Swnlnai ... y -o / HISTORY FRENCH LITERATURE THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. BY ALEXANDER V.I NET, PROFESSOR OF THEOLOGY AT LAUSANNE. TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY TIIF. REV. JAMES BRYGE. EDINBURGH: T. AND T. CLARK, 38, GEORGE STREET. LONDON: HAMILTON, ADAMS, AND CO. DUBLIN: JOHN ROBERTSON, AND HODGES AND SMITH. MDCCCLIV. <\v 5_ V 7 o MVHUAY AND filllU, Pit 1 NT :'. us, r.IMSBUIUJII TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE. THE work, of which a translation is here presented to the Public, has some of the disadvantages of a posthu- mous publication. It is the substance of a course of Lectures prepared for delivery during the summer of 1846; however, when the author was about the middle of his Lectures on the character and writings of J. J. Rous- seau, he was arrested by a mortal distemper, under which he sunk, after a few months' illness. In these circumstances, the final revision of the author was im- possible ; but it must also be added, that M. Vinet did not write his Lectures. He seems to have had great power in extempore address, and usually spoke from notes, suggesting the progress of thought, felicitous epi- thets, and passages for quotation. These notes form the basis of this work, and the French editors carefully com- pared them with the note-books of four of the pupils, who attended this course so far as it was continued. iv TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE. From these sources the contents of this volume have been collected, and I cannot help paying a tribute of admiration to the fidelity and success with which the French editors have performed their very difficult task. M. Vinet's style and forms of expression are wonderfully preserved; and, in the circumstances of the case, the work could not have been brought before the public under more favourable auspices. There are other very distinguished works on this subject, which may appear to render this publication altogether unnecessary. Yillemain and de Barante have written the history of French literature with a brilliancy that might seem to defy competition. On this point, a difference of opinion may be justly entertained. Every 7 subject must be improved by new and independent thought ; and, in the present case, the young and inex- perienced will derive singular benefit from the sound religious principles of the author, which are a tacit re- futation of the unsound opinions entertained by some even of the best writers in France during the eighteenth century. Vinet had collected materials for a complete history of French literature, and had he lived to publish it, few will deny that it would have been a great boon conferred on his country. This work will be found occasionally very unequal. Some of the writers are little known, and their writings appear to us in these days extremely uninteresting. No critic can render them attractive, and vet as thev were TRANSLATORS PREFACE. famous in their day, they could not be passed over in silence. Mademoiselle de Launay, Marivaux, Houdard de la Motte, and even La Chaussee, are names which are now almost forgotten, even in France, and would never have reached Britain, unless in a history of French literature. On the other hand, the Duke de Saint- Simori, Fontenelle, Montesquieu, Voltaire, and Kousseau, are brought before the reader with a graphical power, which shows the author to have been very highly fitted for the delineation of character, and for critical analysis. The attention of the reader is especially claimed in behalf of the writings of the Duke de Saint-Simon, He is, perhaps, the most extraordinary writer of his own, or of any other age. He is a Christian of the Jansenist school, but withal he is a peer of France, and his Chris- tianity was not allowed to impinge on any of his dignities or privileges. His high notions of the importance of the peerage would lead us to question the soundness and sincerity of the Christian profession, which appears to hold only the second place in his mind ; but all this passes with the Duke for a species of eccentricity, arid we are rather disposed to smile at the absurdity of his expressions than doubt the correctness of his principles. The very exalted opinion which he entertained of the dignity of the French peerage, would probably be a part of the wood,, hat/, and stubble, which was to be burnt up. His writings consist of memoirs of his own times, and present to us a series of portraits of the distinguished vi TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE. men of that age, delineated with a degree of fidelity, which must in general have given very little satisfaction to the originals. It was the fashion to flatter Louis XIV., and call him great ; the Duke de Saint-Simon does nothing of the kind, but he brings out facts and anecdotes illustrative of his tyranny, oppression, dis- honesty, and petty revenge, till the reader begins to wonder whether the opposite epithet might not have been, in all the circumstances of the case, the more appropriate. He strips him of all the trappings of royalty, and convinces us that his character would hardly have been held respectable in the middle classes of society. If any one be charmed with the stately elegance of the French Court at that time, the Duke de Saint-Simon will show what it is really worth. Other characters he dissects with anatomical precision, and lays bare their weaknesses with unsparing severity. The Marshall de Yillars, the great antagonist of the Duke of Marlborough, he treats with indignant contempt. By far the finest part of his memoirs is the portrait of the Duke of Burgundy, which is found in this volume at full length. He was the grandson of Louis XIV., the pre- sumptive heir of the throne of France, gifted with talents of the highest order, and fitted by nature for fathoming the depths of abstract science, but his natural temper was that of a demon, and its workings rendered him an object of terror to all around him. A change, however, took place, which the Spirit of God alone can accomplish : TRANSLATOR S PREFACE. Vll and in his eighteenth year he became an humble and devoted Christian. The whole of this portrait is espe- cially recommended to the notice of the reader, as it is believed that a narrative of the life and death of this remarkable prince, so faithful and minute, is nowhere else to be found. The writings of the Duke de St Simon are by no means attractive in their style, for it often requires some thought to discover his meaning. He occasionally feels himself entangled with an unwieldy sentiment, which he will not reject ; and the French language is bent to the purpose of expressing it, while the rules of syntax and established idiom are entirely disregarded. But, amid the rugged- ness and carelessness of his style, the freshness and vividness of the pictures, keep up the reader's attention. It is no small matter to find an independent writer in the age of Louis XI Y. On the whole, this work of Yinet appears to be worthy of public approbation ; and the translation, which only aims at fidelity, will enable the mere English reader to become acquainted with French literature in an inter- esting age. CONTENTS. INTRODUCTION, - *T I. THE CHANCELLOR D'AGUESSEAU. 1668-1751, 45 II. COCHIN. 1687-1747, - 50 III. DUKE DE SAINT-SIMON. 1675-1755, - 53 IV. ROLLIN. 1661-1741, . 71 V. LOUIS RACINE. 1692-1763, 84 VI. CREBILLON. 1674-1762, - - 100 VII. LE SAGE. 1668-3747, - 107 VIII. DESTOUCHES. 1680-1754, - - 114 X CONTENTS. PAOK IX. THE ABBE PREVOST. 1697-1773, 116 * X. THE MARCHIONESS DE LAMBERT. 1647-1733, 120 XI. MADEMOISELLE DE LAUNAY (MADAME DE STAAL). 1693-1750, 126 XII. FONTENELLE. 1647-1747, 131 XIII. HOUDARD DE LA MOTTE. 1672-1742, 156 XIV. MARIVAUX. 1688-1763, - 162 XV. LA CHAUSSEE. 1692-1754, 168 XVI. LE PRESIDENT RENAULT. 1685-1770, 171 XVII. VAUVENARGUES. 1715-1747, 175 XVIII. MONTESQUIEU. 1689-1755, 199 XIX. VOLTAIRE. 1694-1778, 254 XX. D'ALEMBERT. 1717-1783, - 336 CONTENTS. XI PAGE XXI. DIDEROT. 1713-1784, - 341 XXII. HELVETITJS. 1715-1771, 349 XXIII. RAYNAL. 1713-1796, 350 XXIV. D'HOLBACH AND GRIMM. 1723-1789. 1723-1809, - - 352 1 XXV. BUFFON. 1707-1788, 354 XXVI. DUCLOS. 1704-1772, 361 XXVII. J. J. ROUSSEAU. 17llr-1778, ------ 300 APPENDIX, - - 462 HISTORY OF FRENCH LITERATURE EIGHTEENTH CEi\ 7 TURY. INTRODUCTION. GENTLEMEN, The subject of investigation in this place is chiefly a history, a history rather than a series of notices, opinions, and analyses. These two modes of inquiry are very closely connected, and are often confounded. The seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, in relation to us, take already the place of antiquity. The authors who belong to these two eras, seem to be little more than the ornaments of a literature whose sun is set, and those who enjoyed the least disputed popularity, are, in the present day, generally speaking, little read. We shall begin by taking a rapid and final view of the seven- teenth century, and shall attempt to give a summary of its peculiar characteristics before we enter upon the examination of the period which succeeded it. The seventeenth century, taken as a whole, but especially considered during its second half, has been represented more than once as a resting-place, an intermediate space between two ages of criticism and infidelity. The sixteenth century was A 2 INTRODUCTION. the age of Montaigne and Charron. In the eighteenth, the tendencies of Montaigne and Charron found new representatives in Voltaire, Diderot, d'Alembert and Rousseau. Between the two, the river had stopped its course, and had become a vast transparent lake, but at its outlet, amid rocks and precipices, the current regained its strength. After a time of repose, the human mind set out again in its career of improvement ; not that this repose was a time of inactivity, on the contrary, there was regular and uninterrupted exertion, which had for its object to fix the attention of 'mankind on certain doctrines. The torrent of doubt and denial was stemmed by a work of con- struction. In the sixteenth century, men deny and interrogate ; in the seventeenth, they answer and affirm ; in the eighteenth, they begin anew to put questions. Let us not consider as mere chance, gentlemen, a state of mind, which is easily explained. The seventeenth century is the logical sequence, the natural production of the sixteenth. In reference to philosophy and thought in general, the human mind always proceeds in this manner : it makes progress by antithesis and reaction, and resembles the pendulum, which unceasingly oscillates from right to left and from left to right. But the pendulum moves in a fixed space, and the value of one of its oscillations is constantly compensated by that of the other, while the action and reaction of the human mind do not entirely destroy each other, some quantity remains, and these quantities, added together, make up the sum of its progress. At the first glance, man seems to us to undo to the same extent what he has already done ; but if we extend the field of our observation, we shall be convinced of the real and gradual advancement of human nature. Whether this advancement is for good or evil, is a different question. The seventeenth century is, indeed, a resting-place between two periods of denial or unbelief, 1 and whatever variety the nature of its intellectual acquirements may present, it is evident that a certain satisfaction is commonly derived from the aspect of an era, during which the human mind has sought rest in affirmation. But we must not deceive ourselves ; the human mind affirms but little, its certainties are seldom full and satis- 1 French Npyalimi. INTRODUCTION. 3 factory; and when an age or even a man affirms, it always remains to be seen whether this age or this man be sincere and consistent. In the bosom of that clear but deep basin, in which the mind of the seventeenth century is settled, we catch a glimpse of the form of the monster that must in after times be brought to light. The general and primary character of the seventeenth century is authority ; but is authority identical with affirmation ? This is an important question. Yes, although the terms are not synony- mous, at this point the two facts meet. It is not the same with an age or a people as with an individual. A man may affirm from his own individual conviction ; when a nation affirms, it is under the persuasion of its authority. However this may be, the seventeenth century bears the im- press of authority in religion, politics, and literature. As to religion, we see the religious troubles allayed, at the same time as the civil commotions, of which they were the prin- cipal cause. Calvinism has retired within limits beyond which it will no more be found, men no longer attempt its extermination, but they trace for it a boundary beyond which it cannot pass. Scepticism, the other enemy of Catholicism, is reduced to silence, but it gnaws its bit and secretly cherishes daring thoughts ; nor is it satisfied with loosely rejecting the doctrines of revelation, it treats in the same manner the principles of natural religion. The unbelief of the seventeenth century is atheism, and to atheists the arguments of the defenders of religion are addressed. We do not find at that time religious rationalism, because little was done for France, and therefore rationalism was then impos- sible there was no middle place between orthodox Catholicism and downright atheism. But this unbelief avoids the light, it goes deep, so to speak, into the earth, from which it will come forth in the most hideous form another day. On the other hand, the dispute between Jansenism and Molin- ism is public and important. Jansenism produces a reaction in two ways ; in the way of piety in opposition to the worldly spirit of Molinism, and also, but without knowing it, in the way of freedom of thought in opposition to the constraint of laws and institutions. It is at once the representative of a more fervent Christianity and of the rights and privileges of the human mind. Nevertheless this movement, which animates Catholicism, does 4 INTRODUCTION. not reach the authority of its principle, on the contrary, it shows its extent. What must have been the strength of a unity, which Jansenism, supported by its high privilege and by its genius, was unable to shake? It was because the seventeenth century had, above all, need of repose; happily that repose was glorious. The catholic religion at that time possessed so great men, that they made its authority loved, or at least honoured. Politics found their account in it. As to politics, authority reigns uncontrolled. The parliaments are mute. The Fronde is only a movement without ability. Political questions are generally kept out of view. No man of talent during that time directed his attention to such points, with the exception of Fenelon and Massillon toward the end of the century. Every where else silence is maintained. Perhaps La Bruyere deserves also to be excepted. In regard to literature, in it more than in anything else, if possible, the same need of authority makes itself be felt. At that time conventional forms were established, of which some may be defended and others were adopted without examination. It is a kind of literary religion, mingled no doubt with supersti- tion, but not with superstition in itself, because it is founded on true principles. It is connected with the worship of antiquity, imperfectly comprehended indeed, but approved, felt, and honoured. Here and there, however, \te perceive some feeble wishes for independence; some men of talent complain, that litera- ture is not sufficiently national, and they would go back to the middle ages, our own antiquity : they would free style from cer- tain laws and restraints ; but these are only powerless desires, the attempts of some men of second-rate ability, and weak aspira- tions at what we in the present day term romantisme. No man of eminence adopts the creed of such ordinary persons, who are consigned to contempt by the oracles of the classical religion, of which Boileau is high priest. If there be any department in which liberty has made progress, it is philosophy. This century, to which the epithet philosophi- cal has been refused, is in reality more philosophical than the succeeding period, in which philosophy will only be found to consist of analysis and criticism, and no longer to possess that speculative and disinterested character which distinguishes the writings of Descartes and Malebranche. INTRODUCTION. 5 It may be asked, how this liberty of thinking could have ex- isted in an age that bowed to authority. The extraordinary abundance of intellectual productions during that time was undoubtedly one of its causes. An age quite literary cannot be anti-philosophical. Between literature and philosophy, there naturally exists a very close connection ; we cannot exclusively cultivate one of these domains and entirely neglect the other, for a great literary epoch will be remarkable for the exercise of thinking. Thought will not always assume the form of philo- sophy, but it will have it for its foundation, and even the poets themselves may be philosophers. While philosophy presented itself under the form of literature, it excited no jealousy. When it was not disguised under this covering, it prevented all sus- picion by coming to the conflict in the armour of religion. It took its seat at the foot of the cross, or rather at the foot of the apostolic see. Descartes, Malebranche, Bossuet, used great liberty of thinking under the shelter of the orthodoxy of the church. In that position they were beyond all suspicion ; and, in short, the philosophers of the seventeenth century were as bold thinkers as those who succeeded them. This statement might furnish a subject for discussion. Authority envelopes everything, but destroys nothing. Universal activity is the guarantee of liberty, inactivity alone is its destruction. We come now to this literature in itself. In the seventeenth century, what was its object? The proper ground of its activity is the second characteristic by which it must be distinguished. It is confined within a narrow circle, but we must draw a line of distinction ; two kinds of literature simultaneously exist, the literature of action, or that which is practical, and the literature of taste, which may be considered as including every species of fine writing. The first appears as merely a vehicle. The form alone of this kind of writing belongs to literature ; the end in view is plainly separated from it. The authors of these writings are anxious by their means to bring about changes, to produce results in a word, to influence the conduct. The practical literature of the seventeenth century is marvellously rich ; almost all the prose belongs to it. Bossuet, Bourdaloue, all the great preachers, Pascal, Arnauld, Nicole, fill up its ranks. La Bruyere does not come in here. This species of literature is exclusively prac- 6 INTRODUCTION. tical ; its "form agrees with its end, but mere form is never sub- stituted for the end. Here may be discovered the admirable superiority of such men as Fenelon and Bossuet. They did not write a work for a purely literary purpose they consecrated their talents to their own official duties, and especially to the development and defence of the truths of their religion. Such were the objects to which practical literature was principally directed. The literature of taste makes itself its own object and end ; its single aim is fine writing. The things of the real world and its circumstances only furnish occasion for its exercise. In the seventeenth century, it is as purely confined to matters of taste, as the other is purely practical a real contrast to the fol- lowing age, in which practical literature will be found to be too much occupied with matters of taste and esthetic literature too much devoted to matters of practice. Having laid down this distinction, it appears to us that the circle of literary operation in the seventeenth century is far too confined, when compared with the space which it comprehended in the sixteenth. We must not, however, deceive ourselves. At every period this circle will seem to us incomplete. The litera- ture of all past ages will appear to us to have neglected certain subjects, and a certain class of interests and thoughts, to which the present time attaches great importance. We may be as- tonished at what we have, and not at what we want. No time has completely embraced the sphere of all the ideas, which may be called literary, and every age has had a gap different from that which has gone before it. We fancy that we comprehend within the narrow space that we occupy almost every thing capable of aifording food to the mind, and this pretension is one of the char- acteristics of the nineteenth century. Perhaps we are not abso- lutely wrong ; perhaps, in this way, w r e have, indeed, surpassed our predecessors, but we must not give way too much to flattery, our age has also its limits, and the eighteenth century imagined, like ours, that it had embraced every thing. We may, nevertheless, agree to this, that the seventeenth cen- tury, the age of grandeur, presents singular gaps. The social world such as it was at that time, the passions of private life, man as he really is, but independent of the conditions of age, fortune, and nationality, in a word, social abstract man these form the mine, from which this literature has derived its materials. Jt INTRODUCTION. 7 carefully avoids many things which we cultivate with delight, such as national memorials and the history of our country, to which it does not willingly even allude. It no longer occupies its attention with views of nature; it might even be said, that it does not look at nature at all ; only in the way of imitation, it makes still use of some hackneyed expressions, and it has culti- vated or rather parodied the ancient idyl. Truly, the seventeenth century appears devoid of the capacity of perceiving nature. The people, too, with their pleasures, their instincts, and their sorrows, are entirely unknown to it. It knows nothing of the citizens but on the side of ridicule. It remains indifferent to the inner re- cesses of a family, which are always sacrificed to the way in which society views them. It, no doubt, represents private, but not domestic life. This remark is not universally applicable, and we may satisfy ourselves by referring to Andromachd. 1 The literature which now engages our attention, concentrated on man such as society presents him to our view, no longer con- templates him in his retirement, holding converse with himself, with the mysteries of life and of human nature, in a word, with the Infinite. It is with the Infinite that the solitude of the inner man holds intercourse. Man in this aspect has entirely escaped the observation of the seventeenth century. It produced many serious writings, but in none of them do the relations of mankind to religion suppose an anterior relation of the individual to the mysteries of God. Perhaps we must attribute this defect to Christianity, which was much more generally spread at that period. In our times, men take the indefinite for the sublime, and it is natural for us readily to suppose that to be immense of which we do not see the end. A false appearance of greatness is a peculiar characteristic of an age of scepticism. The seven- teenth century had not much to ask from the mysterious, the vague, and the indefinite it affirmed. Its mode of thinking was limited by precision, and in one sense by the definite. We may, therefore, say openly, but without exaggeration, man in his most extended and most elementary relations, and in his more general destiny, has not occupied the attention of the seventeenth century, unless it be under the religious point of view. The object of this literature being thus determined, let us now see what were its peculiar features. 1 One of Racine's plays.- T. 8 INTRODUCTION. In the first place, its morality presents itself for our considera- tion. The literature of the seventeenth century has the credit of being more moral than that of the eighteenth. It is really so in the most part of its serious writings, but this remark must be greatly restricted. Morality is far from being perfect in the works of Corneille, Racine, and La Rochefoucauld. Lighter literature is, in this respect, to say the least, indifferent. Moliere, without perhaps acknowledging it to himself, has given to morality the hardest blows, and made the deepest wounds. The tales of La Fontaine are positively immoral, and his fables are filled with a subtle and dangerous poison. What favours the repeated assertion regarding the superior morality of the litera- ture of the seventeenth century is the fact, that preaching formed a part of it. This fact eludes inquiry ; we do not at first reflect that the preachers of that time discharged the duty of their office like those in all ages. So soon as they were put aside, the general spirit will appear to us sensibly changed. But yet, in spite of what is wanting to others in point of morality, and in spite of numerous exceptions, we shall find that the mass of writers, in this respect, have shown a little more reverence for it than had been done in the sixteenth, and was done at a later period, in the eighteenth century. Next to morality conies the esthetic point of view. The seven- teenth century is distinguished by its diligent inquiry into the ideal ; but although the true ideal of life was at that time the end of this inquiry, the point of view adopted was erroneous ; the ideal rested on incomplete data ; and consequently also poetry, which endeavoured to reproduce it. The prevailing idea of this period was the separation of two essential elements of human life, the noble and the familiar. Literature, indeed, admitted them both, but^separately. A prejudice, or, to call it by its right name, an error of such importance, deserves our attention. On what could it rest 1 The literatiire of the seventeenth century expressed and imi- tated the effort of society, which especially brought about the sepa- ration of the classes, according to the degree of their mental im- provement. A class was formed, in which the manners, without doubt, became more polished, but in which the politeness of the language far surpassed the polish of the manners. This polite- ness of language became the ideal of poetry, and the authors took INTRODUCTION. 9 as their rule the conventional phraseology, in which the artificial elegance of the manners of the time consisted. Above all, they wished to respect propriety, and this respect forms a singular contrast to the remaining grossness in the manners, and even in the expressions in constant use. They made the language of the court the type of poetical language in general. The court and the city formed two separate worlds the city was coarse and barbarous compared with the court noble manners belonged only to the nobility, and the citizens merely followed 1 them with a servile and imperfect imitation. The court ruled over letters with absolute sway, and at one time it was the sole judge of the productions of the mind. As to the esthetic powers, which were developed in the litera- ture of the seventeenth century, we may remark, as in every golden age of literature, and now more than ever perhaps, the equal balance of the imagination and the powers of reflection. The imagination, powerful and fertile, is then directed, not re- strained, by reflection. Wisdom, moderation, good sense, and taste, characterise their compositions. The preference granted to the whole in detail is a distinctive trait of a classical epoch. This literature is also distinguished by what might be called the purity of the beautiful. The writings possess, in relation to beauty, a certain innocence and ingenuousness, which at a later period entirely vanish ; and this is a third characteristic, and a distinguished feature, of truly classical periods. In general, authors are preserved by it from anticipating the effect which leads to times of decay. If they attend to what they say, it is especially for the purpose of expressing their thoughts ; in their case beauty is only a part of truth, not that they are indif- ferent to beauty, for they produce sublime passages, but they do not show any pretension to be sublime. A great num- ber of beauties in Corneille and Racine have passed without observation men, no doubt, felt them, but they found them natural, and they did not value them, as we do at present. Synthesis prevailed, that is to say, instinct at a later period, it wnT be analysis. Instead of taking a work, a being, an idea as a whole, an artist, who analyzes, decompounds it, and draws to the surface all its elements. In this sense it may be said, that each century is more ingenious than its predecessor ; inferior in syn- thesis, it is superior in analysis, and producing less, it exercises 10 INTKODUCTION. the judgment more. Synthesis is the inspiration, the powerful creation, the distinctive sign of periods essentially literary. But a doubt arises in many minds ; as we have already men- tioned, there is, in the seventeenth century, a proportion between the imagination and reflection, the imagination is discreet, and this equilibrium appears to them timidity. Racine does not show the boldness of Victor Hugo, but the more we study the writers of that elegant period, the more will we find their litera- ture original and varied, filled with novelties, and entirely independent. Perhaps the pernicious savour of the writings of the eighteenth century is more alluring ; perhaps the scepticism of Voltaire and Rousseau appears to us literary courage. Jean Jacques and his contemporaries assume the appearance of creators, because they destroy; but in itself, affirmation is not more timid than denial. In short, the literature of the seventeenth century is truly national. It has bound itself, indeed, to imitate the ancients, but it is French, because it does not come in contact with any other literature. The tints which the Spanish school spread over it, are very weak and superficial. At a later period, the special character of French literature was entirely destroyed; in our times, it welcomes all modes and all associations it is universal. It is so much so, that the writers who remain eminently French, such as Beranger and Chateaubriand, be- come, in this respect, the object of particular notice. The seventeenth century would never have thought of distinguishing among the number of its writers those who might be found more French than the rest. The language of the seventeenth century, like everything else, came under the yoke of authority. It is purified, but at the same time, impoverished that is to say, it has been reduced to terms and turns necessary to express the ideas peculiar to the civilization of the period. It ceases to be the language of the people and of the citizens, and becomes the language of the court. The court itself is raised, so far as thought and expression are concerned, to a degree of politeness, which claims a new language. The rich and picturesque language of Rabelais, Montaigne, and Amyot has passed away, even that of Mathurin Regnier is referred to the sixteenth century. Thus, the change begun with the names of Malherbe and Balzac is accomplished. Pascal afterwards comes forward to consecrate the new language, INTRODUCTION. 11 to fix it and to stamp it with the seal of his genius. From that time, the revolution is complete. Here, then, in the seventeenth century, we have a language entirely distinct from that of the sixteenth. Never did a differ- ence more decided separate two contiguous ages. This youthful language is pure, elegant, flexible, and kept within the limits of its true genius. It has acquired harmony, but it is by no means vigorous or analytic, but quite suitable for the minds of that time. All that I have said of the characteristics of the mind of that age may be applied to the characteristics of the language, and might lead us to anticipate them. The character of a people and that of their language ought to go together. I have spoken of authority, and this change in the language was in some measure decided by personal authority. About the middle of the seventeenth century Richelieu founded the French Academy. He imagined that he could rule the language, as he ruled the nation, by force. This authority, however, although it was ad- mitted, produced little effect. The Dictionary of the Academy, of a later date, is only, in point of fact, a register of all which the language has acquired, and which is consecrated by usage. It has obtained a kind of authority, and is appealed to in certain cases, as, for example, in judicial disputes; but it is on usage that the empire of language ultimately rests. In every age languages borrowed terms from the different spheres of human life, but, at that time, the French language bor- rowed little. It did not so much create, as select, among the mingled elements which the past furnished. In former times there had been introduced a number of proverbial or metaphysical ex- pressions obtained from feudal manners. The sports of the nobility, the chase, and war, are the principal sources of those figures, which, by long use, have ceased to be figurative expres- sions. We must join to these religion ; religion and war are the two great features by which the middle ages are distinguished. The seventeenth century did not pursue this plan of borrow- ing. The religious writers, however, have left distinct traces in the language of Louis XIV. The greater part of the eminent prose writers belong to the church, and they borrowed from re- ligion new terms and phrases, very sublime, and expressive of the inmost feelings of the soul, of which the meaning was after- wards extended and applied to other objects. The eighteenth 12 INTRODUCTION. century invented still less ; and when it did so, it was not cer- tainly in the department of religion. The nineteenth has begun again to invent. We are enriched with a number of terms for- merly unknown, but less happily borrowed from politics, science, and industry, and hence the language is enlarging its boundaries, but losing its purity. Undoubtedly this is necessary ; a language takes its character from the manners of its age ; but the spoils of the middle ages are more abundant, and their phraseology more felicitous, than the expressions taken from the scientific and in- dustrial tendency. We come now, gentlemen, to the republic of letters, or to literary men collectively considered. Certain relations neces- sarily exist, more or less intimate, among men who are engaged together in literary pursuits, but these relations vary according to the spirit of different ages. In the seventeenth century there was a great resemblance in the life, feelings, and doctrines, and an absolute monarch, who was the centre of universal attraction circumstances which contributed to strengthen the union among writers of the first class. A real division only existed between these and authors of the second rank ; and even that was not owing to the superiority of the one party, and the inferiority of the other ; it arose from this, that the former were attached to one school, while the latter followed or tried to find another. The revolution was accomplished, the new era overcame the middle ages, but only by appealing to the authority of the ancients. In revolutionary periods, authority generally has a time of repose ; as in youth we begin with denying the authority of antiquity, then we pass to the new authority, which our riper years require in their turn. Thus the most part of moral and intellectual, as well as of political revolutions occur; for instance, the Revival of Letters and the Reformation. But what charac- terizes the literary revolution of the seventeenth century is the fact, that it was decided by authority. Some men accomplished it ostensibly, we ought to say officially, among others Boileau, the legislator of this new Parnassus. All the great authors were O O devoted to the classics, and this love of classical learning met every where with opposition in the ranks of second-rate writers, but the band of insurgents was speedily dispersed by means of the study of antiquity, by public taste and by politeness of INTRODUCTION. 13 manners. The middle ages were extinguished, and the feeble desire of independence vanished, to appear again at a later period. In regard to the position of men of letters in the state and in society, we observe that it differs from what it was afterwards. They aspire at no political influence, and we see them only active in the exclusive sphere of literature, or in the discharge of their peculiar duties. When they approach the throne, they prostrate themselves before it ; their sentiments of respect and gratitude assume the character of worship ; their requests only refer to personal rewards, and no participation of power, and no direct influence on society ever mingle with their hopes. No period presents so many writers of the first class, and so few of the second. I said writers of the second class, I should have said inferior writers, for in themselves writers of the second class may be greatly distinguished, and the eighteenth century reckons several of this description. But in the seventeenth cen- tury there were none of that kind, and if among those of the lowest rank some names have survived, such as Chapelain, they owe it rather to the ridicule with which they were assailed. The saying which Boileau has applied to poetry, is true in regard to literature, generally speaking, in the seventeenth century : " Tli ere are no degrees between mediocrity and utter drivelling -, 1 and he who does not fly to the summit, falls to the bottom." 2 A review of the principal authors of the seventeenth century would be out of place here, but we may give their names, grouping them according to the nature and form of their writ- ings : PHILOSOPHERS AND PROSE MORALISTS. Pascal (Thoughts}, Nicole (Moral Essays), Malebranche (Inquiry after Truth), Bossuet, Fenelon (in a great majority of his works), La Roche- foucauld, La Bruyere. ORATORS AND CONTROVERSIALISTS. The controversial writer is an orator with the pen in his hand. Bossuet appears in both characters Bourdaloue, Mascaron, Flechier, Massillon, Fene- lon, Pascal (Provincial Letters). HISTORIANS. Bossuet in this department also by his Univer- sal History. Mezeray, too much neglected in the present day 1 Boileau, L'Art Poetique, chant iv. 3 Builoau, Satire ix. 14 INTRODUCTION. but worthy of particular notice. Saint Real, who has written little, and whose histories are more or less romances, but who possesses in the highest degree the manner of the writers of antiquity. WRITERS OP MEMOIRS. The Cardinal de Retz, Hamilton (Memoirs of the Chevalier de Grammoni), the Duke de Saint Simon. ROMANCE WRITERS. Madame de La Fayette, Hamilton (Tales), Fenelon (Telemachus), Scarron (Comic Romances). Epistolary writing, cultivated without lasting success by Balzac and Voiture, was perfected by Madame de Sevigne and Madame de Mamtenon. TRANSLATIONS. The seventeenth century translated much, but translation was badly understood. In translating, they were guided by their own particular views, but in reference to the style, the translations of that period, even those that possess least excellence, are still remarkable. We have always the lan- guage, whose secret is lost, and the style, which cannot and ought not to be copied, but there is great inaccuracy in regard to the precise sense of the original. Look, for example, at the trans- lation of Don Quixotte by Filleau de Saint Martin. What ren- ders these books defective translations, although agreeably written, but the plan, which was adopted, of adapting everything to the French manners of the time, of making Greek and Latin anti- quity contemporaneous with Louis XIV., of allowing nothing in point of language but what the dignity and politeness of the period authorised, and of keeping out of view all the familiarities of the ancient authors ? Energy kept under due restraint is a characteristic of the seventeenth century. At a later period writers were afraid lest they should not always appear sufficiently strong and ready to surprise their readers ; it was their aim to make the muscles quiver under the skin. But at that time they studied to soften sallies of wit, to smooth what was rough, and to blunt the edge of what was keen and cutting. Then such phrases as these were common: if I may be permitted.) if I may so express my self. Bossuet is the boldest and most romantic of the authors of that period. ,- Bossuet and perhaps Pascal. But how prudent is the boldness of Bossuet . ! In his severest thrusts, how frequently does he reach the boundary of propriety without ever passing beyond it! Racine INTRODUCTION. 15 no doubt abounds in strong expressions to one who understands him, but all his boldness is veiled. It is this delicate taste, this somewhat exclusive system, which has injured and vitiated trans- lation. In addressing the Athenians, the Demosthenes of Father Bouhours calls them, Gentlemen. POETRY. DRAMATIC POETRY. Corneille and Racine are the two great names in tragedy. I may mention Thomas Corneille, but after the two masters of the art. Among their inferiors, Lafosse is the only tragic writer whom I am disposed to name. He is no doubt far below them, but his Manlius is a play of some value. COMEDY possesses Moliere, jReynard, Dancourt, and Qui- nault. SATIRE, EPIC, AND DIDACTIC POETRY, have for all the three only a single representative, Boileau ; and in the second we find merely a parody, Le Lutrin. FABLES AND TALES. La Fontaine. PASTORAL POETRY. Madame Deshoulieres, but the pastoral in her hands is only the garb in which moral poetry is dressed her works are nothing more than those of La Rochefoucauld versified. ELEGY only reckons a single work worthy of that name, the epistle of La Fontaine to the Nymphs of Vaux. We may men- tion, however, Madame de La Suze. LYRIC POETRY languishes every where, with the exception of the splendour which it casts in the choruses of Esther and Athalie. Chaulieu and J. B. Rousseau belong rather to the eighteenth century. We thus see that the kind of writing which prevails in the literature of the seventeenth century is the drama, and eloquence, which itself is a drama. This great period supports in an eminent degree the dramatic character. Such in our view are the character and summary of the litera- ture during the age of Louis XI\ 7 . So far as we are concerned, j it is entirely comprehended in the Provincial Letters, and in the / series of sermons by Massillon, entitled Le Petit Cdrerne. This age is divided into two periods quite distinct, of which the one commences about 1660 and ends aboiat 1690; it was remarkable for warmth of imagination and great energy. The 16 INTRODUCTION. second period begins about 1680, and ends with Louis XIV. in 1715. Some of the writers of this period, such as Regnard and Fenelon, belong entirely to the time of the great king ; others, such as J. B. Rousseau and Massillon partake of both divisions, and should perhaps form an intermediate period. In like manner the eighteenth century should be divided into two periods. 1 The first begins at the death of Louis XIV., or some years before, and ends nearly in 1746, the year of the death of Vau- venargues, and of the publication of his writings. The second extends from 1746 to 1780, the year in which the work of the Abbe Raynal appeared. History of the Establish- ment of the French in the East and West Indies. There remain, as a third period, the years comprehended between 1780. and the Consulship (18th Brumaire, 9th Novem- ber 1799) ; but the Revolution is not favourable to literature. Thess divisions are natural, they are founded on facts, and hence they are of real importance. But for the present we shall make an abstract of them, and take the eighteenth century in the mass, and in its general character. We have already remarked, gentlemen, that the seventeenth century was in some respects a resting place between two periods, of which we are now to see the last take up the work formerly begun. This century dissolves the continuity between the six- teenth and the eighteenth. In reference to its predecessor, the eighteenth century is at once a continuation, a development and a reaction. A continuation. This should not be understood without re- striction. On certain points it copies its predecessor, at the same time that it modifies and weakens it. Every continuation which is neither a development nor reaction, is necessarily feeble. This continuation especially appears in three forms tragedy, comedy, and preaching. The tragedy of Voltaire has in it an element of development, it is not entirely a copy ; but as to comedy, and, above all, preaching, wo find in them nothing else than feeble- ness. A development. Whatever may have been the inferiority of the eighteenth century compared with the seventeenth, and when we even look at it as a period of corruption and death in reference 1 See on that subject M. Villemain. INTRODUCTION. 17 to the elements of society, still it must bring to its predecessor some development. Death even is productive, and putrefaction is fruitful ; from the decomposed trunk of the old tree, new buds are put forth in spring. Thus, towards its termination, and when worn out with analysis, the eighteenth century saw the poetry of nature send forth its blossoms. Finally, this age is particularly a reaction. This is the pre- vailing characteristic of the eighteenth century, and it is thus with people of a great intellectual development, ages succeed each other, and the human mind accomplishes its destiny, " Nothing," says M. Villemain, " can be more opposite and yet\ nothing more closely united than these two periods." 1 There' is, in fact, a connection, a continuity between action and reaction, which is itself the consequence of action. And yet let us not deceive ourselves in this matter, the elements of the eighteenth century were found already in the seventeenth, not dead, but concealed under the mass of opposite elements. They could not be openly exhibited, and they therefore continued without producing any actual effect in the hands of the best known authors of that age, and especially in the hands of many secon- dary writers. Saint-Evremond, who died in 1709, at nearly a hundred years of age, bears the exclusive impress of the eighteenth century. These were the remains of which the sixteeiith cen- tury, investigating the same principles, and so boldly sceptical, had deposited the germs under the splendid edifice of the seven- teenth. Thus, when those who are proscribed, take to flight, they bury their treasures in the earth, that they may find them at a future day, and thus a rag, concealed in a hole, retains the germ of the plague. All reaction is vindictive and partial, and resembles a system of reprisals. That of the eighteenth century is excessive. Three things of great interest and authority were denied or doubted the ancients, religion, and social institutions. The ancients were abandoned and even rejected. Men set iip theories, which overturned their throne ; very soon they do not use them, and neither imitate nor study them. In spite of itself, however, the eighteenth century continues to be more devoted to the classics than it is aware. It is at once incre- dulous and superstitious, it honours from habit the gods that, 1 Villemain, Cours de Literature Fran$iiise, Dix-huitieme siecle, I re Lcfon. B 18 INTHODUCTION. it thinks, have been abandoned from reason, and goes on un- interruptedly in the track of mythological allusion. Religion, often attacked with as much ability as injustice, was only defended with timidity, and with that awkwardness which springs from weakness of conviction, and from a secret con- nivance with what was refuted. Finally, in politics there was a reaction declared against authorities and institutions a reaction no doubt purely theo- retical, and only in writing. Absolute monarchy seemed to remain unscathed, and social authority maintained its position ; but two things were wanting, high reputation and full confidence in connection with existing institutions. These in themselves too much abounded in abuses, for men to be contented with the mere pretence of high reputation ; their glory vanished, and the institutions must necessarily be subjected to a strict examination. This examination was not always conducted with the intention of overturning them, the attacks at first presented a scientific and conservative aspect. Thus Montesquieu wrote his book " On the Spirit of Laws," with a vieAv to preserve and consoli- date, but at length all questions are found in it distinctly put, and this could not have been done in the preceding century. Things w r ere not attacked in front, but they nibbled at them all around. Some had only a friendly feeling to the religion established by law, but Catholicism was incrusted on the whole social body like the portrait of Phidias which could not be de- tached from the statue of Jupiter without breaking it in pieces. By calling in question a part of the past, the whole was shaken, and the foundation gave way. Those who derived benefit from prejudices and abuses, took pains to render their claims ridicu- lous ; the glory of showing their wit prevailed over everything else. This is what precisely characterizes the French mind. " Intellect, or ability, is a dignity in the world," says Madame do La Fayette a bold saying for the seventeenth century. In France, intellect is so much the more necessary, as you occupy there a more conspicuous position. The man who has merely intellect is superior to him who merely possesses rank and fortune. There was then some blunder in the saying of Madame de La Fayette. By not improving her position, she prepared its ruin. In the eighteenth century the greater part of men of quality preferred their intellectual endowments to their rank. In some INTRODUCTION. 19 cases, however, there was something better than that, there were found among them intelligence, a sincere desire to see abuses corrected, and the love of what began to be called the public good. But power, which, when wanting in glory, might have been supported by honour, of which glory is only the excess, conspired to its own ruin by becoming contemptible. Literature at length precipitated all these elements in one direction, or at least ac- , celerated their course. Literature is never the expression of society established by law, it represents moral and intellectual/^ society, the condition of manners and of minds. Antiquity, religion, and social institutions were the three points on which the reaction of the eighteenth century bore. We may now pass on to other characteristics. And first let us direct our attention to that of which that age was proud, and of which the name still remains. It is entitled the philosophic age, and this pretension in itself, is its most ac- curate characteristic. Every scribbler called himself a philo- sopher. A man became a philosopher first and a writer after- wards ; the writer only appeared to express the ideas of the philosopher. The epigram arid the pastoral song were reckoned a kind of philosophy. But what was this philosophy of the cen- tury which preceded ours ? It was composed of three elements. First, an affectation of independence with regard to tradition and prejudice. Among the prejudices against which this age directed their battery, religion was the most hated, and was considered the most hateful. Secondly, the spirit of analysis and the necessity of decom- pounding, dividing, and discovering the elements of things. The seventeenth century had been the age of synthesis ; the philosophic error of the eighteenth century was in not allowing to synthesis its own place. Without it we only philosophize to destroy. Lastly, sensualism or the sensational philosophy. A man was reckoned to be more philosophical the more he became a sensa- tionalist, and completely rejected the doctrines of the thinkers } of the former age. The eighteenth century had its philosophical pedantry, which degraded man and pretended to reduce him to the condition of a mere machine. This pedantry, strange to say, succeeded in heating the imagination : they were supposed 20 INTRODUCTION. to be elevated by what debased them ; contempt for everything immaterial, and freedom from every rule of conduct. We may add to these characteristics the increasing taste for the exact sciences, and especially for the science of nature. No doubt these sciences may be cultivated in an age opposed to materialism ; but yet there exists a relation between the ten- dencies of the materialists of the eighteenth century, and the taste for the science of nature, the spirit of analysis, and the exercise of observation which began to prevail. Men observe better than formerly, and the method of Bacon hastens the development of knowledge. Observation proceeds from our- selves ; it leads us to dispute with the objective element ; specu- lation is properly an idea operating upon itself. To be a good philosopher a man must be able both to observe and to speculate ; but the seventeenth century, turned to observation, obtained a high rank in speculation. In the eighteenth it was the reverse. As another characteristic, literature became utilitarian. In the course of the seventeenth century, we have seen practical literature continue bold, and without any secret intention, and the literary perfection of its form derived from the superior ex- cellence of the men of genius, by whom it was cultivated. Esthetic literature, on its part, maintained its nature without mixture. But, in the eighteenth century, the two branches are confounded. Strictly speaking, literature no longer exists in a state of purity ; even poetry is devoted to practical objects, and seeks to exercise its influence in the way of external advantage. This tendency has marred many things in the writings of Vol- taire, who has made of his tragedies real sermons upon texts. lie preaches on toleration, which afforded an excellent subject for preaching, but it is out of place. On the other hand, science becomes literary and worldly. It is not necessary to quote the coquettish book of Fontenelle on the Plurality of Worlds ; Buffon himself is a literary naturalist. One feature more : the literature of the eighteenth century is no longer exclusively French. Truly, under Louis XIV., they were not ignorant either of Italy or Spain, but the literature of these two countries only furnished to France a variety of ex- pressions. Spain afforded pomp, Italy the play of wit. These were blemishes of which they soon got rid, and there was no- thing more French, on the whole, than the literature of the INTRODUCTION. 21 seventeenth century. At a later period this character changed. They turned to the north at the commencement of the century, namely, to England. Germany only comes in at the end, and even then its influence is weak. England furnishes more, and Voltaire is the first to reveal it. He profits by Shakspeare, and becomes familiar with Newton. Milton was translated by Louis Racine. But they do 'not so much borrow forms as ideas, of which they avail themselves. English influence is more philo- sophical than literary. In general, however, there is no balance remaining in this commerce between Europe and France the latter gives more than she receives. She indemnifies herself for the thought of what she loses in reference to conquest ; and, if her arms number more reverses than successes, the Europe of the eighteenth century submitted to the yoke of the French mind, , more than that of the seventeenth had submitted to the ascend- ' ancy of the French arms. The republic of letters, or the society of literary men, has in- creased since the seventeenth century, and the number of writers of the second class is greatly multiplied. Great literary success may still be found, but there are far more who enjoy it in a moderate degree. It is the time of the golden mediocrity, both in the literal and metaphorical sense ; pecuniary ease, more widely spread, increases according to the degree of talent dis- played by authors of the second and third rank. Improvement in every department is more general, and men perceive that "they are on the eve of a great epoch. This mass of writers has more personal relations to the world and to the business of life. Those of the seventeenth century mixed much less with the world, but were gathered more around the king. Now the court is no longer the centre of regard and ambition, it is the suffrage of the public which is sought. The public contains in itself more elevated points, and more exalted spheres, for which men of talent show their preference. Women play a particular part in this literary society. In the full splendour of the reign of Louis XIV., we observe, no doubt, Madame de Sevigne, Madame de La Fayette, Madame Deshou- lieres in connection with men of wit, but this connection was not attended with such important consequences as to entitle it to the character of a general fact. After the hotel de Rambouillet, which belongs to n period a little anterior, women did not dare 22 INTRODUCTION. to put themselves at the head of a lettered society ; they saw the presidency, which had been conceded to them for a moment, vanish away. In the eighteenth century this part began anew, and the saloons of ladies became the general resort of authors. Under Louis XIV., among men of letters, we observe nothing which bears any resemblance to a confederacy, a league, or even a party. The theological wars take their course, but literary men differ about esthetics and taste. It was the only civil war permitted during the second half of the seventeenth century. On one side were drawn up the men of genius of the time, with Boileau at their head, the great Justice-General of Parnassus ; on the other, the band of secondary writers, the only satisfaction which could be granted to the turbulent restlessness of that lively people, which had received their last pleasure from the quarrels of the Fronde. 1 In the eighteenth century, literary quarrels no doubt existed, but their noise was lost amid the interest felt for social and philo- sophical questions. The most numerous party were honoured with the name of philosopher ; it had an organization or disci- pline, and a plan of campaigning ; in a word, it was a faction which aimed at the overthrow of what existed. In religion, in philosophy, and in certain departments of politics, it represented the absence of actual order. It had found a chief Voltaire. His eminent talent, the astonishing variety of his natural abili- ties, his activity of mind, boldness of will, and even absence, con- tribute to his ascendancy. Resentment for his exile, and the consciousness of disgrace, sharpened an opposition which free permission to remain in his native land might perhaps have blunted ; and, besides, in excepting him from every alleviation, exile became in his case power. Under the sceptre of Voltaire, the republic of letters was transformed into a monarchy, and although it was restrained by talents, special circumstances, rival- ships and enmities frankly confessed, yet never was literature subjected to such royalty. The general tone was given to it by Voltaire. The only parallel to this influence is that which Bos- suet exercised in the seventeenth century. 1 During the minority of Louis XIV., and the misgovernment of Mazarin, a party was formed against the court and the minister, which was called the Fronde, from the French word, which signifies a sling. The Cardinal de Ketz was at its head, but the imprudence of the other leaders prevented it from accomplishing anything for the benefit of the country. It existed from 16-t* to 1654. (Translator). INTRODUCTION. 23 Bossuet, so attractive by his genius, is still more so by the number of writings which have proceeded from his pen. Among authors of great name, Voltaire alone surpasses him in the multi- tude of his productions. This fertility of mind, when it is united to original thinking and a highly polished style, implies great power and possesses great merit. All the writers of the highest order have been endowed with this quality, and although a poet has said somewhere " Believe me, no one who rides on Pegasus reaches posterity with such heavy luggage," 1 we are very sure that the number of works which a man of genius has produced, instead of retarding, facilitates his progress to posterity. To speak merely of the present and not of the future, the multa is of no less importance than the multum, the quantity is not less necessary than the quality, with a view of exercising influence over his contemporaries by means of eloquence, an influence at once decisive, vast, and profound. It has been often said, that there are individuals raised up by Providence, who are distin- guished by comprehensive thought, by whom the tendencies and necessities of their age are represented, and of whom each per- sonifies an entire century. Without determining whether their age forces them out, as a plant forces out the bud, by internal power and spontaneous movement ; or whether from without, that is to say, from on high, a sovereign will by turns bestows, refuses, imposes them on the period, which without them would find no expression of its thoughts and feelings, and would not even be known ; beyond all question, certain times have seen such persons raised up. Sometimes great captains, sometimes great politicians, sometimes great writers, and in all cases great minds, whose particular form is of no consequence. But if such a one appears as a great writer, then he only discharges his duty, and can merely personify and govern his age by multiplying himself; by going rapidly through every kind of business ; by occupying space and improving time. In certain circumstances, a single great work is sufficient, but in general popularity and immediate and universal influence are only secured by continued labours and constant writing. If a man would reign everywhere, he must be everywhere, he must have intellectually the gift of ubiquity. 1 Ou nc va point, crois-moi, sur Pe^aso monte Avcc co lounl ba-jHj^o a la pastoriir. 24 1NTKODUCTIOX. By the immense number of their works, Bossuet and Voltaire have each exercised dominion over their age. It is this cir- cumstance which obliges me in some measure to mention these two names together. Between then.' two destinies, and the two parts they acted, there is presented more than one contrast, and one relation. Both by birth belonged to the order of citizens, and both were born under the shade of the sanctuary of the laws, but the family of Bossuet was ancient and considerable, that of the young Arouet was without distinction, and the legal condition of its chief was no doubt greatly inferior to that of the dignified man to whom Bossuet owes his birth. In Bossuet's family, there were historical traditions, in Voltaire's there were probably none. The latter was born at Paris, in the centre of agitation, and in the . bosom of a population fickle and always desirous of novelties ; it was in old Burgundy, and amid the calm dignity of a parliamen- tary city, that the future Bishop of Meaux opened his eyes to the light. When Bossuet came into the world all things stood firm, when Voltaire was bom all things were shaken ; the great age was in the wane, and a dull but powerful and irresistible reaction in public opinion had begun. If we contemplate these two writers personally, nothing appears less equivocal or more prompt than the vocation of Bossuet, it might be called the highest inspiration. Nothing so much resembles a vocation as the first impulses of Voltaire ; everything in the heir of the library of Ninon seems to have been a preparation from his infancy for the priesthood of impiety. Yet from the time that Bossuet knew anything, he knew what he aimed at, he experienced neither hesitation at the beginning nor doubt at a later period. Voltaire, drawn on when very young towards art and pleasure, towards fortune and glory, did not at first attribute to himself any mis- sion, but soon instructed by his instincts and the aspects of society, and guided by hatred, and, in order to be just, we must add, by indignation, the poet gradually became chief of a party, and pursued with all the earnestness of an apostle the annihila- tion of the same traditions, to the establishment of which Bos- suet had consecrated an admirable genius and a zeal perhaps more admirable still. Although a thousand different objects seem to have contended for the attention and time of Voltaire, while Bossuet has not INTRODUCTION. 25 written a page in which Catholicism and episcopacy have not left their impressions, I doubt whether Voltaire, with regard to the end in view, had an impression less fixed or le.ss earnest. As to activity, it was equal in these two men, so distinguished in their own age. Their life and their writings prove it beyond dispute. Both of them have made of their time and their facul- ties all that a man can do, the one sedentary and collected, the other pi'essed with the necessity of change of place as well as of occupation ; the one gifted with robust health, and dying at the age of seventy-seven of his first and very short illness ; the other pitiful in appearance, and incommoded with a thousand diseases, of w r hich he was continually speaking, and of which his devour- ing activity seemed to take no account. Neither allows a mo- ment's relaxation of the public attention, and from the remem- brance of one work to the expectation of another there was no interval and no respite. Bossuet wrote less, but at each of the blows which he dealt, a long rebound, a vast uproar succeeds ; in the life of Voltah'e scarcely a month passes without a new work giving notice, like the cries uttered by the sentinels of a camp or the guards placed on watch towers, that the champion of the new doctrines had not allowed himself to be surprised by sleep. Shut up in the citadel of the church, which covers and guards the whole political and social system, Bossuet appears, at the proper time, at all the points of attack. Voltaire, the invader, spreads himself, if I may say so, in all directions, occupies every post, or twenty times abandoning each position, twenty times attacks and retakes it. Both augment their forces by the extent and number of their relations. Voltaire has them of all sorts, Bossuet has only some of importance and dignity ; but however this may be, neither is merely a writer. They take their part in business, they use their influence by personal intercourse, the one, indeed, always under the pretence of duty and with the char- acter of authority, the other as a simple individual and in the way of insinuation and allurement. Notwithstanding, in the case of Voltaire, the artist, very often compromised by party feeling, always reappears ; letters are one of his objects, literary reputation one of his ends : letters and literary reputation are for Bossuet simply means, and it only is incidentally that he became the first prose writer of his day. But by a contrast well worth}' of remark, Voltaire, more an artist in 26 INTRODUCTION. intention, is less so in reality, except in his fugitive poetry. Bossuet, who wishes only to be a man of business, prevails as an artist. The literary man by profession is more impassioned ; the literary man for the occasion, the practical man, the prose writer rises to enthusiasm. He who has written so many verses, has not perhaps made a single lyric verse ; lyric poetry shines forth in the pages of him who has only written in vile prose. If eloquence be merely the art of affecting the mind and of master- ing the will, then both were eloquent ; but if eloquence, as we delight to believe, be the power of making eternal truth, the consciousness of justice and the feeling of what is divine re-echo in the human heart, Voltaire, the prince of irony and the priest of common sense, is rarely eloquent. In pronouncing here the phrase common sense or good sense, I indicate between Bossuet and Voltaire a relation as well as an opposition. Good sense, the use of good sense as a controversial weapon, characterizes these two great adversaries, whom their works, presented at once to our view, render so far as we are con- cerned, contemporaneous. With the double intention of praise and blame, we may make good sense the attribute common to the author of the History of the Variations, and to that of the Essay on Manners. Merely considering the controversial part of their work, both of them have appealed to good sense by reserving further, the one for his poetical productions, and the other for the development of his religious thoughts, that supreme intuition which is the true good sense of the soul, and which shows to the good sense of the understanding such decided false- hoods. The Catholicism of Bossuet, contemplated in opposition to everything which is not itself, is habitually armed with common sense against the most part of its adversaries and observe well that unbelief or atheism is not amontj the number O of the adversaries which Bossuet encountered ; against these good sense would not have been sufficient ; but against quietism, against the ultramontane doctrines, and even, or perhaps espe- cially, against Protestantism, no weapon was better chosen, at least if a man wished to be popular, and in a certain sense Bos- suet wished to be so. This same weapon, passing from the hands of the bishop into those of the philosopher, dealt terrible blows against Christianity and against all religion. Voltaire, in an- / C ~ / other point of view, and with other intentions than Bossuet, is INTRODUCTION'. 27 the apostle of good sense, with this difference only, that good sense is not for Bossuet what it is for Voltaire, the measure of everything. You must not be astonished at this coincidence ; it ' has nothing fortuitous and nothing personal. Catholicism, not in so far as it is Christian, but in so far as it is catholic, is the church of common sense ; it is by common sense that it triumphs ; whereas Protestantism, which has the appearance of it, but only the appearance, has a more ideal basis, and has placed itself in the perilous and sublime position either of perishing, if it does not wish to go back, as Protestantism, beyond common sense, or of casting its anchor within the veil, if it does not wish to perish. Good sense, besides, is not analysis. Thus, whatever differ- ence or opposition there may be between Voltaire and Bossuet, neither essentially possesses an analytic spirit. Between the work accomplished by the one and that com- pleted by the other, there is undoubtedly a great gulf. No relation can be perceived, and no reconciliation can be attempted between the ideas of which Voltaire is the organ, and those which Bossuet represents. They are two worlds ; but this is mere commonplace, sheer trifling ; it is necessary to be particular. The world of Bossuet is the theocracy, which is the entire subjection, or at least the subordination of all human affairs to the empire of a religious tradition ; it is the hierarchy pretending to the direction of general society. This pretension, during the course of the sixteenth century, had encountered terrible dangers. The empire of mind and the government of human nature were at that time disputed by more than two competitors. After a very long period, in which politics, morality and religion, had taken their own course, without inquiring about one another, the im- possibility of going on in this way began to be felt, and the necessity of some sort of union became evident. Religion, such as pharisaism had made it, was nothing more than an excres- cence and an encumbrance, and philosophy, which at that time could scarcely be anything else than atheism, simply voted the suppression of this element in the problem. As to morality, it was very much left to itself; almost nobody inquired about it. This being the state of the question, religion and philosophy were brought together, and philosophy, for the time at least, was to gain the ascendancy. A third element unexpectedly appeared and made a change. Reform, or shall we rather say 28 INTRODUCTION. morality, for reform is the renewal of the moral element in re- ligion, of which it is the substance, and to which it gives all its weight. Yes, under the name of Protestantism, this third term morality, neglected and despised morality came in and entered again into religion ; the flame of religion, almost extinguished, was rekindled, and ages, nay centuries, were added to Catholi- cism, which, without a reform, would have perished along with religion itself. Catholicism was reformed, as far as possible, without renouncing its principles, and without ceasing to be Catholicism. In this struggle it was reanimated, its parts were brought together, and it was endowed with new energy. There was more than this. For the first time it showed what it was, and rendered an account of itself. The church was strengthened at its foundation, it brought to a fixed condition a thousand wavering and doubtful elements, it regulated, as well as it could, its relation to the state and to society. It settled better the meaning of all its institutions, it marked carefully the boundary of all its powers, and in short, in the domains of learning and philosophy, it provided its vindication and learned its system of defence. In behalf of France, Bossuet is the personification of this work, whose aim is consolidation and internal perfection. Between the threatenings of the sixteenth century and their ac- complishment in the eighteenth, the seventeenth century was given to the church, and Bossuet was given to the seventeenth century. The religion of the theocracy, confined within limits, but within limits which the harmony between the priesthood and the monarchy concealed, appeared calm and majestic during the splendid years in the reign of Louis XIV., and it gained for itself not only approbation, but also general interest. This century is eminently ecclesiastical, as ours perhaps is emi- nently social and political. In the time of Louis XIV., reli- gion v:as the preoccupation, the conversation, and, shall I say, the amusement of everybody ; and the assemblies of the clergy at that time excited a curiosity as lively and as general, as at the present day the deliberations of the Chambers, the strug- gling of the Tribune and the clashing of parties. Some will sny, it was for want of anything better, others, it was for want of something worse, that all this was at that time popular, rind Bossuet was in his own age not only illustrious but cele- brated. "When 1 speak of popularity. 1 attach to this word a INTRODUCTION. 29 relative sense ; the people in the most extended sense of the term, escape our notice in this refined and unfortunate period. La Bruyere alone gives us a glimpse of them half buried in the trenches which he dug, and a passing and powerless commotion makes us see them for a moment in some frivolous and unfeeling O lines of Madame de Sevigne. The people of that age, and even those whose advancement Colbert hastened in the sea-ports and large cities of the provinces were not the class among whom Bossuet was popular. The people of Bossuet was merely a public. But all, which could then be called the public hung on the lips of Bossuet, while in the eighteenth century a w T hole people walked, as if they had been chained to the triumphal chariot of Voltaire. Bossuet was with respect to his public, in point of sympathy, curiosity, and even popularity, what at a later period Voltaire was in regard to his ; or if you only look at the fact of general prejudice, Voltaire was the Bossuet of his age, Bossuet was the Voltaire of his. But in this triumph, or in this success of the theocracy in the seventeenth century, there was something artificial or accidental, although the constancy and combination of effort, the mass of labour and the real seriousness of the inspiration, give us a dif- ferent idea of it. The seventeenth century (others have already observed it), was a resting-place by which the theocracy knew admirably how to profit. Encamped for a short time on ground prepared for it, instead of setting up tents, it built palaces and erected monuments. Time moved on in its course, and the theocracy, without being aware, by imposing itself on genera- tions, in which a mere material civilization made the necessity of emancipation ferment, called forth this imperious necessity, and by weighing down the spring of human liberty, prepared it for rebounding with so much greater force. From that time we might have told its members, as we showed to them human nature determined to make use entirely of its own resources, and only to reckon upon itself, " Go not into its arms to provoke the victory." The theocracy believed itself, and was generally be- lieved, to be all-powerful, although it was now losing ground. Between the birth of Voltaire, in 1G94, and the death of Bossuet, ten years later, "a great destiny begins, a great destiny is accomplished." The empire of the theocratic religion was for ever at an end, if not in fact, at least in opinion. What sue- 30 INTRODUCTION. ceedecl it? Impiety, undoubtedly, for the human mind never takes vengeance by halves, nor exercises moderate reaction. But without refusing to this fact that just and terrible qualification, Ave may say, that it has still a different aspect. The theocratic religion, so far as man had a part in it, disregarded him, and the gospel very fully acknowledged him man maintains his own position, and should not be slow in showing self-respect. How severely soever the eighteenth century may be judged, the fact which characterizes it is the advancement, in the bosom of modern history, of the purely human element. What shall we say of Bossuet 1 In him the condition of the priest suppressed the feelings of the man that universal quality, which Pascal thought so important, and which, towards the end of the seven- teenth century, shines with so much sweetness and purity in the person of another bishop, the disciple of Bossuet, and the author of Telemachus. Ah, well ! Fenelon has connected this idea with the eighteenth century, which was scarcely worthy perhaps to give it effect, but which, notwithstanding, did take it up and ex- hibit it. The eighteenth century entwined it with unbelief, for, after an interval of a hundred years, Montaigne and Charron again appeared on the stage of time, but ardent, passionate, and envenomed. Nevertheless, the eighteenth century is truly the age of humanity, as the seventeenth Avas of Catholicism. Man begins to seek his OAVH law in the nature of things, and even in his own nature, badly obsen r ed, no doubt, for divine light was wanting. The revolution Avas complete and rapid. Books give assurance of it. The tomb of Bossuet is the boundary between two kinds of literature, of public opinion and of philosophy. On the one hand the Treatise on Universal History ; on the other, the Essay on Manners ; on one side, the Politics of Holy Scrip- ture ; on the other, the Spirit of Laws ; there the Treatise on the Knowledge of (Hod and of ourselves ; here, the book of Helvetius. lOach of these books belongs to its own age, and represents it. It may be added that Voltaire, in the midst of the philosophers, like Bossuet in the midst of the doctors, affects that true middle course, which constitutes in Catholicism the character and autho- rity of Bossuet. The deism of Voltaire comes rather from com- mon sense than from the heart, but in truth he is a deist among atheists. A iolent in religion, but only to destroy, he is moderate in politics, and in that department he satisfies himself with claim- INTRODUCTION. 31 ing reasonable privileges and humane laws. But the destiny of these two celebrated men differs in this : Bossuet was to end in being denied, Voltaire was to have the precedence. The regency danced upon the ashes of the great bishop those of the author of La ffenriade, less patriotic perhaps than Bossuet, but not less a supporter of the monarchy, were in 1792 transferred with great solemnity to the republican Pantheon. Which of the two possessed greater authority ? " It was," said Bossuet, speaking of Cromwell, " it was given to this man to deceive the people and prevail over kings." These words ap- plied to Voltaire are found true, if it be not that Voltaire deceived even kings. Bossuet no doubt reigned, and his reign was not disputed ; but he was to consecrate his authority by the dignity of his life and manners, from which the following age excused its prophet, for a faction does not impose on its leader the same moral rules as a church upon its guide. Bossuet had respectful disciples, Voltaire devoted partisans. Bossuet was associated with fellow-labourers, Voltaire with agents and almost with ac- complices the one governed, the other conspired. It may ap- pear at the first glance that the one was popular and not the other ; but when we look at the matter narrowly, Bossuet had all the popularity which a serious writer could enjoy in the seven- teenth century, and indeed that alone which he could have. The great difference is, that he had a public, and Voltaire had a people. This people Voltaire created, or rather his writings called them forth. The instructions of Bossuet could not reach so far nor so low as the sarcasms of Voltaire, and then, at cer- tain times, negation is more extensively popular than assertion or affirmation can be. The people in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries had their place at the banquet of literature ; Voltaire made them sit there again, only it was not, as the Scripture ex- presses it, " a feast of things purified." ] Both died in full pos- session of their fame, but the one with gravity and holiness, as it becomes a man to die ; the other in haste and violently, if I may be allowed to say so ; the one amid universal veneration, the other amid the loud explosions of enthusiasm, with which respect was certainly not mingled. To the defender of the national wor- ship, seventy-seven years were granted that he might rear to that worship immortal monuments ; to the other eighty-four 1 Isaiah xxv. C. 32 INTRODUCTION. years, that he might efface from the minds of the people, that which, whether true or false, had only been engraved upon them by the hand of tradition. In spite, however, of his vast popularity, Voltaire as a writer is not more secure of the future than Bossuet. In some respects he is more out of date than his attractive rival. Many things written by Voltaire will continue to be read, and many also by Bossuet. Not only the rare perfection of the style and his ini- mitable eloquence will make a great number of the works of the illustrious bishop live for ever, and that too with a real and ener- getic life, but the substance, not less than the form, will render many of them immortal. Truth never dies, and what responds with so much power to the profound necessities of the soul and to its inmost wishes, is so precious in itself, and clothed by Bossuet with such incomparable beauty, that men of cultivated minds in all ages will incessantly repeat such magnificent lan- guage, and will find in it a perpetual source of delight. No- body had ever so much talent as Voltaire, or more good sense, but, " after the Scriptures, which have been inspired by the Holy Ghost, there is nothing so great as Bossuet." The writer of whom we have been able to speak thus, will live for ever by his writings, in the memory and in the thoughts of mankind. We have seen that the French Academy was founded in the seventeenth century by Richelieu, with the design, at once frivolous and ambitious, of perfecting and directing the language. In this respect it exercised, at the time of its foundation, a very harmless influence. But soon it became the means of exciting emulation among literary men ; it was a sort of prytaneum ; above all, it served as a point of contact between the nobility and men of letters it taught them to fraternize. The former attended at first with the intention of doing honour to the latter, but they came at last to discover that in going thither they did honour to them- selves. Among all earthly dignities, mind or talent is the first. Men of letters felt this, and profited by it; but, in their turn, they submitted to it, by bending under the ascendancy of a strong individuality. In the seventeenth century we see the influence of the Academy extended. The mere statement of the questions discussed at their successive meetings gives the measure of this increase. " Among all the virtues of the king, which is the greatest?" INTRODUCTION. 33 was the question put at the commencement. Now, real philo- sophical and social interests are debated there ; the discourses delivered at the admission of members are treatises, manifestoes, confessions of faith ; they inaugurate not only the thought of him who delivers them, but they are an indication of the minds before whom they are delivered. There is nothing more im- portant than these discourses, as a proof of the opinions, the general tendency, and the end at which they aim. What became of the language in the eighteenth century a matter so important as an instrument and a symptom ? It gained and it lost, but it lost more than it gained. It was per- fected in precision, exactness, and regularity. The distinction of synonymous terms was studied, and the first book on that subject was then published. The idea of such a work had pre- viously occurred to Fenelon. In point of language, this is a sign of the times, but some authors complain of the introduction of neologisms. Voltaire, in prose, the faithful heir of the tradi- tions of the seventeenth century, utters a cry of alarm, and this cry finds an echo. At present we no longer comprehend it ; the purity of the language of Louis XIV. does not appear to us to have undergone any perceptible alteration in the writings of the time of Louis XV. What is their hardihood compared with ours ? Some gold spangles laid on the blue-and-white robe of the seventeenth century. With respect to us, we have loaded our language with brass, copper, and glass. Diderot is the most disorderly writer of his time nay, he has something impudent in the style, as well as in the thought and yet he has written pages, whose purity excites our envy. The Danger of putting one's-self above the laws is a masterpiece of all that is simple, natural, and true in language. It must be acknowledged, however, that the style of the eighteenth century has not the frankness, freshness, modesty, grace, and noble ease of its predecessor. Towards the middle of the period, we see the use and abuse of general terms introduced. This abstract character does not exist in the great age : in it the language never became incorporeal ; and, even in treating of Metaphysics, it preserves its forms of expression plain and simple. Descartes, Malebranche, Fenelon, and Bossuet, have always a charm and a grace, which contrast with the stiffness and emphasis which the philosophy of the eighteenth century, C \ 34 INTRODUCTION. mixing itself with everything, introduced into the language. There still remains, however, a fine language, precise, clear, natural, energetic, and true. The style, consisting of long and rounded sentences, gradually disappeared. Traces of it remain, indeed ; the period of Balzac and Flechier appears at a great distance. It may be easily dis- covered in the writings of the Chancellor d'Aguesseau, who belongs certainly to the end of the seventeenth century ; it ap- pears again in the works of Buffon, La Condamine, and J. J. Rousseau. The beautiful period still finds a place, but the long and round period is not, in general, the style of the eighteenth century. It had ceased to be a reality. This is the style of a period settled, peaceful, and at rest, when the opinion prevails, that the future will be like the present! The form of the phrase- ology is thus expressive of the sentiments of society. An age, in which the period opens up the long folds of its floating robe, is a time of stability, authority, and confidence. But, when literature has become a means of action, instead of continuing to be used for its own sake, we no longer amuse ourselves with the turning of periods. The period is contemporary with the peruke the period is the peruke of style. The eighteenth century has shortened the one as much as the other. The peruke, reaching the middle of the loins, could neither be suit- able to the courtiers of Madame de Pompadour, nor to men in haste to accomplish a work of destruction. When was J. J. Rousseau himself given to the turning of periods ? Assuredly it was not in his pamphlets. We may add, that the prose of the seventeenth century had imitators very late in the succeeding age. It had even a de- fender, who, Avitli the exception of the rounded period, remained faithful to it to the very last. Voltaire has preserved as much of this fine prose as could be transferred to the eighteenth cen- tury, but we are speaking of Voltaire as a prose writer, and not as a poet. In reference to poetry and eloquence, these two distinguished esthetic elements of literature, it may be said that both came forth ; that is to. say, they spontaneously made their escape from the trammels with which the preceding age had encumbered them. " Rome is no more in Rome," said Sertorius. Poetry is no more in poetry, nor eloquence in eloquence, in the sense INTRODUCTION. 35 which the seventeenth century attached to these terms. Poetry at that time was verse ; Telemachus would never have passed for a poem. But, in the following age, poetry languished under its official form ; it quitted the domain of verse to go into the territory of prose. This remark is only completely true of the second half of the century. In the first half Voltaire keeps up poetry, but, about 1750, we observe J. J. Rousseau preparing poetical prose. He and Bernardin de Saint Pierre were the true poets of that age. It is the same with eloquence. It is no longer in the pulpit, sometimes we find it at the bar, but it is especially displayed in the pamphlet. It is no more presented to the public by the living mouth they obtain it from the bookseller's shop. The advertisement is issued, and the faithful come to them. The orators are Rousseau, Voltaire, Diderot, in a, cloud of tracts and pamphlets pamphlets become large books. This period deserves to be called an age of pamphlets. When Voltaire him- self attempts the style of the orator, his eloquence abandons him, of which we have a proof in the Eulogium on the Officers who died during the campaign of 1752. He is affecting, however, when he speaks of Vauvenargues, whom he really loved, but open his pamphlets, and read among others that one which he has en- titled II faut prendre un parti (we must take a side) along with what is detestable what fancy, and what power ! Two acquisitions quite new, enrich the French literature of the eighteenth century nature and politics. In an age of faith in every sense of the term, of stability, power, glory and security, there was no place for nature ; so long as society is sufficient for man, he merely casts upon nature a wandering look, and the more active his employment the less does the place where it is carried on attract his attention. We do not give this as an abso- lute rule, but we in this manner succeed in explaining to our- selves the total absence of the poetry of nature in the seventeenth century. I have said that the eighteenth century, like that of which it takes the place, comprehends two periods. It is necessary to distinguish them, for Voltaire alone is common to both ; and yet the -Voltaire of the one, and the Voltaire of the other, are two different men. There is in the age, which now r engages our attention, a 36 INTRODUCTION. remarkable coincidence between the historical and the literary dates. A glance at the political history of the thirty years be- tween the death of Louis XIV. (1715), and the treaty of Aix- la-Chapelle will be sufficient to convince us of this : 1746 is our literary date, and 1748 saw this treaty concluded, one hundred years after the peace of Westphalia. With what were these years filled, whether in the political or literary point of view ? They began Avith the disorders of the regency. The boldness of men's ideas was not at that time on a level with the boldness of their actions ; the new literature was not commensurate with the licentiousness of manners. These troublesome years have for their principal episode the system of Law a desolating erup- tion, which brought ruin on a multitude of families. These fatal troubles were not, as some pretend, without compensation ; they produced some advantageous results an improvement in the system of finance, the sudden but merely momentary mixture of all classes, and the abasement of the privileged ranks. Later, from 1726 to 1743, France had a breathing time under the min- istry of Cardinal dc Floury. Within, the disputes relating to the bull Unigenitus, which became the law of the state in 1730, were continued. By the side of this theological war, another was prosecuted in Italv, which ended in the acquisition of Lorraine. A year before his death, Fleury allowed himself to take part in the struggle against Maria Theresa. The disasters which befell the French armies in Bohemia are well known, but they were repaired at Fontenoy in 1745, an advantage which led to the peace of Aix-la-Chapelle. The seven years' war did not com- mence till a later period. On the whole, during these thirty years peace prevailed, France was tranquil within, and consequently prosperous. But the moral effects of a long calm arc not always analogous to physical effects. Peace is good when it is united to justice and morality. Peace may be transformed into a calamity, when it heats the exhalations of which war would have favoured the evaporation. Peace dur- ing this period was not salutary either to morals or to national character. At the end of the reign of Louis XIV. there was left on the shore a quantity of mud, which a new wave might have carried away, but with which the atmosphere continued to be infected. The ideas which physical force had suppressed, but of which the suppression had redoubled the energy, broke loose INTRODUCTION. 37 in fearful reprisals, and found a ready welcome from a public weary of the past. Liberty cannot subsist alone, it must have, as an auxiliary, either action or danger, or the principles which render it respectable. By the force of the weight used in sup- pression, the hand of despotism became benumbed, lost its hold, and the human mind only continued to appearance in its subser- viency. During the eighteenth century, power appeared to be sovereign, at the same time it felt that it was no longer master ; the despotism of this period was despotism asleep, which only awoke by starts, and liberty was involved neither in action nor in danger. With respect to literature it may be said, that during this first period, the seventeenth century is exhausted, comes to an end, and is prolonged in its echo ; we have somehow a posthumous seventeenth century, yet two parallel cuiTents, whose source is not common, are easily distinguished in it. The one is very evidently a prolongation and a termination of the age of Louis XIV., of which it reproduces the tendencies, and cultivates, though with a weary hand, the traditions, and to which at least it neither adds nor supplies almost anything of what constitutes the character of the eighteenth century. This first current is that which brings forward Massillon (1663-1742), d'Aguesseau (1668-1751), Cochin (1687-1747), Saint Simon (1675-1755), Rollin (1661-1741), Vertot (1655- 1735), Madame de Lambert (1667-1748), Louis Racine (1692- 1763), Dubos (1670-1742), Mademoiselle de Launay (1693- 1750), Crebillon (1674-1752), J. B. Rousseau (1671-1741), Le Sage (1668-1748), Destouches (1680-1754), Prevost (1697- 1773).' The other current is confined within a narrower bed, but between its high banks it rushes with much greater force. It brings forward Fontenelle (1657-1757), he belongs equally to the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, for as long as he lived he continued in the exercise of all his faculties ; La Motte (1672-1742), Marivaux (1688-1763), Renault (1685-1770), Vauvenargues (1715-1747), Montesquieu (1689-1755), Voltaire (1694-1778). These two currents have run together without mingling their waters, without troubling each other, and without the somewhat insipid sweetness of the first having been changed by the bit- 38 INTRODUCTION. terness of the second. The former reminds us of Arethusa going pure from the bosom of the sea. These are two kinds of con- temporaneous literature which have not been derived the one from the other, which subsist the one by the side of the other, and which have no knowledge of one another. It is remarkable that the first of these currents has held its course so far through so many passions and novelties under the regency, and greatly beyond it. The Ancient History of Rollin was published from 1730 to 1738 ; the poem on Religion in 1742 ; several of the Odes of J. B. Rousseau, from 1716 to 174 1, 1 the Roman Revo- lutions of Vertot, in 1719 ; and his History of Malta in 1726 ; the masterpiece of Prevost, Manon Lescaut, in 1732 ; the last vo- lume of Gil Bias, in 1735. The Glorieux of Destouches, in 1732. Now, if all these works differ in any thing from the seven- teenth century, they have very little or almost nothing at all of the character peculiar to the eighteenth. With respect to literature in the other countries of Europe, Great Britain stands alone at that period. The reign of Queen Anfce (1702-1714), was a great epoch in an intellectual and liter- ary view. England possessed Pope (1688-1744), Swift (1667- 1745), Addison (1672-1719), Steele (1675-1729), Prior (1664- 1721), Gay (1688-1743), Bolingbroke 1672-1751), Savage (1698-1743). We must not forget to inquire whether the literary manners had more or less dignity in the eighteenth than in the seventeenth century ? At the first glance we might be tempted to accuse the seventeenth century of more servility ; but although in this re- spect we cannot acquit such men as Bossuet, Elechier, Racine, and Boileau, we must admit that, on the whole, the literary man- ners of this epoch were more estimable than those of the follow- ing age. Adulation at least had its source in real feeling. In point of baseness, pitiful intrigues, and dishonourable acts, the eighteenth century has certainly the superiority. There are, how- ever, honourable exceptions. No charge can be brought against Button and Montesquieu, nor even in this respect against J. J. Rousseau ; but, notwithstanding this admission, it must not be forgotten that the Abbe do Saint Pierre was expelled from tho Academy by his colleagues for raising the question whether Louis ' It .loos not appear, however, that any of the prindpal works of J. B. Ilouwiuuii are p">U'rioi- to 1710. INTRODUCTION. 39 XIV. really deserved to be called Great. Fontenelle was the sycophant of Cardinal Dubois, and lavished on him his eulogies in that same academy, shamefully giving the lie to the public conscience. Now, if we study in its general aspect the intellectual move- ment and the peculiar character of the thirty years of this first period, we are struck with the contrast. Certain branches of knowledge are developed and others decline. We may consider, in the first place, those which have made im- provement every modification which has brought with it profit- The exact sciences and natural philosophy were cultivated with a success entirely new. For example, .Reaumur (1683-1757), Antoine de Jussieu, Bernard do Jussieu (1686-1777), men so eminent in the history of science. But science does not merely belong to particular men who make discoveries ; it is also the property of persons of secondary talents, who propagate and put within the reach of the many that which was only the privilege of the few. Thus Fontenelle, who simply reports the discoveries of others, has rendered real service to science by giving a short summary of the labours of his brethren see the Memoirs of the Academy of Science. Voltaire wrote the Philosophy of Newton ; the Marchioness du Chatelet was no stranger to this species of study ; Montesquieu himself composed a Treatise on the Glands. Among works of this kind, the Spectacle of Nature, by the Abbe Pluche (1688-1761), is remarkable for its religious character. Works of erudition are numerous. We may quote among those which have been devoted to this subject, Freret (1688- 1749), Doin Calrnet (1672-1757), Father Brumoy (1688- 1742), who made known the Greek theatre by a translation which, indeed, possesses little excellence, but which first intro- duced us to this unknown world. M. and Madame Dacier (1651- 1722) are still celebrated. The Abbe Gedoyn (1667-1744), translated Quintilian in 1718; d' Olivet (1682-1748), pub- lished the Orations of Cicero in French, and valuable remarks on French prosody. In 1718 the Abbe Girard (1677-1748), published his book on French synonymes. Restaut's grammar appeared in 1730. After this enumeration, and with the addition of Du Cange, the Academy of Inscriptions, and the Collection of Montfaucon, many gaps are still left in the field of erudition. History was subjected to important modifications. National 40 INTRODUCTION. history especially is more accurately traced to its sources. This is the peculiar excellence of Father Daniel (1649-1728), whose history otherwise is written with a view to class and party. Mezeray, on the contrary, cared little for the original documents ; he substituted genius for learning, and Father Daniel learning for genius so much for learned history. Another species of history then arose critical history. The first work of this sort is due to the Abbe Dubos (1670-1742). It is a History of the Establishment of Monarchy in France. The book is systematic, and opens the way to the works which M. Thierry and M. de Barante have published in our times. Other historians are famous for the elegance of the narrative, and recall the manner of the ancients. The Abbe de Vertot published in succession the Revolutions of Sweden and of Portu- gal, the Roman Revolutions, and the History of the Order of Malta. Rollin falls under this category. His Ancient History is an im- mortal work, notwithstanding its defects, its tediousness, its idle reflections, its deficiency in general views, in criticism and philo- sophy. The book, however, is still in repute for its representa- tion of antiquity, for its simplicity, kindly feeling, and the inimit- ably fine tone in which it is written, and for the unction which is spread over every subject. The Roman History is of less value. Montesquieu applies to llollin what is said of Xenophon with respect to Attica, he calls him the bee of France. Philosophical history begins to peep out in the Reflections on History by the President Ilenault ; it is better characterised in Montesquieu's book on the Grandeur and Decline of the Romans. Voltaire, who at a later period attached himself to this kind of history, belongs, for the moment, to the class of epic writers. His History of Charles XII. is a true epic poem, which he has bound himself to relate with picturesque rapidity. We must not forget the writers of Memoirs, Saint Simon, Mademoiselle de Launay, Madame dc Caylus, and Louis Racine. Political science now comes to light. The Spirit of Laws en- larges the circle within which we arc confined ; we shall fall in with this important work afterwards. But the social questions are cursorily referred to in the Persian Letters (1721), and in the Sethos of Terrasson (1731). The works of Saint Pierre are only important for their number ; he was not a man of genius. We owe to him, however, in this department, the first manifestation INTRODUCTION. 41 of liberty of thought ; he did what could not have been done under Louis XIV., he dared distinctly to point out the nature of wickedness. A similar boldness had cost Fenelon clear, and yet he only expressed his ideas through a veil in the Utopia of Tele- machus. Telemachus is the political work of the seventeenth century. But the Duke of Orleans was indulgent and good- natured, he did not love liberty from principle, he tolerated it from his natural disposition, and his curious mind made him en- joy every species of invention. The most important work of that age, for the boldness and novelty of its views, is the Letters on the English, by Voltaire (1725). Although, this book was not printed in France, it produced there such an effect that Voltaire was subjected to a severe punishment for having published it. This work, which appears to us now not remarkable for boldness, was so much so at the time as to excite our astonishment, that we owe it to the pen of Voltaire, who was conservative in all things but religion. But he aimed at something new ; he was in quest of fame ; he came from England, and took upon him to reveal to France that land as little known as America was before the time of Christopher Columbus. In all these branches the eighteenth century made great im- provement, and nowhere in this department at least have we to show any decline, but in every quarter the inquiry was about things, not about mankind. The inner, the abstract man, whom the seventeenth century so much delighted to investigate, was by no means the object of research in the eighteenth, and it is in the literary branches, which refer to man, that any declension is per- ceptible. Philosophy had fallen asleep it was, as it were, sus- pended ; there was no original production ; foreign systems were studied, especially the system of Locke. Nothing at this time shows philosophical activity we wait for Condillac. It is the same with religious morality ; men scarcely make any inquiry about it. Duguet (1649-1733), so substantial, and more a moralist than a theologian, belongs partly to this age, but en- tered on his course in the preceding. He stands alone, and is out of date. "We have only Madame de Lambert, Vauvenargues, and Fontenelle, in whose writings morality is quite detached from religion. The Fine Arts are on the decline ; we meet with no great name, and no popular fame. 42 INTRODUCTION. Eloquence is subject to the same observation. Massillon was still alive, but his principal works were connected with a former period. D'Aguesseau, Cochin, Normaud (1687-1745), made themselves remarkable by their pleadings. At the French bar they are perhaps the most distinguished, but are far from rising to the height which the orators of the seventeenth century had reached. Finally, what would Poetry be without Voltaire 1 Take away Voltaire, and what remains to the poetry of this period ! Lyric poetry has no existence. J. B. Rousseau was still alive, and his reputation also, but, in a literary point of view, it is with him as with Massillon he is dead. Epic poetry is honoured by the Henriade (1723), a brilliant production. Tragedy was held up by Voltaire, it was the age of CEdipus, Brutus, Zaire, Alzire, and Merope. In some respects it is a new kind of tragedy, the domain of tragic poetry was really extended. Crebillon was still alive, but his best tragedies preceded the death of Louis XIV. We shall take him up in the eighteenth cen- tury. La Motte, another writer, had a day of inspiration in Ines de Castro (1723). The iTido of Lefranc de Pompignan (1734), and the Mahomet If. of Lanoue (1737), may still be quoted. Comedy without doubt declined, as it had no longer Moliere, but a revolution here was manifest. The spirit of Moliere is found again in Le Sage (see Turcaret, 170i)), and in the School of Citizens of d'Allainval (1728). Moliere and the writers of his school, Le Sage, d'Allainval, Dancourt, Regnard, are unanimous in banishing from comedy the element of interest and sympathy. But in the eighteenth century this interest begins to appear ; Dcstouches approaches the tragi-comic without falling into it ; it is still comedy, although the tragi-comic allows itself to be seen. His Gloi-ieu.v (1732) contains scenes of the true pathetic. The revolution is accomplished in the works of La Chaussee (1692- 1756). He is properly the inventor of the interesting 1 comedy, which takes possession of the heart more than of the understand- ing. The author is of the second order, but on that account, is his style of writing of the second order too ? Analytic comedy was framed by Marivaux. It is a microscopic Tliis term is literally translated from the French, and seems to v correspond to "luit i- known iu English ;i,s seiitiim-ntal comedy. Translator. INTRODUCTION. 43 study of the secrets of the human heart, and especially of the female heart. Marivaux shows women to themselves. He does not seek to represent characters that are most prominent and most widely spread, but those delicate mysteries which are only discovered in the profound secrecy of the heart. It is romance brought upon the stage. It is the stage transformed into romance. Was this the right place for romance ? and may we not say that it was wrong ? Didactic poetry was cultivated by Louis Racine. We owe to him the poem on Religion and on Grace. Translation in verse, feeble in the seventeenth century, fur- nished, in the eighteenth, very fine works. The Abbe du Resnel (1092-1761) successfully translated the Essay on Criticism and the Essay on Man, by Pope. Father Poree, tutor of Voltaire, Vaniere, and Cardinal Polignac (1661-1741), wrote Latin poems. The Romance has not declined. The Princess of Cleves is, beyond all doubt, unrivalled ; but the eighteenth century gives, in Gil Bias (1735), one of the best romances in the world. The Abbe Prevost produced a kind of romance, written, so to speak, at the gallop, irreproachable in respect of morals the romance of adventures, the romance of romances. Manon Lescaut is more than that, but it is his masterpiece. Marivaux has made very interesting romances ; among others, Marianne, a work in which the eloquence of passion is admirable. In literary criticism, Rollin and Louis Racine are the inter- preters of classical learning ; they render pure homage to the seventeenth century, and maintain the highest reverence for an- tiquity. But elsewhere there is a revolution. La Motte and Voltaire form a second school, which allows innovations. La Motte especially criticises the ancients with boldness. The Abbe Dubos, in short, without going very far, introduces philosophy into the domain of criticism. In his Essay on Taste, Montes- quieu follows the same path. These two authors have inaugu- rated esthetics in France, and hence there are three distinct schools. We now come, gentlemen, to the literary lives of the principal writers of this period. They are, no doubt, interesting, but all the writers have not a history. There are some who have not ad- vanced, and who have only turned upon themselves. Others, on the contrary, have undergone developments, and accomplished 44 INTRODUCTION. great changes. In a literary history, we must take account of writers of the second class. They frequently characterize better than those that are first, the spirit of the age. M. Lerminierhas made this remark, the writer of the first rank especially lives in the thought of the future, while an inferior genius is satisfied with the present. THE CHANCELLOR D'AGUESSEAU. , 45 I. THE CHANCELLOR D'AGUESSEAU. 1668-1751. D'AGUESSEAU belonged to a family of distinction in the magis- tracy. At a very early period he was made king's advocate^ afterwards he became attorney-general, and at length, in 1718, chancellor. Plis life was not without storms, on account of his opinions and political events, but in his works we perceive the remarkable print of inward peace. Already, under Louis XIV., he was subjected to a sort of disgrace, occasioned by the bull Unigenitus. Brought up among the magistrates of France, he inherited their spirit. The parliaments maintained, with the greatest firmness, their opposition to ultra-montane tendencies. Afterwards, under the regency, he was obliged to give up the seals, because he was opposed to the system of Law. He was recalled, disgraced a second time, again recalled, and died chan- cellor. Obliged to take a part in politics, he was not, however, a politician like the Chancellor de L'Hopital. D'Aguesseau was more learned, a better writer, and possessed of more extensive accomplishments than L'Hopital, but he was deficient in the qua- lities which constitute the statesman. He was in other respects an excellent magistrate. He was distinguished for his integrity, his dignity of manners and his vast and profound knowledge. He wrote much on law, religion, and philosophy, but none of his works bears the stamp of originality. Although sincerely reli- gious, he exhibits in his philosophy something of the age to which he belonged. His style, clear and pure, but without ornament, has little real force. He was not a man of genius. Plis writings, though worthy of esteem, are not, when taken together, works of great value; they have not the power of exercising any remark- able influence over the understanding or the imagination ; we have some difficulty in getting through them. They consist of 46 THE CHANCELLOR D'AGUESSEAU. speeches and charges the reproofs, instructions, and -exhortations, delivered by the representative of the public minister at the opening of the sittings of parliament. D'Aguesseau generally chose excellent subjects, such as love of one's condition, a scien- tific spirit, love of country, the conduct of magistrates, firmness, true and false justice, knowledge of mankind indispensable to the lawyer. It is a style of writing analogous to preaching, analogous to the synodal addresses of a bishop, and to the confer- ences of Massillon. The whole constitutes a true exhibition of the theory of judicial ivisdom. 1 It should contain a theory of the duties of the judicial as well as of the apostolic minister. We fully understand that subjects so didactic do not tend to produce much animation in the speaker. In his discourses, d'Aguesseau is dignified, noble, elegant, and harmonious; he has an elevation of thought which inspires us with interest, both in the subject and the orator; we cannot read his writings with- out feeling the better for them, at least for the time. His elo- quence, however, is not without preparation, and not without stiffness ; his dignity is solemn ; his sentences are symmetrical ; his phraseology rises and falls like the two ends of a balance ; it is ingeniously weighed, and we think we hear the rustling of the magistrate's silken robe. His taste for antithesis is too obvious ; the author allows himself to fall into witticisms, which, if you choose, arc not frivolous, but are merely jests. The whole is deficient in ease and simplicity. L'Hopital is much more un- cultivated ; he composes badly, but he is much more eloquent ; he has much more force and originality ; there is that in him which makes the heart beat. No such thing appears in the writings of d'Aguesseau, yet the address on the Knowledge of Mankind as well as the seventh charge, should be read. On the mind and on science, the following are some passages worthy of notice : " The study of morality and eloquence began at the same time, nnd their union in the world is as ancient as thought and lan- guage. " Men did not formerly separate two sciences, which are in their nature inseparable. The philosopher and the orator possessed 1 The French phrase is prudence jttdiciaire. The French Editors have the follow- ing note : It is an allusion to prudence pastorale, an expression which implies the theory of duties performed by the pastor in a part of French Switzerland. THE CHANCELLOR D'AGUESSEAU. 47 in common the empire of wisdom ; they maintained a happy in- tercourse and a perfect understanding between the art of thinking and speaking well, and they had not yet imagined that distinc- tion injurious to orators, that divorce fatal to eloquence of the imagination and the reason, of sentiment and expression, of the orator and the philosopher." " Whence have proceeded those surprising effects of an elo- quence more than human ? What is the source of so many wonders, of which the simple reading, after so many ages, is still the object of our admiration? " These arms were not framed in the school of a declaimer ; the thunders and the lightnings which made kings tremble on their thrones were forged in a higher region. From the bosom of wisdom Demosthenes derived that bold and generous policy, that firm and intrepid liberty, that invincible love of country ; in the study of morality he received, from the hands of reason, that absolute empire and that sovereign power, which he exer- cised over the minds of his hearers. A Plato was required to form a Demosthenes, that the greatest of orators might pay homage with all his reputation to the greatest of philosophers." " Ye masters in the art of speaking to the heart, be not afraid of ever wanting figures, ornaments, and everything which com- poses that innocent pleasure of which the orator should be the artist. " Those who only bring to the profession of eloquence an im- perfect knowledge, not to say an entire ignorance of the science of morals, may be afraid of falling into this defect. Unassisted by their acquaintance with things, they ambitiously seek the aid of expressions as a magnificent veil, under whose covering they hope to conceal their want of talent, and to appear to say more than they think. " But the very words which fly from those who seek nothing but them, present themselves in great numbers to an orator who has been fed for a long time on the substance of the things them- selves. Readiness of thought produces readiness of expression ; the agreeable is found in the useful ; and the arms, which are only given to the soldier to conquer, become his most beautiful ornament." 1 1 The Knowledge of Mankind. The three preceding quotations are taken from this discourse. 48 THE CHANCELLOR D'AGUESSEAU. " To think little, to speak on every subject, to doubt nothing, to dwell apart from the soul, merely to cultivate the surface of the understanding ; to use happy expressions, to have an agree- able imagination, light and delicate conversation, and to know how to please without knowing how to acquire esteem ; to be born with the equivocal talent of a ready conception, and on that account to consider reflection quite useless ; to fly from object to object, without deeply investigating any one ; to cull rapidly all flowers, and never to give to the fruits time to come to maturity, this is a feeble picture of what it pleases our age to honour with the name of wit. " Attention is fatiguing, reason is a constraint, and authority is revolting to the man possessed of a mind more brilliant than solid, and of knowledge often erroneous and inaccurate ; incap- able of perseverance in his inquiries after truth, it escapes him more from instability than idleness." 1 Although this manner is not simple, we cannot charge it with affectation. Imperturbable reason is the characteristic of d'Agues- seau ; but to be an orator, reason must be empassioned. Cicero says, Orator, nt ita dicam, trayicus. 2 It is because the tra-gic is the true name of the serious. D' Aguesseau was once tragical, or at least eloquent. The spirit of liberty, maintained by the read- ing of the ancients and by parliamentary traditions, was stirred up in the passage on the Love of Country, delivered two months after the death of Louis XIV. Two months before, he could not have given utterance to such words. The term country does not occur twice in the writers of the seventeenth century. When Racine uses it, it is under cover of a subject taken from the Greek theatre; perhaps it is found also in Boileau. By "crushing par- liament, the great king had, as it were, stifled the patriotic spirit; but this spirit lived in d'Aguesseau, and to him the king was not tlu- state : " Sac-red tie of the authority of kings, and of the obedience of the people, the love of country should imite all their desires. Hut does this love, almost natural toman, does this virtue, which we know by feeling, praise by reason, and should follow from interest, cast its roots deep into our heart? and should we not say, that it is like a strange plant in monarchies, and that it 1 Septiennr Mercurialp : De 1'Esprit et de la Science. 3 An orator, so to spoak, is a tragedian. THE CHANCELLOR D'AGUESSEAU. 49 only grows luxuriantly and makes its precious fruits be tasted in republics ? " In these, each citizen is accustomed early, nay, almost at his birth, to regard the fortune of the state as identified with his own. That perfect equality, and that species of civic fraternity, which makes all the citizens only, as it were, a single family, gives to them all an equal interest in the good and evil of their country. The fate of the vessel, of which every one thinks himself the pilot, could not be a matter of indifference. The love of country becomes a species of self-love. They truly love themselves in the love of the republic, and they come at last to love it more than themselves. " The inflexible Roman sacrifices his children to the safety of the republic. He orders their punishment he does more, he sees it executed. The father is absorbed, and, as it were, anni- hilated in the consul. Nature shudders at it, but country, stronger than nature, bestows upon him as many children as the citizens, whom he preserves by the loss of his own offspring. " Shall we, then, be reduced to seek the love of country in po- pular states, and perhaps in the ruins of ancient Rome ? Is the safety of the state, then, less the safety of each citizen in the countries which only know a single master ? Will it be neces- sary to teach men in them to love a country which gives or pre- serves to them all which they love in their other benefits? But shall we be surprised at this ? How many are there who live anil die without even knowing whether there* is such a thing as country ? " Freed from the care, and deprived of the honour of govern- ment, they regard the fortune of the state as a vessel that floats at the will of its master, and for him alone is saved or lost. If the voyage be fortunate, we sleep, with full confidence in the pilot who guides us. If any unexpected storm awakes us, it only rouses us to make powerless vows and rash complaints, which merely annoy him who holds the helm ; and sometimes even, when we stand as idle spectators of the shipwreck of our country, so great is our folly, that we console ourselves with the pleasure of reviling those by whom it was occasioned. A bril- liant stroke of satire, whose seventy gratifies us by its novelty, or delights us by its malignity, is an indemnification for all public misfortunes, and it might be said that we sought rather to D 50 COCHIN. avenge our country by our criticisms than to defend it by our services." 1 We may read, on this subject, what Du Vair says on the prin- cipal causes of the decline of eloquence. II. COCHIN. 1C87-1747. THE works of Cochin were collected in 1751, and form six volumes in quarto. The respectability of a lawyer has a date in France. The magistracy there was always respected, but the respect which the profession of the bar inspires does not go back so far. The fifteenth and sixteenth centuries present to us some traces of the consideration with which lawyers began to be treated. Towards the end of the sixteenth only, this profession was elevated, and the dignity of parliament was conferred upon the advocate, who at last became a kind of magistrate. In the seventeenth century, rhetoric invaded the bar, which lost a little of its dignity. Le Maitre, for example, celebrated for his retreat to Port lioyal, in the midst of his brilliant success is, after all, a rhetorician. But the eighteenth century sees the value of rhetoric lowered, and the high dignity of the bar restored. The best days of the lawyer are those which we are now considering. . / <_J Gresset does not give a jnst idea of them in those verses of La Chartreuse, in which, after having passed in review all the pro- fessions, he concludes that it is his part to have none. But, if the unfaithful representation does not correspond with the spirit of his time, the verses are charming : " Wandering in the dark labyrinth where the ghost of Themis, lying on purple and lilies, inclines her unequal balance, and draws from a venal urn decrees dictated by Venus, shall I go, a 1 Dix-neuvieme Mercurhile 1'Amour dc la patric. COCHIN. 51 mercenary orator of falsehood and truth, charged with a hatred of strangers, to sell to the quarrels of the vulgar my voice and my peace of mind, and, in the grotto of chicanery, bend to the laws of a profane tribunal the law of the Eternal, and, by an English eloquence, sap the foundations both of the throne and the altar?" Cochin contributed to make his profession honoured. His remarkable integrity originated in a deep sentiment of piety. Disinterestedness, indefatigable devotedness, wonderful modesty, vast and profound knowledge these were the distinctions that he possessed. He was the first advocate of his time. But is his talent precisely that of the orator ? Obliged to keep close to his pleadings, such as they have come down to us, we cannot maintain the affirmative. Let us not forget that he did not write them as they were delivered. They are rather memoirs : in putting them in order, he withdrew the passages that w r ere really oratorical ; it is not the picture, but the simple engraving that we possess. In what remains of Cochin's works, his qualities are rather solid than brilliant, but he pushes them to the point at which they become brilliant. The most prominent characteristic of his mind is the force and simplicity of his logic ; he excels in dia- lectics without showing it. There was no want of able logicians, but those who could refrain from the exhibition of their logic in sapienlia retinere moduum, 1 were rare. His unity of thought has been much and justly praised. " What is truly his inven- tion," says the editor of his works, " is the reduction of any cause whatever to a single point of dispute. No other before his time had made this rule. A faithful observer of the unity of his subject, so much recommended by the poets, he always maintains a single proposition, and hence arises the admirable clearness of his reasoning. After he had reduced his cause to two, or at most to three, arguments, he began with the most conclusive, and afterwards introduced it into the discussion of the second and the third. Thus, without leaving the judges in any uncertainty, the proof went on, always increasing. Xo one part of his reasoning was more conclusive than another, because the prevailing argument communicated its strength throughout." 1 Preserve moderation in their wisdom. 52 COCHIN. Cochin was accomplished in narration ; the clearness of his narratives produced at the bar a surprising effect. When Cochin related, he proved. u Did ever any one tell a story so well?" is a question put by the writer now quoted. " He may serve as a model in any kind of narrative whatever, grave or playful, historical or fabulous. A man of letters, who could not pardon in French writers their indifference for the history of their country, had come to hear one of his great causes. As he listened to the statement of the facts, he could not help exclaim- ing, as loud as respect for the place permitted, What ! will not M. de Thou find there a continuator capable of writing history with clearness, precision, and grace ? " Farther, the perfect propriety of his language is worthy of observation : and, first of all, moral propriety, and then pro- priety in all the details a delicate observation of all that is suitable to the subject, to places, and to circumstances. No one has better practised the apte dicere without cold reserve. An internal heat makes itself always felt, and hence he attains to eloquence. The causes which Cochin pleaded are in general more interest- ing to professional men than to the public, especially to the public of our times questions respecting ecclesiastical jurisdic- tion or feudal privileges ; more civil causes than any others ; and a very great number of questions about condition that is to say, genealogy, or, to speak more accurately, descent. Such questions are rare at present, thanks to the good management of the public registers. The only one of this kind, among those managed by Cochin, which excites any interest at present, is the case of Mademoiselle Ferrand, which is one of his masterpieces. She was a person forty-five years of age, disowned by her mother. I repeat here what I have often said to those who study elo- quence, do not satisfy yourselves with the authors in your own particular profession. Let the orator study his art in the writ- ings of historians, the preacher in those of lawyers, all, among those who are neither orators nor writers. It is a principle, found in no treatise on the subject, and yet it occupies a principal place. Whoever wishes to be an advocate, or preacher, must study the language of common life. It is by going among the peasantry, and by keeping away from people of your own class, that you will rise to general ideas on the nature of eloquence. DUKE DE SAINT-SIMON. 53 III. DUKE DE SAINT-SIMON. 16751755. THE fame of the Duke de Saint- Simon is merely posthumous. He has left memoirs, of which some fragments were published in 1788, and a complete and authentic edition in 1829. Descended from an illustrious race, he was, according to custom, destined to the profession of arms. But dissatisfied with an unfair promotion, he early quitted the service, before he had acquired any reputation in it. At a later period he was engaged in diplomacy, and in the administration under the regent, whom he loved, notwithstanding the difference of their characters. No remarkable event distinguished his career; his name is scarcely found in history, and his literary genius has alone preserved his memory from oblivion. A single passion seems to have ruled his life a superstitious regard for birth and rank. He has the utmost reverence for the peerage, and the highest respect for precedency. Pie was duke and peer, and if any feeling can vie with that which he has respecting the importance of his dignity, it is the hatred that he bears to the natural children of Louis XIV., who were made legitimate princes. In religion he belongs to the Jansenist party. He adopts not only its contro- versial element, but its religion, serious and sincere. His most intimate intercourse was with men of piety ; so we see him closely connected with the Duke de Beauvillieres on the one side, and on the other with the Abbe de Ranee, the celebrated restorer of La Trappe. The Duke de Saint-Simon presents a singular mixture of ele- ments apparently contradictory. We are accustomed to meet with contrasts, and especially in men of strong minds and emi- nent talents, but in him the anthithesis is more brought out, and deserves signal observation. He possesses in a rare degree the power of rising to vast and noble thoughts, and he continues subject to narrow prejudices. It is he who calls that maxim sublime " that kings are made for the people, and not the people 54 DUKE DE SAINT-SIMON. for kings." Pie is ainoug the few men of his time who have noticed the people and pitied their sufferings, but it is always from the height of his peerage. He wishes for liberty, but as a duke and a peer. " He is," says M. de Barante, " a severe judge of a government, whom no one knew better how to judge, but his independence belongs neither to the philosopher, the lawyer, nor the citizen." 1 He was a Christian, but still without prejudice to the peerage ; in the details of his life, he is incessantly smitten with the privi- leges of the nobles, and the sincerity of his religion does not prevent him from allowing himself to go to excess in the exercise of an insupportable pride without ever reflecting on the matter. In this relation he still belonged to that conventional and repre- sentative age, in which religion, very true for him who professed it, preserved above all its character of propriety. Men intend to spend some weeks at La Trappe with the Abbe de Ranee, and begin by delaying their visit till they are gratified with all the vanities of the world. Saint-Simon, if it be true that he was of an implacable dis- position, and of a bitter, caustic and acrimonious temper, and that he was a severe censor, had still a heart susceptible of tender impressions. Any accidental display of virtuous conduct, or the remembrance of a virtuous man, makes his heart beat, and communicates to his style a pathos which no one has surpassed, because no one has been more deeply affected. As to the qualities of his mind, none had quicker discernment or more profound sagacity. Two causes produced this sagacity, sympathy and antipathy, benevolence and ill-will, all that was amiable in the soul, and all that was atrabilarious in the char- acter. But sagacity connected with charity is perhaps the most profound. Hatred is no doubt sagacious, but it is blind ; not only does it prevent us from seeing what is before us, but it makes us see still more what is not. Saint-Simon drew from both sources, and we must not trust him too far, for he is fre- quently unjust, nor be too hasty in condemning him. The glory of the time of Louis XIV. is frequently conventional ; it has a pre- judice in its favour. AVe feel indignant at reading the character of Fenelon, and yet in his life we meet with circumstances which confirm the judgment that Saint-Simon has pronounced. 1 De Barante, Melanges Literaires, tome ii., De 1'Histo're. DUKE DE SAINT-SIMON. 55 Above all, \ve owe to Saint-Simon the picture of a reign. This book is the true Age of Louis XIV. Voltaire has only made a flattering portrait of it ; he pardons everything in an epoch favourable to literature and the arts. We cannot but be astonished that the illusion still continues. This age, after all that has been said, although we cannot help charging it with hypo- crisy, must have been great. The Memoirs of Saint-Simon produce in this respect a strange and painful impression. He treats this memorable period nearly in the same way as the herald-at-arms of La Marck is treated in Quentin Dunvard. This brilliant court, distinguished for propriety, mental refine- ment, and politeness of language, is stripped naked, lashed and torn to pieces by one of those who formed a part of it. He, himself eminently aristocratical, does not perceive how much contempt he brings upon his order ; but royalty especially is rendered contemptible by tins species of reading. In some things it becomes ridiculous, in others hateful. See the history of Fargues : "There was a great hunting-match at Saint-Germain. At that time dogs, not men, caught the deer, and we cannot tell the number of dogs, horses, mounted huntsmen, relays and routes across the country. The chase took the direction of Dourdan, and continued so long that the king turned away at a very late hour and left the field. The Count de Guiche, the Count, afterwards Duke de Lude, Vardes, M. de Lauzun, who told me the story, and I know not who more, lost their way, and when it grew dark, knew not where they were. By pushing forward their weary horses, they at length saw a light ; they went towards it, and at last arrived at the gate of a kind of castle. They knocked, cried, told their names, and requested hospitality. It was about the end of autumn, and between ten and eleven o'clock at night. The gate was opened to them, and the master came and made them put off their boots and warm themselves ; he ordered the horses to be put into the stable, and supper to be made reaclv, of which they had great need. The repast was speedily placed on the table it was excellent, and they had various kinds of wine. The host was polished, respectful, neither ceremonious nor forward, with all the air and manners of superior society. They learned that he was called Fargues, and the house Courson ; that he had retired to it ; that he had not gone out of 56 DUKE DE SAINT-SIMON. it for several years ; that he sometimes received his friends there, and that he had neither wife nor children. The household seemed to be well regulated, and the house had an air of com- fort. After they had made a good supper, Fargues did not de- tain them from their beds. Each of them found one perfectly good, each had his chamber, and the men-servants of Fargues waited upon them with great propriety. They were very weary, and slept long. So soon as they were dressed, an excellent breakfast was served up, and when they rose from table, their horses were ready, as much refreshed as they were themselves. Charmed with the manners and politeness of Fargues, and pleased with his kind entertainment, they made him many offers of ser- vice, and set out for Saint-Germain. Their losing their way- was one piece of news, their return and where they had been during the night was another. " These gentlemen were the flower of the court and the pink of gallantry, and they were all at the time in close intimacy with the king. They related to him their adventure and their extra- ordinary reception, and praised in a very high degree the host his cheer and his house. The king asked his name, and so soon as he heard it, said, How, Fargues, is he so near this ? The gentlemen redoubled their praises, and the king made no farther remark. lie went directly to the apartments of the queen-mother and told what had occurred ; both felt that Fargues was very bold to dwell so near the court, and thought it very extraordi- nary that they had only learned by this hunting adventure of his having lived there so long. "Fargues had greatly distinguished himself in all the commo- tions of Paris against the court and Cardinal Mazarin. If he had not been executed, it was not from any want of will to take special vengeance upon him, but he had been protected by his party, and was formally comprehended in the amnesty. The hatred which he had incurred, and to which he thought he must yield, made him resolve to quit Paris for ever, to avoid all strife, and to withdraw to his own house without observation, and till that time he had remained unknown. Cardinal Mazarin was dead, and no one was questioned about past events, but as he had been quite notorious, he was afraid lest some new action might be raised against him, and on that account he lived very retired, at peace with all his neighbours, and quite at ease about DUKE DE SAINT-SIMON. 57 former troubles, trusting to the amnesty and to the length of time that had elapsed. The king and the queen-mother, who had only pardoned him from necessity, sent for the first presi- dent, Lamoignon, and charged him secretly to sift the life and conduct of Fargues, to examine carefully whether or not means might be found to punish his former insolence, and to make him repent of bearding the court in the enjoyment of wealth and tran- quillity. They told him of the hunting adventure which had made them acquainted with his place of abode, and showed to Lamoignon extreme anxiety that he might find legal means to ruin him. "Lamoignon, avaricious and a good courtier, resolved to gratify them, and to make his own advantage of the transaction. He made his inquiries, gave an account of them, and was so success- ful as to discover a way of implicating Fargues in a murder committed at Paris, when the disturbances were at their height, upon which he gave a decree privately, and one morning sent tipstaffs to apprehend him and bring him into the prison of the Conciergerie. Fargues, who, from the time that the amnesty was passed, felt sure of having done nothing blameworthy, was quite astonished, but he was much more so when he learned from the examination the nature of the crime, of which he was accused. He met his accusation with a very powerful defence, and farther alleged that the murder in question having been committed in the heat of the disturbances and of the revolt of Paris in Paris itself, the amnesty, which had followed them, effaced the re- membrance of every thing which had passed in these times of confusion, and covered every circumstance which could not have been expressed in detail regarding each individual accord- ing to the spirit, privilege, custom, and effect of amnesties, not called in question till the present moment. The distinguished courtiers, who had been so well entertained at the unhappy man's house, made every effort with the judges, and the king in his favour, but all in vain. Fargues was immediately beheaded, and his confiscated estate was given as a reward to the first presi- dent. It was very suitable for him, and became the portion of his second son. It was scarcely a league between Basville and Courson. Thus the father-in-law and the son-in-law were suc- cessively enriched in the same office, the one with the blood of the innocent, the other with the deposit which his friend had en- trusted to him to keep, which he afterwards declared to the king 58 DUKE DE SAINT-SIMON. that lie gave it to him, and which he knew very well how to use as if it had been his own." 1 As to what remains, the picture of this great reign is not only sketched with rare sagacity, but also with genius. These memoirs are truly a history. Saint-Simon is a narrator accomplished, lively, copious, ornamental, and picturesque, when he tells of battles, or relates anecdotes. In this last style of writing nobody succeeded better than he. He is still more an eloquent reasoner, on account of others, as well as on his own. It is impossible to report with more interest the discussion of the king's council. We may follow, as an example, the statement of the affair re- garding the Spanish succession. The most striking ^part of Saint-Simon's writings is his por- traits. People made much of them in the society of the seven- teenth century. They applied to them their whole mind ; the style was conventional, and somewhat artificial, and there was less said about what the original was than what it should have been ; antithesis and play of wit were not wanting. See Madame de La Fayette, M. de La Rochefoucauld, and Cardinal de Retz. There is nothing in common with Saint-Simon and his portraits. He does not draw them for the mere purpose of drawing them. Pie is full of his subject ; he gives himself up to the vivacity of his remembrances, and to the force of his impressions ; he is entirely occupied with the objects of his aversion or friendship ; he proceeds without order, throws out the first ideas that occur to his mind, accumulates the features of the character, mixes the general with the particular, inserts, in the form of a parenthesis, a whole history in consequence of a single word, takes up what he has left, is again interrupted, returns once more to his purpose, and only stops when he has exhausted his subject. There is nothing analytical in his mode of proceeding it is synthesis, life quite pure. He throws himself on the character represented ; he pursues it without relaxation it is the central point, which con- stitutes the individuality, and which is only the supreme effort by which he gains his end. This is the manner peculiar to his genius ; but, in reference to us, these preliminaries are the por- trait. The personage moves, walks, and speaks before us. There is some relation between this method, which, in the case of Saint- 1 Memoires complets tie Saint-Simon, tome iv., pp. 410-420. DUKE DE SAINT-SIMON. 59 Simon, is no method, and that of M. Sainte-Beuve. The latter also admits us to intimacy with his originals. Among so many portraits, so admirably brought out, we shall notice some, and first that of Fenelon. We have already mentioned it, and may add, that no one has judged Fenelon with so much severity, or praised him to such excess. Next, that of Marshal de Villars, to a certain extent unjust perhaps ; we find in it these harsh expressions : " Such was Villars, generally speak- ing, whose successes in war and at court will acquire in the sequel a great name in history, when time shall have lost sight of the man himself, and when oblivion shall have effaced what is scarcely known but to his contemporaries. . . . The name which an unwearied good luck has procured for him for the time to come, has frequently disgusted me with history, and I have found a great number of people of this opinion." Saint-Simon concludes thus : " The mother of Villars always said to him, My son, speak ahuays of yourself to the king, and never speak of yourself to others. He profited well by the first part of this great lesson, but not by the last, for he never ceased to stun and wear out every body with himself." 1 The portrait of the Princess d'Harcourt is quite different : " This Princess d'Harcourt was a sort of personage whom it is good to make known, with a view to make known more par- ticularly a court which did not hesitate to receive such per- sons. She was then a large fat creature, very active, her co- lour resembling milk soup, with thick filthy lips and flaxen hair, always escaping and trailing about, like all the rest of her dress. Slovenly, nasty, always intriguing, designing, encroaching, ever quarrelling, and ever humbled to the dust or exalted to the skies, according to the condition of the parties with whom she had to do she was a fair-haired fury, and, what is more, a harpy. She had that animal's effrontery, wickedness, deceit, and violence she had its covetousness and greed. . . . She transacted business on all hands, and ran as far for a hundred livres as for a hundred thousand. The comptrollers-general did not easily get rid of her, and, so far as she could, she deceived men of business, to get more out of them. Her boldness in cheating at play was inconceivable, and that, too, openly. You surprised her in the very act ; she railed at you, and put it in her pocket ; as the result 1 Memoires complets de Saint-Simon, tome iv., pp. 372-37G. 60 DUKE DE SAINT-SIMON. was never different, she was regarded as a fish-woman, with whom no one wished to commit himself, and that, too, in the full saloon at Marly, at the game of lansquenet, in presence of Mon- seigneur and of Madame Duchess of Burgundy. At other games, as ombre, etc., she was avoided, but that was not always possible ; as she cheated there also as much as possible, she never failed to say, at the end of the rounds, that she allowed what might not have been fair play, and she asked that it might also be allowed to her, and assured herself of it without receiving an answer. She was a great devotee by profession, and thus reck- oned on putting her conscience in security, because, added she, in play there is always some mistake. She went to all the religious services, and constantly communicated, very often after having been engaged in play till four o'clock in the morning." l We have further the portrait of the Duke of Burgundy : " This prince, the indubitable and afterwards the presumptive heir of the crown, was born an object of terror, and his early youth made people tremble ; hard-hearted, and giving way to the highest transports of passion, even against inanimate objects; impetuous with rage, incapable of bearing the slightest resistance, even from time and the elements, without getting into a fury, so as to produce alarm lest he should do to himself some great bodily injury ; excessively obstinate, and to the last degree eager in the pursuit of every kind of pleasure, lie loved wine and good liv- ing, was passionately devoted to hunting, was ravished with music, and given to play, at which he could not bear to be vanquished, and hence the danger of engaging in any game with him was extreme. In short, he was the slave of every passion, and trans- ported with all kinds of pleasure ; he was often savage, and natu- rally disposed to cruelty ; he was barbarous in his jests, and in turning people into ridicule with an accuracy that was over- whelming. From the height of heaven, he looked upon men as atoms, to whom he bore no resemblance, whatever they might be. His brothers scarcely appeared to him to occupy an inter- mediate place between him and the human race, although it had been always intended to educate all the three together, on the principle of perfect equality. His wit and sagacity were uni- formly brilliant ; and, even in the midst of his rage, his answers 1 Memoires complets de Saint-Simon, tome iii., p. 397. DUKE DE SAINT-SIMON. 61 were astonishing. His reasonings were always directed to the exact and the profound, even in the transports of his passion. He sported with the most abstract knowledge, and the extent and vivacity of his understanding were prodigious, and prevented him from applying himself to one thing at a time, till he became in- capable of doing so. The necessity of allowing him to sketch, as he studied, in which he had great taste and dexterity, and with- out which his study was fruitless, perhaps injured his shape. " He w r as rather little than tall, his countenance long and brown, the upper part perfect, with the finest eyes in the world ; his look was lively, touching, striking, admirable, very commonly pleasant, and always piercing ; and the expression of his face agreeable, lofty, refined, and intellectual, so much so as to be suggestive of genius. The lower part of the visage very pointed, with a nose long and elevated, but not fine, did not produce such an agree- able effect. His hair was of a chesnut colour, so curled and in such quantity as to be blown about by the wind ; the lips and the mouth agreeable, when he did not speak ; but although his teeth were not bad, the upper jaw came too far forward, and almost shut up the lower, which, when he spoke and laughed, produced a disagreeable effect. He had the finest legs and feet that, next to the king, I have ever seen in any one ; but these, as well as his thighs, were too long in proportion to his body. He came quite straight from the hands of his female attendants. It was soon perceived that his form began to be crooked. Immediately, and for a long time, the collar and iron cross w r ere employed, which he wore so long as he was in his apartment, and even be- fore company, and none of the games and exercises calculated to restore his figure were neglected. Nature remained the stronger : he became deformed, and particularly so in one shoulder, that he was at last lame ; not that his thighs and legs w r ere not perfectly equal, but because, in proportion as that shoulder enlarged, there was no lono-cr the same distance from the two haunches to the O two feet, and, instead of being straight, he inclined to one side. He walked neither with less ease nor for a shorter time, nor with less speed nor less willingly, and he was not less disposed for ex- ercise on foot or on horseback, although he was very bad at it. What must surprise us is, that this prince, with his eyes, and with a mind so elevated, and which had attained to the most extraor- dinary virtue, and to the most eminent and solid piety, should G2 DUKE DE SAINT-SIMON. never have seen himself, such as he was, with respect to his shajx?, or should never have accustomed himself to it. It was a weak- ness, which put men on their guard against absence of mind and any indiscretion, and which occasioned trouble to such of his people as, in his dress, and in the arrangement of his hair, con- cealed that natural defect as much as they possibly could, but they were on their guard, lest they should let him perceive what was so apparent. We must conclude, from this fact, that it is not granted to man here below to be quite perfect. " So great a mind, and such a kind of mind, joined to such viva- city, sensibility, and passions, and all so ardent, was not easily trained. The Duke de Beauvilliers, who equally felt its difficul- ties and its consequences, went beyond himself in his application, patience, and in the variety of his resources. Deriving little help from the under-governors, he availed himself of every one who was at hand. Fenelon, Fleury under-teacher, who published a beautiful History of the Church; some gentlemen ushers; Moreau, first valet-de-chambre, a man very much above his condition, without forgetting himself; some rare men-servants of the house- hold ; the Duke de Chevreuse alone from without, all set to work, and all in the same spirit laboured, each under the direc- tion of the governor, whose skill, unfolded in a narrative, would form a suitable work, equally curious and instructive. But God, who is the master of all hearts, and whose divine Spirit breathes where lie wills, performed on this prince a work of conversion, and between the eighteenth and twentieth year of his age his Avork was accomplished. From this abyss went forth a prince affable, pleasant, humane, moderate, patient, modest, penitent, and, as far as was suitable to his condition, and even beyond it, humble and severe to himself. Quite devoted to his duties, and understanding them to be immense, he thought no more but how he should tinite the duties of son and subject with those to which he saw himself destined. The shortness of the day was all his regret. He placed all his strength and all his consolation in prayer, and sought his preservatives in the reading of pious books. His taste for abstract science, and his readiness in apprehending ' I I Pi it, robbed him at first of time, which lie perceived must be de- voted to the obtaining of information about things connected with his condition, and to the propriety due to that rank, which led to the throne, and which required him in the meantime to hold a court. DUKE DE SAINT-SIMON. 63 " Being a novice in the exercises of devotion, and apprehensive of his weakness in regard to pleasure, he was inclined at first to seek solitude. Watchfulness over himself for in his case he allowed nothing to pass, and thought that nothing should be passed over shut him up in his closet as in an asylum, not to be entered on any pretence whatever. How strange is the world ! It had treated him with abhorrence in his first condition, and it was tempted to despise the second. The prince felt it, bore it, and attached with joy this species of opprobrium to the cross of his Saviour, that he might feel ashamed at the bitter remembrance of his former pride. He met with what was still more painful the dull and heavy looks of his nearest relations. The king, with his external devotion and regularity, soon saw, with secret indignation, a prince of that age censuring, unintentionally, his life by his conduct, refusing to himself a new chest of drawers, with a view to give to the poor the price that was destined for it, and thanking him modestly for a new gilding, with which some wished to renew his little apartment. It was observed how much piqued he was at his too obstinate refusal to be present at a ball at Marly, on the day of the Kings. Truly, it was the fault of a novice. He owed this respect, nay, to speak plainly, this chari- table compliance, to the king, his grandfather, not to provoke him by this strange contrast ; but, in the main, when we look at it in itself, it was a very great action, which exposed him to all the consequences of the disgust for himself, that he produced in the king, and to the talk of a court of which the king was the idol, and which turned into ridicule such singularity. " Monseigneur ' was in his side a thorn not less sharp, quite given up to material objects, and to the direction of others, whose politics already frightened this young prince ; he only perceived his out- ward appearance and his rudeness, and alienated himself from him as from an accuser. The Duchess of Burgundy, alarmed at the austerity of her husband, omitted nothing calculated to soften his manners. Her charms, with which he was deeply smitten, the policy and unrestrained importunities of the young ladies of her suite, disguised in a hundred different forms, the allurement of pleasure and of parties, of which he was by no means insensible, were every day displayed. There followed him into the inner closet 1 Tliis title belonged to tho King's son, who was the father of the Duke of Burgundy. 64 DUKE DE SAINT-SIMON. remonstrances from the devoted fairy, and the pointed expres- sion of the king's face, the alienation of Monseigneur, which was the subject of coarse remarks, the mischievous preference of his house- hold, and his own, all too natural, for the Duke de Berry, whom his elder brother, treated there as a troublesome stranger, saw cherished and welcomed with applause. One must have a very strong mind to support such trials, and that, too, every day, with- out being shaken ; one must be powerfully upheld by an invisible hand, when every external prop was withheld, and when a prince of that rank sees that he is disliked by his own relations, before whom every one bows, and experiences almost the contempt of a court, which was no longer under restraint, and which had a secret fear of being one day under his laws. As he, however, reflected more with himself respecting the scruple of displeasing the king, of repulsing Monseigneur, and of occasioning to others any estrangement from virtue, the rude and hard bark is gra- dually softened, but without injury to the solidity of the trunk. He at length comprehended what it is to leave God for God, and how the faithful performance of the duties peculiar to the state in which God had placed him, is the solid piety, which is most agreeable to him. He set himself forthwith to apply his mind to what might teach him how to rule ; he appeared more in the world ; he did so with so much grace, and an air so natural, that his reason for withdrawing from it, and his difficulty in only lending himself to it, were soon perceived, and the world, which is so much delighted with being loved, began to be reconciled to him. " It was believed that his presence was necessary to revive the spirit of the army, and to restore in it the discipline that had been lost. This was in 1708. The horoscope has been seen, which the knowledge of the interests and intrigues induced me to make D <5 of them to the Duke de Beauvilliers in the gardens of Marly be- fore the declaration was made public, and we have seen its in- credible success, and by what rapid degrees of falsehood, cunning, unmeasured boldness of impudence in betraying the king, the state, the truth even then unknown, an infernal cabal, the most effi- cient, that ever was organized, made this prince be eclipsed in the kingdom, whose crown he was to wear, and in his father's house, so C5 ' ' ' as to render it odious and dangerous to speak a word there in his favour. A trial so strangelv new and cruel, was very* severe to t> ' V DUKE DE SAINT-SIMON. 65 a prince, who saw all united against him, and who had, only for himself, the truth stifled by all the tricks of the magicians of Pharaoh. He felt it in all its weight, in all its extent, and in all its sharpness. He also bore it with all the patience, firmness, and especially with all the charity of an elect one, who wishes only to see God in every thing, who is humbled under his hand, who is purified in the crucible which this divine hand presents to him, who renders thanks to Him for every thing, who carries his magnanimity so far, as only to wish to speak or do precisely what he owes to the state and to truth, and who is so much on his guard against human nature, that he keeps far within the boun- daries of justice and holiness. " So much virtue obtained at length its reward from the world, and with so much more purity, that the prince, very far from contributing to it, kept very much out of view. At that time he, more than ever, redoubled his application to the affairs of govern- ment, and sought information about every thing calculated to ren- der him more capable of exercising it. He banished all amuse- ment from science, with a view to divide his retirement for study between prayer, which he abridged, and information, which he increased ; and without, he devoted his time and attention to the king, to the care of Madame Main tenon, to the conveniency and enjoyments of his wife, and to the holding of a court, in which it 'syas his aim to render himself accessible and amiable. The more the king raised him, the more he desired to keep himself submis- sive in his hand ; the -more he showed him consideration and con- fidence, the more could he answer it by sentiment, wisdom, know- ledge, and, above all, by a moderation removed from all desire and all complaisance in himself, and far less did he betray the slightest presumption. His own secret and that of others was in his case impenetrable. His confidence in his confessor did not extend to business. " This prince's discernment was under no restraint, but, like the bee, he collected the most excellent substance from the best and finest flowers. He endeavoured to become acquaint- ed with men, and to draw from them such knowledge and infor- mation as he had reason to expect. With some individuals he conversed sometimes, but rarely, and as he walked backwards and forwards, on particular subjects ; more seldom in private, on some explanations which he judged necessary, but this was not his E 66 DUKE DE SAINT-SIMON. uniform practice. . . . Beyond this number, I was the only person who had free and frequent access to his private apart- ments, whether on his side or mine. There he laid open to me his intentions respecting the present and the future with confi- dence, and yet with wisdom, moderation, and discretion. He expa- tiated on the plans which he thought necessary ; he spoke freely on general topics, and was reserved on what referred to particu- lar matters ; but as he wished, on this subject, also to draw from me all that could be of use to him, I cunningly led him on to open his mind freely, and often not without success. " A volume would not sufficiently describe the various conversa- tions between this prince and me. What love of virtue ! What self-denial ! What researches ! What results ! What purity in the end proposed, and if I may presume to say it, what reflection of the divinity in that candid, simple, and brave soul, which, as far as it is permitted here below, had preserved its image ! We perceived in him the brilliant marks of an education at once laborious and ingenious, equally learned, wise, and Christian, and the reflections of an enlightened disciple born to command. There the scruples which swayed him in public were kept out of view. Pie wished to know with whom he had and should have to do ; he brought into play the first of these parties in order to profit by a pointless and uninteresting conversation. But how vast this private conference, and how much the charms that were felt, were diversified by the variety which the prince put in re- gular order by his skill, by leading on curiosity and by his thirst for knowledge. He led the man from one thing to another on so many subjects, topics, people, and facts, that whosoever was not ready with the requisite information would go away displeased with himself and would leave him discontented In this way a person who visually reckoned on discussing a sub- ject with him for a quarter or half an hour would spend two hours or more, according as the time of the prince left him more or less liberty. He brought him always back to the point which he had determined chiefly to discuss, but through parentheses, which he set before him and handled as a master, and some of these were often his principal aim. There was no waste of words, no compliment, no praise, nothing unprofitable, no preface, no idle story, not the slightest joke, every object and design, nay, every particular was brought in and rendered important to the DTJKE DE SAINT-SIMON. 6? point in hand and to the end in view ; there was nothing without a reason or without a cause, nothing for amusement or for plea- sure ; there, general prevailed over particular charity, and what each one should bestow was accurately discussed ; there, plans, arrangements, changes, and preferences were formed, matured, unfolded, and often prepared without appearing to be so. "With so many and so great accomplishments, this distinguished prince did not fail to show some remains of humanity, that is to say, some defects, and these occasionally by no means decent ; and this is what, in the midst of so much that is solid and great, we have difficulty in comprehending ; because there was no wish to recal his former vices and faults, nor to reflect on the prodigi- ous change, and what it must have cost, which had made of him a prince so near all perfection, that in looking closely at him we are astonished at his not having reached its summit. I have re- ferred elsewhere to some of his slight faults, which, in spite of his age, were still the errors of childhood, and which were sufficiently corrected every day to enable us accurately to conjecture that they would soon entirely disappear. " The grand and sublime maxim, that kings are made for the people, and not the people for kings, was so strongly impressed on his mind that it rendered luxury and war hateful to him. This circumstance made him sometimes express his feelings too sharply on this last point, carried away by a truth too hard for the ears of the world, and this unfortunately made it be said on some occasions, that he did not love war. His justice was fur- nished with that impenetrable bond, which constituted all its security. " His conversation was amiable, so long as it was solid and in good taste, and it was always suited to those with whom he was speaking. Hs willingly diverted himself with walking, and it was then that he conversed most. If he fell in there with any man with whom he could talk on science, it was his pleasure, but a modest pleasure, and merely for amusement and informa- tion, by saying a little and listening more. But he sought, above all, in such conversations, what was useful, and was eager to get people to speak on war and the fortresses, about naval and com- mercial affairs, about courts and foreign countries, sometimes about facts relating to individuals, but made public, and about points of history and wars long past. These walks, which 68 DUKE DE SAINT-SIMON. afforded to him much information, procured for him the minds of the people, their hearts, their admiration, and their highest hopes. He had substituted for the public shows, which he had for a long time dispensed with, a small game which the most moderate purses might easily reach. .... So long as Monseigneur lived, he carefully performed every duty which was due to him. . . . . He loved the princes, his brothers, with tenderness, and his wife passionately. Grief for her loss penetrated his inmost soul. Piety raised him above it, but it was by the most prodigious efforts. The sacrifice was complete, but it was a bloody one. In this terrible affliction there was nothing mean, little, or unbecoming. There was the man in violent agitation, laying hold by violence of a smooth surface, but he finally sunk. " The days of this affliction were speedily abridged. He was the same under his disease ; he did not think he would recover, and under this impression he reasoned upon it with his physicians, and did not conceal the foundation on which his opinion rested. It was told to him not long before, and all that he felt from the first day to the last, confirmed him in it more and more. What a fearful persuasion of his wife's death and of his own ! But, great God ! what a spectacle didst Thou give us in him, and why is it not permitted to reveal still farther qualities at once secret and so sublime, that it is only Thou who canst bestow them and know their full value ! What imitation of Jesus Christ upon the cross ! We speak not merely in regard to the death and sufferings, it was elevated far above them. What tender but calm views ! What lively transports of thanksgiving, because he had been prevented from wielding the sceptre, and from the account of it which he must have rendered ! What submission, and how perfect ! What ardent love of God ! What an acute perception of his own nothingness and sins ! What a magnificent idea of infinite mercy ! What religious and humble fear ! What sober confidence ! What wise peace ! What readings ! What continual prayers ! What an ardent desire for the last sacraments ! What profound recollection ! What invincible patience ! What gentleness, and what constant good- ness to every one who came near him ! What pure love, which urged him to go to God ! France fell at length under this last punishment. God showed her a prince whom she did not DUKE DE SAINT-SIMON. 69 deserve. The earth was not worthy of him, he was already ripe for the happiness of eternity." 1 The French language is a courser less fiery than restive, which each writer in his turn has subjected to the bit and spur, but the Duke de Saint-Simon has been its most astonishing con- queror. No one has darted across the fields as he has done, no one with more authority has made it break its habits and vary its paces. No writer has better shown with how many articu- lations it is provided, which had not been suspected, and of how many changes it is capable, which it seemed to reject. The proportion of the conventional and the determined appears weak in this extraordinary dialect, at the expense of what is free and flexible. We do not profess to deny or palliate the fact, that incorrectness and obscurity are frequent in a language so ad- venturous. But to be removed from the classical style, it is not less the style of a man of genius. Always sure of his end, but not at all careful about the road which leads to it, Saint-Simon throws out his phraseology in every direction, resolved not to change it and not to turn back. If for any reason connected with the style, the form of the be- ginning does not suit what remains of his thought, he forces the rule, or checks it, or extends it, or makes it ingeniously enter into his design ; this first design in the face of all difficulties, assimilates to itself whatever follows ; hence faults more or less shocking, but from the same source we have fortunate discoveries and true graces of style. Abounding in recollections, assailed by the numerous circum- stances in the facts which he relates, eager to tell them all and wanting leisui'e to arrange them, Saint-Simon gives them in charge to his phraseology, hanging them, so to speak, on each projecting angle of the period, under the form of incident, epi- thet, or parenthesis, and finding, in the double necessity of saying everything and of going forward, a conciseness often surprising, which makes each circumstance fly out like a spark. The phrase- ology of Saint-Simon, full, lively, and copious from abundance of matter is a real phenomenon, in which the ideas seem to mul- tiply, to cross each other, and to move backward and forward 1 Memoires complets de Saint-Simon, tome x. pp. 197-217. See this passage com- mented upon by M. Vinet, and the reflections which follow in the Chrestomathie Francjaise, troisieme edition, tome iii. pp. 42-53. 70 DUKE DE SAINT-SIMON. like a crowd in some public place. It is not the beauty of the oratorical period, its large proportions, and its skilful and noble arrangement ; it is sometimes a turn painfully strong, but very frequently also a model of energy and dexterity, and for a genius of the stamp of Saint-Simon, an opportunity of conquest over the language, and of astonishing exhibitions of style. The choice of materials for the phraseology is not less remark- able than its construction. Here is the same liberty as in all the rest. I do not speak of metaphors so extraordinary that their analogies would be found with difficulty elsewhere. In this mode of writing, liberty has no limits traced out and previously known. Every metaphor is a substitution founded on a relation ; the rules are that this relation may be true, and that the term substituted may suit the nature of the subject, but to know them belongs to taste and reason, not to custom. The liberty of custom shows itself farther in modifying the usual acceptation of words, and the mode of using them, for here the rule is as much more inflexible as it is arbitrary. This is the peculiarity of Saint-Simon, as he makes the words slip softly off their base and obliges them to cover more space ; and he often does it with much tact and good fortune, so that it may be asked if he has done anything else than avail himself of a neglected but in- contestable privilege. And whether he restrains custom or respects it, his expressions, even the shortest, cast the richest light upon the whole idea. In this exceptionable language, the Duke of Burgundy is un disciple lumineux, although lumineux is not applied to persons, but you may try to say it otherwise. The charms of a conversation are agites par la variete ou le prince s'espace par art. " Des cliarmes agites I This expression takes analysis at a disadvantage ; but the imagination adopts it with eagerness. "The duchess alarmed at a spouse so austere," Uausteritt de son dpoux more regular would have been less graceful " Which caused to be said sinistremcnt, that he did not love war." The application of this adverb is unusual but very ex- pressive. " II s'extorquait une surface unie." Taste trembles before such expressions ; but we see with pleasure this verb extorquer going beyond the limits of its traditional acceptation. We must, however, confess, in such a liberty the abuse comes very near the use. The use is almost an abuse. This liberty threatens the foundations of language. Language, as well as civil society, ROLLIN. 71 rests on respect for property ; in grammar, as in politics, there are acquired rights each word claims its idea, as each indivi- dual claims his property. That these privileges may be given np to the good pleasure of all or of one, language is shaken as well as civil society ; but, on the other hand, by the immovable power of propriety, language and society stand still. The French language owes its life and its improvement to the constant change which innovations, if not equal, at least similar to those which we have just observed, have impressed upon it. But this change in the language should operate slowly and without violence, the more insensible it is the more sure it is so nmch the more legi- timate the less we know its origin it should be as much as pos- sible anonymous. In our times it is very far from remaining in this condition. In respect to language property is threatened on all sides the individual arbitrator is substituted for the legal convention, the basis of language, is swept away, and conse- quently confusion will be introduced. IV. ROLLIN. 1661-1741. To pass from Saint-Simon to Rollin is to pass from wormwood to honey, and yet, notwithstanding this natural opposition, and every thing that separates the great lord from the cutler's son, certain relations unite these two men. They were of the same age, and their most cherished opinions were common to both. We find ourselves here in the very centre of Jansenism ; Saint-Simon and Rollin belonged both to this honest and illustrious party. Rollin was indebted to the benevolence of a friar who fre- quented his father's house, for the advantage of an accurate edu- cation and of a learned career. At a later period, a rich farmer of the taxes, or a lawyer, whose sons were his school-fellows, furnished him with the means of prosecuting his classical studies. 72 ROLLIN. Rollin was not a man to forget this, and in his Treatise on Study, we meet with allusions to the liberality of which his youth was the object : " I know not if there be for a man of letters, and for a virtuous man, a purer joy than that which is derived from contributing, by his care and liberality, to the training of young persons, who afterwards'become able professors, and by their rare talents do honour to the University. This joy, it appears to me, is more sensibly felt when, under the pretext of gratitude, they render these services, with a view to acknowledge and repay in some degree, those which they themselves received when they were in a similar situation." l For some time he studied theology, but he did not take orders. His inclination led him to the education of youth. He at first taught the belles lettres in a college at Paris ; afterwards, when he had acquired a moderate income, about six or seven hundred livres, he withdrew to devote himself to sedentary studies, only reserving certain functions in the College of France. His repu- tation was already great. In 1694 he was appointed Rector of the University a temporary office granted to eminent men of this rectorship he left the most honourable memorials. In 1699 we find him quite devoted to teaching ; he was made Principal of the College of Beauvais, at that time almost ruined by bad management. He restored it and rendered it prosperous by the wisdom and gentleness of his government. He wrote the history of his peaceful reign in the part of the Treatise on Study, which is appropriated to the government of colleges. Such a career, concentrated on the labours of schools, one would think, should have been sheltered from storms ; but Rol- lin was a Jansenist ; he was also a friend of Duguet. At this period Jansenism was the object of persecution on account of the bull Unigenitus, and ill-will even extended to laymen. Rollin was gentle but firm. He had settled convictions, and without any bitterness of expression. He could at heart remain un- shaken. Gentleness did not exclude firmness ; there is gentle- ness in characters really strong, and in the case of Rollin, ten- derness did not banish energy. The formulary of the Jansenist is no where laid down in his works ; but his Catholicism savours ' Trait^ des Etudes. Livre viii., partie ii., chap, i., art. ii. ROLLIN. 73 of Jansenism. He belonged to the class that were nearest to the gospel, and you have only to read his writings to feel that he be- longed to that party; his language reveals it. Farther, the actions of his life marked him out as a Jansenist. In consequence he was deprived of his office of Principal in 1712, and retired to private life. The account of his life should be read in the Pic- ture of the Eighteenth Century by M. Villemain. 1 " Rollin," he says, " was the true saint of teaching, as Pestalozzi was the Vincent de Paul of education." This saying is very just. The name of Rollin awakens the most respectful and the most tender feelings, and it makes us involuntarily think of Fenelon. We feel ourselves gently at- tracted towards both, towards the son of the tradesman as well as towards the Archbishop, and we would have wished to have known them both. There are two kinds of temper belonging to the same family, energy of conviction and concealed strength, tenderness of heart and gentleness of character. But although Rollin is equal at least in virtue, piety, and moral elevation to the author of Telemachus, his glory is less intimidating, and we get more familiar with the good rector than we dare to be with the illustrious prelate. Rollin may have had equals, but he possessed the most difficult of the virtues connected with instruction humility. Germany and England have produced obscure Rollins, but the great dis- tinction of ours, besides his virtue, is, that he was eminently French. A Christian sagacious and fervent, Christianity, which is so comprehensive, did not blunt in him the graces of the French mind. His goodness was universal. We think we have said all when we call him the good Rollin ; but, in fact, he pos- sesses as much grace of mind as of character. Antiquity and Christianity, these springs of public education in France, are the elements which appear to be combined in Rol- lin. He is equally imbued with these two qualities, which have between them marvellous affinities, and always form the perfec- tion of education. Antiquity and Christianity are the two pri- mitive ages of human nature. Antiquity is man in the fulness and simplicity of his human development, Christianity is the fulness and simplicity of man made divine. There are relations 1 Villemain, Cours de Literature Franchise. Dix-liuhicme siecle, l re Le^on. 74 ROLLIN. between these terms, which no doubt an abyss separates, anti- quity finishes, in the esthetic sense, a development, whose basis, entirely moral, is enlarged and corrected by Christianity. The human development will only be complete by these two means, improvement of the soul by Christianity, and the cultivation of the mind and taste by the study of antiquity. Rollin is devoted to antiquity in two ways, for Christianity is also ancient. Rollin was the object of universal admiration. Notwithstand- ing differences of opinion, no one thought of refusing to him a heartfelt homage. That same Rollin, who would converse on study in his youth, " on the winter evenings with Racine," 1 re- ceived in mature age the praises of Voltaire. In 1731, when the Treatise on Study was the only work of Rollin then known, Vol- taire in his Temple of Taste consecrates some lines to the good rector : " Not far from this Rollin dictated lessons to youth, and though in the teacher's robe they listened to him." Frederic the Great, the other hero of the eighteenth century, cultivated Rol- lin's acquaintance, and was particularly anxious to attract his attention. Their correspondence is extant. The works of Rollin are voluminous, but not numerous. They are, besides an edition of Quintilian, with Latin notes (1725), the Treatise on Study, or on the manner of teaching and studying the belles lettres, with a view to form the mind and the heart ( 1726-1 728). Ancient History (1730-1738), and the Roman History (1738). This was the work of his last years. In the Treatise on Study, after an introduction on the studies of childhood, and on the education of daughters, Rollin treats of six points Of languages, that is, French, Greek, and Latin ; poetry ; eloquence ; history ; and philosophy^ a title under which he introduces everything which belongs neither to philology nor his- tory ; and the government of colleges. What especially deserves to be praised in this work is its moral excellence. Every thing is brought into it subordinate to the education of the heart, but subordinate and not sacrificed. Next, uprightness of judgment, and this prevails over every thing else. Every upright mind is independent, and candour produces originality of thought. Rollin, whom we willingly accept as the docile pupil of tradition, has made more new remarks than one 1 Saintc Bcuve Consolations. Les larmes de Racine. BOLLIN. 75 would suppose, and some of them are new still. He first showed the importance of the study of history in education, and especially of national history, and first recommended, for teaching the mother tongue, method and exercises. Study, for example, the analysis, which he gives of the account of Ambrose's election to the bishopric of Milan, taken from the History of Theodosius by Flechier. The conclusion of it is as follows : " After these grammatical observations, you will read a second time the same narrative, and at the end of each paragraph you will ask your pupils what they find remarkable either in the ex- pression, the thoughts, or the moral conduct. This mode of questioning them renders them more attentive, obliges them to make use of their understanding, furnishes them with the means of forming their taste and judgment, gives them a more lively interest in understanding the author by the secret delight which they feel at the discovery of all his beauties by their own exertions, and gradually puts them in a condition to become independent of the master's assistance, and this is the end to which the trouble that he takes to instruct them ought to tend." 1 And again : " There is a way of questioning which contributes much to draw out him who is to answer, and on it, we may say, that all the success of an exercise depends. The object in view for the time is not to give the pupil information, still less to puzzle him with far-fetched and difficult questions, but to give him an opportunity of bringing out what he knows. You should ascer- tain the depth of his understanding and his power, you should propose to him no question which is beyond his capacity, and which you ought not reasonably to presume that he will be able to answer, and you should choose the fine passages in an author on which you can be sure that he is better prepared than on any other ; when he tells a story, you should not unseasonably inter- rupt him, but let him continue till he has quite finished, you should then put forth its difficulties with so much clearness and skill that the pupil, if he has no great talents, may discover the solution that he should give ; you should make a rule to speak little, and make him that is examined speak much ; in short, you should only think of drawing him out by forgetting yourself, and in consequence you will never fail to please the audience, and to gain their esteem. 1 Traite des Etudes. Livre ii., chap, i., art. ii. 76 ROLLIN. "A young man is examined pn the Greek gospel of St Luke. In order to give proofs of his attainments, after he has explained, as I have said, some lines here and there at the opening of the book, he turns to the most remarkable histories, for example, to that of Lazarus and the bad rich man. He tells the story, in- troducing into it Latin and even Greek passages from the gospel which contain some fine maxim. You ask the pupil which he would have preferred to be, the rich man or Lazarus ; he makes no hesitation in his choice. You next ask him his reasons for it ; the very passage that he explains furnishes them. By this you put him in the way, and afford to him the means of drawing on his own attainments, or at least on the book which he has in his hand, for some very solid reflections on the principal circum- stances of this story. On this occasion you make him bring forward every thing that is said in that same gospel respecting poverty and riches. It is easy to comprehend how many ex- cellent principles may be instilled into the mind of a young man under the pretence of teaching him the Greek language." l At present the analytic reading of authors recommended by Rollin is unhappily neglected. In his case there is nothing dis- trustful, nothing exclusive. He does not pretend to be large and liberal in his advices, but he is so without knowing it, and to an extent which might astonish us. The innocence of his character shut his eyes to certain things, as well as to the fables of Fontaine, which he points out without selection or exception. 2 La Fontaine's innocence is malice. Rollin had an exquisite perception of all that is beautiful and good, and he communicated it not by precept and inference, but because he knew how to make the things of which he was speaking, loved and enjoyed. There is nothing fine, subtile or systematic, he loves virtue in every shape, he loves nature, he loves an- tiquity, he spreads in every direction the delicious savour of his excellent literature, we profit by him because we delight in him. There are books more methodical and more learned than his Treatise on Study } there is none of this kind capable of doing greater good. It is a work which every one should read and which nobody does. It may be imagined, perhaps, that Rollin was attached to scho- 1 Trait^ dcs Etudes. Livro viii., i>artic ii., art. ii. * Jb. livre i., chap. iv. ROLLIN. 77 lastic traditions. This was not the case. With Fenelon, he was the restorer of literary instruction. Both had the merit of ap- pealing to nature and of going back to first principles. Fenelon had greater intelligence, superior penetration, in a word, more eenius, but Rollin delivered the same instructions with as much O f taste and correctness, and kept quite as far from the beaten track. The form of the Treatise on Study is singularly unconstrained and graceful. The author has no fear to open his heart over- flowing with Christian feelings and classic elegance, and hence the book acquires the character of being somewhat sagacious. It is written with so much tenderness, and we readily perceive that it is overspread with the love of youth, that we cannot help liking it. The author fears no digressions, and introduces pre- cepts into his narratives with a charming kindness of heart. Take, among other examples, the description of the friendship of Basil and Gregory : " They were both descended from families very noble in the eye of the world, and still more so in the eye of God. They were born nearly at the same time, and their birth was the fruit of the prayers and piety of their mothers, who from that very moment offered them to God, from whom they had received them. The mother of St Gregory presented him to God in the church, and sanctified his hands by the sacred books which she made him touch. " They had every thing which renders children amiable per- sonal beauty, an agreeable temper, and gentle and polite manners. " The happy disposition which God had bestowed, was cul- tivated with all possible care. After studying at home, they were separately sent to the cities of Greece, which had the greatest reputation for science, and there they received instructions from the most excellent masters. " At last they met at Athens. This city was distinguished as the theatre and the centre of fine writing and of every kind of learning. It was also, as it were, the cradle of the celebrated friendship of our two saints, or at least it was of great use in tying the knot more closely. It originated in a very extra- ordinary occurrence. There was at Athens an extremely whim- sical custom in reference to the arrival of new scholars, who came from different provinces. They began by introducing 78 ROLLIN. them to a numerous assembly of young men like themselves, and there they were made the butt of a thousand taunts, jests, and insults ; after this they were conducted to the public baths with great ceremony, through the city, escorted and preceded by all these young men marching two and two. When they came to the baths the whole company stopped, uttered loud cries, and pretended to break up the doors as if the people refused to open them. When the stranger was admitted, he then recovered his liberty. Gregory, who had arrived at Athens first, and who felt how inconsistent this ridiculous ceremony was with the grave and serious character of Basil, and how painful it would be to him, had sufficient credit with his companions to get them to dispense with it. It was there, said Gregory Nazi- anzen, in his admirable account of this occurrence, that our holy friendship originated, that the flame began to be kindled in us which was never extinguished, and that our hearts were pierced with an arrow which always remained in them. Happy Athens ! he exclaims, source of all my happiness. I had only gone thither to acquire knowledge, and discovered there the most precious of all treasures, a tender and faithful friend ; more fortunate in this than Saul, who, going in quest of asses, found a kingdom. " This connection, formed and begun, as I have now mentioned, was always more and more strengthened, particularly when these two friends, who had no secret from each other, opened their hearts to one another, and discovered that they had both the same end in view, and were seeking the same treasures I mean wisdom and virtue. They lived under the same roof, eat at the same table, engaged in the same exercises and pleasures, and had only, properly speaking, one soul a marvellous union, says St Gregory, which, in all its reality, can only be produced by a chaste and Christian friendship. " We both equally aspired at knowledge, an object the most likely to stir up feelings of envy and jealousy, and yet absolutely exempted from this subtile and malignant passion ; we only knew and experienced between ourselves a noble emulation. Each of us feelino 1 more tenderness for the o-lorv of his friend than for ~ n v his own, sought not to gain the superiority over him, but to yield to him, and to imitate his conduct. " Our principal study and our only end was virtue. We thought ROLLIN. 79 of rendering our friendship eternal by preparing ourselves for a happy immortality, and by detaching ourselves more and more from the love of earthly things. We took for our leader and our guide the word of God. We used one another as masters and inspectors, by mutual exhortation to the practice of godliness ; and I might say, if there was not some sort of vanity in so expressing myself, that we held to each other the place of a rule, to discern falsehood from truth and good from evil. " These two saints, and it cannot be too often repeated to young people, always shone among their companions by the excellence and vivacity of their temper, by their persevering exertions, by extraordinary success in their studies, and by the ease and readi- ness with which they acquired all the sciences taught at Athens, belles lettres, poetiy, eloquence, and philosophy ; but they dis- tinguished themselves still more by the innocence of their beha- viour, which was alarmed at the sight of the least danger, and which was afraid of the very shadow of evil. A dream which Gregory had in his early youth, and of which he has left us an elegant description in verse, contributed much to inspire him with such sentiments. While he slept, he thought he saw two virgins, of the same age and of equal beauty, modestly dressed, and without any of those ornaments which people of the world earnestly seek. Their eyes were cast upon the ground, and their faces were covered with a veil, which did not prevent one from getting a glimpse of the blush which virgin modesty spread over their cheeks. The sight of them, adds the saint, tilled me with joy, for they appeared to me to be something more than human. They, on their side, embraced and caressed me as a child, whom they tenderly loved ; and when I asked them who they were, they told me, the one that she was Purity, and the other Chastity, but both the companions of Jesus Christ, and the friends of those who renounce marriage to lead a heavenly life. They exhorted me to unite my heart arid spirit with theirs, that, having filled me with the splendour of virginity, they might present me before the brightness of the eternal Trinity. After these words, they flew up to heaven, and my eyes followed them as far as they could. All this was but a dream, yet it produced a real effect on the heart of the saint. He never forgot this pleasant image of chastity. " Pie and Basil had great need of such virtue to support them 80 ROLLIN. amid the perils of Athens, a city the most dangerous in the world to morals ; but, says St Gregory, we had the good fortune to experience in this corrupted city something similar to what the poets say of a river, which preserves the sweetness of its waters amid the bitterness of the ocean, and of an animal which subsists in the midst of the fire. " One would think that young people of this character, who kept away from all society, who took no part in the pleasures and diversions of persons of their age, and whose pure and inno- cent life was a perpetual censure on the irregularity of others, must have been a butt to all their companions, and must have become the object of their hatred, or at least of their contempt and raillery. It was quite the contrary ; and nothing is more glorious to the memory of these illustrious friends, and, I must say, does more honour to piety itself than such an event. In truth, their virtue must have been very pure, and their conduct very wise and moderate, to have been able not only to avoid envy and hatred, but generally to attract the esteem, love and respect of all their companions." 1 The language of Rollin is very much the pure language of the seventeenth century, sweet, harmonious, flexible, without softness and without laxity. His diction is melodious. He uses some- times the period, without falling into the formal periodic style ; in short, he is not devoid of originality. Originality is the lite- rary virtue, without which all the rest come to nothing. We find in this book a mind and an individuality; we feel that one man alone, Rollin and no other, was able to form the conception of it, and write it. " It is," says M. Villemain, " one of the best books in our language, next to books of genius." 2 The A ncient History, in thirteen volumes, was published from 1730 to 1.738. It was, like the other works of the author, written for the education of youth. Rollin never addressed himself to the public, which has, however, enjoyed his writings. It is good to remember this; by losing sight of this part of his character, we would run the risk of being unjust. This end partly excuses any failure in point of criticism the absence of that philosophical sagacity, which divines causes, which binds together events, and which makes the history of a nation the development of an idea. 1 Traitd des Etudes. Livre viii., partio ii., chap. v. * Villemain, Cours de Literature Franchise. Dix-huitieme siecle, I Lejon. ROLLIN. 8 1 We may further confess that his reflections may at times appear idle, and that his mode of writing is not exempt from puerility. He assumes from time to time the manner of a tender nurse, and he descends as low as his nature allows him. Sometimes he jests, but his jests smell of the college or the child's-maid. Voltaire takes notice of this circumstance in one of the notes on the Temple of Taste. " He is reproached with being too minute. He scarcely ever departed from good taste, but when he wished to joke." Rollin rarely takes this tone he smiles, but does not laugh. We have exaggerated the weakness and defects of his book. Rollin had a much stronger judgment than is generally believed. He cultivated the faculty of reasoning, and, without having much criticism, he was not devoid of it ; he examined and knew on oc- casions to refute fables and conventional opinions. Observe how he takes up the judgment of Titus Livius on the subject of Annibal's sojourn at Capua : " I know not, if all that Titus Livius has said about the fatal consequences, which the winter quarters taken up by the Cartha- ginian army in that voluptuous city produced, is quite accurate and well founded. When we carefully examine all the circum- stances of this history, we have some difficulty in persuading ourselves that it is necessary to attribute the little progress, made by the arms of Annibal afterwards, to the sojourn at Capua. It is in some degree a cause of it, but the least considerable ; and the bravery with which the Carthaginians after that time beat consuls and pretors, took cities in the face of the Romans, main- tained their conquests, and remained still fourteen years in Italy, without it being possible to drive them out of it all this is a suf- ficient proof that Titus Livius exaggerates the pernicious effects of the luxury of Capua. The true cause of the decline of Anni- bal's affairs was the withholding of assistance and recruits on the part of his country." 1 We do not indeed find in Rollin what we in the present day principally require in history. But his moral and religious ten- dency does not prevent him from having much more liberality than his contemporaries. This excellent teacher had breathed in the writings of the ancients the fragrant atmosphere of liberty. 1 Histoire Romaine. Livre xv., I ii. See, further, the history of Tigranes, eldest son of the king of Armenia, and the reflections with which Kollin has accompanied it. Livre xxxvi., i. F 82 ROLLIN. Throughout his works he casts disgrace on tyranny, he censures conquests, ambition, and despotism ; everywhere he expresses his attachment to humanity and justice, and he plainly loves liberty and equality, the Christian and moral republic. It is curious to hear him speaking about the laws of Sparta, and showing him- self favourable to the community of goods : 11 The design formed by Lycurgus, of making an equal division of the lands among the citizens, and of entirely banishing from Sparta all luxury, avarice, lawsuits, and dissensions, by abolish- ing the use of gold and silver, would appear to us the scheme of a commonwealth, finely conceived in speculation, but utterly impracticable in execution, did not history assure us that Sparta actually subsisted in that condition for many ages. " When I place the transaction I am now speaking of among the laudable parts of Lycurgus' laws, I do not pretend it to be absolutely unexceptionable, for I think it can scarcely be recon- ciled with that general law of nature which forbids the taking away of one man's property to give it to another ; and yet this is what was really done on this occasion. Therefore, in this affair of dividing the lands, I consider only so much of it as was truly good in itself and worthy of admiration. " Can we possibly conceive, that a man could persuade the richest and most opulent inhabitants of a city to resign all their revenues and estates, to level and confound themselves with the poorest of the people ; to subject themselves to a new way of living severe and full of restraint ; in a word, to debar them- selves from the use of every thing in which the comfort and happiness of life is thought to consist? And yet this is what Lycurgus effected in Sparta." 1 Kollin declares himself in favour of the ancient philosophy, on this ground, that he regarded it as a providential means of pre- paring for the Gospel : " The sovereign Arbiter of the universe has not permitted mankind, though abandoned to the utmost corruptions, to dege- nerate into absolute barbarity, and brutalize themselves, in a manner, by the extinction of the first principles of the law of nature, as is seen in several savage nations. Such an obstacle would have too much retarded the rapid progress promised by Him to the first preachers of the doctrine of His Son. 1 Histoire Ancienno. Livrc v., art. vii. ROLLIN. 83 " He darted from far, into the minds of men, the rays of several great truths, to dispose them for the reception of others more important. He prepared them for the instructions of the Gospel, by those of philosophers ; and it was with this view that God permitted the heathen professors to examine, in their schools, several questions, and establish several principles, which are nearly allied to religion ; and to engage the attention of man- kind by the brilliancy of their disputations. It is well known that the philosophers inculcate, in every part of their writings, the existence of a God, the necessity of a Providence that pre- sides over the government of the world, the immortality of the soul, the ultimate end of man, the reward of the good and punish- ment of the wicked, the nature of those duties which constitute the band of society, the character of virtues that are the basis of morality, as prudence, justice, fortitude, temperance, and other similar truths, which, though incapable of guiding men to righte- ousness, were yet of use to scatter certain clouds, and to dispel certain obscurities." l With respect to his ideas taken together, Rollin may be com- pared with the liberal men of the most enlarged minds in our times. What forms, even at present, the charm of his book, is the abundance of its details, the happy mixture of the original references with his own text, and his admirable perception of antiquity. An interesting scene is presented to him ; he never thinks of its disproportion to his subject ; he brings it before us with all the strokes that enliven it and engrave it on the memory. An opportunity for digression falls in his way, he has no diffi- culty in following it out. You will see this exemplified in the character of Scipio Emilianus, 2 and, a little farther on, in the reflections on the surrender of Carthage. 3 No doubt, he is mistaken on many points : he did not under- stand antiquity in the same way as modern authors make it understood ; but his fame will remain, for he is sagacious. No other history has taken its place ; it is in the same condition as the translation of Homer by Madame Dacier. She and Rollin are the two authors who have best felt antiquity, and who have made it be best felt. Unction is the chief characteristic of Rollin's style, in his 1 Histoire Ancienne. Preface, 1, : Histoire Romaine. Livre xxvi., 2. 3 Histoire Romaine. Livre xxvi., 3. 84 LOUIS RACINE. History as well as in his Treatise on Study. We breathe in it something familiar and paternal. There is never effort or pre- tension ; everywhere he keeps himself out of view. He is a Christian Nestor, with more humility, for he never speaks of himself ; his discourses communicate grace to those who listen to them. In our days Rollin is rather unknown than forgotten. The memory of the excellent man, and accomplished teacher, often makes the excellent writer be overlooked. Montesquieu, speaking of him, says : " M. Rollin, an honest man, has enchanted the public by his works on History. It is the heart which speaks to the heart : there is a secret satisfac- tion felt in hearing virtue speak; he is the bee of France." 1 AndM. de Chateaubriand, in the Genius of Christianity " Rollin is the Fenelon of history, and, like him, he has embellished Egypt and Greece. The first volumes of the Ancient History breathe the genius of antiquity ; the narrative of the virtuous Rector is full, simple, and calm ; and Christianity makes his pen tender, and furnishes him with something to move the feelings, His writings reveal the good man, whose heart is a continual feast, according to the remarkable expression of Scripture. We know no works on which the soul reposes more pleasantly. Rollin has spread over the crimes of men the calmness of a conscience without reproach, and the pious charity of an apostle of Jesus Christ." 2 V. LOUIS RACINE. 1692-17G3. HERE again we are in the Jansenist school. Louis Racine was a contemporary of Rollin, and one of the persons affording the 1 Montesquieu Pense'es diverses : DCS modernes. 2 Chateaubriand Lc Genie du Christianisme. Livre iii., chap. vii. LOUIS RACINE. 85 best characteristic of that class of writers who, in the eighteenth, in fact belong to the seventeenth century. Louis Racine had family reasons for attaching himself to this grand epoch. Ves- tigia semper adoremus. 1 An orphan when he was six years of age, in 1699, he was educated under the direction of Rollin, and of Boileau the best friend of his father. The latter, however, did not foster his rising genius, since he was anxious to turn his attention from poetry. Besides, Louis Racine attached to the doctrines of Port Royal, could not permit to his talent the same exalted flight which his father, in the time of his worldly vanity, had allowed to his fine genius. It must be confessed, serious Christianity in some respects hampers literary genius. He was tempted by the theatre ; his friends and his piety kept him from it. He remembered that his father had repented of having written tragedies. Nothing in him, however, shows a natural fitness for dramatic compositions. He deprived himself of the public favour, which would have been willingly granted to his real talent, and to the influence of his father's name. As he was a Jansenist, no favour was shown to him by the court, and he mingled little with the world. He was a member of the Academy of Inscriptions and Belles Lettres, but not of the French Academy. Cardinal Fleury was opposed to his election, as being a Jansenist, and, after the death of that minister, no one thought of bringing him in. He was old, and sought no distinctions. His noble modesty has been justly praised ; but we must not forget that it is rather an easy thing for the son of an illustrious father to be humble the paternal glory is a bright halo around his head. When a man is crowned with it, there are, as it were, the distinctions of a hereditary aristocracy, and he is quite contented to be nothing in himself. And yet, Louis Racine lived little in the world ; circumstances connected with his fortune obliged him to accept in the provinces appointments of little importance, and quite inconsistent with his tastes. Afterwards he returned to Paris, but there he was like one lost. He lived till 1763, always a man of the age which preceded him. We may judge of him by a single trait. He frequently speaks of the theatre ; and there are names, such as Voltaire's, which not more than once or twice drop from his 1 Let us always respect its footsteps. 86 LOUIS RACINE. pen. The eighteenth century is entirely, so to speak, absent from his mind. And yet, in two points, he fell in with the spirit of his age he read Pope in the original, and translated Milton. Besides, he attempted a new subject the philosophy of art and of taste. His life, spent in obscurity, presents few events. The only considerable one is also the most distressing the loss of his only son. It might be said, that a bitter presentiment dictated to him the verses which he wrote in 1730, two years after his mar- riage : " Impatient mortals, when you presume to complain of a barren marriage-bed, have you forgotten that Hymen is to be feared, even when he brings gifts'?" 1 Some had been anxious to turn Louis Racine from the pursuit of poetry. In like manner, he was anxious to prevent his son from engaging in that study, and he made him adopt the career of commerce. The young man perished in the earthquake at Lisbon in 1755. He was born for letters, if we may believe his friend Lefranc de Pompignan, who consecrated to his memory some beautiful and tender verses : " He is no more ; and his tenderness in the last days of old age will not support thy feeble steps. My friend, neither his virtues nor thine, nor his pleasant and Christian manners, were able to save him from death. This object of the most tender prayers will not go to lay thy ashes under that marble, corroded by time, where his grandfather and thy model awaits the corpse of the heir of his talents. Far from thy sight, far from his mother, in a foreign land, his body is the sport of the waves, but his soul, cherished by heaven, beyond a doubt enjoys, in its native land, eternal rest. O holy laws ! O Providence ! it is often on the innocent that thy fearful blows fall. A child of the world prospers ; the man who has only God * for his father groans under the burden of adversity." Le Brun, in his Ode on the Disaster at Lisbon* deplores also the loss of Louis Racine's son, and alludes to his poetical lean- ings. However this may be, the life of Louis Racine was from that time only a long period of mourning. He gave up writing ; his last work was dated the night his son perished. We know nothing more of him, but that his existence was consecrated to ' O'U- iii. 2 L C Brun, Oik'.s. Line ii., Ode xviii. LOUIS RACINE. 87 the domestic virtues. He was not mixed up with the literary quarrels which disgraced the eighteenth century, and, though a* Jansenist, he was spared by those men who spared nothing. With him was extinguished a great name. Louis Racine has left well-written odes, such as show a real talent for versification, which maybe called pleasing, but nothing more. They are scarcely lyric. We must, however, make some exceptions. Among the Sacred Odes, the xix. the imitation of Isaiah xiv. 4-21 is worthy of notice : " How has the merciless tyrant passed away, and how are we relieved from the tribute with which we were oppressed ! The Lord has broken the formidable sceptre, whose weight over- whelmed a languishing race that sceptre which struck with an incurable wound the groaning nations. Cruel king ! thy look made the kingdom of darkness tremble ; all hell was troubled ; the haughtiest spirits of the dead ran to get a sight of thee ; the kings of the nations descended from their thrones, and went for- ward to receive thee. ' King of Babylon,' they say, * art thou there thyself, ruined as we are ? Cast down to the dust, art thou become the food of worms, and is thy bed the filthy mud ? How art thou fallen from heaven, bright star, son of the morn- ing ! Powerful, audacious prince, the earth now devours thee. How art thou fallen from heaven, bright star, son of the morn- ing!' In thy heart thou saidst, * Like God himself, I will establish my throne above the sun; and northward, on the holy mountain I will fearlessly take my seat ; at my feet the world will be dismayed and tremble.' Such was thy boast, and thou art no more. Passers by, who will see thy carcase cast forth, will exclaim, as they stoop down to see thee better, ( Is this the man, the terror of the universe, by whom so many cap- tives sighed in chains ! Is this the man, whose arm destroyed so many cities, and under whose sway the most fertile fields became a barren wilderness ! All the kings of the earth have obtained the honour of burial ; thou alone art deprived of that privilege.' Everywhere rejected, the horror of nature, the mur- derer of a people entrusted to thy care, now, by this people, thou seest thyself consigned to oblivion. Let his wretched children be prepared for death the race of the wicked will not continue. Run and announce to all his sons that their hour is come. Let them perish ; the author of their unhappy life has 88 LOUIS RACINE. filled them with his iniquity. Strike ! drain from their guilty veins all the unhappy blood which they have inherited !" We should also notice an Ode on Harmony, in which Louis Racine endeavours to characterize the harmony peculiar to the most celebrated poets : " By what art does the poet, who sings of Achilles, produce sounds so varied ? If he places before me the criminal, who, in the empire of darkness, rolls a large stone to the summit of a rugged mountain, his trembling knees, which bend under him, and his brawny arms, which grow stiff, make me pale with terror on his account. The unhappy man at length fails, and the noise of the tumbling stone resounds in my ears. In the flow of Virgil's verse, a courser outstrips the lightning. Often, when I am ready to follow Camilla, like her I think I am treading on the wind. Sometimes I urge on the slowness of the tardy ox, which nothing astonishes, and which his master goads in vain, and the heavy, horrid, and shapeless mass of an enormous giant overwhelms me by his weight. At the slightest zephyr, whose breath wrinkles the surface of the water, the amiable and tender La Fontaine excites my interest for a reed. But if he calls in the tempest against the proud head, that endeavours to brave its efforts. What a fall ! what ruin ! the oak which it roots up reached the empire of the dead." 1 In 1722, or 1726, the poem on Grace was published, divided into four cantos. In the fifth century St Prosper versified the doctrine of his master Augustine in a poem, whose title is more poetical than its contents Against the Graceless (Ingrats). He wished to vindicate predestination and free grace, and he must therefore assail the graceless. But to be instructive on such a point of doctrine in a poem, is to attempt to connect two things, of which the union is impossible theology, properly so called, and poetry. Now the poem on Grace is the development and proof of the Jansenist doctrines. Jansenism is moderate Calvinism; with Louis Racine it is so, particularly on two points he admits free- will, and declares tlint grace is not inconsistent with it, and maintains that Jesus Christ loved all men and died for all. Racine wishes to put in a clear liirht the sovereiffntv of divino o rr> i Por.sios sur diflfcronts sulots. O<1<: LOUIS RACINE. 89 grace, and the perfect liberty of God's decree relative to the salvation of some and to the loss of others a subject disagreeable to poetry, and not easily brought under its authority, of which the author has not taken all possible advantage, but which a great poet would never have chosen. As it is, originality is wanting to the poem on Grace. Perhaps this gift was not bestowed on Louis Racine, who besides consi- & dered it of far more importance to be orthodox than original. He did little more than put in verse the writings of St Augustine, Pascal, and Bossuet. " Formed by their writings, full of their maxims, I follow their track, only lending my rhymes." 1 Here and there, however, we meet with fine verses thrown off with some degree of boldness. Louis Racine was skilful in fine versification, and has done much in this way. He has more fine verses than fine pieces, yet we reckon two or three, in which poetry takes its proper place in the poem on Grace: " This God with a single look confounds all greatness, the brightness of the stars is eclipsed in His presence, the cherubim, prostrate before the throne, where His glory dazzles them, tremble and cover their faces with their wings. Be annihilated, audacious mortals ! He flies on the winds, He sits on the heavens, He says to the sea, Dash thyself against thy shore, and in its nar- row bed the sea remains captive." 2 What follows is a much longer piece. Racine wishing to teach us, " That which man is without God, and that power which God exercises over him," makes St Augustine speak thus : "My fiery youth, eager in the pursuit of crimes, made me run from one abyss to another. O Lord, I fled from Thee, but Thou didst not abandon me, and with the rod in thy hand, and follow- ing me step by step, by producing profitable disgust, Thou ren- deredst those same pleasures, so agreeable to many others, bitter to me. Thy thunders rolled over my head, and by thy urgent advice, my mother joined in weeping over her son. At that time I only heard the rattling of my chain the chain of passion, which I wretchedly dragged along. My mother by her tears could not move me, and thy thunders, great God, failed to make 1 La Grace, Chant ii. 2 La Grace, Chant iv. 90 LOUIS RACINE. me tremble. At length my ardour for pleasure was deadened. I returned to myself and detested my life. I saw the road in which I wished to walk, but a fatal weight made me pause. I found this beautiful pearl and loved it, without the power of re- solving to sell all to obtain it. Drawn in turn by two powerful rivals, I was inwardly distracted by their contentions. My God loved me still, and His supreme goodness in my sad looks pre- sented me to myself. Alas, how frightful I appeared at that moment ! but I soon forgot my unhappy condition. A lethargic slumber weighed down my eyelids, I sometimes awoke and sought the light, and so soon as the feeble dawn appeared, I shut my eyes lest I should perceive it. A voice cried to me, ( Get away from this abode,' and my answer was, ( A moment, imme- diately !' But this fatal moment had no end, and this hour was put off till to-morrow. The enchanting troop of my first pleas- ures fluttered around and constantly repeated, We offer to thee all the good we have, and wilt thou leave us ? Who can be satisfied without us and without our delights ? The wise man seeks us and finds a ready relaxation ; his body is satisfied and his mind tranquil. Mortals, live happy and improve your time ; intoxicate yourselves with the tumultuous stream of joy. Avoid the troublesome sternness of virtue. Lie down on the flowers sleep in luxury. And thou, whom our favours have so long charmed, dost thou think, that thy heart, accustomed to us, will be able to tear itself from the delights which it loves. Alas ! by avoiding us thou wilt lose thyself! But before me sweet and lovely chastity, with a pure and calm air full of majesty, showed me her friends of both sexes and of all ages, and with a scornful smile spoke to me thus : Thou lovest me ; I call thee, but thou darest not come weak and cowardly Augustine, who can keep thee back ? Uncertain, vacillating, and inconsistent with thy- self, thou wishest to break thy chains ; thou art willing and again thou art unwilling. Wilt thou not fix thy irresolute steps ? Look at these faithful doves by my side, God gave them wings to fly to me ; that God opens to thee His bosom, cast thyself into I 1 is arms. Alas ! I knew Him, but I did not run to Him. At length one day, weary with this sharp warfare, I wept, cried, and rolled myself on the ground, when all at once struck with a sound that came from heaven, and with the words of the Holy Bible, f>n which I cast my eyes the storm was calmed, my LOUIS RACINE. 91 troubles were appeased, by thy hand, Lord, my chains were broken, my spirit was no longer bent towards the earth, I escaped from the mud in which I was engulphed. My will changed, what was opposed to thy nature was displeasing to me, and I loved every thing in which Thou delightest. My mother, whom Thou sawest so often at thy feet weeping over a graceless child, and a rebel against Thee my tender mother at last was delivered from her apprehensions, and found alive the son of so many tears. I knew well at the time that thy yoke was pleasant. No, Lord, there is nothing like Thee. Here below, my voice, united with the angels, will not cease to sing thy praise. I will love only Thee ; thou wilt be henceforth my glory, my salvation, my refuge, my peace. Holy and beloved law, eternal sweetness, in- effable greatness, beauty ever new, truth which was able to charm me too late, alas ! what time have I lost in not loving you?" 1 We farther quote the following verses : " The church at length triumphs, and, shining with glory, makes heaven re-echo with the songs of her victory. She sings, while we, enslaved, desolate, and exiled, still groan on the earth. We sit and weep on the banks of the Euphrates, a reasonable grief keeps our tongues captive, and how could we, O heavenly Zion, in the midst of the wicked make thy songs be heard ! Alas, we are silent ! our harps unstrung and hung on the willows send forth no sound. How tedious is my exile! O tranquil city, O holy Jerusalem, O be- loved eternity, when shall I go to the stream of thy pure pleasure and drink the happy oblivion of the pains which I endure? When shall I taste of thy adorable peace? When shall I see the day, which has no end?" 2 The poem on Religion is more celebrated than that on Grace. Consisting of six cantos, it was published in 1742. The title points out its subject. It is in truth religion in its widest sense. The author argues in favour of natural religion against the atheists, of revealed religion against the deists, and of evangelical morality against loose Christians. Truly pious, he could not apply to himself what he says in his Discourse on Paradise Lost. " A poet who, in expectation of the reward of his labour from men, sings of religion, has made a bad choice of his sujbject." Louis Racine argues very well ; he has taken the cream of the 1 La Grace, Chant iii. - La Grace, Chant ii. 92 LOUIS RACINE. argument from the greatest apologists of Christianity, but after all, he almost always argues ; his mode and form of proceeding are essentially didactic, the epic and dramatic element is wanting. There are exceptions, however, as in the passage, where he re- lates the miracles of Jesus Christ, and that on the first preaching of the Gospel: " Notwithstanding, there appears to that astonished people a man, if that name can be given to Him, who, coming all at once from an obscure retreat, as Lord and as God, commanded nature. 'At His voice, eyes long shut are opened, dazzled, and charmed with the sun, which strikes upon them. By a word He makes the invin- cible barrier fall which rendered the ear inaccessible to sound, and the tongue which escapes from captivity, blesses its liberty with cheerful songs. Unhappy men dragged along their useless limbs, but at His command, they on the instant find them service- able. The dying man laid on a bed of pain, runs to wipe away the tears of his desolate children. Death himself is no longer certain of his prey. An object at once of fear and joy he, whom a powerful cry recals from the grave, rises up, and his sister be- comes pale as she embraces him. He does not force back the rivers to their source, He does not interfere with the stars in their courses, He is asked in vain for signs from heaven. Docs He come to satisfy the minds of the curious ? Whatever splendid work He does, it is on us that He performs it, and for us gives forth His salutary virtue, He cures our diseases and recals us to life, His power is always the harbinger of His love. But it is a small thing to enchant the eyes by these miracles. He speaks, His discourses ravish our ears. By Him are announced terrible decrees, and by Him sublime secrets are revealed. He alone is not moved by the secrets which He reveals. He speaks calmly of eternal glory. He astonishes the world and is not astonished. In this same glory He seems to have been born, and appears here below with His glory veiled." Here follows our second quotation : " The prophecy is ful- filled. The righteous One is sacrificed. All is in commotion, and from the banks of the desolate Jordan to the Tiber, in a moment the sound makes itself be heard. Intrepid men hasten to spread it they fly; the universe is filled with their voice. Repent, weep and go to His cross, whatever be the offence the victim e.xpiate-s it; you have put to death the Lord of Life. He LOUIS RACINE. 93 whom your executioners dragged as a criminal, is the image, the brightness, the Son of the eternal God. That God, whose word brought forth light, was laid in a tomb and slept in the dust. But death is vanquished and hell is spoiled. Nature cried out, her God has awoke, He lives, our eyes have seen Him, believe, strange word! They command men to believe they believe, and every thing is changed!" 1 And farther on we have the following piece : " Inconceivable prodigy, an instrument of horror, the cross, becomes the orna- ment of an emperor's brow. Constantino in his triumph, ren- dered triumphant the glory of the luminous sign, which promised him the victory. Ceres at Eleusis, sees those initiated into her mysteries tread under their feet the robe, the crown, and the basket. Diana, thou art no more, thy goldsmiths at Ephesus, the supporters of thy power, have lost their hope. The temples are deserted, and the priest at a loss, throws down the censer of his God no longer esteemed, and abandons an altar at which no offerings are presented. Delphi, formerly so ready to answer questions, is now shamefully silenced by a stern law. In short, all the gods, like Apollo, have lost their voice. At the tombs of the martyrs abounding in miracles, people and kings seek for true oracles they present their prayers to a man, whom they had murdered, and break the god whom they had adored." 2 The first canto of this poem has also in itself a character more worthy of observation; in it the author gives the proofs of the existence of God, from the wonders of creation and the conscious- ness of mankind. The heart and the imagination can take O greater interest in it. But on the whole, we desire more philo- sophical and poetical invention. Reasoning always ends without spirit, when dramatic talent is not brought in to give it anima- tion. Is it respect, which stops Louis Racine? Is it weakness? What is chiefly wanting is subjectivity. His poem is purely ob- jective. The author does justice to the subject, which it is his duty to discuss, but he does not mix himself with it. Now, every great writer, every poet should be the incarnation of an idea. There must be a fusion of the author and his subject, and they must be identified, that the two may be only one, that the author may communicate to the subject the character of his mind, and 1 La Religion, Chant iv. - La Religion, Chant iv. 94 LOUIS RACINE. that he may be completely imbued with his subject. One would wish to be able to say more frequently of Louis Racine, what should be said of a poet : " These verses are only his, he alone could make them." Montesquieu has in his Essay on Taste, a chapter entitled, on I Know not What. This 7 Know not What, I am persuaded is the proprie communia of Horace, originality, and this is the reason, why this pure and elegant author, this ex- cellent versifier, this poet abounding in fine verses, does not leave that ineffaceable impression, which is the seal of superior talents ; sometimes, indeed, we meet in his writings with verses, which we remember, but they are very few. Easy negligence and frankness are also wanting in this poem. Its versification is too rigid. Louis Racine is timid : he is anxious to do good, not to be applauded, but for having done good. He writes poetry as if he were performing a duty. He is a Jansenist even in point of verse. There are, however, moments of expansive sensibility ; a concealed vein of John Racine's genius may be seen, and you would call it an echo of Esther. John Racine is a bright flame, which shines at times in his son, as it were, through an unpolished glass. The ray is quenched, but the light is not obstructed. We find it in several passages. That on the migration of birds is an example of it : " Those that fear the rigour of our winters, and wish to take refuge in a milder climate, will never permit the severe season to surprise, in our land, their lazy band. In a wise council assembled by their chiefs, the great day for the general move- ment is appointed. It cornes. On every side the youngest per- haps ask, as they look at the place of their birth, when will that spring come, by which so many exiles will be recalled to their paternal fields?" 1 In the sixth canto, Louis Racine makes the Christian speak thus : " Greatness, O my God, spreads not its enchantments before me, and I am never tormented with the thirst of gold. My sole ambition is to be entirely thine ; my pleasure, my great- ness, my riches are thy law. I sigh not for renown. May my glory, unknown to men, but hidden in Thee alone, have always thine eyes for its witnesses. It is in Thee that I find rest in the midst of my cares. Thou holdest to me the place of day in this 1 La Hclijjion, Chant i. LOUIS RACINE. 95 night of profound darkness. In the midst of a desert, Thou art to me all the world. Men would in vain offer to me all their good things ; men could not separate me from thine. Thy law lets those understand, that love Thee not, that they must all expect the greatest misfortunes. O my God, this threatening cannot alarm me ! The greatest of misfortunes is not to love Thee. May thy cross be in my hands at my last hour, and, with my eyes fixed on Thee, let me embrace Thee and die I' ' With more genius, Louis Racine might have lessened the influence of Voltaire's somewhat careless versification, sometimes too feebly jointed, sometimes redundant, in a way that prevailed in the eighteenth century, till the time of Delille. Racine joined to it, what was then new, technical skill. The latter arose at the very time when all care about detail disappeared. The splendour of Voltaire's abilities conceals, in his case, what is wanting in his method of versification, but the defects become prominent in his imitators. The pliant, strong, harmonious verse, which gracefully bends to all the emotions of the soul, the Racinian verse is forgotten. Louis Racine, almost alone, remains faithful to the traditions of the previous age : he ably cultivates the rhythm, pure diction, melodious and skilful versi- fication ; in a word, the method of his father. Yet he has at times great verses, bold in form and touch, which make us enjoy beforehand the verses of Voltaire. Indeed, Voltaire abounds in those verses, thrown off altogether with the happiest indifference and ease. From this circumstance they have received the epithet Voltairian. Corneille has many of this kind ; and certainly Louis Racine has some of them : " Nous allons tous penser, Descartes va paraitre," etc. We have the same measure in a very long piece : " Je la vois cette Rome, oti d'augustes vieillards Heritiers d'un apotre et vainqueurs des Cdsars," etc. This happy form may be thrown out here and there in the piece, but it cannot form its texture. Louis Racine has furnished the first examples of picturesque and descriptive poetry applied, indeed, to particular and isolated subjects, rather than to one entire. The seventeenth century had not attempted this species 1 La Religion, Chant iv. 96 LOUIS KACINE. of poetry : the external world interested them little ; it furnished them with images and expressions, but they only employed them with moderation ; their poetry, entirely humane" and moral, was eminently intellectual. The eighteenth century did the reverse, and Louis Racine was found to have made concessions to his age, but without the spirit of system. His subject led him to it, and induced him to bring under poetry certain technical de- tails, which it had not yet reached. " The criminal father of a proscribed race, peopled with unfortunate men, a cursed land," etc. 1 The judgment of Voltaire on Louis Racine is well known " The good versifier Racine, son of the great poet Racine." The saying is severe, but not altogether unjust. In short, Louis Racine is rather a versifier than a poet. He has the poetry of detail and of isolated verse ; but, in his compositions, taken as a whole, he is little of a poet invention is wanting. And yet, the humble Racine mi<>ht be contented with the slender euloffium fJ O of Voltaire. He made his portrait be taken, holding the works of his father open at the place, where may be read this verse of Phedre :- " And I the unknown son of so glorious a father ! ", 3 The Memoirs, containing some Particulars respecting the Life and Works of John Racine of the French Academy, were pub- lished in 1748. Louis Racine addressed them to his son, as Marmontel addressed his to his children half a century later. What a contrast between these Memoirs, with so little morality, and those of Racine, so pure and so Christian ! He had scarcely known his father. "I was hardly born when he died, and my memory can only recal caresses." 3 But besides family papers, he had his mother, who died only in 1732, his elder brother, and Boileau, who lived till 1711. These memoirs are precious on account of many details, which would have been lost, but for the care which Louis Racine took in collecting them. They furnish lively information respecting the court, the life and manners of men of letters at A hat time, 1 La Religion, Chant iii. The passages which Vinet quotes to illustrate the versification are not translated, because the object is not to show the sentiments of the writer, but the peculiar form of his poetry. '-' Phedre, Acti iii., scene v. 3 Memoires sur la vie de Jean Racine. Introduction. LOUIS RACINE. 97 and Port-Boyal, and the religion of an age eminently religious. As a form especially, religion plays an immense part, it explains many events, and characterises many personages. Thus Jan- senism, which in another place, and at another time, would have been only a sect, becomes an important part of the national history. But the spirit which animates these memoirs renders them particularly worthy of commendation. We find in them a noble candour, a pious, but chastened tenderness and filial prepossessions, which, however, are not obtrusive. He is a son who writes, but he is also a man and a Christian, and boasts less of the genius than of the domestic virtues of his father : " Plutarch has already informed you that the elder Cato pre- ferred the glory of being a good husband to that of being a great senator; and that he left the most important business to go to see his wife dress and undress her child. Is this ancient sensi- bility no longer a part of our manners, and are we ashamed to have a heart ? Human nature, always delicate, takes particular pleasure in delicate minds, and things which appear puerile weakness in the eyes of a wit, are the true pleasures of a great man. He who has been so often, perhaps too often, mentioned to you as one whose name you ought to revive, was never so happy as when at liberty to quit the court, where in his early years he found so many charms, and to come and spend a few days with us. Even in presence of strangers, he showed himself a father. He took part in all our sports, and I remember (I may write it, since I am writing to you) I remember proces- sions, in which my sisters were the clergy, I was the rector, and the author of Athalie, singing along with us, bore the cross. (l There is a simplicity of manners so admirable in a man all feeling and all heart, which is the reason that in copying to you his letters, I constantly shed tears, because he communicates to me the tenderness with which he was filled. " Yes, my son, he was tender-hearted from his birth, and you will hear it much spoken of; but when he was converted, he felt tender love to God, and from the day that he returned to those who had taught him to know Him in his childhood, he showed a tender feeling towards them without reserve, he did so to the king, whose history he had so great pleasure in writing, he did so all his life to his friends, he did so, from his marriage G 98 LOUIS RACINE. and till the end of his life, to his wife and to his children without any predilection."' He makes an excuse for speaking of his father's tragedies : " I cannot pass without notice, at least in a few words, the his- tory of the theatrical pieces of ray father." 2 What a healthful and enlivening perfume exhales from these pages, and with what eagerness should the young welcome them ! Under the title of Reflections on Poetry, Louis Racine has published a series of discourses read at the Academy of Inscrip- tions, in which he treats of general questions, such as poetic language, observations on manners in reference to poetry. It is quite a treatise on the art of poetry, in which, like Rollin, Louis Racine shows himself the disciple of two antiquities, the Homeric and the Biblical, the two breasts, so to speak, of true, poetry. These Reflections give proof of a very pure taste, and of ex- tensive literary information, but the author does not appear profound. This criticism is very important; without depth, there is only the appearance of clearness. We are really clear by merely returning to primary reason, and to the idea at once simple and complete. There is a profound, as well as a super- ficial simplicity. So Condillac, for example, who appears clear to superficial minds, remains obscure to those who require pro- found investigation throughout they find enigmas to be solved. We may experience satisfaction in seeing the relation of an effect to its immediate cause ; but though this may be quite clear, the instruction derived from it is not good. At times, however, Louis Racine goes back to principles, but in general he does not give sufficient information. For instance, when he treats of the essence of poetry, he makes poetry consist in enthu- siasm, and confounds enthusiasm with passion. The Remarks on the Tragedies of John Racine, followed l>y a Treatise on Dramatic Poetry -, Ancient and Modern, form three volumes, which were published in 1752. It is an excellent in- troduction to the study of dramatic literature. Its ideas are just, but not vigorous ; as a whole, it is valuable, though not equal to Rollin, nor especially to Fenelon. It wants the fresh- ness, the life, and the indescribable individuality, whose absence 1 Memoires sur la vie de J. Racine. Introduction. 2 Ibid. LOUIS RACINE. 99 in the writings of Louis Racine, we have already remarked. The observations on his father's works possess little ability they are minute, and too frequently expressive of approbation. In conclusion, it does not appear to me that the dissertations of Louis Racine, although instructive and judicious, have made the philosophy of art advance a single step. They have not even the merit of anticipating the new method. The Abbe Dubos had pointed it out, and entered upon it in his Critical Reflections on Poetry and Painting, published in 1719, which appear to me to be more new, and to possess greater philosophical ability than the treatises of Racine. Without depth, the philosophy of Dubos has some originality. He enters upon questions at that time little studied the nature of esthetic enjoyment, the different conditions of the different arts, and their respective power ; the part which physical causes may have in the development of genius, in the character of its works, and in the literary splen- dour of certain epochs ; the art of judging on an esthetic sub- ject; and the competency of criticism. It is a curious work even at present ; its diction is not remarkable, but easy and natural. It will be right to look at Voltaire's judgment respecting Dubos in the catalogue of the writers in the age of Louis XIV. By his prose translation of Paradise Lost, 1755, Louis Racine entered doubly into the spirit of his age. Milton had been already translated by Dupre de Saint Maur ; and this first translation had met with great success. It is interesting to study the system of translation in the seventeenth century, it characterizes better than anything else the spirit of the time. To soften and weaken bold expressions to prefer abstract truth to diminish the reality of style to yield much to pro- priety and conventional dignity to transfer to the ancients and to foreigners the modern French language, instead of bending the modern language to the exigence of the subject all this was the spirit of translation at that period. This age, however, had so much taste, and even candour, that, notwithstanding the faults of the system, it was able to give, by means of beautiful translations, an idea of antiquity ; for example, the Homer of Madame Dacier. But this is not the system of Louis Racine. In the seventeenth century, the ancient writers only were trans- lated ; he translates a modern an Englishman, one whom 100 CREBILLON. Boileau describes as a barbarian. He is most anxious to be accurate, but is not sufficiently so " 'Tis wisdom by turns to fear or to dare." For a long time, Dupre de Saint Maur was preferred as being more elegant. He has the elegance of the eighteenth century ; Racine has that of the preceding century, and is much more exact. He has translated in verse, but feebly, some pieces of the same poem. Delille has taken from him, without acknow- ledgment, some happy verses, such as that in the invocation to Light. Tout revient, mais le jour ne revient pas pour moi. Seasons return, but not to me returns day, etc. VI. CREBILLON. 1674-1762. CREBILLON really belongs to the period, which forms the sub- ject of our present study. His dramatic career was interrupted for twenty years, but it was of uncommon length. Idomenee, his first tragedy, appeared in 1703; his last, le Triumvirat, in 1754 ; he was eighty years of age. He was born far from the capital, of an honourable family connected with the law ; he was destined for the bar, and was placed in an attorney's office, after a very superficial course of study, during which he had shown more quickness than application. What is a rare occurrence, the attorney himself urged Crebillon to try the theatre, and the success of Idomende decided his future pursuits. His life, in other respects, presents few events worthy of remark ; his works alone form its epoch. An excessive feeling of independence rendered his existence wild and solitary. He continued a stranger to the spirit of his age. A great enthusiast for the ancient republicanism, he CREBILLON. 101 would have readily found his part in a revolutionary era ; but in monarchical France, there was no place for him. The circle of his ideas was by no means extensive; he lived more by imagination than by thought, and it may be said, that his life was only a long dream. He stayed at home, enveloped in tobacco smoke, surrounded with animals, for which he had a singular taste, and composing romantic adventures, without com- mitting them to paper. The philosophical movement of the eighteenth century never reached him ; out of the theatre, he is nothing, and understands nothing. A man has not sufficient understanding when it is confined to one species of objects ; it should be comprehensive. Crebillon had only a mind suited to tragedy, and even for tragedy that is not enough. Philosophy is necessary, of which we have none in the writings of Crebillon. There is a want of breadth and perspective, he only gives us his first sketch. He excelled, it is said, in terrific poetry ; it is meant that in this style of writing he surpassed Racine and Corneille, but this is far from being proved. Poetry implies active intelligence ; when it merely produces emotion, it confounds the means with the end. Sensation ought to be considered the way by which an idea is obtained ; poetry, no doubt, is not negligent of the sensible impression, but it passes through it to arrive at some- thing higher. It must enlarge the horizon of thought, and procure the noble pleasure of contemplation. Crebillon expends very little thought, and never exercises the mind in its most exalted sense. We have a sensible and an intellectual soul ; of the latter, Crebillon knew nothing. His unquestionable energy gives occasion to blame as much as to praise. When we speak of him, we can scarcely separate the one from the other. If Crebillon stops at sensible impressions, we must admit that he knew how to direct them to the noble affections of man, and that he is not less remarkable for the expression of generous sentiments than for the practice of exciting terror. The romantic element prevails in the structure of Crebillon's plays ; and it may be even said of him, that he has countenanced romance in tragedy. The romantic spirit is the grand defect of French tragedy, a defect which is connected with the very origin of that tragedy, and with the nature and education of him who gave to it its form. Corneille was romantic, and France has 102 CREBJLLON. long confounded romance and poetry. Racine had nearly cured tragedy of this wrong tendency; Phedre, Esther, Athalie, are certainly not romances, but Crebillon made it undergo a relapse. The romantic is a pure illusion in human life, it is the avoiding of what is real and possible the dream of a world, which does not and cannot exist, a sort of convention in which certain spirits and epochs pass before us. Poetry, on the contrary, is the liveliest comprehension of things, and their most intimate as well as their highest truth. Crebillon has the twofold romance of sentiments and situation. He paints passion more than character, and situation 1 more than passion. Now, passion, which is an accident in life, has some- thing more particular than character, and situation is still more particular than passion. Crebillon is profound without breadth, a great defect, for depth without breadth is really not depth. He has been justly reproached for having mixed love, or, rather, a soft and languishing gallantry, with the bloody horrors of his tragedies. Corneille had already committed this fault, but how much better did he know the mode of redeeming it ? Besides, the charm of style is almost entirely wanting in Cre- billon. His language is rude, uncultivated, incorrect, and almost barbarous ; and, when it has no important defect, it has scarcely any better quality. It wants ornament and originality ; it is dull, and might be called a bare mountain, from which all ver- dure has disappeared, and nothing remains but the naked rock. What it has of wildness may, however, on rare occasions, become beauty. We may apply to the style of Crebillon what he him- self has put in the mouth of Pharasmenes in Rhadamiste : " Nature, a step-mother, in these rough climates instead of gold, produces only iron and soldiers ; her rugged bosom offers to the desires of man nothing which can tempt the avarice of Rome." 2 The tragedies of Crebillon are Idornente, Atree et Thyeste, Electre, Rhadamiste et Zenobie, Xerxes, Semiramis, Pyrrhus, 1 Situation is a French word applied to the drama, and signifies that part in the action of the play, at which the feelings of the audience are most highly excited. The translator could not find a single English word to express the idea, and hence he has given the French word in italics. - Khadamiste et Zenobie, acte ii., scene ii. CREBILLON. 103 Catalina, le Triummrat. Three are especially worthy of notice Electee^ Rhadamiste, and Pyrrhus. Eleclre appeared in 1708. This play has undoubtedly great defects ; the author did not keep by the ancient simplicity ; he introduces false and insipid elements the double love of the children of ^Egistheus and Agamemnon into the most tragic subject in the world. But Electre has also great beauties ; for instance, the dream of Clytemnestra : " Twice I awoke from distressing slumber for the third time my senses sunk in sleep when I thought that I felt myself dragged, amid terrible and mournful cries, into the horror of darkness. I followed, in spite of myself, these doleful shrieks. I cannot tell what remorse agitated my mind. A thousand thunders roared in a thick cloud, which, however, appeared to yield to me a passage. Under my wavering steps a gulf was opened, and the frightful abode of the dead was presented to my eyes. Across Acheron the unhappy Electra, at a great pace, seemed to guide a spectre to the place where I was. I fled it followed me. Ah ! my lord, at that name my blood freezes. Alas ! it was Agamemnon. ( Stop,' he said to me with a fear- ful voice, ' this is the dreadful termination of thy crimes ! stop, unworthy spouse, and shudder at that blood which the cruel ./Egistheus drew from my side !' That blood, which streamed from a large wound, appeared, as it flowed, to send forth a long murmur. On the instant I thought I saw mine run also ; but, wretch that I am, scarcely did it touch his, when I saw spring from it a pitiless monster, which first darted at me a frightful look. Twice the Styx, struck by its bellowings, answered with prolonged groans." 1 The meeting of Orestes and Electra is full of fire ; the part of Palamedes, entirely the invention of Crebillon, is nobly con- ceived, and as nobly executed. In short, the remorse of Orestes forms an admirable passage : nearly in the style of Racine, in Andromaque } it is almost superior to it. We meet there with a stroke of genius : Orestes lets his own name escape his lips, and, in his fearful trouble, he takes it for a voice that came from hell : " But how ! what vapour now obscures the air ? Thanks to 1 Electre, acte i., scene viii. 104 CREBILLON. heaven, the road to hell is open, let us descend ; hell has nothing to frighten me ; let us follow the dark path which destiny pre- sents to me ; let us conceal ourselves in the horrors of eternal night ! What a mournful brightness at this moment lights my way ! Who brings day into these gloomy retreats ? What do I see my look frightens the spirits of the dead ! What groan- ings ! what doleful cries ! Orestes ! Who calls me in this horrid abode -Slgistheus ? Ah ! it is too much ; I must, in my wrath What do I see ? in his hands my mother's head ! What looks ! whither shall I flee ? Ah ! furious mon- ster, what a spectacle dost thou dare present to my eyes ! I only suffer too much. Cruel monster, stop ! take this head away from my eyes, overwhelmed with terror ! Ah ! my mother, spare your unhappy son ! Shade of Agamemnon, listen to my cries ! I implore thy aid, dear shade of my father ! Come, de- fend thy son from his mother's fury ! Take pity on the condi- tion to which thou seest ' me reduced ! What ! the barbarous woman follows me, even into thy arms ! It is done ; I yield to this frightful punishment." l Rhadamiste, 1711, is much superior to Electre, and to all the other works of Crebillon. Had this tragedy been better written, it would have occupied the first rank on the French stage. Yet something \vould always be wanting to it good sense not pre- cisely on the stage, but in the distribution of the piece. Aris- totle allows absurdity in the events previous to the action of the play ; Crebillon has made large use of this permission. Nothing can be more absurd than the facts related in the explanation, which is made twice over, in the first and second acts, always in a dull, complicated, and confused manner. The points of in- terest which result from these painful antecedents are fine. In the scene between Rhadamistus and his confidant Hieron, these verses ought to be noticed : " And what do I know, Hieron ? Furious, wavering, a criminal without inclination, and virtuous without intention unfortunate sport of my extreme grief in my present condition do I know myself? My heart, incessantly assailed by different (.ares, and an enemy of crime, without loving virtue deplorable victim of an unfortunate love is abandoned to remorse without 1 Ek'Otrc, c'H'tc v., scene i.x. CREBILLON. 105 renouncing the crime. I yield to repentance, but without pro- fiting by it, and my self-knowledge leads me only to detest my- self. Do I know what draws me into this cruel abode is it despair, or love, or hatred I I have lost Zenobia : after that horrid blow, can you still ask me what I wish ? Desperate, proscribed, abhorring the light, I would wish to avenge myself on all nature ! I know not what poison pervades my heart, but, even in my remorse, every thing there becomes fury I" 1 The dialogue between Pharasmenes and his son Rhadamistus, who, without making himself known, is presented as ambassador of the Romans, is admirable. Here the energy of the style and the power of fancy are on a level with the thought. What is still superior, is the meeting of Rhadamistus and of his wife Zeuobia, whom he thought he had sacrificed. Nothing surpasses, not even the characters of Corneille, the noble senti- ments and expressions of Zenobia : " Ah cruel one ! would that thy hostile hand had never at- tempted any other life than that of Zenobia! With my heart divested of anger by thy look, I would make it my happiness to see my husband again, and love, honoured by thy jealous fury, would have placed thy wife in thy arms. Think not, however, that I can look on thee with enmity or without pity." And again " Go, it is not to us that the gods have committed the power of punishing enemies so dear. Mention to me the country where thou wishest to live. Speak! from this moment I am ready to follow thee, assured that the remorse, which has taken possession of thy heart, springs from thy virtue more than from thy misfortune. Happy, if the cares of Zenobia for thee might one day serve as an example to Armenia to render the people like me submissive to thee, and, at least, to instruct them how to discharge their duty Calm the vain suspicions which have arisen in thy mind, or conceal at least from me thy un- worthy jealousy remember that a heart which can pardon thee cannot be suspected without a crime." Rhadamistus affected with so much generosity, exclaims: " Ye gods, who have restored her to me, fulfil my desires, and condescend to make my heart worthy of your benefits." 2 In the fourth act, forced by the jealousy of Rhadamistus, 1 Rhadamiste et Zcnobie, acte ii., scene i. 2 Rhadamistc, acte iii., scene v, 106 CBEB1LLON. Zenobia, in the presence of his brother Arsames, confesses her feelings in favour of the latter, which she had concealed till then : "But since thou wishest to give thyself up to thy suspicions, know then all in this heart, which thou canst suspect ; I am about by a single stroke, to make thee acquainted with it, and after- wards leave thee master of my destiny. Thy brother was dear to me, I cannot deny it, nay, I do not even seek to justify it, but in spite of his love, that prince, who was ignorant of my partia- lity, would not yet have known it, but for thy ungenerous sus- picions." She ends as she goes out, with these famous verses : " I know the rage of thy jealous suspicions, but I have too much virtue to be afraid of my husband." l Pyrrhus (1726) is not esteemed according to its value. The subject of this tragedy is interesting and extremely probable, its structure is at once skilful and simple, the characters are noble and engaging. Here we find some traces of Corneille the exhi- bition of generosity in youthful hearts a trait of nature, which both poets knew how to represent. Besides, this play is better written than the rest, but notwithstanding this comparative superiority, it still wants the charm, which might have secured to it a theatrical reputation. Some persons wished to place Crebillon in opposition to Vol- taire. A cabal was organized for that purpose, much less un- just, certainly, than that which placed Pradon in opposition to Racine. In certain respects, indeed, Crebillon deserved to con- tend against Voltaire, but his poetical talents taken together generally exhibited his inferiority. Voltaire felt the opposition too keenly. He was irritated, he showed some littleness of mind, and set himself to prove that, on all subjects, he was superior to Crebillon. He placed Oreste against Electre, Semiramis and Rome Sauvde against the Semiramis and the Catalina of Crebillon. The date of Voltaire's Semiramis is 1748, and of his Rome Sauvee 1750. His superiority in these two pieces is indisputable, but we cannot say quite so much for Oreste. Besides, Crebillon was personally a stranger to the exertions of the anti-Voltairian cabal in his favour, and was only the instrument of the enemies of his rival. His reputation evidently suffered from their endeavours, by which they pretended to make him equal to Voltaire. The 1 Rhadumiste, actc iv., seine v. LE SAGE. 107 usurpation of the place which they assigned to him, made him fall below his real merit. At present he is more highly valued. There has hitherto been no attempt to bring his tragedies again upon the stage, but their turn will perhaps come. VII. LE SAGE. 1668-1747. LE SAGE spent a life of obscurity, labour and poverty. He wrote much for the little theatres, especially for that of La Foire, to which he left a hundred and one comedies, or rather farces. It is sad to contemplate such degradation of talent. Forgotten by the great and by the government, Le Sage fell early into second childhood, and was taken care of by a son, an ecclesiastic, at whose house he lingered and died. The romances of Le Sage are of a new kind, he has written several, but, after Gil Bias, the Devil on Two Sticks is the only one generally known. At the time when some were attempting to put romance into comedy, Le Sage put comedy into romance. His is the true comic romance ; that of Scarron, which bears its title, is only a series of burlesque scenes pleasantly related ; Gil Bias is " an ample comedy with a hundred different acts." In general, the romance is a little epic poem the history of a short period in a man's life, but here the epic embraces a whole life, it is a romance defective in unity, a series of episodes, the memoirs of an adventurer. Le Sage did not apply himself to any other mode of writing, this kind was sufficient for his success, and per- haps the romance reduced to unity and with an intricate plot was not suited to his natural talent. Some are disposed to see in Gil Bias the description of a par- ticular class, or of a short time spent in society. This is true to a certain extent. Gil Bias should necessarily represent the man- 108 LE SAGE. ners of his time, but here the picture of man generally far exceeds that of a certain period, and of certain conditions in life. This admirable painting is one of the plainest and most profound that exist. After Moliere there is nothing equal to it. Sir Walter Scott's enthusiasm for Le Sage is easily understood ; their genius was of the same stamp, both younger brothers of Moliere, and both endowed with the power of representing human nature in all its reality. Gil Bias presents a series of perfect and immortal types a magazine perpetually open to the allusions of social wit. Who is unacquainted with Dr Sangrado, the Archbishop of Grenada's homilies, the parasite and the gluttonous canon. The plot has indeed nothing remarkable, it is frequently childish, and amuses children, or what remains of the child in every one. But what should more reasonably amuse us is the episodes, which may be compared to the scenes of Moliere and are the result of invention, the extreme variety and the comic in incident as well as the comic in character. The style is on a level with all the rest, natural, pure, per- fectly correct, and astonishingly circumspect. Le Sage is not one of those writers who always say every thing, and whose expressions go beyond the thought. He restrains himself, and leaves something to be conjectured, or rather he gives the reader something to do. It is a delicate artifice of good writers ; they know that the reader delights in taking his share with the author. The writers of the present day break up the door ; Gil Bias opens it to you gently. Besides, the subjects treated by Le Sage, require caution ; his pen is as chaste as his subjects are unfortunately the reverse. At present, the more dangerous the subject, the more is the danger increased by the mode of expression. Le Sage, on the contrary, remains cool, where he might have attempted to be vehement. He treats grave subjects with irony, and makes you laugh at wickedness, which is certainly not right, but it is better than to make you sympathize with it. He may use a pernicious influence over your mind over your senses, never. This romance ought not, however, to be put into every body's hands. It does not contain a single honest character, nothing but knaves and weaklings, and even the very weaklings are far from being honest. This is a mere abstraction ; happily the real world is not so constituted. The result is, that Le Sage LE SAGE. 109 does not interest us in any one, not even in his hero ; we could have no pleasure in such bad company. Even when he winds up the story, and when Gil Bias is happy as he advances in age, we would be delighted to think that the author is to leave us under an impression somewhat pleasant and serious ; at that moment, and in the last expression in the book, he is pleased to throw us into irony and scepticism. In a word, Gil Bias is the paraphrase of the celebrated maxim of Rochefoucauld : " Virtue is only a word, it is nowhere found on the earth, and we must be resigned." Le Sage does not excel less in dialogue than in narrative. Gil Bias belongs to the style of comedy, not merely in the main subject of the book, but still more in its form; several chapters of this romance are real scenes, in which nothing would be found wanting for theatrical success. Thus, no one is sur- prised that Le Sage has written comedies, and excellent comedies too, such as Turcaret, and Crispin his Master's Rival. Crispin is a farce exceedingly immoral. This style of writing was scarcely otherwise understood; applause uniformly followed the triumph of audacious knavery. For comic fancy, animated action, and originality, this play deserves to be classed among the best of the kind. Turcaret (1709) is at the head of the comedies of the second order. A severe satire on the baseness, cupidity, stupid pride, and moral disorder of the farmers of the revenues, the financiers of the time, that play might seem to be contemporaneous with Law, whom, however, it preceded by several years. Turcaret is a financier, a weak knave, duped and robbed by a baroness, who was an ingenious cheat. The valet and chambermaid are worse than those whom they serve. There is not an honest person in it they are all the very dregs of society. It cannot, therefore, produce much interest; but the originality of the thoughts, and the fidelity of the characters, make this comedy the best in the eighteenth century, and a work worthy of Moliere. This brings me, gentlemen, to some more general observations. The spirit of the comedy of the seventeenth century, finds its last representatives in Le Sage, and in some contemporary poets, d'Allainval especially, author of the School of Citizens (1728). Beyond this period, comedy changes its character. 110 LE SAGE. What, then, was its distinctive mark in the preceding century ? In the first place, the comedy of the seventeenth century takes away, and almost completely suppresses what is called interest, that is every thing calculated to excite the feelings. Interest may be of two kinds that which is attached to the characters, and that which flows from principles. But these two interests are near akin, and are most frequently mixed and confounded ; in all cases, there is a sympathy between them ; we must say to the honour of our nature, degraded as it is, that the interest which we feel in any person whatever, has always for its motive the qualities which we think we per- ceive in him, and for its measure the amount of these qualities ; and it is from this that the interest of the person is attached to the interest of the principle. Now, neither the one nor the other of these two interests prevails in the comedy of the seven- teenth century. Another character of this comedy is its making a good use of probability, not only of the probability of incidents, but also in a certain sense of the probability of characters. The latter, generally, set out from correct data, but in the execution, they pass the line of reality. As we read Moliere, in reference to common life, we would feel ourselves no longer in our own country ; as we read Shakspeare, our astonishment is redoubled. We ask ourselves, From what world has he taken those events, sometimes even those personages whose original we shall no- where meet ? Yet Shakspeare and Moliere are the two greatest comic poets that the world has ever produced. The latter reveals to us a poetical spirit different from that which prevailed in the eighteenth century ; the comedy of Shakspeare and, in an inferior degree, that of Moliere are ideal. In the eighteenth century, poetry declined ; the forms re- main but the poetical spirit is extinguished. Poetry is no longer its own end. The age in this relation may be of greater worth ; perhaps, after all, it is to the honour of an age to labour to put back art to the second place, and to put in the first rank the moral end and the practical application, but certainly art itself is thus deteriorated. In the seventeenth century, comedy was written for the mere purpose of writing comedy. The wish was to make themselves and others merry. In this view, quite LE SAGE. Ill esthetic, Moliere could make good use of common probability. The spectator, said he to himself, does not come hither to see a fac simile of his life. His public forbore to ask from him this pedantic probability. As to exciting the feelings, Moliere was a comic poet, and what he had in view was the comic aspect of each character. Consequently, he did not go in the track of interest, but although he never sought it, he sometimes fell in with it as in the Misanthrope. Read the scene between Alcestes and Celimenes. 1 But Moliere did not make for himself a system of this artistic form, nor was he the only inventor of it. We do not say that his individual impressions went for nothing in the conception of his comedies, but the origin of the ideas, which these represented falls back in a particular manner upon the age in which he lived. The French literature of the seventeenth century, strictly distinguished two worlds, the one that scoffed and derided, the other that was altogether serious. In reality, however, we see these two worlds susceptible of reconciliation, and even of fusion. The same literature kept at a distance, and divided into two different classes, the noble and the familiar. It affected the noble in certain kinds of composition, and the familiar in others. The familiar only presents itself under the form of comedy, or rather the true familiar does not almost exist in French literature. You may be softened by the tragedies of Racine, you may have your soul elevated by those of Corneille, and afterwards you may go to the theatre of Moliere, but it is only to laugh and not to experience emotion. How is this? There are two kinds of people : those, in the first place, to whom the family forms an essential part of human life, who constantly turn towards the domestic hearth, who only leave it with the view of coming back to it, and to whom it is the centre of daily thought, and the great object of activity. Certain local and physical circumstances contribute to this importance. Men live in the chimney-corner in the north, and in the open air in the south ; yet we meet with people in the south who possess the character of those in the north, and northern nations among whom southern manners prevail. Poland, for example, is in this condition. Besides, Christianity and it is a farther proof of its 1 Le Misanthrope, act iv., scene iii. 112 LE SAGE. divine origin has equalized to a certain extent the manners of the people. But in order to judge of these influences in all their purity, let us take Athens as an example that city at once pagan and southern, in which every one lived under the blue sky, and in the light of the sun. How far did the political and social life prevail over the domestic, the city over the family ! Among those modern people, where the social spirit essentially surpasses the domestic, the separation of the serious and the amusing, of the noble and the familiar, must naturally be pro- duced. Vigilance in observing one's own conduct beyond the family, necessarily gives rise to a distinction in language and manners. That which is noble represents the conventional and superficial relations of society ; that which is familiar manifests the family. Wherever private life is at the head of the interests of existence, the mixture, or rather the unity, of the noble and the familiar takes place of itself. This is shown in English and German literature ; these two nations do not separate two ele- ments, which, in reference to them, are confounded in life. In France, where social life prevails over the other, it is not the same ; and this is the reason why the comedy of the seventeenth century so abounded in the feeling of this separation, that it scarcely allowed any place for the element of interest neither for interest in the characters nor in the principles. Thus, with- out immoral intention, and from the single fact of an absolute distinction, this comedy has excluded the interest of the mind, or, in common language, morality ; nay, it has gone so far as to claim applause for crime, when it is agreeable and witty. In the eighteenth century, this was no longer possible. This age, no doubt in many respects deplorable, was, however, occu- pied with morality, as the end of art. It was even too much occupied with it. A man must be good, must mean what is really good, must be animated with noble and pure sentiments, and then let himself go forth into the inspirations of art : " Love and do what you please." On one side, the eighteenth century was not very good ; on the other, it was too much engaged with the immediate end of art. Art was deteriorated by it, and the morality of the age was, in fact, immoral. lint our century is worse than the eighteenth : instead of preaching an imperfect morality, it is immorality, which some take pains to establish as a doctrine, and pedantry is mixed up with the preaching of vice. LE SAGE. 113 In the eighteenth century, comedy becomes interesting, or rather sentimental. We must say, however, philosophically speaking, it is less so than-that of Moliere. In the period which . occupies our attention, some isolated works betray that revolution. La Pupille (1734), a pretty comedy of Fagan, made the transi- tion. An orphan was attached to her guardian, and ends by marrying him, after having rejected different offers made through the generous guardian, who was ignorant of the affection of his charge. This was quite new. Besides, comedy becomes more probable. It is less ideal, and therefore less poetical ; we may add that it is less taken up with the classes of society. The comic writers of the seventeenth cen- tury particularly attacked these different classes ; and whatever was peculiarly ridiculous in the members of whom they were con- stituted physicians, citizens, courtiers, marquises, even those devoted to religion for the Tartuffe is not only a satire on hypocrisy, but on a dominant party of the time. A little later, the nobility were ridiculed, the lawyers, the magistrates, and then the farmer of the revenues, who fattened on the substance of the people, and was white-washed by an alliance with some noble lady without fortune. But, in the eighteenth century, it is scarcely any longer classes which they take up they aim at characters, and point at the ridicule connected with humanity itself, rather than at such and such a particular condition. The grand age, deprived of the liberty of the press, indemnified itself by the liberty of the pulpit, which was extensively used, and by the liberty of the comic theatre. It was the twofold refuge of French liberty. But under Louis XV. the press began to be emancipated, manners became quite free, and comedy laid down the office which it filled in the preceding ages. It is less political it becomes more moral. We now come to the author by whom this change was accomplished. H 114 DESTOUCHES. VIII. DESTOUCHES. 1680-1754. DESTOUCHES accomplished the revolution of comedy, and at once introduced into it that new element of interest, to which Fagan led the way. Born at Tours, in the heart, and in the most French part of France, he was descended from an honour- able and wealthy family. He appeared to be destined for a peaceful life, but thwarted in his affections, his career became difficult, and even stormy. By turns comedian, diplomatist, devotee, a youthful attachment made him leave the paternal roof. At first he joined a company of actors, who from city to city brought him to Soleure, where the French ambassador at that time resided. It was there that Destouches made his first work, le Curieux impertinent, be brought on the stage. The play was received with transport, but the author would have obtained but a moderate glory in the enthusiasm of the thirteen cantons, if their suffrage had not been confirmed by the very favourable reception of his work soon after on the French stage. This comedy of Destouches, besides one not quite so good, procured for him the notice of the ambassador, who perceived in him qua- lities far superior to the condition of a comedian, engaged him to quit the stage, and initiated him in diplomacy. The regent sent him to London, where he represented France for seven years, was married there, and on his return to his own country, lived in retirement, amusing his leisure hours with the composi- tion of charming comedies, which procured for him merited re- putation. Voltaire called him Itis dear Terence, his illustrious friend, and spoke of himself as his declared admirer. His verses on the Glorieu.r are well known : " Solid and ingenious author, master of the theatre, it will be in your power, who wrote the Glorieux, to be yourself glorious." The theatrical writings of Destouches are voluminous. They consist of ten volumes of plays in prose and verse. The comedies in prose are generally of moderate merit ; among those in verse, the best are Le Phi- DESTOUCHES. 115 s losophe Marie (1727), le Glorieux (1732), and le Dissipateur (1753). For the conduct of the action, knowledge of the stage, the nature and vivacity of the dialogue, the elegant purity of the style and talent for versification, Destouches has a claim to the first rank, after Moliere and Regnard. More than either, he is interesting and moral ; his morality, how imperfect soever it may be, has a relative value, which no one can dispute. But a comic poet ought to be, above all, comic. Is Destouches really so ? His comedy is much less profound and original than that of Moliere, and much less lively and sparkling than that of Regnard : in his writings nothing recals that extravagant fancy of the author of the Legataire, which is irresistible. The comedy of Destouches is not very free, sometimes even it is a little forced. When he makes you laugh, it is scarcely the effect of humour, and to remedy this defect, he at times gives us a double portion, and then we have a kind of comedy which is rather debased. What we have of it is more in points of lively interest than in charac- ter. W T e are well aware that the nature of Destouches led him towards the serious, nay, towards the pathetic. Comedy with him had a strong tendency to the tragi-comic. He has been especially blamed for the choice of his subjects, and this criticism, the strongest and best founded that has been made on the comedies of Destouches, is extended even to his masterpieces. Le Philosophe Marie is a charming play, but the subject is altogether exceptionable. The philosopher married for love, and concealed his marriage from false shame. Destouches himself felt the want of nature in his principal personage, since it is to a feeling of false shame, that is to say, to an arti- ficial sentiment, that he attributes his repugnance to let the . union be known which renders him happy. Le Glorieux was criticised by Voltaire, who pretended that the principal character was a failure. Perhaps it is a little over- charged, but it is scarcely more so than VAvare and le Misan- thrope, and besides, in justification of Destouches, we find the name of Count de Tufiere remaining in the language as a type, an excellent sign of the truth of the character. But the essential defect of the play is, that in spite of his pride, vanity, and ingra- titude, the Glorieux is indeed its hero, so that the sympathy of the spectators is claimed for him, and in short he carries the 11G THE ABBE PREVOST. day. This fault is palliated by the conduct of the action, and by an admirable scene between the count and his father. In it the true and deep pathos rises to the tone of tragedy. Le Dissipaleur is subject to the same observation. It is a play full of fancy, but the distribution of it is disagreeable. The be- trothed of the spendthrift, a young and virtuous lady, is anxious to save her lover from ruin, and to succeed in this she lowers her character, and pretends to take her place among those who profit by plundering him. The detail, the order of the scenes, and the animation of the action, are admirable. Upon the whole, the rank which criticism assigned to Des- touches, third of French comic writers, appears to me to be per- fectly just. IX. THE ABBE PREVOST. \y 1697-1^3. THE Abbe Prevost was one of the most laborious writers on different subjects in the eighteenth century. He translated an- cient and modern works ; he made compilations ; in short, he composed several very voluminous romances. Necessity was the spring of so great activity ; he was poor, and must live. He wrote with ease and grace, but with extreme haste, which too often rendered him quite insipid. His own romances must be excepted from this remark ; he was born for this style of writing, and nature had endowed this writer of romance with the romantic character. His life was very stormy ; it has been even pretended, but the charge appears to be groundless, that he had the dread- ful misfortune of being the involuntary cause of his father's death, in consequence of a quarrel, in which he insulted the woman whom Prevost loved. His end was tragical. In a fainting fit he fell into a ditch ; he was thought to be dead, and an ignorant surgeon, to whose house he was carried, killed him with a blow of his scalpel. THE ABBE PliEVOST. 117 In his romances he is excessively romantic. He does not occupy himself either with making a satire on the human race, or searching deeply into character, or describing society, or ren- dering available some philosophical idea. Simplicity of intention could not go farther. His aim is to be interesting, and especially! for the vulgar ; but everybody is vulgar, in a certain point of view, and the Abbe Prevost knew the world. He was anxious to be moral. We have in what follows the manner in which he shows this pretension, in the beginning of the most celebrated of his romances, Manon Lescaut, which is certainly nothing less than a treatise on morality : " The public will see, in the conduct of M. Des Grieux, a terrible example of the strength of passion Persons of good sense will not consider a work of this nature a useless labour. Besides the pleasure of agreeable reading, few events will be found in it which may. not serve for moral instruction ; and to instruct, while we amuse, is to render, in my opinion, a considerable service to the public Experience is not an advantage within everybody's reach, it depends on the different situations in which fortune has placed us. There only remains example to serve as a rule to many in the exercise of virtue. It is precisely for that class of readers that works such as this may be extremely useful, at least when they are written by a person of honour and good sense. Every fact which is related is a de- gree of light, a piece of information which supplies experience ; every adventure is a model, according to which men may form their character. .... The whole work is a treatise on morality, agreeably reduced to practice." J The prevailing impression which the romances of Prevost leave on the mind, is by no means in favour of their morality ; we can draw no conclusion from them, either for good or evil, and this is all that can be said. We may apply to them the remark of Madame de Lambert on the tragedies of Corneille : " The best often give you lessons of virtue, and leave with you the impression of vice." 2 Whatever may be in this observation, the Abbe Prevost is at least very chaste in the mode of expression, though we cannot say so much for his subjects. In his writings we never meet 1 Manon Leseaut, Avis de 1'auteur, - Madame de Lambert, Avis d'une mere a sa fille. 118 THE ABBE PREVOST . with that kind of concealment, which is often worse than the open display of vice ; and the most reprehensible of his romances, as to its main subject, has not, perhaps, a single line, with which any fault can be found in point of expression. But his sensibility, the extreme good faith of his narrative, his truth in the description of passion, and in the representation of sentiment, and the genuine grace and ease of style, transparent as the soul of the author, are found in Prevost to an extent which has not been surpassed ; and all these qualities, concen- trated and reduced to the utmost simplicity of conception in Manon Lescaut, make this episode one of the masterpieces in our literature. There are, so to speak, only one act and two characters, but these constantly attract the attention, and never let it flag. The chevalier DCS Grieux, a young man of good family, falls into dissolute courses in consequence of his love for Manon, a courtesan, and, urged by the distress of her whom he loves, ends by becoming a sharper. But, notwithstanding all that is shameful in their life, the one has so much simplicity, and the other sojnuch grace, that the most serious man cannot avoid taking an interest in them, not because they deserve it, but because there is nothing more natural or more true than their situation and character. Manon Lescaut exercises over the reader a real fascination, which is explained by the admirable truth of the portrait. Truth in works of art is the first quality. Some are at great trouble to be striking or pathetic, but Manon Lescaut, in a loose dress, eclipses beauties arrayed in the finest attire. " How very unjust is nature ! on whom is she going to bestow beauty ? It is an affront offered to people of condi- tion !" l It appears extraordinary, and even a little forced, to compare Atala with Manon Lescaut that story, so full of poetry, orna- ments, and brilliant developments of passion ; but we cannot get rid of the suspicion that, when M. de Chateaubriand described the funeral of Atala, he had in his view the Abbe Prevost. The advantage is by no means on the side of the author of the Genius of Christianity : u Taking a little dust in my hand, and keeping a frightful silence, I fixed my eyes for the last time on the countenance of 1 Voltaire, Nancne. THE ABBE PREVOST. 119 Atala. Afterwards I spread the earth of the grave over a fore- head of eighteen summers ; I saw the features of my sister gradually disappear, and her graces concealed under the curtain of eternity." (A tala). " I opened in the sand a large grave, and put in it the idol of my heart, after I had wrapped her in all my clothes, to prevent the sand from touching her ; but I did not place her there till I had embraced her a thousand times with all the ardour of perfect love. I sat down again near her, I looked at her for a long time, and could not come to the resolution of filling up her grave. At length my strength began to give way, and, afraid that it might entirely fail before the end of my undertaking, I buried for ever in the bosom of the earth all that it had borne of loveliness and perfection." (Manon Lescaui). There are some styles of writing which appear only once. No one will ever write like the Abbe Prevost or Madame de la Fayette. Paid and Virginia does not reach the simplicity of Manon. Bernardin de Saint-Pierre is simple, but his simplicity is studied and self-conscious ; the simplicity of Prevost is pure. Paul and Virginia, as a whole, should be ranked above Manon, but the Abbe Prevost is the last example of a style that is lost. Manon Lescaut and Cleveland are dated 1732. Cleveland is finely appreciated; and the sort of enjoyment which this work affords, is well characterized by Xavier de Maistre, in his Jour- ney Round my Chamber : " How often have I cursed this Cleve- land, who is every moment falling into new misfortunes, which he might avoid ! I cannot endure this book, and this series of calamities ; but if I open it for amusement, I must devour it to the end," etc. 1 We may mention farther, among the romances of the Abbe Prevost, Le Doyen de Killerine (the Dean of Killerine), and Les Memoires d"un liomme de Qualite (Memoirs of a Man of Quality), of which Manon Lescaut is an episode. 1 Xavier de Maistre Voyage autour de ma chambrc. Chapitre xxxvi. 120 THE MARCHIONESS DE LAMBERT. X. THE MAKCHIONESS DE LAMBERT. 1647-1733. THE Marchioness de Lambert was not a writer by profession, but a lady of quality, who spent her life in the midst of a select society. Her drawing-room served as a place of resort to men, such as Fontenelle, La Motte, Sacy, and in general, to any who supported the modern party in opposition to those around Madame Dacier, who brought together the worshippers of antiquity. Madame de Lambert, however, reckoned Fenelon among her friends, whose taste for antiquity was in the highest degree delicate. She occupied her long life with some essays on morality not intended for publication, but some of them appeared in public contrary to her inclination. They are The Advices of a Mother to her Son and Daughter 1 ; A Treatise on Friendship; another, on Old Age ; Reflections on Various Subjects and Letters. These writings are bound up in a small volume, but they are exquisite pages, a real little box of precious ointment. 2 Madame de Lambert is distinguished among those women who have emerged from obscurity without forgetting their sex, and whose writings unite to strength of judgment, to precision of thought, and to pointed conciseness of language, that charm- ing reserve and modesty of which the profession of an author necessarily deprives a woman. Her ideas of morality are elevated and delicate, and far above those which, in some writings of imagination in the seventeenth century, appear to have inspired certain writers of her sex ; but in writings on morality and education, the seventeenth century might perhaps have required, in a woman especially, something more positive respecting re- ligion. We feel, in studying the advices of this mother, that 1 Sec in the French Chrestomathie, torn. ii. p. 191), third edition, a long fragment of Advices of a mother to her Daughter, and some of the reflections of M. Vinet intro- duced here. 3 Nardi parvus onyx. THE MARCHIONESS DE LAMBERT. 121 the seventeenth century was already inclining towards the eighteenth, although in regard to the feeling of what is suitable and respectful to her sex, Madame de Lambert entirely belongs to the age of Louis XIV. We remark in these counsels, a loftiness of mind, and a respect for herself, which, combined with a generous and sensible charac- ter, constitute all her morality. Her favourite notion, the word which most frequently comes to her pen, is glory. " If men rightly understood their own interests, they would neglect for- tune, and in every profession, would have only glory for their object." It is true she takes care to distinguish glory from vanity. " Vanity seeks the approbation of others, true glory the secret testimony of conscience." She means that man should learn " to dispute for glory with himself," a fine saying, which shows that glory in the eyes of Madame de Lambert is a different thing from the noise and clapping of hands by the people. " The sentiment of glory is the greatest security that we have for virtue, but the question is, how to choose glory that is really good." Nevertheless, it is plain that, if she does not mean an unjust or frivolous glory, she still aims at glory. " The love of esteem is the soul of society, it unites us to one another. I have need of your approbation, and you have need of mine. If we withdraw from men, we withdraw from virtues, necessary to society, for when we are alone, we are neglected, and the world forces us to look to ourselves." Fenelon said of The Advices of a Mother to her Son, from which the foregoing quotations are taten : " I would, perhaps, not quite agree with her about all the ambition which she re- quires from him, but we would soon come to an understanding about all the virtues, by which she means that this ambition should be maintained and regulated." 1 In her Advices to her Daughter, the author speaks less of glory, for a very natural reason : " The virtues of women are difficult, because glory lends no aid in the practice of them." Still morality, in the second part, is a part of human nature, and as elevated as such a morality can be, but deficient in a fixed basis and a perceptible unity. A number of just and re- fined observations, and of judicious advices, give to these few 1 Fciiel.in, Lettre 4 M. de Sacy. 122 THE MARCHIONESS DE LAMBERT. pages an uncommon value ; we may say that Madame de Lam- bert has not a line that is vulgar, and not an expression that is far fetched. Would Fenelon, who handles delicately the weak point of ambition, have been able to agree with this mother on religion ? She speaks of it with reverence, and recommends it to her children. She says : " The moral are in danger without the Christian virtues. . . . Religion is never attacked when men have no interest in attacking it." 1 But there is great difficulty in discovering what place religion, I mean Christianity, could hold in her system. Where religion enters, it fills all it overspreads all. This is what Madame de Lambert says of it in her Treatise on Old Age, remarkable otherwise for the noble- ness of the sentiment : " Devotion is a becoming feeling in women, and suitable to both sexes. Old age without religion, is a burden. All external pleasures abandon us, we leave ourselves behind. The best ad- vantages, health and youth, have vanished. The past furnishes us with regret, the present escapes our grasp, and the future makes us tremble. As to those who are sufficiently happy to be affected with religion, piety consoles them, it is also more easy to practise. All the ties which bind us to life, are almost broken ; it is more the work of nature than of reason to unbind us. We do not draw so much from the world as from devotion, it has many other resources." You observe, that religion occupies her attention with a view to utility ; she does not , perceive its necessity in the heart, its powerful attraction ; in short, its duty. She is less a Christian than a Stoic ; of a moderate and softened stoicism, such as that of a woman should be. The author who said, " Believe that we are as strong as we wish to be," 2 and who does not immediately add, that the power over the will is that which fails us most, was not well acquainted with human nature. There has been formed in modern times, under the shelter of Christianity, a morality, which is not, however, Christian, but which borrows from Chris- tianity some of its tenderness. A saying of Quintilian might serve to characterize this morality, Quod decet, what is becoming. This is precisely the morality of Madame de Lambert a lofty 1 Avis d'uiie mere a sou fils. : Ibid. THE MARCHIONESS DE LAMBERT. 123 propriety, a delicate respect ; in plain terms, a great adoration of one's-self. It is from respect to themselves that men grant to God any thing. At a later period, with Vauvenargues, there will be no longer question about God ; morality will become merely a habit of elevated sentiments. They will no longer ask how to please God, but how to please themselves. It is an exalted self- love, and well understood, which is supported by a foundation of justice, equity, and benevolence, but of which the feeling of per- sonal dignity is the soul. If Fenelon had looked more closely into this morality, he would have passed a more serious judgment upon it. Could he have approved of what Madame de Lambert says to her son about the duties of a man to the woman who has entrusted to him her honour ? This phraseology, altogether French, expresses, with admirable delicacy, what was not easy to render. But is this all which a Christian mother could say "? After all, the morality of the seven- teenth century was not much better on this point ; but a woman at that time would not have spoken as Madame de Lambert has done here. We have here some short passages, which we borrow from her: " Birth is not so honourable as it is a mere matter of arrange- ment, and to boast of one's race is to praise the merits of others." 1 " Good hearts feel the obligation of doing good more than men feel the other necessities of life." ~ " Raillery, which forms part of the amusement of conversation, is difficult to manage. From the most pleasant raillery to offence there is only a single step. Often the false friend abuses the right of jesting, and hurts your feelings, but the person whom you attack has the sole right of judging whether you are jesting; so soon as you hurt his feelings, it is no longer raillery ; he is offended." 3 " The object of raillery should fall upon slight defects, so that the person interested may joke about them himself. Delicate raillery is composed of praise and blame. It only touches defects lightly to lay a greater stress on great qualities. M. de la Roche- foucauld says that dishonouring a man gives less offence than ridicule. I am quite of his opinion, for this reason, that it is not in the power of any one to dishonour another ; it is our own con- 1 Avis d'uno mere a son fils. 2 Ibid. 3 Ibid. J 124 THE MAKCHIONESS DE LAMBERT. duct, and not what others say, which dishonours us. The causes of dishonour are known and certain ; ridicule is purely arbitrary, and depends on the way in which the objects are represented; and on the mode of thinking and feeling." l " We must never reckon severely with any one. Exact ho- nesty does not require every thing that is due to you. With your friends be not afraid to be in advance. If you wish to be an amiable friend, exact nothing too rigorously, but that your man- ners may not be inconsistent, as they express the dispositions of the mind, often reflect seriously on your own weaknesses, and lay bare, without disguise, your heart to yourself. From this examination you will become humble in your own eyes, and in- dulgent towards others." 2 " In forming special judgments, we should imitate the equity of the courts of law. The judges never decide a case before they have examined and heard the witnesses, and confronted them with the persons interested ; but we, without any commission, take upon ourselves the office of absolutely deciding on the repu- tation of others ; every proof is sufficient, and every authority appears good, when it is necessary to condemn. Urged on by the malignity of our nature, we believe that we give to ourselves ^ t/ O what we take from others." 3 " Accustom yourself to treat your servants with kindness and humanity. One of the ancients said, ^ce should look upon them as unfortunate friends. Consider that you owe only to chance the great difference that exists between you and them ; do not make them feel their condition, and do not aggravate their trouble. Nothing is so low as to be haughty to one who is placed under " CJ \J you. Use no harsh expressions ; that mode of speaking should be unknown to a person of a polished and delicate mind. As service is established contrary to the natural equality of mankind, it is our duty to sweeten it. Have we any right to wish our ser- vants to be without faults, when we daily show them that we are not faultless?" 4 " To live in a constant bustle, is to live fast ; calm repose pro- longs life. The world robs us of ourselves, but solitude restores us. The world is only a company endeavouring to flee from their own thoughts." ' 1 Avis d'une incre a son fib. Avis d'mic nu'rc a sa fille. 3 Ibid. * Ibid. 5 Trait*? de la Vieillcssi 1 . THE MARCHIONESS DE LAMBERT. 125 " When we are sound at heart we derive advantage from every thing that occurs, and every thing turns to pleasure. We engage in some pleasures with a sickly taste, and often think ourselves delicate, because we are merely disgusted. When the mind and heart are not spoiled by feelings which corrupt the imagination, nor by any ardent passion, joy is easily found ; health and innocence are its true sources. But so soon as a per- son has the misfortune to become habituated to lively pleasures, he loses all taste for those of a more moderate description. We injure our tastes by amusements, and get accustomed to such an extent to ardent pleasures, that we cannot return to those that are simple." 1 We shall only make one quotation more : " Approve, but admire rarely ; admiration is the inheritance of fools." 2 But, in the high road of thought, is it not necessary that the impulse should come to us from an enthusiastic character ? Must we not be favourable or unfavourable, praise or blame too much, and in short possess in ourselves a motive .and a will sufficiently strong to communicate it to others ? As to style, properly so called, there was no longer, in the time of Madame de Lambert, the phraseology which is harmoni- ous, close, and softly flexible ; the short and sententious turn began to prevail; the Letter of Fenelon to the French Academy is an example of it ; and to an age in which literature had been pursued with great honesty, and quite at ease, succeeded that of a style less formal and more resembling public speaking. The Advices' of Madame de Lambert are, as it were, a chaplet of maxims ; but each grain of this chaplet is a pearl. There is, however, in spite of this mode of writing, neither affectation nor stiffness ; and to this great precision of thought and expression, grace is by no means wanting. The woman was evident by her gait. But the letters of Madame de Lambert form a contrast to all the rest. They have a precious and refined character; they betray some pretension, and show that this sort was not really written for their author. 1 Avis (Tune mere a sa fille. ~ Ibid. 126 MADEMOISELLE DE LAUNAY. XI. MADEMOISELLE DE LAUNAY (MADAME DE STAAL). \ 1693-1750. AN obscure, perhaps an irregular birth, and an education ex- clusively received in a convent, while all her family was a sister, her rival, and her enemy these were the circumstances in which Mademoiselle de Launay entered into the world. This is per- ceived in her Memoirs ; and it is observed that the family life, a matter essential to a writer, was unknown to her. Such pre- vious occurrences contribute to determine the character of one's style. It is the same with marriage and celibacy ; the manner of a bachelor may always be perceived by what constitutes its defect. Mademoiselle de Launay, however, was educated with extreme tenderness by the nuns of her convent ; but a capricious love is not the maternal feeling, and that artificial gentleness was but of little use in relieving the bitterness of that which she after- wards experienced. Her intelligence was lively and precocious. She was distin- guished, when quite a child, by her great desire for knowledge ; and agreeable reading had less attractions for her than books on abstract subjects. When she was still very young, she eagerly read Malebranche's Search after Truth. We have in the follow- ing extract what she says on this subject : " I was passionately fond of the author's system. To ascer- tain whether I understood it, I set myself to determine before- hand the consequences of his principles, which I had no difficulty in discovering. This impressed me with the belief that I under- stood it. It may happen that a head quite fresh and not imbued with any opinion, receives more easily abstract ideas, than those which are filled with different thoughts calculated to embarrass one another." At a very early period she manifested great strength of mind and will, spoiled as she was by the nuns. She not only exer- MADEMOISELLE DE LAUNAY. 127 cised it in manly studies, to which she applied herself, but also in habitual self-command : " Some boarders, of an age far more advanced than mine, lent me romances. Some one saw that I was engaged in dangerous reading, and told me that I must give it up. I did so at the moment ; and although I stopped in the middle of an incident, which caused me great distress, yet I did not wish to see its end, and resisted all attempts to induce me to finish it ; I have done few things which cost me so much." And still farther : " I resolved to suffer misery, and seek slavery, rather than belie my character, persuaded that it is only our own actions which can degrade us. I would not have known O myself, if I had not gone through this experience ; and it has taught me that we yield to necessity less by its power than by our own weakness." Mademoiselle de Launay is truly distinguished by the upright- ness of her mind and heart. " My temper and character are like my figure," she says ; " there is nothing cross, but," she adds, " there is no charm." In truth there is nothing cross in her ; what is unreasonable is foreign to her temper and character; but reason is without bitterness; and even becomes justice, when it is necessary to judge others, and especially those who most attacked her. With others, she made this species of reason of the greatest importance. " I never knew," speaking of a friend, " any other woman so perfectly reasonable, and whose reason had so little bitterness." And elsewhere " I already understood that in morals, as in geometry, the whole is greater than a part." But the love of truth is that which shines brightest in her G writings, and in her character. She maintained truth in an eminent degree, and in very difficult circumstances. Mark Avhat she says on a declaration that she was to make on the subject of the political intrigues of the Duchess du Maine : " I took care to put nothing into it but truth, persuaded that when we find it necessary to swerve from the truth, we must nevertheless abide by it as nearly as possible. It is the surest and most honourable part." And at a later period, after an examination : " I was quite satisfied with the way in which I had conducted myself on this first occasion, without appearing embarrassed or intimidated, having only said what I meant to say, and having scarcely swerved from the truth ; to which, it appears to me, that the 128 MADEMOISELLE BE LAUNAY. mind, forced to any evasion, returns as naturally as the revolving body returns to the straight line." To this correctness of understanding and of judgment in a word, to the coolest head she joined a very tender and inflam- mable heart. This was the cause of the troubles and errors of her life. " Every passion," says she, " is extinguished, when one sees the object of it, as he really is." But passion is the very thing which prevents a person from seeing its object, as he really is. She had the misfortune almost always of attaching herself to objects unworthy of her, and of rejecting the affection of per- sons who would have deserved hers. After many difficulties, she had no other resource, in spite of her understanding and talents, than to gain admittance into the family of the Duchess du Maine, as a waiting maid. Nothing was more opposite to her tastes, character, and abilities, than such a position. Gradually, however, her distinguished talents were observed, and attracted to her the confidence of the duchess. She was mixed up with tke intrigues of the Court of Seals during the regency ; and the discovery of the conspiracy framed between the duchess and Alberoni, through the interference of the Spanish ambassador, Cellamore, conducted her to the Bastille. She passed two years in it, and was always faithful to the interests of her mistress. During that time, which she calls the happiest period of her life, she had an intrigue of another kind, of which the account is given at length in her Memoirs. When she came out of prison, she returned to the Duchess du Maine. She had devoted herself to her, and good use was made of her services ; but her reward was not in proportion to her fidelity, and she had occasion to know that princes are ungrate- ful. At a later period, it was thought right to provide her with a husband. M. de Staiil, a native of Soleure, a captain in the Swiss guards, was the man whom, now in the decline of life, she married, almost without knowing him. She died in 1750, very much regretted by the society in which she lived, and leaving Memoirs written, without any pretension to history, and without any object, but to give an account of her own life. Sad in their general aspect, because they depict an unhappy destiny, these Memoirs form one of the most agreeable books, for its details, and for the manner in which it is written. An animated narrative, striking portraits, just and lively reflec- MADEMOISELLE DE LAUNAY. 129 tions, delicacy of observation, and a style at once strong and light, unite in making this book a classical work. A number of the lively pieces have been given in different collections, such as her visit to the Duchess de La Ferte, her entrance into the house of the Duchess du Maine, and her arrival at the Bastille. They are too well known to render it necessary to give them here. The following is an example of her taste for truth. She had been relating a story of her early youth, a preference and a jealousy that had so far remained unknown. She adds, imme- diately after, what she calls a ridiculous adventure^ " I would have suppressed it, if I had been writing a romance. I know that the heroine ought only to have one taste, that it ought to be for some one quite perfect, and never to come to an end ; but truth is as it may be, and has only merit in being what it is." It is impossible to doubt that she is indeed devoted to truth, and this is the first charm of her story. We may apply to her, with good reason, what she says of the Duchess du Maine : " No one ever spoke with more correctness and neatness, and in a manner more noble and natural. Her mind did not use either turns of expression or figures, or anything which is called inven- tion. Easily impressed by objects of sense, it reflected them, as the glass of a mirror reflects them, without addition, omission, or change." Mademoiselle de Launav is contented with being exact, and i/ CJ / we are satisfied that she is so, and that she use's nothing of what is called invention. She has not much imagination, or she makes little use of it. Her modes of speaking, the most picturesque and the most pointed, are borrowed, as we have already seen, from the mathematicians. Here is an example of it : " M. de Rey always showed to me great attachment. I discovered, by slight indications, some diminution of his passion. I went often to see Mesdemoiselles d'Epinay, at whose house he almost always was. As they lived very near my convent, I generally returned on foot, and he never failed to offer me his arm to conduct me home. We had to pass through a large square, and, at the be- ginning of our acquaintance, he took the road by the sides of the square. Then I saw that he crossed it in the middle, whence I concluded that his love had at least diminished by the differ- ence between the diagonal and the two sides of the square." I 130 MADEMOISELLE DE LAUNAT. There is a power and a charm in truth ; it is, perhaps, the first, but it is also the rarest, of literary qualifications. Perfect truth of thought and expression, when it is accompanied with grandeur in the idea and in the object, places the author in the first rank. Pascal rejected every kind of ornament, and put in its place the perfection of truth ; he is at once true and grand. Mademoiselle de Launay has no grandeur of thought or of ob- ject, but she resembles Pascal in her regard for truth. When we read such authors, we might be tempted to believe that the recital of a real fact would be as attractive as a romance, if they put into it, or could put into it, as much truth as they put into fictions. Indeed, reality is very rich and very varied. You may study the character of M. de Maisonrouge, in the Memoirs of Mademoiselle de Launay. "But, with equal talent, it is more difficult and more rare to put into the recital of events, of which we have been actual witnesses, as much truth as in a romance. This has the appearance of paradox, and yet it is quite correct. In the one case, we are preoccupied and interested ; in the other, we are at liberty as to the impression which we make. Gene- rally speaking, art is more true than that which is not art. There are exceptions, perhaps, and Mademoiselle de Launay is one of them. Here follows the estimate which Grimm forms of Mademoiselle de Launay : " Apart from the prose of M. de Voltaire, I know none more agreeable than that of Madame de Staal. An astonishing rapidity, a fine arid light touch, numberless strokes of the pencil, new, refined, and true reflections, a nature and a warmth always equally maintained, constitute the merit of these memoirs, to an extent so much the more remarkable, as the history, which is at the foundation of them, is by no means interesting in itself, and has no other charms than the light and tasteful graces which Madame de Staal scatters over every thing which she handles. They are a model to those who engage in writing memoirs, and they will be able confidently to judge of their merit, and of the degree of perfection to which their works have attained, in pro- portion as they are found to bear a greater or less resemblance to the work of Madame de Staal." * 1 Correspondance de Grimm, tome i. p. 421. FOXTENELLE. 131 XII. FONTENELLE. 1647-1747. WE have spoken to you, gentlemen, of d'Aguesseau, Cochin, Saint-Simon, Rollin, Louis Racine, Crebillon, Le Sage, De- stouches, Prevost, Madame de Lambert, and Mademoiselle de Launay. If we have said nothing of J. B. Rousseau, de Fleury, and M. Dubos, it is because they in fact belong to the seven- teenth century. Those, who have so far occupied our attention, come near to one another ; and although I do not maintain, from their writings, that they are entirely strangers to their age, or that they have gone astray, so to speak, in the eighteenth century, still I do not hesitate to affirm that they are separated from those whom it remains for us to bring under your con- sideration. I have also thought it my duty to bring together, in a distinct group, some writers, very unequal among themselves as to genius and influence, but resembling each other in one point, that of having manifestly borne, not only the impression of their age, but, farther, of having, each in his own measure and in his own sphere, contributed to give to it that impression. In this same group we make a division. We name together Fontenelle, La Motte, Marivaux, La Chaussee, Henault, and Vauvenargues. We keep apart Montesquieu and Voltaire. It might be sometimes said that, in the disposal of men and of events, Providence is careful of our enjoyments as well as of the accomplishment of His own purposes. We see Him proceed- ing, so to speak, in the manner of artists, bringing about in history picturesque events, and forming for the eye of the be- holder, groups, pictures, and contrasts. This idea has been more than once suggested to us by our subject. We shall see Voltaire gain the dominion, both by the variety of his gifts and the duration of his life, and the place which he occupies during the whole of the eighteenth century, and we shall find him its sole representative throughout its whole extent. There is Fon- tenelle who, though the contemporary and rival of the great 132 FONTENELLE. wits of the seventeenth century, belongs to the eighteenth by some of his most important works, and by his personal influence. Fontenelle, during a very long life, for he entered on his literary career at fourteen years of age, formed the knot, the point of transition, and the continuity of these two periods, of each of which he was the representative to the other. It was a singular circumstance that he lived a hundred years and did not outlive himself; he continued to influence by his conversation, after ho had so long exercised an influence by his writings. He had many other peculiarities, especially the contrasts of his character, and the fusion of these contrasts. His intellectual power is connected with this fusion ; a man is only strong when he bears within him some antitheses strongly marked. A faculty without the opposite faculty, is not a power but a drag ; there is no power but that which restrains itself. We can only restrain and regulate our conduct so far as one of our faculties is balanced by its contrary, the counterpoise makes it complete. Without being one of the great powers in the intellectual world, Fontenelle exercised in the empire of literature an in- fluence which did not belong to more illustrious men. Real power is not measured by the noise which men make. That of Fontenelle, especially, proceeded on the rare temper, which kept in equilibrium his opposite faculties. Large and thin, geome- trical and literary, philosopher and wit, frivolous and yet in the main serious, a mind fond of paradoxes and yet just, a refined mind Avithout being weak or false, which is worthy of remark, as refinement, weakness, and falsehood generally go in company ; an ingenious understanding, but excluding invention, for Fon- tenelle did not invent ; in his opinions at once bold and circum- spect, full of misgivings and discretion, cool and sympathetic, independent but not an opponent of the Government, respectable and obliging, good-natured, very sociable, an egoist in theory rather than in practice ; lie boasted of being worse than he was ; his actions always belied his words, and yet he has been judged more by his words than by his conduct, as the former were better known than the latter, a temperament such as is met with in other men, but in none so marked as in him, and not set off' by so great superiority of intelligence. On the whole, Fontenelle was a being by himself. Voltaire, in his lempfe of Taste, characterizes him by a just epithet ; he FONTENELLE. 133 calls him " the discreet Fontenelle." Discreet marks a man who has at once discretion and discernment ; now, in both senses, Fontenelle was discreet. He was called the Erasmus of the eighteenth century, but in spite of some relations, the differences are too marked, let us keep by the epithet of Voltaire. We may add that Fontenelle was less discreet during the most reserved period, and that he became singularly so at the time when society threw off its reserve. Rash in the time of Louis XIV., and bearing then the character of the times which were coming, he became prudent as the eighteenth century proceeded in its development. As to this matter, we must reckon in Fontenelle the effect of age, and the progress of minds beyond himself; what but lately would have passed for boldness, had become reserve ; but we must not mistake this mixture of boldness and circumspection for the peculiar character of Fontenelle. He has also been called the sage Fontenelle. The philosphers of the eighteenth century regarded him as the modd'of wise men, because he had dared to think, and had only spoken out the half of his thoughts. It was a tractable wisdom and tolerably egoistic. He said, that " if he had his hand full of truths, he would take good care not to open it." He did, however, open this hand a little, but never entirely. Nowhere in his writings is there any very explicit explanation of morality or philosophy; nevertheless, from the whole of his life and writings, we may easily deduce a moral and philosophical system. It is nowhere and everywhere. This philosophy at bottom is mere scepticism. To affirm nothing, and to have no sure belief about anything, only there must be no question about the certainty of physical and mathematical truths, summed up the philosophy of an age, which regarded as wisdom the disbelief of philosophical truth. Fontenelle, a sceptic in history, as in every thing else, thought that he possessed this wisdom. Reserved as he was, he said he was unacquainted with any folly. Folly, indeed, as the age viewed it that is to say, exaggeration and excess was not in the nature of Fontenelle. His wisdom consisted in living morally and intellectually in a moderate temperature, it is a lukewarm existence, but pleasant, like every thing which is lukewarm. It may be said that his character itself was a system ; the art of being happy was with him a talent, and in this respect his life deserves to be studied. At sixty years of age, he was placed in 134 FONTENELLE. circumstances peculiarly favourable, but even then, though his nature prevented him from sharp suffering, he was exposed to a mass of contradiction. At war with the classical writers of the seventeenth century, he was on the point of being persecuted for having indulged in some writings by no means catholic, and he was attacked in libels, which, however, he made a rule not to read. These struggles were prolonged till the Regency ; at that period the prevailing opinion changed, and he had then only admirers. Fontenelle was a bachelor, and was really born for celibacy; he was afraid, above all, of lively impressions, and knew how to avoid them even to the end. In his last moments, when asked what he felt, he answered, " I feel only the difficulty of existing." Thus terminated a life singularly happy in a career which is scarcely so that of men of letters. We may now, if you please, consider his treatise on Happiness as his picture of a moralist. It is a little work of twenty pages, in which prevails a sort of mitigated epicurism, it might be called utilitarianism. Fontenelle, in truth, may be reckoned an epi- curean, but temperate, reasonable, and full of moderation and delicacy, it is a becoming personality, which does not permit any impropriety. The saying is imputed to him, which lays down as an essential condition of happiness, having the heart cold and the stomach warm. Like others, he might think so, but certainly he did not say so. But to reconcile ourselves to this witty speaker, let us not forget the famous saying which he uttered on his death-bed : " I am a Frenchman ; I have lived a hundred years, and I have never cast the slightest ridicule on the smallest virtue." Fontenelle remarks, that there are two opinions about hap- piness the one that it entirely depends upon ourselves ; the other, that it does not depend upon ourselves at all, and that the latter is the more general. For himself, he thinks that " we can do something for our happiness, but only by our mode of thinking;" and few people care to get the mastery of fortune by thought. In order to give happiness an entrance into the soul, or at least that it may remain there, we must first of all expel from it all imaginary evils. "If we would only look at them for some time with a steady eye, they would be half vanquished. We should not be eager to afHict ourselves, let us wait till what appears so bad be developed/' " ^'e have for violent grief some indescribable complacency which sets remedy at defiance." FONTENEI,LE. 135 Besides, he attaches importance to negative happiness. "It is a great obstacle to our happiness to expect too great happiness." We should reflect on the great number of evils from which we have been preserved. " There is a man such, that all his desires would terminate in having two arms." Men disdain to think of a small good, and yet they have not the same contempt for moderate evils. Here follow two reflections, which are, as it were, the con- clusion of the treatise on Happiness : " Since there is so little good, we should not neglect any that falls to our share, yet we use it as if it were in great abundance, and as if we were sure of having as much of it as we please. We hold the present in our hands, but the future is a kind of juggler, who dazzles our eyes and filches it from us." " The greatest secret for obtaining happiness, is to be at peace with one's-self. Naturally all troublesome accidents, which come from without, throw us into ourselves, and it is well to have there an agreeable retreat, but it cannot be so, if it has not been prepared by the hands of virtue. All the indulgence of self- love does not prevent us from reproaching ourselves, at least in part with what we feel worthy of reproach ; and how many are farther troubled with the humiliating care of concealing them- selves from others, with the fear of being known, and with the inevitable vexation of being so. Men flee from themselves, and with good reason : it is only the virtuous who can see and know themselves. I do not say that he enters into his own heart for self-admiration and self-applause, and could he do so and yet be virtuous ? but as men love themselves always very much, it is sufficient to be able to go into the heart without shame, that it may be entered with pleasure." We readily agree with Fontenelle as to this conclusion, and all that we desire is a definition of what he means by the term virtue. We take it kindly of him that he has restored to their proper place small benefits, the pleasures of every moment, which, valued as paternal gifts, may enrich human life even in its most destitute form. This view is admirably brought out in a work, whose spirit is quite opposite to that of Fontenelle the Leper of Aosta. 1 1 Le Lepreux de la citd d' Aosta. 136 I'ONTENELLE. Considered as a writer, Fontenelle is in the first place re- markable for his universality. Voltaire said, and justly too, that Fontenelle's was the only universal mind of the seventeenth century. Under Louis XIV., he was in truth what Voltaire himself was under Louis XV. In the seventeenth century, universality was rare. In one sense, this is always the case ; besides, there is more than one kind of it, and there exists a certain universal capacity which might well be called a universal incapacity. In all cases, universality of talent is as much a chimera as universal monarchy. It would be in its full extent the creative faculty. It could not be conferred on any man, and history furnishes no example of it. Talent implies individuality, and the notion of individuality a limit ; we are individuals by what we want as much as by what we possess. There is often a separation even between modes of writing that are most closely connected and most analogous, as a man may excel in satire, who is worthless in epigram. But we are here speaking of universality of intelligence, and of the gift of comprehending every subject, and of speaking about all things without becoming ridiculous. Men of exalted genius possess this universality ; Leibnitz, Haller, Bacon, exercise their dominion in all the pro- vinces of thought. There is another universality less glorious, and yet rare and valuable, that of Fontenelle. He does not hold in his grasp all the faculties of man, but he possesses a clear and ready view of all things, and has cultivated knowledge in great variety. The spirit of the eighteenth century displays more universality than that of the seventeenth, and in the nineteenth, every mind may be said to have become universal. It is no longer possible to know only one tiling, and we cannot in fact know one thing at present and not know many others ; this is the necessity of our age. Bossuet and Fenelon, the two greatest geniuses of the seventeenth century, did not exercise their talents on such a variety of topics, nor combine so many different elements of thought, as was done in the following age by a number of writers of much less value, and now almost every one surpasses them in this respect. In the seventeenth century there was only one sort of mental capacity ; Fontenelle alone had several. The part of Fontent-lle, however, although analogous to that of Voltaire was certainly inferior to his, but although not so FONTENELLE. 137 famous and less profound, his work was mucli more important than we have been led to believe. He laboured with little noise, and the sound that he made was lost amid a thousand others, yet he undoubtedly exercised over the spirit of his age a very sensible influence. Voltaire with morq. pow r er and splendour continued the work of Fontenelle, and we continue it still, though it be only in the way of reaction. In the history of the human mind, is not reaction in reality perseverance ? The first efforts of Fontenelle were literary in an age devoted to literature. It was singular, that the mind of all others the least poetical made its first attempt in verse. He had for excuse that he was induced by example and relationship. A nephew of Corneille, his strongest passion was enthusiasm for the glory of his uncle. To say the truth, it stood alone, and for his happiness soon disappeared, for it would have rendered him ridiculous, and ridicule was that which was most contrary to the nature of Fontenelle. He was jealous of Racine, who as a rival had been preferred to his uncle, and he went so far as to write an epigram against Atlialie. In this he was only the accomplice of his age, but it might be supposed that he would have judged better than it, if he had not been the nephew of Corneille. It has been said, that Fontenelle was a poet by his natural abilities; it would have been better, if they had said that it was b}' his natural abilities he made it be forgotten that he was not a poet. Here a general observation presents itself, which refers to the history of letters. The age of Louis XIV. had great poets. Was it really poetical? We must see who are its poets, besides Corneillej Racine, La Fontaine, Boileau and Moliere! We must see what by common consent was called poetry. In short, w r e must see what were theoretically the ideas of those who formed a theory. Why is it, that below these great names we only find verses and versifiers ? Why is it that nowhere we can get small change for these large pieces of gold? Is it not that, notwithstanding these men of fine genius, the seventeenth century was not so poetical as it has been generally thought? In the present day, undoubtedly, we have no poets to place by the side of Corneille and Racine, but upon the whole there is more poetry in our age than in that, which could take Fontenelle for a poet. Nevertheless, Fontenelle has too much wit for his verses to render him truly ridiculous. "Wit," says La Rochefoucauld, 138 FONTENELLE. " helps us to do foolish things boldly." We may add, that it also serves to make foolish things appear less foolish. In France, wit possesses the power of rendering everything admissible; one of the eiTors of the French mind is to mistake wit for talent and sometimes even for eloquence. It was by the force of wit that Fontenelle was able to succeed, at least in appearance, in various kinds of writing so remote from one another; in a word, it is to his wit that he owes the universality of which we have now spoken. Besides some fugitive pieces, of which the most agreeable is the sonnet on Daphne, he composed operas. That of Thetis and Peleiis was at the time very successful, but your professor does not consider himself a competent judge of an opera. If Quinault attains to beauty, it is because he rises above this mode of writing; the operas of Fontenelle as well as those of La Motte only pro- duce utter weariness. He wrote pastorals, the privilege of a universal mind to attempt every thing, and that the antithesis might be complete. Pastoral poetry requires simplicity, frank- ness, and sincerity, so that you may judge whether of all writers he was not the least fitted for that department. The character of his mind is clearly manifested in this verse of one of his eclogues " Though your heart be tender, you need not fall in love," * and in the expression addressed to the Cardinal Dubois: "You are making yourself as useless as you can." 2 He begins with a theory of pastoral poetry, in which he plainly regards it as a simple form. For him the pastoral life could have no charm, it must have appeared to him the dullest of all modes of living, but he discerns in it an element tranquillity, which renders it fit to be used as the frame-work of an idea. The shepherd does not employ his time in thinking, which is all the worse for Fontenelle, and has nothing better to do than love love, that is to say, metaphysical love. Fontenelle himself told Diderot, three years before his death, at the age of ninety-seven: " It is eighty-four years since I laid aside the sentiment contained in the eclogue." He who spoke thus must never have put much sentiment into the eclogue. In point of fact there is none, even in the eclogue of Ismene, the most agreeable of his pastorals, a 1 QiiatriuiiK' eclogue. Delie. ? Kcjionse au discours do reception du Cardinal Dubois a 1'Acadeinie Franyai.. FONTENELLE. 139 piece, which is only ingenious, but this ingenuity has the effect of grace, and becomes charming. Fontenelle also composed tragedies. In spite of the privileges of the mind, every thing has its limits, and when, with all the intelligence in the world, a man attempts tragedy with no sensi- bility nor warmth of heart, that intelligence would not prevent him from making himself ridiculous. Fontenelle had the good fortune to stop in time in this bad road ; though still young, about thirty-five, he gave up writing verses. All that he wrote in this department, at all worthy of consideration, was, if I am not mis- taken, before the end of the seventeenth century. At the age of ninety-seven, he wrote these verses " Let men reason from this and from that, about my present existence, I am only a stomach ; it is very little, but I am content with it." Perhaps the head was only wanting. At a very early period, Fontenelle turned his attention to scientific and philosophical subjects. Science already reckoned him in the number of its adepts, when, in 1686, he published his Conversations on the Plurality of Worlds. Its title is more pecu- liar than its subject. This book contains a full exposition of the system of the universe, as it was conceived to be at that time. This had its scientific interest ; and, with the exception of the doctrine of vortices, which ascribes the motion of the heavenly bodies to the motion of the ether, the work is really instructive. But, till his death, Fontenelle remained faithful to the system of Descartes. It is, in truth, conversations of the author with a lady of qua- lity, during the evening, in the country. This was the first time that science was introduced into the boudoir. Fontenelle says in his preface : " I have brought into these conversations a female as my pupil, who never heard me speak on these subjects at all. I thought that this fiction would be useful in making the work more agreeable, and in encouraging ladies by the example of a w T oman who did not go beyond the bounds of a person unac- quainted with science, and did not hesitate to listen to what was said to her, and to arrange in her head without confusion vortices and worlds. Why should females yield to this imaginary mar- chioness, who only apprehends what she cannot help appre- hending?" "I only ask of the ladies, for this whole system of philosophy, the same attention which they must give to the 140 FONTENELLE. Princess of Cleves, if they aim at following out its plot, and at knowing all its beauty." Indeed thanks to the admirable clearness of the exposition the Worlds are as easily read as the Princess of Cleves. We are here very far from Learned Women, which was only published fifteen years before. Either Moliere was deceived, or the times were changed, since a learned book for the use of ladies was received with great applause. The times were indeed changed ; and we have only to convince ourselves of it by listening to this advice of Madame de Lambert : " Do riot suppress the feeling of curiosity : you must only guide it, and give it a good object. But consider that young girls should have, respecting science, a modesty almost as delicate as respecting vice." * But Fontenelle introduces to his female readers science a little adorned and somewhat like a coquette. Many of the details in his book smell of the boudoir. For example, we have a very curious comparison at the beginning of a work on astronomy : " Do you not feel, said I to her, that the day even is not so beautiful as a beautiful night ? Yes, she answered ; the beauty of the day is like a beauty with a fair complexion, who has more brilliancy ; but the beauty of the night is a brunette, who is more striking. I agree, replied I; but, in return, a person of fair complexion, such as you, would make me enjoy a more pleasant dream than the finest night in the world, with all its beauty, resembling a brunette." 2 And again : " A certain lady, who was seen in the moon with telescopes forty years ago, perhaps is considerably advanced in life. She had a very beautiful face ; her cheeks are now sunk, her nose is lengthened, her forehead and chin stand out, so that all her charms have vanished, and we now feel some alarm for her life. What do you tell me? interrupted the marchioness. It is no joke, I replied. You observed in the moon a particular figure, which had the appearance of a woman's head coming forth from among the rocks ; and some change has happened in that place, some portion of the mountain has fallen, and has left three points uncovered, which can only serve to form a forehead, a nose, and a chin to an old woman." 3 * What follows is agreeable trifling in better taste : ' Ct.uiseils d'unc more a .s:i tillc. - Premier t-oir. : ' Sixieme soil. FONTENELLE. 141 " I should like much to be able to guess at the bad reasonings which the philosophers of yonder world (the moon) employ about the apparent want of motion in our earth, when all the other heavenly bodies rise and set, going over their heads in fifteen days. They seemingly ascribe this want of motion to its size, for it is sixty times larger than the moon ; and when the poets wish to praise indolent princes, I doubt not they take the example of this majestic repose yet this repose is not perfect." * These frivolities are redeemed by some philosophical passages, of which the following is an example : " It would appear, interrupted the marchioness, that your phi- losophy is a kind of mart, where those who offer to do things at least expense have the preference. It is true, I replied, and it is only in this way that we can apprehend the plan on which nature has performed her work. She displays extraordinary economy, and every thing which she can do, in a way that will cost a little less, when that would almost amount to nothing, be sure that is the way in which the work will be accomplished. This economy is, nevertheless, consistent with surprising magnificence, which shines in every thing that she has done. There is magnificence in the design, and economy in the execution. There is nothing- finer than a great design, which is executed at little expense. We again are inclined in our ideas to reverse all this we place economy in the design of nature, and magnificence in the execu- tion." 2 Besides, always when the subject leads to it, we meet with in- genious notions and agreeable relations, which are, considering the time, instructive. Thus, the history of bees during the third evening, the hypothesis of the saltpetre which might blow up the planet Mercury, and the following reflections on the diversity which must exist between the inhabitants and the productions of the different planets : " What nature does on & small scale among men, in regard to the distribution of happiness and of talents, she will have done on a large scale among the worlds ; and she will not have for- gotten to bring out that marvellous secret which she possesses of diversifying all things, and of equalizing them at the same time, by means of compensations." 3 1 Troisieme soir. 3 Premier soir. 3 Troisieme soir. 142 FONTENELLE. But a distinctive characteristic of the Conversations on the Plu- rality of Worlds is the complete absence of religious sentiments. This magnificent subject has not been able to furnish to its author the smallest word or the slightest view of religious philosophy, or of the divine government of the world. Good taste alone might have introduced some of these things, instead of the puerilities with which the author thought he could not dispense. Notwith- standing this serious defect, the book was extremely popular. It was in the following year, 1687, that Fontenelle published his History of Oracles, a spirited summary of the learned and dull work of the Dutchman, Van Dale. The avowed design of the book, with him, as with Fontenelle, was to establish the fact, " that oracles, whatever was their nature, were not delivered by devils, and that they did not cease at the coming of Jesus Christ. Each of these two points," says Fontenelle, " well deserves a dissertation." l He abridges the original work, by excluding from it certain details, and by giving to it an ingenious, concise, and simple form. It was only then that he was simple. This work gave great scandal to the churchmen. Their pene- tration was not deficient. The book was a blow to them, not that it is essential to the truth of Christianity, to believe that oracles were delivered by devils, or that they did not cease at the coming of Jesus Christ ; but this belief had been made an article of faith : to interfere with it therefore was to shake the faith ; and the book appeared to be an attack on the doctrine respecting devils. In short, the circumstances of the times gave to this work a character, which it would not have had in the present day, and which it could only have had at that particular period. Certain shafts, shot at random, did not fail to hit the mark. For example, the history of the confession of the two Lacedemonians. " Those who were initiated into the mysteries gave security for their discretion they were obliged to confess to the priests the most secret actions of their life, and it became necessary for the poor men so admitted to entreat the priests to keep their secret. It was respecting this confession that a Lacedemonian, who was about to be initiated into the mysteries of Samothrace, told the priests bluntly, If I have committed crimes, it is a thing well known to the gods. Another answered almost in the same manner, fs it to thee or to the god that a man must confess hix 1 Histoire des Oracles. Introduction. FONTENELLE. 143 crimes ? It is to the god, said the priest. Ah ! very welly with- draw then, replied the Lacedemonian, and I will confess them to the god. These Lacedemonians had not very much of the spirit of devotion. But might it not have been possible to have fallen in with some impious fellow, who, with a false confession, might have been initiated into the mysteries, and then have discovered all their extravagance, and have published the trickery of the priests." 1 In all the circumstances of the case, I should think it some- what imprudent to vouch for the innocence of Fontenelle's inten- tions : at least, for myself, I should not think it advisable. The book otherwise is very agreeable, for the great number of histo- rical facts and pointed anecdotes, for the elegance of the nar- rative, the refinement of the thoughts, and a great number of philosophical views. The pretty story of the Golden Tooth is directed against those " who leap at once to the cause, and go beyond the truth of the fact." " This misfortune," as Fontenelle relates, " happened so comi- cally, about the end of the last century, to some learned men in Germany, that I cannot resist mentioning it here. In 1593, the report was spread, that a child's teeth in Silesia had fallen out at the age of seven, and there had come in one of gold in the place of one of his large teeth. Horstius, professor of medicine in the university of Helmstadt, wrote, in 1595, the history of this tooth, and pretended that it was partly natural and partly miraculous, and that it had been sent by God to this child, to console the Christians, \vho had been oppressed by the Turks. Figure to yourselves the consolation and the relation of this tooth to the Christians or Turks. In the same year, that this golden tooth might not want historians, Rullandus wrote another history of it. Two years after, Ingolsteterus, another learned man, wrote against the opinion entertained by Rullandus on the golden tooth, and Rullandus instantly made a beautiful and learned reply. An- other great man, named Libarius, collected all that had been said about the tooth, and added to it his own opinion. One thing only was wanting in so great works, whether there was any truth in the tooth being of gold. When a goldsmith examined it, he found that it was a bit of gold leaf applied with great skill 1 Premiere Dissertation, chapitre xiii. 144 FONTENELLE. to the tooth ; but they began with making books, and then they consulted the goldsmith." Here follow some sayings worthy of notice, on the respective authority of those who believe and do not believe a truth or an error long established. " These two authorities are not equal. The testimony of those who believe a thing all but established, has no power to support it, but the testimony of those who do not believe it, has power to discredit it. Those who believe may be unacquainted with the reasons for disbelief, but it can scarcely happen that those who do not believe are ignorant of the reasons for believing. " It is quite the contrary when the thing is established. The testimony of those who believe it is in itself stronger than the testimony of those who do not, for the former must have examined it, and the latter may not have done so. " I do not mean to say, that either in the one case or the other, the authority of those who believe or do not believe is decisive : I mean merely to say, that if no respect is paid to the reasons on which both parties proceed, the authority of the one is sometimes rather to be admitted, sometimes that of the other. This is the general result, from giving up a common opinion or receiving a new one, that we must make some use of our reason, good or bad, but there is no need to use our reason in rejecting a new opinion, or taking up one that is common." ] Fontenelle forms this estimate of the pagan religion, in refer- ence to the manner in which illustrious men, and Cicero among others, scoffed at the sacrifices. " There is ground for believing that, with the pagans, religion was only a practice, about which the speculative opinions were matters of indifference. Do like others, and believe what you please. This principle is very extravagant ; but the people, who did not discover its folly, were contented with it, and men of understanding readily submitted to it, because it placed them under no restraint. Thus, you see, the pagan religion only de- manded ceremonies, but not the feelings of the heart. The gods are provoked, all their thunderbolts are ready to be launched How will they be appeased ? Must we repent of the crimes that we have committed ? Must AVC return to the paths of natural justice, which should be among all men ? Not at all ; it is 1 Premiere Dissertation, cliapitre viii. FONTENELLE. 145 necessary merely to take a calf of a particular colour, calved at a particular time, and cut his throat with a particular knife, and that will appease the anger of all the gods ; and then you may laugh at yourself for the sacrifice, if you choose, it will not be the worse:" 1 There are still some remarks on Plato, and on his doctrine of intermediate beings : " I admit that Plato has conjectured a thing which is true, and I reproach him, because it is a conjecture. Revelation assures us of the existence of angels and demons, but human reason has not been permitted to attain to certainty on the sub- ject. We are perplexed with that infinite space which is between God and man, and fill it with spirits and demons ; but with what are we to fill the infinite space between God and these spirifs, or demons ? For, from God to any creature whatever, the distance is infinite. As the action of God must traverse, so to speak, that infinite void to reach demons, it may well reach man also, since they are only more distant by a few degrees, which bear no proportion to the original distance. When God treats with men through the instrumentality of angels, it must not be said that angels are necessary for this communication, as Plato pretended ; God employs them in it for reasons which philosophy will never discover, and which can never be perfectly known but by Him alone." 2 These last ideas are just ; but, in general, we perceive in this work the scepticism which Fontenelle carried into every thing, with the exception of the exact sciences and natural philosophy, and which is revealed in this saying, so well known : " History is a conventional fable." He believed neither the authority of testimony nor of feeling. This double scepticism, combined with a cool contempt for the nature and condition of mankind, and seasoned with the smart quibbling of paradox, is the spirit which prevails in the Dialogues of the Dead (1686). If Fontenelle, in writing these Dialogues, had any serious intention, which I doubt, it was that of shaking every principle, and, still farther, of giving a blow to the respect which man owes to himself. Whether he did or did not mean it, he has done it. He sets out with the most insulting irony, 1 Premiere dissertation, chapitre vii. 2 Premiere dissertation, chapitre vi. K 146 FONTENELLE. and with the most cynical contempt for human nature, which abounds in the writings of Voltaire, and in the whole of the eighteenth century, for it seems to aim at descending. Fontenelle appears to me to have been, without fancy and without passion, what Voltaire was with passion and with eloquence. Besides, their philosophy was the same. In the Dialogues its proof is clear. The object is, above all, to surprise us, first, by the singular meeting between the parties (as Apicius and Galileo), and then by the conclusions to which we are forced to subscribe. All the ambition of the author is to make us say, at the end of each dialogue, That is extraordinary, that is strange, but that is nevertheless the case. There is no simplicity, little nature, and much wit. Fontenelle delights to arrive at truth by falsehood, and at seriousness by frivolity, of which we have a proof in Alexander and Phryne. She says to Alexander : " If you had only conquered Greece, the neighbouring islands, and perhaps some part of Asia Minor, and constituted them one state, nothing could have been better contrived, nor have been more reason- able ; but to be always running, without knowing whither, to be always taking cities, without knowing why, and to be always executing, without having any design, has displeased many sensible persons." Man is attached to what he considers to be truth, and he be- lieves it to be made for him. But observe what Fontenelle puts in the mouth of Homer respecting the sympathy of human nature w r ith falsehood : u You imagine that the human mind seeks only truth ; you are wrong, the human mind and falsehood have a strong sym- pathy with one another. If you have any truth to tell, you will do very well if you involve it in fables, it will give far greater pleasure. If you wish to tell what is fabulous, it will give much pleasure, if it contain not a grain of truth. Thus truth requires to borrow the figure of falsehood, to be agreeably received by the human mind ; but falsehood makes its way into it, under its own figure, for this is the place of its birth, and of its ordinary abode, and truth is a stranger there." * In Jeanne de Naples and Ansebne, Fontenelle undertakes to show the vanity of all our efforts. According to him, " man is 1 lluniere ot Esojie. FONTENELLE. 147 born to aspire at every thing, and enjoy nothing ; to go always forward, but to arrive nowhere." In Parmenisque and TJieocrite, he sets himself to prove that thought prevents men from living : " Apparently the intention of nature was not that we should think with much refinement, for it sells that kind of thoughts very dear. You wish to make reflections, said she to us ; take care of that, I will be avenged by the sadness which they will cause to you. She put men in the world to live in it, and to live is not to know what is doing the most part of the time. When we discover the little importance of that which occupies and affects us, we snatch from nature her secret ; we become too wise, and are scarcely human ; we think and wish to do nothing else ; this is what nature finds not to be good." As he proceeds, he makes the conversation turn upon the helplessness of man in his pursuit of knowledge : " If you merely wish to enjoy things, there is nothing wanting for your enjoy- ment ; but there is a universal deficiency when you wish to know them." 1 Speaking of vanity, he makes Juliette de Gonzague say to Soliman : " At a certain point it is a vice ; a little short of that point, it is a virtue." Thus the tendency of man to truth, his dignity of thought, his capacity for knowledge, and, still more, the distinction between vice and virtue, are all an illusion in the opinion of Fontenelle. It is the philosophy of a party, partial, exclusive, preoccupied with the misery of mankind, and blind to their greatness ; in his eyes man has need of nothing, and every thing. But is Fontenelle quite sincere when he degrades us ? I do not know. Voltaire is more sincere ; there is passion in his con- tempt for human nature. Fontenelle is cool in this, as in all that comes from him. Still, I repeat, this book should not be taken up seriously ; it is a piece of wit a dexterous artifice well sustained. " Lucian," says Voltaire, " never aims at wit. It is the fault of Fontenelle that he always wishes to be witty. It is he himself that you see, and never his heroes. He makes them say quite the reverse of what they ought to say ; he maintains both sides 1 Apicius et Galileo. 148 FONTENELLE. of a question, and only desires to be brilliant. It is true that he succeeds in it ; but he appears to me at length to become weari- some, because you know that there is nothing genuine in all that he sets before you. The quackery is perceived, and your ardour is cooled. Fontenelle in this work shows himself to be the most amusing juggler that I have ever known. This is always some- thing, and it amuses." 1 I willingly subscribe to the judgment of Voltaire respecting this witty and frivolous book. I may add, that among all the works of this first period, and I have not mentioned the most frivolous, Fontenelle produces in my mind the conviction that he is much better than we might suppose from his writings, and that he disparages himself for his own pleasure. Others are, as it were, suspended in a region which does not belong to them. There are two forms of falsehood : with the second I have no patience ; with the first, which is that of Fontenelle, I am a little indignant. However this may be, these works procured for Fontenelle an arm-chair in the French Academy in 1691. I think it was for them that he received it, and not for his literary opinions, which at that period were no longer orthodox. He was the prudent chief of the sect which had, as a double word of command, contempt for antiquity and poetry, a kind of literary atheism professed by barbarians in ruffles, who employed themselves in making verses. Then, what is astonishing, Fontenelle abandoned literature, and devoted himself to science. Once a man of science, he gained very much by it as a man of literature. This was natural ; what was wanting to Fontenelle was a foundation. It was necessary to say something worth his pains a new example of that great truth, that the value of the foundation is essential to that of the structure. He wanted materials, and was interested in nothing. He had sported with ideas he could not sport with facts ; be- sides the facts of natural order, the calculations of the exact sciences were to him a matter of real interest. Appointed member and perpetual secretary of the Academy of Sciences in 1699, he wrote for forty years the Memoirs of that academy. It is his best title to honour. By this he rendered to science nearly as much service as the learned men whose studies 1 Voltaire, I.ettro an roi do Frusse. FONTENELLE. 149 he analyzed. Many researches, whose result without him would not have existed beyond the thoughts of their authors, who knew not how to make them be understood, received from the perfect clearness of his exposition their objective existence. Fontenelle, who invented nothing, so marvellously understood the discoveries of others, that he has almost effaced the distance between inven- tion and intelligence. " Readers of the least application," says Duclos, " thought themselves learned, as they ran over his works ; and their ease in understanding him, was perhaps injurious to the feeling of gratitude, which they ought to entertain on that account." We now come, gentlemen, to another work, which frequently excites our attention, and which we love to read again and again, in spite of its defects ; it is the Panegyrics on the Members of the Royal Academy of Sciences who have died since the year 1699. In a literary point of view, it is the first work of Fontenelle, the piece, which is a defence to all the rest. They are not properly panegyrics, nor even intentionally eulo- gies. We must not inquire into the oratorical form the author only praised what deserved to be praised. They are simple notices, and are so much the more valuable on that account. For the first time beyond subjects purely scientific, Fontenelle seems to have caught the 'beauty of his subject, and to have entered into it with his whole heart. Called to relate the events in the life of the noblest men, whose memory was preserved, he could speak in a manner worthy of the virtues of his heroes. He says somewhere : " We are almost weary of extolling the merit of the men of whom it is our duty to speak." This saying, which cer- tainly wants simplicity, gives a moral picture, however, of the men of science of that age. With what pleasure the eye reposes on all these grave and serene figures ! How much do the heroes of Fontenelle belong to the contemplative age, and not to the con- temptuous, of which he himself is the representative ! He who always treats men with contempt, is not far from being contemptible the nihil admirari is on the very borders of folly. Madame de Lambert is quite in her age when she says, " Ad- miration is the inheritance of fools ;" but true admiration, the admiration which arises from reflection, belongs to great minds. The seventeenth century was contemplative ; the men of that age were men of faith all rendered- homage to the Creator. We 150 FONTENELLE. may add, that dignity of manners is much more common among men of science than of literature, because their passions do not furnish the materials for their works. The latter class live in the world of mankind, the former in the world of God. The solitude of the literary man is not a real solitude : among his books he lives with the dead and the living ; he lives especially with himself, and often this is not too good company. Put the lives of sixty-nine literary men on a parallel with sixty-nine men of science, you will be indignant with the one and probably pleased with the other. Fontenelle did not pretend to write an edifying book ; but he describes the life of these men with truth, gravity, and comparative simplicity ; he makes us taste the peace of that life which is in general a stranger to vanity. We must admire the conciseness and the ingenious and charm- ing clearness with which he knows to sum up, not only the disco- veries of these learned men, but their systems and ideas. He throws out a number of fine and judicious observations on human nature, on the singular qualities of the heart, and on the peculiarities of the social life. Take these examples : He says in the eulogy on Cassini : " In the last years of his life, he lost his sight, a misfortune, which was common to him with the great Galileo, and perhaps for the same reason, because nice observations require great exertion of the eyes. In the spirit of fable, these two great men who made so many discoveries in the heavens, resembled Tiresias, who became blind, because he saw some secret of the gods." In the eulogy of Regis : " Although he was accustomed to instruction, his conversation was not more imperious on that account, but it was more easy and more simple, because he was in the habit of suiting himself to every one. His knowledge had not rendered him contemptuous to the ignorant, and indeed, we are commonly much less contemptuous to them, as we know more ; for we know better how much we still resemble them." In speaking of Malebranche : " In the next edition of his Christian Conversations, Father Malebranche added meditations, in which, from philosophical consideration, he always obtains an elevation towards God. Perhaps he meant by this to answer some good people, who reproached him with his philosophy being abstract, and consequently dry, and with the impossibility of its producing emotions of piety sufficiently tender and affecting. It FONTENELLE. 151 is, however, very probable that in this respect, metaphysical ideas will be always for the most part of the world, like the flame of the spirit of wine, which is too subtle to burn wood." The following remark is met with in the eulogy on Littre : " A simple anatomist may do without eloquence, but a physician scarcely can. The one has only facts to open up, and place before the eyes, but the other, constantly obliged to form con- jectures on very doubtful matters, must also support his con- jectures by very solid reasoning, or which may, at least, encou- rage and flatter the terrified imagination, he must sometimes speak almost without any other object than merely to speak, for he has the misfortune to deal with men only at the time when they are weaker and more childish than ever. If he has not the gift of speech, it is almost necessary that he should have, as a compensation, the power of working miracles." He said of Newton : " He never spoke of himself or others, and never acted in such a way as to make the most malicious observers suspect the smallest feeling of vanity. It is true that he was spared the trouble of supporting his own dignity ; but how many others would not have allowed any to take the trouble, which they so willingly undertake themselves, and which it is so difficult to trust to any one?" These sketches of manners are sometimes interwoven with some pointed anecdote : " Boerhaave was making a voyage in a vessel, and was led to take part in a conversation which turned on Spinosism. An individual unknown, more orthodox than able, made so bad an attack on this system, that Boerhaave asked him if he had read Spinosa. He was obliged to confess that he had not, but he did not forgive Boerhaave. Nothing was easier than to denounce, as a zealous and ardent defender of Spinosa, the man who only requested that Spinosa should be known before he was attacked, so the bad reasoner in the vessel did not fail to do so, and the public, not only very susceptible, but eager to receive bad impressions, seconded him, and in a short time, Boerhaave was declared a Spinosist. This Spinosist, however, was all his life very regular in certain acts of piety, for example, in his prayers morning and evening. He never pronounced the name of God even on a physical subject without uncovering his head, a mark of respect, which, indeed, may appear little, but which a hypocrite would riot have had the effrontery to affect." 152 FONTENELLE. At other times, the observations of Fontenelle are detached in short and neat sentences. " A man of merit is not destined to be merely a critic, though a good one that is to say, to be only able to point out faults in the productions of others, and to be unable to produce anything of his own." 1 " History ought to confess the faults of great men they have themselves given the example of it." 2 In spite of its undoubted qualities, this book is exposed to grave criticism. It wants that simplicity that boldness of touch that vigour of description and that warmth, without which no one can be an eloquent writer. Every thing in it is secret or half concealed, even that which has the greatest truth and interest. Fontenelle employs the one-half of his mind in concealing the other half, not to bury it, but to make it be sought after. He assumes a simple and careless air, in proportion as he is really less so. This coquetry of language, by no means worthy of a masculine and serious mind, is astonishing in a work in which there are many views of a good and true morality, and, as it appears, some sympathy with it: "Et fugit ad salices, et se cupit ante videri." 3 Fontenelle himself had said in the Portrait de Clarice : " What would be still very necessary, would be a mind which might think ingeniously, and yet believe itself to be an ordinary mind." The style of Fontenelle necessarily became the style of the eighteenth century. In this point of view, it requires on our part special attention. In the middle of the preceding century, the same danger presented itself. The concetti, mannerism, and affectation invaded the language, when Pascal, Moliere, and Boileau put it right. The new style, which was introduced under the auspices of Fontenelle, and favoured by other writers, and whose allurements Montesquieu himself could not resist, would have at last been naturalized, if Voltaire, by the power of his fame and his genius, had not op- posed this crude wit. Twice, then, we see affectation and fantas- tical notions banished from French literature. The style peculiar to Fontenelle is as bad as it is charming. Under covert of the most ingenious imagination, there slips in a manner which would have been detestable in a more vulgar mind. He wishes to be found out, but although he is discovered without 1 Eloge dc Valincourt. - Eloge du Czar Pierre. 3 Yirgili, Eglog'ue iii. FONTENELLE. ] 53 much difficulty, he has always, as if he feared to be so, something crooked and a squint. This effort, although slight and almost im- perceptible, does not fail to wear out the most sagacious, when it is imposed upon them too frequently; a greater but more serious labour would occasion less impatience. We must not judge of it by some isolated strokes, of which each, taken apart, gives pleasure ; but we fall in with delicate or malicious in- sinuations, as in the eulogy of Des Billettes : " A certain candour, which may not accompany great virtues, but which greatly embellishes them, was one of his prevailing qualities. The public good, order, or rather all the different establishments set apart for maintaining the order which society requires, always sacrificed without scruple, and violated even for the love of mischief, were, in his case, objects of a lively and delicate passion. He carried it so far (at the same time, this sort of passion is so rare, that it is perhaps dangerous to put it before the public), that, when he passed over the steps of the Pont-Neuf, he kept by the ends of them, which were less used, that the middle, which is always more used, might not be too soon worn. But attention so trifling was ennobled by its prin- ciple ; and how much should it be wished that the public good were always loved with the same superstition !" Here follows the conduct of the Archbishop of Elieims to the Abbe de Louvois : " The late Archbishop of Rheims, his uncle, gave him an office in his diocese, to train him to ecclesiastical affairs. The school was good, but severe to such an extent, that it might have corrected him of the very faults with which the prelate, who was training him, was reproached. The Abbe de Louvois had capacity, knowledge, the spirit of government ; in short, all the good qualities of his uncle, accompanied with some others, which he might have learned from him, but which he did not imitate." Besides, there are some pointed, and even comical reticences : " Sauveur was twice married. With respect to the first, he rather took a novel precaution ; he did not wish to see her whom he was to espouse till he had been with a notary, that he might get the conditions drawn out in writing which he required ; he feared lest he should be no longer master after he had seen her. The second time he was used to discipline." l 1 Elos'e dc Sauveur. 154 FONTENELLE. " In the middle of the twelfth century," observed Leibnitz, " men still distinguished truth from falsehood ; but, afterwards, fables, formerly kept within cloisters, and contained in legends, violently burst their barriers, and spread over the world. These are nearly his own words. He ascribes the principal cause of the evil to men, whose institutions were poor, and who invented from necessity." 1 But this mania for suppression, this twilight, this mode of writing, neither clear nor dark, went far to bring into question the gravity of his style, when he treats of important matters. Besides, he occasionally becomes quite enigmatic. When cun- ning prevails in the mind or in the style, it is less strength than weakness ; it is, if not the source, at least the companion of many defects. In the first instance, a very cunning mind ap- pears to be superior, and, in point of fact, there is a superiority of a certain kind. But, in the judgment of men of profound understanding, and of the public, how often do they end with the inevitable inference, cunning is inferior to simplicity ! How habitually cool, weak, frivolous, and often false, is the mind in which it prevails ! Simple beauties are lasting, but cunning soon fades. Besides, there is naturally more intelligence in simplicity than in cunning. Simplicity and ingenuity are much more ingenious than ingenuity and cunning. " Only high- minded men know how much glory there is in being good," said Fenelon, in imitation of Sophocles. Only great minds know how much glory there is in being simple. Posterity always distinguishes this glory, but contemporaries may be de- ceived by it. We must, however, confess that some great minds have been wanting in simplicity. We have mentioned Montesquieu ; St Augustine and St Bernard are not simple. But we must make allowance for the false taste of their age, and for the lofty ideas by which they redeemed this want of simplicity. And yet, Fontenelle has pages written in a style which the purest taste might acknowledge. Thus, in the eulogy on D'Argenson : " The inhabitants of a well regulated city enjoy the order which has been established there, without considering how much 1 Elojjc tie Leibnitz. FONTENELLE. 155 trouble it costs those who arrange and maintain it as almost all men enjoy the regularity of the motion of the heavenly bodies without knowing anything about it ; and the more the order of a police resembles, by its uniformity, the order of the heavenly bodies, the more imperceptible it is, and consequently it is so much the more unknown, as it approaches perfection. But he who would wish to know and investigate it, would be terrified. To supply without interruption, in such a city as Paris, a vast consumption, when the available sources are always subject to be dried up by a multitude of accidents ; to repress the tyranny of merchants in regard to the public, and at the same time to encourage their trade ; to prevent mutual usurpations, often dif- ficult to discover ; to find out, in an immense crowd, all those who can so easily conceal a pernicious industry ; to rid society of them, or only to tolerate them, as far as they may be useful to it by the performance of offices, which no other but they would undertake or discharge so well ; to keep necessary abuses within the precise bounds of necessity, which they are always ready to overleap ; to shut them up in obscurity, to which they ought to be condemned, and not to take them out of it by too public punishments ; to be ignorant of what it is much better not to know, than to punish, and only to punish seldom and usefully ; to penetrate secretly into the interior of families, and to keep their secrets, which they have not confided to any, so far as it is not necessary to make use of them ; to be present every- where without being seen ; in short, to move or arrest at will a vast and tumultuous multitude, and to be always the acting and almost unknown soul of that great body these are, in general, the functions of the magistrate of police. It does not appear that one man is sufficient for it, neither from the number of matters of which he must be informed, nor from the views that he must follow out, nor from the application which he must give, nor from the variety of ways that he must deal with the characters that it is necessary to bring before him ; but the public voice will answer whether D'Argenson was fit for all this." Among the sixty-nine eulogies composed by Fontenelle, I shall mention such illustrious men as Vauban, Newton, Ruysch, Malebranche, Leibnitz, the Czar Pierre, D'Argenson, Boerhaave ; and men less known Renau, Dodart, Des Billettes, Couplet, Morin. 156 HOUDARD DE LA MOTTE. XIII. HOUDAED DE LA MOTTE. 1672-1742. WE now pass, gentlemen, from Fontenelle to a friend we may say an ally. La Motte, blind from his youth, was by this cir- cumstance consigned exclusively to the domain of literature. In the early period of his life, he was mixed up with the affair of J. B. Rousseau, and of his infamous couplets, and very innocently became the object of that hateful attack. At a later period, he was entirely occupied with the controversy which he maintained against the pre-eminence of the ancients, and the superiority of poetry to prose. These agitations may be called storms ; but what light breezes were close upon the tempests which fill up the life of so great writers ! The first of these questions does not peculiarly belong to him ; but the signal for the attack directed against poetry came from him. La Motte had at that time on his side numbers the crowd which the dominant spirit urged oil to prose. However this may be, in spite of this controversy he was generally beloved, contrary to the ordinary fortune of literary men. He deserved to be so, by the gentleness and amenity of his character. Some delightful traits are mentioned in connection with his name. His mind was ingenious and natural ; he was less cunning than Fontenelle, and not so concise ; but he had a little more sensibility, though not much, for, if anything was wanting to make him a poet, it was sensibility ; he has, however, some verses, which Fontenelle, with all his ability, would never have equalled. What prevails in the writings of La Motte is good sense. His defect or weakness was not that he had too much of it, but that he ascribed too much to it, and believed that good sense held the place of every thing that good sense, the basis of genius, was genius itself, and that it might be sufficient to make good and even beautiful verses. How does it happen that, with this good sense, at times a little tarnished, but which is all-powerful with HOUDAKD DE LA MOTTE. 157 La Motte, he has been able to attain to modes of writing the most opposite to his nature, and the most contrary to the con- victions which he avowed ? He wrote in verse against poetry, he translated into prose the ode of La Faye, and translated himself into prose. J. B. Rousseau compared him, not unjustly, to the fox that had lost his tail. La Motte passed his life in self- contradiction, and thus presents us with some examples of the thousand contradictions of the human mind : with his thousands of verses he did not believe in poetry ; he translated Homer, and did not believe in the ancients ; he wanted imagination, and wrote odes. There were in him two men the critic, or, if you choose, the man of literature, and the poet. In this last charac- ter he attempted all kinds of poetry tragedies, comedies, operas, eclogues, odes, fables, and translations in verse. The tragedies of La Motte are : les Machabces, Romulus, Oedipe, and Inds de Castro. All were very successful, but the last of these pieces more than the others. Ines, the masterpiece of La Motte, was more exposed to criticism than les Machabees. Ines belongs to the small number of tragedies, of the second order, which have not become old. This is rare ; and we possess many tragedies of the second order which are still quoted, but no longer read. Ines has preserved all its freshness ; and if it had the charm of fancy and vigour of style, it would be reckoned among the masterpieces of the stage. Its subject is admirable ; and La Motte has altered the story of Camoens very happily, by introducing the generous character of Constance. The conduct of the action is easy ; the characters are true, noble, natural, and without affectation : the subject is eminently tragical. There is nothing odious, but the character of the queen, who puts Ines to death by poison ; but the author has banished her to the second place. Here La Motte has made use of his good sense he has not a verse which smells of affectation. All is beautiful and simple ; there are even some bold innovations, among others the introduction of the children of Ines, who succeed in persuading the king. This play is not eloquently written, and that is its principal defect, but it abounds in admirable verses, which the heart alone can furnish, and which all the intellect in the world could not inspire. Thus Ines, poisoned without knowing it, exclaims, as she feels the first working of the poison : "Remove my children 158 HOUDARD DE LA MOTTE. they irritate my pains." This saying has always called forth the applause of the theatre. Observe, also, the verses which she addresses to king Alphonso, as she presents to him her children : " Regard both with a compassionate eye ; see in them not my blood, but only yours. Pour out on me alone the severity of your anger, but conceal for some time my fate from my husband." Don Pedro says to Ines : " Do not disown, Ines, that I love you." The dying Ines addresses Don Pedro : " Console your father, but do not forget how dear I was to you." She had formerly said to him : " What, alas ! is to be hoped from my weak reason ? I cannot without emotion hear your name !" In scene second of the second act, Alphonso addresses his son with nobleness, truth, and a kind of eloquence : " Your rage is no rule for me ; you speak as a soldier I must act as a king. 1 What is, then, the heir that I leave to my empire ? An auda- cious young man, whose heart is only eager for bloody battles and unjust schemes, and ready to count as nothing the blood of his subjects ! I pity Portugal for the evils which the barbarous ambition of this unbridled heart is preparing for her. Is it for conquests that Heaven made kings "? Would He, then, have only placed the people under our laws, that at our will foolish tyranny should dare with impunity to sport with their life. Ah ! judge better of the throne, and know, my son, by what sacred title we are seated there. Wise trustees of our subjects' blood, we are not so much their masters as their fathers. At the peril of our life we must render them happy, and neither conclude peace nor engage in war but for them, and know no honour but in their advantage ; and when in its excess our blind courage exposes their destiny for an unrighteous glory, we show ourselves less their kings than their assassins. Think of it when my death, every day drawing nearer, shall put in your hands the dignity of sovereign remember these duties, and fulfil them. At present, Don Pedro, as my subject, obey." Let us not forget in les Ma- chabees the following verse : " Rachel will follow Jacob without carrying away her gods ! " As to the operas of La Motte, the mode of writing once admit- ted, and we do not enter upon that discussion, hse deserves 1 Tliis .-.eeond verse is from Corneille, and La Motte has acknowledged it in hi preface. HOUDARD DE LA MOTTE. 159 praise. It is the same with the comedy of the Magnifique ; it is truly original, but the others are of little value. What is worst in the works of La Motte is his odes. He had a mania for them, and we must confess that the bad taste of the times encouraged it. They took for poetry every thing which was regular and ingenious. La Motte is undoubtedly ingenious ; he has ideas, and rhymes easily, yet he wants the feeling of har- mony, and there is much prose less dry than his verses. His odes are in general little treatises on morality ; he has one of them on Self-love. One would suppose himself reading La Rochefou- cauld put into strophes. Another has for its subject Enthusiasm. He pretends at first to believe in enthusiasm, and addresses Poly- hymnia, who answers him, that enthusiasm is nothing else than good sense. And all that is set forth in the garb of ancient lyric poetry. These odes are now forgotten. We remember no more than some epigrams of J. B. Rousseau : " Old Ronsard having taken his spectacles, to furnish entertainment for assembled Par- nassus, read aloud these odes, clause by clause, with which the public were lately regaled. Woes me ! what is this ? says Horace, immediately addressing the master of Parnassus ; these odes come very near those of Perrault. Then Apollo, yawning, with his mouth shut, says, I only see one fault the author should have written them in prose." 1 The most amusing thing is, that La Motte followed the ironical counsel of Rousseau, and put his odes into prose. He maintained the superiority of prose, and this time he was right. After his tragedy of Ines, it is for his fables that La Motte is still esteemed. They are ingenious, and, to the merit of having invented their subjects, is added that of having treated them agreeably. It has been justly remarked, that the gift of inven- tion, which has been wanting in very great men, has sometimes been the inheritance of talents of an inferior order. But when La Motte would have wished to imitate the simplicity of La Fontaine, he has completely failed. His animals neither speak the language of men, nor that which imagination might lend to brutes : they express themselves unnaturally, and with a pomp and monotony, which have made J. B. Rousseau, a good critic, although severe, say, that an ass expresses himself in these 1 J. B. Rousseau. Epigrammes, livre ii., epig. xi. 160 HOUDARD DE LA MOTTE. fables like a member of the Academy. The fable of the Two Sparrows, the Parrot, and the Watch and the Sun-dial, may be considered as the best. La Motte has translated Homer, by abridging and reducing to twelve the twenty-four books of the Iliad. We must observe how he has made the divisions. This parody, destitute of all poetry, and of the character of antiquity, was approved by the men of his time, and even the exquisite mind of Madame de Lambert was an accomplice in the general error. Thus shortened, the Iliad appeared longer ; and Rousseau was right in saying, " The translator, who turned the Iliad into rhyme, pretended to abridge it by twelve books, but, by his style, equally dull and insipid, he has been able to lengthen it by twelve and upwards. Now, the reader who feels himself aggrieved, gives him to the devil, and says, losing his breath Ha ! come to an end of making rhymes by the dozen. Your abridgments are, to the last degree, tedious. Friendly reader, you are here in much trouble ; let us make them short by not reading them at all." * As a critic, La Motte has written many dissertations in sup- port of his own works, and of his literary system. " He had made himself," says D'Alembert, " a poet according to his talents, as so many people make for themselves a morality according to their interests ;" still he has many ideas and observations not profound, but good to pick up, and even new. One cannot be perfectly natural without being sometimes new; now 7 , it is by the force of nature that La Motte falls in with novelty ; he truly engages in the exercise of thought. Unhappily, two grave errors envelope the whole, ignorance of antiquity and denial of poetiy ; it was a double atheism. Of his writings in prose, nothing is better than his Reflections on Criticism, in answer to Madame Dacier. It is a model of honest and ingenious controversy, but it has scarcely had imita- tors. Madame Dacier had translated Homer with a kind of in- stinct ; she felt keenly its beauties, but she could give no reason for her admiration, and, in attacking La Motte, she reasoned to no purpose respecting the foundation, and was frequently wrong as to the form. She thought the ancient mode of controversy lawful, and allowed herself often to be bitter. La Motte, on the 1 .1. B. Uousseau. Epigrammes, livrc ii., cpiy. xii. HOUDARD DE LA MOTTE. 161 contrary, only employed a little raillery, very delicate, and he always preserved a suitable tone. " Alcibiades," said he, quoting himself a phrase from Madame Dacier, " reproached one day a rhetorician who had no know- ledge of Homer. What would he do in the present day to a rhetorician who should read to him th e Hiad of M. de La Motte ? Happily, when I read one of my books to Madame Dacier, she did not remember this circumstance." " Ridicule, impertinence, blind rashness, gross mistakes, follies, a mass of ignorance these are the words abounding in the book of Madame Dacier, like these charming Greek particles, which signify nothing, but, nevertheless, according to general opinion, support and adorn the verses of Homer." We subjoin "the judgment formed by Duclos respecting La Motte, who was nearly his contemporary : " Although he has written a number of beautiful verses, he is certainly inferior in this respect to Boileau, and to J. B. Rousseau, but he was superior to them in the extent of his accomplishments, and was not, like them, confined within the limits of this one talent. In his own time he passed for the best writer in prose. Voltaire had as yet only written in verse, and La Motte was deficient in vivacity of description ; but, on subjects susceptible of analysis and discussion, if Voltaire is more brilliant, La Motte is more lucid the one dazzles, the other enlightens. I do not wish to institute a comparison between him and Voltaire in re- spect to genius, talents, and taste. I only speak here of what refers to reasoning. La Motte has lost much of his reputation since his death : he was in his time one of the most distinguished authors. Men of thought will always read with pleasure his discourses and his Reflections on Criticism. His odes, full of thought and acute reasoning, will give them more pleasure than those in which there prevails a pompous rhapsody of words, which is called enthusiasm, and which is equally cold android of sense. Ines de Castro will remain in the theatre ; his operas are esteemed, and V Europe Galante makes him be regarded as the inventor of the opera-ballet. We must forget that he wrote an Iliad. His fables, of which he invented almost all the subjects, would do him honour, were it not that the style is finical and affected, and therefore without taste in the expression." 162 MARIVAUX. XIV. MARIVAUX. 1688-1763. ALTHOUGH too much decried in the present day, we may still say that the character of Marivaux has been justly determined ; all the critics are agreed about his excellencies and defects ; those, however, who only know him from the opinions generally enter- tained, undervalue him, and if they become acquainted with his works, they will be agreeably surprised to find them much better than they expected. Marivaux was a man of much wit, a delicate moralist and a very acute observer. We must add, that, in reference to morality, he w r as one of the purest writers of his age. He is not only irre- proachable but exalted. In his literary opinions, he took part with the period in which he lived, but it was quite different in regard to his philosophical ideas, and he always showed respect for religion. His taste for minute observation, which is nearly connected with the profession of a spy, injured, nay, ruined him as a writer. He is the spy of the human heart and the informer against it; he keeps always on its path, and has his ear constantly at the key- hole, and his accusations or indiscretions are a kind of unravelling 7 O of the web, which may appear sometimes trifling, but which destroys many threads of gold and silk. From Marivaux, this has been termed marivauder, it is a prettier word than ravauder, but it is scarcely the same thing. V It is to collect, to put aside grains of dust. Who knows, whether Marivaux was not flattered by seeing his name become a word in the language? Brilliant defects can alone procure for us this honour; still these defects must be entirely our own, and he who aims at this sort of thing does not attain it; too frequently our defects are borrowed. Voltaire said, " Marivaux weighed a fly's eggs in a spider's web," and a lady made this remark: "He fatigues me and himself by making me travel twenty leagues on a piece of wood three feet square." MAR1VAUX. 163 To this taste for minute analysis he unites the habit of keeping up the delicacy of the thought by the contrast of a vulgar ex- pression. It is a kind of coquetry analogous to that of Fon- tenelle. The latter wished to appear simple, Marivaux to appear familiar. Another fault of his was diffuseness. He scarcely knows when to stop, and his exuberance becomes mere babble; his psychology is a sort of gossip applied not to this and that in- dividual, but to human nature. He wrote several interesting comedies, full of the most amiable delicacy, but everybody there (marivaudes) has a taste for minute observation down to the footmen. I may mention le Legs, les Jeux de V Amour et du Hasard^ les Fausses Confidences, VEcoles des Meres. One of the best is entitled la Surprise de I' Amour. This title might suit almost the whole of them. We see in all a woman's heart surprised or insensibly assailed by a feeling, to which it appears at first quite averse. We observe with curiosity, provided we have a good magnifying glass, the successive trans- formations of this embryo, we discover a singular mixture of art- lessness and hypocrisy in a tender heart, and see it contributing to the deception, which is attempted against it. It is a pleasure to the spectator, but not of a very esthetic character. Nothing of this kind is so valuable as the play of the False Confidence (Fatisses Confidences}. The principal personage, Araminte, is very noble, the action is interesting, and as to the description of the heart it is Racine in miniature, or as the prints of a fly's feet to those of a man. Marivaux wrote romances, le Paysan Parvenu, and la Vie de Marianne. The characters of the first are frequently vulgar, and altogether it w r ants the tone of distinction, but the Life of Marianne is the masterpiece of its author. There is indeed little plan, little invention, numerous digressions and a dispropor- tionate episode, a real romance inserted into the other, which occupies nearly the third part of the work. But the romances of Marivaux are not romantic in the ideas which they give of human nature. This praise is great, and of the first importance. The author is equal to Sir Walter Scott for the fidelity of his portraits. He evidently intends sincerely to represent man, and romance is only a suitable form for arriving at that end. Indeed, with reference to truth, Marivaux is not behind Moliere. He 164 MARIVAUX. teaches us himself what is his aim, and we have an illustration to the purpose in the story of the infidelity of Valville: " Valville is not such a monster as you represent him. No, he is a very ordinary man, madam; the world is full of people who resemble him, and it is only through mistake that you are indignant with him pure mistake. Instead of a true story you thought you were reading a romance. You forgot that it was my life I was relating to you, and this is the reason why you are so much displeased with Valville, and in that view you were right in telling me say no more about it. An unfaithful hero of romance! No one could ever have seen such a thing. It is the rule, that they should all be constant no one would interest themselves in them but on this footing. Besides it is so easy to render them so. It costs nature nothing, fiction makes it expensive." l Farther, the characters are happily conceived, clearly delineated, and well supported. After the heroine, we must notice Madame de Miran, Madame Dorsin, and especially M. de Climal, the hypocrite, such as romance allows ; the stage requires one quite different. I say the stage, I might have said also, poetry. In short, we observe many fine descriptions, and many just and ingenious, nay, sometimes profound observations. But Marivaux here exhibits his peculiar characteristic (marivaudes), and occasionally to an immoderate extent : " Oh ! it was at the time when he wished me to take that beautiful linen, that I was informed of his sentiments. I was even astonished that the dress, which was a very proper one, should have still left me in any doubt, for charity is not gallant in her gifts ; even friendship, so disposed to help, confers a benefit, and dreams not of magnificence. Virtuous men only per- form their duty with great precision ; they would more willingly be niggardly than prodigal in the good that they do. It is only the vicious who are not sparing." 2 " She had eyes always moving, always occupied in looking, and always seeking to provide for the amusement of an empty, idle mind a mind which has no resource in itself, for there are people whose minds are active, purely for want of ideas ; this circumstance renders them extremely desirous of strange objects, 1 Huiticme Purtie. ' Premiere Paitie. MARIVAUX. 165 and so much the more that nothing remains to them, that every thing in them passes away, and that every thing goes from them; they ate persons always looking and listening, but never thinking. I would compare them to a man who should pass his life sitting at his window ; this is the image that I form of them, and of the functions of their mind." 1 " The object which occupied me at first, you may believe, was the unfortunate situation in which I remained ; no, this situation only regarded my life, and that which occupied my thoughts, regarded myself me. You will say that I am in a dream, to make such a distinction. Not at all ; our life, so to speak, is less dear to us than ourselves than our passions. To see occasionally what is passing in our instinctive feelings on this subject, one would say that to be, it is not necessary to live, that it is only by ac- cident that we live, but it is by nature that we exist. One would say that when a man kills himself, for example, he only quits life to make his escape, and to get rid of something disagreeable; it is not he, whom he no longer wishes, but rather the burden which he bears." 2 " Suppose a woman to be a little vigly, it is no great misfor- tune, if she has a beautiful hand ; there are a great number of men more affected with this beauty than with a lovely face, and shall I tell you the reason of it? I think I have felt it. Because it is not naked like a face, however lovely that face may be, and so our eyes do not attend to it; but a beautiful hand begins to be gradually seen ; and to fix certain persons, it is quite as sure a way to tempt them as to please them." 3 " You know that I was well dressed, and although she did not look at my face, there is an indescribable agility and lightness which is spread over a young and pretty figure, and which made her easily guess my age. My affliction, which appeared to her extreme, affected her, my youth, my good appearance, perhaps also my dress, softened her in my favour ; when I speak of dress, it is because that did it no harm. Nothing assists us so much in being generous to people, nothing makes us so much taste the honour and pleasure of being so than to see them with the ap- pearance of superior rank." 4 " Oh ! this is what should have 1 Cinquieme Pai tie. 2 Troisieme Partie, 3 Dcuxieme Partie. * Ibid. 166 MARIVAUX. made me tremble, and not my shop ; this was the real oppro- brium which deserved my attention. I only perceived, however, the last, and that is, according to order. We go at once to the most urgent, and the most urgent for us is ourselves that is to say, our pride ; for our pride and we are only one, while we and our virtue are two. Is it not, madam ? This virtue must be bestowed upon us, and is partly a matter of acquirement. This pride is not given to us, it is born with us ; we possess it in such a degree that it cannot be removed from us, and as it is the first in date, so it is, as occasion requires, first used. Nature is superior to education." 1 " We often think that we have a delicate conscience, not on account of the sacrifices which we make to it, but on account of the trouble that we take to exempt ourselves from making to it any sacrifice." 2 In this manner Marivaux deals in minute observations, and sometimes beyond all bounds. When once he enters into these details, he is not always precise, and does not know how to manage his advantages ; in truth, he lavishes them with unspar- ing hand ; yet he has not only fine thoughts, but some of them are very noble : " These marks of goodness could not be repaid. Of all the obligations which we can have to a person of accomplished mind, these tender attentions, and that secret politeness of feeling are the most affecting. I call it secret, because the heart, which en- tertains such a feeling for you, does not place it to your account, and has no wish to burden your gratitude with it. The im- pression is that this feeling is only known to itself, and hence it is kept out of your view, and its merit is buried that is most praiseworthy. ... I threw myself with transport, though with respect, on the hand of this lady, which I for a, long time kissed, and moistened with the most tender and delicious tears that I ever shed in my life ; because our mind is elevated, and every thing which has the appearance of respect for its dignity, affects and enchants it, therefore our pride never led to in- gratitude." 3 Marivaux has much life, and often great eloquence in his dis- courses, with a flow of language, wo must confess, which, if it 1 Deuxiome Partie. " Ibid. " Troisicmc Partio. MAR1VAUX. 167 takes nothing from the truth, leaves us not a little fatigued. We may notice, as a specimen, the speech of Marianne to the minister. 1 Farther, he is the only author who descended to the people, and who knew and made use of them. In the seventeenth century, La Bruyere alone was informed on this subject. Comedy made them a mere instrument of repulsion. " The people in Paris," says Marivaux, " are not like those elsewhere. In other places, you will sometimes see them begin with being wicked, and end with being humane. When men quarrel, they excite and animate them ; when they wish to beat one another, they separate them. In other countries, they care not what is done, because they continue to be wicked. The populace of Paris are not so, they are less mere rabble and more people than those of other nations. When they meet together, it is not to amuse themselves with what is passing, nor to make merry with what is spoken : no, they have none of this malicious waggery; they do not go to laugh for they will perhaps weep, and that will be so much the better for them they go to see, and to open their stupidly eager eyes ; they go to enjoy very seriously what they will see. In a word, then, they are neither waggish nor wicked, and this is the reason why I said they were less mere rabble. They are merely curious, and their curiosity is foolish and brutal, which intends neither good nor evil to any one, and which understands no other cunning than to come and be satisfied with what will happen. It is the emotions of the soul that this people require the strongest are the best ; they are anxious to pity you, if any outrage has been committed against you ; to feel compassion for you if you are hurt, and to tremble for your life, if it be threatened. These are their de- lights ; and if your enemy had not sufficient room to beat you, they would make room for him themselves, without any bad in- tention, and would say to him, with all their heart Hold, be quite at your ease, and do not diminish any of our pleasure in feeling a trembling interest in this unfortunate person. They, however, do not love cruelty ; on the contrary, they fear it, but they love the horror which cruelty produces ; that agitates their mind, which never knows anything, has never seen anything 1 Septieme Partie. 168 LA CHAUSSEE. but this, and is quite unimpassioned. Such is the people of Paris, as I have had occasion to observe them." l Marivaux is a man of understanding and of heart, but of un- certain taste. He has shown this by his contempt for antiquity. He took the side of La Motte, and even praised him to excess. He travestied the Iliad. XV. LA CHAUSSEE. 1692-1754. NIVELLE DE LA CHAUSSEE, born in the midst of opulence, cul- tivated letters from taste. Late in life, he devoted himself to the theatre, and, when his first work appeared, he was nearly forty years of age. Destouches had introduced the sentimental comedy ; La Chaussee went a step farther, and published dramatic works, of which sentiment constituted^all the interest. The plays of Destouches were still comedies ; those of La Chaussee were not, they were tragi-comic. This innovation is not entirely the doing of La Chaussee, it belongs also to Voltaire. U Enfant Prodigue appeared in 1736, and the principal works of La Chaussee are posterior to that date. Nevertheless, he is regarded as the founder of a style of writing very acceptable, and very much disputed, to which he has, beyond contradiction, given much consistency, by the number and success of his plays. People went to weep at Melanide, and they applauded the epigram of Piron on the Homilies of the Reverend Father La Chaussee. Here, gentlemen, two questions are presented to us, the one respecting the fact, the other respecting the right. As to the first, Grimm, in 1776, spoke as follows : "There are two periods in the history of our manners in the eighteenth century that which followed the follies of the regency, and that which com- 1 Deuxienic Partie. LA CHAUSSEE. 169 menced with the misfortunes of the state the tragi-comedies, and the great success of philosophy. The disorder of public affairs rendered us dull ; we were more disposed to weep than to laugh. We found a kind of consolation for the injuries which the philosophers did by their writings to kings and gods, and our inability to be gay made us take up the part of sensible men and philosophers." 1 But the misfortunes of France came after the tragi-comedies of La Chaussee ; the seven years' war con- tinued from 1756 to 1763. And then, France had been much more unfortunate during the last years of Louis XIV., and that was still the age of Regnard, Dancourt, and Le Sage. The tragi-comedy, on the contrary, was begun amid the prosperity of France, and the greatest tranquillity which it had ever en- joyed. The beginning of the tragi-comedy, and its favourable reception, must, then, be differently explained. It might be sufficient to answer, that this attempt must once be made; because it was natural, when the vein of comedy was exhausted, that another must be sought, and that writers should engage in the style near akin to it the tragi-comic. And yet, an age less poetical, and more occupied with the reality than the ideal an age in which the mind, struck with the vast import- ance of the social questions, is turned towards the citizens, must be essentially adapted to the tragi-comedy. On the stage, in the seventeenth century, the citizens were ridiculous, or held to be so. In the eighteenth century, they acquired there an avowed importance. If citizens are represented, it is no longer that, as citizens, they may be derided ; the nobility would rather be the object of ridicule. This disposition must lead to the comedy or tragedy of the citizens, that is, to tragi-comedy. Farther, poetry is in itself indifferent and disinterested, prose is less exempted from external influence. Poetry aspires at the ideal ; it lives by contemplation, and is little compromised by the choice of its subjects. The poet looks high and far, and makes his choice, and scarcely inquires about the immediate end of his art. An age which becomes more prosaic, at once gains and loses by it ; it loses by descending from the ideal, it gains by approaching the reality. Poetry falls back, and prose goes forward a step. The poetry of the seventeenth century has only i Corresiiondance de Grimm, tome Hi., p. ..-12. 170 LA CHAUSSEE. itself in view ; the poetry, less poetical, of the eighteenth century aims at action. Comedy is the ideal of human nature contem- plated on the ridiculous side. Tragedy is its ideal, viewed on the side of disaster and passion. The tragi-comedy, an inter- mediate style, has less poetry than either. It is the balloon forced to descend by the escape of the subtle fluid which raised it in the air. 80 much for the question of fact. As to that of right, or the comparative value of the style of tragi-comedy, it must be ad- mitted, that speaking according to the principles of literature, tragi-comedy is inferior. An objection is offered, it has not been cultivated by men of genius. But why has genius refused to cultivate this mode of writing? Why is a Moliere wanting to it ? It might be said here, as Don Diegue says in the Cid : " It is no good sign of it to be refused." Yet tragi-comedy was cultivated by men of distinguished ability, Diderot, La Chaussee, and the ingenious Sedaine ; but, with the exception of Voltaire, none of the authors of the tragi-comedy can be called a man of genius. This style, besides, is at once the most easy and the most difficult ; and the romance more than the theatre appears to be its proper field. It is easy to make a romance interesting ; it is not even difficult to make a tragi-comedy interesting, but it is very difficult to idealise it, and to elevate it to the height of poetry. We cannot reject the interest, and yet after all the interest no more constitutes the essence of poetry than utility is the principle of morality, or persuasion the basis of eloquence. La Chaussee was not a man of genius, although he was happy in invention, and combined with skill ; but he does not conceive powerfully, and does not search deeply into character. He wrote naturally. He has a great number of verses happily expressed, such as these : " When every body is wrong, every body is right." " When a man is like his neighbour, he is as he ought to be." (Bad morality in very good verses) : " The esteem of a husband ought to be love. Ah ! I was respected and am no longer so." And yet his style has no power. It is soft like the mode of writing, which he cultivated, and very different from that of Destouches, who has a style singularly bold. The best plays of La Chaussee are Le Prejuge a la Mode, t^rdanule, L Ibid. 537. * Ibid. 325. * Maximo, 538. "Introduction. Livre iii., xliii. " Maxime,G05. VAUVENARGUES. 193 explanations. According to the first, Vauvenargues might have been willing to show how men can write eloquently on religion without being convinced of its truth. According to the second, he might have chosen a religious subject to exercise himself in a form of diction, for which he had a fancy, the introduction of verses of different measures into prose. Always when his style is elevated, it takes this form, thus in the Eulogy on the young de Seytres, and in ccii. of his Reflexions. According to the third explanation, this piece would prove that Vauvenargues was a Christian. According to a fourth, which we have adopted, there is a play of wit, and, at the same time, in some respects, real sentiment. He may have been caught at his sport, and drawn on by the beauty of his subject, may have felt that lively regret which he has so eloquently depicted : " August religion ! sweet and noble belief, how can men live without thee ? Is it not quite clear that something is wanting to men, when their pride rejects thee?" 1 More than one philosopher, perhaps, partakes in his heart of the regret of Vauvenargues ; all those, at least, who have become Christians, would willingly take up his language. But a Chris- tian who a thing unheard of would leave the faith which gives peace, to return to philosophical doubts, would never exclaim, * August philosophy ! sweet and noble belief, how can men live without thee 1 " Thus, then, in the whole work of Vauvenargues, there is no system nor proportion, but a number of contradictions, which do not prove the want of sincerity, far from it, but the want of arrangement in the mode of thinking. This makes him more evidently resort to the necessity of going back to the first prin- ciple of all things. . We may remark, that no morality from man's hand has any consistency, harmony, or proportion. We should not think it strange that all such is faulty in its principle ; but as the logical faculty furnishes a middle term, by which we may easily reach consistency and proportion, we ask how it happens that these qualities are wanting in so many different theories, and that Christianity presents the only system of morality well connected and consistent with itself ? Among all the others, the morality of Vauvenargues is remark- 1 Meditation sur la foi. N 194 VAUVENARGUES. able for its inconsistency. But this perpetual vacillation forms, in my opinion, the principal merit of his book, and this is pre- cisely the reason why I like it. His sincerity does not fail before any of the inconsistencies of his thoughts ; he is conscious of it, and adds more to it. He has a number of valuable observations, tangents to the circle of truth. He has only sentiments, but some of them are admirable. He diminishes and often contradicts his thoughts. The idea fails him, because the first principle is want- ing. Sometimes he denies it and sometimes affirms it. The perfect consistency of a book would lead me to suspect the sin- cerity of an author, because there are subjects on which it is either impossible or artificial, and especially when the first prin- ciple is wanting. The candour of Vauvenargues has an inexpressible charm it is the characteristic feature of his individuality he may be called the candid Vauvenargues. He has candour of mind as well as of character, and this furnishes the key to his excellencies and defects. His mind knows imperfectly, but is always sincere. Vauvenargues was not well informed, which means two things : first, that he had little knowledge, and, secondly, that his know- ledge was by no means organized, and he was deficient in philo- sophical training. He had very little acquaintance with men or books ; his knowledge was almost intuitive, and in that way it was admirable. He had thought for himself; and for certain minds this is an advantage. He says somewhere, " Tilings which we know best are those which we have never learned;" l and elsewhere, " Experience in the world enables us to think natur- ally, and acquaintance with the sciences to think profoundly." 2 Vauvenargues had properly neither the one nor the other, but was acquainted with himself. La Motte said, he was new, be- cause he was natural. Candour is to the soul what nature is to the understanding ; when a man is candid he cannot fail to be profound. The sayings of children are often the most profound. Tt is certain that, to an upright mind, all things present them- selves more purely when they are not perplexed with set forms, provided that these minds join strength to uprightness. Men such as Vauvenargues are children in the republic of letters ; ques- tion them, the truth readily proceeds from their lips. 1 Maximo 488. 5 Introduction. Livre ii., xxviii. VAUVENARGUES. 195 It is remarkable that the greater part of the men of talents, who have given a lively impulse to human thought, had little taste for science. They are somewhat irregular and adventurous; they are not troops of the line, but light troops and sharp-shooters, and they must be sent forward to make discoveries. On the other hand, it must be admitted that their discoveries are some- times imaginary. Without doubt, it occasionally happens to them as to the child in Moses saved : " There, the sprightly child, to the first comer, displays, as something precious, the strange pebble which he picks up at his feet he takes up a shell, and, transported with joy, artlessly presents it to his mother." And then there is always in such minds a little incoherence and con- fusion. They are full to overflowing, and yet they have empty spaces. They furnish materials for building. They scarcely construct a perfect edifice. Vauvenargues was deficient in scien- tific analysis for arriving at precise results. The real point of difficulty sometimes escapes him. His fundamental views are somewhat enveloped in clouds; his particular views sometimes terminate badly, without our being able to say whether their fault is in the expression or in the idea : " We must not easily believe that what nature has made amiable is vicious." 1 " How many virtues and vices are of no consequence." 2 " Inevitable abuses are laws of nature." 3 In short, the book of Vauvenargues is valuable for a number of plain confessions ; we hear in it a faithful testimony and a clear voice. On the whole, he has not reached the truth ; but no moralist, who is not a Christian, touches it at so many points. Such an author of morality setting out from fixed principles is in general much less true, and much less instructive and even edi- fying, how strange soever this saying may appear. It is not ob- jective truth which edifies in a work ; it is also subjective truth which resides in the mind of the author. We do not merely read the book of Vauvenargues, we read also his mind. As a writer, the principles of Vauvenargues are reduced to two. He was convinced that a man must first think for himself: " What makes the most part of books on morality so insipid and their authors insincere, is that, weak echoes of one another, they would not venture to bring forward their own maxims and ' Maxime 122. 2 Ibid. 555. 3 Ibid. 26. 196 VAUVENARGUES. their secret sentiments. Thus not only in morality, but on any subject whatever, almost all men pass their lives in speaking and writing what they do not think." i " All that we have only thought in regard to others is commonly unnatural." 2 Many others have said that it was necessary to think by them- selves, Vauvenargues alone said, for himself. The one is the means of the other, but the idea of Vauvenargues is the most profound. He gives elsewhere the example with the rule. It is a point of view quite as dangerous as that in which the author places himself. It is very difficult to remain in the exact line of his own thought in the presence of dispositions which are sup- posed to be natural to his readers. In the second place, Vauvenargues recommends men to think with the heart : " Great thoughts come from the heart," 3 a prin- ciple singularly time on all subjects in which sentiment can have any part to play. The heart does not think, but in many cases it determines the point of view from which we think ; an elevated sentiment is like a high mountain, from which we take in a wider horizon. And how many great thoughts are only great senti- ments of which the mind takes account ? How many talents have been expanded by sentiment, how many sprightly spirits by a lively affection ! We see how much Vauvenargues thought with hid heart. The chief commendation of Pascal's style may be transferred to Vauvenargues. It is a true style. It is Pascal without his strength and passion. Both have a degree of truth which few literary men have been able to reach. Vauvenargues, indeed, is occasionally somewhat obscure and deficient in correctness, and he lias some antiquated expressions. These old forms natu- rally occurred to his mind from the daily reading of the ancient French authors. But the beauty of his style is that the expres- sion with him is the faithful image of the thought. Each thought, strictly speaking, lias only a single expression perfectly adequate to itself, every other errs by too much or too little, or like a pic- ture badly placed, presents only a part of its surface to the light. The single form, necessary to thought, is most beautiful without the assistance of figures or turns of expression; sometimes the writer falls into it at once, when the thought instantaneously ' Max! me 300. J Ibid. 371. ' Il>id. 127. VAUVENARGUES. 197 conceived and quickly apprehended, is immediately seized by its form, and springs forth, so to speak, with it. At other times, the discovery of this pure form only occurs after several attempts, and the rejection of several forms less perfect. We meet with traces of this labour in Rochefoucauld, and also in Vauvenargues. Sometimes the latter arrives, with full spring, at his expression, sometimes he only reaches it by degrees. He wished to be simple, and is only satisfied when he is simple. He says, " when a thought is too weak to bear a simple expression, it is a sign that it should be rejected." J He thought that " clearness is the good faith of philosophers," 2 that the reception which errors obtain, is only due to the artifices of language ; " that there are no errors, which do not disappear of themselves when distinctly expressed;" 3 that truth is beautiful in itself, and, in short, that " clearness adorns profound thoughts." 4 We might add to this : and simplicity adorns great thoughts. Often, indeed, the thought passes away in turns of expression and figures, but these are at times necessary on account of the sterility of language. In the beginning, the primitive and typical language expressed every thing by images ; ours, such as it is, contains still a number of images or figures, which long use has transformed into proper expressions. The terms which mark out metaphysical objects, are figures taken from the material world, thus the word (ame\ the soul, signifies breath or wind. Vauvenargues has few figures, but he is not entirely deprived of their assistance, and his, from their rarity, are so happy, that we think it impossible to express his ideas otherwise : " Affable looks adorn the countenances of kings." 5 " The brightness of the morning is not so sweet as the first rays of glory." c " The counsels of old age give light without heat, like the wintry sun." 7 Vauvenargues at times surprises his readers, but in general this feeling is the opposite of that which La Bruyere makes us experience. The latter employs unexpected and singular phrase- ology to arrive at a common thought. Vauvenargues, on the contrary, often veils under a common expression a thought of high value. Yet the manner of La Bruyere is not absolutely 1 Maxime fl. - Ibid. S72. Ibid. 6. * Ibid. 4. Ibid. 394. K Ibid. 332. " Ibid. 109. 198 VAUVENARGUES. strange to him. We recognise the imitation, or at least the analogous style in such thoughts as these : " Those who make us buy their honesty, commonly sell to us only their Tionour." 1 " The man who dresses himself in the morning before eight o'clock to hear a pleading before the judges, or to see pictures exposed at the Louvre, or to be present at the recitation of a play ready to appear, and who piques himself on judging in every department on the works of others, is a person often de- ficient in judgment and taste." 2 Vauvenargues is not only a distinguished moralist, but a critic, too, of the first order, so much the more interesting as he is simple. He has the boldness of childhood, and ventures to hold his own opinion. Two things especially keep us under subjection, too great distrust of ourselves, and too great pretension to appear independent. Vauvenargues avoids these two extremes, and has an humble courage. This should be the feeling of every author who sets himself to judge of others. In the writings of Vauvenargues, the pieces of criti- cism are exquisite. Here are some choice thoughts and profound observations, on which we are happy to rest : " To punish without necessity is to .encroach on the clemency of God." 8 " We quarrel with the unfortunate to excuse ourselves from pitying them." 4 "We have no right to render those miserable whom we cannot render good." 5 " Magnanimity owes no account of its motives to pru- dence." G " A man cannot be just, if he is not humane." 7 " When we feel that we have not wherewithal to. make ourselves esteemid by anyone, we are very near hating him." 8 "There is only moderate ability in making dupes." 11 "Those who have merely ability, hold in no place the first rank." 10 "No one is subject to more faults than those who act only from reflection." 11 " It is a great sign of mediocrity always to praise moderately." 12 " Those who have not the courage to search for truth amid the rude trials (of familiarity), are far below anything that is great ; it is especially base to fear raillery, which helps us to tread under foot our self-love, and blunts, by the habit of suffering, its bashful delicacy." 13 "We ought to console ourselves because i Maxime 4t). 2 I hid. G4. :i Ibid. 105. Ibid. 172. Ibid. 27. Ibid. 130. Ibid. 28. * Ibid. 45. ' J Ibid. !)7. '" Ibid. Pcnsees diverses : Portrait. 4 Ibid. ' Ibid. 6 ibid. 7 La Bruyere, Les Caracteres, chap. v. De la societe et de la conversation. * IVnsees diverses varictes. n Pensecs diverse*: Portrait. Ul Ibid. n Ibid. MONTESQUIEU. 203 family, but prejudicial to my country, I would strive to forget it. If I knew anything useful to my country, and injurious to Europe and the human race, I would look upon it as a crime." l In short, Montesquieu knew himself well. Every thing in these confessions reveals a character pacific, equitable, and indulgent, and a benevolent, and even tender heart, without impatience or violent desires, and open to all that is great. There is no little- ness, except a little weakness for his name, and he avows it : " I am making a very foolish thing be drawn out, that is, my genealogy." 2 " Although my name is neither good nor bad, as it has only about a hundred and fifty years of proved nobility, yet I cling to it, and would be the man to make entails." 3 His serenity is very remarkable. I wish I could affirm that all the minds of the first order have been serene ; but the most part, and these, too, the greatest, have possessed this high quality. Greatness is serene, sublime, and peaceful. As in the atmo- sphere there is a clear zone, to which clouds never come, so, in the moral world, there is a region which storms cannot trouble, and, when they enter into it, then it is an exception to the rule. One trait more : Montesquieu, who loved at once the world and retirement, enjoyed society, though, in one sense, he was not suited to it : " When I was in the world I loved it, as if I could not endure retirement ; and, when I was at my estate, I never thought of the world." 4 He enjoyed it in a passive way, for he was deficient in the gift of conversation. Several men of genius of the eighteenth century suffered from the same defect ; neither Buffon nor Rousseau were eloquent or agreeable in common conversation. Among all these master spirits, Voltaire alone in that showed himself powerful. This is a mystery which, in reference to each of them, had different causes. Too many ideas presented themselves at once to Rousseau, and, in com- bining them, he lost the moment for repartee. To Voltaire, on the contrary, ideas came in sufficient number, but without con- fusion, and the expression of them was clear, lively, and rapid. Buffon, on his part, only showed his power in reflection ; his first view was not extensive. There was another thing in Mon- tesquieu's character he -was timid. Society annoyed him. Was J Pensees diverges : Portrait. Ibid. 3 Ibid. ' Ibid. 204 MONTESQUIEU. it self-love, vanity, or modesty ? This is what he says of him- self: " Timidity has been the scourge of my whole life ; it seemed to blunt my senses, tie my tongue, cloud my thoughts, and dis- order my expressions. I was less subject to this weakness in the company of men of ability than in the presence of fools, be- cause I had the hope that they would understand me, and this gave me some confidence." 1 According to this statement, his timidity was not, it appears to me, so much a feature in his character as a defect in the form of his understanding. He was almost destitute of the power of connecting his thoughts, when a somewhat extended develop- ment was necessary. What he wrote, too, was fragmentary ; the gift of seizing and representing a vast whole may give great assurance to those who write, and, above all, to those who speak. Montesquieu, in conversation, had brilliant thoughts, but they stood alone ; they rushed to his lips, and there they often re- mained. The moral doctrine of Montesquieu differs little from the ancient stoicism, but he has not laid it down in a systematic form. His own nature was his true system. Nevertheless, he loses no opportunity of boasting of stoicism in general : " No philosopher has ever made men feel the sweetness of virtue, and the dignity of their being better, than Marcus Anto- ninus ; he affects the heart, enlarges the soul, and elevates the mind." 2 " If I could for a moment cease to think that I am a Christian, I could not possibly avoid ranking the destruction of the sect of Zeno among the misfortunes that have befallen the human race." 3 Stoicism is that high and stern doctrine, of which the peculi- arity is to consider duty and virtue as the only spring of human conduct, and to make no mention of pleasure and pain. It pur- sues its end without deviating either to the right or left, and holds difficulties and dangers to have no existence. To a certain extent this doctrine is true absolute obedience to the rule of duty is in itself excellent. It would be the half of Christianity, if Christianity were capable of being divided into fractions. But it is not to God that this obedience is rendered ; it is, in prin- 1 Pensees diverse*: Portrait. - Pensees diverses : Des Anciens. - 1 Lsprit des Lois. Livre xxiv., chap. x. MONTESQUIEU. 205 ciple, merely obedience to the man himself. In this system, man somehow becomes his own god. Humility is banished from his mind ; stoicism commands man to do what he ought, but it does not point out either what is deficient, or how it should be supplied. By leaving him ignorant of his weakness, it de- prives him of the help which he would have obtained from God. Men have been true stoics from constitution. Strong minds, in certain relations, were able to make very high attainments ; but yet they had some weaknesses, of which they were ignorant, or which they cherished, and their virtues were counteracted by pride. Without doing any injustice, we may repeat what Des- cartes said of them : " Frequently, that which they call by the beautiful name of virtue, is only insensibility, or pride, or de- spair, or parricide." Voltaire says of stoicism : " It swells the soul, but does not feed it." If Christianity did not exist, the stoics would furnish some fine specimens of the human race ; but how much more would their doctrine leave men unhappy ? Instead of help in their weakness, and consolation in their sufferings, they would only hear a voice constantly crying to them, Go forward ! go forward ! But I am infirm, wounded, paralysed. It is of no consequence ; go for- ward it is your duty I This is the only moving power presented by stoicism. Christianity tells us also to go forward, but it stretches out its hand to him who is weary, and supports him who cannot walk ; it alone terminates and unites that circle which is always left half open, and which no human doctrine is capable of completing. On this subject we may remember, once for all, first, that we apply the term spring, or motive (mobile)) to whatever gives to the soul the impulse and the power to act ; in the second place, that there is in the morality of men two classes of motives. The first refers to fear and hope gross motives, no doubt but their importance must be acknowledged in the actual state of society. From a more elevated point of view, however, we could not found a morality worthy of the name merely on fear and hope, since we would only make from these slaves or egoists. Man necessarily, in his quality of a moral individual, requires a pro- found interest, an interest of long continuance, which takes pos- session of the whole heart. This is what all true doctrine should 20G MONTESQUIEU. furnish to him all religion deserving the name. This living power is only complete in love love on the part of him who demands, love on the part of him who renders obedience. Sove- reign love in God, pure love in man, such is in itself and in its essence the only motive worthy of religion, and worthy of man, if man had remained in his primitive condition. God is not like a human legislator, He is the spiritual Being who requires the worship of the heart a worship in spirit and truth, produced and supported by love. It is for this end that Jesus Christ restored to man the divine image, effaced by sin, and reinstated by love alone. Fear and hope, no doubt, concur in this work, as needful and preparatory levers ; but they almost only act the first at least provisionally, in the absence or in the failure of the great motive, love, which, however, will only be perfected in man under a new dispensation. The stoicism of Montesquieu is softened and restrained by a certain feeling of religion. Stoicism alone could not satisfy this loving mind. In the picture which he draws of human virtues, the idea of God constantly returns, not as what is useless, but as its necessary completion. He several times took the opportunity of expressing the very lively aversion that he felt to atheism : " The pious man and atheist always talk of religion ; the one speaks of what he loves, and the other of what he fears." l This aversion, which had its principle in the uprightness of his mind, was strengthened by his acquaintance with the real necessities and true condition of society. He defends with no less warmth the immortality of the soul: " Although the immortality of the soul were an error, I should be sorry not to believe it ; I confess I am not so humble as the atheists. I know not how they think, but, for myself, I would not exchange the idea of my immortality for the happiness of a day. I delight in believing that I am immortal as God himself. Independently of revelation, metaphysics give me a very strong hope of my eternal happiness, which I would not willingly re- nounce." 2 " Indifference about a future life leads us to be soft and easy with regard to the present, and renders us insensible and in- capable of every' thing which implies an effort." 3 1 Esprit des Lois. Livre xxv., chap. i. - Pcnsecs diverse* de la religion. 3 Pcnsoes diverses varietes. MONTESQUIEU. 207 Montesquieu knew that all religion is social, while atheism is eminently anti-social. The first effect of any religion whatever is to bind men to one another, for it is impossible to ascribe to their gods any good qualities, and not believe themselves bound to imitate them. Frequently they transfer to their gods the virtues, whose ex- istence is necessary to society, and thus render them sacred as Jupiter is the god of hospitality. And their social practices, which the conscience, left entirely to itself, would not have suf- ficiently secured, are sealed by the most powerful motive. In like manner, vices, whose existence threaten society, receive a stronger check than any which nature w r ould attempt to impose on them. Montesquieu felt this, and more than once expressed it. Not only does he admit that " all religions contain precepts useful to society," 1 but he declares that " religion is always the best guarantee that we can have for the morals of mankind ;" 2 and lie goes so far as to say that " all societies require a religion." 3 No one has shown better than he the intimate relation between religion and social life ; and it is interesting to observe, that it is in the Persian Letters, namely, in the work into which he has introduced the rashest statements, and in which he has conceded most to the ideas and manners of his time, that we find this remarkable passage, which explains so well what we have merely indicated : " In any religion which we profess, the observance of laws, love to men, devotedness to parents, are always the first religious acts For, whatever religion a man professes, the moment any religion is supposed, it must also necessarily be supposed that God loves mankind, since He establishes a religion to render them happy ; that, if He loves men, we are certain of pleasing Him in loving them also ; that is, in exercising toward them all the duties of charity and humanity, and not breaking the law r s under which they live." 4 In the Spirit of Laws and in the Tliouglits we meet with pas- sages much stronger in favour of Christianity: they prove that Montesquieu understood it much better than the moralists of his time, at least in the philosophical view. Here and there he 1 Lettres Persannes. Lettre Ixxxv. - Grandeur de Remains, chap. x. 3 Dissertation sur la politique des Remains dans la religion. 1 Lettres Persannes. Lettre xlvi. 208 MONTESQUIEU. abuses devotion, at which he sometimes shoots the arrows of his satire. Thus when he says : " Devotion is a belief that we are much better than any one else." l Yet he adds soon after, " I call devotion a disease of the heart, which gives to the soul a folly whose character is the most amiable of all." 2 The unfortunate age in which Montesquieu lived, afforded few examples of humble, firm, and sensible piety, and the sickly and presumptuous tint, which even in our days devotion so easily contracts, explains this judgment, at least in part. However, the defect of this noble character was stoicism the absence of humility. Not that he was disposed to vanity, we have just seen the contrary ; nor was he even very proud in reference to men, but he was proud before God. His readiness in expressing contempt is certainly connected with this fund of pride. Besides this thought already quoted, " I have always despised those whom I did not esteem." 3 This natural character betrays itself in what follows: " I had at first, for the most part of the great, a childish fear; so soon as I became acquainted with them, I passed almost with- out any medium to contempt." 4 If he acknowledged weaknesses in himself, he did not acknowledge all, and yet he had several, which his writings show. Licentious descriptions are found in the Persian Letters, in which the author evidently took pleasure, and it cannot be concealed that he was not very strict in his conduct. In taking a general view of the character and career of Mon- tesquieu, we must add this : Montesquieu belongs to his age; but the longer he lived the less did he belong to it. He does not detach himself from it to become the man of former or future times, but to be the man of all times. It was necessary at the time to belong to the eighteenth century, and to have the mastery over it to write what he did. The Spirit of Laws is throughout in the style of Montesquieu it existed already in the Persian Letters. This was the work of his life. In the seventeenth century he could not have written this book, because he could rot have thought as lie did. But had he belonged to the eighteenth century only, there is reason to believe that he would not have written a serious book. Are not all his great productions sub- ject to this double condition - to belong to his own time to a 1 Pousses fliversesde la religion. 2 Ihirl. - 1 Pens^es diverses: Portrait. 4 Ibid. MONTESQUIEU. 209 certain point, and beyond that to become free. Every age has its individuality, which is at the same time its limit and its power. A man must come to the level of his age, and from this to start for a higher flight. The three principal works of Montesquieu are the Persian Letters, Reflections on the Causes of the Greatness of the Romans and of their Decline, and the Spirit of Laws. The Persian Letters, published in 1721, may serve to fill 'up the portrait, which we have just sketched. They were composed, it is said, at very long intervals, and in some sort as an amuse- ment after the labours of the day. Montesquieu pours out the numerous ideas which flow upon him. He puts every thing into them, metaphysics, theology, politics, morality, and litera- ture. He throws into them every thing regarding his own early conduct, all the first efforts of his genius, and all his foam, like a young fiery steed. He did not, however, enter very early on his literary career, for he was thirty years of age. Several parts of his book prove it, and evince a real maturity of understanding; in other respects, there is in the Persian Letters something of a very young man. The author has two ages, and touches on two ages; the victoryis not gained, this is precisely the hour of the crisis. The form of the book is not new. The author makes himself a Persian, that he may see things better, as he looks at them from a greater distance. This proceeding served his purpose. It made him perceive particulars, which, without it, would have escaped his notice, it allowed him to put in the mouth of a Per- sian remarks which a Frenchman could not have uttered. The astonishment of the foreigner is communicated to the reader, who, for the first time, lays aside the prejudices in favour of his country, and learns to look upon it with a kind of independence. This book has two parts mixed together, although they are distinct. It is very serious and very frivolous, and the fri- volous part is more than frivolous, it is quite imbued with the licentious manners of the regency. If you examine it in this point of view, you will be struck with three contrasts the difference between the profession of the author and his book : the difference in the nature of the numerous subjects which he treats; and, finally, the contrast between the licentious- ness of his ideas and the power wliioh he knows when necessary to exercise over them. When Montesquieu is frivolous, he is o 210 MONTESQUIEU. resolved to be so, Such a letter of this collection would never have been written by a man of strict morals. Elsewhere he wishes to be serious. Head the two letters on suicide; 1 you there discover the man, who knows how to gain the mastery over him- self. He advances with a spring into the midst of the rashness of his age, but we conjecture that he will not be slow in taking the position which suits him: " These are valuable days, indeed, which lead us to expiate our offences. It is the time of prosperity which ought to be short- ened. What end does all our impatience serve, but to make us see that we would be happy, independently of him who bestows happiness, because he is happiness itself. If a being is composed of two parts, and the necessity of preserving their union is the greatest mark of submission to the decrees of the Creator, this then may be made a religious law; if this necessity of preserving that union is a better security of human actions, it may be made a civil law." 2 The Montesquieu of the Spirit of Laws was already almost entirely in the Persian Letters ; he has a moderate and conser- vative spirit joined to a spirit of liberty, and a serious feeling of the social compact, otherwise called the state. He is one of the men for whom the state is not merely an idea, but a sentiment men in whom the sense of patriotism, doubly developed, gives to every thing which relates to the government of the country a characteristic vigour and importance. Montesquieu is of this number. " The sanctuary of honour, reputation, and virtue, seems," he says, " to be seated in republics, and in those states where the word country may be pronounced." 3 The same sentiment was energetically declared by L'Hopital, had been effaced by the age of Louis XIV., and was restored, as we have seen, by D'Aguesseau. Some emotion may be perceived in the mind of the latter at the mention of these old words country, and even republic, to which he gives, so to speak, a new mean- ing. This single emotion would be sufficient to make an im- pression of seriousness on the work of Montesquieu. I have quoted a passage relating to religion. Here are some remarks on the observance of laws : " It is sometimes necessary to change certain laws. But it is an uncommon case ; and when it hap- ' Lettres Ixxvi. and Ixxvii : Ibid. Ixxvii. '> Ibid. Ixxxix. MONTESQUIEU. 211 pens, it should be touched with a trembling hand : they ought to observe much solemnity in doing it, and conduct it with such precautions that the people may naturally conceive that the laws are very sacred, since so many formalities are necessary to be observed in repealing them. . . . Be the laws of what nature they may, they must be always punctually adhered to, and considered as the conscience of the public, to which that of individuals should always be conformable." 1 But the seriousness of the Persian Letters is not confined to politics. The same man who seems anxious to excite illicit desires, and who sketches pictures bordering on lasciviousness, speaks a little after of the different family relations with gravity, and with a kind of unction. This gravity has nothing affected. Montesquieu, composed and solemn, appears then to take up his natural feeling. See what he says on paternal authority: " Some legislators have, by one regulation, discovered great prudence ; they have given fathers a great share of authority over their children. Nothing contributes more to the ease of the magistrates nothing more surely prevents the courts of justice from being crowded nothing more firmly establishes tranquillity in a state, where morality always makes better citizens, than laws can make. Of all sorts of authority, this is less frequently abused. This is the most sacred sort of magistracy ; it is the only one which does not owe its origin to any contrast, but has even preceded all contrasts. It has been observed that in the countries where the greatest share of power is lodged in the hands of parents, the families are always best regulated ; fathers are representatives of the Creator of the universe, who, though He might bind men to serve Him through love alone, has thought proper to attach them to Him still more by the motives of hope and fear." 2 What exquisite moral sentiments, what nobleness of expression in the following passages : " I have known some people to whom virtue was so natural, that they themselves were scarcely sensible of it. They applied themselves to their duty without any constraint, and were carried to it as by instinct ; far from extolling in their conversation their own great qualities, it seemed as if they themselves were not 1 Lottrc c\xi.\. - Ibid. 212 MONTESQUIEU. aware of their existence. Such are the men I love, not those virtuous persons who appear surprised at their being so, and who consider a good action as a prodigy, the report of which ought to astonish everybody." * "I everywhere meet with people whose conversation is continually about themselves ; their dis- course is a mirror, which always presents their own impertinent figure; they will talk of the most trifling things which*have happened to themselves, and think their interest in them must make them of consequence in your sight ; they have done every thing, seen every thing, thought every thing ; they are a universal model, an inexhaustible subject of comparison, a spring of examples never to be dried up. Oh ! how despicable is praise, when it bounds back from whence it comes !" 2 "Modest men, approach that I may embrace you ! From you spring all the charms of society. You think yourselves destitute of all sorts of merit, but I cannot help saying that every merit is yours. You think you humble nobody, though you humble all the world. And when, I in idea, compare you to those assuming persons whom I meet with everywhere, I immediately pull them from their tribunal, and make them fall prostrate at your feet." 3 Admirable observations, which ought to be engraven for ever on our memory. It would be necessary to multiply quotations in order to be- come acquainted with all the passages which breathe a generous love of justice and liberty, a generous hatred of despotism and tyranny, and their power is still increased by the calmness and moderation of the language. Montesquieu never declaims, he rarely even jests on these subjects ; he takes the trouble to reason and to prove, but in a manner clear, brief, and unanswerable. Read letters cii. and ciii. on despotism, and on questions of political morality, and letter xcv. on the rights of the people. See farther, on the liberty of conscience, letter Ixxxv. There is much more calmness in the Persian Letter* than in the other works of Montesquieu, written at a riper age. Thus in speakino- of religious liberty, lie demands it with a coolness almost over- whelming, as if ho wished to compel tyrants to feel that in regard to simple logic, they are the greatest fools in the world. At a 1 I-fttre. 1. - M..i.'.. 3 llli(Ji exliv ^ MONTESQUIEU. 213 later period, he will be found to express himself on these subjects with remarkable freedom and sensibility. We should carefully mark the following passage on the truth due to princes : " It is a grievous burden when we are obliged to carry truth into the presence of princes ; they should therefore consider that those who undertake the office, are constrained to it, and that they would never have resolved to take a step so invidious and ungrateful if they had not been forced to it by their duty, their respect, and even their love." * Finally, is there any thing more beautiful and more ancient iu antiquity than the histoiy of the Troglodytes ? Montesquieiy if he had only written this episode, would be reckoned amon^ the greatest writers, and the most profound philosophers. Had Fenelon, in like manner, only written the Adventures of Aris- tonoiis he would have been placed among our best writers. The history of the Troglodytes should not be confounded with what has been usually called Utopia, viz., the dream of a tender and benevolent imagination, which flatters itself by thus inspiring men with a taste for virtue. It is not Salente nor Betique- t in spite of the charm and merit of these pieces, especially the last. When we read them we experience a pleasant, perhaps a salu- tary, impression ; but we have 110 distinct idea, and no precise instruction. It is not thus with the episode of the Troglodytes hazardous as it appears, and, at the first glance, more hazardous than Betique. Undoubtedly, Montesquieu only thought of a people such as might exist ; but when the allegory is once ad- mitted, we must not be deceived by it the story contains moral and social ideas much less remote from application. The more Montesquieu has outdone the Utopia, the farther has he removed error and illusion. He only meant, and we perceive it, to fur- nish a case for a lesson. And what beauty in the conclusion of his history : " I very well perceive what is the cause. O ye Troglodytes, your virtue begins to be too heavy for you. In the state you are, without a head, you are constrained to be virtuous, in spite of yourselves, or you cannot subsist, but must sink into the miseries of your ancestors. But this seems too hard a yoke for you ; you like better to be subject to a king, and obey his laws less 1 Lettrc cxl. 214 MONTESQUIEU. rigid than your morals. You know that then you may gratify your ambition, gain riches, and languish in slothful luxury; and, provided you avoid falling into great crimes, you will have no want of virtue." 1 Such thoughts carry back the mind to one of those expressions whose profound and manifold signification affects it in one rela- tion. " The perfect law," says St James, " is the law of liberty." 2 There is much, then, in the Persian Letters for serious minds, but much also for the frivolous and malignant. What constituted their most considerable ornament was undoubtedly appreciated, but was not more so than the philosophical boldness of the work. To certain people, indeed, its licentiousness would have been suffi- cient. It was the time of reaction. After the last years of Louis XIV., and the influence of Father le Tellier, and of Madame de Maintenon, the liberty of the French mind shook off the restraint of a devotion that had been imposed upon them. The most griev- ous licentiousness was not only admitted, but eagerly welcomed. With what avidity was that book perused, which described all the voluptuousness of the East, and all that is ridiculous in the West, which defied, with unusual freedom, and with overwhelm- ing coolness, ancient idols, and which represented the pope as a u magician, who makes men believe that the bread which they eat is not bread, or that the wine which they drink is not wine, and a thousand other things of the same nature." s ' And it is added, that this same pope is " an old idol, whom they reverence through custom ;" 4 that, in the present state of Europe, " it is not possible the Catholic religion should subsist there five hun- dred years ;" 5 that there are in France " men who are continu- ally disputing about religion ; but it seems as if they contended, at the same time, who should least observe it ;" G that " the king of France has more wealth than the king of Spain, for he derives it from the vanity of his subjects, more inexhaustible than mines." 7 We are pleased to see ourselves so well ridiculed, and this plea- sure eveiy one enjoys when he is not the only butt. What gave so lively pleasure, and continues to do so in our times, is the small scones contained in the form of a brief letter those portraits so picturesque, those shafts of satire so piercing, with which sublime and affecting traits are inter- 1 I. i-ttre xiv. J James i. ?.">. " J.cttre xxiv. 4 Jbid. xxix. l.ottre cxvii. * Ibid. xlvi. Ibid. \xiv. MONTESQUIEU. 215 mingled, or which they succeed. There is some resemblance between this style of writing and that of La Bruyere both have the lively and dashing style, the satirical and witty manner; in both the mode of writing aims at surprising, but internal force belongs to Montesquieu. He has the intellectual power and moral intention, which gives seriousness even to raillery. See, among others, that charming letter on the Persian dress ; l letter Ixxxiv., on the Hospital of Invalides, so full of noble sentiments; letter Ixxii., on the decider, or the man who cuts short all questions ;' read the dispute between the geo- meter and the philologer, 2 and the portrait of the eminently sociable man. 3 The perfection of each of these pictures is very striking. Here is the portrait of the man who supports his dig- nity : " Sometime ago, a man of my acquaintance said to me, I pro- mised to bring you to the best house in Paris ; I will take you now to a great lord, who supports his dignity better than any man in the kingdom. What do you mean, sir ? Is it that his behaviour is more polite, more affable than that of others *? No, said he. Ah ! I understand ; he takes all opportunities to make everybody who comes near him sensible of his superiority : if it be so, I have no business to go thither. I allow him his whole demand, and acquiesce in the inferiority to which he condemns me. Yet it was necessary to go, and I saw a little man so lofty ; he took a pinch of snuff with so much dignity; he blew his nose so unmercifully ; he spat with so much phlegm, and caressed his dogs in a manner so offensive to the company, that I could not but wonder at him. Ah ! said I to myself, if, when I was at the court of Persia, I behaved so, I behaved like a great fool ! We must, Rica, have been naturally very bad, to have practised a hundred little insults towards those people, who came every day to show their good will to us. They knew very well our supe- riority over them ; and if they had been ignorant of it, the favours we every day conferred on them must have convinced them of it. Having no need to do anything to make ourselves respected, we did all to render ourselves beloved : we were accessible to the meanest : amidst those honours, which commonly harden the heart, they experienced the sensibility of ours ; they found only 1 Lettre xxx, 2 Il>id. cxxviii. "> llml. Ixxxvii. 216 MONTESQUIEU. our souls superior to them ; we condescended to supply their wants. But when it was necessary to support the dignity of our prince in public ceremonies ; when it was proper to make our nation respectable to strangers; or, lastly, when in cases of danger, it was necessary to animate our soldiers, we ascended a hundred times higher than we had before descended ; recalled all our dignity into our looks, and it was found that we sometimes properly supported our dignity." l This letter, which breathes a sentiment not unsuitably charac- terized by the term unction, shows that the serious is at the bottom of all Montesquieu's thoughts. He cannot be absolutely frivolous. In his mind, thought is always joined to every thing to sentiment, to agreeable trifling, and to licentiousness. Even in his loose and voluptuous pictures there are strong ideas and reflections, and much more in his raillery. This raillery is not only bitter and cutting the satisfaction or revenge of good sense outraged by irregularities it is something still more profound it is thought and principles which obey the necessity of appearing in public, and, if it be possible, of rendering themselves acceptable. Everywhere Montesquieu aims at inculcating some truth. In short, if the Persian Letters were without the youthful extrava- gance, which the author himself at a later period regretted, they would be reduced to almost a half; but what would remain of them would furnish very attractive reading from a mind very elevated, and calculated to make a salutary impression on those who give it their attention. I do not here speak of political views, but especially of those that refer to morality. The style of the Persian Letters was a bold and singular novelty a little hard and knotty at times, very often defying harmony, blunt, very irregular, sparkling, individual, and mas- culine, in which the subject is crowded and condensed, and, by the energy of the expression, less resembles a painting than a bas-relief. It is neither simple nor plain, it has more sallies than ease and freedom, it spouts rather than flows, it abounds in pic- turesque phraseology, worthy of Montaigne the compatriot of the author, and noble besides. The seventeenth century had entirely disappeared. As the style is the man, as a century is a collective individuality, so a style is a century. The style of Montesquieu is the eighteenth century itself. 1 J.ettrc Ixxiv. MONTESQUIEU. 217 The splendour of the style, its vivacity and animation, the depth of the thoughts, the richness and intellectual ability which, in its light form, this work displayed to the public, fixed their attention. Its beauties and defects were, consequently, observed ; and Mon- tesquieu appears at the first to have taken his proper place, which does not always happen to great men. Nevertheless, if we speak of the Persian Letters in relation to literature, their appearance cannot be said to have been altogether a fortunate event ; no- thing acted so powerfully in authorizing the abandonment of the beautiful and graceful simplicity of the seventeenth century. In this respect, we may observe that the Persian were historically as important as the Provincial Letters ; they determined the literary language of their century, as the work of Pascal deter- mined that of his time. But this style, so brilliant and yet un- affected for this perpetual sparkling of ideas appears to have been the natural growth of Montesquieu's mind was not in itself of a nature absolutely sound, and it therefore became one of the causes of the deterioration of the language. Montesquieu was only ad- mitted into the Academy seven years after the publication of the Persian Letters in 1728. Without doubt, if the merit of his book secured his entrance, the boldness of its contents retarded his admission. Montesquieu was forty- five when he published, in 1734, Re- flections on the Causes of the Grandeur of the Romans, and their Decline. Two writers had preceded him in this path Saint- Evremond, in the first place, an author not well qualified for such a task, who yields to the ordinary temptation of second-rate minds, in disparaging great events, and in carrying the critical spirit to calumny. This satirical taste may procure a moment of satisfaction, but there is always poverty concealed under this appearance of superiority. Montesquieu had, especially, for his rival and predecessor, the great Bossuet, who, in Ins Universal History, treated this subject in a few pages. Bossuet examines with rare sagacity the influ- ence of institutions on events ; he puts, so to speak, Providence at the head of history. He is the first philosophic historian ; and although, in several respects, Montesquieu was his superior, we must not forget that Bossuet preceded him. On some points, Montesquieu repeats what he says, but as a Montesquieu could repeat ; he reproduces by renewing and joining his own ideas to 218 MONTESQUIEU. those of Bossuet ; he thinks, in his turn, of the same things, but in his own way. The inevitable coincidence is here only the recurrence of the same subjects. Yet, Montesquieu is more par- ticular, more complete, and more learned ; while Bossuet guides us perhaps less surely, but takes a more vigorous hold of the imagination. Besides, Bossuet presents, in the first place, general reflections, and then the story ; Montesquieu makes both go side by side, and distributes his reflections in due proportion a method unquestionably preferable. As to the style, both are models for study, and both are the greatest in French literature. Bossuet has more images, more fancy, an easier mode of exciting emo- tion something broader, more simple, less concentrated, and more copious, without ever ceasing to be animated ; animation is Bossuet's characteristic. Montesquieu wrote his book quite differently from his usual method no wit, no brilliant strokes, nothing sharp or pointed, no sparkling, a light uniformly expanded, a simple and powerful style, and something Roman and stoical in the language. The stoicism natural to the author has here passed into his mode of expression. "Montesquieu bears a greater resemblance to himself than in any other of his writings. If he used research in his other writings, it was rather a habit of mind than a weakness of hpart ; in himself he was simple, and he has found his true style in this book the diction is so grave, simple, and nervous, and is like a statue of the Roman people cast in bronze ; and yet, concise as this style is, it is not narrow nor contracted : Xapoleon said it was the only history of which there was nothing to retrench. In every case it is a fact to be noticed a great author, writing one of his books in a manner quite different from that which he uses everywhere else ! This pecu- liarity appears also in the Social Contract. Rousseau is a rhetori- cian the first of rhetoricians a sublime rhetorician, if you choose ; but in the Social Contract he could not be so a very unerring tact made him understand that such a book could not be written like the j\ T ew Eloise. The composition of Montesquieu's work is very simple, it is only the enumeration of the causes which produced the greatness of Rome, and then those of its decline -a natural plan, which has no need of a more sensible unity, because then it would be artificial. Montesquieu had not the capricious wish to create, beyond the unitv of his subject, a forced and chimerical unity. MONTESQUIEU. 219 The affectation of the necessity of unity is the disease of our age ; to collect into a single category analogous facts is real unity. Montesquieu goes no farther. He follows the chronological order ; he begins with showing the republic hatched in the monarchy, as the eagle in his egg, the powerful genius of conquests already preparing itself under those kings, who were almost all great men, without excepting Tarquin. Montesquieu in speaking of the last says : " The places which posterity assigns are subject, like other things, to the caprices of fortune. Wo to the reputation of any prince who is oppressed by a party which becomes predominant, or who has attempted to destroy a prejudice that survives him I" 1 Freed from monarchy, the republic settled down on its own basis, and here the author brings forward certain facts, even then little observed, whose influence is vital, such as the equal division of the lands and of the booty, which interested each citizen in the war : " It was the equal division of the lands which enabled Rome to rise from its low condition." 2 " As Rome was a city without commerce, and almost without arts, pillage was the only means of enriching individuals." 3 Thus the future state of Rome depended on the equality which was established at the beginning of its history the first cause of its aggrandizement. c_>O The second cause was the sacredness of an oath : " The plun- der was set out in public, and was distributed among the soldiers ; nothing was lost, because, before he set out, every one had sworn that he would turn nothing to his own advantage. Now, the Romans were the most scrupulous people in the world respecting an oath, which was always the strength of their military dis- cipline." 4 This inviolability, this sort of social religion, in a great mea- sure explains the success of the Roman arms. Although at bottom, religion at 'Rome, as among all pagans, was merely a social institution ; there, however, it was much less subordinate to politics than at Sparta. The idea of country there had assumed the character of infinitude, so much of a religious life as there is naturally in the human mind had passed into patriot- ism ; Rome itself was a divinity ; it was the voice of the gods ' Chap. i. 2 Ibid, iii. ' 11,1,1. i. Ibid. i. 220 MONTESQUIEU. which spoke from the summit of the capitol, and announced the future empire of Kome over the world. Hence that firmness of purpose; that prophetic anticipation of victory, that obstinate courage in reverses, that love of country, which rose even to fanaticism, and that enthusiastic devotedness which smothers the strongest feelings of nature, and even imposes silence on factions. Too frequently, alas ! our country is only our opinion, our sect, or our party ; many persons have only a patriotism of faction. Factions were not wanting at Rome, but the good of their coun- try kept them silent ; they loved their country with as much eagerness as men elsewhere love their party. It was this, in spite of the prodigious increase of the republic, which procured for it so long duration. " There was joined to the wisdom of good government all the strength which a faction could possess." 1 As a consequence of this feeling, obedience to the laws, the third source of Roman grandeur, was not only respectful, but fervent and impassioned. Another element of success was the constant and enlightened care in reference to the art of war, that power of selection with which this people so exclusive knew how to appropriate, in this respect, all that they found good in other nations : " What has most contributed to render the Romans masters of the world was, that after they had contended successively with all nations, they always gave up their own customs so soon as they found better." 2 With the same practical good sense, they did not impose on the vanquished people manners and customs, which would have been revolting to their habits, without better securing their sub- mission. In this sense, they avoided the desire of empire. 33ut it is not only in the heroic strength and in the wisdom of Rome that Montesquieu places the causes of its aggrandizement, he ascribes a part of it to its very vices. He describes the terror which its name inspired, the Machiavelism of its politics, the complication of tricks and intrigues, and the art of everywhere sowing division, and, at the same time, of rendering its arbitra- tion necessary, with a view to arrive gradually at the subjugation of the whole world : " What is surprising is, that this people (the Gauls), whom the Romans encountered in almost all places, 1 Cluqt. iv. : Ibid, i, MONTESQUIEU. 221 and at almost all times, allowed themselves to be destroyed one after another without ever knowing, examining, or preventing the cause of their misfortunes." l " Kings who lived amid luxury and pleasures durst not fix their eyes on the Roman people, and, losing their courage, they expected by their patience and base- ness, to suspend for a time the miseries with which they were threatened." 2 Among the enemies of Rome, Montesquieu depicts with a master's hand two great personages, Annibal and Mithridates, especially the last, who never allowed himself to be vanquished through fear : " A magnanimous king, who, in adversity, like the lion looking at his wounds, was only the more indignant. . . . In the abyss in which he was plunged, he formed the plan of carrying the war into Italy, and of going to Rome with the same nations which subdued it some centuries afterwards, and by the same road which they travelled." 3 The last cause of the grandeur of Rome was the civil wars : " There is no state which threatens others with conquest so much as that which is involved in the horrors of civil war. Every one, noble, citizen, artisan, labourer, become soldiers, and when their forces are -united by peace, this state has great ad- vantages over others which have only citizens. Besides, in civil wars great men are formed, because amid the confusion, those who have merit come forth, each takes his place, and assumes his rank, instead of being placed as at other times, and almost always wrong." 4 These were the principal causes of Rome's decline; first of all, the immense increase of the city and of the empire. By the enlargement of the city, and the extension of the right of citizen- ship, a considerable number of strangers settled in the ancient part of the town, and the old notion of citizen was considerably shorn of its former energy. By the enlargement of the empire, the soldiers, kept at a distance from Rome, were attached to their generals, and detached from the republic. Secondly, the corruption of manners, the consequence of an increasing and unparalleled prosperity. When a people naturally hardy are corrupted, this corruption becomes frightful, of which Sparta and Rome furnish proofs. 1 Chap. iv. * Ibid. vi. ibid. vii. Mbid. xi. 22? MONTESQUIEU. " The Romans, accustomed to sport with human nature in the persons of their children and slaves, could scarcely know that virtue which we call humanity. Whence can proceed that ferocity found among the inhabitants of our colonies, but from that continued practice of chastising an unfortunate part of the human race ? When men are cruel in the condition of citizens, how can mildness and natural justice be expected?" 1 Montesquieu follows out the picture of this period. After the death of Caesar, he shows us that liberty had become im- possible : " There happened what had never been seen before no tyrant and no liberty, for the causes which had destroyed liberty, still remained." 2 Men were seen at that time arriving at power, assisted by the very defects, which at other times would have prevented their success. Thus, Octavius was preferred for his cowardice. " This, even perhaps, was in his favour, that he was less feared. It is not impossible that the things which dishonoured him most were those which served him best." 3 After Augustus, Tiberius, Caligula, Claudius, Nero, ana 1 others followed. " Here we must take a view of human affairs. Let any one look into the history of Rome, so many wars un- dertaken, so much blood shed, so many nations destroyed, so many great actions, so many triumphs, such policy, wisdom, prudence, firmness, and courage ; the scheme of usurping every thing so well planned, so well supported, and so well executed, in what did it all end, but in glutting with prosperity five or six monsters!" 4 When the author has once crossed this bloody marsh of the empire, he runs over the vicissitudes of its two great divisions, the East and AVest ; he shows us the aven. \x. - Ibid. xxii. MONTESQUIEU. 227 which they took upon themselves, they were able at any moment to escape from every other power." 1 Undoubtedly, the less man is free the less courageous he is ; and, indeed, according to the notions of mankind, there is some- thing great in the liberty of disposing of themselves, indepen- dently of all power. It is of suicide committed from this one motive, of which Montesquieu pretends to speak, and not of suicide from despair ; and it must be acknowledged that several of the great actions of antiquity were backed by this liberty. But men dispose of themselves in two ways ; they may take away their life by suicide to escape the acts of a tyrant, or they may withdraw their spiritual being from errors and attacks by religion. Under Christian influence spring up an unalterable courage and devotedness, the fruits of calm resignation, which submits to the shock of events, because there is a conviction that God directs them, and also of the power which braves dangers, because God knows their limits. In the work, with which our attention has been occupied, Montesquieu was called to consider, in the history of a celebrated people, the reciprocal influence of circumstances upon the laws, and of the laws upon events. By turns the laws were presented to him as the concentrated expression of the state of the nation, and as one of the causes of that state. This double aspect was attached to his prevailing thought, that of contemplating legis- lation less as an object of erudition than as a philosophical subject. As a magistrate, he must have occupied himself with the letter of the laws ; as a writer, he studied them in their general appearance, and in their spirit. The Spirit of Laws, pub- lished in 1749, is an historical and practical examination of the relation which the laws bear to places, times, the form of govern- ment, the different ends of society, climate, religion, and man- ners. This work, to which Montesquieu devoted twenty years of his life, appeared six years before his death. He had founded on this publication great hopes, better than those of fame. The Spirit of Laivs is divided into thirty-one books. The first is a general introduction. In those which follow (ii. to viii.), the author inquires how legislation is, or ought to be, influenced by the form of government. The government is always, according 1 Chap. xii. 228 MONTESQUIEU. to him, monarchical, despotic, or republican. This last form comprehends two forms quite distinct, democracy and aristocracy. Now, in each of these governments, there are two things which we must not confound, and to each of which legislation should have respect, the nature of the government, that is the elements of which it is. composed, or the system on which it is established, and the principle of the government, that is the idea, or rather the sentiment, which animates this form. Montesquieu succes- sively directs his attention to these two points of view, but much more to the last, which is properly the prevailing thought in this part of his work. The principle of monarchy is, in his opinion, honour, that of despotism, fear, and, lastly, that of the republic, virtue, that is the love of equality, the principle which, in the aristocratic form, is modified, and takes the name of moderation. These different principles have necessary consequences in rela- tion to every thing with which legislation is called to occupy itself, education, courts of law, luxury, the condition of women all things, which must vary in different countries, according to the form of government which is established there, and especially according to the generating principle of that form. We learn afterwards how each of these governments perishes in consequence of corruption, or the excess of its principle, which returns to the same point. The author, in the progress of his work, is fre- quently led to the object of these first books, I mean the different forms of government ; yet in setting out from book ix., this distinction ceases to be the direct object of his inquiries, and it is under other points of view that he studies the spirit of laws. The relations of these to the defensive power of the state, and then to the offensive power or war, are taken up in books ix. and x., the second of which traces to some extent the rules of what may be called the right of the people. Passing to other objects, Montesquieu inquires by what com- binations political liberty may be best secured to the whole of the citizens, book xi. It is chiefly by the distinction and separa- tion of the three principal powers which exist in every state, the power of making laws, the application of them in decisions, and their execution in the administration of public affairs. It is on this occasion that Montesquieu first gives scope to his admiration of the English government, which seems to him to have fully solved the great problem of political science. MONTESQUIEU. 229 But as the liberty of the whole of the citizens would be of little value without the liberty of individuals, we must farther examine the laws in this last respect, and inquire by what system the rights of the citizen find the surest guarantee. This is the object of book xii. The same question of liberty again appears in book xiii., combined with the levying of taxes, of which the author discusses the sources and the mode of collection. The follow- ing books, xiv. to xvii., treat of climate, whose influence on the manners and ideas of the citizens he clearly brings out a cause of the difficulties of a legislator, on whom Montesquieu imposes the task of counterbalancing this influence by wise institutions. The author refers the origin of slavery to the power of climate, which he sets himself to demolish in three books, viewing it un- der the three forms of civil slavery, which is the state of one man possessed by another ; domestic slavery, which is the state of woman in certain countries; and, lastly, political slavery, in which a whole people is held by a despot. The nature of the soil, book xviii.j as barren or productive, as cultivated or uncul- tivated, is the cause of important differences in the condition of a people, and determines their degree of fitness for liberty and the laws by which they ought to be governed. So far the author has only, it appears, shown the laws in con- nection with external circumstances, but they have more delicate relations ; there are in every nation a general spirit, manners, and customs, against which the laws can do nothing directly : to in- fluence them they must first be respected, and to gain the mastery over them they must first be followed. This is the subject of book xix. The four following books, xx. to xxiii., treat of laws in rela- tion to commerce, money, and population. On this last object Montesquieu returns to the ideas which he had already broached in the Persian Letters ; he inquires into the causes of depopula- tion, and reviews the principal laws by which men, at different times, have endeavoured to remedy it ; he regards this depopula- tion as in itself an evil. But every legislator, unless he has himself imposed a religion on the people, finds a religion in possession of the people, for whom it is necessarily the first of the laws. The law cannot possibly pass by the public religion without taking notice of it, nor can it adopt as a rule of the state all the precepts of religion. 230 MONTESQUIEU. Another difficulty arises Ought the religion of the country to tolerate any other? Is persecution the right of the legislator, and the interest of the public, and of the prevailing religion ? The author recommends toleration. He also gives different rules respecting the conduct which a wise government ought to pursue in regard to sacred things and to the clergy. 1 In book xxvi., Montesquieu distinguishes different orders of laws, shows the relation of each to an order of particular facts, and points out the inconvenience and the danger of a false application, viz., the judging of facts of a certain order by the principles of another order. Thus the facts of the religious order cannot be judged by the laws of the civil order, nor the facts of the civil order by the laws of the religious. The rest of the work is historical. The history of the right of succession among the Romans and Franks, and of the feudal laws, almost occupy the whole of the last books. Of these questions, many are now common, which, at the appearance of Montes- quieu's work, were quite new. Among these historical discus- sions, he throws out, without much apparent connection, book xxix., on the manner of composing laws. This analysis justifies and makes us understand the title of the work. It is neither the law of laws, nor the rule of laws, nor the guide of the legislator, it is the spirit of laivs ; this is the expla- nation of what it is ; and the definition of the design is found entirely in this expression " Each nation will find here the reasons on which its maxims are founded." 2 This design, the only one which Montesquieu announces and avows, constitutes the novelty of his undertaking. The works of Plato and Cicero in ancient times, of Boclin and Algernon Sidney among the mo- derns, furnish plans of government. The work of Montesquieu is not even avowedly a criticism on this and the other form of government ; it is the study of the social forms, and of the prin- cipal political institutions, considered by turns in their principles and consequences. Farther, Montesquieu defends himself from having had any other design : and, far from deserving the epithet revolutionary, he seems to have disdained or declined to be called a reformer. This is the reproach cast upon him by his contem- poraries ; and, indeed, the following statement is not what a revolutionist or a reformer would have 1 made : 1 Livvcs xxiv.. xsv. - Preface. MONTESQUIEU. 231 " Could I but succeed, so as to afford new reasons to every man, to love his duty, his sovereign, his country, his laws ; new reasons to render him more sensible, in every nation and govern- ment, of the blessings he enjoys, I should think myself the hap- piest of men." l But these words were spoken neither by a man without sensi- bility nor by a slave ; and the end which the author proposes to himself, and the view which he announces is such that every true friend of man and of virtue may attain it. Montesquieu would wish men to be contented others seem to believe it sufficient to be happy. Yet let us not forget that he who is contented is at the same time happy, and this is the reason why the art of ren- dering men contented is worthy of being mentioned. Ages most or least happy, taking these words in their ordinary sense, are not the most contented ; and we must remark that, in general, the more a people are discontented, the less cause have they to be so. Their complaints, then, are more determined, and they know better what is deficient. We may regard contentment as an element in human happiness, and we may learn to perceive in it a part not only of that happiness, but of the moral disposition, in which society ought to be found. Montesquieu, however, does not mean to say that it is suffi- cient for a government to render men contented he joins to it also the obligation of rendering them happy. This ought to be, in his opinion, the end of the legislator ; it is, especially, on the writer on public law that he imposes the duty of rendering people contented. But whatever he may have meant by this thought, his book should have a different effect from that of obliging all people to congratulate themselves on their condition ; for they cannot ascend from effects to causes, or descend from causes to effects, without praise or blame ; we can scarcely explain without judging. This was well understood by Montesquieu. He made it his duty to instruct. " It is in seeking to instruct men that we can practise that general virtue which comprehends the love of all." 2 Now, he who speaks of instruction, speaks of enlighten- ing and disabusing men, not only respecting the nature of things, but their value ; otherwise, we do not see how instruction would have any relation to that general virtue of which Montesquieu Preface. 2 Ibid. 232 MONTESQUIEU. speaks. To instruct the public, is not to present to it a nomen- clature ; it is to set before it disorders and abuses, and this is not the way to render it contented. How ought we, then, to understand the passages which we have now quoted ? The author no doubt meant to say that his book, in pointing out abuses and disorders, would also take up what was good in existing institutions, would bring out some of their advantages less appreciated or less known, would give a reason for things which seemed to have none, and would attach to each inconvenience its natural compensations ; in a word, it would establish such a balance between good and evil, that there would result from it, in the mind of the reader, a feeling of satis- faction, or at least a disposition to patience, and a horror for violent changes. Montesquieu perhaps thought that the best and most useful reforms are always dearly purchased by the troubles of a revolu- tion ; that care must be taken not to excite men's minds by too lively a picture of the public disorders, and by too vehement complaints ; that truths of this order must be presented in such a way as to make them welcomed by men in power as willingly as by the public ; that the authorities must not be all at once embroiled with the citizens, but, on the contrary, a rupture must be prevented, which too much knowledge on one side, and too great obstinacy on the other, would render inevitable ; that for all this, fundamental questions should be more avoided than sought after; and that, in order to attain to what is best, we should set out from what exists, and not go bluntly to the point of view, which pure reason, separated from all historical consi- deration, would indicate. " In a time of ignorance men have committed even the great- est evils without the least scruple ; but in an enlightened age they tremble while conferring the greatest blessings. They per- ceive the ancient abuses ; they see how they must be reformed ; but they are likewise sensible of the abuses of a reformation." 1 " To propose alterations, belongs only to those who are so happy as to be born with a genius capable of penetrating into the entire constitution of a state." 2 This is a plausible thought. We may believe, that if it had 1 Preface. z Ibid. MONTESQUIEU. 233 been adopted and followed out by all the writers who, in the same age, were interested in social reform, it would have facilitated, without precipitating the movement, which was preparing in the state. But this is perhaps to ask a thing impossible ; few minds know how to restrain themselves; it is difficult to pass over in silence one part of the truth when the whole is known ; self-love leads writers to value some more than others ; boldness is excited by danger ; impatience is provoked by inactivity ; and modera- tion disconcerted by indignation. Abuses appear greater in pro- portion as knowledge increases ; they are in fact more intolerable, when they injure not only interests and rights, but offend public conviction ; in short, it might be said, that, towards the end of their reign their poison becomes more sharp, and their pretensions more exorbitant, whether it really is so, or whether the contrast makes us judge of them in this way. However this may be, if we take account of Montesquieu's principles and motives, we will not judge severely of what others have called in him timid silence, or a compromise with prejudices. In acknowledging that, on many points, his cen- sure should have been more direct and cutting, we shall not make it an object of reproach. We shall observe, besides, that the author of the Spirit of Laws has shown 110 indulgence to any institution, which is really contrary to the laws of nature and humanity; and if we find him timid, it is rather in his judgment of certain political forms, which may be bad, without our being struck with their faults at first sight, and without its appearing possible suitably to replace them. Montesquieu un- doubtedly did not appear entirely free from prejudice when he spoke of the nobility, and when he exaggerated the importance and usefulness of the intermediate classes ; but these errors are more than balanced by all the truths spread over his work, of which several, at the time when it appeared, were new, bold, and liberal. Here we may observe the contrast, which two classes of pre- judices, very different in their nature and origin, form in the mind of Montesquieu. You see him, on the one hand, much prejudiced in favour of the institutions of his country, and, on the other, in favour of the democratic institutions of antiquity ; the very wan- derings of a jealous and tyrannical liberty, too, often take his ad- miration by surprise : "I am strongly confirmed in my opinions 234 MONTESQUIEU. when I have the Romans on my side." J He allows himself to praise, among the ancients, institutions which natural equity and true patriotism condemn. Thus, in reference to the Ostracism, and an analogous institution at Rome, he says : " I must con- fess, notwithstanding, that the practice of the freest nation that ever existed induces me to think, that there are cases in which a veil should be drawn for a while over liberty, as it was customaiy to cover the statues of the gods." 2 We perceive here the man of imagination, the poet excited by every species of grandeur, and presenting his homage at the most different altars, provided that he sees, under any form whatever, in all its brilliancy, the perfection of human nature ; and as a throne, surrounded with a valiant aristocracy, has also its poetical grandeur, and as this form of government was that of his country, he pays to it his tribute of admiration. It is not even despotism, embellished by virtue, that has obtained any praise from this proud and sensible man ; and the painter of the liberty of the Troglodytes, has de- lineated, with no less sympathy, the happiness of the people under Arsace and Ismenie. 3 The preference, however, of his mind and heart is not equivocal ; liberty is at the foundation of the idea which he forms of social happiness and political perfection. With these reservations, I freely confess that there is in the point of departure taken by Montesquieu, in the conception, and, so to speak in the spirit of the Spirit of Laws, something uncer- tain and doubtful. Sometimes, by a voluntary and systematic indifference, he sets himself in opposition to his own form, which is not strictly systematic. Sometimes, by bursts of indignation or sympathy, he escapes from the circle, in which he seemed willing to be enclosed ; and one would be tempted to apply to him this saying : " A double-minded man is unstable in all his ways." * In short, sincerity in the tone and manner ap- pears to be wanting in the conception, or in the form of the work, and, in spite of the high morality, and of the liber- ality of a number of Montesquieu's thoughts, it has appeared to a number of readers that he opened the way to fatalism, to political atheism, and to Machiavelism. Philosophers and his- torians complained of it, religious men reproached him with it ; men were constrained, they said, to come to this inevitable con- 1 Book vi., chap. xv. - Ibid, xii., chap. xi.\. 3 Arsacc et Isnienie. Ilistoire Orientals. ' James i. K. MONTESQUIEU. 235 elusion, so soon as they were obliged to show the connection of effects and causes, without reference to morality. But what Montesquieu wished to do, and what he really did, in my opi- nion, was to write the natural history of the laws. This was a new and original undertaking. The history, morality, and theo- logy of laws had been already written. Montesquieu wrote their philosophy. Some were preoccupied with doctrine, others pas- sionately devoted to their ideas of politics or humanity ; all were surprised at this careful and scientific manner of treating the laws. This was the crime of Montesquieu. We must confess, however, that he has sometimes the appear- ance of Machiavelism. He seems to counsel tyranny. It is not necessary either to do this or to seem to do it, but the true mean- ing of Montesquieu is clear under these appearances. Not to be direct, the censure in the Spirit of Laics has not less force, when he shows us what are the necessary consequences of a system, and to what extent we are invincibly impelled when we set out from a certain point, and he gives judgment, while he has the appearance of explaining. Something, no doubt, at first astonishes the mind in the cool condescension with which, setting himself to contemplate despotism, he teaches it what is best to be done to maintain it, but this is only a matter of form ; he sets in its true light the spirit of despotism as of any other institution he unfolds this spirit, and the result of his teaching is to inspire us as much with contempt as aversion for this form of government. In reflecting on this matter, we shall, perhaps, see that the relative point of view in which Montesquieu places himself, as he sets out from w r hat is granted, and refers every thing to that, coincides as to results with the absolute point of view, or the point of view of what is absolutely good and true. In setting out from this point, he should have written not the Spirit of Laws, but the Law of Laws. He does not write, but supposes it, and if after all we cannot entirely acquit him respecting the form of his book, we may say, if we consider the whole work and all the effects which it has produced, that Montesquieu has succeeded in directing the movements of modern nations towards justice, liberty, and civilization. This is our first criticism. We would have wished, and would still wish, that at the time when Montesquieu wrote, he had 23G MONTESQUIEU. frankly and directly urged -the people, towards liberty. I leave you to form your own judgment on this point ; in general, from the time of the appearance of the books, blame has appeared to be greater than praise. The Social Contract made him be regarded as a friend of liberty rather lukewarm, and before its publication, the Spirit of Laws had been subjected to criticism. We are astonished at it, especially if we reflect that the real beauties of that book have lost somewhat of their relish by the progress of political ideas, and for the same reason the errors and defects have been more keenly perceived. But it would be very unjust to reproach Montesquieu with not knowing what we know, and more unjust still to treat as commonplace what be- came so from his time, and, perhaps, entirely originated with him. What it was vain to think of saying in the time of Louis XV., has now become extremely common, and the errors of 1750 must appear gross in 1846, without proceeding, however, from an unpolished mind. The times are changed. In the present day, for example, a state is not formed and constituted inde- pendently of other states; a sort of mutual security prevails among them all, and in consequence of the same principle, there is in reality only the same government wherever the idea of liberty is found. The civilized world is, so to speak, merely one great nation, of which each state is a province, and whatever may be the diversities of form, there is at bottom much more uniformity of opinion, interests, and political principles, than at first sight appears. We have come to see that civil law has at least as much influence over political as political law has over civil. The material element introduced into law by political economy plays a more decided part than formerly in political ideas. General views respecting population are no longer, and can be no longer the same. To be just, criticism ought not therefore to blame, or at least ought not to charge Montesquieu with faults, which at that time he could not have committed. The most serious criticism, of which the Spirit of Laws was the object, refers to the classifica- tion of the governments according to each of their forms, and according to the leading principle in that form. According to Montesquieu, there are three principal forms of political govern- ment, monarchy, despotism, and a republic. In his opinion, aris- tocracy is only a variety of the republican form. Now, this MONTESQUIEU. 237 classification, according to all that we have been able to see in history, appears very superficial, and has, perhaps, more appear- ance than reality. In order that a classification may be truly useful, it must rest on something else than form. Things very unlike in form may conceal a very great resemblance in reality, and things greatly resembling each other in form may hide dif- ferences, nay, contrarieties quite fundamental. To give only one proof of it, it is not quite clear that there are more republican elements in the English monarchy, such as Montesquieu knew and celebrated it, than in the aristocracy of Venice, to whose decrepitude he lent his assistance. This fact alone might have sufficiently informed him that the division which he chose was unsound and fallacious. In each of these principal forms, which, to say the truth, are only names, it would have at least been necessary to distinguish and define particular forms, which alone present realities. In this way, Montesquieu has only distinguished aristocracy ; and, as if to bind the knot harder, and to render it incapable of being loosed, he has made of each of his three forms a psycholo- gical fact, by attaching to it a principle by which he makes it exist; to monarchy, honour; to despotism, fear ; to a republic, virtue. In each kind of government, he refers every thing with- out exception to one of these sentiments, not permitting it to quit its post, and go to exercise its influence in the two others, although he defends himself from this imputation in the adver- tisement to his second edition. He cannot, in fact, permit it to them, so soon as he has resolved to characterize each form by one of these motives, and to deduce every thing from it. But what embarrassments and inconsistencies does he prepare for himself, to what quibbling and subtilties lias he recourse, and how diffi- cult is it to understand that he could say in his preface, " when I had discovered my principles, every thing I sought for ap- peared !" What is the vital principle of a government '? " It is," said he, u the human passion, which sets it in motion ; " by which he understands a feeling which, spread over the masses governed, corresponds to the form of government, and maintains it. But if, in monarchy, honour is the principal guide and motive of the nobles, what remains to guide the rest of the nation ? And when all the rest of the nation, besides, should be interested in its affairs, 238 MONTESQUIEU. what principle will be applied to them ? There will remain no- thing else than fear. Again, what is this honour, which is made the soul of monarchy ? If you believe Montesquieu, it is very fre- quently the reverse of true honour : " Ambition in the midst of idleness, meanness mixed ^ith pride; a desire of riches without in- dustry; aversion to truth, flattery, perfidy, treason, violation of en- gagements, contempt of civil duties, fear of the prince's virtue, hope from his weakness, but, above all, a continual ridicule cast upon virtue, are, I think, the characteristics by which most courtiers, in all ages and countries, have been constantly distinguished. Now, it is exceedingly difficult for the leading men of the nation to be knaves, and the inferior sort to be honest ; for the former to be cheats, and the latter to be content with being only dupes." l After all these deductions, what remains for the notion of ho- nour ? The author teaches it to us in the chapter on Education in Monarchies : " Here it is that we constantly hear three rules or maxims, viz., that we should have a certain nobleness in our virtues, a kind of freedom in our morals, and a particular polite- ness in our behaviour." 2 I believe the public happiness very badly guarded by all this it leaves the field free and open to oppression, to tyranny, and to contempt for humanity ; the mem- bers of an aristocracy, which only carries to the foot of the throne such honour, may be considered as the hundred hands of despo- tism. In that case, what Montesquieu calls monarchy, would be merely the combination of despotism and aristocracy, and the real motive of that kind of government would be fear. If, on the contrary, the nobility exercises in a state effective political privi- leges, the motive of honour may be joined to that of virtue. The working of this political influence among the English nobility is remarkable. As to fear, which Montesquieu makes the principle of despotic government that is, as it appears to me, monarchy without any intermediate body it is not, and cannot, be exclusively the prin- ciple of any government. No state in Christendom, nor perhaps anywhere else, can rest entirely on the motive of fear. Something better is required, and is always to be found. In all cases there is no absolute despotism conceivable without the intervention of relifjion, and whatever this religion may be, that alone ennobles 1 Livre iii., uhup. v. ' 2 Ibid, iv., c'liai>. ii. MONTESQUIEU. 239 and transforms slavery, since the principle of fear is modified and restrained by the free element of faith. There remains the republican form ; and, first of all, demo- cracy, whose principle, in the author's opinion, is virtue. He defines it, in the first place, to be the love of equality. On this point we have two remarks to make. First, the love of equality is not a virtue ; it is an instinct, and even of an inferior order. Secondly, it would have been much better to have said more generally, that it is the love of government and of country, in which men enjoy the advantage of equality ; in a word, the love of a system in which men are something, and may do some- thing. This love is so natural, and so easily excited, that you will often meet with it in countries where what we call liberty does not exist, and where the individual is politically nothing. It is sufficient, that he be happy there, that his habits be respect- ed, that his slavery be ennobled by ideas of religion, and softened by the moderate exercise of power, or by family relations between the sovereign and his subjects. But this love assumes a far more energetic character when every one feels himself a part of the state, and exercises in it his own share of influence, or at least feels that he may exercise it. Without profoundly analyzing this feeling, we may say that it is a love ; that as such it does not calculate, and that it is much less the republican virtue in itself than the soul of that virtue and its point of departure. The author well understood it, for he elsewhere defines virtue to be a "self-renunciation;" and adds, " it is in a republican govern- ment that all the power of education is required." l This definition is good : it remains to be known whether the republic that is democracy is eminently fitted to develop that disposition or that virtue ; but it is certain that there it is most required, and that in democracy nothing can supply its place. Besides, whatever Montesquieu's commentators may have said, political, as well as all other virtue, has this character. You may say as much as you please, and we will not contradict you that in this renunciation the mind knows how to find its account ; and it is sufficient for us that it reimburses itself independently of matter for the material sacrifices, which it imposes on itself. You will never go farther ; but virtue goes so far, and without i Livre iv., chap. v. 240 MONTESQUIEU. this noble imprudence, and this renunciation of the grossest part of our self (moi), there is really nothing great in human life. Every exalted mind, in this sense, is a bad calculator, or rather it does not calculate. Those critics of Montesquieu, who were ignorant of these truths, have incurred the reproach which he himself addressed to certain authors, who, according to him, speak to the understanding and not to the heart. Thus, in making an abstract of human nature, Helvetius, in his Notes on the Spirit of Laws, takes Montesquieu to task for having spoken of one's country as an object of duty and service. " Country is only citizens ; to make it a real being is to give rise to much false reasoning." 1 I do not know, gentlemen, what these false reasonings are. Community of origin, of habitation, of remembrances, of laws, of interests, and of duties, has always given, and will always give, a reality to the idea of country ; this idea excites a natural feeling, like family affections ; this feeling may become egoistical and exclusive, like other feelings ; but in itself it is innocent and useful ; and when it is made consistent with the love of humanity, and is subordinate to the love of God, it is certainly one of the beauties of the human mind. In the other form of a republic, aristocracy, the vital principle, is still virtue ; but this is not the love of equality, it is moderation. It is no longer the virtue of all, but only of men in power, when they abstain from desiring all that they might. We may say, that this is another form of self-renunciation, which Montesquieu has now made the soul of democracy. For he who keeps himself under restraint exercises self-renunciation ; and the author him- self says of moderation : " I understand that which is founded on virtue, not that which proceeds from indolence and pusillani- mity." ' 2 Of these two renunciations, however, the one is ener- getic and impassioned, the other has not that character ; and I can scarcely call the moderation, which Montesquieu prescribes to aristocracies, a virtue ; on the other hand, I believe them to be capable of higher virtues, more real, too, and more capable of exciting passion. I intentionally use this last word, remember- ing that he has denned the vital principle of each government, " the human passion, which sets it in motion ;" 3 now moderation is not a passion. 1 I.ivre v., ciiap. iii., note 3. - Iliid. iii., chap. i\. 3 Ihic'., chap. i. MONTESQUIEU. 2il These observations are very important. The defects which they take up are such as injure perspicuity, and diminish in- formation, but we must not exaggerate their extent. Those critics pass over many things in the first nine books, because the general ideas which are found there, are not so faulty in being false as in their being incomplete, inaccurate, and, by no means proportioned to the author's design. There are in these first books a number of sound views, observations which denote rare sagacity, and which are particularly explanatory of social phenomena, and of the working of different governments, in which we must perceive a very great knowledge of the human heart, and of human affairs. Few authors, it appears to me, have discovered with so much sagacity, through many obscure media, what ought to be the most remote consequences of a certain system of government, or, if you choose, in what re- lation such and such a fact appears to be totally isolated from polities', and yet is found connected with them. Here surely is judgment, and in this sense we would sav that Montesquieu showed his judgment on the laics, which a lady more witty than considerate, applied in another sense. The very foundation of the ideas in the work has been severely criticised, especially in later times. Montesquieu referred too many things to the influence of climate ; on this subject, he has been too minute and too rigorous ; we can scarcely help smiling when we see introduced into the Spirit of Laws, the detailed ac- count of experiments, to which he had subjected a calPs tongue. Let us not forget, however, that after he has ascribed much to the influence of climate upon manners, he concedes to the laws, that is to man, a decisive power over climate, and makes it the legislator's duty to resist the operation of this physical fact. But the progress of all the sciences, and of political economy in particular, has rendered, it must be allowed, several parts of the Spirit of Laics of little intrinsic value. There, the author on the subject of population repeats the very erroneous ideas which he had already put forth in the Persian Letters. Population in itself is not an element of prosperity, it is not even a sign of it, therefore the legislator ought not to strive to increase it, for where is the advantage in multiplying wretchedness, but his aim should be to increase to such an extent the public resources, that they may be sufficient for a larger population. And as to Q 242 MONTESQUIEU. the prudence of preventing early marriages, and of withdrawing years and whole lives from reproduction, it is not the business of the legislator to command it, but it should be inculcated by moralists and philanthropists, and suggested by education. On the subject of luxury and commerce, Montesquieu was deficient in the knowledge, which we have acquired during the century that has terminated since his death. Never did the genius of one man arrive at the knowledge of a whole science, and never was genius able absolutely to supply the place of observation and experience. To continue our criticism, we may say, gentlemen, that the distribution of Montesquieu's work is not the most convenient. Analogous subjects are separated by great distances ; some topics are attached to others by the use of the same terms, rather than by the force of the thought. When uniformity is not in the things, it must not be put in the words. We are surprised to find a great number of general observations on criminal legis- lation, placed in a book which treats of the particular character of legislation in monarchies, then observations of the same sort repeated somewhat farther on under a very different title. See, for example, book xii. on the Liberty of the Citizen. Some- times the titles of books do not exactly announce their subject. Often chapters have but little connection with one another. We cannot tell whither the author means to conduct his reader, and are sometimes disposed to say, that, embarrassed by a great number of facts, anecdotes, and historical events, which he has collected, he knows not very well to what general idea to re- fer each of them, and gets out of the difficulty by bringing for- ward, whether good or bnd, a general idea of the fact which he relates. The nature of the work, attention to perspicuity, and perhaps, even the interest in reading it were opposed to the cutting up of the subject, so to speak, into so many small pieces under the name of chapters. There is something contrary to the gravity of the subject, and to the very mode of thinking of Montesquieu something like mockery in writing what follows : " Chapter xv., Sure methods of preserving tltc three principles. I shall not be able to make myself rightly understood till the reader has perused the four subsequent chapters." Chapter xvi. Voltaire, sometimes unjust to Montesquieu, was not so when MONTESQUIEU. 243 he called him the skipping Montesquieu; and Buffon was not more unjust in the indirect criticism, which the discourse at his admission to the French Academy contains: " The interruptions, pauses, and sections should only be used when a person treats of different subjects, or when, having to speak of great, difficult, and incongruous topics, the progress of genius is interrupted by a multiplicity of obstacles, and con- strained by the necessity of circumstances, otherwise the great number of divisions, far from rendering a work more compact, destroys its unity ; the book appears clearer to the eye, but the design of the author remains obscure he can make no impres- sion on the mind of the reader ; he cannot even make himself understood, but by the continuity of the thread, by the harmonious dependence of ideas, and by a successive development, a sustained gradation, and a uniform movement, which every interruption destroys or weakens." The severity of form, with which Montesquieu could invest his Reflexions on the CoMses of the Grandeur and Decline of the Romans, is a proof of the deliberate choice, by which he meant to give to the Spirit of Laws a character by no means consistent with the gravity of his subject. Austere in his former work, he had sacrificed that poetic element, which is so easily found in his mind by the side of the philosophical. In the Spirit of Laws he thought he couid, nay ought, to remove the interdict, which he had placed on his fine imagination. He desired, and no doubt expected, a more extensive circle of readers; he wished in one sense to be popular; this was the position in which he was placed in this respect, that at the beginning of his work he commenced with an invocation to the muses. Guided by the advice of a man of letters, he suppressed it. We think that if his imagina- tion could have been kept within bounds, it might without incon- venience have coloured, like the rays of the rising sun, the lofty summits of his subject, but Montesquieu's imagination has some- times abused its liberty by exercising itself on the foundation of things. In short, it is impossible to clear him entirely of contradictions and incongruities. We do not certainlv agree, that he deserved O i/ CJ * the saying of Madame du Deffand, to which we have just al- luded, still less the unjust and indecent criticism of Yoltaire, who reproaches him with " making diversion in a book on universal 244 MONTESQUIEU. jurisprudence." Would any one call diverting, the chapter en- titled, Idea of Despotism"? Here it is entire: "When the savages of Louisiana are desirous of fruit, they cut the tree at the root, and gather the fruit. This is an emblem of despotic government." l Nothing in all the book contributes to the reproach so much as this. And where is the harm? Where is the ridicule of having summed up in this image the whole character of despotism? There is no doubt wit in the Spirit of Laws; there is perhaps too much, but there is no drollery. The irony to which Montesquieu has sometimes recourse, in his despair to prove things too clear, is an irony by no means droll but poignant, and most seriously intended. I will give, as an example of it, chapter v. of book xv. The author in the preceding chapters pretended to search for a valid reason for slavery; the more he seeks the less he finds it, and the reasons which he imagines are a bitter satire on this pretended right. He continues in this tone on the sub- ject of negro slavery: " Were I to vindicate our right to make slaves of the negroes, these should be my arguments: The Europeans, having extir- pated the Americans, were obliged to make slaves of the Africans, for clearing such vast tracts of land. Sugar, would be too dear, if the plants which produce it were cultivated by any other than slaves. These creatures are all over black, and with such a flat nose, that they can scarcely be pitied. It is hardly to be believed that God, who is a wise Being, should place a soul, especially a good soul, in such a black ugly body. The colour of the skin may be determined by that of the hair, which among the Egyptians, the best philosophers in the world, was of such importance, that they put to death all the red haired men who fell into their hands. The negroes prefer a glass necklace to that of gold, which polite nations so highly value; can there be a greater proof of their wanting common sense? It is impossible for us to suppose these creatures to be men, because allowing them to be men, a suspicion would follow, that we ourselves are not Christians. Weak minds exaggerate too much the wrong done to the Africans; for, were the case as they state it, would the European powers, who make so many needless conventions 1 l.ivre v., chap. xiii. MONTESQUIEU. 245 among themselves, have failed to enter into a general one, in behalf of humanity and compassion?" When we read this chapter we feel a sort of comfort, humanity appears to be half avenged. One of the characteristics of Montesquieu's style is the taste, perhaps excessive, but yet the admirable talent of throwing out, like flashes of lightning, a number of very profound thoughts, of which a single one might be sufficient to arrest the attention of the reader. It is often a defect' it is the sacrifice of the whole to the detail but it is a defect of which very few minds would be capable. See the Very Humble Remonstrance to the Inquisitors of Spain and Portugal: " A Jewess of ten years of age, who was burned at Lisbon at the last auto-da-fe, gave occasion to the following little piece the most idle, I believe, that ever was written. When we attempt to prove things so evident, we are certain never to convince. The author declares that, though a Jew, he has a respect for the Christian religion, and that he should be glad to take away from the princes, who are not Christians, a plausible pretence for persecuting this religion. ( You complain,' says he, ' to the Inquisitors that the Emperor of Japan caused all the Christians in his dominions to be burned by a slow fire. But he will answer, We treat you, who do not believe like us, as you your- selves treat those who do not believe like you ; you can only complain of your weakness, which has prevented you from ex- terminating us, and which has enabled us to exterminate you. But it must be confessed that you are much more cruel than this emperor. You put us to death, who believe only what you believe, because we do not believe all that you believe. We follow a religion, which you yourselves know to have been for- merly dear to God. We think that God loves it still, and you think He does not ; and because you judge thus, you make those suffer by sword and fire who hold an error so pardonable, as to believe that God still loves what He once loved We entreat you, not by the God whom both you and we serve, but by that Christ who, you tell us, took upon himself the human form, to propose himself for an example for you to follow ; we entreat you to behave to us as He himself would behave were He upon earth. You would have us be Christians, and you will not be so yourselves. But, if you will not be Christians, be at 246 MONTESQUIEU. least men : treat us as you would, if, having only the weak light of justice which nature bestows, you had not a religion to con- duct, and a revelation to enlighten you. If heaven has had so great a love for you, as to make you see tlie truth, you have received a singular favour ; but is it for children, who have re- ceived the inheritance of their father, to hate those who have not ? If you have this truth, conceal it not from us, by the manner in which you propose it. The characteristic of truth is its triumph over hearts and minds, and not that impotency which you confess, when you would force us to receive it by tortures You live in an age in which the light of nature shines brighter than it has ever done in which philosophy has enlightened human understandings in which the morality of your gospel has been more known in which the respective rights of mankind, with respect to eacli other and the empire which one conscience has over another are best understood. If you do not shake off your ancient prejudices, which, whilst unguarded, mingle with your passions, it must be confessed that you are incorrigible incapable of any degree of light or instruc- tion ; and a nation must be very unhappy that gives authority to such men as you It is necessary that we should inform you of one thing, that is, if any one, in time to come, shall pre- sume to assert that, in the age in which we live, the people of Europe were civilized, you will be quoted as a proof that they were barbarians ; and the idea they will have of you will be such as will dishonoxir your age, and spread hatred over all your con- temporaries.' " x I do not complain, gentlemen, that the Spirit of Laics has been too much blamed ; I merely complain that it has not been sufficiently praised. What author, in the eighteenth century, abounds in ideas so grand, ingenious, copious, and striking ? AY hat author, with so great vigour, and in so many ways, stimu- lated the public thought ? AYliat author has furnished to political writers more quotations and comparisons ? AA'hat book, during the agitation of the French revolution, and during the times which followed it, could have appeared more prophetic ? And, if the Spirit of Lairs is not a body of regular and complete doc- trine, what a treasure of elevated, useful, and practical truths lias it not opened up to us? 1 T/ivrc xxv., rhap. xiii. MONTESQUIEU. 247 The virtue which Montesquieu enjoins on aristocracies is, ir we dare say so, that which shines in his book moderation ; but his moderation, in the same way as that which he recommends to aristocratic governments, is not cowardice or weakness of mind. He is moderate because he is strong. Young minds are apt to think that there is more force in being absolute they forget that the question here is respecting a science and a sphere in which every thing, with the exception of the principles of eternal justice, is essentially relative. Thus Montesquieu judges of it. He wishes neither mathematical rigour nor the absolute character of morality. Politics, indeed, hold only as absolute what touches on morality. We would not, however, say with Pope : " For forms of government let fools contest, Whate'er is best administered is best." If anything appears clear in Montesquieu's book, it is the necessity of uniting, in the best possible proportions, the leading distinctive elements in each form of government. This is a kind of creative eclecticism, by which he has gone beyond his own time, and has come to the knowledge of ours. The political opinions of the nineteenth century are his ; if he is deceived, so are we. The views of Montesquieu are the loftiest, because they are the most comprehensive. But it is very extraordinary in the domain of minds, as in the kingdom of heaven the violent take it by force. Man is naturally sectarian, if men truly great are not so. The human mind wishes only one thing at once : it is at the mercy of men of vehement and exclusive genius ; we take two steps forward and one backward, and this is the progress of the human mind. We must not think, however, that calm and moderate men of genius lose their time and trouble. Their day comes, or rather, their day is eternal. Let them console them- selves, for not receiving popular applause reserved for minds more under the influence of passion, and more narrow. We may still further commend Montesquieu's respect for human nature ; his love for j ustice and truth; his true philan- thropy ; his reverence for all the virtues which ennoble man and his destiny; and, in short, his attachment to the principle's 248 MONTESQUIEU. which form the basis of human society. In regard to this last point, we must quote what he has written on public conti- nence : "There are so many imperfections attending the loss of virtue in women, and so greatly are their minds depraved, when this principal guard is removed, that, in a popular state, public incon- tinence may be considered as the last of miseries, and as a certain forerunner of a change in the constitution. Hence it is that the sage legislators of republican states have ever required of women a particular gravity of manners. They have proscribed, not only vice in their republics, but the very appearance of it. They have banished all gallantry a species of intercourse that pro- duces idleness ; that renders the women corrupters even before they are corrupted ; that gives a value to trifles, and debases things of importance ; in a word, an intercourse that makes people act entirely on the maxims of ridicule, in which the women are so perfectly skilled." 1 It is no longer the author of the Persian Letters, nor the man of his own age, who is speaking. lie sets himself to strengthen what the most part of the moralists of bis time sought to weaken and destroy. There is in that passage a little more social philo- sophy than in this remark of an editor of Voltaire, who gives, in a few words, what Voltaire himself had said or insinuated in a hundred places : " There is more reason, innocence, and happi- ness in a pleasant and voluptuous life, than in a life spent in intrigues, ambition, avarice, and hypocrisy Seek over the whole globe for a country where austerity of manners is in great repute, you will be sure to meet there with all vices and all crimes." 2 This is the favourite doctrine of the eighteenth century. Not only Voltaire, but many other great minds, gave to it the weight of their authority; for example, liousseau and Condorcet. We have no desire to see all this true that corrup- tion of manners is closely connected with this levity of conduct, and that one vice opens the door to all. Especially, we have no desire to see what had struck Montesquieu, and what La Roche- foucauld had seen before him, that woman, in losing her modesty, loses all at once. Yet, in the present day, the miseries of France, 1 Livre vii., chap. viii. ' Avertissement des Editi'urs di- Kchl, en tete de la Pucelle. MONTESQUIEU. 249 and the imperfection of its civilization, are in a great measure explained by this circumstance. On several points, we shall listen to Montesquieu himself, and, in the first place, on moderation of punishments : " Mankind must not be governed with too much severity ; we ought to make a prudent use of the means which nature has given us to conduct them. If we inquire into the occasion of all human corruptions, we shall find that they proceed from the impunity of criminals, and not from the moderation of punishments." 1 " There are two kinds of corruption one, when the people do not observe the laws ; the other, when they are corrupted by the laws an incurable evil, because it is in the very remedy itself." 2 " The excessive severity of the laws therefore prevents their execution : when the punishment surpasses all measure, they are often obliged to prefer impunity to it." 3 Elsewhere, on penal laws in their relation to offences against religion, Montesquieu expresses himself thus : " In things that prejudice the tranquillity or security of the state, secret actions are subject to human jurisdiction. But in those which offend the Deity, where there is no piiblic act there can be no criminal matter ; the whole passes between man and God, who knows the measure and time of his vengeance. Now, if magistrates, con- founding things, should inquire also into hidden sacrileges, this inquisition would be directed to a kind of action that does not at all require it ; the liberty of the subjects would be subverted by arming the zeal of timorous, as well as of presumptuous, consci- ences against them. The mischief arises from a notion which O some people have entertained of revenging the cause of the Deity. But we must honour the Deity, and leave Him to avenge His own cause. And, indeed, were we to be directed by such a notion, where would be the end of punishments ? If human laws are to avenge the cause of an infinite Being, they will be directed by His infinity, and not by the weakness, ignorance, and caprice of man." 4 " Penal laws ought to be avoided, with regard to religion ; they imprint fear, it is true, but as religion has likewise penal laws which inspire the same passion, the one is effaced by the other ; and, between these two different kinds of fear, the mind becomes hardened." 5 1 Livre vi., chap. xii. 5 Ibid. 3 Ibid, vi., chap. xiii. * Livre xii., chap. iv. > Ibid, xxv., chap. xii. 250 MONTESQUIEU. On the evidence of morality : (l It is much easier to prove that religion ought to humanize the manners of men, than that any particular religion is true." 1 " In order to raise an attachment to religion, it is necessary that it should inculcate pure morals. Men who are knaves in detail are very honest in the gross they love morality. And, were I not treating of so grave a subject, I should say that this appears remarkably evident in our theatres : we are sure of pleasing the people by sentiments avowed by morality we are sure of shock- ing them by those which it disapproves." 2 Montesquieu is not a theologian, nor even a good Christian ; nor can we say that he makes any such pretension ; but among the laymen of the eighteenth century, no one has spoken so ad- mirably of Christianity. " How admirable the Christian religion, which, while it seems only to have in view the felicity of the other life, constitutes the happiness of this!" 3 " Mr Bayle, after having abused all religions, endeavours to sully Christianity. He boldly asserts that true Christians cannot form a government of any duration. Why not? Citizens of this profession, being infinitely enlightened with regard to the various duties of life, and having the warmest zeal to fulfil them, must be perfectly sensible of the rights of natural defence. The more they think themselves indebted to religion, the more they would imagine due to their country. The principles of Chris- tianity, deeply engraved on the heart, would be far more powerful than the false honour of monarchies, than the humane virtues of republics, or the servile fear of despotic states." 4 This is what Montesquieu says on the subject of inexpiable crimes : " From a passage of the books of the pontiffs, quoted by Cicero, it appears that they had among the Romans inexpiable crimes The pagan religion, indeed, which prohibited only some of the grosser crimes, and which stopped the hand, but meddled not with the heart, might have crimes that were inexpi- able, but a religion which bridles all the passions, which is not more jealous of actions than of thoughts and desires, which holds us not by a few chains, but by a vast number of threads ; which, laying human justice aside, establishes another kind of justice; which is so ordered, as to lead us perpetually from repentance to 1 Livre xxiv., chap. iv. - Ibid, xv., chap. ii. ;j I.ivre xxiv , i-hap. iii. 4 Iliid. xxiv., chap. vi. MONTESQUIEU. 251 love, and from love to repentance ; which puts between the judge and the criminal a great Mediator, between justice and the Me- diator a great Judge ; a religion like this ought not to have inex- piable crimes. But, while it gives fear and hope to all, it makes us sufficiently sensible, that though there is no crime in its own nature inexpiable, yet a whole criminal life may be so ; that it is very dangerous to affront mercy, by new crimes and new expia- tions ; that an uneasiness on account of ancient debts, from which we are never quite free, ought to make us afraid of contracting new ones, of filling up the measure, and going even to that point where paternal goodness is limited." 1 Has Montesquieu, with all the moderation of his language, impressed on the forehead of all tyrants a mark of disgrace less deep than the impassioned declamations of some other writers of the same period ? Is any one of them equal to him in equity and impartiality, and does any one go to the investigation of every subject with a mind so unprejudiced? This equity shows a fine mind or a lofty spirit ; and I think, in the case of Montesquieu, it is both. Voltaire said : " Humanity had lost its title-deeds ; Montesquieu recovered and restored them to it." This time Voltaire was magnificently just. We shall only say a few words on the other works of Montes- quieu. It will be quite sufficient for us only to mention the De- fence of the Spirit of Laws (1750). Against those who taxed it with irreligion, Montesquieu quotes in his own justification several passages of his book, and adds : " These passages are clear, you see in them a writer who not only believes the Christian religion, but who loves it." 2 As to the spirit and tone of this defence, they are excellent. It was worthy of Montesquieu to write these words : " Those who give us information are the companions of our labours. If the critic and the author seek truth, they have the same interest, for truth is an advantage to all men ; they will be confederates, not enemies." 3 The Temple of Gnidus appeared in 1725. It is surprising to see this work come from the same pen as the Spirit of Laws. It is the morality or the casuistry of love, and this love is not the mysticism of a profound and delicate sentiment, nor is it that mysticism of another kind which falls into extravagance, and still 1 Livre xxiv., oliap. xiii. ' Premiere partie. ' Troisiemc partie. 252 MONTESQUIEU. maintains its intelligence ; it is a cool love and a sport of the mind, in which sentiment goes for nothing. We find in it bril- liant pages, and a rapid and prominent style, but freedom and grace are wanting. Montesquieu could not get rid of his massive thoughts, and of his nervous style. In general, his sentiments were easily expressed, they were condensed like the steam which is attached to the lid, and as the drops fall again as water, so they came under his pen as thoughts. It is, as has been said, the eagle that takes to flight in a thicket, and breaks the branches as he expands his wings. He cannot help being sublime : "A man adores in secret the caprices of his mistress, as he adores the decrees of the gods, which become more just when he ven- tures to complain of them." * Lysimachus is an admirable little story full of sublimity ; it is the history of the philosopher Callisthenes, mutilated by Alexan- der, and of Lysimachus his general, and afterwards his successor. "Lysimachus," says he to me (it is Callisthenes who is speak- ing to him), " when I am in a situation which requires strength and courage, I think I am almost in my own place. Indeed, if the gods had placed me on the earth merely to lead a voluptuous life, I should think that they would have given me in vain a great and immortal soul. To enjoy the pleasures of sense is a thing of which all men are quite capable ; and if the gods have made us only for this purpose, they have performed a work more per- fect than they intended, and the execution is better than the undertaking." "Prexapes, to whose care I was entrusted, brought me this answer : Lysimachus, if the gods have resolved that you should reign, Alexander cannot tako away your life, for men cannot resist the will of the gods." " This letter encouraged me, and reflecting that the happiest and most un- happy men are surrounded by divine power, I resolved to conduct myself, not by my hopes, but by my courage, and to defend to the last a life respecting which there were so great promises." The Dialogue of Sylla andEucrates is the development of the thought, which Montesquieu had expressed in the Reflexions on tlie, Causes of the Grandeur and Decline of the Romans : " In the whole life of Sylla, and amid all his violence, we see a re- publican spirit ; all his regulations, though tyrannically executed, 1 Chant i. MONTESQUIF.U. 253 tend always to a certain republican form. Sylla, a passionate man, violently leads the Romans to liberty." 1 The Essay on Taste consists only of a few pages, which are still read with interest, and which contain very ingenious thoughts. Unfortunately this Essay is incomplete. We have already spoken of Montesquieu as a writer. We may add in conclusion, that he leaves us dissatisfied in respect of sweetness, harmony, fluency, elegance, and even correctness. The great prose writers of the seventeenth century were simple ; Montesquieu is not. He is even affected, but he is so in his manner as a genius who sports with his power. He blunts the French idiom, subdues it, and makes it entirely break its habits. He scarcely lets all his thought escape, as if he were afraid to degrade himself by being too lavish. He is close, concise, de- tached, and epigrammatic. He goes to his subject in lively and impetuous sallies. It is in order and connection that the style of Montesquieu is faulty, and it is precisely these qualities which constitute the perfection of style in the seventeenth century. In this respect, the eighteenth was conscious of its deficiency, and sometimes could supply it. With Montesquieu, the character of the expression is that of a power which is condensed or concentrated. All his poetry or his rhetoric is summed up, in my opinion, in his admiration of Floras, and in that passage in his Essay on Taste : " What com- monly constitutes a great thought is, when a thing is said which suggests a number of others, and when we discover at once what we could only hope to obtain after much reading." Montesquieu is brilliant, but not effeminate ; what shines upon his person is the polish of steel armour, not the gold embroidery of Asiatic purple. Bossuet and Montesquieu are the two sublimest of our prose writers. Certainly the style of Bossuet is much purer and more classical than that of Montesquieu, but there are in both the same bursts of thought, and the same extent and rapidity of view. 1 Chap. xiii. 254 VOLTAIRE. XIX. VOLTAIRE. 1694-1778. FIRST PART. VOLTAIRE ! we have not yet, gentlemen, in the course of our studies, met with his equal. He is, for the time, the personi- fication of the eighteenth century. His life even is divided according to that great period. The year 1750, or rather 1746, marks the turning point in the career of Voltaire, and in the tendency of the age. It would be highly interesting to obtain a thorough knowledge of the individuality of that unhappy genius, whose appearance is a fact in the history of human nature. AVe are well ac- quainted with the character of Montesquieu from the confessions which we have secretly drawn from him, but which are not less explicit and authentic. With perhaps a single exception, the seventy volumes of Voltaire's works, do not contain a single line to this effect ; l and yet every thing, even to the most trifling note, has been collected. Voltaire never knew himself, nor was he anxious that he should. Well, this is the first feature in his character ; lie was social, worldly-minded, restless, constantly going from place to place, not given to reflection or meditation, and no anchorite ; he had a lively sensibility, and an irritability, which does not work on his peculiar impressions, and which is unsuitable to the general conduct, but quite sufficient for talent. Pie is always satisfied with the first thought and sentiment, and in his case, there is but one great effort he is instinct personified; and even in his literary criticism, instinct still prevails. Among the men presented to us in literary and political history, there is none in whom this character existed to the same degree. 1 Except when lie speaks as a poet, and especially in tlie theatre by the month of an actor. The poet is not quite the man, nor the true in;;n, it is not by the understand- ing, but by the heart that ;i man shows himself'. VOLTAIRE. 255 Never had any living man merely impressions without any change. Voltaire had not the internal mirror from which the man is reflected, he never knew repentance, which is the re- flection of one's own character ; he persevered in his long career without self-consciousness. He was a natural man without re- sistance or counterpoise a natural man elevated, so to speak, to the second place of authority, equally a stranger to the re- newing of the mind, which Christianity produces, and to that internal work, by which certain men have in some measure renewed themselves. This feature must first of all he carefully observed. Might there not be in it weakness, or a cause of weakness ? When to this disposition is joined much talent and genius, and when we have to do with an impressible and impetuous people, when im- patience and the necessity of all kinds of novelties work in all minds, then what we might be tempted to call weakness becomes power. But, here we are only making a profile, the full face portrait must be taken from the whole life. Voltaire has another power. Among all the writers of the first half of the eighteenth century, among all the authors who figure in that intellectual and animated drama, he is the only one who was, I do not say universal, much less do I say extensive, but the only one who was so flexible and brilliant, even where he is less strong and less solid than any other. The mind of Montes- quieu is more enlarged, but he is deficient in flexibility, while the most distinctive character of Voltaire is the power of going over every point, and of taking up all positions ; in short, his extraordinary facility of conception and execution. No where, perhaps, is he the first, unless it be in fugitive poetiy, where he remains without a rival; but he is everywhere, and everywhere he is sparkling. His peculiarity is not to be peculiar. An ob- scure poet of the last century said of him : " He is never below his subject ; but he is not what he supposes himself to be original ; every where he finds his master." This is true, but it is defective. Into all the subjects which Voltaire treated, he introduced a new element his manner of comprehending life. At bottom, his philosophy is perhaps only that. Every where, in- deed, if we view him in connection with art, any one may be called his master, but still he possesses that indescribable thing called Voltaire, with which he succeeded in characterizing his 256 VOLTAIRE. age. Every where second, and every where himself. His per- sonality and flexibility were two conditions of the part which he had to perform. Without them, he would have simply shared in the brilliant aristocracy of men of letters of the sixteenth cen- tury, but the republic would have never become a monarchy. Farther, he must have been a poet. Without poetry, the greatest genius cannot aspire to royalty. Poetry is addressed to the public at large, and to the most sensible portions of every public. The sonorous vibrations of this universal organ, penetrate deeper and re-echo longer than any other. Voltaire began with poetry ; by it he laid the foundation of his fame, and directed attention to himself. He was almost the only poet of his time. Neither Louis Racine, approved by some, but devoid of the power of rousing the public, nor J. B. Rousseau, then as it were forgotten and buried alive in the century in which he was born ; nor Crebillon, a man capable of communicating very strong emotions, but of a talent quite peculiar, and related, besides, to the age of Louis XIV., could have maintained poetry against an age which the blasphemies of La Motte did not revolt, and which took for poetry the eclogues of Fontenelle. Voltaire took up the golden thread, which was beginning to be dragged along the ground, and renewed the tradition, which was about to be interrupted. He was then a poet! Yes.; but although he more than any other has made the muse subservient to certain purposes, the poet, in his case, was not intimately united to the man. There is here opened up a field of discussion, in which we shall not engage. What follows, is nearly a summary of what might have been said. From simplicity and want of reflection, men love to believe that the poet and the man are sureties for one another. This is an illusion, which they willingly indulge, but it is an illusion. With the most port of men, poetry is more and less than a talent, it is an inner life. An existence without poetry is a light without the bright halo around the head, and no one is deprived of this crown without being disgraced by nature. It is more than a talent, for it is a life; it is less than a talent, for it is not realized, and is deprived of the power of creating. But among that select party, who are called poets, poetry is a talent. With some even, poetry is merely that ; in themselves, they have no more poetic life than a man who has never made verses. VOLTAIRE. 257 Would it be possible then, gentlemen, that there should be no communication between the life and the talent ? No, -for it is necessary that the poet should interrogate the man, but these are, so to speak, two concentric existences ; the poet envelopes the man as the pulp envelopes the stone, or the pellicle the seed. Poetry, in many cases, does not compromise their position in life, they write it on their way to the country, in the evening, or on Sun- day. This way of being a poet is not inferior to the other ; the greatest, perhaps, belong to this category. The contrast, which I have now particularly observed, is striking in Voltaire. In him, although there exist great relations between the ideas of the t> o poet and the man, contemplated in connection with society, the two beings by no means correspond, and their mutual indepen- dence may be seen at every step. But how was Voltaire a poet, and what was the distinctive character of his poetry ? In the seventeenth century, poetry had man for its subject, since poetry derives its principle only from human nature. But with this admission, we must perceive that this vowel takes dif- ferent accents. At certain periods, poetry is more generally devoted to human nature, and is, therefore, of a loftier descrip- tion. At other times, it becomes more particularly social, that is, it attaches itself to man such as society has made him. Then it degrades him by turning his view from the depths of his being, and from the greatness of his destiny. In becoming more social, it has less of human nature. In the seventeenth century, poetry was particularly social, taking this term in the sense which we have now given to it, and not in its actual meaning. This century had only two characters it was social, or it might even be called worldly, and sacerdotal. Poetry followed the current of these two ideas. The worldly character is found more in some, the sacerdotal in others, both, perhaps, in all. But these two ideas are under the direction of the idea of humanity. A century under the expansive feeling of human nature would be much greater than the seventeenth century. If the eighteenth had completed the idea of humanity with the idea of religion, it would have been far greater than its prede- cessor. The idea of humanity, considered in itself, was evi- dently peculiar to the eighteenth century, which is clearly brought out in its literature and philosophy. It was badly conceived, indeed, but it was not less the idea of humanity. K 258 VOLTAIRE. Voltaire was ignorant of the mysteries of existence, these high conditions of poetry ; he remained a stranger to the greatness of the infinite, but lie understood human nature, and brought clearly to light an element lost in the majestic shadow which was cast by the social edifice of the seventeenth century. This century took notice neither of individuals nor humanity it was unacquainted with nature. Although the sentiment of nature was not profound in Voltaire, still he was not deficient in it. All these conditions were indispensable to the part which he had to perform. There was yet need of boldness and activity. His activity was not the profound and intense labour of certain men, it was real activity, that is, incessant and determined motion. As to boldness, no man in that age earned it so far as he. At a later period, Diderot and D'Alembert went, perhaps, beyond him, but Voltaire had made the road for them. To be convinced of it, we may open his Letters on the English, referring them to their date in 1726. Voltaire carried on the agitation he feared neither noise nor scandal. Pie united in an equal degree fickle- ness and perseverance. His was a wandering and rambling life, but constant as a river, which, through all its windings, steadily maintains its progress towards the sea. A single thought per- vaded the whole it was the design to crush that which was branded with infamy, and was that superstition or Christianity ? " You will labour in vain, sir, you will never destroy Christianity," said the magistrate to him, who was passing sentence on one of his youthful pamphlets. " We shall see !" replied Voltaire. In short, it became necessary for him frankly to take the part of his age, and to be subject to it, in order to carry it along with him. The power of Voltaire, we shall not say his greatness, consists in drawing his age along with him, and in being himself drawn along with it. This is like the chain which confines the horse to his chariot. But this is only true of the writer, who wishes to improve his age, and not of him who aspires at reigning over posterity. Montesquieu belonged to his age, and ruled over it, and this was his glory. Voltaire was a man who concentrated in himself, without mixture, all the essential elements of the French character and of the eighteenth century, and who gave himself entirely to new tendencies. Voltaire, in surpassing his age, wonderfully resembled it the elder or twin brother of his people, VOLTAIRE. 259 who acknowledge in this man another and better self: " He was the spoiled child of an age tha't he spoiled." He was born at a period in which he could be in all its fulness what he was, and could fulfil his destiny. He was one of those destructive men of genius, whom Providence throws headlong on the old age of empires. At any other time, would he have been such as we have seen him in the eighteenth century ? In one sense, no. and in another, yes, and here the yes and no are identical. At any time he would have quickly seized the spirit of his age, or he would have been quickly seized by it, and he would have exhibited it with wonderful vivacity ; he would, however, have remained always himself, at least in a negative sense; to him the inward feelings would have been always wanting. But his time showed him as he is. In no other age could he have been displayed in such breadth. His happiness, unfortunate happiness, consisted in loving what his age loved, and in hating what it hated. They were quite agreed, but not always so, nor on every point. A century composed of men is renewed by generations, and becomes young from one generation to another. Voltaire was a slave, and did not cease to feel it. The reverse of the Pope, who called himself servant, he, a servant, called himself Pope. This part is, perhaps, incompatible with originality. We have already said, Voltaire had rather the originality of character than of mind. We meet everywhere with details in the life of Voltaire so dra- matic and so various, we are here only anxious to show their spirit. He was the son of a notary ; that is to say, he was born among French and Parisian citizens, who are naturally sprightly, bustling, passionate, whenever they can, and boil over so soon as the pres- sure is removed. What is noise and bustle in one age would have been tragedy and passion in another. This depends on cir- cumstances. The passions of the multitude are only roused for an idea. Thus, in the time of the Fronde, an idea was wanting. At a later period they meet with the idea it is terror. These citizens had always an independent and caustic character, and were opposed to government. An intellectual and speculative people are consoled for the loss of their liberties by liberty of mind, and this is what the French have always maintained. But at this period the citizens came forth, so to speak, when a signal was given ; they began to feel that they might become some- 2l>0 VOLTAIRE. thing, and showed it by raising themselves towards the aristo- cracy. Voltaire was educated among the Jesuits, and long gave to his masters proofs of his respect and gratitude. We may remark in passing, that the career of Voltaire, and his education among the Jesuits, which was worldly, light, elegant, and more literary than learned and philosophical, and which consisted of a literature more agreeable than substantial, are very far from being uncon- formable. His early years gave ample tokens of his future career. On the boundary line between two centuries, when the hypocrisy of the one saw itself replaced by the licentiousness of the other, Vol- taire ardently assumed the bold spirit of this reaction, and, at school, was already distinguished as the Coryphoeus of deism. In- troduced, when still a child, into the house of Ninon de Lenclos ; meeting there with such men as Chaulieu and Vendome, and mentioned in the will of the celebrated courtezan, Voltaire in some measure received the baptism of unbelief, and was initiated into the part which he was to perform. Comedians, it is said ? should be reared on the knees of queens. His wit soon placed him in the most depraved and most brilliant society. Certain pages of his works cast a fearful light on the manners of the time. He courted the great lords, but he could do it without mean- ness ; and we wonder how, amid so great familiarity, he never offended them, and how his flattery, when he was in their com- pany, never descended to adulation. He cultivated with parti- cular care, the friendship of the Duke de Richelieu. These two men -were types, and were the complement of each other, and mutual protectors. This intimacy was uninterrupted. D'Alem- bert in vain reproached Voltaire with his fondness for the Duke. He wrote to him, " You will labour to no purpose, my dear phi- losopher ; you will never make anything of him but an old prig." Voltaire soon felt the necessity of rendering himself indepen- dent. He employed himself in acquiring a fortune, and speedily amassed a very considerable sum for the time, about eighty thou- sand livres of annual income (L.3200 sterling). With most men the choice lies between pleasure, business, and study. Vol- taire acted differently he engaged in all at once. lie passed his youth in the midst of storms, which his self-love rendered more furious. His audacity threw him into a thousand dangers. Al- VOLTAIRE. 261 ready, at this period, literary controversy occupied a great part of his life. We must do him justice ; he does not make the first attack, but when once attacked he never pardons. He does not despise small enemies nor petty offences. No one criticised his productions without drawing upon himself implacable vengeance. Thus, for a pointed saying, he pursued J. B. Rousseau beyond the grave. He said, in speaking of himself and this is the single confession, to which we have alluded : " I am of a character which nothing can bend, firm in friendship and in feeling, and fearing nothing, either in this world or in the world to come." * He sometimes rushes violently forward, but never loses cou- rage. The troubles of his youth were rather derived from the boldness of his opinions than from the vivacity of his disputes. As he never knew himself, he was never subjected to restraint ; but he could keep within bounds. His anger had some moder- ation, even in its excesses. He required persecution to make himself the subject of conversation. Twice in the Bastille, and twice or thrice banished, once for an affair with the Duke de Sully, but in general for the boldness of his writings, yet he made all these occurrences the means of his success. During one of his exiles he was led to visit England, and returned loaded with spoils, better armed and more courageous than before. Nothing could be done to him ; he was marked with a seal. It might be said that the god of this world has also his chosen ones, and that he says, like the Gqd of heaven, " Touch not mine anointed." 2 This is fully and naturally explained ; the world acknowledged him as its representative, and protected his person from the troubles arising from the exercise of authority. He was master of all questions, of all subjects, and of every mode of writing. He enters with the 'Minerva of France (Ma- dame du Chatelet) into the domain of the exact sciences. He introduced Newton and Locke to his countrymen, and was very eager to take a part in politics. His was a singular position ; he was suspected by the government, and yet Cardinal de Fleury, who was anxious to annihilate his influence, employed him as charge d'affaires at the court of Frederic. On his first journey to Prussia, a strong friendship was formed between Voltaire and Frederic, which continued till the period of Voltaire's second visit. 1 A. M. Fonncy, 1752. 2 Psalm cv. lf>. 262 VOLTAIRE. In 1746, Voltaire was admitted into the 'French Academy, from which the Cardinal de Fleury had kept him till that time. This event, at first sight insignificant, was in fact of considerable importance. Montesquieu was admitted very young, in spite of the Persian Letters, and on their account. His nomination was delayed, but only for a few years Voltaire waited for his, twenty- five years. He did not gain his election till he was fifty-two. This was the first instance of so great talent being so long kept by its tendency at the door of this association. Precisely at this period, in 1747, Voltaire lost Vauvenargues, whose influence, though insufficient, appeared so far to restrain him. Although Vauvenargues was the only man, perhaps, that inspired him with a feeling of respect, we cannot, however, affirm that, if he had lived, Voltaire would not have shown him- self in the way he did more and more. The convictions of that moralist were not of a nature so precise as to sway the mind of Voltaire ; and we have seen that, long before this time, he had clearly conceived the design, to which his whole life was sub- servient. He was long its chief, its soul, and its centre. La Pucelle, that foul deed, which lasted thirty years, was begun in 1730, and, though it was not published till near 1760, fragments of it were circulated, and passed from hand to hand, which were often disavowed by their author. But although this poem con- tains as much venom as any other of Voltaire's works, we may say that his second journey to Berlin marks in his life a new period. As he became old he became depraved. So far, in his avowed writings, he observes some moderation : in the theatre and in history he was already the champion of deism, but he still keeps within certain limits ; the balance is equally poised ; *nd, in his different works, he will be found to be as much the enemy of abuses as the adversaiy of creeds. This first period of Voltaire's life is the most literary, and pre- sents him to us almost entirely as a poet. We have already remarked that he began with poetry. He never abandoned it, and almost always kept by the theatre. He was only faithless to the latter during six years of his life, from 1736 to 1742. At a very early period, when yet a child, Voltaire formed the plan of an epic poem. The poem appeared in London in 1723, in nine cantos, entitled, The League, or Henry the Great. lie was then twenty-nine. Its success had crowned it with a parodv, VOLTAIRE. 263 Le Lutrin. The end was, men no longer believed in epic poetry. It was vanity, more than enthusiasm, which made Voltaire undertake the Henriade. Anticipations of a lofty de- scription were wanting to him, in a style of writing the most exalted of all. He appears not to have had one more serious than to attach to his name a glory, which had been refused to so many others. Nothing, in this respect, is more significant than the pitiful vengeance, in memory of his quarrel with the Duke de Sully, of having substituted, in a new edition, for this historical name the far less famous name De Mornay. This circumstance recalls to us Holbein and his Lais Corinthiaca. Farther, you may observe the hurry in which the work was written. The important changes made by Voltaire in his" first plan do him honour, but the necessity for these changes is by no means honourable ; and no one can read the poem of Tlie League without feeling surprise at the levity of the poet. Vol- taire undertook his work without enthusiasm, and without faith in epic poetry, and repeated to himself that the French have no head for the effusions of the epic muse. That was especially true of the French of the eighteenth century, and, above all, of the Frenchman Voltaire. He merely wished to show that he was capable of doing every thing. Epic poetry, in truth, is nothing else than the explanation of what is on earth by what is in heaven. Of all modes of writing, it is most essentially religious. History is a chain, which trails along the ground, so long as it is not bound to its first ring the ring fixed to the Rock of Ages. It is incomplete, and has all its philosophy only on this condition. The manner in which Bos- suet has connected historical events with the divine will cannot be approved ; but all the criticisms on his book do not reach tho foundation of the question. Apart from this there may, no doubt, remain to history, contemplated in itself, a certain sense and a certain philosophy ; but the epic poem, which is only his- tory idealized, loses all its value without the intervention of the Deity. It is not purely conventional, but the result of profound reasoning. It does not depend on a man to make an epic poem, because it is his wish. If a religious heart be wanting, there must at least be a religious imagination. An epic poem must farther be animated with some great fact referring to human nature. But, in such a work and there the limit of individii- 264 VOLTA1UE. ality is found there is need of support from the whole people from the whole world. If the religious element be taken away, you must entirely give up writing an epic poem, or you must merely make an historic poem, which would succeed according to circumstances. But, above all, you must not affect an inspiration which you do not feel, and write a hypocritical work. Still less, in a poem on the conversion of Henry IV., should you declaim against intolerance, or satirize the Holy See. People were so little deceived by it, that T/ie League was very soon reprinted at Geneva by John Mokpap, an assumed name, which wonderfully characterized the true meaning of the poem. In spite of Voltaire's wit, and the beauties in detail, in which his work abounds, we may be per- mitted to say that, on the whole, it is deficient in spirit, and even in common sense : " Fortunate priests, with tranquil foot, trample on the graves of the Catos, and on the ashes of Emilius. The throne is on the altar, and absolute power puts into the same hands the sceptre and the censer. There God himself has founded His rising church, sometimes persecuted, and sometimes triumphant. There candour and simplicity, along with truth, guided His first apostle. His happy successors for some time imitated him ; so much the more respected, the more humble they were. Their brows were not invested with vain splendour ; poverty supported their stern virtue ; and, eager to obtain the only good which a true Christian desires, from their lowly cottage, thatched with straw, they took their flight to the mai'tyrs' grave. Time, which corrupts every thing, soon changed their manners : heaven, to punish us, gave them greatness. Since that time Rome, power- ful and profaned, saw itself abandoned to the counsels of the wicked ; treason, murder, and poisoning were the fearful founda- tions of its power. The successors of Christ, within the sanctu- ary, and without a blush, committed incest and adultery ; and Rome, which their hateful empire oppressed under these sacred tyrants, regretted her false gods." 1 All, or almost all, that refers to religion is taken from the negative point of view. Abuses in religion, fanaticism, intoler- ance, and superstition, are constantly recurring: "It is religion, 1 Canto iv. VOLTAIRE. 265 whose inhuman zeal puts arms in the hands of all Frenchmen." l With the exception of a few verses devoted to propriety, religion is scarcely ever brought forward, but as the occasion or the source of evil. Moreover, as the author becomes deficient in frankness, and wishes to pass himself off for what he is not, the result is something weak and equivocal ; indeed, the whole poem is equivocal, false, and consequently cold. In the way of poetry, Voltaire would have done better if he had been openly satirical or openly licentious. How much more valuable would fanati- cism have been ? He is only straightforsvard and eloquent on the side of natural religion. When he acts the Christian, he becomes flat, and almost ridiculous. He forgets himself so far, as to put in the mouth of Saint-Louis addressing God verses such as these : " Father of the universe, if thine eyes sometimes honour with a look people and their kings I"'' But if Voltaire's character was not adapted to epic poetry any more than the taste of the times, the subject selected was scarcely more suitable. We understand that, in the eighteenth century, Henry IV. had become popular ; but that does not imply a char- acter for epic poetry. Even in taking up this subject in the point of view in which Voltaire apprehended it, we find that it is very vague in its conception. It wants the precision which the great poets know how to give to their subjects : for example, the Iliad and ^Eneid. This poem is a rag of the history of Henry IV. against the League. We see in it an embassy without importance, a battle, the states of Paris, the assault, the famine, and the con- version of Henry de Bourbon. The arrangement is defective, and the parts are not well connected. There is no real unity, nor the philosophical unity of history, nor even poetical unity. We are the more surprised at this, as it is the very fault with which Voltaire himself reproached Camoens. In what consists the real turning-point of the poem ? Is it Gabrielle ? is it heresy ? Here are two, and the two are not so good as one. Gabrielle reminds us of the Armida of Tasso ; but it would be mockery to regard Gabrielle as the real point of in- terest. Observe, she comes after the vision of Henry and his 1 Canto iv. 5 Canto x. See Psalm x.xxiii. 13, 14: " The Lord looketh from heaven; lie be- lioldeth all the sons of men. From the I'laee of His habitation He looketh upon all the inhabitants of the earth." 266 VOLTAIRE. journey to heaven. Then Mornay arrives as a truly troublesome guest, to recall Henry to his duty. Voltaire was always deficient in a feeling of gravity respecting divine things. Is it the abjuration of Henry IV. ? What interest can be taken in the conversion of a man who says, like a petty student of philosophy in the eighteenth century, in the third rank under Voltaire and Diderot : " I do not decide between Geneva and Rome" f 1 This is the paraphrase of the famous saying : " Paris is well worth a mass." The little ability in the beginning shows the absence of the epic character. What a difference in the ^Eneid! Troy is de- stroyed ; but this calamity is to be the source of the greatest destinies. ^Eneas goes forth to found an empire, which is to be the ruler of the world. It is worth while to set to work all the gods of Olympus. Nothing, on the contrary, can be colder or more vulgar than the meeting of Henry and Elizabeth, with which the Henriade opens. We are struck with the author's want of invention. Virgil imitated Homer ; Voltaire imitates Virgil ; Tasso, every body ; in the imitation he becomes weak, and invents nothing, if it be not a few episodes, whose execution is the only merit. We have said aword on the distance which separates Gabrielle from Armida, an immortal creation, and the real turning-point of the Jerusa- lem. Again, compare Elizabeth with Dido, the walk in the other world which Saint-Louis takes with Henry IV., with the descent of -