and a glorious opportunity. What, then, were the 
 
 B* 
 
XVlii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 results of that experiment ? No future sovereign can ever be 
 more absolute in a European nation. The Catholic church 
 can never ask for a mighty nation to be more absolutely under 
 her control, or more rigidly faithful to her principles. Louis 
 was her favorite son, Massillon, Bossuet, Bourdaloue, Bridaine, 
 Fenelon, Arnaud, and Pascal, were then in the schools and pul- 
 pits of the nation; and all, Catholics. Will she ever see such 
 a constellation again in her heavens ? To an intelligent 
 observer of that age, looking on France as she appeared in the 
 middle of the last half of the seventeenth century, it must have 
 been certain that France had before her a prosperous and bril- 
 liant career. With such an impulse as she received from the 
 powerful writers, statesmen, generals, and artists of that period ; 
 with her language just moulded into a definite form, by the 
 labors of Boileau and Pascal; with the basis thus laid for 
 popular education; with the consolidated form given to the 
 country, and the absolute ascendency secured to the crown and 
 the crosier, what more could a friend of legitimate authority 
 and of the Papal church have asked, as giving assurance of 
 unrivalled prosperity and progress to the great nation ? And 
 yet, wonderful fact ! that morning of France's glory, was the 
 sunset of her greatness ; so that it is exceedingly painful to 
 pass, within less than a century, from that brilliant reign to the 
 horrors of the Eevolution, in which altar and throne, social 
 order and domestic life, were dashed from their elevation into 
 that abyss of anarchy, calling itself " the reign of Reason." 
 And yet there is a cause for this effect. And the same intelli- 
 gent observer, if he could have been endowed with the present 
 experience of mankind, might have seen the seeds of destruction 
 already sowed in that brilliant garden-plot, by the hands of 
 that most licentious, priestridden, and magnificent monarch. 
 An absolute sovereign with a Jesuit cpnfessor at his ear; a 
 
INTRODUCTION. XlX 
 
 succession of mistresses in his palace ; and a people from whom 
 the Bible was hidden, that they might worship the Mass-book ; 
 there is the hey to this mystery. 
 
 And it cannot but refresh the spirit of the generous scholar, 
 whose studies have led him to breathe, for a time, the stifled 
 air of Louis' court, to feel such Alpine breezes as he will find 
 coming upon him from the heights of the pure Christian litera- 
 ture which distinguished that period. For, nothing can be in 
 stronger contrast than the moral atmosphere of Louis' court, 
 and that of the poets of his day ; of whom John von Muller 
 thus speaks : " the electric shock of these writers roused the 
 North from the monotonous studies of its universities.'' It was 
 in the very age of this great extinguisher of freedom that those 
 splendid writers were kindling the blaze in France, which was 
 to consume at one time, altar and throne, and set the world 
 on fire. 
 
 It then enhances our estimate of these writers to remember 
 the period in which they live. We see in Moliere, La Fon- 
 taine, Pascal, Racine, Corneille, and even Fenelon, the seeds 
 of liberty, growing silently and obscurely under a soil frozen to 
 a rocky hardness by the winter of absolutism. While Louis is 
 flourishing, absolute monarchy is, in fact, decaying. And when 
 he dies, it dies with him. He has been working in one direc- 
 tion with his machinery of tyranny ; but the human mind, the 
 people, nay, God himself, has been silently working in the 
 opposite direction, towards freedom of thought and boldness of 
 speculation; towards an emancipation of the human intellect 
 from royal and ghostly tyranny. And so, there is but a space 
 of seventy-five years between the death of the Grand Monarch 
 and the horrible imprisonment and murder of Louis XVI. 
 
 It may be thought by some of our readers, and perhaps 
 justly, that for an introduction to a literary discussion, there is 
 
XX INTRODUCTION. 
 
 too much prominence here given to political topics. Can they 
 then consent to be kept back for a few moments longer from 
 the lectures, that they may receive a more appropriate intro- 
 duction to the literature of the Augustan age of France ? 
 
 The French language, as Pascal found it, had come through 
 troubled channels. We can trace it back to the dialects pro- 
 duced by the fusion of Roman conquerors and colonists with 
 the native Celts. These dialects were then transformed in 
 their turn by the German invaders. Out of this Teutonic 
 modification of the Gallic, came the Eomance, which afterwards 
 branched into two dialects, the Southern, or langue d'oe, and 
 Northern, or langue d'di. The former is the famous Provencal, 
 or language of the Troubadours ; the latter is the foundation of 
 the French. It attained this supremacy over its rival, by 
 means of the Court an^ the University of Paris. The Provencal 
 was fertile in poetry ; and is even thought by some to have 
 given tone to the literature of Europe, for a time. It fell, at 
 length, with the political independence of Southern Gaul, in the 
 thirteenth century. " The martyred Albigenses' expiring groan 
 was the last sigh of the muse of the Troubadours." 
 
 The "Walloon, or French, was still a harsh, dry language ; in 
 fact, a barbarous jargon, when it became, under Hugh Capet, 
 the language of the nation. 
 
 Even down to the fifteenth century, the literature in neither 
 of the dialects had ever really seized upon the soul of the people. 
 It met only their lighter wants ; while serious and learned men 
 still employed the language of Cicero as the medium of uttering 
 their thoughts. But that fifteenth century was the period of 
 gestation for France and the civilized worlds It poured the 
 classic scholars of Constantinople upon "Western Europe ; and 
 it gave the world the printing-press. 
 
 The literature of the period of Francis I., becoming under 
 
INTRODUCTION. XXI 
 
 his patronage, the reflection of court-manners, presented a 
 strange mixture of coarseness and elegance. BrantSme, Marot, 
 and Rabelais were among the most distinguished writers; all 
 possessing some of the higher qualities of genius. The latter 
 attacked the tyrannical priesthood and the royal despotism, even 
 then exhibiting some of its unlovely features. This was one of 
 the countless throes which preceded the great earthquake. At 
 length the Reformation came, to deliver the nations from tlte 
 disastrous extremes, of gross superstition and haughty scepti- 
 cism, and to put a new stamp on human thought and speech. 
 
 The very language felt the new impulse, and obtained from 
 it new elements of strength. 
 
 Not least among the writers of this period was John Calvin, 
 who composed his memorable Institutes, when only twenty-six 
 years old ; the Preface to which, dedicating the work to Fran- 
 cis I., or rather, offering it as a confession of faith, is still con- 
 sidered a model of eloquence. 
 
 Malherbe and Descartes introduce us to the seventeenth 
 century. The former produced a favorable influence on lan- 
 guage ; but fostered a frigid style, abounding in loftiness 
 without genuine enthusiasm. Descartes, unappreciated by his 
 country, became the luminary of Europe. 
 
 These writers introduce us to the period, the literary features 
 of which Mr. Astie" has chosen as the theme of his dissertations. 
 
 The seventeenth century was characterized by immense 
 mental power and effort. It could scarcely be called, however, 
 a creative period ; nor, a period of full and harmonious mental 
 development and expression in France. Civil and ecclesiastical 
 authority so completely domineered, over the soul, and a blind 
 reverence for antiquity so cramped its natural affections and 
 tastes, that we look in vain for what may be termed, greatness. 
 As a writer in the Edinburgh Review has well expressed it; 
 
XXli INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The writings of this period " do not stir the secret depths of 
 the inner man. They contain no aspirations after the Infinite ; 
 no pictures of a soul in conflict with the primary mysteries of 
 its being ; no subtle questionings and gropings about the roots 
 of the tree of knowledge ; no ' thoughts that wander through 
 eternity and find no resting-place.' " 
 
 And Goethe has remarked : while " the English history is 
 impellent for poetry ; having so healthy, and, therefore, so uni- 
 versal an expression, in its details, and always ideas that must 
 be repeated, the French history affords, on the contrary, no 
 material for poetry, as it represents an era that cannot come 
 again. Thus the literature of the French, in so far as it is 
 founded on their history, stands as something of no universal 
 interest, and which must grow old with time." And the just- 
 ness of this remark will be confirmed when we see that of all the 
 noblest works of the seventeenth century, produced in this book, 
 by a cultivated Frenchman, to exhibit the genius of his country, 
 not one is founded on a national event or character. All are 
 either classical, scriptural, or at least foreign, in their themes. 
 
 Not a specimen of lofty character ; not a hero, nor a martyr, 
 is taken from French history. Romans, Jews, Spaniards, are 
 found here, moving in the higher spheres of human life ; but 
 not a solitary instance of a great Frenchman. When Racine 
 and Corneille exhibit the grander phases of humanity, they go 
 abroad to find them in the Horatii, Berenice, the Cid; but 
 when La Fontaine and Moliere present its weakness, or its 
 depravity, we have some Tartufe, some Louis XIV.,* or Duke 
 of Burgundy.f • 
 
 * Book xii. Fable 4. f Book xii. Fable 9. 
 
INTRODUCTION. XX111 
 
 Will the reader hear a word of apology? Nothing was 
 farther from the translator's anticipation in undertaking his 
 task, than the writing of several hundred verses of rhyme. It 
 was not a part of the original agreement with his learned friend. 
 Yet, once committed, he could not retreat, with honor. It must 
 be admitted, however, that this would not justify him in pub- 
 lishing them, did he not believe that, though deficient in poetry, 
 they still contain a just representation of the original senti- 
 ments ; and generally of the style. What has evaporated in 
 the translator's hands, is, the poetic perfume ; which he lacked 
 the skill to retain. He has made dry preparations of French 
 flowers for an English herbarium ; and he offers these versions 
 of French poetry to the American public as stuffed Gallic 
 birds, that retain their form and substance, though they may 
 
 have lost their song. 
 
 TRANSLATOR. 
 
 Boston, 1855. 
 
AGE OF LOUIS FOURTEENTH. 
 
LECTURE I. 
 
 AGE OF LOUIS FOUETEENTH. 
 
 great difficulty in judging of that age in the present 
 state of public opinion. — its characteristics: 1st. the 
 study of antiquity ; 2d. religion, jansenism, port royal, 
 quietism, triumphs of jesuitism ; 3d. the monarchy of 
 louis xiv. — personal character of the king. — did he 
 receive from his age more than he gave it ? — st. 
 simon's opinion. — source of louis xiv.'s power. — he is 
 truly great in adversity. — french academy. — hotel 
 rambouillet. 
 
 Voltaire ranks this among the great epochs of 
 human history. " The thinker," he says, " and, what is 
 still more rare, the man of taste will recognize but four 
 periods of the world's history in which the arts were 
 brought to perfection, and which, serving as epochs of 
 the greatness of the human mind, furnish examples for 
 posterity. The four happy periods are, that of Pericles 
 in Greece; that of Augustus in Eome; that of the 
 Medici in Italy; and that of Louis XIV. in France." 
 
 He inclines to give the preference to the latter, both 
 as having accomplished more in certain directions than 
 all the other three together; and as having exerted 
 
4 LECTUIIE I. 
 
 a more extensive influence on the human mind; an influ- 
 ence not confined to France, but felt throughout Europe. 
 
 Although Voltaire has so lauded this age, yet his his- 
 tory gives us but little information concerning it. If 
 all our knowledge of this period had come from his 
 brilliant, but very superficial recitals, we should be com- 
 pelled to ask with surprise, wherein its glory consisted. 
 His works could give no satisfactory answer ; for, noth- 
 ing can be less philosophical than this history written 
 by a philosopher. 
 
 To understand the productions of any period you 
 must understand the age itself, and especially the 
 influences which contributed to form the very genius 
 that produced its principal works. 
 
 Yet it is not easy to revive the scenes and spirit of a 
 bygone age. And this is particularly true of the period 
 we are now to consider. It is not that historical docu- 
 ments and memoirs are wanting, to show us how men 
 lived and thought in the great age ; but that we of the 
 nineteenth century have passed into a world so unlike 
 that of the seventeenth, and that there has been so com- 
 plete a change, in the moral, political, social, religious, and 
 intellectual life of France, and even of Europe, within 
 one hundred and fifty years. I do not mean to say that 
 the seventeenth century did not produce the eighteenth, 
 and that, the nineteenth ; but that the development has 
 not been regular and normal. A crisis has intervened ; 
 we have passed through the glorious revolution of '89 ; 
 now proscribed, even in France. That revolution com- 
 pletely separates us from the seventeenth century. So 
 thoroughly did it revolutionize sentiments, as well as 
 institutions, that, in judging the people of that day, 
 even we who inhabit the same country, are like men of 
 another race. 
 
AGE OF LOUIS FOURTEENTH. 
 
 For seventy-five years, France and the other States 
 of Europe have been laboring to detach the Present 
 from the influence of the Past; and with such success, 
 that the history of the world has now commenced anew. 
 General ideas are no longer the same. What was be- 
 fore this epoch an axiom that no one would dream of 
 disputing, is now but timidly defended by an impercep- 
 tible minority. In politics, the sovereignty of the king 
 has given place to the sovereignty of the people ; * in re- 
 ligion, absolute submission to the priests has given place 
 to indifference or mocking incredulity ; in place of the 
 patriarchal manners of the good old times, we have now 
 ideas of liberty and independence, which are as often 
 perverted as rightly used. If it be true that literature 
 is a faithful mirror of its age, and that it is indispensa- 
 ble, in order to appreciate it, to live, to some extent, the 
 life of the writers who have left us the monuments of 
 their genius, then it is very difficult to comprehend 
 entirely the authors of the seventeenth century; for it 
 certainly is impossible to live their life, or breathe the 
 same air with them. We are, then, always liable to do 
 them injustice by investing them with our own ideas, 
 and by not taking into account certain things which, 
 however strange to us, were natural in their circum- 
 stances. To cite an example : when we read the his- 
 tory of Racine, of Boileau, of Bossuet, and other 
 authors of the great age, we are shocked at their servil- 
 ity to the king. Louis XIV. may have been a great 
 man, but these authors were, at least, as great in their 
 
 * This and similar remarks on the political condition of France 
 were true when the author wrote them in 1850 ; they are not true to- 
 day, but may be again to-morrow. — Tk. 
 1* 
 
6 LECTURE I. 
 
 sphere as he in his; and we are pained to see them 
 throwing themselves voluntarily at the feet of the king, 
 whom they intoxicated with their flatteries. Now we 
 should not wish to excuse these flatteries ; yet we may 
 explain them when we see that which passes before pur 
 own eyes. Would the authors of our day claim to be 
 more independent than Racine and Boileau? In the 
 seventeenth century there was no reading public to 
 recompense authors ; and they were, therefore, compelled 
 to depend on the pension of Louis, and to give him 
 incense in exchange for his gold. In our day authors 
 look no longer to the government, but to the public ; 
 which is the true sovereign. And it surely admits of a 
 doubt, whether those who daily write for the public, 
 preserve their independence, and never servilely pander 
 to its passions, nor conform to its vicious tastes. The 
 idol is changed, but perhaps there is no less incense 
 offered. 
 
 By the revolution France broke all ties with the past, 
 in order to launch into an unknown future. For sixty 
 years, having lost her way, she has been walking in a 
 labyrinth, of which she cannot yet perceive the issue. 
 Talk not to her of the past, for she has decidedly broken 
 from it ; she has no longer an absolute monarchy or an 
 established religion. The eighteenth century has taught 
 her to hate the priests and nobles who were leagued 
 against her. Let her march resolutely forward, you say. 
 Yes, but it is just what she does not dare to do ; -she 
 seems, as it were, afraid of herself; she has no sooner 
 passed the boundaries of the middle ages to seek new 
 paths, than she suddenly awakens to find herself all 
 bruised, with her feet bathed in blood ; frightful recollec- 
 • tions of terror and the sway of demagogues oppress her, 
 like a night-mare, paralyzing all freedom of action. 
 
AGE OF LOUIS FOURTEENTH. 7 
 
 She neither wishes to recede, nor can she. Yet she 
 fears to walk too resolutely forward into an untried 
 future, lest she lose sight completely of the hated past. 
 Thus she finds herself inclosed in a strait between the 
 condemned past, to which there can be no return, and a 
 future, still problematical. From this equivocal posi- 
 tion in which France seems destined, for a long time 
 yet, to struggle, those revolutions spring, of which she 
 is unceasingly the theatre. There are those who would 
 have her retrace her steps. But from them she indig- 
 nantly turns, to throw herself into the arms of the 
 reformers ; until, terrified by their embraces, she again 
 allows herself to be lulled to sleep by the men of the 
 middle ages; only to be again awakened by the terrors 
 of a revolution. Literary judgments are unavoidably 
 affected by the fluctuations of the political world. The 
 age of Louis XIV. has been very differently estimated by 
 the French people under the monarchy of July, the resto- 
 ration, and the republic of 1848. It is perfectly natural 
 that while hearing the terrible cannonade of the days in 
 June, the most liberal men should be surprised at find- 
 ing themselves regretting those idyllic days when the 
 peasants yielded a docile obedience to their lords, and 
 the citizens to their magistrates ; and with the howlings 
 of blasphemies and impiety in his ears, one would be 
 led to ask, whether, considering all things, the people 
 were not happier while blindly following their priests. 
 
 Such a state of things must necessarily perplex the 
 most impartial judgment. The men of progress are 
 very liable to be too severe against the age of Louis 
 XIV., and not to render it full justice; while, on the 
 other hand, the conservative party may easily be led to 
 eulogize the past, in order to asperse the present. The 
 total want of proper terms of comparison increases this 
 
8 LECTURE I. 
 
 difficulty. /The epoch of Louis is the highest expres- 
 sion of the ancient regime ; the result of many ages of 
 monarchy and religion. But modern ideas have not 
 been able to transform society into their own image ; 
 and in nothing can their natural and logical expression 
 be recognized. Nothing is proved by showing that the 
 literature of our day is inferior to that of the seventeenth 
 century. And it is an unfounded principle that forbids 
 us ever to disregard the precepts laid down by the 
 classic authors. It may be the principal reason why 
 the classic style predominates in serious literature, that 
 modern society too much resembles that of ancient 
 times. In a word, in literature, as in politics, old France 
 has done all that she was able to do ; and the France of 
 '89 is still in the pangs of delivery. Our difficulty, then, 
 is that of comparing the labors of a child with those 
 of a man full grown. 
 
 The study of antiquity was a chief source of the 
 literary genius of this period. The preceding age had 
 been a learned one ; and the writers of the age of Louis 
 XIV. did not forget the learning then acquired, nor lose 
 the impulse it had imparted. The religious reformation 
 of the sixteenth century had itself been a return towards 
 Christian antiquity, and had also drawn men back to the 
 study of the Greek and Latin authors. There was a 
 moment, indeed, in which the French tongue came 
 near being strangled by the Latin. It was the epoch 
 of Ronsard, whose " French muse spoke Greek and 
 Latin," as Boileau expresses it. But in the time of 
 Louis XIV. the comparative value of the French and 
 Latin had been rightly estimated, and the study of an- 
 tiquity confined its influence principally to ideas and 
 the modes of expression. Let us then look at this 
 
 First Element ; The Study of Antiquity. — The return 
 
AGE OF LOUIS FOURTEENTH. 9 
 
 to the classic writers is the first feature that distin- 
 guishes this period ; a result, perhaps, chiefly due to the 
 monastery of Port Royal, a celebrated establishment 
 founded in 1202, six leagues from Paris, near Chevreuse, 
 and distinguished throughout the seventeenth century 
 by the conflicts of Jansenism with the Jesuits. Around 
 this convent of women were gathered several educated 
 men, who forsook the world, to consecrate themselves 
 entirely to God. Some were devoted to the instruction 
 of children, while others spent their time in the study 
 of Christian and pagan antiquity. They reinstated 
 Augustin and his doctrine of grace; but contributed 
 still more directly to the literary education of the age, 
 by bringing the monuments of antiquity within reach 
 of those who wished to study them. To them we owe 
 several excellent editions of the Greek and Latin 
 classics, and several methods for studying the lan- 
 guages. It is sufficient to say for the glory of their 
 school, that Racine was one of their pupils. 
 
 This predilection for antiquity explains the character 
 of many of the books of this epoch, and particularly of 
 the tragedies. Not only were the subjects borrowed 
 from Greek and Roman history, but Euripides and 
 Sophocles served as models. As we shall return, here- 
 after, to this subject, these simple explanations may 
 suffice for the present. 
 
 Second Element ; Religion. — The second element 
 which powerfully contributed to form the literary 
 genius of this epoch, was Religion. France was then 
 a religious nation. Those who know her, know also 
 that at present religion is the subject least regarded by 
 the French. It was entirely otherwise in the time of 
 Louis. Religion was then honored in France as it now 
 is in this country. The great preachers, Bossuet, Bour- 
 
10 LECTURE I. 
 
 daloue, and Massillon, were followed by the multitude, 
 and took their place among the most distinguished 
 thinkers and writers./ But notwithstanding the homage, 
 often sincere, which the church received through them 
 as her representatives, yet she carried in her own bosom 
 that germ of destruction which was not slow in develop- 
 ing itself. /Religion was then national in the worst 
 sense of the word. The church and state formed but 
 one and the same society. It was necessary to be a 
 Roman Catholic in order to be a citizen ; for the govern- 
 ment would not recognize a heretic as a citizen. The 
 exclusive protection thus given to a predominant creed 
 was more injurious than useful. The Roman church 
 triumphed over all her adversaries in France ; but the 
 signal of her triumph was that also of her downfall. 
 The revocation of the Edict of Nantes had relieved her 
 of the Protestants; but she had still to contend with 
 Protestantism in her own bosom. In the seventeenth 
 century Catholicism received the counterblows of the 
 reformation of the sixteenth. She had already at- 
 tempted some timid reforms at the Council of Trent, 
 but pious people were not satisfied ; and as they did 
 not wish to pass over to Protestantism, several of 
 the most eminent sought to regenerate Catholicism. 
 This necessity for reform gave birth to the movements 
 of GhfficTCTris*H, Jansenism, and Quietism./ The Galli- 
 cans, or defenders of the ancient privileges of the 
 French church, wished to diminish the control of the 
 Pope over Catholicism, and to free it from the preten- 
 sions of the Ultramontancs. For this purpose they 
 humbly submitted themselves implicitly to the Mng. 
 But this change of masters never gave the French 
 church true independence. In fact, the liberty they 
 sought was incompatible with then- remaining in the 
 
AGE OF LOUIS FOURTEENTH. 11 
 
 Catholic church ; for it knows of nothing like compro- 
 mise in regard to freedom of thought. They might 
 have assumed the position of the Protestant Episco- 
 pal church, had they not lacked the courage to break 
 from the Papacy ; which they still continued to regard 
 with profound reverence. 
 
 /^?he Jansenists who generally resided at the monas- 
 tery of Port Royal, of- whi c h w e ita^e" already spoken, 
 &ko made an effort, after their manner, to reform the 
 church. These truly pious men were alarmed at seeing 
 the character which the triumphant Jesuits gave to 
 Catholicism. Perceiving that religion had lost all its 
 solemnity, and had become a purely secular interest, 
 they recalled the attention of men to its divine and 
 eternal relations. "While the Jesuits were preaching 
 absolute submission to their order and to the Pope, the 
 Jansenists were preaching the absolute dependence of 
 man on God ; thus restoring and honoring the doctrines 
 of grace and election, which had been for a long time 
 forgotten in their church, k These tendencies inclined 
 them very much to the doctrine of Calvin, although he 
 went back to St. Paul, while they stopped at St. 
 Augustin. ^As they were not established on a solid 
 basis, but on the unsteady ground of tradition, the con- 
 troversy degenerated into subtilties, and produced but 
 little fruit. 1 
 
 VMadame Guyon,\whom an unregulated imagination 
 had made an enthusiast, tyras at the head of a mystical 
 movement, that had for its object, the introduction 
 of a spiritual element into Catholicism \ in which, form 
 had extinguished all life. I She preached pure and 
 disinterested love to God ; contemplative prayer ; a 
 renouncement of self, which was to be carried even to 
 inaction and the destruction of personality by absolute 
 
/ 
 
 12 LECTURE I. 
 
 repose. Hence the name of Quietism, which this 
 tendency received. The French Quierists were Cath- 
 olic Quakers, whose mission it was, to restore and 
 honor a part of the truth forgotten by the dominant 
 church./ Unfortunately, they did not escape the dan- 
 gers to which all mystics are exposed. Madame Guyon 
 had ecstasies which rendered her ridiculous, but did not 
 prevent her from gaining many partisans* Fenelon 
 ' was completely won over. "A'nahad Madame de Main- 
 tenon possessed more courage and independence, she 
 would probably have decided in favor of the opinions 
 , of her friend/ 
 1 •"'' -SttcTi were the various attempts at renovation in the 
 very bosom of Catholicism ; but, all of them were 
 unsuccessful.' The king, through his love of peace, 
 had abandoned the bishops of the assembly of 1681-82, 
 who had proclaimed the independence of the French 
 church, and the supremacy of the church universal, in 
 opposition to Roman supremacy. To put an end to 
 Jansenism, he demolished Port Royal, dispersed its 
 learned hermits, and transferred its inmates to other 
 monasteries. As to Quietism, Madame Guyon, aban- 
 doned by Madame de Maintenon, who had at first 
 protected her, was imprisoned in Vincennes ; and Fen- 
 elon made a full recantation, from his episcopal chair 
 at Cambray. I The Jesuits, hasiag became all-powerful, 
 controlled the monarch's conscience ; religion became 
 fashionable ; devotion was the best recommendation for 
 employment; the whole court crowded around the pul- 
 pits of celebrated preachers, who pronounced funeral 
 orations over great men ; and the Catholic church, with- 
 out a rival, was honored as she will never again be in 
 France. 
 \ This religious disposition of the nation explains 
 
AGT3 OF LOUIS FOURTEENTH. 13 
 
 many things.V When we shall come to speak of the 
 provincial letters of Pascal, you will not be astonished 
 that the great public should be so interested in difficult 
 theological controversies. And when we shall come to 
 examine Moliere's Tartufe, you will understand also 
 that this was a work created by existing circumstances ; 
 for, when religion is honored in a country, there will 
 always be a mingling of hypocrites with truly pious 
 people. This will also explain the great difference you 
 will have remarked between the literature of our day 
 and that of the seventeenth century. Racine and Cor- 
 neille are Christians, and always invest their pagan 
 heroes with Christian virtues. Moliere himself, is not an 
 irreligious man. All the writers of this great age have 
 breathed the religious atmosphere which then enveloped 
 the nation ; they are not all fervent Catholics, but they 
 have an external respect for morals and religion, which 
 many of the writers of our day do not possess. In the 
 time of Louis XIV. public sentiment was in favor of 
 Christianity, while in our day, there are many who be- 
 lieve it is a proof of their independence, to speak with 
 contempt of that which, they do not understand ; and 
 to affect a fashionable incredulity. 
 
 Third Element ; The Monarchy of Louis XIV. — 
 Finally, after the study of antiquity and the more or 
 less sincere respect for religionyit was, above all, the 
 monarchy of Louis XIV. which contributed powerfully 
 to form the literary genius of this epoch. Pagan an- 
 tiquity and Christianity were the first elements; but 
 the monarchy of Louis XIV. gave it life, and impressed 
 its seal on all the literary productions of this age. This 
 period is justly entitled, the age of Louis XIV.; for it 
 owes to the powerful influence of that prince, its pecu- 
 liar physiognomy, its distinctive character; to which, 
 
 2 
 
14 LECTURE I. 
 
 probably, there will never be any thing similar, in the 
 development of the human mind. The study of an- 
 tiquity, and the religious sentiment, are indispensable 
 for the literary transformation which our age needs. 
 But although this future literature may be destined to 
 possess two elements in common with that of the 
 seventeenth century, there will be this profound differ- 
 ence, that it will be modified by totally different political 
 influences. It must necessarily be an image of our 
 political, social, and religious state, as that of the great 
 age was a faithful representation of these in its time. 
 The reign of Louis XIV. commenced with a stormy 
 minority, under the regency of his mother, Anne of 
 Austria,-and Cardinal Mazarin, her minister. There was 
 nothing, during this period of civil war, that indicated 
 a monarch who would be able to govern by himself. 
 Everybody was supposing that he would allow himself 
 to be governed, like his father Louis XI1L, when he sud- 
 denly gave indications of what might be expected from 
 him. After the cessation of the civil wars, on his return 
 from his first campaign, and his coronation, as parlia- 
 ment was about to legislate on some particular edicts, 
 the ldng left Vincennes ; and, coming into the house in 
 great boots, with a whip in his hand, pronounced these 
 words : " We know what troubles your assemblies have 
 caused ; I order those sitting in judgment on my edicts, 
 to cease. Mr. President, I forbid you to allow any 
 more assemblies, or one of you to ask for them." * 
 
 Thus was commenced this reign, which was to last 
 seventy-two years, and exert so great an influence on the 
 history of France, and on the development of humanity. 
 Here may be foreseen the man, who afterwards said, " I 
 
 * Voltaire. Age of Louis XIV. 
 
AGE OF LOUIS FOURTEENTH. 15 
 
 am the State ; " and whose long life of seventy-seven years 
 was spent in enforcing his absolute will in every thing. 
 Louis XIV. governed, throughout his reign, by this 
 maxim : " One Faith, one King, one Law ; " and noth- 
 ing was spared to attain this end. The mass of the 
 nation, who as yet counted, politically, as nothing, were 
 no hindrance to his projects. And the aristocracy, hum- 
 bled and ruined by the expenses of the court and the 
 war, were obliged, like Parliament, to bend to the will 
 of the monarch. Through the impulse given by this 
 strong will, France entered upon a period of pros- 
 perity and glory. Her frontiers were extended ; and 
 several beautiful provinces, Lorraine, Flanders, Franche- 
 Comte', and Strasbourg were added to her territory : all 
 the arts flourished under the monarch's protection ; 
 astonished Europe trembled and admired, and French- 
 men had what they value above all things — glory. 
 The brilliant court of Louis gave tone to those of 
 all Europe. 
 
 A question of importance here presents itself: What 
 part of the glory of this reign belongs personally to 
 Louis XIV.? Has he received from his age more 
 than he has given to it ? or, was the glory of the age 
 more than a reflection of his own ? "Was its genius 
 an emanation of that of the prince? Flatterers have 
 long since answered this question. In representing 
 Louis XIV. under the emblem of a sun, whose rays 
 spread life and light around, we see what his contem- 
 poraries attributed to him. But this ambitious com- 
 parison, drawn by courtiers, must not bias our judg- 
 ment; and we may legitimately inquire, if the prin- 
 cipal merit of this prince is not that of having known 
 how to appropriate, and to concentrate in himself, 
 and afterward to reflect the eclat of those who sur- 
 
16 LECTURE I. 
 
 rounded him. The celebrated St. Simon, the author 
 of several valuable memoirs of his period, who was 
 often near the king, avows that it was not easy to 
 determine this question. " He was a prince," said he, 
 " to whom you . cannot deny much that is good and 
 even great, with much that wae mean and wicked; 
 in whom, it is impossible to distinguish that which 
 was natural from that which was borrowed." This 
 will be sufficient to show how difficult it is to form 
 a just idea of the merits of this prince. 
 
 Even his title, " protector of letters," which . seems 
 the most incontestable of all, is yet a little problem- • 
 atical. Louis XIV. undoubtedly did much for the 
 writers of his day ; but they also did much more for 
 him. And in choosing Chapelain as the distributor 
 of his gifts, he did not give proof of great judgment. 
 According to this same St. Simon, the mind of the 
 king was even below mediocrity ; but yet very capable 
 of improvement. Unhappily, his education was sadly 
 neglected. " He was scarcely taught to read and 
 write; and he lived in such ignorance, that of the 
 most common things relating to history, events, laws, 
 the conduct and birth of distinguished men, he knew 
 not a word. In consequence of this deficiency he 
 sometimes made the grossest blunders, even in pub- 
 lic." I know that it has been said, " A glance from 
 Louis gave birth to Corneille ; " but Delille is poetic 
 in this remark ; an unusual occurrence for him ; and 
 is also at variance with the truth. The great Corneille, 
 before producing his magnificent works, was obliged 
 to carry his own shoes to the cobbler at the corner, 
 to have them mended. And when he, the author of 
 the Cid, was near his end, he was reduced to such a 
 point of misery, that Racine was obliged to intercede 
 
AGE OF LOUIS FOURTEENTH. 17 
 
 for him, as he even needed broth on his death-bed. 
 So, you perceive, his glory had not been very profit- 
 able to him. 
 
 As to the military talents of Louis XIV. it is said, 
 he made many wars, but never fought them in per- 
 son ; so that his reputation as a warrior, is somewhat 
 doubtful. The passage of the Rhine, celebrated by 
 Boileau, was a very little thing. The river at that 
 place and that season, was not deep ; the passage 
 was not even defended-; and Louis XIV. crossed it 
 after his army on a bridge of boats. With such gen- 
 erals as Turenne, Conde", and Luxembourg, he could 
 easily triumph over his enemies, without exposing him- 
 self. He was so little of a warrior, as to abandon the 
 easy conquest of Holland to please one of his mis- 
 tresses. 
 
 But was Louis XIV. a good king ? This question 
 can hardly be proposed without awakening sad recollec- 
 tions in many who read these pages. The new world, 
 like the old, has seen pilgrims arriving by hundreds, 
 who fled before the dragoons of his majesty. It is not 
 to a king, who by the revocation of the edict of Nantes, 
 October, 1685, gave his country a wound, from which it 
 may never recover, that we can give the title of good. 
 Fifty thousand of the most respectable families, five 
 hundred thousand of the most industrious inhabitants 
 of France, must quit their country, to satisfy the relig- 
 ious scruples of a monarch, whose crimes still scan- 
 dalize posterity. The Jesuits, always ingenious, thought 
 to redeem the sins of their penitent, by giving him the 
 meritorious work of extirpating heresy. It has often 
 been pretended by the Ultramontane school, that the 
 revocation of the Edict of Nantes was necessary to pre- 
 serve the political unity of France, which had been 
 
 2* 
 
18 LECTURE I. 
 
 compromised by the Reformers. Chateaubriand, who 
 cannot be supposed to be partial to Protestantism, in 
 one of his last writings, has made a remark worthy to 
 be remembered : " Instead of compromising the unity 
 of France, the Edict of Nantes, given by Henry IV., 
 established it." * 
 
 And thus speaks another, who cannot be suspected ; 
 Fenelon, the humble, charitable, and amiable bishop, 
 who had nothing of the partisan about him ; he writes 
 to Madame de Maintenon, that Louis XI V. had " no 
 idea of his duties as a king." Racine seems to have 
 been no less severe, in a work on the state of the 
 kingdom, which he sent to Madame de Maintenon, and 
 which brought him into disgrace. 
 
 And, indeed, the people, an excellent judge in these 
 matters, never thought of giving the title of good to 
 Louis XIV., for in their ears these two words would 
 clash with each other. The people, decimated by the 
 wars, and impoverished by the taxes of the palace, 
 murmured and suffered, and merely bore a yoke which 
 they could not throw off their necks. And while 
 the good Henry yet lives in their memory, they know 
 not even the name of Louis XIV. 
 
 Louis XIV., at the age of twenty-two, married Maria 
 Theresa, the daughter of Philip IV., king of Spain, 
 by whom he had six children. These all, with one ex- 
 ception, died young. But there is little to be said of 
 this royal lady in the whole course of this long reign ; 
 for it was not to her that any looked when a favor was 
 to be obtained from the king. Many other women, of 
 whom the most celebrated were Madame de la Valliere, 
 Madame de Montespan, and, lastly, Madame de Main- 
 
 * Life of Rance\ 
 
AGE OF LOUIS FOURTEENTH. 19 
 
 tenon, governed in their turn the mind and heart of the 
 king. This is a sad spectacle, although very instruc- 
 tive. We often hear persons apologizing for past 
 ages, to the detriment of our own ; and speaking very 
 readily of the morality which prevailed, when the king 
 and priests were all-powerful. The fact is, that at the 
 court of this very Christian king, the eldest son of the 
 church, the zealous exterminator of heresy, when all the 
 Catholic preachers, with Bossuet at their head, were 
 making a kind of divinity of Louis XIV., there were 
 known to be ten illegitimate children of this prince. 
 And on this subject, the Jesuits seem never to have 
 troubled the conscience of their penitent.. But to 
 make amends, they reminded him of the great merit of 
 extirpating heresy. In our own day, when a king of 
 Germany wished to walk openly in the steps of Louis 
 XIV., the general indignation was so great that he 
 was immediately discharged from his public duties, 
 that he might have the more leisure to pursue his 
 follies. 
 
 However, we have not yet said all. The glory of 
 Louis XIV., when closely examined, is reduced to a 
 very little thing. We can hardly understand the ad- 
 miration of his courtiers ; nevertheless, we must try to 
 account for it. It remains to be seen, how a man of so 
 little personal merit could exercise so great an influence, 
 and conciliate the admiration of such distinguished 
 men as Itacine, Boileau, and many others. We believe 
 the secret of the worship, which some of his contempo- 
 raries paid him, may at first be found in some of his 
 incontestable qualities ; and above all, in his defects. 
 
 Louis XIV. was pompous, ambitious, and very 
 jealous, both of his own dignity and of that of his 
 country; and for all these the French loved him. 
 
20 LECTUllE I. 
 
 " Never," says St. Simon, " has any one given with a 
 better grace, or, by the manner of bestowing, more en- 
 hanced the value of his favors. Never has any one sold 
 at so high a price his words, nay, his very smiles or 
 glances." The prodigality he displayed in building his 
 splendid palaces, which are yet the pride of Frenchmen 
 in our day, contributed not a little to win the admiration 
 of his contemporaries. The people, who were willing to 
 pay the taxes that so much royal display required, 
 could have nothing to say; but the nobles and cour- 
 tiers held in high respect a monarch who built such 
 magnificent palaces at Versailles and elsewhere ; and 
 made France in all respects, the first country in the 
 world. 
 
 Although he did not engage personally in combats, 
 yet he loved war ; and this recommended him to his 
 people. He gave law to Spain, in the treaty of Aix-la- 
 Chapelle ; dictated to the whole of Europe in the treaty 
 of Nimegue ; made a display of his generosity at the 
 peace of Kiswick; and gave the French the habit, 
 which they still wish to retain, of acting as masters of 
 Europe. 
 
 Then, these wars, which always terminated in the 
 acquisition of one or more provinces, did not prevent 
 him from carrying on internal improvements. The" 
 hitherto impassable roads were mended, seaports 
 were improved, commerce was encouraged, new colo- 
 nies were founded, and the navy of France was made to 
 rival those of Holland and England. At the same time, 
 he established several manufactories, which still are, in 
 our day, sources of wealth to France. The Gobelin 
 manufactories of tapestry, and several others of cloth 
 and of glass, even yet make Europe and America de- 
 pendent on France for some of her productions. 
 
AGE Olf LOUIS FOURTEENTH. 21 
 
 Not only did Louis XIV. accomplish this, but did 
 it with such an air of grandeur as to enhance its 
 value. He watched over all, arranged the smallest de- 
 tails, and yet never compromised his dignity. He was 
 always able to invest himself with a glory, which made 
 others look upon him as a sort of Providence. He had 
 the secret of accomplishing a great deal in a calm, dig- 
 nified manner, without pomp or display. His physical 
 powers were finely developed; and so majestic and_ 
 imposing was his air that those who addressed him 
 must first aceustom themselves to his appearance, not 
 to be overawed. None knew better than he how to 
 preserve his dignity, and how to maintain a certain 
 manner, which made him appear great, while it kept 
 others at. a distance. He himself observed a minute 
 and strict etiquette ; and by this means prevented that 
 familiarity to which he would otherwise have, been ex- 
 posed, especially by his great fondness for the society 
 of women. We have some curious and characteristic 
 details on this subject. " He never," says St. Simon, 
 " passed a hood or bonnet without raising his hat, even 
 to the chambermaids, knowing them to be such, as was 
 often the case at Marly ; to ladies, he entirely removed 
 his hat, but to a greater or less distance ; to titled men, 
 he half removed it, either holding it in the air or over 
 his ear, for a greater or less time. If he met ladies, he 
 did not cover his head till he had quitted them ; and at 
 supper, always rose to each lady as she entered, and 
 continued to do so, even when the infirmities of age 
 rendered it fatiguing." 
 
 But, if he imposed so severe an etiquette on himself, 
 he was still more exacting toward others. The most 
 privileged ladies were never permitted to appear but in 
 full dress, either in riding, or in any place of Lhe court ; 
 
22 LECTURE I. 
 
 and, under no circumstances, might they infringe this 
 rule. Sick or well, they must appear elegantly dressed, 
 tightly laced, and ornamented, whether to go to Flan- 
 ders, or still further ; to dance, watch, attend fetes, or to 
 eat ; on all occasions they must be gay, and good com- 
 pany; ready to change their abode; show no fear; 
 never be incommoded by the heat or cold, the air or 
 dust ; and all this, precisely at an appointed hour, with- 
 out the delay of a single minute. 
 
 You see there can be no hesitation in pronouncing 
 Louis XIV. a domestic tyrant; for he never relaxed 
 these rigid and absurd requirements, even to his favor- 
 ites. Of course, then, we may justly infer that there 
 was very little happiness at the court of the great king. 
 Madame de Maintenon, herself, was not any more 
 favored. St. Simon, who saw every thing, tells us how 
 she was treated. " She often went to Marly, in a state 
 in which no one would have thought of sending even a 
 servant; and at one time, on a journey to Fontainbleau, 
 they feared she would die on the road. In whatever 
 state she might be, the king always went to see her at 
 the ordinary time, and carried on whatever projects he 
 might have in hand. And even, if she was in her bed, 
 trying to break a fever by a profuse sweat, the king, 
 who was fond of the air, and disliked heated rooms, 
 would be astonished on coming in, to find all the win- 
 dows closed, and would immediately order them to be 
 opened, although he saw in what state she was ; and 
 thus they must remain until he went to supper at ten 
 o'clock, however cool the night might be. If while 
 there he wanted music, neither fever nor headache 
 would prevent his having it, with a hundred candles 
 shining in her eyes. The king went, also, with his 
 train, without ever asking her if she was incommoded. 
 
AGE OF LOUIS FOURTEENTH. 23 
 
 Notwithstanding this unmerciful 'egotism, which he 
 carried into every thing that concerned himself, Louis 
 XIV., even by his brilliant defects, singularly pleased 
 the French. Beranger has a charming song, in which 
 he celebrates the reign of this good king of Yvetot : — 
 
 " There was a king of Tvetot's State, 
 But little known in story ; 
 To bed betimes, and rising late, 
 Sound sleeper, without glory. 
 And Jenny, with a cotton cap, 't is said, 
 In place of regal crown, adorned his head." 
 
 This apology for the reign of a patriarchal king, made 
 at the time of the great wars of Napoleon, was full of 
 satire ; but does not show that the French people would 
 be satisfied with a little king, crowned by a village 
 maiden, with a cotton night-cap ; who slept soundly, 
 without any desire of glory. The nation must have a 
 showy, blustering chief, who gives fetes, however dear ; 
 and they will willingly pay for the glory. It is neces- 
 sary in France, that its chief be distinguished in a cer- 
 tain way ; even in the republic, they like to believe him 
 to be above common mortals. And we have lately seen 
 this country, exhausted by revolutions, pay away three 
 millions for the follies, to use no severer word, of him 
 who governs it. The dignity of the office requires it, 
 they say ; and no one can reply to this maxim. This 
 dignity of power, so esteemed in France, no one knew 
 better how to maintain, than Louis XIV. And this 
 explains the extraordinary ascendency, which he ex- 
 ercised over all those around him. No one knew better 
 than he how to impress upon his courtiers the idea 
 that kings are of a different blood from other men. 
 All around him breathed an air of nobility and gran- 
 
24 LECTUKE I. 
 
 deur, until then unknown. And he knew how to invest 
 vice and immorality with an air of elegance; so that 
 those who in all things took the king for their model, 
 felt at liberty to follow his example. But if he was 
 jealous for his own dignity, he was still more so for 
 that of France. This is his grandest characteristic, 
 which entitles him to be called glorious. And this 
 disposition alone, so worthy of a -prince, would suffi- 
 ciently account for the nation's attachment to him. No 
 prince was ever more scrupulous than Louis XIV. 
 where the honor of France was concerned. Nor would 
 he suffer any thing which could compromise it in the 
 least. Scarcely on the throne, he obliges Spain to 
 recognize the supremacy of France. Voltaire thus 
 relates what passed on the occasion : " It happened on 
 the arrival of a Swedish ambassador at London, that 
 the Count d'Estrade, ambassador of France, and the 
 Baron de Vatteville, disputed the way; the Spaniard, 
 with more money and a more numerous suite, gained 
 over the English populace ; the horses attached to the 
 French carriage were killed, and the attendants of 
 Count d'Estrade wounded and dispersed, leaving the 
 Spaniards marching with unsheathed swords as con- 
 querors. Louis XIV., when informed of this insult, re- 
 called his ambassador from Madrid ; caused the Spanish 
 ambassador to leave France ; broke up the conference 
 which was being held at Flanders, on the subject of the 
 boundaries ; and sent word to Philip IV., his father-in- 
 law, that unless he recognized the superiority of the 
 crown of France, and in the most solemn manner made 
 reparation for this affront, the war would recommence. 
 Philip IV. not wishing to plunge his kingdom into a 
 new war, for the precedency of an ambassador, sent the 
 Count de Fuentes to Fontainbleau ; who, in the presence 
 
AGE OF LOUIS FOURTEENTH. 25 
 
 of the king and all the foreign ministers who were in 
 France, declared that the Spanish ministers would never 
 in future compete with those of France." On another 
 occasion, the English chancellor, having spoken in a 
 somewhat imperative tone to his ambassador, he wrote a 
 letter, which shows us how jealous he was of his dignity : 
 " Neither my brother the king, nor those who counsel 
 him, understand me, when they speak in such a high 
 tone and with a decision which looks like a menace, 
 for I know of no power under heaven which can move 
 me a step in this way. It may possibly lead to bad 
 consequences, but it cannot frighten me. I had hoped 
 that the world had formed a better opinion of me ; but 
 I console myself by thinking, it is only perhaps in Lon- 
 don, that I am so falsely judged ; and on my part, I 
 shall not allow them to remain long in such errors. 
 The lung of England and his chancellor may know the 
 strength of my forces, but cannot see my heart ; but I, 
 who know both, desire no other answer to be made to 
 such a haughty declaration, than to have you inform 
 them personally, on the return of the courier, that I 
 neither ask nor seek accommodation, in the affair of 
 the flag, because I know how to maintain my rights, 
 whatever may happen. And as to the guaranty of the 
 fishery, (which was the difference in question,) I shall 
 do as I please." This is stronger language, though less 
 hyperbolical, than that which the minister of foreign 
 affairs held to Europe, after the revolution of February. 
 The acts of Louis XIV. answered to his words ; he 
 also inspired all the officers of government with a high 
 idea of the greatness of their country; and foreign 
 nations, also, with great respect for it. The captain of 
 a vessel having gone to Algiers to deliver all the slaves, 
 in the name of the king of France, found many Eng- 
 
 3 
 
26 LECTURE I. 
 
 lishmen among them, who, after coming on board, 
 maintained to the captain, that it was in consideration 
 of the king of England that fhey were set at liberty. 
 The captain then put them ashore, and sending for the 
 Algerines, said, " These people mean to be set free, 
 only in the name of their ldng. And as mine would 
 not take the liberty of offering them his protection, I 
 send them back to you ; and you can make what ar- 
 rangements you think best with the king of England." 
 The English were again put in irons. And Voltaire 
 remarks, that from this incident may be seen, the 
 haughtiness of the English, the weakness of the gov- 
 ernment of Charles II., and the respect of the nations 
 for Louis XIV. 
 
 It is, then, in the great care which Louis XIV. took 
 to make France respected, and to have it stand first 
 among the nations of Europe, we find the true secret 
 of that respect and attachment, and even that kind of 
 worship which he received from his contemporaries, to 
 the end of his days. The French are ever indulgent 
 towards those who can satisfy their love of glory, and 
 who so act as to prove that France is really " the great 
 nation ; " while, on the contrary, those of her rulers who 
 are forgetful of her dignity, are sure to be abandoned at 
 the critical moment. Some events which have taken 
 place in our own day, have put this fact beyond doubt. 
 The accusation made against the last king of France, 
 throughout his reign, was this: Louis Philippe cares 
 nothing for the honor of France ; he bears the affronts 
 of England and Europe, to maintain peace at any 
 price. Whether well or ill founded, such was the popu- 
 lar accusation. And how was it with Louis Philinpe, 
 in the moment of danger ? He found no devoted adher- 
 ents ; scarcely could he procure horses to carry him to 
 
AGE OP LOUIS FOURTEENTH. 27 
 
 the frontier; and England had to send a boat to conduct 
 him across the channel. His throne, they say, has crum- 
 bled beneath the weight of public contempt. He un- 
 doubtedly did much for the public good ; and to him is 
 owing a material prosperity, hitherto unknown ; but after 
 all, what of it ? He thought, they say, more about him- 
 self and his family, than about France and her honor ; he 
 sacrificed the dignity of the country to the interests of his 
 dynasty ; so that all the good he has done is forgotten, 
 because he has failed to maintain France in the rank 
 which belongs to her in Europe. On the contrary, Napo- 
 leon undoubtedly did great good to the country. And 
 France is indebted to him for that centralization, which 
 is strength ; and for many years of prosperity and glory, 
 after a long period of anarchy. ^Yet we must not for- 
 get, that in other respects, his reign was disastrous, 
 especially to liberty. France was exhausted towards 
 the latter years of the empire ; the poorer classes had to 
 suffer extremely ; there was not a family that had not 
 to weep over some death ; or a mother, who had not to 
 charge the loss of a son or husband upon the great 
 Emperor. Nevertheless, was France disposed to aban- 
 don the great man ? By no means ! The distinguished 
 personages, who alone had gained by the war, were 
 weary of it ; and sought repose. But the people, who had 
 suffered from it, were ready to suffer more for the salva- 
 tion of their country. The approach of the allies to Paris 
 fully aroused the national feeling in the mass of the peo- 
 ple. And it is said, that while the generals were occupied 
 in treating with the strangers, the inhabitants of the fau- 
 bourgs of Paris, on whom Bonaparte had formerly 
 poured his grape-shot, raised an army, and were impa- 
 tient to march upon the enemy. It 'was because Napo- 
 leon had always been jealous of the honor of France; 
 
28 LECTURE I. 
 
 had never left an insult unpunished; had intoxicated 
 the nation with glory ; and, in the face of the enemy, 
 was a true and worthy representative of France. Louis 
 XIV. was more fortunate than Napoleon ; he had 
 watched over the glory of the nation ; and the nation 
 did not desert him in the last years of his reign, which 
 were as disastrous as the first had been prosperous. 
 During the war, known by the name of the war of the 
 Spanish succession, Louis XIV. had to fight against 
 the whole of Europe ; and was constantly beaten. He 
 who had been accustomed to play the master, was 
 obliged to humble himself so far as to ask peace of the 
 Hollanders, whom he had injured. There was, indeed, 
 a moment when the great king was on the point of fly- 
 ing from Versailles, and abandoning his magnificent 
 palaces to the victorious enemy, who had penetrated to 
 the heart of his kingdom. But it was in the very midst 
 of his reverses that Louis XIV. showed himself truly 
 great. Neither the death of an only son and of several 
 other members of his family, the loss of his best gen- 
 erals, nor a terrible famine, could shake his courage. 
 He could renounce his great fondness for luxury, to 
 accommodate himself to the necessities of the moment. 
 He sold a gold service for 400,000 francs ; and the great 
 lords sent their silver services to be converted into 
 money ; for some months there was only brown bread 
 eaten ; and several families, even in Versailles, ate oat- 
 meal bread ; Madame de Maintenon setting the ex- 
 ample. 
 
 But the fortune of war was still adverse. His victo- 
 rious enemies required him to dethrone his grandson, 
 Philip V, king of Spain, to whom he himself had given 
 the crown. Louis XIV. was not willing to submit to 
 these conditions, which would have humiliated himself 
 
AGE OF LOPIS FOURTEENTH. 29 
 
 and France, but appealed to the nation, and justified 
 himself to his subjects. And, notwithstanding the dis- 
 astrous state of affairs, he succeeded in arousing their 
 national feeling ; and found the support of his people, 
 who followed his example of devotion to the public 
 good. He said to one of his marshals, " that in case 
 of any new danger, he should assemble all the nobility 
 of his ldngdom, and, although seventy-four years of age, 
 he should himself lead them against the enemy, to 
 perish at their head." 
 
 But his courage and firmness, without being subjected 
 to such a test, were crowned with success. France, fol- 
 lowing his example, made a last effort ; and, the nobles 
 clustering around him, he succeeded in settling all diffi- 
 culties, and obtaining an honorable peace. 
 
 The king died some years after; and his monarchy 
 was buried in the sepulchre with him. Parliament did 
 not respect even his last wishes ; and on his death-bed 
 he was abandoned by every one, even by Madame de 
 Maintenon, who had retired to St. Cyr, never to leave it 
 again. Louis XIV., says St. Simon, was regretted only 
 by his immediate attendants. 
 
 Politically, his monarchy died in France with him , 
 but was spreading at the same time through Europe. 
 Every prince wanted his Versailles ; and absolute ideas 
 made the tour of Europe, in company with the litera- 
 ture of the age of Louis XIV. It is from this prince 
 that absolute monarchy, on the continent of Europe, 
 properly dates* Before his reign, the people had had 
 some privileges; and parliament, certain rights. But 
 Louis XIV. was absolute ; and chose to do every thing 
 
 * That is, its consummation, or complete realization. — Tr. 
 3* 
 
30 LECTURE I. 
 
 himself. He, however, brought monarchy into disre- 
 pute by showing its tendencies undisguised. And we 
 may, therefore, look upon him, as one among others, 
 who greatly contributed to produce the revolution of '89. 
 The monarchy, swallowed up under Louis XV., only 
 appeared again an instant under Louis XVI., again to 
 be abandoned. These, then, are the three elements 
 which have combined to form the literary genius of the 
 seventeenth century ; the study of antiquity ; religion ; 
 and the monarchy of Louis XIV. We can easily 
 discern the influence of these three elements, in all the 
 literary productions of this epoch; and, especially in 
 its dramatic poetry. 
 
 In order fully to understand the literature of this 
 period, we must recall to our remembrance two associa- 
 tions. 
 
 Shortly before the reign of Louis XIV., in 1635, 
 Richelieu founded the French Academy. The sug- 
 gestion arose from a meeting of literary men, who had 
 assembled to talk of subjects in which they were inter- 
 ested. And it was quite in accordance with the genius 
 of this absolute minister, to enslave the language, with 
 every thing else. This company consisted of forty 
 members, comprising the most noted literary men. 
 They first sought to find the origin of their language, 
 in order to disencumber it of certain offensive expres- 
 sions. In one of their first meetings, they decided that 
 their principal duty was to watch over the purity of the 
 French language ; and that in order to do this, it was 
 first necessary to regulate its terms and phrases by an 
 ample dictionary and exact grammar. 
 
 Whatever may be thought of the design, it must be 
 confessed, that for the two hundred years, during which 
 this celebrated society has existed, it has accomplished 
 
AGE OF LOUIS FOURTEENTH. 31 
 
 ve.^ little ; for we do not yet possess a complete 
 dictionary. 
 
 A discerning critic, we are told, has penetrated into 
 the secrets of these illustrious men, and informs us, that 
 for a few months, the gentlemen of the academy,, a 
 little recovered from the anxieties of the revolution of 
 February, have again commenced their labors; and 
 that the dictionary has progressed as far as the word 
 Accorder ; so that it will not probably be finished for a 
 long time. 
 
 An academician early rallied himself and his breth- 
 ren on the slow movement of the society. The 
 academy, he says, is like an order of monks ; for, 
 
 " Each to do good, Ms earnest promise gives ; 
 But from the whole, the world no good receives. 
 The whole have nothing done, that 's worth a pin. 
 For six long years, on F. employed they 've been, 
 And I would thank my stars, assured to be, 
 That I shall live 'till they have come to G." 
 
 Up to the present time, it has been assailed by a 
 constant volley of epigrams. An extract from a contem- 
 porary author, will show the true state of public 
 opinion. " In France," says he, " it is with the 
 academy, as with marriage, those who are not in it 
 slander it, but discover its utility on entering." He 
 might have added, that raillery is the most effectual 
 means of opening the doors to membership ; and, there- 
 fore, scholars are not sparing of it. 
 
 Although the academy has failed of its end, we must 
 regard its existence as a fact. It is reproached with 
 having subtracted from the language its naivete - and 
 freshness, and with having changed its original character. 
 
32 LECTURE I. 
 
 But the reformatory movement had already commenced 
 at the time of its foundation ; and it has hardly done 
 more than direct it. Without the academy, we should 
 have had an entirely different language from what we 
 have at present; and we must acknowledge its influ- 
 ence for better or worse, to have been very great. We 
 must not forget this, when we read Racine. Strangers, 
 and sometimes even Frenchmen, complain of the bom- 
 bastic tone, and the want of simplicity, in classic trage- 
 dies. Authors are not alone responsible; but the 
 nation, or rather the age of Louis XIV., whose taste 
 they have only too faithfully followed, must share the 
 censure. 
 
 In order to comprehend the literature of this epoch, 
 we must also say something of a literary assembly, 
 which exercised a great influence during the greater 
 part of the seventeenth century, — the Hotel Rambouillet. 
 This literary saloon was properly an officious academy 
 by the side of the great official academy. They had 
 the same end in view, the expurgation of the language ; 
 and many decisions made in the plenary sittings of the 
 academy, had been prepared at the Hotel Rambouillet. 
 
 This hall was opened as far back as the year 1600, 
 under Henry IV. Although this was a decidedly 
 aristocratic age, yet in these meetings they forgot all 
 distinctions of rank ; and whoever had talents or culti- 
 vated le bel esprit, as they then said, could be admitted 
 without the least difficulty. It was here, that the 
 literary productions of the day were discussed and 
 criticized. As there was no press at that time, the 
 Hotel Rambouillet controlled public opinion; and its 
 decisions spreading through the city, had always the 
 force of law. In this way, this society exercised a great 
 influence on literature, and greatly contributed to im- 
 
AGE OF LOUIS FOURTEENTH. 33 
 
 part that grace and urbanity to French manners, the 
 memory of which still lives in tradition. 
 
 However, this literary saloon, although open to every 
 one, ended by becoming a coterie; which came to be 
 designated as the seat of affectation and bad taste. It 
 was conducted, for a long time, by a woman, Catherine 
 de Vivonne. But this prosaic name not being deemed 
 suitable to a person of literary taste, it was changed to 
 Arthe"nice. From the time of Molidre, they had ad- 
 vanced so far, as no longer to call things by their proper 
 names ; and the language bade fair to become unintel- 
 ligible. La Bmyere has left us a picture of this society. 
 " There was, not long since," he says, " a circle com- 
 posed of persons of both sexes, who assembled to con- 
 verse together, and interchange thought. The art of 
 speaking intelligibly was left to the vulgar. One would 
 make a remark not very clear, which would be followed 
 by some other, in a still more obscure style ; this would 
 in turn be succeeded by real enigmas; which would 
 always draw forth the warmest applause. What they 
 designated as delicacy, sentiment, and refinement of- 
 expression, was unintelligible to others, and even to 
 themselves. For these conversations, neither good 
 sense, memory, or the least talent were requisite. It 
 only needed a mind, not of the highest order, but in 
 which the imagination predominates." 
 
 We shall see, by and by, how Moliere has criticized 
 the Hotel Rambouillet, in his comedy of the Pre"- 
 cieuses. A few details will enable us to understand 
 this piece. 
 
 The ladies who attended these assemblies affected 
 the greatest intimacy ; always calling each other, " my 
 dear." A " dear " or a " pfecieuse " had manners so 
 singular, as to astonish, not to say scandalize us. 
 
34 LECTURE I. 
 
 Etiquette required the lady, at whose house they 
 assembled, to retire to her bed the moment her guests 
 arrived. The " dears," accompanied by their cavaliers, 
 arranged themselves in the alcove containing the bed, 
 which was always ornamented with the greatest care. 
 Hence the expression, so common at that period, but 
 which has to-day changed its signification, " courir les 
 ruelles," (to visit the bedside). Do not misunderstand 
 it; for it simply signifies, to frequent literary saloons. 
 Every lady, on her reception day, chose a cavalier to 
 assist her in doing the honors of her house ; and he, in 
 consequence, received the singular title of " alcoviste." 
 To be admitted, it was necessary to be introduced, by 
 one of the most celebrated among the initiated, who 
 were, therefore, called " great introducers of the ' ruelles.' " 
 
 We are not to believe that morals suffered by such 
 customs. On the contrary, these assemblies were 
 formed to escape the licentiousness of the court; and 
 even prudery reigned among these ladies, as we shall 
 see by the general tone and style of their romances. 
 
 Novels played a distinguished part at the Hotel 
 Rambouillet; being much read and composed there. 
 But they had no resemblance to those of our days, 
 except, perhaps, in length ; their tendency being entirely 
 different from ours; which, to a great extent, are 
 decidedly demoralizing. This opinion, certainly, as 
 applied to the French novels, is supported even by 
 people making little pretensions to religion ; and those 
 from whom we should least expect such testimony. 
 Critics, who had shut their eyes under the monarchy 
 of Louis Philippe, have now been startled on seeing 
 the fruits of this literature under the Republic ; and the 
 standard literary paper of France, " La Revue des deux 
 mondes," condemns, in the name of the family, of re- 
 
AGE OF LOUIS FOURTEENTH. f55 
 
 ligion, and of property, the " Wandering Jew," the " Mys- 
 teries of Paris," and the " Mysteries of the People." 
 It is rather late ; but yet, better late than never. Those 
 who had charge of education in France, did not wait 
 as long as the political press, to form this opinion ; for, 
 in general, romances are not admitted into seminaries 
 of learning; those of the day, especially, being rigor- 
 ously excluded ; in many of which there prevails a 
 liberty, or rather a licentiousness which cannot fail to 
 injure the young imaginations of those, who, after tak- 
 ing these books in their hands, have not courage to lay 
 them down. 
 
 The romances of the Hotel Rambouillet certainly fall 
 into the opposite extreme. While degraded and vicious 
 characters are now made the heroes, shepherds and 
 shepherdesses were then regularly chosen ; who con- 
 versed with the greatest naivete, and the most primitive 
 innocence. They were very rigid as to the choice of 
 terms ; the periphrase was in honor, and the " precieuses " 
 waged a merciless war against what they designated 
 " the foul syllables." They even laid down rules, and 
 imposed precautions as to the exercise of love; from 
 which none could deviate, under pain of committing 
 the most reprehensible impropriety. Madame de 
 Scudery, one who frequented the Hotel Rambouillet, 
 had given in the romance of Clelie, then very popular, 
 the strictest rules on the art of love. This has been 
 called the Lover's Chart, which any one must know 
 thoroughly, who wished to be admitted near a pre - - 
 cieuse. Before any one navigated the deep waters of 
 the river of Love, that is to say, before making his sen- 
 timents known, it was necessary to make himself suc- 
 cessively master of the village of " The Gallant Letter," 
 and the hamlet of " The Tender Letter ; " and then 
 
36 LECTURE I. 
 
 nothing remained but to possess himself of the chateau 
 of " Delicate Attentions." 
 
 All this required a great deal of time ; so that M. de 
 Montausie, a very grave and severe personage, who 
 submitted to all these regulations, to obtain the hand 
 of Mademoiselle de Rambouillet, was fourteen years 
 travelling through every corner of the lover's chart, 
 before he reached the open sea; and obtained the 
 famous yes. 
 
 However ridiculous such soirees may appear to us, 
 and whatever we may think of the people who fre- 
 quented them, they were, nevertheless, composed of all 
 the most illustrious and honorable men of the time. 
 La Rochefoucauld, Chapelain, Vaugelas, and Balzac, 
 were members ; and sometimes Corneille and Bossuet 
 might be found there. Flechier, bishop of Nismes, went 
 so far as to make use, in a funeral oration, of the name 
 of Arthe'nice, as Catherine de Vivonne was called by 
 her admirers. 
 
BLAISE PASCAL. 
 
 (37) 
 
LECTURE II. 
 
 PASCAL. 
 
 PROVINCIAL LETTERS, AND REMARKS ON THE PASSION 
 OF LOVE. 
 
 " There was a man, who, at twelve years of age, with 
 bars and hoops invented mathematics ; at sixteen, wrote 
 the most learned treatise on conic sections that had 
 been seen for centuries ; at nineteen, reduced to ma- 
 chinery a science which exists entirely in the mind ; 
 at twenty-three, demonstrated the phenomenon of the 
 weight of the air, and destroyed one of the great errors 
 of ancient physics ; who, at the age when other men 
 scarce begin to live, having run through the circle of 
 human sciences, perceived their insufficiency, and turned 
 his thoughts to religion. Between that time, (being 
 then in his thirty-ninth year,) and his death, though 
 always infirm and suffering, he established the lan- 
 guage which Bossuet and Racine spoke; and in his 
 writings gave specimens of the most perfect pleasantry, 
 as well as the most profound logic ; and finally, in the 
 brief intervals of pain, resolved, by abstraction, one of the 
 most difficult problems in geometry ; and left on paper 
 
 39 
 
40 LECTURE II. 
 
 thoughts which seem as much divine as human. This 
 mighty genius was Pascal." * 
 
 Such is Chateaubriand's encomium on the author, 
 who will now claim our attention ; and yet he has not 
 said all. Pascal has more fully comprehended the gos- 
 pel than any one since the apostle Paul. This should 
 not have been forgotten by the author of the Genius of 
 Christianity. 
 
 We must omit, in this brief notice of his work, those 
 on geometry, arithmetic, and physics ; and confine our- 
 selves exclusively to Pascal, the moralist and Christian 
 philosopher. His writings and treatises, printed or in 
 manuscript, amounted to twenty-six. We shall only 
 speak of two, "The Provincial Letters," and "The 
 Thoughts." 
 
 But before making acquaintance with the thinker, 
 we must say a word of the writer. Pasca l opens th e 
 seventeenth century ; and tc L Wm_beJongs_ftel£l^Ipf 
 fixinglhe French Jangaage'. We do not intend by this 
 tcTsay that the "dictionary is completed, but that the 
 language is so written that both contemporary authors 
 and posterity will seek a conformity to the rules and 
 precedents then established. Authors who fix a lan- 
 guage, are those who determine the terms, expressions, 
 and words, which ought to be employed ; while those 
 they do not deign to use are forgotten. Corneille and 
 Balzac have contributed much to form the French lan- 
 guage ; but it is especially to Pascal that this honor 
 belongs, for he was more popular than Balzac, who 
 scarce wrote but for the fashionable world, and more 
 pure than Corneille, who has many expressions now 
 obsolete, while we can hardly find half a dozen such 
 
 * Genius of Christianity, vol. 1st, p. 391. 
 
PASCAL. 41 
 
 words in Pascal. Foreigners, then, who wish to learn 
 the language, may read him with confidence ; remem- 
 bering, however, that the signification of many of the 
 terms employed by the author of the Provincial Letters 
 has changed since the seventeenth century. 
 
 Vinet, who understands Pascal better than all others, 
 uses this very happy expression, to show the state of the 
 language when Pascal commenced writing. " France," 
 says he, " prepared her rhetoric and forms of expression, 
 while waiting for thoughts. This language, already 
 beautiful, but of a cold beauty, needed, like Galatea, 
 a Pygmalion, whose ardor should communicate life. 
 Thought does much for language, but passion more. 
 The author of the Provincial Letters found passion in 
 the public; and mingling with it his own, he took his 
 course; he aided, and received aid. The subjects in 
 which Pascal knew how to interest his contemporaries 
 were questions in theology, that to this day remain 
 preeminently difficult. It was in the controversies re- 
 specting grace, predestination, and election, that he 
 could so interest the public." 
 
 These debates are so remote from us ; and our minds 
 are now so preoccupied by other subjects, that we can 
 scarce understand the intense interest which this dis- 
 pute awakened. "When we remember that the seven- 
 teenth century was a religious age, we are not aston- 
 ished that the controversy on grace was the great event 
 of the time. 
 
 Two powerful societies, the Jesuits and the Jan- 
 senists, at the time of this dispute, were rivals for the 
 public favor. 
 
 The order of Jesuits was founded at Paris, in 1534, 
 by Ignatius Loyola, Knight of the Virgin, as he styled 
 himself. To the ordinary monastic vows, Loyola and 
 
 4* 
 
42 LECTURE II. 
 
 his six companions joined that of unreserved obedience 
 to the See of Rome. Notwithstanding this, the Pope, 
 as if foreseeing the troubles which would follow, threw 
 difficulties in their way ; and the order was not recog- 
 nized until 1540; and then Pope Paul III. took care to 
 limit its number of members to sixty. Its avowed 
 object was, to labor for the improvement and develop- 
 ment of the Christian life. The Jesuits, during this first 
 period of their history, without any regard to the orders 
 of the Pope, as to their numbers, spread themselves 
 over all Europe, and penetrated even into India, under 
 the direction of Xavier. 
 
 It was not, however, until after the death of their 
 first general, Ignatius, that they received from his suc- 
 cessor, Lainez, their definite character. Lainez is the 
 true father of Jesuitism, such as we now know it. The 
 critical condition of the Papacy, amidst the triumphs 
 of the Reformation, inspired the general of the Jesuits 
 with a new zeal, to make the specific mission of the 
 Jesuits that of defending the Papacy against Protes- 
 tantism. And from this moment, the order became a 
 warlike machine ; more for destruction than for edifica- 
 tion. To accomplish this end, they received their 
 famous constitutions. No one could be admitted until 
 after a severe novitiate. The society had a monarchial 
 form of government ; and its plans were laid for inclos- 
 ing the whole world in its net To realize so grand a 
 project, harmony and union were indispensable. The 
 general was the king of the society ; and the society 
 became like " a staff in the hands of an old man," purely 
 passive; "perinde ac cadaver," a mere carcase. The 
 Jesuit is a cosmopolite ; his order is his only country ; 
 his general is his Providence ; he must obey him even 
 when requiring' something- contrary to his conscience. 
 
PASCAL. 43 
 
 Thus we see, the subjection of the whole world to the 
 Jesuits, and their subordination in turn, to their gen- 
 eral, whom they obey as God, are the ends which the 
 society of Jesus proposed to accomplish. Their end 
 was the conquest of the world ; and the means, the sub- 
 jection of all wills to one. 
 
 In opposition to the Jesuits, who proclaimed the sov- 
 ereignty of a single man, the Jansenists maintained the 
 absolute and immutable sovereignty of God. The 
 members of the Society of Jesus had consented to be 
 mere instruments in the hand of their general ; while 
 the Jansenists declared, we have no master but God, 
 from whom we receive through grace, all that we possess. 
 You can see with what profound antipathy these two 
 i societies, starting with such different principles, would 
 \-egard each other. The controversy was commenced 
 by the publication of a work on the doctrine of grace, 
 against the Pelagians, according to the views of Augus- 
 tin. Jansenius, bishop of Ypres, the author of the 
 work, in opposition to the external and servile piety of 
 the Jesuits, advocated the spiritual worship of the 
 heart, renewed by the love of God, which finds its true 
 liberty in the entire sacrifice of its will to that of God. 
 The Jesuits attacked the doctrine of Jansenius, and 
 caused it to be condemned by Pope Urban VIII. But 
 the University of Louvain protested, and demanded 
 whether the Pope condemned the book, as being the 
 doctrine of Augustin, or as the doctrine of the Jan- 
 senists. No one would dare openly to condemn 
 Augustin. However, Innocent X., urged by the 
 Jesuits, condemned five propositions of the work. 
 But his successor, Alexander VII., declared them not 
 to be condemned in the sense in which Augustin 
 taught them, but only in that of the Jansenists. 
 
44 LECTURE II. 
 
 Then the Jansenists maintained that the condemned 
 propositions were not found in the book. The great 
 Arnaud, one of the first orators of the age, held the 
 same opinion ; and was accused before the theolog- 
 ical faculty of Paris. It was at this moment our 
 author engaged in the controversy. While the trial 
 of Arnaud was in process at the Sorbonne, Pascal 
 wrote an account of what was passing, to one of his 
 friends. The Provincial Letters had at first for its 
 title, "Letters written to a Provincial, by one of his 
 friends.'' The first three being principally taken up 
 with Arnaud's trial, are the least interesting. They, 
 however, produced a great effect, though they had no 
 power to procure his acquittal. When his friend was 
 condemned, Pascal did not cease to make exertions in 
 his behalf; appealing to the public against the judg- 
 ment of the Sorbonne. .. 
 
 When the Jesuits, through their intrigues, had suc- 
 ceeded in getting Arnaud condemned by the theolog- 
 ical faculty, Pascal formed the bold project of having 
 the entire society condemned by the public. He de- 
 fends the right of inquiry, liberty of conscience, justice, 
 and truth; and calls upon honest hearts to join with 
 him in condemning a society which compromises 
 morals and religion. Availing himself of ridicule, so 
 murderous a weapon in France, he flagellates the 
 reverend fathers, and exposes the baseness of their 
 casuistry. And yet the Provincial Letters are not 
 satires, but true comedies. They have always three 
 personages — the friend to whom they are addressed, 
 Pascal himself, and a good Jesuit, who has the charge 
 of indoctrinating the latter. This personage is so 
 charmingly comic, that Molidre himself could not have 
 surpassed it. Pascal represents himself as a man, who 
 
PASCAL. 45 
 
 having heard a great deal of the Jesuits, wishes to form 
 an opinion concerning them. He accordingly goes to 
 a member of the society, who, with unexampled com- 
 plaisance, reveals all their secrets, and shows the wis- 
 dom of their authors. Pascal plays the part of a gen- 
 tle listener, who admits all without the least difficulty ; 
 and if he makes objections, it is only to furnish an 
 occasion for the Jesuit to explain himself, without any 
 reserve. The person who so complaisantly exposes to 
 Pascal, the doctrines of the society, is a casuist; that is 
 to say, one of those men in the Roman church whose 
 mission is to prepare a list of the things permitted or 
 forbidden, for the use of confessors. Every true mem- 
 ber of the Roman church has what is called a director 
 of his conscience, to whom he confesses his faults, and 
 of whom he asks counsel and advice ; often about the 
 most trifling things. The casuists have prepared a 
 manual of questions and answers for the use of con- 
 fessors ; in which the most delicate and difficult ques- 
 tions are boldly asked, with the imperturbable sang-froid 
 which is peculiar to the Jesuit. Pascal goes to one of 
 these casuists to consult him. But before making any 
 quotations, we must rectify a great and wide spread 
 error. 
 
 It is very unjust to charge the Jesuits, as is often 
 done, with the deliberate design of corrupting morals. 
 Voltaire defended them against this accusation ; which, 
 however, has again been revived by a celebrated novelist 
 in our day. The tendency of their method is certainly 
 demoralizing; and their maxims inevitably warp the 
 moral sense of those who follow them. But that is a 
 different thing from a conscious and deliberate inten- 
 tion to corrupt and demoralize. We must also do 
 them the justice to say, that they themselves are not 
 
46 LECTURE II. 
 
 always as worthless as their doctrines. The Jesuits 
 have been led to preach loose morals, by the necessities 
 of their position ; they have done evil, not because it 
 afforded them pleasure, but that it might result in good. 
 This is, indeed, immoral; but they hoped to redeem 
 all, by having the end sanctify the means. Their 
 ambition was to make the world happy for time and 
 eternity, by bringing all men into a state of subjection 
 to their society ; and with so noble an end, would they 
 be scrupulous as to the choice of means ; and could 
 they not persuade themselves, that they were doing 
 right in making men happy, in spite of themselves, and 
 even in deceiving them? The Jansenists, who, from 
 then: belief in the doctrine of grace, sought above all, 
 the glory of God, could not have reasoned thus; but 
 these considerations presented themselves, naturally 
 enough to the Jesuits, who sought, above all, the glory 
 of their society. The better to succeed in converting 
 all, and that none might escape them, they accommo- 
 dated themselves to the necessities of their position, 
 and made two classes of casuists; the one easy, and 
 the other severe ; so as to suit all consciences. . Then- 
 principle was, first, to bring all souls into subjection, by 
 means lawful or not lawful ; but then, when the whole 
 world should be under their control, they would govern 
 with moral severity. Thus the evil they might do 
 would be temporary ; the good, permanent. Pascal 
 himself, their sternest adversary, fully exposes the 
 immorality into which they had been drawn. The 
 Jesuits, according to him, are always, indeed, misguided 
 and perverse men; but yet, always human beings; 
 while the pen of Eugene Sue makes them unnatural 
 beings, very devils. There is all the difference of truth 
 and fiction between these two representations. " Know, 
 
PASCAL. 47 
 
 then, that their object is not to corrupt morals ; this is 
 not their design. And yet, to reform them is not their 
 sole object ; for this would be bad policy. Their idea 
 is this ; they have s,o good an opinion of themselves, as 
 to believe that religion is benefited in proportion as 
 their reputation is extended; and that it is necessary 
 for its interests, that they should have the control of all 
 consciences. And, as evangelical and severe maxims 
 are suited to some minds, they avail themselves of them, 
 when proper occasions offer ; but as these same maxims 
 would not find favor with the greater part of the world, 
 they lose sight of them in such cases, that they may 
 satisfy every one. Having to deal with people of all 
 conditions, and of different nations, it is necessary to 
 have casuists adapted to all this diversity." 
 
 " You will easily see, then, that if all their casuists 
 taught an easy morality ; it would be ruinous to their 
 principal design, which is to embrace all the world, 
 since the truly pious would only be satisfied with a 
 stricter course. But as this latter class is not numer- 
 ous, they require but few directors of the severer sort to 
 guide them ; whereas a multitude of indulgent casuists 
 offer their services to the multitude who seek indul- 
 gence." 
 
 " It is by this 'obliging and accommodating conduct,' 
 (as Father Pe"tau calls it,) that they offer a hand to all 
 the world. For if any one should come to them, 
 determined to make restitution for ill-gotten gains, 
 there is no fear that they will seek to turn him from 
 his purpose; on the contrary, they praise him, and 
 strengthen so holy a resolution. But if another comes 
 to seek absolution without restitution, it must be^a 
 very difficult case, if they cannot find and guarantee a 
 way, by which his conscience may be set at ease." 
 
48 LECTURE II. 
 
 "In this way they keep their Mends, and protect 
 themselves from their enemies ; for, if reproached for 
 their laxity of morals, they produce to the public their 
 austere directors, with some of their books, advocating 
 all the rigors of the Christian law; and thus satisfy 
 the simple and unthinking with these proofs." * 
 
 The great crime of the Jesuits is, their doubting the 
 power of Christianity to transform the world. They 
 have, therefore, disfigured it, to insure it a better recep- 
 tion; and perverted morals, to bring them within the 
 reach of every one. They have concealed the folly of the 
 cross, to augment the number of Christians. " In this 
 way, they adapt themselves to all classes. Nay, they 
 respond so admirably to every taste, that, in countries 
 where the notion of a crucified Deity is esteemed folly, 
 they suppress the scandal of the cross ; preaching only 
 the Saviour in his state of glory, and not of suffering. 
 It is in this manner that they have acted in the Indies 
 and China; permitting their converts even to practise 
 idolatry, by the subtle contrivance of directing them to 
 conceal an image of Christ under their garments, and 
 mentally to render to it those public devotions, which 
 were professedly paid to the idol Cachinchoam, and 
 their Keum-fu-cum. These are facts which rest on the 
 authority of Gravina, a Dominican; as also of the 
 Spanish memorial presented to Philip IV. of Spain, by 
 the Grey Friars of the Philippine Isles, as related by 
 Thomas Hurtado, in his work of < The Martyrs of the 
 Faith,' page 427. So that the congregation of the 
 Cardinals, ' De Propaganda fide,' was obliged to inter- 
 dict the Jesuits, specially, and on pain of excommuni- 
 
 * Provincial Letters, No. 5. 
 
PASCAL. 49 
 
 cation, from permitting the adoration of idols on any 
 pretence whatever ; as well as from concealing the 
 doctrines of the cross from their students of theology ; 
 expressly directing them to admit none to baptism, but 
 on a full explanation of those holy mysteries; and 
 ordering them to exhibit crucifixes in all their churches ; 
 as is fully set forth in the decree of that congregation, 
 passed the 9th of July, 1646, signed by Cardinal 
 Caponi."* 
 
 Pascal informs us of the manner in which he made 
 acquaintance with the Jesuit, who initiated him in all 
 the mysteries of the order. " For this pur- 
 pose, I found out a good casuist of the society, (an old 
 friend of my own,) and proceeded to renew my 
 acquaintance with him. And as I was informed how 
 to manage them, we soon came to an excellent under- 
 standing." 
 
 " He received me with great cordiality, for he had 
 always been attached to me ; and after some general 
 conversation, I took occasion, in reference to the present 
 season, to ask him a few questions respecting fasting, 
 with a view to draw him insensibly to the subjects 
 upon which I desired to converse with him. I com- 
 plained that I had not strength to endure that 
 exercise." 
 
 " He began by exhorting me to the duty of forcing 
 my inclinations. But, as I continued my complaints, 
 he expressed concern for my case ; and set himself to 
 find excuses for me. He suggested several causes of 
 the inconveniences I suffered ; which, however, did not 
 apply to my circumstances. At last it occurred to him 
 
 * Provincial Letters, No. 5. 
 5 
 
50 ", LECTURE II. 
 
 to ask, whether I found any difficulty in sleeping with- 
 out taking supper. ' Indeed, I do, my Father,' I replied, 
 ' and for that reason I am often obliged both to take a 
 collation at noon, and to sup in the evening.' ' I am 
 glad to say I can find a way,' he replied, ' to relieve you 
 without any sin on your part. There; you may dis- 
 pense with fasting. I do not, however, wish you to 
 take my word only for it ; come into the library.' I 
 went accordingly, and there taldng up a book, he 
 said, ' Here is my authority ; and Heaven knows 
 how eminent a one it is. It is Escobar.'' ' Who 
 is Escobar ? ' I inquired. ' What ! don't you know 
 Escobar, a member of our society, who compiled that 
 Moral Theology of twenty-four of our fathers ; respect- 
 ing which he makes, in the preface, an allegorical com- 
 parison to the Apocalypse, sealed with seven seals? 
 And further, he says, that Jesus thus offers it sealed to 
 the four living creatures, Suares, Vasques, Molina, and 
 Valentia, in presence of twenty-four Jesuits, represent- 
 ing the twenty-four Elders.' " — 
 
 These twenty -four elders compose the areopagus. 
 of the society"; and the Jesuit who has the care of ini- 
 tiating him in all the mysteries of his order, never fails 
 to quote them with the greatest respect. 
 
 His friend afterwards catechises him on the subject 
 of probable opinions. 
 
 " I begged him to explain to me what a probable 
 opinion Avas." 
 
 " I was delighted to find him thus fall upon the topic 
 I desired to introduce ; and eagerly expressed my wish 
 that he would explain to me the meaning of a probable 
 opinion. • Our writers will furnish you with an answer 
 better than myself,' he replied. ' This is what they lay 
 down, generally, on the subject ; and among others, our 
 
PASCAL. ' 51 
 
 twenty-four, in Princ. ex. 3, N. 8. An opinion is termed 
 probable when it is founded upon reasons entitled 
 to a certain measure of consideration. Thence it 
 may happen, that a single authority of eminence may 
 
 render an opinion probable? ' Then,' said I, 
 
 ' a single doctor may turn our consciences at his own 
 pleasure, and without fear of consequences ! ' ' You 
 need not laugh,' said he, ' this is a doctrine not to be 
 questioned. The Jansenists have tried to shake it ; but 
 they have lost their labor. It is too firmly established 
 to be shaken by them. Hear what Sanchez, one of out- 
 most celebrated Fathers, says : — You will doubt, perhaps, 
 whether the authority of one sound and learned doctor 
 can render an opinion probable ; nevertheless, such is 
 the case, as we are assured by Angelus, Sylv. Navarre, 
 Emmanuel Sa, etc. And they prove it thus. A 
 probable opinion is one that has weight and founda- 
 tion. Now the authority of a wise and pious man 
 is not a trifle ; but rather a matter of great considera- 
 tion. • And weigh well the reason. If the testimony 
 of any individual be credible, as to a certain event 
 having occurred at such a place ; for instance, Rome ; 
 why may not such testimony be equally valid in a 
 question of morals ? ' — 
 
 " ' But, my Father,' I said, ' this must render a choice 
 between the different views embarrassing.' ' Not in 
 the least,' he replied; 'we have nothing to do but to 
 follow that which agrees best with our own.' ' But sup- 
 pose the other has the greater measure of probability ? ' 
 ' No matter,' he replied. 'And if the other should be 
 the more sure ? ' 'No matter still,' rejoined the Father; 
 'here is an excellent solution of the point. It is in 
 Emmanuel Sa, a member of our society, in his aphorism 
 
52 LECTURE II. 
 
 de dubio, p. 183 : — We may do any thing that we be- 
 lieve to be allowable, if authorized by an opinion 
 grounded on probability; although the contrary opin- 
 ion may be the more sound one. The opinion of any 
 one learned man suffices for this purpose. — Then if an 
 opinion be altogether less probable, and less sound, is it 
 allowed to act upon that, in preference to one which is 
 believed to be more probable and more sound ? ' 
 
 " ' Yes,' again he said, ' hear the words of Filiutius, 
 the great Roman Jesuit, Mort. quast. tr. 21, c. 4, N. 128 : — 
 It is lawful to follow a less probable and less sound 
 opinion; this is the common opinion of modern 
 authors.' " * 
 
 " The doctrine of the Jesuits, on the direction of the 
 intention, is still more remarkable, though less known ; 
 a curious example will show us what use they make of 
 it." t 
 
 " ' Explain to me, then, how, by means of this regula- 
 tion of the intent, it is lawful to fight a duel.' ' The 
 great Hurtado de Mendoza,' said the Father, ' shall sat- 
 isfy you at once, in a passage quoted by Diana, p. 5, 
 tr. 14, r. 99 : — If a gentleman challenged in a duel, be 
 known not to be a religionist, and it be notorious, from 
 his habitual and unscrupulous laxity of conduct, that, if 
 he refuse the challenge, it is not from any pious scruples, 
 but from cowardice ; and he would thus be liable to be 
 stigmatized as chicken-hearted and unmanly, " gallina, 
 et non vir " — he may, to preserve his honor, repair to the 
 place of rendezvous," not absolutely and with express 
 intention of fighting, but only for the purpose of de- 
 fending himself, if the challenger should attack him 
 
 * Fifth Letter. f Seventh Letter. 
 
PASCAL. 53 
 
 unjustly. His conduct will thus be thoroughly innocent. 
 For what harm is there in going to the field, walking 
 about there, to meet another, and defending himself if 
 attacked ? In this way he commits no offence, as he 
 does not accept the challenge, but has an entirely dif- 
 ferent intention. The acceptance of a challenge con- 
 sists in an express intention to fight, which is not at all 
 his case.' 
 
 " ' You have not quite kept your word with me, my 
 good Father. All this does not amount strictly to per- 
 mitting a duel. On the contrary, your author sees the 
 practice to be so absolutely forbidden, that, in order to 
 bring it within the license, he avoids admitting that it 
 is a duel at all.' ' Oh ! oh ! ' said the Father, ' you are 
 beginning to understand matters ; I am delighted with 
 you: I might say, however, that he therein allows all 
 that duellists wish for. But as you like me to be exact 
 in my answers, our Father Layman shall now give one 
 for me, in which you will find he sanctions duelling in 
 so many words; provided the intention be so adjusted, 
 that the acceptance of a challenge shall be only for the 
 preservation of honor or fortune. It is in Book 3, p. 3, 
 c. 3, n. 2 and 3 : — If a soldier in the army, or a gentle- 
 man of the court, be in danger of losing his honor, or 
 his prospects of advancement, by refusing a challenge, 
 I do not see that he is to be condemned for accepting 
 it. — Petrus Hurtado says the same, as reported by the 
 celebrated Escobar, in tr. 1, ex. 7, N. 96 and 98 : — We 
 may engage in a single combat in defence of our prop- 
 erty, if no other way be left to us ; for every one has a 
 right to defend his own, even by the death of his ene- 
 mies. — Lastly, we come to Sanchez ; you see 
 
 what kind of authorities I have to cite ! and he goes 
 even beyond this ; for not only does he allow the accept- 
 
 5* 
 
54 TjECTuke ii. 
 
 ance, but even the giving of a challenge, provided the 
 intention be properly directed. And Escobar follows 
 him in his opinion, in the part before quoted, N. 97.' 
 ' My father,' said I, ' I give up, if it be indeed so ; but 
 1 can never believe that he has written such a thing as 
 this, unless I see it for myself.' ' Read it here yourself, 
 then,' he replied. And, in truth, I did read the following 
 in the Moral Theology of Sanchez, Liv. 2, c. 39, N. 7 : — 
 It is quite reasonable to affirm that a man may engage 
 in a duel, to preserve his life, his honor, or his property, 
 (if the latter be considerable,) since he may be otherwise 
 continually exposed to the unjust deprivation of them 
 by vexatious suits and chicanery ; and he has no other 
 way than this to preserve them. — And Navarrus says 
 most justly, that, for such a purpose, it is lawful both to 
 accept and to give a challenge ; licet acceptare et offerre 
 duellum. And further, he may kill his enemy secretly. 
 And even in such encounters, he is not bound to resort 
 to the process of a duel, if he can succeed in killing his 
 enemy by secret means; and thus terminating the 
 affair ; for in this way he will avoid both exposing his 
 own life in a conflict, and participating in the sin which 
 his antagonist would commit by engaging him in a 
 duel. — ' Truly, my Father,' I said, ' this is somewhat of 
 a pious fraud; but although very pious, it is a fraud 
 still, to allow you thus to kill your enemy by treachery.' 
 'Did I say,' he replied, 'any thing about treachery? 
 God forbid ! I said, you might kill him secretly ; and 
 you all at once conclude he may be killed treacherously: 
 as if they were the same things. Hear what Escobar 
 says about killing treacherously, tr. 6, ex. 4, N. 16, and 
 then you will understand better: — To slay another 
 treacherously is, when the person has no suspicion of 
 your intention ; therefore he is not to be said to slay his 
 
PASCAL. 55 
 
 enemy by treachery, even if it be by striking him from 
 behind, or when taken in ambush ; " licet per insidias, out 
 a tergo percutiat." — And in the same treatise, N. 56 ; 
 — he that kills an adversary with whom he had been rec- 
 onciled, under a promise not again to attempt his life, 
 is not absolutely to be considered as killing treacher- 
 ously, unless there had subsisted a very close friendship 
 between them ; arctior amicitia." — 
 
 " Mental reservations are also one of the most pre- 
 cious resources of the casuist, and is perhaps one the 
 most easily adapted to common usage; being what 
 many term, white lies. For example, the question is, 
 how to overcome some obstacle which presents itself. 
 ' One of the greatest difficulties people experience, 
 is to avoid falsehood ; especially when it is wished to 
 convey the belief of something untrue. To this pur- 
 pose, our system of equivocation is admirably adapted ; 
 by which it is allowed to make use of ambiguous expres- 
 sions, to be understood in a sense different from that in 
 which we use them ; as it is stated by Sanchez, op. 
 Mor. p. 2, b. 3, ch. 6, .N. 13.' ' I am aware of this,' I 
 said. ' Why, yes, we have published this doctrine so 
 extensively, that every one is acquainted with it. But 
 do you know what ought to be done when you cannot 
 find equivocal terms ? ' 'I cannot say I do.' ' I thought 
 so,' he replied : ' this point is new ; it is the doctrine of 
 mental reservation. Sanchez lays it down at the same 
 place : — We may swear, he says, that we have not 
 done a certain thing, although we actually have done 
 it ; by an understanding in our own minds, that it was 
 not done in a given day, or before we were born, or any 
 similar circumstance, secretly understood, without using 
 any words which may actually be so interpreted. This 
 is convenient in many situations ; and is most especially 
 
56 LECTURE II. 
 
 justifiable for the preservation of health, honor, or prop- 
 erty.' 
 
 " ' What ! my father ; and this not falsehood or per- 
 jury ! ' ' No,' he replied, ' Sanchez demonstrates it in 
 the same passage ; and Father Filiutius also, tr. 35, ch. 
 11, N. 331 : — For, says he, it is the intention that regu- 
 lates the quality of the action. — And at N. 328, he gives 
 another still surer method of avoiding falsehood ; it is, 
 after saying aloud, I swear that I did not do so and so, 
 to add in a low tone, to-day; or after saying aloud, I 
 swear, to whisper, that I say, and then to continue 
 aloud, that I did not do so. This, you see, is to speak 
 the truth.' ' I admit it,' said I, ' but we should find, per- 
 haps, that it is saying the truth in a whisper, and a He 
 aloud. But may it not be feared that all persons might 
 not have sufficient presence of mind to avail themselves 
 of these methods ? ' ' Our Fathers,' he said, ' have pro- 
 vided for the case of such, that it is enough to avoid a 
 lie, to say simply, they have not done that which they 
 really have done, provided they have a general intention 
 of using the words in a sense which more expert per- 
 sons would give them.' " 
 
 " ' Now confess,' the Father continued, ' that you have 
 been often in situations of difficulty for want of knowing 
 all this ? ' ' Occasionally,' I replied. ' And you do not 
 allow that it would be then highly convenient to have a 
 conscientious dispensation from keeping your word?' 
 ' The greatest convenience in the world.' ' Then read the 
 general rule laid down by Escobar, tr. 3, ex. 3, N. 48 : — 
 Promises are not obligatory, when we do not intend to 
 bind ourselves in making them. Now we never can be 
 held to have such an intention, unless we confirm it by 
 an oath or an agreement ; to wit, when we say simply, 
 I will do so, we mean, unless we change our mind; for 
 
PASCAL. 57 
 
 no one ought to have his freewill .fettered. He gives 
 other cases, which you can see for yourself; and con- 
 cludes: all this is taken from Molina and our other 
 authorities : Omnia ex Molina et aliis; and so, no doubt 
 can remain on the subject.' " 
 
 These quotations will be sufficient to give an idea 
 of the morals of the Jesuits. Their maxims on proba- . 
 bility, on the direction of the intention, and mental 
 reservations, give the key of -the whole system. And 
 we are not astonished, then, to learn that by means 
 of this convenient doctrine they are able to excuse 
 robbery, duelling, impurity, immoralities of all kinds, 
 and even homicide, when it is for the defence of 
 honor or property; for a dollar, or even for an apple. 
 This demands a quotation. 
 
 " And where is this fearful infatuation to end? To 
 what excesses must it not lead ! Is it not obvious that 
 life will come to be set in the balance with the veriest 
 trifles, if it be regarded as a point of honor to preserve 
 them? Yes, the life of man may be taken for an 
 apple ! Here you would again charge me, my Reverend 
 Fathers, with drawing slanderous inferences from your 
 doctrines, were I not, in saying this, supported by the 
 authority of the grave Lessius himself, who has these 
 words, N. 68 : — It is not allowable to take the life 
 of another for the preservation of a thing of a small 
 value, such as a dollar, or an apple — ' aut pro porno ' — 
 unless the loss of it should be attended with disgrace to 
 ourselves. For then we are bound to recover it, and 
 even to take life, if necessary for the purpose — et si 
 opus est, occidere — because this is not so much for 
 the preservation of our property, as of our honor. — Is 
 
 * 9th Letter. 
 
58 LECTURE II. 
 
 not this plain speaking? and, to conclude with a propo- 
 sition which includes all the others, hear the foUowing 
 passage from Father Hereau, and which he has adopted 
 from Lessius: — The right of defending ourselves 
 extends to the use of every kind of means for preserv- 
 ing ourselves from every kind of injury." * 
 
 This fourteenth letter exhibits the genius and elo- 
 quence of Pascal. He here attacks the Jesuits directly, 
 without the intervention- of the good and reverend 
 father, who had previously initiated him in all their 
 secrets. He has taken leave of his interlocutor, to 
 whom he listened patiently, until the moment in which 
 he said that the casuists had succeeded in dispensing 
 with the duty of loving God. His indignation, which 
 he had before restrained, now bursts out. " ' Father!' 
 I here exclaimed, ' my patience is exhausted ; I can 
 listen no longer to your detestable statements.' " f 
 
 " Is it not enough, that, by your fatal palliatives, you 
 allow so much that is forbidden, but you must also 
 allure and prompt to the commission of crimes, (crimes 
 which even yourselves dare not excuse,) by the facility 
 of your absolutions — annihilating, for this purpose, all 
 freedom of will in the priest ; and compelling him, as a 
 slave, rather than a judge, to give remission to the most 
 inveterate offenders! .And all this, without alteration 
 of conduct — without any other sign of compunction, 
 than promises a hundred times broken — without 
 penance, 'if they be not disposed to undergo it' — 
 without abandoning their vices, ' if it causes them 
 inconvenience to do so.' " 
 
 " But I pass on. The freedoms taken by your 
 society with the most sacred rules of human duty, lead 
 
 * l-ith Letter. tl'»g e 204, 10th Letter. 
 
PASCAL. 59 
 
 to the entire overthrow of the law of God. They 
 violate the great commandment, on which hang all the 
 law and the prophets. They pervert the very principle 
 of piety in the heart ; they take from it all spirit and 
 vitality ; they proclaim, that love to God is not needful 
 for salvation ; and dare to assert, that* the remission 
 of this sacred principle is a benefit which the religion 
 of Jesus has conferred upon the world. Impiety can 
 go no further ! The blood of Christ has flowed forth 
 to purchase a dispensation from the obligation to love 
 him ! Before the mystery of incarnation was revealed, 
 love to God was imperative ; now, when ' God has so 
 loved the world, that he has given his only begotten 
 Son for it,' the world, purchased by that love — is dis- 
 charged from the sacred duty ! Oh, marvellous 
 theology of modern days ! To presume to reverse 
 the anathema pronounced by St. Paul against those 
 who ' love not the Lord Jesus Christ ! ' To contradict 
 the assertion of St. John, 'that whoso loveth not, is 
 dead ; ' and the declaration of Christ himself, that ' he 
 who loveth not, keepeth not his commandments ! ' 
 You would confer a title to the enjoyment of God, 
 throughout eternity, upon those who never owned an 
 emotion of love to Him in life ! The mystery of ini- 
 quity is accomplished. Open, open your eyes, my 
 Fathers ; and, if you have really remained unmoved by 
 all the preceding sophistries. of your casuists, let these 
 closing enormities awaken you ! I fervently desire it, 
 on behalf both of yourselves and your brethren ; and I 
 pray to God to reveal to you the horrors of the preci- 
 pice to which a delusive light has led you ; and to fill 
 with his love the hearts of those, who have dared to 
 excuse and absolve the absence of it in their fellow 
 
60 LECTURE II. 
 
 This examination of the Provincial Letters, awakens 
 many inquiries. And first, what position in the Roman 
 church do the reverend Jesuit fathers occupy, with 
 whom Pascal has just made us acquainted? Is the 
 church responsible for their morality ? We can believe 
 it, when we recall the affection with which she praises 
 them officially; as advanced soldiers of the Papal 
 army; as hardy oarsmen; for so the present Pope 
 expresses himself; who have many times saved the 
 bark of St. Peter from shipwreck. But another diffi- 
 culty here presents itself: if Jesuitism and Catholicism 
 are one and the same thing, how could Pascal, who 
 otherwise believed in the Pope, and was a Catholic, 
 have attacked them so sharply ? It is not only on 
 account of the author of the Provincial Letters, but 
 alsq from examining the conduct of many other sincere 
 Catholics, that we are led to ask this question. In 
 order to determine it, we must first get a just idea 
 of what the Jesuits are; and then there will be no 
 difficulty. It is an easy task to arouse indignation 
 against this celebrated society. Protestants are com- 
 mitted on this subject, and are, therefore, regarded by 
 indifferent persons, only as partisans. It may be well, 
 then, to introduce here the testimony of one who is 
 entirely a stranger to our western debates ; a testimony 
 which comes, so to speak, from another world; from 
 St. Petersburg ; the convictions of a Russian diploma- 
 tist, recently made public in a very remarkable article 
 entitled, The Papacy and the Roman question examined 
 from the St. Petersburg' point of view. 
 
 He remarks : " The institution of the Jesuits will 
 always be a problem for the West. It is still there, 
 one of those enigmas, the key of which is to be found 
 elsewhere. It may be said with truth, that the question 
 
PASCAL. 61 
 
 of the Jesuits affects too nearly the religious conscience 
 of the West, ever to be solved there in an entirely 
 satisfactory manner. 
 
 " In speaking of the Jesuits, and endeavoring to 
 make a just appreciation of them, we must leave out 
 of the account those (and their name is legion) to 
 whom the word Jesuit is nothing more than a pass- 
 word, a war-cry. Of all the apologies, which have 
 been attempted in favor of this celebrated order, there 
 is, certainly, nothing more eloquent or more convincing, 
 than the hatred, the furious and implacable hatred 
 which has been vowed against it by all the enemies 
 of the Christian religion ; but admitting this, it cannot 
 be denied that many Roman Catholics, the most sincere 
 and most devoted to their church, from Pascal to the 
 present time, have not ceased, from generation to gen- 
 eration, to cherish an avowed and insurmountable 
 antipathy to this institution. This state of feeling in 
 so considerable a portion of the Catholic world, consti- 
 tutes, perhaps, one of the most striking and tragic situ- 
 ations in which the soul of man can be placed. How 
 can we imagine any thing more profoundly tragic, than 
 the struggle in the heart of a man, who is divided 
 between a sentiment of religious veneration; a piety 
 more than filial, and the odious evidence which he 
 forces himself against the testimony of his own con- 
 science to disbelieve, rather than admit the incontesta- 
 ble reality of the tie which binds the object of his wor- 
 ship to that of his aversion? Such is, however, the 
 situation of all faithful Catholics, who, decided in their 
 aversion to the Jesuits, seek to hide from themselves, a 
 fact so strikingly evident, that a strong and intimate 
 union binds this order, its tendencies, its doctrines, and 
 its destinies to the tendencies, the doctrines, and the 
 
62 LECTURE II. 
 
 destinies of the Roman church; and that it is abso- 
 lutely impossible to separate the one from the other, 
 without producing an organic derangement, and evident 
 mutilation. For, if we set aside all prejudice, all pre- 
 possessions of party, sect, or even of country, and with 
 a truly impartial mind and a heart full of Christian 
 charity, look at history and at reality, and having 
 interrogated the one and the other, we propose this 
 question to ourselves, in good faith, ' what are the 
 Jesuits ? ' we think there can be but one answer. That 
 answer is this : the Jesuits are men full of ardent, inde- 
 fatigable, and often heroic zeal for the Christian cause ; 
 and who yet a.re guilty of a great crime against 
 Christianity. Governed, not as individuals, but as an 
 order, by the human me, they have believed the cause 
 of Christianity so allied to their own, that in the ardor 
 of the pursuit and the excitement of the combat, they 
 have so completely forgotten the Master's words, ' Let 
 thy will, not mine, be done,' that they have ended, by 
 seeking the victory for God, at any price, save that of 
 their own personal gratification. Now, this error, which 
 has its root in the original corruption of man, and 
 which has been, in its consequences, of incalculable 
 injury to the interests of Christianity, is far from being 
 peculiar to the society of Jesus. It has this error, this 
 tendency, in common with the Roman church herself; 
 so that it might justly be said, that it is this which 
 binds them to each other, in a true organic affinity ; a 
 real blood-alliance. It is this community, this identity 
 of tendencies, which makes the institution of the 
 Jesuits, a concentrated, but literally faithful expression 
 of Roman Catholicism; which makes it, in a word, 
 Roman Catholicism itself; but in a state of action,. a 
 state militant. We see why this order, tossed about 
 
PASCAL. 63 
 
 from age to age, through persecutions and triumphs, 
 outrage and apotheosis, has never found, nor would 
 know how to find in the West, religious convictions 
 sufficiently disinterested in its cause, to be able to 
 appreciate it, nor a competent religious authority to 
 judge it. A part of western society, that which has 
 resolutely broken from Christian principles, attacks the 
 Jesuits under cover of their unpopularity, only for the 
 purpose of aiming a surer blow at its true enemy. But 
 sincere Catholics, who are the enemies of this order, 
 dare not take up arms against it; for, in attacking it, 
 they are always in danger of inflicting a wound on the 
 Roman church herself." 
 
 This could not be better expressed ; and these few 
 remarks, so perfectly just, clearly explain the compli- 
 cated history of Jesuitism, and the many different ways 
 in which the term is employed. The word Jesuit, is 
 often nothing but a war-cry ; and in France, at least, it 
 is applied indifferently to Catholics and Protestants. 
 All pious men, to whatever Christian communion they 
 may belong, are branded, by a certain class of persons, 
 with the name of Jesuit. One, who in that country is 
 called a professor of religion, however little zeai or 
 activity he may have, is in great danger of drawing 
 upon himself the title of Jesuit, from formalists, 
 sceptics, and the indifferent. These enemies of Jesuit- 
 ism are by no means formidable; for they not only 
 attack the society of Jesus, but Christianity herself. 
 And vital, practical religion, has nothing to fear from 
 their attacks. It may be said that when infidels attack 
 the Jesuits, the society has cause to rejoice ; for days 
 of triumph await it. Indeed, they overreach then- 
 mark, in proscribing all Christianity, under the name 
 
64 LECTURE II. 
 
 of Jesuitism ; for they immediately draw to its defence 
 truly religious men, who do not fear to bear, for a 
 moment, the approbrium attached to the name of Jesuit. 
 But though the Jesuits, with such aid, may come off 
 victorious from these attacks, yet their defeat soon fol- 
 lows their triumph. Their ambition shows itself anew; 
 they give themselves up to intrigue ; and then religious 
 men turn again upon them, and they have to defend 
 themselves against such attacks as those of Pascal. 
 This is what we have seen passing before our eyes for 
 some' years. Recall to your recollection the state of 
 opinion in France, in respect to the Jesuits, before the 
 revolution of February, when every one attacked them, 
 and demanded the suppression of the order, which had 
 again become so formidable, through the protection 
 given them by the government. Since the republic has 
 been established, all is changed; scepticism and im- 
 piety have raised their heads ; and peaceable persons 
 have run for succor to the Jesuits. This celebrated 
 society sees itself protected and defended anew, by an 
 army of deists, Voltaireans, and people without religion. 
 Those who were formerly their most implacable ene- 
 miesf show themselves to-day their most zealous de 
 fenders. In consequence of this change, the enemies 
 of the Jesuits on one side, and their representatives on 
 the other, form an alliance under the title of friends. 
 All this is perfectly logical. Men without religion, 
 finding themselves entirely unable to resist such a 
 devastating torrent of impudent and consistent infi- 
 delity, applied to the Jesuits for aid. It certainly is 
 not, that they love them any better than formerly ; for 
 they are impatient of the yoke which circumstances 
 have thus imposed on them ; and as soon as the danger 
 
PASCAL. 65 
 
 is passed, they will become more bitter enemies than 
 ever.* 
 
 The society of Jesus finds itself, by its very nature, 
 condemned to these continual alternations of success 
 and defeat. For it, emphatically may we say, there is 
 " but one step from the Capitol to the Tarpeian Rock ; " 
 as it has had occasion to know, throughout its whole 
 history. A sincere Catholic, although condemned to 
 submit to the Jesuits, can neither disown nor approve 
 them. They always compromise the Papacy ; and yet, 
 they alone can manage its affairs. As our St. Peters- 
 burg diplomatist so well remarks : The Jesuits are the 
 concentrated, but literally faithful representatives of 
 Roman Catholicism ; they are Roman Catholicism 
 itself; but in a state of action, a state militant. Mr. 
 Vinet has expressed the same idea in denominating 
 Catholicism, diffused Jesuitism : thus borrowing an 
 image from Chemistry, which answers very well to 
 that of the Russian diplomatist, who calls Jesuitism, 
 concentrated Catholicism. This fact assures the Jesuits 
 of an existence, as enduring as that of the Papacy, of 
 which they are the purest exposition. But this will 
 not prevent honest and truly pious Catholics from 
 unceasingly protesting, after the example of Pascal, 
 against a society which is, nevertheless, the faithful 
 expression of the whole system. Whenever religion 
 shall be endangered, and the cause of Christianity be 
 found to be identified with that of the society of Jesus, 
 
 *This was written long before the 2d of December, 1851. Since 
 the coup d'etat, the Jesuite have become all-powerful in the court; 
 and the antipathy of the nation is beginning to be reawakened. 
 We may be assured that the next revolution will be an anti-religious 
 one. — Tr. 
 
 6* 
 
66 LECTURE II. 
 
 they will close their eyes to its innumerable defects, 
 even while sighing over them in secret. But as soon 
 as the danger is past, their antipathies will be revived. 
 Such is the false position to which pious Catholics find 
 themselves condemned. They would willingly break 
 entirely from the Jesuits. But that is impossible ; for, 
 in attacking them, they would constantly be liable to 
 wound the Roman church herself. Pascal is the most 
 eminent of those Catholics, whom we must congratu- 
 late on knowing how to be consistent. To him the 
 interests of Christianity and of morals, were of supreme 
 importance ; and he attacked the Jesuits, without ask- 
 ing whether his blows would not at the same time 
 reach the church to which he belonged. He did not 
 perceive the oneness of these two institutions; and, 
 doubtless, if he had been conscious of it, he would not 
 have drawn back. If he had discovered that Jesuitism 
 necessarily flows from Catholicism, he was too good a 
 Christian to have failed in the duty which such a dis- 
 covery would have imposed upon him. But he had 
 not to put this question to himself. His Provincial 
 Letters created a great sensation, and had immense 
 success ; all the truly pious Catholics approving them, 
 and expressing their horror at the doctrines of the 
 casuists. The priests of Paris and Rouen took part 
 with the Provincials, and carefully examined all the 
 quotations of their letters, which the Jesuits had de- 
 clared to be forged. They found, on examination, that 
 Ihey were not only all exact, but that the author had 
 even spared his adversaries, by not saying all. The 
 Jesuits published an apology for their casuists ; but it 
 was censured by the greater part of the ecclesiastical 
 dignitaries of France, and even by the court of Rome ; 
 while the Provincial Letters were translated into several 
 
PASCAL. 67 
 
 languages, and the society made no effort to refute it, 
 for forty years after its publication. 
 
 We have a right, then, to be astonished that the 
 Provincials did not give the death blow to the Jesuits. 
 And we are equally at a loss to understand why the 
 Roman church has not openly and continually re- 
 nounced the men who so compromise her. This aston- 
 ishment is perfectly natural ; for, certainly, if Jesuitism 
 could have died, it would have perished under the 
 blows of Pascal; but from its very nature, it is des- 
 tined to live as long as the Papacy, for whose succor it 
 always reappears, by a secret instinct, at the moment 
 of danger ; thus affording a proof of that affinity, of 
 which we have just spoken. The Papacy always 
 intrusts to it its interests ; and regards the reverend 
 fathers as its most zealous defenders. It is this which 
 renders all agreement between the Papacy and modern 
 ideas, completely impossible. We have seen how the 
 curious experience of a Pope has resulted, who aimed 
 at being at once, Pope and liberal ; head of the Roman 
 church, and yet a man of the times. Pius IX. deter- 
 mined to introduce a period of liberty ; and the heads 
 of the Jesuit party announced in advance, the magnifi- 
 cent alliance of Catholicism and modern ideas ; striving 
 to appear gay, though secretly trembling for the results 
 of the bold enterprise. But no sooner has the scheme 
 miscarried, than they hastened to disavow it. Was 
 such a thing ever heard of, as a political chief of the 
 Catholic party daring to dictate to the Pope ? And yet, 
 from the height of the French tribune he was told, that 
 if in future he chose to venture on such experiments, 
 he would be left to pursue them alone.* 
 
 * It was M. De Montalembert, the acknowledged head of all the 
 Jesuits, of whatever order, who gave this warning to the Pope. 
 
68 LECTURE II. 
 
 Thus modern society must understand it, as an 
 established fact, the Papacy neither compromises nor 
 reforms ; it is incompatible with the liberty of the press, 
 religious liberty, and the constitutional system. It is 
 then necessary to choose between modern ideas and 
 those of the middle ages ; for, Papacy is indivisible, and 
 must either conquer or perish. Be it so. Whoever 
 believes in Christianity and the progress of humanity, 
 will hasten with his wishes, the issue of such a com- 
 bat; and anticipate the consequences, with the liveliest 
 
 joy- 
 Before examining the merits of Les Pensees, or, 
 
 " The Thoughts," which, notwithstanding the incon- 
 testable merit of his Provincials, is yet his true title to 
 immortality, we must enter upon some biographical 
 details, which will enable us the better to understand 
 them, when we shall come to study them. 
 
 Pascal always appears to us a profoundly religious 
 man ; yet he was not such during his whole life. In 
 his youth, he was very dissipated ; mingling with some 
 young noblemen, in the most disorderly society of the 
 day. But in the midst of this worldly life he always 
 preserved a propriety and purity of manners which 
 rendered him accessible to the gospel, from the time it 
 was presented to him. His father received some injury, 
 and employed the services of a pious physician. He 
 lent the family good books, which he received from 
 a respectable priest of Rouen ; and from these Blaise 
 Pascal received his first good impression. They led 
 him to resolve, that he would consecrate himself to 
 the service of religion. This is what is called his first 
 conversion ; for, not remaining firm in his resolution, he 
 returned to the world, after having been the means 
 of converting his sister, who became a nun at Port 
 
PASCAL. 69 
 
 Royal. Another accident, that afterwards happened, 
 led to his decided conversion. " He was soon to be 
 married, and purchase an office, when God touched 
 his heart a second time, on an occasion in which 
 he nearly lost his life. In 1654, having gone one day 
 to ride on the bridge of Neuilly, in a carriage drawn by 
 four or six horses, the two leaders took the bit in their 
 teeth, and rushing to a part of the bridge which was 
 unprotected by a railing, they plunged into the river. 
 Happily, the harness broke, leaving the carriage on the 
 edge. This accident made so great an impression on 
 M. Pascal, that he resolved to give up all these riding- 
 parties, and lead a more retired life." * 
 
 The enemies of Christianity made the most of this 
 circumstance, in trying to throw discredit on the piety 
 of Pascal. Starting on the axiom, that a weak mind is 
 necessary to make a faithful Christian, Voltaire wrote 
 to Condorcet : " My friend, repeat it constantly, that 
 since the accident of Neuilly bridge, Pascal's brain has 
 been deranged." The perusal of Les Pen sees would 
 sufficiently refute such a calumny ; nevertheless, as Vol- 
 taire would not have recognized such authority, he 
 ought to have had another given him, of a different 
 nature. The fact is, that the author composed Les 
 Provinciales, and resolved the problem of the little 
 wheel, after the accident. Besides, at the moment in 
 which Voltaire declares that his mind was injured, 
 Bossuet, in his history of mathematics, declares, that 
 he resolved one of the most difficult problems. 
 
 It may be said, that the piety of Pascal does not 
 answer to the model given us in the gospel. This 
 great genius knew not how to enjoy the glorious lib- 
 
 * Life of Pascal. 
 
70 LECTURE II. 
 
 erty of the children of God ; he placed too much con- 
 fidence in a life of mortifications and sufferings, as 
 coming nearest to perfection; although the Roman 
 church alone, and not the word of God, recommends 
 it. But, notwithstanding the errors of his education, 
 he maintained a firm and cheerful piety. When he 
 proposed writing an apology for Christianity, he de- 
 clared that it would require ten years to finish it ; but 
 God gave him only four, which were passed amidst 
 great bodily afflictions. 
 
 Even his manner of amusing himself, during these 
 sufferings, was entirely worthy of him. In order to 
 forget his pain, he would resolve mathematical prob- 
 lems. " During the last four years of his life, he was 
 oppressed by a constant languor, which he bore in the 
 most Christian manner. This was not an attack of 
 any new disease, but only an increase of those to which 
 he had been subject from his youth. This renewal of 
 his sufferings commenced with toothache, which en- 
 tirely deprived him of sleep. During one of the night 
 watches, some ideas came to his mind on the problem 
 of the wheels. This problem consists in determining 
 the curve line, which the nail of a wheel in motion 
 describes in the air. This problem had been proposed 
 twenty years before, by Father Mersenne, and no one 
 had yet resolved it. Pascal applied himself to it, in 
 order to divert his mind from the pain which he suf- 
 fered, and succeeded in making a perfect demonstra- 
 tion. When he ceased to think of it, he found he was 
 cured." * 
 
 It was then, while tormented by sufferings, that Pas- 
 cal applied himself, without any relaxation, to his great 
 
 * Life of Pascal. 
 
PASCAL. 71 
 
 work. But death surprised him in it, on the 19th 
 August, 1662, at the age of thirty-nine. His great 
 work was still unfinished; but the materials he had 
 already prepared were arranged and published, under 
 the name of Pense"es. Thus the Pensees of Pascal is not 
 a book, nor even the fragments of a book, but simply 
 materials for one. As, however, he himself had formed 
 the general plan of his apology for Christianity, we can 
 classify, with sufficient confidence, the different mate- 
 rials he has left. But this has never been successfully 
 accomplished, until within the last four years. The 
 friends of Pascal, who published his Pensees, were not 
 able to give them in the form in which he had left 
 them; they even allowed themselves to change the 
 style ; and there is scarcely a paragraph, they have not 
 retouched. It is only within a short time, that we 
 have possessed the Pensees, in its integrity. This work 
 of restitution has been accomplished by M. Faugere, 
 who has thus acquired a title to the gratitude of all 
 the admirers of Pascal. This edition of M. FaugSre 
 is the only one which is at present of any value ; for, 
 not only has he restored the primitive text, but he has 
 inserted several new thoughts, heretofore unpublished, 
 which well deserve to be rescued from oblivion. Politi- 
 cal and religious biases induced these suppressions and 
 mutilations. For instance, it is obvious why, in mon- 
 archical France, these remarks were suppressed : " The 
 most unreasonable things in the world become the most 
 reasonable, because of the follies of men. What is 
 less reasonable than to choose the eldest son of a queen 
 to govern the State ? No one chooses for the captain 
 of a boat the one among the passengers who is from 
 the best family : this would be ridiculous and unjust. 
 But because men are ridiculous and unjust, and will be 
 
72 LECTURE II. 
 
 so always, the thing becomes reasonable and just ; for, 
 who shall be chosen? The most virtuous and most 
 able ? Here we are at once in the difficulty ; for every 
 one pretends to be this most virtuous and most able 
 one. Let us then attach the quality to something in- 
 contestable. It is the eldest son of the king. This 
 quality is so clear, that no one disputes it. Nothing 
 can reasonably be better, for civil war is the greatest of 
 evils." 
 
 There is another forgotten thought, which should be 
 recommended to the advocates for the abolition of capi- 
 tal punishment, who will not be sorry to have such an 
 auxiliary. Pascal asks : " Must we kill, in order that 
 there may be no criminals ? this is to make two, instead 
 of one." 
 
 There is still another of his detached thoughts, which 
 reveals but too profound a knowledge of mankind. " I 
 suppose," says he, " that if every one knew what others 
 said of them, there would not be four friends in the 
 world. This is evident, from the quarrels which are 
 often caused by the indiscreet repetition of what has 
 been said." 
 
 But this new edition gives us more than isolated 
 thoughts ; there is, in particular, an entire piece, which 
 presents our author in a totally different light. We 
 know Pascal as the first of controvertists ; we know he 
 was a distinguished mathematician ; and, more lately, 
 a great philosopher ; but before being all these, he was 
 a man. Pascal loved, — and has left us some pages, 
 on the passion of love, which are of the highest value. 
 If surprising to any to learn that Pascal the philoso- 
 pher, the austere and rigid man, loved, like so many 
 others, it will not be an unwelcome surprise. M. 
 Vinet cannot conceal his happiness, on learning this 
 
PASCAL. 73 
 
 fact : " I do not hide," he says, " the pleasure this 
 discovery gives me; which, without detracting any 
 thing from Pascal, brings him nearer the rest of the 
 world ; and permits us to love, a little more familiarly, 
 the man whom we have loved undoubtedly, but at such 
 a distance, and such an elevation ! " 
 
 Questions of this nature are often treated with so 
 much levity, to say nothing more, that love has in a 
 manner, come to be somewhat discreditable. No one, 
 it is true, makes it a matter of scandal, when a grave 
 and serious person comes under its influence ; yet it 
 always excites surprise; and the exclamation is often 
 heard, What! you, too! as if indicating, that love, 
 being always a little allied to folly in its demonstra- 
 tions, was incompatible with a serious and austere 
 character. If love was necessarily such as we gen- 
 erally see it among light and superficial persons, a 
 mere play without consequences, a way to kill time, — 
 this would be the proper view of it ; and we should 
 have a right to be surprised that Pascal had also felt 
 this sentiment. But in this, as in all the rest, he was a 
 man by himself. His discourse on this subject is given 
 not only to heighten his glory", but also to redeem love 
 in the eyes of those persons to whose minds the word 
 recalls only vulgar and romantic ideas; for, it may 
 be said in passing, that romance is generally very 
 vulgar. 
 
 " The name of reason has been improperly separated 
 from that of love, and the two placed in opposition, 
 without good cause ; for love and reason are only the 
 .same thing. It is only a precipitation of thought, 
 which inclines to one side, without examining all ; but 
 yet it is always reason, and we must not, and ought 
 not, to wish it otherwise ; for, in that case, we should 
 
 7 
 
74 LECTURE II. 
 
 be but very disagreeable machines. Do not, then, ex- 
 clude reason from love ; since it is inseparable from it. 
 The poets have, without reason, represented love as 
 blind; we must remove the bandage, and let him 
 henceforth have the enjoyment of his eyes." 
 
 Thus, love is perfectly reasonable ; it is Pascal who 
 tells us so ; and we should not doubt it. The poets 
 always paint love as blind ; and the good Lafontaine 
 even gives him folly for his companion through the 
 world, while Pascal, on the contrary, tells us that love 
 and reason are but the same thing. This will show 
 you that the question was of a peculiar love, and not 
 of such as is ordinarily met with in the world. 
 
 However, we must understand our author ; reason 
 is not with him the synonyme of understanding: in 
 saying that love is reasonable, he does not forget that 
 love is a passion, a sentiment. And he ingeniously 
 ridicules an affection which should be the result of 
 minute examination and calculation ; in which the 
 head alone had been consulted. " One asks," says he, 
 " if he must love ? Such a question is not to be 
 asked ; we must feel it. We do not deliberate upon it, 
 we are insensibly brought to it ; " and he adds, " if we 
 take counsel on the subject, we shall have the satisfac- 
 tion of finding ourselves deceived." 
 
 After having defined this passion, as he understands 
 it, he shows what are its effects: "The first effect of 
 love," he says, " is to inspire great respect ; we have a 
 veneration for the object we love. This is very right ; 
 we recognize nothing in the world so great as it." And 
 again : " Respect and love must be so well proportioned 
 as to sustain each other, without letting respect extin- 
 guish love." Thus Pascal transports us into an order 
 of sentiment, the most elevated ; love exalts and 
 
PASCAL. 75 
 
 purifies, it is true ; but it is by first inspiring veneration 
 for that which is loved. This profound remark may 
 well be recommended to the meditation of those who 
 know how to understand it. ' There has been much 
 said in our day, as to the elevating influence of love ; 
 and yet, the heroes of love-tales seldom fail to abase 
 themselves by trampling under foot all the rules 
 of morality. According to Pascal, that love which 
 elevates, inspires above all, a profound veneration. 
 The readers of romances can judge whether any one 
 has ever assigned to this passion a more elevated 
 sphere than Pascal, in the following words, supposes it 
 to occupy : " That forgetfulness, which love produces, 
 and that attachment to the one loved, causes qualities 
 to spring up in the heart, which were never found there 
 before. It seems as if love had changed the very 
 nature of the soul. One is elevated and ennobled by 
 this passion." 
 
 You understand that so noble and elevating a 
 passion requires to be treated seriously. The levity, 
 the inconstancy, and coquetry, into which one so easily 
 falls in the world, when the heart is not well bestowed, 
 are, according to Pascal, real crimes. " Fickleness in 
 love, is as monstrous as injustice." Pascal would 
 naturally not have had the least indulgence for that 
 kind of amusement which unfits one for deep feel- 
 ing, and which is called in your language, "flirta- 
 tion." 
 
 " Great souls," he says, " are not those who love the 
 most frequently ; but when they begin, love the most 
 intensely." 
 
 Here is a word that accounts for the exclusive char- 
 acter of this passion, which sometimes renders it blind 
 and unjust : " The more intellect one possesses, the 
 
76 LECTURE II. 
 
 more original beauties he finds. But to find many 
 lovely, it is not necessary that one should love ; for in 
 love, he finds but one." 
 
 We may quote from him another valuable precept : 
 " Women love to find delicacy in men ; and this, 
 I think, is the instrument which most effectually gains 
 them. We love to see that a thousand others are 
 contemptible, and that we alone are estimable." 
 
 From these limited quotations it may readily be sup- 
 posed, that Pascal has not omitted any shades of the 
 passion he describes. He says : " A ray of hope can 
 raise one from any degree of despondency to the height 
 he previously occupied. This is sometimes a 'game 
 with which women amuse themselves ; but sometimes 
 in making a show of compassion, they are really 
 exercising it. How happy one is, when that takes 
 place ! " 
 
 There is a word addressed to fastidious persons : 
 " Some men have been pleased," says Pascal, " to form 
 so high an ideal standard of what is agreeable, that no 
 one can attain it. Let us form a better judgment 
 of this quality, and say, that it is only simplicity, with 
 a quickness and vivacity of spirit, which surprise us. 
 In love, these two qualities are necessary. 
 
 Pascal does not forget any thing, not even the pain- 
 ful position of those condemned to love in secret. 
 " The necessity of loving, without daring to confess it, 
 has its pains ; but it has also its pleasures. How 
 delightful to perform every action with the view of 
 pleasing one, infinitely esteemed ! Such an one is con- 
 stantly studying to find the means of revealing his 
 passion ; and spends as much time at it, as if he were 
 really entertaining her whom he loved. The eye 
 brightens and falls in the same moment; and though 
 
PASCAL. 77 
 
 he knows that the one, who causes all this emotion, 
 takes no note of it, he has, nevertheless, the satisfaction 
 of feeling that all this agitation is for a person who 
 well merits it. He would wish a hundred tongues to 
 make it known ; for as he cannot express what he feels 
 by words, he is necessarily reduced to the eloquence of 
 action." 
 
 . He elsewhere returns to the same thought : " In love, 
 silence is more expressive than words. It is good to be 
 embarrassed, for there is an eloquence in silence, more 
 impressive than any which could be produced by lan- 
 guage. What power a lover has over his mistress 
 when prevented by words from expressing his feelings ; 
 she knowing him to be a man of superior talents ! 
 Whatever vivacity one may have, it is sometimes best 
 to restrain it. There are no rules for all this; and 
 when prompted by the understanding, it is done with- 
 out reflection, or having been premeditated. Necessity, 
 alone, can be the guide. One often adores, without 
 believing he is adored in return ; and yet he preserves 
 an inviolable fidelity, in ignorance of the feelings of the 
 other party. It is necessary for love to be very shrewd, 
 or very pure." 
 
 Pascal has studied his subject so well on all sides, 
 that he. has a word of consolation, even for procrasti- 
 nators. According to him, it is never too late, but 
 often too soon; for it would condemn those, who, 
 by having trifled with so serious a subject, render 
 themselves incapable of affection at the age in which 
 alone they can know what this means: "Love has 
 no age, but is always being born. Poets tell us 
 so, and therefore they represent it as an infant." 
 
 Immediately before these words, Pascal wrote the 
 following : " In writing of love, one becomes loving ; 
 
78 LECTURE II. 
 
 nothing is more easy ; it is the most natural passion to 
 man." 
 
 These quotations are sufficient to give a general idea 
 of his profound and original treatment of this subject. 
 The whole discourse will amply repay an attentive 
 perusal. 
 
 There remain two interesting questions to be ex- 
 amined. Did Pascal write on the subject of love, from 
 experience ; or, only as a poet and shrewd observer ? 
 He betrays his secret himself, when he says : " One 
 often writes things which he can prove only by his 
 own experience. In this consists the force of my 
 proofs." 
 
 It only remains, then, to know the person who had 
 sufficient merit to win the affection of so great a genius 
 as Pascal. This curiosity, so natural, may be satisfied. 
 Mademoiselle Charlotte de Roannez, sister of a duke 
 and peer, who was one of his friends, was the object of 
 Pascal's love. But we know nothing of the details ; we 
 only learn, that the difference of their rank and fortune 
 seemed to prevent their union. Afterward, when the 
 celebrity of Pascal could have caused his birth to be 
 forgotten, he no longer thought of marriage ; and Mad- 
 emoiselle de Roannez had retired to the convent of 
 Port Royal. Though both had withdrawn from the 
 world, they always kept up an epistolary correspond- 
 ence. We have the letters of Pascal to his friend ; 
 though unfortunately, Jansenist rigidity has carefully 
 destroyed all those which were not directly religious ; 
 and we have only short extracts. We find, however, 
 that Mademoiselle de Roannez sent a gift to Pascal. 
 But it appears this gift was a relic of some saint ; an 
 incident of no consequence, except as it proves a 
 mutual affection. 
 
PASCAL. 79 
 
 Let it suffice for the present that we know Pascal 
 thus far. We have made the acquaintance of the man. 
 This will aid us, when we shall afterwards come to 
 consider him as resolving the great problems of human 
 life, more easily to comprehend how he could raise him- 
 self to such a height of logic, truth, and reason, as ren- 
 dered him an honor to France and to humanity. 
 
COMEILLE 
 
 (81) 
 
LECTURE III. 
 
 CORNEILLE. 
 
 different styles of poetry : lyric, epic, and dramatic. 
 — cid; horatii; polyeucte. — christian character op 
 his heroes. 
 
 So far as poetry is susceptible of divisions, we should 
 say, that it consists of three principal styles ; the lyric, 
 the dramatic, and the epic. 
 
 These divisions are far from being always scrupulously 
 observed ; for, it is often very difficult to say in what 
 class a piece shall be placed. Poetry is so essentially 
 free in its nature, that it would cease to be poetry, if it 
 always submitted with a good grace to the classifica- 
 tions which analysis requires. Yet a writer, who has a 
 piece of considerable length, is permitted to assign it to 
 a particular class, according to the general tone which 
 pervades the whole. 
 
 This general and characteristic tone of a poetic pro- 
 duction is itself determined by the position which the 
 poet takes in reference to his work. Before hazarding 
 any classification whatever, we must penetrate into the 
 very heart of the poet, and there listen attentively, at 
 
 83 
 
84 LECTURE III. 
 
 the mysterious hour of inspiration, to the throbbings of 
 his heart. Only by being thus introduced into his inte- 
 rior self, and wresting from him his secret, can we give 
 a name to his songs. 
 
 This I now essay to do. The enterprise, I admit, is 
 one of the boldest ; and to carry it successfully through, 
 it would be necessary to have communion with the 
 muses. We can hardly pretend to discover the secrets 
 of the sanctuary, when we do not wear the livery ; and 
 are, in the language of Boileau, " entire strangers in the 
 Aonian valley." Nevertheless, though it be a profana- 
 tion, we must enter, if we would understand them ; for 
 true poets disdain the work of classification and analy- 
 sis, and will never explain themselves. 
 
 Our business then is, to surprise the poet in his hours 
 of solitude ; when the verses which so charm us, escape 
 harmoniously from his heart. For this purpose I shall 
 not ask you to glide stealthily behind his chair to seize 
 the glowing verses, while they are yet warm from his 
 pen. It is not in a study, surrounded by a rich library, 
 that you can snatch from the muse her secrets. Go 
 rather to nature, and try to comprehend the lively and 
 animated, though silent dialogue, which passes between 
 her and the poet. 
 
 Evening approaches, the long shadows of the moun- 
 tains stretch across the valleys ; and the silvery sound 
 of bells announces the flock, which comes at the call of 
 the shepherd, to prepare for repose. The husbandmen, 
 taking advantage of the last rays of the setting sun, 
 hasten to secure the abundant harvest with which God 
 has rewarded their labors. The whole neighborhood is 
 there to join in the general rejoicing ; the happy children 
 press eagerly around their mothers, sincerely believing 
 their aid is needed ; the joyous company enter under the 
 
COENEILLE. 85 
 
 thatched roof with singing. However, all is not finished. 
 I have thus far written as a historian ; and it is not to 
 such every-day and homely scenes that I wish to draw 
 your attention. These things, which we have so often 
 seen, no longer strike us ; we need to be taught their 
 value ; and this is the poet's mission. Like us, he was 
 present; but he saw, he heard, and, above all, he felt 
 differently. Nature has assumed a particular form be- 
 fore his eyes ; his sensitive soul has beheld in this scene 
 a touching picture of rural happiness. Full of sym- 
 pathy, he puts himself in the place of these laborers ; he 
 appreciates their happiness more than they do them- 
 selves; and, full of this idea, and still under the influ- 
 ence of the impressions which nature has made on him, 
 he must utter what he feels ; he must put himself in 
 harmony with all that surrounds him ; he talks, he 
 sings, and his verses faithfully represent the various 
 emotions which agitate his soul. Thus is the Idyl 
 born. 
 
 But let us go some steps further with our poet. Let 
 us rejoin him on this by-path. He now seems to be 
 flying from the beautiful scenes he has just held up for 
 our admiration ; he hangs his head ; his features tell us, 
 that he no longer experiences that placid joy which just 
 now lulled him so pleasantly. It is that the charming 
 spectacle which presents itself to his eye, has awakened 
 sad recollections : the places through which he passes 
 are familiar, alas ! too familiar. He knows the name of 
 all the valleys ; each path is associated with something 
 dear; he has often wandered in these woods, which 
 have witnessed his reveries. But then, he was not 
 alone ; it was to another he confided all his schemes of 
 happiness; that other is now far away; all the vows 
 are forgotten, and no one promise has been fulfilled. 
 
 8 
 
86 LECTURE III. 
 
 Then the disposition of his soul changes completely. 
 / Nature is always the same, but his language is differ- 
 ent ; sadness has seized his heart ; the scene appears to 
 him in another light ; the wind playing in the trees 
 makes him sigh; every thing contributes to open the 
 wound of his heart afresh. The forest, with its shadows, 
 seems to assume the garb of mourning, and to sigh 
 with him. These recollections, so full of sadness and 
 regret, which the view of these places awakens, will 
 produce a touching Elegy. / The poet, in his roving 
 course, meets a brook ; and thus he interprets the 
 murmur of its waters : — 
 
 '; Oh ! list to those moans, says the rill 
 I Now wafted from over yon hill. / 
 
 ^<XJs part of myself sighing theje,/ 
 
 Then, traveller, go on thy way ; 
 
 And thus to the gods humbly pray ; 
 
 My loved one do not from me tear." 
 
 Leonard. 
 
 Does he seat himself for a moment's repose, the 
 lightest breeze annoys him, by recalling his suffer- 
 ings : — 
 
 " The zephyrs and streams heard us plighting our troth ; 
 Both swearing no change in our love to allow. 
 The zephyrs and streams that recorded our oath, 
 Have gone, but not left me one line of that vow." 
 
 If the poet is free from all sad recollections ; if you 
 suppose him happy, nature will have yet another lan- 
 guage for him. He will search for adventures ; and his 
 capricious imagination will play a thousand tricks ; he 
 
CORNEILLE. • 87 
 
 will admire ; he will dream ; he will lend a voice to 
 every thing that surrounds him, and you will have the 
 beautiful verses of Lamartine on the lake. 
 
 It is needless to multiply examples. These I hope 
 will suffice to make us acquainted with the first, the 
 most beautiful style of poetry ; the Lyric. Let us not 
 forget the end of our researches. We wish to make 
 some classification ; and in order to do this, we en- 
 deavor to discover in what relation the poet finds him- 
 self, to the subject which he sings. Now what is the 
 position of the lyric poet ? The answer is not difficult ■/ 
 he is governed by his subject. The object which he 
 celebrates, touches him ; he is moved, he is shaken ; in 
 some degree, he is beside himself. And in this state 
 of agitation, he repeats the various emotions to which 
 his soul is a prey. This is true inspiration. The poet 
 does not possess his subject ; but, to a certain extent, it 
 possesses him. He has been forcibly struck by a fact, by 
 an idea, by a view of nature ; and he instantly gives 
 his impressions, without explaining- them, without even 
 thinking' of arranging- them. The poet is not altogether 
 passive, since he collects and gives his impressions ; but, 
 on the other hand, he is not calm enough to reflect, or 
 to arrange what he feels. 
 
 Boileau says, in speaking of the ode, which is the 
 most common form of lyric poetry, 
 
 " Her style oft rages like the tempest-driven tides ; 
 But o'er her seeming madness order still presides." 
 
 These lines define the character of an ode very well. 
 It is often, indeed, extravagant and impetuous ; but it is 
 without cause that Boileau considers this beautiful 
 disorder an effect of art. That this disorder mav be 
 
88 ♦ LECTURE III. 
 
 really beautiful, natural, and touching, it must be, not 
 the effect of art, but the consequence, the fruit of those 
 impetuous sentiments which agitate and tear the heart 
 of the -poet. Lyric poetry, less than any other, requires 
 the aid of art. It must be the heart, the sentiment, the 
 internal emotion ; in fine, the muse, (to employ the 
 classic expression,) which speaks in the ode. You see 
 why a beautiful ode is something rare ; it is, that in 
 lyric poetry, art, study, labor, can do nothing ; it 
 requires that the poet be moved, really touched ; if all 
 the expression of that is factitious, we perceive it ; and 
 in place of yielding to a poetic impression, our hearts 
 contract and grow cold. The ode was anciently sung 
 on the lyre ; and from hence, the name of lyric poetry. 
 It is under this style, that the Psalms of the Old Testa- 
 ment should be classed. Lyric poetry is well adapted 
 to religious subjects ; and there are pieces of Hebrew 
 poetry which surpass the most beautiful productions of 
 Greece. 
 
 Epic poetry is just the opposite of lyric poetry ; for, 
 whereas the poet shows himself in the ode, so he is 
 not seen in the epopee. We have seen that, lyric 
 poetry is, in a measure, an involuntary production of 
 the poet's heart ; uttered in the first moment when he 
 returns to himself, and seeks to embody, in poetry, the 
 vivid impressions he has received. The chanter of an 
 epic poem, on the contrary, is not governed by the 
 subject which preoccupies him. He is completely 
 master of it ; for he only writes after having closely 
 studied, and long thought upon it. While in the ode, 
 the poet opens his heart, that we may read it through- 
 out ; and recounts, in harmonious language, the trouble 
 of his soul ; in the epopee he is calm, and almost cold. 
 He so controls his sentiments and his inspiration, that 
 
CORNEILLE. 89 
 
 he no longer presents what he has to say, as coming 
 from his own heart; but he calls up fictitious personages 
 to recount to us, what he himself has felt. The epopee 
 is a calm and peaceful exposition of some great his- 
 torical subject; mingled with episodes ; and having 
 a regular development. The poet relates different 
 events with a calmness which borders on indifference ; 
 and the facts are always represented, as having taken 
 place in the remote past. The Iliad and iEneid among 
 the ancients ; and the Divine Comedy of Dante, and the 
 Jerusalem Delivered of Tasso, among the moderns, are 
 of this class. Of all Christian epics, Paradise Lost is 
 the most perfect production. 
 
 Between Lyric and Epic poetry, which, we have just 
 seen, are the two extremes, there is an intermediate 
 order. I call it an intermediate or mixed order, because 
 it partakes at once of the nature of both the ode and 
 the epic, while it avoids the two extremes. This inter- 
 mediate order is Dramatic poetry. In tragedy, the poet 
 makes external events pass before our eyes ; and in this 
 respect, the Drama resembles the Epopee ; but it differs 
 in representing the events as real and present. While 
 in the epic poem, the poet gives us the recital, the nar- 
 ration, and the history of an action, in the drama he 
 makes us present, even at the actions ; and represents it 
 as passing before our eyes. It is from this circumstance 
 that the drama is more touching than the ode. The 
 lyric poet is contented to tell us what he himself has 
 felt. The dramatic poet, on the contrary, hides him- 
 self, to show us the action passing before our eyes ; and 
 leaves it for us to judge and feel in our own way. The 
 drama is designed to produce the same impression upon 
 us that we should have experienced if we had been wit- 
 nesses of the adventures of the heroes whose history it 
 
 8* 
 
90 LECTURE III. 
 
 relates to us. No one can be indifferent to the reading, 
 and still less to the representation of a tragedy. It is 
 indispensably necessary to take part for or against the 
 personages whose life passes before our eyes. Nothing 
 is more pleasing to man than man himself; "but it is 
 especially in the drama that this sympathy is drawn 
 out ; because nowhere is the imitation of human 
 nature carried so far. In the drama, we see not only 
 the form and features of man, but we see the move- 
 ments of his heart " * The view of human life ; 
 
 the imitation of our sentiments and our characters, — 
 such are the principal causes of the pleasure afforded by 
 the drama. It is this general, this human character 
 which makes dramatic poetry more popular than any 
 other. The epopee, if it becomes popular, does not long 
 remain so; for it requires a poetic nature to -appreciate 
 lyric poetry. But it is sufficient to be a man, to be 
 intensely interested in the drama. It is not even neces- 
 sary to, have a. cultivated mind, in order to enjoy 
 tragedy ; for the pleasure it affords is rather moral than 
 intellectual. Such is the secret cause of the attraction 
 which the theatre has for so large a number. It is not 
 in general those who lead the most stirring lives, the 
 thinkers or the philosophers, who seek the pleasures of 
 the stage. Tragic emotions are cold enough to the 
 man who, struggling against his passions, and the diffi- 
 culties of life, is himself an actor in a drama which 
 affects him more really. But it is especially persons 
 living an entirely exterior and fictitious life who are 
 attracted by the theatre. Absorbed in external and 
 vulgar cares, they, however, retain their taste for a more 
 intellectual and spiritual life, one more in accordance 
 
 * Course of Dramatic Literature, S. M. Girardin. 
 
CORNEILLE. 91 
 
 with the high destinies of man ; and it is at the theatre 
 they seek those emotions which they cannot find in the 
 turmoil of business, and in a prosaic existence.* 
 
 Thus, to sum up what we have said in a few words ; 
 lyric poetry is produced when the poet, carried away by 
 his subject, expresses vividly and instantaneously the 
 different emotions he experiences. It is then especially 
 he may be compared to an iEolian harp, which gives 
 different sounds, according to the caprice of the winds. 
 In epic poetry, on the contrary, it is the poet who rules. 
 He is master of his subject ; he is above all, an artist. 
 And, finally, in dramatic poetry, the poet is more free, 
 more master of himself, than in the ode, though having 
 less calmness and serenity than in the epopee. All is 
 yet living and acting for him ; and it is a view of the 
 struggle of human passions and virtues that he exposes 
 to the eyes of the spectators, to constrain them to feel 
 with him. 
 
 It is with Dramatic poetry that we have now to do. 
 But before coming to the great works of him whom 
 France regards as the father of her drama, I must ask 
 your attention a few moments longer, to go back to the 
 origin of tragedy, that we may see what it was before 
 the time of the great Cqrneille. 
 
 Among the ancients as well as the moderns, the 
 dramatic art had a religious origin. It is on sufficient 
 ground, the learned think they can trace the origin 
 of the theatre to the mysteries of Eleusis. In the cele- 
 bration of these mysteries, religious revelations, prayer, 
 and worship might have been interspersed with tragic 
 
 „ * " The theatrical taste is a desire to see life as it is not ; to see 
 objects out of proportion ; it is the empire of the sensitive over the 
 spiritual part of the being." — Vinet. 
 
92 LECTURE III. 
 
 scenes, which would have given the first idea of theat- 
 rical representation. Whatever its origin, it is beyond 
 doubt, that among the Greeks, tragedy had always a 
 religious character. A product of their civilization, the 
 theatre among them was one of the highest expressions 
 of Paganism. And, as we shall elsewhere see, the 
 moral and religious law, represented by Destiny, was 
 always respected. Their theatre was justly entitled to 
 be called a school of manners. They not only never 
 knew the licentiousness of the modern stage, at least 
 in tragedy ; but with a scrupulousness that some 
 persons could hardly comprehend in our day, they 
 never permitted women to appear on the stage, their 
 part being always represented by men. And what is 
 still more remarkable, they never admitted them as 
 spectators. It is positively known that women were 
 not admitted to the representation of Aristophanes's 
 comedies. And it is not entirely certain that they 
 were present when the tragedies of Sophocles and 
 Euripides were performed. 
 
 The immediate effect of Christianity, on its appear- 
 ance, was, to close the theatres. And the invasion 
 of the Barbarians which so soon followed, rendered 
 men insensible to the pleasures pf the stage. Besides, 
 the dramatic art carried in itself the germ of dissolu- 
 tion. Among the Romans, even in their best days, 
 there had been only a cold and feeble imitation 
 of Greek tragedy ; and at this epoch it had fallen still 
 lower. The theatre had been invaded by the mimics, 
 buffoons, and jugglers; who amused the degenerate 
 people, that were asking only for bread and the amuse- 
 ments of the circus, while the Barbarians were at their 
 gates. 
 
 This declension of the dramatic art would sufficiently 
 
CORNEILLE. 93 
 
 explain the well-known anathemas of the church. Be- 
 sides, the most respectable of the Pagans absolutely- 
 held the same language as the fathers of the church. 
 Thus we have a carious decree of Julian the Apostate, 
 which forbids the frequenting of theatres by the priests 
 of the idols and the officers of the State. 
 
 All this does not contradict, in any way, the opinion 
 I have advanced, that dramatic art, among the moderns, 
 had a religious origin ; for, in closing the Pagan 
 theatres, the church was obliged to open one in her 
 own fashion for the pleasure of the people. It is to 
 this period that the greater part of the pompous festi- 
 vals of the Roman church run back. The theatres 
 were closed ; but the churches became the places for 
 pageants, which often rivalled the profane stage. The 
 question was, who should play the best, in order to 
 draw the public, to whom Christianity was no longer 
 presented in its purity. This dramatic element con- 
 tinued during all the middle ages, to occupy a conspicu- 
 ous place in the worship of the Roman church. The 
 festival of fools ; the festival of the ass ; and other 
 buffooneries of this sort, were the gross dramas, by 
 means of which the church sought to amuse the leisure 
 of the people in those days of darkness and igno- 
 rance, whose return, some in our day so earnestly 
 desire.* 
 
 In the midst of these burlesque and comic represen- 
 tations, which were not written, we find, however, a 
 tragic piece. This little drama which dates from the 
 year 1080, was composed in a convent by a nun, and 
 
 *It is said, these festivals, the remembrance of which has never 
 been completely lost, are still celebrated in the south of Trance. 
 
94 LECTURE III. 
 
 represented by her companions of noble family ; who, 
 on this occasion, were dressed as men. This learned 
 person, who was six centuries before Corneille, had 
 read Terence. She also composed five other pieces. 
 
 Unhappily all these little dramas were in Latin. The 
 first essay in the language of the people, dates no 
 further back than the time of Philip the Fair. The 
 chronicle tells us that there was then a play, in which 
 the blessed in Paradise were heard to sing in the com- 
 pany of about ninety angels ; and the 'groans of the 
 damned were heard in a black hell, in the midst of a 
 hundred devils, who laughed at their torments. 
 
 Finally, the dramatic art, which had flourished in 
 Grecian antiquity, and had disappeared for sixteen 
 centuries, revived again ; and to make amends for lost 
 time, it reappeared simultaneously in France, Spain, 
 and England. 
 
 Here again its religious character is evident. The 
 pilgrims returning from the Crusades revived the idea 
 of theatrical representations. The vulgar crowded 
 around those who came from Palestine, to satisfy their 
 curiosity ; and demanded a recital of their adventures. 
 As the thing became popular, the pilgrims, thinking to 
 profit by it, and excite the charity of the people, repre- 
 sented religious scenes, miracles of saints, and the most 
 remarkable adventures of the Crusades. Thus origi- 
 nated the little dramas called Mysteries. Some citizens 
 of St. Maur, in 1398, had had a representation of the 
 passion of our Saviour ; Charles VI. being pleased 
 with it, granted letters patent, in 1402, to a company 
 of comedians, who established themselves at Paris, 
 under the name of " Brotherhood of the Passion." 
 These representations were so successful, that in many 
 churches the clergy were obliged to appoint an earlier 
 
CORNEILLE. 95 
 
 hour for the services, that the people might attend the 
 Mysteries. 
 
 I desire to give you some short extracts from these 
 curious pieces. But we must first get an idea of the 
 theatres where they were played. Paradise was in the 
 highest part, (you know this name is still retained) ; 
 the world was in the middle ; and hell beneath. God 
 was enthroned in the midst ; having Peace and Mercy 
 on his right, and Justice and Truth on the left. As the 
 actors ceased to speak, they seated .themselves, in all 
 simplicity, on the sides of the stage, to wait for their 
 turn, or for the Mysteries to be finished ; and while thus 
 silent, they were looked upon as absent. It was on 
 this stage that they represented the Prophets, the 
 Apostles, the Saints, the Devil, and God himself. 
 From the mouth of these personages was heard the 
 most gross language. Some short extracts will give 
 you an idea of these pieces. 
 
 Thus Joseph addresses Mary, in the mystery of the 
 Nativity : — 
 
 " Too well I know, thou fragrant rose, 
 That I, unworthy am of thee ; 
 Of thee, a virgin fair and free. 
 Though I my lineage may claim 
 From David's royal line ; yet fame, 
 Dear friend, accounts me poor. 
 
 " We may a livelihood secure 
 While I my busy hands can ply, 
 And make the unwearied shuttle fly. 
 
 Myself I know. 
 That, Joseph says, will do ; 
 I, too, with my carpenter's trade, 
 To meet our expenses, can aid." 
 
96 LECTUKE III. 
 
 And poverty is no longer an obstacle to their union ; 
 thanks to their industry. Further on, the shepherds 
 talk together of the presents which they mean to carry 
 to the infant Jesus ; and then one promises to give 
 
 " A pretty almanac of wood ; 
 On which the days and months are view'd, 
 And the revolving times." 
 
 And in the same piece, in company with these burlesque 
 ideas, we find these tender sentiments and somewhat 
 loftier thoughts, as addressed by Mary to her son : — 
 
 " My darling child ; my sweetest cub ; 
 Chief treasure of my heart, and my alone support ; 
 My tender flower, which long I bore, 
 And in my womb engendered ; 
 My darling child ; and yet my Father and my God." 
 
 We find also some beautiful verses in another mystery, 
 called the Desert, attributed to Marguerite de Valois. 
 During the flight into Egypt, the Virgin, overcome by 
 fatigue, reposes at the foot of a tree, with the infant 
 Jesus in her arms. While she sleeps, and Joseph is 
 absent in search of food, God orders the angels to 
 transform the desert into a veritable Eden. Thus they 
 address nature : — 
 
 FIRST ANGEL. 
 
 " Ye fruitless trees, no longer barren be ; 
 For from the curse your Maker sets you free, 
 That fruit of sweetest savor you may brin". 
 
 SECOND A> T GKL. 
 
 " And in this desert, shadeless, scorched, and drear, 
 Let countless lovely blossoms too appear ; 
 For God doth bless you with one day of Sprint. 
 
COKNEILLB. 97 
 
 THIRD ANGEL. 
 
 " Run, streamlets, by the virgin mother's side ; 
 And give her cooling waters, as ye glide. 
 When she the gift receives, she '11 honor you. 
 
 FOURTH ANGEL. 
 
 " Sagacious bee, present thy honey sweet, 
 That with thy welcome thou those lips may'st greet, 
 Which on the world shall heavenly truth bestow. 
 
 FIFTH ANGEL. 
 
 " Ye dragons fierce, and every beast of prey, 
 In gentle mood go far from hence away ; 
 Nor hurt the mother and her child." 
 
 Such were the Mysteries ; a medley, as you perceive, 
 where the sacred and the profane, the comic and tragic, 
 familiarly elbowed each other. The people, however, at 
 last became weary of these Mysteries, which were at 
 first so much in vogue. They wanted pieces more easy 
 and natural, rich in scenes, gay and comic. It was to 
 meet the public taste, that the clerks of the Bazoche 
 represented what is called the Moralities. This com- 
 pany only played three or four times a year, on the 
 occasion of festivals and great ceremonies. A Morality 
 was a sort of personification of the Virtues and Vices, 
 which were exhibited on the stage. Faith, Hope, and 
 Charity were invoked as muses. The characters were 
 « usually Freewill, Humility, Affection, Rebellion, Folly, 
 etc. 
 
 As a specimen of the rest, I will give an analysis of 
 one of the little allegorical dramas : Dinner, Supper, 
 and Banquet are three bad companions, to be avoided, 
 who often carry you so far as to throw you into the 
 hands of Apoplexy, Fever, Gout, and other personages 
 
 9 
 
OS LECTURE IH. 
 
 of very bad reputation. Banquet, especially, is more 
 perfidious than the others; his whole aim is to play 
 mischievous tricks on his guests. When he invites to 
 a feast, Pastime, Good-company, I-drink-to-you, Dainti- 
 ness, Always-disposed-to-go, he helps them to dishes, 
 served up' in his own fashion; so that they always 
 repent of having tasted them. As in the ancient Egyp- 
 tian entertainments, a crowd of skeletons appear. 
 These consist of Death and Pale Diseases, who come to 
 attack those who have partaken too freely of the feasts 
 which the traitor has prepared. Then Pastime, Good- 
 company, I-drink-to-you, and Daintiness make their 
 complaints to Madame Experience, who is seated on 
 her throne, having a sceptre in her hand. Averroes and 
 Galen are at her side as judges, and Remedy is the 
 recorder of this tribunal. Madame Experience orders 
 the three criminals, Dinner, Supper, and Banquet to be 
 led before her. Banquet is unanimously sentenced to 
 be hung, while Dinner and Supper, as they are indis- 
 pensable to the necessities of humanity, are spared, on 
 condition of there being an interval of six hours be- 
 tween them. 
 
 The Mysteries and the Moralities formed the serious 
 style of the day. But the desire which was soon felt 
 for something more burlesque still, gave rise to the 
 comic style. And farces were produced : pieces which 
 somewhat resemble the Moralities, but are more satirical. 
 The farce is a little comedy, a satirical piece, in which 
 abuses are attacked. Some idle young persons, called 
 jolly children, took upon themselves the business of 
 reforming the irregularities of their time, under the 
 direction of a chief, who proudly called himself the 
 Prince of fools. Clement Marot, who afterward became 
 more serious, and translated the Psalms of David into 
 
CORNEILLE. 99 
 
 French verse, belonged, in his youth, to this joyous 
 troop. He composed this motto in then - honor : — 
 
 " The lectures of Hypo no longer we '11 hear ; 
 Nor suffer dull care to diminish our cheer." 
 
 They invited spectators to the Hall, by means of play- 
 bills of this kind : — 
 
 " Crazy fools ; stupid fools ; fools that are wise ; 
 Long fools and short fools, and fools of each size ; 
 Fools of the city, the village, the court ; 
 Fools in love, out of love ; all fools, in short. 
 Hark ye ! the Prince of fools will be at home, 
 Mardi-gras next, at the Halle ; will you come ? " 
 
 We will analyze, in a few words, one of these farces. 
 The world, fatigued with watching over man, goes to 
 sleep ; and the lord Abuse takes his place. Becoming 
 master of the field, after having lulled Old-world to 
 sleep, by fair promises, he calls out his actors. He 
 strikes different trees, and a dissolute fool is seen to 
 come out, dressed like a churchman; a glorious fool, 
 like a soldier ; and a knavish fool, like an attorney. 
 
 " Who cares for the bill ; enough of old wine 
 Let us have ; and good cheer," 
 
 says the representative of the clergy ; while the soldier 
 repeats, at the top of his voice : — 
 
 " To the charge ! to the charge ! " 
 
 With this retinue, Abuse commences by clipping and 
 stripping Old-world, who is asleep. Then he creates 
 out of it another, which turns out still worse than the 
 old one, and falls into the abyss. The king himself was 
 
100 LECTURE III. 
 
 not spared in this piece, which contained three verses 
 having reference to him. 
 
 " To the nobility has been proscribed 
 Each generous deed, by their own sordid love of pelf: 
 And this restraint is favored by the chief himself." 
 
 To which Louis XII. had the good sense to reply : " 1 
 had rather make them laugh by my avarice, than weep 
 at my extravagance." 
 
 But every one did not receive their attacks so good- 
 naturedly ; and from different quarters complaints were 
 made of the license taken by authors. Serious people, 
 beginning to feel as we do ourselves, justly saw in the 
 mysteries a profanation of sacred things. "What finally 
 spoiled all, was the alliance which the Brotherhood of the 
 Passion, to preserve public favor, made with the jolly 
 children, who had already appropriated the actors that 
 played the Moralities. The jolly children, having now 
 become absolute masters, took still greater ' liberties ; 
 attacking the clergy and nobility, without even except- 
 ing Pope Julius II., with reference to whom they had a 
 farce, entitled The Obstinate Man. Parliament then for- 
 bade sacred pieces ; and the vicar of St. Eustache 
 directed the actors not to play until after vespers ; so 
 much does he seem to have dreaded their rivalry. 
 
 Thus perished, in France, the theatre of the middle 
 ages. From this moment the French stage ceased to 
 be national, and took a more general character. How- 
 ever, these traditions were not completely lost ; in 
 Polyeucte, Esther, and Athalia, we find a style incom- 
 parably more elevated, but which, nevertheless, recalls 
 to us the Mysteries. And the author of the Misan- 
 thrope and the Tartuffe inherited the voice and the 
 
CORNEILLE. 101 
 
 • 
 
 movement of the clerks of the bazoche, and the jolly 
 children. However, these happy days were long in 
 making their appearance. We have first to pass 
 through a barren period of the revival ; which, in 
 order the better to react against the Mysteries and the 
 Moralities, formed for itself an unintelligible language, 
 by the aid of the Greek and Latin, to the detriment 
 of the French. Ronsard, who, however, had genius, 
 was the. chief of this blind, erudite reaction against the 
 Gallic spirit, which has been represented by Marot, the 
 father of French poetry, in his simple ballads and gay 
 stories in rhyme. 
 
 In this long interval, remarkable for its barren fruit- 
 fulness, we find many authors, but no one piece worthy 
 of our attention. Omitting, then, this period of pre- 
 tension and learned affectation, we come to the year 
 1625, which saw the first piece of the great Corneille 
 appear. 
 
 Peter Corneille was born at Rouen, in 1606 ; and after 
 studying with the Jesuits of that city, he turned his 
 thoughts to the law, without any suspicion of the talent 
 which was to render him immortal. It was a curious 
 fact, that love first revealed to Corneille his genius. 
 And he may be called ungrateful, inasmuch as he left 
 to Racine, almost exclusively, the part of bringing this 
 passion on the stage. One of his young friends, who 
 greatly admired a young lady of the same city, took 
 him to see her. The new comer rendered himself more 
 agreeable than the introducer. The pleasure of this 
 adventure led him to discover in himself a talent whose 
 existence he had not even suspected. And on this 
 trifling subject, he wrote the comedy of Melita, or the 
 false letters. -This piece was undoubtedly superior 
 to any which had previously appeared; but it did 
 
 9 * 
 
102 LECTUHE III. 
 
 not avoid all the faults of the time. Thus he 
 speaks of hearts which placed themselves at the 
 window, in order to see the object by which they were 
 smitten. 
 
 After having written six other pieces, which have 
 nothing very remarkable in them, Corneille revealed 
 the nature of his talent, in the great subject of Medea. 
 The eminently tragic history of this woman, who 
 neglects nothing to obtain the love of her husband; 
 and who, when she has done all, sees herself aban- 
 doned by him, particularly suited the genius of Cor- 
 neille. His talent, however, was not yet matured. 
 And after having produced this remarkable piece, he 
 wrote others which were but little valued. 
 
 Corneille had again to try his wings, in order to raise 
 himself to that height, where it is difficult to follow 
 him ; and where he could not sustain himself long. 
 In order the better to comprehend his manly and 
 generous talent, we follow our author into private life, 
 when he was preparing to give us his masterpieces. 
 He lived, at this period, in the society of Rotrou, a 
 dramatic author, whom he always venerated as his 
 father. It is well, to recall here a trait of Rotrou's 
 character, which, no doubt, had a great influence 
 on Corneille. The exercise of his duties as bailiff at 
 Dreux, to which he devoted himself, had prevented his 
 acceptance of a seat in the Academy. An epidemic 
 of great malignity suddenly appeared in that city ; and 
 thirty persons died in a day. The most distinguished 
 inhabitants fled from the infected town. Rotrou had a 
 brother in Paris, who wrote to him, entreating that he 
 would quit Dreux, and come to him at Paris. The 
 mayor of the city was dead, and the Lieutenant- 
 Genera] absent ; so that the duty of watching over the 
 
CORNEILLE. 103 
 
 interests of his fellow-citizens, devolved upon the poet ; 
 and he would not desert his post ; such cowardice was 
 not in his thoughts. Impressed with a sense of his 
 duties, he wrote to his brother, that his presence was 
 necessary to his country; and that he would remain 
 while he could be thus useful. His letter ended with 
 these admirable words : " It is not because the peril in 
 which I am, is not great ; for, at this moment, while I 
 am writing to you, the bell is tolling for the twenty- 
 second death to-day. This will be done for me when 
 it shall please God." Soon after, the bell did indeed 
 toll for him. 
 
 It is, undoubtedly, a great privilege, for a dramatic 
 poet to live on terms of intimacy with men of such 
 sentiments. It is thus he comes to know great and 
 generous characters ; and imbibes an enthusiasm for 
 noble actions and magnanimous spirits. We shall see 
 that Corneille knew how to profit from these lessons. 
 He excels every other writer in showing us all that 
 is noble and sublime in virtue. No one knows better 
 than he, how to awaken an interest in his personages, 
 whom he always compels us to admire. I well 
 know that he is criticized for bringing into the scene, 
 heroes who are greater than nature produces. And it 
 is not uncommon to hear persons say, that they have 
 never, in their intercourse with the world, met with 
 men professing such beautiful sentiments, as he gives 
 to his characters. The remark is unhappily too true ; 
 but we have seen that Corneille was more fortunate. 
 And we must not then be too ready to accuse him 
 of sacrificing to the ideal, when we find his personages 
 professing a generosity and greatness of soul, of which 
 he had seen the model in his friend Rotrou, and 
 in a small number of men who are becoming more 
 
1,04 LECTUKE III. 
 
 and more rare in our age, which has too much sense to 
 believe in such virtues^ 
 
 the c I D. 
 
 However, Corneille, who, at his first appearance, 
 was still young, was approaching the age of thirty, 
 when his genius became matured, and he gave us his 
 chef cPasuvre. The Cid appeared ; and the entire nation 
 in the fulness of its enthusiasm, clapped its hands. It 
 is as beautiful as the Cid, would be said from one end 
 of France to the other, when any one wished to 
 say that a thing was worthy of admiration. Public 
 opinion was not mistaken ; for this tragedy was soon 
 translated into many languages of Europe ; and pos- 
 terity has ratified the judgment of its contemporaries. 
 Corneille has indeed risen to the sublime, in this piece 
 of dramatic art. Power of intrigue, heroic sentiments 
 that Corneille excels in depicting, noble and antique 
 characters that no one knows better than he how to 
 bring before us ; — all these are found in this piece ; 
 which is, moreover, written in a style worthy of the 
 ideas. 
 
 The subject is borrowed from the Romans, and from 
 the Spanish theatre. The scene- is at Seville. In the 
 first act, a respectable old man, insulted by a blow, 
 comes to deplore his shame. 
 
 DON DIEGUE. 
 
 " Oh fury ! Oh madness ! thou cruel old age ! 
 Thus to leave me, the prey of an impotent rage ! " 
 
 Act I. Scene 5. 
 
 Then, when the old man is on the point of throwing 
 
COKNEILLE. 105 
 
 away his sword, as thenceforth useless, his son Don 
 Rodrigue arrives; whom he calls on to avenge his 
 injuries. Nothing is more just ; and the generous young 
 man, who is the hero of the piece, prepares to act 
 promptly ; when he makes the dreadful discovery, 
 that it is on the father of her whom he loves he must 
 take vengeance" for the indignity offered to his own 
 father. In a monologue full of emotion and life, the 
 unhappy Don Rodrigue shows us the anguish and inde- 
 cision of his heart, divided between his father and his 
 mistress ; and yet compelled to take part against one of 
 these personages, so dear to him : — 
 
 " To this dilemma brought ; I must betray 
 My love, or live in infamy ! 
 In either case 't is more than I can bear. 
 
 How insupportable the pain ! 
 An unavenged affront forever wear, 
 Or slay the father of Chimene !" 
 
 Act I. Scene 7. 
 
 In order to escape from the terrible dilemma, his first 
 thought is, to go and seek in combat a prompt and 
 glorious death ; thus he will offend neither ChimSne 
 nor his father. But, on the other hand, the honor of his 
 house will not be avenged ; and, in dying, he will leave 
 behind a dishonored father. His Castilian pride revolts 
 at this thought, and his decision is taken ; since in both 
 cases he must lose Chimene, it is, at least, best to save 
 honor. 
 
 " Now I reproach myself for this delay. 
 
 Up, be avenged to-day : 
 Ashamed of weakness, I've indulged too long ; 
 
 Remove at once the pain 
 Of seeing unavenged a father's wrong ; • 
 Though he must die, the father of Chimene." 
 
106 LECTURE III. 
 
 Honor then triumphs over love ; and the Cid goes to 
 defy the father of his mistress, to single combat, for 
 having dishonored his own father. Several persons 
 hearing of this, interpose. The King of Spain forbids 
 the Count to accept the challenge, under pain of dis- 
 grace ; but the haughty captain is preparing to disobey, 
 when he is accosted by the son of this injured foe, Rod- 
 rigue, who comes to demand vengeance. Presump- 
 tuous youth ! cries the Count in seeing Rodrigue, who 
 is still in his earliest manhood. 
 
 " 'Tis true, he said, you count more days than I, on earth, 
 But valor in the nobly born is given at birth. 
 The avenger of a father's wrongs is nerved with strength divine ; 
 TJnconquered, not unconquerable, is that arm of thine." 
 
 They part then, to go and decide their quarrel. In wait- 
 ing for the issue, our interest leads us back to Chim&ne, 
 who is no less unhappy than her lover. She must also 
 choose between a father and a husband. What is to be 
 done ? Does she forbid her lover to fight with her 
 father, then she dishonors him. The infanta of Spain 
 takes pity on her; and proposes to her to have Rod- 
 rigue arrested for some crime, which will render the 
 combat impossible. Chimene agrees ; but it is too 
 late ; the fatal duel has taken place ; and the count, the 
 father of Chim&ne, has been killed by the lover of this 
 unhappy young woman. 
 
 We here come to the most pathetic and solemn parts 
 of the piece. Chimene no sooner learns the death of 
 her unhappy father, killed by the hand of her lover, than 
 she flies to the king's palace, and calls for vengeance. 
 Sire, sire, justice .' she cries. The first emotion of her 
 heart is togdemand justice against the man, whom she 
 nevertheless loves tenderly. 
 
CORNEILLE. 107 
 
 " The insolence of this audacious youth avenge, 
 Who has o'erthrown the pillar of the state. 
 My father he has slain." # 
 
 " He has avenged his own," cries another voice, that of 
 old Don Diegue, who intercedes for his son, that in 
 this act had sought but to avenge him. 
 
 Rise, both of you, said the king ; and he ordered each 
 one to plead his cause. Chimene is impetuous and pas- 
 sionate ; she has seen the earth red with the blood of 
 her father ; and the sight has agitated her mind. That 
 beautiful part of the piece should be read which com- 
 mences with these words : — 
 
 " Sire, my father is dead ; mine eyes have seen his blood." 
 
 Act II. Scene 8. 
 
 Don Diegue discourses more calmly. He is weighed 
 down with grief; he regrets to have lived so long, since 
 his grey hairs must descend in sadness to the tomb. 
 The words of the old man are a contrast to those of the 
 young girl; and we can see the different language 
 which affliction speaks, according to age. Chim&ne's 
 impetuous spirit carries her away. Don Diegue is like- 
 wise thoroughly unhappy; but his grief is impressed 
 with a certain melancholy, and does not render him 
 insensible to that of others. He confesses that Chi- 
 mene has a right to complain ; nevertheless, it is not on 
 his generous son the punishment should fall, but on 
 himself, whom he offers for a sacrifice : — 
 
 " 'Gainst me the fury of this thunderbolt be sped ; 
 When fails the arm, then must th' avenger take the head." 
 
 As the king cannot accept such a proposition, he sends 
 him away for the present, that he may make his decis- 
 
108 LECTURE III. 
 
 ion ; and Chimene is taken home. But what a surprise! 
 The first person she meets on entering is Rodrigue him- 
 self ; the man who is at once her lover and the murderer 
 of her father. A more tragic position can hardly be 
 imagined. The murderer takes refuge in the house of 
 his mistress ; and brings to her his guilty head. He has 
 fulfilled his duty to his father ; now he will expiate the 
 wrong he has done her in taking away the author of 
 her existence, by avenging his own father. He carries 
 the sword still wet with the blood of the count, and 
 supplicates Chimene to plunge it into his bosom. 
 
 DON RODRIGUE. 
 
 " Spare not my hated life ; but unresisted, taste 
 The sweets of just revenge. This said ; he placed 
 The sword within her hand." 
 
 To whom Chimene replied: — 
 
 " Ah, monstrous cruelty ! that in one day kills all ; 
 The father by the sword, the daughter by his fall. 
 In pity take these objects from my view. 
 Thou wouldst that I should kill thee ; that must kill me too." 
 
 Don Rodrigue does not seek to excuse himself, but 
 recalls to his mistress the terrible position in which he 
 found himself, when he must avenge his father by injur- 
 ing her ; and when he made that decision, after a ter- 
 rible struggle with himself, it was that he might not be 
 unworthy of her. The two following verses give the 
 explanation of his conduct : — 
 
 " I have disgraced thee ; and this sacrifice must make, 
 To purge the stain, and prove my right thy hand to take." 
 
 He has, then, yielded to an imperious duty ; but he prays 
 
CORNEILLE. 109 
 
 that in her turn she may do hers ; and he now comes 
 to offer himself to her vengeance. 
 
 " The debt of honor and of filial love is paid. 
 My life, to meet thy claims, now at thy feet is laid." 
 
 Chim&ne seems at first to accept the head of her gen- 
 erous lover, though she blames him not; but, on the 
 contrary, says to him : — 
 
 " This noble sacrifice is only duty done ; 
 And it has taught me clearly, too, what is my own. 
 ********* 
 Thy claim to my esteem is then this sign of blood ; 
 By this same cruel sign, my claims shall be made good." 
 
 DON KODRIGUE. 
 
 " I happy die, in dying by a blow from such a hand." 
 
 Chimdne is touched by such greatness of soul, and ex- 
 presses these sentiments ; that she must pursue the 
 murderer of her father, but will never consent to punish 
 him by her own hand ; and she repels with these words 
 the sad present he makes her of his life : — 
 
 " No ; for in killing thee, I should but kill myself. 
 I cannot take this precious life, even at thy hand. 
 And if, by duty urged, I strike, thou must defend. 
 To punish thee, I must some other hand employ ; 
 I will indeed attack thee, but cannot destroy." 
 
 Don Rodrigue, in quitting her, encounters his father ; 
 who announces that the Moorish fleet, which wsft con- 
 stantly, at this period, annoying the Spaniards, was 
 preparing for an attack ; and that the city was in com- 
 motion. The young hero forgets his own private griefs, 
 and goes to seek a glorious death in fighting the 
 
 10 
 
110 LECTURE III. 
 
 enemies of his country. He departs without saying 
 any thing, in the middle of the night; and the news 
 soon spreads through the city, that he has defeated the 
 Moors. At this report, Chim&ne, who has been 
 softened by thinking of the dangers to which her 
 lover was again exposed, fears she may yield to senti- 
 ments of pity. 
 
 '(Love, plead no more*' Where vengeance leads, I must pursue ; 
 Two kings he vanquished ; but he slew my father too." 
 
 She runs, then, to the palace to demand vengeance for 
 her father, and arrives at the moment when Rodrigue 
 has finished giving an account of his exploits to the 
 king. (Act IV. Scene 3). The king cannot give up 
 the head of the saviour of his country ; for the Moors, 
 in fleeing, have carried away his crime. He seeks to 
 induce Chimene to relent ; but she is inexorable, and 
 persists in demanding the life of her lover, because he 
 has killed her father. The king is obliged to consent 
 to a new duel between Don Rodrigue and a chevalier, 
 Don Sancha, who undertakes to revenge Chimene. The 
 hero, then, who has hardly recovered from the fatigue 
 of battle, must enter the lists anew against the cheva- 
 lier, charged with the duty of deciding his quarrel 
 with his mistress. This was too much ; pursued with 
 such animosity, he will no longer defend himself; he 
 only wishes to die by the hand of Chimene, and is 
 indignant at the thought that this honor can be refused 
 him. 
 
 " You have pronounced my doom ; the sentence I accept, 
 Another's hand must execute the stern decree. 
 By yours to fall, would glory be, too great for me. 
 My arm shall no resistance make, nor ward the blow 
 Of him, Chimene, whom as your Champion I know." 
 
 Act V. Scene 1. 
 
CORNEILLE. Ill 
 
 ChimSne still refuses this offer; for, she still loves 
 Rodrigue, whom she is obliged to prosecute, in order 
 to perform a painful duty. And she says to him: 
 be conqueror in a combat, of which Chimene is the 
 prize. Encouraged by such a prospect, Rodrigue 
 starts, full of ardor, (Act V. Scene 1,) and soon returns 
 to present himself as a victor before Chimdne. 
 
 " I've done what in me lies ; then say, what yet remains 
 A father's death t' avenge, besides these toils and pains." 
 
 ChimSne cannot ask any thing more ; she has ful- 
 filled her duty to her father, and against her lover ; and 
 it only remains to love the latter. 
 
 You will particularly remark, that Chimene does not 
 immediately espouse Rodrigue. She does not even 
 promise that she will; but the reader is, nevertheless, 
 perfectly assured of it. This would be sufficient, to 
 defend Chimene from the strange accusation which has 
 been brought against her. Some have chosen to see in 
 her, only a shameless girl, (for thus«they have expressed 
 themselves,) who loves the murderer of her father. 
 The relations of the two principal personages of the 
 piece, ought to have dispelled this false idea. The 
 conduct of the two lovers is irreproachable. Rodrigue^ 
 has the single fault of continually putting his head 
 at the mercy of his mistress, and offering to die ; which 
 is too romantic. As to the rest, as Corneille remarks, 
 " He follows his duty, while his passion knows no 
 abatement. Chimene does the same on her part, with- 
 out allowing herself to be shaken from her purpose by 
 the sadness which overwhelms her. And if the 
 presence of her lover causes her to make a false step, 
 it is only a slip, from which she recovers in the 
 
112 LECTURE III. 
 
 same hour."* She is inexorable to the last, without 
 the least prudery ; and if she finishes by declaring her- 
 self satisfied, it is only when she can reasonably require 
 nothing more. And yet, with what delicacy she par- 
 dons her lover ! Restraining her emotions, she makes , 
 no noisy demonstrations; she does not even appear .. 
 eager to receive Rodrigue for her husband ; but has the f 
 appearance of yielding to circumstances. She will 
 not even confess to loving him; but simply admits 
 that she sees in him, virtues which she cannot hate. 
 Since the king wishes it, she will submit. " And when 
 the king commands, all must obey." This delicacy 
 of sentiment, which could not be carried further, did 
 not prevent the Academy from pronouncing Chimene — 
 an unnatural daughter, and treating her as a woman 
 without soul, and without modesty. The favorite 
 authors of Cardinal Richelieu, and, above all, the bur- 
 lesque Scudery, disapproved of the chef cPceuvre of Cor- 
 neille. His motto was : Let us unplume this Corneille. 
 These mediocral authors made such a commotion, 
 that, with the aid of Richelieu, they pushed the 
 Academy to pronounce against the Cid. It was 
 Chapelain; that Chapelain at whose expense Boileau 
 has caused so much laughter, who was honored with 
 the commission of writing the sentence of condemna- 
 tion. The brave man was entirely disinterested in the 
 matter ; for he had never yet attempted the drama, but 
 he thought it proper to accede to the desires of the 
 Cardinal. This unjust judgment unchained all the 
 jealous ones ; the triumphant Scudery congratulated 
 the Academy; and Bois-Robert, another mediocrity, 
 carried his adulation so far, as to have the Cid repre- 
 
 * Review of the Cid. 
 
COKNEILLE. 113 
 
 sented by lackeys and scullions in the presence of His 
 Eminence. It is not rare for genius to encounter such 
 opposition. And how did Corneille answer these 
 foolish attacks ? This we shall see in our next lecture. 
 Let us now take leave of this unacknowledged genius, 
 to see him afterward revenged in a manner entirely 
 worthy of him. 
 
 THE HORATII. 
 
 "We have seen Corneille, after having composed the 
 Cid, unacknowledged by the Academy ; and pursued 
 by the injustice of some authors, who received their 
 wages from Cardinal Richelieu. This great man had 
 recourse to the only means which is left to genius, 
 when it is no.t recognized by the foolish and envious. 
 Corneille composed the Horatii, a piece that is un- 
 doubtedly superior to the Cid, and is, perhaps, the most 
 beautiful production of our author; and I will say, 
 almost of our theatre, at least of its kind. 
 
 When it was announced to him, that the Academy 
 were occupied in passing a formal judgment against 
 the Cid, he answered : " The gentlemen of the Academy 
 can do as they please. And since you write me, that 
 my lord will be pleased with the judgment, and that it 
 will divert His Eminence, I have nothing to say." Wfc/ 
 can see Corneille's great soul wounded to the quick; 
 and letting a little of his indignation manifest itself. 
 His calmness made this expression the more disdain- 
 ful ; since it will divert His Eminence. And, therefore, 
 he resigns himself ; as no answer is to be given to a con- 
 sideration so conclusive. Afterward, when he learned 
 that Chapelain and the Cardinal were working ' so 
 laboriously at their plea, by order of the Academy, he 
 
 10 * 
 
114 LECTURE III. 
 
 contented himself with aaying : " After all, see my 
 satisfaction ; I promise that the famous work at which 
 so many fine spirits have labored for six months, will 
 be greatly prized by the French Academy ; but, 
 probably, by no one else in Paris." 
 
 Thus Corneille, assured of his genius, appeals boldly 
 to the people ; the only judge, as a last resource in 
 questions of this nature. He appeals, against the judg- 
 ment of the great and the jealous, to the citizens of 
 Paris. And, in order to get that decision, he gives 
 them another chef tfasuvre. Not only did Corneille 
 gain his cause, but he soon had the rare advantage 
 of convincing his adversaries ; or at least, of silencing 
 them. Every one bowed before the genius of the 
 great poet; and no one dared to question it. In 
 this piece Corneille is inspired by Latin authors; and 
 above all, by Livy. The subject is the famous and 
 well-known combat of the Horatii and the Curiatii ; on 
 the issue of which, depends the triumph or defeat of 
 the Eternal City, then coming into existence. Rome 
 and Alba, tired of their useless, though unceasing 
 quarrels, agree that three warriors shall be chosen from 
 each camp, who shall be charged to settle the diffi- 
 culties. If the Romans triumph, Alba will submil 
 without reserve ; and if the warriors of Alba are victori- 
 ous, Rome on her part consents to humiliate herself, 
 and no longer dispute the empire. The propositions 
 are accepted ; and the two camps proceed immediately 
 " to choose their champions. The choice in Rome, falls 
 on three brothers ; the Horaces ; who, with their aged 
 father, are the principal personages of the piece. Cor- 
 neille makes us acquainted with all the members of 
 this interesting family. The father, the sons, the 
 daughter, the daughter-in-law, each show themselves 
 
CORNEILLE. 115 
 
 to us in turn, and recall the manners and virtues of 
 antiquity. But behold ! when this noble family is 
 ready to sacrifice all for their country, there arrives sad 
 news to destroy their happiness. Alba has also made 
 its choice! What of that ? Are the Horaces troubled 
 because, in the enemies' camp, they have 'chosen heroes 
 whose valor they have reason to dread ? No, certainly 
 not ; but the blow is keener. Alba and Rome are two 
 cities near each other; intimate relations have been 
 formed between them; families are acquainted; the 
 wife of one of the Horaces is a daughter of Alba ; and 
 his sister is to espouse his brother-in-law, who lives in 
 the same city. By a terrible destiny, the choice of the 
 rival city has fallen on this family of friends. The 
 three Curiatii have received the.commission to fight the 
 three Horatii, their friends and allies ; they must, there- 
 fore, fall by each other's hands. You can estimate all v 
 that is tragic in such a position ; and Corneille has 
 well shown us, especially, what women would feel in 
 such circumstances. Each member of the family has y/ 
 a particular character; and the author has succeeded, 
 perfectly, in drawing the different shades. Sabina, the 
 sister of the Curiatii, and the wife of Horace, is keenly 
 alive to her painfuTpbsition ; but she remains irresolute, . 
 not daring to form a wish. 
 
 " I took, alas ! a Roman's hand ; and thus became, 
 By human laws and usages, a Roman dame. 
 And do I find this marriage tie a tyrant's hand 
 That stifles in my heart the love of father-land ; 
 Of thee, loved Alba, where I drew my natal air ? 
 Alba, my dear, my native land : my love thou still shalt share. 
 When in the deadly conflict Rome and Alba meet, 
 I fear as much our victory, as our defeat. 
 If this be treason, Rome, to my adopted state, 
 Then make thine enemies of such as I can hate." 
 
 Act I. Scene 1 
 
116 LECTDKE Iir. 
 
 She cannpt decide; and her heart remains divided. 
 
 " For Alba, I am not ; nor yet for Rome ; 
 My fears and hopes are giv'n alike to either side. 
 In each event, I mourn as sister, or as bride." 
 
 Act I. Seene 1. 
 
 This is language suitable for a sensible wife. Camilla, 
 the sister of the Horatii, on the contrary, is much more 
 urgent. She wishes to avoid the combat on any terms ; 
 and this, because she loves ; for how could she see him 
 who is to-morrow to lead her to the altar, to-day fight- 
 ing her brothers ? She says : — 
 
 " Can'st thou, allured by honor's gaudy prize, 
 Forsake the peaceful path that now before thee lies ? " 
 
 Act 11. Scene 3. 
 
 She is indeed a Roman ; but she is also a woman, and 
 loves. Curiatius himself is softened, and almost sub- 
 dued by her prayers. He says to her : — 
 
 " Before I think of thee, I must of Alba think." 
 
 Act 11. Scene 5. 
 
 But when he sees her weep, he is himself shaken : — 
 
 "No more, he said,. my virtue by thy griefs assailed, 
 Thus yields ; thy tears against my honor have prevailed. 
 I am but man, and must persist in loving thee ; 
 Though Curiatius no longer can I be." 
 
 Act II. Scene 5. 
 
 The character of Horace is totally different. He is a 
 true Roman, in every sense of the word. His love of 
 country is innate. Like Brutus, he sacrifices all to it ; 
 friends, brothers, parents, wife. He is almost happy at 
 
CORNEILLE. 117 
 
 the prospect of a combat ; he is in his element, and rises 
 to the height that the circumstances demand; even 
 rejoicing in the effort of virtue, that the occasion 
 requires. 
 
 " The real courage, I perhaps too loudly vaunt, 
 Will let no pains or mortal fears its prowess daunt. 
 ********* 
 ********* 
 Whoe'er the foe ; when called by Borne to take the field, 
 With blindness and with joy, I to the summons yield ; 
 
 ■3(f*' , 5F'3tS , 'i|6 ,, 3[r^jf$|& 
 
 I'll go as gladly now to take the brother's life, 
 As once I went to take the sister for a wife." 
 
 Act 11. Scene 3. 
 
 ComeiUe is perfectly true to nature here; for Roman/ 
 history has habituated us to such characters. There is 
 nothing strained in the sentiments of Horace. But to 
 enable us to bear the view of this austere and savage 
 virtue, we have the character of Curiatius, who ex- 
 presses more natural sentiments, and knows how to 
 remain a man and a lover, while in the discharge of his 
 duty. Horace had said : — 
 
 " If Alba's champion you are, I know you not." 
 
 To which Curiatius replies, in a verse full of sentiment, 
 and truly tragic : — 
 
 " But you I love ; and therefore my fate I deplore." 
 
 The two following verses also produce a great effect : — 
 
 " I thank the gods I was not born a Eoman, 
 K that requires I should no more be human." 
 
 The females, however, Sabina and Camilla, have not 
 
118 LECTURE III. 
 
 given up all hope of being able to deter their brothers 
 and husband from this disastrous combat. And while 
 there is yet time, they labor to arrest the combatants. 
 But it is a useless effort ; Horace is inflexible ; and as 
 if his virtue was in some peril, his father comes to his 
 aid. 
 
 The appearance of the elder Horace has the happiest 
 effect. He is, if possible, still more stern than his son ; 
 for it devolves on him to guard the honor of his family. 
 Proud that his children have been chosen to save their 
 country, he cannot conceive how any one can hesitate. 
 And notwithstanding his great age, he enters, full of 
 life and impetuosity ; and snatches his children, with- 
 out pity, from their sister's arms. 
 
 " Your souls they will with their own feebleness infect. J 
 
 In flight alone may safety then for you be found." 
 
 They must then depart ; but Horace, the son, sustains 
 his character to the end ; he is not softened to the last 
 moment ; he would avoid all appearance of weakness. 
 And when the women prepare to follow the warriors, 
 he bids his father detain them, lest it should be sus- 
 pected that he had sent them there to excite the pity of 
 the spectators, and thus avoid the encounter. 
 
 The combat is about to commence. The rules of 
 classic French tragedy do not permit the combatants to 
 appear on the stage, but this does not detract from the 
 interest, as we might suppose. Instead of a conflict, 
 where great blows are given by the sword in a theatri- 
 cal style, which inevitably makes even the spectator 
 smile, who is most willing to enter into the illusion, we 
 have a dramatic position which imparts the liveliest 
 interest. Let us forget for a moment the sad contest of 
 
CORNEILLB. 119 
 
 which we shall by and by have the recital, to see what 
 is passing in the unhappy family of the Horatii. Dur- 
 ing these painful hours of suspense, the interest is all 
 concentrated on the females. What a tragic position ! 
 and how calculated to inspire sympathy! They are 
 women ; and consequently entire strangers to political 
 quarrels. Little does it matter to them, after all, 
 whether Alba or Rome has the supremacy ; their busi- 
 ness is to love ; the one, her brothers and husband, and 
 the other her brothers ; and, what is more, her lover. 
 And this is what they can no longer do ; for whatever 
 may be the issue of this fratricidal struggle, it will 
 necessarily be disastrous to them. They have reason, 
 then, to deplore their unhappy situation, and to be ex- 
 asperated against all who conspire to snatch from them 
 the objects of their affections. 
 
 The sublime grief of the elder Horace adds gran- 
 deur to these magnificent scenes, while it heightens 
 their interest. To do his duty, and leave the rest to the 
 gods, is his philosophy. Nevertheless, he is not insen- 
 sible ; he weeps, the old warrior weeps, even while he 
 reproaches himself. 
 
 Camilla and Sabina, in spite of their own grief, have 
 a profound respect for that of the old man. And 
 although, when they are alone, they dispute as to which 
 is the most unhappy ; when he appears, they stop their 
 misplaced quarrel, in deference to this man, who has 
 three sons in the combat, and whose affliction must be 
 greater than theirs. 
 
 Far from blaming, he sympathizes with them. The 
 love of country has not extinguished in him paternal J 
 love ; and he avows with much emotion, that he would 
 have preferred that Alba had made another choice. He 
 
120 LECTURE III. 
 
 is striving, however, to forget the troubles of the present 
 moment, by welcoming, in a distant future, the glorious 
 destinies of Rome, when sad news arrives to overthrow 
 all his hopes of glory. Rome is subject to Alba, cries 
 a messenger, and your sons are defeated ; but this is not 
 enough; to heighten his unhappiness he is told, that 
 one of his sons has fled. " It is not possible," cries the 
 old man. " It is only too true," replies the messenger, 
 " we saw him fly, from the height of our ramparts. He 
 did all that was possible, since his brothers were slain. 
 What would you have had him do, against three?" 
 And from the broken heart of the old man escapes the 
 cry, so laconic and sublime : " He should have died ! " 
 
 It is the last sigh of a soul bowed down by grief; the 
 las^word of that Roman heroism, of which patriotism 
 was the principal virtue, and the interest of Rome, the 
 sole divinity. 
 
 Nevertheless, his energy is not exhausted. And since 
 the unworthy son could not save the white hairs of his 
 father from dishonor, the elder Horace has nothing left 
 but to die ; but he must first acquit himself of an impe- 
 rious duty. He will, on his part, repair the evil as far 
 as possible. Like a true Brutus, he will exercise all the 
 rights that his title of father confers on him ; he will 
 himself put to death the unworthy son who remains to 
 him. 
 
 4 In vain does Camilla seek to divert her father from 
 such dreadful thoughts. Horace imposes silence upon 
 her, when another messenger arrives from the place of 
 combat to offer consolation on the part of the king. The 
 old man refuses to be comforted, until he finally com- 
 prehends, that the first intelligence, if not false, is at 
 least incomplete. His son has fled, it is true, but only 
 
COENEILLE. 121 
 
 to conquer more surely, by separating the combatants, 
 who, in consequence of their wounds, could not pursue 
 him with equal swiftness. 
 
 The tender and affectionate side of the Roman char- 
 acter, has here an occasion to show itself. The old 
 man, who has so generously given his children to save 
 Rome, and who was ready to strike down the last, did 
 not love them the less for that. Tender emotions fill 
 his heart ; and his paternal love breaks forth, now that 
 it accords with duty. 
 
 Behold the elder Horace, then, at the. summit of his 
 wishes. But Camilla his daughter, how is this going 
 to affect her ? It is on her, who loves so unfortunately, 
 that the interest of the piece turns.. When she im- 
 agined that the most beautiful day -of her life was 
 about to dawn upon her, she sees two of her brothers 
 perish, and her lover fall by the hand of the third. 
 That an old warrior may support himself under such 
 trials may be conceived. But it is too much for a 
 woman who loves. She abandons herself then, with- 
 out reserve, to her despair; but from respect to her aged 
 father, she goes apart to weep. 
 
 The conqueror, in the mean while, arrives. We 
 already know him as an austere and stern Roman, 
 ready to sacrifice every sentiment to the country. 
 Hardly has he received the embraces of his old father, 
 when he encounters his sister Camilla in despair. Love 
 and the pride of victory stand face to face ; every thing 
 is to be feared from the shock,' when these two passions 
 meet. Horace, flushed with the joy of conquest, knows 
 not how to respect- the grief of his sister ; while she, on 
 her part, carried away by passion, insults the conqueror, 
 and allows herself to make culpable imprecations 
 against Rome : — 
 
 11 
 
122 LECTURE III. 
 
 " Rome, the one object of my soul's intensest hate ! 
 Rome, for whose sake thou didst my lover immolate ! 
 Rome, that gave thee life ; and whom thou callest great ! 
 Rome, whom, because she honors thee, I chiefly hate ! 
 In solemn league may all the neighb'ring tribes unite 
 To sap her feeble walls, and quench her flickering light ! 
 Is Italy too weak' when joined from south to north, 
 Then let the Orient and the Occident come forth ; 
 And with the thousand tribes from the whole peopled globe, 
 Rush on this Rome, and wrap it in destruction's robe. 
 Her sons with their own hands raze every wall and tower, 
 And in their fury, on the earth her bowels pour ! 
 May heaven's wrath, enkindled by my prayer, 
 Pour on her head a storm of mingled hail and fire ! 
 My eyes be blessed to see descend that fiery gust 
 To burn her dwellings, and thy laurels turn to dust ; 
 Sec the last Roman in the agony of death ; 
 Then, joyful that my prayer is heai-d, yield up my breath." 
 
 Act IV. Scene 5. 
 
 Horace, beside himself, plunged the sword, still wet 
 with the blood of her lover, into the sister's heart. 
 
 Here is, then, a new complication. This deed of 
 fury is frightful ; the elder Horace, the faithful represent- 
 ative of justice and duty, is obliged to condemn him. 
 He reproaches his son with having dishonored himself, 
 and stained his triumph. This great soul has no 
 sooner begun to rejoice over the triumph of Rome, 
 and the valor of his son, than he is called on to blame 
 him. 
 
 We here touch upon the most delicate point of the 
 tragedy. All the genius of Corneille shows itself; and 
 the exalted morality of all his masterpieces shines 
 forth in all its purity. How will he bring his hero out 
 of this difficult position? Will he absolve this un- 
 natural brother, in consideration of his glory ? No. 
 Here is a characteristic trait of Corneille ; he never jus- N 
 
CORNBILLB. 123 
 
 tifies crime, or knows how to call evil good. The 
 immoral expedients, of which writers avail themselves ^f 
 in our day, to save the heroes of romance, are unknown 
 to him. This great man never begs for what is called 
 the immunities of talent ; this sublime genius never feels 
 the bounds of the strictest morality too strait for him. 
 Must he then conduct to punishment the hero who has 
 just saved Rome ? Another alternative equally inad- 
 missible. Beside, the Roman people, though blaming 
 him, would oppose his death, were it called for. Horace , 
 himself finishes by feeling his guilt, deploring his 
 madness, and regretting his having lived too long. 
 This, however, does not suffice ; justice demands satis- 
 faction ; and the repentance of the criminal can, at the 
 best, but prepare for the catastrophe. The king inter- 
 poses, and blames the conduct of Horace ; he can see 
 no excuse in what is called the first transports of pas- 
 sion; but as he has the right of extending mercy, he 
 pardons him, after condemning his crime. So that 
 Horace appears on the stage, not solely as a hero, who, 
 by the lustre of his glory, has effaced the horror of his 
 crime ; but as a blameworthy hero, who owes his life 
 to the clemency of the king. The heart of the spec- y 
 tator is thus set at ease, and the laws of morality are 
 carefully respected to the end. Horace appears, not^, 
 only as a hero, but as one repentant and pardoned. 
 
 One word more, to show the feeling of the public 
 with regard to this piece. It at first bore the title 
 of Horace, in the singular. Corneille had wished, 
 especially, to paint the death of Camilla, after the 
 triumph of her brother. And this formed the original 
 unity of his subject; but he has so well drawn the 
 different characters, that no one has known which to 
 admire most. Therefore, to avoid the embarrassment 
 
124 LECTURE III. 
 
 of a choice, the people have called this tragedy the 
 Horatii. And this name has partially prevailed, not- 
 withstanding the author has always preserved the 
 original title. 
 
 POLYEUCTE. 
 
 We have now examined two of the principal works 
 of Comeille ; and yet, are far from having exhausted 
 the repertory of the great poet. To the study of the 
 Cid and the Horatii, we can add that of the Death of 
 Pompey, and admire. in Cinna, the triumph of Augus- 
 tus's clemency. In extending our examination thus 
 far, we shall yet only learn to know what it has been 
 agreed to call the masterpieces of Comeille. I must 
 pass by these tragedies, to come to another, which is 
 also a masterpiece, but of a very different kind. 
 
 The greater part of Corneille's subjects were taken 
 from Roman history. And he has been eminently 
 successful in portraying that strength of character and 
 courage, which the name of Roman citizen recalls 
 to the minds of those who are conversant with ancient 
 history. Never have the somewhat barbarous virtues 
 of this kingly people been represented on the stage 
 with more grandeur, fidelity, or success. But Comeille 
 was a Christian, as we have already perceived by the 
 sentiments he puts in the mouths of his Pagan heroes. 
 He wishes for once, to express his sentiments more at 
 ease ; and for that purpose, chose a legend of martyr- 
 ology. " Polyeucte lived in the year 250, under the 
 emperor Decius. He was an Armenian, a friend of 
 Nearchus, and son-in-law of Felix ; who had a commis- 
 sion from the emperor, to execute his edicts against the 
 Christians. Having been led by this friend to become 
 
CORNEILLE. 125 
 
 a Christian, he tore in pieces the Emperor's edicts 
 against the church ; snatching the idols from those who 
 were holding them up to be worshipped ; dashed them 
 in pieces on the ground ; resisted the tears of his wife 
 Pauline, whom Felix had engaged to reclaim him to 
 Paganism ; and at length perished by the order of his 
 father-in-law, with no other baptism than that of 
 blood." 
 
 It is on these traditional data, treated with poetical 
 license, that Corneille has raised an imperishable monu- 
 ment to his own genius. The first to discover the 
 merit of Polyeucte, was Fontenelle, that sympathizing 
 critic, whose tribute to the Imitation of Jesus Christ was : 
 " this book is the most beautiful which has ever come from 
 the hand of man; since the Gospels came not from 
 man." Seeing Corneille undecided as to which of 
 his pieces he would give- the preference, Fontenelle 
 removed Cinna and Rodogune, which held the mind 
 of the poet in suspense, and boldly declared Polyeucte, 
 the most beautiful of his productions.* On the 
 authority of the poet, it is the most regular, and the 
 one in which the proprieties of the theatre are the 
 most carefully observed. And if the style has less 
 strength and majesty, it is, nevertheless, more touch- 
 ing. Polyeucte, however, was so unfortunate as to 
 displease the Hotel de Rambouillet, with which* we 
 are already acquainted. This piece having been read 
 by Corneille, before this society of wits, they con- 
 demned it with one voice ; and even sent Voiture, in 
 the name of the assembly, to beg the author not to 
 have his tragedy represented. This step was not 
 dictated by jealousy, but by benevolence. The novelty 
 
 * Port Royal, 145, 1. 
 11* 
 
126 LECTURE III 
 
 of the subject, and the boldness with which the author 
 treated it, seems to have made them tremble for the 
 glory of this great man. For a long time, God, the 
 Virgin, and the Saints had forsaken the theatre, and 
 were no longer seen to play parts so unworthy of them. 
 And it was, perhaps, feared that in bringing a martyr 
 on the stage, Corneille would reopen the door to bad 
 taste. Polyeucte is, in reality, a sacred subject, a 
 Mystery ; if, indeed, we may employ a term to desig- 
 nate this admirable piece, which recalls the burlesque 
 dramas of the middle ages. But Corneille, in treating 
 a sacred subject, never mingles with it any thing pro- 
 fane ; and he avoids the incongruities which had justly 
 wounded the public taste. 
 
 The scene is laid in those solemn days, when the 
 ancient world is crumbling away, to give place to the 
 new ; when the deserted altars of Paganism are shaking 
 at the approach of triumphant Christianity. Even in 
 the time of Cicero, two augurs could not meet, without 
 laughing, from the consciousness that the religious ser- 
 vices they performed were a mockery. The decline of 
 Paganism has been constantly-advancing from that day. 
 Scepticism and a railing incredulity had invaded the 
 higher classes, who despised the superstition yet pre- 
 served in the ranks of the people. However, religions 
 are enduring, the bad as well as the good. And per- 
 haps from some remains of respect, perhaps from habit 
 or from weakness, a certain external honor is rendered 
 to these divinities, who are no longer believed in. This 
 same external homage is then required of Christians, 
 who, taking a serious view of pagan mythology, refuse 
 every mark of respect, which on their part would be an 
 act of hypocrisy and cowardice. The unbelieving 
 pagans, not knowing how to appreciate these scruples, 
 
CORNEILLE. 127 
 
 see in this refusal of the Christians, only an obstinacy 
 which may be subdued by persecution. 
 
 In taking his subject from this heroic epoch of the 
 Christian era, Corneille is perfectly at his ease. He can 
 give us the pious zeal and. the ideal of Christian hero- 
 ism, with what is ridiculous in the eyes of worldly wis- 
 dom; and yet no one can reproach him with having 
 departed from historical truth. And more particularly 
 in this piece than in his others, Corneille has abstained 
 from introducing imaginary heroes. These personages 
 are true, though of another age. The poet does not 
 invent ; he resuscitates. And it is not surprising that 
 these heroes of the faith can no longer be recognized by 
 a generation, who have singularly lost their traditions, 
 but preserved their names. 
 
 You see here all that gave such anxiety to the 
 Hotel de Rambouillet. But what especially made the 
 society of the precieuses tremble, was the boldness with 
 which Corneille treats his subject. Not only does he 
 bring a martyr and a conversion on the stage, but the 
 whole subject of the piece is a struggle between human 
 and divine love. And as if the subject were not already 
 sufficiently perilous; one of the principal personages, 
 Pauline, is a married woman who loves at the same 
 time, her husband and her lover. 
 
 We shall see how Corneille from this subject, so deli- 
 cate, can draw forth emotions the most vivid, and posi- 
 tions the most dramatic; without however for an instant 
 offending Christian morality, in what is most revered 
 or most sacred. 
 
 The scene is laid at Melitene, the capital of Armenia, 
 in the palace of Felix, governor of the province, and the 
 father of Pauline. The latter, who has been the wife 
 
128 LECTURE III. 
 
 of Polyeucte only for a few days, is troubled by the 
 sudden departure of her husband, whom she suspects 
 of concealing from her some secret. Like all sufferers, 
 she feels the necessity of speaking about that which 
 fills her heart. She then relates to her confidant a 
 dream, in which Polyeucte appeared to her as dead. 
 Nor was this all. I have loved, said she, a Roman 
 chevalier ; Severus had my first affections. They have 
 said he was dead, but in my dream I have seen him 
 sighing for revenge. 
 
 While Stratonice endeavors to calm Pauline, by as- 
 suring her that she has nothing to fear from a dead 
 lover, a messenger arrives ; who announces that Severus 
 is not dead, that he is in favor with the Emperor, and 
 that he is coming to see Pauline. 
 
 The old Felix, who has made his daughter marry 
 against her inclination; fearing the vengeance of him 
 whom he has repulsed, supplicates his daughter to use 
 her influence over her old lover, to avert the danger 
 which threatens him. An interview then takes place 
 between Pauline and her lover. We can feel all the 
 delicacy of this interview between two persons who 
 love, and yet, who must not love. And it is necessary 
 to be Corneille, and to belong to the great age, to 
 cany it through without in anywise injuring the high 
 requirements of classic tragedy. Corneille succeeds 
 perfectly. The language of Pauline is frank, sincere, 
 and open, as that of a virtuous heart ever is. 
 
 She has a noble, and shall I say, Christian soul; 
 although still externally a pagan ; and speaks with the 
 utmost frankness. She also frankly declares to Severus 
 himself that she loves her husband Polyeucte, whom 
 her father has given to her. And when her old lover 
 
CORNEILLE. 129 
 
 Severus asks her, have you loved me ? she does not fear 
 to answer, while blaming herself ; which unhappily she 
 has not ceased to do. 
 
 '/Alas, my lord, this flame has never ceased to burn, 
 I But could I quench it, and to forget you learn ; 
 \Jhen to this troubled heart might peace again return ! 
 
 £n 
 
 undefined charm still holds me bound to you^ 
 
 Act II. Scene 2. 
 
 Severus, on his part, comprehends such great virtue ; 
 and asks Pauline in mercy to show him some faults 
 which may weaken his love, that he may regret her 
 less. An eternal separation, says Pauline, is the only 
 remedy which can cure our woes. And they bid each 
 other a touching adieu. It is necessary to read the 
 whole at length, in the original, to appreciate its beauty* 
 All the noble sentiments of Severus, however, cannot 
 restore tranquillity to Pauline ; sh^fc uneasy. 
 
 The Roman chevalier, it is true, is generous and 
 kind ; but how many circumstances, impossible to fore- 
 see, may change all ; and then, this unhappy dream has 
 already been partly accomplished. Severus, who was 
 believed to be dead, returns powerful, and the friend of 
 the Emperor ; it is then to be feared, that the other half 
 may be realized. 
 
 While Pauline is giving herself up to her appre- 
 hensions, her confidant Stratonice runs in. Polyeucte 
 and Severus have met in the^temple, on the occasion of 
 a sacrifice. The whole appearance of Stratonice, while 
 yet at a distance, convinces Pauline that something ex- 
 traordinary has happened. Finally, she is told, that 
 
 * Act II. Scene 2. 
 
130 LECTURE III. 
 
 Polyeucte, urged by Nearehus, has just declared himself 
 a Christian. The secret he had so successfully hidden 
 in the morning, was his baptism. Felix determines that 
 the traitor Nearehus shall be put to death ; and Poly- 
 eucte himself will scarcely escape. Then Pauline 
 makes this beautiful response : — 
 
 " I loved Jiimj as a duty ; this duty still remains." 
 
 She regrets his conversion, but does not make it a pre- 
 text for breaking the marriage bonds. 
 
 " My duty hangs not on his will ; should he incline 
 His own unfaithfully to shun, I must do mine." 
 
 Not only does she not believe herself released from 
 her vows, but forms the resolution either to save her 
 husband, or to obtain a retraction from Polyeucte him- 
 self. £ 
 
 Divine love triurrrpns in Polyeucte. He has declared 
 himself a Christian, but has not since seen Pauline. He 
 awaits her in prison, where his courage and firmness are 
 to be put to a cruel test. Left alone, he implores the 
 divine aid for this dreaded interview. The verses which 
 Corneille makes him utter, are extremely beautiful : — 
 
 " Oh presence ! oh struggle, that chiefly I fear ! 
 Oh ! thou whose eye beholds the perils of my soul, 
 Now grant almighty aid my actions to control." 
 
 He repels every temptation which presents itself to 
 him: — 
 
 " Thou fount, whence death's enchanted waters ever flow ; 
 ; Base love of earthly good, and of this world's vain show; 
 
CORNEILLE. 131 
 
 Why tempt me still, ye mean and grovelling pleasures, 
 
 "Which I forsake, to seek eternal treasures ? 
 
 Honors and joys begone ; ye war against my peace : 
 
 The happiness that you afford, 
 
 Must perish, like the prophet's gourd. 
 
 It falls like water on the grass ; 
 
 It sparkles as the brilliant glass ; 
 
 Then shattered, mars the festive board. 
 
 What would you have of me, voluptuous flatterers ? " 
 
 ~2c« IV. Scene 2. 
 
 And in contrast. 
 
 " Holy joys from heaven sent ; precious truths that I adore ; 
 Ye satisfy our wants, and banish all our pains. 
 . The soul that knows your power, the fulness of your store, 
 Demands no other joy ; no other blessing claims. 
 You promise much ; but more bestow. 
 
 Your good is not a changing tide ; 
 
 But e'en the death which I abide, 
 
 Will land me safe amid those fields, 
 
 Where heaven its glorious harvest yields ; 
 
 And there the good in peace reside." 
 
 Act. IV- Scene 2. 
 
 Pauline arrives; and Polyeucte appears admirably in 
 his conversation with her. No one has ever better 
 described the struggle between an earthly and a heav- 
 enly love. Pauline urges ; Polyeucte, firm in the com- 
 mencement, finishes by becoming as urgent in his 
 turn: — 
 
 " If to die for one's prince is a glorious fate, 
 How great then the honors which the martyr await ! " 
 
 Act IV. Scene 3. 
 
 Although he is affected, he is not shaken. He desires 
 to convert Pauline ; and in his earnestness, calls upon 
 God to grant this blessing ; — 
 
132 LECTURE III. 
 
 " Lord, grant in thy goodness, that this boon I obtain ; 
 With such virtues, she must not a pagan remain." 
 
 This charming dialogue, remarkable for its vivacity and 
 the grandeur of its sentiments, is interrupted by the 
 arrival of Severus. Pauline is at first disposed to con- 
 strue his appearance as an insult to the misery of her 
 husband; but Polyeucte explains that he has himself 
 sent for Severus, to give Pauline back to him, in the 
 moment of his death : — 
 • 
 
 " A treasure I hold, too precious for me ; 
 Ere death calls me hence, I resign it to thee." 
 
 This proposition is extremely embarrassing for Pau- 
 line, when it is remembered that she loved her husband 
 from duty, and Severus from inclination. Her integrity 
 might easily have been shaken ; but she appears yet 
 more firm and more admirable. She not only refuses 
 to accept the proposition of her husband, but she 
 persists in her wish to save him. And what is more, 
 it is from her old lover, from Severus himself, she calcu- 
 lates to obtain the aid she needs, in order to influence 
 her father Felix; who fears the consequences of his 
 indulgence, should he pardon his son-in-law. All this 
 pleading is worthy of being quoted, but we shall only 
 give a few verses. 
 
 " My Polyeucte approaches his end ; 
 To him but a moment remains ; 
 
 ******** 
 Now give your gen'rous sentiments unbounded sway ; 
 My father can perform all that for which you pray. 
 
CORNEILLE. 133 
 
 Let this unhappy man in your compassion share ; 
 And by one vig'rous effort pluck him from this snare. 
 And if the boon I crave, appear to you too great, 
 Remember, then, what glories great achievements wait. 
 Restore the life of him who bars you from my love. 
 The noble deed your magnanimity will prove." 
 
 Act IV. Scene 5. 
 
 She had not co^pted too much on the generosity 
 of Severus ; and he consents to intercede with Felix 
 for Polyeucte. But this old courtier, whom we have 
 seen marrying his daughter for convenience and money, 
 unable to understand the noble generosity of Severus, 
 distrusts him. He can see, in the intercession of the 
 chevalier, only some great snare; into which he, a 
 knowing and prudent man, is determined "not to be 
 drawn. In his opinion, if Severus, who still loves 
 Pauline, asks the pardon of Polyeucte, it is only a 
 cheat. He intends to be revenged on the father, by 
 depriving him of the Emperor's favor, and marrying 
 Pauline at Polyeucte's death. He refuses, then, to 
 pardon him ; and the generous intercession of Severus ' 
 only results in hastening the martyrdom of his unfor- 
 tunate rival. 
 
 The disinterestedness and#ioble virtues of Severus 
 and Pauline, are vainly united in Polyeucte's favor; 
 they cannot obtain any mercy from the cowardly Felix, 
 who condemns the martyr to death. 
 
 But this shrewd man is mistaken in his calculations. 
 He has no sooner put Polyeucte to death, than Pauline 
 comes to present herself as a second victim. 
 
 "My husband, in dying, bequeathed me his light; 
 12 
 
134 LECTURE III. 
 
 That light, which, at last, has illumined these eyes ; 
 Pauline as a Christian they '11 shortly baptize." 
 
 Severus turns against Felix, who has believed him 
 guilty of such deceit, and threatens him with the dis- 
 pleasure of the Emperor. 
 
 But the conversion of Pauline 4fe not the only fruit 
 of Polyeucte's death ; Felix is also converted to Chris- 
 tianity, and offers his life as a sacrifice to Severus, who 
 will not accept it, but reestablishes Felix in power, and 
 promises him his protection. 
 
 Now that we have analyzed this admirable piece, 
 and are about to take leave of Corneille, I must 
 acknowledge, I feel somewhat embarrassed. I have 
 not forgotten that I designated the Horatii as the most 
 beautiful production of our author. But after having 
 again read Polyeucte, I feel inclined to repent of that 
 decision, and join in the opinion of Boileau and 
 I^ontenelle, who award the palm to Polyeucte. I ask 
 pardon for my indecision, but we are always liable 
 to this, in rereading these magnificent productions. The 
 better we know them, the more we value them ; which 
 renders the difficulty of4fe. choice always greater, and 
 makes the critic continually undecided ; who, in spite 
 of himself, is ever obliged to give the preference to the 
 last pieft; he has studied. If the critic thus discredits 
 himself a little, by his indecision, it only augments 
 the glory of Corneille; and that is sufficient. It is, 
 then, Gentlemen, solely in the name of that glory, that 
 I shall permit myself to add a few reflections, in order 
 that each one of us may be able to form an opinion. 
 
 I have already, in the course of my analysis, endeav- 
 ored as much as possible, to throw the principal person- 
 
COENBILLK. 135 
 
 ages into relief. But this is always somewhat difficult 
 in a rapid examination. And since they have such 
 beauty and depth of character, we shall not regret, I 
 trust, having become better acquainted with them. We 
 shall now undertake, if you are willing, what will 
 a little resemble the congratulations which a spectator 
 gives to the actors. We are also going to distribute 
 our crowns to the heroes who have just passed before 
 us. On whom must we bestow the first ? 
 
 Three personages, but especially two, contest it 
 earnestly. Polyeucte, it is true, is the nominal hero, 
 whom Corneille has believed worthy of giving a name 
 to the piece. But I shall take the liberty of appealing 
 from the judgment of the author. His character is 
 undoubtedly admirable ; his Christian heroism is true, 
 and even historic ; and the author has only had, from 
 point to point, to follow nature. 
 
 In the first act, Polyeucte is hesitating and undecided ; 
 in the third, he is, on the contrary, imprudent. The old 
 Nearchus, who has been obliged to stimulate his zeal, 
 is now obliged to moderate .his enthusiasm ; all this is 
 natural. The influence of grace has been felt in the 
 interval, and Polyeucte has openly declared himself a 
 Christian. He speaks and acts, it is true, as a 
 neophyte; while Nearchus, on the contrary, talks to 
 him as an experienced Christian, whose faith, without 
 having cooled, has become more prudent and more 
 evangelical. This sage advice comes very properly 
 from him : — 
 
 " Preserve that precious life, to man and God so dear; 
 And live, his suffering people to protect and cheer." 
 
 Polyeucte, on his part, makes this beautiful response: — 
 
136 LECTUKE III. 
 
 " Th' example of my death, will better serve your cause." 
 
 It is true, the neophyte is a little too eager to endan- 
 ger his life. He runs to martyrdom ; he even seeks it, 
 and would be disappointed were he pardoned. 
 
 " Come, my Nearchus ; in the open eye of day, 
 Let us defy the heathen, and ourselves display.'' 
 
 " Ourselves display" this is very well ; this is the duty 
 of a Christian ; but to defy Paganism, that is another 
 thing. Polyeucte has somewhat forgotten the precept 
 of the Master, to which the Apostles conformed: 
 " When they shall persecute you in one city, flee into 
 another." Nevertheless, this criticism detracts nothing 
 from Corneille. It is, on the contrary, to his praise. 
 If he had shown us Polyeucte, more prudent, more 
 evangelical, it would have been less natural. This was 
 according to the views prevalent in the age when the 
 action took place ; and the author is a perfectly faithful 
 historian. A martyr, Ignatius, bishop of Antioch, 
 
 wrote to his flock : " I die willingly for God, 
 
 tell the brutes, that they may make my grave, and so 
 leave nothing of my body, lest I should, after my death, 
 be a charge to any one." 
 
 Such is the ultra-evangelical language, that an ill 
 directed zeal prompted the Christians of that time to 
 use. The character of Polyeucte has, at least, a his- 
 torical verity, if not an actual reality. He is somewhat 
 of an enthusiast, as is natural in such circumstances. 
 He who complains that he cannot understand his char- 
 acter, gives but a very poor account of himself. Every 
 person who feels deeply, knows what is experienced by 
 one who is entirely governed by a truth, a fact, or a 
 
CORNEILLE. 137 
 
 doctrine. In our day, Christians are not called to en- 
 counter ferocious beasts. But even now, in the life of 
 him who comes to a real perusal and living acquaint- 
 ance with the gospel, there is always a certain period ; 
 sometimes very short, during which he somewhat forgets 
 to be "wise as a serpent." There is a time when the 
 seed thrown on the surface springs up hastily. 
 
 The only thing with which Polyeucte can be re- 
 proached is, that in becoming a Christian, he forgets 
 that he is still a man ; and that he must not renounce 
 his affections. That Polyeucte should resist the plead- 
 ings of Pauline, who was still a pagan, is only just ; 
 and this conflict between human and divine love, which 
 terminates in the triumph of the latter, has an admirable 
 effect. That at the moment of death, he calls for his 
 rival Severus, that he may give him his wife, is, if pos- 
 sible, still more beautiful ; we are transported with such 
 generosity. But when he allows these words to escape 
 Mm: — 
 
 " And I regard Pauline in this, 
 But as a barrier to my bliss," 
 
 I stop him in the name of Christianity ; for he evidently 
 forgets himself. Not only is such language unevangeli- 
 cal, but it is not even historic ; asceticism was not yet 
 carried so far. Corneille has forgotten that in the time 
 of Polyeucte, there were not yet monks or even hermits ; 
 and that marriage was considered " honorable in all." It 
 is especially this imprudent remark which escapes from 
 Polyeucte in the height of his ardor, which prevents me 
 from seeing in him the true hero of the piece. 
 
 In my opinion, the most beautiful, the most Christian, 
 the most touching part, is that of Pauline. Follow her 
 step by step; weigh all her words; read even in the 
 
 12 * 
 
138 LECTURE III. 
 
 depths of her heart, which she opens with a frankness 
 that virtue only knows, and you will find nothing to 
 censure ; neither an action, nor the least desire, nor the 
 slightest forgetfulness ; far from falling, she does not 
 even slip. Always thrown into positions the most deli- 
 cate, she comes forth in a manner which commands uni- 
 versal admiration and sympathy. But, Gentlemen, I 
 have more than my feeble opinion to give in praise of 
 Pauline. Allow me to read to you what has been 
 written on this great character, by one of the most able ; 
 acute, and, without doubt, most sympathizing of critics, 
 St. Beuve. 
 
 " On the stage, the prominent character is Pauline ; 
 in representation, as well as on reflection, it is a grand 
 part. We are not always either careful enough or proud 
 enough of our riches, in France. The creation of 
 Pauline is one of the glories of its great drama, which 
 ought to be often referred to. Antigone among the 
 Greeks, Dido among the Latins, Desdemona and 
 Ophelia in Shakspeare, Francis' de Rimini in Dante, 
 and the Margaret of Goethe, are names constantly 
 brought back, as admired models by all ; recognized 
 and greeted wherever they are met. Why has not 
 Pauline an equal celebrity ? She maintains even in her 
 impetuosity and in her extraordinary circumstances, 
 those qualities of judgment, of intelligence, and of a 
 well-balanced mind, with which she is gifted, and which 
 alone make her a heroine ; Roman without doubt ; but 
 at the same time, truly French. Pauline is not pas- 
 sionate, in the ancient sense. The love she is capable 
 of feeling, does not run into that fatal morbidness, that 
 divine revenge, which characterized Dido and the Phse- 
 di-a. None could apply to her any of these descrip- 
 tions : — 
 
CORNEILLE. 139 
 
 " Vain remedies for love like this 
 
 Venus fastened to her prey." 
 
 Neither has she the modern melancholy, or the thought- 
 ful reveries of the Margarets and the Ophelias. Pauline 
 is precise ; she is sensible. Before becoming the wife 
 of Polyeucte, she has loved Severus, but from simple 
 inclination ; notwithstanding that surprise of the heart 
 and the senses, (as she terms it,) she has turned short 
 around, when it. became necessary, when duty and her 
 father commanded it ; she has cast from her the thought 
 of this perfect lover, and has been able to be to Poly- 
 eucte a dutiful wife, without any secret infidelity of 
 heart, without pain or hidden love. Severus returns, 
 Pauline sees him again, and gives a low and even a 
 loud sigh ; but she loves Polyeucte no less ; her anxiety 
 for him is none the less when she remembers the dream ; 
 and when, in the fourth act, Polyeucte being about to 
 die, wishes to give her to Severus, she still refuses, from 
 duty, from delicacy, and also simply from love to her 
 husband ; she cries from the heart : — 
 
 " To his last hour my Polyeucte has come." 
 
 We read in Mad. de Se'vigne' : ' Madam the dauphiness 
 said the other day, in admiring Pauline of Polyeucte, 
 Well, here is the most virtuous woman in the world, 
 who loves not her husband !' — What on the contrary 
 strikes me, in view of the antecedent circumstances, is 
 how she loves. Reason, which has drawn her from her 
 first inclination, has led her to conjugal affection. For 
 while uttering the most vehement language, and in the 
 confusion and conflict created by this mysterious dream, 
 and the influences of divine grace f reason still guides 
 
140 LECTURE III. 
 
 and moulds this character of Pauline, so charming, so 
 solid, and so serious ; a reason capable of every dutiful 
 devotion, of every intrepid sacrifice, of every shade of 
 delicacy ; a reason, which even in the most sudden ex- 
 tremities preserves in her a perfect sobriety of expres- 
 sion, a beautiful simplicity of action ; all is heroic, with 
 nothing to detract from it. This is perfectly French. 
 Calculation enters largely with us into the passions 
 and the affairs of the heart." * 
 
 Such is this fine appreciation of the character of 
 Pauline ; the quotation has not, I hope, been too long, 
 and yet St. Beuve has not said all. After having ad- 
 mired Pauline, it would remain to do justice to Cor- 
 neille, and to compare the literature of the great age 
 with that of our day. You know Pauline sufficiently ; 
 she loves two persons, when she should love only One. 
 And to tell the whole, it can be easily seen, that well as 
 she loved her husband, she yet loved her old suitor bet- 
 ter. To bring such characters on the stage in the time 
 of Corneille, was an unheard of boldness ; and you see 
 the scruples that were felt about it. In our days we 
 have quite got over such scruples ; and these are the 
 situations which now particularly please the public, 
 taste. Pauline is what is called in the style of our day, 
 an unappreciated woman. Who among you are not 
 acquainted with the sad adventures of many great souls 
 in this numerous and famous family. You must be in- 
 deed ignorant of what is passing around you, if the 
 sighs, or rather the clamors of these victims of an iniqui- 
 tous social order to which we submit, do not reach you. 
 An unappreciated woman! Happy is he, who in our 
 day has only heard of them! Their confidences are 
 
 * St. Beuve, Port-Royal, vol. 1, page 249. 
 
CORNEILLE. 141 
 
 public. You are apprised in great letters at each cor- 
 ner of the street, that some one possesses treasures of 
 affection, a loving and sensible soul; but that, alas! to 
 share 'all these, there is only, a prosy, matter-of-fact hus- 
 band, who cannot comprehend them. If you have the 
 leisure, you can pass entire weeks, and even months, in 
 running over what has been written on the pretended 
 misfortunes of young imaginations, who having soon 
 tired; of that which they have chosen, pass their life in 
 groaAing over social order ; when their only aim is to 
 trample underfoot all the proprieties of life, and to 
 call for a pretended emancipation, which would be the 
 most abject of all slavery. — 
 
 Well, Gentlemen, Pauline is placed in this position. 
 And we must remember, it is not by her fault, but in 
 obedience to her father, that she has renounced him 
 whom she loved, and has consented to take another. 
 This obedience is carried too far, I grant ; but Pauline 
 was a Roman ; and in the Roman republic, among the 
 Jews, and in all antiquity, the parents were believed to 
 have something to say as to the establishment of their 
 children. She obeyed ; and if inclination is on one 
 side, and duty on the other, it is certainly not her fault. 
 And she would have much more reason to complain 
 than those who, after having followed their own inclina- 
 tions, speak of themselves as being misunderstood, if 
 all their numerous caprices are not gratified. The his- 
 tory of Pauline offers a unique occasion, which would 
 have been seized upon in our day, to declaim against 
 the rights of fathers and families, and against marriage. 
 
 What, on the contrary, does Corneille ? We can- 
 not sufficiently admire the purity of his genius. He 
 has no fear of bringing such a position on the stage ; 
 for, unhappily, we may believe that such cases may 
 
142 LECTURE nr. 
 
 sometimes present themselves in life. But he has 
 made Pauline an admirable model for all those who 
 may be, unfortunately, in such circumstances. In- 
 stead of increasing their disquietude, the reading 
 of this tragedy is calculated to teach them to walk 
 with courage in the path of virtue, however diffi- 
 cult it may be. The authors of our day would 
 have made Pauline a woman with dishevelled hair ; a 
 female reformer ; one of those beings for whom the 
 earth trembles, according to the expression of the book 
 of Proverbs. But the great age has made her a virtu- 
 ous woman, whom every heart, alive to the beautiful, 
 must admire and love. 
 
 Let us hear Pauline herself give us the measure and 
 the motives of her affection for Severus : — 
 
 " 'Mid all the sons of Rome he stands confessed, 
 The noblest, wisest, best. 
 He holds the mastery of my heart ; 
 And in its every sorrow bears a part. 
 With us each grief is shared." 
 
 Nevertheless, this does not render her deaf to the 
 voice of duty. 
 
 " These sighs might seem to prove that I would yield. 
 But no ; for, duty stern my heart has steeled." 
 
 Thus, when her father speaks, she consents to give up 
 Severus. And when Polyeucte is proposed, she accepts 
 his hand. Vet one more criticism : I agree that Pau- 
 line carried filial submission too far, but substitute in 
 its place, a free and voluntary engagement, such as is 
 made in our day, the conclusion is always the same ; 
 and her maxims are equally applicable. From this 
 
i 
 
 CORNEILLE. 143 
 
 moment you see the principle on which she acts, and 
 which she thus vindicates : — 
 
 " If now I change, you must not call it vacillation, 
 II only duty substitute for inclination.'' 
 
 These two lines give us the key to Pauline's conduct; 
 the voice of duty is strongest with her; she gives to 
 one, from a sense of duty, what the other has from 
 inclination. And fear not ; this gift is entirely sincere ; 
 for, when she learns that Severus, who has been 
 reported to be dead, arrives, she refuses to see him. 
 
 " He still is lovely ; and but a woman am I still ; 
 So great the power of his presence o'er my heart, 
 I am not sure I '11 always act a virtuous part." 
 
 She seeks not the danger ; and it is just this Christian 
 prudence which gives her power to surmount it, when 
 she does meet it. When she sees Severus, she declares, 
 without reserve, that she loves him still, but that she 
 prefers her Polyeucte ; and this truthful and noble 
 declaration conciliates even the esteem of the unhappy 
 Severus, who yet more respects and admires her. 
 
 She even carries her frankness so far, as to let 
 Polyeucte understand a little of her feelings for 
 Severus. 
 
 The victory is painful, she says, and the struggle 
 shameful. And this avowal has a happier effect than 
 any dissimulation. Polyeucte has not a doubt of her 
 virtue, and has nothing to fear from such frankness. 
 Pauline is sure of the esteem that she inspires, as she 
 knows that no one has doubted her: for my part, 
 she says, in believing Polyeucte capable of a sus- 
 picion : — 
 
144 LECTURE III. 
 
 " I should, 'gainst all too great a wrong commit." 
 
 This line expresses, very happily,- the reciprocal 
 esteem which is felt by generous persons, who know 
 how to speak the language of virtue, which is always 
 sincere, and without disguise ; let us rather say, 
 as the word virtue does not sufficiently express it, of 
 Christian piety. 
 
 I am obliged to stop here, Gentlemen ; for I should 
 be carried too far, if I should follow to the end, this 
 beautiful character. Those who, like myself, admire 
 Pauline, can carry this study further. Her virtue is 
 never, for a single instant, inconsistent. And through 
 the whole she remains pathetic, admirable, true; the 
 slave of reason, although her heart speaks another 
 language. But it is more than that; the cold word 
 reason, can never account for such virtue. Corneille 
 was a Christian ; and, therefore, he has been able to 
 give us Pauline to admire. If she is not yet externally 
 converted, she governs herself by the maxims and 
 precepts of Christianity; she has a heart truly Chris- 
 tian. 
 
 But it is the Gospel alone, which can serve as a 
 foundation for such generosity, greatness, and purity. 
 There must be other motives than human honor, 
 respect, and simple propriety, to give strength enough 
 to act thus. Those who find themselves in the posi- 
 tion of Pauline, will succumb, unless they look above 
 the earth for support ; daily history only too well illus- 
 trates this. No one can be capable of so great a sacri- 
 fice, if they know no other happiness than that which 
 the world can give ; but for those who have learned of 
 the Saviour, to sacrifice self to duty in order to please 
 him, if they experience difficulties of this sort in life, Pau- 
 
COENEILLE. 145 
 
 line presents herself as the model of a Christian 
 woman whom they can imitate, if, among other things, 
 they can say with her :. — 
 
 " The firmest virtue will temptation shun ; 
 Whoever danger rashly seeks, is lost." 
 
 I have not yet finished with Polyeucte. There are 
 so many perfect characters in this tragedy, that I would 
 still remark upon another. We have seen in Pauline 
 the most perfect character ; " but you will perhaps 
 remember, that I have spoken of a third personage, 
 who might dispute the first rank with Pauline and 
 Polyeucte. 
 
 This personage is Severus. And in making a short 
 acquaintance with him, we shall learn to admire Pau- 
 line still more. 
 
 Severus is also noble and generous ; and all his 
 excellent qualities are set off by the lustre of military 
 glory. Although a little cold and reserved, his whole 
 bearing is highly romantic ; in a word, he is the beau- 
 ideal of a school-girl, between sixteen and twenty 
 years of age, in her hours of reverie, after perusing a 
 romance. 
 
 You comprehend, then, what reason Pauline had to 
 call herself unappreciated, when she saw Polyeucte 
 seeking martyrdom, and sighing after a good she knew 
 not. 
 
 I shall finish by quoting some remarks of St. Beuve, 
 who is the first, at least to my knowledge, who has 
 pointed out to lis what is peculiar and characteristic in 
 the very original person of Severus. 
 
 " He is a character full of greatness and disinter- 
 estedness; and in one sense, chivalrous, but yet a 
 
 m 
 
146 LECTURE III. 
 
 human character. He is the human ideal of the piece, 
 while the others represent the . Christian ideal. Severus 
 saves the Emperor in battle, is wounded, and taken 
 prisoner. But his conqueror, the king of Persia, treats 
 him as a Bayard. Severus, on his return, is in high 
 favor with the Emperor ; a position of which he takes 
 no dishonorable advantage. She, whom he loved, has 
 married another in his absence. He sees her again f he 
 speaks to her, and would draw from her, at least, some 
 expression of regret. And when he believes she has 
 unguardedly given it, he is satisfied ; and has no wish 
 but to find a happy death in battle ; he exclaims : — 
 
 " By death shall the strength of my love be expressed, 
 May Pauline and Polyeucte live to be blessed." 
 
 This is human generosity in all its. beauty. After- 
 wards, when Polyeucte, by a generous and superhuman « 
 revenge, would give him Pauline, whom he is soon to 
 make a widow ; Severus, whose hopes have for a mo- 
 ment revived, to be again crushed by the resolution of 
 Pauline, remains good, just, and merciful. He would 
 save; he will endeavor to defend the Christian rival, 
 who is preferred to him. And in his conversation with 
 Fabian, he regards this rising religion with feelings of 
 sympathy and impartiality. 
 
 " I'll tell thee more ; but on the honor of a friend, 
 These Christians are not what their enemies pretend. 
 They are despised without a reason ; and I must 
 Acknowledge Decius here, though hero alone unjust. 
 I sought from curiosity alone, to know 
 Their doctrines and their ways." . . . 
 
 From curiosity ! and by what he says subsequently, we 
 
CORNEILLE. 147 
 
 see that Severus, like the Emperor, who was his name- 
 sake, voluntarily put in the rank of his gods and divine 
 sages, the Founder of Christianity. 
 
 He extols the morality of the Gospel ; and yet allows 
 these lines to escape from him : — 
 
 " But are not these religious creeds the subtle tools, 
 By which, in every age, the wise have governed fools ; 
 Teaching indeed much truth, and kindling earnest zeal ; 
 Yet thus subjecting millions to a single will ? " 
 
 These lines have had their influence in giving the part 
 of Severus the approbation of the writers of the eigh- 
 teenth century. Voltaire speaks of its extreme beauty; 
 and is inclined to make it the prominent one of the 
 piece. 
 
 In approaching the conclusion, the character of Sev- 
 erus is continually increasing in beauty. The death of 
 Polyeucte, the conversion of Pauline, and that of Felix 
 himself, affect and shake him, without, however, corj^ 
 vincing him; he still remains human and wise, but 
 more sympathizing than ever. He exclaims : — 
 
 " Who could, insensible, behold so sad a sight ! 
 Such transformations show a superhuman might. 
 No foe to Christ can doubt that hands divine sustain 
 His people, whom their enemies oppose in vain. 
 
 I always loved them, though their enemies reviled ; 
 And sighed in sorrow at their deaths, e'en when a child. 
 And I may one day know them better still than now." 
 
 He, however, recovers himself; and returning within the 
 limits of his strictly human and philosophical position, 
 immediately adds : — 
 
 " I think that each his several god should serve." 
 
148 LECTURE III. 
 
 Severus is, then, in this piece the ideal, under the Em- 
 pire, of an honest pagan ; already infected by the stoic 
 philosophy, as professed by Marcus Aurelius ; but more 
 open, more accessible, and more compassionate. In 
 hearing his last speech ; that mixture of confession and 
 reserve ; that almost entire, and yet indefinite homage, 
 which the divine aspect of Christianity forces from him, 
 we can imagine that we already catch the echo of those 
 beautiful, but inconsistent words, which before and 
 since the Vicar of Savoy, have been uttered and re- 
 tracted ; believed and denied, by the spiritualists, the 
 deists, and the most noble of human sages : — ; 
 
 " If the life and death of Socrates are those of a sage, 
 the life and death of Jesus are those of a God." 
 
 " All the most elevated and virtuous men since the 
 Advent, among Those incomplete testimonies which 
 pause at the threshold, have murmured that ; and Sev- 
 erus- already confesses it." * 
 
 ^Let us now take leave of Corneille, and regret that 
 there are, in our day, so many men like Severus, while 
 we desire that there may be, on the contrary, many 
 such persons as Pauline. 
 
 * St. Beuve, Port-Royal, 1st vol., page 146. 
 
FENELON. 
 
 13* 
 
 (143) 
 
LECTURE IV. 
 
 FENELON. 
 
 DOCTRINE OF THE QTJIETISTS. MADAME GUYON. — 'CONTRO- 
 VERSY WITH BOSSTJET. — INFALLIBILITY OP THE CHURCH. — - 
 TELEMACHUS. — VOLTAIRE'S AND ROUSSEAU'S OPINIONS OF 
 TELEMACHUS. 
 
 " Fenelon is one whose name awakens in the heart 
 a sentiment of affection; of whom- we cannot speak 
 but with tenderness; whom we cannot forget with- 
 out ingratitude; whom we are proud to exalt; and 
 whose name, far from losing its lustre as it advances 
 from age to age, gathers on the route new honors ; and 
 is handed down to the latest posterity, preceded by the 
 acclamations of every people, and freighted with the 
 tribute of every age." 
 
 Such are the glorious characteristics of Fenelon, says 
 Laharpe, in the Academic Eulogy of the bishop of 
 Cambray, and he adds : — 
 
 " Fenelon is, among men of letters, what Henry IV. 
 is among kings. Our love guards his reputation ; and 
 whatever panegyric is bestowed upon him, it falls short 
 of what has been given in advance by those to whom 
 it is addressed. There is, perhaps, no class of men 
 
 (151) 
 
152 LECTUKE IV. 
 
 who will not be interested in listening to his eulogy. 
 To scholars, I would say, he had the eloquence of soul 
 and the genius of the ancients ; to ministers of religion, 
 he was a father, and a model to his people ; to contro- 
 vertists, he submitted his opinion to authority ; to cour- 
 tiers, he sought no favor, and was happy in disgrace ; 
 to teachers of kings, that the nation expected its happi- 
 ness from the prince he had educated, to all men, he 
 was virtuous, he was beloved." 
 
 Thus Laharpe speaks of Fenelon before the Acad- 
 emy. And this eulogy has a merit not common in dis- 
 courses of this nature, it is true. All the critics who 
 have spoken of the Archbishop of Cambray, have 
 entertained the same respect for him; and the most 
 remarkable homage has been paid him, by persons from 
 whom we should hardly have expected it. Even Vol- 
 taire and D'Alembert appreciated his genius. The 
 latter says : " The most touching charm of Fenelon's 
 works, is the tranquillizing and peaceful sentiment 
 which we feel in reading them ; it is a friend who 
 draws near to you and whose heart is all sympathy 
 with yours ; he soothes, he suspends, at least for a mo- 
 ment, your pains and sorrows; and we can pardon 
 humanity the many men who make her hated, for the 
 sake of Fenelon, who causes her to be loved." 
 
 Voltaire, on his part, adds : " We have fifty-five dif- 
 ferent works from Fenelon, every one the production 
 of a virtuous heart ; but his Telemachus inspires 
 virtue." 
 
 There is a quality much in request in our day, and 
 to which all writers make pretension. The demand is 
 now for the poetry of the heart; and even in prose, 
 authors often say, " I give myself up to you. I initiate 
 you into all my secrets, for I have put my whole soul 
 
FENELON. 153 
 
 into this book." We know very well what dependence 
 is to be placed on these pretensions to intimacy; for 
 we see these authors change their tone with the 
 greatest ease in the world, according to the necessities 
 of the moment. Fenelon, who knew nothing of these 
 great words, and who never made a display of intimacy, 
 had naturally this quality, which writers so vainly 
 attempt to attain. Every thing he says, comes from 
 the heart ; his pure and loving soul impresses itself on 
 his writings ; he is less an author than a friend. To 
 speak in his own language, his writings always breathe 
 "the amiable simplicity of ancient times." It is this 
 quality, so extraordinarily developed in him, which 
 brings his writings within the reach of every capacity. 
 He writes from the heart, and, therefore, the hearts of 
 other men can readily comprehend him. This gave 
 him his extraordinary facility in uniting simplicity with 
 depth and clearness. He excels in treating the most 
 difficult questions with admirable lucidity, and casts 
 light over the most difficult problems ; so that we can, 
 without effort, mount with him into the highest regions 
 of metaphysics. 
 
 Frangois de Salignac de la Mothe Fenelon was born 
 at the chateau Fenelon, in Perigord, August 6, 1651, 
 of noble parents. An incident is related of him, which 
 shows his ideas of justice and his natural good sense, 
 at a very tender age. When he was six years old, 
 while he was one day walking around the chateau, 
 some sentiments were expressed by the servant accom- 
 panying him, which involved injustice. The tender 
 conscience of the child immediately perceived it ; and 
 in the full confidence of truth, he tried to show him his 
 error. The servant, proud of the trust which had been 
 reposed in him, and fearing to lose it by being known 
 
154 LECTURE IV. 
 
 to defend the wrong, persisted in endeavoring to prove 
 what he had advanced. The child, in the mildest 
 manner, at first made him feel that he did not know 
 what he was saying ; and then finding that he was not 
 to be convinced, left him to talk on without making 
 any reply. This judicious silence was construed into 
 a new insult, and the servant added to the evils of false 
 reasoning, that of violent conduct. The child, seized 
 by the arm, was thrown on the ground, and sorely 
 bruised. Although he was so much injured by the fall 
 that it was only with pain he could raise himself, 
 he, nevertheless, returned to the chateau without saying 
 any thing of his adventure; and allowed it to be 
 thought that his fall was only one of those accidents to 
 which even the most carefully guarded children are 
 liable. 
 
 "We must receive, with the greatest caution, anecdotes 
 of this kind, relating to great men ; but whether true or 
 false, this one is well worthy of Fenelon. And there 
 is nothing to prevent our supposing that his natural 
 amiableness and generosity might have been thus early 
 developed. His parents knew how to strengthen such 
 qualities ; and while cultivating his mind, inspired him 
 also with a love for virtue and religion. " At twelve, 
 years of age, he was well acquainted with Greek ; and 
 wrote French and Latin, not only with facility, but ele- 
 gance ; and with that propriety of expression which 
 imparts to style, so much grace and perspicuity. He 
 knew as much of the ancients as it was possible for 
 him to have read or retained at that age. He had 
 studied, analyzed, and compared the historians, the 
 poets, the philosophers, and the orators ; and even imi- 
 tated them." 
 
 So thorough an education allowed the genius of 
 
FENELON. 155 
 
 Fenelon to develop itself early. He preached with 
 applause at the age of nineteen; and at twenty-five 
 discharged pastoral duties, and attracted the attention 
 of the ecclesiastical authorities, and of the king himself. 
 While still young he was named Superior of the Young 
 Catholics, an institution for young women, which was 
 founded for the purpose of convincing young Protes- 
 tants, whose conversion, by means of persecution, had 
 only been external. It was then he composed his 
 treatise on the education of daughters ; a work still 
 worthy of being read in our day. In this treatise he 
 gives some very judicious directions as to the manner 
 of interesting young people in religion ; a subject too 
 much forgotten by Protestants, as well as Catholics. 
 It is too common to hear pious persons lamenting the 
 difficulty of developing religious sentiments in the 
 hearts of their children. It is probable this would not 
 so frequently be the case, if the directions of Fenelon 
 were followed. 
 
 " Do not frighten your child," he says, " in regard to 
 religion, by a useless severity, but allow her a proper 
 liberty and an innocent joy ; and accustom her to find 
 her enjoyment on this side of the boundary between 
 right and wrong, and to be happy in those pursuits 
 which are far from being hurtful. 
 
 " Try to make her acquainted with God, and do not 
 suffer her to regard him only as an omnipotent and in- 
 exorable judge, who watches us unceasingly that he 
 may censure and restrain us on all occasions. 
 
 " Show her how his goodness pities our weakness, 
 and is proportioned to our necessities. Accustom her 
 to think of him as a tender and compassionate father. 
 Do not let her look upon prayer as a weary idleness or 
 
156 LECTURE IV. 
 
 a formal duty which the mind imposes upon itself, 
 leaving the imagination meanwhile to stray away. 
 
 The modest manner in which Fenelon discharged his 
 duties to the New Catholics, and in the interior of Paris, 
 drew public attention to him. People were eager to 
 hear his sermons, and attend his catechizings.. Louis 
 XIV., on learning the popularity and talent of the Abbg 
 Fenelon, began to think he might be useful to him in 
 the accomplishment of his great plan. He was then 
 zealously pursuing the impious and sacrilegious work of 
 converting the Protestants by force. According to a fic- 
 tion well worthy of the Jesuits, there were no longer any 
 Protestants in France ; every one was bound to attend 
 the Roman service, and partake of the sacraments. 
 Nevertheless, as the number of the reluctant was very 
 great, the preachers and missionaries were always accom- 
 panied by soldiers, who would render their eloquence 
 effectual, ar£ supply what was wanting in the force of 
 their arguments. Louis XIV., anxious to avail himself 
 of the talent of the Abbe 1 Fenelon, would have employed 
 him on one of these booted or dragooning missions. It 
 was in this trying situation that the Christian sentiments 
 of the future Archbishop of Cambray shone forth in all 
 their purity. He nobly distinguished himself among all 
 his contemporaries, and took an honorable place among 
 those of the higher class of intellect, who had already 
 begun to understand that constraint must not be em- 
 ployed in matters of religion. The ecclesiastical author- 
 ities, the Pope, the Jesuits, the doctors, the king's con- 
 fessor, and all the distinguished men in the church, not 
 even excepting Bossuet, called loudly for the exter- 
 mination of heresy by fire and sword. Fenelon alone 
 had enough Christian principle and courage to main- 
 
FENELON. 157 
 
 tain a contrary opinion; and preached and practised 
 true toleration, while all around him cried out for perse- 
 cution. Bossuet himself, in 1700, when he was already- 
 advanced in age, and full of experience, wrote thus : 
 " I declare that I am and have been of the opinion, that 
 princes can, by penal laws, constrain heretics to con- 
 form to the profession and practices of the Catholic 
 church ; and that this doctrine should always be main- 
 tained by the church, which has not only followed, but 
 demanded such ordinances from princes." 
 
 While Bossuet dishonored his grey hairs, and fixed 
 an indelible stain on his memory, by thus professing 
 sentiments worthy of an inquisitor, Fenelon, though 
 still young, was in advance of his age ; resisting 
 singly and alone the persecuting sentiments of the king 
 of France, and of the entire Papacy; and has thus 
 secured an honorable place in the affections of posterity, 
 by the side of Milton, Roger Williams, and Vinet. 
 
 He represented to Louis XIV., that ministers of 
 religion were evangelists of peace ; that it was not 
 suitable for them to have an armed escort ; and that 
 this military retinue might intimidate, but never truly 
 change any one ; that the sword of the word and the 
 power of grace were the only weapons employed by 
 the apostles ; and that he wished to follow no other 
 example than theirs. 
 
 But, replied Louis XIV., do you fear nothing? 
 Ought I not to guard you against the malice, the bold 
 and seditious rage of the heretics? To this Fenelon 
 answered: I know all that; but should a missionary 
 fear such dangers ? I venture to say to you, that if you 
 expect a real apostolic harvest from our preaching, we 
 must go forth as true apostles. I would rather perish 
 by the hands of misguided brethren, than to see a single 
 
 14 
 
158 LECTURE IV. 
 
 one of them exposed to the vexations, insults, and vio- 
 lence, which they must almost inevitably receive from 
 soldiers. 
 
 Thus did Fenelon profess true tolerance ; that is to 
 say, that which, proceeding from a Christian heart, has 
 a true respect for religion and for the individual con- 
 science. Afterward, in the eighteenth century, we shall 
 find a great deal said about tolerance ; and that no one 
 should be persecuted for their faith. But this language 
 will be more than suspicious. Their maxim will be, 
 that all religions are good ; that is to say, apparently, 
 that one is no better than another ; and, therefore, it is 
 not worth while for any one to trouble himself about 
 the differences. Although Fenelon was in advance of 
 his own age, he did not fall into the errors of the follow- 
 ing century. He believed the Protestants to be in error, 
 and sought to make proselytes, (for any man who 
 attaches any value to his convictions, on whatever sub- 
 ject it may be, ought to aim at spreading them,) but for 
 this purpose he used only fair and Christian means. 
 
 Fenelon was, throughout his whole life, faithful to 
 his maxims ; not only professing, but practising them. 
 When he was afterward Archbishop, a pastor, (Mr. 
 Brunier,) the only one to minister to all the Protestants 
 scattered on the frontiers of France, in Flanders, and 
 the Low Countries, came to see him at Mons, in 1700. 
 Fenelon received him, not as a heretic, but as a brother; 
 made him dine at his table, loaded him with civilities, 
 and begged him to come without further invitation, and 
 see him without ceremony, as a man on whom he 
 might rely, and who was disposed to take with him all 
 allowable and proper measures. 
 
 Instances of this kind are so rare, above all among 
 ecclesiastics in the communion of Fenelon, that we may 
 
FENELON. 159 
 
 claim for him the highest encomiums to which such 
 Christian conduct is entitled. But he did still more; 
 for after thus entertaining the pastor, he thought of the 
 welfare of the flock. There were in the country 
 (Hainaut) a number of peasants descended from ancient 
 Protestants, who still called themselves such ; and who, 
 when they saw a minister, would partake of the sacra- 
 ment; but who, when they were discovered, would dis- 
 semble, and even go to mass. Brother, said Fenelon, 
 to the reformed minister, you see how it is ; it is more 
 than time that these good people should have a fixed 
 religion ; go and find them ; take their names and those 
 of their families, and send them to me. I give you my 
 word that before six months they shall have passports. 
 The Archbishop, in furnishing these men with pass- 
 ports, sought to preserve them from the snare of hypoc- 
 risy, that persecution was always spreading in then- 
 path. It seems as if his penetrating mind foresaw that 
 persecution would produce scepticism and incredulity ; 
 as was too often the case in the next century. 
 
 On returning from his mission, of which he had 
 acquitted himself to the satisfaction of Protestants and 
 Catholics, Fenelon was named for bishop; but not 
 choosing to intrigue for the place, it was given to" 
 a less scrupulous candidate. Being appointed tutor 
 to the Duke of Burgundy, grandson of Louis XIV., 
 he conducted the education of the young prince with 
 the greatest care, and succeeded in rectifying his faults, 
 and developing the powers of his mind. The dia- 
 logues, fables, and tales he prepared, were for the 
 instruction of the Duke of Burgundy. It was at this 
 time he wrote his most important treatise on the 
 existence of God ; in which he specially sets forth the 
 
160 LECTURE IV. 
 
 simple argument of the order of nature ; sufficiently 
 strong to convince the most exacting logician, if athe- 
 ism had not its source, rather in the corruption of the 
 heart, than in the understanding. " Who can believe," 
 said he, "that Homer's Iliad, that perfect poem, was 
 not composed by the genius of some great poet ; but 
 that the letters of the alphabet having been thrown 
 down in confusion, a chance blow, like the throwing 
 of dice, gave them the precise arrangement necessary 
 to describe, in verses full of harmony and truth, so 
 many great events, so to combine them, that they shall 
 together so read as to paint each object with a grace- 
 fulness the most noble and touching; and finally, to 
 make each person, according to his character, speak in 
 a manner so simple and impassioned ? Let any one 
 thus reason and subtilize as much as he will, he will 
 never persuade a sensible man that the Iliad had no 
 other author than chance." 
 
 " How much more absurd," adds Fenelon, " is it to 
 suppose that the world, and man an intelligent being, 
 were created by chance, a power so exclusively destruc- 
 tive ! " 
 
 The merits of the pious ecclesiastic procured him a 
 seat in the French Academy. And the secretary who 
 received him, could say with truth, " the Academy has 
 not given its vote on account of the ancient and illus- 
 trious nobility of your house, nor for the dignity and 
 importance of your office as preceptor to the prince ; 
 but solely for the great qualities you have displayed." 
 Finally, he was appointed Archbishop of Cambray. 
 
 Here terminates the first part of Fenelon's life, which 
 was so calm and so happy. He neither received his 
 honors early, nor enjoyed them long. Little by little, 
 
FENELON. 161 
 
 after he was made Archbishop of Cambray, he was 
 drawn into the controversy respecting Quietism, which 
 was to him a source of great uneasiness. 
 
 The Quietists never constituted a sect, or even party ; 
 they were simply the representatives of a spiritual and 
 mystical tendency in the Roman church./lYLadame de 
 la Mothe Guyon, in the seventeenth century, gave the 
 first impulse to this movement, of which many pious 
 people were partisans. She was born of wealthy 
 parents ; married when very young ; and was already a 
 widow at the age of twenty-eight. Instead of follow- 
 ing the wise counsel of St. Paul, who enjoined the 
 young widows to marry and take care of their families, 
 she abandoned her children and sold her possessions, 
 retaining nothing which was not strictly necessary. 
 This first forgetfulness of her duty, led her to err still 
 further. Instead of engaging in the interesting mission 
 to which she was called as the mother of a family, she 
 undertook to dogmatize ; and wished to assume in its 
 place, that often thankless office, of theological teacher. 
 Madame Guyon is one of those women who have a 
 desire to preach. But no one has violated, with im- 
 punity, the express command of the Apostle Paul : 
 " Let your women keep silence in the churches." 
 When they forget their own modest, but most impor- 
 tant and admirable mission, and endeavor to soar to 
 the highest questions in metaphysics and theology, 
 their heads become dizzy even before they have 
 attained the summit. In all* these efforts they lose the 
 attractive qualities of their own sex, without acquiring 
 those of the other. Madame Guyon, in particular, in 
 following a vivid imagination, which was unregulated 
 by a sound judgment, mingled with some truth, much 
 that was absurd, and that had no proper connection 
 
 14* 
 
162 LECTURE IV. 
 
 with it. Her director, the monk La Combe, favored 
 but too much, her tendency to mysticism ; and when 
 she was obliged to leave Savoy, he accompanied her on 
 her mission in France. She recommended both the 
 entire renouncement of self, and the internal worship 
 of God ; which is likewise enjoined in the Gospel, but 
 in another sense. Madame Guyon forgot that man is 
 called to be always a worker with God; who never 
 does any thing without him. "With her, self-renounce- 
 ment signified the annihilation of all the powers and 
 faculties of the mind ; while the soul was to be in an 
 inactive or passive state. The Bible itself, while teach- 
 ing man that he is completely dependent, adds, " work 
 out your own salvation with fear and trembling." This 
 doctrine of repose and contemplative passivity, gave to 
 the partisans of Madame Guyon, the name of Quietists. 
 But as it is useless to pretend to be in absolute repose, 
 so Madame Guyon herself only gave up the sphere of 
 action in which her duties lay, to engage in another of 
 a different character. Her unregulated imagination 
 allowed her an unchecked career ; she had visions and 
 ecstacies, and soon pretended to work miracles and to 
 announce the future. 
 
 She immediately drew the attention of the ecclesi- 
 astical authorities, on her arrival at Paris ; who caused 
 her to be confined in a monastery. As she had had 
 time, however, to conciliate some persons, Madame de 
 Maintenon, then all powerful, procured her release ; and 
 the Archbishop of Paris did not dare to pursue her 
 further. Madame Guyon was then taken, for a period, 
 into favor ; she was received at Versailles, visited St. 
 Cyi-j that Madame de Maintenon had just founded ; 
 and made friends among the princes and princesses. 
 The ecclesiastical authorities uttered some complaints, 
 
FENELON. 163 
 
 but no one dared to attack her openly. Bossuet him- 
 self gave her a certificate of orthodoxy. But all at 
 once, towards the close of the year 1695, she was 
 arrested, and shut up in the chateau of Vincennes. 
 What was the occasion of this sudden change? It 
 was, that Louis XIV., who disliked novelties, had 
 watched, with a jealous eye, the growing influence of 
 Madame Guyon ; and Madame de Maintenon was too 
 much of an egotist, to be willing to compromise her- 
 self by protecting her friend. When Bossuet came to 
 announce to Madame de Maintenon that he had given 
 a certificate to Madame Guyon, he was surprised to 
 learn that she had changed her mind. And the great 
 bishop ran in haste to Meaux, to take from Madame 
 Guyon the certificate he had given her. She, sus- 
 pecting nothing, returned it to him. All was then 
 immediately changed ; and with the single • exception 
 of Fenelon, all her friends forsook her. , 
 
 While Bossuet, who had given Madame Guyon a 
 certificate of orthodoxy, and who had found a little too 
 late for his glory, that her maxims were dangerous, sud- 
 denly became her most zealous opponent, Fenelon, who 
 was not a court bishop, consulted only his heart and his 
 conscience, and took no useless steps, not even defend- 
 ing her at first, in order, no doubt, that he might not 
 appear in opposition to authority ; but when called on 
 to condemn his friend, and impute to her a pernicious 
 system and corrupt intentions, firmly refused. It was 
 then he published his work, entitled, Maxims of the 
 Saints, in which, by means of numerous quotations 
 from the fathers, he sought to distinguish between true 
 and false mysticism. Bossuet attacked him ; and thus 
 commenced the renowned' controversy on Quietism, 
 between these two great bishops. Fenelon was far from 
 
164 LECTURE IV. 
 
 approving all Madame Guyon's views; and even cen- 
 sured her for those which were decidedly extravagant. 
 He solely adopted those which regard pure love./ One of 
 Madame Guyon's favorite ideas was, that our love to 
 God must be completely disinterested ; that we must 
 love him simply for himself; and that we must not be 
 actuated either by fear, or by the hope of reward and 
 happiness. This is what is called pure love; and the 
 affectionate heart of Fenelon was seduced by this 
 theory, which is not sustained by the Scriptures. As to 
 the rest, although he combated many errors of Madame 
 Guyon, and distinguished between true and false mys- 
 ticism, he was not, however, entirely free from the latter. 
 Bossuet himself was infected by it ; and it is impossible 
 for a Catholic ecclesiastic, who has the direction of 
 nuns, not to fall into the oddities of a language, at once 
 puzzling and mystical. Here are proofs, as regards Bos- 
 suet. He wrote to a nun : " 1 am not yet able to say 
 any thing to you on this little obscure point, which pre- 
 vents your perfect union ; that will come to us when 
 we think of it the least. In thinking of it, I feel a 
 strong disposition to do nothing to complete this union 
 with Christ, for that is to begin to break up this inter- 
 mediate state. Take especial care not to desire tears ; 
 keep yourself for some time without any desire." " All 
 that we think of God is a dream, in comparison to what 
 we should wish to think and to do to celebrate his 
 greatness. Offer to him the nothingness of thought, 
 which loses itself, and vanishes before the fulness of his 
 being and perfection." 
 
 Let none be astonished if they do not comprehend 
 this nonsense, although it comes from Bossuet. 
 
 He even goes so far as to recommend the Quietists' 
 manner of praying. " For you, my dear daughter," he 
 
FENELON. 165 
 
 wrote, " quiet your doubts, and remain in your convent, 
 where God is. The utility of the silence into which 
 you will enter, is to lose self .... put yourself bodily 
 before God in prayer, and leave your soul to become 
 what it will, too happy only to cast on your holy spouse 
 some stolen glances." 
 
 There are some words still more significant. He 
 writes to another nun : " Jesus is wondrous in the 
 chaste embraces with which he honors his spouse, and 
 renders her fruitful; all the virtues are the fruits of 
 these chaste embraces. Your support must be the com- 
 munion ; enjoy it every day, since God has placed you 
 where you can do it without incurring censure or con- 
 tempt ; kiss, with full liberty, this dear little brother, 
 who every day desires to unite himself with us, and 
 every day renders us smaller, that we may the more 
 resemble him. He is a child, and he is a grown man; 
 in him is the beauty of all ages ; he has even the white 
 
 hairs of the apocalypse Adventure all with the 
 
 heavenly spouse, your liberties please him I 
 
 allow you the most violent transports of love, should 
 they even lead you to death, and all the fury o'f jeal- 
 ousy, should it even prove to you a kind of hell." .... 
 
 This is surely a mysticism of a still worse land, and 
 more dangerous. Bossuet allows himself to recommend 
 to the nuns, this carnal love that the Jesuits preach 
 with such ardor, and that Michelet and Quinet, after 
 Pascal, have reproached them with, in latter years. 
 
 All these quotations are taken from the printed cor- 
 respondence of Bossuet. They have a peculiar impor- 
 tance at this time in this country. They are the coun- 
 sels given to an inmate of a nunnery by one of Rome's 
 wisest leaders. They exhibit the kind of piety which 
 we may expect from convents ; and yet it is too mon- 
 
166 LECTURE IV. 
 
 strous an assertion to be credited, that there are con- 
 vents for men in these United States. It is an absurdity 
 to imagine Yankees living in a convent, with a cord 
 around their waists ; this one in a white robe, and that 
 one in a black. If such establishments exist, they have 
 no doubt been opened for the benefit of my countrymen 
 of the old world, who alone are capable of giving them- 
 selves up to such nonsense. But convents for females ; 
 that is another thing ! You have those. The curious 
 are from time to time drawn to witness the ceremony 
 of taking the veil ; of which they always make a great 
 parade. It is also quite the fashion to send young ladies 
 to a convent for their education. I was therefore bound 
 to inform you in what manner the nuns are trained, 
 who are afterward to have the charge of youth. If the 
 great Bossuet himself could not avoid these errors, I 
 leave you to imagine what might be said by a director 
 possessed of a narrow mind, without judgment, and 
 without delicacy. 
 
 It is manifest, that the mysticism of Bossuet was not 
 of the best kind ; and consequently it was exceedingly 
 misjudged for him to persecute Fenelon, his old friend, 
 and Madame Guyon, to whom he had given a certificate 
 of orthodoxy. He, however, continued to do so, and 
 with so much earnestness, that Louis XIV., weary of 
 the controversy, sent Fenelon's book to the Pope, ask- 
 ing him to condemn it. 
 
 / We must now follow the two champions. This con- 
 troversy is very instructive in showing us what account 
 Bossuet made of the Papacy, and also enabling us to 
 become better acquainted with Fenelon. We have just 
 seen Bossuet in a convent, which was a cage to this 
 " eagle of Meaux," where, it might well be feared, that 
 he would break his wings. At the court of Rome, on 
 
FENELON. 167 
 
 the contrary, he would be at his ease, and could soar to 
 the height of his genius. 
 
 The cause is now before the court of Rome. Fene- 
 lon defends himself; Bossuet and Louis XIV. call for 
 his condemnation. As the two prelates cannot be 
 present, they have sent friends to represent them ; and 
 as each one strives to gain the victory there are 
 naturally cabals and intrigues. Fenelon is obliged 
 to have recourse to such means, to pursue his adver- 
 saries on their own ground ; but they go much further 
 than he. No effort was spared to bring into disrepute 
 the pious bishop of Cambray. And they even went so 
 far as to throw suspicion on his connection with 
 Madame Guyon. Louis XIV., on his part, took from 
 him his office as tutor to the Duke of Burgundy, 
 to show that he no longer merited his confidence. It 
 was necessary, afterward, to gain over those who had 
 examined the book, by means of large bribes. The 
 representative of Bossuet at Rome, his nephew, the 
 Abbe' Bossuet, thus wrote to him : " In order to show 
 you a part of what I am obliged to spend here, on this 
 business, I could send you accounts of bookbinders and 
 copyists, of postage and of presents, statedly given, 
 twice a year, to the valets of the cardinals, the prelates, 
 and others with whom I have business, which would 
 amount, without exaggeration, to more than four thou- 
 sand francs, since I have been in this country, without 
 counting the expense of spies and of entertainments, 
 which do a great deal here, as you may know." 
 
 But these are only some of the intrigues and corrup- 
 tions, so common at the Papal court. There was, 
 in this case, a particular point which merits attention. 
 
 The Roman church pretends to be infallible; and 
 yet, notwithstanding the incessant demand of Protes- 
 
168 LECTUEE IV. 
 
 tants, after the eighteen centuries in which she claims 
 to have existed, she has not yet succeeded in determin- 
 ing in whom this infallibility lies. The Catholics are 
 thoroughly divided on this all important question. The 
 Ultramontanes, on the one hand; that is to say, the 
 •Italians, and the Jesuits of all countries and of every 
 order, maintain that it is the Pope who is infallible ; 
 while "the others, on the contrary, that is the Galileans 
 or French, contend that the infallibility lies in the Pope 
 and bishops when assembled in council. 
 • Bossuet was the most illustrious representative of the 
 Gallican opinion. He did not believe in the personal 
 infallibility of the Pope ; and yet it was necessary to 
 have him condemn the book. They wanted, therefore, to 
 have the Pope condemn Fenelon, without proclaiming, 
 at the same time, his own infallibility. We can easily con- 
 ceive, then, what intrigues must be employed to attain 
 two such opposite ends. Finally, the condemnation of 
 the book of Maxims was obtained ; but the Pope only 
 half yielded, and gave his opinion in a letter ; that is to 
 say, in the form which implied his infallibility. The 
 Gallicans, then, had cause for dissatisfaction. Yet 
 some one wrote thus from Versailles, on this subject : 
 " I cannot yet say what will be done ; but you may 
 rest assured that France will show her respect and her 
 submission to the Holy See, and (remarkable asser- 
 tion!) will not allow the decree with which it has been 
 inspired by the Holy Spirit, to fall to the ground." 
 Who is it holding language so ultramontane ? Is it a 
 Jesuit ? No, it must in truth be said, it is Bossuet, the 
 chief of the. Gallicans, who speaks thus. After having 
 employe^ every intrigue, and the threats of Louis XIV. 
 to dictate the decree that he desired, he pushed mock- 
 ery so far, as to say "inspired by the Holy Spirit," 
 
FENELON. 169 
 
 although he himself did not believe at all in the infalli- 
 bility of the Pope. 
 
 But what is to be done ? There must be some author- 
 ity in matters of religion ; otherwise the church would 
 dissolve into sects, as the Bishop of Meaux has shown 
 in his " Varieties of the Protestant Church." To the 
 multitude they appear to believe in the infallibility of 
 the Pope ; and they carry the profanation so far, as to 
 attribute to the Holy Spirit, a decision which they well 
 knew had been obtained by intrigue and corruption. 
 
 Protestants have said, and continue to say, much 
 against the Papacy ; but it may well be doubted if they 
 have ever said many things stronger than that which 
 follows. Thus writes the Abbe" Bossuet, under these 
 circumstances, to his uncle, respecting the court of 
 Rome, with which he was well acquainted : " I am well 
 persuaded, that no doctrinal affair should be brought 
 here; they are too ignorant, and too much given to 
 favoritism and intrigue, to judge of doctrine. If it had 
 been judged in France ; either by the bishops or by the 
 Sorbonne, they would never have dared to decide any 
 thing contrary to them. They know France is more 
 learned ; and, from their ignorance, they are always em- 
 barrassed by any question respecting doctrine." 
 
 And here is something, still stronger. 
 
 Bossuet told us, that Fenelon's condemnation had 
 been dictated to the Pope by the Holy Spirit. His 
 nephew, who knew all about it, speaks of other agents 
 who played a part. He writes : " Cardinal Spada 
 avowed to me, that it was the devil who had caused 
 these last examiners to be added, (in the business of 
 Fenelon). I knew yesterday, from Cardinal Casauate, 
 that all was going well, but he added these very words : 
 
 15 
 
170 LECTURE IV. 
 
 that they had played the devil, and that they had gone 
 beyond the bounds of decency ; and he said some 
 other hard things." 
 
 But it was, above all, the Pope who found himself 
 ill treated : " What is to be feared is, that His Holiness, 
 who always says yes, to the last comer, hastily, not 
 thinking to do any harm .... will immortalize this 
 
 affair He wishes to do well ; but his weakness 
 
 and his easy temper sometimes lead him to make ter- 
 ribly false steps. I noticed in his remarks generally, a 
 great desire to save the reputation of M. de Cambray ; 
 a great fear of promising too much ; and, above all, the 
 Neapolitan genius in the highest degree." 
 
 The fact is, and it is not the least curious feature of 
 this affair, that Pope Innocent XII. partook of the opin- 
 ions of Fenelon. All his sympathies were with the Arch- 
 bishop of Cambray and his doctrines ; and it seemed to 
 him, that in anathematizing his book of the Maxims of 
 the Saints, he condemned some truths admitted by his 
 predecessors. He therefore desired to acquit him ; but 
 Louis XIV. imperiously commanded. And the poor 
 Pope must do as they would have him ; but it was 
 done with such lively grief, that he was unable to speak 
 of it without shedding tears. 
 
 This is, then, the Roman infallibility. It is this de- 
 cree, obtained by such means, and against the will of 
 the Pope, that Bossuet, although his nephew kept him 
 informed of all the intrigues, proclaims, in the face of 
 Europe, to be " dictated by the Holy Spirit." 
 
 There are many books of controversy written against 
 the Church of Rome ; but we may, as Protestants, be 
 contented with its history alone. All these quotations 
 have been taken from the correspondence of Bossuet. 
 
FENELON. 171 
 
 When a system can lead so illustrious a partisan, a 
 man who is called a Father of the Church, to such pro- 
 ceedings, it is already judged. 
 
 Happily, however, we find one man who conducted 
 himself honorably in this sad business. That man was 
 Fenelori. It must be acknowledged that he was obliged 
 to oppose intrigue to intrigue, to a certain extent. But 
 we know from his character, that he did it against his 
 own feelings ; and although we cannot wholly approve 
 his conduct, he acted as a consistent man, who be- 
 lieved in the authority of the Pope ; while the others, 
 affecting to believe in it, ridiculed it. As soon as the 
 Pope's sentence of condemnation reached him, he made 
 a written retraction, and read his own condemnation 
 from the pulpit of Cambray. " Our Holy Father, the 
 Pope,'' said he, " has condemned this book by a letter 
 dated March 12th. We adhere to this letter, my very 
 dear brethren, simply, absolutely, and without shadow 
 of restriction." 
 
 Some may think this passive obedience uncalled for. 
 But we must be just, and remember that Fenelon, 
 as an upright and sincere Catholic, could not act 
 otherwise. After having retracted, he added these 
 beautiful words, which deserve to be quoted : '' We will 
 comfort ourselves, my very dear brethren, in our humili- 
 ation, provided the ministry of the Word, which we 
 have received from the Lord, for your sanctification, is 
 not weakened ; and that, notwithstanding the humili- 
 ation of the pastor, the flock grow in grace before God. 
 Let it never be mentioned of us, unless it be to remem- 
 ber that a pastor has believed it is his duty, to be more 
 docile than the least sheep of his flock ; and that he has 
 put no bounds to his submission." 
 I To know Fenelon, we must follow him into his dio- 
 
172 LECTURE IV. 
 
 cese of Cambray ; for it was there that all his virtues and 
 his genius had full scope to manifest themselves. He 
 realized the poetic idea of a pastor, and conciliated the 
 affections of all who knew him. During the war of the 
 Spanish succession, the strangers, including English 
 and others, who dwelt in his diocese, felt the highest 
 regard for him ; which they manifested in every possible 
 way. 
 
 " In his walks, he passed the time in useful conversa- 
 tion with his friends, or in seeking opportunities to ben- 
 efit his people. When he met peasants in his way, he 
 would sometimes seat himself near them on the grass ; 
 ask after their families, like a good father ; and advise 
 them how to manage their little households, and lead a 
 Christian life. Sometimes he would enter their houses 
 to speak to them of God, and console them in their 
 misery. If these poor people offered him refreshments, 
 according to the custom of the country, he did not hesi- 
 tate to partake of them ; and showed no fastidiousness, 
 either on account of their poverty or the uncleanhness 
 of their huts." 
 
 Poetry has seized upon a remarkable circumstance ; 
 and under the title of Fenelon's Walk, we have a beau- 
 tiful little piece, which finely paints the character of the 
 good Archbishop. 
 
 We cannot here undertake to examine all the works 
 of Fenelon, which amount to fifty-three, including sev- 
 eral treatises. We shall, then, only speak of the book 
 which has immortalized him ; and which, having been 
 translated into every language, has rendered the author 
 popular in all countries ; — The Adventures of Telema- 
 chus, the son of Ulysses. The subject is borrowed from 
 antiquity; but the author has given to these antique 
 personages, the sentiments and virtues of Christians. 
 
FENELON. 173 
 
 The eulogy of Telemachus is comprised in a word : 
 " All the works of Fenelon," says Voltaire, " come from 
 a heart full of virtue ; but his Telemachus inspires vir- 
 tue." And another critic adds : " If the happiness of 
 the human race could be secured by a poem, it would 
 be by that of Telemachus." 
 
 And is Telemachus, then, an epic poem ? Many per- 
 sons dispute this title, as it is not written in verse ; and 
 contend that it is simply a romance. But this would 
 not be a conclusive reason, for those who do not 
 meekly admit all that is laid down by rhetoricians. It 
 is certain that poetry easily adapts itself to verse ; but 
 all verse is not poetry ; and many authors have merited 
 the title of poet, who have never written in verse. This 
 is the case with Fenelon ; for he is certainly a poet in 
 his Telemachus; in which he so admirably revives 
 antiquity, and presents it to us in such living and 
 attractive forms as to make us love it. His work has 
 more of the character of an epic poem than of a 
 romance. He is inspired, above all, by Homer and 
 Virgil ; and in order to understand his Telemachus, we 
 must recall the Odyssey and the iEneid ; between which 
 poems it finds its place. 
 
 In the Odyssey, Homer introduces Ulysses, a wise 
 king, returning from the Trojan war, where he had 
 given striking proofs of his prudence and valor. He is 
 stopped on his way by tempests, which oblige him to 
 travel in different countries ; where he acquaints him- 
 self with their manners, laws, and politics. This natu- 
 rally gives rise to an infinity of incidents and perils. 
 But knowing how much disorder his absence would' 
 occasion in his kingdom, he surmounts every obstacle, 
 despises all the pleasures of life, and even of fame itself; 
 renouncing all, that he may comfort his people and 
 15* 
 
174 LECTURE IV. 
 
 return to his family again. In the iEneid, a pious and 
 brave hero, ^neas, who has escaped from the ruins of 
 Troy, is destined by the gods to preserve its religion, 
 and to establish a greater and more glorious empire 
 than the first. This prince, who is chosen king by the 
 unfortunate remnant of his fellow-citizens, wanders a 
 long time with them, in many countries; where he 
 learns all that is necessary for a king, a legislator, and 
 a pontiff. He at last finds an asylum in some remote 
 territories, from whence his ancestors sprung. He de- 
 feats many powerful enemies, who oppose his establish- 
 ment ; and lays the foundation of an empire, which was 
 destined to be one day the mistress of the world. 
 
 PLAN OF TELEMACHUS. 
 
 The action of Telemachus unites all that is grand, in 
 both these two poems. We see Telemachus, a young 
 prince, animated by love to his country, go in search of 
 his father Ulysses, whose absence had been disastrous 
 to his family and his kingdom. He exposes himself to 
 all kinds of peril ; he distinguishes himself by heroic vir- 
 tues ; he refuses crowns and ldngdoms more consider- 
 able than his own; and,travelling through many unknown 
 lands, learns all that is necessary to enable him one day 
 to govern with the prudence of Ulysses, the piety of 
 iEneas, and the Valor of both ; a sagacious statesman, 
 a religious prince, and an accomplished hero. 
 
 Such conformity in the subjects often leads Fenelon 
 back to matters, of which Homer and Virgil have 
 
FENELON. 175 
 
 already treated. But his course is always that of an 
 independent man and an intelligent imitator. So that 
 his Telemachus, although full of antiquity, is one of the 
 most original productions of the age of Louis XIV. 
 It would be an interesting study to compare Telema- 
 chus with the Odyssey and iEneid. And this examina- 
 tion would show that the superiority of Fenelon, when 
 he treats of the same subjects as his predecessors, is 
 owing to Christian ideas. We will compare his descrip- 
 tion of hell with that of Virgil. 
 
 The Latin poet makes his hero _33neas see only a 
 simple repetition or continuation in Tartarus, of the 
 pains and sufferings which have overtaken the wicked 
 already in this life. Thus, although the shades have 
 no longer bodies, by a contradiction inadmissible even 
 in poetry, they are made to suffer corporeal punishment. 
 He makes us hear — 
 
 " The frightful clank of chains by guilty spirits drawn ; 
 And lash of whips, making the tortured air to groan ; " 
 
 and shows us Ixion on his wheel. 
 
 Fenelon, on the contrary, imbued with the spirit of 
 Christianity, represents the inhabitants of Tartarus as 
 suffering only spiritual torments. " Their crimes them- 
 selves were become their punishment ; and it was 
 not necessary that greater should be inflicted. They 
 haunted them like hideous spectres; and continually 
 started up before them in all their deformity. They 
 wished for a second death, that might separate them 
 from these ministers of vengeance, as the first has sep- 
 arated their spirit from the body ; a death that might at 
 once extinguish all consciousness and sensibility. They 
 called upon the depths to hide them, from the perse- 
 
176 LECTURE IV. 
 
 cuting beams of truth, in impenetrable darkness 
 
 The truth from which they fled has overtaken them ; an 
 invincible and unrelenting enemy ! the ray which once 
 might have illuminated them, like the mild radiance of 
 the day, now pierced them like lightning : a fierce and 
 fatal fire, that, without injury to the external parts, 
 infixes a burning torment at the heart. By truth, now 
 an avenging flame, the very soul is melted, like metal 
 in a furnace : it dissolves all, but destroys nothing ; it 
 disunites the first elements of life, yet the sufferer can 
 never die." .... 
 
 The superiority of Fenelon is also shown by his 
 choice of the crimes which are to be the most severely 
 punished. Virgil represents, as most prominent in hell, 
 the giants who, according to fable, revolted against the 
 gods, and essayed to scale the heavens. The author of 
 Telemachus knew that crime to be too common among 
 men ; and that there are crimes that deserve a still 
 more severe punishment. According to Fenelon, hypo- 
 crites are the most miserable. " Telemachus," says he, 
 "remarked there many of those impious hypocrites, 
 who, affecting a zeal for religion, played upon the cre- 
 dulity of others, and gratified their own ambition. These 
 wretches, who had abused virtue itself, the best gift of 
 Heaven, to dishonest purposes, were punished as the 
 most criminal of men." * 
 
 Fenelon also designates a class of crimes unknown 
 to pagan antiquity. Paganism was contented with 
 external appearance ; with the act itself. Christianity, 
 more exacting, calls for the internal preparation of 
 the heart. Thus, while Virgil places only criminals 
 
 * Telemachus, book xviii. 
 
FENELON. 177 
 
 in hell, men who are openly abandoned to wickedness, 
 Fenelon represents men there, who, without being great 
 criminals, have yet not done the good they ought to* 
 have done. The cold and calculating egotist, who con- 
 tents himself with not having transgressed the law, 
 more from the fear of punishment than from love of 
 justice ; the man who has reference only to self, and 
 pretends to be the sole architect of his own happiness, 
 and enjoys all the bounties which God lavishes upon 
 him, without rendering him any worship, and without 
 feeling the least sentiment of gratitude, is placed there 
 as one of the worst of ingrates. See what Minos replies 
 to one of these men, who claim the rewards of heaven 
 under the pretext that "they have never injured any 
 one " : — 
 
 " With respect to man,'' replied Minos, " thou art not 
 accused of any crime ; but didst thou not owe less to 
 man than to the gods ? If so, what are thy pretensions 
 to being just ? Thou hast punctually fulfilled thy duty 
 to men, who are but dust : thou hast been virtuous ; but 
 thy virtue terminated wholly in thyself, without refer- 
 ence to the gods who gave it : thy virtue was to be thy 
 own felicity ; and, to thyself, thou wast all in all. Thou 
 hast, indeed, been thine own deity. But the gods, by 
 whom all things have been created, and who have cre- 
 ated all things for themselves, cannot give up their 
 rights : thou hast forgotten them, and they will forget 
 thee. Since thou hast desired to exist for thyself, and 
 not for them, to thyself they will deliver thee up." 
 
 More difficult than the description of Tartarus was 
 that of the Champs Elysees. Fenelon, however, still 
 succeeds in differing from Virgil. This is the Latin 
 poet's description : — 
 
178 LECTURE IV. 
 
 " Now joyful fields of softest green, 
 And shady groves of beauteous form are seen. 
 The lofty sky streteh'd out serenely bright, 
 With sun and stars that shed a mellow light, 
 To feats of skill, or grace, or strength, invite, 
 On golden sands, and on the grassy meads. 
 And Orpheus, rob'd in vestal white, now leads 
 The dance, and now the song ; while voice and lyre 
 With heavenly joy the happy groups inspire." 
 
 If Virgil had not spoken of the song and music, we 
 should have said that the enjoyments of the blessed are 
 purely material. As to the rest, they are absolutely the 
 same as on earth. ' 
 
 Fenelon does not forget these things ; but in him a 
 renewed nature speaks, which claims to be associated 
 with the happiness of man, and to invest him with new 
 glory. But this is not all : these are but the first ele- 
 ments of happiness in the Elysian fields ; he makes 
 their happiness, above all, to consist in inward content- 
 ment, and in the harmony between wants and enjoy- 
 ments. He supposes them surrounded by a pure light, 
 which penetrates and incorporates itself with them, as 
 food does with our bodies : " They see it, they feel it, 
 they breathe it ; and it produces in them an inex- 
 haustible source of serenity and joy. It is a fountain 
 of delights, in which they are absorbed, as fishes are ab- 
 sorbed in the sea : they wish for nothing ; and, having 
 nothing, they possess all things. This celestial light 
 satiates the hunger of the soul: every desire is pre- 
 cluded ; and they have a fulness of joy which sets them 
 above all that mortals seek, with such restless ardor, to 
 fill the vacuity that aches for ever in their breasts. All 
 the delightful objects that surround them are disre- 
 garded ; for their felicity springs up within : and being 
 
FENELON. 179 
 
 perfect, can derive nothing from without : so the gods, 
 satiated with nectar and ambrosia, disdain, as gross and 
 impure, all the dainties of the most luxurious table 
 upon earth." 
 
 While Virgil thus describes the joy of heaven : — 
 
 " Delighted, from afar their glittering arms to see ; 
 Their chariots and spears ; their noble steeds of war, 
 Now roaming through the peaceful fields, unreigned and free, 
 Still, as on earth, the objects of their master's care," 
 
 Fenelon, the faithful interpreter of the genius of Chris- 
 tianity, gives an inferior place to warriors : " You see," 
 is it said to Telemachus, " the few kings who have 
 been worthy of dominion, and fulfilled the character of 
 deities upon earth. Those whom you see not far dis- 
 tant, but separated from them by that small cloud, are 
 allotted to much inferior glory. They were heroes, 
 indeed ; but the reward of courage and prowess is much 
 •less than that of wisdom, integrity, and benevolence." 
 " They have been great in battle ; but they have neither 
 been amiable, nor virtuous; and they enjoy only the 
 second place in the fields of Elysium." 
 
 Fenelon was, before Chateaubriand, the inventor of 
 poetic prose, but lie has all the severity and purity of 
 an author of -the seventeenth century. His harmonious 
 style is always suited to the sentiments he would de- 
 pict; and by a continual charm, he holds the reader 
 under its influence. The author never ceases to be 
 natural ; while the most happy expressions continually 
 flow from his pen, without the least effort on his part. 
 The air of antiquity thrown over all his work, has an 
 attractive charm, which relieves the attention. The 
 longest recitals are not fatiguing, since they bring every 
 
180 LECTURE IV. 
 
 thing before the reader as a reality. The descriptive 
 character of Fenelon's style is one of the greatest merits 
 of his work ; and has, above all, contributed to render it 
 so popular. You become familiar with all the places 
 where the mild genius of the good Archbishop of Cam- 
 bray leads you ; you are at home in the island of 
 Calypso; so that you are often inclined to exclaim, 
 Why, I was there ! You seem to have seen the wise 
 Mentor precipitate the rash Telemachus from the top 
 of the rocks, to hide him from the seductions of Eucharis, 
 and the wrath of Calypso. 
 
 The first page of Telemachus, with which every one 
 is acquainted, affords a most beautiful picture ; not 
 always, however, appreciated. Calypso appears on the 
 shore of her desert isle, in inconsolable grief. All the 
 signs of woe give evidence of the intense pain she still 
 experiences. As is natural to the unhappy, she makes 
 her complaints to the places where' she has suffered ; she 
 comes to implore of the waves a memento of Ulysses. 
 And her countenance, bathed in tears, is turned from 
 the side where she beholds the' vessels sink in the sea. 
 
 " The grief of Calypso for' the departure of Ulysses, 
 would admit of no comfort ;' and she regretted her im- 
 mortality, as that which could only perpetuate affliction, 
 and aggravate calamity by despair. Her grotto no more 
 echoed with the music of her voice ; and her nymphs 
 waited at a distance, with timidity and silence. She 
 often wandered alone along the borders of her island, 
 amidst the luxuriance of a perpetual spring. But the 
 beauties that bloomed around her, instead of soothing 
 her grief, only impressed more strongly upon her mind 
 the idea of Ulysses, who had been so often the com- 
 panion of her walks. Sometimes, she stood motionless 
 upon the beach ; and 1 while her eyes were fixed on that 
 
FENELON. 181 
 
 part of the horizon where the lessening bark of the hero 
 at length disappeared, they overflowed with tears." 
 
 The eternal Spring of her isle has lost its charms. 
 Though nature may sympathize with those that are 
 joyous, her smiling face seems only to insult the un- 
 happy. But all at once the scene changes ; the monot- 
 ony of the shores is broken ; a wreck apprises the god- 
 dess that she is not alone miserable ; and in face of the 
 grieving Calypso on the shore, Fenelon describes the 
 shipwreck of Mentor and Telemachus, who narrowly 
 escape the fury of the waves. 
 
 " Here she was one day surprised by the sudden 
 appearance of a shipwreck. Broken benches and oars 
 lay scattered about upon the sand ; and a rudder, a 
 mast, and some cordage, were floating near the shore. 
 Soon after she perceived at a distance two men ; one 
 of whom appeared aged ; and in the other, although a 
 youth, she discovered a strong resemblance to Ulysses. 
 The same benevolence and dignity were united in his 
 aspect ; his stature was equally tall ; and his port majes- 
 tic. The goddess knew immediately that this was 
 Telemachus." 
 
 Thus the author creates an interest on the very first 
 page. And the long narrations that follow, are happily 
 introduced by this striking event, which has inspired 
 the reader with sufficient sympathy, to make him 
 desirous to hear the adventures of the hero to the end. 
 The interest is kept up by the well chosen episodes, 
 wrai which the narrative is interspersed. And there is 
 sufficient difference in the characters, to give variety. 
 The chaste loves of Antiope are contrasted with those 
 of Calypso ; Eucharis recalls Thdocrite ; while the sage 
 Mentor is rather prolix ; as the heroes of Homer are so 
 apt to be. 
 
 16 
 
182 LECTURE IV. 
 
 But the most beautiful character is that of Telem- 
 achus. All the interest is concentrated in him ; he is 
 a true original, and belongs exclusively to Fenelon. 
 There has been much difference of opinion as to the 
 character of the heroes of poetry and romance. Some 
 maintain that it must be well sustained, and not deviate 
 from a certain ideal ; but such a character is false and 
 unnatural. Men are not thus. We find even the most 
 vicious have some good traits, and that great men are 
 not exempt from weaknesses. In order to avoid the un- 
 likeliness which infallibly attaches to a character too 
 well sustained, others would have the lustre of their 
 virtues heightened by some imperfections, which should 
 make them more apparent. Fenelon held to neither 
 of these opinions ; his hero has both virtues and de- 
 fects ; but the latter are lost, while the former become 
 stronger. He advances ; he profits by every occurrence 
 in life ; and in this consists the originality of our author. 
 " In him we find all that can astonish, endear, or in- 
 struct. In the age of passion, he is under the care of 
 wisdom, who allows him sometimes to err, because 
 errors are the education of men. He has kingly pride, 
 heroic transports, and the candor of early youth." 
 
 In our day, Telemachus is in danger of being con- 
 sidered dull, and his adventures tiresome, by those 
 whose nourishment is the present literature. It is clear, 
 that after having breathed the bad air of such places as 
 are found in the Mysteries of Paris, or been subject to 
 the fever which the leaves of a newspaper prodWe 
 every morning, there will be found little to please in the 
 grotto of Calypso, or to attract in adventures, which 
 can be interesting without the aid of scandal. All can- 
 not enjoy Telemachus, even with the wish to do so. 
 There must be a purity and tranquillity of soul; a 
 
FENELON. 183 
 
 bloom of innocence and candor ; a freshness of mind, 
 which few, persons know how to retain long, in order to 
 feel all the attractions of a work so pure and touching •% 
 as that of the pious and sensible Archbishop. It is 
 clear that Telemachus was not written for those of a 
 different stamp ; nor for men of premature wisdom, who 
 are old before having been young ; or disabused, before 
 having known the world. Whatever some may think 
 of it, a very competent judge has said of Telemachus, 
 that it is "the ideal model, worthy of a first love." 
 This is not a benevolent critic of the school of Rollin, 
 nor even Fenelon, who speaks thus. It is J. J. Rous- 
 seau who renders such a beautiful tribute to Telema- 
 chus. It is true, that in calling Telemachus " the model 
 ideal of a first love," he adds this restriction," that it 
 would only be such to the eyes of modesty and inno- 
 cence." It is, then, a real merit to be capable of loving 
 Telemachus ; Rousseau assures us so. 
 
 It is generally said, that Fenelon composed his worB\\ 
 for the benefit of his pupil, the Duke of Burgundy. 
 This is not exactly the case ; it is possible that some 
 portions may have been composed with that view ; but 
 the work was not written until Fenelon had returned 
 to Cambray, during his exile ; and when in consequence 
 of the controversy on Quietism, he had been deprived 
 of the dignity of preceptor. He seems to have been 
 occupied then, in collecting certain scattered fragments, 
 by means of which with an admirable facility he wrote 
 his book at a stroke, in a very short time. He did not 
 design to give it publicity; but a servant who copied 
 it, committed the happy indiscretion of giving it to the 
 public. But, unheard of thing! The printing of this 
 chef d'ceuvre was forthwith stopped in France ; and it 
 was necessary to reprint it in Holland. Louis XIV., 
 
184 LECTURE IV. 
 
 warned by some flatterers, pretended to see in the book 
 of the Bishop of Cambray, a kind of epigram having 
 reference to himself. In order the better to say these 
 truths to the monarch, Fenelon, it is said, had described 
 him, so as not to be mistaken ; but had given Greek 
 names, to save appearances. This estranged Louis 
 XIV. still more from the author, whom he had never 
 liked, and whom he had called in contempt, " a vision- 
 ary wit." 
 
 Fenelon denied having had any intention to satirize 
 Louis XIV. and his government. And every thing 
 shows that his protestations were sincere, for when he 
 had any remarks to make, he did not hesitate to make 
 them, and never resorted to subterfuges. Thus he* 
 wrote to Madame de Maintenon, " That Louis XIV. 
 had no idea of his duties as a king." His last years 
 were occupied in works on political economy. He sur- 
 vived all the great men of the age, and tried to counsel 
 Louis XIV., and to obtain a reform of the abuses aris- 
 ing from an absolute government. 
 
 In 1710, he drew an eloquent picture of the evils of 
 France; proposed to associate the nation with the 
 government ; and called for an assembly of the chief 
 men. " This is a very interesting memorial," says M. 
 Villemain, " Fenelon judges admirably of the strength 
 and the weakness of despotism, and of the salutary 
 power of liberty." 
 
 He wrote to the Duke of Burgundy, who was heir to 
 the throne, " It is not necessary that all be devoted to 
 one ; but one to all, to promote their happiness." These 
 views are very familiar to us; but to be advocated 
 under the reign of the most despotic of all kings, and 
 from the mouth of a bishop, was a boldness un- 
 heard of. 
 
FENELON. 185 
 
 Fenelon was in advance of his age. One of his 
 ideas, to which he attached the greatest importance, 
 was the formation of provincial States, through the 
 whole of France. 
 
 When he had the hope of seeing his opinions soon 
 submitted to the test of experience, he lost his pupil, 
 the Duke of Burgundy, from whom France expected 
 much, because he had been educated by Fenelon. His 
 courage, however, was not shaken ; and he wrote sev- 
 eral memorials to remove the difficulties of the regency. 
 While he was afflicted by several successive losses, he 
 wrote : " I only live upon kindness ; and it will be kind- 
 ness which will send death to me." He lost his most 
 intimate friends and his protector ; whom he followed 
 to the tomb four months afterwards, January 7, 1715, 
 at the age of sixty-four years. 
 
 He has justly been called the Apostle of Love ; for he 
 deserves to be placed by the side of the disciple, who, 
 advanced like him in age, summed up the whole of 
 Christianity in these words : " My little children, love 
 one another." 
 
 16' 
 
LA FONTAINE. 
 
 (187) 
 
LECTURE V. 
 
 LA FONTAINE. 
 
 HIS CHILDHOOD. HIS INDIVIDUALITY. — CHARACTER OF HIS FA- 
 BLES. — HIS ORIGINALITY. HE DIES A CHRISTIAN. 
 
 Another poet is to come before us to-day. If you 
 ask to what school he belongs, I shall first reply, that 
 he is not classic ; and, if pressed still further, I shall tell 
 you, that he is not romantic. He shares his genius 
 with no one ; and we may say that, like Melchisedek, 
 he is " without father or mother ; '' and, unhappily, there 
 is no reason, to believe, that he will ever have a suc- 
 cessor. His system, his practical poetry, is of the most 
 simple kind, and is summed up in these few lines : — 
 
 " Forever singing is the frog ; 
 But never trims his verse ; the merry dog. 
 So, up Parnassus' heights I jog, 
 And if my pen with rules you fetter, 
 'T will make no line a fraction better." 
 
 Thus, you need not expect any thing very choice or 
 refined ; for, our poet being naturally indolent, and un- 
 willing to submit to the laws of rhyme, all pertaining 
 to him is easy and unconstrained. 
 
 (189) 
 
190 LECTURE V. 
 
 " Those verses in the memory dwell, 
 Which, from the poef s inmost soul, 
 Like gushing waters swell ; 
 All else is rigmarole." 
 
 As he has never rhymed otherwise, I truly hope that 
 in listening to him, you will not have a moment's weari- 
 ness. Nevertheless, I must inform you, that he never 
 undertakes great things; he never blows the hero's 
 trumpet, but contents himself with playing the bag- 
 pipes. He recounts to us the history of that good old 
 time, when beasts spoke. He has lived with them, and 
 now betrays all their secrets. 
 
 " The wolf, in dialect divine, 
 Speaks to the dog, as you shall hear. 
 For, brutes (we can't the right to man confine) 
 In various characters appear ; 
 There, a fool ; a wise man, here. 
 And as you '11 find in every case, 
 The fools are they who win the race. 
 Villains base, and cheats, 
 Tyrants cruel, vile ingrates ; 
 Vain and giddy brutes ; 
 Sots, and flattering mutes ; 
 And liars too will here be found, 
 Since all for lying are renowned. 
 Had he who said this, but confined 
 His charge to men of vulgar mind, 
 Perhaps we might the fact admit. 
 But, that we all, both small and great, 
 Are liars base, is not so plain. 
 Had he not said it, I 'd maintain 
 That none this slander could sustain. 
 For, even should one falsify 
 Like JEsop ; and, like Homer, lie, 
 Lying, this never should be called, 
 When used by poet, bard, or scald, 
 
LA FONTAINE. 191 
 
 Though truth in fiction's garb be dressed, 
 Truth it remains, must be by all confessed. 
 He lies, I grant, who like the man in Persian story, 
 His neighbor's iron stored in his depository," etc. 
 
 Fal>le 1st. Book 9th. 
 
 Let us stop here. The subject, as you see, promises 
 variety; but before going further, it is important to 
 make the acquaintance of this agreeable fabler. 
 
 The name of my poet is simply, John. 
 
 John de La Fontaine was born at Chateau- Thierry, 
 July 8, 1621 ; a day which the animals should com- 
 memorate by a jubilee. His nobility cost him nothing ; 
 being descended from a noble house. But he made so 
 little account of it, or of the additional dignity which 
 was afterward conferred on him, that he simply styled 
 himself Blundering John; and posterity prefer calling 
 him, the good man. 
 
 We have very little to say respecting his younger 
 years, for he was not one of those precocious children, 
 those infant prodigies, in whom we delight to trace the 
 indications of genius from their very birth. La Fon- 
 taine was like all ordinary children, rather lazy ; and this 
 disposition increased through the whole course of his 
 life ; his education was very much neglected, as is too 
 often the case, and a miserable village pedagogue, into 
 whose hands he fell, came very near spoiling him, by 
 teaching him a little Latin. Soon afterward, he es- 
 caped a much greater danger, which we tremble to think 
 of. We can hardly believe it ; and yet it is too true, 
 that he who wrote the charming fable of the rat re- 
 tired from the world, had fo^an instant a fancy to be a 
 monk. And what is more, he became one ; and how- 
 ever curious it may seem at first, it is not however at 
 all surprising. We can conceive that the indolent and 
 
192 LECTURE V. 
 
 dreaming La Fontaine might easily be led to retire 
 from the world " into a Dutch cheese ; " but happily, he 
 always loved liberty; and it was the desire of inde- , 
 pendence, which gave him back to us. Not being will- / 
 ing to submit to any rule, he left the Fathers of the*' 
 Oratory, after remaining with them eighteen months; 
 just long enough to learn how to rail at them. 
 
 Having returned to the world, it was necessary for 
 him to live, or as they say, to get along ; a thing about 
 which La Fontaine scarce troubled himself. Happily, 
 his father, a prudent man, conceived the excellent idea 
 of investing him with his office ; he scarce knew what 
 he did, the honest man, but we, are most grateful for 
 his project. He assigned to his son, the duties of his 
 own office, as special keeper of the woods and waters. 
 There the education of the fabler commenced. Called 
 to live in the fields, he found himself constantly in the 
 society of animals ; and he learned to know Sir Fox, 
 Sir Raven, and the others. And if he has entertained 
 us with the frolics of young carps, it is because he has 
 seen them more than once tumbling in the water. He 
 no doubt also, in his solitary walks, many times sur- 
 prised the rabbits ; 
 
 " Who browsed the thyme with dainty teeth, ' 
 With open eye and watchful ear." 
 
 About the same time La Fontaine married, and ex- 
 hibited in this action the same easy good-nature,, as 
 when he allowed his father to invest him with the duties 
 of his office; but unhappily it did not terminate so 
 well. The young household went on admirably at first, 
 Madame La Fontaine being the counsellor of her hus- 
 band while he was composing his fables. But the 
 honey-moon was of short duration, and peace bade adieu 
 
LA FONTAINE. 193 
 
 to their dwelling, never more to return. Marie Heri- 
 cart, otherwise beautiful, had too much spirit to live 
 with the good man. Her husband thus describes 
 her: — 
 
 " Graceful and elegant ..... 
 
 But proud as Lucifer ; 
 
 That she had many virtues, must be by all allowed. 
 But even virtue served to make her proud." 
 
 Leaving for awhile the family of La Fontaine, to 
 which he himself will afterward introduce us, we shall 
 speak of the first developments of his talent. Although 
 urged by his father to write in verse, or rather for the 
 very reason that he was urged, La Fontaine attained 
 the age of twenty-two years, without having written a 
 single line; when the simple hearing of one of Mal- 
 herbe's odes read with effect, kindled in him the poetic 
 fire. He then applied himself diligently to study, read 
 some Latin authors ; but especially our Gallic writers, 
 Rabelais, Marot, and Urfe", with great benefit to him- 
 self. 
 
 La Fontaine was disturbed by an unpleasant affair, 
 just as he had begun to give his attention to study. 
 The ci-devant father of the oratory fought a duel, of 
 which his wife was the occasion. There was a certain 
 officer, a friend of the poet ; who, though otherwise very 
 inoffensive, came so frequently to the house, as to give 
 rise to the remark, that La Fontaine's honor required 
 him to fight. This reaching the ears of the latter, he 
 seized the idea, rose up very early one morning, went 
 to his friend, aroused him, and urged him to go out 
 with him. Poignan, for such was the name of the 
 friend, though surprised at this singular proceeding, 
 complied with his request, without the; least anticipa- 
 
 17 
 
194 LECTURE V. 
 
 tion of what was to follow. When they had arrived 
 at an out-of-the-way place, beyond the walls of the city, 
 La Fontaine said to him, " I wish to fight you, as I 
 have been advised to do." And then explaining the rea- 
 sons, he put a sword in Poignan's hand, without wait- 
 ing for any answer, and forced him to proceed. The 
 combat did not last long ; for Poignan, without taking 
 the advantage which his profession gave him over his 
 friend, struck at one blow the sword from his hand, and 
 at the same time made him feel the absurdity of the 
 challenge. La Fontaine was satisfied with his explana- 
 tion, and accepted Poignan's invitation to return and 
 breakfast with him ; where it ended in their understand- 
 ing each other better, and becoming reconciled. But 
 as 'his friend declared that he would never cross his 
 threshold again, that he might have no further uneasi- 
 ness on his account, La Fontaine replied, while press- 
 ing his hand, " On the contrary, I have done what the 
 public required ; now, I wish you to come to my house 
 every day, or I shall be for fighting you again." 
 
 But to leave his biography, for the present ; we shall 
 better understand him by looking into his works. Here, 
 however, I am very much embarrassed, for I fear I shall 
 not succeed in making you love the good man. And 
 this, I assure you, would grieve me ; and you may be 
 certain, that I shall do all in my power to make you 
 appreciate him. Nevertheless, I tremble somewhat for 
 my author ; for it is impossible to make all the beauty 
 and delicacy of his fables felt, in speaking before 
 an English audience. Our poet is eminently French, , 
 both in the turn of his mind, and in his style ; yet it is- 
 a certain sort of French. He is naturally frivolous ; a 
 charge which is everywhere brought against the whole 
 nation; but to his frivolity he joins a thoughtfulness 
 
LA FONTAINE. 195 
 
 which would seem to be wholly incompatible with it. He 
 /'is full of mischief and shrewdness, and has- wit enough 
 to spare ; and yet, in spite of all, his good-nature makes 
 him the best man in the world. Always abounding in 
 humor, he never wounds; while one of his fables will 
 so interest and captivate us, that we can read it for the 
 hundredth time with new pleasure, such as he alone , 
 knows how to impart. His narrations have an inimita^ 
 ble vivacity, and are always natural and sprightly ; but 
 their peculiar charm is in their style. I have said that 
 La Fontaine is eminently French ; and it must be 
 added, that of all the French poets, he is the most 
 Gallic. His language is peculiar to himself. He often • 
 uses words which he has created, and borrows others/ 
 from the old French, that recall to the mind a crowd of 
 qharming ideas, and are redolent of a peculiarly de- 
 lightful odor of antiquity. 
 
 It is by the union of sUch delicate qualities, that he 
 so enchants us. If you do not perceive the originality 
 of a turn, or the mischief concealed under a well se- 
 lected word, or in the line and delicate allusion, which 
 the author makes in passing, the principal beauties of 
 the fable escape you, and it becomes to you but a cold 
 and insignificant narrative, only adapted to amuse chil- 
 dren. And this, indeed, is the common idea which 
 strangers form ,of the fables of La Fontaine. Cer- 
 tainly, children read with pleasure the histories of Sir 
 Fox and Sir Raven; and I can assure you, that the 
 fable of the Wolf and the Lamb has caused an abun- 
 dance of youthful tears to flow. But notwithstanding 
 ' this, it was not particularly for youth that La Fontaine 
 wrote. His fables have at least two or three difFerent 
 senses, of which the child understands but the first and 
 most obvious. Yet the older he grows, the more he 
 
196 LECTUKB V. 
 
 comprehends, and the more he loves these little stories, 
 so inexhaustibly rich and so constantly applicable./ 
 The more we know of the world, the more we feel / 
 what admirable lessons La Fontaine has given us, and 
 how well he has portrayed human nature with its pas- 
 sions and faults, while he is all the time seemingly 
 absorbed in his ants, his wolves, and his shepherds. 
 Thus these fables, so amusing to the child, are among 
 those things which the man recalls with the most pleas- 
 ure, when his head is whitened with the frosts of age. 
 He has changed ; yet he finds these dramas, the friends 
 of his childhood, have lost none of their freshness, but 
 still exhale the odor of youth. Not only are these -' 
 fables sometimes pointed satires on the manners of the 
 times, but the good man goes further, ^nd attacks its 
 institutions, without the least real malice. It is to him 
 that this maxim belongs : Our enemy is our master. 
 
 " (I speak plain French, you know,) 
 Our master is our greatest foe." 
 
 And you know that in France, the lesson given by 
 the old man and his ass, is only too well remembered. 
 
 I leave you also to judge of the justice of this other 
 maxim, which he puts in the mouth of a trader : — 
 
 " To save his credit he must hide his loss." 
 
 He elsewhere satirizes almost all the princes of Eu- 
 rope, for their attempts to equal Louis XIV. in splen- 
 dor and munificence. Versailles once built, every petty 
 prince of Germany and the other countries of Europe, . 
 must have a court just like that of the great monarch. 
 It was in reference to these princes, who so frequently 
 ruined themselves, to gratify their vanity, that La Fon- 
 
LA FONTAINE. 197 
 
 taine composed the fable of the frog which tried to 
 swell to the size of the ox. 
 
 La Fontaine, although truly patriotic, could see the 
 faults of his own nation ; and he has written a charm- 
 ing fable on what he calls the French disease, of which 
 this is the moral : — 
 
 " To magnify ourselves is a la mode in France ; 
 The stranger sees it at a glance. 
 The scullion or the charlatan 
 Esteems himself some mighty man. 
 That vanity is French, all nations say. 
 The Spaniard too is vain ; but in another way." 
 
 Book 8. Fable 15. 
 
 La Fontjjne had the courage even to treat of very 
 delicate questions, which might have endangered his 
 standing at the court. Hear, for instance, his malicious 
 fable of 
 
 THE SUN AND THE FROGS. 
 
 " A tyrant once his nuptials celebrated ; 
 Which caused the citizens unbounded joy. 
 -33sop, indignant, that he might their mirth destroy, 
 The story of the Sun and Frogs related." 
 
 " The Sun, said he, one day the purpose formed, 
 Of taking to himself a wife. 
 
 The frogs, in terror to their council-chamber swarm'd, 
 To f make a protest for their very life. 
 What shall we do, they said, 
 If from his royal bed 
 A numerous race should spring ! 
 One sun we scarcely can endure ; 
 What ruin then will half-a-dozen bring 
 Upon our race ! For, we are sure 
 17* 
 
198 LECTURE V. 
 
 That not a lake or morass will remain, 
 When the whole family at once shall shine." 
 
 " Quite solid reasoning, as I opine ; / 
 
 For animals not much developed in the brain." 
 
 Book 6. Fable 12. 
 
 The conquerors had their turn also, in the fable of 
 the Robber and the Ass. While two robbers dispute 
 about an ass they have stolen, a third comes in sud- 
 denly and carries it off. 
 
 " This ass a feeble province represents ; 
 The robbers, kings ; who take, but give no recompense ; 
 Whose trade it is, their neighbors' lands to rifle, 
 And every breath of freedom stifle ; 9 
 
 They 're Kings of Erdely, Hungary, and the Porte. 
 Three then, my story names ; sufficient of the sort ; 
 But neither, in the issue, gets the prize. 
 A fourth comes in, with counsels wise, 
 Deciding that, to settle this dispute, 
 He finds himself compelled to take the brute." 
 
 Book 1. Fable 13. 
 
 The good man finally forgets himself so far as to 
 preach liberty, while living under the most despotic of 
 all governments. It is related that Racine was one day 
 conversing with him on the absolute power of kings ; 
 and that La Fontaine, who loved liberty and indepen- 
 dence, could not agree with the author of Athalie, in his 
 ideas of this absolute and unlimited power. As Racine 
 quoted Scripture, La Fontaine replied ; but if kings are 
 the masters of our property, our lives, and every thing, 
 then they have a right to look upon us as ants compared 
 with themselves ; and I yield, if you can show me, that 
 this is authorized by the Scriptures. What! said 
 
LA FONTAINE. 199 
 
 Racine, you do not then know this passage of the 
 Bible: — 
 
 Tanquam formicse deambulabitis coram rege vestro. 
 
 r 
 
 (As ants you shall walk before your king.) This text 
 was one of his own invention, for it is not found in the 
 Holy Book ; but he made it, to jest with La Fontaine, 
 who accepted it in good faith, as the narrator says. I 
 know not whether he believed it ; but if he did, he must 
 soon have forgotten it; for it did not prevent him from 
 composing Hie fable of the Wolf and the Dog; where 
 he makes us see, that liberty, though it may impose 
 some burdens, is still preferable to slavery. 
 
 " A wolf to utter leanness starv'd, 
 (For at the fold he could not come,) 
 A mastiff met, with figure like a statue carv'd, 
 Sleek and shining, on the highway far from home. 
 T' attack and slaughter him, 
 And gracefully to quarter him, 
 Would suit the monster's craving appetite. 
 But one objection — he must fight. 
 Which, in the present state of things, he thought, 
 Might be to him with too much danger fraught. 
 He therefore came in gentle guise, 
 And with his cousin, on this wise 
 Began the conversation. 
 Dear Coz, I'm filled with admiration, 
 To see you in so good a case. 
 To which the dog, with smiling face 
 Replied ; it with yourself remains to be as fat. 
 
 — Prt»f tell me ; how is that ? 
 
 — Just quit this roving, robber-life, 
 Where every mouthful 's got with strife. 
 Your miserable gang forswear, 
 
 And come, my happy lot to share. 
 
 — But what employment shall I find ? 
 
200 LECTURE V. 
 
 — Oh, nothing, but at every kind 
 
 Of beggar, growl ; the servants flattery 
 
 On the master fawn ; then every platter 
 
 You may lick ; on pigeons dine, 
 
 And sup on pullets ; yes, in fine, 
 
 If you but man and master please, 
 
 Then all will let you live at ease. 
 
 The wolf enraptured with the vision, 
 
 Bethought him of the fields Elysian, 
 
 And at the prospect of such cheer, 
 
 Could not refrain the grateful tear. 
 
 Thus on their way, in friendly chat, 
 
 Conversing now of this, and now of that, 
 
 The wolf unluckily a spot espied 
 
 Upon his neighbor's neck. What's that? he cried, 
 
 Oh nothing but a scratch the collar made. 
 
 The collar, do you say ! Ah, I 'm afraid 
 
 You have not then the liberty to go 
 
 And come, just as you choose. — Oh no; 
 
 But what of that? — Enough for me. 
 
 I choose the woods and liberty. 
 
 I hold your dainties dear at such a price. — 
 
 He turned and vanished in a trice." 
 
 Booh 1st. Fable 5ih. 
 
 These quotations will be sufficient to show you that 
 the fables of La Fontaine contain more than would be 
 supposed at first sight ; and it is only necessary to have 
 eyes to see them. Whoever has sufficient humor to 
 seize all this, (and it is necessary to have a certain 
 degree of it, in order to understand the good man,) 
 will find an enjoyment in these fables, always new, that 
 nothing else can give him. 
 
 If you should happen, some day, to be-^leprived of 
 your customary walk, by one of those heavy rains 
 which put you in a bad humor, seat yourself quietly 
 by the fire, and take up the admirable fables of La 
 Fontaine ; and if they do not succeed in taking the 
 
LA FONTAINE. 201 
 
 wrinkles from your brow, you must be difficult to 
 please. 
 
 When you are really in trouble, our story-teller will 
 not console you, for his pretensions do not reach so 
 far; but when you are simply threatened with a fit 
 of the blues, which is a more common occurrence, you 
 will find no better company than La Fontaine. Are 
 you disposed to philosophize? he will soothe you by 
 means of a gentle philosophy, which will calm your 
 spirits, while it sharpens your understanding. Are you 
 disposed to be vexed because your work has not sue-, 
 ceeded to your wishes ? Take the fable of the Laborer 
 and the Children, and it will give you courage, by 
 reminding you " that toil itself is treasure." 
 
 Have you perhaps reason to complain of a want of 
 respect ? Would you learn to tolerate the coarse man- 
 ners of certain persons with whom you are obliged to 
 live ? Learn then how to act your part in such circum- 
 stances. Practise the sage philosophy of the partridge 
 who, to her great discomfort, was one day obliged to 
 take up her residence with a set of uncivil and turbu- 
 lent cocks, but who thus comforted herself: — 
 
 " . . . . When she had seen these silly birds at war, 
 Brother on brother, dealing blow for blow, 
 She understood how they could treat a stranger so. 
 These simpletons, she said, we pity more than blame. 
 Our education has not been the same. 
 Our nature too, as different as our name. 
 Were I allowed to choose, I'd pass my life 
 Far from these scenes of noise and strife. 
 But, since the master has another plan ; 
 Since he who snared us, cuts our wings, 
 And, here to dwell with bullies brings, 
 We make our whole complaint of men." 
 
 Book 10. Fable 8. 
 
202 LECTURE V. 
 
 If, after having expected some little service from your 
 friends, you have been deceived, the sage reflections of 
 the lark will furnish a lesson from which you may profit 
 in future : — 
 
 " Depend upon yourself alone." 
 
 Book 4. Fable 22. 
 
 And in spite of all this, does your ill-humor obsti- 
 nately continue; are you still disposed to complain 
 of the world and the faults of men, La Fontaine is 
 ready to meet you ; and in the fable of the Wallet, he 
 shows us that if every thing under the sun goes wrong, 
 we must not fancy ourselves entirely irreproachable. 
 
 " With lynx's eyes we others see, ourselves with moles' ; 
 All is excusable in us ; in others, naught. 
 One standard we employ to judge our brother, 
 But try ourselves by quite another. 
 A kind Creator has this lesson taught, 
 That we are travellers ; having each one sack 
 To carry on the breast, another on the back. 
 Our own defects in that behind we store, 
 Our neighbors' faults we bear in that before." 
 
 Book 1. Fable 7. 
 
 Our author fairly exhausts his subject, and brings out 
 all our defects with admirable art. 
 
 The Hornets and the Bees give him occasion to criti- 
 cize the forms of 'justice. 
 
 He seems to have liked the attorneys and the advo- 
 cates, no better than Racine ; for he elsewhere returns 
 to the same subject, in the Oyster and the Litigants, 
 and forewarns us of the danger of having recourse to 
 human justice ; which, -after long debates, often sends 
 the parties away in saying : — 
 
LA FONTAINE. 203 
 
 " The court awards to each a shell, 
 Cost free ; now go away in peace to dwell. 
 Compare the expense of suits 
 With all their richest fruits, 
 The Oyster in the court remains ; 
 The shells the suitor gets for all his pains." 
 
 Booh 9. Fable 9. 
 
 Since we are speaking of things which La Fontaine 
 
 did not like, we will add to the list, children.. It was a 
 
 curious circumstance that the author who could most 
 
 amuse children, had a decided aversion to them. He 
 
 has spoken of them only two or three times in his 
 
 fables, and always unfavorably. We may, perhaps, 
 
 account for this antipathy by their close resemblance to </ 
 
 himself in many points : in inattention, idleness, and 
 
 negligence. La Fontaine was but a grown up child, 
 
 possessing all their artlessness and simplicity : and it is 
 
 this which has thrown so much grace into his writings. 
 
 In heedlessness, he surpassed even children themselves. 
 
 Once being at table with Moli&re and Boileau, the 
 
 conversation turning on dramatic style, La Fontaine 
 
 condemned the saying of things '' aside " on the stage. 
 
 Nothing, said he, is more contrary to good sense. 
 
 What ! the audience are supposed to hear that which 
 
 an actor cannot hear, though he may be by the side 
 
 of him who speaks. He finally became so warm on 
 
 the subject that it was impossible to interrupt him or 
 
 make him hear a word. Despre"aux then elevated his 
 
 voice, and cried out : " La Fontaine must be a great 
 
 rogue ; a great rascal." He continued repeating these 
 
 words ; but La Fontaine did not cease for a moment 
 
 to talk ; nor was he at all conscious of what was said, 
 
 until aroused by the peals of laughter which came from 
 
 his companions ; when, recovering as if from an inter- 
 
204 LECTURE V. 
 
 rupted dream, he inquired what they were laughing at. 
 How is it, said Boileau, "that I exhaust myself in loudly 
 aspersing you, and all the while you are unconscious 
 of it, although I am so near as to touch you, and yet 
 you are surprised that an actor in the theatre cannot 
 hear what is spoken by another actor at his side!" 
 When he saw how completely he had contradicted 
 himself, La Fontaine laughed as heartily as the rest. 
 
 There i^ another anecdote related of him, which must 
 be set to the account of his inattention, and not taken 
 as a proof of insensibility. In 1660, he had a son 
 whom he kept very little at home, because he was 
 incapable of superintending his education. After La 
 Fontaine had lost sight of him for several years, they 
 were brought together in a house, by some one who 
 wished to enjoy the surprise of the father. La Fon- 
 taine, indeed, did not suspect that it was his son. After 
 hearing him speak, he signified to the company that he 
 perceived in him evidences of mind and a very good 
 disposition. It was then told him that this was his 
 son; but with very little emotion, he replied: "Ah! I 
 am glad of it." 
 
 During his fits of abstraction, he was generally 
 entirely occupied by some thought, which engrossed 
 him; and when once an idea struck him, he must 
 express it ; and frequently very much out of place. . . . 
 . . . Thus, having once accompanied Racine to the 
 evening church service, and becoming weary at the 
 length of it, he took up a Bible containing the apocry- 
 pha. He happened to open at the Jews' prayer in 
 Baruch ; and turning suddenly to Racine, he said : 
 " Who was this Baruch ? Do you know that he was 
 quite a genius ? " For some days he was continually 
 occupied with Baruch, and was asking of every one he 
 
LA FONTAINE. 205 
 
 met : " Have you read Baruch ? he was a great 
 genius." 
 
 But it was above all, when he was composing, that 
 he was particularly absorbed; nothing could then be 
 drawn from him ; for his mind was so much occupied, 
 that the body was nothing more than a machine. 
 Madame de Bouillon, going one day to Versailles, 
 found him, in the morning, meditating under a tree in 
 the park. On returning in the evening, he was still in 
 the same spot, and even in the same attitude, although 
 it was very cold, and the rain had been falling all day. 
 "Who knows but he was observing the manners of some 
 frogs, or the sports of the birds ; and as his friends had 
 not taken leave of him, he saw no reason for making 
 the first move. 
 
 It is to his abstraction, and his power of identifying 
 himself with every surrounding object, that we owe the 
 greater part of the beauties of his fables. Nature is 
 La Fontaine's only master ; he lives with the animals, 
 and has an intimate knowledge of their manners and 
 their maxims. It is he who has taught us that the fox 
 is cunning ; that the ass is patient ; the monkey a 
 quack ; and the goat is quite a brute ; while the nanny- 
 goat, on the contrary, is singularly conceited and capri- 
 cious. He always either speaks to us of his animals, 
 as of personages whose characters we already know; 
 or, when he gets beyond our knowledge, he takes care 
 to give us all needed information. Thus he has given 
 us a fable to show which is the most knowing; the 
 wolf or the fox. 
 
 THE WOLF AND THE FOX. 
 
 " Why should Esop to the fox decree 
 The prize for cunning ? 
 
 18 
 
206 LECTURE V. 
 
 E'en after much research I cannot see. 
 
 When the wolf his foe is shunning ; 
 
 Or, himself th' attack would make, 
 
 Could Reynard shrewder measures iake ? 
 
 If such a master I might contradict, 
 
 The greater cunning of the wolf I could depict. 
 
 And yet on one occasion I admit 
 
 The bush-tail did the wolf outwit 
 
 The case was this. One evening he perceived 
 
 The moon reflected from the bottom of a well. 
 
 And so much was the fox deceived, 
 
 The moon from cheese he could not tell. 
 
 He saw a cord two buckets there suspend, 
 
 Each one alternatively to descend. 
 
 And pressed with hunger sore, 
 
 He leaped into the upper one, before 
 
 He had the measure weighed ; 
 
 And quickly found himself convey'd 
 
 Down to a deep profound, 
 
 Where water in abundance, but no cheese he found. 
 
 Death stared him in the face, 
 
 Unless he could forsake that place. 
 
 His only chance he saw to be, 
 
 That if some hungry wretch should see 
 
 The image, and mistake it for a cheese, , 
 
 And thus descend, his hunger t' appease, 
 
 The mounting bucket he would take, 
 
 And thus a safe deliverance make. 
 
 Two dreadful days passed by, and no one came. 
 
 The tooth of time had from the moon's fair front 
 
 Cut out a slice, as is its wont : 
 
 And things to Reynard dark became. 
 
 At length a famished wolf appeared ; 
 
 Which fox's fainting spirit cheered. 
 
 Comrade, the fox exclaimed, look here, 
 
 How rich a feast ; what dainty cheer ! 
 
 Come down, and taste a cheese by Faunus press'd 
 
 From milk of Io's best. 
 
 If Jupiter were sick, he could not ask 
 
 A daintier dish. I have performed my task, 
 
LA FONTAINE. • 207 
 
 And eaten out a slice, as you may see, 
 
 All that is left to you is free. • 
 
 In fact, for you this portion I have spared, 
 
 And for your service, too, that bucket I've prepared. 
 
 The simpleton the tale believed, 
 
 And took the upper bucket; which the fox perceived, 
 
 And leaped into the nether, quite relieved.. 
 
 Let us not laugh ; for we have been deceived, 
 
 And just as foolishly believed 
 
 What to our fears or wishes suited, we conceived." 
 
 Booh 11. Fable G. 
 
 We should say that La Fontaine' had actually been 
 there ; for not a single detail is forgotten ; and he 
 speaks of every thing with the ease quite peculiar to 
 himself. 
 
 Whatever the adventure may be, he always relates it 
 as a man who could say : — 
 
 J. 
 
 I was there ; such a thing happened to me.'' 
 
 And this happy writer always succeeds in making us 
 believe that we ourselves were there. The greater part 
 of his fables are little dramas ; and he no sooner has 
 made us acquainted with the persons and places of the 
 scene, than our curiosity is excited to learn the conclu- 
 sion. 
 
 What contributes very much to augment the charm 
 of his little masterpieces is, the great art he has of in- 
 teresting us in trifles; so that every thing is trans- 
 formed in his lAds ; and with the relation of a simple 
 adventure, there will come up historical and mytho- 
 logical reminiscences, which produce an admirable 
 effect. We have an example of this in the preceding 
 fable. The fox neglects nothing which can induce his 
 
208 • LECTURE V. 
 
 companion to descend into the well. He does not con- 
 fine himself to speaking of the cheese itself; but he 
 adds : — 
 
 A cheese by Faunus press'd, 
 From millr of Io's best. 
 If Jupiter were sick he could not ask 
 A daintier dish. 
 
 Nothing is here wanting: the god Faun, the cow 
 Io, and Jupiter himself; Mr. Fox is acquainted with 
 mythology. And the wolf would, indeed, have been 
 difficult to suit, if v he had not been tempted by the 
 desire to taste a cheese worthy of Jupiter himself. 
 
 This style may easily be carried too far. And to 
 succeed in it, there must be genius and good taste; 
 qualities which are never wanting in our author; and 
 by means of which, he ennobles every subject. 
 
 He one day takes us into a poultry yard, and intro- 
 duces us to a hen-roost. But do not fear for him ; the 
 good man will know how to dignify it. 
 
 v 
 " Two cocks in friendship lived : a hen arrived, 
 And straightway war began." 
 
 And in this connection he goes back as far as the 
 Trojan war, to give the history of his Helen ; for the 
 hen is no less a personage, n 
 
 " O love, thou wast the curse of Troy ! for thy sake men contrived 
 That dreadful war, when blood heroic ran, W 
 And turned the Xanthus red." 
 
 The fable of the two goats is a pleasing combination 
 of the two styles. They are two heroines. 
 
 J 
 
LA FONTAINE. 209 
 
 # 
 
 THE TWO GOATS. 
 
 " When the goat has browsed, 
 The love of freedom is aroused, 
 And leads it pasturage to seek, 
 Upon the mountain's lofty peak. 
 Upon the bold and pathless cliff, 
 It loves the mountain air to sniff." 
 
 " Two goats, with marks aristocratic, 
 And self-complacency ecstatic, 
 Thus in the mountains roamed. 
 One day divided by a stream they stood, 
 Whose raging waters rushed and foamed ; 
 A formidable floods 
 Before them lay a rustic bridge, 
 Upon whose narrow, totf ring ridge, 
 Two weasels might not pass each other. 
 Fearless, these Amazons upon the bridge advanced. 
 Methinks 'tis Philip «Fourth, who comes to meet his brother j 
 Louis the great, the king of France, 
 Upon the Isle of Conference.* 
 Nose to nose our two adventurous dames 
 Here meet ; while each the pride of ancestry inflames ; 
 Whose law forbids them yield a single inch, 
 Or, from the face of danger flinch. 
 One, its noble origin could trace 
 Back to the goat so famed in heaven, 
 By Polyphemus, over to Galatea given. 
 The other was Amalthea, the nurse 
 Of Jupiter, who rules the universe. 
 Each, for its rights contending, fell. 
 But where they landed, history does not tell." 
 
 * This is the Isle of Pheasants, formed by the river Bidassoa, which 
 separates France from Spain. There the conferences were held in 
 reference to the peace of the Pyrenees, and the marriage of Louis 
 XIV. 
 
 18* 
 
210 LECTURE V. 
 
 " To those this is not strange, who have the story read, 
 Of men that for a name have fought and bled." 
 
 Book 12. Fable 4. 
 
 / Thus living with nature and the animals, he becomes 
 their confidant, and the interpreter of all which they 
 would say to men. In all his conversations with them, 
 he never loses sight of his readers, for a single instant; 
 for he has much to teach us. 
 
 Love is a subject to which he continually returns, 
 because he himself, poor man ! had not been happy. A 
 sigh constantly escapes him; and after painting the 
 happiness of Philemon and Baucis, he regrets that he 
 has never enjoyed that same happiness ; which* he 
 might have found in a well-assorted marriage. 
 
 " Baucis, a linden; Philemon, an oak became. 
 Lovers in crowds, attracted by their fame, 
 Here come, their offerings tg place 
 Upon the sacred boughs, and ask for grace ; 
 That they, as man and wife, 
 May lead a prosperous, happy life. 
 The virtue of these sacred trees is such, 
 That if their shadows but the lovers touch, 
 The fervor of their love will never be allayed. 
 Ah ! if . . . but I my offerings have elsewhere made.'* 
 
 Philemon and Baucis. 
 
 (The good man has faith in his fable, and regrets that 
 he had not visited the famous trees.) 
 
 It was in this frame of mind, he composed on this 
 subject, many of his most pointed fables. He com- 
 mences far back, by giving the history of love; and 
 this enables him to explain the too frequent disappoint- 
 ments which are experienced after marriage, and to 
 account for ill-assorted unions. 
 
LA FONTAINE. 211 
 
 LOVE AND FOLLY. 
 
 " Love is a.mystery ; 
 His childhood, arrows, flambeau, quiver 
 To write his history, 
 And suitably deliver 
 All that to his life pertains, 
 Is more than I could do, with all my pains. 
 Enough, if for his loss of sight 
 The cause I fully write. 
 Some say the evil was a good ; 
 A point, perhaps, by lovers variously view'd." 
 
 " As Love, not yet of sight deprived, 
 With Folly played, one day, 
 These silly deities contrived 
 To quarrel in their play. 
 Love said, the gods must congregate 
 Upon this matter to debate. 
 Folly impatient could not wait, 
 So straight upon the archer flies, 
 And by a fatal blow, destroys his eyes. 
 Th' enraged Venus runs to heaven's gates, 
 And all Olympus agitates : 
 Nemesis, Jupiter, th' entire bench 
 Must meet in council, and her cause avenge. 
 To think of Cupid walking with a cane ! 
 The monster Folly must be slain. 
 The court convened ; and by decree of Jove, 
 From this time forth must Folly be the guide of Love." 
 
 Booh 12. Fable 14. 
 
 We must not then be astonished at any thing. Since 
 folly guides love, we must look for strange occurrences. 
 Is it well or ill, that it is thus ? In this case we must 
 repeat La Fontaine's words : — 
 
 A point perhaps by lovers variously v;ew'd. 
 
212 LECTURE V. 
 
 If you still doubt that love is folly, he will quickly 
 prove it to you, by relating what happened to Tircis, 
 who is unconsciously laboring for another's benefit. 
 He wishes to make Amaranthe understand what love 
 is; but unhappily, just when he is anticipating an 
 avowal in his favor, she exclaims : — 
 
 " Why that 's precisely what I've felt 
 Toward Clidamant! . . . ." 
 
 Book 8. Fable 13. 
 
 The proofs of it are so numerous, that he gives ua 
 two in place of one. A lion falls in love with a young 
 girl, and asks her in marriage ; but the father says : — 
 
 " . . . . My daughter has a slender frame ; 
 And when your arms are thrown around her, 
 The claws perchance might sorely wound her. 
 Permit us, then, (your noble figure 't will not maim,) 
 To take away these weapons rude, 
 Which might occasion some inquietude. 
 And, having made this sacrifice, 
 You must appear more lovely in her eyes. 
 The royal lover having parted with his wits, 
 To all these cruel terms submits. 
 No sooner stripped of his defence, 
 Than all the dogs their fierce attack commence. 
 A few vain struggles close the scene. 
 O love ! thus with thy votaries has it ever been." 
 
 Book 4. Fable 1. 
 
 We need, then, no longer question it, since the good 
 man has given us such a superabundance of proof, that 
 love is folly. Do not therefore conclude, however, that 
 he counsels you to resist it ; he knows its power too 
 well, to hold such imprudent language; and that we 
 may never do so, he gives the history of a stern beauty, 
 who would be a new Hippolyte ; but' who had no 
 
LA FONTAINE. 213 
 
 reason to congratulate herself on her success. Passing 
 by the corpse of her lover, who had died from grief at. 
 her indifference, she goes with her companions to dance 
 around the statue of love. 
 
 " Despising always Cupid's laws, 
 
 Her maidens forth that very evening draws, 
 
 Around the statue of the god to dance. 
 
 The statue fell, and crushed her head. 
 
 A voice was heard in heaven's expanse, 
 ' Now all may love : the insensible is dead.' " 
 
 Book 12. Fable 26. 
 
 Thus, since there is no remedy, you must resign 
 yourself to your fate ; and to this La Fontaine urges 
 you. However, as it is a thing of great importance, it 
 must be reflected upon ; so that the good man, recalling 
 his experience, still hesitates. The fable which betrays 
 this hesitation is among the most curious. He seems 
 to recommend marriage ; and then, having written a 
 few lines, he changes his mind, turns around, and 
 finishes by giving us the fable of the Ill-matched. 
 
 " If goodness and beauty were always combined, 
 To-morrow a wife I 'd endeavor to find. 
 But since the two traits so seldom meet in one, 
 You must not blame me that the married state I shun. 
 The many matches I have seen, compel 
 Me to conclude that full three fourths of all who marry, 
 In single life had better tarry. 
 And full three fourths in utter discontent, 
 Unceasingly and uselessly repent." 
 
 Booh 7. Fable 2. 
 
 This fable is the more remarkable, since it contains a 
 history of the author himself, and is a picture of his 
 own household. And in order the better to initiate us 
 
214 LECTURE V. 
 
 into all his misfortunes, he signalizes in the fable of 
 The Woman Drowned, the contradictory temper of his 
 wife, whom he has already represented to us as — 
 
 " Contentious, covetous, and jealous." 
 
 While one advises the husband, who is searching for 
 her body, to follow down the course of the river, 
 
 " No, says another, you must upward search, I deem, 
 For, it is my firm conviction, 
 She has floated up the stream, 
 From the love of contradiction." 
 
 Book 3. Falile 16. 
 
 We must be just, notwithstanding the affection we 
 bear our author, and censure him where he is worthy 
 of blame. He has so many good qualities, that we 
 may speak with freedom of his faults. There is no 
 doubt that he was unhappy in his family ; but all the 
 faults were not on one side. And history, which has 
 been so unjust towards the wife of Socrates, has not 
 been less severe in regard to Madame La Fontaine. 
 
 The fact is, that the philosopher of Athens and the 
 philosopher of Chateau- Thierry, were, by reason of 
 their philosophy, very little fitted for domestic life. The 
 one lived in the streets, to dispute with the sophists; 
 and the other in the fields, to converse with worms and 
 ants. Is it astonishing, then, that the households of 
 these persons, receiving no care, should be so badly 
 managed ? The worst was, that in coming home, they 
 wished to find every thing in order; without even 
 troubling themselves to provide what was necessary 
 to that end. And then the wives, who could not do 
 
LA FONTAINE. 215 
 
 what was impossible, became vexed. Surely, if these 
 were wrong, the others were very censurable. 
 
 La Fontaine generally lived at Paris; and toward 
 the end of the year, when he found his purse empty, 
 he would return to his wife, in order to sell a corner of 
 his land. He has shown, us his mode of life, in his epi- 
 taph, which paints him very well. 
 
 " John went to the grave as he came from the womb ; 
 The farm and its products he did wisely consume ; 
 Nor greatly in money confided. 
 His time, too, he wisely divided. 
 One half he assigned to the oblivion of sleep ; 
 The other, to working from labor to keep." 
 
 It was not necessary, as we may see, that the wife 
 should have a very bad disposition, to be weary of this 
 kind of life. They had, moreover, at one time, a seri- 
 ous misunderstanding. But his friends having repre- 
 sented to him that such a state of things should not 
 continue, he started immediately to go and be recon- 
 ciled to her. He went straight to her door, but the 
 servant, who did not know him, said to him that Mad- 
 ame La Fontaine was at church. Tired of waiting, 
 he went to see a friend, who kept him to supper and to 
 spend the night. La Fontaine was so well entertained, 
 that he forgot his mission ; and without a thought of 
 his wife, he stepped into a public conveyance the next 
 day and returned to Paris. His friends, on seeing him, 
 were eager to know the result of his journey : " I went 
 to see my wife, he said, but I did not find her, for she 
 had gone to church." We may well say with our 
 fabler : — 
 
 " Each has his fault, to which he clings, 
 In spite of shame or fear." 
 
216 LECTURE V. 
 
 But enough of this excursion to the good man's fire- 
 side ; let us now return to his fables. 
 
 Assured that his readers will not profit by his exam- 
 ple, and that, as he expresses it, "they will brave 
 Hymen's torch," he counsels them to do it as soon as 
 possible ; for nothing is gained by waiting. Listen to 
 the history of a man who had waited too long; and 
 hear what it cost him. 
 
 " Two widows contrived to secure his affection, 
 The one was yet young ; the other was older. 
 The former of course retained her complexion, 
 And her rival I too might describe, were I bolder. 
 These widows, in their merry mood, 
 Would oft his head manipulate : 
 Each plucking out, as might to her seem good 
 Some hair, that marrM the beauty of his pate. 
 For each was striving to assimilate 
 The color of his hair to that she wore. 
 So, one the black would extirpate ; 
 The grays, her rival off in triumph bore. 
 Between the two, at length he found, 
 His head with utter baldness crown'd." 
 
 Book 1. Fable 1 7. 
 
 After giving us the history of a man who had waited 
 too long, he takes care to give a lesson to the coy and 
 too exacting female. He has a word for every one. 
 The 5th fable of the 7th book, presents in a lively 
 manner, the successive disappointments of a young 
 woman, after having repulsed and disdained all her 
 different offers, under various pretexts. 
 
 " None could believe she 'd ever come to that ; 
 To wait so long, and then consent 
 To marry such a flat." 
 
LA FONTAINE. 217 
 
 Having reason to believe that his readers, following 
 his advice, and seeing the impossibility of avoiding two 
 evils, will boldly expose themselves to the most hazard- 
 ous, he supposes them to be married, and immediately 
 sends Discord to reside with them, for that is his idea 
 of the honey-moon.* 
 
 Now that he has lodged Discord in the dwelling of 
 the new couple, you must not be surprised, if the pic- 
 ture of the interior which he presents, will leave some- 
 thing to be desired in many of its aspects. In one of 
 these pictures, it is the wife who plays the most promi- 
 nent part, although the husband has his also ; this is 
 the charming fable of the Women and the Secret.f 
 The other is particularly addressed to husbands, whose 
 wives uselessly strive to correct their faults. 
 
 The scene is in the kingdom of Pluto. The wife, in 
 order to reform her husband, who is addicted to drunk- 
 enness, has shut him up in a cave, which represents 
 hell, and comes to visit him in the costume of an in- 
 fernal Goddess. 
 
 " . . . . Then in Alecton's robes array'd, 
 With voice sepulchral she approached his bier ; 
 To serve such broth as is for Pluto made. 
 Not doubting lie was dead ; but without fear, 
 He cried : Who art thou, and what dost thou here ? 
 Sutler to Pluto's majesty, she said ; 
 And with their food I furnish all the dead. » 
 
 The husband, waiting not to think, 
 Exclaimed : And have you nothing here to drink ? " 
 
 Book 3. Fable 7. 
 
 La Fontaine was not the man to forget second 
 marriages; he knew the human heart too well for 
 
 *Book 6. Fable 20. f Book 8. Fable 6. 
 
 10 
 
218 LECTURE V. 
 
 that; he appreciates at their true value, those griefs 
 for which the sufferers declare they never will be con- 
 soled ; he knows that all things here below are transi- 
 tory, and that, — 
 
 " Sadness on the wings of time escapes." 
 
 This induces him to write the fable of the Young 
 Widow. When they inter her husband, she cries in 
 despair : — 
 
 " Oh wait for me, for I am thine, 
 My soul would gladly plume her wings to go with thine ! " 
 
 For some time she refuses every proposition, and 
 regards them as so many insults. But when they 
 cease to be made to her, one beautiful day ; and this 
 before she had been one year a widow, she exclaims to 
 her father : — 
 
 " Why then, dear father, do I never see 
 The youthful husband you have promised me ? " 
 
 Book 6. Fable 21. 
 
 In order to appreciate all the beauties of style which 
 are found in this fable, it should be read in French. 
 
 We cannot here quote the touching history of Phile- 
 mon and Baucis ; but we advise those who Would know 
 how affectionate and tender La Fontaine could be, to 
 run over* the adventures of this perfect couple. 
 
 " To cultivate their farm they had no aid, 
 For forty years, from man nor maid. 
 Rulers at once, and subjects too ; 
 Their happiness to no one's tax or toils was due." 
 
 I have greatly failed, Gentlemen, in giving you an 
 idea of our author's style, if what I have said has led 
 
LA FONTAINE. 219 
 
 you to believe, that La Fontaine was simply a man 
 of wit, and that his fables are only little satires. He 
 is the furthest from it. The good man has certainly 
 his share of severity, but he is never satirical; he tells 
 you the truth more plainly than any one else ; he puts 
 his finger on your faults; and nevertheless you are 
 always obliged to acknowledge, with a smile, that he 
 is right. What above all, contributes to give a charm 
 to his little dramas, is the art with which he introduces 
 refined remarks and the most tender and delicate senti- 
 ments. He is never witty at the expense of his heart ; 
 and he never fails to create the most lively interest in 
 the heroes whose history he gives .us. 
 
 I could quote in illustration, innumerable passages, 
 scattered throughout his fables, but as my time will 
 allow no more, I shall limit myself to two extracts. 
 
 There has never been any thing more touching said, 
 on the subject of friendship, than is contained in the- 
 verses at the end of the fable of the Two Friends. One 
 of them, troubled in the night, runs to his friend to 
 ascertain whether any thing has happened to him ; and 
 finds this friend equally uneasy with regard to him. 
 
 " Whose love, dear reader, was most pure ? 
 A question worthy of your serious thought, 
 Since no more precious gift from heav'n is sought, 
 Than friendship, whose disinterestedness is sure. 
 A real friend, with instinct delicate, 
 Your inmost wishes reads ; 
 And spares your modesty to state 
 Your greater or your lesser needs. 
 A dream, a trifle can alarm, if to his friend 
 The slightest danger it portend." 
 
 Book 8. Fable 11. 
 
 Remark with what admirable exactness, La Fontaine 
 always uses the proper word. " And spares your mod- 
 
220 LECTUEE V. 
 
 esty to state your needs." The word modesty has here, 
 a charming effect ; nothing could be substituted for it. 
 If La Fontaine had said, he spares you the shame, the 
 sentiment would have been false, for no one is ashamed 
 to disclose his wants to a true friend : nevertheless, 
 however intimate the friendship may be, a delicate 
 person has always some embarrassment, in opening his 
 heart completely. And it is a proof of true friendship, 
 to spare this modesty, by anticipating the necessities 
 of him who is loved. 
 
 " With instinct delicate 
 Your inmost wish he reads ; 
 And spares your modesty to state 
 Your greater or your lesser needs.'' 
 
 Such beautiful passages abound in his fables. But 
 the fable of the Two Doves is, if possible, still finer. 
 Disquietudes on account of the proposed melancholy 
 departure of the one; forebodings; affectionate cau- 
 tions, full of solicitude ; nothing in this fable is forgot- 
 ten, which may revive in the reader the most touching 
 recollections. 
 
 THE TWO DOVES. 
 
 " Two doves in tender friendship dwelt ; 
 And each the other's presence necessary felt. 
 But one, grown weary of his home, 
 Determined far away to roam, 
 In distant lands. What do you mean ? 
 The other said. If you can bear 
 This separation, much I fear 
 My life 't will fill with care and sorrow. 
 Why should we needless trouble borrow ? 
 The season is not far enough advanced, 
 Oh, wait for milder winds. This very day I chanc'd 
 
LA 1'ONTAINE. 221 
 
 A raven croaking to another bird, to hear. 
 All kinds of evil ; nets and hawks I fear. 
 But if you needs must go, 
 A proper prudence show, 
 And every thing you '11 need, provide. 
 Our voyager was quite amazed 
 To find such difficulties raised. 
 Yet nothing could his humor change. 
 And he proceeded to arrange 
 Himself; yet turned, his brother to console ; — 
 Allow me but three days to stroll 
 Where'er I please, and gather news. 
 I '11 then return, and will amuse 
 You with the wondrous sights I 've seen, 
 Until you think that you abroad have been. 
 This said, he, weeping, flew away ; 
 But soon a cloud obscured ,the sun's bright ray. 
 The storm obliged him in a tree to hide ; 
 But there the water through the leaves would glide. 
 At length the sky serener grew ; 
 And forth our half-drowned pigeon flew. 
 Some friendly hand, his hungry maw to fill, 
 A goodly meal had spread, upon a neighboring hill. 
 Choice grains of wheat inviting lay ; 
 And there he saw another dove at play. 
 Keen hunger urg'd his downward flight. 
 Alas ! no sooner did the silly bird alight, 
 Than all around him fell the cruel snare. 
 But he, at length, the rotten cords asunder tore, 
 And mounted joyful, in the air. 
 A hawk espied him covered like a prison-bird, 
 With rags and chains, and so at once inferred 
 He had escaped from justice, and should be, 
 On this alone, if on no better plea, 
 Secured to answer for his crime. 
 He took the fugitive. But at this very time, 
 An eagle from the heavens flew, to share the prey. 
 The pigeon took advantage of the fray, 
 And from the robbers and their quarrel, flew away. 
 Behind a ruined wall, he hoped to find 
 A safe retreat, and rest for body and for mind. 
 19* 
 
222 LECTURE V. 
 
 But even here, the fates combined 
 
 To seek his ruin. Even here a cruel boy 
 
 Espied our bird; and, aiming to destroy 
 
 His life, the deadly pebble hurled. 
 
 It struck his wing. Oh ! then he would have given a world, 
 
 If he had never strayed. And then, half dead, 
 
 He sought the home, where he a happy life had led. 
 
 Arrived at home, I need not tell, 
 
 What joys their mutual bosoms swell. 
 
 Then, happy lovers, would ye roam? 
 
 Oh ! be it never far from home. 
 
 Each to the other show attractions new; 
 
 And then all other charms eschew. 
 
 Once, too, I loved. And in those days of purest joy, 
 
 The Louvre would have been for me a toy ; 
 
 The starry heavens with all their garniture, 
 
 I would indignantly have spurned, 
 
 Had it been said, their riches to secure, 
 
 I must from her have turned, 
 
 For whom my heart with purest passion burned. 
 
 No gold on earth could buy 
 
 Those meadows with their flower-enamelled floor; 
 
 Those shady groves where I 
 
 Have learned to gaze enraptured, and adore 
 
 The eye, the gait, the lovely voice 
 
 Of her, the object of my first, my latest choice. 
 
 Alas ! when will those happy days return ? 
 
 Or, have they fled forever ; 
 
 And can the sacred fire no more within me burn ! 
 
 And can I never love again ? Never ? 
 
 Book 9. Fable 2. 
 
 La Fontaine was not a flatterer ; and he is the only 
 literary man of his time, who received nothing from 
 the generosity of Louis XIV. There was nothing 
 of the courtier about him ; but when he undertakes 
 to be complimentary, he acquits himself admirably. 
 You know he often exercised his wit and satire in 
 speaking of the ladies, but never in earnest. Delight- 
 
LA FONTAINE. 223 
 
 ing to make them the theme of his fables, he could 
 not always have spoken of them well, without being 
 accused of affectation ; and therefore, to disarm criti- 
 cism, he sometimes discourses of them in another 
 strain. But it was well understood; and the ladies 
 were the only friends who remained faithful to him. 
 He pays this charming compliment to a young lady, 
 who asked him for some new fables, because she thinks 
 " my tales hard to comprehend." It must be said that 
 the tales in question are so unreserved, that ladies 
 cannot read them. Now is it possible to pay a greater 
 compliment to the virtue and innocence of this young 
 person, than to say that she found these tales incom- 
 prehensible ? that she was unable to catch the sense in 
 reading them ? 
 
 " Now reach we our conclusion ; — 
 My stories seem to her 
 A Babel of confusion." 
 
 No one can express the most delicate things with 
 more tact and taste. It is true that he adds with 
 cutting irony : — 
 
 " Not even sharpest wits 
 Can all things understand." 
 
 This is the little grain of salt which the good man 
 never forgets, and which does no harm; he seems to 
 doubt a little the ingenuousness of his heroine. 
 
 We have already read quite a number of our author's 
 fables, and yet you do not know the extent of La 
 Fontaine's talents. He has excelled in every style; 
 and if you have still a little patience, I will cite two 
 fables, in which the poet who sings of Master Fox and 
 
224 LECTURE V. 
 
 Master Crow, rises without the least effort to the tone 
 of an epic poem. 
 
 THE OAK AND THE REED. 
 
 " Thus by an oak a reed was once address'd : 
 How cruel are the fates to you ; 
 You bend if but a wren upon you rest. 
 Before the slightest breeze that ever blew, 
 Your fragile figure quakes ; 
 Your head is bowed ; your body almost breaks. 
 While I, with lofty form, like the Caucasian mount, 
 Not only check the coursing rays of light, 
 But breast the tempest in its furious flight. 
 What I, a zephyr, you a hurricane account. 
 Had you but been so lucky as to spring 
 Within the circle of my friendly shade, 
 I would have sheltered your defenceless head 
 Beneath my overspreading wing. 
 But you your dwellings mostly make 
 On margins of the windy lake. 
 I must regard your lot as quite severe. 
 — Your sympathy, replied the reed, 
 I highly prize, but do not need. 
 The confidence you feel, I greatly fear 
 Is quite misplaced. 'T is I who need not dread the storm. 
 I bow, you stiffen in the gale. 
 Thus far you have escaped ; but, in another form 
 The raging tempest shall assail 
 
 Your towering trunk. The word was scarcely spoken, 
 Than from the caverns of the North 
 The furious wind came rushing forth, 
 The oak was firm; the reed was bowed; neither was broken. 
 The storm retires ; its wasted strength recruits ; 
 And then renews th' attack ; there prostrate on the ground 
 He lay, whose head the heavens touched ; whose roots 
 Enwrapped the dwellings of the dead, around. 
 
 Booh 1. Fable 22. 
 
 He becomes the rival of Demosthenes in " The 
 
LA FONTAINE. - 225 
 
 Peasant of the Danube."* And by the side of this 
 fable we must place another, also very remarkable for 
 its eloquence, " The Animals sick with the Plague." f 
 
 I regret to extend my quotations further, but I must 
 ask your pardon for introducing two more; the first, 
 because in its circumstances it has a close connection 
 with this country ; and the second, because the scene 
 is laid in America. 
 
 We shall here give the first. It may illustrate the 
 discourse of a popular orator, speaking against those 
 ambitious and visionary spirits, who dare, under pre- 
 tence of advancing the prosperity of this country, 
 demand the separation of the States of this "Union. 
 You have only to suppose, Gentlemen, that it is 
 Washington speaking in his last hour. 
 
 " An aged man, just sinking to the grave, 
 His sons assembled round his bed, and gave 
 A bunch of rods into their hands to see 
 If they could break them ; adding, with a smile, 
 When you have tried in vain a little while, 
 I '11 solve for you the mystery. 
 The elder took the bundle, and essayed 
 To break them ; but without success. 
 The second like incompetence betrayed. 
 The third was made his weakness to confess ; 
 The rods returned unbroken from each hand. 
 The father took them, and unloosed the band ; 
 Then, one by one each rod he snapped in twain. 
 Now see, my sons, wherein your safety lies. 
 Let love fraternal, bind you like a chain ; 
 Then triple strength each one shall realize. 
 A few days after, feeling that his end was near, 
 He called his sons his parting word to hear. 
 My sons, he said ; I go your ancestors to meet ; 
 Farewell. But ere I go, one favor I entreat. 
 
 *Book 2. Fable 7. \Book 7. Fable 1. 
 
226 LECTURE V. 
 
 Assure your dying father that you '11 live 
 In mutual love ; nor suffer any feud to rise. 
 This promise then the weeping sons their father give. 
 The father dead, a vast estate they realize ; 
 But much involved in debts, and suits at law. 
 A creditor here seizes on a farm ; 
 A neighbor in their titles finds a flaw. 
 From all these rude attacks they meet no harm ; 
 In union was their strength. But briefly this endured. 
 Though blood unites, yet interests divide, — 
 Ambition, envy, stubbornness, and pride, 
 These friends, at length, to mutual strife allured. 
 They quarrel ; cheat each other ; are in court 
 Condemned upon a hundred points ; in short, 
 Between their fines, their judgments, und the cost 
 Of counsels, judges, witnesses, the whole was lost. 
 Then stripped of their inheritance, they saw, 
 Too late, what lesson from the bunch of rods to draw. 
 
 Book 4. Fable J8. 
 
 The other" fable is simply the history of four emi- 
 grants ; one, a merchant ; another, a gentleman ; the 
 third, a shepherd; and the fourth, a prince. They are 
 wrecked on the American coast, and deliberate as to 
 the means they shall take to support themselves. 
 
 "... Arithmetic the Merchant knew ; 
 So much per month, said he, I'll charge. 
 And politics, a science here quite new, 
 I'll teach, the Prince remarked, their notions to enlarge. 
 And noble would for heraldry a school prepare, 
 As if that jargon was of any value there. 
 Friend, cried the Shepherd, this is very well. 
 But then, the month has thirty days ; and every day, 
 Three hungry hours. Can one among you tell 
 How we, to-morrow may our fasting stomachs stay ? 
 Or rather, I would ask, 
 
 To find a supper now, on whom devolves the task ? 
 This is the first demand, 
 Ami since your science fails, my hand 
 Shall now supply the lack. Then straight he flew, 
 
LA FONTAINE. 227 
 
 Some fagots in the woods to find ; 
 
 And these he to a neighboring market drew. 
 
 By means of this the party dined. 
 
 And but for this rude peasant, I could show, 
 
 Your learned men had gone to teach below." 
 
 Booh 10. Fable 16. 
 
 It is with regret, that I approach the moment, when 
 we must take leave of the immortal fabulist, for I have 
 only gleaned from this amusing work; and there are 
 still many things which I should like to bring to your 
 notice. Thus I should wish to vindicate him from the 
 strange reproach, that he lacks invention. La Fontaine I 
 lack invention ! Those who apply this word to him must 
 give it a singular signification. Because he has not in- 
 vented the greater part of the subjects, and has had the 
 good-nature to say, that he owed all to iEsop and Phee- 
 drus, they have taken him at his word \V But those of 
 you who are acquainted with the works of these au- 
 thors, can judge for yourselves. Nothing can be dryer 
 than the fables of Phaedrus ; while those of iEsop are 
 much too short. La Fontaine, it is true, borrows the , 
 subjects : but he remodels and transforms them, so that 
 the roughest pebble always becomes in his hand a dia- 
 mond of the first water. If invention consists, above 
 all, in treating with originality and freshness familiar 
 subjects, and investing vulgar ideas with unheard of 
 charms, then no one possesses this talent in "a higher 
 degree than La Fontaine. 
 
 He had always a moral end in writing his fables; 
 which was to make a manual for youth. And in cer- 
 tain respects he has attained his end. He preaches 
 sJ only simple m orality ; his fables do not indeed go far 
 enough, yet they teach nothing that is bad ; and will 
 greatly serve to unfold the minds of children who peruse 
 
228 LECTURE V. 
 
 them. If La Fontaine has chosen this style, it is be- 
 cause he knew that — 
 
 " To truth, our nature proves but ice ; 
 To falsehood, fire it seems." 
 
 •Knowing that men do not like to see the naked truth, 
 he presents it to them, clothed in fiction. 
 
 To prove to you that La Fontaine took directly from 
 history some of his themes, I will cite one example : — 
 
 " The Greeks of Athens were a trifling race. 
 An orator, who saw their dangerous case, 
 The tribune mounted. To inspire their frivolous souls 
 With fear and courage, every art he tries ; 
 Their country's past and future history unrolls ; 
 The common danger spreads before their eyes. 
 His words were carried by the winds away. 
 Before such brutal levity, an ass's bray 
 Were quite as potent as the strong array 
 Of Eloquence. This orator discerned, 
 His hearers from his strong appeals had turned 
 To watch the struggles of two fighting boys. 
 Indignant, that at such a time with toys 
 
 They could amuse themselves. He paused, and thus digresssed : 
 Ceres once concluded it was best 
 To journey with an eel and swallow. 
 And when a stream they met, it then would follow 
 That as the eel could swim, the swallow, fly, 
 They could go over. — Quick as light the people cry ; 
 And Ceres, what did she ? Just what she did. 
 Enraged to see her fav'rite people choose 
 In preference to truth, the stories that amuse, 
 She cried : indignant heav'n forbid 
 That Athens longer dream of peace, 
 While dangers ga'tfiter round the States of Greece. 
 
LA FONTAINE. 229 
 
 Athenians ! then the orator exclaimed, 
 
 Why have you not, what Philip did, inquired ? 
 
 At this rebuke the crowd were shamed ; 
 
 And with new courage fir'd, 
 
 They turned, the orator to hear. 
 
 You see, it was the fable caught their ear. 
 
 We're all Athenians in this sense ; for I myself 
 
 Am not exempt. And if now while I write, 
 
 You should begin to tell a story of an elf, 
 
 Or that, so long the nursery's delight; 
 
 ' Tis called the ass's skin, I think, 
 
 I'd drop my pen and ink, 
 
 And cease to moralize. 
 
 The world, they say, is growing wise 
 
 I cannot say it is not so. 
 
 But this one thing for certainty I know ; 
 
 That he who would instruct the world, must not refuse, 
 
 All classes, still like children, to amuse." 
 
 Book 8. Fable 4. 
 
 I hope, Gentlemen, that none of you are too old, as 
 La Fontaine says, to experience some pleasure in read- 
 ing his fables. If this is the case, you will be interested 
 in learning something of the death of this amiable 
 genius. I shall first quote his magnificent lines on 
 death : — 
 
 " Death never takes the wise man by surprise ; 
 For he has always trained his heart 
 To hail the hour when he must part 
 With earth ; and, on its dearest objects close his eyes. 
 That hour, alas ! all other hours contains ; 
 You cannot name the moment of a day, 
 When some one is not called to pay 
 The fatal tribute ; over all the monster reigns. 
 The moment that the Prince 
 Hath breathed the vital air, 
 Is oft the moment to evince 
 That Death has spread his fatal snare. 
 
 20 
 
230 LECTURE V. 
 
 Put in the plea that you are great ; 
 
 Tell Death he must for youth or beauty wait ; 
 
 All is in vain. He will not hesitate 
 
 To claim his own. No truth is better known ; 
 
 None into more complete oblivion thrown." 
 
 Book 8. Fable 1. 
 
 He knew how to profit by this lesson, so that death 
 did not surprise him ; for he left the world, a Christian. 
 I am aware that these professions of conversion on a 
 death-bed, are to be received with great caution. The 
 Jesuits, who were great proselyters, were then very 
 powerful, and carried all before them ; but La Fontaine 
 would have nothing to do with them. His death is so 
 closely conformed to his whole life, as not to leave us in 
 doubt about his sincerity. He was neither sceptical nor 
 irreligious ; but like many others, he had always neg- 
 lected his religious interests. Yet his character and 
 his whole life had prepared him to receive the Gospel, 
 when it should be presented to him. La Fontaine was 
 always an Israelite without guile, whom the Saviour 
 recognizes as ready to receive the truth. He always 
 dealt sincerely with himself; that is the best prepara- 
 tion. It is somewhat remarkable, that the last fable he 
 composed, " The Arbiter, the Almoner, and the Hermit," / 
 was written to prove the necessity of self-knowledge , 
 and is, in its way, a little sermon. It seems as if he 
 wished to sum up the whole of his life, in a few words, 
 and present to us at the end, the most important sub- 
 jects. He recommends solitude ; that every one should 
 retire from the noise of the world ; and, searching into 
 the depths of his heart, should learn to know himself, 
 at the moment when he is about to appear before his 
 Creator. 
 
 La Fontaine had time to collect his thoughts ; he 
 
LA FONTAINE. 231 
 
 saw his end approaching, and prepared to meet it. "We 
 see him on his sick-bed, such as we have always known 
 him through life, ingenuous, simple ; and above all, sin- 
 cere and true. An ecclesiastic having come to visit 
 him, La Fontaine said to him, with his usual sim- 
 plicity, " I have been reading the New Testament for 
 some time, and I assure you," he added, " that it is a 
 very good book. Yes, upon my word, it is a good 
 book." 
 
 He however presented some objections : " but, said 
 he, there is a doctrine, to which I am not quite ready to 
 subscribe ; that is, the eternity of punishment. I do 
 not understand, how this eternity can harmonize with 
 the goodness of God." This is a characteristic remark, 
 which puts his sincerity beyond a doubt. It was natu- 
 ral, that this objection should present itself to a heart 
 so loving as that of La Fontaine ; and he did not de- 
 clare himself convinced, until after mature examination. 
 
 The difficulty he had in conforming to the require- 
 ments of the Roman church, also proves his sincerity. 
 His confessor wished to have him condemn his Tales ; 
 a work entirely too unreserved. But he frankly said 
 that they had not injured him ; and that he could not 
 conceive why they should be dangerous. He, however, 
 finally became convinced, that it was not the same with 
 others. 
 
 He defended still more zealously his theatrical pieces, 
 which his confessor ■ required him to burn ; and only 
 yielded, when the theological faculty, to which he had 
 appealed, came to the same decision as his confessor. 
 
 Believing his last hour near, he sent for some deputies 
 of the Academy, in order that he might, in their pres- 
 ence, abjure his Tales. And afterward having recovered 
 from his sickness, he went, in person, to repeat his con- 
 
232 LECTURE V. 
 
 demnation of them before the assembled Academy; 
 and consecrated the remainder of his days to compos- 
 ing sacred poetry. He died two years after ; March 13, 
 1695, at the age of seventy-three. In preparing him 
 for the tomb, his body was found to be covered with 
 hair-cloth, which Catholic piety, always so superstitious 
 and self-righteous, had imposed on him. 
 
 I have given these details, because they accord so 
 admirably with his beautiful character, and concur in 
 proving the sincerity of his conversion. A man so 
 upright, through the whole course of his life, could not 
 be false in face of death. La Fontaine's whole history 
 is a remarkable commentary on these words of the Lord : 
 He that doeth truth, cometh to the light. That is the 
 high moral stamp of his character. Let us not forget 
 that La Fontaine has succeeded in pleasing, because 
 he is always true, simple, and natural. Never have we 
 greater occasion to recall these words : — 
 
 " Death never takes the wise man by surprise. 
 For, he has always trained his heart 
 To hail the hour when he must part 
 With earth; and on its dearest objects close his eyes." 
 
 Let us learn how to be ready like him ; and never 
 forget, that for this end — 
 
 " The knowledge of ourselves, is, here below, 
 The science we need first to kjiow." 
 
 Book 12. Fable 27. 
 
BOILEAU. 
 
 20* 
 
 (233) 
 
LECTURE VI. 
 
 BOILEAU. 
 
 CLASSICAL AND ROMANTIC TRAGEDY. — SHAKSPEARE'S ROMEO 
 AND JULIET COMPARED WITH RACINE'S BERNICE. 
 
 There are essential differences between English and 
 French tragedy. Justly admiring your world-renowned 
 Shakspeare, we could not fail when we had the works 
 of Corneille under notice, to draw a comparison be- 
 tween the genius of these two eminent men. Nor can 
 there be a question' that the comparison resulted to the 
 advantage of the English poet. We are accustomed 
 in France, to hear the English, and especially the 
 Germans, unsparingly criticize our classic authors; 
 condemning the tragedies of Corneille, Racine, and 
 Voltaire, as being too cold, too pompous; and even 
 according to some, heavy, unnatural, and tiresome. 
 
 It may, then, be well for us, before examining Racine, 
 to consider this difference, and see if it is not possible 
 to render justice to the classic French tragedies, without 
 scandalizing the admirers of the opposite style. 
 
 This question presents itself to us very naturally in 
 reviewing the works of Boileau, who was for so long a 
 time, the legislator of the French Parnassus ; the sym- 
 
 (235) 
 
236 LECTUKB VI. 
 
 bol and representative of classic tragedy, and even of 
 ancient French poetry. 
 
 The merits and defects of Boileau can be summed 
 up in two words ; he was not a poet, but he was the 
 master of the great poets of his time. His rare good 
 sense, his sound and stable judgment, made him an 
 excellent critic; though he had neither the sensibility 
 nor the imagination of a poet. He was merely a skil- 
 ful versifier; always calm, always self-possessed; and 
 would that we could add, always just and true. He 
 very well characterizes himself as "possessing more 
 skill in finding fault, than in writing well." Having an 
 eminently critical mind joined to an exquisite taste, he 
 rendered immense service to literature and the French 
 language. The French writers of that day were ex- 
 posed to the danger of servility ; imitating, on the one 
 side, the pompous style of the Spanish authors, into 
 which Cprneille insensible fell, in his later years ; and 
 on the other, the studied and affected style of the 
 Italians. But Boileau was on his guard ; and the 
 French language is indebted to him for that perspicuity 
 and conciseness which has caused it to be adopted as 
 the language of diplomacy. 
 
 Every bad author met in him an independent and 
 incorruptible adversary ; for, bad taste never found grace 
 in his eyes. Such writers were naturally his enemies ; 
 but men of talent always found in him a friend, a wise 
 counsellor, and sound critic. It was under his influ- 
 ence that Racine formed his style, and was preserved 
 from the faults of the day ; and this alone would suffice 
 to immortalize the satirist. He was in the habit of 
 boasting that he had taught Racine to write with diffi- 
 culty, easy verses ; meaning thereby to say, that he had 
 made him comprehend, that the most simple things do 
 
E I L E A U . 237 
 
 not present themselves the first to the mind ; and that 
 what is natural, instead of being produced without 
 effort, is often, on the contrary, the result of labor. 
 
 We shall say but little respecting the works of 
 Boileau; the French scarcely reading them but at 
 college, where I confess having relished him. But 
 afterward, when the course in Rhetoric has been com- 
 pleted, the charm is broken, and the legislator of Par- 
 nassus is found to savor a little too much of the 
 antique. His odes, so enthusiastically admired by his 
 contemporaries, are now found so cold that few have 
 the courage to read them through. And his satires are 
 even more wanting in power to interest. They are 
 twelve in number. To get an idea of his style we may 
 cite the commencement of the eighth satire, on man : — 
 
 " Of all the tribes of animals ; in heav'n above, 
 That fly, or creep on earth, or in the sea do move ; 
 From Paris to Peru ; from Rome to far Japan ; 
 I think, without a doubt, the greatest brute is man.'' 
 
 . In proof of his position he cites the ant as more wise 
 and prudent than man. In a subsequent satire on 
 civilized life, he exclaims : — 
 
 " Do bears within the forests wild, their brothers rend ; 
 Or vultures in the air with their own kind contend ? " 
 
 And because animals of the same species do not make 
 war on one another, he concludes that in this respect 
 also they are superior to man. After enumerating the 
 difficulties of science, he puts the question to himself 
 through his interlocutor : — 
 
 " What ! mean you by this argument profane to prove 
 That learned men, ev'n in a lower sphere than asses, move ! " 
 
238 LECTURE VI. 
 
 And he answers : yes, than asses. We easily perceive 
 the sophistry on which this satire is based. Because 
 animals limited to their instinct, cannot, like men, make 
 a bad use of that reason which they have not, Boileau 
 concludes, that they are superior to man ; thus making 
 it a merit in beings deprived of intelligence, that they 
 avoid those faults, to which from their inferior nature, 
 they are not exposed. If he says, they never fall, we 
 reply ; true, for they are already on the earth, and can 
 only creep. 
 
 "We may pass by the letters of Boileau which treat 
 of subjects having no interest for us, and proceed to con- 
 sider the Lectern. This is a heroi-comic poem, sug- 
 gested to the author by a quarrel in a church of Paris 
 on the subject of locating the Pulpit or Lectern. This 
 affair making a great noise, furnished Boileau with 
 matter for six cantos; in which he takes occasion to 
 expose the ambition and petty passions often mani- 
 fested in ecclesiastical bodies. The author displays in 
 this poem, all the resources of his satirical genius. He 
 had been challenged to produce any thing remarkable 
 on so trifling a subject ; but he came off victorious in 
 the enterprise. Taking it altogether, the Lectern is an 
 interesting poem; and is the work of Boileau most 
 esteemed by foreigners. Whoever would read it, 
 should procure an edition with notes. The frequent 
 local allusions render an extended commentary indis- 
 pensable. " L'Art Poe'tique," is more popular, and can 
 be advantageously consulted by those who wish to give 
 variety to their style. Boileau, conformably to his 
 genius, which is almost exclusively negative, does not 
 give sufficiently positive directions ; and is sometimes 
 too absolute. But when he gives general precepts on 
 the art of writing, he always merits attention. 
 
BOILEAU. 239 
 
 How many there are in all countries, who would 
 have done well to guard against the general tendency 
 to write rhyme, and listen to this sage advice : — 
 
 " In vain the aspiring youth Parnassus' heights surveys, 
 Intending there to dwell, and wear the poet's bays ; 
 Unless the power divine hath put the hallow'd fire 
 Within his soul, and taught his hand to hold the lyre, 
 The Muses know him not ; their aid he cannot claim, 
 For him Apollo 's deaf, and Pegasus is lame." 
 
 To the honor of Boileau it must be said that his 
 countrymen have appreciated his counsel ; and no one 
 in France can write verses with impunity, as in other 
 countries. Thanks to his good style, formed by our 
 classics, the French language can never- lend itself to 
 such trifling. 
 
 Unhappily, there are others who have not thus 
 profited by them, and Boileau seems to have in view 
 our novel writers, and the empty discourse and barren 
 fruitfulness of our day, when he says of an author : — 
 
 " He cannot simply say : behold a palace there. 
 But I must know how long it is ; how high ; compare 
 It with some ancient model. Round from front to rear 
 My weary feet must go, that I may learn the year 
 When yonder wing was built, or those back stairs enlarg'd. 
 ********** 
 
 Disgusted, thus instead of poetry, to find 
 A tedious book for architects alone designed, 
 Full twenty leaves I turn, in hopes to see the end. 
 Lo ! on a garden my unlucky feet descend ! 
 To please or profit, no array of words avails, 
 Encumber not your page with unarranged details." 
 
 This is just the time, in our day, when every thing 
 is done by steam, to recall this wise precept : — 
 
240 LECTURE VI. 
 
 " Work slowly, though by want and publishers harass'd ; 
 Nor ever vainly pride yourself on working fast. 
 
 ******** * 
 
 A gentle haste succeeds. Nor let your courage fail, 
 If twenty times you find your efforts not avail. 
 Ketouch each line with care, t' increase its strength and grace ; 
 A beauty here to add, a blemish there t' efface." 
 
 After general precepts on the art of writing, Boileau 
 gives rules for the different kinds of poetry ; and charac- 
 terizes, in turn, the idyl, the elegy, and the sonnet. On 
 these topics he says many things which surprise us 
 when coming from so sensible a man ; and, finally, he 
 treats of the ballad and the rondeau, which were then 
 in vogue. He manifests a culpable forgetfulness in not 
 saying a word of his friend La Fontaine, when treating 
 of the fable. The cause of this was, that the good La 
 Fontaine was in disgrace, for having had the courage 
 to defend his benefactor, Fouquet. And Boileau, as a 
 politic courtier, fearing to displease Louis XIV., who 
 was already disaffected towards him, dared not render 
 justice to his friend. 
 
 He commences his third canto by declaring that 
 every thing can be embellished by art ; after which he 
 gives the rules of classic tragedy : — 
 
 " Let every word the quickened passions' movement show, 
 And make in other hearts the same emotion glow." 
 
 Thus feeling must govern reason, and passion must 
 take the place of action. Boileau continues : — 
 
 " The opening lines should fully clear the author's way 
 To bring his subject into view, without delay.'' 
 
 The second characteristic of classic tragedy is, then, 
 simplicity, and unity of action. Boileau condemns 
 
BOILEATJ. 241 
 
 those pieces which contain two tragedies, the first 
 serving as an introduction to the second. In relation 
 to the scene, he says : — 
 
 " The place and scene should be precisely fixed. 
 
 The action we would have so skilfully disposed, 
 That one event occurring in one place and day, 
 The theatre should wholly fill, throughout the play." 
 
 To unity of action French tragedy adds unity of 
 place ; the scene not passing beyond the precincts of a 
 palace; and unity of time, every thing occurring in 
 twenty-four hours. 
 
 Boileau adds still another rule yet more important : — 
 
 " Present no marvel, nor incredible event. 
 To truths improbable our faith is slowly lent. 
 All marvellous absurdities to fools I leave, 
 My heart to feel refuses, where it can't believe." 
 
 Thus he condemns the apparition of spirits, the mar- 
 vellous, and all fairy scenes ; and recommends propriety 
 and reserve. 
 
 These are the principal characteristics of French 
 tragedy. 
 
 All the authors of the seventeenth century conformed 
 to these rules laid down by Boileau. The eighteenth 
 century sought to emancipate itself from them; and 
 since the commencement of the nineteenth, there has 
 been a universal revolt against the classic authors. 
 Until then, strangers had attacked only Racine and 
 Boileau. But under the Restoration ; from 1815 to 
 1830, there has been a rebellious lifting up of shields 
 against the recognized authorities. To gain an idea of 
 21 
 
242 LECTURE VI. 
 
 the spirited controversy which was then carried on, read 
 these lines from an eye-witness. 
 
 It should be first stated that the name of long-haired 
 poets had been given in derision to the sanguine young 
 men, who enlisted in the new school of poetry, under 
 Victor Hugo as their chief. Their affected melancholy 
 and sadness, and the pains they took to nourish their 
 bristling hair, as a token of pensiveness, first gave them 
 this name. It is one of these poets who now speaks. 
 He has at length returned to the modest occupation of 
 his father, who is a hosier by trade. " But 1 have .not 
 always been," said he, " as you now see me, with short 
 hair, florid complexion, and full cheeks. I once had a 
 melancholy face, and wore the long hair of the Mero- 
 vingian kings. Yes, sir, I was chief of the clappers at 
 the representation of Hernani; and paid twenty francs 
 for my balcony seat. What a day ! What a glorious 
 day ! I remember it as if it were yesterday. We were 
 eight hundred young men, who would have torn in 
 pieces Father de Crebillon or La Harpe or Lafosse, 
 or any other partisan of the unities, if he had had 
 the courage to show himself alive in the greenroom. 
 We were the masters ; we reigned ; we had the em- 
 pire, " 
 
 This then was the period of the literary crusade ; so 
 recent, and yet already become ancient history. A sort 
 of fever seemed to have seized the youth ; the revolt 
 against the classics was heard in all its fury. Voltaire 
 was demolished, and Racine dethroned. Boileau was 
 crushed, under his Christian name of Nicholas; Cor- 
 neille was treated to a wig; and all our old authors 
 received the rather irreverent epithet of " wags." Ex- 
 cuse the word ; it is historical. 
 
 In 1830, the " controversy had reached its height. 
 
BOILEAU. 243 
 
 Thus were the French classics treated, even in Paris; 
 and this crusade had been undertaken in the name of 
 Shakspeare, who was made the responsible editor of all 
 the masterpieces which were produced. 
 
 Those of the opposite party, who entitled themselves 
 the representatives of the sound doctrines, were mon j 
 courteous, but almost as violent; they applied to the 
 government to silence their adversaries. In 1829, a 
 petition, signed by seven persons, was presented to the 
 King Charles X., to have the French theatre strictly 
 closed by him against the works of what was called the 
 new school. Charles X. laughed, and finely replied, 
 that in literary matters, his place was only as one of 
 the audience ; and the petition expired, the object of 
 ridicule. 
 
 Now that these quarrels are almost forgotten, we can 
 examine the question with all desirable impartiality. 
 To many persons it is only a controversy with regard 
 to the three unities of time, place, and action. But 
 these points are much less important than they appear. 
 In the first place, the two schools are agreed as to the 
 necessity of unity of action. " Action in the theatre," 
 says M. Victor Hugo, "is said to be the conflict be- 
 tween two opposite forces. The more nearly these 
 forces are counterbalanced, the more uncertain the 
 struggle, the greater the alternation between hope and 
 fear, the greater is the interest." A classic writer would 
 accept this definition; and M. Victor Hugo himself, 
 acknowledges that the interest must be one. This 
 unity does not imply isolated action. There must 
 necessarily be events and circumstances surrounding, 
 accompanying, and preceding the principal fact. But, 
 in order to employ an image which shall truly express 
 our thought, the principal action must always remain 
 
244 LECTURE VI. 
 
 like a majestic river, flowing on with its swelling 
 waves ; to which the events accompanying it, must 
 always be as simple tributaries. The instant any one 
 doubts, or stops to ask, is this essential or accessory, is 
 it means or end, the unity of action is broken, and the 
 interest divided. This common basis once being ad- 
 mitted, it remains to be seen whether unity of action 
 can be maintained, when no account is taken of the 
 unity of time or place. That appears to be difficult ; 
 and without being bound by the rules to which Cor- 
 neille himself never unreservedly submitted, it is proper 
 for us to use the same liberty in moderation. If the 
 scene is changed, even in the same act ; if, as Boileau 
 says, the hero, 
 
 " An infant in the first act is, a graybeard in the last," 
 
 the unity of action is compromised, and the partisans 
 of the new school themselves violate the essential rule, 
 the great importance of which they admit. 
 
 But this, as just remarked, is not the principal ques- 
 tion ; the unities are but concrete facts. And in order 
 to. form a right opinion of them, let us now consider 
 what constitutes the essence of the different kinds of 
 tragedy. 
 
 There are but three ; Greek, French, and that which 
 it has been agreed to call romantic tragedy. This 
 word comes from romance; a denomination taken from 
 the popular language, called Roman, which was a mix- 
 lure of Latin and the barbarous dialects. All the 
 Spanish, English, and German tragedies, belong to the 
 romantic style; which has its highest expression in 
 Shakspeare. In France, this style has come to be em- 
 ployed only within the last twenty-five years ; the clas- 
 
BOILEAU. 245 
 
 sic tragedy of the seventeenth century having always 
 formed a style by itself; we mean no offence to the 
 " long-haired poets," who wish to see in it only a pale 
 reflection of Grecian antiquity. The choice of Grecian 
 titles, such as Andromache, Iphygenia, and Phedra, has 
 led to a mistake. Because these titles already belonged 
 to the Grecian theatre, it was incorrectly thought the 
 French pieces, having these titles, were only transla- 
 tions. This we might show merely by referring to the 
 celebrated unities; for Aristotle, who has been called 
 the father of them, recognizes only that of action. But 
 a somewhat more extended examination will show this 
 difference still more clearly. 
 
 It is generally said that the character of Greek 
 tragedy is ideal ; which is true in part, but it needs ex- 
 planation. The characters are not absolutely perfect ; 
 they are not without faults ; for, if' they were, all strug- 
 gle would cease, and there would be no more tragic 
 action. But they are as good as they can and should 
 be in the position they occupy. It is therefore only a 
 relative ideal which places the heroes in a more elevated 
 sphere, above all the weaknesses and miseries of life. 
 
 What, then, shall this ideal be ? Without doubt, 
 nothing more than nature herself. You know that in 
 the religion of the Greeks, every thing takes a body ; 
 every attribute of the deity is incarnate and personified. 
 Wisdom is Minerva ; Love is Venus ; War is repre- 
 sented by Mars. They have, in fact, an admirable 
 faculty of giving every idea a body. Thus it is, for 
 example, that the ideal of the paternal character, with 
 all that it has of holiness, is embodied in the CEdipus 
 of Sophocles. The murderer of his father, the husband 
 of his mother, he is wretched, and is driven out by his 
 own children, for his want of filial reverence. But this 
 
 21* 
 
246 LECTURE VI. 
 
 is not all ; he must yet curse his own children, that the 
 paternal dignity may be respected in his person, al- 
 though he himself may not have respected it. 
 
 The hero of Greek tragedy moves thus freely in an 
 ideal, which is in fact a reality. But what compels 
 these two things, so contrary in appearance, to be 
 always associated together? It cannot be matter or 
 nature ; for man is free, and is conscious of superiority 
 to the instincts and gross appetites. He cannot recog- 
 nize the authority of material laws ; but the authority 
 which he recognizes, must be placed far off, on high, in 
 the mysterious distance. That is the part confided to 
 Destiny or Fate. Every thing is subjected to the con- 
 trol of this hidden force; the gods themselves recog- 
 nize its laws ; it is order, justice ; it is destiny which 
 pursues the guilty, and which makes the issue satis- 
 factory to the spectator. And what is very remarkable, 
 and of high moral significance, the criminal himself 
 bows with respect before the decision of fate. Thus 
 CEdipus at Colonus, when he is thrown into the hands 
 of the furies as a punishment, is happy and satisfied to 
 be an expiatory victim ; and he is no sooner dead than 
 those who persecuted him revere him, and give him an 
 honorable burial. At the moment of death he asks his 
 daughter, what are the oracles of which she speaks to 
 him, and what they have predicted. Ismene replies: 
 " Even this ; during your life and after your death, the 
 people will carefully seek to you for their own safety." 
 
 Such is the character of Greek tragedy, which gives 
 us the human ideal, as paganism understood it ; realiz- 
 ing itself on earth by means of fatality. 
 
 All this is imperfect harmony with Greek poetry and 
 religion, which aspired no higher than earth ; and which 
 found here below, all that they desired. This ideal is 
 
BOILEAU. ' 247 
 
 human and terrestrial; man is contented and happy, 
 when he has all that is necessary for this life, and does 
 not disquiet himself about that which is to follow. 
 
 Christianity, on the contrary, has given totally dif- 
 ferent ideas to the people of modern times. To 
 the pagan, the present life was the essential reality; 
 the future life was simply a shadow; to the Chris- 
 tian, the present life is but a shadow, a prepara- 
 tion ; and the life to come, a reality. It is this which 
 an apostle expresses in words that open to the Chris- 
 tian a perspective so glorious : " For now we see 
 through a glass, darkly ; but then face to face : now I 
 know in part ; but then shall I know even as also I am 
 known." 
 
 It is precisely this different manner of considering 
 life, which constitutes the difference between Greek and 
 French tragedy. Disagreement could not be more 
 complete ; and we must not suffer ourselves to be de- 
 ceived by the fact that heroes bear the same names in 
 the two. "Racine and Corneille have borrowed the form 
 of the ancients ; but in the substance, there is an abso- 
 lute difference. The French classics pursue an ideal ; 
 but an ideal which can only have its realization beyond 
 the tomb ; thus, their heroes have also a struggle against 
 life ; nevertheless, their laws are not the decrees of a 
 blind destiny, but the new sentiments of justice, noble- 
 ness, greatness, and purity, that Christianity has awa- 
 kened in the conscience of the nations. This fact has 
 already been noticed in speaking of the character of 
 Corneille's Pauline. "We shall see the same thing in 
 the pieces of Racine. As to the character of grandeur 
 and nobility with which the French tragedy is clothed, 
 it is not an inheritance from the Greeks, but a conse- 
 quence of the influence of the age of Louis XIV ; a 
 
248 LECTURE VI. 
 
 purely accidental thing, and not an essential part of the 
 style. At Athens they were less delicate than at Paris ; 
 and caused CEdipus to appear all bloody on the stage, 
 crying, and tearing out his" eyes ; a thing which our 
 tragedians would never have dreamed of doing. 
 
 But what is the difference between the French classi- 
 cal tragedy and the romantic tragedy? In order to 
 decide this point, we shall have to ask ourselves ; what 
 must be understood by tragic impression ? The distin- 
 guished German critic, August Wilhelm Van Schlegel, 
 a great admirer of Shakspeare, and a bitter enemy of 
 the French school, has thus defined it : — 
 
 " Earnestness, to take the word in its most extended 
 signification, is the concentration of all the powers of 
 our mind towards a certain end. But as soon as wc 
 take account of our own actions, reason obliges us to 
 bring this end into harmony with another more elevated, 
 and also with the highest end of our existence. But 
 here, our innate aspirations towards the infinite are fet- 
 tered by the finite limits which surround us on all 
 sides.. All that we do, all that we effect, is vain and of 
 no account; we everywhere see death in the back- 
 ground, with whom each well, or ill-spent moment of 
 our life, brings us into closer proximity. Even in the 
 most favored cases, when man, after a long and fortu- 
 nate life, reaches the ordinary limit of human existence, 
 he has always in the perspective the prospect of aban- 
 doning what he holds most dear. Love can form no 
 ties in this world which will not be pitilessly snapped 
 asunder ; and every enjoyment is marred by that regret 
 which its loss is destined to bring. When we contem- 
 plate all the relations of our existence carried even to 
 the extreme limits of possibility; when we reflect that 
 all depends on a regular chain of cause and effect; 
 
BOILEAU. 249 
 
 when we think that in our feebleness and inability to 
 contend against the forces of nature and opposing pas- 
 sions, we are thrown on the shores of an unknown 
 world ; shipwrecked, as it were, from our cradle ; when 
 we yet consider how we are exposed to a crowd of 
 errors and delusions, each one of which may prove 
 fatal; if we remember that in our passions we carry 
 our enemy in our own bosoms ; if, again, we consider 
 that each instant may claim from us in the name of 
 sacred duties the sacrifice of our dearest inclinations, 
 and deprive us of what we have acquired by the sweat 
 of our brow ; if we reflect that the more we obtain the 
 more we are in danger of losing, being so much the 
 more exposed to the strokes of adverse fortune ; when 
 we give ourselves up to all these considerations, every 
 sensible heart is filled with inexpressible sadness, for 
 which there is no other remedy than the firm conviction 
 of a heavenly calling beyond this terrestrial state." 
 This is the tragic sentiment which has taken root in 
 our nature ; and any one who has noted his own wishes 
 and feelings, will find he has experienced it in a certain 
 degree. 
 
 But there is another fact very remarkable, that from 
 the same source from which the tragic disposition pro- 
 ceeds, there comes another sentiment entirely opposite, 
 which runs parallel with the former through the whole 
 course of life. We may here say that the same foun- 
 tain gives forth in turn, sweet water and bitter. Our 
 estimate of the world is affected by our internal dis- 
 positions. We find it possible to forget all these sad 
 considerations ; to close our eyes upon a perilous future ; 
 to turn our thoughts from every thing displeasing and 
 gloomy, and live from day to day without taldng 
 thought for the morrow; thus making life a sort of 
 
250 LECTURE VI. 
 
 play : not only do we quietly submit to whatever hap- 
 pens, but we can laugh at our own disappointments 
 and the misfortunes of others, and look at every thing 
 as either pleasant or ridiculous, dancing on towards the 
 tomb, crowned with flowers, and like the grave-diggers 
 in Hamlet ; who, while at their solemn work, play with 
 skulls, and crack their jokes ; we still trifle, with one foot 
 already in the grave. 
 
 This is the comic disposition; facetiousness is its 
 essence, as earnestness is the essence of the tragic sen- 
 timent. It laughs at every thing ; loves what is gro- 
 tesque and scurrilous, and repeats these words with a 
 sneer, " Vanity of vanities, all is vanity." 
 
 Here then is the great difference between the French 
 classics and romances. Racine and Corneille never 
 mingle these two opposite styles, the tragic and comic; 
 while romances, on the contrary, seek the contrast, and 
 thus often produce a great effect. The French stage, 
 always grave and serious, cannot countenance such dis- 
 parities. Racine has written a comedy, entitled The 
 Pleaders; but he never allows a comic strain to be 
 introduced in the midst of the high tragic emotions he 
 has produced by his great works. 
 
 At first thought we might attribute this strict separa- 
 tion of the comic and tragic, to the requirements of the 
 French public. You know the French have two incon^ 
 testable qualities ; they are sprightly and intellectual ; 
 or, if you prefer, they have two defects ; they are jokers 
 and sneerers. The public is a formidable judge ; and 
 ridicule is a weapon which inflicts mortal wounds in 
 France. It is then possible that our authors, knowing 
 with whom they have to deal, have carefully abstained 
 from mingling in the same piece the tragic and comic ; 
 for fear this medley might suggest to the malignant 
 
BOILEAU. 251 
 
 spectators some sally which would disconcert both 
 actors and spectators, and destroy in every one that 
 gravity so necessary to be preserved during the repre- 
 sentation of tragedy. It is very possible this fear may 
 have influenced authors, and yet this does not explain 
 all; this strict distinction between tragic and comic 
 belongs to the essence of the French style. And in 
 order to come to the end of this great question, we 
 must discover why romance has mingled these two sen- 
 timents, and why the French classics have so carefully 
 made the distinction. 
 
 M. Victor Hugo says in one of his prefaces : " "When 
 one digs into art, the first stroke of tlje pickaxe opens 
 literary questions ; the second, social ones. We are 
 now at the second stroke ; and in order to explain the 
 difference between the classics and the rornances, we 
 must remember that they are the representatives of two 
 different civilizations. In Shakspeare, romance is the 
 highest expression of the middle age ; with our modern 
 authors, it is the echo of the sceptical and materialist doc- 
 trines, which have invaded France since the eighteenth 
 century ; the classic authors of the seventeenth century 
 were, on the contrary, the representatives of a believing 
 age, of a monarchical and Christian epoch ; and this 
 explains the whole difference." 
 
 Tragedy in the seventeenth century was always neces- 
 sarily noble, grave, and religious, because it was repre- 
 sented before the court circle, who were scrupulous as to 
 etiquette, and who also respected religion. Being almost 
 exclusively written for a single class, there could be but 
 little variety ; its heroes being always Icings, lor,ds, and 
 great men. Tragedy, more than any other literary pro- 
 duction, has yielded to the influence of the three ele- 
 
252 LECTURE VI. 
 
 ments which then reigned,Cthe study of antiquity; the 
 Christian religion ; and the monarchy of Louis XIYJ 
 
 Racine, the royal poet, always observes the proprie- 
 ties most rigorously ; while Shakspeare, the poet of the 
 middle ages, on the contrary, appears voluntarily in dis- 
 habille, and admits in his tragedies all the diverse, ex- 
 travagant, and contradictory elements which were rife 
 in that age. Racine is the representative of a society 
 in which every thing is well regulated. Shakspeaxe is 
 the representative of an epoch, which has not yet 
 arrived at a perfected civilization. Racine was a Chris- 
 tian ; Shakspeare appears but little interested in relig- 
 ion, although he lived in an age of keen controversy; 
 we are not even certain whether he was a Catholic or a 
 Protestant. And in one place, at least, where Hamlet 
 is asked, " What is there beyond life ? " he questions 
 that which is already settled with the Christian. 
 
 " To die ; — to sleep ; — 
 To sleep ! perchance to dream ; ay, there 's the rub ; 
 For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, 
 When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, 
 Must give us pause." 
 
 August Wilhelm Von Schlegel happily explains the 
 difference, in comparing antique art to Orpheus, and 
 romance to chaos. 
 
 " The antique art and poetry separate, in a strict 
 manner, things which are dissimilar ; the romantic de- 
 lights in indissoluble mixtures ; all contrarieties : nature 
 and art, poetry and prose, seriousness and mirth, recol- 
 lectiomand anticipation, spirituality and sensuality, ter- 
 restrial and celestial, life and death, are blended together 
 by them in the most intimate manner. As the oldest 
 
BOILEAU. 253 
 
 lawgivers delivered their mandatory instructions and 
 prescriptions in measured melodies ; as this is in a fabu- 
 lous manner attributed to Orpheus, the first softener of 
 the yet untamed race of mortals; in like manner the 
 whole of the ancient poetry and art is, as it were, a 
 rhythmical nomos, (law,) a harmonious promulgation 
 of the permanently established legislation of a world 
 submitted to a beautiful order, and reflecting in itself 
 the eternal images of things. The romantic poetry 
 again, is the expression of the secret attraction to a 
 chaos which is concealed beneath the regulated crea- 
 tion ; even in its very bosom ; and which is perpetually 
 striving after new and wonderful births ; the animating 
 spirit of original love hovers here anew above the 
 waters. The former is more simple, clear, and like to 
 nature in the self-existent perfection of her separate 
 works ; the latter, notwithstanding its fragmentlike 
 appearance, approaches more to the secret of the uni- 
 verse. For the conception can only circumscribe each 
 thing separately; but nothing can ever in truth exist 
 separately; feeling perceives all in all at one and the 
 same time." 
 
 We now understand the peculiar defects of the two 
 styles ; with the romancers as with the classics, they are 
 almost the necessary consequence of their positions. 
 The classics addressing the courtiers, are sometimes 
 bombastic and cold ; nobleness easily degenerating into 
 affectation, and heroism into pretension. Romancers 
 addressing the people, were not always careful to main- 
 tain a suitable propriety. , 
 
 If Racine is too scrupulous, and too often relates 
 what it would be more suitable to show, the romancers 
 on their part bring on the stage murders, combats, 
 and an abundance of other things which it would be 
 
 22 
 
254 LECTURE VI. 
 
 much better to relate. These latter address themselves 
 especially to the eyes, and make a great display of 
 decorations; the former, on the contrary, speaking to 
 the heart, maintain great sobriety in the details. The 
 classics are addressed principally to the highest grade 
 of society, to cultivated minds. And therefore the 
 educated men of all Europe, have always held in high 
 esteem the French authors of the age of Louis XIV. 
 The romancers, on the contrary, address the mass of 
 the people, and speak its not unfrequently coarse lan- 
 guage. 
 
 On this account the romancers are more popular, and 
 make more impression on the majority of readers. Yet 
 this subjects them to sharing with their contemporaries 
 the consequences of their moral defects and want of 
 taste. All the admirers of Shakspeare, those at least 
 who are not idolaters, can hardly deny that in this 
 respect he has suffered the common fate. 
 
 Schlegel has been guilty of utter extravagance in 
 making a demi-god of Shakspeare. 
 
 Mr. Villemain, a very good-natured critic, however, 
 expresses himself with more reserve, and in noticing his 
 works, points out the defects. " A forcible painter of 
 character; Shakspeare," he says, "does not however 
 maintain exactness ; for his personages, with very few 
 exceptions, in whatever country they are placed, have 
 an English physiognomy. And with him the Roman 
 people are nothing more than the populace of London." 
 It is the English race personified ; with its proud, inde- 
 pendent gait, its rudeness, profoundness, and melan- 
 choly. 
 
 But with a little more malice this member of the 
 French Academy explains the popularity of Shakspeare 
 in England. " He satisfies," says M. Villemain, " that 
 
BOILKAU. 255 
 
 taste for singularity, on which England prides herself. 
 He talks to the English of themselves ; that is to say, 
 about almost the only thing that they esteem or love." 
 
 In further pointing out some of the differences be- 
 tween the romantic' and the classic writings of the 
 seventeenth century, an Englishman may speak for us. 
 A eulogy of French tragedy, by an Englishman, is a 
 thing so rare as to make it worth remarking. Dryden, 
 the chief of the French school in England, under the 
 restoration of the Stuarts ; and, according to our critic, 
 (Villemain,) the greatest English poet with the excep- 
 tion of Milton, since Shakspeare, recommends a scrupu- 
 lous observance of the unities; not to put a double 
 intrigue in each piece ; not to mingle the pathetic and 
 the gay ; nor to incumber the theatre with incidents. 
 " In adhering to the unity of a subject," says" he, " the 
 French have gained more liberty for verse, in which 
 they write ; they have leisure to dwell on a subject 
 which deserves it ; and to represent the passions (which 
 we have acknowledged to be the poet's work,) without 
 being hurried from one thing to another." He even 
 goes so far as to approve the long recitations of French 
 tragedy. 
 
 But, with what irreverence does he speak of his 
 countryman Shakspeare ! " He is many times flat, 
 insipid ; his comic wit degenerating into clinches ; his 
 serious swelling, into bombast. But he is always great, 
 when some great occasion is presented to him." * 
 
 Addison expresses himself with no less severity in 
 The Spectator. He denounces the tragi-comedy of the 
 English theatre, as one of the most monstrous inven- 
 
 * An essay on dramatic poetry. Dryden's Works. London edition. 
 Vol. XV. p. 350. 
 
256 LECTURE VI. 
 
 tions which ever came from a poet's brain ; and would 
 rejoice to have the French imitated, by banishing from 
 the English theatre, the noise of drums, trumpets, and 
 huzzas; which, when a battle is represented at New 
 Market, may be heard at the other end of the city. 
 
 Again, it is an English critic who speaks thus. 
 These quotations, whether they contain just or un- 
 founded criticisms, serve our purpose of showing that 
 classic French tragedy speaks more to the heart and the 
 intelligence, while romance often addresses itself to the 
 body; seeking to excite physical emotions; and does 
 much to catch the eye. Then the spectator imagines 
 himself to be no longer at the theatre, but at the circus ; 
 for the stage is transformed into an arena of gladiators 
 murdering each other. 
 
 The French romances of the day have especially 
 cultivated this style; for they have imagined that 
 Shakspeare must be imitated in every thing. And, 
 instead of learning from him to be always natural and 
 easy, they have not taken into account the develop- 
 ment of the French language, and the civilization of the 
 nineteenth century. It has seemed to them, that in 
 resuscitating his faults, so easily accounted for, they 
 revive his genius. 
 
 But it is above all, the fault of speaking to the senses 
 rather than to the mind, which has been pushed to its 
 utmost limits. M. St. Marc Girardin, in his course of 
 dramatic literature, remarks : — 
 
 " Formerly, the expression of the sentiments was in 
 harmony with the nature of the sentiments themselves ; 
 it had something pure and elevated, and was often even 
 too abstruse. Every sentiment of the soul has, so to 
 speak, a sensation which corresponds to it. But for- 
 merly, never did the word designating sensation think 
 
BOILEAU. 257 
 
 of taking the place of the word designating sentiment. 
 It was, finally, the human soul, and not the body, that 
 literature strove to make prominent. In our day, the 
 public demand that the sentiments of the human heart 
 be not only painted, but also sculptured, if I may so 
 express myself. And as by the delicacy of their nature, 
 they escape the chisel of the Michael Angelo of litera- 
 ture, it has been found necessary, whether right or 
 wrong, to take sensation in place of sentiment. Sen- 
 sation is really more gross and more robust; it has 
 more massiveness and action ; it adapts itself more 
 readily to this style. 
 
 " This preponderance of sensation over sentiment, is 
 one of the most singular effects of modern style. We 
 represent, as our predecessors, the passions of the soul ; 
 hatred, anger, jealousy, love, and maternal tenderness ; 
 but we represent them as passions of the body; we 
 materialize them, in order to strengthen them; and 
 brutalize them, to make them energetic. It was one 
 of the rules of ancient poetry to aid whatever there 
 was in the passions pure and immaterial ; and to resist 
 whatever was gross and earthly. This was what Aris- 
 totle called purifying the passions. We pursue a con- 
 trary course ; we love to push a moral passion, until it 
 imitates a material passion ; we seem to have no faith 
 in sentiments which are not expressed by a gesture ; I 
 am wrong, a physical contortion. We require convul- 
 sions of the body to convince us of the emotions of the 
 soul. And think not that we carry this folly only to 
 the theatre and literature ; no, we estimate the passions 
 in the world by the effect they produce on the health. 
 Where our predecessors endeavored to interrogate the 
 heart, we are tempted to feel the pulse ; we doubt a 
 grief which does not result in illness, and have a con- 
 
 22 * 
 
258 LECTURE VI. 
 
 tempt for those passions which do not produce madness. 
 And in our afflictions, we rather seek the physician 
 than the priest ; because in spite of ourselves and with- 
 out intending it, we believe only in the body." * 
 
 Romances fall into this error on all occasions ; it is 
 at the foundation of their system. Observe, for ex- 
 ample, how Victor Hugo in his drama of Angelo, ex- 
 presses the natural sentiment of the love of life : — 
 
 " Angelo, tyrant of Padua, knows that Catharina 
 his wife loves the young Rudolphus; he knows that 
 she has received him at her house. He enters and 
 announces to her, that she must die, and can choose 
 between poison and the sword. Catharina seems to 
 be at first resigned, and approaches the table on which 
 the flask is placed ; then suddenly drawing back, she 
 cries, 'No, it is horrible, I will not; I never can? but 
 reflect a little, while there is yet time, you, who are all- 
 powerful ; consider. A woman, a woman who is alone, 
 forsaken, who has no strength, who is defenceless, who 
 has no parents here, no family, no friends, no one ! To 
 assassinate her, to miserably poison her in a corner of 
 her house! My mother! my mother! my mother! .. . 
 Do not tell me to have courage, I pray you! Am I 
 forced to have courage ? I ! I am not ashamed to be 
 only a woman ; very feeble, who ought to be pitied ! 
 I weep because death frightens me. It is not my 
 fault.' " 
 
 " Certainly, the sentiments which Catharina ex- 
 presses, are true and natural. I feel in her words, the 
 horror of death and the love of life ; but if I dare say 
 what I think, I hear rather in this scene, the cry of the 
 body given up to anguish, than the cry of the soul. It 
 
 * St. Mare Girardin. Cours do littcrat. dramat. Vol. lev, p. 50. 
 
BOILEAU. 259 
 
 is the flesh which revolts against death ; but it is a revolt 
 entirely material and physical ; the soul takes no part 
 in it. Catharina excites my sensibilities. But it is the 
 body speaking to the body ; not the heart to the heart. 
 I see the sensations of her who is condemned to death ; 
 I see the flesh quiver, the countenance become pallid, 
 the limbs tremble ; I witness agony. But why do you 
 show me only material death ? Why do you give but 
 the half of man ? In representing the emotions of the 
 dying, why do you suppress the most noble, the most 
 elevated; those which address themselves to the true 
 pity of man, a pity consistent with admiration and 
 respect, and which has nothing in it revolting ? I am 
 pleased with Iphigenia, regretting the light so sweet to 
 see ; I like her fear of subterranean darkness ; I like her 
 regrets for life ; but in these complaints, there is some- 
 thing besides mere physical and material fear of death ; 
 and when she resigns herself, what nobleness! what 
 dignity ! How touching are that last look and that last 
 kiss she wishes to take of her father ! How that resig- 
 nation revives our hearts that she had melted by her 
 regrets ! revives, without hardening. So that the pity 
 with which she inspires us can be prolonged without 
 becoming a source of anguish or misery to us. How 
 art can temper and purify nature ! There is certainly 
 truth in the cries and agonies of Catharina ; but it is a 
 truth which is, so to speak, in the order of the truths of 
 natural history. In the lamentations of Iphigenia, there 
 is a truth more human and more noble." * 
 
 In this manner of painting the sentiments we can 
 recognize the unhappy influence that political and social 
 circumstances exercise on writers. We are forced to 
 
 * St. Marc Girard. Cours de litterat. dramat. Vol. lor, p. 35. 
 
260 LECTURE VI. 
 
 write thus in an age of scepticism and materialism, in 
 which we address a generation that has seen many 
 tragedies. The greater part of the men of this age in 
 Europe, have been born between the different acts of 
 that great historical tragedy which has been played for 
 nearly three quarters of a century. We have all been 
 witnesses of many revolutions ; and there is not a man 
 in France who is ignorant of the sanguinary scenes of 
 the Age of Terror. The romancers wrote for a genera- 
 tion who had seen them ; and believed that in order to 
 make an impression on an audience whom they sup- 
 posed satiated, they must exaggerate, overdraw, and 
 speak to the senses, rather than the understanding. It 
 must be owned that by this means, they have awa- 
 kened interest ; for people generally prefer reading a 
 romantic tragedy. But this reflects no honor on the 
 reader ; and such an impression is disastrous. " In 
 proportion as the theatre becomes the amusement of a 
 more numerous public, the dramatic art will become 
 more gross ; it has no longer to adapt itself solely to the 
 educated, and it inevitably sinks to the level of the 
 auditory. . . . There are two classes of men who are 
 capable of preferring the brutal emotions of the circus to 
 the noble illusions of the theatre ; those who have not 
 a cultivated mind, and those who have it in excess ; the 
 ignorant and the refined." 
 
 It is to please these refined personages, that the 
 authors of the new .school have sought strange posi- 
 tions, odd characters; and have fallen into affectation 
 and mannerism. " The ancient theatre," says St. Marc 
 Girardin, " takes for its subject the most general and 
 common passions of the human heart; love, maternal 
 tenderness, jealousy, anger, and those passions which 
 are simple in their nature ; and represents them simply. 
 
BOILEAU. 261 
 
 The modern theatre, on the contrary, eagerly seeks those 
 passions which are exceptions and curiosities ; which 
 the ancient theatre avoided." * 
 
 Again, we must agree that it is unhappily true, that 
 such painters of life make more impression on the major- 
 ity of the public ; for people generally love the extraor- 
 dinary, the strange, and the mysterious. But what we 
 cannot grant is, that the present drama is superior to 
 tragedy, such as it was in the seventeenth century. 
 On the contrary, Racine and Corneille are infinitely 
 superior. They move vulgar souls less; but after all, 
 it was not for them they wrote, and it is not their fault 
 if the tragic emotion they inspire is of too elevated an 
 order to affect this class. 
 
 In order the better to prove our position, we may 
 make two sketches from history. 
 
 " In 1794, a female came out of the Conciergerie to 
 suffer death. Mounted on the fatal cart with her un- 
 fortunate companions, Madame Roland presented an 
 unruffled brow and a countenance as calm as if she had 
 still been in her own saloon, in the midst of the e'lite of 
 the Girondins. Proud, and braving by contempt the 
 outrages of the sanguinary mob who ran to see her die, 
 she repeated, in mounting the scaffold, ' Liberty! how 
 many crimes are committed in thy name ! ' Thus she 
 died without complaint, without agitation, without cries 
 or convulsions of agony; always estimable; always 
 majestic. Were the people moved? No, they could 
 not comprehend the tranquil beauty of this death ; and 
 is they are only capable of those emotions which the 
 senses can produce, this failed to affect them." 
 
 Cours de litterat. dramat. Vol. ler, p. 9. 
 
262 LECTURE VI. 
 
 " A few days after, another female came from the 
 Coneiergerie to suffer death likewise on the scaffold. 
 This was Madame Dubarry. The unhappy woman, who 
 had learnt courage and dignity only at the petits-soupers 
 of Louis XV., uttered frightful cries ; and could not 
 resign herself to the idea of dying. On the scaffold, 
 she exclaimed : " Mr. Executioner, a short moment 
 still, I pray you ! " This short and miserable moment 
 was not given her ; and when her head fell, the mouth 
 was still wide open with the cries she had uttered. 
 The people were moved. This convulsive, panting 
 agony, this struggle between life and death, struck and 
 affected them; they understood this kind of tragedy."* 
 
 These quotations contain the evidence that the 
 French classics are superior to the romantic tragedies 
 of the day. But this result is not the whole truth. 
 The French classics are, moreover, in some respects at 
 least, superior to romantic dramas in general. Let us 
 compare a piece of Shakspeare with one of Racine ; 
 not to form a judgment on the whole of Shakspeare's 
 works, nor to decide whether they are superior to those 
 of Racine. It is indeed difficult to compare these two 
 men, who differ in almost all respects ; nay, as we have 
 seen, there is an essential and radical difference be- 
 tween the two styles they represent. Nevertheless, 
 when we search carefully, we always find some point 
 of contact between works of art the most opposed ; the 
 moral tendency is, or at least ought to be, always the 
 same. And we have there at least, a term of com- 
 parison. 
 
 We shall see how these two authors have spoken of 
 love. And happily they offer us a term of comparison 
 
 * Cours de literatt. dramat. Vol. lor, p. 38. 
 
BOILEAU. 263 
 
 on this subject ; for, both schools recognize this senti- 
 ment as the most powerful tragic element. 
 
 " He who, to paint the forms of love, acquires the art, 
 Gains thus the surest entrance to the human heart," 
 
 says Boileau, in the name of the classics. And Vic- 
 tor Hugo, more exclusive, says, on his part, " that 
 love in the theatre should always march in the foremost 
 rank ; above all the vain considerations which ordinarily 
 modify the will and the passions of men." 
 
 If I dared hazard an opinion in the presence of two 
 such authorities, it would be that Racine did wrong in 
 treating almost exclusively, of subjects in which love 
 plays the principal part ; thus depriving them of variety ; 
 while Corneille is much more interesting and original. 
 
 But we are not allowed to choose our ground ; and 
 as the two schools declare that love is essential in 
 tragedy, let us see what use they have made of this 
 instrument. 
 
 One of the first points of contact is, that in the two 
 pieces we are about to examine, Shakspeare and 
 Racine agree in presenting us a picture of unhappy 
 ove. It is thus in general that both sides seek to pre- 
 sent this sentiment. And perhaps romances and the 
 classics are only the echo of reality ; and have reason 
 ;o say in their way, with the good La Fontaine ; " Love, 
 :hou Troy hast lost!" 
 
 However it may be, let us take up the two pieces we 
 ire to examine ; Romeo and Juliet by Shakspeare ; and 
 Berenice by Racine; noting only such differences as 
 nay have struck every attentive reader ; and pointing 
 rat only the resemblances of position. 
 
 The Greeks, whose rich imagination always furnished 
 hem with a fable in which to clothe their ideas, tell us ; 
 
264 LECTURE VI. 
 
 that originally, man and woman formed but a single 
 body ; but having abused the extraordinary power, that 
 this strange organization imparted, by attempting to 
 scale the heavens, Jupiter ordered Apollo to divide them 
 in two, in order to weaken them. These different in- 
 complete halves have been sent into the world; and 
 there is no real and durable affection except when these 
 two halves which have originally been the same, en- 
 counter each other anew. " Love has been said to be 
 the inclination that is felt, and the efforts that are made 
 to reunite these two parties." * 
 
 Romeo and Juliet are evidently two of these halves, 
 which, after having been separated, have had the rare 
 happiness of meeting anew. They recognize each 
 other at first sight; and from their first conversation, 
 feel that they belong to each other, and that nothing 
 can now separate them ; a momentary absence causing 
 them the most lively grief. 
 
 Berenice and Titus in Racine, love as ardently as 
 Romeo and Juliet; their attachment has also been 
 spontaneous ; but according to the rules of the classic 
 theatre, they are a degree more elevated in their social 
 position. The heroes of Shakspeare belong simply to 
 the aristocracy ; those of the French poet, are of royal 
 rank. Berenice is the sister of King Agrippa, before 
 whom the apostle Paul appeared at Cesarea. She loves 
 Titus, the son of Vespasian, the conqueror of the Jews. 
 Berenice being without pretension, modest and not 
 exacting, finds all her happiness in affection. 
 
 " She knows no life, but loving me alone ; 
 A foreigner in Rome ; at court unknown. 
 
 * Plato's Banquet. 
 
BOILEAU. 205 
 
 Either with me her days she spends, 
 Or else my coming she attends. .. 
 
 And if forgetful in the busy throng, 
 I stay beyond th' appointed hour, long, 
 Returning to her side, I find her bath'd in tears. 
 'T is only in my presence sorrow disappears. 
 In fine, whate'er to love belongs ; attachments true, 
 Reproaches kind, and lively transports ever new ; 
 The artless ways to please, and gentle fears, abound. 
 Yea ; beauty, glory, virtue, all in her are found. 
 For many years, I've seen her, day by day ; 
 Each time, some charm, till then unseen, does she display." 
 
 Act 3. Scene 2. 
 
 Titus is the more captivated by Berenice, inasmuch 
 as she has saved him from the unhappy influences of 
 Nero's court ; and he is really elevated and purified by 
 Love. We must acknowledge with a good grace that 
 Racine is inferior to Shakspeare in painting the feelings 
 of the two lovers towards each other. Recall that 
 magnificent second scene in the second act; when 
 Romeo and Juliet are in the presence of each other, 
 without knowing it ; and then become aware of it even 
 before being told. Nature is associated with their hap- 
 piness ; and the entire world presents itself in • new 
 colors to Romeo, who has only loved a few hours : he 
 is completely metamorphosed, and has been initiated 
 into a new life. 
 
 "... What light through yonder window breaks ? 
 It is the east ; and Juliet is the sun ! 
 Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, 
 Who is already sick and pale with grief, 
 That thou her maid art far more fair than she. 
 Be not her maid, since she is envious ; 
 Her vestal livery is but sick and green, 
 And none but fools do wear it ; cast it off'. — 
 It is my lady ; O, it is my love ! 
 23 
 
266 LECTURE VI. 
 
 that she knew she were ! — 
 
 She speaks, yet she says nothing ; what of that ? 
 Her eye discourses, I will answer it. 
 
 1 am too bold ; 'tis not to me she speaks. 
 Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, 
 Having some business, do entreat her eyes 
 To twinkle in their spheres till they return. 
 What if her eyes were there, they in her head ? 
 The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars, 
 As daylight doth a lamp ; her eye in heaven 
 Would through the airy region stream so bright, 
 That birds would sing, and think it were not night. 
 See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand ! 
 
 O that I were a glove upon that hand, 
 That I might touch that cheek ! " 
 
 Act 2. Scene 2. 
 
 Another specimen of this style is seen in the beauti- 
 ful scene of the departure. * 
 
 The whole of this piece is natural, and has a charm- 
 ing freshness. It is said that nature wears a totally 
 different aspect to those who love ; if this is correct, 
 Shakspeare has succeeded in giving the metamorphosis 
 in a charming manner ; and nothing can be found in 
 Racine, at all to be compared with it. 
 
 There are certainly some verses of the French poet 
 which present the same idea; but with much less 
 vivacity. Thus Berenice in describing the entry of 
 Titus into Rome, exclaims : — 
 
 " The splendor of this night, Phenicia, dost thou see ! 
 Does not its grandeur fill thy soul with ecstasy ! 
 These fires and torches turning night to glorious day ; 
 These eagles of imperial Rome ; and this display 
 
 * Act. 2. Scene 5. 
 
BOILEAU. 2G7 
 
 Of kings, troops, senators, and priests from holy shrines, 
 Who but reflect the light that from my lover shines." 
 
 The sentiment is the same. Love, according to 
 Racine, sheds a brilliant lustre on all that surrounds it ; 
 •but the classic poet does not sufficiently describe the 
 thing. Shakspeare makes a picture ; the French author 
 simply gives out a casual idea, without stopping to en- 
 large upon it. 
 
 Thus, while you have been touched by the moving 
 painting of the English poet, I, alone, with my critic's 
 glass shall have succeeded in discovering, that there is 
 a point of contact between the two tragedies in this 
 respect, and that Racine has touched the same cord. 
 Let us do him justice, though he may be cold in com-. 
 parison to Shakspeare ; let us agree, that he could not 
 do otherwise. Writing for the court, and for the great 
 lords, he would not have been allowed to hide the 
 Roman emperor among the trees of a garden ; that 
 would have been too citizenlike, and the courtiers 
 would have cried out; "for shame! " 
 
 In the two tragedies, and this is the second term of 
 comparison, the happiness of the two lovers encounters 
 an insurmountable obstacle. In the romance, it is 
 simply a hereditary hatred between the two families, 
 that opposes the union of Romeo and Juliet. In the 
 classic piece, the motive is of a much more elevated 
 order ; it is a state reason, a political obstacle, which 
 prevents Titus from marrying her whom he lovew 
 Berenice is queen ; and, since the first years of its foun- 
 dation, Rome has always cherished an implacable hatred 
 
268 LECTURE VI. 
 
 for the royal name ; though it may have ended by ac- 
 commodating itself to the thing." But though of differ- 
 ent kinds, these two difficulties are neither of them 
 very serious. They have, it is true, a relative value. 
 Romeo and Juliet must have regard to the hatred which 
 divides the two families ; and Titus must have respect 
 to the reason of state. But these are not obstacles to 
 intimidate those who love. Say not, that it would • 
 have been better to have avoided them by prudence ; 
 for who can remember having been prudent in such cir- 
 cumstances? The heroes of classic tragedy are no 
 wiser than those in a romantic piece. Titus was no 
 doubt aware from the first, that the reason of state 
 would be an insurmountable obstacle; but like all 
 lovers, he hoped that some unforeseen circumstance 
 would relieve him from this embarrassment. He has 
 ancouraged Berenice, who is expected to be shortly con- 
 ducted to the altar. On both sides, they have acted 
 according to the maxim of La Fontaine, which teaches 
 us that love is blind. And difficulties, instead of ex- 
 tinguishing, serve but to strengthen it. So that the 
 heroes of the two pieces are determined to surmount 
 every obstacle. 
 
 But how is this to be done ? How is the plot to be 
 carried out ? Thus far, have the romantic poet and the 
 classic poet been agreed, at least as to fundamental 
 ideas ; but here, the characteristic genius of each style 
 exhibits itself. 
 
 First notice, that in Shakspeare, Romeo and Juliet 
 without further ceremony, and find the monk Lau- 
 ce, who marries them clandestinely. They look no 
 further than this first step ; every other consideration is 
 set aside ; they love, and must be together. And as to 
 
BOILEAU. 269 
 
 their families who are at enmity, they will be reconciled 
 afterwards, if they can be ; it is their own affair, and 
 does not concern the lovers. Romeo says : — 
 
 " Do thou but close our hands with holy words, 
 Then love-devouring death do what he dare. 
 It is enough I may but call' her mine." 
 
 This is quite the American mode, under certain cir- 
 cumstances. Marriage, above all, when people are in 
 love ; then, the parents, and friends, must do the best 
 they can ; they scarce trouble themselves about it. 
 
 These things do not go on so smoothly in classic 
 tragedy. Instead of boldly cutting the gordian knot, 
 Racine endeavors to untie it. Titus sees with appre- 
 hension the moment when it will be necessary to choose 
 between duty and love ; and is greatly disquieted. We 
 witness the conflict between these two sentiments ; and 
 all the action passes in the mortal sphere, as is always 
 the case in French tragedies. 
 
 Before making his decision, Titus consults his 
 friends : — 
 
 " What does the public voice say of the queen and me ? " 
 
 . . . Must Berenice wait with hope, or fear ; 
 Will Rome's decision be indulgent, or severe ? " 
 
 Act 2. Scene 2. 
 
 To which his friend Pauline frankly replies : — 
 
 " No power in heaven or earth can e'er proud Rome persuade 
 To place th' imperial crown on this Idumean maid." 
 
 Act 2. Scene 2. 
 23* 
 
270 LECTURE VI. 
 
 He can delude himself no longer ; the will of Rome 
 is known to him, and he must renounce Be"re"nice. But 
 how shall he announce to her his resolution ? That is 
 a subject, on which he dare not touch, in her presence. 
 
 "... Twenty times within a week, 
 Have I essay'd upon this dreadful theme to speak. 
 But ever this embarrassed tongue remained, 
 Speechless, as by the frost of death enchained. 
 I hoped that in this grief's renewed return, 
 She would our coming misery discern. 
 But, blind to every object save my grief; 
 She tried each gentle art for my relief; 
 Nor dream'd that I from all my vows had swervM, 
 And robbed her of the love so well deserved." 
 
 Act 2. Scene 2. 
 
 Berenice, indeed, anticipates not the blow, so soon to 
 fall upon her ; but believes that on the morrow, all her 
 wishes will be accomplished. She has no suspicion of 
 Titus's infidelity ; when the truth is all at once revealed 
 to her, and she is told : — 
 
 " Though he 's distressed from thee to part ; 
 Yet duty bids him tear thee from his heart 
 Home dreads a foreign power near the throne, 
 And now demands thine exile, with imperious tone ; 
 And will not rest till Titus thee disown." 
 
 Act 3. Scene 3. 
 
 Berenice cannot credit such news : — 
 
 " Can Titus now, whose vows my heart first drew 
 To his ; forsake me I No ; it is not true ; 
 His love forbids. Yea, honor binds him too. 
 Around our feet you spread a cruel snare ; 
 And would by doubts our souls asunder tear. 
 
BOILEAU. 271 
 
 He loves ; nor will he let me die of grief. 
 Come, let us seek him; I must find relief. 
 Come." 
 
 Act 3. Scene 3. 
 
 All this piece, and the meeting which follows, are of 
 great beauty. Titus dreads to see Berenice ; and knows 
 not yet what to do. 
 
 "... Bash one, what wilt thou do ? 
 Canst thou now say farewell ? and canst thou trust 
 Thyself the loved one from thy heart to thrust ? 
 
 Can I say firmly ; we must meet no more ? " 
 Rome perhaps will be indulgent, he says : — 
 
 " Who knows but Some, charmed by her loveliness, 
 May yield ; and Berenice for her queen confess ! 
 Then shall my choice be duly ratified. 
 That done ; my fondest wish is gratified ! 
 If, with her laws Borne weighs in even scale, 
 My tears, and constancy, I must prevail. 
 Borne will be for us." 
 
 But this ray of hope is only transitory; the places 
 through which Titus passes, the air that he breathes, all 
 conspire to dispel these delusive thoughts. 
 
 * "... Titus, awake, and think 
 
 What air thou breath'st ; for, here the people drink 
 Even from the breast, for kings, that cruel hate 
 Which love nor fear can e'er eradicate ! 
 Borne judged thy queen, when she her kings condemned." 
 
 Act 4. Scene 4. 
 
 The result then is, that his respect for tradition leads 
 lim to bid Beremce an eternal adieu. 
 
272 LECTURE VI. 
 
 You find no beauties of this order in the English 
 piece; Romeo and Juliet are perfectly agreed; love 
 triumphs, and never have they thought for a single in- 
 stant of sacrificing themselves to the hereditary hatred 
 of their family ; there is no conflict between duties ; the 
 heart is not divided by two affections ; the solution of 
 the plot also is of an entirely different nature. While 
 Titus and Berenice discuss the matter like true classic 
 heroes, Romeo and Juliet act in accordance with a 
 romantic disposition. In Racine we have seen strug- 
 gles and combats, of a moral nature ; in Shakspeare, the 
 fact prevails over the idea ; his heroes do not talk, they 
 act. While Titus seeks some moral solution, and 
 strives to reconcile his love and his duty as an emperor, 
 Romeo seeks from magic, the means of relief from his 
 embarrassment. The idea of giving a narcotic potion 
 to Juliet by the monk Laurence, which shall cause her 
 to sleep for a time, in order that she may be withheld 
 from Paris, and preserved to Romeo, is very happy ; the 
 scene which it produces has a great effect on the spec- 
 tator; for a combination of facts and events always 
 move a multitude more than moral dissertations. But 
 after all, magic is always magic ; and while confessing 
 that a very happy effect is produced by this means, the 
 critic is at the same time obliged to say, that in having 
 recourse to this occult and false art to relieve his hero 
 from his embarrassment, Shakspeare moves in a less 
 elevated sphere than the French poet ; who, much more 
 consistent and natural, resorts only to moral means to 
 resolve a moral question. 
 
 The difference in the tragic spring which is put in 
 play by the two authors, enables us to foresee that the 
 conclusion will also be very different. 
 
 Shakspeare's piece terminates by the scene in the 
 
BOILEAU. 273 
 
 churchyard. Romeo kills his rival Paris, whom he en- 
 counters near Juliet's monument ; and not having been 
 apprised of the artifice of the brother Laurence, he 
 gives himself a death blow near Juliet, who awakens 
 after a few moments. And the monk arrives just in 
 time to see her,in her devotion to her dead lover, pierce 
 her heart with his sword, in order to anticipate the 
 effect of the poison which by a last kiss she has gathered 
 from the lips of him whom she has loved till death ; 
 in such haste is she to rejoin him. 
 
 How, on the contrary, does the tragedy of Racine ter- 
 minate ? In place of these scenes of murder that ro- 
 mantic tragedy loves, because too much habituated to 
 speak to the senses, we have a conversation between 
 Titus and Berenice, which is calculated to affect the 
 least sensitive heart. 
 
 " Ah ! my lord ! you here ! " 
 
 (cried Berenice in tears) 
 
 " Can it be so ; does Titus me forsake ! 
 Can he himself our sacred bonds thus break ? " 
 
 " My anguish is too great. I do implore 
 Thee, add not to my grief. Oh ! weep no more. 
 No more indulgence give to idle sorrow ; 
 From mem'ry's pages, .wisdom's lessons borrow. 
 Recall these words that often turned my feet 
 From folly's paths, my country's claims to meet 
 She calls ; and love must yield its claims on me. 
 By reason's ray from passion's film set free, 
 Thine eye should see where duty leads me now ; 
 And thine example teach my heart to bow. 
 Thou too shouldst lend thine aid to strengthen me, 
 
274 LECTUKE VI. 
 
 And check these foolish tears, I shed for thee. 
 Or, if we cannot make them cease to flow, 
 Becoming fortitude, at least, we '11 show. 
 Then they who signs of grief may in us trace, 
 Will own we bear it with a royal grace. 
 Berenice, 'tis settled ; we must part." 
 
 Act 4. Scene 5. 
 
 Berenice admits not all these excuses, but becoming 
 more and more pressing, asks Titus to change the laws 
 of Rome; which he refuses to do; declaring himself 
 ready to imitate the virtue of his ancestors. 
 
 " Yes, madam, it is true I sigh and moan ; 
 But when the Romans placed me on their throne, 
 I swore the people's freedom to maintain. 
 Besides, thou know'st that other kings have tried in vain 
 To set themselves against the public will. 
 Our history shows that even royal skill 
 Failed to destroy the people's sway. 
 One to his foes deserted, but to pay 
 By death, the penalty of .Roman law. 
 Another, stoic-hearted, tearless, bade 
 The lictor through his sons thrust th' avenging blade. 
 Our country's glory is to us so dear, 
 A child for it we slay, without a tear. 
 This sacrifice for which Rome calls, is more 
 Than Brutus ; yea, or Curtius made before. 
 And do I count this sacrifice too great ? 
 Nay ; I can do what none may imitate." 
 
 Act 4. Scene 5 
 
 Berenice, broken-hearted, prepares to die : — 
 
 "... My present grief, the virtuous life I 've led, 
 My blood, which in this place my hands will shed, 
 Shall bo like fiends, to haunt thee when I 'm dead." 
 
 Act 4. Scene 5. 
 
BOILEAU. 275 
 
 Titus, seeing the despair of Berenice, feels his courage 
 shaken, and reproaches himself for his cruelty. 
 
 • 
 " I hate myself; ev'n Nero could relent; 
 Nor push'd Ms cruelty to this extent. 
 Berenice, I will not yield thee thus to death, 
 And men's reproach we '11 count but idle breath." 
 
 Act 4. Scene 6. 
 
 But notwithstanding his desire, his love of glory and 
 his sworn respect to the laws of the empire permit 
 him not to espouse Berenice. In his anxiety, he ex- 
 claims : — 
 
 " Ah Berenice ! Ah me ! miserable king 1 
 Why ever crowned ! why thus to Berenice cling ! " 
 
 Act 4. Scene 6. 
 
 He finally ceases to oscillate, and forms a resolution 
 worthy of himself. I love you, he says to Be"re"nice, 
 
 " Yet never merely to avoid this strife, 
 Can I consent to take thee for my wife ; 
 However difficult thou mak'st my way, 
 The stern behests of duty I '11 obey. 
 I see th' alternative which rends my heart ; 
 That from the throne or Berenice I must part. 
 
 I shall not abdicate to follow you. 
 Thou would'st thyself consider me insane ; 
 And with contempt behold me in thy train, 
 A king abandoned of his throne and court; 
 Of an unmanly love become the sport." 
 
 Act 5. Scene 6. 
 
276 LBCTUEB VI. 
 
 Here is the resolution to which he comes. 
 
 " If thou 'It persist to follow me with tears, 
 And wake with threats of suicide my fears ; 
 If thus in dread suspense thou wilt me hold, 
 Then must thou unreservedly be told, 
 That griefs more terrible are now at hand ; ' 
 No longer in this dread suspense I'll stand. 
 Nor, wonder if before thy very eyes, 
 By his own bloody hand, thy Titus dies." 
 
 Act 5. Scene 6. 
 
 Titus then wishes to die with Berenice; and the 
 piece of Racine seems about to conclude with two sui- 
 cides, exactly like that of Shakspeare. Love will gain 
 the victory ; but in triumphing, he will kill those who 
 have yielded to his power ; so great, and at the same 
 time so melancholy. 
 
 Then, when we are anticipating this conclusion, 
 Be're'nice suddenly gives it another turn. 
 
 " My lord, I love ; and to be loved, have sought. 
 But this day came filled with one dreadful thought; 
 I fear'd thy love had reached its utmost bound, 
 I erred ; for Titus' love is constant found. 
 With anguish filled, in tears thou 'st sought relief. 
 Be're'nice, unworthy is, of so much grief. 
 Nor should the world, for my sake, be distressed 
 Just when its sanguine hopes on Titus rest. 
 Nor should thy love for me dash from its lip 
 That cup of joy it just began to sip. 
 For five full years, the daily proof thou 'st seen, 
 My love, though tried, has true and constant been, 
 Nor shall one doubt remain ; for in this hour of gloom 
 I crown the past by one more sacrifice, and doom 
 Myself to see thy face no more. With anguish press'd 
 I leave thee now. Farewell, my lord ; live, and be blest." 
 
 Act 5. Scene 7. 
 
BOILEAU. 277 
 
 How obvious is the difference between the English 
 and the French piece ! In Shakspeare love triumphs, 
 but by killing Romeo and Juliet ; in Racine duty tri- 
 umphs, but without destroying the affection which 
 Titus and Berenice entertain for each other. 
 
 " Romeo and Juliet," says Schlegel, " present us a pic- 
 ture of love and its deplorable accidents, in a world 
 whose atmosphere is too cold for this most delicate 
 flower of human existence." 
 
 Titus and Berenice, on the contrary, give us the 
 example of a passion, strong enough to endure even 
 when it must give way to duty, and yield all hope of 
 obtaining its ends. 
 
 In Shakspeare, two beings created for each other, 
 love at first sight ; and all obstacles to their union im- 
 mediately disappear; they unite themselves under the 
 most unfavorable circumstances, full of confidence in 
 the protection of the invisible powers; their heroic 
 fidelity is in a few days submitted to proof after proof; 
 they see themselves, in spite of all, violently separated; 
 and by a voluntary death, they seek a reunion beyond 
 the tomb; asking of death, that happiness the world 
 could not give them. 
 
 There is in Titus and Berenice quite as much tender- 
 ness and affection, as in Romeo and Juliet; but they 
 recognize the voice of duty, and bow with respect before 
 that unseen and cold being, called the Law. What 
 Berenice fears above all, is, not to be loved ; but when 
 assured of the sentiments of Titus, although her heart 
 is broken, she will fulfil her duty; and though the 
 weakest, will set him an example of courage. 
 
 " I love him, yet I flee ; Titus loves, yet leaves me." 
 
 Here is the whole explanation of the piece. 
 24 
 
278 LECTURE VI. 
 
 Shakspeare makes an apotheosis of love ; but as 
 every apotheosis involves the death ' of that which is 
 deified, it is necessary that Romeo and Juliet die. 
 
 Racine does not thus elevate love, he does not repre- 
 sent it as a merciless tyrant ; but presents it in a more 
 beautiful light ; since he makes it capable of sacrifice, 
 and removes from it all appearance of egotism. It is 
 the true and disinterested affection with which Berenice 
 loves Titus, that inspires her with the courage to sepa- 
 rate herself from him, out of regard for his glory. 
 
 Which course of conduct is the most to be admired ; 
 not in the artistic, but the moral point of view ? The 
 answer appears manifest. Shakspeare has made a 
 charming piece. But all his talent and genius have, in 
 fact, been enlisted in the service of a very ordinary, and 
 almost vulgar idea. Who does not know that when 
 any one truly loves, death is less cruel than separation ? 
 All novels regularly inform us, that death is preferable 
 to the loss of the beloved one's affections. And it is a 
 rule when a person makes his sentiments known, to let 
 it be seen that death would be preferable to a refusal. 
 That is romantic, and yet common love ; the multitude 
 thus think and act. This idea of dying together, when 
 obstacles present themselves, in order to seek unclouded 
 happiness beyond the tomb, is very romantic, but at the 
 same time, very common. 
 
 I would be well understood. I wish not to com- 
 promise my excellent cause by sustaining it with con- 
 siderations derived from the stoics. I can easily imagine 
 any one experiencing such sentiments ; it is natural that 
 on the entrance to a new world, the imagination should 
 invest it with images of happiness ; and be already 
 transported by a felicity which had been enjoyed in 
 anticipation ; and that the ordinary world in which our 
 
BOILEAU. 279 
 
 hopes are crushed, should appear prosaic and discol- 
 ored ; and that death should be called upon to give that 
 which could be obtained from no other power. This is 
 the first impression of every strong mind after a disap- 
 pointment. Thus Titus and Berenice think of dying 
 just as Shakspeare's heroes do ; and life appears to them 
 equally insupportable. But in this case, the first im- 
 pression is not the best; they can do better. While 
 Shakspeare also stops to picture to us a sentiment, 
 natural, it is true, but very common and very ordinary, 
 Racine raises himself to a moral sphere greatly superior. 
 And he paints us a love infinitely grander, but also 
 more rare, which recognizes the law of duty, and bows 
 before it. Only true greatness of soul ; an unshaken 
 respect for moral law ; and a firm conscience, will lead 
 two lovers to renounce each other, to fulfil a greater 
 duty. 
 
 This is what Titus and Berenice do. The latter 
 says : — 
 
 " . . . . Let us an example show the world 
 Of love, at once most miserable and sincere ; 
 Sad beyond all that in its annals shall appear." 
 
 Act 5. Scene 7. 
 
 This is almost a translation of the last words in 
 Romeo and Juliet ; but in the English piece, the triumph 
 of love is simply apparent ; while in Racine, this senti- 
 ment always survives, even when giving place to another 
 which it recognizes as more imperative. 
 
 Those who can believe that the sacrifice of Be"re"nice 
 cost her nothing, should remember those beautiful 
 words which she pronounces, when she has bid an 
 eternal adieu. 
 
280 LECTURE VI. 
 
 ******** 
 " I 'II hear no more. But now ; forever fare thee well ! 
 Farewell! oh! does not thine own heart prove 
 How dreadful is this word to them that love ! 
 Within a month, how wretched shall we be, 
 When wide between us rolls the cruel sea ! 
 Day after day will come and go ; hour follow hour 
 In tedious march, but bring not Berenice to thy bower ; 
 And Berenice shall her Titus see no more ! " 
 
 Act 4. Scene 5. 
 
 One circumstance, besides, will say more in this respect 
 than all the quotations. This piece was composed at 
 the request of Henrietta, of England, who was Beren- 
 nice ; while Louis XIV. was Titus. It attained its end; 
 the great king shed tears, and the tragedy obtained the 
 approbation of the most eminent men. The great 
 Condi applying to the piece of Racine what Titus 
 says of Berenice, was pleased to repeat the lines : — 
 
 " For many years I 've seen it, day by day ; 
 Each time, some charm, till then unseen, does it display." 
 
 The perusal of this tragedy may then be recommended 
 with confidence to those who love unceasingly; and 
 who, without having any thing to reproach themselves 
 with, are obliged to bid an eternal adieu, to obey a 
 higher duty, whose claims they recognize. It is for 
 such that it was written. The piece of Racine will 
 inspire them with courage, by showing that the sacrifice 
 so very painful, is noble and worthy of a great soul. 
 That of Shakspeare, on the contrary, addressing an 
 imagination already overheated, will only cherish that 
 melancholy and sadness of which it is the prey, and 
 
BOILEAU. 281 
 
 will represent life under sad colors. Then we may say 
 with justice, that if Shakspeare's tragedy unquestiona- 
 bly possesses the greatest artistic beauty, that of Racine 
 has a higher moral elevation. 
 
 This judgment will not meet universal approbation ; 
 for there is a time and an age, when many feel like 
 Romeo and Juliet. But they will outlive those feelings ; 
 and then there will come a moment in which they will 
 find the conduct of Berenice and Titus more admirable, 
 more wise, more reasonable, and more Christian ; if not 
 even more beautiful, in an artistic point of view. 
 
 It would be very easy to show, that the difference 
 between these tragedies will be found to characterize 
 the other productions of the two schools. The French 
 classics are the organs of a profound reason, enlightened 
 by Christianity ; and of a superior morality, which the 
 corrupted civilization of the seventeenth century, has 
 not yet obliterated. The romantic authors, on the con- 
 trary, are much more free ; and show us man as he is 
 found under certain circumstances, without troubling 
 themselves as. to what he ought to be, or much caring 
 about the moral tendency of their works. They culti- 
 vate art for its own sake; and as readily accept the 
 deformed as the beautiful, to be the instruments of 
 tragedy. 
 
 Ancient tragedy, then, represents the human element 
 in all its purity, such as it has been conceived by pagan- 
 ism. Classic tragedy represents this same general and 
 human point of view. But here, nature is vivified and 
 tranformed by Christianity. But romantic tragedy, 
 being perfectly free, presents us man, not as he ought 
 to be ; but such as he is, with a certain degree of civili- 
 zation. A faithful image of its epoch, it gives us man 
 with his inconsistencies and his errors ; half Christian, 
 
 24* 
 
282 LECTURE VI. 
 
 half pagan, as we generally find him ; and often leaves 
 the real to predominate over the ideal. The local, 
 national, and historic color is often so vivid and marked, 
 that the general facts are forgotten, and it falls into ex- 
 travagance. 
 
 We have seen that in a moral aspect, the classic 
 tragedies are superior to, those of the romantic style. 
 It remains now to see, which of the two styles is prefer- 
 able, artistically and aesthetically speaking. 
 
 Before answering this question, I would propose 
 another. Placing myself in the domain of art, I ask 
 you, which you prefer ; sculpture, or painting ? Where 
 do you find the most beauty ; in a group, or in a pic- 
 ture ? A statue evidently gives a more complete idea 
 of a man, than a picture ; since it represents all the 
 proportions of his body. But if sculpture is truest, it 
 can only represent to us a general truth, the type of the 
 man. It must neglect all that is particular, special, and 
 individual. Sculpture is more truthful ; but on the 
 other hand, painting has more life. Sculpture is always 
 something cold, abstracted, and deathlike ; painting, on 
 the contrary, brings before you living scenes; you read 
 the expression of the countenance ; and the eye betrays 
 all the emotions and passions which agitate the heart. 
 
 Sculpture is more complete in what it does ; but it 
 can only represent one fleeting moment of existence, a 
 single action, without any attending circumstances; 
 painting, on the contrary, presents in one picture many 
 ideas, many expressions, many types, and a great variety 
 of characters. This represents life, that only a moment 
 of life ; the one is general and abstract, the other con- 
 crete and lifelike. 
 
 I need carry this comparison no further, for it would 
 be as absurd to condemn sculpture in the name of 
 
BOILEAU. 283 
 
 painting, as to banish classic tragedy for the sake of 
 romance. They express two different parties in human 
 life, who ask to be represented. The classic school de- 
 voting itself to the study of what is universal and 
 general in man, has been forced to treat of the ideal, 
 and to be abstract to a certain degree. The following 
 explains why the classic style has been especially, or 
 rather exclusively cultivated by the French. " France 
 is, after all, the most human, I will say, the most hu- 
 mane of all nations ; her mission has been to advance 
 and to seek out that which is common to all the others. 
 I will not say that France is cosmopolite; and that 
 humanity with her is of more account than France. 
 No ; it is to be believed that the cause of humanity and 
 that of country form but one ; and that France, more 
 than any other nation, represents humanity. That 
 which is characteristic of France, is, to have little that 
 is peculiar ; to gather all, and to appropriate all ; to be 
 France, and to be the world. Our nationality is power- 
 fully attractive ; it draws every thing to itself, willing 
 or uirwilling. It is a nationality, the least exclusively 
 national, the most human." * 
 
 French 'tragedy is, then, unjustly reproached for its 
 ideality, its want of local coloring, its abstract character. 
 It must be thus, to represent man ; the individual of all 
 time ; the model man ; the Christian hero ; it was neces- 
 sary to admit in individual characters only that which 
 was general, and common to all the others. 
 
 Now, that this tendency may have been exaggerated, 
 I will readily admit ; it is evident that the authors of 
 the seventeenth century were not sufficiently liberal. 
 The classic style of our day cannot be the same as 
 
 * Michelet, Histoire de France. Vol. II. p. 643. 
 
284 LECTURE VI. 
 
 under the reign of Louis XIV. Neither can the ro- 
 mance of our day be what it was in the time of Shak- 
 speare. In order to write at present, in the romantic 
 fashion of the author of Romeo and Juliet, it is neces- 
 sary to differ very much from him. Victor Hugo says 
 in one of his prefaces : " Romance, so often badly de- 
 fined ; all things considered, and that is its real defini- 
 tion, if we do not look at it on its militant side ; is, only 
 literary liberalism." According to this, I am romantic ; 
 and every man free from prejudice, will be so also : 
 liberty in literature, as in every thing else, nothing can 
 be more just. But this is precisely what the champions 
 of this school have forgotten when they have wished to 
 limit us to the style of Shakspeare. We must imitate 
 this liberty, if we would know how to be singular in 
 this age, as he was in his. But when any one holds up 
 this style for exclusive admiration, notwithstanding all 
 pretensions to liberalism, they have retrograded ; for, the 
 world has been making progress since the days of Shak- 
 speare. 
 
 Let liberty, then, really reign in literature. But how- 
 ever great it may be, it will never be allowed to despise 
 that portion of truth to which Corneille and Racine were 
 especially attached. There was a proverb in the middle 
 age: "Nihil sine Gallis," nothing outside of France. 
 That is to say, that nothing can be well done without 
 the French. Vanity aside, though the proverb be old, 
 I yet believe it good. In order that a reform or any 
 progress^ whatever, may become universal, it is requisite 
 to give it a certain human color. To build a new edi- 
 fice, we must have cement ; and so far, it is ever France 
 which has formed this bond, this indispensable element 
 of sociability. When God wishes an idea to pervade 
 the world, he first kindles it in the heart of a French- 
 
BOILEAU. 285 
 
 man, says Lamartine. I think it will be the same in 
 literature ; and that tragedy, in order to be the image 
 of the new society, will have to regard closely the ele- 
 ment represented by the classic school. For at present, 
 more than ever, the tendency of humanity is, to form a 
 single family; and literature must therefore be cos- 
 mopolitan. 
 
 Let us then love Shakspeare ; but take care not to 
 despise the great Corneille and his friend Racine. 
 
RACINE. 
 
 (287) 
 
LECTURE VII 
 
 EACINE. 
 
 The question of superiority between Racine and 
 Corneille, though constantly discussed, still remains 
 unanswered ; nor shall I attempt to settle it, but shall 
 merely state the peculiar qualities of each, that you 
 may form a judgment for yourselves. 
 
 We are already acquainted with Corneille. Those 
 of you who remember the beautiful scenes of the Cid ; 
 and above all, the Horatii, will know how this great 
 man excels in painting character ; and especially in ex- 
 hibiting its magnanimous, great, and generous qualities. 
 Corneille was the poet of the heroic epoch; for his in- 
 fancy bordered upon the period of the civil wars. 
 Racine, who appeared later, was the poet of a court, 
 the most elegant and refined of its time. They were, 
 both, the poets of their age ; but their poems were 
 necessarily different; Corneille treating principally of 
 virtue, honor, and glory ; while Racine made love most 
 prominent at the theatre. 
 
 Boileau says : — 
 
 " From stage and novel soon the strains of love 
 Alf other sentiments and themes remove. 
 Who can the magic lore of love impart, 
 Obtains the surest access to the heart." 
 
 25 (289) 
 
290 LECTURE VII. 
 
 We can agree with Boileau, that in the drama — 
 " Love gives the surest passport to the heart." 
 
 But it is very certain, that treating exclusively of this 
 passion is not the only means of producing dramatic 
 effect. It is to be regretted, that Racine has so little 
 variety ; his pieces moving the audience by appealing 
 always to the same sentiments. And however vivid 
 these impressions may be, yet by their frequent recur- 
 rence it will be extremely difficult to prevent the sensi- 
 bilities from becoming blunted. 
 
 Even in his own time, his motive in constantly 
 choosing the same subjects was a matter of specula- 
 tion ; and a contemporary wrote that " we are indebted 
 to his conjugal tenderness, for all the beautiful senti- 
 ments of love which abound in his • tragedies ; because 
 when he had such sentiments to express, he would go 
 and spend an hour in his wife's apartment, and then 
 with his heart full of her image, he would return to his 
 study to make verses." 
 
 This romantic explanation has the fault of being a 
 great anachronism; for all the pieces of Racine in 
 which love plays a principal part, were composed before 
 his marriage. As has been well said by Racine the son, 
 his father, although born with a tender heart, was not the 
 slave of love ; which, on account of this tenderness, he 
 regarded as still more dangerous for him than for oth- 
 ers. Besides, it is he who says, — 
 
 " We do not love, unless we wish to love." 
 While on the contrary, this other verse, — 
 
 " Love is a tyrant that no mortal spares," 
 is from Corneille. 
 
RACINE. 291 
 
 He appears, then, to have been led to choose his sub- 
 jects by the necessity of following a different course 
 from Corneille, and by the desire of pleasing his contem- 
 poraries. 
 
 I shall cite but two opinions on Racine and Corneille. 
 
 Voltaire esteemed the former the first of all our 
 poets ; and the only one who could bear the test of con- 
 stant reading. He even spoke on the subject with such 
 enthusiasm, that a literary man asked him, why he had 
 not made a commentary on Racine, as well as on Cor- 
 neille. " It is already done," replied Voltaire ; " " you 
 have only to write at the bottom of each page, beauti- 
 ful, pathetic, harmonious, sublime." 
 
 While conceding to Voltaire, that Racine is beauti- 
 ful, pathetic, harmonious, and sublime, we can still con- 
 test his superiority. He was undoubtedly the greatest 
 poet, but not the first dramatic poet. For harmony, 
 exuberance, and clearness of style, and elegance of 
 expression, Racine had no predecessor, as he remains 
 without a competitor. But Corneille, by the vigor of 
 his style, the variety of his dramatic positions, and the 
 sublimity into which he so well knows how to rise, fully 
 redeems his faults of diction, his carelessness, and his 
 obsolete expressions; which should not surprise us, 
 when we remember that he found art in its infancy, and 
 had for his models only the barbarous pieces of the 
 middle age. 
 
 We have also the opinion of a very competent per- 
 son, who takes the part of Corneille, as warmly as Vol- 
 taire does that of Racine. Madame de Sevigne", in 
 speaking to her daughter of Racine's tragedy, Bajazet, 
 says: "This personage is cold; the manners of the 
 Turks are not well described; the conclusion is not 
 happy ; we cannot understand the reason of this great 
 
292 LECTURE VII. 
 
 carnage. There are agreeable things in it, however 
 but not absolutely beautiful, nothing like those rich pas- 
 sages which characterize Corneille. My daughter, let 
 us beware of comparing him with Racine ; yet let us 
 always realize the difference between them. Long live, 
 our old friend Corneille ! Let us pardon his bad verses, 
 in consideration of the admirable and sublime beauties 
 which transport us ; they are the touches of an inimita- 
 ble master. In a word, that is good taste ; let us stand 
 to that." 
 
 We are at first astonished to find a woman so 
 warmly taldng the part of Corneille, against Racine; 
 but all is explained by the education and the character 
 of Madame de Sevigne". She alone of her sex could 
 pass such a judgment. Her opinion has not always 
 been law ; and before accepting it, we should d% well 
 to study Racine. The majority will, with Voltaire, 
 decide in his favor ; while a few will remain with Mad- 
 ame de Sevigne', to defend Corneille. 
 
 Jean Racine was born in 1639, at La Ferte'-Milon ; 
 and brought up in the monastery of Port Royal, a 
 religious house, and the strong-hold of Jansenism. He 
 was for some time on bad terms with these pious and 
 respectable recluses ; but afterward repented of his con- 
 duct, and implored as a favor, that he might be buried 
 in this holy house, at the feet of his preceptor. Having 
 learned the Greek at Port Royal, he was thus led to 
 admire Euripides, Sophocles, and Homer. It was also 
 in this house that he received those religious senti- 
 ments, which were never entirely lost, throughout his 
 worldly life. From the age of seventeen, he was versed 
 in Italian and Spanish literature. Seized by the spirit 
 of poetry, he commenced by writing bad verses in 
 Latin, and middling ones in French. The Greek ro- 
 
RACINE. 293 
 
 mance of the loves of Theagene and Charicles, having 
 fallen into his hands, he read them with the greatest 
 interest. His master took two copies away from him ; 
 after which he learned the work by heart, and then car- 
 ried the third copy to him, saying, " You may burn this, 
 as you did the others." 
 
 His first remarkable efforts go back as far as the year 
 1660. On the occasion of the King's marriage, he 
 wrote an ode, entitled, The Nymphs of the Seine ; which 
 procured him a pension, and a hundred louis as a gra- 
 tuity. This happened very opportunely for Racine, who 
 was not rich, and was even in debt. Poetry, however, 
 did not completely absorb him ; for he continued, osten- 
 sibly, his studies in theology and law. It was only by 
 degrees, that his poetic genius manifested itself. His 
 first tragic essay, La Thibaide, or The Hostile Brothers, 
 procured him encouragement from Moli&re ; who aided 
 him, even with his purse. This piece betrayed the 
 writer, rather than the dramatic author. The tragedy 
 of Alexander, which appeared afterward, has still more 
 of the faults of the time. The son of Philip finds him- 
 self transformed into a very sweet little marquis ; who 
 makes his compliments to the beautiful ladies of the 
 court of Louis XIV. 
 
 Corneille having read this piece, said to Racine, that 
 he had a great talent for poetry, but none for tragedy. 
 Happily he did not confine himself to this false style ; 
 his friend Boileau brought him back to what was sim- 
 ple and natural; and taught him the great "art of 
 writing with difficulty, easy verses." Nevertheless, the 
 Andromachus soon after appeared, to refute the judg- 
 ment pronounced by Corneille. 
 
 Racine surpassed all his former efforts in Britannicus ; 
 which is also a masterpiece. 
 
 25* 
 
294 LECTURE VII. 
 
 We will first examine the tragedy of Phedre, as being 
 the most finished ; in order to give a just idea of Ra- 
 cine. This piece may be called the chef d'ceuvre of the 
 author ; and some would say, of the French stage. 
 
 The subject is taken from Greek history, and has been 
 treated by Euripides. But the French poet deviates 
 from tradition, in order to conform to the taste of his 
 contemporaries ; and in so doing, has won the admira- 
 tion of posterity. The culpable love of Phedra, the 
 wife of Theseus, for Hippolyte, the son of this hero, is 
 the subject of the piece. 
 
 Racine has changed the characters of the principal 
 heroes. The Hippolyte of Euripides, is young, beauti- 
 ful, and wise, but singularly savage. Wandering 
 through the forest, with the bow on his shoulder, he 
 passes his days in pursuing the deer; he delights in 
 hunting; all his incense is given to Diana the huntress; 
 and none is reserved for Venus, at whose altar he is 
 never found. He feels not merely indifferent toward 
 women, but has an aversion for them ; not satisfied to 
 refuse all homage to this goddess, he takes pleasure in 
 defying her ; he hates women, and asks, why the gods 
 have not thought proper to dispense with them from the 
 earth. " Mighty Jupiter," he exclaims, " why have you 
 permitted so dangerous an evil as woman to appear 
 under the sun ? Why was it necessary, to bring in this 
 way, our mortal race into the world ? Would it not have 
 been better for men, that they should carry into your 
 sacred precincts, the brass, the iron, and the gold, to buy 
 their children of you, in proportion to their offerings?" 
 .... Learned women, especially, displease him. " But 
 the greatest evil of all," he adds, " is a female wit." 
 
 We may well believe, that the public, which ap- 
 plauded Moliere's Learned Women, would have agreed 
 
RACINE. 295 
 
 with Hippolyte on this last point, though upon no 
 other. A Hippolyte of this stamp, would not have 
 been permitted to appear on the French stage; never 
 would he have been allowed to indulge in such a tirade 
 against women, as the following : " I detest them all, I 
 abhor them, I fly from them, I execrate them." They 
 would never have sympathized with a hero, who con- 
 soles himself for his mother's death, by the strange 
 consideration, that if she were living, there would be 
 one woman in the world whom he must love. 
 
 Racine wished to give another character to the son 
 of Theseus; and those who would reproach him for 
 thus differing from Euripides, forget that the Greek 
 Hippolyte would have excited very little sympathy on 
 the French stage ; and that the tragedy would infallibly 
 have been turned into comedy. His Hippolyte is beau- 
 tiful, generous, noble, wise, and young, like that of 
 Euripides ; but to all these qualities, he adds that of 
 not being insensible ; he is a man ; and Aricia, a young 
 captive of Theseus, his father, has touched his heart. 
 
 In consequence of this change of character, Racine 
 has been led to propose a different end. The Greek 
 piece is designed to revenge women, for the unjust con- 
 tempt of the son of Theseus. The Greek Hippolyte is 
 a presumptuous young man, who, notwithstanding all 
 his virtues, must be punished for believing himself 
 better than even the Pagan gods. In spite of himself, 
 he inspires an incestuous love in Phedra, the wife of 
 his father, to which she is subjected, by a sort of fatal- 
 ity, that must terminate in their common destruction. 
 
 In Racine's piece, Phedra becomes the principal per- 
 sonage ; she is guilty ; but it is especially, in the fate 
 of the amiable and unhappy Hippolyte, that we feel 
 interested. We take his part, against that of his 
 
296 LECTURE VII. 
 
 father, who is in too great haste to believe him guilty; 
 and against Neptune, who is so prompt in accomplish- 
 ing the wishes of the enraged father; but above all, 
 against Phedra, who is the cause of his ruin. She 
 interests, and at the same time inspires a sort of terror. 
 In seeing her, we experience that indefinable sensation 
 which the ancients felt in the presence of an insane 
 person ; a feeling that there was something superhuman. 
 This woman is no longer mistress of herself; she is the 
 slave of a furious passion, which holds her as its prey. 
 And yet Phedra is not a passive instrument in the, 
 hands of destiny; for, violent as her passion is, she 
 struggles against it ; too late, it is true. But she feels 
 herself culpable ; and we can see that had she wished, 
 she could have resisted it from the commencement. 
 She is always a moral agent, in whom virtue and vice 
 contend ; and her faults serve as a warning to the spec- 
 tator, whom they terrify. 
 
 This piece is one of which it is difficult to give a 
 just idea in such a lecture. It loses much, even by a 
 mere perusal; for there are certain delicate touches of 
 sentiment, which can be perceived only by close reflec- 
 tion. To give an idea of the violence of Phedra's pas- 
 sion, we must follow it through all its developments, 
 and note the many and ineffectual attempts which she 
 makes to escape from it. 
 
 " Eternal discord dwells within her breast, 
 And wild remorse forbids her nightly rest ; 
 Herself t' escape the world she hastes to find, 
 But this disorder bars her from her kind." 
 
 Act 1. Scene 2. 
 
 Hippolyte prepares to start, with the professed object of 
 finding his father Theseus, but in reality, from the fear 
 
RACINE. 297 
 
 of yielding to the charms of Aricia, and to flee from 
 the hatred of Phedra. For, the latter, in order the bet- 
 ter to conceal her wicked passion, has displayed toward 
 her son, all the rigor of a step-mother ; she has persecuted 
 him, and has even obtained from Theseus a sentence 
 of banishment ; nothing has been neglected, which 
 would serve to conceal her sentiments. But all these 
 efforts are fruitless ; the secret fire which she has striven 
 to hide in her own bosom, has made terrible ravages ; 
 and in her dying state she gives us a relation of her 
 sufferings, physical and moral. With trembling steps, 
 she comes supported by the faithful ^Enone, to bid a 
 last adieu to the sun, from which she is descended ; re- 
 solved to carry with her to the tomb, the terrible secret 
 which oppresses her. 
 
 " Let us no further go, my dear iEnone ; 
 
 This load I cannot bear; my strength is gone. 
 
 My eyes are dazzled by the light of day ; 
 
 And now these trembling knees are giving way. 
 
 Alas! 
 ' * * * * * * * * 
 
 How heavily these idle toys oppress ! 
 What friendly hand hath wove these curls around 
 My brow ; and with my hair this forehead bound ? 
 They pain me. Yes ; all to my hurt conspires. 
 
 ******** 
 
 Thou, brilliant father of a wretched race, 
 To whom her birth I've heard my mother trace ; 
 Yet who art blushing to behold my state ; 
 On thee I gaze, O Sun ! then yield me to my fate. 
 ******** 
 
 Oh that I had a calm retreat! 
 Across the shining dust, when may my joyful eye 
 The rolling of his splendid chariot wheels descry ? " 
 
 ******** 
 
 Act 1. Scene 3. 
 
298 LECTURE VII. 
 
 Her nurse JEnone seeks to revive her, by reminding 
 her that she should live to protect her own children 
 against the son of the Amazon. But the very mention 
 of Hippolyte's name agitates her. And her confidant 
 at first believes it is on account of the hatred she feeis 
 toward him ; but she soon suspects the truth ; and by 
 her importunity, draws the secret from her mistress. 
 
 -ENONE. 
 
 " Are you in love ? 
 
 PHEDRA. 
 
 Love's fires through my whole system run. 
 
 -ENONE. 
 
 With whom ? 
 
 Thou knowest him ; son of the Amazon ; 
 That prince whom I so long and cruelly oppress'd. 
 
 -ENONE. 
 
 What! Hippolyte?" 
 
 After this avowal, she gives the history of this fatal 
 passion. The evil began far back; for, from the first 
 sight of Hippolyte her unhallowed affection commenced. 
 She sought to stifle her feelings; she persecuted the 
 object of her passion ; she removed him to a distance, 
 but her imprudent husband carried her to TrezSne, 
 where Hippolyte was. 
 
 "My unhealed wound was caused to bleed anew. 
 A secret fire no longer Venus can suffice — 
 But, soul and lody she demands for sacrifice." 
 
 Act 1. Scene 3 
 
EACINE. 299 
 
 She prepares to die, when the news of her husband 
 Theseus' decease, comes to hold her back from death ; 
 she consents to live in order to secure the crown to her 
 son. This same news decides Hippolyte to take an 
 important step ; he has no longer the same motives for 
 banishing himself from the presence of the young 
 stranger; he immediately sets Aricia at liberty, and 
 reveals his sentiments to her. 
 
 This scene of the pure affection which Hippolyte and 
 Aricia entertain for each other, has here an excellent 
 effect; forming, as it does, a striking contrast to the 
 violent language which Phedra has just uttered ; every 
 thing is artless, chaste, and noble in Hippolyte, and we 
 are refreshed while listening to him ; we feel as if sud- 
 denly transported from an oppressive atmosphere into 
 the fresh air, which we respire so easily after the storm 
 has dissipated the suffocating heat. 
 
 Hippolyte is artless and timid ; he thinks he has been 
 too presumptuous ; he, too, at last has been conquered ; 
 he tremblingly asks forgiveness, if, having spoken on 
 an unaccustomed theme, he has failed to address her 
 properly. 
 
 " Remember that I cannot use the speech ; 
 Nor spurn the love so awkwardly confessed, 
 Which, but for you, had never been expressed." 
 
 Act 2. Scene 2. 
 
 Hippolyte has hardly finished his timid declaration, 
 than he has in his turn to bear with another, much 
 more fiery and passionate. Phedra wishes to see him, 
 under pretext of recommending to him the interests of 
 her young son, who by the death of Theseus has become 
 an orphan. She commences by excusing herself to 
 Hippolyte, for having persecuted him. 
 
300 LECTURE VII. 
 
 " My Lord, I've acted toward you a cruel part." 
 
 Act 2. Scene 5. 
 
 Then she adds : — 
 
 " But you have read the language of my heart." 
 
 Act 2. Scene 5. 
 
 She betrays herself from the first, and her secret escapes 
 from her ; the further she goes, the more she is agitated : 
 she has already declared her passion, but in such am- 
 biguous words, that Hippolyte, virtuous and unsus- 
 picious, has not yet comprehended them. He attributes 
 her emotion to her love for Theseus, her husband. 
 
 Phedra, no longer able to control her passion, seizes 
 this occasion to avow it. She says that she loves 
 Theseus ; but under pretence of speaking of the father, 
 she gives a description of the son. 
 
 " Yes, prince, for Theseus I sigh and burn ; 
 I love ; — not him th' infernal gods have seen, 
 Inconstant as the winds, defiling Pluto's queen ; 
 But him so faithful, proud, and obstinate, 
 His charms alike attracting small and great ; 
 Such as the gods are painted ; such as you appear. 
 He had your eyes, your port; his voice in you I hear." 
 ******** * 
 
 Act 2. Scene 5. 
 
 Hippolyte can no longer doubt, that Phedra's sighs are 
 for him, and in his alarm he exclaims : — 
 
 " What do I hear ! Madam, do you not know 
 That in my veins Theseus' blood does flow ! " 
 
 Act 2. Scene 5. 
 
 But Phedra has already gone too far; she feels that 
 henceforth all dissimulation is useless, and she now 
 
RACINE. 301 
 
 openly uses the language of passion ; the unhappy wife 
 of Theseus goes on to speak of the ravages that a culpa- 
 ble love has made in her heart. She blushes, she is 
 ashamed, she condemns herself; but it is stronger than 
 she, and she must speak ; after which she will demand 
 of Hippolyte, in mercy, to rid the earth of a monster 
 who has burdened it. 
 
 " . . . . Ah cruel one ! thou knowest all ! 
 I 've told enough thy heart to disenthrall. 
 And now thou knowest Phedra's mad excess ; 
 I love. But think not, while I this avow, 
 That I such conduct to be guiltless will allow. 
 Nor, think that passion which my reason thus dethrones, 
 Has never been opposed with bitter tears and groans. 
 The gods against me all their power combine ! 
 Nor can thy hatred of me equal mine. ■ 
 
 Avenge thyself; inflict the punishment 
 
 My crimes deserve, from one worthy his high descent. 
 
 The world deliver from a monster all must hate; 
 
 Theseus' widow, loving Hippolyte. 
 
 So great a monster thou shouldst not permit to live. 
 
 Here is my heart ; here let thy hand the death-wound give. 
 
 Impatient its enormous sin to expiate, 
 
 This heart can scarcely for thy tardy vengeance wait. 
 
 Then strike ; or, if by thy dear hand I may not die ; 
 
 If hatred makes thee such a death to me deny ; 
 
 Or, if from stain of blood so vile thou wouldst be freed, 
 
 Give me, at least, thy sword, that I may do the deed." 
 
 Act 2. Scene 5. 
 
 Hippolyte, in flying, leaves his sword, which will 
 prove, in the hands of Phedra, what Joseph's robe was 
 in those of Potiphar's wife. Notwithstanding this 
 unfavorable interview, Phedra has not yet abandoned 
 her project ; for her passion is violent. 
 
 26 
 
302 LECTURE VII. 
 
 You have let me suppose, that I might love him 
 she says, to her nurse, and 
 
 " Hope, in spite of myself, has stolen into my heart" 
 
 She is calculating on seducing Hippolyte, by offering 
 him the empire, when word is brought to her, that the 
 news of Theseus' death is false. He comes, in the midst 
 of a crowd, accompanied by his son. 
 
 What will Phedra do, in this difficult conjuncture ? 
 She cannot see the father and son together, for she fears 
 that in her blushing face, her guilty thoughts may be 
 read. Oh, why has she made this fatal confession ! 
 
 " Had I this morning died, then men had mourned ; 
 But now, from following thy advice, I 'm scorned." 
 
 iEnone, however, devises an expedient to save the life 
 of her mistress. Have the courage to accuse him first ; 
 his sword left in your hands, will be a witness against 
 him. But Phedra revolts from the proposition, and 
 cannot resolve on committing this new crime ; though 
 guilty, and carried away by passion, she is not, how- 
 ever, absolutely lost. She is neither innocent nor 
 entirely guilty; and this renders her interesting and 
 worthy of pity. In making her thus scrupulous, Racine 
 has greatly augmented the interest which we already 
 felt in this unfortunate woman. 
 
 When her husband arrives, she refuses his embraces. 
 
 " Desist, Theseus, 
 The sacred signs of love do not profane. 
 From your embrace forever I abstain. 
 You arc an injured man. The gods, by envy moved, 
 Have tempted me ; and I 'vo unfaithful proved. 
 No longer fit to furnish you delight, 
 Henceforth I only seek to shun your sight." 
 
 Act 3. .Scene 4. 
 
RACINE. 303 
 
 These words have a double sense ; and Theseus, seeing 
 his wife and his son Hippolyte fly at his approach, 
 knows not what to think, and regrets having himself 
 escaped death. 
 
 But iEnone soon comes to explain the mystery. This 
 is her maxim ; and she is faithful to it : — 
 
 " The honor of my mistress I must save; 
 Though I destroy the virtuous and the brave." 
 
 Act 3. Scene 3. 
 
 In order to save the honor of her mistress, she accuses 
 Hippolyte of the crime, of which Phedra alone is guilty. 
 The scene between the father and son, after this cal- 
 umny, is most touching. On the one hand, is Theseus, 
 who in his fury curses and exiles his son ; and on the 
 other the young and wise Hippolyte, who can say, — 
 
 " The day is not purer than the depths of my heart ; " 
 
 who seeks to clear himself of the calumnies, which have 
 been raised against him. He appeals to his past inno- 
 cence, which his father so well knows, to assure him 
 that he is incapable of doing that of which they accuse 
 him. 
 
 " Recall my history ; what I have been ; 
 From less to greater crimes do men proceed. 
 * ******* 
 
 ******* * 
 
 From step to step must crimes, like virtue, make advance. 
 Nor can the spirit full of innocence 
 At once with boldest deeds of villany commence. 
 One day will not suffice to make 
 A terrible assassin, or a finished rake. 
 ******** 
 ******** 
 Upon my character I would not lay great stress ; 
 But if a common share of virtue I possess, 
 
304 LECTURE VII. 
 
 I must believe, my life the horrid charge refutes, 
 Of crimes which slander now to me imputes." 
 
 Act 4. Scene 2. 
 
 But as Theseus will not allow himself to be convinced, 
 the son avows his love for Aricia. The unhappy father 
 seeing only an artifice in this avowal, drives Hippolyte 
 from his presence, and prays Neptune to rid the earth 
 of him. 
 
 Phedra is no sooner informed of this imprudent wish 
 of her husband, than yielding to an impulse of justice, 
 and fearing to see the innocent perish, she runs to im- 
 plore Theseus to spare his son. But Theseus does not 
 understand this intercession ; and to irritate his wife 
 still more, he tells, her that Hippolyte pretends to vindi- 
 cate himself by declaring that he loves Aricia. 
 
 Phedra, stung to the quick by this new stroke, is 
 furious, and her passion overleaps all bounds. 
 
 " What news is this my soul to madness drives ! 
 What smother'd fire now in my heart revives ! 
 What lightning-stroke now blasts my life ! " 
 
 Act 4. Scene 5. 
 
 This invention of Racine has the greatest effect. 
 The character of Phedra appears to us in a new light ; 
 not only is her passionate love unacknowledged by its 
 object; it is not enough that her bosom burns with a 
 forbidden flame, but to all her miseries, she must add 
 another; it is that the affections of the one she loves 
 have been bestowed elsewhere, and she must yet sub- 
 mit to all the pangs of jealousy. 
 
 " JEnone, who could believe that I a rival had ? 
 
 ******** 
 
 Hippolyte loves ; the dreadful fact I cannot doubt." 
 
 Act 4. Scene 6. 
 
RACINE. 305 
 
 Never has jealousy with its anxieties, its transports, 
 and its suspicions been better described. The unhappy 
 Phedra, at once a prey to all its torments, utters the 
 most heart-rending cries. 
 
 " All wretchedness, till now unknown I 
 Into what depths ,of torment am I thrown ! 
 All former fears, the griefs that shade my course, 
 The passions' rage, the terrors of remorse, 
 The pains of slighted love, that knows no cure, 
 Were but a foretaste of the pains I now endure. 
 A mutual love ! How could they thus my eyes deceive ? 
 How have they met ? since when ? and where ? I can't conceive. 
 Why did you let them on my confidence impose ? 
 And why this base attachment not expose ? " 
 
 Act 4. Scene 6. 
 
 Her anguish is redoubled by the reflection, that while 
 she is wretched, Hippolyte and Aricia are enjoying un- 
 alloyed happiness ; and this contrast makes her feel still 
 more sensibly the depth of her own misery. 
 
 " They love each other ! 
 Yes, even now. The thought how can I realize 1 
 The anger of a raging lover they despise ! 
 Though a decree of banishment the king indite, 
 Yet mutual vows of constancy they fondly plight. 
 No, I can bear no more a bliss that mocks my woe. 
 ******** 
 Aricia must die. ***** 
 
 What am I doing ; whither has my reason fled ? 
 I jealous, from Theseus' hand revenge implore ! 
 While yet my husband lives, another I adore ! 
 And who is he thus to my rightful lord preferr'd ? 
 My hair with horror stands, at every word ! 
 The measure of my crimes is full. Oh whither flee ; 
 Guilty at once of incest and hypocrisy 1 
 These homicidal hands have hasty vengeance sought ; 
 26* 
 
306 LECTURE VII. 
 
 Revenge, with blood of innocence, too dearly bought ; 
 
 Wretch that I am ! And yet I live, and bear the gaze 
 
 Of that bright orb, to whom my origin I trace. 
 
 The father of the gods began our sacred race ; 
 
 My ancestry, Olympus and the world embrace. 
 
 Where shall I hide ? Let us to Kight's dark kingdom flee. 
 
 Yet, in my father's hands, the fatal urn I see. 
 
 They say that Fate to him the judgment-seat assigns ; 
 
 And cruel Minos to its doom each ghost consigns. 
 
 Ah ! how his frighted shade will tremble with surprise, 
 
 When he shall see his daughter brought before his eyes, 
 
 Compell'd, herself as guilty of such crimes to own ; 
 
 Such crimes as yet perhaps in hell remain unknown. 
 
 What wilt thou say, my father, at this horrid sight ! 
 
 Methinks I see the urn fall from thy hand, through fright 
 
 I see thee seek some fiercer form of pain t' inflict, 
 
 That may th' excessive evil of my life depict 
 
 Forgive. A cruel god thy family destroys ; 
 
 And to avenge himself my ruin he employs. 
 
 Alas ! these dreadful crimes that now my peace destroy, 
 
 Have never brought my wretched heart one moment's joy. 
 
 Still to the latest moment does my misery grow, 
 
 And from this wretched life I sink to deeper woe." 
 
 Act 4. Scene 6. 
 
 In her greatest distress, iEnone by way of consoling 
 her, endeavors to justify her by the consideration that — 
 
 " The fates we can't control. 
 A magic spell, with force resistless, rules your soul. 
 
 ******** 
 Mortal thou art ; Then to a mortal's lot consent 
 
 Act 4. Scene 6. 
 
 Phcdra, cast down by grief, now rises in all her 
 haughtiness, and becomes more violent than ever. 
 
 " What do 1 hear ! What counsel dare they give !" 
 
 Act 4. Scent 6. 
 
RACINE. 307 
 
 She feels herself free ; her moral sense is not extinct ; 
 conscience tells her she is guilty ; and she indignantly 
 rejects the. perfidious consolations of her confidant, who 
 has so obsequiously countenanced her crimes. 
 
 Hippolyte, however, has taken leave of Aricia, to obey 
 his father's order, which condemns him to an eternal 
 exile. Theseus is troubled ; and already wavering, he 
 seeks to know the truth, fearing to have judged his son 
 too hastily. Aricia increases his trouble, and makes 
 him regret his rash wish. 
 
 " Fear, sire, fear, lest Heav'n in righteous anger may 
 Accept your prayer, and fill you with dismay. 
 Unholy prayers acceptance often win ; 
 The answers then are but the punishment of sin." 
 
 Act 5. Scene 3. 
 
 He runs to iEnone, to demand an explanation of the 
 mystery, but is too late ; for he is told that — 
 
 " iEnone low in the ocean's depths now lies ; 
 But why she perished thus none can devise." 
 
 Act 5. Scene 5. 
 
 The same messenger further announces that Phedra 
 is plunged in despair, and wishes to die. 
 
 " Her children she '11 embrace, and o'er them weep. 
 Then suddenly a mother's love forsakes her heart ; 
 She bids them from her presence to depart. 
 Frantic, she runs, irresolute, from place to place, 
 Her wand'ring eye beholds us, with unconscious gaze." 
 
 Act 5. Scene 5. 
 
 Theseus immediately repents ; he thinks of his son 
 whom he has cursed, and supplicates Neptune not to 
 grant his desire. 
 
308 LECTURE VII. 
 
 " Hasten not, thy favors sad ; " 
 
 Act 5. Scene 5. 
 
 says he ; useless appeal ! repentance too tardy ! 
 
 Theramene comes to announce to the wretched 
 Theseus, that his wicked prayer has been only too soon 
 answered. Here we meet that famous narrative of 
 Theramene, which has been condemned, as containing 
 some improbabilities, but which is nevertheless a mag- 
 nificent piece of poetry ; grandeur in the imagery, har- 
 mony in the periods, propriety in the style, and vivacity 
 in the narration ; nothing is wanting in this recital, so 
 fit to close this beautiful tragedy. 
 
 " From Trazeno's gates we pass ; no word exchanged. 
 He in his chariot stands ; The guard around him ranged, 
 With mighty grief oppressed, his silence imitate. 
 He, pensive, to Mycenas goes to meet his fate. 
 The slackened reins upon his horses' necks are thrown ; 
 Those noble coursers we in other days have known 
 So full of fire ; yet governed by his voice alone. 
 With downcast eyes, their heads upon their breasts inclined, 
 As if in sympathy with his afflicted mind. 
 A frightful scream up rushing from the gurgling wave, 
 The bosom of the tranquil air, that moment clave. 
 And from the earth a voice that seemed to pierce the sky 
 With horrid groans responded to that startling cry. 
 Down to its depths within our hearts, the blood congealed. 
 And ears and manes erect the coursers' fright revealed. 
 Meanwhile, upon the surface of the liquid plain 
 'Mid foaming waves, a mountain raised its head amain ; 
 Against whose side, the dashing waters, in our view, 
 A horrid monster from their raging bosom threw. 
 There stood upon his head two threat'ning horns erect ; 
 While scales of brass his body, like a shield, protect. 
 A monstrous bull he seemed ; or else a dragon bold, 
 Whose haunches doubled on themselves, in tortuous fold. 
 His bellowings fierce resounded on the trembling shore ; 
 While heaven and earth with terror hoard his hideous roar. 
 
RACINE. 309 
 
 The earth was moved ; the air with pois'nous breath was spoiled ; 
 
 The waves that bore hini up, with horror back recoiled. 
 
 Beasts were dismayed, and birds were seized with dread, 
 
 And to the neighboring temple, men for refuge fled. 
 
 But Hippolyte, aroused from his desponding mood, 
 
 His coursers cheek'd ; and, with uplifted javelin stood. 
 
 Until the dragon rose upon the swelling tide ; 
 
 Then with a well-aimed thrust he pierced the monster's side. 
 
 The dreadful beast thus maddened by the deadly wound, 
 
 Then plunged, and reached the horses by one mighty bound. 
 
 There rolling on the earth, a flaming mouth he showed ; 
 
 Whence fire and blood and smoke in mingled streams forth flowed 
 
 Th' affrighted steeds then madly rush'd across the plain ; 
 
 Nor longer recognized their master's voice or rein. 
 
 His strength, to check their furious speed, is plied in vain. 
 
 They rage and snort, till blood and foam their nostrils stain. 
 
 'T is said, a fury drove .them to the briny tide, 
 
 Her stinging goads deep plunging in each foaming side. 
 
 Across the rugged rocks they rush with maddening bound ; 
 
 The chariot in fragments, strewing o'er the ground. 
 
 And, horrid to relate ! your son, a mangled corpse, 
 Is dragged beneath the feet of th' infuriate horse. 
 
 We shout across the plain ; but cannot stay their speed. 
 Nor 'till they reach the royal tombs, our cries they heed. 
 I hasten thither ; weeping, guided by the stains 
 His gen'rous blood outpoured has left upon the plains. 
 The rocks are sprinkled with it ; and the cruel briars 
 His clotted hair display. What grief the scene inspires 1 
 I reach the place ; I call his name ; he tries to rise, 
 But fails ; a moment looks on me, then shuts his eyes ; 
 The heavens, he cries, deprive me guiltless, of my life. 
 Protect Aricia, whom I should have made a wife. 
 Dear friend, if e'er my father, disabused, should see 
 The wrongs inflicted by his cruelty towards me, 
 And ask, how he for such injustice may atone, 
 
310 LECTURE VII. 
 
 Bid liim from me, adopt Aricia as his own. 
 
 Bid him .... He gasped in vain for breath, the rest to say ; 
 
 And, in my arms a lifeless, mangled corpse he lay.'' . 
 
 Act 5. Scene 6. 
 
 The attendant has hardly finished his narration, when 
 Phedra, the partly innocent cause of these last events, 
 arrives. She has already one foot in the grave, having 
 punished herself fo'r her crimes by taking poison ; but 
 conscience still pursues her ; and she comes to employ 
 her last moments in confessing to Theseus her unhappy 
 passion, the cause of all these misfortunes. 
 
 Such then, Gentlemen, are the terrible consequences 
 of a criminal passion : the death of iEnone, her accom- 
 plice ; the death of Phedra, the great transgressor ; the 
 death of the unhappy Hippolyte, and the punishment 
 of Theseus for his precipitancy. Racine composed this 
 piece to exhibit the ravages of a passion, which when 
 not checked in the commencement, is finally yielded 
 to with complaisance ; and then the person, no longer 
 master of himself, becomes a passive instrument of 
 crime ; though all the while feeling guilty and self-con- 
 demned. The tragedy of Racine is an admirable com- 
 mentary on these words of the wise man : " Keep thy 
 heart with all diligence." 
 
 Phedra was the last of the tragedies of Racine, that 
 he has himself styled profane. After having composed 
 it, although in the prime of life, he decidedly renounced 
 the theatre. This resolution was owing to the revival 
 of those Christian sentiments in his heart, by which he 
 had always been more or less influenced. This great 
 man, all of whose writings have an irreproachable purity, 
 declared that the authors of theatrical pieces were pub- 
 lic corrupters ; and he was aware, that he was perhaps 
 the most dangerous of these poisoners. He resolved to 
 
RACINE. 311 
 
 write no more verses, and to impose on himself a rigor- 
 ous penitence, as a punishment for those he had already 
 written. His compunction was even so great as to 
 inspire him with the design of becoming a monk. He 
 evidently went too far ; and it is fortunate that his 
 confessor convinced him of it, and counselled him to 
 marry. 
 
 You are perhaps curious, Gentlemen, to learn some- 
 thing respecting the love affairs of this great poet, who 
 has so often represented this sentiment; and you no 
 doubt suppose that they must all have been of a very 
 romantic character. However, this was not the case ; 
 the author of Phedra loved in a very prosaic manner, 
 and made what is called a prudent marriage. His son 
 , tells us that neither love nor interest had any part in 
 his choice ; and that he only consulted reason in so 
 serious an affair. 
 
 The great poet was not ashamed to become a good 
 father and husband, like common mortals; and if he 
 had not romantic adventures, he had a durable happi- 
 ness, which he knew how to appreciate. He soon 
 found himself so happy in the bosom of his family, 
 that he renounced for ever the pleasures of the court 
 and the invitations of the great. When business called 
 him from the domestic hearth, he sighed for the moment 
 when he should see his wife and children ; and when he 
 was again seated at table with them, he would say, that 
 such good cheer was not to be found at the tables of 
 the great. 
 
 " He had one day returned from Versailles, to taste 
 this pleasure, when an equerry of the duke came to tell 
 him that he was expected to dine at the hotel Conde" ! 
 I shall not have that honor, he replied, it is more than 
 eight days since I have seen my wife and children, who 
 
312 LECTURE VII. 
 
 are anticipating a fete to-day, in having me to dine 
 with them upon a very fine carp ; and I cannot disap- 
 point them. The equerry represented to him, that a 
 numerous company had been invited to the duke's 
 repast, who, in the expectation of seeing him, looked 
 upon this occasion as a fete also ; and that the prince 
 would be mortified, if he did not come. Racine then 
 sent for the carp, and showing it to the equerry, said : 
 You can judge whether I can excuse myself from din- 
 ing with these poor children, who wish to entertain me 
 to-day, and who would have no pleasure in eating this 
 dish without me. And the equerry was obliged to 
 return alone." 
 
 Racine's great fear was to have a son who would 
 wish to write tragedies, and so careful was he to guard 
 him against forming a taste for poetry, that he never 
 talked to him on this subject. The wife of Racine 
 knew nothing of his tragedies, either by representation 
 or reading ; and only learned their titles in conversation. 
 This indifference was no doubt carried too far. But if 
 we remember that Racine was naturally a very vain 
 man, we shall see in all this the beautiful proof of a 
 new life and a Christian spirit, little enlightened, it is 
 true, but sincere. 
 
 Racine discharged to the end, all the duties of the 
 father of a Christian family. Thus, he assembled 
 around him every evening his children and servants, 
 while he conducted their domestic worship. To prayer, 
 he added the reading of the gospel for the day, which 
 he often explained by a short exhortation, adapted to 
 the capacity of his hearers, delivered with the earnest- 
 ness which characterized all he said. The reading of a 
 psalm would produce a sort of enthusiasm in him, when 
 he would on the spot make such a paraphrase of it, as 
 
RACINE. 313 
 
 would carry away his hearers, while unveiling to them 
 its beauty. 
 
 There is a great difference, Gentlemen, between 
 these manners and ours ; the literary men of our day 
 know nothing of such a life. The peculiar privilege of 
 genius is now thought to consist in trampling under- 
 foot all the proprieties of life and the holiest laws of 
 morality ; domestic life is looked upon as prosy. And 
 even in this country, we sometimes meet with unsuc- 
 cessful Corinnes, who are afraid that domestic duties 
 may interfere with their intellectual development. In 
 France, those writers who defend most earnestly re- 
 ligion, the family, and property, care very little them- 
 selves for the restraints of the two first, and regard the 
 life of a pious and retired family as an extinguisher 
 upon their genius. 
 
 Facts will decide this question, Gentlemen. You 
 know the moral worth and the duration of those pro- 
 ductions of the day, which are often composed in the 
 interval between two orgies. Born in the morning, 
 they die in the evening ; as short-lived as those ephem- 
 eral insects, which the wind chases hither and thither. 
 Racine, on the contrary, after being imbued with pious 
 principles and a taste for domestic life, was a greater 
 poet than ever, and composed the immortal pieces of 
 Esther and Athalie. 
 
 I would gladly go into an examination of these two 
 tragic pieces, but the short time which remains, will 
 scarcely allow me to read a few passages from Esther. 
 
 "We have seen that Racine left the theatre, from 
 religious scruples; and those who would bring him 
 back knew what religious considerations to present. 
 Madam de Maintenon, who had founded the institution 
 of St. Cyr, for young ladies, from distinguished families 
 
 27 
 
314 LECTURE VII. 
 
 of the kingdom, complained of the danger there was 
 n learning them to sing and to recite verses, on account 
 of the nature of the pieces ; and requested of Racine 
 one which should be in all respects proper for such 
 young persons. It was to accede to this desire, that 
 Racine after some hesitation, composed Esther. The 
 subject is well known : the piece is a faithful sequel to 
 the book of Esther, which is found in the Bible ; the 
 characters alone, are changed in some respects. He 
 chose this subject because this portion of Jewish history, 
 he says, is full of great lessons on our love to God, and 
 our separation from the world, while in the midst of it. 
 Racine has very well represented the character of 
 Esther. She appears in all her beauty and moral gran- 
 deur, when she comes to implore pardon for the Jews. 
 Esther trembles before the tyrant on the throne ; but it 
 is, nevertheless, she who governs, and the tyrant who is 
 happy to submit. Never did love obtain a more beau- 
 tiful victory. Nevertheless, Esther is not a heroine; 
 there is nothing extraordinary in her person or charac- 
 ter, neither has she striking beauty ; she is simply a 
 woman ; that is to say, timid, humble, full of reserve 
 and affection ; and it is because she possesses all these 
 unobtrusive virtues, which are the true attributes of her 
 sex, that she exercises such an invincible charm over 
 the despot. An arrogant and imperious young girl, a 
 Phedra carried away by passion, a person full of preten- 
 sion, giving herself up to dreams of the imagination ; a 
 kind of Corinne, clothed in purple, however beautiful 
 she might have been, would never have obtained what 
 was accorded to the modest and timid Esther. The 
 stern Ahasueras would have resisted the haughty face 
 with which a woman of spirit would have braved his 
 orders. It is because Esther has a truly feminine 
 
RACINE. 315 
 
 character, that she obtains what she wishes; it is 
 because she yields that she conquers ; she abases her- 
 self and is exalted. Observe, also, how the despot 
 submits to her influence ; he cannot find words tender 
 enough with which to encourage and console her; he 
 confesses his inferiority before the grandees of his court ; 
 he avows, that without her he could not be happy, and 
 that if he has any true enjoyment, it is because he is 
 able to share it with her. 
 
 " Beloved queen, believe me, neither throne nor crown, 
 With all that they confer of greatness or renown, 
 Their pomp and splendor, can impart a solid peace ; 
 Or their possessor from the cares of life release. 
 In thee alone I find the gentle love and grace, 
 Whose soothing charms each sorrow from the heart efface. 
 ****** ** 
 
 What do I say ? When seated on this throne by thee, 
 I fear no traitor foul, nor pow'rful enemy. 
 Thy brow, before the gods, gives to my diadem, 
 More splendor than its burnished gold, or richest gem.'' 
 
 Act 2. Scene 7. 
 
 Having entered the palace like a criminal condemned 
 to death, Esther leaves it victorious. But, ever modest 
 and unaspiring, she always retains her proper position ; 
 she asks not the half of the kingdom, but simply — 
 
 " That Esther at her table may to-day 
 Receive her sovereign lord." 
 
 Act 2. Scene 7. 
 
 We shall further quote as being very remarkable, the 
 choruses in this tragedy ; they are, as every one knows, 
 of Greek origin.. In Euripides and Sophocles, they 
 represent the people, the nation ; and thus the spectator 
 plays his part, for the chorus is designed to give his im- 
 
316 LECTURE VII. 
 
 pressions and sentiments. French classic tragedy, 
 being in its character rather universal and humanitarian 
 than national, would not admit of the choruses ; but in 
 this case, the subject being special and national, Racine 
 has been able to introduce them without any inconsis- 
 tency. He must be congratulated on his success ; for the 
 poetry is exquisite, and must be ranked among the most 
 beautiful of lyric productions. 
 
 The choruses are composed of young girls, the pious 
 companions of Esther. Then, when all is yet in sus- 
 pense, and Ahasueras merely favorably disposed, does 
 not yet anticipate the design of the arrangement, the 
 appearance of these young Israelites singing, has an 
 admirable effect, when no one can predict, whether it 
 will prove a song of death or of triumph. 
 
 " What destinies, my sisters, think you, us await? 
 Will Esther, or will Hainan, gain the day ? 
 Will God reveal himself divinely great ; 
 Or man his power triumphantly display ? 
 Have you observed what wrath upon the brow 
 Of the enraged king is kindled now ? " 
 
 Act 2. Scene 9. 
 
 But God has interposed in favor of Esther, and — 
 
 " This mighty monarch in a moment is subdued ; 
 The lion with the meekness of the lamb imbued. 
 'Tis God, our God alone, who, to the human heart 
 This tender spirit can impart." 
 
 And the choir respond — - 
 
 " 'Tis God, our God alone," etc. 
 
 They are not however entirely reassured, and one of 
 them betrays her alarm : — 
 
RACINE. 317 
 
 " Ah ! sisters, much I fear, he will not spare our race ; 
 For he, and all his court, in pagan darkness dwell ; 
 They know not God, the mighty God of Israel." 
 
 Their chant then becomes a fervent prayer : — 
 
 " O, God of Judah, scatter all those clouds ; 
 Hear, we entreat, the mourning of thine Israel ; 
 And rend away this awful veil, 
 
 Which to our sight, thy love and faithfulness enshrouds ; 
 O, God of Judah, scatter all these clouds : 
 How long dost thou thyself conceal ! " 
 
 During the chant, one of them having remarked that 
 it would be prudent not to elevate their voices so as to 
 attract the attention of the infidels, is thus reproached 
 for her timidity : — 
 
 " O child of Abraham ! and canst thou thus admit 
 A mortal fear to agitate thy heart ? 
 What ! should the impious Haman in his wrath extreme, 
 The glittering sword uplifted fiercely wave, 
 Bidding those coward lips, as you would save 
 Your life, the name of Judah's God blaspheme." 
 
 And another continues : — 
 
 " My wealth, my heart, and all on earth that I possess, 
 Shall honor him who gives me life and happiness. 
 In dangers, and in deep distress, 
 Her trust in Him my soul shall ever place. 
 And should he bid me at the stake his name confess, 
 My wealth, my heart, and all on earth that I possess, 
 Shall honor Him'who gives me life and happiness." 
 
 Then come afterward the chants of the choir on the 
 fate of the just, and the misery of the ungodly. 
 
 One IsraeKtish ivoman, alone. 
 " The happiness of wicked men has no defence. 
 It lies, the sport of passions changing as the wind. 
 
 27* 
 
318 LECTURE VII. 
 
 Our happiness we will not find, 
 But in the peace of innocence. 
 
 The same, with another. 
 
 O gentle peace ! 
 
 Eternal light ! 
 
 Beauty ever bright ; 
 Happy the heart that will not thee release. 
 
 O gentle peace ! 
 
 Eternal light ! 
 Happy the heart from which thou shalt not cease. 
 
 The Choir. 
 O gentle peace ! 
 Eternal light ! 
 Beauty ever bright 1 
 O gentle peace ! 
 Happy the heart from which thou shalt not cease. 
 
 The same, alone. 
 The sinner vainly seeks for peace in troublous times ; 
 For tranquil joys to fix in him their sweet abodes. 
 Without, the sword o'ertakes his crimes ; 
 Within, remorse his soul corrodes. 
 
 Another. 
 The glory of the wicked, in a moment dies ; 
 Down in the silent grave he and his glory lie. 
 But he, O Lord, who fears thy name, one day shall rise, 
 And shine in splendors brighter than the morning sky. 
 
 The Choir. 
 O gentle peace ! 
 Happy the heart from which thou shalt not cease." 
 
 Act 2. Scene 9. 
 
 All this religious poetry is magnificent. 
 
 When the queen has succeeded in saving her people, 
 the young Israelites chant the praises of the Almighty. 
 
RACINE. 319 
 
 All the Choir. 
 
 " God gives the righteous victory, 
 O praise him to eternity. 
 
 An Israelitish woman. 
 The sinner I have seen, on earth adored ; 
 His head, like lofty cedars, to the sky, 
 Uplifting proudly high ; 
 
 He seems to rule the thunder by his sov'reign word. 
 His foes beneath his feet all vanquished lie. 
 Again I pass ; his tomb alone can I descry." 
 
 Seeing in this first favor the sure pledge of many- 
 others, the Israelites already hail their approaching de- 
 liverance from captivity, and their restoration to the land 
 of their fathers. 
 
 An Israelitish woman, alone. 
 " Thy God with thee is reconciled ; 
 Rejoice, O weeping Zion. Shake thee from the dust. 
 Cast off thy servile robes, by tears and toil defiled, 
 Resume the garments which become the just. 
 The curse on Israel now no more remains. 
 
 O burst your chains, 
 
 Ye captive bands 
 
 In foreign lands ; 
 Retrace your steps, o'er seas and plains, 
 Assemble from the most remote domains. 
 
 Another. 
 The Lord is good and merciful I His yoke is light ! 
 And happy he who it from infancy has known. 
 Ye children, count this service your most valued right : 
 No earthly joys can ever yield you such delight. 
 As he affords to them who his dominion own." 
 
 Act 3. Scene 9. 
 
 We have seen, Gentlemen, that this piece was com- 
 posed for the young pupils of St. Cyr, by whom it was 
 
320 LECTUKE VII. 
 
 represented with such success, that it became necessary 
 to admit the public, for everybody wished to see it. 
 Ministers left the most pressing business, religious 
 people who had scruples about hearing other pieces, ran 
 to this ; and the Jesuits themselves, went in great num- 
 bers. The many flatteries addressed to the king and 
 Madame de Maintenon, for which this piece must be 
 censured, drew a great number. And others were 
 especially attracted by allusions of another nature. 
 One of the greatest merits of this tragedy was, the fact 
 of its being a severe criticism on those who were the 
 most eager in their admiration. We may say that it 
 was inspired by the events of the time. This Ahasu- 
 eras, this absolute, capricious monarch, submitting to 
 the government of females, while reserving to himself 
 the right of banishing them at his pleasure, is no other 
 than the fickle and weak Louis XIV., who intended 
 that his court should resemble that of a Persian mon- 
 arch. And that strange decree obtained by the artifices 
 of a treacherous minister, the publication of which was 
 to be the signal for the death of an entire people, what 
 is it but the cruel and impolitic revocation of the Edict 
 of Nantes, which withdrew from the better part of the 
 nation, the protection of the laws; which, while enrich- 
 ing Europe, gave to France a wound from which she yet 
 suffers? The allusions are so striking, that nothing. is 
 wanting but the proper names. Thus at the moment 
 when the great Arnaud, one of the champions of Jan- 
 senism, was accused of rashness, for having said, that the 
 king might be deceived, Racine, the friend of Port 
 Royal and of Arnaud, fears not to say before Louis 
 XIV. : — 
 
 " The mightiest king 
 From justice may be made to swerve." 
 
RACINE. 321 
 
 The allusions to the revocation of the Edict of 
 Nantes are yet more clear, for Racine says : — 
 
 " The king, too credulous, this murderous law has signed." 
 
 All who participated in this sad revocation, are drawn 
 to the life. The minister Louvois here saw himself 
 painted in the blackest colors ; and that he might not 
 mistake the likeness, Racine took care to put into 
 Hainan's mouth the very words which escaped from 
 the minister of Louis XIV., in the pride of power. 
 
 Madame de Maintenon would necessarily be Esther ; 
 and it is here, above all, that the satire is most cutting. 
 The Christian is far less estimable than the Jewess. 
 They have both been born in the ranks of the proscribed 
 race ; Madame de Maintenon, as is known, having come 
 from a Protestant family. But while Esther strives to 
 appease the wrath of the Persian despot, Madame de 
 Maintenon, the devotee, has not the least scruple in 
 employing her influence for the persecution of the 
 Protestants, although formerly one of their number. 
 The kind of influence which each also exerts, is so 
 different, that we cannot put the pure, noble, and gen- 
 erous Esther, in the society of the Maintenons. 
 
 If it could be proved that Racine thought of all these 
 things in composing his tragedy, and that he sought to 
 write a critique on despotism, by showing its sad 
 effects, it would have been an unheard of audacity ; and 
 we should then commend the idea still more than the 
 execution, although that is irreproachable. It is certain 
 that his contemporaries remarked all these things in this 
 piece. And it is difficult not to believe that he had the 
 greater part of these allusions in view while writing 
 Esther. They are, in fact, so numerous, that we are forced 
 to admit that Racine ; who had not the simplicity of 
 
322 LECTURE VII. 
 
 Corneille, but, on the contrary, abounded in mischievous 
 wit, and even satire, has expressed his real thoughts in 
 many places. And we are confirmed in this opinion 
 by knowing that the miserable condition of the people 
 had already attracted his attention, and that he was 
 interesting himself in politics. He afterward com- 
 posed a memorial on this subject, at the request of 
 Madame de Maintenon ; and the king having surprised 
 her with it in her hands, was very much offended. 
 " Does he believe, because he can write verses to per- 
 fection, that he knows every thing? " said Louis XIV. ; 
 " And because he is a great poet, does he aspire to be a 
 minister?" From this moment Racine was in dis- 
 grace, and appeared no more at court. 
 
 All these circumstances taken together, confirm the 
 idea, that in composing this piece, Racine intended to 
 make allusion to contemporaneous events. So that we 
 are perfectly authorized to call Esther, not only a mag- 
 nificent tragedy, but, above all, a beautiful action. 
 
MOLlfcRE. 
 
 (323) 
 
LECTURE VIII 
 
 MOLIERE. 
 
 TRAGIC AND COMIC STYLE. THE MISANTHROPE. TARTUFE. — 
 
 J. J. ROUSSEAU'S OPINION OF MOLIERE. — MOLIERE'S MORALITY 
 TESTED. — MOLIERE. J. J. ROUSSEAU. — PASCAL. 
 
 We know but little of the life of Jean Baptiste 
 Poquelin Moliere, who was born at Paris, January 15, 
 1622; and died there, February 17, 1673. It is only 
 within a few years that we have been able to obtain a 
 good biography of this great comic writer. The few 
 rare incidents that have been collected, are of very great 
 value; as showing us how this original genius was 
 formed and developed. In order to give you at once, 
 an idea of the merit of this remarkable man, I will cite 
 the opinion of a competent writer. Louis XIV. one 
 day asked Boileau, which was the most extraordinary 
 of the great writers that had honored France during 
 his reign. " Sire," replied the satirist, without hesita- 
 tion, " It is Moliere." " I had not thought so," said 
 Louis XIV., " but you know better than I." This judg- 
 ment is irreversible ; and puts in bold relief the particu- 
 lar merit of MoliSre. He is above all, a rare genius, as 
 
 28 (325) 
 
326 LECTURE VIII. 
 
 his friend La Fontaine said. Not only is there but 
 one Moliere in France, there is but one in Europe.* 
 Foreign literature may, with more or less reason, boast 
 a tragedy superior to that of our classic theatre ; but it 
 does not even dream of disputing the prize, where 
 comedy is in question. Moliere has outstripped all his 
 predecessors, and still waits for a rival. There are good 
 comedies ; but comedies a la Moliere are no longer to 
 be seen. 
 
 His style, indeed, is not equal in purity to that of 
 many authors of his age. His verses, for instance, have 
 neither the harmony nor clearness of Racine's. Mo- 
 liere did not pride himself on elegance; yet he wrote 
 with that nerve and vigor which we find in Corneille ; 
 and which we regret not to find in Racine. He was 
 deficient in correctness: as shown in the use of obso- 
 lete expressions, which require a commentary to make 
 Ihem understood. This is owing to his belonging to 
 the first part of the great reign. Though he belongs to 
 the seventeenth century, his face is still turned towards 
 the sixteenth, of which he is a continuation ; and this 
 constitutes his originality. Moliere is not one of those 
 scholars whom we shall meet somewhat later ; but, a 
 man, in the genuine acceptation of the word ; a great 
 poet. He belongs to that rare class of geniuses who 
 have written for all times, in the name of universal 
 reason. He is not of the family of Racine or Virgil ; 
 but of that of Corneille, Shakspeare, and Walter Scott 
 Free, original, inventive, he does not employ marked 
 personalities to crash all around him, like Lord Byron ; 
 but he puts himself in the place of others. His own 
 overflowing fife animates all that surrounds him. Mo- 
 liere is one of the few men who have the talent of being 
 able to talk with feeling about every thing ; and who 
 
MOLIERE. 327 
 
 add to this universal comprehension, so much reserve 
 and disinterestedness that they can always keep them- 
 selves out of sight ; so that we are obliged to consider 
 them as abstract beings whom general reason employs 
 as her organ. As they never say any thing concerning 
 their own feelings, you are tempted to believe them 
 insensible ; nevertheless, your judgment is changed, 
 when, on the contrary, you see their rare sensibility 
 enabling them to comprehend and paint every senti- 
 ment as if they had experienced it. It is this faculty, 
 developed to a high degree, which constituted the cre- 
 ative talent of Moliere, and which has peopled our lit- 
 erature with a crowd of personages, who, although 
 essentially differing one from another, have, neverthe- 
 less, a family likeness, readily recognized. He feels 
 every thing ; nothing escapes his scrutinizing eye ; he 
 moves through life with admirable ease ; but on his 
 way, like the bee, he so appropriates and assimilates 
 every thing around him, that his extraordinary fertility 
 has enabled him in fifteen years to produce thirty 
 pieces ; in which he is, in turn, a painter of manners ; 
 a critic, jester, and profound philosopher. And yet this 
 man, so sympathizing, is impenetrable ; for, while he 
 speaks of all in a tone which indicates personal expe- 
 rience, yet it is so contradictory that you are left in 
 doubt as to his real opinions and sentiments. Never- 
 theless, although he may not have specially employed 
 any one of his heroes to represent himself, there are 
 certain features of his works, which will enable us to 
 discover his personality, and his system of philosophy ; 
 if so be that he had one. And this we shall endeavor 
 to do in the course of this examination. 
 
 In order to understand his writings, we must first be- 
 come acquainted with the man. The remark of Vol- 
 
328 LECTURE VIII. 
 
 taire, that almost all who have made themselves a name 
 in the fine arts, have cultivated them against the will of 
 parents ; and that nature has always been stronger in 
 them than education, will particularly apply to our 
 author. His father, John Poquelin, had destined him to 
 succeed him as valet de chambre and upholsterer to the 
 king ; hoping that this would nearly enable him to sup- 
 port his nine brothers and sisters, of whom he was the 
 eldest. He was obliged to work until the age of four- 
 teen, with his father ; who, according to the custom of 
 the time, had given him merely the rudiments of an 
 education. 
 
 Here a new period of his life commences. The 
 young Poquelin had no taste for upholstery ; and having 
 occasionally been taken to witness the performance of a 
 comedy, by his grandfather, he acquired a taste for the 
 theatre ; and, thanks to his entreaties and the interces- 
 sion of this grandfather, he succeeded in obtaining per- 
 mission to study. And the future author of Tartufe 
 entered the college of Clermont, which was under the 
 direction of the Jesuits. He studied five years in this 
 establishment, with the success which had been antici- 
 pated from his zeal ; and afterward he received lessons 
 from Gassendi, the famous adversary of Descartes, who 
 taught him the philosophy of Epicurus. 
 
 His course was hardly finished, when in 1641, he was 
 obliged to quit his studies, and go to Narbonne, to ac- 
 company the king, in the capacity of valet de chambre. 
 The first journey, which lasted a year, opens the series 
 of those numerous excursions in the different parts of 
 France which furnished Molidre so many scenes and 
 characters. After having studied law at Orleans, and 
 having been admitted to the bar in Paris, he finished by 
 yielding to his taste for the drama. A comedian, before 
 
MOLIERE. 329 
 
 being an author, he placed himself at the head of a 
 company, that takes the name of the illustrious theatre ; 
 a pompous title, which he will yet justify. The enter- 
 prise not succeeding at Paris, he travelled with the 
 troop, giving representations in the principal cities he 
 visited. "We first see him at Bordeaux, where he pre- 
 sents the tragedy of La Thibaide, which is unsuccessful ; 
 and afterward at Lyons, where he obtains complete 
 success in VEtourdi; and afterward at Avignon, at 
 Pezenas, at Narbonic, at Montpelier, at Grenoble, and 
 at Rouen. Thus we see that Moliere left no part of 
 France unexplored. Like a sagacious man, he com- 
 menced in Gascony, in order to go thence to Nor- 
 mandy, through the good country of Pezenas, as he will 
 afterward term it. It was then that Moliere studied 
 manners, and gathered that knowledge which he so well 
 knew how to turn to account ; and probably also at this 
 time he saw M. de Pourceaugnac in his travels. Our 
 author did not even wait to return to Paris, before 
 painting the countries he had visited. Being at one 
 time on the borders of the Herault, in that part of 
 France where the names generally terminate in the 
 syllable gnac, he lost his valise. " Do not search for 
 it," said he to his friends ; " I have just come from Gig- 
 nac, I am in Lavagnac, I can see the steeple of Mon- 
 tagnac; it is in the midst of all these gnacs, that my 
 valise has been lost." He never found it, however. 
 
 He did not wait for opportunities to make his obser- 
 vations; but would take measures to see and study 
 manners in the provinces he visited. Thus, while he 
 remained at Pazenas, a good old town in the south of 
 France, Saturday being the market-day, he would 
 punctually visit in the afternoon, the shop of the barber, 
 which had a numerous list of customers. It was the 
 
 28* 
 
330 LECTURE VIII. 
 
 rendezvous of the country people, of the idle and also 
 the agreeable ; for, before the establishment of cafe's in 
 small towns, the barber's shop was the place for news, 
 where the story of the day was recounted and dis- 
 cussed by the public. A large arm-chair occupied one 
 of the corners of the shop ; and of this Moliete took 
 possession. You can easily see, how useful such ses- 
 sions would be to the skilful observer. No doubt thai 
 more than one original character came under his ob- 
 servation here ; and that these good citizens of Pazenas, 
 with their lively southern repartees, furnished him with 
 more than one flash of wit, and aided him in writing 
 those dialogues so animated and so pointed, in which 
 he excels. In order to form an idea of what Moliere 
 could learn in such circumstances, we must remember 
 that there were then no newspapers ; and that news 
 was disseminated from the barber's shop, as is still the 
 custom, in the south of France. All the people of the 
 place came in turn to relate their stories, which were 
 probably enriched by numerous commentaries ; and 
 if the chronicler of the day was in fault, the barber, 
 familiar with the whole history of the country, for 
 many generations, would not remain silent It is 
 necessary to have witnessed these scenes, to understand 
 how greatly Moli&re would profit by this southern elo- 
 quence. 
 
 On returning to Paris, after his long journeys, he no 
 longer called himself Poquelin. This ignoble name was 
 transformed into that of Moliere. You may think it 
 strange, that he who afterward wrote, " what an insult 
 to give up the real name of his father ; " that he who 
 makes us laugh at the expense of M. de la Souche, M. 
 de l'Isle, and many other respectable personages, should 
 himself have fallen into the common whim. This, in 
 
MOLIERE. 331 
 
 fact, would only be another proof among a hundred thou- 
 sand others, of human weakness ; but Poq'uelin was not 
 blamable in so doing. He did not change his name as 
 a framework for chimeras; he was not like so many- 
 others, inspired by vanity, but by filial respect. His 
 parents were grieved, that he had attached himself to 
 the theatre ; and in order to save from contempt, the 
 name he had received from his family, he changed it to 
 that of Moliere. Notwithstanding this, his parents made 
 continual efforts to withdraw him from his vocation. 
 And some of his relatives refused to hold any inter- 
 course with him, even when he was at the height of his 
 glory. They would probably have been willing to have 
 him compose comedies ; but it was especially the pro- 
 fession of a comedian, which displeased them. Mo- 
 liere, like Shakspeare, was the first founder of the com- 
 pany -which represented his pieces. But these two 
 great men felt with equal justice, that the business of a 
 comedian was beneath them ; and have complained of 
 being reduced to this condition, in terms so energetic, 
 as to be worth the trouble of relating. Shakspeare 
 wrote to the young Lord Southampton, his protector : 
 "to reproach fortune, that culpable divinity, with its 
 misdeeds in not choosing for him something better than 
 that public profession which entertains public corrup- 
 tion. Thus my name receives a mark of reproach. 
 Thus my nature is almost brought down to the level of 
 that stain which has been put upon it." Moliere spoke 
 in still stronger terms. A young man of great talent, 
 desiring to become a comedian, came to consult him : 
 " and have you any property ? " said Moliere to him. 
 " My father is an advocate in easy circumstances," 
 answered the young man. " In that case, I counsel you 
 to take his profession ; ours is not the one for you ; it is 
 
332 LECTURE VIII. 
 
 the last resource of those who know not how to do 
 better, or of libertines who are not willing to work. 
 Besides, to come upon the stage is to thrust a dagger 
 into the hearts of your parents; you know why. I 
 have always reproached myself for having thus dis- 
 pleased my family, and I confess to you, that if I had 
 to commence anew, I should never choose this profes- 
 sion. You believe, perhaps, that it has its pleasures ; 
 but you are deceived. It is true that our society ap- 
 pears to be sought by great lords ; but they make us 
 subservient to their pleasure. And it is the saddest of 
 all amusements, to be the slave of their fancies. The 
 rest of the world look upon us as lost men, and despise 
 
 us Think of our unpleasant situation ; whether 
 
 incommoded or not, we must be ready to march at the 
 first order, and give pleasure to others, while we our- 
 selves are often oppressed with troubles ; to suffer the 
 rudeness of the greater part of the people with whom 
 we have to live ; and to secure the favor of a public, 
 who feel they have a right to treat us roughly for the 
 money they give. No, sir, once more, believe me ; do 
 not carry out the plan you have formed." 
 
 This answer makes us acquainted with Moliere ; and 
 reveals especially the delicacy of his sentiments. But 
 while we regret to see him reduced to the state of a co- 
 median, we see with pleasure Louis XIV. exert himself to 
 shield Moliere from the contempt to which he was ex- 
 posed. Thus the great king did not hesitate to hold the 
 first child of the great comedian at the baptismal font. 
 Learning afterward that some of his royal followers 
 had objected to eating at the same table with Moliere, 
 the king caused him to be seated at his own table ; 
 and some of the courtiers coming in, he said to them : 
 " You see me busy in making Moliere eat, whom my 
 
MOLIERE. 333 
 
 officers did not think good company enougn for 
 them." 
 
 As might be expected, after this adventure Moliere 
 was sought by the great; and invitations flowed in 
 upon him; but he would never consent to be a play- 
 thing for the nobles of the court. In ordinary life he 
 was neither jovial nor agreeable. On the contrary, he 
 was reserved and absent-minded, like CorneiUe and La 
 Fontaine. He even gave himself the name of Misan- 
 thrope; and Boileau gave him the name of Contem- 
 plator. 
 
 His reveries were much like those of La Fontaine. 
 Having one day hired a sedan chair to take him to the 
 theatre, and being in great haste, he was so annoyed by 
 the slow movements of the carrier, that in his impa- 
 tience he leaped out, and began to push the vehicle. 
 Nor in his abstraction was he aware of what he was 
 doing, until aroused by the peals of laughter which 
 came from the man, to whose aid he had come, in order 
 to quicken his speed. 
 
 As to the title of misanthrope, which he gave him- 
 self, he only merited it in appearance ; for he was al- 
 ways very humane, generous, and disinterested. Thus, 
 it was Moliere, who encouraged Racine, and aided him 
 by his purse, while he was young, and struggling 
 against the difficulties of a first appearance. This 
 generosity, the author of the Misanthrope did not fail 
 to exercise toward every one. It is related that a pro- 
 vincial comedian who was in want, came to implore aid 
 from his friend Baron, of whose education Moliere had 
 the superintendence. " How much ought he to have ? " 
 inquired Moliere of Baron. " Four pistoles," was the 
 answer. " Give him four from me," said Moliere ; " but 
 here are twenty more, which I shall give him from you ; 
 
334 LECTURE VIII. 
 
 for I wish him to know that it is to you he is obliged 
 for the service which I render him." 
 
 There is another incident which shows us that he 
 knew how to honor virtue, wherever he found it. 
 Jumping into a hackney-coach, he threw, in his haste, a 
 piece of money to a poor man who solicited charity. 
 Soon after, perceiving the beggar running after the car- 
 riage and making great efforts to overtake it, he ordered 
 the coachman to stop. " Sir," said the poor man, " you 
 probably did not intend to give me a louis, and here it 
 is." " Hold, my friend," said Moliere, " here is another." 
 Then he exclaimed : " what a residence has virtue 
 chosen!" These little incidents seem to reveal the 
 character of the man whose great works we are now to 
 pass in admiring review before us. He will by and 
 by show himself as the severe censor, the keen critic, 
 who throws no illusion over human nature, but laughs 
 pitilessly at all its follies. And it is well for us to be 
 informed in advance, that this did not prevent him from 
 being good and loving. 
 
 We can say nothing better in regard to the marriage 
 of Moliere than of La Fontaine's. The two friends had 
 no occasion to envy each other; only that Molidre, 
 who was less fickle than La Fontaine, suffered the 
 most ; for, he appears to have always loved his wife, 
 though she was unworthy of him. More than once, 
 has he represented in concert with her, scenes at the 
 theatre, which to them, were only too real. 
 
 I believe it was M. de Lamartine, who not long since 
 said, that wherever there is any great thing done, we 
 find the influence of woman. This idea, which is alto- 
 gether too absolute, seems to have found its truth in 
 the case of Moliere. There was a woman, advanced 
 in age, belonging to his household, who was attached 
 
MOLIERE. 335 
 
 to Molidre, and who rendered him great services ; for, 
 though a domestic, she was one of those personages who 
 are a sort of second providence to students, and men of 
 learning and genius ; one of those who all their lives 
 preserve their full and entire liberty, and live in a state 
 of isolation. This estimable person, the good La Foret, 
 as she was called, was not only useful to her master, by 
 her unwearied care of him in those domestic matters 
 which imperiously demand the hand of a woman ; but 
 she was still more serviceable to him, by the advice she 
 gave him in regard to those productions which were 
 within the range of her good-selise and natural talent. 
 Moliere, says Boileau, sometimes read his comedies to 
 her ; and he assured me, that when the humorous pas- 
 sages did not strike her, he corrected them ; having 
 often proved at the theatre, that such parts did not suc- 
 ceed. One day, in order to prove the tact and judg- 
 ment of his Egeria, Moliere read to her several scenes 
 of a comedy, by another author ; giving them as his 
 own work ; but the good La Foret was not deceived, 
 and maintained, that her master was not the author of 
 it. Moliere felt it so necessary to know what simple 
 people thought of his pieces, that he required the 
 comedians to bring their children to the rehearsal of the 
 pieces, that he might observe the effect they produced 
 upon them. « 
 
 Before passing to the examination of some of Mo- 
 liere's pieces, we must form a just idea of the difference 
 between tragedy and comedy. In speaking of Boileau 
 we endeavored to ascertain what constitutes the tragic 
 and the comic element respectively. It now remains 
 to us to trace the consequences of these principles. 
 Comedy is just the opposite of tragedy. The tragic 
 author presents us a noble, elevated, and virtuous ideal, 
 
33fi LECTURE VIII. 
 
 in order to elevate us above ourselves and the miseries 
 of life ; his highest ambition is, to give us a well-regu- 
 lated life, in which the senses are so held in subjection 
 by the spirit, that the corporeal and animal part of man 
 always obeys the laws of conscience and intelligence. 
 Comedy is exactly the reverse of this. While the 
 drama gives us the most beautiful ideal of life, comedy 
 delights in giving us caricatures. The tragic ideal is a 
 man, in whom reason, intelligence, and conscience regu- 
 late every thing; while the comic hero on the contrary, 
 is a personage in whom reason and intelligence con- 
 tinually yield to the laws of sense and matter. It is by 
 means of this contrast, which is really more sad than 
 laughable, that the comic authors raise a laugh, which 
 may easily become bitter. While tragic authors are 
 pleased to paint human virtues, and entertain us with 
 all that is great, noble, and generous in our nature, the 
 comic author enters the vaster field of our miseries and 
 our vices, our weaknesses and vanity. If the first ex- 
 aggerates the good in presenting the too virtuous man, 
 the second willingly exaggerates the evil. He withholds 
 no defects ; they all suit his purpose, provided he can 
 succeed in being diverting; his sole end is to make 
 others laugh. You see why congruity can never be 
 strictly observed in a comic piece; the author's lan- 
 guage may easily degenerate into licentiousness ; for, 
 as he seeks at any price to make us laugh, he is not 
 over scrupulous as to the means, and does not always 
 stop short of scandal. Such is comedy in its primitive 
 form ; it has nothing grave, nothing serious ; it laughs 
 for the sake of laughing ; and exposes our miseries and 
 vices, for the sole purpose of ridiculing them. Aristo- 
 phanes, the Greek, especially cultivated this style of 
 writing, which has now gone into disuse. When we 
 
M L I E R E . 337 
 
 laugh simply for the sake of laughing, we soon pass to 
 farce, and to the burlesque and grotesque style. Aristo- 
 phanes himself, avoids this irregularity, only by falling 
 into another ; he first makes comedy a political satire, 
 and then uses it to attack individuals. And you know 
 the wrong he has done Socrates. Aristophanes was 
 the last author among the Greeks, who cultivated this 
 style of comedy, unknown to the moderns. Punch, the 
 Charavari, and other similar papers represent to a cer- 
 tain point, this style of comedy ; which it is now at- 
 tempted to revive, with democratic manners. 
 
 It has at last been found, that even to excite mirth 
 and laughter with success, it is indispensable to have a 
 serious end in view. Comedy has therefore assumed a 
 more grave, and to a certain point, it might be said, 
 moral character. The poet no longer proposes, only to 
 ridicule every thing around him. Jesting is not his sole 
 end. He would not only make his readers laugh, but 
 he would reform, while diverting them ; and for this end 
 he exposes the faults of men, in order to make them 
 ashamed of them. Comedy, then, proposes the same 
 end as tragedy, while employing different means. The 
 tragic poet is a grave and serious person, who would 
 lead his fellow-travellers in the path of virtue, by re- 
 minding them of the great examples of those who have 
 preceded them. The comic poet, on the contrary, in 
 order to make them love virtue better, ridicules vice. 
 The one exhorts men to look on high ; the other en- 
 courages them to walk on, by showing them how 
 ridiculous it would be, to allow themselves to be stop- 
 ped by the miseries of the way. " While Corneille and 
 Racine, in order to make us love a noble, generous, and 
 delicate woman, have given us the beautiful characters 
 of Pauline and Esther, Moliere has pursued the same 
 
 29 
 
338 LECTURE VIII. 
 
 end by exposing to ridicule, the precieuses, Madelon 
 and Cathon; whose pretension to being wits, has 
 caused them to forget that they were women. Both 
 would make us love virtue : the former by showing it to 
 us in all the splendor of its beauty ; the latter by expos- 
 ing vice in all its deformity ; hoping that its distorted 
 visage will cause us to turn our attention to the grace- 
 ful features of virtue. 
 
 This definition will suffice to show us, that tragedy 
 is much superior to comedy ; although the latter may 
 undoubtedly have the privilege of pleasing the multi- 
 tude infinitely more. Both pursue the same end; but 
 tragedy employs such grave, serious, and honorable 
 means, as the purest morality would approve ; at least, 
 such is the case with Corneille and Racine. Comedy, 
 on the contrary, mingles seriousness and mirth ; and 
 often wilh too much fidelity, it introduces the very 
 defects it would censure. Its morality, often very 
 questionable, is never very elevated ; it sums up all in 
 prudence ; no one is to steal or kill ; appearances must 
 be saved ; they must not compromise themselves, but 
 always appear as perfectly honest men ; and this is the 
 highest ideal to which the hero of a comedy can aspire. 
 A comic scene does not know how to give us any types 
 of virtue, or of men who rise above the vulgar; but 
 confines itself to giving us beings, who do not rise 
 above the ordinary level. And, as if afraid of frighten- 
 ing us, it takes care to render even its most accom- 
 plished heroes a little ridiculous. Therefore Corneille 
 and Racine may be read with propriety by every one ; 
 which is not the case with regard to the productions of 
 Moliere. We . shall now bid adieu to the heroes and 
 heroines of tragedy, in order to make acquaintance with 
 the much more pliant virtues of comedy ; and with per- 
 
MOLIERE. 339 
 
 sons who, not aspiring so high, are contented to be 
 simply prudent, sage, and reasonable. 
 
 The comedies of Moliere may be divided into two 
 sufficiently distinct classes : in one he is the censor of 
 the manners of the times; attacking especially the 
 faults of his contemporaries. In the other he is a 
 philosopher ; and, placing himself in a more elevated 
 point of view, he ridicules certain general faults and 
 oddities which are confined to no time or place, because 
 they are inherent in human nature. The Ridiculous 
 Precieuses, the Learned Women, the Gentleman Citizen, 
 are of the first class. These comedies having a strong 
 local coloring, cannot be so well understood by foreign- 
 ers ; and we shall therefore pass them by, and confine 
 ourselves to the Misanthrope and Tartvfe. 
 
 In these, the author's genius has reached its maturity ; 
 by these he demands to be judged, for they exhibit his 
 moral and philosophical tendencies, more than his other 
 writings. And by them we are prepared to form a just 
 idea of comedy in general, and of the talent of Moliere 
 in particular. 
 
 THE MISANTHROPE. 
 
 The Misanthrope, a piece played in 1660, is, particu- 
 larly, a comedy of characters. The maxims, manners, 
 and peculiarities of the higher classes of society of every 
 age are represented with great success. 
 
 The principal personage, Alceste, is one of the best 
 men in the world ; but unhappily, his virtue is of a stern 
 cast ; and he merits only too well his epithet of Misan- 
 thrope, or enemy of men. The first scene presents him 
 sad and vexed; his friend Philinte wishes to console 
 him, but he answers : — 
 
340 LECTURE VIII. 
 
 " I will be angry, and I will not hear." 
 
 And as Philinte appeals to their friendship, Alceste 
 stops him immediately : — 
 
 " Call me your friend ! erase that from your books ; 
 I have profess'd,. sincerely too, your friend to be. 
 But, after what this day in you I see, 
 1 1 must decline that title to retain ; 
 To dwell in such a heart, I do disdain." 
 
 The cause of this rupture, so abrupt and irremediless, 
 is this : Alceste, the misanthrope, has just seen his pre- 
 tended friend lavish upon a stranger the most lively 
 marks of affection ; and this third personage has no 
 sooner departed, than Philinte declares, that he was 
 a stranger to him, and he scarcely knew his name. 
 Scandalized by this heartless profession of friendship, 
 Alceste reproaches Philinte in these terms : — 
 
 " Away ! you ought, for very shame to die. 
 
 * * ***** 
 
 A horrid sight ! It fills me with dismay, 
 That one himself thus basely should betajjc 
 Had I, by chance, so vile an action done, 
 On the next tree, to hang myself, I 'd run." 
 
 All this commotion is occasioned by some marks of 
 friendship, which were scarcely sincere. You will 
 doubtless find that the misanthrope gets a little too 
 angry; nevertheless, I hope the explanations of Phi- 
 linte will fail to satisfy you completely. Philinte is 
 just the opposite of his friend Alceste : if the virtue of 
 the latter is too severe, that of the former is too yield- 
 ing; if one is wrong in being too much offended at 
 every thing, the other has the greater fault of never 
 
MOLIERE. 341 
 
 being offended at any thing. The philosophy of Phi- 
 linte is most accommodating; he gives himself no 
 trouble or uneasiness about any thing ; he simply takes 
 the world as it is, without vexing himself about it. Do 
 not believe, however, that he looks upon it as altogether 
 beautiful; he has a low idea of human nature, and 
 holds men to be wicked brutes enough; nevertheless, 
 he succeeds in acting as an optimist, in spite of his pes- 
 simist theories, ^hilinte is a disenchanted man, who 
 regulates his conduct from his experience of the wick- 
 edness of the world ; nothing can astonish him, for he 
 expects every thing. 
 
 " The vices (he replied to the misanthrope) you with such 
 contempt upbraid, 
 Are in the very nature God has made 
 Therefore no more I let it cause me pain, 
 That men are selfish, treacherous, and vain, 
 Than that the vultures dart upon their prey ; 
 That monkeys play ; or wolves the lambs do slay." 
 
 "We conceive that with such an idea of human nature, 
 Philinte must be very accommodating, as regards the • 
 article, virtue ; when he finds it, he makes but little ac- 
 count of it, not knowing whether it is sincere. And 
 when he does not find it, he overlooks the want of it, 
 with the best heart in the world; knowing, that on this 
 earth, the plant is rare. Withal, he is extremely indul- 
 gent ; he has condemned human nature ; and thus their 
 accounts being settled, they live as good friends. Vir- 
 tue and vice interest him but little, for he regards them 
 as only two words, which designate one and the same 
 thing, for which his phiftsophy has not given itself the 
 trouble to find a proper name. 
 
 29* 
 
342 LECTURE VIII. 
 
 " Why mourn so much the follies of the times ? 
 ******* 
 You '11 find a pliant virtue indispensable. 
 Ev'n wisdom in excess is reprehensible. 
 Extremes with reason never can agree : 
 It tempers wisdom with sobriety. 
 Virtue so stiff is out of date ; 
 And with the times cannot amalgamate : 
 It seeks in man perfection none attains. 
 We must from singularity abstain. 
 And 't is a folly of the grossest kind, 
 T" attempt this world by rigid rules to bind. 
 
 As men I find, I take them without scruple; 
 My conscience, now, by practice, has become quite supple. 
 In court or camp, my phlegm will sooner win the smile 
 Of approbation, than your melancholy bile." 
 
 Act 1. Scene 1. 
 
 We can easily imagine the incompatibility of tem- 
 per, which must subsist between two characters so 
 different ; and the maxims of Philinte only serve to 
 incense the misanthrope, who is but too bitter already. 
 When he is told, that his stern virtue exposes him to 
 ridicule, he congratulates himself. 
 
 " I 'm glad ; that is precisely what I wish ; 
 ****** 
 So thoroughly I scorn the human race, 
 Their commendation I should call disgrace." 
 
 Another subject of disagreement is introduced. The 
 misanthrope has a suit with an individual, generally 
 known as a dishonest man; bulk whose intrigues, never- 
 theless, make him formidable. Philinte counsels him 
 to call upon the judges, if he would not run the risk of 
 
MOLIEUE. 343 
 
 losing it. Alceste is too honest to have recourse to such 
 means, and does not follow his advice. 
 
 " PHILINTE. 
 
 But whom then, do you wish to plead your cause ? 
 
 ALCESTE. 
 
 Whom do I wish ? Reason, justice, and my rights." 
 
 Sure of his rights, he will take no further steps ; and 
 then he is assured that he will lose his suit. So much 
 the better, he replies ; it will at least show how far 
 human ivickedness may go. 
 
 A new occasion soon presents itself, to show the 
 difference of sentiment between the two friends. The 
 misanthrope is accosted by a man who overwhelms 
 him with protestations of affection, and asks him to his 
 face, if he will be his friend. 
 
 " ALCESTE. 
 
 This honor far exceeds what I deserve ; 
 
 Yet friendship should, methinks, commence with some reserve. 
 
 T' endure, with prudence must our friendship dwell ; 
 For they who love, should know each other well." 
 
 Act 1. Scene 2. 
 
 The proposition is accepted by Oronte, who finds it 
 very wise ; and in order to commence forming this beau- 
 tiful tie without delay, he wishes to read him some 
 original verses. This causes the famous scene of the 
 sonnet, one of the most beautiful of Moliere's. Oronte 
 is one of those authori^ who weary every one with 
 their poetry, and whom easy-tempered people praise, in 
 
344 LECTURE VIII. 
 
 order to rid themselves of their importunity. But 
 our misanthrope is not the man, to be thus accom- 
 modating; and he requests him to dispense with the 
 reading. 
 
 " ALCESTE. 
 
 I am inclined 
 To be somewhat too frank in matters of this kind. 
 
 ORONTE. 
 
 That meets my wants ; and I shall be surpris'd, 
 If when I show my faults, to have them criticiz'd, 
 You shall from me, your honest thought withhold. 
 
 ALCESTE. 
 
 Well, if that please, your faults shall all be told. 
 
 ORONTE. 
 
 Sonnet. It is a tonnet. .... Hope It is a dame, 
 
 Who cherished in mc hope's expiring flame. 
 
 Hope Nothing like your great and pompous poetry ; 
 
 But little, tender verses, full of harmony. 
 
 ALCESTE. 
 
 We soon shall see. 
 
 ORONTE. 
 
 Hope I am not sure the verse 
 
 Will to your better judgment flowing seem, and terse ; 
 Or whether you will think the choice of words is good. 
 
 ALCESTE. 
 
 We shall sec, Sir. 
 
 ORONTE. 
 
 And I would have it understood, 
 That this was made within one quarter of an hour. 
 
 ALCEST* 
 
 We shall see, Sir. Quickness in writing is not power. 
 
MOLIERE. 345 
 
 oronte (reads'). 
 Hope, it is true, may comfort bring, 
 And, for a time, abate our pain. 
 But Phillis, what an empty thing, 
 If nothing follows in its train ! 
 
 PHILINTE. 
 
 I must confess, your verses give me great delight. 
 
 alceste (aside to Philinte). 
 What ! call such doggrel beautiful ; can that be right ? 
 
 ORONTE. 
 
 You are too lenient to my verse. 
 I wish you would in candor show 
 My faults ; nor be averse 
 Your inmost thought to let me know." 
 
 When Alceste is asked for his opinion, he replies in 
 all sincerity : — 
 
 " To criticize that man is somewhat delicate, 
 Who hopes his own opinions you '11 corroborate. 
 I said, on hearing verses of this mold 
 From one, whose name I shall withhold : 
 This making rhymes, I think, is a disease, 
 Which men of soundest minds may sometimes seize, 
 But surely it is neither kind nor wise, 
 To bring our plagues before the public eyes. 
 Too fond a wish to show one's works may tempt 
 The world to treat his efforts with contempt. 
 
 ORONTE. 
 
 By this you mean, sir, to insinuate, 
 I must not wish .... 
 
 ALCESTE. 
 
 That is not what I state. 
 I mean to say, that dulness stupefies. 
 With that, no author can to honor rise. 
 
346 LECTURE VIII. 
 
 With fifty excellences were he grac'd, 
 
 Men note but that which does not suit their taste. 
 
 ORONTE. 
 
 Then in my verse is any thing to blame ? 
 
 I did not say. Yet this poetic flame 
 
 To quench, I showed him how, in our own day, 
 
 It many an honest man had led astray. 
 
 ORONTE. 
 
 And rank you me with authors of this grade ? 
 
 ALCESTE. 
 
 Not so ; but this inquiry then I made, 
 
 What want compelled you thus to spend your time ; 
 
 Or, who has counseled you to print your rhyme? 
 
 If to mean authors we indulgence give, 
 
 They are the wretches who but write to live. 
 
 Take my advice ; temptations of this kind repel ; 
 
 Nor, men to criticize your works compel. 
 
 Let no consideration, I exhort, 
 
 Lead you to sacrifice your name at court 
 
 On any ground to lose it, were a great disaster ; 
 
 Irreparable, if they dub you poetaster. 
 
 This point I tried to make him comprehend. 
 
 Oh yes ! your views as just, I quite commend. 
 But, in the sonnet what have you observ'd .... 
 
 ALCESTE. 
 
 In candor ; that, eternal silence it deserved." 
 
 Act 1. Scene 2. 
 
 And now see him with a new business upon his 
 hands ; and all for a bad sonnet. 
 
 At present, as we are sufficiently acquainted with the 
 misanthrope, and his friend Philinte, we will pass on to 
 the admirably drawn character of a woman. 
 
MOLIERE. 347 
 
 Celimene is one of the principal personages of the 
 piece. She is a coquette of the worst kind; one of 
 those who have as little heart, as they have in propor- 
 tion, abundance of wit. Her coquetry is no longer an 
 immoderate desire to please, which can be very well 
 accounted for, when it is accidental ; but it has become, 
 . as it were, a kind of mania, and yet not without sys- 
 tem. Celimene delights in having many admirers ; 
 because, incapable of loving ; she is not embarrassed by 
 the difficulty of a choice, which she has no idea of 
 making. She has a thousand little stratagems, by which 
 each one of her admirers is led to believe, that he is 
 the one preferred ; while, in fact, she cares for none of 
 them. To coquetry, she adds a great taste for Scandal, 
 (things which go admirably well together,) and allows 
 no occasion to pass, without saying some little thing 
 of each one. I recommend you to read in this connec- 
 tion, the fourth and fifth scenes of the third act, which 
 it is not possible to give here, in which is related the 
 sharp encounter of Arsinoe' with CelimSne. The man- 
 ners of the great world are there faithfully drawn ; the 
 two ladies being accomplished types of the French 
 coquette ; the worst of her tribe. 
 
 It is in the snares of this coquette, that the wise, the 
 prudent Alceste has fallen ! He who so loves sincerity, 
 has been captivated by a deceitful and affected woman. 
 Moliere has done admirably in making the misanthrope 
 in love ; and especially with a coquette. It is truly one 
 of those cases, in which we may say with La Fontaine, 
 that love is blind ; for, how else is it possible that Al- 
 ceste should not have discovered in Cdlimene, the faults 
 he so unsparingly condemns in others ? We can 
 imagine how Philinte would ridicule this enemy of the 
 human race, for allowing himself to become attached 
 
348 LECTUKE VIII. 
 
 to one whose faults so far exceed her virtues. And he 
 thus rallies him on the subject : — 
 
 " Whose spirit of coquetry and deceit 
 In every rank of life you meet. 
 But how is this ! what you in others fully hate, 
 In her, abounding to excess, you tolerate ! 
 Does vice when gaily dressed, its horror lose ; 
 Or does your silly fondness all in her excuse ? " 
 
 Alceste is here obliged to confess his weakness ; that he 
 is not blind ; he has not failed to discover the numerous 
 faults of CelimSne ; but what is he to do ? Love is 
 stronger than he ; and this just spirit, this severe critic, 
 this perfectly reasonable man can find no other excuse 
 than this, for his strange conduct : — 
 
 " But love is not by reason swayed." 
 
 He knows all Celimene's defects ; and knows perfectly 
 well what he has to calculate upon, as it regards her. 
 
 " What shall be done ? I can't with her dispense. 
 I own my weakness. She bewilders every sense. 
 In vain I scan her faults ; in vain attempt to blame ; 
 At last it ends with this ; she keeps alive the flame. 
 Good traits, she has. And I believe her love 
 Will from her heart these sad defects remove." 
 
 Act 1. Scene 1. 
 
 All this does not prevent Alceste from being very jeal- 
 ous. And he reproaches Celimene for her faults. Then 
 follow some interviews which recall to mind the peda- 
 gogue more than any thing else ; it is truly the love of 
 a misanthrope. 
 
 AL-CESTE. 
 
 " To love you thus what force constrains ? 
 My stars I 'd bless for that glad hour, 
 When I should cease to be within your power. 
 
MOLIERE. 349 
 
 The shameful fact I own ; no effort do I spare, 
 To pluck my soul from this destructive snare. 
 Thus far, all efforts unavailing prove : 
 And now I 'm punished by this foolish love." 
 
 Act 2. Scene 1. 
 
 Notwithstanding these outbreaks, he is so blind, so 
 little master of himself, that after having witnessed a 
 scene of scandal where she has given full exercise to 
 her wit, he breaks forth into complaints ; not however 
 of Celimene, but of those around her, who have made 
 her talk. Celimene, in his eyes, is a most innocent per- 
 son, whom these gentlemen spoil by flattery! The 
 celebrated passage on the illusion of lovers, belongs to 
 this scene. These verses which recommend themselves, 
 are a translation of the Latin poet Lucretius; and 
 finely show how a person in love will find the most 
 beautiful names by which to designate the most marked 
 defects. 
 
 "If pale, the very jasmine's beauty there is met; 
 If swarthy as an Indian, then she 's a brunette. 
 If lank and tall, then her proportions are admired ; 
 If fat, her gait is. then with majesty inspired; 
 If she is carelessly, nay skittishly attired, 
 Then is it graceful carelessness she has acquired. 
 A giantess in bulk, a goddess he esteems ; 
 A dwarf the miniature of heavenly beauty seems. 
 If haughty, then a diadem her brow should bind ; 
 If cunning, she has wit ; if silly, she is kind. 
 If talkative, she 's full of brilliancy and fire ; 
 But if reserv'd, the world her prudence must admire. 
 The lover thus by his imagination sway'd, 
 Deformities t' admire is frequently betray'd." 
 
 Act 2. Scene 5. 
 30 
 
350 LECTURE VIII. 
 
 All the patience of Alceste is exhausted, and he gives 
 vent to his anger. This is occasioned by his having 
 been shown a note written by Cdlimene, in which she 
 says some very agreeable things to a third person whom 
 she pretends to despise. The misanthrope, highly in- 
 dignant, goes to her with the pieces in his hand, to 
 reproach her for her unworthy conduct, in deceiving him 
 so perfidiously ; but she succeeds admirably, in chang- 
 ing his opinion and exculpating herself. And while 
 Alceste, who came to accuse, is about to excuse her, a 
 frightened lackey runs to tell him that he must leave as 
 quietly as possible. 
 
 " Sir, a man in black, with figure darker still. . . ." 
 
 I think you can guess who this man with dark clothes 
 and dark features is, the sight of whom has so troubled 
 the faithful Dubois ; it is no less than the messenger, 
 who comes to announce to Alceste, that he has lost the 
 suit of which you have heard, and for which he prom- 
 ised to use no solicitation. The measure is then full ; a 
 cabal triumph ; justice no longer holds an even balance ; 
 Alceste no longer spares any one, but rails without 
 restraint at all mankind. 
 
 In vain Philinte reminds him that all is not lost, and 
 that he can have the decision reversed on appeal. Al- 
 ceste is not the man to allow such a fine opportunity of 
 grumbling to escape. 
 
 " No ; it shall stand ; 
 Whatever injury this sentence may inflict, 
 No reconsideration will I now permit. 
 That I am greatly wrong'd, is manifest. 
 But under this injustice I will gladly rest, 
 If coming ages may the evidence possess, 
 
MOLIERE. • 351 
 
 That we have reach'd an eminence in wickedness. 
 This suit will cost me twenty thousand francs, you say. 
 To justify my scorn, that sum I'll gladly pay. 
 'Tis cheap ; for now I may all tenderness efface, 
 And nourish my contempt for all the human race.'' 
 
 Act 5. Scene 1. 
 
 His resolution is fixed ; instead of making any effort 
 to have the sentence reversed, he will retire from the 
 world and live in the woods; but after all, notwith- 
 standing his sincere hatred of human nature, he still 
 loves Cdlimene, and wishes to persuade her to follow 
 him. 
 
 He is decided on getting a definite answer; and 
 Celimene must choose between the numerous rivals. 
 Oronte, the sonnet-maker, is one of the first, and he 
 is as urgent as Alceste. 
 
 Celimene is embarrassed, and tries to put them off. 
 
 " Do not insist. The feelings of my heart to tell 
 Before your face, I find, is quite impossible." 
 
 It is not then from coquetry, but from pure delicacy, 
 that she refuses to decide ; hoping by this subterfuge to 
 gain time, and deceive the rivals separately, as in times 
 past. But this moment of respite is not allowed her. 
 Alceste and Oronte become more and more pressing; 
 and the former, like a true misanthrope, even declares 
 that he will take her silence for a refusal. To add to 
 the embarrassment, two other lovers, Acaste and Clit- 
 andre, arrive to clear up some little affair. They ask no 
 decision from CeHmSne, for they know too well what to 
 expect. Adding scandal to coquetry, she encouraged 
 them all to hope, in order afterward to abuse them in 
 secret. Two of them, who have believed themselves 
 equally happy, have finally become suspicious, and have 
 
352 • LECTURE VIII. 
 
 shown the letters of CelimSne, in which they find each 
 one equally welcomed and abused. Their eyes are 
 opened ; and they come together to reproach her for her 
 perfidy. Each one is the bearer of a note from Celi- 
 meine, in which she says a thousand agreeable things to 
 the one addressed; while she slanders him in the note 
 of his rival. Not one of the four is spared ; and they 
 are all present at the reading. 
 
 After these explanations, three of them willingly 
 retire, but a fourth remains ; and alas ! it is the man 
 with the green ribbons ; Alceste, the wise, the prudent 
 Alceste, who is not yet reclaimed, and who, misanthrope 
 as he is, yet believes in the goodness of her whom he 
 loves. He alone, remains ; and notwithstanding all he 
 has heard, he will marry C<;lim§ne, if she is only willing 
 to renounce the world, and follow him to a desert. But 
 Ce"limene, though confounded, yet not amended, replies 
 to him : — 
 
 " How can a child of twenty years love solitude ? " 
 
 This refusal finally opens his eyes, and he leaves her. 
 
 After this resolution, Alceste offers his homage to 
 another ; but is repulsed, and Philinte gains her. Like 
 a perfectly good fellow, he sincerely wishes them all 
 prosperity. As to me, he says : — 
 
 " BetrayM on every side ; oppress'd and wrong'd, 
 I '11 flee the world ; it is with vices throng'd. 
 This earth some safe retreat will certainly supply, 
 Where, undisturbed, an honest man may live and die." 
 
 Act 5. Scene 8, and last. 
 
 Such then is the Misanthrope. But a question here 
 naturally arises, What end did Moliere propose to him- 
 self in writing this justly celebrated comedy ? In the 
 
MOLIERE. 353 
 
 Learned Women, and in the Ridiculous Precieuses, we 
 know perfectly well what Moliere is attacking. But 
 here, what does he propose to do ? This question is so 
 difficult to determine, that recourse has been had to two 
 directly contradictory solutions. Some have recognized 
 Alceste as the hero of the piece. Others, on the con- 
 trary, think that it is Philinte. As to Moliere, it is very 
 certain that he destined Alceste to be the hero ; but it 
 remains to be seen whether the execution has carried out 
 the idea. J. J. Rousseau regards Moliike as having 
 degraded his hero, and rendered him contemptible and 
 ridiculous. A contemporary author who has written 
 the history of the French theatre, admits in part the 
 premises of Rousseau, but arrives at the conclusion 
 that, in spite of his absurdities, Alceste is worthy to be 
 the hero. He remarks ; the idea which runs through 
 the whole piece is, to show that the best men in the 
 world are not exempt from weaknesses and faults ; 
 which they should endeavor to correct. You here see 
 Alceste, the wisest of men, struggling in the net in 
 which a coquette has entangled him. He moreover 
 gets into a passion about a sonnet. The exaggeration 
 of his good qualities makes you smile, without dimin- 
 ishing your esteem. 
 
 Is this your experience ; have you been able to main- 
 tain your respect for Alceste to the end 1 I very much 
 doubt it ; and for my own part, I have not been able to 
 do it. I wish you to remark, that I do not quarrel with 
 his love, so irrational. Alas! this passion spares no 
 one ; and when it ventures to attack wise men, it makes 
 them still more nonsensical than fools. If this was 
 Alceste's only fault, he would be almost perfect, but he 
 has others, which, as Rousseau says, render him decid- 
 edly ridiculous. His anger on the occasion of the son- 
 
 30* 
 
354 LECTURE VIII. 
 
 net is too intemperate. We do not ask him to flatter. 
 He is at perfect liberty to withhold all praise from 
 Oronte, since in his heart and conscience, he does not 
 believe him to merit it. But let him stop there, and 
 not get into a passion about so small a matter ; other- 
 wise, he becomes more ridiculous, and is more blarn- 
 able than Oronte himself, for it is an innocent thing to 
 write bad verses, while it is in nowise permitted to 
 curse the human race, on the occasion of being com- 
 pelled to admire a bad sonnet. 
 
 Alceste continually carries his virtue to a ridiculous 
 excess. Thus, on the occasion of the lawsuit, he was 
 perfectly right in condemning intrigue ; but blamable 
 in not demonstrating the justice of his cause; for, 
 although it is always wrong to endeavor to influence 
 judges, yet a just man does no more than his duty in 
 seeking to open their eyes, when wicked men have suc- 
 ceeded in deceiving them. This is incomprehensible to 
 Alceste. He not only refuses to make any effort, but 
 he allows it to be seen, that he should not be sorry to 
 lose his suit, simply to have an unquestionable right to 
 rail at all mankind. 
 
 " I can afford to lose. It justifies distrust, 
 And proves beyond a doubt, that men are all unjust" 
 
 This language is very absurd ; it exhibits an extrava- 
 gant virtue ; or rather, it is no longer virtue, but only its 
 caricature. Alceste in the main, is always right; cer- 
 tainly much oftcner than his friend. We sympathize 
 with him, and love the cause which he defends; but 
 just because we love it, we are grieved to see him con- 
 tinually compromise it, by his manner of presenting it, 
 and by his falling into those extravagances, which 
 strengthen the cause of his adversary. No, the virtue 
 
MOHERE. 355 
 
 of Alceste is not of a good stamp ; it is harsh and in- 
 human. And why is Alceste's virtue not sufficiently 
 human ? Because it is not sufficiently Christian. In 
 the main, Alceste maintains Christian principles. 
 When he opposes all dissimulation, and refuses to 
 natter, and conform to the loose maxims of the world, 
 he does what the gospel bids a man to do, who would 
 make religion a serious matter. And one need not be 
 a Puritan, to see that Alceste maintains his integrity, 
 and the dignity of human nature. The most religious 
 man would be obliged to pronounce him right. But he 
 would say the same things in another tone. Christian- 
 ity, like Alceste, proclaims human wickedness. Every 
 page of the Bible supposes the radical corruption of our 
 nature. But nowhere does it teach us to hate the 
 human race. The sight of the world plunged in sin, 
 so far from producing in God the least feeling of hatred, 
 has inspired him with the most sublime love. And 
 however profound human corruption may be, the dis- 
 ciple of Jesus Christ can never hold this language of 
 Alceste : — 
 
 " All men I hate ; 
 A part, because in wickedness abject ; 
 The rest, because the wicked they respect, 
 Nor will their actions rightly estimate." 
 
 The gospel is here more indulgent than philosophy. 
 God wishes not the death of the sinner, but that he 
 should turn and live. A Christian, also, will not experi- 
 ence this strong hatred towards men ; but simply com- 
 passion and love. His language will not be as severe 
 as that of Alceste, because knowing that he partakes 
 of this wickedness, he will be more inclined to indul- 
 gence. 
 
356 LECTURE VIII. 
 
 The conclusion to which Christianity arrives, is very 
 different. 
 
 Alceste, in view of human wickedness, resolves to 
 flee from society. 
 
 " Society we '11 flee ; 'tis but a robber's haunt. 
 Since men together dwell like rav'nous beasts of prey ; 
 Vile race, I can ho longer with you stay." 
 
 This resolution is very heroic, and very comfortable ; 
 but the Christian cannot talk in this way. In place of 
 flying from the world, and cursing it, he endeavors to 
 reform it by remaining in it. Never can he say with 
 Alceste : — 
 
 " Leave me now, 
 In this dark corner with my melancholy." 
 
 He remains in society, to be the salt of the earth. And 
 to fulfil this great mission, he must have another virtue 
 than that of the misanthrope. 
 
 It has been said that Moliere made Alceste a ridicu- 
 lous man, in order the better to serve the cause he was to 
 plead. He should have made his hero a sort of court- 
 fool in order to make him tell the whole truth. It is 
 very possible that such may have been Moliere's reasons ; 
 for, there is no doubt, that if he has rendered virtue 
 ridiculous, he has done so for a good end. But has he 
 gained this end ? I doubt it. I fear that with many 
 persons Philinte is the true hero of the piece. After 
 having laughed at the expense of Alceste's harsh virtue, 
 they are naturally drawn towards Philinte, who preaches 
 a much more convenient morality ; for, the virtue of 
 Alceste is infinitely above their aspirations, and they 
 exclaim with Philinte : — 
 
 " The world will not be changed by all your pains ; " 
 
MOLIERE. 357 
 
 and they conclude that in the world, it is necessary to 
 have a tractable morality. This conclusion is so much 
 the more plausible, that the greater part of mankind 
 are inclined to the philosophy of Philinte. Misanthropes, 
 like Alceste, are very scarce ; and those, also, who are 
 guided by an earnest, practical Christianity, form but a 
 very small minority; so th*it those who belong to 
 ■ neither of these two classes, are necessarily among the 
 innumerable disciples of Philinte, who make all their 
 science and philosophy to consist in running with the 
 multitude, and using for their own advantage, their 
 equals whom they despise. 
 
 If Moliere, while wishing to increase the number of 
 virtuous men, was unconsciously working to make the 
 philosophy of such decent rogues as Philinte popular, it 
 would bring us to the conclusion, that a comedy cannot 
 advantageously treat of such high questions as those 
 of religion and philosophy. But before passing our 
 judgment on this subject, we will examine another 
 chef-d'oeuvre, or rather the chef-d'ceuvre of Moliere, The 
 Tartufe. 
 
 The tartufe. 
 
 As Boileau was one day congratulating Moliere, on 
 the success of the Misanthrope, the great comedian re- 
 plied : you shall see quite another thing. He referred 
 to The Tartufe. The talent of Moliere has come to 
 maturity ; and every thing, even to the choice of the 
 title which the author has originated, concurs in produc- 
 ing the effect. According to some, this word, so ex- 
 pressive, and now so popular, comes from the verb 
 truffer, then used in the sense to deceive. Thence is 
 derived the word truffle, to designate the fruit of that 
 name; because there is so much difficulty in finding it; 
 
358 LECTURE VIII. 
 
 and at that epoch it was called indifferently truffe, or 
 tartufe. 
 
 But there is another explanation, less grammatical, 
 and much more in the spirit of the thing. 
 
 It is asserted that MoliSre being one day with the 
 pope's nuncio, in company with several hypocritical 
 looking ecclesiastics, as truffles were brought in, one of 
 them exclaimed, with the true air of a devoted gour- 
 mand, " Tartvfoli, signor nuntio, Tartufoli ! " This was 
 enough for the comic poet; this morose face so sud- 
 denly smoothed, this gluttony and hypocrisy thus unex- 
 pectedly unveiled, gave him the measure of a hypocrite's 
 mask, and Tartufe was found. This circumstance, per- 
 haps, induced Molidre to make his hero so tender and 
 so susceptible to temptation, not only where women 
 are concerned, but also in regard to the pleasures of the 
 table. This we shall see on the occasion of this poor 
 man's repast : — 
 
 " First, two entire pheasants lie ate ; 
 Then swept a soason'd leg of mutton from his plate." 
 
 If Moliere has not introduced truffles on the occasion, it 
 is to avoid personality. The truffles are in the title. 
 
 Under this name, Moliere reproaches the religious 
 hypocrisy then so common at the court, in consequence 
 of the royal favors lavished upon Catholicism, then in 
 the ascendant. 
 
 The piece introduces us to the domestic life of a 
 family, deceived by a miserable man ; who, by his de- 
 vout manners, has gained the complete control of 
 Orgon, a good-natured man, that does not see much 
 beyond his nose. But if the master of the house has 
 his eyes shut, the other members of the family watch 
 for him ; and Dorine, a discreet servant, would alone be . 
 sufficient to unmask the devout personage. The family 
 
M L I E R E . 359 
 
 are thus divided into two camps ; and every one must 
 be for or against Mr. Tartufe. Madame Pernelle, a 
 prattling, bad-tempered old woman, alone takes part 
 with her son in Tartufe's defence against the attacks of 
 the other members of the family, excited by Dorine. It 
 is in one of these quarrels, which occur continually, 
 occasioned by the presence of this man, that Orgon ex- 
 plains to his family how he made the acquaintance of 
 this pious person ; hoping that his former conduct will 
 suffice to exculpate him. 
 
 " Ah ! had you seen what I so oft beheld, 
 To love him, also, you had been compelled. 
 He daily to the temple came, with pious air, 
 And right before me bowed in humble prayer. 
 The eyes of all around were drawn to see 
 How fervently at heaven's high throne he urg'd his plea. 
 His groans were heard throughout the sacred place ; 
 While oft he bowed, the pavement to embrace. 
 And as I left the church, the service done, 
 To give me holy water he would run. 
 His servant, who is like him, let me know 
 His wardrobe and his larder had run low. 
 I sent him gifts, but in a quiet way, 
 The half of it he 'd always back convey. 
 It is too muck, he 'd say ; one half too much. 
 I am not fit your heart with pity thus to touch. 
 And when to take it 1 refused outright, 
 He to the poor around, would give it in my sight. 
 
 You 'd scarce believe the greatness of his zeal. 
 
 Mere trifles in himself, as mighty sins he 'd feel. 
 
 An almost nothing could his tender conscience grieve ; 
 
 Thus, once his breast did with compunction heave, 
 
 Because a flea, which he, engaged in prayer, had caught, 
 
 With unbecoming wrath was kill'd, he thought." 
 
360 LECTURE VIII. 
 
 Such is Tartufe, as ingeniously described by the most 
 sincere of his admirers. Orgon knows nothing above 
 this holy personage ; he cannot conceive why the whole 
 household do not admire him as he does; and when 
 they seek to open his eyes, he enjoins absolute silence. 
 
 " Stop there, my brother, stop ; 
 You know not him of whom you lightly speak. 
 
 # ' * * * * * * 
 
 Procure, my friend, the chance to know him well ; 
 New beauties you will see, the more his ways you scan. 
 He is a man . . . who ... ah ! ... a man ... in fact a man, 
 Whoever follows his advice, finds perfect peace, 
 And gets to thinking other men a set of geese." 
 
 Act 1. Scene 6. 
 
 The brave Orgon has only too Avell profited by the 
 fine maxims of Tartufe, as we see in the famous scene 
 of the return. Orgon had been absent two days ; and 
 on his return he inquires the news. Dorine hastens to 
 tell him that Elmira his wife has been sick. But the 
 poor husband is so tartufted, to use the language of 
 Dorine, that he does not notice what she says about his 
 wife ; but, on the contrary, continually asks with new 
 anxiety, " And Tartufe ? " The news respecting his 
 health is perfectly favorable ; but it is not sufficient to 
 calm the alarms of Orgon, who repeats continually: 
 and Tartufe ? He cannot even listen to what Dorine 
 tells him respecting his wife, without ejaculating, with 
 a pious sympathy for his devout friend ; " the poor 
 man ! " 
 
 " ORCSON. 
 Has every thing gone quietly, Dorine, 
 Since I left home, two days ago ? How are they all within ? 
 
 Your wife has suffered much ; a fever first ; 
 
 And then a dreadful »nin. as if her head would burst. 
 
MOLIERE. 361 
 
 ORGON. 
 And Tartufe ? 
 
 Tartufe ! he does marvellously well. 
 His lips are red ; with fat his cheeks, like cherries, swell. 
 
 Poor fellow ! 
 
 All that day she had no appetite ; 
 And ev'n at supper could not eat the poorest mite, 
 So cruel still the pains that rack'd her head. 
 
 OKGON. 
 
 And Tartufe? 
 
 Comfortably sat, and took his bread ; 
 And first, devoutly, two entire pheasants ate ; 
 Then swept a leg of mutton from his plate. 
 
 Poor fellow ! 
 
 DOKINE. 
 
 But throughout the tedious live-long night, 
 She could not to her eyes one moment's sleep invite. 
 The dreadfully oppressive heat all rest forbade, 
 Nor soothing anodynes a moment's sleep convey'd. 
 
 OKGON. 
 
 And Tartufe ? 
 
 DOEINB. 
 
 By the gentlest slumbers sweetly soothed, 
 Directly from the table to his chamber moved, 
 And snugly covered in his bed, he quickly la,y, 
 Dismissing every care, until the coming day. 
 31 
 
362 LECTURE VIII. 
 
 OBGON. 
 
 Poor fellow ! 
 
 Finally, by my persuasions led, 
 She suffered us to call the surgeon ; and was bled : 
 A quick relief from pain was the result. 
 
 OBGON. 
 
 And Tajrtufe ? 
 
 DORINE. 
 
 Courage took, his stomach to consult. 
 Then, strengthening his soul the ills of life to bear ; 
 And madam's loss of blood in order to repair, 
 For breakfast quite four bottles of good wine he drank. 
 
 OBGON. 
 
 Poor fellow ! " 
 
 Act 1. Scene 5. 
 
 Seeing the great interest which Orgon takes in Tar- 
 tufe, we are not astonished that he wishes to have him 
 connected with his family ; that is, that he would have 
 him marry his daughter Marianne, who cares little for 
 him ; besides being already engaged with her father's 
 consent to Valdire, whom she loves. " 
 
 I regret that the time we have to give to Moliere, 
 does not permit us to read the admirable scene, in 
 which Marianne, sustained by the faithful Dorine, 
 endeavors to resist her father's will. I recommend to 
 you, also, the fourth scene of the second act, in which 
 Moliere has so well succeeded in describing the amia- 
 ble quarrels of the lovers. Dorine plays the part of 
 mediator ; and after leaving them to dispute, she recon- 
 ciles them. 
 
 " Oh fie ! make up as quick as wink ; 
 You love each other better than you think." 
 
MOLIERB. 363 
 
 Not content with seeing harmony restored, she under- 
 takes to break up the marriage projects of the father. 
 After having dismissed Valere and Marianne with this 
 hope, she remains alone in the scene. 
 
 It is then that Tartufe appears. Pie is about to go 
 and distribute charity among the prisoners; and ad- 
 vancing with a sorrowful air, he gives his orders to his 
 faithful Laurent, handing him the whip he had been 
 using on himself. 
 
 " Now, Laurent, put away my sackcloth and my scourge ; 
 . And ask of heaven, your soul from sin to purge. 
 If any one to know where I have gone should care, 
 Among the prisoners, say, my alms to share." 
 
 From the moment of Tartufe's entrance on the scene, 
 we should read the whole, for there is nothing whkjh 
 does not assist in unmasking the miserable hypocrite. 
 We have seen that Orgon has destined him for Mari- 
 anne ; but at the moment when he seems disposed to 
 marry the daughter, he is not afraid to lay his tempta-. 
 tions in the way of the mother, the wife of Orgon, and 
 thus basely deceive his benefactor. In proportion as 
 the character of Tartufe is despicable, that of Elmira, 
 whom he seeks to corrupt, is virtuous and true. She is 
 a wise woman, without prudery; who knows how to 
 defend herself, and make others respect her; without 
 any affectation of virtue, or refusing to listen to the dis- 
 course of any one, lest something might be said about 
 love. A critic calls Elmira the most virtuous woman 
 which a poet ever imagined. We might perhaps be of 
 his mind, if we had not already made our choice. But 
 I dare hope, that you have not yet forgotten the wife of 
 Polyeucte ; and we can pass no better encomium on the 
 Elmira of Moliere, than in saying, that she is a sort of 
 Pauline in comedy. 
 
364 LECTURE VIII. 
 
 Elmira, though married to a fool, is nevertheless faith- 
 ful to her husband. She defends herself against all 
 gallantries, as the mother of a family should, without 
 scandal and without noise. How much has she suf- 
 fered from her husband's littleness of mind, and from the 
 bad temper of her old and gossiping mother-in-law, 
 Madame Pernelle ; she who has so much intelligence 
 and so much heart! But notwithstanding this ill-as- 
 sorted marriage, she has not, like a vulgar woman, 
 indulged in romantic reveries, which would infallibly 
 have drawn her aside from the line of duty. She has 
 concentrated her affections on her husband's children, 
 until she loves them as if they were her own. 
 
 This respectable mother of a family, and the false 
 devotee, are the principal characters in the scene which 
 follows. 
 
 Dorine has no sooner left them alone, than Tartufe 
 accosts Elmira with these words : — 
 
 " The heav'nly pow'rs, which men's affairs control, 
 Preserve in health, your body and your soul, 
 And daily bless. These favors are desired 
 By him, whose heart you have with fervent love inspired." 
 
 In the course of this conversation, he gradually exposes 
 his sentiments. And as Elmira appears not to know 
 whom he addresses in such tender language, and sup- 
 poses that his thoughts and wishes are all heavenward, 
 he answers : — , 
 
 " Love linking to the beauties of eternity, 
 Can easily .with love to earthly things agree. 
 We can't be blamed for seeing with delight 
 The works which hoav'n has beauteous made in its own sight. 
 Its splendors oft, in others of your sex may shine ; 
 But in one person all its glories you combine." 
 
 Act S. Scene 3. 
 
MOLIERE. 365 
 
 This scene which begins to be painful to Elmira, is 
 interrupted by Damis, the son of Orgon ; who has heard 
 all, and comes to denounce to his father, the viper that 
 he has warmed in his bosom. 
 
 " What have I heard ! Oh, heavens ! can it be true ? " 
 
 cries Orgon. 
 
 The poor deluded simpleton cannot recover from his 
 surprise ; and Tartufe, like a cunning man, is far from 
 wishing to dissuade him. Instead of exonerating, he 
 accuses himself, and makes himself still blacker than he 
 is ; as the best way of reinstating himself, by making a 
 show of humility and repentance. It is impossible for 
 Orgon to suppose such a man guilty ; one so prompt 
 to accuse himself, and of such profound humility. 
 Hypocrisy is here at its height. 
 
 " Yes, brother, I confess myself most vile ; 
 A sinful wretch ; full of iniquity ; 
 A viler wretch, this world will never see. 
 Each moment of my life is black with foulest stains ; 
 And now a mass of crime and filth alone remains. 
 And I must own the righteous providence, 
 That ever thus, does shame to sin dispense." 
 
 Act 3.- Scene 6. 
 
 Thus deceit triumphs ; and Tartufe is received again 
 into favor, at the expense of the son who accused him, 
 and who is now banished by his father. And the false 
 devotee, to make surer his footing in the house, pre- 
 tends to be desirous of leaving it.' This threat suc- 
 ceeds ; Orgon detains him, and says : — 
 
 " Their insolence to make them rue, 
 I'll cut them off, and make an heir of you." 
 
 Act 3. Scene 7. 
 
 31* 
 
366 LECTURE VIII. 
 
 The wife succeeds no better than the son in unmasking 
 the impostor. Orgon, blinded to the truth, will listen 
 to no one. 
 
 " This graceless son, you do not see his faults ; 
 You have not dared oppose his wicked plan 
 Of bringing ruin on this holy man. 
 In fact, you were too tranquil, to induce belief, 
 That you had been insulted, or had felt much grief." 
 
 Act 4. Scene 3. 
 
 All that she can obtain from him is an agreement, that 
 a second opportunity shall be given for Tartufe to 
 divulge his sentiments ; but in a place where Orgon 
 will be able to hear all. 
 
 This proposition being accepted, Elmira presently 
 directs some one to call Tartufe. And now she makes 
 the advances ; at which the false devotee is a little sur- 
 prised. But blinded by his passion, he soon recovers 
 from it, and is under no restraint. However, he is 
 not contented with simple words ; and when Elmira 
 says to him, 
 
 " How can I do the sin of which you spoke, 
 Without offending Him you constantly invoke ? " 
 
 Tartufe thus reasons with her : — • 
 
 " Oh, I can quickly dissipate these fears ; 
 My art the conscience from such scruples clears. 
 Pleasures there are which heaven to man denies ; 
 But there is too a way of compromise. 
 I have a science teaching how the conscience can 
 Be made to vary with the varying wants of man. 
 It teaches that, the vilest act we may insure 
 From being evil, if we keep the motive pure. 
 These principles, you'll fully comprehend, 
 When to my guidance you yourself shall lend. 
 
MOLIERE. 367 
 
 Grant my request ; and then indulge no fear ; 
 
 I '11 take your sin, when at the judgment we appear." 
 
 Act 4. Scene 5. 
 
 When Tartufe advances to embrace the wife, he falls 
 into the arms of the husband ; who comes from under 
 the table, after having heard all, and exclaims : — 
 
 " Ah ' ah ! good man, I cannot doubt my eyes ! 
 How eagerly your soul to meet temptation flies ! " 
 
 The fals* 1 devotee is confused; but again endeavors 
 to excuse himseli. He regains his composure, and 
 appears surprised that Orgon does not understand 
 him. The holy man simply intended to put the vir- 
 tue of Elmira to the proof; and for his own part, has 
 not a wrong thought. These excuses are no longer 
 current; Orgon is not disposed to be deceived a 
 second time. 
 
 ""With idle talk, make no delay ; 
 For, here you cannot live another day." 
 
 But behold Tartufe, who, in his turn, drops his mild 
 and humble tone, and talks haughtily to Orgon. This 
 last stroke was necessary, in order completely to paint, 
 hypocrisy ; which only affects humility, the better to 
 arrive at power. 
 
 " Tou, sir, that take the air of master here, must go. 
 This house is mine ; the world shall quickly know. 
 I '11 show your idle plot is void of sense ; 
 To pick a quarrel, on some frivolous pretence. 
 I '11 show you your mistake in thus insulting me ; 
 For, I have power to crush your enmity. 
 And heaven, whom, through me, you thus offend ; 
 Will make you at my feet, in deep repentance, bend." 
 
 Act 4. Scene 7. 
 
368 LECTURE VIII. 
 
 The cause of this sudden change of language is, that 
 Tartufe is only asserting the rights which his dupe 
 Orgon has conferred upon him, in so imprudently mak- 
 ing him his heir. M. Loyal, an officer of the court, a 
 native of Normandy, and worthy representative of him 
 who sends him, soon comes to inform the family that 
 they must leave the house. Tartufe carries his ven- 
 geance still further ; and denounces Orgon as an enemy 
 to the king, for having preserved a box of papers which 
 compromise him", and whichlfcave been confided to him 
 by a friend. 
 
 Orgon prepares to fly, in order to escape condemna- 
 tion ; when he is arrested by Tartufe himself. 
 
 " Indeed, sir ! is it you ! why running such a race ! 
 You have not far to go to find your resting-place. 
 For in the prince's name I make you prisoner." 
 
 Neither the recriminations nor the prayers of the family, 
 can save him. Tartufe is pitiless. He says to the 
 officer : — 
 
 " Save me from this offensive noise, without delay ; 
 And your commission execute at once, I pray." 
 
 But here matters all at once take another turn ; and 
 innocence finally triumphs ; the officer answers : — 
 
 " Yes, we must haste on sin due punishment to bring. 
 You rightly urge me to obey the orders of my king. 
 You '11 therefore please to follow me, without delay, 
 To prison ; where 't is said, your reverence long may stay." 
 
 It is Tartufe who is arrested at the moment when he 
 least expects it, and when he supposes his hypocrisy 
 and ingratitude have triumphed. A long and rather 
 tedious passage explains this sudden change of fortune. 
 
MOLIERE. 369 
 
 " We have a prince, who hates all villany and fraud; 
 A prince, whose eyes can penetrate the very heart; 
 Discerning thoughts concealed with all the impostor's art." 
 
 Act 5. Scene 7. 
 
 The wisdom of Louis XIV. has unmasked Tartufe ; 
 and in virtue of his sovereign power he has annulled the 
 contract by which Orgon bestowed all his property upon 
 him. 
 
 In the ancient theatre, when an author found his plot 
 too much entangled, he would bring to his aid, some god 
 from heaven, who was very serviceable in arranging mat- 
 ters. Louis XIV. played here this supplementary part 
 of Deus ex machina; and it is somewhat to be regretted 
 that Moliere did not end this great work differently. 
 These encomiums on the king, however, are not out of 
 place ; Moliere had reasons for being grateful to Louis 
 XIV, who permitted him to have this piece played in spite 
 of the tartufes of the day ; and what is more, the great 
 king had a right to take part in the play, for to him the 
 author owed one of the finest passages. You have not 
 forgotten the scene of the poor fellow ; it appears that it 
 was the king who furnished the comic author with this 
 happy expression. The following anecdote is related 
 on the subject. 
 
 In 1662, Moliere accompanied the king with his army 
 from Lorraine ; and was then busy with Tartufe. 
 Louis XIV., accustomed in his campaigns to take but 
 one meal in the evening, prepared one day to seat him- 
 self at table during fast time. He invited his old pre- 
 ceptor, Pe're'frxe, bishop of Rhodes, to follow his example. 
 The prelate eagerly excused himself, in an affected man- 
 ner, by saying, that on a day of vigil or fast, he took 
 but one meal. This response caused a laugh among 
 his assistants ; which, though they were careful to sup- 
 
370 LECTURE VIII. 
 
 press, did not escape the king; who, as soon as the 
 bishop had withdrawn, wanted to know the reason of 
 it. Whereupon, one of them said to the king, that he 
 might make himself easy with regard to M. de Rhodes ; 
 and then proceeded to give him an exact detail of his 
 dinner, at which he had been present. At every rare 
 dish which the narrator put on the prelate's table, the 
 king would exclaim: poor fellow! and as he always 
 pronounced these words in a different tone of voice, he 
 rendered them exceedingly comic. Moliere never forgot 
 the expression, and immortalized it in his piece. 
 
 You can easily understand, Gentlemen, that so true 
 a comedy would necessarily offend many persons, who 
 would see themselves drawn to the life. Moliere had 
 great difficulty in getting it represented. It availed 
 nothing to change the name to that of The Impostor. 
 The opposition triumphed. The king forbade it ; lest, 
 notwithstanding the good intentions of the author, it 
 should cause true and false devotion, which in many 
 ways resembled each other, to be confounded. It was 
 only after many petitions, that Molicire succeeded in 
 obtaining permission to play his comedy. 
 
 This controversy is so important, that it will not be 
 unprofitable to say a few words on the subject. 
 
 Is the comedy of Tartufe really an irreligious piece ; 
 and has Moliere, as some pretend, turned true piety into 
 ridicule ? 
 
 An important remark to make in the commencement 
 is, that the attacks and accusations came in general 
 from ecclesiastics or religious persons, whose piety was 
 more than suspected. This was especially true of the 
 abbe's of the court ; and of other persons, whose gay life 
 furnished Moliere with material for his sketches, and 
 who were scandalized, no doubt, at finding the portrait 
 
MOLIERE. 371 
 
 too striking. Truly pious people were not so much 
 opposed ; and merely yielded to the clamor, not daring 
 to show any favor to a piece which had been pro- 
 nounced irreligious. The fact was, that pieces much 
 more immoral than this, had been tolerated without 
 any thing having been said on the subject. Thus 
 shortly after Tartufe had been forbidden, there was 
 represented at court, Scaramouche Hermite, a piece of 
 revolting immorality. Louis XIV., having inquired 
 why no opposition was made to it, the Prince of Conde" 
 replied : " It is because the comedy of Scaramouche 
 talks of heaven and religion, about which these gentle- 
 men care nothing, but that of Moliere represents them- 
 selves ; and this is what they cannot endure." 
 
 As to the intentions of Moliere himself, we know 
 perfectly well, what they were. To avoid bringing con- 
 tempt upon religion, he makes one of his characters 
 draw the distinction between true and false piety. 
 Thus Cleante, the sensible personage of the piece, says : 
 
 'T is with mock piety as with false bravery." 
 
 He even adds : — 
 
 " The hero whom I most admire, 
 Is he whom true religious sentiments inspire. 
 No sights the world presents, so beautiful appear, 
 As holy fervors springing from a zeal sincere.'* 
 
 Act 1. Scene 6. 
 
 He then goes on to give a description of true piety. 
 
 Thus it is certain that Moliere had no intention of 
 attacking sincere piety. And this is proved by his 
 actions, which are stronger arguments than his words. 
 To those who are not yet convinced, we would say, 
 that Moliere entertained two monks, who annually 
 
372 LECTURE VIII. 
 
 came to Paris to gather alms. This in nowise proves 
 that he was himself a religious man. But we may 
 draw the conclusion, that he made the distinction be- 
 tween true and false piety ; for it is certain, that if he 
 had looked upon all religious persons as Tartufes, he 
 would not have regularly received two of them under 
 his roof. -If he had, then it might have been justly 
 said, that he was a third. 
 
 It is perfectly evident that Moliere wished to attack 
 only hypocrisy ; and in so doing, he was perfectly right. 
 And were the picture he presents still more black, no 
 one would have a right to complain ; for the reality 
 would always be in advance of it. However pointed 
 Moli&re's expressions may be, they never equal these : — 
 
 " Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites ! 
 for ye are like' unto whited sepulchres, which indeed 
 appear beautiful outward, but are within full of dead 
 men's bones, and of all uncleanness. Ye serpents, ye 
 generation of vipers, how can ye escape the damnation 
 of hell?"* 
 
 We know perfectly well, that affectation and ostenta- 
 tion ; men with long robes praying in the corners of the 
 streets to be seen of men, and devouring widows' 
 houses, under the pretext of making long prayers, have 
 long since been condemned. 
 
 No one should then reproach Moliere for having at- 
 tacked them. 
 
 But all these explanations having been made, and 
 the good intentions of the author admitted, there yet 
 remains another question: Has Molidre accomplished 
 his purpose ? In other words, has the comedy of Tar- 
 tufe, while exposing hypocrisy, rendered real service to 
 
 * Matthew xxiii. 27, 33. 
 
MOLIERE. 373 
 
 the cause of true religion, which the author sincerely 
 respected? Those who are best acquainted with 
 French society, can best answer it. It is but too true 
 that the comedy of Moliere has produced results, which 
 he would have disavowed. In France, the public al- 
 ways suspect a religious man of being more or less a 
 Tartufe. At the time of Moliere, the right distinction 
 was still made. But in the eighteenth century, this 
 ceased to be the case. And now, they strive to con- 
 found the true and false, because Moliere has said : — 
 
 " The footsteps of the truly pious all should trace, 
 But call him hypocrite, who makes so much grimace." 
 
 Tartufe, Act 1 . Scene 6. 
 
 And now they have arrived at the belief, that every 
 form of piety implies a certain dose of hypocrisy. 
 This explains in part, the strange ideas of the French 
 in general, on religion. Talk to them on politics, 
 science, or philosophy, and you will soon discover that 
 they reason well ; and -with an ease and elegance rarely 
 to be found among other nations. It is conceded that 
 the French have high qualities ; intelligence, judgment, 
 and intellect. And this is true, generally speaking, ex- 
 cept on one subject. As soon as you touch on religious 
 subjects, all these qualities disappear ; and you see no 
 more of them. A Frenchman literally understands 
 nothing of religion. All he knows is, to repeat some 
 of Voltaire's jokes about the priests. All this, how- 
 ever, does not prevent him from having his children 
 baptized ; or from going to confession, the day before 
 his marriage ; so as not to displease his wife, just when 
 the honey-moon is about to commence. And if from 
 time to time, the clergy take it into their heads to refuse 
 Christian burial to one of these strange adherents, who 
 
 32 
 
374 LECTURE VIII. 
 
 has carried his impiety too far, then the religious senti- 
 ment of the people is all at once awakened ; and the 
 ceremonies at which they before laughed, are now 
 thought indispensable ; and the populace will break 
 open the doors of the church, and throw the curate from 
 the windows of his parsonage. Such is the religion 
 of the French. They want a priest to marry them ; to 
 baptize their children, and bury their old relations ; and 
 whoever does more than this, is a Tartufe. In France, 
 every one agrees that parties in politics and philosophy 
 ought to spread their convictions ; but they dispense 
 with this duty in the case of pious men ; and the term, 
 religious proselytism, is never employed but in a bad 
 sense. 
 
 I shall not ask your pardon for this digression, as I 
 have not for a single instant wandered from my subject. 
 In saying a few words on the religious spirit of France, 
 I was still speaking in reference to its literature ; for, it 
 is literature, which has thus warped the religious feel- 
 ings of the French. The evil was especially done in 
 the eighteenth century. But Moliere has unintention- 
 ally furnished arms to men, whose sentiments he would 
 certainly have disapproved. 
 
 What we have just said of the Tartufe, is equally 
 applicable to the Misanthrope, and all the pieces of 
 Moliere. In no one of them does the author advocate 
 impiety or immorality. Neither does he any more ex- 
 hibit high morality or Christianity ; but something inter- 
 mediate, very well represented by Philinte in the Mis- 
 anthrope ; and which is called, the morality of honest 
 people. 
 
 With regard to the morality of honest people, allow 
 me to read you a description of them, written by a man 
 who is very far from being a Puritan ; and who is un- 
 
MOLIERE. 375 
 
 happily nothing else; but whose sympathizing and 
 impartial spirit leads him to speak the truth of every 
 one. It is thus that St. Beuve defines. the morality of 
 the world. Do not forget, I pray you, that he who 
 speaks is the author of " VolupteV' 
 
 " As inferior to true Christian morality, (if we may 
 make such a comparison,) as superior to the false and 
 odious Jesuitical method, this morality of honest people 
 is not virtue, but is composed of good habits, good 
 manners, and honest proceedings ; resting generally on 
 a foundation, more or less generous, and a nature more 
 or less well born. To be well bom, as it is said ; to have 
 been surrounded by honorable examples; to have re- 
 ceived an education which has cultivated our sensi- 
 bilities ; to have a conscience, to have regard, above all, 
 to a good standing ; these, with a thousand imaginable 
 variations ; with more spirit and generosity when one is 
 young; with more prudence and forethought after 
 thirty ; this is what pretty nearly constitutes this mo- 
 rality in the ordinary relations of life. And this is the 
 morality seen on the surface of the society of our day, 
 and which had even penetrated society previously ; since 
 the decline of the old manners and the ancient orders, 
 and since the appearance of the middle class; and is 
 now seen especially in the first strata of our modern 
 society in France. There enter into it some philo- 
 sophical results; and there remain some Christian 
 maxims and habits; it is a compromise, and there- 
 fore answers the wants of the day. What there is 
 good in it, I should say, is a Christianity rationalized, or 
 rather made useful ; transformed to a state of practical, 
 social utility. The temple has been in part destroyed ; 
 but the fragments are good, and they are brought into 
 use ; and much is achieved with them, without much 
 •inquiry into their origin. 
 
376 LECTURE VIII. 
 
 " When some great crisis comes, when some great im- 
 postor, some successful rogue, seizes upon society to 
 mould it to his iaste, this morality of honest people is 
 insufficient; it yields and adapts itself, by finding a 
 thousand methods of disguising its cupidity and base- 
 ness. There have been examples of this. When a 
 violent storm fills up the depths, and raises up the mud 
 and mire, this morality of the ground floor finds itself a 
 little splashed; nor is this the worst. Left to itself, 
 however, in ordinary and middling times, it judges 
 soundly enough, and readily regulates itself, when it 
 can, by eternal truth. 
 
 " One of the proceedings, one of the convenient re- 
 sources of this morality, is, to be ignorant of all evil 
 not directly in its sight, and which does not fly into its 
 face. Society, whose front and first floors present in 
 general, in ordinary times, a becoming and proper ap- 
 pearance, hides in its caves and subterranean passages 
 many outrages. And sometimes it is a very thin par- 
 tition, that of the heart alone, which separates them. 
 When all this does not break out visibly, the morality of 
 the honest-people takes no account of it, and does not even 
 suppose that it exists. For shame ! " 
 
 Such is the morality of Molidre's personages. They 
 do not drag themselves through the mire; neither do 
 they lose themselves in the clouds ; all their wisdom 
 consists in keeping near the earth. This is the philoso- 
 phy of a multitude, who, satiated and undeceived, en- 
 deavor to make the most of this present life ; without 
 ever disquieting themselves about what is to follow. 
 Tranquillity and the happiness which fortune can 
 bestow, is what they must have at any price, and who- 
 soever "crosses them on their path, will find in them 
 formidable champions. Men who have lost their repu- 
 
MOLIEK.E. 377 
 
 tation and those who are decidedly vicious, find pitiless 
 enemies and merciless censors in thes"e disciples of the 
 morality of honest people. They are coldly repelled as 
 stupid fellows, who do not know enough to save ap- 
 pearances ; for these honest people, for fear any one 
 should doubt their virtue, are always very zealous in 
 condemning vice. But it is against the idealogues, 
 thinkers, philosophers, and others ; and above all, against 
 those who frankly profess Christianity, that the morality 
 of these honest people shows itself with merciless 
 severity. A person marks out the path he will take ; if 
 he creeps, there is no danger of a fall ; but let him pre- 
 tend to aspire higher, and every failure he makes will 
 be considered a crime in him. He who professes 
 Christianity, should accept the morality of the Gospel 
 in all its severity and vigor. "Well, be it so, say these 
 honest people of the world, but we wait to see your 
 works ; and then if they see the Christian stopping 
 short of the beau ideal to which he ought to aspire, 
 they immediately condemn his weakness as hypocrisy. 
 Look at the holy man, says one, he does just as others ; 
 he has his passions and his faults. And these people, 
 who otherwise care nothing about holiness, affect to 
 believe that whoever professes to be a Christian, should 
 be perfect from one day to another ; and that he should 
 no more exhibit any of the weakness of human nature. 
 And if he lets some defects be seen, they immediately 
 cry out: a Tartufe. Some, under the pretence that 
 they should be patient like their master, regard them- 
 selves as allowed to do what they please with regard to 
 them. And if, after heaping upon them a thousand 
 insults and calumnious imputations, they lose their 
 patience, and yield to a feeling of anger, these people 
 triumphantly exclaim with Dorine : — 
 32* 
 
378 LECTURE VIII. 
 
 " Ah ! you are devout, and yet, irascible withal ! " 
 
 If, on the contrary, any one acts consistently to the 
 end, the honest man triumphs no less ; for he says to 
 himself; there was certainly enough to irritate him in 
 what I said ; but the hypocrite has devoured his rage, 
 he has covered himself like Tartufe, with his Jesuitical 
 and devout air. 
 
 But, if in his turn, the Christian takes these honest 
 men at their word, and tells them to do better, they ex- 
 cuse themselves by saying, they are not so ambitious ; 
 and that they fear they would do worse in seeking to 
 do better. 
 
 The want of sincerity in these men, is evident ; for it 
 is very clear, that when nothing is risked, nothing can 
 be lost; and this vulgar morality which contents itself 
 with saving appearances, is entirely misplaced, when it 
 condemns the fall of those who aspire higher. This is, 
 however, the morality of the majority in France. They 
 are the maxims of the chiefs of this great party of 
 order, with which the correspondents of the newspapers 
 entertain you. All these great defenders of the family, 
 of property and religion, have no other rule of life, than 
 the morality of the honest people. St. Beuve seems to 
 have described them in advance, in the extract we have 
 just read. In 1848, at the moment of the crisis, we 
 have seen them find excellent reasons for adopting the 
 republic, when it was perilous not to do so. Some 
 months after, they found no less conscientious motives 
 for strangling it ; always avowing their great respect for 
 the constitution ; for, the morality of these honest peo- 
 ple wishes to save appearances. These are the people 
 who, after passing a night of excess, write a touching 
 article for the paper, on the joys of the domestic hearth; 
 
MOLIERE. 379 
 
 and who afterward defend the institution of the family 
 against the socialists, even in face of those whom they 
 have dishonored. 
 
 Such are the enormities of the day, which wait for 
 another Moliere to scourge them as they deserve. 
 Unhappily, the Christian pulpit cannot enter upon this 
 study of manners ; and for my own part, I am often 
 surprised into wishing for another Moliere, who would 
 unmask the Tartufes of the nineteenth century, as the 
 first unmasked those of the seventeenth. In spite of 
 the immortal work, which we have just examined, 
 hypocrisy nourishes more than ever. And what is re- 
 markable, she still puts on the mask of religion. It is 
 felt, that Christianity, however undesirable, is neverthe- 
 less powerful. And in order the better to hide their 
 ambitious and egotistical views, they constitute them- 
 selves, the defenders of that religion which they despise. 
 And it is indeed curious, that in our day, the disciples 
 of Voltaire are the most zealous champions of religion ; 
 who turn the offices of the hall of legislation into a 
 vestry, and its floor into a pulpit. What colors would 
 be furnished for the pencil of a Moliere, by contempo- 
 rary events ! What a spectacle it would be, to see the 
 Jesuits, the philosophers, the followers of the cross 
 and the disciples of Voltaire, forgetting their quarrels, 
 and embracing each other, while swearing an eternal 
 peace ; for the greatest good of the family, of property, 
 and of religion ! I imagine to myself, a crowd of 
 people in a public place, and a church in the distance, 
 from which the wondering crowd see Mr. So and So 
 and Mr. So and So come out, arm in arm, calling each 
 other, my dear friend ; and counting their beads on the 
 same chaplet, while consulting together, as to the meas- 
 ures to be taken, to send the soldiers of the little 
 
380 LECTURE VIII. 
 
 corporal to Rome, there, in the name of the republic, to 
 overthrow a sister republic and establish the Papacy, 
 which had been destroyed by the empire. Nothing 
 would be wanting, to make the resemblance to Tartufe 
 complete. It was an Archbishop d'Autun, who sug- 
 gested to Moliere, the principal features of the seven- 
 teenth century; and it is likewise an Archbishop d'Au- 
 tun (Talleyrand) who has said, that language was 
 given to man to disguise his thoughts ; who would be 
 the hero of the modern piece. Nothing would be want- 
 ing; neither the imbecile Orgon, the dupe of all the 
 intrigues; nor the good Madame Pernelle, who can 
 hardly believe her eyes, and who exclaims, as she sees 
 the reality : — 
 
 " I am stunned, and I fall from the clouds ! " 
 
 Act 5. Scene 5. 
 
 I am mistaken, however; there would be something 
 very important wanting ; and that would be the solu- 
 tion, which we all expect, and which would not be so 
 easy as in the piece of Moliere. When an entire nation 
 is 'reduced so as to have for its anchor of salvation 
 nothing but the maxims of the honest people's moral- 
 ity, we may expect all that will follow. The ship 
 of State will sail well enough in ordinary weather; but 
 the slightest storm will be sufficient to carry it far from 
 port. When an entire nation has no other resource, it 
 may delay the decisive hour of shipwreck ; but that is 
 all. Destitute of all initiative power, and of moral life, 
 to enable her to advance and make real progress, she is 
 condemned to inaction ; and must see the clouds gather- 
 ing over her head, without being able to do any thing 
 to prevent the impending catastrophe. 
 
 It is not religious convictions alone, which lead me to 
 
MOLIEKE. 381 
 
 form so severe a judgment of this morality of the honest 
 people, of which Moliere, its most illustrious representa- 
 tive, has not foreseen all the disastrous consequences. 
 It is not necessary to be a Christian, to see what is 
 wanting ; it is sufficient to be a philosopher, and to have, 
 some aspirations towards a world more elevated than 
 that in which we live. And here is the proof of what 
 I say. 
 
 Among the number of Moliere's most bitter cen- 
 surers we must reckon — whom? Bossuet and Fene- 
 lon among the priests? Yes, these excellent eccle- 
 siastics have attacked the author of the Misanthrope ; 
 but there is another, who has gone farther than 
 all of them; it is J. J. Rousseau. We have already 
 seen, that he attacked MoliSre, on account of the Mis- 
 anthrope. And we can conceive, that the citizen of 
 Geneva could not be impartial in his own cause ; but 
 we cannot comprehend why he should attack him with 
 regard to his other comedies ; and even go so far as to 
 accuse him of immorality. 
 
 Rousseau evidently goes too far. It is not for the 
 author of the " Confessions " to throw stones at any 
 one ; and in fact, if we must choose, we should prefer 
 the morality of Molidre to that of Rousseau. 
 
 But from whence comes the profound antipathy of 
 the author of the " New Heloise," to the author of the 
 " Tartufe ? " How is it, that these two philosophers 
 are so little in harmony ? 
 
 Here is the explanation. Rousseau and Molidre are 
 philosophers. They stand on the ground of a pure 
 human nature ; without troubling themselves about the 
 Gospel. But after having broken from Christianity, 
 they take two opposite ways. 
 
 When the doctrines of Christianity are not admitted, 
 
382 LECTURE VIII. 
 
 there are but two ways of looking at human nature. 
 One is, to believe that the good predominates over the 
 evil ; and, notwithstanding his miseries and weaknesses, 
 the good finally triumphs in man. The other is ; scan- 
 dalized at the spectacle of a world, from which we have 
 suffered so much ; deceived even by friends ; and behold- 
 ing the restless egotists who are continually agitating 
 the community, to arrive at the conclusion, that there is 
 a vast preponderance of evil over the good, and so yield 
 ourselves to despair. 
 
 Rousseau belonged to the former school. He believed 
 in human goodness. And, in his opinion, the good pre- 
 vailed over the evil. He avows this in an audacious 
 manner ; when, in commencing his Confessions, so full 
 of scandals and enormities, he says : — 
 
 " Let the trumpet of the last judgment sound when 
 it will, I shall come, this book in hand, and present 
 myself before the sovereign judge. I shall boldly say : 
 this is what I have done, what I have thought, what I 
 was .... Eternal Beings 
 
 " Assemble around me the innumerable multitude of 
 my equals ; let them listen to my confessions, let them 
 groan at my unworthiness, and blush at my miseries, 
 . . . and then let a single one say to thee, if he dare, I 
 was better than that man." 
 
 Such is Rousseau's philosophy. He impudently 
 enumerates the crimes of his life, without the least show 
 of humility ; always believing himself good ; while at 
 the same time, he is defying his Creator and his Judge. 
 
 Moliere, on the contrary, never exhibited this terrible 
 pride. "Without at all glossing over human nature, he 
 adopts the philosophy of Philinte, and holds man to be 
 a bad enough brute ; from whom we must not expect 
 great things, if we would not be deceived. 
 
MOLIEItE. 383 
 
 With which of these philosophers do you sympathize ? 
 Does man appear to you, as to Rousseau, all greatness ? 
 Do his brilliant qualities cause you to forget his no less 
 incontestable vices ? Or, are you of the same mind as 
 MoliSre, Montaigne, and many others; who, struck 
 especially with the miseries and meanness of human 
 nature, have formed a very low opinion of our race ? 
 
 In our next lecture, we shall see the answer which 
 Pascal gives to this question. 
 
PASCAL'S THOUGHTS. 
 
 33 
 
 (385) 
 
LECTURE IX. 
 
 PASCAL'S THOUGHTS. 
 
 MISERY AND GREATNESS OF MAN. THE nUMAN AND THE 
 
 CHRISTIAN VIEW OF THE SUBJECT. 
 
 Is man a great or a miserable being? Should he 
 feel proud or ashamed of belonging to the human race ? 
 J. J. Rousseau resolutely maintains the first opinion, 
 while Molidre, on the contrary, speaks as a man who 
 has taken the other view of the question. 
 
 Pascal, to whom we are now going to look for a solu- 
 tion of this important moral problem, commences by 
 proving it to be a very ancient enigma, which has 
 always claimed the attention of those, who have made 
 the moral nature of man the subject of thought and 
 investigation. Some philosophers, he says, inspire emo- 
 tions of pure grandeur. But this is not the natural 
 condition of man ; while others, on the contrary, in- 
 spire emotions wholly base ; but neither is this the real 
 nature of man. He vehemently protests against these 
 two extreme conclusions, and exclaims on the authority 
 of our moral sense : " Man is neither an angel nor a 
 beast." 
 
 (387) 
 
388 LECTURE IX. 
 
 What is he then? Pascal is going to inform us. 
 And, for that purpose, he enters into a complete, pro- 
 found, and above all, an impartial analysis of every 
 thing he finds in human nature. In the first part of 
 his work, we should be led to believe, that he belonged 
 to the school of Moliere ; for he entitles it, " The Misery 
 of Man." He infers this misery from th# presence of 
 three great wants in the human heart, which can never 
 be satisfied. These are, the desire of truth ; the desire 
 of happiness ; and the desire of justice. 
 
 1. The desire of truth. Man can never satisfy his 
 desire of truth, and his capacity for knowledge. " Man," 
 he says, " is only a subject, full of error, inherent and 
 ineffaceable, without grace. Nothing shows him truth ; 
 but every thing deceives him. ■ The two principles of 
 truth, reason and sense, beside lacking sincerity, recip- 
 rocally wrong each other." Imagination is, above all, a 
 great source of error, and Pascal treats it rudely. He 
 thus defines it. " It is the deceitful part of man ; the 
 instructress in error and falsehood ; and It is the more 
 beguiling, since such is not always its character ; other- 
 wise it would be a sure guide to the truth, were it 
 always infallibly known to lie." The influence of this 
 deceitful power is still stronger over wise men than fools. 
 She bestows respect and honor ; and without her con- 
 currence, all the riches of the world avail nothing 
 " She deadens the senses, or quickens them ; she has 
 her fools and her wise men ; and nothing vexes us more 
 than to see that she fills her disciples with a satisfaction, 
 much more full and entire than reason can produce." 
 Pascal presents to us a respectable senator entering a 
 ' church, with a devout and serious air ; and you believe 
 that he is going to be edified? But, you have reckoned 
 without the imagination. " Let the preacher come in 
 
Pascal's thoughts. 389 
 
 • 
 and if nature has given him a hoarse voice, and an odd 
 
 expression of countenance ; or if his barber has done his 
 
 duty awkwardly ; or his uncouth appearance is increased 
 
 by his having been accidently bespattered, I would 
 
 insure, that our noble senator would lose his gravity." 
 
 The greatest philosopher will allow his imagination 
 to influence him to such a degree, that he will not dare 
 to cross a precipice where the path is much" wider than 
 necessary, even though reason tells him that he has 
 nothing to fear. Imagination regulates every thing; 
 for, by ruling* in the departments of beauty, justice, and 
 happiness, she controls the world. 
 
 " Our magistrates have understood this mystery. 
 Their red robes, their ermine, in which they wrap 
 themselves like stuffed cats ; the palaces in which they 
 administer justice; the fleur de lis — all these august 
 accessories were very necessary, and if physicians had 
 not cassocks, and slippers, and doctor's square caps," 
 (Pascal alluded to the customs of his time and country ; 
 but the reader, I imagine, will easily be able to find 
 similar examples around him,) "if these doctors had 
 not also had robes four times too large, they would 
 never have duped the world, which could not resist this 
 imposing display And if the former adminis- 
 tered true justice, and the latter really understood the 
 art of healing, they would not need the square cap ; the 
 majesty of science would command respect on its own 
 account. But having only imaginary science, they 
 must use these vain helps to strike the imagination of 
 those with whom they have to deal ; and by these they 
 really gain respect. We cannot even see an advocate 
 in cassock and cap, without forming a favorable opinion 
 of his abilities." * 
 
 *II. 51. 
 
 33* 
 
390 LECTURE IX. 
 
 Prejudice, the fear of novelty, the diseases which 
 warp the judgment and senses are joined with distract- 
 ing cares to trouble our minds. " It is not necessary to 
 have a cannon fired, to divert the attention of this great 
 judge of the world; it needs nothing more than the 
 turning of a weathercock or a pulley. You must not 
 be astonished, if he fails to reason well just now, for a 
 fly is buzzing about his ears ; and this is sufficient to 
 render him incapable of giving good counsel." 
 
 After having showed the mistakes which are pro- 
 duced by personal interests and self-love, Pascal in a 
 third chapter, entitled, " Disproportions of Man," directs 
 the attention to another source of error. This is one 
 of the finest pieces of the author ; in which he shows 
 man, the weakness of his understanding, measuring 
 him with nature, and holding him suspended between 
 the infinite above his head and under his feet. " Let 
 man once leisurely and seriously contemplate nature ; 
 let him also turn his attention to himself, and judge 
 whether he is in harmony with her. Let him then look 
 upon nature in all her majestic grandeur ; let him turn 
 from the low objects which surround him, and fix his 
 gaze upon that glorious luminary placed as an eternal 
 lamp to enlighten the universe ; let the earth appear to 
 him as a point, in comparison to the vast circumference 
 which this planet describes ; and let him be astonished 
 that this vast orbit itself, is only a delicate point in 
 regard to that which the stars in the firmament describe. 
 But if our eye can penetrate no further, imagination 
 does not stop there, and will sooner be weary of con- 
 ceiving, than nature will be of furnishing material for 
 the fancy to feed upon. All this world is but an imper- 
 ceptible part, of that which is found in the ample field 
 of nature. No idea can make any approach to it. We 
 
pascal's thoughts. 391 
 
 may raise our conceptions beyond all imaginable space, 
 but we shall only create atoms in comparison with 
 what is reality. It is an infinite sphere, whose centre 
 is everywhere, while its circumference is nowhere. In 
 fine, it is the greatest sensible proof of the omnipotence 
 of God, that our imagination loses itself in this thought." 
 
 He grants a moment of respite. " Let man having 
 now rallied his forces, consider what he is, in compari- 
 son with what is ; let him regard himself as a wanderer 
 in this by-province of nature ; and let him learn from 
 this little dungeon in which he finds himself, (I mean 
 the created universe,) to estimate the earth, the king- 
 doms, the cities, and himself even, at their true value." 
 After which, he confounds him by another spectacle. 
 
 " But, in order to present him another wonder equally 
 astonishing, let him extend his researches among the 
 most delicate things. Let him examine a small insect, 
 with parts incomparably smaller, the limbs with joints, 
 veins in the limbs, blood in the veins, fluids in this blood, 
 drops in these fluids, and air in these drops ; let him 
 still divide these last substances, until his power of 
 imagination is exhausted ; and the last object which he 
 is able to conceive, shall now be the theme of our dis- 
 course. He will think, perhaps, that he has attained 
 the extreme limit of minuteness to which nature can 
 reach. I would show him within that, a new abyss. I 
 would paint for him, not only the visible universe, but 
 all the immensity of nature of which he can form a 
 conception, within the space of that abridged atom. 
 Let him there behold an infinity of universes, each one 
 having its firmament, its planets, its earth, in the same 
 proportions as the visible world : in the earth there will 
 be animals, and finally, worms, in which he will find, 
 that which the first possessed and finding still in these 
 
392 LECTURE IX. 
 
 others, the same things without end and without rest, 
 he will be lost in these wonders, as astonishing in their 
 minuteness, as the others were in their vastness 
 
 " He who reflects upon these things, will be afraid of 
 himself. Seeing he is a part of "that mass of nature 
 sustained between the two abysses of infinity and non- 
 existence, he trembles in view of these marvels. And 
 I believe, his curiosity changing into admiration, he will 
 be more inclined to contemplate them in silence, than 
 to make presumptuous researches. 
 
 " For, finally, what is man in nature ? Nothing, com- 
 pared to the infinite, and every thing compared with 
 nothing; a middle between nothing and every thing. 
 Infinitely removed from an understanding of the ex- 
 tremes, the end of things and their principle are invinci- 
 bly hidden from him in impenetrable secrecy; equally 
 incapable as he is of seeing the nonentity from which 
 he is taken, and the infinite in which he is lost." 
 
 Such, then, is our real existence. It is this which 
 renders us incapable of certain knowledge, or absolute 
 ignorance. 
 
 2. The desire of happiness. But if man is ignorant, 
 is he at least happy in his ignorance ? Pascal's re- 
 sponse to this question is most original and profound ; 
 while it is at the same time conclusive. It is in the 
 pleasures, the diversions, and the various occupations 
 from which man expects happiness, that he sees the 
 proof of his misery. If our condition were a truly 
 happy one, it would not be necessary for us in order to 
 be happy, to have our thoughts diverted from it. The 
 only thing which consoles our misery is diversion. And 
 yet, this is the greatest of our miseries ; for, it is this 
 which principally prevents us from thinking of our- 
 selves, arid insensibly destroys us. Without it we 
 
pascal's thoughts. 393 
 
 should have ennui ; and to relieve ourselves from that, 
 we should be obliged to seek some more substantial 
 relief. But diversions amuse us and lead us along to 
 death, insensibly. But is not this happiness, to be able 
 to enjoy these amusements? No, for it comes from 
 another source, and from without ; and thus it is liable 
 to be disturbed by a thousand accidents, which bring 
 with them inevitable affliction. Whoever sees not the 
 vanity of the world, is himself vain. And who does 
 not see it, if we except some young persons, who are 
 absorbed in the bustle of life, in amusement, and in 
 plans for the future ? But take away their amusements, 
 and you will see them buried in ennui ; they then feel 
 their nothingness, without knowing it : for this is truly 
 an unhappy state, to be insupportably sad, so soon as we 
 are condemned, from want of entertainment, to think of 
 ourselves. 
 
 Pascal, with his profound analysis, points to that re- 
 pugnance which every man has to live in and look at 
 himself, as affording a proof of his misery. " Nothing 
 is so insupportable to man, as to be in a state of entire 
 repose, without business, without passion, without 
 amusement, and without study : he feels then his noth- 
 ingness, his forlornness, his insufficiency, his depend- 
 ence, his weakness, his emptiness. Then from the 
 depths of his soul will come out weariness, atrocity, 
 sadness, vexation, rage, despair." 
 
 The happiest man even, will experience these senti- 
 ments ; and all will fly from solitude. " This is the 
 reason why gaming, the conversation of women, and 
 war; those great employments, are so much sought after. 
 It is not that men really expect thus to find happiness, 
 or that they imagine there is any true blessedness in the 
 money won at play, or in the hare that it followed in 
 
394 LECTURE IX. 
 
 the chase. They would not desire these, were they 
 offered to them." Thus man is constantly seeking to 
 find avocation and excitement; not for the pleasure 
 which these things can give in themselves ; but in order 
 not to see his miserable condition, and to avoid the 
 weariness which he always experiences in his own 
 society. " Such a man spends his life without ennui, 
 by means of incessant trifling. Give him every morn- 
 ing the money he would each day gain, on the condi- 
 tion that he was not to play ; and you would make him 
 miserable. It may be said, perhaps, that he seeks the 
 amusement of play, and not the gain. Make him play 
 for nothing, then ; there will be no excitement ; and he 
 will be weary of it. It is not amusement only, that he 
 seeks ; a sober amusement without passion, would be 
 very tedious to him. It is necessary that he should be- 
 come heated, and cheat himself with the idea, that he 
 would be happy, could he gain that which he would not 
 desire if it were given him, upon condition that he 
 should not play. He must form for himself, an object 
 of passion, which will excite his desire, his anger, his 
 fear; like children who frighten themselves with the 
 face which they have drawn." 
 
 Notwithstanding that, every man continually exposes 
 himself to this punishment of Tantalus ; every one pur- 
 sues pleasure, and places it in different things ; and " the 
 will takes no step, but toward this object It is the 
 motive of all the actions of men ; even of those who 
 hang themselves." All are aware, likewise, that they 
 have never succeeded ; and complaints are as general as 
 the pursuit, without any, however, allowing themselves 
 to be discouraged by numerous disappointments, or by 
 the failure of others. " Cases, it has been remarked, 
 are never so entirely similar, that there will not be some. 
 
pascal's thouqhts. 395 
 
 delicate difference ; and this encourages us to hope, that 
 our expectations will not be disappointed in this in- 
 stance as in the other. Thus the present never satisfy- 
 ing us, experience deceives us and leads us on from 
 misfortune to misfortune, until death comes to put on 
 the finishing stroke for eternity. 
 
 " What, then, does this eagerness, this impotence de- 
 clare, if it be not that man formerly possessed a true 
 happiness, of which nothing but a trace is left in the 
 void which he experiences, . and which he vainly en- 
 deavors to fill with all that surrounds him ; seeking to 
 find in absent things, the aid which those that are 
 present cannot afford him ; but without success, for this 
 infinite abyss can only be filled with an infinite and im- 
 mutable object, that is to say, only by God himself?" * 
 
 3d. The desire for Justice. Here again, although we 
 have the word, the thing is wanting. Ideas of justice 
 have varied in different ages, among different people, 
 with different degrees of culture, and in different cli- 
 mates. " A variation of three degrees from the pole, 
 changes the whole system of jurisprudence ; a meridian 
 decides truth; a few years of possession, and funda- 
 mental laws change ; justice has its epochs. The en- 
 trance of Saturn into the lion marks the origin of such 
 or such a crime. Amusing justice that, which is 
 bounded by a river! It is truro on this side of the 
 Pyrenees ; it is falsehood on the other! " 
 
 It is impossible to believe in a natural jurisprudence ; 
 for in that case, the glory of true justice would have 
 caused it to gain the ascendency among all people, 
 while on the contrary, there is not a single law univer- 
 sally recognized. " Robbery, incest, infanticide, and 
 parricide have all had a place among virtuous actions." 
 
 *IL 122. 
 
396 LECTURE IX. 
 
 The principles which we are accustomed to consider 
 as natural, are only the effect of custom, which has 
 become a second nature, destroying the first. The idea 
 of justice and injustice is preserved in the consciences 
 of all men ; but when they cease to be abstract ques- 
 tions, and are to be applied to particular cases, there is 
 no longer any agreement. Pascal here criticizes the 
 expedients which have been resorted to, in order to de- 
 termine what was just. In the relations of one people 
 to another, some have wished to see justice in the laws 
 of nations ; but this justice is mockery. " Can any 
 thing be more ridiculous, than that a man has a right to 
 kill me because he lives on the other side of the water, 
 and his prince has a quarrel with mine, although I have 
 none with him ? " 
 
 The expedients which have been made use of in 
 society, show still more the inability of man to deter- 
 mine what is just. Fully believing that there will 
 never be any unanimity in deciding what is right, and 
 that there will always be a dissenting minority, it has 
 been agreed, that the majority should rule, and to that 
 every one yields, not because it has justice on its side, 
 for that is still contested, but because it has numerical 
 strength. " Justice is liable to be disputed ; strength is 
 easily recognized,- and cannot be disputed. Thus, 
 strength could not be gwen to justice, because strength 
 has contradicted justice and called her unjust,and has said 
 that itself was justice ; and thus not being able to make 
 right to be might, they have caused might to become right." 
 
 Those who have yielded to the majority, in order to 
 put an end to contests, have justified strength on the 
 ground that might and right could be considered as 
 going always together. 
 
 Pascal laughs, good-naturedly, at the futile distinc- 
 
pascal's thoughts. 397 
 
 tions to which recourse has been had to determine merit 
 and rights, and he avenges the aristocracy of talent for 
 the contempt it meets from the aristocracy of birth and 
 fortune. " It is well," he says, "to distinguish men by 
 their external, rather than by their internal qualities! 
 Which of us two shall pass on ? Which shall give place 
 to the other? The shrewd? But I am as shrewd as he. 
 We must then fight about it. He has four lackeys and 
 I have but one ; that is visible ; you have only to count 
 them ; it is my place then to yield, and I am a fool, if 
 I contest the point. You see us then by this means, at 
 peace ; the greatest of blessings." * 
 
 The critique of the author of Les Pensees strikes 
 even still higher, for he is not afraid to show all that is 
 unjust in the principle of .hereditary monarchy. " The 
 most unreasonable things in the world become the most 
 just by the laws of men. What can be more un- 
 reasonable, than to choose the eldest son of a queen to 
 govern the State ? No one chooses the commander of 
 a vessel, on account of his coming from a good house ; 
 such a law would be ridiculous and unjust ; but because 
 men are and always will be so, it therefore becomes 
 reasonable and just; for who shall be chosen? The 
 most virtuous, the most skilful? But here is our 
 dilemma, for every one makes pretension to being the 
 most virtuous and most skilful. Let us then attach this 
 quality to something incontestable ; it is the eldest son 
 of the king ; this is plain and cannot be a matter of 
 dispute. This is the best that reason can do, for civil 
 war is the greatest of evils." f 
 
 However, this conventional justice, arbitrary and 
 relative though it be, is indispensable; men so much 
 
 *I. 184. fl- 178 - 
 
 34 
 
398 LECTURE IX. 
 
 need true justice, that it is necessary that injustice 
 should at least carry the appearance of it. " It is 
 dangerous to say to the people, that the laws are not 
 just, for they only obey them, because they believe 
 them just, and there is danger of revolt, when they are 
 shown their worthlessness. It is therefore necessary to 
 say to them at the same time, that they should obey 
 them because they are laws, as they would yield obedi- 
 ence to their superiors, not because they are just, but 
 because they are superiors. And thus, may sedition be 
 prevented, by making this understood; and this is, 
 properly, the definition of justice." 
 
 Here again, peace is often obtained at the expense of 
 true justice ; the necessity of recurring to such expedi- 
 ents, shows that we must content ourselves with what 
 is legal, and forever renounce the idea of seeing general 
 and absolute justice reign. 
 
 From this triple examination, Pascal very logically 
 infers the misery of man ; for how could he help feeling 
 miserable, how could a being be resigned throughout 
 his life, while his most natural and legitimate wants 
 ever remain unsatisfied ? Who has not felt the tor- 
 ments of doubt ? who can see, without sighing, the in- 
 justice which is committed under the sun? where is 
 the happy man of this age ? " We wish for truth, and 
 we find only uncertainty ; we seek happiness, and find 
 only misery and death. It is impossible for us not to 
 desire truth and happiness, and we are unable to find 
 certitude and happiness. All the occupations of man 
 are designed to secure his happiness, but they cannot 
 justly pretend to furnish it, for they have satisfied only 
 the phantasy of men, substituting the appearance for 
 the reality." * 
 
 * n. 88. 
 
pascal's thoughts. 399 
 
 Let man live according to the desires of his heart, let 
 him forget God and his conscience, and seek a deceitful 
 joy rn false pleasures. " The last act is melancholy, 
 however beautiful all the rest of the comedy may be. 
 The earth is thrown on his head, and that is the last 
 we ever see of him ! " * 
 
 Is this all that Pascal has to say? No, for then he 
 would belong to the school of Moliere, and nothing but 
 discouragement, despair, and contempt of self, would 
 be the result of such an examination. Notwithstand- 
 ing all this long digression, our author has not lost sight 
 of his apology for Christianity. " It is dangerous to 
 convince man, that in some respects he is on an equal- 
 ity with the brutes, without showing him also his great- 
 ness. And yet it is dangerous to dwell upon his. 
 greatness without showing him likewise his baseness ; 
 and it is still more dangerous to leave him in ignorance 
 on either of these points : but it is highly beneficial to 
 show him both." . 
 
 Pascal has thus far accomplished only the first part 
 of his task, and he now passes on to the second. He 
 has talked to us enough of the misery of man ; he will 
 now speak to us of his greatness. We shall now see 
 this intrepid demolisher become the skilful architect, and 
 construct from these ruins a pedestal, on which he will 
 place him, whom he has been pleased to humble. He 
 has spoken as a disciple of Moli&re, now he will repre- 
 sent J. J. Rousseau. Listen to him, as he resolutely 
 announces his design. He protests against the prema- 
 ture conclusions, that you may have been in haste to 
 draw. " Notwithstanding all the misery which sur- 
 rounds us, and holds us in its grasp, We have an instinct 
 
 *I. 214. 
 
400 LECTURE IX. 
 
 which we cannot repress, and which elevates us." This 
 assertion does not satisfy you, and you demand the 
 proofs ; he brings back those he has already presented 
 to you, so that each stone of the ruined edifice, will 
 find its place in the new one which he is about to 
 construct. " All these miseries even prove his great- 
 ness, for they are the miseries of a great lord, of a de- 
 posed king." * 
 
 But how is this ? In what consists this greatness ? 
 " The greatness of man consists in knowing himself 
 miserable ; the consciousness of being miserable will 
 make us miserable ; but it is to be great, to know that we 
 are miserable." 
 
 It is necessary to follow closely Pascal's reasoning. 
 It is not the object of this consciousness, which consti- 
 tutes the greatness of man, for he knows himself to be 
 miserable; but it is the act of knowing in itself, and 
 that alone, which constitutes his nobleness; for, to 
 know, is to think; and thought is the glory of man. 
 That this thought is often most foolish, Pascal readily 
 grants, but it is always thought. " It is low from its 
 defects ! It is great from its nature ! " It is really this, 
 which is the essential part of the human being, for, " I 
 can conceive of a man without hands, feet, or head, as 
 it is only experience which teaches us, that the head is 
 more necessary than the feet ; but I cannot conceive of 
 a man without thought, for he would then be a stone 
 or a brute." 
 
 " It is thought, then, which constitutes the being of 
 man ; and without that, no one can conceive of him. 
 What is that within us which enables us to feel pleas- 
 ure ? Is it the .hands ? Is it the arms ? Is it the 
 
 * II. 82. 
 
pascal's thoughts. 401 
 
 flesh ? Is it the blood ? We see that it must be some- 
 thing immaterial." * 
 
 Pascal does not content himself with making simple 
 assertions on this point ; he proves it in such an ingen- 
 ious and convincing manner that all men agree with him, 
 that thought should be entitled the glory of our race. 
 " We have so exalted an idea of the soul of man, that 
 we cannot suffer ourselves to be despised or undervalued 
 by another soul ; and all man's felicity consists in this 
 esteem." 
 
 It is tills which renders the love of glory the noblest 
 of human passions, because it has a spiritual motive ; 
 the desire of obtaining the esteem of the soul. " Man 
 has so high an estimate of his fellow-creature's reason, 
 that whatever worldly good he may possess, he is not 
 content unless he can gain the approbation of other 
 men. Their esteem is what he covets above all things 
 in the world ; and nothing can overcome this desire, for 
 it is the most ineffaceable quality of the human heart." 
 
 " And those who despise man most, and liken him to 
 the beasts, would still wish to be admired and believed 
 by him ; thus contradicting, themselves, their own sen- 
 timents ; their nature, which is stronger than all, con- 
 vincing them more fully of the greatness of man, than 
 reason can persuade them of his baseness." 
 
 Pascal does not stop half way in reinstating human 
 nature ; nor does he fail to bring forward every thing in 
 man that is noble and glorious. And as he has brought 
 him into the presence of nature, to confound and 
 humiliate him, he now goes on to show him his superi- 
 ority to it. It is this, which gives occasion for the 
 much admired comparison of the thinking reed. " It is 
 
 * H. 84. 
 34* 
 
402 LECTURE IX. 
 
 not necessary that the whole universe should rise in order 
 to crush him ; a vapor, a drop of water is sufficient to 
 kill him. But should the universe crush him, man 
 would be still more noble than that which kills him, 
 because he knows that he dies; and the advantage the 
 universe has over him, it is unconscious of." 
 
 We here come to the most pathetic part of the work. 
 Pascal's apology becomes a tragedy ; and we find our- 
 selves contemplating the most moving scenes, which 
 have all the changing variety of the drama. He has 
 proved the misery of man ; but this misery even, has 
 served to prove his grandeur, for he is proud to have 
 found in thought, the true title of nobility for our race ; 
 and he examines it more closely that he may test its 
 truth. Man is evidently made to think ; it constitutes 
 his dignity and merit ; and his whole duty is to think 
 aright. And in order to do this, he must commence by 
 thinking of himself, his author, and his end. 
 
 And of what does the world think ? It is evident that 
 on this question, the conclusion of the whole discourse 
 depends. We are finally coming to the last word on 
 man and his nature ; we shall learn what conclusion to 
 form for ourselves, and to determine whether misery or 
 greatness preponderates in him ; the first has already 
 served to prove the second, thought constitutes the dig- 
 nity of man ; if this thought, then, is well employed, if 
 man strives to think aright, which is the principle of 
 morality, the good will triumph over the bad ; and he 
 will have within himself a regenerating principle ; We 
 shall forget his misery, in thinking only of his greatness. 
 What use, then, does man make of the most beautiful 
 of his faculties ? " Of what does the world think ? 
 Never of these things ; but of dancing, and playing the 
 lute ; of singing, making verses, running at the ring, etc. 
 
pascal's thoughts. 403 
 
 etc.; of raising himself; qf becoming a king, without think- 
 ing what it is to be a king, and what it is to be a man." 
 
 What, then, is the fact? all illusion is futile, the evil 
 predominates over the good, man is miserable and very 
 miserable, because he makes a bad use of what is most 
 noble and elevated in Mm. Thought, which entitles 
 him to be called glorious, has been degraded by vanity 
 and pride. " If, therefore, the light that is in thee be 
 darkness, ■ how great is that darkness!"* We had 
 believed for an instant, that man was to be elevated, 
 but he has only risen to descend still lower ; and we 
 have not yet the key to $ie enigma ; we are an incon- 
 ceivable mixture of the most contrary things. Pascal, in 
 his perplexity, knows not what to believe or how to de- 
 cide. " If he boasts, I humble him ; if he humbles him- 
 self, I exajt him, and contradict him continually ; until he 
 understands that he is an incomprehensible monster." f 
 
 What,then, is to be done ? What definite ideas are 
 we to form of this extraordinary being ? Pascal's words 
 betray his indecision ; for, after proving the baseness 
 and the greatness of man, he exclaims : " Let man now 
 estimate his worth. Let him love himself, for he has in 
 himself a nature capable of doing right; but let him 
 not on that account, love that which is base in him. 
 Let him despise himself, because his capacity has failed 
 to bring forth its legitimate fruits, but let him not there- 
 fore despise this natural capacity. Let him hate, let 
 him love himself. He has in him a capacity for know- 
 ing the truth, and being happy ; but he has no constant 
 or satisfying truth." 
 
 He has not, then, as yet, any settled opinion ; he is 
 always saying to himself : " if he boasts, I will humble 
 him." But before humbling him a* second time, " I 
 
 * Matthew vi. 23. ' fH- 90. 
 
404 LECTURE IX. 
 
 would wish," he says, " to awaken in him a desire to 
 find the truth, and to be prepared to disengage himself 
 from his passions, in order that he may follow it, 
 wherever he may find it. Knowing how much they 
 obscure his judgment, I should wish him to hate in 
 himself, whatever might exert a wrong influence, or 
 blind him in making his choice, or which might hinder 
 him from acting out his choice." 
 
 Those who have followed Pascal with attention, will 
 have remarked, that thus far, he has not quitted the 
 domain of sentiment ; he has simply stated the proofs, 
 but has not proved the moral state ; and whoever will 
 examine himself, will find, without the least difficulty, 
 the truth of all the facts which he has stated. He now, 
 before forming his conclusions, appeals to reason, and 
 summons her to speak in her defence, before the heart 
 shall give its verdict. Philosophy is interrogated to 
 know if she can give the clue to this enigma, and recon- 
 cile the contradictions we have seen. The Stoics and 
 Epicureans are presently interrogated ; but the answers 
 they give, cannot satisfy us. They do not even seem 
 to be aware, that there is a problem to solve ; each one 
 having noted one set of data, and completely neglecting 
 the others. " The Stoics wished to renounce the pas- 
 sions, and become gods ; the Epicureans wished to 
 renounce reason, and become brutish beasts." * 
 
 The judgment rejects the first conclusion as well as 
 the second ; the presence of the two elements is incon- 
 testable ; man feels himself to be at once grand and mis- 
 erable, and protests against any doctrine which loses 
 sight of either of these attributes. " Man is neither an 
 angel nor a brute ; and such is our misfortune, that he 
 who plays the angel makes himself a brute." f 
 
 * II. 91. 1 1. 183. 
 
pascal's thoughts. 405 
 
 Pascal afterward examines the doctrines of the Dog-, 
 matists and the Pyrrhonists. This would be the place 
 in which to say a few words on what has been styled 
 Pascal's scepticism; an old quarrel, revived by M. 
 Cousin, within a few years ; a battle from which he has 
 ^ not gained many laurels. In order not to turn our at- 
 tention from the principal subject which occupies us, 
 we shall confine ourselves to giving the conclusions of 
 our author. 
 
 He thus states the question, " Man is made to know 
 the truth ; he desires and seeks it. And yet when he 
 endeavors to seize it, it so dazzles and confounds him 
 as to give him occasion to doubt its possession. It is 
 this which has given rise to the two sects of Pyrrhonists 
 and Dogmatists ; one of which would rob him of all 
 knowledge of the truth, and the other would try to 
 assure him of it." 
 
 Pascal constitutes himself an impartial arbiter, who 
 carefully examines and weighs the reasons of both par- 
 ties. " We have," he says, " an inability to prove, 
 which defies all dogmatism. We have an idea of truth, 
 which is invincible to all scepticism." 
 
 " What than shall man do in such a case ? Shall he 
 doubt all ? Must he doubt if he is awake, or if another 
 pinches or burns him ? Shall he doubt whether he does 
 doubt ? Shall he doubt whether he is ? No one can 
 go thus far ; and I set it down as a fact, that there has 
 never been a real, thorough sceptic. Nature sustains 
 imperfect Reason, and prevents its reaching such a point 
 of extravagance." * 
 
 Thus philosophers have been consulted in vain ; they 
 have not found the solution of the problem, and have 
 failed to arrive at any certain conclusion. Pascal finds 
 
 * IL 103. 
 
406 LECTURE IX. 
 
 himself again in the presence of human nature, which 
 no one has been able to explain to him ; and thus con- 
 vinced of the weakness of those who call themselves 
 wise, he still exclaims : " If he boasts, I humble him ; if 
 he humbles himself, I exalt him ; I contradict him per- 
 petually, until he understands that he is an incompre- 
 hensible, monster." 
 
 " What a chimera then is man ! What a novelty, 
 what a monster, what chaos, what a subject of contra- 
 diction, what a prodigy! Judge of all things, feeble 
 worm of earth ; depository of truth, a sink of doubt and 
 error ; the glory and scorn of the universe." 
 
 " Who will bring order out of this confusion ? Na- 
 ture confounds the sceptics, and reason confounds the 
 dogmatists. What will become of thee, then, oh man, 
 that seekest to know thy true condition, by means of 
 natural reason ? Thou canst not fly from one of these 
 sects, neither canst thou exist in either." * 
 
 The philosophers once challenged, Pascal returns 
 again to the region of sentiment, which he has only 
 quitted for an instant and by concession. Our certainty 
 cannot be based on the data of pure reason ; we know 
 the truth not only by reason, but also by the heart. 
 We feel that we exist ; and this certainty is as strong 
 as that which would be the result of reasoning. " It is 
 ridiculous also for reason to demand of the heart the 
 proofs of these first principles, (as that there exist space, 
 time, motion, numbers,) in order that it may be willing 
 to agree with it; as it would be ridiculous for the heart 
 to demand of reason a feeling of all the propositions she 
 demonstrates, in order to be willing to receive them." f 
 
 " This inability should only serve, then, to humble 
 reason, which would judge of all; but not to combat 
 
 * II. 104. f II. 108. 
 
pascal's thoughts. ■ 407 
 
 our certainty, as if nothing but reason were capable of 
 instructing us. Would, to God that, on the contrary, 
 we might never have need of it, and that we might- 
 know all things by instinct and sentiment." 
 
 Thus we see the rights of the heart well established ; 
 the results obtained in consulting it, could not be for an 
 instant shaken. Man is truly great and miserable, at 
 the same time, as we have seen. Philosophy has not 
 been. able to reconcile these things; and it remains for 
 us to see if feeling could not at last, explain all. Pas- 
 cal is going to draw his conclusions. Man feels himself 
 at once great and miserable ; and we must discover the 
 explanation of this double fact. 
 
 Summing up, for the last time, the result of his 
 researches, the philosopher, addressing himself to man, 
 gives the reasons for the conclusions to which he is 
 about to come ; and makes a sort of excuse to his hero 
 before precipitating him from the height of the pedestal 
 on which he has placed him. " It is in vain, oh men! " 
 he says, " that you seek in yourselves the remedy for 
 your miseries. All the light you have, can only show 
 you, that it is not in yourselves you will find truth or 
 happiness. Philosophers have promised to lead you to 
 them ; but they have never been able to fulfil their 
 promise. They neither know what is your true good, 
 nor your real condition. How could they give a remedy 
 for your woes, since they have not even known them ? 
 Your principal evils are, pride, which draws you away 
 from God; and cupidity, which attaches you to earth ; and 
 they have done nothing but confirm one at least of these 
 maladies. 14 they have given you God for an object, it 
 has only been to excite your pride. They * have made 
 you think that you were like him, and were conformed 
 
 * Rousseau. 
 
408 LECTURE IX. 
 
 to him by your nature. And those who have seen the 
 vanity of this pretension, have thrown you over the 
 other precipice, by making you understand that your 
 nature was similar to that of the beasts ; and have led 
 you to seek your enjoyments in those low pleasures 
 which belong to animals." * 
 
 .Pascal then sums up all, and concludes, " If man had 
 never been corrupted, he would in his innocence enjoy 
 truth and happiness with security. And if man had 
 never been otherwise than corrupted, he would never 
 have had an idea either of truth or blessedness. But 
 unhappy as we are ; beyond what we should have been 
 had there been no greatness in our condition, we have 
 an idea of happiness to which we cannot attain; we per- 
 ceive an image of truth, and possess only a lie ; incapa- 
 ble of absolute ignorance, or of certain knowledge, it is 
 thus very evident, that we have been in a state of perfec- 
 tion from which we have unhappily fallen" 
 
 Here, then, we reach the conclusion of the whole mat- 
 ter. Let us pause upon it a few moments ; our time 
 and labor will be well repaid We know the ordinary 
 course of the apologies for Christianity, in proving the 
 doctrine of the fall ; which is the basis of the Christian 
 edifice. They content themselves with citing in evi- 
 dence, the fact related in the commencement of Genesis. 
 Pascal says not "a word of this explanation, so con- 
 stantly employed by the Jews ; but takes another means 
 of arriving at the same end. He invites man to con- 
 sider himself; and shows him his misery and his great- 
 ness. And when he has made him blush at his own 
 condition, and shown him that he is an inexplicable 
 enigma, a monster, he finally pronounces the word fall, 
 so commonly dreaded ; but which, on the contrary, in 
 
 * Moliere. 
 
pascal's thoughts. 409 
 
 this case, sounds in the ears of man, as a word of deliv- 
 erance ; which comes to put an end to his anxiety, as a 
 fiat lux, destined to dissipate the shadows from his heart. 
 Pascal is, therefore, well situated to reply, when he is 
 required to account for this great fact. He boldly 
 refuses to sit in judgment, and with entire propriety. 
 It is not for him to decide whether sin is transmitted 
 from generation to generation, or whether all men have 
 sinned in Adam. All these unanswerable questions, 
 which so perplex theologians, do not concern him. He 
 confesses all that is mysterious in this fact ; but for all 
 that, it is no less certain ; " astonishing thing indeed, 
 that the mystery of the transmission of sin, the furthest 
 removed from our knowledge, is the thing without which 
 we can have no knowledge of ourselves ! For, beyond 
 doubt, there is nothing which shocks our reason more, 
 than to assert that the sin of the first man may have 
 rendered those obnoxious to punishment, who were so 
 far removed from it, that they seem incapable of par- 
 ticipating in it. This transmission of sin, not only 
 seems to us impossible, but very unjust ; for what is 
 more contrary to the rules of our miserable justice, than 
 to condemn an infant,* incapable of volition, to eternal 
 punishment, for a sin in which he appears to have so 
 little part, that it was committed six thousand years 
 before he was in being ? Nothing, certainly, can strike 
 us more harshly than this doctrine ; and yet without 
 this 'most incomprehensible of all mysteries, we are in- 
 comprehensible to ourselves. The knot of our condi- 
 tion, finds its entanglements and contortions in this 
 
 * This is the only place in which Pascal remembers that he is a 
 Catholic ; that dogma, however, is not essential to his reasoning ; the 
 fact of universal sinfulness is all his argument needs. 
 
 35 
 
410 LECTURE rx. 
 
 inexplicable fact; so that man is more inconceivable 
 without this mystery, than this mystery is inconceivable 
 to man." 
 
 Thus you have only a choice between two formi- 
 dable mysteries ; that of the fall, which, however repug- 
 nant to you, is yet the least terrible ; for, if you reject 
 it, you condemn yourself to remain in your own eyes 
 an enigma, a monster ; and that according to the un- 
 questionable testimony of your own heart. Do not 
 object, that this doctrine of the fall is contrary to reason. 
 Pascal admits it ; and what is more, he proves that it 
 must necessarily be thus. " The doctrine of original 
 sin is folly in the eyes of men, but as such, it is given 
 to them. You must not then reproach me for the want 
 of reason in this doctrine ; since I give it, as being with- 
 out reason. But this folly is wiser than all the wisdom 
 of men, for, without it, what will any one affirm that 
 man is ? The whole of his condition hangs on this im- 
 perceptible point. And how could he have discovered 
 it by reason, since it is a thing above reason ; and reason 
 so far from voluntarily inventing it, shrinks from it, 
 when it is presented ? " 
 
 We are filled with respect for the genius of this vigor- 
 ous wrestler, who, grasping in his powerful arms rebel- 
 lious and apostate man, threatens to strangle him, to 
 trample upon him in contempt, if he will not cry : I am 
 fallen, I was conceived in sin! And this cry every man 
 must utter, for Pascal's proofs are not exclusively for 
 the use of Jews, or Christians already convinced ; in 
 every country under heaven, whatever may be the de- 
 gree of culture, every son of Adam is constrained on 
 examining himself, to say : I am that man ! You see 
 that by means of a complete and impartial analysis, 
 Pascal has reconciled two facts apparently incompatible. 
 
pascal's thoughts. 411 
 
 He confesses with Moliere the misery of man ; but like 
 Rousseau, he sees also his greatness. He admits both, 
 and brings them into harmony. From among the ruins 
 and rubbish which surround us, he draws forth, with a 
 firm hand, those letters of nobility, which must convince 
 us of our past greatness and of our future glory ; which 
 must humiliate while elevating us in our own eyes ; and 
 which will guard us against discouragement and de- 
 spair, as well as against self-sufficiency and pride. " We 
 should have," he says, " feelings of lowliness, not from 
 nature, but from penitence ; not that we may remain in 
 that state, but that we may reach a true elevation. 
 "We must have aspirations after grandeur, not through 
 merit, but through grace ; and rise to greatness through 
 lowliness." 
 
 This word "Fall," once pronounced, Pascal lays 
 aside all reserve ; we hear no longer his exclamation : 
 11 If he humbles himself, I exalt him; if he exalts himself, 
 I humble him;" all indecision is at an end, his position 
 is taken, he knows where he stands. Apostrophizing 
 man, he hurls him without mercy from the height of the 
 monument which he has raised with so much pains 
 from the ruins of his misery. " Know, then, proud man, 
 what a paradox thou art to thyself; weak reason, be 
 humble; keep silence, feeble nature; learn that man 
 infinitely surpasses man, and understand from your 
 master your true condition, of which you are ignorant. 
 Listen to God." 
 
 These last words indicate that we now stand on 
 different ground. Pascal has proved in the first part of 
 his work, the misery of man without God; he is going, in 
 the second part, to treat of the blessedness of man with 
 God, and prove from the Scripture that there is a 
 Restorer. The incontestable fact of the fall, to which 
 
412 LECTURE IX. 
 
 our consciences testify, and which God has directly 
 revealed, serves him as a transition from territory purely 
 human, to that of revelation. Man, happy to find the 
 religion which is presented to him, agreeing in so im- 
 portant a point with the facts in his own experience, 
 conceives a favorable prejudice towards it, and is ready 
 to ask for more light. Thus Pascal advances no one 
 historical proof; for, in the secret heart of every man, 
 there is written in ineffaceable characters, the proofs of 
 the authenticity of Christianity. " The greatness and 
 the misery of man are so evident, that the true religion 
 must necessarily teach us, that there is both a great 
 principle of grandeur and a great principle of misery in 
 man. It must then give us a reason for these astonish- 
 ing contradictions." 
 
 The author has no difficulty in showing us, that the 
 doctrines of the Gospel account for these " astonishing 
 contradictions," which he has just shown us, are found 
 in the human character. The doctrine of the fall, would 
 itself be sufficient to explain to us this moral enigma, 
 though this explanation would be most grievous and 
 sad, if religion taught us nothing more. Happily, this 
 is not the case ; there is Good News, a Gospel for fallen 
 man. The same religion which teaches him the fall, 
 announces to him also the remedy. 
 
 We shall follow our author no further. Although the 
 second part of his work may be in many respects re- 
 markable, it is much less so than the first, which is so 
 original and so novel. The premises once conceded, he 
 has no difficulty in arriving at the conclusions. When 
 any one acknowledges the truth of the psychological and 
 moral analysis, through which he has just been led, 
 there is no way of retreat ; for, however little logic he 
 may have ; or better still, if the moral sense is kept 
 
PASCAL'S THOUGHTS. 413 
 
 awake, he is constrained to follow its leadings to the 
 end ; until it conduct him to the shores of the heavenly 
 Canaan. 
 
 Such, Gentlemen, was this great genius. It would 
 be superfluous to pronounce his eulogy here ; for who- 
 ever has followed us, has sufficiently felt, that he was 
 not in the society of an ordinary man. We do not 
 hesitate to place him at the head of the great men of 
 that age, which was favored with so many others. 
 Pascal is, beside, one of those men who belong not to 
 an age, but to humanity. His Pensees have not grown 
 old, and never will ; it is only, in an approaching future, 
 that we shall be able to estimate their full meaning. 
 He is one of those geniuses, whose appearance in the 
 world makes an epoch in the history of humanity. 
 After Jesus Christ, though at a great, distance, comes 
 St. Paul ; after St. Paul, Blaise Pascal. 
 
 If any one should wish to know what he is to believe 
 with regard to the Christian religion ; if a man should 
 say to us that he felt repelled by human systems, and 
 that notwithstanding his good intentions, after having 
 tried all the sects, he could not agree with any one, we 
 would ask him : do you know Pascal ? If not, leave 
 the ordinary apologists, the works of controversy, the 
 dogmatists, the great volumes, the confessions of faith, 
 go alone and spend some days tSte d Ute with the 
 author of the PensSes; if you yet have an honest and 
 good heart, if you are one of those Israelites like Na- 
 thanael, in whom there was no guile— led by such a 
 disciple, you cannot fail before long to go with him 
 and cast yourself at the foot of the Master's cross. 
 
 END. 
 
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